I may have only etched the outline, but it might be some kinda sketch?

I was having brunch with a friend earlier today. She’s a comic, and we were chatting about bits and whatnot. I told her about an idea I’ve been sitting on. It’s something, though I don’t know exactly what it is. She told me to write it down. “Oh” I said, gesturing to my head, “it’s all written down up in here.” She shook her head “Your brain is an Etch A Sketch. Write It Down.”

She’s right. I don’t need to nail it, and the pressure to get it right first time will kill its potential. If I just get it down, I can take and tweak ideas later. So here. I’m getting it down.

It starts with a couple of guys hanging out, watching internet videos on their phones. One guy shows another guy this video of a dude mashing people’s food as they’re trying to take photos for Instagram (excessive link size, I know. You kinda need to watch some of the 55 second clip to get this idea). They chuckle and go back to work. They’re on the set of some kind of high profile food magazine shoot. Think the equivalent of Vogue, but food. They’re crew members working on a massive project. Something like an ornate croquembouche, gilted and everything. It’s almost threatening how magical it looks. Everyone is gathered and they’re just about to get their shots. The talent is in place. The director/DP, etc are all around. They’re gearing up, and the video flashes back into this dude’s head. It’s silly, he shakes it off and looks back to the shoot. He looks at the cake, the video flashes in his brain. He can’t shake it. He’s trying to concentrate, but it’s not going anywhere, it’s just getting more insistent. Everybody else fades into slow motion as he looks back at this cake with the video throbbing in his skull. Everything’s set, and at the last moment before the cameras click, he yells “SMOOSH”, reaches out and squashes the cake. There’s silence. Everyone’s stunned. He’s stunned, looking at his hand, the now ruined exquisite pastry, the director/DP and talent.

The director looks him right in the eyes and lays him out bare. “What are you doing? Why? Why would you do that? Do you know how many people work on this shoot? That cake? That cake was twenty hours work from a team of the world’s most exclusive patisserie. We have been putting this shoot together for DAYS. Have you got any idea of the total hours that went into getting the shot that you just ruined? Have you even thought of the cost? That was real gold. The cost of materials alone runs in the thousands. The wages for everyone on this shoot? There were tens of thousands of dollars involved in getting that one shot. That one shot for the Christmas issue, the biggest issue of the year. It’s printing tomorrow. This all had to be done by 10am, and it’s all gone now. Did you even think of your own family? They needed you to have this job. You have a sick wife and your benefits are the one thing keeping her health above water. How are you supposed to pay the bills now? Can you comprehend the magnitude of what you’ve done here?

It cuts to a wedding. He’s standing with his wife, watching his daughter about to cut the cake with her new loving wife. Everyone is smiling, they look so beautiful and happy. He looks into his wife’s eyes and it’s obvious, no matter how hard the past months have been, this is a bright light in the darkness. Staring right into her teary blue eyes, there’s a flash in his brain. The same video. He gasps, but you know the score. It’s in there and not going anywhere. We know how much this all means to everyone, but some things are inevitable. At the moment just when the photographer’s about to take the shot, he yells “SMOOSH”, reaches out and squashes the cake. Gasps and dead air across the room. We’ve been here before. His daughter dresses him down this time. She talks about the work that went into the cake, how much time it took them to find just the right bakery, especially after that emotionally gruelling experience with the homophobic bakers. All the financial hardships her and her wife had, and how the wedding almost didn’t happen. The guy knows he’s fucked up, but he has nothing and she keeps barrelling into him.

Cut to the hospital. His wife is in bed and he’s sitting by her side. She looks very frail. They’re talking, she says something like “I talked to Jane earlier. They’re struggling, but they do love each other.” He asks “did she ask about me?” His wife shakes her head “she’s not ready for that yet. It’s still too soon.” A doctor walks in with a chart and nurse. The doctor starts explaining how fortunate they were to be living in Canada with the healthcare system. How if they were in America, there’s no way they’d be able to afford this vital medicine. The doctor goes on about all manner of stuff pertaining to treatment, while the guy’s eyes look towards the bag of medicine the nurse is holding. We can hear the doctor going on about how severe the wife’s case is, how they were lucky that they managed to catch it when they did, etc. The guy is still looking straight at the medicine. We all know where this is going, the video flashes back into his head. The nurse plugs the medicine into the IV, the doctor is droning on. We see a shot of the wife’s hand bareknuckling the husband’s own. It’s obvious she’s suffering. She starts talking about how emotionally taxing it’s all been, etc. We get the picture. The dude steps up, yells “SMOOSH”, reaches out and slaps the medicine out of the IV. Silence all around. The medicine bag is just pissing out on the floor, going everywhere. Total shock. The room is stunned. In the background the bag continues spraying everywhere. There’s silence, aside from the sound of the medicine shooting out. The doctor starts talking, laying the dude out. Something like “Why would you do that? Your wife is in a critical condition. This is vital. Do you know how much that medicine was worth? In America, people go bankrupt over life saving medicine like this. I mean, you’re SO lucky we’re in Canada and your wife will be able to survive, but there will be severe consequences. There will be an inquiry. At this level, there is a high chance of jail time. You’ve lost so much, why would you cause yourself to lose even more? There are tears streaming down his wife’s face. Hurt and anger in her eyes.

Cut to a shot of a book cover. The title is “how to build a house out of books” or something. The book is lowered and we can see a house made out of books that looks like the one on the cover. The man inserts the book itself as the last book required to make a workable door. It’s hidden away at the back of library and, from the outside, just looks like a shelf. It’s very silly. The guy has lost everything. He’s been kicked out of home. He’s living in the library in secret, none of the staff or patrons know. He’s exhausted and gaunt. He’s using the computers and secretly masturbating under his track pants. We’ve all taken a Greyhound bus, we know what that looks like. It’s very obvious. He’s scrolling through porn forums, etc. He’s getting there, when suddenly the video pops into his head. As before, he tries to push it away, but it’s not going anywhere. Cue clips of his thoughts flashing between porn and this video, when all of a sudden he sees something, yells “SMOOSH” and cums right on the screen. A librarian sees/hears this and is shocked. Other patrons look. The librarian starts dressing him down, while the whole time he’s also extolling the virtues of the public library system, etc. The point is to really drive home how scummy it was for the dude to do it. As he’s saying all this, the camera cuts to a shot of the cumstain dripping down the screen, directly under something that says “Bread Face”

Cut to a shot of a table. It’s a bright area, well-lit and colourful. A really pleasant vibe. An exotic cake sits in the middle of the table. The dude comes in and sits down. He looks healthy, happy. “Hey guys” he says cheerily “this week we have a Dacquoise. It’s a type of meringue from the French village of Dax. I know ya’ll are big fans of the cream based cakes. Okay, here goes. SMOOSH.” He smooshes his face right into the cake. It’s a live stream. The screen cuts to the comments coming in thick and fast. A bunch of “SMOOSH”es, cheering, smiley faces, “GOOD SQUISH, SIR” and that kind of thing. It’s evident these people adore the guy. There are too many comments to track. The view counter keeps going up, it’s over a million. The guy pulls his face back up, huge grin from ear to ear. “Well that was fun. Remember, if you have suggestions for new cakes or breads, send in your requests via Patreon. I just wanted to say once again how much I love and appreciate you all. You know I had hard times and having your support really pulled me through. This community is amazing, and I’m so proud we managed to pull together and set up that scholarship for underprivileged inner city students. You’re astounding humans. Geez, I’m tearing up here. I need to go, but until next time, “SMOOSH”.”



Let’s hope it all comes out in the wash

If you wanted to know how my day’s going, I pointed to a dishwasher with an “out of order” sign and said “working hard, or hardly working?”

I expect that was as clear as it needed to be.

Felt a little raw today, so of course I watched my go-to short film that reduces me to a pile of emotional rubble. It just felt apt, y’know? It’s a wonderful, self-contained short story that epitomises show don’t tell. Gorgeous music, sans dialogue, preciously fragile animation and a slow beating open heart. No matter how many times I watch it, I still choke up. The pacing is phenomenal, a slow build that adds layer after layer. The best part is how it gives you as much as it needs to in order to hint at depths beneath the surface. It’s bittersweet, cute and heartbreaking simultaneously. So, perfect Tuesday fare, I guess?

Speaking of stuff that was good for the heart, I’m glad I went out to the open mic after all. It wasn’t precisely an open mic, but it was a terrific showcase of the kind of creativity inherent to Toronto’s alt comedy scene. The general notion was that of a late night talk show, but completely improvised. As it was a benefit (ish) show, performers and viewers alike were encouraged to bring a can or two to donate. The hosts had a couch and invited people to take part. People could write anonymous “monologue” jokes for one of the hosts to blind read (which resulted in maybe eight “Baby It’s Cold Outside” jokes. “Have you heard about this” certainly loses its lustre after the fourth “Baby It’s Cold Outside” joke in a row). This in itself was a riot. People had all of five minutes to write their jokes before the show started. Most of them were pretty terrible, and the host had a great time ripping on the underdeveloped punchlines, but it was all in good sport. Nobody was taking anything too seriously, and the douchebaggery was altogether limited.

The performance slots they offered were divided into two options. You could either do a stand up set for three minutes, or sit on the couch and riff with the hosts for five. Most people opted for the increased time, which led to a series of wonderfully phoned in “interviews”. A bunch of people had pre-written bits they tried to weave in, but primarily people were wanking around, so to speak. Someone bought his phone onstage and watched the first three or so minutes of Inglorious Basterds with the hosts. Another guest tried to teach one of the hosts how to have “attitude”, mostly trying to goad him into saying “bitch” sassily, to the host’s constant protestations. The majority of the couch segments were straight up dumb and half-arsed, which honestly fit the show to a tee. I got entirely taken by a prank phone call bit in which the comic “called 911” and said there was a fire at the venue, then hung up. He had an actor friend at the back of the bar pretending to be the respondant and, honestly, I was totally suckered. It was a pretty mean-hearted joke, but goddamn if it wasn’t provocative.

You know what? I did fine. With three minutes, I didn’t do all the jokes I’d prepped, but I felt good about it. No jokes fell flat, every one of them got a response and the audience was warm. The vibe was friendly all over, and while I was pretty nervous, I was chuffed to be able to stand up without bombing. I’d spent the day stressing out. I’d spent the previous night lying awake with my eyes closed, trapped in circuitious thoughts. I was a total wreck, but performing felt like a release. I can’t say that I’m gonna dive in head first, heart full of fire, but I’m gonna get up again, sooner rather than later this time.

It’d be downright selfish to waste my best material on kitchen appliances, after all.

Stand up for your mics

I’m doing the open mic tonight!

I think. I hope? I read on the site that the show was at 10pm, sign up was at 5pm. Weirdly, the bar opened at 6pm. I happened to be home today, so I jogged down and got there around 5.10pm to be early like the bloody nerd that I am. It was closed. I looked in and there seemed to be someone inside, so I knocked. A bartender came out and was like “we don’t open until 6pm”. I was like “I know and this feels really dumb to ask, but the website said 5pm sign up so I came down to check it out.” She stared through me and said “well you read wrong, signup is at 9.45pm, so come back then.”

Cool. So now I feel nervous, insecure and that I’m a fucking idiot. Seems fun. It’s also a different format tonight and I’m kind of confused, which isn’t helping anything. I thought it was 5 minute sets, but it might be 3 minutes? But also maybe that’s just for the 8pm show and there’s an open mic afterwards? Who knows, maaaaan? My brain is kind of fixating on doing a set, since it’s been a long time, so maybe I’ll just write out the jokes I’d like to tell.

I go to see a bunch of standup and I’ve seen comics do this thing.
They’ll be all “how’s everyone out there feeling tonight?” and the crowd is like “WOooooOOOOoo.”
Which is fine in a group.
But if I saw a friend on the street and was like “hey bud, how’re you doing?” And they went “WOooooOOOOoo” I would maybe think they were a ghost.

I work in an office. Does anyone else here work in an office?
[hopefully one or two WOOs] – A couple of ghosts. Cool. Spooky, but cool.
If you haven’t worked in an office before, it’s basically just saying hi to coworkers as you pass in the hallway until one of you dies.
Then you get to do their work too.

At our office they play some of the oldies stations and TLC is now considered “oldies”.
I was listening to that song “No Scrubs”, and it’s kind of ambiguous.
You know the one. “I don’t want no scrubs.” It’s confusing.
They’re all “I don’t want no scrubs. A scrub is a guy who can’t get no love from me. Hanging out the passenger side of his best friend’s ride, trying to holler at me.”
So either Lisa Left Eye Lopez and Co don’t know how double negatives work, or No Scrubs is an ode to their terrible taste in men.

I listen to a lot of music, and honestly, I’m fascinated by 50 Cent. For a while I thought that he was super clever.
He’s got this song “PIMP” and his has this line “A bitch can’t get a dollar out of me.”
Which is great, right? Of course a “bitch” can’t get a dollar out of him. He’s 50 Cent. He’s only half a dollar.

And y’know, that’s not even the most egregious part of the song. So he’s all “I don’t know what you heard about me. But a bitch can’t get a dollar out of me.” And his reasoning is cause he’s “a motherfucking P.I.M.P.”
The thing is, pimping by its very nature is transactional. You’re a business owner who employs contractors to serve clients. Those clients pay you and you take compensation for facilitating the transaction. So if “a bitch can’t get a dollar” out of you, you’re not paying your contractors. You’re not a motherfucking P.I.M.P. You’re an illegal sex trafficker.

Then again, 50 Cent did file for bankruptcy. So maybe “a bitch can’t get a dollar” out of him after all.

That might be a 5 minute set, but it’s certainly not a 3 minute set. If that’s the case, I might drop the TLC bit and see how it goes. Wish me luck?

And maybe a better mood?

Any quantity of ducks is an intense quantity of ducks.

Re: Yesterday’s post, I’ve been thinking of the upcoming open mic.

Writing jokes is weird. It’s strange to try and figure out how to be deliberately funny. It’s non-intuitive to put words together in the hopes that they click. There are so many unspoken rules of comedy. It’s rare for us to really understand the ins and outs of where humour comes from. Sometimes you catch lightning in a bottle, but mostly if you’re writing jokes it’s more like Twister style storm chasing. And occasionally you luck out and a cow appears in the middle of your tornado. I’m sure there are people for whom it’s effortless. I’m not one of them. If I want to make a bit work, it’s imperative that I understand why it does. If I do, it makes it easier to take the joke further or tweak it. Or maybe I’ve got the outline of approximately which lines I want to draw and/or cross, but I don’t know the specifics that will fill in those outlines. This is not a skill I’ve attained any mastery over. I’m getting better, but it’s still truly years away.

I was reading back over a bunch of old entries today, in the hopes I’d get inspiration. A story popped out at me that I happened to have organically told coworkers the other day. The basics were that I was on a date with a girl in a park. We were feeding bread to ducks. I thought I’d do a nice deed and gave a stack of bread to this little girl who was with her grandparents, so she could have fun feeding ducks too. Maybe 15-20 ducks crowded almost instantly and she was terrified. I felt really bad, not for being friendly, but things obviously didn’t work out. It was also deeply funny.

But that’s not what stand up sounds like, so it needs to be structured in a manner that fits the medium. A lot of the time I won’t everything done, but I’ll leave placeholders to fill in the gaps later:

Do you ever have those moments where you know you changed someone’s life?

I went on a date once. I took a girl to the park and we fed bread to ducks. Very sweet. Like any dumb 20 year old, I was looking for ways to score “points”. I saw a little girl with her grandparents and thought oh hey, here’s my chance to do a nice deed and get some of those aforementioned points, y’know? So I walked over to the grandparents with a couple of slices and was like “here, she can feed some ducks”. I’m a hero, right? They said thanks, and gave her the bread. As soon as her tiny hands grabbed the bread, she was swarmed by an intense quantity of ducks. She was screaming. Her grandparents were trying to fight off the ducks. My date and I turned away screaming with laughter. I looked back and just knew I’d gifted someone a lifelong phobia of birds.

It’s not perfect, but it’s getting there. The thing is, I’d want to have a tag or something. I was thinking about it earlier today and I thought it’d be funny if for some reason I said she’d developed a fear of bread. ‘Cause that’s absurd, right? But how would I make that work? It’d require going somewhere after the joke that hinged on it. I chatted with my girlfriend and told her I wanted to find something in the venn diagram of bread and birds for a callback. We thought about it and she suggested breaded chicken wings. But how could I incorporate that into the joke? Was there another scenario that could have a payoff? Maybe if years down the line something happened that brought it all together. Like maybe she was on a date and found herself surprisingly terrified by a plate of breaded wings? So maybe something like this:

I looked back and just knew I’d gifted someone a lifelong phobia of birds. And maybe… bread?

So anyway, my little cousin was telling me he was on a date with some girl. It was going great. They were chatting and ordered appetisers and everything was perfect, until a plate of breaded wings arrived on their table and she suddenly didn’t know why she was screaming. And he didn’t know why she was screaming. Buuuut, I kind of think I know exactly why she was screaming?

My bad.

Does the end tag add enough? It’s all made up, but is that weirdly plausible? I don’t want to bog it down with too many details, ’cause it’s a big expectation for the audience to a) connect the dots and b) realise that the two stories are linked. I also don’t want to write enough of a story that it feels like I’m reading it out on stage. It needs to breathe and be organic. Writing jokes is weird.

At least this is a start.

I’m dyin’ down here, why not die up there?

Work Christmas party today.

Look, this weekend is about to involve a ludicrous amount of frivolity. As soon as this is done I’m loading up with a “special” coffee to “pregame” the work party. We get two drink tickets each (plus whatever we can scavenge from unscrupulous sources), pregaming is a necessity. There’s a “decades” theme this year. I had every intention of coming as 90s grunge. I was planning on making one of those dumb lighter top pocket clip things (you know, where people took the metal tops off disposable lighters and crimped them around their pocket?) and a wallet chain. I’d have topped this off with some kind of black grunge band shirt, be it Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains or Soundgarden. A red and black plaid shirt with Doc Martens. I’d have been set.

I’m sure you all divined the past tense from that. paragraph. Ultimately, I couldn’t be bothered. The costume parts were all available from friends, but I didn’t muster up the energy to go around picking it up (and inevitably, dropping it back off). Fortunately, years ago I found a vintage suit for super cheap at Cabaret Vintage on Queen. They used to (before the store shut down) have a basement with incredible $8 deals. I bought a vintage suit reduced from $153 to $8 because it had one tiny rip on the leg. It’s barely noticable to this day, but a swanky vintage suit is in every part noticable. I’ve amortised the $8 I spent over 10+ events. I have no idea what my cost per wear is sitting at, but whatever it is, I’m sitting pretty. Honestly, I’ve spent more on dry cleaning for this suit than I did buying it in the first place and I think I only had it dry cleaned once.

Why am I writing about meaningless drivel to pass the time? Honestly, because therapy was hard yesterday and I’m still dwelling in it a little. She gave me homework and I don’t want to do it. Like, I do, but also I’m scared and avoidant, and pretending it doesn’t exist for a day or two seems a lot easier. She says that, amongst other things, I need to find a creative outlet that gets my mind ticking over in a productive manner. This whole writing project is neat, but I’m not fooling anyone into thinking it’s barely more than a thought dump. She wants me to actually create and push myself into a live, accountable environment. My homework, by next Thursday, is to go to a comedy open mic.

And of course I want to do it, but getting there is goddamn tough. It’s not just getting on stage, it’s getting to the venue and entering the door. It’s not just getting there physically, it’s getting to a place emotionally where I feel like I’m entitled to stand on that stage. It’s not even just that, but writing jokes that I feel are worth people hearing, that they have actual well thought out punchlines that make sense and are congruent with the rest of my set. It’s putting out content that I feel intrinsically has value, and part of that is valuing myself enough to believe that I deserve it.

And it’s not that hard, but it’s fucking hard. I have jokes. I have a lot of jokes that could stand up there, but it’s still work to sit down, be accountable and work out the beats. They need to be punched up, tightened and I need to figure out conduits between one topic and another. There are loose ideas with a ton of potential, that still need to be shaped into workable lines. I probably have a set all written, really, but it’s committing to seeing it as valid and worthwhile. That’s hard for me. Ever the critic, putting my money where my mouth is seems like an insurmountable goal. Which is dumb, because it’d be far from my first time on that stage. I know how much I love it, how my heart beats like a fucking hummingbird, how I’m excited and terrified and simultaneously out of and right in my element.

And I’ll do it, because I have to, and I know it. Because she’s right. Because she’s always right. But that doesn’t make it easy to get there. But I will.

But like, not before the work Christmas party.

I didn’t think “Big Willie Style” was a synonym for fascism…

Most of my days are weird days, but today was A Weird Day.

I feel like it started last night. The weirdness, that is. Today definitely started after I woke up. I had this stupid idea banging around in my brain. I’ve still got a while before I work out the beats of it, but the basic idea was some sort of satirical pizzagate style conspiracy theory based around Will Smith’s pre-millenial classic, Willenium. Look, the world has gotten kinda fucky and strange. There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense. All of our established broadcast mediums are imploding. Society is separating into dichotomous spheres in which reality is almost entirely different from one another. Nazis, the literal first thing anyone thinks of when you ask “what’s the most evil thing?”, are back en vogue. Adam Sandler released a legit great stand up special. It’s all pretty damn inexplicable. What if- and bear with me here- we accidentally ended up in an alternate universe where, instead of the millennium happening, the Willenium did?

Think about it, doesn’t this all seem like the bizarre fever dream of a breakout rapper-cum-actor-cum-scientologist-cum-youtube star? Somehow Xenu and thetans got involved in fucking up the state of balance. Could explain Kanye, y’know? We’ve ended up in an all new Wild Wild West, he pulled a bait and Switch worthy of a Men in Black mission. It’s sure become a Nightmare on My Street. Is this some terrifying triumph of the Will? The Fresh Prince might not cuss, but he’s fucked us all royally.

Anyway, it’s a thought in process. I’ll work on it.

Speaking of work, it only exacerbated the weirdness. Look, I underslept, I’m going through some stuff at the moment and I’m clearly in a manic state of mind. That said, I think something was in the water. It wasn’t just me. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of it was me. I was ranting endlessly about my Willenium Theorem, I had too much coffee and News sent us a ginormous cookie to say thanks for our help with a campaign. We had a new hire start. It was bonkers mojo all around. I really do feel sorry for her. If she makes it back to the office tomorrow without calling it quits, she’s a keeper. It was a cosmic calamity to have her seated next to me though.

Now, I’ve had my fair share of bizarre interactions with coworkers. My close team mates are used to it. Mostly. Still, today had its standout moments. So this afternoon the new hire was sitting next to me. I asked her if she’d gone on the slide yet. She said no. I said “when you do, take off your shoes.” I accidentally said the last part a little bit louder than the first. My other co-workers heard it and turned around. So in their minds, apropos of nothing I turned around to a young female co-worker on her first day and loudly said “TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES.”

Today’s been a strange one, folks. It’s had its ups and downs for sure. What can I say? This Willenium has taken more than it’s given.

The giggle economy

I think I’m basically done with JFL42 this year.

That sounds like a pretty insubstantial statement, but it’s not. It’s a massive sign of growth. I’m becoming a responsible adult. I’m refusing to stay out late and suffer through the hollow feeling of insufficient sleep day after day. I’ve got stuff to do. I have a job and I need to take care of myself. Every year I’ve done 3-4 shows a night, hopped up on caffeine and excitement. I’ve been a wreck throughout the sunlight hours, then lather, rinse, repeat watched more shows. I’m tired of burning the candle at both ends for this week. Yes, this week. All I have is one show on Saturday that I’m gonna go to with my parents. I’ve also seen fewer shows this time around than I generally do. Last year it was 34 altogether. I think this year I’ll top out at 19. I’ve been cancelling the 11pm gigs this time, instead seeing a more reasonable two shows in an evening. Like a bonafide adult.

For so long with this festival, the draw card was buying a pass and hitting as many shows as possible. Taking advantage of the all you can see comedy. Getting the most “value” out of my pass. The thing is, I’m starting to learn more about value as I age. It’s relative. That’s the biggest thing. When I couldn’t afford to go out and see shows, having a smorgasbord of acts was amazing. By this point in my life I have other concerns. I like being able to spend time home alone or hanging out with my girlfriend. I’m learning to appreciate not running myself ragged constantly. With JFL42 for so long I was convinced that I had to catch ’em all. That the essential festival experience was ending up with an informed perspective on everyone I could possibly see. A lot of that was the reviewing. Since I was trying to wrap up and qualify the festival for an audience, I felt like it was my duty to amass a wealth of knowledge. The more I knew, the better I could serve them. It’s my fourth year. I’m older. I actually paid for my pass this year. I understand that I really don’t have to know everything. It’s okay to miss out on things. That not doing something doesn’t necessarily mean you are missing out. Value, once again, is relative.

I used to love buffets. Still do. All you can eat always seemed like a challenge. The goal was to stuff myself full of delicious tastes and get maximum value. Every time I’d go I’d feel borderline sick. Didn’t matter, patterns did not change. More recently my view of buffets has changed. You know what’s cool about buffets? The variety. Getting to choose from an enormous selection of things that’d be incredibly time consuming to prepare myself is a real treat. I’m still terrible with portion control, but I’m less often going back for a fifth plate. At 31, do you know what’s great for me? Trying an assortment of great food. Do you know what sucks? Holding my stomach in agony, spending hours in the bathroom and basically writing off the rest of the day. Is that value? For me now, value comes in quality experiences, not quantifying them in dollar amounts. You’ve paid the same cost no matter how much you eat. A dollar value doesn’t exist, but an enjoyable experience sure can. How would you define that?

So you know what? I’m having a home cooked meal tonight and a full evening’s rest. That sounds like a hell of a good time right now.