Friday, July 30, 2010

Singlehood flashback in real-time

Some bespeckled stranger ran up to me as I was walking through Chinatown and wouldn't leave me alone for two city blocks.

Damn, I know I'm cute, but buddy, back-off once I've explained to you that I have a boyfriend.

He first asked me whether I was from Hong Kong. Negative. Then he proceeded to ask me if I was a fan of Cantopop singer Leon, who was also born in Beijing.

At this point, I'm thinking, Dude is really trying to make conversation if he's bringing up a middle-aged entertainer.

My sparse responses didn't hinder his persistence though. He asked me if I was a communist, religious, cultist, hated America, hated China, believed in political propaganda.

He crossed the intersection with me. That's when I shouted, "What exactly are you interested in?"

"Conversation," he smirked.

I told him I wasn't comfortable discussing my private thoughts with him as I don't even know him. Then I proceeded to say, loud enough for bystanders to hear, that I didn't want him following me to my car.

He had the balls to reply, "What's the worst I could do?"

"Jump in it."

He finally gave up talking to me but goddamn it, this asshole wouldn't quit. These creeps remind me exactly why I got the hell out of Montreal, which was full of circus fucks like him.

I told Paul about it. He said I was being too nice and perhaps wasn't clear enough. I don't think men realize how hard it is to wriggle free from people who try to strong arm you into giving out your number. What do you do when "no" means "keep trying"?

How long before I challenge former KGB to a wrestling match?

The little blue icon rests on my computer dashboard. Unassuming and slightly charming, I have discovered the true extent of its menace.

I look away, but it calls after me: "Come back! There is still so much to learn."

I read crime stories, rapes and murders, to stave off its terrorizing presence. Each day, I tremble and avoid its derision. Paul eggs me on: You can do it, you can ...

Learn Russian.

The program I bought into doesn't use translation, which means I am thrown into the language feet first. The characters frighten me. They look vaguely extraterrestrial and evidently alpha-numeric.

"What sort of a sound does a '3' make?" I ask him. "And that thing that looks like pi?"

"You mean, the thing that looks like a tent?"

"No, not a tent. Like an Aztec pyramid crossed with pi."

When I first told Paul I'd be interested in taking classes, he looked at me skeptically: "You don't have to do it, you know that." I responded defensively. Of course, I do. I love languages and, like my parents before me, I believe it's important to be able to converse with your spouse in their native tongue.

Oh, I am fortune's fool!

Unlike, say, French or Spanish (the former which I am steadily losing, and the latter I dabbled in during university), Russian is like an amalgamation of the above, but further complicated with German parallels.

Sein oder Nichtsein, that is the Frage.

Okay, so it's really not that bad. I'm in a hyperbolic mood. I have a theory that the way to genuinely comprehend someone is to speak their language. To paraphrase Bismarck, nations are built with iron and blood, but words are their DNA. Coded within colloquialisms are the guarded logic of a society and sentiments are not easily translatable.

Paul, while not as enthusiastic, is feeling the pressure from his family (mother, father, grandma) to learn Mandarin Chinese. Seems ironic because his bilingualism was what he tried to impress me with when we first met.

That is, until I told him I spoke four.

Thursday, July 08, 2010

Whoop Whoop!

I just got a phone call to join the production staff of CBC's Being Erica, which will run until October 29. Finally, some semblance of a steady paycheck.

No sooner had I been offered the position, an assistant director from another feature film offered me work as well.

An acquaintance I met on my last show told me he sent out hundreds of resumes to production offices his first year out of art school and only worked about 5 days the entire time, supplementing his income with various dead-end jobs. It was really hard since he was also married and expected to contribute financially. Since then, he's only had a week off for the last two years, working steadily with larger circles of people.

Anyway, money's not the reason I'm in film. When the production manager asked me if I ever plan to pursue writing again, I reassured her that there would be no chance of that.

Film is my calling.

Paulisms

On theft:
"Are magicians allowed in [the jewellery store]? They could wave their arms and make all these rings disappear."

On canines and baths:
"I'm a shampooch and I love you."

On N.W.A.:
"Dr. Dre's the one married to Beyoncé, right?"

On zoos and scaring children:
"Is he dead? I thought hippos were supposed to be in water?"

On the true meaning of happiness:
"Lily, quick! Rich Bride Poor Bride is on!"

Monday, July 05, 2010

Stagette Party

The stagette was a roaring success. The bride wore duct tape over her nipples under a purple lace top. She fluttered in donning Chinatown-bought feather lashes while pursing her black-tarred lips.

We watched home videos, massaged the tips of vibrating dildos, and piled into the stretch Hummer to attend a drag show.

The blight on our evening was the copious amounts of straight men at the club when we eventually arrived. I was "accidentally" bumped, rubbed, and tapped by a variety of hungry horn dogs. Does my memory fail me or has there always been this many weirdos on the prowl?

My friend Nat and I walked over to Paul's car when he texted to say he was here to pick me up. A Persian dude with a precision goatee followed us.

"Who's your friend?" he cooed.

Nat turned around: "Whose friend?"

This was, apparently, his way of trying to talk to me.

"Look," she continued. "Are you gay?"

"No."

"This is a GAY club. What are you doing here if you're not gay? She," pointing to me, "is my lover. We're GAY. GAY! Go away!"

Paul, equally amused and worried, told Nat to go back in with the girls as there were "too many desperate men out here."

The night ended with him driving my drunk ass home as I recounted my day as the "Country Cuntress", peddler of bad puns.