 
**Act One - The Intro**

At that time I was living in Brooklyn because New York is expensive and I didn't make a wolf of Wall Street income ripping off hard working people. Brooklyn was and still is going through a strange and horrific gentrification process due to what once were cheaper rents. As a hip-hop head growing up in Canada all I knew about Brooklyn was what rappers told me, and they told me Brownsville was a place I might want to avoid. Occasionally you will meet some gruff old timers who will tell you about the widespread police corruption and epidemic drug use of the good old days. You know, when someone got murdered every day, a stabbing here a mugging there, a building on fire, the good old days. I hadn't imagined that Brooklyn was at the time an epicenter for a hipster zombie apocalypse. If I had to count the number of "artists" with toques on in July wearing plaid button ups with swirly mustaches I'd be a mathematician. Some kind of superhuman computer that takes up an entire wing of MIT but alas my calculation skills are restricted to the grade five level times tables.

I was fairly new in New York at the time. Not totally unfamiliar with the big city though, as my stomping grounds were Toronto and I had lived for two years in Montreal. I knew the unwritten rules like "don't look the man in the eye who masturbates on the metro". I ended up in the big apple due to a job offer, a very lucrative 75 grand a year job offer. See for me at the time it wasn't half bad, it was also half good. That's those math skills I was talking about earlier.

I had signed a one-year contract with an advertising and graphic design firm in the city once known as New Amsterdam and hot damn I was excited. I had never been to New York prior to that, though I was what is known affectionately as a hip-hop nerd so seeing New York seemed enticing. I took the offer and I moved to the land of pro-gun violence and anti-health care. I was a bit scared.

Before I ended up in New York I was still in the land of beaver tails and hockey hair. After the great recession of 2008 and 9 I had lost my job in Toronto and I ended up spending my free time resorting back to an old hobby. I rapped and I got serious about it for about a year or so. I was living on employment insurance at the time and after slowly finding myself slipping into mind melting boredom I started to attend open mic nights. Eventually, I mustered up the nerve to hit the stage for my big break. I didn't get signed that night; in fact, I lost my train of thought halfway through the verse, clammed up and went deathly silent for about 30 seconds. Regardless of my lackluster and mildly humiliating performance, I'd caught a bit of a high from performing. I spent the next few months applying for jobs in the greater Toronto area while I spent my nights recording songs or rhyming at small venues around town. Eventually, my job searched climaxed like a large woman and my job search came to a terrifyingly rough stop that left me confused and worried. I had found a job, a career if you will, but it was out of province, in a province where I, in fact, didn't speak the language. With the offer and the mindset of Louis and or Clark Griswold full of naive optimism I packed my bags but not before finishing a rap mixtape that I'd given to a college radio station.

I left the city of my birth and took the steps towards adventure. That adventure wasn't too crazy, wild, or mind bending but I did move to Montreal. Montreal is another country compared to most places in North America. It's hard to describe, it's Canadian but it is French but it's also full of Haitian cabbies. There is art, food, culture, and rich pricks going to McGill. There is a lot of rich bastards walking around going to Concordia or McGill ruining everything in their path sporting sweaters with specific thread counts tied around their necks. You too can sit and imagine their little beady eyes swell as you pull the sweater ever so tightly, cutting off the air supply. McGill and Concordia are Canada's versions of Ivey league schools and yes they both suck at basketball. In Montreal, most everybody speaks both French and English but French is the preferred language. Most Canadians don't speak French at all or ever, the most French I ever knew was le cheerios

Montreal is a very special city; it is a very strange blend of North American and European culture with some other spices sprinkled in. I slowly learned enough French to get by and I felt less awkward navigating the bilingual city. Montreal is very easy to get by in only knowing English, but finding a job or functioning in a job you need to know some French. It is a great city for the arts, there are bands, painters, actors and as far as I'm concerned, some of the best filmmaking in Canada made by Canadians happens in the Montreal area.

While in Montreal I was taken under the senior graphic designer's wing, his name was of all things, Pierre. Pierre O'Donnelly, his mother was French Canadian and his father was born into a long entrenched Irish community in the city. Pierre liked to be called Pete because he always said he identified as an Irishman and there's no Irishmen named "Pierre". Being Irish to Pierre meant an excuse to drink excessively most nights of the week and to be constantly womanizing all of the women all over town. Pierre was dark haired, six feet tall, ran 5 miles every morning and then spent most evenings drinking and smoking in bars. He somehow always remained slender and cancer free, well, until he died of cancer at 58. He was the kind of person who could charm anyone, I once saw him spit on a biker in a drunken lapse of judgment only to charm his way into being punched in the face. Wait, that might have been a bad example.

I liked working with Pierre from the start. He was passionate about art and graphic design. If you asked him a question he reacted with the pure joy of an eight-year-old girl getting a pony for her birthday. The joy of actually seeing Santa Claus in your house, eating your cookies, and kissing your mother. He was a wealth of knowledge, an encyclopedia of typography facts; he would orgasm at perfect magazine layouts. I am pretty sure he folded napkins into a grid system and wiped his face so that his food stains had perfect color harmony. He was also a very fun person to spend nights with unless you actually wanted to leave with a girl on your arm. Pierre would have charmed the headscarf and pants off of Mother Teresa. He was great at short relationships, but eventually, there was a long line of women looking to cut his brake lines. After spending some time with him you could read his facial expressions when meeting a woman. There was a twisted brow, a mind questioning his possible past with this person like the terminator analyzing the data to identify potential threats.

I worked at Sunrise Media for two years and it was a wonderful experience. The time I spent there was well worth it, I learned more than I ever did in school and I had made some great relationships. The company folded after we were unable to land a "big fish" as marketing gurus call it. Pierre was well known in the graphic design industry and he ended up moving to London, England where he found a new batch of women to manipulate the trousers off of. I was once again out of a job since I had finished technical school and I had only about three or four full years in my chosen field. I liked living in Montreal but I didn't have any family there or a strong attachment to community and when I lost my job I felt like a stranger in a foreign city. I wanted to go home.

Act 2 Going, going back to T.O.

After two years of learning French while stuffing my face with smoked meat sandwiches, absorbing a self-destructive Lothario's knowledge on all things print media, I was back home in Toronto. Toronto isn't exactly the most beautiful city in the world when taken as one large dose but it is a very nice place when you know where to look. There's a wide range of ethnicities laying their claws into and hanging on to pockets all over the city. John Candy liked it enough to invest into one of its sports franchises before he, if I have my facts straight, marathon ran himself to death. Toronto isn't the center of the universe as some claim, but people are honestly kidding themselves if they think it isn't the most important city in Canada.

I went home and I stayed with my mom until I found an apartment. I took a job bartending, which I found was surprisingly easy to get. I thought I needed to know about cocktails, martinis and how to juggle vodka bottles. All I really needed to do was pretend I had never heard of a rusty nail and people would just order a shot or a beer. Working in a bar makes you gravitate towards drinking like how a meteor is pulled into the sun. It's fun at first and then it's more fun, then later it's less fun and you are tired all the time. Lots of people in the bartending/restaurant business tend to be drinkers because it is strange work with weird hours and even weirder customers.

I worked at a dive bar in the Parkdale neighborhood, a working class minority populated area of the city. My boss was the owner named Parminder Sing, an overall a nice guy but he was a bit eccentric. Parminder was Sikh and I know it is stereotyping but every Sikh guy I ever met loved drinking whiskey. Parminder was no exception and he would toast every shift he managed with a shot of Crown Royal. He was fifty-seven years old, hated his two sons and he got divorced when he was forty. He had almost no contact with his kids once his wife took custody which he often reminded us about. Parminder looked at his staff as his new children and he respected us all because we had to take what he always called "junky jobs" to get ahead in life. His wife was a dentist who he said "spoiled the kids and brought the cast system to Canada". He was from a low cast back in India and decided to move in an attempt to make a better life for himself. For some reason, he always wore Hawaiian style dress shirts and played Dick Dale style surf music in the bar. I asked him why and he told me he wanted to live in the tropics. That always confused me because he moved from India to Canada.

Eventually, I moved into a one bedroom apartment near downtown Toronto and took the train to work. I ended up picking up a drum machine and began making beats again for a while. I even put ads up online to try to find rappers but mostly got responses from people who hadn't recorded material but "they are gunna be stars". I had one promising response to my ad which led me to a meeting with a prospective emcee in the Jane and Finch area of the city. The guy I met was this rail thin half white, half Jamaican seventeen year old kid with the best set of dreads I had ever seen in my life. He lived in a housing project that apparently was run by some mid-level drug gang. During my second visit they wouldn't let me through the front door because they mistakenly assumed I was a "Narc". At the time I was twenty -seven years old and some thirteen year-old hard case pulled a knife on me while I pleaded to enter the building. I proceeded to punch the child in the face but not before he could stick about an inch of the blade into my left ass cheek. None of this went over very well with the crew controlling the housing projects, so it was fight or flight. I decided I had a new affinity for air travel and would jet. It's hard to run with a wounded butt cheek, but when you're being chased by about 20 wannabe Tupacs you are capable of some incredible speeds.

Almost seven years removed from my past glory as a hip-hop master of ceremonies and a failed reboot of said career I had decided to hang up the gloves for good. I worked at Parminder's bar while I focused on trying to land a new opening as a graphic designer. Working at Parminder's bar wasn't really that bad of a gig, we got to listen to all the hula music a person could handle and deal with a pretty regular assortment of blue collar patrons. We had dock workers, bus drivers, other bar tenders, factory workers and basically anyone that made a steady days work. Parminder had studied his history on the building as well as the general area and would spin marvelous tales of scandal to anyone drunk enough to believe him. He'd mix fact with fiction and then add in more lies to create a totally revised history of Toronto. It was, I will admit fun to listen to and he was by far the most enjoyable person I ever had to call my boss.

After about three months of working at the bar, I got to know the mainstays. Reggie was an old black guy who moved to Toronto from Halifax and drove a city bus. He wore a Kangol hat every single time I saw him hunched over the bar. He would tell anyone within earshot that his ancestors went back several generations in Nova Scotia. Reggie complained about the lack of good Donair shops in the city and yet eventually almost every shift would go down a few blocks to a Lebanese bakery to order one of those "shitty Donairs". He'd bring it back to the bar with sweet sauce oozing out all over the counter while complaining about how terrible it was as he stuffed it in his mouth.

Another local, Ali, was one of the most secular Muslim men I had ever met. Ali was religious but in the way an Irish Catholic is religious. Ali owned an embroidery business doing special stitched graphics for sports teams or community organizations. He always claimed to have been trained by an authentic Persian rug maker but the story made no sense because he was born in Buffalo New York. Ali had a pretty thick New York state accent but dressed like an imam. He came to the bar most nights of the week always drinking a coffee, then a beer, then a whiskey and then about five more beers. He loved Ace of Bass and would mischievously set the jukebox to the two songs by Ace of Bass it had. For about fifteen minutes we'd all have to listen to "I Saw the Sign" and "All That She Wants". I will tell you what it is she wants; it's another baby.

Have you ever met an old white guy who could pass off derogatory or blatantly offensive cultural jokes as riffing? That was Doug McDonald, he was an old stay over in the neighborhood, kind of like Clint Eastwood in Grand Torino. A gruff old-timer pond hockey legend who "almost made the NHL" but didn't, so he drowned his punch-drunk brain cells in Molson. Everyone loved Doug at the bar, though if you'd just walked in you'd have thought he was a de-cloaked grand dragon cooling off after a trip of hunting gators. Doug was as stereotypically white as any hockey loving farmer telling people who don't speak English go back to their country could be. He stood out in a crowd of ethnic faces and poor hipster college kids spending their student loans on cheap beer. An old stoic Marlborough man with the wisdom of Lanny McDonald and the witty sense of humor of a racist Eugene Levy.

The only other old white person to frequent the bar was also another neighborhood holdout. When the Caucasian people fled to the safe surroundings of outside the city some stayed in the now culturally diverse areas. Gladys Mackay was one of them; she was a sweet, old, crude hard living lady who I'm surprised made it a day past forty. She was the stereotype of a functional alcoholic only that she was astonishingly seventy-four years old. She was at one time a "dancer" after which she spent time traveling the world with a circus. She never married or had children and she was proud to tell you she was an old "slut". In her fifties, she began writing books about her adventures before dentures. At some point the writing became a revenue generator and she's been making a living as a writer since. She drank martinis only because it was classy even if she'd drink about ten in a couple of hours.

There was always a cast of regulars that waddled in from the manufacturing district. They were a blend of ethnic ancestries and a mix of ages. The textile workers were often from South East Asia and were typically all women. Most were single mothers or fairly new to Canada and trying to make new friends. Factory workers from the auto or manufacturing industry were a wide range of mostly males under forty five that lived in the neighborhood. Billy was one of the production line workers at an auto plant; He came in every Tuesday which was our wing night. Billy was about thirty year's old, single with no kids and he'd moved to Canada with his parents from Trinidad. I guess he'd gotten into drugs while in his late teens which eventually got him a house arrest sentence. As he puts it "I cleaned up my shit and got working". Billy was hilarious, he seemed like a natural comedian and I often tried to persuade him to go to an open mic night but he'd always deflect the suggestion.

The bar was a sanctuary for the middle lower class to hang out. Some people just came in to chat, they'd never order a stiff drink but Parminder liked the place to feel "welcoming". Nobody seemed to know if the bar really was financially viable but it didn't seem to matter to Parminder. Everyone on staff suggested the bar broke even but that Parminder must have had some other revenue stream he never shared with us. Everyone in the bar got along fairly well, it was an easy-going place where rude or uptight people simply didn't last. I enjoyed the job, the people, and the overall experience of working there. It wasn't a place I wanted to spend years or something I had considered a great step for my career but I still think of my time there fondly.

Act 3 The New Gig

After about eight months of working at Parminder's bar, I was offered a job doing layouts and typesetting for Masters & Bulger Marketing. The company had been run for nearly twenty five years with several changes in partners and owners. Eventually, they were bought out by a large investment firm that used the profit stream as assets for trading on the open market. I had not done my research when I accepted the offer of employment and looking back I truly regret not doing so. It didn't take long for me to realize Masters & Bulger was bulging with bullshit. The management would tell you one thing and then do another; promises were often made only to be broken. Inefficiencies and the souls they broke were splattered all over like the corpses of infantrymen on the beaches of Normandy.

I worked as one of many production monkeys like you'd see in those videos from the 1930's, gazing at a screen full of letters while the hamster on the wheel in my brain committed suicide. Typesetting can be fun, it can be an art form or it can be a production line job meant for high volume. I was doing high volume typesetting and layout of mainly corporate guideline books. It was more fun than shooting one's self in the stomach while cutting one's ear off but less fun than most everything else. I put prints of Van Gogh paintings all over my cubical in order to brighten up my life. I was always drawn to one of a rebellious looking skeleton that I like to imagine is James Dean smoking a cigarette. I was fast approaching thirty, I was working in my chosen field and somehow my life felt totally hollow like a log with a skunk living inside of it. I liked to imagine myself as that skeleton, blowing glorious smoke rings in my manager's face while he choked and coughed. I wouldn't cough or choke or gauge because as a skeleton I'd have no lungs.

My manager's name was Jim Morrison, and no he was not cool, at all or ever. Jim was that corporate stereotype, buttoned up with that car salesmen's voice always talking about how we are a "team". He claimed to have once been a successful musician over in Europe or Asia or someplace no one could actually confirm to be true. As he shared a story about his past glories of being a rock god I quipped "yeah he's huge in Antarctica". That statement got me pulled into his office for a tirade on the problems with how I articulate words and my apparently poor life choices. At the time Jim had sunburn flaking off his Muppet-like face from a January vacation to the tropics. As his mouth flapped up and down like a puppet with some investing board members hand rammed up his ass, I realized I should maybe start looking for a new job.

The problem with looking for a new job is you don't always find one right away. I applied to anything related to my experience and education but the response was minimal so I stayed put for a while. I tried to make the best of it while I worked at Masters of bullshit, I mean Masters and Bulger, but it was definitely a grind. The kind of grind you feel when you shove your face into a circular saw, it was a bit uncomfortable. Jim Morrison now hated me, which was odd because I loved Jim Morrison, the dead one. I was reprimanded for taking too many trips to the coffee machine so I did the natural thing and took more trips to the coffee machine. The job itself offered me no new skills, knowledge or room for growth. To find a benefit, I would try my best to latch onto the artistic director Janice Odernick. I would pick her brain like a prospector searching for juicy nuggets of wisdom. I would talk to other senior designers prying open their nerdy skulls, peaking inside for tips or tricks. Then I would take all of the gathered precious goodies back to my layer like Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

Masters & Bulger was an interesting place because they often perpetuated the myth that they gave a shit about their employees but would try to do everything to make our lives harder. One of the great time wasting ventures we participated in were team meetings. They happened often, more than they ever needed to and they accomplished nothing. One team meeting consisted of our manager, the rock god of Antarctica Jim Morrison, telling us about his fabled music career complete with a variety of loose connections to actual working musicians. I truly believe Jim Morrison, my manager, legally changed his name to Jim Morrison like the rock star. For a while, I called him Hubert and when I wanted to dish the dirt on him while he was in the room I'd just refer to him as Hubert. Hubert sounded more accurate of a name for Jim, a middle-aged man attempting to be cool but always being ten years behind every flash fad.

We had meetings so often I gained a few pounds from the free doughnuts they used to bribe us with so we'd show up on time. Free food is free food, so I would often ignore my primal instincts and walk into the trap known as "the team meeting". The managers would bond together over their apparent need to teach us all about success through their inspirational Ted talks while working on salary for a company that offered promotions but not raises. We once watched an excerpt from the movie Any Given Sunday to open a meeting. It is the scene where Al Pacino yells at a bunch of beefed up pig skin juice monkeys to get them to win a game or something. My manager, Jim flicked off the projection screen after the scene ended and solemnly exclaimed "inspirational stuff guys" like someone had just given a speech at the funeral of Nelson Mandela. How my head didn't explode with hysterical manic laughter I will never know but my insides did. No, I did not shit myself.

For all of the meetings and attempts at inspiration, the general vibe was we all needed to work ten times harder to meet projected profit targets. There was a time I am sure when I started at Masters and Bulger where I gave a fuck about my job but about six months in, that part of my moral compass had totally corroded. I began to feel a lot like that smoking skeleton, puffing on self-destruction because it seemed like that was all that was left. I hopped, skipped and jumped through all the hoops yet never found any loopholes to succeeding. Over time my idealism had faded, I began to feel like the best days of my life had already passed. In five years had jumped around about four different jobs, my future seemed very unsure and I generally stopped giving a shit.

I began showing up late and hung-over, rushing to the coffee machine hoping to mask my beer breath with sweet java. Once I realized that nobody in the ramshackle organization noticed, I started showing up even later. Nothing happened, no one said a word, and as long as I finished the work I was supposed to, it all went unnoticed. Seeing as not a single soul really reviewed my work and no self-respecting employee was ever going read the guideline books I was laying out I shirked on my duties. I stopped working out the leading in the text; I left widows and orphans all over the pages. Sometimes I would add obscene words or typographical errors, slipped in like a dick pick in a Disney movie. Masters and Bulger kind of killed my creative side for a while, so I saw myself as a corporate slave chained to a desk pumping out mindless drivel. Why not add some vulgarity to the WHMIS spreadsheets, slip a joke into the section highlighting how to be culturally sensitive?

I worked with a guy named Ted Nguyen, a well-meaning general pain in my ass. Ted was of Vietnamese ancestry but was raised by Catholic convert missionary parents and he loved to small talk. Ted would hang out around the coffee machine waiting for some sad sorry soul to fly within reach like a Venus fly trap. Once in range, he locked his sticky twisted tentacles around your body and squeezed the last bit of oxygen from your inflated lungs. Ted was the kind of asshole who talked about church and Jesus so much even Baptists would feel uncomfortable. There are religious people and then you have people who talk about Jesus like they are having an affair with him. If Ted wasn't talking about his faith he was whipping out his wallet to show you pictures of his kids. As I mentioned earlier, I loved coffee and thus I was trapped often like a rabbit trying to nibble a limb off to escape. I would listen and nod, mutter "yes" or "okay" or "ah huh" but eventually I would begin to turn, giving the indication it was time for me to go. Ted wasn't good at social cues and as I would turn my body so my back faced him at the end of a sentence, he'd start a new one. I learned to nod and simply walk away. I spent a lot of time at the coffee machine but Ted seemed to also always be there like that guy at the strip club you judge until you realize the only reason you know he's there all time is that you are too.

After nearly a full year at Masters and Bulger, my unknowing arch nemesis Ted was promoted to assistant manager and now tagged along with Jim Morrison like Mormon missionaries knocking on cubicles. Short sleeve button up shirts only work on members of the California street gangs but Ted wore one all summer, always with a short tie. The dynamically dorky duo would begin to terrorize the entire floor with their bubbly enthusiastic delusions. Soon I discovered I was not alone in my disdain for Masters and Bulger. Through emotions closely resembling resent and anger, I began to make some close personal friends. One of those friends ended up landing me the job that brought me to New York City.

Alison Pincher had worked for two different marketing firms, one was a great place to work and the other was Masters and Bulger. She was thirty two when I meet her, the daughter of well-off but generally neglectful parents. She went to McGill and may have been one of the people I assumed was a bratty snob. Alison was a very smart young woman with a degree in marketing. After leaving her old job to take a once in a lifetime chance to travel the world she returned to Toronto and took what at the time seemed like a promising job with Masters and Bulger. She was hired as an assistant to the head of marketing who was actually less qualified than Alison. We bonded over our general distaste of the cheesy team meetings as well as our interest in all things cool in pop culture. Alison was pretty good friends with Omir Zalani who worked in IT who I had also become friends with. Eventually, we all began to congregate together, with other employees joining our little click. We smoked hard drugs by the bike racks and played Pogs during work hours, we were rebels.

Nothing bonds a group of people better than pain and hardship. Ask military personnel or police officers or former employees of Masters and Bulger. The things we saw on the front lines of corporate profit margins glued us together like a family. One day I'm sure there will be a history channel documentary commemorating the brave men and women the trudged out a salary in those God forsaken office towers. Me, Alison and Omir had all fallen into the same desperate realization that our jobs and careers had crawled to a standstill in a pile of farm animal feces. Thus we all turned to the next natural progression of slacking off on the job. Omir had a knack for creating easy to fix computer issues so he could stay on our floor and visit. We'd spend our lunches together or hanging out with the crew from the mail room. Balwinder, Eddie, and Sarah ran the mail room with an iron fist reminiscent of the Soviet Union. They were all working class people who disregarded anything to do with Masters and Bulger so we naturally gravitated towards them. Balwinder was generally high most days and as my guard fell I'd often sneak a couple spliffs with him at lunch.

Balwinder was born and raised in London, England and his parents had owned a convenience store that they eventually sold to move to Canada. He had a thick East London accent and was obsessed with the recording artist Tricky. Balwinder wasn't a huge fan of being in Canada and often shared stories of his adventures back in merry old England. He was twenty-two years old when I meet him, living in his parent's basement and chasing tail all over the Toronto night club scene. We'd smoke weed occasionally, though for him I think the occasion was every day. He would show me all the new cockney rappers and producers while I sat trying to understand the words coming out of his fast moving lips. From what I gathered he liked British trip-hop and at one point was a real hard boy in the London streets.

Act 4 Christmas Parties

I swore to myself, the druids of Stonehenge, Buddha, Allah and God I wouldn't attend a Masters and Bulger Christmas party. I would often lay sleepless at night imagining the pure agony of lame speeches and the chatter that would be filled with unavoidable small talk. As the holidays approached I began to dread the inevitable. Alison wanted to go and Omir, who had generally given up on life also decided he was entitled to the freebies a Christmas party entailed. Balwinder and the whole mailroom crew would be there as well. I caved in, I would go, and I would stand next to the wall like all the parties in high school.

Prior to the actual party, we had the daytime office party, which you were still expected to attend. There was cake, stupid sentimental stories about Christmas and then we had to exchange gifts, which I hated. Audrey Billips got a bottle of wine and a bottle of scotch, and I got a lock de-icer. Audrey didn't drink, not properly at least, she lived with her mom and was forty-two years old. She hoarded her drinks when anyone else would have shared and I don't even know what the hell she did at Masters and Bulger marketing. We all ate cake with a poorly drawn out Santa Claus on it, then ate cheap liquor filled chocolates. Ted, of course, passed on the chocolates while telling everyone in range what Christmas was really all about. I wanted to remind him it wasn't about brown nosing up the corporate ladder either.

I hated the team meetings but the Christmas party was worse, because Christmas parties get everyone excited. Someone's bound to get super drunk, there are always people who are way too enthused and those dicks from accounting all just hang out together ignoring everyone else. Why would I want to do that, why would I think this was going be fun? It wasn't going be fun, not if I wanted to keep my job, and I kind of didn't want too.

The Christmas party was held at a casino outside of the city and we all got taxi tickets to and from the venue. I was skeptical about the whole thing but hey we got a free ride to and from it, so why not? That opened up a lot of options, mostly terrible regrettable options. Those are the options where in movies like the Hangover where you steal a cop car but in real life, cops shoot you to death. When you're not too old and you're still full of resentment towards your employers, free transport to and from a work party opens up a lot of possibilities. I put on my game face and tried to have an enjoyable time.

I had attended a few work regulated Christmas parties in my years as a paid employee and I can't say that any of them were amazing experiences. Work Christmas parties consist of being around people from your work life outside of office hours and thus require a masquerade of subtle niceties that make me feel dirtier than ordering a Big Mac. You have to wave to people who wave at you regardless of who the hell they are. You might work with them; they might be the general manager of human resources and have a very fragile ego. The people you work with are important because we mostly hate them, but like a bad hemorrhoid, you must ease the suffering so you avoid spicy food and tread ever so gently.

When I was still in Montreal the Christmas parties were great, but I would have still rather been out someplace else with an entirely different group of people. Our boss was an Italian guy named Michael Corleone or something like that and he'd get hammered. He meant well but would often begin to stereotype all of the staff racially. The black guys were smoking weed, the Irish people were drunk, the Asians were gambling, all true but also very much stereotyping. I never knew my boss/owners name and I rarely saw the big man in the office so parties and meetings were basically the only time I got to see him.

I'd usually got to tag along with Pierre at the Christmas party as we sorted through the sad roster of females he'd toyed with. It was great, it was like being in a Floyd Mayweather fight in the first person, slip punches, run, keep a safe distance, slip in a combination and hopefully last to the end to collect another paycheck. Yes, it was an art form, a masterful dance like a mongoose surrounded by ten cobras, a diamond back and a couple black mambas. Pierre's feet moved like Fred Astaire being shot at in a John Woo film. Debris of saliva would be blasting past his sinister smile projected it at him from angry female lips. I knew women could cut a man down, but I am sure I saw some of those female's words leave bruises on Pierre's cheeks. Don't believe me? Ask his corner man, that is me by the way. The real life drama of Pierre's previous conquests made those Christmas parties tolerable and at times very entertaining, other times mildly dangerous to be within striking distance.

The first job I ever had out of high school after moving on from landscaping was working in a warehouse picking orders and managing inventory. I worked with a guy who used to farmer snot on the floor and leave poop skids on the toilet seat. I knew that it wasn't the career of the future because I wanted to quit the day I started. I was eighteen at the time which meant I was young, dumb and still full of the urge to truly, purely not give a shit. At the time I felt like a pretty big thug, I worked because my mom made me and I liked having my own money to spend on weed or booze. I was invited to the Christmas party and I was even given a second invite for a "date". I took my only available friend and weed dealer Demarcus with me but only before we smoked about four joints in his rusty car.

We smoked coughed and gagged on what Demarcus called the "mad skunk". It may or may not have been laced with other more potent intoxicants. I do remember having auditory hallucinations and flashes of dark shadowy figures in the corners of my eyes. The DJ that night seemed to have a major preoccupation with Chicago house music from the early nineties. It felt a lot less like Christmas and more like a cast wrap party for the film Trainspotting. Blue collar jobs can tend to attract less than savory figures that might cause more chaos than your normal office party. Demarcus and I followed another new young guy from my work into the bathroom to "discuss things". They ended up doing a couple lines of blow off the laminate sink counters then finishing it off with some "pills". That may have been the most fun work Christmas party I had ever partaken in. Demarcus and I decided the party had lost its luster so we trekked around the hotel it was taking place in to find more suitable means of pleasure. We were both eighteen with an appetite for excitement and adventure, and trouble. Luckily for us in the secondary conference room was a Greek wedding with plenty of free ouzo.

After partaking in several rounds of toasts we were very high and intoxicated. We thought the next best course of action was to go find my Greek boss to join the festivities. Mr Olympicstadiumus was more than willing to follow two young chivalrous men to a festival of his countrymen. My former boss was very drunk already, meaning we could have told him a carnival with Houdini's ghost wanted to drink with him and we would have slurred "yyesshh". After the normal fun, games, and shenanigans my old Greek boss ended up tongue kissing the bride of said party. Then he ended up tongue kissing the boot side of about five young Greek guy's shiny leather shoes. I was fired the following week and quickly returned to my landscaping duties.

The thing about office or work Christmas parties is there is always some young group of idiots that thinks they are in a romantic dramedy. They act up more goofy tension than Chris Pratt and the cast of Friends combined. You can sit and watch the room as desperate co-workers flash never subtle eye flicking glances. Then the shameful quick look the other way head jarring movements ensue. Then they hook-up in the bathrooms or halls or in their cars. Then they lose their actual relationships, jobs, and respect of their co-workers. I never brought dates to the parties, even long term girlfriends. I hated the show of it; I hated the flirts of married men and women. There's always some married couple basically screwing each other on the dance floor masquerading their relationship's fractured state.

Work parties always have someone that either regurgitates the contents of their guts on the dance floor or the bathroom or the triple threat on the boss. Then there's the neighborhood hot mess, she's usually drunk so she flirts or kisses or bangs the wrong person, then she's gone and nobody can talk about it for a few months. There's usually some guy who's a "hunk" likely into fitness and some sport no human person plays and of course, running. Sometimes you see these guys and their arms are bigger than their thighs, and I think to myself "do they run like Donkey Kong?". Work is the biggest Petri dish of people pretending and you are always expected to join in with swinging arms and interlocking fingers, singing songs of the greater republic. Then you lose your job and the team treats you like a leper, that's when you know that work is a means to an end, not a family.

Our party for Masters & Bulger marketing started pretty normally. The formal speeches, with some jerk from the sales team preaching at us like an evangelical minister on holy capitalism. It was as horrific as a real life version the film Glen Garry and Ross starring Alec Baldwin. When people at your work talk to you like that you are never inspired to sell more, you're more like red stapler guy in Office Space. I have had managers give those speeches, the kind of speeches that make you wonder if you did crystal meth because you're so uncomfortable in your own skin. That's how the evening began.

I tuned out so fast that as each douche bag stood up to the podium my head began to rotate like a drunk at a NASCAR race. The problem with saying something is a broken record is that actual broken records stop fucking playing or break your needle or you can just unplug the phonograph. At one point we were "blessed" with the owner's wife serenading us for about what felt like a year in Auschwitz. I was diving head first off the top floor of the casino in my mind, when I was tapped on the shoulder. The crew had had enough, they saved me like Private Ryan on French death beaches, and we were on the move.

Alison and Omar locked into my arms like I was a prisoner on death row and they were my guards. I honestly think we all turned to each other and winked, like "now it begins". We were all half drunk on the free wine provided to the tables at the party, and I think we all thought our walking into the casino was like the opening to the classic film "Reservoir Dogs". The first thing I did was order a Mai Tia because I had no damn clue what it was. Mystery solved, it's a drink that doesn't give you the moves of a street fighter and makes me want to order beer or whiskey. I had on a cheap, ash gray suit with a light blue dress shirt and black tie; I was James fucking Bond or so I felt. We walked like the three amigos until our cool was instantly lost bumping into other Christmas party expats.

We gambled and I made out with a shamefully old but charming Japanese woman and at some point. I was again recued so we could hit the table games. A few of us gathered funds to play craps. Alison's boyfriend had left her for some other bimbo and Omar was I think ready to join a gang simply to get away from his kids. I had fifty bucks, Alison had thirty five dollars and Omar had around 250 dollars. We placed our bets, on what I can only guess was Ashy Larry because I have no understanding of gambling but I did watch The Chappelle Show. We won. We won a lot, well, Omar won the most and immediately told us he loved us but he needed the money and things got tense. We won seven grand with our lovely olive skinned homeboy taking the largest pay off. I walked away with just over a grand so I bought more beers and asked Alison to join me.

Alison and I played the slots for a bit while Omar strutted off into the abyss of multicolored strobe lights. I actually ended up winning another 1800 dollars playing the slots with Alison. After I collected my winnings we went to the bar and ordered a series of increasingly hard shots. I don't remember much after that, but I do remember we exchanged numbers, a long drunken kiss and we both got fired the following week.

Act 5 Dating

Girls are mysterious creatures. They think and act like men but I don't think they want to be men. I don't want to be a man, it is exhausting. There are so many steps I need to take to get it right. I am not saying it's harder to be a man, I am saying I think women now see being a male ain't all it's cracked up to be either. The genders have their own pros, cons, strengths, and weaknesses. Being a dude means the constant need to try to act stoic or strong and never show your emotions. To be a woman is to have bloody underpants, cramps and horny jerks always bothering you. Two peas, in two different pods.

It baffles my mind how much of ancient times a person's lively hood went into being the most desirable mate. I honestly couldn't give less of a shit about sex if it meant I needed to kill ten other men to get laid. That's not courage, that's just a stupid waste of time and needlessly violent. I was always struck by the concept that if a woman wanted or was interested in me I needed to win her over. That never made sense; I save her from a dragon and then what? We eat microwave dinners and watch CSI Miami. I need to pay for your dinner, slay a dragon, do forty push-ups and sell Microsoft stocks and you still might not consider me. It all sounds very exhausting and like far too much effort. Thankfully society is slowly breaking down those old gender roles and nowadays women can also slay dragons and sell stocks too.

I started dating Alison right after the Christmas party and we both began looking for new employers. Alison immediately made me feel intimidated. She had way more education than me, she made more money and her past boyfriends we all ultra professionals. She liked me for my odd office blue collar background, but it was wrong from the get to go. We were friends but as much as Alison and I were similar, we had very different childhoods. She was raised in a very well off family and subconsciously required luxury. We moved in together and at first it was very invigorating, she had a world of knowledge and I think I provided her an edge she'd never had before.

I loved spending time with Alison, I almost always was the funniest person in the room but she would often upstage me. She had a charm and spark that was amazing. I loved listening to her riff on people, TV. shows or bad movies. We would trade cynical jokes and she was extremely sharp with her humor. We had a very active sex life; she was open minded as was I. One the surface everything seemed to work perfectly but the cracks would quickly show themselves.

There comes a point when puppy love flutters and fades away. That's when real love happens and when a greater respect grows. What people often forget is all relationships romantic or not are built on loyalty and actual friendship. The problem with Alison was she was an amazing friend but for all her talk, social status still really mattered to her. I had a graphic design diploma from a technical college and that wasn't in the stratosphere of the social circle she wanted to be a part of. I was a lower cast of male than she'd usually dated and over-time I felt it from her.

Alison was a good partner but she also had her flaws. She loved me, I know that and I loved her too but there was always a faker side to her then the cool quirky mask portrayed. We lived in a one bedroom flat together for a while right in downtown Toronto, but eventually, the bike rides became quiet and the Netflix nights weren't enough. She talked about going and living in the woods somewhere but still wanted to do couple's nights with old college friends. I'd barely gone to a respectable college, I had friends who smoked weed, worked at go-cart tracks and still lived with their parents. I was broken hearted when I realized the rift, but opposites do not attract and actually make a life together all that often.

About four months into the relationship I ended it. She mocked my hip-hop musings and wanted me to go hang out with a bunch of wankers from prestigious North American schools. No matter how hard you want to get rich, if you actually want to be within fifty meters of these people you're a sith lord, or brain dead. We had "wonderful dinners", those kinds of dinners where you walk into a room and feel like Tarzan at the opera. I would feel like Johnny Cash writing his songs in the middle of Shell oil executive's board meetings. That happened fairly often with Alison and when I told her I was moving out she was devastated but never enough to actually love me as a person. She acted different around her high society friends and I could feel she was ashamed of me.

Long before Alison I dated the first person I think I ever truly fell in love with. We met during my second year of community college while I thought I was falling in love with a classmate. Instead, I met Karen and she is still a good friend of mine to this day. We met completely randomly while I was hung-over grabbing a coffee at a major coffee shop chain that use mystery Spanish words to indicate cups sizes. I had bought a grande large-oh el coffee and was, as far as I remember, about twenty five dollars short. Karen was in line behind me and helped me square off the bill; we began talking a bit then eventually exchanged numbers.

We began talking on the phone and over an ancient technology known as MSN messenger. We had similar interests in music and movies as well as very similar sense of humor. Karen had grown up in the Toronto area just like I had and she was a year older than me. She was attending university while working part-time at the mall to pay her tuition. She was incredibly intelligent when it came to academics but her family didn't have the funds to pay for her schooling. I was beginning my second year studying graphic design in college. We took things pretty slow in the beginning going to movies or out for dinner, keeping the physical stuff at bay until we got to know each other better.

My emotional attachment to Karen grew rapidly and once we'd broken through the intimacy barrier, I felt that I might indeed love her. Once you realize you love someone then the terrifying next step is trying to figure how and when to tell them. For me it just kind of slipped out after a late night conversation on the phone. The other end of the line was silent for a while and then she whispered: "you to". It could have been worse but I felt a little exposed emotionally until she texted me the words "I love you too".

Karen and I dated for three years, during that time I finished my graphic design diploma course and she'd finished a degree in anthropology. She was offered a job doing research in the United Kingdom, it was a dream come true for her. I wasn't prepared to make the knee-jerk decision to uproot my life in the time needed to go with her. I didn't want to be the reason she passed up her dream but I also loved her so much that it broke my heart when she moved. We kept a long distance relationship afloat for about six months until I had hooked up with one of my former classmates which more or less destroyed the trust we had. Karen didn't speak to me for close to a year but we both realized that even though the romance between us had been ruined we could rekindle our friendship.

Karen was the most stable healthiest relationship I had up to that point, I learned a lot about myself as well as relationships. I had done the damage that corroded the love that we'd had but the timing was also not right. I wasn't mature enough to start a life with someone who knew what they wanted out of life and a career. I wasn't settled on what I wanted out of life and often still feel very confused about the journey I'm on. I had always regretted the way I handled things once Karen had moved on but in the end, it seemed it was destined to be.

After things had ended with Karen I didn't date or pursue women or men for that matter for quite a long time. Friends would attempt to hook me up with their lonely acquaintances. I occasionally obliged and then killed their spirits with the testimony of my past exploits or lack of belief in love. Karen had broken my spirit when it came to romance and I had given her the sledgehammer to do it. I felt guilty, lonely and mostly overwhelmed with regrets.

For a while I drank a lot of cheap beer. That became cheap vodka and after a while I was spiraling down a wormhole in space that eventually makes you the guy that goes to the strip club every day. I was reprimanded at my job, the first job I had doing graphic design that I actually enjoyed. I was showing up hung-over and smelling like a sweaty hobo, or so I was told. It was my first good opportunity in my chosen career path so I slowly but surely found better ways to deal with my broken heartedness. I dated women again, some of which weren't imaginary or total monsters.

Dating is like chess but mostly it is like lying, lying to yourself about how cool, special or important you are. I think dating is like going undercover as a spy, you must pre-plan the false portrayal you wish to exude. You most practice the moves and research what a civil engineer actually does at their job. The disposition is in the subtleties of being able to bullshit your way through unexpected questions. I had practiced in the dojo known as my bathroom, flexing and spraying Axe body spray all over my dress shirts. I was a lion, well a gazelle posing as a lion ready to chase down the weakest members of a water buffalo herd. I wasn't really too sure what I was doing actually.

Dating is kind of like going to a lot of job interviews out of the pure desperate need for income. There is bound to be a few strange experiences in the nutty mix. One drunken evening, that's how most great stories begin, by the way, I stumbled into a middle-aged woman recruiting younger men to a speed dating night. I was all ready to do just about anything so I wandered off from my friends as they headed to the next watering hole. I was escorted down an alley to a rabbit hole that I am sure is where love goes to die. I was Neo sitting on a burgundy couch taking the wrong pill to a land of sad broken divorcees. I met a woman named Susan who chain smoked through two cigarettes during my whole two minutes of time attempting to chat through the hazy cloud that engulfed her body. She liked Alan Jackson music and her husband was a welder but they ended up getting divorced when she found him cheating with a prostitute. She swore a lot, more than even I was normally able to digest, she talked at my face with the wind speeds of a tornado ripping apart a double wide. Luckily I vomited all over the floor while moving to the next table and was hastily shown the door.

Next, I tried my hand at slow dating, the way normal people date, trying to get to know a human in more than two minutes. I logged on to this thing called the world wide web, which I soon learned is filled with people who shouldn't have access to postage let alone the whole electronic world. I went on a date with a woman into Cosplay. Cosplay is being an adult and going to nice city parks dressed like Gandalf, than ruining other people's family reunions with fake sword fighting. She also happened to be very into taxidermy, telling me she wished to one day taxidermy her own mother. I wanted to slam close my laptop and unplug everything but that doesn't work when you are at an upscale restaurant sitting across from the star Trek Ed Gein. I had some normal meetings from internet dating sites but I learned most people on the internet are faking who they are or just want quickie hookups.

Alison and I had actually hooked up at work the week after the Christmas party and fornicated in the printing room. Needless to say, we were caught then immediately given the options to resign or be fired. Alison resigned but I thought I would rather be fired so I could storm out of the building calling my managers cunts and tossing trash cans at bulletin boards. Well actually I resigned too, but if I have kids I am telling them I quit like a boss.

Act 6 Childhood

When I was a kid my parents fought like they lived in the Gaza strip. I happened to carry that need for hysterics and chaos into some of my own relationships. My mother had lost her first child as an infant due to what we only ever heard was crib death. She fell into a deep depression that my father, who felt he was a very professional and masculine man, could not handle. Oddly counter to most stereo-types my mom was the drunk and she was the nicer one. Her drunkenness combined with my father's rage created a hurricane that ruined fragile emotional beings. My sister and I would dive for cover when the argument bombs exploded, dodging shrapnel looking for trenches to sink into.

I never actually witnessed my father hit my mother but he sure did take out the Bruce Lee combinations on me and my sister. One night my sister refused to finish her dinner after my father threatened her numerous times she spat mash potatoes across the table at his face. Before that, I didn't know we owned a boxing bag, but I guess we did and it was my sister. She was unable to go to swimming lessons for the rest of that season due to the bruising. My sister was and still is the meanest, toughest woman I have ever come across. Her name is Barbara, I call her Barb because it's short for Barbara and she will cut you if you cross her.

My father was a real professional guy from a well-established family of zombie robot bastards. He was extremely good with numbers and was granted a scholarship to Oxford. My father completed a full doctorate through the prestigious school only to return to the land of Molson beer. Once back on Canadian soil he was offered a role on the board of directors of a major investment firm. He accepted but he was terrible with his own money due mainly to his constant gambling. He managed to make other people rich but he made us broke. He also wanted to portray his fake wealth in numerous extravagant ways that exceeded his income. Up until I was seven years old, I lived in a pretty nice big suburban house full of trash we couldn't afford that was bought on credit.

My mother was born and raised in Hamilton to blue collar factory working second generation Irish immigrants. My grandfather allegedly had ties to Italian based organized crime in the city and was actually shot to death leaving a union meeting. My grandmother was so devastated by the murder of my grandfather she was eventually institutionalized. She died while in hospital after intentionally ingesting pain killers when my mother was 17. My mom lived with her aunt and uncle up until that point but after her mother's death, she left Hamilton for good. I asked her why she never went back, and she told me "everything that mattered to me there died there".

My mom had some serious demons that plagued her from her own stormy and tragic childhood. She was always considered a fairly attractive woman, a trait which she used to her benefit once on the open road. She had lived in New York city for a couple years, then later spent time roaming around the San Francisco Bay area. Eventually, she made her way back to Confederation settling in Toronto where she met my father. She wanted an easier life and my father seemed to be able to provide it with a swanky job title, nice suits, and high salary. My mother later told me "don't ever marry for wealth" which I always thought was obvious because you should only get married when you are in a loving relationship.

When I watched horror movies I saw Poltergeist toss dishes across the kitchen and yell "get out" so for a while I thought I lived in a haunted house with parents possessed by hermit ghosts. As it turns out my parents weren't possessed just normal totally emotionally twisted human beings. I think at some point their relationship was actually blissful but by the time I came into full consciousness it felt more like climbing up Everest with frostbitten limbs, it was all over. My dad wasn't good at actually addressing his own emotions so he yelled while attempting to act scary, my mother was actually able to be scary and had no problem expressing exactly how she felt.

My father was at times the calmer half but also the coldest person I'd ever met. His image in his social circle mattered much more than his family and as crazy as my mother was I always felt her love, I honestly don't know if my father loved any of us much. He was often stoic but also extremely distant, very verbally abusive and tense. He would lose his mind over next to nothing, there was no regular routine, he was just a very angry man. Living in the same house as him was like living in a coal mine while your co-workers all had Parkinson's and carried nitroglycerin. Things would blow up at any given time, mixed with my mother's dynamite attitude things often imploded trapping us all in debris.

We had a nice house when porcelain dishes weren't flying into walls like U.F.O's with malfunctioning controls. My dad liked all sorts of gaudy gold or fine jewel encrusted trash. My mother thought she liked it all too, like some bimbo purposely ignorant hanging on the arm of a drug cartel leader. The nice things came at the price of a terrible relationship. After a while, the grind wore the gears out and my mother flew off the rails like a train full of gasoline ripping through a playground as toddlers dove for cover. My parents had an epic fight, sort of like two kamikaze pilots flying right into each other with nukes attached to the planes. When the dust had cleared my father had bought my mother off and I never saw him again.

My mother drank before my parents had separated but after everything had officially ended she had the money to really get sloshed. For the first six months living with my mom after my parents had separated was like living with a big angry toddler. She actually pissed herself while half asleep sitting on the couch watching an episode of Oprah about self-improvement. My sister eventually told her to "get your fucking shit together, we are kids" and my mother actually took heed to the words of a foul-mouthed little girl.

Things eventually settled down, my mom still drank but you'd never really notice it. She used the payout from my suddenly absent father to put a down payment on a 3 bedroom townhome. We all had a time of actual enjoyment and peace after a thunderstorm. My sister had taken to kickboxing, a sport at which she would excel. My mom ushered her to and from practices or matches, sitting in the stands watching her little psychopath beat the shit out of other people's kids. In my teens, I boxed a little and even tried my hands or should I say feet at kickboxing with varied success but Barb truly enjoyed pain and violence. After one match another fighter's father groped my sister which would lead her to break his jaw. She actually ended up getting charged with battery and had to spend four months in juvenile detention which lead my mom to hit the booze again briefly.

During those years I found myself listening to local college radio station that was playing an assortment of old school or underground hip-hop music. It was a nice way to escape the emotional turmoil that had engulfed most of my childhood. My friends at school were all into the same musical scene giving me more reason to immerse myself in the culture. There was a regular Friday night block on the college radio station that played only underground Hip-hop. I would often stay home listening to the show alone in my room. I would doodle or sketch in a notebook for hours listening to Souls of Mischief or Pharoahe Monch.

My mom found her way back onto the wagon when she decided to go to the Catholic Church's AA meetings. Occasionally I would go with her to mass and we would usually visit my sister on the way home. I was thirteen years old at the time spending my Friday nights listening to the words of KRS-One and Sunday mornings listening to Father Mendoza preach the gospel. I grew close with my mother during my teens, which goes directly against the typical stereotype of a teenager. I always felt we both wanted some peace and stability after the years of chaos. She began taking me to movies regularly during the Saturday matinee which also helped me develop an appreciation for the arts.

When my mother got a grasp on her alcoholism she was a very introspective and wise person. She was very influenced by provocative intellectual art. She became fascinated with film as a medium to portray ideas, emotions, and social change. She would take me to Blockbuster video and we would wander the isles trying to find obscure independent films. Some of them were really terrible, horrible things that clearly made people go bankrupt. Some of the films were amazing, tiny art house films I would have never been exposed to without my mother's curious sensibilities. She became so entranced with film she began taking night courses exploring the over-all artistic expression of film. I gained a whole different education from what she learned and passed on to me.

My mom was in her forties and when she had found her passion, she changed dramatically. The pain of her past remained but she could finally wrestle in into submission with her new found energy. She watched movies constantly and eventually she joined a film society making short low-budget films about anything that the group agreed on. The films she brought home along with the creative drive opened my mind more than ever before. She would sit and talk to me about framing, the meaning of lighting, how sound can build emotional discomfort and much of it sunk in. It was one of the most transformative changes I have ever personally witnessed and it really did inspire me.

After my sister was released from juvenile detention she was much more settled down. Her time there was, as she told me, very unpleasant but it forced her to focus. Once she was out my sister focused on two things: school and combat sports. She became an honor student while spending her evenings and weekends training like an MI5 agent. I never really knew my sister all that well, she was driven by an anger that I could relate to but she was older than me and had witnessed more reasons to have that brand of fuel. She saw my parents at their worst; she developed her opinions earlier based mostly on dysfunction and those earlier years made her who she was.

Up until I was a teenager lived a very isolated life, I learned very early on to keep my life compartmentalized. Certain things couldn't mix, some things were water, some were oil, and some were just hard to mentally digest. I kept my sister at arm's length as she did to me, we both respected that at that point in our lives we need the distance. She went on to become a provincial boxing champion, then later she spent three years building a mixed record in professional combat sports. When I was still trying to figure out my life my sister was using her prize money to put herself through a college.

In a lot of ways, my childhood built me into the person I am to this day, a complicated flawed person. I never felt totally at ease with my place in the universe, I was always a bit of a misfit. As I grew into my teenage years I found a solid circle of friends I would maintain for years. I ended up developing an interest in music, art, and film which would lead me down my eventual career path.

Act 7 Adolescence

I laid awake at night looking out my bedroom window, the view obscured by a condo buildings construction. I wondered about the possibilities for me in this world, I had no real concept of a career or how to achieve a dream. I had lots of dreams but none of them were stapled down as a path to follow. I was lost like most young people; I didn't show early signs of greatness in sport, art, or academics. I was average, mediocre, the pure middle ground of adolescent existence. I didn't pull girls to me like a magnet but I didn't repel them either. I was the kind of kid you might not even remember went to your junior high school. I felt out of place, an outcast and completely mis-fitting like a poorly died puzzle piece.

I knew I was a white kid but I never felt like a stereotypical suburban white person. I grew up in a multicultural middle lower class neighborhood once we'd moved away from my father. My friends were what many would consider white trash or a wide range of immigrant kids. We would all be drawn together because we were all misfits. Like broken glass, once pieced together building off our combined structure we could reflect or concentrate pure light. I never really found myself but for a brief time in my teens, I didn't need to. My friends all gravitated together based on hip-hop and basketball and I fit in with them.

When you grow up in Canada people talk about hockey constantly, but there are actually a lot of people who aren't interested in hockey. Hockey has become some CBC propagated part of our national identity, which for anyone not into the sport, makes them feel like less of a patriot. For me and the people around me growing up, hockey didn't mean much. We all grew up in homes with single parents or parents that were constantly broke. Hockey costs money, money most people in my community didn't have. Parents working two jobs don't have time or hopes for six a.m. ice times to watch six year olds trying to stay upright on skates. Since none of us played beyond some street hockey and the fact you could play on the school basketball team for a minor jersey fee we all just played basketball.

In the summers I would spend hours on the basketball court because when I was a kid people actually went outdoors and did things in the sunlight without the grimace of the sun's reflection off their cell phones. I would go for bike rides and for a while, my whole crew was into BMX bikes even though none us was interested in the X games. Maybe it was just an efficient way to carry lazy friends to the convenience store so we could shoplift soft drinks. The issue with having more people on your bike then a New Delhi commuter is it's hard to peddle fast, which is a big problem when attempting to escape a crime scene.

The basketball court was more than just a place to play a sport; it was a social gathering place. The skaters would sit at the unused end of the court that had no nets smoking weak weed. After a brief turf war with the skaters, we formed an alliance based mainly on the fact we all shared the need to get high and listen to music. The skaters would bring in this strange hybrid of a backpack and a boom box one of them named Garry always referred to as "the inspiration station". To my wonderment and surprise, many of the side walker surfers also enjoyed hip-hop music but the stuff they liked was different from many of my friends.

My main core of friends liked hip-hop but more mainstream rap music which at the time consisted of replays of the late Biggie Smalls or late Tupac. Both had found the ultimate commercially successful rappers demise: death by the police not wanting to solve their murders. At that point in time, you had to join one of the two camps, west or east or you could just say you liked De La Soul and peopled ask "who"? I learned during this very dark period in music to keep my tastes hidden. I was growing up around a lot of people who listened to the rhymes of Notorious and the poems of Tupac but never really digested the words those men spoke.

My life changed when I was fourteen years old, I had made the junior basketball team but I was a second stringer. Two evenings a week my school hosted an open gym night as a way to keep the kids off the streets. We called it the drop-in and it cost one dollar to. The gym was open from five p.m. until nine p.m. in the evening. I had hoop dreams once I made the team and I idolized the minor star of Space Jam, Mugsy Bogues. The drop-in offered me a chance to play pick-up games with older more experienced players.

One night while playing basketball at the drop-in gym, a group of break dancers showed up and began practicing their moves on the stage that overlooked the gym. Some people snickered or mocked them but most of us there were instantly curious. The crew made regular appearances at the drop-in and over time other people began to join them, including me. Learning about break dancing and attempting the moves opened me up to hip-hop as a culture. I went home and researched the internet's description of hip-hop history. I learned about Afrika Bambaataa, DJ Cool Herc, Crazy Legs and of course Grand Master Flash.

Rap music stopped being music or entertainment, it became an education. Possibly the most power the genre holds is at its deepest and purest it is a commentary on consciousness. It is poetry weaved together with complex linguistic citations. At its lowest level, it's pointless drivel to get people not to think. At its source hip hop was built on a new way of thinking, built on concepts of using your mind, talent, and skill to create a better reality. The spark that made ultra-violent street gangs stop bludgeoning each other to death was the beginnings of what Afrika Bambaataa had discovered on a trip to Africa. The artistic expression could be used to defuse situations and find common ground.

Between basketball and break dancing, I kept myself mostly out of trouble. I kept my grades just good enough that my mom wouldn't be on my case but I never really cared enough to excel at academics. School felt like an unnecessary chore that I indulged in to keep my mother from yelling at me. The only class I did excel at or enjoyed was art. Junior high school level art isn't all that complex, you're basically expected to attend and not be color blind. I attended and my eyes seemed to differentiate between the primaries so I was half way competent. I liked the creativity that the art program provided and outside of basketball, it was the only other thing I enjoyed about school.

When you are a teenager you are warned in sex ed class that your body is going through changes. I had seen the movie Teen Wolf so I was mildly excited. Maybe I wouldn't just get body odor blended with pizza face, maybe I'd gain super strength and the ability to howl while van surfing. To my disappointment I never once van surfed, I just got pimples and wet dreams. No matter how much information the sex ed course gave my young and putty like mind nothing really prepares young men for the years on premature ejaculation to follow.

Once you are in junior high you're basically expected to begin dating, which I fumbled my way through. I had the grace of a drunken Joe Namath telling newscasters how much he loved them. Striking out was my most practiced skill; learning to walk away with a shred of dignity left was the next step. Eventually, I did finally break the ice like a starved polar bear finally catching a seal pup. My first girlfriend was Samantha Hodges; we worked our way through all the awkward motions of making it around the bases. When we weren't playing baseball we also made out and dry humped until the crotch of our jeans would catch ablaze. I always wondered why dating and mating used some many baseball analogies. Regardless I had made Samantha a pitch and together we hit a home run.

As young romances go it lasted a miraculous three weeks, filled with more sloppy drama than a high school rendition of Shakespeare. She ended up dumping me because I told her that the Backstreet Boys made the worst music ever. In retrospect, that may have been an overstatement but I think her dedication to a boy band filled with guys in their early thirties was a bit extreme. I had broken through the barrier of teenage love which made any new sexual conquests a lot less daunting.

After dipping my toes in the pool of love, then having my fragile little heartbroken, I didn't date any girls for a while. I would focus on basketball, break dancing, and in time writing my own rhymes. After Kenneth Johnson, the starting point guard sprained his ankle I got my opportunity to move up in the world. Like much of my life my advancement didn't rely on talent or hard work but the luck of having some else get hurt. Kenneth was mostly an asshole so I didn't feel that guilty about praying constantly to Saint Mary that he would be struck down with an incurable illness. I had to settle for a minor ankle sprain but it just felt good to know someone up in heaven was looking out for me.

Once you're on the starting line-up you get the perks, things like constantly reminding Kenneth he was benched. I played pretty consistent which meant I got more time on the floor and the chance to up my personal stat sheet. Our team was actually pretty good so I improved dramatically over the course of the season. Eventually, Kenneth's ankle had healed which meant I was asking my mom if I could go to mass and pray. Unfortunately, Kenneth did not break both his legs but I did get to alternate starting with him, which was a small victory.

Our team lost in the second round of the city playoffs which ended basketball for the season. I had a lot of time to waste and a new found stardom in the hallways of the school. I used my minor fame to my advantage by trying to pick-up another girlfriend. The second time around I was basically a young Casanova swooning the ladies with a twinkle in my eye. In reality, things were almost as difficult as my first experience with a teenage girl but I did have a bit more confidence with the situation. My second girlfriend was Denise Gibson; she was half Jamaican, half Scottish. Her mom was born in Kingston and moved to Toronto where she met Denise's father. Denise was definitely a step up from Samantha because Denise didn't listen to any boy bands.

Denise liked reggae, R&B and techno music which were all genres I was able to tolerate. She was the first female to let my touch their breast for which I am eternally grateful. We would go for walks or I would let her stand on the spokes of my BMX while we cruised around the block. Our first real date was to go see a movie at the theater which happened to be Inspector Gadget, possibly the worst movie released that year. We used the opportunity to stuff our faces with popcorn and then with kernel crumbs scatter all over bodies we kissed until our jaws locked. We covered each other's faces with enough spit to water a cactus and fondled our bodies like airport security. It might have looked like two epileptics attempting to give each other mouth to mouth resuscitation but we didn't seem to care.

After a few weeks of incompetent foreplay, we were still dating which was a new first for me. if you date for more than three weeks while in junior high that is considered a serious long-term relationship. We were official; we were courting, boyfriend and girlfriend. Denise's dad didn't like her having a boyfriend but he tolerated me as long as we could convince him I was a mild-mannered Catholic boy who was in no way interested in Denise's panties. I did my best to give an Oscar worthy performance that would make Daniel Day Lewis envious.

During my whirlwind romance with Denise I spent my alone time dreaming of her in her panties and when I wasn't doing that I listen to hip-hop music. I became obsessed with underground hip-hop culture in all its many forms. I would go to HMV music with my allowance attempting to find the obscure artists I would hear on the radio. I picked up a CD by a Toronto artist named Mathamatek, which played on repeat in my headphones for weeks. I absorbed the rhymes of the Rascalz after hearing the single "Northern Touch". Slowly but surely I would develop a pretty respectable collection of CD's to delight my ear drums.

As I approached my fifteenth birthday I would start honing my skills as a wordsmith. Some of the b-boys from the drop-in would hold impromptu freestyle rap sessions that I found the courage to engage in; to my surprise I didn't totally suck for a white guy. Prior to the emergence of Eminem, it was generally assumed white people, for the most part, couldn't rap and that the Beastie Boys or Everlast were simply anomalies. After the movie Eight Mile came out everybody with vocal chords wanted to lock horns in a battle rap. For me and my circle of friends, it was more about freestyle rapping while smoking weed that was likely cut with basil.

I would scribble all of my ideas, feelings, and thoughts into a rhythmic sequence whenever I was bored. Over-time I filled an entire notebook with my own brand of alliteration. My verses consisted of mostly fictionalized accounts of my own thuggery. Occasionally I actually wrote things that very genuinely true and accurate to my actual life experience. I wrote a filthy rap song about what I thought it would be like to have sex with Denise but after the paranoia of anyone finding it burned a hole in my conscious I tore the page out and flushed down the toilet. I enjoyed the therapeutic nature of writing which seemed to come fairly naturally to me.

On my fifteenth birthday, Denise surprised me with a date to Boston Pizza where she paid for my dinner and even gave me a gift. When I unwrapped it I was unexpectedly happy to find it was the album Illmatic by rapper Nas. I was in a mild state of shock because Denise had actually gotten to know me which made me happy but suddenly genuinely terrified. With Samantha, I was on training wheels learning how to ride a bike preparing for the day I actually had a real bicycle. I had been going out with Denise for three months not noticing how fast things progressed and how entangled we'd gotten emotionally. We hadn't crossed the physical boundaries of actual sex but we'd done basically everything else young lovers could do. As much as my hormones craved the idea of having sex my brain yelled at me the words like pregnancy or infants or Aids. We had talked about it and agreed to wait before entering the final frontier.

In my teenage years, my mother had been working full-time as a receptionist while attending film based courses a couple evenings a week. Through the film society, she'd joined she was offered the position of general manager of locally owned art house theater. The job meant she would often be working evenings but for her, it was just too good to resist and who could blame her. She finally had employment that she actually enjoyed instead of dreaded, plus she got to bring home free movie popcorn. My sister had graduated high school and she took a job working the counter at the public library in order to save up some extra money for college. While she worked at the library she trained and competed in combat sports.

With my mom off at work and my sister working or out of the house pursuing her fistic dreams, I was left to my own devices. I too decided to take the treacherous steps into the workforce. I got a job doing customer service at one of the many clothing stores in the mall. Prior to becoming an expert garment folder, I'd only delivered papers or mowed lawns for extra cash. I worked three shifts a week, two nights during the week, followed by a rotating shift on Saturdays. I didn't take much pleasure in working but I did like earning my own income. I was my own man; I could buy new sneakers or take Denise out for fancy dinners at the kind of restaurants that didn't have a drive-through. Some of my co-workers were actually not totally horrible; a couple were even of such a quality caliber that we became friends. Damien was one of the people I befriended in my new found labor. He was sixteen at the time, played basketball and was also a hip-hop nerd like me.

Damien actually went to Catholic school so we didn't really run in the same circles but we hit it off regardless. I would occasionally swing over to Damien's house where we'd play video games or watch kung fu movies. Damien was really into kung-fu movies and by extension; he was a huge Wu-Tang Clan fan. As a result, I too become fairly immersed in the ways of Shaolin. Damien had a very easy going personality which meant we could often hang out for several hours doing a whole lot of nothing. He had a girlfriend too named Ashley who went to his high school. We would discuss our girl problems making up scenarios with hypothetical outcomes. Damien implied he had already lost his virginity and I naturally did what all teenage boys do, which is lie that they too have lost their virginity.

I was growing into a young adult, a terrifyingly lost creature that hangs out at the mall like a fashionable vagabond. It was a time of finding myself only to find myself completely lost a few years down the road. I played on the basketball team again during the following school year but my interests had begun to shift to more angst-y outlets. After a full year of learning the nuances of truly falling in love for the first time, two very impactful events took place in my life. Denise's father got a major job promotion which meant they were moving to Houston, Texas and the other was a phone call from my father.

Act 8 Young Adulthood

Denise gracefully clinched on to my arm with tears welling up in her eyes. I tried to ask her what was wrong but she put her hand on my lips. She proceeded to inform me that she was moving to the southern United States. I was completely shocked, in my sixteen-year-old skewed vision of reality nothing was ever going to change; there would be no disruptions in my love life. Denise loved me as much as anyone can when they have an underdeveloped brain and the bipolar hormones of a teenager but as the move date approached we both grew distant from each other. I would sit alone in my bedroom with the blinds closed listening to music I never did before. Nirvana and Pearl Jam had suddenly grown on me like a depressed rash. I was completely devastated the day that Denise moved, we met up for the last time in person, kissed, held each other for what felt like a decade and then she was gone. We spoke on the phone and chatted over the web but eventually, she was scooped up off her feet by some football playing asshole.

The months that followed our break-up sent my emotional state down a rabbit hole of desperation and agony. My performance on the court began to falter and my play was sporadic at best, at its worst I just got high before games and sat on the bench. I was sixteen years old at the time having just had my first major heart break; it was the perfect combination for a total asshole to take my place mimicking my looks, mannerisms, and cadence.

That span is still a bit of a blur in my memory; I remember it as well as any punch drunk journeymen boxer would. I ended up getting fired from my part-time job when one of my co-workers Mitch told me I wasn't chipper, I told him his face looked like Kevin Spacey's ball sack with gonorrhea. Did I mention Mitch was also my manager and a huge Kevin Spacey fan? Jobless and relegated to the end of the basketball team bench I felt my glory days were all over. Things ended up getting way better, by which I mean much worse.

Sometime shortly after Christmas break, I answered the phone to hear my father's voice quivering on the other end. I hadn't talked to my father in nearly a year prior to that conversation. Once my parents separated he remained mostly absent from our lives. He sent the child support cheques regularly and did send a birthday card with cash each year. Occasionally he would call and then we would awkwardly small talk on the phone before hanging up. I knew I had a dad, I remembered him beating the shit of me and my sister from time to time but from about seven years old on he was a phantom that only haunted during birthdays or holidays.

The main reason for the call was my father wanted to tell me he was in the final stages of brain cancer. There was nothing doctors could do, no operation could fix the situation. Up to that moment, I didn't hate my father but I was totally indifferent to him, he was a living man that I didn't know or care about. After we hung up the on each other, things began to slip into my system like a very slow form of osmosis. I barely knew the man that helped conceive me and the things I did know I wanted to ignore. He wasn't just dying, he would be dead shortly, he was in a state of contemplation and he wanted me to know he was going to be dead soon. All I could ask, the only thought that ran through my brain was why? Why would I give a shit if the source of pain and destruction in my life was on deaths bed? Did he want one last chance to dole out more misery?

People are not bad people in their own minds, they find ways to justify their choices, they erase parts that cause conflict, everyone leads their own path. If not, if we all took all aspects of our lives in like a giant sieve we'd be insane. Life is hard, there's no clear cut road map to anything, what's the destination? Wealth? Happiness? Death? Life as silly or cynical as it sounds is truly a journey, a trip of learning about ourselves. The journey becomes evident when tragedy strikes, when the unexpected trial lurches onto the road just ahead. That is when character is made, or broken, rebuilt or brand new perspectives are achieved. Nothing great was made out of instant success; all good things are motivated by the vicious hunger of trial and error. My father failed at compassion, he was attempting to try his hand at it again out of his sudden personal struggle.

It's hard to like or care about someone you've decided is the epicenter of all the problems in your world. A problem that spins and twists in your life ripping your mobile home into small pieces of debris, my father was a tornado, causing chaos but gone in an instant. Then he was scared, reflective and concentrated on the impact his path had made. For me at sixteen, it was like digesting a live grenade; I was never sure what would occur once it all hit the pit of my stomach. Would it explode in my abdomen or would I pass it through in one very uncomfortable bowel movement?

Bad news has an intrinsic way of bringing your perspective back into the frame like an instant rewind to where things made sense. I liked to think I was indifferent to my father but when he shared the information about his cancer I remembered the honest truth, I had hated him. He physically abused me and my sister, he argued, fought and I'm certain he beat my mother as well. He often acted like we weren't up to his standards and eventually once my parents divorced he neglected us as much as his conscious could handle. My only vivid memories of the man were violent or simply depressing. One bad day can't ruin a life unless you let it but it can leave an impact.

My father asked me if it would be acceptable if he called me again the following week, I reluctantly agreed. Over the next two months, I would have a telephone conversation weekly with my father and we slowly began to get know each other. My father had moved to Vancouver for work, eventually remarrying but again getting divorced. When he was diagnosed he was living in solitude the majority of his days. The respectable life of an upper-class Canadian aristocrat had faded away, slipping through his fingers. He was diagnosed when his doctor sent him to a specialist after a routine physical. He'd been having headaches and severe short term memory loss. Once it was discovered he had a brain tumor its location and magnitude had sealed his fate. It was simply a waiting game with medication to control his systems and ease the suffering. Eventually, my father was moved into a care facility for people with irreversible chronic illnesses.

During the final weeks of his life, our conversations became incoherent due to the effects of cancer on his memory and speaking abilities. He had talked with my mother and my sister as well, not necessary patching up the past but maybe creating a loose sense of closure. My mother was broke which meant when he finally did pass away none of us could afford to attend the funeral. The day he died his sister Martha called to break the news. He died in his sleep in a medication induced comatose state with his only sister at his side.

My attitude had grown very aloof after my break up with Denise and it was multiplied by my father's passing. I was extremely confused, filled with a strange concoction of negative emotions. I began following around my friends that were beginning to dabble in serious crime. Most of them sold pot, but others had graduated to harder more dangerous drugs like heroin and cocaine. Eventually, I started to dabble in this dark underworld couriering small amounts of narcotics to addicts for a transportation fee.

The job was relatively easy, I would be given zip lock bags with whatever the local shaman had prescribed, an address and was expected to collect the funds. After one unhappy customer refused to pay I would start being escorted with a twenty-year-old guy named Jimmy who would "take care of things" I sluggishly finished the school year with poor grades filling my free time with low-level drug dealing for friends of mine with more serious crime aspirations.

We attended a public housing project on one occasion where Jimmy decided to take the reins of the delivery process while I waited in the car. While sitting in the car a woman who I am assuming had bitter beer face tapped her lanky skeleton like finger on the glass with her eyes looking similar to lemurs. I proceeded to turn away and turn up the radio. She continued to tap on the window with a creepy cadence. After a while, the tapping stopped and I felt an instant wave of relief, then a brick smashed through the window opening a large gash under my right eye socket. Jimmy was still inside doing customer service with the cars keys in his pocket. Before I had a chance to react the woman had large fillet knife pointed at my face. I was hoping she just wanted to say hello and welcome me to the community but she actually snarled at me something about giving her drugs. I attempted to explain this isn't how these transactions work but I was met with utter disappointment so then I pretended not to speak English. Like Superman arriving just in time, Jimmy flew across the parking lot bludgeoning the woman with meat hammers he called hands. Jimmy kept all the money because the brick tossing welcome committee had broken his window; I went home and made up an elaborate story about how my face got split open. After much contemplation, I had come to the conclusion I'd rather not work for any street pharmacists any longer.

For the rest of that summer, I focused on playing pickup basketball games, rapping, break dancing and trying to entice girls into dating me. The weight of the traumatic events that had taken place during that year remained but grew a bit lighter with each day that passed. I still associated with some of my drug dealing acquaintances but I no longer worked for them. I had taken a part-time job doing landscaping with a whole work force of pot heads. The money was pretty good for my age and I got to work outside, listening to my head phones inhaling all the second had marijuana fumes my lungs could handle.

One of my fellow lawn mower technicians was an avid hip-hop fan named Phil Adams. Phil even had some beat making musical equipment that he showed off one day after a visit to his apartment. Phil had recently graduated from high school and moved to Toronto to try to kick start a music career. He made mostly sample based beats using an Akai MPC 500 drum machine, he also had two Technique turn tables he used to add scratching to his beats. I told him I rapped to which he responded to by giggling his ass off. The laughing screeched to a stop once I started to freestyle rap. His face slowly morphed from a sarcastic grin to wide eyed shock. When I finished up a series of punch lines he exclaimed "dude that was dope". Almost immediately after that moment that I believe changed world history, we forged a musical alliance.

That summer was a particularly hot, humid span with sporadic severe thunderstorms almost weekly. The grass grew rapidly which meant our lawn mowers were working at an exhausting pace. I would often see my part-time hours turn into full-time hours with overtime. Being out in the sun daily walking for hours at a time spending my nights playing basketball I ended up gaining a very attractive physique. Things started to go my way with the young woman I was trying to swoon. I wasn't interested in getting into a serious relationship because I was terrified of having my heart broken again but I was interested in flirting and fooling around.

I found a flock of young ladies to fall under my wing, that I could sweet talk and charm. It was fun while it lasted and it helped my confidence grow exponentially. I got comfortable with myself again, I was also happy to go back to just getting to know the girls around me instead of just trying to date them. The twist in the plot that grew from the opposite sex suddenly liking me was that I got to know females better as friends and peers, not just potential dates.

I floated through another year like a feather fluttering on gusts of wind, I had no place to go and no schedule to keep. I turned over another calendar year and then another year in my own existence. I'd ridden a wild stomach turning turbulent roller coaster of emotional trauma, I'd come out on the other side scratching for life like the last people on earth emerging from a nuclear fallout shelter. The experiences had had an impact that tattooed themselves on my subconscious. I had lived through a wide spectrum of emotion and I'd possibly grown from it. Whatever the case, it had craved creases etched into the magnificent porcelain portrait of a man, or dare I say a legend.

Act 9 Late, Late Teens

Three months before my graduation I turned eighteen which opened up the flood gates of a whole new series of opportunities and responsibilities. My mom began to explain to me the value of some level of post secondary education but I didn't have the first inclination of what vocation to pursue. With my new found adult freedom still confined to the life of a high school student's body. I used my sudden powers to purchase cheap liquor for my friends. My all seeing power reigned over the party kingdom until my friend Marcus also turned eighteen. An instant power struggle for the torch of who would supply the booze had sparked but fizzled fast as we both realized how much it sucked to purchase alcohol for those lowly seventeen-year-olds.

During my final year of high school, I dated two different girls briefly but nothing became all that serious. I managed to maintain decent grades and I shifted from a bench player to a starter. It was like the total calm after the hurricane season, I didn't associate much with any of my criminal acquaintances, and my personal life was consistent and manageable.

High school essentially doesn't prepare you for anything realistic in relation to adulthood. You learn to be literate, to do the math, basic world history but when it comes to everything else it's a sort of a trial by fire. Some people are lucky and their parents teach them all of the skills to hunt and skin caribou or trap wolverines. Some people are instantly shipped off to an Ivy League university in order to train the next generation of preppy country club barons how to hoard wealth. Then there are people like me, who finish high school and then kind of just look around like a toddler lost in the mall. Stumbling, mumbling, sobbing and maniacally laughing with drool running off our chins and snot bubbles bursting out of our nostrils. I had worked a few different types of jobs by that point so employment wasn't new to me but the concept that you're now a grown up, now life rests on your shoulders came as a bigger shock than having jumper cables latched on to my nipples.

I was not fully prepared like an American back packing the trail to Machu Picchu. Maybe, perhaps no one is totally prepared for adulthood but I felt especially ill equipped for the treacherous trail that I was trekking. My first problem was I wasn't really trekking on a trail, I was more like an insane bushmen half cocked on moonshine chasing wild boar through the Everglades. I had no clue what the hell I was doing or going to do next. I had entered a video game full of levels I didn't even know existed, I had to battle bosses, henchmen and my own piss poor decision making. I choose to try my best to control the wheel as my life sped straight ahead crashing into adulthood.

My mom gave me a very firm ultimatum to follow once I graduated high school. I had the summer to have fun and party but come the fall I either needed a job or to be In college. Seeing as I had no money for college, my mother had limited savings and the bit of inheritance I ended up getting from my father was in a trust I couldn't touch until I was twenty two, I started looking for a job.

During the summer I continued working part-time after getting my job back as a landscaper. We worked outside which I loved and I could pass on shifts I didn't want since I was hired as a part-time employee. I had the money to do all of the wondrous and wild things an eighteen-year-old male could dream of. I probably spent the first three weeks after graduation sitting front row with about six other friends wasting our wages on liquor and strippers at the titty bar. The thing about being eighteen-year-old male is you may have seen some breasts or even touched a vagina, maybe even you'd had lots of sex but you'd never been with a woman. It is possible some young men in their teens do end up with an experienced fully developed female but the honest truth is they wouldn't know what to do with them. The strip bar gave us a chance to visually fondle breasts we hadn't the foggiest clue what to do with, plus on Wednesdays, there was free pool and no cover charge.

It was wonderful to be free for the first time as an adult, wandering the barren mystical landscapes of life. Like a child fresh from the womb there was a brand new web of experiences to get entangled in that I was previously excluded from. I had a free pass, the key to the city, the chance to explore all of the debauchery that grown up life could offer. My mother's rule was that I wouldn't have to pay rent until after Christmas but that I could only live with her before that point if I was employed or attending a post secondary institution. I already had a job and during that period I had no bills, most of my friends had beater cars so I didn't even require a vehicle. I had transportation all over the vast metropolis that was my home town of Toronto. I had an income without any bills to direct it too and I was a young dumb male filled with excitement and testosterone.

I had the excuse to meander the laneways and alleys of the sprawling city to capture any experience it could afford. My group of friends at the time included mostly high school buddies or people I had worked with but most nights I ended up hanging out with Phil, my musical partner in crime and my basketball team mate Marcus. We worked by day like Clark Kent or Peter Parker but by night we crawled our drunken asses up and down the boulevards of the city clubbing and pubbing.

Phil was a bit older than us by a year or so and thus had a wealth of knowledge we needed plus he would regularly deejay at small venues around town. We started to join him as his "sound crew" helping set up his equipment and then wondering off to the bar for comped drinks. I was still rapping with Phil slowly putting together a home recorded mixtape. He would occasionally invite me up on stage to kick a couple of verses or hype the crowd which was always a thrill but also very nerve wracking.

When I was in my late teens, working and living at home for a brief blip in time I was totally free to adventure. I had the money in my pocket with no responsibilities, bills or debts to waste it on. I had a pair of sparkling eyes gazing at the wonderment of untainted adult freedom. Those might have been the most exciting, most outrageous, years of all of my life because of the sense of pure unhinged naive adventure that can only happen for that short period. A time when you get to be an adult without the harsh truths of adulthood.

I had the ability to party all night and wake up in the morning with no exhaustion. I felt invincible in the pursuit of a good time. Slowly the fun times began to seem a bit repetitive and my stamina started to suffer. The hard drinking nights were relegated to weekends only and I started putting some of my earnings into a savings account. I started to consider what I might do beyond the landscaping business and occasionally hype up crowds for Phil.

After the partying, clubbing and general foolishness of a young male's life had faded, I started to consider new exciting options for my future. I had noticed ads on the train for evening courses offered through a community college, so I jotted down the website on a napkin and looked up some of the programs. There was an introductory course in adult acting that spiked my interest as well as some classes in abstract painting. I didn't have the funds or drive to fully commit to any full-time diploma or degree programs but I decided to survey the post secondary landscape in an attempt to find my own vocation.

Once I was kicked out into the big bad world my eyes were so sensitive to the ultra violet light of adult life I could only squint in order to see where I was stepping. I was a bumbling baby bear alone in the wilderness hunting all by myself with no possible plan B. Unlike those other people who had discovered their complete life destiny at twelve while twirling batons in gymnastics, I was in my late teens utterly, hopelessly lost. I had learned an awful lot about my coping abilities as a teenager but most of those behaviors were for survival only, now I needed to do more than cope, I needed to excel at something. Where to invest my energy, where to expel the creative urges, what to do? I did the only thing that had come to mind at the moment, I took a night class in acting offered by the community college.

I knew I took pleasure in creative pursuits but which medium would be the best fit for my skill set. I had rapped but that seemed to have a limited shelf life if I didn't make the right connections before I was too old. I liked art, drawing, painting, even sculpting but who in their right mind wants to sit around a bunch of people who want to do interpretive dance while flailing acrylic paints at a canvas. I liked movies, that was established when my mother exposed me to more than just the block buster franchise film experience. I decided I would be an "actor", a true renascence man, in touch with my emotions delving deep into a characters psychosis.

I was deeply afraid of the terrible choice I had made the moment I filed the deposit for the five-week acting class. I suddenly pictured myself as some kind of ultra thug, a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who would stand out instantly amongst the respectable upper-class folks taking night time acting classes. My worry grew in strength with every passing moment like an avalanche after a record snow fall. I was like a first-time snow boarder simply giving it a try only to be engulfed by twenty thousand lung collapsing pounds of anxiety. Why I thought I would be the stand alone misfit in a class full of adults taking cheap night time acting classes seems absolutely foolish in retrospect but during that time I was overwhelmed with the fear of not belonging.

During the fall months, the landscaping work started to slow significantly and I was spending most of my days chilling in my mom's house while she was at work. All my friends fell into two camps, college students or burnt outs, I had become one of the burn outs. I desperately wanted to find my destiny in life, I need a Morpheus to tell me I was Neo but I attended an acting class instead. The first evening I went to the class I was overwhelmingly nervous, shaking more than a recovering alcoholic. I subtly opened the door to the theater, peaking through the crack when a deep baritone voice invited me in. There we already several students sitting sprinkled around the theater. A few people were small talking with each other but most had found seats at a safe distance to avoid interacting with any other human beings, I followed that blue print. The class was about sixty percent woman and about half of those women looked like middle aged mothers or those older hippie women who knit their own hemp caps.

The teacher introduced himself as Peter Michaels the former star of Blue Badge, a public television detective show that ran for two seasons. Peter had a baritone voice that seemed to grown like thunder as the sound waves grew closer to my ear drums. He was roughly forty-five years old with a shiny, wavy, black, curly flowing mane planted on top of his six foot two slender frame. He had a wolf like a grin that he would flash after nearly every single sentence he spoke. Peter invited us all to move up closer to the stage and thanked everyone for coming to this course of "personal discovery".

After a basic introduction to the course followed by an overview of the 5-week long curriculum, Peter asked each student to individually stand-up, introduce themselves and tell the class something interesting. My soul suddenly sank to the depths of my IBS aggravated guts like the Titanic. I rehearsed my commentary in my head until the dreadful moment arrived only to have my voice squeak and crack like an aging child star realizing their career is over. After the pitiful display, the class commenced as Peter rambled on Ad nauseum about the reason acting is such a vital art form. He talked more about his craft than an episode of Inside the Actor's studio starring Gwyneth Paltrow. The first class ended with a question period where students asked things like "Was Sylvester Stallone actually a boxer?" Or "How can I make it in Hollywood"?

I found myself bursting out of my shell like a T-Rex, a big head full of ideas and confidence but with a torso attached to little tiny arms unable to grasp reality. Acting classes helped me find a small portion of myself that was actually fully comfortable with itself. I enjoyed the "craft" as the people in the business call it, I liked creating characters, analyzing the personas and telling stories about the human experience. I'd thought that I had found a true calling, the purpose of my life.

We did boisterous voice exercises in order to help us project our voices across the theater. Howling and grunting like a pack of angry gorillas about to drag some poor eco-tourist off into the jungle to tear them limb from limb. We would also take part in trust exercises like the classic trust fall, in order to gain comfort relying on your fellow actors. My trust fall partner was Curtis, a thirty-four-year-old recently divorced accounts manager. Curtis was going through a period of extreme anxiety that made him distractedly nervous which didn't help fill me with faith in his catching abilities. I would actually be the individual to disastrously sabotage the trust fall by slamming the back of my skull into Curtis's nose causing an explosion of blood to erupt out of his nostrils. Curtis didn't speak to me again let alone come within a measurable distance of me after that incident.

After completing more exercises that made me feel about as comfortable as sitting in a Russian sweat lodge surrounded by half naked overweight, hairy eastern European men, we began to do some real acting. We created characters and scenes that we would rehearse in small groups. Eventually, we began reading from scripts written by students that ranged in an obscure subject matter that could never realistically be performed live. Most of the scripts appeared to be written by young male Comic Con aficionados that they were likely hoping to become movies, not plays. Regardless of poor plots and bad dialog we got to practice acting out scenes and learning lines.

I had started talking to an attractive strawberry haired curvaceous young woman named Pam who happened to be two years older than me. She was going to university studying structural engineering. She came from a fairly privileged background with both of her parents holding university degrees and high paying professional jobs. She was easy to talk to because of how incredibly flirtatious she was, we quickly hit it off. My motivation for going to the acting classes now revolved more around seeing Pam and attempting to convince her to go on a date with me. After much trial and error with Pam dodging, ducking or simply swatting away my advances to go on a serious date, she caved in and agreed.

I took Pam to a fancy sophisticated steak house for a dinner that reminded me I needed to quickly find a decent paying job before I went totally broke. Pam ordered a fine wine which we both tasted while the waiter anxiously waited for our approval, Pam seemed to like it so I nodded to suggest the wine was to our standards. I soon learned that Pam had a taste for the extravagant and luxurious. Her father had bought her a Mercedes Benz for her eighteenth birthday and she had a collection of extremely over priced purses. I liked looking at Pam so I ignored the words that came out of her mouth and imagined she was telling me how badly she wanted me in her bed. After taking out a line of credit with my local bank in order to pay the bill, our first official date came to an end.

I continued attending the acting classes seeing the course through to completion while going on more dates with Pam. After the course was over, I had even more free time to try to convince Pam to have sex with me. Pam would take me with her to wander through show homes that were wildly expensive. For a while, it seemed like all she wanted to do was talk about things that only wealthy snobs would discuss over a plate of snails. I had a genuine physical attraction to Pam, as would most men or women with functioning eyes, but I was starting to tire of her personality.

I had become indifferent to granite counter tops, disillusioned with a future filled with crown molding, and mahogany stair railings. I didn't care about stainless steel appliances or cork board flooring. I knew very quickly that Pam was looking for a man dressed in shining Armani armor riding in a sturdy hand crafted Alfa Romeo steed with personally embroidered suede seat covers. She did seem to like me but I slowly realized that her views and values represented all the things I thought were repulsive in society. The advantage to having met Pam was she opened my eyes to what I did want in life, I wanted to do something creative, something more artistic and becoming rich wasn't really the key to my contentment.

For the first time in my life I really truly realized an important fact. Even if a woman is beautiful and even interested in you doesn't necessarily mean you should engage in a relationship with her. I also came to grips with the idea that maybe my motivations in life were going to be less about the traditional American dream of becoming Bill Gates and more about following my passions. I had found a day job working at the Art Gallery of Ontario doing a variety of odd jobs maintaining the collection. It was an entry level position but I enjoyed being surrounded by the wide variety of creative art work. I was still not truly sure if what I wanted to do as a career but I was starting to learn a bit more about possible options.

Once I had come to grips with the fact that Pam wasn't likely going to give into my seductions I decided it was time to stop going in debt trying to impress her. I looked for more acting classes while I spent my days helping catalog the museum's art inventory. I worked alongside a middle aged German art historian named Bernard Kolsch. Bernard had worked in some smaller galleries in Europe but was offered a position at the Art Gallery of Ontario and moved to Canada. He was generally a very quiet reserved man but would occasionally come to life if he came across a piece of art he felt fond off. Most of my days were spent converting the old filing system into a newer computer orientated system. It was often very dull, but the boredom was broken when we had to rotate the galleries collection or if Bernard decided to play the radio which was always tuned to a station that played classical music.

While working at the museum I started to collaborate more seriously with Phil making music. After recording a homemade mixtape that we uploaded onto a music sharing website we decided to practice the tracks and re-record it professionally. Phil was my music mentor and the first person to encourage me to take music seriously. To me, music was our hobby, nothing more, sure I had grandiose fantasies about swooning groupies and rocking stages in the largest venues in the world but I didn't believe any of that would really materialize. After having me perform a few of our songs at some of his gigs, Phil concluded we were ready to go to a professional studio and record more material.

Act 10 Rap Life

My first-time ever stepping foot in a professional recording studio, I was nineteen years old. I was on the verge of turning twenty and even with the rigors of acting class, performing in front of strangers still made me fairly nervous. The sound engineer was a bearded former rock drummer who looked a bit like Rick Ruben if Rick Ruben ate kale and ran five kilometers a day. We didn't want to spend too much on our experimental little passion project so we recorded an EP length album of five of our favorite songs. I had been practicing and performing the songs for a couple of months by the time we recorded the EP. To my surprise the entire session went very smoothly, we only had to do one or two takes for each of the five tracks on the album.

After recording, Phil and I spent the evening sipping beers at a pub near his apartment as he mused about all the wild possibilities that awaited our musical careers. Phil was in love with music; he had already become successful enough as a Dee Jay that it was his full-time job. He had connections with promoters and music scouts, he wanted to do bigger things with his life and I admired that. Unlike me, Phil had a concrete vision, a clear dream for what he wanted to be in life, to be a music producer.

Nearly two full years had passed since I had turned eighteen and graduated from high school and I was still roaming the earth like a lone nomadic tribesmen looking for my place in the world. Phil my trusted side-kick had plans for both of us, which took a great weight off my shoulders. I had a steady full-time job working in one of the most wonderful environments a person could ask for with a co-worker who spoke less often than a silent film actor. Being surrounded by a variety of world renowned art works all day and then spending my evenings making music gave me a sense of contentment.

After recording our first official EP under the name Wonderground, playing on the word 'underground' which is used to describe indie hip-hop music, we posted it online. We also made a series of hard copies of the album to send off to record labels and college radio stations. Our eyes were bright; we were bushy tailed, hip-hopping our way to potential super stardom. Initially, Phil and I were both filled with pure joyful optimism but after a few weeks, it seemed to fade. I would continue performing with Phil at his DJ events when I wasn't working at the AGO or I would spend my evenings strolling the isles of block buster searching for movies.

My mother was still managing the independent movie theater and my sister had finished a university degree and had taken a job working in Seattle. Due to our difference in hours, I didn't see my mom that often as she worked evenings and I worked days but we would try to have a few meals together each week. I still lived in the basement of the town house but I was paying rent and I had purchased a 1996 Honda Accord. After finishing high school there's a transition period when it seems like a lot of old friends began to slip away, for me I only really had Phil, Marcus, and a guy named Darren Mitchell. I was never very close with Darren in high school but after high school, I would often bump into Darren which led to a slow growing friendship.

During that spring there was a special collection of art work that would temporarily be on display at the gallery, which would include several pieces of work by Milton Glazer. Milton Glazer is a graphic designer and visual artist hailing from New York City and his work was the first time I had heard of graphic design. Bernard explained the basic concept of what graphic design is and my interest was instantly sparked. I wandered the gallery exploring all the various painted pieces and pondered the possibility of studying the graphic arts. The art work was colorful, bright, vivid and full of life which filled me with inspiration.

I discussed my new found idea of attending college with Darren over a few beers which caused the concept to grow in splendor as we got more intoxicated. Darren to, was attempting to find a foothold on the road to a career path. He had been working as a cashier at a grocery store and spending most of his evening's skateboarding or drinking beers. We both conveyed the feeling of being utterly lost which gave me some comfort in knowing I was not alone. Our conversation that evening convinced me to make a plan, a plan to go to college.

Once it was decided that I would at some point stroll into post secondary academics, I needed to start saving money. I couldn't spend money on expensive recording studio time as often, so the hip-hop duo I shared with Phil got side lined. When it had sunk in the big record deal was not headed our way I figured it was more important to set an achievable goal. I still hung out with Phil and we had made a second home recorded mixtape and our EP did get some radio play but it all seemed to fizzle out as quickly as the fuse was ignited. I calculated that if I budgeted I could save up to finish a two-year diploma with the help of a student loan. My mom agreed that I could live with her rent free while I was in school. The stage was set, I just needed to keep working, saving and preparing.

During the entirety of my time working at the Art Gallery of Ontario Bernard never really opened up to me. He spoke as little as possible, at least to me, but I did enjoy the environment of the gallery. How I landed the job in the first place was a mystery because I was entirely unqualified. I had ungracefully stumbled my way into my twenties but unlike my late teen's, things were beginning to seem less fuzzy, like when you hit an old TV in just the right spot. I had a goal, one that I could theoretically achieve if I just stuck to my guns.

Experimenting with music, the theater, dating and generally being a young male had finally come to some discernible focus. I had always doodled, drew and one subject I did excel in was art, so studying graphic design seemed to make sense. While I tippy toed around life attempting not to piss off the higher powers I was feeling a false sense of certainty. I was sitting comfortably like a fat cat in the sun on a warm summer afternoon, unaware of the subtle sun burn on my nose.

Phil had abruptly moved to New York City based on a promising opportunity to work for a small record label in their marketing department. While there he passed off one of his beat tapes to someone who gave it to the rapper Killah Priest. Suddenly Phil was gaining momentum with his music career and my previous pessimistic attitude made me feel ashamed. I was hopelessly jealous of his growing success because it seemed to happen the moment he'd moved on from our group project. Admittedly I really couldn't blame him, I was half heartedly putting in the effort required to help our creations find the right audience. When I told him I was going to focus more on getting into college Phil put his efforts into networking and those efforts had paid off remarkably quickly. I was filled with envy, then depression and finally confusion, was college the right path?

Nothing seemed all that clear; my mind was foggier than Wilt Chamberlains sauna in the late 60's. I had come to the conclusion that I should be getting a practical job, following a normal career path. My condensed wisdom told me that life was not like the cinema, things don't work out to fulfill your wildest dreams. Phil's ambition had worked out almost exactly how he'd been dreaming, his goals had actually been achieved and they didn't rely on going the practical route. I was profoundly confused by the unique journey Phil had taken to becoming successful, he had followed his passion whole heartily and it completely paid off.

I kept in contact with Phil but it soon became evident he was moving on to bigger and better things, there was no chance at reviving Wonderground. The moment I thought I had it all figured out the rug was pulled out from under me. It was more like a bad magician pulling the table cloth out from under a table covered with fine china, my own assuredness had instantly been shattered. I had made the plan to go to school, I told my mother, my friends, any living human who existed that I was going to attended college and be a graphic designer so my pride chose to shove the rap dreams into my bowels and stick to the plan.

If curiosity had killed that cat sitting in the sun, mediocrity had caused that cat to lose its sight on things. The thought that if I had just believed in myself or worked harder or put in a bit more effort maybe I'd be like Phil chewed at the scraps of my soul that l I had left. I was like a starving mongrel chewing on its own leg because it was the only piece of food in sight, I couldn't help but dwell on the concept as it was the only thing that occupied my mind. The quiet days at the AGO with the tight lipped Bernard didn't do anything to stem the constantly nagging thoughts. Sometimes I imagined tossing my steaming coffee right in Bernard's face so that he would speak or yell or hit me, something to acknowledge my presence if only to escape my tortured psychosis.

Over-time it settled in that regardless of Phil's success I still need to do something with my life and sitting around being jealous wasn't going to help my situation. I felt alone all of the sudden, my life had never made much sense to me but it was more unclear than ever before. I had a full-time job, I had my mom, some friends to hang out with but I felt very isolated. I had become extremely close with Phil as we bonded over music but in an instant that had disappeared; I no longer had someone around to motivate me. I took my friendship with Phil for granted and I'd dismissed his belief in my talents as pipe dreams. I was consumed with regret so I buried my emotions in some deep dark smelly part of my large intestine.

Time doesn't heal all wounds because some wounds make you bleed out and die but time does help your mind numb the pain of the past. I had convinced myself that in the long run I had made the right choice even though I knew in the pit of my stomach that might not be true. I saved up my money, I went out partying less and I spent my evenings renting movies that I'd watch alone. I didn't pursue any new relationships, I didn't write or record songs, and I just lived the daily grind. At that period of my life it didn't feel like much of grind, I liked being at the AGO, I liked being alone at home at night watching movies, I liked the solitude.

My ambitions in the world of music had sparked but almost as soon as things seemed to build steam the dream had faded and I had chosen another path. My timing and lack of belief couldn't have been more poorly calculated. I had come so terribly close to achieving those wild rap star fantasies only to give up right when I should have pushed harder. Phil's success was my failure, once everything had settled I was inspired by the entire situation. I firmly believed that if you worked hard enough and believed in yourself you could achieve your dreams, Phil's story proved that to me.

Act 11 Masters and Bulger

When you work really hard, you take risks, you uproot your life and you move to further your goals and if that all ends in failure, you end up working at Masters and Bulger. The company was a creative dead zone focused solely on marketing profit margins. I never understood how a place built to sell ideas could be so opposed to creativity. We were herded into our cubicles each morning and the bosses didn't approve of playing the radio or listening to music through headphones. The company was run by a corporate board that was part of a much larger investment firm notable for flipping business empires to beef up their investment portfolio. The board had no interest or knowledge in branding, graphic design or marketing, in fact, they preferred to never be heard or seen like children raised by country club members.

The vampire league of werewolf cauldron stirring henchmen known as the board or directors of Master and Bulger feared all things that implicated enjoyment. Their headquarters were of course in New York City, far away from the hustle and bustle of our office. All financial decisions went to head office, which were always made based on the quarterly profits. Master and Bulger was essentially a front for a corporate investment firm. The investment firm acquired failing companies or would force proxy wars to obtain the assets of companies that seemed to be profitable. Masters and Bulger had been run for several years as a small Toronto marketing firm that offered services in complete branding and commercial marketing. The original owners built the company to be very successful and then cashed out to retire in luxury. After the ownership had passed through several hands it ended up being bought out by Bennets Investments. Of course, Bennets Investments was owned by a larger firm that I to this day don't know what they are called. I was hired to work for Masters and Bulger but soon realized I worked for Bennets Investments, and then I learned I worked for some evil nameless deception shadow company that wished to remain anonymous.

Master and Bulger encouraged us to wear neutral colors to work, casual Fridays were a blasphemous idea and they really didn't want music playing in the office. I felt like I was transported back into the 1940s wearing a bland gray suite sipping whiskey engulfed in smoke but with none of the Mad Men mystique, and all the joy of the depression ward. They were not a marketing firm anymore; they were a stock, an investment portfolio for a bunch of stuffy uptight clinched assholes, who would gladly sell off our assets if it could make them half a cent.

There are moments in life that when you look back on them you instantly see the clarity of that situation. My interview with Masters and Bulger was one of the clear moments when you look in the mirror and see everything wrong with your physical appearance. Those clear moments when you can't sugar coat the sad wrinkled tired face looking back at you. I look back thinking of how easily I was deceived into tossing a chunk of my life away, like trashing a barely eaten steak. I didn't understand that the woman interviewing me was equipped with extremely misleading questions based on her very vague understanding of graphic design. She was the head of the HR department and her name was Roxanne and I quickly discovered I couldn't stand Roxanne. She asked the typical questions: Where do you see yourself in five years? What is your five-year plan? What would you do with five years? What the hell is the human resources obsession with how humans think about five years of their future lives? I planned in five years to be alive, hopefully, employed, I dreamed that in five years I had won the lottery and scantily clad woman danced on my breakfast table. I gave the typical bullshit drivel answers; I expected to be in a managerial position working on new exciting projects. She ate it up like a pond of goldfish, I had thought I had baited her but in fact, she'd hooked me on to a dry bland landscape called the Soviet state of Masters and Bulger.

There are red flag moments when you're looking for a job and one of those is when you are offered the job on the spot. Some rare times you nail it, you cross all the T's, dot the I's, you blow their socks off but usually, they still call you the next day. I was offered the job at the end of the interview, which lasted nearly forty-five minutes. My hubris told me I must be that damn impressive. I wasn't, and Masters and Bulger were notorious for finding employees in hard luck situations. The interview was filled with promises, we would be working in an environment of pure creativity, we had free coffee (which was actually true), we had two weeks paid vacation and we got to take part in the wonderful team building exercises. I wanted back in my field of post secondary study so I agreed to the terms of my sentence and was locked in as a Masters and Bulger prisoner.

The gulag slave camp I called my home for eight to ten hours a day was filled with more gray scale than a Charlie Chaplin movie. Life, color, vibrancy, and being an emotionally functioning human being were not part of company policy. You were expected to punch in and work robotically for eight hours every day without ever displaying a shred of humanity. It quickly became apparent signing on with Masters and Bulger was a massive mistake but like most things in life, my fear and pride forced me to justify my choice.

For a while, I thought it might be possible I only showed up to work every day was the free coffee. Sadly some of the worst companies you ever work for employ some of the best people you get to work with. Most companies like that find people who've been laid off or fallen on hard times which usually makes them more relatable. Management was a secret society of dangerously boring automation built to resemble human beings. They met in an undisclosed meeting to further divide up the work force's tasks and generally erode our happiness. I would use the coffee machine to escape the mind numbing dullness until I met a robotic bible salesmen named Ted Nguyen, who I credit for my idea of suicide by way of pouring blazing hot coffee on one's face.

I never believed in a reptilian subterranean species of fork tongued cold blooded beasts running the earth until I spent a few months at Master and Bulger. We worked quietly whispering about our disdain like oppressed peasants in some far fascist state. We were cogs, gears that linked together only to create wealth for the rulers of Masters and Bulger. A climate of fear constantly created a shadow over the air conditioned environment around us. A lay-off was always around the corner yet you were still expected to believe in the "team". We had team meetings weekly that consisted of only our department and monthly we had corporate team meetings with the whole brain washed nation. Meetings I truly believe were contrived as a way for the new sith lords to practice their ability to sway a crowd, which they completely sucked at.

Team meetings happened more often than actual sports teams probably sit and talk about a game plan in their locker rooms. We spent less time on the court and more time talking about how we could potentially improve our time on the mysterious court. When work did finally take place you were expected to meet strict deadlines no matter what was tossed on your plate, which were always more tasks for that same deadline. Masters and Bulger took work almost exclusively based on internal marketing material for major international companies. Other firms handled the fun stuff like commercials or large scale print adds, we made manuals, text books, safety stickers, time sheets, and internal documents. The work was always repeat work and done on an extremely large scale. Large oil and gas companies, grocery stores, fashion retailers, any company needing large scale documentation needs we handled.

When you work for a board full of unseen Gordon Gekkos, you begin to feel like Madonna strapped to a chair as Sean Penn drunkenly punches you in the face while declaring his love for you. Unlike Madonna, I didn't have a PR team to hide my life, especially not from my own mind. I was living in my own hell created out of my own scared desperation. I was always unsure what to do with myself and when life threw me fast balls I knocked them out of the park but curve balls I could never figure out. When something looked familiar and conquerable I would take it head on and that was how I blindly approached Masters and Bulger, oblivious to their deceptions.

The only real lasting highlight of my time at Masters and Bulger was oddly being selected for a trip to a conference in Calgary with a major Canadian oil company. Why I was elected to go I had absolutely not one single clue. It was the only time in my life I went on a work trip where everything was paid for with no questions asked. We were expected to swoon this company, relieving them of any doubts of changing who provided their large scale internal document design. For some peculiar reason, I was thrown into the mix of the people expected to achieve this monumental task.

We landed in Calgary in late June as the whole city slowly prepared for the Calgary Stampede. The Stampede is a yearly festival loosely based on rodeo culture now centered around getting drunk and ruining your marriage. We unluckily had come at a time when Calgary was being just another boring city based on a single industry in the middle of wheat fields. We landed in a place where the most recognizable land mark is half the size of the tallest building in the city skyline. They should rename the Calgary Tower to 'the overpriced crappy restaurant that spins slowly in the shadow of much taller structures'. After seeing none of the interesting sides of the city and hitting all the corporate hot spots we ended up at a place called Caesars, a stuffy steak house stuck in a time only Goodfellas and Casino could exist.

After the schmoozing, our hosts decided to take things up a notch, which I found peculiar seeing as we were sent to sell them on our services. It turns out when you give managerial folks an endless supply of money to waste on guests they will happily do so. We convinced the big old oil boys that Masters and Bulger would not only provide their needs but we'd do it at an even better price than before, which became apparent this was the only reason for the meeting. They wanted to instill the fear they might move on like a house cat when you won't give it the cat nip, spinning and turning, tail up so all you see is a puckered butt-hole. We lowered our overall costs and me personally, I barely spoke a word but I was briefly re-invigorated with a false sense of importance.

We shook hands with the snake oil selling reptiles of International Oil marketing and were then invited to a weekend in the small mountain town of Banff aka Little Australia. There are more Australians in Banff that speak French then Albertans on earth that speak French. I guess they figure sub-zero temperatures and grizzly bears are better than a post apocalyptic island designed to murder human life. We'd shook hands with the devil and then shook our asses all over Banff, which will make you realize the devil really does just want to dance.

ur evening started in a fondue joint that was at one time a hedonistic hide-out with sex phones slapped near each table. The fun and interactive environment invited everyone to loosen their ties which we all did. After the oil baron's minion in marketing Ryan called a table with a wildly uproarious bachelorette party we ventured to join them to the next bar. Walking along singing soccer hooligan jingles, we proceeded to the next watering hole engulfed in an army of penis shaped objects. I danced heartily, for a moment I felt important in the soulless company that was paying my bills, I can-caned arm in arm with Ryan who might have been a nice guy in another life. The rest remains a total blur but I do remember waking up in the bath tub of the hotel room of a bunch of Swiss tourists. They were all passed out drunk, nakedly sprawled across every piece of furniture in the room. I gathered my clothes filled with shame and fear, wondering what had happened as I made my way to my room.

We all suddenly said very proper good-byes then were shuffled off to the airport to fly home hung-over. That trip was by far the most fun I ever had at any job I had but it was a small blip in an otherwise terrible experience at Master and Bulger. My selection to even join the crew bent on selling Masters and Bulger, I later found out was actually decided by pulling a name from a hat, which does give the comfort in knowing it is possible to win the lottery. I left a city very poorly stereotyped as being a cowboy city after having visited a town that was once the STD capital of North American with a weird wart on my hand.

Act 12 Community College 0.1

Picture a prolific pathetic poet purposely punishing himself. I had given up on my own personal dreams due to lack of belief in myself and I had chosen to live with that choice once it was clear I was wrong. The next best step was to go to college but when you don't have spectacular grades, good credit or rich parents you go to community college. Some call it technical school which technically means you majorly mis-stepped in your life but want to correct that. Despite poor dance moves between me and the universe, I made a decision and I was determined to see it through. I had saved up enough money and the trust my father had left me allowed me the opportunity to go to school without having to take out a large loan. My father had left my sister and I a trust paid out yearly for the course of five years each that paid eight grand to the both of us. In his final act my father did provide me with an honest chance to better my life and despite all the negative things I knew about him I am eternally grateful.

Long before life hand broken my spirit and body slammed my soul into the concept of agreeing to start working for Masters and Bulger, I needed an education. I spent the first year after graduation squatting in my mother's basement mowing lawns by day and making rap mixtapes by night. I had worked briefly as a warehouse worker but when that job fell apart I went back to landscaping. Eventually, I found a more respectable day job that didn't require me to constantly inhale second-hand weed smoke. I had continuously been saving up for that entire duration and after dabbling with acting classes I set my sights on graphic design. I had pushed the brush with musical super stardom to the back of my brain, I focused on working, saving my money and occasionally going out for beers.

When I was twenty I had taken out a small student loan that I planned to pay off once I could access the money in the trust my father had left me. The snowball was rolling, gathering steam and running over beginner skiers. I was going to be one of those college kids. I was going to party with co-eds and do multiple keg stands. After all that fun I was going to graduate with honors wowing the greater Toronto area and then be handed a gift wrapped six figure salary.

See the thing was, I knew that wasn't actually going to be the case but when you smoke three joints in a dark basement your mind begins to wander. I had grand fantasies, but the reality wasn't going to very glamorous. I was going to community college, there wasn't going to be the grandeur of the fancy schools in Canada or the Ivy League schools state side. There wasn't going to a bunch of assholes in turtle necks singing songs of pride for their Greek named fraternity. There wasn't going to be a rowing club, or a NCAA level basketball team, there wasn't going to be large lovable wild parties. Community college is for people who don't have enough money to go to university or people trying their hand at bettering their lives a bit later on in life.

I filled out my registration form, wrote a short essay as part of my application and then I waited patiently by my mail box shaking and paranoid like a drug addict going through withdrawal. In the movies, teenagers send off applications to prestigious universities while still in high school and when they receive a response their hardest decision is do I go to Harvard or Columbia? In real life, your twenty-first birthday passes by while your constipation grows in intensity because you are overwhelmed with the anxiety that you might not be accepted into a two-year college diploma program. The letter arrived and I skipped up to the mail man wishing him a wonderful morning while I waved at my neighbor, or I staggered out of bed hung-over with my dong peeking out the side of my Fruit of the Looms while I grabbed the mail.

At first, I didn't even notice the letter as it was mixed in with a bunch of flyers and a pamphlet for the Mormon Church that featured two blond haired, blued eyed twenty somethings grinning like idiots. I decided to read through the Mormon's pamphlet only to discover that I did, in fact, enjoy being a human being and realized cults aren't my thing. I sorted through the rest of the flyers stumbling across my response letter from the college. I opened it with a knife covered in peanut butter to reveal the news of my future. What might that future hold? Would I be driving up the California coast in a vintage convertible with some blonde bimbo in the passenger seat? Would I be prancing down the streets of New York City in tight jeans sculpted around my tight glutes, off to another day in the glamorous world of graphic design?

The letter dispelled all the mystery; I was in fact accepted but with a catch. I was on the waiting list because as the letter described the graphic design course was popular meaning g more people applied than there were seats available. My stomach felt sick like I'd just eaten a truck stop egg salad sandwich on a cross country Greyhound trip. Some other applicant had to drop out of the program, or die, or maybe I could just kill them. Immediately I started an internet search on untraceable poisons that could have easily put me on the RCMP's watch list. After coming to my senses I tucked my penis squarely back into the middle of my underwear, put my pants on and commuted to work.

I expressed my dire situation to Bernard once I was at work to which he replied: "Keep your head up". We went about our day and Bernard remained as tip lipped as a mafia murder witness as my thoughts stewed in my brain. I didn't want to put off my education for another year but that was a very starkly real possibility. The AGO was a great place to work but I didn't have any education in the arts which meant I'd always be at the bottom of the pay grade. Bernard wasn't a bad guy to work with but he was about as exciting as reading mortgage agreement papers or talking to an engineer. It became apparent that there was only one thing I could do, wait.

All your life you are told to wait, you wait in the waiting room, you wait in line, you wait for your waiter to shut the fuck up about today's special so you can order the cheese burger. I didn't want to wait because no normal human wants to wait for anything, we want on the roller coaster right now damn it! Waiting is sitting, fidgeting, staring at your computer screen as that stupid hour glass spins and spins but nothing happens, it's excruciatingly uncomfortable. It makes my left eye twitch until I explode in cascading muscle groups that only the Hulk and Terry Crews have. I smash my mouse, my keyboard, I head butt my desk like I'm in a bar fight, all the while being green and wearing purple jeans. I have always wondered why Bruce Banner wore purple jeans. Who wears purple jeans and where can I find those savages?

I would come to terms with my situation; I would grow less uncomfortable with the idea that I was going to have to wait for an answer. If I wasn't accepted into the graphic design program then I figured I'd stay on at the AGO and take some night courses. I found a series of certificate courses that gave entry level training in a variety of Adobe programs so I signed up. I was determined to take some level of control of my life. I needed to focus on a goal just like Phil did with music. I attended my first ever graphic design related class during the summer evenings waiting to hear back from the community college.

The only thing worse than community college are community college night courses. The level of desperation in the room hung like a heavy smoggy cloud. Everyone was there because they were either too broke to quit their jobs and go to school full time or they needed something to beef up their application to the full-time program. I was the other group, someone there genuinely looking to learn and possibly get a step ahead in my life. Even if it meant nothing, I told myself I was doing something positive, I was taking steps ahead; I was taking control of my destiny. The class was focused on learning how to use Adobe Illustrator for its basic functions. I liked acting classes, they helped me grow but Illustrator classes were genuinely fun to me. You could make art work on a computer screen and then manipulate it in ways not possible in any traditional medium. I felt like I had made a right choice for once in my life, I felt reinforced in my decision.

I felt extremely shy during the first few classes but I was now accustomed to the routine. Stand up and uncomfortably describe your very uninteresting life to your peers. The instructor heavily encouraged the asking of questions which I reluctantly embraced. Turns out if you don't know what you are doing and you ask an expert you can actually get a grasp on things. The lesson was fully and dually noted during my evening Adobe Illustrator course. I learned a variety of tasks, tools, windows, and functions of the program that would benefit me down the road.

During my early twenties, many of my high school bonds faded and I became very focused on working and getting into a post secondary program. I made a wide range of acquaintances but I didn't make any new truly close friendships. I wasn't romantically involved with anyone and I wasn't interested in a serious relationship. I was discovering myself beyond of the influence of outer forces. It was a very important experience to get a handle on who I was and what I thought I wanted. I loved making hip-hop music with Phil but success for me was a fantasy, a day dream, but for him it was a very realistic goal. I didn't take it seriously enough to invest my full energy towards and I needed to find my own attainable goal.

I wasn't learning the concepts of graphic design but I was learning how to use one of the most common programs which gave me a leg up. I would learn later on that designing is only a part of being a graphic designer; you also need to get really fast at the functions of industry standard programs. I was basically learning the production side of the industry, how to make things happen with the creative software. My class was a mixed bag of working singles, parents, students and prospective students. I found it encouraging to see people in their early fifties taking on a new challenge, it reminded me of my mother and proved to me it's never too late to learn.

As the classes progressed I began to small talk with fellow classmates and I ended up making several friends. Our friendships would bloom later on over time, but the seeds had been planted during that short program. We sat quietly at Apple computers wondering how Steve Jobs had monopolized the creative software industry. During breaks, people began to congregate in little clicks while some people stayed at their computers surfing social media feeds. I began talking to Roger because he had a tee shirt that said "Uzi does it" and featured a picture of Easy E holding an Uzi. Then Laurie began conversing with us after she overheard us discussing going to a Ghost Face Killah concert. I oddly found a new set of hip-hop heads to be friends with but this time the pressure was off and we acted simply as fans of the music.

I had given up smoking marijuana for a while because Phil had taken to a lifestyle of no distractions focused on creative pursuits which I followed. When he moved away I never felt any desire to begin smoking again regularly. When I started spending time with Laurie and Roger they both fit one of the massive hip-hop stereo-types that they both loved to smoke weed. Laurie was twenty four years old and managed a coffee shop so she lived in an apartment that she shared with a rotating string of roommates. She had her name on the lease, so it was her rules. She was the first physically attractive woman I simply wanted to be friends with. We hung-out at her place, smoking weed, drinking European beer, listening to hip-hop music discussing art and culture.

Roger was twenty years old; he had saved up for a year after his graduation and spent a year wandering the earth. He lived in Vietnam, spent two months bumming around Los Angeles, and then spent another two months pursuing the streets of New York City. He lived in European hostels that weren't nearly as sexual or bloody as movies might make it seem. He had to burn his entire back pack after discovering it was infested with bed bugs though. After a full year of globetrotting like a homeless Hemmingway, he headed home. Rogers's parents were extremely religious, Roger was not. He left home the moment he had the opportunity and he didn't intend to head back so once back in the T-dot he moved in with his cousin Randolph. Randolph was the first black sheep of a very religious Trinidadian family and Roger was the second black sheep.

Roger and Laurie were a revelation to me, they weren't quite like the people I grew up with, they had big philosophical ideas. They had worldly experience, they were mature, they liked to discuss the world and what it meant to be in it. I finished up my introductory Adobe Illustrator course and continued with my duties at the AGO while spending a lot of time with Roger and Laurie. Bernard had free passes for up to four people for one weekend and I took them, giving the final ticket to my mother. I knew that either Roger or Laurie would have a wealth of facts about the art in the show. I wanted to listen to their musings, I wanted to be worldly, I wanted to be culturally knowledgeable. My mom and new friends traded historical artistic facts that blended seamlessly with existential concepts. That day at the gallery gave me more confidence in my creative journey.

Act 13 College 1.0

As it would turn out, three people either dropped out of the full-time graphic design program or didn't have the funds to pay for the schooling. I swear to this day that the one applicant who died had nothing to do with me, any more questions talk to my lawyer! I was in, like the very last NBA draft pick or the WHL goon who could barely skate. I was elated because I wanted desperately to be around humans who spoke words or made noises or even grunted. I told Bernard I was quitting and he responded with the unpredictable move of actually starting to sob. I was taken off guard, completely baffled while he dispelled all questions telling me he thought of me as a son. I never quit a job more confused; I never left an employer thinking how badly I misread people. The arts attract weird characters, that's the moral of that story.

My mother, my time spent at the AGO, the Adobe software course, hanging out with Laurie and Roger had given me a wide open mind. I was ready to leap, I was more prepared to fly then that bird hit with a fast ball from Randy Johnson. I spent so much time doing menial tasks, evenings smoking weed or drinking beer I forgot how much school fucking sucks. It's hard work but unlike work, it doesn't end when you clock out, there is home work, projects, studying, there's lots of unpaid overtime. You get what you put in unless your super smart or cheat, or your parents have sway with the dean with lofty donations. For me I had to work, I liked the creative side of my studies but I also had to fill a load of stupid mandatory courses. I had to learn how to use Microsoft Office again, I had to make an Excel spread sheet, I had to do a communications class in order to give public speeches. What I learned is performing is easy if you like it or have practice but talking bullshit out of your ass in front of people who don't care is pretty difficult. Anyone who is really good at it, beware of them, they will probably become a real estate agent.

The first days you attend class in a second rate post secondary institution you sit quietly, you find a desk and there is an unwritten rule it is yours. You are in a room full of determined people, sure there are a handful of morons who still think it is going to be like Animal House but for the most part, you're surrounded by life hardened people. The class was a split of early twenty somethings trying to make something out of their lives and people in their late twenties or thirties who'd tried an alternative route in life and needed to start again. If you graduated in the early two thousands you're the lucky not so lucky last line of people who might make a living with only a high school diploma. I came at the very end of that line, the last gas guzzler off the lot, cruising to a sure demise. There's no blaze of fury, we don't dive off the building shooting automatic weapons at the bad guys, splatting in a bloody mess of glory. We create Facebook accounts and become glued to smart phones trying to ignore our failed dreams.

College opened my eyes and it made me very cynical, I had all the knowledge I could grasp in a world that disregarded me as an entitled brat. I lived through a generation of people whose lives were turned upside down by the constant tide of the economic global hurricanes only to see their protests sidelined and disregarded by former hippies, as being entitled. I would get an education, I would find a job, I would turn off my brain the moment I began to feel idealism. Tupac lived and died during my life time and black men are still being killed by cops every day. Jesus helped the poor, saw goodness in a prostitute, and performed miracles. Gandhi led Indian workers in a series of non-violent protests in which people died. Nelson Mandela spent years in a South African jail emerging to lead a government that forced blacks and white to work together. Several years later Donald Trump was elected as president of a slightly racist free world. Humans haven't learned anything.

For me, college wasn't a time of heavy binge drinking or wild parties with scantily clad sorority girls. It was a lot like being back in high school except this time I actually cared about achieving good marks. I was working hard to progress ahead in my life. I had saved up the funds required for school but I was bombarded with highly negative perceptions of my generation. The millennial, as we are called is a generation of people that older generations blame for all the worlds' current problems. Millenials subsequently then reverse that blame onto the baby boomers. The honest reality is we have a lot of information and technology at our finger tips but economic forces have shifted enough that Millenials don't face a very affordable American dream.

I went to school to study, to get the best grades I possibly could in an attempt to take some level of control over my future. I had the occasional night out with my fellow students, usually wing night because we could all eat and drink cheaply. I stayed in touch with numerous high school acquaintances but time seemed to cause those relationships to fade in closeness. I was at an age where all of my high school graduating class was either in college or completely utterly lost in life and simply working a job to stay alive. I was enrolled in college ready to tackle the world head on like an over confident line backer running at a water buffalo.

Unlike every movie depicting the college experience my time spent in higher learning was entirely uneventful and purely academic. I worked at the mall over the Christmas season in order to save up some spending money but other than that my life consisted of going to class, going home, and eating cheap wings on wing night. The first semester I was obligated to take a class called Communications which essentially means you listen to a middle aged overly enthusiastic woman tell you how to give speeches. After doing some written essays you're then required to complete the class by giving a speech on a subject of your choosing. I gave a riveting monolog on the exploits of the recording artist Nasir Jones, to which my fellow classmates yawned or simply slept. I still hated speaking in front of a crowd and for all the practice I had had I still wasn't very good at formal speeches. I passed Communications class with a C plus. I didn't care though because I wanted it to be over more than watching an opera live.

Some of the courses that were part of the curriculum were very exciting. I thoroughly enjoyed any of the Adobe software based courses as well as the course on graphic design theory. I had finally found something I enjoyed learning, something that seemed like a possible career that might actually be fulfilling, that I might actually be good at. I had the focus of a laser beam slowly hovering closer to James Bond's crotch.

My first full year of classes in community college carried on in a very predictable path. I went to class, I learned, I scoped out any potential love interests of the opposite sex in my classes and I ate bucket loads of spicy chicken wings. My mother continued on as the general manager of the small cinema and my sister tried her hands at professional boxing. I kept Phil's rising music producing career off to the corner of my eye, tucked firmly into an easy to ignore part of my brain. Free evenings that weren't spent giving myself self heart burn were spent primarily with Laurie and Roger dead set on doing absolutely nothing useful at all.

I had made it through one entire year of full-time post secondary studies, I'd become a full blown adult, totally cynical with a lost sense of idealism. I spent my summer working as a waiter at a small cafe that served inedible vegan concoctions and especially stiff coffee. I didn't take the job due to any strong sense of needing to save the planet, or the cows, or anything other than the strong sense to save money. They offered me the hard currency a young prospective professional student longs for, twelve dollars an hour plus tips. While working at the vegan cafe I didn't meet a single interesting humanoid that I wouldn't have immediately cannibalized if I had been starving that day. I figured all they ate was basically the same as a free range herd of grazing moronic animals so they were fair game.

During a break from my new fascinating career studying the eating habits of cattle that gracefully walked on two legs while listening to Hootie and the Blow Fish, I took a road trip. Laurie, Roger and I planned to hit the open road to visit that North American wonder of Niagara Falls. I packed three pairs of my under wear with the least holes or stains, three pairs of socks, two pairs of jeans and two t-shirts. An hour and forty minutes later (Laurie had drunk a big gulp that led to several pit stops) we arrived at the wonder of the world. After failing to find any empty barrels we decided not to go over the falls but to stare at them for about twenty minutes. After nearly ten minutes of the misty air dampening our faces, we mutually concluded we should all get fall on our asses drunk.

The wobbly adventure would begin in the traditional student style of buying one communal bottle of cheap hard liquor and three brown bagged cheap ice cold (luke warm) beers. We walked the streets while slowly sloshing the bitter elixirs of the Norse Gods down our throats eventually arriving at the wax museum. Wax museums are places where a person can pay twenty dollars to have staring contests with still surgically crafted celebrities who much like real the life versions, can't express emotions. Trip advisor gives the wax museum a three out of five rating which seems less than adequate for the unbridled thrill a group of drunks can experience in the presence of completely still standing wax statues.

After asking a wide variety of frozen celebrities for autographs only to receive blank stares, we made our way to a local watering hole called Doc Magilligan's pub. The pub is styled in traditional dark wood with various tartan patterns on the upholstery. Laurie ordered us three pitchers of beer before me and Roger even had time to consent. The day had morphed into night and we had transformed into loud obnoxious assholes. We attempted to strike up a conversation with every possible person passing by our table. Once the pitchers had been emptied the next course of actions was to do shots, which did attract some similarly aged strangers to carouse with us. Shots lead to another pitcher of beer which led to us being escorted out of the bar by burly bearded gentlemen.

The night ended back at our shared hotel room, where we polished off what was left of the bottle of vodka purchased earlier in the day. Laurie decided we all play spin the bottle and with all our inhibitions left back at the wax museum Roger and I agreed. Neither Roger nor I seemed to register the unequal distribution of women in the room. The game commenced with a series of sloppy salvia sloshing kisses between Roger and Laurie. Then it was my turn to stuff my dehydrated tongue down Laurie's throat. Then she traded make out sessions between the both of us until the floppy fondling mess led to Roger's hand landing firmly on my still clothed penis. The strange potential friendship ruining make out session promptly climaxed with a unanimous sigh of disgust. We all found separate places to fall asleep in shame and confusion. Thus my drunken sexually experimental college faze had come and gone at the speed of a very confused light.

Act 14 Booze Hound

That's the funny thing about booze; it will sometimes make you do things you ordinarily wouldn't ever consider. Sometimes those things cause mild regret, sometimes those things end up being wonderfully eye opening, and sometimes those choices make for a very awkward drive home from Niagara Falls. We never spoke of the incident and neither Roger nor I ever made out with Laurie ever again.

I like the cloud that encompasses my brain when I hit that perfect happy place of being just the right amount of drunk. The problem is I want to maintain that special Zen like buzz but it is not possible to sustain. I don't drink like the person who wants to get sloshed but still wants to operate heavy machinery though. My worst trait is ninety percent of the time I can control my drunkenness, I keep it contained and I pick my spots. When life spirals down the nauseating rabbit hole that is eerily similar to the opening of a Hitchcock movie, I find myself acting out when drunk. I will get mad at innocent people; I will lash out like the tongue of a sweet talking serpent. Booze, liquor, alcohol, the nectar of the gods, the happy juice, the wobbly pop, it has many aliases but it's always been both an angel and devil on my shoulder.

I was conceived in the cast of consumerism and thus I felt more lost and isolated than an already dead Hemingway dreaming of a self-induced boxing related heart attack. Depression isn't a black dog; it is a black cat with a pompous pom-pom shaved into its tail. It comes and goes as it pleases; it scratches your face in the night then urinates on your comforter. People prone to addictive behaviors in my theory have issues with depression or self awareness or hate other humans. I have always felt out of place, like a loaf of bread in the produce section. It is cold, it's moist and people always squeeze you or roll you down the aisles like a cantaloupe bowling ball.

Humans have this distinct need to be distinctive, unique and special yet we need to fit in. There in lays the contradiction. We want to be Shaquille O'Neal, larger than life, bigger than most silver back gorillas but yet we want to relate to the world around us. It's the wonderful paradox we call the human experience, the Homosapien existence. We want to be both the whole picture and one of the puzzle pieces that make up the whole picture.

I was constantly prone to the pit falls of binge drinking since the moment I could drink. I avoided it completely for many years because of my mother's alcoholism but when I caved in and took that first sip I fully understood why it was hard to regulate. For messed up broken people intoxicants are a brief emotional escape, a day where you get to be Cool Hand Luke eating a million eggs and still have sculpted abs. The problem is that you never want to go back to normal conscious thinking because it is full of unsolvable problems. You could confront your abusive father but then he's remorseful and dying, stab the pedophile priest in the dick but then you spend a decade in jail. The awful things that plague people are from the past but they are planted in the present and they destroy many futures.

I drank and still drink for two reasons, I like the feeling and It numbed my emotions. I experimented with lots of drugs, but none of those came in a six or twelve pack. I didn't drink any alcohol until my last year of high school and my first time drinking was absolutely horrible. I went to my friend Damien's house and his mother had stashed a series of cheap wines under the stairs. We found two different already opened bottles and proceeded to consume both. Damien was much more accustomed to the effects of drinking but I, on the other hand, was experiencing it all for the first time.

I left his house with a half a bottle of hobo wine in my back pack, half-cut and ready to get fully cut. When your first drunk experience is on discount red wine, most people swear off liquor for an eternity. I sat up alone in my bed room watching a fuzzy old bubble screen fourteen-inch television while I forced the rotten Welch's grape juice down my throat. That night I watched Conan O'Brien with special guest Paul Rudd. Paul Rudd was in the very early stages of his career and would soon be known for a running Conan gag where he plays a ridiculous clip from the noir film Mac and Me. I finished the sweet sour red, fine, wine only to lose my mind completely.

I had an mp3 player at that period in time and I blasted all the hits as the booze pumped through my veins. I danced all over my bedroom like I was in a plaid tuxedo at Studio 54. It was a glorious monumental experience, it was eternal joy and it would not last forever. I woke up the following morning to an unworldly bright sun bursting through my blinds. It turned my eyes lids bright orange until I had to spring them open only to instantly realize I'd rather have been dead. The sun slapped me in the face with the force of George Forman punches and then punched me directly in the stomach like a young Mike Tyson. Theriousthly, it waths noth pleasthant.

My first lesson in drinking intoxicating elixirs was a commonly held truth; don't ever get drunk on red wine. It was off putting for a time, I avoided the red death like it has infected with Ebola. Luckily for me, teenaged humans don't really gravitate to wine, they gravitate to coolers and garbage beer. People with no souls invited me to their house parties and I would go because what the fuck else did I have to do. I rolled in with the people that supplied the drugs to the parties, so for a while I got treated very well at these kinds of events. The movies make high school parties seem like really exciting wild experiences but for me, they were mostly underwhelming. Some foolish kid whose parents were out of town and were dumb enough to trust a teenager to hold down the fort, would used it as an excuse to be cool. Any kid, who was deemed badass or cool, either already lived alone in a shitty apartment or wouldn't try to pull that brand of self-suicide in their family homes. Typically the party host was the saddest most pathetic male from the wealthiest family in his graduating class. We attended to drink the free booze and then steal anything expensive lying around.

My high school days didn't see me drinking too much or too often but the moment I turned eighteen I had a bit more freedom. In Ontario, you actually need to be nineteen to purchase liquor but it's fairly easy to get past that with an easy loop hole which I did the moment I turned eighteen. I simply found a liquor store that didn't check ID. Suddenly I could taste the bitter, sour burning flavors of any form of liquor I could get my hands on. Until I was nineteen most of drinking took place in my friend's basements or apartments or strip clubs. Once I had officially hit the legal age for the province of Ontario, I could truly be an adult and sit in a booth seat at a pub.

For many years my drinking was social but when life threw obstacles in my path like a hippie playing ultimate Frisbee, I would problem drink. Problem drinking is the very misguided idea that if you drink a lot you will escape your problems. The problem with problem drinking is it can easily create more problems. A person might for example e-mail a former college colleague and say they're an asshole or text an old fling and express deeply misdirected feelings of love. When drinking in a negative mindset with the goal of escaping one's personal problems said person would often awaken to a whole new laundry list of problems also needing ratification.

Over-time I learned to mostly regulate my habits but I would still occasionally go overboard like a drunken sailor. What beer commercials don't show you are the nights of throwing up all over a 7/11 bathroom, or the unsafe sex with a near stranger or the bulging beer belly. In the commercials it's always a fun filled night with completely fit young men encompassed by the equally fit bodies of bikini clad super models. Liquor should come with a warning label that reads "pace yourself or you could fuck up your life". Twelve packs should come with a warning label that reads "you're going to thoroughly regret this unless you share with friends".

Act 15 College 2.0

After the Niagara Falls fiasco the fallout meant that Laurie, Roger and I wouldn't hang out nearly as often. I attempted to date a co-worker from the vegan cafe that would constantly hit on me until I realized she was a vegan herself. I determined I did like food especially savory meats and milk products so the relationship ended quicker than I could eat a slice of veal. As the summer drew to a close I resigned my post serving the hemp knitting flavor hating humans that attended the vegan cafe.

It was back to school as usual, I was more ready to learn than a foreign trained doctor taking English as second language in order to make it in America. In the Concept to Completion class, which was meant to have students create a series of projects from client consultation to finished deliverables, I noticed a student in my class, a beautiful silky skinned student who must have moisturized daily. This elegant female creature had captured my full, undivided attention, until she turned her pretty head to catch me staring at her. I would later learn her name was Elisa and for a brief lustful moment, I swore I was in love.

My classes went on like normal but I couldn't manage to muster up the nerve to break the ice with Elisa. During my first week of classes I seemed to be entirely distracted by that mysterious temptress, until a Saturday morning after a night of partying with friends. I needed coffee, I didn't crave it, I needed it. Coffee kept the caffeine that had replaced blood pumping in my veins running smoothly. My mother in her infinite wisdom had neglected to acquire a canister of the sweet java from the grocery store. I filled the coffee maker with a pot of water, placed the filter in the holder and then cursed loudly while I searched in vain for the actual coffee grounds. Once the coffee could thoroughly not be located anywhere in the premises I made the logical choice to go to a local coffee shop. In line behind me was an equally if not more gorgeous and charming young woman than Elisa, who I later learned was named Karen.

Karen ended up paying for my coffee as I had been too busy to bring my wallet with. After her genuinely kind gesture I talked her into exchanging phone numbers. After I hit it off with Karen, Elisa must have noticed my sudden loss of interest in her which then gave her a sudden interest in me. She started striking up conversations with me at every opportunity and we too would exchange numbers. I finally understood the trepidatious dilemma Archie had faced in all of those comic books. I had to make a choice, but that choice was pretty easy to make because I genuinely liked having conversations with Karen.

Elisa had very striking feminine features similar to a starlet from the 1950's. She had full plump lips, arching eyebrows that curled around her bright piercing brown eyes. She was shaped like a coke bottle that had the breasts of Dolly Parton. The problem with Elisa was definitely not her beautiful looks, it was her shining insecurity. She craved attention from any warm body close to her person. Men constantly had their eyes popping out of their heads glaring at her hardly subtle cleavage. The other harder to ignore issue with Elisa was her painfully prepubescent shrill toddler voice. She spoke with high pitched squeaks like some Disney animated bunny rabbit and often fell into manic equally childish sounding nervous laughter. I made the choice to keep her at a distance like a rugby player stiff arming the defense.

Karen and I began cautiously courting. Our relationship bloomed slowly at a very measured pace. She was finishing up a university degree while I was completing my second year of a post secondary graphic design diploma. We had an unspoken agreement to take things slowly and to focus on schooling. Karen was and still is a wonderful and compellingly interesting human being. She was knowledgeable, well read, clever and uniquely funny. I enjoyed her company as much as a friend as I did as a love interest. I tried to avoid Elisa as much as possible; I had directed my energy in class back towards achieving decent grades.

During the Christmas break, my sister came back home to spend the holidays with my mother and me. She shared stories of her outrageous adventures fighting professionally in tiny towns or in casinos on reservations. Her record was 9 -2 and she even brought some recorded footage of her brutally skillful talents. My sister was absolutely proud of her accomplishments and so were we. She was a fearless, strong, young lady that was forging her own path. The Christmas holidays presented me with the nice opportunity to simply relax and reconnected with my small fragmented family. Karen and I exchanged inexpensive but thoughtful gifts. She bought me a coffee table book that had a collection of album covers with columns of text tucked into the margins explaining the design concepts. I bought her a greatest hits compilation from the indie imprint sub pop records.

My college experience was solely academic in nature. There were no fraternities with funny names, or kids with sweaters tied around their necks. Besides my mis-adventurous trip to Niagara Falls, there weren't any significant sexual escapades. I didn't suddenly discover myself or find my personal identity as a busker or slam poet. I was simply looking to get an education to step forward into what I hoped would be a rewarding career in a creative field. There were no hazing rituals, no huge life altering parties, it was mostly uneventful.

The most significant thing to happen during my college years was meeting one of the great loves of my life, Karen. She helped me prepare for my exams and gave me the support my frail confidence needed to exceed my own personal expectations. My father's trust money was finally available to me which allowed me to pay off my student loans. For a time I felt very much at peace with the direction of my life, I didn't have to worry about debt or serve vegans kale. Karen had made the first big moves in terms of intimacy which took a lot of pressure off me. Some romances are whirlwind and some actually last based on truly getting to know each other.

On weekends me, Karen, Roger, and Laurie would usually go grab a couple of beers at a hole in the wall pub near Laurie's apartment. Karen had invited her best friend Julian to the weekly get together and a solid friendship grew between everyone involved. We never discussed the Niagara Falls fondling incident due to the communally felt shame and regret. Thankfully the misguided event hadn't destroyed what was a great friendship.

During the spring break, Karen and I took a trip to Kingston to explore the historical Ontario city. Kingston was apparently at one point in history, a governmental base of power in the newly formed Canada. The city is a pleasant sleepy town filled with historical buildings. We walked the downtown streets arm in arm like doe- eyed love struck teenagers. It felt like we were an old empty nesting couple who'd reignited a passionate lifelong love affair. We spent our days sitting in coffee shops or restaurants discussing pointless topics with great pleasure. That was the wonderful thing about Karen; she was always fun to spend time with even if we weren't doing a single thing. During that spring break trip, we both without hesitation exchanged those oh so dangerous words "I love you" many times. After close to seven months slowly building a solid friendship that occasionally became physical, we'd bloomed into a couple completely in love.

As my classes drew to a close I prepared for the final exams that would determine my future. I crammed and rammed and jammed all the possible course content into my bulging brain. I did practice tests and attended study groups. I picked, plucked, and scrapped out my professor's brains until they could no longer stand me. The immense pressure I had put on myself to succeed was overwhelming. During a panic attack, I called Karen who quelled my temperament which helped me settle down. The big day came, my final exams were written, and my fate laid in the hands of an automated marking machine.

The written portion of the exam was difficult but the multiple choice section seemed even more daunting. Most of the questions presented equally accurate options for answers. As much of graphic design is theoretical and not a hard fast science I over-thought all potential answers. I finished all of my exams in the allotted time which did ease my mind. I thoroughly enjoyed handing in my exam while watching others struggling to solve the riddles as I walked away. A few weeks after classes had concluded I received my results. I had easily passed, the preparation had paid off, I was officially a college graduate.

Act 16 Unemployment

I have faced three periods of unemployment during my adult life. One of those periods lasted a very long time but luckily I received benefits and had adequate savings to ride out the rough patch. My first ever experience of unemployment lasted the first two months after I finished my college diploma. I was a college graduate with impressive credentials that couldn't seem to land a job. I couldn't even find employment serving vegans tofu hamburgers. If eating only fruits and vegetables is so great then why to bother sculpting them into an imitation Big Mac paste. Food for thought!

I had reached the un-climactic conclusion of my diploma program; I was excited to dip my toes in the pond of the new creative career that awaited me. Suddenly there was nothing available to me; I didn't want to go back to landscaping or waiting tables. Seeing as I had been attending college for the past two years and only held sporadic employment during that time I didn't qualify for unemployment insurance. I did get a handy GST rebate cheque which was wonderfully helpful in purchasing a case of beer. Luckily for me, my father had left me a trust that paid out yearly so I did have some sort of disposable income. My mother agreed she wouldn't charge me anything to live with her until I'd found suitable employment.

The search for a fun filled exciting new career was less fun filled than I had imagined. One of the great paradoxes in the world of hiring managers is they always dictate that prospective employees have the magical five years of experience. The problem is that if no one will hire a fresh faced wet behind the ears recent college graduate how can that person reach the lofty goal of five years of experience? Why five years I often pondered. Are you a total moronic incompetent worker at four years and eleven months of experience?

I polished up my resume like a chipped bowling ball destined to go right in the gutter. I applied to every possible remotely graphic design related job. Gutter ball, gutter ball, gutter ball, oh wait, gutter ball. I revised my resume once again, I built my portfolio and I challenged my skill set. Winding up again ready to let that extra polished bowling ball again roll down that glistening hard wood lane. Gutter ball!

After a couple of weeks your mindset shifts from optimism to nihilistic abandon. I played Grand Theft Auto, running around the streets of San Andreas shooting passer bys imagining they were hiring managers. If you're prone to the addictive nature of a wobbly pop or two you are going to find yourself visiting the local liquor store more often than normal. The hardest part about being unemployed is filling your time positively. Everyone else is at work or in school or a single mother doing spin classes. The options of how to spend a lonely afternoon are endless; you can wander around the mall, or walk the block. You can go for a bike ride or to the recreation center and be surrounded by old men who can't wait to walk around the locker room nude.

Karen was still attending full-time classes hoping to complete her degree and she had locked down a steady job working as a cashier at a large scale chain book store. I asked her if she could get me a job. They weren't hiring. Later that was the catch phrase of 2008. "Sorry, we're not hiring because we're bankrupt". I would get to learn and then re-learn this concept a few times in my life. I spent as many evenings and weekends as I could in Karen's company but my days were free.

At the month long mark I would emerge from my unkempt bed stumbling into the bathroom and staring in the mirror. The pep talk would start, I was Rocky, and I would drink a carton of eggs and go for a run. Then I wasn't Rocky, I was his hack brother in law wearing gloves with the finger tips cut off. After a few minutes, I'd come to the conclusion I wasn't part of the cast of a movie from before my time. I'd settle on the fact that I was a big oozing failure. Then I would crawl back underneath the cocoon of my comforter waiting to one day emerge as a beautiful butterfly.

As all bad times do, it came to an end finally. I was relieved; the guilt of feeling like a total loser was lifted off my shoulders. I found my way into an entry level position with a small promotional products company. I would be outputting graphics for print, and with time I would be editing, revising and creating basic vector graphics. The first of those fateful five years of experience had started.

Later on, in my young adult life, I would again find myself looking for a new job in order to pay my growing bills. After the company I worked for in Montreal folded I found my way back to Toronto due completely to the familiar surroundings. I was a bit luckier because I could apply for unemployment insurance and I'd developed a nice little nest egg of savings. For the first weeks, I tried to take a positive perspective on the situation. I exercised, I experimented with making music again and I even took a short improv course. My mother let me stay with her until I could locate a place of my own.

Improv classes were exhilarating but unnerving. The whole concept is team work combined with constantly thinking on your toes. It was a bit like acting classes but in a much more open free thinking platform. Of course, the class had individuals hoping to be the next Mike Meyers or Tina Fey but I took it in as a new exploration into my capabilities. For the span of the class I had something to direct my energy towards but once it ended I was just another unemployed guy.

I had been through the burden of looking for work but this time around was drastically different. The global financial crisis had decimated the job market which ended up also creating job cuts with my old employer. Once again I got to experience the prejudice against my generation with the Occupy Wall Street movement. The media outlets portrayed a bunch of lazy kids pawing for some kind of handout. I felt very uncomfortable with the entire scene because all I wanted was to be working as a graphic designer again.

As time goes on searching for some employment will make a person desperate. As a male, I was raised with a series of subliminal messages suggesting my only value was to be a provider. It didn't matter if I provided for others or if I spent all my earning on Armani suits, I was expected to be a working man. Your purpose is to work, to contribute to society or so it is implied. Once I was in the position of not having any steady income I would slip into a mild depression.

Due to desperation, lack of faith and a general disillusioned attitude I took a job working in a bar. I worked for a fine gentleman named Parminder. The bar gave me an income which helped me stay off the streets which I thought was a decent deal. I met some wonderful human beings and colorful characters working for Parminder but it could only be short term. I had done that thing most people do once you're past a certain age, I'd picked a career path and it didn't matter if I'd grown indifferent to it, it was my path.

Act 17 Working Man

After what felt like an eternity I was hired to an entry level position working with a senior graphic designer for Old Cat Promotions. The company supplied pens, shirts, clip boards and any other useless piece of trash a person can imagine with logos imprinted on them. I helped do proofing initially as it was a simple process that needed to be done for every potential product to be printed. The job wasn't exactly exciting in the start but it was practical experience. I had a highly experienced mentor to mold my brain with tips, tricks, and applicable knowledge.

My boss in this new adventure was a guy named Bill Anderson and I am one hundred percent certain Bill was a total nutter. Bill was the moodiest person I ever worked for in my entire life. As far as I could tell Bill hated all aspects of humanity, me especially. He was an egomaniac who felt every other breathing Homosapien was basically a glorified gorilla. He informed me during my first few weeks how deeply satisfied he felt firing people. I'd signed up for an odd odyssey.

I told Karen that I was very uneasy once the reality of my new circumstances had settled into a tight knot twisting my stomach. She reassured me it was only a job and that I didn't need to think of it like a prison sentence. The senior graphic designer was Demetry Martinez, a pleasant likable person who had worked for Old Cat Promotions for over fifteen years. How Demetry tolerated Bill's treatment for that long I will never be able to comprehend. Demetry had immigrated to Canada as a child with his parents from Argentina. He had an overall calm, relaxed demeanor which helped weather the tornado known as Bill Anderson.

The fun thing about working for Old Cat was I got exposure to an assortment of different logos and graphics. The miserable part of working for Old Cat was dealing with the perpetual nightmare of Bill's wild antics. In fact, Demetry often referred to Bill as Wild Bill behind his back because once Bill had left the room Demetry immediately made jokes at his expense. Bill liked to pull people into his office and then lecture them about what horrible human beings they were. He sent the most convolutedly mixed messages of what he expected; you would need World War Two code breakers to decipher the meaning of his words. I learned from Demetry's lead and started to nod, say yes and let all the nonsense roll off my back.

The problem with working for Old Cat Promotions was that the graphic design was limited to basic vector graphics laid out on some inanimate object. Often the basic concept of the images or logos was already created by a third party graphic designer. Occasionally we did have to conceive of a concept from start to finish but the majority of the work was simple layouts and editing of vector images. I would still use my time there to practice as much as possible and get more efficient operating the programs.

I slowly picked up a few facts that would help me navigate rough travels of the rest of my life. One of those facts is some people are just inherently assholes; It must be a genetic trait or a DNA mutation. Another fact is that the best way to deal with an uncomfortable work environment is to stop caring so much. Do your job as best you can and clear the rest of chaos from your mind. Admittedly that is much easier said than done, but with practice, it can momentarily be achieved.

Demetry had an ingrained ability to not let much of anything bother him. I envied that trait but my mind had already been preprogrammed to disregard authority figures from my troubled childhood. When Bill would flip the switch and go into a degrading personal rant I couldn't help but imagine stabbing him in the neck with a sharpie. Six months into working for Old Cat I had enough of the constant verbal abuse and started searching for a new employer.

Karen and I spent any free evenings together exploring the enclaves of Toronto's trendier neighborhoods. Now that I had an income I could take her out for dinners or to movies or even buy her little trinkets. We had been dating for longer than any other of my past relationships and our relationship was by far the most mature. I had joked around about getting married and having kids but Karen would always shoot down those suggestions. She was focused on finishing her degree and if the opportunity materialized pursuing a doctorate.

Old Cat Promotions was my home for a full year before I landed a new work opportunity. My time there was helpful experience within the industry but it also helped me develop a thick skin. By the time I left the company I looked like a piece of jerky cut from Clint Eastwood's leathery cheeks. I'd grown much more cynical than I was while still in college but I tried to take it all in as a learning experience. I also become convinced Bill might have been one of those strange Nazi eugenics experiments.

Things with Karen seemed to have plateaued, we tried living together for a short period of time but she liked her space. We were very deeply in love but I felt like Karen never totally wanted to commit to a lifetime with me. Her focus was on her career first and then me which I tried to ignore whenever the thought crawled into my mind. I wanted to be with her forever, she provided stability and emotional reinforcement to my life.

Once I finally broke free from the shackles of the torture chamber that was Old Cat Promotions I waltzed into an entirely different environment. I started working for the marketing department of a major grocery chain. The job gave me an easy going work environment, full benefits, and even a small pension. The overall expectations on my abilities covered many more aspects of graphic design but the turn over time lines weren't nearly as strict as Old Cat. My manager was formerly a graphic designer herself who'd worked her way up to creative director. She had a personable encouraging approach which reinvigorated my passion for the discipline.

The work was fun and often changed from day to day which presented a nice creative challenge. I was living in a small apartment where Karen would often spend the night. My life was going along quite nicely for a young twenty something professional engaged in a healthy courtship. I finally had the rewarding job that paid me well and yielded a rewarding work environment. I had everything I thought I'd wanted which put my mind in a state of nirvana. I was master and commander of the brutal seas called life.

After close to a year working for the grocery chain's marketing department Karen finished her degree. She had been offered and immediately accepted a position working in London, England before even consulting me. The sudden and abrupt choice left me feeling hurt. I understood this was her dream and the reason she'd worked so hard but it would have only been fair to discuss it with me I reasoned. I wasn't prepared to drastically uproot my life to join her, I needed to reflect on my options and she had basically forced my hand with one out of character very selfish decision. Reluctantly I accepted she would be moving several time zones away.

It was made very clear that this wouldn't be the end of our love affair but it was the crack that would break it all down. I didn't want to give up my cushy gig after the excruciating experience of working for Old Cat Promotions but I wanted to be with Karen. We had promised that we would make it work and that I would ultimately join her in London. We had a plan to keep things functioning.

I started working for the grocery chain in late 2007 and by the end of 2008, the world had spiraled into a devastating financial crisis. Eight months into working there were murmurs began to circulate the office of potential layoffs. I ignored any of the pessimistic rumors because I wanted to stay where I was at. Three months after Karen had moved to London the layoffs began. First, they cut the entry level staff, people doing data entry or working in the mail room. Then the scarier prospect became a reality. Marketing had their hours cut to four days a week and a month later I got the pink slip.

Karen was genuinely upset and we shared a nice crying session over a web cam chat. The move to London for me would have to be postponed. The good times had collapsed; the roller coaster of life had once again begun the descent. I was in shock for a few days and then I gathered my senses that had been strewn all over my apartment in the form of empty beer bottles. I applied for unemployment insurance for the first time in my life and then I started a job search.

I had taken notice of several pictures Karen had begun posting on social media that contained her and a male co-worker. I pressed the issue with her but she assured me it was nothing. I wasn't assured by any means. My mind began to race wildly with distrust and jealousy. After a large long distance argument with Karen, I hung up the phone feeling that maybe she had moved on to some rotten tooth cockney tea drinking jerk. The problem with romantic relationships is they are based on a mutual trust and feelings of attachment. If for any reason those elements get frayed the desperate mentality that makes teenagers fall head over heels can also make minds race in many fabricated directions.

After the phone call came to an end I instantly messaged an old classmate I had on social media. As I had convinced myself that Karen was knocking boots with some suave English gentlemen, I wanted to move on too. I met up with Elisa at a bar near her apartment where we got entirely plastered and then went back to her place. Elisa might have looked like a sex goddess but she was terrible in the sack. The regrettable fact of the whole poorly judged event was the sex wasn't even worth it. I instantly knew I'd made a massive mistake but it was far too late in the game to turn things around.

Out of my respect for Karen, I mustered up the courage to overcome my shame and tell her. She cried a lot, she cursed me and she told me I was an asshole. I was, I agreed. The distance that her initial choice had created combined with my work world crashing blended with feelings of rejection and jealousy had caused a massive rift. My stupid selfish choice to sleep with the sexiest yet most annoying person in the world made sure to end things completely. For nearly three years I was in a very healthy mature relationship that had eroded with a series of very immature selfish decisions.

Act 18 The Big Apple

By the time I had ended up in New York City I had worked for four different companies as a graphic designer and I had compiled the sacred five years of experience. I had experience doing a wide variety of designs, everything from logos to massive branding campaigns. I had several great teachers to mentor me along the way. Before I was offered the New York City job I had been doing freelance work which helped get me noticed by the marketing firm that hired me. Alison who had since landed a job with a competing firm used some of her industry connections to help me secure the new job.

New York is one of those great cosmopolitan cultural centers of the world. No matter where you came from the city is one of a kind and presents a whole new set of experiences. My twenties had been a spiraling, chaotic mixture of highs and lows. My skin had grown thicker; my confidence had been built, broken and rebuilt like the city of Dresden. I was in my early thirties fully grown or so I am lead to believe. The New York job offered me a great salary and they would even pay for my first few months rent as well as travel expenses. After the wild ride with work and women from my past, I was up for anything that seemed even vaguely like an opportunity for a positive change.

After working for Masters and Bulger and then losing my job, I was on my own. I took the third time in my adult life of unemployment to make an opportunity out of a bad situation. I had gained a significant amount of real world marketing design experience. I took a few night classes in order to understand the basics of web design in order to make myself more marketable. I branched out as if I was a California red wood reaching for the stars, too thick for a tree hugger's tiny little arms to grasp. I took a little risk and slowly built a small but steady flow of business.

The freedom of working for myself was truly exciting but I also had to pursue and maintain my own clientele which was a constant challenge. After close to a year of doing freelance work I was scouted by a couple Toronto based graphic design firms but I wasn't interested in following that same path as I had in the past. Completely out of the blue Alison contacted me about an opportunity in a rival marketing firm based in New York. Alison had moved to New York only a month after our relationship had drawn to a close and instantly found the level of work she craved. No matter how bitter the taste of the initial break-up, we had survived the trenches of Masters and Bulger thus we were friends for life. I had no justifiable need to stay in Toronto; nothing had really played out as I had dreamt, so I decided to follow up on the offer.

I sent it in the portfolio that I had amassed over six years along with a masterfully crafted ass kissing cover letter. Susan Keith was the owner and artistic director of Kiss Graphics, an upstart but thriving graphic design and marketing firm based in Brooklyn, New York. She called me to talk on the phone in a very laid back interview and then again for a Skype interview. She offered me a one year contract with the chance of renewal as well as a month's rent in order to help me relocate. I was in those tiny skin tight banana hammock swim suites, toes barely gripping the edge of the platform ready to take the big dive.

Depending on where you live in New York you don't really need a car. Toronto has a very extensive sprawling metro system but nothing quite like the web of subway lines seen in New York. The benefit of the efficient New York subway system is that you can get basically anywhere you need to be on foot. The down side of cheap mass transport is it attracts some very eccentric and sometimes terrifyingly confident people. A man wearing a pink Tutu with a swastika tattoo under his eye, check. A Morbidly obese woman sitting legs spread with a large hole torn in the crotch of her about to burst blue jeans, check. Middle aged man of unknown possibly extraterrestrial ancestry preaching loudly about subterranean lizard people, check. A man with a mouth full of gold teeth who eyeballs everyone entering the train as a Glock hangs out of his waist band, check. That was only the first two weeks!

Once I settled into the big bold city and got comfortable in my new job I started to explore my social media feeds for possible connections in the city. I had Alison in the city but we'd had a past serious relationship and she was now engaged so I didn't feel at ease hanging out with her on a regular basis. Phil was still living in New York so I scrounged up enough courage to swallow my pride like a piece of lard and messaged him. Of course, as these things often go he didn't respond with any urgency. Some peers from work invited me to an uptown Manhattan cocktail party that I was coerced into attending.

Cocktail parties are naturally full of people with very nasally voices and rooms that permeate with false subdued laughter. People talk about the MET Gala or some obscure artist who likely only paints with their nipples. I agreed to go out of loneliness, boredom and because I respected my co-workers. I honestly don't recollect ever having a cocktail before or after that party because no matter how suave my salary was I was still always just a blue collar kid from Toronto. The night dragged on with vomit inducing pun jokes and flesh like mechanical drones discussing Connecticut in the summer time. For the life of me, I couldn't locate a single bottle of beer in the entire sprawling loft style apartment. The owners who I'm sure someone introduced me to but were completely forgettable had a massive collection of modern fine art. After making almost no significant connection with anyone attending and losing sight of my co-workers as they filtered into the crowd I found myself wandering around analyzing the art collection. I sat down on a red leather couch, the kind of style you might find in a therapists office when I heard a voice. "Can I sit down here?'

When I looked up to my astonishment was a very pleasantly familiar face. Karen slowly, softly sat down beside me wearing an elegant black dress. "What brings you here?" she asked. I was breathless; Karen was the very last person I had expected to bump into. She had an elite level academic career but she never had an air of high society. I told her I was now residing in New York City and some people from work had invited me to the party. Karen had also recently moved to the big apple to begin tenure as part of a research team working out of Berkeley College. She had a degree in anthropology and had completed a paid doctorate in social sciences while living in the United Kingdom. Once her time in London came to an end she scoured for new opportunities and discovered the Berkeley research project.

We joked how out of place we collectively felt at such an upscale luxury party. She'd been invited by a professor who she felt was inconspicuously trying to get into her pants. The crowd around us was oblivious to our satirical musings at their expense. They swirled their gin as the liquid clung to the fine glass wear. People in turtle neck sweaters and baggy sports coats laughed in unison at absolutely nothing remotely amusing. We created a colorful commentary for the guests about things like which hot dog cart has the best wieners. It was wonderful to see Karen and for a slipping moment, it felt exactly like it had so many years prior.

She skittishly asked if I'd like to leave the cocktail party and find a more appropriate location to our tastes. I agreed and we silently slipped through the pretentious crowd until at last, we were free of the smugness. A few blocks from the dullest party in human history we found ourselves a nice cozy booth seat in a run of the mill dark pub. We both ordered a couple of beers and then the mood turned drastically. Karen immediately clammed up, becoming withdrawn and purposely quiet. I sat silently for a moment until our drinks arrived and then raised my glass signalling we should cheers. We clicked glasses which help unfreeze the suddenly ice cold reception. Karen began nervously talking as if to gather all her thoughts before the words left her lips. She informed me how deeply I had wounded her by my selfish infidelity during the late stages of our relationship. I told her I felt extremely hurt by her decision to move and that I'd grown suspicious of her relationship with fellow students in London.

Things grew increasingly tense and Karen fought back tears as I fought to contain my booming emotional cadence. After a shout like whisper flurry of words, everything climaxed before falling off a linguistic cliff when I told her I had made the biggest mistake of my life all those years ago. Everything drew calm, silence filled the room. A mental silence similar to meditation encompassed our booth. Tears streamed from her eyes down her porcelain cheeks. "It's the biggest mistake I made too." she replied.

Our night quickly drew to a conclusion with the two of us exchanging numbers. We agreed that this would not be a rekindling of the previous romance but a chance to mend things and possibly grow as friends. There were boundaries in place that needed to not only be tolerated but respected. Our past together had been bursting with wonderful experiences that had climaxed in a gloriously regretful conclusion. We would be friends, for the time being, nothing sensual, nothing intimate and nothing romantic, just to adults being friends.

Finding another familiar face in the massive expanse of New York was wonderful but both of those faces were past lovers from broken relationships. I still really only had my new job as a great reason to be in the big city. It was a fantastically great reason though; I was on salary for a year for seventy-five thousand American green back dollars. The vibe of Kiss Graphics was laid back, easy going, but full of creative juices as if Fonzie and Andy Warhol had been put into a blender that created business mantras. Kiss Graphics was an orgasmically sloppy wet dream of a job. It was like one of those dreams that's to rivetingly gripping you'd be livid if someone woke you up, even if a tornado was about to strike your bed.

Kiss Graphics had team meetings but for practical purposes. When large branding projects were tabled we'd toss around a football and the recipient would have to contribute an idea to a collective brainstorming process. Sometimes we'd been taken out for lunch or go bowling just to relax our minds in order to get the creative spark going. I was finally in a fully acceptable creative environment. In a place that wanted authentic ideas brought together with imaginative solutions. My contract was set for one full calendar year with an opportunity for renewal and I wanted to make sure I did the best job I could.

They weren't just a graphic design company; Kiss Graphics had the capabilities to handle entire branding and marketing for companies that required it. They had a small team of former film students and hobbyists who'd been handpicked for their imaginative portfolios. They had the ability to shoot, edit and score video projects as well as create original 2D and 3D animations. Susan Keith, the owner and creative director of Kiss Graphics didn't just select potential employers on the merit of their academics or years of experience, she believed in hiring all around artistic people.

Susan Keith was a demanding but motivational person to work under. She demanded quality but in such a delicate way that seemed to coax the best out of her employees. She genuinely made the place feel like a large family, we all had a place and a purpose. She was a strawberry blond, slim but athletically fit middle aged mild mannered woman. She drank more cups of coffee in a day than I could ever have mustered, getting all hyped on caffeine and giving sprawling frenetic bursts of speech. Susan liked to hear music in the office and encouraged us to create a rotating playlist with a wide variety of genres in order to stimulate the senses. She was married to professional cello player who we rarely saw because she believed in separating her work from her private life. When her husband did come in for a visit he always brought delicious baked goods because apparently, he loved the culinary arts.

New York was new but it wasn't York, some soggy snub nosed town in the British high country. The city displayed to me that life could actually be pleasant; life could actually give you a taste of what you'd always wanted. I had slugged my way through a series of disappointments trying to forge a path in life. Once I'd been given the job offer with Kiss Graphics I took a calculated step into the unknown and the unknown felt pretty damn exciting.

I explored the avenues, streets, and boulevards of the city looking for traces of passing legends. I found a city like any other in the modern age, a city in transition. I wanted to see midnight cowboy transpire before my eyes but what I found wasn't an all encompassing theme of a city. New York is a blend of lives, a collective of human beings from multiple walks of life trying to navigate life itself. I was one of those inconspicuously lost wondering people, I'd found money and comfort but I was enjoying it all alone.

Phil would take what seemed like an eternity to respond to my message but in time he did. Unknown to me he was a very busy person who couldn't drop his life to the gutter because I had messaged him. We made plans to meet up for beers and to chat about life in general. In the time between our duo parting ways and me moving to New York, Phil had become a pretty big deal in the music industry. He had produced albums for rappers, electronic dance stars, and even pop acts. He had made the money all artists dream about, he lived in a penthouse in Manhattan and he was monumentally bored.

One of the weirdest most surreal experiences of my life was sitting with Phil, a legitimately successful music producer listening to him talk about the old days. We both got enormously intoxicated and Phil constantly speculated about reforming our hip-hop group, Wonderground. I had never fully found a comfort in front of an audience and I hadn't rapped or wrote lyrics in several years. I chalked the conversation up to the musings of a creatively frustrated drunk man going through a life crisis because we were in our early thirties.

Act 19 Fifteen Minutes

Phil used the stage name Uncle Phil when deejaying and producing. He had built an impressive career since moving to New York City. He had worked with independent rappers and platinum selling pop acts. After our night of drinking quietly in a neighborhood dive bar in Manhattan, we both went home to begin the recovery process. The hang over for me would end up being much more surprising than any I had previously experienced. The very next day I woke up with a throbbing unwavering headache that seemed to rotate its way around my cranium. I vomited up the contents of my extremely unsettled stomach until my esophagus burned. Everything seemed to be going along like the typical hangover. I spent the day in bed binge watching shows on the internet and eating Lucky Charms.

The day after the hangover had subsided was a blessed Sunday which again started in the typical fashion. I wondered around the house in loosely fitting off white underpants looking for enough ingredients to assemble something resembling a civilized human breakfast. Eggs, hash browns, and some mildly burnt toast. Then I received a text message from Karen, asking me about a link that had gone viral online. The text read "Is that you?"

I was enormously confused because my online presence was limited to helping other people build websites at work and a Facebook account full of "friends" I hardly ever saw in the flesh. I opened the link which was a YouTube video that contained a still image of the cover from the original Wonderground mixtape I had released with Phil to college radio several years earlier. The audio in the link was the entire mixtape we'd recorded back when we both lived in Toronto. I was thoroughly perplexed by the entire situation. In confusion my head tilted like a perplexed canine.

The video had been posted to Uncle Phil's official YouTube channel the night before and had gained nearly 800,000 views in under twenty-four hours. Phil had retained all the old audio from our previous efforts which our reminiscing had inspired him to share with the world. Phil was a highly respected enormously successful, bona fide famous musician. He had tagged my name in the video's information that had somehow worked its way into Karen's social media feed.

The audio did, in fact, contain my recorded vocal cadence spinning language in a repeating rhyming pattern. I had rapped; I had been fairly skilled with the gift of gab. I confirmed with Karen that yes that has, in reality, me percussively rhyming in the viral video. She had known of my past exploits as a failed super emcee but much like myself had believed that the circus of that pipe dream was decaying deep in my past. We were both suddenly very wrong about the reanimated zombie corpse that was my short lived unsuccessful rap career.

After exchanging a few text messages with Karen I called Phil to inquire about the video upload. Phil explained to me he'd been reminded of the past work from our evening slowly attempting to destroy our livers. He said he spent the following day hung-over revisiting the past material that he'd saved on his back up hard-drive. It all brought him to the revelation that the music was pretty good. He apologized for not asking for my permission before sharing the album with his mass of social media followers. I wasn't upset but I was completely unaware of how extensive Phil's musical tentacles reached. The conversation concluded with a promise to hang-out again once we both had a moment. I thought nothing else of the surreal but mildly uplifting circumstances regarding the albums instant popularity.

The next day I sluggishly dragged my still half asleep limp body out of the comforts of my bed. I had to restart the rat race once again but I didn't mind because for the first time in my life I found my occupation fully rewarding. I hadn't been living in New York City for enough time to be considered a fully broken in citizen of the city but I was getting more comfortable with my bearings. I had developed a few friendships with co-workers even if they had torturously lured me to a cocktail party full of yuppies. I had some old connections from the glorious past exploits of my mediocre existence on earth. I felt I might have found a calm centered mature successful adult life.

Once I arrived at the office that morning I quickly made my way to the coffee pot in order to subdue the withdrawal symptoms of my society sanctioned addiction. I promptly started noticing certain sets of eyes locked on to my being as if I was ground squirrel and they were hungry hawks. Something felt outrageously unnerving; I never before received that much adoration from my fellow peers. I turned to focus on my coffee and pray that this was all a bad dream that would soon end with a jolt back to consciousness. Instead of receiving the highly desired jolt, I was greeted with a gentle tap on the shoulder.

Keith a young paid intern was standing uncomfortably close behind me with a sparkle in his eyes and an inhumanly large grin. I turned to look at him in horror as he set my nerves a blaze due to the overly enthusiastic glee he looked at me with. He pointed to an image on his phone that depicted that same YouTube video with the underground mixtape album audio that Karen had asked me about. He simultaneously pressed play on the video and asked: "this you brah?"

I was very bewildered because Keith rarely spoke to me or anyone in the office but suddenly we were bosom buddies. I opened my mouth but only a flood of fumbling multi-pitched noises tumbled out. I turned back to my coffee, coffee was a safe place, coffee never gave me any awkward experiences I told myself. I looked to the sweet bean brew as my sanctuary but instantly recalled the excruciating experiences that coffee had brought me due to Masters and Bulger office terrorist Ted Nguyen. I sprung back around to look Keith squarely in the eyes to dispel all the rumors. "No, Keith that's obviously not me" I exclaimed. Keith instantly responded by scrolling down to the credits listed in the information of the video and pointed to my name listed as the vocalist. "It says your name right here though" he retorted.

Unknown to me Keith was an avid hip-hop fan which meant he was constantly keeping himself up to date on all things trending in hip-hop music. He was one of the many followers that Uncle Phil's YouTube channel had and one of the million or so viewers of the video. Keith aggressively repeated himself while continuing to insanely smirk at me. I informed in a discreet whisper that yes, in fact, the vocals were recorded by me to which he shrieked with elation. Before I knew what was even happening he latched his arm around my shoulder and took a selfie picture with me looking very lost.

Keith looked at me briefly while I stood stunned and then chirped "this is so dope!" before slouching over to look at his cell phone screen while shuffling off to his desk. I wandered the thorough fair of desks with a grimacingly hot coffee slowly scalding my finger tips until I found my desk. Keith had slipped away dragging his feet and uploading his selfie with me to his surprisingly popular Instagram account. The descent into viral recognition would quickly go into hyper speed. I carried on with my day working on the brand development for an upstart brew pub located in New Jersey.

Once I had completed my tasks for the day I slithered out of the office to make my way home. My typical routine unfolded just like any normal day. I took the subway packed full of impersonal commuters looking to get home and take a load off. I strolled up my street, waved to Miss Jenkins who often looked out her apartment window as the world passed by. I walked into my apartment instantly slipping on my sweat pants and filled up a pot with water in order to cook my culinary specialty, Ramen noodles complete with flavourful MSG.

Usually a few times a week I would check my Facebook account out of boredom or in order to silently judge people from back home in Toronto. I'd grown mostly dissatisfied with social media in general and had been limiting my usage of any type of social media. I sloppily slurped down my sodium rich noodles while exploring the events of the day on my lap top. I then logged into my Facebook account to see a stunning level of notifications. Several people had messaged me asking the same question that Keith and Karen had. Was the viral video that had reached 1.5 million views something I was involved with?

I instantly made the very appropriate decision to promptly log-out of Facebook. My calm world was starting to move in a new direction that I was completely unfamiliar with. I spent the remainder of the evening watching a series of movies on an internet streaming service. I pretended that the weirdly awkward attention brought on by the viral video would quickly fade into obscurity in the dark void of cyber space. Keith would guarantee that things would only grow, spreading like a mysterious case of the hives. The kind of rash that makes no sense because you don't have any known allergies but it's your rash none the less.

Over the next few weeks, the online buzz about Wonderground rapidly spread as several music blogs speculated who exactly was the rapper who worked with producer Uncle Phil? Keith my lovely ignorant to personal privacy co-worker had added to the mystery by posting a picture of me and him together claiming to work with the rapper from Wonderground. For me, up until then, I was luckily able to remain anonymous by dismissing any comparisons or ignore the online inquiries. I kept my head down and focused on work and rebuilding my friendship with Karen. After a few more weeks it seemed like the circumstances had started to slip away from the collective consciousness of the internet. In the modern age, your opportunity to become a star only to fade into total obscurity is faster than a male virgin's first sexual experience. It is over before you know it; sometimes it is hard to believe it all actually happened in the first place.

Once the rapid onset of internet interest into my identity had died down I arranged to meet up with Phil again for a few beers. He dressed to blend in and we sipped beers in a damp dark pub a few blocks from my apartment. Phil joked about the instant rise and fall of Wonderground after his initial post on YouTube. He told me he had signed up to work with an up and coming female vocalist that he felt had a lot of potential. It felt like old times, we were just two friends again this time around, no musical endeavours, no grand goals. After talking for a few hours while nursing a couple beers we agreed to call it a night. As we left the pub a fan recognized the super producer known as Uncle Phil and asked to take a picture with him. I naturally opted to step out of the frame to which Phil insisted I also take part in the picture.

The initial curiosity about Wonderground and who the rapper was had all but dried up until that ambitious fan posted the picture that showed me with Phil. The picture would confirm any speculation that the faceless mob of the internet had about Keith's picture and claim to work with the Wonderground rapper. My true fifteen minutes of fame were about to commence whether I agreed to take part or not.

Act 20 Fifteen minutes later

Being acquainted with a fairly famous multi-platinum selling music producer who you happened to record music with in a past life can bring some unsought attention. Like so many wonderful inventions and undoubtedly awful ideas, a drunken night with a friend had spawned a tectonic shift in what I thought was my life. I had become some kind of adopted underground D list celebrity due to my association with Uncle Phil. Due to popular demand, Phil asked for my blessing to post anymore old Wonderground material he had. I was complacent with the idea because at least it meant those old artistic expressions were finding an audience.

Fame had found me in the most minor sense of celebrity. I was more famous than the dolphin that played Flipper but less famous than the contents of Carrot Top's prop trunk. Phil would post the mixtapes online for download and we would split the profits which were surprisingly quite decent. The mixtapes would sell around 100,000 combined downloads during the first full month online. Like any sane human being, I had absolutely no problem with personally profiting on the previous exploits of my life but I was uneasy with the new found attention. I didn't feel comfortable getting on stage or attempting to revive the burnt the out shell of what was once Wonderground.

Gradually more content from my lyrical past made its way online which aided in the spread of the legend of Wonderground. A programmer from the college radio station I had sent my personal mixtape to years earlier dug it out of the rubble like some forgotten relic and uploaded it onto YouTube. It was becoming more apparent that my old new persona was going to be unavoidable. I had been trying to enjoy the attention while maintaining a quiet life working at the best job I had up until that point in my life. I was focused on rebuilding trust with Karen because no matter how much I fought it I had growing feelings for her.

Keith would hound me daily at work, prodding me with questions about Wonderground. Would we get back together? Were we going to record another album? Have I looked into performing? Keith didn't seem to understand the fact that Uncle Phil was the truly famous half of the duo and I was so far underground I was subterranean. Other than the curiosity of music blogs and YouTube commentators there wasn't any strong interest in me personally after the mystery of who the lyrical half of Wonderground was had been solved. I swatted off his constant advances like a southern bell killing mosquitoes on a Louisiana plantation.

What I wanted in life was to keep my career growing and get a second chance to be with Karen. She was at one time the love of my life; I wanted that back and it certainly felt like she desired that too. We broke through the friendship barrier once again and started dating romantically. I had made a substantial sum of money from the online sales of the ancient Wonderground mixtapes but I wasn't enticed to give up my life as it was. I didn't feel like I wanted to be any form of a celebrity. I didn't find the thought of the world dissecting all of my life choices pleasurable. What if one day I wanted to drunkenly call a state trooper sugar tits or dangle a baby from a balcony? Did I really want to have my relationships scrutinized by paparazzo's camera phones? My job at Kiss Graphics paid me handsomely and the cushioning income from the music sales simply added to my financial freedoms. I liked the money that came from the recognition of Wonderground but I wasn't so sure I wanted to deal with the headache of fame.

Occasionally some random fan of Wonderground would recognize me publically but for the most part, I was able to remain anonymous. I had emerged from my fifteen minutes of fame relatively unscathed. The profit from the album sales was wonderfully delightful but nothing tempted me to pick the pen and write any lyrics until Phil gave me a proposition. He was working with a young singer on her debut album that would have a major label release. They were working on a single that required a verse that would be rapped. Initially, I turned down the offer like when a Jehovah's Witness knocks on your door and you close all your blinds pretending no one's home. I was easily persuaded to change my mind when I was informed that I would be paid a flat fee of five grand with a percentage or potential future royalties. With bright green dollar signs in my eyes, I agreed to take part in the project.

I scribbled out my lyrics while sitting in the studio surrounded by a who's who of music industry people all of whom I didn't' know but was re-assured were very important. The singer was a beautiful sultry young lady from Florida named Perry Smith. She had spent several years honing her craft singing in blues bars in the southern United States. She had been discovered and then courted by Sony Music who recruited Phil to produce her first major label debut. I was, by and large, the least significant person in the studio, but it didn't matter as I was there to put in some easy work for a nice little pay day.

The album, I was told would have a slightly blues rock feel with heavy elements of hip-hop contrasted by Perry Smith's uniquely distinct vocals. I didn't care if the album sounded like a New Kids on the Block demo; I was simply greedy and interested in the money. I wrote my lyrics, then went over them with Perry, made some adjustments and did my first take. After three kicks at the can we got the final product. I stuck around to listen to Perry finish up her vocals and was pleasantly surprised by how smooth the whole song came together. Once it seemed like everything was wrapping up I collected my cheque and signed documentation regarding possible future royalties.

Music had proven to be a complete money pit prior to my move to New York and getting re-acquainted with Phil. I used to have to pay for studio time, pay to get the CDs printed, pay for shipping the demo copies to labels and radio stations. Originally Wonderground didn't make any money; even performing was mostly relegated to open mic nights or features at Phil's deejaying gigs. Phil got paid to deejay and play an assortment of other peoples music before moving to the states. The idea that musical creativity could, in reality, have large profit margins was a hard fact to wrap my brain around. I didn't need to fully grasp the concept to enjoy the fruits of my sound wave slaving though.

As I had done with the YouTube videos instant fame, I naively ignored the possibilities for the song I had just written and recorded a verse for. It was back to the daily grind; I went to work and worked on exciting, challenging design projects. I took Karen out on dates as often as the opportunity would present itself. She would gradually loosen up to my desires to grow romantically and our love slowly blossomed as it had before. I had been in New York City for nearly a full calendar year, my contract with Kiss Graphics was going to be reviewed in a month and I was praying to be able to stay.

I had hung out with Phil sporadically throughout my time in New York. He remained true to his word about splitting the profits from the album sales of the old Wonderground material. Combined, the sales had paid me nearly a year's salary of what I had earned at Masters and Bulger. Even if my contract wasn't renewed with Kiss Graphics I had a nice nest egg to sit my ass on and warm until I need to leave the city. I had found a place that had finally awarded me with a fully measurable level of success; I didn't want to let that go.

One Monday after a typically regrettable Monday of Monday like events I got a phone call from Phil. My day hadn't gone the way I wanted, I'd forgot to wash all my underwear and had to wear a slightly pungent smelling pair of boxers I coated in body spray to mask the stench. I spilled coffee all over a pile of paper work detailing one of our client's stipulations for a logo design. To really sink the entire ship, I broke a button off my Calvin Klein dress shirt. I slumped my way home wearing dirty underwear covered by coffee stained jeans that had a half open dress shirt tucked into the waist band.

Once I had arrived at my apartment I received a phone call. According to the nervously excited voice on the other end of the phone, Perry Smith wanted to use the song she recorded with me as her debut single. My mouth sunk to the floor like a broken elevator falling sixty stories. I mumbled something resembling words only to be interrupted by Phil's continued the onslaught of news. They needed to film an already conceptualized music video and they needed me to appear in it. This time I knew things were about to change, I knew this decision potentially had life altering ramifications. My voice trembled with a reluctance to take part but Phil coaxed me into agreeing.

The following weekend I arrived on set to film the scenes I was set to appear in. Some strange mammoth of a woman immediately whisked me off to a makeup chair and began to whimsically caress my face with brush strokes as if she was Bob Ross. Once the Amazonian make-up artist had deemed me ready I was again rushed off to go over stage direction with the director. I would rap my words to the camera while the director constantly looked at the monitor with a pained look in his over tired brown eyes. Ultimately we had achieved the desired atmosphere of the shoot and I was freed to join the real world again.

A week passed and I was informed the video would be airing on the top 100 charting program on MTV. The video debuted at eighty two and I went from being a D list internet personality to a Z list TV celebrity. I became that guy you think you saw somewhere but you are not sure if you even did. Inquiries reignited on internet comment boards of exactly who the hell I was. The blip of fame I had dealt with earlier that year had become a visual spike in the graph depicting my life's events.

Back at Kiss Graphics Susan Keith pulled me aside to assess whether I would be continuing on with Kiss Graphics. After a brutally honest dissection of all of my projects with the company, she asked me what I wanted to do. I told her obviously I wanted to stay on full-time, it was the best job I had ever had. Susan looked at me attempting to read my expressions and then sat quietly licking her fingers as she flipped pages of paper work. "I don't understand it" she muttered, "Understand what?" I responded. "You are doing this music stuff; it seems like you're doing well with it. I saw you rapping at me on TV last night!" she proclaimed. I sat stiller than a statue uncomfortably trying to fight my urge to fidget. I was no longer anonymous, I wasn't underground anymore, I was above subterranean.

The End

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