"Doctor Holocaust is a villainous gentleman who, above all else, is trying to take over the world."

A High-Five of the Ages

So back on Monday I was talking about some poor life choices that I had made with regards to urban mobility. But my chief of operations the Ace of Blades was not so deterred as I. No no. While I had sworn off all forms of spring powered footwear, he had opted to instead devour a full bowl of DETERMINATION and get back on the horse. Or stilts. You know what I mean.

So we headed back down to the usual park and got suited up. He put on an ample amount of safety gear and we went for a walk. The idea was to see if he could get used to them in such a way that we could start adding on other things to the outfit. Things like extended arms for quadruped walking and shoulder mounted chain guns. But our first step (heh) was mastering these stilts. And as usual mother nature defied our aspirations.

It started to pour rain.

This was worrisome because A) I had no way of keeping an umbrella over Ace as he was now three feet taller then usual and B) the wet sidewalk made for some slippery terrain when mixed with the rubber grips on the bottoms of the stilts. But the oppressive precipitation and deafening thunder did NOTHING to blunt the stalwart resolve of Ace. He was not to be stopped. We were doing SCIENCE.

You see, whenever I get overzealous or excited or confident about a plan, the wheels seem to always come off in the worst way and I end up in the hospital. Again. But when Ace got excited the most wonderful things started to happen. Everything went our way.

So there he was strolling down Yonge street Toronto with such confidence as to defy the Gods. Several very attractive women gave him passing high-fives and demanded his number. But Ace didn’t care. He was too damn GOOD for any of that. A homeless person swore off drugs and substance abuse at the mere sight of Ace’s majesty as though he’d just witnessed the second coming of JC. And maybe he did? I don’t know! Another person, a reporter it seemed, took Ace’s picture for the cover of “Stilt Enthusiast Quarterly”. Someone won the lottery. An old person died. It was the BEST. He just kept strutting his stuff down the street, beaming with celestial levels of confidence, like the song “Stayin’ Alive” was written for him. As though the Bee Gees had known this day would somehow come to pass. But all of these awesome occurrences packed into such a tight timeline was making me worry…

You see, I believe in a cosmic level of balance. That for all the good in the world, there is evil. For all the joy, there is pain. For all the awesome, there is bogus. It is the great equation. The balance of the universe. And we were tipping the scales. I was worried that the universe would backlash upon us with something so bogus that it would level city blocks worth of my fair city. It was only a matter of time. And then I saw it. As we were heading back to the lab on the final stretch of sidewalk I saw it. It was coming down the sidewalk straight at us.

 

A man on a unicycle. 

 

What were the god-damn odds?! This guy, this RESPONSE OF THE UNIVERSE, was coming straight at us with a big stupid smile on his big stupid face. We were going to die. I look to Ace to see what he was making of this whole situation. But Ace was, at this point, no longer smiling. Nor was he afraid. He was displaying on his face a level of determination that I had not yet seen, and will never again see, in a human being. He was friggin STOIC. And without a moments notice he picked up speed, marching furiously, and put himself on a collision course with this man.

I panicked.

In the fractions of seconds that followed a whole scenario played out in my head. Ace was going to kill this man. How dare he display such awesome behaviour within the same city as him?! Let alone the same street!? Ace then raised his hand and I feared that this was the end. This was the moment of ultimate bogusness. He was going to attempt to attack this man and they were both going to trip over one another, crumple into some kind of singularity, and end us all. But then something amazing happened.

 

They high-fived. 

 

And not in an awkward kind of way that you would expect from two men on non-standard forms of urban transit. NO. The execution was FLAWLESS. Powerful, clear, and perfectly targeted was this high-five of the ages. As the clap echoed through the street the storm overhead, and I’m not even kidding here, stopped.

Nature had given in.

You see, Ace had seen this coming. He was not oblivious to the goings on of the universe. He knew the equation. And he was prepared for it. When he saw that man on the unicycle he KNEW. This was it. All or nothing. It was his time. A devastating catastrophe was coming straight at him and he didn’t even blink. No. He turned INTO the cataclysm with fierce determination and faced it head on. He had called the bluff of the cosmos. He believed.

 

And that’s why he now owns my stilts.

Overstepping my Capabilities

So a while back, as some of you who watch my videos may know, I had a bad idea. And like many bad ideas it was in disguise as a good idea. It was a notion, nay a dream, of traveling about the downtown core on spring powered stilts.

And some of you know how this went.

It started when I was looking for fast, effective means of travel about my city. Something that could be used on pavement, grass and other forms of uneven terrain and could travel between them with ease. Something that didn’t require fuel or power. Something I didn’t need a licence to operate. Something I didn’t need to park. I landed on the perfect candidate when I came across these things called “power stilts”.

Google that. Open a new tab in your browser and google that.

See them? Pretty sweet right? They look simple enough to use. And unlike standard stilts they buckle onto your shins, thereby removing the need for ankle strength. I got weak ankles. I was stoked. I thought, while watching the demo videos, that these things could turn me into some kind of super-human with the ability to run and jump like never before. But what I had failed to understand was that these videos were of highly trained professionals. So me watching these people and thinking it was all good would have been similar to a kid watching Tony Hawk and thinking skateboarding is easy.

It’s not easy.

But fear not! I had many friends and co-workers telling me that this was not a good idea and that I could get hurt. But I was not to be deterred. No SIR. I ordered a pair online. I got very excited when they came in the mail and in true villain fashion I did not test them out before attempting to take them on a bank heist. With no protective pads accept for a helmet.

I am alive today thanks to that helmet.

So there I was at the base of the lair 2.6. Bracing myself against a concrete support beam. Starring assuredly out of the driveway into the street. Filled to the brim with sinister joy at the thought of being able to outrun and outmanoeuvre anyone in the city. I was blinded by this joy. I had not stopped to consider all the variables. First and foremost being my lack of experience and equal lack of protection. I get so cocky I thought to myself:

“Time to get to the bank in thirty minutes or less”

I go to take my first step and I do what anyone does when they start sprinting. I lean forward. This would swiftly become my first and last mistake to be born of the entire idea of power stilts. You see, when using these things you are to NEVER lean forward. For any reason. And here is why. I go LAUNCHING forward with my first step at a speed that I was both astonished by and unprepared for. But because I had leaned forward to sprint in these wretched things, it made it physically impossible to bring the stilt on my other leg to a point where I could put weight on it.

I crashed spectacularly.

You see, because I had these suicide-aids on, there was no way that I could bail and land on my feet like you might try with a bike or skateboard. No. All of my weight and momentum came crashing down on my knees, hands, and face. Luckily I was wearing a helmet which saved my life. But both my knees were torn up from the pavement and a stray rock had nearly been driven clean through my right hand.  I rolled over onto my back, bleeding all over my cloths, and started to laugh. Why laugh? Well because even though I had not managed to take even two steps in the damn things and had become VERY injured it was still, in my mind, a success. I had successfully tested my limits and found that I was not super-great at these things.

I learned something. And that is always a victory to me.

 

“Time to crawl back into my lab in thirty minuets or less…”

Harlem Shaking with Terror

So I’m not a huge fan of clubs. Or people. So you can imagine that I am not super savvy when it comes to going out. Being in public areas like bars or clubs and stuff is not my natural habitat, as it were. No no, my natural habitat would be more along the lines of staying in the lab and building things, filming my broadcasts, and writing my blogs here on the website. So as you can imagine I am aware of  the thing that was the Harlem Shake.

For those of you who may be somehow unaware of what this is, you can easily go to YouTube and search it. It’s fun times. Really. But just in case you don’t want to leave my textual presence here just yet, lemme give you the skinny.

The “Harlem Shake” is a song and dance sensation that share the same name. But more accurately it is a madness construct. You see, the song begins with a slow building structure that, when it reaches it’s crescendo, the bass drops and ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE. People go NUTS. And I love it. I think it’s hilarious. But, like many things, it is much more entertaining to watch then it is to be an unwilling participant.

 

So I decided that, for once, I was going to go outside of my comfort zone and hit a club with some friends. It’s good for me to get out every now and then. Helps get the wrinkles out. But when I arrive at this club the staff tells me that the coat check is in the back of the building. I see my friends all standing a little ways in with drinks and no coats. So I assume they all got them checked in the back. What I didn’t see/was not made aware of was that all their coats were just on a table close by. So I venture to the back. And as I get past the bar area I am met with an obstacle that I could only describe as a “dance pit” bout would later come to call the “Kill Box”. Let me break it down for you. This area is the size of a small gym and is recessed into the ground by about two feet. And I see that not only is the coat check in the farthest possible corner, the Kill Box is also filled to such a capacity that, even being a small guy like me, it’s nearly impossible to get through. So I dive in. It takes me a while and squeezing through a lot of award situations I finally get there, pay my fee, and squeeze back coat-free. But the MOMENT I get back my friends get tired of the bar and say they want to leave.

I am (and I am soft-serving this) frustrated.

So I fight my way through the spawning pool that would very soon become the Kill Box to get my coat. When I finally achieve this I start to look for an alternate exit because I don’t want to fight my through the crowd again. There are none. So I figure “what’s one more into the breach?” and begin to make my way across. I get to the centre of the crowd, the very EPITOME of chaos, and that song… the worst song that COULD start at that moment began it’s herald of my doom.

 

The Harlem Shake. 

 

The slow building structure begins so as to tell me that my end will come in about fifteen seconds or so. Real terror sets in. I fight frantically to get to the other side of the room, to get FREE, but everyone has already become still with the anticipation of the coming storm. I can’t get past them. If they were dancing they might move in such a way as to give me an opening to dash through. But not now. Not anymore.

I call for help. I shout at the persons in front of me to move. But no one responds. They are already in a Harlem Trance. They can no longer see the world for what it is. Only what it will become.

 

The bass drops.

 

Instantly the room turns into a MEAT GRINDER and I am LITERALLY tossed about like a ship in a storm! I take a head-but to the face! Someone punches my knee! I just wanted my goddam COAT! It takes me a moment to find the rhythm and move with the storm, bobbing and weaving with my hands up like I’m in a friggin boxing match. After what seemed like an eternity trapped in a sea of chaos I reach shore. I am literally bleeding. It takes me several days to fully recover.

But I survived the Harlem Shake.

Strange Chemistry

Once upon a time back in a day when I did not aspire to rule the world I worked in an ordinary office for an ordinary company. And, as I would later learn was due to stress, I got sick very often. And not in a “I have allergies and/or have a weak immune system” kind of way. More in a “I had a cold for four years” kind of way.

 

However, I was determined. Determined to finish my work on Friday and get to resting on the weekend. I had but one day, a mere eight hour shift, standing between me and uninterrupted rest. It was the final count down. And I had a plan.

You see, being sick like this made me drowsy and lethargic. Not optimal working conditions. So I had hatched a GENIUS plan to pump myself full of choice chemicals that would allow me to stay in the air just long enough to land this baby AFTER my shift.

I had planned to drink Red Bull and take DayQuill at the same goddamn time.

Oh yes.

The way I saw it, the DayQuill would help abate the symptoms of my being sick while the Red Bull would keep me awake long enough to get through the day. What could go wrong?

 

Everything went wrong.

 

I took my first dose of cough meds and started sipping on my energy drink. Everything was gravy for the first two hours. I was working fine and I could almost not tell that I was even sick. I loved it. I thought myself a champion of my own physiology.

Then my hands went numb.

I tried to ignore it. But all of my attempts at typing on my computer became the vain machinations of a man who now, as far as he could tell, possessed handicapped jellyfish for hands. Panic set in. I scrambled for an answer to this  newfound issue. Was I having a bad reaction? Was I sicker then I thought? I checked the pack of DayQuill and was mortified to notice a small but devastating addition to it’s title.

DayQuill. Sleepy time formulae.

I was overtired, sick, and had been unknowingly speed balling stimulants and sedatives. So I did what most people do at the time, I panicked more. Who does this? Why would someone release a form of DayQuill that was achieving the same goals as NyQuill? That’s what NyQuill was for! It even has little pictures of moons and stars on the boxes and bottles so you know it’s not something you take if you plan on doing something that’s not fuelled by slurred speech and chemically induced naps!

I had to act fast. My body was still full of energy but I was swiftly losing control of my faculties. My coordination was out the window, talking was swiftly becoming a chore and I could no longer see. I knew that this baby was going crash spectacularly into the sea if I didn’t act fast. So I grabbed the box of MYSTERY LIE DRUGS in between my wrists, which were slowly losing feeling, and stumbled into my bosses cubicle. From there I flung the box at his feet in an offensive manner that might suggest HE gave me the drugs and that this was all somehow his fault. Then I said simply “Please help me”. I was like Leeloo from the fifth element. But instead of an attractive young lady with vibrant hair and a lack of clothing, I was a young disheveled sick man who had very recently made some poor life choices in regards to drugs.

I, through some miracle of still being able to form cohesive thoughts, wondered if this situation could somehow be used as an example in some kind of anti drug campaign targeted at kids. But I didn’t know how. I had no time to work out the details. I was too busy TRIPPING BALLS.

In hindsight I cannot imagine a better time to send an employee home early for the weekend. And I’m almost sure that’s what happened.

A Literary Labyrinth

So in my last blog I was talking about a friend that had a few drinks and lost control in a way that can be described as “cataclysmic”. What I neglected to mention was a conversation that managed to happen in the middle of all this madness.

 

You see, while we were all talking we somehow managed to land on the subject of pets. Specifically pets that had passed away. Dead pets, as it were. “Eris” decided that this was a prime opportunity to drop upon us a paranormal logic loop that ranked somewhere near Ragnarök in it’s insanity.

She opens with, and I quote, “I had a journal as a kid. I wrote about a journal I don’t remember having.”

My mind tares a little.

I asked if she miss-spoke and in fact wrote about a GERBIL she didn’t remember having. She assured me that this was not the case and that I had heard her correctly the first time. Though she went on to mention that she had actually owned a gerbil at one point named “Sneakers”. Yet after hearing about her Inception-style-journal-loop I was convinced that “Sneakers” was quite literally just a shoe in a gerbil cage. But I couldn’t think about that. There was a second book.

TWO BOOKS. 

 

Everyone in the room was baffled by this turn of events and scrounged to find a shred of reason. Where had this other journal come from? Who was writing in it? How did she not remember it and still write about it? What was in it? What if the second mystery journal was writing bout the first original one?! An adaptation of M.C. Escher’s “Drawing hands” came to mind, instead depicting two journals writing each other. But this thought was replaced by deeper, darker, imaginings. What if there was more then two journals…

What if there was a labyrinth of journals, all writing about each other in a network of children’s english, filled with loop-holes and traps and dead ends, all eventually leading to a single solitary book that contained an entry about a kid who really wanted a gerbil so she got a cage for one and put a shoe in it?! 

 

When we asked her for context, ANY context to the situation, she laughed. LAUGHED. Our suffering AMUSED her. That is because, to her, there WAS no labyrinth. No journals. She had no idea what we were even talking about anymore. She didn’t CARE. She was too busy MAKING OUT WITH AN OPEN FLAME.

Watching this situation unfold was like starring into the void. It just went on forever. No limit. No logic. No reason.

Just endlessness.