Over 20 years ago, my car died and went to Heaven. I have used public transit ever since.
It wasn’t long after using public transit that I worried about the noise levels—especially on the subway. I tried calling the Toronto Transit Commission (TTC) to find out decibel levels. For two weeks I was transferred to various departments and left voice messages. No one returned my calls. I concluded that the TTC did not want the public to know the decibel levels on the subway. I have worn earplugs for the past 20 years.
I expressed my concerns about the noise levels on public transit to several friends. I said how I worried about hearing damage while on the subway. These friends dismissed my concern as frivolous. “You’re worried about nothing,” they said. That did not stop me from wearing earplugs.
A study published in Journal of Otolaryngology – Head & Neck Surgery, mentions how the noises on the subway can damage hearing. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!
I also know that studies have proven that studies contradict each other. That means that the TTC will publish a study stating that using the TTC not only improves hearing, but causes weight loss, whiter teeth, and a longer life. This may be true, but I will continue to wear earplugs while on the subway.
On Friday November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy found out that he was not as well-liked as he thought.
According to the Warren Commission, set up to investigate the Kennedy killing, Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone when he shot Kennedy. According to the House Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA), also set up to investigate the assassination, Kennedy was probably assassinated as the result of a conspiracy.
To repeat, the Warren Commission says that a single assassin killed Kennedy, and the HSCA says that Kennedy was probably killed as the result of a conspiracy.
Uh? I’m confused, but that’s probably because there’s something wrong with the way I think.
It’s a superstitious belief that it is good luck for a bird to poop on you. It’s a sure sign that wealth from Heaven is on the way.
These garbage bins sit in a lane near College and Yonge Street in Toronto. Look how much good luck is covering them.
How much luckier can these garbage bins get? Where are their riches from Heaven? No matter how much good luck they receive, courtesy of the birds, nothing changes. These garbage bins are not getting any luckier, or any richer. Is this because garbage bins do not believe in superstitions?
The other day I was walking up a lane towards the YMCA on Grosvenor. A man, in his forties, walked down the lane towards me. His blond hair wasn’t sure in which direction to be messy. His clothes had more dirt and holes than cloth. He had not stood close to his razor for several days when shaving. But his blue eyes stood out the most. Insanity and hatred danced in his deep blue eyes.
When he was close to me he said, “You’re a fuckin’ nigger! A fuckin’ nigger!”
“Thank you,” I said as I kept walking.
I turned to see whether he was coming at me. One should never turn one’s back on a nutbar. He just stood there. Insanity still danced in his eyes, but it had a new dancing partner: confusion.
So, why did I thank him? I exercised my power to choose. It’s a power that nothing and no one can take away from me.
Dictionary.com defines nigger as a noun . . .
1. Slang: Extremely Disparaging and Offensive.
1. a contemptuous term used to refer to a black person.
2. a contemptuous term used to refer to a member of any dark-skinned people.
2. Slang: Extremely Disparaging and Offensive. a contemptuous term used to refer to a person of any racial or ethnic origin regarded as contemptible, inferior, ignorant, etc.
3. a victim of prejudice similar to that suffered by black people; a person who is economically, politically, or socially disenfranchised.
That definition is too negative and complicated.
To quote my good friend Humpty Dumpty, in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, “When I use a word, it means what I choose it to mean . . . ”
In The Gary Johnston Dictionary, nigger means genius. See? Positive and simple.
I am not a genius, but I like I like it when people call me one.
My father could not sit still. He was always busy doing something. He was at a loss when his work, Gray Tools, gently forced him to retire. He had worked there for over 48 years. He had trouble filling in his days.
My grandfather could sit still. Dad said that his father would spend his entire three-week vacation sitting on the front porch.
“Pop,” said my father, “you’re on holidays. Why don’t you go somewhere instead of sitting on the front porch all the time?”
“Son,” said my grandfather, “each day I have to get up early and go to work. In the winter, I am the first one making footprints in the snow. Now I don’t have to go to work. Now I don’t have to go anywhere. I am happy to sit here all day.”
My father could not understand.
I take after my grandfather. I can sit still. I am not afraid of silence, and I have no problem filling my days.
I don’t know what my grandfather thought when he was sitting on the porch. When I am sitting still, I explore the world of ideas by thinking, reading and writing—more thinking than reading and writing and, often, lots of thinking about reading and writing.
I haven’t gotten bored so far. I can play with myself. I enjoy playing with myself. (Get your minds out of the gutter!) I don’t need anything outside of me to keep me occupied. Take away the book and the writing materials and I can still sit alone in a room and stare off into space.
To others, it seems that I am doing nothing. Far from it. I am exploring worlds beyond worlds beyond worlds because imagination is limitless. There is never enough time when I crawl inside my head.
When I was in public school, every Remembrance Day (November 11), we had to recite John McCrae’s In Flanders Fields. In Gade 2, when I was 7 years old, the teacher told us to draw a picture of Flanders Fields. My spelling was atrowshus back then. I titled my picture In Flanders Fields, but to everyone else it read In Flitters Feld. (I did not realize that field was plural.)
The teacher never mentioned my creative spelling, but it gave my parents a big laugh when I brought the picture home. Every Remembrance Day, even as an adult, they would remind me how I had misspelled In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae
My mother was born on Christmas. Her birthday was part of Christmas celebrations. Instead of a birthday cake, my grandmother would make a Christmas pudding. She would light the pudding, and my mother would try to blow the pudding out. My grandmother hid a dime in the pudding, and my mother would always find the dime. Every Christmas, right up to when she died, Ma would always find the dime.
After she died on November 9, 2002, my sisters and brother reported finding dimes. They took it as a sign from Ma. My niece reported that a dime flew off a shelf in the baby’s room. No one knew how the dime got on the shelf in the first place.
I never found any dimes until about a year ago. One morning I said out loud, “Ma, how come I never find any dimes?” That day I found a dime near a bus stop! And occasionally I have found dimes since—especially when I am troubled about something. Finding a dime stops me from feeling troubled because it’s my mother telling me that things will be okay.
This morning I said out loud, “Ma, you died 15 years ago today. How about me finding a dime?”
As I was walking towards the washroom at College Park, there was a U.S. twenty-dollar bill on the floor. Twenty dollars U.S.! “Hey Ma,” I thought, “you outdid yourself!”
But the bill looked funny. I took it to a bank, and it was counterfeit.
“Nice try, Ma. Luv ya!”
When a true genius appears, you can know him by this sign: that all the dunces are in a confederacy against him.
– Jonathan Swift
Even though I am not a genius, there still is a confederacy against me. People and public transit are always plotting against me. People form long lines in front of me in grocery stores, at bank machines and washrooms. They also crowd Toronto’s public transit so I rarely get a seat while traveling. And Toronto’s public transit always delays me wherever I go.
It’s all about me. It’s always all about me. People and Toronto’s public transit have nothing better to do than to make my life miserable.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m self-centered and paranoid. But being so doesn’t make me a bad person.
“Know thyself.” Wise words from Socrates.
After many years of self-reflection and countless consultations with teachers, psychologists, psychiatrists, philosophers, neurologists and religious leaders, I have reached a conclusion: I am not a genius.
I feel left out. I was never groped by Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, Dustin Hoffman or King Kong. (Allegations against King Kong have not gone public, but he has a reputation for grabbing bananas and coconuts.)
I laugh when I hear people in the entertainment industry express shock over sexual harassment. They act outraged and want us to believe that they did not know that it was going on. Sexual harassment is part of the entertainment industry, and always has been. Victims are afraid to speak up because the perpetrators have the power to affect careers.
How could Harvey Weinstein get away with sexual harassment all these years? He had power. He was part of The Elite.
Methinks Ol’ Harvey did something that pissed off The Elite, and suddenly his protection was gone. Now victims, who were afraid to speak up before, can speak up now. Harvey is under the bus.
Sexual harassment is business as usual. It should not be this way, but it is. And The Elite will make sure that they can get away with it as long as they have power.
(A scandal involving King Kong will hit the news any day now.)