Wednesday, November 30, 2005


I'm really dreading the release of "Memoirs of a Geisha" this December. Everytime anything remotely "Oriental" rears its head in a mainstream blockbuster, I get hit with the disorienting aftershocks.

I was called Mulan for three years until it was unceremoniously replaced with Anne Frank in high school (long story short: I confessed I occasionally dreampt the Nazis were after me and suddenly, I was known as "that girl who thinks she's Jewish").

I already get approached by grown men in their forties asking me whether I'm "Chinese or Japanese," so I'm willing to bet the next time I hear that, it'll unquestionably follow-up with, " ... and what are your rates?"

Nigga, please [cereal]! If you can't determine the origins of my eyes now, what difference does it make after you find out? It's just my bloody luck to have a Mandarin father, a Cantonese mother, and a grandma who resembles a typical Korean: I end up slipping down the birth canal looking like an Asian parody. I tend to pass for whatever nationality that better suits me on vacation. "Yeah, I can do Japanese. You want Chinese? I got your Chinese right here!" But savvy natives will point out something "off" about me; I'm not completely right for a supposed Chijapthaiporenese. I don't mind being objectified as a walking eugenics lesson, so long as I get to be treated as an inconspicuous localite. It's when the projected image of me is that of a high-class escort that peeves me off. Though I don't necessarily mind being compared to a hooker (money is money, right?), it's the ultra-feminine behaviour that is expected of me that knocks my rocker. I mean, it's one thing to think every giggling sailor-suited schoolgirl sells her panties on the Internet before given the finger by more businessmen than candles on her cupcake. It's another thing all together to make an overture to me and actually expect my quivering body to swoon over these lame-ass proposals (capped off with the ever-attractive, "I want to see you again. Be here tomorrow. You must promise me!"). Isn't there a rational voice located somewhere along the Head-to-Head highway?

It's not like I expect every white guy to be the size of Ron Jeremy (because compared to Chinese troops, they all are. Zing!). Seriously though, I'd at least deviate three or four variations from the same theme at one time. But when it comes to the enigmatic Asian woman, we're apparently all waiting to be kept, fucked, and fed.

How do you say, ah yes, bullshit.

For her highness, the Organic Princess (a.k.a. 6' Amazon)

I thought of warning you about him. You liked him from the start. I was in your way, I know. But I didn't give a fart.

I thought of warning you about him. But your ignorance was a guise. You liked him from the start, I know. Itching to pounce and lie.

And now you play your silly role, a caterer to his whims. Self-righteous and dispossessed, "It's girlfriend," you huff like sin.

It's a pity that you're so boring, egregious in an opprobrious way. You're now in the spotlight, the world's a stage, while he maintains relations with a familiar maid.

Your convenience satisfies him, he has no heart but yours. It's a shame that you deplore me, when he's the consummate whore.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005


Intensity Boy. Mmm ... can't get enough of his sexy side-glances. Oh boy, you can keep laughing at my jokes and monopolize my break, I ain't complainin'.

He better ask me for my number soon or I might just, uh, go surf the 'net or something. That'll show him. Not that I'm waiting. I've been very happy being alone. My friends have been understanding; they've respected my willful solitude. I've been making new acquaintances for the first time since M. Biologique -- he used to actively discourage all my burgeoning friendships. And NorIda told me today that her interview subject for TV class was, miraculously, 6' Amazon! Complete coincidence! She had talked to her roommate on the phone and who should open the door, but the Bob-Barker-ignorant farmer. It was on dumpster diving. Or, what I call, rich kids feigning chicpoverishment. That's where she gets her food from when, I suppose, organic health stores are scarce. So I feel good knowing M. Biologique is being taken care of ... from cash to trash to the (unenviable) table.


I remember being in a darkened theatre, hand clutching the guardrail as I hopped down the narrow staircase. My mother and I had been watching Chow Yun Fat on the big screen, his oversized face lining the hallway like dusty street lights at dawn. She and I used to attend movie screenings at the library across the street from old Chinatown. Miniature columns framed the ornamental doorway. An asylum -- or was it the city jail? -- confidently stood nearby. I don't know what provoked this memory. I've forgotten all about it. She'd take me with her; I'd run ahead. The grass, so green; there was enough to hide behind. I remember one particular time, the first of many, when she cried. Uncontrollably. A steady flow of grief. The young boy was found dead from malnourishment. His impoverished family unable to pay for funeral arrangements. Mud-caked body caressed by beasts, he had worked himself to death. She lived it. She related. I was four. Maybe, five. I didn't know it then, but seeing her like that, a fissure made its way to the surface of my heart and never left. I perceived her to be weak; her visible display of emotion, confusing. But I still remember the soundtrack -- I sing it absent-mindedly. About a mother's unconditional love: infinitely irrational, yet perfectly profound.

Despite all that, here I am, 15 years later unable to hold back the waterworks whenever I allow myself to be the fairer sex. I never meant to alienate her, demeaning her good intentions, belittling her, soaking up her resources. Her quiet confidence made me ill, I was bent on being mediocre.

I found out yesterday that "Three ... Extremes" will start playing next week. Three, forty-minute horror films in Japanese, Korean, and Mandarin and Cantonese. My mom's Cantonese, too. A reminder of my mortal coil. Asian cinema help me reinforce my emotional connection with her. Enter Wong Kar Wai's "Fallen Angels" and "Chungking Express". Appetizers, mere appetizers.

Monday, November 28, 2005


Doing tai chi with David Carradine ...


Press accreditation? I have to actually work for a media organization to attend the UNFCCC talks? Or for that matter, be employed, period? It's times like these that I regret losing my press pass to a metro thief, but not even that could've got me in because the evaluation deadline was November 2nd and I didn't hear about this until the BBC mentioned it yesterday.

When I was an intern at the Spectator, I used to get PR notices all the time. Garbage days and funeral arrangements, I thought they came without asking. Now that I'm a rusty bum and too unmotivated to take any sort of initiative, I get updates sparingly and, even then, react without concern. "Wake up early? I think I'll pass." (If it doesn't fit, you must acquit.) Conventions: attendance isn't so much boring as covering it is. Potent Quotables isn't a Jeopardy category for nought: they're rare and hard to come by. Besides, deciphering jargon is fun to do only after the entire event is sufficiently recorded, and by that time, you're too exhausted to be witty anyway, churning out as much wry observations as breast milk from a man. I don't know what's worse: Thinking the world inane or thinking the world impressive. Neither one makes me want to be an active part of it.

I'd like to be Larry King. You know, wear suspenders to hold up my increasingly droopy scrotum, have a harem of ex-wives, and get paid to wear goggles as I feign affection for Hulk Hogan's doorag. Talk for a living. Talk and stare. Talk, stare, and act interested in the latest Hollywood pre-teen orgy. (Lowe & Polanski: The Wonder Years!) I think it would be fun to host a cable show. Maybe innocently install a camera underneath my desk to broadcast what me legs are doing to shamelessly rack up ratings. (Oh, Katie Couric, you widowed whore. Affectionately.) Who wouldn't tune in for hourly updates on the state of my winter-chapped-legs and their generally pasty appearance? This is Nielsens gold, I tell ya! Gold!

I'd still like to be a journalist though. But one of those lazy ones, like Karl Marx, who probably only corresponded with head office when he needed money to support his side hobby, inspiring proletariat uprisings. Or Ernest Hemingway: type a few columns a day, sit by the sea, grow a beard and stare at a shotgun. Or be like one of those stubborn, "I'll editorialize if I want to!" guys: violate virgins, smoke the contents of a trunk, make threadbare fashion statements, weekend bingers on bangers, emergency sex with refugees, then report back to the boss on time to be given another extension.

I carry the torch of this legacy. I hold it high.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Yay for take-home exams!

My film teacher asked us to write an interpretive essay on Francois Truffaut's "Tirez sur le pianiste" (Eng. title: "Shoot the Piano Player") by the first week of January. I'm all too glad to be doing it. Immediately, I went and got "Jules et Jim" to better acquaint myself with French New Wave cinema (next week's screening, I believe, will be Jacques Tati's "Les vacances de Monsieur Hulot"). So far, so good. These movies feel indiscreetly modern, you can feel the seismic shift in celluloid sensibilities. The kinesis, the adaptibility, the visual puns: the movies feel right if only for their artistic accessibility.

Now about the language spoken in the movie. What is it about that frustrating Parisian patter that drives me nuts? I couldn't make out basic salutations during the film! Mush, everything was mush! (Somewhere out there, Fat Albert's Hey, Hey, Hey-ing in his junkyard grave.) And worse, I can't understand Quebecer French either! It's all quack quack here, and yak yak there, here a fromage, there a dommage, everything sounds crap crap. My ear is perma-tuned to only two frequencies: Euro-version and broken immigrant. There's just no room for anything else.


Came back from watching "Paradise Lost". I don't know if there can ever be a fair portrayal of would-be Palestinian suicide bombers, but this was damn close (not that I'd know, of course). The conscientious treatment was commendable considering the controversial subject matter. It was critical without being preachy; sympathetic, not pitying. The chugga-chugga current of tension held strong until the end, which, depending on your perspective, was both highly climatic and anticlimatic. It wasn't ambiguous, but from an aesthetic standpoint, it sort of ... was. I don't know! But I do!

Movie. Good. Go see.


"And you are?"

He shot me a "Don't do this to me, you know me and you know it" look.

Repartee over, hand shaken and stirred, this candied yam glanced over at his grinning friend before turning back his attention to me as I walked away.

"I'm Stephano," he called out.

I stopped mid-stride: "Of course you are. [beat] You're infamous."

Stephano. Ha! It's S-T-E-V-E. You're French-Canadian, maple syrup veins. Get over it: Everyone knows about your flagrant non sequitur.

But it damn sure don't undermine them cheekbones. Ryan-Phillipe-naked say what?

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

I hate French

I have to memorize a 5-minute speech on something -- anything -- francais. I chose to do the Cannes Film Festival. It begins:

Le Festival de Cannes est le festival le plus prestigieux du monde. Le premier Festival International du Film a commence le premier septembre 1939. Le mois a ete choisi par les officiers de la ville parce qu'ils avaient realise que c'etait un evenement qu'ils pourraient utiliser pour prolonger la saison touristique de deux semaines. Mais le festival a survecu seulement pour un soir. Il a ete annuler quand la France s'est alliee a l'Angleterre pour declarer la guerre a l'Allemagne.

It ends, not-so-shockingly:

La reputation du festival grandit chaque annee! *Correction: Le festival est le plus celebre maintenant et c'est un des evenements les plus importantes en France, culturellement and economiquement.

One word: Bland.

The last time I had to memorize anything was when I adopted a cockney accent (every third period for a semester) and proceeded to play Balthazar and lazy servant number 2 in Shakespeare's "Romeo & Juliet". (Oh, versatile poncho, you go from rider to friar with a whip of your fringe!) Intonation, silent Hs, every mouthful was an act of brutal physics. But now, I have to deal with intonation, vibrating Rs, and unpredictable spraying saliva, an act of a sardonic God.


I'm suspecting my neighbour is developing a "thing" for me. Too helpful, too nice, too accomodating, too much. I hung out with him until 5 a.m. last night and he drilled me for answers about the state of my love life. Not drilled, insinuated -- listing real and imagined suitors for me to react to. Men are as subtle as anvils; women, as treacherous. "No," I replied. "I'm going to keep to myself for the time being, stay away from the opposite sex for awhile." Then warned ominously: "I don't like to lead men on. Once I find out someone likes me, he'll never see me again. Why bother trying to be something we're not?"

He nodded, ponderously. I hope he got the hint.

It's not like I want to skip on over there on a constant basis. The neighbour's roommate has a girlfriend who looks noticeably agitated whenever I come around. The other day, I asked her boyfriend if he had change for a five-note so I could do my laundry. She snapped at me to go get it from the convenience store downstairs. Though he returned a moment later, happily handing me a few loonies, I couldn't shake off the notion that his disgruntled old lady was trying to brand me through the wall, Kal-El style.

So this is how it feels to be on the other end of a woman's wrath: It really sucks.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Should I be worried?

Okay, I'm returning the dress tomorrow -- I got bored of my reflection.


How would you describe your chocolate soy beverage?

"It doesn't taste like milk. More like liquid dark chocolate squeezed from the teat of a bean."

What the fuck ...?

"Yeah, I don't quite get it myself."


My therapist's name is Lazarus. No last name. Just "Lazarus." In the same vein as Cher, Jesus, and Wendy's. I've been assigned a clinical psychologist who shares the same monicker as a resurrected dead man from the New Testament. I got Herr Doktor: Dawn of the Dead. An honoured guest at a Boris Karloff charity event. Mister Off-Duty Pulse.

He's also Greek.

"You know psychology is a load of fluff, right?" Readerdroid said through the phone. "I've worked at a psych lab, I've studied psychology, nothing about it is concrete."

Dr. Phil is a load of fluff, but he still maintains his highfalutin lifestyle making grown women cry on national television. ("I have feelings! I am worthy of love! I will beat this chair until the show's producers ask me to stop and cue the emotionally manipulative music!" It's fluff with retroactive substance!) Besides, the service is free and I want to get my tuition's worth. And, in all honesty, I'd like to tell someone details about my life exposed for a purpose beyond satisfying voyeuristic curiosity and garnering pity (because underneath, we've all been suicide bombers seeking martyrdom). I want to reveal parts of myself substantiated by progress, not validation. And being 19, I'm not so self-assured and bull-headed to refuse help. I mean, I don't want to be pushing 50 and continue making sisyphusian mistakes, then expect to be taken care of as if I was still contributing to society.

Superficiality is a stubborn stain. I don't want to be known as "that" girl.

Friday, November 18, 2005


I live on the 6th floor. My next-door neighbour ran down from a shindig held on the 19th to see me in the dress with his own eyes. Yes, it is that captivatingly hot, practically sacriligious. Please don't make me bring it back! Breathing is overrated!


I know I shouldn't have. I barely had enough money, but it was just too gorgeous to pass up. I promise to return it, I will. Just not yet.

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I look better than great in it. I'm, dare I say, alarmingly fetching. Tastier than a sausage casing and hotter than microwaved butter. It's that one closet staple that exists in every woman's wardrobe that validates her sexiness even after six neverending pasta plates from the Olive Garden and 2-litres of Red Bull. The 20 day refund policy stands. In the meantime, I'm going to have some fun with it, tucked-in tag and all.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Idleness hatches chaos

Suddenly, being a "cool mom" doesn't look too good no mo'.


My life is so boooo-ring, yet anxiety-ridden. I'm going to take advantage of the free counselling service provided by my university and spill my heart out to a shrink. Mind numbing pills, damnit. I'm not even an aspirin taker, but Priscilla Beaulieu Presley! I want something with an active ingredient illegal in 43 countries and pending in another 8.

The causes have been identified; the solutions, spelled out -- I've dissected myself to fois gras and still I smell of gasoline ripe for ignition (mmm ... fumigated fried liver). It's hard to take steps in changing when every path leads to another paradoxical personality roadblock. Professional upper, secret downer, I'm not lamenting for myself, merely perplexed with the situation. It's like this: You see an exit and walk towards it, but realize it only accommodates people with floating torsos and shrunken heads, 401k plans and minivans. So I wholly intend on taking everyone's advice (because everyone seems to know what to do) but I'm hindering -- no, make that sabotaging -- my own progress because being "fixed" relies on getting over a fear I'm not yet ready to confront (nor give up, to be honest).

My parents are encouraging me to play the field. "Why you so serious?" they want to know. "You're young. Have fun and fool around!"

But ma~ ... I don't wannnnnnnna ...!

Wednesday, November 16, 2005


4, 5? 7? 8? I lost count after getting nauseous for the umpteenth time on experimental film. The entire class was dedicated to torturing my psyche. Flickering colours, superimposed images mixed with industrial, phallic symbolism. I thought an eye surgery montage was a hurricane. "Destroy, destroy, destroy," echoed the soundtrack verbatim. Wheezing wind, squeaky windshield wipers, tears in the time/space continuum. My head nodded from forty winks, the repetition was too artsy for me. Maybe that's why my high school field trip to the Guggenheim Museum was so unmemorable: non-narrative projections scattered the walls, hung in dark rooms, pointless to the masses. (The place looked more promising when it was used as the backdrop to Carrie Bradshaw's flasheratti moment. Oh, Sex and the City, you always make me feel less like a tumbleweed and more like a jellybean.)

Thus, never make a career out of a hobby. School has at once reinvigorated and ruined my interests, yinging and yanging my intrinsic desires until they've become mundane annoyances.


Went and saw Deepa Mehta's Water. A gorgeous film set during Gandhi's rise to fame. I don't know what's happened to me, but since moving to Montreal and being exposed to a wider range of movies, I can't stop freakin' crying. I mean, this is me I'm talking about: the chick who laughed at the girls who boo-hooed their way through Titantic as my best friend at the time threw marshmallow-filled sweets at them and snickered at the shape of Rose's boobs. Now, it's like every subtle gesture corresponds to some familial resemblance. Suddenly, shoeless hobos and blind urchins remind me of my parents' struggle in the New World. Defenceless babies no longer fill me with Darwinian dedication, but a tragic desire to shield them from that tank/horse/pimp/fork. These directors are jerking my emotions, damnit! Jerking me around like a maternally-programmed plaything!


I want to start my own newspaper. Indeed, that shall be my 10-year plan. Now if only I could find me some people willing to work for free for the first ... 8 or 9 years, that would be sweet. I guess that would mean the content for the first decade would be exclusively focused on hemp products, hairy foreign women, and jigsaw puzzles. "Don't forget the numerous uses for beeswax!" God willing, I doubt that's possible.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Plywood rant

Okay, I did care about the marks; there can never be enough pocket change brownie points.


Banana Chic's visit was much appreciated. Unconditionally easy-going, we've lasted longer than Lohan's driving record. Banana Chic came with two of her roommates, Alex and John: two 19-year-olds who couldn't be more different. I got along great with everyone, even if the former tried snookering me with a whole lot of self-aggrandizing malarky and unimpressive proclamations. (The latter was an ardent gentleman and modest mouse who sprung a sketched portrait of me that unintentionally depicted this Asian as a babushka with the face of an Inuit wood carving based on some sea sponge demon: "Oh ... wow, thank you. It's really, um ... You're a decent guy, John, ya know that?") A New Brunswickan on paper only, I gave Alex the benefit of the doubt and naturally believed him when he said he was bilingual because he didn't refute it when I presumed, his companions too polite to confute. Of course, his Jerichoan walls soon fell once we visited the Cinematheque Quebecoise and, after approaching a mounted poem, accused me of "messing [him] up" when I was translating for the rest of the Kazuyo gang (aspiring architects, they love them contemporary design and textiles). Messing him up? He can't differentiate la croix from le crap. Childish and inconsiderate, he handed me garbage instead of throwing it out. Arrogant and passive/aggresive, he tried to get everyone to revolve their plans around him. "So what's the itinerary tomorrow?" I asked. A series of indiscriminate mumbles tried passing for an answer. He spoke for the other two: "I want to visit my uncle. I guess we're leaving after that." My best friend came to Montreal to see me and the boys already wasted over half of the weekend in search of a movie neither she nor I wanted to see (nor Alex, apparently, since he fell asleep during the Iranian documentary and left poor John staring cluelessly at French subtitles). And here he was, too proud to ask for directions and fess up to his shortcomings, rolling his eyes behind the host? Giving me attitude for taking detours from his one-way street sweeps? I calmly informed him that I've revised the plan and hope there would be no objections -- it was imperitive that the next few hours be utilised efficiently.

And it was. Banana Chic and I went to a salsa club where two considerably older Mexican men politely asked us to dance ... then *sigh* went in for the inevitable kill. "You promise to come back, yes? I wait for you next Saturday."

University. It's a term that has many connotations. It carries with it a notion of higher learning, a place for Platonic engagements and intellectual trysts. Nuh uh, Captain Kangaroo. It's high school with more expensive cockfights perpetuated by the same, tired suspects. 20-year-olds are still 20-year-olds, maturity comes only with time. When children play with adult tools, it's easy to fall for the show. It's a sub-culture of dress-up fiends, desperate to understand why grown-ups do the things they do. What is hospitality, we ask, if not a formality to overcome gossip and a cheapskate reputation? What is generosity, we say, if not a lifestyle accessory and social label? Saving graces can't compete when saving face is king.

I am clearly turning into a misanthrope. Daily 4 a.m. wailings for "bacon and eggs!" by wasted undergrads and pounding music played at a deafening Spinal Tap 11 will do that to a person. People are such a pain in the ass. And in this case, I'm trapped because these neighbours of mine tell me that being loud is how they get me to come over (even if it's to pound on their goddamn door). I'm a clown because I have to be; I'm a loner because I want to be. Aren't I justified in being a punishing tease?

It's so sad that the deepest thing guys want to get into is connected to my uterus and continually closed for seasonal maintenance.

Friday, November 11, 2005

"I don't care about the marks. I just want to apologize."

I approached my tres, tres, tres gentille French teacher to say this:

"Je veut te donner un explication pour ma conduite ces semaines passe."

Mais pourquoi?

"Parce que je connais je n'ai pas complete mes devoirs sur l'ordinateur. J'ai perdu mon portefeuille et, mon petit ami et moi, nous avons detache ... Donc, je veut te donner un excuse. I haven't been myself. Desole."

Her reaction? One of unrivaled sympathy and understanding. I do regret saying "mon petit ami" only because he was never that, but I didn't know the word for "friends with benefits that only benefited him." Merde!

Token Post

The only thing that keeps me from compulsively editing the latest entry is by writing a new one. But since I can't think of anything to say at four in the morning, I will make do with this rubber stopper.


My Morning Jacket. I listen to Z on repeat, over and over and over again, driven to pleasure, like an overeater at a buffet line.

It was the right decision to downplay the Lynyrd Skynyrd references and up the ante with more Pink Floyd-meets-Radiohead influences, yet emerging with something distinctly their own.

2005 has been a great year for indie rock. The sounds have ranged from mildly interesting to prodigiously complex. Truly great music.


Film Aesthetics has offered me the chance to explore the classics seriously. Welles, Murnau, Eisenstein, von Sternberg. I love it. I fucking love it. (The class, not Russian revolutionary propaganda.) But now. Now there's Keaton. The first movie I saw by him was The General and let me say, anyone who prefers him to Chaplin is a man after my own heart. I don't want to fan the flames of this country mouse/city mouse debate, but Keaton wins. Va chier, Chaplinites!

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Weeklong Hiatus: Here's a long one

I haven't written in a week. It's not my fault, really. Cops are always sprinkling crack on me. I can't keep them away. And I know it's 'cause I's a chink.

That, and school has been extremely demanding ... for someone who tends to procrastinate until the 11th hour (in which case, it becomes a race to brush up on one's oral skills. Zing!).

CatCouver invited me to see Stephen Lewis's lecture on the AIDS affliction in Africa. A fabulous orator, he was passionate, patient, and effectually moving. After about an hour or so, he opened the Q&A period and welcomed questions. Third in line for the microphone, I practiced what I was going to say for a few minutes behind a lumberjack hipster (who's so post-modern, he's present), simplifying syntax and reminding myself it would be imprudent to bring up Naomi Klein (a.k.a. his daughter-in-law) in any context.

Okay, you.

I staggered back a little and in my worst Phil Hartman-as-Troy McClure voice, I said:

"Hi, my name is Lily. But you-can-call-me-a-fan."*

An eruption of laughter broke out in the auditorium and died a slow death. I tipped my head down and produced a self-congratulatory grin. Sweet, I nailed it.

The presentation over, CatCouver and I decided to hang out some more and headed towards the doors when ... the Boy approached me. You remember the Boy, don't you? Mr. 4-Inches-Erect? The Devirginator? The guy whom I've successfully avoided for over 6 months? The reportedly elusive communications program heartthrob? The son of a bank executive who once dealt drugs if only to say he dealt drugs to obtain street cred? You know, the kid who insinuated that -- did I hear right?-- I'm still on his mind? (He's nearly 25. It's not like I took the dude's daisies; he took mine.) Sorry, but I just don't go for people who go for me. Fear of intimacy or something.

Boy, Cat. Cat, Boy. Great question. You were so funny. I love your hair. Thanks, I'll see you around.

Not two seconds later, I am stopped on the street by four strangers -- cute boys. "But you can call me a fan!" they yelled in unison. "You were so funny." I asked them for their names. Jim, Dan, homo, girl.

Taken hostage by my rowdy neighbours to join them at the student union bar, I am stopped once more by another group of men huddled out on the terrace: "You can call me a fan!" (I recognized one of them as being Steve, that hot polisci prick who infamously introduces himself as Stephano to appear more Italian. When we met last year, this europhile treated me like an invalid because he said the only culture that exists in Canada is in Montreal, to which I countered that even a lack of culture is a fundamental type of culture. Yet, months later, after catching sight of me as an award recipient at the university bursary function, he apparenty changed his mind and was now pro Operation: Pants Off.)

Two hours, and I've already created a catchphrase for the mentally impaired. Hooray! I'm the smartest thing since Gold Bond and sneakers.

Rising up from my seat to take a leak, I walked past the glass doors and hear: "You can call me a fan!" I looked back and it was another political science nut I met at one of those poo-poo wine and cheese parties where beer's always the only thing served. "It sounds exactly like something you would say, Lily! I told the guys around me that you were the funniest girl I know." He went on and on to wax poetic on the merits of my humour.

"Thanks, but I gotta go pee."

It's flattering to be noticed sometimes. But I'm still convinced that that auditorium is cursed. It never ceases to give me trouble. First it was the David Suzuki boobtastrophe, then ... Okay, it's only given me grief twice. Twice too many.

*The question I followed with was: Besides government and NGOs, what is the next most influential entity/industry/social group capable of providing aid and willing to do so? Lewis replied, quite extensively and eloquently, that advocacy is unquestionably the third estate.


Lily. Member of CatCouver's hall of fame for the most ridiculous analogies. Quote: "I love my lime-coloured umbrella. I splurged and paid 70 dollars for it at Ogilvy, but it's so worth it. It pops right open and slides into place. Nice and wide. Tight like a virgin's pussy."


Bullrider's flying in from Calgary to see me tomorrow. Banana Chic, Sexy Ogre, two male architecture students I'm sure a stone's throw away from g-a-y, are arriving the next day. A coincidence? Or a sitcom concept worth sending to CBS for? (Beats How I Met Your Two and a Half Guatamalan Brother.)

Actually, the only thing these two visits have in common is their failure to give me sufficient warning.


Considering no one reads to the end of my super long entries, it's a good place to mention that M. Biologique and I reconciled last Friday when we went to see Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit together. Oh, boo, yourself. Keeping him around guarantees a little spice when all is somber.

Besides, his company has become one of many lately. Pav unexpectedly asked me for my digits today. Weird, considering I've bumped into him this semester once? Twice? Thrice to be safe? Where'd he find out about my class schedule? How'd he know it conflicted with his? Where is my bedpan and who has my dentures?

Damn, this new haircut works it better than a trafficked stripper in Turkey.

Thursday, November 03, 2005


The worst part of getting pissed is admitting to yourself it was from half a pint of Limited Edition Bailey's Irish Cream Haagen-Dazs.

I didn't know they'd actually mix in alcohol! Real alcohol! Didn't they think of the children?!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005


Forget Louise Brooks, I dressed up as a fantasy Asian stereotype. Vulcan hair, smoky eyes and fake lashes, v. rouged lips and my sister's pink cheongsam with thigh-high black stockings (held up cleverly with ... *sigh* elastic bands). A Madame Butterfly incarnate sans the tortured affair with an American rake. Uh huh.

I told NorIda's boyfriend that the Great resembled a cross between a middle school talent show and a Suzanne Sommers workout video.

"No charisma," was how NorIda summed up this opening act. "They flew all the way from Australia to do this?"

I agreed. Then the Go! Team appeared.

And it was beautiful.

The driving guitars, the pounding percussions, and the ubiquitous melodica. I was in dance dance heaven, jumping beside a dude rigged out as a tampon (whom NorIda mistook for a light). I told him his costume was so structurally correct, he must be quite familiar with the product.

The problem I have with these shows is the amount of indie kids who are 6'2" plus and think growing out their hair like Fabrizio Moretti is a good idea. Buddy! I can't see over your already enlarged cranium, you think I can scan above your bush? This isn't a Supreme's audition: trim your tree!

And the old geezers who sport shirts that would've fit them in the womb. They mosh like spastic preteens on a slurpy high and grind against women decades their junior. It's harder to watch than Fox News. Oh, you think your graphic tee will be mistaken for tongue-in-cheek vintage chic? No sir, we all know you got that thing when it was brand spankin' new and all the rage in novelty beer marketing. But it's no secret they'd still get some early bird poon by the end of the night because there's always that one dopehead who'll fall for their patchy beard and paint-splattered jeans from Jordache because she never had a dad growing up.


Love life is picking up again. Who knew men were such shy creatures? You approach them and suddenly, they're no longer crustaceans with monosyllabic vocabularies. I watched my first episode of Oprah today about -- don't act too surprised -- the labyrinthal mind of men explained. Jay Leno, Brian McKnight, and Sports Illustrated's Rick Reilly were the O's panel of oracles. Watching it, I convinced myself of something between the sexes. Maybe Lord Byron was on to something when he wrote in Don Juan:

"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart;
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone" (Canto I, stanza 193).

I'm trying to agree with what Byron says without coming across as a Victorian reactionary. In the modern context, I think it unabashedly declares that we, as people grouped in camps of cake and candles, are naturally different and will approach life thus. It (almost) goes without saying that neither gender consciously tries to undermine each other (though by certain individuals, I'm damn sure) and perhaps our intrinsic contrarieties are what make us equals in the realistic, as oppposed to politically correct, sense. To be a product of a social condition is not a mistake so much as a visible example of unquestioned superstitions and maybe, just maybe, unconscious biological urges not yet understood. And when they are fused to the already undemanding division of pop discourse, another social norm is reinforced and relegated to being yet another superficial creation fought over by movement mouthpieces ...

Thanks a lot Oprah. I'll stick to CSI from now on. Mmm ... cadavers.