Alpha to Omega

Crazies and Stuff

2007-11-28T22:20:00.000-07:00

The last couple of months have been progressively stranger. I'm sort of stumbling around with the feeling that I should be doing something, but I'm not sure what doing entails, nor what the outcome or goal is supposed to be. School feels argumentative, and though intellectually stimulating, entirely entrenched in a bizarre unreality that conjurs in me an intense lack of motivation or purpose. A bunch of people sitting around with the intellectual power to change the world for the better, but only after a few dozen pitchers.

I rode home today in my friend's car as she blasted freakin' Christmas music, and I thought of home at Christmas and how much I've come to loathe the holiday--it's pressure. It's not the time I get to spend with the people I care about--I like that--it's the arranging of that time, the preparation, the fucking stress of whose house is graced with my presence on the actual day. 'Cause you know, it doesn't count otherwise. This year I'll only have one dinner to attend, and that's fucked up in itself.

I can't get my mind around the thoughts that go through other people's minds, and maybe that's why I feel like I'm constantly having some kind of fight or flight response to this anti-reality. No one makes sense to me, and I catch myself (and they catch me...even worse) just staring at them, trying to understand why the words aren't connecting in any real or meaningful way. It's frustrating and making me angry. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Dog the car on the bed couch into a pervasive hat man uncomfortable shining basket. Ok? Sure.

The craziest shit of all occurs within that petty and predictible realm that humans are funny enough to term relationships. If there wasn't enough hilarity and insanity in my own life already, there is now.

My friend who listens to Christmas music has taken to a friend of a friend in a rather bad way. It's uncomfortable because I know it's bad, but she doesn't. I think he's going to get upset with her soon because their casual relationship has turned into a professed need for constant action. Which men don't understand as sex. They get really scared and worry about someone getting too emotionally involved. That's going to be uncomfortable.

And then there's the crazy-ass bitch who made a collage of another of my friends. Not someone she's involved with because she's too married for that. Picture of her. Picture of him.......picture of her kid. Times two-hundred. It made my hair stand up on end. And then she topped it all of with writing a really funny letter about how she isn't a groupie. Ok honey.

My own relationship issues are just as funny, if only because we actually speak two different languages. I don't mean to suggest that I went to some exotic country and picked up a hot and muscley pool boy for myself, though that may be a better technique, for future reference. I realise that the men of our generation have their own peculiar set of psychological issues, but I'm not exacly sure what makes them think the rest of us aren't just as royally screwed. Or that they'll suddenly tell you they want to marry you. But.

In conclusion. I'm not sure why I'm suddenly more sane than everyone else.

Make My Day: Leave A Comment

2007-04-01T01:09:00.000-06:00

I went back in time today and read some of my old posts. Time travel sure is fun. It seems like we had a lot more fun back then. There was banter in the comments section. I like banter. And now there's none. It also seems as though I started actually taking this seriously somewhere along the line. And now it’s no fun :(

As you can see, I’ve inserted a ‘sad smiley’ to indicate that it is now fun time :) Given that I rarely engage is such antics, it is my hope that this communicates my sincerity and commitment to fun time :)

So it’s fun time :) As soon as I figure out what that means, I will let you know. It may involve locating a scanner and posting a picture of myself in Smurf jammies. This may take some time; I'm presently engaged in research. I'm doing an interesting study of the use of space in the context of local indie performances. In other words, I'll be watching people at the bar. In the meantime, why don’t you all tell me why no one visits me anymore? I’d really like to know. Even pen-palling wasn’t tempting enough. Assholes.

Get Back Jojo

2007-03-26T01:30:00.000-06:00

I spent the evening going through old pictures at my parent’s house. You may not believe this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cuter kid. I had Smurf jammies once. There was a hat and a one-piece with little booties. I miss that. I miss a lot of things from my childhood. I miss Lego. I miss the illusion of a drug and sex-free Cory Feldman. The soundtrack from Gremlins. And the Care Bears. I also miss pen pals. I had a lot of them once.

I’m really disappointed that people forget about this kind of stuff. Something happens to most people around my age, and they suddenly begin acting differently and sanctioning you if you refuse to do so as well. I’m not really sure what the point is. People can’t stand to just do nothing anymore, and yet they spend their lives doing nothing—at their jobs, in their marriages. I pay my bills on time and I don’t need to eat dinner at the same time every day to do it. I like to lie around on the floor and sing along to whatever I’m in the mood for. That’s not constructive and I don’t care. I eke out a living and go to school and when I don’t, I shouldn’t have to feel guilty about just doing nothing. I don’t understand.

Once, one of my pen pals tried to send me a tiny plastic reindeer through the mail. I guess when they tried to put the envelope through a machine it mangled the letter, but they delivered it anyway. It came in a plastic bag and had black ink all over it from whatever chaos it had created in the letter-sorting machine. I was glad to get it. I moved to the city my friend lived in a few years later. Unfortunately for me, she had turned into a real bitch. We were fourteen, so I suppose it makes sense. She had something to prove, and I guess the distance between us had distracted from the fact that we were completely different people. Not just different, our differences were irreconcilable—for her, anyway. Pen palling in bad spirit, that’s what she was doing.

I want to have pen pals again, but people are so committed to their adult lives. I’m sure no one wants to exchange Cracker Jack prizes through the mail, but I’ll accept applications anyway. Anyone who is as disenchanted with propriety as I am can feel free to email me their address. I might send you cool stuff.

Sunday morning

2007-03-14T16:01:00.000-06:00

I was reading a book today and one of the characters reminded me of you. And it got me thinking about you, even though I’ve been disinclined to do so for a very long time, even moderately fearful of the idea that you should need to be anywhere in my conscious working brain if it is at all within my control.

But I know you want to be there. I know that you got off on mistaking my affection for love, but I didn’t say that and so you had no rational, reasonable justification for it. It’s ok. I’ve decided I forgive you.

That’s the Christian thing to do. Not that I’m among the saved or anything. I was a Catholic as a kid, but I guess our activities sort of throw that possibility out the window, now don’t they?

I remember thinking you looked so much taller when you were naked. I was probably smiling as I traced the line down the slight swell of your belly and past your hip-bone; clothes do a good job of giving people waistlines. You were giving me a ridiculously serious look and urging me to leave the comfort of your bed. I just didn’t want to, so I told you how much I hated the sound of your voice. Looking back, for whatever reason, that’s the only physical thing that ruined it for me—the way your voice sounds. Your nose is for breathing and blowing.

Your living room was so strangely inviting. Strange because the ceilings were high and the walls were white, and that kind of space can often feel dominating. But those old wooden floors and windowsills, and the old tattered hound’s-tooth couch—god only knows from where. And to top it all off, you put on a god-damn Velvet Underground record and made me sing along to Sunday Morning with you, giggling at the pathetic limits of your own sense of humour. You made coffee, and I sat on that couch looking out those windows wearing one of your oversized button-down shirt like some kind of sickening romantic drama cliché. If it were the eighties, I woulda had that disgusting mass of long curly hair that was somehow sexy back in the day. That would have been a bitch to get a hold of that morning.

It was warm out and the windows were open and I remember thinking that the breeze was being unusually tender for that time of year. The spring. A clean earthy smell came in with the wind, and even though the air was warm, the smell had the coolness of the rain that had fallen the night before—it tickled the inside of your nose if you took a deep breath. All of those manic sensory outbursts can make one lose their head and attribute a lot to experiences, and invent personalities for people that aren’t really there. You, for instance, were a deeply conflicted individual, well within the romantic and superficial limits of my categorizing capacities. But your kind and adorable eyes were only familiar in the context of carnal engagement, and I put my hands on your face and kissed you to make that unfamiliarity go away, to make you more like I knew you to be.

It was comfortable; the silences abounded without fidgeting or gulping or racking our brains for something to say, but it doesn’t mean I knew you. Or loved you. And your wanting to think that was the reason I hated you for a long time. Now that it’s ok, and I’ve decided I forgive you, I can admit that you were one of my favourites. It must be some innate quality, because I can’t really say why.

Jenn

2007-03-10T13:21:00.001-07:00

I recently had an ethical dilemma. I’m in a senior-level primatology class where we compare nonhuman primate behaviour with human behaviour and try to account for the similarities and differences using evolutionary assumptions. There are three group projects, the first of which I finished on Thursday.

But let’s go back to Monday. As I had discussed with my partner, we did the appropriate readings, took point-form notes and exchanged our notes and ideas for the direction of the paper by email. When I received her email, I panicked. It was a complete mess; not only was she completely illiterate, she didn’t understand any of the concepts.

Since the course required a pre-requisite, and since she had made it to her senior year by some miracle, I summoned the courage to give her the benefit of the doubt, assuming that, for her, point-form translated into something requiring far less effort. But I wasn’t taking too many chances. I immediately sat down and wrote four pages that would serve as the body of the essay.

At least, it was supposed to be the body of the essay. We decided on Tuesday that she would add ideas to my essay and that I would finish it off with a quick edit. I even had to lie and tell her that I used to edit for a living, just so the stupid idiot would let me have it last. I was supposed to receive the ‘final’ copy on Wednesday morning, but of course, it didn’t come until Wednesday night.

When I opened the file I almost started to cry. What greeted me was a fucking disaster. The email that accompanied the file contained the words “I’ve changed the format a bit, I think it flows better…”

Flows better. The only thing worse than a stupid person is one who thinks they’re smarter than you.

The idea behind a body of writing is that the paragraphs follow each other in a logical sequence. There must be something about the name Jenn that makes people in that unfortunate predicament rather dense. That could be the only reason she played fucking Jenga with my essay, and then decided to rape and delete entire sections, replacing them with sentences such as:

“The sexual selection hypothesis is proved in the primate record” Ok. First of all, the word is proven, and second, no it isn't.

She referred to all nonhuman primates as a single species. She used the term natural selection incorrectly. My favourite part of all though, was this little diddy:

“The concept of sexual intercourse no longer shares a causal relationship
with reproduction in the human database”

I stopped crying, briefly, to laugh. The concept of sex?!

So what could I do? I handed in a paper that I had written completely on my own. And as of yet, she has no idea. I have to work with her again, but at the same time, I have to be honest with her, and I’m paying for course credit and an A, not to worry about hurting someone’s self-esteem.

I am so angry that people like Jenn are allowed to advance as far as they do. Not out of some kind of elitism, but because it’s insulting to those of us with enough integrity to value our educational experience. If our standards have slipped this low, it’s not at all surprising that no one takes pride in being from my school. They shouldn’t.

Psychokiller, Qu’est-ce que c’est?

2007-03-02T19:30:00.000-07:00

A list of rules for one of my co-workers to live by :

The mouth is always open. That’s the first thing.

I think I almost had an aneurysm when you put your schmutzy hands on my scone and broke a piece off while asking me if you could have some. I would have said no, you know. No one likes someone who chews with their mouth open. There’s the smacking sound and the bolus. That’s disgusting. I understand it’s difficult to speak while chewing, but you should consider silence a viable option.

The second thing is this:

“…you’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything…”

And this results in personal moments of weakness when I picture your head under the wheel of a truck. It’s easy to sort of fade out like that while you talk. I’m trying so hard not to be an angry person anymore. But you make me crazy.

And despite what must be atrocious table manners and conversation, you invite people to dinner parties every weekend. Invite is probably not a strong enough word; aggressive attempts at coercion may be closer.

“Sorry, can’t come, I’ve got a midterm on Monday”
“Well, you can just stop by for one drink”
“No, I really can’t, I have a lot to do and my brother’s birthday is the next day and…”
“It’s ok, we don’t mind if you just pop in”
“Ok, I’m really sorry. I can’t be there.”
“Just stop by, no big deal”

Exasperated is a weak word. Social assault. Watch out.

The third thing is “…when I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed…”

I’m what people like you consider shy. In turn, I always thought that people like you, who know people everywhere you go, and who are (overly) friendly and talkative, are socially successful. Now I realise I have the upper hand in that game.

First of all, communication involves two people. Interrupting other people’s input with “Yah…Yah…Yah” and rapid eye movements that indicate impatience and inattentiveness is not the way to acknowledge what they are saying. You chose to talk to me, so I assume I’m supposed to reciprocate with actual speech.

This also means that you can’t just talk about yourself. You may want to briefly entertain the idea that you actually aren’t very interesting—it’s not like you’ve ever climbed a mountain or done anything meaningful, and no one gives a shit about your having to ride your bike to school in the snow because of some lame commuter challenge. And it’s Australopithecus you dumb fuck, not Australiopithecus. I am an anthropology major, dammit.

And this brings me to my fourth point, “…say something once, why say it again?!”

If I hear that hilarious story about the toilet paper one more time (which would make it four), I may have to throw something at you (shitty TP, I hope, only because it would be a close match to your pathetically literal sense of humour).

The least you could do is have the courtesy to notice when I patronise and respond to you with mere tolerance. When you overheard me talking to E about going out the other night, you made some wry remark about not being invited. What did I say? Nothing. Precisely. I blinked. Subtlety clearly is not your forte.

You would have to be a philosophy major, it's just too perfect. All that pontificating can certainly get in the way of actually understanding the material though, can't it? Remember that conversation we had about dog shit? I believe we had somehow stumbled upon the subject of the folly of humans and their constant need to over-analyse. And I mentioned a story I'd read in an ethnography about an anthropologist (Narayan) who worked in India. A Holy man told her that when common people stepped in shit, they would exclaim "oh, shit!", kick it off of their shoes and continue on their way. Academics were the kind of people who would step in shit and have to pick it up and sniff it before concluding what it was. You made a priceless reply that requires no real commentary or analysis: "I've done that. Sometimes you have to do that, especially in Toronto, because of the way it snows there, and when you're riding your bike..."

Antigua, a Dream, and Nervous Social Misfortune

2007-02-07T19:47:00.000-07:00

I’m going to Antigua this summer on an archaeological dig. I was planning to go to a mortuary site in Egypt with Penn State, but the deadline was the first of February, and it just didn’t give me enough time to get my passport renewed and letters of recommendation together. No bother, I can always go next year. And I will.

Despite being excited, there is also this undercover anxiety that wakes up to poke me in the belly every so often. I had a nightmare about going last night. I found myself in this strange hall that sort of resembled one of those medieval theme parks. It had dark stone walls that were lined with Persian-influenced doorways. Some of them had sheer curtains hanging from that were moving in the conspicuously absent wind. There were no windows and no apparent lighting, so everything had a calm dimness to it. The hall was incongruously carpeted with a solid blue-grey industrial carpet that ensured silent steps as I ran around trying to figure out where the hell everyone was.

I was dressed in a long royal blue gown, and when I found everyone else, they were sitting in a kitchen area, dirty, in their digging clothes, and clearly upset with me for some reason. I tried to talk to some of them, but they wouldn’t have it. I wanted to know where they had been digging, since I couldn’t get outside, but they didn’t like me. I hadn’t done anything wrong; they just didn’t like me because I’d had the audacity to dress up.

I left the kitchen because I was hungry and the others wouldn’t feed me. Further along in the hallway, I went through a door that opened to a take-out curry restaurant. For all intents and purposes it looked like any other take-out place, with no seating and those weird clay coloured tiles on the floor. The area in front of the counter was crowded, and I crammed myself in next to an attractive man who immediately told me that he was an Anthropologist working with my group. I knew I had to get myself into his good books somehow, because if I did, he could sponsor my inclusion with the rest of the group. Something startled me at this point and I woke up at 6 am feeling rather anxious.

It’s not hard to interpret. I’m probably the shyest person I know, despite having the ability to maintain a competent social exterior, for the most part. But, a lot of people don’t realise just how socially awkward I can be. It comes out at random times, for reasons I have yet to comprehend. For instance, the other day someone I vaguely knew came into work. For whatever reason, it made me intensely nervous, and my body reacted before my mind could by heating my face until it matched my (red) hair. I had the brilliant instinct that if I tensed my body and stood as still as possible, the people right in front of me may not be able to see me. This produced an adrenaline rush, which proceeded to make my hands shake. To make matters worse, my acquaintance was sporting a cunt disguised as a very attractive woman on his left arm. And clearly not being experienced in self-induced social marginality, she resorted to a common conclusion: well, actually, I can’t read minds, but it undoubtedly had to do with hot sex, sex, sex. She insisted on paying for their meal, and made a marked point of not tipping me (how could you really be threatened by me in that state?!)

Well, I felt really horrible for the rest of the day. Mostly, I was anxious about the fact that I had no desire for this person, and thus couldn’t explain why I’d reacted in such a fashion. And it’s frustrating to present a constantly misinterpreted front to the world. Especially when it’s that of a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl with a silly crush.

In hindsight, it probably had more to do with being caught off-guard and not knowing what constituted appropriate interaction. Which is why I often pretend I don’t recognize people. Highly neurotic, I know. I should think, however, that you could understand my commitment to avoidance when the alternative is so extreme.

So I’m nervous about sharing close living quarters with seven other people. And getting to know them. What if they already know each other? I’m bound to either find the experience rewarding, and benefit from the addition of anthropology-minded individuals to my sparse friend collection, or once again maintain my status as the shaky, red-faced, sweat monster.

My Boss and His Wife Are Legitimately and Undeniably Insane.

2007-02-07T00:44:00.000-07:00

The most recent example of this is evidenced in a rather peculiar event that occurred during the holiday season.

Despite having a number of children and grandchildren in the city, my boss and his wife decided to go away for the Christmas season. It was with great sorrow that they related to a co-worker, well within my earshot, that they had to have their four million year old, deaf, blind and renally incapacitated dog put down whilst they were away. The poor thing was sweet, but clearly had been technologically maintained well past his natural expiry date by the miracles of modern doggy medicine. They were of the persuasion that if they had the dog put down while they were away, it would be easier on them.

Fast-forward two weeks. I was in a cab on the way home from the aeroport (that’s right, aeroport). I called my friend and co-worker M, who had been away for over a month, to ask her whether or not the mouse poison I’d left at her house, in her absence, had managed to do its job (that’s a whole other story—there’s lots of animal killing in this here story). The conversation took a twilight zone turn when she asked me in a wavering voice whether or not I’d heard about what had happened at work.

“No…”
“Greg and Rhonda’s dog”
Apprehension now, though I knew the dog must be dead at this point, and I didn’t even consider the possibility of what came next.
She continued, “they left it with a dog-sitter and she had it put down.”
“Well, yeah”
“What?”
“What do you mean, she had it put down?”
“They told me that she beat it and starved it and went all over town looking for a vet who would have it put down”
“What?! M, they were planning to have it put down. They told Kim as much.”
“...No…”
“……….”
“Oh, god, don’t tell me they’re actually that fucking crazy. I knew it, Rhonda’s back on the drugs again. She cried, she fucking cried.”

When I went to pick up my check a few days later, Rhonda just happened to be there. I had to grit my teeth and ask her how her holiday was, pretending of course, that I didn’t know about the dog fabrication already. She laid it on pretty thick—ten minutes of doggy suffering and inhumane treatment and details of lifelong companionship can sure put a dent in your day. I wanted to make sure that I had the story right so I asked her, in a sympathetic and innocent way, “you mean, you didn’t plan to have him put down?”
Her eyes and mouth got wide: “No! Of course not.”

I’m still baffled.

Hello, My Name is Skeletor

2007-02-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve never gotten along with other women, and that’s the only overt evidence I have supporting a theory as to why. I am, as they say…skinny. But that wouldn’t be my word.

I’ve been this way my entire life. I began having it pointed out to me in grade school where I was given the enormously culturally sensitive title of ‘Ethiopian’. In hindsight, that one is probably my favourite. Yeah, decolonialism’s a real bitch.

The thing that most bothers me about having my weight pointed out to me is that it’s clearly motivated by an insecurity on the part of the pointer. And, if that weren’t pathetic enough, most of the time the woman with the issue isn’t even large. She’s just accepted a socially defined gender role that has her loving shopping, wanting babies and hating her body.

You could get all Dr. Phil and suggest that the media has given these poor women unrealistic expectations that made them insecure. Though I think this may be partly true, I don’t think it excuses the kind of juvenile behaviour I witness at my job on a daily basis—dirty looks and snarky comments. It’s really not my problem if your husband tries to sneak a look. Maybe you should try actually having sex with him.

In fact, I think the unrealistic expectations the media endorses are more harmful to men than to women. I’m a weird kind of feminist like that. If men are raised to believe in a reality that is constantly thwarted, what kinds of relationships can they forge with women besides shallow, mediocre ones? (I mean, if they’re naïve enough to fully buy into that image to begin with, which naturally, no one reading this blog is…right?)

That being said, the media has been on quite a mission lately with regard to this weighty issue. It seems the high BMIs are taking back the power by finding ways to condemn the other side. It’s not like anorexia is a life threatening, devastating disease or anything. Now it’s a character flaw. And considering what hip hop videos have done for larger women everywhere, you’d think it were about time for them to leave me the hell alone.

For the record, I don’t have an eating disorder and never have. I like food the appropriate amount. If it’s really good food, I like it a lot. I try not to tell them that though. My genotype is apparently a real piss-off.

Opening Sentences

2007-01-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

I can’t write an opening sentence that doesn’t sound totally forced. I’ve been staring at my screen for half an hour trying to write about Thursday night. I went to the bar, and I’m writing about it for school. Because that’s what anthropology students do—pretty much whatever they want.

When I tell people that they seem to freak out a bit. They get this vision of themselves reading accounting books for hours on end, bored to death, and questioning the purpose of their existence, while I’m interviewing people over cigarettes and beer.

Archaeology students are a different story. I’m not the world’s biggest fan of archaeology, but I study it because I really want to dig up dead people. It’s all so that we can understand the social implications behind plagues and disease transmission. It also has important things to say about the way we treat the environment and the consequences of ecological destruction. They’re bad—I think you’d be hard-pressed to find an archaeologist who doesn’t believe in climate change. That’s another difference between accounting and anthropology students.

Another way to make them jealous is to tell them that you’re going to do fieldwork in Egypt. They get this vision of themselves in the museum as a kid, watching Indiana Jones, and wanting to be an archaeologist, but not having gained the necessary secondary sexual characteristics in later life to do so.

Now, I’m likely never going to drive a brand new car. Or drive one at all if I can help it. And that’s yet another difference between accountants and anthropologists. The University is kind enough to get you ready for the disparity early on. That is, they under-fund the social science programs and put a lot of money into the business schools. It doesn’t bother me much because I’ve never really cared for money or its management. At the end of the day, I get to learn that this current system of exchange is rather new, and despite the hype, rather ineffective. And it won’t last. So, given the current rate of destruction to our ecosystems, the health risks associated with this, the lack of social awareness or action in the public health department, the seemingly nonchalant attitude of the general public to antibiotic resistance, and rapid new disease emergence, I have a feeling what I study might be a lot more relevant in the near future. But, that’s only if the accountants are willing to give us any funding.

Liars

2007-01-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

I have a long history with liars and yet I barely understand the phenomenon. When I was about five or six I had a friend who was a compulsive liar. She lied about everything, and I always wondered if the grandness of her lies were the result of her being stupid, her thinking I was stupid or some unholy combination of the two. I still wonder. She once told me this ridiculous story about how her family was not allowed to go to Toronto because her brother had bombed a building there. Oh, and her grandparents had died in the bombing. And her cat. I reacted to the bullshit the same way I still react. I didn’t confront her. I had enough foresight to recognize that she would simply become defensive and this would start a conflict and an argument, and I simply wasn’t interested in wasting energy on something that was so obviously false. I think defending a position in the first place lends credibility to the other side. And it’s rare that I’m willing to do that.

At this point, I was confused as to the motivation behind the lying. So confused that I considered (very briefly, but I was only six) the possibility that her stories could be at least partly true. I think it’s far easier to lie to someone whose first instinct is to be honest, because honest people simply don’t understand the motivation behind blatant lying.

I had reached the conclusion that people who lied like this did so for attention, and I resented what I perceived as a deliberate betrayal of trust (I was a pretty sensitive kid). That is, until my friend told me another ridiculous lie. The difference between this lie and the other was that it involved my own family. It was something small and silly, but nevertheless, something I could so easily refute. I considered a number of hypotheses to explain this, but was never able to decide on one. The only thing I can say for certain is that for some people lying is so much a habit that lies can seem real. But I won’t go as far as to say that they don’t know or can’t control doing it.

I am either a statistical anomaly, or pathological liars are not so rare as to deserve such a diagnostic label. It's just that I've known so many. However, I will say that there is a distinct difference between a chronic liar and everyday lying, for example, the kind that saves your ass at work. The difference is that the chronic liar seems to do so for no apparent reason. The lies are petty exaggerations that, though possible, are extremely unlikely, especially when their probability is calculated alongside any number of other improbable ‘facts’ contained within the person’s life’s story. What I’ve noticed about these people is that they think of themselves as honest people, and in fact will even go so far as to condemn dishonesty in others. The irony isn’t even funny; it’s just fucking pathetic.

The problem with these fucks is that I actually like spending time with some of them. I have friends like this, and the fact that I like them, and may even think they are intelligent, is negligible when I’m constantly exposed to shit-spewing. On the rare occasion I’ve tried to confront them, they have become defensive and launched into rhetorical tirades so obnoxious that it becomes impossible to say anything without being rudely interrupted. And then they pull out experts they know, or their boyfriend, sister, or mother knows, and places they’ve been, and things they’ve seen, and more lies that are impossible to disprove, and frankly, not worth the time of disproving.

I’ve even had these liars go so far as to lie about things I study. I can’t even express how absurd it feels to be interrupted by an air of expertise and a ‘fact’ you know to be wholly inaccurate because you have spent the last several years of your life studying it. At that point, it’s just offensive. I don’t know why people think they are more educated than they are. It’s endemic in our society. On the surface, it would seem as though these kinds of liars really do believe they are telling the truth. It could be that they read something that was inaccurate and took it as fact due to a lack of critical thinking skills. Or maybe they didn’t understand a valid presentation of the material and their misinterpretation grew into some horrible untruth that was far beyond their control. Either way, they’re pretty stupid.

I have noticed people claiming to have 190 IQs usually have problems with lying. So, not only are they aware of their own mental incapability, as evidenced by the incessant need to prop themselves up, but they think I’m so absolutely mentally retarded as to believe a lie that was fabricated by a complete idiot. I guess you could call it circular retardation. It’s also endemic in our society.

If anyone has a real explanation for this, please let me know. Otherwise, I guess we can just make fun of them.

Motherboy

2007-01-12T23:09:00.000-07:00

Motherboy was here again today. This is the name I graciously applied to a mother and her liminally adult son. They come in for coffee one or two times a month and she spins him like a top just to make sure he doesn’t get too far away from her, and to make sure he’s not getting spun by anyone else.

I know women like that. Cows. Everything is matter of fact and purposefully, patronisingly polite. Because as long as you don’t call someone names, you can speak to them however you wish. She has a mild English accent and faintly reeks of the colonial persuasion. She is cold and matter of fact and, like most women her age, round, with a waddle that renders her absolutely absurd.

Boy is as passive as you would expect one to be with a mother like that. In keeping with the colonial theme, he reminds me of a fancy-pants little heir to property in Kenya, whose short adulthood has been plagued by constant efforts to hide his homosexuality from his family. And to top it all off, the first time I ever saw Motherboy come in, boy was sporting these ridiculous Darwinian chops. And, since I have a passing fancy for sideburns that are, shall we say, more extensive than usual, the opportunity to further the ridicule of my odd inclination became a rather profitable pastime for my co-workers. I duly explained the minute differences between the Cold War and the War of 1812, but these protestations fell on deaf ears and I was forced to bear the humiliation of an invented connection to the disgusting little heir until he had the courtesy to shave the fucking things off. They didn’t last long, thankfully.

Once Boy came in with a girlfriend. She was a fairly plain-jane number, the kind you would expect a pallid little meekling like Boy to date. The thing that was notable about her was that she was smiling. It felt incongruous amongst the insipidness of Boy and the passive-aggressive sternness of Mother. Clearly, this was an interview. That’s what ‘nice’ boys do. They bring their poor girlfriends to meet their juggernaut mothers. There was nothing remarkable about the meeting; it was as silent and cheerless as always, with Mother doing most of the talking and Boy quietly absorbing her ‘advice’. When they left, Girl wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t unhappy either; if I know Boy, I’d say the relationship likely wasn’t anywhere near a point where she would have cared. That’s what ‘nice’ boys do. They bring their poor girlfriends to meet their juggernaut mothers before they bother to establish anything meaningful at all.

I never saw Girl again, but I guess that was inevitable. The fact the relationship was ever established to begin with was probably a wonder of physics. Though a variety of the usual secret lives and perversions could be summoned to decorate the inane Boy, none of them apply here. After all, I know boys like that. Disappointing. They use their silence to let you think there’s something more, but there never is. There are no perverse or even interesting surprises—just missionary sex and bad conversation.

Mother made me feel slightly less nasty toward boy when she came in with two of her hen friends. Mother and daughter—how perfectly fitting. The three sat around for over two hours and discussed indulgent subjects such as shoes and basically anything consumable. And then came an eerie, paranormal sound that halted the entire café. Mother laughed. She tilted her head back and let out a cackle. And she did it without smiling. She lowered her head and looked at the Sunday-best-dressed daughter and coldly said, “it’s because she’s jealous of you, dear”.

Despite not being privy to the context of the story, I was angered. The male sector of my audience may not know this, but women bandy this ‘jealous’ concept around all the time, and I’ve just about fucking had it. But this is another entry entirely. Suffice it to say that it’s the insecure, bitchy ones who seem to need it most. So, I felt a little pity for boy. I wanted him to grow the fuck up and kick mother’s ass to the proverbial Park Avenue curb.

A few weeks later they came in together again. There was the usual quietude and blank stares from Boy. And then I overheard her say something to boy that made me think, “Finally! He’s got to let her have it now!”

“She’s not our kind of people.”

Boy just sat there. He lowered his head. He raised it again. He looked left. He looked at mother. And then she kept on speaking.

Fuck you Boy.

So, it’s like I said. Secret lives and perversions don’t apply. Boy isn’t a serial killer or child pornographer or gay or secretly working on the solution to some great physics mystery. Boy is a stupid little boy, hanging from mother’s apron-strings by his ashen neck. He might take Prozac to cover up his underlying dissent, but his only sad attempt at eccentricity was shaved off months ago. He will marry some boring girl and they will have spoiled children whom they will be mildly proud of and who will be mildly successful. Such is life in the vacuum of consumption.

Hallelujah…I’m Fucking Back

2006-12-29T01:14:00.000-07:00

Forgive the long stint. I had every intention of permanently abandoning the Cynic Ward without explanation, but a recent perusal of my bloggings left me with a faraway twinkle in my eye and a nostalgic yearning for old times.

I can’t guarantee results. I’ve written nothing but emails and anthropological papers for the past year, and have just made several spelling errors in this sentence alone. But, I guess it’s like riding a bike. I’ll work on the eloquence if you pretend to be really super-duper excited.

A Reminder

2006-01-06T15:15:00.000-07:00

I came across a letter today that I’d written a few years ago. It was addressed and stamped, but for some reason, I’d never bothered to mail it. I had written the address out with a tight and controlled script—apprehensive, careful, but attempting to appear casual and even hurried.

I opened it, and I read it, and though it’s somewhat applicable and poignant, I don’t remember what motivated the obvious feelings of injustice that influenced its writing, nor what could have prevented it from being sent to its rightful owner. I guess it was just a selfish endeavour, and the simple task of writing it was enough to quench my desire for sticking it to my ex-friend.

I guess she was kind of a bitch. I loved her, but she had a narcissistic complex that rivalled even mine, and as usually happens, the assumption that one knows everything distracted her from the fact that other people sometimes have good ideas too.

We’d have what we called “adventures”—trouble or mischief that I’ve been as of yet unable to create with any other person. It used to trouble me. I felt lost without the anecdotes that supposedly made my life so interesting, until I realised that everyone has those stories; they all take the same turns and end the same ways and everyone considers their little cloistered corners worthy of the haunting that can only happen in the most special and dramatic of situations in literature, and in films, and I guess in life.

There were no love stories. We tried to invent them, but they would always collapse on themselves within a few weeks and we’d be off and on to the next conquest and the next urgent and desperately meaningful narrative. It was just a way for us to feel close to each other, close to the people around us, but just 'cause you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there. And in the end, they weren’t. That isn’t meant to be nihilistic. They aren’t here, and that doesn’t really mean much.

I ran into one of them a few weeks ago and I was unsure of what to say. He seemed happy to see me, and indeed at the time it had been his prerogative to continue the drama within which we had somehow embroiled ourselves. It was funny, because my friend hated him. And he would start shit with her and then profess his love for me and say something like “can’t we all just get along”. When I saw him, I didn’t know what to say. Not because I truly didn’t think it would either be kind of touching or funny to catch up in the trendiest bar in the city on the night I’d chosen to wear the most revealing dress I own. I’m not really sure what it was—I momentarily considered pretending I didn’t recognize him. We stood there for what became an increasingly uncomfortable passing of seconds and then I broke into a smile and gave him a hug and cut the hello/goodbye short as quickly as possible. As I was walking away I realised it had been an inappropriately short amount of time. Obviously, he had wanted a stop and chat. I tried to find him later to say I was sorry and how are you doing, and the rest of it, but I felt as though an introduction between past and recent acquaintances was too much like staring my old self in the face. It made me uncomfortable.

I guess the reason the letter didn’t make me uncomfortable was because there were no witnesses. There was no one there to tell me that I’d changed or that I still looked the same or that it was good to see me, whilst searching for some kind of familiarity or fraternity. There is no date, so I have no idea when it was written, except that it had to have been over four years ago. I say in the letter that I “currently find myself in pleasant circumstance” (how patronising), and given this time period, I was either lying or delusional. Delusional is probably more accurate. And this should be some clue as to why I’m uncomfortable with facing my old self. I didn’t change so much as attempt to abandon a mania that constantly threatens to return. I don’t fear running into familiar strangers so much as I fear the alliance with a person who wasted four years of my life. She lingers over every re-acquaintance as an embarrassing spectre of theatrical folly. And people are never credited with having the ability to change. So, when you run into them, all they remember is who you were, and it doesn’t much matter who you are. Deadly penguins indeed.

Click Here For Your FREE Gift!

2005-12-12T20:41:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again! Time for obligatory association with people you don't like, randomly assigned $20 gift exchanges, and more crap you don't need! YES!

Of course, some people like the whole work party thing. I suppose it might be ok if you work with people you enjoy spending time with. Or, in the case of employment in some kind of corporate office setting, share the same beligerent, contemptuous, fat white guy ethics. Then, maybe, you can have a good time.

I worked in an office last year, and unfortunately did not share the political sentiments of my co-workers. This made for an ugly event. That's ok because two months later I blackmailed them into giving me a couple thousand dollars and went back to school!

And school is hard and I'm busy with it right now. So, I haven't much time to post. But, like a good blogger, I'm not about to leave you hanging. From the archives, amuse yourselves with the story of last year's Christmas hell-fest.

You're On the List

2005-11-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

And last but not least, we’re watching Schindler’s list. That may seem tacky to some of you, it certainly seemed that way to me initially, though I’m not entirely certain why. I do know that college film students are conditioned to regard anything Hollywood with a certain degree of hostility and scepticism, which may in itself be fairly tacky.

This is most definitely the case for most of the tacky fuckers in my class. You all know about my most unreasonable loathing of a certain halo-endowed individual in this class (the validity of which has been more than confirmed by now). What I’ve come to realise is that I’ve wandered into a class populated with varying degrees of this person—he’s only their leader. There is power in numbers you know.

Of course we know that—that’s why Nazi film was supposed to be so interesting. Unfortunately, the rhetoric level in this class has reached maximum capacity. I want to throw things. Probably poo.

The lecture today began with questions regarding our reactions to the film. Most of us (myself included, after watching it last night) confessed we enjoyed it. Those who are clearly intellectually superior to us, however, snickered, and in audibly more…scholastic British…voices, began to list reasons why the film was a piece of cinematic shit. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. If someone actually gave a credible reason for not liking the film, I could live with that. The reason given was that people who did not live through the holocaust first hand had no capacity to make movies depicting it. Of course those weren’t their exact words, but I don’t consider that description to be dumbed down whatsoever; I’ve merely removed the fancy bullshit rhetoric.

I wouldn’t disagree that our sickening modern lives of entitlement and endowment have allowed us a certain degree of blindness when it comes to hardships and issues of actual survival. Most of us will never have to go hungry or fight for our lives. Most of us are lucky that the drama in our lives is of our own construction and our own faults and completely within our own control to stop. It is, however, an atrocity and really fucking gross that we think this semblance of peace and order and control means that we are somehow removed from what happened sixty years ago in Europe, or for that matter, fifteen years ago in Rwanda (besides the degree of organization, there is no difference whatsoever). The whole point of making films like Schindler’s List is not to accurately record details about isolated historical events caused by isolated, and conveniently dead, individuals, but so that we remember that individuals are collectively capable of committing such acts and that it is well within human nature, and well within our individual nature’s to do so. The attempt to isolate these events to a particular time and space is nothing more than a ridiculous and pious attempt to isolate one’s self from the possible ugliness of our character.

I think this is why the Amon Goeth character was so accessible. It wasn’t an accident that we could identify with certain aspects of his character, such as his susceptibility to Schindler’s suggestion that true power is forgiveness. Most of us are slaves to our egos, and therefore we should have identified and even laughed, especially when he single-handedly re-created The Creation of Adam in the mirror. It isn’t far-fetched to consider him an extreme and perverse version of ourselves. And of course, there is the multifaceted use of hands. There is endless symbolism in the use of hands in this film—it is so diverse and multilayered at times, I think I’ll write an entire essay about it.

There is a downfall to liberalism. It is always the kid with the dreadlocks and the adbusters stickers on his dirty water bottle who will claim that we can’t talk about anything but our own experience. That we have no right. They think this is respectful in some bizarre way. Don’t fuck with the hard facts, they say. This kind of attitude merely separates people and their experience instead of regarding events from the point of view of human nature. So long as you’re too liberal to (wash) consider things from a holistic point of view, and to consider yourself woven from the same thread, you are validating segregation. I'm not suggesting that responsibility lay at the feet of those who weren't there. I'm simply suggesting that we stop deluding ourselves about who and what we are.

Is it that we have no right to tell this story, or is it that we have no right to make you look at yourself in this light? The fear of tainting the real, lived, experience of the holocaust is nothing more than an attempt to separate the self from the possibility of it. Keeping your distance is the perfect way to ensure that it can and will happen again.

2005-11-04T16:02:00.000-07:00

I’m tired of the kids with their cars and their ipods, travelling the world in the name of “learning” and pretending their recycled bullshit ideologies make a difference at all. That’s not ideology, that’s trend and it fucks up the discourse and makes it harder to talk about in the end because now we have to sift through all the garbage and talk about how we should discuss the discussion. I can’t claim top grades because I’m unwilling to participate in half the festivities: the exclamation, the proclamation, the provocation. I'm unwilling to listen to more fluff and rhetoric and more of the ever necessary made-up words that are really just Freudian insertions people use to try and sound smarter and I’m sick of ideas that are all show and no solution and I’m sick of protesters and “political” people and people who don’t realise that politics are just the simplification and corruption of philosophy and ideology and what we should really be discussing is what the fuck matters and that sometimes these lists of things that fucking matter don’t line up the way they fucking should, that sometimes these lists aren’t solely red or blue and that I’d be embarrassed to be either. I’m sick of the indie kids and their lame ass attempts to pretend that they’ve had to work a single day in their god damn lives. I’m sick of the kids who’ve had to work every single day of their god damn lives and the way they won’t let the rest of us forget it. I hate that having money is something to be proud of and I hate that not having money is something to be proud of. I’m sick of seeing things that are wrong and feeling powerless to fix them and sick of the pathetic, snotty, utterly impotent subculture that supposedly addresses these problems and supposedly unites people who view them as such. More problems, more labels and no solutions. I’m sick of you and your rationalisation and attempts to distance yourself whilst reading this entire article. You are part of the problem. Now go deal with your pitiful lack of virility and leave me the fuck out of it.

Halloween-It Doesn't Have to Be This Gay

2005-10-31T22:12:00.000-07:00

I kind of wish I had gone out on the weekend dressed in some last minute concoction of an outfit; I just got off work and I have school tomorrow and I’m basically just too lazy to do it tonight. There is also the gay factor. And, when I say gay I am not referring to, and therefore mean no insult towards, those whose sexual preferences are “evil” according to hardcore Christians (or, as I like to refer to them, fucking nutcases). I simply use the word because upon semantic reflection, it seems the most appropriate phrase for those people wearing capes.

Capes. And nothing else—makeup, or any kind of concept alluded towards—today is just an excuse for them to wear a cape.

Halloween is the day all of your dreams come true. For some of you anyway. I get dressing up and going to a party—I wish I had. I don’t get waking up early to get dressed up to go to school. I don’t think I need to point out that costumes are bulky, annoying and unnecessary in such a setting. I think Halloween makes it acceptable for some people to do things that they would otherwise feel unable to do—unable because of social convention and/or fear. You may have noticed these people walking around waiting to be noticed. It feels too much like revelation, like they want me to look into their soul and identify or reaffirm something for them. For instance, if you’ve ever wanted to dye your hair pink and Mohawk it, but are too much of a pussy to actually do it for real, Halloween provides the perfect excuse. If you’ve been waiting to come out of the closet for awhile, you could wear a purple shirt with purple fairy wings and walk around with an apprehensively lusty homoerotic look on your face (as one individual in my class chose to do. He had that 'bottom' look about him). If you’re a slut, but haven’t quite mastered the art of really trashy street wear, you could dress like a pleather-clad disco dancer, a French maid or just a big slut (there has been a high prevalence of tit today). Then there are the aforementioned lazy costumes—the capes, the weird hats, the wigs—none of which serve any purpose but to satisfy the wearers desire to express their love of Harry Potter, Humphrey Bogart, or Cher with no risk of getting beaten up. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the drag queens.

Retards Need Parents Too

2005-10-25T22:53:00.000-06:00

Hello. As you may have noticed, I've engaged in a bit of philanthropy and adopted the celebrities listed on my sidebar. I'd always wanted pets you see, but my brother had serious allergies, so I had a fish, but it died the day after I brought it home. His name was Ralph; you would have liked him. My younger cousins had those cyber-pet things, but those are just creepy and weird. A few months ago, I came upon a website that proudly advertised that it had celebrities up for adoption. I knew this was the meaningless hobby for me. So, I registered the name of the celebrity I wanted to adopt, posted a link to the registration site and went on with my day. It wasn't until the following evening that I began to question my choice and even become disturbed by a certain aspect of it. Namely, it states on the website in question that if you don't link to it, your celebrity adoption will not be reserved and someone else may post the name of that person on the site. Ok, so...we are talking about silly fictitious adoptions here, right? I mean, what gives stupidcelebrityadoptions.com the right to lease the fantastical adoption of random celebratory peoples? Where does the true authority lie? Are we really the kind of society that tolerates the kind of proprietary presumption that leads to the irresponsible and disrespectful plastering of celebrity faces on random websites and the lease of these people's names as though they were a commodity--a joke even? So, I removed the link--the address of which I can't remember offhand. And now I've grown bored of the Gallagher brothers. They're simply too fucking retarded and it's become unfunny. Liam thinks he's John Lennon. No, seriously. So, further adoptions will be happening. There are going to be big changes, people. BIG CHANGES.

2005-10-23T23:09:00.000-06:00

I love it and I hate it. The more anthropology courses I take, the more I’m convinced that there are researchers whose entire careers are wasted on semantics and finding the perfect label. I took medical anthropology because I have a devoted interest to epidemic illnesses and their effects on different societies. However, we have not yet explored anything remotely approaching this in form. We have spent the last month and a half on what I would consider to be introductory anthro. bullshit—labelling the “approach” of the investigator instead of focusing on the facts contained within the article. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be learning anymore—should I care about the percentage of people who die of endemic malaria, or should I focus on the fact that the researcher used a “political ecology” approach in conducting his research? As of yet, I’ve been the only one in my class who seems puzzled at the lack of distinction between certain theories. Some of them don’t even have a hair to split. Fuck, just give me some Ebola already.

So, I’m studying really hard. And that’s why I’m away. In case any of you were wondering. Midterm on Tuesday, and them maybe things will resume their normalcy. Maybe I’ll write a rant about evolution. People seem to need educating on the matter--even the ones who believe in it.

Here I Am!

2005-10-06T17:35:00.000-06:00

It's been two months--so what? I've been busy. I haven't been in the mood. I didn't want to talk about it. Here, have some pointless filler. Regular filler should resume soon as words are finally flowing through my brain again.

Do you believe in love at first sight? If so, what about hate at first sight? There is an individual in my "Cinema in the Third Reich" class who has managed to evoke this particular sentiment within me. I find it absolutely inexplicable--almost from the moment I laid eyes on him I felt an itchy, irritating feeling manifesting somewhere in my head and moving into my bloodstream. I had to turn away just to save myself from the glare of his perfect, angelic, virginal face. It was disgusting. I'm not really sure what it was about the face that I was so opposed to--children have perfect, angelic faces and I certainly don't want to curb stomp them. It may have been the grin--and by grin I mean ear-to-ear half moon crevice complete with eager and excited side-to-side twitching of head, not unlike an alert and happy puppy searching for his chew toy. It may also have been that my initial reaction went something like this: you've never had sex, or alcohol or drugs and probably engage in some kind of dogmatic religious ritual before retiring to bed. But again, children fit this profile and I don't want to kick them in the teeth. Whatever initial reactions I had concerning this person probably would have passed in time if my loathing hadn't culminated into something even more disturbing when I discovered that he had a personality that was eerily well suited to his face. He is one of those people who tries to laugh louder than everyone else, to be the first to answer the question, to be the first to give the teacher her metaphorical apple. He is just plain annoying. Not only that, but he makes silly and obvious points and alludes to films as though he is the only person ever to have heard of them (Like Nosferatu--which is a vampire film by the way).

So, presumably there is some fucked up reason I hate this person so much (and by hate, I mean that I would laugh and point if he were on fire and probably look for the nearest gas can), considering the fact that he has never really done anything really wrong except be silly and overly eager. Has anyone else experienced such unabashed and unreasonable disgust? Analysis is welcome, but just keep in mind that subliminal desire is an extraordinarily easy conclusion to draw.

Your Mother Should Know

2005-08-19T22:55:00.000-06:00

I used to know this guy named Aaron when I was crazy and I could never figure out why I hated him so much. I knew that it was partly because he had an attitude towards my negativity that I saw as morally superior. I don’t remember what we used to fight about, but he used to say things like “you know, people do care”, and it would always make me feel guilty and confused. Now I realise that I still hate him, but this time my reasons are different.

I’ve watched a lot of biographies about Marilyn Monroe. She’s quite fascinating. Despite her usually ditzy roles in films and her voice to match, she was highly intelligent and fought for more challenging roles. After she committed suicide, they found a fairly sophisticated library in her house. Another fascinating thing about her is the men she was involved with; I’ve heard it said that part of the attraction was the fact that she was damaged goods. Beautiful, intelligent, sweet and fucking nuts. I think people like to think they can save people like that.

In retrospect, I know that this is true. That’s why I hated and still hate Aaron. There was some kind of attraction to the craziness for him. He pretended there wasn’t, but he was so much more focused on it than I was. I suppose next to me, he could try to look saner.

I also know this is true because all the men I dated at that time were the same as Aaron. I could never figure out why they were so stupid for me; I was, after all, far younger than them. They all seemed to fit a similar profile: They were graduate students or “professionals”, they had “grown-up” friends who seemed painfully prudent to me, and they all seemed pre-occupied with my nuttiness. They took me to the symphony and out to dinner at nice restaurants and bought me things I didn’t really want, and when I decided I was getting too close to trophy-wifing it, they would try to “keep in touch” for months and even years after. A naïve person would claim that it was all about the sex, but Marilyn and I know better. They just couldn’t have a nervous breakdown on their own.

That character is so prevalent in our society. You young salesmen, students, artists, lawyers and engineers—you’re all the same. And Salinger was so right about you.

Dear Freaky Vampire Boy,

2005-08-15T18:27:00.000-06:00

The thing is, I tried really hard to be nice to you. And there are good reasons for that—I didn’t giggle behind your back because I don’t think it’s wrong that you should find me attractive. I also hate when people do that—I’ve had it done to me—it isn’t a crime to desire involvement with someone.

The problem is that you are really creepy. You crossed the line a long time ago, and I’m not sure that it would even be visible if you turned around and looked for it. Because you clearly don’t know that you’ve crossed it, and you clearly can’t read body language, and you clearly don’t get that my valiant efforts at not hurting your feelings are being thwarted by your persistent and masochistic insistence that we are somehow fated to be together.

The first time you approached me, I thought you were going to ask me to go to a movie with you. I think that would be the most fitting approach for a fellow film student. I wasn’t really sure what the approach would entail so I decided to prevent it altogether. I tried to do you a favour, to save you the rejection. I made a phone call—surely you remember? “I just have to make a quick phone call before break is over.” And that call went to the person I’m involved with—perhaps it was too subtle?

You must have rationalised it, twisted it until the person on the other end became my sister, because you persisted. You told me you woke up one day and just decided to start a film company. And then you told me you believed in signs. Eeek.

You told me I looked like some B-movie actress, except “hit with the sex-kitten stick”. You told me that she had been your inspiration in creating the one and only character that you have yet to cast in your film. I asked you what the genre of the film was and you told me it was a vampire love story (eeek), and I almost asked if it was a comedy, until I saw that you were serious. Then you told me my character was the queen of the vampires and I nearly shot snot out of my nose.

The next time you approached me, everything I had said in class was recited back to me, and had been interpreted as some kind of sign. A lot of people like Ewen MacGregor (he’s kind of, like, famous you know), it doesn’t mean you can use his shitty new movie as an excuse to take me on a date. And considering my reaction to your film idea, it shouldn’t have shocked you when I responded to your second request with a speech about artistic ethics. I told you that I didn’t consider myself ready to pursue an acting career at the moment and that I didn’t ever want to be cast for appearances because that would stunt my progress in attaining a genuine artistic practice. I told you I despised bad art, that formulaic art was a waste of time, that Wilde and I were in utter disagreement, but that I loved him just the same. I thought this was a fairly plain negative answer. Your confusion surrounding this issue should have acted as somewhat of a guiding light to the fact that we aren’t meant to be together.

It’s so kind of you to share your intimate knowledge of the universe with me. I, clearly, have been wasting my entire life up until this moment and should gladly discard my life, passions, interests, intellect, values and pursuits to fulfil the personality that you’ve assigned me. You made it quite clear that my boyfriend was not the one I was meant to be with when he came to visit me. You made a special effort to glare at him and stare at my ass that day.

Last week you made an extra-special effort to try to get closer to me by cornering one of the people I sit with in class. He was very impressed. I’m sure he didn’t mind being late for class, the subject of ME being so important and all.

Today, I was just annoyed. I didn’t make any effort to be polite. You asked me for my email address and I asked you why. I think it’s a fair question. We haven’t exactly engaged in any riveting conversation or interesting film analysis. You can’t possibly think I’m interested in you sexually. I’ve expressed my disinterest in appearing as the queen of the vampires in your lame movie. So why? Because you have some questions. Oh? Yeah, about the role in the film.
Sigh.
Exasperation.
That’s what my body said, I know because M witnessed it. I said nothing—I couldn’t get out a complete sentence. I started to say something like “I can’t believe you’re still on about this”, but I was so unbelievably dumbfounded that you could be so utterly stupid that I just walked away.

I tried really hard to be polite, but the funny thing is, the more you pursue this, the more repugnant you become. The more I want to say the awful, rude, cold-hearted things.

I know what you’re thinking. That I’m going to regret this when you become a famous director. That I’m going to dream about what my horrible life could have been like if only I’d been capable of seeing your genius. Here’s a hint: real directors get their education before attempting to write and direct a film. Whether in school or elsewhere, it’s kind of a vital part of not making a hack film.

Do you think that if you corner me I’m going to give in to you? How are you going to wow me? Do you have a few Shakespearean sonnets saved up? Are you hoping that I haven’t noticed that you wear the same horrible outfit every day—black Adidas track pants and an oversized button-down shirt with a blue and red dragon on it? Do you think AXE body spray really makes women go mad with desire?

I’m quite done with being nice to you. It obviously isn’t working. Tomorrow is the last day of class. I suggest you don’t ask me any questions because I can’t promise that I won’t say something really nasty.

What Freedom?

2005-08-03T21:41:00.000-06:00

I can think of so many ways I could smuggle numerous weapons onto the plane. This isn’t so restrictive. Where are all the bomb-sniffing dogs? I could snort coke in the bathroom and no one would ever know. Gives new meaning to the mile high club.

Now this is the worst part. Through security and waiting for the announcement. I’m in the back of the plane; they’re going to call me last. The children and the special needs go first. Then the first class people—rich people move so slowly. They call me last but there are still people adjusting their luggage and taking up space in the aisle when I get there. I eye each and every one of them and wonder how anyone could want to blow up a plane with such a multitude of harmless brats and car salesman fathers. They wouldn’t, I guess. They would get on the plane and look at the non-threatening people and they would think, so what? What government would care about these people? They would fly all the way to the end and then they would board a flight full of business people and oil executives and politicians and they would blow up that plane. That’s the one that they would blow up. Maybe if I’m really nice to everyone who gets on the plane, that will help. Then, if one of them is a terrorist they will know that I don’t deserve to die. I’m nice and I have things to do.

I’m in my seat now, still musing over whether or not it would be worthwhile for them to blow up this plane. Surely someone would catch them at the gate—there was one guy complaining that they wouldn’t let him take the Swiss army knife his dad bought him onto the plane. If he were really dangerous, he probably would have stuck it up his ass.

I could fight someone with a box-cutter anyway. What could they do? They’d have to be pretty precise to hit the jugular, and that’s really the only way they could do any damage. I’d ask to go to the bathroom…”excuse me Mr. terrorist, but I need to pee”…and then I’d grab something and sneak up behind him and get him. They don’t give out knives anymore, but what about that wire that holds together the magazine flap? Whaddya call that? Or I could use the piece of cloth that ties the curtain back. Just get it around his neck and take him down—I’d have to pull pretty hard. There are a lot of things that would work, probably. So, I should probably just relax.

Unless he had a bomb strapped under his shirt. He couldn’t get that past security, could he? Someone would surely notice the bulge—how big are they? No one patted me down—but maybe they know what terrorists look like. They must just go for the ones who look like terrorists.

These seats are smaller than I remember. My hands are sweating so I adjust the air, but all it does is blow a steady irritating stream at the top of my head. I wonder if the terrorists are sweating. I wonder if they are nervous, if they are afraid to die. I wonder how they said goodbye to their friends and family. I wonder how it feels to know when your last moment will be. I don’t want to know, but I wonder.

How far do they let you get? Do you get to the end of the flight, think that everything is ok and you’re finally there and the hotel room is going to be a blessing and you will order a cheeseburger through room service and get some pay per view porn and call your lover long distance and go to bed early and get a good nights sleep and set the alarm and wake up ready to start the day in unfamiliar territory? And then something terrible happens? Or are you mid flight and there are people watching the movie who take a little longer to realise that something is happening? Is anyone on this plane a fire fighter? Do fire fighters know how to disassemble bombs?

Flying makes me nervous. Next time I’m going to drive. Or maybe a boat—how long would it take to get to England on a boat? I’d like to go to England one day, but I don’t think I will fly. I won’t take the subway either, that’s way too risky. England is cold though, and I would like to go somewhere warm. I couldn’t go to a country that wasn’t free though, even though those countries are warm. Like those countries that all the terrorists come from. They hate our freedom, and that’s why they want to blow us up. Freedom, sweet freedom.

By Request

2005-07-19T14:05:00.000-06:00

I saw your sister again. She was walking down the street arm in arm with a girl who was laughing intently at her clever quips. I couldn’t help starting at her as I drove by, and smiling, probably in an absurd way, but she didn’t see me so I guess it doesn’t matter. It seems like every time I see her she is with another woman—it reminded me of Gabriella. You remember her, I assume?

We were wearing the same shirt. And she had her hair cut in the same way except that hers was blonde and mine black. Of course I knew—you didn’t have to sneak around in such an insulting manner and send Dan over to hint to Mary that she should keep quiet about it. I was rather proud of myself; I didn’t feel threatened at all. She was just another one—we had never agreed it should be otherwise, even when we were involved—and she looked like a bad cover version of myself: she had no giant breasts to compete with, certainly no university education, and she wasn’t nearly as put together as she would have liked to believe; deep-down, she knew this too. She only had that name. People would tell her that it was beautiful, but I still think it’s ostentatious. I wasn’t angry or bitter or sad, I knew that the others existed, I had only never seen them.

You hadn’t seen mine either. That’s how you always blew things out of proportion, by suggesting that I should be upset. I rarely was, it was only that you wanted so badly for me to be that way.

I assumed that we could at least be friends. I assumed we would have disdain for you in common. It’s difficult to be fascinated by you without realising that you’re a truly horrible person. So, I tried to introduce myself. I stuck out my hand, which wasn’t taken, and made a comment about owning her shirt, to which she informed me that a lot of other people did too and walked away. It was only at this point that I decided I hated her—it had nothing to do with you.

Then, I got lucky. I had a horrible experience. I realised I was in a really shitty venue and that it was a Thursday night and that your band probably sucked. Then, you started playing, and all of my worst fears were confirmed. You were terrible. So terrible, I was embarrassed and wanted to sink into the floor upon which I was standing. My palms began to sweat as I lit another cigarette to distract from what I was seeing and feeling. You were writhing. That’s simply the only word for it. Mick Jagger dances around like a child when he performs, you writhe. On the floor. On your knees. And you and your friends like to think that it’s a result of depth. You were enraptured by yourself and completely unaware that your prostrations were akin to a rock-god or perhaps karaoke-god on the verge of giant finale. I remembered asking you once what it was like to be on stage in front of everyone and you had replied that you had no idea what happened up there. You lost yourself in the music…man. How deep.

The concept is over-used in high school and college English essays: Disillusionment. It’s so uncomfortable in real life. I stood frozen to the spot I was standing for the entire time you were on stage. You were so terrible.

I hated myself for buying into you, for believing that your “art” really was just misunderstood and under-rated. I had believed everything, and now I was watching you suck the life out of even the concept of art, in the same room as a childish girl in my shirt with whom you’d tried to replace me, and I couldn’t move. And I realised that you were a really awful kind of person. You had nothing to offer anyone except to control them. Your friend, James, had been so sweet to me once. He had kissed me on the cheek and tried to pretend that it was only friendly. But it wasn’t. We’d been talking for two hours while everyone else was inside and I couldn’t believe I’d found someone so gentle in your company. But that was the end. He started to avoid me after that and I knew it was because you’d told him he wasn’t allowed. I knew this because of that time I was over at your neighbour’s apartment with Mary, and Dan had come over and been surprised to see us and remarked, with what he pretended was sarcasm, that you were going to be really mad. We were never invited back there either.

When I realised what was happening, I started to laugh. I laughed as everyone began to disband from the stage. Someone asked me what was so funny and I laughed at them too. I laughed at them all because they were all so stupid and fooled. And I hated you. You had me believe that I loved you and you were nothing but a fraud, a complete idiot. I wanted to cause you pain.

I became distant. Everyone asked me what was the matter and I would only laugh at them, drink some more and light a cigarette. That wasn’t cool, was it? I was supposed to maintain that cool and collected posture all night, wasn’t I? No matter what, you aren’t supposed to feel things. This is what you’d taught us. And we lived by example.

I got really drunk. Not just slightly tipsy or accidentally beyond myself, but deliberately and intentionally smashed. Everyone crowded into your apartment and then came the speech. I was standing on the couch for well over a minute before I had the nerve to start speaking. I think Gabriella looked at me with a curious haughtiness and I’d taken a deep breath as I’d silently cursed her and looked up at the ceiling and began speaking over everyone’s noise. I was laughing so hard I could barely stand up. I’ll have to paraphrase it for you, though I’m sure you remember it quite clearly:

“Dear People. Could you turn this shitty music off? It’s bad—I like Pulp. I think James looks like Jarvis, but no one else does. I really wanted to have sex with James, but he (you) won’t let me. You aren’t fooling anyone! I’m sick of this stupid shit—you are all fake. All of you, except (I pointed at Gabriella), you’re just a fucking cunt. And you all do whatever he says, and that is sooooooo completely….and…(I remember this part quite distinctly) UTTERLY PATHETIC! (laughter—maniacal) BYE!” And then I threw the Heineken bottle I was holding against the wall. There can be such satisfaction in the sound of breaking glass.

No one moved. I can’t believe you all stood there and let me finish! I can’t believe it took Mary so long to drag me out of there! I had no shoes, I carried them because she was afraid everyone would attack me if I paused to put them on. This made me laugh. I still laugh about it sometimes—and that’s why I laugh whenever I see your sister.

Just More Proof I Shouldn't Live Here

2005-07-15T15:20:00.000-06:00

I'm writing an essay for my Film Theory class on the history of madness in film. I would love it if people could leave names of films they know of that deal directly with and comment on madness, especially if they do it in innovative and interesting ways. I'm having a terrible time finding half the films I wanted to write about, namely from the silent era, which is making me think I should probably have moved to Montreal or NY before even attempting to learn about a cultural medium.

Confessions of the Paranoid

2005-07-13T21:42:00.000-06:00

I can’t decide when it started because I can’t even decide if it’s wrong. Maybe it’s completely justified. What if everyone is bad and I’m just a sitting duck shot in high-contrast and at high-angle? You can see it, I’m sure—at the train station, in the grocery store, at school. Maybe you have seen me, and that should scare me further into delusion—I’m spurred on by the fact that every time I turn around there are menacing glares and perverse imaginings behind illiterate blood-shot eyes, unfamiliar with the sense of reason and endowed with such crude economy, cleanliness, knowledge and culture that all that could possibly remain is violence and madness.

My own madness is perpetuated by its very possibility. I watch the news and I read books that tell me that monsters exist and that the things I fear aren’t irrational, they could happen. Exposition—where probability and possibility is established in a narrative—that’s where we are right now. I check the locks on my door several times a day. It’s why I look over my shoulder more than usual lately and why every time I do there is a greasy white trash degenerate with sex in his eyes and cigarettes on his breath.

I’ve been going out less and less. I don’t enjoy it anymore because I can’t seem to relate. I encounter the oddest people, and the one’s I don’t fear I can’t speak to—they’re distracting me; they all want things from me. One by one they invade my space as though they hadn’t heard that I need it and ask me questions. I was waiting in a department store for an interview the other day and a man walked past and stopped. He turned around and he tried to act casually, but I knew that he wanted something. And he invaded my space and began with gruelling small talk and various mental molestations. My palms began to sweat and I wanted to scream, so I left. The interviewer wasn’t much better—she kept asking me what my priorities were as though she expected me to change them for her. I left her too. On my way out a stoned teenager asked me for a cigarette while I was on the phone and paced around after I'd said no.

Today it happened again. My class took a break and I just wanted peace and sunshine, but was instead accosted by a peer who stood far too close to me so I could smell the generous application of cologne which will forever remain the smell of desperation, grandiose effort and scripted pleas for validation. I was given a brief education on his presumably impressive feats, hopes and dreams, at which point I rudely paused and made a suggestive phone call. My efforts were not fully appreciated and I was given a brief speech on signs and fate, which concluded with a recitation of everything I’d ever spoken aloud in class. Verbatim. So now I’m quite certain that his intentions are malicious and I should never find myself alone with him.

I believe in signs too. I, for instance, could not take the job offer at the department store because of the creepy guy and the bitchy interviewer. I know I would be miserable. I also can’t go back to that mall without a guardian because there is an abnormally high percentage of sketchy people roaming about. They gave me a terrible feeling and I’m certain they will hurt me if I let them. I was also able to discern long before my confrontation, that my classmate had some degree of interest in me due to his unabashed staring. So, my question then becomes, why aren’t people picking up my signs?

2005-07-05T14:00:00.000-06:00

I'm currently enjoying some bad childhood memories courtesy of the virtually and thankfully nearly extinct Canadian band Moist. It was not my choice to begin this brutal exploration of my early teen years, but my neighbour's, whose love of bad radio is unparalleled by the citizens of modern democratic nations. I expect that somewhere between Krushchev and Gorbachev, there were some comrades whose enthusiasm for bad North American radio was bigger, but that could only have been because of extreme scarcity.

I would now like to address my neighbour directly:

Dear Obnoxious and Hopelessly Tasteless Jerk Off,

What exactly could be the purpose of playing your radio outside on your patio? Do you not realise that your extreme bad taste in music and radio stations has forced the rest of us to remain inside our apartments with the windows closed? Are you just a fucking asshole, or are you just that stupid? Do you realise that this means war and I'm going to throw things at your window tonight while you sleep? Do you not own any real albums or are you just so aware of your tasteless suckiness that you're too afraid to play them?

I'm coming for you, so don't even try to hide.

Yours truly and sincerely,
CD

If you've ever had to endure the selfish noise of a neighbour, I implore you, today is the day we strike. Just say no to selfish noise makers--do whatever it takes. People who think their lives are more important and therefore require more freedom of sound need to be stopped. I can't even express how much this asinine attitude irks me. I'm forming a coalition. We will create banners for display in the public areas of apartment buildings and consequences for those who disobey our requests. Now, we just need a name...

One last note of interest--while searching for "Moist", I found this.

Woof!

2005-06-25T18:54:00.000-06:00

Okay. We at the Cynic Ward have never been so cynical, so snotty, so absolutely self-righteous as to post a review of other blogs. We at the Cynic Ward have had enough trouble with people suggesting that we are just a tad too negative or cynical without pointing out the travesties that are the on-screen vomit of other people’s blogs. However, that ship has sailed.

We couldn’t resist. Feel free to harangue us if you wish, but only if you know what harangue means without the help of dicitionary.com. Otherwise, [I'll leave it up to your imagination]. I was perusing the directory at blogexplosion and I happened upon a section entitled Just for Men. Interesting, I thought to myself, this should be good for a laugh. How could I have known it would be so pathetic as to inspire an entire entry?

Let’s review a few, shall we?

1. Oh look, it’s everybody’s favourite blog, Dating Help For Men, that Zydeco Fish and I have taken a keen interest in hating. Words cannot express just how stupid the writer of this blog is. If I were to venture a guess, I would say that he is a junior at some lowly technical college. It’s good to see that they’re ahead of the curve when it comes to education. According to the summary, this is a blog that will help you: Be the man you have always wanted to be. Succede today. concepts to help you get the attractive women that you have always wanted. Learn to approach any woman it doesn't matter if your ugly, fat, or bald (Who needs punctuation—just let it linger.) In a poll entitled "Type of Girl You Want", 35% of the voters (all 17) claimed that they wanted to date a woman who was “intelligent”. Oh, the irony.

I’m not exactly sure what makes this person think that he is any kind of authority on women, but he claims: The game that women play is always hidden.. The logical thinking is never there. You will not here a girl tell you she wants to make love to you. You must read the cues.. tonight I had to learn the hard way.. Don't get me wrong I eventually succeded it just took me longer than it needed to. Yay! Succes! How would you pronounce that exactly—sucksees, maybe?

I’m not going to deny the presence of stupid women out there (or, evidently men, as it would seem this blog has many devoted readers). In fact, I’m not going to deny that most of them are stupid and probably would fit this idiot’s profile of women. The moral of the story is that if you are lost enough to venture advice from this blog, you will be told that you need to: play silly games; subscribe to transparent, false and insulting stereotypes of both men and women; fight for power; and formulize your interactions with other people as if they were some kind of chemistry experiment. Good job JBG. I hope you have a lot of anonymous missionary sex with a lot of bleach blondes who are “smarter than they look”. Suffice to say, you succ.

2. Meet Woman Blog. The name says it all: “I man, you wo-man” is pretty much the mantra here. Not only do the writers and readers seem to be completely dumbfounded as to the singular and plural versions of the word “woman”, most of the time it reads like a National Geographic. Case in point, a question from a reader begins thus: I have been wanting to meet a women for a while, but when I see one, I never have enough courage to approach her. Here's what I say when I read that: The clever male is poised for attack in the bushes while the female, unawares, continues her shoe shopping. She is picking up a red pump and suddenly--the male is overwhelmed in spite of himself! The male accepts the females signal of feminine girth with the presentation of the red pump and slowly retreats. Well Dave, I think your problem might lie somewhere in the words “when I see one”. Try tranquilizer darts, that might subdue one.

Now, the advice on this blog isn’t nearly as shortsighted and formulaic as our friend’s over at Dating Help for Men. That is, if you ignore the fact that this site is a ploy to sell the author’s book and lines like “And if we feel that special tingle between our legs, we know we've found a winner!”

Enlightening. It’s at this point in the program that I would like to send out a special “hello and thank-you” to all of the real men in my life.

3. Nightporter and His Fav Thingz. I’ll admit, I didn’t make it past: Women love penises just like you as a man love pussies and breasts. The penis is the favorite topic of conversation among women. Talking about it makes them happy, interacting with one makes them really happy.....
Really? I’m really sorry to break it to you guys—we don’t sit around and talk about penises. Never. At least, I don’t—but maybe you shouldn’t take my word for it. After all, my nails and hair and boobs are real. And I was never an extra on Sex and the City (little known fact: this show is also known as “A Really Lame Attempt to Feminize Alpha-male Tendencies and Give Genuine Feminism a Bad Name”, but that name was too long so they had to change it).

4. The Best Gay Blogs. It’s interesting that my definition of “hot” is a little faggier than theirs.
*Sorry--No linkage. This blog has been removed since my first visit.

5. Da Players Guide to Pimpin. I think it’s a horrible shame that decades of work by devoted, honourable and ridiculously wise civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr. have still not managed to dispel the myth of the African-American as illiterate, criminal and poor. I think using language like the title above promotes that ideal and I think that the idea of gangster rap (I didn’t say ALL rap) as an empowering form of communication for people who do suffer from poverty and illiteracy is ludicrous and only harming their cause by promoting an image of illiteracy, materialism and class/sex/racial division.

And now, just to subdue you who are already poised for attack, the answer is "yes". I do realise that some men (and women, for that matter) have serious issues when it comes to meeting people, to starting relationships, to being comfortable in a social setting. But, these are deep-seated psychological and emotional problems. A gorgeous blonde with big tits, no matter how successful you were in picking her up, is not going to solve these problems and neither is the generic Dr. Primetime advice to which you're subscribing. The people who seek advice on these so-called "advice" pages--who think having someone else is going to fix their problems--and most of the time the people who write the advice, are the last people who should be pursuing a relationship with another person. There is no secret formula to people. Go cross stitch this onto a pillow and put it somewhere in plain sight: You are only lonely because you hate yourself. Try fixing that first.

*It would seem that deletions and additions are common and frequent over at Just For Men. Please note that the author of this blog does not wish to insult any of the people listed in the Just For Men section simply by virtue of association. I also apologize to my readers for a less than complete review of all the blogs in this section, but the truth is I was far too bored to continue.

Your Sister

2005-06-20T15:40:00.000-06:00

I've been meaning to tell you I met your sister. I know she must be your sister. She comes in to see me all the time and I pour her a cup of tea but I never let on that I know you. I know she must be your sister because she is exactly like you--she looks like you and she has that same flippant demeanor, that old attitude that helped you convince everyone that you were so cool.

But, it isn't working anymore; I wanted you to know that. I want to tell her that it doesn't work as well, but she can never hear me--phone plastered to ear and laughing responses as she orders and throws me some money and then milks it and sugars it and leaves.

If she isn't your sister, you should still meet her. It couldn't be romantic though, that's another thing you have in common--I think she's rather fond of women. I'm sure it's her. She has your face. It's your face exactly. I know you have a sister that age because you told me about her: do you remember that day I came to see you? I was late and you said your sister worked in the store across the street and you'd been talking with her. And then I had to leave because I was late and you had to go somewhere to meet some guy. You were wearing a red shirt; that colour doesn't suit you at all.

2005-06-15T18:54:00.000-06:00

I don’t like the way lipstick looks on coffee cups. When I see it, I feel a grimace and I think of saliva and that way that it smells on the palm of your hand if you lick it.

It’s always old women who leave lipstick on coffee cups, bright pinks and reds, such a contrast on the stark white porcelain lip of the generic coffee house coffee cup. They press their lips together and they press them to the cup and the excess lipstick that hides in the creases of their lips, that mixes with the coffee and the saliva, imposes itself upon the cup, oily and thick and leaving layers of texture that make me think of Jackson Pollock. And then it’s supposed to mean something; this is a strange imprint. These are the creases of laughter and discontent and life and maybe this is why I don’t like looking at it—maybe I feel like I shouldn’t be observing this—is this some ridiculous testimonial? It’s like a fingerprint, but far more predisposed to circumstance, and therefore far more personal.

I don’t know why it’s always the old women who leave the bright blemish on the coffee cups—the older you get, the less lipstick you should be leaving on coffee cups and on your lips. Lipstick is for women with wonderful lips, the kind infused with pig fat or hours of kissing, and not for women who have the drawn, thin and creased lips of time. I’m sure they mean to cover up their lips of time, but they only end up highlighting them in the end.

I always wipe the stain off when I’m wearing lipstick, compulsively and after every sip. It’s not easy, being so thick and viscous and oil based. It just leaves a big smear.

Portrait: White Trash Angie

2005-06-07T15:59:00.000-06:00

This post is dedicated to LingLing and Zydeco Fish, for obvious reasons.

I met Angie while holed up in a suburban house, crazy from the prescription drugs my enlightened physician had insisted would cure me and high on perkocet and hash to dull the crazy. I was there because I was dating one of the losers who lived there. I don’t say loser as a kind of afterthought to ease the pain of a difficult break-up or a betrayal; I say it because it’s the truth and my being pissy about distracting myself for so long with such a loser makes it no less true.

Angie got there by virtue of a boyfriend as well. He worked as a cook at an all-night diner; Angie worked at a gas station. This was Angie’s fourth job that year. It was June. Despite the thick haze of drugs in my blood, which made the world a peaceful and happy place but for the occasional dark-side freak-out, I began to suspect that things were not right when Angie came home from the gas station one day with what she called her “tips”.

“Who tipped you, Angie?”
“Ha ha—I raided the box on the counter”

How noble. Especially when you consider that the jar was for a missing children’s charity and she had one of her own. This was a fact that she would often use to garner sympathy. You see, her child had been adopted, though she would often pretend that the adoption had not been her choice. She would further exacerbate the lie by proclaiming that the adoptive parents were “total pricks” to her and wouldn’t let her see her child, despite the open adoption agreement. Then she would pull out pictures of the child and explain that she had had to “hide in the bushes” to get the picture, even though they had obviously been posed.

The association with Angie and babies didn’t stop there. Angie was one of those women whose ability to reproduce became a fundamental part of her identity. Babies. Marriage. These were the words associated with her bizarre ideal of perfection. These things would make everything okay. And whenever she fought with her boyfriend, we all had to be reminded of these this.

“I don’t know how to work it out. We fight all the time.”
“Maybe you should spend some time apart”
“I really think a baby would bring us closer together. I think I’m ready to have one again. I’ve been very tempted to skip some pills.”

Unfortunately, even if babies and marriage were the keys to happiness, they would never exist in Angie’s world without the harmonious accompaniment of alcohol, drugs and general sluttery.

“My doctor told me when I was pregnant that I shouldn’t quit smoking.”
“What?”
“Yeah, if I quit in the middle of the pregnancy, the baby could have withdrawls. He said the same thing about pot too. So, as long as you’re doing it when you get pregnant, you don’t have to stop.”
Unless you aren’t a selfish cunt and you actually give a fuck about your child’s well-being. But, you know, you don’t have to.

And of course, the sluttery:

“John doesn’t really treat me right, I think I might have to cheat on him just to get him to understand that.”
“uh…”
“There’s this guy who comes into the gas station all the time…”

And finally, my favourite; Angie loved to avoid responsibility:

“I can basically do whatever I want. I mean, if someone fucks with me, I can pretty much kick the shit out of them or kill them or whatever and not be convicted. It’s because they did tests on me and I’m legally insane.”

Going To the Hairdresser is Like Going To Church

2005-06-05T15:38:00.000-06:00

Going to the hairdresser is like going to church because they always make me feel like shit. I don’t much care for hairdressers—sorry, stylists—they have an attitude problem. They always do.

My mother always took me to the cheap places when I was a kid. I can’t say I really blame her, who can afford to pay $50 for a trim? Not I. So, my first real encounter with a stylist came when I was about fifteen. I was over at a friends house and her older sister was going to “school” (oh, how I love impenitent, undue mockery) to become one. I was blonde at the time, my natural colour, and my hair had a tendency to get stringy and, well, gross. I simply asked the stylist what she thought I should do with it. She took one look at me and with a (also impenitent and undue) scowl on her face replied: “You need product”. Ok, product. What product? Because of the scowl, I didn’t bother pursuing this any further.

The term kept coming up again and again. By this time, I was going to see stylists as often as I could afford to, but continued to go to the cheap places when I needed something simple done. Still though, there were the questions. What kind of shampoo was I using? Who did this last time? When was the last time I got it cut (tsk tsk)? Every question had the implication that I wasn’t doing anything right. In fact, I deserved to be bald. Yes, I took such terrible care of my hair that I deserved to have it all fall out.

So, I looked around at other people’s hair. I didn’t think my hair was in such bad shape comparatively. I could get a comb through it, it was shiny, it wasn’t visibly split endy. In fact, I had a friend whose hair I thought looked quite the picture of dry and damaged, so I must have been doing something right. But, the criticism continued: the disapproving looks, the references to “product (always singular)”. It got worse after I decided that blonde wasn’t really my thing and went to black/red. Especially since the variation in colour between my new and natural colour meant that I had to dye it almost once a month. At this point, even the stylists at the cheap salons would start making snarky comments: I had just dyed my hair, yes. From a drug store box, yes. Yes, I was aware that the colour was very different from my natural colour—only blind people couldn’t be. Yes, I was aware that some women would give their left kidney for my natural colour. I wouldn’t—I’m far better looking with dark hair and I’m hardly like other women. In fact, despite my pale complexion, dying my hair this dark did the exact opposite of what the nosy stylist had predicted before I had gone ahead with it, it had given me colour.

I haven’t had my hair cut in probably two months at least. I don’t want to go back because the stylist is going to point out that I haven’t had my hair cut in over two months. Then, she’s going to ask me what kind of “product” I have in my hair and when I tell her, she’s going to say that that stuff is no good and I should try this $50/itty-bittytube crap that doesn’t make any difference whatsoever. (I once spent a lot of money on salon shampoo and it made my hair MORE limp. I find it ironic that stylists, who I don’t imagine make killer money, would suggest that I pay what happens to be a fortune for me on my hair.) Then, I’m going to ask her about a hairstyle I like and she’s going to tell me that I can’t do that with my hair for some stupid and ridiculous reason. Then, when I’m leaving I will realise that I just paid too much to get my hair trimmed by a pious bitch and that I don’t like her hair.

I should start going to the barber. He’s a reasonable guy; he would know that I don’t want any funny stuff when I say I need a trim. It’s just a straight line.

And, as a sidenote, someone asked me recently whether I had given up on the portraits. No, I just found that I didn't want to write them all at once.

Profile: The Blog Snobs

2005-05-31T23:28:00.000-06:00

You* know who you are. I know who you are. So, why do you pretend that you don’t read my blog—I know you’re reading it right now, I know you don’t like it because you don’t comment, don’t link here and don’t bother to make yourself known, and yet you persist in reading my blog. Why? That’s not a rhetorical question.

How do I know you exist? Because I have a statcounter (it’s also how I know that a strange number of people happen here by searching for ‘big tits hockey fantasy’ or something along those lines. I fail to see the connection). I also know that you got here via someone on my blogroll and proceeded to venture to and comment on several of the blogs on mine. You stupid fuck.

Well, I’ve been to your blog. It is bad, and I’m not just saying that because I hate you or because you’ve never commented on my blog. It really is. I can tell that the reason you don’t like my blog is that you don’t think it’s deep enough. It doesn’t explore the meaningful nature of blah blah blah. I think you may be thinking so hard that you fail to see just how self important it is, much like the self-gratifying, dick sucking comments you leave on the site you reached me by. How about a one-liner once in awhile instead of a bloated essay written by a high school student who just tried acid and listened to the Doors for the first time? Oh, and guess what—the aforementioned blogger you think so highly of doesn't much care for you either.

*You could be specific. In some regard I am speaking to a certain special someone. On the other hand, I know of more than one person who fits this exact profile.

Jennifer Wilbanks' Letter of Apology to the World*

2005-05-27T23:02:00.000-06:00

I'm a rabbit in you headlights.

Dear World,

Can you ever forgive me? Does it ever begin to mean anything when I say I’m sorry?

I can perhaps begin to help you understand if I explain the events that lead up to my disappearance. Maybe if you know the state of mind I was in, you will be more willing to forgive me.

When John makes love to me, I stare at the ceiling tiles. I know precisely how many there are on the bedroom ceiling, but I won’t tell you, because I think that’s a little too personal. A few weeks ago, I had a dream. In this dream I was in the oval office, wearing a blue dress, and President Bush was there and we were being dirty. He was doing things to me that I hadn’t even dreamed about until this point—things that John would never do. He was talking dirty to me as well, he kept saying “Timber….I got me a whole lot of TIMBER!!” and he was very excited. When I woke up I was aroused, I felt filled with shame and so I prayed to Jesus. Jesus was very forgiving, but he suggested that I might have some issues with my sexual relationship with John.

I was confused, I didn’t know what to do, and I misunderstood what Jesus was trying to tell me. So, I went out one night while John was at Bible study and tried to get kidnapped. I thought that maybe if I got kidnapped, the kidnapper would do dirty things to me and I wouldn’t have cheated on John but I would have fulfilled my desires. But, no one would kidnap me. I stood on a corner downtown where a lot of scantily dressed women kept telling me to “get off their corner, bitch” and a lot of men would leer at me from their cars, but they only gave me funny looks and kept on driving. Folandia, one of the ladies on the corner, told me that I was too ugly to get picked up by any of the men and, in her words I “smelled like God”. Well, I didn’t know that the Good Lord had a smell, so I guess Folandia was wrong.

I went home very upset. No one would kidnap me. I wasn’t desirable enough. How could I marry John when he clearly didn’t want me and was only with me because he’s an uptight Christian freak? There was only one solution—I’d show them I was desirable—I would have to kidnap myself.

So that’s what happened, world. I concocted a bold faced lie and ran away from home because I had a sex dream about George Bush. Just saying his name makes me tingle all over—with shame. I am a horrible person and I deserve what’s coming to me. Please punish me, in the eyes of God and the State and the President. Please, please spank me.

*Any factual errors contained in this letter are the result of the complete disinterest of the author. All unfounded and unjustified assumptions are the result of Jenny Wilbanks being both an inconsequential person and news story. All aforementioned assumptions were made by looking at the picture on the right, and not by reading or watching any coverage of the actual case.

Portrait of a Gangsta'--Well, Almost

2005-05-25T17:23:00.000-06:00

I’m fourteen and I’ve just started to need people. What I mean by that is, I’ve always been a loner, but when I reached the age of fourteen it became apparent that I need people with whom to associate so that I don’t delve into permanent weirdness. What I mean by this is that the marketing got to me.

I’m trying be cool. I’m trying to want to be cool, but I just can’t do it. I have geek blood and that makes me awkward as hell around anyone who is overly concerned with appearances and stuff. I’ve cut my losses and just accepted that my friends are going to have to be losers.

And they are. They aren’t losers because they are socially awkward and would rather read books and listen to good music and go over plots for future novels with themselves out loud than explore that vacancy that is teenage society, they’re losers because they think that stuff matters and they’re losers because they pretended to themselves that they could have a notable place within it.

One such friend, Alicia, is especially bad for this. She likes to pretend that she’s devastatingly attractive and claims that she constantly has twenty somethings pulling over in their “hot” cars to talk to her. There are always stories of her exploits at the mall and with her older sister (who is attractive, but who only gets the attention she does by virtue of being the biggest and youngest slut I’ve ever met) and with her neighbours, exploits I pretend to be impressed by and then have to pretend not to be disgusted by when I get personally introduced to a zitty faced mormon kid or a very zitty faced D and D geek boy. Of course, there is the bad music too—a combination of commercial rap and Mariah Carey—and this has lead my friends to a fetish for bling, weed, black guys and cars, all things I can’t understand. So, maybe it’s easier to begin developing such an opposed personality in this context. Or, maybe it isn’t—I’m sure it’s fairly hard for anyone to do much of anything besides wish they were 18 at this age.

Alicia has decided that we need to branch out, meet more people. She has arranged for our attendance at a get-together in her neighbourhood. Alicia has hook-ups, you see. She notes my eye-rolling and counters it by telling me that the zitty-faced kids aren’t invited. This is serious. In fact, Josh is going to be there. Josh? Is there a more white-trash name, (well, besides Jeb)? Shutup, Josh is cool—he drives a red sports car and he’s seventeen. Apparently it hasn’t occurred to Alicia that seventeen year olds who hang out with fourteen year olds are probably not very cool, in fact, will probably get arrested for possession of kiddie porn one day. That doesn’t matter, we’re still cool because we’re going to the party.

So we go to the party. It’s in a trashy duplex down the hill in the crappy part of the neighbourhood. There’s an old barbeque on the weed-ridden lawn along with some sexy lawn ornaments. The rest of the party is in the basement; they sit on a makeshift floor of mismatched carpet remnants and a fuzzy flower-print sofa that appears to be collapsing in on itself. There is rap music playing on the stereo—the only thing in the room in any condition worth mentioning, including the people. Everyone appears to be high, except for the people who are trying to appear to be straight and hard, whose heads bounce in tune to the music and whose eyes scan everyone in the room as if able to detect the social status of each person who enters. I guess they aren’t drunk enough to be rowdy yet. It’s one of those situations where everyone sits around in small groups talking about inconsequential tripe and wondering how to infiltrate one of the other groups on the other side of the room and eventually score a “hook-up”. Alicia immediately infiltrates Josh’s group, the largest in the room and we are offered a bottle of Crown Royal and cigarettes. Josh is white, but you wouldn’t know this if you were to encounter him on the phone or in a very dark room. Josh forces me into interaction as soon as he exchanges greetings with Alicia.
He juts his chin out at me “Yo”
“Hi”
“Josh”
“(You don’t really think I’m going to tell you my real name do you?)”
I wonder for a brief moment if shaking hands with someone in this situation is appropriate. No, probably better to just straight face it.

Nothing of consequence happens. People talk about silly things and attempt to outdo each other with their stories. They get drunker and louder. I sit back and watch, amused and stoned for the first time ever and drunk for the third. Josh’s brother arrives, the highlight of everyone’s night because he is eighteen and wears a wife-beater shirt that shows off his hot bod. He also has greasy hair, dirty jeans and a face that looks like it was crushed in a vice, but no one seems to notice this, except me of course, but I’ve always been a stickler for details. They gather around him like he is Jesus. I’m confused.

The highlight of my night, is when Josh begins hitting on me whilst we all sit around in a circle discussing, of all things, the boy’s bad-ass “blades”. I assume Josh has voiced his intent towards me at some point to his loser friend because the friend suddenly has an overwhelming urge to help him impress me.
“Hey,” he says “Josh, show her your blade—“ and then to me “it’s so cool.”
Josh does pull out his blade, stuffed in his white tube sock, of all places and presents it to me for my approval—a big fat meat cleaver, not unlike something a cartoon chef would wield, stolen from his mommy’s kitchen, all for me and my approval.

Needless to say, Josh and I didn’t “hook up”. Sorry Josh, I don’t do white trash.

This One Goes Out To the One I Love

2005-05-18T00:04:00.000-06:00

My upstairs neighbour is a bit of a freak. That is, I really don’t like him. You may wonder why I would choose to devote any amount of time to him considering this fact, but the truth of the matter is that you are kind of a pious cunt for making a remark like that in the first place. See, it’s like this: he’s up there in his bathtub several times a day (no exaggeration), thumping around and presumably throwing soap or attempting to bathe with crutches or fake limbs and that’s bloody well fascinating. I don’t like him, but he’s interesting. The way Napoleon Dynamite is interesting—don’t tell me you would have been friends with him, you wouldn’t have.

I happen to know that my upstairs neighbour doesn’t have any fake limbs and isn’t in need of crutches. This is because I encountered him one day as I was leaving my apartment. He was carrying his bike-thingy up the stairs looking very serious and meaty (oh, to defy middle age) in spandex and helmet and I smiled at him, as if to say “Hey neighbour, how’s about a friendly hello?” Well, there would be none of that. I couldn’t help but be taken aback and bemused when he replied with…well, he didn’t. Nothing. Not a smile, not a frown, Just Space. It was like staring at a passport photo. He also has a sticker on another bike that says “One less car!” and that kind of annoys me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s fantastic that you’re putting forth effort and doing your part and that your heart is in the right place, but don’t you think the need to advertise it kind of reeks of desperation the same way it reeks of desperation when people need to advertise their sexual encounters?
“Wow, I’ve been having way too much sex lately”
“That’s nice….what’s your name again?”
Yup, and I have great tits. Hey, just throwing that out there.

I might have been able to dismiss my upstairs neighbour as an isolated jerk, but there’s more to it than that. There are these joggers who come into work all the time. They go for their run and then they stop in to pump themselves with more unnatural substances (no, I don’t deal, I sell coffee) before heading home to whatever they head home to. The interesting thing is that you can tell what they head home to by their interactions with me. The majority of the joggers are women and they’re all approximately 35 to 45. Some of them are unnecessarily evil. I mean evil, hostile, inappropriately bitchy. Case in point: Woman orders “A Latte”. I make the Latte. I hand over the Latte. She responds with “I thought this was iced. I want it iced.” So maybe she’s a complete moron, right? Wrong. She’s ordered many a latte (the hot kind) after many a run before. Now, that’s just uncalled for. Let's face it lady, if I were psychic, I'd have my own show. So, there’s that, and I know it sounds trite and redundant and completely childish to diagnose like this, but I think they’re threatened by me. I’ve never wanted to believe that people are so ridiculous that they would be jealous of a random stranger, despite the insistence of my male companions that I get glared at constantly, but I’ve begun to give this theory some merit. Because you can tell that the joggers who are polite to me are happy with themselves and their lives and that the ones who are bitches probably like to talk (lie) about their sex lives and the schools their kids go to. I finally got bored of the joggers and I summed it up thus: for people who are supposedly so fucking high on life, they sure are a miserable bunch.

I’ve decided, dear readers, that I’m going to devote the next couple of entries to fascinating (or just plain absurd) people such as my active friends. Characters. It’s a series I’m going to call "Portraits".

My Favourite Moments From Thursday Night

2005-05-07T11:30:00.000-06:00

Overly Drunk Friend of N’s to Large Breasted Co-Worker (referring to K): This is Amy.

- - -

Overly Drunk Friend of N’s to Some Guy (referring to K, again): This is Amy.

- - -

My Friend N to Her Drunk Friend: No, I can’t go on Saturday because my friend K is having a housewarming party (K is standing right next to me).
Drunk Friend: Oooooooh, that suuuuuucks. Amy? Do you have a cigarette?
K: No, I told you, I don't smoke.

- - -

Drunk Friend to Total Stranger (complete with hugs and touching): Don’t you love my new shoes? I didn’t buy them…they followed me hoooooome! (Raucous laughter)

- - -

Me to N: Does she smoke crack?

- - -

N to K: Do you find strangers react to you differently as a blonde?
BLONDE Drunk Friend: OH! People tooootally react to me differently now that I’m a brunette.
N to Drunk Friend: Honey, you’re blonde.
Drunk Friend: Well, this is a lot darker than I am usually. Seriously, I had some baaaaad hair going. It’s a lot better now.
K: Yeah, and blonde.

- - -

Me to N: Does she smoke crack?

- - -

Drunk Friend: I can’t believe I lost my purse! I feel sick. And my mace was on my keychain. I don’t want anyone to find it.
N: Why don’t you want anyone to know you have mace on your keys?
Drunk Friend: It’s not about them knowing, it’s because I use the mace whenever people try to steal my keys! I can’t believe it…and I just got a new roommate and now already I lose my keys?
K: I think you should break her in early, I mean, you don’t want her to go a whole year thinking you’re not a flake.

Martin Amis Is a Genius

2005-05-04T22:05:00.000-06:00

I’ve read this five times already:

Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing. It’s Nothing. Just sad dreams. Or something like that…Swing low in your weep ship, with your tear scans and your sob probes, and you would mark them.

The first time I read this there was a distinct “Ah ha!” It wasn’t audible, even in my head, but the feeling was there. There was some indication that if I juxtaposed this opening paragraph with everything I’ve written and continue to write, it would highlight everything I’m doing wrong.

This is the fifth time though, and I can’t pull out my computer (which I’ve become so dependant on; I seem to have no use for pens anymore) and furiously record the dialogue in my head. There are far too many people around me, this is rush hour and this is public transit, and it makes me uncomfortable having people around when I’m trying to disclose things. Writing is so much like acting—the process should make you feel naked.

So, I stare out the window, Amis still in hand, my left index finger stuck in and holding the page. There isn’t any need for this, it’s the first page and I haven’t got past it, but maybe I’d like to sneak at it again. I read past it this time and Amis describes a marriage and a bed that reeks of it and then I reach the line:

…the young sleep in another country, at once very dangerous and out of harm’s way, perennially humid with innocuous libido—

Jesus.

I take my finger out of the book this time; I smile and even shiver and put it away because it isn’t something I should be reading with all of these people around. I’ve found something that is so much a privilege and yet so much not—something we aren’t conscious enough to miss when it’s missing—and that is inspiration.

I stare out the window. A man jitters by the train as it’s at a standstill, smoking crack from a pipe and talking to himself. The train begins moving again and stops at a busy station where people fresh and exhausted from work pile onto the train. A woman sits next to me and a man stands above her.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” The woman asks the man.
“I don’t know”
They play out the scene as people who have known each other for a very long time often do—barely regarding each other and taking the other’s presence for granted. I think for a moment that this should make me sad, but it doesn’t. I am briefly able to see these people as they really are—the colours of their work outfits become suddenly brighter, there is no inner dialogue in my head telling me that they are bad or boring or amputated people—they are just there. They continue to talk and I stare out the window, hearing small portions of the dialogue. I think I hear the word vegetables several times. And more questions: “What do you want to do tonight?”
“I don’t know…go to bed early. You have to get up early, don’t you?”
This is an ironic encounter given the three pages of Martin Amis’ book I’ve just read. I steal his words to describe this discourse—they reek of marriage. We pass a Sherwin-Williams paint outlet and the jingle runs through my head a few times. Innocuous libido. If only it were always that way—completely harmless and natural—protected by it’s intrinsicality and absolute innocence. But the perversion of the thing itself is not the thing itself, it’s the Nothing. It’s this performance, also natural and so potentially inevitable: It’s just sad dreams.

Someone Has a Jealous Streak

2005-04-22T10:24:00.000-06:00

We were in a desolate land of muddy hills and gravel paths. There were large unfinished houses in the distance, but no sign of the people building them. I don’t remember what we were looking for—a house or a person or something we’d lost on our drive—and I don’t remember where we were going, but we drove an orange hatch-back that was full to the brim with junk that I had wanted to pull over and go through and organize but Kelly said we didn’t have time. Papers and boxes and pieces of clothing, mixed together like oatmeal cookie dough, and I remember being very worried about the papers being wrinkled or torn and crushed, which they probably were. We started walking, while looking for whatever it was we were looking for, but the car always seemed to be parked off to the side of the path no matter where we went. It was very convenient. We came over a mud hill and upon a round concrete picnic table where there was a group of people talking. I focused on one of the people in the group as he focused on me, some aroused form of consciousness creeping into his face as our eyes mingled in an erotic dance. And I knew who he was because I’d seen him before. Beck. Incubus.

As is common in dreams, nothing was said and everyone who was present understood what we were to each other. I gladly took his hand and walked with him through the mud town and the people around stopped and said things like, “Look! There they are” and we had really hot and wild sex in public places where there was a high chance of us getting caught. And we became partners in crime and went everywhere together. And he adored me; I could tell by the way he looked at me and always held me close to him with such tenderness.

And then one day I was out with Kelly. And we came upon the orange hatchback, which was full of papers that had photocopies of Beck’s album covers on them—ripped albums. I had to hide the evidence before he found out, and I had to jet over to the nearest record store and buy all of his albums so that he would know that I had them all, because sooner or later he was going to check. We were pulling the paper out of the car and tearing the sheets into tiny fragments, but it was no use. No matter how much paper we destroyed, there was always more. The car just kept coming up with more places to hide it and more ways of reproducing it. That’s when one of Beck’s friends came along. He picked up one of the sheets of paper and looked at me with disdain. And, as is also common in dreams, by virtue of his friend having knowledge of the situation, Beck did as well.
“Where is he?” I asked, desperately wanting to see him, to explain to him my circumstances.
“He doesn’t want to see you. He’s very hurt.”
Oh, no. Poor Beck, I broke his heart. I was very upset and I felt like my world was crashing in on top of me. And I woke up yearning for him and wondering where he was.

And if I learned anything from that dream I had about my High School English teacher, it’s that my relationship with Beck is never going to be the same. I tried to listen to him and I just sat there all hot and bothered and giggling. Every time I heard his voice, it sent shivers up my spine as I remembered his subtle touch and his adoring yet erotic grin. And I’ve developed a significant crush on him, despite the fact that it had never occurred to me to do so before he tricked me into it. Damn you Beck, you sexy beast.

I Hate the Hi-Fi Club

2005-04-18T13:42:00.000-06:00

Part One: The Slow and Tragic Coercion

hi-fi [hi(gh) + fi(delity).] n.
Extremely high-quality sound reproduction with minimal distortion, achieved with electronic equipment (hyphenated when used before a noun)

Here’s a stupid question: Isn’t the whole point of indie music, the whole attraction to indie music, the fact that it’s supposed to differ from the formulaic and mass produced cultural dictatorship that is the mainstream media and record labels? Are my expectations completely misplaced when I anticipate something somewhat, you know, GOOD?

Well, let me tell you a little secret. It’s all just a big fat lie. There is nothing good about most indie music, and in fact, most of the people associated with it need just as much attention as the AC/DC chicks who take off their shirts and shake their tits on bar-room tables. Only, these are creative people, so naturally, they have to find another way of being boring, predictable and just plain pathetic—a way that to the undiscerning eye might even (fingers crossed) make you think they’re a lot cooler than you.

There has been a trend towards crap in indie music as of late. In fact, did you know that an overwhelming majority of the “popular” indie bands were begotten through the incestuous union of shite and crap? It’s a fact. I won’t go into specifics and identify the bad band that I so desperately want to dig into. There are three reasons for this:

I don’t want people to go searching for them to confirm or disprove my judgement on them, thus giving them even more traffic than they deserve.
Despite their uninspiring musical ability and their association with the scenesters, the individuals in this band are examples of exceptions to the rule; they are far more real than their trendie-friendie counterparts.
Flappy mouths.

I will say this though, a couple of chords thrown haphazardly together, banged out to the accompaniment of bad lyrics and off-pitch whiny vocals on what might as well be a toy piano, and a hyper-cute and hyper-sexed lead singer whose best moments are supplying witticisms between songs does not constitute any kind of meaningful or lasting art. That doesn’t really matter; these bands have managed, by their mere charm and more importantly, personal connections, to rise to the top of the food chain in this sad excuse for a city. Our setting is an oil city, a desert for anything but suburban sprawl, consumerism, and an innate acceptance of all these things—opportunity enough for a rich underground counter-culture of ideas, music, and art. You know, just for posterity. But, I like to compare the realisation of this opportunity to the sound of a deflating balloon, which coincidently, is the same sound that comes out of the trendy advocates of it: “PUHFFTHTHTHTHTTTTT…” Say it with me now—it’s quite fun. A word comes to mind as well: Impotence. Lacking girth. Not for posterity. Several inches short of joy. Flaccid.

The opening of the Hi-Fi club comes one year after the hockey play-offs. Thankfully, we have not had to sit through another shit show like last year, though our weekend home away from homes have been coveted by the hockey-sheep and there isn’t a day you walk down the strip and don’t run into someone who looks like they just time-ported it over from Miami Beach. To reiterate: the perfect situation for a significant cultural opposition.

So, you would think that the Hi-Fi Club, an arena to the indie scene, would be filled with people with ideas, and originality, and things to say. But alas, it would appear that I am going to be condemned to my apartment balcony with a bottle of wine for an undetermined period of time. This is because I made a trek out to the Hi-Fi Club the other night and was inexorably disappointed. Not by the club itself—I think the club has real potential, but once again: “PUHFFTHTHTHTHTTTTT…”

The reason for this is simple. Any religion, or in this case cult, teaches us that the church is not the building but the people inside of it; a cult is only so good as its people. Here is where the Hi-Fi Club runs violently astray.

Part Two: You Can’t See the Wood for the Trees on Your Knees

There is a line to get in when we arrive. I admit surprise, since I’ve never had to wait in line at the other live venue in town, but it’s not cold out, so I’m not bothered. We may miss the opening band, but we have only come to see them out of situational association and not in anticipation of good music. Three more girls arrive, these ones with the steely look of determination and Ben Sherman button-ups. They make for the door, even when the awkward girl in front of us points out that we are in fact, a line up. She is ignored of course, and I recognize the silencing look as one that I’ve been forced into getting worked up over many times. This pisses me off. I mentally console myself even as I have a sinking suspicion that it might be one of those places and one of those nights. Whatever that means.

The girl exits, looking rather annoyed and she and her two friends consign themselves to standing behind us, bitching about how they’re missing the band and the bouncer won’t even let them in to look for someone.

Almost out of nowhere, twenty or so people scatteredly begin to arrive, each group ignoring the line-up and walking straight in, but this isn’t all that surprising. What is surprising is that despite their disrelation, or at the most casual association, with each other, they are all wearing varying degrees of the same outfit. This is fascinating to me; I don’t think I’ve seen such an intense concentration of scensters in one place, without the dilution of ‘others’ in quite some time. There is an overwhelming prevalence of thick-rimmed glasses, ties and thrift store sweaters (which were actually purchased at Purr for well over $100). And don’t forget the beret—the must have for EVERY trendy generation. (Please support the beret; its prevalence is being threatened daily with the sudden ascendancy of the Castro Hat.) Oh, and don’t forget the self-important blather. Someone behind us starts talking about school.
“Yeah, I went to ACAD, but I don’t really make art anymore. I don’t know, I just think I’ve moved beyond a lot of that.”
ACAD is the local arts school. I certainly am not one to judge the program, since I have never attended a class there, nor have I had any discussions with any of the instructors. If the art produced by its graduates at the year-end art show or the self-aggrandizing students are to be any representation of its academic merits, ACAD is the equivalent of getting your degree and then hanging out at the Hi-Fi Club and telling people you went there. Yeah, but you don’t make art anymore. Yeah, you’ve totally moved beyond ART.

Every person who enters the building without even considering that the line-up may apply to them gets me more and more worked up. A girl with an updated Pat Benatar haircut searches the line desperately for a lighter and upon retrieving one, returns to the hollowed out demeanour of a china doll without so much as a thank-you. A few people are admitted into the bar…errr…sorry, club, because they are apparently “with the band”. It strikes me as strange that the people on the guest list would be arriving to a show that was already in progress. I make another snide comment about how “apparently all you need to get in is a tie and some nice Value Village attire”. The girl in front of me laughs. I have a fear creeping into me. The warmth of the adrenaline is beginning to make my hands sweat and my tounge grow sharp. I’m about ten seconds from saying something especially nasty or vomiting. This is not good. I promised myself when the first three girls arrived that I wasn’t going to react in this way and now I’m already beginning to sweat and frown. Suddenly, another Pat Benatar girl swoops through the line with an “exCUSE me”, which I can’t help but view as uncalled for. A few moments later she opens the door and yells at her friends “K is really awesome tonight”. The tone in her voice and the fact that her friends barely listen to her makes me believe that this was an advertisement that was more for my sake than theirs. Surely if she tattooed “I’m with the band” on her forehead, she wouldn’t have to go to all the trouble of drawing people’s attention to it, thereby, in her mind, assuring them of her supreme coolness. There is something in her eyes and I realise that without that grotesque loathsome look of desperation and disrespect that is so permanently etched into her face, she would be quite beautiful. She pops back in and then out again moments later to announce “You guys…WE don’t have to wait in line”. The mechanical excitement became so rampant you would think someone had thrown a tofu cheese slice at the flock. She reiterates this more than once, again, more for the benefit of the people in line than the people at whom she directs it.

At this point I’m confused about what exactly “maximum capacity” means, and reflect with some confusion that anytime I’ve been “with the band” the guest list has allotted one person per band member, not five. Despite the nauseous feeling and the swell of complete repulsion, I hold my tongue this time and simply suggest that this is gearing up to be a shitty evening and we should hit the road before I hit someone. We walk away and my anger dissipates. I congratulate myself for my comparatively good behaviour. Those trendies always get me so worked up.

That evening has not discouraged me from going back to the Hi-Fi Club. It’s great material. It’s also great practice in not being so reactive, in doing what I should be doing when I’m around these people: laughing. Plus, despite the sometimes crappy music and the all times crappy people, this is my culture too. And I’m proposing that those of you who feel the same way take it back. The Anti-trend. Kind of like the anti-hero—the protagonist who lacks the predictability and socially accepted qualities of the protagonist. So join me at the Hi-Fi Club. The next time you encounter one of these trendies basking in their utter desperation, behaving like complete and total wankers, congratulate them. That’s right, clap your hands together, bend down to make eye contact and pretend you’re talking to a puppy who has just taken his first shit in the right place—“You’re so cool! Yes you are, so stop worrying! That’s such a good boy! You’re such a good boy…yes you are!” ETC. Remember, their grandiosity is based entirely on fear, so it’s not like they’ll actually do something about it.

Dear Righteous Left,You Are So Cool.

2005-04-11T14:48:00.000-06:00

It’s really a toss-up. I mean, either you end up toting around a plastic Hello Kitty purse and going to dance clubs on the weekend or you take on left-wing causes and a strong love of indie bands. It’s really the same thing isn’t it?

I’m not talking about all of us. I’m talking about the girl who thought she was so hip. She thought she had it all because she went to a show and bought a CD that other people told her to like and thought it was ok because most people had never heard of them before. But, they weren’t all that good; they were trendy the way Rage Against the Machine is trendy to kids who want to pretend to have political convictions. And I offered her a deal on the opening band’s CD as well. And I was greeted with what was probably the most supercilious look I have ever received. Not that I’ve never received that look before, I have received it many times.

I always receive it from people like the girl who thought she was so hip. Do you know these people? So you can agree then–it really is a coin toss. Either you go to art school and feel self-important about not being a part of the mainstream or you go to business school and try to take over the world. With convictions such as these, why should the mainstream and the right-wing take us at all seriously—they shouldn’t. Why are you so suspicious? Is this not why the righteous right seems like the majority right now? Of course! Because you are far too busy shunning people and feeling superior and petting your self-important egos within your tiny little cliques that you fail to see we would get a whole lot more done if we were to band together.

I’ve read a lot of blogs by people who think they’re so hip. They are always in attack mode—flippant and saintly because they ride a bike everywhere and recycle. They make me angry because people like these like to try and make you feel so trivial, even if you’re on the same side; alienating people is important when you’re trying to make a difference. I certainly wasn’t going to hang out with the jocks in high school, I have nothing in common with them, but hanging out with the outcasts meant passing a fucking quiz first. What was Kurt Cobain’s middle name? Well, jesus…I think that falls under the who the fuck cares category. There was a guy named Leo that had this crush on me in the tenth grade. We had a class together and would goof off in the back and get yelled at by the teacher. Then, the next year, Leo started organizing charity shows with local bands and dying his hair blue and wearing Green Party stickers all over his bag and that was when Leo started giving me the look. I said “hi” to him one day, but Leo was no fun anymore.

And you think that ends when you leave school, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t even end after university.

I just moved, so I needed to find a job in the area. I walked into a record store yesterday—all I asked was whether or not they were hiring, so I couldn’t quite figure out what I had done to piss off Mr. past-his-prime-and-obviously-not-getting-laid. His face made me reminisce about the girl who thought she was so hip. I almost thought I saw a “we don’t hire girls” coming. Funny how getting pegged into a category makes it all the more easier to shove the judge into one. I figure he collects rare vinyl, reads art magazines and is one of those people who gives ugly people a lot of credit because they obviously must be more intelligent than good-looking people. See? It’s that easy.

I shook it off and wandered into a used bookstore. I don’t know why I am the world’s biggest attitude magnet, but I am. This time, it was Mr. oversized-sweater-(and it’s like…hot out)-past-his-prime-tortured-writer, and he clearly thought it was funny that a person who probably couldn’t read would dare apply for a job in his store. The humanity. I got tired, went home and proceeded to unpack several boxes of books.

And then there’s Ana. We had a mutual friend way back when. I used to try so hard to have camaraderie of some description with her, because of the mutual friend, but she would never have it. She was a journalism student and she and my friend were into music that I wasn’t so big on. And she thought she was so hip. But, my friend’s love of Ana and hatred of Radiohead didn’t keep she and I from becoming what I suppose people call Best Friends. And then she left town and I haven’t spoken to her in several years. I don’t fully understand why, I just assume that we were probably just filling a niche at the time, a niche that went away for one or both of us. Now, though, I feel like the niche needs filling again. Minus Ana. Minus snobbery and superiority complexes wrought from identity crises.

The problem is, like I said before, I’m a magnet for attitude. I don’t suppose it’s so much to ask that I meet a single person who doesn’t warp into conflict mode the moment I speak to them; who I can cause mischief with and drink bottles of wine with in the park late at night when I can’t sleep; who I can be both stupid and serious with; who understands what I’m saying without explanation; who can read my looks; who shares my taste in things and knows that that matters. It pains me to admit it, but it’s getting kind of lonely over here.

You Won’t Hear Me Say This Often: Penntastic.

2005-04-08T17:21:00.000-06:00

That’s because I have recently had a strong dislike of Sean Penn. Apparently, Penn hated this role, hated this movie even -- at least, this is what I've heard. I guess he’s more into the tough guy posturing of Mystic River (I’m sure I’m not the only one who thought this movie was a big piece of over-glorified crapola). Unfortunately for him, it just so happens that he’s quite good at playing the pathetic and all-too-human roles that this and Hurly Burly afforded him. Thank god -- I thought my distaste might be permanent.

If you haven't already, go see this movie.

I'm Going Hair-Shirtless Today

2005-03-29T01:46:00.000-07:00

Often, in fits of a rage I can’t quite explain, I will look towards a window and wonder just how much force it would take to shatter the glass. There is something in that sound; I don’t know how to articulate what it is. I don’t do it though—break the glass—and that is because within that brief moment of fury, there is an actual thought process. Not that it’s wrong. Not that it would be expensive to repair. None of that rational and over-rated bullshit: only that I would have to stand there, having just released all of my tension, anger and absolute frustration, red in the face, and explain to whoever it is that I’m arguing with, exactly why I did what I did when there isn’t a reason. There is no reason at all. And it’s terrible to be with someone who doesn’t understand.

Assume what you will from this. It doesn’t happen often, and I’m rather annoyed when it does because most of the time I am at a loss to explain the reasons behind it. I get frustrated sometimes and it can be to the degree that I pull my own hair. But, I had a thought yesterday that is relevant to all of this. Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage. It was a nostalgic moment. I haven’t listened to that album since I don’t know when, but I had another track in my head last night so I turned it on and I realised that I was an angry teenager at a Smashing Pumpkins show at one point, but I hadn’t even bothered to think about what I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage.

Well, naturally, I was taken aback. I’m the type of person who watches the news and cries. I lose my appetite when I think about other people going hungry. I get preoccupied constantly with negative shit and I just simply cannot shake it. And yes, I get insulted for being this way—cynical, unhappy and negative. But, guess what? It sucks. It isn’t for show, this is the way I actually feel almost all of the time. Maybe it’s compassion, maybe it’s just viewing the world through shit-coloured glasses, but whatever it is, it sucks. It’s far easier for some people to call it a weakness of character than to accept that I might actually want things to change. But, despite the fact that I feel ill at the thought of someone kicking a dog, it doesn’t change the fact it happened—that things like that happen every day. And I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to do with this information.

My family took me to brunch on Easter Sunday. It was an outlandish affair and I sat there with a plateful of fruit, omelettes, prime rib, gourmet sauces, and a creeping neurosis. How could we gorge like this while others had nothing? How could I justify my lust for exotic and expensive meals? I’m still searching for that answer, but what I do know is that all of my anger grows from this same place. I allow things in the outside world to build up inside of me and affect everything in my life. And I sit here and regret those things and complain and write about them, and then check my blog to see if anyone commented on that, and get frustrated if the people who did haven’t much to say. Why? What the hell am I waiting for? For some reason, I seem to have invested a disturbing amount of value in this stupid thing. As if all of my integrity is wrapped up in it. As if the lack of depth and connection I feel in my real-life relationships is going to mysteriously emerge from the shadows of the internet and beacon me inside for a slice of lifelong friendship and a cup of hot soul. I am confused and frustrated right now and I know that there is no way I can change the world. But, I suppose it’s about time I got a start on all those things that are supposedly broken in my own life: try to wipe the shit from my glasses, fix the lack of people in my life and try to retrieve or maintain whatever depth exists with the ones who are. No amount of suffering can fix anything; that requires action.

A Quick Question

2005-03-23T15:20:00.000-07:00

What the hell is the point?

How To Be a Snob: A Guide to Letting Everyone Know You Are Better Than Them Without the Crassness of Being a Fucking Cunt

2005-03-21T17:16:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed a scary phenomenon lately. People who are so utterly desperate to be individuals, to be unconventional, to spit in the face of ‘the man’ that they seem willing to do anything to get attention. A sadly large number of women would call this feminism—exhibitionism, thirst for conflict, and downright bitchiness—and all it really achieves is the alienation of real women and the labelling of feminism as a fucked-up cry for attention from a bunch of women eager for the chance to be exploited. As long as it’s my decision to shake my naked ass on television, I am empowered—Very Classy.

As a true “snob,” (I use this word partly because I am not yet fully comfortable with the use of the word “feminist” in such a general medium due to the stigma that seems to follow it in popular culture—you know: the big ‘D’ word. I realise though that associating “feminists” with so-called “snobs” may also be a distinct error, though in this context I think it is appropriate as a sarcastic transitionary between the bitchiness that is supposedly “feminism” in popular culture and the real empowerment that is also often perceived as inappropriate) I decided it was high time a simple repertoire were laid out for the younger generations who have twisted ideas about real women thanks to the gods of popular media and their shady entourage of whores.

Concept #1: Using people is never cool. There is a word for people who use their sexuality and physical appearances for favours; I really don’t think it’s necessary to type it out. So, if you’re at the bar and a man you aren’t attracted to approaches you with the offer of a drink, what do you do? A polite refusal is all that is necessary to communicate disinterest. Accepting said offer or refusing it with a mocking laugh is disrespectful to one’s self and highlights either desperation for attention or a need to humiliate others out of self-loathing. A snob doesn’t hate him/herself and certainly does not sell out.

Concept #2: Popularity is over-rated. Why are you toting around old acquaintances from grade school? Think about what these people bring to your life. If all you have with someone is history then it’s time to move on. If you wouldn’t confide in someone, then they aren’t your friend. Believe it or not, you can have a life without filling up useful time in your schedule with other people. And I think you can probably make it to the bathroom on your own, you don’t need an assistant.

Concept #3: Know yourself and do it well. Whatever your thing is—music, video games, art, literature, card tricks, miming—it’s your thing. This means you’re well schooled in the subject matter, or you do it damn well.

Concept #4: Have staunch standards about things that are important to you. Indulgence is earned and when it is, it should be genuine. Why do people consume the tasteless Merlot that is put in front of them? Because they are fooling themselves. Merlot is this safe and easy decision for people who simply do not know what they like. It isn’t that these people have bad taste, it’s that they have no taste.

We live in an age where the internet brings us countless opportunities to explore different forms of art, different music, different writing styles, different points of view, but do we really take the time to look at these things, process these things and eventually make a decision about them? Has it ever occurred to anyone that the lyrics to most mainstream music has a vacancy and absolute lack of meaning that verges on vacuous? No, of course not. That would take effort. We consume what is put in front of us with the zest of a newborn in front of flashing Christmas lights without even stopping to consider that the Oscar winners (and nominees for that matter) may not have been the best movies of the year. We fall for it so easily—so easily in fact, that we are willing to pay for the privilege of having advertisements beamed into our living rooms and are even more willing to spend time “relaxing” whilst watching them. We are such a comical race.

I don’t really care if you like Merlot. I really don’t care if you think listening to Cradle of Filth is a good way to be counter-culture and escape all this tripe. The thing is, most of the time I just plain don't believe you--that you think or even have the capacity to like or dislike anything. But that doesn't matter either and it shouldn't matter to you. What it comes down to is this:

Your identity is dependant on making decisions for yourself and not allowing popular media, your parents, your neighbourhood, your “friends”, or the government to dictate your taste in men/women, fashion, sex, music, art, love, friendship, dogs, cats, television, war, peace, food, blondes, brunettes, Swedish massages, cars, abstinence, PETA, toilet paper, crack, toothpaste, corporate America, plants, the Nazis, prostitution, in home theatre systems, your garbage, the CIA, ambient lighting, wine, cigarettes, furniture, cola, posturing, celebrities, madness, living or fucking ANYTHING.

That is your duty as a human being. Not to me, to yourself.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, and just because I can:

HOT (it actually makes me giggle)

NOT (it actually makes me nauseous)

To sum up, Feminism—my brand of it at least—has never been about avenging womanhood and performing castrations or adopting the in-your-face “feminine” sexuality that seems curiously masculine. It is far more about being individual than being vaginal; these are universal concepts and are no longer reserved for housewives who feel they need to be released from the control of a male dominated society. This is about cutting through the stigmas and misconceptions that segregate anyone and everyone; it has always been about respect for one’s self and for other people and about seeing everyone as deserving of the dignities and rewards currently given to a select few. We all have middle fingers and there is nothing about waving them around that is in any way deserving of respect.

Who's Afraid of Carl Jung?

2005-03-06T17:18:00.000-07:00

Earnest and I were out for drinks on a patio in Vienna when our waiter, a brown hare in a blue jogging suit, asked us if we were going to see the fireworks at the mall that night. We hadn’t heard about it, but we decided it would be a good idea if we did go, but only if we could procure some gin and opium to guard against the mosquitoes and malaria. We had to hurry, even though Big Ben was across the street due to the shifting of the continents, because of all the cows in the street. They were sacred cows and the Dalai Lama and all of his cousins were milking the cows and then drinking the milk whilst scantily clad Las Vegas showgirls rubbed oil on their bald heads. By the time we were halfway there, it was dark out and we had to make the rest of the journey by the light of the lamps sitting on the sidewalk. There was a lady tending to them; she had a duster in her hand, but it was actually a miniature peacock and she was changing the light bulbs that were burning out. The peacock kept talking to her and when Earnest asked her what he was saying she said that he was telling her the future. Suddenly, Earnest wanted to go over to her house because he said that he needed to obtain a copy of one of his books to prove to the horses of apocalypse that he had actually written it. So, we had to get a picture of him so that they could match it to the picture inside the cover of the book. The lady, who had since turned into Winston Churchill dressed like a Matadore, offered to paint his picture while I went and looked for the book, but when I was in her study there was only one book on all of the shelves. They were all white with black lettering and they all said “Fascination” but they didn’t have an author so I didn’t know if it was Earnest’s book or not. I continued to look for the book, but there were too many different rooms in the study—the walls kept swinging open into secret rooms and entranceways—and eventually I gave up, but I couldn’t find my way back to Winston and Earnest. Eventually, I found my way to the back entrance and it led to a patio that was overlooking a vast mountain valley where people were tobogganing over the grass and flowers. There were people painting the flowers to match the sky so that the ants on the ground wouldn’t know they were so small. I went down to the grass and I noticed a tunnel that lead to the valley on the other side of the river where there was a farm raising hamsters for the kids who couldn’t have dogs because their houses were made of foam. If the dogs got into the houses they would eat the foam and get sick and probably turn green and plastic and the kids wouldn’t want them anymore. So the farmers were building doghouses too and the fat lady was using porcupine quills for nails and she asked me to hold them but I didn’t have enough time.

You Have Bad Taste in Music

2005-03-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

Normally I don't post links to other web-sites due to my belief in original material, etc. However, I am making an exception in this instance due to the applicability of these particular links to my post entitled Get Down With the Sickness.

The Ruben Studdard link is especially relevant.

...and of course, just in case you haven't already been exposed to this:

Doesn't Nickelback Rule? No, no they really don't.

I suggest you all go rediscover old Radiohead B-sides. I did and it made me so happy, I had to share my enthusiasm.

Adventures in HTML

2005-03-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

The best way for me to learn is to do. So, I did. And this is the result. Aren't the colours just hideous? Thanks, I picked them myself; at least they're an improvement. The reason for the sudden change is I want to change the entire template, but am so terrified of losing things that I figured I would have to put some time and effort into learning this crap. Three cheers for me.

Get Down With the Sickness

2005-03-01T14:10:00.000-07:00

I hear a lot of talk about the left or right wing bias in the media. Now, I’m not going to argue that it is or isn’t there. All I will say is that when humans are involved it is only natural that their political fluids leak onto the paper once in awhile - sometimes, in mass quantities.

But, this isn’t the type of media that I want to talk about. I want to talk about the entertainment industry. And when we look at this massive sprawling mess of egos, it seems pretty clear to me that the boundaries between left and right have been lost among the foliage of fake plastic trees. Left and Right? They don’t support either! They are a sovereign entity, completely impartial unless outside interaction requires protestation of a specific cause, such as censorship. How can an institution that is emphatically corporate support the supposed Liberal camp, protest the spread of massive corporate influence to the third world and write anti-establishment screenplays and movies? Here’s how: Anarchy. In an industry as cutthroat as this, you have to support who and whatever will help you and sell you. Vegan at breakfast, veal for lunch.

This is only the result of an even larger sickness though – the one that has people waiting in long queues wearing tight clothing, grateful for the chance to be humiliated in front of a panel of “celebrity” (a.k.a I want a career do-over) judges. Or, in the case of people with actual ability, the chance to be completely whored around and have no say in the process of their creation. And yet, the positive response to this is overwhelming. People will do anything to be on this show. Having known someone who did PA work for one, I do believe that this is actually true: people will do anything.

While waiting in line, everyone gets a chance to tell their sob story, how they sacrificed their future at university to be here by skipping exams, how they pawned their wedding ring to purchase the plane ticket, how they quit their job and are going to be evicted unless they get a record contract. To the common man, this is the American Dream: incredible effort and sacrifice yield success and recognition. The person who has the most tearful story must, undoubtedly, succeed. Unfortunately, that’s just more than a little twisted. But wait, the stories get creepier! You see, there are stories that don’t get aired, and this was part of my friend’s job - to walk around and decide who got to cry into the camera and who didn’t. One story she told me in particular concerned a skinny, tearful girl with a big entreating grin on her face. She told my friend that she had given birth to a premature infant just a month or so earlier, “a beautiful baby girl”, and that she was so small the doctors were unsure if she would survive. So, instead of staying by her child’s side, she thought that leaping towards some semblance of fifteen minutes of fame would be a better choice. Naturally, the story made both my friend and I feel ill. When I thought about the reasons though, it wasn’t the fact that this mother had abandoned her infant in order to garner some kind of success of her own. In fact, I don’t believe that she saw it that way at all – if she did, she wouldn’t have tried to proclaim the story on air – the vile nature of it lay in the fact that this mother believed that she was doing this for her baby – the way one would light a candle and say a prayer for the health of a loved one – that, if only she signed a record contract and made millions of dollars, the gods of media would grant her child the gift of life. Even sicker than that is the fact that some of you are reading this right now and telling the computer screen I’m just being cynical, that the story is terribly romantic and Oprah should have a go at it.

What the fuck is wrong with us?

At what point did we run so far from reality that life itself became the goat that sheds its blood in the name of Sony? In what kind of warped dimension does no one question this?

It’s a trust issue, I think. People manage to trust the television set and people on it far more than they would a stranger on the street. Some of you will, for instance, say that the people on the talent shows humiliate themselves. It isn’t the show that does that. They show up to audition of their own free will and the rest is what follows. This is sort of how it works, but there is one piece of information missing in that calculation. When auditioning for said show, there are two auditions. The first, weeds out all of the mediocre people. People such as my friend are told that they are to put through only the best and worst singers and that if they laugh or give any kind of indication of their feelings towards the contestants, they will immediately be asked to leave. The contestants who are put through are told that they are to wear exactly the same outfit to the next audition. Obviously, this achieves the desired effect, and the embarrassment isn’t placed on the heads of the production, but on the morons with unconscious dreams.

Despite all this, people still want desperately to be on the show, even if they don’t make it anywhere. Appearance on television grants people some kind of strange power; they become immediately revered, people say hello to them on the street, people do them favours for no reason whatsoever. Take, for instance, our local weatherman, whom, it seems every time I pass the news building downtown is outside doing his weatherman things – and being accosted by each and every person who walks by. Some give him a simple smile and “hello”, some are more obnoxious and act as though they’ve run into their long-lost best friend from high school. It seems like even the most insignificant celebrity, when in the midst of ‘normal’ people becomes something special, and people gawk and stare and I can only imagine it becomes very tiresome. What would you allow a celebrity to do? If Brad Pitt came up to you and asked you if you wanted to sleep with him, would you jump at the chance? I tend to think a lot of people would. I have no idea how to deconstruct this system of knowledge, though when I searched for ‘celebrity fascination reasons’, this article popped up. Everything else was a celebrity fan site.

This article recognizes the prevalence of this trend, but it doesn’t give many reasons for it to be such a widespread social phenomenon. A few obsessive people are always going to exist – who hasn’t had the experience of someone liking them just a little too much – but this particular affliction seems to be widespread. It probably has something to do with the familiarity of seeing them constantly and hearing about the trivial details of their lives. This doesn’t, however, explain the treatment that people who aren’t all over tabloids are getting: take the ‘normal’ people on reality shows for instance: bankers from Florida, salon owners from Des Moines, strippers from Chicago. Normal, or as normal as it gets, I guess. However, the moment they hit the television screen, something incredible happens. People in their hometowns become addicted to the shows, the individuals acquire stupid nicknames and if the nicknames make them enough of an issue of controversy they may even reach celebrity status and be seen with someone even more controversial. I might understand this hero-worship if only the people in question had any obvious attributes. That means talent. But, sadly, most of the time, they don’t.

Let’s face it people, Brittany Spears cannot sing. And, not only that, she is probably the most average-looking sex icon I’ve ever seen – yes, even if she were standing next to Ron Jeremy - so who cares? She isn’t the only one though; the talentless masses abound in Hollywood. But, this is an old argument, and I think we’re all familiar with the complaints about real vs. false art. Just because it’s old, it doesn’t become any less real – but still, I will try to keep it short.

I believe that art is important and yet I constantly see it being demeaned by a profusion of model ‘actresses’ and people who woke up one morning and decided they wanted ‘music’ careers. How trite. The thing that amazes me the most is the number of people who fall for it – it being the television shows they watch and the music they accept just by listening to the radio. We accept these things without questioning whether or not they’re even worth a listen. Most of the time, they aren’t. Look at the award shows. Honestly, Green Day has been writing the same songs for ten years, they weren’t good then and they aren’t good now. Do they really deserve an award for throwing a few simple power chords together and dressing like dysfunctional teenagers? I should think not. Some of the people with good taste are o.k. with this: keep it underground; keep the masses away from it; I’m special because the music I listen to is obnoxiously obscure – well, that’s ridiculous, and the reason for that is that those artists are struggling because of their obscurity. I want to be able to turn on the radio and hear my favourite song, or at the very least something interesting. And in those rare instances when I need to vegetate in front of the television, it would be nice if my brain didn’t have to do so as well.

The point of all of this is that we accept things that the television throws at us, and we accept it with a trust that goes unchallenged in our everyday lives. Are our lives so uninteresting? Are the people close to us so unimportant? My theory as to why this would be is simple. There is both a definition and a lack of one at work here. Celebrities are undefined creatures whom we catch brief glimpses of in movies and in tabloid newspapers. Most of the time they appear happy. Most of the time they are with other people. Most of the time they are well dressed in expensive clothing. In movies, they take on the human characteristics that the newspapers don’t capture. Out of these brief experiences a definition arises. Catching one glimpse of something one finds desirable or familiar may be enough to make the less conscious connection “hey, that could be me” or even “I could have a relationship with them”. The mystery remaining leaves enough of a blank slate for donated characteristics, assumptions about the person and their lifestyle that make them even more desirable than they likely are. Because of all this, the television or the silver screen become places where a person can enter into that realm. All of your good characteristics are displayed behind a heavy layer of concealer. People only see you when you’re happy, trendy and rich; seeing you act sad or sing about heartbreak is ok because it isn’t real. This is what has blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. Nothing is real anymore. We walk around with our incognizant American Dreams and reality only comes into our eyes when we leave the audition room and realise that our wedding rings are gone and our babies are dead.

The Contents of My Fridge

2005-02-28T16:39:00.000-07:00

It’s incredible how long some produce can remain relatively intact in your fridge. I’ve had these clementines since just after Christmas and though they’re on the wrinkly side, they don’t smell or anything. I’m a little scared to throw them away because I have a feeling that if I grip them too hard they might explode, or worse, something living might leap out from inside and attack me.

I have a weird relationship with leftovers. I hate being wasteful, but the thought of eating leftover food turns me into a hypochondriac. This means I have a smelly fridge. That box of baking soda has quite a job on its hands. You would not believe how bad old broccoli smells – I wouldn’t believe me either. At one time I had an overwhelming supply of produce, enough to make many healthy meals. Lately though, all of that has gone to waste, since (and I can’t believe I’m admitting this) I’ve been out doing things and have only had time to eat what is commonly referred to as fast food. I couldn’t believe how quickly the general feeling of wellness left my body: almost from the first bite.

And then today, in my mailbox there was a menu for a Chinese food restaurant. And they deliver. So now I’m sitting here eating Chinese noodles and getting grease all over the keyboard. No, not the fat ones, I like the skinny ones.

Also in my mailbox was a flyer for a community pub night. Interesting. That might be entertaining, though not in the traditional way. I live in one of those funny little communities that act like there isn’t a city of over a million people surrounding it. And it really is surrounding it – it’s just outside of downtown. But, given the vicinity to civilization/distance from suburbia, calm and scenic streets and my charming little house, I don’t so much mind being the only person living here who would paint their walls red or have a smelly fridge.

Conservatives Suck

2005-02-22T23:19:00.000-07:00

Great, now that I have your attention, so do Liberals.

Due to the proliferation of repetitive arguments highlighting why such and such party is better than such and such party and the widespread use of the colours red and blue, I’ve decided to be innovative and attempt to play peacemaker. I expect that you will all listen honestly and respectfully and not resort to provocation and/or name-calling.

Firstly, Conservatives, this is why Liberals hate you:

1. If you haven’t had everything handed to you on a silver platter, you’re probably one of those tiresome rags to riches stories and you figure everyone should be able to do the same. Well, hardass, I have news for you – some people are REALLY DUMB. And yes, I know, you believe we need to cleanse the gene pool and whatnot, but that brings me to number two…

2. I know you think you’re better and more deserving of the things the Social Contract outlines, but let’s face it – some of you have your Christian values, which supposedly say that everyone is equal (not to mention the whole charity bit) and some of you believe in Social Darwinism, (aka: Evolution, aka: We were all spawned from the same freaky single celled organism) - they don’t really mesh, do they?

3. When you try to be PC, you just end up offending people. Just say what you mean for once ok? ‘Persons of the coloured persuasion’ is NOT politically correct.

4. Despite the fact that corporations don’t physically have penises, they DO like to fuck people in the ass. Liberals really don’t like that you support these giant dicks – makes them feel all icky.

5. You like to brag to other countries about the rich cultural fabric of your country and dress them up in cowboy gear, but you don’t like to fund cultural things like the arts. Where the hell is the sense in that?

6. You won’t take Howard Dean…please, take him, he’s yours.

Your turn Liberals:

1. Throwing money at things doesn’t fix them. It’s about time you learned about the concept of efficiency, aka: guess what cokeheads spend money on?

2. You like to trap conservatives with accusations of –isms when they use the ‘incorrect’ terminology.

3. Some people are truly lazy – why do these people deserve things and why should I have to pay for it? This is a genuine question and yet you always roll your eyes!

4. You aren’t very creative when coming up with slogans for your picket signs…’Support Gay Marriage’? Come on – controversy gets results – it should say ‘Support Fags’ and then have a giant picture of David Hasslehoff in a speedo.

5. Three words: Bleeding Heart Bitches

Inaccessible

2005-02-22T13:32:00.000-07:00

It seems like a strange observation, but anytime I remember an event, I always seem to have been staring out the window.

When M lived in his basement flat there were these great windows that went across the length of the living room and kitchen. The windows themselves slid around in a frame the colour of oxidized metal behind an aged and dusty Venetian blind that was visibly covered in kitchen grease. What was so great was you could sit at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette and the window would be at eye level, with the grass and the ground and the flowerbed just below it. So the smell, in the spring and summer, was incredible. And because it was near 4 St. there was that busy street noise that makes some people nervous but turns me into a romantic. I found it so relaxing, that I would spend entire evenings in front of the window drinking wine – and we would talk about various unimportant things that were probably trivial and will always remain so because I cannot remember what they were.

And the thing I remember most about another person is that there was this Indian restaurant next door and when it was dark there was a red glow from the sign that would cascade softly through the room and hold you in the warmth of its colour. The room was comfortable because of the window and I would sit up naked in bed and rest my head on the sill and stare out at the traffic below. One day when I came over there were two wine glasses sitting on the windowsill stained with the remnants of the black bottle next to them - a good choice in the way of inexpensive red. Then I forgot what the room looked like and now I only remember what the view from the window looked like. It makes me wonder if I was ever really there.

Conversation in a Coffee Shop

2005-02-18T11:17:00.000-07:00

Human interaction is comedy enough. If you were able to sit, invisibly, in the same coffee shop until the end of time, you would have enough entertainment to keep you occupied. There isn’t much need for television or books if you really open your eyes. That man across from you, for instance, with the laugh (gu-faw! guuuuh-faw!); that laugh has no place in reality, only in a sit-com or a cartoon. His companion sits spouting various tidbits of knowledge in a belittling, sage-like fashion. You catch snippets of the conversation and wish you had a tape recorder. You pretend to focus on the book you’re reading, but keep returning to the bizarre interaction.

“But what most people don’t realise, what no one realises but a select few people, is that everything known to man – the…the sphinx, aliens, Atlantis, all of that stuff that they make TV shows about and ask about – it’s all already known to us. We know these things, our bodies know because we inherit it. Where do we inherit it from? All those people who are our ancestors! Who were there when it happened! And you know what the best part is? You know where we store all that stuff?”
“Unconscious”
“Yes, but where is that?”
“Brain?”
He leans over and whispers, as if in protection of a divine secret “No, no…our livers”
“Liver?”
“Yes…the liver is the only organ in the body that can regenerate itself. I mean – you cut off part of your liver, it grows back – but that’s all science. The thing that’s science’s lost is the association with nature. That’s what hippocratus was on about when he said that temperaments were caused by bile production – he knew it! The liver is the seat of the soul! And science has just totally ignored everything he said and now the liver is just another organ. Well, you can’t live without a liver – and why do you think liver cancer is the most painful of all cancers? And liver is like the healthiest meat…vegetarians have it wrong too. And that is why people have lost all the knowledge that they had…because they aren’t in touch with their livers anymore!”
“Liver…”
“And the liver is a major player in what process?”
“Bile?”
“Getting rid of waste”
“Digestion”
“Most people are uncomfortable about their waste. They shouldn’t be if their bodies are healthy…getting rid of waste should be a spiritual experience! The one place it doesn’t occur to people to put a shrine is that place that they should – their bathrooms! Ha haa ha”
“gu-faw! guuuuh-faw!”
“But, yeah, as I was saying…”
“Yeah…”
“All this stuff is already known, so all we have to do is get in touch with it. I just came to this realisation a few years ago, but I’m really perceptive. I have this special…I guess talent, but that isn’t really accurate…I’m just really perceptive…but there are guys, the real guys, the ones who are so enlightened they go up away from everyone and have no telecommunications. This one guy I know, he lives on an island way out past Hawaii. There’s hardly any people on that island, only the natives and they all live with him on his complex. These guys have never seen white people…this is a private island, outsiders aren’t welcome, it’s invite only. And you know who the only white guy I know of to be invited?”
At this point he makes a ridiculous face and points at himself with his thumb.

Enough.

2005-02-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

I've been writing today and I am basking in my love of sentence fragments and semi-colons...

In other news, Arthur Miller died today. I know that when someone dies we're supposed to say things like "oh, that's too bad...etc." but it really isn't. The man lived a full life and produced works that have left us indebted to him. I think I'm going to aim to achieve that kind of nobility from now on, not for fame mind you, just for that feeling you get when you've expressed yourself perfectly through art...

The Circus Is in Town

2005-02-08T19:40:00.000-07:00

Subtlety is lost on a blog, I think. No one seems to get it.

The reason for this is, of course, that one doesn’t devote the kind of attention to reading a blog that they would to reading a novel. Even then, if the novel is pulp, or something that simply helps the time pass without the annoying burden of having to experience it, I suppose one could miss subtlety and/or meaning and/or symbolism. Or sarcasm. That one gets missed more than all the others combined.

That these things are lost on those who read blogs, mine in particular, is rather discouraging. I don’t know how the rest of the people blogging out there feel about it, but I’m rather sick of transparent symbolism and formulaic stories about all the traditionally heart-warming things that I’m supposed to value. Like puppies. Well, Fuck Puppies. (And, THAT, ladies and gentlemen, morons and fools, was what we call Sarcasm. What that means, is that I don’t actually fuck puppies or want them to die).

I should actually say that I used to get discouraged. Now, I realise that it is the medium and not myself or even my audience that is at fault (even though I am guilty of that tedious kind of writing that you can’t take literally, that you have to pay attention to). Because of this, I’ve been doing a lot more of what I call my Real Writing lately. I know you will all forgive delays in updating the site, as you have to have grown wearily used to them by now.

Also, there will be an upcoming improvement to the visual aspect of the site. I’m looking forward to distracting those of you who don’t give a fuck about the actual words in a blog with bright flashing lights and pretty colours (epileptics beware).

Lost Souls and People Who Aren't Really There

2005-02-07T16:36:00.000-07:00

So people do change. Though I suppose in this case it’s not really a change at all, more like an overly concentrated version of what I’d always known you were destined to become.

I remember seeing you a while ago and involving myself in discomfort and various dramatic prostrations. There is no reason for that. The pure joy I felt in looking at you without judgement, without complexity, without personal involvement, without intimacy, was unspeakable. I know now that I had never really seen you. And the accuracy and unbiased nature of your reflection was a completely accurate reflection of that person whom I used to be. It only lasted a moment, and then I returned to my surprise at the degree to which you have changed. You had that same expression on your face. The one that you believe prevents anyone and anything from touching you, the one I used to be so attracted to. Only now, it looks harder for you to focus on. Something in your eyes, in your gaunt body and in the way you touch your face a little too much, tells me that you have upgraded your habits to something more serious, more concentrated and better at blocking everything out. Something about the way you’re dressing now makes me reflect with some astonishment that you have lost some innocence that I had never seen in you before. You were always an opportunist, a horrible coveter of purity and joy and my naïve imagined love, but at least your eyes had a kind of sparkle that has now been completely lost. And though I write that spelling out a faint semblance of anger and bitterness, I don’t really feel it. I just know that it is. And it isn’t bad or good or shameful, it just is. I know that the person I see before me doesn’t really exist.

And you’re in a coffee shop and you’re drinking coffee. And I remember one of the first things you ever said to me: “I fucking hate coffee shops and I fucking hate coffee. It’s so pretentious.”

2005-01-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing like getting to the bottom of the glass and finding it dirty. Everything about that makes you feel sick and filthy and a quick ponder over familiar communicable diseases has you scratching your skin in discomfort. Can you get sick from that? But…what is that? You lean over the tan coffee cup, slightly in fear, slightly exhilarated. Had they not been wet, these little clear specks would have been invisible. Sugar dissolves, so it can’t be sugar. But, what the hell else could it be? Who puts anything else into a coffee cup? You look around as if the answer will be demonstrable at other tables, but everyone is sitting silently. A painted goth couple in the the corner opposite you sit looking angry and annoyed with each other. She looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, but she stabs at a piece of lemon meringue pie with no apparent intention to consume it. He begins tearing at empty sugar packets and dropping the pieces into his cup. Perhaps this is how the mysterious substance was deposited into your cup. Maybe it is wrong to fear things so. It certainly seems wrong to take out your fears on the cup. The cup is just having a bad day, making the rounds from person to person. The waitress comes to top you up and you force yourself to say “ok”.

Catchy Lingo, Courtesy of Dr. Phil

2005-01-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

There are two different types of liberals. There are the ones who invent phoney catch phrases in order to better understand what is wrong with the world, in order to more effectively discuss it on online chats and in coffee houses while sporting their dog eared copies of Zarathustra. The ones who shake their heads at the atrocities of this world but are so ineffectual as to think burning flags at so-called “peace-rallies” is at all effective. They will whine and complain and take offence to just about anything that smells remotely “offensive”. They are go-getters, they go for hikes, they go running, they have dozens of children whom they fail to raise well. They like soy. They can be easily identified by their empty doe eyes and unfaltering grins. They are the people who would reek of positivity (yes, despite popular belief it does have an odour – kind of like patchouli) while staring down the barrel of a gun.

Then, there are the liberals who believe in similar things with one exception: they actually believe; it isn’t some kind of personality accessory. They have a sense of humour that often “offends” their so-called compatriots and baffles most republicans. They also like soy and they also “love life”, but in a different way than the grinny liberals. This love of life makes them desire real change and express disappointment and often anger at the way in which the world works. In fact, they love life so much that sometimes they hate it.

This first group is the focus of our discussion today. That, and the question, why do we hate ourselves?

There is a term that the grinny liberals have come up with to describe this plague. They call it self-esteem. I think it’s a little too stately to discuss something that is just a tad darker than those gosh-darn fuckers would have you believe. But, what do you expect from the PCs, they’ve never been about honesty.

This self-esteem problem is usually represented outwardly, by dissatisfaction with ones physical appearance. This is why everyone thinks they’re ugly, fat, too (insert fault of the week here) and admire people who are air-brushed and “perfect”. Now, I’m not going to start in on the usual trite bullshit about how media images hurt women. I don’t actually believe this. For one, being ‘hurt’ by a media image requires a certain degree of internalization that a woman with a healthy self-esteem would not subscribe to. The real problem here, and one that may even be perpetuated by people who whine about ridiculous media images and expectations is that physicality matters at all. The problem is not that people cannot meet expectations because they are ridiculous; the problem is that expectations even exist. Applauding a woman for undergoing mutilation in order to “feel good” about herself is like holding her hair for her while she slits her wrists. It is a mistake to endorse physical appearance as a cause for low self esteem instead of a symptom of it. This self-hatred (a much better catch phrase, I’d say) is deeper than that.

It is rampant, though. From what I can see, almost everyone hates themselves, whether it be the school bully, the girl with the implants, the girl pointing at the girl with the implants, the white kid who wants to be black, the rapist, the drug-addict…of all the people I’ve met lately, I can’t think of one who I don’t imagine going home and crying into his pillow and becoming completely absorbed in his woe-is-me nightmare. And all of these people have something in common. They believe in the surface. They believe that the surface will set them free. They believe in the surface and they try to call it practical. And despite what you may believe, the word for all of this is culture. This isn’t low self-esteem; this is our culture.

There's That Bug Going Around You Know

2005-01-14T20:00:00.000-07:00

My question is, when is that bug ever not going around? And what exactly makes this particular bug so special that it becomes that bug? And, are these people aware that there is more than one of that bug; that your body develops an immunity to a virus once it fights it off unless it mutates, becoming a different bug, and that this is the whole concept behind the flu shot, i.e.: immunizations? And that there cannot really be any such thing as that bug? Let's move on...

I've been seeing some disturbing things on television lately. Now, don't assume that I harbor any naive surprise when faced with advertising that uses fear to hook its audience. My surprise, or rather the reason it becomes of note in my blog, is due to my usual imperviousness to said techniques and my sudden vulnerability to them. One commercial (and this will teach me to watch television as I usually do not), depicted people sneezing and hacking all over their hands and then touching something that some unknowing person eventually came along and touched as well. As I’m sure you can deduce, the product appears in all of its gleaming glory, slowly descending from the heavens, and the pleasant and unambiguous voiceover informs the audience that this product is necessary in fending off the bacterial refuse you can’t see but have no choice but to interact with. I shuddered. I reeled. Then I went and washed my hands.

My last customer at work today sounded very ill. He also looked and smelled very ill. I developed a sudden choking feeling in my throat at one point as I listen to him struggle to speak through the mucousy (now, even though this isn’t really a word, how would you spell it…ey or y?) obstruction in his throat, hoarsely whispering so he didn’t strain his vocal chords, which I momentarily imagined to be swollen and ripping with pain. My brain even talked me into a headache and an itch in my sinuses. These things vanished as soon as he left. I sprayed the air around his chair with Lysol (because it kills 99.99% of germs) and proceeded to wash my hands thoroughly. It was only once the dangerous chemicals diffused enough to be olfactially undetectable that I began to breathe normally.

So, my question is, do we really need to be so worried about these germs to the degree we are? Do we need products to keep us safe from them? The WHO has, after all, cited antibiotic resistance as potentially creating a worldwide epidemic and yet antibiotics are still seen as a convenient and safe way to combat illness. I know people personally who see no harm in popping a penicillin whenever they feel they are at risk of making contact with a little bacteria. Antibiotics have become so trusted that people in the third world will purchase one of the coveted pills when faced with infection. All this does, is allow the bacteria to develop a resistance to the pill, thereby making it absolutely ineffectual in exactly the same way immunizations make us immune to viruses. Due to the rapid reproduction rate of bacteria, many formerly easily treatable bacterial infections, such as tuberculosis, are now completely resistant to many of the most affordable and safe antibiotics available.

This may sound completely redundant to those of you who are aware enough of this problem, however, I think it’s worth mentioning since I’ve met university students who don’t know what antibiotic resistance is. So, educate yourselves! If you put it in your body you should have some knowledge about it (I won’t even start critiquing the way some people eat). Don’t take antibiotics unless you absolutely need to; 70% of throat infections are viral and bacterial ones can usually be fought off by your immune system in the same amount of time, whether aided by drugs or not.

This concludes my sudden moment of advocacy.

At Least Sex is Still Free...

2005-01-10T21:51:00.000-07:00

...well, for some of us.

Here I go again.

I have spent the day in rapidly increasing confusion. Money suddenly seems to be at the centre of my life and I cant really do much but follow the suddenly explosive trend of blaming the man.

Despite being a paradise to people who think driving a sports car down Miami Beach with formulaic music blaring is the opposite of obnoxious and ostentatious, this is a worthless society whose only cultural achievements come from the people who are too appalled and/or economically frustrated/incapable of participating in it as good little consumers. True, we are all consumers but this is arguably because we have to be and not because, like the guy in the sweet ride, we choose to be. I dont value money, I value freedom, and any society that blurs the lines between these things is truly sick.

I cannot practice my trade because the cost of living in this city requires that I work until I am literally exhausted. It could be the specific job I suppose. This is why I quit today. I woke up this morning with an enormous amount of rage building up inside of me. The thought of going to that place again made me feel so sick and miserable I thought I was going to throw up. I feel completely helpless, but things have a way of working themselves out. I am taking a huge risk and maybe (just maybe) I will get kicked out next month for not paying my rent but it isnt like I live in the third world and it isnt like Im not a whiny little brat with relatively wealthy parents, so why worry? The risk is worth more to me than my own house, and so is my sanity. The things we seemingly cant live without are only things.

The irony of all of this is that if I cant pay my phone bill one month I get penalized through an additional fee. Yet, at the same time, my old landlord can rent me a house full of asbestos and not be penalized whatsoever. Hes a businessman and apparently those people are worth more than us mere artists. Art is not important until the artist is dead and the subject matter is kosher enough for an executive flat. I dont think most people who live in this city realize the vapidity of the situation when it comes to affordable housing.

I dont live below the poverty line and yet I can barely afford my bills every month. What about those who work full time at McDonalds? At the same time, I was paying a ridiculous amount of money to live in a run down house that was making me sick. My landlord wouldnt even fix my goddamn window. Where the fuck is the justice? You shitheads told me that if I was a good citizen, got a job, paid my taxes, I wouldnt have to live this way. Ive never even collected unemployment insuranceso where is your capitalist justice?

duh-duh-Done With all the fuh-fuh-Fucking Around

2005-01-08T02:45:00.000-07:00

Shrink-wrap is the bane of my existence. It would seem that no matter how much I gnash and bite and claw at the fucking thing the little “tear here” strip simply will not allow itself to be utilized in its intended way. Face your destiny…I simply cannot take this ad-riddled “classic” jerk-off rock radio station anymore. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else who works here, but I was so gripped by my desperation that I went out and bought a CD that no one would consider too “weird”. The college radio station was certainly too much to take, and then the classical station was dubbed too “boring”, so this is the resolution (yes, you can listen to whatever you want to at your job - and we’re all proud of you - but have you ever considered just how much of a wanker you are?) I hate my fucking job. All in all, it’s just a bad environment for me. If you’d like a list of reasons why, feel free to read all about the delightful office Christmas party HERE. What this amounts to is a basic and fundamental clash of values. No matter how much I try, I simply cannot see the world in black and white, with dollar signs preceding everything and with a mistrust of my own perceptions. There is no joy in cell phone sales, there is nothing creative and nothing pure. I don’t care how they work, and I’d rather not even own one. It seems like such a tirade – my faithful departure into a mental and creative vacuum from nine-thirty to six, five days a week. Is this not incongruous?

Valiant steps have been made towards a less abrasive outlook on the world, towards something more fulfilling. It seems like every time I decide to abandon my usual cynicism someone has to go and fuck it all up. Case in point: I spent the last month doing yoga and eating properly, sleeping well and reading more. Things have improved, slightly, but there is still something standing between myself and the Zen state of mind I so desire. I’m very disturbed by the fact that I could ever hate anyone as much as I hate my boss. And I don’t use the word lightly as I used to be prone to do…I mean bold, underline, italic…I HATE my boss.

Debbie, (and this may be passive-aggressive, but I only call her that here because she hates it so) has a mop of crazy, frizzy, bleached hair, is in her mid-forties, has fake nails, and wears clothes that I suppose may be somewhat stylish to someone. She has a dozen children (or, at least she would have you believe that by the way she complains about the “army”) and a husband who, so far as I can tell, does nothing but hang out at the office and get in the way of my work. She often complains about being broke in order to excuse her workaholic tendencies despite the fact that she makes at least two-hundred grand a year. She is one of those people who thinks that she knows what the finer things in life are has staunch standards. What this means is that she likes painfully consistent and uninteresting restaurants, moderately priced alcohol, has a housekeeper come over once a week, spends a lot of money on things that really aren’t up to par, but doesn’t know that a liberal self-professed snob such as myself finds her completely and utterly absurd. Simply put, she embodies everything I claim to resent. When it comes right down to it, she’s like everyone else who comes into the store – a redneck with money.

Most of our customers work in construction of some kind. I’m sure somewhere in the mix there is a lone worker who feels isolated and lonely because he finds the humour of his co-workers strident, their hygiene disgusting and their intelligence lacking, but as of yet I haven’t come across any and therefore I grant myself the unfair liberty to speak about them in rash generalizations. It’s incredible how naïve I used to be. I used to think that the average person wasn’t racist, sexist, etc. What I’ve come to discover through a series of painful conversations with the aforementioned persons is that this is quite untrue. I’ve never been treated so belligerently as I have been at this job. This is probably the root of my hatred for Debbie. These uneducated, arrogant fucks come into the store and Deb goes out of her way to cater to their every desire…yes, she’d probably do that if they paid her enough. Everything is funny and is accompanied by a desperate cackle that tries to ask “can we pretend we’re friends?” This would only be a minor annoyance if it weren’t accompanied by an expectation that I do the same. I don’t and I won’t. I only have two arms and I’m already doing the job of two people since she hasn’t bothered to think about replacing the employee who left three weeks ago. She also has no qualms about blaming others for things that go wrong.

This entry was hard to write. I thought I had writers block but now I realize that it was just because I don’t care. I don’t want to hate or even dislike anyone. I just want a little peace, I want to spend my time doing something I actually care about. Why do we do this to ourselves? I need to eat, so I’m in the midst of looking for something else, but going to another job I hate seems like a complete waste of time. So, I plan on taking a huge risk. That’s the only way to recover from this torpid period. If there are any of you out there who are having a similar experience, I urge you to think about how you will remember the time you had when you are old(er). It seems somewhat suicidal to just let it slip away.

2005-01-05T22:40:00.000-07:00

Thank-you, thank-you...it was hard, but we pushed through and look at us now. One month and no posts. It's been a long and tough road with many battles won and lost, but this month of no posting has proven to be one of the best non-posting months we've seen in recent history. Let's give a nod to all of the pointless shite that has kept us from posting this month...here's to all of our dedication and team-work finally paying off. Go team.

2004-12-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

It turns out I went over the alotted character limit for comments. See below:

I think this problem is reflective of a few basic problems working in tandem. The first, is the very human trait of needing to classify and categorize everything. I think that most so-called disorders are simply peoples individual quirks being completely blown out of proportion, and in fact, I've even met people who seem to WANT to be classified with some kind of mental health issue. Talk about sick.
The second is a result of the first. People do not take responsibility for their behaviours. It's easier to say that something is wrong than to own up to the fact that you act like a fucking idiot sometimes. It becomes difficult when dealing with children because they are still so young and often confused and unable to see the errors in their ways. Shoving them into some category instead of teaching them to correct their behaviour is about the stupidest thing I can think of.
The third is our fundamental values. The sick structure of our society is all smokescreen. Make money, get married, have kids. Money runs the world; everything is only worth what someone will pay for it. Protect yours. Make your high school buddies jealous. Pretend everything is okay. Fuck. I can't even stand it anymore. Hasn't it occured to anyone that our society has the greatest suicide rate (along with Japan). Why do you think this is? Could it perhaps be because the only thing we're taught to value is something so basic, worldly and ultimately so inconsequential?

Dear Readers,

2004-12-03T13:04:00.000-07:00

I'm frustrated at my recent lack of entries. I've been insanely busy due to circumstances beyond my control. These will likely be outlined in a future post.

My brain is becoming stagnant, it would seem, or at least that is the way it seems to me. I've decided that this Death/Life of a salesman shite is simply not for me; not that I ever bought into it. I'm thankful I don't make commission because the worst of it is being subjected to people who are only driven by the material. It has made me rather misanthropic about my co-workers and the entire (ongoing) experience.

The decision includes a follow-up. It is time to remove myself from this situation. I'm not entirely certain where I'm going to go, but I think it will have to entail researching or writing (anyone with any ideas can feel free to let me know). This, combined with the recent events alluded to previously are keeping me quite busy. This is why I'm writing this entry. I was waiting for time to respond to some of the comments that people were kind enough to post in the last entry, but I've decided to stop waiting for time and just do it on company time. My response is posted in the comments section below.

Race Car Ya-Yas

2004-11-10T01:24:00.000-07:00

Once again, I realise that it shouldn’t come as any surprise to me that I find myself scandalized by the drive to consume in this city. I don’t know that it’s really different elsewhere unless it’s out of necessity, but I know there certainly must be other people like myself who find it rather distasteful and, to be quite blatant, utterly fucking disgusting. It’s like creatures who were formerly feeling, emoting, thinking and giving a shit beings have been transformed into these pathetic masses of lethargy that are liable to implode if they don’t spend enough love time with their television sets or in front of their computer screens. This is why I get so many stupid forwards, which by the way I don’t have time to read and simply erase.

I’d like to use a better word, but this city is just gross. It’s not quite as liberal as the rest of the country and the result is a suburban sprawl that expands as quickly and indistinguishably as a colony of bacteria. Within this urban mess is a labyrinth of torn up streets and 70k highways that slow things down considerably. Even with all of these considerations though, I can’t forgive the fat woman in the minivan who felt the need to entertain her children with the latest obnoxious cartoon DVD. What have we come to? Do we really find it so necessary to be distracted at all times? What exactly are we distracting ourselves from? God forbid we should be alone with our thoughts for even a mere moment. No, it’s better you pull out your cell phone and download a game of Tetris, otherwise you might actually experience, you know, existence.

Now, as usual, there are going to be those of you who feel that I’m blowing this completely out of proportion and simply harping on something that has nothing to do with me and therefore abandons me without the right to complain. And, also as usual, I don’t think it’s quite that simple. You see, I think the need for constant distraction, for constant consumption, is an epidemic. We are unable to deal with life anymore. We can’t stand to be kept waiting, to be on our own, to be silent; we buy solutions to our problems, we cover things up because it’s easier than dealing with them. Instead of dealing with the fact that your brat is hopped up on video games, constant media stimulation and carbohydrates, just give him Ritalin; it’s not time consuming and you won’t have to deal with the guilt that accompanies the realisation that maybe you shouldn’t be breeding. It all reeks oddly like bad air freshener to me.

The most unfortunate part of all of this is that the profession that would seem to be responsible for advising on this sort of thing is too busy over-prescribing and over-diagnosing to realise that it is creating and/or perpetuating a virtual pandemic. Before seeing the error of my ways, I will admit, I was planning to devote my life to the field of psychology. At this point I had also been diagnosed with a mental illness more than once. First, I had chronic depression; this was to be remedied by Prozac, which had all the effectiveness of a placebo pill. At this point, I was given Celexa three times a day. When the mania started they diagnosed me as bipolar and put me on a mood stabilizer, also three times daily. Some time after that I decided that my shrink, who insisted that my state must have something to do with my morality (as if drugs were some kind of catharsis for my unclean ways), was an old cook and must be gotten rid of immediately. I was then referred to an obsessive-compulsive doctor who would sit in almost complete silence for an hour if I didn’t fill the silence myself. I had two choices, the first of which was filling the silence with complete bullshit about how fucked up I was and create superfluous misadventures to exercise my creative capacity, which I admit would probably have been a riot. Most of the time though, I wasn’t in the mood for this and opted instead for option number two which left me wasting an hour at a time not engaging in discussions about myself and staring out the window squirming amidst the uncomfortable silence. The only thing this doctor did right was suggest that perhaps I didn’t need medication after all. This suggestion was, however, countered by the theory that I had a personality disorder, Borderline to be exact, a non-chemical problem that drugs could not remedy. The suggestion was also not enough to actually stop the drugs.

After rejecting my second therapist, my doctor decided that it might be better for me to see someone less “medical” and recommended a counsellor who referred me to a youth program that was intended to lead troubled youths, in this case people aged 18 to 25, in the right direction. Since I could barely swallow my contempt for anyone in a position of authority and was therefore unable to keep a job, I was a perfect candidate. Once in the program, however, I found multiple reasons to hate it. They weren’t empty reasons, (even though you must admit the term ‘youth program’ gives away a fair degree of just how obtuse and sit-comish the whole thing was), in fact they were the first step in reaching the point I’m at right now. I was surrounded by about twenty irrational, anarchic and unintelligent ‘badasses’ and even though I could see them for what they were, I still had the overwhelming urge to walk in every day dripping with attitude. I wasn’t one of them and I knew it. I also knew that their penchant for being difficult lay in their self-hatred and stupidity and that all of this was perpetuated by a diagnosis that allowed them to be that way without consequence. I promptly left the group and gave up the drugs. Two weeks after doing so, I woke up one morning and literally felt as though I’d awoken from a coma. I couldn’t stand to be around the people I’d once called friends, (they were really just people I’d smoked a lot of hash with), I had urges to do things that I hadn’t done in years, such as write. So, for the first time in several years I was drug-free, but still clinging to a diagnosis that left me with the freedom to fuck up as I pleased and not pay the full penalty due to my ‘disorder’. Drug-free until the insomnia and anxiety attacks began, that is. Once I reported to my family doctor that I hadn’t slept in two weeks, he put me on a cocktail of sleep aids and tranquilizers that I found a little too pleasurable.

The final straw was a series of trips to the hospital in lieu of a few ‘episodes’. My longest stay was three days and during that time I had a nurse who was an angel. It was quite clear to her that I didn’t belong in the crazy ward and she would spend hours at a time talking to me without referring to my tantrums as ‘episodes’ or allowing me to get away with the garbage I was so accustomed to throwing in peoples faces. I didn’t have a disorder, I was frustrated with feeling as though by brain had no niche. And now, maybe my chronic disappointment with being constantly unchallenged and let down by people may seem slightly clearer.

After this, I abandoned the diagnosis and attempted to live a life free of creating and proliferating my own drama. I still catch myself pouting and starting fights with people that I have no intention of continuing but as long as I recognize that this comes from a boredom that can be more effectively quenched, I can simply take a step back and stop. People who create problems in their own lives, people with so-called disorders, aren’t interesting outside of movie theatres. I know this is much in contrast to what some of you may believe, but really they’re just bored and boring people looking for ways to stand out and too afraid to do or say or think anything really creative or constructive in order to reach this goal. It’s all just smoke screens and distraction to hide the fact that even if you were to actually try, there is a very real possibility that you just might fail.

One more addition: A few weeks ago the FDA ordered ALL producers of antidepressants to place a black box label on their products warning users that they have the potential to cause either mania or even more serious cases of depression. This is the most serious type of warning the FDA orders.

Virtual Monotony

2004-10-25T01:46:00.000-06:00

I’ve been doing my duty loyally and with a limited amount of grumbling. Limited, but not absent and by the time you reach the end of this entry you will have determined also repressed.

I came to the vain and pouty conclusion that I wanted more attention in the way of traffic on my blog. In order to achieve this increase in traffic I had to resign myself to a horror that I’ve been avoiding up until now...the way of the blog. I had to venture to other people's blogs.

I know that some of you are reading this with some confusion and/or eye-rolling. You read blogs and you enjoy them. Well, to each his own. I, however, do not find an extensive amount of leisure time to invest in perusing the meanderings of other people. My interest is purely selfish, and now I know why.

I’ve probably come across one hundred or so blogs in my virtual travels and yet, only a few remain memorable for either their insight or humour. Most of them are one of the following cloneblogs: the soccer mom blog (I’m so weird because I’m a mom and yet I can use a computer! I also have a secret crush on Tom Cruise that I hide from my husband. We’ve been married for twelve years and we have three wonderful children!! I made cookies today and it was so interesting I thought you might like to hear about it...yay!), the right-wing christian blog (The end of the world is upon us. Follow our saviour Cheney or you will be damned to a fiery hell where you will be forced to engage in promiscuous homosexual acts and drug abuse!...unless you like that kind of thing, then you just deserve to die and are probably poor), the left-wing spoiled brat blog (I talk about saving the environment and world peace, but the truth is I was raised in a wealthy suburb by wealthy parents and I can only wish I had a gay black friend to complete my identity), the glories of technology blogs (I would make love to a robot if I could...no, really), the clippings blogs (I haven’t much to say so I will simply post random things I’ve found on the internet and hope that someone likes me for it), the random thoughts and musings blogs (today I went to the store and my friend was working and he told me that the other day my other friend got into and accident and then she went to this party and slept with one of our other friends and I was like “whoa”). I suppose I could go on forever, so I’ll just stop.

Now, you’re entitled to your “what a bitch” reaction. But before you begin looking for spelling errors and grammatical errors to throw back at me, continue reading.

I won’t go so far as to group any of you into the above categories and therefore you shouldn’t assume that I am doing so, even if you do write about taking your kids to soccer practice or saving the whales. I don’t have the right to insult someone else’s personal space, “space” being their blog and the content they choose to fill it with. Really, I’m just grumpy for the same reason I always am. I feel terribly let down. I suppose I had great expectations, and they’re the same expectations that have been fucking me over for years. I actually wanted some content. I was looking for someone to have a real conversation with, I was looking for the possibility of contact with a living, breathing person and not just some pretentious or mundane shite spewed onto the novel and exciting realm of the internet.

I know what you’re going to say next...well, if you don’t like blogs then you shouldn’t read them. This, and then a side of “you’re so negative” and then a misspelled insult for dessert. See, the thing is, I can’t stop. I can’t stop because there are a few people out there with potential and it really must be in the cards that we find each other. In the meantime, my disappointment with people whose political views represent who they are and every single thought and action, people who are plastic and always “happy”, people who attempt to tell me I have no values because I don’t allow an institutionalized belief system to tell me what to believe, artists, disclaimers, dog people, cat people, blondes, people in sports cars, accountants, men, women, and basically anyone who would go so far as to define themselves as any one thing and hold it against me when I don’t. Get a fucking personality.

My mood today is: Melancholy, Misanthropic, Misunderstood, Malcontent, Meandering, Mocking, Malevolent, Moderate...have you seen this?! People have begun listing things such as their moods, when their next birthday is, the music in their cd player (I have noted an odd predominance of A Perfect Circle), their kid’s ages, the weather in their hometown. Anything but real content.

So after going through these blogs I’ve come to a kind of complacency with my lack of comments. I don’t want more comments, I want less. I’m tired of comments that are complete misinterpretations of my posts. If my comment traffic increases, please, by all means, feel free to say something constructive.

At the Top of the Pyramid

2004-10-20T11:29:00.000-06:00

Dry-Clean only tags assume that you have more than three pairs of functioning work pants. I don’t have the money for such things. I bought a one-hundred dollar pair the other day that make my ass look phenomenal and I think considering the result, I will remain satisfied with quality over quantity.

I wore them to the “dealer rally”. This is an annual event at which the mother ship congratulates and encourages the underling companies that sell its goods (the aforementioned “dealers”). People drink too much and attempt to screw each other while lessening the sight of their wrinkles and receding hairlines with the memory of the figure on their commission checks and the humouring grins of their co-workers. It really is the definition of gong show.

Thankfully, I had companionship in the way of S, a co-worker whose reaction to being forced into a post-work drink-fest masquerading as an informative seminar was almost as groaning and eyes-to-the-ceiling as my own. We went for a drink beforehand to ease some of the expected annoyance and anxiety that was to arise. Our pleasant conversation was interrupted every few seconds by our boss calling my cell phone to tell us that she was going to give away our free swag and drink tickets if we didn’t cross the street immediately. Eventually, we made our way over and were immediately greeted by a man with thinning hair, a plastic smile and leather-looking skin. We were promptly checked out and grinned at with teeth that were obviously artificially whitened, given the gleam. I was waiting for the pistol fingers and a wink and was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t come. I wasn’t interested in anything but alcohol when I noticed that almost everyone in the room was a clone of the man I’d just seen, the only thing that varied was age, gender, shade of leather and level of desperation (If you’ve ever taken the time to look at the album insert to “This is Hardcore” you know exactly what I’m talking about). It seemed the older and more successful they were, the more desperate they were to tell everyone about it. The older dealers shook hands with the younger ones in a display that struck me as overtly Athenian. Mixed in, there were some whose motivations were genuine and who enjoyed new technology and therefore, their jobs, and maybe even the rally for the new hardware displays, but they somehow couldn’t make up for the nauseous feeling the weasel level in the place was giving me. I understood by single glances that these people were only motivated by sex and quantity.

I began to wonder, as I perused the food tables, if there was any chance of having a real conversation that night and not ending up just drinking myself into happiness to counteract the depression that would bring. There wasn’t much I could do. I either found myself evaluating people based on their clothes, copiously applied colognes and slicked back hair or reproaching myself for doing so. Truth be told, it was kind of amusing and by my third glass of wine I wasn’t feeling so terrible.

We watched a long and boring presentation on why we were the best. It was predictable, go figure, and by the end of it I was falling asleep due to being half drunk the hour before and then depriving myself of any alcohol for that period of time. The incessant clapping helped keep me awake. Once that was over, the tension in the room rose; one could actually have touched it. It went from schmoozing and bragging to actual attempts at evocation. Most of the younger dealers went home, respectful of their elders, but feeling safely delusional in the belief that their youth would save them from the death of a salesman.

I knew I wouldn’t escape the post-work, post-rally drink and I didn’t. Our boss dragged S and I back to our original hideout, where a cast of interesting and stock-role fulfilling characters joined us.

Number one, an old Texan turned Canadian with shockingly white hair (next to the tanned skin) and a face that oddly resembled a less Zen Johnny Cash. He brought with him two middle aged cougars. One, “prettier” than the other, the Other complaining about cigarette cravings.

Two, a walking penile dysfunction and mid-life crisis who took every opportunity to make things suggestive in some way. He sat on the “pretty” cougars arm chair and it was obvious that something was on its way to happening, until he stupidly started flirting with me and she gave me the evil eye.

Three, a girl in her late twenties who sat carefully and haughtily studying everyone while they spoke and did so herself only when directly addressed. There was a practised grace to her movements, and a practised calm to her demeanour that made her anything but.

Four, a Norwegian geologist who was in town presenting a new environmentally friendly technique for oil excavation. He was interesting and I attempted to speak to him about his project and about any cultural differences between Americans, Canadians and Europeans he may have encountered during his travels. I’m not sure if it was the language barrier, or if it was an assumption based on the rest of my company, but he kept stressing that the technique he was presenting was worth a lot of money.

Five, several jocks turned salesboys to whom the word “titties” is considered witty.

I don’t remember much of the conversation because none of it was interesting or relevant to me. I do remember the tension being built up and the expectation being built up and then everyone leaving on their own, the penile dysfunction in an oversized jeep. This experience didn’t help me shed any light on what the gutless pursuit of money has over actually enjoying ones self. I guess I’ll never know.

A better example of the blatant schism between my values and what seems to be the majority of the rest of the world just happens to be another work story. I’ve been approached twice in the last few weeks by people who smell strangely like pyramid schemes.

They begin with telling me how awful their day has been so far. Then, they begin telling me that soon the tides will be changing and they’ll be rich and making plenty of money. Then, they ask me if I’m interesting in making a lot of money. When asked what it involves they say “sales”, to which I plainly respond that I’m not interested. The surprise is what gets me, it’s actually more like wounded pride. I’m simply not going to do something I don’t enjoy just because and especially because it’s going to make me a lot of money (which it isn’t...hello, pyramid schemes don’t work, don’t people know this yet?). It’s one thing to do a job you’re not crazy about temporarily so you can eat and dry clean your pants once in awhile when you know you’re going to do something you love down the road. It’s another thing when down the road is only a dollar sign.

Dumb Post

2004-10-10T01:46:00.000-06:00

Right. So, what I’ve come to realise is that I didn’t finish what I started. I defined everything I’m not, but I didn’t quite make it to the part where I tell all of the oh-so-curious parties out there exactly what I am. Well, to some degree it’s just fruitless and pointless and everything else, but I will try anyway just because I’ve had my first joint in a few months and I’m feeling rather like entertaining.

I like shoes. I guess that makes me a woman doesn’t it? It must. Of course, making this assumption places you in the categories I’ve laid out in my last entry, but don’t you worry, I’m not going to hold you to it or accuse you of being anything but human. I do like shoes, and I bought a pair the other day that are simply darling. Today, for the first time in five months I had my hair cut. Hmmmmm, seems rather manly to me as well. The stylist (I think they prefer this to hairdresser), had trouble getting her comb through it (Yes, SHE, isn’t that just SO typical...if only it had been a gay man...anything but a straight man). Then, I went home, listened to David Bowie, and drank gin. So, am I a gay man...? No, I had a few shots of rum and wrote a few blog entries and then discussed the virtues and/or vices of Pulp, Radiohead and Blur. Then, I wanted a cigarette, but I felt like walking around in heels so I put on my fur coat and a little black dress and I bought the first pack of cigarettes I’ve had in at least five months and smoked them while I sang (and danced) obnoxiously along to Different Class (which is a Pulp album BY THE WAY). I realise I’m sneering. I hate PCs, I’m going to buy a Mac. Oh, fuck it, train wreck....goodbye.

Girls Who Are Boys Who Like Boys to Be Girls

2004-10-09T22:09:00.000-06:00

I’ve been oddly aware of gender roles lately. I want to say gender roles in our culture, but I’m unsure of what exactly is involved in the word “our” and where the boundaries that separate “our” and “their”, whether they be mental, territorial or otherwise, lie exactly. Mentally, I doubt I can even include myself in “our”, so I’m back to feeling my frustration with the way other people think about gender mirrored by my own incapacity to discuss it. It’s simple though; there seems to be a prevalent assumption that biology and gender are ever so compatible and enduringly intertwined. This results in the idiocy that depicts MEN and WOMEN as two stock characters in a novel. Men are loud and piggish and love sports, disorganization and tits. Women are flighty and incompetent and enjoy shopping, gossiping and being difficult. Anyone who departs from this is either gay or dangerously weird. I got a forward from someone at work the other day that is the root cause of this topic. It was supposed to be a bit of humour to liven a boring work day, but I didn’t find it funny despite my valiant attempt to identify with it. It was at this point that I came to the conclusion that a culture’s comedic outlook is a reflection of the worldview it holds, only taken to extremes in the spirit of mockery, and that I did not share these beliefs. The document in question was entitled “The etiquette of blow jobs” (Yes, ha ha, giggle giggle). There were two lists of ten “rules” each, one written by a man to outline his disproportionate appetite for sex and his lust for trashy, unintelligent women and one written by a women to outline her distaste for sex and anything “adventurous”, as well as her passion for being difficult. It would seem that men are amused by anything that degrades women. Women are amused by anything that reduces men to crude and useless imbeciles. I suppose one could say that this isn’t a fair example, nor assessment, of my cultures outlook on gender, it’s just a bit of toilet humour and I’m simply too educated to find it funny. Maybe even I would like to claim that, but I can’t because it simply isn’t true.

For some reason people I know find it comforting to come to me when they are having relationship issues. The way they speak about them bothers me and I’ve been complaining about it for years. There are two reasons really.

The first is that a huge number of them aren’t even looking for a person. All they want is a relationship and it doesn’t seem to matter who the person involved is as long as they fit a narrow and cursory set of criteria. Eventually, if luck has it, they will settle for someone who is kind of interesting, kind of attractive and kind of a lot of other meaningless things. I think it would be a little too Dr. Phil of me to suss it all up to insecurity, but in at least some of the cases, I assume the thought to be “If I can just get someone to love me, I should be happy with what I can get”. I suppose if insecurity really is a factor they will deny that they need someone to complete them and will deny that being alone scares them. Their desire for someone, anyone isn’t something that should really anger me as much as it does, but I think this is another worldview issue. I’m a cynic, which means that to some degree I’m a romantic. I would find it terrible and depressing to believe that I could be really happy with just anyone. I would feel cheated, and the anger comes from people who want to be cheated either wasting my time or, in the case of people I actually care about, not giving themselves enough credit.

The second, is the way they talk about the opposite sex as if they were a commodity that could be won if one were wily enough to not show all of their cards and employ subtle (obvious) manipulation tactics. They begin sentences with “Guys like...” and “Women are so...” These are neither unintelligent nor uneducated people, so I can’t understand where these ridiculous assumptions come from, but they are frustrating to one who attempts to just be something without having to confine it to the astringent definitions that have been laid out for them.
Everywhere though, there are these stock characters, and maybe those of you who don’t know me read this and assume I must be some butchy chick who hates shopping and does shooters with “the boys” at hockey games. It seems so incongruous for someone attempting to escape a discourse to do so by delving into another.

Work Stories

2004-10-09T21:51:00.000-06:00

I came to work yesterday, the center of the world, supplier of telecommunications, only to discover that the internet was not working...again. Ironic, no? We connect people to their lives through various web-capable devices and yet we can't even connect to the internet long enough to activate them or invoice them. Now that is just silly.

I had an especially taxing day as it was unusually busy and everyone I encountered was unusually rude. One such encounter occurred just before lunch. A slight, badly dressed woman whose entire face looked as though it were being stretched to the floor despite an approximate age of forty, ushered her sullen teenage son into my office. He had bad posture, hanging his head and silently staring at his feet, hypothetically from too many slaps to the back of the head. The entire time they were there this bitch-mistress of authority and her son gave me the feeling that someone was in trouble. I didn’t know if it was him or me.

I began the encounter with a polite hello, but this wasn’t returned, and I realised how habitual this greeting and its usual follow-up exchange had become. The silence was slightly off-putting and I expected to be besieged by an outrageous phone bill or a broken phone, but neither were presented. Instead, the woman informed me that she had three phones “through you” and wanted a fourth and (sternly) “what are you going to give me” (not a question). I was further put off by this obnoxious demand and slightly irked by the obvious eagerness for, or anticipation of, conflict. To constantly assume someone is going to fuck you seems like a terrible way to be and a sad way to be. But, as I stared at the mousy brown hair pulled back into a loose bun, the thin line of reddish lipstick, straight and narrow and emphasizing her scowl, the violet eye shadow applied quickly and amateurishly and clumping in the folds of her eyelids, and the terrible fashion, a touristy t-shirt (the color matching her eye shadow) tucked into jeans worn high above the waist level, I realised that improvement was well within her reach, that I had no responsibility to make her day any better and that I fucking hated her and wished she would die a slow and painful death, miserable and alone. The bittersweet reward to all of this is that she probably will because she already is.

This is the way cell-phone sales operate: You choose a cell-phone. You choose a plan. You choose a term. Depending on the term you choose, (none, monthly, one, two or three years) you will receive a hardware discount on your cell phone purchase. This is the way it works and I am unable to “get you a sweet deal”. Despite explaining this to the evil bitch, she still seemed to expect to be able to buy a cell phone for fifty dollars and not have to sign a three-year term. Her reasoning was that she was a loyal customer. There are many faulty and stupid assumptions in capitalist society and this is one of them. If you are on the right side of the fence, you are probably like this woman and value money more than you should. You also assume that money talks and that if you throw enough of it at someone they will eventually treat you well (monetarily speaking, anyway) in the future. Most of our clients are corporate. What this means is that her three out-of-date cell phones are swimming in a sea of double-digit accounts and people who, capitalistically speaking, just matter more. Fortunately, once I gave her a pricing sheet and told her that I had no control over special treatment she decided that she would try to buy a cheaper phone elsewhere, which is impossible because it is the phone company and not the store that assigns the hardware discounts. I couldn't help but notice that the woman's address resided in the most affluent section of town and proceeded to note the irony in that. I shouldn’t have been surprised when she let the silence hang as she was leaving and I said “have a good day”.

Yet Another Return

2004-10-09T21:34:00.000-06:00

I’ve just come to the fearful realisation that I begin all of my writing with simple, short statements that don’t really have much to do with what I’m talking about whatsoever. They’re statements that all bad writers make and tend to start things off with, things like: The leaves had begun to turn. As she made her way through the frigid air of fall she delighted in the sound they made and the texture they had. BLAH...it’s terrible and it makes me want to throw up. I’m not sure that Paul Auster doesn’t do it, but somehow it’s acceptable when he does and perfectly atrocious when I do.

Because I've been so unproductive lately, I am going to appease you with a treat...several entries all at once.

Not So Triumphant Return

2004-09-29T21:26:00.000-06:00

I'm not even going to look at when my last post was. It would be far too depressing. I was supposed to be free by now, I was supposed to be relaxed and enjoying myself but I haven't even had a chance to spend any time inside my own head or with myself.

Today at work I spent a lot of time trying to look very busy when I was anything but. I don't think anyone would care if I weren't busy, but I would feel slightly paranoid and guilty if I didn't at least expend some kind of effort in some area or another. So, I had to pretend to look busy. The reason for this is that the internet in the office was down again. I have probably lost half of my week so far to the fucking internet being down. So, like responsible business people, head office sent down an incompetent quack who spent the day grunting various commands at us and occupying the personal space located above our shoulders.

Dealing with customers takes up a lot of time and this is the only reason I'm fond of them. I usually have to turn my brain on auto-pilot when dealing with them though, and at times I think I'm at risk of falling into an intense daydream or just slumping over my desk and passing out. I'm not sure why, but most of my clients seem to fit a very specific profile. Today for example, I sold a cell phone to a fat lady with a really red face who was so obnoxiously loud and boisterous she did the talking for the three of us in the room. It was all I could do to keep up with her in my flacid mental state. It's interesting that in the age of Dr. Phil, a revered and respected idiot doctor, people still don't know how to listen. Every sentence I began was interrupted with a long-winded explanation that I was already aware of. You will be surprised to hear that I was entirely ok with this. It wasted an entire hour and forty-five minutes that would have otherwise been wasted with unproductive faking. It's funny how much more tiring it is to try to be busy that to just be busy. I was ok with the customer herself, it was really the situation that got me down. It's terribly depressing to imagine people wanting time to pass, wanting to get older, living for the weekend that never seems to come and always leaves too quickly. I've learned my lesson and tomorrow when the internet dies on me yet again, I will try to achieve finishing a book rather than pretending to do things.

My new house isn't much better. I'm finding myself too tired to get things done when I get home and even though the improvements thus far are incredible, it seems like every time I turn around there is something that just makes me doubt continuing with it. At two in the morning yesterday the jackass skate punks who live next door decided it was time for band practice. I spent the first twenty minutes trying to hold onto the half-slumber I had attained, breathing slowly and deeply and just trying to remain calm. Then I decided that it wasn't worth it and fumed as I called the cops. Then I tried to sleep again, but didn't achieve this until two hours later when the cops either showed up or the little hardcore fuckers decided it was time to smoke more pot. I believe this incident is responsible for my mood right now.

So, it's been awhile and I do regret that my come-back tour had to begin with whining. And, as I don't hear any bad music coming from next door, I will take my leave and get ahead of them.

2004-09-01T22:06:00.000-06:00

I got a job last week. I sent in a total of two resumes and was called back by the first one. I went in for an interview and gave myself rave reviews and used a lot of key words like "positive", "productive", "adaptable", "efficient", and so on. I actually said at one point that they should hire me simply because "I'm just wonderful". I'm glad I was with the right people because that could have gone horribly wrong. At any rate, I got the job and I started last week.

I'm selling cell phones. No, I don't know if they give you cancer, but I have free unlimited use of one so I guess I'll have to let you know in a few years. It's strange that I'm selling cell phones to people when I've never owned one and know nothing about them. Sometimes people come in and I can tell they've done their homework and they clearly know more than I do on the subject. This is scary, but I take it in stride.

Today all I did was attempt to put the filing cabinet in alphabetical order. I was curious what had happened to the girl who I'm replacing and now I know. She had never been to a library in her entire life and she was fired for incompetence and general stupidity. She could have at least consulted the phone book.

I also read about rate plans and phone features for about four hours. Then I played with a camera phone for about two. Then someone handed me a check for $400 for just over three days of 'work', which was actually 'training', which was actually standing around watching other people work. All of this and I have Ace of Base in my head, but somehow it's all in a days work.

This is the only thing that will take getting used to, the bad office music. I haven't the seniority to control the radio station and thus I get to listen to either light rock or country music all day. This is ok though, as my desk, which I spend about half of my time at, is in the speakerless retail section. I also haven't had much of a problem with the music because I don't recognize most of it (yet, anyway). This means it doesn't get stuck in my head. There are exceptions though, such as Ace of Base because I grew up in an unfortunate time and place where things like that were set to repeat on over-priced eighth-grader's stereos.

Ace of Base has just been replaced with a song I recognize, but don't know the artist or name of. I'm also falling asleep and it took me far too long to write this entry.

When Have I Ever Rolled on the Floor and Laughed?

2004-08-28T01:14:00.000-06:00

I used the term "appy" quite accidentally the other day. I think in reality it was more to get a rise out of the person I was speaking to than to really save myself the extra syllables. I was disgusted though, and I felt like one of those middle aged women in a loud knit suit, carrying a tiny dog and sitting in some upscale Manhattan restaurant on a Wednesday afternoon. I asked for a lemon wedge for my San Pellegrino and I'm very upset that it isn't here yet. On the bright side, Marschia has just recommended a fabulous caterer and the kids-with-missing-fingers charity ball is tonight. Oh, it will be darling.

Now, that's one thing...but, this is an entirely different matter. What is? Well, I'm getting tired of 'LOL'. It's not funny anymore. I'm not laughing out loud and I never was. 'LOL' has in fact replaced what, in a verbal conversation, would be either silence or the filling up of silence, i.e: a nervous cough. Is it so difficult to admit you have nothing to say- must you fill it with 'LOL'? Just because I can't see you doesn't mean I don't know the truth.

I think that cyber-speak is beginning to affect the literacy of people I know. I think the expression 'thru' is beginning to make appearances elsewhere, which is fairly alarming. I'm also not sure I understand why people are finding that typing an entire word is so incapacitating. I can't even understand sentences sometimes; just because you're communicating in online format it doesn't dispel the requirement of proofreading. And just for the record, a lot is two words and maybe is one. We can't communicate unless we're speaking the same language.

That being said...TTYL!

2004-08-22T11:23:00.000-06:00

I really do wish that people would start calling me at three am on Friday nights, drunk, stoned and whatever else, just so that when I do it I don't feel so awful.

I suppose it's ok that I did though, considering the predicament I found myself in. Notice I didn't say "got myself into"; the implication of this via some people is rather insulting. After all, is it ever ok for someone to violate your personal space without your permission? Where does the line get drawn? If someone were to grab my ass in an "innocent" display of flirtation, would that be a violation? I think so, but this went beyond that. I take a rather Foucauldian approach with this matter. Perhaps the fact that our bodies seem to be controlled by institutions, rather than ourselves, we don't have the right to personal space. Or, perhaps it is the people who allow their bodies to be controlled by these things who believe that grabbing someone's ass is ok and the people who don't subscribe to institutionalized paradigms who oppose it (I think I'll develop more thoughts on this later).

Regardless, I'm bowled over that in our supposedly equal and free society there still exist men who think that, despite the resistance to advancements over the course of the night, they can put their hand in your shirt and then proceed to grab at you rather maliciously while you get up and walk away. I'm disgusted in fact and unsure as to what the answer to things like this are. Education? Quite possibly, though at some point it becomes less about what you know and more about what you want to believe. Brutal ass-kickings are also an option and I'm taking applications for "fuck you up" crew, effective immediately.

Random Musings

2004-08-19T18:56:00.000-06:00

Do you ever forget how much you love the Smiths? I did.

I caught myself looking at this seventeen year old kid today thinking "A few more years and you'll be pretty hot..." I feel like a dirty old man.

Why is everyone acting so strangely lately? Maybe I'm the one who is different or my perception has shifted or I'm just in the beginning stages of paranoid schizophrenia, but it seems that people's patterns of behaviour are all occurring at the same time. In the last week, certain people have been oddly pleasant to me and naturally, I have to assume that there must be some kind of conspiracy going on behind my back. Maybe I've been diagnosed with a terminal illness and no one has bothered to tell me.

Another example of things happening all at the same time are the aforementioned retro phone calls. They haven't stopped. I got one yesterday from someone I worked with when I was 14-16 and one today from someone I haven't seen since I graduated high school. Something is going on and I plan on finding out what it is. Mostly, I feel out of sorts when I get these kinds of calls because there is a part of me that feels embarrassed by the past and by the person I used to be and have worked so hard to improve. It humbles me in some regard and for that I suppose I have some resentment. Really though, I just don't want to talk to them and if they plan on following me around for the rest of my life, I must be even more charming than I thought I was.

Tonight, I'm going out. I plan on not planning or doing anything and being as spontaneous as possible. I've decided that I am in crazy, ineffable bliss at the realisation that the future is wide open. Right then...here's to no one throwing up on me.

Daydreaming When One Should Be Writing Term Papers is Bad

2004-08-16T21:32:00.000-06:00

I wrote an in-class essay the other day. I got it back and there was a big red A+ on it accompanied by an exclamation mark. I don't think I've ever had a perfect score on a test before and considering I spent the night before the exam fooling around downtown and intermittently pretending to study, I was a little shocked. My first reaction, of course, was to grin obnoxiously all day, tell everyone about it (with considerable ceremony) and give myself the title of 'genius' (which I still proudly claim, if truth be told). But, on re-examination I realised that this means I need to do some reorganizing in terms of the way I think about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. The reason for this is that it seems I've lost some of my zeal and respect for the institution of academia. This experience has also left me feeling like one of those irritating people who think they know everything, even though I'm painfully trying not to let it show. For instance, at this very moment I'm writing an essay on discourse. It's called 'the Discourse of Marginalization', and every time I write a particularly effective sentence, I catch myself laughing out loud. It's literally just a brief "HaHa", but confidence is preferable to egomania and I know if I witnessed someone else doing this very thing I would likely roll my eyes.

This combines with another aspect of school that has been getting me down lately. The school clones, and especially in this class (a gender class), the women who have something to prove. The prospect of going to school was exciting to me precisely because I thought I would be interacting with intelligent people with interesting things to say and original ways of saying them. Instead, all I've encountered are people who are painfully adaptable and write papers consisting of facts they pulled off the internet and quotes from dead guys. Formulaic is perhaps a better word. I'm at a loss, I don't want to master the world of the academic anymore.

Not that I was ever going to in the first place. Drama isn't really considered an 'academic' subject and most people in my classes look at me funny when I tell them my intended major. I suppose it is strange to jump through the prerequisite hoops in order to take a third year anthropology course when it hasn't anything to do with your subject of choice. But, I believe in enjoying the subject matter and I don't really care if I get a degree at the end of this or not.

It's looking like I won't. I'm exasperated and I want to spend my days writing and my nights sleeping with handsome young men. And, I want to travel. So, I've decided that I'm going to save up some money to go to Montreal. When I get to Montreal, I'm going to save up some money and go somewhere else and continue this nomadic pattern indefinitely; or, until I find a group of people who I love and who love me and who together resemble a sort of Woolf-Hemingway-Fitzgerald-esque lost generation. Yes, absinthe in Parisian squares.

Sushi

2004-08-15T02:37:00.000-06:00

I am now going to devote a blog entry to sushi, just because I have nothing better to write about at this point.

I'm confused. I'm confused as to what the big deal is about sushi, that blandest of trendy foods. Everyone I know always wants to go for sushi, it's become a kind of catch phrase, "Let's GO FOR sushi". Like they're cultured because they know how to use chopsticks and can fill out the sushi card in less than twenty minutes. What, taking in a foreign film and going to museum don't work for you anymore? You are not cool and I hope that you choke on your fucking miso.

First, let's talk about the taste. Nevermind, I already have...bland, bland, bland. Perhaps I've never had good sushi? Well, in this city that's a definite possibility. However, given the ample opportunities I've had to eat it what with the plethora of people who seem to get off on loving the stuff, I'd say I've given it a fair shake.

Secondly, the texture. This is probably what I am most turned off by. Bland is one thing, but I don't think I should put something in my mouth if it feels like a crusty wet sponge wrapped in rice.

Third, and this isn't something I can really complain about, but surely I of all people can find a way, the presentation. It's good and simplistic, like a room in an Ikea catalogue, but does anyone actually want to live in a room that sterile? And does anyone actually want to eat something that looks like it should be photographed? Of course the idea of good presentation isn't new to me. It just seems different when it's a piece of tenderloin drizzled in a deeply colored port reduction sauce rather than a piece of art. It's food.

I'm not sure why I am so bitter about this. I suppose I just wish that I could actually go out for sushi once in awhile with my friends and enjoy it. I know I'm going to get a lot of backlash for this one, this seems like something that will generate a lot of responses, this so important of issues. And yes, I realise that it's my loss so just save it ok? I hope you are all aware that the reason I think you are a part of the herd on this one is because I genuinely cannot see how you could possibly have such passion for it.

Air-Conditioning? Ha, More Like Medieval Torture

2004-08-14T20:23:00.000-06:00

Isn't it funny how in a country like Canada, air-conditioning can be overused and abused as a form of torture, while in poorer, hotter countries, it is too expensive and therefore not as prevalent?

On some days it reaches thirty degrees Celsius. On these days, I don't mind a sparse supply of cool air. However, I'm not sure I understand what purpose a steady stream of freezing cold air directed at one particular point in space serves. Instead of dispersing cool air and thus lowering the temperature of the surrounding environment, it has instead left me freezing and uncomfortable. I find this air-conditioning phenomenon to be most prevalent when I get into someone's vehicle, especially SUV's which seem to make it mandatory, presumably because they are all driven by oil executives and others who equate self-actualization with the number of buttons and toys they have to play with. It never ceases to amaze me how irritating some people are with this device. For instance, the other day I was in a vehicle in fifteen degree weather. This is not hot. I was comfortable, it wasn't sweltering, it wasn't cold. That is, until jackassface decided that since it was summer, the air-conditioning was mandatory. I asked him if he was too hot; he said no.

So, in conclusion, I am begging you to stop wasting the air-conditioning. Don't you know that there are poor, hot African children who don't have any?

In other news, I've noticed that no one posts responses to these blog entries. I suspect that perhaps no one is reading the blog, however that disappoints me since I've happened upon and perused some rather uninteresting and badly written ones that seem to be getting a lot of attention. So, I am holding a vote just to encourage you all to post something, anything. Tell me, if you would be SO kind, which post until this point is your favorite. The results will be posted eventually, aka: whenever I get around to it.

The Retro Phone Call

2004-08-13T20:40:00.000-06:00

Do you ever get the retro phone call? These are people that have been out of your life for quite some time and haven't otherwise crossed your mind until suddenly one day the phone rings and you get to experience the joy of digging up memories that you'd been so fortunate to forget and being honestly direct without being outrightly sadistic or rude.

'Do you remember me?'
'I think so'
'What have you been doing?!!'
'Keeping out of trouble'
'Oh yeah?'
'Yes, been very hermetic'
'Wow, you sound really bored.'
'Yeah'
'What's up?'
'Nothing'
'That's what you always said'
'Yes, I suppose I did'
'Ha, it's like you don't want to talk to me'
'Quite honestly I could take it or leave it'
Hard swallow
'Oh, well I should let you go? then?'
'I'm sorry'
'Ok. If you ever feel like getting together, I could give you my number...'
'I have caller ID, I think it's on there'
'Ok, well...'
'Yeah, I have a term paper to write'
'Ok, bye'
'Bye'

I guess I shouldn't be so snide considering there are a few people I haven't talked to in quite a while that I would love to go out for a coffee with. I suppose I just always assume that there would be some kind of indication at the time of the acquaintance as to the type of feelings that are going to last for years of separation and that these feelings would be mutual. Too idealistic, I know, but why can't people like Frank Black ever make the retro phone call...why is it always people you barely knew or had no significant feelings towards or against?

So much for disappearing...

How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found

2004-08-13T16:31:00.000-06:00

In the last few days I have been very depressed. There isn't really any reason for it, though I suppose as usual I'm painfully dissatisfied with the way things have been and the things that aren't happening but should be. You know how it is.

So, what I did was, I decided that I needed a vacation. I decided that I just needed to disappear to a different city and not tell anyone I was going and just start over again. Meet new people, get a new cat, a new place, eat new food, watch foreign movies. Then I realised that I live in N. America and everything requires me to have money. So, what I did instead was change my msn name to How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found, just so that everyone will know that I am going to disappear, and now I'm refusing to come online or to talk to anyone. I'm sleeping and eating only when I want to and I've rented a bunch of Japanese films about love and death and I may lock myself in here and watch them all night or I may go out and wander around downtown as people play out their dramas on the way to the bar. At any rate, I will be alone, and that will be good.

The next thing I am going to do is fall in love. Not right away of course, or even with the next person I meet. Rather, this is a revelation because I was in love and to some degree still am, and when it ended we were both still waiting for something to happen. By this time though, I think life is too short to wait and think about what I feel and what it means and the fucking structure of the relationship. It should just be. And, if I continue being so cynical as to think there isn't someone out there who can make the hair on the back of my neck stand up just from walking into the room, I won't be here much longer. So, instead of dwelling over the love that I've lost, I will be receptive of the love that will be coming to me. I just need a little romance in my life right now, that's all.

This is terrible. I must now reproach myself publicly for this cheesy, feminine display. I don't know what's come over me.

It's just that there are so many people who turn thirty and give up. You know these people, the ones who had passionate affairs but have become jaded and tired and now settle for any non-smoking, conservative, slightly interesting person as long as they want to vacation in the same places and eat the same foods. This kind of satisfaction scares me and disgusts me. I also can't figure out why there are so many of these people around. If it can't last, then give me a dozen moments of passion over a lifetime of satisfaction.

I think I've been angry in the past few days as well. I think I'm still angry that I feel guilty when I say that I want someone to love me in that passionate, romantic, dramatic gestures kind of way. It's partly my fault; I suppose that my cynicism has not lended itself to grand gestures and professions, but that doesn't explain why I should feel guilt in wanting it. But, this is why disappearing feels so good; I can't feel guilt in front of strangers, they haven't assigned me with a personality yet.

On a Friday

2004-08-06T15:23:00.000-06:00

Today is Friday and I was thinking about Frank Black.

It was a spring night and I was out at a bar, waiting in (and wading through) a crowd of people for a drink. There were two drunken men guarding the wall behind me, loud-talking for my attention and generally causing a raucous. Thirty, balding and in a bright blue windbreaker, one of them finally got up the sobriety to leave the gracious support of the wall and attempt a conversation with me. He explained, with a fair amount of disdain, that the bar had stopped serving him (oh, really? why?) and would I be so kind as to take his money and buy he and his friend a drink? Oh, and would I like something too?

I coolly explained that I could take care of my own drinks but that I wouldn’t mind attaining his at all (in hindsight, probably not the way to go, but at the time I thought he was too drunk to bother me). At this point, I turned towards the bar, sure that he would wander back to his friend and leave me alone. However, he proceeded to talk to me, but I don’t remember what about because I don’t think it made any sense. I attempted to give him his money back and he started to explain to me that a pretty girl like me should have a guy buying her things. Lots of things. I should also have an entourage at all times. I tried to give him his money back again but gave up after another rendition. A Pixies song came on and I started singing along to it, glancing around here and there, and eventually catching the eye of someone laughing at my predicament. We kept making eye contact and communicating about the oblivious wall attendant without speaking. He was tall and thin and fucking beautiful and he started to inch closer through the crowd at the bar. When he finally reached me, buddy was still blathering in my ear, but stopped, once my new friend gave him one good look, and realised with some callousness and tragedy that he was far past his prime. He took his money and left me alone.

I think the first thing he said to me was something about the Pixies. Then we introduced ourselves. Then we spent the rest of the night talking and wandering around outside.

I think I was in school at the time, and on a Friday I decided not to go, I called up my friend, who came by for a visit. After what turned out to be a day of sex and laughter, we were lying in a naked cuddle when my mother burst into my bedroom and stood there stunned for a moment. I didn’t know what to do so I screamed, and she ran out closing the door behind her. The most painful part of all of this came when my poor friend had to leave the house, walking past both of my parents vicious stares. It was a Friday, and I forgot that people don’t work late on Fridays. On Fridays, people come home early.

I got a call a few days later. My mother came into my room and told me that there was “a Frank Black on the phone” for me. I shot her a curious grin and ended up spending a lot of time with my friend “Frank”. We got into a lot of mischief and milked what entertainment we could out of this sad excuse for a city. Eventually though, he moved to Vancouver and I lost touch with him altogether.

The point of this entry was something about regret, because I didn’t believe in regret, but I was talking to someone about it recently and I realised that I needed to have some semblance of it. Regret is “a feeling of sorrow or repentance or distress over an action or loss”. I don’t believe that you should ever feel sorrow or distress over a loss or action because it’s in the past and you have no control over it anyway. But, repentance is similar to something you do need. To never feel this thing similar to, but not repentance, is to never learn from your mistakes. I guess I could use a different word than regret or repentance, though my shitty public education must be in the way because I can’t think of one. They all seem to connote a sense of shame, suffering or conscious ethics that I can't comply with. The closest word for what I'm describing is 'qualm'. The point is, I miss all the Frank Black’s that aren’t in my life anymore and if I didn’t have any qualms about that, I’d continue just sleeping with and underappreciating people who are worth so much more.

By the way, it's been a week since someone threw up on my foot and though I've thoroughly cleaned my shoes, I still haven't mustered the courage to wear them.

Boring Saturday Nights

2004-08-01T02:48:00.000-06:00

I was feeling lonely, that's why I went out. I was at home reading about Mexican transvestites, and I couldn't concentrate, and I have been so hermetic, so I decided to go and be with people. It is strange that when I go out with one particular friend, we seem to draw people towards us; it never fails. Sometimes, it pays off and I have a good time, sometimes I just get frustrated and go home.

We went to the pub and there was nowhere to sit, so we left. I hadn't wanted to drink anyway, I'd wanted a coffee and that was all. So, that's what we got and we took them to a bench and watched people stumble by. A drunken homeless man came up to us and started trying to touch my friend. It scared her, so I gave him a minimalist reaction until he got bored and walked away. Another homeless man came by, told him to leave us alone, and handed him some change. I told him to have a nice night.

Some people came by and started talking to us and we ended up going somewhere to play pool. A guy that was with us kept telling me that I should go into modeling. I told him modeling was prostitution and he seemed insulted when I did because he was one. A model, that is, not a prostitute. I didn't apologize, and there was an uncomfortable silence that was surely expected to be filled by a "just kidding" or "oh, sorry". An English guy at the table kept asking me what he had to do to date a "girl like you". I told him that I wasn't interested in anything, with anyone because of recent circumstances and he told me that was perfectly respectable and then asked me where I was staying that night all in the same breath. Thirty seconds later, his friend threw up on my foot. I hobbled to the basement with one shoe off, grimacing and cringing. I spent forty minutes washing my feet and soaking my shoes in the bathroom sink as girls came in and out, offering to beat the culprit up for me and telling me they liked my hat. We left after that and got something to eat on the way home.

Once I got home, I had to write a blog entry to keep my mind off of other things and because I think the fact that someone threw up on my foot is rather funny. I still feel dirty, I need a shower. Then I think I'll go to sleep.

Please Note

2004-07-31T00:00:00.000-06:00

I’m tired of the negativity accusations. I see the world differently, and that’s all there is to it.

I like the rain. It’s just water. You walk around afraid of it, with an umbrella in your hand.

I laugh at myself on a daily basis. This is healthy, and the mark of a true cynic, not a pessimist.

I get disappointed and let down by people. I couldn’t do this unless I had some kind of hope or expectation in the first place.

You don’t understand that most of the time my humour is exaggerated and melodramatic. I’m certainly not sacrificing goats and chanting death hymns to chickenheads every night. This is your perception, this is your problem, and these are your hang-ups.

Starbucks

2004-07-30T19:49:00.000-06:00

Am I weird because I refuse to use the Starbucks words for small, medium and large? It's always been something I considered a snobbery on their part, and I suppose in return, a snobbery on mine. A friend of mine pointed out that this was a rather strange snobbery for me to have, a refusal to accept European coffee standards, considering my penchant against anything North American. But, I find, (and I’m sure I’m not the only one - don’t lie!), that I feel like I’ve missed something when I hear someone order a “Grande double dry no-fat sugar-free vanilla soy latte”. Like, when did I miss the course on ordering at Starbucks?

After all, the customer is always right, right? Am I to assume that suddenly the capitalist concepts responsible for this sad cliché are dead? I know I don't need to answer that question, we're all liberal conspiracy theorists here. I think I've acquired something of a reputation at the local Starbucks, where the drink Nazis are constantly correcting me when I order a large chai latte. They seem to watch me very carefully when I come in, as if I'm going to cause some kind of uprising among the other corporate victims.

I also have this strange habit at other places. For instance, there are certain words that I just find funny. They aren’t particularly humorous words, I just know that when I say them I will probably start to laugh, or I will not be able to stop myself from pronouncing them in a really obnoxious voice. One such word is delectable. I also don't think I'm capable of saying 'delightful' without it sounding sarcastic. I encounter these problems at restaurants all the time, and when I do, I always end up pointing at the menu and asking for ‘this’. It’s terrible and I really must stop, especially since I’m not eating anywhere with optional side dishes.

Fewww! For A Minute There I Lost Myself

2004-07-25T14:12:00.000-06:00

The idea of self is so absurd. As if "I" is ever the same person from one moment to the next. Right now, I feel sick; I have a creeping nausea that comes from excessive thinking about things that really don't concern me at all. Or rather, don't concern the me that is going to one day be over all of this and not care. I am listening to Radiohead with the blinds drawn in a depressing display of my own thirst for dramatic Hollywood movie scenes. I can still laugh at myself and I'm not broken and one day I will be over all of this. The real problem is that I don't want to be over this, I don't want to be ok with seeing you on the street, it seems too much like a bad joke to me and I won't let the powers that be live it down that easily. I feel hungry even though I've been eating constantly all day. I'm writing a ridiculous blog entry that no one but myself will understand, and I don't care because I'm supposed to be writing a philosophy paper and this is the kind of language I've had to deal with all day.

And what about you? You aren't the same person I met and you aren't going to be the same person when this is all through. You and I. That's different too. You and I are still too much together when 'we' should be apart. I'm feeling forced into something neither of us wants, for reasons I don't fully understand, and I feel like we're being punished for something we did but can't identify. But, I can't find a way to be around you even though I care and I can't give you two things at once with ambivalence in return; I'm terribly impossible.

This doesn't leave us anywhere. Even if I were to bolt for the door we would still be left clamoring for each other and pawing at people we don't really want to ease the inevitable frustration. I suppose I could try to asses the most beneficial situation from a list of pro and contra, but they wouldn't be anything more than words. And that's all this is, just words.

Times New Roman

2004-07-14T17:57:00.000-06:00

I hate Times New Roman. I usually refuse to write with it, but in this case it cannot be helped, and if it can, I would like someone to please enlighten me as to how.

The way I see it, I may have something interesting to say. And conforming to socially accepted and revered fonts such as Times New Roman, to me, seems potentially misleading to my reader. I also want to weed out those annoying conformist types who will take one look at my slightly deviant font and whine about how they can’t read it, even though it’s perfectly clear. I can’t have readers like that; it’s simply not in my nature.

If You’ve Got Love in Your Heart, Why Don’t You Keep It With Mine?

2004-07-13T23:27:00.000-06:00

We are so petty. Our lives are filled with turmoil that we create, drama we deny we want, and relationships that are based on convenience. I’m sick, I feel so sick and so exhausted I just don’t know what to do.

I’ve listened to this album over and over again, probably three times now. It’s Amazing Grace, Spiritualized and there is a song called Hold On, and it goes like this:

You gotta hold on baby to those you hold dear
And onto the people you love
‘Cause death cannot part us if life already has
Hold on to those you hold dear

And I love this song. And I’ve been crying as I listen to it, and even now as I write this.

There is something going on with us, with people. You see, I think we look at our parents and decide that we want something different. We just don’t know what that is. Who am I kidding? I can’t handle a casual relationship, I can’t handle a real one either. However, I’m not the only one. Everyone else I know is doing what I am right now, cutting out relationships (that necessarily means people) and searching for ourselves. And this is why I’m so upset. Because we’re all so fucked up within ourselves we can’t even hold on to the people who matter in our lives. Life is too short to lose ourselves and them at the same time.

Other People's Words

2004-07-05T02:44:00.000-06:00

I re-read The Catcher In the Rye today. It’s about my sixth time I’d say. The thing about good art that I love is every time you go back to it, there’s always something you didn’t see, hear, realise or remember the time before. I like that the way you're thinking or feeling that day, whatever state you're in, is mirrored by what becomes most memorable. In this particular instance, I found a passage towards the end of the book about education.

“ ‘I’m not trying to tell you that only educated and scholarly men are able to contribute something valuable to the world. It’s not so. But I do say that educated and scholarly men, if they’re brilliant and creative to begin with – which, unfortunately, is rarely the case – tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behind them than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves more clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the end. And – most important – nine times out of ten they have more humility than the unscholarly thinker.’ “

In my irritating need to classify, I ended up assuming that if this was true (and I think it is), there would be four different types of people, (without taking into account the grey, shady types and exception-to-the-rules, of course). The first are the “educated and scholarly”, the “brilliant and creative, educated and scholarly”, the “merely brilliant and creative”, and finally, the uneducated and uncreative.

I’ve encountered a few people who were educated and scholarly, but unfortunately not very creative or brilliant. Salinger didn't quite touch on how absurd these bastards are; these are the pompous idiots who quote dead guys and drone on about other people's ideas. It is most depressing to encounter people whose entire minds are paid for and for whom it is only chance that separates them from the uneducated and uncreative, i.e. the simpletons. There is a certain innocence and charm to a simpleton, whereas someone who is merely educated tends to be uninspiring, galling and monotonous. It wouldn’t be so terrible if they had some humility about themselves, though usually this isn’t the case; I suppose it does take a certain level of haughtiness to consider education indicative of intelligence.

I used to be the kind of person who rejected the idea of education as some kind of mass production of thought. To some degree, I’ve retained some of this jaded ideal. However, in the past few years, mostly with the onset of protestors and war and Bush and Michael Moore, I’ve begun to notice that the lack of it, often the outright rejection of it, leads to a pitiful state of affairs. I have no idea if the people I encountered were intelligent or creative; their absolute illiteracy prevented me from knowing so. This was my major gripe with the protestors. There were many who began speaking and had great things to say, but were completely drowned out by the jackasses who were there because somebody told them Bush was a bad guy. There was also the “I wanna be a hippie” thing, but that’s not for this space and time. To summarize, I’m a little tired of people needing to be entertained in order to open their eyes.

The real issue here is of course, humility, not education or brilliance. Considering my opinion of those without it, I should probably be learning how to do it.

Talk About Wasteful Spending...

2004-07-02T02:06:00.000-06:00

I had a strange dream last night in which Paul Martin used extra Canadian tax dollars to build a magical telescope from which he could watch random people across the country having sex. Now that I'm conscious I've revised the dream a bit, replacing Paul with Steven Harper. I also think that it would have been more interesting if George Dubleyuh had found some excuse to invade us and steal it.

Indifference Is Not An Option

2004-06-21T22:47:00.000-06:00

It is going to storm out tonight. There is something about a big storm that really excites me.

I sat at the train station the other day in the rain and watched people run for cover. Then, it occurred to me that for someone who is accused of being too negative, I sure do like a lot of things that other people don’t. Like the rain. What could be so awful about rainy weather? Perhaps it is just in my nature to be contrary.

Another example...I think hate can be quite healthy. If one more person tells me, ‘hate is a strong word...’ I think I will slit my wrists right there and chant in Latin while they watch me bleed to death with horrified gaping mouthed looks on their faces. It’s not like I said ‘I hate fucking Jews’. God forbid I should have a human emotion stronger than ‘dislike’.

You know, sweet is a strong word too. Yes, I think anyone whose entire personality can be summed up with the words ‘nice’ or ‘sweet’ would probably be on the other end of my death stare at some point. Besides, I really believe that constant positivity is an act anyway. That, or the result of being as stupid as a rock. After all, Big Brother IS watching.

The Festivities

2004-05-24T01:37:00.000-06:00

I realise it is well past due for a new blog entry. I do apologize to all those who have patiently been awaiting a fresh batch, but my internet connection has been miserable lately and it did take some time to console it into letting me access the outside world. I am glad that the little man with the glasses came to fix my computer because without his kind help I would have no access to the outside world and therefore no joy in my life. Let's have a round of applause for Gareth.

A true cynic is someone who is not only cynical of the world and those around him, but of himself. A true cynic is someone who is disappointed by the things that he scorns. This disappointment indicates a certain level of expectation for greatness, not for despondency. A healthy cynic is someone who has a healthy appreciation for sarcasm.

Sidebar.

On Wednesday night we exited into the rain and streams of people wearing red, everywhere screaming, throwing up, flashing us, attempting to include us in their celebrations. But, we walked on in silence, hands clasped and not talking. They were all walking east, we were walking west, and anywhere there wasn’t an opening we would either squeeze through or wait for something to happen ‘over there’ so that they would run towards it, their eyes wild and possessed by something they didn’t understand. The making of a zombie movie. Lynch mobs. The celebration of mediocrity. The impulsive desire, desperation even, to be included in something, anything, with anyone.

A true cynic is cynical of everything, even himself and more importantly, his cynicism.

We sat on the steps of a church and watched a lone skinny man in short shorts become entangled in a group of pretty girls who were, in any other situation, unapproachable. We watched a homeless man become excited and embroiled in the tangle of bodies and fervour of happiness, just another one of the crew. People became angry when we didn’t return their cries of joy. Even if just for that day, they had been supplied with some kind of identity and some kind of reason.

Then there was us. We would giggle at the absolute banality of the situation, feeling good about our inclusion in the ‘more enlightened’ club. I became well aware that who we were was absolutely tied to how we answered the question “how can I not be alone?” That was our only separation.

Fasting Love Will Lead Us All To Nowhere

2004-05-09T21:32:00.000-06:00

I decided that meeting drunken men in bars wasn't the best way to spice up my love life. I also decided that since I found writing to be an enjoyable communication medium, as well as very capable of revealing things about ones intelligence, I would set aside my skepticism and find cyber love. The problem I have encountered is that there seems to be an awful lot of people who do not speak English. I don't think this is because they are foreign, or even that they have spent a lot of time in another country lately and somehow forgotten their native tongue. No...I believe it's because the online population is sadly just as skewed towards idiot as it is in reality. I was astonished, naturally, and had to ask myself where all the ugly geek boys and neurotic anti-social types were.

I registered a profile on this site that was full of people who sounded like used car advertisements and had no idea how to talk about themselves without sounding exactly like everyone else. A typical profile went something like this:

“Hi there!!! I’m a fun __ year old who likes all kinds of sports as well as many types of cultural activities. I’m very versatile and can spend the night looking good, being crazy and partying it up or hiking all day in sweat pants. I am just looking for someone special to spend time with and if something more happens then great!!! If not then I have a new friend and that’s great too! If you’re an optimistic, active, and sexy person then why not talk to me, you just might be the one I’ve been waiting for!!”

Of course, the spelling is accurate and some of the words are a bit bigger than some of them could possibly comprehend, but that’s the general idea. Generally, the women have to include something about being open to going to sporting events and being “crazy”, and the men have to talk about being sensitive, caring and having a lot of female friends.

My profile talked about literacy, integrity, my hatred of materialism, my ‘strong dislike’ of sports, the music and books I like, and what I wanted (see previous entries), and yet somehow I was still getting messages from people who were cheering on the local hockey team and talking about how much money they made in their opening lines.

I am including for your entertainment a play-by-play of a conversation I recently had on said site; comments are in italics.

GUY: you sound like a piece of work ;)

The emoticon makes a common appearance when people are impotent to express themselves in writing. I’m not sure who to blame for this, but the public education system seems like a good enough place to start. There is more evidence of illiteracy with the use of the words ‘your’, ‘you’re’, ‘their’, ‘there’, ‘a lot’, ‘i’, etc. I’m sure you get the general idea. As far as his particular comment, what it communicated to me was this: “You’re the feisty type who’s gonna give me shit when I have the boys over to drink bad beer and watch the game, but I’m sure the sex will be worth it.” I could actually hear his flatulence in my head.

ME: A piece of work?
JACKASS: don’t read too deeply. i was only kidding

At this point, I perused his profile to see what he had to say. I’m quoting exactly when I say: I’m not going to say a lot on here. I just trust that your intuition will lead you in the right direction.

ME: You leave a lot up to the imagination, isn’t that dangerous?
LARRY, CURLY & MOE: it’s only dangerous if we meet. on here you’re safe. :P

The way to a woman’s heart…scaring her.

ME: What I’m saying is that it must be hard to get someone to want to talk to you when there isn’t anything to be interested in.
WANKER: woman have a thing called intuition, i trust it lead them to the right direction.
ME: Intuition is fine, but my intuition would tell me there was a reason someone was being secretive about themselves.

For example, short man syndrome…

FUCKHEAD: that’s because you’re an existentialist. lol where’s your pic then brat? :)

Almost as much as the emoticon, the ‘lol’ is the bane of my online existence as it is normally used due to a lack of anything substantial to say.

ME: I could just go out and pick people up at the bar if I wanted to base this on appearance. I’m really tired of having conversations where people try to look down my shirt and just smile and nod while I talk to them. Besides, and this is AS an existentialist, pictures say nothing about who we are.
I’M NOT MOST GUYS: you’re right about that. Most guys you’re right about that way but there are those exceptions that require to know what goes on between a womans ears

It really bothers me that just because I demand some fucking integrity out of people I turn into some kind of feminist. Then, not only do they insult me by accusing me of that, they manufacture an answer to go along with my manufactured identity.

ME: It’s not about the gender….most people are incompetent with regard to everyone’s mind.
DR. PHIL: yes, people need to be more respectful.
ME: Right, and that begins with not just telling people what you think they want to hear.
LONG WALKS ON BEACH?: I hope your not pointing your finger at me miss darling.
ME: I do get the impression that you think you can charm me…trust me, I’m better at that; I have great…intuition.
YESMAN: you are making me smile. i’ll give you that. i’m just being myself
ME: have you had a lot of contacts on here?
MYSTERIOUS DUDE: a few, you?
ME: I kind of have my hands full. I think the only reason I’m getting so many hits is because I used the word ‘sex’ and mentioned that I wasn’t materialistic. It seems strange though that they still think they can drag me to hockey games.
LUCKY YOU: well, you’ll be happy to know that what got me was that you mentioned you’re an existentialist ;) by the way what is that?

I’m not sure what the point of wanting me to patronize him was, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m sure he thought that playing dumb was somehow a comment on my own intellect.

ME: Do you like books?
HALFWIT: I do but different than you’re into
ME: such as?
AVID SPORTSMAN: for example, i’m really into golf right now so i’ll read everything i can about the subject. i love learning. how about you?
ME: Sure, I love learning too. I just finished a big non-fiction stint myself. It was on the black plague and its historical effects on the world. Then, I got onto the subject of antibiotic resistance; did you know that antibiotic resistance is going to wipe out the human race? Oh, and I hate sports by the way.
MULLIGAN: i like the subject of antibiotic resistence. i think it’s fascinating. you mentioned sports
ME: We can talk about sports, that’s just fine. The only problem may be that my point of view on the matter is that sports are a way for the weak to conform to the desires of an empty and soulless culture.

I don’t know anyone who can be more overbearing than that. I was really hoping he would at least try.

SOCIAL STUDIES 101 STUDENT: there will always be serfs and peasants we can’t change that. now fair is fair...can I see a picture?
ME: LOL, why are you afraid I weigh 200 lbs just because I’m not “ACTIVE”?
FAIR IS FAIR: fair is fair
ME: I don’t know what that means. Why are you so concerned with what I look like (you know you’re on the internet right?) Can’t you just have a conversation without the pretence of romantic involvement? Besides, what makes you think we will ever even meet?
LIFE IS FAIR: it’s something you said about being open earlier. if you’re not interested, that’s fine.

Now, what in the world would make this jackass think that after reading a cryptic profile and having a boring and unenlightening conversation I would want to meet up for cocktails? My real question is are there people online who are so desperate as to jump at the first coffee offer they get? I think my theory is that they believe if they can lie their way to the first meeting, somehow everything will work out for the best and wedding bells will chime.

ME: I understand being open. I don’t understand what that has to do with my picture. I assure you I don’t hide my face from the public, but if I wanted to go and be looked at, that is what I would do. Also, as far as being interested goes, I already told you I had my hands full...I do like conversations though.
MEAGRE RETALIATION: ok then brat. i was born 30 years ago and not 22 ;p like I always say words whisper, actions scream and you girl are screaming. anyhow thank you for the conversation and have good day

The age badge. What is it about age that gives someone acumen over someone else?

I’m not yet sure that this conversation wasn’t just some acquaintance of mine playing a joke on me. If it was, it was a riot and thank-you.

Will keep you all posted on my further online adventures. Until next time...please strike ‘long walks on the beach’ from the record.

LOVE CD

And One More Thing

2004-04-29T02:13:00.000-06:00

I would just like to point out that I have spent the last week being bombarded with emails, phone calls and the like from distressed persons, i.e.: my friends. It has become so bad that I can't even check my email without someone managing to click on my name and write "hey! I'm all excited for no apparent reason! How are you doing?!!!" faster than I can click the "away" button. When I explain that I do not have time for their "New York Conversation”, I get a sense that they are extremely disappointed. This bothers me. Why? Because I am awake and bored tonight and all of you fucking assholes are asleep.

I have an entire album that I do not own playing a loop through my head.

I have to practice my ‘dramatic sigh’.

The comments aren't working...I need to fix that, but my idiocy prevents it.

Officially bored with you...CD

I Have Nothing To Say

2004-04-29T01:42:00.000-06:00

I have nothing to say. I feel overwhelmed by the vast space surrounding me mentally (considering my agorophobia, this is scary) and I really do feel that I have nothing to say. I suppose I could just talk about nothing as an entity in and of itself and then erase this tomorrow when I wake up and discover how brutally awful it is and what a jaded and horrible person I am.

It sounds as though I should be having a mental breakdown, or be overcome by some depressed state, but somehow I'm not. I feel like I'm on a new drug; how can I possibly be content with this nothingness?

Nothing can be better than something. Of course, if I really believed that I wouldn't be writing this. There have been moments, of which I don't wish to speak, when this was true.

When I look back on the last few years of my life and realise that I accomplished nothing and that it means nothing, it makes me realise what I would have or should have done instead and what it will eventually mean. That forces me out of bed, and forces me to do things. People go their entire lives being 'busy' and doing things that are in fact nothing, so maybe that's the reason I don't feel so bad.

Really though, I have nothing to say, and this blather is a waste, acheives nothing and I apologize that you even read it.

The Rant of a Thousand Tangents – or – The Long and Winding Rant

2004-04-26T18:05:00.000-06:00

It's hockey playoff season. This means that, because I am Canadian, I am expected to converse about the progress of the home team, engage in wearing obnoxiously bright coloured clothing, scream obscenities and tear my hair out when something 'bad' happens, drink bad local beer, repeatedly chant a clever slogan (i.e. Go {insert home team name here} Go! YAAAAY!) in unison with mentally challenged roid-monkeys, and basically (and this is the most intrusive expectation yet) to like it all. It’s asking too much.

The funny thing about conformists is that they are not content with just being their conformist selves. They find it impossible to comprehend how anyone could lead a healthy, normal life without being exactly like everyone else. In other words, they like to proselytize. My first experience with this came in the eighth grade. The principal at my school was a staunch conformist who liked to fancy himself ‘fun’ but ‘professional’ at the same time. This meant he was on a first name basis with all the students and would talk up the parents as well. He wore bad suits. He probably watched a lot of TV and attended church with his wife on Sundays. I knew from the moment I met him two years earlier that I didn’t like him, but I wasn’t really sure why. He tried too hard I guess. My dislike was justified one afternoon as I sat quietly in class (I was always quiet back then. No one liked me because I kept to myself too much and this seemed to them to be some sort of flip off…go figure) writing in my notebook. The aforementioned ‘hands-on’ principal strolled in and started hanging over some of the students shoulders, watching them work (a most irritating practice. Someone tried to do this to me the other day as I sat reading The Brothers Karamazov and I shot them a clear “I’m going to throttle you” look). I was one of these unlucky students, but when he got to me, he not only felt it necessary to breathe on me but also to critique my handwriting (I’ve developed quite a complex about people who breathe too loudly or too close to me. It’s become so bad that I find it enormously stressful to sleep as the inside spoon because the outside spoon might breathe on my shoulder, neck or back. It’s even worse when I have to take public transit to go to work during rush hour. I had the painful experience of encountering a thirty something man the other day who, though we were packed in like sardines, felt that it was somehow to everyone’s advantage to wiggle about incessantly, and that sharing his bad breath and germs with me was somehow to my advantage. I spent the rest of the ride bug-eyed and obsessing about germs and having trouble breathing. I managed to get off before the panic attack set in, but I’m pretty sure if you had asked me what my one greatest wish was at that very moment I would have said “A shower”). This was annoying, and at the time, embarrassing enough, that two days later when he handed me a photocopied page of handwritten letters from a penmanship book (circa 1950 I can imagine), I was astonished at his persistence (my penmanship is not really so bad. Since I stopped trying to write exactly the way they taught me in school, it has suddenly become legible, even attractive). Naturally, I tossed the sheet of paper in the first available garbage receptacle.

I had only lived in that town for two years, and would only live there until the end of that year. I hated it, mostly because of the absurdity of the place and the absurdity of the people living there. They were ignorant, and felt their little town to be something special, when it was in fact just a suburban hell with neither the money and class nor the culture they somehow convinced themselves they had. Like so many small cities, the livelihood was a factory that was dangerously close to shutting its doors. Blue-collar strife though, was never apparent, and the kids in my classes would come to class curiously outfitted in brand name clothing and with a ridiculous collection of ‘stuff’, (I don’t like stuff. I prefer to refer to ‘stuff’ as ‘useless shit’). All of the boys played hockey and all of the girls took dance and figure skating lessons. The women walked around like blue blood New Englanders, as did their daughters. The homes were set up very traditionally, with the wives at home eating chocolates (and getting fatter…they were all so fat) and watching soap operas while the husbands paid the credit card (debts) and nursed their mid-life crises with their garage projects. No one in the town liked outsiders, and they would never let me forget that I was weird because I wasn’t obnoxiously popular and ostentatiously (ostentatiously is an ostentatious word) materialistic (a sure sign of discontentment; I find the most materialistic people to be those who either have or have had the least). I can’t think of anything terribly cultural about the place (I don’t think there was an art gallery, and there was only one movie theatre) except that everyone got really excited when a Chinese food restaurant opened up. This was a big deal, as it was very exotic compared to delis and Italian restaurants (I don’t think the Atkins diet would have much success there). This lack of culture was emphasized by the fact that the only thing the community had to bring them together was the junior hockey team, who played in a small rink that was used for public skating in the off-season.

The other day when I was out, passing a bar where the hockey game was playing, I saw a sporty chicken who reminded me a lot of a girl who used to live in that town. She had blonde hair, fake nails, overly cancerous looking tanned skin, and was wearing skintight black pants, a hockey t-shirt balled up so that her midriff was showing, and excessively too much makeup. Normally, I encounter this kind of chickenhead everywhere, and it only elicits a small amount of bile, but this time it produced quite a bit more. This is because the chickenhead was glaring at me with a most distasteful look on her ugly leather coloured face. The reason for this was that I was wearing a skirt and her two little jock chicken boy friends were looking at me and making what I can only assume to be lewd and inappropriate comments. Having had a few (justified) jealous moments (one of these occurred when I met the ‘girlfriend’ of someone I was having an affair with. I hadn’t known of her existence until that moment, but she clearly knew who I was, as did everyone else in the room. My reputation can often precede me, both to my benefit and detriment. I swallowed all pettiness, and, noticing she had almost the same shirt on I did, said lightly “hey, I have that shirt”. She looked at me blankly and answered, “Ya, a lot of people do”, and walked away. I haven’t seen her since, but I will not be swallowing any pettiness when I do, and she will be swallowing her teeth), I had to be taken aback by her complete lack of integrity in the matter. Gouging out her two boys eyes would certainly not be justified, but it would be more justified than giving me the death stare (actually, she wasn’t really capable of this. It looked more like “Oh, my god…you are like, a total tramp”) and muttering voodoo curses under her breath just because I was walking down the street. But, that’s chicken for you.

Once I got to High School, I encountered the people who tried very hard to separate themselves from the conformists. These were the rebel conformists. They were living on the edge, but the edge of what I’m not quite sure (oblivion, triviality?). You all know these people. They are the ones that walk around with a permanent scowl on their faces and make valiant efforts to object to just about anything anyone says. There are the “I’m so deep and complicated” ones, the “I’m so punk” ones, and then the ones that sit in doped up silence at parties as you attempt to speak to them out of some kind of imagined obligation to be polite (fuck polite, I won’t do it again). The funniest attempt at rejecting conformity though, comes from those chickenheads who constantly say stupid things like “I’m so weird”. Once ‘weird’ becomes an asset to these people, they will make any and every attempt to be ‘weird’ in the most mediocre sense. The only problem is that ‘weird’ doesn’t constitute having a style of their own or an original idea in their heads. All it means is that instead of Tommy Hilfiger, they sometimes wear Roxy, and instead of listening to the bad rap/pop radio station, they listen to the bad rock station and instead of settling down at 24 with a husband, children and little suburban bungalow, they do it at 30.

In conclusion, I hate fucking hockey. Why won’t you all just go away (though, the image of the screaming crews coming from the bar on game night, keeping somebody I know awake, really appeals to me. Ha ha ha…)?

Posing Questions

2004-04-25T23:59:00.000-06:00

Both are directed at some (all) of the men I've encountered, and more than likely, most of you out there.

Why do you all have futons from Ikea?
Why do you assume that trimming the delicate areas gives you a getoutofjailfreecard in terms of 'manscaping' the rest?

I would really love to know (and I hope that these questions don't give you any fancy ideas about the kind of weekend I've had).
As always, amelioratively (is that even a word) yours...CD.

Madness

2004-04-23T15:58:00.000-06:00

I sat in a waiting room for four hours today. I arrived at my appointed time of 8 AM, but still, I had to wait for four hours. I don't think I could possibly write something of any value without it containing a plethora of curse words. Such as FUCK. I will, however, tell you about the event that to me defines the kind of day I have had.

I was sitting patiently (considering) in the waiting room, perusing two to five year old editions of The Economist, worrying about China, and starving children, and effectively reproaching myself for my western advantages so as not to feel too bad about things (this is turning into another rant for another day), when I glanced up and saw the nurse that I had spoken to nary two minutes before, reaching for a tissue. She wasn’t looking directly at the box, but I noticed a curious blue line down the vertices of the tissue in question, and was completely dumbfounded when she noticed it and then decided (suddenly and out of nowhere) that she no longer needed the last tissue.

We have all encountered this, of course. Maybe you are that person who leaves the last sliver of brownie in the pan because you have too many important lazy-person things to do. If so, I think you know my feelings on the matter. My only question is what is it that you could possibly have to do that is so important? If blowing your nose is no longer important, and getting a new box of tissues was never important, then what exactly is it that you do? In the nurses case she turned on the radio and listened to bad music (so, so bad...and when Rock the Casbah came on she turned it down) while she did Cosmo quizzes with her nurse friends. I wish it were not so bland and cliché, but unfortunately, it is.

Chickenheads

2004-04-22T17:22:00.000-06:00

I didn't know what to post today, as I have spent the last 24 hours doped up on perkocet. I needed an easy subject, and I sincerely apologize for the sheer banality of it (But, while we're on the subject, I'll just apologize for all my posts, as they are all fairly innane as well).

I've been asked several times in the last few days to define 'chickenhead'. This is a word that has somehow managed to penetrate (also a good word) my conversations on a fairly regular basis.

I'm not quite sure to begin. Usually when I try to explain the term to someone who is, in fact, a chickenhead themselves, they don't understand what I am trying to say. I will attempt though, to be clear by using examples and imagery.

You are driving down the street when suddenly, out of nowhere, an ugly, obnoxious sports car passes you on the right going a million miles too fast and blaring shitty techno. You may have just encountered a chickenhead.

You know that guy you see every once in awhile who wears white jeans and skintight knit shirts and so much gel in his hair you can almost see your reflection in it? Also a chickenhead.

The female chickenhead can be far more irritating than the male one. This is because, though they don't necessarily have more to prove, they are not as capable of hiding it. These are the girls you see in the middle of February running down the street in high heels and miniskirts towards a lineup to a shitty bar in which they will get wasted on over-priced, watered down drinks, dance (badly) to bad music and end up fucking the first guy that hits on them.

These chickenheads are more prevalent. However, there are different varieties of chickenheads.

Sporty chicken is that girl you see who really wants to be one of the guys and tries very hard to impress them with her beer chugging capabilities and her extensive hockey knowledge. Or, it's that guy who looks at people who engage in 'stupid' activities (stupid being anything that isn't 'active', such as reading a book) as not living their lives to the fullest. Surfer guy and snowboard bunny also fall into this category.

Then, there is college sweater-wearing chicken. These are the least obvious chickenheads, and it is often hard to determine their true colors. In some cases though, these are the girls who feel that they have some sort of moral and educational superiority to you simply because you may enjoy wearing something other than the same smelly sweater every day (this must be the reason they are so angry). Tickets to a Lillith Fair are a dead give away.

I could go on about the other varieties of chicken, but the truth is, the term is chickenhead for a reason. It all tastes the same.

You could be a chickenhead if:

1. Your entire identity hinges on some kind of material asset or image and you feel a constant need to prove this.
2. When you open your mouth to speak, nothing of substance comes out and it sounds like 'braawwwwwwck'.
3. You find people with integrity and artistic ability to be boring.
4. You irritate the fuck out of me.

Hopefully, for those of you who were wondering, that clears things up a bit. If you need further clarification, please let me know.