Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Today was, indeed, a memorable one ...

Spent time with the remaining 13 friends I haven't schmoozed with at J.Lo's BBQ. Walked around the mountain escarpment, sang "I am 16 going on 17," and chatted with ST's friends (who I can now honestly call my own.)

I kept myself entertained by propelling laughter through my lungs to suppress the ever sinking feeling of loneliness. Tomato Chink's antics, a desperately confused drunk, acting around a rolled-up window, was the highlight (or should I say lowlight) of the night.

Stories untold, unused jokes wrapped in cellophane, the wonderment of finding refracted images of yourself in the tell-tale signs of salvaged souls. Ambition is soothing the carnage carved into the well of my heart, as I go with so much, but leave behind more. Draconian law relishes the prospect of abandonment, but those pomegranates, to be hunted; those seeds, forgiven. For life is fuelled by the engine of experience, not by the words spoken when delirious.

Thank GOD/ALLAH/BUDDHA/MR. ROGERS for MSN Instant Messenger. I'm surprised the pioneers survived as long as they did in the Old West without this new-fangled engineering marvel:

White Man: "Wach owt! Indyan looking to take ur scalp! Git ur gun!!!"

Red Man: "Hey, some potential friends. I wonder if they'd be interested in some buffalo jerky . And this new sickle my dad gave me is da bomb."


Noticed ST getting a little ticked off (standing by the front door, in shadow) when he saw his friends putting their arms around me when we were joking around on his driveway:

"You guys can go inside now, you know."

Jealous boys. There's enough of them to legitimize Soylent Green.


Met up with two additional acquaintances from school I haven't seen since graduation and exchanged emails. Was introduced to another fashionista with an eye for Prada through Ruth. Oh, how we charmed our way into each others' contacts list.

Hmm ... I'll have to figure out a way to accommodate everyone inside my apartment during New Year's. Two words: Time management.

Monday, August 30, 2004

Antsy Fingers

My initial purchase of a 20-piece dinner set turned into ... um ... many more things. I couldn't resist the signs that shouted "80% OFF!", tempting me with Marthadom.


Leaving for Montreal in 10 hours or so. Don't know when I'll have access to the Internet again. But I promise I will have done something blog-worthy by the time I re-stickify my fingers on the silky threads of the WWWeb.

Don't miss my inanity too much, sir(s).

Sunday, August 29, 2004

Bar Scene

The Marble Index CD release party was last night at the Underground. The place was teaming with hipsters and short haired girls wearing Lycra and boots. Did a lot of waiting due to the inherent tardiness of bands with similar sized followings.

Bumped into Houseband Hippie and his friends, Nico and German Exchange Student With Unpronounceable Name. Shotgun Toter commented later that the prior was a bit annoying. I had no qualms upon introduction to either of them.

Did grow a sudden urge to hit on some 50+ year old ladies who had also come to party. Actually, it wasn't my idea. Alright, it was but I was bluffing. Okay, the German kid dared me to. My venture did not let me down though, as my attempt to catch me some cougars came up rather fruitful, considering my lack of lesbian urges (say it with me now: "Not that there's anything wrong with that.") I walked up to a Florence Henderson-looker and put my arm around her shoulder like you would a convicted felon: Gently, but not so gently. She turned around as her middle-aged friend looked on.

"Oh! I thought you were someone I knew ... I'm so sorry!"

Because, you know, I have several touchy/feely relationships with silver-maned-grandmotherly-types with a penchant for rock 'n roll and cheap booze.

The women giggled. I asked them if I could hug them anyway just so I wouldn't walk away looking like a loser in front of my friends. They happily agreed, which gave me the opportunity to do a thumbs-up gesture behind their backs in the direction of the guys, now laughing hysterically, fully impressed with drinks in their hands.

"Learn from me," I said in a cocksure manner, "and you'll be picking up chicks in no time."

They agreed.

That's right. There is no better teacher than a braggadocio whose track record is made up of more women than men (when the intent was to emphasize the latter.)

Friday, August 27, 2004


Mom set me up a new bank account and applied for an "emergency" Mastercard to start me on the path to good credit. The reality of moving away has been sinking in, a thunderous thwack to the head.


Five words: 65% off Calvin Klein Intimates.

I couldn't resist. My mom says I have no excuse to walk around naked anymore. But since nothing matches (er ... by sheer coincidence), she should really reconsider unshielding her eyes.


While browsing electronics with mother dearest, I got myself involved in a rather embarrassing situation: Not remembering someone who is now standing three feet away, waiting for you to say something - anything - back. You know the drill: Lips pursed, eyebrow arched, that empty look into the distance like you're trying to pin down his name when you're really not and just stalling for time. It all comes down to you being inconsiderate. What made it doubly worse was the presence of my ma chuckling on the side. The Future Shop sales rep. called me by name and asked whether I needed help. I pretended to know him from somewhere, going through a list of friends' brothers and the relatives of acquaintances like a Scrabble champion scanning his head for obscure candy labels. I told him his name was on the tip of my tongue. He said his name was printed on his name tag.

Damnit! I shyly continued my subtle interrogation. How old was I when you graduated? We're the same age. Aren't you so-and-so's brother? No. Are you sure you know me? Quite.

A few persistent minutes later, he relented (I reckon from pure aggravation) and told me he attended my CO-OP class. Oh, that guy, whom I've never had a single conversation with because he was too busy not socializing. I never paid much attention to him (if at all) as he was frequently seen tethered to his seat by his own consent. My mom scolded me for not remembering this "old friend" but I can honestly say we've crossed paths a handful of times. And even then, he might've only been trying to make his way through the crowded corridors of the cafeteria. Kind and considerate, he parlayed a few useful tips my way. I stuck my hand out and he sealed our first ever meet-'n-greet with a surprisingly firm handshake.

Moral of the story: Be polite to everyone and make a good impression. You never know who might be selling you that All-in-One printer (with an employee discount.)

Thursday, August 26, 2004

Parking Lot Vignette

It's official. I can't sit down to tie my shoe without being hassled by the horn dog police.

Shotgun Toter and I planned to meet up at the mall. Parched, I crossed the abandoned section of the parking lot and sat down to tighten my candy-striped wedge. As I turned to climb up the slope, the man driving the suspicious looking white sedan got out of his car and stepped in front of me.

"Hey," he said with an unattractive swagger.

I peered over his shoulder and returned his greeting cautiously.

"I just wanted to say hi to a fine lady like yoself."

I looked to my left just long enough to roll my eyes.

"So," he continued, "you late for work or someth'n?"

"Yeah," I lied, walking away. "But that car isn't going to get me there any sooner."

He took a slow step towards me, arms back and intimidating like a cheerless character played by Mark Ruffalo. His voice, low and monotonous, tripping up words too simple to be cool. As he left the confines of his sanctuary, the shadow cast by his brow darkened over his eyes as he slid his tongue across his lips. Once, then twice.

"Look, I ain't offering you a ride or nuthin', just wanted to say wuz up? So wuz up?"

I threw my arms up in exasperation and tapped my wrist in an act only the White Rabbit could appreciate; my collected veneer broken by anxiety.

"I'm late for work, that's what's up," and hurried away. He kept yakking behind me, but I let the mechanical whirring of passing traffic drown out his pleas to "hook-up."


Aussie Matt's right. I'm plain not comfortable with this type of attention.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Oh, The Shame ...

Just came home from clubbing with JLo, Prudie and Banana Chic. Let me say this: Young girls who look hoochier than streetwalkers on a desperate day must - and I repeat, MUST - stop dancing like spastic jackhammers during a San Francisco earthquake on Slinky Appreciation Day. In addition, I know they think lesbians are sexy to under-developed men, but pulling each other's, let's say, "clothes" while fondling jugs that call upon Wonderbra for active service, might be a wee bit much. The degree of embarrassment for those located in their vicinity can be compared to a sheepdog dry humping a table leg during a funeral. Or better yet, introducing the sheepdog as the reincarnation of your dearly departed mother-in-law as you spray paint "Viva Scientology!" on her casket.

The point is, white girls better learn some rhythm before they start waving anything that begins with "th" and ends in "ong." This goes for non-white girls too, who happened to stay home on this particularly clear evening. Oh, before I forget. Cigarettes and weed! Don't blow it in my face, don't smoke it like you know how. Extinguish it between your chest and get impregnated somewhere else. Don't they know they smell like poo fresh from the John Tesh concert Porta-potty?


JLo's doing another BBQ before I leave for Montreal next Tuesday. Swami Turk's invited too. Make mental note to practice best "this isn't awkward" face. Hey, since my sister is leaving for Vancouver in a few hours, maybe I can show her the face when I awkwardly pat her on the back in front the terminal gate.


Finally used my English department awarded gift certificate. I wonder why books have become increasingly expensive while oil prices continue to drop. I thought $50 would be enough to buy three, but they totalled $103 at the time of check-out. Decided against the purchase of Six Questions of Socrates: A Modern-Day Journey of Discovery through World Philosophy. Bought David Sedaris's Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim and, predictably, Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. Shoot me, I'm a nerd (a fact Banana Chic is more than willing to point out). She's reading Confessions of a Shopaholic. Is it wrong for me to be more than a little curious about its contents? Bah, I'm the unlucky recipient of chick-lit fever and it's all her fault.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

"My foot!"

The fall/winter shoe collection arrived today. Inventory was a bitch. Hauling to and fro 30+ pound crates were a bigger bitch. I'm so tired, even my skin is sore.

Under such circumstances, you'd think there would have been a few available gentlemen willing to offer me a helping hand. Instead, I was met by cocky wall leaners who eyed me up and down as I pushed my loaded trolley down the street.

"Excuse me, excuse me," I said through the crowd of obesity and related kin.

Two ghettomongers cut short their conversation and, as if completely oblivious to my situation, sat back, crossed their arms and, in unison, chillaxed their little jersey-wearing asses off. Maybe they've never seen a woman doing manual labour. Maybe the only femme-tastic job they're familiar with is the kind that merely requires the acknowledgement of the top of a woman's head. In any case, I was more chagrined that chivalry was still alive but shacked up with his ex-wife's mother than its previous state of mortal drudgery.


Note to closeted gay men: Don't make up some silly story about a hetero bash you're planning on attending that requires wearing thigh-high boots. Even bothering to use that makes you gayer than George Michael in Wham! wearing lacerated hot pants. Oh, and the "wife" excuse. Listen bud, very few women wear size 13 shoes. And if she did, I doubt she'd be wearing 6-inch pumps "for fun." And if that was the truth, why are you trying her shoes on for her?

When it comes to issues of commerce, everyone looks alike (ie. $$$.) Retail employees have seen it all. Don't be embarrassed to talk to us about your "alternative" lifestyle or fringe hobbies. You're not wasting our time if you have enough greenbacks to impress. Here's a sampling of our "special" customers:

-A man who thinks he's a lesbian and writes stalker-esque letters about "fingering [his] pussy" to a frequent female sex shop patron.

-An unemployed, crack-addicted lady with a millionaire sugar daddy who looks like the farmer from Babe. "I remind him of his dead wife," she proudly proclaimed, "around the eyes."

-Thai transexuals with a fondness for stripping. They glow when they're able to show off what their doctors gave them. Such magnificent pairs of man-made boobies hidden under tight T's that barely conceal reactions to the nip in the air (their bulge, not so much).

So there. There's always someone out there more confident than you are in your own skin.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Skit & Skedaddle

I was creeping up the mountain access at a steady pace when this flame-haired lady (with a temper to match) started tailgating me, honking her horn and shaking her fist out the window. I turned onto the main road, but her Ford Ranger loomed closer and closer until it entirely obscured my rear-view mirror. I stepped on my gas pedal, going a little above the legal limit. She changed lanes and, head out her cavern, started her bitchin' with her jaw flapping in the wind.

Trini Man rolled down his window:

"Can't you see she can't go any fah-sta?!"

What began as a simple driving lesson turned into a raucous yelling match. It's like in Zorro, where the card-carrying hero does his best to fend himself against hungry capitalists on horseback. Sharp words were thrown, the lady in the monster mobile lunged at my driving instructor's credentials, and he defiantly stood his ground.

"You impatient woman!"

She balked. "I'm going to call the cops. Your goddamn student is a danger to the road!"

I cringed. How dare she criticize my driving when she's going 20km above the speed limit? Fucking retard. She probably harvests babies and sells them at cut rates to Icelandic adoption agencies and throws in a couple of pumpkins as a thank you gesture.

So that was my loafer-sized brush with rage. Road rage. I took it better than Trini Man though. He talked about it afterwards for a substantial amount of time. I just saw it as a usual day on the job, zoning out bicker-friendly rednecks rushing to cash in their welfare cheques before the Sears Laz-E-Boy sale ends ("Beer hats are limited, so come early.")

Sunday, August 22, 2004

Ease & Tease

Update in point form:

-Sleazy photographer tried to pick me up when he was waiting for his porno girls to finish shoe shopping (they were in town shooting a music video.)

-"Here's my card. Call my cell. I own a great club in Toronto. Come and stop by."

-Gone is the cat with the melon hat. I've finally decided to post a picture of myself on my blog. To hell with being terribly unphotogenic. Do I look older than 18? I think not. So 40-year-olds should quit getting fresh with this minor (who, technically, isn't a minor but c'mon! I look like I'm barely out of preschool; not a day older than 8.)

Cents & Sensibility

Let me begin by introducing the topic du jour my father and I once argued over after successfully signing the lease to my apartment. I questioned his reliance on numbers and time. He questioned my sanity. I suggested that the concept of history is just an extension of man's nature to place meaning upon isolated events; we are a specie that craves causality. My dad just thought I didn't understand the words coming out of his mouf. But this time, I seized the support of my mom's friend (a computer pundit by trade.) He stepped in to referee and I left the ring satisfied, knowing I had presented a vexing question worthy of daddy's attention (the man is stubborn and damn near impossible to sway.)

Okay, so now for the related story. I stumbled upon this news piece today and it got the ol' hamster in m'noggin spinning gears again. To think, there is a direct correlation between language and the skills we possess. Can you just picture it? To see repetition and not fall back on counting. To live not knowing your age. To feel eternity and ephemerality all at once. It's mind-blowing to discover that what we can't convey with words cannot (and does not), therefore, exist to us at all. Or that what we deem as "knowledge" is really a never ending quest to escape from the humanistic sphere we, ourselves, created. Socrates once said (by way of Bill and Ted), "All I know is I know nothing." To that, I'm tempted to add, "...because what I know now means nothing."

Sometimes I wonder what I might sound like if I actually got high. What do you think? More or less flaky? Even so, it's not bad being my own harshest critic. Mr. So Crates said it best: An unexamined life is not worth living.

Saturday, August 21, 2004

You're Fired!

Last night, Herr Sonny Boy asked me to visit him at work around 5 the next day. Denninger's is one of those places where you plain don't want to mess with the elderly German staff. I sauntered in the Euro supermarche with my Jackie O tinted frames. My original plan was to find the deli section, see him, share some kind words and leave. This was sidetracked by the presence of fruit-based chocolates and international cheeses only Grandma Una would love.

Soon after, our eyes met. Well, me and that middle-aged curmudgeon - I mean, lady. I asked her to take me to Herr Sonny Boy. She complied and he appeared a few seconds later, during my perusal of ominous-looking cracker chips from Holland.

"Lily!" he said under his breath. "That was the store owner. You're going to get me fired." Scared shitless but still oddly courteous, he tried to talk "meat" with me while looking over his checker-patterned shoulder.

Let me repeat. He told me to come visit him.

Anyway. In a nutshell, I complained to another German lady that Herr Sonny Boy flatly refused to serve me. She introduced me to a variety of deli meats. I asked relevent questions. And in the end, forcibly bought a quarter of a pound of jelly turkey and hazelnut Lindor chocolates.

I'm a schmuck, what can I say?


Mom let me drive all the way to my cousins' house in Toronto. First time highway experience rating: 5/5 (no lost lives, no complaints, no problem.)

Friday, August 20, 2004

Top 5: Parfums

This is sort of embarrassing. I'm naturally a very private person (really!). But okay, you talked me into it. They were a bit on the pricey side, but it's difficult for me to find alcohol-based fragrances that contain fruity citrus notes that pass for expensive perfume and not Calgon body spray (*cough, cough*).

The contents of my secret perfume stash:

5. Too Much by Guerlain

4. Fragile by Jean-Paul Gaultier

3. Angel by Thierry Mugler

2. Addict by Christian Dior

1. Chance by Chanel

*Honourable mention: J'adore by Christian Dior


I only dab on a few drops for special occasions because no man deserves Chanel unless he's a keeper. And by "keeper," I mean, one who stays around until daybreak and an early-morning piss. Oh shoot, I hear that song coming again:

"Jaded ... j-j-j-jaded."

Oh, crumble puss, where are my Cherry Blasters to curl up to during Nip/Tuck? I freaking love that show. It used to take the edge off symptoms associated with withdrawal from Sex (and the City). But it's become my new addiction. Think scientists creating a potent strain of heroin derived from the synthetic stuff that was originally developed to combat your fanciful demons.

*sidenote: My laptop is up and running. Which means, I can blog from anywhere now. That's good news for me, not so much for non-fans of my meaningless musings (which, I assume, pretty much covers everyone.)

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Yet Another End to a Musical Era

Leonard Elmer Bernstein died in his sleep last night. He was 82. The man - more than a man, actually - is ranked higher than Stravinksy and Gershwin in my noodle-dex of modern composers. His To Kill a Mockingbird theme was the first (and only) time I was moved to me britches during the opening credits, even before little Scout Finch uncovers the title card.


Bernstein, Leonard, West Side Story, movie, choreography ... The Tango Lesson. I highly recommend this film. It brings up the question of whether two artistic minds of equal integrity can collaborate if both are used to leading. My mom was recently watching the annual Hong Kong beauty pageant. I grappled between icily judging contestants' fashion faux-pas and delivering some tired tirade against these talentless saps parading before me. This time, my mom actually noticed how "unqualified" they were to be hamming it up underneath the spotlight:

"Wow, so bad. Dancing like tree. Hip so hard. No good, no good."

She conceded that dancing really is important, which I've told her on numerous occasions. The hardest thing to watch (and I speak from experience) are rhythmless sistas trying to grind it like a pepper mill on speed. But I digress. My mom has finally warmed up to the idea of me taking salsa and tango lessons, but discouraging me from making an ass out of myself (too late.)

Crime of the Century

Since we're already heading towards the hubristic path (by way of the entry title), I might as well update long-time readers on the state of that lawsuit my parents were presented with over a year ago.

For those of you unaware of the event mentioned, there was this lady who tripped on the sidewalk located in front of our business. She broke her femur in the process and is suing us and the city for damages totalling a million dollars. What's making us sweat is the fact that we were changing insurance companies the same day she decided to walk in the rain with heels on, so our asses aren't covered by anyone (maybe Vishnu, if he's feeling particularly merciful.)

The lawyer wanted to meet with the lot of us today (yours truly in the dual role of translator and simplifier.) The "discovery" portion of this case will take place in mid-October. He recommended that we settle so we wouldn't have to pay $20,000 - 35,000 in court fees and other "legal costs" if this thing actually goes to trial, which would take another year. My family just doesn't have the money for this bullshit. It's absolutely ridiculous. So we're hoping the judge will deem everyone partly responsible (or just her) and let our lawyers wrestle out some sort of a settlement that borders on free. Okay, more realistically: Nothing that breaks the $10,000 mark. Did you know attorneys receive $3000+ /day just for stepping into court? It's a wonder Dick the Butcher's line (Henry VI, Shakespeare) wasn't written sooner: "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." Okay, so maybe that quote is misguided because within the context of the play, it's actually a reference to preserving freedom. It's saying that the only way tyrants can successfully prevail is by getting rid of lawyers, and by extension, justice.

But I'm rambling again. The point is, we're bloodying the bank with our continual victimization of the ATM machine. Stabbing its torso guided by open wounds . Card in or out, the river hath run dry. Such tomfoolery in such tempestuous times, too timid to be taut.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Who's Gunner?

"Gunner wants to fuck you," Bullrider informed me.


I was shocked. He's Trunk Neck's best friend. A 24-year-old stoner-type, already made a father by his high school sweetheart (the child's paternity has been contested.)

"You interested?" she asked.

"I'm ... flattered?" I said, not quite convincingly. "But why?"

"He enjoyed talking to you the other night."

"But it was just a friendly discussion about movies!" I stammered.

"So ... you interested?"

"Uh, no. I'm 18-years-old. Unlike you, I have yet to successfully establish a fictitious age for myself to obtain easy access to jolly wands."

Of course that was paraphrased.

Current Balance: O

Broke it off with the Boy (Swami Turk) last night. He had invited me to go bowling with his buddies. I agreed on the condition that I wouldn't be playing. So we get there, and while waiting in line, he kept making a big deal out of it:

"Are you sure? I won't bowl either. Are you sure? Because I'm fine not playing with them - they're stupid anyway."

I said, listen, don't talk about your friends that way. I don't mind watching and getting to know them while they each wait their turns. But no. He kept pushing the issue. It was getting on my nerves, his whole "I'm a passive/aggressive ersatz-gentleman" schtick. And I don't like it when he tries to single me out with affection when there are people around either. He'd hiss at his friends to move from their seats so he could sit with me. His small talk consisted of inane observations ("Music's cool") to questions that revealed more about himself than it does me for not answering them ("What was that book? You know, the one ... Autumn something? By, like, that Irving guy? You know ...")

I asked the Asian where they were going next. "To play pool, since you suggested it," he replied. Off we went. The in-car conversation with ST set the tone for the rest of the night (I'm going to enlist the help of my thesaurus for this): Empty, flat, lamebrained, meaningless, vacant, vacuous and vain.

Everytime he opened his mouth - which was often, because this guy loves, loves, loves to ramble and doesn't like it when I turn on the radio to end momentary silence - I'd have to bear witness to his absolutely self-involved psyche. Oh, he might not brag, but he sure loves to listen to himself speak:

"That's cool that you have an apartment. If I had an apartment, I'd buy a bed ... maybe a loveseat or sofa thing, um ... a clock ... I think I'd need a dresser ..."

"Yes, well, you'd only need the basics because, I mean ..."

"... a dining room table, some chairs, a TV, definitely a TV ... VCR ..."

"Yeah *rolls eyes*"

"... a computer, maybe a printer or I can just use the school's. Too bad I didn't move out, eh?"

"You should be grateful your parents are paying for everything, including refurbishing the basement to your specifications."

"Yeah, but moving out's, like, way cool."

ST kept wanting to hold my hand when we explored a so-called haunted house (I kept walking away from him). It was supposed to be something fun you do with friends, but this guy kept whining that it was "stoopid". Or he'd come up from behind, say "boo" near my ear and smell my hair. I was getting pissed off. I told him I feel like an ornament. "What? Like on a tree? Those things?" I sighed. "Yes, those things. Nevermind. Just forget about it."

So he finally drove me home. I thanked him and told him I enjoyed spending time with his friends ("I'm not good friends with them or anything, just to let you know"), but that we should stop seeing each other. Stunned pause. "Is that alright?" I asked, not anticipating what he was going to say next. "Oh ..." was all he could muster up. I kissed him on the cheek and high-tailed it out of there.


My dad was watching the Olympic games when I got home at around 1:30 a.m. I told him about ST. He asked me why I would waste my time on, what he calls, "uncultured boys." It makes me feel like such a snob, but to me, love isn't blind. Love is what happens when you open your eyes. There's Freudian truth in the theory that children end up marrying people similar to their parents. My dad might not be paternal, but he knows a little about everything. Our father/daughter chats consist of debates about politics, philosophy, history, geography, psychology, environmental issues, the culinary arts, cars, celebrity scandals, medical science, etc. He has an interest in all aspects of life, not just things that necessarily involve or affect him (which is more than I can say about Swami Turk of "I only like sports and cars" fame). I mean, my dad's no snob, a bonafide slob, but he's definitely not "stoopid."

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Skippy: The Stoner Snack

I was reading Seth Stevenson's breakdown of this new ad by peanut butter behemoth Skippy. Elephants in t-shirts and tube-tops cavort at an MTV-derived arrangement. On-stage, a Sean Paul-ephant dancehalls his way through easily graspable adjectives describing the corporation's venture into snack bar territory.

Considering Skippy once hired Norman "Normal" Rockwell as a company illustrator, this veering off the June Cleaver-mothers-here-at-mealtime direction has me a little puzzled too. Why would Skippy market their product to the 3 a.m. high crowd? Then it hit me like a joint. Because stoners like snacks. Especially snacks marketted by animated, dancing, psychedelic Jumbos played in the wee hours of the morning. Half the money saved up for drugs can now be spent on creamy, crunchy candies in individually-wrapped packages of wholesome goodness. It's an untapped niche.

And that, I say, is J'enius.

Monday, August 16, 2004

Warning: Not For the Faint of Heart

"Nirvana," I confessed. "I don't have a vagina!"

I'm a tampon virgin. Yet, I had a sudden jonesin' to start using these "treasure plugs" at work today (pads are a real pain in the chocha because you have to be extra discreet when opening up the plastic packages in public restrooms, feeling like a diaper notwithstanding.) To make a short story even shorter, I found my "love canal" after realizing I had been tilting the "absorbent rocket" in the opposite direction. Think Jack climbing up the beanstalk. Only, the beanstalk couldn't penetrate the clouds because the Giant's castle was built on non-government approved land. And yes, I did it correctly - I don't feel a thing. Whoop whoop!

Men never have to go through these things, I bet. I doubt they need instructions on the correct placement of hollowed-out scholarly tomes during a particularly bumpy bus ride with a peculiarly interested girl.


Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to spend this time talking about this hole in my DKNY shirt:

There is a hole in my DKNY shirt. It's on my right shoulder (my right, your left). I am very sad. I hope no one else notices. Then again, it was Nirvana who pointed it out to me. But she was sitting close. Real close. Let's all pray it doesn't get any larger than the circumference of a ballpoint pen.


Sunday, August 15, 2004

Instant Jam, Instant Karma

I slept over at Bullrider's last night. Who happens to appear just when we were getting ready to go visit Trunk Neck? If you guessed Sensitive Tart, award yourself a can of refried beans and ketchup, because honey, you just said the winning words. He wasn't exactly tactful and he sure didn't hold anything back (might as well have been an H-E-double hockey stick away from sending her there), but he did deserve closure and she was too much of a pansy to give that to him. Then again, from my side, overhearing their little verbal rampage sort of gave new meaning to the slogan "Once you pop, the fun don't stop."


Stalker - I mean, Nathaniel - came to check up on me today. Shorty told me this was his third time here (I was led to believe this was only his second). Maybe it was some sort of cosmic intervention or perhaps, even divine. Whichever the case, the shoes my customer requested just so happened to be located in the lower regions of the store. Had I left a minute too late, Stalker would have caught a glimpse of me through the window and ... well ... approached me with some unavoidable pleasantries, catching me off-guard in the most heinous way: Falsely cordial and guilt-ridden. My ideal conversation with him would go something like this:

"I'm flattered by your attention, but I'm really not interested. No, we can't be friends. I'm 18-years-old!"

"He'll be back," Shorty guaranteed. Lay off, Jerko! You're old! Leave my booty in peace!


Asked the Boy if he read anything interesting lately ("No. I'm watching That 70's Show right now.") Asked him what he has strong opinions about ("Um ... cars, sports, some other stuff.") Asked him whether he's willing to challenge me ("I don't know what that means exactly.")

I tried to pick a fight with him over his rampant use of emoticons. He didn't even ask me why I didn't like them before he ceased using those little icons of sinful torment. Maybe subconsciously, I've been trying to convince him to leave me in rage.

Nah! That's crazy talk, Ichabod Crane.


I was sandwiched between two very drool-worthy delectables at Subway. That's pretty much the extent of the story (compacted into one pun-filled sentence.)

Saturday, August 14, 2004


I didn't go to work today because my mom re-assigned me to tomorrow's shift. Nirvana calls me and tells me a "Nathaniel" had come to see me.


"That 25-year-old guy who tried to pick you up!" she says, giddy.

Oh Lord. It was apparent to her that he had invested some effort getting dolled up for this planned encounter (his pungent cologne gave it away). He asked her if I was seeing anyone. She replied that I've "just started" dating a guy and that I'll be going to school in Montreal in the fall.

"You interested?" Nirvana asked, helping me push for details.

"Well," Nathaniel grimaced, "are you friends with her?"

"We're, like, BEST friends. Really close. You can tell me," she enthusiastically assured him.

"Yeah, I'm interested. She's a pretty girl and seems cool," came the answer.

We have never met this man before Wednesday. I thought aloud that maybe he had seen me throw out some trash to the curb and saw potential wifey material. In any case, I'm not exactly looking forward to being there when he comes back tomorrow.

The Boy already refers to him as my "stalker."

"Whatever. You're just jealous somebody older is paying attention to me," I said, smirking.

He hesitated. "Well, I guess you should be flattered then."

I don't predict a very high success rate in this relationship. He's just too accommodating. Yes, I want a gentleman, but not one who never takes the reins from me once in awhile. As far as I can see, this is a pet project, guinea pig included. And I assure you, dear readers, I have not let him wine and dine my sorry ass. I might be a mental tramp, but I ain't no gold-diggin' ho.

A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed

The Sensitive Tart came by my house 15 minutes before my date with the Boy. He just stood there on my porch, as my mom, confused, asked me why somebody else's boyfriend is doing here. He wanted to talk to me about Bullrider. "She's been ignoring me, I don't know intentionally or what." Basically, he wanted to gripe. "I love her, but she's pulling away." It's not my place to talk about her personal issues on my blog. However, I did assure her I covered up her secret real good. "I'm trying to put this as eloquently as possible, Sensitive Tart. While you were gone for two weeks, Bullrider and I discussed a lot about her life and due to ... erm ... external forces (*shakes his head, starts cracking his knuckles, rolling his eyes in a way that says she's been ... philandering*), she is now able to see things more objectively and wants to make a clean break from here before heading off to Calgary (*he starts breathing normally again, anger subsiding*). Also, lately, she hasn't exactly been abiding to Christian ... ways ... and to her, you're synonymous with the faith she no longer feels connected to. You must understand, right?" He did, but it was all Bullrider bullshit. Everyone probably thinks the Asian Atheist corrupted their little girl, but really, she's been doing some kinky stuff with Trunk Neck and she knows that just wouldn't fly in Godville. I told him he, at the very least, deserved some closure from her. Not tossed away and ignored because she's afraid of confrontation. "THIS ISN'T CONFRONTATION!" he, um, clarified.

"But Lily," Bullrider protested, after I told her what had happened while I was on my way home from the movies with the Boy, "I don't want to talk to him!"

I was still chatting on the phone with her when I very casually (and quickly) kissed the Boy goodnight. It felt so natural. The rushed liplock that is. Like I was Nicole Kidman and late for an appointment with my pedicurist.

I told my mom and she's like, "Ewww, I no want to hear. La la la! Is he going to university? What is he? Why I no see him?"

"Yes, for business. White. 'Cause you're embarrassed already. Besides, I'm leaving in less than 20 days. It's just a summer fling."

"Oh, gross ... Why you so yucky?"


AVP was so funny. I think Sanaa Lathan wanted to get it on with the Predator. He was this close to proposing alien marriage. Alright, maybe that wasn't the director's intent, but the movie was just that hella hilarious.

Friday, August 13, 2004

A Eulogy

Julia Child died early Friday at the age of 91. She brought French cooking off the Continent and into Betty Crocker kitchens everywhere.

But I must say, she was a bit irritating on camera. I suppose it's not her fault. So she made me squirm because that flap of skin located underneath her chin jiggled during her demonstrations on the fine art of buttering-up three-dimensional fare (eat THAT, South Beach Diet); similar to Katharine Hepburn, but with more jowl action.

In any case, she will be missed. I will never look at aprons the same way again. They are, indeed, the perfect boobage supporter and protector-in-one.


Going out with the Boy tonight (it's so much easier than calling him Swami Turk). He said I can drive his car again even though I almost killed him the last time he allowed me behind the wheel.

"... as long as I'm with you, it's alright."

"You're giving me permission to drive your car? Pfft, I'll drive 'cause I rock!"

My faux-narcissism always gives him a good laugh. Like when I asked him whether he knew what was better than a roller coaster.


"A good movie. And you know what's better than a good movie?"



He's the bee's knees in accepting my peculiarities. Damnit, I promised I wouldn't start idealizing ...

Thursday, August 12, 2004

Where For Art Thou, Confidence?

Racist Like Me - Why am I the only honest bigot? By Debra Dickerson

This is an honest piece of work, but prides itself too much; there exists a smugness that's all too apparent. Where's my balloon when my friends and I openly dissect our own bred prejudices? It's as if, by attaining enlightenment through the admittance of personal faults, she is now in a position to dole out a solution rooted in so-called "rationality."

This passionate counter-argument to Dickerson's self-congratulatory piece was written by poster Kerry.


Big words and convoluted reasoning used to intimidate me to the point where I would just take the author's word for everything. In a society increasingly disabled by wordiness, isn't it time to give your intelligence some credit?

Wednesday, August 11, 2004


Nirvana told me women get hit on more when they're taken. This proved positive at work today when a 25-year-old man tried to pick me up. It was ... um ... rather embarrassing. His attempt was, at once, subtle and blatantly obvious: "What's your name?" "When are you working again?" "I like Chinese women." Nirvana asked me what I was going to do. I groaned. "Find a ring in a Cracker Jack box and flash it across the counter for him to see on Saturday [when he returns]," was my wry reply.

I'm hesitant to tell Swami Turk about these type of encounters (though it has never stopped me from doing so before). He knows I'm sociable and trusts that I will not mislead his affections. But I'm still unsure of my feelings for him although the word "EXCLUSIVE" flashes more often than Anna Nicole Smith at a keg party held in the honour of Nipplegate.

"I don't think I can challenge you," he admitted when I revealed to him (upon request) the qualities I want in a man. That impressed me more than I cared to admit.


Mom let me drive from our downtown store to our house up in the mountain. Everything went well until I screeched into our street, scaring the bejeezes out of her.

"Break! BREAK!!"

His Smell Lingers On Me

This was the best date I've been on. I paid for his movie ticket: "So you can pay for me next time." He didn't try anything that would make me feel uncomfortable. We went as far as holding hands (okay, and some body-on-body contact.) He let me drive his car (poorly, might I add.) Then spontaneously drove to Niagara Falls.

"There goes Grimsby ..." "... Lincoln" "... St. Catharines"

"Fuck it, let's just go to Niagara Falls." A good hour away when going through city roads.

I didn't get home until 4 a.m. He was willing to risk the wrath of his parents to do whatever I wanted to do. I would suggest the most farfetched ideas and he'd ask once to confirm then proceed (albeit, with caution.)

We came to the conclusion that we're oppposites. Complete and utter opposites. I can list the things we have in common on one hand:

-Likes cats
-Favourite colour is green
-Birthday is on the same day as my younger brother ("Bullshit! Let me see your ID.")
-Likes talking
-Likes shopping (I reckon he has more clothes than I do)

The things we don't have in common range from him being able to cook to him not liking to take risks. He also has a photographic memory, which is a curse. I thought I had high expectations; this guy will remember every mistake you make. I can easily let go of things and people; he can't. He's more conservative; I'm liberal (a borderline socialist). We can't be anymore different. But he likes me exactly the way I am. We already planned our second date (this Friday), though I asked outloud how we'll manage to top this.

I wanted to sneak a kiss so bad, but he wouldn't stop in the middle of an unlit road so I could climb on him to do that. And I chickened out when he dropped me off. The moment just felt forced. Oh right, and we hit a rabbit. He was feeling the shame in his shaky limbs; I couldn't stop laughing ("Pretend it was a rock.")

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Date tonight. Told him I wanted to watch Collateral because AVP is too much of a forced date-flick ploy. I just pray - PRAY - that he lets me make the first move because I ... will ... feel ... smothered ... otherwise.

Used this as an excuse to go shopping at Guess? with my debit card. I will be dancing for cash and living on park bench #4 veddy soon, touting conspiracy theories against the beat of my modified bongos ("Now, with an electric shaver!").


Concordia contacted me again and said they had a single room for me in res. This made not only my blood boil, but head burst and spleen rupture. They gave me one day to reply, so I sent Ms. Leduc a very eloquent letter professing my need for an extension to make my decision. She gave in, but I turned down her offer not long after, admitting "disinterest." My parents would rather me live in an apartment because they don't want me going through the same bureaucratic bullshit during my second year.

Besides, the concierge called me this morning and told me I was accepted (even though I failed to fax the loan-shark-acting creditor the necessary paperwork that proved my dad's business ownership.) Booyah! Someone's getting some booty tonight!


Tip: Wear granny panties to remind yourself to stay "pure."

Monday, August 09, 2004

Fresh & Shameless

I had to take him home because that's how Trini Man's system works: Student A drives to Student B's house. Student B gets into the driver's seat taking Student A home. Student B then goes to pick up Student C.

Today, the student he had in the backseat of the vehicle was trying to get fresh with me, asking for my number and kissing the back of my hand when I extended it out the window to shake his. The guy made a reference to the Great Depression during our witty repartee which piqued my interest. And by witty, I mean, well ... yeah. Humourous put-downs that made Trini Man howl like a coyote in heat.

Mid-way on Mohawk, his comments became more lascivious, which I promptly put an end to with well-timed insults.

"Hey hey hey, Steve. I'm running a driving school here," warned the driving instructor. "This ain't no pick-up lounge."

As soon as that boy headed to his apartment and was out of earshot, Trini Man gave me a stern warning:

"Whoo. Guy always disruptin' m'class. Really gets me steamin'. Gettin' under 80s on his in-class tests. He has that ... ADD thing, methinks. Always being a smart aleck. And he's a crazy drivah. So aggressive!"

Oh, those 20-year-old university boys ...


Phrase of the Day: Greener pastures. Why do I always feel like I'm being stifled after new people become the old? Why do I always get the feeling that I'm constantly bored? Pluck my interest, make me sweat; jeer and leer, but ne'er reset.

He's the complete opposite of Swami Turk. But I'm forcing myself to ignore potential deal breakers with ST (potential may mean the colour of his socks to the way he pronounces "rhetoric") because I can't have a bachelor mentality forever. I have to grow up and settle because I don't even know what I want (Math Judas: "Just keep rockin' in the free world.") Might as well follow rules in the Mars and Venus tradition. You can never conform too much.


I just don't know where to channel all this frivolous attention. How do I sift through quantity to reach high-grade quality when I never developed the skills required to play this new game of lust and loins? Where is the link that keeps me coming back to someone? Where is my equal? Where is my object of unrequited affection? Where is my challenge?


To settle or not to settle, that is the question. Banana Chic is encouraging this blossoming relationship with ST. Since they're friends, I asked her why he hasn't been able to keep up with me, intellectually:

"Most men can't."

Are there greener pastures or is this it?

Banana Chic also told me our friends all saw something going on between us during Wonderland:

"You guys were inseparable after waiting in line for the Tomb Raider ride. Like two peas in a pod. ... And that picture I snapped of you was actually an attempt to capture both of you together [on film.]"

So obvious yet so oblivious. Banana Chic's even threatened to prevent me from purposely fucking this one up. "It'll take a lot to turn him off [you.] You might have to burn his balls or kick him in the balls or knee him in the balls or something. But he seems to like you for who you are."

Why can't I move into my apartment in Montreal already?!

Shorty is superstitious and is into all that mystical junk. The old charismatic Indian jeweller who owns the store behind us has a habit of reading faces and palms. He told me to come and see him later today when his "mind is clear." He's the go-to-guy for romantic queries. Met his wife while he was taking a stroll along the sidewalk. He went up to this long-legged beauty and told her he predicted their impending marriage happening in the near future. That following Saturday, they became man and wife witnessed by 500 guests. They've been together for 27 years (so far.)

Though admittedly, I'm still jaded. J-j-j-jaded.


Shorty is 28-years-old and has 28-year-old friends who do 28-year-old activities that only permit those 19-years and over.

"Who's your friend?" the two Polish guys inquired.

Shorty turned to her left. "Who? Lily? The girl who was just standing here a minute ago?"

They nodded. "Yeah, she's a cutie."

*Cue mortification*

Shorty: "She's too young for you two. How old do you think she is?"

They guessed 26.

*Cue mortification; this time in the vein of vanity*

Bottom line is, I will not permit my panties to be sniffed! Eh? Eh?? ... No? I ... understand.

Sunday, August 08, 2004

How To Cook Your Daughter by Tony Hendra (National Lampoon, 1971)

People often ask, "How do I tell when my daughter is ready for the table?" Well, there's always some little variation, but generally the exact age falls somewhere between the fifth and sixth birthdays. During this period, the daughter acquires a smooth firmness totally free of flab or muscle, especially in the shoulders, buttocks, and thighs, areas which are the gourmet's delight. ... A slight nip of the teeth will quickly reveal the precise degree of succulence. An ancient and surprisingly accurate test of readiness is to hold the buttocks one in each hand and squeeze gently. If the daughter says, "Grrrugchllllchllll," she is not yet quite ready. If she slaps your face, you have missed your opportunity. But if she giggles, she is just right.

The recipe printed here is the traditional one said to have been originated by the eleventh century Duke of Thuringia, Julian the Fertile. (Julian, incidentally, is said to have died from a surfeit of daughter.) ...

For this recipe you will need:

1 pint of freshly pressed sunflower oil
1 bottle of very good Riesling
Fresh herbs: rosemary and marjoram
12 ripe sliced papayas
3 cups Grand Marnier
Dressing - a bikini top, black velvet choker, ankle socks (a gout)
1 gallon of whipping cream
1 red apple
1/2 lb. sesame seeds
And, of course,
1 moderately plump daughter

First wash the daughter thoroughly. (If she does not object to this, it is certain that you have misjudged her readiness.) Some gourmets omit this stage, finding that the pate of scrambled egg, chocolate, and sand found on various parts of the body greatly enhance the end result.

Next take a larger platter, curved to catch the juices, and place the daughter on it. Rub oil gently into the skin, particularly around the rump, shoulder, and cheek, these being the most exquisite delicacies if properly browned. ...

Now turn the daughter on her tummy in a kneeling position so that her head rests on her hands. Place the sprigs of herb in the gently rounded crevices that will be formed. If she giggles at this point, reprimand her. Then scatter the sliced papaya all over her and rub the liqueur wherever you like. If she persists in giggling, tap her lightly with a rolling pin. ...

At this point, the daughter will probably want to get up and go to the bathroom or play something else like prince and princess. If so, let her get up off the platter and give her some chocolate. If not, eat her.


That's some good Swiftian satire although reading the entire piece came with some discomfort. It took me back to an article I read a few weeks ago about some controversial theory that fathers have a suppressed desire to rape their daughters and murder their wives.

I might be open-minded but that there is my limit. But props if it had to brave a scourge of politically corrected public opinion to be made known.

Premiere L'experience

I did it, Shotgun Toter. Now it's your turn to fulfill your side of the bargain with Serbian Boy. Swami Turk and I are officially "unofficially dating." I talked to him until 5 a.m. about everything and nothing. He's not as aggressive as I'd like him to be, but then again, guys who had previously fit my criteria are no longer in my life-dar.

He's sweet and has an innocent sense of humour. Isn't excessively smart, but doesn't try to be wittier than he is. Romantic, but also a doomsayer. Has a good head on his (cut) shoulders. Isn't dirty and looking for fast flings or a fast fuck. Argues with me rather than against me. Doesn't try to impress me with his material wealth. Has a vast array of interests (not as passionate about them as I am, mais c'est ma vie.) We have similar personality traits, but to an outsider, we're more contrasting than complimentary. 5'11" and fit, an olive complexioned Orlando Bloom with deeper set eyes, and a striking nose.

Most Importantly: Bonus points for not having a single pair of tapered jeans in his closet (Bullrider knows what I'm referring to.) Okay, what actually matters most: He doesn't see me as his competition and opponent, in addition to liking me exactly the way I am (ie. opinionated and "prone to ramble.")

That, dear readers, is the only guideline ST is required to pass. Hey, everyone's lenient when they encounter someone they actually like. Expectations are just excuses to discourage unwanted admirers.

Alien vs. Predator might be the movie we go see next week after I get off work. We both have a thing for crossover fiction like the cast of Street Fighter duking it out with the characters from Mortal Kombat. It's a guilty pleasure of mine and he wants to go see it (though "anything you want, [I'll gladly go]" secretly forced an "awwww!" out of me.)

Saturday, August 07, 2004


Why should I keep holiday,
When other men have none?
Why but because when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone.

And why when mirth unseals all tongues
Should mine alone be dumb?
Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,
And now their hour is come.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Friday, August 06, 2004

There's Something in the Air

There's something about jazz that is so freeing and involving, I can't quite put my finger on it. It is a testament to skill; a concoction of imagination impregnating reality. Picture this: Joseph's coat disappearing into the beaded fabric of the sky as you lay there, legs bent, against the earthen hedgehog. Ahead of you, the frontal lobes of passing vehicles zoom by, as if gliding across the crystalline waters of Magellan. The long sustaining notes of Miles Davis echo the aquiline light that finds its way through the foliage hanging above your head like a canopy of lace. The first bar of Ellington's "In A Sentimental Mood" begins, and you're left wondering how someone is able to capture the essence of romantic longing in a four-minute package then have the audacity to abruptly leave you, like a man called to a war that isn't his to fight.

Hot damn! Too many opportunities to get laid, too many ways to excuse myself from following through. Can I be any more sardonically inclined?

I guess I'm just overly disgusted by conventional wisdom to fall for conventional courting tactics. My mind's checking off the boxes in my head and I compensate by nitpicking his baseless dreams with the sole intent of pissing him off.

Creativity: The ultimate aphrodisiac. Why aren't young men jumping on this bandwagon?

Thursday, August 05, 2004

Say What?

Another end to an eleven hour shift. Working with Nirvana is the only pleasure that comes with serving customers.

"You want to look out the window?"


Every person of Indian descent was nicknamed "Goopdu"; Asian, Wingdong; African, Shaq and Caucasians were called "Neders," doled out in a Fran Drescher squeal.

We yelled out these "respectable" labels to the corresponding men who happened to pass our store on the street. Most thought we were checking them out, answering to said names.

"Woohoo Goopdu! Looking good!"

"Me? Heh heh *wink*"

We even made up an old-school hip-hop beat using these monikers. Even went as far as replace words in well-known songs:

"Da roof, da roof, da roof iz on fiyah, Wingdong don't need nothin' but the weed and a lighter!"


"Ain't no party like a Manjullah Abdullah party!" and proceeded to read all the names backwards.

Oh right. And "bi-otch" was used quite frequently too.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004


Paramount Canada's Wonderland with 9 other people. I haven't been there in ages. Well, since I was 13. What is it about being able to grow balls for thriller rides when you're trying to impress someone? In any case, Tomb Raider was my favourite. I loved getting knocked around inside the flying cage.

"Alright Swami Turk. On the count of three, we yell out 'motherfucker*' to the dolts down below."

"Wouldn't that offend a lot of people?"

"Are you in or out?"

"... I'm in."

I was a woman possessed. On a mission to lasso his attention, and failure was not an option. After a rough start, making a complete fool out of myself (this time, unintentionally), I proceeded to tease him by stubbornly disagreeing ("You're a liar. A dirty liar." "No, I'm not. Ask Jess. Am I a liar?" "Doesn't matter, you moralless fiend"), smirking often to indicate childplay. But towards the end of our nine hour get-together, he was looking for excuses to spend more alone time with me, just chatting:

Lily: "I don't want to eat at Manchu Wok. I'll just grab a pizza somewhere."

ST: "I'll come with you."

What a challenge, that mucho guarded boy. GAR-geous smile though. And if nothing else, I made a new friend (albeit, with potential benefits.)

*He and I walked by Top Gun and heard profanities coming out of guys in the drop area, which inspired me to do the same, though all I could muster up was "Ohhhh shit! This is great!" when the chance came.


"No no, see. You missed the beat there. You need an eighth-note here."

"I'll eighth-note you!"

"Pfft, stick it up your whole note."

If you're going to clap along to Busta Rhyme's "Make It Clap," you better clap it right.


Bullrider has officially re-enacted a popular male fantasy. Probably out-kinking even her fictitious counterparts. That Trunk Neck has turned you into an animal, I say. An animal!

Screw the Sensitive Tart (though seeing how his relationship with the Church has grown stronger, anything similar to "screw" and its equivalents might not happen to that poor possessive hypocrite.)

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

Cold Fusion

Eleven hours were spent working from 10-9 p.m. The highlight of my day involved trying to deter a customer from haggling three dollar slippers:

"Ma'am, this is the price. I can't give it to you any cheaper."

"Why it no on sale?!"

I took the bus to the mountain store around 6 to finish up my shift there. Shorty and I spoke at length about the current state of her romantic life. I told her, "You know, it's odd that we feel complete until we meet someone to make us feel incomplete."

To rewrite the Bard's Romeo and Juliet: "O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?"

"What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?"

"The willingness to achieve satisfaction by agreeable means."

No, I take that back. Confrontation is a show of character; appeasement, merely a show. When did it become passe to fight the status quo?

Monday, August 02, 2004


Christian Scrawnwich organized an afternoon picnic as a send off to the German since he's leaving Canada on Wednesday. Bullrider and I were supposed to meet them at the park at 1 p.m., but decided to stop and shop for some cute tops at this little hip boutique. Met up with them at 2 p.m., and I talked to the guest of honour about his trip across this great land of Canucks while Bullrider asked questions about his Japanese girlfriend. While this was taking place, I was trying, desperately, to squeeze stubborn mayo on the sandwich Scrawnwich brought. Bullrider and I were discussing how maternal that man is. Bringing a cooler of drinks, a blanket, appropriate food for the occasion, the whole nine yards. I was half expecting cheese sticks and granola with supermarket marinara sauce as garnish.

Bullrider suggested we leave after an hour of mingling (avec one). The German walked us to her car while we threw fantastical suggestions into the air, like "Come visit me in Germany when you go to Paris." To which I replied, "You come visit me when I'm in Paris." To which he replied, "I'll come visit you in Montreal." To which I replied, "Yeah, sure. You won't have to worry about finding a place to live." Bullrider asked him when he'll be back in Canada. "In a year or two."


So ... we were being serious? I joke. Nothing spells F-U-N like friends in your private domain.

I hugged him at her car and off we went to the Stag Shop:

"Is this small enough for you, Lily?"

"No, the vibrator needs to be discreet as a lipstick."

"What about this?" Bullrider asked, while holding up one of the pastel packages that could be easily confused with that of an Easy-Bake oven. "It shows here that you fit it over your finger."

Massaging tips, eh? Very tempting, though the bedside sucker camoulflaged as a Buckingham guard could make a nun stray.

I hung out at Bullrider's house until dusk, talking about her romantic dilemma of herculean proportions. And it's a DILEMMA. I'm talkin' not-wanting-to-be-in-her-Birkenstocks big.

She sent me on my way after gettying gussied up for her illicit tryst with Trunk Neck.

Sunday, August 01, 2004

Last of the Mohicans

I write this like a woman on death row. Wrongly accused but still eager to get it over with. Though the scraps of my last meal will be appetizers of morrow, I have this sinking feeling that after Wednesday, the transition will be complete. In essence, I will no longer be able to participate in youthful revelry nor activities of a questionable nature for quite some time. By that, I mean, one whole month to focus entirely on making money.

What a chore.

Then again, I'm detesting this Tallulah Bankhead personification. My "no-tantrum" philosophy might be the only thing preventing the last nail from sealing up my coffin.

It's not like work can be compared to Dante's Inferno. But with employment comes customers and - whoo boy! - they sure are a doozy to deal with. Imagine the workplace being a watering hole in the middle of an African savannah and yours truly, a lone zebra. Now my desire to drink from this here watering hole has been forcing me to deal with this wise guy "floating log" on a daily basis, who hovers within my vicinity like an UFO circling the compound of the toothless and shirtless (necessary that it be in that order). Now this aquatic predator and I have had a few close encounters in the past, which included biting, leg gnawing and chewing of the nose until it began to resemble Michael Jackson's facial vagina. Yet, I grin and bare it, pretending to forget all the times he's harvested the dearly departed belonging to the ol' black/white clan.

That! is retail. That! is why I've grown impatient with people who choose not to accept what they don't want to hear. When I refuse to give you a refund for something that looks as fresh as Steve Buscemi after his "accident" in Fargo, take your shit and leave. No, you may not throw our merchandise at us and no, I don't care if you tell your friends never to shop here again. If it means never having to witness 40-year-old spinsters with Farmer Hoggett-looking sugar daddies, I think my days will be more blissful than melons in manure.


Sexy Spinster's birthday today and went out to watch the Manchurian Candidate. Meryl Streep's performance was heartstopping. Denzel Washington plays against type, embodying the character's vulnerability and determination. And Liev Schreiber has a wonderful actor's face. It's subtle but expressive, sometimes creepily so. I really enjoyed it. Top-notch.


Went to sleep at 6 a.m. watching The Benny Goodman Story (1955) starring Steve Allen. All I could think of was whether he was actually playing the clarinet (doubt it) and if he was the same Steve Allen who invented the modern-day late night talk show format (I googled him and came up in the positive.)

The things I put up with for some good sound bites ...