Ya googly

It’s my birthday and I’m hosting my own funeral to celebrate. What follows is my personal eulogy.

I believe it was Des’ree who once said:

“I don’t want to see a ghost,
It’s a sight that I fear most
I’d rather have a piece of toast
And watch the evening news
Life, oh life, oh life, oh life,
Doo, doot doot dooo.
Life, oh life, oh life, oh life,
Doo, doot doot dooo.”

I think those words speak a little louder for us all on this day.

We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of Leon. His cause of death is currently unknown. Given the amount of tuna he consumed, mercury poisoning is probably a safe bet.

Leon was survived by his beloved girlfriend Julia, and his rival, Mr. Smashmouth. Turns out at some point the years stop coming. Check and mate, Mr. Smashmouth.

Leon was born on January 17th in Auckland, New Zealand, at approximately 3pm. To whom it may concern, Capricorn, Leo rising. I know, it sounds weird. He was.

Leon was known primarily for his predilection for puns, Paddington, pooping and polysyllabic words. He fathered no children, but sired sigh-ers and grown groaners. He gave a wide berth to Birthers. He knew this would make no sense to you in audio form, but maybe not everything is about you. Jeez.

Leon was an ambitious child. When he grew up he wanted to be a voice actor, Jim Carrey, or a Street Shark. Instead of growing into a mutant fusion of shark and teenager with large teeth and killer attitude, he grew old. It was considerably less jawsome.

At the age of eight, Leon had a dream that he would die at 33. Given that being right was one of his favourite things, he at least died doing what he loved.

Leon was many things; a living cartoon character, a wholesome pervert, strangely particular about apples. He loved monologues, being the centre of attention, and breaking the fourth wall [what, too meta?]. Unbeknownst to many, he did not love Air Bud movies, but that didn’t stop Netflix algorithms from recommending every single talking animal movie it could.

Things weren’t always easy for Leon. Many times he wasn’t totally in love with living. For him, sadness was a big part of life, and he’d made peace with it. He figured it was entirely normal to not feel okay a lot of the time. He often resonated with those who understood. Sharing struggles with those close was important, and he always wished to be there for friends when he could. If anything, knowing that he could make others feel more comfortable, known or seen was one of his guiding principles. He knew first-hand it wasn’t easy to ask for help, but resolved to do what he could when he could.

Friends were what mattered most to Leon. When he found good ones, they were friends for life. There was a special kind of love Leon reserved for his friends. People he could lose time with, sharing vulnerabilities, stories, and secret pettiness. Those who bought into his endless bullshit, hijinks and the weird way he just assumed everyone understood his niche references. His favourite feeling in the world was the comedown after a room full of laughter. By this metric, he lived a pretty good life.

I guess you could say, the real life he lived was the friends he made along the way.

And now I invite you to lift your glasses. As the Black Eyed Peas said in their Grammy Award winning song, “I Gotta Feeling”: L’chaim.

Are we gonna elect The Rock or are we not?

How am I supposed to get anything done today?

It’s impeachment day. I’m not a dummy. I know that nothing will happen, but that doesn’t make me not want to watch. There’s something about this kind of political theatre that works on a visceral level. Every now and again, a democrat will say something tantamount to a Sorkin line, and there’s a stirring inside me. The republicans fall back on the same talking points, evasive bullshit and straw man arguments. Republicans repeatedly shout “WHERE IS THEIR EVIDENCE?” despite the fact that all of Trump’s cabal (y’know, the people who perpetrated these crimes?) refused to show up as witnesses. They point out specific wordings in The Transcript that underline the president wasn’t talking about himself, he was talking about the country, despite the fact that the transcripts were not a carbon copy of the conversation, they were cobbled together from memory afterwards. They create their own stupid metaphors, then quote themselves as experts based on the metaphors they created. They call the impeachment process a partisan farce concocted by democrats who have no capacity to hear out the evidence first. Yet the republican side had all decided to vote no going in. The process is partisan for sure, and I’ll give that it’s a farce, but primarily because the president and his party have specifically stacked the justice system with biased judges. The whole system is a farce, with this party showing the cracks in a broken framework. No, it’s not a crime because he got caught, it’s a crime because it was committed.

I dunno. Everything to do with the Trump campaign is shameless, and I wonder whether true red Trump voters understand how the rest of the world views them. Just total worldwide condemnation and disbelief. It’s obvious that Trump is an unhinged madman who sought the office as a big ad for his brand, then lucked into winning. Since taking office, he’s blatantly used the office for his own gain, and made a mockery of the notion of democracy. He’s constantly touted the splendour of his cabinet, then fired everyone who’s disagreed with him. As soon as they’re gone, he turns both cheeks and shits on them. He talks in stream of consciousness pulled entirely from half-thoughts and lies. He makes up things constantly, and in a world where fact checking has lost its efficacy, it’s working for him. It’s totally insane that we’re here in a post truth reality, and a reality star with dementia sits in the biggest seat in the world.

Trump’s rallies seem the perfect reflection of his governance. He’s a total narcissist who’s obviously been surrounded by yes men his entire life. He can’t handle criticism one iota, so he lashes out at anyone who doesn’t grovel and bow. I read a great post recently talking about how Trump attacks others for his own fears. I don’t like to punch down, but still, let’s not mince words. Trump may hold the highest office in America, but he’s a low status person through and through. Trump is a feeble, shambling dissolving corpse. There is no shame whatsoever in ageing or bodies breaking down over time, yet he’s utterly ashamed of how life has taken its toll. He has the posture of a candy cane, and he thinks people don’t notice the back brace structure he wears publicly. He refuses to release his actual physical check up results, because like everything else, he refuses to take responsibility or ownership over anything negative. He’s a multi-bankrupted businessman who I assume would think nothing of bankrupting the United States. His mind has been dissipating for years, and increasingly so since he’s taken office. He believes his own thoughts to be fact, instead of learning evidence and making up his mind. He’s not a critical thinker, or even a thinker at all. He’s a naked emperor who will only surround himself with supplicants. He’s a snivelling, spineless amoeba for foreign dictators and powerful men. He admires that they hold decisive qualities and conviction he never will. He punches down constantly, and mocks the vulnerable. He’s never had to really face consequences, and it shows in his utter lack of character. He’s a sad, lonely man who has never been sincerely loved, and he’s taking it out on the United States. He’s a creepy, decrepit sack of decaying flesh and loose grey matter, and it’s totally unreal that he’s able to spread his politics of fear, division and hatred to a country that’s becoming increasingly defined by those tensions.

Sure, impeach the motherfucker, but it’s not gonna get him out of office.

More like vent-y two, amirite?

There’s a trend happening on social media at the moment, where people will post side by side photos of themselves from 2009 and 2019.

I thought I’d give it a try.

Since navel gazing is one my my favourite hobbies, I thought I’d cast my brain back a decade. Who was I? Where was I at in life? What guided me?

In 2009 I was living and working in Rotorua. After lingering in Auckland post radio internship, I got sent off to “the regions” to level up. I brought all my worldly possessions, a lack of worldly knowledge and an shit ton of entitlement. I was an Aucklander, from the Big City, why was I tarrying with these common folk in a dead arse tourist town? Those weren’t my words verbatim, but they probably weren’t far off. I thought I knew everything. I mean, I was 22, of course I did. It was my first time moving out of town, and I had more than my fair share of baggage. I saw it as a temporary displacement. I needed to earn my stripes, do some good work and get back to where I knew I belonged. Really what I needed was a dose of growing the fuck up, but you’ve seen the picture. Don’t worry, I got there.

The whole experience shook me to my core. I was so used to things just happening for me. I was smart and things came easily. I’d enjoyed school and university, and managed to get through both without too much struggle. It’s not that I didn’t work hard, it’s that I saw myself as constantly deserving of success. It made sense with the way things had gone. I had this innate feeling that I was gonna do well, and evidence hadn’t presented otherwise. I’d hit a bump post university where I was stuck working my government call centre job full time for five months. I naively thought that was rock bottom, then a scholarship came my way and I got catapulted to a position of privilege. I worked hard, people in the industry with Names started to know who I was and what I did. In my head, it was just a matter of time.

Maybe it was, but I was 22. My perception of time was very different than it is at 32. I expected I’d be down in Rotorua for maybe six months, a year tops. I’d be back in the big leagues before I knew it. That was where I was meant to be. At 22 I’d drive back from Rotorua to Auckland maybe once a week. Sometimes more, depending if there was a concert mid-week. Two and a half hours’ drive, I’d sometimes do it closer to two. At the time I’d memorised the entire trip, and could visually recall every single intersection in my brain. At 22 I devoured content voraciously. Every week I’d download several albums and listen through them. It was of the utmost important that I was at the forefront of indie music developments. It was imperative that I had an opinion, because I was 22. I had an opinion on everything. I was always online (before that was the norm), and most of my nights in Rotorua were spent drunk in front of the internet.

At 22 I loved drinking. It was at the uncomfortable point between an interest and a hobby. I drank desperately. Desperate to escape fears that maybe I wasn’t going somewhere. I was “stuck” in a small town and the only friend I’d made there was off 4chan. I had no luck with women, and I was at the stage of life where I thought that defined me. I was incredibly insecure, and I have no doubt that I carried the stink of it. I felt lonely, isolated, and- once again- entitled. I didn’t want to be a Nice Guy, so I was an edgelord instead. It’s the kind of mind frame that’s a roadmap to incel culture. At my core, I just wanted to be wanted. But I looked past my lack of real confidence and blamed external sources. I had so much potential, and somewhere in there I had the potential to become a real piece of shit. Like so much of my life, I was lucky to be surrounded by people who thought when I didn’t, and weren’t afraid to speak up. I had friends who’d known me since age 1, and they course corrected where I wouldn’t.

At 22 I clearly thought I was the protagonist, years before realising we’re all here to help each other. I was deserving of far less than I had, and I wanted so much more. At 32, I’ve earned the lines in my face. I’ve started to realise what’s important in life, and what’s fine to let go of. Some might say I got bailed out again by stumbling into a job I love, and that’d be fair. The difference a decade makes is that I’m now humbled, not emboldened. I’m no longer lonely or isolated. I’ve found so many connections that I deeply treasure. I look for opportunities to help, rather than take. I’m thankful rather than expectant. I love where I’ve ended up, instead of feeling inadequate for not being somewhere else. It took ten years, but those were ten years well spent.

Egads though, I miss having 22 year old joints.

If you’re reading this, you’ve made my dreams come true

I’m getting hate mail and it’s kind of my favourite thing.

The best part is that I don’t know who’s sending it. I don’t know if I have any mortal enemies (aside from Smashmouth Guy and honestly, after this comment I’m kind of Team Smashmouth). I’m certain I’ve rubbed people the wrong way before. I’m an excessively eccentric dude with too many opinions. I’ve made more than my share of mistakes and dumb, thoughtless comments. I’ve 100% been drunk at parties and mouthed off before realising what an ass I’d been. I have a trunk full of regrets from my early 20s that I use as incentive to constantly strive to be better. I possess a litany of anxieties and self-doubts (hint, the clue was in the site name) and talk about them at length. I’m undeniably self-obssessed, which I’m sure gets on some people’s nerves. I’ve had relationships that didn’t end well. As a child I even once bit into an entire block of cheese, then put it back into the fridge and did NOT take ownership of my actions.

Here’s the entry that called them to action, by the way. I think it’s pretty benign, but I also wouldn’t want to deprive you fine folk of all this DRAMA.

I’m still not sure that any of this would drive anyone I know to send me hate mail. I’m pretty sure that I only have one failed relationship that would even remotely bring someone to sow salt and frankly, I think that ex is way too cool and talented to bother being that petty. Her hating me doesn’t stop her from being fucking awesome. She just has better things to do with her time. Plus the hits are coming from Canada, from someone whose internet is tied to Rogers and she lives in The U.S.

I don’t think it’s an individual who knows me personally. While I’ve surely acted out of order before, I don’t think I’ve erred enough to draw this kind of ire. Mildly annoying people is no doubt within my arsenal, but offending a personal contact to the level that they’d seek out this page, create an anonymous persona and read over 50 entries in order to trawl for ammo. I just don’t think I’m that remarkable. If I am, that only feeds my ego. This site isn’t on the Reddit Frontpage or anything. They’d deliberately have to seek it out or find the link by searching certain subjects. It would take effort. If they’re trying to hurt me, they’re going about it all wrong.

It can’t be someone who knows me well. The shots they’re firing are just too broad and don’t play into my sincere insecurities. I’m not even sure how one would really insult me in a way that’d cut to the bone. I’m way meaner to myself than anyone else could ever be. Most anything they could throw at me is rationally countered by knowing that I’m very much an acquired taste and I’m excessively okay with that. Saying I’m a bad writer or not funny would make little sense when I regularly interact with others in amicable ways. I can read body language well enough to know that these people aren’t deeply uncomfortable or trying to escape. If they were, there’s no way I’d spend time with someone who didn’t want to spend time with me. What would be the point? Telling me I was a shitty person would give me the chance to find growth opportunities, which is something I value. How else do I learn to be better? Them telling me I’m self-obssessed is fine, because it’s true. It also doesn’t preclude me from caring deeply about the people in my life.

Realistically, it’s probably some MRA/Incel who read something I wrote and felt insecure (for a change?). I’m very okay with this. Or else it’s my co-worker who chewed carrots loudly, but really he’s a nice dude and his consumption habits don’t make him a bad person. Maybe it’s my therapist who feels neglected and wants to drum up another few sessions. Thing is, I looked up appointments and she’s booked solid for the next three weeks. I don’t think she has the time.

Whoever it is, I’m honoured they took the time to get in touch. If you’re reading this, stalker chap, I’d love to chat. It feels like you’ve got some emotions you need to let out.

WAIT. ARE YOU MY FRIEND I HAVEN’T MET?

Quite quote unquote, quid pro quo?

I’ve been humming and hawing (a word I’ve been using for years without knowing the true meaning. Apparently it’s to hesitate in speech) about what to write. No cohesive themes are popping into my head. I don’t have the darndest notion of where to start, but if I’ve learned anything from this project it’s that starting is the quickest route to getting somewhere.

Man, that sounded like I dropped some serious wisdom:

“Starting is the quickest route to getting somewhere” – Albert Einstein.

Maybe I’ve finally gained the ability to casually drop aphorisms on the fly. Wouldn’t that be a rad superpower. It sounds meek at first blush, but the more you think about it, you’d be able to give your opponents pause while you came in for the coup de grâce. They’d be standing there doing some serious hawing (’cause the only way to truly learn a word is to use it in a sentence, right?), and I’d take advantage of their flat footed predicament. An ability to drop truth bombs at will sounds like a great power with great responsibility.

I read an Onion article the other day “Man Forced To Reverse-Engineer Point In Midst Of Meandering, Absentminded Rant“. I was just happy they had the restraint not to print my real name. Perhaps it’s come from years of downing Harmontown episodes, but I totally do this. I’ll start at a certain point in a conversation with this unearned confidence that I’ll be able to spout something vaguely resembling sense. I’ll twist and contort, taking non-linear sidesteps while engineering a through-line that comes together at the end. It’s a high wire act. I’m well aware that most of the time it doesn’t work, but when I have a couple of drinks, any potential self-doubt is clipped in favour of blind faith. I’ll make it happen, even if I have to force it with clunky segues and tenuous narrative links.

I get away with it far more than I should. Maybe here in Canada it’s an offshoot of accent privilege. I’ve mentioned it a bunch of times before, but I feel like having a Kiwi accent affords me a great many privileges here in a foreign country. You know that socially observed phenomenon whereby attractive people go through life with strangers being nicer to them? 30 Rock did a great episode on it with John Hamm. Living in a foreign country, I feel like having an accent gives shades of the same. So perhaps people smudge over those times when my conversational crafting is bumbling at best. Possibly they’re not even understanding the words I’m saying, but get a kick out of my cadence. If neither of us notices and it gives me neat little advantages, I’m certainly not gonna complain.

I was saying to my girlfriend the other day that I’d love nothing more than to have a job where I could just be amicable and charming all the time. Spout total nonsense, but help facilitate others having a blast. I like making people happy as much as I enjoy being liked. Win/win all around. I was speaking to a French dude today who said when he was in Korea, he got invited on a popular KPOP panel show just because he was a) tall and b) spoke English. They were all oh, your English is so great as he spoke in his thick French accent. He told me he had zero qualms about monetising that shit, because it made others happy and he benefited from it. Is there some way I can do the same? Find a line of work where I can be me and that’ll be enough for others? Where my meandering absentminded rants are marketable? How do I even set out to find that?

Then again, as the great Albert Einstein once said: “Starting is the quickest route to getting somewhere.”

Wise words indeed.

Gotta hand it to me, at least I’m committed to curmudgeonliness.

Like Nelly during his Kelly Rowland period, I have a dilemma. It’s a dumb problem that I’m not complaining about. Humblebrag sort of shit. It’s in the same realm as those times where I have to take vacation days before I lose them and I’m all ”oh no, I need to be somewhere else in the world enjoying myself for a week.” So the qualm isn’t how do I choose between this positive or negative outcome? It’s a more Kondo Marie style ”which of these excessive privileges gives me the most joy?” Yeah, fuck me, right?

So my parents gave me money for my birthday. They told me to go blow it on something and enjoy myself. Get a nice meal, go to a hotel, buy myself something. I should be grinning and winning, right? Yes I should. Instead I’m having to reckon with how my life has become some fun black hole (to clarify, that’s a hole in my dimension that vacuums any fun with the misfortune of drifting past. Not some groovy slide to another world). I can’t think of a single thing I want. I’m a shitty capitalist who, while not overflowing with loose change, can kind of just get things without affecting my bottom line. It’s a rock solid position to be in. I’m not complaining about that. It does however steal all the fun from small windfalls.

I’m 31 years old. I have everything I need. I’m not a gadget dude or someone who wants new toys. I fucking despise clutter so I don’t want to buy shit just to have it. I mean, I already hate gifts. They’re basically just time bombs ticking down how long it’s gonna be until you can throw them out. I’m not a sentimental person who attaches significance to objects. I want functional things and experiences.

The thing about functional items? They’re the least exciting. Am I supposed to get jazzed about cutting onions with a brand new knife or getting a pan with better heat distribution? An Instant Pot would be faster than my slow cooker (could’ve guessed that from the name) but they’re so expensive and I can wait forever until they’re on sale. It’s not urgent, the slow cooker is in perfect working condition. There’s nothing out there right now that would greatly enrich my life, so none of it feels like treating myself.

Is any of this relatable whatsoever? Or am I just a spoiled dipshit?

What about some kind of nice experience? Like what? When it comes to experiential delights, everything with me boils down to food. Doing keto though has drained all the fun out of that. It’s mechanical. I’m eating to fit macros, to make sure my body is getting the necessary percentage of carbs, protein and fats. Still, one blowout can’t hurt me, right? So fucking wrong. A cheat day would most likely throw me right out of ketosis. Then I’d have to get back there, which would mean more days of keto flu, feeling fatigue, headaches, mental fogginess. It’s just not worth it. It sucks, because food is how my brain has been conditioned to celebrate. I’ve been taught that food is love in its preparation. Food is nurturing to take care of my body. Food is comfort when I’m feeling down. Food is pleasure on a basic primal level. My love of food is so gratuitous that I’m hoping this diet will help me re-learn healthy patterns of eating, to find what moderation looks like. I’m not gonna be on it forever, but maybe it’ll lead me towards some kind of balance.

Also I fucking hate hotels.

Not that the word “flaccid” was important. I just wanted to add texture.

It’s been some time since I’ve talked about anything polyamory and that’s likely because it’s been some time since polyamory was relevant in my day to day. Neither my partner nor I have had much interest in dating other people, so neither of us have. When enough’s going on in your life that you’re having difficulty spending time with those you love, it’s hard to muster up enthusiasm for getting to know even more people you’ll eventually have to cancel on. Hell, it’s hard enough failing at re-working a sentence not to end on a preposition.

I figure that still being relatively new to the practice of extending romantic connection beyond monogamous commitment, there are muscles to be worked. It’s not like those muscles atrophy without use, but have you tried going for a run after a weeks spent marathoning The Wire? One of these things is only an exercise in patience. I haven’t had to think about romantic/sexual connections with others in yonks. Nor have I put myself through the mental gymnastics of working around the abundant social programming of a largely monogamous society. I haven’t been considering my anchor partner meeting others and how my brain reacts to that idea. She hasn’t dated anyone in an age. The last time I dated anyone was maybe ten months ago. It ended amicably enough, but I also didn’t yearn to get back out there. So we’ve been nesting comfortably.

My girlfriend and I went to a party the other night. I noticed she was getting close to a guy there. Nothing remotely explicit. A light brush here, a hand on the upper arm or waist. My immediate response wasn’t anything apocalyptic, but more aw geez, now I’m gonna have to do the work of mental unpacking. I was bracing myself for the thought of dealing with feelings that could potentially be challenging at some point. Like standing behind a wall holding a shield encased in a suit of armour. Are feelings that monstrous?

I tried poking and prodding at them a little. I’d met this dude a couple of times before. He’s always been a friendly, welcoming fellow. He’s open and honest, fun to be around and a warm soul. He’s a tall, good looking guy, so I understand her attraction. It’s not like I harbour any ill will for him, so why would I bristle at the thought of my girlfriend wanting to spend time with him? Because my italicised counter-thoughts chimed in, if she thinks he’s attractive, then she doesn’t think you are. That was silly. I find other women attractive, does that mean I don’t consider my girlfriend to be a knockout? Hell no. She’ll get infatuated with him and you’ll feel lonely, sad, holding your flaccid dick in your hand. I mean, this was getting to the heart of it. I didn’t want to be left behind or put out. The assumption that she’d no longer want me was ridiculous. I went off and had another relationship while living with her. Did I desire her less? Hell no. It made me appreciate even deeper all the things that made her special. But she’s a hyper-desirable person. She’ll be constantly out at parties finding people to fuck while you circle the snack table and talk to people about Air Bud like a child or adult with severe arrested development issues. Like a textbook narcissist, this was all a big plea of “what about me?”

I’m sure I sell myself short, but my base assumption is that nobody is interested ever. Straight up, my brain tells me that nobody wants to fuck me. The fact that a) I’m not a virgin and b) don’t think I have it in me to coerce anyone, should contradict this all to hell. It’s a worthless mental affirmation that I constructed years before I’d ever had sex. I don’t know why I’m still holding onto it. I’ve got a strong conviction against making anyone feel unwelcome or uncomfortable and it’s really hard to shirk the notion that my advances would cause discomfort. To be thought of as That Creepy Dude is anathema to my M.O. My involuntary response is to never hit on anyone at a party ever. Then I feel like a fucking child as people are getting frisky around me. It’s not that I don’t get hot under the collar when I meet someone sexy at a party. It’s more akin to having a mental collar that threatens to blow my brain to giblets if I were to act on that. I’ve conditioned myself to be harmless and in so, severely damaged my self-esteem.

I’ve got work to do. I need to train those mental muscles to relax and chill out. I need to accept that my partner will be attracted to others and it’s fine for her to act on that attraction. If this relationship is to have the sustainability we both desire, then I need to work on compersion, to be happy for her finding connection. But also that it’s okay for me to do the same. I also need to understand that I’m not a burden or continually unwanted, that sending out flirty vibes is not the same thing as assuming the woman I’m talking to has no agency or choice in the matter. That it’s possible for someone to look at me and think I want to put my lips on his and maybe touch his butt.

It wouldn’t be the first time.