The Bloody Doors Off

I jinxed it.

I won’t bore you with details.

(Besides, I’ve signed non-disclosure agreements with my clients.)

Suffice it to say.

Yup. I definitely jinxed it.

You know who I’m feeling bad for?

Mohammed.

Not the Prophet.

Just a guy named Mohammed.

He called earlier today.

No really.

He was a telemarketer peddling air duct cleaning services.

The poor man had to put up with my: “I have no ducts, only geese” joke before I hung up in his ear.

But it dawns on me just now.

This poor guy. Eight hours a day, at a rate less than minimum wage I’d bet, cold calling hundreds of people who abruptly click the red phone icon on their cell when they hear the reason for the call.

Less than minimum wage. Probably not his first language. Subjected to abuse and/or dumb humour.

And I think to myself: That’s not a job I’d ever want, or do. Like I’m too good for telemarketing.

How rude is that?

Welcome to my Ted Talk.

I have no idea what this post is about.

Just felt.

Compelled.

To open up a page and begin typing.

Aaaaaaand then I draw a blank.

Conducive.

I love our neighbourhood. Living next to the Distillery, I never get tired of walking through it on a near daily basis.

I miss the open stores. Can’t wait for Biltmore to open again. Love walking through their shop and finding vintage treasures. An ornate lock and key purchased there prompted the short play, First Watch. A tin angel inspired Snow Angels (wish I hadn’t given it away, but I couldn’t find room for it; oh I’m sure if I’d asked Marlo, we’d have found a spot. Sometimes I’m too impulsive for my own good.

We’ve bought fantastic bowls and plates. An old tobacco tin sits in the bathroom, collecting bibs and bobs until it fills and can be tossed into the garbage bin.

Soulpepper. God I miss in-person theatre. I think the last thing I saw there was The Secret Chord: A Leonard Cohen Experience. (Look for it on Spotify; it’s great stuff.)

Taking Auggie to Sniffany & Co. for dog treats.

Enjoying the atmosphere (and chocolate milkshakes) of Cacao 70.

The back patio at Mill Street Brewery, where the cast and crew of The Promised Land celebrated our Hamilton Fringe run.

And, despite the constant headaches it generates, the Christmas Market. Because of that ginormous tree, the twinkling lights at night.

I miss visiting friends at Proof Gallery.

The pandemic shut the whole system down..

And I’m tired.

So.

Fucking.

Tired.

There are certain things COVID inspired that should stay. Remote working, online theatre (I’d need to count how many of my plays were picked by theatre companies or festivals. Seven, within the last 12 months.)

But I need to sit in a cold movie house with my drink and a hot dog, watching The Black Widow.

I need the weekly trek to the comic book store, even if I’m only collecting 2-4 titles total now. (And I’ve got a shit ton still to read; you’d think, given all this time on my hands, I could’ve fit in some light reading.)

I need.

Something to occupy my time.

Oh, that’s what this is about.

I’ve got recurring customers. I’m on contract with two at the moment, with a third possibly starting at the end of the month. One of my clients today asked me to take on more graphic design responsibility, which I’m happy to do.

But, up until now, because my simply saying this will surely cause fate to laugh and say “You asked to be busy!”, I’ll get slammed and the problem will resolve itself.

But.

If it doesn’t.

I can’t sit in front of the computer all day, watching mindless television. (Shhhh, Marlo.)

I need mental stimulation.

Not that working alongside Marlo doesn’t supply that. She does. But I need.

Variety?

Gods, that sounds stupid.

Like I’m cheating on my wife.

Even writing that felt.

Foreign. Wrong.

Let’s see if I can explain.

No, it’d take too long.

Lemme sum up.

I miss people. Sometimes it feels like we’re on a deserted island, cut off from people, but we have a coconut tied to a verrrrrrrry long string to another coconut on a separate island. As much as you’re happy to hear their voice, you kinda hate the fact you can’t reach out and touch them.

With their consent, of course.

Guh. This is getting sexual.

I better stop now.

Hello.

Been a couple of days.

Since.

That reveal.

I was spent.

Like. A fifty-four year-old had sex and …

Cums.

(We’re all adults here. Oh gods, are we all adults here?)

My point.

You got one loaded in the chamber and the hammer struck the shell casing.

Massive explosion.

But there’s no more bullets.

At least for a couple of hours.

Yes. I just equated my break from the blog by putting the image of me having sex in your brains.

Buckle up, motherfuckers.

The bitch is back.

You know when you dream your teeth fall out?

Everyone’s had at least one.

Part of the psychic gestalt.

Everyone dreams of flying.

Everyone has nightmares of spitting teeth out of your mouth.

I’m currently living that nightmare.

My teeth, for lack of a better term, are fucked.

The two front teeth feel like they could come out at any time.

I have a partial tooth that needs to be fixed.

I’ve had a couple of back teeth pulled because they couldn’t save them.

Back in April, a client I’m contracted with wrote that they were trying to get a position created so they could hire me full-time. They were aiming for end of the month.

That was two months ago.

And not a word since.

I could really use that full-time gig. Even moreso now for the dental plan.

I take full responsibility for my teeth. I didn’t take good enough care of them.

Fuck, there’s a weird energy in my chest as I write this.

It was just as bad as when I finally opened up to Marlo about this.

Though she already knew.

How could she not?

It felt better, talking with her.

I guess I was hoping.

I’d feel better saying it out loud.

Guess not.

Yes, I’m going to the dentist.

I’m preparing for the worst.

Hoping for the best seems counter-intuitive.

That worth five cents?

Okay, that last post was a cheat. I mean, c’mon, two sentences?

You clicked for two sentences.

If I charged a nickel for each post, you’d ask for ten cents back.

I don’t have anything pressing to talk about tonight.

Well, there is, but that’s not something I’m prepared to divulge.

Yeah I know. Another cheat.

Tell us you’ve got something on your mind, and then withhold it..

Look, here’s a shiny nickel.

Nope.

Can’t.

Can’t, or won’t?

Dealer’s choice, I suppose.

Ten cents.

Stop.

Twenty-five cents.

Now you’re getting desperate.

Will you ever talk about it?

Yes. But not to you.

I have SportsNet One. Bye Amazon Prime. 🙂

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, “Well… how did I get here?”

Once in a Lifetime, Talking Heads

bipolar [ bahy-poh-ler ]

adjective

1. having two poles, as the earth.

2. of, relating to, or found at both polar regions.

3. characterized by opposite extremes, as two conflicting political philosophies.

4. Electronics. of or relating to a transistor that uses both positive and negative charge carriers.

5. Psychiatry. of, relating to, or having bipolar disorder:

bipolar disorder

an affective disorder characterized by periods of mania alternating with periods of depression, usually interspersed with relatively long intervals of normal mood

Just so we’re on the same page.

My mania, when it manifests, is usually laser-focused on something. Something I want, or can’t have (or can have, but would take money and/or time).

Today it was on a stupid television channel.

Specifically.

SportsNet One.

I’m not a sports guy. Let me dissuade you of that notion. There are only two teams I give a damn about and will watch when they are on television: the Toronto Blue Jays, and the New Orleans Saints. And it’s just them; I don’t have any pressing need to watch any other teams play baseball or football.

I’ve tried to get into golf, and I don’t mind actually swinging a club, but it’s hard for me to watch.

No hockey. Don’t really care about basketball.

Another way I’m the exact opposite of my family. They LOVE sports. Whenever we visited mum and Larry in Sutton, we’d spend part of the day on their deck outside their lovely trailer home, but the game would be on the TV and someone was always popping inside to catch the score. Sometimes we would just watch the game before going out onto the porch.

(Good memories. I need to hold onto those.)

Anyway.

SportsNet One. See, I thought that was included in our cable package. It’s very basic with 14 flex channels. I’d chosen SportsNet as a flex channel and for months I had SportsNet One. But June 1st rolled around, and the what turned out to be free preview was over.

Sidebar.

Giving up premium cable was a huge adjustment for me. I’d been brought up on television. There are pictures of me with my nose practically to the glass. Up until I moved in with Marlo, I had ALL the stations.

I detoxed hard when we cut back.

But now, I can say I don’t miss it so much. We have Netflix and Prime Video (which Marlo says we should get rid of and every time I’m about to agree, they upload something amazing to watch and I crumble) and Disney + (which is a worthwhile investment for me, a comic book nerd who grew up on Marvel Comics). I pretty much have a morning routine of checking the websites and the news before hopping onto Let’s Make a Deal and The Price is Right. (Oh god, I’ve become my mother.) I keep up on the news in the afternoon, and there’s the original Law & Order at 5pm.

So when you type it on the screen, you realize is still a lot.

But there’s one thing that would make this oldish fart happy and that’s to watch the Blue Jays.

But they’re on SportsNet One. And while I get SportsNet East, West & Pacific, I don’t get the one channel I really want.

So then I spend an afternoon hyper-focusing on it. I go from outrage (“How dare they take the channel away!”), fury (“Seven bucks?! They want seven dollars for one channel?”), to bargaining (“I’d be happy to pay for the extra channel”) to depression (“I can’t in good conscience even consider asking, because we already carry too much”)

The upside of tonight is.

I think I’ve finally hit acceptance.

Which is huge.

Enormous.

I can’t begin to tell you.

Usually, when I hyper-focus, I have to do something about it, or it’ll consume me.

A few years back, I was passing by the Bus Terminal when I got hit with the powerful need to go to Fallsview Casino. It did not abate until I was on the Greyhound to Niagara Falls some hours later. And I didn’t go with my friend Mollie (with whom I generally make the trip once or twice a year). Didn’t even call her. I had to obey the need to be in that physical place, and play a few hands of Blackjack.

I can rationalize a shit ton when I’m manic.

What I struggle to do, is break out of the cycle without doing some kind of damage.

And you may think forking over seven dollars is inconsequential, that’s not the entire point. It’s that I lock into a manic episode and can’t escape unless I satisfy the need; scratch that itch.

The writer checks TheScore web app on his phone. There’s no score, bottom of the first.

“I am a danger to myself.”

Let that set in.

Feel the weight of that sentence on your chest.

You can’t breathe.

The air’s been knocked out of your lungs.

“I am a danger to myself.”

Imagine hearing those words in your head.

Resonating.

Rationalizing.

“How am I a danger to myself? How am I going to self-harm? There’s pills. Got a lot of sleeping pills. Shit. Means I have a plan. I’m a danger to myself and I have a plan.“

---

“I am a danger to others.”

How does that feel?

Are you angry?

What triggered it?

The guy in the bus seat in front of me.

He’s being.

What?

What is he being?

Annoying. His music is too loud.

I’d been so angry for weeks. It brought its own weight, which I tried to alleviate with herbs.

I told my doctor, an hour before I considered seriously harming another human being, that I felt like I should be locked up. He neither encouraged nor discouraged. Instead, he wrote a note on the back of his card:

Psychiatry Crisis. You may call me on my cell (as over) re: Mr. Koster any time.

Dr. Eddy Pakes

---

Quiz time. Which of those statements was me in 2013?

Crisis is crisis after all.

Answer: The second one. The first one I suffered through 30 minutes ago.

---

And scene.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

Donald Trump shut down his blog because no one was reading it.

As my friend Scott would say, this proves my ramblings are more interesting than his.

Or ya know, he just gave up on it because he couldn’t figure out how to rhyme covefe.

(Machete.)

Danny Trejo got his start in movies not even as an extra. He was a fight coordinator for one of the actors, teaching them how to box, when he got asked if he’d take part as an extra in the fight scene.

My point. And I do have one.

Is. Even if I’m not writing plays, I’m still writing.

But gods, I wish we had a place large enough that both Marlo and I had private offices/rooms in which to work. It’s tough to concentrate when you’re on top of each other, and I know that is equally true for her.

But we both have noise-cancelling headphones, the next best thing.

Ugh. This post sucks.

Moving on.

The past couple of nights, I’ve had waves of sadness wash over me.

No instigating factor. It just happens.

The only reason I don’t cry is the bloody anti-depressants.

I could barely cry at my mother’s funeral and that was emotional.

Why do people encourage you to cry at funerals? Do we really need a cheering section?

I take that back. Everyone needs a cheering section. Just not for that.

Think of how easier work would be if you had a Greek chorus narrating your life.

I don’t know where I’m going with this.

Did I mention this post sucks?

The next one will be better.

Or it won’t.

But I’ll keep writing.

Take that, Donald.