I was swimming in grey, swimming in grey

My youth may be summed up like this: I was a wanderlust with an unhealthy beguilement for bunnies and gas huffing. It was a youth fraught with disturbing dreams and lugubrious days.
I reminisce on my past because my sister is applying for a position in which she needs to submit a page of creative writing; thus she turned to me to provide her with that page. I have not written anything remotely creative in the past year save a short screenplay with my confrere Dale; therefore, I had to scavenge through my prolific high school era (and to a lesser extent the U of T depression of 05/06) and uncover something worthy for Jena's submission. I logged onto my old computer, dug up some graffiti stained notebooks and was overwhelmed with material.
Now, my grade school days were met with much chorlericness, cynicism, and an anti-everything attitude. These adjectives may not be entirely obsolete towards my current persona, but I am nowhere near the dark abyss I was treading years ago. During this dark period I prominently wrote screenplays. I found circa thirty screenplays on my computer; half of those incomplete and with themes and ideas so peculiar and convoluted they have become inexplicable to the author. The material that is comprehensible is black and incongruous and by no means appropriate for any official submission. Thankfully I no longer resonate with these drafts; however, I must commend myself for such creativity and motivation to write as much as I did. I lived with thunderstruck fantasy and dreams with chimeras skulking about my mind. Whatever happened to those days? I was flooded with ideas daily and was forced many-a-time to ignore lessons and scribble furiously at some spanking idea which would become my magnum opus. I found a certain but limited blithe with these ideas and escaped into a woolgathering world. Looking back I see my writing wasn't so terrible and maybe my self-deprecating fastidiousness was unfounded. But I have not seen this old world for some time. I am now purely confounded. I have nothing left to say now except this: Everything is just far too real for a fabricated man.

By Jove!

The other day I ventured into the smoggy and dreary city that is Toronto. Having been country confined for a month, I felt like a foreigner. But if you've ever been to Toronto, you'd realize everyone was a foreigner. I rather loathe Toronto, as the mecca of Canada is an unfavourable location for a simple country lad such as myself. Mind you the country is fanged and blood thirsty with stygian mosquitoes and other sinister insects. This is maybe a paradox: Nature and I are opposing ends of magnets, and my curiosity and infatuation with nature leads me deeper into Her heart; but in this heart lies a skulking darkness, which ultimately swarms and repels me so I rapidly scatter to re-trace my steps back towards humanity escaping this feigned utopia. We're drawn together but we destroy one another like a celebrity couple.

Anywhoers I met up with a dear confrere with the noble intent to browse secondhand bookstores and recoup forgotten literary works to revel in. After I indulged in a everythingonit veggiedog, Cajun spiced fries and an Evian, I informed my amie that I was nourished and hydrated for the body, but not yet for the mind - so our trek began. On the way, we bypassed some toothsome Irish dames - think Dolores O'Riordan of The Cranberries (from her good angle)- and as the hobbledehoy I am, I shambled around them so they wouldn't be caught under my shadow; primarily so they wouldn't be deprived of sunbeams they unequivocally craved (they are Irish after all: the milky skinned, freckled type).

Ah, there it is - our desired location - "Seeker's Books." Eagerly, we tottered inside this ancient subterranean shop with rickety shelves and cement walls oozing moisture. And there he is - the epitome secondhand bookstore owners - an anti-Zionist Jew with a passion for conspiracy theories and a penchant to ramble on about these theories to every unsuspecting soul entering his little shop.

Not long after we began digging through forgotten arts, brosif cried victoriously, "Ah, will you look at this!" (he holds up a forgotten work, which remains forgotten to me) "In high school I read this in French," he adds superciliously. Delicately, he opens this novel and feels the pages and I think: this is either an avid book collector or intellectual snobbery; I remain undecided.

After much mulling and mock chatter I decided to purchase a novel by beat generation author Jack Kerouac and a collection of novellas by Thomas Mann.

These events should of been documented with photos but my failing memory failed me; my camera was forgotten unlike Sal.

The Golden One

I received an informal complaint from Mehran The Persian. He is indignant that his "linkster" has been changed from "Mehran's blog - it's a gooder" to the more simple and efficient "Mehran The Persian". I apologize confrere; however, your feelings are of no importance to me and thus your informal complaint has been repudiated. Your "linkster" will receive a spanking new name for no other reason than I live a vapid existence and it would likely highlight my day.

Last.fm neglected to update weekly listening charts. This is an non-act of war. Though I've become strongly attached to last.fm catering my musical pleasures, I will not hesitate to log off my last.fm pink sphere thing for an entire week in protest.

The other day Mats Sundin purchased gasoline from me. Then Mother informed me there is a deranged man in town that physically resembles and pretends to be Mats Sundin. This is logical, as this imposter was wearing a Sundin t-shirt, driving a lousy automobile and isn't in Sweden.

Asobi Seksu is the greatest Jap-led New York shoegazing/dream pop band ever.

Shoutout to you cats who voted for a spanking email. The turnout was higher than the 2004 Presidential election, yet lower than the atypical American Idol vote. I'm still ambivalent towards a decisive email address; rest assured, the process is ongoing.

Oh, a feeling of lassitude is creepin' up on me... so long.

IndecisiveNags

The time has come for a spanking new cyberspace mail address; below is an exhaustive list of nominees. Please select which address you feel would do me justice. I've sorted the prospects into categories to ease this task; and of course this address will be activated through Hotmail. Note: some of these prospects are ascribed to Rattnarcotics.

Japanese:
Nageisha
Nagsamauri
Nagosaurus

Religion/Spirituality:
Nagentile
Naghoul
Nagnostic
NagsScientologyCauseJohnTravoltaTomCruiseAndThatBlackGuyFromSouthParkCannotBeWrong
Naglevitation
NagSaintHot

Music Related:
Nagloaming
Naglamrock
NagScissorSisters
Nagrekerna

Seductive/Bewitching (the preferred category I'd say):
Nagazing
Naglaucoma
Naglissade
NagsShags
NaglutenFree
Nagsalad
Nagloaf
NagleyPuff
HotNagsMaids
FinagleTheNagle
Nagleeper
iamforlovers
Naglistens
Naglagoon
NagLust
Nagsicle
NagLoansHisHeartWithoutInterestExceptInYou
NagsInABox

Self-Righteous/Ostentatious:
Nagland
Nagsaga
Nagalore
SwaggerNaggar
Naglegacy
Naganator

Unclassifiable:
NagLethalInjection
Nagscathe
Nagale
Naglock
Nagauche
NaglegitimateChild
Rottenags

These flies don't sting, but stab

Allright! shoutout time.
Shoutouts to: Ed Harcourt and Joseph Conrad.
That concludes shoutout time.

According to Last.fm, my number one song is "I am John" by Loney, dear (note: only the Swedes know whether the 'dear' should be capitalized). I thought it appropriate to post the lyrics. Having these lyrics available is a luxury, as Loney, dear lyrics are rarer than Woolly Mammoths being found frozen in God-forsaken continents.

Johnny and I, we got lost tonight, we got carried away.
It takes someone like me to lose track like that, to be troubled down,
got a heart full of plans but nowhere to run.
There were seventeen dogs out to track us down
and I got some bruises and I got a scar but now,
never gonna let you down,
and I got it wrong like I knew I would, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
I must never let you down,
never gonna let you—

And everything must start from here,
in a sunshine with ease with somewhere to go,
with no sticky feeling of going wrong,
no heartbeat asking where you're gonna go.
With the trouble you wear, you want to wear it down,
you want to make something new of this but
never gonna make it (home), never gonna make it.
Someone I want now, somewhere I want to go, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
never gonna let you down,
but I will always let you down.

I said Johnny and I, we got lost tonight,
but we doubled our chances, we've got somewhere to go.
We've got devils chasing us to hunt us down,
and we know we can't go like this from now.
I've got a feeling of you, and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me, said
never gonna let you down, was never gonna let you—
Someone I want now, somewhere I want to go, and I told you,
never gonna let you down,
never gonna let you down,
but I will always let you down.

I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let—
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.
Johnny and I, we got lost tonight, we got carried away.
It takes someone like me to lose track like that, to be troubled down,
got a heart full of plans but nowhere to run.
And everything must start from here,
in a morning with ease with somewhere to go,
with no sticky feeling of going wrong,
with no heartbeats asking where you're gonna go.
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.
I've got a feeling of you and we danced for so long,
I want your arms around me like lovers do,
and I'm never gonna let you down, gon' let you down,
gon' let you down, gon' let you down.

A rather vapid post regarding insignificant events

After many sleepless nights and zombie like days, I concluded the only suitable and heroic email for myself would be: hotnags@hotmail.com. As I went about securing this account, the most unlikely and tragic thing happened - hotnags@hotmail.com is unavailable. Some daft punk claimed it first. Or maybe it's not some daft punk, but a person of high class and esteem; after all, this individual has demonstrated impressive tastes selecting such an address. Attempts to contact this (daft punk or esteemed) person have failed. Maybe the account is closed. I've notified Hotmail authorities trusting they will resolve this matter.

I viewed a musical picture show today--Dancer In The Dark--and it's the most gloomy musical ever. It's like classic MGM with blood and capital punishment; a Dorthy with a gun. But it's not relentlessly stygian as brief roseate musical interludes shed some light on the darkness; without those interludes, it would of been, well, Dogville, I suppose.

Today was hot. I miss winter.

I prefer to chase deer rather than cars.

The Quest

Virtually any email address would mark profound improvement upon leaf_fan29@hotmail.com. Yet my quest for a new address has left me depressed (aside: I did not intend for a rhyming blog). Anywhoers, I've finally decided upon an address to sleep on: shiveringgreen@hotmail.com. AH, BUT THAT DOUBLE G. Do I insert a period or an underscore such as: shivering.green or shivering_green; that period is annoying and that underscore is blantantly inapt.

Tomorrow, slaving on the rig, I will ponder this quandary.

Oh, just common unpleasantries really

It's recently come to my attention that blogger.com sucks. I mean, it seriously blows. I hate the inability to befriend people. If this were Venezuela or China, only one blogging website would exist and thus the entire blogging community would be unionized and blissful. I glower at capitalism and non-centralized governments.
If I so desired I could subscribe to others' blogs, but I'd rather be subjected to left winged Michael Moore propaganda. That man suffers from a toxic case of megalomania, whereas I suffer from something completely different - I am gauche, folks. Or I lack social polish and I'm awkward. It is an appropriately unpleasant word to pronounce.

I need a brand spanking new e-mail address! This is such a conundrum for me. I've set a deadline. By Friday, I will have a new address for the first time in eight years. This is a most daunting task.

I pity the daffs who viewed that Transformers picture. And I pity Steven Spielberg for involving himself in such a picture, which bring opprobrium to his classics. Shame on you, man.

Also, Architecture in Helsinki has a song in the Sprint commercial. I have mixed feelings.

She's my Rushmore

I worked twenty eight hours in three days. Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself. These laborious hours include the holiday Monday, which should be time and a half; however, Shell pays me cash "underneath the oil rig" so I do not benefit from rare government enforced handouts. This mildly inflames me. Shell is a like Scrooge - a miser with ostentatious wealth. I am like Tiny Tim - a blindly dedicated slave desperately attempting to scrap together enough cash to attain a University degree.
On July 1st The Fan590 (Toronto's sports radio station) brought opprobrium upon Canada and its citizens. Everyone knows July 1st is the beginning of the NHL's unrestricted free agency period. As the proud and courageous citizen I am, I was working the oil fields and listening to the latest mad fury of free agent signings when after a stingy two hours of coverage the Fan590 switches to - brace for it - baseball. The pre-game coverage asked the question: what is Canada's greatest baseball moment? Disgracefully, citizens (likely illegal) called in from across the GTA expressing their cheery baseball memories. The ironic thing is that earlier in the show the commentators were speaking of a lack of Canadian pride - they just interrupted hockey coverage for baseball!; loney, dears!

Anywhoers, the Leafs ended up signing Jason Blake to a five year contract. He's an aging veteran coming off a career year. The signing will inevitably come back to haunt them, in the form of an anti-Casper like ghost; looking similar to Bryan McCabe.

This reminds me, I must create a new e-mail address. I've been working on a new address for about seven years now. Any suggestions are welcome.