Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Me? Cook? Food? For people?

M. Biologique's having a little Mexican-themed get-together at his place on Friday.

It's going to be an organic potluck dinner avec high-brow hippies.

Although I am distressed, his expectations are commendable.

Aye, aye. For woe is not wanton, but a severed sage.

So bottoms up baby to a brand new age.

"Drink up. The alcohol kills everything."

Went pubbing with Mopey, M. Biologique, Swiss Alps and J.Lass (who I witnessed drunk for the first time - it wasn't pretty) tonight.

Mighty good time. Although the people who were enjoying the shitty ass Open Mike poetry reading didn't think our asshole behaviour was called for.

"Coaster nipples!" M. Biologique and I shouted as lonely housewives read about the dimming flame in their loins.

M. Biologique offered to come over and cook for me because - as my curry wounds reveal - I am a terrible chef. Although he's from New Mexico, he studied in Paris, so he's a European foodie at heart: fresh, organic, and made from scratch.

Mopey walked me to the metro station and said a few flattering words before heading off in the opposite direction. He's the epitome of "Big guy in hometown now intimidated into an isolated corner."

And Swiss Alps. Wow. Poor kid. His Guinness was completely contaminated by J.Lass's mischief. It was a witch's brew of sorts: lime, lime dipped in cigarette ash, straw dipped in cigarette ash, greasy finger(s), coaster confetti, saliva-drenched ice and probably some new strain of herpes.

I had a fabulous time with these guys.

Hope to add more to the list.


NerdQuirk and I partnered up in JOUR 200 to do some man-on-the-street interviews.

We were doing alternating impressions of the Soup Nazi with one exception. Instead of saying "soup," we said , "Fooking Bush! I say, no gas for you!" It weirded quite a few people out.

He also suggested that I get his name embroidered on my panties.

Uh ... is it just me or have men suddenly become more openly suggestive?

Monday, September 27, 2004

A Reading That Revealed

After reading Cary Tennis's ( advice column for a woman perpetually attracted to her much older professors and acting on her impulses, I've concluded (and paraphrased) this about myself:

A large extent of my attraction to certain men is due to the taboo of seniority. I've come to realize I might write incessantly about the qualities they possess that initially lure me in, but my desires are never pure. I am simply "role-playing and experimenting with the power of [my] youth, beauty and intelligence."

Can't Stop Myself wrote: "All through my lonely years in high school, my mom and teachers would comment that I was very mature for my age, and the boys would love me when I got older."

But my peers are now easily attainable, while older men are not.


Aw ... crap. Will emailed me.


Only 6 months older. What do I look like? A DeLorean-driving-babysitter?

Hoo Ha!

In honour of my rejection, I decided to attend the Upstairs jazz club to go see the Hilario Duran Trio. Sat at the bar and introduced myself to the guy sitting next to me.

"So what brings you here?"

"I'm the drummer."


Freaking Hilario Duran himself was sitting two seats away eating chicken and mash!

His name was Ernesto. Wore huge square frames. Cuban. Mid-thirties, I suppose? And wanted to buy me a drink.

I settled into my seat and settled into the music (the grilled Mahi Mahi helped). Terrific Latin-infused beats. Really great band. I interviewed Ernesto and shared a few words with Mr. Duran ("You teach at Humber College, yes?"). Also talked to a sales executive for Universal records. Good thing I didn't do much research because my balls would've choked on fear had I known who I was initiating conversations with.

Ahem, but let's make one thing clear: By my "balls", I meant, "cojones."

The night was fookin' amazing. I mean, Rufus Wainwright got his start here. And there I was, getting asked out by a drummer decades my senior (I left before his band's second set to avoid any possible awkward cornerings).

Garcon Joel observed that I already look like I got over the "boy who rejected [me]" and said I'd do fine. I put on my best face and said bonsoir. But realized I was getting more and more angry and irritated as I neared the Guy-Concordia metro station. Those irrational feelings culminated to this email I just now sent:

Hi Tall,

Thanks for being as honest as you could be without hurting my feelings today. But you know as well as I do that you were just trying to be polite. Because had you been interested in me at all, there would have been a noticeable effort made on your part, and your list of priorities, changed.

In any case, I do enjoy your company. You are, as you say, "personable." So if you ever want to stay in contact for any reason, I assure you it won't be interpreted as anything but platonic.



Maturity is the part I play when it makes the least sense to, no?


Tall looked like he still had a lot of say to me when we parted ways in my apartment lobby. Awfully puppy-doggish, even offering to replace the book he was returning because there was a few microscopic markings not unusual for normal wear.

I don't know. Maybe I should take everyone's advice and let loose. Go have one-night stands and stand-up sex.

But I'm just not made to multitask men.

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Game Over

Talked to Tall this afternoon. I asked for my book back. He's coming over to do so.

We've decided to stay friends.

We're at different times in our lives right now and our 6 year age difference is to blame.

That, and he's sorting out a lot of things I'd rather not divulge.

Intellect is a double-edged sword. Age is not a virtue.


I didn't think it would hurt this much. Though I thought the feeling would last longer.

I, Rebel

Baby no more.

What started as a night out to wallow in self-doubt, Tall-pression and Francoise-calling (our main squeezes), turned into a evening of tawdry fun and fling-a-dings.

A group of frat boys from Albany came up to Montreal last night looking for some action. J.Lass and I were at our third bar, talking, discussing how Tall is "unworthy" of me and whatnot. That he might be my equal now, but soon, very soon, I will surpass him and I will grow tired of him and I will be bored ... once more.

Then Will and John approached us. John is a runningback for Notre Dame. Will - that beautiful piece of man and non-smoker - singled himself out to talk to me. J.Lass got the other 6 (that later became somewhere closer to 35 as the night wore on).

19-years-old and wearing a deep purple shirt. It didn't matter that he was a fucking math genius on full scholarship, private school reared, but a total cultural idiot, I had Smirnoff Ice and I wanted him.

After a convoluted conversation that swerved into sexual territory, he asked himself how I'd taste.

"Come here and try it for yourself."

Oh man, it was the booze talking because for the next 3 hours, we were making out at various pubs, pizza parlors and street corners.

My body was completely attached to him. His hands ran between my thighs and down my back, supporting and messaging the area right below my breasts as we melted ice cubes between each other with our tongues.

"That's when you know it's over," I said.

"When the ice is gone," he finished.

But of course, it wasn't over. He was constantly stroking my body, and pulling on my belt loops towards him. It was protective and comforting. Something I'm just not getting from Tall. Fuck it, I'm not getting anything from Tall, that shitty pile of confusion.

I told Will he caught me off-guard tonight and playfully accused him of taking advantage of me.

He disagreed and said it was the other way around (and he would be right).

He wanted to keep in contact. I said I wasn't supposed to be remembered. He gave me his email. I gave him mine out of obligation.

"Where are you going to file that under?" I asked.

"File?" he said.

"Yeah, in your cabinet of conquests," I said.

He grinned. "I don't have one. But where will I be filed under?"

I looked at him strangely.


He grabbed my ass.

"With benefits?"


It's not that I didn't have a good time. It was fun. But J.Lass actually promised like 20 of them she would be going to New York in a month or two. Will asked me whether I'd be there. I didn't give a definite answer. I reminded him that I wasn't looking for anything inconvenient.

He still pushed for something more reassuring as I rounded the corner, his taste still lingering on my lips.


J.Lass was offered a tag-team opportunity. And with that, she chose Tom. And took his shirt.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

The Blonde

Sweeeeeet ... I was hit on by a lipstick lesbian (Bullrider says they don't exist. I agree. So she must've been bi).

J.Lass and I decided to go shoot some pool at Jimbo's Bar after completing our French homework ("Qu'est-ce qu'il profession?" "Il est medecin!" "Mais non! Il est un professeur!).

After completing the first game, two hairdressers, Melanie and Stephanie, came over and asked us to join them. That's when the latter began her "seduction."

My ass is still sore.

And she really liked to touch my face. "Gorgeous! Just gorgeous! Listen, I'm a hairdresser. I know. There are really gorgeous Asians and then there are really un-gorgeous Asians. There's no in-between."

Excuse me?

"Haha, you're drunk. You must have your beer goggles on."

"I've had two drinks, it's true. But both ... see those two bottles there? Yeah, they're filled with water."

J.Lass stood far, far away from Stephanie to keep her sexuality in check and unchallenged.

Man, good thing I had my old pal Smirnoff Ice to help me steer clear of any irrational behaviour. Oh wait, you mean dancing the cha-cha to Lauryn Hill isn't proper social etiquette? Nor is letting a lesbian go on and on about my lips while cupping my face in her hands?



And now.

I sleep.

And dream.

Of T.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

An Intro

Geneva D. dropped her Political Science course and joined me in Philosophy: Critical Thinking today. She's a sweetheart who isn't afraid to get nekkid when the right horn dog comes swaggering by (Donald, 20, basketball player, all-round player). 17-years of hooch (and a caboose). Think Stacey Dash's younger (prettier) sister; a total Dionne without the sass and finger snapping.

Love her to bits. How can you not when she openly admits that the holy grail of her journalism career is being given the chance to interview stars on the red carpet. Sample phrase from GD: "Oops, she's done it again ... three times!"

Mimi is gorgeous, but common enough so that George Clooney would still go for her without getting uptight about the "industry." She isn't very adventurous, but is super friendly. While Geneva D. and I are drawing pictures of disco stick men and stick men fairies, stick femme boobies and sheets over "sticks", she's sending us "BF4EVER" illustrations.

Haha, bits to her too.

Developing new relationships is the greatest possible feeling between picking ripe tomatoes and finding the perfect panty liner. It's what happens when courses are breezy: you spend 15 hours a day socializing.


Met up with Cheech this afternoon at McGill. We were friends back in middle school, but I haven't spoken to her since because she moved to Saskatchewan in grade 9 ("There's a surprising number of Asians and Indians there." "Are they slave labour?" "No, but they're rich enough to own them.") We got along grand. But I never realized how sheltered she was. "Res. is co-ed! ... and there are urinals in the washrooms! URINALS!!!"

Glad we re-connected.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

What's In a Feeling?

Poor boy called me this morning to tell me he wasn't feeling too hot. He had come down with a case of sniffle-itis. Told me he'll call me tomorrow when he's feeling better. I told him to get some rest. So he's staying in bed all day today.

It's times like these I'm not proud of being Kramer in the kitchen. But I'm relieved that he moved in with two girls who, I'm sure, will take care of him in times of hunger and distress.

Tanya's a total Carb Captain who hosts Bake-Offs. I suggested they do an Iron Chef rip where I reveal the mystery ingredient they must incorporate into their breads ("Cheese! Zucchini! Lamb!").

Heather's boyfriend is a personal friend of that hobbit Newfie who won Canadian Idol.

Which by extension would mean I'm, at least, a partial F-list celebrity. And since Ted's band is a local crowd favourite, as a friend, I might as well be upgraded to E.


Speaking of his band. It's a cross between lite-funk, jazz, BritRock, the Doves, old school Beck, Morcheeba, etc. Just a lot of great influences. I didn't expect to like them as much as I did; the songs were actually quality compositions. No trendy White Stripes minimalism or Joni Mitchellisms here. Just perfect mood music for the hipster crowd.


Addicted to Ah Caramel!s. Can the structure of sin be any more flawless?

Truth Pudding: Last Ever

mercredi 1 septembre

Here's the thing, people. Well, not the thing, but a thing. See, diaries are not the truth. They are my recollection and perception of what happens. The truth according to me.

--Belle de Jour, UK


I refer to her post whenever I get irritated with people who think I blatantly lie on my blog. I must ask. Why do they continue reading it then? I'm still being gossiped by drama magnets and academic failures. Need I remind them high school is over (well, for me, at least)?

For whom am I lying? Second-rate stoners who have yet to leave the nest? First-rate teen-aholics who don't have a prayer? It's all very simple. If you don't like what you read, don't read it. I'm not getting cash benefits for writing this. I do it because it's a hobby of affection. And no ex-Westmount dick clique should care what I say or do, especially now, when I've moved 6 hours and one province away (which is 5 hours further than where they've gone without the aid of band trips).

For future reference: Read this entry before making another insinuation. Because I promise it will eventually reach me.

Monday, September 20, 2004

Best Worst Day Ever

It started with a phone call. My undies shackled around my ankles as I ran to pick it up. It was J.Lass's mother. She was in a frenzy. She forgot Peter-Luc didn't have school today and needed me to babysit.

I agreed. I should've known I would be screwed.

I spent $60 just looking after that cheeky little boy. He played me like a violin. A miniature violin. "I want to go on the boat bus!" he cried, guilt-tripping me like a blind boy with no arms. J.Lass laughed at me for being so gullible to his faux-morse.


Typed Tall a rather frank email:

"Right. So I realize I was a bit too, er, forward Saturday night. I didn't know you were rebounding."

Which didn't come out as vindictive and bitter as I plannned.


While walking to Philosophy class, my foot got stuck in a sidewalk grate. Passing cars honked and grown men laughed. It was a scene out of the Wedding Planner without the cheesy romantic meet cute that's suppposed to happen, but didn't, because I was about as graceful as a trucker during a raccoon attack.


Abruptly interrupted some arrogant prick who was conversing with this senseless girl before class started to tell him he was "the most patronizing bastard I've ever met in my life." Within a few (wasteful) breaths, he was able to offend the middle-class, all the students who don't plan on attending law school, anyone who has ever had a dream that didn't involve money, those who were family-oriented, those who sought pleasure over pragmatism, successful people under the age of 30, and so on. I just had to say it. The class was fuming silently as he flapped his jaw, pumping more hot air into the festering heat wave inside.


Had to hand in JOUR 201 work to the teacher (slide it under his door, he said). HB-436 was where he wanted me to take it. That's right. A non-existent number between 426-435 --> and <-- 437-470. "Where the fuck's 436?" I thought to myself. Oh look, it was directly in front me, sucking me in with a dark force reminiscent of ... a storage closet. A storage closet with the missing "6" drawn in with a permanent marker. Two large metal panels. No windows. "He works here? I'm supposed to slip it under that door?"

I asked a passing Chinese couple whether that was an office.

"What is ... office?"

I explained to them my dilemma. They laughed.

"Haha! It keep broom!"

So I went and asked the information desk guy. He told me this was the "H" building, and not the "HB" building.

"Don't you be givin' me sass, young man."

Because, well, he just shouldn't have. I'm mentally handicapped. He should've known better.

Pfft. Racist. Hot racist.


I moped all the way home cursing Tall. J.Lass told me - between puffs on her carcinogen snack at Hurley's - that I had to be honest with myself and just admit I didn't know how he felt about me. That he has yet to take the reins from me. That he might be stringing me along since he hasn't emailed or called since Saturday. I ate two chocolate bars. I was Dopey, Grumpy and Midol all in one.

Then I got depressed. Got even more depressed when I discovered the HB building was locked.


Turned on my laptop. Scanned surrounding apartments for wireless signal.

No stealing. Not tonight.

Plugged in phone cord. Dial-up clawed its way online.

"1 new message"

It was Tall.

He sent a sincere and honest reply. He gave me his new number (for his new digs). He asked me for mine (lost it during the move). He told me to call him (when I get the chance).

I say he's a keeper.

Sunday, September 19, 2004

Oh Right

J.Lass also dyed my hair last night. Spread alternating thick and thin purple highlights across the bottom layers of hair. That way, the end result can only be seen when I put my hair up to reveal rich rays of colour.

It turned out absolutely exquisite.

Tall liked it too.

He doesn't like J.Lass though.


Nursed my microscopic hang-over napping at Concordia's library as students with real work shot me confused/angry/irate looks.


Oh man, I got hammered last night. Slept over at J.Lass's because I couldn't hold myself up anymore.

I only had one Smirnoff Ice.

Danced to the Doors with different guys in a hipster crowd, where movements usually consist of head bobbing and toe tapping.

Got to know Tall's roommates (super nice paprikas) and, oh right, told him I had a "major crush on him!" when he came over to meet us during his band's intermission.

Later, our eyes met when he was standing by the bar. I walked over, grabbed him by his lapels and went in for a kiss right then and there. And yes, there was a little open mouth slippage.

His friends told J.Lass that Tall just came out of a serious relationship, but that he's very interested in me (told a few people about that whole book stealing business, I heard). As in, wants me as more than a mere rebound item. That's why he's taking it slow.

I just want to get fucked.

P.S. Also did a questionable thing involving my tongue and a bottle.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

The Negotiator

Woohoo! Didn't go clubbing!

No one was really up for it. Thank Jesus, Joseph, and Mary for that!

Readerdroid and Miss Maryland took me out for coffee, taking digi-photos of me eating my lemon poppy seed cake; posing in front of the wall of mugs; Maryland pretending to have a seizure (unintentionally), and Readerdroid with a pig snout.

Later, we watched Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Anachromatic, stylistically nostalgic, cinematically referential: too precious.

And Sir Laurence Olivier makes a posthumous appearance.

Creepy! but very necessary and good.

Friday, September 17, 2004

No Mas

My laptop's wireless scanner picked up a strong signal nearby yesterday. Probably another student's. The thin walls are making this possible.

I've been enjoying free DSL since.


Clubbing tonight with a group of McGill students. I'm not exactly in the correct state of ... financial stability. I have to pretend my wallet isn't chock full of moths. The same nasty buggers known to fly out of Archie's pants whenever he takes Veronica to Chez Ritz.

Can I survive on 50$ for the rest of the month? I'm being serious. Because I don't want to resort to donning sequinned feather minis with one leg stretched into oncoming traffic as I give passerbys my best come hither look squawking in front of the Chicken Shack hawking boneless strips for tips ("Introducing new and improved batter!").

That'll set loins on fire. No doubt.


"So what isn't fluff?" I ask.

"Love. Love isn't."

And that was it.


A wee tipsy. Met a few guys. Took a cab home. Now horny as hell.

Fuck it.

I'm calling Tall.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Are You Serious?

My sister told me Nathaniel showed up at the store the other day. You remember Nathaniel. The guy who asked me for some size 6 shoes for his niece and wound up being my stalker.

Nathaniel was bearing gifts, as they say. Champagne and, I guess in his twisted mind, himself. It was his birthday after all and he wanted to celebrate with the girl he's only seen once.

"Where's Lily?" he asked.

My sister shook her head. She's wary of anyone asking for a membership to Club No Way In Hell.

"She's gone to Montreal."

When will she be back? Days? Weeks?


The champagne was for nought, so he tried to ply Nirvana instead. No luck.

"You see this ring?" she said, icily.

What about your friend? Is she busy?

"Are you trying to hook up with her too?!"

Desperate, needy, and the ever popular: sad. We will never discover how this 25-year-old turned out the way he did, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with his parents.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

And the Results Are In

Philosophy class was hella fun. Couldn't believe I had the balls to embarrass some guy for being a smart aleck:

"Oh, I get it now!" he yelled out, when the class was momentarily silent. "Truth is truth until it is proven false. It's like your girlfriend leaving you and you believe she'll come back, but she doesn't!"

He later used another example related to this last comment, which gave me the opportunity to yell back (in a class of 60 people), "Did you just get dumped?" This was followed by claps and cheers. One guy behind me asked me if he could be my best friend. His neighbour whispered to my friend Jess (a super nice, super gorgeous Lauren Y-type) to tell me I should sit in front of them for the rest of the semester. Yes, apparently being "spunky" (as Tall likes to say) is no longer my curse, but an asset to be reckoned with.


I'm also popular with the Saddam Hussein-a-likes. You know, circa "Mugshot of the reprimanded ex-Iraqi president, straight from his hideout, all haggard and gray and looking like jerky that's seen better days." Yeah, that's right. I'm a total fur magnet. Fuzz me up, son

I'd also like to say I thought the vulgarity and lewdness of construction workers were an urban dick myth, but I've seen it with my own eyes (which burn with the intensity of a hundred jalepenos).

J.Lass is a lot more forward than I am with her feelings:

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

"You're disgusting. Turn your head old man."

"Fuck off, don't think you're a Harry because you are so a Eugene*."

*Harry = hotty; Eugene = ugly; Tom = abso-fucking-lutely loaded

Tall said that must get exhausting.


J.Lass stole the sheet of paper containing Francoise's doodles (her Mr. Right Now), which she took with her by accident.

"He looked bored, yes? I mean, totally didn't look like he liked me. Didn't even mention the kiss we had last night [at the pub]."

"Well, you did make him forget to do his astronomy homework. Hey! Maybe I can interpret his doodles for some answers!"

She consented. He drew a wrinkly man with dark circles underneath his drowsy, sleepy eyes. I told her he was drawing something that reflected exactly how he was feeling after only getting two hours of sleep last night.

The second picture was of two squiggly ovals, tapered at both ends, one inside the other.

"What do you make of that one, Lily?"

"It's a vagina. He might've been tired, but this kid was still thinking about sex."

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Monday, September 13, 2004


Philosophy: Critical Thinking

Old grisly man, who reminded me of that mugshot of Saddam Hussein fresh from his hideout, kept trying to outsmart our professor (but failing in the process). Don't people grow out of this phase after they've been publically humiliated one time too many for their cocksure verve?

I'm guessing ... not.


... and we ended with a kiss inside the metro station.

I'm smitten.

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Tight as Beef Jerky

Against all odds, Tall officially asked me out today. Oddly enough, I had an exchange with Aussie Matt about his delayed reply last night, going through the 5 stages of grief:

DENIAL: "This is not happening! It's been 9 whole hours!"

ANGER: "Why is he doing this to me?!"

BARGAINING: "I promise I'll stop fooling around with older men after this."

DEPRESSSION: "I don't even care anymore. He's probably buck naked with some bartender right now. I should've known he secretly thought our little game of bookswap was childish."

ACCEPTANCE: "Tall who?"

But apparently, he had been reading the book I lent him. Fantastic, I believe, was the word he used.


There is no such thing as a quick errand in Montreal. It took me 40 minutes just to get my foot in Centre-Ville. My bedding accessories totalled $364 which I did not have money for. I settled for the sheet set (300 thread count) because - who am I kidding? - they're there only to be ripped off in the heat of passion anyway. Why buy extra pillows that only get in the way?

A guy from the "UK", who looked like a less grotesque version of that trucker in Harold and Kumar, asked me to pay for his train ticket because someone stole his wallet. "Look, I'm not lying or anything."

me: "Actually, I was going to ask you where the nearest Future Shop is."

He knew and kindly directly me there, while looking like he hadn't slept in days, hair uncomb-overed, soiled pants matching his armful of files and folders.

The River Leads to Nowhere

Did I mention I'm the novelty youngster in all my classes? An 18-year-old attending her first year university studies is viewed, more often than not, with a cocked head and sly grin. Quebeckers fresh out of high school are, I think, required to attend some kind of college (CEGEP?), which explains why they're usually 19 or 20 years of age by the time they begin freshman year at Concordia, but it only takes them three years to graduate (as opposed to four pour moi and kin).

Did I also mention how good-looking students from Ottawa are (but that may be because I've been bias as of late)? It must be something in their air. Or the House of Commons finally found a way to harness the power of newly landed immigrants ("Just add water!"). In any case, modelling agencies on both sides of the pond should take advantage of our guys from the capital city. Ever since Elite became a massive bust (something none of its leading models ever had) and Commonwealth fashion models started ruling the Continental runways (Daria Werbowy, Heather Marks, Jessica Stam are all Canadian; Gemma Ward is Australian), temporarily stealing the spotlight from the Czechs and Brazillians (although Caroline Ribeiro is back after giving birth to Joao), models should be sought in places outside countries obsessed with artificial beauty enhancement. This will appeal to more people, which translates to more cash flow. Maybe if I aggressively publicize my cause, Canada - or more specifically: Ottawa - could very well become what America is to oil: inescapable dependency. C'mon Vogue! DSquared made plaid, moose, and rock climbing equipment cool! Our men are laid-back, polite, and don't know the difference between a cuff and a pagoda shoulder so you won't hear any whimpering coming from them when faced with shredded leather pants gathered at the ankles with authentic shackles imported from a real American prison ("Designed by Cavalli, made by ex-cons")!

So I beseech you Prime Minister Martin: Send more Talls this way.

I'd appreciate it.

Saturday, September 11, 2004


J.Lass is an old fart at the over-ripened age of 20. She's from Ireland and spent six hours with me in French class today. You heard right. A quarter of the day, sitting in a stuffy room with FOBs and ... and ... well, that pretty much sums up my classmates. Everyone looked 28+, especially that weird Vietnamese guy in the "ugly white jumpah" who sat two seats away, turning his head towards me each time he pitifully spat out verbs and conjunctions like he had a mouth full of mush and syrupy jam, gums chewing Trident. This was the type of "ogling" that could be considered harassment if he wasn't so gross, like a long lost Yeti, sand baked and horny, desperate for some mammal action come snow or hell fire.

Syrian Chick: "Yeah, he's been doing that for the past ... 4 hours."

I felt the sick lurching against the sides of my esophagus, my carrot cake lunch rising to the occasion. I wonder: do women secrete some sort of solution through their pores when they're fully infatuated with someone who does not belong to the ODB-crossed-with-the-Simpson's-episode-where-Springfield's-most-eligible-bachelors-compete-in-an-auction-made-up-of-the-largest-cesspool-of-downtrodden-failures-Escort Service and this solution, in turn, predictably piques the attention of less-than-attractive scoundrels who only see you as a hole and a heartbeat (though in most cases, only a hole)?

Surprisingly, this mutated specie of sapien can be further reduced (after a lengthy distillation process) into these two basic archetypes:

Box 1: Made up of Grateful Dead-looking fans, more devoted to preserving the remnants of what one might call a "goatee" (or, to be more precise, patchy muttonchops and Foo Man whiskers) than the doughnut ring that defined Jerry Garcia to me as much as Ben & Jerry's ice cream dedication.

Box 2: Replace "Grateful Dead" with "sappy light rock FM", "goatee" with "unique body odour", and add to it the phrase "It's all good" times infinity.


I love Montreal. I'm going to make some spaghetti (smothered in tomato meat sauce) to brighten up my evening.

Friday, September 10, 2004

And the Race is On


After two more exchanges, he invited me to a party. I kindly declined. We're meeting at a cafe. Please Glinda, make this one work out for more than two weeks. And please, please, PLEASE make him keep his tousled look.

I hate Usher's influence on men's fashion. Spackle, sparkle, loafers and jeans, he best not turn out as the man of my spleen.

And get this: His favourite cake is also carrot, enjoys shopping and is a qualified literary ingenue. I'm a lust-craving maniac but limited to realistic potential. How paradoxical can I get?

City Folk Be So ... Sexy

Okay, my move here has been ... undescript. Oh, a lady in her 60s danced me against the wall with her bus seat sized caboose at Tokyo (Here's my critique: Due to my ever growing network of acquired acquaintances, I no longer have to pay for cover charges, but I vow never to attend clubs because they are really boring). It was funny. I told her she was pushing me against the wall and she gave me the thumbs up. Montreal is a Wow Town. It's quick, creative, and I met a guy whom I had a very satisfying conversation with.

His name's "Tall", 24, bilingual, Literature major, planning to get his MBA, drummer for a local band, opened for Starsailor and Pilate recently, asked me to come to his gig next Saturday, and I stole his book, The Slate Diaries, when he got up for a second. I feigned guilt in front of his friends for taking it. Ken, who has an Asian "thing" by the way, prodded me to reveal my email until I relented: "You took Tall's book. You have to give him your email now. How else will he know how to get it back?"

This morning, I decided to write to him on a Post-It stuck on the inside of David Sedaris's new book, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim:


Slate Diaries: Your book, my hostage. I couldn't put it down - so I didn't. I'm currently on page 206. I will return it to you soon. In the meantime, here's a peace offering.


Soon after, I received an email from said super hot man in question (and when I say super hot, I mean super hot, wears Diesel sneaks, looks put together but unpretentious and ... oh Lord, I'm infatuated with a nerd):

Hey there, Lily ...

You took my book, eh? So how, may I ask, do I go about getting it back?


I am tempted to write back (alright, I did write back):


Well, if I went the conventional route, I'd say, "Why don't you come over and find out?" But seeing how you know as well as I do that I'm a far cry from that inadequate description, I will let you set the necessary procedures for the retrieval of said book.


I'm boy crazy and loving every moment of it. Just like my new state of domestication. I dance in my underoos to Jay-Z while scrubbing plates sudsy from good ol' Mr. Clean. I peel potatoes as I sing Wayne Newton in a "falto". And I've even Swiffer-Wet-Jetted the place to a new gleaming glory.

Signing off, here's Lily, wanting to change majors because she's not being challenged in supposedly prestigious joint program. Political science, perhaps?

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Hello, It's Me

Hectic days, hectic hours. Moving into an apartment, Lily-style, is a pain in the ass. Won't be back for another couple of days ...