The Bloody Doors Off

Of course politicians lie. Otherwise, we wouldn’t vote for them.

Me, a few minutes ago. But someone must’ve said this before.

(Let it be known: I have an endgame with this post. I just don’t know how I’m gonna get there. And a theme will emerge. I think. If you aren’t interested, you’re more than welcome to close the tab now, or delete the email if any of the five of you don’t wish to go on this trek. I promise not to be offended.)

I was on Twitter an hour ago. My feed has become increasingly right-wing since E. Lon Hubbard wasted four billion on it. There was video of a Minnesota State Senator standing in the chamber and proclaim that he’s “never met a single person who’ve claimed they were hungry.” Went so far as to declare he had only consumed a power bar that morning, and by definition that meant he was ‘hungry’.

He was orating against a bill that would feed school children in need.

Jesus fuck.

A man fabricated his entire being to get elected, and when his deceit came to light his boss shrugged his shoulders and said, “eh”. He still sits in the chamber because it ensures their party retain control of Congress.

A dingus (a dingus is a group of blathering idiots who call others ‘snowflake’ while refusing to wear a mask that prevents the spread of a disease that killed over one million people worldwide, and shut down the downtown core of their nation’s capital for three weeks because they refuse to get a life-saving vaccine…)

Eh, fuck it. I can’t link the words. But you get what I mean. The extreme fringes of society.

Dinguses. We’re surrounded by dinguses.

And I doubt it’s going to get better.

---

Jumping tracks now.

Don’t worry, I looked to make sure no subways were approaching.

Eleven years ago, I began freelancing as a graphic designer. Out of necessity, honestly. I’d been laid off after four years working nights in a boutique investment banking firm (prior to that, 11 years in a major IB). I’d gotten that job because I knew the people who’d started the company a few years prior. I was in my 40s, and there was a glut of talent in the market. So I took a leap of faith.

And it’s today. I’ve since had two long-term contracts with one of the big five banks (in different departments), I’ve worked with married lawyers working from their home and shared the first listen of Sheryl Crow’s Tuesday Night Music Club on their beatbox. Applied for a shitload of full-time jobs over the years (because this was always meant to be temporary) and barely received a nibble on my resume. Only two of the five national banks I can say I’ve worked for. Got an interview with a third (which I was notified of while Kevin, Larry and I were making arrangements for mum’s memorial just hours after she’d died), but their big test was circling brand mistakes on a paper copy of their presentation template).

It’s ebbed. And flowed.

Yesterday I received a call about a short-term contract with (you guessed it) one of the banks. Full-time hours, hybrid (work from home 3-4 days a week). I shot it down.

I’ve got a long-term client that I renegotiated my rate with (to my advantage) last year when I was being headhunted by another firm) and I didn’t want to destroy the goodwill built over the years (they consider me family; if only they’d fucking hire me, right?).

Then I got the email with the details. And the hourly rate.

Which. Holy shit.

So I threw my hat in the ring.

But I know. I know. There won’t be a first-round interview. There never is when it comes to these guys. Always told, “we’re looking for someone with more experience”. (Over twenty fucking years as a graphic designer and presentation specialist who specializes in the financial sector. How much more time do you need?)

The expectations, they are low.

---

Okay, I lied. There is no narrative thread to follow. If you sussed out a theme, feel free to drop a comment.

Here’s how I’m really feeling.

I’m gonna be 57 later this year. Physically I am a wreck. Low red blood cell count that, at best, could be tied to the arthritis in my lower back (when a CT scan of your bowels picks up the degeneration, take notice). I’m fucking exhausted all the Gorddamned time. I’m nowhere near making enough monthly income to help support this family.

I’m depressed.

I’m more than depressed.

And I’m slowly losing my footing.

There. I’ve admitted it.

The weight’s still there.

Okay.

I’m not looking for sympathy, or encouraging words, or clicks. I know I’m loved and that I have amazing friends.

And.

I’ll get through this.

In time.

Meanwhile.

Here.

Have a cat.

The type of day where the left wheel of your personal shopping cart breaks off just after you filled the damned thing with two bags of kitten food and various fruits and vegatables.

That you then have to drag said cart, because no matter how hard you try, you can’t unicycle it and it’s listing too one side because there is no left wheel to keep the cart upright.

The metal axel grinds into the pavement as you pull it behind you. (You didn’t think about pushing it because that would just be insane, and hoisting it aloft great distances? Fuhgeddaboudit.)

There’s no fucking way you can drag this across the carpet in the condo hallway without ripping it up and then guess who’s on the hook paying for new?, so you text for The Boy to come downstairs and help you unload the extremely heavy bags on a different cart and take it upstairs.

And that.

Is the highlight of your day.

Had my blood drawn today. Looking at red blood cell count and iron.

Haven’t got the iron numbers back yet.

Hemoglobin numbers are slightly below last month. Platlets have dropped.

That’s it. That’s the post.

If I bend over, you know, to replace the recycling bag or pick up a piece of broken glass coaster, when I right myself. The world spins.

Every fucking time.

I have to close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and hold on for fucking life to the nearest fixed surface so I don’t fall over. So I have to stop doing these things. Because it could make me sick or I could hurt myself, which I will not, cannot do to my family.

Soi I tell myself.

But I did it anyway tonight. And same fucking thing.

I’m reliant on insulin, blood pressure and cholesterol medications, and an anti-depressant with a mood-enhancing chaser. My red cell count has decreased in the last six months, hence the endoscopy/colonoscopy and next a CT scan of my upper bowel, and now I can add, I’ll say vertigo, to the list. (Undiagnosed, but I’m looking for Occam’s Razor here.)

And you know what? I’m tired of writing about this shit.

I’m just tired.

Toronto Hydro is shutting off the power to our building twice (for an hour each) later tonight. Because, who give a fuck about people who use CPAP machines, right? Oh yeah, I use a CPAP. Should’ve added that to the above list.

Fuck, I’m forcing this post.

I can’t write tonight.

G’nite.

I have something on my mind tonight.

Kinda reflective.

But it involves other people and I choose to keep this private, and not announce how they fit in particular periods of my life, and their significance.

Instead, I pivot to Superman.

In 1986, DC Comics published a two-issue story that took place over two different comics: Superman (#423) and Action Comics (#583). Written by Alan Moore, this was the definitive conclusion to the golden age of the Man of Steel.

I owned them.

If they’d retired him right there and then, it would’ve been a fucking masterpiece.

And then they allowed John Byrne to introduce a “new” Superman into the world.

Personally, I thought (and still think) it was a disaster.

In the early-to-mid aughts, my creativity was focused on two things: The Canadian Space Opera Company, and writing RPGs online with a group of friends (most of whom I’d never met, a few I dated long-distance). Our focus was on expanding the television universe that once in a generation birthed The Chosen One …

…

Yes, it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Our hook: the game was post-series finale, and featured mostly, if not all, original characters.

I wrote a pretty damned good Giles back then. And no one ever found fault with my Whistler.

But where I shone.

The daughter of a fishmonger who was attacked by, and turned, a vampire more than two centuries prior. My InsaneJournal handle was her name. Deanna. Queen of the Fashionably Damned.

I won awards in the broader community.

We wrote this for a couple of years. There were multi-layered plots (I put forward two; in one, it started with the complete destruction of McCarren Airport just outside Las Vegas, and just got worse. My initial post kicking off the post was seen from four points of view, all culminating with someone screaming “For the cause!”

And boom.

I opened rifts between parallel worlds. I made the one character that could only be considered comic relief become a love interest to a woman way out of his league. (Life imitates art, art imitates life.)

But Deanna. That bitch came to play.

The all-out brawls with her frenemy (admit it, K, you know it’s true), the bloodletting, the incomparable wardrobe. She once made a wish to walk in the sun for one day, just so she could go on a shopping spree with her best friend, Lorne. (And scared the fuck out of a certain slayers just after sunrise by not going poof. Admit it K, you know it’s true.)

As the game wound down, they engaged in a final, balls-to-the-wall destructorama at a bookstore signing (The Bitch Stays In The Picture, Deanna’s memoir).

And she died. It was poetic.

Of course, we left a back door open should another game present itself. And it did.

But she wasn’t the same.

Eventually, I had to let her go.

And eventually I let it all go. The passion, the narrative, the ability to create new stories.

Gone.

In that scene, I as a writer had peaked in this chosen medium.

End Part 1

Kidding.

You’re gonna have to bear with me. I have an ultimate point, and I will get there. But things are gonna be a bit disjointed.

Pre-pandemic, I’d started writing short plays. Marlo and I had learned of two local groups doing ‘cold reads’ of short plays, and we very quickly got involved. First we joined Toronto Cold Reads, and then Sing For Your Supper.

I don’t think I intentionally began writing short plays. I’d had an idea about two middle-schoolish best friends in detention,

Allanah says the Apostles..

Living, Myles counters.

God gave her a message for one of his wayward flock. And oh, that’s not the first time she’s talked with Him. They chat on the regular. He usually initiates the call. Allanah tried once, but she got His voicemail.

And I saw a Facebook post about a call for scripts from Stage Write Burlington. I submitted Snow Angels. (To this day I can’t tell you why this is the title, other than the story itself was sparked after finding a small metal sculpture of an angel. I brought it home, and. It had been extremely well-received at TCR and SFYS, so why not take a shot?

Stage Write Burlington accepted the script into their festival. Marlo, Allan (my father-in-law) and I drove out on a sunny Saturday afternoon on February 28th, 2020 to watch (it was unseasonably warm) to watch.

It slayed.

To this day, I think it’s my best work.

Phanuel peaked with First Watch. I should’ve recognized it. I told her story. Beginning to, well, end.

It was again time to move on. With a few more short plays and (sometimes extremely incoherent) blog posts.

Then came Covid. The world shut down, but thankfully groups like Toronto Cold Reads and Sing For Your Supper (a monthly gathering at The Tarragon, attended by the loveliest of humans and hosted by one of the funniest people I’ve met (and enough time has passed that I can reveal I had a small crush on her — yes, I know I’m married; my wife has crushes too, we’re allowed) moved online. And there was much interest.

At first.

Marlo and I tried to keep Sing For Your Supper running when things got too chaotic for others to continue planning. We lasted maybe six months; we rescheduled more than once due to lack of scripts and/or readers. Eventually I handed over the virtual keys to another whose theatre group was interested in bringing it back when the lockdown lifted.

The lockdown’s lifted.

I don’t think it’s coming back. (I could be wrong.)

It peaked.

The latest (and only) piece I’ve written since January 1st, 2023 popped into my head.

It’s a 3 page monologue about aliens invading at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s under initial cover of the fireworks happening across the street in the Distillery.

I thought maybe King of the Mountain (I hate that title) it had potential to grow.

The idea withered on the vine.

It seems I’ve peaked.

Maybe even writing this blog. At least on a regular basis.

I took stock of my life earlier tonight.

And I think I’ve peaked.

(This post is displayed in 4K where available. Regardless, there are videos to help inform. You don’t need to watch, but it expands the message.)

This has been my mantra since sometime in January.

(The 10th and 16th specifically, Marlo is able to inform me.

She has a very busy daily calendar for her own purposes, but she also keeps tabs on the Boy and I.

For purposes where I start a blog post and can’t remember exactly when this started.)

After a successful colonoscopy (in that it actually happened, and wasn’t rebooked a third time because drinking four litres of PegLyte didn’t clean me out enough), the doctor mentioned he’d found one polyp, and that it was sent for testing.

Pretty routine. They don’t shine a light up your sphincter because it’s a fetish that they advertised in the back pages of NOW Magazine.

And he says:

“I’m going to schedule you for a CT enterography (okay, I had to look up the exact procedure from the confirmation letter from Mt. Sinai). And I’ll follow up with a call in mid-March.”

I think nothing of it.

Then I kinda thought about it.

Because.

How can I not think about it, really?

And I have this moment I am now accrediting to the show Seinfeld.

A mantra.

It’s nothing until it’s something.

(You can hear it in your head, spoken multiple times between Jerry, Elaine, Kramer and George.)

I mean, it can’t be anything because at present, there is no data support the existence of something. Ergo, it is nothing, and remain so until there is new data.

Boom.

It’s outta my head. I’ve proven Occam’s Razor.

Until tonight.

Because, I can’t call it data, but it is a hypothesis.

• Hundreds, if not thousands, of Toronto residents age 50 and over get a colonoscopy every five years

• How many of them receive a letter from a major hospital, booking you in for a scan of your upper bowel, and it’s a two hour appointment and you’ll have to drink two litres of a drink (they won’t say what it is, but I can guess; thankfully, it won’t be PegLyte, that stuff is nasty), and we’ll be injecting a high contrast dye to improve the image

• How many doctors also schedule the aforementioned follow-up call?

I’m guessing not many.

Now, all this came about because I’d visited my doctor for a completely unrelated issue (which I can’t even remember at the moment), and she’d noticed that my red blood cell count had been dropping over the last nine months and she wanted to rule out any internal bleeding. The doc also asked if I’d been losing weight, but I didn’t know.

There are things they look for in the enterography:

• Inflammation
• Tumors
• Bowel obstructions or abscesses
• The source of bleeding
• Location and severity of Crohn’s disease

Let’s rule out Crohn’s now.

That still leaves four things most looked for.

And, yeah.

It freaks me out a little.

I wish there was a procedure à la Severance. Just for this particular thought train. And it’s reversible. Obviously.

I repeat the phrase.

It’s nothing until it’s something.

The mantra is strong, still. It has power.

And then, dislodging itself from the shadows is a memory from 10 years ago.

Reminding me. No matter how tightly you held onto the safety bar on the mental and emotional rollercoaster that was 2013 (my descent started in March), shit is gonna happen and, at this exact moment, you are sitting in the back seat of a driverless car.

I cannot predict the biopsy results from the polyps (two in total, one from the endoscopy that went aces during the first appointment).

They will provide the results. And you know what that means?

Data to strengthen or disprove my hypothesis.

But right now, the spreadsheet is blank.

All this is to say.

Tonight is not easy for me.

Tomorrow will be better.

It has to be.

It must be.

There is no other option.

Because we know.

It’s nothing.

Until it’s something.

My default is to be funny.

Since I was a kid. To mask the pain I felt watching my parents go through a particularly acrimonious divorce.

To say I put shields up is a slight misstatement. They were titanium. And in my teenage years there was only one person who got through, because I’d fooled myself that if I just stuck it out, proved what a great guy I was, she’d take an interest.

And then the walls went back up, and didn’t start cracking until my 30s.

I may have the math wrong (and Marlo will correct me if I do), but almost six years ago the walls buckled and collapsed. Oh, it took a few months.

I’m glad she stuck it out. (Artistic license. But the sentiment is real.)

I could write a few paragraphs as to why she is my north star; Marlo’s never-ending faith in me, her bottomless well of love. That we both will joke “it’s just a little fart” as we’re both at our desks, working away.

How our interests intersect. How we both loved The F Word, even though it clearly bombed at the box office. Philomena Cunk.

The way she’ll get the slightest bit embarrassed because I blasted this post across Facebook and Twitter.

I love you, honey.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Photo Credit: Dahlia Katz.

I’ve been flooded with a wave of childhood memories of late.

The latest: I’m eating deep-brown beans with cut up wieners (you know, like Sheldon always had spaghetti with cut up wieners; c’mon, The Big Bang Theory ended only recently and CTV Comedy plays the entire 14 seasons over Christmas break).

I have this weird quirk. I save the ends of the wieners for last.

Done it for years. Decades probably. Never understood why.

And then the memory.

My mom in the kitchen of my childhood home. It’s February, and it’s cold. But there’s also snow. Remember snow? We got a lot of it in Scarborough in the ’70s. There’s a side vent on one wall that pumps warm air from the furnace. My dog Brandy loves it there. The moment he hears the pilot light catch, he’s wedged himself behind the kitchen chair.

(Sometimes I’d join him. Forced air has been. Is. Rapturous. There were times when I’d sneak into my parents’ bedroom at night and sit right beside the floor vent as it pumped warm air skyward. I’d hold my feet or hands over it, trying to absorb the heat. My bedroom, despite being just north of theirs (and separated by the linen closet), did not get the same treatment.

It wasn’t fair.

Years later I inherited that same bedroom. I swore I’d never move out.

And then my mom and step-father sold the house.)

Right, the memory.

Me and my brothers are seated at the kitchen table. I think it’s Friday night, because we always had beans and wieners for dinner on Fridays.

She always made a giant pot. I mean, there were the four of us to feed, right?

(My dad, as I’m sure this memory takes place pre-divorce) was most likely at the O’Keefe Centre working as a stage hand for the latest play to roll through town. I got to see lots of shows from the wings, and the audience. Bob Hope, Don Rickles, The Odd Couple with Tony Randal and Jack Klugman. My dad brought me backstage after the show and introduced me to Mr. Klugman. He said, “Hiya, kid” and sent back to placing bets on distant horse races.)

I gotta stop going off on tangents.

Four of us, Friday night meal.

There were a finite number of wieners ends to go around. I’d do a silent count in my bowl, and try to spy how many everyone else had. And it wasn’t just the ends. How many pieces did I get, and would I complain about it? (Narrator: He did.)

That’s it. That’s the full memory. But it brought feelings of comfort, love, and yeah, sorrow.

There aren’t four of us now. And one of us retired out west (and I love the reason why) and another (not me) is looking to move out of the city.

We won’t be sharing a pot of beans and wieners again. I won’t gloat when I have a surplus wiener end, and hey if that also means I’m short a few pieces?

I can live with that.

I rag on American politics (a lot), but lemme tell ya. We don’t have it any better. Ontario has a Premier that wants to privatize socialized medicine, pave the currently protected Greenbelt for mansions his business buddies can buy up and stay out of cities like Toronto, that are being pummeled by his policies. He invoked the Notwithstanding Clause to take away school support staff’s right to strike when neither side would budge at the bargaining table. (He was forced to withdraw it after people finally yelled “ENOUGH” and walked off the job.

And then there’s his Federal counterpart, Pierre Poliviere. Dude is Ron DeSantis and Donald Trump’s love child, and he’s currently raking in the fundraising dollars from MCGAts, mostly west of our Province. Alberta has a new Premier who is as corrupt and stupid as they come (another DeSantis in the making).

It’s all going to shit.

And I don’t think we can stop it.

And.

My mind is blank. I can’t even churn out a proper rant tonight.

The terror of it all, it feels.

Inescapable?