I'm so happy for you, but I'm really not

Every so often, I go online to check out what has been going on in the lives of people I know. Quite often, they disappear from the radar and the Internet is the only way to know if they're still alive.

When the name of an asshole is typed in the Google search engine, I wait for the results to appear. If the number of hits is low, a smile comes across my face. Not many. That’s good. While perusing through the links, I notice that they haven’t done anything, or have had much success.

Unless they have.

Then, I get pissed, especially when they don't deserve to be successful.

A few of the links have contact information. Maybe I'll be polite and send them a note and congratulate them on their success. But, fuck politeness. I know what these people did to get where they are. They have no empathy, no affect. They managed to do stab others in the back without breaking a sweat.

Although the big thing to do is to put aside any unresolved feelings of bitterness due to their littleness, that won't happen. I can't fake sincerity. You can practically see sparks being produced when my teeth are clenched into something resembling a smile.

They won't receive a note saying I'm so happy for you! from me, because I'm really not.

Chasing cars

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world

There are songs which are irrevocably linked with joyous moments of our lives. Whether it’s a birth, a wedding, or a celebration of any sort, the combination of music and lyrics has a magical effect on our senses.

But, sometimes they’re bittersweet in their meaning.

Whenever this song comes on the radio, I keep my finger close to the button that changes the station. For those few minutes, my heart visits the past. I listen to the song for as long as I can stand, without breaking inside. As it plays, my mind begins to count the memories, hoping the good ones outnumber the bad.

Before the song ends, I press the button to change the channel. Inevitably, I need to finish the song before it finishes with me. And, I don’t want to hurt, anymore.

Let’s waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads

Snort

Being someone who commutes to and from work by train, I am able to sit down and let the world pass by, while avoiding traffic jams and road rage. Best of all, if I have something to read, I can keep myself entertained with the latest edition of whatever magazine I’m carrying with me.

Unfortunately, this time, my eyes are so tired, the words begin to blur and eventually turn a shade of black.

Suddenly, I hear a snort. It’s loud enough to shake me back to consciousness from my (supposed) slumber. Jesus, who the hell was snoring so loudly? I think.

Looking around, I see there are a few people staring at me. Then it hits me: it was me. I was snoring so loudly, that I woke myself up with the noise.

Instead of having my face change colour from tan to red in embarrassment, I turn around and act as if nothing happened.

From now on, I am never going to sleep on the train. Ever.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

For all intensive purposes, a mirror is a piece of glass with a shiny, reflective surface (usually, a form of silver) on its back. It elicits the same outcome when looking into one: a reflection.

So, is it strange when people look into one, they're looking at something completely different than what's standing in front of it?

These people can be divided into four groups:

- The person who is unattractive and knows they are
- The person who is attractive and thinks they aren’t
- The person who is unattractive and thinks they aren’t
- The person who is attractive and knows they are

I’ve known (and know) people who fall into each one of these categories. Although the psychological/psychosocial reasons of their thought processes are complicated, the underlying reasons are usually quite simple.

The first group realize their mirrors tell the truth and that every pore and pimple is a part of their lives. They’re not pessimists, but realists. They don’t die by the mirror, but live for the day.

The second group typically suffers from a form of body dysmorphic disorder. The world tells them what they should look like, and they react by doing what is expected of them, even if they surpass beauty standards. Their minds tell them they’re never pretty enough, even if their mirrors already do.

The third group is delusional. Due to a history of compliments (usually from CSRs at commission-driven stores), their self-esteem reaches an unnatural high, leading them to believe they’re beautiful, without realizing, “You look really hot in that!” means I make money the more stuff I sell you.

The fourth know they’re beautiful, act like they’re beautiful, and tell anyone with a set of working ears they’re beautiful. They're hated by everyone. Being around them makes you homicidal, and the only reason you don’t kill them is because you know the law is harsher on people who are unattractive.

How can one simple action cause such a complex reaction? Who knows.

Maybe these people just need some Windex to clear up any confusion.

Dead man working

In the beginning, it starts with a case of sniffle that quickly turns into PND (post-nasal drip). It’s slightly annoying, because I’m always acting like a Hoover, inhaling as deeply as I can to avoid any drops falling on the reports. If I don’t do that, I tilt my head back, resulting in me looking like a human Pez dispenser.

As the day drags on at a snail’s pace, my head begins to thump, like a gentle baseline with no rhythm. The sinuses are draining and filling at the same time. It’s painful. No amount of Tylenol Extra Strength can numb the sensation.

The voice that I once thought was irritating, is now Kathleen Turner-esque. It’s throatier, coarser, rougher. Coughing makes my insides burn; not only my chest, but stomach and heart. Whenever I expunge air, it feels like part of my lung will escape. I guess that’s why you put your hand in front of your mouth just in case anything falls out.

The joints in my body creak and my muscles are stiff (in the bad way). Moving is difficult. Writing e-mails to your friends becomes a chore since your fingers crack with every click on the keyboard.

My eyes burn and are watery. I can’t stop crying, except when I need to have them moisturized, then they’re dry. My lips are puffy and expand to twice their size, cracking and bleeding to the point where I don’t need lipstick for any colour.

So, why am I complaining? It’s because I’m working and pretending (not very convincingly) I’m fine when everyone knows I shouldn’t be here, potentially infecting the other employees. But, they’re paying me to work, not cough, sneeze, wheeze and whine for eight hours.

Ugh. It’s days like these when I wish I was dead. Kill me. Kill me, now.

Going down the wrong path

So many people are disillusioned when dating because they have to go down a lot of wrong paths before finding the "right one." Unfortunately, there are millions who are always on the wrong path, and disappointed (not to mention “shocked”) with the amount of X's they leave behind.

So, why do they have a bad sense of direction?

Simply put, they read the signs along the road, and when they do, they ignore them. Someone who treats you like shit today, won't treat you any better tomorrow.

It’s an emotional S&M ride without the whips and chains; they enjoy being emotionally battered. It’s hot. It’s sexy. They think they can change them and make them better, but it doesn’t happen. Yet, they remain seated. There’s an invested interest. Too much time spent.

Is it me, but what ever happened to liking the boy or girl next door? You know who I’m talking about? Come on, you must. Right?

They’re the ones who love you and support you. They’re the ones who put up with your foibles and emotional gaffes. They’re the ones who take you back after you cheated on them with the wrong kind of boy/girl (ok, so maybe they’re a little stupid, too).

So, why are so many people lost when it comes to dating? Did they lose their compass, or something?

White light

Developmental psychologists have proven there are more opportunities for bonding with a child if the child is physically closer to an adult, than a mile away. So, while I watch the ‘toons on TV with my niece, I’m usually on the floor with her so she won’t resent me for being emotionally distant when she becomes a teenager.

When I’m on my stomach, she sits on my bum and sometimes stands, balancing herself with me holding onto her hands. When I’m on my back, she sits on my stomach (which is really good, since I can flex my abs to avoid her crushing me).

She also enjoys sitting in the crook of my legs and lying back against my stomach. It’s better than a pillow, and I get to play with her wavy hair.

But, there’s a problem when she starts jumping on Uncle Steven’s lap.

Even though she’s not particularly heavy, one strategically-placed foot on my crotch and I can see white light in a snap. And, she doesn’t stop. It’s up and down. Jump, jump, jump. More and more. Time and time, again.

White light! White light! White light!

As she moves from one leg to another, I try to pick her up and place her on the ground. It doesn’t work. She continues to climb onto my legs and jump on my crotch.

Although I could chastise her for causing a dearth of physical damage to Uncle Steven’s Hummer, developmental psychologists would advise me to do otherwise. Then again, they'd reconsider that notion if they had her jumping on their crotches, too.

Flake

Being someone who values – and even treasures – his personal space, I find it difficult to disrespect that of others. If I don’t want anyone breaching my comfort zone, then I shouldn’t breach anyone else's.

Unless there’s a reason to.

Sometimes when talking to someone (either I know well, or don’t know at all), I see something in their hair that captures my attention, like a ball of string for a cat. After trying to pretend I’m paying attention to their conversion, I think it’s a piece of fluffy lint. But, it’s not. It’s a rather large flake of dandruff.

As much as I want to reach across the vacant space between us (without excusing myself), dig into their hair, pick out that offending piece of dandruff, flick it off to the side, and then pretend nothing happened while they look at me in shock and disbelief, I don’t.

It would be rude.

So, I pay attention to what they’re saying and pretend there isn’t a motherfuckin’ flake in their hair for the rest of the time together.

Note: You don't want to know what happens when I see a booger up someone's nose.

Happy people, boring personalities?

Question: Do happy people have boring personalities?

The reason why I ask is that I have never found anyone who is blissfully happy to be interesting. They have only good things to say. They don’t have a problem with anything. They have goofy smiles on their faces, like they’re heavily medicated.

It’s a little disconcerting. It’s a little uncomfortable.

It’s not that they’re young, thin, rich and beautiful. Many times, they’re not. They’re just happy for no logical reason - not health, wealth, etc. When you try to dig a little deeper, you realize there isn’t much there. To paraphrase R.E.M., they’re shallow, happy people.

So is conflict required to make people interesting?

Personally, I equate conflict to a plate of steak: the more meat there is, the more satisfying it is. Every bite is a complex combination of flavours. It’s not supposed to be bland – for that, have plain tofu.

It is an element of one’s personality and of society. Conflict is a part of life, and without it, there’s a void.

Would I be writing this if I was happy? Not bloody likely. I'm too lucid to know that I'm miserable.

You can't afford me

Ever since the city council cleaned up the filth that was downtown, they inadvertently moved everything where I live. Panhandlers, drug pushers and addicts, and Jehovah's Witnesses have become part of the environment.

What’s worse is you see women of the night in the daytime. Everywhere.

**

While I’m going up to the local corner store to get some milk, I see her standing on the sidewalk.

She shifts her weight, back and forth, on a pair of old heels. Her balance is off, like she’s been drinking on the job. She looks worse for wear: her clothes are tight, trashy and made with strategic bits of Velcro, and her makeup and hair need a good washing with an industrial-strength cleaner.

Looking at her in a glance, she’s probably in her early 30s, but her face manages to give the appearance that it’s familiar with the days of disco.

“Looking for a good time?” she asks when I come within listening distance.

“You can’t afford me,” I say as I walk past her.

I don’t wait for her reaction and I don’t care what it is. Her expression is one of shock; not because of my comeback, but for the fact that I am a bigger whore than she is.

When I come back from the store, she's still in the same spot. She doesn't bother asking me the same question, again.

Glamourous

There is a distant ringing that wakes me from my sleep. As I pull down the Frette sheets, I lean towards the console and pick up my special edition Dolce & Gabbana Razr. The display shows the letters CA.

When I press the listen button, she begins to sing Happy Birthday. How she manages to turn a 30-second song into a 5-minute aria of vocal riffs is beyond me. She ends the call with a medley of Ain’t No Other Man and Beautiful. I thank her, and she tells me to come backstage when she's in town on tour.

As I hang up, I slowly get out of bed. This is the beginning of the day, and it’s going to be a busy one.

After getting ready and out of the house, the driver takes me to the set where I’m filming a bit part in for a 2008 summer blockbuster. It doesn’t take too long to film and I’m rushed out as quickly as I went in.

The traffic is getting heavy and I tell the driver to step on it because I have to get to the studio before 10 a.m. My sunglasses protect my eyes from the glare of the sun, and I sink down into the leather seat of the Maybach.

At the studio, all of the movie makeup is removed and it’s redone, along with my hair, and a quick mani/pedi combo. I change into a Dior Homme suit and get in place. David Sims is behind the camera, doing a fashion spread and a profile in a major men’s magazine.

It’s almost 11 a.m. and I tell him I have to get going. He understands and says if he needs additional shots, he’ll contact me ASAP.

Nearby is a recording studio, where I’m about to listen to a couple of tracks for the comeback of a certain blonde divorcee. They’re amazing. But, there’s something missing, says one of the producers. Before you can say American Idol, I’m in front of a large microphone, laying down a background vocal. The track is complete and is being considered as a single.

To make my appointment at the Versace flagship in New York, I take a short drive to the airport (always carry a passport) and catch a flight. First class. The hour is spent with me reading Details magazine.

When I get to the store, Balthazar sends over some food to eat, and three Brazilian models strut around the private room for me to select a few pieces from their resort collection. My mind wanders about fitting in a quick facial at the Estée Lauder spa.

The Razr beeps, there’s a message. I have to get to Cipriani, STAT. I thank the people at Versace and they promise to pack and ship the clothes back home. You get service like that when you live the life I do.

The Maître d’ at Cipriani waves his arm to the side and tells me to go to the back room when I walk in. As I pull apart the large doors, there’s a crowd of A-list, Oscar, Grammy, Tony, Pulitzer, and Nobel Prize winners – all applauding and taking the occasional photo. The only thing I can think of is that Paris Hilton isn’t there and I’m elated.

Behind me, a large cake gets rolled out into the middle of the floor. Mimi writhes out of the top in a white dress, gets a little frosting on her bittie, and sings Happy Birthday. She doesn’t do her bird calls. Maybe she’s afraid of shattering too many champagne flutes.

Before I sample a piece of chocolate ganache, Mimi takes me by the hand and tells me there’s a special surprise, but will only show me if I put on a blindfold. I agree. I mean, I have put on a blindfold for her before when she wore those slutty costumes on her last tour.

We’re driven to the airport and take another flight. The only people on the plane are the pilots, one attendant, me, Mimi, and two large inflatable objects. We harmonize to We Belong Together and Hero. She senses my jitters, holds my hand and tells me it's going to be fabulous.

The plane lands on the tarmac, and we’re swept away in another limo. The liquor cabinet is stocked, but I don’t touch a thing. There’s still two glasses of bubbly in me that have to get out.

The limo stops at a marina. We’re escorted to the end of the docks and then I realize we were standing in front of Diddy’s private yacht. The music is playing, Naomi Campbell is arriving when we get there, and the invitees look like Oprah’s Legend’s Ball, only with more rappers and ‘hos.

Mimi and I are both escorted to private suites to freshen up. There’s a complete ensemble (Sean Jean isn't my style, but the threads are tailored to my body specifications, natch) lying on the bed. In a small wooden box are two knuckle dusters and a Piaget watch, encrusted with diamonds.

The music stops as Diddy calls me out. There are a bunch of hey, ho, hey, ho chants. I do a little jig and prove that I’m blacker than JT during a power outage. The party goes on for hours, Cristal is being brought out by crate, but I say I can’t stay too long. Diddy offers me his helicopter and private jet to take me where I need to go. I ask where should I drop off the bling, and he tells me to keep them – he can get more.

As the chopper’s propeller begins to whip, I thank everyone, air kisses barely touch anyone’s face and I jump inside my ride. The party will go on until dawn. While I’m flying, a fireworks display decorates the sky in the distance. They’re beautiful.

By the time I settle in one of the private jet’s seats, it’s almost midnight. Even though I had so many people wishing me the best of love and luck, I never got to do to that for myself. So, I reach over to the polished walnut table where there’s some Cristal chilling, pour it into a flute and toast my 25th+ birthday.

Glamourous.

Ooh, the flossy, flossy.

Happy fuckin' birthday

Ugh. I guess the world didn't come to an end. Fuck. Twenty-five... again. Thankfully, I can't count worth shit.



It's time to blow out the candle on this cupcake. Chocolate. Mmmm. Frosting. Yummy.

Countdown to the apocalypse

Tick… Tick… Tick…

Can you hear that? That sound? Do you know what it is? It’s time, ticking away as the end approaches.

On January the 10th, the world will implode on itself and everyone and everything will disappear in a cloud of dust. Ashes to ashes. Humanity will cease. There will be no rat-infested dwellings to live in, no overly-chlorinated water to drink, no forms of entertainment to mock, no double-knit polyester to wear as a last resort. Nothing.

Poof. Just like that. In a cloud of smoke.

And, the apocalypse better come, since that's the only way I can avoid my birthday tomorrow and leave behind a smokin' hot (literally) 25-year-old body.

Simple ways to look younger

Every day, millions of people glance into the mirror in the morning and wonder how they can improve on the face that reflects back at them. They pull their skin back with their hands, they look for any white hairs that popped up overnight, and they wonder if they should get back in bed because they’re really getting depressed thinking about how old they look.

Very few people are able to slather on Crème de la Mer, get their colour done at the John Frieda salon, or have the occasional touch-up by Dr. Stephen Mullholland (on speed-dial, just in case) because they cost money. Lots and lots of cold, hard cash.

So, what do you do? Take out an extra line of credit? Mortgage the house? Make an amateur porn video and post it online, charging a small membership fee that entails repeat customers, allowing you to remain free-and-clear of the tax man knocking on your door?

None of the above.

In fact, the remedies are fast and easy.

Here is a list of items that are inexpensive, but not ineffective in looking younger:

- Slather on sunscreen before venturing outdoors because UV rays age you faster than a weekend bender with Britney Spears.
- Throw on a pair of sunglasses (they hide any visible “laugh lines” around your eyes while you squint to read anything printed with a small typeface).
- Get highlights to reflect light off your face (a.k.a. the Warren Beatty glow).
- Use light dimmers and candles when at home (see Warren Beatty glow, above).
- Dress appropriately for your age and body type (no one wants to see a 40-year-old trying to look 20 – it looks bad and sad).

And, if all else fails, just hang around people who look a hell of a lot older than you.

Fuck, it works for me.

Note: The reason why I write about this has nothing to do with my impending birthday on Wednesday. Purely coincidental.

To the couple sucking face in line

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. You don’t know me? No? Really? You must’ve noticed. Really? Fine. Let me remind you…

I was the guy who was in line at the grocery store. Still nothing? Ok, I was the guy who was standing there, behind you, while you sucked face for - what it seemed like - hours. Fuck, people. I haven’t seen salivary glands produce that much drool since Turner and Hooch.

I know that bag of Doritos must be a total turn-on, but... Jesus. What the hell would happen if you bought a super-sized bag? Would you fuck, right there on the conveyer belt, under the scanner?

Thankfully, you can also buy condoms and KY in aisle five (and a pregnancy test, just in case).

But, I shouldn’t judge. I don’t know what your situation is. Maybe you have to use your tongues to give each other thorough, oral cleanings because you don’t own a toothbrush, toothpaste and floss, and you can’t afford to go to the dentist on a regularly basis.

Or, it could be that you find produce to be sexually stimulating.

Either way, stop. Just stop. Don’t do it for me, but do it for the rest of the people in line who are trying to look to the side, but can’t. It’s like a car crash: everyone has to have a look at the atrocity that lies splattered in their field of vision.

It’s so revolting that my milk is turning into cheese while I wait.

And I could overlook all of that if you were even remotely attractive. You don’t even qualify for ugly! That’s right, you two, you’re super fuckin’ ugly. Sufugly.

So, please, do me a favour and take it to your place. Stop following me around. Don’t go to the coffee shop when I need a quick fix of caffeine. Don’t go on public transit where you alienate everyone who has to smoosh past you because you can't detach at the lip. Don't go anywhere and stay home.

Stay far, far away from the rest of the populace with sensitive gag reflexes.

Oh, you’re next in line, by the way. Can you hear me? Hey! You. Hello?

Fuck it. Just go to aisle five and get it over with.

Best,
Steven.

Note: The line of the new year has to be, “Well, good luck returning my ass!” courtesy of Wilhelmina Slater.

All you can cheat

For millions, the most popular of New Year resolutions is the diet/exercise combo to (hopefully) lose the weight packed on during the previous 12 months of – apparent – inactivity.

But, if you belong to my family, you cheat just a little on that resolution and start on the 2nd of January.

Why? Because on the 1st, we go to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

This is where we can indulge in an endless selection of fatty foods and desserts – all included in the same price! Fuck the diet. It’s time to re-enact Babette’s Feast, with tacky décor and a dozen, invisible minions that clear away dirty dishes whenever we walk away from the table to get another plate, piled-high with eight different kinds of food.

Being the sensible one, my father chooses some fish and vegetables. Not me.

Why the fuck would I eat veggies if I can make them myself? The reason for dining out is to eat the food you don’t eat at home. Let my father eat his green beans and steamed carrots, ‘cause I won’t be touching them. No fuckin’ way.

I go right to the meat. Lots and lots of meat. Pepper steak. Spicy meatballs. Schezwan chicken. Curry chicken. Chicken balls. And the occasional spring roll, just to cleanse my palate.

Meat. Meat. Meat. Sauté it. Flambé it. Dip it up in batter, stick it in the deep fryer, and throw it on my plate. If it’s meat, it’s mine.

After spending almost three hours eating (with the occasional cardio break of walking to the buffet), the plates are cleared, our fingers cleaned with a steamed towel, the bill paid, and our stomachs about to burst.

It's time for my family to leave the restaurant and go home… where dinner will be prepared.

Anyone got some Pepcid AC? Pepto? Stomach pump...?

Year view mirror

Looking into the year view mirror, you see the past 365 days speed by in a brisk clip, or idle in neutral. But, no matter what the velocity, times passes by, month by month…

January
Got older, not wiser. Got bitter, not better. Turned 25... again.

February
Started to hate Valentine’s day with a passion because no one told me they loved me. Passed over on a dream job because I didn’t have enough experience (only to find out, the new hire quit the job after one month). Noticed Human Nature turned one – no one came to the party.

March
Was fanatical over American Idol. Read and watched movies when wasn’t going on a series of job interviews and info sessions. Spent way too much time chasing an amazing fantasy job, only to lose it due to a serendipitous phone call. Began to wonder if God had a personal vendetta against me.

April
Sat on my ass and did nothing.

May
Went to L.A. Realized I had the power to make 30 million people hate me. Felt misunderstood and hopeless. Cried myself to sleep for a week, and was severely dehydrated (but my abs looked amazing). Lost five pounds in two days.

June
Saw my first, live concert. Started a new friendship. Got a 30-inch scratch on my car. Began a Monday-Friday posting schedule (wrote my second post about shit - the first about pink TP, this one was about black TP). Went to the circus.

July
Made my mother proud when I rode 32 inches down the middle of the city. Wrote about love and relationships – two things I know nothing about. Began a series of short stories that will – eventually – become a book. Tried to avoid the swealtering heat, so ended up watching more TV and movies at home. Started a new hobby of stripping in public.

August
Went to C’s wedding, had a great time, and was a form of entertainment/gossip for the guests. Noticed I am one of the only people who is single, not married, and without children amongst my tribe of friends/acquaintances. Fucked Best Buy. Got a few interesting phone calls. Was addicted to So You Think You Can Dance? Caught up with two former teachers from high school that I haven’t seen in a decade. Went through hell working on some home renos.

September
Began watching the fall season of new shows (which include Heroes and Project Runway). Met a seasoned (former) sex worker/porn star. Began a series of introspective “I…” posts. Had a terrible job interview (which rivals any unfunny sketch from SNL). Met up with a friend from university.

October
Went to my niece’s 2nd birthday party and noticed time flies in relation to young children. Removed 30 years worth of ugly from the spare room with a reno job (and was chastised). Spent a fortune getting my car serviced. Found out I am underqualified for a job that I did for countless years. Met a bunch of new people who weren’t scared off by me.

November
Understood what road-rage was all about, by experiencing it first hand. Wasn’t offered a job because the employer was undeniably short-sighted. Met someone who will make me ask questions for years. Visited a friend in her new house (and realized I am so far behind on my 30 before 30 list).

December
Had several people excommunicate me from their lives. Was sad. Finished my five bags of Hallowe’en candy. Was sad and five pounds heavier. Had five employment opportunities that I hope I don’t screw up. Was sad since I may have botched two of them. Spent the 31st reflecting on the past year…

So, to all my readers, friends, and acquaintances, let’s raise a glass of Veuve and to help bring in a better (and less shitty, because I don't have that much toilet paper lying around) 2007.

Cheers!