“When someone farts, ten angels die.” Isis - Egyptian Goddess of Fertility and Friend to the Slaves
“Let’s burn all the bridges while we’re at it.” Joseph of Magenta
Recently I read something so profound - so indescribably beautiful and poignant - that I immediately broke down and collapsed into a sloppy, sobbing heap of flesh and jagged, chipped bones. I blubbered for damn near two full nights and three partial half days, not including the evenings and mid-mornings. My family had to step over me to get to the sofa. I didn’t ‘cry like a baby’ though, because from what I recall, babies do very little actual crying, but instead scream their frustration and disapproval. It’s a pretty primal form of communicating. I like it. It beats the shit out of twitter. As it stands, we live under varying shades of neurotic innuendo, incomprehensible abbreviations and total catastrophic misunderstandings. It’s difficult to tell a good fart joke through Facebook. Some things require face-to-face contact. “Pull my finger, Henry.”
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how infants communicate - giggles and screams. We should go back to these two forms of expressions. That’s it. No bullshit. But surely people would frown on this type of behaviour - they would call you FOOLISH, CHILDLIKE, INFANTILE, and so forth. They would admonish you to GROW UP! ACT LIKE A LADY! BE A MAN! ACT YOUR AGE! LET’S BE MATURE ABOUT THIS! DON’T BE SUCH A BABY!
Okay - back to the thing that made me cry. You know, it’s always remarkable to me how a mere string of letters, when ordered just so, comprised of nothing more than crowded ink dots, can hold such visceral powers over me. I have to admit that my blubbering made for a terrible scene as I had not cried in a while. In fact, thinking back on it, the last time I cried was after slipping on a plastic bag during an epic blizzard. It was not my tumble that made me cry, as I essentially just fell on my ass into a puffy, fluffy snow bank. It was pretty embarrassing taking a winter digger, yes I admit it, but the fall itself did not make me cry. No, what made me cry was being run over by the snow plow.
Maybe this recent crying jag had something to do with just the hyper-sentimentality of the season, or maybe it was the strange faces in all the windows - looking worried about something - like maybe Ebola or poor returns on high-risk, guaranteed investments or the planet or a forthcoming audit or the possibility of being tortured, over-taxed and outperformed, or maybe the plight of the whales. To be honest, I hope all the whales die off this year so people can stop worrying about them - when I say whales, I also mean dolphins, seals, walruses, coral, pelicans and flamingos, cod, polar bears, emus, penguins and pandas. Oh, and all birds and trees - just gone! Poof. Now we can concentrate on the business at hand -human extinction.
Everyone looks weary from constantly weighing their many options. When to fight or flee or in extreme cases, Google their own name, read an article on how to pay off holiday debts quicker than those you’re still chipping away at from last year, or how to get out of a cell phone plan through blatant deception. The more options one has, the more difficult it is to weigh them. Hum.
Or maybe I was choking up over the fact that after everything is said and done, people are still holding on courageously to this strange notion that whatever shit storm is coming up fast, if we all just ‘hold on’ and listen to David Suzuki , Al Gore, Bono, and Leonardo DiCaprio, then maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a fighting chance. Sir Bob Geldof says that “together we can stomp out poverty by 2696”. But you’re hungry now? Well, just be patient. “Hey, do your part and buy a ribbon to show your support. No, you shouldn’t eat the ribbon. Jesus, please people stop eating the ribbons. We only have so many ribbons to go around.” We have the power to make a difference. Turn off that light in the bathroom. Do your shameful business in the dark and everything will be ‘okay’.
So it seems many of us made it through 2009. Many people did not. That was a close one. Shit, we almost killed all the elephants and our kids are now smoking meth while texting when they should be concentrating on their future. At least we found out there was once water on the moon.
“2010 will be the year that things’ll be okay.” - Oprah’s neighbour (who wished to remain anonymous)
Now, I guess this will all depend on how people define ‘okay’ as a state of being. The concept of ‘okay’ may differ from that of a financial investor who gauges ‘okayness’ through dollars and increments thereof. If he goes to bed with more money than he had woken with, then the day was ‘okay’. If he lays his head heavy down on his pillow with anything less, then the day was not ‘okay’. Plus, shouldn’t all financial gurus be retired and living in Cappadocia during the winters, instead of pushing RRSPs? So, if a shepherd hits the hay with one less sheep from his flock, then his day kind of sucked by and large. The day for the coyote was ‘okay’, mind you so it’s all a matter of perspective. What is rather sad is that in many cases in the western world, ‘okay’ is usually a measurement of one’s financial state. “How’s Rob doing?”
“Well, he’s full of tumours, and in terrible humour, but he’s doing amazing.”
“But, how does his salary rank? I heard there was trouble in that sector.”
“He makes about ninety-eight thousand a year. All invested in gold, pharmaceuticals and latex. They promoted him when they found out about him having all the tumours.”
“That’s fabulous. Tumours are a great career move. I’m glad he’s doing okay. What about his wife? Where’s she working now? I heard there was trouble in her sector.”
“Wow. That’s great to hear that she’s doing okay. I’m so happy for both of them.”
“And do you remember that thieving bastard? Lyle? He used to beat the shit out of me in high school. What a thug. I wonder what ever happened to him.”
“Actually, I looked him up on Facebook. His profile says that he works as a pilot for a small airline up in the Yukon. Makes really good money flying hunters in and out of camps in the winter and running drugs in the summer. Mostly speed and hash. Probably making well over two hundred thousand a year.”
“Jeez, it looks like he’s doing okay for a guy born with no eyes. What about Chris?”
“Ah, Chris. Sad story actually. Poor bastard. He works at an abattoir. He’s married with a few kids and they live in a log cabin he built from redwood. I heard they have no electricity. They live totally off the grid. I guess he’s turned into a bit of a whack job. I seriously doubt he makes more than twenty thousand a year.
“Poor Chris. I heard he wasn’t doing okay, but I didn’t know it was that bad. I should call him. Do you have his cell number?”
“No cell. He has a landline.”
“Jesus!”
This concludes the first portion of this column. We will now take a short break. Feel free to play an organ, whistle a tune, watch the You Tube video of Nina Simone’s House of the Rising Sun filmed live @ The Bitter End Cafe, or Nick Cave’s video for Stagger Lee from Mark Radcliffe’s White Room, get up and take a walk, have a smoke, have a drink, shoot a mountain gorilla and sell his hands, or use the facilities. Take your time. The lights will dim a few minutes before we continue.
INTERMISSION
Lights dim
ACT II
“My 18th birthday will be on the day of reckoning. Do I still throw a party?” Dali Mae Pecore
“I don’t know why people are worried about the planet. It will be fine after we’re all gone.” Greg of Guelph
Sidebar: According to Christina the Astonishing, the body of a deceased multi-millionaire will decompose essentially at the same general rate as a pauper who drove a 1989 shit box Toyota Corolla, regardless of the amount of money paid to the funeral director - from fresh, to putrefaction, to black putrefaction, to butyric fermentation (where things get really exciting) to dry decay. Any and all monies stuffed into any pockets of the multi-millionaire, or into the secret lining of his casket, will decompose at a slightly slower rate. It is true that you can take your money with you when you die unless a shifty funeral director finds it. Loose change will remain in top notch condition.
This year will be much like the year that has just passed, and the year before that. People will be brought into the world while others will leave. Some by choice, some not by choice. People will enter the workforce and will exit the workforce. People will be asked to come in for job interviews where the more enthusiastic will exaggerate greatly and use key words like ‘team player’ ‘works well under pressure’ and ‘honest & trustworthy’. You have all the attributes that the job requires. But the job pays sixty cents over minimum wage and requires eleven years experience, which is what you don’t have. It’s no-win. “Thank you for coming in and we will keep your resume on file in case a position opens that..........” Job interviews are terrible for the soul.
This year for many, the number of years until retirement will decrease by one. Prioritize your wants and needs. Write them down in a planner and bring it to your financial advisor who is there to guide you and make all your retirement plans come to fruition and send you a card on your birthday.
The whole concept of ‘retirement’ and ‘nest eggs’ seems like an overwhelmingly shitty proposition to me. It’s definitely a hard sell on television as overproduced commercials targeted towards the Boomers imply that only those with fortitude and foresight will be able to run out and buy a vineyard. “It’s all in the planning. Have a plan? Plan to save. Have a Plan B in case Plan A was a little too unrealistic. No plan? Shit, you better start some type of plan so you can start planning. Who is your planner? Don’t have one? You should plan on getting a planner. I know, you should use my planner. He’s amazing. He`s always planning. Even on his days off his planning something. He drives a Prius - and not the kind most people drive.”
Freedom 55? Freedom 55 sounds ominous to me. Just the word ‘freedom’ implies that we’re all living as prisoners. Incarcerated. Freedom 55 sounds like the dramatic liberation of a death camp. What kind of life is actually being lived if one is merely counting down the days until a magic number declares that he is no longer useful or has worked hard enough to deserve to rest sitting on a dock? You go from contributor to burden within 24 hours. So, wait for it. Work hard. Shut up and don’t ask too many questions. Rotate your tires. Don’t rattle any cages and make damn sure you keep up and stay in-step. Squirrel away. That’s fine. Do your own time. That’s real good. It’s getting close. Okay. Okay Mr. Howard. The doors are open and you’re free to go. Thank you for behaving accordingly. Now go buy a cottage and sit on the dock and think about the time you have left. Good luck with the vineyard. Oh, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro? Have fun. Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look tired? And what’s the deal with that cough? Maybe you should go see a doctor. What do you mean you’ve stopped taking your high blood pressure meds? They’re not covered anymore?
Nickoli Cave retired after working 13,870 days at a job he hated. Nickoli, who is not Russian, but from Burk’s Falls, bought into the whole package. He bought what civilized society was selling. He had a nest egg that took years to nourish. That nest egg did actually grow - bigger and bigger as it was placed with a gentle hand into a velvet box. He had his son, Stephen, sit on the egg as well when the boy wasn’t busy dreaming of becoming an astronaut. The egg became a little unruly and began talking back at dinner. Offhand quips. Some a little racy. Reluctantly Nikoli relinquished power to his neighbour who promised his egg would keep growing and growing and growing. His neighbour made money off the money of others and would tell anyone who would listen that financial planning is the key in having all your dreams come true. On a Tuesday a fox broke into his neighbour’s home through a small screened window over the kitchen sink. Nikoli always hated foxes. He never trusted them - cagey with beady eyes, he’d say. The neighbour who convinced Ray that his nest egg would be properly cared for naturally claimed no personal responsibility and blamed unforeseeable circumstances, namely the fox. Today Nikoli’s nest egg is nothing more than the dried cracked egg shells left behind by the fox. Now Nikoli can’t buy a vineyard or a cottage on the Lower Rideau with a dock to sit on.
The Wealthy Barber stopped by over the holidays to give me a quick shave and a haircut, which I had assumed would cost about two bits, or accounting for inflation, maybe three bits, tops! Me and the Wealthy Barber had grown apart once he made his first million. On this visit, he was sloppy drunk and a bit of a menace, chasing me around the house with sharp scissors. It was a disgrace. It was only out of pity did I allow him cut my son’s hair - poor Lurch now resembles Ringo Starr. And you know what the topper was? This Wealthy Barber tried to charge me $1,245. So much for three bits! He told me that things were tough at the moment, “but if we hang on and hang in, everything’s going to be okay”. I called his sponsor to come pick him up.
So, in wrapping this column up for 2009, another number will be assigned to the next 365 days, to begin January first. This calls for a new calendar with cats on it, unless the calendar is in a garage, then airbrushed vixens with crazy boobs will help keep things organized - to notate birthdates, dental appointments, car payments, the anniversary of loved one’s death and such, summer holidays, work schedules, anniversaries, legal appointments, and for some, the days left till retirement. Shuffle on. Just remember, things will be okay. What things? Hum. Not sure. How do we know when things have turned the corner and we’re on our way to things being okay? Don’t worry, we will be told by someone on television. But okay for whom? This year will be marked by births and deaths and whatever happens in between. I, for one, will continue writing, reading, parenting and letting the dogs out before they shit on the carpet. I don’t think I have a nest egg, if I do, I would imagine it’s cracked somewhere in behind that old jar of manzilla olives, but don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay. I’m thinking there will be a time when money will lose all its value and some colossal equalizer will return the power of control to those who properly deserve it - Kenny Hotz and Spenser Rice.
Now - I’d like to thank my sponsors who all pay me handsomely to name drop
Posts
