The Bloody Doors Off

The one thing worse than staring at a blank page.

Is being mesmerized by a blank screen.

I remind myself not to feel bad for not generating content consistently. That I went years without writing a word.

Granted, I had improv as my creative outlet then.

And my standards for my written words are pretty fuckin’ high.

Half the shit I post in my blog would never see the light of day if I attached a project to it.

I’m a perfectionist.

So when there’s interest in something I’ve written. It can go one of two ways

1. Self-deprecation; or

2. My already insufferable ego inflates to the size of a house.

Honestly, though. It’s always number one.

My ego has trust issues.

Mel Brooks is gonna write and EP History of the World, Part II.

Goddamn, I’m torn.

I loved the original.

Before I realized just how un-PC it is/was.

In spite of that.

I mean. Maybe we’ll get more Hitler On Ice.

And I hate to be the one to say it, but his best days are behind him. Mel wrote some great stuff. Young Frankenstein is in my top ten. Harvey Korman’s Hedley Lemar in Blazing Saddles.

But his later stuff. There’s a reason there isn’t a Robin Hood: Men In Tights musical in the West End.

And Part I was hit and miss.

Wow.

This is what I’m writing about tonight?

Fuck, my brain is empty.

I mean. I started watching football.

Before I switched to The Voice.

I’m not sure that’s any better.

I wish that was a segue to a new topic.

The reason guts of this post.

Nope.

That’s how bereft I am tonight.

Have I mentioned my frustration with my bottom plate?

Think I did.

Can’t be bothered to read back over the past few posts.

Yes. I have. I remember now.

Should I be worried about my memory? I’m forgetting little things. Or taking far too long to recall others. I’ve walked into a room not remembering what drew me there.

Sorry. Got distracted.

Anyway.

Until later.

May the Schwartz be with you.

I have a spot on my lung.

Been there a couple of years.

Hasn’t done anything. No growth.

Doctor tells me everything is good.

Except for that damned spot.

I get scanned every December.

Always take an evening appointment.

You’re there and done within 20 minutes.

Chances are I’ll get the same call this year.

I gave up smoking cigarettes eight years ago.

Gave up nicotine in vapour products late last year.

Quit vaping in the summer.

I’ve been tempted to pick it up.

Yes, I still have the mods.

And liquid.

Every time I don’t vape, I’m stronger for it.

Lessen the temptation until it ceases to exist.

My point.

I don’t wanna aggravate the bugger.

My uncle fought lung cancer years ago.

They took a piece of his lung.

And he’d had quadruple bypass surgery before that.

Cancer runs in our family.

Grandfather, father, uncle.

Let’s not add anyone else to the list.

This, today, is what I hate about fall.

Not the rain. No it’s nice. The rolling thunder and sound of a downpour last night was amazing.

It’s. Time to put away the cargo shorts and sigh wear pants.

When the weather starts to turn, and the cool temperatures aren’t just reserved for evening.

There’s always a Day.

I remember one year, I was on a date with Marlo. We’d been seeing each other just a few months. We made plans — with another couple? — to attend an event on College Street. And I was clearly under dressed. Short-sleeve shirt, cargo shorts (I like cargo shorts, so what?). And it was colder than today. Put on my macho best saying, it didn’t bother me. (It clearly did.) We went across the street to Burrito Boyz after for a bite to eat. Man, I could wax poetic for two minutes with Burrito Boyz stories.

Ha. I meant twenty minutes. Not two.

Anyway.

I’ll spare you.

Today was that Day.

Which means turning back the clocks in a few weeks.

Sun setting at 5pm.

And it’ll get colder. The jackets will come out.

Then the boots. Gloves.

The first snowfall.

Beautiful as it will be, we will know then that there’s no turning back. We have to ride out the coming winter together, in hopes we’ll see an early spring. (The first draft of that line was “we’ll see spring”, talk about morbid.)

Shit. The Christmas Market starts in just over a month.

And they’re converting Mill Street into one-way westbound on Monday. Last Winter, my wife had to keep justifying to the traffic cop that we did indeed “live in that building” and should be allowed through. Traffic will be a nightmare for the next two to three months.

That’s what Today reminds me of.

Sure to send chills up my spine.

I feel like.

I know.

My blog can be tough to read sometimes.

I am a complicated human.

But I’m not broken.

There’s a few parts that could use servicing.

And I’ve since lost that new car smell.

But I get good mileage on the highways.

I’m saying.

I’m trying to say.

You take the good

You take the bad

You take them both

And there you have

The facts of life

The facts of life.

So the lower plate is wedged in extremely tight. So much so, I can’t get them loose.

I am now real-time blogging my anxiety attack.

Freaked out. Exhausted. Ashamed.

Those are just the first three emotions I’m feeling.

This is more embarrassing than anything else.

But the anxiety’s been there since the last time I struggled to remove them.

And yes, I was vain enough to put them back in, rather than wait for the dentist’s office to call back.

My own damned fault.

This is why I can’t have nice things.

For a millisecond I entertained the idea of applying pliers to the effing things.

Interesting. Effing is a recognized word.

And it means exactly what I thought it did.

Okay. Good.

Distractions.

Take my mind off of the problem.

Calm my nerves.

It’s not like they’re gonna choke me in my sleep, if I have to wear them.

And there’s the image of them getting lodged in my throat.

Good job ramping up the anxiety there.

I’ll have to wear them in my sleep.

There’s no choice. The plate won’t budge.

I don’t have news.

Nope.

None.

Why are you looking at me like that?

I’m serious.

There’s nothing to tell.

If I had something to say, it’d be written down here.

That’s how this goes.

But I have no news to tell.

You’re not gonna care that I’m waiting on a call back from the dentist.

My bottom dentures won’t come out.

I’ve googled it. Tried wiggling side to side.

No luck.

That’s not news.

I’m sure everyone who wears a bottom plate needed them adjusted.

Sucks that it’s Friday, which means I won’t hear until tomorrow.

And I need to see my GP next week, for a rash on my feet.

Isn’t this all lovely to hear?

Yet this is not news.

Nope, this ain’t it.

Damn, I almost had it.

The dentures.

Not news.

FINALLY.

A long-ass half-hour.

I had a truly lascivious story treatment for The Goldbergs. It was set in their possible future; after being married for a few years, Erica tells Geoff she wants to open up the marriage. And Geoff, milquetoast that he is, agrees to it only he’s a bigger hit in the swinger community than Erica is.

There was more.

But then I got to my page to write this blog and.

They changed the sans serif font to a serif one.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

The font is smaller, too.

And in looking to see if I can rectify this ‘upgrade’, I accidentally turn on Edit in HTML.

Which freaked me out and reminded me of my contract at BMO. One of the requirements was to create an electronic newsletter once a week, in HTML. I never let on but the first few weeks my anxiety was off the charts. I eventually settled into a rhythm and gained enough knowledge to troubleshoot the most basic errors.

That was a freakin’ great contract. Booked four months, stayed over a year.

I’d have stayed if they could’ve kept me.

But that’s the financial industry. There’s gonna be cutbacks eventually.

I started freelancing in September 2012.

After more cutbacks. A job I’d been in since 2008 (I worked over a decade prior with CIBC World Markets until. Cutbacks.)

I’d like to stop freelancing, please.

I’d like a full-time job. Something with benefits.

So I can provide for my family.

I’m.

I’m failing as a provider.

Yes, yes, let’s abolish those ‘hetero’ norms or the perceived masculine identity politics of 1955. Women can do any job a man can, blah blah.

I know all that.

I feel like I should be doing more.

And I don’t mean extra laundry, or cooking or walking the dog.

Shit. I have to walk the dog.

(Comes back an hour later.)

I don’t know what I was trying to say.

The hetero norms thing? Wow. That was ballsy.

And face-planting.

Fine. I’m not a philosopher. I’m a desktop publisher and graphic designer. I deal in the meat and potatoes of InDesign, Word, PowerPoint, yada yada.

I nearly got hired back in March. Remember?

It was between me and one other guy.

“He is a better fit for our company.” Because we’re… working from home? I dunno.

But a month later, they came back and contracted me for six months of sporadic, but kinda interesting, work for their clients. One person even said she was looking to create a new position for me. But that never materialized.

When I was working long-term contracts, I could contribute financially. But now? I’m barely able to pay for my medications.

And all the work done on my teeth? Out of pocket. Trillium doesn’t cover dental. (They should.)

A few years back, I had to go to one of three prescribed stores by Ontario Works in order for the province to pay for my bifocals.

(How to know you’re officially old. You can’t read the damned instructions on a frozen dinner box without the aid of a magnifying glass, you take half your teeth out in order to brush them.

You turn 55.)

Now I know why that number scares me. It conjures up an image of a potential employer who, when they ask me “where do you see yourself in five years”, that my answer will be “living off your pension”.

Go through Second Career?

I’m already on my second career.

Have been since 2012.

And it could be going better.

There’s a guy just off to the side of an open manhole cover. He’s jumping up and down, repeating “fifty-four today, fifty-four today, fifty-four today”.

A guy, let’s call him Paul, walks up to the dude. Ask what’s going on?

“fifty-four today, fifty-four today.” Arms are gesticulating towards the man-made hole.

Curious, I, I mean, he bends over to take a look.

“Fifty-four today,” he puts a boot to the unaware person’s ass, pushing him off balance, and causing the poor man to fall through the manhole.

“Fifty-five today, fifty-five today, fifty-five today…”

Another milestone.

My brothers both retired at or around this age.

I’m never gonna retire. I can’t afford to.

Eh, I’ve talked that to death.

You can’t solve the problem if you don’t shake up the equation.

Or something like that.

Was at the dentist again today. More fillings on the bottom right teeth. I’ve got a follow-up next month to assess/game plan about the teeth up top. The only way I got through it emotionally unscathed was the nitrous.

Ugh. Boring.

I’ll come back when I get out of this funk.

Happy birthday to me.

In my 54 years, I’d never been to a tombstone unveiling.

I’ve been to many funerals.

But I don’t think Catholics, of which I am recovering, did such a thing.

And we, as a family, never did spontaneously hop into the car and drive to Mount Pleasant cemetery.

Not with me, at least.

The funerals? I remember those.

You never forget those.

Dear friends asked me to emcee their mother’s celebration of life. Of course I said yes. Not just for them. She was like my second mother.

Losing her made my own mother’s passing hit that much harder.

Not once was there a tombstone unveiling.

It was very moving.

Okay.

Stop.

Stop fluffing and write what’s on your mind.

I feel like shit for not attending Bern’s funeral on Wednesday. But there’s not a thing I can do. I don’t drive. Reason number 48 I need to get my licence. Drive two hours east, one hour for the service, Covid protocols mean not everyone can congregate after. Then it’s two hours west.

On my birthday.

Yes, that is a contributing factor. I’m not gonna lie.

So I feel extra shitty.

I’d go to confession, but I haven’t kept up my dues.

I wrote a short play about a man (possibly for-hire, I haven’t defined that) who goes to confession. It stops just as he admits to a plan to kill someone. An act he must do, but is conflicted emotionally.

It’s never revealed who the target is. Many assumed it was the priest.

That seemed too easy. Too obvious.

And that’s where I got stuck.

So I tried to move on with another idea. One that took way too long to present itself.

If there was one uniting factor on this world, JOEL FISHBANE knew, it was no one in their right mind liked folding laundry. A pile lay before him. Half sorted between his and hers. He picked up a black dress, turned it over. Convinced it was inside out, Joel laboriously inverts the garment. Only to realize that the tag of the dress now faced outwards. With a scowl that could turn Medusa to stone, Joel rights his mistake.
JOEL: Jesus Christ.
AND LO, for His name was spoken aloud, the son of our Lord, JESUS, appears. A swarthy man, draped in blinding white robes and well-worn sandals.
Announcing His arrival, the heavenly choir called out:
HEAVENLY CHOIR (OS): B seven. B as in Bob, seven.

The Sacred and The Profane

That one, has some issues that I need to resolve. Like, what the hell?

(Update: I just read a few pages of it. It’s… not good.)

And since then.

The well has been dry.

So this blog has further solidified as a writing touchstone.

Without it, I would wither.

Yes, I know they have pills for that.

Do they have pills for that?