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.
sabato, aprile 01, 2006
venerdì, marzo 31, 2006
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.
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.
giovedì, marzo 30, 2006
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.
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.
mercoledì, marzo 29, 2006
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.
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.
martedì, marzo 28, 2006
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?
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?
lunedì, marzo 27, 2006
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.
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.
domenica, marzo 26, 2006
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.
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.
sabato, marzo 25, 2006
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.
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.
venerdì, marzo 24, 2006
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!
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!
mercoledì, marzo 22, 2006
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.
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.
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.
martedì, marzo 21, 2006
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.
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.
lunedì, marzo 20, 2006
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?
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?
sabato, marzo 18, 2006
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.
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.
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.
venerdì, marzo 17, 2006
Wuthering Mountain
Brokeback Mountain would have been lovely and emotionally cathartic if edited down to 45 minutes. As it is, Wuthering Heights it ain’t. It bored me senseless. I cried when he sniffed the shirt, though. How come the way they smell always sticks to the shirt collars like that? Why do the backs of their necks smell so . . . damn . . . good when you love them?
I really liked the Shipping News, loved it even, to the degree that I refused to see the movie. And I thought, since Brokeback Mountain was beautiful despite being so fucking boring, the original short story by the same author would be a nice thing to read. Then I read her Guardian rant. Look at this beauty of a sentence:
"The prize, as expected, went to Philip Seymour Hoff-man for his brilliant portrayal of Capote, but in the months preceding the awards thing, there has been little discussion of acting styles and various approaches to character development by this year's nominees."
Also she uses the metaphor ‘yeasty ferment’ for something which has nothing to do with alchohol or infections, and she uses ‘lighted’ as a past participle - not strictly wrong but makes me want to vomit nonetheless.
Maybe she was just too pissy to read over what she wrote? Please?
Onwards and upwards. So I remember talking to someone awhile ago , someone whose opinion I've essentially worshipped my entire life (so let's call him Magnum P.I.), about online dating. I said it was a lousy idea because the artificiality of the forum wouldn't let you get to know someone the way I believed you need to for something really nice to come about. Magnum contradicted me. I'm not much of a one for being contradicted and I had been oh-so-sure of what I was talking about, but the reality of Magnum having that belief made me revise my entire outlook on online dating in seconds, from 'that shit can't work' to 'that shit probably works for people in thier thirties'.
Last night the same sort of radical overhaul of an opinion happened in analysis. We did an imaginal exercise involving being seven years old, and it worked. Not just, it felt nice, it felt liberating, it felt helpful - it worked. And now I'm going to be very impatient with people who are skeptical about such exercises, although two days ago I would have been skeptical myself. So this is probably the last time I write here about what goes on in analysis, because now there's too much room for emotion in terms of how I deal with people's reactions. But just to let you know . . . that shit works.
Not much other news. Miss B is coming this evening, haven't even seen her in years, that should be nice, we have reservations at a nice little Italian place. The weather is good enough for my cat to go outside hunting again, and I'm in a cracking fine mood. Good news seems to be coming from many quarters, for many people. I love spring.
I really liked the Shipping News, loved it even, to the degree that I refused to see the movie. And I thought, since Brokeback Mountain was beautiful despite being so fucking boring, the original short story by the same author would be a nice thing to read. Then I read her Guardian rant. Look at this beauty of a sentence:
"The prize, as expected, went to Philip Seymour Hoff-man for his brilliant portrayal of Capote, but in the months preceding the awards thing, there has been little discussion of acting styles and various approaches to character development by this year's nominees."
Also she uses the metaphor ‘yeasty ferment’ for something which has nothing to do with alchohol or infections, and she uses ‘lighted’ as a past participle - not strictly wrong but makes me want to vomit nonetheless.
Maybe she was just too pissy to read over what she wrote? Please?
Onwards and upwards. So I remember talking to someone awhile ago , someone whose opinion I've essentially worshipped my entire life (so let's call him Magnum P.I.), about online dating. I said it was a lousy idea because the artificiality of the forum wouldn't let you get to know someone the way I believed you need to for something really nice to come about. Magnum contradicted me. I'm not much of a one for being contradicted and I had been oh-so-sure of what I was talking about, but the reality of Magnum having that belief made me revise my entire outlook on online dating in seconds, from 'that shit can't work' to 'that shit probably works for people in thier thirties'.
Last night the same sort of radical overhaul of an opinion happened in analysis. We did an imaginal exercise involving being seven years old, and it worked. Not just, it felt nice, it felt liberating, it felt helpful - it worked. And now I'm going to be very impatient with people who are skeptical about such exercises, although two days ago I would have been skeptical myself. So this is probably the last time I write here about what goes on in analysis, because now there's too much room for emotion in terms of how I deal with people's reactions. But just to let you know . . . that shit works.
Not much other news. Miss B is coming this evening, haven't even seen her in years, that should be nice, we have reservations at a nice little Italian place. The weather is good enough for my cat to go outside hunting again, and I'm in a cracking fine mood. Good news seems to be coming from many quarters, for many people. I love spring.
giovedì, marzo 16, 2006
Health Whinge
Give me fat. GIVE ME FAT. PLEASE. BIG FUCKING SPOONFULS OF IT.
FEB and I had a lunchtime talk about the sort of foodfight I'd like to have to celebrate my next birthday. Big handfuls of fatty, greasy food, smeared all over the place.
Hey, look at this: bilious. That's meeeee! I'm bilious! The 'peevish' bit fits especially well. I cannot stand even the most minor stupidities today - but I swear I go looking for them - straight to the people, magazines, newspapers, and websites that are guaranteed to be stupidest. But I think that's excess tension I need an outlet for, and it's from missing the fat, more than from whatever has happened to my bilious organs, or my body from the surfeit of bile coursing through it.
Here is a description of what is happening (this is obviously because I'm swimming in my own estrogen and obesity; a walking Venus of Willendorf. You know, they fill teen magazines with pictures of the Venus of Willendorf so all the young chicks aspire to it, BUT THEY NEVER TELL YOU THE HEALTH RISKS) and what I have to eat. J*Fish is under the weather again - if I had to choose between his or Lady's afflictions and gallstones, I obviously choose gallstones, hands down.
But I really like fat.
I LIKE FRIED THINGS.
I WANT A BLUE . . . BLOODY . . . STEAK. NOW.
FEB and I had a lunchtime talk about the sort of foodfight I'd like to have to celebrate my next birthday. Big handfuls of fatty, greasy food, smeared all over the place.
Hey, look at this: bilious. That's meeeee! I'm bilious! The 'peevish' bit fits especially well. I cannot stand even the most minor stupidities today - but I swear I go looking for them - straight to the people, magazines, newspapers, and websites that are guaranteed to be stupidest. But I think that's excess tension I need an outlet for, and it's from missing the fat, more than from whatever has happened to my bilious organs, or my body from the surfeit of bile coursing through it.
Here is a description of what is happening (this is obviously because I'm swimming in my own estrogen and obesity; a walking Venus of Willendorf. You know, they fill teen magazines with pictures of the Venus of Willendorf so all the young chicks aspire to it, BUT THEY NEVER TELL YOU THE HEALTH RISKS) and what I have to eat. J*Fish is under the weather again - if I had to choose between his or Lady's afflictions and gallstones, I obviously choose gallstones, hands down.
But I really like fat.
I LIKE FRIED THINGS.
I WANT A BLUE . . . BLOODY . . . STEAK. NOW.
Staying Alive
I always figured myself for a passionate person, but maybe I'm not. There's a funny thing to think. There are alot of emotions I'm unwilling to demonstrate. Jealousy is one of them. I'm not saying that to prop myself, because I have a feeling jealousy is important, a good marker of how much you care for someone; the best evidence for that is the people who get upset when you don't get jealous, I suppose. What can I say - if you want me, try to get me, if you want someone else, then chase that beautiful butterfly and get your mopey face out of mine. Is this supposed to make me angry?
I guess it should, actually - the one time I was left for someone else it depressed me so bad I couldn't get out of bed for days, and the one time I was conscious of a friend 'replacing' me (a phenomenon that's been on my mind since reading Lady's archives and realizing there was one day shortly after I moved back from Europe she thought I was her formally-educated replacement - you silly monkey - and I don't look like you, I look about three times Jewier) I calmly hooked up with her ex boyfriend - a nice vicious OPEN bout of jealous rage would have been faster and easier for all concerned.
But I'm cool. I'm SO cool. Too cool? . . .
Frigid?
You can tell by the way I use my walk.
No matter what happens, the next few months are going to have 4-dimensional emotional puzzles in them. Do I solve them with cold, calculating rationality? Do I hack through them like a petulant Farrell-esque Alexander at the Gordian knot? I don't know. And this morning, I'm happy to not know. One thing I do know is a reason to not watch medical dramas. I saw Grey's Anatomy at Lady's last Sunday while locked out of my flat, and it featured a staph infection; staph infections got a write-up in one of the papers I had to read for work, and now I have a little hive-y thing on the back of my hand which could be the first mosquito bite of the season, could be a badly-placed bit of uncharacteristic acne - OR COULD BE A STAPH INFECTION. My hockey career could be over before it even began.
I guess it should, actually - the one time I was left for someone else it depressed me so bad I couldn't get out of bed for days, and the one time I was conscious of a friend 'replacing' me (a phenomenon that's been on my mind since reading Lady's archives and realizing there was one day shortly after I moved back from Europe she thought I was her formally-educated replacement - you silly monkey - and I don't look like you, I look about three times Jewier) I calmly hooked up with her ex boyfriend - a nice vicious OPEN bout of jealous rage would have been faster and easier for all concerned.
But I'm cool. I'm SO cool. Too cool? . . .
Frigid?
You can tell by the way I use my walk.
No matter what happens, the next few months are going to have 4-dimensional emotional puzzles in them. Do I solve them with cold, calculating rationality? Do I hack through them like a petulant Farrell-esque Alexander at the Gordian knot? I don't know. And this morning, I'm happy to not know. One thing I do know is a reason to not watch medical dramas. I saw Grey's Anatomy at Lady's last Sunday while locked out of my flat, and it featured a staph infection; staph infections got a write-up in one of the papers I had to read for work, and now I have a little hive-y thing on the back of my hand which could be the first mosquito bite of the season, could be a badly-placed bit of uncharacteristic acne - OR COULD BE A STAPH INFECTION. My hockey career could be over before it even began.
mercoledì, marzo 15, 2006
Ho hum
So yesterday I kept thinking I could feel spring in the air, and then looked out the window to see CRAP that eventually turned into CRAPPY SNOW. This has been the warmest Canadian winter on record and at no point during it did I shut my face about how fucking cold it was. I have no choice but to emigrate – it’s either that or have my ass kicked regularly as the planet starts to really suffer from global warming and I let my SUV idle on the curb just to speed things along a little. I don’t think I’ll be happy until I live in a climate where I can walk around all year in a – what do you call those sheets Polynesian chicks wrap themselves in? – you know, one of those. The irony of that being Polynesia will probably be swallowed by the ocean by the time I could do that anywhere I’m likely to live.
You know, if God was really looking out for us, he’d have made our capitalist-pig-excess-fuck-ups result in global cooling rather than warming. I bet you’d get some pretty goddamn fast industrial action from executive classes everywhere, even in the petrol and automotive industries, if their trophy wives or rent boys had to conceal their flauntable assets to avoid frost damage. Not to mention from we the consumers. Right now we can imagine global warming is only going to really impact society after we reach the age that we’ve promised ourselves the indulgence of a heroin addiction and will have to live rough anyways; but when it’s cold it’s TOO FUCKING COLD RIGHT AWAY.
Sadly, God only helps those who help themselves. Whoever those noble souls are. Probably the executive class.
Still reading North and South on, as mentioned, Miss C's reccomendation. Oh god, there are two important Miss C’s. Okay, opera pseudonyms – Rodelinda for Oxford Miss C, and Carmen for Paris Miss C - twee enough to annoy them both, but likely to stick in my mind since I've listened to Handel and Bizet with each of them variously. Anyways, I'm still reading North and South. I like having books reccommended not just for themselves but for what they tell you about the person who reccommends them.
The puzzle I'm examining now as I read is why Rodelinda dislikes both Charlotte and Emily Bronte - who I reckon have little enough in common besides creating flawed but eventually fully believable heroines and messy but visually evocative narrative passages - but enjoys their contemporary Elizabeth Gaskell. Who is also messy, whose writing is less visual, whose heroine is less believable, but seems to have, so far, a much deeper grounding in the historical context. (Don't get defensive, Bronte/Gaskell fans - as far as I'm concerned, messy writing is great - if all Western classics were written with the tidy precision of Henry James or Ernest Hemingway, I'd shoot myself or buy a television.) I guesss it's not rocket science, as Rodelinda is doing a doctorate in history, and not English literature. Anyways.
You know, if God was really looking out for us, he’d have made our capitalist-pig-excess-fuck-ups result in global cooling rather than warming. I bet you’d get some pretty goddamn fast industrial action from executive classes everywhere, even in the petrol and automotive industries, if their trophy wives or rent boys had to conceal their flauntable assets to avoid frost damage. Not to mention from we the consumers. Right now we can imagine global warming is only going to really impact society after we reach the age that we’ve promised ourselves the indulgence of a heroin addiction and will have to live rough anyways; but when it’s cold it’s TOO FUCKING COLD RIGHT AWAY.
Sadly, God only helps those who help themselves. Whoever those noble souls are. Probably the executive class.
Still reading North and South on, as mentioned, Miss C's reccomendation. Oh god, there are two important Miss C’s. Okay, opera pseudonyms – Rodelinda for Oxford Miss C, and Carmen for Paris Miss C - twee enough to annoy them both, but likely to stick in my mind since I've listened to Handel and Bizet with each of them variously. Anyways, I'm still reading North and South. I like having books reccommended not just for themselves but for what they tell you about the person who reccommends them.
The puzzle I'm examining now as I read is why Rodelinda dislikes both Charlotte and Emily Bronte - who I reckon have little enough in common besides creating flawed but eventually fully believable heroines and messy but visually evocative narrative passages - but enjoys their contemporary Elizabeth Gaskell. Who is also messy, whose writing is less visual, whose heroine is less believable, but seems to have, so far, a much deeper grounding in the historical context. (Don't get defensive, Bronte/Gaskell fans - as far as I'm concerned, messy writing is great - if all Western classics were written with the tidy precision of Henry James or Ernest Hemingway, I'd shoot myself or buy a television.) I guesss it's not rocket science, as Rodelinda is doing a doctorate in history, and not English literature. Anyways.
martedì, marzo 14, 2006
You might think I'm crazy, but I'm still in love with you
Feeling better about being back now that I’m in my apartment and seeing my beautiful, lovely Lexie cat again. Oh, with her darling twitchy ears and constant demands for attention. So cheerful now I think I'm ready to stop being angry with Little G for fucking me over with the keys. Also, there's no trace of the films that the poor rental place left all those messages with me about. Hopefully she brought them back - but if there are late charges waiting for me . . . no, no, time to chill and be happy. Things are quite, quite happy at the moment. Quite happy!
Gross big pile of mail when I finally got in – besides delicious and nutritious cheques and some back issues of the Economist, rien d’interet sauf invitations for Miss T’s shower and wedding. Some Ottawa/Montréal action approaching in the future then. I suppose it had to come sometime. Miss T’s young man is a mathematician. Apart from Miss S, I don’t know any mathematicians; certainly I don’t know any boy mathematicians. To hear some girls talk, they’re the ultimate antidote to the cosmetics culture our physical insecurities keep in motion; apparently you don’t even have to wash your hair, and they gaze at you like a 14 year old vegetarian at frying bacon. Mmmm. Bacon.
Anyways, seems like everyone is getting married or procreating or something these days, loads of ladies at work have one in the oven; yesterday we had a ‘baby shower’ over lunch for the HR/admin head, who is due to pop any moment. You know who catered it? Swiss Chalet.
Swiss Chalet sucks.
Food in Canada can suck. I mean SUCK. I miss Italy. I miss France. I even miss Oxford. Yeah, you read that right. I even miss Oxford. At least they had clotted cream and lemon curd. Mmm, and gingersnaps and fresh plump raspberries. Mmmmmmmm.
Gross big pile of mail when I finally got in – besides delicious and nutritious cheques and some back issues of the Economist, rien d’interet sauf invitations for Miss T’s shower and wedding. Some Ottawa/Montréal action approaching in the future then. I suppose it had to come sometime. Miss T’s young man is a mathematician. Apart from Miss S, I don’t know any mathematicians; certainly I don’t know any boy mathematicians. To hear some girls talk, they’re the ultimate antidote to the cosmetics culture our physical insecurities keep in motion; apparently you don’t even have to wash your hair, and they gaze at you like a 14 year old vegetarian at frying bacon. Mmmm. Bacon.
Anyways, seems like everyone is getting married or procreating or something these days, loads of ladies at work have one in the oven; yesterday we had a ‘baby shower’ over lunch for the HR/admin head, who is due to pop any moment. You know who catered it? Swiss Chalet.
Swiss Chalet sucks.
Food in Canada can suck. I mean SUCK. I miss Italy. I miss France. I even miss Oxford. Yeah, you read that right. I even miss Oxford. At least they had clotted cream and lemon curd. Mmm, and gingersnaps and fresh plump raspberries. Mmmmmmmm.
lunedì, marzo 13, 2006
And here we are again
So far, Lady and Gigi's sweet faces and the imminent expansion of my family notwithstanding, being back has been a foot up the ass.
I got into Canada late, and then had to put up with fucking Customs because I was travelling on a British passport and somehow this confused them enough to send me to the immigration desks - I guess because of the thousands of British citizens illicitly streaming into Canada for the clandestine sex and drug trades. . . then I was carrying three bottles of hard liquor and three bottles of wine - well, one of VERY nice champagne Miss C sent my mum, and somehow they found this quantity humourous, as if I, as a normal non-Muslim person, wouldn't have bought more from duty-free if I'd been able to carry it in my weakened condition. AND they tried to make me pay taxes on it, but by this time I was so fucking pissed I just pushed through the 'nothing to declare' line when the guy got busy and went to meet my poor brother, who'd been waiting patiently at the aeroport for the couple of hours of lateness. I think he'd come to meet me because he had some news, which is that he's having another baby. So I was - and am still - pretty fucking happy about that.
But then when I tried to call Little G, who has my keys, she didn't pick up - when we got to the apartment no one was there. Finally Brother dropped me off at Lady's, who lives close by, and I got snaked with her and Gigi, and gave them thier presents, caught up, and felt sorry for myself. I had to sleep there - Little G called at midnight and said she'd forgotten yesterday was the 12th. She could AT LEAST have had the respect to make some medical excuse up. If my cat is looking malnourished, the shit and the fan will have a violent collision.
I woke up at 4 am fresh as a daisy, didn't want to wake the Lady or her roommate, and so just came to work. Fucking bitch mood on me now. FEB and I are having a complaining competition about how much we miss each other. At this rate I'll need to think of a better euphemism for him.
I got into Canada late, and then had to put up with fucking Customs because I was travelling on a British passport and somehow this confused them enough to send me to the immigration desks - I guess because of the thousands of British citizens illicitly streaming into Canada for the clandestine sex and drug trades. . . then I was carrying three bottles of hard liquor and three bottles of wine - well, one of VERY nice champagne Miss C sent my mum, and somehow they found this quantity humourous, as if I, as a normal non-Muslim person, wouldn't have bought more from duty-free if I'd been able to carry it in my weakened condition. AND they tried to make me pay taxes on it, but by this time I was so fucking pissed I just pushed through the 'nothing to declare' line when the guy got busy and went to meet my poor brother, who'd been waiting patiently at the aeroport for the couple of hours of lateness. I think he'd come to meet me because he had some news, which is that he's having another baby. So I was - and am still - pretty fucking happy about that.
But then when I tried to call Little G, who has my keys, she didn't pick up - when we got to the apartment no one was there. Finally Brother dropped me off at Lady's, who lives close by, and I got snaked with her and Gigi, and gave them thier presents, caught up, and felt sorry for myself. I had to sleep there - Little G called at midnight and said she'd forgotten yesterday was the 12th. She could AT LEAST have had the respect to make some medical excuse up. If my cat is looking malnourished, the shit and the fan will have a violent collision.
I woke up at 4 am fresh as a daisy, didn't want to wake the Lady or her roommate, and so just came to work. Fucking bitch mood on me now. FEB and I are having a complaining competition about how much we miss each other. At this rate I'll need to think of a better euphemism for him.
sabato, marzo 11, 2006
Catching the plane briefly - Miss C is just out getting my last couple of croissants for this go 'round, after taking me out for my last bloody steak of this go 'round last night. I know, I know, I'm sick . . . I'll mend my wicked ways in Canada where the produce is too half-rate to tempt me off the straight and narrow, thank you.
I miss you at home - it'll be so great to see you again - I'm going to enjoy the BEJEEBUS out of you for the next year because I reckon I'll move back after that. You will not know what the BEJEEBUS hit you, but you'll want a cigarette and some fresh seafood afterwards, I promise you that.
The sun finally came out today. Paris is pretty under the sun. Remind me to tell you the latest retarded thing French people are doing when I'm back at work and actually giving a fuck about current events. You know the last time I read a newspaper? My last day at work . . . ho hum . . . the world seems so much less naughty when I'm on vacation.
Lady, you around tonight? Why don't you scrape together J*Fish and we can refrain from eating naughty things and then smoke some reefer?
I miss you at home - it'll be so great to see you again - I'm going to enjoy the BEJEEBUS out of you for the next year because I reckon I'll move back after that. You will not know what the BEJEEBUS hit you, but you'll want a cigarette and some fresh seafood afterwards, I promise you that.
The sun finally came out today. Paris is pretty under the sun. Remind me to tell you the latest retarded thing French people are doing when I'm back at work and actually giving a fuck about current events. You know the last time I read a newspaper? My last day at work . . . ho hum . . . the world seems so much less naughty when I'm on vacation.
Lady, you around tonight? Why don't you scrape together J*Fish and we can refrain from eating naughty things and then smoke some reefer?
venerdì, marzo 10, 2006
Ahhhh. I had a relapse. Or something. But the NHS seems to have sorted me out nicely for the moment. You know, the Canadian health care system sucks. I've known this for awhile, but now I KNOW it. I mean, I KNOOOOOOOOOOW it. So I'm still in Oxford, which is nice, as it's giving me a chance to catch up propers with Miss C and I get to meet her James Herriot tonight, but sorry wrenches have been thrown into my Paris plans. Still. There's plenty of time for Paris in the future, I think.
Eating the most delicious food; crayfish sandwiches, yummy lamb tikka dishes, chocolate covered ginger stem, Parma ham omelettes; Miss C and I have the same passion for eating. Her cute little Australian roommate is absolutely smat with the Pocket Coffees I brought. Miss C just did a run-through of a history of medicine lecture she's giving about the history of anatomical thought pertaining to ladies, and then lent me North and South to read while she talks to her co-lecturers. Miss C is amazing. If I had to be an animal, I'd be her house-cat. She's also good at laughing at me when I go all gooey over the events of the past week.
Gooey.
I remember telling my analyst I'd be a new woman after this trip.
Yeah.
Eating the most delicious food; crayfish sandwiches, yummy lamb tikka dishes, chocolate covered ginger stem, Parma ham omelettes; Miss C and I have the same passion for eating. Her cute little Australian roommate is absolutely smat with the Pocket Coffees I brought. Miss C just did a run-through of a history of medicine lecture she's giving about the history of anatomical thought pertaining to ladies, and then lent me North and South to read while she talks to her co-lecturers. Miss C is amazing. If I had to be an animal, I'd be her house-cat. She's also good at laughing at me when I go all gooey over the events of the past week.
Gooey.
I remember telling my analyst I'd be a new woman after this trip.
Yeah.
mercoledì, marzo 08, 2006
Hello my dears, my darlings, my sweet pulchritudinous flowers of youth and beauty,
Yorkshire is depressing in some senses. When I arrived here Monday the trip from Liverpool aeroport to Lime Street was soundtracked by a gang of ugly 14 year old toffs describing the fit and not so fit birds they had or hadn't been shagging. 'Fit', I ask you. The requirements for a sexual partner here have lowered to mere physical competence, and even that seemed to be optional for these young men. Also the weather is exceptionally shitty.
Yorkshire is the opposite of depressing in other senses. For example, it's fucking beautiful and for once in their lives my poor grandparents actually seem pleased to see me. I fucking hate winter, but I reckon in your nineties one really, really fucking odiates winter like it's got no clothes on and it's ugly and I think I've been managing to remind them spring is coming.
I miss you at home. I don't want to go home. I'm getting used to the idea that one way or another my brain is always going to be a little bit like Faye Dunaway at the end of Chinatown, screaming about her sister and her daughter. I guess at a certain point I'll just have to choose which way the tear runs, because I understand now I'm going to be torn.
Have you ever been in one of those moods wherein every verb you use seems to be sexually suggestive? Geeeeeeez . . .
Yorkshire is depressing in some senses. When I arrived here Monday the trip from Liverpool aeroport to Lime Street was soundtracked by a gang of ugly 14 year old toffs describing the fit and not so fit birds they had or hadn't been shagging. 'Fit', I ask you. The requirements for a sexual partner here have lowered to mere physical competence, and even that seemed to be optional for these young men. Also the weather is exceptionally shitty.
Yorkshire is the opposite of depressing in other senses. For example, it's fucking beautiful and for once in their lives my poor grandparents actually seem pleased to see me. I fucking hate winter, but I reckon in your nineties one really, really fucking odiates winter like it's got no clothes on and it's ugly and I think I've been managing to remind them spring is coming.
I miss you at home. I don't want to go home. I'm getting used to the idea that one way or another my brain is always going to be a little bit like Faye Dunaway at the end of Chinatown, screaming about her sister and her daughter. I guess at a certain point I'll just have to choose which way the tear runs, because I understand now I'm going to be torn.
Have you ever been in one of those moods wherein every verb you use seems to be sexually suggestive? Geeeeeeez . . .
martedì, marzo 07, 2006
- Thanks to y'all who kept coming back as I kept quiet. Things have been fucked up trees in ways I never would have suspected.
- In Calabria, I had a nervous collapse; my liver inflamed, I turned yellow, and slept for three days. My family treated me like a fainty princess and I felt better. I experienced my first earthquake and got injected with antibiotics and painkillers IN THE ASS. IN THE ASS. THE NEEDLE WAS HUUUUUUUUUGE.
- I went to Padova to see FEB. Here's all you need to know: when I got to Scarborough last night, I consoled myself for not being there anymore by binging on Indian food. Halfway through a standard sort of chicken tikka in a spicy tomato sauce, I realized the use of coriander was subtle and amazing, and it made me feel even more inconsolable.
- I don't know why my paragraphs are coming out numbered.
- I haven't been taking photos. Sorry. I think I've taken three so far, all for their comic value.
- I miss you all. Miss you miss you miss you. But we'll have to get used to it. The feeling I got in Paris, that I might have to move back, has only been getting stronger. Save those air miles, bitches.
- Kisses,
- Mistress LaSpliffe
venerdì, febbraio 24, 2006
Hey dulcet darlings
My god, it's good to be back here. I realize now alot of my rush to get away from Paris last time was, you know, boy related. But man, it's good to be back! Yesterday I met up with Miss M for mussels and gossip and beer, and then had another little nap, and then went up to Bastille for beer and Pernod and gossip and heated political discussion. I missed my people here too - of course, I acknowledge that only one or two of them are actually French - but who the fuck cares. There's a little party for me tonight. You know how much that tickles me? Alot. But first there's a lunch outing to gorge on oysters and foie gras and sweet, heavy white wine at Miss P's and my favourite oyster bar
The food, bitches, the food - I got in some groceries and they are so yummy. Eggs and vegetables taste different here, sooooo much better. FEB used to fuss about that in terms of Canadian food, which gave me the shits, but the little bastard was right. Our standards in Canada suck. We could be asking for so much more! And the cheese, the stinky-ass unpasteurized cheese - holy fucking icon - so fucking good. Mr. H was right about how it's a crying fucking shame in Canada unpasteurized milk products are so hard to come by. That's bullshit, bitches. That's pure bullshit! Pure fucking bullshit! Write a letter to your fucking MP, because I'm telling you if things don't change I'm moving back here. Not to Paris itself - not unless the possibility came with a massive fucking paycheque that would let me have an apartmet like Miss C's - god, this place is beautiful.
AHHHHHHH!
HOW DID LIFE GET ALL THIS GOOD ALL THIS FAST?
Oh, Lady, I meant to mention, Stéphane Rousseau did a five minute bit about how much he hates fruit.
The food, bitches, the food - I got in some groceries and they are so yummy. Eggs and vegetables taste different here, sooooo much better. FEB used to fuss about that in terms of Canadian food, which gave me the shits, but the little bastard was right. Our standards in Canada suck. We could be asking for so much more! And the cheese, the stinky-ass unpasteurized cheese - holy fucking icon - so fucking good. Mr. H was right about how it's a crying fucking shame in Canada unpasteurized milk products are so hard to come by. That's bullshit, bitches. That's pure bullshit! Pure fucking bullshit! Write a letter to your fucking MP, because I'm telling you if things don't change I'm moving back here. Not to Paris itself - not unless the possibility came with a massive fucking paycheque that would let me have an apartmet like Miss C's - god, this place is beautiful.
AHHHHHHH!
HOW DID LIFE GET ALL THIS GOOD ALL THIS FAST?
Oh, Lady, I meant to mention, Stéphane Rousseau did a five minute bit about how much he hates fruit.
giovedì, febbraio 23, 2006
Hey lovers
Guess who you're going to have to call 'mistress' even when I'm not tying you up and whipping you!
It went well. It went swimmingly. They asked me some questions, it went on for a long time, and then they gave me a mark. A nice one, too. I have never disliked the French so little.
In other news, Stéphane Rousseau last night was incredible. Not just because he looks as sweet as a lightly bronzed meringue. He was funneeeee. It was exacly what I needed to wind me down, and then going out for a few drinks with the divine Miss P afterwards just made everything great. I'd also like to thank codeine for letting me have such a refreshing sleep last night.
Now I'm going to have a nap, then do what I really came to Paris to do. Drink and get a sugar wax.
It went well. It went swimmingly. They asked me some questions, it went on for a long time, and then they gave me a mark. A nice one, too. I have never disliked the French so little.
In other news, Stéphane Rousseau last night was incredible. Not just because he looks as sweet as a lightly bronzed meringue. He was funneeeee. It was exacly what I needed to wind me down, and then going out for a few drinks with the divine Miss P afterwards just made everything great. I'd also like to thank codeine for letting me have such a refreshing sleep last night.
Now I'm going to have a nap, then do what I really came to Paris to do. Drink and get a sugar wax.
mercoledì, febbraio 22, 2006
Hey lovers
I got here. The plane didn't even crash a little, the flight was very nice. I watched three films back to back to distract me from thinking about the fucker falling out of the sky: the latest Pride and Prejudice (sucked), Four Brothers (all hot), and some Emily Watson/Tom Wilkinson/Rupert Everett outing (basculating). I still don't have an appointment for my defense. But Miss C has the nicest loft apartment in downtown Paris with a bed that is looking might-ee fucking comfy right now. I did my usual anti-jet lag strategy; totally fucking with my sleeping patterns for days in advance in the hope my poor confused body just chooses the right one to replace it with once I arrive wherever.
Anyways, being here is odd, but nice, but especially odd. I'd forgotten how the different metro stations smell - then I was just going through a tunnel humming along to Twice Removed, and it was all 'Oh! I smell Chatêlet!' So now I'm going to sleep, then eat, then shop, then meet Miss P and see Stéphane Rousseau. Hopefully at some point within this schedual my school will, you know, stop being criminally irresponsible. If not, I guess I'll just have to fucking well start. It would be fun. I sure have alot of tension to punch out. Might even be more fun than actually defending . . . hmmmm . . .
UPDATE
Tomorrow morning at 11. By the times all you North American readers wake up, it'll be done. The cool thing is that it was proposed 11h30, but my advisor couldn't make that, which means he probably doesn't think this will top out an hour, which means, you know, it's only an hour long. I'm not ready, but I'm too angry to care. And at the moment, too hungry and sleepy, even after a delicious nap.
Anyways, being here is odd, but nice, but especially odd. I'd forgotten how the different metro stations smell - then I was just going through a tunnel humming along to Twice Removed, and it was all 'Oh! I smell Chatêlet!' So now I'm going to sleep, then eat, then shop, then meet Miss P and see Stéphane Rousseau. Hopefully at some point within this schedual my school will, you know, stop being criminally irresponsible. If not, I guess I'll just have to fucking well start. It would be fun. I sure have alot of tension to punch out. Might even be more fun than actually defending . . . hmmmm . . .
UPDATE
Tomorrow morning at 11. By the times all you North American readers wake up, it'll be done. The cool thing is that it was proposed 11h30, but my advisor couldn't make that, which means he probably doesn't think this will top out an hour, which means, you know, it's only an hour long. I'm not ready, but I'm too angry to care. And at the moment, too hungry and sleepy, even after a delicious nap.
martedì, febbraio 21, 2006
lunedì, febbraio 20, 2006
Twitch
I hate aeroplanes. So much. I'm not ready to defend. And I still cough so hard in the mornings I get a gag reflex.What's fantastic is I have the drugs to take before boarding, and what's also fantastic is knowing I can be stoned at 7pm Thursday evening and stay that way for two weeks - in France and Italy. And England, which is slightly less attractive. Not for any cultural or aesthetic reasons, just the weather. I'm trying to pack light, because when a bitch has an aeroplane phobia like this bitch does she doesn't want to be hanging around a luggage carousel after braving death and surviving. It's a lot harder to go carry-on only when you're heading into rain. Not to mention when you're carrying, I shit you not, a thousand pages of draft because there's an outside chance your jury is going to be a passive-agressive dick. I think I managed though.
You know what's almost as good as Lyrics Born? The Roots. I know it's a bit silly to point it out as a revelation, but for me it is.
Drums.
Drums drums drums.
UPDATE
The school contacted me this morning to tell me the appointment scheduled 'ne pourra avoir lieu', and to ask me when else I'm available.
Those fuckers. I'm going to tear them so many new assholes each they'll think their bodies were a fucking Republican convention. At least homocidal rage is overwhelming my blind panic and mild antibiotic nausea. I suppose I should thank those fuckbrain shitheads for that as I eviscerate them.
Ok, gotta chill, gotta chill. Check out the new Bond villain. Man alive. Please, please, please let this be the Bond installment that gets homo-erotic.
Did I say that out loud?
domenica, febbraio 19, 2006
A few points of business
1. Later That Day by Lyrics Born is the best thing I've heard in ages. Back, back, BACK in the day I thought Quannum's Spectrum was the best thing I'd heard in ages, and 'I Changed My Mind' off that was the anthem for every major decision I made about anything. But other things came up and I didn't hear anything else from Quannum artists until J*Fish gave me Blackalicious's Blazing Arrow. Blackalicious is great, but, you know, I think I love Lyrics Born.2. I'm so not ready for my defense.
3. What're poppers, anyways? Because all they did for me was make me want to dance to 'Like a Prayer' and hit someone. Alkyl nitrites, hmm? That continues to mean nothing to me. They seem to be some kind of sex drug. Kaaaaaaaaay . . . that's fucked up. People want to take drugs to relax the muscles around their special bits? I'm sorry, isn't that, you know, suppposed to be what arousal is for?
sabato, febbraio 18, 2006
Method in the madness
Last night was odd. First watching the Notorious C.H.O. with J*Fish was odd, since I'd listened to it in Paris with people who I'm having dinner with in Paris on Friday. Then J*Fish's roommate, you know, Lady, Whatisname, explained the mechanics of flight to me when I voiced how freaked I am by flying. That used to be the Madman's job (people around me are acquainted with my phobia to the point of tedium and find ways to deal with it as quickly as possible. Sometimes it's with drugs; sometimes it's by explaining flight.) Whatsisname looks a lot like the Madman. And I was pleasantly fucked out of my skull on reefer and codeine, which added to the exchange.I've been realizing for awhile I had a major victim complex coming out of that relationship and last night drove it home. I can admit now there were reasons I was there besides engaging in some bizarre sado-masochistic self-mutilating experiment. There were alot of things about the Madman that were really nice, like the explaining of the mechanics of flight when I was sure my aeroplanes would drop out of the sky like rocks unless I furiously concentrated on keeping them up with the power of my mind. When he went crazy it was hard to accept, since he'd been great before that.
So why is this important? It's not as if he's any less crazy or I'm going to have any less of a fight-or-flight mechanism kick in whenever I think I see him. It's important, though, because I'd forgotten that relationships can be nice. That maybe I've been concentrating on the horrible times with the Madman to help me not feel any regret about the good ones being toast, and that may have warped my outlook. That the key thing is knowing when to walk away, and not automatically assuming that's RIGHT AWAY because if they're hot and nice they must also be crazy.
I'd apologize for writing such a personal post and promise not to do it again, but I probably will, so, you know, there you are.
venerdì, febbraio 17, 2006
Déja vu
Are you getting used to my Friday morning posts starting 'last night's analysis session was great'?Last night's session was great - we had the best 'what do you want to do with your life' discussion I've ever had with anybody and dicussed this mad dream I'd had that involved, among other things, a tropical paradise, a dynastic marriage, throwing myself off a skyscraper and having sex in a furniture store. The transferrence period has started - he was the man I'd been making love to in the furniture store. I'd been expecting it and I'll deal with it, but I wish it had manifested itself differently, like the insane hero-worship crushes I had on a couple of university professors back in the day.
Still, I see the benefits. I could hardly even bear to look on, let alone talk to, the godliness of those particular profs when they were teaching me, which was a distraction from the subject at hand and which would make analysis more or less impossible. So this hasn't really changed the talking dynamic we have, as hero-worship would have. But you try telling your analyst you'd dreamt about him doing you on the floor of a furniture store. NOT EASY.
Anyways, I didn't; we just discussed other parts of the dream. We also discussed the upcoming trip. I think it's fair to say that if I survive it (fucking aeroplanes, fucking murderous ex-boyfriends, fucking maghrebin hash), I'll be coming home with a different sort of brain. It's funny to know that about the next three weeks - to know at the end of that time you'll be, you know, different.
Well, onwards and upwards.
giovedì, febbraio 16, 2006
The sexiest man in Jamaica
The title of this post is apropos of nothing, except it's severely stuck in my head. I think my brain had been starving for music featuring a man yelling something happily, confidently, and aggressively after a steady KEXP work diet of lyrics about missing old highschool sweethearts and being somehow emotionally delicate.
That sort of thing seems to have taken over indie as well as pop these days. Speaking of which: look! Nickelback got twice as many Juno nominations as the Arcade Fire. Let that sink in for a moment. Sometimes there are no words. Only dry heaves.
Yesterday I covered the Canadian Auto Summit. The theme of the Canadian Auto Summit was “It Really Is About the Car.” I shit you not. Redundancy has been turned into an MBA course, apparently. Advertising was only mentioned in dismissive terms so for the purposes of my magazine it was a waste of a dining subsidy to send me there. And admittedly I spent a lot of time thinking about boys and wondering how many people in the auditorium were flying the dragon. I did pay some attention, though, and all I can say is the new Camaro concept looks really sexy, and I’m glad I’m not an American with a manufacturing job.
Because redundancy, in its metaphorical sense, figured large in the agenda. It was set up as a question and answer period between some Globe journalists and a bunch of car type big wigs, and of course, especially in the case of the GM man, the journalists wanted to know how many jobs were going to be lost to outsourcing or imports, or gained from low property prices and increasing technological acumen among Canadian workers . . . the president of Toyota Motor got fêted for having created a couple of thousand jobs in Canada . . . all Strong Canadian Dollar this, Exploiting Asian Markets that . . .
You know how it’s easy to laugh at Western Communists because you usually know that they’re figuring themselves dressed in a Party uniform and directing the grunt workers of the Revolutionary Paradise and not lifting anything heavy themselves? That’s one thing I thought about these capitalist barons, last night, even as they chilled my blood talking about the massive migration of jobs that’ll probably end up causing environmental catastrophe in China and social crisis – well, maybe not here, but definitely in the United States. They know, or should know, their own jobs are likely enough to be made redundant eventually – they run the same sort of employment risks as the people whose lives they were messing around with. I know the REAL risks are nothing like the same because of their offshore accounts and property investments and all. But the world they promote is just a straight dog-eat-dog one, with no nationalistic alignments except for whichever ones would be effective in terms of marketing to a national population.
Because it seems lthey know we, as consumers, cling on to such quaint old-fashioned ideas, about a corporation and its country of provenance having much in common. A couple of days ago I wrote for work about the marketing impact of the cartoon chaos in the Middle East. What’s happening is a little hilarious. A lot of the European companies doing business there were in a rush to exploit the hole left by the boycott of all things Danish. The best example was Carrefour, a French retailer, which withdrew all the Danish products from its shelves and posted notes in their place expressing solidarity with the Islamic population. Then, of course, a series of French papers re-published the cartoons.
People, fuck. They don't make any sense.
That sort of thing seems to have taken over indie as well as pop these days. Speaking of which: look! Nickelback got twice as many Juno nominations as the Arcade Fire. Let that sink in for a moment. Sometimes there are no words. Only dry heaves.Yesterday I covered the Canadian Auto Summit. The theme of the Canadian Auto Summit was “It Really Is About the Car.” I shit you not. Redundancy has been turned into an MBA course, apparently. Advertising was only mentioned in dismissive terms so for the purposes of my magazine it was a waste of a dining subsidy to send me there. And admittedly I spent a lot of time thinking about boys and wondering how many people in the auditorium were flying the dragon. I did pay some attention, though, and all I can say is the new Camaro concept looks really sexy, and I’m glad I’m not an American with a manufacturing job.
Because redundancy, in its metaphorical sense, figured large in the agenda. It was set up as a question and answer period between some Globe journalists and a bunch of car type big wigs, and of course, especially in the case of the GM man, the journalists wanted to know how many jobs were going to be lost to outsourcing or imports, or gained from low property prices and increasing technological acumen among Canadian workers . . . the president of Toyota Motor got fêted for having created a couple of thousand jobs in Canada . . . all Strong Canadian Dollar this, Exploiting Asian Markets that . . .
You know how it’s easy to laugh at Western Communists because you usually know that they’re figuring themselves dressed in a Party uniform and directing the grunt workers of the Revolutionary Paradise and not lifting anything heavy themselves? That’s one thing I thought about these capitalist barons, last night, even as they chilled my blood talking about the massive migration of jobs that’ll probably end up causing environmental catastrophe in China and social crisis – well, maybe not here, but definitely in the United States. They know, or should know, their own jobs are likely enough to be made redundant eventually – they run the same sort of employment risks as the people whose lives they were messing around with. I know the REAL risks are nothing like the same because of their offshore accounts and property investments and all. But the world they promote is just a straight dog-eat-dog one, with no nationalistic alignments except for whichever ones would be effective in terms of marketing to a national population.
Because it seems lthey know we, as consumers, cling on to such quaint old-fashioned ideas, about a corporation and its country of provenance having much in common. A couple of days ago I wrote for work about the marketing impact of the cartoon chaos in the Middle East. What’s happening is a little hilarious. A lot of the European companies doing business there were in a rush to exploit the hole left by the boycott of all things Danish. The best example was Carrefour, a French retailer, which withdrew all the Danish products from its shelves and posted notes in their place expressing solidarity with the Islamic population. Then, of course, a series of French papers re-published the cartoons.
People, fuck. They don't make any sense.
mercoledì, febbraio 15, 2006
Coax me, cajole me
Last night after Italian class we had a spirited discussion about the finer points of seduction, as it was Valentine’s Day and as both Lady and J*Fish are in the mood to seduce. What a mood to be in. I had a lot to say, considering I still can’t talk and I haven’t really seduced anybody for – how long? Six years? When I say 'really seduce', I don’t mean realizing you’re going to be sleepy in two hours so you move a situation you've already been sensing along a little faster by taking off your pants or something. When I say 'really seduce', I mean creating the situation out of nothing. Moving from zero to 70 in three seconds or less, or, to refer you to Johannes again, jumping from the Friend ladder to the Fuckable ladder without falling into – ah, that theory’s a bit too half-baked for me to get into.It's true as Lady mentioned last night that sort of action is really sticking your neck out and letting the object of your affections know they have a carte-blanche to kick you in the head – but more than that, it’s an emotion or an urge or whatever that’s powerful and arrogant (in the best sense) enough to let you over-ride all the inhibitions standard people walk around with. There was only once I fell for a near-complete stranger to the degree that I had to chase that beautiful butterfly down the country road. I’m not a cocky person at all, but when I approached him and he told me had plans to meet another girl for lunch, I remember instructing him with complete self-assurance to blow her off and have lunch with me instead. When he and I discussed that conversation years later, he said I’d been telegraphing the message ‘Be nice to me, and I’ll sleep with you’ throughout the exchange – I suppose that’s why it was so effective. I think using the word 'blow' helped too.
I think in a way it's harder for girls. Or do I mean easier? Maybe both. But I do think girls get antsier than boys about dealing with strongly preferring one person, and trying to balance out some perfect cocktail of cool and gush in their approach to letting that person know just how lucky he is if that person doesn't immediately suss out the situation. You know what I mean? Because legions of books have been written and sold about Rules and gender dynamics and shit like that and I don't think it's men buying them. But in the end, since penting things up makes them gross, I think the most important part of seduction for boys and girls is having emotions and urges, being comfy with them, and responding to them as honestly as they can.
That and taking off your shirt, drawing an arrow on your tummy pointing to your crotch and miming “I love you” across a crowded room.
martedì, febbraio 14, 2006
Throw me a bone
Work is fun. I base most of my research on right-wing magazines and papers. Anything you've ever wanted to know about corporate naughtiness and market insidiousness is laid out in the Wall Street Journal in fine detail, sourced and stamped. They have lots of other good shit too. One source this week tells of doctors' favourite way to commit suicide - a compund that stops the heart right away. Just like that. Stop! Try finding shit like that in Le Monde Diplo.Yesterday I decided that I'm going to want peripheral vision to better see France, Italy, and England once more. I also remembered it doesn't matter that I'm broke because I have insurance. So I got my contact lense watchum refilled after so long I don't remember the last time I had them. I put them in right away to enjoy that slightly dizzy feeling you get for the first hour - and the only comments I got all afternoon and evening were along the lines of
"Geez, Spliffe, you look sooooooo tired."
I'm not tired. My eyes always look like this. It's called cannabis. Fuck.
FAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK.
YOU LOOK UGLY.
I'm in a mood . . . never mind me . . . I'm just pissy because I can't talk. I feel fine, I feel dandy, but I can't say a word without coughing up a lung. I'm starting to think it's psychological - that I've got some major hang-up about the viva for the thesis and all the big talks that have to happen during this trip generally, so my body is taking away my voice. Either that, or, you know, I'm actually sick. Whichever. It's grinding my fucking gears.
So before Lady tells me to 'suck it up' and I have to kick her ass, let me change the subject to something pretty. Something pretty named Bob Blumer, otherwise known as the Surreal Gourmet. Go to the sidebar in the food section and bask. Bask in the Blumerness. What an adorable creature he is. If everybody in the world was a little bit more like Bob Blumer . . . oh, let me lose myself in the beauty of that thought for a moment.
Weeeeeeeeeeee . . .
Okay, I feel better. Now, a question. Has the Canadian media not fucking watched Guys and Dolls? Does it not understanding that betting, gambling, and gaming are part of the natural cycle of life; indeed, sometimes even a young Marlon Brando needs to gamble his way into the heart of Jean Simmons? Why does it matter that Wayne Gretzky's wife gambled 500 Gs? OF COURSE she gambled 500 Gs! If you had 500 Gs to gamble and a husband who was so good at sports he was a character on ProStars, wouldn't you? What's the problem? There isn't even a suggestion of game chucking or rigging right now. So is it that she used an illegal gambling ring? When you drive a car, do you ask the dealer if the poor bastards in the steelworks hurt their backs processing that materials for it? People need to grow the fuck up.
lunedì, febbraio 13, 2006
Minor crisis
I'm having a hard time facing the day, because I left my Shuffle and headphones at J*Fish's house. What will my working day be like without KEXP or 3wk?Eep.
EEP.
You know, I like my co-workers, but they spend their downtime playing Seinfeld trivia games with each other. I always hated Seinfeld, and smoke too many drugs to remember anything that I can't place in a historical context, so it annoys me way more than it should.
Maybe I can buy some headphones at lunch. I'm sick of those buds anyways. They don't keep my ears warm at all.
UPDATE
To all the fuckwits who have challenged the rightness of using the word 'reckon': The Economist uses it. And if you're the sort of snotty jerk who doesn't think words like 'reckon' are real because the likes of the Dukes of Hazzard county use it, I reckon the staff of the Economist are a whole fuckload smarter than you.
Now, if only they'd start using 'youse' . . .
domenica, febbraio 12, 2006
Housebound
Going out last night was a mistake. Not that it wasn't nice; much better music than the last time, much better decor, and got to see Gigi and Lady win Sexiest Couple award. But I should know by now that if I can't even speak without swigging from the Buckley's bottle, no matter how absolutely fine I feel, I shouldn't be going out. I left at 2, went to bed, and woke up an hour later incapable of breathing in without exhaling a coughing fit. When I woke up definitively, starlings were huddled for warmth outside my bedroom window. So I'm not going out at all today - going to cook something with reefer in it, play with the keyboard, but mostly continue the ongoing French immersion project, courtesy of a few loans, gifts, and purchases seperate from my thesis advisor's increasingly interesting books:1. Food. Tortiére, to be specific. Gigi went vegetarian and gave me a tortiére someone had given him, which had been sitting in my freezer until now, since I haven't had the fucking time to stay in my apartment long enough to defrost it and make it yummy. It looks sooooooooooooo good.
2. Music. Karina Gauvin singing French songs arranged or something by Canteloube. They're traditionals from Auvergne in a pretty heady dialect, so fucked if I have any idea what she's singing about, but my oh my it's pretty. Gigi had also copied Carla Bruni's first album onto my Shuffle - lost when I decided on a soul soundtrack for last night's commuting. I'll get it again because I liked it, which surprised me. I'd thought the hugely popular title track, Quelqu'un m'a dit, was cute - she has an adorable raspy little voice - but sappy; wasn't interested in getting the album. Turns out as a whole it doesn't feel sappy. It recalls those bizarre half-hours when you're right chemically fucked up, and crawl into bed only to have an unexpected burst of clarity, creativity and emotion that usually gets murmured into your pillow or the ear of someone even more fucked up than you are because you're too physically exhausted to get up and find a pen. And considering Carla Bruni is a retired supermodel, that's probably more or less what happened. Except she was clever enough to keep a pen in arm's reach.
Anyways, I like her lyrics a lot, but maybe someone more used to French lyricism wouldn't. Who knows. The more I listen to French music the more I get the impression the lyrics dominate, but that might just be the nature of the stuff that's crossed my path or the fact that I haven't been really struck by English lyrics lately. Yesterday Mr. N told me to expect some Benjamin Biolay, which he thinks I'll like. Mr. N is usually right about me liking things.
3. Screen. Les Dangereux - I watched the first 15 minutes and it looks like complete shit. But, you know, it has Stéphane Rousseau in it. Lady also lent me a Québec series called Grande Ourse - I've watched the first of 10 episodes. It's a difficult format, going for the twee-small-town creepy, you know? Twin Peaks didn't manage it consistently and it looks like this doesn't either. But it has some nice visual gags and whatevs, it's practice.
UPDATE
Would someone please give Silvio Berlusconi something to eat? His blood sugar levels are way off again . . . the man is just fucking monumental. I'd love to set up a timeline of the dumbest things he's ever said and work out if they're conscious efforts to distract the world from some really contentious but essentially forgettable issue, like the cartoon fiasco; you know, get everybody to throw down their arms just to smack themselves exasperatedly on the forehead and mutter, 'Well, that's Silvio.' One way or the other, the man is a living joke.
sabato, febbraio 11, 2006
She wail and she moan
Yesterday at work one of the pieces I wrote made me feel like the devil because it was about a study on how to get women to binge on chocolate. That article wasn't one of my sources, but if you look at the professor's credentials carefully enough you'll see that despite his 'niceness' in terms of publishing his findings in the International Journal of Obesity, he's essentially a highly trained market researcher.Sigh.
Anyways, I can't take the study seriously, because if someone left 30 chocolates in my office everyday (even rubbishy Hershey's Kisses) and replaced them every night I would just eat all thirty, or eat as much as I could and pocket the rest. Those test subjects were obviously idiots.
After, Gigi and I conducted an experiment of our own by having dinner and hanging out without getting snaked. It went well. We came to some very interesting conclusions about Viking heritage, Danish people's off-camera activities, and what happens in Greenland; and Gigi pointed out that one of the great tragedies of the recent cartoon blow-up is people pervasively quoting the 'there's something rotten in the state of Denmark' line from Hamlet. One hopes that will be the farthest-reaching aspect of this affair. I'm not so sure. Johannes wrote interestingly about it. The only two things I seem to be able to think are if a series of cartoons was enough to unleash this anger, and if officially apologizing for the offence it'd caused and not re-publishing it was enough to calm the anger but that wasn't done, maybe we're due for some serious international communication. That, and that Lebanese guys, when they're hot, are just smoking fucking hot.
Then we watched Ma vie en rose and I thanked my lucky stars I'm not a pre-pubescent child anymore. Day-um. Great movie, though. And when I woke up this morning the first Verve Remixed album was waiting for me; no sooner found than on. Nina Simone's See-line Woman gets a beautiful treatment.
I'M STILL SICK. HOLY SHIT. I feel fine but sound like hell; hope it's just over-tiredness. Anyways, at my opera lesson I sang maybe three scales before my teacher asked what the hell I was doing singing when my voice was so fucked, so we did theory for the rest of the hour. I studied music formally when I was much younger, but %100 against my gré; it was shocking how fun and interesting it was to focus on theory, because I used to find it just mind-numbing. Of course, this time it was in aid of the voice, and the voice is the voice. These days I'm walking around with a snotty conviction everything is just an accompaniment to the voice or an attempt to copy it, from the bleep-bleep-bloops of dancey things to the guitar. Except percussion. I don't know what's been changing in the past year, but music is starting to feel like a world in itself where things exist in their own ways, where communication is much more easy and beautiful and everything has something to say to something else. I never felt like that before. Ah, I don't know how to write what I mean.
venerdì, febbraio 10, 2006
Notes from Suffragette City
Last night’s session with my analyst was great. He’s really helping me focus my anger. Turns out I have a lot of it; all a question of how it gets used . . . man, I can’t sing the praises of this Jungian shit loud enough. The conditions we live in try to focus our anger into cynicism, from the left wing media as much as all those naughty corporations and nasty politicians – it’s all part of the same dynamic, keeping our demands as consumers and political participants simple and easily addressed. So dramatically that it makes me think of the C word.We need to take responsibility for social conditions through our appetites, our ballots, our entertainment; all those things that are so easy to object to are there because they serve us and we don’t ask for anything better even while we gripe and carp and turn in on ourselves. So, you know, ask for something better. Create a market for it, or it’ll never be there. It’s all about the markets, bitch. God, I want to hook up with a commodities trader. When I get back from Europe, I’m going to start going to their crappy bars. I’ll bite the fucking bullet.
Anyhoo, as soon as I got home, my entire thesis defense erupted onto the page as easily as 7 pints of Old Peculier from the stomach of the 13 year old girl on a walking tour of the Yorkshire Dales that I once was.
Yeeeeeeeeeah, bitch. I DOMINATE! I DOMINATE!
Whatevs, I’m tired. Need to kick out the jams this weekend.
giovedì, febbraio 09, 2006
The red Dragon Flits Away
My hair looks good. So I'm cheered up. Fuck everybody anyways though. Hah! I rock. Still mentally constipated. I'm reading books by my thesis advisor to help me kiss his ass when he judges the defense, and I have to say he's a smart cookie, as far as a French pundit goes. When I'm finished the defense and it doesn't matter anymore what he learns in this blog by Googling himself - for example, how I made a considered decision to murderize him back in November - I'll tell you all about him. Because God forbid a French pundit should have an opinion that isn't passed on to as many people as possible. Seriously though, France is coming from somewhere - albeit a paranoid, nasty, dank place - in terms of foreign policy. And one thing I'll say for the claustrophobic, smelly little hole their strategy comes from - it's a place which is at least a little more conscious of the common good of the French people than whatever Boschian nightmare American foreign policy is of the common good of the American people. I think that's the thing that really gets me about American foreign policy - so much pain, so much terror, yet the equilibrium it fights for tooth and nail might not be what its citizens need. I'm thinking of economic needs, of course. Militarily, obviously they've done a bang-up job of preserving the people ever since the Civil War. But I reckon military concerns are just symptoms of economic problems so I'm afraid that will change, that it is changing now in front of our eyes, and if I had a little more imagination I'd be shitting myself over that instead of one lousy little thesis defense.Anyways, my advisor is clever, and his writing is witty and cynical enough that even I and my crap Moon-Man skills can appreciate it. The thing is, he was a lousy classroom manager and I was a lousy student, so I didn't appreciate his class. See? This is the AWESOME thing about knowing how to read. You can catch up on all the things you should have learned when you were smoking too much hash and living through a laughably unhealthy relationship during your master's coursework. God, I was weird, fuck. While chatting about boys in Moon-Man with a very patient Lady yesterday evening, I realized how little aggravation I have in my life now compared to Moon-Man Land. What was my problem? Was it arrogance, an addictively maternal belief that dude couldn't fasten all his clothes, tie his laces, blow his nose if I left him? Or was it a massive insecurity; honestly believing that was what I deserved? Probably both. I hope I actually learnt stuff from that about how not to be an idiot. On verra.
mercoledì, febbraio 08, 2006
Post-conference lassitude
I’m grumpy. I’m FUCKING grumpy, and I’ve been grumpy for as long as I remember (four days). Luckily for the world at large, my grumpiness has been confined to the city’s finest hotel for two days, listening to my non-profit company remain in its non-profit tax bracket by spending its profits on a series of talks from motivational speakers who would have been the sort of preacher men, 70 years ago, whose sons I would have let teach me; fucking dead boring corporate reps explaining what they want from our industry; and financial analysts. Wow. When financial analysts talk, all I want to do is listen. And nail them. The way they can break the world down, it’s beautiful. Anyways, this experience has either taught me or cemented me in the conviction of three things that I’d like to share with y’all.1. Television only exists as a medium to deliver advertising. That’s it. Unless it’s PBS or TVO or something, and when’s the last time you watched that? All those ‘can’t miss’ hours – they’re there to make you watch commercials. The networks are not altruists sharing art and ideas with you. They aren’t even merchants in the sense that they're trying to sell you something. They are selling your eyes to their advertisers. If you’re comfortable with that – if you feel what you’re getting from the Daily Show, the Colbert Report, or whatever crap you watch compensates you, well, you just keep on givin’er, cowboy. If you're watching television to pass the time and aren't engaged, then you're being ripped off, you fucking sucker. Wake the fuck up and go do something. It's a fucking beautiful world out there, shithead.
2. I can chat, amuse, humour, ass-kiss, inquire, inform, tease, cuss, abuse, persuade, argue, request, shock, assure, reassure, deep-throat my entire foot, blaspheme; I can even – once in awhile – titillate. But I can’t shmooze. It makes me choke. I think I used to be able to shmooze, but all the drugs I’ve smoked have robbed me of the ability to speak dishonestly, which is what separates shmoozing from all other verbal acrobatics. Thank you, drug-induced intellectual honesty. Even if it’s your fault I don’t get regular sex anymore.
3. If you keep putting food in front of me, I will keep eating it. Especially if I’m eating at the nicest hotel in the city, and I keep thinking I should eat the food there while the eating’s good because I don’t know the next time I’ll be in the nicest hotel inthe city. Even if the food is kind of heavy, bland, and caker-y, I will eat it and eat it and eat it. In the same spirit, if you keep putting L’Occitane products in the bathroom, I will keep on stealing them. Stealing them and stealing them and stealing them.
Oh, fuck everybody in the world. One more day on the Dragon. My hair is being cut tonight. Maybe that'll fix me.
domenica, febbraio 05, 2006
The Red Dragon frets
So I'm in Davisville listening to Handel again, but not feeling the panicky flushes of exhausted accomplishment that accompanied my last stint up here. I'm finding it ferociously hard to buckle down on my defence. Part of it is too many other things to think about. Yesterday I must have spent four hours trying to wrestle my travel intinerary into line. It's so people-dependant - I need feedback on school hours, on if they still smoke reefer, if they have a dealer or if I have to mail some on ahead. One friend who will be away on an anti-winter holiday when I arrive is leaving her apartment for me - that's nice. Staying with Mlle B would have been nice too, but this way I can have some peace of mind as I prepare for the defence.Defence. It's going slow. I'm having a hard time - I think because the actual defence is still weeks away, which is not much time but feels like alot to my stupid brain. Also because I'm nervous. Miss C pointed out, however - god, she's been so good through all of this - that I know more about this subject than any of the professors at the school, which is indisputably true. No reflection on their quality, but the Canadian cannabis industry will never be at the top of the need-to-know pile for French academia. She also says my thesis is good, and I'm inclined to agree with her. First, now that it's polished and controlled I like it. Second, I have the sort of friends who won't hesitate to tell me if I need a haircut, if I look like a walking corpse, if I've committed a reprehensible sexual faux pas or if I've crossed the line from eccentricity to barking madness; a lot of them have read the thesis and the feedback has been universally good.
Here's the thing - I know who my jury members are now. One of them is my advisor. As my advisor, he's not supposed to let me defend until he feels the thesis is good. Thing is, I know he hasn't read the introduction or conclusion; I'm not fully persuaded he's read two out of three parts; and though he's given me straight positive feedback about part 1, the 'positive' feedback on the second and third parts has been a short-lived accusation of plagiarism. Also, at the end of my coursework my oral exam with him was the most brutal. The year was marked by averages so I don't know what he gave me, but I think it was a fail. I had a feeling he was trying to demonstrate my stupid American-ness. Now that he knows I'm Canadian maybe it will be better. But I'm going to make damn sure I go into this defence knowing everything pertaining to the drug-export trade in Latin America, which the conversation will probably turn to, since he's a bit of a Latin Americanist.
Thank god for the Economist. I love you, Economist.
There's only one other man on my jury, who I don't know. The girl I know who's defended didn't have him on hers, so for him - I guess I'll have to Google him and see what his angle is.
Okay, I'm just going to say this once. I'M TIRED OF SCHOOL. I WANT TO SPEND ALL THE TIME I'VE SPENT ON BOOK-LEARNING THESE PAST TWO YEARS MAKING SWEET LOVE. MAKING SWEET LOVE IS MORE FUN THAN BOOK-LEARNING. AND I MEAN IT. TODAY.
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