And now, finally, some talent.

And, now, a special guest post by my friend Diego...


If you are reading this, this diary by Kyle "Jago" Jago, it can mean only one thing: you have run out of Internet. You have literall traveled as far as you can. You've been by Homestar X number of times, you've done Something Awful, you might even remember suck.com. The point is, that's it. The information superhighway has winnowed down to a dirt road, and this road leads to a tin-roofed shack surrounded by Warp One bags and empty chili cans.

You stupid, fucking people.

As Jago's "friend" for X number of years, let me correct a basic premise: still waters do not run deep. They are exactly one inch deep. And if you've stumbled onto this site expecting to peer into the soul of a genius, you have failed, Titanic-style. This man is as easy to please as a plant: food, somewhere to lay roots, and maybe bees flitting about his sexual organs.

That's the mystery explained. By me. Your best friend in the world.

So, despair. Take your own life if you have to. Undoubtedly Jago will white-wash this entry, writing "my friend Diego's crazy", or "my friend Diego's drunk", but by then, you will be dead by your own hand. Floating face-down in your own bath tub, your soggy, necrotic remains will be the tombstone on a horrible, long-buried secret: we are all cheapened by knowing him.

But hey, not everything's bad. Hulk movie? That's gonna RAWK!!!


So, yeah. That's Diego. And, while he's had SOME beers, I don't think he's quite drunk yet. Oh, and he's adopted....

Whyte Avenue Fuckers and Random Acts of Kindness

If there's one downfall to my apartment, it's the proximity to Whyte Ave. There's the road istelf, there's the Chapters' building and my apartment. This means I hear everything from Whyte Ave.


Sometimes, it's not so bad. During the days, no problems. The occasional sound of traffic, or cars going in my alleyway, or construction.

But on the weekend, my place is tuned into the mandatory radio program, "Young Edmontonians Are a Bunch of Fuckheads."

I hear the yelling and screaming of boys barely old enough to vote as they tear through the alley, either in cars or on foot. They shout the type of language I have nothing but contempt for: Unimaginative obscenities, racial and sexual slurs, and just general asshole talk.

I hear 82nd Avenue being turned into a drag strip, as these people get into their cars, beyond the point of controlling their alcohol-fueled rage and rambunctiousness.

I see people punching cars, kicking over trash cans, rooting through the dumpster on a regular basis.

It's times like this where I really miss the house. Even though it was on a main drag, and we'd occasionally hear and see people dragging themselves through my front yard, jumping over the fence due to their better judgement supressed by five shots of rum and Coke. Every now and then, such as just a few weeks ago, we'd occasionally let someone into the house just to call 911 or the police because of drunken bullies in the area.

It was nothing compared to the sights and sounds I have observed this past month.

Hell, Colin and I moved into the House of Stylin' on July 1, 2001. We were two blocks away from the infamous Whyte Avenue Canada Day riot, and we slept through the whole thing. I walked down The Ave the next morning on my way to work, amazed at the fact that four out of five businesses' windows were smashed, all while I was asleep a few hundred feet away.

And it's nights like this, reading in bed, listening to the hoots and hollers of liquored-up teens and motorcycles zooming down the street, that I really wish that I could be back at the house.

Or that City Hall would shut down half of the bars on Whyte and relocate them to downtown, where this happens in *other* cities.

* * *

I've been reading Dave Eggers' You Shall Know Our Velocity recently. And there are some things in this book that I really have a yearning to do now.

Like a social experiment where the two protagonists take flowers or wine to a random stranger's house, under the assumption that these items can get you access into any home or business.

"Shock would be softened by blind confusion then affectionate bewilderment, and soon we'd be family."

Granted, in the book, the plan goes awry, but the premise is still there: What would be the outcome of doing something like this? In a perfect world, you're expanding your boundaries, while enabling someone else to do the same.

It's an act I've *really* got to remember...



Last night, at the bus stop outside of my mall, I saw what has to be the Edmonton version of the first sign of spring: The Reimax hot air balloon.

I got to watch for a bit, see the balloons over the River Valley. Quite calming, actually.

I like Edmonton summers. I wish I were here for more of them...

Listening to: Zooropa - U2

Reading: Cerebus: Form & Void by Dave Sim


A confession...

It's something I was discussing with my friend, girlone, last night. (girlone: A nickname I jokingly referred her with during last night's conversation. It was talking about her anonymity in my journal. And you know what? I like it. So I'm using it, although it's not in the sense I was joking about.)

I rarely show emotions. Or, at least, the emotion I show is not usually the emotion I'm actually feeling. I wear masks. We all do. It's just something that keeps me from getting hurt more often.

So I was telling girlone, "I'm the kind of guy who tends to play his emotions close to his heart, and rarely tells people what he's feeling..."

Girlone: "Yeah, I've noticed."

Me: "That's me. The guy full of pent-up emotions."

After thinking it over for a bit, I realized that I have to break the cycle. Start stripping away the layers of masks. MAKE myself more vulnerable. Become the child I was back in elementary. Or, at least, put some elements of little Kyle into the "adult" Jago. So, an explanation's in order. To get to be the way I want to be, need to be, I need to start from the beginning, and work my way from there...

It happened in Grade 6. I was an emotional kid. Small. Weak. And the Grade 8s, being the usual overly cruel kids that only preteens can be, made fun of me. I was the whipping boy. A story everyone's heard, and experienced at least once. For me, it happened for two years.

So, in Grade 8, I changed. Started building the walls. And, of course, the walls that I built up, being who *I* am, were made up of words.

I have always been "The Writer." In high school, English was usually one of my easier classes. In university, after dropping out of the Faculty of Business, I took a year off. Decided what I wanted to do. I enrolled in Journalism.

When it comes to how I describe my writing style, I tend to use the word 'hack.' "I am a hack writer," I say. Maybe it's my joking way to refer the the point of why I'm not working at a paper, why I'm stuck at the Mall, selling electronics. The best way to hide my failures, my inadequacies, is to be flippant about them.

Hence, I'm a hack.

But I'm not a hack. Sure, I'll say that I am. But it's a lie. I write better than a lot of people out there. I'm not being prideful, just stating the truth.

Words. I've always been able to play with words. Twist them, turn them. Make them fit like Tetris blocks. I can, given enough time, or on the fly, parody almost anything. Styles of writing. Change songs to be funny. Self-mocking poems, etcetera. If I don't beat people to the punch by coming up with the witty line, I've failed. They've triumphed over me. Grade 6 all over again.

So, after 4 years of high school, and 8 years since, I've got quite the wall of words. A tower, really. A Tower of Babel of words, reaching high up into the heavens, where Kyle Jago is safe from the spears and arrows people launch at him.

Problem is, in this case as is it in others, is that a tower doesn't just keep me safe. It keeps people out.

I have some friends I can tell almost anything to. The key word in that sentence is ALMOST. I am a very social animal. I always have to be hanging out with someone. I have a lot of friends. But of those friends, I can only really confide in about, I dunno...five per cent of them? Maybe less... To the rest, I'm Jago. Silly guy, fun to hang out with, but I keep my emotions close to me, like a poker hand that no one will see until it's time to read'em and weep, fellas!

Except this hand is taking a long time to play out. And, as such, emotions have been bottled for months, even years.

Because, until I'm true to myself, I'm not true to others.

It's time to break down the walls. My own personal city of Jericho. It's time to start peeling off the masks.

Heh. I think this deserves a new page, don't you?

Reading: Red Dragon by Thomas Harris

Watching: The Godfather Trilogy


Sleepy Jago makes for weird phone conversations

1:30 a.m. I am asleep. Fitfully, due to the utter heat in my bedroom. The phone rings.

ME: Uh, hello?

SARAH: Jago! Are you okay?

ME: (completely NOT in the right mindframe to be talking to anyone) Guh? Meh. Mumble mumble.

S: There's fire trucks outside your apartment building!

ME: If there were a fire, I'm pretty sure I'd be aware of it. (Probably more like, "No, wha? Mumble fire mumble sleep.")

S: We're at Paul's apartment watching the fire trucks outside your place. We just wanted to make sure you're all right.

ME: I'm sure I'm not on fire. Are you sure it's my building?

S: We just want to see you, see that you're okay. Come on over.

ME: Um. I'm not in... not in... clothes. Yeah. No clothes. I'm in bed. Sleeping. It's not my place that's got fire trucks in front of it.

S: Well, get some clothes on. Come over. There's lots of us here.

ME: My apartment building's not on fire. What? It's 1:30 a.m. I'm sleeping, and I'm not dressed. I have no... what? No clothes. I'll be right over.

Just a warning to anyone who has the fortune of trying to talk to me after waking me up: Believe me, I'm not going to make any sense. None.

So I put on shorts and a t-shirt, head outside and walk down the block to where some friends are having drinks on their porch, watching a building that's not mine get aired out by firefighters.

PAUL: "Jago! I thought you lived in that building!"

ME: "No. Down the street. Not on fire. Woke me up."

S: "Sorry! I'm the sober one, and everyone else told me to call you. You look tired!"

So I hung out with some very happy (read: blitzed) people for a few hours before I got home. And now I must really go to bed.



Okay, now that I have some leisure time, I'm looking up what my dream (see previous entry) might mean at dreammoods.com. Before I continue, let me just say that this site has all the bases covered. Dreaming of drinking acid? Anal sex? Ankles? Watching animation? Androids? Allan Chambers? It's all here, man...

So, here we go:


To see an acquaintance in your dream, signifies positive affairs in business and harmony in your home life. It also foretells that you will see or hear from them shortly after this dream.

Since I haven't even THOUGHT of Doug Hartfield since high school, this is odd. But, okay.

Amusement Park

To see or be in an amusement park in your dream, indicates that you need to set some time for leisure and more enjoyment in your life. Consider how everything in the park is an expression of some aspect of yourself. Alternatively, you may be too easily distracted lately.

I must enjoy my life more. Ergo, I must win the lottery and not work. Excellent!


To dream that you are on or see a waterslide, suggests that you are being swept away by your emotions. You are slowly exploring the realm of your unconscious. Alternatively, the dream suggests that you are going with the flow of things without any objections or resistance.

I am being swept away by my emotions? But right now, I think I'm at a happy medium. Unless they're talking about...Oh, never mind...


To see or dream that you are a lifeguard, suggests that you are keeping your emotions well guarded. You may be seeking guidance and support while you carefully explore aspects of your unconscious.

Heh, okay. This I can see, keeping my emotions well guarded. But what if someone else is a lifeguard at the waterpark? Does this mean I'm keeping feelings from Mike?


To dream of your age, signifies you anxiety and concern of growing older. It may also represent some regrets or failure in your endeavors.

To dream that you are accused of being older that you really are, signifies that you will fall into negative companionship.

Anxiety and concern of me growing older? Whaaa? Okay, I am at the age where my dad married my mom, and of course I'm thinking am I going to be single forever. But everyone worries about aging and lost opportunities...


To see your friends in your dream, signifies aspects of your personality that you have rejected, but are ready to integrate these rejected part of yourself. The relationships you have with those around you are important in learning about yourself. Additionally, this symbol foretells of happy tidings from them and the arrival of good news.

To see your friends, saddened and troubled, in your dream, signifies sickness and distress upon them.

Is Colin troubled or saddened? No, he's Colin. He just doesn't know the girls at the table...

And I've always defined myself by the friends I keep. I'm a VERY social animal...

So has this really helped me at all? Maybe I just dream weird things. I'll think about this, of course. There are some things that hit home, but they were always kind of there to begin with...

Odd Transformations 1

Strange dream I had this morning. I'll try to put down all the tidbits I remember.

- I was at a large amusement park. It, in turn, had quite the long chain of water rides. I was wanting to go waterbiking, that is, riding a huge paddlebike.

- The lifeguard on duty was Mike, a friend I met this year in choir. No clue why he was there. We talked. I invited him to my real-life apartment warming.

- My ex-roommate Colin was at a table with me with a whole bunch of choir girls I never hang around with. He didn't know anyone there.

- Back at the water ride, I turned around to see Doug Hartfield, a classmate from high school. It took me a bit to remember who he was. I mentioned that I logged onto classmates.com, and he put down the wrong birthdate. When was he REALLY born? "In the 1950s," he said. I'm pretty sure he told me a precise date, but it must have been wrong, because that would've made him in his 40s when he was at school, and in his 50s now. "That's right," he said.

So, over the course of this dream, I met three friends from different times of my life at an amusement waterpark. And I found out that one of them was a lot older than I suspected. After I get back from work, I think I'll look up a dream interpretation site and see what this might mean.

Still, this wasn't half as weird as my anxiety dream from a few years back where I was completely unprepared for a play. I'll tell that story when I have enough time.


Musings 1

I've decided that for recurring themes, such as my thoughts and musings, I'd go with a numbering system not unlike what Dave Sim incorporates into his comic epic Cerebus. Whenever something that doesn't necessarily fit into the storyline, he'll use a title such as "Odd Transformations" or "Mind Games" and number them if they keep on showing up over the course of a comic.

So, the first occurrence of Musings:

- Is there a more beautiful smell than that of impending rain? I was walking from the house (for all intents and purposes, Stan, Devin and Colin's house is called 'the house', not DaCoSta...) and smelled my favourite natural smell ever, I'm pretty sure. (Eventually, I'll do a list of my favourite smells, when it's not after a night of fun and hanging out.)

There's just something about the smell of rain that really refreshes me. It's as if the rain will wash all the dirt and grime out, and the streets will start anew, from scratch.

Maybe it's because, where I'm from, rain isn't that big of an occurrence. Snow, hell yeah, and a lot of sun, but rain doesn't happen frequently.

But it is one of my favourite things, walking down the street before an impending storm, listening to the silence and smelling the dewy precipitation before the heavens open up and the rain falls.

It calms me.


The weekend that never ended...

Well, I've got furniture now. My apartment is looking a lot more like an apartment and less like a warehouse for clothes.

I've gotta thank my family for giving me a sectional couch, a microwave, repainting some coffee tables, and driving these articles the eight hours from Moose Jaw.

Also, for some reason after Dad stayed at my place for the weekend, and after I worked the entire long weekend, I was so tired last night, I just woke up from 13 hours of sleep. Wow. This doesn't happen that often, maybe once in a blue moon. Granted, I tend to thrive on 9-10 hours of sleep a day, but 13 hours is pretty long, even for me.

Oh, and I'm planning my apartment warming. The big question is, how many people can I stuff in this apartment? I guess I'll be finding out.


Are you there, God? It's me, Jago.

Well, here we go. I thought it was time, with my new place, and (hopefully) new job, to start a weblog. Just so I don't go absolutely crazy. Plus, it builds my writing skills. I've been non-writing long enough, if you don't count the many parody songs, plays and scripts I've collaborated on for the past four years.

A new beginning, as it were.

First, let me start off by saying this:

I do NOT like working for RadioShack.

As long as they keep us understaffed and underpaid, I will CONTINUE to not like working at RadioShack.

I'm sorry. When I have to pull a 5-hour Friday shift by myself because my manager leaves early, and my assistant manager becomes sick, I am not a happy Jago. Especially when I want to go and perform at improv.

And when a woman comes in with a broken discman, does not have the receipt or ANY of the parts that came with it (instructions, headphones, car adapter, cassette adapter) and wants a refund because it "never worked properly," I get pissed off.

ESPECIALLY when she says, "I'm sure I bought it here. You can't find the receipt? Well, can you try Capilano? No? Can you try Kingsway? No? Can you try Southgate? No? Londonderry? No? Okay, it must have been Sherwood Park, then."

ESPECIALLY when she wants a refund, and when I won't give it to her, she wants me to call my boss at home. Or the boss of Sherwood Park at home.

And then she leaves my store to go return something at Zellers, and promises she'll be back to buy something, even though the mall closes in 10 minutes.


Not happy. God, I wish Warp would call now. Just so I can leave the job I've not liked for almost two years now.

So, yeah. First post, and already the bitching starts.

Just so you know, it won't always be like this. Some griping, sure, but not constant. I'm planning on just writing, be it stories, fiction, poetry, whatever. I might even throw some of my pictures on line. Just because I can.