My Ode to Erin Grey

When I was in high school I used to babysit the neighbour's daughter. It was usually on a Thursday night. The kid was a bit of a pain in the ass but after she went to bed I would raid the fridge and watch Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. It was my favourite show because it starred a woman named Erin Grey. She used to wear these skin tight silk jumpsuits and really short skirts. In about half of the time she was on screen there was serious camel-toe-crotch-action happening. She was a dream come true.

As the show progressed my passion for her would grow to insurmountable levels until I was about to explode. There was no way for me to avoid the inveitable and I would beat on myself senseless, sometimes three times consecutively. It depended on my pain threshold at the time.

I did it on their sofa after I made sure the kid was sound asleep. The sofa was a pea-green colour and it was pristine. I would lay on my back and dig the arches of my socked-feet into the armrest and work on myself with feverish passion varying the intensity of my administrations in comparison to the views of Erin on-screen.

I would sweat and strain, grit my teeth, twist and flex. It was the magic I remember the most, the euphoric state that I escaped to, better than dope.

Erin was the catalyst - it was her grace that brought the devil out in me. Her cat like movements and gratuitous gestures.

I remember one of the last times I was asked to babysit for these people. It was the time I discovered that my momentous activities produced the offspring of an exploded blue Bic pen in my back pocket. I had forgotten it was there and after I had completed my session of passion I sat up to discover the unforgiving tar-ink spreading itself like a disease over the immaculate green sofa.

Panic by association. Hot sweaty panic with ink and semen covered hands. I had to forget Erin and turn my attention towards the deadly evidence of my devilish act.

In the end I just washed the ink off of my hands and turned the cushions over. There was nothing else I could do. I was sure that God was paying me back for my terrible terrible acts of lust and filth. Erin had betrayed me and the little girl sleeping upstairs. Had she seen me? Had she ever found me doing what I did? Did she need a glass of water? Did she venture down the stairs nearing the sound of laserblasts and witness the atrocity of my sinful animalistic secret?

I will never know.

There was no talk of the blue ink on the sofa and I do not remember ever being asked back to babysit. But maybe it was just because I was getting too old. I bet that if that sofa is still around (it must be 23 years ago) it still has the blue ink stains on it.
Some things are permanent.

This Guy... Comes Over

Every day at the office people walk by and stop to talk to me. Most of the time they have nothing important to say - they just stand behind me and breathe down my neck blabbering on about useless shit that means nothing to me. Sometimes I don't mind if they have something interesting - it's the times that they show up with nothing to say and just start talking shit.

I think that they must think I am sitting here on my fat ass just waiting for them to show up. Hi come on over and feed me your shit - I sure am hungry for it!!!!

The best part is when my mind starts to wander and I start thinking other things - I turn down the volume and suck myself back inside myself hoping that whomever is in front of me will just start to dissapate like a bad fart does.

I guess I'm rude. I just dont care - but I should. I need to try and be nicer. I need to really look concerned and truely give a shit that someone's infant looked at them in a different way Thursday night, that someone's dog ate a christmas ornament, that someone's aunt choked on her own hair while sleeping, that someone's grandmother rubbed the back of her hand against their crotch by mistake on thanksgiving and it made them feel uncomfortable (well ok, the last one is a little interesting).

Each time someone comes over to my desk and looks like they are thinking of something to say I just start to push out a fart or anything that might resemble one. I tighten my ass cheeks in hopes to let it leak out slowly and silently.

I figure if I have to tolerate their shit they can tolerate mine.

bobbie lang

Yes this is a picture of someone in our office that has a thing for dolls. He brought this one in on a Friday and set it in a chair beside himself. He asked us to take pictures of him and her and send them to him - but we only had our cell phones cameras. Cell phone cameras are shit.

He said her name was bobbie lang (all lower case for sure). He said that she was his sex slave and that he liked to unload on her face. Filthy really. I didn't like the idea of a grown man having sex with dolls - but it really wasn't any of my business. Sure it seems perverted but it is just a hunk of plastic with a life preserver on.

I had to ask about the life preserver and he told me outright that he wanted to make sure she would stay alive in case of an accident. "Thats why they call them life-preservers!" He said this a little too loudly and it made me feel uncomfortable. At the end of the day he took the doll home with him. He put it into the front seat of his car and put the safety belt on it.

He seems pretty normal otherwise.

Yellow Pipes With Wire...

Here is another one. This one I found in Elora with my wife. She was waiting in the car and I saw it from a distance and ran over to get it. It was kind of a last minute thing. I know it's just pipes. Yellow pipes on a wall; what's the big deal?
I don't know either, but does it really matter? This picture is just like a million other ones we have all seen but it is also completely original onto itself. Wow how poetic. It's enough to make me want to hit myself in the face with a board.

I call this photo "Yellow Pipes with Wire".
Why? Because sometimes it is such a thrill to be a pretentious asshole.

What is the Meaning of Things?

I don't understand much but I think that this photo says the most for me right now. For some reason I wanted to share it with the world. I saw it in the viewfinder and knew that I had to have it so I could give it to you.

It is the openess. A protal into and out of consciousness.

I like it.

Did I mention that?

For Eyes

So here is my first image upload - It is just a sketch I did over the top of a photograph - it doesn't mean anything.

Fifteen Minutes Means Nothing

So this guy at the office came into work the other day with an orange face and hands. I looked at him and started laughing out loud at him. He had applied one of those iodine based tanning agents so that he would look better in the pictures at the wedding he was attending.

It looked to me like his hands were covered with nicotine stains or shit - maybe a combinationof both. His face was almost clown-like. It was literally orange and because of his red coloured hair it looked as if he and drank far too much carrotjuice.

Other people in the office made comments to me about it and we all talked about it for a few minutes. Everyone agreed it was a pretty wacked out thing to do. I guess it is perfect evidence that some people are literally uncomfortable in their own skin.

So there isn't much more to say about it except that society is pretty out of control. I can't imagine that putting orange die on my face would make me feel more confident or cock-sure about looking good in pictures but then again I'm not 24 years old. Still the concept of it all just weirds me out - to think that a person would have a need or desire to do such a thing to themselves thinking it was an improvement.

The rest of the week has been uneventful. Nothing has really happened besides my active interest in writing more frequently. Too bad it only happens in spurts.

This weekend Daniela and I are planning to go to Centre Island on Saturday. I hope to spend most of the day writing and eating, basking in the September sun and goose shit. I hope that there aren't going to be any South Asian festivals. Rumor has it they travel to the island in droves and cook up squirrels on those tiny Hibachis. The sound of jingling bangles and burnt rodent meat can be really distracting. This is inappropriate talk isn't it. Well all I want out of the Saturday is a tiny slice of goose shit free grass and a picnic table I can sit at to eat my dead chicken on.

I will write a few pages longhand on one of the yellow steno pads I bought at Staples in a bulk. At least I hope to write - It has been long enough now and I need to get back to the book - The one I have been working on for two years. The one that is going to be a big success. The one that will make me famous and rich and I will be able to eat raw oysters for breakfast in my marble hot tub while my wife shops relentlessly for shoes.

My cats seem to be a little bit needier than usual. It may be because I spent the last week at home with them so now they are pining for me. I like the attention - but sometimes it makes me feel guilty the way they rely on me for affirmation and affection. I like to give it to them frequently but they do have a tendency to be demanding.

Poor things they just want to be loved.

Big post today - much ado about nothing.

The Long Hard Road of Procrastination

Well, yeah I suppose no one really wants to hear my take on procrastination; and frankly I don't want to exercise my understanding of it or how it effects me by telling you here or any other time - so I am going to change the subject to nothing in particular.

This post is merely just for the sake of posting so skip to the next one if you are not interested in hearing whatever I decide to think right now. just re-reading the last sentence is making me sick - puke - would be a better word. It is at times like this that I realize most writers need to stick to a topic or have a direct goal in mind before they start to write - otherwise we end up reading shit like this.

This is nothing - but the fact that it is makes it something. The fact that it being nothing makes it something, also makes for another, thinner, layer of some sort of taffey-pulled meaning.

Yes. See? We have made it here - a place that is pulling us further into nowhere. We are together on this now even if you don't like being here you are here. As I write it the moment and instance you read it puts me with you even if I am already dead. An old idea I know but one that always keeps coming up in me. Sorry. I know don't apologize, it is a sign of weakness.

Today is a little different for me than most days - I haven't quite put my finger on what makes it different but I know that it is. It may just be optimism. If I could take a pill to ensure I would be optomistic each and every day things sure would be easier. Life would be a cavalcade of possibilities and intrigue.

I would sit in traffic and pontificate whatever thought I had and involuntarily wrap it in a red velvet cloth of optimism.

Life would be great - I could type freely and never worry about the accuracy and spelling errors because I would know in time that my typing and spelling would perfect itself.

At this instance I feel critical about my post - there is only a hint of optimism hidden beneath the need to fill the page. Now I think I am writing in circles - I have to stop - I am making myself sick.