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Paranoia Cha Cha Cha

October 21, 2009

The idea of writing for a blog again creates gurgling bubbles of nervousness in my stomach. I start thinking about what it is I am going to write here and I instantly need to take a shit. Shit never comes out of me in uniform, normal, everyday, tapered cylindrical logs. It comes in a giant heaping splat, not fit for print. I used to be able to blame my diet, but being that I have cleaned that up quite well in the last little while, there is no real apparent reason. Nervousness? Does being constantly neurotic, paranoid, and bummed make every shit an emergency? I’m not sure. Either way, every time I worry about what I am going to end up writing for this thing I inevitably end up back on the can, which is where I sit perched as I write this, in the process of another unsatisfying dump.

It’s a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, isn’t it? That I am so worried about what sort of monstrosity I will end up concocting for this thing, that it ends with my first contributed paragraph being about taking a shit? I digress.

Being that I just looked at this blog for the first time, I will assume that any narrative I begin here will end up being much more long-winded, stream-of-consciousness, and probably more self-important than the daily fare. Truth be told, I’m not even sure exactly who Mary is. I know she seems reasonable as portrayed by her Twitter account, so I will forge on, assuming that I have NOT agreed to write for a blog championing any of the following subjects, causes or beliefs:

  • White Supremacy
  • Homophobia (though I still get to use the words, and I get to use my estranged father being a homosexual as an out… sorry, I just do.)
  • Cats
  • Nerdy 40-year-old record collector idiots who email me WHINING about not getting a BLUE copy of my latest release.
  • Fundamentalist Christianity, or any sort of conservatism, really.
  • Anarchy, or any sort of out there new ways of doing things or smashing the state or taking the world back, or whatever.

Chances are, one or many of these stipulations will be deal-breakers for someone involved, but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever made things easy, and damneder if I ever start trying. So let’s get to the subject of the day: how I ended up in Toronto, and how I will likely end up dying here.

Everything was going pretty well. I’m going to talk about music here real soon Mary, I fucking SWEAR. Anyway, yes. Everything was just going peachy keen until I met the vampire across the street. I should back up. I will back up.

The first few weeks were exhilarating, scary, fun, and overwhelming, in turn. But everything was working out a little too well. My 15-year-old car made it here with hundreds of pounds of possessions on board, no problem. It took me all of four days to find a great place to live. My transition into my workplace here was almost seamless. I had the usual amount of grating, tearing, kneading emotional turmoil going on inside, but none of that is geographically determined.

A few things started fucking up, but nothing too out of the ordinary or alarming. Being unfamiliar with the parking practices here, I started racking up tons of tickets. Nothing too new for anyone who knows me, but still, an unwelcome inconvenience to be sure. I also spaced on getting tickets for Louis CK, so I had to miss him (three times, no less) while a bunch of fucks at home (a good portion of whom I had introduced his genius to (That’s right, I’m gonna be that guy. Fuck you, it’s the goddamned fucking truth and besides, you don’t know me)) raved to me about how great he had been live. Fuck. A piss off to be sure, but still, not a HUGE deal.

Things were going well too. I was hitting the pubs here and there (while somehow not spending a fortune). meeting new friends, catching up with old ones, and generally living life normally. I hung out with (and doubtlessly annoyed) Sebastien Grainger while he DJed at The Red Light, playing mostly songs that I have no real hope of ever fully appreciating, and saw Nobunny and Hunx & His Punx quite frankly not just steal, but completely define the show, opening for Jay Reatard.

I tried hard to get into the latter’s set, but it was almost completely the same set that I saw him do a year ago in Halifax. I mean, for real? The same set a fucking YEAR later? Beyond that, it just seemed really kinda forced and disingenuous (which could be explained by the fact that his band jumped ship only days later). Dude fell off harder than Christopher Reeves. Stocks are plummeting kids, sell your Matador 7″s while you still can (or buy mine).

It was in the middle of this normalcy that the shit suddenly hit the fan full fucking force. Getting home in my fairly quiet neighborhood one night, I saw a young chap across the street fumbling with his keys. Being that I was (quite) drunk at the time and having recently quit smoking (again), I decided I might kill two birds with one stone and introduce myself to this gent while inquiring as to whether he happened to have a cigarette I might procure. A pretty reasonable request from one neighbour to another at 2 in the morning.

“GET AWAY FROM ME NOW!”

This was not the reply I was counting on after my relatively polite, “Hey man, you don’t happen to have a cigarette I could buy, do you?”

Taken aback, and drunk, and prickish, I replied, “Dude. Calm down. I was just wondering if you had a smoke. No big deal.”

“GET AWAY FROM ME. NOW.”

“Oooooooookay buddy. Later on, psycho.”

I probably shouldn’t have called him a psycho. I probably also shouldn’t have stood on my side of the street mocking him as he fumbled with his keys trying to get into his house. Oh yeah, and did I mention that he looked like an extra from the Lost Boys (I haven’t seen Twilight)? Or perhaps Buffalo Bill (Buffalo Bill? Buffalo Bob?) from Silence of the Lambs? I didn’t mention that, did I? Well that is why his next words upon getting his door opened are now haunting me, and likely will until my inevitable demise (and post-mortem raping) at his pale, white, sharp hands. As he entered his home, he turned around, sneered and uttered:

“I’ll see you SOON.”

With that, he SLAMMED his door shut.

I’ve been camped out in my room with the drapes drawn tightly ever since, making sure not to leave after dark, and to be locked inside well before, but make no mistake, get me he will. I may have been very, very intoxicated, but I could see it in his eyes. He will be my murderer.  Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, his will be the last eyes I ever see.

Either that, or I dreamt the whole fucking thing.

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