FS: April 2023

How to forgive yourself

Finding it hard to move past a hurtful mistake? With these steps toward repair and renewal, you can do and feel better.

by Nathaniel Wade & Marilyn Cornish

Hana + Ephemeral Art (Royal Center)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

2nd

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Any news on the new company?

Yes.

A COO once said, "Anybody can start a Staffing Agency, but they will fail because we have the money."

He added, "A monkey could do your job."

Someone else at that company (mgmt.), once said to a valuable employee, "If you want a raise, why don't you go on welfare?"

That tells you all you need to know about the predatory companies in the Staffing Industry: the employees don't matter and are treated like garbage.

Retro Staffing is about to revolutionize that predatory business model. A business model dependent on suffering, people with drug, alcohol, and mental health issues; those amongst us who are easily exploited, and who are often in the throes homelessness.

Retro vows to be part of a solution as opposed to being a participant in the heartache we see daily on our streets.

In Canada, more than 235,000 people experience homelessness in any given year, and 25,000 to 35,000 people may be experiencing homelessness on any given night, Statistics Canada stated. Dec 18, 2022

Retro promises transparency. The goal is not to fatten the wallets of the proprietors (they will take fair compensation for their efforts); the goal is to treat employees and clients with the utmost respect.

Retro's employees fall into the category of a lost demographic, many of which were sidelined by greedy, unscrupulous companies during the pandemic who used the shade of the pandemic to replace older workers with cheaper models.

Number of People Over 55

The pandemic wreaked havoc on employment for people of all ages. But researchers found that during its course, workers 55 and older lost jobs sooner, were rehired slower and continue to face higher job losses than their counterparts ages 35 to 54.

Age discrimination rules are not being tightly enforced. Many employers, got rid of relatively more expensive workers and took their chances with training new cheaper workers. (1)

The situation has had deep ramifications for older workers close to retirement because their final years on the job are critical for those who have not saved enough for their retirement and expect to work longer to shore up their retirement funds.

Many of these companies, are now paying a heavy price for poor management decisions.

Source

Over the last 40 years, the number of people over 55 has more than tripled in size. Between 1977 and 1997, the senior population grew from about 2 million to 3.5 million. In 2017, it sat at about 6.2 million; in 2037, it is expected to number 10.4 million.

People older than 55, bring with them valuable life experience. Unfortunately, many of them were not ready or could not afford to have their careers taken from them.

That's where Retro comes in; Retro will offer their valuable employees a fair wage and their clients a reasonable bill rate - as opposed to the current industry standard of... treating employees like a disposable product.

Retro workers can select the number of hours and days they work, allowing them to keep their dignity and provide a sense of purpose.

At Retro, we won't toss you out with the bath water

The people at Retro have over 500 years of life experience, and include: A former mayor, a postman, an engineer, a carpenter, senior sales managers, a published author + opinion editorialist (published), and an individual with more than 20 years in the hospitality & tourism industries.

Each of these individuals were chosen because they were respected and lauded for their unparalleled integrity.

At Retro, honesty is paramount!

At Retro, we are only as good as you!

7...

A Fresh Picture Daily

Ephemeral Art (Royal Center)

Ed Sheeran "Kiss Me" - NP Sessions

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

3rd

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

What motivates you?

Life can be challenging. It is hard. Does it have to be? That is part of living. Even the shitty people are going to have to go through things. Do I want them to suffer?

Yes.

What motivates me, you ask?

I'm at the stage of life where I've been through much, more than I or anyone can handle. Am I okay?

How could I be?

I am.

Anyway, I'm at the stage of life where I want to do good. I want to make a difference, a vast difference.

On an unrelated note: I mentioned above (I read), bleeping English, I looked it up if (read) is correct - it is - read can be pronounced 'red' or 'reed' - so, how do you pronounce 'read?'

The countdown to the opening of Retro Staffing is on - goodbye predators.

Coming Soon!

At Retro experience is our greatest asset!

6...

A Fresh Picture Daily

Selah Sue - Raggamuffin

Hana + Read + Post-It Affirmations

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

4th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

What did you yesterday?

I designed more of the Retro website.

The company that is going to revolutionize the Staffing Industry and in the process, likely, take some of the predatory players in the industry down with their innovation.

I also penned (key-stroked) a portion of the next episode of Sparkly Pingle Ball: Episode 7 - The Colbert Questionert (coming soon).

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

5...

A Fresh Picture Daily

Recruitment practices pose problems for construction industry

The Truth Will Always Win in the End!

In particular, the "outsourcing" of labour (in which the construction workforce is recruited through subcontractors and other intermediaries) has made work in construction increasingly temporary and insecure, while often having a profound effect on occupational safety and health, wages, training and the level of skills, which has fallen in some countries.

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Happy Birthday Jay! + Post-It Affirmations + Read

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

5th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Maybe not him; the agency down the street is probably a better fit (ethically + morally).

Down what street?

Main.

4...

A Fresh Picture Daily

Passenger | Let Her Go

Live Well + Read x 5

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

6th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Tell me about yesterday?

I don’t feel like talking much today about yesterday.

So, let’s go.

I’m booked in to get the fifth dose of the Covid vaccine next week.

I love needles, but I don’t. Except for when shooting up, but I don't.

If you shoot up, I'm not taking the piss out of you, I'm sorry for whatever has happened in your life to put you where you are (unless you are happy with where you are); beware of the predators out their who are looking to exploit you, there names are...

I’m still battling depression; who could imagine thoughtless assholes could turn a life upside down?

You.

Well, aren’t you special?

Depression |Profanity Warning| fucking sucks.

I considered becoming an anti-vaxxer because of the stickers I saw on light standards (poles) recently.

Both start with Vaccines are Poison, finishing with 1) Take lots of sunshine & whole foods; and 2) (Research) Reseach Died Suddenly.

Whole Foods is at least 2 kilometres from where we live—there’s Choices across the street from where we live; we will continue eating the closer foods.

I worried about the Reseach dying so much that I had to look up if Reseach was a word, it isn’t; I added it to my word dictionary so the squiggly red line would disappear.

Two paragraphs above, I accidentally misspelled Reseach by spelling it Research. Reseach is a easy word to misspell. Brain. Don't. Want. To. Misspell.

Miss Spell, was my grade 2 teacher.

Did you graduate?

Let’s keep talking about grocers.

Choices is a stupid name.

Independent is part of a chain.

No Frills. Laugh. WTF does that even mean?

Safeway.

Save On…

I’m sure you get the gest.

What's correct: gest or jist?

When I win the lottery and I am asked to share my emotions, I'm going to smile and say, "This is literally not surreal, I bought a ticket."

I'm going to add, "I'm not going to quit CPP."

There’s a clothing store called Urban Behaviour.

A restaurant owner opened a restaurant on Granville Street. In the naming the restaurant brainstorming session, a light went on; and the owner said, "Let’s call it Moulin Rouge after the place famous for being the birthplace of the can-can dance in Paris."

Granville and Nelson Street screams Paris!

They continued brainstorming, "Oh, oh, oh, instead of can-can, let’s sell crappy tequila for $3.47 and food for $5.00 because what screams Paris more than people donning Urban Behaviour clothing and slamming back crappy tequila?"

Puke?

Yes.

I’m going to get the vaccine. I, almost, wasn’t going to get it because of the stickers.

'Almost' is an overused word.

I was in NYC in 2003 and almost died at the WTC.

I booked a 30-minute interview with a publisher on the 18th. I’m unsure why I’m bothering because your hitman called me a ‘failed writer.’ |Profanity Warning| Fuck Off 000 000 000. You will be a ‘failed’ ‘business owner.’ You are already in the Bottom 10 |Profanity Warning| Nah, you are not worth the words.

A publisher is interviewing me!

What do you do?

Oh, yeah, you exploit people for personal gain.

Hi Jim.

Hi Leslie (name changed—he doesn’t much care for the name Leslie).

Why do the Transit Police have cars?

Chuckle.

That’s it for yesterday.

Except, I feel like I will collapse with every step I take.

Depression, or something more (underlying), whatever is causing my instability, sucks. I'm scared.

I will take more steps.

Excuse me, sir, can I get one tequila shot?

Only one?

I hate tequila, even the "good" stuff.

I'm thinking of opening a Grocery and calling it The Red Mill. I will serve only one item: Tequila (no food). Homemade tequila.

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

3...

A Fresh Picture Daily
000 000 000

Ed Sheeran - Small Bump

Beautiful Words x 3 + Read + Floral Beauty

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

7th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Tell me about yesterday?

I read a lot. It is part of what I must do to work on my craft. I love doing it. Each book I read helps me to understand how little I know.

Big Shadow (Author Comment About My Thoughts on Her Book)

Thank you for this very special review, Lindsay! Marta Balcewicz

I used to work for monsters. Not anymore.

Is it okay to call them monsters?

Yes.

When I read, I usually read in the Blank-Blank Food Court (I don't want to name it, because I don't want the monsters to know where I am) for one or two hours every day. Most days, I buy a snack. I feel guilty buying the snack because I can no longer afford food or snacks.

What the monsters willfully chose to do significantly affected our lives. I wasn’t ready to call it a day on my work career. I needed more years to shore up my future. I am 62.5. What they did caused me to lose my families security. But oh well, they are what they are.

One day soon, they will be out of business. RETRO. RETRO. RETRO.

Two hours is a long time to sit in a food court reading. Nobody ever asks me to leave.

Why?

Because I look like I do?

Yesterday, a man, 40ish, had his bags with him; he sat in the food court to get out of the deluge of rain. A commotion ensued. He was dishevelled, and black. Those two things are mutually exclusive. Hopefully, that had nothing to do with the security guards showing up.

The security guards asked him to leave. Three security guards hung over him as he expressed upset with his treatment. One security guard kept repeating everything the man said, back to the man in a condescending fashion. The security guards kept pressing him to go, “You can’t be here. It’s a food court for mall patrons. Not you. Why are you here?”

“It’s raining. I just need a break from the rain.”

“You must leave. This place is not for you.”

He left, not before uttering a few profanities.

I sat for another 45 minutes, reading—snack done, nobody asked me to leave.

Earlier in the morning, on the news, there was a segment about breaking up the tent encampment on Hastings Street, all the worldly possessions of those suffering on the streets were taken from them and tossed in the trash to be incinerated.

The TV featured a broken man (age unknown). The man, nearly in tears, expressed his upset. He was asked where he was going to go? His voice broke as he pointed at a spot on the sidewalk and said, “Here. This is my home.”

The following story on the news was about how business owners are upset the minimum wage is going up.

Isn’t the average price in Vancouver for living indoors in the neighbourhood $2,500 per month? And isn't an apple now about $3.00? Did you know a nutrionless coke in a convenience store is anywhere from $2—$3.

The minimum wage represents the lowest amount greedy business owners can get away with.

Unfortunately, we treat some humans less than… human. And then complain about repeat offenders and mental health issues.

‘The haves’ complain about the cost of what they ‘have’ while at the same time complaining about having to see the suffering of the ‘have nots.’

I’m disgusted by many people I know; many of them blame those suffering for suffering. “They did it to themselves." Or “The drugs did this.”

Empathy and compassion are long gone and that disgusting human need to think you are better than others, kicks in. It sickens me.

I met up with friends. We talked about rain. Vaccines. Sports. Nothing. Someone mentioned they don’t trust Big Pharma. I agreed, but then added; there is no bleeping conspiracy with the vaccines because why would Big Pharma kill off older people because if they did, who’d buy their prescriptions.

On my walk home, five blocks, I witnessed four people pushing shopping carts filled with their belongings. Seven people smoking what I assumed to be ‘crack’ through a glass pipe, and the 7/11 doorman, a broken young man, holding a sign, filled with words of desperation.

I used to hate the 7/11 doormen, but then I changed my mind after one day when nobody was there, and I didn’t know how to enter the store.

The last 3 years have taken a heavy toll on (me), financially, and emotionally. So, I can empathize with those who are suffering.

Shamefully, I’m not allowed to speak about what the monsters have done.

Monsters who no longer see me as human.

Monsters who no longer see me as human.

Starting a Dialogue

The cost of homelessness is the cost of homelessness.

We can break homelessness down into two thoughts.

You believe all homeless people are lazy and did it to themselves.
You understand when you look at someone in trouble, absolutely nobody when they were 5 years old; if asked what they want from their lives when they are older? Said, “I want to be in the grips of addiction, living in a homeless camp, waiting for my life to end.”

Ideas

Every citizen, regardless of societal standing, has the inalienable right to modest housing with a private bath.
Every citizen, regardless of societal standing, has the inalienable right to fresh, nutritious food delivered to their homes weekly.
Citizens gifted with ambition can climb, pursue luxury, move out of the lower-level housing into more lavish digs—often in the same neighbourhood, even at times in the same building. And as their wealth grows, they are welcomed to move up again and again and again. How? Proposing the end of free-market housing. And then, construction could take on a more measured bent. Housing projects would become better suited toward the direction of the demographics. Level 1 Housing would always boom. Luxury homes would start to be built at a tremendous rate. Without addiction + crime on every corner, suddenly, opportunities would abound, and people would become unburdened and able to climb without fearing collapse.
The Game Changer. The rich would no longer be allowed to horde wealth. All people would only be allowed to save 10% of their earnings monthly. Since people wouldn’t have to worry about housing and nutrition, each citizen’s remaining monthly take must be spent in its entirety, fueling the capitalist model. Penalty for non-compliance: unspent funds would be returned to the government coffers for education + infrastructure + the arts.
When a citizen died (mainly relating to the wealthy), they would be allowed to bequeath only the 10% to their relatives—they could not give their home (the home would return to the housing inventory)—and their relatives must remain where they are. They may use the inheritance to move up. But they could only save 10% of their windfall. The rest of the inheritance money must be spent in the next three months. Any unspent money would go into the government coffers.
Eliminate Elite Education. Schools would no longer allowed to cater to the wealthy. The rich would no longer be allowed to use privilege to benefit their bloodlines. Black Mary would be given equal opportunity with Princess Penelope to obtain an education. The BMs and PPs of the world might even became lab partners.
Kill technology. Not exactly. But give each of us part of our lives back by disconnecting us, which in turn would go a long way to reconnecting us. Every citizen must adhere to 3 x 2-hour technology-free hours per day (6-hours total). These hours could not be used during regular sleep hours, so the idea would create 14-hours per day technology + social media free. The hours would mainly coincide with mealtimes – 2 hours at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The penalty for non-compliance: A total ban of technology, outside of work for anyone convicted of not adhering to Idea 7. A by-product of this bold idea would be increased happiness. Relationships strengthened. The divorce rate dropping drastically. Restaurants + Bars, + Coffee Shops would see incredible spikes in business. And people would start saying “Hello” to each other, and astoundingly, talk might grow from small to substantive.

Or We Can Continue to Let Assholes Contribute to Homelessness

What's a Labour Agency (except for Retro)?

They are usually run by a group of greedy, narcissistic, megalomaniacal, sociopaths who have somehow convinced themselves profiting from the suffering of others is their fucking birthright.

Look at all the people suffering on the street, those in the throes of addiction, alcoholism, and mental health issues; those exploitable, the sociopaths mentioned above rely on for their fancy cars and houses. I wish this was hyperbole. It's not.

Agencies usually consist of the following parts.

An Absentee Owner. Who got tired of seeing the suffering of his employees. So, he/she retreated to their ‘Home Office.’ Where he/she could simply count cash as he/she reduced his living, breathing employees to nothing more than a product—to be used up and tossed in the trash (3) when they were no longer useable.
The Front Line: A Marketing Man + a Dispatcher. Sort of good cop, bad cop. The Marketing Person, runs around wining and dining clients with strippers, lunches, sporting events, etcetera... All while calling his workforce, under his breath, losers, crackheads, garbage, stupid, or worse. While at the same time, telling those he's wooing he can get them the best workers. And the Dispatcher (Good Cop), manages those desperate for work by controlling who gets to work and eat—on any given day.
THE FOLLOWING FICTITIOUS TEXT MIGHT BE REAL AND TAKEN FROM AN AGENCIES WEBSITE. It takes and average of 10 hires to find a quality worker. Why have 9 unproductive people working for you when we can supply you with a productive worker from day one? Once our ... are hired, we constantly look to you, our partners, to evaluate our employees. We keep only those that make the high standards we set for our ..., and we are constantly replacing the bottom 10% who simply don’t make the grade. Plus, our employees and the entire staff at ... ... know that we are a labour provider, and our work speaks for itself. So, our merit-based philosophy entices our employees to do better so they can make more money.

Do you think 3 reduces homelessness?

Is the question sarcastic?

No, it's rhetorical.

What we are doing is not working.

On my walk home (yesterday), five blocks, I witnessed four people pushing shopping carts filled with their belongings. Seven people smoking what I assumed to be ‘crack’ through a glass pipe, and the 7/11 doorman, a broken young man, holding a sign, filled with words of desperation.

I can say with the utmost of certainty, there is not a living being on this spinning rock, when they were 5 years old, when asked what they want to do when they get older, said, "I want to work for a predatory labour agency where at any moment they might decide I'm in the bottom 10 and toss me out like I'm trash."

That’s all for yesterday.

Tomorrow, I will eat toast, dry.

It won't be toast, it will be my imagination.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

2...

A Fresh Picture Daily

Ed Sheeran - Lego House

Hana + Reading + Duncan + Rims

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

8th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Tell me about yesterday?

I haven’t been feeling particularly well lately. I’ve stepped inside a room without doors and windows; it’s dark here, and there is no exit. I thought when things resolved, the billowing clouds would immediately lift.

They haven’t; depression is a curse being exacerbated by what they did.

Tell a story?

Yes.

Can you imagine giving all of yourself to a company for a decade-and-a-half and then being tossed out in a heartbeat?

Not a shred of hesitation in the decision.

No consideration for your age, almost 60.

This story is fiction. This story is fiction. This story is fiction.

What you provided were homes, cars, and a better life for the people you enriched; what you got for your efforts is never being able to retire, but that’s okay; you are now in your sixties, and there likely will be nothing for you to retire from except for life.

Suicide?

|PROFANITY COMING SOON, ALERT|

No. Fuck them.

Lunch with someone every Monday for almost 10 years only to listen to complaining about kids, wife, perceived entitled poverty (please), and the owner of the company, everything, “I can’t get a divorce because she’ll take half.” Eyes shifting, never connecting, not to be trusted.
Just before the end, you are told.

Watch the person you will be training like a hawk because everyone in another office hates that person and thinks that person might be using. Watch like a hawk. Watch like a hawk. Plan that person’s days thoroughly, or nothing will get done. That person is lazy. Everyone hates that person at the other office.

You are told.

I planned, watched, and provided the tools to succeed; remaining fiercely loyal in the process.

“I can’t afford to keep doing my job. I can’t afford gas for my vehicle.”

You tell the person who instructed you to watch that person like a hawk.

“Let that person follow you to the gas station. Put some gas in your vehicle, and then let that person pull their vehicle up to the pumps. Put it on the company CC. Whatever you do, don’t tell the owner.

Let me go without the decency of a ‘thank you’ for providing #1 with a $4-million-dollar home and allowing #1 to never have to worry about who’s guiding the ship.

Complain about everything, lazy, and need's to be watched like a hawk; or a-decade-and-a-half without having to worry about who's guiding the ship?

Who would you choose?

The owner will call you today.

The owner will call you today.

The owner wants to thank you for your outstanding service.

The owner will call you today.

The call never came.

Why did, 'you,' repeatedly lie? Eyes shifting.

Every dime I spend now, scares me. The dimes are running out.

Suicide?

J wants to get a new phone. We can finance it. We will. But two providers have merged, and everything has become muddled.

“Let’s just get it from the Apple Store.”

I respond by saying we’ll have to pay taxes of $250—$300. I hate that that thought frightens me.

Suicide?

Almost 15 years working, and what the fuck do I have to show for it?

What a fucking piece of the shit organization.

After I mentioned taxes, the mood shifted. I'm not the only one processing life.

Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react. Let the mood play itself out.

I’m being dragged along by a mood. I'm not the only one processing life. Think.

I haven’t felt right for the last week. I feel like I’m floating when I walk. Tripping right. Tripping left. Unstable. Every other pedestrian adds to my instability. They seem to be trying to fake me out, block me. They’re shifty. I think they are trying to topple me. I just typed topple. Think. This is not like when I had the stroke. But is it?

Go to the hospital.

I can’t; I need to let the mood play itself out. J is going home for the first time in years so, I don't want to add to the stress, I want the trip to be epic, comforting. I will be okay? I must be okay because I’m about to do the absolute worst thing (probably not) I could do, considering how I’m feeling.

What?

Gummy Friday

Maybe it will stabilize me?

Perhaps it’s just my prescriptions that are throwing me for a loop?

The Mayor is here. So is the Postman. 2G is absent.

A couple of days ago, I told 2G I met someone 2G had told us 2G had spent 8 months with 40 years ago, Tom, on the street. I told 2G, Tom asked about 2G.

“That makes sense; he’s living in Vancouver now.” 2G said.

How could I have met someone on the street 40 years after 2G hung with this person when I didn’t know 2G, 40 years ago?

Make Believe?

Make believe Tom recognized me.

Do make-believe people have to make-believe friends?

Tom's story lives on.

Don’t tell the owner about filling the car of the person who needs to be watched like a hawk. Don’t tell anyone…

They likely won't care; they are far too busy being who they are.

The COO wants to brag about the conquests of his/her youth. A proud family person.

Does the last line belong in this work of fiction?

Make Believe?

One day, 'they' will find themselves in a dark room without doors or windows. They will look good in there.

KEYS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND/BUSINESS 80%? DOWN/KNOCK. KNOCK/HERE COMES THE TRUTH IN THE FORM OF THE REPO MAN

Refrain

Drum Solo

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Actually (1), every day is a fantastic day + writing me closer to a major breakthrough: My titular (2) Book/TV Deal + the birth of RETRO.

Billowing clouds roll over the past.

Hawks are perching outside, glaring through a window and door, that most certainly is soon to be gone. Business 80% down.

Wages rising.

Fleecing clients.

Write a letter claiming we have no other option but gouging you more. Blame your incompetence on the government man.

KEYS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND/BUSINESS 80% DOWN/KNOCK. KNOCK/HERE COMES THE TRUTH IN THE FORM OF THE REPO MAN/PULL UP THE CAR/FILL IT WITH GAS/WHATEVER YOU DO/DON’T LET THE MAN KNOW/BUSINESS 80% DOWN/EYES SHIFTING/BUSINESS 80% DOWN/WE MUST CHARGE YOU MORE/BECAUSE OF THE GOVERNMENT MAN

Why are you writing, this, what appears to be a song?

Because it’s the right thing to do!

I hate the word actually.
Titular. Look it up. Go on. Google it? Let me know when you get back!

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

1...

A Fresh Picture Daily

Ed Sheeran - You Need Me, I Don't Need You

Promotional + Me + Hana With A Big Book + Read More

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

9th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Tell me about yesterday?

When I hit the streets during yesterday's deluge, I felt like I was levitating. Every step felt like the penultimate step before I collapsed. I’m fucking scared.

Go to the hospital.

No.

Yes.

I will.

But not until Thursday, if this feeling continues to affect me.

Walk. Stumble.

You're being foolish.

Yes.

I won’t go until Thursday because J is heading home to Korea on Wednesday, and if something really is wrong with me, I don’t want to add stress to J’s first trip home in 6 years. J needs to see his family. I’m excited for J!

You're being ridiculous. And fucking selfish.

The stumbly feeling has come a few times before, it usually passes when I up my exercise. I’m having trouble with exercise because depression is crushing me and my broken pinky toe, Pinky, still excruciating. I will up my exercise regiment again soon. Tomorrow.

Today, I’m on a writing streak. And, I’m on a reading roll.

I’ve been lucky the books I’ve read so far this year have been fabulous. I just finished Strange Sally Diamond |Liz Nugent| - WOW!

I just started two that I think will be great as well.

Closer By Sea |Perry Chafe|
Beautiful Boy |David Sheff| (It is going to destroy me – and likely add to my compassion cabinet)

Other than breathing, nothing extraordinary happened yesterday in my fictitious life.

So, I’m going to freestyle today’s clickbait (MSNBC).

Somebody was killed in Edmonton; they think it might have been suspicious. Not going to click. How can we take the weight of a murder in Edmonton with us through the day and feel good! Sorry about the murder. But…
There are 3 Great Stocks for Dividends. Not going to click. Instead, I’m going to put my remaining pennies on BLACK. NO. RED. Have I ever told you about the predator who got rich by scamming people into a stock scam? Her/his name is… She/he owns the predatory company… Did she/he scam you? She/he enlisted one of her/his sycophants’ to help her/him bilk people out of their money. Sucks to be scammed by a scammer. Whom?
David Crosby died after contracting Covid. Not going to click.
Someone in Toronto has been attacked for the third time. Not going to click. Start the blame game.

A quick trip to the side: A treatment center for addiction has opened in Kelowna for people in the throes of addiction. The locals are outraged.

THEY SCREAM

This will make the neighbourhood unsafe. They did this to themselves. They need to get their lives together,

A treatment center to help those recover from addiction opens in Kelowna.

The locals scream out. Hypocrites.

I'm reading a book about losing someone to addiction Beautiful Boy.

Two of the best books I've read are heart wrenching stories about people being lost to addiction.

Read them and grow as a person.

More clickbait., coming.

They are telling me to watch SNL. I will. I am as I type this.
Warmth is springing to life except for one province. Click. Damn. It’s BC.
One Region in the US has the Safest Cities. Not going to click. Fewer guns?
Some LIV Tour golfers made the cut at the Masters. Not going to click.

A penguin named Starah just walked through my office.

Hi Starah!

The Owner of the ‘Hello Deli’ in New York is retiring. Not going to click.

I don’t masturbate.

The World’s 10 Busiest Airports. Not going to click.

A writer just committed suicide because they had been assigned to write this story. Or that story.

I hope some fit young guy walked around his block every day for a month and is sharing what that was like with us.

If I click this: The Most Listened to Rock Bands on YouTube, I can find out which countries listen to which band. Whom? Not clicking. Click it, and imagine how that will enhance your converstational skills.
If I was a woman travelling alone, they’re letting us know the safest countries. Gender reassignment. Go. Not clicking. They should do a story about the safest countries for those travelling with unisex names.

Newsflash: if you are murdered or sexually assaulted in a country on the list, the list is not relevant to you.

My editor had me change 'raped' above to 'sexually assaulted.'

Who's your editor?

I am.

Murdered.

A local resident says, “I can’t believe this happened here.” Buy bear spray.

Is all of the news nothing more than nuanced advertising?

Let’s see.

I can get you in as an accredited investor.

But I’m not one.

Doesn’t matter, my hands are already in your pockets.

Some Locusts are attacking cruise ships in Barcelona. Not clicking. OFF. No. RAID.

There was an earthquake, a terrible flood, locusts! It wasn't my fault! I swear to God!

Are you on a mission from God?

Who?

God.

Do you mean, Larry?

Damn. They updated the clickbait.

Pick three more then quit.

Okay.

Fiction.

I can get you in early. I will be able to sell at the peak amount. You will be tied to the investment while I get rich, and then, you get to watch the investment collapse. Sucker. Are you still holding the useless stock?

Wow. You said that to one of your sycophants. You must have paid him off. Was he part of the scam? Yes?

How the Beatles changed the world. Not clicking.

I understand why some people glom onto the Trump bandwagon. He’s a broken man who has daddy issues. I think most of his supporters are broken men with daddy issues, and their mentally controlled partners and spawns just follow along because they are being controlled. I could be wrong. Probably not.

Could it be as simple as that?

The movie Twins sucks. So does Junior.

Drag Queens are not okay, but steroids are okay. Relax people.

Americans are flocking to a city in Texas. If I click to find out I will become stupider.

Does clicking lobotomize us?

Every time you click on clickbait, IQs are said to drop 25 points.

Marjorie Taylor Green must click a lot.

I don’t find Kellyanne Conway attractive. Am I misogynistic for saying that?

My back hurts.

After I finish this, whatever this is, I’m going to freestyle part of an episode of Sparkly Pingle Ball.

Sparkly doesn’t masturbate.

I’m eating eggs.

With ketchup.

And sipping water.

What are you doing?

Yell it out. So, I can hear you.

YELL!!!

My almost 80-year-old friend Jim, won’t buy a green dress if he wins a million dollars, because he thinks that would be cruel.

Has John Geddes been dispatched to Etobicoke?

The pandemic helped to thin (not death), by thin, I mean purge, the acquaintance stock.

I won’t be happy until a certain business closes down.

Which one?

A work of fiction.

A little push...

One more, please, I beg of you to get onto Sparkly.

Would you like to see a new Sparkly cover design, I designed for Episode 1?

You don’t have to answer.

I wonder if there will be a clickbait about how entitled people being angry about how suffering people are affecting their lives. Fingers crossed.

He was a loner.

You called him faggot every day since he was 7. What did you think he was going to do?

Almost shoot…

Kids would be safer if they banned doors.

I don’t much care for porn.

Does that make me gay?

Wait. What does that question even mean?

Did Debbie do other cities?

Debbie is a lousy porn name.

Benson didn't make it any better.

I think I will be landing a book deal soon. I am a fantastic writer.

This is fantastic?

What did you write today?

If you don't think I am, read the welcome message.

I’m excited! One more click.

I used to have a friend named Alvin Grubby. I did.

Carver Farrell never stabbed anyone that I know of.

Mike Mesotowski did stick a branch in Cameron Schell’s bike spokes as Cam was riding downhill. Mike laughed and then called Cam a fag. It’s not easy to get guns in Canada. I think Mike is still alive. Maybe in Etobicoke, but likely, alive.

There are 10 Popular 80s Movies that are Actually Terrible. Damn it. I clicked. I used points instead of numbers because Weebly doesn't allow me to continue numbering after my pithy comment in the middle of this bit. The movies I saw are in this colour.

Weekend at Bernie’s (Liked it).
National Lampoon’s European Adventure.
Look Who’s Talking (Would have been better if the baby was in Drag or juicing (steroids).
Friday the 13th (I’m a Halloween fan).
Police Academy

||

The writer who was assigned this assignment was found dead in Etobicoke. Lying naked next to John Geddes.

Cocktail
Mannequin (Is the Mannequin in Drag?)
Mommie Dearest
Short Circuit
Breakin’/ Breakin’ 2 Electric Boogaloo (This is a Movie?)

Gt HW ftipprf pfjoeoe.

I mean, my IQ dropped 475 points. I couldn’t find the right keys.

Look at Sparkly.

I’m sorry Cameron. I should have punched Mike in the face.

Violence is never the answer.

You are right, buy Mike was a dick.

I’m out.

I finished my eggs.

Sip.

I was hoping for a story about a 93-year-old Grandma selling cocaine in order to financially survive in Saskatchewan.

She should do stock scams instead.

This bit was exhausting to write.

And to read.

Who asked you?

Whom?

Who's whom?

On first!

One.

Click!

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Get your exploited for 50% off!

The margins. The margins. The margins.

We invented humans.

Homelessness isn't our fault, but we help!

A Fresh Picture Daily

Ed Sheeran - Drunk

Promotional + Kitties + Spring + Hana the Poet + Read

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

10th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

What's on your mind?

Dear Universe (An open and fictitious letter),

Enough already.

You’ve put me through much to this point in my life. I don’t want to whine, beg, or plead, nor do I think I’m the only one who has been through a lot. But by: ‘going through standards,’ I don’t believe you have submitted many people to the gauntlet of hurt and trauma you’ve tossed my way. I will not rehash the heartache here; I’ll just say it has been extensive. Hell, I’m onto my third father. Enough. Enough. Enough.

I am breaking.

The last three years have been almost unbearable. My stress kept rising and rising and rising, and now I think my heart is about to explode. I don’t want to fall because if I do, I don’t think I will get up.

Three monsters played a significant role in the last three years, without remorse or a shred of fucking decency to understand what they did was wrong and a reflection of who they are.

I heard people who they aligned themselves with were OUTRAGED because I didn’t try hard enough to coddle their cruelty. Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of book proposals sent out weren’t considered good enough. I was supposed to bang my fucking head against the wall trying to find something comparable that was no longer existent in a world where a man my age would never fucking be considered—in a path the fucking monsters blocked me from ever participating in again because, intuitively, they knew the only reason for their success was because of what I did for them—with my acumen and fierce loyalty. Instead, they kept people employed; people who, at any chance, kissed their butts in agreement and talked poorly about them behind their backs — when they weren’t binge drinking or forced to take public transit to do their daily tasks. People who's main skill was name-dropping and giving deep discounts to those they name-dropped.

I don’t want to drone on about people not worth the energy.

Universe, I’m hurting; they have turned my life upside down.

If this is a test, pay attention.

I’m passing with flying colours.

I’m not bitter.

I’m not jaded.

I am cynical about the assholes who willfully put me in the life-threatening situation, I’m now living in.

More things that I am.

Not a quitter.
Kind.
Empathetic.
Compassionate.
Passionate.
Well, read.
Intelligent
Funny.
A fabulous storyteller.

I could go on, but I know, you know all of that.

So, Dear Universe, I’m speaking humbly to you. Can you do me a favour and bless my next years with abundance by allowing me to share my words with the world?

I promise to never quit.

And I promise to not let up on the predators making the world a terrible place for many. I think it is my responsibility.

It’s time to stop allowing assholes to hurt people with impunity. The dinks who hold down people who are trying (who weren't born into entitlement), people who just need a break but can't seem to get one because of the assholes who’ve placed a foot on these good soul's heads, holding them down to enrich themselves.

Universe, I genuinely am a gifted raconteur—I’ve paid my dues—if you open the door for me, it will send a message loud and clear to the monsters who think nothing of hurting good people!

We must make them pay a heavy price for their cowardly, cruelty.

And Universe, I promise I won’t quit until I succeed.

I owe it to myself and my family because they willfully hurt us.

I probably won't have to do much, because of their incompetence, I'm sure they are well on their way down a failing path.

You can’t keep a good person down!

Thanks for listening, Universe.

It’s my turn.

What’s next?

RETRO

On April 18th, I'm being interviewed by a Publisher.

I write what I know.

Maybe my next book will blow the roof of who they are!?!

Standing up for the Bottom 10!

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

So you are saying your SIN is 000 000 000

Well, lucky you, that's easy to remember.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Ed Sheeran - Wayfaring Stranger

Promotional + Warmth + Burgers + Love + Hana + Reading

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

11th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Is there anything you like to talk about?

Narcissists? Megalomaniacs? Sociopaths?

Predatory companies prey on the displaced and are a significant part of the suffering we see on the streets around the globe.

Over here, I know you haven’t eaten in days; I know you live outdoors.

I know, last night, someone stole the shoes off your feet as you slept under a bench. I know when you woke up, three rats were crawling over you.

I know that’s bad, but come into my office, and I will give you minimum wage, to work a back-breaking job building this beautiful city, including shiny glass towers scratching the sky, breweries, restaurants, and million-dollar condos. I’ll give you an advance. And if you don’t have safety gear, I’ll sell you the safety gear.

I’m 52 and have never worked in construction in my life? Do you remember, I haven’t eaten in days?

That’s okay; our only requirement is you’re breathing.

What, you used your advance on drugs?

What, you used your advance to buy nutritious pop and a bag of chips?

At the end of the back-breaking day, the man returns to the office, broken.

Here’s your cheque.

$11.00. OMG. It’s only $11.00? How will I survive? What will I eat? Where will I live?

Well, if you were better with your money, you could…

Fuck Off.

Come in tomorrow, and I will send you back to help build the tower.

Thank you, Master.

You did this to yourself.

That night, Harold, for story’s sake, slept under a park bench, shoeless; his pet rats visited him during his dreams.

Harold only dreams of dying.

Gentrification Towers will continue to rise with or without Harold.

The Agency thinks they're providing a service.

Another tower. Another tower. The city needs to sell prosperity while it downplays the suffering.

Harold goes into a bar for a drink. The drink is $14.00. Harold has $11.00 on him, his take for a hard day’s work. The Agency Owner has two homes. Several cars. And a fucking boat.

A friend calls the homeless people living in the tent city on Hastings Street a problem.

I suggest otherwise.

I ask him why he cares?

He says the tent city being taken down is being rebuilt just as fast as it is being ripped apart.

So, I ask again, why he cares because it’s an area of the city he will never go to?

He repeats homeless people are a problem.

He goes on to say there is enough housing being built to house the Problem.

I tell him to study history: SROs, ghettos, oppression. And to quit calling humans "Problem."

I ask why he is angry with poor people?

Another friend, suggests we can't afford to house all of the poor people.

I say we can't afford not to, and the cost of suffering is far greater than the cost of the wealthy caring about those who were not as fucking lucky as they are.

And besides, throwing groups of suffering people into the same buildings, how has that worked out in the past? Think about that for a second.

Did you?

I know, you don't want people less fortunate than you near where you live. You are fucking special. You are fucking chosen. |Sarcasm + Profanity Alert| Fuck the poor!

The first talker doesn’t have an answer.

I say things will always be problematic when we demonize humans by calling them a “problem.” I told him I hoped there would be ten times the number of tents set up on Hastings in the next few days. But, of course, I don’t want ten times more people to suffer and live in despair.

I wonder where are the fucking outrage ‘haves’ who protest are?

Why are they not here protesting?

Where are the selfish Covid and Anti-Vaxxers who took the city hostage?

Why are they here not fighting for the poor?

I think a great thing would be if the wealthier members of society teamed together and set up tent cities all over the city, especially in affluent areas. If they did, would the authorities care?

I stressed again to my first friend the importance of changing the verbiage and stopping calling humans Problem. That would be a significant starting point for dialogue to commence; instead of being a talking point of disgust for those who watch the news.

I would make an excellent politician! Electable. Don't you think?

My first friend tried to keep the conversation going.

So, I did. I told him J and I were within $100 of being problem homeless humans ourselves, because I was replaced from my career just as I was about to turn 60.

I don't think that registered because he doesn't see us that way, as a problem, yet?

I went on to express suffering and poverty is a global problem threatening to destroy the world today. People are in trouble; it is not unique to Vancouver.

Google affordable housing issues in Seattle. People are still trying to blame drugs, and although they play a role, it's not as fucking simple as that, life can be incredibly hard, and the roots of despair run deep, often familial deep, fucking entitlement deep, systemic racism deep, deep, deep.

It is estimated 39% of Vancouver's homeless are Indigenous.

Poverty and homelessness, at the very least, is an epidemic because, in the grand scheme, cities don’t care about those suffering; for cities, homelessness is considered a nuisance as cities around the globe battle for the dollars of those who can afford to travel.

Politicians seem to prefer to sweep issues under the rug and present shiny cities with entertainment, food, sports, and cultural districts all gleaming; most of them carbon copies of every other city in the world—think brewery districts—and if we can gentrify enough (destroying lives and stripping away the uniqueness giving a city their pulse), then we can attract those who will do the advertising for the cities on their socials. Rich begets rich. |Sarcasm + Profanity Alert|. Fuck the poor.

I ask two flight attendants what their favourite city is?

They say in unison, “It doesn’t really matter; they are all the same. Sometimes when we wake up in the morning, we have forgotten where we are.”

In Vancouver, three cruise ships are preparing to depart for Alaska. It doesn’t matter what ship you get on because they are all filled with the same people (predominately Caucasian).

The tourists’ kids look bored, and the adults are disinterested. Why? They are tired of looking for ways to spend disposable income. And the kids have left their phones on the ship.

These same tourists stumble onto Vancouver’s cobblestoned streets in Gastown, snap photos of a 60-year-old steam clock and think they are having a cultural experience.

One block further into the experience, they become appalled when they see homelessness and suffering.

Hey Americans, just because you avoid certain freeway offramps and close your eyes tightly; doesn’t mean the suffering in your cities isn’t there.

Two unrelated mass shootings in Kentucky within 2 miles of each other, on the same day at the same time.

Owners of Airbnb’s tell guests the people on the street are mostly harmless—and the city is trying to address a housing affordability crisis.

We are living in fucked up times.

Shiny without a pulse.

Cities aren’t for the people; they are massive corporations fuelled by the need to survive with all vying for the same investment dollars—suffering is a nuisance, barely newsworthy, and definitely not sellable as a feature.

A couple walks into a bar at the edge of a gay village. The man realizes where they are (apparently, they don’t have Google)--they hand their menus back to the bartender after two drag queens walk in. Blushing, the female of the two looks at the bartender and says, “We’ll be back.” She’s lying.

Two unrelated mass shootings in Kentucky within 2 miles of each other, on the same day at the same time.

I wrote yesterday, in the next episode of Sparkly Pingle Ball about the first mass shooting in Kentucky, mentioned previously. Two hundred words after I wrote about the shooting, I wrote I wondered if another mass shooting had occurred, yet. Yes, one had.

I would make an excellent politician. Incredibly electable. Thoughtful.

And ready to regulate the predators.

Gentrification: Connecting the dots (Where it Fails)

Or

When we allow Greedy Assholes to Win and Destroy Society's Fabric

Cities become big corporations → they desperately try to attract affluent people and investment → they buy into the drug of gentrification → they start to whitewash (clean up) distressed areas, displacing the marginalized → developers see opportunity → businesses see opportunity → trendy restaurants and bars move into the gentrifying neighbourhoods → the city builds green spaces and gathering places → the police clear out the homeless → the city begins to become far too expensive for most → it becomes a playground for the rich → what once were cultural centers turn into shopping districts → global brands want a presence (Zara + Apple are everywhere) → tourists flock to these cities, often buying the same consumer products they have back home → somehow buying something from Zara in Barcelona makes it a unique experience → home prices soar → the city looks beautiful → the homeless are forced into hiding →

→ and the gentrification, just when it seems to be near completion → fractures → the playground for the rich needs servants → these servants to afford to serve need to live three, four, five people to a one bedroom or travel ridiculous amounts of time to be able to afford working → and a new working poor is created (working homeless) → and the gentrifying money often moves on to somewhere new.

Human Snapshot

Harold is 61, he doesn’t drink, do drugs, and he isn’t suffering from mental heath issues, except for; the sheer insanity of life itself. Harold fell on hard times. His wife of 22-years died from cancer, the company he worked for downsized (he was working in an industry that was becoming obsolete. So, the above mental health issues is a lie, because Harold was trapped in a bought of depression).

But.

Harold kept trying. His finances had all but disappeared. Harold needed to earn money to survive when he stumbled into the offices of this company with zero requirements for employment other than breathing.

For the next several months he showed up every day (sober) and was sent out to work. Seeing that Harold was 61, his physical strength had begun a downward slide. Several months of steady work into his new career the reports came in, Harold, although a consistent worker, was slow.

Harold’s olive branch was taken from him. Harold was permitted to sit in the office for one, two, three weeks, without being sent out to work.

Harold’s stress level reached a critical level. Harold spoke up.

Why are you no longer sending me out to work?

The thirty years younger (with little life experience) manager paused to think (no he didn’t).

Sorry Harold, this isn’t working out for you anymore.

But I show up everyday. I’m not a drunk. Nor do I do drugs like so many of your workers.

Companies have said you are too slow. I can’t employee you anymore. Why don’t you try getting an office job?

Harold was STAMPED: Non-Human.

Harold left the office in tears (at 61).

Harold was last seen living under an overpass.

Chips ~ Destiny ~ Free Will

I stop at a store, buy a bag of chips, and continue home. I pass a striking, beautiful girl walking with a guy who’s had years perfecting the druggie walk. He’s hunched over, shuffling. I corrected myself; she (was) beautiful.

She’s trying.

Her hair is coiffed.

She’s dressed well, albeit her dress is falling off of her.

There is an urgency to their gait.

Where are they going?

I’m judging hard.

I think the kindest thing for him to do is overdose. Letting her go may be her only chance.

I thought about that.

What does that say about me?

I’ve lived 22 years of my life within one block of where I live now (and where I live now). 16 and 6+, with a 6-year hiatus to somewhere else. 28+ years total.

When I used to walk home 28 years ago, I used to think everyone else had everything figured out. I saw hope in people’s eyes. I thought I was the only one who was rudderless.

Today, when I do the same walk, I see the destruction of time.

What’s caused it?

Greed?

Social media?

Is a clock running out?

My Chest Hurts

Across from my home is a beautiful park with a fantastic playground. On sunny days, it is always filled. One block from the park rests an open-air drug den. Crack. Heroine. Meth. Cooked. Smoked. Injected. Snorted. Hopelessness. Dead already. One block from the playground. Did these dying souls not have playgrounds when they were growing up? I’m eating chips.

A woman walks by the destruction with her daughter. Her little girl says, “Mommy, what’s wrong with these people? Are they sick? Are they dying? They scare me.”

In a hushed tone, Mommy says, “Life isn’t fair. We must cherish our good fortune.”

A moment later, a man walks by with his son. His little boy says, “What’s wrong with these people?”

The man says, “They made choices. This happens when you make the wrong ones.”

The boy and girl play together at the playground.

I ponder.

Destiny? Free Will?

If you believe in God, you can’t believe in destiny because Destiny lets God off the hook. It relieves him of his responsibilities. If God created destiny, he’s lazy.

I thought about those things.

What am I?

Coming Soon

RETRO.

At RETRO, we only succeed if you do!

As opposed to, the guy I hate the guy I just sent out to work, he’s a crackhead and a loser.

At RETRO, we are no better than you!

Health Update

Stress is killing me. Yesterday, J and I spent over two hours migrating our phones from Shaw to Rogers (Robson Street) because of the merger. John was incredibly helpful, a professional, thorough, a pleasure to deal with. All of the Rogers staff were incredible, Mona + Jeffery.

Anyway, the whole time there I felt like I was going to drop, the stress of the last three years was unrelenting. Over two hours of cell phone talk had turned my brain into over 100 GB of mush. When we left, I continued to feel off balance.

If I drop dead. DGCW are responsible. They are the Narcissistic, Megalomaniac, Sociopathic monsters mentioned before.

But of course, everything I write has to be a work of fiction, because truth can never be allowed to be told.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

So you are saying your SIN is 000 000 000

Well, lucky you, that's easy to remember.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Jozy - Main One

Hana + Five Guys Burgers

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

12th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

What is on your mind today, about yesterday, and where we are going now?

Food Insecurity

I want to make a difference.

Do something?

I am; I try to listen, and I try to start a dialogue, to change how we talk to each other.

I spent almost 15 years working with people falling through society’s cracks. Not born entitled and having suffered many life traumas; fortunately, I became more empathetic instead of jaded and thinking I’m better than others; or I deserve more. I believe my thoughts to be measured and not based on how I can benefit from your sweat. Like the predatory companies looking for anyone in the throes of--

Staying on the topic of poverty and tent cities—often when someone falls into misery and no longer has walls around them, life rapidly begins sliding downward.

How?

People who start sliding no longer have a place to shower, no longer have a place to crap, and often have assholes looking at them as less than human. Once you fall, everything becomes desperate.

If you’ve ever had a job where your remuneration was primarily commission, you might understand. Everything is rosy at the start of each month; prosperity is ahead if a few deals land.

You start counting chickens.

If, by mid-month, and it looks like the sales will be delayed, you no longer look ahead, but you start looking sideways and behind you as bills and the next month’s rent start creeping up on you.

At the end of the month, stress wins, and if the deals don’t land, you might become expendable because you are not meeting targets.

Numbers. Numbers. Numbers.

Life can be challenging if you are not part of the entitled demographic. If you are fucking entitled, you probably believe everything you earned, you earned yourself, discounting the fact you started eons ahead of everyone not as fortunate as you. Sure, your family life might suck, but at least you likely don’t have to worry about being homeless.

For the entitled, there rarely is a grey area for sickness, family tragedy, or other traumas, or fucking racism:

I worked hard for everything I have, try harder.

Fuck off.

Once you find yourself outside, if you are in the throes of—everything becomes masked in desperation; you’re thrust into a food desert where there is no way it will be nutritious if you can even afford to eat.

A story comes on the news, expounding the importance of eating nutritiously.

But I’m living outdoors.

Then how do you know about the story on the news?

Fuck off.

Anyway, eat nutritiously or die young.

But now, I live outdoors? I don’t have a fridge. I don’t have a way to cook my food.

Get a job?

I don’t have a place to shower.

Try.

I’m not lazy, asshole; I’m just not as lucky as you.

I wonder why there isn’t more violence. But of course, I don’t encourage it, but desperation is a fickle beast.

Hey Mister, I know you are suffering, have a little taste of this.

No. I don’t do drugs.

It’s now rained for six straight days, and I’ve only eaten a cheap burger from a fast-food restaurant.

I chased it down with cola.

I put it in a cup I found in the garbage.

If I hadn’t found a cup in the trash, I would have had to pay for one.

I would have refilled it, but the worker behind the counter hit the kill switch on the cola machine.

I was going to steal an apple from the grocer, but I couldn’t; security was watching me like a hawk.

Someone in the grocer walked past me wearing Lululemon; the person was eating an apple. The security guard said “hello” while glaring at me over the person’s shoulder.

The news reported on what produce is dangerous to eat because it is laced with pesticides:

Spinach + Blueberries made the list.

Eat nutritiously?

I’m confused, and besides, I’m living in a box, I can’t afford to eat. Knock. Knock.

I can’t afford to eat either. I’m not homeless and think I’m addicted to fast food. So, I better supplement my eating (I think); with a multivitamin, which I cannot afford or justify.

On the shelf, there are three options, all with slightly different price points.

I ask. What is the difference?

This one is for highly active people (most expensive), this one for everyone (least costly); and this one is for men 50+ (in the middle).

The clerk hands me the one for everyone. I need the one for 50+.

She says that’s not for you. She’s good at her job.

I tell her it is—(I’m 62.5).

She says, no, you are not.

I blush.

The clerk should have suggested the one for the highly active.

The clerk needs to improve at her job.

He had only eaten a burger and one cup of cola for the past six days.

He’s approached by a sketchy man on a little bike.

Have a little taste of this.

Okay.

Some asshole drives by and says there is no excuse for not eating; if I was homeless, numerous places offer free meals—I’d never go hungry.

Fuck off, asshole.

You do not receive a stigma-laced map of how to keep eating and falling when you lose everything. Yes, places are trying to help, but once you step inside, you might fall off a cliff and be trapped further in the cycle of despair.

Hey, Mister, would you like another taste?

Why do people drink?

To self-medicate?

Mostly, probably --

Now imagine the desperation and need to self-medicate for those who are suffering.

Did you?

If you did, I hope you found an ounce of compassion or empathy.

A man wearing a logoed golf shirt walks by; you’ve been sleeping on the sidewalk for a month now, your body is breaking, and your health is waning.

I need workers, come work for me, and get off the sidewalk.

How can you?

You are already dead and working the last hours of your life for a predator, well --

The man with the logoed golf shirt mouths, you did it to yourself.

You hear through the grapevine that people think of you as 'less than human' and suggest arbitrarily throwing everyone like you into mental institutions that don’t exist. It’s for their own good, they add.

They are outraged.

They don’t like looking at you.

They want to protect their children. Oh please.

They willfully forget you were once a child yourself.

You walk into another grocer; you need an apple.

You end up in handcuffs, and a story on the news, and people think less of you.

Mister, would you like more?

The dealer no longer has to ask.

Now, not only are you addicted to fast-food and sugar, but to survive, you have a more nefarious demon racing through your veins, and you stink.

Newsflash: Fast-food isn’t cheap.

I need a soda; I found this cup in the trash. Damn. The kid behind the counter hit the kill switch.

If you weren't so far gone, you'd be embarrassed.

Some people look at you in disgust.

Your health has passed waning, you’re spiralling, you’re on a treadmill accelerating out of control, you try to hit the pause button—but it’s malfunctioning—you’re doomed.

A man screams to get a job. Another in a logoed shirt says I know you’re dying, but why don’t you make me some money before you go?

If the perils of others don’t lead the rest of us down a path toward compassion and empathy and the realization life is a fucking fragile ride, and for some of us, a life-threatening one, then what’s the point of being human?

It’s sickening when people I know judge struggling people by saying they’ve done it to themselves.

That attitude is fucking lazy because if you have not walked every step lockstep with those you are judging through their lives, how the fuck can you ever know what their life is truly like?

And besides, it doesn’t matter if somebody’s done “it” whatever you fucking perceive “it” to be, to themselves or not, because what’s been done has already been done, and “should have” plagues all of us, not only those who are suffering.

A flourishing society is supposed to look out and care for and not judge each other.

It doesn’t matter what’s been done—the only thing we are supposed to be doing is trying to make the world kinder by listening and then, most importantly, trying to understand not everyone is as fucking lucky as you.

It’s the only path to a kinder world moving forward.

Numbers. Numbers. Numbers.
Numbers are as of 9:42 AM (Today)

868 million undernourished people in the world
1.75 trillion overweight people
832 million obese people
$19 trillion spent on weight loss programs this year
$111 trillion spent on illegal drugs this year

Worldmeter

Human Snapshots

Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside is a cancerous eyesore that will not just fade away. Instead, it's filled with the tweaked-out. The lost and forgotten that have been warehoused in the area to live out their lives in altered states.

Driving through, Night of the Living Dead quickly springs to mind.

Open drug usage is rampant, young girls frothing at the mouth close to overdose, injections taking place—visible to even the blind.

Unlike American cities, where super expressways allow mainstream society to avoid seeing the destruction and despair; unless they take the wrong off-ramp, we must face the problem and find solutions.

Why?

Because this area epitomizes our failure, framing it for the whole world to see, even our American neighbours are appalled, "We've never seen anything like this before."

I thought like most others for the longest time and showed little compassion. The chant, "Get a job," comes to mind.

But over the years of driving temporary construction workers to work, they show up at 5 a.m., hoping to get work, either for extra cash or to support habits; three workers have changed my views.

Ryan, Patrick, and Mary, surprisingly, never complain and rarely tell tales of hardship; instead, they're cheerful, supportive, and encouraging.

They are just people like me and you.

Ryan

Ryan offers little insight into his world.

Life has left him guarded.

Mary

Mary has had a tough go of it. She has medical disorders; however, getting up and working gives her a sense of dignity.

Patrick

Patrick - 5' 11", 119 pounds, is fighting a dark demon.

"I'm 119 pounds. I have to get off the dope."

I naively asked if it was easy to do?

"Not when your dealer is waiting outside when you cash your cheque."

Patrick's story is somewhat tragic, much like the stories of most in the area. Though unique, they all blend together with common threads.

Because it will not go away--

On some level, we've failed, and we must find a way to cleanse the problem. These fine individuals have been warehoused; with their support networks long gone, they’re trying to escape reality, which is difficult at best.

When you’re sitting in your luxurious condo with your loving family, remember this: The Rick, Peter and Cathy’s of this world probably had a hand in building it.

How can we judge what we don't understand?

And now, with gentrification in full swing around the world; wont the perils of these fine, somewhat lost souls, only be exacerbated ten-fold or more?

Written by a 'failed writer' who used to contribute Opinion Editorials to 24 Hours Vancouver - a major commuter newspaper that had a circulation of 230,000 daily.

Health Update

I am feeling the most unwell I have ever felt. Fuck you stress. Maybe I shouldn't swear at stress because swearing at stress sounds stressful?

I'm going to be on my own for the next month for the first time in 7 years. I don't like it. I found out yesterday we have plants and they will need to be watered.

I've been given the instructions.

I up for the task.

For the next month my only other goals are to...

Kick depresssion to the curb.
To take Pinky, my broken somewhat healed pinkly toe back to the Fitness Asylum
To work on RETRO
Land a Publishing Deal!
Slay some monsters by giving them a shove.
And most importantly, search, find, and regain my health and feeling of well-being.

I don't have the benefit of entitlement, like the monsters I am going to slay. So, unlike them, everything I accomplish will be of my own accord.

I want to make a difference in this world!

Hey, you over there, in the Escalade, what are you going to do today to make the world a better?

I'm going to profit off the sweat of suffering people?

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

So you are saying your SIN is 000 000 000

Well, lucky you, that's easy to remember.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Jozy - A Bloom Away

Five Guys Burgers + Friendship + On the Road

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

13th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

How was yesterday?

I will keep things short today - about yesterday.

I’m feeling ennui.

J left for home for the next month.

I think I have abandonment issues; I started bawling about one hour before departure.

I’m excited for J!

J is visiting his family for the first time since 2017.

Try not to be selfish.

“Visiting family” can trigger me.

If you know my history, you’d know why.

I found out in the last few days that (I have plants) that will need watering.

You can do it!

Thanks for the encouragement.

J and I haven’t been apart since 2017.

The following will be inside stuff.

I don’t know what I will miss most.

On weekends, “Are we getting ready?”

When we walk past Rainbow Park, “That’s one of the greatest parks in the world!” Every time.

When we are about to part company for two hours, “I’m going to amble because this is the saddest part of my day.” Every time.

OR

Everything!

Back to the war on the Poor

I’m having trouble watching the news. The narrative seems to be a simple one.

Report on Tent Cities and Poor People.
Interview people who are not homeless who are fed up; people who scream something needs to be done, and we need to make them (THE PROBLEM) go away by putting them in…
Report social housing and treatment centers are being built in parts of the city.
Interviewers asked people living in the area about their outrage because they don’t want (THE PROBLEM) in their area.

I walk past a school outing where hundreds of children walk together. Hand-in-hand. It's a heartwarming sight to see.

I can’t help but think out of each 100, 10 will be homeless and in need of treatment and housing, only to have the new parents screaming, "I don’t want them in my neighbourhood."

And then, one Grand(ma)(pa) notices their son Timmy or daughter Karen are amongst the homeless, and in need of help.

“They did it to themselves,” they scream.

Seriously, Mom and Dad, you had nothing to do with it.

“No, it was the drugs.”

Nothing to do with you?

No. We were perfect parents. They got in with the wrong crowd.

The news continues

The next story is about a random attack.
Interview people, who scream, "I don’t feel safe on the streets, something needs to be done."
One of the people interviewed goes home, and their drunk partner abuses…
It’s the drugs.

Aren’t you being lazy? Isn’t suffering much more complicated?

Next

A grieving mother is on the news; she’s lost her son to addiction, and shamefully, not her, but society, she feels she has to honour her son by humanizing him.

Think about that for a second; a grieving mother has to humanize her son to convince assholes the problem might be calling her son PROBLEM as opposed to the lazy way of blaming solely drugs.

Don’t get me wrong, I, like everyone else, hate seeing suffering on the street.

I hate seeing people addled on drugs.

I hate seeing the destruction inflicted on the world and people dealt difficult life cards.

And sure, some of them did it to themselves.

And of course, I DO NOT CONDONE VIOLENCE. Or, like ALLCAPS.

But no matter how much I feel they did it to themselves, they are still humans, not PROBLEM, and I don’t think we should ever lose sight of that.

I sit in a food court.

Two 50ish-year-old men debate 20-year-old-men hockey players, switching to their golf scores and finishing with the PROBLEM on our streets; all need to be thrown into mental institutions, it's for their own good.

Hockey, golf, and you think you are mentally stable(?) (Your 55 and you are wearing a jersey with Pettersson on the back, your son isn't an athlete, how do you think he feels?), if only for a second, have you considered maybe you are mentally the mentally disorganized one?

But then, you flip the switch, and instead of considering yourself lucky, you switch to wanting a large portion of the population locked up, people you have no idea what they’ve gone through in their lives.

Your son is an honour role student. He hates hockey. You are wearing a jersey with Pettersson on your back. It cost you $300.

A homeless person finds a McDonald's cup in the garbage. He goes to fill it up. The worker between the counter hits the kill switch turning off the soda machine.

There's random acts of violence on our streets.

The starting point of change might be as simple as changing how we talk about one another.

Instead of Problem, maybe we can start with “Hello, how are you?”

Let’s change the narrative.

Human Snapshots

A CONVERSATION IN A PARK WITH THE OWNER OF A →

Mikkel (Owner):

Hey.

Co Worker:

Hey, M. Glorious day.

Mikkel (Owner):

Sure is. I hate the workers. Today, I had to slam on the brakes of my $80,000 sports car, because a goose + her babies were crossing the road. They were so cute. If it had been one of the workers crossing the road, I wouldn’t have hit the brakes.

Co Worker:

You do know, it’s because of the workers you have a car; don’t you?

Mikkel (Owner):

I hate Drew. He’s the stupidest man I know. Most mornings I can’t wait to get him off to work—out of the office. He’s an idiot.

Co Worker:

Geez. I don’t feel the same way about people as you. I don’t think Drew is stupid. He’d just had a different life. And, you just said, most mornings you send him out the door to make you money.

Mikkel (Owner):

Yeah. What’s your point?

Co Worker:

|inaudible|

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily First
Breakfast Alone

Tucker Hosts “Demonic” Ex-Pres

Coming Soon: Sparkly Pingle Ball on Colbert - Part 2

First Breakfast Alone + On the Road + JD Farms (Langley)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

14th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Do you want to say anything about yestereday?

Depression is still sitting with me daily.

I’m on Day 2 of my month-long solitary life! I’m managing.

After a week’s hiatus, I dragged Pinky, my broken toe, to the gym. Pinky is still ouching a lot. But Pinky is slowly recovering.

I’m freakishly strong for a man of my advancing age—I’m not sure what to do with that. So, I guess I’m good at pushing things.

I went to my vaccine appointment. The Vaccines weren’t in yet, so I got the vaccine from a sketchy guy on the street. No. I. Did. Not.

I went to another pharmacy. I told the vaccine administrator I hated needles, so she placed the syringe on the table before me and did other things for a few minutes. Nice presentation.

She poked me. It hurt. Afterward, I went to a sketchy guy on the street and bought more vaccines. No. I. Did. Not. It’s not okay to make jokes about purchasing street drugs.

Yes, it is if you don’t condone it.

I don’t; I think you know how I feel about suffering. And besides, I don’t want to be preyed upon by Staffing Agencies who need people to suffer to exploit them.

Can I say that?

Yes.

The Best Thing on the News - Actually, On Colbert

How can we not laugh at the world?

The ex-president had a make-believe conversation with a made-up five-year-old about pulling the troops out of Afghanistan, where he played both roles.

Colbert

The ex-president rambled on about a lot of subjects, like the withdrawal from Afghanistan. Attacking Biden’s decision-making. And then, he unveiled a brand-new military advisor.

The Ex-President

I did a little skit with a five-year-old kid. I said let me ask you? Here’s the situation explained. The situation, I said, would you take the military out first, or would you take it out last?

The Ex-President Playing the Role of the Made-Up Five-year-old (In the Five-year-old’s Voice)

I’d take it out last. Five-year-old totally.

This is real.

How do you feel about it?

And I am not fucking allowed to write stories about a fictitious food distribution center because my crappy lawyer is crap and allowed the disgusting people I used to know fucking hurt me more.

You sound angry.

Yes.

I will do what I can to take out the trash.

Human Snapshots

Lloyd is a drunk. He’s 52. Lloyd has drunk at least 30 beers per day for the last 20 years. Lloyd is an affable man who tries to make everyone smile.

Story has it, if you take a moment to listen, his parents died in a car accident when he was 29. His life went off the rails. Lloyd never recovered.

If you are a pawn working for the man, you might discount Lloyd and say stupid things like, "Lot's of people have problems, Lloyd." Not understanding saying "shut up" would be kinder.

Lloyd found a home in a company’s office, often being asked to clean it for $5, or at the max, $10. Lloyd was often sent out to work. Until he was deemed no longer employable. Except when Mardi Gras (Welfare Week), came once per month.

During Mardi Gras, the industry struggles for bodies, so, Lloyd, gets sent out to jobs (becomes human again).

When Lloyd is sent out the door, the company human manager speaks up.

I hate Lloyd, he is a useless drunk.

But you just sent him out the door, and besides, you haven’t been their for every step of his life.

I hate him.

Lloyd is not fit to work anymore, except for cleaning and welfare week.

When he returns to the office at the end of welfare week, he is stamped: Non-Human, again.

Three weeks later, Lloyd falls and ends up in the hospital.

He’s visited by one of the rare compassionate humans in the company. Lloyd looks at his visitor. His arms are restrained (tied to his wheelchair). Lloyd utters a few words.

I don’t want to live anymore.

Three days later, Lloyd died.

On Lloyd’s last day upright, the company deemed him human enough to make them $$$.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we might not be able to help the Lloyd's of the world. But at the very least, we will treat the Lloyd's of the world like they are human and not disposable trash.

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Europe Trip (2003 - Munich: Part 2)
The Moment I Found Out Who My Mother Is

Jozy - About You

Raisins + Spring Sprunging + JD Farms (Langley)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

15th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

How was your day, yesterday?

I made it to the Fitness Asylum.

I'm either fit or insane, perhaps both.

I will keep this short because I'm trying to finish the next episodes of Lindsay Last Month + Sparkly Pingle Ball.

They may be delayed a day or two.

My body is hurting; I'm unsure what percentage is because of the Asylum and what percentage are because of the Covid Vaccine side effects?

It is 20-80.

We arrive at Gummy Friday.

That was quick.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I finished another book: Closer By Sea

Gummy Friday

It's me, the Postman and 2G.

We sit at our table. A loud man in an orange shirt is at the corner of the bar. Two seats to his write, to his right, on at the break of the bar is another loud man. Two seats to his right is a grumpy, bitter man.

The two loud men are having a loud conversation. The man in the orange shirt pretends to realize where he is, a gay-friendly bar; he immediately becomes louder, expounding how he is okay with the gays.

This riles the grumpy, bitter man. He says to the loud man remaining, WTF is that guy doing here pretending to not know where he is?

A week earlier, a man sitting at the corner of the bar, Romeo and Juliette, was playing on mute on the TV.

I said to change the channel to the bartender. Scott, an annoying man, said you are an idiot if you don't respect Shakespeare. Scott was two seats from the man at the corner.

The man at the corner felt the need to announce, "I appreciate the arts, but I am not gay."

Scott and the man leave to be replaced by a man I'd guess to be in his sixties, where Scott was sitting, And a young black guy.

The black guy says to Eoin, the bartender, imagine what it would be like to be black in America.

The man in his sixties jumped into the conversation, reassuring the young black guy that we are more tolerant of it here.

Don't you hate that word?

Back to Gummy Friday

Mr. Orange Shirt is replaced by another loud man. Indigenous Peter sits where the bitter old guy was. Next to him sits Mr. Racist. Next to him sits a black man.

Mr. Orange Shirt and Mr. Racist start to loudly share opinions on what it is like to be black in America. They are both Caucasian.

The black man covers his ears and moves around to the other side of the bar.

Mr. Racist begins hitting on Indigenous Peter.

He says, "I'm rich." And then adds, "I don't see you as anything other than white."

The black man rolls his eyes.

That's it for Gummy Friday.

I feel pooey today.

Human Snapshots

Wendy’s

I escape my reality to read. I’m sitting at Wendy’s looking out at the world. Reading, three of the books sent my way. You called me a failed writer. You are an asshole. I read a page. Behind me a large man, normal looking, whatever the fuck that means (?) starts ranting.

Are you the manager? I want to talk to the manager; he screams at the young female manager.

Yes.

I am disgusted by the service. I’ve never been so disrespected in my life. I’m a senior. I’ve been coming here for ten years. This is the worst I’ve ever been treated.

I’m sorry…

You’re not sorry. Don’t fucking say your sorry. You aren’t going to do anything. If you were sorry, you’d do something right now.

What’s the problem sir? What happened? I’m sorry…

Quit saying your sorry. You’re not fucking sorry. You are not going to do anything. I won’t tell you what happened.

Sir, if you don’t…

That person, behind the counter, wherever that person is from, gave my fries to the girl in the window. Not the first fries, but the second and third. They were for me. And instead of helping me, that person went over to the girl in the window and laughed. They were playing a game.

I’m…

Fuck off. You aren’t going to do anything. You aren’t helping. You don’t care.

I just want to read.

Sir, I need to talk to…

You only need to talk to me. If I was in the country of that person (Is this man a Ken?), I would have gone behind the counter and kicked the shit out of that person. You must do something. You’re not going to do anything. I’m a health inspector. I see several violations. I’m reporting you right now to Wendy’s Canada. You will pay.

Sir, what…

You don’t care. If you cared you’d do something. This isn’t the last you’ll hear from me. I’m never coming back.

What?

Sorry.

Look at you. You’re not sorry. I should wipe that fucking smirk off your face.

I turn.

Sir, you are being incredibly rude.

What? Mind your own fucking business.

This is my business. It’s impacting my reading.

Fuck off.

He turns to face the manager.

He’s making himself, large, intimidating, I think he must think she’s a coyote.

He turns back to me.

Sir, you need to stop.

You’re nothing more than an old, stupid, fucking cunt.

He walks out.

Thankfully, Canada is open carry.

The manager turns to me.

I’m sorry sir…

You’re not sorry.

No, I didn’t.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Le Viet Cuisine (Royal Center) + JD Farms (Langley)

Jozy - Broken Love

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

16th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Tell us about yesterday?

I promise brevity in this answer.

It Day 4 of being solo for the first time in 6 years.

I remembered how to do the dishes.

I scooped Hana's poop.

I've remembered how to be a chef (4 Day Dinner Cooking Recap)

Mac & Cheese mixed to the perfect consistency.
Two slices of Pizza (Hawaiian + Peperoni) w/coke.
Chicken Poutine w/coke
I found the opener + cracked open a can of Minestrone Soup. w/milk

I even bought some bananas. Being a chef is coming back to me quickly. I was going to pick up some pork cutlets, but the store only had family packs with 10 cutlets. Solo person punishment?

The Covid Vaccine is wiping me out, yesterday, massive headaches, body aches, ache aches - ache is a weird looking word.

Oh. Oh. Ho. Oh. Almost a Christmas song. I finished the latest episode of Sparkly Pingle Ball.

Read it here: Episode 7 (or 6.2 depending on how you butter your toast) Sparkly Pingle Ball: On Stephen Colbert. Pt. 2 The Colbert Questionert.

Inside Episode 7, there is a Kafkaesque story about a homophobic business owner and his homophobic partner of ten years, cutting off their hands because they are afraid of PDAs.

What do I want?

Thanks for asking.

Besides powerful, mind blowing... I want my recontouring to reach a wide audience.

Oh. Oh. Ho. Oh. I also want the people who hurt my family's future to feel similar pain.

They are failing.

That's nice to hear.

Nice is a weak descriptor.

I know.

I must run. I need to raconteur the April Issue of Lindsay Last Month

Do you know how I know I will succeed.

I spelled raconteur correctly the first try. My only try. Why in the heck would there be a second try if the first try was correct.

Rhetorical.

Human Snapshots

RJ

RJ is wasting away. Every week he loses about five pounds.

180
175
170
165
...
115 pounds

Meth is RJ’s diet plan. His teeth are rotting, and he is maybe (?) thirty. RJ ages every week as his face begins to eat itself.

30
34
45
…
50 years old (?) - at least he looks 50.

RJ is losing his battle.

His boss visits a convenience store to buy lottery tickets. On the wall are photos of RJ stealing.

The company's Transporter runs into RJ on the street. “RJ, we’re worried about you. Is there anything we can do to help?”

The only thing RJ offers in return is, “I know. I’m in trouble,” finishing with garbled mumbles sounding eerily close to Trump.

The following day RJ enters the office looking for work. He may or may not be fucked up.

He is always fucked up.

His boss rolls the dice, sending RJ to work.

The next three days, RJ's boss, rolls the dice over and over again.

On the third day, as RJ's boss, fires RJ out the door (for his last employable day of work), RJ's privileged boss, with a 'high-up-the-pecking-order-in-the-industry' father, says to RJ, “Hey, RJ, you should probably get off the crack.”

If only it were that easy.

RJ is of Indian descent. He used to be bright (still is?), with computer acumen. Would RJ ever be hired to work in a position similar to his boss?

NO.

But why not?

RJ likely would never send someone out the door, who has his picture on a wall in a convenience store for stealing; a man who told the Transporter he's in trouble because of his meth addiction. RJ would understand someone like him is screaming for help.

"Hey, RJ, you should probably get off the crack But before you do, have I got some work for you."

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we understand life can be unfair!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Fat Burger (Granville Street)

Ed Sheeran x ONE OK ROCK

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

17th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. That wasn't a question; how was yesterday?

Before I regale (1) you, I hope you like the covers I’ve posted daily above. Each represents a story idea I’m working on or will be working on. I love creating.

Do what you love and one day you will have something that will allow you to purchase a sandwich will follow.

I’ve been living solo for five days now.

I don’t like it.

I now know what missing feels like.

I’m ecstatic; I can feel.

I’ve been trying to eat more nutritiously.

Except, of course, for the Fat Burger, Poutine and Pizza. Baby steps.

You’re 62.5.

Get out of here. Baby steps.

I stopped by Chachi’s in the Pacific Center yesterday for a sandwich. The pictures below don’t do it justice.

I had.

CLUBBIN’ - DOUBLE SMOKED BACON, ROAST TURKEY BREAST, CHEDDAR, GARLIC AIOLI, SPICY MAYO, LETTUCE, TOMATO / GF

It was one of the best sandwiches I’ve had. I was going to say ever.

You just did.

Shut it.

I was going to say ever but ever is a given.

I believe in a scarcity of words.

You call this scarcity.

Beat it... I don't appreciate your tone.

I finished the latest Issue of Lindsay Last Month (April - Issue #13), chock-full of the usual fabulous stories, images, and poetry, including a riveting Guest Post about fast food. Sodium. Yum.

I continued to work on bringing RETRO to life.

I genuinely want to change the way the Staffing Industry operates after a lengthy career seeing from the inside how disgusting it really is and how the people who work in it think little about humanity, which only adds to the suffering we see on our streets every day.

They may say otherwise. But they need suffering to succeed. Think about that for a second.

One.

You can stop thinking now.

I also keystroked the first chapter of Let’s Cut Off Our Hands. It’s the story of a homophobic business owner, Darren, who runs a business that preys on suffering people, and his homophobic carpenter partner, Tyler, and their homophobic third wheel, Todd, who cleans up the carnage homophobic Darren leaves in his wake. Darren + Tyler’s biggest fear is PDAs, and after seeing six same-sex couples holding hands in one day, they cut off their hands to control the urge and replaced them with attachments.

I love it.

That’s all for now.

I just ate a banana + eight almonds.

I bought peas + cheery tomatoes, yesterday.

I’m going to have a glass of milk

Are you sufficiently regaled?

Rhetorical.

One last thought

Would it not be more honest if in the USA, after a mass shooting, the people being interviewed, instead of saying, “I never thought this would happen here. We are a tight-knit community. A quiet family-orientated community.”

Said.

“Finally, I had trouble sleeping because we hadn’t had our mass shooting yet. But now that we have, I may finally get a good night’s sleep. What’s that? There were two shootings in one city on the same day. Damn. I think I’ll never sleep.”

That was the first time I've used the word 'regale.'

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

Ray

The Setting: In a Vehicle - Four workers being transported to work. - Any Day: May

Four others rode with the transporter; Ray is in the front seat, Mohamed + two others in the back.

Mohamed asked the transporter how the transporters other pursuits were progressing.

The Transporter

Great, thanks for asking; everything has been stellar.

Hey, do you want to hear something I find juvenile but hilarious at the same time? —you do—here goes.

Okay Google

What is a fart?

The transporter laughed for blocks.

Ray wanted to play.

Ray

Can I ask Google something?

The Transporter

Sure can, Ray.

Ray asked Google about somebody named Dow.

Dow was a journalist about one-hundred-years ago. He started the Dow Jones index. WOW.

Ray

He’s, my great-grandfather. I’m filthy rich. I only do this work thing for something to do. I want to use my wealth for good.

A noble thought.

Ray

My real mother is looking for me.

I was kidnapped from an NYC hospital, Sandra + Brian stole me.

They saw the name on my bed.

They brought me to Vancouver.

I thought for all these years, they were my parents.

The Transporter

Mouth agape.

Ohmygod. That’s crazy shit.

Ray

I know, Brian was a prick.

He’s an Hell’s Angel.

A bad dude.

I hated him.

Sandra tried to be good to me.

I think she saw dollar signs.

My real mom wants to connect with me.

The Transporter

When did you find out Sandra + Brian were not your real parents?

Ray

Just recently.

The Transporter

Geez, Ray, how are you doing? Can I share a story about the deception in my family—that’s how I found out. The news can be devastating. Make sure you talk to someone.

Ray

I’m OK. Do you want to know the most shocking part? Brian murdered my real father. He set him on fire and buried his burnt corpse behind our house. I discovered the body. I didn’t know at the time--the body was my father’s.

The Transporter

Dropped off the first two workers. Ray, Mohamed, and the transporter carry on.

Stopped at a convenience store for Mohamed to pick up juice.

Ray turns in his seat and gives the transporter a severe glance.

Ray

Did you know I have a daughter?

The Transporter

I didn’t.

Ray

She’s 6-foot 9-inches tall.

Do you know how old I was when I had her?

The Transporter

The transporter, didn’t.

Ray

Four.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

The Ancient Seven Wonders of the World

Chachi’s in the Pacific Center + Main Street + A Cookie

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

18th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. That wasn't a question; how was yesterday?

An Open Letter

I’m sad.

I can’t escape it, the unrelenting sadness and depression.

I can’t find a way to erase it from my mind, Charlie Kaufman it out like Eternal Sunshine of A Spotless Man. With absolute clarity I wish I could reach a point where the awful people I’m going to mention eleven paragraphs from now, never occupied another moment of thought.

As I age, I’m terrified for my future, my life.

In the past few weeks, I felt I was going to die. I don’t want to because I have people who love me dearly. I’m in a loving relationship. And I have a furry friend who seems to adore me. I love her as well. Hana is her name. She turns 12 in June. My relationship turns 13 this month.

I felt as if I needed to go to the hospital, or die, but I didn’t want to because J was going home for the first time in 6 years to see family, and I didn’t want to burden J with a false alarm, and the worrying about me because J has seen what the last three years has inflicted.

What an asshole I was.

Fortunately, I didn’t die.

Why was I being an asshole?

Well, because in the utmost of certainty, J prefers me to be breathing—and if something was seriously wrong, if by not dealing with it, it put me in peril—what an asshole I was being. I wasn’t in denial. I thought I was making a sound decision.

The sadness has been shrouded in the darkness of depression for quite some time now.

What placed me in this scary place?

I wasn’t ready to call it a day on my career—I needed three more years to shore up my financial future—to build up my writing inventory to where, when I hit 65 or 66, I’d have time to pull a rabbit out of a hat or thread the needle with rope and launch a writing career as golden started setting in. And become, a feel-good story on the news.

But no, my future was taken from me, with nary the consideration or a genuine conversation, and an offer to make sure I was going to be okay and not a casualty of greed.

I had, unfortunately, aligned myself with people whose every decision was based upon putting money in their own jeans.

They are not good people but people devoid of empathy and compassion.

A decade-and-a-half taught me this.

I listened. I saw the lack of empathy when someone died. Each time someone who had touched my life died, my heart ached. What I saw in these people was emptiness. That’s how they could rid themselves of me without considering what their decision was inflicting.

What do you think happens to someone in their sixties who loses their livelihood?

It's not good. In the three years of tumult, I will never be able to recover from the financial devastation.

As you unlock the door on your luxury home I had a big roll in helping you build, pause and think about that for a second.

I know you won't.

Why?

Because if you think someone may have called you a coward, you rage.

My waking nightmare returned last night. I’m in fucking trouble. If I was in Japan, I might have already been dead.

We don’t have double doors preventing us from stepping in front of trains when we lose everything and feel we can no longer support living. A train comes every few minutes.

I can no longer support living.

I thought I’d be fine when I was clear of the shitty people mentioned above. But that is nothing more than denial. I’m deep in denial. Almost 15 years given to an organization, and I die fucking broke + homeless.

Unless I hit the winning shot at the buzzer or a miracle arrives, I’m fucking done.

The assholes I was aligned with do not care about human life. As I drown in depression, they are far more concerned that I may do something that hurts their feelings as the noose is tightening around my neck.

I know if any of them read this, they will think I'm losing my mind. Fuck you.

I’m sorry, this is dark.

I know what I’m supposed to do with life, but unfortunately, there are no guarantees that effort will give the results.

I do not lack effort.

At 62.66-years-of-age hoping someone else validates your talents. Well… good-fucking-luck. A one-in-a-billion-shot.

I’m scared.

I had an interview where I had to prove my English proficiency—a minimum wage job—after, they told me I scored good.

I scored good at English proficiency. I scored good at English proficiency. I was told, I scored good at English proficiency.

I'm 62.66 and I was told I scored good.

I don’t want to die. But I am. I don’t see any other way to escape the onslaught of pain coming my way.

Can I say I’m suffering from depression, or will they see a chance to finish the job they started when they ended my career life?

Almost 15 years and my golden watch is depression and death.

J is gone for the first time in 6-years.

I don’t want him to see me this way.

I’m in pain.

I am making a harsh decision to hide in isolation.

I’m going days now without hearing my voice.

My ideas germinate around others, from others, but to delay the inevitable, I’ve gone into hiding—I don’t want to be asked questions or be judged.

I’m scared.

I’m taking my shot. If I don’t hit the net… my life is over.

If I don’t hit my shot. If I don’t hit the net. Three people will have murdered me.

I hope that doesn't hurt their feelings. Especially the one who pretended to be a good friend.

Starting over at my age is far beyond daunting. I gave these people years-upon-years of my life with fierce loyalty; what they gave me in return is, nothing. I had a life-saving surgery after I was let go. Did they reach out to me? No. They fucking tried to use my almost dying, against me. What does that say about them?

I’m a fabulous writer. Authentic. I was also great at what I provided for them.

They pretended to be friends. I was their friend. The difference is light-years apart.

They exploit, whereas I understand life can be challenging. They prey upon challenges.

I write.

They desperately tried to block me from sharing the truth.

They took away my livelihood. At 60-years-of-age.

And then they had the audacity to ask me, "How fast could I run a mile in my prime?"

They also have tried to destroy my future.

I will not let them.

I’m battling depression, it fucking sucks.

Look above ↑↑↑ to What I did yesterday: The Given highlights I do everything in my power to shoo the depression away. It highlights I never quit trying.

Trying in your sixties is an entirely different beast.

At my age, starting over is not a thing.

I’m a fabulous writer.

I will never quit trying.

They pretended to be friends. I was their friend. They didn’t care when I had life-saving surgery. I want them to suffer.

I have people who love me. They believe love is nothing more than a dollar sign.

That’s all for yesterday, I must go now and write an upbeat story.

Before I do: Fitness Asylum.

RETRO: COMING SOON

Grapevine Rumour

One of the companies in my former industry is beginning to rapidly fail, dropping into the Bottom 10.

It will look good on them.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

Many organizations used the cover of Covid-19 to terminate older employees without discussion or thanking them for the decades of service. Instead, these companies cared only about their bottom lines and keeping the owners’ wallets fat.

The senior workers, facing uncertainty, depression, and the terrifying reality they have been discarded without an ounce of compassion or empathy, have few, if any, options at their disposal. Many of these organizations left their senior workers penniless + hopeless.

Many of these organizations even went to great lengths to block these senior workers from staying within the same industry, instead of helping them transition into something else.

In essence, they are committing murder.

That may sound harsh, but how long can a sixty-plus-year-old man live without money?

This is a harsh reality facing many people.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Trump’s Stupid Idea to Arm Teachers

A Lot of Me + A Beer + Never Ending Winter

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

19th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away.

That wasn't a question; how was yesterday?

Yesterday’s yesterday was heavy.

I’m okay.

I’m not.

I am scared.

In this era of 'Socials,' we sometimes forget to be vulnerable, to open up, to really share our difficulties along as we are all pulled to share pictures of perfection, as we paint our realities with a deceiving brush.

I will never deceive. My life is far from perfect. All lives are far from perfect. I’m not the only one.

I finished reading Beautiful Boy |David Sheff| a story about the insidious battle many of us have with addiction. I thought it would destroy me. It didn’t. It opened my heart to more compassion and empathy. You may be a monster if you read this important story and don’t look at humanity through a kinder lens.

It is indescribable when we find the strength to share our darkest and lowest lows. We must applaud Sheff for finding the strength.

I’m an upbeat, primarily cheerful man, but I’d be lying if I failed to admit the last 3+ years of my life haven’t taken a heavy toll on me. If it weren’t for the love of people in my life, I don’t think I’d still be here.

But here I am. Scared. Anxious. Excited. During the next chapter, I will definitely thrive. Getting there will be uncertain; however, I have an unbreakable resolve and I never give up!

I hope what I’m going to share with you now, |Litany| and |More Litany| will highlight that no matter what life throws at us, we can survive—and by finding the strength to share our challenges and heartaches, as overwhelming as the unrelenting traumas may be, we are all human, and we are all connected, and by letting others know we are fighting our way through heartache, and difficult times—maybe, just maybe, someone else will take heed and never give up as well.

Never give up.

If you feel sad and depressed, SCREAM IT OUT!

As for my life, it seems to have been wave after fucking wave after wave, of trauma, starting back in the 1980s when I watched my parents die, only to find out in 2003 they weren’t my birth parents.

When that news broke, life lost all meaning, and I dove into my past to cobble the missing pieces of who I am together to find a path to who I am supposed to be.

Along the way, I met monsters.

The most recent was the monsters who employed me. I do not want to speak much about them—they are what they are.

Starting in March 2016, life began unraveling at break-net speed.

Litany

March 2016—January 2020

25 March 2016: My youngest niece/cousin (Allison), died.
21 June 2016: My childhood friend, Bernard Hrapchak, died.
8 October 2016: I met my mother (Bernice) (for the first time as my mother) alongside her deathbed.
15 October 2016: She died. My mother died for a second time.
21 December 2016: my youngest sister/aunt (Beverly), died.
April 2017: I was diagnosed with Sarcoidosis. An environmentally (workplace) caused inflammatory disease.
5 January 2018: I suffered a catastrophic stroke.
14 February 2018: A close friend, Jeff V, died.
16 February 2019: my uncle, Gordon, died.
November 2019: I was diagnosed with an Alpha One Deficiency (A life-ending genetic disease that destroys the lungs). Life expectancy = my age.
1 June 2019: I was transferred to the Surrey. In spite of saying repeatedly, transferring me might be a death sentence because of the stroke, and if I have another stroke, odds are I will die.
12 December 2019: my ex-roommate and friend, Jason D, died.
January 2020: I received encouraging news. The Alpha One, diagnosis was wrong.

Four years in unfathomable hell, and I never missed a single day of work. That’s on me; I needed to speak up.

Fuck that.

The business model of the monsters I worked for relied on their employees feeling like they were expendable—hence, not speaking up.

And because I didn’t, they never suggested I take time off to grieve.

The 'highest up' in the company once labelled me the ‘Face of the Company.’

I was the only one who wasn’t a drain on the company's finances.

And another one of them, in management, told the support staff numerous times that the only reason they get paid, is because of my efforts.

Of course, since this story is a work of fiction, none of this is real.

Fortunately, for the people who love me and the world, the Alpha One diagnosis was wrong—so I got to move on to the following litany.

More Litany

January 2020—9 September 2022

March 2020 – my career was cancelled.
16 July 2020: Turned 60.
29 September 2020: Life Saving Throat Surgery.
September 2020: I stood up for myself.
15 October 2020: Close friend, Scotty, died. The same date my mum (sister), Bernice, died.
29 June 2021: I was attacked by the monsters I worked for. (puke. puke. puke.)
16 July 2021: Turned 61
12 December 2021: My aunt (sister) Sadie, died. The same date as my (grand)mum, Rebekah, died, and my ex-roommate, Jason D, died.
17 December 2021: Heart Episode (Emergency Room).
29 December 2021: Heart CT Scan. (Thanks Hana!)
7 January 2022: I now have a cardiologist.
15 February 2022: Heart MRI.
25 March 2022: Ex-girlfriend, Dannell P, died.
1 April 2022: Heart Stress Test.
16 July 2022: Turned 62.

During this period, my former employeee, vowed to destroy me for standing up for myself.

They nearly succeeded because the people in charge of protecting me were incompetent.

Pause

If you are ever forced to look for work (any time in life) ask one question?

What happens to your senior employees?

NEXT CHAPTER

My lows are debilitating.

I always rise, because if you make at least one person laugh daily, you are living a good life.

Rarely a day goes by where I don’t make someone laugh.

Tell us a joke.

Fuck Off.

Being a writer is a blessing masquerading as a torturous curse.

Writers need a healthy ego yet often find themselves mired in self-doubt.

Write a line, think it’s brilliant, read it ten minutes later, and gag.

WE REMEMBER THE DARTS

Remember that.

It’s a brilliant title.

How can I forget? It’s written here.

Here comes a dart → 'failed writer.'

Really, you had someone say that to you someone who made wealthy?

Yes.

You had someone say that to a man in his sixties?

Yes.

... ...

If you could say something like that, you'd be a fucking horrible parent.

Dad, I want to chase my dreams.

Don't bother, you'll fail.

Kids it's okay to crawl over others.... those suffering... look at my car!

... ...

You are a disgusting human.

Have you ever looked in a mirror?

You’ve taken the (once) top company in an industry and have successfully run it into the Bottom 10.

Excellent management. Good luck.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I know you; you will blame someone else for your failure.

The industry is booming, yet you are failing.

I read a ton. I’m sent books by publishers and authors because my mind is active, and they appreciate my thoughts.

I read a ton. That’s what talented authors do. I will become a talented author. A daunting task for someone in my demographic.

Stop.

You’re well on your way.

Thank you.

... ...

Can you even read, for comprehension?

Sychopants fix this.

They can't.

I heard you are a failed hockey player. Divoreed, what is it, twice now?

... ...

I read a ton. I prefer crisp, poignant chapters moving the narrative forward at a blistering pace.

The last chapter of my life was far too long, trapped in the vapidness of your marginality—especially the last three years when you did the only thing you know how to do, use people for $$$ gain.

You, indeed, are a predator.

... ...

Anyway, I’m on to my next chapter; it will blast away the past, eviscerating it. And although I’m cycling through depression, I will climb out and keep climbing and climbing and thriving and giving something back instead of taking, all while you slowly and slowly and... and then, are gone.

Your day in the sun is over.

How does the Bottom 10 get rid of itself, Florida?

Is that rhetorical?

No, the answer is, it implodes.

I must thank you. The long chapter taught me a valuable lesson.

And that lesson is:

HOW NOT TO BE.

I’m in the middle of the next chapter. At times, I feel overwhelmed—it comes with the craft.

Writing is cathartic.

You may have thrust a significant hurdle in front of me to attempt to destroy me. (Think about that, you did that to your most senior employee). What the fuck are you?

But you forgot, I am made of resolve.

To an ex-friend: your dad, you, and your children, are on a spectrum.

My journey is a winding road, and every word I place on a page, helps tamp down depression.

I’m rising.

Cheer for me!

We must collectively stop predators.

The sentence above is rhetorical. (Not a thing)

They (you) can’t buy your way out of failure. Your audience has aged. A bottle or cocaine will no longer cut it. You are now a dinosaur (you played hockey 30 years or more, ago), and the only one who understood and could read the signs and trends is no longer there to dig you out of the hole.

You are ephemeral.

Google it.

Publishers + Authors send me their work because they appreciate how my mind works.

I may have aged chronologically; however, I read a lot and have an active mind.

If you think any of this is about you (you know who you are), you are |profanity-warning| a fucking fool.

That’s all for yesterday.

See you (not--(you know who you are) tomorrow.

I have 10 completed manuscripts.

What will you do when your Golden Goose dies?

Get another divorce?

It has yet to be determined which manuscript today's Yesterday (work of fiction) will be in.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

Did Charlie Kaufman write the following?

No.

Fucking Him

It’s Friday, time for a gummy and a beer or two I can’t afford, maybe I’ll use the beer as milk for the Mac + Cheese.

My friend orders fries. When they come. He looks at them and says, NO. He sends them back.

He sends back his fries every time he orders fries.

The fry cook peers out from the kitchen. He sees whose sending them back, and utters, Fucking Him.

My friends new name is |GIVEN| Fucking |Surname| Him.

Have you seen my friend, Fucking Him, lately?

Give, Fucking Him, a chance to speak.

The new fries arrive. Fucking Him, tells the server he’s had six decades of potato experience.

I know my potatoes he says.

Fucking Him switches gears and tells the table when he was born; his mother’s tits had deflated. They were dry, dusty. Serving only powdered milk.

What?

Seriously.

His mom was 27, when, Fucking, was born. Fucking, pulls up a photo of his mother. She was hot. The opposite of deflated.

Why does he have a photo of his mum (?) at the ready?

The Postman, starts thinking, of when he went off the teat.

I think I started eating potatoes when I was three, he says.

You were on your mom’s teat until you were three?

I started eating potatoes at three, he says.

Marc has a reputation. He doesn’t know what it is. Marc and I want to know what it is?

Fucking Him, instigates.

Inflammation Scare

I had an inflammation scare.

Pain. Heart problem. I’m freaked. Fortunately, I can’t be fired again. I GOOGLE my condition. Every response is not good. What’s happening is likely: I. HATE. THIS. Signs of congenital heart failure. I’m fucking terrified. I draw a bath. My legs burn. Sear. The pain is unrelenting.

Do you want to go to the hospital?

What a fucking stupid question.

No.

I’ll go tomorrow if this doesn’t calm down.

I don’t want to go when I’m in trouble, because that is how the doctors will view me, from that day forward.

Are you insane?

I’ll let you decide.

What?

You decide. O…kay. Go. Go to your deciding place and fucking decide. I’ll wait. Over here → I’ll be sitting. Wincing. Crying. Shaking.

You’re back. I’m insane.

I know. What I have is fixable. Fight the power. I mean fight the depression. I’ve been sinking in depression for at least eight months. That’s what family deaths and uncertainty, friends deaths and a heart MRI will do.

Do. I just typed do. DO. Do.

Fixing time. Fight the depression. I’ll work out two times per day. Walk 30,000 plus steps per day. Play tennis. Of course, after failing at reading and writing.

Shrinking belly. Inflammation disappearing. Blood pressure dropping. Oh my. A powerful erection. Mine. What was I thinking about? Come. Towel. Sleep.

250,000 steps in two weeks. I’m okay. Sort of. Denial is a thing. Good? You decide. Of course, not. Don’t deny then? Get out of here. Who me? Yes.

I want to play tennis. I’m turning 62 soon (turned). All my friends have quit being active. They’re searching for women with lactating, potato → some of them have switched over to pickle ball.

Pickle Ball
A Game to Die Loving

I know. I’ll hit the courts (tennis) and force someone to play with me.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Trump Unveils More Incredibly Sad NFTs

Potato Experience + Read + Hana

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

20th

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

The Story Style ↓↓↓ is inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (I read)

Intangibles

What happened yesterday?

Back up the Bus

I recently read Closer By Sea (CBS) |by Perry Chafe|, a producer and writer who brought us The Republic of Doyle and Son of a Critch, both on (or were on) CBC.

Chafe (may have) used The Goonies and Stand By Me as a reference to create a story of a ragtag gaggle of misfits trying to navigate their ways through life and the mystery of a missing girl, with the main character struggling to accept the loss of his father, who was swallowed by the sea, all set in the idyllic setting of a dying fishing town, on an island, just off the coast of Newfoundland, with the unpredictable ocean lying between the two.

Amp up the mystery with the addition of a curmudgeon newcomer, and the pages almost start turning themselves as ocean swells grip them, rolling over each other until the last page.

Unlike the classics mentioned before, Sheff adds a lesson about the perils all of us face today. Overfishing is leaving decades of families losing their livelihoods as the world desperately tries to figure out how the bleep are any of us going to survive when capitalism fights with our need for survival. And how can we ask one another to change the course of our lives, when we are losing our way of putting food on the table?

... ...

Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

You are welcome.

... ...

If you are the person, or one of the few, who've been reading my updates, you may wonder, 1) Who I'm talking with? 2) And if I'm insane?

The answers are:

I'm talking with Sparkly Pingle Ball, a product of my imagination (played by Andrew). Who? Andrew. SPP was created to help move my life narrative along.
Yes.

If you read yesterday's yesterday, you'd understand.

I'm now reading two books:

Significant publishers have sent me these manuscripts so I, a 'failed writer,' can give my ideas and thoughts.

It is part of paying my dues while threading the needle with rope.

I will keep pressing forward.

I am starting to ascend as I try to make a difference in this world, and the monsters who prey on suffering, in my rearview mirror, are fading away.

On the news, a story flashed about the young black kid who was shot in Kansas City by a racist old man.

The story had me flashback to a trip I made with J + five beautiful girls (4 Korean + 1 Japanese); we drove to Osoyoos a few years back.

On our return trip, we went through the north cascades. The vehicle’s GPS kept sending us in circles.

So, I decided to ask a local for help.

I pulled off the highway into a farmyard.

I parked by the barn and looked for someone to help with directions.

I went up to the side door of the house and knocked. No answer.

I walked around to the front door and knocked again.

A man was sleeping on the couch in his underwear; he rose and strolled to the door.

He gave me directions as J, and the K-Pop band sat in the vehicle. He didn’t shoot me.

I wonder if I’d still be here if I wasn’t white?

I was lucky to spend a few moments with my friend Dean yesterday.

Dean has a terminal illness.

Dean is a new friend (September 2022).

I’m trying to learn how to be friends with someone who is dying.

I am not sure if I am doing it the right way; I try to treat Dean no differently than I would anyone else.

Unlike many people, Dean asked how I was doing and if I was okay that the past part of my life had concluded?

I told Dean, sure, but the monsters got away screwing over a good man, and the clock is still ticking on my life.

Dean said he was sorry to hear that, nothing more.

I can't express how much I appreciate the "sorry" and the "nothing more."

Dean told me he is slowly losing his ability to speak. His disease is stripping his ability to walk as well. He said he is falling often. I ask what he does with his days. He told me he watches television and often goes to bed around 7. He'd like to get out more but walking is becoming more difficult every day.

I just listen.

And then, he destroys me.

He said it is getting more difficult to date because people don’t understand.

Dean leaves. We embrace.

I’m a better person for having Dean as a friend.

I can’t sleep.

I struggle with it.

I think that might be part of the reason for my depression.

Nah. It's mostly because of the a-holes from my past.

I believed that sleep would return once I got rid of the a-holes. But in reality, I’m still 62.666 and I’m still trying to thread the fucking needle with rope, with a ticking clock getting louder each day, booming in my ears.

Would you like a slice of my sleep pie?

I tried to go to bed at 10. Hana had wet the bed because I believed she was missing J.

I thought it might be because I had neglected the litter box. I hadn’t.

The first slice of sleep pie: 11:30-1, with the bedding rattling the spin cycle.

At 1, Hana puked up a hairball.

The second slice of sleep pie: 2-almost 5 (Key Lime)

Third slice: 5:45-6:15

This was a good night. It sucks.

When I woke up, I found Hana had left pooh (not Winnie) on the couch, which was surprisingly easy to clean up.

You don’t need 'up' after 'woke' ↑.

Thanks, Sparkly.

That’s all for today.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

Owners of SAs are often praised as astute business owners. They are not. They have not manufactured a product. They don’t have to get a formal education. They, actually, don’t own anything, except for a few computers and office supplies. Seriously.

By definition, SAs are perpetuating modern-day slavery with a business model that relies on the suffering of others to succeed and rely on holding people down.

Why?

Because if their workers have even a modicum of success, SAs would flounder and eventually fail. SAs rely on addiction, alcoholism, and mental health issues to produce revenue.

That. Is. A. Cold. Hard. Fact.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

tbd.

A Fresh Picture Daily

Jessica from Chicago - (Parasite)

Motohut (Pop Up) + Hana + Ephemeral + Amped + Yum

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

21st

It is a certainty that Pronoun, a political superstar, is destined to become the leader of the free world. The only thing holding Pronoun back is Pronoun doesn’t know what to do with Pronoun’s hands when talking and standing. An issue the media can’t seem to break away from. Ombromanie…

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

Gummy Friday

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have I ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday?

Most days, I walk through the Royal Centre + Bentall Centre.

Yesterday, was no different.

I'm concerned about my future.

I will thrive.

I'm sending positive thoughts into the universe.

I have developed heavy scar tissue because of the last three years.

Pop Up

I'm in Bentall Centre, underground.

I walk past a pop-up pepper store.

How is this a thing?

Crackers set out with a dollop of butter (later, I'll find out it's cream cheese).

Day one: Pass.

Day two: Pass

Day three: Pass

Day four: Grab a cracker.

This stuff is Frap.

I'm making Frap, a cool word for the kids.

It's not catching on.

I approach a millennial and say, "FRAP."

The millennial looks at me like I'm nuts.

Day five: Grab a cracker.

Grab a cracker. Grab a cracker.

I'm having a pepper orgasm.

Bentall Centre underground, Pop-up Pepper Store. Kampot Cambodian Pepper. Yum, grab me a towel.
... ...

I bet you $3.00 that by now, you've come to understand I love giving these updates. I love being a raconteur.

E before U except after.

That's not a thing. Who are you talking to?

You SPB and whomever else might be here.

Okay, keep going.

I will; I'm just wondering where these stories will end up, which manuscript or novel.

I'm battling with moving on and revenge.

Do I get a vote?

Sure.

Do a little of both.

I agree.

Despite what the people in your past think, they must take responsibility for their actions. They won't.

That's where revenge will be a dish best served cold.

If I was in my 20s, moving on would be an easy choice. But at 62.764385... it is important not to let people walk all over you. The monsters will deserve what's coming their way.

As much as they tried to destroy me, they didn't. I have far too much resolve.

It must suck when you say, "margins, margins, margins," with no one there to hear you.

Sucks to be you.

Keep moving.
... ...

The fucking weather sucks.

That's enough about the weather.
... ...

A Dean Moment

Dean

I'm going for dinner tonight. An older woman has adopted me and is making me dinner.

Me

Is she hot?

Dean

She's 78.

Me (Jim is sitting beside me)

Jim is turning 80 in September.

Jim laughs.
.... ....

Another major publisher sent me a book yesterday.

Actually, they sent it to J.

The above "actually" is a rare occasion where I didn't hate the word "actually."

I never read when I was in University and now, I read 50+ books yearly.

I read a book about Seaweed and another one about catching moles.

It took me eight tries to hit the + sign, two paragraphs up.

It went like this - backspace - backspace - (six more times) backspace (six more times) +.

That would be nine tries.

Nobody likes you.

Cry.

Don't cry, SPB.
... ...

I can afford free pepper crackers now, and little else.

I go to Choices Grocer.

I have frozen peas at home.

What should I get for dinner?

I pick up Mac + Cheese (I will add the peas later) and a Coke.

Add the peas now.

Shut up Sparkly.

Do you need a bag? The cashier asks.

I answer with my look.

I'm in the elevator in my building.

One other person is riding the Lyft with me.

17 is lit, and I press 10.

I don't know this person.

He looks at me, glances at my Mac + Cheese and Coke and says, "Having peasant food tonight?"

It doesn't matter if it is a question or statement.

I am lost for words.

He doesn't make it to 17.

I'm not a violent man.

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 90

Thanks for stopping by and reading my stories. I love writing them.

I know you may be confused but you probably love reading them.

Them count currently = 3.

I'm sure you know 2 other them(s) or people who are likely them(s). Tell them about my stories and if you tell 2 people and they know 2 people and they tell them and those 2 people know 2 people and tell them, you can help turn these daily stories into a juggernaut.

Oh. Oh. did I spell it correctly.?

Okay Google

Damn. The correct spelling is juggernaut.

I feel shame.

Anyway, tell them, the 2 people you know.

Total them(s) in this bit (written by Sparkly Pingle Ball - only this section) - 10

I will let the person playing younger Sparkly know later, he wrote this bit, if you can call it a bit.

Should there be a question mark after the second bit.

Literally, rhetorical.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

A One Question Interview

A Brilliant Metaphysical Trip

Timely

A Raw and Beautifully Tragic Journey through Life

A Testament to the Tenacity of Living

Humour Rooted in Pain

Millions of People in the same Boat

(a massive audience)

Sexy Feet

A Universal Story

Darkly Entertaining

Continued tomorrow!

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

Ed Sheeran - Boat

Read + Read + Read

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

22nd

This is a tale about Scott, your bothersome acquaintance who knows, has done, and is about to do things that have yet to come about. Go on a trip; Scott is riding shotgun. Dine at a restaurant; the menu was created by Scott. Scott is irritating until, at last, he goes too far and is charged with slaying the truth.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday?

Oh crap, I mean, joy! Gummy Friday is here.

A man parks his PT Cruiser alongside me while I am strolling down the street.

He jumps out.

He's racing to a job interview.

He's running late.

"Mister, can you watch my car for a few minutes? I'm three minutes late for a job interview."

What a strange thing to ask a stranger.

I give his PT Cruiser (Silver) a once over. The man looks at me tand mouths, thank you?

I asked him if he was interviewing for a food delivery job?

He says, "Yes."

The requirements for getting a food delivery job are having a scooter, an electric bike, or a PT Cruiser (for long-range delivery gigs). In fact, if you have a PT Cruiser, it may be the only job you qualify for.

Three minutes later, the man returns.

"Wow, that was quick. Did you get the gig?"

"Yes. The interview was only one question. What's your ride? Before I got to say Cruiser, the interviewer said, "You're hired!""

"He didn't ask you when was the last time you ate?"

He thanked me, and returned a blank stare.

... ...

I was on the phone with Equifax for almost 2-hours.

My C. Score has taken a beating in the last 3 years.

Another reason to make the monsters pay a heavy price for what they willfully did.

DUCK.

Gummy Friday

2G shows up.

I'm sitting with The Mayor, The Postman, and Jacques.

2G tells of his significant dilemma: How to order his french fries to have the kitchen cook them perfectly how he likes them. 2G has six decades of potato experience.

This is a topic of conversation!

Valerie is the star of the story Must Fob In (in production). Val is hearing impaired. Must Fob In (in production) is the story of a ragtag group of serial killers in a slump; the slumping killers live in Cereal Tower. 95 days without a kill. When Texas returns to Cereal Towers one night after, he is oh-so-close to ending the streak with Valerie, only to be thwarted by the Cereal Killers' mantra to follow the rules: No jaywalking, speeding; and a strict adherence to Must Fob In.
... ...

Valerie is annoying, and shamefully, those of us who attend Gummy Friday avoid interaction with her.

The Postman retreats to the washroom.

Valerie corners him, and they have a staccato conversation.

When The Postman returns to THIS TABLE, he regales a tale of their encounter.

Valerie comes up to our table and gives The Postman advice. Val says, this and that and that and this, get them, do them. She ends her lesson by saying M - A --- G - N - EEE - SSS - I - U - M.

2G looks at Val and says, "Is that what happened to you?"

Valerie leaves

2G's fries arrive, and he sends them back.

... ...

The Postman challenges most things I say. He says he is stoking my creativity. It drives me nuts. Until the gummy helps me focus, and I listen and start to appreciate what he is trying to do.

I'm slowly getting it.

I'm at my best when I'm amped. A little.

... ...

Not only did you hurt my family, but you also hurt my C. Rating.

You need to pay. My future matters. And you are garbage.

I'm rising; it's time to put one foot on you.

... ...

I'm reading a book called The Memory Police. In the book, things are disappearing hats, birds, everything, and once gone, things are gone and erased from memory forever.

A light goes on.

I designed a story cover entitled: The Writer.

Flash Light

It flashes.

The Writer is the story of a writer named Jalen. At the end of every day, Jalen goes home, dives into his/her imagination and writes a futuristic work of fiction. Little did Jalen know, he/she has risen to the top of the writing world, and the fiction he's writing isn't fiction; instead, Jalen is scripting and controlling the future.

Short story? Novel? Novella?

Yet to be determined.

... ...

I miss J.

... ...

I picked up Subway on the way home.

... ...

I'll end this instalment with a poem.

Old Person Putting On Shirt

Time for the gym. Pull on a tank top. Why is the neck so high?

Backwards.

Take it off, spin it, put it on again.

Where's the swoosh?

Backwards.

The third time is the charm.

Grab a sweatshirt. Pull it over my head. Why is the neck so high?

Pull it off, spin it, and put it on again.

Backwards.

Off. Spin. On.

Backwards.

Off. Spin. On.

Inside out.

I'll just wear it this way, nobody will notice.

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 84

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

slush pile

noun

INFORMAL
noun: slush pile; plural noun: slush piles

a stack of unsolicited manuscripts that have been sent to a publishing company for consideration.

Interviewer

My Life on the Slush Pile is an interesting title for your memoir. What was the inspiration for the title? Were you thinking in literary terms when you decided upon it?

Me

Thank you for asking. Where shall I begin?

First off, the title wasn’t always Lindsay - The Memoir (My Life on the Slush Pile → it has gone through a collection of different options.

Russians Clowns & Drag Queens (Letters to Ed)
Letters to Ed
My Sister is My Mum
You
Blah. Blah. Blah. (Not)

My Life on the Slush Pile is the perfect metaphor for anyone who faces daunting obstacles in life.

When I decided on the title, I didn’t realize the term slush pile primarily referred to the literary world, I do now.

I wasn’t thinking in literary terms. However, being an author who has spent most of his life on the slush piles of life → I’ve spent decades, yes decades, my entire life exactly, trying to overcome the traumas and events that have shaped my life. Things hindering me from thriving, smothering me in self-doubt and uncertainty, causing me to question everything thrown my way as I try to navigate living. I cry often.

continued tomorrow →

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

Mike Vecchione | The Attractives

Ephemeral (Royal Centre)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

23rd

Greed + Entitlement Only Goes So Far!

Raised in a Construction Family is a story about Tyler. Tyler was born into a construction family (not a qualification); his father was a bigwig in the construction and gentrification industry. Tyler wanders through life cloaked in the denial of Entitlement, eventually being hired by Darren, who owns a company that exploits the suffering of people who’ve fallen through society's cracks. Tyler's world is thrown into disarray when a catastrophic event shuts down the power system, and the people he took advantage of are now in charge, and he comes to the realization Darren was exploiting him as well.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

Occasionally, I stop by the 7/11, two blocks from my home.

If the door magically opens, I go inside.

A POEM

How did I get here?

Change. Change. Change. Give me your change.

Three passerby. Change asked x 3.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

|Fucking sorry. Sorry doesn’t help. Sorry is stupid. I need change.| mumbled to himself.

My Turn

|Don’t say sorry.|

Change?

Sorry.

Fucking sorry. What the fuck is wrong with you. I need money not sorry.

Stop → Turn → Engage →

Why are you being so rude?

Tell me, no. Don’t say sorry, asshole. I’m not going to spend the money on drugs.

You're being a dick. People don’t have to talk to you. People don’t know what to say. You don’t know what others are going through. You’re being selfish.

Beat it old man. I want to smash your face.

I thought what he said was a tad aggressive, I walked away.

I felt like I’d been an asshole for engaging.

I should have bought him a bag of chips.

Sometimes I want chips, and sometimes I like chocolate.

Too much information?

No, there needs to be context to the stories, Sparkly.

I’m having a relationship with a woman who works at the 7/11. She always asks me, “Do you have a 7/11 rewards card?” I figure her expectations are low.

I ask her if the doorman has a rewards card?

How far have I fallen?

After one Gummy Friday, the door opened, and I went in to pick up chips.

My right shoe had gotten a flat (untied shoelace). I bent down to tie it. I remained crouched for what seemed to be a gummy-ten-minutes. After successfully double knotting my shoe, I went to pay for my chip selection. My 7/11 GF, flashed me a concerned, or perhaps, disappointed, glance. At least, that is what the Gummy was telling me.

Our relationship began to fracture.

Two Gummy Fridays later, I decided I wanted a 7/11 hotdog slathered in what they call cheese + chilli.

The door opened.

I went inside.

I looked to my left to see who was working, and if my GF was behind the counter.

She was. I left the store.

I’m holding onto us by a thread.

I applied to be a creative writer for animated shows. I had typed shoes, but quickly my fingers realized they had made a mistake, backspaced, and changed the e to a w.

I would be an excellent candidate for the position. The only thing that might be a deterrent to the hiring committee is that I'm 62.7698630136986301 years old.

What Do I Want

1) I’m on the CUSP of a significant literary breakthrough.

Are you listening, Universe!

Any day now!

That’s the number one thing I want.

In reality, J coming home is number one. I'm missing J.

I failed yesterday at making ice cubes. I forgot to completely shut the freezer door.

Number 3 is the joy I will feel when Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls is no longer in business.

Soon.

That’s all for now.

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 81

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

Interviewer

Can you expand on that point?

Me

continued tomorrow →

Sure. My life started out in secrecy, in darkness, trapped in a family lie, with my entire family complicit. I was born where women (Beulah House), deemed by society and religion to be wayward, feeble-minded, and incapable of controlling carnal urges, were sent to give birth to unwanted, illegitimate children. If the mother and child survived childbirth, which many didn’t → a hidden reality similar to residential schools → well, if they survived, the baby was immediately ripped from the mother’s arms and then either adopted by farm families or sold to wealthy families.

I was one of these babies.

Imagine starting out labelled unwanted and illegitimate; what chance do you have?

continued tomorrow →

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

The Shins - Garden State

Eat This + Ephemeral (Royal Centre)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
easily the hottest site on the web

24th

Greed + Entitlement Only Goes So Far!

For the last six years, Amanda has been deprived of sleep. Amanda left her rural home and moved to the city many moons ago to chase her career.

Night Talkers is Amanda’s story, a struggling playwright whose career is hanging by a thread, and if she doesn’t have a hit soon—her career will come crashing to an untimely conclusion. Every night Amanda and her partner Melody are sparked out of their slumber by ‘the quiet talkers’ trying to convince their prey that “no” actually means “yes,” ‘the screamers’ who are always looking for the next party, not realizing they will probably end up drowning in their own vomit; and ‘Gus,’ the taker of the stage.

At first, Gus is the most annoying of all sleep stealers, with everyone in the neighbourhood screaming out their windows for him to shut up.

But then a funny thing happened. Amanda pulled a stool by the window and listened carefully to Gus’s nightly performance (the same show every night). What Amanda discovered was that Gus, standing on a tree stump, was a cross between Kafka and Shakespeare, performing the most tragic and extraordinary one-man play ever written. If only Amanda could only tap into Gus’s brilliance—her career might be saved.

Every night at precisely 3 AM, Gus takes the stump; as the nights pass by, lights start popping on in neighbourhood towers as more and more people pull up a stool, sit down and watch Gus’s brilliant performance.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

I did a lot of creating and writing.

Isn't that a given.

Yes

Voice Recorder Practice with Rob + Jim

Speak into the mike.

Rob is one funny bloke who types it out for me, and then MSC now says it types it up for me. Then I don’t know what MSC means, and now it types it up for me, and I don’t know what MVC means, and how it types out for me, and I don’t know what MSC means what does MSE, MSE mean CMSC background noise, it’s pretty accurate mother bleeper that’s not bad.

That was nothing.

Get down and give me twenty.

Do you think I can get everything done in one-hour-and-four minutes?

Why?

I need to go to the asylum.

There were three random accidental shootings in the States last week.

Put the fucking gun down, and you, you bleeping piece of trash human, won't |sarcasm alert| accidentally shoot someone.

The Racists and immigrant haters are up in arms and conflicted; they like ethnic food delivered to them. They just can't stand themselves, lashing out at those who don't look like them.

Get a bleeping DNA test, asshole; none of you are who you think you are.

Why are they up in arms?

Food delivery drivers are quitting out of fear.

Why?

Because BJ ordered tacos, and then, shot the first delivery driver.

He ordered again, and then, shot the second driver.

BJ just wants his tacos, but he can't help himself; he's filled with hate, and he's likely to keep shooting until the drivers look like him.

Pizza delivery drivers used to be white.

I don't think anyone who drives a PT Cruiser has ever had sex.

Was any of the above offensive?

I tell you what is offensive: Racist, anti-immigration fuckers. And maybe, profanity.

Nah.

I miss J.

We turn 13 tomorrow!

Shall we do a trip flashback.

Rhetorical. I'm typing, you don't get a say.

How many trips have you been on where someone on the trip said it was their best ever?

Have you been on any of the below trips with me?

Were any of them your best?

Fernie
Jackson Hole
Banff: 1,2,3, 4
Jamaica 84, 89, 90, 94
Seattle (Various)
Europe 2003, 14
Hawaii 2019

What was your most memorable trip?

I'm done for today, and I have 54 minutes left to complete my other creative tasks, and then I can go to the Fitness Asylum.

Oops. I must do some overtime.

On the news (Global Vancouver)

A story just ran.

Vancouver City Council is voting to decide what swimming attire is appropriate for public swimming pools.

Not Allowed

Swim trunks where your genitalia is hanging out.
Tire tubes are used for sex.
Jeans, because they become too heavy in the pool.

This is seriously being debated.

Where are these pools?

I'm out for today; overtime is complete.

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 81

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

SLUSH PILE

In Canada alone, it is estimated 300,000 women had to give up their babies for adoption. Between 1945 and 1971, nearly 600,000 so-called “illegitimate births” were recorded.

“You weren’t getting out of that home with your baby, let’s just put it that way,” says Valerie Andrews, the author of White Unwed Mother and the Executive Director of Origins Canada, a federal non-profit organization supporting people separated by adoption.

Interviewer

The numbers are staggering.

Me

Yes, they are.

I was born in 1960 (?). The question mark is because it was common practice for birth records to burn up in mysterious fires wherever these homes were located. Seriously.

I’m sure I was born in 1960, but who knows?

If that is not starting life on the slush pile, I don’t know what is.

Where is the love, the nurturing?

In my case, of course, I don’t know for sure. Rumour has it, I remained at the religious-sanctioned-home where I was born, or they passed me around like a hot potato between family members for the first two, three or five years of my life, until the day, I was going to be taken away. The night before I was to be taken, my birth mother told me, while she was on her deathbed (1) (2016) she begged and pleaded with her mother, to keep me.

They did. Keep me that is.

And from that day forward, my birth mother, playing a different role, repeatedly told me I would never amount to much, and I was destined to be a failure. Seriously.

continued tomorrow →

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

The Three Highest Mountains on Each Continent

Eat This + Ephemeral (Royal Centre)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
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25th

The Seawall is the story of the unlikeliest superheroes patrolling Vancouver’s spectacular seawall.

The Side-Shuffler, one step, two steps, three… it’s rumoured he once kicked a 65-yard field goal for the BC Lions.

The Assassin, an Asian woman draped in a hoodie, jogs several steps, and thrusts her fists in the air as she prepares to eradicate anyone and anything threatening tourists.

The Fast Walker arms akimbo, moving violently from side-to-side across his body, smiling and saying hello to every tourist unless he senses something nefarious in your demeanour. And The Gentlemen, the pack’s leader, always crosses paths with you because he walks left to right, whereas you walk right to left around the seawall. The Gentleman is a shape-shifter; when the coyotes were in danger, he’d often turn himself into one to show their softer side.

Every day, these four would meet in their secret lair on the cliffs by the third beach to map out how they would keep the wall safe for everyone.

The one thing these four all have in common; they have a cardiologist.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules for Writers

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

How to Turn a Glorious Day Dark

I'm sitting with The Mayor, always entertaining moments in a day.

Enter Jacques.

Jacques is 76; Jacques is an accidental racist, not an accidental one. Jacques is a racist.

How can a man of his level (age) maturity expound on archaic ideas? He's trapped in the ugliness of forty, fifty, sixty years ago, when it was okay to flash your ignorance in what was supposed to be funny, but really it showed how much of an entitled piece of garbage you are.

The conversation floats between the three of us.

A girl, later, I would find out her name is Amanda, sits to our left.

As always, Jacques comments about restaurants, focusing heavily on the word ETHNIC when he mentions a food court. He tries to sound tolerant, an awful word, by announcing an ETHNIC food court is excellent.

Jacques then adds, the only problem, is all the people there are speaking louldy in a language that is not English.

I ask, Jacques if he thinks they are talking about him.

We've all heard the BS before, 'speak English when you are here.'

Fuck off, Jacques.

I sit in a food court, a different one, the most annoying loud talkers are speaking English, everything else is ambient.

Fuck off, Jacques.

Did I say, the day was glorious? At least weather-wise.

The lightness of The Mayor and my conversation began turning. Thanks Jacques.

I try to get it back to light, by talking about the Park Boards Meeting that was going to take place where they are deciding it's not okay to have your genitals hanging out at local swimming pools this summer or swim-wearing jeans.

Saved?

No.

Jacques somehow took this as his cue to tell an indigenous joke (not a joke) something about Wigwams and Teepees. I tried to erase the joke while he said it. There is no punch line. There are no racist jokes.

My blood curdles.

Jacques shifts the talk to people who work in warehouses.

Jacques thinks little of people who work in warehouses.

Jacques says, ""Those" people, who work in warehouses, don't even have cars."

I don't know what that is supposed to mean.

I tell Jacques I don't have a car, and Jim doesn't.

Jacques didn't understand where I was going.

He added he doesn't have a driver's License.

He must be one of the "Those of the Those."

I don't understand Jacques. It's as if he is trying to seem better than others...?

Jacques leaves. My blood is curdling, and I'm upset.

I tell The Mayor it sickens me when Jacques throws racist shit into conversations. He says he doesn't mean anything by it. I tell The Mayor, Jacques does it constantly, you need to listen and not leave me being the only one who calls Jacques out.

This troubles me more; the Mayor is a remarkable man; I fucking hate it when, and I don't care how old people are; when people choose to let the comments of racists and bigots go by without shutting it down.

I hate being the only one who comments by Jacques, and the likes of Jacques; go unchallenged. Especially when in a group. Because all it takes is one racist for the other people in the group to think somehow it is okay, fertilizing the hatred.

I hate it when my friends tell me to lighten up.

For a moment, I felt terrible calling The Mayor out for The Mayor's thinking, Jacques doesn't mean anything by his racist vitriol.

Then, I didn't.

I don't care if you are ten or one-hundred-years-old; I will never accept hatred masked in the humour of thinking it is okay because the joke originated at a different time.

Every day, I want to be better - often failing along the way, but if we don't challenge perceptions, what's the fucking point of breathing?

Anthony sat between me and Amanda, Anthony is indigenous and a friend who has faced racism his entire life.

If Anthony had been there earlier, Jacques would have never told his... not a joke...

Before we open our mouths, we must ask, will what I say upset someone? Whether here or not?

Shamefully, it usually requires someone to be here for the Jacques of the world to temper their bigotry.

I don't like the Jacques of the world.

I don't understand them.

I don't feel bad for drawing attention to Jacques's abhorrent behaviour to The Mayor.

I understand The Mayor doesn't like conflict. I don't care. Jacques says this shit all the time.

Three days earlier, he told what he thought was a joke about a Caucasian and his Yellow girlfriend. It wasn't a joke. A few days before that he brought up the African nation Niger, and he tried to get everyone at the table to say it aloud.

The Mayor went to the washroom, and Amanda grabbed my attention, thanking me for not allowing the hatred to fester. She said it hurts her when she overhears the hatred, especially when the one spewing the garbage thinks they are being funny.

The day became slightly brighter once again.

The swimwear conversation is on the news right now.

You can't swim with your balls hanging out.
You can't swim in sex gear.
You can't swim in jeans.

Who were any of those things in the first place?

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 80

Writing Tips

Never open a book with the weather.
Avoid prologues.
Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said.”
Keep your exclamation points under control!
Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
Same for places and things.
Leave out the parts readers tend to skip.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

It was the second mother’s deathbed I stood alongside in my life. On 12 December 1987, the first time was when my mother’s mother, the person I believed to be my mother, died. I had visited my mother’s mother, at least 300 times at the hospital when she was dying with cancer, believing she was my mother. The night she died; I went out with friends to mourn. When I returned home in the morning, playing a different role, my birth mother sat in the kitchen of my home. When I entered, with tears in her eyes, she said, “Mum’s gone.” We hugged for the first time in our lives → she immediately turned cold, looked at me and asked me to find another place to stay because we needed my home for the relatives coming to town for the funeral. Seriously.

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

Augmented Reality Art Takes Over the Roofs of a British City

Ephemeral (Royal Centre)

books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
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26th

Across from my home is a beautiful park with a fantastic playground. On sunny days, it is always filled. One block from the park rests an open-air drug den. Crack. Heroine. Meth. Cooked. Smoked. Injected. Snorted. Hopelessness. Dead already. One block from the playground. Did these dying souls not have playgrounds when they were growing up? I’m eating chips.

A woman walks by the destruction with her daughter. Her little girl says, “Mommy, what’s wrong with these people? Are they sick? Are they dying? They scare me.”

In a hushed tone, Mommy says, “Life isn’t fair. We must cherish our good fortune.”

A moment later, a man walks by with his son. His little boy says, “What’s wrong with these people?”

The man says, “They made choices. This happens when you make the wrong ones.

The boy and girl play together at The Playground.

Coming Tomorrow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

George Orwell’s Tips For Effective Writing

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

Yesterday was a big day for BIG Days.

Harriet in NZ turned six.

2G, who is really 4G, turned sixty-four.

J and I have been friends for 13 years.

And Tucker Carlson is gone.

I can't believe how hard Tucker's demise has hit me.

Do you think it is because of the Green M&M?

Can he finally live in peace away from the wokeness?

Why don't Republicans know what woke means?

What does it mean if someone is woke?

Woke is an adjective derived from African-American Vernacular English (AAVE), meaning "alert to racial prejudice and discrimination."

Many Republicans are horrible people (and Bill Maher, who is no different from those he rails against).

Ratings. Ratings. Ratings.

If you take a word and change the intended meaning for your hate-filled purposes, does the word literally change to suit you?

Do people really swim in their jeans in public pools?

I don't have much of a story to share today; can you tell?

Illuminati

Why?

I wanted to type it.

Writer's block?

I hit the Fitness Asylum two days in a row now. I also moved over 30,000 steps to break out of my depression. I think it's working.

Big things like this BIG DAY are on the horizon for me!

Can you feel the wave coming?

The ice cubes in my water are melting.

I need to take my "keep me living" medicine now.

Hey, ex-employer, are you still failing miserably?

Rhetorical.

You will be gone soon.

I wish you nothing.

I will edit now and check my Grammarly Readability Score!

I predict it will be 80.

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 80

In the spirit of transparency, it was 87, but then I added the "Woke" definition, which dropped to 80. And then I added the bit below and it rose to 81.

I was right; you were wrong.

I didn't even guess. And you guessed 80.

I make the rules, And Sparkly; you guessed silently, a mime guess.

I'm not a mime.

You are to me.

Stop typing.

Writing Tips

Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech you are used to seeing in print.
Never use a long word when a short one will do.
If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
Never use the passive where you can use the active.
Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
Break any of these rules sooner than saying anything barbarous.

bar·ba·rous
adjective

savagely cruel; exceedingly brutal.

"many early child-rearing practices were barbarous by modern standards"

Similar:
cruel, brutal, barbaric, brutish, bestial, savage, vicious, fierce, ferocious, wicked, nasty, ruthless, remorseless, merciless, villainous, murderous, heinous, nefarious, monstrous, base, low, lowdown, vile, inhuman, infernal, dark, fiendish, hellish, diabolical, ghastly, horrible.

Opposite:

benevolent

primitive and uncivilized.
"a remote and barbarous country"

Similar:
uncivilized, primitive, unsophisticated, barbaric, heathen, wild.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

SLUSH PILE

Interviewer

That must have been devastating.

Me

Not really. I just thought my sister was an angry bitch. Sorry for using that word. As I get older, I despise it. I find it disgustingly patriarchal. I was happy to escape the misery floating through the air at my home. After all, I had spent most of my youth going to the hospital (at least 1500 times) watching “my parents” die. Being asked to leave offered a respite.

I tripped through life as the youngest of seven, or so I thought. Nothing made much sense.

I knew no different.

Dad was 56 when I was born.

Mum 46.

I thought I was a miracle child.

My life foundation started out with massive hidden fissures, much like a fault line destined to one day fracture.

Maybe, I’ll change my name to San Andreas.

I wondered why my friends’ parents were 20-30 years younger than mine → don’t worry → I never wondered too much. I gravitated to friends’ homes, often being taken into their homes like I was one of their own. I was even taken on my friend’s family’s vacations.

I’m sure my friends’ parents had an inkling of my truth, → an unspoken reality of the fucking times.

I never questioned things. Why would I?

I was happy hanging out with friends and their families.

The fucking times have haunted me throughout my life. I was never supposed to know my origin story (2). And I wouldn’t have discovered the partial truths if my birth certificate didn’t have a slight tear. Because of the tear, I had to apply for a new birth certificate to renew my passport. A Vital Stats civil servant broke the news to me, drably.

2. Just imagine how fucked up that is. No, how fucking deluded. Humans are fucking damaged → who the hell did these people (families) think they were protecting? What the fuck did people think they were doing? And how could they live moral lives when lying comes fucking easily to them?

SLUSH PILE

READ PREVIOUS EXCERPTS STARTING: APRIL 24, 2023 (Free Speech)

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

the most iconic juno lines

Ephemeral (Royal Centre) + Spring (Sprung) + Not in Florida

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easily the hottest site on the web

27th

Quadrathon

An epic four sport challenge. Three regular sports.

Golf
Tennis
Basketball

Two, no three (I'm the league commissionaire so I make the rules) wildcard (rotating) sports.

Pool
Darts
Rhythmic Gymnastics or Synchronized Swimming.

Two Days - 8 Teams1 CHAMPION

And a murder.

Coming Tommorow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

Nietzsche’s 10 Rules for Writers

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

I hit the Asylum for the third straight day, and I hit 30,000 steps for the third consecutive day. I still don’t sleep. Depression is still kicking me in the… I must wear the proper swimwear.

Keep it in, Linds.

I will.

What would you think of a company that lets the only person go who could generate business because of his personality and acumen?

A failing business.

I prefer, “The owner is upset. The numbers are down. We (meaning you) must go on a blitz.” Or “Margins. Margins. Margins.”

Marcia. Marcia. Marcia.

I have a massive blister, a on my left foot. I think cranking 30,000 steps has seen to that.

FH

I sit alone. I’m reading.

David, three stools from me, says, “You’re being quiet today.”

I tell him I don’t understand what he’s saying.

He tells me it’s not a dig.

I tell him I’m sitting alone; what should be doing; talking to the air?

This upset him.

“It’s not a dig.” He repeats.

I upset him. I don’t feel bad. I’m just not adept at talking small or inanely dribbling.

He feels terrible, but I don’t.

A young guy sits between us.

He is wearing a studded jacket and a hat with horns.

He has a scar slicing down from his right eye to his chin.

He looks 16, and his name is Ben.

Ben tells me he gave up Christianity when he became a vegan and a Demon.

Don’t engage.

I don’t want to.

He wants to order something to eat. “Can I get one piece of jackfruit?” He asks.

What’s jackfruit?

I make a mistake, I say many Christians are hypocrites.

He tells me everyone who believes in anything are assholes, adding, but of course, there are good people in every denomination.

I tell him I don’t know what I believe in, other than trying not to be an asshole.

Sitting to my right, a friend named Ron asks me who is the horny guy sitting next to me?

I don’t like where the conversation is heading.

Ben orders quesadilla.

Ben tells everyone he just says what he feels and doesn’t care who it upsets.

He also says when he was 16, he used to do a lot of acid and mushrooms; he’s switched to blow and a lot of weed.

Ben asks me, how old do I think he is?

I don’t like this game; I think you look 18? I say.

He smiles and says I’m 27.

I ask Ron a question. I can’t remember what?

Ben takes a moment to talk to his food, and the air.

He then wants to talk about politics.

Why am I listening to a blow-snorting, weed-smoking, non-spiritual, demon?

For material?

Precisely, Sparkly.

I want to go, I tell the bartender; I’d like to pay.

The bartender asks me how many have I had; 5?

Yes, I say.

The bartender brings me a check for 6.

I suggest the check needs to be corrected.

There is a beer stain on the bar that looks like a horse with spikey hair.

I go.

I cook dinner at 7/11, and the cheese is runny.

I might have cancelled the Asylum visit.

Today's Grammarly Readability Score = 91 (A new record)

Horsey with Spikey Hair - See, I'm not nuts. I also have not done a lot of acid + mushrooms.

Writing Tips

Of prime necessity is life: a style should live.
Style should be suited to the specific person with whom you wish to communicate. (The law of mutual relation.)
First, one must determine precisely “what-and-what do I wish to say and present,” before you may write. Writing must be mimicry.
Since the writer lacks many of the speaker’s means, he must in general have for his model a very expressive kind of presentation of necessity, the written copy will appear much paler.
The richness of life reveals itself through a richness of gestures. One must learn to feel everything — the length and retarding of sentences, interpunctuations, the choice of words, the pausing, the sequence of arguments — like gestures.
Be careful with periods! Only those people who also have long duration of breath while speaking are entitled to periods. With most people, the period is a matter of affectation.
Style ought to prove that one believes in an idea; not only that one thinks it but also feels it.
The more abstract a truth which one wishes to teach, the more one must first entice the senses.
Strategy on the part of the good writer of prose consists of choosing his means for stepping close to poetry but never stepping into it.
It is not good manners or clever to deprive one’s reader of the most obvious objections. It is very good manners and very clever to leave it to one’s reader alone to pronounce the ultimate quintessence of our wisdom.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

Interviewer

You seem to say fuck a lot.

Me

Fuck. I think it is an honest emotion.

Interviewer

You could say the important development years of your life were shrouded, disadvantaged →?
A civil servant, broke the news? What news exactly?

Me

My development was destroyed.

How could it be anything but?

And everyone in my life was damaging themselves by participating in destroying it.

I found out during my journey through life my grandparents had taken me in when I was five, my older brothers when they found out later, I knew the truth, some of them claimed they didn’t know. When me, the potato, ended up in their home, they were nine, thirteen and seventeen.

Kids, you mom just gave birth, you have a new brother, he’s five.

The only reason I survived was because I inherited some of the delusion, and because I was extremely fortunate to have fabulous friends, and most important, an active imagination. I escaped into myself. Intuitively, I think I had to know something was off → I just didn’t know that something was everything.

At least 600,000 babies are in the same boat with me, a boat teetering on the edge of Niagara Falls. How fucking tragic? Adults and religion placed us all in the vessel without life vests. And we wonder why there is so much fucking suffering in the world.

Just imagine, a family meandering through life, terrified to accidently let it slip to their youngest non-sibling (bastard child) wasn’t one of them.

Mummy, I’m sorry, I accidently told Timmy he’s not one of us.

Think about the pressure placed on the wanted, legitimate children. What if one of the wanted, legitimate kids was a monstrous asshole?

What was the fucking point of the secrecy?

SLUSH PILE

The questions are rhetorical. The answer is insanity. The fucking times.

I feel horribly bad for my mother’s mother and the pain the patriarchal society thrust upon her. She never had a chance.

Let me back up for a minute. I watched my father die on 17 July 1985, the day after I turned 25. And then on 12 December 1987, I watched my mother die (See (1) ↓↓↓ - April 25).

Home no longer existed. It never really did; I just wasn’t privy to my reality.

SLUSH PILE

READ PREVIOUS EXCERPTS STARTING: APRIL 24, 2023 (Free Speech)

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily

"I AM GROOT"

Spring (Sprung) + Not in Florida

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easily the hottest site on the web

28th

Stanley is an adolescent seagull, a 'murder of crows' murdered his entire family.

Alone in this world, Stanley befriends a small child.

Saying small, before child, is redundant.

By happenstance, they named the child Small because Branch was taken.

Who named the child Small?

Duh.

For the story's sake, Stanley and the child can communicate in English and whatever language this story is translated into later. This is a good thing because then racists do not have to be mad at overhearing Stanley + Small talking louldy in a foreign language.

I spelled loudly incorrectly. Louldly is not a word, but probably a character in an upcoming book. I don't like the word upcoming.

That seems grounded in reality, the part about Stanley + Small talking in English. The rest is nothing more than gibberish.

This is how my mind works.

Streaming...

Stanley and Small work together to solve unsolved mysteries.

Did I spell mysteries correctly?

Yes.

Thanks, fingers.

Coming Tommorow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

NEIL GAIMAN’S EIGHT RULES OF WRITING

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

Day four in a row at The Asylum + hitting over 30,000 steps.

Go me!

Another glorious day befell my spectacular home, Vancouver.

I’m getting close to a major breakthrough. The Universe is listening.

Human Rights are a thing not to be erased.

… …

Let’s go off-tangent today.

I didn’t know we were on-tangent.

Stuff it, Sparkles.

… …

These updates are quickly becoming part of my third memoir, Chasing Neon.

What are the first two, Linds?

Thanks for asking, Sparkly.

Lindsay – The Memoir
Glue

Cool.

Cool.

… …

I’ll go on.

I finished reading The Memory Police |by Yōko Ogawa|. It is a fascinating, troubling, dark, enlightening, draconian read.

I must look up the definition of draconian now.

... ...

dra * con * ni * an
adjective

(of laws or their application) excessively harsh and severe.

“The Nazis destroyed the independence of the press by a series of draconian laws.”

Similar

Harsh, severe, strict, extreme, drastic, stringent, tough, swinging, cruel, brutal, oppressive, ruthless, relentless, summary, punitive, authoritarian, despotic, tyrannical, arbitrary, repressive

… …

I sort of knew that.

Sort of?

Is there any other way?

I want to keep talking about the book.

… …

Three main characters. A writer, an editor, and an old man.

Things start disappearing, erased from the memory of all, with The Memory Police ensuring things are gone forever; that humanity is compliant, shells of who they used to be.

How can we go where we are supposed to go if we can’t examine where we’ve been?

Monsters needs reality to be short-lived.

The editor represents possibilities, the old man experience, the writer is to capture time and create possibility.

Together, the writer, editor, and old man play vital roles in ensuring our voices never fully die.

… …

FH

Jacques asked me if I heard the South Korean president singing American Pie. Why is he asking me? Is it because J is Korean? Is it as simple as that?

Even when he’s trying not to be offensive, he can’t help himself, if you listen carefully.

Jacques then asked me if I would do his laundry for $1.? His words lack maliciousness. However, they are malicious; subconsciously, he’s being an ass; if The Postman had been present, he would have said something about me needing the money and how I need to get off my lazy ass and get a job (I'm a writer. I'm nearing 63. What would a job even look like. I'm a writer.). The Postman would likely add, Jacques is right, with a tinge of urgency in his voice.

My emotions would sink. I’m glad The Postman wasn’t present.

Jacques was being a subconscious ass. Jacques knows how difficult the last three years have been emotionally and financially.

"Would you do my laundry for $1?"

Fuck off, would have been acceptable.

Instead, I responded with levity.

… …

Back to The Memory Police.

As more and more things disappear, humans start becoming shells of themselves, accepting whatever happens as if it is the norm.

The editor keeps talking about possibilities.

The writer writes a story about a typist who loses her voice and communicates through typing—until the typewriters all malfunction.

We are held captive by monsters until we are no longer relevant; and or, we age and are replaced.

The old man uses experience to fix everything that is falling apart.

What happens when the writer and typist are reduced to nothing more than their voice?

The editor needs…

This is a fabulous read. Mind Blown!

That’s how the book made me feel, except for the Jacques part, which, of course, is not in the book.

… …

I’ve mentioned before that the last three-plus years have devastated me.

Monsters have seen to that.

Many people suggest forgetting what the cowardly monsters did might be for the best. Move on, they say.

No.

Moving on, that’s not a thing; I must return infinitely the pain and suffering the cowardly monsters caused my family and have caused countless other families. It is my purpose. I have a voice. It will not be silenced. I am no longer a young man.

When you get older, if you continue to let people walk all over you, you eventually become a broken shell of yourself, with your voice drifting off into the ether.

The monsters who hurt my family, specifically, told me, what they fear, and that fear is the truth ever being revealed about who they are. They are darkness, not light.

They had a responsibility, no matter what they thought: when monsters push someone older, who provided them with everything they have, out the door; well, that responsibility is to ensure the person being erased is okay.

But no, these coward’s memories were short, because they must believe they’ve done everything themselves. Instead of doing the right thing, they’ve shrouded themselves in marginality and delusion.

So, in good consciousness, they need to feel ten times the pain me and my family have felt. It’s not good enough they fail on their own. They need a push. The truth needs to be told, not erased. They need to face a draconian ending.

That’s all for today.

Sparkly, would you like to guess the Grammarly Readability Score?

85.

I guess, 82.

Can I ask you one thing?

Sure, Sparkly.

What are the monsters afraid of?

Being forced to look in the mirror.

Grammarly Readability Score = 73

Suck it, Grammarly.

I love telling stories.

What’s that?

Never stop.
Never give up.
Bring light not darkness.
Slay the monsters.
Do what you must.

You have a powerful voice.

Use it.

Thanks, Editor!

Writing Tips

Write
Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
Finish what you’re writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.
Laugh at your own jokes.
The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I’m not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

Interviewer

You seem to be, okay.

Me

I’m not. I never have been. I never will be. I know that sounds dark. But, I think, it’s honest.
Nothing in my life made sense. I simply didn’t know what?

SLUSH PILE

But because I didn’t know, the turmoil instilled in me, individuality. I never fit in anywhere, but somehow, I fit in everywhere. Subconsciously, I understood things were off, I think. This gifted me with creativity, compassion, empathy, sexy feet, and a killer sense of humour. Of course, I didn’t know I was being gifted with these traits → but fortunately, they have followed me throughout life.

When I was a kid, I loved when the family came together. I loved Christmas.

My parents tried to have us draw names for giving out presents. I wouldn’t allow it. Everyone had to give a present to everyone else. I put my little sexy foot down. I thought if we drew names there would be favourtism. We were all supposed to love each other equally. Little did, little me know, I didn’t belong.

On Christmas, I took the role of handing out the gifts to everyone. And when it was time for everyone to go back to their lives, I cried my eyes out. I think I may have been suffering from a fear of abandonment. Hopefully, that fear doesn’t follow me throughout life.

I had a strong disdain for the word goodbye, instead always saying “see you later.”

The day before my mother’s mother died, she pulled me close and whispered into my ear, “goodbye.” That’s the last word she said to me.

After she died, my entire family would one day soon, say goodbye, to me.

Hell, if I drove you to the airport (and you are not even real), I would cry when you left?

How the fuck could that be, okay?

...to be continued...

READ PREVIOUS EXCERPTS STARTING: APRIL 24, 2023 (Free Speech)

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

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Sam Smith, Ed Sheeran - Who We Love

Circles + Resiliancy + Horsey

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29th

Stanley's third cousin, twice removed, is a Heron named Melinda.

Melinda is an evil genius - as much as a Heron named Melinda screams genius.

Melinda has a Mensa card, and like Stanley, Melinda speaks perfect English.

When Melinda finds out Stanley has befriended Small, Melinda literally hatches a plan to brainwash, through Stanley's friendship, Small into becoming the free world and eventually take down the power elite and overthrow humanity by pecking Small to death so the creatures can save Gai from the looming human-caused catastrophe coming our way.

Little does Small know Small is our only hope.

The above just fell out of my head.

What will the future bring?

Coming Tommorow on Yesterday!

What did you do yesterday?

The Given

i update the site.
i Write.
i usually go to the Fitness Asylum but broken Pinky has placed me on the shelf.
i Pitch.
i Read.
i Walk.
i Write More.
i Create.

READ PREVIOUS EXCERPTS STARTING: APRIL 24, 2023 (Free Speech)

Sparkly Pingle Ball is a fig-mint of my imagination. Minty. Every time, you wonder who the hell I'm talking with, it's Sparkly.

Who are you?

If you think, I'm crazy, ask yourself one thing: Have you ever watched Family Guy? Or...?

Sparkly's main role is to keep moving the narrative along. And to be hot!

Who are the voices in your head?

Embrace them. Love them. You are not alone.

Intangibles

What happened yesterday or the yesterdays before.?

Wow! Day five in a row at The Asylum + hitting over 30,000 steps.

I even did a second weights workout. What’s wrong with me? Don’t I know I’m old now? I’m freakishly strong for my demographic, but what’s the fucking point? Pushing things?

Why do you choose profanity?

I don’t, Sparkly; it’s just where my fingers go.

J has been gone for almost three weeks now, there is a giant chasm in my life right now; one more week, and things will return to normal.

What the fuck is normal?

Every day, I feel like I’m in mid-apocalypse, fighting it with all my might just to be able to breathe.

You know, I never saw this coming. Nobody did, nobody predicted the pandemic. What I mean by this coming, is the simple fact that if it wasn’t for me, the place I used to hang my hat daily would have failed a long time ago—the monsters running the place, they got lucky, they had someone laying in the wings who could relate with those they needed most to succeed.

Who do you think a person in their fifties and sixties would relate the most with, a nepotistic hire in their thirties who’s been through little except for entitlement; or someone well-read who’s been through much?

Of course, the question is rhetorical.

Every day (squared), I work incredibly hard; it’s not really work; I love what I am creating. Even the fucking dark stuff.

I want to be a light.

I want to be a better person.

I truly do.

I’ve been through much.

I’ve lost a lot.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m fucking terrified.

I’m not a kid anymore.

And the monsters who ran where I used to hang my hat daily, the place where I was the catalyst for their success; as soon as they saw an opportunity, they rid themselves of me because I was getting older, nothing more.

The worst part. One of them pretended for over ten years to be a close friend. But when things unfolded, my supposed friend buttered his toast on the side of the monsters with zero regard for what their decision would do to my life.

I’m not young anymore.

I needed three years to set up the following chapters of my life. When that was taken from me, rebounding became a life-threatening, nearly impossible task.

I remember when the hammer was falling, my friend, as he was saying, “We have no choice,” had the fucking audacity to say, “We’re worried we might have to sell our house.” That was day fucking one of a once-in-a-century pandemic. The drama wasn’t lost on this person.

I broke bread with this person every Monday for over 10 years, playing the role of sounding board, listening to this person share all his/her life’s frustrations. I did this without condition, nothing more than friendship. But when it came time to step up and protect his/her friend and remind the people higher up, they would have nothing if it weren’t for me; it’s obvious this person didn’t do the right thing.

What would happen to a sixty-year-old being tossed to the curb?

Are they that stupid and cruel?

I don’t need the answer.

What do I want?

I work at it every day (cubed).

I have a talent. I’m a great man and a fabulous raconteur. If you know me, you’d know this is an undeniable fact.

I hope I spelled raconteur correctly.

I did.

I am trying to smash in the door and be a one-in-a-million discovery (at my age) before the walls totally crumble, seeking validation from those who many are several decades my junior.

They, whoever the fuck, “They” are, say writing can be cathartic.

I’m not sure I agree.

I think it is what I’m meant to be doing, so I do it; I can’t stop.

I’m doing what I love. But it might not matter.

Over the last three years, there have been numerous times when I’ve considered suicide. I think that is normal.

I’ve had a tremendously tough time because I cannot afford my life. Nor can I afford to take care of those I love.

If you’ve ever been there. I’m sure you know the sinking feeling. I’m underwater, and no matter how hard I try, I don’t seem to be able to break through to the surface.

I don’t want to be dark, but I must be honest.

I write.

Over the last three years, I have become hypersensitive. I read a lot. I listen.

What I hear often isn’t pleasing.

People I care about say awful things. Racist things. Horrible stuff about people who are suffering, often judging, not understanding how fucking close people they know are to the edge of the fucking cliff, and if things don’t break for me in the right direction, someone they know, they will be judging hard and saying those horrible things about.

One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. I don’t know how long.

I just thought about suicide.

I won’t. But it might not matter.

I work harder than most; I always have.

How the fuck do the people I used to be employed by not understand the reason for their success?

Is it because they had me lying in the wings to fucking use up and exploit?

Don’t answer.

Until the day I jump, I will keep writing, creating, trying, and dreaming, all while listening to fucking people I used to care about say shit like everyone who’s struggling did it to themselves.

They didn’t; life did.

And saying shit like, “Will you do my laundry for $1?” or after I share a story about a guy, in the elevator, someone I don’t know, saying to me when he saw me holding a box of Kraft Dinner and coke, “Eating peasant food tonight.”

Well, I wasn’t upset by the person I didn’t know, even though it was an ignorant thing to say. Even though he was right.

Anyway, when I shared the story with friends, not wanting anything in return, but a WTF? What I got instead was, “Well, with J gone, you can go to the food bank and start eating at soup kitchens.”

This upset me. My friend saw my upset and got mad at me for it… going down the overreacting path.

This hurt me.

What may have hurt me more is three other friends were sitting with me who all knew the enormity of the last three years of my life; what upset me is they let someone talk to me like that as if it was no fucking big deal.

It is a fucking big deal.

I walk to the edge of the ledge.

Stop.

I need to keep telling stories.

I need to keep trying.

I need to keep bringing light.

I need to keep bringing laughter.

I need to be strong.

I take another step back.

I know I’m loved.

I know I’m talented.

I need to make the recent past pay a heavy price.

A breakthrough is on the event horizon.

I will break through.

What I think hurts me the most, about the people from my past, where I used to hang my hat; is, of course, I can never be sure because this is speculation--

Fuck that, I’m sure.

—what upsets me the most, is the lack of decency, for someone who gave them much. The sheer lack of empathy for what their decision has done to a good person.

If you’re lucky and realize you are a good person, nobody can take that away from you, ever, even if you jump.

What upsets me the most is how quickly these people went from “going to thank you for being a valued outstanding…” to “an enemy.”

Giving 15 years of your life to anything shouldn’t lead to suicide and homelessness.

It’s been over three years, and traumatic event after traumatic event has assaulted me. In that time, the one I listened to venting, every Monday, has reached out exactly zero times to see if I’m okay.

What does that say about that person?

Don’t answer.

I write. I create. I try. I dream.

I’m fucking terrified.

I won’t quit.

I know I will keep kicking, clawing, and scratching with fierce resolve.

A breakthrough is on the event horizon.

Cheer for me!

NOTE 1

I planned to take the day off from writing.

Then I sat down, and the above spilled out of my fingers.

I’m not really angry with my friends, I guess disappointment would be a better emotion.

Reading The Memory Police |by Yōko Ogawa| taught me most people are just drifting through life with blinders on. Things come. Things disappear. The exhaustive nature of life often leaves us deaf and blind to what transpires around us. The bombardment of noise makes many of us passive. Pain is an unforgiving curse for those who look, feel, and listen.

I want to look, feel, and listen. I may be suffering, but pain is freeing if it leads to more empathy and compassion.

And for those who exploit and use, FUCK OFF.

I know you won’t. You don’t care who you hurt and are too stunned to realize your marginality strengthens others.

That’s all for today.

My fingers need a rest.

NOTE 2

Everything I think, and everything I write, is a one-take-stream-of-consciousness.

When I finally break through, I will get on stage and blast out a barrage of comic brilliance. Comedy comes from pain. Life can be mentally excruciating. But when the salve is applied, and the hurt subsides, if you look carefully, you will find the beauty that has always been there.

Thanks for reading.

Stop.

See you tomorrow.

I said stop.

Okay.

Grammarly Readability Score = 86

Writing Tips

Jack Kerouac 30 Tips

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside your own house
4. Be in love with your life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in your morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see your exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Human Snapshots
Excerpts from the fictitious manuscript: Canned

The One Question
↓↓↓

Lindsay – The Memoir (My Life on The Slush Pile) (Interview)

Interviewer

Do you need a hug?

Me

Yes, to the hug.

SLUSH PILE

In the spirit of brevity, something the literary world likes, starting on life on the slush pile, follows you throughout life. You can’t fucking escape it, even without knowing why, it affects every decision you make in life. They, whoever the fuck they are, say a child’s personality is almost fully developed by the age of three.

Interviewer

What’s your source? Did you Google it?

Me

I don’t need a source. I did not Google it.

If you listen, it’s all around you. When you start out on the slush pile it is impossible not to be hypersensitive to things. Television, radio, holidays, Mother’s Day, and on and on.

Hell, just recently I received an email from Vessi Shoes (Vancouver Company). Their email stated they know how difficult Mother’s Day can be for some people, they said over the next few weeks they were going to be bombarding people with advertisements, and then, they blew me away → they had the decency to offer an “OPT OUT” key so you wouldn’t receive the emails. Wow!

...to be continued...

I want to make a difference in this world!

At Retro we treat everyone with respect!

A Fresh Picture Daily