Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Reed, Lou Reed

I had planned to stay with my parents for a week before returning to Montreal when I received an email from Julian Sher asking whether I could help him transcribe some interviews for his upcoming book on child pornography. I would be accredited in his book, he said.

Apparently, he had kept one of my random emails from over half a year ago, and thought I was a bright enough kid to be entrusted with this job. I never thought he would have given me a second thought after he rejected me for another paid position, but it appeared that my typo-free request was impressive enough to pique his attention among the other applicants from my program.

Fast forward a week. The work has been tedious. There is no other way to describe it besides anal sex bad. For the chance to get my foot in the news industry and make important contacts, I am on a stop/rewind/play rampage for hours worth of tape. Did I mention they're not digital recordings so I can't get rid of the distortions? Did I also mention the guy being interviewed has a thick Irish accent that is further obscured by mall musak half-way through?


My first paid job and already I'm crying like an abortion clinic full of teenagers. Spoiled princess, MArt joked. It's alright, I can take the heat. I know I can't compare with him: working since he was 12; cooks, cleans, mends, and sews. Whereas, ever since I became too old to tempt James Woods, it's just been one internship after another at professionally relevant places. I've never had the pleasure of using the phrase, "Naw man, I got work tonight." It makes being condescended to that much easier to defend because, let's be honest here, I make a pretty easy target.

I'll stop before I start sounding smug ...


I'm in my junior year of university. Time sure does fly when you're not waking up beside a toilet bowl with your face planted in the lap of an autistic trannie named Delores. My magazine writing professor already asked us to think of a subject for our final feature piece. I've decided to do human trafficking ploys. I had heard through the dim sum grapevine that dollar stores and dime-a-dozen groceries are really fronts to get people into Canada. What the owners basically do is report false profit figures to the government to reassure the Man that, Yes, they are a sound enterprise. Doing so will allow them to bring over more of their "business associates" to this side of the Pacific. Except these business associates are really families who pay over six-figures (US funds) to be selected. $70,000 per head, was the number I was originally given. There's a discount for the whole lot. Considering the exchange rate is about 8:1, we're talking small fortunes being exchanged here. And a story fresh for breaking. But so far, it's just all hearsay.

First week of the new semester and I'm already trying to locate sources for interviews. I've become so lame, it hurts.


MArt and I role played high school virgins last night.

"Please," I gasped, mockingly. "Be gentle with me. It's my first time."

He grabbed my hips awkwardly: "It won't hurt at all. You wanna take off your shirt?"

I suggested some turn-of-the-century tunes to help with the atmosphere. He put on Massive Attack (after I vetoed Limp Bizkit). I worked down to his pants, and undid his button. "I've never done this before. I'm scared."

He looked at me with a grin that betrayed his age:

"Baby, just pretend it's a popsicle."

I fell off the bed laughing. "A popsicle?! Is that what you told girls back then?" I asked.

He blushed and covered his face with a pillow. Usually my man is smooth, smooth as Dave Chappelle's botoxed balls, but as I sat there, trying to catch my breath, I could tell I was killing certain perceptions he had of himself. I lifted the pillow a little bit, and snuck him a kiss. He shook his head and pouted. "Why do you want to know what I was like in high school, anyway?" he whined.

I explained that I was only teasing, that I love him so he needn't fear any embarrassing retributions, and that I only want to know more about him. Well, that opened up the floodgates. Not only was he in practically every sports team, he was a straight-A science student, and was the drummer in multiple local bands (which, unsurprisingly, also made him very popular with the pubescent set. ... Like, boob-signage popular). Then, as we were drifting off to sleep, he made this slip: "You should've heard the kick-ass valedictorian speech I made ..."

Oh, how my muscles ached from the subsequent seizure of giggles. What a cliche! The editor of the school paper with the Golden Boy. It's like a match made in nerd heaven. I wouldn't even think it inconceivable had he written the entire speech in binome and altered the chemical properties of the ink to make it smell like his customary "lady-friend morning-after breakfast."


I didn't think an interracial relationship would attract as much attention as it does, but apparently, holding hands with a white boy will get me the point-n'-whisper with a complimentary death stare.

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