What's Really The Matter

Nearly nine years ago I married a man who asked the best question I'd ever heard before:
"What's really the matter?" What's the real problem?

I was just asked that again by a new, very special friend.
"What's really going on?"

Guilt, more than likely.
Fear, most blinding.

Though I have a tendency to treat others works, speech, inflections and body language like a forensic scientist: ever dissecting, studying each new bit of information like a single cell under a very powerful microscope, I tend to let those go in myself. It's too close for me to see. I need the help of others. I can reason anything in anyone simply because I've allowed myself to feel these things before, and given enough time I can allow these lessons to sink in, freeing me to impart my own brand of wisdom or at least a modicum of empathy. But while immersed in the mire, I can't really see much of anything. Water's too murky. I've dove too far deep and I'm feeling the crushing of too much pressure. If I come up too fast I'll get the bends. Oh, look! An anemone!

Common logic allows that if I like someone I should just go for it. It's not that simple.

When I look around at people in old and new relationships I see a common thread: Beyond compromise, they succumb.

Standard size 4 (in the new size chart as America is now Biggie Sized) Woman: Oooh, that sounds good, but I really shouldn't have it. You don't want any, right? I don't want to get it if I'm the only one having it. Forget it. Nope. No, thank you. That's okay.... Well, what do YOU want? I don't care (have an opinion). I'll have whatever you want to have. Really.

[ deflate ]

Then there is the diametric opposite: The Bitch Princess who flatly refuses to share anything. The world revolves around her. She has to adjust her beret as it keeps flopping into her sauce as she guardedly eats her food, gratingly sliding her teeth against the tines of her fork, taking care not to mingle vermillion M.A.C. lipstick with gorgonzola.

I have been the former, save the opinion part. I can't be the latter. It's not in my genetic make-up. I don't want to be that person again; the person who loses herself.

The first time I got married was when I was 21. It was a mistake. I didn't love him, but for some reason I thought it was a good idea. I was in love with someone else. I carried a torch for that someone else for 10 years. I got married the first time because I didn't want to be alone. For some reason I got it in my head that I'd never find someone else.

21

I barely begun developing the knowledge of the intricacies of wiping my own ass at 21. The marriage lasted exactly 1.463 years. I left because I had to leave. It was killing me. I remember being scared I'd never find anyone ever again.

Again.

At 28, I married the Greatest Love of My Life. Ack. The, now, ex-husband/current best friend. I had been single for 6 months prior to meeting him. We had a marriage that most aspired to having. Most of our friends are still mourning its loss. It was built solidly on respect, understanding, love and friendship. But it wasn't what I wanted.

Or want.
Or need.

Looking out my window, beyond my monitor, I wish to be reincarnated as a squirrel. A grey squirrel. Fluffy, spinning tail. The ability to soar through trees, effortlessly scaling impossible perpendicular angles, making "chuck, chuck, chuck" noises while being in hot pursuit by another squirrel. Taunting dogs.

Freedom.

I long for it. I feel guilt in having it. I hate my inherent shame reflex. It serves no good.

I feel societal pressure every day of my existence. Though I can intellectualise it as wrong, I still feel the shameful pull in behaving a certain way, though I hate to censor.

I was out for dinner with my lovely friend Ryan, visiting my great friend Ian, whom I wrestle with often. Ian works at a neighbouring restaurant. Plates are large; portions are designer small; emphasis on fusion; a bit of a wank. The set they serve are of the Dinosaur Age. Apparently I was saying, "Cock", too loud and got "shushed". Repeatedly. And then got the talk.

I hate restrictions. I hate being "shushed". I hate "the talk".

Everytime I talk to my mother on the phone I have to justify my life to her. I have to make her understand that I am quite possibly the only relatively happy person that came out of our household. I am the only person not propelled by money. Subsequently, I am the only one who has time. I don't see them very often because I simply don't feel like it.

They, and I mean my friends and my family, still instill a sense of guilt in me.
Mom: [leaving a message on my machine] Have you forgotten Mommy's phone number?
Dirty: [good friend, ditto from above] Okay, so have you fallen off the face of the Earth? Or are you mad at me? Have I done something wrong and THAT'S why you haven't called me back?

I just don't feel like it. But why?

Matty said a great thing the other night. To preface, there is a man we work with. Zac. He's straight. He's black(ish). He keeps making "Master" jokes all the time. "Yessss, Massah! I works for you, Massah!" I don't like it. I don't understand his sense of humour and he doesn't understand mine. He takes personal offence to everything I say. So, Matty said, "Zac's humour is stagnant where yours is progressive; it builds."

Ever since I was a kid I'd develop intense relationships with individual people for a duration. We'd spend nearly every day together, honing, developing, creating. Then imperceptibly there seemed to be a lull. A peak reached. It's as if we learned as much as we could about the other person, and it naturally came to a close. We were richer from the process and in the end, in retrospect. A silent acknowledgement agreement was drafted. I still work the same way. Still, the only person I see with any frequency is Ack. I think the only reasons I see him so often is he's very current with new concepts, ideas and knowledge and he knows me very well. He's very versed in my cycles.

In trying to rationalise my non-pursuit in anyone right now, I had a knee-jerk response in thinking I was fearful in getting hurt like I had over the summer. I can't honestly say that now. What happened, simply happened. At the time it didn't fit what my plans were, but in the end it was the best thing that could have happened. I would have just found myself accommodating yet another person. In the end, even if it did fit my plans at the time, I would have eventually left yet another person. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam.

Who knows?

Maybe I'm seeing the end without seeing the potential.
Maybe I'm just fearful of having another dissatified customer served.
Maybe I'm not meant to be in a relationship.
Maybe I'm just needing to be alone still.
Maybe I should just embrace diversification.
Maybe I should stop slathering myself with accusations.
Maybe I shouldn't think so much.
Maybe I should sop up the 3 double espressos I've just had with some breakfast.

Is This The Light Of A New Day Dawning?

'Why live in the world when you can live in your head?'
------ "Monday Morning", Pulp: A Different Class

I feel tired, restless and alone. I'm getting plenty of rest. I don't work too many hours a week. I am mostly engaged when I am working. I don't feel lonely; I feel misunderstood. I want Jarvis to wrap his gangly arms around me and caress me with his extra-terrestrial-like fingers because he's the only one who understands.

John Q. is seriously flirting with me.

I made the mistake of showing him my post from last week. The one about him. On one hand it was good that he saw it. I'd forgotten how difficult it is to start a new job; one has to deal with different personalities, individual quirks and try to fit in somehow. I didn't realise how my laughing could have been misconstrued as mocking. After reading the post he understood.

After reading the post, John Q. Arms-of-Lusciousness held a new power.

What have I done?

This weekend John Q. was being extremely flirty with The Comrade. The Comrade didn't half mind. Not only are his arms of exemplary quality, the rest of it bears no flies. Warm. Hard, yet supple. Fragrance free. Perfect physical build. Over the course of two days he embraced me several times from the front and from behind - while, with his thumb, gently caressing my rib and getting dangerously close to my right breast. And he kissed the back of my bare left shoulder. I swear I felt wetness trickle down my thigh.

It's winter. I should stop wearing skirts.

I hate that he's doing this and I love that he's doing this. I'm am reminded that sexual harassment is only sexual harassment if one of the parties is unattractive. It is incredibly distracting and I long for his touch. He will make me drop plates.

Looking around the restaurant this weekend I discovered that the only couples that seemed happy, that enjoyed each other's company, that listened to the other, that laughed together, were gay. Men and women alike. All the straight couples seemed bored, restricted, unchallenged, unloved, compliant, unforgiving, impatient, unwanted, undersexed. In a word: miserable. This blatant unhappiness, displayed like a carousel in front of me, confirmed my mandate, my new mantra:

I am NEVER getting married again.

The problem is I can't see myself being with anyone in much of any capacity, right now. Really... ever again. I do want deep meaning in so much of my life. I crave new experiences all the time. New people. I like the "idea" of sex. I'm just having a difficult time with the actualisation, the physicalities, of sex. The mechanics. Another person.

There's a local sex shop in Toronto called Come As You Are. They have a very informative site about products, classes they offer, and they offer a few How To online tutorials. I found out how to have female ejaculations. Now everytime I do it with myself I can achieve these. Coupled with my ability to reach orgasm just with my mind, I am having the best (with myself) sex of my life. I don't have to deal with the individual quirks, idiosyncracies, bad odours, insensitive hands, the wrong thing said (which leads to talking), and the presence of a man.

I spoke of the importance of having prospects in the past. I'm adding an amendment: It's very important to have viable, significant and good prospects. I have none right now.

This is what's going on:
I have friends and family that miss me but I don't have the strength to see/talk to right now.
I'm concerned I have had more of an affinity for my online friends than my flesh and blood friends.
Wow! The amount of dust bunnies that collect under a bed during a spell of non-cleaning.
Today I finally, thoroughly, cleaned my house, did further adventures in laundry and put away all of the clean clothes. I haven't done this in at least a month, if not two. I finally felt like it.
Lately I haven't done anything I don't feel like doing.
I have a job that is two nights great, two nights ass. But is something I love.
I finally have a life that is truly, fully my own and half the time I don't know what to do with it.
I go to sleep somewhere between the hours of 3:30 to 7:30am. And often feel bad about it.
I drink everyday but don't get drunk very often.
I don't self-medicate. I prefer to feel.
I treat alcohol as a social lubricant.
I do like how I feel after having a double vodka, on the rocks, with a squeeze of lemon.
The second one is nice too.
The third one, in succession, is overkill. This is when I start wrestling with friends. Literally.

I bought my first downfilled winter jacket this year. It feels like having a duvet around me. I get cozy/sleepy when I put it on. Also, it's beautiful. I look like Nanuck of the North when I wear it with the hood up. All chicks dig it, for some reason. When I was talking to the salesguy about cleaning it (it's white), he said I can machine wash it. Excellent. I was concerned about maintaining its whiteness. He said, "You're just going skiing. It's not like you're going to wrestle in it." So not the Amazing Kreskin, he. Ack, the ex-husband/best friend and I had a good laugh over that one.

Other than the wrestling, I feel sort of lost.

And She Responds...

I had an blogspot comment argument in a friend's realm the other day. In debriefing the situation later, we decided it best to post only on topics we feel we have enough fervor and passion to potentially argue, if need be.

I got this from Anonymous, at 4:04pm yesterday:
"They've had video games where you hunt and kill Osama and Saddam, both of whom are 'innocent' as they have not been convicted of anything. I do not see anyone getting upset over that. I do not see anyone getting upset that every thriller movie ever made uses sexual women to bear the brunt of the knife, every

single

time.

A president is no better a man than anyone else. Fair "game", I say. And besides, it's Scotland. The only reason anyone even knows this game exists is because people are flipping out about it ---- and they're reaping the reward."

I had enough fervor and passion in writing it to respond:

Dear Anonymous,
"A president is no better a man than anyone else." (your words)
Is man created equally? Yes, the Comrade believes so. Does a man, or woman, have the potential to achieve greatness, or be the sum of destruction in his or her lifetime? That's up to the individual. Did John F. Kennedy try to achieve greatness? I don't think he tried; it just happened. Did he try to create a universal peace? A better America? A tyranny and war-free world?
Yes, he most certainly tried.

My problem is: In the name of profit and poor taste, this company created an "interactive and educational tool" designed to kill someone, repeatedly, who was the embodiment of good. He simply understood he had a responsibility to his people, something men and women of power simply don't understand anymore. This game, beyond absolute and horrific poor taste, is just another example of how refined and opiated this culture is. This "fair game", you speak of, is just another shortsighted ideal of how making money, while abandoning thought, reverence and a social conscience, is the New American Way.

In your Osama and Saddam innocence statement, I'm glad, dear Anonymous, that you used the word "innocent" in quotations. In just judicial systems, you're right, a person is innocent until proven guilty. But you have to catch them first. Or have the right friends in the right places. Separately they all have a hell of an argument for why they've done what they've done, but in the World's Court Saddam, Osama and Bush are ALL technically war criminals. Convicted? No. Innocent? No. They've either not been caught, or they've changed the rules and in the process been granted immunity. Some are the Super Power, after all.

The right wing and its proponents have always needed simple answers. Black and white. Wrong or right. Good or bad. In addition to the upset in my preceding statements, there is overwhelming evidence that the murder of this man was more than likely by his own government, who more than likely covered up this conspiracy with lies, deception, and deflection. The government teat-fed the populace with America's need for immediate gratification in naming a responsible party right away. Then along comes a foreign company with no intention of seeking truth, nor educating a new generation of free thinkers. They've denied the abundant and plentiful evidence of how this act, by one lone gunman, was impossible to do. This company is trying to "educate" our children in a falsified history, not the truth.

History is written by the victors. Always has been, always will be.

Speaking of fiction, I was checking the imdb.com for the top thrillers, just to prove or disprove your theory of sexy chicks brutally biting it in the end.
These were the Top 10:
1. Rear Window (1954)
2. Cidade de Deus (2002)
3. The Usual Suspects (1995)
4. North by Northwest (1959)
5. Memento (2000)
6. Psycho (1960)
7. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
8. The Third Man (1949)
9. Vertigo (1958)
10. M (1931)

Watch them again, if you've watched them at all. "Sexual women" didn't get it in the end in most of these films. Sometimes chaste virgins got it. Sometimes kids got it. Sometimes guys got it. Sometimes nobody got. Am I upset that these things are being made? No. It's FICTION. They're stories, not potshots taken on a life bent on good, based on a historical event that saddened the world.

I liken this to having a videogame called The Twin Towers: The Return of the King, if we're all about stealing the titles of other films. In it, the player controls the planes flying into the World Trade Center. The first player who flys the planes at the exact angle and kills exactly the same amount of people as the real event WINS $100,000. Special mentions go to those who can nail groundlevel passersby with office furniture!

Money... forever the great motivator and justification in whatever heinous and morality-free decisions we make - because, hell, as long as we're making money... it's the right of every American. Who cares how it's done?

It's Official...

This is what's laid in front of me
Everytime I look up from
My monitor

Though it's hard to see,
This time, when I looked up, it was definitely
Snow

The Commemorative Edition

Just when I was digging the Scots by bringing us Franz Ferdinand, The Bay City Rollers, and Mogwai, I learned just today there's a little interactive company, based in Glasgow, that's just created an "educational" interactive game called:

JFK Reloaded.

This is how the game works:
You're Lee Harvey Oswald, see? And you're hanging out in the Texas School Book Depository, right? You're just about to kill the most beloved president that ever lived. Fun! Educational! Sure the old nerves kick in. You'll probably be very unpopular after doing something like that! But things swing your way because you get to try your hand at the 3 *impossible* shots that were fired on that day. Didn't get it? Reload! Try it again! It's less than $10 to buy! Christmas is coming!

The last bastion of hope the US had died on November 22, 1963. This is how he is immortalised?

The company's name is Traffic. You will find no links to their site from my blog. I did go to their site and left a comment which went like this:

From: Decent Human Beings
Email: nottellingbutyoucanprobablyseeitanyway@wow!.com
Text: You sick FUCKS!

Traffic's touting it as a "docu-game". They're bent on disproving any potential theories one might have of a conspiratorial nature towards the assassination. The company actually believes that this is a tool to *educate* our children in informing them of a valuable history lesson. This is what Traffic's managing director, Kirk Ewing, stated:

"We've created the game with the belief that Oswald was the only person that fired the shots on that day, although this recreation proves how immensely difficult his task was."

Immensely difficult... hmmm...
It was fucking impossible! And he didn't do it!

Oh, and get this: The company's offering $100,000 to the first person to duplicate the shots that killed JFK. So I'm thinking, unless there's some hacker that figures out the code for the final frames, there's no such money awarded.

This is what they've actually stated to press (honestly I couldn't make this up):

"What we are hoping to do is re-ignite people's passion for history. This is a unique insight into the assassination. We think there's a whole generation of people who have no experience of the Kennedy assassination. I hasten to add that we don't regard it as a video game because there's no imagination been used to create the scene. It's been covered in every kind of media so far, whether in books or movies, so what we've done is really just to extend that into the interactive media."

Perfect.
Just what America needs!
Another reignited LIE.
Another gentle creature in which to shoot over and over again.
And the use of no imagination whatsoever.

The Gravitational Pull

"See that guy?"
"Which one?"
"The third guy in. He's got a light shirt on, just in front of that other guy with the vest. See him?"
"Um... um... Holy Fuck!!!"

Matthew, the bartender, pointed out "The Right Hand of Satan" at the bar. This man had translucent skin, an average to pudgy build, average height, pale hair and black holes for eyes that spoke pure evil. It gave you the feeling that if you looked in them for longer than a glance you'd get sucked into a vacuum-vortex... of hell.

I yelped and ran away.

At one point he came close enough to me to notice that there were irregular bald patches in a few different parts of his scalp. This was not your typical male-pattern baldness. They were 1-2" in diameter, random, like the patches on a domestic animal. Three in total.

I'd just finished reading Tess Gerritsen's Gravity. Wonderful read. As much as I like dystopian novels, I love thrillers, especially with a forensic bent. Dr. Gerritsen was once a practicing intern, but turned to fiction writing when she started popping out kids. Couple being a hell of a descriptive writer with technical medical knowledge and you've got a winner in my bookshelf. During the read, I had to put the book down, at least 10 times, just keep bile down.

Here's a passage from Gravity:
"When a plane crashes, or an automobile slams into a wall, or a despondent lover makes a suicide leap from a ten-story building, the same forces of deceleration apply. A human body traveling at great speed is abruptly brought to a halt. The impact itself can shatter ribs and send missiles of bone shards into vital organs. It can fracture vertebrae, rupture spinal cords, crush skulls against dashboards or instrument panels.

But even when pilots are fully strapped in and helmeted, even when no part of their body makes contact with the aircraft, the force of deceleration alone can be fatal, because although the torso may be restrained, the internal organs are not. The heart and lungs and great vessels are suspended inside the chest by only tissue attachments. When the torso comes to an abrupt halt, the heart continues to swing forward like a pendulum, moving with such force it shears tissues and rips open the aorta.

Blood explodes into the mediastinum and pleural cavity... "

Ewwww!!

I haven't had a television for a while now, but I remember loving the Operation show on the Learning Channel. They would show full on hair transplants (yick), facelifts (gah!) and my favourite, back surgery (oh, God!). There's something of great marvel to me of seeing the subdermal mechanics of the human body. I've wanted to have an installation of all my friends X-rays mounted on lightbox frames in my loft.

I visited Dr. Gerritsen's site and found a subsection called Creepy Biological Facts.

THE RAPUNZEL SYNDROME
"Bezoars are large masses of indigestible organic matter which are eaten and then get trapped in the stomach. They can be caused by vegetable or fruit fiber (phytobezoars) or by the ingestion of hair (trichobezoars). They are most commonly found in animals. The ancients, in fact, believed that such masses from the stomach of goats possessed magical healing properties, and the word 'bezoar' comes from an Arabic word meaning 'antidote'.

When gastric hairballs occur in humans, the patients are usually children or mentally disturbed women who yank out their own hair and swallow it. A partially bald scalp is an obvious clue. As in a plugged shower drain, the hairs get trapped and tangled in the stomach, accumulating over time, until they cause distension, bloating, and nausea. Long strands from the hairball may extend past the stomach, all the way through the small intestine, and may even reach the colon, a condition known as The Rapunzel Syndrome.

If you've ever fished out a hairball from a plugged shower drain, then you know just how disgusting and smelly they can be. The same can be said for trichobezoars. They are traps for undigested fat and havens for bacteria. That, plus the chronic exposure to gastric juices, makes the matted hairballs turn black and nauseatingly odorous."

... just like The Right Hand of Satan...

The New John Q. Public

Our little restaurant is a rather interesting place, inhabited with wholly different personalities. This was a design by our Fearless Leader, my boss, Giuseppe, whom I adore.

Guiseppe thinks of his place as his own personal canvas. He, his own Caravaggio. Every staff member is part of the palette. I don't know what pigment I am when I'm squeezed out of the tube. I think I change colours. The medium is more than likely gouache. Gauche. Giuseppe likes drama. He likes theatre. With all the different personalities that work there, he gets it.

Sometimes, as confirmed last week, we get it... up the ass.

But, wait! Hello! It seems the tide has changed! The Cursed Fridays that induced a strange introversion and melancholia LIFTED!

New music was brought in. Glen had a little talking to and was NICE to everyone. Played well with others. Worked with us, not against us. And kept all negative comments out of my earshot.

Truth is he's scared of getting the boot. And he's probably taken some stock, after the talk and the event that happened shortly after, which I will get into later, and realised that this place where he works, which is busy, fun, where we get to drink WHILE we're working (keeps us much more amiable), and where there is no shortage of money people throw at us, is probably as good as it gets in this industry.

A few weeks back, a POLICEing MANager (a totally mistrusting, himself distrustful, pig of a man) had hired a guy named Mike (another one!) We, the rest of the staff, would complain he was cheap in tipping out the support staff, ineffectual in every sense of the word, annoying, with a lousy sense of humour and an all 'round shitty waiter. He also wore those annoying jeans with the bleach marks down the fronts and backs of his legs... during service! His customers accused him of being decidedly "suburban". I'm convinced he must have flattered the Police Man to get the job.

In addition to all his *fine* qualities he turned out to be a thief and a rogue! He pocketed $150 of mine. And then tried to challenge The Comrade.

That didn't go over well.

Mike the Shit Waiter got the axe.

One down... one to go.
Out with the old... in with the new.
In walks John Q.

Normally when someone new starts, the staff tries to figure out the sexual orientation of the newbie. No one asked about the sexual orientation of Mike The Shit Waiter, mostly because no one from either Camp Gay or Camp Straight entertained the notion of ever having sex with him. John Q. was asked within the first 2 hours. And it went like this:

The Comrade: John Q!
John Q: Yes?
TC: Sexual orientation, please?
JQ: Sorry?
TC: Just answer the question.
JQ: Oh! Straight, straight, straight!

[A coronation begins. Brass section rising and swelling... a thumping of tympanies]

A
STRAIGHT
MALE
WAITER...
WHO IS REASONABLY ATTRACTIVE.

An extinct species.

Then we find out, through the grapevine, he's a Born Again Christian. I don't know why, but it sent me into peals of laughter, for 45 minutes, directed solely at my boss, the Artistic Director. I had to go outside for a smoke to *calm* myself down. Maybe it's because it's the SECOND Reformed Rebirthed person the company's hired in recent months. There is little turnover in our establishment. Between the bar and floor staff, we make up 9 people in total. That is 22% Evangelical stock.

Matthew, the bartender whom I had great difficulties with last year, and who has endeared himself to me of late, is gay. He looks at individual body parts and is instantly turned on. When John Q. is at the computer entering a table's order, he has a tendency to shift his weight onto one side of his body, usually the left side, and forces a good percentage of his body weight onto his left arm, which is placed on the surface the computer rests upon. This action induces a rippling effect of the biceps and triceps underneath very soft, freckled skin.

Matt: Look at that!
The Comrade: What?
M: Those arms!
[She looks]
TC: Oh, Jesus! I'd never noticed THOSE before.
M: Look, look, look! He's moved directly underneath the pendant lamp! His back! I can't take it anymore! Quick, jump up and unscrew the bulb!
[She eyeballs the distance needed to travel unaided by an elevating device]
TC: I... can't... reach!

Sweet Lord!

It became so distracting that Matt turned the heat down to refridgerator temperatures just so John Q would put his concealing sweater back on.

I turned the heat back up.

Poor Matt was trying so hard to avoid the topic of Christianity, probably out of fear of exile from All Things Hot 'n Straight, the lifestyle choice of the dispensing of Man Love decidedly unChristian. In his pointed avoidance, donning a skull cap with a Chinese character on it (something I said translated to chicken fried rice), rockstar sunglasses, and his usual fantastic garb on heroine chic frame, a strange series of Tourette's like barkings projectiled out of him rather loudly and obtusely:

"I am the Dark Prince of Christian Rock!" Repeatedly. Each time he exclaimed this proclamation, he threw a hand up to his mouth and hid behind the cappuccino maker.

Matty has an affectation schtick. And he loves playing the nilhalist. He was waxing care of nothing, loving still less, when John Q. Christian said something like:

"Matt, you should always choose love. We all need love. Flowers need sunshine to grow."

Holy Frijoles = Holy Beans

The Comrade: K, John... understanding the albeit limited knowledge you have of the Dark Prince of Christian Rock, do you really think the flowers and sunshine allusion will work? Maybe you should pick a more useful metaphor.

John Q: Okay... group hug!

He's learning fast.

He applied one rippling, soft, freckled arm around Matt, forearm resting just below poor Matty's eyes. Eyes registering nothing but arousal and lewd lasciviousness, slowly oscillating right and left. I had to rip the other perfect arm off my back and ran away screaming; Matty's expression burned on my brain. He looked like Killjoy with a hard-on.

Tableau *

With hiked wool socks
Praying to the gods of
Fire
She kneels
(the only explanation for the pose)

A reclined Fatty
In the background but not
Distorted

Beer figures prominently
As always.

Could be Stella's next campaign...

[*Photo courtesy of Ack, the ex-husband/best friend]

I... Am Going... To Chicago!!!

I have been blogging since July 31, 2004. The reason I started was to just dump my thoughts, on a web page, turning my usual train-of-thought processes into something a little more tangible. It was an opportunity to bleed. It was something that I suppose, knew, as a concept, others could read, but thought, "Really... who the fuck would read my shit?" I mean, this is just my little life and my little thoughts that I'm putting down on a page that doesn't offend me in a design sense. I've never had a personal website before, and it seemed like a pretty cool thing to do.

So I began.

I wrote about my hopes. I wrote about my fears. I wrote about the stupid family stuff I was subjected to but learned to see through their thinly sheathed motives. I wrote seemingly endlessly about boys. I wrote about embarrassing stuff. I wrote about my real boyfriend (music). I wrote about political stuff. I wrote about funny stuff. I wrote about the stuff that pisses me off. I wrote about the sweetness that surrounds me.

I wrote about me.

One day, I learned to upload pictures, a task not made instantly simple as I'm on a Mac platform, not a PC, but I found a way. I titled one my entries: Turnstile. I wanted to find a picture online, which I did. It was beautiful. I had no idea it was an installation and I certainly didn't realise it was by the respected artist Germaine Koh.

A young lady who currently resides in California, originally from Canada's capital city, wrote to me saying nice things, told me about the artist and we began a nice dialogue. Sometimes she gives me valuable advice and other times she shares some of her ideas and thoughts. This young lady is grumblecakes.

Another day I was writing about a band, copying and pasting their lyrics and blabbing about why I dig guys in their 20's. A young man commented by saying nice things about what I said in my About Me section. Since comments are linked to the user, I launched his profile and subsequently his blogspot and read the most charming, delightful, hilarious bits of business. Thus Jason was born in my life.

Curious by nature I checked out who young Jason considered friend, in this realm. I get taken to a Minima Black template filled with a darker than the screen, sardonic, tragic prose musings and poetry, full of humanity and suffering. With bursting heart, I discovered WorkingNob.

Apparently I have a tendency to go on and on in a comment posting and got sort bitchslapped for being a bit too verbose in my statements to the aforementioned lad. This high-spirited minx, who busts me and conversely loves me, is Sergeant Fun.

I think about these people all the time. They enter into conversations I have with people daily. They are often the first thing I think about in the morning. They are a consideration when I post things in my blog. I know they will read it. Read this.

Soon we all started regularly reading and commenting on each other's blogs.

Lives.

I believe we all speak things in this realm that
A) we don't have the time for in the Real World and
B) we don't have the right people to share these things with.

And the interesting thing is we absolutely support one another. By support, I don't mean that we just gratuitously praise one another. We give each other props, sure, but we give each other shit as well. We challenge each other. Sometimes there's guidance. Other times it's complete understanding. Suddenly we are no longer alone.

Suddenly we have a community.

I was just looking up "community" through dictionary.com. I liked the 5th definition, one borne of ecology:
"A group of plants and animals living and interacting with one another in a specific region under relatively similar environmental conditions."

Specific region: well... the whole of North America.
Relatively similar environmental conditions: well... kind of fucked up.

Jason was commenting on one of Sgt. Fun's blogs last week. The comment was in reference to a picture a friend sent to her. Jason lives in Arizona where at 10pm it's 70ºF outside. He misses the changing seasons. I would too. That, to me, is one of the best things about living in Toronto. That comment inspired the Sarge to suggest there be a Blogger Reunion of sorts. It's not that we were once physically together and then separated. We've never physically met.

The thing is these people know me more than most people do. I really feel I know them in much the same way. There is no need for a physical being sometimes. Sometimes there's enough spirit left on a page.
Through the interactions I've had with these people I've become happier. Single but not alone. There's a certain amount of brainspace that is occupied with thoughts of them. I worry about them. I wonder about them. I cheer for them.

We're meeting in January in Chicago. I've only been to Chicago once and I had a marvellous time. I remember Samuel Adams beer, running up and down the field alongside the pre-season Bears during an exhibition game pretending to be a journalist, but all the while writing, "This is the best day of my life", in the little book I was carrying. I remember feeling it was Oprah's town; how everyone was working and happy to be working. I remember great service. I remember Happy Hour and the best crab cakes ever. I remember a seedy hotel room with a flashing neon sign outside the window; I can still hear the electrical sound it made everytime it flashed on. I remember the El and how I liked walking underneath the trains in the middle of the city. I remember their "bad" neighbourhoods weren't THAT bad.

I'm so excited about going.
I can't wait to meet them.
There are times that this phrase just flies out of my mouth, "I... am going... to Chicago!!!"

I told my boss yesterday that I needed some time off in January.
He said, "What day is it?"
I asked, "Today?"
"Yeah", he said.
"Oh... okay, well... just wanted you to know... (mutters 'asshole' under her breath)."

And of course everyone I've told thinks I'm nuts for doing this. But, for me, there is zero retiscence, and absolute and total enthusiasm over the whole thing.

I... am going... to Chicago!!!

Fatty, Fatty, Fatty!!

I was out with my wicked friend Damien last night. Fuck, he's good times. He's in the top percentile of "idiot" guy friends I have. When I say idiot, I mean it in the best, most flattering way possible.

Attention Disclaimer: Thanking Zontar, the Corpo, when I give this heed in warning: If you work in an office where your online activity is monitored, do NOT open the link in the following paragraph. Save it for home.

He attains this title because of Exhibit A, a URL sent via phone, while you're talking to him just so he can hear the reaction.

All of my really good friends receive, after some time or hilarious circumstance, a nickname. Damien's nickname is Fatty.

It's not that he's particularly fat, but at one time, when we worked together, incidentally how we met, he'd wear those front pleated, and I'm tempted to say "slacks", but I hate that word, dress pants. His ass looked behemoth. These are not flattering pants, gents.

I used to box Fatty's ass.

Cool things about Fatty:
1. He does David Blaine-like amazing card tricks that make me scream and want to hit him; they're so astounding!
2. He grew his own pot up at the family cottage this summer and went back recently to collect it, discovering it had freeze-dried. Apparently it lost some potency... Hmm... unsure about that. I got mighty stoned.
3. He was the one who told me about The Harry Houdini and The Cleavland Steamer.
4. He makes me laugh so hard I can't see.
5. When I asked him why it was called the Harry Houdini, he said, completely high pitched and in hysterics, "Because it's magic!"
6. He made a Lego man costume for Hallowe'en.
7. He squeamishly put a worm on the end of my fishing line for the first fishing experience of my life. I wasn't brave enough. It will more than likely be my last fishing attempt. Though you never know.
8. He's a really great friend.
9. When he phones me he always greets me by saying, "Hey, you dirty bitch!"
10. He made me remember how much I like grocery shopping while high and/or drunk.

Which we did last night.

We have a grocery chain in Canada called Dominion. It's a rather epic name for a place that hocks toilet paper and marinated olives and everything in between. Dominion has, in the last few years, created a 24 hour shopping experience. Handy if you're single with a barren fridge at home, thinking that bulk bin items are a really good idea, and have a tendency towards better, healthier choices. Though last night I had a pull to buy a kilo of candy necklaces, a bunch of broccoli and rapini were thrown in the cart instead. They nearly crushed my cheesies. Roughage!

These stores figure they have to make it worth their while to justify a 24 hour concept, so they throw in large ticket gift items at the end of isles, just in case some poor slob was a bad father this year and forgot young Janie's birthday. You can buy one of those frightening dolls that stand 3' high, eyes opening and closing if dipped while dancing (or being smothered), hair in perfect blonde ringlets, bodies clothed in prudish, matronly, high lacey collared dresses with a small floral print. Bodies as hard and unyielding as the ones that move around in California. All for the low, low price of just $49.95.

After I knocked into, and over, a Mason approved display (Form of: a whole bunch of potatoes. Shape of: a pyramid), Fatty pulled out a hockey stick from another $49.95 bin and lobbed a poor stray, this near perfect food, into the tampon isle. He then body checked me into an 8' display of Vector cereal.

I ran away. Arms flailing.

He stayed to help the poor stockboy clean up.

I pretended to mind my own business in the seasonal display area. "It's too soon for Christmas", is what I kept thinking.

I lost him in aisle 3 at one point and was calling him softly. "Faatttyy.... Faaattttyyyy...". When I turned around I noticed a 400lbs man, I guess a manager, glaring at me while softly spreading in his office chair.

The cashier was unfriendly. Unfriendly cashiers used to bother me, but they don't anymore. She probably has to deal with a lot of drunken assholes at 2:00 in the morning, under harsh fluorescent lighting. She couldn't possibly get friendly mainly because she never met anyone's eyes.

Fatty, Fatty, Fatty!

I love Fatty!

My Backyard

I spent the better part of my day with Ack, the ex-husband/best friend yesterday. My day off. My Saturday. It was filled with schnitzel and potato salad, beer, beer, beer, extremely good coffee, homemade pizza and talks of nuclear power plants.

He told me there is a reactor in Pickering, Ontario that is in dire need of cleaning. Has been so for some time now. Things leak, things don't perform well. People die or at least get really, really sick. Things need routine maintenance, and things need cleaning.

Cost?

Over $1,000,000,000.00

Just to clean the fucking thing!

As much as I hold my head over the state of the States, and incidentally there has been a 900% increase in hits, solely by Americans, on the Canadian Immigration site since the conceding, we've got our own shit happening over here. So I'm doing a little research.

Our politicians LOVE nuclear power!

We had 20 reactors running for a while. In 1997, 8 of these were shut down from poor performance and safety issues. These dangerous behemoths are proposed at costing $3-4 billion per. The Darlington plant was estimated at $4 billion. The final price tag? $14.3 BILLION! It's a ridiculous choice. The longevity is weak and the potential destructive ramifications are disasterous.

Core meltdown in 5, 4, 3, 2...

And they want to build more of these potential Chernobyl devices. One hit, with the shields weak, would wipe out this entire continent.

Then I learned the government has LOST over $30 million. Lost it. They have no idea where it is. Sorry. I guess this just goes back into the deficit thing. Whoops! Really, we're sorry.

This is fucked!

They take between 27-51% of our earnings. Consistently. Then if you're "lucky" enough to own a house they hit you with Property Taxes. My boss has to pay $3 for a yellow bag to bag restaurant waste. The Yellow Bag slips over the regular black garbage bag, which to me is further waste. But he HAS to buy these bags at $3/bag otherwise he'll get fined! This is in addition to a whole host of commercial taxes he's required to pay, just so he can operate a business.

We keep electing these minions back into office because we're stupid and we're hopeful. During the election process they're all about the implementation of advanced renewable energy resources. They all promise to shut down the coal plants. They *really* are looking at "green" choices! The truth is we have just as few worthwhile political hopefuls as our southern pals that make these crucial decisions - certainly not fulfilling any of my wishes.

Lately my boss' favourite saying is, "No Freedom Left."



Apparently the most cost effective and generally all round effective source of electricity is steam generation. The "waste" could heat the entire downtown core. $14.3 billion. Just on one reactor. If they didn't like the steam generators they would have enough to buy 14,300 wind power generators. Zero waste. And they look mighty cool and fierce!

Exposed, But No Stigmata

I was riding the subway the other day, something I don't do very often, as I live very close to work, and either walk, bike, cab or drive everywhere. So I view taking mass transit as a rare treat.

One of my favourite things in the whole world is watching people. You can watch so many people on a subway! Eyes flick, side to side, up and down. Feet stuffed inside of shoes that are pointed in very expressive angles. Just their feet!

Look here: Shy. Look there: Fiercely proud stance. Stances.

Postures slouched or perched.

I noticed something new, something I hadn't discovered before.

People clench their hands.

Either gently or aggressively. They are either holding onto something: a bag, their CD player, curled up in a ball on their lap or wedged in their pockets. I was doing this too.

Not one palm was exposed.

Try this: Open your hands as wide as possible and extend it outwards in front of you.

It feels totally exposing.

The Majority Will Not Rule... In This Case

While I was setting up the restaurant the other night, the host came over and told me that he had just received a phone call. The caller had asked if I was working. No, they didn't want to talk to me, but did ask to please pass on a message that Ryan was coming in for dinner with a friend.

Ryan!

Things didn't work out for us romantically, but what we were left with was the most remarkable friendship ever since. He and I truly love each other. It was an absolute case of this-is-someone-I-should-know. He is singularly my greatest champion right now. He was the one who accused me of being Neo.

Goddamn it! There are too many people sharing the same goddamned name in this world! I am grateful to my parents that my name is rather unusual; or rather, you don't come across it 16 times a day, or even twice. (Thanks Mom! Thanks Dad!... I always wanted to be a Dave or a Bob or a Mike or a Tiffany.)

I was disappointed because it turned out to be my other friend, Ryan, who called and who subsequently came in, not my champion, not my supporter, not my great new friend.

So just after the state of realisation, which felt not unlike being picked up by a giant, plastic, carnival hand, by the back of the shirt, arm and legs flailing, lifted 10 feet in the air and unconscionably released onto unforgiving concrete, I felt a bit more than wounded. Tender. Bitchy.

Hungry.

I devoured a rather large caprese salad, bread, bread, bread, pasta, sautéed chicken livers, pistachio cheesecake. I ate until I couldn't eat anymore. Still, I felt like ass.

Fridays have turned into Introverted Fridays for me. Sometimes all I do is fantasize about being back at my apartment, alone, and cranking music, my music, as loud as my ears will allow and/or suffer. Sometimes there's no real proponent. Other times there are.

Every Friday, since my return back from summer holidays, something I'm starting to save up for so I can do it every year, I've been working with the most excessively flamboyant gay guy named Glen. Poor Josh, my favourite comrade at work, once got poked in the eye by Glen in one of his flamboyant tyrades. Glen's in his 40's. Bitter. Is working simply for the dough. When he's in a "good" mood, it's because he's on blow. Customers spot it instantly. When he's in a bad mood he's recovering from a coke binge from the night before.

And it ain't pretty.

In addition to his wildly unpredictable moods, he gives people *notes*.

If people he works with aren't doing what he wants them to do, in the exact manner in which he wants it executed, he loses his mind and LOUD, caustic, unreasonable hissy fits ensue. Publically. No one is happy when he's working. Mogwai's Hunted by a Freak video is a metaphor for what he does to other human beings, on a nightly basis, just with his mind and with his mouth.

I don't come across "bad humans" too often. I'm not talking about people in bad moods, or the occasional outburst, or even the consistent outbursts of many. I can still see the humanity in the person. I'm talking about the people in this world with, not just tarnished but, Black Souls.

If I were granted those abilities we dream up, I would summon up my super-powers and commence with the immediate removal of this sub-human from our biosphere, for he contaminates the air good people breathe.

One of the worst things a generally dumb person does is complain about a situation and not offer any potential solutions. Case in point: I don't know where he finds the time, but Glen unceasingly complains about the music we play at work. It's not as if he's brought in any of HIS disks from home. First off, he's selfish. Secondly, anyone who presents something as personal as music is subject to potential judgement and ridicule. He alone holds the mantle in judgement. He couldn't possibly open himself up to any reciprocal action. The best, safest place for him to be is to lord over us and berate us our choices.

Personally, I don't hear the music played at work, unless it's something I am very familiar with and/or feel tremendous love towards. OR is some Eminen disk that got slid in under the radar. Then I retaliate. Since Glen is a little older, and gay, he grew up with disco. There's nothing wrong with disco, but a person cannot subsist on the diet of fluffy, happy, unchallenging, repetitive stuff all the time. I liken it to popcorn. Yuck... currently imagining the smell of entrails on just a steady diet of popcorn. Unless disco or house, a refined derivative of the former, is playing, Glen will bitch.

Bitch is what bitch does.

And then I noticed the Others.

I noticed that night there was a slightly older crowd, though not chronologically; mentally they were geezers. Also they were a corporate set, a visually aging lifestyle, on their day off. All of them wanted to hear

Disco! Disco! Disco!
Familiar.
Safe.
Unchallenging.
Nothing new.
Comfortable.
Secure.
Disco!
Happy music for the terminally unhappy. Smiles plastered onto vapid faces.

The Arcade Fire was was turned off.

I lost it.

I turned to my boss at the end of the night and told him we, as good humans, have an obligation to bring our knowledge of what we think is good and righteous and honest and fucking amazing to educate those that are stifled and stilted in their everyday experiences.

"But they wanted disco."

In truth, I mostly got mad at his pandering to the majority.

I also told him about all the times I've ventured into new places, alone or accompanied and heard music I'd never heard before, music that seemed to speak to me alone. I would ask who the artist was, or the title of the track, or if the album title was available. Everyone obliged me. I discovered Vivaldi's Four Seasons, The Last Emperor soundtrack, and The Arcade Fire that way. I remember everything surrounding those aural experiences. I remembered who I was with, or the mindset I was in at the time if I was alone. I remembered all the venues vividly.

I get that all the time at work: people asking, people discussing music. It starts conversations too, which is a goal.

There are some that embrace it; the wonderful, the open. And there are the Others.

Who will retaliate
It's their lot.

But fuck it, I'm not stopping.

The Enigmatic J

About six weeks ago I began an email dialogue with a fellow I met on Lava. It was cryptic as hell. First off, this guy never once put in a period within the body of his text. I'm not sure if he types with all of his fingers. If he wants to end a sentence, he puts in about four commas. When he tries to answer statements they're all very loose and open for interpretation. All of them are shrouded in secrecy and absolute vagueness. He'd been hurt before. He'd also had many bad experiences within that dating engine.

During one email conversation I'd written a short message expressing nothing more than not really feeling chatty that day. He wrote back saying he was sorry I was feeling lost. I had been but didn't express it.

How did he know that?

He's not allergic to clichés. He has said things like, "Life is not a dress rehearsal." Clichés are enough to encourage me to close a browser window, never to respond again, but I had to forgive him because he was the person who introduced me to The Delgados and Mark Eitzel. That and he's incredibly introverted, something I'm terribly drawn to.

I continued correspondence with him, even though he knew what I looked like, but I didn't he. He doesn't own a camera. He has one digital photo of himself that he didn't want to share. He knew my first name. I've only known his first initial.

J.

He was an enigma. A puzzle. A mystery.

I'm a freak.

I met him yesterday after purchasing the, sworn-to-God next purchase, British Sea Power album.

I did a circuit around the restaurant. I was thinking he was late, though there were a few single men in the place. I was considering going to another CD shop to buy Son, Ambulance's new disk, Key.

He called my name. I turned around. J. Not what I'd imagined. I'd imagined skinnier, less money, certainly no coutured clothing, dirtier, younger. I don't know why. He is only a year younger than me and yet he looked 8 years older.

He shook my hand. Soft. Warm. Zero physical labour.

He asked what I wanted to drink. Coffee or tea? Well, seeing as there wasn't any beer offered, I opted for mint tea. He liked my choice. He told me he was sitting over by the lone blue cup and if I would meet him there. I walked over and while taking off my coat I glanced over by the counter where he was placing my order. He was looking at me. Hopeful? Scared? I was non-plussed. I cracked open my new CD. No liner notes. Damn.

He came back with my tea and a large shortbread cookie with Smarties baked in. Through the cooking process, the candy shells cracked like a very colourful desert. It was a delightful gesture, though.

He smelled nice, though it was an applied scent. The notes weren't offensive. He wore no hair product.

This is what I learned:

His name is Jonathan.

He has never been married.

He's been working for himself since the age of sixteen.

He owns properties, manages them in a directorial way and otherwise manages his stock portfolio. He has a lot of free time which he uses to take singing, guitar and piano lessons at the Royal Conservatory of Music.

He collects paintings and other pieces of art.

He collects master disks of some cherished assorted music, including the shoe-gazing variety.

He looks like a younger Robert DeNiro, though has been accused of looking like Kevin Kline and Brian Ferry. He looked like DeNiro to me because of his anger.

He has a hard time meeting people, though desperately wants to.

He'd shovelled snow once or twice when he was a kid.

He's had his nose broken five times. He was an angry child, but learned a quiet reserve.

He doesn't go to peoples houses for dinner as he's intolerant of many foods. Dairy. Red meat. He doesn't want to hurt the host's feelings.

He has to take cholesterol-reducing medication. Apparently it's a genetic predisposition.

He doesn't drink other than trace amounts of red wine. He doesn't smoke, eats no red meat, exercises daily and could eat sushi every day of his life. Because he can.

He has unplugged his fridge. Though when he's at a family member's house the first thing he does is look in the fridge.

He is a luddite.

He's never done his own laundry.

He doesn't clean his home. That too is outsourced.

He's removed his superfluous stove as he has never cooked a meal for himself nor for anyone else.

He finds wasted food disheartening and he hates the smell of garbage.

He maintains good eye contact.

He shot up to get me more hot water for my tea.

He has a sixth sense ability (incidentally I've met an inordinate amount of men with some kind of psychic ability). He is able to sum up a person, the true self, just by being in their company. They don't have to utter a word.

He said I am generally a happy person, but I'm prone to dissatisfaction. I get bored of things easily. My greatest block is my lack of patience.

He is right.

He is the most unusual person I've gone out with.

I don't know how I feel about him.

He, Chicken

He sleeps on my pillow,
Wraps his arms around my cranium
And nestles his cold, wet
Nose into my
Ear.

He likes to bathe me
as I'm just about to fall
Asleep.

He touches me (he's left-pawed),
and extends his talons.
He says it's because
He's happy.

Right now he's sitting on my knee.
More talons.
Joy!
It looks like a macroscopic killing spree.

He talks, whines, purrs
Yells, hurls insults and
Demands
Non-stop.

He shoots blanks.
He forgave me.
But reminds me of his suffering
Daily.

His name is Chicken.
I am The Comrade.
Together we are one.

This is what I have to put up with everyday.

Statements Made To Me In The Last 72 Hours

"You are Neo."
"I love you." x4
"... it's a lebian bar in the meat packing district."
What I heard as "sleeve", which really was a slurred, "Just leave". "Stleave."
"You're an idiot."
"They liked you so much they wanted to hire you again."
"You're the only one I talk to about this shit."
"Aww..." x 3
"You are incomparable."
"I think youre grovy." (forgive her, she was sick)
"Were you boring and beige like everyone else it might be easier."
"We should *all* know by now, you're always right." (boring sarcasm by my boss... whom I adore)
"You are bursting with color, with emotion, with soul."
"You're my favourite."
"Go fuck yourself."
"I am so lucky to have met my new friend."
"You're losing too much weight."
"Of course you're still my best friend... I'm just really hungover."
"You didn't return my calls."
"How do you work around all this negativity?"
"You're right! He *does* look just like the 'Disappointed' Emoticon!"
"You are hilarious and fun and a big ball o' sunshine!"
"You smell nice."
"He's a closet case. I'm in love."
"Would you like anything for last call?"
"God I love it when I say nice things to you and you berate me like a 2 year old."
"This is the Dream Team!"
"Dude, that shot's for you."
"Are you the one who said her date looked like the type of guy who'd rip the wings off a butterfly?" Yes.
"I've got a cheque for you."
"Meeeeooooowwwww!!" x too many to count.
"Hahahahahahah..." x too many to count.
"Come by the studio and I'll show you how to blow glass." !!!!
"My music sucks? You listen to circus music."
"Hey, I bought beer and I'm starting dinner. You want?"
"Oh well, no wonder! You started with The Fountainhead." (The Comrade hates the Capitalist Manifesto of Ayn Rand)
"You're fucked up... in a good way... you know... *deep*."
"I want you to be my girlfriend."
"We'd like to buy you a drink."
"Stick this in your bag."
"I have been worried about you."
"I caught wind of my termination early and got a doctor's note. Now I'm getting 3 months PAID for stress leave!"
"You think calling your 'cooter' a 'snatch' is better than 'pussy'?"
"I'm going to be a substitute pallbearer tomorrow."
"Thank you." x too many to count.

Decidedly, life does not suck.

The Super Power

When I was working the other night I was serving a table of four, two couples, who asked me:

"If you could have a Super Power, what would it be?"

Interesting question. I needed a moment to think as this was so delicious to me.

Josh, the person who coined the accusation of this Comrade being like an 18 year old boy, who incidentally is my favourite person to work with, wanted to Spiderman.

Matthew, the bartender, who last year resented and distrusted me a little more than I did him, who now sits firmly, fully reciprocated, as someone who is quite important to me now, offered his: Depending on his wildly oscillating moods, there would be grande, epic or general theme music that trailed him wherever he went. I added: he'd instantly have a costume change as well. I see capes, trains, and a lot of leather...

As for me, I would systematically pop every single human being who should not be of this Earth. I would neither receive acclaim nor any punishment.

Forgive me, I Forget Faces

There are a couple of things I'm having difficulties with:

1. Why do I feel I have to save people?
2. The whole sex thing.

The other night after work, after going dancing, after a brief debrief with company over how many striped shirted men with those annoying bleach marks down the fronts and backs of jeans there were that night, eating a can of sardines (really yummy straight out of the can, sprinkled with Kosher salt, cracked pepper and sesame oil), I headed home @ 5:00am. I wasn't tired yet, so I went on Lava to check messages. I had 8 emails waiting for me. Seven of them were from a new stalker. Great.

This is not a story about a stalker.

The other night I'd been having a rather fun and friendly IM conversation with a 29 year old fella. He gave me his hidden pictures right away. Cute. We were chatting for a bit and things were going well; he matches me in that one facet of my personality that is completely idiotic. He asked to see my pictures and pulled, "I know you from somewhere."

I'm thinking:
1.Sure you do.
2. Fuck!

He asks where I work/ live.

As if I'm going to tell him that! I do say I work in a restaurant in the east end.

Turns out I served him a few months back. He couldn't do anything as he was having dinner with his, now, ex-girlfriend at the time. I didn't remember him.

Bad sign.

He didn't forget me. Apparently he kept asking me to bring him water just so he could chat with me, which was sweet. The other sweet thing he said was my personality was pure and sublime. The problem is he doesn't have many other facets other than fun and friendly. Also his name is Mike, so there's no way in hell it could ever work. The name Michael, or any derivative of it, is forever off-limits, as it is the same name as the ex-husband/ best friend.

An anagram for my new friend: Is Gem-like.

I found myself in another IM conversation with The Gem at 5:30am, early Sunday morning, unrested, a new, familiar exhaustion set in from a night of work and dancing to Dancing With Tears in My Eyes (Ultravox). The conversation ended in a dare. Which ended him up at my place at 6:15 am.

I still didn't recognise him when I saw him again. I'm the saddest thing that way. I hope never to have anything serious happen to me just in case I have to spot a criminal in a line-up, because chances are I'll forget. Faces. Sometimes I forget people I shouldn't. Those are the worst times.

This reminds me of a party I bartended once. All the invited guests wore nametags. Sometimes I love the idea of people walking around with nametags on. It makes conversations start much sooner. So I say to this one guy who approaches the bar, "Hi, Dave", or whatever his name was... alas. I'm like that with names, too. "Dave" looks at me with panic on his face. I started laughing because it was obvious he thought we'd slept together and he was trying to figure out the where's and how's. So I say, "No, Dave, we didn't sleep together. You've forgotten you're wearing a nametag." He wipes away a few beads of sweat that had started to collect between his brows and said, "Okay good, because I was totally thinking that, but thought, 'Did I?! Because I would have remembered!'"

So Gem and I have cocktails. Things are light. He finds me "fascinating" and singularly the funniest girl he's ever met. He likes the great outdoors. He promises to teach me how to fish, taking me to his secret spot for bass. We'd moved to the couch, sitting cross-legged facing each other. By 8:00 we were tired. Out of the "blue" he asks if I'm a cuddler. I thought it was a serious question, not a leading question, so I answered honestly: I'm a touchy-feely person, but because I've been with fairly undemonstrative men in the past, it's kept me harnessing it. Which led him to ask again, a little more pointedly, "yes or no"?

Well, things aren't that simple, I'm thinking. But then I realise he's asking because he wants to cuddle.

Oh. (Christ, I'm an unseasoned sow sometimes)

So we do. I lay down first, on the couch. He snuggles up along my side, rests his little head on the curve between my boob and waist, makes squishy noises. This is not to say they sounded like things that squish, but "squishy" as in happy noises. He asks to move into the bedroom where we could do more in the way of wrapping ourselves around ourselves.

So we do.

Which leads to kissing. Which leads to my ability to have orgasms just thinking about them. Which leads to sex. Which leads to me cracking my eyes open, which feels more like prying open with a heavy crowbar, just enough to see what he looks like on top of me.

Which is not good.

He was not him. The last one.

I always liked looking at the last one, mostly because he reminded me of my first one; I loved that fucker. I loved the last one because he felt like high school - one big ball of innocence, slow exploration, sweet gentleness and pure longing.

This one didn't.

It felt good for a while, while my eyes were closed, but these thoughts were filling my head while we were doing it:

All the emptiness I felt near the end of my marriage came flooding back.
I was disappointed in myself for not having any feelings for him.
He dug me way too much and I was worried about hurting his feelings.
I was working out how I was going to tell him how I couldn't see him again.
I was thinking of someone else.
I was a bit disappointed he wasn't that someone else.
He didn't kiss me like I like being kissed.
This was just sex.
Fucking Death Cab's lyrics, "I need you so much closer...", screaming in my ears.

So, mid-coitus, I asked him to pull out and lay next to me. He did. There were too many thoughts that simply shouldn't have been there. He asked if I was raw, but I wasn't... not in that way. I just couldn't go through with it because it felt dishonest to everyone involved.

I haven't had sex since July. And July was the best sex I remember having. This was, at best, average.

And then I started crying. I hate crying during sex, but it seems to be a recurrence in every single sex partner I've had this year. Three. I turn into a streaming mess.

He was worried. He asked what was wrong.

I had all these thoughts running around in my head, but nothing was really cohesive. It all pretty much boiled down to me not loving him, having the foresight of not being able to ever love him, which made me spiral down to this statement, which, with proffered back, I expressed:

I don't think I'll ever find love again.

And then the harsh realisation came: Sex cannot exist for me if there isn't love.

So, I thought I'd never have sex again because I'd never love again.

Just before he left, he looked at my dresser's surface.



He said it was telling.

He was more than just fun and friendly. I hope I don't forget his face.

I'm never doing this again.

Throw Your Arms Around A Rainbow

I really felt like kicking it last night. Not the bucket, just a good old fashioned shaking of the ass.

I had been doing some research into new dance spots in Toronto lately. Though I generally like the music they play at The Dance Cave, the upstairs dance area of one of the best spots to see live music - Lee's Palace, they've lately been hit or miss.

The last time I'd been to the Cave was post crushing-blow of the Interpol concert. After receiving emotive distain from the bass player during his post-show DJ foray there, he'd assaulted us by use of one of my Top 20: Spandau Ballet's True. I was offended. I nostalgically remember this song as a sweet little spot in high school, not in a dingy dance bar infested with Kraft Dinner eating college kids born in the 80's. He was mocking us. That was the second time that night.

I did a search on one of the local entertainment rags, NOW magazine, with the parameters set to Indie Rock and discovered The Labyrinth Lounge.

It has 2 adjoining rooms, one long, very skinny mosaic bar, cheap (relative) drinks - a pint of Stella and a vodka shot requires $8.75 of my hard earned money. The room was decidedly Sausage Fest. There were a couple of relatively hot numbers, but I was not interested in that. I was interested in...

The Sound.

The DJ was set up in the adjacent room, center-stage. He spun from CD's, which is still kind of weird for me to see. But he was spinning Postal Service, New Order, Interpol, The Police, Pulp and something else I didn't recognise.

So I asked.

He leaned over to the table next to the booth and had a mini conversation with a very arty looking fella with shoulder length hair and a winter scarf on. As it was too *deliciously* loud to be coherent, the DJ simply pointed and yelled, "Ask him." Arty.

Okay.

"Do you know anything about this band," I asked.

"It's me," he replied.

"What do you mean," I asked, as I'm very stupid sometimes.

"This is my music; I'm playing; it's me."

Then I gushed.

It started with a slow and delicious bassline, simple, matching drum in offset rhythm. Flanged guitar. Sweet, sweet vocals... haunting. A little like Interpol, a little like New Order, a little like Jarvis. Alright, alright, decidedly a little derivative, but still sweet in the chambers of this mind and body.

His name was Rainbow(?). I repeated it with a serious question mark across my face. He nodded. Rainbow.

I think I grabbed a tuft of his hair at the nape of his neck and began scratching softly with my knuckles as I was telling him what he was doing was both beautiful and important. I asked him if he had any CDs to sell, because I was in the market to buy.

He hadn't. Damn.

I think I bitched him out for that. Can't really remember as the vodka had kicked in. I thanked him again and left to go back to my party.

The shitty thing about Toronto is there are very few places to actually dance. There's music played everywhere, but if you just want to kick it, old school, and enjoy the anonymity of dancing like a fiend, surrounded by other fiends and not get noticed, they are very few and far between. That's why the Dance Cave is so appealing. It's really dark and everyone just dances for the sake of dancing and no one looks at you. It's not a meat market. It's simply a mode of exorcising whatever needs expelling at the moment. Everyone silently acknowledges that and leaves everyone else alone. The Lounge, where we were last night, was not dark; no one was dancing and if someone, say me, started shaking anything there was notice taken.

I love dancing. I love everything about dancing, except being looked at. It makes me too aware of myself, too self-conscious, where I don't want to be. I just want to *be*. I think that was the deciding factor for leaving the Lounge and making a stab at the Dance Cave, just for the anonymity. So we left.

Luckily there was no cover there. The music was shit in comparison and the place, save 3 souls, was barren.

So we went back to the Lounge, said "fuck it", with the full promise of dancing, for real! The good thing about vodka is it enables you to block out other people. So I'm blocking and dancing and dancing and blocking and then... Rainbow comes up to me.

With a disk.

He wanted me to have his single!

I think I yelped and spontaneously threw my arms around his neck and thanked him profusely. The rest of the evening was spent uttering broken sentences that contained "disk", "Rainbow's" "me!". Ad infinitum.

When I insert a disk in iTunes, it automatically searches the online database and names the track and artist. It did so, but it didn't make any sense. What the database came up with was:

Jimmy Dean (title), Molotov Cocktail, Inc (artist). I spent some time googling the thing. I'm sure it's not named properly, as Molotov Cocktail, Inc is a Buffalo, NY band that has reggae roots. Rainbow is decidedly "white" in sound. Admittedly I panicked a bit. I don't know who this person is! How can I really talk about him to others? How can I really help with his career? How can I get his sound out? No one will know who he is. All I have is Rainbow and blogger's not letting me upload mp3's to this site.

Shit.

Sometimes I feel so responsible for people.

And then I thought about the series of events.

I'd never been to this new place. The music was wonderful and the DJ was exemplary. He had to tell us to "g'wan" when we gave him too many props. It was just a steady stream of "niiiicce" from me. Because no one was dancing we left the first time in search of a better place. Because there was virtually no one at the Cave and the music was shit, we left there and went back to the Lounge. Had we not gone back to the Lounge, Rainbow wouldn't have given me his disk. If Rainbow hadn't have given me his disk, I wouldn't have thrown my arms around his neck. If I hadn't thrown my arms around Rainbow's neck he wouldn't have left with a smile on his face, one CD lighter. Had we not stayed until the end, when the chairs were being stacked on top of tables, Death Cab's Transatlanticism wouldn't have been the last song played.

But it was.

And I find myself with an enormous amount of gratitude today.

No Of US Really Matter To Them

Do not stand in the way of their money, mother@#$%#%s.

You NEED to see this!

This is what YOU voted for America.

Congratulations! You Have Four More Years

I'm sitting here looking through my desk (it's made of glass), holding my head and looking at the fine particles of dust that may or may not be here tomorrow.

Four more years.

Funnily enough, no one in Canada is really surprised. We're enraged, but not surprised.

Democracy...
1. Government by the people, exercised either directly or through elected representatives.
2. A political or social unit that has such a government.
3. The common people, considered as the primary source of political power.
4. Majority rule.
5. The principles of social equality and respect for the individual within a community.

The American people do not choose their president. There is what's known as The Electoral College.

The Electoral College, established during the creation of the Constitution, was created in defence against potential legislative corruption, and to create an even balance of the wishes of the American people, as most of the country was still in wilderness. In the late eighteenth century, its members were recruited based on their unbiasness, their virtue, discernment and knowledge. They were well read and well travelled. It is now filled with partisan mutton-heads.

And there isn't an even dispersal.

In one state, say Wyoming, one elector will represent the voting wishes of 167,081 people. So say the majority of those 167,081 voted red, (ah, I remember when people would rather be 'dead than red') the trigger happy, gun-toting, Fascist gets the vote. The elector then takes that vote and puts it towards the potential 270 electoral votes needed to win the majority.

In California, say, one electoral vote represents the wishes of 645,172 Americans. That is a difference of 487,091 people. That's nearly 4x the votes. If the Electoral College made any sense AT ALL there would be enough representatives that represented the wishes of all Americans. Evenly. If America's voting process made any sense, or if it truly was a democracy, every vote would count.

But it doesn't. And it probably never will, if this ridiculous process remains in tact.

In 2000, there were 539,893 more popular votes for Gore.

Oh, and those little electronic devices used to tally your votes? They are owned and operated by *fine* Americans in full Republican support. These people collect $1,000 from hundreds, if not thousands, of separate individuals within their organizations to "support" the Monkey-elect, thus insuring their contract. Trust them to tally correctly... really!

Your fearless (out of sheer stupidity) leader is a monster. Nothing good will come of this.

And I still look at the dust particles and wonder if they will be here tomorrow.

British Sea Power

They've opened for Pulp and Interpol. A couple of screaming girls mentioned them at the Interpol concert, but me with my infinite Attention Deficit Disorder completely forgot the suggestion. It all came flooding back when I was listening to Indie Pop Rocks. Thank you, you nice people!

The first three tracks are very punk laden, but the rest... [deep breath in... expel thoroughly]

Their music is self-described as "high church amplified rock music". Or: "A nice big power chord smashing the stained-glass window and sending a shiver through The Book Of Common Prayer." Yeah!

The Decline of British Sea Power (with extra bonus tracks)

I swear to God this is the next album I buy.

I Hate Numbers

After finishing my second double espresso, making thank you calls to the company of friends and hosts from weekend gatherings, and scraping the remains of my gravelly baritone voice off the bottom of my house-bound slippers, I felt like Pho.

It's a Vietnamese soup. Lots of bits of rare beef, fresh basil, bean sprouts and sometimes, if you're lucky, tripe. Organ meat. The other white meat. Um-yay. Hangover be Gone!

After lunch Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, and I decided we were going to go book shopping. Books. Again, um-yay. The hot Lava dude, whom I'm sure I scared off, as I'm prone, hasn't written back, but he did leave me with a tasty little tidbit: The WE book, by Yevgeny Zamyatin, translated by Mirra Ginsburg. In this future no one has a name; everyone has a number.

I love dystopia-based science fiction. I find it amazing how some people have the vision of being able to see a land so marred, a government so corrupt and a century later we're living it.

On the way, we were driving slowly along Queen Street East. Rush hour. Drivers on their phones, in non-descript minivans driving poorly in front of us, on their way to buy chocolate croissants from one of the best French bakeries in the city. Not a good enough reason to get into an accident.

I gave up my little car during the separation, but I still get to drive it every now and then, like I did today. Wheeee! I love driving. I love everything about driving, but I respect the power of the car and I respect the road.

There are people, mostly gay guys, that if they could, they would issue out Fashion Citations. Little tickets made payable to some seriously fluffy organization, sponsored by Ecstacy, that promotes good taste, (kitschy bodaciousness) or fashion sense. Socks with sandals would warrant a citation. Myself, if I was Ruler of The Free World, I would make people take their driver's exam every year. And issue out

The Road Rules of Engagement:

1. Absolutely NO cellphone use while driving in the car. I don't care if you've got one of those "clever" little Matrix devices that clip onto your shirt and is stuck in your ear. If you're having a fight with your wife, or you're having a heated meeting with your worst client, I do not want to be in your remote vicinity because you're going to be driving badly. Pull over.

2. Use your freakin' indicator! Signal your intent. We're not telepathic. Everyone needs to know what you're just about to do. That means cars around you, pedestrians, cyclists, Granny on the Green Light. Everyone. I know a dude with a missing arm that still indicates.

3. Do not use your brakes unless your intent is to actually stop. There are people on the highway, no one really close to them, that just like to push their little size 6 feet on the horizontal pedal just for what? Fun? Testing? Not sure. This is the thing about putting your brakes on: If there is someone behind you that can't see ahead of you because of #4, they're going to freak and put their brakes on because they actually think there's a real emergency that warrants brake use. This just sets off a chain reaction, causing unnecessary bedlam and traffic jams, extra pollution, lateness and anxiety in all involved. Don't do it.

4. Why do you need to tint all of your windows? Which takes me to #5.

5. I like smoking pot, too. But not in my car.

6. No one should have a license if they can't parallel park... well.

7. Only fling cigarette butts out your window if you're going below 40kms, which works out to be 24.8548477(mph) according to this. It's freaky on the highway at night, especially if you've done mind expansion drugs and are now starting to tap into alternate universes.

8. Just like when your parents and teachers taught you how to cross the road, the same thing applies when you're doing a U-turn: look ALL ways.

9. Do not buy a car too big for you. Hummers are too big for everyone.

10. If there is grey/black matter shooting out of your tailpipe go directly to your mechanic.

11. Get directions on where you're going BEFORE you embark. Here's a nice place to go.

... and we're back.
Two cars ahead of us there was some dude, with his Matrix earpiece, who during rush-hour traffic pulls a #2 and #8 simultaneously and gets hit by a Durango going in the new direction Dumb-ass wanted to go in. No one was going especially fast, but the Durango, trying to avoid excessive damage and mangling of his aged mother-in-law in the backseat, made the snap decision to veer right and hit a cement planter (a City initiative to "spruce up my shitty neighbourhood) without first bumping the van a couple of feet ahead. The planter stopped the Durango, but had it not been there and in its place a pedestrian instead... hmm. Don't really want to picture that.

The Matrix Minivan driver comes out of his vehicle, which he just leaves in the middle of a 2 lane street, running, arms flailing, complaining about the damage and says, "Look what you've done!" I've just rolled down my window. I said, "Buddy, I saw what you did. You are singularly the worst driver I've seen today. What just happened now was entirely your fault."

And I got out of the car.

Turns out he's a film guy. I hate film guys. He was working on Cinderella Man, a Ron Howard production starring Russell Crowe, which shut down a major artery in my neighbourhood for the summer.

The reason why I hate film guys is because the industry is fairly similar to the Army. Everyone has a number. I hate numbers. I've been fired repeatedly. Reason? Insubordination. I will maintain that is the *best* reason to get fired. Yeah!

In the film world there is what's known as the Call Sheet. This is a piece of paper with everyone's name on it, except for those that come in groups, like Background Extras (extra people). Extras are the people playing in the background of scenes in movies. If Al Pacino is having a nice little lunch with Colin Farrell, everyone who is eating lunch around them are extras. Extras are bottomfeeders in the film world. Producers are deities, apparently. Within the industry anyone who has a higher "number" then you, can without being reprimanded, in fact be actually encouraged, to treat that person "below" them like vermin scum.

And then they walk into the world with this same attitude.

So Film-o tries some ludicrous business manouever of saying he recognised the driver. "Are you in the film business?" No, was the curt reply. Normally when someone announces they are in the film business, and I got out of it shortly after seeing the responses, people generally fall all over themselves to find out about this career that seems so tantalizingly glamourous. It's so not, unless you find working 14 hours a day, doing mundane work, being filthy and exhausted glamourous. After realising that tactic wasn't working, Film-o was doing this weird staccato coughing thing. He was turned instantly into a little locomotive. The Little Engine That Could drive like a fucking idiot.

I think I began waxing accusative when he turned to me and LOST IT saying, "Look! You're only a witness! Stay out of this! This isn't any of your business!"

Well.

I came dangerously close to calmly saying, with a sly little smile, "You don't have to yell." And kissing him on his forehead.

The cops had been called. I was going to stay as a witness, but after hearing his admission to guilt I decided to just leave my phone number with the Durangos, just in case they needed to stick it to Film-o later. Gladly.

And I still needed to go get my book on why I hate numbers.