Why I like typewriters

What can I say, I like typewriters. I like feeding it pages and hearing the clicks and creaks of its movement and the punch of its keys. I like seeing a stack of my first draft physically continue to rise because it's sitting next to the typewriter. It's not lost in the some electronic world of binary code, dependant on expensive equipment and a stable electrical supply to access.

Look no further, it's on the table right in front of you! Just be sure to keep the open flames away from it.

If I was cynical I could boil down my love of typewriters to some form of hipster bullshit. Like fedoras. People always ask my why I'd put myself through such a task of writing a novel on a typewriter, when I could just use a computer. I could tell them that every writer has a method for how they write. Hemingway wrote standing up on a typewriter, Capote wrote lying down on a sofa with a pen and yellow legal pads, and Annie Proulx begins long-hand before switching to a computer. Everybody has their method. (As for myself, I write all first drafts of any project - novel, short story, poem, whatever - on my typewriter, then transfer them to my computer for editing.)

My reasons are simple. First, I feel that writing on a computer directs my attention to how a story looks, rather than what it's made of. In other words, I spend more time on presentation than substance. Whether it's the constant back-spacing, or ignited rage at the red underline, I find computers to be distracting during the creative process of the first draft.

With a typewriter, I don't worry about mistakes or typos because there isn't an easy way to fix them, so I don't worry about them until editing time. I believe this allows my train of thought to flow more easily. And the longer I can maintain that flow, or "juiciness", the more productive I am. This also allows me to maintain focus on my story and its details, rather than the details of font size, save as, and et-cetera.

Typing on a typewriter is like playing a musical instrument along to a metronome. The sound the keys punching paper through the ribbon sounds like the tick-talk of keeping time. In a sense, the sounds the keys make sort of help keep the tempo of your thoughts as you get them out onto the page.

My second reason relates to editing and crafting a finished product. I'll admit, I'm a writer, not an editor. My strength is in the creative process, not in revision. But I want to improve. And typing on the typewriter helps with this. Because you can't fix mistakes with a typewriter, as I've already said, the first drafts are littered with typos. Due to this, after I've arrived at a first draft, I then retype, word-for-word, the entire story onto a computer, where editing is easier.

This forces me to concentrate on each and every character I've typed into the story. From there, I make a series of additions and subtractions in the formation of second or third drafts until I'm happy with the story.

Typewriters might be old school, but I've found writing a story in this way really helps smooth out the process of creating the story, and sharpens my editing skills. What the hell, I'll feed a little paper for that!

America (2011)

America I’ve given it my all and you left me with nothing.

America five-hundred dollars credit, September 30, 2011.

I can’t afford my own peace of mind.

America when will you let me take off my clothes?

When will you be empathetic?

Will you ever stop sending our best eggs to die in deserts

and middle eastern streets?

America what plans are you concocting while we sleep?

I won’t let my emotional life be run by your atomic bomb.

America I feel sentimental about the West Memphis Three.

I studied Castro in school and downloaded music and I’m not sorry.

You should have caught me abusing Napster.

America I’ve checked into Hotel California.

America live fast die fun.

Forever young.

America when will you stop funding the human wars?

America free Tookie Williams.

America save the Arab-Americans.

America Mumia Abu-Jamal must not die.

America WE ARE TROY DAVIS.

America why are all your hospitals so full of tears?

When will you be worthy of your millions uninsured?

Leave my Medicare alone.

Go fuck yourself with your HMOs.

I just bought myself a gun so I can feel safe in my bedroom.

America look who’s wearing the strap-on.

America this is freedom of expression.

My ambition is to write despite how hard you make it to keep a pen.

America this continues to be serious.

It’s serious on the news in the streets in the schools in the churches.

Everybody thinks this is serious except for YOU America!

They mean food when their stomachs growl.

They mean medicine when their coughs do the talking.

They’re trying to speak when they go quiet.

America are you paying attention?

America you’re becoming quite greedy.

ME wants Big Oil.

ME like skyscraper and concrete landscapes.

ME have foreign Tar-Sand dreams.

America China is still rising against us.

America you don’t know who to go to war with.

America it’s them bad Terrorists. Them Terrorists and them Freedom Fighters.

Them Terrorists wants to blow us up again. Them Terrorists fly our planes.

Them Terrorists is suicidal and crazy. He wants to blow us up with envelopes

out our own mail boxes.

America all that’s left in Oklahoma is the Tree.

America but it is you and I who are still perfect.

America I am Canadian and this is the view I get from the television set.

America that wasn’t icing sugar you used to sweeten the Winnipeg sky in 1953.

America when will you fuck off and let me be?

America when I was eighteen years old I was watching the news with my mother and it showed us images of kids running out of their school with their hands held to the back of their heads and they were following the police officers while guns were firing and the injured kid crawled across the library floor and dangled outside the window for all the cameras to see and still inside were two kids with guns and bombs and trench coats who walked around their school and killed all the jocks they could shoot and then they killed themselves.

Then there was Virginia Tech.

America then ten more innocent holes in the Beltway.

America you still don’t understand what happened to Ron Kovic when he came home.

The Old Man can’t fish in the Gulf of Mexico.

America my name is Forrest Forrest Gump and people call me Forrest Gump.

America shit happens.

America I’m imagining there’s no heaven and I like what I see.

I won’t find your Jesus until I’m ready.

I believe I’ll finally find Neverland.

America I’m a super freak I’m super freaky.

America I’m going to keep on rockin’ in the free world.

America how many times will you turn your head and pretend you just don’t see?

America the answer is blowing in the wind.

Easy Rider.

Freedom Writer.

America I found Forrester and he’s pissed

because nobody remembers his book

because you took all the books out all the libraries and you closed the libraries.

America for a fisher of men you’ve thrown many of us back.

America this is the view through Garry Gilmour’s eyes.

America is it becoming clear?

I didn’t say anything America.

...Nevermind.

One Morning in September

The first thing that people noticed was how low the plane was flying, and then how fast. Every news crew in the country had their cameras pointing at the already smoking North Tower. Sirens bounced off the exteriors of the buildings lining Wall Street, the sounds of people expressing their shock and awe became almost ambient noise as panic and uncertainly began to take hold of the fearful people scattering on the streets below. Many watched the destruction through the lenses of their video cameras, unsure of what they were seeing unfold, but certain they would want to remember.

The nation was watching and wondering why these two staples of the New York City skyline were being attacked. Thick black smoke continued to escape through the sides of the North Tower. Cameras rolling. People running away from the building but unable to take their eyes of off it. A city of Salems and Lots looking back and running scared. Then the cameras saw the plane and it hung low in the sky, too low in the sky, and was blasting through the air with speed. People would note the roar of the engine screaming mere meters above their heads. Police and fire crews responding. The authorities begin to climb the stairs.

Five hundred yards away from the North Tower, Ben is watching through his camera lens at the surprising and paralyzing moment thrust upon his morning view. Ben was thirty-five stories up and like many in high rises that morning, was wondering if his building was next. With a shaky hand, he panned his camera across the large smoking hole in the North Tower, followed the trails of smoke up toward where it collected and formed a giant blur at the roof. Smoke pouring out the windows, smoke pouring out over the Hudson River. The practicing New York Giants saw the smoke rising from lower Manhattan and with the same curiosity as Ben, some of them grabbed their cameras and began to tape whatever was happening. Every movie camera in the tri-state area was trying to get this on tape. Spectacle doesn’t quite say it. The second plane was flying low in the sky. Air traffic controllers watched helplessly as the plane abandoned its flight plan right before their eyes.

In the clarity of hindsight you would have thought more people in the towers would have brought parachutes with them to work especially those who worked on the upper floors. Instead of watching helplessly as people flung themselves to their deaths to escape the smoke and flames, Ben’s camera would have seen a rainbow of parachutes blossom through the smoky sky, navigating their wearer’s way to safety.

Instead there were arms waving white flags and people desperately gesticulating in a vain attempt to call the world’s attention to the people still trapped inside. There were arms flailing and legs kicking out for the support that wasn’t there. There were bodies that sounded like sacks of cement when they hit the earth.

The streets were frantic. Police, Fire, EMS workers scrambled to assist. Smoke pouring out over the Hudson, blurring the eyes of Lady Liberty. People screaming. People standing with their mouths agape hoping the right words to say would crawl voluntarily from their mouths so they wouldn’t have to think.

A blur of cellular phones pointed at the smoking North Tower.

The plane was closing in. Faster. Roaring. Thunder sweeps across the streets of lower Manhattan mixing with the whirlpool of sirens, horns, screams and camera flashes. Annie Leibowitz aims her camera through the windows of her twenty-third street loft. Pictures go in her book of significance.

A man on the one hundredth floor has stopped waving his flag. He looks through the smoke and sees his children and the life they would go on to have without him. Below the people look like ants scrambling away from an unwanted footstep, scrambling for safety, scrambling to heal. Scrambling. His shadow grew as he approached the sidewalk.

Planes in the sky check in with the towers. The men in charge of national air traffic scratch their heads when repeated communication with United 93 go unanswered. Clear skies all across the country today. Nothing to worry about. Boss Man’s famous last words as he left the control room for the coffee room. Coming back to a view to chaos. The world imploding. Plane flies low. Roars. Screams. Bulge of orange flames appears a second after. A firey hole punched in the steel and glass skyline. Clear blue skies. Nothing to worry about. Smoke columns visible from outer space. Masking liberty island.

Twin Towers are burning like candles on the birthday cake of a new world priority. Beware. My suitcase means something to you. You should find my stare menacing. Why are you ignoring me? You won’t be doing that for long.

The towers burn like candles.For an hour the Towers burn and Ben’s camera records the entire thing. The sirens, the screams, the running, the yelling, the heroes, the collapse.

A people’s redemption in the hands of the heroes who crawled through rubble and pulled out angels. The shadow of a solitary fireman quietly taking stock in silhouette becomes a symbol of recovery efforts to rise again. Falling Man frozen in the shutter of a stranger becomes the symbol of the thousands missing, and efforts to name those without names.

About Gravity

I built the city when I first laid eyes upon it.

I made this chair when I sat down on it.

I killed you when I saw you already lifeless in the grass

beneath the apple tree that taught me about gravity.

Paint a rainbow when you opened my eyes.

Walked through the rest of my life expecting a big surprise.

Fell through the traps I found in picture frames.

Became the catalyst to my own decay.

I saw hellos when I first heard your good-byes.

Felt the tears of my laughter and the joys of my sorrow.

Shut my mouth and watched my open palm shake while it did the talking.

I do my best running when I'm faced with walking.

Bum a cigarette from a stranger,tell a line to feed a friend.

I saw a tall tree, you saw the opportunity to fall.

You dressed for winter like you didn't notice the summer at all.

We built this island when we stopped to see the sea.

Right in front of us while we slept way up in the apple tree

that taught us about gravity.

Thoughts on Music and Writing

My relationship with music is the same as everybody else's: it puts me into a certain mood, it gets me out of certain moods, it's the soundtrack to my workouts at the gym and when I'm running along the canal under the watchful eyes of trees robust with summer leaves. When I hear a good piece of music, its brilliance will fester inside me for a while and I imagine the composer toiling away at a piano, or a guitar, or one of the woodwinds, trying to put down on the page what they hear in their heads so they can share their work and others can learn.

The first time I remember watching someone play a musical instrument, I was probably three or four. It was my grandfather, which is to say my mother's father. He played the banjo, and he still does. My siblings and I can look back upon our memories at their cottage and hear him pluck those strings and play those scales.

When I was ten, he bought me my first guitar. I had been doing a little work as a paper delivery person - pretty standard for a pre-teen - and my grandfather told me that when I had saved one hundred and fifty dollars, he'd take me to the music shop and we would pick out a guitar. About two months later - and after a few youth-driving impulse purchases - I had saved the one-fifty, and like he said, my grandfather took me to the music shop.

It's almost twenty-years later, and I'm still playing the guitar. But the role of music - or perhaps more accurately, my playing music - has taken on something of a different purpose in my life. During university, I started reading and then writing with increasing frequency. Each summer I would read what I considered to be classics, and this in turn made me want to write.

Writers do all sorts of things when they write, and they have all sorts of rituals and things they do to keep moments of inspiration on the horizon, get them through a tough place in a novel, or whatever the case may be. One of my favourite writers, James Frey, has said that listening to music while he's thinking and writing dialogue, helps him to write dialogue in a more authentic way. Other's like Joyce Carole Oates, turn instead to physical exercise like running when they are working out plots lines or characters or whatever, in their head. In the case of Oates, she maintains that doing something methodical can be creatively restorative - and if you're lucky, something inspirational may trigger your writing hand along the way!

What I like to do is something of a mixture, in concept at least, as it doesn't involving running. Whenever I'm working out a problem or am aimless as to where I want my story to go, I grab my guitar and start playing chords. What's funny is that most times, I play the same pattern of chords over and over and over again, until I either relent to the increasing feeling that this work is lost for the night, it's gone out to sea...or until I figure it out and get going again. The words land safely on the page and nobody gets hurt.

There's just something about those beats, those sounds that clear my head and give me the proper head space to think about my story. But that's just my jive!

Drive-by Love, part three: playing by the rules

First date goes down at her place. Cool. Don't they usually happen at some bar with a one-word name?

They've spent the better part of the week "talking" via "instant message service of the moment". He thinks her conversational style is weird; she doesn't write that much, or respond with any sense of urgency. Sometimes an entire sleep cycle passes and he'll wake up to a message. She makes him laugh though. Asks her out. She responds with the question: "Are you ready for this jelly?" Hahahahaha....smily face. He saw the pictures of her though, there's no jelly.

Things he knows about her: beautiful, moved from Northern Ontario three years ago, likes beer (the seeds of "maybe too much" were planted in his head at that moment), she's very active, and she has a dog named Stanley. He looks at her profile picture while he waits for her reply. He's tired but doesn't want to put the phone down. She's wandering around a casino with a drink in her hand and her blackberry on vibrate buried in the abyss of her purse. He's on his couch reading and glancing at his phone. Calm down man. Don't watch the pot. Seriously. Relax, the red light will flash. Plus, you'll hear the noise. If it's quiet, then she's not paying any attention to you right now. This is where he begins to wonder if she's really into him or not.

He figures, maybe too simplistically, that, if you're interested in the person, you're calling them back. Even if you have the urge to talk to her so bad that you have to put the phone on mute and ask her to tell you a story, partly so you can hear her voice, but also so she didn't figure out that you're sitting on the toilet. She'd never understand that sort of impulse. He's been trained to think that men and women approach this stuff differently.

They talk through the night. End up falling asleep beside their respective phones. Next day she says good morning and apologies for falling asleep. He say's no worries. Asks so when are we getting together. She says how about tomorrow? That's cool with him, besides, give him time to rent that movie he told her about. Downloading didn't work, too slow.

It's the first time he's walked to a girl's house with a video rental tucked under his arm since high school. Oh memory lane. Thinks it's cool that the first date is going down at her house. She casually responding: Where and when? and Your place or mine? Seemed pretty open-minded. Of course he suggests her place. Knows she lives alone. Well, her dog is there, but no other people. It's on a big street so he checks the address on the internet as he's getting ready. Enters her address, then enters his. Clicks "get directions" and waits a few seconds. Bam. Hey, she's so close. He smiles because he's averted the possibility of paying for a taxi. That's so cool, she's in my neighbourhood. Awesome. He leaves his house with a smile on his face. Thinks he'll stop and get a bottle of wine. Doesn't know what she prefers, but everybody likes red.

Walks, bottle of wine in hand, up the street to her's and makes a left turn. Heading toward the canal now. Slowly the apartment buildings and offices complexes give way to the brownstones of an Ottawa long gone. Back when the houses were built with care, good materials, a greater sense of craftsmanship. Ever seen a stained-glass window on a mobile home? By the address she gave, number "three", he figured she lived in one of those three storey jobs that had been divided into three single apartments. So common in this area. Rare nowadays to see a big house for a single family down here. Anyway. Past Cartier. Almost at Queen Elisabeth Drive. Third house from the corner. Apartment three. Takes a breath and rings the door bell.

Sounds of a dog barking leak through the door. Followed closely by footsteps down a steep stairwell and the smile of a beautiful women. Hi. It's her. She's holding Stanley. The dog. Go figure. He's a yapping little shit of a boston terrier, he's in fashion though, dressed in a sort of winter coat for dogs. She says he doesn't like the cold. Says he's soft like velvet. Pet him. He does. Agrees. Fucking dog is soft. She says come on up and he follows her. He takes the opportunity to check her out and he's happy because she's so fit. Loves a fit girl. Who doesn't, really? She wore black tights with a dress shirt and a scarf tied around her waist. She stands before him as he closes her door in a pair of thick wool socks pulled up to her knees. She looks cute as hell. In a messy way.

Tries to show that he hasn't already formed an opinion about her boobs. He totally has though. Are you kidding me? Poker face registers in a pasted on smile that he can't tare off. Looks into her eyes when she talks. Then at her cheek bones. Then at her hair. Then...then...

Nice place. Taupe walls. White moldings. She hangs his coat then they walk into the kitchen. She's already drinking wine. He'll just have what he's having. Puts the bottle he brought off to the side for now. Maybe they'll get to it later. Leans up against the counter while she's pouring wine and they make conversation. Good day today? Blah. Blah. Blah. Then he asks what she does for a living. I'm a cop, she says. Cool, he responds (maybe a little too eagerly, he might already be thinking about her handcuffs). Really, she asks. Yeah, he confirms. Because a lot of guys don't seem cool with that. They usually don't sound like they think it's cool, anyway. No, it is. In his mind, he's going, okay...good thing I didn't bring that joint with me. She's a cop, eh? Well, that explains the shape she's in. Fit. Fit. Fit. She smells like yoga for christ's sake.

They go into the living room. He looks at the all the precise decor. Glass table and four neatly arranged chairs. Perfect picture frames. Even a goddamn mantel. Place is beautiful. He tells her this twice in the first half hour. Feels stupid after the second time. She brings crackers and dip and they drink their wine and get to know each other. They're sitting on her love seat. The dog, for now, is sitting on the other couch. He's chewing a bone or something.

They turn the movie on and settle into the couch to watch it. He's thinking this is good because their elbows are touching. First contact. Cool. She's not huddled in the corner of the couch with her arms up, as if on guard. She turns around for her wine glass but then settles back down closer to him each time. Their hips are touching now. He puts his feet up on the table.

Bad move. Not because she doesn't like feet on the table, but because the dog then thinks it's his cue to sit on his out-stretched legs. It was not a cue. They were getting close. From where he sat the dog was just fine sitting on the other couch licking his balls or whatever. Not now though. Now the dog is sprawled out on his legs. But then begins to get up and relocate to a position that really isn't, between them. Hips move apart. Contact aborted.

She apologies and and says he just loves men. Especially her brother. Sorry. Sorry. He's being a little snot tonight. He hasn't seen my brother in a really long time. He's okay with it at first. Because the dog is cute and it hasn't forced her away from him completely. Elbows begin to rub together again after a few minutes. Then dog starts to move again. Back and forth, stepping on his crotch. Not the attention he was hoping for. Thing dog is a pain in the ass. Pain in the ass. Pain in the ass and a total cock-blocker. What did I do to you? Relax man, can't hit her dog. She'll throw you out. Plus she's a cop. So she'll kick your ass and then throw you out.

For the rest of the night it's follow the rules. Pretend to like the dog. Pretend to like the dog. Don't hit the fucking dog that's ruining everything right now. Leave the dog alone.

Note: no dogs were harmed during the date depicted. Seriously.

Drive-by Love, part two: the games

We're going to meet and it's going to be great. Hopefully. May be dwelling a little too much on the question, what's worse on a first date: no physical attraction, or nothing to talk about?

It's all a game, isn't? Just a loose, undefined list of rules that aren't written down anywhere, but seem to appear whenever two people make each other feel "funny". Don't send another email. Wait. Don't seem too eager. It's exactly the type of self-consciousness you feel when somebody's about to take your picture. How desperate will this make me look? You have to wait. If you get her number in a bar, wait three days, then call. NO. She won't call you first. Well, maybe. But don't count on it. Wait. Then call. If you like her, wait three days to tell her.

Games change over time. Or maybe it's just what you stand to win, that changes. Playing cards used to remind me of trying to glean the finer points of euchre from my grandparents while watching them play at the cottage. Then it became playing games like "speed" and "asshole" with the cute girls who came to the place next door from ours. There we'd be, hiding from our parents in the woodshed - the sounds of our laughter and reckless abandon leaking through the walls, giving us away every time. What are you kids up to? Nothing. Just playing cards. Adolescence changed the nature of the game. Don't 'go swimming', go skinny-dipping! You follow?

They're having dinner. He suggested the place. She suggested the time. After work means he'll look extra kick-ass because he wears a suit. She's effortless and doesn't worry about it. New restaurant. He's been here before, for wine but not for food. She's been meaning to try it. Little plates. Meant for sharing. Weird combinations. Menu changes every week. He walks to the place, confidence growing with every step. Pictures her smile from the profile pick as he walks. Almost walks into moving traffic. Steady. Runs through a mental note of shared characteristics he's saved up. Talk to her about the theatre. Talk to her about politics. Talk to her about writing. Don't talk too much. Don't bore her into a stupor so that you have to pick her face out of the soup bowl. Checks his phone. Plenty of time. Shit, might be a little early. Pictures himself sitting alone waiting for her to join. Candle light for company. Waitress bringing water for conversation. Paces outside the place for several minutes before deciding it's cold enough to wait inside. Heads inside. Hostess looks at him. Takes his coat. It's one of those places. Follows Hostess upstairs. Minimalist atmosphere. Chairs and tables look back-breakingly modern. Two rows of diners jammed together. We're all listening to your first date conversation. HA!

Sits. Waits. Checks emails while he waits. Painfully typical. Waitress brings water. Yes, he's waiting for another person. Reservations in my name. Does she know my last name? My first name is too common. Shit. Didn't give her my last name. Waits. Sips water. Waits. Knows she looks beautiful but this is the part where he wonders if that's actually her in the picture or not. Because you hear all kinds of stories. That's actually my cousin. Yeah, that's me...five years and a hundred pounds less ago. No. It's her. She sounded hot in her text messages.

Drinks a glass of water. Then another. Kind of has to pee. Can't get up though. What if she comes by and I'm not here? She'll think I left or something. Calm down. And try not to ring your bladder out all over this chair. (That would be something of an introduction. Yeah, hey, I was just in the middle of pissing myself...how are you? Extend your hand out of routine, ignorant to the piss that's dripping from your fingers.) Relax, bud. It's really just the condensation from the glass of water you've been cupping for the last five minutes. Sits. Waits. Should have got a hair cut. Damn. This is like a job interview. Hi, so you got my add for a boyfriend. Do you have any references? Sits. Waits. Three cleansing breathes. One...two...

Hi. He gets up as she's making her way through the crowd. Last cleansing breath aborted.

She sits down. They sit down. She slides off her coat. He can't wipe the smile off of his face. She is pretty. She looks up at him. They both smile. He speaks first. So how are you? Good, glad to be out of the office. Me too. So you've never been here before. Blah. Blah. Blah. No. Haven't eaten the food, no. Drank the wine though. Speaking of wine. Yes. Drink menu. They peruse in silence. Subtle glances over the menu say smiles. Nice to finally meet you in person, he says. Yeah, you too, she agrees. And now the people at the table next to them can see this is a first date going down. (They stay for dessert.)

They order wine. He a red. She a white. First nothing-to-say look around the room occurs. All the fancy people. Restaurant policy is wear a uniform. He just looks at her and smiles. She always seems to smile back. What else can you do? Wink? No, that would be weird. They get the wine and spend a few minutes talking about wine. They look at the menus and spend a few minutes talking about the food. They put what with what? Really? Sounds weird. NO. It's trendy. OH. Okay.

They order something they can share. Then look into their wine glasses with despair.

Then he asks for her thoughts on online dating. So stupid. Says she's on there too so she can't really knock it. He agrees. Drinks more wine. She looks bored and he's recently found out that he has nothing to say. The food comes, they eat it. More wine comes, they drink it.

She asks for a refill and he pours her more. Wishing there was more than just the bottle between them.

~ to be continued ~

Drive-by love: part one

In the beginning there were butterflies in the stomachs of all the girls next door, a sense of conquest and adventure in the eyes of the boys - a curiousity, really. I remember it well, all the first times when you lay eyes on a person and something in your chemistry changes and now you don't look at her the same way anymore and thoughts of spending another day apart begin to tare you like a flag in the wind.

The moments that give you pause and take you back to a room where the sight of each other's faces seemed to part a sea people, a feeling like you're the only two people on the planet right here, this moment begins to snowball down a mountain and it gets bigger and bigger and once it roles through town nobodies lives will ever be the same. Everything thereafter becomes an I've-got-to-see-you moment, and you find yourself sprinting to her apartment through the rain to feel her place a hand on your face. The appearance of a toga and gold leaf crown not uncanny in the least.

Now, though, it was hitting the refresh page while staring at a computer screen waiting to see if there's a message, or if somebody new came to visit your profile. Sort of like drive-by love: your eyes cruise across the pages of the profile, you look at all the words in the tiny boxes and you get hooked on something. You continue to read the profile. When you finish, maybe you read it a second time, to see if there's something you missed. For some reason you choose to focus on the fact that she apparently "owns cats", which make you have asthmatic reactions requiring rapid self-medication. Easy tiger. You're just saying hello. Think of something to say. Does she have pictures of herself? She does. How many? Four, nice. Oh, she looks awesome in this one. Man, this chick is the hottest f*#king girl I've ever seen in my life!

Look at her pictures.

Think of something to say.

Look at her pictures, again.

Think of something to say.

What to say?

Everybody says that online dating cuts through the bullshit, and gets the asses of the lonely into the chairs of coffee houses and pubs all across this fair city. People are more easy going on the internet. Look, buddy, we're all here for a reason. Sure.

That may be true. People are always telling me about some friends they know who hooked up and hit it off right away. After listening to this sort of talk for a while, you naively form the opinion that people on the internet will actually be as open-minded as their search for a partner appears to be. They will want to meet.

The meeting places. It's always someplace neutral, like a coffee shop, or some casual dining affair a couples steps away from hotdog vendor. Some place mutually comfortable where the ambient noise is dialed down enough to hear the other person speak. So you can nod along, letting out a few "yeahs" in a half-hearted attempt to communicate that you're actually listening and not wondering if you can look at her tits during the time it takes her to blink. This way to the gentlemen's room.

Sometimes a month's worth of emails. She takes her time to reply, it seems. You reply right away. Doesn't that make me seem a little too...eager? Whatever, first introductions are always awkward, it's the impression they cause that sometimes sticks in a bad way.

Here's the story. She was twenty-two and he was twenty-seven. She was in school, he was in limbo. He knew this, she did not. Not yet. He'd wait and see what happens first before he lets her know just how pathetic he really is. They spent the first two days sending instant messages to each other, flirty, but not obnoxiously so.

He then asked if she had plans that night. Her disclosure that she was staying in tonight made him smile the smile of an opportunist. Suggested drinks. She lived sort of in the west end, he lived definitely downtown. Give me an hour, he said. She was down. Just a walk down the street from her place. Said she'd wait for him outside. Cool. He changed his shirt, splashed his face with cologne, and called a cab from his BlackBerry while waiting for the elevator. It's an apartment. He'll be downstairs. Five to twenty-minutes. Plenty of time. He didn't want to smell like smoke for the first meeting, but he was getting anxious and was pacing the handicap ramp, so he decided to give into the tug of self-medication. Flick. Light. Breathe deep and relax. Checked his phone, he called the taxi almost twenty minutes ago. Still not here. He'd better send her a text letting her know that he'll be a bit late, waiting for the cab. So sorry. Send. Inhales pathologically for the next several minutes. Checks the time on his phone like he's expecting a bomb to detonate somewhere nearby. Stares down the street. Empty. Looks for cars with white lights on the roofs. Walks down to the other intersection, parked cars line the street but no taxis. No taxis. This is a first date for Christ's sake. Wow this looks bad. I'd better text her again. Hey, still no taxi, I'm gonna walk up to Bank and see what happens. Be there soon. Send. She replies. Sure, sure. You're probably just ditching me. Huh? No way. Panics. Words rush to his mouth and once and stumble into each other. Comes out squished. Drops his phone. Landed on the top of his shoe, so no worries. Hey, I'm coming, I really am. Don't leave. She writes back, you've got another half-hour. Okay. Send.

Keeping the girl waiting. Not the fake-out game to play when meeting her for the first time. No. But there she was leaning against the building wrapped tightly in a winter coat as it was unseasonably cold that night. Snowing a little. There she stood. I told you I was coming. Again, really sorry about the wait. I guess my apartment is in a taxi black-hole or something. No worries. Cute smile. Ended up having a great time with her. Talked for three hours and a couple of cocktails each. Nice girl. He walked her home and they smiled at each other when they parted. That could have been really bad, he thought. Still reeling from the late taxi pickup. Oh well. The next day she texted him.

Another time there was this forty-something woman. Looked nice in her profile pick so he send her a message. Over the summer. To his surprise she writes back right away. Teacher, so, I'm off during the summer. Must be nice. Secretly unemployed. Describes it as vacation instead. They talk, they talk, they talk. She's from Montreal though. He's in Ottawa. Shitty. They get along right away and bond over a mutual love of running and hiking. She's in great shape, has the legs and ass of a woman half her age. Nice. Running, hello. Gotcha. She's going hiking the next day. For some reason asks him to come along. Yeah, he can get there by 7am. She'll pick him up at the bus station. Cool. All in one day. Sort of weird. But, whatever. She feels taken aback by her own impulse and he asks if she'd like to call him so they could actually talk. Yeah, that'd be good. Yeah. Here, that's my cell. She calls they talk. Tells him that she never does anything like this. He says, ah, it's going to be fun. Then she asks him. Are you a serial killer? He laughs. No, are you? They laugh. He tells her to relax, people say I'm disarming by natural and I've always considered myself an extremely non-violent fellow. Seriously, no worries. Good. Because I have two kids and they need me. I would think. Don't worry. We'll have fun, and you'll remain alive.

Wow. Really? A non-violent pact before a date. This was truly the first of its kind in his experience anyway. What sort of men had this girl been seeing before? What sort of dates were they going on? Yikes. Then again, maybe it wasn't all that weird. Girl tells me that her friends shamed her for deleting her profile. Tells them why, though. Too many messages. Hey baby, this and that. Pictures of...well, you know. Gawd. Tells them that she'd receive one hundred a day, easily. Friends don't believe her. No way. Not because she isn't pretty, just, no way that many messages. Oh yeah, she says. Watch this. Fakes a profile. Leaves the boxes blank, just a name. Not even a picture. Gives the girls a copy of the password so they can check it out for themselves. So they can watch the progress.

Not even three hours later. Twelve messages.

~to be continued~

Stale Bread

A loaf of stale bread under my head,

killer instinct in my eye but I don't bite,

you know why? cause it's suffocating quietly inside.

The second that it breathes, it opens its eyes, to their surprise,

a jack in the box with a fully automatic inside,

pull this car over, get the kids off of the ride,

they don't show it with their eyes, but they know a truth from a lie.

An intergenerational game of monkey see, monkey do...

do as I say my lit' homey, but not as I do,

a lot easier to say when you don't see the

three fingers pointing back at you.

I've got some of the answers, but I keep finding clues.

I used to wear this life like a costume, now it's a second skin.

Some clothes you wear start to wear you,

you're the first to hope you win, and the last to see you lose.

Go to church and you can learn about sinners and saints,

go to confession anonymous and you can lodge your complaints,

my angel in the mail came with a demon inside...

a full metal jacket against the skin of my pretty young bride.

The inside is what's real and the outside is fake,

don't' be Bart Simpson reaching for the electric cupcake.

Can't fix a broken home with a sludge hammer,

can't win the game throwing TD passes to Quintin Jammer.

It's hard to get on the right track without a ticket to ride,

it's tough to find the inner beauty when you're dying inside.