Crimson and Conrad.

There must have been some sort of nuclear explosion within the living room, because it is a disaster. Dark stains litter the carpet. If a detective came wandering into this environment, he might suggest that a murder had occured at one point. The blankets that cover the sofa are now ripped apart, with chunks of cotton lodged between the cusions. A pizza that must have been left over from last week is now a piece of artwork, stuck on the wall. To the pizza's immediate right is a desk with a fish bowl turned upside down, miraculously with the water and fish still in place.

How this was done, I will never know.

The television that was given to me as a gift for Christmas two years ago is now a hollow shell containing books on Greek Mythology and Reader's Digest. The coffee table has been chopped up with an axe. I can hear the faint screams from my dead great-grandmother, who left this table for me in her will.

"Crimson, you son of a bitch. You know how much that antique table meant to me. I gave it to you because you were my favourite. You had better believe I am going to tell Oprah about this, if of course she doesn't already know. I will make sure you don't get into my house when it is your turn."

Crimson. You son of a bitch.
Oh, Granny. When will you ever shut up?

The only thing that seems to be in place is the painting of Conrad Black. With all the apparent wrongs with this living room, Conrad Black is the only thing that appears to be right. For this I'm thankful. Sometimes it seems that old Conrad is my only friend. He looks at me when no one else does. With all the disaster in this room, he keeps a faint smile. The kind of smile that says, "I know you, and you know me. We're both two peas in the same pod." This brings me more comfort than anything else. It is Conrad who I have been having more conversations with more and more these days. He listens. He interested in what I have to say.

Conrad Black abides.

The LTC Strike

Those tyrants. Those imbeciles! Those fat, donut-eating, coffee drinking slobs who drive the city buses have finally settled. And what did they settle for? That's a good question. Since it hasn't been in the news as much as it should be, I imagine they agreed to something different than what they went on strike for. With all of that, the question remains, why did you go on strike if you ended up short? It's like sliding into home base when you're still four feet short of the mound. Then you look like a complete moron for the attempt, and an even bigger moron/asshole for the finality of the "steal". You heard me right. The Steal was where it all began. These pricks thinking they had the ability to go on strike for something. Whatever that something was, it wasn't worth going on strike for because if it was, they would have gotten it. Wouldn't they? Of course.

Here's the real reason the London City Transit Commission decided to stop striking: it was simply getting too cold out there for them to continue their little game. They thought they would have the city at their knees, but we stayed strong. They thought their bitching and moaning would be heard by Christmas, but it was them who were at their knees. Praying while on frozen broom sticks that never melt. At the end, even their strike wasn't good enough for them. They buckled, they cried, they screamed. The whole thing was a joke, and it left the people in London with a very bad taste in their mouth.

I can't understand, in the current economic situation, how anyone would go on strike. I personally am not affected by the poor economy, but it is clear and evident that thousands (yes, THOUSANDS) of families in Ontario and Canada are below poverty level. There are families right now applying for low-rate jobs and making a quarter of what they were making two years ago simply because factories and organizations are being forced to either introduce mass lay-offs, or close all together.

So naturally someone who makes well over twenty dollars an hour whose job it is to simply drive a bus on a carefully organized route should go on strike. That is a slap in the face of every mother and father who are desperately seeking employment, and getting around the city by the best and most economically viable means necessary. If the people of London truly supported the bus strike, then there would not have been offers online for free rides on Kijiji to those who needed them. Why take the bus in the first place if you can get the ride for free? It was amazing to see the good will of our city.

I see a few options that the LTC can move on with in order to right the wrong of this completely unnecessary strike. To save the face of city bus drivers, the first thing in order is to admit that the strike was a farce. If they admit that they acted like children, then they might be able to grow up to respectful adults. Second, cut the bus fare down 75 cents. If it is cheaper to take the bus, more people will take it, and see that there is an aplogy for the inconvenience this whole mess caused. Parents who are out of jobs that would have picked up the bus driving responsibilities for half the wage will be able to afford taking the bus again. For the money everyone must have spent on taxis over the last two months, a cut in bus fare is not too much to ask. Third, before we even implement the cut in bus fares, the month of January should see a fare-free bus operating schedule. This will bring everyone back on board to taking the bus in the first place. Getting on the bus would be faster, and there would be less reason to say hello or acknowledge the same animals that decided to take the public transit system away from us temporarily in the first place.

Shame on the LTC. Shame on the union that exists for such unnecessary strikes to happen in the first place. In a city such as London, where the public transit system is so vital to our economy and well being, a strike never should have happened. City workers should feel humble and honoured to service the people who ultimately pay for their dinners and roofs over their head. It is our taxes that give them their pay cheque. The fact that the bus drivers of London, Ontario are also tax paying citizens should be enough of a wake up call that their strike was completely unnecessary, and the exact opposite of a just cause.

I don't know where sleep is needed in the course of the day. Perhaps your body needs it, but that could be a whole other story all together. On the weekend, where most people I know look forward to the idea of sleeping in, I wake up early. Sometimes I wake up even earlier than I do when I have to go to work in the morning. The idea of taking advantage of the whole day is very important to me. Opening your eyes at 7:30am and then closing them at 3:30am is a perfect example of this. I have no agenda. There is very little I actually need to do on any given Saturday or Sunday. Yet for my own personal comfort the desire to be awake is a necessary evil. I make some coffee, I lay down on couch (or sit in a chair), and simply ease into my day.

I have a partner upstairs who thrives on getting as much sleep as she needs. That's fine too. As long as you're getting what you want and what you need, you might as well do what feels right.

Could it all be about saving time? Adding a few extra days onto your life? I don't know. If I were to consider this, I would have to lean towards saying 'no'. I am not too concerned with living a long life. At least not a long life in terms of adding up the two extra hours I am awake on the weekends up, and seeing that I was awake for one full year longer than most other folks. Taking into consideration the fact that I do very little with those extra hours that I am indeed awake for would make it quite depressing about the fact that for the year I was up I did nothing with.


Indeed.

House Made of Glass

The one thing about all of these elements of communication now a days, is one's ability to scan photos and post them on an electronic medium of his or her choice. This rediculous program called Facebook is a perfect example of one such platform this can be done.

I have around one hundred and seventy friends on Facebook.

I think the essential idea of having a friend on Facebook is this: "Hey, at one point we knew each other. We may have even hung out and spent time together for a number of years. One day, we simply stopped calling. Now it's ten or more years later, I have found you, and it is of my general opinion that our friendship never ended. It was put on hold." I'm not sure how much further it might go than that, because I don't talk to the majority of my friends on Facebook. Yet when I go and look at some of the pictures that these people on my list have posted it amazes me how instantly I am brought back to the years in which I hung out with them.

I don't really know what happened. I think it must have been me, because I see a lot of the great and trustworthy people I used to surround myself with in these photos still hanging out with the same people. Perhaps it was my self fish pursuits as a drug dealer, trying to fit in with the under world as it were. My goodness, it sounds pathetic doesn't it? I pushed them away from myself. I thought I was cooler, and probably even better than all of them.

I gander through a lot of photos from the past and present; of these people who I used to know so well, hang out with so much, be so close to. They're all still together, probably doing the same thing. I wonder if they ever think what I'm doing...I wonder if they ask themselves, "Whatever happened to that Nathan Hill guy?"

I miss those days. Not in a yearning for the past kind of way, because I am perfectly content with where and who I am these days. I don't feel that I "blew it" in anyway. But I miss the days when I was in a band, when I went to those classic highschool parties. I miss all of the people who I see on Facebook in those pictures, both old and new. It is very interesting. Touching, perhaps.

It's nothing I feel sad about. Don't get me wrong. I just think it's important to consider this when I look at someone's picture and realize that these folks were genuine. They were, and most likely still are, the Real Deal. I was not. I was genuine, then became a monster. I became an asshole. I became a House Made of Glass. It took me a lot longer to know who I really was. I still don't know who I really am, but I know where I really am. I know who I am with now.

I think if I were to get together with any of these folks who are on my Friends list on Facebook that I could probably pick up where we left off. That there was a connection there so many years ago that would enable a connection to this day. These are people who I would love to introduce my wife to, as they knew me when she did not. They could tell her things about me that I wouldn't even know where to begin telling.

Perhaps the next time I come home, I'll phone up some of these people. It would be so nice, and I feel it would be important. To let these old friends know that I'm still alive. We're all still alive.

A Child...

This afternoon I treaded along with my partners in crime along different sideways and backlanes of my youth. We visited East Floral Beach, which is the location of the Hill Family Camp. The Compound, perhaps, if that's what you want. I can see myself as a four year old boy running around the camp.

There I am right there, but just barely.

A child swimming along the shores of a bitter cold Lake Superior. Fearless, and curious. He swims towards the beach that his grandparents spend every waking moment of their lives keeping clean. There's a dock that extends out in the water, not too deep though, and he moves on up to the stairs. The sun reflects purity in his eyes, water dripping off his ribbed chest. He runs around the storage garage, and on to the front lawn of his family camp. This child has cousins who are building a sand castle, and he runs over to join them.

He jumps from the grass, free in mid-air, and onto the soft sand. It's one of the greatest feelings in the world, and he knows it. There's nothing like warm sand underneath bare feet. He looks up towards the green camp, and his aunts and uncles are enjoying a beverage under the umbrella of the patio furniture. They yell his name, ask how the water was, but he ignores them. It's sand castle time.

Using buckets is essential when putting together a masterpiece, especially if there is some sort of indent design of flowers or animals in it. This group of cousins, as young as they are, could very well have grown up to be architects. The sand castles are beautiful. there's a moat, and sticks out of the top of each castle.

The child who is me that I can see in my memory is excited. He is happy to be with his cousins, to be with his aunts and uncles, to be with his grandparents, to be with his parents. It is summer, and it is warm. He is ready to go up to the deck, where a towel waits for him to use. I can see this child, clearly, but just barely...