The Bloody Doors Off

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?

First of all.

Big fan. Seriously.

Bordering on fanboy, I suppose. But I left my desire to study astrophysics behind after middle school science class. Dunno why. I was a teenager. I probably wanted to be a lot of things. But this sticks with me.

I watch with intent your interviews, I follow you on Twitter (ps can you tell me your Post name so I can follow you there? I suspect this particular social media site is about to go super nova — hey see what I did there? And if so, can you tell me? I can’t accurately explain why I chose that analogy.)

By the way, have you seen this?

I watch this video too often to discuss.

Speaking of Twitter. I love your tweets and the geeky science you provide us.

But tonight.

Oh sir, you crossed a line.

You scientifically deconstructed how it would be impossible for Santa Claus to deliver toys across the world in one night.

Look, I know he’s not real. I’m an adult. Rational. And I suppose, if this were a year ago, your tweets wouldn’t have gotten under my soul, and infected my inner child.

And now I’m waiting for someone to bring out a G.I. Joe doll and ask me where the ‘bad man’ was inappropriate.

I am, as of this writing of December 24th, 2022, fifty-six years old. Five years ago, I met the love of my life. We’ve been married for four. (When you realize you wanna spend the rest of your life with someone, you want that to start as soon as possible.) We are an interfaith marriage — I am (lapsed) Catholic/leaning United Church (there’s a story here, but I won’t bother you with it, as I’m clearly rambling) and my wife is Reconstructionist (bordering on Secular) Jew (“it’s complicated,”) We are interfaith.

I digress.

Last December, my wife and son from her first marriage expressed an interest in celebrating the Christmas holidays and what they entail. Early in December I bought a four-foot artificial tree (sadly the pre-strung lights seem a tiny bit dim), and we went to Ross Petty’s pantomime (“Peter Pan’s Final Flight”) this afternoon. I have stocking stuffers for them in the morning and there are gifts under the tree.

This made me rethink Santa.

Insomuch as allowing my eight-year old self the permission to believe the newscasters on television keeping us updated on the fat man’s journey across the globe, thanks to a NORAD tracking system. And I remember when I was a kid and the local tv station had ‘Santa Claus’ appear in their studio every weekday afternoon for two weeks, taking calls from all of us who tuned in, and I remember (just now, wow) that I actually called in and spoke to him live. I even remember the echo from the television set from the feedback of being on the phone.

And you know what, Mr. deGrasse Tyson? (Can I call you Neil? You seem very chill and would actually insist on it.) I’ve decided that Santa is real.

No, I don’t have any proof.

But then again, a lot of great scientists started with a theory. Sometimes it’s been proven correct. And others, debunked.

And despite your expert calculations, I require proof that this can’t be done.

Your a scientist.

Show your work.

And until then, please. If you can. (I know you won’t but I have to ask.)

Please don’t cancel Santa Claus.

In these dark times of overseas war and wage disparity and rights being restricted by narrow-minded… no, there is no mind at work here, this is just pure beta male posturing and trying to prove they are alpha and you do what I say or next I’ll take away your right to vote…

Allow a little light to shine at Christmas.

Let’s believe in Santa.

Just for a little while.

And by dictator, I mean our Premier. Doug Ford.

I ranted earlier this week about their blatant disregard for the right for unions to strike.

Here we are, three days later. Labour are picketing province-wide. Twitter is aflame. (Mind you, the majority of that dumpster fire is credited to Elon Musk.) Brian Tilley of the Toronto Sun is rimming the CONservatives’ asses, and accidentally exposed their endgame for education.

To privatize it.

Like they want to privatize healthcare.

But the blowback.

That’s exactly what they wanted.

Because we were all distracted.

The Provincial government quietly announced they were going to develop large swaths of our Green Belt to build 50,000 new homes.

They weren’t done.

Ford’s office also released a statement that they are going to veto the City of Hamilton’s decision not to expand their urban boundaries. And while they told voters before the municipal election that their mayors would be getting special ‘veto’ powers over city councils, that was incumbent on obtaining the Premier’s approval.

Doug Ford can override their decision.

That’s what they just did.

And they get to do this because the majority of Ontarians chose not to vote.

The desecration of Canada continues, with provincial governments in Alberta and Quebec chipping away at our rights, freedoms, and protections.

And this. This is what I fear will repeat next Tuesday, across America.

In 2013, at this time, I thought I was living in the ‘darkest timeline’. (Thanks, Community.)

I was off by nine years.

The provincial Opposition NDP were kicked out of Question Period today because they stood up to the CONs who are invoking the Notwithstanding Clause and submitting legislation that prevents education support workers the right to strike because over failed contract negotiations.

Doug Ford (non-ironically known as Drug Fraud for his drug-dealing past in high school) and his lackey, Stephen Lecce, claim they’re trying to “keep kids in school” and are doing this for the benefits of parents of young children who would have to take time off work if they couldn’t find appropriate childcare.

Meanwhile, the Provincial government sits on a serious budget surplus ($2.1 BILLION) and just sent out $200 to Ontario parents with children enrolled in school to make up for the disruption over Covid. They could’ve taken half of that giveaway and offered it to the support workers, who are among the lowest paid in Canada and often have to work a second job to make ends meet, but would rather keep them in poverty. And ensure their big business buddies aren’t “short-staffed” during a legal strike action.

The TDSB will close their schools on Friday, saying they cannot function without these employees, and CUPE — the union who represents these workers — announced this afternoon they will continue the strike until the Province returns to the bargaining table and revokes the proposed legislation. Lecce responded, demanding CUPE remove their strike plans, and the Province will not go back to the bargaining table until they do.

Lecce and the CONs are tarring the workers, saying CUPE and their members “don’t care about the children”.

Source: Stephen Lecce‘s Twitter page.

Okay. First: the CONs introduced the legislation BEFORE CUPE announced they would stage a (at the time) one-day protest.

Second: they announced up-front they would use the Notwithstanding Clause to force Bill 38 through the House PRIOR to CUPE’s response.

Credit: Theo Moudakis‘ Twitter feed.

Third: they held a session Tuesday morning at 5am to put it through its first reading.

(Off-topic: Apparently Doug Ford shilled Tim Horton’s “real egg” breakfast sandwich because, maybe he’s trying to get them on his side so they won’t offer coffee and donuts to everyone on strike. That’s just my speculation, but it wouldn’t surprise me. And honestly, the breakfast sandwiches at Lazy Daisy’s Cafe are the best in the city. Fight me.)

Source: BlogTO.

“School workers are champions and we thank them everyday, that’s worth more than money so let’s remember that at the bargaining table”.

“That’s worth more than money.”

— Doug Ford

When you’re struggling to pay the rent (because Ford’s government removed the annual rental cap), your utility bills, groceries, clothes for kids to go to school? Living at/below the poverty line, forced to work a second job to make end meet?

Being told you are a “champion” is NOT worth more than money.

And it’s not limited to Ontario’s CONservatives.

Have you been following Premier Danielle Smith in Alberta? (Source: Toronto Star)

Oh, and Pierre Poilievre and the federal CONs just voted against a motion that condemns the Ford government’s use of the notwithstanding clause, proving that no matter the level of government, CONservatives don’t give a fuck about peoples’ freedoms. They just wanna make money for their corporate buddies and take away and semblance of choice in Canada. (And he’s the subject of a Toronto Star investigation to his ties with the Freedom Convoy’s Ottawa blockade last February.)

TL:DR I’m mad as hell, and I bet you are too.

It’s time to join the Resistance.

Tomorrow’s my birthday.

Hannah is sick.

That’s not true.

Being sick implies you could get better.

Hannah is dying.

Marlo and I took her to the vet yesterday. She hadn’t been eating, has lost a LOT of weight. This girl used to be chonky. She’d been throwing up. And now diarrhea.

Hannah hides in the closet. Before, when I’d go to bed, she was the first feline there, snuggled up next to my head my head. She usually stayed there all night.

No longer.

The vet found two masses, a ping pong ball sized lump in her abdomen and another on her neck. She was also extremely dehydrated, despite access to a pair of water fountains in the condo.

We were given the option of blood work, x-rays (all of which are extremely expensive). I entertained the idea. The tests wouldn’t come back until after Thanksgiving, because this was a Friday afternoon.

But then the vet said:

“We can revisit this on Tuesday, if she’s still with us.”

We settled on keeping her comfortable: appetite stimulant, diarrhea medication, pain medication, anti-nausea pills.

And wet food.

Which she ate up gladly last night. It was so heartening to see my girl at her food dish.

That was last night.

Today, I can barely rouse her from slumber in her corner of the closet.

Giving her medications seems.

Pointless?

I adopted Hannah from the Toronto Humane Society when she was 8 weeks old. And I wasn’t going to abandon her littermate, Izzy. Clearly they loved each other, and according to the notes they had a brother who’d recently been sent to a forever home.

This girl loves me unconditionally, and I her. She has no time for Marlo or The Boy. It’s all Poppa, all the time. My wife remarked constantly at just how she’d stare lovingly at me, constantly raising a paw to get my attention. The old girl has perfected the Hannah Flop^TM. A couple of scritches behind the ears and she falls onto her side, demanding belly rubs.

She’s my baby. And she’s dying.

DOJ: “Here are 2 retired judges, appointed under Bush and Reagan, with stellar reputations.”
Trump: “No.”
DOJ: “why?”
Trump: ” The judge didn’t say I needed a reason.”
DOJ: “Who do you recommend?”
Trump: “I got a judge, and a lawyer who represented my 2016 campaign.”
DOJ: “…”
Trump: “…”
DOJ: “We wouldn’t object to the judge. Now can we have our nominees?”
Trump: “No.”
DOJ: “But whyyyyyyy?”
Trump: “I already said. I don’t need a reason. I’m Donald Trump. I could walk out to 5th Avenue and shoot someone, and they wouldn’t arrest me. People treat me like a king. And I am a king. And as Jung, I can just grab ’em by the p**** if I want. I’m Donald J. Fucking Trump and I’m Teflon.”
DOJ: *pulls out a gun, that fires off multiple indictments*
Trump: *falls to his knees*
DOJ: “Take him away boys.”
——-
I don’t know why I wrote this. It started as a joke because the first part *actually happened* today. And I wanted to make a satirical jab at this unyielding, Gord forsaken chain of events.
And it got away from me. And it was gonna get violent and I forced myself to ‘soften’ the ending because I didn’t wanna get banned by Facebook.
But writer’s shouldn’t censor themselves. Tell the story that’s ‘supposed to be’, not ‘what’s safe’.
So.
DOJ: *pulls out a gun, empties a clip into the mofo’s chest*
DOJ: “Case closed.”

This week can seriously fuck off, if it’s gonna mirror today:

Woke up painfully late, which fortunately wasn’t too much of an issue because the client email in my inbox wasn’t urgent

• Paid a fortune for 2 medications (however much you think, triple it; seriously, I could’ve paid your mortgage this month)
• Waited 45 minutes for a TTC bus to take me home, which meant I had to pay a second fare because the time had lapsed (again, I waited 45 minutes for a bus) which dropped my Presto card balance to below zero
• Speaking of Presto, went to the website to reload the card, found out they’ve taken away the Interac option to pay, and now only want a credit card, which I will not provide as I’m surprised they haven’t been hacked by now
• Facebook is showing me big ol’ ads about a dog’s anal glands, complete with a close-up picture
• And, although I will swear up and down that I’m not writing this blog to get eyeballs on my words, I still check the stats from time to time, and damn ya’ll only 3 people read my shit last night — that was some powerful shit I realized, and something I actually wanted to connect with people over, and the FB algorithm probably said “fuck you” and then showed me pictures of a dog’s ass

I’m just done with today.

(Continued from Catharsis, or…, because, why not?)

Fuck, I am feeling it tonight.

Weightless.

After spilling the generics in Catharsis, I took a good, no filtered look back to that weekend.

Replayed select moments behind my eyes.

I think my brother Wayne was there, as chaperone. (We were a lot of under-18 high schoolers, they wouldn’t let us travel out of city without them). And I remember how they busted into the room, almost a beat after their hoped climax sputtered, and came to my aid.

I snuck out as they were reading them the Riot Act.

Things were different for me in high school, after that weekend.

Not great, but manageable.

But oh yeah, there were huge depressive episodes. During rehearsal break, I would sit at the top of the stairs just outside the dressing rooms, in complete darkness.

More than once, I cried.

(See? I knew if I waited to write this I’d lose the thread.)

And it’s 10pm, and I’m mid-way through making my wife’s salad and figuring out what I’m going to eat, but I had to stop and create this post because of an Important ThoughtTM.

(Dammit, WordPress, why can’t I find the superscript function?)

Part of it, I think, had to do with resolving this trauma; forgiving them, and myself.

We were under 18. Our brains were still cooking. We did stupid shit, and not once considered the consequences of our actions until it hits us square in the jaw.

It was a fucking horrible prank, and it got played on me.

And sure in a falling of dominoes kinda way, it realigned the trajectory of my life. If it hadn’t happened, my depression might not have been triggered. At least in that moment. But it had a profound effect: I started hating going to school. I managed to graduate because two of the drama clique asked if they could film me wearing a bear costume while dancing around a field with someone’s niece while they overlaid a musical rendition of A.A. Milne’s Spring Morning.

Where am I going? I don’t quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don’t know.

Not only did that swing my Mass Media Studies failing grade into the black, but it secured my Grade 12 diploma. (I tried to go for Grade 13 but quit after my co-op assignment at The Scarborough Mirror.)

But damage was done, there was no way in hell I was going to College. Even though everyone in the bullpen, including the Editor-in-Chief (Dave Fuller, I think his name was) were encouraging me to pursue a journalism degree.

Instead I took a Government-sported tech course and learned how to use Wang computers and how to replace a font ball (like a typewriter but … not) and that lead me to working for a temp agency to, during a staff shortage, offered me a short-term contract at Bank of Montreal’s credit card division as an administrative assistant.

The money was too good to pass up.

And that, friends, truly launched direction of my life. Every experience, every waking moment, was possibly — I’m not saying it was, this is like a theoretical physicist pondering his own existence — possibly have been my nexus point.

If you believe in the multiverse theory, and part of me would marvel if it were true but I’m not betting the house on it, then there was a version of me who didn’t pull a stupid stunt to impress the cool kids in drama, or he did but he got the fucking help he needed by a professional. He studied journalism.

He wrote.

Every day.

And got paid for it.

I find it oddly comforting to think that, in another dimension somewhere, I’m living a radically different life. Because he should.

And I’m gonna continue living this one.

Because, despite the depressive episodes and anxiety attacks of late, this is a pretty awesome life.

Who knows?

Maybe he’s jealous of me.