The Canadian National Bank of Love

At work at the Cheer's equivalent last night I found out there's a young man, one of the investors, who has agreed to marry a girl for the sole purpose of making her a Canadian citizen.

If the US went into Iran, they'd be short of eligible soldiers. They've already exhausted the pool of any man, woman and child whose curiousities were piqued during the We Want You campaign. Extra coverage during Sweeps Week; it's a presidential directive! Even if it was just to sniff the butt of the Armed Forces, to see what it's all about. See if you could actually earn enough money to go to college, like they say. Or maybe deal with more pressing issues like feeding your family. Some discovered it wasn't for them, so they pulled out. For others it was only a weekend here and there.

Random Butt-Sniffing Soldier Boy/Girl: What do you mean I'm going to Iraq?
The Armed Forces: Didn't you apply for the Armed Forces 14,967 hours ago?
RB-SSSB/G: Um...
The Armed Forces: DON'T YOU LOVE YOUR COUNTRY?
RB-SSSB/G: Yes sir!
The Armed Forces: Well pack your bags, soldier! Yer goin' to EYE-raq!

Is it getting drafty in here?

There was a long moment where I'd deeply considered marrying an American to save a life.

The bridegroom I work with is of Chinese descent. I assume he follows ancient honour code with his family because it was his family who had asked if he would marry this young, or maybe not so young lady from China. The young man I work with is not saving a life. I think it's an opportunity to diversify the familial portfolio. My opinion. Please do not nail me to the wall.

This was the contract:
Return airfare to China. Twice.
Obligatory meet and greet.
Per diem.
Hotel accommodations.
Big chunk of change for his trouble.
Half upfront, half when she gets her Landed Immigrant status.

Check it:
He hardly speaks any Chinese. She doesn't speak a word of English. The immigration authorities have become quite prudent in these cases, requiring documentation of courtship and intention. A paper trail of love. Understanding the parameters, the young couple makes phone calls every now and then to one another. Because of the language barrier they really have nothing to say to one another. They call, place the phones down, in use, and go about their business. They then come back, replacing the phone back on its cradle, after an hour or so. This creates log evidence that Yes, there had been calls placed on these particular days, Mr. Immigration Officer.

Documentation? Priceless.

His parents and he look like heroes.
He makes some extra cash.
Maybe he'll buy another house.
I am happy to report that romance has been replaced by business.


That same night I'd met Paula. 5'0 tall sharing a bottle of wine with her 6'5" ex-boyfriend. Looking at them was discombobulating. Paula and I hit it off immediately. She was a sort of doppelgänger, not necessarily now, but maybe 10 years ago. No man could be in our conversational vortex. It was very rapid-fire chick speak. My friend Ian, whom I used to make out with, but don't anymore because I am a chaste woman who is in love with another man, was trying to keep up with our conversation, but all his eyes had registered were symptoms redolent of the whirling bends.

A few of us were engaged in an aesthetic boob conversation. The Good vs. The Bad and Ugly. One of the sub-topics included the unfortunate occurance of:
Inverted nipples
Distended areolas

Paula: Bologna belongs between two pieces of bread, not on a girl's chest! Don't make me talk about the mac 'n cheese loaf!


I went out for lunch with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, today. We had to do some bank business afterwards. Did you know, in Canada, it takes 15 days to process a cheque from the States? Apparently, that's how it is.

Ack received a call from the bank stating his Guaranteed Investment Certificate (GIC) had matured. What did he want to do with it? Well, as he's been looking at work in the same relative manner as I have of late, no work is good work, the decision was to cash in the bad boy.

Ack: I have a meeting at the bank with Kyle Hamilton.
The Comrade: What is that? His stage name?

Kyle Hamilton. Gay. Mulatto. Handsome. Thought I was hilarious and accused me of being the bright spot of his day.

Kyle Hamilton: So you are the ex-wife?
The Comrade: And current best friend.

Ack and The Comrade play our favourite game of mock beating the crap out of each other in public. Our second favourite game is pretending to fight over stuff the other person fled with after the separation. CD's. The espresso maker. I do it to humour him. He loves that game. He's getting really good at it.

Ack: No, fuck you, bitch! Dog Man Star was in my life before you cursed me with your presence!
The Comrade: Listen here, Dickwad! Did you nearly break your neck dancing to Brett Anderson's sibilance? No! I earned that! Give it back!
Ack: Shall we go the 8th round on the espresso maker?
The Comrade: Ding ding, mofo... ding ding!

Kyle Hamilton: Wow. That's amazing! You have a really extraordinary relationship.
Ack: Yeah, we're like brother and sister now.

The Comrade pretends to pile drive him into the cushioned partition. She notices a jar full of candies. Ack slow-mo's a swift uppercut.

The Comrade: Oooh! May I have a candy, Kyle?
Kyle: They're mints. Help yourself.
The Comrade: Hm. Mints. That's okay.
Kyle: They're good!

She inspects one. The small wrapper reads:
Super Mints
Can You Handle It?

The Comrade starts bellowing Can You Handle It? to withdrawl slip carriers and money lenders alike.

Walking down the street to the lunch destination, I told Ack, "I'm getting squishy lovin' all weekend!"
Ack: Don't make me vomit.

It's been awhile for Ack.

Ack: Screw this nice guy business! It's obviously not working out for me. I'm just going to have to take what I want now!

I tell Kyle about a T-shirt idea Ack has for himself.

The Comrade: On the front it would say SORRY. On the back it would say THANK YOU.

He thinks he can make millions.

I tell Kyle that my lover is a bit jealous of my relationship with Ack. Ack doesn't understand. He thinks our relationship is normal and regular. Bowel movements can be normal and regular. This relationship is rare and good. Kyle concurs.

Kyle Hamilton: I'd definitely be a bit jealous.
Ack: Come on, really? It's normal.
The Comrade: I kind of like a little bit of jealousy. I think it's kind of hot.
Kyle Hamilton: Oh, it's hot alright!

When we were leaving the bank we shook hands and thanked young Kyle for his lovely service and collective belly laughter for the day. Ack was looking at him sideways for a bit.

Ack: Kyle, I feel like I've met you before. Your face looks so familiar.

He couldn't place him.

As I was doing the dishes I was thinking about Kyle and I started laughing. I picked up the phone and called Ack who was unavailable. I left a message.

The Comrade: I think I figured out who Kyle looks like. Check it! Milli... Vanilli! [click]


A man named Peter came into the restaurant last night. Gay. Optimistic, yet a bit weary from the chase. He's been a subscriber to the dating service, Manline. This is a big, gay equivalent to Lavalife. He goes on a lot of dates, but he rarely gets to the elusive Date Number 2. The second date requires that there be enough interest in the person the first time around to garner future stock options. Peter is 42 years old.

The Comrade: What?!
Peter: 42.
The Comrade: I've carried this theory for some time now. It goes something like this: I'm convinced gay men sell their souls to the Devil just to keep their youth and beauty.
Peter: No, just stay out of the sun and drink lots of water.
The Comrade: I think I'm doing alright on my coffee, cigarettes and booze combo; thank you very much Devil Boy.

I tell you, he and Date #2 were holding hands across the table by Hour 3. I'd go by every now and then just to play approving Den Mother; making adolescent cooing noises while looking endearingly at both of them.

See I can do this now because I have some sweet lovin' coming my way. Yesssirrreeeeebob! Oh yeah!

Girl, you know it's, yes you know it's true!

The Weekend Spoils

Toronto skyline from Broadview Ave. just south of the Danforth


My apartment carries a sweet smell of blossoming lilies.

I've picked up a couple of extra shifts this week at the Cheer's equivalent. That makes it three shifts this week. It's like a full-time job, said the very spoiled girl. Well, she does have to pay for her habit.

It was pretty slow last night. Weather indicator. Toronto got hit with what I hope to be the last of the damned snowstorms we'll see for the beginning of 2005. I'm tired of the cold. The snow was fun while it lasted. But I think unless you're truly prepared for it, say on a day off when you're donning your snowpants and down-filled parka combination with your Chewbacka boots on, heading out to enjoy a good trudge and take in the scenery. Unless there is time and occasion to stop, drop and roll into a Random Snow Angel Making Machine™, I don't think there's the same sort of appreciation. But that's just me.

Sunday nights at my new place of employ is home of the Sunday Supper Club. My boss, Kim, also acts as chef on these nights. There is a 3 course offering with some choice. The Cheer's equivalent is a known tapas bar, but for one night a week people come in for a meal and end up holding their stomachs, groaning from the amount ingested. And that's just the staff after our staff meal. The number one reason I am holding onto this job is because of the way they feed me there. Killer staff meals. 3 courses spread throughout the evening. With the added bonus of mistakes!

Occasionally someone in the kitchen will experiment with a different cutting technique or recipe where the floor staff are treated as guinea pigs. Willing little rodents, we. Whoops! That calamari was cut to resemble a freshly unsheathed penile appliance. Can't serve that. That's disgusting. But we'll happily eat it. Oh? It's on a bed of mango salad? With cilantro? I'll do my best to force it down.

One of the interesting things about this place is there are single people that feel comfortable enough to come in for dinner alone, though often have the saftey mechanism of a bit of reading material at close hand. Just in case. The just in case is if the staff is too busy to talk, or there is some guy sitting two stools away who owns a restaurant, so can't be bothered to cook, that has just picked up a fresh virus. Maybe he's hungry. More than likely not. He thinks it's a good idea to eat something, probably remembering his mother's advice of feed a fever; starve a cold, but every bit of protein presented in front of him is met with more than a wee bit of a noticeable lurch. The braised chicken was left untouched, save the casting of drumstick and thigh matter off to the side of the 12" plate. The polenta, my buddy Mike in the kitchen was convinced was lumpy (but wasn't), was devoured in its entirety. Easily digested.

What I noticed about this local restauranteur, a man whose reputation is that of the surly Frenchman, was A) though he has a very French name, he has a distinct English accent and B) he left behind a strange puddle which pooled beneath his stool which I noticed only after he'd left. Reminded of being 12 years old walking home from school avoiding those cracks to save my poor mother's back, I avoided this puddle like the plague. I'd imagined that some virulent disease would have crept up through the heavy soles of my shoes, attacking my central nervous system, turning my insides to viscous tar matter.

It could have happened.



I've reinvigorated a strange addiction: Scrabble. Now available online, baby. Because I'm on a Mac platform, it's not Scrabble™; it's X-Words Deluxe. You can play alone or with a fictious opponent. Right now Shakespeare is ruing the day I pressed accept this opponent. The Comrade vs. The Bard. Of the 10 games we've played thus far, I've kicked his onomatopoeic ass 9 times out of 10. I tell you, when I formed bandied and exalted, there was no shortage of self-congratulatory cheer over here at Love and Comraderie H.Q.

I started playing this game to help me take my mind off of the boyfriend. He'd misplaced his phone and was away from home so there was no real way of contact. Not when I wanted to talk to him, anyway. I hate that feeling of utter frustration. It feels panicky inside. Ah... I remember the days when my emotional level was just that: level.

Bard? Another match? Lovely.



I visited the outdoor organics grocer, the nice fellow who sold me brussel sprouts growing from the stemmed source. Incidentally they were the best brussel sprouts I'd ever tasted. I told him I photograph some of his produce. With his massive engorged hands, cracked from terminal frostbite, he gestured towards these:


Organic Baby Blue Oyster mushrooms

I can't bear to eat them yet.


A few days ago I did an incline hike up to the Danforth, our little Greek area that has some unique boutiques. I spent $50 on potted plants and cut flowers. The habit. It was interesting trying to balance my purchases on the streetcar ride home.

In addition to the staple lilies I tend to buy, I purchased some exemplery cut orchids, potted 10 hyacinth and these, which I've never seen before:


Oxalis regnellii, aka False Shamrock Triangularis, alias Wood Sorrel

When I was on the streetcar carrying my spoils, I'd noticed the expressions on some of the occupant's faces. The women all shared the same look. It looked like a mixture of sadness, jealousy and quiet, seething anger. I was carrying a massive, paper wrapped suggestion of romance. Cut flowers. We all hold it them same way: cupped by the base of the stems in one hand, blooms cradled in the crook of the arm. Just like Miss America. For as long as we carry them, even completely shrouded in paper, we feel like a beauty queen.

This beauty queen is now going to give The Bard a royal ass kicking!

Help Wanted: No Experience Preferred

My frustration level is in the high 80's. I have effectively turned back time to when I was 17 years old wanting desperately to talk to someone, but can't get through. I wish I could run there. I wish I could jump in a cab to get there. But I can't. I have to wait it out. [Deep breath in... hold... deep breath out]

For a year now I have had a regular menstrual cycle. When I say regular, I suppose it comes every 28 days or so; I'm not a calendar circler. What I mean is the preamble to the floodgate event; the pre in premenstrual. For one full year each time-of-the-month has been normal. There have been no upsets. No registered changes in emotionality levels. No real caustic or irrational behaviour of mine has been explefied. None that anyone's pointed out, anyway. I had been single for a year now. There has been no one in my life who would be prone to any of my quirks. Up until this last cycle, any outburst I'd have during that fateful week out of four, I honestly thought A) I was correct in diagnosing and directing an issue and B) I was being completely sane. I'd honestly believed that through every cycle I'd ever shared with another person, those shrilly voiced upsets came entirely from a rational part of my brain.

This is what happened: I love a boy. Then I watch a movie. Some of the the circumstances and certainly the main theme within this movie resonated fiercely within me. Then I liberally coated it all over me.

In my little life I have been ostracised. Repeatedly. This was a theme contained in the movie. I couldn't understand how gleeful behaviour of mine could be met with distain by others. I didn't understand how people couldn't embrace truth. Truth, as beautiful as it is, can also be the most terrifying thing in the world, especially if one finds it is the ugliest thing about themselves.

I discovered something rather unattractive about myself.

The best thing about starting a new relationship, having had others to learn from, is one has the opportunity to take the lessons learned from prior relationships and liberally apply them on this new thing. We have the opportunity to either repeat the past or change it as we see fit and right. But to do so is to curb natural behaviour. Natural, in this case as it is in all other cases, is learned. So, allow me to take that last statement back, correcting it to say: Curbing learned behaviour. In my case, something that I had learned, false accusation was my warped self-protectant. Armor-All.

I wasn't aware that I played this game. This comes as a rather crushing blow as I have this idea of myself that I'm a big righteous girl and big righteous girls don't mess with other people's heads.

I am prone to whims. Whimsical as a word looks rather endearing. Sweet. Carefree. But the ugly root of my whimsicality, something I didn't realise, was how prone to suggestion I was.

I look for direct personal meaning under every rock I unearth. Interesting. How does this apply to me? This must have bearing on my life somehow. The soil that makes me up is rather loose at times, therefore a seed of doubt can easily be planted. Because one of my Top 5 Fears is that of playing the fool, I quash the potential of foolery by finding or supplanting reasons why I can't be with that someone. By doing it this way, my personal honour remains intact. I no longer play The Fool.

A movie suggested to me that this person whom I love, though I was given no reason to believe it, could be someone who betrays me one day. Betrayal shares the roster on my list of Top 5 Fears.

Accusations flew. I was convinced he wasn't right for me because we didn't share the same manner in which we dealt with the world. He wasn't right for me because he looked at the world as a colder, more unforgiving dire place than I did. If he was these things, I reasoned, he couldn't be right for me. I didn't leave all of my other relationships to find myself being a 36 year old woman having to start all over again with a new mound of clay. A tabula rasa. I wanted a finished piece that only needed a slight dusting every now and then. I narcissistically wanted perfection, in my own warped sense of what I understood that to be. I wrongfully accused him. And in the end, I betrayed.

Nothing he did or said could be ratified with any proof or examples of behavioural machinations. He hadn't done anything wrong. He just did things differently than I would have. He does things differently because he's had a different history than I have. He has a different sex than I have. He is not me, but I wanted him to make the same choices as me. It was arrogant, narcissistic and completely irrational.

He was insulted by my unfounded accusations. He had every right to be angry. The funny thing about his reaction was it left me absolutely delighted by him. He fought for his own honour. I was being ridiculous. In truth, I was scared. I wanted zero doubt, absolute certainty and a money back guarantee that I was making the best choice I could. I was scared of loving someone because in time I may have been the fool again.

But we're different.

Yes we are. Very different. But isn't that wonderful? We disagree in many areas. But the thing is, I don't mind arguing. Actually, I quite love it. When I was married the last time, I wasn't really encouraged to argue. It was looked at as too confrontational, too distruptive. Why can't we just come together in peace? Oh, please let me quote Tibald! Peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell and all Montagues. Well, there are things worthy of discussion. I think. There are things worth gaining a deeper understanding of. And if it is of the stuff we've harboured for the whole of our existence, these soft, tender spots where we don't feel too sure footed even on level ground, I say, "Let us air it."

What was remarkable, and what made me gain so much trust and respect in this young man was how he handled my vat of doubt. He wondered if I was looking for reasons to be rid of him. I had. I had doubted my choice in him. But throughout the entire process he maintained his own dignity while sustaining his love for me. He countered my irrational fears with equally irrational tolerance and irascible love. He was everything I had ever looked for in another human soul. In that hard moment of willed self-inspection, every doubt I had about him was replaced tenfold by the most intense feelings of pure love.

I wanted to tell him this last night, but I couldn't get ahold of him. He'd fallen asleep. His legs had carried a dull, exhausting pain all day. Strangely, so had mine. I finally got through today. I wanted desperately to tell him how much I loved him. How much I missed him. How sorry I was that I'd created this doubt. That it was unfounded and felt confounding within me.

You'd think that things get easier with age and experience. But it doesn't. Not with love. Love is one fucked up thing that we keep pounding the pavement for. Though it's not anything like employment. The more experience one has, it seems, the less qualified we are. Well, for me, anyway.

Anytown, USA

What if you were born in a small town community where you had very little, to nothing. Some of your neighbours, have even less because they have to support a family with 7 children. What if, you got your grubby little hands on a bone and fed it to the town dog. He's got to eat, too. What if your neighbour nearly kills you for giving it to him? Could his behaviour be justified? Nobody has seen meat for weeks. There might have been a couple of strings of meat left on there. Desperate times and all.

Who would you be?

What if a stranger came town, on the run, whose life was in jeopardy? What if she was trying to find safety, having to rely on the kindness of strangers? In theory, a person is innocent until proven guilty. In practice, it isn't always that simple. This stranger had the obstacle of false condemnation.

What would you do?

I watched the movie Dogville last night. WARNING: If you have any intention of seeing this movie, you may not want to read this post.

It's Spoiler City.


Lars Von Trier, a prodigious Dane, wrote and directed. He is swiftly usurping Tim Burton as my favourite director. Nicole Kidman, whom I keep trying to hate, but can't because she's wildly believable, plays Grace. Large studio set. It is a stageplay shot in 35mm. No walls. No doors. Everything is delineated by chalklines. Everything is implied. It is allegory. It looks like an illustration. There is some furniture, but it is sparse. It is genius.

One of the Dogville citizens Tom, a moralist and would-be writer with writer's block, questions the town's goodness and humanity. They're poor and made punchy by their poverty. When times are lean... they're lean.

Along comes a beautiful girl, in good garb, in need of help. She's on the run. She's lovely and scared and he's smitten. Young Tom offers the beautiful Grace harboured shelter. Soon after her arrival, a procession of very expensive automobiles roll into this town. A veiled, important figure with gloved hands, offers the moralist/ would-be writer a business card for him to call if he learns the whereabouts of this young lady. She is very important to him.

The townsfolk are suspicious. They are good God and law fearing people. They don't want to be caught harbouring any potential convicts or criminals. Because it is Dogville, USA, they initiate a democratic process. The girl is put to a vote. She is given 2 weeks so that they can decide whether they like and trust her enough to stay. She was, afterall, an outsider. You can't really trust new people. But they are good people willing to give her a chance. Her fate was in their hands. In two weeks time, the vote was not to be won in her favour by majority, but by unanimity. If one person cast a vote against her, she was voted off the island. Whoops, I mean, banished from the town.

Their hands held suspicion and scrutiny.

Though she'd never worked a day in her life, she went around the town asking if anyone needed help. She was sweet, resourceful and nonallergic to work. Initially they didn't want her offering. There was barely enough work for themselves, they reasoned. But she kept at it. She used her resourceful to create a need for her services.

After a fortnight, the townsfolk reconvened. Blessed, blessed Humanity! She had convinced them. She'd built enough like and trust.

She worked very hard. What she had no knowledge in, she became a quick study. She developed relationships. She began to touch people's lives. She understood the fallibility in human beings. She wanted to be everything to everyone. She never complained. She was grateful for being harboured. Protected.

She wanted to gain acceptance by these people. She did so by demonstrating her character, being careful, consistent, helpful. The results of her labour initially yielded kinship and scant barter income to afford her a few precious figurines. These became an illustration of her life there, something that brought her immense joy. A couple of the menfolk had emptied out an unused industrial space. With a bed destined for the trash heap, she called it home. She did need a place to rest up for her duties. When she was resting, her eyes fell on these figurines, something she displayed with great pride of achievement.

Police came to the sleepy town, tacking up a WANTED poster. In bold 50 pt Western font, a sizable reward was advertised for the safe return of this young woman. The townsfolk held another meeting, again in her absence. There was a lot of money being offered. They were not being greedy, but it was decided she could remain only if she could offer up some quid pro quo. They felt uncomfortable having information and not providing it to the proper authorities. They were good law-abiding citizens, though if they were asked to bend the rules, it would have to be worth their while. It was only right. It was only fair. It was the American way.

The more she did, the more they asked her to do. Other than exhaustion, the more she worked the less she had to show for it. The more she did, the more they demanded of her. It became their right, their privilege.

Though she had demonstrated nothing by goodness and Grace:
It was their right to wrongfully accuse and incriminate.
It was their right for every townsman to repeatedly rape her, while threatening to turn her in.
It was their right to have this acknowledged and ignored by all the womenfolk.
It was their right to treat her as a slave.
It was their right to treat her as a captive criminal; a woman in chains.
It was their right to have no accountability.
It was their right to possess greed, greed, greed.

Time and time again, she would forgive them. They knew not what they did, was her rationale. They were only human. It was because of their circumstances, their poverty, their desperation, that they behaved the way they did. They were doing the best they could with what they were given.

Her ally, the moralist/ would-be writer, had a plan. Gather the small community together and bring to light all the crimes and injustices that had ever been done to her, gently telling it straight to the faces of her perpetrators. The truth, child, will set you free.

Well, the ally turned out to be Judas. The truth was every man, woman and child was guilty of at least one heinous crime against her. Each was flagrantly unwilling to look at any of the damage they'd done; unwilling to take any responsibility for their actions. By looking at their own behaviour, it caused shame so fierce that to admit it would be like parading their syphilitic chancres for all the world to see. Though, their world really didn't pass the town's limits, they couldn't abide by that. They were good people. They needed to maintain that title. The best course of action would be to rid the source of shame. Eliminate her. Best to call that number that was in connection with her in the first place. And perhaps collect a litte reward money. Ka-ching.

Well, it turned out the number belonged to Daddy (as played beautifully by James Caan).
Daddy's a mob leader, the Big Man.
Daddy came to finish an argument that they'd started but hadn't finished because his little girl had pulled a runner. He also wanted to step down from kingpin, offering her a gift of The Business. To all of this, she rolled her eyes and accused him of being arrogant.

Grace: To plunder, as it were, a God given right? I'd call that arrogant.
Daddy: But that's exactly what I don't like about you. It's you who is arrogant.
Grace: That's what you came here to say? I'm not the one passing judgement, Daddy. You are.
Daddy: No-oh! You do not pass judgement because you sympathise with them. A deprived childhood and a homicide isn't really necessarily a homicide, right? The only thing you can blame is circumstances. Rapists and murderers may be the victims, according to you. But I, I call them dogs. And if they're lapping up their own vomit, the only way to stop them is with a lash.
Grace: But dogs only obey their own nature; so why shouldn't we forgive them?
Daddy: Dogs can be taught many useful things. But not if we forgive them every time they obey their own nature.
Grace: So I'm arrogant? I'm arrogant because I forgive people?
Daddy: My God! Can't you see how condescending you are when you say that? I mean you have this preconceived notion, that nobody, listen, that nobody can possibly attain the same high ethical standards as you... so you exonerate them. I cannot think of anything more arrogant than that. You... you my dear child, forgive others with excuses that you would never in the world permit for yourself.
Grace: Why shouldn't I be merciful? Why?
Daddy: No, no, no, no... you should. You should be merciful when it is time to be merciful. But you must maintain your own standards. You owe them that. The penalty you deserve for your transgression, they deserve for their transgressions.
Grace: They're human beings.
Daddy: Does every human being need to be accountable for their actions? Of course they do. You don't even give them that chance. And that is extremely arrogant. I love you to death but you are the most arrogant person I've ever met. And you call me arrogant! I have no more to say.
Grace: People who live here are doing their best under very hard circumstances.
Daddy: If you say so, Grace. But is their best... really good enough?

She steps out of the 1930's Cadillac and looks around at these people, still romantacising who they are and where they'd come from. She puts herself in their position. What if she were them? She'd probably do the same thing, right? Given the circumstances.

But would she have?

Would she have taken advantage of a vulnerable stranger looking for a ounce of kindness and a modicum of compassion? Would she have not judged a stranger, whom she grew to know over the better part of year, properly or impartially? If she was demonstrated nothing but trustworthiness, kindness and diligent duty, would she still have treated her like a criminal?

Her answer was: if she could be that kind of person, she needed to pay for her transgression. Ooh, it gets really biblical here.

Daddy had given her The Business, effective immediately. She didn't want to do it his way: thugs with no honour. She wanted to make the world a better place. There was no place in a good, just world for Dogville and its inhabitants.

Upon her directive:
Daddy: Shoot 'em all and burn the town down.

The whole town was wiped out. Except for one.

Interesting to note that the only creature that was spared was the lone dog of the small town. Moses. The only reason she spared him was because she had trespassed against him, her one transgression throughout the entire film. In a period where no one had much, this dog was given a bone. By her ravenous hunger, she stole from Moses. She spared his life.

So what did this leave me with? I saw how ugly, small minded, and insular people could be. I saw how afraid they were to look at themselves. That if someone brought out a truth in them, something they were unwilling to look at, it dredged up too much shame within. Their best course of action was to eliminate the reminder of their shame.

I understood myself a little bit more from watching this film.

I don't believe in circumstances. I don't care who you are or what or where you've come from. I believe we all have choices. Some people choose the majority vote. There's less friction that way. Some never go beyond their own intrinsic natures. Few stand by their own convictions. With honour. Fewer voice what's right. What's just. Most would continue lapping up their own vomit.

It doesn't make me jaded to the whole of the human race.
I believe in humans.
Though, specifically... the good ones.

And I'm working on my arrogance.

Valentines: Yesterdays and Yesteryears

Yesterday:
He says: You are thoroughly imbued on my mind.
He asks her to be his Valentine.
She says: I could be no one else's.

Yesteryear:
Each Valentine's Day one of my ex-husbands, whose identity will remain unknown, would allow the 14th of February to come and go without a word, a deed, a consideration. Convinced and compliant, I understood. As long as everyone gets all the love one needs during the remaining yearly cycle, what's an extra day? It eventually became a sort of thumbing of the establishments who have capitalised on an occasion to express love.

With roses.
With candy.
With jewellery.
With a card.

But what happens when the rest of the 364 days don't amount to one day devoted to love?

As a kid it meant cinnamon flavoured heart candies and multi-pack tear-away Valentine cards destined for every classmate... except maybe gross nose picking guy.

I remember creating a giant, heart-shaped Valentine's receptacle, fashioned from red craft paper and white lacy doilies. It was adhered, with rings of masking tape, to the front of my one piece desk and chair combination. Every child would mill about with great earnestness, placing Valentines into one another's created paper heart mailboxes. Extra care and consideration was given to those whom we had a special affinity. After the milling and depositing portion, we'd all sit quietly at our desks, unleashing our spoils. I was reading and secretly wondering if 7 year old Chris Bond really meant it when he chose the card that said, "Be Mine".

Unless you were a complete asshole, everybody received the same amount - the exact number corresponding to the students in the classroom.

"See? It's a holiday created by the card companies! It's just like Mother's Day," an ex-husband tried to defend.
"Yeah, but would you get away with not acknowledging Mother's Day," the Comrade asked.

I didn't think so.

When I worked at the Courthouse, the restaurant I quit on the day of Blackout 2003, I had a co-comrade, Carol, who had once lived with a similar situation.

"It just means they're cheap," was her explanation.

I tried the supposition out at home. Apparently he was offended by that comment. My ex-husband was of logical mind. If one was to argue a point, best back it up with a little history; some facts or at least some lore.

What is the meaning of Valentine's Day? Well, there are legends.

1. There was a Roman priest during Claudius II's reign who dared to defy the emperor's ruling to ban marriage. Unwed men were ripe to send off to war. The priest, named Valentine, continued to perform marriages. Claudius II asked for his head.

2. While in jail an imprisioned Valentine fell in love with the jailor's daughter. This young vixen routinely visited the prisoner. Before his death he had written her a letter signed, "From your Valentine."

Okay?!

Not good enough.

At that point I was inclined to agree with Carol's supposition. And really, who cares? If it's important to one of the people, then do it, you cheap assholes! And when I say cheap, I mean with time, with care, with consideration.

I wouldn't want or expect a trite token like the aforementioned card, candy, roses or jewellery. Those speak of nothing short of a lack of imagination.

My wonderful friend Fergus writes something for his long-time girlfriend Stacey each year. Just one, so she doesn't feel spoiled. Knowing his love for her, I'm certain there's enough emotion and content to sustain all those times when Ferg invariably addresses Stacey as "dude".

Myself, I'd rather have a poem, a handmade card or a piece of music written. I prefer thought and deed rather than a haphazard purchase more than likely out of guilt or worse, obligation.


Yesterday:
He says: You make me feel alive. That's the best feeling of all, the stirring out of barren consciousness. I don't want anyone but you. If I lean on my own sword - so be it.
She says: Please make the sharp tip face the cold earth and have him lay his weight on a curved handle.

Though her wish is that of a lifetime of amorous words, she'll happily take the one day.

The Mountain Girls of China

Yesterday was Chinese New Year. The Year of the Rooster. Poulet masculin. As I was brought up in a household hell bent on assimilation, the new year was always recognised, but rarely met in grande or kitschy Dick Clark fashion. It wasn't until I was an adult when I learned there were customs associated with the day.

Your home should have all traces of last year's dirt removed before the new year begins.
No one is allowed to sweep on the day; by doing so you sweep your money straight out the door.
Firecrackers are set off to scare off evil spirits.
Colourful, parading lion puppets, which require at least 4 humans to manipulate, chase evil spirits away. They dance to a complex eastern rhythm with blinking eyes, something I watch with absolute astonishment and wild delight each and every time.
There is food, food, food enough to sate armies, but is reserved for family and close friends.
This food is supposed to be prepared days in advance. No knives are to be used on the day for fear of cutting off one's luck.
Some people spend an entire week celebrating with loved ones.

This never happened in our home. Nothing that I nor my sister can recollect.

A couple of years ago, my sister and her husband, Jim had adopted a set of twins from China. These 2 girls were found on the steps of a theatre, naked, shrieking in a cardboard box; umbilical cords intact, coated in placenta.

Baron met abandoned.

The process took 6 months, 10 signatures from other successful adoptive parents and approximately $50,000. Plus tips.

They have all the money in the world.
They have very little happiness.
But they can and do throw money at anyone to satisfy their every whim.

Because the population density is the second highest in the world, the Chinese government, this bastardised version of communism, had created a 1 child per household maximum back in 1978. The main difference in culture between the West and East is in the West people may have a secret preference towards a child's sex, but in the end the wish is for a healthy child. There are no restrictions. In China, women don't exist on family trees. On a family tree, only the boys are represented. Girls don't carry on the familial name. They go on to marry and adopt their husband's. In China, all they want is to bear boys. Carry on the tradition. So, what about the girls? What happened to them in the areas where they didn't have the technology to determine sex? What happened when government authorities came knocking on doors carrying census papers demanding to see the bellies of women? Checking every nook and cranny. I'd asked my mother once.

She told me that in rural areas mothers sometimes carry their newborn daughters up to the mountains, leaving them there to be eaten by wild animals. I remember reading in the news that in more industrialised centers, freshly born, healthy girls were dumped into black plastic garbage bags.
Now they are mostly ignored and starved to death.

For these reasons alone, I hated the culture my family wanted me to be proud of.

I went for dim sum with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, today. Dim sum is considered afternoon tea to the Chinese. It is a vast selection of tiny dumplings in round bamboo steamers, pan-fried or deep fried tasty savoury morsels often accompanied with individual sauces that include worchestershire, soy, a variety of hot pastes or oils and a red vinegar. I love dim sum. We went to a spot we'd recently discovered in my relative neighbourhood. The food is consistently good and the prices are made more reasonable because of the time we often go, late afternoon, post lunch hour. Quite often dim sum prices are slashed at that hour to attract extra business. For the vast selection, each individual plate or steamer has price points between $1.50 - 4.50. The whole point to dim sum is variety. The less something costs, the more one is apt to try.

I ordered 9 dishes, one of which was Ack's favourite: deep fried chicken wings. The server was unsure how much to charge for these wings so she asked her boss. While we were eating, I didn't pay too much attention. After the server left, I glanced over at the card that received tick marks and additional penned orders and noticed the server had written a series of characters followed by $8.50. I thought, "I hope they're not charging me $8.50 for that plate of wings."

Ack and I were catching up. He'd been out last night with our mutual friend Hines, who incidentally was the fellow who introduced me to Ack. I knew Hines in high school when he was dating my best friend at the time. Hines had met Ack in university where they swapped theories in an art dissection course designed for art-wankers. Mostly they shared more interesting theories (of a sexual nature) over successive pints at pubs located anywhere within stumbling distance. Hines is a 6'6" Muay Thai kickboxer/ personal trainer. Advantage: appendage. The little Thai dudes never stood a chance in the ring with him as he'd implement a patented Three Stooges move. With one hand holding the top of his opponent's head the lanky white boy, with a gorilla's armspan, would keep them cranially at bay while the exhausted opponent windmilled with ferver and futility.

Hines lives and breathes Muay Thai. There was a movie just released from Thailand called Ong Bak: The Thai Warrior. Ack was Hines' movie date last night. The critics are touting the lead as the newest action hero. The movie left Ack with a few different sensations:

Exhileration
An inspired desire to beat the crap out of Hines, but thought better of it.
A life lesson.

The Comrade: Oh? What kind of life lesson?
Ack: How you shouldn't be an asshole.
The Comrade: Oh! And how you should maybe apologise to your ex-wife/ best friend if you were one?
Ack: Yeah... (sigh) sorry.

Ack had made a series of rather unflattering and untrue statements to me over the weekend, which he deeply regretted. Later, after some consideration, he thought it best if I would jump up about 10' in the air, landing a direct and serious blow to the top of his head... with my right elbow. Though I accepted his earnest apology, I tried hard to suppress the delight in the inspiration he garnered from watching this violent martial arts movie. I knew he didn't mean anything he'd said. He often suppresses his anger and shame from the original source. Bottling up is no good because it tends to come out as aggression, redirecting it at an altogether unrelated respite-spring: me. I'm a safer target for his anger and shame. He trusts me. I am reasonable. I will reasonably tell him he is wrong or reasonably ask him to go fuck himself. I told him both. He accepted this charge with grace.

While asking for the dim sum bill to be tallied, I asked the manager what the $8.50 charge was for.
Manager: Chicken wings.
The Comrade: You have dim sum items for $8.50?
Manager: No. Dim sum size $4.50. Large size. $8.50.
The Comrade: But we didn't order the large size.
Manager: Yeah, but you ate it!
The Comrade: We ate it because it was placed on the table.
Manager: See? This is large size. Large size is $8.50. If you don't want it, you should tell lady so she take it back.
The Comrade: But we've never ordered it before! We didn't know what size the plate was. We thought you were being generous!
Manager: No. This is $8.50. Large size.
The Comrade: Yes, I know. But, let me get this straight... I ordered a small plate of wings, but your kitchen made a mistake. We eat this mistake and you're charging us the full price for your mistake?
Manager: This is LARGE SIZE! Look... you ATE plate! You pay!
The Comrade: Lady, we come here every week! I'm not in the business of swindling...
Manager: I know you not giving finger.
The Comrade: You're in the business of hospitality, not hostility! I am NOT paying for something that is not our fault!

After some time and rather loud deliberation, with the uninflated price intact, the bill was paid. I told her I am in the business too.
Manager: No you not!

Shocked, I left a tip and bid her blood-shot eyes and twisted, crimson face with a quiet, Gung Hey Faat Choy; a wish for a happy new year. I opened the entrance door of that establishment for the last time. I felt nothing but utter disgust for the type of greed and unaccountability that is prevalent with my familial heritage.

The Comrade: It's... appalling!
Ack: Yeah... Hey, what's 20 x 52?
The Comrade: Um... (very bad at math)
Ack: 1040, right?
The Comrade: Uh... yeah.
Ack: Say we pay $20 at a time. Because of a difference of $4, she's lost $1,040 in annual sales.
The Comrade: And that's a low estimate.
Ack: Yep.
The Comrade: I'm telling you... Jews have had a bad rap. I know I'm sounding racist here, but no greater body of people are more prone to greed and hoarding than Chinese people. It's fucking appalling.

Last night my brother-in-law Jim had invited me out for dinner with his family. Destination: Dynasty Chinese Restaurant. Dynasty is located in the exact spot of one of my old places of employ, The Bermuda Onion. The architecture has changed slightly, but I could still imagine the circular bar Tyrone and I would practice showmen bartender flourishes behind. The main differences were the food, the decor and the fun level. Zero fun was had last night.

There was a very high waiter to customer ratio. The rationale is sound; more waiters = better service. It's only a theory, though. In practice it creates a numbness in brain activity when too many, especially ineffectual, floor staff are working. With 2 small, slightly bitchy children in tow, I'd noticed no one had delivered our obligatory tea yet, something those who eat in Chinese establishments take for granted.

My sister: Isn't this place nice?
The Comrade: The tablecloths are lavender. Where's the tea?

There are at least 8 humans on staff that are wandering aimlessly around the restaurant. They are distinguished by their very fancy sequined waiter vests, which happen to match the lavender tablecloths.

The Comrade: Good God! Look at those vests!
Eunice: Everything matches.

In high school my sister, 6 years older than I, used to be embarrassed by my mother's lack of good taste and matching sets of dinnerware. She would be embarrassed to go to school with mismatched outfits; fearful of seeming poor. It would make her so angry she would perform bastardised incantations evoking a post famine Scarlett O'Hara, As God as my witness, I shall never grow untasteful again!

Everything my sister had learned about good manners and better taste came from our neighbour Peggy, who lived directly across the street. Peggy kept a fully materialised, torn from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens manor. Charming and tasteful from a visitor's perspective, a veritable psyche ward as a resident. Well as long as everything looks fine from the outside!

Secretly, I suspected she wanted Peggy to be her real mother. I don't think she realised how that made our own mother feel.

Most Chinese restaurants provide a great deal of illumination overhead by way of fluorescent or halogen lighting. Chinese people want to see their food glisten. The company is a consideration afterthought. The food is the lover, not the companion. I also had the sneaking suspicion that the owners really wanted the sparkly sequins in the vests to really stand out. With the vests, you can spot them a mile away.

Jim the brother-in-law: [Motioning to a slack-jawed, sequined waiter] Could we have some tea, please?
Slack-jawed, sequined waiter: [blinks 3 full times] ... Okay.

My sister indicates toward a side plate laid with taro chips. This plate had arrived shortly after they were seated. She places a small section of a chip gingerly between her teeth. Bites.
Sister: You don't get these at those other places. And look at the little saucers under the cups!

She is delighted by an extra plate under each teacup, a feature often overlooked in other Chinese restaurants because it is superfluous. Besides, when you slam down a teacup on a tablecloth, it draws less attention.

Sister: I think this place is really civilised.

She is indirectly commenting on the places my parents choose, or I like to go to. They are in dirty neighbourhoods my sister would never drive her Z3 through, in fear of robbery or rape, with bathrooms you use only in emergency situations. In these places, the food is always plentiful, cheap and delicious.

In the lavender surround...
Sister: I like this place.
The Comrade: [looking at the portion sizes] Yeah, but look how small everything is. And there's nobody in here. The rent must be...
Sister: This whole place will fill up tonight.
The Comrade: You think?
Sister: [whispering] There aren't that many actual Chinese people that come here. And if they do, they're really rich!

See, I look at that as a strike against the place. To me, more Chinese people = better Chinese food.

Jim, my ever thoughtful brother-in-law, has printed out a selection of Chinese horoscopes for his family. He reads aloud to everyone. I am the only one listening, the only one laughing out loud to the amazing accuracy. When he's done he asks how Ack's doing. Addressing Jim...

The Comrade: He hasn't had sex almost as long as you've gone without it.

Volleying my eyes between my sister and her husband, I ask them to:

The Comrade: Discuss?

My sister and her husband have been married for nearly 20 years.

Jim: All I really need is my right hand.

I tell him to lube up with hand cream just in case. Friction causes cracking which may led to an adult circumcision, which may lead to a Mohel who performs with few instruments. All the religious official needs is his mouth.

2 hours have elapsed. The place has not filled up. Singlehandedly, I have eaten close to an entire chicken.

I look at the clientele. They are predominately monied, just like my sister and her family. Some are in the same position they are in: baron meeting abandoned. In most cases, white mothers hold their little adopted Asian girls in their arms, in pretty party dresses, hair in adorable pigtails, as they celebrate a holiday these children have no basis in understanding.

It all seemed so quaint and romantic; they were saving a poor child from abandon, bringing her to the rich West. To help save a dry, passionless, dying marriage. A cute little distraction from the fat, ugly slob that never does nothing around the house. That never does anything for her self esteem. That concerns himself only with the acquistion of goods and wealth. They have a fine address. One of the best, in fact. But does it make them happier? From the outside, yes. Inside, it's a psyche ward. If my sister didn't operate fully within the law, or didn't have a huge issue with control, she would be on a torrent of barbiturates.

My boyfriend has a friend who wants me to set him up with one of my hot Asian girlfriends. I find this remark beyond offensive. I have friends that run the gamut of sexual orientation, race, religion and general belief structure. They work in all fields and they are, in every single case, an actual contribution to society. This friend is not the first person who has requistioned this request. Though having experienced it prior, I am no less appalled by it. It is steeped in ignorance and something that I met with utter distain.

Right now I'm thinking about those girls left in the woods. What if they survived? What if they were cared for by a wild creature who had the capacity to care for a human infant? What if they lived on to hatch a secret society of women? Women who became amazons. What if they started a brand new colony? Maybe they live on in peace. Maybe they started their own family trees, where they were all represented. Maybe all of their votes counted. Maybe there they could develop a new language where they weren't restricted, where they could tap into their innate sense of humanity. Where they could be anything they wanted to be.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Information Overload

They've said Ignorance is Bliss. What you don't know won't kill you. None the wiser. Quite often it's true.

I was doing a little online research when I came across a news article stating that back in '91 some pharmaceutical companies were pedaling a series of innoculation shots aimed at a target market of infants 6 months of age. Standard procedure. Everyone gets them. It is common knowledge that the public school system won't allow a child to attend unless these shots are administered.

What parents didn't know was, in addition to the introduction of weakened or dead pathogens the infant is supposed to develop an immunity to stave off, the whole premise of vaccines, there also contained an antibacterial chemical preservative called thimerosal which happens to be... mercury.

Make an appointment.
Step into the office.
Wait for an eternity.
Roll up a tiny sleeve.
Tiny little pinprick.
Wailing.
All done!

These were not trace levels of mercury. These series of innoculation shots contained 87 times the daily maximum experts heeded warning of the amounts consumed in fish. Mercury is a substance that wreaks havoc on bodies and neurotransmitters, often causing autism and retardation. Young children are 4 or 5 times more sensitive to mercury than adults because their little nervous systems are still developing. There are new cases of developmental disorders popping up everywhere. As are lawsuits. All the money in the world isn't going to right the kid, though.

It was an issue of storage and demand. Since doctors have finite storage space in their offices, individual vial servings - vessels that didn't require this mercurial preserving agent - took up valuable cool, dark real estate. The best option was to go bulk. Bulk is cheaper. Going bulk requires repeated needles going in and out of a larger, reusable vial. Since the chances of contaminants tainting the vial are increased, they added a little preventative measure. Mercury!

It's in our fish!
It's in our shots!
It's in the air we breathe with "clean" coal plants! Cuz Bush says so!
Mercury!
It's disabling your kids!



I was at Stratenger's with my behemoth assed friend Fatty last night. We were both exhausted. Not enough sleep from the night prior. Over a basket of fries and collective delirium, we were on the topic of Disgusting Human Factoids. Topics included:
1. The Mohel that Worker had found online several days ago.
2. A huge penis that caused a loss of consciousness.
3. An operation that slices the legs from the ass to the ankle that once the legs were reassembled, they resembled a pair of seamed stockings.

The Comrade: Herpes.
Fatty: Fuck off!
James the bartender: I would NOT allow anybody to put his lips to my son's penis.
The Comrade: Lips would suggest something gentle; we're talking teeth!
Fatty: [after a period of deliberation] Dude! You can't cut a clean line in chicken fat with your teeth!



At work the other night I was talking to Militia Man. He is the boyfriend of my current boss, Kim. I learned that Militia Man had served in the Canadian Armed Forces, something he often exclaims: "saved my life". As a youth he was a hooligan. Actually, he's still a hooligan. He was brought into a militia which he cannot speak about in any detail, or I'd have to be killed. As it's not my time yet, I hold off on asking him any detailed questions. Columbia did slip out. He could have been talking about the record company.

After his military/ militia work he made the natural transition to becoming a chef. He now hocks beer for a local brewery in which he has a financial stake. The Comrade thinks his beer is ass and everytime she see him, she tells him so.

The Comrade: Are you still selling that swill that I will never recommend to anyone because it tastes like ass?
Militia Man: Yup.
The Comrade: Can I offer you a drink?
Militia Man: I'll have a glass of wine.
The Comrade: Of course you will.

Militia Man was telling me about a Haitian dishwasher he'd worked with once. The dishwasher explained a sideline he was paid handsomely for.

Militia Man: Oh?
Dishwasher: I go around to different bars and bet black guys that my cock is bigger than theirs?
Militia Man: Seriously? And you'd win?
Dishwasher: Every... time.

There was a not so slight problem, though. The Dishwasher's dingaling was so enormous that A) women would leave screaming from a bedroom and B) everytime he was just enjoying his own company all the blood would rush to the area causing him to pass out. He needed corrective action.

He flew to Switzerland, home of Unusual Operations. And received a penile reduction. He's happy as a clam now. Well, maybe not a clam.

My friend Death has a boyfriend who in the height of passion announces, "I love how my sausage feels in your clam!"



I'd mentioned in a previous post that James, the bartender from Stratenger's, the lovely bar that allows smoking-smoking-smoking for a one time membership fee of $10 (for their not-so-exclusive club), has cerebral palsy. This disease had created a malformation of the tendons in his legs. When he was a child he was subject to an operation that sliced him from the bottom of his bottom, straight down to the top of his ankles. On both legs. The flesh was spread open and the tendons were surgically re-aligned. James is now a very accurate human barometer. Everytime it is about to rain, James needs to double up on painkillers. When I was in they hadn't quite kicked in yet.



I was downloading music yesterday. In my search parameters were My Morning Jacket, a band I'd heard and scribbled down from Indie Pop Rocks, and M83, a band I'd heard about from an old lover. The former is really quite listenable. They'd been at it for quite a while; making music. I was urged to download yesterday because while at work last night I'd caught one portion of a Morning Jacket song where the warbly singer ardently sang something about his love being lost in the space between the wall and the bed. Good enough for me! The latter? Good Lord.

M83 is lush, epic electronica. Their strong suit is not lyrics. Musically, they just happen to make absolute sense to my body. They tap into the finer bits of certified 80's electronic Bontempi rhythms, slow, in the order of New Order. It makes my little heart go pitter patter. Oh, and lucky, lucky me! They're coming to town in April!


When I woke up this morning I looked outside to see that all evidence of the snowstorm that hit a couple of weeks ago had vanished. I was a little sad that it had all gone away. During that last snowstorm, Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, and I had taken a walk along the bike path that runs parallel to the Don Valley Parkway, a fun to drive highway route that can speedily take one north out of the city. North is the direction towards water that may or may not be safe enough to splash around in, but it sure feels like being in the womb when I'm in it, anyway. And it smells great.

Along the DVP is the Don River. A pretty brook when moving; a filthy cesspool when stagnant. In the warmer months ducks congregate in certain areas. Everytime I cross the bridge that creates a canopy over the DVP and the Don River, I always look for the ducks. Even in the winter.

I think of Holden Caulfield, my sweetie, from A Catcher in the Rye.

Holden had earnestly asked where the ducks go in the winter. No one could tell him because no one really knew. Also no one had time for such petty, insignificant concerns. Time was money.

Where did the ducks go?

Walking along the riverbank, during the last snowstorm, there was a duck-made grotto that Ack had noticed.

The Comrade: [quietly to herself] Holden! They're still here! Their feet don't freeze in the water; I checked! They don't leave! They don't fly south! They stay right here!

Ignorance isn't always bliss.

The Root of Blossoms in a Fishbowl

I had a dream that I was a dead fly on a mirror. My boyfriend and his friend were trying to scrub me off with a soft, pink make-up sponge. After they finished scrubbing, they hosed the mirror down. I still remained. The stain.

Looking closer I was a housefly sized little girl, curled up in a ball, with pink tights on. I fell through the mirror into a dark room. With pink tights and a matching tutu. A 6 year old pink stain who doesn't go away. Who feels alone.

who feels alone?
alone who feels
feels alone, who?

I haven't seen him for a while. Though we talk everyday on the phone and/or communicate via all the ways we can in our world of technological wonders, it doesn't replace the physical. I just can't look into his eyes and think I'm no longer alone. I can't fall into his arms and breathe deeply whenever I want to. I lie in bed, located in the north-east corner of my apartment and roll the word soon over my body.

I went for lunch with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, yesterday. There was a street vendor selling lilies and cherry blossoms. I spent $28 for an example of spring. I look at them now. They are arranged in a fishbowl. There are no fish, but if I really concentrate, I can imagine the stems being ramrod straight, upright fish. That incognito, this is their best defence against their mortal enemies. They are playing dead. Or driftwood.

Over the weekend I had plans to meet a few friends in the west end. We went to Southern Accent, a restaurant on the David Mirvish block that gives a visual respite from his Honest dad Ed's tacky discount retail store of Vegas style blinking marqueé lights and carnival aesthetic. The affluent Mirvishes are responsible for the line-up of theatre attractions in this city. I suspect David adds a bourgeousie feel to his dad's blatant old world kitsch. This combination of marketing minds is quite attractive to the hoardes of tourists that infest this fine city.

Southern Accent is a Mardi Gras themed restaurant with show us your tits appreciation beads on black plastic mannequins; tarot card readers and sexy, semi-private dining booths with pressed white linen. They have dozens of premium bourbon whiskeys on display that bartenders have no difficulty fashioning into green, creamy cocktails that tout Gator as a prefix. I am a staunch beer and vodka drinker who doesn't succumb to vacation drinks when she's at home, but I was convinced to try one once. Once was quite enough.

I like the kind of restaurant that has staff that has worked nearly since its conception. I think it says a lot about a place. They must treat them well. Most waiters and bartenders are in the industry until their dream is actualised. The hope is to leave this often thankless industry to go onto bigger, more abundant pastures. Acting, writing, directing. New hires are brought in to fill the newly created void.

Meet Dell. In his twenties. White button-down shirt, collar up. Clean, longish hair made to look dirty with product. Decidedly Jack White in styling. Very cute. He was asked to man the bar while the regular bartender went out for a smoke. He liked my shirt.

I was wearing a very tight red T-shirt with a yellow hammer and sicle; the words Kiss Me, I'm a Communist surrounded the insignia.

When Dell smiled he had these great little dimples. I asked him to crack me open another Becks beer. I gave him permission to use one of his dimples. Still smiling, I looked over at my 3 companions who are visibly judging me.

The Comrade: What?
The 3 in Unison: Nothing.
The Comrade: Say it!
Designation 1 of 3: Well, you did just create the best experience he's had in all of his 22 years!

Ack was out with us. He had just come from familial hell, shrouded in the pleasures of sushi. There's nothing like being 32 years old and fully realising your family is a bunch of racist, ill mannered scum. Wasabi or no wasabi.

"Don't do business with Southeast Asians, they're all thieves."
[ *BELCH* ]
[ combination *YAWN* + stretch ]
[ scratch ]
"You know vat happened vith Daddy? He vas valking vit doggie and he passed out in snowbaank ven 2 cops came to see if he vas okay? Then he said, 'I didn't just come off a banana boat from Vietnam, you know!'... Ya! Vun of cops vas Asian gerl! hahahahhahah."

Ack carries his family's burden. Ack holds his head with the shame they create in him.

The Comrade: But, they've always been like this.
Ack: It's not right. They have no decorum.
The Comrade: Dude, you had little decorum when I met you.
Ack: I always knew how to behave in public!
The Comrade: They were in your living room.
Ack: It's not their living room! They should know how to behave!

I felt it was similar to visiting a foreign country for an extended period time. Each culture has its own set of social proprieties. There are some cultures that find it absolutely offensive to display the bottoms of feet. Personally I like to put my feet up. Sometimes I like to go foot to face. It's a thing. If I was immersed into a foreign culture, having not done sufficient research prior, I would never be asked back. It's an ignorance issue. But with family, aside from inherent racism - something that exists within both of our families, I pretty much think anything goes.

My mother, whom I adore, has scratched every single body part in front of me. One time her boob fell right out of her shirt!
While doing dishes she occasionally farts.
She chews her food with her mouth wide open, while making rather disgusting noises.
But she's my mom and I love her.

Still carrying residual shame and anger, Ack went out. To drink. And got very, very drunk. And caustic. And accusatory. Everyone was his enemy that night. The only one he felt safe enough to accuse was me. He didn't think I was behaving appropriately. I was too this. Too that. I listened.

The glares and the accusations made me feel bad about how I sometimes present in the world. I am friendly. I am flirtatious. That's who I am in public. Some of my friends are like this. Some are not at all like this. That night I was in the company of 3 people who fell into the latter category. And they were all judging.

Ack and I had plans to go dancing. Prior to leaving Southern Accent, Dell had approached me announcing he was going to buy cigarettes, so "good-bye" if I wasn't there when he returned. He added that it would be nice if I was there when he returned. I was not there when he returned. I accompanied my broken best friend to a place where he could potentially free the matter that was putting a pall on his soul. Dance can be great for that. He just needed to do a couple of Bob Fosse moves to the beat of Interpol's Evil. And Franz Ferdinand's Take Me Out. And Pulp's Common People.

"She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge. She studied sculpture at St. Martin's College, that's where I... caught her eye. She told me that her dad was loaded. I said, 'In that case, I'll have a rum and Coca Cola.' She said, 'Fine.' And then in 30 seconds time she said, 'I want to live like common people. I want to do whatever common people do. I want to sleep with common people. I want to sleep with common people like you.' So what else could I do? I said, 'I'll see what I can do.'"

Back in the day, the Dance Cave was renowned for freedom inducing, anti-inhibiting, anonymous ass-shaking; without a threat of meat market solicitation. Each new generation, and I believe the generations have a 10 year gap these days, bring with it an entirely different expression. The entire dance floor was inhabited by:

People standing stationary holding beers
Staring
Slight movement only at the waist or
People violently losing it during rougher tracks. Think Nirvana in its heyday of teen angst. Repeated violent drunken jumping up and down. Here we are now; entertain us.

I had to protect myself several times from being punched in the face or clotheslined in the chest.

Ack got solicited on the dance floor. She was a blonde, curvy young thing who was feeling a bit brazen. Ack has a difficult time hearing anyone in loud environs. He did hear her intent. He didn't go for it because he apparently has "standards".

The night prior, Ack was invited to a party with most of the invited guests being architects. He described them as a bit heavy set, unattractive with thinning hair... and those were the women! It's been quite a while since Ack's penetrated anything more than a glare. Though he probably needs the practice, to give in felt like a howling desperation. Coyote arm as his potential penance. He has two things going for him: 1) foresight and 2) he is a sexual camel. He is also very focussed. He had come to dance.

But no one was letting him.

This time his mode of expression was being challenged. Met with oppositon. This time The Others were trying to ram their ideals of social propriety down his throat.

And won.
He succumbed.
He wanted to leave.
After the last synth note of Common People played, I grabbed my coat to meet my best friend on the street. He had just lit a cigarette, eyes cast to the ground. The only question in his mind and on his tongue was, "Why?"

All of his crazed Bob Fosse moves were met with stiff backs of opposition. They were maintaining their dance floor real estate. They were immersed in the sound, with all their friends in a circle, for the sole purpose of yell-singing along with the songs they recognised. To recognise and reiterate something loudly was much more enlightening an experience, it seemed; it shrouded them with a supreme feeling of the cool while simultaneously shooting ramrod straight distain towards someone who needed to heal in the only way he knew how.

Ack: But their backs!
The Comrade: I felt the backs too. I just kept dancing and used their backs to ping off of. It was awesome! I never knew where I'd land.

I look at the fishbowl full of spring flowers and fruit blossoms; it's a promise of spring. Spring is hope eternal. I look into the water of the fishbowl and see the ramrod straight fish in hiding. They are the root of universal beauty. What lurks beneath. They are all in hiding. Driftwood. Ramrod straight and playing dead, their only defence from their mortal enemies, I swim around them in my pink tights and tutu.

The State of Delusional

I don't watch television. I haven't done so for 10 months now. What I learned from television I was a misinformation of law, pre-marital blood tests and firemen’s alleged rescue of kittens from trees. From a distance, I could see that television was singularly the most powerful medium that persuades. No one knows this more than the current US administration. It has, since its reign, used this as a vehicle for lies, blatant deception and fear mongering.

Wednesday evening's prime time slot was filled by the annual State of the Union address. Receiving top billing was the monkey elect. The Congress was the live studio audience. No hissing here. No jeering this time. Just cheering. And lots of it.

Stand up! Sit down! Fight-fight-fight!
Goooooo.... Kill! Win!


"Mr. Speaker, Vice President Cheney, members of Congress, fellow citizens: As a new Congress gathers, all of us in the elected branches of government share a great privilege: we have been placed in office by the votes of the people we serve."

Elected? Well... I suppose this time he was. I think, though I'm not sure. 4 years ago he received over 500,000 less popular votes than his Democratic rival. But this time all the votes could have been calculated correctly. Yeah. Maybe this time they were! Even though the companies who created the ballot counters are in full Republican support. Anyway, he'd already submerged the entire nation on a Campaign Against Terror™. It was too late. It almost made sense he was re-elected, just to finish what he'd started.

"And tonight that is a privilege we share with newly elected leaders of Afghanistan, the Palestinian territories, Ukraine, and a free and sovereign Iraq."

I'm sure those ballots were correctly tallied for the newly elected. Certainly none of those guys are fed directives from members of the Skull and Bones.
Free and sovereign Iraq...
Free: death tolls, currently at a factor of 2.5x greater than they were during Hussein's reign.
Free and indiscriminately maimed, homeless victims; the numbers heartbreakingly skyrocketing.
Sovereign. Had to look that one up. Dictionary.com says: One that exercises supreme, permanent authority, especially in a nation or other governmental unit... That sounds about right.

"Tonight, with a healthy, growing economy, with more Americans going back to work..."

Tautologically true, there are less people unemployed, but they are making less money. Many are below the poverty line. Many are homeless. Many of these created jobs (nothing like a little war to reinvigorate a dying economy) get parsed out of the regular system, as labour is cheaper in other countries.

”Because one of the main sources of our national unity is our belief in equal justice, we need to make sure Americans of all races and backgrounds have confidence in the system that provides justice. In America we must make doubly sure no person is held to account for a crime he or she did not commit -- so we are dramatically expanding the use of DNA evidence to prevent wrongful conviction.”

In 2002, 1 out of 143 Americans were in correctional facilities. I wonder how much of the population is aware of the cheap labour performed by prison inmates. I wonder how many know that ”criminals” often book your travel itineraries? At deeply discounted employment pay rates. Convicted criminals... not just for making license plates anymore!

"...with our nation an active force for good in the world...”
Random Soldier: Hey let's blow that up good, Bubba!
Bubba: Yeah...realgood!

”Our generation has been blessed -- by the expansion of opportunity..."

Seizing a nation, reduced to rubble, is like shooting fish in a barrel with an Army issue M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon. Don’t forget to check the mail for the gold sealed, embossed invitation given to the very powerful, multinational Republican supporters, made so by the 100's of thousands in dollars of corporate support designed to secure contracts to rebuild this nation of rubble. The most generous supporters win the contracts. Step right up!

Another America™
Coming soon: Middle Eastern Disneyland

"... advances in medicine"
But only the kind God told him is alright. No stem cell research for you. Nothing that could actually save your life. Nothing that could actually make your standard of living better. It’s unethical! It messes with God’s perfect creation of humans. But don’t worry, God fearing folk, like in Hollywood. It’s alright to have some self-esteem inducing plastic surgery, making a person resemble something from a distant solar system. But regenerating a heart, say; that is simply unacceptable in the eyes of God. It messes with Nature. God’s design. See, Little Georgie knows because God talks to him.

Kill her Mommie.
Kill all of them.

It seems there is nothing wrong with the further advancement of the caleidescope array of patents for mass nullifying drugs. Drugs designed to inhibit revolutionary, individual thought. If you're lucky, you might even forget your own name. It would make it easier to live with what you voted in.

Oh, and now they're doing mandatory psychological testing on school children, prior to admission. I'm sure this is a tool designed to profile those who could potentially want to shoot their other classmates during a lunch period.

Why haven’t you asked why? Why haven’t you looked for the root cause? Or don’t you care? Do you need such simple answers?

Why would a kid want to hurt others? I suspect it’s to mirror and reciprocate the violence inflicted by others to him. To stop it because nobody else is doing anything about it.

The school system and the system at large, not only condone, but encourage ostracization. The Popular vs. the Freaks.

You Republicans enforce and underscore a zealot's partisanism. You want separate factions all serving your Greater Good™ campaign. You want all your servants to compete against each other. You plant the Joneses in every neighbourhood, just for others to keep up with. You want all neighbours distrustful of one another. Keep 'em separated. Keep 'em fighting for their own purpose. Keep ‘em working until they can’t see. Keep 'em buying stuff.

As for the kid, whom you and all the other religious fundamentalists will blame for listening to too much rock ‘n roll (the devil’s music), or FPS video games, without ever looking at the structure in which you encourage your America to live, consider a kid who:
Feels nothing short of isolation because of the constant ridicule of classmates and teaching staff who place "beauty", wealth and popularity as the pinnacles of success.
Maybe is a little heavy = freak
Suffers the mental anguish of chronic acne = ugly
Suffers from real problems = crazy

What if he barely exists on the scraps of his self-esteem?

None of this is detected because your nation’s classrooms are too fucking big to allow for individual attention; something every child needs.



”To make our economy stronger and more productive, we must make health care more affordable, and give families greater access to good coverage, and more control over their health decisions. I ask Congress to move forward on a comprehensive health-care agenda -- with tax credits to help low-income workers buy insurance, a community health center in every poor county, improved information technology to prevent medical errors and needless costs, association health plans for small businesses and their employees, expanded health savings accounts, and medical liability reform that will reduce health-care costs, and make sure patients have the doctors and care they need.”

Not just an explanation of the psychology of the masses but, western medicine has never sought the root cause of illness either. They’re not concerned with finding the cure. That doesn't make much money. I mean sense. We have to Keep America Working™. It's always been about finding a bandage solution, while tapping the scant resources of the people. This service of healthcare is performed only after proof of payment is provided. Only then will a medical practitioner even browse their chart.

Membership has its privileges.
Staying alive? Priceless.

I come from a place where healthcare is a right of every citizen. The concept of denying healthcare unless there is proof of payment provided from the start, seems the issue in dire need of reform.

Annually, 20,000 accidental deaths occur in US hospitals. Completely unrelated to the medical emergency the patient was admitted. Doctors often work up to 36 hours straight, on call. I wonder whether the proposed medical liability reform entails capping the lawsuits made by families that lost a vital member in their lives by, say, accidentally sewing up a patient who had a scapel or surgical sponge forgotten inside? Are the nifty little machines going to provide advanced technology rectifying human error caused by high stress and induced exhaustion?


”To keep our economy growing, we also need reliable supplies of affordable, environmentally responsible energy. Nearly four years ago, I submitted a comprehensive energy strategy that encourages conservation, alternative sources, a modernized electricity grid, and more production here at home, including safe, clean nuclear energy. My Clear Skies legislation will cut power plant pollution and improve the health of our citizens. And my budget provides strong funding for leading-edge technology -- from hydrogen-fueled cars, to clean coal, to renewable sources such as ethanol. Four years of debate is enough -- I urge Congress to pass legislation that makes America more secure and less dependent on foreign energy.”

1. Since the price hike in gasoline, there has been zero reduction in the amount consumed. Americans are pigs when it comes to gas consumption.
2. It was this government who, when a business paid $106,185 for a Hummer H1, that same business could deduct $88,722 from the original cost. It was a next to a near free car that burns the most fuel on the open road. Replete with one hell of a tax incentive.
3. “Safe, clean nuclear energy”? It’s the only way you can stay in the nuclear game. Clever catch phrases that placate the masses in thinking this ineffective method of energy is the most viable.
4. Coal is not clean.
5. If you gain a 52nd state, say Iraq, you will effectively be less dependant on foreign energy.


”America's immigration system is also outdated... It is time for an immigration policy that permits temporary guest workers to fill jobs Americans will not take, that rejects amnesty, that tells us who is entering and leaving our country, and that closes the border to drug dealers and terrorists.”

Why won’t Americans take these jobs? Isn’t there not a depiction of someone who cleans toilets for a living on any of your reality based programming? No? I wonder why. There is more accumulated wealth begging for spare change on the street. Well, toilets have to be cleaned. So then some background performers come on the scene; some illegal aliens. Or “temporary guest workers”. A score of people can live, crammed into a one room, ramshackled, cockroach infested dwelling. They can work your shit jobs that none of your uneducated, though affluent minded (false sense of entitlement) wouldn’t be caught dead doing. Unless of course they were properly recompensed. To me, $20/hr for cleaning up someone’s shit doesn’t seem unreasonable.

I have no idea who you have manning the borders since your soft draft has effectively led anyone who has ever sniffed the butt of the armed forces on an extended tour of duty. No end in sight.



”The United States has no right, no desire, and no intention to impose our form of government on anyone else. That is one of the main differences between us and our enemies. They seek to impose and expand an empire of oppression, in which a tiny group of brutal, self-appointed rulers control every aspect of every life. Our aim is to build and preserve a community of free and independent nations, with governments that answer to their citizens, and reflect their own cultures. And because democracies respect their own people and their neighbors, the advance of freedom will lead to peace.”

You delusion-spinning fascist, fascist fuck.

How can you say, full of earnestness, in front of your entire nation, nothing but overt lies? Nothing but direct deflections of your intent? Projections. Damned Method actor! Everything you say against these other powers, something you want to personally stamp out in the name of Freedom™, are blatant mistruths. You don't even know what freedom means. I dare you to define it. I implore you. But you cannot, without a full quarterly report, define a patented registered trademark.

This has been your campaign since Day One. Remember that day? The one where you stole the presidency? The day you successfully bred fear in your populace? Congratulations. You have created your own warped Utopia. Your Vision of Freedom™ is anything but. You are effectively heading a police state. You sit smug as the Chief of Police.

And for now it’s working. Your people are too afraid to speak. I am friends with these people. They're convinced that if they say anything remotely opposing your position, they will be dealt with by the proper authorities. Interrogated. Blighted. Arrested. They are scared to have an opinion. Free thought.

Allow me to refresh your memory. This is a war YOU created, just like all the other wars YOU'VE created. It needn’t have happened. America was never threatened. Has never really ever been threatened. All threats have been conjuered.

Just like in the War on Drugs™, YOUR CIA was heading the cocaine cartel. They encouraged young punk dealers to be their pawns in their back pockets. Now, in this current War on Terror™, YOU handed over the weapons. YOU sent over the technology and the infrastructure to make it happen. In your vain search for Weapons of Mass Destruction™, YOU were looking in the spot you lay them last. Sure, they moved them. Maybe they sold them back to Korea or Great Britain, or Palestine. All the countries you initially sold the plans to, the ones on your personal speed dial. All the countries you’ve done nuclear business with.

”Today, Iran remains the world's primary state sponsor of terror -- pursuing nuclear weapons while depriving its people of the freedom they seek and deserve. We are working with European allies to make clear to the Iranian regime that it must give up its uranium enrichment program and any plutonium re-processing, and end its support for terror. And to the Iranian people, I say tonight: As you stand for your own liberty, America stands with you.”

Idle threats, I say. Going into Iran would mean World War III. It would be the end of the world, not as we know it; it would simply mean The End. Though America thinks itself the Greatest Economic Power of the World™, it’s not. China has moved into that position. It has its major oil stake in Iran. Petroleum is the base component of plastic. America has a great stake in China. They are America’s greatest exporter. Walmart wouldn’t exist without China. To China, America is its bitch. Bush had to say something in regards to Iran, but there wasn’t a threat for future occupation. It was a passive threat. Symbolic. A sticks and stones issue, designed to placate his Zionist pals.

Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, had a beautiful analogy:
Ack: A man stands with his wife and small child. A threatening man is standing opposite the family. He throws a gun down at the feet of the family man. It's loaded. All of a sudden the threatening man punches the family man's wife in the face, breaking her nose, blood gushing everywhere. The family man picks up the gun at his feet; shoots the violent perp. The family man is arrested for possessing a weapon of mass destruction.

May God bless America, and not screw the rest of us.

Call Tyrone... Everything Will Be Alright

Twenty years old, my first bartending job was at a restaurant on Bloor Street. This is a Toronto street currently riddled with branding designated for malnourished sheep with bovine extracts lovingly pierced into brows. It is also a runway for vulgar amounts of war waged blingmobiles named synonymously with bombilate blow jobs.

The restaurant was the Bermuda Onion. The Onion for short. Purple neon. Blue-black walls. A decorative stuffed Marlin fish on the back wall. It was the last gasp of the 80's, where there was no shortage of cash; where there was a real desire to show it off.

I worked with Tyrone. Calm. Ever present confident smile. Piercing green eyes that never failed to get him laid. I was engaged at the time, and also never really looked at Tyrone in that way. I was his protegé. Master and apprentice.

Over a decade later I saw him again for the first time in many years on the streetcar. In my neighbourhood. Walking through the center aisle, Tyrone was at the back of the car. The half smile ever present; green eyes yo-yo-ing to take all of me in... over and over.

The Comrade: TYRONE!
Tyrone: Oh my God! It's you! It's been, like, 14 years!
The Comrade: Yeah! ... Hey! Were you just checking me out?
Tyrone: No!
The Comrade: Dude, I saw the up and down action with the eyes.
Tyrone: Okay, maybe a little.
The Comrade: I'm your buddy!
Tyrone: I didn't know it was you!

At the Onion, Tyrone and I had worked the circular bar like a couple of ball bearings in a game of roulette. This was when Ty had speed. I learned that a few years later he'd been in a car accident.

He had veered past the median onto oncoming traffic.
No one was injured.
There was no alcohol in his blood stream.
He had his license revoked.
He still had to make payments on an impounded car.
He went to jail for 2 months.

Tyrone, though light skinned, is a black man.

These days he is the right shade of brown; more than likely because he can't wrap his tongue around the word jihad.

2 months

When he got out of the pen he asked me what I'd done for the last 2 months.

The Comrade: Well, you know, this and that. Nothing much.
Tyrone: But 2 months! That's a long time.

2 months is a long time, especially when you've got nothing but time to think about things.

These days Tyrone is a film and television editor. He's got an excellent workspace that encourages creativity and comfort. He loves going in, working up to 16 hours a day, whether there's anything to do or not. He'd putter around for a bit or sometimes dash off to see a movie in the afternoon. He'd already taken the trouble of showering. Since he'd made it to work, there was no reason for him to go home. He said there wasn't anything for him to do there anyway.

The Comrade: What do you mean?
Tyrone: All I'd do is sit around and watch TV.
The Comrade: Really?
Tyrone: I guess I could go shopping.
The Comrade: [sigh]

I'd reminded him about his 2 months in jail and the words he spoke to me after getting out.

Tyrone: Yeah, but things happen all the time. Every moment you're alive, something happens.


At his editing suite he sits. He turns off the volume from the 5.1 Bose surround sound system; picks up the phone; dials a number.

Tyrone: Hi. It's me. I'm just leaving now.... Yep. We're just going out for something to eat, then I'm going home.... K.... Bye.
The Comrade: What the hell was that?
Tyrone: It's my girlfriend. She worries about me. I don't know why. Actually, I do. She's a girl. Guys are guys and girls are girls. We can't help it.

The Comrade simultaneously thinks this behaviour is sickening and sweet at the same time. Now that she has a boyfriend, all the old pulls of caring for someone have come back. They haunt her. She thought she was past this. Now, all she wants to do is talk to him.

And they fight
And they fix
And they fight
And they fix
And they say sweet things
And eventually they fall asleep in each other's arms
In their minds

Tyrone's the only one I know who is on relationship terra firma right now.

The Applier is juggling too many girls. 3 inanimate objects is a good number to juggle. 3 women, especially when one of them is nuts and a certifiable nympho wreaks havoc on certain parts.

Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, tried to give him some advice when the Applier earnestly asked how he could be rid of her without being an asshole about the whole thing.

Ack: Tell her, "I need my space, baby."

In my mind, all I heard was that phrase spoken without the use of a comma.
I need my Spacebaby.

The Nutty Nympho has left the poor Applier with a "shredded dick".


Poor Ack. Things were seemingly going really well with the Big Girl, from upstairs, with the floppy feet. They went dancing. She wasn't appalled nor turned off by the Bob Fosse dance moves. They made out. There was some biting of Big Girl's bum. After a week, it seemed she had some reservations. She'd changed her mind. She needed her space, baby.

Ack's hopeful, though. He's all about playing the field now. I talked to him last night about the love in my life and he's really happy for me.

Poor Fatty. He's fallen for a girl who has been living with an emotionally abusive idiot for a couple of years now. She likes her apartment too much. Ugh. I told him there are marvellous apartments all over the city. He knows. This hurts him because she is the first girl he can actually invision having children with.

What can you do? We can't help who we fall in love with. We don't really choose them. Not really. It just happens. Half the time we can't explain why we love them.

Some things can't be intellectualized.
Not with our little pea brains.

Something just happens every single minute we're alive.