Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Signed, Confused

This article from Slate unveils a doozy:

Saturday's demonstration in Washington, in favor of immediate withdrawal of coalition forces from Iraq, was the product of an opportunistic alliance between two other very disparate "coalitions." Here is how the New York Times (after a front-page and an inside headline, one of them reading "Speaking Up Against War" and one of them reading "Antiwar Rallies Staged in Washington and Other Cities") described the two constituenciess of the event:

The protests were largely sponsored by two groups, the Answer Coalition, which embodies a wide range of progressive political objectives, and United for Peace and Justice, which has a more narrow, antiwar focus.

The name of the reporter on this story was Michael Janofsky. I suppose that it is possible that he has never before come across "International ANSWER," the group run by the "Worker's World" party and fronted by Ramsey Clark, which openly supports Kim Jong-il, Fidel Castro, Slobodan Milosevic, and the "resistance" in Afghanistan and Iraq, with Clark himself finding extra time to volunteer as attorney for the genocidaires in Rwanda. Quite a "wide range of progressive political objectives" indeed, if that's the sort of thing you like. However, a dip into any database could have furnished Janofsky with well-researched and well-written articles by David Corn and Marc Cooper -- to mention only two radical left journalists -- who have exposed "International ANSWER" as a front for (depending on the day of the week) fascism, Stalinism, and jihadism.


So where exactly are the peaceniks? The real ones?

Monday, September 26, 2005

And this

Nuclear energy does not automatically translate to WMD. In many cases, it could mean sustainable development. American discourse has been populated by bobbing heads who have failed to address this alternative option. Understandably, Chernobyl and remnants of the Cold War have helped foster negative connotations associated with anything "nucular," but there are third- and second-world countries desperately trying to join the mythical ranks of the G7 high rollers to improve the well-being of their people. So I, personally (naively, idealistically, ignorantly), commend Canada's move to supply India with nuclear resources because wake up people! the 'N' word isn't synonymous with 'war'.

Nothing much to say except this

Not having money has forced me to deal with the concept of "control." I can no longer afford to buy books and thus, have resorted to browsing the bookstore like a perverted priest. There is nothing quite like the strained snap of a virgin spine. It's the closest a woman -- this woman -- could possibly hope to being a man. My fingers fondle through the crisp terrain, following the consistent crackle of discomfort and constriction. It's the scent of new paper, the fragile type, the gluttonous promise of pleasure that taunts me for visits that end in empty-hands. The boxy shape captures within its form the "fleeting moment" we long for in every surprise gesture and request. But it is only between the covers of a book -- which you possess for the sake of possession -- can that feeling be genuinely replicated like no other human exchange. To be around them, to just be near them, sends me into an epithetic rage -- 40% off and still they elude me?!

Salman, Salman! Shalimar this clown!


I did not relapse. It was just a friendly, four-hour fu ...nfest. And though I sensed his reignited interest -- and it was compellingly obvious -- I think it would be fair to say he'll have to work for it like a mating muskrat and then some (a porcupine, perhaps?).

Oh, I can already hear the incredulous gasps: "Take him back? Are you, like, insane in the membrane? He's a jerk! Throw him off his rollicking rocker and feed him to me genetically-mutated, organically-bred, tofurkeys!"

Aye, I guess that's a convincing argument. If this year-long-drama-bordering-on-deluded-self-parody concludes anytime soon, watch it all unwind here ... on UPN.

P.S. Everyone needs a sexy dress.


My computer is dead. Good-riddance. It's been relegated to being the world's most expensive iPod charger. Fucking PC laptop. Made in Taiwan, my ass. More like Made in ... bad stuff ... place.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Chah-lee Bl-oawn!

I'm watching The Charlie Rose Show as I type this. P. Chidambaram is sitting across from the host, providing one hell of an honest -- if a little self-propagating -- interview. "An open society comes after an open economy," he said to Rose a moment ago and I nodded along, acknowledging what history has taught us. When boundaries are stretched, information no longer appears to have obstacles. Geographic lines blur along telephone lines in a miasme of mercurial transformations.

Chidambaram also mentioned the need for India's economy to help shrink the gap that divides the rich and poor. But wealth is not the only deciding factor when categorizing class. Education and ease of access to resources should also be considered. The state must sustain a strong middle-class at all costs for without it, there is no core to orbit and no ... Ooh, an almond chocolate bar! I forgot I had this.

Feels good after finding out my parents are filing for bankruptcy and signing everything to me in an effort to keep everything we've earned from that supermarket cashier's greedy hands. (The prosecution had no false pretenses. "She's after your money," our lawyer deadpanned. "All of it.") We just don't have a quarter of a million dollars in "emotional damages" the judge expects us to award her. We can't appeal because lawyers' fees alone tally up to a new (albeit, American) car. Hell, we barely have a grand to give away to one-legged, AIDS-inflicted Indonesian orphans. I have no choice but to approach this situation positively because it's the only thing in my control and I refuse to inflict more unnecessary stress on my parents, motivating malaria from mojitos.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Press End

Who knew avoiding a date with someone could be so easy? I'll give you a hint: it involves zero contact and accomplishable by simply turning off your phone. (Wait, that was the answer.)

Oh boo hoo, I know I'm a coward. Hermit, spinster, leper, whore. Call me what you will. I simply don't do dates. Jamais, jamais, jamais. They feel entirely too scripted. Toujours, toujours, toujours.

"Why can't you just be a bitch and let men spend some money on you?" M. Biologique shouted with a mouth full of cake.

"I refuse to lead them on and then feel the pressure to 'return the favour' while being obligated to maintain composure and tact. My idea of a good time doesn't involve crossing off a mental checklist of someone's by-the-book come-ons."

I'm sorry, but taking advantage of practical strangers does not come naturally for me. I believe that's what family is for.

Eating, Falling Asleep, and Watching Jon Stewart

Son of a bitch! I just bought you! Why are you already moldy? You know they're all going to laugh at me. They'll start raiding my pantry and discover you resting in the corner topped with a twist, stuttering and spewing, and accuse me of bad housekeeping. My housekeeping is just fine, thankyouverymuch. Oh, you should talk. When have you ever had to deal with visitors? No, no, that time doesn't count. Leave my uncle out of it. He just had a bit too much "plum sauce," not enough "self-control," and two bags of "vitamins." Hey, this isn't about me. This is about you. You know this has nothing to do with me ... and that time you just "conveniently" forgot my promotion to assistant manager at 2For1 Hot Pants. You don't care about me at all! When have you ever cared? All I do is give, give, give and you just sit there, in your cozy plastic bag no less, taking me for granted. I can't do this anymore. I am the Ass. Man. And you, sir, have intimacy issues! Oh please, why else would you come packaged in a transparent sheath? I mean, I can see you, we all can, but you're not exactly all there. What do you mean I'm overreacting? Let me tell you something, Mr. Premium Grain. I used to put up with your "accidents" because -- and I'm not embarrassed to say this -- I was blindsided by love: your wholewheatiness was such a turn-on. But every time you do this -- every single time -- I have to tear off your crust to make you edible again (and believe you me, it is no picnic at the Olive Garden). But every time I do this -- every single time -- you go from a macho to mini, where sipping tea with the girls, crocheting dirty words like "fuck," "cunt," and "Danny Bonaduce" on handkerchiefs is more important than being big and delicious. I don't even know who you are anymore. Get your dirty seeds off me! ... I'm sorry, baby. No, it's not your fault. I just had a bad day at work. That skank -- yeah, the one with the braids -- was hassling me for dipping sauce again. I was like, "Okay, jermajesty, we don't sell dipping sauce here. Only high-quality, Paula Abdul-approved, 100% crack-riding hot pants." She was like, "Nuh uh, girl. That's not what yo' mama said. Let's wrassle."

So I killed her. With her own cornrows. Sometimes Chinese people can be so annoying.

*Moral of the story: Being a student means bread is still good even after being torn to half its original size due to ... environmental circumstances. Oh, and don't leave grilled cheese unattended: it will not turn out too great. (I ate it anyway. Both times. One after the other. Oh yeah ...)

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

<< Je vais te montrer comment font les hommes>>

Though her affairs, for the most part, were love affairs, it is plain from almost every page she wrote that she would have given them all up if she could have had Sartre for herself alone. --Louis Menand, The New Yorker.

The tragedy of Simone de Beauvoir was her insistence that the sovereign role she played in her relationship with Jean-Paul Sartre was of her own choosing. I was reading The New Yorker yesterday and there it was. It hit me like a burning bra. No matter how high-minded these pop philosophers were, no matter what they espoused, they were still human and acted accordingly. She introduced her proteges to him to appease his philandering, but when the third party did not consent to all the rules (mainly, agreeing to relations with both of them), verbal daggers were sent through the mail and egos, secretly bruised. Her fierce loyalty to this infamous womanizer (despite her own open affairs) wasn't a commendable step in the evolution of marriage, monogamy, and the institution of romantic love, but a pitiful tactic to keep her man. It must be recognized that Beauvoir was an intellectual and as such, was an individualist. But I can't help thinking that maybe, for the same reason, she irrationally justified her lifelong pact with him in an attempt to stand out in his eyes, to stand out from the beauties he frequented. Their relationship was not one of equals because he made the rules; she was not his equal because she obeyed them. Beauvoir might've been rebelling from bourgeois traditions, but she ended up jumping into another system of ideas, rationalizations and explanations. Jealousy, Sartre expressed, is "an enemy to freedom: it controls you and you should be controlling it." (By "it", he also meant "passions" in general.) Theoretically, yes. Realistically, no. Wasn't his constant pursuit of the male prerogative a passion too? An inpulse he, by his own definition, should've contained?

So here I am, pondering whether I can really relinquish my feelings, however unreasonable, when M. Biologique, after a five day absence, comes pounding at my door. Sitting on the couch, eating a freshly baked cookie, I asked him if he had anymore. "Don't you know," I informed him, "when you make a pilgrimage to my apartment, you're expected to bring a peace offering?" He sheepishly slid in the fact that 6' Amazon had made them, then later revealed that he and her were now dating (or in his words: "kinda got together"). "Wait," I cut him off. "You're going out with her?"

"Um, well, uh, sort of. A bit. You expected that, huh?"

That did it for me. I've never moped this long in my life. Five days have been wasted being long faced and agitated. I'm no longer a co-dependent because he has someone else who'll save him. I am so over him, it'll take Superman to bring me down. Friends? Bullshit! I'm much more than that. Girls may come and go, but I have his balls. What was I so worried about? I am a constant, renewable source of intrigue for him. Why else would he keep coming back? He said so himself. Girls might be calling him "un dieu, un dieu," but I keep him on his toes, force him to behave himself. He needs me more than I need him because I'm the one too interesting to settle. To paraphrase the Rolling Stones: Under my thumb/ the boy who once had me down/ Under my thumb/ the boy who once pushed me around.

As we walked away from the cafe after schlepping around my place, I told him to look at me. He did. And I slapped him clear across the face.

"Don't ever do that to me again."

Monday, September 19, 2005


I forgot to mention the most important part of the date: the movie. Gegen die Wand (English title: Head On, 2004). I thought Fatih Akin handled the ultra-masculine Turkish culture pretty well. Although the third act could've been more memorable if, say, a seasoned director helmed the flick. Someone like Ingmar Bergman. I think he would've infused it with the kind of emotion that would've packed a wallop (as opposed to the seen-it-before, bittersweet ending selected by Akin with the intent to artfully linger).

So the film was good, not great, yet enough to earn a recommendation. The social/cultural/linguistic limbo the main characters reside in should be significant and recognizable to anyone forced to pick-and-choose their life from two pantries. And in addition to that, the music. It reminded me of the driven instruments in Emir Kusturica's Underground (1995): musical notes meandering through swirling octaves like schizophrenic tumbleweeds.

"Stop me if I talk too much about movies," I warned Elmeraler.

He smiled warmly and put his hand on my shoulder: "How can I be Lily's friend if I don't get into the things she loves?"

Uh, by telling me to shove it and go watch monster trucks sponsored by the Little People of America? I dunno. Anything but smiling warmly and putting your hand on my shoulder then coming up with that gem of a li(n)e.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Withdrawal Rant: Yes, Micaela, you've become Don Jose

I just came back from a date with Elmeraler. Now I'm crying with a block of cheese in my mouth. The date went well, I just don't like him. He might be half a decade older than M. Biologique, but if maturity was measured by popcorn, he'd still be on a supermarket shelf. (And if intellect, a weapon, he'd be a quick wank.) He doesn't excite me, surprise me; good-looking, but bland. He adores me, pursues me, trapped me for next Tuesday. So here I am, bawling and bawling until my sockets squeak. Math Judas says it's the one week hump. That I'll feel better once I get over this temporary abyss of loneliness. I'm utterly disappointed (with myself) and confused (with everything else). How can I be remotely attractive to anybody right now? And then there's the question of why I'm doing this to myself. Why do I let smelly men on the metro remind me of that damned hippie? Why does every white guy in dirty brown pants send a shock of insanity down my spine? M. Biologique isn't the same person from last winter. He's an evasive, shallow, indecisive subject. Yet he still looks like the man who gave me his mittens after an impromptu 4 a.m. snowball scrap. And he's the same chap whose limbs coiled around me under the covers asking me about my favourite stories. But I changed too: impatient and sarcastic, needy and irritable. I started to resent him. Mistreated and ignored, I thought I must've been overreacting. But realized his ambiguity had also become mine, forcing me to accept a partial relationship with someone too hardened to be an acceptable friend. So he had deep-seeded issues, we all do. I idealized him because pity was not politically correct. So now, I avoid him or, at least, try to. "Time apart will be good for you," I tell myself. But in truth, I just want to send him a big, fat void to chew on. Let him think again before calling me out of convenience, chide me out of chagrin. Intimacy issues? Ha! That's between you and your clinically abusive/sexual/overbearing mother (talk to the Freud). Yet, I miss him terribly. But being with him just makes me miserable afterwards. (Simply dripping in guilt and mental fecal matter.) He used to be my outlet into which fragmented feelings freely flowed. But now my passions are painstakingly pissed upon. I am overwhelmed by melancholy; rationale is deriding me.

Anyway. Back to Elmeraler. I use him to make M. Biologique jealous during social gatherings, but if M. Bioligique isn't around, what the hell's the point? I'm just not ready to interview replacements yet.

*Note: Playing parlor games will only break hearts. I should know, I just ate a block of cheese. How much lower can you get? Oh wait, here comes that extra large bowl of yoghourt. Ah, sub-zero sadness ...

Friday, September 16, 2005

Size: Secret

My high-rise pinstripes have turned into low-rise crotch hangers. Food! Food! Bountiful food! I don't even care about health benefits anymore. I just want a satisfying load inside me (that too).


You can go fuck whoever you like. Longer legs just mean a longer runway before take-off.

... and then Lily snaps back to reality.

Thursday, September 15, 2005


In Didn't-See-This-Coming News, Renee Zellweger split with country paramour Kenny Chesney. I've said it once and I'll say it again: Men don't want their brides the size of their bones (vice versa, maybe). Her wedding photo looks like a Tim Burton production poster, a field mouse on satin steroids. And him. Well, just look at him. He's Enrique Brooks, Garth's alter-alter-ego. The one who likes to take long, wedding walks on the beach in gray slacks and cowboy hats. Mister Classy, that's him. Show me the puka shells!

French Noise

Swiss Alps threw a fiver into my purse. He says I'm not looking well, that I should eat. I threw it back, assuring him I'm fine, that I just have to make it through this month before my bank account is refilled again. Financial anorexia turned into nutritional anorexia and has, therefore, made me sick.

Update: Apparently inhaling three consecutive pizzas will make you sick too.


HaiPhia agreed to tutor me in French. She and her boyfriend just broke up and I thought, what an opportunity! Newly scorned women always have pent-up energy to burn.


It's orientation week and the party's literally right outside my doorstep. Established acts were hopping and hollering on stage, their beerffee mugs (coffee mugs filled with beer) hanging not-so-discreetly at their sides. I caught up with quite a few people from last year; many friends, more acquaintances, and a rare stalker or few.

When did spring-loaded limbs become the new cock? I don't know whether it's a childish rebellion thing or a novelty thing or perhaps a brain damage thing, but chicks out here throw themselves at hippie guys who play hackey sack. These girls with ra-ra-power slogans emblazoned on their molehill chests turn into quivering vaginas when they're introduced to M. Biologique (who, might I add, just loves the attention). I don't know how to act in these types of situations, so I resort to pimping him out or pretend I'm merely a passing acquaintance. It's my defence mechanism for jealousy (an emotion I did not encounter at all before him). Yet, by doing so, I'm constantly subjected to hearing what they have to say about him, their incessant flattery and girlish giggling. I told him we were going to the movies on Sunday amidst his party of two. "He has to make room for you in his schedule because he's so popular, right [M. Biologique]?" explained the bandau-wearing babe with only a hint of irony. "Forget it," I said, letting out a sigh and walking away. Hours later, I bumped into Elmeraler (who, for the record, has been trying to get inside my pants since freshman year). An overall catch and the only mutual acquaintance of M. Biologique's that, dare I say, threatens the hold he has on his "property." Our excess PDA forced the hippie to remove himself from our presence, taking a well-earned breather from an entire day's worth of sack playing. It wasn't until later, wandering off and alone, did M. Biologique take me by the hand and try dancing with me. Are you drunk? I gestured. Have you been drinking? He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. I have to put my groceries away, I said matter-of-factly, pointing to the bags in my hand. He shook his head, so I pulled my wrist from his grasp and left his twirling on the street alone (not for long, I presume. That stinkin' flirt).

I've decided to give M. Biologique his ultimatum this Sunday. Subtle distancing techniques evidently do not work when the offender refuses to play by the rules. So I'm forced to give him the heave ho. M. Biologique might be the only man I've ever had insurmountable feelings for, but I'm ready for soup. And perhaps, in time, I will appreciate the predictibility of positivity that comes with Elmeraler's company.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Bloated Artery

"Where is he, [M. Biologique]?!" I ranted clenching my fists as he and I exited the restaurant. "Where's my man who will bring me soup when I'm sick? That's all I'm asking: a soup bringer! I am a good woman. I am SO good. I'm so freakin' good, I'm SOY good. So where is he?!"

"I'm a good man, Lily."

"No you're not."

That was three days ago. I'm now sick. As sick as a hummus covered spring roll. I've lost my voice and whatever does make it out sounds like George Burns sucking on a cigar stump soaked in "frog."

He knocked on the door. It was 10 in the morning. I had been doing my laundry in the tub until 4. I answered the door.

"[M. Biologique?]"

He was leaning on the door and told me to put some clothes on. What was he doing here? I cussed him out mockingly yesterday when he and 6' Amazon intercepted me as I was leaving a tiny organic grocery. I called him later that night requesting advice for treating laryngitis. He told me to chew on ginger and garlic. I told him to go to hell. He told me 6' Amazon was just taking him out birthday shopping. My parting words: "Annoy me soon."

And here he was on his birthday taking care of me between classes. He stepped out of the kitchen with some sort of herbal concoction he put together and told me to gulp it down. I burrowed into him on the couch and we read the news together, Ella Fitzgerald adding an almost anachronistic sensation to the atmosphere.

I got it bad and that ain't good ...

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Two-Year Anniversary

I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian. Cooking meat gives me anxiety attacks. What, with the slicing and cleaning and whatnot, I'm way too lazy to touch that stuff. Overcook and it's inedible; undercook and you've got a case of E.coli. It's not like I eat it anyway. Other than the occasional filet of this or that, I don't find myself ever hankering for a fleshy, fatty steak. Now that I mention it, I haven't prepared meat in over 6 months. I'm also sort of tired of the same flavour combinations in my current repertoire. After visiting Aux Vivres (that hippie vegan haven), I discovered textures and taste bud tinglers I never thought would mesh well together ... in an overstuffed chapati the size of a quilted slipper. My mom isn't going to be pleased though. When I first mentioned it to her, she shook her head and told me the son of a friend of a friend of her's decided to cut meat out of his diet "and died."


Sophomore year is beginning to look very interesting. History of Journalism contains two major assignments that combines my two academic loves: researching and writing. The hook-up potential in Film Aesthetics is about 40/60. (Finding hipster indie kids in Montreal is like catching a rare sighting of a white person on TV.) I spoke to one who kept looking back at me and grinning during the professor's accented introduction. He resembles Alex Greenwald, all mop top and plastic black frames. Kind of dopey, a history major, asked a lot of meaningless questions -- a typical nice guy. I'm also stuck in a class completely comprised of Gallic frustrations -- the teacher speaks so freakin' fast that I call it a day if I catch even 70% of what she says. ("Um, j'ai un petit probleme avec la vocabulaire parce que, er, j'ai commence juste le francais, uh, last year.") So as I was oogling and ogling the slideshow projector, I received a call on my cell from a pay phone. Didn't bother picking it up (it was class afterall). I had created a mini-drama for myself a few hours prior, screaming into my pillow and singing along to early Michael Jackson because I saw M. Biologique, long-haired and sketchy, walking past with 6' Amazon without even acknowledging me (can you blame me for feeling like I'm being pitted against an irresistably hot, dowdy, farmer?). After class, I skipped through the campus cafe and bumped into -- surprise, surprise -- that organic-eating bastard. He accused me of hanging up on him and wasting his laundry money. I told him to go fuck himself, I was attending class. He said I had walked past him three times that day without noticing him. I called him a monkey. We bickered right to the grocery store where a small ruckus ensued. (He shouted in line that he will not double bag because he is "a proud hippie, a conserving hippie." I told him to just bag my shit. He complied.)

"So, you have a boyfriend yet?" asked M. Biologique, back at my place, momentarily looking away to reach for something unseen.

I scoffed. "Of course not! Besides, why would I tell you? I shouldn't be telling you any of this stuff anyway."

We were discussing the weird cohesion of characters I met during the summer. He wanted to know why I never give anyone a chance. "I'm not one for leading people on," I said curtly. He tried reasoning with me, tried explaining that he's interested in my (non-existent, non-active, non-progressing) love life because he cares for my "well-being" and doesn't want me getting involved with unsavoury boys. (Let's clarify who cheated on whose girlfriend with me?)

"Bullshit you do! I can see you setting me up with a Muppet already: 'Ooh, you'll love him,' you'd say. 'He's green, furry, and lives among trash.'"

I'm beginning to get rather impatient with his self-absorption and coy flirtation. He goads me to date, then tells me none of my prospects are worthy, and when I sleep with someone, he decries that I'm too easy. It's not that I should've realized this earlier, it's that my heart is only starting to catch up to my gut; my original comfort zone doesn't feel entirely familiar anymore. As he made excuses to stay ("It's raining/I don't really want to go home and do laundry/I want to take a nap"), I patiently sat on the couch, discouraging his efforts, and literally pushed him out my apartment when his smug attractiveness began to wain (his sneeze barely made it past the door). So what if he can sometimes be thoughtful? I am owed.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005


The last four days have been a ball of reliably unexpected fun. I took Banana Chic, Prudie and Supermodel Ogre sightseeing, shopping, and vegan-restaurant-hunting. Made a pact with the girls and promised myself I wouldn't buy anything, but ended up swiping my card more than all of them combined. Where will my next meal come from?! Why didn't I think about textbooks?! Why did I end up with the Sexuality card?! Damn witch! Seek support group, my ass!

I bought another pair of shoes and tried justifying it to Banana Chic, saying 44 is an unlucky number -- she's Chinese, she must know -- and I couldn't have it floating around in my closet -- she must understand. She said what I really needed was something other than my computer ("You have a permanent radioactive glow on your cheeks") and to go out and find a good man to obsess over because if shoes really satisfied me, I wouldn't need 44 pairs. Then she proceeded to make fun of my phone conversation with M. Biologique:

"You have rat poop all over your apartment? Well, you deserve it. Teeheehee. You're a moron, Lily. Don't hide underneath those covers because you're blushing. It wasn't his stupid French impersonation -- you know you were flirting! Oh, stop it, heeheehee. He's an asshole. And you're a moron."

I object -- rat poop is strictly business.


Oh man, fake fish and fake cream cheese is sooooo good. I can eat rabbit food forever ...

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Fit for Disposal

I've been following the Katrina story for days. It seems this regional catastrophe is revealing America's deep-seeded issues with race, crime and poverty -- problematic issues ever sideswept in favour of grandiose colonialist dreams (clearly exemplified by the current administration's ignorant governing philosophy). How is it that the wealthiest country in the world isn't "capable" of relieving the burdens of their poor (if not immediately, than effectively)? Why does a country with one of the largest deficits in its nation's history believe it can juggle a struggling military campaign overseas and a homeland disaster concerning people it has, for years, chosen to ignore? BBC World News reports that police task forces are assigned to shoot looters on sight. Looters?! Everything is gone and they expect the rest of the planet to be convinced that restoring social stability starts with protecting consumer goods?! Bollocks!

I know I'm late joining the Internet bandwagon, but please watch CNN's Anderson Cooper's heated exchange with Senator Mary Landrieu. What a smug, brown nosing bitch.

A CNN transcript can be found here.


Less than five hours until the girls arrive and I'm still furiously cleaning. 43 pairs of shoes. I have 43 pairs of shoes. What the hell is a 19-year-old doing with 43 pairs of shoes? Don't look at me, I'm just an impulsive 19-year-old with 43 freakin' pairs of cement clompers living in a one-room apartment. Looking at the number, even I find it absurdly excessive. Yet, I've never considered limiting my spending to somehow contain this collection during any of my shopping excursions. Oh sure, I've thrown away lots, donating to charities, some to secondhand stores, but no sooner do I gain shelf space, I lose another closet. And here's the kicker: most aren't even from my parents' store! Boy am I a force to contend with: a subversive rebel with an appetite for shoes comparable only to TV characters, both ridiculously cartoonish and caricatured.


Steve was in NYC the past week. He said he was going to keep his eyes open for an iPod case for me -- Apple accessories are to Greenwich Village as over-tanned men are to door knocker breasts:

"Floral? In or out?"

"Oriental floral, in. Psychedelic floral, in. Grandma at her couch, reading Proust and drinking Earl Grey, out."


Friday, September 02, 2005

Remote Control

TV is a crazy thing. You don't watch it for a year and than you discover free cable and the next thing you know, you're watching The Price is Right in the nude. Everything on the Big 4 networks suck and yet, watching Melody do her lyrical stylings in So You Think You Can Dance? makes me want to dance. And listening to Lane speak really fast in Gilmore Girls makes me want to speak really fast (to no one in particular, but who can resist that sexy Korean creature?)


When do young, university-educated men begin to realize the phrase "don't shit where you eat" isn't a metaphor, but really sound advice? I was on my knees for hours yesterday, scrubbing away years of grime, growth and other vomit-looking (-inducing) substances. How do people go on living like this?! You don't bake brownies in a Porta-Potty, don't leave things stuck on its own grease trail!


5 3 girls coming for a visit. 1 studio apartment. Someone's sleeping in the dumpster.


M. Biologique told me he's coming back this Saturday and has a present for me. I told him if it's my Marx book, don't pee on my leg and tell me it's Evian. Alright, I didn't say that (maybe a little), but when the past comes a-knockin', you go a-flockin' no matter how much a-blockin' you do. I'll be too pre-occupied anyway, what with the hometown girls, CatCouver, and shooting myself.