7:48:00 am: I walk downstairs with an empty bowl, which moments before held some delicious cereal with strawberry bits and little buttons of some yogurt-like substance. I am followed extremely closely by a large feline asking insistently for more food which, according to him, has not been provided at a rapid enough rate. He is ignoring the fact that moments before he was permitted to clean the bowl of any and all remaining milk. I am ignoring him.

7:48:29 am: I walk into the kitchen and drop the bowl into the sink. The large feline continues to circle me in a manner lot unlike that of a pirhana circling a well-fed tourist with a paper-cut. I continue ignoring him.

7:48:37 am: I grab my travel mug and deposit two spoonfuls of sugar.

7:49:09 am: I spin around to approach the coffee-maker. My left foot is directly in front of my right foot. My body leans forward in the controlled fall that proceeds every footstep taken by humans upon this planet. I move the left foot a mere 1.75 cm towards the coffemaker before my left foot encounters a barrier of fur and hunger.

7:49:09:05 am: At this point I have two choices:

1. I can allow my foot to proceed along its journey, bringing my body one step closer to the coffee-maker. And kicking a large cat in the process.
2. I can fall forward and let the chips — and myself — fall where they may.

7:49:09:06 am: I make my choice.

7:49:09:07 am: I proceed to fall forward in the manner of a Douglas fir. That is with great majesty… and perfectly straight. Somewhere, a lumberjack cries out “TIMBER!” in his sleep.

7:49:09:45 am: At 52 degrees from prone, I manage to arrest my fall when my hand finds the handle of the cupboard door to my right. Flop sweat appears on my forehead.

7:49:09:45 am: The Large One asks for more food, blissfully unaware of the sacrifices we make for the ones we love.

7:49:13 am: I pour my coffee and proceed with my day.

1. I have no cavities.
2. I can hold my breath for over a minute.
3. I have one fake tooth, from an elbow to the mouth at the age of 8.
4. I can fit 22 marshmallows inside my mouth.
5. I have eaten haggis.

1983 was the year I turned 12.

1983 was the year I started Grade 7 at Oxford Junior High.

1983 was the year that both my mother and father both moved into separate flats, one block apart, on Willow Street.

1983 was the year that I got my first “ghetto blaster”.

1983 was the year that I discovered taping songs from the radio.

1983 was the year that I discovered music videos.

1983 was the year that I became a music fan.

1983 was the year that I discovered The Police, U2, The Eurhythmics, Duran Duran, David Bowie, Tears For Fears, Thomas Dolby, The Pretenders, Human League, The Clash, Madness, The Go-Go’s, The Kinks, Joe Jackson, Spandau Ballet, Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, Big Country, Peter Gabriel, The Style Council, The Romantics, Billy Idol, The Fixx, Nena, Ultravox, Dexy’s Midnight Runners, and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

1983 was the year that every Saturday night, C100 FM (at that time not the bastard radio child it is now), used to have a radio show syncronised with a TV show where they would cover the top 20 albums of the week, plus other music that they managed to squeeze in. Because it was synched up, you could watch the videos on your TVs (which weren’t the multimedia behemoths they are now) while actually listening to the audio over your stereo, thereby getting a much better sound. And a louder one. It was through the “other music” that I got the distinct impression that whoever was responsible for programming the show did their damnedest to get some of their own personal favourites in, because in between the actual charting artists, the Michael Jackson’s and Hall and Oates’, they would always manage to squeeze in a few videos that no one had ever heard of… at least not if you were 12 and living in Nova Scotia. I think I can definitely credit the fact that “You’re The Best Thing” by The Style Council was the last dance at our wedding (let alone knowing who The Style Council even were), to seeing the video for “Long Hot Summer” one Saturday night while lying on the couch in the living room on Willow Street.

I’ve listened to a lot of music over the years since then, and gone through some periods where my taste got… questionable. (We won’t discuss my musical theatre period. I was a theatre nerd. I’m clean now, I promise.) But the roots of all my musical taste came from that year. It is the bedrock upon which all my likes and dislikes were formed. It is why I still tell people that British New Wave is my favourite musical genre. It is why I can forgive Sting much of his solo career. It is why “Mr. Roboto” makes me smile like someone just handed me an ice cream. It is why I always think of David Bowie as the Thin White Duke first. It is why “Our House” by Madness will always be on my top 5 list.

It’s why I always tell people…1983 was the best year in music.

I get great satisfaction by packing a nice, healthy lunch for My Lovely Wife. She worries about eating too much during the day, so I take care to fill her lunch with a whole pile of low-cal goodies — usually a big salad or a package of pureed soup, some flavoured rice cakes, one or two pieces of fruit, and the assorted munchie.

(On the other hand, my packed lunch is usually whatever fruit is dropped to the floor or the leavings on plates that the cats didn’t bother licking up, maybe in a bag or possbly just kicked in front of me as I walk. I’m not so conscientious with my own lunch.)

Well, the very first time I packed one of the pureed soups for My Lovely Wife, I received a call at my desk at 12:08.

She wanted to thank my for the soup. And she also wanted to suggest that the next time I actually include tupperware to hold it in and, say, maybe a spoon with which to eat it.

Chagrin, I did feel.

Well, I have never forgotten to pack that tupperware and spoon again. Now, if it’s a soup day, I remember the tupperware and spoon if it means I have to beat my way through a crowd of small, tubercular children. (Which, oddly enough, is not that often.)

Today was a soup day. And dammit, I did not forget that damn tupperware and spoon.

The soup on the other hand…

I have decided to start a project.

For the next month, I will not link cute-animal posts or funny-quote posts or poo-posts or stupid-people posts or awesome-Lego posts or even zombie posts… unless they actually reference the events or undercurrents of my life.

For I do declare the next 31 days… The Month of Me.

(Look at you all… cringing in horror.)

For one month, I will actually attempt to give people a glimpse into the fabulous world that is Jason, without hiding behinds the warm embrace of of zombie Lego kitten fetish porn or whatever. (That phrase should get some interesting hits from Google.)

So stay tuned for fascinating excavations into The Uncharted Depths Of Jason’s Computer Room! Prepare yourself for a startling account of Jason Cleaning The Kitty Litter! Gird your loins in fear of Jason Wondering What Happened In The Last Five Minutes Of CSI Last Night After He Fell Asleep!

Are you girding your loins? Oh, you better.

The Month Of Me begins…

— to tide you over for the next month: a cat piano (via), Pugs in Hats (via), a monkey song, the growing Wall Ball menace, the travels of Nate the Sock Monkey, a zombie donkey in shirt form, a site that will smash your heart into wee little pieces, famous monkeys through history, and a Lego boom-stick wielder — ration that out, people. It has to last you a month —

… NOW!