Endgame

Felicitations, Fellow Freedom Fighters. 

As someone who has studied despotic regimes in the past, I fear that the only salvation for America now is the forcible removal of Trump - a clear Russian asset - from office. ‘Cuz if anyone out there is still hoping to right the ship via the Midterm Elections two years from now…you’re kidding yourself. At this stage, we have to assume that the Midterms have gone the way of the Dodo, long denim skirts and Dane Cook’s career. 

Sorry, I don't know why I keep dunking on poor Dane Cook...I'm sure he's a lovely guy. About as funny as a roofing estimate, but I'm sure he's just swell.  

It's my belief that - in order to prevent the juggernaut-like rollout of Project 2025 and the crib death of democracy down south - U.S. Marshals have to enter the Oval Office and physically drag this clear and present danger kicking and screaming out of the People’s House and throw his ass into prison. 

Frankly, this should have happened ages ago…but unfortunately Merrick Garland was born without a spine. 

Sure there's a veritable buffet of Constitutional Crisis out there right now to warrant such an extreme move…but Trump’s second term isn’t like his first. He’s spent the past four years (and certainly the past month) filling positions of power and influence with minions, lickspittles and toadies. So the odds of this happening without a massive groundswell of public pressure is pretty remote. 

Yeah, I know people are overworked, distracted, disengaged, uninformed and feeling powerless…but the American people have to act now. Conspiracy theories, misinformation and a lack of critical thinking skills have already resulted in at least 30-40% of the population merrily embracing the nuclear option...so long as brown and / or trans people suffer somehow. 

Don't believe me? Just look at these two chucklefucks: 

I mean, look at these guys! They're clearly old enough to know what the Cuban Missile Crisis, is, right? They know who Vladimir Putin is, right? Surely they've seen Rocky IV?!? 

Honestly, I can't remember a more blood-curdling image in recent memory, one which convinces me that the greatest threat to progression here on Earth is the ruinous destructive power that conspiracy theories have wrought on the human mind.   

There is one faint glimmer of hope, however: Trump and his ilk are more aggressively stupid than any of his previous autocratic forerunners. I’m now convinced that he’s deliberately intent on creating so much economic chaos that people will be eventually  rebel, leading to Martial Law. Trump is already eluding to this...

As a resource-rich neighbor, Canada will be demonized as the main reason for the resulting post-tariff economic downturn. This is all prelude to - yes, I’m serious - a literal “my tanks are crossing the 49'th parallel" kind of invasion. 

Sure there's a chance that Trump and his brown shirts will push too hard, too far and too fast and the people will revolt. Perhaps he'll dispatch the military and - still dedicated to the Constitution over a self-appointed monarch - they'll give Mandarin Mussolini a giant middle finger RE: the subjugation of the American people and / or an invasion of Canada.

It’s a hope I have. I pray it’s still feasible in a time when bulwarks of reality that were firmly established in the first five decades of my life on this planet continue to get swept away.

EPIC: "Wait! We voted for bad stuff to happen to other people...not to us!" People are finally waking up....hopefully it's not too late.

FAIL: Wanna play "Presidential Portrait or Mugshot"?

The Year of Hell - Part V - Promises, Promises...

Greetings and Salutations, Brave Reader!

In previous entries of this series I've talked about where I was living prior to July 12'th, 2022, the subsequent fire that forced me from my home of 25+ years as well as the immediate aftermath of that traumatic event. Last time I warned y'all about how building owners have zero responsibilities to help tenants after a disaster...even if they housed dangerous people.    

In the midst of all this chaos was one mental oasis: the promised support of my insurance company. Within a day, they'd put me in contact with the head of the removal and warehousing team, who from this point on I'll be referring to as "Yahoo Calamity"...for reasons that will sadly become painfully obvious.    

I was still pretty stressed out and shell-shocked when I spoke to Ms. Calamity the day after the fire. At that time, her introductory message to me was incredibly hopefully...like a balm for my ragged soul: 

"We store all your salvageable items once processed and cleaned at our large processing facility. We return back to you once ready and repairs to the structure are completed. Hang in there, your (sic) in good hands for your contents.”

Given the large amount of "handle-with-care" valuables that I own (collectibles, antiques and artwork), I felt compelled to ask how the recovery team treats such delicate things. This was Yahoo’s reply:

“We specialize in all contents. We have a (sic) electronic division, art work, textiles, hard contents and soft textiles.

“Try not to stress. Your contents will be handled with care when we start the ‘pack out’ and be put back to same spot with the ‘pack back’.

“Also anything that is non-restorable we supply a detailed list to you and your insurance company so they can price and reimburse you for any damaged items: losses.”

Encouraged and reassured by this, I slept relatively soundly that night, despite being faced with imminent homelessness. We were approaching the weekend, a weekend - I'll remind you - that was smack-dab in the middle of tourist season when COVID restrictions were finally loosening up. The Chateau Bedford staff wouldn't be able to Tetris my reservations for much longer and every single hotel in the immediate area was already booked solid.

That's when I remembered that my parents would often stay in residence at Mount Saint Vincent University whenever they came to Halifax to visit me. In a Hail Mary play, I showed up on their doorstep with all pf my earthly belongings in tow and, after spinning my sob story, they were able to accommodate me. 

I gotta say, the space they gave me was quite generous:

Hell, just seeing this thing strapped to the wall made me feel better: 

Despite the fact that my insurance company had given me a $12,000.00 resettlement fee, I knew that it wasn't going to last very long. This was made abundantly clear when I checked out of the hotel and paid a whopping $701.46 for only two nights accommodations. And for a tiny room that looks like this:

I mean, it's nice and all...but it's not exactly the Ritz Carlton, is it?

On the 14’th we got special dispensation to be on site to recover certain items. By that time, a security guard had already been assigned, and traffic into and through that section of the building was being closely monitored. We were also instructed to keep our doors locked at all times when unoccupied...a directive we followed religiously.

During this time I took considerable video and stills of the apartment. Despite the fact that the stairwell (which we'd fled down two nights ago) looked like this:

...my game room actually looked reasonably intact:  

In fact, if not for some pronounced water damage in the ceiling, things actually didn't look too bad:

Now, when I say "water damage" I wasn't just whistling Dixie. Anyone who follows my other blog knows that I'm a huge board game nut and, at the time of the fire, I had about 130 of the damned things. And, as any board game nerd worth their salt knows, cardboard and water definitely don't mix.

Even though my game library hadn't been noticeably soaked when the apartment above was flooded, the water-logged ceiling and regular ol' summer humidity was causing moisture levels to spike to potentially destructive levels.

If I didn't get my stuff out of there ASAP, the threat of box fart would be absolutely nothing compared to every game turning into a poison gas spore whenever I lifted the lid.

As such, I expressed my concern to Yahoo before bedding down for the night...concerns that were actually addressed on the morning of the 15'th:

“Good morning. Just touching base with you to let you know that we have been notified that the building has been released.  I’ve been in communication with the superintendent... and we will start our process on Monday morning.”

At this point I told her that I'd been given access to the unit on the previous day just to grab some essentials. I also told her that the removal team had to put priority on saving our plants and fish. This was her reply:

“Ok, I will note your file that you grabbed rush yourselves. We will have access Monday for the pack-out and notable items of urgency  are plants and fish for getting restored and in a safe place.”

Fast forward to July 18. Once again I was granted closely-monitored access to the unit. Since I was still homeless for the foreseeable future, I thought I had to pack light. As such,  I didn't want to salvage any framed art, jewelry or collectibles from the unit. Where would I put it? Plus, the email updates from the salvage team and the presence of security on sight made me feel like my things weren't in any immediate danger. 

That same day I got the following question from Yahoo:

“My project manager (let's call her, um...'Dixie', I guess?) is on site at the units today assessing. To confirm you do not need any rush now? I want to be sure to advise correctly to my PM.”

After confirming that I needed no rush items, she replied:

“Wonderful, thank you for clarifying. I am passing along to my Project manager Dixie right now. If you need anything please do not hesitate to reach out. We are actively working to get all restorable out of the affected units within a few days.”

On July 19, I got the following message from Yahoo:

“Good morning. We are on site today again. I confirmed with your adjuster this morning (that) he doesn’t want us to touch the fish. It’s a liability, such as a pet dog or cat, (so) it’s up to the insured to go retrieve the live fish and we will deal with the tank. I hope this is ok. I just confirmed with your adjuster, so I wanted to pass this along right away.”

Even though I fully expected the 18'th to be my last one on site, I rushed in to dismantle the aquarium. Thanks to the intervention of some friends, the fish were saved! Thanks again to Alison and Randy!!!

I took advantage of this unexpected chance to take more video and stills. For those keeping score at home: as of 1:30 pm that day, everything seemed to be in place and accounted for.

From Yahoo later on the 19'th:

“They took all clothing out yesterday. Now focussing (s.p.) on boxing any restorable items.”

In hindsight, I guess I could have personally done more to safeguard the more - shall we  say - traditional valuables in the apartment, things like jewelry and artwork. Who knows...maybe I was still in a state of shock? I can see now that I had tunnel vision when it came to protecting my beloved collectibles, but I also felt as if I could trust both the building security as well as the seemingly-sincere efforts of the recovery team. 

This was no more evident in Yahoo's next message to me:

“You can trust you (NOTE: I think she meant to say 'us.' Maybe this was a Freudian slip). (You) are in very good hands. We are aiming to have everything out by Friday.”

That same day I met with Dixie to try and put my borderline-OCD / superficial hoarding behavior into context. She seemed sympathetic and accommodating, writing the following to me later on that day:

“Was nice to meet you and have a conversation on things important to you. Any questions just message or call me. I'm starting your place tomorrow so if u (sic) have any questions or anything u (sic) can reach  me here or at your apartment. Have a good night.”

Given all of these recent assurances, I actually did sleep well that night. On the morning of July 20'th I woke up to the following note from Dixie: 

“Just an update: your living room and kitchen is done. Just a couple odds and ends - work in progress.” 

Messages like this did wonders to assuage my shattered nerves, but it did little to divert the Mack Truck of reality swiftly bearing down on me. Even though I'd found more affordable housing at The Mount...my extended stay was just as tenuous as it was back at the hotel. Reservations were arriving constantly and the kind folks at the front desk were quickly running out of places to store me.

And that's when a major miracle happened. Immediately after the fire my superintendent started making these cagey comments to the effect of "I may know someone with a basement apartment. Stay tuned!"

With the last possible available night in residence being July 25'th, I soon found myself  "gently" pressing him on the subject.

"Oh, yeah!" he said. "You're good to go...I just had to clear it with the wife! You can move in on Saturday!"

And that's how I came to stay in my superintendent's basement apartment on July 23'rd, 2022...eleven days after the fire drove me out of my long-term abode.

Oh, and for the record, my final accommodations bill for the Mount was $1213.01.

Next time: As I learn to live in a well-appointed Hobbit hole, I start to suspect that the recovery and warehousing team that I entrusted with all of my earthly belongings may not be quite as competent as I originally hoped.   

EPIC: I gotta thanks Mount Saint Vincent University for absolutely saving my bacon during this rough time.  

FAIL: Due to climate change, disaster claims have quadrupled over the past 15 years!  

 

   

The Year of Hell - Part IV - Know Your Rights...Or Lack Thereof

Welcome Back to the Galactic Shit Show, Persistent Readers!

In previous entries of this series I've talked about my prior residence of 25+ years, the fire that drove me out of there back on July 12'th 2022 and the scary days of uncertainty, shock and fear that followed.  

But, before I go any further with this story, I feel compelled to talk about something that happened to me back on July 14'th, literally two days after the fire. On that day, while blearily trying to salvage whatever scant belongings I might need from my ruined apartment, I was required to sign this charming document:

At the time, I signed it with scarcely a second thought. Why? Because:

1. It was presented to me by a trusted source.
2. It was self-evident that the fire had indeed rendered my apartment uninhabitable.
3. I was still in shock.
4. I thought it was standard practice.
5. I wanted my damage deposit back.
6. It was my first fire. #noobmove

But, if I had my time back (or any time at all for that matter) I would have consulted with a lawyer before I even looked at this fucking rag. Because, by signing it, I pretty much pissed away every single earthly right I had to the place where I'd lived for over a quarter of a century.

I'm not going to bury my lead for this story quite yet. Just suffice to say that I received a piece of news on August 3'rd of 2022 that made me feel like a fool for signing this document so cavalierly. To the point where I sought out help from provincial Legal Aid at the end of October. 

Here what they told me:

"Thank you for your email. Legal Info Nova Scotia is a non-profit charity.  We provide information about the law in Nova Scotia.  We do not give legal advice. Legal advice would include recommending the best option for you - telling you what you should do. Only a lawyer can do that.  The following general legal information may help, although we're afraid we don't have good news. 

"In some cases a fire (and the associated clean up and repair) can be so severe that it has the effect of rendering the entire building uninhabitable. It sounds like that might have been what happened in your situation. In those scenarios the landlord is allowed to evict all of the tenants by giving them Notice to Quit in Form F. That has the effect of ending all of the tenancies. You didn't mention whether your landlord provided you with notice in Form F, but even if they didn't it would be too late to contest that eviction as it has been greater than 12 months since it happened (that is the limitation period for contesting an eviction at Residential Tenancies). 

"After a fire the landlord is not obligated to relocate the displaced tenants. If the landlord does relocate tenants to other units in other buildings then those would be new leases with new terms. The rules about rent increases wouldn't apply to those new leases and so the new lease terms could include a new, higher rent and the new leases could be fixed-term, rather than periodic. 

"Overall, although you obviously have a very sympathetic situation, it wasn't actually clear from your email that your landlord has done anything that you could successfully dispute at Residential Tenancies." 

Look, I'm not one to overshare on social media. If I share anything at all, it's usually about my interests, never personal details.

So consider yourself forewarned: I will definitely be oversharing during this series, as well as for a one-shot entry dealing with a completely separate (though no less infuriating) issue. 

I'm not doing this for attention: I'm writing this as a warning. A warning to let you know that your life can be annihilated within the span of a few short hours due to the reckless act of some crazed psycho. 

And, despite the fact that you have clearly been victimized, people who have the power to help you will still do the wrong thing. People will take advantage of the situation and of you. You will discover - the hard way - that the rules aren't in place to help you...they're in place to help rich people get richer.

Sadly, there seems to be precious little empathy, recourse, safeguards or compensation in our society to assist people who have been wronged by circumstance, even if only to  restore the status quo.

Apologies in advance. I didn't want to be the one to tell you these things.

EPIC: More sound legal advice if your find your tenancy interrupted by fire. 

FAIL: Property owners like this galloping prick don't even need fire or similar catastrophe as an excuse to reno-evict people; he just wears his greed like a proud badge. But the good news is that people are fighting back! 

The Year of Hell - Part III - Cast Adrift

Greetings and Felicitations, Persistent Reader.

In the two previous installments, I talked about how I was contentedly living in the same modest apartment building for over 25 years, how the quality of tenants in the buildings started to go downhill circa 2015 and how a resulting fire drove me from my home on July 12'th 2022 at 2 AM in the morning.

So, what you do when you're rendered homeless by fire? Well, if you're Canadian, you retreat to the closest Tim Hortons that's open. 

While distractedly munching on an egg-and-cheese-on-a-biscuit breakfast sammich and gingerly sipping on a cup of coffee hotter than the surface of Venus, I felt an odd rush of exhilaration. Let me tell ya, there's nothing like a near-death experience to activate your twisted sense of humor. Witness this image I sent to friends upon first spotting the Tim Horton's fireplace:

And then there's this l'il chestnut:

For the record, the irony isn't lost on me that I was trying to sell the Flashpoint: Fire Rescue board game at the time. Huh. 

Okay, so, what's the second thing Canadians do when they're rendered homeless by fire? Well, they call their insurance company! 

You have insurance, right? Riiiight???

It's my understanding that none of the three people directly affected by the fire that night had tenant insurance. None!

For the record, I feel a modicum of sympathy for two out of these three people, but the S.O.B. who provoked the attack on our building can get heckin' WRECKED for all I care. Dirtbag. 

Side note, since that night, I've been consistently stunned by the number of people - mainly Millennial and Gen Z folks - who tell me that they don't have tenant insurance. But, then again, a lot of these folks are being crushed under a tsunami of debt and / or they're hideously underpaid. Faced with these "non future me" challenges, it makes sense that they opt to sink their fleeting funds into less hypothetical and nebulous threats, like staving off malnutrition or exposure.  

But, listen up, kids, I'm here to tell you right now: YOU NEED TO GET TENANT INSURANCE. LIKE RIGHT NOW. I promise...I will present Exhibits "A" through "Z" shortly. 

With my brain now approaching the consistency of cottage cheese, it took forever for me to track down the contact number for my insurance company and call them from my car. Suddenly my stomach turned to ice and my testicles shrunk up into my body cavity as a horrible thought crossed my mind.

'What if they can't help me?'

Now, I don't know about you folks, but I don't call up my insurance company every few  months for a casual chin-wag. I have an auto-payment system set up on my credit card, they take money away from me every month, and society tells me that this transaction should pay for some semblance of mental peace. 

But, since I was raised by a pessimist and I always look at every glass as half-empty, I was fully expecting the conversation with the insurance agent to sound like the following Monty Python skit:

Ergo:

ME: I'm sorry, did you just say that you "aren't satisfied with the grounds of my claim"?

INSURANCE AGENT: Yes, well, Mr. Pretty, in your policy...one moment please. Ah, yes, here it is...in your policy, specifically in section four, paragraph eight, sub-section twelve, it unequivocally states that any claim you make will be ignored.

ME: What?!?

INSURANCE AGENT: Yes, well, you opted for the 'cold shoulder' policy which, honestly, is a great value if you never make a claim, buuuuut you had to go ahead and make one, so here we are...

ME: Oh, dear.

Needless to say, the brief wait to speak to an agent felt like the longest five minutes of my entire life.

Fortunately, my fears were soon assuaged and the agent on the other line was incredibly helpful and reassuring. I soon discovered why I'd been paying into an insurance policy for all these years. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that the following would happen over the next few days and months:

• I was given a $12,000.00 relocation budget. I just had to save my receipts to claim any expenses, such as food, accommodations and - presumably - counseling. 
• An insurance adjuster would be dispatched to the site. They would appraise the damage and, if required, dispatch a recovery team who would be tasked to remove all salvageable items and warehouse it. 
• At the warehouse, everything would be inspected and we'd be compensated for everything that is non-recoverable.
• My stuff would be warehoused until the unit was repaired, then shipped back to me and put into place.

This provided just enough mental solace for me to focus on the next step: temporary shelter.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be more difficult than I expected. 

Y'see, this all happened back on July 12'th, 2022, smack dab in the middle of tourist season, with COVID restrictions finally loosening. After calling around to a bunch of places, I quickly realized that there weren't many, if any, options.

On the verge of growing despondent, I decided a more direct approach was in order. Barely dressed, still jittery from shock, sleep-deprived and smelling like a pile of half-melted spatulas on a wood chip barbecue, I stumbled into the Château Bedford Hotel & Suites and explained my plight. By some miracle, the lovely staff took pity on me and they were able to accommodate my request. I finally had a place to sleep, at least for one night.

After a fitful nap and a shower, I decided to return to the scene of the crime around 5 pm that evening. This probably wasn't the smartest idea.

Upon arrival, I immediately spotted the daughter of the building owner, so I decided to bend her ear. During the resulting conversation, my sleep-deprived brain managed to retain the following:

• She seemed genuinely upset by what had happened.
• She pledged to try and get us into alternate accommodations as soon as possible. 
• She feared that the damage was so extensive that it would take at least six months to a year to repair everything.

After this last, genuinely upsetting little piece of trivia, I spirited off to work. Now, I already hear you asking 'Work?!? You went to WORK??? Why???' 

Well, I have three rebuttals to that:

• I'm fucking Gen X, of course I went to work! I'm programmed to go to work if 35% of my body is missing. 
• $12,000.00 might seem like a lot, but with a hotel costing over $140.00 a night, I knew that this money wouldn't last very long. 
• I actually relished the diversion that work provided that evening.

Despite the spiritual balm provided by that last point, I was also duly distracted at times. 

'Six months to a year without a home?' I thought to myself. 

I literally had only one night booked in a hotel! With waaaaaay too many people in the city right now and rental vacancy rates hovering close to 0%, where the hell was I going to go?

NEXT UP: We survey the damage, rescue some fish and rely on the kindness of (relative) strangers. 

EPIC:  I can't stress this enough people!      

FAIL: The depressing reality. 

The Year of Hell - Part II - Up In Smoke

As a weird shut-in kid who was practically raised by movies and television, I always looked at apartment living as kinda cool and vaguely anti-establishment. Consider the examples set forth in such real-life fare as WKRP in Cincinnati, How I Met Your Mother, Friends, Sex in the City, The Jeffersons, Seinfeld, Frasier, Big Bang Theory, and Rosemary's Baby. 

Um, okay...well, maybe scratch that last one. Though, you know, if the rent was reasonable enough, I'd be totally cool if my neighbors were all secret Satanists. As long as they weren't also business executives and corporate lawyers, we're gravy.    

Oh. Whoops...spoiler alert!  

Anyhoo, beyond these frivolous motivations, there were a few more realistic ones. Even at the height of my economic earnings, the only way I could really afford a house is if it was  in the boonies, about thirty to forty clicks away from whatever tenuous place of employment I was calling a "career" at that point. As a young buck from a small town, I didn't want to live in some remote, cut-and-paste suburban hell! I wanted to be in THE BIG CITY, (reasonably close to) downtown. You know, where all the action was!   

Growing up, I also saw my parents periodically clobbered by the sort of unexpected   expenses that only home ownership can provide. Need a new roof? Cracked foundation? Basement flooded? Well, say goodbye to five to ten thousand dollars of your savings, you starry-eyed optimist, you!

Oh, and snow. I don't wanna fookin' shovel snow.  

Content in the knowledge that I wasn't going to have to re-shingle or shovel anything anytime soon, I settled into a contented snooze late on July 11'th. I was only asleep for about an hour or two before the fire alarm went off. 

Now, if you've either lived in a university dorm or in an apartment building, you know to  completely ignore these things. They randomly go off so often it ends up being the fire safety equivalent of the The Boy Who Cried Wolf. So, unless it keeps clanging away for a good ten to fifteen minutes or you start smell smoke or you look down and notice that your genitals are on fire, you generally turn a blind ear to that cacophonous shit.

That night was like any other night. In reaction to this angry, persistent false alarm, I just groaned, looked around, muttered in frustration...and then promptly put my head back down on the pillow.

That is until the banging on the door started.   

 "GET OUT!!! GET THE FUCK OUT!!! THE FUCKING BUILDING IS REALLY ON FIRE!!! GET OUT!!!"

Like a cat roused by pouring (purring?) scalding water on its ass, I went from a reclining position to standing bolt upright in 2.6 milliseconds. 

ACTUAL FOOTAGE OF ME ON THE NIGHT OF THE FIRE

Oh, confession time: I've never been one to wear Ward Cleaver-style pajamas to bed (or anything for that matter), so my first inclination was to cover myself up as best I could. 

'KEYS! WALLET! CELLPHONE!' my barely-conscious brain barked at me. Even though I usually kept all of this stuff together in one place, my "decapitated chicken" impression was well on point that night. A renewed volley of fists on the door nearly caused me to jump out of my finally-covered skin.

"GET OUT!!! GET THE FUCK OUT...NOW!!!"

I needed no other encouragement. I tore open the door and was immediately hit with a horrific stench of smoke and a minor stampede of my fellow somnambulistic residents.

A quick word about the smoke: it smelled like a the contents of a fireplace had spilled out of onto the floor if a Barbie factory. Hey, if in a few years I come down with a pesky case of black lung, look no further for the culprit...just sayin'. 

As I stumbled out my front door, I could finally see who our guardian angel was: Gabrielle, who had thankfully replaced Mr. Mail Order Bride across the hall from us a few years back. Instead of dragging as much of her stuff out of her burning apartment as she could lug, she'd taken it upon herself to rouse and evacuate as many of her neighbors as possible. Bless her heart.        

Mercifully, as soon walk out my front door and turn ninety degrees to the right, my nose is practically touching the exit to the side stairwell. As I whipped it open and stumbled down the steps, I distinctly remember someone standing in the lobby shouting at the escapees.

"DO YOU HAVE PETS??? DON'T FORGET YOUR PETS!!!"

'I don't recognize you,' my unconscious brain mumbled at me as we vomited out into the side parking lot. Immediately, my still-dulled consciousness was drawn to the side of the building closest to me, which was engulfed in a wall of flame. 

Ever sit too close to a campfire and immediately realize that you done fucked up? Well, take that to the power of ten and you'll know the heat I felt that night. 

The other thing I can't do justice to is the sound. It was like a ravenous, crackling roar, implacable and all-consuming. It sounded like something otherworldly, nightmare fuel. I'm telling you, there's a reason why the Greeks considered the element of fire to be equal parts destructive and intelligent.    

I can't describe the gut-wrenching horror of seeing your home on fire. Your primitive lizard brain immediately tells your body to flee, post-haste, or just freeze up like a deer in headlights. Thankfully, someone infinitely smarter than me suggested that we move the car out of the side parking lot to ensure we didn't get trapped behind a bunch of emergency vehicles. After re-positioning to a side street, we watched with dread as the flames grew increasingly ravenous.

I didn't take any video during those first ten to fifteen frantic minutes. Partly because I was having a really hard time dealing with reality, and also because the whole situation felt, well, embarrassing. Given the human detritus that the building owners had been letting in lately, a part of me wasn't surprised that this was happening. And, as such, I didn't want to document this abject humiliation, the culmination of all my prescient fears.

In reality, the fire crews arrived blindingly fast but, to my shell-shocked brain, it felt like an eternity. The truth of the matter is, if they'd gotten there any later, the fire probably would have reached the roof. And, given the fact that the building was a wood-heavy structure built in the 60's or 70's, I'm convinced the entire edifice would have foundered if that had happened. And if you don't believe me, just check out the EPIC at the end of this post.  

As soon as the fire crews arrived, I finally gained enough presence of mind to start taking some video. Even in my dumbfounded state, I was pretty impressed by how quickly they brought the blaze under control.

It's so strange for me to watch this now. Taken at 1:55 am, you can see that the ground floor unit is still completely engulfed in flames. There's a fire engine already on site, with more approaching sirens wailing away in the distance. 

I would love to know the identity of the people milling around out front in this video. Could the person responsible for the fire be somewhere in this shot, perhaps chowing down on a big ol' bowl of regretti spaghetti? Also note that someone runs in from the right and approaches the occupants of a car parked directly across from the burning unit. Is that the wayward occupant of said unit? To this day I still have a million questions...and no source for answers. 

At the very end of that segment you can see the firemen (firefolks?) repositioning the hoses and getting ready to soak the same patio where the fire started, which you can see in this next clip, taken one minute later. Note that a second fire engine is now on the scene.

In this third clip (taken at 2:29 am) you can really see the scale of the response. By then there were no less than four vehicles on Braeside. Clearly concerned about possible hot spots in the attic, the fire fighters ensconced in the side parking lot prepares to access the roof. 

How they did that caught me completely by surprise: they actually used a chainsaw to cut a phreakin' hole in the eave of the building! 

This next photo is of particular interest to me. Can someone in the know tell me what's going on here? Are they looking for hot spots? Is this evidence that an investigation of the fire was already well underway? I have no clue.

Taken at 3:54 in the morning, this next clip shows our street completely cordoned off and choked by an entire fleet of emergency vehicles:

Then, finally, there's this clip from a minute later, which shows the fire crew finishing its thorough soak of the attic.

And what did we do while we watched our homes go up in smoke? Well, we... 

• Gossiped with our across-the-hall neighbor Gabrielle about how the fire started and why. I have plenty of thoughts about that, but I gotta keep it to myself right now. At least for the time being.
• Tried to stay warm. Even though it was a night in July, it was still pretty cold.
• Tried to stay hydrated. At one point, Gabrielle's partner materialized from out of no-where, distributing well-appreciated bottles of water. Thanks, my dude. 
• Considered hanging out in bus Metro Transit had parked on Lacewood drive to act as temporary shelter. I hate to sound ungrateful, but since I despise doing that at the best of times, I opted instead to alternately freeze my ass off outside or huddle in the car for hours on end.
• Tried to get some information from the cops, but they were all universally unsympathetic, cocky and / or surly. Not sure if this is relevant, but the average age of these guys looked to be about sixteen to seventeen years old. One cop looked so young I had to resist the urge to put him over my shoulder and burp him. But I didn't cuz dat bebe was packing HEAT. 

I also spoke to our neighbor who lived above us. Picture Santa Claus if ol' Saint Nick was from the Irish Loop in Newfoundland. Within seconds, I regretted talking to him because his words cut me to quick.

"OH, SHE'S GONE, B'Y," he lamented, pulling absolutely zero punches when it came to my visibly-fragile mental state. "DIDJA SEE IT? MY SON, THEY SOAKED THAT FRIGGIN' ATTIC! EVERYTHING'S GONNA BE FLOODED! THE ARSE IS BLOWN RIGHT OUTTA 'ER!"

That may indeed have been the case with Santa's digs but, when the fire department graciously let us back into the building later that night, we felt the tiniest flutter of hope. My apartment actually didn't look all that bad. Granted, in the half-light, I could see some pretty sizable dark spots in the ceiling and water was pooled in the entrance, the kitchen, the dining room and the hall leading to the bathroom. But, from what I could tell, most of my collectibles, including hundreds of games, toys, movies, books and whatnot, looked reasonably intact. Was this a miracle?  

"You know, you might have gotten off lucky," one of the firemen observed as he escorted us around.

After gathering up some key valuables and enough clothing and supplies to keep us sustained for the foreseeable future, we were asked to evacuate for the second time that night. But this time we had no idea when, or if, we'd ever be allowed back in.

That's when an even more disconcerting thought barged into my brain. 

You are homeless.  

Next time: as the initial shock wears off, shelter becomes the main consideration. But where do you go when COVID restrictions are lifting in two years and there's literally no room at the inn?      

 
EPIC: The fire was reported in a bunch of media releases, including CTV, Saltwire and CityNews. The best take-away, by far, from all of these articles is the following quote:

“Crews arrived and found the east end of the building was well-involved in flames,” explained district chief Pat Kline. “They got a fast knockdown on the main bulk of the fire, it did extend into the roof and was a little bit of extra work.

“The first couple of crews did an incredible job stopping it or we could have easily lost the whole building.” 

 

FAIL: The worst thing about apartment living: you can be a model tenant but you have no sweet clue what kind of morons you're sharing a roof with. As George Carlin famously said: “Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.”

   

The Year of Hell - Part I - The Coming Storm

Howdy, strangers!

Been awhile! Howzit hangin'? 

Sorry I've been a negligent blogger. I've been a bit distracted lately. But, hey, I'm back! Back again! Davey's back...tell a friend!

♫♪Guess who's back...guess who's back...guess who's back...♫♪ 

Sorry, sorry...I'll behave. 

So, for those of you keeping score at home, I fired up this Emblogification Capture Device waaaaay back in April of 2010 to help me through a rough patch. I'd just left a lucrative, but soul-destroying, job that was making me feel as if I was dying inside and frittering my time away while doing it. Armed with a nest egg of "fuck you" money, I quit that pointless toil and struck out on my own in a GRAND EXPERIMENT.

At that time, I was feeling pretty sanguine about my future. Over the next four years, I used this space to develop my writing and editing skills, cheer-lead the publication of my first novel, explore opportunities in the local film community and generally keep my morale up. The end goal of this GRAND EXPERIMENT was always the same: to get paid to write and / or edit. 

Slowly but surely opportunities presented themselves to me. In 2013, I started a part-time job that was incredibly fulfilling, but also woefully non-lucrative. In 2016, I started to get freelance writing gigs and, since then, I've written over forty articles for a variety of sources. Then, in May of 2019, I became a staff editor for a small publishing house in Ontario.

With that, I considered the mission of Ye Olde Emblogification Capture Device to be largely complete. This blog went to fallow and I switched my focus to more immediate things that. Like y'know, making money.

Behind the scenes, the thing that really sustained me during this GRAND EXPERIMENT was my miraculous living situation. For over twenty-five years, I've lived in the same place and, during that time, it became a magical realm frozen in time. As a model tenant, the price for my two bedroom apartment never rose above $840.00 a month. 

When I first moved in there, it was a quiet little place, mainly inhabited by senior citizens. In the mid 90's I fled a louder, noisier chicken coop of a building and put my best foot forward to move into my current place. I actually had to undergo an interview with the family who owned the building back then and, to ensure a good impression, I dressed up and constantly underscored much how I wanted a "quiet place to live." 

"Welp, the loudest it ever gets here is if a card game gets out of hand," the building owner at the time told me, without a hint of irony.

The place was absolutely lovely for many years. I remember my parents first coming to visit me and they legit though I was the sole tenant in the entire complex. My cute octogenarians neighbors, clad exclusively in ployester slacks, sweater vests and dresses, would decorate the common areas for every occasion and host Christmas and Easter parties with their doors thrown wide open.   

But, as we all know, nothing good ever lasts. About twelve years ago, the building was sold to a new owner and, as the more respectable senior residents died off, things slowly started to go downhill. Since then, we've had to contend with mice, silverfish, pot / cigarette smoke and a wall that leaks like a sieve whenever it's hit by direct rain. 

It's hard to believe, but there was a period of time, circa 2012-2020 when renters held all the cards in Halifax. Our building had a slew of vacant units, which I think the owner was desperate to pack with bodies, so long as they could sit upright and had a body temperature of 37 degrees. As a result, the complexion of the building changed from "ersatz seniors home" to "borderline flophouse." 

Oh, the stories I could tell. How about time the mail-order bride who lived across from me pounded on my door in the middle of the night seeking asylum from the crusty old fuck who requisitioned her? How about the time six months worth of my checks were stolen from the lobby suggestion box by a resident dirtbag? This dumb fuck then proceeded to cash all of them at once, resulting in five of the checks bouncing around town like little rubber balls. 

Oh, then there was the sedentary piece of shit who took it upon himself to single-handedly lower the property values by sitting on his porch all day and night, regardless of season, smoking dope and playing video games through the patio door? Thanks to this charming prick, our parking lot would often become a late night arena for verbal sparring matches between Mr. Charisma and some jobber he'd clearly fucked over in a drug deal. I remember coming home late one night from a friends place and I couldn't even get back into the buildings because the cops had cordoned off the entire street due the latest dispute instigated by this asshole. 

Sadly, there's gonna be lot more about this fucking organ donor coming in future entries. Stay tuned.  

Regardless of how bad things got, I'd always tell myself that things could be worse. Especially when I'd talk to my 20-something co-workers about rent, and they told me that they were paying anywhere from $800.00 to $1200.00 a month...often just for a single room. The implication of this never failed to chill me to the bone. 

Holdupaminit! I'm picking up on your psychic signals, Dear Reader. I can actually hear you asking: why didn't you do what everyone else your age did and buy a house? Welp, that ain't easy when your first job abruptly vanishes and the subsequent fire you were forced to leap into was so stressful and / or rage inducing that you thought about walking off the job every hour of every day? 

Oh, and, spoiler alert, don't even try and approach a mortgage broker unless you're working full time. They might be able to get you into a house but your rates will be so ridiculous it'll be the equivalent of highway robbery.  

When COVID hit in January of 2020, I really started to worry. What if I was forced out of this place by some sort of calamity beyond my control? I'd be lucky to find any place, let alone a spot where the rent was vaguely comparable. If my rent suddenly jumped, the GRAND EXPERIMENT would come to a screeching halt.

This paranoia struck me so badly one day during the lockdown that I remember sitting in my room  looking around at forty years worth of collectible detritus and thinking: 'What the fuck would I do if this place catches on fire?' 

Looking back on it, I'm reminded of folks who live in some tropical paradise, tentatively looking out across the distant horizon at a wall of dark clouds bearing down on them. What do you do when a storm is coming and you don't know where to go or what to do?

Well, back on July 12'th 2022...I actually found out.

NEXT UP: Have you ever wanted to know what its like to wake up from a dead sleep at 2 am with someone pounding on your door and telling you that your building's on fire? For the record, I don't recommend it.  

EPIC: Can anyone please confirm that this place is as great as this article seems to indicate?

FAIL: Grim, grim stuff right here. 

What Kind Of Trump Supporter Are You?

In my mercifully-limited interactions with Trump supporters, I've discovered that they pretty much fall into one or more of the following categories:

(1) 401K Fetishists  These folks have somehow got it into their heads that only business people are fit to run the world, despite the fact that a disproportionate number of them are complete and total sociopaths.

Despite the fact that Trump had a comically-bad public sector business record and the personality of a 80's porn distributor, this was the guy the American people decided to foist up as their best possible avatar to lead their nation.

And, hey, I'll give the guy credit where it's due. He did a reasonably-good job building on the economic momentum initiated by President Obama. But, then again, any moron can exempt businesses from paying a dime of taxes which could be used to fund critical social programs or remove key regulations to make affluent folks even richer.

During those heady salad days (I.E. up until around mid-March of this year), Americans who could actually afford investments were perfectly content to turn a blind eye to Trump's worst attributes, merely because their $401K's were performing well. Which begs the question, why are some of these folks still supporting that clementine hobgoblin after COVID-19 eloquently pointed out the critical flaw in our society, which is based entirely around constant, unsustainable consumption?

I guess many of these $401K fetishists also share one (or more) of the following odious leanings...

(2) Objectivist Ayn Randian Assholes

Sadly, an entire generation of Conservatives / Republicans were weaned on the teaching of this inexplicably-influential Russian crone:

Even though her "screw everyone else, I'm lookin' out for number one!" philosophy is anathema to the development of a humane and progressive society, Conservatives and Republicans are 100% more likely to have a poster of ol' Baba Yaga here up on their wall versus Margot Robbie.

"What? Objectivism? A fancy-sounding philosophy that gives me the right to act like a self-absorbed dick-head? Wow, where do I sign up?"

I swear to Vishnu that the following story is true. I was in Salem on vacation one time, just hanging out in a busy shopping district....oh, wait, before I go any further I have to explain that this took place during THE BEFORE TIMES when we could BE OUTDOORS and STILL GATHER IN GROUPS OF TWO.

Anyhoo, a couple of people representing a recognizable social action group were stopping people and asking if they'd like to sign a petition to raise awareness for environmental concerns. At one point they stopped this douchey-looking, suit-and-tie, briefcase-toting mound of mobile hair gel and asked if he'd be willing to sign the petition.

Without a beat he held up his hand, marched right past them and announced: "Nope...I'm a Republican."

'You're not a Republican, I thought to myself. 'You're a galloping ass munch.'

Oh, related point: if you've spent your entire adult life railing against the "evils of socialism", I sincerely hope that your livelihood wasn't even incrementally impacted by this whole COVID-19 crap. Because if you accept so much as a dime of funding during this time, you may want to make your self-quarantine permanent.

(3) The Brainwashed

Even though we should, in theory, have access to more reliable information than ever before, many of us seem perfectly willing to customize our news, effectively crawling into an echo chamber, never to re-emerge into the light of reason and awareness ever again.

Back in the day, everyone got their news from the same established periodicals or nightly network broadcasts. Granted, there were still discernible political leanings between, say, Time or Newsweek magazine, but they weren't driven by a blatant corporate agenda or mandated to churn out bloated, 800 page issues every month filled speculative (read: wing-nutty) editorials.

For those out there who still remember COMMUNAL SPACES and CHATS AROUND THE WATER COOLER, folks would often gather together the following morning to discus the previous day's events. The thing is, back then, everyone was vaguely on the same page because they were still being informed by fact-based journalism.

But then, along comes Bill "Good Ole' Boy" Clinton, who deregulates media ownership with the disastrous Telecommunications Act of 1996. This essentially let corporations snatch up hundreds of independent media outlets until, nowadays, everything in the U.S. looks like this.

Given this new climate of corporate over-watch, media has since become little more than a soap-box for rich owners and their agendas. And, look, this isn't limited to conservative news outlets. It's a serious symptom for any 24-hour cable news channel. 

I don't know about you, but every time I click on a CNN or MSNBC YouTube vid, I'll watch it up until they stop reporting the details of the event. Then, as soon as they roll out a panel of so-called "experts" in to "interpret" what they just told me, I click it off. Back in the 80's, there was no "interpretation" of the days events. You were told the facts and you made up your own damned mind about it.

But, hey, at least CNN and MSNBC still qualify as a news organization, as opposed to Fox "News", which is little more than a constant conveyor belt of conspiratorial opinion pieces mouthed by an interchangeable parade of creepy thimbots masquerading as journalists...

It's really interesting to see what happens when intrinsically good people, who have be exclusively marinating in Faux News, Rush Limblaugh and *heaven forbid* Info Wars, suddenly get  disconnected from the teat of fear, paranoia and hatred.

At least this story has a happy ending:

(4) "Look, I'm Not Racist, BUT..."

Back in the day, before such things were normalized, the only place where people could openly yell racist shit in public were at wrestling events. I imagine Hossein Khosrow Ali Vaziri, AKA The Iron Sheik, had some charming l'il homilies yelled at him by rednecks many a time while he was a heel for the WWF.

Then again, he's said some bizarre shit himself, so maybe that's not the best example.

But, hey, now looky here! We got ourselves a prezident with zero control over the darkest aspects of the human ID. Finally, them pesky filters and bulwarks of common decency are gone and I can finally speak the truth! Sure my investments are in the dumper and 10% of the U.S. population might die due to Trump's idiocy, but I can still feel good about myself by publicly airing my hatred for brown people!

(4) Art of the Deal...With The Devil

Hey, guess what, guys? Trump's actually a Democrat at heart!

Fun fact, that l'il "hit piece" was actually compiled by human / blobfish hybrid Ted Cruz! Thanks, Ted...you two-faced, sycophantic, spineless toad.

Okay, I hear what you're saying...a guy can change his mind, right? Well, what if I were to tell you that Trump pivoted on this issue merely because he knew it would win him the Evangelical / right to life vote?

And, granted, when he was elected, he did go on to become one of the biggest "right to life" champions. And for this, his feckless base LOVE him for it, with former director of the Christian Coalition, Ralph Reed, going so far as to say that Trump "masterfully capitalized on his pro-life position in a way I think no one could have envisioned four years ago" and that "voters who are pro-life love Donald Trump and they will crawl across broken glass to get him reelected."

What really amuses me is how Evangelicals, I.E. all of those "holier than thou" types, are willing to turn a blind eye to the fact that Trump is one of the most corrupt and immoral creeps to ever hold the office of President. 

And for folks who value the wisdom of the Bible, there sure like to ignore this particular chestnut:

"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God".

***

So, there you go. How many categories do you fit into? One? Two? Do you proudly check off every box?

Speaking as someone who was raised with a conscience, functioning ears and eyes and a memory that extends more than five years, I disqualified Trump as a presidential candidate / human being back in the 80's when I first heard him vomit the most narcissistic, inane shit to tumble out of a mammal's mouth. I consider myself a good judge of character and my first impression of Trump was of an ego-maniacal, Gordon Gecko-style blowhard corporatist who wears ignorance, excess and greed on his sleeve like a badge of honor.

Seriously, America, consider picking someone from a different sector to lead you next time. Assuming there will be a next time. A scientist, maybe? OooOoo...how about a virologist?

EPIC:  "This is your brain."

If people had just paid a modicum of attention to Trump's pre-presidency exploits, I'm confident that he would have been immediately disqualified as a valid presidential candidate.

   

FAIL: "This is your brain on Faux News, Rush Limblaugh and Infant Wars."