Saturday, January 31, 2015

And now, an imaginary conversation with God.

...assuming God exists. Which I'm not sure s/he / it does. So this may all be a work of fiction.

* * * * *

God: Hey, J, do you know who I am?

J: Um... are you the Dalai Lama?

G: Warm. But not quite.

J: The ghost of Venus Williams?

G: Warmer.

J: Natalie Wood. Definitely Natalie Wood.

G: Colder.

J: Are you... y'know... God?

G: Jesus, finally! Yes, I'm God.

G: ...did you catch how I used my own name in vain there?

J: Oh, so you're an ironic deity.

G: Yeah, a lot of people didn't pick up on that in the Bible. I thought it was pretty obvious, but everyone's all "stoning this" and "parable that." Pillars of salt? Come on!

J: Everyone likes a good wife-shaped salt-lick.

G: Exactly! Sheesh, it's like you've gotta beat people over the head with it.

J: So tell me... duck-billed platypuses. What the hell, man?

G: Well, you know when you're putting together a piece of Ikea furniture and you have a baggie of assorted extras they give you in case you're a numbskull and lose things? I figured I'd do something with the baggie.

J: That makes sense. I mean, we're all getting a pretty good laugh out of the fuzzy eggs, but did you have to give it a venomous claw?

G: What can I say? Leftovers are leftovers.

J: I hear ya. So... suffering, famine, childhood cancers. If you're so omnipotent, why do all these shitty things happen?

G: Look, I have a whole universe to look after; I can't be saving everyone all the time. Someone's gotta keep an eye on Kepler 424b; they're having their Super Bowl today, and in the postgame interviews I always get thanked. Can't miss those.

J: Ours is tomorrow. Gonna watch?

G: Have to. I'll probably skip Katy Perry at halftime, though. I mean, she might have a Jacksonesque nip-slip, but I can see all of that anyway. Kinda ruins the experience, if I may be frank.

J: It's like seeing tits at a nudist resort. Once you've seen about three dozen pairs, you really don't need to see any more, do ya?

G: Nahhh... who am I kidding, tits are great. S'why I made 'em.

J: Thanks for that, by the way.

G: No problem, guy. So, you humans... you're a right bunch of pricks, you know that?

J: Well, some of 'em aren't. Tom Hanks seems pretty nice.

G: Yeah, which is why it's gonna be a surprise when he's dead by April. Vegas, horse tranquilizers and bourbon, balls-deep in a male prostitute. Bet you didn't see that comin'.

J: No foolin'?

G: Of course I'm foolin'. Fuck, you're dumb.

J: Well, you made this, so you've really got nobody to blame but yourself.

G: Ehh, true.

J: So, if you had a message to send out to all of humanity, what would it be?

G: Hmm... good question. I think I'd tell people to chill the hell out. Grab a tasty beverage, put on some good music, and stop murdering each other so much. Especially when you tell people that I'm on your side when you pull that trigger, because if person A is murdering person B, chances are I'm currently siding with B, not A.

J: That's a good point.

G: Damn straight. Alright, gotta split -- that Kepler 424b game is in overtime; they're gonna be prayin' up a storm, and I have to look like I give a shit.

J: Peace out, homey.

G: See you up here in heaven in six months, asshole!

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Marriage and families and such.

It's no secret that the crop of thirtysomethings to which I belong are generally a bunch of selfish, spoiled-brat idiot-children. Obviously I consider myself amongst their ranks.

What am I, 37?

...yeah, I'm 37.

Shit, man.

Go back a generation. What had our parents done by their mid-to-late 30s? Probably had a few kids, bought a house, and maybe owned a Glen Campbell LP.*

The argument could be made, I suppose, that "things are different these days." More people than ever have post-secondary diplomas or degrees, and they're getting their careers underway (even broads!), and the nature of jobs in a post-union environment means less stability, yadda yadda. Add to it the price of houses in this city (!) and, well, let's just say I'm still renting.

In conversation with someone recently, and jeez, I can't remember who, it came up that, since rents can only go up a small percentage each year, that gives you an incentive to stay in one spot and not bounce-around. I mean, hell, when I moved into my apartment in 2006, I thought the rent was a little pricey... but the dollar-value of it has stayed shockingly constant over the past almost-nine years while everything else has gone up, and this place is a god damn bargain now. It has two bedrooms, is way bigger than any sub-million-dollar condo around, huge west-facing windows with only trees across the road, and a charming horizontal crack about eight feet long about a foot below the crown moulding on the south wall of my living room. I'm genuinely curious as to why it's cracking, and how long it'll get. Stay tuned.

So, we end up pushing things back, and back, and back.

But, eventually, we're going to run into an inconvenient piece of biology: that is, the chicks, they can't have no babies no more when they're over about 40. And hey, it ain't no picnic for guys either; I don't want to be changing diapers at 50. Having kids is a young man's pursuit.

(Someone forgot to tell the late Tony Randall.)

Are we going to get a bunch of ultra-bummed-out women (and men too, let's face it) about a decade from now, all full of regret because they never settled down and started crapping-out some progeny? And, will today's teenagers learn from this possible-mistake and get busy earlier, or will they go down the same garden path?

Tough to say, really. But I have a feeling it's not going to be fun finding out.
* I bought one at Kops on Bloor a couple of weeks ago for a quarter. Suck it, you old fogeys!