Still waters

So last night at some fake Mex restaurant I discovered among other things that I believe without question in the Immaculate Conception and the Holy Trinity. Could be because I'd got my tax return and some other good news that morning. What was it? Something nice . . . ah, who knows. Such is the ephemeral quality of joy and BLAH BLAH BLAH.

FUCK EVERYONE TODAY.

4 star pisser, people. Last weekend Luke Duke and I were discussing the gap between most people's public personas - the face or role they create because they feel it's the most acceptable way to approach the world, in terms of their jobs, their visible interactions, their clothes, et cetera - and their actual selves. How this gap could create or facilitate a neurotic state. He sorta giggled - you know, in a manly way, giggling isn't the word, let's say he chortled - and said he doubted I was making much of an effort to give myself a neurosis by creating a widely acceptable public persona. He's probably right. I will say this though: sometimes I get really, really tired of considering other people at all. I know that sounds awful, but I get tired of them considering me too.

I have a feeling there were two types of prehistoric men - the sort who ran around in flanges like baboons, chattering and sticking their fingers up each other's asses to say hello, and the sort who sat in caves by themselves banging rocks together and humming with no-one but a pet tiger, a sexual partner, and occasional offspring to interrupt their solitude and repertoire. And the second one may have been more dominant in the incredibly unlikely combination of genetic factors that eventually produced me. Because honestly, I'm not even riding the dragon and I could still head-butt a nun this morning. I'd feel bad afterwards, though.

YURGH

Lessons learnt:

1. Making your own sugar wax and doing yourself is possible, but it’s one of those things where paying someone else is worth it. Like baking bread or cooking crystal meth. There has to be an affordable non-Oriental esthetician in the city who isn’t a total fuckwit. Maybe I should try the Greek neighborhood. Fuck it, I’ll just bite the bullet and see that expensive Russian again.
2. It always takes longer to hide your diaries than you planned, because they’re so interesting. I can’t believe I did some of the shit written there. I can’t believe I wrote some of the shit I did there. Naughty me! Naughty, silly me! It was a good time, though. Doing it, not reading it. Though reading it was interesting.

I think I’ve decided against the haircut, possibly because I’d rather spend the money paying the Russian to tear out my fur out by the roots. More likely because I’ve realized my hair looks crappy lately because of my bike, not because Alex fucked up the last cut, and getting it cut again won’t fix that. Silly of me to have doubted Alex. That’s like doubting Wonder Woman.

So I've been keeping this blog as a sort of replacement for a diary, which was a time-effective but not really perfect idea, since in a diary I can write explicitly about booty and emotions and lots of other things that'd make you all puke, gentle readers. I mean it's been a good exercise to concentrate on writing something every day that everybody can read, except maybe Mummy and Daddy, but I should really still be keeping a diary. Or should I? A quick glance through them last night demonstrated to me there are at least three people whose little hearts would break if they ever saw the contents. But then comes a monstrous sort of selfishness, I suppose, because I'd rather be able to write whatever I want then never break anybody's heart.

Gahhhhhhh.

I want McDonald's hashbrowns.

Called his uncle in Jamaica, left a message with the baker

You know, if coffee was any better, I reckon I'd marry it. 9 to 5, or in my case 9 to 5:30, is too much bloody time at work. There are far, far too many things to do in a day to be spending all that time growing like a cancer on a roll-y chair. Before next Thursday, I have to

1. Go to Ottawa for two days
2. Wax - which is more involved than a half-hour appointment, as my disgust with the lack of sugar waxing facilities in Toronto has made me look up a recipe and decide to do it myself - we're talking drugs and tears here
3. Get a haircut
4. Clean my apartment, besides the fridge. My fridge is lovely but everything else is a stinking pile
5. Buy two more bike locks
6. Have lunch with Mummy
7. Make some more weed butter
8. Finish reading about Ghengis Khan, who, as it turns out, is just FANTASTIC - I'd FAR rather make babies with him than Alexander, my old favourite.
9. A soirée with Mr. C
10. Call all the fucking people I haven't been calling because I've been too FUCKING BUSY

Because next Thursday, things get Tantric, and all I'll be good for is making lots of noise. So what I'm saying is, work is for the fucking birds. Being Mistress La Spliffe is a full-time job already. Faaaack. What to do, what to do. I've already tried the rich husband thing - that was even more work than work. Faaaaaaaaack. Now I know why people buy lottery tickets. Anybody need a grifting partner? I'm no Angelica Huston but at least I'm too lazy to murder you and abscond with our ill-gotten booty.

Hee hee hee . . . booty.

This town full of men with big mouths and no guts

I don’t feel cranky or bitchy these days, quite the opposite – honestly I feel like I’m radiating goodwill - but I know people are getting that impression. To me it just feels like I’ve finally given up suffering fools, and I swear I’m being polite about it, but people get so pissy when you call them on their shit. You know? Even when it’s things a reasonable person just can’t ignore. Anyways, onwards and upwards.

It’s a bit odd, but I’m now physically incapable of smoking cigarettes, even one or two at Italian class. I can still smoke grass, though. Even nasty old grass. Finally, my psychomology is being utilitarian, instead of just convincing me the Rat King is lurking under my bed to punish me if I stray from the tenets of my Catholic forefathers. It’s just as well though. My emotional situation is one that would have had me reaching for cigarettes a year ago, if only so I could take lots of breaks at work, and go outside, and dream, and dream, and dream . . . now I just sit at my desk and dream.

Anyways, I’m happy and all but so fucking tired of wanting time to pass. I want to savour time. I want every minute to feel absolutely fucking desirable. The gym helps. Honestly. If you do hard enough things, your muscles squeeze thinking right out of your brain. I’m going right now.

And I'll never be paroled

Ho hum. Spent the weekend in London with my cousin's family because she's great and I was neglecting family even worse than friends during the thesis. Pleasant. She has a fantastic baby that has figured out how to snap its fingers at the age of nine months; according to the parents this is exceptional behaviour and I see no reason to disbelieve them.

Otherwise, little enough to say. The problem with a situation like mine is that living in anticipation means not living all that efficiently in the present, which is one of the same drawbacks as living in recrimination, which I've also tried. I believe my plan when all this started again was to ignore it and concentrate on other things, which is not a bad strategy most of the time, but a lousy strategy when the clocks go forward and I lie awake for an extra hour. One thing is undeniable though: it's working wonders creatively . . . I never took the idea seriously before but I suppose some people, one way or another, really can be inspiring muse-y types.

I'm going to the gym and working all those pesky 'thought' things right out of my hair.

Physicalities

My body is losing weight. I'm not saying my body couldn't have stood to lose weight, or even that it can't stand to lose more. And I certainly haven't reached Lady's rate of dwindlage - bitch doesn't even have an ass anymore, fuck. By the way, I pledged to get Lady laid before the 12th. Thing is, picky bitch has her heart set on someone in another country whose phone number I don't have. Help. She likes Joaquin Phoenix too. Does anyone know how I can get her Joaquin Phoenix?

Anyways, I'm losing weight. I wore a Vietnamese chick's shirt to work yesterday, and there's no way my epic Cawasprian boobs should be fitting into anything a Vietnamese chick's boobs fit into. I'm a little concerned because weight loss and shrinking boobs are just not my idiom. It's possible that eating slightly more sensibly than usual is making me lose weight but I doubt it. I feel alright, besides increasingly infrequent coughing fits that sound and feel like my brain is coming out, the occasional stabbing sensation in my encaphawhatever, and last Saturday's dud drugs, but still somewhat concerned. Fack, I can't believe how long it takes to get an ultrasound in this dump of a national health care system.

Another thing with my body is that it's having pimples. Right now I have four. I know that may sound monumentally unimportant, but my skin has always been clear, even through my filthiest years, so four pimples is a personal best for me. I'm 27. Why do I have four pimples now, a good ten years after puberty struck set, I've cut fried foods from my regular diet and I've mastered the rudiments of personal hygiene?

Anyways. Less confusing are my bikes, now out of the shop. The mountain bike got out first. I bought it years ago when I moved to the Alps and it's been sitting in a bag since I moved here from France because I've been using my city bike. Living in a city as I do, instead of the Alps. God, that bike brings back some lovely memories - racing to Suffering Artist's house for light Camels and illicit passion, riding the handlebars to the highschool dance to buy hash while Valedictorian touched me inappropriately, and damnit, the Alps . . . I used to live, work, and fuck in the fucking foothills of the fucking Alps and this beautiful fucking mountain bike lived there with me.

That was a magical time, a kind of time every young lady needs to have in her life so whenever things get too grim, she can say "fuck this shit. I used to live in the Alps, bitch!" and then fix them. It sets a certain standard for magic. For needing a little fascination with life. It doesn't help fix the restlessness so common in people who grew up in places like where Lady and I grew up. But if I have, indeed, found someone to be restless with me, then . . . well . . . how do you thank God for something like that?

Thank you, God.

Anyways, my point is, the mountain bike is back on the road, and it makes me do naughty things because it's faaaaast and handles as beautifully as a bachelor's wanking hand. My city bike is also back on the road. Although it's a CCM, it's a great bike. I got it here in Toronto when some crappy man driver hit me while looking for a street number. I was fine, but the frame of the bike I was on was fucked. It was a cheapie, but also a present from my Daddy and covered in fantastic stickers, so I was pretty pissed. Yet mollified when the errant driver bought me the CCM. When I got it, it was the finest bike I'd ever ridden, and it's still fucking fine. It's so shocked up it feels like floating through a sea of marshmallows, light as the breeze but fast enough.

Morning sunshine

Still sailing painfully on the dragon but as I breakfast on a honey and weed butter sandwich on spelt I’ve got remarkably few things to bitch about – quick list and then I’ll move on to happy stuff:

1. Starbucks has a drink called Chantico that is faintly reminiscent of those thick Italian hot chocolates strong men’d sell their mothers for. They’re discontinuing it. Therefore, I now wish the franchise to sink into the sea. Thank you.

2. When stage directions call for a funeral pyre, red lights and dramatic poses will NOT DO. It makes the performers look like stale cafeteria fare and stops me from suspending my disbelief, which is a pain in my ass since funeral pyres are usually called for at the emotional climax of the spectacle.

That having been said, Norma last night was lovely. Looooovely. I’m going to be walking around all day doing the ‘ahhhh ahh ahhhh ah ahhhh ahh ahhhh ah ahhh ah ah ahhhh’ from “Casta Diva” until someone slaps me. So good! Because you know, I got to the opera with Miss V in one of those states where as soon as nothing is unavoidably engaging you, you start thinking naughty things in graphic detail about what you’re going to do to someone you really like. But when June Anderson went into “Casta Diva” – Bellini was smart to put that so close to the beginning because I didn’t dare take my ears off of what was happening for the rest of the show - all the smut got pushed into my unconscious where it belongs. It was so pure, and so her, too, so that singer . . . “Casta Diva” was a signature song for Maria Callas. Her rich, marble–mouth voice was perfect for it. June Anderson has a different voice –sharper – but wonderful with this song in a different way. It didn’t sound effortless when she sung it, but it didn’t need to. The effort added something. Hard to say what I mean.

Generally I like Norma a lot because it’s a very chick opera. The tenor isn’t on stage much, which I’m fine with, because, you know, tenors. Whatever. My dad can sing “Nessun dorma” to my satisfaction while he makes the pasta sauce and watches soccer, fuck. But when you get a mezzo as fine as Marianna Kulikova playing second to someone like June Anderson in an opera that’s so heavy on the ladies and features some of the nicest duets between them – not to mention a plot wherein the relationship between them is key – damn. Because they could both act, too.

Even the set was almost sufficient this time, which is something for the COC. They did a good job making it look vaguely Druidy and forbidding. But please – no more fucking heat-lamp funeral pyres, okay? That’s bullshit right there.

You make me happy when skies are grey

Yay! Charles Taylor has been arrested and sent to Sierra Leone!

The Red Dragon is on wing and it fucking hurts. I'm thinking of taking the anti-spasmodics the Italian doctor gave me for the encephawhatever that was spasming after my defense. Because cramps are like spasms, right? 'Spasm' has got to be one of the funniest-sounding words ever. Besides 'orgasm'. That's a hilarious word. Speaking of which, up until yesterday my only real opinion about the seal hunt here, which I've mentioned more than once before, is that Brigitte Bardot fakes a shitty orgasm. I try not to have an opinion about the seal hunt because I don't know enough about the situation to run a mental cost/benefit analysis regarding the cost of something infant being clubbed to death on an ice floe versus the benefit to a badly economically depressed region of clubbing infant things to death. Also, I know any opinion I allow myself to have would be unduly influenced by those awful harp seals in March of the Penguins*.

But yesterday, I found out Morissey is refusing to tour Canada until the hunt is called off, which is just fucking awesome. I have no reason to dislike the man as violently as I do, except that his voice makes me want to kill. He sings some pretty songs and the Smiths played some pretty instruments, but the voice itself – god, it's like watching someone chew on aluminum foil, I JUST WANT IT TO STOP, STOP GODDAMNIT, STOP. One of the most nightmarish things I can imagine is waking up to Morissey in my bedroom singing 'You Are My Sunshine'. I'd rather have Joe Pesci. I'd rather have fucking - fucking - Tom Sizemore singing me that shit, and the man is creepy.

Not much other news today. Reebok has issued a limited edition shoe as part of the Reebobber line that features the crown logo of Jean-Michel Basquiat. So now I fucking hate Reebok. I think the thing that finally drives me out of this job will be that reading five newspapers a day gives me too many things to fucking hate. When my mum was here, she got me a book about Ghengis Khan. Hopefully I'll like him.

*Bob Saget, most famous as a nice man on Full House and America's Funniest Home Videos and the filthiest men alive in the Aristocrats, is making a R-rated mockumentary on March of the Penguins.

People are retards

Soooo . . . I suppose I should start this entry by saying I sent yesterday's videos of Silvio Berlusconi eating snot and dry-humping some sort of civil servant to my cousin in Catania, and he thought they were fake. Whether that means he just can't believe the evidence of his eyes or thinks that someone staged those extravaganzas for the senses, I haven't yet clarified. So there you are.

Anyways, yesterday at work I learnt a new word. Sort of. "Emo". It was in this article about the new Superman movie. I guess living in moon man countries for a few years and then going on an opera binge broken only by the pretty music Lady, J*Fish, FEB, my brothers, Calisaurus’s beau, Carmen, Mr. N, KEXP Radio, and sundry sexual partners have thrown my way wasn’t the best way to keep my fingers on the throbbing pulse of the pop music classification industry. But I was really relieved to find this category, and really really relieved that Wikipedia had an entry on it to bring me up to speed, because I was confused about how to classify some of my favorite emotional songs by emotional musicians who would ‘become spontaneously and literally emotional during performances’. So here is a list of my favorite emo-type songs:

1. "My Best Friend’s Girl", from the Cars. Oh god. When Ric Ocasek really gets into it towards the end, I just want to cry along with him. She used to be - yours? And now she's dating your best friend? Fucking whore.

2. "Je t’aime moi non plus" – the Jane Birkin version, obviously, not the Brigitte Bardot version. Brigitte Bardot sounds like she’s faking the emo.

3. "It’s a Shame", from the Spinners. Oof, when they break it down, I feel ashamed. Have I been messing around with my man? I hadn't thought so - but it’s got ta be a shame!

4. "She", by Charles Aznavour. I don’t know if she’s the beauty or the beast, the famine or the feast. But damnit, he sounds so sad. I hope he figures it out.

5. "My Favourite Things", from Julie Andrews. I also always try to simply remember my favourite things when I'd prefer to stop feeling so bad.

Honestly, "emo". I swear a dominant society hasn't been this fucking stupid since the Romans were on the decline.

Anyways, since I got sick I've been trying to correct my naughtier eating habits and it's been mostly working, probably because I haven't cut out things that are actually good, like cheese or pickles. I have cut out refined sugar in my normal diet - no idea if it makes a difference or not, I think I only did it as an excuse to eat more honey. Anyways, I got sick of honey, got some blackstrap molasses, and found this article while I was trying to figure out how to store it once opened. Man, caker motherfuckers blamed everything on the Italian anarchists in those days.

Which makes one feel sort of hopeful for the future, doesn't it? I mean, today people from the Middle East are getting the shitty end of the lollipop. Maybe in forty years they'll just be standard tax-evading citizens who a few brilliant film and television directors can establish a lucrative industry on by exploiting violent or hilarious domestic stereotypes so wittily that the targetted community itself enjoys and supports it. I wonder how you say Sopranos in Arabic. Word of advice: when that day comes, don't let outside people into the industry . . . I'm still struggling to get over what Norman Jewison did to my people in Moonstruck. My fault for watching the fucker, I suppose.

You know you drive me wild

Fratelli d'Italia, l'Italia s'è desta, dell'elmo di Scipio, s'è cinta la testa. Dove'è la Vittoria?

Uhm, I think Silvio Berlusconi found it up his fucking nose. Forza Italia! My nation, the the beautiful and fertile meadow that bred half of my genetic material (the better half, according to some Anglophobes) is considering making him Prime Minister once more . . . FEB, who if he's serious is coming here soon, said he got me a deck of cards in Bologna produced by Berlusconi as a campaigning tool. As soon as he said that, of course my mind leapt to the possibilities of seeing Silvio's sweet physique gracing the face cards in various sultry poses, in greater and greater degrees of undress. My panties feel funny just thinking about it. Because, you know, whenever I watch romances, pornography, or men nailing me, I always try to imagine Silvio Berlusconi in the lead role.

Merciful god, I'm making myself nauseous. Yet strangely aroused . . .

Speaking of men I have a hard love on for, remember when I was getting all pissy about Morgan Spurlock in January? Turns out I should have got pissier. Please, enjoy the letter of explanation in which he defends himself by saying a foundation member has a McDick's franchise, as if he was viciously sticking it to the man or something. And yet the fucking bourgeois shithead was so fucking irresponsible about labour issues, which just makes me want to slap him stupid considering McDick's employees are waaaaaaaay more victimized by the franchise than some pasty-ass dillweed with a vegan chef girlfriend. Oh fuck, that little shit pisses me off.

Finally, in non-hot man news, I've been given a raise. It's a shitty raise, but it's a raise, and the director agreed to schedule an extra-contract pay review in September as well as to jack up my RSP contributions. All of which means . . . not much. I'm still waiting for Silvio to come and take me away from all this. Or at least mime humping me on the hood of a car; that'd probably be enough to get me off if I could just smell him. Oh man! Why am I teasing myself with these sweet, impossible dreams?

Bureaucracy

I watched the rest of The Office yesterday, ate honey cheese turnovers from the Indian bakers up the street, and took care of some correspondence. Very little business. Very little. Although my bikes are well on their way to dominating the streets of Toronto once more. Fucking Office. Now I'll have to watch the whole American series, and take care of even less business. I should have watched it the first time someone fell over convulsing and yelling at me for my pop-culture negligence when I told them I hadn't seen it yet. For the record, one more time, I don't have television, the economic dynamics of the North American broadcast industry make me unhappy, and up until Saturday one of the fucking consequences of that was not having seen the fucking Office, ok?

Anyways, the principal problem with this sort of thing is once in awhile people start jizzing all over a show I absolutely MUST rent on DVD, and I say yes I must indeed rent that show, and then I forget all about it until the next person comes along and jizzes all over the same show. And I never actually see the show until someone, instead of just pulling a Genesis 38, actually has a DVD and can show me a couple of episodes, like Luke Duke with the Office or Calisaurus's beau with Deadwood, by which time there is no way the reality is going to match the build-up. Although Deadwood was actually a pleasant suprise I'd never even heard of before the beau sprung it on us.

Do I sound cranky? I am, a touch. It's not as though I don't want to hear anything about anyone's opinions on television shows unless they have a DVD handy and are prepared to show it to me then and there. But I'd heard so much about the Office for so long that there was no way it was going to live up to my hopes and dreams when I finally rented it. It was funny though. I would have liked the second series to be less focussed on the manager, because all the other characters were funny too, and when you watch it straight through high as a Tibetan kite you start to resent all his airtime when you could be watching Gareth doing something funnier. And the love story was really sweet. These poor little proles trapped in a set of expectations, wanting so bad to bust out! Also it was good to watch it after driving through Slough with Rodelinda and her young man on my way back to Paris earlier this month and realizing it was an actual place. Not that there aren't a million places like that all over France and Canada and even Italy now. Slough just has the best name for it, I guess.

In other office-y news, I have a pay review today. Not sure what to expect. I just started the new job, then went on vacation, haven't come close to finishing training, and don't benefit the company with my Frenchiness anymore. But - it's a new job and I just got a master's degree so I'll feel justified in getting pissy if I don't get more money. On verra.

Business

So fed up with everything everywhere that I suppose it's time to make things happen, when really all I want to do is smoke reefer, watch more episodes of The Office (I saw my first yesterday at the gré of my shocked brother, who's one of many shocked I hadn't seen it before. What can I say but 'Two lesbians. Sisters. I'm just watching.'), and eat delicious things. Physically speaking I feel like a pillow someone's been drooling on, mentally - well - I haven't seen any more dancing robins, but it wouldn't surprise me. And my apartment is some sort of biohazard.

I'm going to clear my calendar, quarantine myself, and take care of some business; but before I do, some notes for my readers. The asiago cheese my father very kindly bought me against his better judgement was indeed deserving of being in contrariance with his better judgement. Tre Stelle's Canadian asiago doesn't deserve the prices charged for it; it doesn't even deserve the name of asiago, which at its best should be a delicate yet piquant harder cheese experience, like the Soulwax mash-up Smells like Teen Booty. This crap is bland. Asiago should be many things, but bland isn't one of them. Steer away from that shit and pay an extra five bucks to get an import.

Second note: grappa is a fine, fine drink. And a grappa drunk is a fine, fine drunk. Coming from an ethnic group that risked blindness and death on a yearly basis to produce and imbibe this stuff, I may be biased, but I'll tell you this: every time I get shitfaced with grappa, it's a happy time and the next day there are no ill effects except epic crankiness, which with a personality like mine is well-disguised. Some older people also complain of heartburn. Mmm. I wish I had some more grappa RIGHT NOW.

Mutiny

I am in a state. A state, I tell you. My snatch has shut down my brain as absolutely as punk-ass students with a totally unearned sense of entitlement shutting down France. It does this a little around this time every month, but this month it is laying into me, I think in punishment for falling back in with a man in a different time zone.

I'm sorry, Snatch. You know I'm doing this for the both of us. It hurts me more than it hurts you, et cetera.

I need drugs. I just spent 24 straight hours with my family; they're a superb, stellar family, but that alone would be reason to need drugs. Now I need strong drugs. Strong, fun drugs, that can convince my brain it's not being kicked in by my angry, angry steel-toed snatch.

UPDATE

Didn't work. The powder made my nose itchy and sneezy instead.

First day of spring

The robin. In this case, the American Robin (turdus migratorius -pfffft!), a member of the Thrush family (pfffft!); not to be confused with the European Robin (erithacus rubecula), an Old World Flycatcher that the American Robin could probably eat for lunch. They have a couple of things in common besides their bright tits: they sing superbly, and spotting one of them is incontrovertible evidence that it's springtime. Incontrovertible, damn it.

I saw a European Robin when I was staying with my winterphobic grandparents in Yorkshire, and it made their day. Good, but not too helpful to my not-living-in-Yorkshire ass. But yesterday as I was walking to analysis, I finally saw an American Robin. I looked at it. It looked at me. My Shuffle called up, "She takes my money . . . when I'm in need . . . yeah she's a trifling . . . Friend indeed . . . ah she's a gold digger . . . way over time . . . that digs on me."

The drum machine kicked in. AND I SWEAR THE FUCKING TURDUS MIGRATORIUS GOT DOWN. Bobbing its head, stepping from side to side, pecking at something. With perfect fucking rhythm. Either I'm losing my mind, or I have some bizarre sort of Beastmaster quality, or Kanye West and Jamie Foxx do.

Whichever way, happy spring, everybody!

Oh so funny

I guess it's pretty obvious, what with my overwhelming physical and emotional attraction to Trey Parker (and Matt Stone in a pinch, but I'd be thinking of Trey Parker) how I feel about the South Park/Scientology/Isaac Hayes/Tom Cruise kerfuffle. . . namely, that it's all a ploy by Paramount to fire interest in two franchises that have both peaked in terms of popularity. But a fantastic ploy. It reminded me how funny South Park is and actually made me consider getting a television so I could start watching it again. Curse you, Paramount, you clever bastards you!

Just bringing it up because of stumbling on this - pretty safe for work but with audio, so exercise caution.

Grrrrrrr . . .

Do you ever wonder if most of the massive insecurities and complexes we're hauling around are possibly no more than an ongoing, tacit plea to be reassured, because being reassured feels so good it makes up for the hours of not being able to concentrate on, oh, say, the challenges and opportunities facing the broadcast television industry when you're too busy wondering if so-and-so still wants to do naughty things with you with the same passion and energy he or she once did?

Eesh, that was a beast of an Annie Proulx of a question.

Speaking of which, last night I had my first Brokeback Mountain fight. There's a spoiler here, if you care . . . I've had discussions about the movie already with people who loooooved it, but I've been such a fucking cranky beast lately that people haven't been fighting with me. This man, however, seemed to think I was flirting with him or something, and rose to the occasion, as they do.

Sir, if I was flirting with you, you'd know.

It comes to this: with children starving across Eastern Africa, there is no way you can justify that movie being SO FUCKING LONG. I don't have a natural inclination against long movies. I can watch a Das Boot/Apocalypse Now Redux double bill two or three times in a single day with a great deal of pleasure, given enough marijuana. Because they have characters and stories and situations that need more than two hours to be expounded. The in-and-out of closet adventures of a repressed shepherd and his unrepressed boyfriend probably needed about 45 minutes to get the admittedly effecting and cathartic emotional message across. Beauty shots of mountains? Please. That's why I watched Grizzly Man.

If I sound angry, it's because I am; Last Night Boy accused me of discomfort with the idea of a gay romantic storyline at one point; at another, of being insensitive to foreshadowing after I complained about sitting there for two hours just to see Jakey get beaten to death. And of course that rode up my ass a bit. I know Jakey getting beaten to death was foreshadowed. It was just foreshadowed for TWO FUCKING HOURS IN A BORING BORING WAY.

But more seriously, there's probably a million people out there who think they've made some earth-shattering discovery with this movie about the existence of Gay Romantic Storylines, and I think it's better I just don't talk to those people anymore . . . they make me angry the same way east coast Americans do after they read their first Noam Chomsky essay and start lecturing everybody about how Israel has to get out of Palestine. Watch Lilies and get back to me, bitch . . . or not.

Man, I'm so CRANKY. I think I'm still bilious.

The only boy who could ever reach me

So yesterday the Globe and Mail made allusion to the 1996 Brit Awards, when Jarvis Cocker rushed the stage and danced his way into my heart during one of Michael Jackson's Messianic travesties. Siiiiiigh . . . which has got two things on my mind: first, why the Globe claims Jarvis Cocker briefly kidnapped one of the performers (a claim that could be why the article isn't available electronically, seems a very naughty thing to write to me - I don't think even Camp Michael ever claimed one of the performers was abducted. Naughty!); second, what the best song EVER is.

Because 'The Love You Save' from the Jackson Five is almost the best song EVER, but Germaine's backing vocals sound bored and uninvolved until about halfway through. Not to mention, there's a certain creepiness factor in little Michael Jackson singing with so much raw passion when his nuts probably hadn't descended yet.

Then there's 'Jolene' from Dolly Parton; again, perfect for what it is outside of the backing vocals, which sound like a chorus of squirrels. Fucking country music. . . then Johnny Cash's cover of U2's 'One', which is probably only hurt by the fact that it's hard to not remember Bono Vox's original yodelling when it's on. I'd throw in 'Lovely Day' from Bill Withers too . . . but with that last one I start wondering if that's a little subjective, because that song makes me feel so good personally, like being woken up by someone adorable nuzzling your legs.

Opera standards I'm not including since way too much depends on the plethora of performers who tackle them - the most beautiful thing I've ever heard was Danielle de Niese singing 'Se'l mio duol non e si forte' from Rodelinda, but there's no way I think that's the best opera standard ever. Ya know? Ya know.

So a song whose sheer fucking perfection surpasses all others could well be 'Papa was a Rolling Stone'. I mean, there's absolutely nothing in that song which isn't perfect. Very hard to put it on and not listen to the whole thing raptly, while thinking something along the lines of 'Holy shit!'

Other candidates?

Yes, I'm having a hard time concentrating at work. Good guess.

The way to a woman's heart

This super-people-oriented weekend was vividly bittersweet, as it was the first free of the thesis but the last free one for awhile - the next one is the family (but I'm still up for disco Saturday, Lady), and then a series of three weekend trips for more family and wedding showers. I have Orfeo tickets for Easter weekend - not sure Gigi will be able to make that; will you, Cali? I'm thinking that makes for a good excuse for staying in Toronto and relaxing for four days together, then celebrating Jesus's resurrection in Northern Ontario the next weekend when the chocolate goes on sale.

By relaxing I mean, of course, smoking reefer and cooking. (Although weighing instant pain against possible pain, I've switched to butter which has made my habit much more portable. . . 'It's just fortified, Daddy.') Yesterday Luke Duke and I went to Little India; I found a curry paste which has stolen my heart - Hanif's Green Masala. Before tumbling into dreamland last night I put together a dish with the pollock and vegetables I had sitting around, and it makes me want to come. I actually want to go to work just so I can wait for lunch and eat this bit of coriander-drenched paradise.

What I need, however, is some time - at least a free evening - to Spliffify the Cornish pasty. I can't really complain about Cornish pasties, they can be beautiful things, but I feel an urgent need to add to the canon. The prospect of a free evening, however, is a distant one - like next Sunday. Work's for the birds . . . for the birds, man . . . why do I work?

The only boy who could ever teach me

You know the days when you look so good you just wish to goodness you could do yourself? Yesterday was one of those days. We all need them - we need more of them. And then to share them with someone we like so much it feels like we ARE doing ourselves.

Cue Grieg's Morning Mood.

Then cue the Marseillaise. Yeah, this is the country I'm thinking of moving back to. You know, it's like Rhett Butler said; there's money to be made in the building of an empire, and money to be made in its decline. . . j'exagerre. France has always had a sulky-misfit-teenager-and-hedonistic-baby-boomer-father relationship between populace and government. And it's always been France - always will be. Plus ca change, et cetera. We all have our stupid national nonsenses. For example, in Canada we have a socialist tax burden and shitty public services. And we tolerate lunar winters.

Lady is barricaded in her hospital room like Natasha Henstridge in the Species movies. They don't fool around with that radioactive shit. Miss B is off ballroom dancing, I think. J*Fish is on the mend, and the Brunswick House is in Good Working Order. Mr. N gave me a copy of Dusty in Memphis. Still going through massive quantity of music FEB gave me. Despite being at the 'happy' week in my hormonal cycle I'm very prone to temper these days still - extremely. Not my standard passive-aggro stewing, either. But flashes of profanity and violence, quickly replaced by cat-like readiness. It's fine.

Hello beasties

That 'no-drinking' shit didn't work at Terroni's - dear oh dear. I managed to keep the fat intake low and rewarded myself with as much wine as I could hide inside my stomach, reasoning that it's the gall bladder that's the real problem, not the liver, so I should balance shit out a bit. So I did get wasted for St. Patrick's Day after all, royally wasted even, despite turning down a co-worker's drink offer with the observation that it's a bit of a silly holiday for me to celebrate since my ancestors hunted the Irish for sport.

My, how do I keep the boys at bay?

Incidentally, people who only drink Guinness on St. Patrick's Day sicken me.

Anyways, I reccomend Terroni's. The waitresses look like extras from Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a hot way, and the food was good - the cheeseless pizza I ordered with all the vegetables had too much salt to compensate, but the bresaolo was fresh and soooooo soft, served with almost moist flakes of padano. And the sweets were lovely - I only had a bit of the tiramisu because of all that evil mascarpone, but it was some of the best I've had in Toronto. The flourless chocolate cake was AWESOME. Fuck not eating fat. I ate that. Mmmmm.