Friday, January 30, 2004

I'm starting on my 8th cookie. My stomach doesn't hurt exactly, but I get the feeling it doesn't want anymore. My throat hurts now, like it did when I ate canned ravioli as a kid. It's my favourite, an Oreo. I found it nestled in between two Peek Freans. Possibly the worst name for anything sold to be ingested. My leg is shaking and I feel kinda dizzy, everything seems funny right now. I can't stop smiling, and what's worse is that there's probably all sorts of cookie mush stuck to my teeth. My hand was black from the Oreos and I just rubbed it on my eye. I just laughed again.

I have a bowlful of cookies. I'd say about 50 of em'.

There are two Oreos left, as far as I can tell. I think the bowl was for some big meeting but then the secretary came in and said

"Max, I need to put these coo.."


"Thanks, I have no room on my des.."


"Max you're crying. Are you ok?"

"So many cookies...This ones name is Jemima"

"Seriously, do you need anything?"

"Jemima will be eaten first. What's that? You don't want to? Well, we all have to make sacrifices sometimes Jemima. You're just going to have to deal with it as best you can"

"Maybe I'll put them in the board roo..."


"Ok ok just sit down Max"

"so many cookies..."

Well, these cookies must have been bad, cause they're getting what they deserve. Bad cookies, you're gonna have to be eaten.
My heart is going hummingbird on me, I can't think clearly, this may be what its like to move at light speed, only sitting down.

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Good. Can you say it faster?

I was downstairs a few weeks ago, just wandering around, possibly scouting out the HMV for the girl at the counter. I can’t remember exactly, but anyway, everything seemed normal enough. The suits were out in full force. The coffee places here must make a killing.

I was swimming upstream skillfully avoiding the oncoming phone toting business boys, when out of no where, there they were. The answer to all my problems. HOBO-TWINS! And I mean absolutely identical twins, in every way, from their Mr. Dawson beards to their shaggy gnome attire. They were just stumbling casually through the sea of people to wherever the hell they were going. Something tells me they weren’t going to work out their banking problems, but either way, they seemed totally fine, as if they weren’t out of place in the least. They walked by me, separating as I walked between them, and then reconnecting like I’d just walked through something gelatinous. Like one o’them gelatinous hobo walls. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.

That same week I saw a very drunk hobo in the very same place. The current was strong that day, and the hobo must have felt like he was drowning. The only reason I knew he was there was from an occasional flailed arm and a screech like “What? Not wearing a hat today Billy?” Billy didn’t reply…because he missed his hat. I just found it very surreal. It was the middle of Canada’s financial sector and in the never ending carpet of business people there were only two people that didn’t fit in. Me and a drunk guy. (Yes, Billy too, but not as much). So in a way I felt close to him, I felt his pain (apart from the STD’s, I try and stay away from those) and his overwhelming confusion. He was lost and scared, and felt totally alone surrounded by people that didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

Then I thought, wait, what if these guys are really just very eccentric business geniuses? What if it turns out that they run powerful companies like Hobo Corp. (They’ve just released their new “Robo-Hobo”) or Street Sleepers Inc., Or even the industry leading Panhandler Technologies? What if everyone around me is secretly terrified of their hobo bosses? And now I look the fool.

I just bit my tounge

Have you ever had an experience so surreal that it seems almost impossible to remember?

A few days ago, I woke up tired as usual, stumbled into the shower and stood there for an hour and a half. Everything was quiet, as I wanted it to be, any noise and I would have crumbled into nothing. Shivering nothing, clutching my head. I eat my breakfast. Yogurt and an apple. The spoon clinking, and scraping the cheap ceramic bowl as the grey light filled every corner in my apartment with a barely visible cold. So quiet. I grabbed my keys and headed out into the hall that smells like anything you want, right now it smelled like paint. I pressed the down button for the elevator and stared at myself in a nearby mirror. I looked like shit.

That’s when I heard it. A women’s voice emanating from inside the elevator shaft. At first I thought she was laughing, it was high enough, and stuttering as she took breathes between words. As the muffled voice got closer, I started to get nervous. It was quiet still, but getting louder. I watched the button’s light go out and the clinking of the elevator stopping at my floor.

As the door opened I was hit with a rattling shriek “I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE” She was screaming, her mouth wide open, eyes closed, she was in so much pain. She was from the West Indies I should guess, and there were tears literally streaming down her face, dripping off her nose. I shook like a leaf. Panicked I searched for something else to look at. There were others in the car, a man, her boyfriend. An Iranian mother with her crying baby. The boyfriend just kept jabbing at the door close button, saying nothing. The woman was convulsing, repeating herself, over and over again “I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE”. The mother just stared forward as the doors finally closed shutting out nearly all of the chaos, like blast doors. I could still hear her screaming as the elevator dropped all too slowly to the ground floor. BING. The elevator next to me opened, completely empty. I stepped in, and went to work.

Tuesday, January 27, 2004


I have 29 minutes to write something big, and I mean big, like a secret song that was meant to be destroyed (“Sunny , Cher and Tupac’s: I got you bitch”). As of now I have no idea what it’ll be, but as I’ve had nothing big happen yet today, I can only assume that it’s still to come.

What will it be? A supermodel wife? A bloody and hilarious end to my life? A bloody end to my new supermodel wife’s life, hilarious because the killer was a clown\chimp? Who knows? Big. Something really big.

Maybe I’ll rob a bank. Trudging home from work I’d look inside and see the fat cats smoking cigars, rubbing their swollen baby seal filled belly’s, and then I’d look down to the cute hobo children with mittens for shoes and I’d think to myself “Something’s gotta change”.

So I’d pull up the collar on my coat; squint real good and push open the door. I’d walk into the quiet bank, bringing a gust of wind and snow in from the blackness behind me. The door would shut, and the vacuum would re-establish itself. The fat cats, in all their luxurious Dalmatian-fur coats, lounging on red velvet-lined lazy boys would sit up and exclaim “Gentlemen, I fear the day has come…we have company”.

I would step forward, ready to grab them by their collective necks and wring every last dirty cent from their pale, bloated bodies when the biggest cheese, with the biggest monocle of them all would advance and say “STOP where you are stranger, you are not welcome here, turn around and be gone”. I would deepen my glare, staring into his glassy eyes.

“I’ve come for the money”

“What money? I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about…” He would say, slowing down at the end of the sentance, smiling fiendishly, showing off his platinum teeth like some kinda supa-fly gangsta rappa CEO.

“Don’t try those games on me, I know you too well…Dr. Palmolive

(GASP) “How do you know that name?”

“I know much more than you think”


His guards would fly from the ceiling, a terrifying sight, but of course, they are also filthy rich and therefore don’t know the meaning of the word work, so they hit the ground in a tangled mass of gold chains and security scepters, crying like babies. Rich babies.

For a moment my glare would be replaced with a comical, surprised, but content look as I watched the writhing blob. I would make a noise like “Hmph” and shrug my shoulders while looking straight at the camera before returning to my trusty hardened glare directed at the king of glutton’s greedy soul.

“Touché…well, that was all I had, oh well, I guess we give up, that glare is all I need to see anyway, I mean you were clearly going to win with a glare like that. That’s what cha’ call a winner’s glare. See ya got your eyebrows all low and squinty, really nice, really. Effective”

(Clears throat)


“Yeah, well anyway here ya go”

At which point he would hand over-sized bags of money, dollies of gold bars, and some grapes and caviar for the road.

The ordeal over, I would step, with confidence, once again into the real world. I would breathe deeply as if to say “Ah, now that’s some good air” and then I’d realize I had just stepped onto a hobo child’s hand, breaking it off, because it was frozen. I would say “Oh sorry kid, didn’t see ya there” and I’d chuckle nervously.

Silence. A hobo corpse.

“Here, have some caviar, kids love caviar” I’d drop a can (they come in cans right?) and a plastic spoon on the ground next to it.

I’d continue on my walk, finally satisfied with life, down the cold salty concrete. Then I’d realize

“Shit, dude, I’m a billionaire”

I’d look back and yell “Hey hobo-kid, want some cash? You can pull my bags of money home for me!”

Still a hobo corpse. A still hobo corpse.

I’d look at the camera again, shrug my shoulders. “Hmph”

Then as quickly as I’d begun this story, I’d turn to the street.



Credits. All of them end with my name.

I’m confused again, as to why things are they way they are.

I was handed a pamphlet today on stepping into my work. “ESPERANTO: The international language that works!” It read in bold, black letters. I stared at it, confused, an eyebrow to the sky. Why was I even looking at this pamphlet? And then the questions and ideas appeared from somewhere, nowhere, from the juicy pink, hopefully pulsating innards of my skull, I call it my hairy brain armor. I was thinking of papyrus plants and Egyptians. I was thinking of Lake Ontario and arsenic catfish, of dye and moth blood. The pamphlet told me the poorly written story of Dr. Ludwig L. Zamenhof, and the language he created in 1887. He was Polish, and it would seem to me that he was very bored. I can’t really say much, I know, because I have never created my own language. Instead, I sit on my couch, watching fear factor and extreme dating. Dr. Zamenhof probably never watched TV, well I hope not, because then he’d also have made a time machine, which would put another check on the list of things the good Doctor has over me. I bet he would have liked Bill Cosby mysteries. But then I’d say “But Ludwig, Bill Cosby doesn’t know Esperanto!”

“In time” He would say, smiling slightly, his teeth shining in the blue glow while clapping audiences hooted in the background. “In time”

I would watch him for too long, mesmerized by his face; everything was black except his mustached face, until he would slowly turn to look at me, still smiling. I’d smile back. SMACK he’d punch me in the eye, making a pop as the suction was released and yell in Esperanto “Don’t look at me!” I wouldn’t know what the hell he was talking about and start crying because a clearly dedicated and equally crazy man was sitting on my couch, talkin’ crazy talk and had punched me in the face for seemingly no reason. I could only assume it was because he hadn’t taken his “meds”.

Dr. Ludwig L. Zamenhof was clearly mad, but now there supposedly millions of people who have taken up his cause, his pointless cause. And here I was reading something a little Canadian Ludwig had written, probably while at work. Someone who had spent a lot of time thinking up connected words to try and convince me to stop speaking English. He could have been thinking a million things, but his brain had decided to think of Zamenhof’s Esperanto.

I’m still confused.


Strange thing happened last night. Totally beknownced to me, an apparently crafty steamroller managed to sneak past the security guard, somehow get into a small elevator, jimmy my lock open and roll over me while I slept like a baby. I woke up today to excruciating pain down my entire body. As I slowly pushed myself up I could not only hear my vertebrae cracking as the now cookie crumb pieces scraped against each other, but now, it looked like my muscles had solidified like gum in the freezer and they sure as hell weren't going back to normal anytime soon.

I bought new shoes on Saturday. Another awkward moment, only a lot more rewarding than feckin' pants. First stop was shoebarn or sportcheck or whatever. Had one of those hyper-enthusiastic sales people that managed to actually make a funny joke about every single word I said. The thing that bothered me was his complete disregard for personal space. SO intent on selling his shoes, he shoved his face in mine and called me "Dawg". I bought his shoes without saying a word. Then I stepped outside, walked about 10 feet and realized I didn't want these shoes. So after convincing my sister to return them for me, we walked next door and into Urban Outfitters.

To work at Urban Outfitters you have to be an expert in "dressing down" which seems to mean you have to be impossibly trendy. I walk into that place and instantly every nerdy cell in my body is begging me, pleading to leave this terrible place and never return. I look around and I am absolutely surrounded by people who feel as if because they're in this store they're somehow eclectic and interesting. They may be, but a hat with "John Deer" or "Girls Gone Wild" sold for $20 is somehow less eclectic than idiotic. SO that being said, I left with trendy-ass shoes...And 2 hats.


Monday, January 26, 2004

That time again

"As long as I can still watch movies and smell babies foreheads, I'm good to go"

-Buck 65

Heartburn and a zit on my back


Well, there are now two little robots buzzin' around Mars, doin' their thang, probly just chillin'. It's weird to think that someone's remote control car is driving around on another planet. I wonder if it can do flips like the TYCO Sidewinder.

But the major question that has been on mind for some time now is, well, you have two perfectly good robots with assorted payloads, that in the right situation, can at least do damage to rocks. Rocks are hard, or so I've heard, so those tools could probably inflict some interesting damage to say, another robot. Two robots, robot-weapons, Mars...Need I say more. The show would be called FARFOM: Fucking Awesome Robot Fight On Mars. And it could only be shown at midnight on Fridays due to its graphic content.

Next week on FAROM: Opportunity slowly but surely scrapes at Spirit's microscope which, may or may not be looking for small, microscopic weaknesses on Opportunitie's solar wing. Who will be the ultimate victor? Tune in next time..We..Get a signal on FUCKING AWESOME ROBOT FIGHT ON MARS!

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