Dec 2018 31

So I got spit on last week.

I know, right? I don’t remember the last time I got spit on. This alone makes this event worthwhile in noting. In a way, it was kind of charming actually. Sort of in an Old World way along the lines of a gentleman removing his riding gloves and slapping me across the face with a curt English-accented ‘You do insult me sir.’

So basic. But also so much more cultured than someone pulling a knife, or gun on me, or punching me.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

What were the events that led up to a woman spitting on me on Bloor Street, you ask? It’s a long story. But I’m gonna write about it anyhow.

So I was walking along Bloor Street, minding my own business. Cause I do that. I don’t like people, if you didn’t know. And I certainly don’t like people at Christmastime. The worst energy. Outside one of the storefronts, a woman was sitting behind a table. She was selling homemade ceramics, which were all spread out on the table. I took a look and while I was ready to move on (not knowing what a loved one would do with a homemade ashtray or plate), another woman came out of the storefront with an expression on her face that looked like someone had just murdered her puppy and she was about to get all Liam Neeson in ‘Taken’ on them.

The woman selling ceramics said “Are you okay?” to her.

This lit the fuse.

“Don’t you fucking talk to me!” she yelled. “You stupid bitch. Gay. Lesbian. Shut the fuck up! Fuck you!”

And she walked away yelling. Everyone on the busy Bloor street looked and kept walking. The ceramics lady said nothing else and just went back to her serene demeanour.

“Wow,” I said. “I saw the look on her face, too. She looked troubled. It was nice of you to ask if she was okay.”

Well, the murdered puppy lady clearly had good hearing. Because from about 20 feet away, she heard me, and circled back. Then she was in my face.

“Fuck you!! You shut the fuck up. You stupid Gay, Lesbian, Faggot! Fuck off!”

People are slowing down their walks to stay out of the situation, or walking around us. This is now a scene.

Okay, reader. I ask you. What would you do in this situation? 2017 me would probably have walked away or even apologized. But 2018 me is kind of a different kind of idiot. And I’m in a mode lately where I seem to quickly assess a situation and think ahead to my future self and ask “What would I like to have done instead?” – and I stupidly do it. If life is truly a ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’, well, I guess I choose adventure.

Which is what I did.

So I start yelling back.

“YAH! I am a Gay Lesbian Faggot! That’s right! You’re totally right! I’m all those things lady!! Gay! Lesbian! Faggot! Yup and proud of it!!!”

Now I’m the one making the scene. I think I read somewhere that the best way to deal with unhinged people is be even more unhinged than they are. But maybe that was how to deal with attacking bears in the wild? Hmmm.

Anyhow, she doesn’t know what to do. She’s stunned for a moment.

And that’s when it comes. The flying spittle.

She gives a really good build-up. She rears her head back and with a perfect sound-effects library worthy sound – ‘PITOU!’ – out flies the gob onto me. Onto my leg. Yes, she aimed for my leg. This was her mistake actually. If she was truly unhinged, she would’ve gone for my face or something. This is when I know I have her.

I know, I know. I’m recounting this and wondering who is the real weirdo in this story.

Anyhow, she turns and starts to walk away.

“Fuckin asshole. Don’t talk to me. Gay lesbian faggot!” she keeps yelling.

And 2018 Andrew keeps at it, yelling back.

“That’s right! You got it right, lady! Let it out!” I shout as she keeps going and she turns around and stands 15 feet away from me or so. We’re now just two weirdos yelling at each other on Bloor. “Let it all out!” I shout. “You’ll feel better! Let go of the anger!” as she continues her tirade.

So I add another element to my performance. I start to do yoga moves (I don’t even do yoga so I have no clue where this came from) where I hold my hands over my head in some kind of praying position and then move them down across my body and outwards like I’m releasing energy or something.

“It’s okay!” I shout as I close my eyes. “Let it all out! You don’t have to be angry! Release it! That’s right! You’ll feel better! It’s going to be okay!”

And she walks away briskly, showing that I won the battle of the unhinged. I should mention right now that there is a theory my sister and I have that there is a ‘Shimamori’ gene on my mom’s side (her Japanese last-name) that kicks in around middle-age and we go a bit bizarre. My Aunt has it. My Uncle has it. My mom clearly had it. My turn.

Anyhow, the show’s over and life returns to normal on Bloor Street.

I calmly go back to the woman selling ceramics and say to her “You’re a nice person.”

“Thank you” she says and smiles calmly.

And I leave.

Sometimes, you just have to let people get stuff out of their system I guess.

So ya, I got spit on.










Dec 2018 30

Page 51

Posted In Blog,The world


There is no wait longer than the wait for a book to actually get good.

It’s never a good sign when you still miss the characters from the last book you read.


note: protaganist just travelled to Africa, I am hopeful

Dec 2018 28

The problem with people who don’t drink alcohol is they’re like fucking vegetarians. They have to make everyone know that they don’t drink and make everyone feel bad who does.

And maybe I’m one of them now. Fuck.

Anyhow, I made it through my first Christmas Eve, Day, and Boxing Day, without touching the Devil’s Sweat. For me, a miracle along the lines of immaculate conception, but somehow did.

I pressed my luck last night with a visit to my favourite bar, and true to form, before I even had my coat off or said hello to anyone, the bartender had my usual goto drink placed on the bar in front of me – a double vodka soda with a slice of orange.

“Oh. Yikes. Thanks… but I’m not drinking tonight.”

During October, my sober month, I was on the rooftop of this establishment. So all the bartenders up there heard about my dalliance with sobriety (cause we fucking won’t shut up about it like Jehovah’s Witnesses). But for this bartender on the main floor, this was news.

With perfect comedy timing, he removed the orange slice and slid the drink down the bar to my friend. My new drink of choice, in case you’re wondering, is a Red Bull and Soda – in a glass it looks like the biggest tumbler of straight bourbon ever, by the way.

Non-drinkers are like Scientologists if you didn’t know. You don’t know where they are exactly, but you know they’re around, somewhere in the baseboards, and at any moment they could crawl out, reveal themselves to you when they know you’re one of them, and share their story.

And last night, the latest one did. The bartender.

“I haven’t had a drink since August, Andrew. And I feel fucking fantastic. I look younger. I feel younger. I’m sleeping better.”

Goddamn non-drinkers. They have to tell their story to everyone like they’re so fucking superior.

Or maybe they just need to remind themselves how far they’ve come and they don’t want to go back.

Day 19.


Dec 2018 27

I have encountered a lot of strangeness during this holiday season – there was the lady who spit on me and shouted obscenities, for instance – I’ll get to that one, but for now, just to get back into a bit of writing, I present my comedy failure at the X-Ray Clinic today.


So I went for an X-Ray.

Yup, finally decided to get my wonky left knee checked out by my Doctor last week. It doesn’t hurt all the time. Just going up stairs – which I avoid except in the subway stations cause the bottleneck on the escalator is just too much to handle – and it has to ‘crack’ when I’m riding bike before it feels fully functional. Which is probably how I screwed it up in the first place – one too many falls on the streets of Toronto. BTW, wondering if everyone has a dominant side when they fall off their bike? I always go left for some reason. Maybe to avoid the curb. Which is odd to think that falling into moving traffic is a better move than hitting my head on a curb. Ah, the choices we make when considering our best chances for survival.

Oh, you don’t have a dominant ‘falling’ side, because you stay upright on your bike, huh? Well, congratulations.

Anyhow, my Doctor’s theory is I fucked up my patella. He confirmed his hypothesis with some magic move squeezing down on my thigh/knee like a tube of toothpaste and I saw stars it was so painful. Seriously, I must have freaked out everyone in the waiting room cause I howled like Han Solo getting tortured in Cloud City.

So he sends me for an X-Ray. Which I went for today.

I am always amazed at the various personalities (or lack of) that you encounter in the healthcare professions. Personally, I like to joke around a bit. It’s a nervous habit, and also I feel for people who are working in a dark X-Ray clinic day after day.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Take off your pants and put this on.”

All business.

“Okay. Will do.”

So I grab the gown held out for me, enter the change room, and proceed to de-trouser. So there I am barely covered by the threadbare gown, my butt hanging out the back. But I am wearing a lovely new pair of plumb-coloured Calvin Kleins.

I emerge and say to the technician, while spinning around…

“Well, what do you think? Is it me?”

Her response, without any emotion on her face – disgust, amusement, or otherwise…

“Yes. It is still you.”

So, yah. I went for an X-Ray. And she saw right through me.




Dec 2018 22


“Ya, no one will be at the Eaton Centre after 7 tonight”


“Oh, lots of people at the Eaton Centre tonight. Wow.”


“No problem. I’m focused. Gonna grab the last things I need. Focused.”


“Gosh, I hate humans.”


“Oooh, Sbarro is still in the food court. Yum. Fuck this shit.”



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