Saturday, April 30, 2005

Us against Us: Hume-er me

Nice to meet you, I'm an atheist. Richard Dawkins is one too.

My belief system closely resembles his, but I credit economics to be the source of strife (which is, then again, noticeably interchangeable with religion).



Believing in God is like believing in a teapot orbiting Mars?


Friday, April 29, 2005


I visited my old high school and gave all my English teachers a warm embrace when I saw them. They were a fantastic lot, nurturing the inner writer I never thought existed. No way could I have become the person I am without their presence and support. I couldn't have possibly given in to my untraditional impulses if it weren't for their open-mindedness, patience, criticism and forgiveness.

I gave them a quick summary of my adventures in Frenchland and showed Ms. K a picture of M. Biologique taken on my camera phone, careful to prepare her for his strong hippie radiation.

"Ooh!" she raved when I handed it to her. "Now isn't he handsome?"

Students recognized me in the hallway and the office atmosphere had a certain, undeniable joviality. Warm light passed through the tinted windows as the teachers and I stood there, shuffling our feet, listening to me echo stories of the past year. There was a certain je ne sais quoi to our reunion. Bad blood no longer ran through our veins. I nodded thoughtfully when they told me the school eventually decided to invest in newspaper production equipment after I left. My plan to revitalize this extracurricular activity had materialized - it had suddenly become cool to express opinions rather than last night's scores (or at least compared to them yonder days, I suppose).

I took down their emails, not knowing when or why I'd ever speak to them again. I felt like I was committing perjury. My pulse quickened as I took down their information. "Tu nous as promis," I imagined them saying years down the road, "mais tu n'as jamais ecris." If I ever get the chance to pull a Tom Hanks, I will. Good teachers are hard to find. Those who make a difference affect the rest of our lives.


I saw my marks last night. I received an A in both Digital Media and Theory, one of only 4 out of our class of 60. Really proud of myself. I guess my final paper didn't turn out as bad as expected.

Thursday, April 28, 2005


This is another one of those cathartic posts used to calm me down and lift me up: personal satisfaction guaranteed.


Why, goddamnit, must men play trippy mind games like a cruise director working to stay on the dole? Why can't they understand that while my views on relationships might be unorthodox, I react to rejection and scorn like any other person: that is to say, with toxic levels of emotion. I sometimes think my feelings are fitted with a self-destruct mechanism capable of exploding when provoked, leaving behind shards of anger, bitterness, and unease, maiming all who dare to approach the aftermath. I know I have a habit of over-analysing things, but I don't know how else to make sense of the world given the contradictory messages presented by my rational ("High standards, low expectations!") and irrational sides ("Vice versa!"), the latter benefiting from daily doses of flagellation.

M. Biologique called me from his bed to tell me he couldn't make it to our movie because his sprained ankle had gotten worse since he hurt it a few days ago. I understood and suggested I leave that night seeing how my mom wanted me home and he wasn't in working shape to go out anyway.

"Don't be stupid," he scoffed. "You're staying."

He promised to do something with me before I left and just as I was about to hang up, he slipped in a, "And Lily?"


"You're a very pretty girl."

"Why do you say that?" I said, blushing.

"I mean, not just on the outside, but on the inside. You're a very good person."

He said it with such sincerity tinged with a stunted style characteristic of shyness that I fell for it hook, line and sinker. It definitely made my day.

He called me later that evening to see how I was (of course, he must've been bored too). I told him to expect me at his door bright and early the following morning. I made good on my word and he greeted me with a more-than-friendly hug, but I had a lot of last-minute errands to do so I left him to finish whatever he had planned for the day before he also got ready to leave town. But by the time I made it to the coffeehouse to meet him, I felt our chemistry suddenly slipping away. He wore all my favourite items out of his closet: the skater shoes he brought out for the first time because I pointed out how much I loved them on Dave Chappelle; the T-shirt with the simulated aborigine icon and jeans! I've never seen him in denim, but here he was wearing a fine pair hanging off his fit frame. (I'd like to think he did it for me even though that's about as likely as gourmet chipmunk sold on supermarket shelves.)

"Look at you," I gushed. "Looking all cute with your cute shoes, cute shirt and cute pants."

He grinned as he hauled my luggage indoors.

Outside, on the terrace, he had his arm wrapped around me as I handed him my copy of the complete works of Karl Marx. He skimmed through the pages and I looked at him skeptically - he wasn't going to read it during the summer. But it was when we went inside and sat down at a table did he go out of his way to make me feel awful. I told him, honestly, I was going to miss seeing him. He said he had a lot of fun with me this past year, but:

"... I mean, don't think you're a big part of my life [that I'm going to miss you.] I just want to head home and, like, move on with my life. [...] Who knows if I'll even be returning to Canada."

I teased him. "Oh, admit it. You'll miss calling me for no reason and getting free drinks and movies out of the deal."

But he stood his ground. "Heh, yeah. But uh, no."

What was he talking about? He's getting his degree in Montreal. He's coming back to Canada. I'm going to see him when school starts in September! We had just been discussing whether he should stay where he was or move into a different apartment next semester - we were planning to live in the same borough!

"You make it seem so permanent!" I protested, trying to hide my surprise with laughter. "We're going to email each other." ... because that's what he's been doing along with his almost daily phone calls.

"I'll try to respond," he replied coolly, only half-joking.

He told me he hoped to see me with a "good boyfriend," but explained that he was kidding when I deflected this suggestion. I was amazed with the balls on this guy. He was totally shirking me. I've previously recounted how much of an asshole he can be when he's under stress, but the things he said sounded squeezed under duress. Weren't we friends, I asked myself? Every sentence onwards felt infinitely more severe and I sensed the sting long after the attack. His words burdened me during my entire 5 hour train ride to Toronto (although I temporarily escaped to watch Family Guy episodes on my portable DVD player). What really got me was his final farewell, which consisted of a super tight hug (more for my sake than his) and abrupt departure without bothering to look back even when Cuisiniere chatted him up for a brief second, facing opposite my direction. (Cuisiniere offered to stay with me in lieu of M. Biologique who left to "buy a duffel bag," which I don't doubt but was he in such a rush he couldn't provide an additional 10 minutes to send me off properly?) The guy pulled out every trick in the bag to insure that I wouldn't get "too attached" to him!

What I wanted to know was why he had to act like an ass knowing it would be the last time he was going to see me for a very long time?!

... or did I just answer my own question?

*Note: J.Lass warned that the more I strayed from reality, the more I'd feel degraded. And boy, was she right.


I changed my blog title because somehow "Lily's Blog" seems too obvious for its own good. M. Biologique is still desperate to find it. (He asked me what I called him: "Like ... Mr. Mambo or something?" "Yes. Mambochambo. Go google it.")

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Too Many Ups

Sorry beforehand for the poor quality of this post. I'm rushing to write this because I'm meeting M. Biologique after his exam to catch a showing of Born Into Brothels.


I suppose this is it. The end of the months-long drama. I got some down 'n dirty, softcore action last night at M. Biologique's and realized this thing, this supposedly unhealthy union of lust thing, is exactly what I've been looking for.

J.Lass verbalized it perfectly for me. I've never wanted a relationship (in the traditional sense of the word). I was always looking to be validated and "getting my man" (so to speak) has helped me reach this hedonistic goal. With M. Biologique, I get to play courtship games without having to worry about social conformity and public opinion. I don't have to worry about making amends on a daily basis. I don't have to worry, period, because we live separate lives.

"You're in the perfect scenerio for you," J.Lass stressed. "There's the constant chase without ever having to settle down."

Last night, M. Biologique suggested we meet up at the chalet on top of the mountain. The invite sounded nonchalant and unofficial so I didn't feel guilty when I made a detour on my way up and ended up at JuanaMachine's to watch The Corporation (bark gets crazy in the dark, y'all). M. Biologique finally came home a few hours later and invited me over to his place (which was down the hall from where I was anyway). Apparently, he had packed a salmon picnic for me. Sweet! But I didn't end up coming. Boo! So I made it up to him in bed (MB: "It's weird that it doesn't feel weird that you're sitting on top of me naked." L: "Yeah, I know. Is that weird?"). Later, leaning against each other on the couch by candlelight (hydro, he cannot afford), we discussed our relationship, making it clear that we weren't obligated to each other. But the way it's been working out, the convenience factor has hindered both sides from forming side dishes.

My girlfriends find it upsetting that I'd agree to this sort of arrangement because I'll always be "second," thus, replaceable. But I'm reassured, knowing one does not pack picnic dinners and share intimate thoughts with any old fuck.

Aye, aye, because the only cure to bliss is having to admit there is none.


My laptop's fucked up. Won't even start up. Scared shitless my music files have been wiped clean. Going back to the "armpit" tomorrow. Mom's desperate to see me. Bought a large burlap/canvas bag with lemon yellow, mock-croc trim by Ralph Lauren. I convinced myself it was a justifiable purchase: a gift from me to me for completing my first year of university.

Hope she doesn't find out.

Monday, April 25, 2005

Close Call

SETTING: M. Biologique's apartment.

SCENE: I'm eating oatmeal and reading Infiltrating the IRA: Dead Ground by Raymond Gilmour. M. Biologique is laughing, commenting how at home I make myself feel. Suddenly, my back straightens and I eye him suspiciously:

"What did you just call my book?"


"Where'd you get that word from?"

"What do you mean where I got that from? It's a word we use in the States."

"You haven't found my blog have you?"

"No, but you watch. I will one day. Soon."

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Last Exam

Highly recommend downloading "Rapture Rapes the Muses" and "Eros' Entropic Tundra" to get acquainted with flexible genre benders Of Montreal. They're a musical time machine.

Link to those lyrics found here.


Fuckkkkkkkkkkk. I fucked up my French exam. I know I could've studied more. I know I could've read things over. I know I shouldn't have crammed.

I know I should've slept.

At one point, I opened my eyes and was met by random scribbles because my 8 pound head had fallen on my writing hand and stayed there until I noticed. I mixed up the verb endings and my "cake recipe" consisted only of milk and peanuts.

"Tell me that was the most horrible thing ever," groaned Maussie, beer prominantly in hand.

I nodded empathetically.

NorIda, Swiss Alps, Lief, the aforementioned Maussie and I hung out with a bunch of people at a bar on Ste-Laurent until closing time, then grabbed two dollar chow mein at a little restaurant that served food through their large-paned window like parolees at a food bank. Mmm, with peanut butter goop and Sriracha sauce, it was fine dining. Well, as fine as we were going to get at 4 in the morning (but by all accounts, the stuff was surprisingly delicious). Lief took quite a liking to me. We discussed a lot about the role of institutions in determining (creating?) health trends, and a hodge podge of other factors that influence mental perception, including the sociological benefits of announcing illness. But he's too old for me - he's going for his MA in psychology next semester.

And then, like, some drunken asshole pulled out his pecker to show me and NorIda on our way home just as she was teaching me Spanish insults (Norwegian doesn't pack as much a punch).

Yes, yes, this is why I'm looking so desperately for a relationship. I'm sickened to death by all this degrading attention. The power of the gaze is enough to make me nauseous.

When will a sense of security come to give me an enviable shield of invincibility and relieve me of this perpetual state of masculine dread?


NorIda's headed for Costa Rica in 2 days and moving out of her apartment when she comes back. I was helping her take down posters when she went into MaineAid's room to fetch some boxes for packing purposes and was hit with the nastiest scene one can possibly see first thing in the morning: Dried semen proudly caked on a bedroom wall and coverless duvet. His trailer trash girlfriend must really like it ... messy.

Give me a second to vomit in my mouth.

Saturday, April 23, 2005


Okay, okay. I admit it. I over-reacted. M. Biologique was at a family friend's apple orchard, presumably frisking wild animals and smoking peace pipes or whatever hippies do when not knitting fashionable sweater sets made from naturally treated animal droppings. His mom asked him to drop by again before she returns to her current teaching position in Cincinnati. ("Uh, you wanna maybe cut your hair, son?") Except this time around, he's greeting her with a bag of dirty laundry.

Anyway. He thought against visiting me at 4 a.m., called me the following morning at 10, and by 12, we were making out on every available countertop and durable horizontal surface in his apartment. It takes a pretty creative pair to find pleasure in a washroom no bigger than a fist with dried up leaves and pine needles lovingly strewn around like a cancer cell with no social skills and a bad case of dementia. The brawny (?) swashbuckler had one arm wrapped around his lustfully frazzled tartlet, stirring marinara sauce with the other like a scene off the book jacket of an absurd novella targetting Boomer wives with deep emotional attachments with their kitchen appliances .

He asked me to accompany him on a house hunt.

"You know you're still," M. Biologique said when we exited The Body Shop, his arm falling away from my shoulders, "my sister, right?"

"Ewwww!" I giggled. "That's grossssss."

He playfully punched my arm.

"You know what I mean."

I looked up at him from behind my designer shades, expressionless. He grinned nervously. It wasn't until the next intersection did I open my mouth again to speak:

"Don't worry, [M. Biologique,]" I said looking ahead without making sure he was even listening. "If you want this to be a casual thing, it'll be a casual thing."

He sighed.

"It's not like there's any other way."

We watched Sin City. He grabbed my wrist mid-way through the movie and rested his eager hand on my thigh like the casual thing that I am.

I love it when my flames are fanned.

Thursday, April 21, 2005


My mom's super awesome! All the sandals she eventually sent me are out-of-this-world stylin'! Mint green, turquoise, lemon yellow, tri-toned bronze metallic, sequins, beading, flats, mules, pumps, slingbacks, thongs, etc., etc., etc. Readerdroid is having a fit right now! Hehehehehe!

Spring/summer shoe closet re-count: 36.

This kind of over-compensation is the best kind of over-compensation.


You win, Fiona Apple. I will agree to let you join the regular musical lineup to my make-out sessions, but only if you're extra bitter.

Yeah, like that.

Portishead still takes the cake for getting me in the mood in under 30 seconds though.

J'aimerais t'embrasser

Mummy sent me six brand-spankin' new pairs of shoes (I'm going to pick them up later). She's resigned herself to my never returning home to the "armpit." She had given me an ultimatum a week ago: either I find a job to support my living expenses in Montreal or she terminates my cash flow. But that was the extent of her threat. I guess she felt sorry for me when I told her I had volunteered to whore myself to a local hospital for a thousand smackeroos. In exchange, I was expected to let them stick a thermometer up my rectum and monitor my sleeping habits during and after menstruation over the course of two months.

"Keep your clothes on," she warned. (My dad, however, found it hilarious.)

M. Biologique wasn't too supportive. He didn't like the in-house policy regarding visitors - as in, none allowed.

"What do you mean you can't even receive phone calls?!" he inquired.

Hey, the rules are the rules. You can't change the rules (but the offer can be declined).

Speaking of M. Biologique. He left town to horse around with haystacks and frolic with cows for a few days. He didn't have the decency to tell me beforehand, relying, instead, on changing his answering machine greeting to something resembling Oliver Twist in the role of Pirate Steve from Dodgeball and then unceremoniously (or poorly, if you prefer) switching to an accent associated with the House of Windsor.

He usually calls me in the afternoons, so when he failed to do so, my mind started racing to irrational lengths to prove that he was with 5'11 (or perhaps, 6') Amazon, practicing yoga, eating yogurt and bonding over Survivor Yucatan re-runs.

Yes, larvae and germs, I felt the tiny pangs of jealousy. It's awful, this glassy, green-eyed monster. It was incredibly destructive, made it painful to think otherwise. But I eventually talked myself out of it, knowing all too well the resentment it harbours, its soul-stifling ways.

Let's face it, my intelligence (or lack of, depending on who you ask) is definitely my major insecurity. I've been accused many-a-times of being intimidating because of it. So knowing 6' Amazon is Miss Organic Princess in the flesh, proud of her rural upbringing with a proclivity to eschew modern conveniences, I sometimes can't help but feel maybe M. Biologique would be better off with her. NorIda, a gorgeous Northern European herself, finds the woman homely, if terribly bland. But bland is good! Bland is adaptable! Bland rolls with the punches without thinking of retaliation!

Oy! She even has his facial bone structure!

This is Bridget Jones, signing off.

I guess I just need to be reminded why I'm lovable (without the presence of a pre-prepared eulogy written by a neighbour I never knew existed before my untimely death from icecreamgorgitosis).

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


Benedict XVI. Ultraconservative. Anti-relativist. Former Nazi youth (albeit, involuntary).

A product of a bygone era.

In a world increasingly open to contrasting views, it is perhaps a relief to see that dissent is not limited to non-Catholics. I truly hope the growing channels of discourse will encourage "cafeteria" behaviour (picking and choosing whatever feels right). It would be a pity to see the right guide the 21st-century back to the Middle Ages to preserve a smaller but purer Church - indifferent to tolerance, tolerant of indifference.


Can I get an amen? because, dawg, I'm a playa ... a pool playa.

NorIda took me out last night and, well, is it wrong to find the game too sexy for my own good?

Paul Newman's got nothin' on me! Nothing, I say! Corner pocket, side pocket, if it ain't crammed with balls, I don't care what colour the money is.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Base Reversal

Long time readers will have probably pieced together that M. Biologique is very much unlike myself. For one, he's good-looking. Like hubba-hubba, runaway rickshaw, good-looking. Secondly, he's an outdoorsman, a spiritual investor of the earth; his enthusiasm for the wilderness is unparalleled. And lastly, he can quote every movie by Mel Brooks (nuff said).

I, on the other hand, am the embodiment of the bumbling city girl. You put a cow udder in front of me and I half-expect it to sing. I'm commercial savvy, culturally aware, and politically vocal. I perpetuate consumer myths with my frivolous spending, diffuse dominant discourse for fun, and live to stir shit up. Alpha males are sprinkled on my dessert as after-thoughts. Conflict is leisure. But I'll be running on empty before being capable of distinguishing maple from oak (or any tree for that matter).

I love that since we've been spending time together, our interests have increasingly intermingled. I got this hippie hooked on Marx and he has me begging to become his barefoot domestic goddess.

So keeping our differences in mind, it probably doesn't come as a surprise that I was hootin' and hollerin' and totally disturbin' the whole serenity now vibe when M. Biologique took me on a mountaintop picnic last night.

"[M. Biologiqueeeeee!]" I squealed as he stayed out of sight, trailing behind protectively. "I'm lost! I'm tired! There's a squirrel following me!"

It was all worth it though, just being there with him under the radiant satellite that consumed the bustling metropolis located light years away. I pressed my slightly pursed lips on his neck, carefully taking in the smell of his sweat. He inhaled deeply, and with each rhythmic pulse, increasingly contributed to my gathering sensitivity. Yet, neither of us could amass enough courage to take it any further. It's an odd situation, this. I've never dated, always preferring the hit-and-run method with relative strangers to curb emotional attachment and satiate curiosities. He's always dated, so sexual assertiveness is as much a part of his identity as organic produce. But the bases are scrambled. We've sent McGwire to second and Alfonzo to third without ever hitting a ball on home plate.

In other words: we've yet to have a proper kiss.

I feel like Billy Madison, put in fifth grade, stuck schvetching teacher titties when his plumbing is capable of so much more.

It's brutally puritanical. Why are we both playing this pre-adolescent game of coyness? I realize we're being sanctimonious, but the question is why?

Monday, April 18, 2005

I Want to Make Him Grovel

Singing "La Vie En Rose" is a marvelous catharsis (weird, considering its subject matter). How else can I hold on to the last remnants of romantic indulgence?

"Il est entre dans mon coeur ..." and left it temporarily vacant.

Yet, to be sure, I'm impressed with his pragmatism.

What am I? A stock option?

"Oh, it's like that. Haha. You're a jerk."

It appears M. Biologique changed the rules with his worshipping girlfriend since we had "the talk."

It appears "Lily, we can't; I have a girlfriend" has become "Lily, why not? She knows about you."

It appears they've "opened" their relationship.

It appears I'm the only other person on his bloated menu.

It appears he's also testing my jealousy quotient (thus, my patience).

Despite ending our call on a high note, frivolous and nonchalant, I'm currently in a state of disenchantment and hardened disappointment. (Don't worry, it won't last long. I'm a cynical optimist).

I feel like I'm at a crossroads thanks to this coward.

Should I start whoring myself to level the playing field? No, I can't be bothered (and NorIda only gave me a handful of condoms to last me my entire academic career).

Should I wait for him to choose? No. What difference does it make being his primary pillar or not? It doesn't change the fact that principles have been hindering promiscuity.

Should I stop seeing him? No, because I refuse to leave without getting mine. I'm determined to fuck him before our fringe benefits shrivel up (no pun intended).

Gentlemen, I do believe this is a written testament of one woman's unraveling. I've taken the plunge. Pray that I retain my youthful candor and get through unscathed.


What a hypocrite! It was only last semester that he was preaching the powers of monogamy and now he's jokingly accusing me of being some kind of "wild" seductress who led him astray. Puh-leeze! I don't see a crowd clamouring to install my pole, bud. I know I have a tendency to confuse mistreatment for love, which I think is the case for a lot of women. This correlation is deeply embedded in our cultural psyche. It's no accident the cycles of abuse found in various partnerships mirror the traditional story arc of harlequin fiction. Tension is built to the breaking point. She resists, he insists. His aggression wins her over. Emotional drainage is mistaken for bliss. And so on and so forth. Only now, rather than playing for laughs (Jackie Gleason on The Honeymooners), it's mistaken for passion (who isn't guilty of fantasizing Gone With the Wind's thinly veiled marital rape scene?).

Am I this insecure that I don't think I deserve better? Of course not.

But finding someone better is altogether a different matter.

Sunday, April 17, 2005


Skin glowing, shades on, shapely arms swaying, I walked (as directed by M. Biologique) to our pre-designated meeting place.

"You can't miss it. There's a huge statue of an angel."

What he failed to mention was the presence of over 4000 hippies gathered near or around the same area our picnic was supposed to be.

I left after searching for him for a little over half an hour. The atmosphere was just so ... so ... HIPPIE. I don't know how else to describe it. Everyone had one of those rope-embellished drums and doing some form of Brazilian jujitsu that passed for dancing.

And the scarves. Oh God, the scarves. Piled high on their heads, yards and yards of it, like they were trying to attract Bob Barker's attention on the Price Is Right by impersonating Erykah Badu.

"Hey China!"

And that. Got quite a lot of unwanted attention followed by humiliating whistling. Cut me a break! I was already trying not to glance too far to my left to avoid eye contact with some brother peeing behind a stump, and my right, where a drunken dreadlocked banshee could be seen wiping his nose on my backrest. I felt sorry for the kids, who were swathed in so much "exotic" fabric, they looked like JonBenet Ramsey reincarnated as a Bollywood billboard.

Let's compare thee to thy list, shall we?

-Omnipresent ganja cloud? Check.
-Hacky sack carcasses? Check.
-Guitar strummer? Check
... leading a sing-a-long? Check.
... shoeless, shirtless, and shaveless? Check, check, and check.
-Unicyclers? Check.
-Stevie Nicks selling rehashed duds by every tree and sandtrap? Check.
-White people between the ages of 18 and 35 dressed up as welfare recruitment posters and third-world prostitutes (with optional checkered pasts as investment bankers, graduate assistants and/or universally reviled dairy-embracing omnivores)? Check.

And finally, there was that immortal aroma I like to call "Ode de Crotch" which was all the rage back in '74 when Mama Cass croaked and the world's supply of patchouli oil ran out. You remember, right? Where one whiff was enough to deter both criminals and suitors from approaching potential prospects.

Because unlike a Monet, shit was stankin' from up close and far away.


Yes, I still like him just the way he is, pinecone-wearing and all.

He's a man, damnit! He can dress his own goddamn self!

Although, I would like to mention that his grooming habits are impeccable. M. Biologique might look like he frequently raids Rosie O'Donnell's closet (which he vehemently denies), but he has more creams, cleansers and tonifiers than a Queer Eye.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

A Long History of Arrogance is the End of History

This article from really burned my britches.

I can't think of a single reason why there should be any nuclear weapons. Bigger does not equate to better. Better does not equate to progress. Effectiveness is deeply entrenched in injury. Ease undermines necessity. Fear is theatre.

And yet, the archaic dream lives on.

Friday, April 15, 2005

Hankering for a Spankering

I could feel the heat of his hard-on through his pajama bottoms. M. Biologique ran his hands over every inch of my body, gently lingering on certain parts, aggressively on others, as conversation continued as usual:

"Shut up! Your favourite colours can't be green and purple! Those are mine!"

I had visited him the morning before he went in for his exam and he invited me to the party he was hosting for his geography friends that evening. Later that night, the lot of us barhopped (where I drank water, natch) and participated in some after-hours karaokeing (where I spontaneously took the stage during a stranger's Ol' Blue Eyes performance, sang back-up for him and twirled the cord of my mike, Mick in full rooster mode) before heading off to this notoriously good Lebanese take-out place (where I bantered with the owner who ominously advised it was better to be lonely than be with trouble). We disbanded when it finally dawned on us that it was half-past 3. Everyone was hella fun and friendly.

A few minutes later, M. Biologique and I broke into our university. When the lobby guard asked us what business we had doing there, I explained that I was inquiring about two pairs of missing leather gloves.

"Oh honey," M. Biologique pretended to empathize. "Those ones? With the...? Hmm, maybe they fell in the cracks between the chairs on the fourth floor."

But, the officer reminded us, you said you lost them months ago.

"Well," I quickly cut in. "If they're between the cracks, it would be highly unlikely that anyone would've taken them."

He gave us full security clearance. (Not that we did any vandalizing. Alright, maybe a little.)

We ended up back at his place where he plopped into his comfy chair as I silently dragged out the pull-out bed. We talked for a bit until he saw that I still had my stilettos on, body hanging half-on and half-off the seldom used sheets.

"Whatchoo doing, still wearing your shoes?" he practically demanded.

"I don't want your apartment dirtying my feet," I shot back.

He sat in his bed, watching me undress, placing each article of clothing over a nearby armrest. I crawled on the mattress containing no comforter nor pillow, a parchment of white in an otherwise black expanse. He told me I'd freeze. I asked him where he put his blankets. He told me they were with him on his bed. I went to get one. He refused to let go. I pulled harder. He tugged with equal force and with one swift motion, I was once again curled up in his arms, trying desperately to preserve the facade of normalcy even as he made his way down, pinching my inner thigh, tickling more than my eardrums with nonsense.

I made him breakfast following our fondlelicious foray, the Kodak image of a domesticated dervish. Quickly packing my things, I told him I better get going before he dismissed last night as another excursion in misguided loneliness.

"I'm going to the library," I informed him. "Not that I have any work to do."

"Why?" he asked. "So you can write in your diary about last night's crimes before any sins were committed?"

I laughed and concocted a non-denial denial. He asked what I was now contemplating in that head of mine.

"Nothing," I answered truthfully. "Tennis."

"Whatever Lily. I don't wanna get a call from you tomorrow telling me how, Oh [M. Biologique,] we can't be friends anymore, again."

"We can't be friends anymore," I said with a knowing wink.

"Or, Oh [M. Biologique,] you have to make a decision."

"You have to make a decision," wink apparent no more.

And, with minimum formality, I packed my things, walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. His door opened behind me just as the flashing numbers above the lift stopped ascending.

"Let me take you out for coffee."

It was a morning ritual that carried us late into the unusually sunny afternoon, his girlfriend still (unfairly) kept in the dark 300 miles away.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Issey Miyake: A-POC

I know I'm behind the times, but I just had to read more on it after it was mentioned in New York Magazine. I knew Miyake was as much an experimenter with technology as Miuccia Prada was with artisanal craftsmanship, but this is really ... something.

Image hosted by
The irony of egalitarian fashion.

Find out more here, here and here.

Shit Classes

Registration for the fall term starts tomorrow and I don't like what I'm seeing. The classes I'm expected to take sound so boring! I'm planning to sign up for some film studies courses to keep me from taking a gun to my head (nothing fancy from Walmart. Just a thrice-ticketed, bargain basement doodad). I'm deciding between taking SOUNDS II now or a year from now, taking into consideration how much I hate, hate, HATE producing media. I'm not DJ Spooky, I listen to commercial-free radio, I don't care for sentimental service announcements, and I'm more than certain both Pete Schweaty and his balls will not, in time, grow on me.

I'm not a good student, I don't plan to be, what am I doing in university? When Minglet Man described me as being "diligent," I laughed in his face. I'm about as diligent as a door rug, which fulfills its duties for simply being shaggable. I wish I was born an heiress, never having to worry about GPAs or the occasional STD (unless a foundation is named after me), and be fluffed and fondled like a canine armpit accessory.

I admit I'm only venting because it's the end of the semester and I still have one exam left. But I mean it when I say I'm not a good student (or consider myself one). It's so much easier to print a diploma off the Internet, scribble out "University of Phoenix," replace it with "Nipissing College," and end up more qualified than a Hindu-exhorting lifestyle guru from Tanzania ("My chakras are going crazy!" "Down the hall, to your left. Mind the cleansing moss.")

I'll be 19 in less than two months. Why, why, why aren't I getting any (carefully-approached, meticulously-analysed, intellectually-stimulating) action?! Oh right, because I'm hung up over a guy with a girlfriend who lives 300 miles away he won't get a chance to see until early next year.

Love bites like a rabid bitch and I've clearly been vaccinated.


Highly recommend Kings of Leon. I've been listening to their Aha Shake Heartbreak between Beck's Guero and new tracks by Interpol, Hot Hot Heat, and Gorillaz.

Two words to describe all of the above: saccharine excess. Maybe it's me, but songs have become too catchy for their own good.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005


It goes without saying that people who work in the creative sectors of industry are the intermediaries of our culture. That being said, check out this commercial for Boots No. 7.


... and this one from L'equipe. "Ah, papa, c'est toi." Bahahaha!


How timely. Because, by golly, I know how it feels (yet, guilty of the same charge).

Observations on language

JuanaMachine lent me Kar Wai Wong's 2046. It's a cinematographic gem; an amorously atmospheric masterpiece (if a bit weak in narrative structure - what structure? - and gets to be monotonous by the midway point).

It's funny. Internationally released Chinese fair always - ALWAYS - contains conversations with two dialects in dialogue. In reality, these people would be struggling to mime even simple phrases. It's the equivalent of having Shrek speak to Donkey in English and Donkey replying in French and passing off the movie as "American" in an Asian market because they share the same alphabet. I saw this in Time & Tide too. To audiences fluent in only one of the languages, whatever's on screen might come off sounding like a broken CP radio. I think this might be why even Chinese movies have Chinese subtitles. (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is an exception. It went for authenticity by being filmed completely in Mandarin. Although to a tuned ear, Chow Yun Fat's Cantonese lilt is as clear as Michelle Yeoh's mother Malay.)

(Actually, I can speak from personal experience of the headaches that come with juggling tongues. There are certain expressions best described in certain languages. So introspection and outrospection feels limited when I'm stuck communicating with one. I think we lose sight of exactly how big a role words play in developing our thoughts. Can we still have them without the tools to express them? To interpret them? To absorb what we are seeing?)


M. Biologique crushed my boobs. We made our way down the ascending escalator and just as I got to the bottom, he rode back up again. So I waved him off and went searching for my metro pass by the gates. It was awhile before he came running back down the stairs and grabbed me from behind, swinging my limp body around and around.

"Awww!" I cried out, collapsing dramatically. "My boobies! I'm gonna wake up with mangoes!"

He held me in his arms a bit longer and I punched him.

"Well, goodnight," he said, finally. "Don't, ya know, get lost in these ... er, dark tunnels now ... um, yeah."

I stared at him blankly. "Security!" I shouted, pointing a finger at him. "Is there security around?" to the amusement of onlookers.

He's been acting strange lately. I can't quite put my finger on it. Whenever I ring him up, he'd make plans to see me. But when we hang out, I'd discover his secret visits to my apartment he decides against telling me at the time, or he'd mention a dream he had about me before changing the topic to organic farming. It's like his mind is constantly elsewhere, trying to string together a perfect sequence of words only to hear it crumble from his lips. I'd expect this behavior from someone suffering from nervousness but not from this hyperactive monstrosity, who took the Chinese food I bought and stuffed it in a plastic cup to feed an old homeless guy who hassled us before we entered the restaurant.

It's all just a bit disconcerting. I thought he understood our boundaries? It was his idea to put them up! But I adore this man and that sort of ... sucks.

Monday, April 11, 2005


This new Adidas ad directed by Spike Jonze is simply beautiful. Look at the way the truck drops off the cliff in the background of an early scene. The artistic fluidity is absolutely jaw-dropping.

Karen O singing on the soundtrack ain't too shabby either.

New Template III

I'd like to thank Steve D'Ang*lo (the asterisk retains his anonymity) for creating another new template for me. He's always so patient even when I criticize his work and demand that he do it my way (not that he gives in) just because I need a form of distraction whenever I'm in the mood for a change. (In this case, from my damn essay.)

Head on over to his site (which I frequented a total of two times. One of which had me bitching on his guestbook about his crappy typeface).

*Note: The SHOUTBOX colour scheme was my idea. Nice and bright. Please don't hurt Steve.


"I thought I was way under-average. I didn't think it would've been worth mentioning."

"Jesus, 1000 hits a month is tons! We've got 60 ... total. And 39 were me."

But I have the benefit of being hosted on Blogger, so it evens out. I think.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Shopoholic Relapse

M. Biologique went missing. *sigh* Men ...

Calling back at midnight? Whatsa matta yous?!


I went out and bought two books (The Rise of the Creative Class by Richard Florida and The Meaning of Wife by Anne Kingston. My Indigo wishlist is now down to 7 selections) and a Nigella Lawson-approved, aggravatingly over-priced cheese grater.

"... fits neatly in palm." Charge it! I'm sold!

Image hosted by
Got moolah?

At Last ...

In Montreal, the difference between negative 1 degree and positive 1 degree is the length of the skirt. So imagine my surprise when I checked the weather and it gave a double digit read-out.

Eve's pubic foliage wouldn't be worth a second look.

Friday, April 08, 2005


I didn't make the deadline, but I made a request for an extension. My excuse? "Last time I rely on parents' shoddy driving skills and vague reassurances." I'm apparently out of town, which means ... awww ... Professor Punk personally invited me to this party, too! Wah, wah ... meh. Really don't think I'll be missing much.

I'm 18-years-old, damnit! I can lie if I want to! ... now let me rinse away my sins underneath some scalding hot water.

Why didn't I do something easier, like the use of stereotypes in movies or Shakira's 15-minutes of booty-shaking, Pepsi-endorsing, peroxide-abusing fame? I had carte blanche, man! Carte blanche!


M. Biologique woke me up from my afternoon nap to tell me he was coming over for dinner. I agreed to it, still groggy and confused. I cooked him a hearty meal and he, in the midst of recalling memories, brought up my crawling into bed with him of time immortal. Why? Because he liked it (and still doesn't know the meaning of "hands off the merchandise").

We're going to watch Sin City Saturday and he's taking me out to a proper cafe/bistro somewhere in the Plateau area. Well, it's about time his dad sent money from Stockholm. We're just friends, but I would've gone for broke if this New Mexican hippie had waited any longer.


This informal, 2500-word, COMS essay is due in 6 hours, and I'm just slowly chugging away at it for the sake of chugging away:

Communications can be roughly defined as the transmission of thoughts, ideas and information through signals, writing, speech or behaviour. In other words, the act of communicating is inherently human, the brick and mortar of all sociological structures and development of mutual kinship. Indeed, the word "development" connotes an ultimate destination, a goal, by which certain agendas are fulfilled. On the surface, this seems simple enough: a clearly encoded message will result in a clearly decoded response, subsequently provoking action in the process. However, in practice, the embedded intention is not always made readily apparent because the individual may not wish to accomplish a physical task, but a desire to maintain, intensify or deintensify a relationship with another person. An innoxious climate is encouraged between parties in order to set up successful future encounters that might eventually require the acquisition of material gains (which is easier to attain by means of cooperation). This is familiarly known as "politeness." For modern readers, the word harkens back images of Victorian rigidity, a product of repression, or perhaps clinking glasses at a formal affair, conduct conditioned by culture. The reality is much more strategic and nuanced than that, rooted in primitivity and perpetuated by complexity. The purpose of this essay is to examine the motivations behind this category of interaction through anthropological, sociological, psychological and philosophical filters. It is not enough to ask what the reason behind this minor undertaking is, but why?

Thursday, April 07, 2005

What am I doing here?

It's 4 a.m. My eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. Nearby, I hear janitors getting their swerve on (have you checked out the size of those floor cleaners?!). Where am I?

Give yourself a pat on the back (and a nose job while you're at it) if you correctly answered: school.

I'm at the downtown campus, typing up my final JOUR 201, 1200-word article on Wacko Spaz. 5 hours later (and an encounter with a desperate loser who cornered me into giving him my number, pushing me passive-aggresively) and I'm only half-way where I want to be.

The jerk was obviously an Asian fetishist who prided himself for being a specialist on CBCs: Canadian-born Chinese. I wasn't even born here! "But you speak English, think in English, write in English," he shot back in an accusatory tone.

He kept hovering around me, asking me what languages I spoke ("Mandarin? Cantonese? Ooh! ... oh, and French," he said, practically smacking his lips in creepy delight, purposely ignoring his previous contempt for my assimilation into white man's culture). I felt like a zoo animal, being examined by this weirdo with a mental checklist ("Where are you from? Where's your family from? No, originally from?"). He kept making passing references about my eyes (as he salaciously scanned the rest of my body), telling me I looked Japanese, followed by blatantly presumptuous statements like, "You must've got them from your grandma."

Okay, I know I have chinky eyes. I've accepted it. It took awhile, but I've dealt with it (children can be so cruel). M. Biologique and I even joke about him "turning Japanese" to con people into thinking we were actual siblings. (Nevermind the fact that he's Dutch.) But knowing there are men out there who'd fuck my eye socket before laying a finger on me doesn't make me feel any less degenerative. I could feel him painting a crueler, more sexually-exploitive portrait of me in his mind as the clocked ticked and time dragged on. And I hated him for it. I grew to despise a stranger faster than it took to ring up a hammer at the Home Depot.

The worst part - the single, WORST part - was the way he kept telling me, re-assuring me, how well I spoke English even after discovering I was a student in journalism and communication studies. ("Oh, then you must be good at English," he chuckled. I grew up in Canada, you dumb motherfucker!) I felt utterly humiliated! I was disappointing this man because I was articulate?! For shame, for shame! Within a period of 5 minutes, this asshole brought back every insecurity that ever poisoned me.

It's like, I know I'm in denial of being mistreated some times, but I just tell myself I shouldn't be over-reacting over isolated incidents. I truly believe that and everything grows to be dandy again ... until someone like him reminds me of my place.

I'm Made in China, imported goods. Isn't it about time I'm offered a place on your mantle, too?

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Rubber Stopper

My laptop keyboard is officially fucked. Melted chocolate + vigorous micro-surgery that tore off the rubber spring from underneath the letter "A" = a novel solution that requires:

1. tissue paper
2. hands
3. the ability to identify (and create) spherical objects
4. tape

Oh right, and:

5. a brain

This last one I heard is quite helpful for anyone with a Jane Austen appetite for pairing up virtual opposites, like food and electronics (my specialty!). But take it from me: Sunnis and Shiites are more likely to fornicate.

Then again, that would've prevented me from achieving ghetto gold in the field of improvisational ingenuity. (The judging panel includes that guy who invented the rhythm method.) Oh, you think you can do better? You think you can fix a computer with paper clips, a toothpick and some Q-tips?

You and me. Outside. Right now.

It's a bit chilly so don't forget to bring a coat ... Bitch.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005


There's no greater fad than a bad fad and the baddest mother of them all is, what I like to call, the "minglet."

Case study in point: I breezed through my two exams like a bulimic on a Taco Bell binger. Minglet Man sat ahead of me, sitting cross-legged, picking invisible lint off his granny vest. (It just so happens that he's been trying to engage me in a little tete-a-tete for some time now.)

"Lily, right?"

Yes'sum, he looked between 25 and 80. There was something about him I couldn't pin down. Maybe he was the over-Botoxed distant relative of a bespecled Paul Giamatti? No, couldn't be - his eyebrows were in working order. Then I thought perhaps it was his broadcast-style voice, which strangely channeled Madonna's uppercrust patois (straight from the cobblestoned streets of Detroit, y'all). It was like listening to Truman Capote trying to play a straight man on death row wearing chandelier earrings and a polyester pantsuit: I was picking up on an (unfounded) inauthenticity

Then it hit me like a Catholic nun.

It was his ... head. Or more specifically, the area between the ears and above ... the ears. What I saw, oh day flouted by visual pain, was his compensation for what he lacked up there by letting what's down there grow out. His ringlets reminded me of Kirsten Dunst back when she was making out with the devilishly handsome (and pockmarked) Mr. Pitt (no pun intended), except replace her crown with a carved-out pumpkin lid.

There was a hint of the Grateful Dead in him (I could've sworn I saw another Garciaphile in his vicinity). But that's no excuse for making As in the Department of Fuglonomics. Kenny G. was rolling over in his grave.


What do you mean, not dead?

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Middle and End

I'm trying to study for two final exams tomorrow, but I'm so unmotivated. Darting back and forth from desk to bed to couch to chair, I can't sit still long enough to form a coherent thought.

I called Readerdroid who detailed her first experience at a gay club, concluding that it was tranformative. In other words: she's become a bonafide fag hag.

Talk about having man problems. We're both chasing windmills.

Readerdroid might be juggling two "boys," but all she wants is an effeminate man. I countered that I'm tempted to give up and marry rich - that is, if I ever manage to snag poor.

We sighed simultaneously in mock resignation. Desperation: it thrives off feedback.


Isn't there a way to sidestep studying to earn that paper of productivity?


I wrote the aforementioned spaz a letter and thumbtacked it to the employee message board at his workplace:

Dear Mr. [Wacko Spaz],

It has come to a complete surprise to me that I've offended you for calling your mother; I wasn't aware she was off-limits (considering I was never deliberately told not to).

According to my account of things, when I had asked you for her phone number, you replied (and I quote): "Not unless you have 300 dollars an hour." It didn't occur to me at the time that it was a means to bar me from contacting her (which I would've understood had your instructions been clearer).

Now as for how I eventually obtained her number. I spoke to Ms. [Auntie Spaz], like you suggested, and she was very generous with her time - and resources. She offered me Ms. [Mother Spaz's] number on the basis of "I'm sure she'll be happy [...] to talk to you about her son." So I instinctively followed-up, as per requirements.

Thank you for your time. And I hope to have cleared things up.




Single child. Figures.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Wait, what?!

The guy I'm doing my feature profile on called me a "fucking bitch." I discovered Max, a COMS classmate I was planning to visit tomorrow to borrow a minidisk player from, works for him (a total coincidence).

"You're the girl he was talking about?!"

Uh, yeah. Why?

"He was so pissed that you called his mom after he told you not to."

But he didn't tell me not to. I got the number from his aunt.

"Good thing he isn't working tomorrow."

Yeah, good thing ... (wacko spaz.)

Biologique Boundaries

It looks like M. Biologique's girlfriend finally left town. How do I know? He called me Thursday afternoon with the intention of coming over. I saw his ID on my cell and replied the following morning. What did he want? Oh, well, he was "sorta" at my apartment and tried reaching me using the phone at the pharmacy downstairs but the clerk shooed him away.

We met for coffee Friday and did our usual speaking-to-strangers schtick. The two free hot dogs I talked my way into getting pumped the both of us with the necessary arrogance required to approach trouble. Asking random people on the subway what they thought of M. Biologique's casual attire got comments like, "Thisclose to granola."

M. Biologique and I watched House of Flying Daggers. During the walk, he made it a personal mission to mention how I was being checked out and by how many. (I was too indifferent to notice, as per usual.) I told him he was paranoid. He said he saw it in their "eyes". While sitting in the food court, waiting for the show to begin, M. Biologique suggested that I give up pursuing Ollie (when did I start?). I was curious to know why. He said it was because of the age difference (meaning, more or less 8 years my senior). I brought up the topic the following day at his place and nudged him to elaborate. This time, he remarked that he didn't care who I liked. Just that he was my big brother and was looking out for me because he didn't want to see me get my heart broken (and by someone who probably wants more than I was willing to give). Big brother, indeed. Why aren't I like this with my real siblings?

I called him today after successfully completing the oral portion of my French exam. "I want to come over," I whined. "I just did a test and I'm so hungry." He was in the middle of doing his spring cleaning, but agreed to take me in. I stayed far - far - longer than expected due to my determinedness to fix all the computer kinks found on this Luddite's machine and his desire to keep me around to bake cookies, among other things ("Why are you in such a hurry to leave?"). I've noticed that he's developed a habit of throwing seeds at me (no Freud jokes, please) and absent-mindedly standing behind me to rub my head and run his fingers through my tresses, or blowing into my hair whenever I'm in a state of concentration (like waiting in line, playing a game of Hang Man or calling a technician). I'm completely stumped as to why he's been doing this considering his own mop is much more conveniently located (which he doesn't shy away from mussing).

I accused him of never being able to keep his behaviour in check (without mentioning it was deemed inappropriately flirtatious). He accused me of not being able to open up (without mentioning it was to him). M. Biologique said I am inclined to be talkative, but the string of words that end up sprouting from my mouth never offer insight to who I am, except my opinions. (Until I go off on some "crazy, philosophical" tangent, in which case, it becomes a race to keep up.) I didn't disagree with him; there was no alternative interpretation. He also mentioned my "meanness" (which I explained only bore fruition with him), that I can't say anything nice to him without first soaking it in ridicule and sarcasm. I didn't disagree there either. Hence, my pseudo-apology (a visible demonstration of vulnerability). I told him, Look, I like you just the way you are. Even though I tend to grouse about your hair and clothing to the point where even I find it tiresome, nothing about you truly bothers me (stopping short of confessing that banter was how I showed affection). He told me he knows I don't ever mean it, which is why it gets old because I'm not expressing anything meaningful. Point taken. So, I asked. What does he think is apparently missing in my life?

"You need a boyfriend," he offered, tongue not-entirely-planted firmly in cheek. "I know that deep down, you want a handsome man to wrap his arms around you."

I laughed. "I feel like I've been relegated to being a second-class citizen."

Even though the day went by without a hitch, I still left his place feeling hollow. I couldn't bring myself to get close enough to do our usual goodbye routine (I go in for a hug, whereupon, he'd lift me up). I, instead, said "Peace" and knocked knuckles. His face showed hurt. Setting up boundaries isn't going to be easy ...

Friday, April 01, 2005


Oldboy was outrageous! I don't remember the last time I've turned away from the monitor this many times given the amount of implied violence shown on screen. The first incident involved a hammer and teeth; the second, scissors and tongue. You do the math. Unlike The Crying Game, the pay off reeks of Greek tragedy in addition to flaunting twisted moral taboos in a pervasive manner.

I freakin' loved it. At times, the sadomasochism got to be too much, in which case, I kept my stomach down with spoonfuls of Nutella (sweet, holy Nutella) and pineapple chunks (I haven't been doing the dishes).


Math Judas and I brainstormed potential sounds I can use in my final SOUNDS project, which is about the monopolization of childhood memories by the media. I'm trying to "argue" using a soundscape that we tend to sentimentalize and demonize a period in our lives that might not be entirely composed of reality but, rather, a juxtaposition of cultural markers casually accepted as personal mnemonic icons when viewed in retrospect, distorting true events of our past. As I've mentioned before, adults generally fetishize "childhood" (a modern concept, if you ask me).

In other words: I get to use a sound bite of a woman having an orgasm. (Faking or not, men can't tell.)

I'm not sure why I have a habit of criticizing idealized portraits of (pre-) pubescence. Maybe it's because I have yet to make the critical jump from teenager to adult. This scares me. I don't want to drown in a tub of my own sweat, body bloated and bobbing on the onset of mediocrity. Yet, I don't want to be left behind with the remnants of adolescent confusion still crackling in the fire. It feels like I'm walking into a trap, a Delphi prediction, as an Emerald City skyline dominates the horizon - the wizard given another string to pull upon graduation day.

I'm not afraid of growing up. I'm afraid of regretting it.


I HATE SCHOOL. Stupid economically driven expectations.