I eternally maintain that nothing is so fine as a thing that is free. Free stuff rules the proverbial school. I love it. It's such a wonderful feeling that out there, somewhere, somehow, are things that people just want you to have. More to the point though; that they think for some reason that you are worthy of such good fortune as to warrant having said free stuff. This was the extreme sense of flattery and gratitude I was overwhelmed with last night when I was presented with a free photocopier of my very own. Indeed. You see, a month ago, while in Spokane (for which bittersweet and wonderful trip I departed precisely one month ago... sigh), my friend Johnny e-mailed me to inform me that he had a friend living in Ottawa who, as things turned out, had purchased a new photocopier, and as such wanted to be rid of the old one. He'd asked Johnny if he knew of anyone who might appreciate such a thing, and my name came up -- and thus were set into motion the wheels of transition. Since then, I found myself a little shy about calling this person up, but managed, through guilt and avarice, to firm up my resolve last week, and we made the arrangements.

Last night, my friend Kincaid and I piled into his car on our merry journey to pick the gadget up. He's going to be moving into the room next door to me this weekend, providing the girl living there actually, at some point, leaves. We know she moved out a lot of her stuff on Saturday, but the door's still locked and she's never home anyway, so it's still a guess. And since the hallway by the main door (right smack dab at my room, which is the front room) smelled of death (on account of the hobby of our den mother and property manager, Leslie, which is collecting bones; particularly skulls. She was out at some mysterious location, checking on her deer skull with her ubiquitous pal Pixiegirl, as to determine its progress in gradual decomposition, and they came back with the stink of decay, which is only now dissipating -- defying showers and bleach), we had further incentive to depart just because of the fact that it was kind of yucky hanging around, even if I was burning all the incense in the world.

Our adventure was marked with mayhem and Jos Louis snack cakes. Our target destination was in an area technically known to us both, but familiar to neither, being away from the downtown core that Kincaid and I both are far from native to, but nevertheless spend lots and lots of time in (moreso now that I live here). Invariably, with me doing the navigation, we got comedically lost, a fact which I pointed out to our gracious host and benefactor when I called him for directions. He said only, "It's not so funny. You're grown men," which struck me as extremely clever and (therefore) not cruel enough to hurt my feelings at all. Anyhow, although we got quite lost, and made many wrong turns into strange and eerie parts of the Ottawa airport along the way ("Hey, is that a plane?"), we had the radio to keep us company, and bantered and bonded and talked about just how many alternate earths there probably are where one, or both, of us are actually long dead for many varied reasons. When we actually did arrive at the home of this kind person I was feeling extremely guilty for bothering so many times when I could have simply given into defeat and said, "No, this isn't right! I don't deserve this honour... give the photocopier to someone who can actually find your house without bugging you about it over and over again!" we parked the car on what must have been a thirty degree slope of a driveway, easy-does-ited our way out of the vehicle, and rang the doorbell.

Their house was truly amazing. It bore the clutter, style, and obsessiveness of my room, but in split-level house form. I could have gawked and gaped for hours, and also bantered with our host, who is, by reputation and my own experience, and extremely sharp and clever man. But there were pressing matters at hand, and I certainly didn't want to impose any more than necessary, so we were lead downstairs to the scene of our crime. And there it was. The Xerox dream. The photocopier itself isn't actually that big; perhaps the size of a properly large microwave, like the kind you could buy in the eighties. It was, however, tremendously heavy. Kincaid was impressed I could even get it up the stairs singlehandedly, let alone outside the house to the car, because he held onto it for a minute at the door while we played the "putting our shoes back on," game. I'd actually entertained, at some point, the idea of picking it up by bus sometime, thinking, well, "It's heavy, they say, but how heavy could that be?" and I'm glad I didn't, because my spine was decidedly curved and sore and unhappy in all the wrong ways by the time we nestled it in the back of Kincaid's station wagon. Still, we actually did manage to get it safely home and into my room, and after about forty minutes of juggling possessions, I even found a home for it that makes it less conspicuous and intrusive than most of my other, smaller, possessions. And it seems to work dandily, too. I powered it up and let it diagnose itself, watching with glee as indicator lights blinked through various modes into all green, and the fan whirred most pleasantly. I have to buy paper before I can test it out, but I'm still amazed and delighted that it even sounds like it has potential.

Broken and I are trying to figure out how best to optimize this amazing stoke of good fortune, and much-appreciated and completely unexpected and undeserved (but graciously accepted) generosity. We're certainly thinking of expanding our small press endeavors, and donating more time and materials to the nebulous Carleton League of Super Villains, and Xeroxing body parts for friends; and of course, utterly fucking with the electricity bill. Anyway, I'm just bowled over with glee. My very own photocopier. So much pleasure to be had. So much pleasure to be given.

I'm still obsessing over the details of the odd letter I received yesterday. For reference, it's RIGHT HERE, and I thought, if you didn't mind, that I'd comment on it.

What bothers me the most is that the letter itself implies that highest degree of righteously justified ignorance and inflexibility that I really find disagreeable in people with causes. Even then, if I could get over my ire and glowering, there's still the fact that the letter is a mess of contradictions. I mean, it should just be a stupid joke, but it's not even funny. As much as I hate it when people have to justify and rationalize the painfully obvious statements they sometimes make to me ("I'm just trying to be sarcastic, by the way, don't be offended...."), I'm willing to give people enough benefit of the doubt to take them seriously once in awhile, especially in the bland, obfuse context of e-mail from someone I've never heard of before.

What makes me doubt the veracity of this letter, really, is the observation evident that someone really hasn't put any time into researching their dogma. Which is something you would really expect a free-thinking radical to do, if they're striking out against conformity and oppression. At least, the intelligent, non-twinkie ones. Even I'm perfectly aware that the so-called "Pagan Christian God," and Allah, described as the one and only true God here, are exactly the same nebulous deity. I'm glad he at least got the word and context for "Mohammed" right, but it takes exactly three seconds of hard reading to figure out that the Koran, the Old Testament, and the Torah are all the same book; Hence, all the same God. The only difference between these three religions is a stance on Christ; Judaism and Islam only acknowledge Jesus as a prophet. In particular, Islam grants Christ status as a very influential and respected prophet, likened to, but not superior to, Mohammed. As well, if you're going to call the Christian God "pagan," understand that, by definition, you can't use the word pagan like that. Pagan, explicitly, refers to those religions that actually aren't Christian, Moslem, or Judaic. In fact, I know many pagans who would be perfectly upset to hear that someone was even trying to compare as major and oppressive a religion as Christianity to something sweet and happy like their practices.

Secondly, I'm an atheist. Anyone who reads my web page gets to find this out sooner or later. So, either this person is:

A) stupid

B) trying to be clever and appeal to my ire for religion.

C) sending me a form letter

I'd also be really interested to know what he's responding to, in the sense that apparently I really am a typical, true American. Which is to say that, whatever "they" tell me, I will believe. This leads me to my third big objection.

I'm not an American.

My friend Leslie describes America as "Bizarro Canada," in that it's the imperfect perfect replica of our Home and Native Land (you really need to read more Superman comics if you don't get my reference). As much as I like America for the many things it offers, such as quality movies, television, musical artists, and various other media bombardments, and most importantly human beings like the magical Clorinda and delicious Ficus, it's an entirely different country from the one I live in. There are, surprisingly, many little differences, and while I'm far removed from being an Anti-American super patriot, I'm certainly fond of the distinction. I'm at least fond of people knowing enough, say by the (".ca" (pronounced "dot C BLOODY A, you stupid nerd!")) at the end of my web site and e-mail address, about my actual origins to comment upon them fairly, without having to embarrass us both. It just doesn't seem right, then, that someone should be able to judge me while apparently knowing a single thing about me. Or, for that matter, anyone, or anything.

"Whyte Aryan Muslims of Idaho (IRAN = ARYAN)" is something else I have a huge problem with. Apparently Idaho is the land of potatoes, and complete raving nutters. I'm not sure if anyone's had any chats with skinheads or fundamentalist Muslims lately, but the last I heard, never shall the twain meet. Remember, white people were the invention of an evil black scientist. I'm glad that someone's so keen on messing around with tradition, but messing with the combined racism of skinheads and fundamentalist Muslims is a good way to get yourself beaten up. And good on 'em if he does get beat up.

Lastly, I'm not really sure why anyone would wish for me to die well, when obviously the death he has in mind for me involves nuclear explosions or bullet holes or my insides slowly bleeding out of my orifices as biological agents render me liquid. You know, typical death of the infidels stuff, streets running red with blood, etc. etc. etc. For me, dying well involves living to the ripe old age of six hundred and three, of an instantaneous transcendence to a pure energy state, while I'm lying in my harem of charming and intelligent nude artists and writers, stuffed full of chocolate.

If Allah is in the position to grant me a good death, then that's the one I want.

N o v e m b e r 29

That said, I'm still tremendously glad my computer is repaired. It did not take much, thankfully (the same phantom electrical spooks that seem to be responsible for my intermittently powered wall, like the bathroom in Clerks, are once again at fault), but it makes me appreciate the fact that my brain itself is really little more than a big computer, and all it would take is for a little chill, or excess heat, or moisture, or maybe a really good static electric shock, to wipe me clean and rob me of precious bladder control. I of course appreciate, too, that I can't just walk over to the brain store and pick up a 24X Raphe System or Periaqueductal Grey whenever I find the old model slow and wanting. Still, I know there's something wrong with my brain. Much like my poor, ensorceled system clock, my internal time management skills are faulty to the point where I'd need a constant Tardis internet connection to a time-server to keep myself from losing eight minutes every second. The essay I worked on this week (and more specifically, the night before it was due); letters I haven't written yet, phone calls I haven't returned, e-mail sitting in my electronic shoebox that just begs for responses... I've really become rather hopeless.

Not that I've become a bad person, or a wretchedly thoughtless, or particularly nonchalant, gadabout or anything. I wondered if maybe I was just becoming careless and thoughtless in my advanced years, but I'm seeing now that what's really going on is that I'm simply being even more intensely overwhelmed by problems and worries than once upon a time. This is probably because there are rather more of them now, versus when I was sixteen, and they are, to some extent or other, more important as well (that is to say, I still have love angst -- and how! -- but I also have to stress over money, and feeding myself, and health issues, and pretending I'm an adult when all I really want to do is take off my clothes and run around eating candy). I find my ability to concentrate on the substance of my life (that is, everything else) compromised drastically by emotions sparked by the minor aches and pains that no one really complains about except (well, obviously) me. I have the habit of turning just one thing into my focus for the given month; you can probably find themes, if you want to write a really comprehensive and fascinating essay essay about me (the first person who does, gets to marry me, even if I never ever learn to love you), in past Snivels such as this (but in categories, over time...).

Essentially I'm just feeling guilty over the fact that I have all these friends, but we're all really lousy at keeping in touch, thanks to having such pathetic requirements for attention, all of us, that it will be taken in any form, preferably the most available, such that the long-term, preferred-yet-far-away friends will get screwed for love while all the close-by associates and city mates (scattered about the country and universe as we are) get to have coffee with us constantly. I used to get really indignant and hurt when people lost touch with me, because I'd be ever so good about writing constantly, and now I'm a bastard about it too. If I have any reason to take brain-altering chemicals, it's because I need the psychological state I had when I was eighteen and virginal. I wonder if that actually has anything to do with it. Perhaps discovering my sexuality has in some way affected my sense of loyalty and need and dependability. I think I may just be less pathetic. Having a sex life warrants a considerably more involved pursuit of carnal love, and you simply have less weekends to sit home, alone, by yourself, writing letters and being cute and nice but so-so lonely.

In any event, correspondence has its dark side, too. I get all kinds of crazy mail (and e-mail) from people, whether they're submitting material to our magazine, MPD, or responding to my web site, and as much as I love getting it all (I mean, attention is attention), certainly my friends are centrally important, and their mail I prefer most, because my friends are all insane and dysfunctional -- but in ways that I'm already perfectly comfortable with, and indeed especially fond of. But some people are really, legitimately crazy. Take this person: I got this last night, and I think it's awful enough that the whole world deserves to see it, and share in my contempt in horror:

you are so typical. you are a true american. what they tell you, you will believe. we pity your mental bondage. whatever they tell you , you will believe. the liberation comes only within true radicalism. you are as traditional as my fundamentalist evangelical parents. your order is a refinement of their order. biological, chemical, and nuclear weaponry shall thwart your new attempt to oppress us in the name of your parents and the pagan christian god.

There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His Holy Prophet, Die well, young american.

Whyte Aryan Muslims of Idaho (IRAN = ARYAN)

N o v e m b e r 28

This isn't my computer I'm updating with. This isn't even me typing.

N o v e m b e r 25

I also owe Clorinda a huge letter. I was a big ninny, and I haven't responded to a long, sad, but important letter she sent me last week, so I figured the world should know I've been crummy about that, and savour my panic and guilt as I frantically try to get that finished too. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry.

N o v e m b e r 24

It's all I'm asking.

My biggest crisis this weekend, following the Lilith spotting, sadly, was that I got mad because I had to spend $4 (that's sixteen, count 'em, sixteen quarters) each for two loads of laundry, because they were cleaning the regular washing machines at the laundromat, and we had to use the gigantic industrial washing machines. And that's just stupid. I am kind of obsessing about money, though, which isn't something I normally do, but there's a postal strike affecting the entire country at this point, and because I work for the government, my next paycheck is a big question mark (not being a coherent enough force to deal with direct deposit, they just mail my salary to me). So I'm presently stressing about the fact that without this next paycheck, there isn't going to be any Christmas, because I'll be too busy paying December's rent, and January's rent, and feeding myself to be able to buy presents and cruise to Toronto and the many other things that I certainly am not forced to do, but I definitely like to do, especially at a time of year when such things basically define the entire Christmas season. It's hard to be a happy successful human being without living up to them, which is one of the many reasons why I have deep-running Christmas issues. I'm certain that many December rants will involve Christmas. It, with Thanksgiving, comprise my least favourite of holidays. Even Easter, in spite of the insanely religious overtones (at least Christmas has been fiendishly secularized and corrupted to the point where everyone worships the one true fictitious deity, that being Santa Claus, over that lousy God), offers such goodnesses as chocolate and an utter lack of family members.

I'm cute when I pout. Everyone tells me that, because I do it like a six-year-old. Slowly and methodically I master the facial expressions that allow me to be completely irritable and depressing, and yet still have girls like me.
I frittered away my weekend in my usual way, which involved a tremendous amount of cuddling and episodes of the Simpsons, though once again all of this away-from-homeness required me to miss out on a visit from my friend Burrhus, with whom I have unwittingly developed a kinky kooky Polkaroo relationship. Everytime I duck out the door, there, conveniently, is Burrhus, dropping in for coffee with Caira and company upstairs, as if all I've really done is zipped up a big goofy costume and slipped around inside from the back (for clarification, I'll explain that there's this show called the Polka Dot Door, on TVOntario (PBS for Canadians), which is made for children and ubiquitously stars a male and female host, who get rotated for new hosts every couple of months or so. They spend most of the time singing, frolicking, or talking to stuffed animals, but at towards end of every episode, the polkaroo drops in, and all he is is the male host inside this gigantic stylized kangaroo costume that is covered in polkadots. He's green, though. And all he says is "Polkaroo!" in various intonations. Then he zips away, and the male host returns, and says "The Polkaroo was here?" Then he effects this huge pouty disappointment, and says, forlornly, "And I missed him again!"). Latex, properly applied, can let anyone live a double life.

This was the American Thanksgiving weekend, which means that all this time, Clorinda's home has been besieged by Christianity. All of her relatives are super-Christian, and I can only imagine how insane that must be to cope with. I adore toying with the religious -- however, I can myself be easily goaded into irritation and long, complicated, theological arguments, and I'll never drop if once you raise my ire with enough dogma. So luckily I don't have any relatives like that (my family, and its extended relations, for whatever I might think of particular members or groups of members, is happily, essentially, godless), but I feel very deeply for her, as this has been something she's mentioned enough to imply something more than the apprehension even I would feel. Possibly because it's making her super-hostess mother insane with preparations, and that makes her even meaner to Clorinda than usual.

It's hard to miss somebody that much, and to want to help. It only leaves you feeling powerless to do anything; reminding you of where you are, and the situation you're in, and why you might have even gotten yourself into that predicament, of sitting there, feeling helpless, wanting to do something, and be something, but deprived of your power to. I think this summarizes the feelings I've had this weekend quite elegantly. I don't really have any faith to speak of in who I am, or what I mean to anybody. It's been a long time since I've felt especially important... be that to Clorinda, or anybody. Which is a particularly dumb viewpoint, since I love my friends dearly, and I know they love me... but I think my perspective is being clouded by deep regrets, and my usual unhealthy feelings of a critical lack of self-esteem. Everything I've done wrong; every fight, every breakup, every time I've screwed something up by being emotional and stupid, gets in the way of the things I do right. Perhaps everything I do "right," just seems futile, because I can see the pattern of what I do, and how it all usually leads to tragedy. A year ago, Lilith was my best friend in the world. A year ago, she loved me. A year ago, Clorinda and I talked constantly, and shared everything... and not a single one of us could have even conceived of a time where things would be so drastically different; as if there were any way I even could be so wretched as to sour so much goodness.

I sure showed them.

Well. I'm good at self pity.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

Return to days past for more Classic Drivel.

Back to Purple People Eater Town.