No One Here Wants To Fight Me Like You Do

Try - Michael Penn

Don't worry William, this doesn't count as a fourth post in a row due to it being completely insubstantial.

Annia has only been gone for two days and I miss her already. Feels like a week has passed already. Or two weeks! What an unusual feeling this is. I wonder if there is a direct corrolation between her being gone and my feeling incredibly lonely these last few days.

*****

Work was horrible, yet strangely satisfying today. I had to do the work of two men, due to the fact that my boss is cutting costs by reducing hours. He must have figured, "Hey, why should I pay someone to retrieve the shopping carts, transport the water jugs and take out the garbages when I can have Alex do it in addition to having him keep an eye on the store and count all my money? He's a human punching bag anyway!" So that's what I did today. Thank God my manager Rajdeep was in today. Her and I have an odd relationship. Early on, I was deathly afraid of her. I don't know why. She has a good manager voice. Like, when I made a mistake, she would admonish me with a tone that would incite within me that perfect mixture of fear and shame. Wonderful. However, I inevitably got to know her better and I realised that she has a work persona, just like the rest of us. I still respect her and take her seriously, but I can also work with her as opposed to under her. It works better for both of us now that I've grown a pair.

Rajdeep took care of things while I was outside chasing buggies. Hells a' poppin' it was hot today, eh? I love the heat, but even this was a bit much. Is it wrong that I'm only now starting to fear global warming? Still, the fact that I was a man alone out there in that sweltering heat dragging all that metal around did make me feel kind of cool. I tend to be a bit of a masochist; such that, even when Rajdeep suggested I ask some of the stock boys for help, I declined. They'd only get in my way.

The only bad thing was that I decided to finally tell her that I would be leaving in a few months. I was half hoping that she would shrug it off and say, "No big deal." But she had to say how much she appreciated my hard work and how I always came in to take people's shifts. Again, fear and shame. Damn her.

Speaking of taking people's shifts, it turns out that I took a shift for Adriana this weekend without even realising it. Rajdeep called me the other day and asked if I could come in on Saturday and I figured, "Hey, man's gotta eat," so I agreed to do it. I checked the schedule and I was thinking, "Alright, at least I get to work with Adriana!" Then I found out it was her shift I was taking. Shizer!

I messaged her on MSN to cuss her out. I wanted to yell at her over the phone, but she had an essay to do. So I forced her to let me edit it instead, bwahahahahaha! I am a sad, sad man. I chopped that sucker to bits and sent it back to her (all this over the course of the last four hours by the way). She apologised profusely for my having to take her shift and for keeping me up, but as you might expect, staying up with Adriana and helping her with her assignment was quite a thrill for me. It's possible I might even get a lunch out of this. I can't stop guys, I can't.

*****

I hope Brian Chow realises how good he's got it right now.

*****

I gave Arlene a call during one of my breaks today. She wasn't there, so I left a voice mail reeking of desperation. Later that night, I got her reply. She "Sunday'd" me. She said that she was a slave to her job and if we met up, it would have to be on a weekend, like Sunday. In other words, like never. Sunday'd, damn it.

*****

I want a girlfriend so badly right now, it's killing me. And yes, I'm sure that exact sentiment can be found in any of my previous posts.

Hey Jerry, you ever wear silk underwear?
No.
Put that on the top of your list.
No, not for me. A little too delightful.

5/31/2006 03:02:00 AM | Comments (0)

Take Time To Admire The Powerlines

Having An Average Weekend - Shadowy Men On A Shadowy Planet

Part of my problems with concentrating lately stem from the fact that I'm never exactly where I want to be. That is to say, while I enjoy being at the movies or hanging out with friends, my mind is usually somewhere else completely. And by the time I get to doing what I wanted to do at that time, I'm already looking ahead to what want to do next. It is rare that I'm doing exactly what I want. I did have a moment at work about a week ago. I had finished filling up one of the pop machines and I was really thirsty. I was like, "Man, I'd really like a Nestea Ice Tea right now". So I bought one and drank it. For that brief moment it took me to finish that ice tea I was where I wanted to be.

*****

Angel's been going through some rough times so I decided to ask her to come over and stay at my place for a day. Don't ask me why I thought this would help her, but I guess I want to try this "being there for your friends" thing I've heard so much about. You all know that I'm a big believer of improving and making yourself a better person every day. Plus, with Annia out of town I could certainly use the company. Plus plus, it's part of my plan to spend more time with people I actually like.

It was no big deal. When we got to Finch station, we saw our bus driving off and we had to wait there for an hour. I tried to expound the virtues of sitting on a bench and staring at a parking lot, but she wasn't biting. When we got to my house I showed her Guitar Hero. We played that for about three or four hours, maybe more. That shit is fishscale. My mom, God bless her, was in full nurturing mode so Angel was never left wanting for anything. Eventually we ended up watching Garden State. Damn it, I don't know why that movie affects me so much everytime I watch it. Even when it starts to fall apart near the end, once that Frou Frou kicks in I'm sucked back in. Stupid Zach Braff. I think Garden State is a classic love it or hate it flick. I love it. So did Angel.

Normally when someone (usually just Max) sleeps over at my house we end up talking until the wee hours of the morning, having deep conversation about relationships and work and life in general. It's predictable and trite. Considering how much turmoil Angel has been having in her life with her boyfriend and family, I thought that this would be the perfect opportunity for me to be a good listener and let her vent all her frustrations. But that didn't happen. We finished the movie, we watched some television and we fell asleep a little before two. She didn't need to talk about all that stuff. She simply needed to rest. I'm glad I, or at least my house, could provide her with some comfort.

We woke up around 7:00 and I walked her to the bus stop. The bus came and went and I avoided giving her the "awkward hug" (Trademark Alex Lee). I hope it's not another two or three months before I see her again. I feel better today.

It's not just the knife wound. It's that rib of mine that popped like a wishbone when the Kingpin slugged me. It had the decency to stay where it belongs. Until that car hit me...now it's all loose and jagged and every time I move it cuts and gouges...I keep walking...just because it's hard to...

5/29/2006 08:49:00 AM | Comments (0)

Blanket Statements

High And Dry - Radiohead

I've had the same blanket ever since I was a child. Actually, I use a three-blanket system. The top blanket has varied over the years. The second layer I've had for a while, it's got a bunch of trucks on it. The bottom layer, my favourite, is alphabet themed. All the letters are accompanied by a picture of something starting with that letter. It's perfect in its simplicity. It's way too small for me, it has been for years, so I have to curl up in a ball to get it to cover me properly. I've heard that's the proper way to sleep anyway. This blanket is pretty torn up and it's probably time to let her go. She will be missed.

*****

I was telling Jess the other day about a little disagreement I had with Annia the other day. We (Annia, Cheryl and myself) were watching the finale of American Idol when Mary J. Blige showed up for a guest appearance. I hate Blige. She's the most overrated R&B artist of all time. I mean that. As soon as I voice my displeasure, Cheryl and Annia jump to her defence. Then Annia says, "Actually, that's okay. Because I don't like The Arcade Fire, so I guess that's the same thing."

It is not the same thing.

I explained to her that there was a crucial difference. Mary J. Blige sucks. The Arcade Fire is amazing. Somehow, she could not understand this. Needless to say, we did not come to an agreement. After having some time to think about it, I realized that there is a simple rule that we should all follow (and that allows me to indulge in my own guilty pleasures):

It is okay to enjoy performers that other people don't like. That comes down to personal taste. It is NOT, however, okay to dislike performers that are widely acknowledged by intelligent people as being good. In other words, it is okay for me to like Lillix, even though they are obviously devoid of any significant talent. It is NOT okay for me to say Radiohead sucks, even though I may not enjoy their recent albums. It simply means that I do not understand them and that is my own failing. Check the end of this old Penny Arcade post for a better explanation.

To paraphrase, not liking The Arcade Fire says more about Annia than it does about their ability to make music.

She's leaving for Vancouver this Sunday. I miss my combat baby already.

*****

My hearing has been messed up for the last month or so. I went to the doctor today and apparently there was a lot of wax in there. He had to dig in real deep to get most of it and now I have to put baby oil in my ear every night. At the end, I was like, "I think you touched my piano lessons while you were digging around in there." Barely a chuckle.

*****

I've been getting the odd MSN message or phone call from acquaintances I've made over the last couple of years. Almost all these conversations end with, "I'll call you for lunch sometime." I will, really. It's hard for me to pick up that phone though and I don't really know why. I should call Arlene. And Natasha. And definitely Angel. I also want to see Nitasha Puri very badly, but I'm not sure what she's doing. There are a lot of people I need to see this summer.

*****

Strangely, I find myself deeply affected by the passing of my grandmother. I loved my grandma, but it's not exactly like we could talk or anything. And I only saw her once or twice a week. Even though it's been two weeks I remain restless. I am attempting to become comfortable with my usual summer groove of goofing off and working at Food Basics, but the feeling escapes me. I've always considered myself to be someone who is good at dealing with death, but I am having some difficulty with this one. Hurm. This could be a problem.

Here! Dr. Dorian! Take my shirt!
You think you're better than me...with your rock hard abs and your dynamite areolas? Well, you're not.

5/26/2006 01:45:00 PM | Comments (0)

Wow, William Cheng Is Mentally Crazy

The Champ - Ghostface Killah

I'm just going to insert a post in here and interrupt William before his thoughts consume his very soul. It's funny that he was writing about slippery slopes a couple of posts ago, because ever since that post he's been slowly sliding deeper and deeper into madness. An entire post about rock-paper-scissor? I don't know what's more amazing: That it happened now or that it didn't happen sooner. You know what I mean.

Randomness begins.

*****

Two videogames are consuming my life right now: Heroes of Might and Magic V and Guitar Hero.

The other night, I was playing HOMM and fought the same battle about fifty times. No exaggeration. I just kept losing and reloading, wracking my brain for a way to beat my unrelenting foe. It was like the Kobayashi Maru. WWJTKD? What would James Tiberius Kirk do? He wouldn't have died fifty times like I did, that's for sure. I must have stayed up until five or six in the morning struggling with this exercise in futility. This is my life, by the way.

Guitar Hero is insanely addictive and if you've never heard of it, it's a game where you...play guitar. It comes with this custom controller that is shaped not unlike...a guitar. There isn't much for me to explain is there. Consider it Dance Dance Revolution for your fingertips. Playing this game has actually got me playing my acoustic guitar again. Strange. I can give you a decent rendition of The Grace if you want. Though it probably won't be as impressive as watching me get the high score playing Take Me Out in Guitar Hero. Come to my house now and be amazed.

*****

I love when a good joke comes together. When you watch as much television as I do, you're always trying to set up some kind of joke around people. More often than not (I'd say about nine times out of ten) the line never comes out as good as you imagined it. Still, you keep trying and every now and then you nail one.

My troubled protege and initial brother Adrian Leung came by the store today even though he wasn't scheduled to work. He was shopping with his mother. On the way out, he says good-bye to me and attempts to say good-bye to this new girl working next to me as well.

"Bye Al, Bye Jessica!"

Her name is Sabrina. After the boy made an awkward escape, I start talking to her and I'm like, "You know, when I don't know someone's name, I don't even try to guess it. It's more insulting than admitting you don't know." She agrees. I tell her that we do have someone named Jessica who works here though. "That explains it, I guess. Does she look like me?" Sabrina asked.

"Oh, yeah. Except, you know, she's black."

Big laugh. And yes, I ripped off Dick's inflection and timing from High Fidelity a bit. Remember kids, good artists copy. Great artists steal.

*****

I'm supposed to be coming up with ideas for the Opening Events for New College Frosh Week 2006. Too bad for them that I truly do not care. I shouldn't say that, I do plan to contact my other group members eventually. I am concerned that they haven't contacted me first, though. I hate to become the de facto leader. Ugh.

*****

I just found the Big Love and Carnivale episodes that Jess let me borrow. Thank Christ. If I hadn't, the cops would have discovered my nuts buried in the rabbit hole next to Jess' house.

*****

On Sunday, Max and I went to go get tea with Annia, Shirley and Shirley's new buddy, Brian (Chow). Not to be too cocky, but I have to say that Max and I were definitely in rare form. We were so on, that Shirley couldn't help but marvel at our ability to conjure up bizarre, non sequitur imagery with no visible effort. We were so on, that I think Brian genuinely thought we were funny. And if he didn't, he at least pretended that he did and honestly, that's even better. I explained to her that it was simply a steady dose of watching Conan O'Brien. And snorting large amounts of fishscale.

I've been reading this book called The Perfect Team. It's a basketball book in which they've gathered a bunch of respected journalists to form a perfect team of players. The chapters are filled with stories that justify that player's inclusion and how he embodies a certain trait. For example, Michael Jordan represents "The Will To Win", "Competetiveness", "Awesomeness" and "Jesusness". It is a great book. I'm getting into the chapter on Phil Jackson. I realize that our style of humour is a lot like the triangle offense. An excerpt:

Since not all four possible trigger passes can be denied without making the defense vulnerable to reverses, back-door cuts, or alley-oops plays, the ball-handler always has a receiver available. Every possible entry pass keys a different set of movements. Any subsequent passes create additional options.

Sorry, that was confusing I know. What it's saying is that the man with the ball should always have an option and that option should lead to several different options. So if Max initiates a conversation about, say, Van Helsing, it immediately creates options for the rest of us. And depending on what we say next, it creates further options for everyone else. You might say, "But Alex, isn't that how every conversation works?" Naw, B. We've all seen conversations that go nowhere, they're brutal. A bad conversation is like the Raptors offense. One guy (Mike James) talks for a couple of minutes (dribbles the ball in one place aimlessly), leaves no options for anyone else to contribute (jacks up a terrible shot) and in the end it's just awkward for everyone (see: the entire Raptors season). In the triangle offense, the ball is always moving and creating options. See the passage above? Replace "reverses, back-door cuts, or alley-oops plays" with "Van Helsing jokes, Arnold quotes, or whatever happened on 24/Gilmour Girls the other day".

What I'm saying is that WE aren't actually that funny. Everything we say or do is just a product of the offense. We're well programmed, that's all.

Of course, I'm still Kobe Bryant in this analogy. When things break down, just give me the ball and get the fuck out the way.

Elliot, I can't talk to you about sex. I don't understand any of that crazy gibberish you use. Penis is...schwing-something.
Schwing-schwong, Peepers, or Peep.
Right and vagina is...?
Disgusting, but also Bajingo or Hoo-Hoo.

5/24/2006 02:20:00 AM | Comments (0)

If you ever have to engage me in a three game series of rock-paper-scissors, here's a tip - I almost always just go straight rock (also known as the "Avalanche" gambit). The reasoning is...rock is strong, nothing beats rock, rock smashes all. Plus, the easiest and laziest thing you can throw is a rock. You don't even need to open your fingers.

Here's the real reason though - I'm essentially throwing every rock-paper-scissors match by using a predictable, established pattern, so that I may further establish that pattern and make it even more predictable. The people who are familiar with my rock heavy tendencies (ie. my brother) will almost always beat me. Even if they triple or quadruple guess themselves and throw scissors because they doubt that anyone would be so stupid to throw rock three times straight, they will generally at least win the crucial first game. So I'm essentially giving a one game lead to everyone that knows what I'm doing, I'm essentially letting them win. And 80% of the time, nothing important is decided by rock-paper-scissors. So I'll take the hit on those 80% - doesn't matter that much to me.

Because by setting you up on 80% of the matches, I'm positioning myself to win the other 20% - the matches that actually matter. Because the only moves you can really predict are your own. Unless you set up such a strong established history of predictability that your opponent eventually develops a predictable counter strategy against you. And then when the time is right...you strike.

They throw paper to catch the predictable, slow, and sluggish rock. But what's this? No rock to be found! Instead, your belly - which has grown soft and vulnerable from years of gourging yourself on rock - now tastes the cold, piercing bite of my twin blades of stainless steel, connected by a central pivot, as to form a cutting device. And that throws everything off - instead of just another routine "Yak's so stupid - he only throws rocks - I got this in the (paper) bag"...suddenly the hunter becomes the hunted. The gig is up - this rock happy sucker isn't so rock happy and sucky anymore. Suddenly's a whole new ball game. Retreat is necessary, a new game plan must be devised from scratch, improvised while on the battlefield. Pressure builds. The outcome of the war hinges on the split decision you must now make. Suddenly your hapless, overmatched opponent has tripled in size, and you must now defend against two additional dimensions. What will it be now? Scissors again? Perhaps paper? So you choose scissors, to beat paper and to block my scissors.

But it is neither. You hear it rumbling in the distance, that old familiar sound. But now it sounds much closer, much more threatening, much more deadly. It's the sound of rocks smashing together in a terrible path of destruction as they roll down upon your pathetically fragile scissors, and I'm about to go Keith Richards on your ass. What cruel twist of fate - the rock that you so confidently prepared against is now blind siding you. How quickly things change...how quickly...the rocks roll.

You have to pick your fights. Lose the battle to win the war. Give them Coventry to take Berlin. Okay, you can ride shotgun, you get the last pork chop, I'll wash the dishes this time. But when our plane crashes in the Yukon and we need to decide who will sacrifice their left arm as nourishment to keep us alive until we are rescued...don't be surprised when the Avalanche comes late.

And after all...you only really need one arm to play rock-paper-scissors.

Imagine that you could save a family by sacrificing a child...
...but that you had to explain it to the child.

What would you say?

5/23/2006 11:09:00 PM | Comments (0)

I had a dream last night. So I'm going to blog about it.

I don't usually have cool dreams. Or even weird or scary ones - I mean I'll take those, I don't even care. I'm dream-deprived, I want something. Or maybe I do have wacky dreams, but I never remember them when I wake up. The only dreams I do remember are of completely mundane things. Like I have a dream where I get up out of bed, brush my teeth, change, and take the subway to school. And those suck. For one, they confuse me, because I can never truly distinguish between dream-reality and real-reality. So when I actually do wake up, I think to myself "Wait, I'm cool - I've already done everything and I'm already at school...sleeping in my bed...which is at school...for reasons which I will not question. Five more minutezzz..."

That's also a sad waste of a dream engine. I could be running dream emulations of fighting ninjas, dunking on Patrick Ewing, having my eyes burned out with cigarettes by a vampire-fanged Shania Twain dressed up as a Malaysian bear...you know, standard dream situations. Instead I'm dreaming about commuting to school or work. That's like winning a paid vacation to any place on Earth and choosing to go to Ajax...but only every night.

But sometimes I'm woken up mid-dream or something, and the memory of a weird dream stays with me. Those are always special treats. But the problem is that even if you do wake up with the memory of a dream, it fades fast. I don't know if it's just stored in short-term memory or even the shorter-term memory reserved only for dream data, but in thirty seconds, it's gone anyway. So this time I did my best to transfer it to some longer-term memory by making point form notes in my head of the dream and verbally repeating them to myself while I sat in bed. The dream's mostly gone, but I have just enough to devote rambling blog post about it first. Lucky you!

Here's what I got.

It's Gotham. I'm Batman. (Standard, right?) From the animated series, so everything in this dream looks like it was drawn by Bruce Timm, and when I talk I sound like Kevin Conroy. There's been a series of unsolved murders, and I gotta do some detectin'.

Things kind of blur and fast forward a bit, and it turns out this new villain is behind it. I forget his name, but he looks like a Ghost from Diablo II, and he can possess people. Which is why the murders were unsolved - he was using random people to commit the crimes. Haha, see? I'm the world's greatest detective.

At this point, there's a new guy in town that's tracking down the ghost as well. But goddamn, Gotham is MY city, and I don't approve. So give him the standard Batman cold shoulder and do the standard Batman hey-what's-that-VANISH-WHEN-YOU-LOOK disappearance after a random meeting with him on a random rooftop in which I tell him I don't approve of him stirring up shit in my city. The weird thing is that he's the Taskmaster, who - despite being one of my favourite comic book characters - is a Marvel character and his powers are not analogous. Though the mercenary thing still fits with the whole dream story - it just should have been a DC character, like...Deathstroke or something. It's old school, pre-UDON Taskmaster, by the way, when he still had the full skull mask and the buccaneer-type look. Just in case you were wondering. I remembered that my dream version of Bruce Timm's Taskmaster was awesome, but I don't remember how it looked anymore.

Now here's where it gets weird.

That guy who sits next to me at work, who I will refer to herein as The Coworker? He's Taskmaster. He's The Coworker AND the Taskmaster. Just like I'm not just Choking Yak with a Batman costume - I'm Bruce Wayne. I'm Batman. It's weird, but since it's a dream, you just roll with these things and don't question them. Dream-reality is unquestionable.

Fast forward a bit more, and we're both racing to find the ghost, working in parallel. Both of us in full costume complete with cape - he's got the faux-Captain America shield and the Hawkeye bow and quiver strapped to his back and everything - but he's in his cubicle, I'm in mine, sitting in our office chairs back-to-back, separated only by the cubicle wall, which is also a cool white board, by the way. I can hear him clicking away on his laptop while I'm using mine, and it's intense. A race situation. I'm using Google. I'm typing in things like "gotham murder clues batman" and all I'm getting are bizarre hentai sites. Google keeps telling me to refine my search, but I'm the world's greatest detective and I'll be damned if Google is going to tell me how to do my job.

Finally I figure out the last victim on the list according to the standard plot for these types of stories. Like the ghost used to be Ghosty McGhostGhost before he died, and all the victims were past business associates in a crooked deal years ago, and there's still one guy alive...you know, standard stuff. So I figure it out first because I'm the world's greatest detective, and I push over the white board on top of him because I'm also an ass, and I run off to my Batmobile to rescue the old dude.

Predictably, I get there right as his janitor's about to kill him, and I recognize the janitor's possessed, because whenever the ghost possesses someone, their shirt looks like someone scribbled all over it with a sharpie. I don't know why, but that's how it was in the dream. So I stop the ghost, and right when I'm about to handcuff the ghost (I can't ever recall Batman handcuffing someone, nor do I understand how a formless blob of ectoplasm can be handcuffed...but that's how the dream went, and it all made sense at the time), the Taskmaster aka The Coworker shows up and fucks everything up.

The ghost disappears, and as we're looking for it around the room, I look down...and I have sharpie scribble all over my chest. So we start fighting. And it's pretty evenly matched, which surprises me, because I've always thought that the Taskmaster would take the majority against Batman in a straight up fist fight.

And somehow spontaneously, through reasons that only make sense in dream-reality, I realize that the ghost is powered by this monkey idol located on the dude's mantle - for it's power is bound to it. The idol by the way, looks a lot like this toy I used to have when I was little - you pulled a string, and he would like raise his arms and kick his legs at the same time. So now Taskmaster and I are working together to try and break the idol. So he throws his shield at me, an I KEECK IT RIGHT AT THE IDOL AND SMASH IT, and then all I can hear are birds chirping, and I wake up. It's 6:17 AM, and there's like an avian "wake up Yak" convention outside my window. Fuckin' birds, man.

Some of the symbolism behind the dream is immediately obvious.

The sharpie scribbles caused through ethereal possession represent the pen mark I clumsily left on my shirt when I tried to put it my shirt pocket with the cap off yesterday. It also speaks of the slow grinding prison that is the nine-to-five job and my difficulty coming to terms with it, represented by the ghost.

I'm Batman because I am awesome, and Batman is also awesome. Case closed on that one, Alfred.

The whole deal with The Coworker also being Taskmaster kind of unsettles me though. I don't really understand it, along with the whole "get out of my city" thing at the beginning changing to a begrudging "I don't like you, but goddamn do I respect you" thing at the end. So let's just chalk it up to my subconscious homosexual attraction towards him and call it a night.

That's generally how all dreams end anyway.

But when we wake
It's all been erased
And so it seems
Only in dreams

5/21/2006 11:47:00 PM | Comments (0)

I guess this is a post about posting. Which I guess is a lot like those cheesy speeches about speeches that we had in elementary, but I don't easily recall ever writing one of these, so I'm using up my quota of one, right here. (Plus, I never had a speech about speeches in elementary school - I had a speech about the future, which earned top votes to represent our class in the school speech competition, but Mr. Sasaki called an audible and vetoed it. Which - in hindsight - was the only sensible choice. It was a terrible, terrible speech. But Grade 8 never happened, so I don't even know what I'm talking about.)

You ever feel like you're in a slump? Like every pitch you hit is lined right to someone, or shots that you normally hit are rattling out of the rim or ringing off goal posts? Kinda feels like that right now. My head's not right, and I just can't sit down and hammer a post out, even a half-assed "It's not a tumah!" post. And I realize we're not exactly some hot corner of the web that has a million viewers frantically hammering on F5 every second desperate for updates, so this is obviously more of a personal luleerah trip than an apology to our "readers." I've gone much longer without a post before, but after 5 days, this particular slump is starting to feel like a personal failure. There's been plenty of slumps before - I mean, 99% of the content on this website is half-assed and there's countless posts that have no actual content - just posted for the sake of posting. But the desire to post has always been there. Not now though. This is new.

I aim for about two days between posts (though it's generally a target I never hit). Not because I feel obligated to provide content and frequent updates, but because I like this gig, and I find it incredibly difficult to stop and start again after large chunks of time off. I can't just type up a high quality post, stop for a week and then come back with another one - I have to continually hammer away with small, low quality hits on a consistent basis. I have to keep the rhythm going or else it eventually tails off and the motivation dies completely. Story of my life, actually. You see, I subscribe to the "slippery slope" theory of life because it seems to be such an accurate representation for me. The way you live your life is built on top of a foundation of standards and moral ethics that are weighed against the perpetual compromises that you must inevitably make throughout life. So everything in life is like a slippery slope - the more compromises you make, the farther down the slope you go, and the harder it is to get back up. And it applies to every standard or habit you have in life. When you skip class for the first time, you're just missing one class. No big deal. But then it gets easier and easier to skip the next time and the time after that, because you've established precedence and you're already halfway down the slope, and it's easier to keep sliding down than it is to climb back up.

And I've found that this is especially true for me. I am so pathetically weak-willed that once I start going down a slope - any slope at all - I'm going all the way down. It gets harder and hard for me to start again once I've stopped for any significant period of time. At this point, I'm farther down the "don't really feel like posting" slope than I've ever been, and this is my last desperate grab at an outcropping tree branch to slow my fall. I mean...goddamn, it's fucking slippery!

Everything starts with something small. Every bad habit or personal failure in your life could probably be traced back to a single long forgotten compromise you made way back. And that's a scary thought, to know that you alone are ultimately responsible for all your shortcomings, that everything has precedence, and the corners you cut today could come back to haunt you tomorrow? ...unless you were in like...a plane crash or something. I mean, that's difficult to guard against. I don't really think there's a plane crash slope. Unless you've been getting into accidents with progressively more complex vehicles - like first with skates, then with a skateboard, then a tricycle, then a bike, then a car, then an 18-wheeler, then a Sessna or something...I mean in that case, it's really your own damn fault for getting into a commercial jet liner after all that.

Why do you think I have to kill drifters to get an erection now?

There's a balance to it though. It's almost a perfectly linear relationship between the quality and the quantity of your posts. I mean, I can't update everyday or else I'll be forced to scrounge up content from my daily life all the time, and nobody wants that. But you wait too long, and sometimes your self-imposed slump gets too big for you to overcome - you're too far down the slope, and eventually you just decide "Ah screw it." and the whole thing dies. And now that we're heading into four (4, IV, FOUR!!!!) years, there's almost a reverse slope theory going on here - we've descended far too deep into a reality where The WAMBAG exists - there's really no choice but to continue.

Which is why the only way this would have worked was as a group blog. Only one guy needs to post each time. In theory, it isn't so bad to aim for a bi-daily update schedule with a team of five. Theoretically, you only need to post once every ten days. Logically, it all works out. There's really no way it can fail.

Of course, everything really goes out the window when you realize that there is absolutely no purpose behind this website. There's far too many inside and irrelevant bits for this page to have any entertainment value to anyone other than the guy posting, the links are too far and few between for us to fit into that category, and even the personal stuff is too lacking for this to be a standard blog. I don't get paid, I don't really want anyone I know to read this page, and whenever I try to come up with a reason I've been hitting that "Publish" button for so long, I come up confused and a little depressed. So why bother to think about it? This is what it is. I don't know what that is, but this is IT.

Generally, I find it's pretty easy to break out of a slump. All you need is a sucky YouTube link, a racist joke, a random Will Ferrell or Van Damme quote recalled from memory, and that's a solid three paragraph post right there. I've actually wrote up pre-written-break-glass-in-case-of-posting-slump-emergency-posts like that in the past. I've just used them all up right now. But there was just something about this slump - I couldn't just break out by running out an infield single. I had to type up thirteen hundred words. I don't know why.

But now it's out of the way, and hopefully, it's back to business as usual.

You can look the other way once, and it's no big deal, except it makes it easier for you to compromise the next time, and pretty soon that's all you're doing - compromising - because that's the way you think things are done. You know those guys I busted? You think they were the bad guys? Because they weren't - they weren't bad guys - they were just like you and me.

Except they compromised...once.

5/18/2006 09:07:00 PM | Comments (0)

Wow, rough week.

Time for some reports from the front line, in a special work-related edition of Provoking Facts from Choking Yak.

I can't even type that out without giggling like a liddle school girl.

- One week in, The Bossman introduced me to his boss who I guess through proxy is thus also my boss. So I guess that makes him The Final Bossman. You can imagine what an honour it was for such a low level Zergling such as I to be graced by the presence of one of the actual Cerebrates, and these few seconds were all I had to be able to make an impression the man who owns the life of the man who owns my life. So we shook hands (I'd like to think I gave him a solid double-pump, which communicated a sense of "watch out old man, I'm gunning for ya" but yet was still respectful at the same time), I asked how Queen Kerrigan was, and we commenced the usual thirty seconds of standard small talk. At one point he asked how much experience I've had with the software applications they used, which were highly specialized applications for call centers...which is "None whatsoever." But instead of saying "Um...none whatsoever. Go fuck yourself." I went for broke and hit him with this tasty little lick - "About a week!"

Which got a quick chuckle out of him and a "Good on ya, laddie." before he left and allowed me to resume slaving away, turning one of the many cogs that powers this great financial war machine. Mission accomplished. So now when I eventually defeat The Bossman and The Final Bossman needs to pick a replacement, who you think he's going to pick? That's right - ME. And that's all this "work" stuff's about. Beating this level's boss so you can use his weapon against another level's boss, who may have a weakness to that weapon. Two weeks in, and I've already got it all figured out.

I lied about the "Good on ya, laddie." line, by the way. I think he's actually like...Greek or something. He said something, but I didn't hear it because my blood was pumping too hard and the pounding inside my head drowned out all the sound. I was actually <--- THIS ---> close to just snapping and ripping out his throat with my staple remover and jumping out the sixth story window.

- There are no plastic forks. I don't understand it. There's only plastic spoons. I was scouring the shelves and the drawers in the break room looking for a fork to eat my tasty lunch (which consisted of Chinese leftovers whose devourment required the special talents that only a fork could have provided me), but all I saw were thousands, and thousands of plastic spoons. Isn't it ironic? Don't ya think? IT'S LIKE RAAAAAAAAIIIIIINEEEEEEEEAIIIIIIIIN on your weddiiiiing day. No forks. No knives. Not even those plastic little brown coffee stirring sticks. Just spoons.

- Ever since I first started learning how to program in Grade 10 Computers, teachers have been stressing the need to properly follow standard naming conventions for your programs and documentation, so that other programmers (or you yourself later on) can go through your code and understand what it's supposed to do. For some of the larger Computer Science assignments I've had, the time spent on documentation has been comparable to the actual time spent programming. So not surprisingly, I kind of...don't really do it. Just take a lot at the guts of The WAMBAG. I don't understand any of it any more, and I'm the one that wrote it. I don't remember why I named certain variables "lobster" or "numVondrukes". It's poor practice. But I was a poor student, so there you go.

So when I saw a subroutine in the main call directory program here - one that hundred or thousands of people across the country use daily - called "zeplanebosszeplane", I got a bit confused. It's a minor function, but the fact that it got past three version control groups and rounds and rounds of testing without anybody noticing or caring was a little surprising to me.

By the way, through intensive Googling, I have discovered that "Ze plane, boss, ze plane!", is a line from the late 1970's television series Fantasy Island that the midget actor Hervé Villechaize popularized. In case you didn't know. From what I understand, that's the 70's equilvalent of naming a subroutine "imrickjamesbitch". I don't know who's responsible for this, but I'm suddenly somewhat interested, and I think I may investigate further.

- Some days, I just wish so badly that I could meet the human ebodiment of the TTC, and just keeck its heedoff.

- About five days in (so...a week in), this nice lady came over from...payroll or some department whose name has something to do with payroll which I can't remember exactly, and taught me how to use the time reporting system they had, so they could log how many hours I put into each project, and for them to basically know how many hours I was working so they could pay me less if I didn't meet the weekly requirement. At one point, see needs to point to something on my screen and asks for a pen or something pointy so she doesn't smudge the screen. So I had her my red pen as I think to myself "How considerate of her!" Then she resumes the lesson, points at some stuff on my screen, and takes off.

Fast forward two weeks later, to the current day. I'm looking to make some notes on some printouts which cannot be done with the crude bludgeoning highlighter. I need the scalpel-like precision and bright distinctive ink that are the calling cards of my red pen. But I look, and it's not there. And two weeks later, I realize for the first time that I've been entangled in a high stakes game of industrial espionage, from which there is no easy escape. The lady from payroll had stolen my red pen.

- I should probably mention that there's like three supply closets that have more than all the red, blue, and black pens a man (or woman) could ever desire in one lifetime. To appease the mental anguish suffered by the loss of my original red pen, I took two back from the supply closet. But don't tell anyone. I'll never advance to be a Final Boss with something like that on my record. That's automatically throwing away your chance for decent stage music at the very least.

- Two more new guys started last week. They sit next to me...but not really. I have a cubicle. They don't. They sit at desks out in the middle of the floor, surrounded by cubicles. So I think that means I'm better than them. I think they're on summer co-opt terms, so the proper protocol follows that I have to try and make their lives as sucky as possible, and suffer no reprecussions to those actions, since they'd be out of here in like three months anyway. I know the deal, I've had summer contracts before. The tricky thing is that one of them's a 30 year-old, large, black man that I have trouble maintaining eye contact with. And the other's a second year Waterloo student...and I'm just not really feeling like kicking someone while they're down right now.

Anyway, the payroll lady paid them a visit a couple of days ago, to steal their red pens as well. And I couldn't help overhearing (because I was eavsdropping) her reminding them to submit their time reports to the payroll department every Friday, or else "they'd come over there and punch them. *giggle giggle giggle* I'MJUSTJOKING!!!" And they all laughed a big laugh and kept the joke rolling for far longer than it should have. I haven't seen Joke Necromancy like that since Richmond Hill High School.

And that depressed me, in a very roundabout way. Nothing about the joke, because I've slowly realized that it's healthier for me to just stop thinking about why so many people have an unhealthily overdeveloped sense of humour (I call it..."a sense of tumour" - HILARIOUS), but the fact that she said it. Because I remember her using the same joke during our pen stealing session. For the record, I think I gave her a nervous little chuckle because I had half believed that I actually would get punched if I didn't submit them. She's probably done dozens and dozens, if not a hundreds, of these lessons. And she probably tells the same crappy joke every time. And there's two possible and equally depressing theories here. Either the joke means completely nothing to her, and she's forced to tell it to every new hire because after she's determined that the session flows better with it after many permutations, but she probably doesn't even like the joke so she dies a little inside everytime she tells it, and so she ends up dreading these training sessions...or she actually likes the joke, and she actually looks forward to these things specifically for that part where she can gear up and whip out the ol' punch-you-hahaha joke, just so she can get a cheap laugh out of a new guy. I don't see how to escape those two possibilities - it's depression all around.

- She's organizing a department lunch for next week too. Looking forward to it. Very nice, very considerate woman.

I'll be honest with you, I love his music, I do - I'm a Michael Bolton fan. For my money, it doesn't get any better than when he sings "When A Man Loves A Woman".

5/13/2006 12:09:00 AM | Comments (0)

Definition

Set Yourself On Fire - Stars

Now that I'm free from exams, I've taken to playing Final Fantasy II (or IV for you purists) on my SNES Emulator. It's great because I can speed up all the dialogue and walking and levelling. Life is good.

I finally got around to listening to that Stars CD. It really makes me want to be in love with somebody right now.

I had to go downtown today for a meeting of the Frosh Committee. Yeah, I finally caved and joined an organization, betraying Groucho Marx who taught me to never be part of any club that would have me as a member. Hey, I was running out of places to meet chicks. The meeting was okay, albeit a bit amateurish. I felt sorry for my boy Julius who was running the meeting. Or at least trying to. He's not the confident, assertive guy he once was. A steady dose of UofT and heartbreak will do that to a man.

Afterwards, Chris, David, The Ice Queen and I went to eat some Thai food. Normally, I would have went straight home, but for some reason I felt compelled to spend time with these people. Odd. The Ice Queen was in a bad mood too. Even under the best conditions, I find hanging out with her to be as comfortable as dry humping a porcupine, but still I persisted. It went perfectly fine. Despite the fact that Chris and I have nothing in common, he seems to appreciate my dry humour and thinly veiled hostility while I am amused by his inevitable spiral towards becoming an alcoholic.

Then there's Tanya. I'm attracted to her one second, the next I'm resisting the urge to throttle. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but she's one of those people who redirects every conversation to themselves. I've called her sweet in the past and I stand by that. She just doesn't realize what she's doing. Someone will be talking about their uncle and she'll just jump in, "Well, MY uncle...da da da..." It's just how she talks to people. I've been there. Talking about yourself is both easy and fun. At least for you it is. However, on this night we all got into a good conversation rhythm. Chris was talking about drinking, David was his usual quiet and polite self, Tanya was complaining and I was cracking wise.

I even did two things I rarely do with Tanya. I asked about her relationship with some guy (unfortunately for him, there apparently isn't one) and I spent a lot of the time looking her directly in the eyes. I'm not someone who avoids eye contact, but when I'm around someone with whom I have an unclear or unpleasant relationship, it's not frequent. Today, I kept looking and it was because I've finally grown to see Tanya as a friend. I accept that no matter how hard I try, I'm not going to get rid of these jokers I met all those years ago during Frosh Week. They're always gonna talk to me and invite me to stuff they know I don't want to go to and I guess I have to deal with that. There are certainly worse fates.

A long time ago, a friend taught me to look people in the eyes, because there's nothing to be afraid of.

On the ride from Bloor to Finch, I watched this sleeping couple, completely at peace. That's what I want. Someone who will feel safe in my arms.

Is this the hit squad you've been training to take down heroes?
Nobody wants a war, Captain. The people are just sick and tired of living in the Wild West.
Masked heroes have been a part of this country for as long as anyone can remember.
So's smallpox. Now grow up and stop being an idiot, huh? Nobody's saying you can't do your job. I'ts just time you went legitimate like the rest of us, soldier.
Weapons down, boys.
Stand your ground, gentlemen. Captain America is not in command here.
Weapons down or I will not be responsible for what comes next...

5/11/2006 11:15:00 PM | Comments (0)