This has been going on since the fifth grade, and it only took me nigh-on twenty years to figure it out (has it been that long? Holy shit, I'm getting old....)
My wardrobe goes through a cycle, and I can ascertain this by looking through my old piles of clothing, like an archaeologist pulling back layers of debris and finding that human history is indeed a repetitive series of prosperity and collapse. And just like human history, you can name the cycles of my fashion failings.
I call the first age the T-Shirt Age. It essentially consists of a t-shirt, paired with comfortable pants. The exact t-shirts always correspond to how I perceive my personality at the time - in the fifth grade, it was ninja turtles and GI Joe T-Shirts. In my early twenties, it was snarky commentary. And, as I'm currently on the fading end of this part of the cycle right now, it's currently witty, text-light images and bright colours. The pants are just pants.
This stage dips into the Age of Layers. I begin to realize that t-shirts and jeans are a bit simple, and that maybe I'm projecting an image of laziness or simplicity. So, I try to jazz things up. However, as I still maintain my fixation on the shirt being the most important piece of clothing, my response is predictable - I simply double up on shirts. Usually, this second shirt is a button-up thing, most often plaid. And this goes back to the sixth grade, when I was subconsciously emulating all those grunge people I saw on TV.
Finally, I grow out of the Age of Layers, advancing, if you will. I realize that I'm growing up, and I need to start "looking like a grown-up". And so I go into the Age of Threads, This inevitably leads to dress shirts, tailored pants, and (gasp) nice shoes. This started in the seventh grade, and lasted all of one week. Most recently, it happened a few years ago, where I was dressed up every time I left the house... it lasted approximately two weeks. And, like any golden age, it collapses, leaving nothing but a memory.
In my case, I realize that suits are way too much work, and "to hell with anyone who will judge me based on my clothes!". So, to further this new/old point of view, I wear nothing but T-shirts... and comfortable pants. Really, when you see me wearing jeans and a t-shirt, it's my fashion equivalent of walking through a post-apocalyptic wasteland.
This is my long way of saying that I'm tired of being Mad Max, and I want instead to be Kurt Kobain. Or something.
Showing posts with label General. Show all posts
Showing posts with label General. Show all posts
Me being an asshole, the science of ghosts, and a firefly quote:
I'm an asshole. I'm also an atheist, and a skeptic.
These three things, when combined, are a very, very bad combination.
Case in point. I'm listening to a woman describe how she is studying to become an investigator for the paranormal. Her goal is to help people exorcize and remove the ghosts that plague homes. Because, apparently, ghosts are more common on the coast (who knew?).
I sighed, and after listening to her go on and on about the "science" of ghosts, offered a solution.
"I know a surefire way to get rid of any ghosts in your house," I said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Oh? How?"
"Weatherproof your fucking house."
She did not find this amusing. But I laughed. To quote a bearded fellow from a certain episode of Firefly: "I cannot abide stupid people."
These three things, when combined, are a very, very bad combination.
Case in point. I'm listening to a woman describe how she is studying to become an investigator for the paranormal. Her goal is to help people exorcize and remove the ghosts that plague homes. Because, apparently, ghosts are more common on the coast (who knew?).
I sighed, and after listening to her go on and on about the "science" of ghosts, offered a solution.
"I know a surefire way to get rid of any ghosts in your house," I said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Oh? How?"
"Weatherproof your fucking house."
She did not find this amusing. But I laughed. To quote a bearded fellow from a certain episode of Firefly: "I cannot abide stupid people."
The Housecoat:
I moved into this bachelor pad about three months ago. Since it apparently takes me more than three months to unpack all my stuff, there are still boxes in my apartment. The funny thing is, I'm moving again, so it seems like some of my stuff is already packed.
This would be a good thing. Except, I'm an idiot.
I've unpacked much of what was already packed, simply so I can have the vicarious thrill of packing it again. This is what a dog must feel like when he eats his own barf.
(Yeah, I just compared unpacking stuff and then instantly repacking it to a dog eating his own vomit. If any of you are wondering why I'm single after reading a sentence like that... please post your phone number and a recent photograph in the comments section, because I would like to meet you.)
Anyways, while unpacking all my old shit, I discovered an old friend. And like the good friend that he is, he was protecting my old nintendo from damage. Yes, wrapped around my ancient NES was that rarest of rares - the comfy, worn-in housecoat.
For those that don't know, the housecoat is sort of like an accessory for lazy shut-ins. It is a vital piece of wardrobe for bachelors and the socially inept, a costume necessity in much the same way that superheroes require capes, chefs require absurd hats, the french require striped shirts, and mullet people require wrestling t-shirts.
Wearing a housecoat, shut-ins such as myself are well suited for picking up the mail wearing nothing else but shorts and wool socks. They are fit for cleaning up minor spills while cooking without having to get a cloth. And, if they're at all like me, they never have to worry about finding their capo or a spare pick while they play guitar, because not only is the housecoat super comfy - it also has pockets, yo.
Alas, the coat had a darkside, too - as anyone who has seen The Big Lebowski knows, frequent wearing of the housecoat inevitably leads to someone pissing all over your rug, both metaphorically and literally speaking. And so I put it away, for bigger and better things.
Not that it lasted. Because here I am again, wearing that old wardrobe necessity, feeling like some sort of flannel superhero. And, like any house-coat hero, I've completely put off packing in favour of sitting in front of the computer.
This would be a good thing. Except, I'm an idiot.
I've unpacked much of what was already packed, simply so I can have the vicarious thrill of packing it again. This is what a dog must feel like when he eats his own barf.
(Yeah, I just compared unpacking stuff and then instantly repacking it to a dog eating his own vomit. If any of you are wondering why I'm single after reading a sentence like that... please post your phone number and a recent photograph in the comments section, because I would like to meet you.)
Anyways, while unpacking all my old shit, I discovered an old friend. And like the good friend that he is, he was protecting my old nintendo from damage. Yes, wrapped around my ancient NES was that rarest of rares - the comfy, worn-in housecoat.
For those that don't know, the housecoat is sort of like an accessory for lazy shut-ins. It is a vital piece of wardrobe for bachelors and the socially inept, a costume necessity in much the same way that superheroes require capes, chefs require absurd hats, the french require striped shirts, and mullet people require wrestling t-shirts.
Wearing a housecoat, shut-ins such as myself are well suited for picking up the mail wearing nothing else but shorts and wool socks. They are fit for cleaning up minor spills while cooking without having to get a cloth. And, if they're at all like me, they never have to worry about finding their capo or a spare pick while they play guitar, because not only is the housecoat super comfy - it also has pockets, yo.
Alas, the coat had a darkside, too - as anyone who has seen The Big Lebowski knows, frequent wearing of the housecoat inevitably leads to someone pissing all over your rug, both metaphorically and literally speaking. And so I put it away, for bigger and better things.
Not that it lasted. Because here I am again, wearing that old wardrobe necessity, feeling like some sort of flannel superhero. And, like any house-coat hero, I've completely put off packing in favour of sitting in front of the computer.
Ugh.
I'm moving out of Victoria, at least for the time being. My last day here will be November 31st, looks like.
The reason? Basically, I'm only able to tread water at this point. I work far too many hours, and spend far too much on insulin and rent, to make any sort of headway. Every month, I make around negative one hundred dollars, in the grand scheme of things. If Charles Dickens were around these days, he'd write a book about me.
It'd be one of those books that only people who really loved Charles Dickens would know about, the hipster literati, if you will, but still. There'd be a book about me.
Anyways, If I want to make any sort of headway, something has to change, and that means getting my butt out of here. Staying in a crappy situation simply because you enjoy your surroundings and don't want change is bone-ass stupid. Sometimes, you have to take the unpleasant route in the short term for success in the longterm. Or, as my mother put it last week, "You're not getting any younger".
Thanks, mom. You know how to cheer a fella up.
So, the goal has shifted from "make next month's rent on time" to "finish up your goddamn degree and start making some money". And how best to do that? Move down to the nice rainy hills of Sooke while I work towards getting thaat degree. Actually, it'll be three degrees, by the time I'm done. In any case, it's probably the smartest move I've made in at least two and a half years. If not more.
But damn, I'm going to miss Victoria. I was walking down in James Bay the other day, as the sun was dipping past the hills, and wistfully sighed every time I walked past one building or another. A book store I've yet to visit. A cafe I've yet to sample. A restaurant I've missed out on the pleasure of dining at. An alleyway I've yet to pee in.
And so on, and so forth. There's a lot to Victoria, you see.
I've lived in Victoria for more than five years, and I haven't been sparse on trying new things. I've eaten at dozens (if not a hundred) different restaurants, had coffee or tea at just as many cafes, and gone book hunting all over town. I've been to more bars than I can count, and still have just as many more to visit still.
Compare this to Sooke, where, were I to go to a new restaurant every week, I would be making laps in less than two months. There are two bars. There is almost nothing in the way of live music. In fact, the only real "music" there is in Victoria is the guy who blares Metallica out of the stereo of his pickup truck while he drunkenly swerves to the bassline. Or the Eminem coming out of the stereo of the car Mr. Metallica is trying to arrest.
To add insult to injury, the place basically shuts down past 10 pm, which doesn't bode well for a career insomniac. I know from experience that the only thing you'll meet on a 3 am walk is an angry bear. You can't get a good cup of coffee at 3 am unless you make it yourself.
I grew up in Sooke, and was absolutely thrilled to leave the place. Not that it isn't beautiful - it's a gorgeous little town. But even though I grew up there, it was never really home. But now, I'm going back.
And yet, I'm looking forward to it. Because I'll finally be able to get back into school, and work towards the day when I can actually afford to live in Victoria. And visit all those cafes that remain unvisited, and dine at all those restaurants that remain undined. Someone else can deal with the alleyways.
The reason? Basically, I'm only able to tread water at this point. I work far too many hours, and spend far too much on insulin and rent, to make any sort of headway. Every month, I make around negative one hundred dollars, in the grand scheme of things. If Charles Dickens were around these days, he'd write a book about me.
It'd be one of those books that only people who really loved Charles Dickens would know about, the hipster literati, if you will, but still. There'd be a book about me.
Anyways, If I want to make any sort of headway, something has to change, and that means getting my butt out of here. Staying in a crappy situation simply because you enjoy your surroundings and don't want change is bone-ass stupid. Sometimes, you have to take the unpleasant route in the short term for success in the longterm. Or, as my mother put it last week, "You're not getting any younger".
Thanks, mom. You know how to cheer a fella up.
So, the goal has shifted from "make next month's rent on time" to "finish up your goddamn degree and start making some money". And how best to do that? Move down to the nice rainy hills of Sooke while I work towards getting thaat degree. Actually, it'll be three degrees, by the time I'm done. In any case, it's probably the smartest move I've made in at least two and a half years. If not more.
But damn, I'm going to miss Victoria. I was walking down in James Bay the other day, as the sun was dipping past the hills, and wistfully sighed every time I walked past one building or another. A book store I've yet to visit. A cafe I've yet to sample. A restaurant I've missed out on the pleasure of dining at. An alleyway I've yet to pee in.
And so on, and so forth. There's a lot to Victoria, you see.
I've lived in Victoria for more than five years, and I haven't been sparse on trying new things. I've eaten at dozens (if not a hundred) different restaurants, had coffee or tea at just as many cafes, and gone book hunting all over town. I've been to more bars than I can count, and still have just as many more to visit still.
Compare this to Sooke, where, were I to go to a new restaurant every week, I would be making laps in less than two months. There are two bars. There is almost nothing in the way of live music. In fact, the only real "music" there is in Victoria is the guy who blares Metallica out of the stereo of his pickup truck while he drunkenly swerves to the bassline. Or the Eminem coming out of the stereo of the car Mr. Metallica is trying to arrest.
To add insult to injury, the place basically shuts down past 10 pm, which doesn't bode well for a career insomniac. I know from experience that the only thing you'll meet on a 3 am walk is an angry bear. You can't get a good cup of coffee at 3 am unless you make it yourself.
I grew up in Sooke, and was absolutely thrilled to leave the place. Not that it isn't beautiful - it's a gorgeous little town. But even though I grew up there, it was never really home. But now, I'm going back.
And yet, I'm looking forward to it. Because I'll finally be able to get back into school, and work towards the day when I can actually afford to live in Victoria. And visit all those cafes that remain unvisited, and dine at all those restaurants that remain undined. Someone else can deal with the alleyways.
Insomnia
The last week, I've had incredibly bad insomnia. There have been days where I've had to be at work for 7 am, and found myself staring at the clock at 5 am, having not slept at all, wondering what the hell I was going to do.
When I do sleep, it's in bursts, and filled with weird, incomplete dreams. A few days ago, I dreamt I was lying in my bed, trying to sleep. And when I woke up, I wasn't sure what part was the dream, because I was so damned confused I couldn't make heads or tails of reality itself.
Such is the life of a chronic insomniac, I suppose. Your dreams consist of being awake, and while you're awake, you dream of nothing but a good night's sleep. There's a song title somewhere in that.
Flash forward to last night. I was groggy, and ready to lie down. I had tuesday off, and was planning on spending it being productive as well as starting to clean up the apartment (ha!). I went to bed for a "quick nap" at around 9 pm, and set my alarm for 1 am, for some reason, so that I could get a little bit of "pre-cleaning" done.
I woke up at 1 am, as planned. And then decided that this was stupid, because it was the first time I'd had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep, and I needed the sleep more than the "pre-cleaning". This was probably the smartest, most coherent thing I've done all week. Which is sad in its own way. So I went back to bed.
And slept for the rest of the night. It was heavenly. If that is at all what being dead is like, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. I could go for some more of it.
It all ended at 7 am, however. Because my cell phone alarm went off. I hit it, and went back to sleep.
It went off again at 8 am. So I hit the button, and threw it across the room. Only for it to go off again at 9 am, waking me up yet again. Finally, I rolled out of bed, turned off that alarm, and realized that somewhere during the night, I had actually set half a dozen independant alarms, each set to go off at a different hour.
I have no recollection of doing this. We're talking some serious Fight Club, Tyler Durden stuff here. And if you haven't seen Fight Club, ignore that reference, it means nothing. And please, go see Fight Club, you fool!
That isn't even the most impressive insomniac thing I've done this month, however. A few weeks ago, I had to be at work for a 3 am shift, and had only had an hour of sleep before waking up at around 2 to walk to work. Somewhere on the gorge, I actually fell asleep while walking.
And woke up a block down the street, wondering where the hell I was, and why was I fullly dressed and walking? And why was I covered in hobo blood?
Okay, I made that last bit up. But the rest of it is absolutely true.
I have to be up at 5 am tomorrow to get to work on time. And I am wide awake right now. I have a feeling tomorrow will be an interesting day.
When I do sleep, it's in bursts, and filled with weird, incomplete dreams. A few days ago, I dreamt I was lying in my bed, trying to sleep. And when I woke up, I wasn't sure what part was the dream, because I was so damned confused I couldn't make heads or tails of reality itself.
Such is the life of a chronic insomniac, I suppose. Your dreams consist of being awake, and while you're awake, you dream of nothing but a good night's sleep. There's a song title somewhere in that.
Flash forward to last night. I was groggy, and ready to lie down. I had tuesday off, and was planning on spending it being productive as well as starting to clean up the apartment (ha!). I went to bed for a "quick nap" at around 9 pm, and set my alarm for 1 am, for some reason, so that I could get a little bit of "pre-cleaning" done.
I woke up at 1 am, as planned. And then decided that this was stupid, because it was the first time I'd had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep, and I needed the sleep more than the "pre-cleaning". This was probably the smartest, most coherent thing I've done all week. Which is sad in its own way. So I went back to bed.
And slept for the rest of the night. It was heavenly. If that is at all what being dead is like, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. I could go for some more of it.
It all ended at 7 am, however. Because my cell phone alarm went off. I hit it, and went back to sleep.
It went off again at 8 am. So I hit the button, and threw it across the room. Only for it to go off again at 9 am, waking me up yet again. Finally, I rolled out of bed, turned off that alarm, and realized that somewhere during the night, I had actually set half a dozen independant alarms, each set to go off at a different hour.
I have no recollection of doing this. We're talking some serious Fight Club, Tyler Durden stuff here. And if you haven't seen Fight Club, ignore that reference, it means nothing. And please, go see Fight Club, you fool!
That isn't even the most impressive insomniac thing I've done this month, however. A few weeks ago, I had to be at work for a 3 am shift, and had only had an hour of sleep before waking up at around 2 to walk to work. Somewhere on the gorge, I actually fell asleep while walking.
And woke up a block down the street, wondering where the hell I was, and why was I fullly dressed and walking? And why was I covered in hobo blood?
Okay, I made that last bit up. But the rest of it is absolutely true.
I have to be up at 5 am tomorrow to get to work on time. And I am wide awake right now. I have a feeling tomorrow will be an interesting day.
Happy Birthday!
So, it's my friend Kate's birthday today. She is one year older, and beginning to enter those hazy years we like to describe as "the mid twenties". Or, as I like to look upon it, the time where, no matter where you are, you will be charged and tried as an adult for any misdemeanours you commit.
Or the time where "you should really know better".
Anyways. Enjoy the anniversary of your birth, Kate. Not that long ago (geologically speaking), you were, well, let's not think too deeply on what was going on. Because childbirth is icky. But yeah, that was what you were up to.
And I'm rambling.
This, ladies and gents, is what happens when you neglect your blog-writing duties for a while.
Or the time where "you should really know better".
Anyways. Enjoy the anniversary of your birth, Kate. Not that long ago (geologically speaking), you were, well, let's not think too deeply on what was going on. Because childbirth is icky. But yeah, that was what you were up to.
And I'm rambling.
This, ladies and gents, is what happens when you neglect your blog-writing duties for a while.
Family Emergency
Spent last night pacing and being all worried and whatnot. While I was in more or less a good mood, my mind wasn't exactly clear to catch up on blogging. There were a few reasons why:
- My sister is in the hospital for some complications regarding her pregnancy (I'm sending all sorts of good vibes her way, and you guys should too!)
- I've got a surgery in two weeks, and I'm getting a bad case of the pregame jitters.
- Problems involving my enrolment in Pharmacare that, thankfully, have now been resolved.
Anyways. It made battling out a 500 word review on some album or another a bit difficult. But, as I did last week, I'll come back and write one late. Probably sometime tonight, so I can still technically hit my deadline.
In other music news, I just discovered Black Mountain today. I'm amazed it's taken this long. Maybe I'm the only person in the world who still loves Stoner Rock, but holy fuck, these guys are amazing. Next payday, I'm buying their entire discography at Ditch Records.
You are now updated.
Diabetes and Travel
Looks like I'm going on an overnight trip to Vancouver next week. Should be a fun little trip, with yours truly along mostly as "moral support". Two words seldom applied to me, either together or singularly. I'm relishing the change, though. Makes me feel all grown up and stuff.
While talking to my friend about the trip, I started asking a lot of questions about when we were leaving. Where are we eating? What time do we get there? Etc.
And of course, it began to annoy her, to the point where she finally said "Can't we just wing it!?"
My wounded defence centred around my diabetes, which worked. I said that I wanted to know roughly when meals were so I could plan insulin accordingly.
Afterwards, though, I realized that this is complete bullshit, and has been bullshit for years. I don't need to plan my insulin accordingly. Not anymore. In fact, when I travel, I do exactly what she wanted to do - I "wing it". I do my 28 units of Lantus insulin at 10 pm, every night, and I do my humalogue insulin in response to meals. Beyond that, nothing is set in stone.
This has been the case for about four years now, ever since my endocrinologist saved my life and changed my insulin types. While I have to carry food for low blood sugars, that's always the case, not just for travelling. So why the worries?
Easy. I used to be on different insulins - namely, "R" and "N", which while they sound cool (like the "Mr T." of insulins, or something), are kind of, well, shitty. "R" insulin supposedly had the "R" stand for "Rapid". Except, you had to do it half an hour before eating, and it stayed in your bloodstream for hours after eating. And the "N" was supposedly "Long lasting", but it only lasted twelve hours. And was unreliable.
True story. When I first met my endocrinologist, he was stunned I was still on "R" and "N" insulins. He said something like "Dave, your blood tester was made in 2005, and is state of the art. Your insulin was developed in the 1980s. You are a 1980s diabetic. Do you really want an insulin that's been around since before MC Hammer?"
Or something to that effect. It's been a while.
Anyways, these two insulins were a pain in the ass. They meant that you had to plan out most of your day before you got out of bed. I'm going to have a bowl of cereal for breakfast. At noon, I'll eat a sandwich at that nice deli. Three pm I'll have six graham crackers, and spaghetti for dinner at 6. I'll have cereal sometime around 10 pm, and be in bed by midnight.
Seriously. That was my life. For a good ten years or so, I'd have these charts that I'd have to follow. The "freedom" in the chart was that, yeah, while I had to eat a "fruit" at 3 pm, I got to choose the fruit. Any act of spontaneity in my life had a twelve hour delay. I'd wake up and say, "aw, hell with it. I'm going to eat steak tonight!"
You can imagine how travel would mess that up. If a ferry or plane was late, you might not be able to grab a meal in the right time window, and everything would get topsy turvy. You'd find yourself in the 7/11 at 3:05 in a panic, saying "well, mountain dew is kind of a fruit...." and hoping for the best.
If you were like me, your friends would make it even worse. Because unlike me, they had the luxury of spontaneity. Which I'm pretty sure they exercised just to piss me off.
"Hey, Dave, I know we planned to eat on the ferry... but let's just wait and eat at this nice steakhouse instead. It's only another two hours' wait!"
And then you have to decide whether you eat on the ferry and then watch your friends eat at this awesome restaurant while you have salad... or you skip your ferry meal and feel sick as your insulins mess you up internally. It's kind of the diabetics' version of Sophie's choice, only with better cinematography.
But nowadays? Not the case. So I guess my travel anxiety is kind of a relic. Ironically, though, it only shows up when I'm travelling with other people, because part of me is afraid they're going to throw my meticulously planned meal schedules off. Which is funny, because these days, my meticulously planned meal schedules are basically "Sometime before noon and midnight, eat something."
Which is a schedule I can keep. Most of the time.
While talking to my friend about the trip, I started asking a lot of questions about when we were leaving. Where are we eating? What time do we get there? Etc.
And of course, it began to annoy her, to the point where she finally said "Can't we just wing it!?"
My wounded defence centred around my diabetes, which worked. I said that I wanted to know roughly when meals were so I could plan insulin accordingly.
Afterwards, though, I realized that this is complete bullshit, and has been bullshit for years. I don't need to plan my insulin accordingly. Not anymore. In fact, when I travel, I do exactly what she wanted to do - I "wing it". I do my 28 units of Lantus insulin at 10 pm, every night, and I do my humalogue insulin in response to meals. Beyond that, nothing is set in stone.
This has been the case for about four years now, ever since my endocrinologist saved my life and changed my insulin types. While I have to carry food for low blood sugars, that's always the case, not just for travelling. So why the worries?
Easy. I used to be on different insulins - namely, "R" and "N", which while they sound cool (like the "Mr T." of insulins, or something), are kind of, well, shitty. "R" insulin supposedly had the "R" stand for "Rapid". Except, you had to do it half an hour before eating, and it stayed in your bloodstream for hours after eating. And the "N" was supposedly "Long lasting", but it only lasted twelve hours. And was unreliable.
True story. When I first met my endocrinologist, he was stunned I was still on "R" and "N" insulins. He said something like "Dave, your blood tester was made in 2005, and is state of the art. Your insulin was developed in the 1980s. You are a 1980s diabetic. Do you really want an insulin that's been around since before MC Hammer?"
Or something to that effect. It's been a while.
Anyways, these two insulins were a pain in the ass. They meant that you had to plan out most of your day before you got out of bed. I'm going to have a bowl of cereal for breakfast. At noon, I'll eat a sandwich at that nice deli. Three pm I'll have six graham crackers, and spaghetti for dinner at 6. I'll have cereal sometime around 10 pm, and be in bed by midnight.
Seriously. That was my life. For a good ten years or so, I'd have these charts that I'd have to follow. The "freedom" in the chart was that, yeah, while I had to eat a "fruit" at 3 pm, I got to choose the fruit. Any act of spontaneity in my life had a twelve hour delay. I'd wake up and say, "aw, hell with it. I'm going to eat steak tonight!"
You can imagine how travel would mess that up. If a ferry or plane was late, you might not be able to grab a meal in the right time window, and everything would get topsy turvy. You'd find yourself in the 7/11 at 3:05 in a panic, saying "well, mountain dew is kind of a fruit...." and hoping for the best.
If you were like me, your friends would make it even worse. Because unlike me, they had the luxury of spontaneity. Which I'm pretty sure they exercised just to piss me off.
"Hey, Dave, I know we planned to eat on the ferry... but let's just wait and eat at this nice steakhouse instead. It's only another two hours' wait!"
And then you have to decide whether you eat on the ferry and then watch your friends eat at this awesome restaurant while you have salad... or you skip your ferry meal and feel sick as your insulins mess you up internally. It's kind of the diabetics' version of Sophie's choice, only with better cinematography.
But nowadays? Not the case. So I guess my travel anxiety is kind of a relic. Ironically, though, it only shows up when I'm travelling with other people, because part of me is afraid they're going to throw my meticulously planned meal schedules off. Which is funny, because these days, my meticulously planned meal schedules are basically "Sometime before noon and midnight, eat something."
Which is a schedule I can keep. Most of the time.
Phone Anxiety
How I Think The Conversation Will Go:
BC HYDRO: Hi. This is BC Hydro. How can I help you today?
DAVE: Uh. Yeah... I moved, and forgot to tell you guys. And now I don't have hot water.
BC HYDRO: Oh, yes. Look here. Also, you haven't yet paid last month's bill!
DAVE: ...right. Uh, I've just started a new job, things have been a bit tight, can I pay it on the 15th?
BC HYDRO: No! Pay it now, or we'll cut all your power. Your hot water is just the beginning!
DAVE: But, but....
BC HYDRO: Don't pay it soon, and we'll break your fucking knees, man.
How the Conversation Inevitably Actually Goes:
BC HYDRO: Hi, this is BC Hydro. How can I help you today?
DAVE: Um, yeah... I moved, and forgot to tell you guys. And now I don't have hot water.
BC HYDRO: But you still have power, right?
DAVE: Yeah.
BC HYDRO: Oh, then it's a hot water tank problem.
DAVE: Geez. I feel dumb.
BC HYDRO: Don't! We get this alot, it's a common question.
(Address is updated, etc)
DAVE: Uh, I actually still haven't paid my balance from last month.
BC HYDRO: We understand! These things happen. So long as you pay it by August, things'll be good.
DAVE: Oh, uh...
BC HYDRO: Is there anything else we can do to help you today?
DAVE: No.
BC HYDRO: Have a pleasant day!
BC HYDRO: Hi. This is BC Hydro. How can I help you today?
DAVE: Uh. Yeah... I moved, and forgot to tell you guys. And now I don't have hot water.
BC HYDRO: Oh, yes. Look here. Also, you haven't yet paid last month's bill!
DAVE: ...right. Uh, I've just started a new job, things have been a bit tight, can I pay it on the 15th?
BC HYDRO: No! Pay it now, or we'll cut all your power. Your hot water is just the beginning!
DAVE: But, but....
BC HYDRO: Don't pay it soon, and we'll break your fucking knees, man.
How the Conversation Inevitably Actually Goes:
BC HYDRO: Hi, this is BC Hydro. How can I help you today?
DAVE: Um, yeah... I moved, and forgot to tell you guys. And now I don't have hot water.
BC HYDRO: But you still have power, right?
DAVE: Yeah.
BC HYDRO: Oh, then it's a hot water tank problem.
DAVE: Geez. I feel dumb.
BC HYDRO: Don't! We get this alot, it's a common question.
(Address is updated, etc)
DAVE: Uh, I actually still haven't paid my balance from last month.
BC HYDRO: We understand! These things happen. So long as you pay it by August, things'll be good.
DAVE: Oh, uh...
BC HYDRO: Is there anything else we can do to help you today?
DAVE: No.
BC HYDRO: Have a pleasant day!
Scenes from a wedding:
It was my sister's wedding on saturday, and there were a lot of great moments. I mean, there was the wedding itself, of course. But there were so many others that I want to record for posterity's sake. Some of them are funny, some are just cute, and some are "oh, Dave".
- My dad, popping open the bottle of Pusser Rum he bought almost two decades ago, saved explicitly for "the day my daughter gets married". Us menfolk drank and shared stories. It was a really cool occasion... and no, I'm not going to share the stories here.
- Me, wearing a suit, and carrying around my half-sister's two year old. He's one of those kids who just naturally frown. So I'd frown right back at him. Which was cute as hell. We both wore suits. His looked better.
- Taking "Jackson", my five year old nephew from my half brother, to the dessert bar at the pre-reception. He grabbed some chocolate thing, and we sat on the coffee table and talked. At one point, he said "is there red dye in this?" I told him I didn't know. "I'm allergic to red dye". Cue yours truly, rushing around, trying to find his dad. Turns out "nah, he's not allergic to red dye. He just likes saying he is to see people freak out." I have never wanted to hurt a five year old more.... while at the same time laughing my ass off.
- Getting texted by a friend a bajillion times during the vows. It was her hope that I hadn't turned off my cell phone, and was now super embarrassed. But I had turned off the phone, so egg was on HER face. Or something. They were really funny texts, though.
- There were three tables at the reception... the bride's family, the groom's family, and "other". The bride's family table was about half the size of the groom's family... and we wound up buying more alcohol tickets than the other two tables combined. We were proud of this fact. Because we're awesome.
- Giving a speech during the reception (similar to my post a few days back). My hands shook for some reason, and both the bride and the groom went deep red in embarrassment. However, people kept coming up to me and saying how nice my speech was, so I guess it went alright. We'll see.
- Someone stole my sister's cane. At her wedding. Savages! I'm going to assume it was done accidentally, and not out of malice.
- Awkward end cap of the night: yours truly on the two hour commute back to Victoria from Sooke. I was still just a little drunk (buzzed, more like), and on the front seats of the double decker. Trying to impress the sorta cute girl in the aisle across. Not for any real reason... just because I figured I was wearing a suit and wanted to impress someone. This is how my mind works. I have no idea what I'd have done if she actually wanted to start up a (gasp) conversation! Probably turn on my ipod and hide.
Blackouts
Recently, I've been thinking about my youth. And more specifically, my youthful drinking stories. Unfortunately, I have a few. Some of them are very, very long. But don't worry, this one is short.
Put simply, there was a weekend where we went on a bit of a bender.
The first night, I drank so much that I could only remember the first half of the night. Try as I might, I couldn't remember any details about the last half of the night.
The second night, I drank so much that I could only remember the second half of the night. For some reason, the first half of the night was completely blank to me.
I thought this for years, until I was around twenty three and discussing it with a friend who'd been there that weekend. It turns out, we only drank one night, and that the events I remembered all happened on the same day. In other words, I remembered the night in its entirety. Also, I'd only had one drink, and spent much of the night entirely sober.
True story. Wonder what it says about me, though.
Put simply, there was a weekend where we went on a bit of a bender.
The first night, I drank so much that I could only remember the first half of the night. Try as I might, I couldn't remember any details about the last half of the night.
The second night, I drank so much that I could only remember the second half of the night. For some reason, the first half of the night was completely blank to me.
I thought this for years, until I was around twenty three and discussing it with a friend who'd been there that weekend. It turns out, we only drank one night, and that the events I remembered all happened on the same day. In other words, I remembered the night in its entirety. Also, I'd only had one drink, and spent much of the night entirely sober.
True story. Wonder what it says about me, though.
I don't really mind
I have a tendency to say awkward crap. Often, I mean to say one thing, and wind up saying something else entirely. This is stuff that most people do, but I have a knack for taking those moments and turning them into delightfully embarrassing social gaffes that inevitably become the stuff of legend.
So, true story.
Earlier this month, my french nextdoor neighbours got into a fight that may or may not have turned violent. I didn't call the police, because I didn't have any evidence, but I did write an email to my landlord the next morning asking him what I should do if this occurs again.
He wound up calling me, and told me to call the police if it happens again, et cetera et cetera. We then proceeded to kind of gossip about my french neighbours.
First, I said "look, I don't mind that they're loud, or that they fight. That's just natural stuff, and it's not a big deal. I can deal with the noise. But when it gets violent..."
and the landlord understood. But then he'd talk about the loud screaming in french, to which I'd once again pipe up "and I really don't mind that."
And then he'd mention her slamming her hands against the wall. Again, I said "it can be annoying, yeah, but it's okay, I don't mind that..."
And then he said "And they fuck really loud, too. I've walked by and heard them just going at it, and she'll be screaming out her lungs. I guess you know, because your bedroom is right next to theirs."
And I nodded, and (of course) repeated my mantra, "Well, I don't really mind that...."
Not. What. I. Meant.
But it was too late. I have never heard someone laugh so hard on the phone in my life. My face went so red you could see it from space.
So, true story.
Earlier this month, my french nextdoor neighbours got into a fight that may or may not have turned violent. I didn't call the police, because I didn't have any evidence, but I did write an email to my landlord the next morning asking him what I should do if this occurs again.
He wound up calling me, and told me to call the police if it happens again, et cetera et cetera. We then proceeded to kind of gossip about my french neighbours.
First, I said "look, I don't mind that they're loud, or that they fight. That's just natural stuff, and it's not a big deal. I can deal with the noise. But when it gets violent..."
and the landlord understood. But then he'd talk about the loud screaming in french, to which I'd once again pipe up "and I really don't mind that."
And then he'd mention her slamming her hands against the wall. Again, I said "it can be annoying, yeah, but it's okay, I don't mind that..."
And then he said "And they fuck really loud, too. I've walked by and heard them just going at it, and she'll be screaming out her lungs. I guess you know, because your bedroom is right next to theirs."
And I nodded, and (of course) repeated my mantra, "Well, I don't really mind that...."
Not. What. I. Meant.
But it was too late. I have never heard someone laugh so hard on the phone in my life. My face went so red you could see it from space.
The Crown Royale Incident
(I don't remember if I've told this story on the blog before. If I have, I apologize. In any case, it's very much a story that will get tagged as "ugly", by me as well as everyone else. It's sort of funny, but mostly just gross and a little sad.)
First, let me start this story with a preface: this is not a good story. It's about a time when I was younger, and I did a lot of stupid things. I don't condone my behaviour in it, and I realize there's some fucked up shit involved. With hindsight, I do think part of the story if funny enough to warrant a blog post. But some of you may not, and that's okay, too.
This is a story of a camping trip that went horribly, horribly wrong. It is also a story about Newt doing something insanely stupid, and surviving only because God likes to protect idiots and drunks, and occasionally both.
It's also kind of incredibly long. So go make some popcorn and a sammich, and sit down for a tale fit for the ages.
It all began in the distant days of 2002. The United States had just begun its love affair with paranoia. The U.K. had just begun its love affair with the United States. And Canada had just begun its love affair with wildfires, which were busy turning vast tracts of forest into swaths of fiery destruction. The Americans, naturally, assumed this was a terrorist plot.
I was nineteen years old, at that tender young age where I was just old enough to buy alcohol, and yet still young enough to think that being able to legally buy alcohol made me anything closely resembling an "adult". I was sure that my opinions mattered, that I had a firm grasp on the way the world worked, and that I was a role model to those "kids" still in high school.
My buddy, Squee, had started dating his girlfriend 3P about six months earlier. I had thrown a large party for New Year's Even, and Squee and 3P wound up on a bed somewhere in my house and decided they shared a common interest - namely, Squee's penis. I remember, a few weeks into 2002, saying something to the effect of "it'll only last a few months". It's 2011, and it turns out that Squee and 3P share all sorts of interest, so in hindsight, I was full of shit.
It happens. Quite a lot with me, actually.
3P and I didn't exactly get along right away. I would like to say this was due to personality defects on her end, but this was unfortunately not the case. You see, I was something of a jerk back then.
I took pleasure in attacking people's weak points, showcasing what I figured at the time was my substantial wit. Mostly, I just bullied people. And 3P had South African ancestry, so I would often poke at that. I told her that Nelson Mandela hated her. I told her that she was no doubt going to start making everyone with skin even slightly darker than hers into slaves. I may have even referred to her as "Yoko" once or twice, because I thought it was funny.
But everyone assured her that this was just the way I was, that I didn't mean anything by it (I really didn't, I was just abrasive), and that once you got to know me, I was actually pretty nice. This was, for the most part, true, and I think 3P saw that. After awhile, we began to genuinely like each other, and by the time of the "Crown Royale Incident" were on pretty good terms.
We were on such good terms that 3P had begun to do what she did with all her single male friends. She tried to hook them up with her single female friends.
I was perpetually single in those days. I would meet a girl, pine over her for a while, and then date her polar opposite for a few weeks. This would alienate the first girl (who usually liked me back just as much as I liked her), and then I would realize I had no interest in the second girl, and dump her like a bag of rocks. I groped and made out with too many of the wrong women, because somewhere in my head I was convinced I didn't deserve a good one.
3P would try and set me up with girls, but her philosophy was just as bad - "She looks good, date her", as if appearance really matters much. To my eternal credit, I didn't believe that then, and I still don't. But after a few misses with 3P, I backed off and asked her to leave me alone, that I could find my own women thankyouverymuch.
And she did. For the most part.
Flash forward to the summer of 2002, when Squee and I planned what was going to be "the best camping trip ever". We bought a campground in the Sooke Potholes, because we had yet to learn that paying money for a campsite on a campground in a place like British Columbia is, well, retarded. But, we pitched our tents, surveyed our chosen 20' by 20' site with pride, and looked dotingly upon our "provisions".
I had brought a two-six of Crown Royale, a four pack of Smirnoff Ice, and a bunch of Vodka. This was my alcohol for two nights of camping. And others had brought even more. In those days, I could drink a two-six of crown in one night, and not even get that drunk. One time, my buddy Blowcock and I each drank a two-six of whiskey over an hour and half, and neither us got buzzed in the slightest.
People started arriving at our site, pitching second hand tents and having small talk, when 3P came up to me. "My friend Jen* is coming, but doesn't have a tent. Can she use yours?" she asked coyly.
I shrugged, thinking nothing of it. I had only met Jen once, but no matter. "Sure, why not?"
3P was up to her old games. For some reason, she felt Jen and I would be a good match, that we'd hit it off, and everything would go from there. I sometimes think 3P was looking for another couple to hang out. Maybe she wanted someone to play bridge with? I don't know.
3P smiled. And then said "Jen is nice. And if you play your cards right, you might get laid tonight."
Remember what I said about being just old enough to think you're an adult when you're clearly not? This was an extension of that. We figured since we were old enough to talk about sex, we were old enough to be promiscuous. The funny thing is, while I was excited about the idea of getting laid just because I had spare room in my tent, I didn't think there was anything odd about it. It felt perfectly natural, and I just took it as a given. Earlier that year, I had slept with a girl simply because we liked the same band. So it seemed perfectly normal.
That would never happen these days. This is probably a good thing, but sometimes I yearn for the simpler times. As a male is wont to do.
I was cooking some grilled cheese sandwiches when she arrived, "refining my technique" by throwing the burned out bread slices into the bush absently, hoping I would eventually brown the bread before blackening it and not realizing that my coleman stove had a volume setting lower than "max".
Jen sat down next to me, introduced herself, and set up her blankets in my tent. We talked for a bit, and in a very strange manner, we both knew that, after we got our drink on, the two of us were going to bump uglies. There was no real attraction or instant spark; part of it I think was because neither of us wanted to offend 3P. Which is an awful thing to say about, well, everybody involved. But there it is.
As the sun began to sink lower, we all started drinking. I had a few shots of vodka, but hadn't cracked open my two-six of Crown. Jen and I seperated from the group, and began to talk about random stuff. And wouldn't you know it? I actually found her interesting.
We wound up stumbling into someone else's camping lot, and found a bunch of guys that were our age, also drinking. We grabbed an empty log, sat beside them, and chatted. I was struck by just how cool these guys were. And how cool Jen seemed to be. And how cool I was, at least at the moment.
They noticed my unopened bottle of Crown Royale.
"You drink that shit? Do you have a mixer?"
"Nah. I drink it straight." Which I did. And still do.
"You drink rye straight!? That's hardcore!" One of them said. I felt like a goddamn hero.
But one guy didn't believe me. So I took a long pull of the bottle, to prove him wrong. The boys around me applauded, thoroughly impressed. Jen also seemed impressed, and maybe even turned on a little bit. After all, this guy she'd be sleeping with in a few hours was cool enough to talk to random strangers, and tough enough to slam hard alcohol as if it were water.
Had I been a little bit older, I would have stopped there. But I was young. And dumb. And convinced I was invulnerable. Despite being a five eight, 150 pound diabetic ginger kid who listened to angry music to cover up his own insecurities.
I took my newly opened two-six, and slammed it back. Animal House style. I literally chugged the hard alcohol, and it had absolutely no burn whatsoever. I watched as the bottle emptied itself, and felt like a man as the puny little boys around me cheered in disbelief.
I watched as the last few drops emptied out of the bottle, and remember thinking "Maybe I just made a mistake..."
That was my last clear memory. Everything kind of got hazy after that. It's like in those old movies, where a panel will pop up and say "Scene Missing". There were a lot of scenes missing. I mostly just remember little vignettes.
I remember collapsing over a pile of logs and throwing up into a bush. I remember Jen having to go get my friends, and Squee and a few other people picking me up and dragging me back to my tent as vomit dripped down my chin. I remember drunkenly telling Squee to "punch me in the face" because I didn't want to pass out. And I remember being tossed into my tent and putting my head outside, with puke coming out of my mouth and nose. I was unable to move. I'm lucky I didn't aspirate or anything.
Jen, by the way, shouldn't be let entirely off the hook. Because that very night, she said to 3P "do I still have to sleep in that tent?" despite the fact that I was so thoroughly disgusting that no one should have been within the same time zone as me. And she also (apparently) said the next morning "Maybe I'll sleep with him tonight, if he's less drunk."
Or something to that effect. It's been ten years, I don't remember all the details. But really, she should have been running for the hills. I was an absolute wreck. What did it say about her that she hadn't entirely written me off? It bums me when I stop to think about it.
I'd had bad drinking moments before, which I guess are a part of being a young male idiot in this great country of ours. But none of them were as bad as that night. I have never vomited through my nose before or after that night. And I've never been so drunk that I needed my friends to carry me.
The next morning, I awoke alone in my tent. I was still drunk, but not in a pleasant sense. Every motion made my body ill, and I felt as if my body were sinking into the ground. Literally, I felt as if the world were swallowing me up. I remember spreading my body out, as if I were doing the dead man's float, trying to stay above the cracked and hard earth. I was like a cat burglar trying not to trigger a trap. "Steady.... steady...."
Eventually, I staggered outside, and everyone laughed. There were chunks in my hair. My hoodie was torn and backwards. I was covered in mud and brambles. My eyes were red, my jaw slack, and the world kept trying to spin in a clockwise fashion. Jen took one look at me, yelped, and drove off.
"You fucked that one up, man," Squee said, while I dug out some cereal and focused on swallowing food. I grunted in response, and then stumbled back to my tent.
I would like to say this was the moment I went from being a boy to being a man. I'd like to say I matured a bit, right then and there, and that I vowed something to effect of "I'll never be that stupid again." But life isn't like that.
Because that very night, despite still being sick from the night before, I drank again. Like I said, god protects idiots and drunks. And sometimes both.
* Not her real name
First, let me start this story with a preface: this is not a good story. It's about a time when I was younger, and I did a lot of stupid things. I don't condone my behaviour in it, and I realize there's some fucked up shit involved. With hindsight, I do think part of the story if funny enough to warrant a blog post. But some of you may not, and that's okay, too.
This is a story of a camping trip that went horribly, horribly wrong. It is also a story about Newt doing something insanely stupid, and surviving only because God likes to protect idiots and drunks, and occasionally both.
It's also kind of incredibly long. So go make some popcorn and a sammich, and sit down for a tale fit for the ages.
It all began in the distant days of 2002. The United States had just begun its love affair with paranoia. The U.K. had just begun its love affair with the United States. And Canada had just begun its love affair with wildfires, which were busy turning vast tracts of forest into swaths of fiery destruction. The Americans, naturally, assumed this was a terrorist plot.
I was nineteen years old, at that tender young age where I was just old enough to buy alcohol, and yet still young enough to think that being able to legally buy alcohol made me anything closely resembling an "adult". I was sure that my opinions mattered, that I had a firm grasp on the way the world worked, and that I was a role model to those "kids" still in high school.
My buddy, Squee, had started dating his girlfriend 3P about six months earlier. I had thrown a large party for New Year's Even, and Squee and 3P wound up on a bed somewhere in my house and decided they shared a common interest - namely, Squee's penis. I remember, a few weeks into 2002, saying something to the effect of "it'll only last a few months". It's 2011, and it turns out that Squee and 3P share all sorts of interest, so in hindsight, I was full of shit.
It happens. Quite a lot with me, actually.
3P and I didn't exactly get along right away. I would like to say this was due to personality defects on her end, but this was unfortunately not the case. You see, I was something of a jerk back then.
I took pleasure in attacking people's weak points, showcasing what I figured at the time was my substantial wit. Mostly, I just bullied people. And 3P had South African ancestry, so I would often poke at that. I told her that Nelson Mandela hated her. I told her that she was no doubt going to start making everyone with skin even slightly darker than hers into slaves. I may have even referred to her as "Yoko" once or twice, because I thought it was funny.
But everyone assured her that this was just the way I was, that I didn't mean anything by it (I really didn't, I was just abrasive), and that once you got to know me, I was actually pretty nice. This was, for the most part, true, and I think 3P saw that. After awhile, we began to genuinely like each other, and by the time of the "Crown Royale Incident" were on pretty good terms.
We were on such good terms that 3P had begun to do what she did with all her single male friends. She tried to hook them up with her single female friends.
I was perpetually single in those days. I would meet a girl, pine over her for a while, and then date her polar opposite for a few weeks. This would alienate the first girl (who usually liked me back just as much as I liked her), and then I would realize I had no interest in the second girl, and dump her like a bag of rocks. I groped and made out with too many of the wrong women, because somewhere in my head I was convinced I didn't deserve a good one.
3P would try and set me up with girls, but her philosophy was just as bad - "She looks good, date her", as if appearance really matters much. To my eternal credit, I didn't believe that then, and I still don't. But after a few misses with 3P, I backed off and asked her to leave me alone, that I could find my own women thankyouverymuch.
And she did. For the most part.
Flash forward to the summer of 2002, when Squee and I planned what was going to be "the best camping trip ever". We bought a campground in the Sooke Potholes, because we had yet to learn that paying money for a campsite on a campground in a place like British Columbia is, well, retarded. But, we pitched our tents, surveyed our chosen 20' by 20' site with pride, and looked dotingly upon our "provisions".
I had brought a two-six of Crown Royale, a four pack of Smirnoff Ice, and a bunch of Vodka. This was my alcohol for two nights of camping. And others had brought even more. In those days, I could drink a two-six of crown in one night, and not even get that drunk. One time, my buddy Blowcock and I each drank a two-six of whiskey over an hour and half, and neither us got buzzed in the slightest.
People started arriving at our site, pitching second hand tents and having small talk, when 3P came up to me. "My friend Jen* is coming, but doesn't have a tent. Can she use yours?" she asked coyly.
I shrugged, thinking nothing of it. I had only met Jen once, but no matter. "Sure, why not?"
3P was up to her old games. For some reason, she felt Jen and I would be a good match, that we'd hit it off, and everything would go from there. I sometimes think 3P was looking for another couple to hang out. Maybe she wanted someone to play bridge with? I don't know.
3P smiled. And then said "Jen is nice. And if you play your cards right, you might get laid tonight."
Remember what I said about being just old enough to think you're an adult when you're clearly not? This was an extension of that. We figured since we were old enough to talk about sex, we were old enough to be promiscuous. The funny thing is, while I was excited about the idea of getting laid just because I had spare room in my tent, I didn't think there was anything odd about it. It felt perfectly natural, and I just took it as a given. Earlier that year, I had slept with a girl simply because we liked the same band. So it seemed perfectly normal.
That would never happen these days. This is probably a good thing, but sometimes I yearn for the simpler times. As a male is wont to do.
I was cooking some grilled cheese sandwiches when she arrived, "refining my technique" by throwing the burned out bread slices into the bush absently, hoping I would eventually brown the bread before blackening it and not realizing that my coleman stove had a volume setting lower than "max".
Jen sat down next to me, introduced herself, and set up her blankets in my tent. We talked for a bit, and in a very strange manner, we both knew that, after we got our drink on, the two of us were going to bump uglies. There was no real attraction or instant spark; part of it I think was because neither of us wanted to offend 3P. Which is an awful thing to say about, well, everybody involved. But there it is.
As the sun began to sink lower, we all started drinking. I had a few shots of vodka, but hadn't cracked open my two-six of Crown. Jen and I seperated from the group, and began to talk about random stuff. And wouldn't you know it? I actually found her interesting.
We wound up stumbling into someone else's camping lot, and found a bunch of guys that were our age, also drinking. We grabbed an empty log, sat beside them, and chatted. I was struck by just how cool these guys were. And how cool Jen seemed to be. And how cool I was, at least at the moment.
They noticed my unopened bottle of Crown Royale.
"You drink that shit? Do you have a mixer?"
"Nah. I drink it straight." Which I did. And still do.
"You drink rye straight!? That's hardcore!" One of them said. I felt like a goddamn hero.
But one guy didn't believe me. So I took a long pull of the bottle, to prove him wrong. The boys around me applauded, thoroughly impressed. Jen also seemed impressed, and maybe even turned on a little bit. After all, this guy she'd be sleeping with in a few hours was cool enough to talk to random strangers, and tough enough to slam hard alcohol as if it were water.
Had I been a little bit older, I would have stopped there. But I was young. And dumb. And convinced I was invulnerable. Despite being a five eight, 150 pound diabetic ginger kid who listened to angry music to cover up his own insecurities.
I took my newly opened two-six, and slammed it back. Animal House style. I literally chugged the hard alcohol, and it had absolutely no burn whatsoever. I watched as the bottle emptied itself, and felt like a man as the puny little boys around me cheered in disbelief.
I watched as the last few drops emptied out of the bottle, and remember thinking "Maybe I just made a mistake..."
That was my last clear memory. Everything kind of got hazy after that. It's like in those old movies, where a panel will pop up and say "Scene Missing". There were a lot of scenes missing. I mostly just remember little vignettes.
I remember collapsing over a pile of logs and throwing up into a bush. I remember Jen having to go get my friends, and Squee and a few other people picking me up and dragging me back to my tent as vomit dripped down my chin. I remember drunkenly telling Squee to "punch me in the face" because I didn't want to pass out. And I remember being tossed into my tent and putting my head outside, with puke coming out of my mouth and nose. I was unable to move. I'm lucky I didn't aspirate or anything.
Jen, by the way, shouldn't be let entirely off the hook. Because that very night, she said to 3P "do I still have to sleep in that tent?" despite the fact that I was so thoroughly disgusting that no one should have been within the same time zone as me. And she also (apparently) said the next morning "Maybe I'll sleep with him tonight, if he's less drunk."
Or something to that effect. It's been ten years, I don't remember all the details. But really, she should have been running for the hills. I was an absolute wreck. What did it say about her that she hadn't entirely written me off? It bums me when I stop to think about it.
I'd had bad drinking moments before, which I guess are a part of being a young male idiot in this great country of ours. But none of them were as bad as that night. I have never vomited through my nose before or after that night. And I've never been so drunk that I needed my friends to carry me.
The next morning, I awoke alone in my tent. I was still drunk, but not in a pleasant sense. Every motion made my body ill, and I felt as if my body were sinking into the ground. Literally, I felt as if the world were swallowing me up. I remember spreading my body out, as if I were doing the dead man's float, trying to stay above the cracked and hard earth. I was like a cat burglar trying not to trigger a trap. "Steady.... steady...."
Eventually, I staggered outside, and everyone laughed. There were chunks in my hair. My hoodie was torn and backwards. I was covered in mud and brambles. My eyes were red, my jaw slack, and the world kept trying to spin in a clockwise fashion. Jen took one look at me, yelped, and drove off.
"You fucked that one up, man," Squee said, while I dug out some cereal and focused on swallowing food. I grunted in response, and then stumbled back to my tent.
I would like to say this was the moment I went from being a boy to being a man. I'd like to say I matured a bit, right then and there, and that I vowed something to effect of "I'll never be that stupid again." But life isn't like that.
Because that very night, despite still being sick from the night before, I drank again. Like I said, god protects idiots and drunks. And sometimes both.
* Not her real name
Happy Apple Birthday
Today, my friends, is a very important day. It is, you see, the birthday of my good friend, Happy Apple. She turns... well, she gets even older today.
I haven't really talked to her in the past few weeks, and it might be a little bit longer before we get to have time to really hang out again in the near future. It does bum me that I can't embarrass her by singing 'Happy Apple Birthday' at the top of my lungs for her today, in person, but, you know, job. So I'll have to belt it out some other time.
So, Apple, as the Beatles once said, "today it's your birthday". Here's to a bajillion more, and I hope you get everything you wished for. Including that fire-breathing robot intent on killing all humans. Also, socks.
To everyone that's not named Happy Apple, go over and check out her blog. Laugh your asses off, and get to know one of the coolest people on the entire interwebz.
I haven't really talked to her in the past few weeks, and it might be a little bit longer before we get to have time to really hang out again in the near future. It does bum me that I can't embarrass her by singing 'Happy Apple Birthday' at the top of my lungs for her today, in person, but, you know, job. So I'll have to belt it out some other time.
So, Apple, as the Beatles once said, "today it's your birthday". Here's to a bajillion more, and I hope you get everything you wished for. Including that fire-breathing robot intent on killing all humans. Also, socks.
To everyone that's not named Happy Apple, go over and check out her blog. Laugh your asses off, and get to know one of the coolest people on the entire interwebz.
Did you know....
...that Newt has a twitter?
It's true. I got a twitter about a week or so ago, and I've taken to it like a duck takes to water. Or a smackhead takes to smack. Or a member of Nickelback takes to leather pants. Or...
...nevermind. I could do this all day.
Anyways. Fun fact about twitter that everyone knows: it's addictive, and it fuels the narcissist in all of us. As someone who is already quite narcissistic, twitter was probably a bad idea. Because now I have a medium for 24/7 discussions about my favourite subject: ME!
If you're up for learning even more about what makes Crazy Newt tick, by all means subscribe @crazy_newt. And if you'd rather avoid me completely... what the hell are you doing reading this blog?
It's true. I got a twitter about a week or so ago, and I've taken to it like a duck takes to water. Or a smackhead takes to smack. Or a member of Nickelback takes to leather pants. Or...
...nevermind. I could do this all day.
Anyways. Fun fact about twitter that everyone knows: it's addictive, and it fuels the narcissist in all of us. As someone who is already quite narcissistic, twitter was probably a bad idea. Because now I have a medium for 24/7 discussions about my favourite subject: ME!
If you're up for learning even more about what makes Crazy Newt tick, by all means subscribe @crazy_newt. And if you'd rather avoid me completely... what the hell are you doing reading this blog?
Newt and the Rebel Toe:
Every body in the world has strange little quirks to it, which makes sense. I mean, most cars have bits of individual 'character' ("It always hums a little when I shift gears", "It was created from cast-off parts of Hitler's car", "I swear it laughs every time we run over a squirrel"). And cars are factory-made... human bodies are only rarely made in factories. Though a lot of them do seem to be made in the third world...
Anyways.
My big bodily "quirk" is Diabetes, which is a pain in the ass that I have to deal with every day, usually with success (knock on wood). So when I look at my other "quirks", I barely notice them... and when they do materialize, I look at them with fondness and not annoyance, because hey, something minor is wrong with me that has nothing to do with Diabetes. Woot!
One of my strange quirks is what I like to call "The rebel toe".
Basically, every now and then (usually when I've been exercising a lot and havent' stayed properly hydrated) the big toe on my left foot will bend downwards and try to hide under its neighbour, like some sort of cowardly frenchman. This is sort of painful for me, and to fix it, I have to grab the toe and pull it back into position - usually a few times before it gets the hint and stays there.
It first happened more than twenty years ago, when I was six. I was swimming when the toe first decided to make a break for it, and the sudden "intense" pain (I was young, every pain was "intense") shocked me enough that I stopped swimming and started doing that other thing. What's it called? Oh, right, sinking. I did that.
But don't worry. I got better.
I've had to deal with it over the years, usually with a laugh and a polite "excuse me". But there are times when it can get particularly funny.
For example, when I'm wearing shoes. If I can't immediately take off my shoe due to the "social constraints" (my second least favourite type of constraint!), it will just get progressively worse. Last year, it happened while I was at a Halloween dance. I wound up hobbling around the dance floor, kicking walls and tables hoping to knock my toe back into place.
I think everyone else just thought I was, like, really mad or something. I'm sure it gave me a certain mystique.
I only mention this because my toe's been going haywire today. Cheeky little bastard.
Anyways.
My big bodily "quirk" is Diabetes, which is a pain in the ass that I have to deal with every day, usually with success (knock on wood). So when I look at my other "quirks", I barely notice them... and when they do materialize, I look at them with fondness and not annoyance, because hey, something minor is wrong with me that has nothing to do with Diabetes. Woot!
One of my strange quirks is what I like to call "The rebel toe".
Basically, every now and then (usually when I've been exercising a lot and havent' stayed properly hydrated) the big toe on my left foot will bend downwards and try to hide under its neighbour, like some sort of cowardly frenchman. This is sort of painful for me, and to fix it, I have to grab the toe and pull it back into position - usually a few times before it gets the hint and stays there.
It first happened more than twenty years ago, when I was six. I was swimming when the toe first decided to make a break for it, and the sudden "intense" pain (I was young, every pain was "intense") shocked me enough that I stopped swimming and started doing that other thing. What's it called? Oh, right, sinking. I did that.
But don't worry. I got better.
I've had to deal with it over the years, usually with a laugh and a polite "excuse me". But there are times when it can get particularly funny.
For example, when I'm wearing shoes. If I can't immediately take off my shoe due to the "social constraints" (my second least favourite type of constraint!), it will just get progressively worse. Last year, it happened while I was at a Halloween dance. I wound up hobbling around the dance floor, kicking walls and tables hoping to knock my toe back into place.
I think everyone else just thought I was, like, really mad or something. I'm sure it gave me a certain mystique.
I only mention this because my toe's been going haywire today. Cheeky little bastard.
An entirely untrue conversation:
"Hey, long time, no see. What's new?"
"Oh, just trying to figure out how many people we lost to the rapture."
"The Rapture?"
"Yeah. It happened last week. All the truly good christian believers went to heaven, and all the truly evil people went to hell, leaving everyone else behind." "
Oh, um. That sounds... hm. Did we lose anybody?"
"Not that I can tell. I think that means that all human beings kind of fall somewhere in the middle."
"Bet you the Christians don't like that."
"They're embarrassed that they didn't get raptured, so they're all hiding in their basements."
"...Thank God for apocalypses, eh?"
"Oh, just trying to figure out how many people we lost to the rapture."
"The Rapture?"
"Yeah. It happened last week. All the truly good christian believers went to heaven, and all the truly evil people went to hell, leaving everyone else behind." "
Oh, um. That sounds... hm. Did we lose anybody?"
"Not that I can tell. I think that means that all human beings kind of fall somewhere in the middle."
"Bet you the Christians don't like that."
"They're embarrassed that they didn't get raptured, so they're all hiding in their basements."
"...Thank God for apocalypses, eh?"
Holy crap, I have a cell phone
Fun fact. I'm a technophobe.
I realize that sounds silly, coming from a guy that blogs everyday. But it's true - I generally avoid modern technology. Until last week, I could count the number of text messages I sent on one hand. I don't own a microwave. I don't watch TV. Hell, I prefer to listen to music on vinyl, for god's sake.
And until last week, I didn't own a cell phone. And I hadn't owned one for more than five years.
See, I did own a cell phone back in the day (let's say 2004 or so). It was with Bell, and it was a Solo flip phone. I liked it well enough, although I used to get annoyed that friends would call me and hear a song play, instead of a dial tone - and the people at bell didn't get why I wanted that feature removed. They thought that all my friends wanted to hear Green Day before I picked up.
I assured them that was not the case.
However, I got rid of that phone years and years ago (let's say, 2005), when the people at Bell wound up being absolute dicks, as was the case with all cell phone companies back then. Also, being paranoid about turning your phone off while you were in class became very distracting, as my history classes all had a rule - if your phone rings, you owe the class donuts. I had to buy the class donuts once, all because my mother wanted to know if I was coming over for sunday dinner.
And so I went back to a LAN line, happy that the only time people could reach me was when I wanted to be reached. I never had to buy donuts again. And I still had access to a cell, because my girlfriend at the time carried one on her. And there was really no reason we both needed cell phones.
After the big breakup a few years ago, people kept telling me to get a cell. I went on plenty of dates, and saw a couple of people, all who thought it was weird that I didn't have a cell. Searching for jobs was weird without one, and even hanging out with my friends was sometimes complicated by the fact that I was cell-less. But I fought against it for years - one more piece of technology to carry! More stress as people contact you when you don't want to be contacted! Payment plans!
But, last week, I caved, and bought myself a shiny blue cell phone. An LG Rumour 2, for techies that are interested. You know who you are.
I've been texting like I'm trying to catch up to everyone else, or something. And using the thing like I'm welcoming myself back to the 21st century. I debated (and then declined) getting a twitter account. And I've already taken a few shiny photos, and I have no doubt that this blog will start featuring all sorts of blurry phone photos in no time.
You've all been warned.
I realize that sounds silly, coming from a guy that blogs everyday. But it's true - I generally avoid modern technology. Until last week, I could count the number of text messages I sent on one hand. I don't own a microwave. I don't watch TV. Hell, I prefer to listen to music on vinyl, for god's sake.
And until last week, I didn't own a cell phone. And I hadn't owned one for more than five years.
See, I did own a cell phone back in the day (let's say 2004 or so). It was with Bell, and it was a Solo flip phone. I liked it well enough, although I used to get annoyed that friends would call me and hear a song play, instead of a dial tone - and the people at bell didn't get why I wanted that feature removed. They thought that all my friends wanted to hear Green Day before I picked up.
I assured them that was not the case.
However, I got rid of that phone years and years ago (let's say, 2005), when the people at Bell wound up being absolute dicks, as was the case with all cell phone companies back then. Also, being paranoid about turning your phone off while you were in class became very distracting, as my history classes all had a rule - if your phone rings, you owe the class donuts. I had to buy the class donuts once, all because my mother wanted to know if I was coming over for sunday dinner.
And so I went back to a LAN line, happy that the only time people could reach me was when I wanted to be reached. I never had to buy donuts again. And I still had access to a cell, because my girlfriend at the time carried one on her. And there was really no reason we both needed cell phones.
After the big breakup a few years ago, people kept telling me to get a cell. I went on plenty of dates, and saw a couple of people, all who thought it was weird that I didn't have a cell. Searching for jobs was weird without one, and even hanging out with my friends was sometimes complicated by the fact that I was cell-less. But I fought against it for years - one more piece of technology to carry! More stress as people contact you when you don't want to be contacted! Payment plans!
But, last week, I caved, and bought myself a shiny blue cell phone. An LG Rumour 2, for techies that are interested. You know who you are.
I've been texting like I'm trying to catch up to everyone else, or something. And using the thing like I'm welcoming myself back to the 21st century. I debated (and then declined) getting a twitter account. And I've already taken a few shiny photos, and I have no doubt that this blog will start featuring all sorts of blurry phone photos in no time.
You've all been warned.
Dear Newt's Future Wife:
Hi there. How are you? I don't know if we've met yet. But if we haven't, hi, I'm Dave. People sometimes call me "Newt". Others call me "Wik". Others still call me "Fucking Moron", but those people are generally stupid. Generally.
Anyways. Allow me to tell you a story. It's going to be awkward, because it mentions the fact that I've had other women in my life besides you, which is apparently a no-no when you're married. But hopefully you're pretty awesome, and you can deal with it. If you're not awesome, well, Future Wife, that's very unfortunate for both of us, isn't it?
But I digress.
I used to have an old girlfriend who would go through my old blog and use it to get details on my life. And no, I won't give you the URL on that blog, so stop asking. This girlfriend of mine would then bring the blog up in random conversations, comparing things I was saying to her with what I had once said in my blog. Every past thought of mine, even the throwaway comments, were seemingly etched in stone in her mind, so that if I had made a stupid comment when I was sixteen about how I, say, wanted to pierce my eyebrow, it became an ironclad statement and one she'd bring up when I was, say, twenty four and bitching about all the idiots who pierce their eyebrows.
It was a pain in the ass, future wife. A real pain in the ass.
Anyways, when I started this blog, I vowed not to talk overly much about personal issues in my life, or go in depth over any woman I was at all "serious" about. I vowed it wasn't going to be a blog about Dave's life, and one of the reasons (not the only reason) was because, quite frankly, I was afraid it'd be ammunition used against me at some point in the future. Which says a lot about my writing style.
I was afraid that, one day, we'd have a perfectly normal fight about the hydro bill or pterodactyl porn you'd mention that "you never got this angry with >insert girl's name here< And I'd wind up stuck on the couch for a week, grumbling about all the stupid things I had once said.
I was, in other words, afraid of losing any future partner, even though I have most likely not yet met said future partner. Some may see that as kind of sad. I'd like to see it as a pragmatic, practical life decision. Others might just see it as all around wussiness.
But fuck those guys.
So, future wife, while you're browsing this blog, wondering what sort of guy your husband used to be, remember that while there are a lot really crass jokes, careless comments, and flagrant hipsterism, also remember that that's not all there was to your husband. Remember that this blog doesn't represent everything, and that if you want all that past information, you'll have to do the healthy thing, and ask me about it.
Also, Future Wife, could you do me a favour? Please be awesome. Because if you are, that'd be great. Also, if time travel has been invented, could you send me some awesome future diet coke? Because I'm kind of thirsty right now, and I hear that future diet coke is delicious.
Thanks.
Sincerely,
Whatever the Hell Nickname I Go By
Anyways. Allow me to tell you a story. It's going to be awkward, because it mentions the fact that I've had other women in my life besides you, which is apparently a no-no when you're married. But hopefully you're pretty awesome, and you can deal with it. If you're not awesome, well, Future Wife, that's very unfortunate for both of us, isn't it?
But I digress.
I used to have an old girlfriend who would go through my old blog and use it to get details on my life. And no, I won't give you the URL on that blog, so stop asking. This girlfriend of mine would then bring the blog up in random conversations, comparing things I was saying to her with what I had once said in my blog. Every past thought of mine, even the throwaway comments, were seemingly etched in stone in her mind, so that if I had made a stupid comment when I was sixteen about how I, say, wanted to pierce my eyebrow, it became an ironclad statement and one she'd bring up when I was, say, twenty four and bitching about all the idiots who pierce their eyebrows.
It was a pain in the ass, future wife. A real pain in the ass.
Anyways, when I started this blog, I vowed not to talk overly much about personal issues in my life, or go in depth over any woman I was at all "serious" about. I vowed it wasn't going to be a blog about Dave's life, and one of the reasons (not the only reason) was because, quite frankly, I was afraid it'd be ammunition used against me at some point in the future. Which says a lot about my writing style.
I was afraid that, one day, we'd have a perfectly normal fight about the hydro bill or pterodactyl porn you'd mention that "you never got this angry with >insert girl's name here< And I'd wind up stuck on the couch for a week, grumbling about all the stupid things I had once said.
I was, in other words, afraid of losing any future partner, even though I have most likely not yet met said future partner. Some may see that as kind of sad. I'd like to see it as a pragmatic, practical life decision. Others might just see it as all around wussiness.
But fuck those guys.
So, future wife, while you're browsing this blog, wondering what sort of guy your husband used to be, remember that while there are a lot really crass jokes, careless comments, and flagrant hipsterism, also remember that that's not all there was to your husband. Remember that this blog doesn't represent everything, and that if you want all that past information, you'll have to do the healthy thing, and ask me about it.
Also, Future Wife, could you do me a favour? Please be awesome. Because if you are, that'd be great. Also, if time travel has been invented, could you send me some awesome future diet coke? Because I'm kind of thirsty right now, and I hear that future diet coke is delicious.
Thanks.
Sincerely,
Whatever the Hell Nickname I Go By
Yawn
Oh, insomnia.
For the last week or so, I've been in the throes of insomnia. As a long time sufferer, I don't really notice too much when I only log a few hours of sleep. It's when the patches of insomnia last for a week or more that I really begin to get cranky.
In other words, I don't get upset until after the sleep-deprived hallucinations start. Once Smokey the Mexican Raccoon starts telling me I should eat more Heuvos Rancheros, I know I'm fucked.
Take the other night. I hadn't slept much the two nights previous, and actually stopped drinking caffeine after 1 pm or so. I did a bunch of exercise, and had worked out most of the stuff that was causing me stress. I was dead tired, so when I crawled into bed, I had a feeling I'd get some much needed rest. I was in bed by eleven.
And got up at 1 am. And 2 am. And 3am. When I woke up at 3, I started punching my blankets, and moved from my couch (where I've been sleeping lately, for no real reason) and went to my bed. Where I slept until 4 am. I wound up getting out of bed at around 5:30, convinced that God hates me.
Either that, or he thinks it's funny to mess with my head or something. Sometimes, when I'm dying of sleep deprivation, I compare God to a kid on an anthill with a magnifying glass. This makes me laugh, until God responds by saying "oh yeah? Well, just for that, I'm going to send some police to your building at 4 am. How do you like that, fucker?"
Goddamn omnipotent deities. If only you weren't so mean. And also, fictitious.
Anyways, in that same one-week span, I've awakened in absolute terror, unsure of where I was and spending minutes - literally, minutes - trying to get my bearings. I woke up once convinced that I was sleeping in my apartment, but in some room I hadn't yet discovered, even though I've lived here for four years or so.
And then I've also had the usual dose of crazy and unnerving dreams, nightmares, and other random crap that does its best to keep me awake. Couple that with a whole bunch of worries guaranteed to keep me tossing and turning, along with diabetic low blood sugars that conspire to awaken me even when I do get to sleep, and it all contributes to a very unhappy Newt.
It's been a perfect storm of insomnia, and I am not pleased. Not one iota.
For the last week or so, I've been in the throes of insomnia. As a long time sufferer, I don't really notice too much when I only log a few hours of sleep. It's when the patches of insomnia last for a week or more that I really begin to get cranky.
In other words, I don't get upset until after the sleep-deprived hallucinations start. Once Smokey the Mexican Raccoon starts telling me I should eat more Heuvos Rancheros, I know I'm fucked.
Take the other night. I hadn't slept much the two nights previous, and actually stopped drinking caffeine after 1 pm or so. I did a bunch of exercise, and had worked out most of the stuff that was causing me stress. I was dead tired, so when I crawled into bed, I had a feeling I'd get some much needed rest. I was in bed by eleven.
And got up at 1 am. And 2 am. And 3am. When I woke up at 3, I started punching my blankets, and moved from my couch (where I've been sleeping lately, for no real reason) and went to my bed. Where I slept until 4 am. I wound up getting out of bed at around 5:30, convinced that God hates me.
Either that, or he thinks it's funny to mess with my head or something. Sometimes, when I'm dying of sleep deprivation, I compare God to a kid on an anthill with a magnifying glass. This makes me laugh, until God responds by saying "oh yeah? Well, just for that, I'm going to send some police to your building at 4 am. How do you like that, fucker?"
Goddamn omnipotent deities. If only you weren't so mean. And also, fictitious.
Anyways, in that same one-week span, I've awakened in absolute terror, unsure of where I was and spending minutes - literally, minutes - trying to get my bearings. I woke up once convinced that I was sleeping in my apartment, but in some room I hadn't yet discovered, even though I've lived here for four years or so.
And then I've also had the usual dose of crazy and unnerving dreams, nightmares, and other random crap that does its best to keep me awake. Couple that with a whole bunch of worries guaranteed to keep me tossing and turning, along with diabetic low blood sugars that conspire to awaken me even when I do get to sleep, and it all contributes to a very unhappy Newt.
It's been a perfect storm of insomnia, and I am not pleased. Not one iota.
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