The Day I Had Nothing to Say (I think not.)

There's always something to write about isn't there? At times I'll be somewhere with no access to pen and paper let-alone a computer and struck by things I want to write down and express fully. Y'know thoughts I feel are really worthy of remembering because it's something I feel very passionate about, or found really funny, or think is really clever...

...And then there are the days when I plop my ass down in front of my computer, and all I can do is gripe about the way some woman smells on the subway... or like today... have nothing to say at all.

Ok... that's a lie... I never have absolutely "nothing" to say. I'm a little too verbose and opinionated to declare that with any kind of conviction. There are days however, when nothing I have to say feels like it'd be a very good thing to share. I guess this is one of those days.

I sit here now, thankful my day is drawing to a close with me doing something I enjoy after a day of not-so-enjoyable truths and circumstances.

For example... I thought my day was getting off to a reeeeeally bad start when Porthos doddled around outside this morning and would not poop to save his life (or my schedule). I yelled at him in the elevator and gave him a couple of smacks in anger. Which is really awful when I think about it. He's a dog. He obviously just didn't have to go. But all I could think was "oh you stupid animal! I've got to go to work and I won't be home for 9 hours, and now I can look forward to cleaning up a mess on the floor because you won't be able to hold it that long."
*grump grump grump* *grumble* *grumble* *stomp* *stomp*
Yeah... well... I got to work and talked to a friend on the phone who's in danger of being evicted from his apartment because he hasn't paid his rent in 2 months. He had an emotional breakdown two nights ago, and has one week to come up with over 2000 dollars. And that's something I can't even help him with. I wish I could, but I just don't have that kind of money.

By comparison, my life is not that bad. Not that I didn't have additional stress come at me quite steadily all day, but still... I've got a place to come home to when my day of unrealistic demands, and impossibly negative, bickering co-workers, comes to an end. And it's paid for. And I'm grateful.

It's strange how all the talk of financial crisis and economic downturn has finally started to affect me in ways I didn't think it would. I've got sales reps clambering for any business they can get their hands on and obsessing over every minute detail, because business has dropped-off considerably. And they're obsessing over current clients they don't want to lose, and those clients are stressing about lost business, and of course it's "because their advertising doesn't work anymore", and not because people might put off buying a new car, or having plastic surgery, or laser hair removal, or may even rethink going out to a ridiculous bar to pay 20-dollars to get in, and 10 dollars per drink to enjoy themselves.

I know it's tough. Seriously, I sympathize, 'cause it's going to get tougher for us too as a business, but at some point you have to take a step back, and look at the blinking, shining, oozing mess of EXCESS that modern civilization has come to expect as a norm and a right-of-passage... ...and say "yeah... it had to end some time didn't it"?

You can try to sell all the crap and luxuries you want, but as a matter of self-preservation, "many" people (with more modest incomes, or spiraling credit card debt) WILL come to the realization that there are crucial priorities to ensure for yourself and your loved ones. Priorities a tad stronger than trading in your perfectly reliable 2 year old car for a new one just because your lease is up and you like the smell of new plastic and leather.

At any rate, I'm expected to come up with brilliant new ways to shovel snow in the Arctic when really... these businesses have to "wait it out", or "find something else to sell that consumers need - not want".

Sorry, I hate being preachy... even though I won't shut-up about it beyond my apology. Going to work lately feels like watching people drown.

Don't let me paint a pious picture by any means. I'm not immune to the credit-consumer-disease. I'm extremely grateful I still get by and pay my bills on time. Likewise, I'm starting to realize the threat of the economy on my own job. We're not untouchable. Media companies are suffering all over Canada, and it's not like we're a ratings giant. At the very least, this may well be the event that crushes our music format. I'm not privy to that information, but the possibility is there. Better the format to disappear than our jobs though. Of this much I'm certain. And I don't work for stupid people, so I'm sure it's crossed their minds too.

Funny how I sat down thinking I had nothing to say, isn't it?

Time for more Oz. Which is getting a little dull sadly. The characters are like Kleenex. They're running out of ways to kill everyone. Another shank - Another day. And I've still got 18 episodes to go before the series finale.

Song of the day... (yes, I really do like this song - even though it's strategically posted for ironic purposes given the topic of my post. It's a very catchy hip hop dittay!) ...

PS... Porthos was really good. No mess to clean up when I got home. That much I didn't deserve after being so angry with him this morning. My reward should be someone standing over me while I sit on a public toilet... camera pointed at me saying "go on... poop" "and make it quick, I've missed four subway trains".

9th Ward - Add Me Up

I got my Gucci shade on with my Gucci tennis shoes
I can hear nigga's whisperin' that that look Gucci do
I say yeah this me (uh huh,) who else it gon' be
Quarter mil', add me up, from my head to my feet
Thousands on my shoes, thousands on my pants (uh huh)
Same thing goes for the guap in my hand (come on)
Bling bling on my wrist, bling bling on my neck (uh, uh, uh)
Showin' 'em my teeth, yes nigga I'mma flex
Now people be like damn, what he gon' do next
I know one thing I ain't gon' do and that's god damn stress (yeah)
Got my goons on my side, got them two's on deck
Like 3-6 mafia I'm dope boy fresh (uh)

I think I want to buy that there (add me up)
But I know I'm gon' buy this here (add me up)
I think I need the one with the ice (add me up)
But the gold one looks so right (add me up)
I think I want to buy that there (add me up)
But I know I'm gon' buy this here (add me up)
I think I need the one with the ice (add me up)
But the gold one looks so right (add me up)

D-Boy swagger, see your status (hey)
See me on that block, tool on my bladder (alright)
Ho's know my face, niggas know my name
My bank grown up, now they wanna see me change (nah)
Keep it real, I'm a keep gettin' dollars (hey)
Keep it throw-away, buy a couple more Impala's
Either way I talk I'll be swear I got shorty
That thing on that showroom floor, I bought it
Ho's lookin' at me, like I owe 'em somethin'
I just bought a few things (oh nigga stop stuntin')
What you mean Gu, I ain't doin' nothin' new (nah)
I been gettin' money (rarr rarr rarr)

I think I want to buy that there (add me up)
But I know I'm gon' buy this here (add me up)
I think I need the one with the ice (add me up)
But the gold one looks so right (add me up)

Peephole Stank

There's no secret that I'm pretty intolerant of stinky humans. I've most certainly made more than one entry about people with bad breath and body odour. Today before I delve into something of more substance (maybe, no promises.) I simply must mention a growing trend of women who favour really high-octane floral perfumes. It used to be only heavy-smoking women to douse themselves in something offensively, flowery... presumably to cover-up the smell of cigarettes and rotting lungs from the noses of those who might be fooled into thinking "oh no, she couldn't possibly be a smoker... she conveys only the essence of begonias on a sunny May afternoon".

Has anyone ever been fooled? The allergic and easily-annoyed want to know.

At any rate there's an entirely new segment of the female cologne-marinating population who simply love-love-love a particular brand of perfume that, to me (and who am I really?) smells like Dollar Store fabric softener sheets. Y'know, that really cheap, synthetic floral scent that doesn't even really smell like flowers? It's just one of those generic odours that someone accidentally stumbled upon and deemed the epitome of "femininity".

Picture the instructions on the label... "pour on ground, roll in puddle, smell pretty". Or "attach nozzle to create fine mist, dance in said-mist for 15 minutes until personal space consumes city-block, repeat, smell pretty".

I know I'm being extreme, but really... this is what I envision when some chick's perfume makes my sinuses close-up shop, immediately threatening to declare a headache, leaving me VERY grumpy and longing for a roll of smiley-face-stickers declaring "I stink. Stand clear." that I can slap on one of their boobs to be both provocative and offensive. Not-so-much-unlike the relationship of their "perfume intention" to their "perfume reality".

There is a rule with cologne and perfume. If you haven't heard it... gather 'round. It goes a little somethin' like this:

IF YOU CAN SMELL YOUR OWN FRAGRANCE, YOU ARE WEARING TOO MUCH!

Fragrances are subjective. I realize this. Everybody has their own idea of what smells complimentary on their own skin. But like a teenage boy who smells like he just crawled out of the air conditioning ducts of your local Abercrombie and Fitch store... and soaked in a tub full of the latest stank by Tommy Hilfiger... LESS.... is almost certainly MORE.

Gee... I truly wasn't planning on a full-blown topical rant. But it's decidedly more colourful than my chiropractic appointment today. Let's leave it at that. I think I shall watch more "Oz" and get to bed at a decent hour tonight.


Help, I'm Alive - Metric

I tremble
They’re gonna eat me alive
If I stumble
They’re gonna eat me alive

Can you hear my heart beating like a hammer, beating like a hammer
Help, I’m alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer
Hard to be soft, tough to be tender
Come take my pulse, the pace is on a runaway train
Help, I’m alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer, beating like a hammer

If you’re still alive
My regrets are few.
If my life is mine,
what shouldn’t I do?
I get wherever I’m going,
I get whatever I need
while my blood’s still flowing
and my heart still beating like a hammer, beating like a hammer.

Help, I’m alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer
Hard to be soft, tough to be tender
Come take my pulse, the pace is on a runaway train
Help, I’m alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer, beating like a hammer

Help, I’m alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer.

The Bird, Wrapped in Sunshine

If this song doesn't absolutely invade your brain and take over... then I suspect there's something seriously wrong with you.

Yes... I said it.



I may write more later, but in case I don't. I hope you have a splendid day. Listen to this song for guaranteed splendid-ness.

"Fuck You Very Much" - Lily Allen

Look inside, look inside your tiny mind
now look a bit harder
cuz we’re so uninspired
so sick and tired
of all the hatred you harbor

so you say it’s not okay to be gay
well I think you’re just evil
you’re just some racist who can’t tie my laces
you’re point of view is medieval

Fuck you, fuck you very very much
cuz we hate what you do
and we hate your whole crew
so please don’t stay in touch

fuck you, fuck you very very much
cuz your words don’t translate
and it’s getting quite late
so please don’t stay in touch

do you get, do you get a little kick out of being small-minded?
you want to be like your father
it’s approval you’re after
well that’s not how you’ll find it

do you, do you really enjoy living a life that’s so hateful
cuz there’s a hole where your soul should be
you’re losing control of it
and it’s really distasteful

Fuck you, fuck you very very much
cuz we hate what you do
and we hate your whole crew
so please don’t stay in touch

Fuck you, fuck you very very much
cuz your words don’t translate
and it’s getting quite late
so please don’t stay in touch

You say, you think we need to go to war
Well you're already in one.
Cuz it's people like you that need to get slew
No-one wants your opinion

Fuck you, fuck you very very much
cause we hate what you do
and we hate your whole crew
so please don’t stay in touch

Fuck you, fuck you very very much
cuz your words don’t translate
and it’s getting quite late
so please don’t stay in touch

How Taxing

I am procrastinating.

My taxes need to be done, and I don't wanna.

Truthfully, I've never done my own taxes before, and although I bought a "QuickTax" program, I'm dreading the process. I don't like numbers. They frighten me.

And this is with the knowledge that I'll be getting a return on my taxes. Probably larger than I have in a long time because of my TTC pass rebate. My irrational fear of numbers is rooted in ridiculing high-school math teachers. Meaning teachers that ridiculed me... ...not the other way around. One teacher in particular anyhow. I can't even remember his name. I blocked it due to trauma.

Math and I have a long history as enemies. But we "used" to be friends. Or at least amiable. I remember the exact time I felt the sting of math's betrayal. Throughout grade school, I was an all-A student. I did well in absolutely every subject. So when it came time to enrol in high school courses, of course I chose "advanced" in everything. It was the next logical step, right? Math said "not so". For it was in my Grade 9 advanced math class that I discovered... I didn't know diddly. I struggled for an entire semester to learn the secret language of numbers... but for the most-part I only learned the equivalent of how to ask the whereabouts of the bathroom in the twisted, sadistic land of numbers. My final grade was 75% that year... ...a "B". And it only got worse. Grade 10 advanced math had teeth like small, sharp daggers. I didn't understand my homework... ...so, I stopped doing it, because I was getting the majority of it wrong. My final grade that semester: a lowly 60%.... a ...."C". I was mortified and defeated.

By grade 11, I had lost all hope of mastering even the basics of math. I enrolled in the advanced class, and lasted less than 2 weeks. Our first test was "a review" of the previous year and I scored 10%. Knowing full-well, I was only going to be dragged behind the bumper of the math bus, I dropped the course and didn't take any more at any skill level.

That in essence, is what kept me out of university. (I originally wanted to become a teacher.)

It's tragic to think of the minds I could've twisted by now. Hee hee

Anyhoo... don't know how I was quite-so-inspired to write an entry about "math" of all things. Sometimes you just don't know what'll come spewing out of your brain.

It's certainly time I could have spent doing my taxes, isn't it now?

Jesus Doesn't Love Me

HOW DID I NOT KNOW DRAGONETTE HAD A VIDEO FOR "Jesus Doesn't Love Me"?????!!!
They're so naughty! I want to have a dinner party like that. Except maybe without the girls. heh heh

I yearn for new music from this band. Like oxygen. Like dark chocolate. Like blind-folded dinner parties. ;)

Home is Where You Fart Most

I have the day off tomorrow (today) to spend with someone I adore.

"Happy" is such a wonderful feeling when it's at it's most anticipated. *grin*

Since it's 1am... and I really do want to go to bed to be rested for tomorrow, I'm just going to post a few pictures of me and the boys and apartment stuff.

First: a very recent picture of me and P-Dawg. Yes, I'm sporting a beard now. Though it's truly more work than I ever bargained for, and yielding less-than-satisfactory results. Porthos... ...or Pork-ohs (baby dog needs to shed a stone) (just like papa) if I may be allowed to boast for a moment, is THE most loving and sensitive of dogs I've ever had my entire life. I could not love him more.

And then, proving "salt and pepper" is the new "black", the ever-handsome gangsta beagle, Cole. My sweet little princess is starting to show his age, but he's still spry and lean and has a coat that'd make a mink say "DAYUMN". Not bad for a gentlemen of 80 years of age (that's 12 calendar years this summer) . It's a little bit harder to get him to pose for pictures these days. He's grown weary of the paparazzi, or rather, just privy to the flash. It annoys him, so a lot of shots are of him walking away, turning his head or closing his eyes. Oh that clever hound.

And, now just to show y'all that I'm actually setting-up house. There are still boxes unpacked and much crap "undealt"-with (***note the conspicuous lack of any bedroom shots, and not because I fear the widespread knowledge of my porn HQ.) but I'm starting to really get things arranged the way I want them, and the plants are thriving and looking good. It feels more like home. Anyhow, just pictures to play us through the credits. No song lyrics today 'cause I'm going to fall-the-"eff"-down from exhaustion.

Harpy Birthday to Shrew

Hmmm.... one of my coworkers just said to me: "Oh John you're always making me laugh, you should have your own blog."

Is that what this is supposed to be for? If it is, I'm admittedly doing a very poor job of being funny lately.

Incidentally, she overheard me say to no one in particular (with reference to a song we were playing on-air) "This song is sooooooooo shitty.... so shitty it sounds brown."

Whatta ya think? Does that make me worthy of writing my very own blog? (which I didn't tell her about) I don't think it was that funny.

I dunno, if I was being judged on it, I would've spruced it up... y'know... like "this song is so shitty... so shitty I can hear the kernels of corn begging for freedom." That's asking a lot of imagery of it's audience though, isn't it?

And no, it's not always about poo with me. It's just more amusing when it is.

In a topic totally unrelated to poo. This movie is REALLY, REALLY GREAT! "Rachel Getting Married" for those of you disinclined to clicky on m'a linky. It's one of those films that will have you feeling a) thankful for your own family or b) wondering how they managed to film your family without you knowing about it. DYSFUNCTION JUNCTION, what's your function? Loved it. But be forewarned, it's NOT a feel-good film whether or not you can identify with any of the mental-patient nuclear family hyjinx contained therein. I saw bits and pieces of my sisters and most certainly my mom in a great deal of the female lead characters, but certainly not to the extremes they were taken for the plot of this movie. The similarities were present though. No doubt about it.

In a topic not completely unrelated to dysfunctional families... today is my mom's birthday.

Oh... and before I forget, I just saw "Religulous" for the second time. (& LoVeD it even more the second time) If you haven't seen it, you should. "Required Viewing" for a very fucked-up world in my opinion.