What The Hell Am I?
“…it’s like my armpits are vomiting in your face.”
I recently moved to Toronto. I did so because I like the weather here during the summer. When I ‘high-five’ someone, it’s like my armpits are vomiting in your face. And the nice thing is, being in Toronto, I can walk down Church St. and find someone named Anton who’s “into that.” I also relocated to Toronto because I don’t like breathable air, safe streets or women without Chinese-symbol tattoos and piercings in their ‘special fun areas’. (I looked that up on the internets; have you seen the things they have on there!? I also managed to get a Dolce & Gabbana bejeweled iPhone slip cover autographed by Michelle Obama for two hundred and fifty dollars. I could have had it for a hundred if s_hawking21@nasa.gov wasn‘t such a little bitch…seriously, who‘s on their computer that often anyway?)
Observing those around me, I was stunned to come to the revelation that I, myself, am perhaps an unknown entity. Sure: short, fat, white and flaccid. But beyond the essentials from my eHarmony page, where do I fit in to this—and I don’t think they’d mind me saying this—freakish feces-stained garbage rectum with streetcars and the giant penis tower? Being around so many diverse and lively young people, I cannot help but ponder my own predicament.
Am I hip? Am I square? Am I Huey Lewis? Am I interesting? Does my ukulele playing mean I will never get laid? Does my face mean I will never get laid? Will I never get laid? Will my face never get laid? Does Huey Lewis have a face? So many questions. I do like vegetarian food, but I don’t really like rap music. I claim not to be motivated by materialism, but I don‘t have a purse dog either. Will anyone accept me!?
I’ve also noticed that in a metropolis such as this, it is necessary to have a swagger in your step, a self-image, a “film version” of yourself that you project to those around you. You know, just in case Ben Mulroney comes around the corner with a camera and makes me a star. Then I could meet Ashlee Simpson. She’s the one who was in the Parent Trap, dates ladies and made a sex tape with Kim Kardashian, right? Sometimes I think I could take up fencing and raise Tibetan snow dogs…but then I…tend to drift…in my thoughts…so it’s…cake…
There seems to be so much pressure on youngish people to “be all that.” Or am I only imagining this? Perhaps there is no “cool” any longer, if there ever was. Mostly, I guess the best we can hope for is that each one of us finds a happy medium between self-authenticity and peaceful integration within the social systems that are woven around us, and through us. And, of course, being in Toronto, I have to do all this in a hemp shirt with holes around the nipples while wearing sun glasses made out of the soft underbellies of llamas from Peru™. Wait, that’s completely ridiculous. That was so last season.
I may have come to this town as a naïve country boy with big dreams and a suitcase full of condoms. But I think I will one day leave this town as an enlightened global citizen with rich, vibrant memories and a suitcase full of condoms. To think one could ever sum up a place or a way of life with a cursory glance is a fallacy. You have to at least once wake up under the Don Valley Expressway with a hangover and burning questions about the nature of your sexuality. Then and only then can you peel back the layers around the delicate flower that is Toronto, that enigma wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in a puzzle, wrapped in intrigue, wrapped in a shawarma. And, like all those who have come before me, I’ve lost my keys at a nightclub. Can somebody help me? I have nowhere to sleep. Please help me. It is cold at night. I can’t get inside. I’m becoming scared, and I can’t shower or prepare my own food.
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Toronto with his dog Richard.
Don’t know too many hoboes that stay in Canada! You look like that American Idol judge Simon Scowl. Glad you got a dog for company! If you came to the USA you can get condoms for free from family planning centers. We hope you don’t become a global citizen. We got one of them kind with our President. We invite him to become a citizen of the Universe, and please leave our planet!
Breathable air is a bitch. It’s totally overrated. Good thing there’s people like hoboduke out there who are doing all they can to aid in it’s demise.
And I think ukes are just one of those things that are soo sexy it’s too sexy. Most girls are like, “whoa… I like sexy, but that’s just too much.” Especially if you wear the lama underbelly sun glasses while playing it.
thanks ricky-bobby jon doe, i think you’re probably right. and double thanks for commenting, lest i assume that laughable papa bear o’reilly fox news wingnuts were the only people commenting on my blog. strange that they never noticed my header features castro, trudeau & george carlin. you’d think that would give them a clue, no?
peace =)