Sorry

I need to quickly apologize to everybody over at Salty Ham, not just because I haven’t been able to do a whole lot over there for the last couple of weeks because of a family situation, but also because I haven’t been able to contribute to or plug the hell out of their Top 100 Wrestlers of All Time countdown for the same reason. So if you’ve been wondering who the last 20 people covered were, you can go here and here to find out. Ok Salty, consider yourselves plugged. For some reason that sounds kinda wrong, but oh well.

And on a small side note, thanks to everybody who knows what’s been going on for their emails and concern. It’s all very much appreciated.

>Go Leafs Go!

>I can’t believe they lost another one. That’s 6 in a row now. I’m starting to think that these guys could find a way to blow a third period lead during a warm-up skate. Ridiculous, that’s all I can say.

Speaking of the Leafs, I went down to Toronto to watch them play Atlanta on Tuesday night. Believe it or not, this was actually my first time in the ACC. I sure am one pathetic Leaf fan. It was a great time other than that whole squandering a 2-0 lead by giving up 5 unanswered goals in the third thing, and I even came away from the experience able to give anybody else who has never been to a game some very important advice.

If you plan on eating or drinking anywhere in or around the Air Canada Centre, you might want to consider a bank loan.

Let’s break this down one more time, because I like making myself angry.

  • 1 third level obstructed view ticket where the view wasn’t really all that obstructed, $30.

  • 2 bottles [*not* pints] of beer at the Jack Astors near the arena, $6 each. You might as well double that because I bought a couple of rounds for the guy I went with since he paid for some food on the way down.

    • As you can see, we’re already running into a problem here.

  • 2 medium [*not* large] beers from whatever the name of that place on our level of the building was…I want to say the Icebox, damn near $20! I shit you not! And because I am in fact a fucking idiot, you can go ahead and tack another 40 to 60 dollars on to that figure right there.

  • 1 burger and fries, 1 burger with no fries and a pitcher of beer at Casey’s after the game, $37 and change plus tip. I’m sure it would have cost about that much at McDonald’s and there would have been no beer, but still…

Now that I sit here and look at these numbers again, it dawns on me that I probably should have asked at least one of those bartenders to kiss me. I’m not sure about any of you folks, but me, I’ve always liked a little bit of intimacy while I’m getting fucked.

I know the cost of having fun can be high sometimes and I definitely did have a lot of it, but Tuesday was one of those nights that reminded me why there are times when I voluntarily don’t get out much. I also know that there will more than likely be a few people who tell me that I need to live a little, and to them I say this. I live all the time, and I’d prefer to not have to do most of my living on the street because I can’t make rent. Call me crazy, but for some reason I’d rather be boring and warm than exciting and homeless.

Woe Nellie! Part Two.

I hate to go on and on about this, but I saw one more thing that pissed me off.

I went and helped out at the vigil I mentioned in Monday’s post, and for the most part it was ok. Then, they played a song, and for the most part, it was a good song…until we got to the chorus.

It could have been me,
just as easily.
It could have been my mother or my sister,
left there to bleed.
It could have been my father, or my brother done the deed.
Oh no, don’t let me lose this memory.”

Hell, even the chorus was good for the most part. But once again, it makes me sad hearing us claim that any man is poised to make an incredible hulk-like transformation into a woman-hating monster.

I noticed there was only one man at the vigil, the sound guy. Poor sound guy.

Woe, Nellie!

Why is it that I always get involved in things, and then see the full extent of what I’m involved in and go, ug! Take this little gem for example. I’ve mentioned the organization that runs the women’s shelter that I do some work for. So anyway, I decided to help out at this little candle-light vigil that they have every year in memory of the Montreal massacre. I figure, no harm in that, right?

Then, I get an agenda, which includes a poem that is going to be read out at this event, and I cringe. I think poetry is great, but this poem is just wrong. Well, tell me what you think of this little masterpiece.

It was a cold December afternoon and the line stretched round the block
And some of them were weeping and some were still in shock
Seven thousand came that day to pay their last respects
To 14 women slaughtered for no reason but their sex.

And the cameras and the mikes were there to record the grief and fear
Of the ordinary people who worked and studied here.
And a woman in her fifties in a gentle quiet tone
Summed up her sister’s outrage at the murder of their own

She said “I wonder why, as I try to make sense of this
Why is it always men who resort to the gun, the sword and the fist?
Why does gunman sound so familiar while gunwoman doesn’t quite ring true?
What is it about men that makes them do the things they do?

And the man behind her in the line, he started getting steamed
He said, “it wasn’t because he was a man, this guy was crazy, mad, obscene!”
“Yes he was crazy” the woman replied, but women go crazy too,
And I’ve never heard of a woman shooting 14 men have you?

And all the other times came flooding back to me again
A hundred news reports of men killing family, strangers, friends
And yes, I can remember one or two where a woman’s hand held the gun
But exceptions only prove the rule, and the questions still remain

And I know there are men of conscience who aren’t like that at all,
Who would never raise a hand in anger and who reject the macho role.
And if you were to ask them about the violence that men do
I know they’d say they hate male violence too.

And don’t you wonder why, as you try to make sense of this.
Why is it always men who resort to the gun, the sword and the fist?
Why does gunman sound so familiar while gunwoman doesn’t ring quite true?
What is it about men that makes them do the things they do?

Ug! And I have to stand there listening to this. First off, I can’t really say this poem is, well, the greatest sample of poetry I’ve ever read. I know, somebody probably wrote this as an expression of grief and I probably shouldn’t criticize it. I respect the fact that they had to write it, if that’s why they wrote it, I’m just not a fan of this one. But more importantly, how does this further our cause at all? How can feminists sit there and demand that we not be stereotyped if we’re going to openly stereotype men and, for the most part, accuse them all of being killing monsters? Sure there’s like 2 lines in there that say there are a few exceptions, but for the most part, we’re pointing our fingers and saying, “all you men are pigs!” And then we wonder why men don’t come out and support our events. Gee, I wonder. Maybe we should reread that poem again. The answer might come to us.

Things You Should Know About Me

  • I don’t use the food bank. I’m glad it’s there for people who need it, but I’m not one of them. So if you see me walking downtown, I’m not looking for it. You don’t have to ask me that question now.

  • I’m not looking for the Salvation army either. Glad they’re there, but unless I’m real close to the door, why would you automatically think I’m going there?

  • And, I don’t live in a nursing home! Just because I’m getting on a bus route which has St. Joseph’s in the name doesn’t mean I live at St. Joseph’s rehabilitation centre! It is a full loop, you know.

I am sick and tired of being treated like I’m helpless. Sometimes I ask for a little help. I don’t think that gives people license to treat me like I’m completely incapable of getting around or doing anything on my own. And sometimes I don’t even ask for help, and people are already assuming I can’t go anywhere safely. A lady offered me help getting home one night, I said I was fine, and she tailed me home anyway! I think I scared her though, because I phoned home and said, “I hope those footsteps belong to the lady who offered to help me, otherwise I don’t know who’s following me home!” Then she spoke up and sorta apologized. But gees! What is it about me that makes people think I’m either stupid or helpless or both? And would you walk up to anyone else walking down the street and randomly ask them, “Are you looking for the food bank?” How about, “Are you looking for the Salvation Army van?” Like, I’m walking past the Bank of Montreal, several stores, and you’d think my destination must be the food bank or the Salvation Army? Why? Ug it makes me bristle.

Today was the kicker, though, and it’s what made me right this post. I headed down to catch my bus. But apparently, there was some Christmas lights display on, and since our buses don’t have a proper terminal, arg, they got redirected to another location so the Christmas lights display could have the square. I discovered this by smacking into a wall of people! A man was nice enough to offer to give me a hand to where the buses were. Then he did the good old “What would you have ever done if I didn’t come along? trick. Oy yoy yoy that makes me mad. I appreciate your help, but I would have made it there, it just would have taken a bit longer. You are not a hero. You’re a nice person, and you’re appreciated, but you don’t need a medal and I don’t need your pity.

About halfway there, he said, hmmmI don’t see any buses down there. That would be, chief, because it’s not quite bus time! But he still wouldn’t believe me. He had to not listen to me, as I explained where the buses pull in, and he had to go ask some random traffic-directing police officer. Of course, he had no idea. Then I said what bus I wanted. He’s like, “Oh St. Joseph’s. Do you live at St. Joseph’s?” Again, why would you assume I lived there? I wouldn’t have even minded, “Do you work at St. Joseph’s?” But to assume I must be a patient is, well, bizarre.

Sorry to seem kind of bitter. I hate sounding like a whiner, so I hope that’s not how it comes off, but it probably does. I don’t mean to sound like you have to tread carefully when you’re talking to me. But like the song says, All I’m asking is for a little respect. Is that too much to ask?

Angels, Demons, and Annoyances!

I meant to write this post on Monday, but haven’t done it until today. Wow, that’s, um, very sucky. But here I go. I figureI should try and accomplish something even though the rain is making me feel like doing sweet dick all.

I just finished the book “Angels and Demons” by Dan Brown. Note to anyone interested in this stuff: Don’t read Angels and Demons swiftly followed by the DaVinci code, or vice versa. You’ll ruin one of the books. God this guy writes in a very similar style. He’s a good writer, just the way he does it is…well…way too similar. I know they’re a series, but does the Hassassin have to resemble Silas in his violence and dedication to his so-called master? Does the woman in the story always have to have lost a close relative? But most importantly, Does Robert Langdon have to be so goddamn pretentious, arrogant, and just simply annoying? Maybe he does, if so, way to go Dan Brown, you’ve done an awesome job. There are moments where I just want to slap him! Am I alone in this?

Like, why is it that in the middle of a high pressure scene, Robert Langdon starts to Reminisce about something he said while teaching some class of Harvard students about Symbology? Dude. When you’re being chased by police, being made to lay spread-eagle on the floor, now’s not the time to think about the good old days, so much so that you lose touch with reality.

And, why is it that, even in the face of being shown that all his research is somewhat flawed, he insists that he knows the answers? Ever heard of new information, bud? Maybe you shouldn’t tell the granddaughter of the dead guy that there’s no way he’s the head of a secret societey. After the little surprise ritual she witnessed in grandpa’s basement there, I think she’s a more qualified source than you!

And then there are things he does that just annoy me! Like, when the guy’s on the phone telling the church how he’s going to murder four cardinals and do it in public places, good old Robert stands up and yells at the speaker phone: “and what are you going to brand them with?” Really, dude, does that matter? And in the same phone call, after the guy makes some reference to something that happened in the 1600’s, Langdon has to start rhyming off historical facts. Gees dude, do you want to draw the guy’s attention? How about giving them the history lesson *after* he’s off the phone?

So, am I weird? Hopefully someone’s read the book, or both of the books, and knows what I’m talking about.

Um, I don’t think so.

Ok, spammers are really trying to bug me. I’m waiting for word from RBC (Royal Bank of Canada) on whether I got a job. Today, I got not one, but two spam from an address claiming to be Royal Bank of Canada. You can stop teasing me right about now. Somehow, this doesn’t look like a job offer.

I’ve known for a long, long time, Paul. blake boris He loved her so much; without her he would die.

There was a snap as the pin broke in two, the part in the lock falling in, and he had a dull moment to consider his failure before he saw that the door was slowly swinging open with the tongue of the lock sticking out of the plate like a steel finger. It went over the edge and he was still inside it! That’s not always how it works, but usually that’s it. If not for you I could be home watching TV now with my hand on my wife’s leg. I’m here. He reached down, but the tips of his fingers stopped a clear three inches short of the floor, where one of the two or three bobby-pins that had fallen from her hair as she charged him lay. He took three dry, then crawled back to the door and lay down against it, blocking it with the weight of his body. diddle

Um nope.

Is this an epiphany or the product of a sleep-deprived mind?

Have you ever sat there doing what you think is a step in the direction where you want to take your life and then you suddenly wonder if you’ve made the biggest mistake possible and is this really what you want the rest of your life to contain?

I’m sitting here answering phones at a distress line. one of the people who phones a lot calls and talks. The same shit that has happened to her before is happening and she’s sad because of her predicament. I used to care. I used to empathize. I used to try and genuinely listen. But today, I could have given two shits. I just wanted to be off the phone. I am so frustrated, burned out, pissed off. What is the point of giving your heart and soul if it doesn’t do any good? More often than not, I see the same thing in every volunteer job I do. I see women going back to their abusers, callers going through the same things, people I help just pulling bullshit. My mind says it’s a tough road and there are always going to be setbacks, you cannot judge, you just have to do your part. It also tries to remind me of all the positives. Then an evil part of my mind blames me for feeling this way. it knows I probably invest way too much in everything I do, and if I’d just behaved with some level of sanity, I wouldn’t be feeling this. But I don’t know how else to be! I’m trying to stop myself from getting so deeply involved in everything, but I’ve always felt I had to go the extra mile. now I have to untrain myself, and I don’t know where to begin.

But my heart just screams! It wants to shut down! it wants to stop trying, and it doesn’t know where this rush of complete and utter apathy is coming from. I left this morning tired because my body decided I wasn’t getting more than about 2 hours’ sleep, but that was it. I hoped I’d have a good shift. That was all I thought. There was no dread, there was nothing telling me this was coming. Now, it’s hit me like a ton of bricks, and the suddenness of it is shocking!

So…it’s probably nothing. And many have seen worse than I have and they keep on truckin’, so what is my problem? My worst thought is if this isn’t what I’m supposed to do, what am I supposed to do? Will I find something satisfying ever?

And then another thought yells from inside my head. “Stop being such a baby. Probably everybody has had these thoughts, and there are bigger problems to worry about than whether or not you’re happy in whatever job you end up doing. Shut up and wait for the next call.”

It’s probably true. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep, I won’t feel this overwhelming need to forget about everything in the social work field and run madly in another direction. I just had to write it down to stop it from eating away at me all shift. Hopefully I’ll have something happier to write later.

You’re in What Grade Again?

I just got asked by a friend to proofread his French notes for a presentation. I said sure. It’s always good to get another set of eyes looking at things you write, especially if it’s not in your native tongue. Granted French isn’t my native tongue either, but I said I’d help. I knew the last time I’d read his French, it was, well, not good. But that was a couple of years ago, so I thought maybe he had improved.

I get his notes, and I let out a shriek of frustration. If anything, his French has gotten worse! I have to ask myself, how is he getting through university French classes with this caliber of complete and utter incompetence? Are his tutors doing his essays for him? If so, they should stop. If not, why did I bother to work so hard if you could scrape through with this bullshit? I mean, it looks like maybe he’s in grade five French. Ug!

I’m looking at this now thinking, why do I give a rat’s ass how he does in French? I did well, his marks probably blow goats. So what does it matter? I guess I’m completely amazed that he’s still here with the level of crap he’s spewing. I wonder what my degree is worth if people like him can write the kind of stuff he does, still be here and get a degree too. The whole thing just makes me wonder why I worked so hard. I’ll cry if he graduates with distinction. That’ll probably never happen, but if it does, then I’ll know the degree isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.