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At 9:10am I called David at Paterson Auto. I had 4 hours of sleep the night before, and my enthusiastic salesman voice usually takes a good two hours to lube up properly to be able to butter the bread of my opponents/clients. I pitched David, like I get paid to do. I pitched him so half-assed that I thought there was no way he’d be interested in our service, which was my plan. But he promptly sent a fax of his information over, as I indirectly tried to convince him not to.
‘Don’t change, David. Stay naive and unsuspecting, it will do you good.’

I had a list on paper of ‘manual leads’ because our ‘legitimate’ ‘business’ couldn’t even have the one thing that is necessary in a call centre: calls.  I had Toy Stores in Alberta. I kept calling, desperately hoping that no one would answer the phone, and if they did, to be having a bad enough day or a perceptive enough mind to tell me to piss off. I was always surprised at the kinds of people that answered the phone at locally owned toy stores. Often old prickly men or women, with a raspy smokers voice probably wearing paint stained sweatpants with the aura of breakfast grease and cigarettes surrounding them. I called a man, a different man named David. We can call him David-2. He owned a Teddy Bear store. My sister once worked at a Teddy Bear store. I can’t think of any store in the world that could be considered more useless. I semi-pitched him, as I did to David-1. But this man laughed. Out loud. For several seconds, and I laughed with him. He told me we were a scam, and I told him I knew that. He told me to get an ethical job. And I told him I will.

Today my choice was to either Moron or Hypocrite. Moron, because leaving a job that easy is foolish. I need a job, because I need money, because I don’t live at home anymore. Hypocrite, because staying at a job that backwards, opposes what I feel is proper or principled. I was skeptical from day one (paragraph three, sentence five). For a while I thought I could choose neither, I could put off the choice for a week or two, siphon in the funds and do nothing until I got canned. I eventually started putting people on the company’s Do Not Call List, which apparently does nothing but delay another call by a week. I began to tell people that their rates were fine where they were. I embarked on a three day journey of trying to bring down the system from the inside. But then I got a fax from David-1, and talked to David-2, and that was the end of it.

I chose moron. I usually do.

I love quitting jobs. It is one of my favourite things to do. That feeling of liberty from a system you are forced into is a special feeling, paralleled only by free real love and/or free real DQ. But this time it wasn’t the same. Possibly because every other time I quit a job was to open the door for travel, school or a new job. This time I had nothing to open the door to. Except the desperate search for new employment. Or maybe it was that I didn’t actually get to quit, but had to do so through my hiring agency, and they told my boss for me. I didn’t have the satisfaction of packing my things and leaving in front of everyone, acting all self-righteous because I knew things they didn’t and my conscience did not allow me to perform after this gained knowledge.

I sat outside my building after I quit, leaning against the department store window, with water dripping on my head from above and snow dissolving into the sidewalk. And similar sentiments re-echoed from week two (paragraph two, sentence one). I listened to Good Riddance, as I rode the #24 bus right back home, to help solidify that I made the correct choice. This is what I heard.

‘There is a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious. Makes you so sick at heart, that you can’t take part, you can’t even passively take part. And you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus and you’ve got to make it stop. And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you’re free, the machine will be prevented from working at all.’ – Mario Savio

A man wearing a Red Sox hat and Yankees hoody at the same time.

Obama saying, ‘Thank you Satan.’

Cracking a Great Western riding alone on the city bus. It wasn’t me.

Seeing who can ride down a tube of ice on a sled, head first, the fastest.

The peculiarity of human beings waiting at a bus stop or metro station, having the idea that constantly looking down the street or tunnel will make the bus or train arrive sooner. Will slow down time. Will delay the inevitability of lateness.

The newness of Google Buzz. I want to join it so that I can be the person sending constant emails saying, ‘Nic has invited you to join Google Buzz! Check it out now!’ and feel like I’m ahead of the game while everyone deletes their Facebook accounts and shifts their lives to a new network of communication.

The peculiarity of human beings waiting on the main floor for an elevator going up. When the light ‘ding’ sound is heard and everyone’s necks jerk up and eyes dart, looking for the green arrow, and bodies funnel into the small steel box, and no one says a word because the office life has taken the pleasantness out of simple pleasures like elevators.

The idea that giant companies that are run by banks which are giant companies, still see it necessary to take complete advantage of small business and regular human beings, and do so completely legally. And the the fact that the idea of fair business is something that has to be worked for and not something that is common place and natural.

I’ve enjoyed month number one of life number two. Or possibly life number three or four. Each time you move, it’s a new life I think. I enjoy watching people, and the way things are done in a city or in a different person’s life. And as you can see from my above observations, that there has been ample amounts of observing. And sufficient amounts of life wisdom gained. And more than enough public transit time spent. Basically everything I’ve done here has been completely brand new and original which is maybe inevitable in a new city. After over a month of life, two jobs quit (almost), an old lady, a visit from those out west, two months of rent, thousands of dollars in groceries, and millions of seconds watching humans act like people, I am happy I’m here. But am excited for the next steps.

The world is a mind warp.

For the past x amount of years that Family Day has existed it has been my favourite holiday. The perfect holiday doesn’t impose beliefs of religion or nationalism. The perfect holiday that has more purpose than a day of labour or a day of turkey. A holiday that is too youthful and too local to have been corrupted by any outside force. I had an entire Family Weekend. Brews and food and hockey. Shared with family. They don’t celebrate Family Day in Quebec, so I called in on Friday, my own personal sick/family day. Then on Friday I got a call from work today telling me that I didn’t have to work on Monday. Double Family Day weekend.

This year, the biggest crock of a ‘holiday’ happened the day before Family day, and was celebrated by millions of pressured losers. You are a republican if you celebrate Valentines Day. That is what I learned this weekend. And tonight at Cinema Politica at Concordia University, I surrounded myself with a hall full of people that were about the furthest thing away from republican as you can get, but they still couldn’t get along. I guess the left wing hates Valentines Day, but they also hate each other.

It seems backwards that stat holidays are created because we don’t get enough days off. That the government creates holidays so that we all don’t lose our mother loving minds. It seems backwards that there must be laws about how much you work and what represents too much work, because although work sucks no matter what it is, the fact that it is bad enough to force the government to regulate how much we do of it seems backwards. We should be working at things we love with people we love. I spend 8 hours a day sitting with people who share no common interests and with people who want to see me ragged on the street (he got fired this morning) and I only get to spend a few hours daily with people I actually like. And we accept this as inevitable. Holidays should feel like chores because we love our jobs so much. Our families should maybe get more than one day a year to be celebrated. Work is work and I’ll do it until I die but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be happy about it. But it also doesn’t mean that I’ll hate my life either.

Cash money. Family Matters. Fam-lintines Day.

After a month of a new city, I was worried that I hadn’t made any new friends. I had obviously met people, but had I met anyone that actually had a desire to spend time with me, I didn’t know. I was the friendly one night stand that everyone loved to talk about.

‘That guy from Saskatchewan who is so mysterious and dreamy, but could I start a long-term friendship with him, I just don’t know.’

Then I went to the best bar in town last night to watch hockey and I saw a few people that I think wanted to see me. Along with some old time friends in town for the weekend, here to revel in the glory of a game two victory, there were a few new people that weren’t just in it for the sexy times, but for the hard times too. Then I went to a fundraiser show afterwards, where basically everyone else that I have met in this city was there, enjoying the soothing blends of guitars, beers, banana bread and brownies. There were people who I knew, who knew me, and who wanted to spend time. I may have found people who don’t just want me for my body…

But on Thursday, before I found out friends, I found out hatred. A call centre is an interesting place. It is actually the most absurd place I’ve ever worked. The egos and the vibes and the suits and the lack of recycling bins and the brainwashed employees thinking they are making a difference; it all throws me off pretty hard. I literally shake my head and cuss to my cubicle when I hear sales pitches or notice colleagues talking to their computers with hand emphasis and eyebrow raises, as if their fifteen inch Dell screens were human beings with eyes, minds or emotions. One thirty two year old sitting behind me, who I was sure was 19, kept asking the girl next to me some pretty personal questions. He kept on this way for a few days, cackling after every ‘joke’ he told, or every comment he made. I don’t want to sit here and complain about a human being, but he is number two on the list of coworkers that I’d like to run over with a zoomboom or strangle with a telephone headset cord. Later I asked the girl quietly if she wanted me to tell him to back off because she was too nice to do it herself. She said, yes, please. Chivalrous as I am, I asked him if being creepy and obnoxious has gotten him girls in the past. And for some reason after that he wanted to fight me. We went through the day like business men, he threw a few ‘subtle comments’ my way, and I thought that would be it. But after work he followed me onto the street so he could talk to me. Things got real, he wanted to stab me, I walked away and told him to have a good night. I’m making all kinds of friends.

So this weekend is devoted to old friends in new settings.
Because new friends are great, but they still may want me for only my body.
Because work friends are great, but getting stabbed the day of your second live Habs game isn’t my dream.

My mom bought me a ‘French for Dummies’ compact disc set, so I could learn basic French. I don’t think there is a human being that has had the will or ability to finish an audio language guide since they were invented and instituted in vinyl format. Impossibly boring and possibly ineffective. But practice nonetheless. So I enrolled in French courses, beginning March 3 I have no life from Monday to Thursday for two months. Not that I have a life on those days anyway. But every time some nighttime commitment arises, all that I can think about is how many hockey games I will miss. Not how much money I would make. Nor how many new words I could speak. But how many goals I’d miss. And how many memories I wouldn’t make.

As an Anglophone I was lucky enough to find two jobs in two weeks. Montreal is Montreal, and English speaking jobs exist, but usually only for the bilingual, although that seems backwards. The first job I didn’t need to speak any language, as Marius spoke through hand signals, ‘whoooop-dee-doo’ whistles and hip thrusts. The second job requires a special English that highlights all the hawker vocal tones and cringeworthy jargon that shouldn’t even be a part of any self-respecting language. Oh I forgot, English has no dignity.

So I am learning French. Which I’m sure has it’s downfalls with reasons to be respected. The lady conducting my French class assessment asked me in French if I have studied her language in Saskatchewan, and wondered if we ever use French in Saskatchewan. I replied with a soft ‘No’ and laughed to myself thinking of friends back home cursing the fact that the national anthem was being sung half in French during the Grey Cup where Saskatchewan was playing the league’s French team. Or when someone told me that they didn’t like me anymore because I was moving to Quebec. Gravelbourg, is all I’ve got to say.

I think my French teacher would understand if I took the odd self led class at Primetime to learn the proper way to conjugate the verb shoot (tirer: tire, tires, tire, tirons, tirez, tirent?).

Language is still exhausting, and being here with the lack of knowledge I have makes me feel more like a fool than ever. I have already met dogs and one year old children that have a better grasp than I. Being bilingual or multilingual is something that is important to me. But looking like a complete ass is something that is not important to me. So I’m going to have to make some concessions on either end. I look like a fool everyday anyway, so I guess I know where I’ll concede.

I worked at the Bell Centre. Now I work downtown (centre-ville) in a call centre attached to the Eaton Centre. Thanks to some friends, via another friend, I noticed this. I am very very centred.

At lunch break I read in the Eaton Centre, and for proper reading focus I place small plastic buds into my ears and play instrumental and classical music, so the words of the page are not compromised by the words in the ears. I sometimes try to read without electronic music, and focus on the noon-hour hum of the food court masses four floors below, but I am distracted by the imagination creating conversations between coworkers enjoying a plastic plate of Kojax, or the lonely screen touching by a Nintendo DS addict and his RPG. So to properly catch the wit of Fyodor Pavlovitch I centre myself around Brahms. I centre myself on being a pompous ass, as you may have noticed with that previous sentence.

I am centred on a vision of the now. Sometimes my centre is warped and a vision of the future occurs, and my actual centre is compromised, and things get dizzy. I sometimes think that I moved here to be the centre of attention. So people at home, or people living regular lives would think,
‘That Nic is a real wanderer.’ or,
‘Nic, really needs to find his way (his centre).’
So that I could look at these people and either think to myself,
‘That is right, I’m living the dream.’ or,
‘My centre is perfectly found, thank you.’ Craving to be the centre of something is natural, but needy. And I don’t think that being the temporary centre of people’s minds was the centre of my plan.

When the centre cannot hold. I don’t know what my centre is, so I don’t know if it is holding or not. But I am learning more about who I am, so maybe my centre is not holding so well. Now to find exactly what is not holding, then I’ll know what my centre is, and what is causing me to be here in this way.

Centre. Center. Damn.

I just ate at Steve Pizza. It’s not Steve’s Pizza, it is Steve Pizza. I am dizzy and nauseous, completely sober, thanks to my devoutness to the idea that all my spare change should be promised to pizza. The values that are ‘pizza change’.

A struggling ‘human’ moves to a new city. He gets a job with poor pay, late night hours, wet conditions. He then gets a job with improvements in all distinctions. But an institution he does not share values with, about money, honesty and loyalty. He wants to leave, he needs the money. He wants to stay in the city, he needs his morals. What the hell does he do?:
I talked with a man named Ajoy from Alberta, at work, and I heard of a business going bankrupt, in legal battles with giant corporations, struggling for life. Indirectly caused by a free ‘service’ offered by my company. I should’ve quit that day.

The next day, with job termination weighing heavily on the mind, I entered the dark chamber-like cubicles to the relentless thud of GaGa. The same day, some men of the folk (Chuck Ragan, Tim Barry) were scheduled to play to a sold out crowd, so decided to play another show at the neighbouring bar two hours earlier, with only twenty tickets available at the door. I knew this. I knew this when colleagues talked about dance floors and R&B playlists and getting faxes. It was either ‘quit and enjoy’, or ‘work and hate’. I did neither and still got to close my eyes and hear fury and soul scratched out of the throats of punk legends. It was 4pm, and I was going to leave either way, my boss decided I could go before I could self terminate.

I’ve never been swayed by a paycheque before, but I have been swayed by the prospect of not being able to afford living in a place that I want to be able to live in for sometime. So I stayed, and I need to quit. I need to change it. I’d rather be poor and without pizza change than be morally bankrupt. I’d rather be Ajoy himself, than be what caused his plight.

The lady that hired me told me that with my morals I am never going to be able to work at any company in the world.

And the job search re-continues.

A number of people have told me that I’m doing a good thing being here. I still haven’t figured out why.

I look down upon those getting an education, because the process doesn’t work for me. But as I sit upon the saddle of my high horse of business and look down my nose at those whose noses are wedged in the spines of textbooks, I am jousted in the ribs by my opposing ideals, knocking me back down to the dusty ground of reality. At lunch breaks and coffee breaks I sit alone reading Russian literature on a marble bench on the fourth floor of the Eaton Centre and wonder whether this is where I need to be. Whether my ideas of the education system, or the system of business are all wrong and I’m just wasting my time, as if there were entry level jobs that weren’t the same thing.

But ; I am not in any way regretting my decision to start new. I love it here. I’ve started relationships that are authentic, I’ve learned immense amounts about actual human beings, but confusion is still striking. I haven’t solved everything I want to solve. I haven’t figured out all of life’s problems, which is why I continue to bitch and complain. Because one or two aspects of my life have improved, but there is still the unanswered questions, which weigh on me. Not that I believed a new location would answer my questions or solve my grievances with humanity.

Maybe it is good that I am here so I can be myself. Finding one’s self is not a process of actual searching for something, but a process of being in places or situations or mindsets that allow you to be yourself.  And maybe that is something I’ve got. And maybe the rest will come naturally.

Two people yesterday told me they were going to report me to the RCMP. Just for asking them how their day was and if they wanted to take advantage of a free offer that would allow them to save twenty to thirty percent on their merchant processing statements in the upcoming two years or so. What did I do wrong?

My friend got a ticket for taking her skates on the metro without any skate guards. $15. Keeping our public transit safe.

My boss got a ticket for jay walking. $47. Taking down the bad guys.

New! Today, while enjoying lunch sitting on the floor in a secluded mall hallway, the security guard came and told me not to sit on the ground. Picking up the trash, I guess.

Every other day I come home to a convoy of police vehicles, blocking off certain roads, erupting from underground tunnels, bombarding local ears with the song of fraudulent protection. Tax dollars well spent on dead heads that can drive cars fast and write bilingual fines.

They should have a new police force, forcing the police to police with less force. And farce. They should also have a new police force that enforces character; that enforces a law system of producing less brain dead money lovers and selfish creatures, and if you don’t comply with the laws laid down, you go to a isolated detainment centre where at least half of a brain is given to you, through surgically designed machinery.

That would be a program worth investing in. Where the police would give you a $15 ticket for neglecting to offer your bus seat to an elder fellow transitee. Where speed radars could be installed to send a notification to those who are constantly rushing through the days and never actually considering the day as something more than a page in a day timer. Where the program was designed to create better humans, and not more lawful humans. I guess we could have started with an education system that works. Prevention is better than cure.

Police would still be disliked. But at least we wouldn’t be in as deep as we are now. Maybe only half as deep.
Half of a brain, half as deep.

Police yourself, because it might be a while until our government thought it was a good idea to breed something other than money hungry vultures. It might be a real long time.

I am selfish for moving. I didn’t move here for any reason besides myself, when I break it all down. And I could have spent that money on something better. More selfless. When friends of mine are struggling for life, I have moved to a new place for no other reason than to change things for myself, with no regard anything else, and I did so with absolute ease. As people I meet here grapple for employment, two jobs that I didn’t even want fell into my lap. As thousands of humans struggle for life after the earth fell from under them, I pitch debit machines to wealthy business owners. If anyone can explain this to me, I’d be really relieved.

So I continue to eat cheap pizza, sip cheap beer, make phone calls and learn French, and I forget about it all a little bit more. With each hockey game I think less of India. With every plate of rice I think less of Regina. With every phone call from home I forget a little more about my duties here. Each second spent enjoying myself could be a second spent on something better. The truth is, each second of happiness is selfish.

And the worst thing I have got in my life is slight body aches and a dry throat in the mornings. And trying to catch up with the complete change of my life. And the thing that really bites is that I feel good here. I knew I would, but the fact that I have moved to a new city, started a new life and am actually enjoying it, only makes the world harder to understand, and makes me only feel worse about where things are at.

I’m not the only place. Change occurs elsewhere and life evolves constantly, and an Outlet Era officially ends.  A reminder of how the constant is not reliable, but that the only constant is change. And change is unreliable. And change is inevitable. And it is inevitable that it will be eventually be selfish.

Hooray for the pursuit of selfishness. May we all rot in hell.