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I am the greatest thief that has ever existed.

You have heard of me, but believe you are beyond my reach. You aren’t. No one is.

It is certain that I have pilfered from your pocket. I have taken from your neighbour’s pocket, too. Hands in everyone’s pockets.

Everyone you know has been a victim of mine, at some point, somewhere. Some even many times over, never learning their lesson the first time I have taken from them. Or the 100th. Over and over. I take from them. These ones are my favourite. Oh the joy they give me.

I take my profession seriously. My greatness worn proudly – a badge of honour in stark juxtaposition to my dishonourable deeds.

Should we not all take pride in a job well done?

In my time, I have worn many masks and shown many faces. I have travelled all over the world. Borders, real or imagined, melt in my presence. They are nothing to me. Culturally insensitive? Not me. I believe in equal opportunity thievery. I am universal.

I am a master of disguise just as I am a mistress of deception. Conning even con artists. That is my game of confidence.

Taking even from lesser thieves.

I am the world’s greatest taker.

Sometimes I take a little. Sometimes I take a lot.

At times I am reserved in my drive. Stealing just a smidgen here, a dabble there. Almost imperceptible. My mark unknowing why they feel that emptiness where there once was something else. Leaving only a yearning. A desire.

At times, I am all consuming. My hunger for taking limitless, boundless. More. More. More. Driven by something intangible, visceral. A fever run amok. My desire to take burning, raging like a wildfire consuming all in its path, red orange flames fanned by the turbulent winds of want that swirl within each of you. In my wake, I leave only a burnt out shell.

I am insatiable.

Whether you have attempted to control me in the past, is irrelevant. You believe you have conquered me? Overpowered my grasp? No mortal can deny me. In your moments of weakness, during those quiet times your guard is down, I’ll be there to take what is mine.

You are powerless against me.

You can’t hide. I am neither here nor there. I am everywhere.

Look around you. I know you already have.

You can see and feel me in your presence. In almost everything you do.

I am comparison. And I have stolen your joy.

Given

I am the greatest gifter that has ever existed.

You have heard of me, but believe you are beyond my reach. You aren’t. No one is.

It is certain that I have filled your pocket. I have perhaps filled your neighbour’s pocket, too. Hands filling everyone’s pockets. But in different ways.

Everyone you know has been a gifted by me, at some point, somewhere. Some even many times over, learning their lesson the first time I have given to them. Or the 100th. Over and over. I give to them. These ones are my favourite. Oh the joy they give me.

I take my profession seriously. My greatness worn proudly – a badge of honour for my honourable deeds.

Should we not all take pride in a job well done?

In my time, I have worn many masks and shown many faces. I have travelled all over the world. Borders, real or imagined, melt in my presence. They are nothing to me. Culturally sensitive? That’s me. I believe in equal opportunity gratitude. I am universal.

I am a master of joy just as I am a mistress of elation. Conning the con artists. That is my game of confidence.

Taking from lesser thieves and gifting greater good.

I am the world’s greatest giver.

Sometimes I give a little. Sometimes I give a lot.

At times I am reserved in my drive. Giving just a smidgen here, a dabble there. Almost imperceptible. My benefactor unknowing why they feel that fullness where there once was once emptiness. Leaving only a glow. A contented smile.

At times, I am all consuming. My yearning for giving limitless, boundless. More. More. More. Driven by something intangible, visceral. A fever doing the needful. My desire to give burning, raging like a wildfire consuming all detritus in its path, red orange flames fanned by the turbulent winds of want that swirl within each of you. In my wake, I leave only nutrient rich soil from which new opportunity grows, gratitude sprouts.

I am insatiable.

Whether you have attempted to control me in the past, is irrelevant. You believe you have conquered me? Overpowered my grasp? No mortal can deny me. In your moments of strength, during those quiet times your guard is down, I’ll be there to raise you up.

You are powerful with me.

You can’t hide from me. I am neither here nor there. I am everywhere.

Look around you. I know you already have.

You can see and feel me in your presence. In almost everything you do.

I am comparison. And I have given you gratitude.

Photo by Vanesa Giaconi on Unsplash

I’ve previously written about the power of words.

And all of that still holds true.

Each and every day, I’m convinced of this even more.

So be both generous and economical with your words.

Use them liberally.

Spread them around like you’re spreading joy, like you’re spreading room temperature Nutella on a warm slice of rye toast.

Smooth and velvety. Just right.

Use as many words as you need to give birth to your message.

But remember that sometimes, because we love words, we want to use too many. We want to put them all in.

We want to let them frolic with each other, likes waves crashing and summating, growing bigger with each advance.

And that clouds discourse, eating away at the beach and pulling back a million and two grains of sand only to leave a muddied pool behind, frothy and opaque.

A loss of clarity.

This was the lesson he taught me.

“That won’t work.”

Those were my words to him, sent his way casually. Almost flippantly.

He stopped what he was doing, frozen in place like a carved marble statue, his arm outstretched, his gaze meeting mine from 2 meters away – an appropriate social distance.

It was overcast, so the squinting of his eyes above his mask, was meant for me.

I repeated myself, “That won’t work.”

His brows furrowed, the flash of disdain in his eyes.

I’d struck a nerve.

In the times of The Covids, this seemed easier and easier to do. People were on edge. Frayed.

Perhaps I should have just kept my mouth shut. Said nothing and continued to contribute to the silence.

But it was too late for that.

I’d pushed the wrong button. There was no retreat. No escape.

I’d released my words into the world, and now I was responsible for the repercussions.

Action-Reaction. Newton’s Third Law.

“Don’t tell me what’ll work or not work!” he spat out. While his words had an edge, they weren’t quite hostile – yet.

Now it was my turn to freeze. What would be my next step? My next course of action? I needed to smooth things over.

But how?

In that brief moment, as the gears in my mind were churning, he continued with his action, his intense gaze still locked on mine, in open defiance of my suggestion.

And just as predicted, it failed again.

I should have known. I live the same principle. When someone tells me to do something, I do the opposite.

Instinctively.

Just because.

How many times had I been told to cut my hair? And how many times have I listened?

He tried again. The metallic rattle echoing loudly. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me. To us.

I could feel his anger smouldering like embers on fire about to surge. Things were about to get bad.

When backed into a corner, a caged beast will throw caution to the wind and attack with an unrelenting fury.

I had to find the right words to diffuse the situation. I had to make things right.

“Push.”

From three words to one.

It worked.

And I could feel the rage subside.

The palpable tension, dissipated like the mist from a steaming cup of coffee into the ether. Vanished.

His eyebrows, finding repose again on his brow ridge, two furry caterpillars retreating from proximity.

His head tilted, a nod, acknowledging our brief encounter and the wisdom I’d shared.

As he pushed on the door he’d been pulling on, it opened with a whoosh and he disappeared inside – leaving me on the outside with the lessons in finding the right word.

Not only had he learned something that day. So had I.

We were both left better for it.

Photo by Jana Leu on Unsplash

This is the true story of how I ended up with not one, but two pairs of high-end, noise cancelling headphones while only having one set of ears.

Let me take you back to early December 2020, the latter half of the first year of The Covid. A year I know we will all remember, perhaps not fondly, but vividly.

Due to the far-reaching and insidious impacts of the nefarious coronavirus, the world was a very different place.

People were staying home, their jobs obliterated, their governments mandating stay at home orders – there was fear and trepidation everywhere.

Retail spending dropped precipitously. Consumers weren’t buying.

However, for those people who were still buying, this drop in demand was helpful. Prices for consumer goods fell. Retailers struggling with costs, dropped their margins, offering deals galore for those still willing to part with rare or meagre earnings, just to get product moving off the shelves.

This is how my story begins.

---

For a few months, I’d been researching and comparing two different pairs of noise cancelling Bluetooth headphones: the Bose 700 and the Sony WH-1000 XM4.

With virtually identical price points and similar technical specs, it was a toss up. Both would serve my purpose admirably.

Until I saw the sale price.

With an limited time, extra $50 savings thrown in, I ordered a pair of the Bose 700 Noise Cancelling headphones directly from Bose with guaranteed delivery before December 24, 2020.

But this wouldn’t be a story if there was no conflict, if there was no problem for our protagonist to overcome.

And sure enough, as if on cue, the problem of our digital age.

Delivery issues. The bane of an Amazon Prime coddled shopper.

The estimated delivery date was changed to early Jan 2021 – even though there was a large banner on the website GUARANTEEING DELIVERY BY DECEMBER 24th.

So as any good buyer would do, I contacted customer support and was assured that it would indeed be delivered on time as per the original order.

The next day, another updated delivery notice, again pushing the delivery date further into January 2021. And again I contacted customer support to be reassured that according to their system, I would be receiving the goods on the promised date.

So far, I’d spent almost 2 hours on the phone to be reassured twice.

Then a most peculiar email arrived four days before D day: my order date on the email was changed – to a date a week AFTER I’d made the order, thereby absolving them of the guaranteed delivery promise.

HOW DARE THEY.

So for the third time, I contacted customer support, and waited another hour.

This time, the reality, or perhaps the Truth, was shared with me. I would not receive my headphones on the promised date. The website banner was wrong. They wouldn’t arrive until next year. NEXT YEAR.

I could feel the uncomfortable bubbling deep inside the pit of my stomach, that acrid feeling of frustration and angst, welling up.

I’d had enough. I cancelled my order and asked for a refund. The agent processed the return and apologized.

So here I am, in a loud, noisy world, only wanting a small piece of quiet and getting none.

But to my surprise, a couple days later, another message from Bose with a new shipping date for my headphones. It was the order that I’d cancelled, like a zombie resurrection, revived from the dead.

So another 45 minutes with support where the agent could see that I’d called a few days prior, but that no action had been taken. None. Nada. Zip.

One simple task. Cancel and refund. That’s it.

The last agent hadn’t finalized the cancellation. Had not processed the refund.

Apologies were plenty and profuse, but of little value. Meaningless without any follow through. This time the agent promised that it had been completed and that there would be no further issues. Based on my last couple weeks, I pressed them further, assurances upon assurances, that this was it, case closed, the end.

While this was taking place, I had continued on my quest for silence. And as luck would have it, the Sony headphones, the very same ones I’d had on my radar, were offered for an even bigger discount, saving me an additional $100 on the $50 I would have saved on the Bose – with one caveat – as long as I was okay with the only colour available. Good thing I wasn’t picky and preferred keeping $150 in my now empty pocket.

And as further luck in The Time of The Covid would have it, I could pick them up curbside at a local retailer down the street. No more waiting on unreliable delivery.

At this point, it’s December 30th, 2020 and I’m ready to put the year behind me.

But the year had other plans.

A simple text message sent my life into a tailspin, a spiral of madness enveloping me in a miasma of doom and rage.

“Your package is on its way!”

UPS the bearer of bad news, the messenger.

Bose had shipped the headphones.

THE ONES THAT HAD BEEN CANCELLED.

They were on their way to me and would arrive in about a week.

So guess who spent another hour plus on the phone with customer support, listening to the Cisco hold music which now haunts those quiet moments before I fall asleep?

This time, the poor customer service agent didn’t receive any pleasantries from me. A simple, clear demand delivered in a hard, clipped tone devoid of joy. Clint Eastwood would have been proud.

“You can’t help me. Put me through to a supervisor.”

It was probably the fastest I’d been escalated.

Discussing my situation with the supervisor, again replete with useless apologies, my frustration crept up, but rest assured my voice did not.

“As we can’t stop the delivery now, what we can do is have you take it to the UPS depot when you receive it and have them return to sender.”

The tipping point. Catalyst ignition.

I had clearly stated, on the previous two calls, that I did not want to be responsible for any returns. That position hadn’t changed. If anything, I was more steadfast in my refusal to do any work for them.

At this point with the calls (and the online chats, which I hadn’t mentioned above), I’d already spent close to 7 hours dealing with this issue.

I let the agent know my displeasure.

And the fact that I refused, in this, the Time of The Covids, to go to a delivery depot full of people, on the other side of town. I don’t put my pants on for just anything these days, and sure as hell wasn’t going to do it for Bose.

I could almost hear the rumination on the agent’s end, having kept their calm with a clearly agitated customer, trying to work a solution.

“Would you be willing to keep the headphones if I could offer you a further discount?”

It was my turn to ruminate.

“What would the discount be?”

“I could give you 50% off what you paid.”

More silence on my end, mostly because math isn’t my strong suit and I had to calculate the total savings. My mental calculator

“That works.”

A week later and with a savings 2/3 of the retail price, I became the proud owner of not just one, but two pairs of high-end, noise cancelling headphones.

Photo by Frederic Christian on Unsplash

What follows is not a random rambling of Amazon river-esque meandering through a story with no purpose, a story that pulls you through twists and turns to obfuscate the message.

This tale, unlike the one posted previously, is only based on a true story.

The story of this morning.

While I could say this morning started like every other morning, that would be a lie.

And to start discourse with a lie, with you, my friends, would be uncouth.

Friendship, especially on the internet, has as its foundation, truth and honesty. Perhaps, even oversharing.

That is the bedrock of stable social media, and one I duly uphold at all costs, knowing how even one slight misunderstanding, one glib falsehood, carelessly ejected, could cost me dearly.

A price too steep to pay after the year we’ve just had.

So with the above encompassing the words that follow, here is how I almost ruined 2021.

The eve of the New Year was upon us and through a series of unfortunate incidents and failures in comprehension, drizzled with a dollop or two thousand and twenty of procrastination, of which I can’t really blame myself because I can do no wrong, I spent the better part of 24 hours awake.

And by better part, I mean exactly 24 hours.

From 7 am December 30th to 7 am Dec 31st, which happened to be a workday.

I did sleep from 7 am on the 31st to 9 am on the 31st, which was glorious, and enough to maintain, but not enhance, my beauty.

Now at this point, you curious little Georges may be wondering what would cause an adult human to intentionally do this to himself…

While the specifics don’t matter, it was a choice, borne out of work IT related necessity.

Suffice to say, by 8: 30 pm last night, when I finally had my first meal of 3.5 slices of leftover Hawaiian pizza, its flavour enhanced by the accompanying tall glass of freshly pumped original soda stream Dr Pete, I was exhausted.

The kind of exhausted where one’s eyes are open, but one’s dark, putrid soul is closed, the body shutting down, all systems hibernating.

And so by 10 pm, it was lights out.

For 10 hours before the new day, the new dawn.

The New Year.

2021.

Fresh and ripe, bursting with hope like a plump, juicy mango.

Leaving behind the pit of 2020.

And then it happened.

As soon as it began with such promise, I almost ruined the year ahead.

Groggy from sleep, a solid 3.5 hours more than my usual, I almost cursed this year, almost sullied it with an egregious error from which there would have been no recovery.

My coffee routine is set, the ways of an old grizzled man.

It is a pattern, an ingrained habit…robotic, precise, practised.

A motor engram.

There is no deviation, no wasted steps, no faltering. Ever.

Until today.

The Presse Francaise was set up as usual, the coffee lovingly measured within. The kettle bubbled joyously until its purpose was served, the water allowed to settled then decanted atop the grounds. Those fertile grounds.

Whet.

The scoop of pure crystalline creatine with its single hydrate, from where my inner rage comes, was dispensed with care into my appropriated Ursula mug, ensuring none of the 5g’s escaped into the ether to do untold damage out free in the world, in the free world.

AND THEN IT ALMOST HAPPENED.

An unfathomable error. A mistake. Ooopsie. With an extra O.

One that could have ruined 2021.

I almost put my heaping tablespoon of instant rich and creamy hot chocolate powder, that magic dust which transforms my coffee into something greater than itself – into a mocha – into the French Press instead of my mug.

But not today, ghosts of 2020. Not fucking today.

Disaster averted before damage was done.

Because today is the first of January.

May you all avert the disasters big and small.

Just like I did.

Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash

This is a real life event that I’ve been meaning to share for some time now.

It was late afternoon, on a balmy March Sunday, early in Quarantine I, in the year 2020.

We’re out for a stroll in our neighbourhood – the only activity permitted at the dawn of those uncertain, turbulent times – and we see woman with a young child of 6 or 7 years of age exit the doorway of an apartment building on our right and step directly in front of us on the sidewalk.

It was close enough that we slowed our pace, to maintain the requisite 2 meters distance, lest we be immediately coated in coviddy virulence and filth.

The young boy joyously brings a lollipop to his mouth, as young children do when gifted such treats.

But it’s not a lollipop.

It’s a fucking cigarette.

He takes a drag and pulls it away from his mouth in his little hands.

We see smoke escaping as he exhales slowly, languidly. Perhaps imagining he’s a dragon. Puff. The magic dragon.

Without pausing, without skipping a beat, he casually flicks it away, his thumb and index finger doing that smoker’s dance, the broken OK.

It lands behind him, in our path, discarded like the rubbish it is.

The glowing end explodes as it hits the ground, fiery orange embers disengage and then fade to nothing, to darkness.

At that moment, after a dozen meters of walking, they turn into a local laundromat. The woman rubs out the tip of her cigarette on the brick surrounding the entrance, pockets the remainder, and the pair disappear inside.

As we step over the discarded item, we confirm it is indeed a cigarette.

A real fucking cigarette.

We look at each other. Mouths agape. Incredulous. Words, like the smoke from that little boy’s mouth, escape us.

What have we just seen?

Did that really just happen?

We both doubt what we saw, but we saw it, did we not?

What is perception? What was the reality?

Stunned.

We look at each other again, our paired strides broken.

She’s the first to break our silence.

“Is that for real?” her voice is a hoarse whisper, raspy. As if she was the one who was smoking.

“I thought it was a lollipop at first…” is all I can muster. My voice is feeble, stilted.

“Can you believe it?”

“I know, it’s crazy “

She meets my gaze, my head shaking side to side to match hers.

“He just littered – the world his ashtray.”

Photo by Mathew MacQuarrie on Unsplash

a cough
a sneeze
wills everyone 
to freeze
statues
staring blindly
fear
full carts
toilet paper hoarders
having no borders
like a virus
that spreads
infecting
the affected
to act
in ways 
we don't understand
we can't
because it's never been
like this before
in our time
a war
against an unseen
enemy
droplets of death
floating in the sky
rain of terror
like fever rising
misinformation reigns
supreme
protection
is a sleeve
an elbow 
hoisted defensively
to mask the face
to keep physical distance
social 
no more

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

“Are you lost?”

My body starts as my head swivels to engage the voice that breaks the silence. I see nothing but a shadowy visage in the inky blackness.

“I don’t know.”

I hear my voice respond, the sound both familiar and foreign at the same time. I hadn’t meant to answer in that manner and I curse myself internally for the reflexive response.

“You don’t know?”

There is a smile playing on those words. I can hear it. Questioning with gentle mockery. As though the speaker is stifling laughter deep inside. As though I should always know where I am.

“No.”

My voice comes out barely above a whisper, the end of the word trailing off and fading into nothingness.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

All these pointed questions. As though I should have answers. In my mind, I ignore the question, but in reality, the words tumble out.

“I thought I knew, but now I’m not so certain.”

My voice, stiff soft, still unsure, seeps out as though that opening question removed the plug that stopped the dam from unleashing its contents.

“Not certain? Surly you had set out with a destination in mind? No one heads out without knowing where they are going. Not here. Not like this. Not with me. That’s impossible!”

The voice, no longer playful, is incredulous. Aghast that someone would start a journey without a destination, so unsure of themselves. Especially this type of journey.

“I did know. Or I thought I knew. But now I’m no longer certain. What if the destination changes along the way?”

“Don’t be a fool! A destination simply does not change! It is, and always will be, where it is. There are irrefutable laws that govern such things. Destinations do not change on whims. A destination is immovable. It is concrete. It is the end point.”

That’s also what I’d believed as well until that very moment those words had escaped my now parched lips. I have no choice but to double down, sink my feet in, and defend my words.

“But it has changed. And there were no whims involved. I’m not where I’m supposed to be at the end, although I’m supposed to be here, right now.”

My bold words echo with newfound vigour. They are carried with far more weight and heft than those I’d delivered earlier, buttressed by a conviction I possess in my hands.

“That’s absurd! Listen to yourself! If here is where you ought to be, then by simple logical reasoning, you have arrived at your destination. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Yes. That’s true. When you put it that way, I suppose that makes sense.”

My brain is spinning. I am confusing myself. The voice is confusing me. I shake my head to find clarity.

“Of course it makes sense. If you have arrived where you’re supposed to be, then logically, you’ve arrived at your destination. There is no other way about it. You are where you should be, isn’t that so?”

There is no hiding the laughter in that statement this time. The mockery. I must defend my honour and so I do.

“But it was you who asked if I was lost.”

“Yes, because unless your name is Karen, you’re in the wrong Uber.”

And with those words piercing me, a hot flush rising up my face, I look down at my phone and realize the driver is right. Silently, I open the door and step out. And there, sitting directly behind the beige Toyota in the lane way, is the beige Nissan as described on my phone, the driver peering out at me.

That, is my destination.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash