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.

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