I spent last week in Toronto, a place I'd never thought I'd have to go back to. While I was there, I was reminiscing about the old days with a couple of guys I work with now, when I would work from Toronto, or Barre, or some other Ontarian town for three weeks out of the month. This was all pre-9-11, I think the only time travel got hairy was when they stopped that big attack on airliners in the Pacific. I was in Toronto during Columbine, and distinctly remember the disapproving glances when people would find out I was an American. Like I gave a shit about what they thought about our gun laws. Canadians are a very judgmental people. Really. I'm not trying to get sidetracked, but I'm just no good at this blogging stuff any more. I'm rusty and my sense of humor is failing. I'm not actually sure my mocking tone comes across like it should. What I'm trying to do is express my contempt for Canadians by associating all Canadians with a trait that I claim to despise, but no doubt posses. In spades. Humorous, maybe, but be assured; I can pick a Canadian out of a crowd by the simple scent of their over-arcing hypocrisy and self-regard. Smells like poutine and maple syrup and some sort of Indian food mixed together with cigarette smoke and stale craft beer. Like the carpet at a First Nations casino. At any rate, the weird thing was that I had been talking aboot how I used to work out of Toronto, and the characters I used to work with, when out of the blue I ran into one of those characters. You may think this wouldn't be so odd, but the character I ran in to lives in New Jersey. So it's pretty odd. After fourteen years of not seeing this guy, even after hundreds of trips through New York and New Jersey, to run into him at Lakeshore Park in Toronto was kind of weird. Maybe not for the Dalai Lama, but for me, it was. That'll do maddad. That'll do.
My youngest son, Skippy, turned 10 yesterday. I am now ten years older than I was when he was born. I feel every minute. In case you haven't noticed, I've been miserable. I've really been trying hard not to be, there's no real good reason for me to be, but I am. Chemicals? Maybe. Health? Probably. I am fat as shit and sore as hell. (Because I am fat as shit. It's a vicious cycle.) I have been trying all the regular crap that people say to try when you're in a rut. I got a hobby, an old British sports car. I can't make it run. I started exercising. I am too busy to make it stick. Diet. Are you fucking kidding? New job. Trading old problems for new problems. Besides, thanks to the complete bunch of assholes running the country, our money ain't worth shit. As of this writing, the Canadian dollar is worth a dollar and ten cents American. What the hell are we thinking. We are now Canada's Canada, only with guns and less polite. So maybe we're Canada's Mexico. Whatever, I'm not even trying any more.
I have (yet again) made the decision to become a happy person. It is not going to be easy, there's a lot going against me, but I will do it. This time I'll go with a "fake it 'till you make it" strategy. Since I obviously have some kind of brain issue that periodically chucks my mood into an oubliette, I'll just make the best of it and pretend that it doesn't. I don't want drugs or anything (now) and I don't think I'm too late. I could be "happydad" if I try hard enough, right? I'll make the behavior a habit, I'm good at habits. I'm better at superstition, though. Maybe I can make my behavior change some kind of good luck charm, like wearing my wedding ring on an airplane. I started doing that because I wanted them to be able to identify my body, but so far it's worked out pretty well as a good luck charm. Since nobody's had to. Identify my body. We'll see if I can make the effort. I want to, but damn if it isn't like February in here. "Here" would be my brain, which has temporarily stopped talking to me, as it does periodically. Arrgh. I mean, HA! HA!