Maybe it's utter baloney (I like swearing in cartoon language wherever possible... and we are well aware that it is spelled 'balogna') for me to ever say that I'm sad. I mean, superficially I have everything in my life that most people could want. Certainly there are those who regard it with a degree of envy, and I've had to fend off my share of sarcastic "poor baby!" remarks when I find it necessary to complain. At the same time, I don't have a solid gold house or a rocket car, just a job I love (one of my bosses is now a faithful reader of my web page -- yikes! -- but most of you have been reading long enough to know that I love my job anyways), kind and brilliant friends, the rudiments of a promising education, and... well, talent and fans and things. I must admit that I'd want to punch me in the nose for being sad all the time. Maybe it's more fair to say that I feel unfulfilled or something, as if my life were holding its breath in anticipation of something really big that I can't yet understand or see looming ahead of me. And not necessarily big in a good way... I just find that whenever my journeys take me to the lands of monotony, it is only because I'm being groomed for something terrifyingly huge and transitional (like , well, this entire past year for one). It's times like this that I believe in things like destiny; I mean, I can't believe in something like destiny without sounding superstitious and deflating every smug little argument I've ever smacked amateur philosophers around with, but one has to admit that I've had it pretty weird the past, say, five years or so. Like I'm always at the right (or wrong) place at just the perfect time for something to happen to me, and all this without me being particularly adventurous or handsome or strong or anything which might prove useful in times of strife.

I know I'm still waiting for Lilith to make her third call (third time's the charm, right? [insert sound of crickets here... if anyone has any wave files of crickets, please send me one, because I have oh so many lame little comments which would be ab solutely perfect if they could only be followed up by the "no one's laughing, Rob" silence which can only be filled by the sound of crickets]). I'm trying to remain optimistic, and it's usually the case that I even feel good about our present situation, but faith is a quality I often lack -- although I suppose you didn't need to be a fundamentalist to know that -- at least when my self esteem gets involved ("huh! why would anyone want to call me?"), and it usually does when people I care about are concerned. But more to the point, I just really want for us to spend Canada Day in the simple pleasure of one another's company. Charlotte is off up North, which is bad enough, but without Lilith it will hardly even seem like a holiday at all. I just have this feeling that if I were hit by a bus, or gunned down by thugs, or eaten by space mutants tomorrow, that I'd probably come back, Crow style, or ghost style, or zombie style, because my troubled spirit wouldn't be able to rest until I'd busted up some suckas, and set things right between Lilith and myself. I'm at least convinced that her intentions are sincere, and never let it be said that I doubt her desire to be friends with me. What's more troublesome is the fact that she works almost every day, and also dances, and she may just not have the time to make her presence concrete just when I find it convenient for such things; and in all fairness I'm never home either.

Perhaps my requirements for attention have simply escalated as well; I find it a sad fact of summer that not being in school is by no means a guarantee that you have tons of time to spend with your friends. Most everyone I'm friends with works (my roommates notwithstanding; I mean they are friends, but they're goths...; and I don't really hang out with them socially, not the way I do with my closest, most intimate friends), and works rather a lot at that. And then there's Caira, who is also taking summer courses, and the friends who are away, or have moved, or are moving. Sigh. And here I am, aching for attention and coffee and emotional fulfillment. Which isn't to say that I'm especially good about calling all the time myself, but I'm trying; I really am trying to improve. I spent all last week running up my long distance bill, and usually just to find answering machines or confused roommates. There are those who are so busy they don't check their e-mail very often anymore, and while it's tempting to just write some of these certain people, I find sending a message with the vague hope of getting one in return to be tantamount to actually begging for a letter. And begging for e-mail is just short of being as pathetic as begging for sex. So, instead I sulk, and procrastinate on writing people to whom I actually do owe correspondence. You begin to wonder at just what amazing Escher drawings make up the dark shadows of my psychology, because even I agree that I'm very convoluted. Perhaps it's because I didn't have many friends for most of my high school experience (until the last year of high school, I was what might be called quiet and meek -- even moreso than I am now...) that at this point of my life I like knowing that there are people who really do love me and selfishly bask in their attention, even though I'm not at all obsessed with popularity. I ask only for a handful of utterly close friends; people I can share everything with, and spend whatever free time I do have engaged in trying to make them happier.

whine, whine, blah blah blye.

We stopped into the Dominion Tavern before heading to the house, though, in the hopes of finding my older brother there. My older sister is in town for the week herself, and we were hoping for something of a family reuinon. Well, getting inside, we saw no such brother, but we did see a Burrhus, looking hip and slick and ever so dapper. Of course, he always does. He was sporting a dandy new purple and black vertical striped shirt (he flattered me by comparing his selection to my own personal taste in unusual shirts), on its maiden trip out into the world, and looking for a place to engage in questionable activities because, and wouldn't you know it, there were police everywhere today. In any case, we sat down for a beverage while he and Broken smoked (I'm a square, so I do nothing), and we caught up on lost time -- at least in the sense that I knew almost nothing about how he'd been lately, except as the occasional snippet of information passed into my ears from Caira, because of course he reads the Snivel each and every day (like a good boy, and woeful would the day be for me that he ever stopped) and nothing I can say is as such never novel or interesting to him, because he read about it whenever it happened (the curse of such a medium is its effect on my communications abilities with my friends). After our drinkypoos were exterminated, of course, we headed back to our apartment to show Burrhus around, and give him a venue to partake in a minor indulgence of his. To my delight he was very impressed by our new surroundings, pleased as he was by the space and decor and multiple bathrooms. He himself is moving to Sandy Hill later this summer, such that he will be near to ourselves and Caira, so I am indeed hoping to see much much more of him than I have of late. After all, he's about as nifty as they get.

Really. I never know what to say.

And much as I was spending most of yesterday feeling rotten and moody and decidedly depressed, it should of course have been obvious that it was the perfect day for me to finally speak with Lilith. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed. Well, I never saw it coming. I mean, I had a reasonably good day at work, and in spite of myself I've been buying a few old Star Wars toys from the 70's and 80's (I mean, nothing fancy; an escape pod here, a TIE fighter there, just fun things which will hopefully form a collection I shall allow to grow over the next couple of years), and actually I'd received a letter from one of my newest fans, and while she's only written a couple of times, her letters are a treat to read, and I'm never one to turn down intelligently executed doses of attention. But coming home, I was thrown again into a tired and stinky mood. Here it was, the eve of Canada Day, a day when I actually don't mind crowds and noise and convoluted social obligations, and the people I most wanted to spend it with seemed completely unavailable. Which wasn't to say that I had nothing to do; Broken was here, and Caira firmly declared her intent to whisk me away, grab my stupid little hand, and point out fireworks, and I could be assured of a positively delightful day if only I could put my heart into enjoying it.

I'm not actually sure what time it was when Lilith and I started talking, but she excused herself at ten o'clock because she had to work come morning, so I do know that we actually spoke for somewhere in the vicinity of an hour to an hour and a half. The entire conversation was extremely awkward; but I take comfort in the fact that it started out considerably moreso, and grew less so as time went on. By the time we said our goodbyes, in fact, we were both babbling to one another, in a hurry to finish thoughts and express feelings. I felt good about the experience in general, although it was bittersweet, and painful, and it did not by any means make me especially happy to think about the fact that she was moving away so soon. Of course, I was extremely happy for her -- at long last, she gets to move away from her home and her constricting family, the drudgery of her job at a small pub with an oppressive, authoritarian and icky boss who delights in belittling the waitresses working under him and generally shouting at them and calling them names. She also gets to see her boyfriend considerably so often -- in fact, the same person she's been dating in this past year since she and I, well, ceased to be a "she and I." Cough. That revelation was by no means unexpected, but certainly it was not quite easy to hear, either. I feel rather divided. You see, she seemed so much happier than I've ever known her to be. At long last everything is working out for her essentially the way she has planned, and her life is finally taking her in the wonderful directions she deserves. The fact that, during this past year of hard work and strife and sacrifice (Carleton actually offered her six thousand dollars, and York offered her three; but she chose Concordia for its program and its personal meaning, and has had to work for every cent she'll be spending to attend), she's had someone who loves her and has taken care of her, even if he lives far away, is -- frankly -- great. She needs someone to make her feel safe, and loved, and to remind her that there really are great people in the world, and as much as I'm happy that she's found someone like that, I'm still faced with the hard-to-digest fact that it isn't me anymore.

I told Lilith about my complicated life as well, hoping it didn't sound small and pathetic in comparison. She actually got to meet Margie Gillis, one of her three personal heroes (the other two being Arlo Guthrie and Meatloaf; both of whom she's also met) when she was in Ottawa earlier this Spring, her choreography won her school's annual award for the best production (usually reserved for the grand plays and recitals which Canterbury puts on every spring), which is amazing given that dance is a thing very few people properly understand (and her choreographies are particularly deep and meaningful, and therefore, most people don't get them at all the way they should). Meanwhile all I could say about myself was, "Duh, I moved out and got a kidney stone and my grandmother died and I got to read onstage as a featured reader.... tee hee!" I mean, not that I was keeping score, but it's nice not to sound like a loser after an estrangement of a year. We didn't actually talk about anything "important," as such, but I don't think it was the proper time anyway. We both agreed that there are still deep issues for the both of us which need some spring cleaning before we can properly move on as friends, and I'd much rather deal with them openly, over coffee, instead of over a telephone conversation where smiles and tears and raised eyebrows are missed and misinterpreted.

The weird thing is, two years ago tonight Lilith and I were strolling through these familiar streets of the Byward Market, inseparably holding hands with innocence and trepidation. We were hanging out with one of her friends, but you'd never know it, because our respective attentions were focused on each other. Later that night, commemorated just a few hours from now, as we sat on a rooftop a block or two from my new apartment and watched the fireworks, Lilith's friend teased her with just the hint of a backrub, and then stopped. And poor Lilith looked so disappointed, because like any human being, she likes backrubs. There I was for the first few minutes of the explosions, debating whether or not I should touch her... whether I should thrill her back to shivers with my fingertips; and with apprehensive delicacy, I decided to try. So, for the entire duration of the fireworks, I rubbed the bare skin of her back, exposed by the open-backed swimsuit she was wearing with a pair of shorts, and she was absolutely hypnotized; hardly caring about the display at all. It was actually very sweet. By contrast, tonight I am to be spending my time with Broken, Caira, Mefisto, Pixiegirl and company, and possibly Burrhus if we ever connect up with him again, and poor Lilith is working a double shift at her dreadful job waiting tables, an ordeal which started early this morning and won't end until closing late tonight. It hardly seems fitting. Of course, meanwhile, my monkey hands won't be wasted; Caira is sorely in need of a massage, having waited tables herself for eight hours today, and even though her demands are purely pragmatic and self-motivated -- hey, when you're good, you're good -- it's my pleasure to work the agony out of her legs and back. Still, I shall pine, because pining is what I do. Pining for a person who is in so many ways far from me, and a time which is now seeming so long ago.

If you should please, you can read about those adventures from last July in the Classic Snivel.

Goddamn buses.

Well, yesterday morning after taking out the garbage (because those garbage monkeys come bright and early in the morning, but whenever we leave boxes out they just ignore them and leave us with a big stack of flattened boxes on the lawn, so what good are they?) I dashed to the Rideau Centre just in time to miss my bus, so with grouchiness and uncharacterisitic impatience (actually, I tell a lie -- when I'm on my own time, I have limitless reserves of patience... but when I'm in a rush for something that involves other people expecting me, I'm a jittery mammal which is easily spooked and slightly bitey) I spent twenty minutes pacing and grumbling and awaiting the next 85 to take me to work.

Arriving at work, then, twenty minutes late, it was all I could do just to insist that I stay late and make up the time to my very forgiving boss (who bought me cookies! Can you believe it? Right from the Richmond bakery, and they were scrumptious too. I don't know what I've done but someone up there still likes me. Which slightly amuses me because in spite of two thousand years of intolerant dogma, I can disbelieve in God and still get cookies. I win!), and as such, stay late I did. Until seven, in fact. Tragically, yesterday was the day that I forgot to buy a bus pass until too late (I brought enough change to get to work, but based on an error on my part, did not have enough to get home), so upon leaving work, I had no recourse but to start walking down Carling all the way back to the Rideau Centre to buy me a bus pass. And, yes, it was possible for me just to find a bank machine, get some currency out, find some change, and catch another bus, but I was in one of those "questing" moods where I'll be damned if I'm going to give OC Transpo a single cent just so I can get to a mall and buy a bus pass from them. All the way home, I just kept saying to myself "Just let me pass an open bicycle shop. That'll show 'em!" because that day, my friends, I was just fed up with public transportation. Hot, stinky, sweaty, crowded, slow, buses which are too late or too early, run infrequently and largely at the whims of the drivers, who themselves are fascistic about not giving change and busting little old ladies who are short a nickel for the fare.

Luckily, I have godlike leg muscles, so the walk wasn't unpleasant. It only took me about an hour or so, I think, to get to the Rideau Centre. And hey, I even had the chance to sit down on a grassy hill on Carling and write some poetry for a couple of minutes (I was inspired). Twenty minutes after I got home, I had to go out again, because my sister was in town for a few days and she was meeting me at the infamous Royal Oak on Bank with her husband, my older brother, and some old friends, and that leaves me here, tired, in a rush, and looking decidedly forward to the weekend.

On the way home, though, I had stopped in at the Rideau Centre to pick me up some delicious milk (hey, I'm a slave to massive marketing endeavours and massive lobbies as much as the next megalomaniacal aspiring world dominator) "for to assist with dinner," and strolled into the Shopper's Drug Mart like the sexy ratbastard I am ("Hey ladies, look at me buy milk! Now here's a man who isn't afraid of a little lactation..."). I was amazed, entertained, and just a little frightened, though, by the spectacle presented by a young woman laying sheer hell on some poor insignificant cog of an employee who probably didn't even have any idea as to what was really going on. She was physically reddened with rage by the time my civil servant ass got there, and I could only imagine that it had been going on for some time before given the escalation from "this cashier right here," to "that cashier right there," the one who probably tried to relieve his confederate of her trials with a foolish remark like "what seems to be the trouble?" In general, aside from being embarrassingly loud (I always blush when my fellow humans make fools of themselves in public), the scene was actually very impressive, too. Usually I want to punch authors in the nose when they shove incredibly long expositions into their stories, because that's precisely the way that human dialogues don't work, being dialogues and all. However, in this case I would probably have to offer said bleeding, crying author an apology, or at least a hankie, because an exposition of great length was exactly what I got.

From what I could gather from the tirade, this person was a very frustrated twenty-six year-old woman (I wasn't sure why she felt it necessary to provide her age, but perhaps she thought it would help maintain that she was an adult of some kind) who wanted nothing more from God's great earth than to have her roll of film processed in all due speed and consequently delivered timely fashion. Apparently it wasn't going to be ready before a span of five days from whenever she had dropped the film off had elapsed, and this was simply infuriating. Again, I'm not sure of the circumstances, but apparently it was two days more than she felt necessary, and may also have involved more money than she was willing to spend (I must be wrong, because I'm not sure how it costs more if pictures take longer to develop, but I was so ready just to say, "If two dollars is all it takes to make things better -- here you go! Here's two dollars, have a nice day!" smile as sweetly as you please, and walk away). As angry people do, she kept yelling essentially the same things over and over again, which involved how unreasonable it was to have to wait so long, and how when she'd dropped the pictures off initially, she'd been assured that it would only take two days. Then it was three. Then it was five, and here she was coming out of her way to pick them up, and once again they still weren't there.

Now, I know I've been toyed with by the monstrous powers of photofinishers in my day. Being just the tiniest bit of a shutterbug, I have (yes, it's true) been known to drop off film. I usually go to Black's in the Rideau Centre, because they tend to do a reasonable job and because I bought my camera there, and frankly I'm boring and predictable when it comes to mundane things like dropping off film (I can't do everything stylishly, after all. It's film or sex, and I continue to stand by my decision to be really good at sex.). I remember one time I showed up, and my pictures arrived, and boy was I steamed, because (rassafrassinrassarucka... more of my homage to cartoon swearing) I was still living in Kanata and this represented something of a slight extra effort for me to undertake a visit to the store after a hard day of work. But you know, they promised to give me a free roll of film (free processing was included), and shucks, I was glad to have it. I didn't even yell. Yes, I mean, it pisses you off when things don't transpire according to your intricate plotting, but the world is such a frighteningly larger place than "Dang I hate it when they don't have Little Debbie Snack Cakes at the store!" that you have to wonder if you'll even mention stuff like that as an asterisk in your autobiography, and if you do, if it's more of a manifesto than anything else?

By the time I'd selected my milk and junk food products (Broken made dinner -- I bought chocolates) someone from the photofinishing department had emerged to take charge. Sweet as can be, she gently reassured a young woman probably not much older than herself that, in fact, the photos would in all likelihood actually be present on Saturday, and she apologized for any confusion caused by any other opinions on the matter. This seemed to meet the offended person's expectations, as one of the things she was particularly upset about was that Saturday, she had been told, was not a day on which any lab work was done, and thus would increase the delay (at least, she said it enough times when she was screaming). Slowly, with much reassurance from the employee so versed in the domain of photofinishing, the young woman calmed down and her complexion gradually faded from an angry red to a vexed pink. She quieted down, too, and thanked the person at the counter, and left. As I was leaving, she was still outside, ranting and complaining to a friend who had, through impatience or foresight, taken refuge outside to sit against the wall, and repeated the entire incident. I was inclined to eavesdrop and learn more, but I was more amused than anything else, and gathering details would probably have been both rude and tedious (although I was tempted to just ask). It all made me wish, though, that I had the supernatural ability to lay my two soft yet strong hands on people's foreheads and forcefeed into their brains the realization of just how small and meaningless their particular frustrations were in a world cursed by so many brain-freezing tragedies. Like, for instance, the fact that fewer and fewer frogs are appearing every year, and most species shall certainly someday be endangered (more vanish completely every year). This problem definitely gives me problems sleeping. Or the fact that a doctor in Ontario was recently charged with performing female circumcisions, or that in some parts of Africa the severed clitorises are thrown to the chickens to eat, but are done so by grasping them by the toes because they are unclean to touch. I mean, the film is late -- that rates what on the scale of all the horrible realities of this big old planet? Two hundred billion? Right below "Sometimes there are some pringles which just aren't salty enough"?

I hope beyond all hopes that she was going to get fired or eaten if she didn't have those photographs in her hands by Monday. Something like that would have helped me understand the magnitude of the problem. Like maybe her company has a monster like Sweetums from the muppets that could have just gobbled her up hole in one gulp if she displeased her corporate masters. Hell, I'd freak. I'd grab someone else's photos, or I'd whip out a gun and start plugging customers until people damn well developed my pictures for me. Or maybe they contained pornographic photos of her in some especially compromising poses ("hey, I think I can see her kidneys") and she was just understandly anxious to get them back before they wound up all over the internet. Or something interesting like that, because otherwise the world has simply sent one more person who over-reacts to small inconveniences. I'm reminded of Back to the Future, when Marty McFly had a picture of his family that was slowly but surely being erased because he'd changed the timeline, and maybe she was just trying to make sure her family were still alive. I can't say.

Let this be a lesson to you, though, the next time you're really upset about something. Just try to imagine how much like an asshole you'd look from the perspective of the tall, rakishly handsome civil servant looking onwards from the candy aisle, because, face it, that's the way people look like when they freak out over meaningless inconveniences in public.

Doogie Houser ending number twenty three.

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

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