Ermahgerd. I exist again. Plus bonus rant: The Wagon Thing.

There. After 2 weeks with no TV and no internets, it’s back. I have too much backed-up nattering so I’ll keep this section in point form. Yes, things are THAT serious that I need to sectionalize this post.

–Owning my own place, awesome.

–Got a finger-wagging for not parking properly. Looks like I may end up being that guy in the building. I play guitar. I listen to two of the most hated genres of music–jazz and death metal. And I cook curry all the time. And I’d be totally happy to fill in the pool and save $100 a month on strata fees. I already pay for a YMCA membership. Why would I want to pay for old ladies to have a pool to sit around? Yes, I am a difficult person. This is why room mates are never a possibility.

–Young men need to tie their fucking shoes and stop dragging their feet when they walk. I’m serious. This is getting out of hand. Maybe girls nowadays see the dress and deportment of a toddler as “fun,” but let me tell you girls, there’s nothing fun about a man-child in an oversized, horizonal-striped tank-top with skinny arms, untied bulky skate shoes, and a dumbfounded look on his face, who can’t even pick up his feet when he walks. Grow up!

–Obsessed with this song right now:

I mean to be honest, blues is way way way way done. I hear (insert 80s blues sacred cow, many of them Canadian) and just feel this pathetic vibe from it. It’s got no staying power. This of course does not apply to real blues, like Long John Baldry. Ehhhhh, maybe even Eric Clapton, but only if some psycho had a gun to my head and made me listen to either him or Jimmy Page. I could actually enjoy it if I chose Clapton. At any rate, Billy Gibbons has enough personality to make the idiom work. I love this new song. I just don’t want to hear their old shit constantly on the radio. Or George Thorogood. Sweet Jesus. That came on right after the ZZ Top song, and I just thought that this Bad To The Bone bullshit was the most pussy-ass song I’ve ever heard. The best part about this moment was watching a slob in a rusted van drive by who apparently had the same radio station on and was blasting it. And he was so into it.

–You know you’re a difficult person when (#27): after two weeks of having no internets, the thing that excites you is that now you can research psychotherapists in your city.

–RICE PROTEIN. LOVE IT. THAT IS ALL.

–Actually no, listen up: who cares that it’s gritty? It’s protein powder. It’s not a restaurant meal. It just seems to work so much better, at least for me. Also: do not listen to companies pushing expensive rice protein because they say it’s “raw.” ALL RICE PROTEIN IS RAW. MANY THINGS LABELLED AS “RAW” IN SPECIALTY PRODUCTS AREN’T HEATED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Rice protein comes from separating the protein from the starch using enzymes. The process is sensitive to heat and can’t work, even if some evil “pharmaceutical” company wants to boil the fuck out of it for no reason, if it’s heated. I’ve still yet to hear a reason why raw enthusiasts think everything normal is heated at random, regardless of how the product is actually made.

The Wagon Thing.

Also going on during these past couple weeks: quitting the booze and the sugar all at once. Drinking nothing but spring water and coffee. Again, Sweet Jesus. Does that ever clear your mind.

Nothing good comes out of drinking. I’m a wine snob, I love it, and will likely be able, eventually, to enjoy it as a special treat. But the glorification of being a slave to this shit scares me. People think they’re heroes because they drink. Even I did to an extent. And now I don’t get it. The answer is probably buried in all that psychoanalysis stuff I’ve read, but who knows?

I’ve acted out a few writerly clichés. I won’t be specific but I’ve turned in crap written while drunk, and it wasn’t some artistic triumph but an embarrassment.

A few times I’ve wanted to quit drinking, but always justify it with the reality that it’s harder to socialize when you’re the one sober person. But then again, I’ve never cared that much about fitting in. Sometimes I worry about that fact, but in the end you’re better off alone than surrounded by people who will drag you down because they can’t relate to anyone unless they’re partying. I have a Nietzsche quote somewhere that touches on this point, but I’m going to avoid that tack for now. I mean everyone fakes it sometimes and tries to compromise in order to have a social life. Or maybe it’s just me. In any case, it doesn’t last long, so really there’s no point messing around with people you know are no good for you. If they’re actually good for you, it won’t matter that you don’t drink with them. Again this may seem obvious to the reader, but apparently it hasn’t been to me. I just assumed that since the majority of people I know are more interested in those kinds of things than, say, doing pull-ups or playing chess or writing books, that this was the way all people are and that compromise on my part was necessary.

It’s especially confounding when I’m in the position of helping people with fitness goals. Acquaintances often ask for help in losing weight, and since I’m not doing training as a job anymore, of course I like to do it to keep a semblance of what my skills in that area once were. But they always are unwilling to actually adjust their life–I can’t just throw a workout program at them and let them fail because they don’t actually want to live better and to their fullest potential. And let’s be honest–nobody lives to their fullest potential when surrounded by people who aren’t in that mode. And for most people who want a quick fix so they look really hot while they are in the bar, it’s entirely unrealistic to expect any real results. So I’m thinking I just have to save my efforts for people who have a good situation going and just honestly need professional help.

This also came up because I had no TV. It’s not a huge deal, but still a habit nontheless, and being forced to be without it for what seemed to be a long time made me reassess my automatic behaviours. Generally I mistrust anything automatic. This is not the same as gut. Gut knows all. Gut is what tells me my automatic thought/action is completely ridiculous. But that seems to turn off when drinking close every day.

So who knows how long it’ll last, but one thing is for sure: the difference is amazing. And I need to start writing very soon. Did I mention that I didn’t drink at all when I wrote Blightcross? This one needs to be even better, and no matter what some dumb artist cliché says, being impaired does not help you whatsoever.

Just some quick facts about what alcohol actually does:

–it increases estrogen. Yep, tough guy. That forty-pounder is actually turning you into a little girl.  As if looking in the mirror and noticing your gynocomastia wasn’t a hint.

–it kills brain cells.

–creates a plaque-like substance when it reacts with blood cells.

–uses up money that could otherwise be spent buying my book.

–increases risk of G.I. cancers. No, there is not enough resveratrol or polyphenols in wine to make it worth it. Just get a knotweed supplement, unless you’re just using the resveratrol thing as an excuse to drink.

–Impairs the immune system after about 3 drinks.

And of course there are the psychological side-effects. Everyone loves to knock antidepressants now due to side-effects, but alcohol causes suicidal thoughts, violent behaviour, depression, and any number of things that people throw against legitimate pharmaceuticals because doing so is in vogue, while they drink their faces off and screw up their minds for the sake of . . . I don’t even know anymore.

Not that I mean to preach. Actually, I probably do. Ah well.

OH YEAH.

Book signing in Vernon this Saturday. At Bookland. Bam.