Friday, July 29, 2005

Finally in the Capital

Stayed up watching a syndicated episode of Monk and Vesuvius: Deadly Fury. The true way into a woman's heart isn't through food, drink or expensive jewellery, but volcanoes ... deadly ones.


Flubber boy (last mentioned here) sent me off at the Guangzhou airport this morning before I arrived in Beijing. I was given a -- get this -- Miss Protocole Piaget wristwatch as a parting gift. Although it looks like something for a ladies' charity luncheon or a serious night of tycoon-hunting, I've already grown practically attached to it. (I can hardly be accused of sentimentality.)

In Macao, some 16-year-old Londoner wanted to -- against all socio-relational norms -- conquer me, his aunt's daughter. The bad news: I regret investing any time entertaining, however platonically, this playboy rugrat. The good news: I played this fool like a violin. (Just try to waste my time again, fuckers.) I think I'm ready to bring my newfound powers to Montreal ...


There seems to be a strange technicality with Internetism in mainland China. As I've mentioned before, Blogger is censored here: not the site itself, but the personal webpage on which posts are published. Thus, I can write entries, but unable to see the finished product. Bummer, I know. I mean, Atom & His Totally Tumbleweed-tastic tonic sound seems so, like, great ... *cough* (Sorry Stevie, but I think I'll stick to Electric Six for my synthesizer fix. Making love to my iPod isn't just a job; it's a duty).

In recent news, I visited a sweatshop. Okay, melodramatic, but it was a factory that made designer Italian bust-boosters and children were seen on the premises (if only because their parents do not have the resources to keep them anywhere else). The owner is one of my mom's oldest friends, which I'll call Polkadotted Pucci. To think, a multi-millionairess who never passed her middle school entrance exam. You know those "Designed in Italy. Made in China" labels? She makes the rounds. An ersatz Europhile, she had set aside four bags of panties and bras for me to choose from. I picked at the piles as she smiled encouragingly:

"Go on, go on. Take as much as you want. These won't be sold in Europe until October."

Eyeing the tantalizing loot, I thought, Hell, it might not be Agent Provocateur, but it wasn't the Mary-Kate&Ashley line either. I carefully examined each garment and thinking it adequate, I stuffed them into a plastic bag. Only later did I discover that while each bra is made for about 0.20RMB, it's sold for more than 70-80euros after the middle man interferes (this price inflation is due to, but not limited to, slick ad campaigns, model salaries, and unadulterated greed). My mom suggested I take a tour of the place to see how people in the "real world" lived. My initial arrogance gave way to genuine surprise: a thousand people sat in front of sewing machines under the unflattering glare of fluorenscent lights. It's one thing condemning non-Western working conditions, it's altogether a different experience being there as an unknowing participant -- in any form. Polkadotted Pucci apparently provides free basic health care, food and housing for her minion of ne'er-do-wells, but she assures me this isn't common. Doing business with Europeans has taught her that financial desperation and aggressive competition causes more setbacks in the long-run. "Some [companies] will agree to the demands of buyers for a profit of as little as 20 cents [an item.] The Chinese are always, always, always willing to work for less," she said, exasperated.

Polkadotted Pucci, herself, does not consider anything less than two dollars. Of course, nothing is as it may seem. Who knows what she has hiding in her files -- monthly wages are 30-40RMB. Watching a field of uneducated citizens doing what they've been destined to do by their merciless government, I was more than embarrassed holding a bag full of underwear still hot from the needle because I know I have the ability to leave this reality at will. It was like seeing how cows were processed as they made their way through Bovine College. It's quite a leap between watching The Corporation with your stoner friends and really feeling the angst and damnation of public pawns; this I can't stress enough.

In the end, I did accept my generous gift, but since then, I haven't practiced lazy thinking (like assuming brand names equate to quality) as much as I have done in the past, before this surreal shock.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Memoirs of an Opium Queen: Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Improving Television on the Space Above the Lip

Sadly, I believe that I have offended our dear Lily, and betrayed her original vision of this here mix up. Apparently, I am not supposed to just be a Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V monkey, and actually write my own posts (unbelievable, eh?). In that spirit, I have the need to inform you all of Atom & His Package.

This is Atom:

This is the Package:

Together, Atom & His Package make wonderful records (well, used to, sadly, they are no more), and all of you should download at least one of the following:
- If you own the Washington Redskins you're a cock
- I am downright amazed at what I can destroy with just a hammer
- What we do on Christmas
- Possession

(*not all songs have long and completely goofy names, but they are all good, so I definitely suggest downloading or purchasing many Atom & his Package recordings)

"Why are you subjecting us, Lily's faithful readers, to the promotion of a mediocre, if not completely horrible, 'band' consisting of a man and his synthesizer/sequencer?"

Simple, one of Atom's songs in particular, Moustache T.V., has given me a wonderful idea for a drinking game. To give you some background, the aformentioned song is about a friend of Atom's idea to cheer him up: grab some Scotch tape and a Sharpie, draw a moustache on the tape, stick it on the television, sit back, and be prepared to enjoy a whole new level of entertainment!

Now, my completely awesome idea for a drinking game:
1. Each participant grabs a length of Scotch tape and a Sharpie and makes a moustache.
2. Strategically apply your moustache to the television.
3. Each time your moustache lines up with someone's upper lip, everyone else must take a shot.

I am completely aware that there may be many flaws in this game, but I believe it to be the wickedest drinking game I've invented in the history of drinking games invented by me.

You may also want to Google the Saved by the Bell drinking game for further fun!

Wow, that was fun... I blogged! Hopefully I don't get fired for post-length issues.


Okay, on to Lily.

As I mentioned at the end of my previous post (pre-and-post-strike-outs), Lily has experienced some rather wonderful encounters with transexuals over her last few days in only-three-seasons Thailand. Her mother even has photos to prove it! Unfortunately they were taken with, what I believe used to be called "film," though I'm not quite sure what that is. Apparently you have to wait to get it developed or something.

When not frequenting the transgender stripclubs and fruitful opium dens, Thailand also has an assortment of water fun! From pretend-you're-an-Eskimo-in-the-fake-snow amusement parks, to parasailing, skidooing and various other marine-activities, she's actually been able to tear herself away from her lovely little colour iPod.

Fortunately, 'Tyrannosaurus Hives' provides a muchos awesome soundtrack to train rides and what not. Don't even pretend that you can control your muscles when you pop on 'Antidote.' Everything sways to the beat of 'Abra Cadaver.'

I know there must have been more things that she told me, but I'm not particularly good at remembering things. I'll check my MSN history before my next post. Enjoy Atom, and everyone must try my drinking game, and proclaim its awesomeness.

-Steve, guest blogger

Memoirs of an Opium Queen: Chapter Five

As I'm sure you all know Lily likes to type a lot, and I have a one-hundred-ish line e-mail to prove it. Here's about forty of those lines, summarizing a few more days in the orient Hello readers, it's me, Lily. My super long email was really redundant, so I felt it better to simply summarize:

Chapter Five: "It all comes out looking like shit in the end."

The fantasy of living large consistently trumps the reality of making money. I met quite a few wealthy individuals thus far: Self-made millionaires with expensive tastes; tested by norms, acquired by fate. I thought I was unimpressed with money before, but I don't think I'll ever be impressed with it again. Diamond-encrusted limited edition timepieces seem more than a bit trivial to be an object of genuine envy. With all the attention paid to it, shouldn't it at least be able to escort you to the nearest restroom while fixing Thai-style omelettes with the dial? I remember thinking how shiny it was before immediately turning my attention to the gawdy, rubber strap -- it was a reality check that reminded me class and culture were not mutually exclusive. When I was picked up in a "couldn't afford this with three life insurance policies" Mercedes convertible, the temporary exhibitionism gave way to the still-unaccustomed desire to ride in a rickshaw like an old world prostitute from Shanghai. (Although one could get used to the $300/dish dinners.)


Without warning, he revealed that he had spoke of me to his friends after our first encounter. The son of my mom's childhood neighbour, he had just finished taking me out for dessert when he asked me why I've never "embraced love" which he neither, I don't think, said euphemistically nor ironically. Let's make one thing clear: he's not unattractive in the physical sense, but he lacked something alternatively essential ... like a backbone. A archetypal mama's boy, Chinese Boy's subtle interrogation of my interests came off not just not-so-subtle, but downright uncomfortable. I tried to deter his increasing curiosity with timeless excuses like, "I'm a whore," but this merely amused him for he thought my assertiveness ... attractive! Incroyable mais vrai! He's an enjoyable evening walk companion, but I was playing with Flubber: no resistence. "Whatever you want to do," was his oft-used phrase whenever I gave him an opportunity to assert himself. "I'll stop if you want me to," I'd hear soon after making an innocent remark or two. The "hand skimming" was the cork in the pooper. I can't stand checking off predictable strategies before the list has been realized. He walked me further and further away from home and found reasons to prolong his time with me and though I knew my distancing techniques (jokes, jokes and more jokes) were having an opposite effect, I still made an unceremonious and hurried exit when he was distracted by my mom's friends (one too drunk to keep his beer in). A cross-Pacific love affair? I'd rather mate with elves. *sidenote: There was another guy whom I taught English to. Also a friend's son, I didn't find out about his girlfriend -- from my cousin, no less -- until after he showed interest. "They're on the 'edge of love,'" she told me, half-seriously, finger quotes prominently on display.

"What does that even mean?"

[End of Chapter Five]

I'm not particularly eloquent, so I think that's it for now. The first five chapters were the contents (some edited/altered for better story-telling) of a single e-mail, and I shall fill you all in when I receive e-mail number two. Until then, Lily has been spending her time making love to her new colour iPod, strapping on parachutes, pretending she's in Spike Jonze videos, and attending transexual strip joints. [More on that later.]

-Steve, guest blogger

Friday, July 22, 2005

Memoirs of an Opium Queen: Chapters Three and Four

Alright, here's the deal, it's Friday, and I don't feel like doing much work. So, after this little preface, what follows are two days in the life of Lily from Lily's own fingers. Enjoy.


One room, twenty-seven repressed middle-aged Chinese women, two bottles of booze: One rowdy night. I mean, you know my mom put together a successful college reunion when by the end, ladies were slamming into walls, taking photos and laughing hysterically because someone's meat-filled patty came without the meat. Who laughs over meatless patties?!



My mom invited a bunch of her friends to come plum and lichi picking. There was something oddly poetic in the way the leaves scurried past us on the Guangzhou freeway on the way there. Running beside over-inflated tires that skipped thunderously over pot holes, they came from the nearby orchards nestled amongst roadside palm trees and dilapidated slummaries, bricked-in houses with broken doors. The rolling hills in the distance criss-crossed each other in a battle for sunlight as the smell of busted tail pipes and gasoline simmered in the heat.

[End of Chapters Three and Four]

I'll do less copying and pasting next time... maybe... sorry Lily.

-Steve, guest blogger

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Memoirs of an Opium Queen: Chapter Two

Puppy Love

It was a cool evening in the Southern city of Guangzhou. My personal liaison to the town was shy, but ever so obedient. Such a pure soul, haunted by the loud-mouthed broad that stood before him, but still able to defend this foreigner from the endless barrage of street urchins, each one more daring than the next.

"Please buy my flowers," she whined to me after being callously brushed off by my tour guide. Checking my pockets feverishly, it was obvious that I lacked any such funds to enjoy the fruits of the Chinese market. My guide shot me a look of terrible embarrassment; the source of this became clear within seconds.

I turned quickly to walk away, but something was holding me back. My right leg was mounted. Two legs wrapped around my one, and she had a firm seat upon my foot. She was going to hold on to her latest sucker.

Finally, my companion came to my rescue and, like salt to a leech, the clerk was removed with none but a dollar.

"Wow," I said, chuckling from the absurdity of it all. "I have 'foreigner' written all over me."

He shrugged. "Natives would've literally kicked her off and shoved her into the sidewalk."

[End of Chapter Two]

Mystery, intrigue, and romance -- all these things await you in Chapter Three. Be sure not to miss it.

- Steve, guest blogger

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Memoirs of an Opium Queen: Chapter One

Well, now this is just disappointing. Here I was, all ready to break the first news of Lily's whereabouts and concoct quite preposterous lies about said whereabouts. Sadly, she has beaten me to it and, behind my back, already posted from her current destination.

Ah yes, the wonderful mysteries of the Orient. The land of Great Walls and... some other stuff, probably. I'm an Engineer, I don't take "culture" classes. But I digress. Since I have simply been degraded to copying and pasting, what follows is the first chapter in what shall be called:

"Memoirs of an Opium Queen" the Lily Story

Chapter One: God-damn You Half Japanese Girls or The Celebrity Fillet Mignon

What are the odds that the first annoying incident I encountered during this trip involved Weezer? Weezer! It's like running away from a dysfunctional family only to be recruited by the Manson gang. I didn't have much trouble falling asleep considering the in-flight movie was some Chinese love story featuring the daughter of a Hong Kong casino czar. "You know," my mom whispered behind a cupped hand, "when she got married, he gave her 30 million RMB."

My mom isn't normally a gossip fiend, but she becomes Star Jones at a celebrity stakeout (steakout?) when she's excited about something. Like when we were waiting in line to check-in our luggage, she actually "psst" my way to give me the latest dirt.

"That lady directly ahead of you," she gestured extravagantly. "Your Uncle?"

"The married one?"

"We've all seen them together."

"But they're probably just friends."

"Oh yes, of course. Just friends," she said, squinting cartoonishly.

[End of Chapter One]

I hope you all enjoyed that. Stay tuned for chapter two.

(Best part about Lily's travels? I have been given the strict orders to feel up Shotgun Toter in her absence)

- Steve, guest blogger

Monday, July 18, 2005

Wi-Fi Mathematics

I assigned Steve the task of being this site's guest blogger until I get back from my trip. (Odd that Blogger and BBCNews are censored in mainland China, but not the New York Times.) He's agreed to receive my updates by email. Not sure what he's prepared to churn out with all my unedited, rambling material. In any case, I miss writing and keeping track of my weird, fleeting thoughts. Hope I get the chance to post again.


I'm currently in Hong Kong trying to negotiate some alone time before I'm perma-glued to the Rhythm Nation. Frankly, I like the confusion and hustle of large cities; the fear of getting robbed is part of the charm. I feel stifled if I'm too comfortable. Correction: I feel neutured when I'm paraded around like a bad testimonial when I could be out discovering concrete jungles. I understand that my mother isn't to blame for my feelings of suffocation. She gives me more freedom than anyone deserves, yet her parental powers -- however symbolic -- only exist to provoke me further and farther away from the source. I'm the most happy when I'm alone. Let me explain: It's not that I don't like people; it's that, I'd much rather be reassured of available company than keep them nearby. I believe the basis of all silence is an internal monologue. How else am I to make sense of what I am not hearing?

I am by my hotel window listening to the receding storm. It rumbles closely over the ever-lit streets, waiting in a bubble of tomorrow's aftermath. I am acutely aware of my surroundings, yet ... not. My fingers are doing the talking, but my mind stops to subtract. Is this persistent dualism the quality that differentiates being alone with loneliness? When I sit here on a padded chair, typing this entry and trying to beat the Wi-Fi timer, I am racing against an idea of failure, an idea of my own portrayal. Is this the multiplicity that prevents most of us from complete social desertion? Isolation? Sudden introspection?

Okay, forget everything I've said. The point is, I don't socialize when I shop. During these times of intense textile concentration, I'm out to make purchases, not friends. It's a fashion mad grab: the slow are left behind!


I have a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my ass.

Thursday, July 07, 2005


Still a few hours before I say adios to the Great Liberal North. I feel like breaking into song ...

There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall
And the bells in the steeple too
And up in the nursery an absurd little bird
Is popping out to say ...

Chinga tu madre! Judith Miller is looking at 120 days of imprisonment for refusing to name sources "to an inquiry into the unmasking of a CIA agent." The American government has their priorities confused: they're going after ambitious journalists instead of ambitious terrorists. Hautily engaging the public in a desperate display of moral superiority ("That'll set an example!"), they're purposely dismissing the obvious obstacles continuously plaguing their side of the conflict half-way across the world. What is the point of playing shadow puppets when the master's hands are seen? Rhetoric is useless by now. Donald Rumsfeld has predicted another 12 years of on-going fighting. A modest estimation considering the US is stretching thin resources as it is. It's not reassuring knowing America's post-Monroe imperialist agenda is being squashed by its own lack of military might (which, against popular belief, does not run around the region of a million in-service personnel. Slate reports that, "[F]ewer than 40 percent of [soldiers] -- 391,460 -- are combat soldiers. And fewer than 40 percent of those combat soldiers -- 149,406 -- are members of the active armed forces." Thus, pitiful fighting power.) The Euro is growing in influence as the US dollar keeps slipping, previously unthreatened under the leadership of Clinton whose one greatest achievement could arguably be revitalizing the buck for another decade. (I read that a substantial number of illegal arms dealers now recognize only Continental currency.) Unbelievable! While diplomats are being hauled away to be brutally murdered and mockingly tried to re-establish Sharian law, White House wranglers are trying to stifle anything deemed dangerous and entropic or could possibly challenge the current social climate within the comforts of the corporatocracy.

I'm so sleepy I don't even know where I was going with this. Cake, cake is good.


Dear Angelic Diary?! My sister totally ripped me off! Who's she trying to fool?

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Bottled Water

Luddites unite! After three false alarms, salty tears, and a two-hundred dollar upgrade, my crazy computer finally gave up and sent itself boomeranging through hell. Steve came over to my place after work and we walked to his house to check out what was the matter. Apparently -- by that, I mean, any nincompoop can see -- my hard drive is recognized, but none of the contents exist anymore. None. All 966 songs? Gone! Poof! Whoosh like Christian Slater's no-list career. I didn't even get to listen to the 12 new albums I had saved earlier on in the week. Seeing how I upset I was (as upset I get when I'm laughing hysterically), he offered to transfer his entire collection of music to my fucker box. And indeed he did, all 2666 selections (along with countless software programs). Amen for him. Everybody needs a friend like Steve. Take it from Shotgun Toter who wrote about doing him, which I read aloud as he sat behind me. "Wait, what did you just say?" Oops.

Please visit his magnificent site.


Leaving for Hong Kong in 12 hours. Can't wait to be asked, "Chicken or beef?" I'll try to update my blog as often as possible while picking up collectible Thai transvestites:

"Mommy! I want that one! With the retractable bulge!"

Tuesday, July 05, 2005


Maussie sent another update. He left Lyon and spent two weeks in Prague then took a 15 hour bus ride to Geneva and is now heading towards Tunisia where the "government blocks Hotmail." About Switzerland, he wrote: "[W]e have spent 4 days at [Swiss Alps's], catching up, eating chocolate and drinking the finest milk in the world, that's right. I never thought milk could be so tasty."

I pictured a cow wearing gold drop earrings and Japanese silks in an abstract pasture surrounded by glass windows and stainless steel troughs when I read that. Mmm, mmm, mmm ... designer juice.


Just watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I'm in love with what Pitt and Jolie were wearing. Everything was clean, crisp, and flawlessly tailored. Against the WASP-perfect interior set, they looked like a model couple out of a Jil Sander ad. I think Myron Baker has mastered the ideal image of the modern man: pulled-together both professionally and in appearance. His silhouette is sturdy and slim and his accessories are subtle; they do not add extra bulk. He's robotic and private, takes initiative without prodding. A debonaire gentleman, spontaneous and polite, witty and wasteful. (Of course this is all bullshit when one considers the nightmarish upkeep in maintaining this kind of lifestyle. How boring it is to live imitating literature, making choices for the sole purpose of accumulating adjectives.) Devon Patterson was Jolie's designer. Her pencil skirts and fitted sweaters, even slightly vintage lingerie, reminded me of Hitchcock's To Catch A Thief with the impeccably dressed Grace Kelly. I can't help wondering whether Hollywood is going through a 50's revival by bringing back simple closet staples. If so, this might be the first ever trend I'm prepared to fully embrace as it happens. I mean, low-rise jeans and those to-the-thigh stretchy shirts? They make women look like God came down and highlighted their ass to remind Him what not to do in future ventures.


M. Biologique wrote me, talking about good weather, poo and "finding" himself. He also asked who was now feeding me. Think what you will.

Monday, July 04, 2005

Collective Bargaining

Banana Chic came over a few days ago to borrow my driver's license since I won't be needing it in Asia. Her October birthday makes her an illegal club-goer in Ontario and my convicted felon-looking ID photo has enough accessories to disguise her fresh faced reality. We entertained ourselves in my room hula hooping while dancing to some radio friendly hits. I'm telling you, there is no way to shake it like a Polaroid picture while simultaneously humping a hollowed-out hoop. And forget dunking your booty during "Yeah!" because that's about as likely as licking your own elbow, Gene Simmons or no Gene Simmons.


Shotgun Toter and I hung out at Chapters today. She read Sex For Dummies while I browsed through Why Men Love Bitches. That book inflicted a prolonged moment of humiliation that transcended simple recognition by way of a stomach-churning vertigo. It immediately occurred to me that Ms. Argov, from her Victorian banister in Ladies' Home Journal-land, was advocating The Rules under the pretense of tough love. Men, she intones, have an insatiable appetite for a good challenge and as women, we must provide for that reptillian need. Uh-huh. So where's my challenge? I have no desire investing any time with shameless Pavlovian dogs nor modern-day Henry Kissingers, professional sophists and playboys with semi-functioning fixtures. All the games we're conditioned to play are merely sophisticated mannerisms acknowledged to have an arousing effect in the opposite party. So what of that? Are we so naive that we expect long-term attraction between members of a specie not programmed for monogamous arrangements (and upright incentives)? Is attraction a means to an end or an end in itself? Emperor penguins do a better job staying together with their mates (though I doubt they suffer existential crises curable by flashy, tertiary outlets). I ask myself, Am I expected to feel good knowing an unexplained action of mine is driving someone else insane, rendering him powerless and unproductive? On this note, I might as well reiterate the well-worn adage that the definition for insanity is repeating the same behaviour and expecting different results. In which case, I wonder why dating exists at all? I can count on one hand the number of official quote unquote dates I've been on (okay, maybe more like two and three-quarters ... give or take some toes). Consistently unsatisfied, I've given up on this "tradition" easily likened to ritual suicide. The artificiality of food, drink and timed merriment: I might as well nail a sign to me head proudly proclaiming fertility since I'm apparently -- irrefutably -- on that trajectory anyway. Why is it that we struggle to accept free will, yet shun any script that does not follow the linear model?


My mom said she was pleased with my cooking. Lord Almighty, she not only ate it, but was indifferent to my efforts; no complaints! She usually starts a conversation with an accusation of pep and stubborn refusal of her (as yet-to-be mentioned) request:

"Lily? Aye ya! Why you no make food? So lazy! I always ti'ed, wo'k all day, but you no do everything! I say make food, but you no do! Aye ... "

"Mom! I didn't say I wouldn't! I just picked up the phone!"

Click. She hangs up on me.

Saturday, July 02, 2005

Man and Man

At Banana Chic's, Prudie offered to be an ovum as Banana Chic and I put our hands behind our backs, bent our waists and wiggled around the kitchen/dining room area like retarded sperm. We butt heads trying to impregnate the target; I won after an aggressive effort.


Thursday, Prudie, Banana Chic, J.Lo and I danced our way through Toronto in the clubbing district. We sashayed our way through the crowd as I tore unappealing hands off my shoulders and waist. "The party's not here and no, you're not invited," when one demon in a flipped-up collar tried to turn on his fermented charm.

J.Lo's boyfriend had insisted that he drive us there; he didn't trust her around the opposite sex. This man, for whom I will only refer to by gender, is a mysoginistic dick (ironic, because he's also a homophobe -- I remarked how narcissistic he was for assuming both men and women would even admit to approaching his shit-stained ass). After sleeping over at Banana Chic's in Mississauga, he picked the rest of us up and that's when the troubles began.

It started out as a friendly debate. It swerved into violent territory, with him flying off his handle on the highway, trying to run the car dangerously off the road while speeding. He had made the mistake of stating all women were, by nature, submissive then glanced lovingly at J.Lo. "Take off your silly ass Castro hat when you talk to me," I said after he interrupted me for the umpteenth time when I tried to be rational and patient with him. I told him I didn't "appreciate" the way he was "speaking for me." He fancied himself a thug and told me I should go back to reading the dictionary. "You don't know what it's like on the streets," he lectured, quite explosively. "You think you can talk to men that way? They will cut you up." I rolled down the window and zoned out because his suburb is just that much more dangerous than mine:

"Look out! A Lincoln Navigator! I heard lawyers drive those *scurries away and jumps behind a trimmed hedge*"

The previous evening, he threatened to break-up with J.Lo because he was angry at her for not being considerate enough to invite him along whenever we girls found the time from our busy (and frequently conflicting) schedules to meet up. Thus, he drove us to Toronto and got us lost, twice, because he wouldn't admit to going the opposite direction (hmm, maybe he shouldn't have purposely gone off the west ramp -- when MapQuest specifically said east -- just to prove his prickly and pickly manhood).

There's something wholly sinister about this boy. Recently turned 21, a callow lad with an unadorned personality, he has the intelligence of a congenital crack baby and the body of a broomstick mistaken for a jersey rack at the Niketown Defect Outlet. I tried to use the abused housewife analogy to get J.Lo to wake up to his plastic facade during the argument to no avail. His baby, baby, babys and I love yous were an oil slick on the surface of a malaria-ridden watering hole. It angers me that this girl's co-dependency has grown to such proportions. There's more generosity in her than the late King Hussein, but her fragility rivals that of the Bubble Boy. So in the words of Banana Chic, we're no angels, we can't be responsible for helping her create detours only to see her drive back on to the main road time and time again. "She has to love herself first." For once, an after-school message with relevance.