five deadly everythings...

No Homo, but...

I saw my doppleganger the other day. He's been spotted before by Sbux peoples, wandering through Chapters. I thought the similarities would be superficial and few. But there he was -- same height, same build, same hair, same head-shape, same beard, same calves, same style, same walk.

I used to play this mental game when I was kid. I would often ask myself questions like "man, I wonder what life would be like if I were Mike", or whoever. And I always came to the same solution, the final card in the deck that would end the game: if I were somebody else, than I would be somebody else, and being somebody who is not Jef would totally cancel out the experiment. If I wasn't me, than I couldn't comment on what it would be like to longer be me.

In that sense, then, I was already Mike, I just no longer knew it because I was no longer Jef, who was asking the question. Fuck, in that sense, I could be anyone, and was anyone, everyone.

This convoluted logic game, I guess, was my first inquiry into Buddhism, without even knowing it.

Either way though, I saw my dopplganger, and now I know how weird I look when I walk. All shoulders, no grace. No swagger. Nice calves though.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 9:44:00 p.m. | Permalink

Strange.

Tried to reach the ComicCon this weekend, only to find out that I got the date wrong. It's next week. Spent the whole week being a bitch. Thought the Con would calm me down by spoiling the inner child, but naw. Got dates wrong, got even bitchier. Blah day with Suzanne, not cuz of her, but cuz of bitchiness. Was late for work. Strange though, actually had a good shift. Even with Geeface there. He was actually more than aight. Sbux cheered me up. Shit's kinda backwards, yes?

Apologies to everyone. Bad week, bad brains. Need to clear head.

Looking forward to trip next summer. Tree planting expedidtion. Goodbye, society.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:41:00 a.m. | Permalink

So I did it, I told my parents. Well, my dad at least. It's double sided. It went better than I could have ever hoped, but that in and of itself is unsettling. I seem to have this all-purpose "pass" that my brother and sister weren't privy too, and I'm not sure if that's because my parents have more faith in me, or because they really don't give a shit. Is it me as a person that they actually care less about? Or are they really just tired of "parenting"?

Well, either way, the bottom line is that I'm free. Free to do what I want, but also free to fuck up and fall flat on my face without the lush York U grass there to cushion my fall.

[insert sigh.]

I can't help but feel like a failure lately. Not in that monumentally dramatic way that used to get my former counsellor's panties wet, but just...life's been kinda blah. Or at least I've been viewing it that way.

I'm just tired. I've been working a lot, a lot of opens and shit, and that gets to me after awhile. Too many yuppies, too many sunrise shifts. Too many disgruntled workers. Fought with the girlfriend a lot, once again, and that always drains me. I just need to sleep, meditate, something.

The problem is that whenever I want to do something "for myself", it seems like I'm stepping on someone else's toes. My parents, especially, are running out of toes.

To add to the problem, I've got no good new music, had to toss the book I was reading cuz it was horrible, and haven't seen a film that wowed in quite awhile.

We saw Garden State today, which because of its bluster about depression and meds and and Natalie Portman to boot, I thought I would love. But I didn't. Sure, I loved the message. It's stuff I've felt deeply before. It took me to places I don't ever want to go back to and that I also fear I'll never escape from. But it's such a confused film. It's this honest story about pain, this exploration into the modern psychological lanscape of malaise and medication, and yet, it's also this big wannabe indie hit, this poseur hipster fresh out of filmschool I'm cool lump of trendy celluloid. I really wish he stuck to the story he clearly wanted to tell, to the commentary he wanted to make, and left all the cool, quirky tidbits behind in the movies he stole them from. Stole is a harsh word. It's actually a very honest movie. But the problem is it tries to be other movies. Like the character Large himself, it needs to learn to just be.

I wonder if I would have liked it as much as I did if I didn't relate to it so much.

But hey, enough of the depression talk. [man, will this blog ever be free of that shit? lol.]

Instead, let's:



Hottest. Pic. Ever.

She got robbed.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:35:00 a.m. | Permalink

Backpocket Rocks.

the backyard smells of wafting barbeque
from two yards down
charcoal burned moonrock
heavy clouds like heat
chance of rain

i haven't been here in years
this sagging grass-stained backpocket
of my childhood
rocks and plastic guns
barbeque sniff smells
hiding from yellow tooth'd anger
running from robots

sitting now lotus leg'd
spine like steel rod lighting receptor
calming breezed memories floating steadily
through rundown olfactories
like ghost nuts and bolts
nothing but breath, lungs,
grasstains and freeze tag

i sit along circumference of time
ticking seconds inhales
breathing out the years

moonrock reflecting memories of sunlight
long past and wafting
we both sit, constant and jaundiced.

Posted by Scene -- at 10:42:00 p.m. | Permalink

Dinner With Buddhas

Politics and religion, politics and religions, politics and religion, politics and religion. Repeating the phrases over and over again are pretty much the same thing as debating about them -- you inevitably get nowhere.

Surprisingly, I mostly played the sidelines while my two favorite topics (Natalie Portman and ANTM's Mercedes aside) floated around the table like cigarette smoke, out of everyone's mouth and into the food itself.

There's a simple reason why atheists and believers will never be able to understand each other. Atheists can logic their way out of God. Believers don't give a shit about logic, their faith in God is blind and should be. Atheists can't feel God because God doesn't exist. Believers feel God everywhere, his/her existence isn't just theory, but ultimate truth. It's a difference of existence, not just world views. Atheists and believers live in two totally different realities, so different that it's almost useless to compare/contrast the two.

Reality? It's like, scientists tell us we're nothing more than atoms floating and bouncing and all that type of shit, electrical impulses, chemical reactions, we're nothing more special than a rock. And that's fine, heck, it might even be "reality". But say you're walking down a street, and a little girl runs out of a burning building and she's screaming cuz her skin is melting off and she needs your help. You tell me what the reality of the situation is there, whether or not the "we're nothing but atoms" shit flies then. It's the same for believers and atheists. Trying to convince believers that there is no God is like convincing me that we're nothing more than particles. The logic can be solid, irrefutable, but it just ain't gonna fly.

I remembered a short story by JD Salinger, "Teddy" I think it was called, where the little boy described the Buddhistic idea of God being everywhere and everything. How he saw his sister one day pouring a bowl of cereal and how she was God pouring God into God. This came into my head again yesterday as everyone was debating, me sitting back drinking my pint of Rickard's, amused at the sight of God yelling at God about God while eating God. I realized then that I love my life and this world; a big deal because (as those of you know me know) I don't often feel that way.

As for Rohan, dude, you have a right to be angry. End of story. Fuck all that other bullshit we were saying. What comes next is understanding what anger really is, or rather, what to do with it, where to place it, where does it come from? Cuz the blame game does nothing but pat us on the back and tell us how smart we are, how better we are as people than others. Not very productive. And I can't really tell you anything, cuz I'm still on that boatride myself. Once I'm out of the fog and on solid ground, we'll talk.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:36:00 a.m. | Permalink

Can't Sleep.

Supposed to open the store tomorrow but I can't get sleepy. Picked up extra hours this weekend because of screwy last minute re-scheduling. The store's been weird lately. Friday was the weirdest: we ran out of cups, ran out of sleeves, the floors were being fixed, loud drilling noises, Tony was late, Samia cut her finger and damn near had a nervous breakdown, lots of customer walkouts. Coffee. It's a helluva hustle.

I hate when there's drama in the store, or when temperatures are heated and everyone's disgruntled, but it helps me to distance myself emotionally. I become less involved, become a spectator again. I listen instead of bitching, barista-once-removed from all the bullshit. It's a nice break from my own issues.

Happy Birthday Ben. It was cool seeing Herbert after all these years. He talks funny now, picked up a differnt voice inflection and vocabulary. He's really serious about doing comics for a living, which is cool and somewhat inspiring. Inspiring is such a ghey word. er...motivating? Ja, sure. It's comforting to talk to other people deciding to toss their education into the bushes and pursue their artistic impulses.

Mike asked me what my plans were now that I'm out of school. It's hard talking to him about that shit. Mike's on this totally different path than I'm on, and I find myself unable to convince him that I'm "gonna be OK". I feel like a failure/loser compared to him. It's weird, because with other people I can get so confident, I can talk for hours about my plans and my projects, and I can sound competent, intelligent, creative, motivated. But with him (and others like him...though I'm not really sure what qualities lump them in the same category) I turn mush-mouthed and say shit like "Uh....yea, blah blah blah bullshit".

But anyways, it worries me, because I'm sure that's how I'm gonna come off when I tell my parents. I doubt I'll be confident and sure of myself.

Herbert was the total opposite. Dude is doing comic books, which on a social-status scale is even lower than my cinematic/literary aspirations, but he came at me with all the confidence of a stock broker investment banker. I need to learn how to do that, to sound convincing, to stop feeling like what I want to do with my life is stupid or valueless. And that's it, I guess. I'm confident and persuasive when talking to people who I assume admire creativity and art and such. But with others, with peoples in medicine, psychology, education, engineering (I know, I know, I'm stereotyping and I hate that about myself)...I shut down and act like the idiot I assume they perceive me as.

A Rare Moment of Cockiness: (must be the lack of sleep)

Really. If you're reading this Mike, parents, whoever. I'm the shit. I'm really fukkin good at what I do. I know I'm shy, insecure, and genuinely self-deprecating. But deep down inside I know I'm not your Average I-wanna-be-a-writer/filmmaker Joe. If I didn't know that about myself I would have never found the courage to take the steps that I'm taking. Don't judge me by this blog or by my speaking ability. This blog is shit, it's not indicative of my writing potential (it's the fact that I know I haven't come close to reaching my potential that keeps me going). I speak like potatoes, whitewashed and mushy.

But inside of me is a fucking whirlwind, a tornado of passion for what I do. You ask what I'm gonna do now, what my plans are? Ima shut my eyes and let nature take its course, that's what. And I know that doesn't sound like much of a plan; it's nothing concrete, exact, it can't be measured or evaluated. But it's all I've got, and really, it's all I want. And maybe I'm just naive, but I'm not that worried.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:17:00 a.m. | Permalink

Whaddya Mean I'm Late For Work?

I hate phones. I hate hearing them ring. Nothing is worse than the pulsating, painful sound of a phone ringing at eight in the morning. Sometimes I'll just try to ignore it, play dead. Maybe the phone won't see me under the comforters and just go away. But the worst is when you're thinking the ringing is gone, you relax your spine, ease your mind, and then the fucker starts going again.

I'd like to have a phone that isn't so abrasive. As it is now, it's like a really loud dude with no personality and nothing of substance to say, screaming me me me. It's kinda like Gee. And I don't wanna talk to Gee nearly ever, let alone eight in the morning.

Why can't they make nicer, softer, friendlier ring tones? (I'm speaking here of those cumbersome landline phones, with their only choice of ringtones being loud, louder, and bloody apocaplypse.) Ones that coo and seduce you to answer them, flirty with a shoulder strap hanging, crawling beside you in bed saying "Wake up sleepy! My name is Mercedes"?

Posted by Scene -- at 11:16:00 a.m. | Permalink

Eye Boogers.

You make make stupid decisions when you're half asleep. Like that time I thought it was a good idea to shuck my covers to the side, shove my hand down my pants, and scratch my crotch feverishly to my heart's content.

Of course, my mom walked into the room and thought I was masturbating myself to hell. She gasped and closed the door, and I didn't have enough wakefulness in my body to respond. I just kept scratching.

Well, this morning Kamal called in the morning and woke me up. Dude sounded shook, saying he needed my help badly. I agreed of course, not really realizing that I was consenting to working his 8 hour shift today.

Goddamit. My day off too. And baby Faith's birthday party. And Top Model.

What the fuck.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:45:00 a.m. | Permalink

Minority Reports.

Nancy is a horrible name. It's sounds like a really ugly verb that only pedophiles or metrosexuals ever use in the first person. "Me and the boys, we nancied about downtown looking for tan strapless sandals". "I'd nancy that". Anyways. The new chick-in-training at SBux is named Nancy, and she pretty much epitomizes everything her name suggests. She stood behind the pastry fridge for like an hour talking about overpriced European stores...sorry, boutiques. The batch wouldn't even move for me when I was carrying milk crates.

Anyways. This is a big weekend for Asians. Harold and Kumar is opening in theatres, as well as The Village, both featuring Asians either on the screen or behind it. I saw The Village and hated it, so I'm putting my money and hopes on H&K. I've heard good things so far so I'm hyped.

It's hard saying that I hated The Village because I've been such a supporter of M. Night's for a long time. I took quite a few bullets for him defending Signs. But The Village was big hairy gaping ass. Even Ebert hated it (you should read the review...it's so mean and passionate and funny), and he too has loved everything Night has put out. If you can't even please your own dickriders, then sorry, you've made a pretty bad movie.

Oh, speaking of movies. Finally did another update on Pop Shock, Pizza Culture!. I think I'm finally building up a quality enough portfolio to start submitting my criticism to places. I just don't know where right now. I know my style of critique is a good fit over at Pop Matters, but where else? I might have to cut down on the verbiage and the film theory if I really want to get published and paid.

Haven't been doing much lately except chilling with Chris, working, and watching mad amounts of movies and DVDs. Hence my lack of blogging. My life is pretty boring lately, but thankfully void of melodrama or "depression" type shit. I'm actually calm and "happy". lol. I put that in quotes. Weird.

I want to blog about Barrack Obama. I really think this man will be President one day. I have a vision in my head of an Obama/Clinton ticket. It doesn't mater which one is Prez and which one is VP, that is one sick ticket. Can you imagine a better dream team, that just happens to put both a woman and a black man in office (who both deserve it too)? Sick. Obama's convention speech was rousing. Like damn, he was saying shit like "we need to destroy the stereotype that a black kid with a book is acting white!" Take em to chuuch, Obama.

Also, I've fallen in love with Mercedes from America's Next Top Model. She's sashayed her way into that place in my heart where Camile Velasco used to sit, badly singing. It's too bad that she's dying though. I'd like to say something witty, like how maybe dying is the new naked. But really. Dying is just dying.



Fuck you, lupus.

Peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:41:00 p.m. | Permalink