Still a raging bitch - but a raging bitch sharing body space with the loving daughter of the best parents ever to spring one from the loins. Home again, home again, et cetera. It's good. My mum is also home again, home again after three weeks with her parents in England. I try to avoid talking about my personal life here, let alone my parents', but I'll say nonetheless the way they're happy to see each other after a three week seperation after a kazillion years of marriage is something fucking enviable. And I adore them. I'm the luckiest daughter in the world.
Moving on. It's Carmen's birthday tomorrow, and I just found out about it today, and she's going to Romania on Monday. I suck. Amazon, don't fail me now! Carmen, if my naughty language hasn't got you off this blog, just know I'm thinking about you and wishing you the best for the next year. Better than the best. The uber-best.
Moving on some more. Last night at the new opera house was enchanting, they did fun acoustic experiments and it's lovely, fucking lovely. Like a space ship! Except cooler! You can hear a goddamn pin drop on stage. Not to mention "Les tringles de Sistre tintaient". Eeeeeeeee! I'm already jizzing over the next season. Then I met Gigi's new boyfriend, who is damn easy on the eyes and sweet to boot. A little tense to meet me, I think - not me personally, but Gigi's acquaintance in a general sense. He'll do nicely.
And here I am. Happy. Still missing my baby, but the way I feel about him is a part of me now, and not something to make myself upset over. It's better than not missing him, let's put it like that. Now if you'll excuse me, my parents have TV, so while I wait for a massive Calabrian dinner I'm going to have yet another emotional reunion, this time with Jon Stewart.
Oh Jonnnnnnnn . . .
sabato, aprile 29, 2006
venerdì, aprile 28, 2006
The Red Dragon, she wail and she moan
Yesterday was a hard, vicious ass-pounding, and not in a fun way. By the end of it, I could have punched Kirk Douglas in the face even if he was dressed up as Spartacus. To shake it off I’m going to write my first journally entry.
I had a lousy bullshit dream about Paris - felt like I was walking through molasses outside of Marx Dormoy, everything was far apart and I knew the Swiss wasn’t far off. It made me wake up early, so I called Figaro, but he didn’t answer, which turned everything pigshitty. I made some yummy organic Fair Trade espresso and a delicious smoothie with carrots, bananas, ginger, orange, ice cubes and a touch of bourbon – that wasn’t pigshitty – but then I had to do lots of washing up, which was, and then I was running late, and had shit-all time at the gym, where the fucking rowing machine foot-straps kept going loose.
Sooooo . . . I went to work and realized I’d got fleeced for next season’s opera, uhm, abbonement, whatever you say in English, because Gigi and I are still under 29. I called to bitch, and it took them FOREVER to answer the phone and fix things. Lunch was late because I had to take care of the fucking phones, fielding calls from fucking pricks.
But then Figaro called and everything was great for the 20 minutes I was talking to him. Except he explained jet lag had kept him in bed until all hours, and not having done that with him was a kick in the nuts. BUT things kept being good when Gigi called and told me he’d got tickets for THE FIRST ORCHESTRA TUNING IN THE NEW OPERA HOUSE TONIGHT! There’ll be singers too! The first music played in the first opera house in the country, and Gigi and I will be there!
So then – who else fucked with me? That would be Mr. C, with whom I’d set a dinner date. I biked up to Davisville and realized I’m a fucking lungless shit because the hill I biked up every day when I was 21 was really hard to bike up. It was really hard then too, but I complained less. Anyways, when I arrived he hadn’t; over the phone it was apparent he was already well-lubricated on Bay, telling me he’d pay for a cab to join him. I said no - first, I was on my bike, and second, I didn’t want to. I’ve been so misanthropic that just having dinner at a friend’s house seemed like an experiment, and having a drink with the Bay clique, who have a serious addiction to ripping into each other behind each other’s back, was a re-introduction to socializing I had no inclination to participate in. Then he said he was acting like a jerk and waited for me to contradict him, but I couldn’t because he was, and then I went to a park and read a Muriel Spark book and thought about how I wanted to punch everybody in the world in the head.
Went home, smoked a bowl, roasted some spring potatoes and carrots, smoked another bowl, and finished the Muriel Spark book. You know, reading that over, the content really it wasn’t all that bad. The Red Dragon and sweetie-missing are wreaking havoc with my mood. I’m going to the fucking awards show now and put up with all the fucking marketing ‘creatives’, as commercial copywriters call themselves. The gross thing about those people is you can tell they really, really wish that instead of writing commercials they were writing sitcom scripts. Disgusting. But - then I’m going to make history at the new Opera House – eeeeeeeeeeeee! And then see my mum, back from England. Eeeeeeeeeeee! And then up north for the weekend. It will be pretty now – I’m looking forward to it, for once.
I had a lousy bullshit dream about Paris - felt like I was walking through molasses outside of Marx Dormoy, everything was far apart and I knew the Swiss wasn’t far off. It made me wake up early, so I called Figaro, but he didn’t answer, which turned everything pigshitty. I made some yummy organic Fair Trade espresso and a delicious smoothie with carrots, bananas, ginger, orange, ice cubes and a touch of bourbon – that wasn’t pigshitty – but then I had to do lots of washing up, which was, and then I was running late, and had shit-all time at the gym, where the fucking rowing machine foot-straps kept going loose.
Sooooo . . . I went to work and realized I’d got fleeced for next season’s opera, uhm, abbonement, whatever you say in English, because Gigi and I are still under 29. I called to bitch, and it took them FOREVER to answer the phone and fix things. Lunch was late because I had to take care of the fucking phones, fielding calls from fucking pricks.
But then Figaro called and everything was great for the 20 minutes I was talking to him. Except he explained jet lag had kept him in bed until all hours, and not having done that with him was a kick in the nuts. BUT things kept being good when Gigi called and told me he’d got tickets for THE FIRST ORCHESTRA TUNING IN THE NEW OPERA HOUSE TONIGHT! There’ll be singers too! The first music played in the first opera house in the country, and Gigi and I will be there!
So then – who else fucked with me? That would be Mr. C, with whom I’d set a dinner date. I biked up to Davisville and realized I’m a fucking lungless shit because the hill I biked up every day when I was 21 was really hard to bike up. It was really hard then too, but I complained less. Anyways, when I arrived he hadn’t; over the phone it was apparent he was already well-lubricated on Bay, telling me he’d pay for a cab to join him. I said no - first, I was on my bike, and second, I didn’t want to. I’ve been so misanthropic that just having dinner at a friend’s house seemed like an experiment, and having a drink with the Bay clique, who have a serious addiction to ripping into each other behind each other’s back, was a re-introduction to socializing I had no inclination to participate in. Then he said he was acting like a jerk and waited for me to contradict him, but I couldn’t because he was, and then I went to a park and read a Muriel Spark book and thought about how I wanted to punch everybody in the world in the head.
Went home, smoked a bowl, roasted some spring potatoes and carrots, smoked another bowl, and finished the Muriel Spark book. You know, reading that over, the content really it wasn’t all that bad. The Red Dragon and sweetie-missing are wreaking havoc with my mood. I’m going to the fucking awards show now and put up with all the fucking marketing ‘creatives’, as commercial copywriters call themselves. The gross thing about those people is you can tell they really, really wish that instead of writing commercials they were writing sitcom scripts. Disgusting. But - then I’m going to make history at the new Opera House – eeeeeeeeeeeee! And then see my mum, back from England. Eeeeeeeeeeee! And then up north for the weekend. It will be pretty now – I’m looking forward to it, for once.
giovedì, aprile 27, 2006
The Red Dragon is gonna cap some bitch . . .
According to a tescodiets.com survey (the website is hilarious – they still promote Atkins which NO ONE promotes anymore besides J*Fish and fresh grocery retailers), 95% of women would rather be slim than have significantly higher IQs. 51% would rather be slim than BOTH never have to worry about money again AND nail the celebrity of their choice. 23% of women spend more time worrying about their weight than their family, and 35% worry about it more than their finances.
Bitches.
WE SUCK.
STOP SUCKING, BITCHES.
If a man wants you all bony he should be doing other men, with their scrawny little bandy legs and flat asses, or else whacking off to Asian cartoons. And if you want yourself all bony, you’re sick.
Bitches.
Bitches.
WE SUCK.
STOP SUCKING, BITCHES.
If a man wants you all bony he should be doing other men, with their scrawny little bandy legs and flat asses, or else whacking off to Asian cartoons. And if you want yourself all bony, you’re sick.
Bitches.
mercoledì, aprile 26, 2006
The Red Dragon sits and sips her opium tea
Since Figaro left I’ve been willing to punch myself in the face for a cigarette. But I shan’t. I’ll lose my fucking mind instead. Here are my notes from yesterday’s breakfast conference:
Engagement not numbers
Guerilla
47% of it on specialty
No bullshit – too easy
Shower parties
Phil, oh Phil
Mao Zedong
P. Diddy
What – Confucius now
What we are hearing – 4000
Pissing soccer
Where’s my television
Eggs eggs eggs
One big eyebrow, like Best in Show haha
It smells like fart
I LOVE LUCY
What is shocking about these is that a part of them was an honest attempt to translate the presentations into coherent notes, which as you see resulted in a series of – nothing. Madness, and you can’t even tell where the insanity stopped being theirs and started being mine. Even if I had a scanner and you could see the beeee-youtiful pictures I drew of happy trolls on my notes, you still wouldn’t be able to tell where I’d snapped. AND there were no pains au chocolat.
My industry is a disease.
Not much else to tell you this morning. Yesterday my analyst and I started discussing my real problem. He says it will take me years to train myself out of it, and I just want him to make it go away now, because I'm paying him and I'm fucking broke, broke, broke, fuck. And in the morning I ordered L’Histoire de Melody Nelson to Figaro’s place in Italy since no fucker in Canada, including Amazon and eBay, seems to have it and as I should be being fiscally responsible it seemed the thing to avoid trans-Atlantic shipping charges. Also I think he’d like it because it’s fucking awesome. Anyways, what the fuck is up with no fucker here having that album? Canada is full of French people who should have that record on constant fucking spin, like Anglos do with the Beatles or something.
I’d still punch myself in the face for a fucking cigarette.
Engagement not numbers
Guerilla
47% of it on specialty
No bullshit – too easy
Shower parties
Phil, oh Phil
Mao Zedong
P. Diddy
What – Confucius now
What we are hearing – 4000
Pissing soccer
Where’s my television
Eggs eggs eggs
One big eyebrow, like Best in Show haha
It smells like fart
I LOVE LUCY
What is shocking about these is that a part of them was an honest attempt to translate the presentations into coherent notes, which as you see resulted in a series of – nothing. Madness, and you can’t even tell where the insanity stopped being theirs and started being mine. Even if I had a scanner and you could see the beeee-youtiful pictures I drew of happy trolls on my notes, you still wouldn’t be able to tell where I’d snapped. AND there were no pains au chocolat.
My industry is a disease.
Not much else to tell you this morning. Yesterday my analyst and I started discussing my real problem. He says it will take me years to train myself out of it, and I just want him to make it go away now, because I'm paying him and I'm fucking broke, broke, broke, fuck. And in the morning I ordered L’Histoire de Melody Nelson to Figaro’s place in Italy since no fucker in Canada, including Amazon and eBay, seems to have it and as I should be being fiscally responsible it seemed the thing to avoid trans-Atlantic shipping charges. Also I think he’d like it because it’s fucking awesome. Anyways, what the fuck is up with no fucker here having that album? Canada is full of French people who should have that record on constant fucking spin, like Anglos do with the Beatles or something.
I’d still punch myself in the face for a fucking cigarette.
South Park
I've been on a bit of a South Park Binge lately - Figaro had wanted to do some catch-up as he lives in a land that gets its televised chuckles from Silvio Berlusconi's plastic surgery, and the Paramount/Viacom/Comedy Central/Scientology publicity stunt worked its magic on me. And what a welcome publicity stunt it was.
Too many of us have the early seasons of South Park lodged in our heads - the Chef Aid, shitty cameo, predictable, hah-hah-the-animation-is-so-crappy seasons that stayed on the air because of all the fat Americans who emotionally indentified with Eric Cartman's wish to kick everybody in the nuts. All the dumbfuck Americans who got up in arms because they wanted to know who Eric's daddy was to the degree that they were unable to appreciate - indeed, violently objected to that peice of broadcast genius, Not Without My Anus. Back in the day when episodes like Mecha-Streisand were few and far between and it was obvious to the dullest observer that the show's writers were being bitched around by a nervous production and broadcast team.
I think it was the movie. After the movie, I don't know what the increase in the show's ratings was and how much creative leverage that gave the writers. I just like to think its success equipped Trey Parker and Matt Stone with great big sets of arrogant iron balls. But in any case all of a sudden the 4th season is solidly, unbrokenly awesome.
Then I left the country for years.
And then they attacked Scientology, vague rumours swept around the world, Isaac Hayes maybe-quit, and here I am again. Loving South Park. Now I have to go to the Four Seasons for some breakfast conference about how to make people my age buy stuff. They'd better have those little pains au chocolat, or I'm falling asleep in protest.
Too many of us have the early seasons of South Park lodged in our heads - the Chef Aid, shitty cameo, predictable, hah-hah-the-animation-is-so-crappy seasons that stayed on the air because of all the fat Americans who emotionally indentified with Eric Cartman's wish to kick everybody in the nuts. All the dumbfuck Americans who got up in arms because they wanted to know who Eric's daddy was to the degree that they were unable to appreciate - indeed, violently objected to that peice of broadcast genius, Not Without My Anus. Back in the day when episodes like Mecha-Streisand were few and far between and it was obvious to the dullest observer that the show's writers were being bitched around by a nervous production and broadcast team.
I think it was the movie. After the movie, I don't know what the increase in the show's ratings was and how much creative leverage that gave the writers. I just like to think its success equipped Trey Parker and Matt Stone with great big sets of arrogant iron balls. But in any case all of a sudden the 4th season is solidly, unbrokenly awesome.
Then I left the country for years.
And then they attacked Scientology, vague rumours swept around the world, Isaac Hayes maybe-quit, and here I am again. Loving South Park. Now I have to go to the Four Seasons for some breakfast conference about how to make people my age buy stuff. They'd better have those little pains au chocolat, or I'm falling asleep in protest.
martedì, aprile 25, 2006
So . . .
Check out these charming motherfuckers.
Muriel Spark is dead, the Economist tells me. The Economist has the best obituaries. Fame and notoriety are only attractive for the poontang they’d help me score and I haven’t thought it worthwhile to think out a disposal plan for my corpse – I suppose I could get four or five more cats and just have them eat me – but I have to admit I’m partial to the idea of getting an obituary in the Economist. Anyways, she died, and I’m sad about it. She was pretty old when she died, but she was writing her tight little beauties of books and stories until the end. Imagine being all clever and shit like that. I have a massive soft spot for Muriel Spark because I came to her books recently and found that her style was just what I always wanted to have when writing fiction, which is so inspiring – to have an ideal in mind and then actually know it can be done.
Originality? Please. I’m a child of the 90’s. I was the demographic that got inundated with crazy airplay about Len not wanting me to steal his sunshine and that wished the singer would shut the fuck up so I could hear that cute little duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh in the voiceless bridge that I was too young to realize they’d ripped whole from the Andrea True Connection.
In other news, I’m looking hard into returningeth to thee olde countrees now. It isn’t just Figaro – the last two weeks were a vacation and we still don’t know our asses from our elbows. It’s also a lust for a bike-friendly lifestyle and unpasteurized cheese. And all the sweethearts there who I miss. Miss you, miss you, miss you. Nonetheless, if I go anytime soon, I’ll need to know it’s for MONEY. Big, fat money. I don’t mind doing more office work for awhile if there’s fat, stinking, oily scads of cash involved. It would be absolutely fascinating to have filthy, obscene wads of money and see what I blew it on.
Muriel Spark is dead, the Economist tells me. The Economist has the best obituaries. Fame and notoriety are only attractive for the poontang they’d help me score and I haven’t thought it worthwhile to think out a disposal plan for my corpse – I suppose I could get four or five more cats and just have them eat me – but I have to admit I’m partial to the idea of getting an obituary in the Economist. Anyways, she died, and I’m sad about it. She was pretty old when she died, but she was writing her tight little beauties of books and stories until the end. Imagine being all clever and shit like that. I have a massive soft spot for Muriel Spark because I came to her books recently and found that her style was just what I always wanted to have when writing fiction, which is so inspiring – to have an ideal in mind and then actually know it can be done.
Originality? Please. I’m a child of the 90’s. I was the demographic that got inundated with crazy airplay about Len not wanting me to steal his sunshine and that wished the singer would shut the fuck up so I could hear that cute little duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh in the voiceless bridge that I was too young to realize they’d ripped whole from the Andrea True Connection.
In other news, I’m looking hard into returningeth to thee olde countrees now. It isn’t just Figaro – the last two weeks were a vacation and we still don’t know our asses from our elbows. It’s also a lust for a bike-friendly lifestyle and unpasteurized cheese. And all the sweethearts there who I miss. Miss you, miss you, miss you. Nonetheless, if I go anytime soon, I’ll need to know it’s for MONEY. Big, fat money. I don’t mind doing more office work for awhile if there’s fat, stinking, oily scads of cash involved. It would be absolutely fascinating to have filthy, obscene wads of money and see what I blew it on.
lunedì, aprile 24, 2006
V for vaaaaaaaaapid
In the efforts to find something non-snivelly to write about, I saw V for Vendetta. I saw it stoned, on IMAX. And it still sucked. I mean, I wasn't considering getting up and walking out or anything, but it was a waste of Hugo Weaving, John Hurt, and a really topical subject. Adaptations are getting old. Couldn't someone have written thier own bloody kazillion dollar movie script about totalitarianism and why it's a bad thing? Or just re-shot 1984 and tacked on a happy ending about how the proles revolted because they wanted to be middle class?
Geez, it was a big old snore. And alot of the conceits that probably looked great in a graphic novel, like a V-alliterative introductory speech that lasted for about 90 seconds, sounded dumb in a movie. Still, Hugo Weaving pulled it off. Hugo Weaving has a tendency to be the best thing in shit movies these days. I expect it's for the money, but it must feel good too. Proof was a great movie all around, though, and he was still lovely in that.
Geez, it was a big old snore. And alot of the conceits that probably looked great in a graphic novel, like a V-alliterative introductory speech that lasted for about 90 seconds, sounded dumb in a movie. Still, Hugo Weaving pulled it off. Hugo Weaving has a tendency to be the best thing in shit movies these days. I expect it's for the money, but it must feel good too. Proof was a great movie all around, though, and he was still lovely in that.
domenica, aprile 23, 2006
Exit the man, enter the dragon
Figaro is gone back to Italy, and if you want to know how I'm feeling, read my autobiography in five to ten years. Because how shit I feel will take up at least a paragraph of it, as he was replaced almost by the minute with the Red Dragon. Anyhoo. Whine whine. We had a lovely vacation, the future is pregnant with possibilities, and I'm not pregnant at all. Wheeeeeeeeee!
I'm trying to keep myself busy - in the 4 hours since I left him at the aeroport I've updated my resumé, hassled the woman's shelter that was all lazy about getting back to Lady about volunteering, done laundry, read about psycholinguistics, taped up flyers for a thing . . . I suppose I should link it here if I'm willing to tape up flyers for it in the fucking shitty-ass rain . . . and that's all, really. I don't want to talk to people right now. People make Mistress La Spliffe cry. I just want to finish typing this, eat weed butter on chala toast, snivel, and read about psycholinguistics.
I suppose I should mention that I also got some comfort food from the Indian baker's. I got the poppyseed roll, which is not my favourite item from there in general but it is my favourite comfort food. It has an obscene amount of poppyseed. I mean obscene. Sometimes more poppyseed than pastry. And it really doesn't taste that great, but it makes me feel pretty good. I wonder if eating all those poppyseeds actually does something for people.
I'm trying to keep myself busy - in the 4 hours since I left him at the aeroport I've updated my resumé, hassled the woman's shelter that was all lazy about getting back to Lady about volunteering, done laundry, read about psycholinguistics, taped up flyers for a thing . . . I suppose I should link it here if I'm willing to tape up flyers for it in the fucking shitty-ass rain . . . and that's all, really. I don't want to talk to people right now. People make Mistress La Spliffe cry. I just want to finish typing this, eat weed butter on chala toast, snivel, and read about psycholinguistics.
I suppose I should mention that I also got some comfort food from the Indian baker's. I got the poppyseed roll, which is not my favourite item from there in general but it is my favourite comfort food. It has an obscene amount of poppyseed. I mean obscene. Sometimes more poppyseed than pastry. And it really doesn't taste that great, but it makes me feel pretty good. I wonder if eating all those poppyseeds actually does something for people.
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