Author: Nic Olson

Weren’t the biographies of all great men filled with this same kind of youthful groping, this same kind of rebellion against their fathers and their father’s ways? He could even be grateful in a sense that he had no particular area of interest: in avoiding specific goals he had avoided specific limitations. For the time being the world, life itself, could be his chosen field.

-Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road

A friend recommended the book ‘Revolutionary Road’ by Richard Yates not long ago. I read it in a week. Books rarely are swallowed this easily for me, even my favourites. I wouldn’t consider this a favourite by any means, but I would give it the recommendation to any one of my dearest friends, similar values or not. Any book touted by K. Vonnegut or J. Close is something to be taken seriously.

I don’t even know how to write an article in the standard form anymore. So much of my writing has been in such an informal setting since high school that when I try to write a real formatted essay to prove to myself that I am just as good as those nerdbags at Concordia I just can’t do it. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe the world needs less formal, traditional, forced literature and more random bullshit like this. The idea still gets across, I hope, just in a less deliberate and organized way.

I read a chapter of one of the Twilight books once. I heard that it was truly bad writing, like I heard they were truly bad movies. I watched the first one, alone, in my parents house one night. Could’ve been worse. Then I read the first chapter of the second book, and that was worse. Worst. It is nice to know that although people can make lifetimes of money writing about vampire sex, there are people who can write books about real relationships in an honest way, and make it relevant for fifty years. That’s this book.

Reading has been my best friend for the past two or three weeks. I would recommend to you, that even if you have friends, school obligations, addictions to hockey, that you should read something of your choice for your own pleasure and self-expansion. Read this book. Quit your job. Move to France.

‘Now you’ve said it. The hopeless emptiness. Hell, plenty of people are on to the emptiness part; out where I used to work, on the Coast, that’s all we ever talked about. We’d sit around talking about emptiness all night. Nobody every said ‘hopeless,’ though; that’s where we’d chicken out. Because maybe it does take a certain amount of guts to see the emptiness, but it takes a whole hell of a lot more to see the hopelessness. And I guess when you do see the hopelessness, that’s when there’s nothing to do but take off. If you can.’

-‘John Givings’, Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road

Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.

-Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road

It is the last week of September. The older you get, the faster the days. Sure, I’m not old, but lately days pass faster than coffee through a senior. I have a healthy 23 hours until I start school on Monday. Seven and a half hours of that will be spent asleep. Four hours of it will be spent at the Bell Centre. Half of an hour of it will be spent eating bagels. I can make lists like this all day to put a gap between me and the things I don’t really want to do. When you’ve got a job or go to school or do anything in this world, you have little choice but to rely on time and its strict structure. Even if you don’t let time bother you, you will still abide by its rules so that you make the hockey game in time, or don’t get fired from your job, or know how long you sat on the toilet for. I’ve got a calendar on my computer that is full of dates, organized by colours, and updated until time infinity. I often try to imagine my calendar without the grid, just numbers and events and dates, but not in list form, in floating form. It is nice. Imagine the week without these formulas for time and it could be liberating. Wake when the sun rises. Eat when the body yearns. Learn when the mind asks.

But there is always something comforting about powering through a week so that a Thursday feels almost rewarding, and it almost feels good to ‘measure and apportion’ the days and months and years, even of a fictional manmade system such as time. A calendar was invented to give fools the belief that there is something big that they control, can manipulate, and gives an endless source of comfort, however imaginary it may be.

My birthday will highlight my 9th month of being here. I can look back on the 270 odd days and remember a lot of things, but the grids and the lists and the schedules aren’t what I’ll remember, and they aren’t even what made it happen.

I don’t remember the exact occasion, but one time last year I was in Saskatoon, at my brother’s house, staying over after a show or something. What I do remember is that he left for work in the morning, and I was leaving for Regina a few hours later. My mind was preoccupied with the task of trying to scrounge some food out of his bacon and beer filled fridge, of trying to get out of that damned city as fast as possible, and trying not to forget anything so that I didn’t have to return any time soon. I did my business and headed out the door. Several hours later my brother sent me an email, cursing me out for not knowing how to flush a toilet…

Every other day I am struck with the overwhelming fear that I forgot to flush the toilet before I left the house. It hits me like it hit Mrs. McCallister on the plane when she realizes that she left her son, Kevin, Home Alone! on Christmas, and my face probably looks like that of Macaulay Culkin on the cover of the VHS when the realization hits me. I close my eyes tight and go through the motions of my morning, trying to remember if I heard a flushing of running water while picking my nose in front of the mirror and washing my hands. Only once has this been confirmed to be true, and it was at my brothers house. He didn’t discover it until he was done work. Killer prank.

A few years ago my sister told me that when you flush the toilet, poo particles shoot up from the bowl eight feet in the air, and that you are supposed to store your toothbrush in a drawer, or else you are brushing your teeth with a utensil that might as well have been used to check for prostate cancer. Since this day I have put the lid down when I flush, because if I do that, I don’t have to hide my toothbrush. I use that thing rarely enough, that if it is cached away in a drawer I would use it even less, if that is possible. I mean, if someone would have taught me how to use the toilet properly in the first place when I was four years-old, I probably would have done already. It is much easier to forget to flush when you put the lid down and can no longer see the bomb that you need to send shooting as far away from human exposure as possible. I would also say that I only push the metal flapper one out of every three times I urinate, depending on its exact hue, amount, how often I have been going, or if it is my place or not. Unless your pee is toxic and glowing green like the ooze from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2: Secret of the Ooze, it is irresponsible to use five gallons of water to rid a liquid you can use to cure Athlete’s Foot. There are also many toilets in the world that flush themselves based on a small motion sensor behind the seat. These don’t help anything, especially when the flush prematurely and become like an impromptu bidet.

Because of these habits, as well as my slight obsessive compulsive disorder, I regularly go through the days worried that I forgot to put a finger on the plunger and it gives me a sick feeling in my stomach until I obsess over something else, or until I come home and don’t get persecuted by one of the three girls I live with. It has yet to happen, but I fear the day is not far off.

I considered using a picture of a toilet between each paragraph here, because I do have a lot, and maybe the sight of so many of them would maybe burn the habit into my mind. I have learned to close the fridge door from months passed, and I am sure I can train myself to flush the toilet.

Potty training at 21 years. It is a fine age we live in.
Two bathroom posts in a week.  It is fine literature we read.

‘There have been reports of stray dogs, stagnant water, workers urinating in public, and human feces being found at the unfinished village where the athletes will live.’

…Indian officials defended their record.

“Please try to understand … They want certain standards of hygiene, they want certain standards of cleanliness, which may differ from my standard,” said Lalit Bhanot, spokesman of the Delhi organizing committee.

-courtesy of Yahoo! News

I love this quote.

I have several problems with the world, as you may well have noticed. I don’t know what to do with them, as you also may well have noticed. The celebration of the past, current and future oppression of the British Empire in a sporting event, the Commonwealth Games, is one of those things. Had they known what the Empire has been reduced to today, I believe those who were oppressed by the Empire in the past would be saying something like this: ‘If I would have known that their plot to take over the world was actually aimed at a future sporting event of exclusivity, then I would’ve totally seen what they were trying to achieve, rolled over and let them use my culture as a stepping stone to greatness.’

My standard of hygiene differs greatly from that of my mother, but it doesn’t mean we couldn’t live together for twenty years. If shit on the ground is a health concern enough to make them shut down an international competition, then they better close down two thirds of the earth, as well as all the homes of those with children under two years old. Poop flies everywhere.

And as usual, as the country falls apart, as trains crash and people drown mere miles away, we worry about if snobby amateur athletes are seeing locals pee in the alleyway, or seeing a dog run across the street. I truly hope that all the athletes can triumph over their impossible living situations for the five days that they compete in the most important of world events. If our Canadian athletes can survive stagnant water and unpainted dorms, then they will come home champions even if there is nothing hanging around their necks. True world champions.
God save the Queen.

Dreamer, circa 2007

Dream come true, circa yesterday. Still a nerd.

Apple loaf. Housewife material.

Apple Crisp. At least not having any friends means that I can bake every other night. Food is better than friends usually anyway.

Jerms the Body /
Mr. Olson the Professor /
The Oldest Man I Know

The winner receives a blog devoted to their name. Although the prize may not be very good, and most people would likely rather not win, it is the prize I decided, and it is the prize that will be given. The 1111th comment, however, will indeed receive an actual prize, if that day ever comes.

Jeremy Alan Olson has been my brother for nearly 22 years. He is the one in the photo who isn’t a woman over forty, or a man with his hand on his hips. He is the one flipping you off. He has taught me about good music, tennis and hockey and ping-pong, told me to never smoke cigarettes, and later gave me my first RedMan chewing tobacco, taught me about humility and pride, coached me in football, was my counsellor at camp, and he called me obese for the first twelve years of my life. We were walking in downtown Toronto when I was maybe nine years old, and there was a delivery van with the name ‘Fat Angel Bistro’ on the side. He told me that this must be owned by me, and poked me in the stomach, although he didn’t even know what a bistro was, and had to ask dad. Our relationship has been based on insulting comedy, testicle hits and competition since then. I still regularly beat him in ping pong, crokinole, MarioKart and especially Super Baseball 1.000. The rivalry lives.

Big brothers always have the tendency to be assholes, and I likely hated Jeremy up until he left for boarding school in grade eleven, but these days he’s alright. Now, seeing him only a few times a year, I often wish that he didn’t live in Canada’s worst city and lived closer to wherever I am at the moment. He’s got a legitimate job as a science genius and worked hard for it, and I respect this a lot. Good blogs aren’t for feelings or sentimentality, but he’s an alright brother, taught me exactly how to be an alright brother, and is the greatest nearly thirty year-old that I know.

Last summer we came to Montreal to watch Rogers Cup tennis. After a perfect week of food, sports, music and walking, he told me that I should move to Montreal, date this girl, and go to hockey games. So I did. I guess he’s pretty wise after all.

Thanks Jerms. If I grow up to be as old as you, I hope to be half as cool, rich, bearded, level-headed and decent as yourself. Here’s to my oldest brother, the 1000th contributor to this fair forum. Feel free to slander the winner via my blog. If the 1111th comment is slander of Jerms, you get a double prize.

Love you, brother.

When I was in grade seven, a punk rock tour called SnoJam came through town for the fifth or sixth or seventh time. I don’t even remember who was on the bill, ask someone older, but it was big news.  Big news on a Tuesday night, and not all grade sevens get the privilege of weeknight shows, or the privilege of living in the city, so sneaking out would even be an option. So I didn’t go. That’s why I don’t remember who was on the bill. I was later left admiring the photos my brother took from the show of Davey Havok, and of Pete from Sick of it All, and I still remember these like I was there. But I wasn’t.

Later that year in art class we were learning how to paint old Chinese style flowers complete with a wise proverb. Mr. Ochitwa taught us how to use the brush naturally to make the flowers with watercolours, and how to write each letter of the English alphabet, Chinese style, so we could neatly write down our wisdom for the years. He gave us a list of ancient Chinese proverbs we could use, or he encouraged us to think of our own. I painted several flowers, all intertwined, with many thorns and painted the words, ‘Don’t be a prick in the roses.’ It was grade seven, I was different, really into Sick of it All, still angry, puberty-free, and the words seemed perfect for the project. I finished the painting, ran it by the peaceful and spiritual Mr. Ochitwa, but he wasn’t feeling it. He said something along the lines of how it didn’t flow with the general idea of serenity for the painting, or something wise like that. He was incredible. So I painted another, used a silly three-thousand year old Chinese Proverb, probably got a B- on it, and kept the other painting for myself.

Until yesterday, I hadn’t got to see Sick of it All. They’ve been touring for more years than I’ve been alive, and that still blows my mind. And although our education system has depleted to the point where people don’t know the shape of a circle, because anyone who knows the shape of a circle should know how to enjoy a circle pit, it was a good to finally see them. I still feel like I’m in grade 7, not only when I’m watching bands from my time spent then, or thinking all about the good times I had pre-armpit hair, but each and every day. The only difference now is that I can’t afford shows that I go to, whereas before I somehow could afford shows I couldn’t go to. I stood at the show with a heartburn that would rival a 50 year old man in a touring punk band, but I felt like I was twelve, what with all the middle-aged men in the crowd. My physical ailments make me feel half a century old. My music enjoyment and everything else makes me feel like I’m 14. I feel old, but I’m not. My body is confused. Just as much as my mind.

Michael Scott: “What do you call a buttload of lawyers driving off a cliff?”

Lawyer: “A good start. And I believe it’s ‘busload.’”

Michael Scott: “Yeah, a bunch of rich lawyers took the bus. [To Jan] Where’d you find this guy?”

I have been in a war since February. It is only now I realize why people told me to stay out of it. But I haven’t. I have been in an actual serious legal issue since a month after I moved here, and I brought it on myself. I have refrained from speaking about it on the internet for obvious reasons, and will continue to do that, until I write a book about it, finally exposing the world for the pile of shit that it is. If ever you have the choice to partake in the legal system in anyway, avoid it. For the good of your health, the world, your children, your time, your sanity. Avoid it.

The truth is obvious. The sooner we realize that we are all being passed around, used as ingredients in a recipe by the higher powers, the sooner we can make a play against it, and actually be the free people we think we are. I am inevitably going to come out from this entire situation more knowledgable than before, but at a definite cost.

I try to love people until I meet an actual lawyer. Scum of the earth.
I think I love children until I spend more than ten minutes with one.
I think I want a dog until I step in its shit.
I think I want to make a difference until I get there. I can’t even tell if I am doing the right thing anymore. When that happens, it is probably best to just bow out. But in this situation, I feel like that would do more harm than good.

Let’s see what happens. Here’s to hoping I live to tell the tale.

Every war waged, only kings emerge unscathed.
-Propagandhi, Name and Address Withheld

Over four years of being one of the internet’s most relevant web pages, there have been hundreds of comments from friends, the odd stranger, and the semi-often spam robot. We are nearing 1000 reader comments.

Blogging is a needy habit. I basically sit here and keep my eyes tied to the graph given by WordPress. Every climb, my triumphant days.  Every fall, my depression. Below twenty in a day constitutes for a depressing day. Above forty is acceptable. Above sixty is great. The day I had the most viewers, 138, was the day I wrote about a cat, and what I should name it. I have found that when I talk about things that have absolutely no worth in the world, like the names of cats, photos of football, and words about urinals, more people visit my site than ever before. My readership is very highbrow.

I’ve always wanted to post something and ask/demand that whoever read it would leave a comment, just to see who actually read it, not just skimmed it. Just like on exams in highschool when teachers would put something tricky in the instructions, like, ‘If you’ve read this, put a +1 in the top right corner of this page, and you will get 1 bonus mark!’ because usually no one read the instructions. I could make a good teacher after all.

The 1000th comment will receive a prize of my choice, at the time of my choice. I assure you, this is no small deal. You will be immortalized. The 1111th comment, a bit further down the road, will receive an actual prize of my choice, and by the time that rolls around, the prize might actually be ready.

If you’ve stuck with me, I congratulate you. It can only go up from here. We hope.