Friday, April 30, 2004

>
Choose a band/or artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band::Blur
Are you female or male::Girls and Boys
Describe yourself::Entertain Me
How do some people feel about you::Slow Down
How do you feel about yourself::Moroccan Peoples Revolutionary Bowls Club
Describe your current love interest::Bang/Far Out
Describe where you want to be::On the Way To the Club
Describe what you want to be::Top Man
Describe how you live::Stereotypes
Describe how you love::Battle
Share a few words of wisdom::We've Got a File on You

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

*LONG BLOG ENTRY ALERT*

Model UN tomorrow. Got new shoes (black slingbacks) for the occasion.

My editor sent my article back to revise 4 times in 2 hours. He didn't edit the language, moreso, the "flow."

"Uh ... this ending."

"Yeah?"

"I liked it the first time I read it. Now ..."

"Not so much?"

"Yeah. Change it."

"To what?"

"I don't know."

"But that's all he did ... He walked to the door."

"Change it."

But I guess he liked my final draft because he's going to send over a photographer on Monday to take a picture of me posse.

Here's the article:

Adam Lohonyai is hunched over, nervously tapping his Ziploc container that's filled with Cheerios.

He and his lunchtime teammates are staring intently at Sawford, the librarian, who is sitting at the head of the brown plywood table. Sawford turns the page and smiles at the question written before him.

"Spanish, Italian and French are known as what?"

A green bulb lights up to his right, letting off a shrill beep.

"The Romantic Languages," replies Lohonyai.

"Correct."

The opposite team is up in arms.

"What?" one member cries. "It's Romance!"

A verbal tussle ensues egged on by spectators, but simmers into a collective chuckle no sooner than it began.

"This always happens," says Sawford chuckling. "Both are acceptable."

Lohonyai (pronounced Lo-HONE-yaw-ee) belongs to the Westmount Academic Challenge team who meet every other day in the library to practice. It is made up of four teen titans of trivia, ranging in age from 15 to 18, who will be duking it out with the best brains of Ontario May 15 & 16 at the University of Toronto. They beat out 22 other teams early April to place second at the Regionals. The team is keeping the tradition of participating in Canada's longest running quiz show, "Reach for the Top" and its non-televised counterpart, "Schoolreach" alive.

Players from across Canada fight tooth and nail to successfully advance to the Provincials and, if they're lucky, the National Championships shown on the Canadian Learning Channel hosted by Daniel Richler (son of the famed Mordecai.)

With smarts like that, it's understandable that images of suspenders-wearing homebodies with a penchant for fantasy board games are conjured up. Who else would actively (and voluntarily) partake in this sort of activity?

A lot of people and with backgrounds that couldn't be any more different.

Take Lohonyai, for example. At first glance, this 5'10" trumpet-playing ingenue and leading track athlete doesn't look like your typical whiz kid. His daily uniform screams "jock," helpfully underscored by the presence of his New Balance sneakers. But it isn't until he reveals that his future plans include going into Materials Science and Engineering at McMaster University do you realize his presence in the quiz tournament circuit is, well, to be expected.

He was born in Toronto to first-generation Hungarian and Greek immigrants who moved to Newcastle when he was not quite three. His parents separated the following year, so his mother decided to move him and his younger sister, Teresa, to Hamilton, eventually settling on the East Mountain.

In grade three, Lohonyai attended Helen Detwiler Elementary School and met Mr. "Don't call me Carlee" Carle.

"He would play trivia games with us [once or twice a month]," Lohonyai reminisced. "It was girls against boys and the boys always asked me to help them out."

"I was having fun."

The questions included:

"What continent is Pakistan located on? What's a landlocked country in Africa? What's 178+45?"

Considering the average third grader might not even know the definition of "landlocked", this was quite an impressive feat to know the answers to.

The kid was hooked from then on.

It's now a quarter past noon. The practice session is coming to an end. Volunteer recruits fidget in their seats, rolling Saran wrap into semi-translucent projectiles. These lunchtime fillers don't want to be there, their wallflower-like presence ignored in favour of the magnificent four.

Lohonyai's blue Westmount sweatshirt unintentionally contrasts with the red T-shirt worn by the leader of the opposite team, Ray Lawlor (who is Lohonyai's teammate during official competitions.)

It is clear to everyone, including the curious onlookers who shout jibberish to psyche the teams out and the nearby girls who are carrying on a distracting conversation about potted plants, that the game is really being played by these two.

They spar in succession.

"The Art Ross trophy," Lohonyai replies quickly, smirking in Lawlor's direction.

"Gah, I had that one!" Lawlor shouts. "This buzzer doesn't work."

He presses it. A red light appears.

The humour isn't lost on him as friendly ribbing ensues.

The session goes on for another five minutes before all the equipment is packed away in a cardboard box that is in dire need of a duct tape facelift.

Lohonyai swings his backpack over his shoulders and stuffs another handful of Cheerios in his mouth.

"That's good stuff," he says as he heads for the door, walking in time with the music that signals the beginning of class.


Uh ... embellished for effect. Please don't hate me.

Monday, April 26, 2004

Concordia sent me a letter today:

"The Department of Communication Studies has recently completed its review of the undergrduate applications. I am pleased to inform you that, because your initial application has been deemed outstanding, you will be recommended for admission without an interview."

BOOYAH!

Now I wait for the Department of Journalism ... tick, tick, tick

School Sniffing

Went shopping with the mother today. Custom made my grad dress. Alexander McQueen-inspired (read: downright copied.)

Went laptop shopping. Ate wontons. Talked about a certain somebody's mother being a gossip fiend. Okay, She-Ray's.

Drove around the York University campus. My mom began to change her ideas about the place: "Hey, it's not so bad," I thought to my self as my mom said aloud, "So bad. No good. I was wrong. What that?"

Points.

"It's a forest mom."

"No good. Drugs. Pimps. Get raped. No good."

Guess she's not all Ms. Affirmative Action anymore.
Finally got off my ass and wrote an article for my editor at the Spec. I'll post a copy of it after it gets published this week. I guess it's less "Talking to Eccentrics" and more "Make People Sound More Interesting." Then it's off to the Model UN summit at the U of T. Hope I can fit in shopping between slacking off and popping pills amongst starry-eyed students enthusiastically representing Aruba, Djibouti, and Zambia (among others.)

I need a laptop. Currently leaning towards something from the ASUS L-2000 series. Can't decide. CAN'T DECIDE!!!
I'm going to be frank. This whole passive/aggressive-game-of-determined-agitation Christian Scrawnwich has been playing is getting older than Limburger cheese (or maybe aged cheddar.)

I admit any wrongdoing, including (non-intentionally) insinuating that your overt passiveness is somewhat of a flaw.

My bad.

And I admit I can get irritating, overdoing the ribbing sometimes.

My bad again.

But this pick-a-fight-when-there-was-absolutely-no-reason-for-a-fight is overdoing the "Please call attention to my anger" act.

Are you going to tell me what the problem is because I'm not anxious to guess. This whole pouting equative might work marvels with someone else, but you're either going to have to confront me or our friendship is officially on the rocks.

Here are your choices: You can either seethe through the doldrums or (excuse the cliche) ride through the storm. It's up to you because even Shotgun Toter has sensed your change of behaviour around me.

I don't know if you're just trying to prove to me that you can be assertive/aggressive/manic depressive, but the bottom line is you've just been unnecessarily rude as of late.

This may sound hypocritical, but part of my personality is what you are (unconvincingly) trying to imitate. If I acted any differently, it would be out of character. You can't expect to "give me a taste of my own medicine" and expect me to realize my supposed faults (if that is, indeed, what you were aiming for) without, subsequently, seeing you under a negative light.

So this is my public apology. I'm sorry for my behaviour and the resulting offense it provoked. But I'm not sorry for being who I am.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Taught my first piano student today.

$50/hour, here I come!
Carlton University accepted me into their journalism program (supposedly the best in the country.) They also offered me an $8000 scholarship. Pretty good, though the location is ass.

Going to wait for Concordia University's acceptance letter now.

Tried to convince Christian Scrawnwich that Jesus never existed. Now that's a challenge that I willed myself to go through with. His last words to me yesterday, "I will prove to you that some Christians [fed to the lions at the Roman Coliseum] have seen Jesus!"

Hudders asked me to be in the citywide, student-run, fashion show two weeks from now. I have to make something original. Decided to wear the prom dress I made. Pale pink, strapless, Stella McCartney Spring/Summer 2004-looking, draped folds in the front, longer tail in the back, jewelled clasp between sweetheart neckline.

My dad needs to get the illegal satellite up and running again. ExpressVu is legal, thus, providing less entertainment for the buck. My mom cut off the Fashion Channel because ... well ... obviously I watched it too much. That and the Food Network.

DirecTV has stuff from almost every era, shown on a daily basis.

Mr. O and I were discussing movies again. I brought up the fact that it's good that old and obscure movies aren't accepted by mainstream culture because I wouldn't be able to afford them otherwise (similar case: jazz and Classical CDs). He said, and I quote, "Yeah, it's good to have good taste."

Did he just say that? Is he *gasp!* more judgmental than I thought? Oh my goodness, he's *blink, blink* ... human!

I told him I wanted to see Spellbound (2002) and he looked up the title for me on the public library website. It gave him one result: Spellbound (1945)

"By Hitchcock?"

He nodded and tapped his temple.

It was a rare moment only a nerd could respect.

Monday, April 19, 2004

Is it just me or has my life gotten even more boring?

I'm planning on writing for the Spec. next week concerning my participation in the Model UN at the University of Toronto. Then it's off to interviewing kooky characters for my weekly column. Please, please, please, I need a goddamn cultist! Where did they all go? I remember a time when everyone belonged to something. The Galactic Tribal Lunar Beams. The Mystical Cloud People of Nazareed. Madonnabes.

Times have changed.

Read the paper today about some guy who survived a 5 tumble car accident but was killed by a southbound car when he walked away to get help. Talk about life imitating art that wasn't art to begin with (read: Final Destination.)

Tall and handsome boy I saw, make him my own booty call. Too bad he smokes the ganja, but who doesn't nowadays? He's got all the fine qualities in one who provides booty: breathes and bones.

I'm joking, of course *eyes dart.*

I must also remember I have a personal vandetta against Dior Boy. I keep forgetting this grudge exists. Oh no, he does not deserve to be treated cordially. Wrapped around his finger, my ass! He should go wrap his mouth around a ... Benny Hill-a-like.

Arrogant fucker!

Yet, oddly enough, I still like his shirt.

Friday, April 16, 2004

Prom prom prom. It was really fun. Danced danced danced. Many incidents of wardrobe malfunctions on my part. Maybe that was why it was fun.

I love dancing, I really do.

I slapped some Gr. 9 girl's ass when her boyfriend was holding it while dancing. I slapped it good; everyone had a good laugh over that.

Good times.

Monday, April 12, 2004

Making prom dress instead. Teet Taunter went to a funeral Monday (why does it sound like an excuse 'cause he's too lazy to drive?) and, more or less, broke our plans! Aye ya!

Going to rehash the middle school dress I wore to grad into a pleated pink number a la Carrie Bradshaw on the 5th season finale of Sex at that wedding party. Planning to go wild and crazy 80s.

That is, if we're having a cheap prom anyway.

Promenading with one is one thing, but promenading with none? I shudder the thought. Grade nines need to turn out for it. I mean, those goddamn sports people (who I heard, okay "linguistically imagine," fist each other in the locker room, howling in a mixture of pain and pleasure), 5th year returnees and smokers are intimidating the juniors mints from coming, but it's a dance! Sports people get drunk when they show up; returnees already had their own prom; and smokers ... well, they'll find a malignant tumour in their lung between now and Wednesday. Nuff said.

Saturday, April 10, 2004

Trying Out Surrealism


Description: Heart; shape of South America; gun handle; butterknife; butter; fumes in the shape of $; maze in the centre, fetus, broken fencing in the background.

Jaysus! One minute, pictures work on Blogger, the next they don't. It's a hassle!

Okay, this is a picture of the painting I just finished working on concerning Latin American gang violence. I hope she gives me an okay mark on it ... especially after I told Shabby the last mark she gave me (82%) was "bullshit." And yet, she reacted cordially and sympathetically.

She's killing me with kindness!

I didn't realise it was (Salvadore) Dali-esque until the central object was complete, so I decided to rip off the background colour scheme from his Meditation Rose.

So sue me.

I don't know why Shabby's so hard on me. She gives out 90s to everyone else like candy, but never with me. She avoids passing good grades to me like a hooker avoids the police. Ah well, life isn't fair ... but I want to get that entrance scholarship! How am I supposed to do that with her when she has a personal vandetta against me?!

Ms. Ronald says she only does that because she thinks I have potential. Oh, what an ego stroke, that one is, eh? But doubtful it's true. Shouldn't she be hard on someone who's going into art? I mean, they're the ones who need the added pressure to be better.

Yeesh!

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

York University accepted me for Professional Writing, Communications and Sociology. The prior is the very first time it is offered; the only one of its kind in Canada (apparently.)

I'm ecstatic. Until I read the reviews from University Report Card ...

Off-Campus Life: "Well, for anyone who wants to know, York University is located between Black Creek Pioneer Village, a quaint tourist attraction, Concord ON, future home of big box strip malls, Jane and Finch, notorious ghetto type community, and the fine, fine oil storage yards of Esso, Shell, and all other great oil companies of North America/Canada. I'd have lots of fun....if I was a squirrel with a crack habit."

On-Campus Life: "I do not think that any girl including myself feels safe on campus at night because of all the sexual assualts that have taken place. Our professor always warn us about being careful at night when we have late classes with them and that is not very comforting either."

*shudder*

Okay, so the good reviews override the bad and I'm being a priss. But I don't want to develop a crack habit! I DON'T!

I don't want my "worldly womanly wiles" to get ahold of me and tie me to the back of a pick-up truck, driven by an unidentified toothless male who wears a lot of plaid and paisley.

On the Maclean's website, it ranked York 8th under "Comprehensive" and Concordia 7th. That's not too bad then ... It's the whole country we're talking 'bout here. The biggest pro living in Toronto would be the fact that I would have a paid condo to live in and my mom being nearby. The biggest pro living in Montreal would be the metropolitan atmosphere.

Decisions, decisions ... I've been accepted and I'm STILL a failure.

Math Judas wonders about my Jewish-like neurosis sometimes ... I'm Woody Allen without the penchant for Asians.

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

The business reporters asked me to shadow them. Al~right.

Note to self: Need to be more aggressive getting the things I want. Was in art class today and for the first time, I was accused of being "aggressive." The transformation is actually astounding. It's the equivalent of Jesus to tramp within a period of 4 years. Have been getting to know Artificial Sweetener these past few weeks. He and I have been battling wits, except it doesn't work out too well when I'm expected to churn out Wilde-ian comebacks when I'm not feeling angry/pissed/annoyed.

Description? Um ... he's 19 years old (I think), has less hair than a model with a Brazillian, tall, scruffy, chiselled facial features and ... er ... Caucasian?

Anyway, back to me being "aggressive." What's wrong with knowing what I want and getting it? I personally don't believe I'm aggressive. I think I handle people assertively (and properly.) I think I'm calm, cool, and collected (when I need to be) and when I'm not, well ... I might just have to beat you up with a binder *wink, wink, Bible Cop*

I cut to the chase. I speed up the uncomfortable process. I get to the fuckin' point.

Maybe I'm just sick of having it so easy all the time. I want to be shaken, not stirred! I want to start drama, beat up old ladies, drown some puppies, burn some flaxen hair. In the words of Lily (repeated back to me by La Polish Lothario): "I'm just a good girl looking for a good boy TO FUCK ME AGAINST A BATHROOM STALL!"

In laymen's terms: I want to grab fate by his balls, blow him 'til he's sore, and make him beg for more!

That came out so dirty ...

Ooh, 6 more days until I go vintage shopping with gay boyfriend!

Also, official personal shopper for Disgruntled Ms. Ronald and prom stylist for Brit Brit Blondie. My life finally has some meaning.
I'm learning Japanese. Don't ask me why.

Then again, me being mistaken for Japanese every single time I meet someone new is probably the reason.

I now can say, "Kon'nichi wa. Hajimemashite. Chuugoku-jin desu. Doozo yoroshiku, Suzuki-san." I still can't say "Watashi wa *insert name*" That's sort of weird. The example they give me is "Jason Miller" which is translated to "Jeson Miraa."

Did my Concordia English test. It was the SATs, without the math. Holy crap, I'm so illiterate. What the fuck's a drowess?! Anyway, I did a total of, I believe, 180+ grammar, vocabulary, comprehension questions, 15 current events questions (which I breezed through) and an essay question (one paragraph, really.)

My grammar's terrible! I mean, I was so confused on the test. Some questions were so easy, then looking back, they were hard (or vice versa). My brain was fried by the end of the day; it was terrible! I wanted to slap someone (most of all, me.)

And there's Math Judas bragging (okay, telling me) about getting accepted into Western's Richard Ivey School of Business ("Best program in Canada, biatch!") when I get home. When I teasingly called him Mr. 98%, he replied, "No, it really wasn't the average that did it. Ok, you had to have over 90, but after that, it doesn't matter."

AHHHH! Over 90%?! The last time I had that kind of an average was in grade 10, and that might even been overshooting it! I'm an utter waste of the earth's resources! *Breathe* Marks don't matter, marks don't matter ... Marry rich doctor, marry rich doctor ...

I feel like a temporary blip on the success radar. Everyone's getting early acceptance (okay, by everyone, I mean - shit - yeah, pretty much everyone) and I'm just this poor Mary Jane Loser waiting by the mailbox for her letter of acceptance. I'm that widow standing by the oceanside cliff, tinted by the sunset, sea captains never return for. I'm the dog you leave at the pound. I'm the sad bloke who sits at home eating Quaker oats, channel surfing and *gasp!* enjoying Will & Grace *shudder*

Oh pity me! It is a monstrosity! I'm a failure in the truest sense of the word: One who deserves it.

Saturday, April 03, 2004

Walked down Main St. today and went to Milli's, a designer boutique I've never seen before.

I few weeks ago, I saw this *ahem* dress in its window display, just calling out to me, "Lily, wear me. Lily, love me. Look how perfectly I'd drape over your body. The sheen, already, reflected in your drool."

I don't want to describe it because it's for prom, but the colour was to die for. TO DIE FOR! Anyway, it was by Iceberg (made in Italy? You betcha nards it was). I asked the sales ladies whether or not it was still available, and they called up Toronto's showroom and told me that only 3 other versions exist, the smallest size being a 6. It was also $1050 ... tax not included.

WHAT THE HELL?!

One lady recommended that I try on this black jersey dress with rhinestone clasps. I felt like Jenny Lo. with the plunging neckline. It was actually cute, but the hem was too plain ... and it was $350.

I checked out their Stuart Weitzman shoe collection and spotted a floral Valentino dress hanging nearby. By that time, I was too scared to touch anything and left empty-handed.

Finding clothes is such a pain in the ass for me because I'm around a size 2. The problem isn't that I'm emaciate-looking (because I'm not), but that I have not-big-enough breasts. They're not mosquito bites, but they're not "juicy, juicy, mangoes" either. So there lies my problem. Sometimes, having big kahunas serve you well ... especially on special occasions. I wouldn't enjoy the back pain nor the eventual sagging, but I'd like to have some plump melonas on certain days of the year (i.e. birthday, Lunar birthday, Christmas, Hallowe'en, Valentine's, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Yom Kippur, New Year, Chinese New Year).

In another note: Entire family went to Washington, D.C. this morning to go see cherry blossoms, leaving me home alone for two days. I think I'm going to order in some Swiss Chalet ... online!

Thursday, April 01, 2004

Fashion Police:



Love's tragically hip post-punk thrift store duds scream, "Look at me! Validate me! I'm still relevant" but underneath they whimper, "Designers no longer give me free clothes." (MSN.com)
I've seen the future. And it's Muslims on rollarskates.

Saw two the other day, in the middle of the night, gliding eerily on both sides of the street in their sheaths and scarves.

It was like being in a Floria Sigismondi directed video - but less scarring.