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.

Tuesday, November 04, 2003

So a friend of mine revealed to me that his current girlfriend already had a boyfriend when they started dating. I called him a jerk. But no feelings harmed. However, I do personally think once a cheater accomplice, always a cheater accomplice (but it isn't necessarily a bad thing since you can't choose who you fall in love with *tear*). Which is contradictory to my character because although I don't believe in relationships (and therefore, the eternal monogamous ideal called "marriage"), I also don't like the idea of people sneaking around and lying while they're in one ... since fibbing is one of my top pet peeves (*cough* hypocrite). The way I see it, the truth will eventually be uncovered, so why waste time fabricating stories that provide only temporary relief to escalating predicaments? Fear of consequence is an avoidable green mile.

Which reminds me of the picture I took infront of the Bocca della Verità  in Rome with my hand hidden in my sleeve. This ancient stone face is said to bite the hand of anyone who dares to lie while placing a hand in its "mouth of truth." My mom and I had watched Roman Holiday (1953) the night before, and she wanted to visit the sites seen in the movie ("Audrey's trail"). I gladly complied. It was better than playing The Spot-Who's-Chinese Scavenger Hunt (now in four different colours and a duffle bag.)

"Ooh, look! I think I see one haggling with a hooker. Let's go after it!"

Monday, November 03, 2003

Is there a conspiracy involving men being raised as mutes, I don't know about? When did saying, "I dunno. Stuff" become acceptable as conversation fodder? What frustrates me the most is when I sense the guy is bored and I react by not talking. Yet, he determines to keep the thing vaguely-resembling-a-conversation going with filler words like: yup, okay, indeed, nope, yes, no, yeah, non, indubiously, perhaps, hmmm, mmm, huh, so, you wanna fuck?

Boys, if you don't want to talk to the girl (who's probably sweating beads trying to keep the conversation going with open-ended questions), tell her. And if you do want a conversation, don't reply 20 minutes later to a question as mundane as what your favourite pizza is.

I met my soulmate today. Am I shallow for liking someone for, among other reasons *eyes dart*, his taste in fashion?

"Dior? You're wearing D-I-O-R?!"

"My mom bought it for me for my Gr. 8 grad."

I never had designer clothing when I was 13. My mom hasn't updated her wardrobe since 1976, and his mom's buying him Dior? Humph ... some men have all the metrosexual luck.

I wonder. If I was a whore (which I'm not), my customers should pay me with clothing:

"Bitch, who be yo daddy? I said, WHO BE YO DADDY?!"

"Yeah, uh ... you are. You're ... so .. big. Uh, yeah. Give it to me, pappi. Um, harder ... wait, is it still in? I'm late for my dentist appointment. Just leave the Galliano by the nightstand. Same time next week?"

"Okey dokey."

Yeah, that would be some kind of wonderful ...

But you know what wouldn't be wonderful? Sitting on my lard-filled Springer-watching ass, eating cookie dough Häagen-Dazs and crappin' in my souped-up Laz-E-Boy. Of course, it could be worse ... like dropping my spoon.

Sunday, November 02, 2003

I'm currently writing and editing a few last-minute articles for the school newspaper while listening to Oscar Peterson Trio's "The Gentle Rain". My parents are downstairs watching a dubbed Korean soap opera, while I am upstairs organising my time between wondering what the purpose of my life is and how Kill Bill is a great fuckin' movie.

We both are lost and alone in this world
Walk with me in the gentle rain ...

My room's a massive mess. No, a tornado did not just rip through my living quarters nor did a flock of sheep decide to fornicate in every crevice. I just happen to be a big reader and papers are naturally attracted to my carpeted floor.

Don't be afraid; I've a hand for your hand
And I will be your love for awhile ...

It's hard to be grateful for the things you have. Actually, it's quite easy for me to be grateful. But to act grateful. That's a different story. I'm looking around my room, and I realise, my worldy possessions exist only to feed my teenage arrogance. If modesty drains away ego, then these objects remain only to taunt me of their insignificance. And if they are indeed insignificant, why do I waste my time yearning for those Bruno Frisoni boots I saw in Milan? My Dior top is in the back of my closet, wasting away beside the T-shirt I bought second-hand at a flea market.
I feel your tears as they fall on my cheek,
They are warm like the gentle rain ...

I hate the Teletubbies. A global conglomerate on the same platform as Starbucks ... and Pam Anderson. Although, I do enjoy watching ol' barmcake bust out of her glitter outfits on the tele. What a hoot 'n hoser. She's a human life-preserver!

Now listening to the fabulously moody Laura. Man, Oscar Peterson must be one of my favourite jazz pianists of all time. Jelly Roll Morton's got nothing on this guy. He probably does, but he's dead.

Saturday, November 01, 2003

I hate the concept of time.

I hate how the idea of being late makes my brother cry.

"I'm late, I'm late!" he tearies up, as he shakes his arms like a flamboyanat gay man on hot coals.

"Where are my shoes? I can't find them!" he screams, as he runs around in circles, chasing his invisible tail.

He's getting more Woody Allen-neurotic by the second. He slips on his backpack strap, landing on his bubble butt. Gets up and heads for the window, staring forlornly at his friend's house, before returning to his convulsions.

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. I'm calling mom. *beep, boop, boop, beep* Mah-mmy! I'm laaaaate. I don't know what to do. Everyone *inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale* is gone. I'm so scared *sniffle, sniffle*."

I'm a bad sister, and consequently, a future bad parent because the only way I know how to deal with an aguished child is to yell at him while spewing out practical advice:

"No one there is going to cry just because you're late. Just apologise and it'll be fine. Stop crying. I said, stop crying. Goddamn, stop crying, find your shoes and stop being a wiener. The party's going to be at the house whether you're there or not."

"It's at Lazer Mania."

"Wha??? Get your shoes on. WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?!"