December 16, 1997.
I guess, as well, when I think of the "haves," I'm thinking of
large corporations anyway. It just strikes me as bizarre that, almost
without thought, people can throw out literal tons of food at the end of
each day, simply as a matter of policy. Restaurants and the food industry
in particular. My friend Johnny has this cool story about how Hostess
Twinkies sometimes get shredded up, wrappers and all, and turned into
cattle feed once they expire. But I mean, anything that's unsuitable to
sell, or gets left over at the end of the day, just gets thrown out. It
just seems like the obvious use for every hamburger, egg salad sandwich,
leaf of lettuce and glass of milk ought to be the relegation to entities
like shelters and soup kitchens. But this isn't the case at all. People
don't, or can't. And this isn't by any means the introduction to some
manifesto on resource-sharing. I'm idealistic, but not in any especially
naive sense. This is a world where one's resources, even trash, is
zealously held as private property, and better that microbes, seagulls,
and anaerobic fermentation get their hands on it than hungry people. So be
it. Everyone knows the world is unfair, it's just that crying out that
the world is unfair is more irritating, and less helpful, than doing
absolutely nothing (ie. not contributing to the problem any more than
helping).
People can be quite capable of their own resource-sharing. In
downtown Ottawa, there's this strange code of trade established informally
to facilitate the movements of furniture. It works like this: suppose
you've bought a new sofa, and you want to get rid of the old one -- the
one you've had for fifteen years -- to make room. Well, you could try to
pass it off among friends or relatives, or you could just take it outside.
But not on garbage day. Leave it on the curb, and see what happens.
Inside of two days, maybe, it will vanish. Someone walks by, sees a free
piece of furniture, and someone else can always use one. Blammo. No more
couch. We did this during the weekend. We pitched out this old fold-out
couch that was taking up too much space in God's Living Room (our
warehouse space). It was actually even pretty nice, but we had absolutely
no use for it. Periodically during the next day, I watched interested
browsers check it out. It was gone the next morning. We have more room,
and someone else has a new sofa. It's like magic.
Something I knew of only vaguely was the concept of "dumpster
diving;" where at the end of the business day, you hop into a dumpster,
and see what comes out. Hacker types do this all the time at computer
stores; mucking around in reasonably tidy trash for old motherboards and
RAM modules and essentially anything usable, or servicable, that might be
lying around. About two months ago, House H'Tog got involved in the act
as well. One of our members is quite the provider. He constantly scouts
for useful free things (occasionally filching others, shhhh), and recently
took to visiting the local Dunkin Donuts. Something that I'd heard talk
of was the fact that instead of doing anything useful with their donuts at
the end of the day, donut shops just whip them into huge bags and throw
them out. My older brother, years ago, was mooching around B.C. when he
was a young wastrel, and they often survived on such gifts from the gods.
So anyway, every so often, when the craving occurs (usually every two
weeks or so), someone ventures out and brings this mighty sack of donuts
home. Perfectly good, perfectly clean donuts that have been sitting in an
ice-cold dumpster for only a few hours, hermetically sealed in a gigantic,
forty-pound plastic sack -- the sort that Santa would heft, if he
delivered donuts. They're sitting in our kitchen, open to all comers.
Usually I'm too prudish to sample any (I'm kind of a snob), but I had my
first crueller the other night, and I was really surprised that such
perfectly good, edible food is just trashed.
I mean, if I, bitter little twerp that I am, can
conceive of such good intentions as munificently giving away food
that you're only going to put outside anyway, certainly someone else could
-- say someone with the ability to do such things. But we don't. So
instead, the food gets wasted, except when occasionally a house of twenty
people feels the urge to snack on more donuts than even they can
eat (and what do we do with the remainder? Throw that out -- but
they're significantly picked through and borderline skanky by that point;
not rotten, but broken up and stale...), and while I'm perfectly delighted
that we get our take, it's crappy and silly that for the most part
they're wasted, when someone else could be benefitting. The only
rationalization I've heard of this is basically that people are afraid,
"Well, if we just gave them away, then no one would ever buy
any donuts." or whatever of quantity X is at stake.
In any event, such is the way of things. At present all I can really tell you is that I've gone and performed rather comedically on my symbolic logic exam, hence the bitterness expressed in the Misanthropic Philosophy of the Week. Humbled as I am, I am off to sulk during a screening of Harold and Maude with my pal Charlotte, and with luck and other such things I'll also find the ability to resolve a lot of my "non-writing-letters-to-people-who-really-deserve-them" guilt issues.
That includes the letter I almost certainly owe you, whomever you are.
And since that's her being dropped off from dinner with her family now, I really have to go.
When I met Droog years ago, I thought he was a pretty normal guy. Easy to get along with, good comic book artist, kind of impassive, but then, I like impassive. Inside of a month he proved himself to be a loud- mouthed, obnoxious, arrogant, misogynistic, racist, reactionary, homophobic, egotistic jack-off artist of enormous proportions. Yeah, that kind of sours you on a person.
This of course, was all in a scholastic context, so for awhile there, I was forced to see this person endlessly, and smile away like a fool while he continued to embarrass himself with stories of his legendary, god-like prowess in intelligence, "battle skill" and sexuality. Long before the days I grew so jaded with humanity that I wouldn't have put up with this shit for a minute. shudder twitch Not that it wasn't fun to hang around him, mind you. "Oh, I wonder what fool thing Droog will do today."
When I start thinking badly of someone, my first instinct is that I'm being a great big snob, and that I should be ashamed of myself. In fact, I should probably re-evaluate just what is ticking me off about the person. I tend to accomplish this, unfortunately, by trying to get to know them better. That was my mistake.
I think Droog is the kind of person that automatically clicks into "bullshit" mode when confronted with the possibility of being paid attention to. Once he was God. When he wasn't God anymore, he still promised to put in a good word for me and a friend with God, so that we wouldn't go to Hell, since we obviously couldn't get into Heaven, not being white and all. Then he was a vampire. Then he had invented vampires. Well, you get the gist, right? I really can't say I didn't try. I tried casual chatting, philosophical chatting, I tried helping him out with some schoolwork, comparing art, going out to movies with Droog and pals...all to no avail, 'cause that bullshit factor just never went down.
I was pretty happy when I left that school, and Droog behind. But it didn't end there. Once in awhile I would hear stories about him swatting fists at chicks, or making a general nuisance of himself...but what really crawled under my skin and bit me, was something personal. (It's always something personal, kids.) I only have it on hearsay, not being of the mind to ever talk to him again, but he is rumoured to have told people the reason that we did not speak was that...I was angry...that he...spurned. my. affections.
Sure, I wanted to hunt him down like a dog in the road, crumble his skull with a pick axe and urinate in the bloody remains. I didn't. I guess I didn't think it was worth it, though the messenger of this news thought for sure I'd strangle him dead just for having mentioned it in the first place. So, I just went along with life, reminding myself that Droog was an annoyance I would never again have to deal with. It's a pretty big city, after all.
Well you know what? It's a really fucking small city. When Rob moved to the fashionable district of town, I obviously started spending more and more time there. Awkwardly, horribly, painfully enough, Droog started popping up in places. I'd be reading a book over a stop for coffee at the mall, and when I would look up, he'd be passing by. Little things like that. He'd wave politely and nod or say hello, and I'd wave and bury my nose in the book or coffee, or pick up and dash, reminding myself that losing control of my temper in a public place, though it would be really fun, probably wasn't appropriate. "Small price to pay, Broken. It's a small city, so you might run into him, but it's a big city too, so cool your jets and coast on, baby."
And you know what? It's an even fucking smaller city than that. Rob lives in the equivalent of a privately run boarding house for freaks. It's a good place. People are friendly like. He likes folks there. I like folks there. I'd give a favorite limb for a lot of them. This house rents out a lot of space to bands, artists, whatevers...and it also rents space to gamers. (Gamer: One who pursues the dubious pleasure of real-life/board/game role playing fantasy/fiction games with a group of others, as a pastime/serious obsession.) One of these just happened to be Droog. Droog happens to be friends with someone I really like an respect, who lives in Rob's house.
Now, she's never known the bullshit factor I have in regards to Droog. She says he freely admits being a real jerk, way back when, to lots of folks. Maybe that means he's changed in some way. Maybe he is a different person. But she also said something that made real sense: Familiarity breeds contempt. When Droog's with her, he's a normal, slightly off-kilter human being. When Droog's around me or anyone from the past, he reverts to his previous ways. Fair e-nough. She knows and respects the fact that I really don't want to talk to him. Which is not a problem, since neither Droog or I live in the house. So, the initial strain of having to say hello when we passed in the halls was mitigated by the fact that I could burrow down into Rob's cozy room and just ignore him.
But. Not. Tonight.
My pal Frettchen had graciously agreed to play me a few games of chess, because I really stink at chess. Frettchen, on the other hand, has one of those heads that was designed to hold a brain especially grown to be good at things like chess. Well, Fretch and I were having a great time, with him beating me sorely every game, and me learning a wee bit more every time. We were playing in the huge basement, which doubles as an event/social room. In walked Droog from another room. He observed that I was having a frustrating time of chess. In the middle of a game with Fretch he said something to the effect of "I play you next." I said something to the effect of my really sucking at chess, and he said that was no problem. He'd give me a real quick game. So, I did what any completely fed-up, reasonable person would do. I snorted interiorly, and said "yeah sure."
When Frettchen finished beating me, I went and retrieved Droog from another room. I could only assume there was something he wasn't letting on. Maybe he thought I stunk so bad at chess he could beat me. Maybe he thought he could play chess. Droog is not the sort of person who would typically play a game he didn't think he could win. Anyway, with a couple of spectators, we set out, with Droog stating his intent to use his brilliant "battlefield strategy." It went something like: "Droog, I got your knight. And your bishop. And your other knight. And your Queen. And your other bishop. And half your Pawns. Check. Check. Check. Got your rook." Droog got two of my Pawns. Droog quickly explained, in the face of the cheering spectators, that he wasn't playing to win, he was playing to have a quick, fun game. "Check, Droog. Check. Check. Droog? Chhheck."
After awhile, I started toying with Droog. Droog started making humming and clicking noises, I presume to distract me. Then he started singing. I thought out very simple moves ponderously, with excrutiating length. Frettchen got bored and had to go walk around. Droog was threatening him with violence, for Fretch had dared to point out some of the rules of chess. My final move was nice. A clean, crisp...
"Checkmate, actually."
And I put my hand out across the table, and Droog shook my hand. And he got up and walked away into another room. And Fretch and I set the pieces up again. And Fretch continued to beat me. But we had a real hard time not laughing all the way through it. A real hard time.
So, I don't even know what the point of all that was. I just know that Droog didn't ask me to play another game, though it was obvious I had plenty of will to keep playing. Droog may be completely oblivious to the revenge I wrought tonight, but I wasn't, and Fretch wasn't, and Rob, and a few others weren't. And that really feels good. What felt best of all, was using my sweet mind, with its newly culled knowledge, to calculate a cold, efficient, "strategic" destruction of an ancient arch-nemesis. In the real world, his army would have had the good sense to pledge allegiance to me and go work in my slave pits. But this game was played in the much more real world of pettiness and ego. And kids, my petty ego kicks ass.
Love you all, Moppets.
Broken.
As such, I refuse to let Christmas get to me. It's not exactly my most
favourite of holidays, but there are some things I like very much,
and I actually do enjoy shopping quite immensely. I don't like
leaving it to the last second very much, and yet I always do -- this, however,
is the only stressful part of shopping for me, save the fact that I could
always use more money to fund my adventures. Since people are so
determined to be grouchy, though, I simply insist on being contrary.
I'm polite. Ohhh so polite. And I'm cheerful. And
agreeable, and conciliatory, and pleasant. I smile, thank clerks for
their time, wish shopkeepers their Happy Holidays (Christmas is, for those
who work the stores, entirely more hectic than those for who merely shop
in them), and never, ever, let it get to me. In a way, it's
utterly psychotic, but because I really don't get that much out of
Christmas, I hang on to what I can.
My birthday is on the twenty-fourth. This isn't specifically a bad thing, but birthdays do tend to make me humble. I feel older, sillier, and people make a fuss over me (which I love, but not when it's obligatory), and yet I can't have a party or anything because it's Christmas Eve, and everybody has pressing family engagements. And before you ask, it's never meant fewer presents. That doesn't matter that much, though. I'd like to have more fun on my birthday, that's all. Last year was great. Just my mother, and my older sister, and her husband, and Broken, and my nieces. We were all in Toronto, and I had a nice, friendly, simple birthday, where I felt loved, even if most of my friends were not actually present. What I especially dislike about my birthday are its connotations.
You see, on my fifth birthday, my father died. My older brother says that he was out getting a tree when it happened, but I'm not sure. All I remember is a lot of noise and people in my parents' bedroom, and my father lying on the bed. I seem to have repressed most of what specifically happened. This was in some sense encouraged... my younger brother and I couldn't attend the funeral, and people really didn't talk about the event much. Now, I find it a very saddening and sobering weight, even if I didn't as a child. My older brother and I had a conversation about this the other night. He was a little tipsy, which meant he was a little coarse (for Caira's birthday, we all went to the Royal Oak, a great British pub which my brother frequents. He joined us for awhile at our table, and decided all my housemates present were scurvy hippies. Which, in some cases is actually correct, even if they'd use the word "goth," but I can't be accused of loving everyone in my house, either. In any event, it made him a tad obnoxious), but sincere.
He talked about how last year, he went out with one of our father's cameras, and took a lot of winter shots similar to photos (in the same location) my father took many, many years ago. Looking through lenses our father looked through, seeing things he saw, had a huge impact at the time. My older brother isn't so sure our father would be very proud of him, but he took me aside and told him he knew he would be proud of me. Which, I think, actually applies to all of us, because for snotty overintelligent artist kids we all turned out well (my younger brother is jocky, but growing out of it), but it really makes me extraordinarily happy to think that, for whatever I am, if my father were here, he'd like the person I became.
Anyway, I find Christmas overwhelming for the most part. I also
really dislike (pronounced "hate") some of my extended relations, for the
way they've treated my mother, and my siblings, and myself, over the
years, and Christmas often meant stiff dinners at my grandmother's (my
grandmother is a saint... truly she held our family together... loving and
neutral like Switzerland (except she doesn't steal gold from Holocaust
victims)) surrounded by some people I really loved, and others I didn't.
That was neat, though, seeing the camps spring up. Our immediate family
group spurning the social advances of all others, having fun and being
exclusive.
And since I find Christmas so draining, it's my mission
to get carried away in the shopping, decorating, planning, visiting, and
traveling, so that I don't think about being glum. I let myself be
distracted, and what I enjoy, I really enjoy. It's Christmas on
my terms.
So when you're in a mall, and some freak in a trenchcoat and purple hair scoots past, arms bundled with purchases, remember -- while you're staring at my head, and whispering comments, and getting impatient in line, and shoving past people in your way, and generally feeling bitter -- that my atheistic ass has way more Christmas spirit than you, and get over it.
I mention this for a reason. The other day (actually, last Friday), when it was bitterly cold outside, and I'd had a miserably chilled trip coming home from work, I had decided for myself that the winter winds were my most vicious and unforgivable enemy. Simply put, the outdoors could not be at all reasoned with that evening, and I said so when I finally came indoors (although it probably sounded more like, "Yikes! I'm cold!"). So, when I escorted Broken home that evening, and I had to contend with the frigid December air, I put aside my dignity and vanity and flirted with pragmatics -- and put on a toque. And, I mean, at least it was a black one. And it was mercifully created lacking a pompom of any sort, so at least I didn't look like I was five or something, but nevertheless I was not at my crowning glory when I stepped out the door. I mean, how can you with a toque on?
So as to reward me for my dashing non-comformity and rebellion against conventional styles, my independence earned me just the painful sort of life lesson I was begging for. If destiny were a waitress, I would have no choice but to leave tremendous tips behind for her. I'd say to myself, "She always knows when I'm going to come in, and has this breakaway chair waiting for me when I come in. She always knows what I'm going to ask for, as if she could read my mind and my bittersweet tooth! Here's five dollars! I hope it's enough..." Looking particularly awful, what do I see as I cross the street but...
My mean ex-girlfriend, Phil.
I see her.
She sees me.
Whenever we encounter one another, there's this exchanged moment of powerful emotion, like we're both suffering intense flashbacks the way Brandon Lee would convulse melodramatically everytime he touched something historically significant to him in The Crow, and then you get the flashback on the screen. I can only speculate as to what she feels, but it's most likely a hundred milligram dose of guilt and discomfort. This is why she gave up on our friendship; an emotionally crippling inability to deal with guilt or the consequences of her actions (this is intended to sound neither like an excuse for her, nor bitter recrimination), and hurting my feelings the way she did so long ago was entirely too much for her to deal with. Whenever I see her, my emotional reaction involves something resembling fear. Also, however, terrible regret, and I never do escape our encounters without feeling that oh-so real pain of rejection, all over again. I think we also end up reacting to the each other's obvious unease, and translate it into an even more amplified (and cyclical) desire to run away from the scene of the reminder.
Phil was coming out of the drug store at the
time, on some Friday night errand of miscellaneous importance. At that
point, we noticed each other (she got the first glance, though), and she
hurriedly moved to her boyfriend's waiting car (I'll just, for
convenience's sake, assume it was her boyfriend's car), slipping on the
ice most gracelessly, almost sending her long legs flying right up into
the air, managing (I think for the best) to recover sufficiently to make
her escape.
Me, however, I was doomed to stand there, and obsess with
Broken all the way to her bus stop.
The toque on my head felt like a bloated corpse in a state of
decay resembling fermentation into methane. Warm and snug and obvious to
the whole world that sitting on my head was a monstrosity.
I ripped it off, to the chagrin of my ears, smoothed down my hat-head, and
spent the rest of the weekend feeling decidedly self-conscious.
"Oh," I lamented. "Oh," I went on, "if only I hadn't
been wearing this beast! Then my bright, freshly dyed purple hair
would have been proudly on display for every Phil in the world to
see, and she could see that I was vibrant and happy and it didn't matter
to my healthy psyche if we never ever spoke again!" I'm sure at
this point I must have paused for breath, and then said, or said something
like, "But this damned toque was upon my head! Practically shouting that
I've conceded defeat -- that I've been broken! That's right, Phil,
your ex-boyfriend is now a guy who wears a toque! Look, look at what
you've done to him!"
How small I felt then.
I expected to come home
and find an e-mail or something from her, saying, "Hey, TOQUEBOY! Nice
toque!" It actually would have been kind of flattering to know she still
paid attention to those sorts of things, even if psychologically crushing.
I think something I find disturbing, as much as seeing Phil, is the reminder that we're both doing fine. I mean, I haven't frozen in time since we broke up (I mean, it was nearly three years ago. That's a long time to still ache), and neither has she. We've gotten on with our respective lives quite well. We've accomplished some things, and failed in others, but still we're going on, perhaps looking back in some ways, but I don't especially think either of us were better off back then. We were happy, then we weren't. Life goes on, problems happen, and occasionally even great things happen, and in that we're probably as lucky or well off as before. Except that in the midst of all this, we've found ourselves flooded with life experience. I think she and I have grown up, separately, and I'm sure our past together contributed to some tough lessons that have, somehow, helped us both.
I think it just bugs me, pettily, that she's equally as good as I am. As if somehow it would be better if she never got over me. I'm sure everybody wants to see dejected ex-lovers at the doorstep now and then, moaning and lamenting and proclaiming to the world that You, above all, were the best lover they ever had.
Sometimes, when I'm at my most sulky, I like to pretend I was the best. It's seeing that she's more or less coping that shakes this conviction. Which, maybe, is why it's so miserifying to see her.
The reality check.
Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.
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