There’s a blind man burning a cigarette into his face. What do you want to do for lunch?

I saw that. The blind guy burning his face, that is. Sure, it was shocking – I mean, how do you prepare for a random display of self-mutilation? Ideally you get at least a day’s warning. But what was even more eye opening was the casual way my friend and I dealt with the whole thing. ‘Wow, he’s burning that cigarette right into his cheek. That’s horrifying. He’s not even flinching. I think he’s enjoying it. I’m sad, shocked, disgusted, and frightened. Anywho… are we still heading to Mr. Sub for lunch?”

My tolerance for mind-boggling slaps to my brain has become remarkably strong over the years. In the past, a homeless guy with a completely exposed ass walking in front of me would have been quite an ordeal.  Now it’s as everyday as crossing the street.

Sometimes you don’t even have to witness something strange for it to affect your day.  For instance, seconds before going for a cigarette a few months ago, I found out that a flasher had been exposing himself to women while they smoked.  Of course, when I got outside, I was the only guy in a sea of women. Not knowing quite what to do, I jokingly said, “I’m not the flasher by the way”. They laughed, BUT I wonder if I hadn’t said anything, would they have spent the rest of their break wondering if I’d end up trading the smoke in my hand for the pecker in my pants? Again. How the hell could I have prepared for this? God I hate cocks.

Anyways, I think these swift kicks to our comfort zones are needed. We need quick reminders about how dark, twisted and crazy the world outside you actually is. And if that comes in the form of a vagrant’s arse, so be it.

These run-ins expose survival instincts you didn’t even know you had. Did I know how to react to the transsexual hairdresser with hands the size of John Goodman that cut my hair last month? Of course not.  But after 20 minutes of having my skull palmed by what looked like Jackie Chan in drag, I discovered a safe place in my head that I know I can call upon again when needed.

The moral of this story? When life throws you a blind man burning his face with a cigarette while exposing his ass to a transsexual hairdresser who saw a man flash his pecker, make lemonade.

There's no soul in a minivan.

 I’ve always loved hip hop. From the first time I heard it I was sold.  So, being the nerd I am, I embraced it in a relatively extreme manner. As my brother will happily recall, I did, at one point, fashion my moss-like hair into a flat-top complete with lines shaved into the side of my head.   The line thing got worse when myself and the other members of our school’s 400 metre relay team decided to shave the word “bye” into the back of our heads in anticipation of our dominance. We lost and the word “bye” quickly burnt into our skulls as we skulked out of the stadium.. But there’s more. How about a polka dot shirt? Complete Raiders outfits in honour of Public Enemy and NWA.  “Just Do It” track pants. Track pants! Patrick Ewing shoes. No running mans.  But I witnessed many. And may have offered an Arsenio Hall fist pump in support.

But with age came wisdom. I was a white kid with an extremely Italian name. What the hell was I doing? So I continued to embrace the music, but lost the soul brother persona. From there I got into funk, jazz, soul, etc.  Things I pursued and ended up deejaying for most of my twenties­– primarily to Tragically-Hip-listening- Tevas- with- socks-wearing Waterloo kids.  I made beats, produced a few groups, and continue to hunt for rare vinyl like the true nerd that I am.

Flash forward to today. I’m driving down the street, listening to some classic 90s hip hop, and I start bobbing my head. It felt natural. No big deal, right?. Until, of course, I notice that the car beside me has been watching me the whole time. I froze. Wow. Really? How do I recover? And why did I think that the windows of my car were some sort of shield from the prying eyes I was literally surrounded by? So I quickly decided to make it look like my neck was in need of a stretch – this would surely cover up what they had seen. It had to, but I doubt it did. So after a few moments of incredibly uncomfortable eye contact, I drove off, resisting the urge to bob my head, for fear of being discovered yet again.  The moral? People can see in your car. It’s not a safe zone. Windows are made of glass. People can see through glass. Bob your head cautiously. You’re white. Being in a Mazda 5 minivan certainly doesn’t change that. 

Now serving Buffalo…Bill.

There’s a restaurant on the way to Muskoka called “The Pit”. As I drove by it last summer I thought, that’s what Buffalo Bill from Silence of The Lambs would likely name a burger joint had he gotten away with the whole skin jacket thingy. How would he run the place?  Would he make his staff do his trademark tuck while they worked?  The city would surely object.  Would he have night vision goggle hour and make his customers struggle to find condiments etc while he watched and taunted them? Would an actual pit be the stand-in for the playgrounds found at McDonald’s? And No it wouldn’t be for kids. That’s just weird. It’d be for adults. Would his version of a happy meal contain lipstick and rare moths?  Would he walk around and give customers the hose if they don’t put mustard on the bun exactly when they’re told? I bet he would.  That’s just what Bill does.  It’s his shtick.

Meeting in the boardroom. Bat in the cave.

So the other day I was presenting in front of a sizeable group of people. It went well. Really well. So I thought. Turns out, unbeknownst to me, I had a bat in the cave the entire time.  It was a sizeable nugget that certainly couldn’t have gone unnoticed.  It’s then that I realized that boogers are indeed the great equalizer. No matter what you say or how you say it, the nugget dangling from your beak steals the spotlight. Rich. Poor. Young. Old. We’re all on the same playing field once a green one makes an appearance. If Einstein had presented the theory of relativity with bat on board it’s quite likely that his findings may have gone unnoticed. “Hey, did you see that guy with the crazy grey hair and the snot hanging from his nose?” What if Martin Luther King was sporting a nostril earring during his I have a dream speech? Sure, he’d still have had a dream. But to those in the front row, he'd also have a booger.

It’s almost, yes ALMOST as uncomfortable being the observer of a nugget. I can’t count how many times in my life I’ve looked over and thought, “Man, I want and should say something, but I can’t.  Not sure why. I mean I’ve told people they have something in their teeth, but mucous? That has to remain unsaid. It’s taboo. We will suffer in silence.  His flawless plan for peace in the Middle East is captivating, but I’ve forgotten what he’s talking about because of what’s hanging from his nose. 

This is what Willis was talkin' bout...

In memory of Gary Coleman, I thought I might answer what has become Mr Coleman's legacy.

So what was Willis talkin' bout? As it turns out, Willis was talkin' 'bout dualism - the belief that our mind has a non-material, spiritual dimension. This view was shared by both Dudley and Mrs Garrett, but strongly opposed by Mr D, who was a fierce materialist. The tension this debate caused in the upper Manhattan apartment was overwhelming, to say the least. In many cases, Mr D and Willis wouldn't talk for weeks at a time, leaving Arnold in the middle, struggling to find peace in what can only be considered a war zone. Mrs Garrett acted as a conduit between them, but since she sided with Willis philosophically, much of what Arnold heard was not necessarily accurate.  Sadly, throughout most of 1985, a bunk bed was just about the only thing Arnold and Willis shared.

Over the years, Willis began 'talkin 'bout less. Politics. Sports. Donna Summer. Rip Torn. Jelly beans. Scatman Cruthers. Dancercising. Big League Chew. Safe, almost juvenile topics that steered clear of controversy. He took a decidedly vague stance on just about everything, making it next to impossible to pin down exactly what he was talkin' 'bout at any given time. An affair will Mrs Garrett also made things a little less clear both in his head and with Mr D, who, disgustingly enough, was also in the midst of a torrid romance with Mrs G. Dudley also had romantic ties to Mrs Garrett, but has chosen not to comment.

Things I currently loathe. In no particular order

Saying you'll be there in a certain number of "sleeps".

Skinny jeans.

People that insist that their dog loves to say hello which, intern, means you and your dog somehow owe it to them to stop and have a little meet and greet.  My dog just wants to whiff your dog's ass, nothing more. I just want to keep walking.

Republicans.

Accidently saying or doing something memorable in the presence of someone you don't know very well. This usually leads to this moment being a "thing" between you and the other person.  It can be anything. A shared interest in sports or a lunch purchase that they found interesting. I use a lot of hot sauce when I eat and got into a situation like this with someone who happened to notice at work. So, as it usually plays out, for months, every time I saw them  I'd get comments like "hot enough for you?" followed by a grin or uncomfortable laugh. Getting out is difficult, if not impossible. Luckily, they were canned and I was free. Now I have one going with someone who saw me running for the street car. "Hey speedy, you woke up early today huh?"

White people who make a point of announcing/telling everyone about how they had Ethiopian food on the weekend.

People that go out of their way to look alternative and artsy. Something tells me Iggy Pop looked that way because he was/is fucked out of his mind. You can't buy that at Urban Outfitters. At least not yet.

Business guys talking about golf. What's not to hate?

Saying something was the best EVER!!! Like this was the best weekend ever! Saying or writing this reduces an adult to a 11-year old valley girl in a matter of seconds.

Flag waving world cup nonsense.  Yes, you are from that country on your car flag. Good for you. Well done.

Ads that proclaim to be some sort of "movement". A call to arms to get out there and get involved.  For a brand. Please stop. Ads are invasive enough as it is. Let's save movements for things that matter. Like looking alternative and or artsy.

Flatulence Karma

I walked into three farts today. Three. One is usually quite out of the ordinary, but three is just plain horrifying. I couldn't help but wonder if I had done something to offend the fart gods. Especially given the severity of each incident. In one case, I think I actually got a slight buzz along with a hefty helping of egg and cheese.

 It's such a bizarre thing. One second I'm in line to pay for a pepsi and the next I'm marinating in someone's filth. I have started reacting quite vocally when inside the cloud itself. "Oh god" is a favourite of mine.  Or "Jesus Christ! You've got to be kidding me!"I guess I want them to know and acknowledge my discontent. A quick, disapproving look is not a suitable response to the terror they've put me through.

How do I make things right? Do I enter an elevator and save an unsuspecting person from a Taco Bell treat with a can of lysol? Perhaps a trip to the Mandarin with a bag full of beano will do the trick. For now, I venture into crowds with great anticipation, hoping that my innocent purchase isn't punctuated with their three course breakfast.

The Torch Goes To The Rainbow

Are gay friends replacing the coveted black friend for insecure, hipster, white people?  From what I have seen, the answer is yes.  

So the torch has been passed from black to gay. If this is the case, is a hipster’s ultimate accessory a gay black friend? That must be a huge score.  An- all- you- can- proclaim- buffet of "Hey look how Liberal I am!" All wrapped up in one friend. 

This year alone I have witnessed at least six people proudly proclaiming the existence of gay people in their circle of friends. In each case, it had nothing to do with what we were talking about. “Yeah, I’m gonna take it easy this weekend”.  I have gay friends that also like to take it easy on weekends, too”.  I had always assumed that gay people liked to relax, but the reassurance was nice. No wonder Liberace always looked so well rested. 

Looking For Ugly People

As a copywriter, casting is something I do quite often. And I am fortunate enough to be in the kind of role where what we're looking for just magically appears after we specify what we're looking for. But I've often wondered, how do people send out a request for weird/ugly looking people?

The search must entail  words like "different"or original. But deep down, the ones that show up know the deal. They have accepted their lack of facial symmetry and are cashing in. Good for them.

Years of ridicule will never be erased. But a nice fat pay check for having a mule-like profile is better than nothing.

Talking With My Hands Full

There's a strange breed of man out there. Guys who insist on initiating conversation while I'm pissing. Full on conversations while we're both holding our junk.

A nod hello or ideally, goodbye, is fine. But a full on conversation while we're coddling our birds is just a bit on the fucked up side. To me at least.

Maybe I'll rock the boat a bit and start up some friendly chatter while taking a dump. I can either yell from the stall to someone using the urinal or simply address the person beside me if there is one.

(Grunt) "So, how's your (grunt) morning going so far? SFX: Horrible Korean Food Aftermath. "Nice day out there. (Grunt).

This is actually more civilized when you think about it. At least there's physical separation between the two participants.

Just last week I witnessed to coworkers talking business in the washroom long after they'd finished what they came to do. Surely one of the boardrooms is a more suitable venue. Nice view. State of the art technology. And, most importantly, no recently unleashed fecal fumes.

I blame the Fonz. He held court in the shitter for over a decade on Happy Days.  As a result, a generation of men think this purely functional place is a reasonable place to socialize.

Maybe I'll open a chain of coffee shops where specialty coffees, good conversation and the option to hold your dong exist together, in harmony. I will call it  "The Bean Shaft".

The Dr Scholl's Girl

Was the skin tag the first of many imperfections she publicly pointed out? Is this behaviour learned? Do her parents walk up to people with physical abnormalities and ask what's the deal is with those blackheads? Will she walk up to strangers with clubbed feet and ask the same, loud and brash questions of them? There should be a follow up to the initial skin tag commercial where the girl who asked the question is shamed in a public place by someone with a skin tag. Or forced to swim in a pool full of skin tags. Then and only then will the stars be realigned.

Mother Nature Used To Be A Whore

 As a young, impressionable boy, the female body, more specifically, “boobies” held an almost mythical status to 95% of my friends. The remaining 5% are now prominent window dressers throughout the GTA, which is both completely fine and, from what I understand, quite profitable.  But back to boobies. It was the mid-eighties search for the elusive nipple that defined a generation. My generation. We started with National Geographic, moved on to a friend’s dad’s stash or, if blessed by the carnal gods, stumbled upon a pile of filth inside a log or under a rock in a forest.

Forest porn.  A phenomenon that I once thought was exclusive to my hometown.  But through careful research, I now know that this treasure hunt for Hustler and Jugs magazines occurred throughout Canada.  For some untold reason, it seems people, at some point, decided that the appropriate place to house their porn was in fact, amongst the trees. Was this a guilty impulse? A kid claiming his father’s collection as his own? Or, more likely, the work of a forest sprite that complemented his rope belt with a hairy palm? In any case, at some Mother Nature became the unofficial muff diving hot spot.  If, of course, you were one of the few lucky eight to  thirteen year olds who bumped into a moss-covered pile of passion. My search continues.