The Bloody Doors Off

They’re playing doubles Pickle ball at the Y, as the harvest moon casts a tawny glow across Front Street.

But that’s not what this blog post is about.

Last Thursday, I bought a small deep-dish apple pie from Metro.

I’m pre-heating the oven and as it ticks up from 145 degrees Fahrenheit (Canada is metric because I don’t know why, we wanted to sit with the cool kids?).

I’m pre-heating the oven with my love’s help. She put the pan in the oven and set the timer, so technically she’s baking the pie.

And I think to myself.

It’s Saturday.

Saturday.

It’s not Sunday.

Because, growing up. My mum, dad and then step-father, my brothers. Doris and Bill, my maternal grandparents. We visited them most Sundays. It was always pot roast (which, because the English (they’re from England, came across by boat in World War II; I think there’s a story about a German torpedo hitting or nearly hitting the boat) and I’m German on my dad’s side, so imagine the constant war in my head, two sides unwilling to yield any real estate) anyway, made a conscious choice to cook it in a roasting pan WITH THE LID ON.

(Anyone catch if I missed a closed bracket in that preceding ramble? My copy editors broke for lunch ten minutes ago.)

But it’s not Sunday.

It’s Saturday. And I miss them. My mom. Doris. Bill. Kevin, Wayne and Donna & the kids. And other relatives I’ve lost over the years.

If only the tawny moon would grant one more family dinner. So I can tell them I love them. And to introduce them to my family. And while we don’t have traditional traditions revolving around meal time, we’re developing a few of our own.

The artificial Christmas tree was delivered Thursday.

Three cats. One anxious dog. Existing in the same space as a six foot five inch seductress.

With twinkly lights.

…

What have I done?

Mazel Tov to the happy couple

Meghan and Tom got married today.

They’re holding their reception at Archeo in the Distillery District. As I pass by, taking Mrs. Maisie for her late night walk, I hear the DJ spinning “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. 

And I ask myself: How old are Meghan and Tom? That DJ didn’t slide that in as a surprise. There would’ve been a conversation beforehand.

Either Meghan and Tom are Gen X like me, or that’s being played ironically.

Meghan. Tom.

I feel personally affronted.

Jesus, I’m old.

But I’m not Boomer II (aka Generation Jones) old. (1955-1964. I’m not making this up.)

Side note: When we got back to the condo building, there were four Gen Z women headed out to a costumed Hallowe’en Party. I’m assuming it’s a party. Can’t imagine they’re pulling a late night heist and are purposefully dressed as cat people to fool the security cameras.

(Side side note: a movie about four Gen Z women who plan the perfect casino heist north of the 49th parallel. “Falls Four.” (You know, like Ocean’s Eleven but it’s a Canadian production so the budget is a fraction of it’s American “cousin”. It goes on to win multiple awards, but gets shut out for Best Original Screenplay at 2025’s 13th Annual Canadian Screen Awards. Bastards.))

Oh yeah. The elevator smelled like a hotbox.

(That’ll get cut in post.)

Anyhow. It sounded like a great party, and I wish Meghan and Tom every happiness.

I burnt the mac & cheese tonight. Not the stuff you throw at Barenaked Ladies. The PC White Cheddar.

Cheddd-ahhhhhrrrr.

You have village?

And I forgot to turn on my phone after charging it so I’d hear the call and let my wife into the building after walking our dog.

It’s October 23rd. I’m gonna quit smoking in a few days, 10 years ago.

And be offered really shitty coffee and unable to retrieve the television remote control from the side table because it’s bolted down. And they took the batteries.

It’s not all bad. Hoshi shares her rice pudding.

The walls are bleeding.

My battery’s low and it’s getting dark.

I’ll try to leave a light on for you.

I’ll go a step farther.

I say Professor Xavier is a predator.

Let’s take a deep dive:

• Lives alone on an estate in the middle of nowhere
• He’s obviously rich, but how did he get his money? Inheritance? Or, given his mutant ability, could he have simply walked into any and every bank in New York State and push the idea to give him half of what they had in their vaults?
• Started by inviting 5 teenagers to live with him
  • Did they, of free will, give consent, or did the world’s most powerful telepath plant it in their minds?
• Does the world truly “fear and hate” them? Could they have been led to believe this to ostracize them from society?
• Are the “children of the atom” truly mutants, or is that what they were brainwashed to believe they were?
• When one of them dies and comes back, is it because they briefly broke free of his mind control?
  • Are Professor X’s “deaths” really just “going out for smokes”?
• And have you noticed that he doesn’t need to use the wheelchair any more? Just walking around with a fishbowl on his head, probably amplifying his mental hold over an ever-expanding group?
• When he got tired of the quintet, Professor Xavier simply ‘relaunched’ with a new group of ‘students’. By now, the original group have adopted Stockholm Syndrome and stick around because they have nowhere else to go
• And to reach today’s audience, he’s clearly presented Wolverine as Daddy and Jean Grey as Mommy.

(Yes, this was very well thought out, and was inspired by a random thought while I was using the restroom. And it wouldn’t leave my brain until I wrote it out.

You’re welcome.)

The blurb I wrote for this picture from last year’s trek to the Canadian National Exhibition made me laugh.

Kelly and I have been friends since what, the mid ’90s? We met at Big City Improv; I mentored her as she learned to call improv scenes from the lighting box. We’d trade scripts-in-progress for feedback.

And this is our touchstone. Doesn’t matter where in the world we are (that woman travels North America so often for comedy festivals, and her first documentary will appear on CNN this Sunday) we find a day to hang out at an amusement park that has seen… better days. It started with a bunch of friends, but over time it became just us.

And we have a running gag: on every visit I pose in front of a hot tub, as if I’m a barker trying to lure in unsuspecting marks and sell them the hot tub. (My wife and son joined us more than once, and one time he and I posed for the photo; I made him my official apprentice.) Until the pandemic hit, they had a stake in outdoor space west of the Food Building. The forced break caused some adjustments for the CNE, most notably the downsizing of the retail space in the Enercare building. The hot tubs were relocated, and, mask temporarily removed, we took another picture.

I contemplated ‘retiring’ the ‘Charming Hot Tub Salesman’ after our visit last night. I can’t walk great distances without (several) breaks now. My calves seize up, or my feet revolt. Not to mention I’m waiting to hear about surgeries (yes, plural) for my carpal tunnel. There are other factors at play, but I won’t get into it.

But this was my last hurrah. The touchstone was in danger of being fractured.

As I precariously balanced a bag of dill pickle-flavoured cotton candy, a bag of stickers for Marlo from Cry Wolf, and a large tumbler of water while eating an amazing jerk chicken patty (we wanted the jerk chicken poutine but they were out of potatoes). A thing happened.

I changed my mind.

So I might have to shuffle slower next year. I’ll probably still suck at that horse race game where you roll a ball into 6 holes to make it move. (I worked the Mid-Way when I was 17; and hey I never signed an NDA so I can tell you, there are certain games you can give a player an advantage. If you were smart, you could build up a little grift and not get caught. What? I wouldn’t do that…)

Even if she gets the documentation that allows her to be a paid stand-up in the U.S.

We’re gonna meet that one day a year at the CNE.

We’re gonna visit the Craft and Hobby building. I will contemplate buying yet more catnip pillows for the cats, and then here my wife remind me we’ve got plenty, so don’t bring home more. We will choose some strange culinary contraption to sample. (The jerk chicken stall also offered Thanksgiving Dinner poutine. Thanksgiving Dinner mashups are pretty popular. And bacon. Holy shit, is bacon a thing at the CNE.) We won’t take the Sky Ride even though it would save a lot of steps. I will continue to call for safety bars on TTC streetcars to the CNE because, technically, it could be considered a ride and we all know what happened with that dude who stood up on the Polar Express. And we will dig through hundreds of funny-image t-shirts in size 4XL (because they’re comfy) from Bely Clothing.

And I will “grift” some unsuspecting rube with the photo of me selling hot tubs.

Because. Tradition.

Every morning — basically when you wake up — Murphy will get in your face and DEMAND breakfast. Give each of them a ‘good handful’ of kibble from the beige/opaque container.

They usually ask for a snack around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, but you’re gonna be at work. They will go viral on TikTok when they complain of being starved while they do that old trend where people would stand one in front of the other and then 5 seconds in, switch positions. They saw Kate McKinnon do it with Elizabeth Warren. It’s kinda funny.

I aim (and a lot of times fail) to feed them at 9 pm.

• Just a smattering of kibble
• a nice heaping tablespoon of the wet cat food
• mash together
• win temporary approval from our feline overlords

The first litter box is in our bathroom. There’s a scoop for the poop, and a trash can to the left that you can dump it into. BEWARE: Every time you open the lid you will unleash a stench so foul it could be classified as Agent Orange Is The New Black.

The second litter box is outside of the main bathroom. As per CEC memo dated April 14, 2023, “Get to a safe distance. Do not engage.” That’s just my way of saying “the second trash can is just inside to the left. An industrial-strength scoop (looks at Murphy) is under the sink, on the right side.

The CDC has anointed this Pandora’s Box. You never know what eldritch horror you will unleash.

Remember, Milo is a fucking escape artist. He’s taken to jumping and trying to pull the door handle down with his paws. Once he convinces Murphy and Izzy to form a feline ladder.

Murphy is an asshole. You’ll see.

Izzy is “too old for this shit” and generally lays in bed when not eating or dropping pellets in the litter box.

Don’t worry about changing the litter. I took care of that late last week. I’m not going to say anything funny about that. The garbage bag is huge and litter is surprisingly heavy (the way Murphy scratches everywhere but his poop and makes a mess outside the box.

We suspect one of them pees on the mat after we run it through the washing machine.

The kids will ignore you for the most part, but then you wake up and Murphy is staring at you.

And that’s love.

ps Pictures. Not a lot. But a few. ;Cuz I’m gonna miss these little buggers.

A visit to a neurologist this morning concluded the following:

• I have severe carpal tunnel in both hands
• Both will require surgery
• I have to wear splints on both hands in the interim (texting will be greatly reduced)
• It’s bad enough that the surgeon I am being referred to will most likely fast-track the dates

So I have that to look forward to.

I fell pretty hard last night.

I didn’t slip off the bed or anything.

But the weight of it all. It’s getting worse.

The tell tale sign is a heaviness in my chest. Breathing gets harder. And there’s the brain fog and, sometimes, tears. Nothing dramatic. Just welling up. My SSRIs won’t let me commit.

Like it didn’t at my mum’s funeral.

Christ, I wanted to cry. I knew I wouldn’t. The Wellbutrin was too strong, and that’s when I was taking half the dosage I’m on now.

When they played her favourite song.

Can I have this dance, for the rest of my life…

Even then. Just a hint of moisture.

That was 2013. (My birthday. Yay for 50!)

In 2008 I couldn’t stop crying, even with the Zoloft my GP (since retired) put me on. I went on short-term disability from work.

Anything could set me off.

Last night I could only muster a little moisture.

I’d curled up on the bed. Begged for relief. Instead I fell asleep and woke up at 5:00 am.

Went back to bed five hours later. A shorter sleep this time.

And I actually woke up feeling better.

But that was bullshit too. A mask. A mask that eventually slipped, as it does.

As it must, it seems.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why I’m making this public.

It’s not altruism. I’m not performing a morality play. I’m not.

That’s the problem. I don’t know what I am.

Except broken.

I’m dreading August. Trillium (Ontario Drug Program) will reset the deductible and we’ll have to pay for our prescriptions until we hit the new target. And I’ve got a shit load of prescriptions coming due next month. Which I can’t afford.

And I sure as shit am not running a GoFundMe.

Dunno, maybe I should’ve cashed in my CIBC pension when I hit 55. At least I’d have a tiny income coming in.

I’m really sorry you’re reading this. But I promised myself 10 years ago I’d document this shit, flies and all.

So what the hell.

I’m broken.

Nice to meet you.

Let me tell you a story.

Oh wait. I can’t.

I started to.

Came out of nowhere, and I could hear it so well.

The Intermediary. Gravitas behind that name.

It was all there. Vivid.

Then I derailed it. Because outside ideas started smashing against my words.

Maybe it’ll come back?

Took six months to get here.

Maybe it’ll come back.