Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Preparing to go to the "Big City." I am looking forward to looting -- accepting -- booty. No, no. Not that kind. I mean the kind that just screams fashion plate. Sadly, it is the only thing that keeps me from voluntarily walking the plank.

But I exaggerate. My relatives are all right. None of them are socially inept (just annoyingly grating), even the one who's a jerk; a snobby jerk. The kind you want to douse in sulphuric acid then set alight in your neighbour's backyard.

Happy New Year! Goodbye 2003!

Is the Apocalypse coming or what? The next date of world implosion is supposed to be 2012, according to the Mayan calendar. Just ... great. And if that doesn't happen, will we resort to using the Sumerian calendar to cope?

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

Modern female empowerment is a load of crap. I will elaborate:

It gets my blood boiling when I see how girls present themselves because the mall decides to carry nothing but things Madonna in her Like A Virgin-phase would wear: innerwear as out. It's not that I have a problem with what is being worn, but why it is being worn.

Don't wear push-up bras if you aren't looking to attract attention. To paraphrase Dave Chappelle, don't dress like a ho and expect others not to see you as one.

When "body enhancing" duds are worn, it is a way to feel in control of the image being projected, and in essence, of men and what they are allowed to see. But that's buying into the medieval perception of what is, or is not, sexy and exploiting it for your own personal gain. So, how are men even losing out? You're giving them exactly what they want, just more so because suddenly you no longer feel "fat" and "ugly" and are able to enjoy attention from your phalliced neighbours without hiding in a bucket of Haagen-Dazs and KFC. Hence, it is not men, but women's subjective and individual approaches toward the opposite sex that is the driving force behind social fashions and norms.

All this new feminism teaches our generation is that we don't need to make hard choices. We can do it all and have it all. We can dress like a stripper and be taken seriously. We can make men pay for everything and still be a lady. We can wholly rely on a network of hired help and still be called independent. But most importantly, we can be beautiful and smart.

This is a distorted concept because while beauty is biological, intelligence is learned. It is something intangible, unlike what is underneath a surgical scalpel. And like edible panties, it is a mere commodity. Shared by all, unable to be enjoyed alone.

To feel worthy of everything and deny the importance of men is a brash and brassy move. To reap the fruits of separate labour and flaunt double standards with zeal reeks of rhetoric. And to want all the perks of equality without feeling the strain of pursuit is as oxymoronic as "reality TV."

So my point is: the mall is the suckiest suck that ever sucked. But icy fruit concoctions are delish.

Monday, December 29, 2003

Went to the mall with Shotgun Toter today. Christmas is over, and yet, shoppers still run amok. When will the madness end? There's no room to breathe nor are their good things to shop for. It's like the overload of bright lights and bargain sales (that aren't really bargains to begin with) exist only to tempt people into gouging their eyes out while tranquilizing their senses as they lay frothing at the mouth. Had a lychee concoction with tapioca there. It was yummy.

Later, I went to go watch Bad Santa for $4.25 at a small theatre in Burlington with Bible Cop. That movie, ladies and gents, is the funniest thing I've seen all year. The vulgar humour is right up my alley. Billy Bob Thornton is pitch perfect as the lead. It is side-splitting. It is by far the best envelope-pushing, Christmas-related film in recent memory. Just ... hilarious.

Thank you, Bible Cop, for driving me. Though, I must admit I resent her for being able to attend a New Year's party with 24 year olds, knowing I'll be stuck making idle chit chat with relatives in Toronto.

Lucky bitch.

Sunday, December 28, 2003

Right after I wrote in my blog yesterday, Bible Cop and I drove down to Westdale Theatre and watched Cold Mountain (Jude Law can pork me anytime). Being there made me realise college boys is where it's at. And by college boys, I mean, university boys. And by university boys, I mean, well-educated young men with futures. We sat in front of them. When movie stopped rolling, I got up and was the receiver of eye contact [EC].

Went and ate at Crabby Joe's next. Mid-meal, 8 guys belonging to the latter category arrived, sans their women (assuming they were straight). EC occurred throughout with Brown Tuque. Quelle domage that I'm so young, yet have so much to offer ... non-anatomic related.

This is off topic (when was I ever on?). While at Crabby's, I remember wondering why there was footage of a baby's birth on every other channel between Knight Rider, Trading Spaces and the Beverly Hillbillies.

Note to self: newborns sure are ugly, especially when they're up to their necks in vulva.

Now must leave to play Mahjong with my mom. It's the beginning of my devolution.

Saturday, December 27, 2003

Another day, another blog.

I've been blogging since late August. I know the quality of my blogs have been deteriorating. You know those girls who hang off metal barricades at Cheap Trick concerts, crying in tattered hot pants and bras? Yeah, I can't relate either. But I have seemingly (if not, seamlessly) turned into a typical, teenybopper with John Varvatos-wearing, demi-gods on my amorous mind.

This factoid is the reason I haven't been writing stuff that's all that interesting. I mean, I stopped watching TV awhile ago and a pop culture maven must watch TV. Yet, I dread admitting that I don't miss that blarmy box. I think I've been usurped from my throne ... though, I doubt I was crowned to begin with.

Break is so boring. In the sense that I make it boring. I don't even bother changing in the morning. It's just the same XL T-shirt, day in and day out. I've become a divorced KKK parent who just unknowingly moved into a negro, gay neighbourhood: packing the pounds and unwilling to leave.

Friday, December 26, 2003

So I've been listening to some OK Go and boy am I addicted to their sugary pop/rock sound. Now, is it wrong to pay more attention to their music due to my sudden desire to fuck the lead singer? Although, I know it's not "wrong", I'm still mindful of this cliché. I'm a real sucker for musicians. It's a vice as serious as my carrot cake habit.

But duh-amn, this guy has cheekbones that can cut through Cartier carats clean. He looks even younger than a young Beck Hansen; it is like peering into a fresh pool of DNA and seeing the face of ... one edible dude. One very edible dude, indeed. He's positively slurp-worthy.

Front, center.

Damian Kulash: serve him on a hot plate 'cause I'm ready for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Will also leave room for dessert.

Extra "sexy" points for majoring in semiotics at Brown University. He also DANCES!

Kudos for strategically tousled hair, too. Converse wearing geeky brunettes are the sheee-it. Pictures don't do him justice.

Thursday, December 25, 2003

Christmas Day. Whoopee! Not really. I didn't go to sleep until 5:30AM, discussing politics with my dad. I evaluated this tin paper weight made in 1921 he bought at Value Village for him. After watching Antiques Roadshow for the better part of my life, I (admirably) concluded it was worthless. That broke his heart.

I've been bedridden all day. Coughing up pieces of my lung ever so often -- or just plain often -- and too weak/lazy to go get something to eat. Read The Girl with a Pearl Earring. Liked the Pieter the son character. Wanted that blue-eyed adonis to fuck me in an alley like he did Griet ... except with clean hands ... and Trident. Watched Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on my computer. Ross Morrissey is a dreamboat. Mmm ... a made-over former Marine :) ... who can't salsa :(

So as I write this, I lay sick and frying. Burning up like Chaka Khan at Studio 54 ... pre-Botox, perm, and saline *assumably*.

Wednesday, December 24, 2003

'Tis Christmas Eve and I'm in a rut. Not literally, but emotionally. Why is it that my sister -- six years my junior -- can play the victim card even when I'm the actual victim?

I've always been peeved at how much attention she gets from my mom just because they get along better. She had piano lessons yesterday. While getting ready to leave, my teacher handed her a sheet printed, "Lessons on Dec. 24, 25, 27, 28 are all cancelled." The 25th on her paper was circled because that was the next time she would have a lesson.

Today comes and Satan's Spawn tells me to hustle to class. Wearily I go, only to discover there wasn't one. Embarrassed was I to be stranded with an obviously annoyed German/Italian family trying to celebrate Christmas Eve in peace.

Long story short, I come home to ask my sister why she neglected to give me that sheet. I was calm, I was cool, I just wanted an explanation. In response, she yelled, "Because it was only for me! Look! She only circled it on mine!" But if she had half a brain, she would've seen that classes on ALL those dates were cancelled too. By this time, my mom had come in through the front door and quickly theorized that I was in the wrong. I tried to explain, but my words fell on deaf ears. She dismissed me and my "excuses" for making my sister cry (because at this point, Satan's Spawn was teary-eyed -- like a contestant in a tranny pageant -- from screaming so much). So now my smug sister is probably grinning like a mofo on speed in a car headed to a party in Toronto, and I'm cooped up in my room listening to Air's Moon Safari ... in a state of content, to be honest.

So, I guess there was nothing to rant about really ... except that injustice is a bitch. And sisters are too.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

Today, I took photos of God Lover at the mall. Let's just keep it at "Funniest Day All Year". Indescribably hilarious. Equally thought-provoking and foolish. Unsound and unsettled. A great day for humanity. I'll try to post some on my blog once they're done developing at Walmart. The calendar will be on sale for anyone with a cat's curiosity ... and are sadistically prone to visualising discomfiture in the safety of a closet.

Monday, December 22, 2003

Preparing for tomorrow's amateur photo shoot with God Lover at the mall. Shotgun Toter is my best friend, so I've decided to make her a pin-up calendar featuring said person. Surprisingly, he agreed to pose for us. Now, I'm torn between either formatting it so that his face is manually pasted on objects -- such as Santa Claus, turkey carcass, toboggan -- or just of him, in seasonal boxers, au naturel, acting surprised, worried, sad, nauseous, etc.

God Lover is such a good sport and oh-so enthusiastic about the impending public display of humiliation. Even going as far as providing input: "Should I leave the stubble on or off?"

I, naturally, did not have the answer as I am only the Production Manager. That job goes to Shotgun Toter, who doubles as the Creative Director for this project. She'll be the one deciding whether she wants him handling an umbrella, nude, or both.

This will be so much fun. I mean, I'll be the last person to see him alive and kicking before he gets beaten up by a mob of heterosexual men, ready for a lynching at their favourite Eddie Bauer.

Long live great straight men who have a sense of humour.

Sunday, December 21, 2003

I guess skanking it up at semi-formal attracted the right attention because guess who starts talking to me last night out of the blue? Yes, Baby Blue. Although the conversation lasted no more than 10 sentences, they were worded in such a way that skirted around an issue we were both insinuating. In the end, nothing was revealed. But he was nice. Come to think of it ... oddly nice. Sincere even. Won't think too much into it. But I do admit implementing the Sleeping Like a Deadbeat Dad technique as a deterent to prevent my brain from entering Paranoia Land. A place I know all too well. I've already used up 8 passports. Okay, 9. Okay, they know me by name and greet me with a smile at the border.

So holiday season is still upon us. I always wish people a happy Chanukah, Kwanzaa and Christmas, but I've always failed to mention Ramadan. Therefore, this year, I wish everyone a Happy Chrismukkwanzadan!

So, in your face two-in-ones! I gots me a blessing by everything under the sun! Someone's gonna get lucky tonight ... or not.

Saturday, December 20, 2003

Yesterday, my friends, Bible Cop and Shotgun Toter, and I lost the German exchange student at Costco.

I don't even know what we were doing at Costco after school, but I think it had to do with showing a foreign kid North American bulk shopping. But once we reached the free samples of Rocher chocolates, there was no stopping him. "Can you get me another one?" he asked in his monotonic drawl. The first two times went without incident. But it was when we were beside the John Tesh CDs did he ask to go get another one himself. We waited for him to come back, but he never did. Where could he be? I immediately went to the candy aisle and headed straight for the Snickers. No German. Maybe he went back to get more Rocher? The old lady with the red-checkered scarf was packing up to leave. Oh dear, oh dear, where could he be? So I thought maybe he could be where the meat was. He did poke the lamb chops when we passed by the butchers a few minutes ago. Negative! NEGATIVE! He was not there! Damnit, I thought. Rocher is the devil! So Bible Cop and Shotgun Toter and I split up and promised to meet back at the portable mattresses. I looked high and low. Office supplies? Mini donuts? Roasted chicken? Cat food? Goddamn, where was he? I met up with Shotgun Toter again near the seafood stand and walked with her along the gummy bears. She suggested we bring home/kidnap an old man, buy him a new hat and call him "Dave". I was this close to agreeing with her. Then I had a sudden feeling that he could be in the washroom. We stopped short of entering the Men's Toilets. As Shotgun Toter looked for a chance to ask some guy if he saw a 6'3" German kid wearing a black tuque, I looked through the garbage boxes customers rummage through to carry their goods in. I thought, if he was playing hide-n'-go-seek, I will bitch slap his ass to Florida. Bible Cop joined us by now, and she thought maybe Costco could page him, but they didn't have a PA system. Then again, I imagined the awkward conversation we would've had to go through with one of the employees:

"Um, excuse me?"

"Yes? May I help you?"

"Yeah, we seemed to have lost a friend of ours."

"Okay, do you mind giving me a description?"

"Okay. He's 6'3", but he slouches. He's German and speaks no English [*a lie*]. He's also wearing a black tuque."

"Um ... we don't have a PA system. You'd just have to walk up and down the aisles."

Oh wait, a version of this conversation did happen.

I gave up and sat by the hamburger joint and waited for news of his return. Then, out of the crowd of disenchanted shoppers, I saw him. His head down, both arms linked either side to Bible Cop and Shotgun Toter. It was a magical moment. His nose was red, presumably from being out in the cold (he said he kept leaving and returning to the building, but had to find the car first). I stood up, raised my arms like a Jewish mother and called out, "WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?!" and slapped him with my bag. However, I did calm down long enough to ask him, "You've never had Rocher chocolates before?"

His reply? "No, we have lots back home."

Moral of this story? Free chocolate is the devil.

Friday, December 19, 2003

Semi-formal was last night. It was so much fun. The food tasted like leftovers from an unnamed airline. I had a few roasted morsels of potatoes because, well, it resembled meat ... even more so than the chicken.

Other than the consistent mind games and looky-loos during my tenure practicing Boogey-ology 101 on the dance floor, it was fabulous. Socialised with random people from different grades and schools, fixed a stranger's shoe problem, and just shook it like a Polaroid picture.

Went home and did homework. Did homework like I've never done homework before. Literally handed everything in at the 11th hour after missing class all morning. Okay, not even 11th. More like 11:59, all the while hoping I wouldn't have to carry-over my courses if I didn't make it. But both Manolo and Bottega must've been watching out for me because even the buses didn't act like asses; actually driving fast and on time.

Life is good. Life is very good.

Thursday, December 18, 2003

Oprah's Wisdom

I was in my friend's English class today reading Oprah Magazine. He seemed unimpressed with the pictures of Sue Johanson stretching a rubber ring to simulate the size of a dilated vagina. Man, you can fit a Cadillac through that ... or at least a gramaphone. I was less than enthralled with Houseband Hippie's blasé reaction though. But hey, who's the one with the vagina here? I mean, if I matter-of-factly told him his penis was able to stretch, on command, for some self-serving sodomy, he'd react more fazed than frank.

We sold out the school newspaper today. I'm so grateful to have such an enthusiastic, loyal team. I just love it when loose ends come together to create something I can be proud of.

Semi-formal is in an hour and a half. Must ... stop ... procrastinating ... and find something ... to wear.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

I stayed at school until 7:30 tonight, working on the binding for the school newspaper. My assistant editor, Candy Mouth, had left an hour prior to my departure. Such laborious, repetitive, exhausting work. We did have a great long conversation for almost 4 hours. She said my less-than-romantic ideas sound exactly like those of her father, which consists of labelling everything as "contracts". Hmm ... guess I'm just a hapless realist. Not even hapless because I'm lucky in life. So, more like fortunate. Fortunate realist. Beat that, Jobs!

On the bus home, I sat with a drunk (Smelly #1) and his friend (Smelly #2). They had Tim Hortons cups stuffed in their lumberjack coat pockets and re-sealed alcohol in their overused LCBO bags. Something told me they had been ... ya know ... guzzling the 'shine before their lonesome ride into Steel Town.

The second bus I was waiting for wasn't at its stop yet, so I decided to buy food at the mall. The stars, the wind, the icy roads .... great night for a Boxing Day Sale. And what a coinky dink, there was a Boxing Day Sale going on at the time ... just a few weeks shy of Boxing Day. I hate going to the mall, and the stares I get from strangers with horny grins and horny hands (of course, it could just be all that Christmas cheer *now 20% more pretentious!*) I looked like a haggard (okay, a haggard who just came in off Fifth Avenue) walking -- stomping -- through the myriad of shoppers who were looking for something ... special ... sincere ... simple ... mall bought.

You know, Baby Blue and his best bud, Peacenik Prodigy, really enjoyed Jam Session, so now he's nice and cordial and ... just plain blech, to me. Man, he's not supposed to start waving at me and be friendly whenever I pass by! I expected him to internalise the mutual understanding that we're evolving into the direction of "I know you well enough to pick-up something for you without thinking too much into it" terms, and not "I'm going to be nice and wave and act like an average Joe Blow." This sucks. Nice guys finish last because ... well ... I don't (want to) like them. Shiksa goddesses, like myself, wouldn't go for some putz, like him. But I do ... yet, I can't. He's the goofiest looking piece of forbidden fruit, yet he still manages to set my loins aflame. Okay, he's short of mastering that trick. But he's still cute ... in a "bleak future ahead of him" sort of way.

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

I have absolutely nothing to wear to semi-formal. Alright, I had something but then realised other people would also be wearing red. I bought this tailored cotton skirt at a high-end boutique in Beijing for 300 big ones. But the colour's all wrong because I'll be swimming in a sea of monochromatics; lossed in the crowd. Even my donka donk dance won't help me stand out. Though that notion seems farfetched. Very farfetched.

I have my eye on a black lace Diane Von Furstenberg cocktail number. I obviously can't afford it, but I might just imitate the style with what I currently own in my closet.

Although, it blows chunks that I have nothing to wear that feels inspired. Maybe I'll go all black and bring along the nylon lime green shoulder bag I bought in Amsterdam. Then again, I won't be dancing with my purse all night long just to accessorize my outfit. Damnit! I don't even have metallic gold heels to pump up the WOW factor!

I will just have to think of something last minute. I don't want to look hot. I want to look nonchalant. Sort of, porn-star-slowly-stepping-out-of-the-pool-in-slow-mo-type careless.

However, I admit it. I also want to look like I'm having a fabulous time (and actually having a fabulous time) to show Baby Blue that I don't need him to have fun. That he would be lucky (yes, I said lucky) to join me. But I doubt the elusive girlfriend would approve.

Can't blame her though. I am a fine piece of China ass.

*Ego, rising, rising ... falling, falling ... rising, RISING! ... Gone.

Monday, December 15, 2003

Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.

--Elbert Hubbard (1856-1915)

Sunday, December 14, 2003

Have been procrastinating for ... 53 hours;10 minutes;37 seconds and counting ...

If the MAN was so powerful, why hasn't he re-named homework dancing-with-magical-ponies-in-vomit-inducing-rides-and-merry-go-'rounds-made-of-cotton-candy-and-carny-fried-donuts, already? I'd sure as hell would want to do that than bland "homework". He could also confiscate my pleasure devices (computer ... tele ... stereo ... "back messager"). It's, obviously, not my fault for being lazy. I am still legally a child under federal law, and what do children know?

Saturday, December 13, 2003

Insecure Boy is at it again (same guy as Nov. 25 entry ... again). This time, his mind is further clouded by horse manure than ever before. He's gone off the deep end.

My friend does not like him anymore. I can assurably say she doesn't want to talk to him nor have him standing in her range of view. She has told him that he is disrespectful, insecure, emotional, and above all else, needs therapy (or a "shotgun [to the head]").

Now Insecure Boy doesn't seem to get it. "Why this hostility?" he asks. Well, for one, he harassed (or should I say, harrasses) me and boasts to my friend about it. Now, maybe in his warped train of thought it makes sense: make me look bad to gain brownie points with your beloved. But when the person is my best friend, it, uh, doesn't work out too great in his favour.

He thinks she still likes him. He thinks she's been fooled by my "web of deceit". He thinks I'm in cohoots with his mentally/emotionally unstable ex-girlfriend and an acquaintance of ours (proof? we were all in the library, talking). He thinks we pulled off a "conspiracy right under [his] nose." He thinks I'm the "ringleader". He wants to force a confession out of me.

If that doesn't spell P-S-Y-C-H-O, I don't know what does.

All I've done is ignore his threats and deranged behaviour. I have a life. Why would I focus my time on the very definition of "degradation"?

So he says he's done playing and is now "out for blood." I would be scared for myself (and all parties indirectly involved in his unsuccessful attempt to fuck my buddy), but he's too dumb to make up anything resembling a complex plan. He needs to save that act for John Nash Jr., and even that guy passed high school without taking an extra year.

He would be an asshole if he wasn't such a moron.

Friday, December 12, 2003

So that's where all the mugs went. On my desk, positioned at various levels. 4 in total. There's one marble-looking one, two from IKEA in pastel colours, one I got free with my Costco-sized Double Bubble box (those comics are sick, fo' real!). Hey look, there's also a yellow plastic tumbler to my right.

What else is on my desk, curious cats may ask. Okay:

a Tweezerman tweezer
a nail clipper with a bronze lion attached to it
some markers and glitter pens
a few classical CDs
university admissions forms
an agenda from 2000/1
20-odd lines of rhinestones I cut from shoe straps
a hair band and three black cat Hallowe'en stickers
a Laura Secord hot chocolate canister now used to hold pencil crayons
a spiral notebook ... without any paper
a few pictures I took from Venice
a few batteries, marbles and an exacto knife
a lamp with a swivel neck
an M&M deluxe clock/radio telephone

Yeah, my room, in general, looks like Dick Van Dyke if he had wandered out of Mary Poppins with his instruments and headed straight into a spinning propellor of a plane; scattering his remains and belongings in illogical places.

I need to trick the Fab 5 into re-vamping my room. But to pass for a straight guy, I'd need to give up ... having it easy and ... stilettos?!

*shudder* Fuck that bullshit. I'm happy living in this dump.

Thursday, December 11, 2003

I want to buy a few gifts this Christmas on a very, very limited budget. Since Baby Blue is reading a book he thought I might like, I'm returning the thoughtfulness with a jazz CD. I want to get Jam Session (1952, re-issued 1990/1) by Charlie Parker. It's currently $11.99 on, but is shipped "within 3 to 4 weeks". So I'm going to see if they have it at the mall (doubt it).

I'm probably going to paint a few paintings for some close friends of mine, too. Although I'd have to use my cheaper oil paints because my pricey ones take over two weeks to dry. I'm coming down with something. My throat's scratchy and I'm sneezing like a cocaine addict who sniffed pepper by accident. Nothing's really happened since yesterday, but I think literally running away from Baby Blue needs to stop. It's very obvious and he probably think me a crackwhore.

Not that there's anything wrong with that ...

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Semi-formal is next week. My second school-hosted social event in ... four years. Won't be expecting too much out of it, but won't be expecting anything less than $25 worth, either. Yes, Blue Eyes will also be there ... with his *ahem* long distance girlfriend.

Ooh, just felt Allistar kicking. He does that whenever I mention his imaginary father's monicker. My fake son totally inherited his moxie from him (was going to say "spunk", but then remembered the term, "funky spunk", which no guy should have). Although, I doubt we're compatible since he wants to eventually settle down and get married, while I, on the other hand, might be forced to run away from the feds for insurance fraud any given day now.

I wish non-marrieds could celebrate random, pointless things, just like their married co-patriots. Such as: "Golden Thank-You-For-Not-Having-Children Jubilee" and "Happy Successfully-Maneuvering-#83-In-The-Kama-Sutra Day".


I miscarried Allistar (yes, I miscarried a baby that was already the size of a football). Was grooving to some Mos Def when I remembered I was supposed to be pregnant. Ah well. C'est la vie.

Is it possible to be less than pregnant? Like, minus pregnant? The ying to the proverbial yang? 'Cause I need an explanation for my weight loss now.

Oh right, I can blame it on the dumb baby, who wasn't going to survive the playground with that name, anyway. Kids can be so cruel.

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Add arrogant men to my list of Hated Assholes.

These are the guys who believe in using the IQ test to measure intelligence. If that's the case, I have an IQ of 147, but I don't go about prancing in a tutu, bragging about something as pointless as the decapitated scrotum they keep hanging between their legs for nostalgia's sake. These are the same guys who find me completely mentally 'damtarded because I haven't memorised scientifically significant dates and the names of a few dead European white men. I, apparently, only know pop culture which any "idiot off the street" is able to give the answers to.

So I must feign ignorance on all accounts because some histrionic with no soul decides to put me down for my personal interests. In order to be taken seriously, I have to resign myself from ever having a sense of humour? To be attractive to the opposite sex, I cannot be ... well ... me? Indeed, my lonely-status has been proven by an overwhelming amount of evidence, collected by said person. Why else have I not caught myself a lowlife who'll always be there when I need a human breast messager? Oh Fate, why do you torture me so? How can I compete with a track-running, Jehovah Witness who has a girlfriend his mother doesn't know about? But then again, I should've expected this from a God who not only teaches his children sympathy and understanding, but preaches bigotry, xenophobia and spite.

Monday, December 08, 2003


I forgot how much I like the Nine Inch Nails. They really were a great band. The strength of their music and lyrics is one of the reasons they're covered by so many musicians to this present day. The most recent version done by, of course, the late Johnny Cash. I listened to Maxwell's cover of "Closer" and it's good, but I liked the original version better. I mean, Maxwell changed: "I want to fuck you like an animal" to "I want to love you like an animal." How the hell do you ravage someone ... tenderly? No, it's got to be like Diane Lane in Unfaithful where she's hoisted against the bathroom stall by Olivier Martinez. Wild, passionate, Pink Ranger in heat-type sex. It's got to have a mixture of anger and lust (which is why make-up sex is so popular). And by anger, I mean, both hands are still handcuffed to the bedpost during a post-coital session when boyfriend accidently throws the keys over the 36th floor balcony. You can't escape and really need to take a leak, but think, since you're already naked in bed, why not have him heat your bacon again? Okay, bad analogy. I don't even know what the "bacon" in that is supposed to represent. But I'm craving for some right about now ...

I think I might be pregnant with a ghost baby. It's feeding off the food I feed myself (woah, great alliteration skills there). This explains my 3lb weight gain (although eating for a change might also be a contributing factor). I will update you on the progress of my pregnancy with Allistar, my ghost baby. Can I get pregnant after looking at pictures of punctured condoms? Well, I haven't been, but in case I do come upon sites that advocate punctured condoms ... at least I'll be prepared to fight them with pictures of diaphragms printed with Marge Simpson's face.
Blue Eyes told me he was reading a book he thought I might like. It's Miles Davis's autobiography. And he was right. I smiled and laughed through the Prologue. "Motherfucker" is repeated so many times that you might confuse it with someone actually fucking their mother. I like Blue Eyes somewhat more than, say, a squirrel carcass ... okay, a lot more than that. But when I see him and Ham Hock together ... I become a moping machine. Ah well, I just hope he approaches me more than I do him because I do not want the blame for furthering any cracks in his current relationship (which I doubt exists, but one can always hope).

I went for my CO-OP interview at the Spectator today. I think I nailed it (but then again, I already see myself as a natural at that). Mr. H., the interviewer, asked me if I would be interested in the production (editing and layout) portion of the newspaper, which is something I'd rather do than be a loony reporter in a town full of incredibly lame stories ("I collect bottle caps"). The two girls behind me didn't stand a chance: one was overweight and dressed to the negative nines, while the other killed a Yeti for her coat. Okay, okay. So I'm just in a competitive spirit right now. I mean, they could've been thinking, "Damn girl, where yo skirt be at? Brothel's that way" for all I know, as I walked by.

Today's slogan: No one can feel as helpless as the owner of a sick goldfish.

Sunday, December 07, 2003

I love this quote:

"When fighting with an idiot, remember that once he drags you down to his level he will beat you with experience."
Am I the only one who enjoys reading dessert recipes? No no. Scratch that. Any sort of recipe. I don't cook. But man, do I love food. I mean, I have to literally pry my eyes away from the computer screen to stop looking through dishes I will never be able to make. Just thinking about it makes my heart skip a beat:

New England clam chowder
Veronese stonebaked pizzas
Curried crab
Szechuan noodles
T-bone steak and fries
Chocolate ganache
Chicken saté
Lobster Napoloeon
Escargo in seasoned olive oil
Mango pudding with condescensed milk
Fettucini Alfredo
Kebabs, fresh from the rotisserie grill, wrapped in a warm pita bread

I like to eat. It doesn't matter if it's exotic or homestyle, I just eat anything that's put forth in front of me. Soulmates are hard to find. But if you enjoy eating in foreign locales, testing the local fanfare, and Dior is your patron saint ... come knocka, knocka, knocka at my door.

Here's my point though. The holidays are fast approaching, and in recognition of bloggers publishing their wishlists, I will also join the bandwagon.

Although what I really need is a laptop for university, preferably an iBook, before I leave. But goddamn it, they stopped making them in pretty colours!

So please look at the following list. It is for anyone with deep pockets this Christmas. Deep pockets, for Lily, this Christmas:

Because all flavour, no fat. Anything savoury. None of that pansy sweet shit. I'm a big girl now.

Because I love chocolates. Don't think I don't know what "tempering" means either. I watch FoodTV. I know what Jacques Torres does. So that chocolate bar better make a clean "snap".

Because I like my daily dose of meat in a handy, compact, size. Perferably Harvey's. I've grown close to that corporate conglomerate.

Because they're delicious and I've always been impressed with their warped sense of size. Their "small" is not "small". Looking more Ruben Studdard than Clay Aiken, in the fastfood market.

Because I want to look more Asian

Because I really want a shopping spree, like those mullet-teers from Style Court

Because I can bathe it, and dress it, and feed the boozehound gumdrops and raisins. Then send it on its way, into the freezing cold, while feeling like I've truly helped the needy, as I fall asleep by the fireplace.

Because you can never be too lazy.

Because I will never get around to learning how to drive

Because I'm a poor, begging, bastard

Because you can never stop dreaming.
You know that feeling you get when you start liking someone who does something so surprisingly unexpected, it makes you swoon all over again? That feeling you get from the bottom of your stomach to the top of your throat that just rises out of you, in a flurry of sensations? It's quite indescribable, really. You feel elated. You feel at once hungry and full. That feeling of trembling hands and forced deep breaths. There is a perma-grin imprinted on your face for a time being. Rushing thoughts move on a speeding conveyor belt that is your imagination: how he would look on your arm, how he smells, what he might be wearing, what he might say, what others might say about him, what others might say about vous. You finally snap yourself out of your waking slumber. Shoulders relaxed, back against a chair or wall, you momentarily drift into your previous state, but the feeling is gone. And now you sigh, reminiscing.

Friday, December 05, 2003

I hate emotional men. I hate insecure men. I hate smug fuckers who purposely provoke me into flipping-out and making a scene in the library, only to have me return to slap him in the back with my binder.

I hope he gets castrated ... slowly. Then be forced to bathe in a tub of vinegar as jalopeño peppers are smeared into his eyes.

*Same guy as the Nov. 25 entry

Thursday, December 04, 2003

So tired. My friends, Bible Cop and Wall Lover, and I went around town today, taking pictures of our math disciple friends. Bible Cop baked cookies, and brought along apple cider and hot chocolate packets, all tied up with ribbon. It was like an episode of COPS, except the soundtrack was made up of the Soundgarden and Outkast, rather than footsteps, grunts, and the "zzzzzz-click" of handcuffs. And instead of running after stereotypical black men minding their own business in the slums of Tristate area, we left Wall Lover's 1984 Crown Vic running in the middle of the road as we hurried off to our next photo op:

"Who's gonna steal that? No really. I mean, it doesn't even have a right side mirror."

I suggested that she should, somehow, attach a powder compact to the side door.

I felt like Zhou Liu Soprano while riding in the backseat of the car (Bible Cop was quick to call "shotgun", 'tis why). The only thing missing was the sound of Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero's voice in the midst of talking some real "business".

Like scavengers, we hunted for houses in alien neighbourhoods, guided only by directions roughly comprehensible on the crumpled piece of paper. After locating our targets (and meeting their accompanying guardians), we made them pose with their respectable (okay, humiliating) presents in an awkward embrace, shot using a two dollar camera (packaged in a cardboard jacket, adorned with a rainbow jester dancing with its own shadow). How cheap was it? Well, the zoom function required you to walk towards your intended target.

The parents of one math disciple (I won't say who, but his name rhymes with "Tray") became suspicious of the motives behind visiting their son. I'm guessing it's something along the lines of "carnal urges in their nether regions". Since none of us do, I will accuse Bible Cop of the offense, nonetheless. This allegation is obtained from witnessing her extreme enthusiasm for being allowed to tour "Tray's" Tudor-style home. She also accepted their offer of oranges. This, I believe, was a sly contract the family tricked her into for the purpose of strengthening the family bloodline. Like Persophone, she is now bound to them by blood! But since I'm off the hook, it's all good.

Fun night. Crazy night. All without the help of illegal substances.

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

A dinner menu from the Titantic was snatched up for $49 500 by a private museum in Belfast.

When people pay for historically significant memoribilia, are they also buying a piece of immortality? Their names forever attached to the material object, like a list of names etched down the side of a tree. It is not enough to be in the presence of greatness (itself, tapped from a sparkling well of notoriety), people must become great themselves. That's where these "artifacts" come in. Not only would earthen wares handcrafted by topless natives be preserved, your name will be too. And isn't eternal celebritydom the greatest gift money can buy?

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

You know what Baby Blue said to me last week?

"Your sunglasses are ugly."

"Fuck you," I replied.

Actually, I damn near socked it to him. Hello? They're GUCCI. "They're so last season," he explained later that night. They're from the 2003 Fall/Winter runway! How dare he!

You know, single-child-o-tosis is a serious ailment that affects one in three children who lack siblings. Symptoms include verbal diarrhea, nausea (for those in close contact with the inflicted), and generally acting like jackasses with $500 a day coke habits. There's a fine line between charming and arrogance. I can confidently say he's been living outside that gray area for awhile now. He's as arrogant as I am underweight. Reminds me of a teenage runaway. Except "childhood home" is replaced with "reality" and "party 'til the sun comes up" is replaced with "old man circle-jerk outside Subway restaurant". Gives a whole new meaning to "Eat Fresh".

While assholes may come and go, GUCCI will always love me.


Baby Blue, apparently, isn't an only child. Which means, he can't plead insanity when charged with acute snobbery.

Okay, that's not fair. I'm being unfair. He hasn't technically done anything worth punishing for. He's just a guy with his own distinct brand of humour and personality. I over-analyse the black and white. I should stop doing that and concentrate on other things ... like adorkably a-dorkalicious Adam Brody *drool/wipe/drool*.
Okay. I got it. I have defined my love for Seth Cohen (played by the non-fictional, Adam Brody *drool*). He is the thinking woman's pin-up. A "gee whiz" sort of guy. Awkward, yet confident. Carries around a smart mouth like Donald Trump does his wallet. Modest and thoughtful. Neurotic, but just the right amount. And when he makes statements like, "No one can ruin Chrismukkah!" I get an overwhelming urge to rip that sweater vest right off his untanned, untoned, body. This, also, reminds me of Topher Grace (who has yet to consummate our love. I mean, the poste office can only lose our marriage license so many times, right? Oh well. There's always Reno). Speaking of which, am I weird for thinking corduroy has done for men what the bustier has done for women? They fit nicely around the tush. They go with any top available in a man's closet that didn't come free in a Molson pack. And they add a bit of ruggedness (dare I say ... naugtiness?) to a man's overall appearance. Now, I might come off as being extremely shallow (or just extremely Lily), but the results of a Sex and the City poll seem to agree with me:

Which of these is your number one dealbreaker in a relationship?

Bad hair ................................. 3%
Bad breath ............................. 29%
Bad style .............................. 40%
Bad in bed .............................. 28%

So hetero ladies agree. If you look like the guy who shows up at Jenny Jones thinking he was in for a makeover, but meets the mother of his fetus instead ... you should re-consider your reason to go on living.

Noose, anyone?

*Sidenote: People say I remind them of that Chinese girl from the Gilmore Girls (you know, the one who's Korean). Well, Two Degrees of Adam Brody later ... he asks me out! Well, not directly. Rather, he asks the character who plays me on TV out, by saying:

I don't smoke. I don't drink. I've never gotten a ticket. I'm healthy. I take care of myself. I floss. I never watch more than thirty minutes of television a night, partly because I think it's a waste of time and partly because there's nothing on. I respect my parents. I do well in school. I never play videogames in case they do someday prove that playing them can turn you into a serial killer. I don't drink coffee. I hate soda because the carbonation freaks me out. I'm happy to give up meat if you feel strongly about it. I don't mind wearing a tie. I enjoy playing those hymns on my guitar. And I really, really want to take your daughter to the prom. Mrs. Kim? Please don’t make me repeat that list again.

Oh man, Topher sure was angry. But c'mon, how do you say no to that?

Don't diss the Jew. Do the Jew.

Monday, December 01, 2003


These words from Orwell's 1984 came to mind, just now, while I was thinking about the social taboos people have yet to conquer. I mean, everyone knows of greed and ambition, but how many people actually admit to it? Power is the doxy of our times. We all want it. Need it. Breathe it. Depend on it. Yet, when we are caught, we are burned at the stake. And those who previously envied us, now hypocritically shake their heads in shame and disbelief. "How could they do such a thing?" they ponder, incredulously. There must be something wholly wrong with the world when people still try to re-seal their eyes to things they've already seen. If we are, indeed, a society of freaks, why are we so alike? Why are the people who proclaim "individuality" as boring and reckless as the rest of us? What is a society, if not a gaggle of geese, scurrying for that crumb of bread, handed to us in amusement? In recognition of Orwell's statement of a totalitarian regime, I would like to add one more line:


Sunday, November 30, 2003

I love Adam Brody. Especially after his comment to Mischa Barton about her nude scene with "All night BJ" Enrique (yes, I realise this is old news):

Quddus asked if she had any idea she'd be taking her clothes off for Enrique Iglesias's 'Addicted' video. "Yes, I did," the 17-year-old actress admitted. "We wanted it to be kind kind of racy and Peter [Berg] is a great director and he's one of my favorites. I knew he'd do something cool with it. His videos are kind of racy." Brody asked Barton what was the 28-year-old Iglesias in jail for during the video. "He wasn't inside of jail," Barton replied. "He's locked inside of his pain and misfortune because he can't be with me."

Way to miss the point there, Mischa. Heh heh.

His character, Seth Cohen (a nod to Joel and Ethan Cohen, maybe?), is a dreamboat. A dorkboat? Whatever. He's a fictional character that will be the criteria to which all my future prospects will be held against:

Quick, witty, funny
Likes feisty women
Pop culture god
Stylin' in vintage T-shirts, tailored shirts and denim
Jewish (or not. I can deal with that)
Likes Family Guy better than The Simpsons (that's just an assumption, but we connect; I know)
Brunette (blondes are so Motley Crue, 1983)

The other things like ... having his own sailboat, rich parents, lives by the ocean and skates, are just icing on the cake. I'll survive.
Sometimes I envision myself in a future where picket fences and beach houses are the norm. I will have an accountant husband (non-drinker/smoker; loves his job; keeping his name; previously divorced; likes handcuffs in bed) and prodigious children (one boy; one girl; a year or two apart; witty and wise beyond their years), whom enjoy playing their instruments with clarity and ease. I the piano, he the drums and the little ones, acoustic guitar and clarinet, respectably. On Fridays, we would have family jam sessions, like the Von Trapps, sans the sensational escapade into the Swiss Alps from the Nazis.

I'd dress my girl up in Chloe and Chanel, but never spoil her with trips to the local spa or a Cabriolet on her sweet 16. My son will either be a social outcast or gay. One or the other, honey. But either one would be fine. I'd lean towards the latter, if only to hear from him, "Ma, flip-flops with crisp white Ralph Lauren capris are like, totally, Frank Sinatra without his fedora: so not belonging to this century." Ah, the apprentice has become the master ... *tear*

They'd also fluently speak at least 3 languages, like me. A fourth coming from their bilingual father. We'd travel to various countries and continents, collecting exotic mementos and displaying them in our study (what is that?). Instead of cavorting with the locals during the annual debutante's ball, I would whisk my family away for a night of clambaking revelry by the bonfire. Viewing the constellations through the vintage telescope and waking up to the sun rising above the watery horizon is followed by alone time, reading The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton by the crashing waves and endless stretches of sand.

Oh man, this sounds way too New Haven, Connecticut. I see myself as a more Manhatten, NYC-type o' gal. Promiscuous sex and yeast infections? CHECK! VIP lists and prenuptial agreements? ... Check. Parties to club openings and getting raped on the catwalk at Studio 54? ........ check? Both sound less than appealing, though more so, the latter option. Hold me, I'm scared ...

I'm not superstitious but I think I might've just jinxed myself from ever living a good life. Like the saying goes, "Speak of the devil, and he doth appear."

Saturday, November 29, 2003

I don't want to say this but ... Laura's deadjournal ... shames my blog. Even coffee mugs sound more interesting in her hands. I mean, she actually makes me think, "Boy, I want that undescriptive mug she forces herself to clean every morning." And it's good that she finds inspiration everywhere. On her wall. On her table. On her feet. Why? Why in Jehovah's name can't I be more like her?

Okay ... so I see Scottie, the terrier beanie baby, perched up on my computer screen. It's ... black. Quilted. Beady eyes made of ... beads. Okay, I got nothin'.

I was in theory class yesterday. Well, not exactly "theory" since it's just memorising the whole freakin' history of European music! We're at Giovanni Da Palestrina now (or Pierluigi, for those of you in the "know"). Bah, that must be the last time the Italians contributed anything to the world:

"Ooh, look at me. I'm Italian. Listen to me speak Italianese. I love Monica Bellucci and olive oil."

Okay, so there was Puccini and Scarletti and Verdi and Vivaldi after him. But I hate going to that class (even though I need it to make a living for myself, and in essence, avoid having to wake up from a park bench to play my nose flute every afternoon). So there.

I just went to the fridge to find me some breakfast. Yeah, I know it's 3 o'clock. You wanna fight? Found an unopened can of Coke in there. Drank that. I should've replaced it since it belonged to someone else but ... what the hey, I don't care. Found some ground beef patties and shoved them in the toaster oven. That motherfucker always burns me. Sears my flesh. Brands me as his bitch. But not this time, son. I used a fork. I opened the freezer and scoured for a fudgesicle. I found them hidden inside a tin tray, beneath the ribs and pork roast. I suspect they were supposed to be in hiding ... from me. Is my family so dense that they don't realise I can even find fudgesicles in a casket? And knowing me, I'd probably take it from the deceased without a second thought.

Man, I should start learning to eat better. Not like traditional Guangzhou cooking isn't already healthy. But like carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Can never get enough of that.

I's a-out. Gon' bust a cap in someone's ass. My playas been bitchin' at me for holdin' up the crew. Sheet. This, of course, means I have to go and rescue my ground beef patties from their parched prison.

Until next time. Keep fit and have fun. Or so what Hal Johnson and Joanna McLeod used to say, back in the day. How I yearned for them to admit to their interracial romance and stop bothering the rest of us with their tricep-cercises and salad tosses, designed to feel each other up. Fuck and get it over with, ya tracksuit-wearing lovebirds!
... and so Lily is diagnosed with can't-be-nice-otosis. I think I'm one of those people who enjoy sabotaging their relationships. I mean, why else would a conversation like this occur:

Lily: So what else is big on you?

Girl2: Lily! Don't say that!

Lily: Well, he already showed me his ears.

Baby Blue unveils his ears.

Girl3: Okay, those are big ears.

Baby Blue: I can also *verb* cans with my *noun*.

Starts doing twisty, bendy, and other "I'm probably better in bed than you are"-type feats

Girl2: That's weird, but really cool. I like it. Teehee.

Girl3: You're like a cartoon character.

Lily: Too bad you're not as interesting as one.

Baby Blue: What?

Lily: I said, too bad you're not as interesting as one.

Baby Blue: Well, isn't that a shame?

You see. Baby Blue (no lie: his eyes remind me of aquamarines, I tell ya) has his very own hoard of female groupies. Fawning over him like a fat man on cheese. Dangling their nougats over his head. And playing with his hair like a child molesting spaghetti. And for some reason, I felt the urge to bring him down. I always have this urge around certain people. Why is it that when compliments go flying, I need to be the one who roughs up the air? It's not like I don't get my share of compliments. They're nice when they're sincere and used in moderation. But what happens when it borders on the obscene? What happens when you know your ass is kissed red? Can you still enjoy it? Does he enjoy it? It's all very complicated. No. A trite too simple, more like. I mean, it illustrates his love affair with attention. He delights in the fact that it's flourished on him like confetti at a wedding. So maybe, he's not the man I idealised to be. Maybe ... he-has-a-girlfriend-anyway-so-it doesn't-make-a-difference.

It's the big kahuna of ego-boosts when a woman is able to seduce a man away from his significant other. Besides, he doesn't need my noticing when his charisma's already captured all those other doting femmes (and hommes), seen by his locker like a flock of Danish hookers.

What was there to lose when there was nothing to gain?

Oh, how I drink up the lies I tell myself ...

Thursday, November 27, 2003

'Tis blasphemy!

Have you seen the commercials for this? The game of Twister is now re-packaged to teach kids how to get their groove on. It's like that Japanese arcade game, Dance Dance Revolution, except tackier and with remixed songs by Nick Carter and his brother ... uh ... Little Nick Carter (and by 'remixed', I mean, "just as bad as the original, except the bass is just loud enough to give you erectile dysfunction"). So now, you too can dance, dance, DANCE! your buttocks off on a 3ft by 3ft square in the basement of your recently divorced parent. Who is getting increasingly impatient as he bribes you with Sour Patch Kids and midget horses in the custody battle of the century. Nice. Real nice ...

The point of the original game was, of course, to give you a reason to brush up against your crush, then land on top of him when you do your best London-Bridge-is-Falling-Down/Woman-On-Top impression. Twister Moves totally takes that away. While legs are a-spinnin', and hips are a-shakin', and heads are a-boppin', and hands are a-gropin', the likelihood of being suggestive to Mr. Pubescent goes down 70 points, while the likelihood of getting your face smashed in by a pair of Iversons from last season increases eight fold. So damn you Twister! Damn you to hell for trying to "improve" on the classic reason we go to parties in the first place! Why don't you fuck my soul and feed it to Tammy Faye while you're at it, you corporate bastards!

Oh, and changing the colour of the board from virginal white to menacing black won't get you any new customers. Everyone already knows the people playing these games are whores. I mean, why else would a chick with mangoes end up with double "D" casabas at an after-school get-together? Yeah, to sell her fruit, that's what. And by changing the colour of the mat, parents will now get suspicious:

"I dunno, Donna ... the mat doesn't look too promising. I'm suspicious as to what it's doing here in Merv the Perv's cellar, of all people."

Forget the ass-floss stickin' out of Sherry's low-rise jeans. Don't even bother wondering why Lois has that healthy layer of lipgloss for some good ol' fashioned fly trapping. And you can just ignore the falsie-nipples worn underneath Joanna's semi-sheer bikini. The time has come for parents to realise once and for all that Twister is Satan. Once it leaves the box, your daughter's modesty will too. And as they spread open the plastic sheet, their legs will follow. You have been forewarned ...

Wednesday, November 26, 2003


If you ask me, we don't use that word nearly as often as we should. It works seamlessly on so many levels:

"Did you eat my sandwich?"

"Did you leave the gas on?"

"Are those your panties caught on the ceiling fan?"

"So what you're basically saying is, yes, you were in Lederhosen n' Lace. But no, that Triple-XL, titanium-coated, K-Y dispensing, calorie-counting, lemonade-making, self-heating dildo was for your ... niece?"
"Crike this."

Oh, how I envy the vast expanse of words the British commonly use. If only they had better teeth ...

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

I disapprove of my friend's potential boyfriend (currently on layaway). Here's my rant to that ye olde bad-case-of-gonorrhea:

The major thing is his unconscious false sense of identity. Says I'm shallow like it was the worst insult allowed on Skinamax, when it's him who labels people. "I don't go for girls who look like that." What happened to "getting to know their personality"? I call him a walking cliché, and he (understandably) resents it:

"Yeah, so ... I'm gonna go and play some Dylan on my guitar."

Ooh goody gumdrops, Dylan! I mean, who hasn't played Dylan when they first started plucking that universal symbol for teenage angst and isolation? If he was going for originality, he could've at least lied and said "Tom Petty". And would've impressed me more if he had name dropped, "and the Heartbreakers."

Speaking of originality. When did talking out of your over-ripe, tangerine ass, make you a non-conformist? Constantly protesting about the lack of free speech, when in truth, it is he who can't come up with controversial enough remarks to "stir the pot", as they say. News flash: Being able to make wacko (I mean, stupid) statements of that nature without getting arrested probably signifies your status as a free citizen in a democratically-ruled country. If you were really chained by society, how the hell are you able to gain access to information? From a qualified Frenchie who smuggles it in his anal cavity for 6 weeks? Presumably ... not. *Ugh ... sounding really pro-West right now, but just being the devil's advocate, for the sake of argument* Again, it would've impressed me more if he wasn't quoting information already available in the public domain. "George Bush is an idiot." Yeah, and cows are gassy. Tell me something everyone but the Bush administra ... No, I take it back because they're actually extra familiar with the ex-coke addict's IQ of 80. However, if he had said something like Cheney and [Deputy Secretary of Defense] Wolfowitz had been trying to get the US to invade Iraq since the yonder years of Bush Sr. , then I would've acted more partial to him and the need to mistreat Mr. Herpes Simplex, version D-U-M, would've never occurred to me.

Oh, and he gloats like a pre-schooler who had just successfully fished out his own poop ... 'cept pre-schoolers don't ask rhetorical questions like, "Did you get published in the paper? Oh, no? So shhhhh." When in fact, I was ... just days later.

Yes, I find it hard to believe that he garners admiration/loin lust from the opposite sex at all. And it would probably take me the greater part of next week to scratch the surface of his Woody Allen-esque neuroticism:

"I don't want her to think that's me because I'm not like that. Unless you told her I am. Which I'm not. Then again, you've probably already gone ahead and told her whatever the hell it was you were thinking. I have feelings, you know. Aww ... now you're gonna tell her that, too. I can't trust anyone. You suck."

After all that, the simple reason I'm not "supporting" this bound-to-fail union is because I just don't go for the whole idea. I guess I'm bias, since I, personally, go for "smarts" (I know, I know. Wiener Boy was an exception ... okay, so maybe "smarts" are a given. It's moreso ... "talent". Okay, maybe not even that. Just "Wiener-quotient"). No, I'm not wallowing in my own insecurities nor am I a bitteratti, living out the rest of her life in a perpetual state of spinsterhood. He's not quick on his toes, he merely warms them with his woolly slippers. He's always referring back to his ex's behaviour. And my jabs are met by a blank stare, or a Horatio Sanz-type reply:

"Uh, well .. maybe, I'll donate an insult ... to you, bad guys ...then."*

And I think that last point alone makes him a pussy in my book.

But I will never, ever, try to sabotage their inevitable hook-up. Although, I tell them my discontent stems from not wanting to feel like a third wheel in their presence (in Slovak, it's "5th wheel under mule cart" or something). In truth, it's not.

He's a joke. And he'll now be the joke that sits on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, eating pogos with his hands, smearing grease on the afghans and leaving skid-marks in his pants.

Just too close for comfort.

*Counter-reply: "I'm sure that's a devastating comeback in the break room at Circuit City."

Monday, November 24, 2003

Can't think of anything to talk about today. A rant takes too long. An analysis requires too much thinking.

What to write ... what to write about ...

I want to talk about Ham Hock and her got-the-dog-by-its-tail love tactics but it might seem like I have an obsessive habit to observe (it's like compulsive voyeurism, but in a wholly platonic sense. In laymen's terms: No, I don't like to watch heteros "doing it". Though, I don't mind the occasional ... Wait, no. I don't like watching anyone "doing it" *shudder*).

So I leave you with one thought:

If the world was, indeed, an oyster ... what happens to those allergic to shellfish?

Like my dad. Who was playing the accordion and singing commie songs again. When will someone break the news to him that Mao is dead? Actually, in China, people seem to worship Clinton (and to a lesser degree, Hillary). He has a fashion campaign out now, which he got paid US$500 000 to do. It really is the American dream: to have steel wool-looking hair, a girth the size of two Judd sisters (okay, I'm exaggerating. Maybe the Olsens) and still get paid to sport tailored suits ... albeit, made in China.

Sunday, November 23, 2003

No one knew where they came from. From the shadowy depths of Carpenterville, four figures of various temperaments, heights and desires, were thrown into the chaotic realisation that were, indeed, alone. From the creators of Bad Boys and Bad Boys II, a Jerry Bruckheimer production, in association with Alliance Atlantis films, comes the epic ...

THE BOXCAR CHILDREN: The Case of the Missing Marker

Note to self: Non-aggressive, coming-of-age, holiday-packaged, morality bandwagons are big money ... and children are suckers for boxcars.

Note to self again: I love my new shoes. I hope the weather warms up just a bit for me to wear them to school.

Saturday, November 22, 2003

Eating oranges has inspired me to write an ...

(sung to the tune of "Yesterday")

Oranges, how I peel your rind then snack away
You're so juicy and delightfully gay
Oh, I can see you're tart today

Magically, you explode in a surprising way
On my wall you leave your pain, I say
Oh, better than Miss Muffet's whey

Why my mom brought you in a bowl with clementines
Maybe then you'd share your position in my shrine

Oranges, now you're gone the way of chocolate cake
More delicious than that Shake n' Bake
Oh, I believe that you're no fake (<--can be replaced with "Chinese Jake")

Mm mm mm mm mm mm mm.

*Try singing the song. It fits and is really quite catchy.
"Lily is so offensive!" says the doppleganger of a narcissistic sweetheart (no, make that: power-hungry hangetitten).

It's like there are unpaying jobs out there with the following job-description:

Must be adept at sniffing out
offense offenders. Need to
be trained in the arts of
correctness. Aggressively
opinionated. Traditional,
socially-skewed morals. Enjoy
over-simplifying and labels.
Self-described do-gooder.
Please start as soon as possible.
Call 1-800-LUCIFER to apply.

But enough of that. I got new shoes. Going in, I was looking for pumps, but the ones I had my eye on were just so god-awful uncomfortable (even for a shoe-meister like meself). But after trying on the black d'Orsays with spaghetti ankle-wraps, I decided that I was indeed in love and left with my newfound flame, "Paul"*.

*Heh heh. For all my Sex and the City chicas:

"Oh honey, wake up and smell the K-Y. I was flipping through a vintage issue of Honcho. I saw his ad in the Rauncho section. He called himself 'Paul'! Worst hustler name I've ever heard!"

"He and Stanford are in love."

"Hmm, well according to Honcho, he used to be in love all over town."

Oh man, I don't feel guilty about pleasure. That's my problem.
We are fond of one another, because our ailments are the same.

--Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

Friday, November 21, 2003

I am not young enough to know everything.

--James M. Barrie (1860-1937)

Thursday, November 20, 2003

You know, I wonder when Wacko Jacko is going to be officially arrested already. It's weirdly admirable that he thinks he can forever evade the authorities. How deep does his Peter Pan-syndrome run when he thinks inviting pre-pubescent boys over to scrump is okay? Wait. When did pre-pubescent boys ever have sleep-overs?! Did I miss the whole I'm only experimenting-phase of child development completely? Well, here's some pointers for future reference Mike: when someone passes you the soap in the shower, they're not being courteous. It's the beginning of a relationship. Ooh, just think of all the buggery that'll occur... heh heh. Ah, mind in the gutter again. Sorry.

Enrique Iglesias has Misha Barton naked in his video "Addicted". She's 17. He's ... not. Now, she has a fine ass body, which is the object of my envy. But again, she's ... 17. Howard Stern said Mr. Latin-Sensation-Sans-the-Trademark-Mole should be sent to jail. Citing the injustice of having thrown Tommy Chong into the pen for selling bongs, while Fabio-incarnations are allowed to simulate sex with girls who've just discovered the "touch of their hand" like a stylized version of R. Kelly's public secret*.

Ah, the world is a circus. Where do I sign up?

*Sold in conjunction with the Paris Hilton sex tap for an astonishing $19.99 and S&H (The Shame & Herpes tax.) Prohibited in Maryland. Recyclable where available. Made from concentrate. Tried, tested and true.
I just read the book review for Helmut Newton: Autobiography. For a man who made a career out of taking controversial, highly-suggestive, photos, he's nothing short of remarkable. The page excerpts reveal to me a man who refuses to excuse himself for his decadent, Dionysian, lifestyle. I think the reason his photos are so talked about is because they question, surprisingly, male sexuality. Leaving the male viewer with one of two burdens to carry: perversion or self-denial. The former, because the arousing pictures almost always illustrate twisted and questionable relationships. The latter, because of its tendency to inflict self-revulsion when left unchecked, ergo, oppressed. It's the devious paradox of a so-called liberated society that prides itself for its open-mindness to ideas ... within reason. The accusation that Newton and (on a lesser scale) von Unwerth have demonized sex is without merit. How can it be demonized when it was never allowed into sainthood? The classical definition used in art to seperate what is and isn't tasteful is: "What turns me on is erotica. What turns you on is pornography." And in essence, it is the statement of our lives: What I do is always justifiable. What you do, just never is.

This is the double standard that is regularly confused with popular opinion. It is the hated flaw we unknowingly enforce. Are we truly undogmatic when we use ourselves as the universal scale of morality?

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

So the Proficiency assembly was today. You know, not being able to slap someone undeserving of an award (or two) is irritating. This girl, Paulina, had an early copy of every unit test in Chemistry and had her brother tell her the answers to the Biology tests (since he wrote them). She didn't know the difference between an atom and a molecule four months into the semester. But, lo and behold, she ends up sharing the Science award with someone MUCH more deserving. She won the Art award, prior to this, too. Hmm ... I wonder why her art looks so familiar ... Oh right, they were ripped-off from magazines ... and classmates. You know, being "inspired" is one thing but not giving credit to your sources ... well then, you're a gloating motherfucker. Ah well, nothing I can do but whine. Moral of the story: Crime pays.

But it's okay. I mean, she has zippo friends, but a bright future in the lucrative business of online pornography (already, her photos litter trash bins all over the 'net). It would be a shame to see her unable to reach her full potential.

Anyway, high school awards mean squat. Although, I must confess I want the Best Dressed award. C'mon ... BEST DRESSED!

In other events, I saw Joelle today. Gave her two big hugs the two times I saw her and asked her how she was doing. Was completely blown away by her strong show of character, especially after enduring so much in that recent tragedy. She smiled so cheerfully and pleasantly the whole time we were together that I could not but admire her. Simply put, an all 'round special cookie.
Hello God? Are you up there? It's me, Lily. Please get rid of Jim Caviezel and replace him with a tax bill or something.

Of all the crazy-eyed, bad actors out there, Mel Gibson picks him to play Jesus in that new movie, "The Passion". The dude's horrible. Just plain crap. After seeing him in Angel Eyes with Ms. Lopez, I swear I wanted to drink myself into a drunken stupor ... then break the bottle ... to have it shoved into my neck. Oh, poor Jimbo. With his memory gone, he's now free to help the needy while looking just dirty enough to make La Lopez wet her seat (her rather large seat). Why won't people realise this guy is not mysterious and intriguing? He's a wretch! He gives Jenna Jameson a bad name. And now, they put him in Passion, speaking Ara-fuckin'-maic. It's like watching Godzilla battle Mothra and realising no matter what the outcome, the city of Tokyo is the real victim. So Jimmy Jackass will now blandly act out Jesus's last hours in a monotonous dead language. Here's an idea: make it in English, and you'll still get the incoherent effect from your lead star, except everyone else (heh!) makes sense too! Man, don't even get me started on Frequency, where he co-starred/crapped with Dennis Quaid. Again, he displayed the acting chops of someone glue-gunned together at a Jim Henson workshop.

Gosh gee willikers*, why are mofos getting paid to hold themselves up and piss on command?

*Yes, that's how you spell it. No, you may not check.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

Ah, the script I have now is absolutely fantastic!

So today, I was talking to Mr. O about the surreal aspect of my script and he asked me if I liked Le Sang d'un Poète, while Mr. S, the librarian stood beside us. I replied that I did and told him I suspected the protagonist gave himself fellatio*. Mr. O laughed and said, Oh Lord, while Mr. S, shocked, turned the other way. It was a delicious moment. I justified it by saying, "Hey, it was made in 1930." Besides, both Mr. O and I are film fanatics. Why be embarrassed when you're only describing something matter-of-factly? The recent Spanish film Hable con Ella (Talk to Her, 2002) has a scene that takes place entirely in front of a woman's vulva with a condensed little man entering and leaving at will. Think Patch Adams for a NC-17 ... or dime-show ... audience.

However, I think I've become too blunt. Do I hurt people's feelings when I don't sugar-coat things? Isn't knowing the truth the first step to change? Unless crying over spilt milk is a past time, then I definitely won't shut up for them out of sympathy. I also hate pretentious people who provoke fights with me only to pull things out of their ass when they've been booyah-ed. Jerks.

*The main character rubs off the mouth on his charcoal drawing, and it comes alive on his hand. After trying to drown it by putting his hand in a basin of water, he touches his lips only to realise it felt goooood. So, he decides to put his hand down his pants for a good-ol' hand/mouth job combination.

Monday, November 17, 2003

Have decided to nix the entire story for my screenplay. Must start from scratch again ... *sigh*.
I don't quite think as much as I used to. Of course, I "think" in the conventional sense, but not like before. Gone are the days when words just flowed through my fingertips like water through a drain. Now, it's like a muddy trudge down memory lane: "I wrote that?! That was me?! Amazing!"

As of present, I hesitate to write what is clogging my mind. But here it is: I've become boring.

I tend to blather on with no end in sight. Witticisms no longer pepper my sentences. And excitement has become the exception rather than the norm.

My recent essays have become "dry". I've become my own worst nightmare as self-appointed "boundaries" are set up for the teachers I write for. This has transcended into my personal life. Anyone can be a sophisticate. All it takes is a talent for imitation and you have yourself a pretentious-sounding piece of crap-o-rama. The kind that contains words used to whisk and scramble your brain into a morning-omelette before sending in razor-sharp letters to rip your sense of humour to shreds:

"So ... what are you trying to say here?"

"That she flashed her boobs for the strip joint regulars."

"Okay ... get rid of 'the panel of reproductively-challenged clientele'. Yes, you've got it. Now erase 'unveiled were her two scoops of Amish-churned butter pecan solidified dairy nectar'."

Ah, I'm rambling again. Age is setting in and I don't like it one bit. I'm old and gross and my breasts will soon reach my Choos (*fingers crossed*). Fruitless and barren, these are dark times for me.

Especially after being informed that choking an object of quasi-quasi-infatuation actually lowers my chances of calling upon the intended mate. Go figure.

Sunday, November 16, 2003

Alright. So here's me idea for the screenplay so far:

The protagonist (known as "Gershom") is a cynic. Judging students around him. He thinks everyone is a cliché. The teachers are irrelevent here; they exist only as deus ex machinas when needed. He is tired all the time. This is his last year of high school. His dream is to be able to manipulate and lie, but his lack of social skills impede him from doing so.

One day, his usual aimless walk leads him to a frosted window. It's at the end of a dark corridor he's never seen. He tries to pry the window open, to no avail. He can hear incoherent voices on the other side. He convinces himself it's the girls' washroom since it's the only place he's never been. Gershom elbows the glass pane. It shatters with ease. The light that had illuminated the window from behind is now gone. The voices continue to chatter after pausing for a moment. He climbs through, cutting his hand on the glass shards. A red light turns on with a clack, like one belonging to a lighthouse. He walks towards it. It remains the same distance away. The tunnel turns into a vortex that fills with rushing air. It stops. The light suddenly appears 3 inches from his nose. He rubs his eyes, temporarily blinded. Looking back, the broken window is whole again. He looks in front of him and the light has split into two cardboard cut-out holes. He looks through them and sees himself staring into a mirror, in the janitor's closet. He raises his hand to tap the glass, only to realise he, himself, is still in the dark, while the person who is looking back at him is doing his own thing. There are now two Gershoms, one inside the other. Gershom2 leaves the closet and chats up a girl leaning against a fountain. "Will you not love me as I've loved you?" he inquires. She rolls her eyes at him as she chews her gum. Gershom2 grabs her wrist and slams it against the wall. "I know but little. But I expect some social tact in the presence of a man. Has Mr. Earnshaw taught you nothing?" He lets go of her. She rubs her now purple wrist. "Fuckin' retard," she mutters to herself.

After a few days, Gershom realises that:

a) going through the window results in taking up the personality of a character from a famous literary work
b) he can only stay in character during school hours
c) at 3:00, he falls from where he stands, and is deposited inside a tube slide at a children's park 3km away.

School consists of a secretary that tells you to wait your turn even when there's no one ahead of you. The jocks use hockey sticks 8ft in length and wear padded foam tires around their bodies (*think Michelin Man). The in-school confessional booth is opened from lunch to dismissal. There are two sets of toilets in the washrooms. One that deodorizes excrement. The other, vomit. Gershom doesn't think the latter has been fixed for awhile.

Gershom begins to halluncinate after a few months. The students all start looking like the minor characters from which his daily persona is originally gleaned from. He starts seeing girls naked, with "truth-graphs" inside their translucent bodies. And as they talk to him, he sees the bars rise and fall based on how much, he thinks, they're telling him.

Two days later, he organises a sex-orgy and hangs himself, Brave New World-style.

Gah ... this story sucks killer ass. Help!

Saturday, November 15, 2003

Just finished watching the second part of The Seven Samurai (1954). Favourite line: "My daughter has been seduced!"

Going to watch some French surrealist film Mr. O lent me. For my Writer's Craft ISU, I've decided to compare how surrealist movies have changed, while retaining the fundamental principles of that genre through the years. Here's the kicker: I also have to write a 20 page film script that embodies the criteria.

Ideas? I have a couple. Might they work? Doubt it. Salvador Dali's Un Chien Andalou (1928) is about as surreal as you can get. Sliced eyeball fades into a full moon? Donkey carries a baby grand on its back? People happily buried to their necks in sand? A silent short-film that was nothing but a montage of images. Fellini's La Strada (1954) depicts the story of a travelling carnival, where the three carnie acts represent the mind, body, and soul. Spike Jonze directed Being John Malkovich (1999) about what it would be like to live inside someone else for 15-minutes. To see what they see, to hear what they think, to understand someone so completely and objectively, through alien eyes.

Here lies the problem. What should my script be about? A romantic comedy? A revenge tragedy? A revenge comedy? A dramatic knock-'em-sock-'em Western? There's just so many to choose from. Maybe, like the saying goes, I should write what I know. I know myself. I know people. I know school. I know teenage isolation. I know forced starvation. I know incessant manipulation. I know food. I know games. I know verbal diarrhea. But I'm also wondering if my creative fulcrum should be the setting or dialogue? School is not original, so everything else has to be. Should my script take place in a nudist colony? Is that surreal enough or a blatant attempt to stand out? Maybe I should just play it straight. Make one aspect strangely exotic, then taking a serious stab at writing down the genuine way in which people might react to it.

Now we're cookin'. Okay, so I've decided that the story will center around school and its students. But what could that one odd, significant, detail be? Simplicity is key. Can't be too out there. And talking books will just end up changing the script into a fantasy Harry Potter-number.
It's a feel-so-good day for Lily.

The newspaper is now officially a rags-to-riches success story. Not to pull a Pip, but it was barely staying afloat above the academic quagmire before being re-issued as a 'zine. It's now wearing the emperor's new clothes: less formal, but still true to its roots.

Although, apparently, a number of senior students complained about how much they disliked it: "Why's there binding? The size is too small. The colour? Ugly. How much?! That's insane." Finally, telling anyone who would listen, "I won't pay money for it next time." Oh, cry me a river. Of the 111 papers that were sold on the first day, maybe 10 percent were sold to seniors.

I'm sorry I don't allow for slanderous rants pertained to controversial subjects since I don't possess a superiority-complex that's out to alienate the "little people".

The thing is. I have a sheet that allows for comments and suggestions to be made. Don't bitch about the newspaper if you're not going to make an effort to help out its progress. This is our first time. Cut us some slack. Then again, I might come off proud-sounding when I say we're not the ones who are missing out when you decide against shelling out your 50 cents in "protest". For every cheap, cynical, angry Gr. 12, there are tens of spirited, supportive, enthusiastic students who haven't turned a little harmless extracurricular fun into an outright civil war.

But my day went by very well. I tried choking Dior boy. That was nice.

Friday, November 14, 2003

I just found a quote that mirrors the hopeful prospects of my future:

"Raise less corn and more hell."

Aye, less sentimental schmaltz and more racial rants.

Of course, the "corn" in that quote actually refers to "corn" (aka. Native Indian gold). Just watch Disney's Pochahontas for more historically inaccurate details.

You know, organic farmers should start capitalising on their crops. Don't stop at harvesting produce, when the next marketing niche is in the toy industry. How's about a little fun time with Carro-Teen: the edible troll (mood-swings not included). The genetically modified twins, Split Pea Babies, might be a big hit. They give you a new surprise, every time:

"Ear infection? Oh goody!"

Although, by far the most likely to reach cult-status is Passion Fruit Pick-Up:

Line #84: "I'm born to lick your naval oranges. So get ready, 'cause Sonny's here for your plum dressing."

Move over Monkeys-in-a-Barrel, this is guaranteed to be the "it" gift of the season (second only to cocktail mix).

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Happy 17th Birthday Laura!

She's all grown up, and yet, I haven't aged a day.

I wonder if it can still be called "ignoring" if the other person hasn't noticed it happening yet. Maybe the correct terminology is: Lilyneedsalifeatosis. It's a rare malady of the parietal lobe that affects the ability to grasp reality, but more importantly, good taste.

External factors really do influence a person's character. To think, a mere 4 years ago, I would've flinched at repulsive notions of sex, drugs and parental-supervised parties. But ever since coming to this school, I've become a nonsensical, blubbering idiot with intoxicating dreams involving romantic interests. However, mama didn't raise no fool (just gave birth to them) so I'm going to stop rambling on and on about how the men I like are all taken and the men I get along with are all bonafide fags (love you, Boss!).

In a world where being alone is usually interpreted as being lonely, wouldn't it be wonderful to see the day when single gals aren't gawked at like the only porker in a purging contest?

Yeah, that would suck. Need to get laid ... soon. Preferably consentual. If not, okay too. Unusual devices made in woodshop class need not apply.

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

Sitting Duck

I'm cool
Are you?
Snack, crackle, pop
Yabba dabba doo

What I hear
Is what you say
Under scrutiny
But that's okay

Migrain headaches
Pills a pop
Forever stranded
With a grin on top

It isn't easy
It's not so hard
To fight normality:
Use Insta-Guard


Indeed, teenage-themed bad poetry are the best filler when thoughts of food, men, and Ralph Nader just aren't doing it for me.

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Oh, Remembrance Day, Remembrance Day ... have mercy on my soul when I say this: I left my poppy at home. It was an honest mistake for a honest tramp-ass ho (*heh, beat ya to it ...). I left it on my dress a few days earlier and wasn't exactly motivated to get another one.

So my friend and I talked about how I give too much credit to guys. Which makes sense, since I'm almost always the first one to say, "He's not so bad. It's just a cute quirk he has; mauling old women with shopping carts." It doesn't help when these phallic creatures constantly and consistently moan about wanting a girl who is unlike-the-one-they-just-so-happen-to-be-currently-dating. But when it comes time for brains to step up to boobs, brains always ends up hugging herself, spitting blood into a can, as the coach regrettably throws in the snot-caked towel. Her confidence, slashed. Her yearning for companionship, dashed.

This, I guess, "revelation" is what makes ignoring anyone associated with Tequila Skank(s) that much easier. No more, let's-make-myself-noticeable-in-his-general-vicinity, because guess what: It hasn't been working. He's looking in the direction of that herd of near-naked cattle and he's not about to peel his peepers away any time soon ... especially, for you. To think, I saved myself thousands of dollars in future therapist fees just by discovering this tiny tidbit of information. Like Ron Livingston* once said in episode #78 of Sex and the City: "He's just not that into you." And no amount of idealising is ever going to change that.

And no, this bitterness did not stem from any single event that occurred today. This is just me, having a rare moment of clarity.

*Ron Livingston (Peter from Office Space of "She fucked Lumbergh!"-fame) has the same birthday as me: June 5th. Sharing this date with a celebrity other than Mark "Good Vibrations" Wahlberg is deathly refreshing.

Monday, November 10, 2003

I hate girls with shitty attitudes. Especially, shitty girls who are well on their way to the Betty Ford Clinic. I met one such example today in class. Depending on your perspective ... no, screw that. Either way, she's an alcoholic whore.

I was talking to someone about the newspaper I'm running, and from my right, I hear a voice. The type of voice that gets your senses going mad crazy:

"Why don't you ... go back to your seat ... and do something productive, for once?"

I stared at her. The words, "Why don't you move back in with Captain Morgan?" was this close to escaping the tip of my tongue. But I froze. The thought of an angry mentally retarded talking vagina with beer in her veins, who might wait at my doorstep to avenge her honour, scared me shitless. Not to mention the fact that she had a pencil in her hand, which may or may not have been aimed at my eye to begin with.

Speaking of shitty girls. The same one still owes me money. She told me it was for food, but for someone who spends more time with her face in the toilet (or on someone's lap), I'm thinking she's a dick-licking liar.

She's Fraulein Fuck. I hope she gets run over by a Molson truck. Ah ... sweet, sweet, irony.

Sunday, November 09, 2003

I'm a wild child. I'm a James Dean rebel without a cause. I get excited when Iron Chef comes on.

You know, that show is a prime example of how Japanese wackiness and Japanese tackiness can come together to form, yet, another extravaganza of fun. The show contains every emotion found in an episode of Sweet Valley High, in addition to the hypnotic surrealism found in a Big Brother-ruled, Orwellian futuristic utopian society:

Look at those oil-resistent uniforms worn by the kitchen stadium kings as they rise from their colour-coordinated platforms.

Will the current contender choose Chen Kenichi, Mr. Sauce of Champions? Iron Chef Sakai, maybe? He's the outcast of the group. But those Knight Rider glasses hide the aged face of a pate master. Fois gras or horse shit? Only Sakai really knows. It's Morimoto in da house! He might look all Biggie-when-he-didn't-get-his-nachos fly, but it's all an act. He's really looking to find a girl who'll appreciate his salmon filleting technique ... in the bedroom. Iron Chef Rokusaburo Michiba shows up once in awhile, but he's so bland. White is definitely not the new brocade.

What will the main ingredient be? Any chance of it surpassing the typhoon that was tofu that legendary day?

Eel flatulance?!

The entire show is hosted by Takeshi Kaga, who starts off the show biting into a green pepper. Man, that is sick! Unless green peppers are categorised as a fruit since they have seeds then ... it's still freakin' sick! Anyway, he plays a wealthy eccentric who is sadistically drawn to food battles, which he hosts in his castle that strangely resembles a studio set. You might remember him on PBS in the international version of Les Miserables as the first Japanese Jean Valjean. He was also the first Japanese Tony in West Side Story and the first Japanese Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar.

Contenders are usually wunderkinds vying for the prestige of beating an Iron Chef. Sometimes the challenger enters with an entourage, who look like the chopstick mafia. Usually, he (rarely, a she) has just quit his job before competing. Sometimes, he challenges the same chef from his previous appearance for some bloodthirsty revenge, which usually ends in failure: "I have disappointed my elders and will now proceed with the ceremonial suicide." All this is narrated by Fukui-san, whose detailed commentaries are often corrected by Ota.

The show also contains a panel of celebrity judges and audience members whose comments range from: "Mmm, it look so jiggly!" to "The consistency is too thick. You shame your family and ancestors." There's also instant replay to things like a falling bowl of rice ("Menacing!") or the mixing of various liquids ("Rather unusual!").

I've always wanted to taste test the stuff since I'm not a picky eater. I'll even eat the stuff I'm not supposed to eat. You know, like the stuff that'll give me hives and swell up my cervical glands and burst my jugular vein as I convulse on the floor, foaming at the mouth like a prison bitch.

Just joking. I'm only allergic to clingy men. Just joking. I'm actually allergic to soap. Just jok ... no, really.

Saturday, November 08, 2003

I had a dream this morning. Actually, it was more like a nightmare. In it, I was preparing to go backpacking through London with my British boyfriend (who looks 35 above the neck, but 19 below it ... ). Then I realise I had forgotten to bring my shoes. The airport bus was honking the horn, and I was racing to find a decent pair:

"Size 7?! Too big, TOO BIG! Size 8? What is wrong with the world?! Honey, why can't we pop by home?"

"We're already late as it is!"

Crap, crap, crap, I tell myself. I'm scurrying about the shoe store that looks suspiciously like my parents'. I end up putting on an old raggedy pair of Adidas.

Thank Manolo-rhinestone-d'Orsays it was only a dream.
Listening to Salut D'Amour, Op. 12 by Edward Elgar. It really is a pity the lack of attention classical music is given by youngsters. It's not that it's poorly acknowledged, but ... let's just say, it's common to see yawns upon its introduction. It isn't my intention to force this genre of music upon the masses, but it would be nice if people knew the names of composers other than Beethoven, Mozart and Bach.

On the other hand, if they spontaneously surged in popularity one day, I wouldn't be able to buy Vivaldi's entire Four Seasons collection for $4.99. Nor could Isaac Albéniz's guitar compositions played by Joaquí­n Rodrigo be sold for a jaw-dropping $6.99. Considering the manhours dedicated to practicing, I think it's an absolute bargain given that neoteric (and often times, mediocre) music sell for $15 and up (in fine department stores across the country, no doubt).

On a related note (bad pun, sorry), I hate seeing kids massacre songs on their instruments. I'm talking about kids, who've been playing for awhile, just horribly butchering their songs. The way the instruments are manhandled is, arguably, an omen as to where their owner's sex-life might be headed. These kids try to imitate concert pianists with grand, melodramatic, hand gestures as they unwittingly play Orff-ian renditions of Chopin. Please, let the professionals handle the spastic seizures as you sit your autistic-ass down to practice "I Will Always Love You*" like a good boy at Sing Sing.

Word of Caution: Getting really good at your instrument might damage your libido as older women are easily impressed ... and horny.

*Little Known Fact: This song was actually written and sung by Dolly Parton. When Whitney Houston got around to it, it became an ersatz cover favoured over the original.

Friday, November 07, 2003

Let's play 8 Degrees of Julian Casablancas. Except I'm going to try connecting him to the lucrative underground business of whoring minors. Starting from ... Finland.

Finland is a Scandinavian country --> Scandinavian countries include Denmark --> Denmark has beauty pageants --> Miss Denmark was Jeanette Christensen --> She gave birth to Julian Casablancas --> Julian's dad is John Casablancas --> He is the founder of Elite Modeling Agency --> Elite has recently been the subject of a BBC documentary that secretly taped explicitly degrading exchanges between agents and their underaged clients.

Woohoo! Though I love The Strokes (screw their hype factor, their music encourages aerobics), I have, through random pieces of information, associated the lead singer to a sex cartel.

Aw, no hard feelings though. Call me, Jules!

Thursday, November 06, 2003

A few days ago, some fat kid (who's taking another year of high school) told me that I tried too hard to be funny. Usually, I wouldn't have cared, but then he added, "You have to see irony in everything."

Irony is funny to me. So just because I'm able to quickly perceive and latch on to situations where irony is or can be involved, doesn't mean there's a complicatd thought process behind my observant comments.

That or I'm just tragically unfunny. Like Seinfeld's rival who talked about Ovaltine. What a self-revelation. Arsenic, here I come ...

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

I like clouds.

But what I really like to know is why guys are intimidated by me. My friend, Stephen (long for Steve, which has that queer "V" stuck in there) suggested that maybe I shouldn't be saying, "Great time? Ha! It sucked more than a newborn on a teet" when a guy says he had a great time on our casual promenade.

Now, now. I'm not a desperate spinster looking for a widower. I just want to know what it is about me that threatens them so.

Bah. I'm probably going to end up like Tina Turner, anyway: Ike-'bused, butch and bald* with killer gams (<--insert "I am woman, here me roar" bullshit.)

*Okay, so not technically "bald", just simply "wig-wrapped". But I didn't want to ruin my alliteration streak.