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Refuge for the rational.

Saturday, August 28, 2004

When Have I Ever Rolled on the Floor and Laughed? 

I used the term "appy" quite accidentally the other day. I think in reality it was more to get a rise out of the person I was speaking to than to really save myself the extra syllables. I was disgusted though, and I felt like one of those middle aged women in a loud knit suit, carrying a tiny dog and sitting in some upscale Manhattan restaurant on a Wednesday afternoon. I asked for a lemon wedge for my San Pellegrino and I'm very upset that it isn't here yet. On the bright side, Marschia has just recommended a fabulous caterer and the kids-with-missing-fingers charity ball is tonight. Oh, it will be darling.

Now, that's one thing...but, this is an entirely different matter. What is? Well, I'm getting tired of 'LOL'. It's not funny anymore. I'm not laughing out loud and I never was. 'LOL' has in fact replaced what, in a verbal conversation, would be either silence or the filling up of silence, i.e: a nervous cough. Is it so difficult to admit you have nothing to say- must you fill it with 'LOL'? Just because I can't see you doesn't mean I don't know the truth.

I think that cyber-speak is beginning to affect the literacy of people I know. I think the expression 'thru' is beginning to make appearances elsewhere, which is fairly alarming. I'm also not sure I understand why people are finding that typing an entire word is so incapacitating. I can't even understand sentences sometimes; just because you're communicating in online format it doesn't dispel the requirement of proofreading. And just for the record, a lot is two words and maybe is one. We can't communicate unless we're speaking the same language.

That being said...TTYL!

Sunday, August 22, 2004

I really do wish that people would start calling me at three am on Friday nights, drunk, stoned and whatever else, just so that when I do it I don't feel so awful.

I suppose it's ok that I did though, considering the predicament I found myself in. Notice I didn't say "got myself into"; the implication of this via some people is rather insulting. After all, is it ever ok for someone to violate your personal space without your permission? Where does the line get drawn? If someone were to grab my ass in an "innocent" display of flirtation, would that be a violation? I think so, but this went beyond that. I take a rather Foucauldian approach with this matter. Perhaps the fact that our bodies seem to be controlled by institutions, rather than ourselves, we don't have the right to personal space. Or, perhaps it is the people who allow their bodies to be controlled by these things who believe that grabbing someone's ass is ok and the people who don't subscribe to institutionalized paradigms who oppose it (I think I'll develop more thoughts on this later).

Regardless, I'm bowled over that in our supposedly equal and free society there still exist men who think that, despite the resistance to advancements over the course of the night, they can put their hand in your shirt and then proceed to grab at you rather maliciously while you get up and walk away. I'm disgusted in fact and unsure as to what the answer to things like this are. Education? Quite possibly, though at some point it becomes less about what you know and more about what you want to believe. Brutal ass-kickings are also an option and I'm taking applications for "fuck you up" crew, effective immediately.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Random Musings 

Do you ever forget how much you love the Smiths? I did.

I caught myself looking at this seventeen year old kid today thinking "A few more years and you'll be pretty hot..." I feel like a dirty old man.

Why is everyone acting so strangely lately? Maybe I'm the one who is different or my perception has shifted or I'm just in the beginning stages of paranoid schizophrenia, but it seems that people's patterns of behaviour are all occurring at the same time. In the last week, certain people have been oddly pleasant to me and naturally, I have to assume that there must be some kind of conspiracy going on behind my back. Maybe I've been diagnosed with a terminal illness and no one has bothered to tell me.

Another example of things happening all at the same time are the aforementioned retro phone calls. They haven't stopped. I got one yesterday from someone I worked with when I was 14-16 and one today from someone I haven't seen since I graduated high school. Something is going on and I plan on finding out what it is. Mostly, I feel out of sorts when I get these kinds of calls because there is a part of me that feels embarrassed by the past and by the person I used to be and have worked so hard to improve. It humbles me in some regard and for that I suppose I have some resentment. Really though, I just don't want to talk to them and if they plan on following me around for the rest of my life, I must be even more charming than I thought I was.

Tonight, I'm going out. I plan on not planning or doing anything and being as spontaneous as possible. I've decided that I am in crazy, ineffable bliss at the realisation that the future is wide open. Right then...here's to no one throwing up on me.

Monday, August 16, 2004

Daydreaming When One Should Be Writing Term Papers is Bad 

I wrote an in-class essay the other day. I got it back and there was a big red A+ on it accompanied by an exclamation mark. I don't think I've ever had a perfect score on a test before and considering I spent the night before the exam fooling around downtown and intermittently pretending to study, I was a little shocked. My first reaction, of course, was to grin obnoxiously all day, tell everyone about it (with considerable ceremony) and give myself the title of 'genius' (which I still proudly claim, if truth be told). But, on re-examination I realised that this means I need to do some reorganizing in terms of the way I think about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. The reason for this is that it seems I've lost some of my zeal and respect for the institution of academia. This experience has also left me feeling like one of those irritating people who think they know everything, even though I'm painfully trying not to let it show. For instance, at this very moment I'm writing an essay on discourse. It's called 'the Discourse of Marginalization', and every time I write a particularly effective sentence, I catch myself laughing out loud. It's literally just a brief "HaHa", but confidence is preferable to egomania and I know if I witnessed someone else doing this very thing I would likely roll my eyes.

This combines with another aspect of school that has been getting me down lately. The school clones, and especially in this class (a gender class), the women who have something to prove. The prospect of going to school was exciting to me precisely because I thought I would be interacting with intelligent people with interesting things to say and original ways of saying them. Instead, all I've encountered are people who are painfully adaptable and write papers consisting of facts they pulled off the internet and quotes from dead guys. Formulaic is perhaps a better word. I'm at a loss, I don't want to master the world of the academic anymore.

Not that I was ever going to in the first place. Drama isn't really considered an 'academic' subject and most people in my classes look at me funny when I tell them my intended major. I suppose it is strange to jump through the prerequisite hoops in order to take a third year anthropology course when it hasn't anything to do with your subject of choice. But, I believe in enjoying the subject matter and I don't really care if I get a degree at the end of this or not.

It's looking like I won't. I'm exasperated and I want to spend my days writing and my nights sleeping with handsome young men. And, I want to travel. So, I've decided that I'm going to save up some money to go to Montreal. When I get to Montreal, I'm going to save up some money and go somewhere else and continue this nomadic pattern indefinitely; or, until I find a group of people who I love and who love me and who together resemble a sort of Woolf-Hemingway-Fitzgerald-esque lost generation. Yes, absinthe in Parisian squares

Sunday, August 15, 2004


I am now going to devote a blog entry to sushi, just because I have nothing better to write about at this point.

I'm confused. I'm confused as to what the big deal is about sushi, that blandest of trendy foods. Everyone I know always wants to go for sushi, it's become a kind of catch phrase, "Let's GO FOR sushi". Like they're cultured because they know how to use chopsticks and can fill out the sushi card in less than twenty minutes. What, taking in a foreign film and going to museum don't work for you anymore? You are not cool and I hope that you choke on your fucking miso.

First, let's talk about the taste. Nevermind, I already have...bland, bland, bland. Perhaps I've never had good sushi? Well, in this city that's a definite possibility. However, given the ample opportunities I've had to eat it what with the plethora of people who seem to get off on loving the stuff, I'd say I've given it a fair shake.

Secondly, the texture. This is probably what I am most turned off by. Bland is one thing, but I don't think I should put something in my mouth if it feels like a crusty wet sponge wrapped in rice.

Third, and this isn't something I can really complain about, but surely I of all people can find a way, the presentation. It's good and simplistic, like a room in an Ikea catalogue, but does anyone actually want to live in a room that sterile? And does anyone actually want to eat something that looks like it should be photographed? Of course the idea of good presentation isn't new to me. It just seems different when it's a piece of tenderloin drizzled in a deeply colored port reduction sauce rather than a piece of art. It's food.

I'm not sure why I am so bitter about this. I suppose I just wish that I could actually go out for sushi once in awhile with my friends and enjoy it. I know I'm going to get a lot of backlash for this one, this seems like something that will generate a lot of responses, this so important of issues. And yes, I realise that it's my loss so just save it ok? I hope you are all aware that the reason I think you are a part of the herd on this one is because I genuinely cannot see how you could possibly have such passion for it.

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Air-Conditioning? Ha, More Like Medieval Torture  

Isn't it funny how in a country like Canada, air-conditioning can be overused and abused as a form of torture, while in poorer, hotter countries, it is too expensive and therefore not as prevalent?

On some days it reaches thirty degrees Celsius. On these days, I don't mind a sparse supply of cool air. However, I'm not sure I understand what purpose a steady stream of freezing cold air directed at one particular point in space serves. Instead of dispersing cool air and thus lowering the temperature of the surrounding environment, it has instead left me freezing and uncomfortable. I find this air-conditioning phenomenon to be most prevalent when I get into someone's vehicle, especially SUV's which seem to make it mandatory, presumably because they are all driven by oil executives and others who equate self-actualization with the number of buttons and toys they have to play with. It never ceases to amaze me how irritating some people are with this device. For instance, the other day I was in a vehicle in fifteen degree weather. This is not hot. I was comfortable, it wasn't sweltering, it wasn't cold. That is, until jackassface decided that since it was summer, the air-conditioning was mandatory. I asked him if he was too hot; he said no.

So, in conclusion, I am begging you to stop wasting the air-conditioning. Don't you know that there are poor, hot African children who don't have any?

In other news, I've noticed that no one posts responses to these blog entries. I suspect that perhaps no one is reading the blog, however that disappoints me since I've happened upon and perused some rather uninteresting and badly written ones that seem to be getting a lot of attention. So, I am holding a vote just to encourage you all to post something, anything. Tell me, if you would be SO kind, which post until this point is your favorite. The results will be posted eventually, aka: whenever I get around to it.

Friday, August 13, 2004

The Retro Phone Call 

Do you ever get the retro phone call? These are people that have been out of your life for quite some time and haven't otherwise crossed your mind until suddenly one day the phone rings and you get to experience the joy of digging up memories that you'd been so fortunate to forget and being honestly direct without being outrightly sadistic or rude.

'Do you remember me?'
'I think so'
'What have you been doing?!!'
'Keeping out of trouble'
'Oh yeah?'
'Yes, been very hermetic'
'Wow, you sound really bored.'
'What's up?'
'That's what you always said'
'Yes, I suppose I did'
'Ha, it's like you don't want to talk to me'
'Quite honestly I could take it or leave it'
Hard swallow
'Oh, well I should let you go? then?'
'I'm sorry'
'Ok. If you ever feel like getting together, I could give you my number...'
'I have caller ID, I think it's on there'
'Ok, well...'
'Yeah, I have a term paper to write'
'Ok, bye'

I guess I shouldn't be so snide considering there are a few people I haven't talked to in quite a while that I would love to go out for a coffee with. I suppose I just always assume that there would be some kind of indication at the time of the acquaintance as to the type of feelings that are going to last for years of separation and that these feelings would be mutual. Too idealistic, I know, but why can't people like Frank Black ever make the retro phone call...why is it always people you barely knew or had no significant feelings towards or against?

So much for disappearing...

How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found 

In the last few days I have been very depressed. There isn't really any reason for it, though I suppose as usual I'm painfully dissatisfied with the way things have been and the things that aren't happening but should be. You know how it is.

So, what I did was, I decided that I needed a vacation. I decided that I just needed to disappear to a different city and not tell anyone I was going and just start over again. Meet new people, get a new cat, a new place, eat new food, watch foreign movies. Then I realised that I live in N. America and everything requires me to have money. So, what I did instead was change my msn name to How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found, just so that everyone will know that I am going to disappear, and now I'm refusing to come online or to talk to anyone. I'm sleeping and eating only when I want to and I've rented a bunch of Japanese films about love and death and I may lock myself in here and watch them all night or I may go out and wander around downtown as people play out their dramas on the way to the bar. At any rate, I will be alone, and that will be good.

The next thing I am going to do is fall in love. Not right away of course, or even with the next person I meet. Rather, this is a revelation because I was in love and to some degree still am, and when it ended we were both still waiting for something to happen. By this time though, I think life is too short to wait and think about what I feel and what it means and the fucking structure of the relationship. It should just be. And, if I continue being so cynical as to think there isn't someone out there who can make the hair on the back of my neck stand up just from walking into the room, I won't be here much longer. So, instead of dwelling over the love that I've lost, I will be receptive of the love that will be coming to me. I just need a little romance in my life right now, that's all.

This is terrible. I must now reproach myself publicly for this cheesy, feminine display. I don't know what's come over me.

It's just that there are so many people who turn thirty and give up. You know these people, the ones who had passionate affairs but have become jaded and tired and now settle for any non-smoking, conservative, slightly interesting person as long as they want to vacation in the same places and eat the same foods. This kind of satisfaction scares me and disgusts me. I also can't figure out why there are so many of these people around. If it can't last, then give me a dozen moments of passion over a lifetime of satisfaction.

I think I've been angry in the past few days as well. I think I'm still angry that I feel guilty when I say that I want someone to love me in that passionate, romantic, dramatic gestures kind of way. It's partly my fault; I suppose that my cynicism has not lended itself to grand gestures and professions, but that doesn't explain why I should feel guilt in wanting it. But, this is why disappearing feels so good; I can't feel guilt in front of strangers, they haven't assigned me with a personality yet.

Friday, August 06, 2004

On a Friday 

Today is Friday and I was thinking about Frank Black.

It was a spring night and I was out at a bar, waiting in (and wading through) a crowd of people for a drink. There were two drunken men guarding the wall behind me, loud-talking for my attention and generally causing a raucous. Thirty, balding and in a bright blue windbreaker, one of them finally got up the sobriety to leave the gracious support of the wall and attempt a conversation with me. He explained, with a fair amount of disdain, that the bar had stopped serving him (oh, really? why?) and would I be so kind as to take his money and buy he and his friend a drink? Oh, and would I like something too?

I coolly explained that I could take care of my own drinks but that I wouldn’t mind attaining his at all (in hindsight, probably not the way to go, but at the time I thought he was too drunk to bother me). At this point, I turned towards the bar, sure that he would wander back to his friend and leave me alone. However, he proceeded to talk to me, but I don’t remember what about because I don’t think it made any sense. I attempted to give him his money back and he started to explain to me that a pretty girl like me should have a guy buying her things. Lots of things. I should also have an entourage at all times. I tried to give him his money back again but gave up after another rendition. A Pixies song came on and I started singing along to it, glancing around here and there, and eventually catching the eye of someone laughing at my predicament. We kept making eye contact and communicating about the oblivious wall attendant without speaking. He was tall and thin and fucking beautiful and he started to inch closer through the crowd at the bar. When he finally reached me, buddy was still blathering in my ear, but stopped, once my new friend gave him one good look, and realised with some callousness and tragedy that he was far past his prime. He took his money and left me alone.

I think the first thing he said to me was something about the Pixies. Then we introduced ourselves. Then we spent the rest of the night talking and wandering around outside.

I think I was in school at the time, and on a Friday I decided not to go, I called up my friend, who came by for a visit. After what turned out to be a day of sex and laughter, we were lying in a naked cuddle when my mother burst into my bedroom and stood there stunned for a moment. I didn’t know what to do so I screamed, and she ran out closing the door behind her. The most painful part of all of this came when my poor friend had to leave the house, walking past both of my parents vicious stares. It was a Friday, and I forgot that people don’t work late on Fridays. On Fridays, people come home early.

I got a call a few days later. My mother came into my room and told me that there was “a Frank Black on the phone” for me. I shot her a curious grin and ended up spending a lot of time with my friend “Frank”. We got into a lot of mischief and milked what entertainment we could out of this sad excuse for a city. Eventually though, he moved to Vancouver and I lost touch with him altogether.

The point of this entry was something about regret, because I didn’t believe in regret, but I was talking to someone about it recently and I realised that I needed to have some semblance of it. Regret is “a feeling of sorrow or repentance or distress over an action or loss”. I don’t believe that you should ever feel sorrow or distress over a loss or action because it’s in the past and you have no control over it anyway. But, repentance is similar to something you do need. To never feel this thing similar to, but not repentance, is to never learn from your mistakes. I guess I could use a different word than regret or repentance, though my shitty public education must be in the way because I can’t think of one. They all seem to connote a sense of shame, suffering or conscious ethics that I can't comply with. The closest word for what I'm describing is 'qualm'. The point is, I miss all the Frank Black’s that aren’t in my life anymore and if I didn’t have any qualms about that, I’d continue just sleeping with and underappreciating people who are worth so much more.

By the way, it's been a week since someone threw up on my foot and though I've thoroughly cleaned my shoes, I still haven't mustered the courage to wear them.

Sunday, August 01, 2004

Boring Saturday Nights 

I was feeling lonely, that's why I went out. I was at home reading about Mexican transvestites, and I couldn't concentrate, and I have been so hermetic, so I decided to go and be with people. It is strange that when I go out with one particular friend, we seem to draw people towards us; it never fails. Sometimes, it pays off and I have a good time, sometimes I just get frustrated and go home.

We went to the pub and there was nowhere to sit, so we left. I hadn't wanted to drink anyway, I'd wanted a coffee and that was all. So, that's what we got and we took them to a bench and watched people stumble by. A drunken homeless man came up to us and started trying to touch my friend. It scared her, so I gave him a minimalist reaction until he got bored and walked away. Another homeless man came by, told him to leave us alone, and handed him some change. I told him to have a nice night.

Some people came by and started talking to us and we ended up going somewhere to play pool. A guy that was with us kept telling me that I should go into modeling. I told him modeling was prostitution and he seemed insulted when I did because he was one. A model, that is, not a prostitute. I didn't apologize, and there was an uncomfortable silence that was surely expected to be filled by a "just kidding" or "oh, sorry". An English guy at the table kept asking me what he had to do to date a "girl like you". I told him that I wasn't interested in anything, with anyone because of recent circumstances and he told me that was perfectly respectable and then asked me where I was staying that night all in the same breath. Thirty seconds later, his friend threw up on my foot. I hobbled to the basement with one shoe off, grimacing and cringing. I spent forty minutes washing my feet and soaking my shoes in the bathroom sink as girls came in and out, offering to beat the culprit up for me and telling me they liked my hat. We left after that and got something to eat on the way home.

Once I got home, I had to write a blog entry to keep my mind off of other things and because I think the fact that someone threw up on my foot is rather funny. I still feel dirty, I need a shower. Then I think I'll go to sleep.

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