Monday, January 31, 2005

Prove It

JuanaMachine leant me Gus Van Sant's Elephant. He and I are becoming fast friends (to the chagrin of M. Biologique). The French really like their bootlegged movies (and their deluxe, five-flavoured, windmill-inspired super joints shaped like some shitty ass, papier-mached, medieval era mace).


I waved goodbye to the Boy as he got up to buy another falafel, stranding him in line so he couldn't leave me at the altar (figuratively speaking) if he abruptly decided to dash to class. (He had spontaneously asked me out for sushi initially. Long story). This, after he got me to reveal my single living status ("Yes, I lack the inconvenience of a roomie," was, I believe, how I put it). My occasional curt behaviour is driving him mixed-signals mad, but I can't honestly see myself with this flirt anyway.

He's too cool for school and too shady for this lady. (I assume. He won't tell me what he does for a living so I asked if he belonged to the KGB.)


Spent the evening with M. Biologique (listening to - ugh! - friggin' Sublime) and his Parisien cohorts (JuanaMachine and EcoBois). I'm sick of his passive-aggressive treatment of me. One minute he's asking me how I could resist a face like his, the next minute he's trying to convince me I should hook-up with JuanaMachine, his good friend and neighbour. The siblingship is in shambles; it hasn't been working out as expected. (Didn't see that coming.) He's hot, he's cold. He wants me to come over, he doesn't want me to stay late. He let me stay the night, he begged his girlfriend to forgive him. He touches me affectionately, he sits an arm length away. I can't do this anymore. If he thinks he's my "brother," then that's what he's going to be. And I'm going to continue cracking sarcastic quips at his expense because how else can I feel like he is being punished for something he doesn't know he's doing?

"Our friendship isn't straightforward."

He doesn't understand what I mean and wants me to produce an example. I come up short, too coy to be frank, too frank to continue.

"You're someone who wants to know where you stand," he answers for me.

"No." I cut him off. "Not where I stand, but whether I am correct to assume that we're on the same [page.]"

Our relationship can't be defined, it is too full of ambiguities and unsaid perversions. But I refuse to corrupt it any further by holding on to the last remnants of romantic illusions.

I am shifting my focus elsewhere. Albeit, it's nowhere in particular, but it's somewhere, anywhere because this is a nightmare.

Saturday, January 29, 2005

Thief, thief!

My wallet was stolen. The bastard who did it had a field day with my credit card, using it on Ste-Denis like nobody's business. I've never even got the chance to shop on Ste-Denis and this jerk found a way to whip it out like a sack of Irish potatoes during Faminefest '45? Motherfucker!


Quite uneventful, the visit from my parents. However, a bunch of Vagooligans were having a grand old drunken time until the wee hours of the morning as I prepared to study for French. I knocked on our shared wall, signaling the universal sign for "Shut your pie hole, whore." But the request was deliberately ignored and one of them even yelled back, "WHY DON'T YOU GO TO SLEEP ALREADY?!" She sounded like those confrontational guests Springer reserved until the end to bring out; the ones with cheetah-print booty shorts and no dental insurance. But I decided to calm myself into a restful stupor with variations of the same hatchet-thrown-against-the-front-door-type fantasies. It worked. My mom, convinced that my complaints were legitimate after all ("I live in the projects! I have to jiggle the tap to keep the hot water constant! A 30-year-old Chinese man keeps trying to hit on me!"), believes it would be a good idea if I moved; she hates my apartment as much as I do now ("It no good! How you sleep? Why so cold? I no like!"). My mom is trying to warm me up to the idea of moving into a condo in Vieux-Montreal. I don't understand why someone who scoffs at the sight of overpriced, ten-dollar haircuts, would want something as extravagant and frou-frou fantastic as a "micro-loft." What is the reason behind this sudden fancy? An investment? A winter home? Blinded by a daughter's love? Or perhaps ... an investment?

Anyway, single best thing about this place (other than the floor to ceiling windows and chi-chi modernist interior): Johnny Depp's some-time home is nearby! The tour guide from the boat bus told me so! Hehehe! *Drool*

Friday, January 28, 2005

"g2g, toots!"

... so said my sister, channeling a drag-queened Carol Channing in the off-broadway production of "Guys and (transgendered) Dolls", after informing me of our parents' late departure and impending arrival in Montreal to pick up their car at the auto shop. Last time they visited, they left in their wake anxiety attacks, a broken light fixture and a missing pair of kitchen shears. They should be here at about midnight. Can't freakin' wait ...

Thursday, January 27, 2005


That's the first song on the Kings of Convenience album "Riot On An Empty Street." NorIda burned the CD for me and sprung it on me in journalism class today. What a sweetheart. What a thoughtful gift.

I wish I could do something for her, but my financial situation right now is about as comforting as the Spoon Man on Ste. Cat's. Doritos has been the meal du jour for the past 3 jours. I drank all the chocolate milk from last week (ditto the store-bought lemonade). I think there are two packaged columns of crackers still sleeping on my shelf. The bacon's gone. The cheese's still here. I haven't done laundry in a week and a half. My sweaters shrunk and the ironic three-quarter length excuse will cease to jive in another washing or two. My MasterCard bill arrived in the mail and already I'm picturing a life stained by bad credit, made up of boiler rooms and bridges. Four more days, I tell myself. Hold on for four more days. The Doritos will last until supper (as garnish; it's hardly main course material this time). But my digestive organs are not convinced: "You said that Monday!" Boys, boys, I assure them. Trust me, the money's coming. I just need more time. They chime sarcastically, "If we had but world enough ... " I cut them off and blush knowingly.

At this rate, I'm anticipating a total transformation into Halle Berry's Jungle Fever character by the end of the month. Next stop: BAPS.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

I can do my own bidding, sank you veddy much

A friend introduced me to Preprechaun a few days ago. She kept pestering me to speak to him because he was studying Mandarin this semester. I relented since being paraded around like Chang & Eng wouldn't require any effort. It's good, she commented, that I'm finally warming up to the idea of meeting romantically available men. Huh?

He turned out to be George Costanza with a well-polished dome. Reflective even.

"Hi, my name is Lily. Nice to meet you."

"Nee how mah? Wo jiao [Preprechaun.]"

Flustered, I asked him what he was trying to say. He looked at me pitifully and kept repeating the same thing with a smile and a chuckle, but refusing to give me the English translation. I made a wild guess: "Oh! You call yourself ..." I knew if I didn't eventually crack his Klingondarin, he'd be humiliated. But he approved and explained to his friend that that was how a traditional Chinese greeting was done. He looked over to me for confirmation which, I assumed, was a cue to turn up the corners of my mouth. I said some niceties and left to go back to my reading. My friend followed me.

"I knew you wouldn't find him attractive."

"Uh huh."

A few days earlier, she mentioned how close-minded I am when it comes to meeting new people. I told her I didn't need any help with my social life and that I might have standards but that didn't make me any less "open". I also reminded her how much she hates being with my "intellectual friends" (her words). She shot back that she enjoyed spending time with them "sometimes".

So she called last night to tell me Preprechaun wanted to see me again. I suspiciously asked what she told him.

"That you're antisocial and didn't like people or parties."

Good save, good save.

Monday, January 24, 2005


There's a bruise the size of a newborn's foot located under my left patella. From this angle (on the floor facing away from the ungainly kitchen cabinets), I can see the face of Bob Hope. Or maybe it's Ben Franklin; I see an 18th-century-looking collar. Wait, wait ... the blood sort of puddles near his wig though ...


It's friggin' Shamu.


Q: How do you whip a player?

A: Inattention.

Political Johnny

Even in passing, the late, great, boob tube host makes an impression:

"Democracy is buying a big house you can't afford with money you don't have to impress people you wish were dead. And, unlike communism, democracy does not mean having just one ineffective political party; it means having two ineffective political parties. ... Democracy is welcoming people from other lands, and giving them something to hold onto -- usually a mop or a leaf blower. It means that with proper timing and scrupulous bookkeeping, anyone can die owing the government a huge amount of money. ... Democracy means free television, not good television, but free. ... And finally, democracy is the eagle on the back of a dollar bill, with 13 arrows in one claw, 13 leaves on a branch, 13 tail feathers, and 13 stars over its head -- this signifies that when the white man came to this country, it was bad luck for the Indians, bad luck for the trees, bad luck for the wildlife, and lights out for the American eagle. I thank you." (Carson, 1991)

The entire transcript can be found here.


"You are my only girl / But you're not my owner, girl."

Sunday, January 23, 2005


I should've studied. Hey yo, that test was rough. My entire class (comprised of relative oldies. I reckon the youngest is 20 and the oldest, long past Viagrian salvation) also think I'm an alcoholic because:

a) I'm late for class every Saturday looking like I just bathed in the vodka equivalent of the Aegean Sea. (Oh no, I mean, of course women roll out of tropical hammocks looking that way ...)

b) The new students are convinced that the imaginary drunkapades Professor Lauziere and Franpa, my adopted Chinese grandfather, tease me about are irrefutably true.

If only they knew how boring my life really is ...


I chose to do "A Bachelor's Life" as the theme for the last part of this week's COMS sound assignment. Jimmy Eat World's "Pain" fades in to someone tumbling out of bed and getting into the "shower" (really water poured over a hot pan.) Then Hot Hot Heat's "Talk To Me, Dance With Me" fades in and out to catch a jiggling belt buckle, peeing, and a fly being zipped up (really NorIda wearing baggy pants). The last 20 seconds is a barscape: people talking, Muse-ic, and foosball. I had so much fun fooling around with the Minidisc player and Audacity sound editor; Maussie and M. Biologique actually sound like they were sitting in a busy cafe having a conversation about hooker tea now.

The theme was quite a challenge for me because the only "sound" strictly limited to the male population is jerking off and slapping my arm just wouldn't have lent an air of authenticity necessary to pull it off, especially since size and shape are discernable to (a woman's) working ears.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Philosophy of Good Deeds

I walked a middle-aged lady through a MAC tutorial and continued an hour after class ended. She was so computer-illiterate, she never even came across the word "Google" until today (nor has she ever bothered with the Internet and her competency with the mouse is next to nil.) I was told how "open," "patient," and "helpful" I was, which got me thinking again.

My mom never ceases to remind me how much better I treat strangers and friends than family. I act agitated over the most minute objections, she says. But I'm someone who likes offering help, not have someone demand it from me. I enjoy it when people use common courtesy. I hate it when I'm given a "Do it because it's your frickin' job!" sort of vibe. Good ol' Chinese values, indeed.

COMS mentioned something obvious but nevertheless interesting recently. We, as social beings, are polite to one another because it keeps the lines of communication open. I don't believe I know anyone who acts the same way inside and outside the home. I know I have an SSB (secret single behaviour) that is practically unknown outside my immediate family. Now, I wonder whether it is this intent on being "true to oneself" that is the intensifying factor, the catalyst, that contributes to familial tension (or more melodramatic: the source of). It is a paradox: Wherever we are the most comfortable is where we are the least ... content. Although, to be sure, I know it varies depending on a myriad of other factors, but I guess it's something worth thinking about anyway. Well, worthwhile to me.

Crazy French Guy: "You think too much."

Lily: "Sorry to disappoint."

P.S. The lady turned out to be a film industry insider. Get me on that casting couch!


First French exam in 9 hours and ... J'AI OUBLIE D'ETUDIER!


I'd like to give a shout out to my brother who turned 9 today. Yes, he was an accident. No, it is more than compensated for.

Damn my anticipated birth!

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Minidisc It

I asked M. Biologique and Maussie to help me out for my COMS Sound class. The assignment wanted a 25 second controlled conflict between two people. (Quite a difficult task actually. No one could do it without sounding forced.) I told the boys to wing it. It was hilarious. This is the transcript of what was said (which will be handed in to the professor after I layer it with another track I made of ambient coffee shop noise - something I know all too well, sadly):

Maussie: "Nice tea, [M. Biologique.] Thank you. Very much."

M. Biologique: "You better appreciate it. *Laughs*"

M: "Nah, I'm just saying that ..."

B: "I actually just got it ..."

M: "... it tastes like fish ... shit."

B: "This is all the way from New Mexico, bro."

M: "Really?"

B: "This is a sage blackberry tea."

M: "This is shit tea, dude."

B: "You don't like that?"

M: "You brought it all the way from New Mexico, like ... ?"

B: "Bro, if you don't want any."

M: "Go to Chinatown, you can buy a hundred bags of tea for, like, two ... two cents."

B: "That's not even fucking organic though! That's crap tea! That's ... Chinese little fucking hooker tea, bro!"

M: "... I like Chinese hookers."


I guess you had to be there.


M. Biologique tells me today that he wants to attend one of my COMS classes (out of curiosity) in addition to making it known that he wants us to hang out more:

"Hire me back as your French tutor!"

"You know I can't afford you."

"That's not the point. You come over, we hang out, I will speak to you in French and you'll learn that way."

"I can't afford you."

"I just want you to come over more often."

I might as well have said, "I can't afford ... the risk of going to your place, you confused sonovabitch." Or, "I can't afford ... to continue being your platonic-surrogate-filler-woman, you vicious heartbreaker." Or, "I can't afford ... to tell you that your girlfriend likes philandering with horny Bostonians over shepherd's pie and macadamia nuts taken from the minibar up in her designated suite at the Holiday Inn." Right.

Anyway, I find it cutely ominous - and you only make these kinds of connections when you can no longer blink without tiring yourself out - that her first name is the same as the Boy's surname.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Fill The Holes

As I was alphabetizing my bookshelf (because it's 5 a.m. and why the hell not?), two words suddenly struck against the inner corridors of my cranium: Love and Longing. (Vulgar, I know.)

Do I confuse longing for love? Any sort of love. Is that the bloody thing everyone has been trying to get me to understand, without exception, all these years? Seems so. The realization jolted me like a botched breast augmentation. *Cue Puccini-esque wailing* I don't think I've ever had a healthy relationship pertaining to dramaless struggles and unambiguous snuggles. Why can't I be bereft of my emotions? I give more thought to rushing chemical reactions than what they make me do during heights of intoxication.

Hi, my name is Lily and I'm addicted to people.

Or more specifically: A potent presence, a challenger monkeying around in mesh and lace. I feel like an introvert fooled into an extrovert's dirty experiment. Drained of modern banalities every night, I wake up looking forward to tackling another psychological game of the sexes (however mind-numbing the process and gratuitous the outcome). And everyday I look forward to finding someone who puts me on a pedestal, pushes me off and forces me to scale back again.

Because Camus was right: Sisyphus was not punished.

Monday, January 17, 2005


Done editing. Now every friend and acquaintance I've met since moving here has been given a nickname. We'll never be on a real-name basis again.


Fabulous Saturday night at Swiss Alps's. 13 friends, fondue and fracas.
(Lily + JuanaMachine) x "lively Truffaut discussion" = (M. Biologique x Jealousy) - (Usual "Restraint"). I joked to M. Biologique that if he and his (long-distance) girlfriend ever broke up, he should "totally get with" 5'11 Amazon. He asked why in a playfully suspicious manner. "She's really hot!" I explained. "Look at her!" He laughed. "Sometimes it's not the way a woman looks," he made a note of saying, "but the way she carries herself." I feigned surprise. It is apparent to Swiss Alps and me that 5'11 Amazon has a thing for M. Biologique who seems oblivious to her striking beauty (and what a beauty she is). I mean, she tags along with him to our parties forever friendless. What more of a "I want you alone" vibe do you want? On paper, they're a match made in heaven: She's a classmate, practices yoga, eats organic, plays the guitar, and has poifect bone structure. They just aesthetically ... fit. I feel inadequate in her presence and find myself purposely pushing him towards her, motioning for more closeness. (Bah, I know it's the insecurity talking). Except it is this 5'11 Amazon who is trying not to hate me (because girl sure can turn mean when she thinks M. Biologique needs rescuing from one of our mental fisticuffs) since I maintain niceties regardless of how passive/aggressive she treats me. Though, admittedly, I was more than intrigued that she inquired about what me and M. Biologique do during our frequently intimate rendezvous (when she's not, you know, keeping her true sentiments to herself.)

Ended up sleeping over at NorIda's. Have I mentioned how assertive, attentive and intelligent this girl is? Oh, and she gave me a whole box of organic tampons. How cool is that? It's worldy activism from the inside out!

Sunday, January 16, 2005

Le Fou

I cherish my blog. It's a place to vent and elaborate (in excruciating detail) all my neurosis, psychosis, paranoia and secret belligerence without having to justify myself to judgmental plebians. But this morning, 20-year-old J.Lass was kicked out of her home because of it. From what I gathered, her mom found out where she really was that innocent night at Cuisiniere's (as in, not-at-my-apartment) and, well, some people believe lying is an unforgivable cardinal sin.

My shoulders are heavy with guilt. The message her mother sent to her beeper related too closely with the things I mentioned in the post ("Muffins?" "Steak?"). "I lied," J.Lass said. "It's my fault." But it was me. I made a careless slip. I was an unknowing accomplice. I'm in utter shock and wracked with regret.

After careful consideration, rather than create an entirely new blog (an idea thrown around out of pure frustration), it would be easier just to never mention J.Lass again through this medium. This way, no one can use me to keep track of her whereabouts.

Friday, January 14, 2005


Personalized jewellery just reached a new low. iPendant, a division of Genetrack Biolabs Inc., collects samples of DNA to fashion into necklaces. Can you imagine the thought of trend-addicted dolts hamming it up at an El Taco Rio, dangling the building blocks of life between a glittery cleavage that smells of patchouli oil and assorted car emissions? The marketing strategy behind this isn't new; it's another guy in full Murdoch mode riding on the coattails of the latest, individuality-seeking, fad.

Did I mention these "glass amulets" come in 6 pre-determined personality shades? Green is "Naughty"; yellow is "Sunshine"; black means you're an "Enigma." A bauble from Chanel can at least differentiate the wearer from the menial-labour class, but this Jolie-ripoff looks like something Sears might promote alongside artificial tanner for their "St. Tropez in Milwaukee" campaign.

The idea is just so ... tacky. It's similar to wearing a lucky rabbit's foot that actually belonged to Fatty who, your Italian grandmother insists, unlocked its own cage and jumped into the oven while you were out peeping dime shows. And unlike the MedicAlert bracelet, it's not even useful:

"Help, help! I've been hit by a bus!"

"Give me a second while I check for Alzheimer's."


No one cleans up after you when you live alone. I've been dabbling in housework all day and I'm currently torn between doing French homework and ... doing French homework with the accompaniment of music. I can't decide! I can't decide! *insert Nazi soldier taking my child away*


Cuisiniere's British buddy broke up with his Quebecois girlfriend. Now he wants to date me.

"He's interested, so how 'bout it?" asked J.Lass.

"No." End of conversation.

Who am I? Princess Plan-B? Is it just a coincedence I'm on perpetual stand-by for emotionally unavailable/unstable/retardant men?

Thursday, January 13, 2005


me: "Too bad you don't have an appendix."

DenMarc: "I know."

me: "You're like a Vietnam vet, hobbling about on one leg ..."

DenMarc: "I am."

me: "Weirdo."


Montreal doesn't have "dusk." The sun sort of comes and goes at will, switching on and off like a light or a cigarette butt on a hooker's lesioned ass. No warning. No colour-coded terror alert. Just a putrid darkness enveloping the city before you even realize it was a nice day to promenade.


What was I on last night? Scratch that. When did I become so uber-boy crazy? I was independent woman before Destiny's Child started pimpin' their grubby anthem to a nation of belly-baring six-year-olds who are about as independent as an annexed Sudetenland or Ted Danson's life after Whoopi Goldberg. (VH1 should ask where he is. It's only time.) No wonder there are so many career-oriented women: Income tax reports and hormonal inbalances just don't mesh no matter how big the guy's dick is.

I don't care what Al Green says: I'm not tired of being alone. Housekeeping just isn't for one pair of hands.


NorIda and I are going to see Kings of Convenience in concert next month. What! What! I can see us getting all riled up (not too much), choke some waitress (gently), and snort coke (-a cola, that is.) Good times, good times.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Purgatory II

You know you're in trouble when random strangers comment how "in love" you look with your (in)significant other. I encountered the bemused expressions of quite a few ladies who might as well have stammered, "Honey, y'all bit much, donchathink?" I seriously must also have a limp biscuit if I didn't mind - indeed, enjoyed! - having him compare our behaviour to that of a "married couple." (Because everyone smears cake on each other, right?) A trip to the supermarket with M. Biologique turned the checkout counter into Showtime at the Apollo. Our bickering had the cashier and bag boy in tears, they were laughing so hard. My one hour excursion developed into an all night affair as his suggestive comments mutated into unabashed touching until it became part of the natural, produce-picking ambience. He kept making new plans to prolong my evening with him. Everything we said to each other was in jest (including his disapproval of the Boy). Truth is, his silence revealed more (like when I said he couldn't have me.)

I feel so lost. (How fitting would it be if it was a portmanteau word blending "love" and "lust" together? It would describe my current confusion to a T.)

I want M. Biologique but I can't have him so I'm fucking someone else out of spite. (Maybe that describes it better.)


Cut me some slack; I realize I'm the quintessential 18-year-old drama queen. I'll soon be sedated.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005


"So," he finally said. "You want to go for coffee?" At 10 in the evening? I asked. Why not? I only live 45 minutes away.

I ended up spending the night at M. Biologique's. I was momentarily surprised that he granted my flippant request; he's never let a girl sleep over without male accompaniment before. We had another marathon debate session. It was predictably charming. He noticed my haircut; liked the way it fell across my face. Picked up some paper and charcoal and sat down to draw me in variations of the same couch-sitting, tea-drinking, mug-hugging pose.

He read me Rudyard Kipling's works in bed, having fully memorized "If" (1895). I rolled over and turned the lamp off. It was 3 a.m. already.

"I'm happy," I said dreamily, head slumped across my arm.

"I'm happy too," he added quietly after.

Is it reasonable to attain fulfillment from two sources of comfort because one cannot provide what the other freely gives (and vice versa)? Appeasement is excruciating. My thirst for possession is embarrassingly irrational. If I settle to be the "other woman," am I acting on defiance or compromise? Human complexity creates limitless structures of attraction, but none ever withstand the ire of moral scrutiny. I'm unsatisfied not because my atypical arrangement is upsetting me but because it is an atypical arrangement frowned upon by a society that knows more about sustainable success than I do. Can I go on being content when I know what I'm doing is supposedly "wrong" (a concept synonymous with "lacking mainstream popularity")?


From Lost Worlds:

Adolescents, Envy of
"[We live in a] world of branding and expediency and the dullest, nastiest music in the history of humanity, but the poor little bastards have to like it because ... because everyone has to like the music of their times or get left out, even though it is so boring, despite the rude words. (Bitch! Nigga! Ho! Aren't we baaad! Pee po belly bum drawers! Heeheehee!)" (p. 24).

Monday, January 10, 2005


I'm walking a fine line. My teachers are turning a blind eye to my clinical tardiness as long as I continue making unconventional comments during class. I sound narcissistic, though that really isn't the case. A sense of wanton arrogance pervades each of my two classes. I see one student twirling gum around her finger as another models various updos to someone unseen. Some bloke is sleeping to my left as raised hands encircle his reddened face like tacks in the air.

It is unanimous. Heads nod in sync with each other. "Children make the best theorists because of their sense of wonderment!" This idea is repeated ad verbatim.

Excellent, excellent. Where haven't I heard that before?

The Boy raises his hand to speak. The Boy? The Boy is here?

"I think we just aren't allowed to act like children anymore," he said hautily.

Additional thoughts are aired. I put my hand up for the third and last time.

"Going back to that man's idea." The Boy looks over, a bit stunned. "I think our society fetishizes childhood. It is, like [she] said, a recent concept. As adults, we have the benefit of hindsight to envy what children supposedly have when ..." I pause and search for words, "in actuality, it is not what they possess that we seek but what we feel is missing in our own lives that we find troubling. Our loss is then projected on to children whom we contrast and compare ourselves to. The concept of childhood says more about adults than the children living it."

As the teacher waited for someone to respond, I caught a glimpse of the Boy's profile, his eyes looking down at his coffee cup. Either he caught on that I was criticizing people like him or he didn't.

Sunday, January 09, 2005

"Who the hell's Usher?"

M. Biologique came back with a sailor's mouth after returning from the hot, hot States by way of Ontario, doing nature for days. Got my message. Called to talk. Our casual conversation consisted of pop music, child labour, anal sex (hypothetical, hypothetical), multinational companies, why I'm a whore, proper land distribution, and convincing me to go organic:

me: "Unless I'm sucking your dick and it miraculously comes out tasting like roses, I don't think it's going to affect you."

him: "Hey, hey. You're not sucking my dick."

me: "Fine. Unless you're sucking me off and I miraculously start tasting like roses, it's not going to affect you."

him: "Hey, hey. I'm not sucking you off. Yet."

(Scared of sexual tension, my ass)

He also inquired about the Boy more than before:

him: "So ho, what kind of nasty shit are you two doing?"

me: "First of all: I'm not a ho. Second of all: We do whatever nasty shit I tell him to do."

him: "That's why you're a ho."

me: "That's why I'm your sister."

It's only been a few times with one, commitment-challenged guy who just happens to fit my unorthodox criterion. I played along and let M. Biologique think whatever he wanted. It's none of his business anyway. He can't expect me to play "siblingship" and still answer to him like a jilted lover suspected of treason.

Men: Can't mull with them. Can't mull without them.

Time capsule

Had a lot of fun at Cuisiniere's. He made me and J.Lass stuffed flank steaks with mashed potatoes and spinach. Watched Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom. However, it was cut off three-quarters of the way with an episode of the Animaniacs. I got all giddy and sung along to the Pinky and the Brain theme song. Then the ominous looking Warner Bros. logo appeared with a barely audible creeping crescendo held on a single note. I looked at Cuisiniere and gasped.

"Do you know what this is?"

"No, what?"


We nearly peed in glee.

But it was rudely interrupted midway by Little Shop of Horrors, followed by Orson Welles's The Lady from Shanghai and anachronistic commercials for My Pet Pony and Frosted Flakes featuring Brett Hull.

Then we watched Quebec cable at 3 a.m. which is, of course, known for uncensored nudity and sex romps. But since I'm 18 and he's 23 and we both pretend to maintain my innocuous innocence and his assumed authority, the only X-rated show we could watch together was the Home Shopping Channel, Version: Rabbit Dildo.

Cuisiniere: "Wait, why does it have beads on one side and ..."

me: "Oh, that side you stick up your lady's ass and the other one's supposed to replace you."

J.Lass and I woke up (at noon, natch) to the scent of fresh baked banana bread muffins and watched Harold & Maude (1971). It's supposedly the source for many of Wes Anderson's ideas, which the film major - ie. Cuisiniere - can't confirm but after seeing it for myself, can't help but draw parallels too. Funny as heck. Dark as hell. And that Bud Cort sure dressed prepishly refined. Looked very delish and doable. Almost made me forget he would be physically disfigured from a road accident 8 years later.



Shopped over in Mont Royal and found a devilishly handsome, brass n' grass, Moroccan seat. Placed it in front of my full length mirror and stuck a complementary rug beneath it. Ooh la la.


Scary Stare-ker Grinning Man on metro was scary staring grinning at me. Wanting to elude him, I got off at Lucien L'Allier with J.Lass and caught the next train to Vendome. Hopped on the bus and who sat there, mouth agape, beside the only empty seat in my vicinity? I was trapped. I could do nothing but scooch over and concentrate pathetically on my game of Bejewelled.

On the phone with J.Lass later, she occasionally interjected her unbridled neighing with solemn words of understanding.

Saturday, January 08, 2005


Haven't gone home in days. Couldn't stomach a solitary Friday night. Left a message on M. Biologique's answering machine ("Hey M. Biologique. It's Lily. Call me. ### ####") knowing he wanted to reach me Thursday evening after reciting my number to J.Lass to confirm its accuracy. This is odd since he has never called me ever. Odder still: No reply. ("He's really scared of the sexual tension." Uh huh. What is he? 70 and impotent?) So J.Lass rung up the Boy and pushed the phone in my face to shut up my self-pitying monologuing. "Uh ... my friend just dialed you and uh, so what are you doing tonight?" Smooth Lily. Real smooth.

The Boy invited me out and I slept over after partying with 30 friends until the wee hours of the morning at this punk rock mosh/lounge on St. Laurent. Woke up shortly thereafter and fucked. It was his 23rd birthday two days ago. Both of us are not looking for a relationship - at least, not with each other (or in his case, with anyone.) The great thing about our arrangement is his pedagogical attentiveness. ("Yes, you can hold it this way and still sit up like that/Here's how to do it properly. Now it's your turn/Put your hand here but ... /DON'T! I'LL DIE!") It's like Dangerous Liaisons without the whole premeditated agenda and syphilis thing. He asked me what I thought of the sex. I said he was comparable to grocery shopping. He feigned offence. I told him I'm a baby. He told me that's why he's here to teach me. I told him he exists to help me prepare for other encounters. He told me not to expect him to hang around much longer then. I asked him what his point was; he can't keep his hands off women anyway.

"I'll see you in COMS Sound, Lily."

"And I'll continue pretending not to know you."

No wonder I'm one of his "favourite people." Also. That healthy orgasmic glow I hear about? Not a myth. Try to pack that in a tub of Olay.

*sidenote: Sparks flew between me and Scott, the history major. He called me a "Shakespearean (t)wit" and has M. Biologique-like qualities ("coupled" not being one of them.) Looking forward to seeing him again.


Tall was working at school and called me over for shit chat and asked me to attend another gig again.

Where's cancer when you need it?


Bought two tight-fitting sweaters at Jacob for 20 dollars a pop and a knitted scarf for 10. Also left Chapters with two books: Against Love: A Polemic and Lost Worlds. That last one sold me on Stephen Fry's praises alone.


Cuisiniere, after three nauseating weeks, popped the L-word to J.Lass. Her reaction? "Uh ... I agree. We sure do click!" He's coming over to my apartment tonight to cook a whole duck for us. He invited us to stay over at his place to have steak. (That chef training really comes in handy.)

PeLu just called to ask out me and J.Lass. I don't think I've mentioned him. He's the guy whose girlfriend forced him to move to an opposite bar booth because he was seen talking to us. Jesus! PeLu's like our downtrodden, stoned-off-his-rocker, French possum friend. Jealousy: It's psychic purgatory.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Karmic Joke

The Boy's in my communications class. You read right. Mr. See You Around couldn't keep his eyes off me or my rainbow suspenders and frequently approached me to "talk" and "touch". (And by "can't keep his eyes off me," I mean, "Alley oop: Pupil tag!") J.Lass can't for the life of her understand why he's so popular with the ladies:

"I mean, I understand why you'd like him, but when I see him, it's like ... ewww, I can't touch him. He might leave soot on my hands."

The Boy and I have also been placed in the same group to do labs together.

There you have it. A whole three months of cordial bullshit.


J.Lass: "M. Biologique is starting to get sick of the 'long-distance' in his long-distance relationship."

Is he now? Interesting ...

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Case Closed. Hands Down.

I confessed to J.Lass that I'm more than certain my virginity is still intact even after getting plenty of voluntary (non)vitriolic (non)violative intrusions to my, er, vessel. Vexing, very vexing.

"Remember that day with the getting it on thing? There was a stretch, but no pop and glide. Shouldn't there be a pop, glide or pop and glide? All I felt was a stretch but no smooth sailing."

I motioned her to watch my hands act out a sequence of sexual tableaus.

She looked up from peeling the Saran wrap off her brownie and rolled her eyes skeptically.

"Why don't you go and check?" she suggested, weary of my nonsense. I blushed because those brownies are way too good to have interrupted someone for.

I conducted a thorough investigation today at headquarters. To my dismay, my findings came up empty (or full, if you prefer).

The facility had indeed been ransacked and the door, blown open. This discovery undoubtedly leant little credence to my previously held assumption (to the chagrin of an obviously imagined bellicose right). Then I got all hungry and philosophical and hooked my computer to my TV so I could listen to the Kings of Convenience in stereophonic glory.


Monday, January 03, 2005


You know sometimes having parents is like having invisible, retarded friends: You can't always prevent them from automobile collisions.

No more than 15 minutes after they left my apartment, the folks called me to say, Oops, another car sort of smashed into them because they ran a red light when icy road conditions made it difficult to break on time.

They're fine but I don't want them sleeping over ever again. My psyche is just way too fragile for their in-law-like behaviour. Freakin' yak, yak, yak. You'd think it was the Tibetan plateau.


"Are you Chinese?"

"Yes ..."

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes ..."

"My friend and I think ... Do you speak English?"

"Yes ..."

"We think you are very beautiful."


"Do you speak English?"

"Born and raised [here.]" LIE

"We'd like to know if ... Are you heading somewhere?"

"I'm sort of going to meet someone."

"Oh, oh. Sorry."

"Well! Nice meeting you. Both of you."

I was smiles all the way to the pub as a hired third wheel for emergency girlfriend services.


No, it's not a potato sack. It's a fashion statement. One that also begs the question: How long does it take to shimmy out of?

No time at all apparently.

Saturday, January 01, 2005

Trompe l'oeil

I think I might've vomited a bit in my mouth after catching a late-night showing of a Trim Spa commercial featuring Anna Nicole Smith. She first appears in Bo Derek braids running out of the water like a corseted marine mammal forced into a life of servitude and 1 900 numbers. Subsequent shots showcase her lithe frame in sequined skankwear hushing sweet nothings into the camera in her best Marilyn Monroe meets Ethel Merman impersonation. Her over-inflated lips also resemble two slices of raw liver surgically grafted to her, let's say, face. Part of me wanted to reach into the screen and hold her, tell her it's going to be all right and that her nasty case of VD might not be curable, but what do words mean anyway? The other part wanted to change the channel and watch the remaining 3 minutes of Diva On A Dime. Guess who won out?

Answer: Anna Nicole Smith.

You can't blame me for having morbid fascinations and a spleen-splitting distaste for an ersatz Queer Tie on a Fat Guy-type show that sucks due to hackneyed pun-ology and a lack of engrossing characters. (Who didn't relate to Jai, the 97-pound Latino?) How can someone possibly mess up the gay-folks-as-entertainment formula? It's foolproof. Throw together a non-threatening, sexually ambiguous, ex-Broadway dancer with a dowdy pre-op Swan reject and it's a money-making venture bursting with potential. But what did Diva/Dime do wrong?

They hired a woman (with prominant tan lines to boot).

Trust me, Pending-Matey-of-the-Yacht-Club: Those 4-for-a-buck buttons could never pass for real brass. She totally Lady Macbethed you, man. To think you would've impressed more people at that snooty affair had you worn a pair of Wham!-era hot pants with a bias-cut sarong hung on bejewelled nipple rings.

What a waste of a clean shave.


Happy New Year everyone! May 2005 bring yet another wave of trauma.