The Bloody Doors Off

I’m seeing shadows. Not the ordinary kind that just hang around when the light hits right. No, these are something else—shadows lurking just outside my line of sight. Smoke, perhaps? They drift like smoke. If you, like me, were a smoker back in the ’90s and spent your days in an office building, you might recall management trying to contain our vice by throwing together a smoking room that could barely fit a broom closet. You’d step inside and be engulfed by the swirling haze while colleagues took much-needed breaks. And those shadows? They’d sway.

Sure, they threw in a tabletop air purifier, but that thing was a joke.

At first, I wondered if it was just the floater in my left eye. My optometrist assured me back in September, “You’ll get used to it.” And eventually, I did. That’s probably why I shrugged it off at first.

Oddly enough, it seemed to vanish a few days back.

But then came the Smell™.

I stepped out to toss the garbage and, after passing the second unit on my right, it hit me—like a freight train and impossible to ignore. The Smell™: a grotesque blend of rancid meat and some harsh chemicals. It was overwhelming.

I took a few cautious steps, broke through that invisible barrier, and sprinted to the garbage chute. I shoved the white bag in and hurried back.

I paused before unit *07 (keeping it vague for reasons). One step. Another.

Nothing. Whatever it was seemed to vanish. Maybe I was just imagining it.

Then came the Taste™.

Out for a walk with Maisie, washing the night air down, I carefully navigated the steps and turned toward the Distillery entrance.

Yep.

That rancid smell was back, lurking like a ghost, and it clung to the back of my throat.

I’ve had my share of epic heaves. More than a few left a nasty taste that just wouldn’t quit.

But this? This was different. The aftertaste lingered for what felt too long.

Now I’m at the kitchen island, chopping up a salad for Marlo.

Out of the corner of my eye.

Those smoky shadows again, gliding past like they own the place.

I can’t make sense of it—what this thing is trying to tell me.

If it’s the makings of a dark story or a short play, I’ll roll with it.

But if it’s not?

God help me.

Because something’s definitely out there.

And it’s coming.

Gone way too soon.
That’s what they say.
Full of promise.
Of light.
Shining a light on fanciful ideas.
Stretching them into stories.
Filled with stardust.
But no longer.
For today we gather to mourn my creativity.
Taken far too soon (if you call 58 years too soon).
Some say my gift for stories was wasted.
That I fretted too much over the narrative.
That I couldn’t ride the wave of the unknown.
To let my fingers dance across the keyboard.
Discovering new worlds. New voices.
Allanah.
Myles.
Mary Berger.
Dexter Bishop.
All silenced now.
Because I doubted.
Because I was too scared.
To write.

Thank fuck I still have my looks, or I’d be 100 per cent screwed.

This song slaps my soul so fucking hard right now.

Howard says ‘hi’, by the way.

Day in the Life

Well you know my name is Simon
And the things I draw come true
Oh the pictures take me, take me over
Climb the ladder with you

It’s 3am. I should be sleeping.

But I want to play a game.

Let’s play. Simon Says.

Ready? Here we go.

Simon says…

Stand without using your cane for balance.

Whoops! That was wobbly. And you fell backwards onto the couch. But Simon said.

Let’s go again.

You don’t need that cane. You barely limp now, really it’s only for balance at this point. Go ahead, walk to the bedroom, fill the water tanks on the CPAP machines. Do it.

BUZZER

Simon didn’t say.

Because it is a bad idea. Hell, Simon would say you should use it in the shower. You nearly fell 3 times last week. Maybe Simon could instruct you to use a stool. Or install a safety rail.

Next one.

Simon thinks you should contort yourself bending over and use your cane to retrieve a fallen remote under a desk.

BUZZER

Technically, Simon didn’t say it. And your wife wisely told you not to.

But you only heard your own ego. Can’t admit you can’t do this without hurting yourself.

(You’re delusional.)

You have a popped rib, remember? Over 2 weeks now. You think it’s getting better and–

WHAM

–it reminds you whose boss.

Simon says…

Don’t do that again.

One more.

Simon says…

Stammer as you remember events that clearly didn’t happen. The lamp didn’t stay on for the last few weeks.

Simon says…

Buy groceries the household doesn’t need because you couldn’t remember that you saw them in the refrigerator when you took mental inventory earlier.

Simon says…

Don’t ask the doctor to requisition an x-ray on your shoulder which, when rotating in certain directions or reaching behind you, you feel excruciating pain. It’s only been what, 2 months?

Simon says…

YOU’RE A FUCKING MESS.

And it’s time to admit it.

Do you know the Muffin man
The Muffin man, the Muffin man
Oh, do you know the Muffin man
Who lives on Drury Lane?

Oh yes, we know the Muffin man
The Muffin man, the Muffin man
Oh yes, we know the Muffin man
Who lives on Drury Lane

Oh, we all know the Muffin man
The Muffin Man, the Muffin man
Oh, we all know the Muffin man
Who lives on Drury Lane

Bastard owes me $5,000.

Tonight, as I took our dog for a walk, the strangest thing happened.

As we were exiting our domicile, another resident entered.

He said.

“Hello”.

I (think I) masked my surprise and gave a meaningful reply.

Oh, this is not over.

Maisie and I walk west on our street. Not much to see, there are flower beds strewn about, encircled by rocks. We pass what we can see of the garage, then the gate to our shared exercise room with the building east of us.

Another man was approaching. I quickly assessed, because if he was also walking a dog it could become a bit tense. (While she loves walking daily with her pack, one-on-ne she is/can be very protective/reactive.)

As we crossed paths.

“Hello.”

I mean.

It really surprised me. Not just one friendly greeting — on a street shrouded with trees that are starting to shed their leaves, the little shafts of light that push through the branches — but TWO.

“Uh, hi.”

It was. It felt. Foreign. This does not happen as much as it should. So when did it end?

Did it ever begin?

“When I was a lad….”

We romanticize the past. No one wants to remember the bad shit. It will sneak into your brain and replay grainy home movie memories, and oh shit you’re on a collision course with everything you ever did wrong, because you’re just a worthless piece of shit and can’t get a full-time job because most of what he does is outsourced these days. So he outsourced himself. He does make some money but just enough to cover his monthly debts and a few runs to the market and nearby grocery chain.

Hurm.

So tell me. When did we start treating each other as equals and delight in their company. Become friends. Did Grog and Thag come to a mutual understanding over territorial hunting grounds? Did your grandparents stroll along the boulevard, he with his cap tipped to greet passersby, a nod in response. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

It sure as hell wasn’t through most of history. People fought, for territory, on the orders of a mad king.

And certainly not until after the Civil War. Two world wars. Korea. Vietnam. Afghanistan.

It’s 2024 and police are still profiling people of colour/minorities (i.e. not white) through some cracked prism of who’s innocent and who’s neck he’s going to kneel on today?¹

Tonight’s greetings set off a visual carousel of images behind my eyes. And I knew. I knew. The good ol’ days. Never. Existed.

Will that be cash, card, or debit?

Our interactions with people are transactional. “Hey Bill, can I borrow your wheelbarrow? I gotta move some dirt so the missus can start her vegetable garden.” “One pack of smokes. $14.50 please.”² “Do you take this person as your lawfully wedded partner?”

Hundreds of years ago, marriage was strictly transactional. One father had a lot of land but he needed livestock after a plague wiped his out, and that guy who lives three days’ ride has a strapping young man (re: scrawny, Prince Charming he is not) marry his… daughter with a wonderful sense of humour and has child-bearing hips. (And, she had most of her teeth.) Twelve cows and six chickens and a rooster should be a sufficient dowry.

And Tuesday night. The motherfucking granddaddy of transactions shook the United States.

It shook the world.

The bastard got re-elected. (I’m no conspiracy theorist but there have been many instances of mail-in ballots being returned just before the election, and a clear discrepancy between voter registration and actual voter turnout. And don’t forget, Trump said he didn’t their votes. (Source: MaddowBlog, MSNBC)

That night. Democracy died in America. (Source: CNN)

Demeaning texts targeted to people of colour, that their lives were no longer their own. A popular extreme-MAGA podcaster loudly proclaiming to all women, “Your Body, My Choice. Forever!” (Source: YouTube) The protest at Kent University. (Source: Kentwired.com)

Canadians? The perpetual apologies and Tim Hortons coffee and obsession with a hockey team that hasn’t won in 67 years. (Everyone in Canada)

We’re not any better. I’ve seen/heard/been the subject of/to some ugly shit.³

But Friday’s breaking story takes the fucking cake. (Source CBC)

The masks have been removed, and more people than you thought was possible to be closeted misogynists/racists/transphobes/homophobic white men. Or as we say in Canada, the gloves are dropped. And two minutes in the penalty box for roughing ain’t gonna cut it..⁴

Please prove to me we’re not headed for another civil war.⁵

1. My white guilt ain’t worth shit. Maybe we could start with Reparations? ↩︎
2. I quit smoking in 2013, after my breakdown. I have no idea how much a pack costs these days. And don’t they come in paper bags now, the outside image so hideous you blindfold yourself as you take them out of confinement, and then place them one by one in their stainless steel cigarette holders ↩︎
3. Can you say you’ve never done or said anything, when you were young and pliable and your brain doesn’t mature until 25 anyway. But then you learn/realize that behaviour is fucked up shit and you hope that, when you’re dead, you don’t appear in an exact replica of Defending Your Life. (Source: YouTube. Watch the trailer. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Albert Brooks is the shit. (Did I use that correctly?) ↩︎
4. You were expecting another link? Fuck you. ↩︎
5. Okay, I lied. Terry Pratchett showed me the comedic power of footnotes in his Discworld novels. I own a majority of them in hardcover. Fuck paperback. I am/was a huge fan since meeting him at Ad Astra in the 1990s (where I also discovered improv troupe The Chumps whose Star Trek parodies enthralled me to the point I had no choice but to take a free improv class to see if I’d like it. And that is, as they say, the beginning of a whole new chapter in my life. So I pay mad respect to the man who wrote 41 novels that blended magic with nuggets he would introduce to their world that we take for granted in ours. And you should also check out Good Omens, an apocalyptic comedy of errors he co-wrote with Neil Gaiman. Or the Long Earth series with Stephen Baxter. (Source for all: TerryPratchettBooks.com) ↩︎

I’ve been an Albert Brooks fan for decades. I started young. His appearance on Carson where he demonstrated, with pepper and a lemon how to impersonate Curley Howard from The Three Stooges. And he found boring on a telephone phone call could be erected with such bon mots as “Just because she’s early, doesn’t mean she’s pregnant. Hello.”

Naturally, I dove into his movies. I won’t waste Twitter’s constricting limit of characters by writing out every name, I will give a shout out to Defending Your Life. I laughed. I saw myself in his character.

Narratively on point from beginning to end. The misunderstanding and receiving 12 pies (and the best part is, you never get fat!), all of it.

And oh yeah, his co-star was Meryl Streep.

I wonder how I’d do, defending my life. What highlights would they show?

I don’t wanna defend shitting the bed because the Peglyte hadn’t completely cleared me out while I napped before my colonoscopy.

Or when I dropped my pants in a status battle game, and kissed Kerry Griffin, because the prompt was show “I love you” without saying it.

So, Mister Brooks, thank you. You had a hand in my comedic and story-telling evolution.

Now c’mere. I’m not wearing pants and this chapstick ain’t gonna go to waste.¹

1. The best highlight of my life? Meeting my wife. I could defend that for infinity. But Albert, (can I call you Al?) you’re in my top five. ↩︎