My girlfriend saw her ex across the room and was insistent about talking to him alone. I could hear everything they were saying, and then I couldn’t. She was gone when I looked over again.
“She had to sort something out with him.” That was the waitress, a once lovely woman with too much mascara. “I hope you have a healthy relationship.”
“The lies of love and how this millennia-old myth has kept civilization barely afloat.” I finished both drinks and ordered again.
There was a graffitied phone booth in between the bathrooms, and the phone actually worked. She didn’t answer. But my mother did. She was disappointed in me and wanted to know where I was. Things just got worse from there.
Bullying is the avatar of these ill-tempered days. Whatever the argument – beliefs, politics or sport – the road to take is straight to hell. And while I know that this rage-baiting is all drivel, that people taunt because they’re scared and stupid, they remain an exhausting pain.
I was taunted throughout my high school days. Craig Nettie, Adam Moreland and Andrew McAlpine took turns mocking me for my bad skin, ill-fitting clothes and nerdy music, all of it just to make me feel bad. And it really pissed me off. Mike Czurfisz was a different sort, hair slanted perfectly over his forehead, laid back, incredibly so, posture so easy going, it didn’t seem practiced. He never got mad and got along with everyone.
Mike Czurfisz, St. Andrew’s College, 1977
Mike spoke to me a couple of times, once when there was an outbreak of swine flu at school – he taught us to press the thermometer against the radiator before giving it back to the nurse and get classes cancelled for a week – and then at the spring concert when I managed to dance with a girl until Stairway to Heaven got too fast. “You played that cool, man. She likes you.”
I’ve been thinking about what Mike Czirfusz is doing to handle this age of hate. Does he let it slide and wait for the next cool thing? Or does he bristle now because his daughters are out there and none of this is any good? Whatever it might be, it’s something better than I’m doing, because I’m ready to snap at the next yap. Come on, Mike, give me a hint. I need it.
Things that appear important one moment mean nothing the next. I flit wherever, getting hit, somehow surviving, capitalism outraging and comforting me all at once, not To strive and not to yield but How is the Dow right now?
Pam Bondi asks, “Why are you laughing?”
Is it all doom scrolling or just more fallout from this administration from hell? Am I stupider than I already was? All I know is that I’ll keep on betting, whether I’m on a streak or just trying to get some of it back. I’ve got Ice Age at +4200, and I feel good about that.
How noble in reason, How infinite in faculty…In apprehension, how like a god, The paragon of animals. As much as Hamlet’s self reflection glows at the outset, it slumps in the end. What is this quintessence of dust? No, man delights me not; no, nor woman neither.
Everyone, each and every one of us, disappoints in the end, not just our government lying and hoarding, but our family and friends not there, our nearest and dearest terribly sorry that they forgot, or worst of all, me and you, looking back at each other cow-eyed.
This isn’t so much the big things – the state-sponsored murders and collapse of world order – but more the moments that we hold tight, that made us realize the essential sham, for me, the Mad Hatter themed birthday party I went to when I was ten, the promise of food-fighting madness turning out to be being yelled at as our Redi-Whip sodden plates flopped to the ground, or visiting the CHUM radio station for my contest prize and being directed to pick out an LP from a discard box in the corner. This was victory.
Disappointments continue unabated not because I am a failing writer nor my failures in relationships nor even my success at getting fired but because of what this is, a demanding vortex that surrenders nothing but more days to witness everything go to hell. The good news is that, like the song says, The first cut is the deepest. More of the same is on the way. I would only say that it’s best to keep the curtain closed; if there’s anything back there, it’s a pestilent old man, and he wants to rape you.
