Petty Crows

Yesterday three petty crows briefly took over the Market branch of the Toronto Public Library. They were there looking for free passes to the Ontario Science Centre. 

“We want to see the bottom of the ocean in IMAX one last time.” The first crow said. He had on dark shades. A crow of mystery.

“Yeah, one last time before Doug Ford bulldozes the place for a high rise condo with a highway running through it.” A second crow added, trying not to get political. This one entered the library breathing fire from its mouth, but a coughing fit stopped his tirade short before any damage could be done. 

“A highway with a condo running though it. Any day now...” Third crow added. This one had nothing special about it. It just looked mean. 

“I see…” the librarian replied, briefly looking to the security guard sitting by the entrance who hadn’t moved from his chair. He was reading.

A crow is a formidable opponent. They are highly intelligent, but notoriously bad at planning. They hold on to grudges for years even decades at a time because people are always foiling their plans.

“I’m sorry but those passes are given out on the first of the month.” The librarian explained. It was the middle of July. “You have to sign up online for the random draw. It’s a lottery system.”

“A draw? The lottery? I thought it was first come first serve?” Shades crow asked. “We are first. There’s no one else in line.”

“That’s not how it works. You can use one of our computers over there to sign up. I can give you a code if you don’t have a library card.”

“No need.” The shades crow replied with irritation. All the computers in the adult and children’s sections were in use. He turned to his associates. “Foiled again. Let’s scram.”

“How many more branches are we going to visit today?” The mean looking one asked. 

“As many as it takes.” Shades replied.

“I’m getting sick of this. We gotta let them know we were here.” The fire breather said, eyeing a plastic potted plant near the exit. However, several attempts to burn the plant led to an aggressive coughing fit, so the crow gave up on leaving its mark. His associates fared no better as they strained to flip the flower pot over. 

“It’s bolted to the ground.” The security guard finally said before turning back to his newsletter. 

And with that the feeble gang of crows left the library without passes to the Ontario Science Centre. This story is 100% true. I was there when it happened, checking out books on business. 

On Mental Health

Disclaimer: Not particularly funny content ahead…

My mom had really bad mental health issues. She dealt with nightmarish imagery that made it hard for her to sleep at night, and intrusive thoughts during the day that made it hard for her to keep her thoughts subvocalized. Lots of ranting. You knew things were really bad with her when she started claiming she was in love with the American singer-songwriter Michael Bolton. I’m not sure why she chose him. But I remember laughing out loud in the St. Michaels Emergency room one time when they asked her who she thought she was in love with. They looked at me like I was insensitive, but I just knew what she was going to say. Shit was like clockwork. But it’s far less funny to note how her intermittent (but severe) mental health issues also made it impossible for us to live with her full time as kids… Still, I was never (too) resentful because she always believed in me and my abilities. And in turn, I put a lot of pressure on myself to not let her down; to use my God-given and developed gifts to provide a better life for her and my sister…

But the problem with living for other people like that is it’s exhausting and mentally debilitating. If you’re not doing the work of two (or more) people at all times, then you’re by definition being lazy, and so consequently undeserving of their support; undeserving of their love. At least until you fix the issue. You can always sustain the illusion for a while. Maybe end up studying at a really good university, or working a high profile job, or settling down with a nice loving family. But, unfortunately, we all have our limits. Be it our biased perceptions, our physical limitations, or just not having enough time… As a result, when you grow too accustomed to living for (or to impress) other people, you always (always, always) wind up letting someone down: either yourself or the ones who believed in you…

This is probably my last post here for a while. There’s a quote from a Coen Brothers movie I like called Inside Llewyn Davis. It goes: “You’re not supposed to let your practice shit out… It ruins the mystique.” I’m a great writer. That’s the honest truth. Still, most of what I’ve posted here has been quite bad (by my own standards...). Not everything. But a lot of it. And I know this because if I were feeling better, then (most) of these drafts (and drawings) would’ve stayed buried deep in my notes app. Again, not everything. But a lot of it. Still, it’s okay though… It’s been fun. Sort of. In an ironic way. Maybe. And I never had much mystique to protect… 

People always thought I was weird…

But whatever. I have nothing to prove. No one should ever feel like they do. Especially if they deal with mental health issues. You just do the best you can with whatever you’ve been given. It might not look impressive to others, but that’s only because they lack the full context of what you’ve been through. Which isn’t really a failing on their part either. Like I said, we all have our limitations…

On Overthinking pt 1: I’m not lying, you Witch! It’s spelt Whardrobe!

Congratulations, It's the early 2000s! Academically and socially you're flying high! 

You're an A+ student; You're Co-Captain of the school's championship winning basketball team; and (most importantly to you) reading your creative writing out loud leaves the whole class in hysterics, even the rich kids who wish they were as funny as you and vindictively call you an orphan when your back is turned. And not figuratively either, like, literally while your back is turned as they sit behind you in class. You’re technically not an orphan, but it’s close enough to the truth to hurt your feelings…

But then March Break rolls around and you’re invited up to your Auntie M’s house in Brampton. She lives by the forbidden sandpits, in a 5 floor house with few rules and all the fixings. Seriously, enter through the laundry at Auntie's M house and you'll  suddenly find yourself in a world with:

- No bed times

- Constant internet access to look up what nerds of a similar age were doing across the world in Japan.

- and an illegal US cable hook-up with every channel, show, and character ever invented. Favorites include -- HBO and Cartoon Network;  Adam West's 1960s Batman;  and Catwoman from Adam West's 1960s Batman.

But for the purpose of this story, the main draw is the fact that your younger cousin T has every video game and video game console on the market and he's away at camp for the week. Auntie M also has two fancy, well trained, if eccentric dogs:

- A lovingly gluttonous bull-mastiff pit bull named Kane

- and a smart but lovingly Prima Donna Dalmatian named Elijah 

They don’t figure into the story, really. You just like them and are looking forward to seeing them…

However, on arrival you soon learn that your newfound freedom comes with a mandate from your Guardian: she needs you to spend some time each day doing homework. 

“What kind?” You may be asking. “It doesn’t matter! It must be done! Don’t be soft!” Your Auntie M relays the message verbatim.

You for your part are insulted, and think: “Why?! How dare she?! Do these people know who I am?!”

But still, terms are terms, so on the third day or so your Auntie M calls you into the kitchen while she is cooking rice and lays them out: For the next hour, you're going to go upstairs, find one of the few books laying around, and read for an hour. After that, you’ll be called back down to taste some rice after a brief q & a.

Right away, You begin courting disaster with a scoff. “Prepare to be amazed, hahahaha!” You think to yourself, but the message reads clear enough on your face too. And with the gears now turning, back upstairs, You decide it’s important to prove you don’t need someone to tell you to when read …ever!… for some reason… yeah… And somehow You also decide the best way to prove that in this situation is to… um... not read? I don't know, like, it makes no sense but.. I mean you read the title, right?

“But how to read without reading?” You think to yourself, pacing your nonexistent study. It takes a second, but you, being a genius, do eventually find the solution and it is elegant: 

there’s no need to read… if you’ve already read! 

And due to the slim offerings on deck at Auntie M's, there's only one real book for the job: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe by CS Lewis.

And truthfully it's perfect: It’s Christian themes will win you extra points with your audience; and more importantly, like I said, you’ve already read it. Thus, having thoroughly gamed yet another oppressive, draconian educational system, you recline smug in your chair and commence not reading, maybe looking a few times longingly at the Xbox you'll soon be playing indefinitely until the cousins come home...

An Hour passes and you’re finally called back into kitchen. Auntie M's still cooking rice they way it's been done dating back to Xia Dynasty: stir, stir, stir, taste, stir, stir… Stir... Wait. Repeat.

In Hindsight, You can see now that your Auntie M loved you. She was always going to give you a soft ball because she wanted you to enjoy your break... She wanted you to enjoy your life... and I could list some things you did to deserve that affection, but in truth, despite all your virtues and achievements, sometimes people just love you for no good reason; and someone loving you for no good reason is to me the same as saying they love you because you’re funny... But, like, even if Auntie M wanted to be tough on you in this situation, again… 

SHE HASN’T READ THE BOOK! Like, how in depth could her questions really be?! And more importantly, how on earth was she supposed to tell if you were full of shit?

“You do it?” Auntie M asks.

“Yeah.” You reply. 

“What book did you read?” 

“The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.” You are so overconfident, you actually brought the book, as if to make a show of her tearing you away from its engrossing story. An engrossing story you've 100% actually read, but for now are pretending to have read. Clear?

“Was it good?” She continues. 

“I have my notes.. But yeah.” You reply. Again, feeling yourself...

She takes the book from You.  “So you read it?”

“Yes,” You nod, a little more earnest. “Ask me Anything.”

Auntie M. gives the book a once over, then looks back at you. “Okay... spell wardrobe.”

The curve ball is so severe Your entire world shatters. 

“Excuse me?”

“Spell wardrobe. I mean you said you read the book, and it’s called The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe so presumably you encountered the word a few times…”

Your mind starts racing... Rather than simply spell the word and be done with it, inside You’re like:  If I get this wrong she’s going to think I didn’t read the book! When I did! This preemptively makes you so upset that your face gets warm. “But you’re not going to ask me about the story?” You finally say, trying to wake up from the nightmare...

But She's finding this weird now, and so gives you a look like: Like dude I’m not trying to trick you. Just spell wardrobe…

There's no way out, so you take a deep breath and start to spell. In doing so, your eyes begin to well as the cruel inevitability of it all sets in. “ W…” You say, starting out strong. “Um... H? Wait... Yeah, Wh...a--”

 

“H? What h?”  She says to you, looking at the cover. “There’s no H in wardrobe…”

“Yes there is!” You reply, before you realize. “At least there can be in the American spelling!”

By this point a small crowd has gathered by the rice, not to stir or taste but to witness a cognitive Fukushima-scale meltdown…

And what makes it somehow worse is that, the situation is so confusingly stupid you don’t get in trouble either... Granted, you still get put on time out in the most rule-averse house in existence, — a house where your cousin T famously DID NOT SHOWER FOR A WHOLE SUMMER even though everyone complained — because you over-thought a simple task…

And it’ll happen again in future, sadly, in more regrettably intimate ways, but I guess it counts for something to see you've developed a sense of humor about it… because at the end of the day, we’re all floating on a rock in the middle of nowhere, and the over-thinkers of the world need love too…

Or maybe they don’t. Don’t ask me. I don’t know…

Microwaveable (Repost)

 (Editor’s note: Repost. As my Rabbi always tells me, don’t overthink what you like… I don’t know why I keep going to synagogues. I’m not Jewish... I swear…)

So you got a dog to help deal with loneliness. Congratulations. 

The dog you chose (feel free to imagine the breed of your choosing) likes to sleep a lot. Like ”a lot“ a lot like it prematurely lost its will to live. 

But the Vet with a surprising number of neck tattoos says that there’s technically nothing wrong with the dog. Relieved you head home down $1500 and make an Instagram account for your dog, mostly to recount their dreams.

Months pass. A pandemic starts. And soon after, tragedy strikes in isolation: You get locked out of your dog's account with no meaningful way to reset the password yourself. Cursing your careless approach to password management, you look over at your dog fast asleep on the couch beside you. You feel guilty but nonetheless impressed by its ability to convey betrayal in slumber. In a panic, you reach out to tech support without much success because recovering a locked account in this particular situation would require a government issued ID, like a drivers license.

“ Shit that sucks. What am I gonna do?” You think. “Well… The obvious thing to do would be to teach the dog to drive, but that takes time and the most efficient way to do that would involve me finding a machine that would enable us to switch brains…”

Now, I know what you’re thinking, reader: “that doesn’t sound like me. I would never think that.” But don’t be so quick to sell yourself short! Moving on…

“Seriously, it sounds weird. But it really would be perfect because my dog would likely use his time in my body to sleep so I wouldn’t have to worry about him acting like a dog or whatever with human machinery.” Pleased to have settled on a course of action you go online to do further research on the subject. And one intensive weekend deep dive later you conclude that while much further along than expected, the technology required for the job is still not quite up to snuff. Saddened, your mind turns back to the far more risky solution suggested earlier by your friend with a mindfulness meditation fetish: just go get a fake ID for the dog. It annoys you when people you find annoying give helpful advice because it makes them harder to dismiss out of hand. Eager for specifics, you grab your phone.

“The people making it won’t care,” your friend reassures you. “They’ll just assume it’s like a novelty thing or that you’re like a crazy dog parent.”

”Fair enough. Do you know any place like that?”

“No, not really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“I don’t know. It just kinda sounds like you do know a place.”

“No. Sorry. I honestly don’t even know how I got the idea. I think It just came to me while I was sitting to mindfully watch my—“

“I have to go get the door. I think that’s my food being delivered. But thank you!”

“You’re welcome. And remember: the self is an illusion. Namaste.”

Ignoring your nonexistent food delivery, you type words into google then Reddit and back again for a while until eventually you settle on the place that seems the least objectionable. They make novelty t-shirts, which you figure should reduce the likelihood that they are into organ harvesting or just generally “Squid Gaming'' people. Eager to end the nightmare, You grab the doggo, mask up and head out into the void.

The place is located in a neighborhood known as “Little Chechnya '' though its ever changing and increasingly gentrified profile make it so it really could be anywhere. “There are Little Chechnyas like this all over the world. In every major city.” You think to yourself. Impressed by your own eloquence, you make your way inside and down a large stairwell which inclines at a disturbingly acute angle. You go extra slow fearing death from a number of different fall related injuries, but the most notable cause floating through your mind is embarrassment. Fortunately, tucked under your arm your dog remains fast asleep the whole way down. A real trooper. 

At the base you’re met by two people who turn out to be the nearsighted owner (glasses) and another employee, his equally nearsighted son (different glasses). The Son explains that he’s been juggling remote learning with helping out around the shop but you kind of tune out, though to your credit feel really bad for doing so. I don’t know. It’s not an important part of the story. Still, eventually, after you (skillfully) seem to listen for a while he gets around to asking you what you need and you explain. The Son excuses himself to go talk to the Father, and you know they find it weird because the conversation takes a while and they keep looking over at you. But in the end your friend was right; they don’t really care and just roll with it, only double checking to make sure you weren’t joking. “I would never joke about the mental well being of my dog child,” you think to yourself gravely. 

As the Son goes about setting things up, it’s the Father’s turn to make small talk. 

This goes a bit better. Sort of: He talks about how the pandemic has slowed business down, but in the end he does this only to stoke your sympathies before upselling you on the idea of a passport for the dog. While initially open to the concept, you begin wavering once you consider the steep jail sentence that would follow the authorities catching you with a fake passport. But in the end, good taste (and salesmanship) wins out as you figure “Why not if I’m getting a deal?” and place your doggo on a stool with a cushion to get their picture taken for the documents.

“Do you need them awake?” You ask.

The Son and Father look at each other for a second. 

“No,” the Son finally replies as he removes the lens cap on the camera.

The whole situation is over and done in like 20 minutes, and the documents look surprisingly professional and legitimate, minus the “for a dog” part of the equation. So you pay up, collect the doggo, and go to make your journey back up the lethally acute stairwell, but not before the Father can tell an alarming yet formative (to him) story about a box of really small puppies he found in the dead of winter when he was like 10 years old.

He was so concerned they would die of hypothermia that in his youthful innocence he brought them home, knowing full well he would be punished for it by his strict pet-averse parents. But as the soggy box sat on the kitchen table he could tell that that wasn’t going to be enough. If he didn’t act the frost bitten puppies wouldn’t make it through the night. 

So, seeing no other choice, he put them in the microwave. If only for a few minutes, he told himself. And ever since that night he can’t think about the situation or a microwave without crying. You thank him for the story you now feel bad that you secretly wish you never heard and leave, horrified, driving home in silence with your doggo fast asleep in the passenger seat. Even though it’s irrational, you hope deep down your doggo appreciates the lengths you will go to to preserve things tangentially related to them that they’ve (technically) expressed no interest in. You notice very few people outside who look like they want to be there and a large proportion of the traffic you encounter seems to center on delivery trucks.

When you get home, you second guess yourself as you take a picture of the license because it suddenly dawns on you that there’s no way that this will actually work. ”This is the type of idea you tweet about. Best case.” You think to yourself. In fact, they actually ask for a second piece of ID, so you have to send the passport too, and suddenly feel thankful that the print shop guy who microwaved a box of puppies (plural!) suggested that you make the investment. “Spare no expense for the doggo… Still, again, no way this works.” You reiterate. But then like 15 minutes later there it is: they’ve sent you instructions to reset the password!  And that’s it, that’s the end of the story. Like, you don’t even post about it, you just kinda go about your housebound daily routine, avoiding the microwave as much as humanly possible as your doggo sleeps in their dog bed shaped like a hamburger.