Sunday, October 31, 2004


Great fun last night with NorIda and Bentolic. Rocky Horror was so freaking fun.

Taxi driver ripped me off, but I was too sleepy to care by the time he dropped me off in front of my apartment at 4 a.m.


"The Saidye and Global have a good relationship. If you do become an anchor of some sort, ask the public relations department to put your name on [this] list, which gets you invited to all the opening night parties in the city. If that doesn't work. Call me. I'll get you in." -- Lil' Toughie, director, Saidye Bronfman Centre for the Arts.

She's my very own Jewish grandmother. Everytime I see her, she gives me a great big hug and fills me with kisses. "Lily! There you are!" I feel so chi-chi being allowed access to an adult world I've only recently been exposed to. I likened Toughie's tip giving to a "scratch 'n sniff sticker" because "the more you scratch, the better it smells." Rachelle, the casting director, found that incredibly funny and adopted that line as her own, and told me she's "scratchable" too. I said I wouldn't want to scratch her and ruin all that Prada. She stiffened and suspiciously asked why. I noticed the change in her tone and quickly countered with a compliment about her looking so classy for the play's last run.

"You," she said with a chuckle, "will go far in this business." Which made me think whether I contained a sliver of sincerity anymore. If "this business" meant "show business", then her reply was a direct assault to my pride. While journalism states that respect will get you an interview, narcissism says everyone likes to be admired. And though I may try to create a balance, I am constantly reminded to forfeit self-righteousness for self-advancement.

Saturday, October 30, 2004

Karmic Intervention

GenderBender - the French Tall - wants to casually date me. No strings. Purely sexual. He's a committment-phobe.

I think I hit the winning jackpot.

"Did I un-gay him? Was he ... ungayified?!" I asked J.Lass, the ever-present bearer of borderline good news, in French class.

"Nah. He dated men because he knew that wouldn't lead to marriage."

No no. My ego's still intact.

One Tall for another. The irony isn't lost on me and nearly kills me with laughter.


Going to a Rocky Horror Picture Show party tonight. Throwing bread, lighting matches. It's going to be the shitz for shiksas (and non alike).

Will be dressed to the nines. I'm talkin' OOOOH la la, monsieur.

Friday, October 29, 2004

Cheese, bruschetta, and wine. Oh my!

That's what they served at the reception. It was so ghetto. I was the only one who came with a plus one - Bentolic. Everyone piled into a room with a three-member jazz ensemble playing Brazillian lounge music (which later became the scene of a small fire).

While waiting in line for my name tag, I chatted up Molly, this Punjabi beauty whose uncle owns the restaurant Taj. I spoke just loud enough to make my observational one-liners heard, which entertained those around me who were chuckling and joining in. I noticed one guy in particular who tried his best not to laugh (he failed). Bentolic recognized him from her communications class. His blonde dreads were piled high on his head, tied roughly together with a rubber band. He struck me as being oddly familiar, but I just couldn't pin him down. Then it hit me. He was the splitting image of that needy Irish doorman Samantha fucked in Charlotte's apartment on Sex and the City.

I'm talking mirror perfect.

We didn't speak directly, but we played a game of cat and mouse for the rest of the evening (brief eye contact, fleeting glances, finding ways to stand closer to each other). I don't even know his name.

Meh. He looked too old for his age anyway. Must've been a smoker.


This is definitely the most convincing sign that I've changed since moving out here alone. The first thing I thought of doing with my award money wasn't buying a new BCBG dress or a pair of plum-coloured DKNY pumps I've had my eye on, but using it to pay off my Quebec hydro bill. How very glamorous ...

Thursday, October 28, 2004


My screen test went well. I was a bit rushed near the end. As my temp. boss counted down from 10 to signal the end of 2 minutes, I said, "Basically! Take my advice and you'll be jammin' for the Grammys!"

I had arrived at the studio early. Saw the tech guys Antoine, Simon and Philippe sitting around watching football behind the locker room and asked if I could join them.

The first two give new meaning to Nerdlicious. No no, that does them no justice. They're ... boyishly handsome men. Both are in their late 20s.

Antoine seemed to be the quieter of the two, asking me questions about myself as we watched reality show contestants suck food and face, amounting to equal parts hungar and disgust. Simon and I developed a friendly rapport almost instantaneously. He's more extroverted and openly flirtatious.

"Am I good company to you?" he asked with a grin. This is after we joked about his plans for a harem of illegal refugees:

"For that price, I can get two ... per day!"

"Oh yeah, but once they've landed, you'll have to convince them Canada has no other white men."

"That's easy. But you'll have to start waiting by the docks to help me make contact."

I can't wait to become the unassuming dash within the 18-34 age bracket. Being a baby is a bitch. No special characteristics. No powers of seduction. No experience.

Is there a product (other than children) that will give me unsightly lines and wrinkles? Because adolescence looks good when the only other option is dementia.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Je n'ai pas compris

M. Biologique tutored me French a few hours ago. I was surprised he was genuinely enthusiastic about the job. Very helpful (and strict!)

Though, truth be told, I sensed some discomfort on his part. Such as when he told me to sit closer so I could see what he was writing, then changed his mind. He was fidgetty. Sat beside me, then sat facing me, then got up to pour a bowl of cereal for himself (to his credit, he did force me to continue conversing with him). Took his glasses off and on, on and off. Turned off the hanging lamp midway through the lesson. Finally, as I was preparing to leave, he took out his guitar:

"This is for you, Lily."

I didn't recognize the suggestive melody. I commented, off topic, that he should quit playing acoustic Metallica when J.Lass is around (her all-time favourite band). She might think he wanted to get in her pants ("might" wasn't the word she used). He said he would never want to get into her pants.

"Why not?"

A hesitant beat.

"Because ... I have a girl ... friend," he said, not quite convincingly. As if trying to mask his indecisiveness under a tone of authority that carried the message, "I don't believe your question even warrants an answer, seeing how obvious it is."

I laughed to break the rising tension. Didn't want to pursue the matter any further. Don't want to pursue him for that matter. He's my weekly loan-a-boy. Pity that we're friends.

But the bastard didn't even walk me to the front door. What sort of manners do they teach back home in New Mexico?

Tuesday, October 26, 2004


Oh my Wolfgang Puck, I just successfully conquered my latest foray into creative gourmet cooking ... and ate it!

It started after checking my fridge for ideas and thinking a sandwich would involve too much effort ("If only I could prepare the lettuce and bacon on the same dish ...")

As I wafted the fire alarm with a tissue while holding a piping hot pan, my plate o' goods started materializing. First it was the seared filet of sole sitting delicately to one side. Then came the fettuccine lightly coated in cream sauce (made from scratch, natch) tossed with portobello mushrooms soaked in extra virgin olive oil. I topped it all off with some fresh cracked pepper and a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.

Okay. So it wasn't Emeril. Heck, it probably wasn't even toothless potato vender who lives in a sack between Park Bench #8 and Pigeon Poop 09. But it was edible, it was delicious, so to hell with you naysayers!

Dare I evoke the final words of Martin Luther King, Jr's "I Have a Dream" speech?:

"Good at last! Good at last! Thank God Almighty, my food's good at last!"


It was "advisable" to me that I write a thank-you note to my award donor:

October 26, 2004

Dear anonymous benefactor,

I am this year's Lindsay Crysler Award recipient and would like to eagerly thank you for your financial generosity.

As an 18-year-old student of Chinese descent who has tried to defy cultural expectations, this award means a lot to me because it reassures that the decisions I have made have been the right ones in this traditionally risky, unorthodox field. It also symbolizes the culmination of my accomplishments so far, both personally and academically.

I am proud to accept this award and am grateful to have been selected over other deserving - if not, more deserving - candidates. And, to be honest, it is always flattering to be acknowledged, however slight.

Thank you again.



Monday, October 25, 2004


Look at that. I was awarded 545$ for winning the journalism department's Lindsay Crysler Award.

Ka-ching! Ka-ching!

The reception banquet is this Friday. I wish they had sent me a cheque along with the letter because mama needs a brand new dress ...


I don't know why Christian things never attain capitalistic glory. Or they do, but just aren't cool. Having said that, even their music is faux-rock. I know they just replace "baby" with "Jesus", but it still comes out sounding like the battle of the bands on amateur karaoke night.

Maybe Jesus just sounds weird sexualized. If Nine Inch Nails had written Closer as an ode to their Saviour, "I want to fuck you like an animal ... JAYSUS!" just wouldn't fly. Or more appropriately, "I want to feel you from the inside ... JAYSUS!" sounds like a new episode of HBO's Oz, where thy Lord's name is cried in more pain than vain against the dingy prison cell.

And what's up with Christ crackers? They don't even make them with ridges to add that extra "crunch" to each bodily bite. But Christ cola in single-serving, detachable Christ cups? That's a consumerist frenzy just waiting to be discovered ...

Sunday, October 24, 2004

French Tall

GenderBender and I had a nice stimulating conversation today over two stimulants: cigarettes (his) and coffee (mine). Gay (but still "on the fence"). A 6ft Tall in every way (same liberal opinions, also a Literature major, 24 years old, and wants to become a teacher). But French!

Ooh la la!

Nah. He's great, but he's J.Lass co-worker and she's practically in love with him.


Apt. Description, Pt. 2:

Clinically inspired: blank faces, blank walls. Snarling adults drinking booze, grabbing balls.

Rant Pt. II

Maybe it is me. But what does being impatient have to do with anything other than obstructing her tendency to go off on more tangents:

"[My 9-year-old brother] used to like shiny things. He didn't understand the concept of wealth. I know he'd choose the pile with 10 shiny things (coins) because there's more of it [in comparison to two piles with lesser shiny things.]"

"But wouldn't he had to have the concept of numbers to decide what is more or less? And wouldn't someone have had to teach him that more is associated with positive things?"

"No, because everyone wants more. If there were hot guys in groups of 2, 6 and 10, you'd automatically be drawn to the group with 10."

"No, because you'd see them in their entirety of 18, singling one (or a few) out based on attractiveness."

"But you'd have more options. Maybe my brother saw a shinier coin in the bigger pile."

"Yes, but you used the hot guy analogy which is different because you're limited to one choice whether you see three groups or one. It is different with coins. The concept of numbers teaches us that more is good and I believe that is socially conditioned, and not in our natural disposition. When I was babysitting him, and he said that guitar lady wasn't very good because she was poor and if she had money, she could play better because she could afford lessons. That, to me, meant he thinks material wealth reflects how good a person is based on how much they have, which goes back to depicting more as a sign of goodness, which isn't any fault of yours. But if one was enough to satiate needs, how did we come to depend on more yet leave with less satisfaction? And so, I decided that numbers are not only just a human fabricated concept, it is also a bit problematic." *see: Piraha tribe*

"Well, in my opinion, you're being insulting and calling my brother stuck-up."

"Oh man. Look. Money makes the world go round. It's important. I don't see any shame in admitting that. Just because I associated your brother with money doesn't mean you have to take it as an insult. Because from what I'm sensing, it sounds like you're speaking for your brother."

"No. I'm his sister, I know him better than anyone."

"So what is your opinion then?"

"Pretty much the same as his."

Rant Pt. I

Voluntary ignorance and blind devotion is impossibly frustrating for to me face especially when these qualities belong to a close friend who judges things on a moral pulpit; is proudly hypocritical; believes the age of consent is biologically-related, therefore, reasonably implemented; is untroubled by her own logical inconsistencies; gets easily insulted when I ask her to reasonably justify her beliefs; ditto when I question what her dyslexia has to do with something (like thinking all forms of public information should be censored to children under 18, which is more conservatism than dyslexia!); and refuses to sway even in light of solid evidence that contradicts her transparent assertions.

This dyslexia really gets to me. I don't know enough about this disorder to understand what it does to a person. I thought it affected someone's ability to read properly, but she says it changes the way information is absorbed, which I buy (not because the answer satisfies me but because it appeases her). But when she says her dyslexia is the reason she finds politics terribly boring, or that everyone must follow the law (a la, Social Contract) unless a loophole is found, in which case, you should exploit it (as she's done many a-times) because the law is supposed to be error-free, and upon failure to be so, cannot hold you accountable for taking advantage of it.

I told her she basically only follows the law when it's convenient for her. She disagrees ("I could've sold drugs [knowing it was illegal], but I chose not to even though it would've benefitted me.")

I don't know why her ego can be so easily bruised when she feels she can't contribute to a conversation. When I'm in a heated discussion, I want my opinions to be scrutinized to strengthen them in the process. I also want to know whether any "fact" had a hand in shaping your opinion so it can become a learning experience for both of us. Her sentences always start with: "I think, and I'm generalizing because this is my opinion ..." and she jumps around so much, the point is hidden underneath miles of unrealistic hypothetical scenerios that contradict each other. She hates getting lectures, which I sympathize. But if she doesn't understand the basic concepts of certain topics she wants to contribute to, why not take the time to listen to a brief rundown of the vital specifics? Why only contribute using opinions that don't hold up to even mild criticism? Why contribute for the sake of contributing?

"Not everyone is like you, Lily," she said. "Not everyone likes learning."

Can I be a snob ... now?! because I just can't fathom the acceptance of blissful ignorance (wait, I mean, dyslexia) even after hearing her verbalize that the primary source of her social alienation is lacking contributable knowledge!

Friday, October 22, 2004

Apt. Description, Pt. 1

My computer sits parallel to a wide-panelled window, muted by curtains with an oatmeal weave. It cloaks a cinematic view referential to Rear Window, except in place of a courtyard exists an empty lot peppered with paper parasols and potted plants, dotting cracked concrete in a disturbing display.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

At Ease

Bumped into Tall an hour ago. He saw me walking to the exit at Vendome station, stood there waiting for everyone to file out, and stopped me to say hi.

Asked me how I was, offered me a Vicks. Chatted a bit while I waited for my bus.

Then bisou, bisou, bonsoir.

It was surprisingly nice. Still can't get over how hot he is (in addition to his subsequent assholism.)


Rescheduled my screen test to next Thursday. Needed more time to prepare and translate script into Cantonese. Bossman Hugh said it was of no inconvenience to him and that it wouldn't be a problem at all. Then I told him (en francais) about my concierge dilemmas. He laughed. "Stupid concierge ... hahaha."

"I like your French, by the way," he added.

I was forewarned by the Vanier librarian that when the Quebecois tell you that, they're really shaming your incompetence.


Shopped with Readerdroid. Some thongs, socks, and a pair of Ralph Lauren leather gloves (with contrasting ribbon detail). I also went to Ogilvy and dropped 60$ on a Lulu Guinness umbrella.

WAIT! I returned three hours later and got a refund on the last item (the guilt was too much.) I originally wasn't allowed to give it back. I told them I was sorry ("Je m'excuse") and they took pity on me. Whew! Had I waited another 12 hours, I would've been short 60$ and resenting my (designer) purchase, watching it duke it out in a dollar store bin with its cheaper Nicole Miller counterpart (six times cheaper: it's the ginger ale country cousin to Guinness's Cristal Rose.)

I might be a materialist, but I'm not a consumerist slave, advertising for free on the heels of liability. But don't let me handle money expecting a surplus in return as I'm inclined to shift into a devoted - though flagrant - student of Economics 101 taught by Bush Jr ("Where you learn to work towards a deficit!")


Rebel Sell. Can't put the book down.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Fee Fi Foe

Francoise (yes, J.Lass's Francoise) and I hit it off last night. Well, I still find him a bit languorous. Uber-smart, but patronizing. Forget quick-wit. A bit narrow-minded. Somewhat conservative. Melancholic. Lacked fun, flair and frivolty.

But holy Hallelujah, he's a fucking flirt.

He spoke passages of Sartre to me in French.

"Stop that!" I ordered. "You're doing it on purpose; you know I don't speak French!"

He smirked. Paused. And trailed on.

I told him it'll take more than a few French verses to impress me like it does J.Lass. We stood at the edge of the Lucien L'Allier platform, hovering around each other as I held him at bay.

"You're not even trying to be original anymore," I mocked. "Marx already said religion is the opiate of the masses. And don't even try to redefine the definition of masses again."

J.Lass sent me an email the following morning. Attached was a prediction that was far from fact ... but neither from fiction.

Let's just say he's no longer ennuyeux.


Can't forget Pav "I know Lily but she only just started acknowledging my existence even though I've served her everyday at the cafe since she's been here, even calling her by name when I greet her and still she has trouble pinning me down. It must be the tuque" whom I'm finding quite attractive in a "does he or doesn't he care that I'm being elusive" sort of way. I did apologize for my lethargic behaviour after a rude (and rather embarrassing) awakening. So he now does the Fez-asking-out-Jackie-thing where he repeats my name in his sentences. Geneva D. wants me to introduce her to him because she thinks he's "HOTTTTTTTTT." I told her it's just a barista crush. The feelings associated with it are as weak as the coffee is strong because having someone to flirt with while paying for your latte is always better than not having someone to flirt with when you're paying for your latte.


SHOPPING SPREE! Mommy purchased a Motorola V400 cell phone for me from Fido yesterday. She rationalized that she might as well get one we both liked if she was going to pay a bundle for it. I told her I would have settled for the most basic model and at this point, would've been just as overjoyed at the prospect of using punctured soup cans (string sold separately).

Long-distance shopping is the only way we can accomplish mother-daughter activities anymore.

Today, Bentolic and I blazed through St-Catharine's. with such intensity that I've been inspired to christen it Money-Be-Gone Day. I, alone, bought 400$ worth of clothing. Acquired a pair of fuck-me shoes by Pino Carina at Simard. They're wedgelettos and so worth it. Okay, fine. But you try finding fuck-me footwear for under 150$ that feels like buttery hide and air.

Dude, butt-h-air ... Heh heh.


Freudian Slip-o'-the-Day:

Bossman Hugh: "How old are you now?"

me: "How old do you think I am?"

Bossman Hugh: "You're 19, if I'm lucky."

He also asked me to be his fashion stylist. SWEEEEET!

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Three Cheers

A few weeks ago, I spoke of my outspokeness that day right before philosophy class commenced where I called some guy a "patronizing bastard." Well, someone became a fan and told everyone in her other classes about this "super cool girl" who told off this "asshole." She came up to me yesterday after our super easy midterm and thanked me personally for what I did because, in all honesty, that guy was a piece of shit jerk and I'm glad I made her day. I just wish I invited her out for coffee.

I'll do it next time.


M. Biologique asked whether I was free this Sunday so he could start tutoring me. He seemed psyched ... about getting paid.

"My girlfriend might be coming over," he added bashfully.

Then I guess we'll just have to start when I want to now, won't we?


Plastic Frames and I talked on the metro (he had previously offered to foot my bill to Panama City for Spring Break if I stripped for him.) Background: Moroccan Money, Casablanca native, Montrealer, lived in Manhattan's Upper West Side for the last seven years, and has a sick Hewlett-Packard tablet PC that cost him upwards of three grand. He's no chump change, chigga.

He said I was an opportunist. That I was crass in how blunt I treated men; how frank I am with my feelings. I said I'm really a softy, but I have no reason to believe just anyone is good enough for me. And I refuse to settle because I've consistently lowered the bar for their sakes (who knew easy attainment would be so hard?)

It's not like I'm looking for a husband.

The 23-year-old is right in calling me an opportunist though. Before now, I think I would've argued that we all are with only slight variance. Yet the more I think about it, the more I realize how right he is as a general observation of me and not, say, humanity as a whole. Considering I've somehow shimmied my way into the upper echelons of social academia, this can't all be attributed to luck, can it? If there truly was an Id, I'd be it because I acknowledge the benefits of developing relationships with influential people along with those who have little to none, but their surmised potential, hinted at. My social circle is growing at an immeasurable pace. "Haven't I met you before?" is a phrase oft repeated in addition to "No, I'm 18" which ties for first with "What makes you think I'm not a virgin?"

It's like 8 Degrees of Pretentious Young Scholars: I belong to a social network that doesn't play by the rules. Free food, free drinks, free dope (no thanks), free fill-in-the-blanks. You want it, they have it and all you need is the right personality.

This is the new elitism: the old hierarchy with streaked hair and a face-lift.

Sunday, October 17, 2004

Her Hagiography

I just got off the phone with mother dearest. Our conversation consisted of the state of my affairs, my frustrations with living in this neighbourhood, and my persistent encounters with the me-that-was.

I miss her so much; it's excruciating. She's my therapist, my sanity anchor, the love of my life. Don't get me wrong. I'm far from entering Norman Bates territory. I don't exactly miss her presence as she can resemble the lone aristarch on the Real World. But she's my counsel; she's a tinker of my motivations and a soothsayer of ill. She organizes my life to distract me from the pains of responsibility. She is a logician. A liberal matriarch. The chocolate syrup still caked on your lips that welcomes your surprise.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I think it had to do with my mom adding more money to my bank account to accommodate a new excess in personal expenditures. Cell phone, cable, winter clothing, food. That last one bites the bastard boar. She offered. I declined. She said it was necessary. I consented.

Life is expensive. It puts the "numb" in numbers.

Youthful arrogance gets in the way.

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Matronly Love

-Swiss Alps had another house party last night
-J.Lass was making herself sick with worry
-Both her parents (one calling from Texas) were frantic
-I hadn't bothered to call J.Lass to tell her I would be late
-"It's common courtesy!" said mother Jeanette
-Didn't reach Swiss Alps's until quarter to one
-Was supposed to be there at 11
-Some rain and pain
-Wet venture and a serious talking to
-I didn't know the appropriate way to react so ...
- ... I burst out laughing from discomfort
-Apologized again
-Swiss Alps didn't get his pooty tanged
-Not that J.Lass would ever like him that way, right?

Okay, back to the point:

-Never has my young age been more apparent to me; my mother's lectures sure didn't prepare me for the type white people inflict on each other


M. Biologique's going to be my twice-a-week French tutor. Starting in November, he'll have an excess of 80 40 dollars to spend on things like ... more rice crackers. I felt sorry for the poor organic-loving hippie and had an attack of sympathy. He told me a week ago that he had a total of 6 dollars to spend until the end of October. And I thought, why not ask him to teach me all-things-Gallic considering I was in the process of finding someone ridiculously overpriced anyway? M. Biologique's so desperate for dinero, he doesn't even mind/care/notice that he's going to be tragically underpaid. I'm practically child-labouring him (only without a blubbering Kathy Lee Gifford to ruin any chance of him developing sweatshop Stockholm syndrome).

*Sigh* Paid services.

This is already starting on the wrong foot.

Friday, October 15, 2004

One for the Jew

Jon Stewart was a guest on Crossfire, a show co-hosted by Tucker Carlson and Paul Begala, and schooled their partisan asses:

"I think you're a lot more fun on your show," said Tucker Carlson to "Crossfire" guest Jon Stewart this afternoon. "And I think you're as much of a dick on your show as on any other," Stewart shot back.

From the moment Stewart sat down he made no secret of how repugnant he found the show. [H]e felt it was his duty to come on and say to their faces what he has said to friends and in interviews. Stewart told them that when America needed journalists to be journalists they had instead chosen to present theater.

"I thought you were going to be funny," Carlson said toward the end of the interview. Stewart responded, "No, I'm not going to be your monkey."

Question: What am I doing covering fashion? Why?


In other news. I'm trying Queen Helene's Mint Julep facial scrub. 89% of Makeup Alley members say they'd buy it again. Average rating for the product is 4.4/5, which is considered pretty exceptional. It's non-abrasive and perfect for those with sensitive skin.

Answer: Oh right.


Personal makeup artist: Fo shizzle. Pancake brand: Chanel. Funny French boss: Check. Fucking up due to thinking I could take the ol' high school route and wing it on camera: Priceless.

I wasn't horrible, but he said (okay, I said) I was still quite rigid ... after three takes. People couldn't seem to stop saying that the key to this job is to act "natural." But how am I expected to stare into an unmanned camera in a great, big, empty, frigid studio with someone talking into my ear like the Great Gazoo and act like it's the most normal thing in Bedrock?

Bossman Hugh has faith in me though. He gave me his number and told me to meet him for coffee on Tuesday with a prepared presentation so he can pass along a few suggestions before my second screen test.

"Come back same time next Thursday. I will tell the producer we didn't have time to film your screen test today."

They've been looking for someone for over a year and a half. I think they're really desperate if they've invited shamelessly talentless me back. But what do I know? I'm just a rigid 20-year-old. I didn't lie about my age, per se. I just didn't bother correcting Hugh when he guessed. 18 just doesn't have that disarming ring to it. Zut alors! Mon age est toujours un probleme; c'est toujours la meme chose! Mais je ne sortais jamais, de toute facon, avec des garcons de mon age ...


I forgot my jacket at M. Biologique's the other night (*Editor's note: he decided to keep my lamp sketch after all). I asked for it back when he caught up with me at our usual haunt.

"You want it back? I thought you left it at my place on purpose so you'd have a reason to come over again."

Oh, I wish I had half a brain to have thought of that too.

He and I walked to his house before my screen test and saw Aussie Andy at the elevators. He pointed out M. Biologique's shave, asking jokingly whether it was for his girlfriend. There came an awkward grunt. Mum was the word. All three of us hung out for a bit before heading off to do separate errands. Now, we all know I'm a wee bit paranoid, but I've decided to incorporate and assimilate M. Biologique's displays of affection into life's non-sequiturs (soon/some time/in the distant future maybe).

Let me explain lest I forget: I like being touched. I'm not a touchy feel gal myself, but I have no qualms about lying side by side with platonic pals (the nudity is for another time and entry). I don't interpret all manners of embrace sexual. The point I'm very inarticulately trying to make is that M. Biologique touches me in a way that melts me to the core. His hand might be supporting the small of my back when we walk. His fingers might graze and settle against mine on the spine of a chair. He might slide his palms down my shoulders as he tries to walk by. He might nudge, stroke, poke and hug, but he never does it in public. Why do I let him get away with making himself so easily poachable?

I feel cared for when he is focussed on me. I'm also getting the feeling that I'm being played. I know, I know, world's smallest violin, bleeding ears. But he's ticking me off, that bastard. I'm not usually this irresponsible and selfish, yeah?


No lie. Taxi drivers are the shit. They're obligated to laugh with you even if they don't understand the difference between "ketchup" and "catch up". Best conversationalists ever. Rent one and see. Rent three and party.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Danger Stranger

Last night ... was a wild night. J.Lass and I stopped by Swiss Alps's place.

Two hours and 10 shots of Peach Schnapps later, we were licking Nutella off each other and, well, let's keep it PG for the kids. I suggested to J.Lass we go to M. Biologique's at ... ooh ... midnight, knowing he was studying for four midterms.

We got there and the front entrance was locked and no guards were in sight. J.Lass asked if I knew his number. I said it might be 961.XXXX. She got the Jewish Confederation. The guard came out for a smoke. I made up some sob story. He bought it hook, line, and sinker (though with much coercing.)

"Bonsoir mademoiselles," the guard chimed to us upon entering.

"Merci monsieur. Il est tres stupide. Je suis desole."

M. Biologique was about as much fun as someone studying for four midterms. I sketched his lamp, stamped it with my lips, and signed over the primitive seal.

"Wonderful," he said, feigning sarcasm after looking at it intently. "I'll hang it on my wall."

I brushed off his remark (seeing how gravely tired I was.) He was still holding the drawing when he said he shouldn't be leaving stuff marked with lipstick in his apartment in case his girlfriend finds it and bitches him out. Need I remind you she lives in Boston and isn't visiting until late-November?

But I didn't say anything in reply to his remark; the answer was too obvious. It's called a trash can. Use it.

He also doesn't seem to like J.Lass all that much. We don't ever get along with guys the other one likes. Like, Swiss Alps. Apparently, he was on her like a vulture on a carcass. And he's becoming a push-over to try to get into her pan~ ... *cough* heart. J.Lass said she doesn't like that about him.

J.Lass also doesn't like the way WetPet flirts with me. I just think he has a fetish for my not-quite-Asian-but-still-Asian ass. It's practically a beaming beacon for his hand. I avoid him for that reason. That, and the fact that I got violent on his rump with ice water and a newspaper the other night.

But he started it.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Mountain out of a Molehill

M. Biologique is chi-ed out after visiting his girlfriend in Boston this past weekend.

And now he's with me, back to his old ways.

He's floating. I feel what he's doing is wrong. But knowing this, I'm still not resisting very hard. It has got to the point where he's crossed the line, many times.

And yet, still, I do nothing. I will, for once, let go.

Monday, October 11, 2004


I've decided to turn my screen test into an opportunity to show my fashion police concept. I thought of taking the pedagogical route, teaching viewers how to wear scarves properly. I even read my self-scribed script to my mom over the phone last night, but there was no way I could stretch the idea into a 4-minute segment. So now, the plan is to chase down Chinatown pedestrians and scream "Aiyah!" as I nitpick their outfits while making them hold a big blue dot over their faces. This will be followed by an in-studio Cojocaru verbal assault at the screen ("Out, out, in, out, in, and not unless my baby's black.") Think elusive footage of Bigfoot crossed with COPS crossed with Elle Magazine crossed with Chow Yun Fat.

I have three days to prepare and one day to film. Aiyah!

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Withering Heights

I drink lemonade from a brandy glass.

Will it all come crashing down?


4Play ended up being a huge disappointment. Okay, I can't say from experience since I didn't make it past the velvet rope. The line was, literally, half the length of a football field because the club owner had the bright idea of putting everyone (VIPs and all) in one single line, filtering out revelers as they reached the entrance. I thought since my girls and I were on the guest list, we could just saunter right past the bouncers and have a fun girls-night-out with girls-I've-never-met-before (like you would at London because Promoter Steve has the real "hook-up" <-- look at me using pretentious lingo). This was not destined to play out, though not from lack of trying. Bentolic even got ready to name-drop the owner. It was Fabio. We almost peed laughing enacting the unspeakable comedic potential in that would-be exchange.

Anyway. Due to time restraints (ie. the typically not-late-enough night shifts of metro employees), I bailed the hell out of that rhinestone orgy and chillaxed at home with a warm plate of pasta and a left-wing critique on counterculturalism.


This is the ... fifth time I've seen NeyPoli outside a party context. We always meet at a metro station. Random ones. Once he got on the same carriage as me. It's uncanny. Very weird. A bit stalkerlicious. Can't over emphasize how Montreal can sometimes feel claustrophobic. Especially when everyone is part of a real-life Friendster network (sans delete button).


Geneva D. called me to ask if I wanted to go to Extreme with her and Mimi. I explained my prior arrangements. The disappointment in her voice carried into our conversation about Donald the Dick. Remember Donald? The "all-round player" I wrote about a few posts ago? She had it bad for him. She got naked for him (now twice). She was captivated, inflamed, enraptured.

She found out he's a (no joke) crackhead with an insatiable sex-lust for gang bangs involving first year students he first coerces in back alleys.

I gave her some soothing advice before I left for a night of no-show, no-fun:

"It's not your fault you still have confused feelings for him. Don't blame yourself that he has more money than he knows what to do with ... like buying crack."


Oh my God. I thought NerdQuirk was in his early-20s. He turned 30 this week. My fucking surrogate nerd bro is 30 years old. He's not getting away with any panty jokes anymore.

Nadda noo, zippety zarp, nuh-uh.

Saturday, October 09, 2004

"How do you say, 'I'm from Earth?'"

Mushroom Shag Girl from me and J.Lass's French class topped herself today. Her weekly displays of stupidity are expected (her lunacy, well-publicized.) Indeed, it isn't a French class without her interrupting the teacher to ask a question that was explained 3 seconds ago. Or wondering whether it is proper to say "I live in the street" rather than "on."

But today, she asked why "ouvert" is written with a 't' while "fermer" isn't.

I burst out giggling. The teacher shot me a look. I couldn't control myself. The rage bubbled to the surface like a gaggle of mating geese; the giggling masked, unconvincingly, as intrigue.

Ah well ... I can rest knowing she unintentionally fucked herself up to resemble Toad from Super Mario World when she was previously the long lost sister of Aladdin's* Jasmine.

*In the original 1001 Arabian Nights, Aladdin was a Chinese boy.


Going out with Bentolic in a few short minutes. What stories will this adventure bring?

Friday, October 08, 2004

Back to you, Mr. Lam

I just got off the phone with the casting agent from CH Montreal. I'm going in for my screen test next Thursday. I'm expected to prepare a 4 minute unstructured script to speak from. She told me it's an in-studio job that entails doing a 5-6 minute human interest story based in the Montreal Chinese community.

"Something young," the director interrupted.

Mr. Lam currently does the business and financial news. Mrs. Lam, er, does the rest.

I asked if I could do a fashion beat. She said that would be neat.

But I'm not expecting anything from this. The odds of me getting this job are ... not high. I mean, what's the likelihood of an 18-year-old with zero broadcasting experience from Hicktown Hamilton sitting in front of a camera talking about who-knows-what for an audience from God-knows-where, bored to tears and wishing I'd stick it up the whazoo?

Don't answer that. I fear my pride can't handle it.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

The Substitute

Attended J.Lass's mythology class and did a test with them. I was incognito until the professor caught me upon departure and demanded I give back the copy of the test. I handed her a cubist sketch of a soda container instead. She was amused. I offered to sign it. She declined the offer.

Right. So went to Reggie's with J.Lass afterwards. I escaped a barrage of men with monikers that begged the question of what they were still doing with kids 10 years their junior. One said to me: "I ain't gon' let you go cuz *burp* yous my favourite person here." Oh, the cruelty of beer.

Chatted up Barista Matt. It was the kind of chat that wasn't about anything in particular because both parties were thinking about one thing, and that one thing was being conveyed through socially appropriate body language that clearly revealed nothing appropriate.

He's served me food for the past month and I've been itching to get to know him one-on-one. Has one of the most gorgeous pair of lips on the planet. I played it cool, deadpanning dry one-liners. He ate it up and leaned in closer to talk, breathing mere inches away. I wanted that mouth on me.

"MAAAAATTY!" screamed a voice. "WUZ UP, BRAH?!"

Fuck. It was his Bobo-ish friend, Steve. Overweight and unkempt, he went on a drunken spiel that involved a lot of slurring and schpitting. I listened politely, smiling at timely intervals. Matt stood there, silent. Moments later, leaves.

Great. What's the point of me patronizing the cafe anymore? To see someone not interested?

23-years-old and an acquaintance of M. Biologique's.

I still want that mouth on me. Either/or.


WetPet fed me three leftover muffins and an apricot danish. I felt so loved. Shit, I was fed; that's all that mattered. J.Lass's family invited me over to spend Thanksgiving with them. My first Thanksgiving with white people. I guess it's true that railroad building pays off in the end.


My sister just emailed me to say the family's coming over this Saturday. But I gots plans, my homiette. Mi casa ain't su casa, hon. Of course, what I meant to say was I'm going to have to accommodate their arrival if I want my allowance to continue flowing into my bank account rather than up my ass.


Chaka Khan! Me and Bentolic's plans for this weekend are underway. Among other things, nous allons visiter un nouveau club avec ses amies. Hoorah for the Portuguese!

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Guilty Guilt

M. Biologique approached me at the cafe as I was ordering an Italian soda. He was finishing up some geography homework when I joined him at his corner table (I hadn't noticed his presence behind me the whole time Geneva D. and I were discussing our "flirtations with disaster." Thank Budapest he didn't hear a word.) We chatted as jungle beats blared from speakers mounted low above his head (Budapest, Hallelujah!) I noticed his neat writing and his habit of summoning a ruler for even the simplist of diagrams, which are then systematically coloured in, line by line. It made me smile. Not that it was an odd sight to see, mind you. Just that, he carried off this idiosyncrasy with a certain indescribable charm. A man serious about his studies under the facade of a freewheeling pauper.

Oh bad bad bad.

I've developed feelings for a hippie?! 'Tis a rejection of my faith! A sacriligious misgiving! Miscreant, I say! Miscreant! For Pete's sake, he hides hacky sacks in his jacket like a rabid rabbit on Eastern morning!

But he's warm and patient. Smart. And makes me laugh (something rarely seen for non-situational reasons.)

Mais il a deja une copine ...


Bandana Boy. Listen. Don't get too comfortable with that mouth of yours. I'm not interested. The entire subway carriage saw. Yuck.


Went to an amazing multinational house party at Swiss Alps's tonight. Drank, hollered, and cheesed it up. You can't beat a robot chain with a German guy singing to his own compositions. Song titles include the classics "Fuck You" and "I Hate You Friend, My Penis."


Things with M. Biologique intensifying exponentially. The signs are crystal clear. The already-taken factor is not.


An old drunkard sat with me on the bus while coming back from the party, preaching to me about man's devolution then pointing at some ghetto kids dressed in Sean John ("You be careful now," he said, raising an eyebrow and standing uncomfortably near. "I mean, real careful." Frankly, I was scared of him.) Told me his freaking life story as I tried to talk some sense (or make some sense) out of him:

"You can't induce a conclusive generalization of mankind based on a personal experience that occurred some 60 odd years ago! Why do you always think you're the victim? Have you ever thought of shouldering the blame once in awhile?"

"Oh, you'll understand ... one day ..." he said, sneering and oh-so-patronizingly.

He was such a smug bastard and an ignorant, cynical fart. I zoned out after he mentioned "handcuffs" for the eighth time, all the while hoping he would soon leave me to spend some more contemplative hours with lady moonshine.

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Watch out, Diane Sawyer

Professor P. approached me in the parking lot today and asked me whether I was interested in hosting my own weekly Chinese television program ("No on-air experience required.")

I just stared at him in disbelief (can you blame me?)

He says currently only Mr. and Mrs. Lam are representing the Chinese community on CH (a multicultural news station based in Toronto, I believe). Says his lady producer friend asked him if he knew anyone who could fit the mould since he's a faculty member and in consistent contact with students . Professor P. says the company wants to retire the senior couple, but that who knows, they might change their minds and decide to keep them on "forever."

me: "And ... you're ... asking ... me?! Am I the only Asian in journalism at Concordia?!"

him: "Well, there's another student doing her graduate studies here. Some years, we get a handful of Asian students. Other years, none. This year, there's you. Just ... you."

It sounds rather farfetched, donchathink? Nevertheless, he says they're serious about hiring someone. And says, if worst comes to worst and I don't get to be the host, I also have the option of being hired as the field interviewer and information gatherer ("Mr. and Mrs. Lam are too old for that.") I can always see it as an opportunity to gain real-life broadcasting experience.

Woohoo! Finally! A real paying job! Maintaining an eccentric personality has eventually paid off!


Shit. They did use the footage of me taken yesterday on last night's evening news. Sandra confirmed it. I'm so embarrassed ...

Monday, October 04, 2004

Ironic Refuge

I'm at the university cafe right now, sitting at the bar, still in shock.

A local news crew, minutes ago, walked up to me and asked me to speak on camera for them.

"Eh ... eh ... excuse me?"

I didn't know what was going on. I asked her to fill me in on this whole Concordia University barring the former Israeli prime minister Ehud Barak from speaking on campus.

She did so, and to my annoyance, asked me to answer on camera knowing I was completley unprepared.

I replied that in one context, yes, it might be an infringement of freedom of speech, but on the other hand, a similar event occurred two years ago and riots erupted. The university is responsible for the safety of its students, first and forth most.

I don't think I came off very articulate. I was caught completely off-guard. I think I stared at the microphone because the camera light was blinding me.

But that is so cool. A budding journalist being interviewed by a veteran one. Hoo-hah! at a volume of 11.

Sunday, October 03, 2004


*sidenote: The following conversation took place entirely in Mandarin. My dad doesn't actually sound like Mr. Jeeves. I regret not being able to publish the Cantonese yelling match I had with my ma a few hours later. It's not due to length, but, moreso, embarrassing content. Here's a sampling: "Why you spend $100 on some fancy fancy sheet[s] I tell you get at dollah staw?!" "They were $99.99!!! Get your facts straight!"

Now back to the point (if there ever was/is one):

"Mom suggested I come home for Thanksgiving, dad."

"She did? Oh well, that's great. I'll see you next weekend."

"But I'll have to get this VIA rail student card to get the discount Readerdroid told me about."

"Okay. No problem."

"And it's going to cost me $XX for the card."

"But it will be worth it."

"And it will cost me $XXX.XX for the train tickets."

*brief silence*

"Maybe you'll feel more comfortable sitting this Thanksgiving out. You'll be awfully tired riding back and forth on the train, so there's no point having you sleep here for two nights. And school starts the following morning. Give yourself a break, Lily."

"That's true, dad. I completely forgot to put those factors into consideration. Thanks for caring."

Yeah, I played his miser card good.

Real good.


Wait. We celebrate Thanksgiving? Since when?


Wow, 400+ posts. And I'm suffering through a bout of sniffle-itis.

Maybe we can all celebrate by quoting things from my past entries. I'll start:

"I have a bruise the size of my fist on my outer thigh. I slipped on my porch ..." - 18 January 2004.

Uh, on second thought. Let's ... not.

Saturday, October 02, 2004

A Tribe Called ... Magic Fingers

M. Biologique's little Mexican-themed soiree turned out to be an impromptu event held together with Tostitos, dip, and a guitar. He said he thought no one was coming, but everyone ended up arriving at odd times because no one could contact him due to the ever bleeping busy signal on his goddamn phone.

Well, one thing led to another and it became a massage party.

I volunteered to use my magic fingers on 5'11 Amazon. She spread the word of my wonder digits soon after catching her breath.

"I want one from you," M. Biologique called out.

So I did him too (Is it possible to over-toot your own horn because he described the experience as being "amazing"?) And then, the next thing you know, both Swiss Alps and NeyPoli are down on their knees, straddling me and J.Lass for an upper body rub-down (Like the bible says: "... and it was good.") The guy massaging me was the same kid who was there when his marketing friend ambushed me at a cafe back when I was still feeling the pains for Tall.

Oh man, small, small world.


When it came time to leave, everyone asked everyone for some "bisou, bisou." That is, until it came time to say goodbye to M. Biologique.

"A handshake?" he asked, feigning frustration, a little flustered. "I ain't having none of that from you."

I grinned and held his fuzzy chin between my hand like a doting aunt examining her nephew for foreign lipstick stains alien to the palette in her purse. I tightened my grip and pulled him into me.

Air kiss one. Push back.

Air kiss two. Push back.

"... and one more," I said.

"Sorry. I'm only used to the Parisien way," he said, smirking.

He has a long-distance girlfriend (who attends Wellesley College in Boston. It's associated with the all-girls sector of Harvard), so why is he being so flirtatious?

Okay, well, we all know why (he is, by choice, sexually frustrated as he's been saving up his 'chi' for some presumably - though dubious - mind-blowing tantric action for his girlfriend the next time they rendezvous), but ... well ... WHY?! The bedroom eyes he shoots me just sends another unnecessary level of discomfort my way.


J.Lass has a new boy, WetPet. In French class today, I told her that he looked like the illustration of the old lady named Isabelle Garnier pictured on our activity sheet because they both have untameable curly locks.

We told him during our lunch break and he said my ass was grass and threw fruit at me. I countered using J.Lass's fruit salad and whipped a pineapple chunk right against the thermometer hanging on the cafe wall and - crash, crack, crap - it fell like Enron.

"Nice shot!" said the manager.

WetPet scoffed. "You throw like a girl!"

"You forgot you look like one."

And so, the battle continued; the war waged on.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Transluscent Eggs

Hung out with Readerdroid and had one of those emotionally draining conversations that only exist when you know something life altering will soon occur. We spoke on the phone at 6 p.m. as I chowed down my pasta and tuna speciality dish. We met up later at the McGill campus.

Then it all came rushing out (as I chowed down a strawberry cheesecake). She's a biochemistry student under a tremendous amount of pressure from, well, various sources. And like any other over-achieving scholar, she doesn't know what to do with her life. Or she does. But refuses to acknowledge the obvious because it would eventually dawn on her to take actual action and admit actual fault leading to actual consequences.

But it will be fulfilling, which makes actual sense.

There's not much I can say other than the fact that I, um, convinced her to change her life goal (as I drank hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. What? I like food!). Well, yeah. That's exactly what happened. We cleared up her needs and wants. It was definitely a stress reliever, airing her grievances while I called her on her bullshit.

Oh right. The "Eggs" in the title refers to me using the technique to making perfect custard as a metaphor for the best way to deal with the initial shock of revelation and estrangement in life ("You have to temper the eggs with the hot liquid. Otherwise, it will scramble. And then there's no going back.")


Bentolic (a French-Portuguese beauty) is taking me on a cross-Montreal tour. Stops will include museums, galleries, landmarks and shoe stores. She and I also share a common interest in intellectual cinematic fare and coinkly dinkly, the Festival du Nouveau Cinema is next month . I mean, you can't beat seeing Almodovar (Hable con Ella [Talk to Her], 2002) and other internationally renowned directors schmoozing with junior schmoes like us. Then again, perhaps we will only be able to schmooze with their labours of love, but it will be a penetrating experience bar none.


Huzzah! I got first dibs on the new books The Link newspaper recently received and snagged the most coveted one to review in my first article.


Might I add once again that I am in love with my adopted city. To paraphrase the always quote friendly Carrie Bradshaw: Montreal is my boyfriend.

And he's just oozing with that ooh la la.