Gélaté - Teaser #1

Thursday that feels like Wednesday but smells like Friday...

Today has been this kind of day. See? I used italics and everything...

Any questions?

Sweaty Palms, Inc.

I always get nervous when I have to introduce myself.

It's tough.

You want people to understand what you're all about, but you also want to maintain the illusion that you're an interesting person. "Hi, I'm Judes. I'm a proud father, a borderline alcoholic and a chronic masturbator" doesn't seem to do that so well.

I regularly see people falling into the trap of introducing themselves with their jobs. You know... You're at a party and some guy comes up to you. "Hi! Chad, lawyer" or " Hey chief, I'm Bill. I'm a urologist. "Hey Bill. Judes... and unless you're a hooker or a cop, I don't really give a shit what you do at this point in our relationship!" comes off a bit harsh. But never forget: what you DO is not who you ARE.

I've been working on this recently, and here's what I have so far:

"Hi there. I'm Judes. I'm that guy that you work with who bitches about you when he gets home then plans increasingly intricate ways to kill you as part of his ingenious plan to take capitalism (and the Audi-driving sociopaths who grease its wheels) down to his level so that we can live in a world that is based on love, enlightenment and respect."

Feel free to use this if you want, but be forewarned: You have to come to our meetings on Tuesday nights if you do.

No. I don't really hate my job. I fear it.

I'm afraid of a lot of things... like clowns. Legitimate things too though! Like my kids not having a planet to grow up on... or getting stuck between a bear and her cubs on a hike... rodents... but yeah. Clowns, mostly.

Fear of your job brings it up a notch, though.

I spend most of my days hoping that nobody will notice that I'm doing the strict minimum. I'm scared that my barely-concealed contempt for the people I work with and for isn't as "barely-concealed" as I think. I'm afraid that the 3 or 4 times I go masturbate during the day (to cope) are being videotaped and will be held against me when I'm up for a promotion. I'm terrified that someone is dumb enough to think that I deserve a promotion.

So I have a plan. A light at the end of the corporate tunnel, if you will.

DMZs - Designated Masturbation Zones.

We may have to change the name in some places... like Korea. Can you imagine?

 "Captain! What is Kim Sang-Kyu doing in the middle of the most fortified region on earth?"

"He seems to be pulling "Kimchi" from his "Samsung", sir.

(That last line is from my new International Dictionary of Masturbatory Euphemisms. Coming soon to a book store near you.)

Anyway, DMZs... Just imagine! It will make capitalism better, and more importantly - it will be great for ME!

Your boss calls you: "Johnson, I see that your productivity has increased 756%! That's..."

"Sorry, but we can make this quick? I've got a bunch of files to sort if I want to hit the DMZ again before lunch."

And how can you have coworker contempt if you're masturbating all day? "Listen Mark, I can't wait to hear all about the variable interest rate you got on your mortgage, but if you've got about 7 minutes, we can talk about it in the DMZ."

The best part is the videotapes. I have a dream, my friends

I see an overpaid, underworked Inhuman Resources monkey hunched over her desk. She's eating a 3-day old tuna sandwich and watching a Greatest Hits compilation of my DMZ visits. I'm throwing coconuts from the palm tree of love (see dictionary for more details). She's hypnotized.

The Audi-driving CEOciopath who we rent our lives out to walks by. He stops, looks at the screen as his soul-less eyes focus.

"MY GOD! Who is that?"

"That's Dickey. Down in the basement."

"That kid's got moxy! Spunk! I want him in my office in five minutes!"

The Inhuman Resources monkey picks up the phone. She dials my extension, eyes still glued to the screen.

POW!

My plan is put into action. We take down the company from within. We liberate society to become the sexual utopia of expanded consciousness it longs to be AND...

I've got myself an introduction I can finally feel comfortable with...

"Judes Dickey, Masturbation and Development coordinator. Nice to meet you! Shall we step into my office?"

When I was 17...*

*With apologies to Frank Sinatra

I'm not sure why this popped into my head, but it did, so I thought I would share with you. I see you, you know. "Oh! Goody!", you're saying as you clutch that mug of tea, or coffer or... what IS that you're drinking? I also know that you're a busy person, so I'll make it quick.

As I remember this story, I'm also realising that it may be one of the reasons I have such a personal, inherent distrust of "democratic governments". I know. I know. The other options are sooooo much worse. I don't want Idi Amin. I don't want Noriega. Actually, an Idi Amin-type could be interesting, but... no. Maybe not. I want a government that can actually figure out the etymology of the word "democracy" and I want people who can be illuminated enough to not put Hitler in power.

I'm digressing, aren't I? Sorry.

It was 1989. I had won an essay contest at school (by "won", I mean "was the only person who had submitted to") and the Dartmouth Rotary Club sent me packing on a trip to our Capital City. Ottawaaaaaaaah. That's a yawn sound. try it. I'm kidding. Ottawa is actually rather nice, as far as Capital Cities go. It was called "Adventures in Citizenship". I was to go experience what it meant to be a Canadian, even though I was not yet of legal drinking age. It was the first time I flew by myself. It was also the first time I learned that you don't make bomb jokes in airports, which is why I suppose parents fly with their kids in the first place. To stop them from making bomb jokes... and joining the the Autoerotic Mile High Club.

We sat in Parliament, we looked at tulips. We did Ottawa-type things that I can no longer remember. And then, we went to Rideau Hall. "What the hell is Rideau Hall", you ask. You google it. The answer confuses you and you tell yourself, "This guy is a nonsensical jerk!". You finish your tea, coffee... What the HELL is that?!?! You get dressed, go about your day and forget this ever happened. I wish you shelter from the storm. Rideau Hall is the Governor General's official residence, by the way.

It was May 7th, actually. I had forgotten that part. It was my birthday.

It had been a long day. The tour guide was showing us the opulent luxury that non-elected officials get to live in during their term. I yawned a bit, despite the anger that burned inside me. "Who the hell gets to live like this just because their somebody's chum?" kept running through my mind. At one point, the guide said "The important thing to remember is that this is not the GG's house. It is every Canadian's house!". "PERFECT!", I thought. If it was my house, I could finally sit down! So I did. I still remember how cushy that chair was, 22 years later. So cushy...

"GET OFF OF THAT CHAIR!", yelled the guide as everyone turned to look at me.

"Why?", I responded (not getting up).

"Because you can't sit on it!"

"But you just said it was mine!"

"It's not. You can't sit there."

"BUT YOU JUST SAID IT WAS MINE!"

This is when security came. Not a rent-a-cop security, mind you. The man-in-black security. They glided over to the chair (have you ever noticed that? Secret service types always "glide"). They told me to get up. I refused, explaining that the tour guide had just explained that this chair was mine, as a taxpayer. Now that I look back on the incident, I imagine everyone was rather annoyed with me. I'm not sure what I was trying to prove, exactly, but I thought it was ridiculous and unfair and I thought everyone should know that. I finally got up, walked out of Rideau Hall and waited on the bus as the tour finished.

Later that evening, at dinner, some of the organizers came up to me and told me what I'd done was not very nice. I tried to explain my reasoning, but they weren't very receptive. They told me to knock it off. And I did.

But it's interesting to me that I remember this story so vividly, because I feel it really sums up what is wrong with the system. This "of the people" bit is really just lip service to mask the fact that a privileged, aristocratic mindset is really at the base of most democracies. We need to do something about this. What can we do?

Actually, the moral of this story is that I'm annoying and it seems that I have been for a long time. Also: Comfortable chairs stay lodged in your memory.

Be good to yourselves,
j.
( I don't have time to proofread this right now and I'm posting it anyway. Because I'm rash. I don't HAVE a rash anymore, but... Ah. Nevermind.)

Wednesday morning pre-coffee thoughts on language

The speed at which words are going through connotative metamorphoses is becoming a bit disconcerting. Think of it: The meanings of words like "douchebag" and "hipster" have become something entirely different than they were only 2 years ago. They have also jumped cultural and linguistic hurdles that used to make it take several years for them to be acknowldged internationally. Thanks Internet!

Not So Famous Last Words

A good morning, afternoon, evening, night to you all.

Here's the deal:

I'm starting a project (blog? book? pamphlet? Only time will tell...) called Not So Famous Last Words and I need your input.

We all know what Oscar Wilde, Louisa M. Alcott, Jane Austen, Beethoven and company uttered as they shuffled off this mortal coil. History has been good to them. A little too good, in some cases... but I digress! Famous last words have always interested me because they can either define someone's time on Earth or somehow capture the human experience, from profundity to the absurd.

The thing that has always bothered me with this little obsession is that thousands of people die every day, apparently. In hospitals, on sidewalks, baseball fields and rooftop parties the world over... you name it... Why aren't their final words jotted down for posterity's sake?

My job, kids, projects and yardwork don't keep me busy enough, so I'd like to start a record of regular people's... (wait for it) Not So Famous Last Words. That's where you come in.

If you are so inclined, please use the comments section to tell me what your friends, family and acquaintances said in their final moments. Please include their name, location and date, if possible.

It may sound a bit morbid, I realise that. But I'm seeing it as a tribute to our loved ones because I'm certain that they can beat Caligula's "I am still alive!". What a prick...

Thanks for your attention, your help in this endeavour and any Gummy Bears you would like to leave in the tip jar on your way out.

Be good to each other,

Judes

The conversation presently running through my head, 10:53pm

Judes (blurry-eyed, clearly needs to sleep): Oh! Hey blog... What's up?

Blog stands silent, turns it shoulders slightly to the left and looks at the ceiling.

Judes: What? What's wrong?

Blog: What's WRONG? Did you really just ask me what was wrong?

Judes: Well, yeah... I...

Blog (angrily): How dare you! You completely ignore me for months and then you just stroll in here like Caligula taking a pee break and expect everything to be OK?

Judes: Actually, I imagine Caligula just peed right in the middle of..

Blog: SHUT THE FUCK UP! You are completely missing the point. Again.

Judes (reaches out to touch Blog's arm, who walks away quickly and rests on the vintage Ice Cream freezer in the corner): I'm sorry. I didn't think... I didn't know that it would upset you this much.

Blog: For God's sake Judes. How could it not? Don't you remember how it was at first? You loved talking to me. We spent hours together, looking at what kind of weird shit we could find on the Internet. You did, you know. You loved talking to me. And we used to laugh. We laughed so much... but now that's all gone. It's just smoke. There aren't even any mirrors. It's all just smoke now. All because of that little bitch.

Judes (defensive): Hey. Just a fucking minute. Twitter is not a bitch.Twitter isn't anything. Well OK, no. That's not true. It's a friend, Blog. It's just a friend.

Blog (scoffing): If I spent that much time with my friends, I would have fucking killed them all and eaten the bodies... and we wouldn't have even been in the goddamn Andes! It's not normal!

Judes tries to find a witty response. He adjusts his collar. He shifts his weight uncomfortably. His mind is clearly racing.

Blog: Well?

Judes' mouth opens. Dry.

Blog: WELL????!?!?!

The Ice Cream machine awakens with a loud thud. They both jump. Dust dances in the pools of light around them.

Nobody speaks.

Blog: Jesus Christ. You're trying to find a way to say this with exactly 140 characters aren't you?

Blog storms off stage. The dull hum of the vintage Ice Cream machine fills the room like a Brian Eno record that somebody forgot to turn over.

Judes walks off into the darkness, a barely-audible "Seventy-eight...Seventy-nine..." cuts through the hum. Cuts through the silence.