I was probably less hungry than I was desiring bread and cheese, so I bought ham, cheese and a bread roll from the supermarket. Now I’m uncomfortably full. If that isn’t a metaphor for my entire existence, I don’t think I know what metaphors are.
Come to think of it, more accurately I bought ham and a bread roll. I asked the lady at the deli counter if any of the cheeses were sharp (since apparently your average Canadian isn’t super partial to non-mild cheese) and she grabbed me a pre-cut slice of Havarti. I told her sheepishly I was only really looking for a single slice for my filled roll. She nodded and put a finger against her lips, then winked. It felt very conspiratorial.
It must be kinda tough out there right now in Hollywood for handsome white men called Chris. Marvel seems to have cornered the market.
I saw a bunch of dudes standing around chatting while a docile shiba inu lay leashed at their feet. A plastic bag blew over and immediately the shiba pounced, ripping the ever loving shit out of it. It tore the poor bag to shreds and took a massive bite. It happened in an instant and was possibly the funniest thing I’ve seen all day. Something about this cute dopey dog galvanised into action by simple detritus evoked incredible comic timing.
After complaining about the absurd quantities of branded swag people keep dumping on my desk, one of our new employees gushed to me how much she loved free stuff. I told her of my plight and she remarked that she wished she was in my position. I collated it all into a single bag and left it on her desk. In a single swoop I managed to de-clutter my life and make someone’s day. I just hope I haven’t enabled a future hoarder.
I went to a pilates class at work yesterday. One of the exercises involved us moving between normal and neutral spine in conjunction with hip raises. The instructor described the sensation as if we were “rolling a marble between your belly button and pubic bone.” Like a child I giggled, reminding me that even if I pay taxes, maturity has yet to find me. It made me think of when we first heard the word “cum”. It meant we’d excitedly titter whenever someone said the word “come” or “coming”. There was some song we had to sing at school assemblies with lyrics along the lines of “coming on the bridge/coming through the water/coming through the forest/your sons and daughters.” It killed us every time.
Speaking of songs, I don’t know that I’ve been to a concert yet this year. That feels nutty to me. Absorbing live music for years has been one of the large components of my personality. It’s so stirring to have acts you admire in your immediate vicinity, to join in with the communal energy of a crowd. I’ve got Okkervil River, Janelle Monáe and St Vincent coming up over the next few months, but even that feels sparse. This might be the most enduring element of my adult life, that I find myself going out to see bands with decreasing frequency. Excuses range from “but it’s cold out” to “I’m too tired”. Younger Leon who would almost weekly drive two and a half hours/drink/watch a gig/crash on a friend’s couch/wake up at 6am/drive another two and a half hours back to work the next day would slap my current self for such a feeble dismissal of a good time.
Of course, Younger Leon made questionable decisions almost daily. Given my ham sandwich debacle earlier, it’s nice to see not too much has changed/.