Post Election Pot Pourris

This is an ad I saw in the Platonic section of the Vancouver Craigslist ads:

I am looking for a new party friend for Halloween. Must be willing to wear anything including and not limited to: female super hero, woman's clothing, jean shorts, fanny pack. It is okay to act a little gay but must not want D at anytime. Must be okay with wrestling matches and belt fights. Sleeping on couches is a must.

Finally must have access to a farm with tractors, chickens and goats.

Thanks for reading. Looking forward to my new party friend.

Roberto

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My friend Alison who recently moved to London, Ontario from Quatar sent me this photo (above) that she took yesterday morning of her back yard. That's snow!

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My sciatica is almost completely gone. I am so relieved and happy about that.

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My “recreational writing” is working. I am neither driven to do it nor concerned about its visibility, I am simply enjoying the process. I have CWD — Compulsive Writers’ Disorder. Writing is far more satisfying than reading. Reading fulfills my mind but writing is salve for the soul.

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I have always been good with de-acquisitioning. I love getting rid of stuff and having an uncluttered home—even all my cupboards, storage lockers and drawers are ordered. I love cleaning and organizing; it’s another benefit of mild, episodic OCD.

Well yesterday I opened my “memories box.” It’s a box wherein talismans from my life have gone: my rave review in Variety, a record I made, a game I designed, a few selected photos, school academic records etc., and I started throwing even them out.

Once, when a good friend died, he left everything to the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB) so their volunteers swept into Brad’s apartment to organize the conversion of all Brad’s assets into cash. They priced everything that was not discarded.

When I arrived to buy all Brad’s shoes, I was impressed with the work they had done. The TV and stereo equipment and all the high-priced stuff were in the living room where you entered. In the kitchen, they had bunched all his kitchen equipment into five-dollar boxes and it made me start to cry because each box contained over a hundred dollars worth of fine cooking equipment and I felt their pricing dishonored Brad and his passion for fine cooking.

I fled to the back porch to recover and there, below me spilling out of his garbage cans were all his photographs. Sobs ensued and I vowed that my most valued and personal possessions would not be similarly dishonoured.