The Urban Refugee

This past Monday I had the misfortune of attending a workshop that was “facilitated” by a lady named Barbara May. Without going into details, let’s just say that Ms. May managed to redefine the word “sucktitude” for me.

Anyhow…

One of the more memorable moments of the workshop (and those weren’t the ones that involved singling out a couple in the audience for “living in sin” or telling fellatio jokes to the wrong type of crowd) was the breakout session. We were all handed cards, each of which listed three values, and told to pick five cards that listed the values we cherished most. One card listed sensuality as a value. Seriously.

Sensuality a value? To Hugh Hefner, maybe.

“I was watching Oprah and a guest said that for every 35 lbs a man loses his penis becomes one inch longer.”

“Get out!”

“No, really. That’s what the doctor on the show said.”

“From now on I’m only going to eat celery.”

Can someone please explain to me why it is that Kentucky Fried Chicken, or KFC, if you will, can produce fried chicken that is downright orgasmic, but cannot deliver a side dish of comparable quality?

To say that KFC side dishes are disgusting is an understatement. Their potato salad is to potatoes what Jim Jones was to Kool Aid. Their coleslaw tastes like it has been used to recycle industrial waste. And the macaroni salad? Seeing it always brings to mind a segment I saw on Discovery Channel about the smegma buildup that uncircumcised men who don’t bathe properly are prone to.

What the hell?

Even the stuff KFC doesn’t outright screw up still borders on nasty. Their fries are flacid and greasy whereas their gravy smacks of oven cleaner. The desserts taste like little chunks of styrofoam with some sort of sugar secretion spread over the top, although I will grant a handful of them a limited visual appeal.

Maybe KFC should just sell chicken and partner with another company that provides everything else.

“Gaaah!”

“What?”

“Why are we watching Ben Mulroney when we have the Food Channel?”

“Because I haven’t changed channels yet.”

“Please do so.”

I know what Stephen Harper is really up to in Quebec. He’s going to help them build a firewall, and this is just the first step. I’m cool with that so long as Alberta gets a firewall, too.

…after the number of computer classes I’ve taught over the past seven years, that my fear of public speaking would have abated by now. Apparently not, although I’m gratified to see that it wasn’t reflected in the very positive feedback from the students this evening.

The romance about creativity and mental illness has come from the hard work of great artists struggling against the illness not giving into it. The best defense against the seduction that mental illness will make you creative, is to actually be creative. Please don’t give the disease that tried to kill me credit for my writing and painting.

Let me be clear that there’s no romance. I never want to dance that dance again. The more times your wheels go into that rut, the harder it’s going to be to get out. I dread nothing more than the next break, and am certain of nothing more than that there’s nothing positive for me in the psychotic state.

You can’t look a the paintings of Van Gogh, and other achievements of manic depressives without concluding that there are positive capacities associated with this illness. But those positives are as a result of fighting the illness rather than giving in to it.

What you do when you accomplish something is to say, “bugger off disease.” This disease is never your friend. — Mark Vonnegut

Quite.

I’ve always felt that women are like roads — the more curves they have the more fun they are to go for a ride on. At the very least a woman should be substantial. Y’know, something to grab on to. This probably explains my distrust of men who prefer to date the Ally McBeals of the world.

I’m convinced that men who chase flat-chested women are basically pedophiles. What they really want is to date a nine year old girl, but fearing arrest, they settle for the next best thing: an adult woman who looks like a nine year old. How much do you want to bet that Harrison Ford will drop Calista Flockheart the second her wrinkle cream stops working and the illusion is gone?

A man who will settle for anything less than a J-Lo sized booty is not one you want to leave your young daughter unattended around.

I’m taking posession of a mid-nineties Chevy Astro minivan next week. The van will be the spiritual successor to The S.A.W. and thus requires a worthy name. I’m too fried to think of one and am holding a naming contest for it. Feel free to submit your ideas in the comments. If I give the van your name I’ll send you a free print of the image of your choice from my photography site.

As far as names go, naming the new vehicle “The Starving Artist Van” is out as it is already taken. The S.A.W.’s name was actually me paying homage to the somewhat bedraggled van piloted by my friend and mentor, Larrie Thomson.

To those who inquired by e-mail, thanks for your concern, but the death of the station wagon wasn’t overly dramatic. It got me to work at the restaurant, but wouldn’t start when it was time to go home. A mechanic friend had a look and pronounced that the cams in the engine (along with a goodly number of seals) were shot. All that’s left now is to dispose of the corpse.

In other news, I’ve taken an indefinite vacation from the restaurant and have plans to take the van on a photo outing to Hoosier Saskatchewan next week where dead buildings and vehicles abound (Heaven, basically). I need some time with my camera to kick start my sense of humour as it seems to have atrophied over the past few months.

So… Any takers? I gotta buy a replacement for The S.A.W. (may it Rust In Peace).