I wrote this a few days ago, while I was high. Just FYI, I'm not out-of-my-head angry anymore, but I do constantly feel this way. I almost wish I could get past it, but then I don't see any good reasons to forget about all this and move on.
For some reason, my anger level has risen to a tremendously high number today. In fact, I believe I may be rating it in triple digits. I have no idea what that means, but really, that's how I'm interpreting it.
It's not the pot, although I'm sure that it isn't helping. But I've been stoned lots of times without this gritty bitter feeling. And it's unfortunate but not unfair that my roommate has become the focus of my sudden quiet rage.
She deserves it. She's put me through enough grief. I mean, she never has even acknowledged that I've gone through several depressions in the time she's known me, much less ever tried to help. So why should I have offered my own assistance to her when she suddenly announced to the whole world that she was feeling less than fine? To add insult to injury, the world which was so relentlessly pushing me into a suicidal dark cloud during aforementioned depressions just parted around her when she wanted it to. Work let her take off as long as she wanted. She allowed herself to let her rent and bill-paying duties slide. The world which had been whirling out of control for me, holding me hard against its centre with centripital force just stopped for her. It was as easy as asking it to.
So fuck her. If I need a fairweather friend, I'll hop onto the information superhighway and find one.
For just that reason, there's a part of me that wants to provoke her. I suppose that's the self-destruction, Fight Club part of me coming through.
Or maybe it's just my new urge to feel valuable. We were sitting at McDonald's tonight and I brought it up. Something I'd just noticed was nagging at me, and it had probably been at the back of my mind for years. The "secret" club that I belong to, she gets credit for starting it. All of it, and that is a lot of wows and hugs and thanks and cheers and congrats over the years. The truth is, we both came up with the idea, and the only reason she's the "boss" is that she beat me to dejanews (as it was called back then) by a few seconds. No one knows this, and of course, she accepts their praise without even thinking that maybe I feel slighted.
Well, until now, that is, because I just brought it up over milkshakes. To which, of course, Miss "Run-Away-From-Her-Problems" immediately replied "I don't want to talk about this."
Whatever. If you're not going to bother listening, neither will I.
Honestly, all of this was much easier when everyone was mad at her. She seems to have taken a resurgence in popularity lately, and for some reason, the secondary effects of that have been bad for me. I's like we're symbiotic. When she's happy, I'm not, and vice-versa.
Part of it is that everyone is challenging everyone else. I mean thoughts of "I always empty the garbage, so this time I'll let it overflow and we'll see how they like it" have crossed my mind occasionally. Mainly, it's a cross between that and laziness, and it saddens me that four people are so inadequate at taking care of themselves and each other.
There are so many symptoms: name-dropping, snobbiness, self-righteousness, blaséness, pretending they hate something just to consider themselves "cooler" than the people who like it. Dealing with that kind of falseness and hidden agenda-ing is so tiring. How hard is it to say something and mean it? I guess some people just aren't conscious of doing that.
We were talking about this earlier. This whole "I'm more *in* than you" game comes and goes in waves. They're big waves, the size of years. But it really does come and go, or rather, the people do.
I understand that it must be terribly difficult for them, especially with, excuse the term, a plethora of psycho fans. I've already encountered some pretty sorry individuals who were unnaturally distraught at the very *idea* that this might be the end. Someone told me, weeping, that Moxy Früvous keeps her stable. I didn't know what to say to that. I just hope that instead of acting on their (probably very real) emotions of loss, these people come to their senses. I don't think any of us want it to end badly.
Happy fucking birthday, bitch! :)
Well, so far (9:30 AM) my day is just the way I imagined it. Maybe worse, considering the early hour. The subway broke down (I don't even want to think about jumpers), I feel gritty and tired and angry. The reception into my film class was chilly at best. There are at least 7 people I know, but none of them greeted me. I just want to crawl back to sleep. But there's nowhere to sleep here. Nowhere for miles, as a matter of fact! Even Ani couldn't cheer me up this morning. My favourite album on my walkman just sort of blared in the background of my mood.
I'm twenty. I thought I'd be happy about that. But no one else around here seems to be, so why dare to be different? A thought occured to me as I was waiting for the aforementioned broken-down subway train. "At least this is better than last year." No wonder I'm all upset about it, if I have so many memories that influence me that way.
Oh, and Degrassi Junior High Girl is here. She walked into my film production class this morning. Just what I needed, a whole YEAR with goddamn Stephanie K.
Flash forward four hours:
I'm intrigued. MC, after she told me, in a bout of anger, about the birthday thing, asked if I wanted to know who was going to be there. She asked as though people I weren't expecting were going to be there. Well I already knew Luella was planning to come, because Luella told me, and I assumed Heather was invited (which was later confirmed by MC's "I have to call Heather" secrecy technique). Plus me, MC, Fiona and Dave. Did she think I wouldn't figure that out? Or is there someone else that I'm forgetting? Or will I be faced with a roomfull of strangers? A surprise and a half, let me write this down as something to do to a friend someday.
So anyway, excuse the earlier bitterness. If I'm bitter, I will keep it for myself until a time when I can put it up here and be coherent (instead of a rambling madwoman).
I just went to my first acting class. The instructor is cute. So cute in fact that I think the only thing that stopped me from unabashedly flirting with him is that I'm having a fat day. Luckily, the room wasn't paneled in mirrors or anything. Well, the fat day, and the fact that a guy I know, Trevor, is in the class as well. The introduction of just one person you know, or rather who knows you, into a group of strangers is quite interesting. It changes the whole group dynamic. Anyhow, it was a lot like I expected it to be. A normal acting class, only in University instead of at the National Arts Center rehearsal space. We get to do a monologue. I hope we get to pick it.
This second paragraph brought to you by Kath's desperate attempt at not sounding desperate. Got donations? Send c/o Apathy, 652 Hillsdale Ave E, Toronto, ON, M4S 1V3.
I keep lots of journals. It's something I've always wanted to be able to do, and now, finally, after many a failed attempt, I believe it's working.
Anyway, last night I brought something up that MC and Fiona told me to write down, and since I haven't come up with anything yet for this journal, this seems as good a place as any.
There's this store somewhere near Steeles and Dufferin. I bus past it twice daily, and have never gotten off the bus at that stop, but someday I will. The name of the store is Kids Interior Design Store, which some marketing genius penned in an effort to make a K.I.D.S. acronym work (there aren't very many words that start with K other than "kids"; kayak? koala? karat?).
A mild annoyance is the appearance of the word "store" in the acronym (which I find incredibly weak), and in fact that's quite another story and doesn't interest me nearly as much as that K...
Because the word "Kids" is in the acronym itself. Someone should tell whoever thought that up that when you create that kind of acronym (the kind that spells a real word, not like NASA or SMPTE), it's like creating a finite universe where word=acronym.
I mean, any visiting martian would look at the sign and think "Well, I guess "kids" means Kids Interior Design Store." And they'd be right. The problem I have with this is that, the word "kids" being in the acronym, the damn thing, in theory, goes on ad infinitum.
I just know one of these days I'll go crazy and get off the bus at that stop, and walk into the store very calmly. Then I'll just start screaming. "YOUR SIGN DOES NOT MAKE SENSE!" over and over. "IT'S A FRACTAL!"
Which is what it is. I mean, think about it. K.I.D.S... KIDS interior design store... Interior Design Store... Interior Design Store. You're spelling out "kids" every time and it just keeps going. I have this impression every time I ride by there that in the not-too-distant future, I am trapped and choking on roger-rabbit-esque (the book, not the movie) bubbles of text being perpetually generated and tossed out into the atmosphere by that one small store somewhere near Steeles and Dufferin.
I don't think I've ever felt this violently about anything so minor before. I realize how useless it is to spend my energy on, but I just can't seem to not do just that. It's a kind of frenzied annoyance which overtakes me every time I think about it (including now - and I'm about to get on that bus again!).
I would have been fine had it been anything but a brain aneurism. My mom had a brain aneurism burst ten years and four months ago. I made this kind of mistake then too... I assumed (at the time, I was allowed: I was ten years old) that she was going to die. Everyone kept telling me how probable it was, they were making sure I'd be ready if it happened. Well, my mother lived. But by that time, I'd gotten so used to the idea that she was dead, that it was like living with a ghost. Not to mention that she'd changed. She suddenly had the mind of a child. I felt like the mature one. She was unsure about everything, and didn't trust herself to remember anything, convinced she had serious memory problems. She did, at first, but after a while it became obvious (to me, anyway) that she was just lacking confidence.
Living with a ghost was enfuriating for the ten-year-old that I was. It was just too tiring to adopt someone new into my brand-new two-person family, as ridiculous as that sounds. It took me a long time to get used to my "new mom". I don't think I respected her as much as I should have then, and I don't think I quite treat her the same, even now that she's finally gaining the confidence to become a regular person again.
So learning that my grandmother (who we're all very close to) had a brain aneurism came as a giant shock this morning. She was the one who told me about my mother. I was a latchkey kid growing up. I didn't have many friends, and I spent a great deal of time alone or with imaginary friends. On the day my mother had the brain aneurism, I was sitting at home watching the movie "It" for what must have been the fortieth time in a row. My grandmother came in and told me what had happened. That my mom had first gone deaf, and then, if I recall correctly, collapsed on a bus just blocks from where she was supposed to meet my dad for lunch. She didn't really understand what had happened then, and we drove to the hospital together in a state of shock.
Now it's her turn. What's funny and sweet and poignant and very movie-like or Richard-Russo-novel-like about it, is where she was last night when it happened. My grandmother is and always has been a gambling addict. She is always happiest when playing bingo, or cards. When they built the casino in Hull, she spent night after night there exploring all the different ways that she could fulfill her addiction. Her family finally got worried that she had a gambling problem, and tried to keep her away from the casino as much as possible, fearing that she might, I don't know, gamble away her life savings or something (although to give her credit, she does win an awful lot). So, last night, when her aneurism burst, she was at the casino. Doing what she likes best. I think that's great.
How can I go home with nothing to say?
You are a china shop and I am a bull,
You'll say, "Did they love you or what?"
You'll say, "It's really good to see you."
How can I go home with nothing to say?
Remind you of anything, I might ask?
THEN there was those other people. I swear. Do they always give the last spot to make-you-cringe hokey loudmouths? Last time it was the political adoption woman who wouldn't have been so bad, except her speeches were all 15 minutes long... and so were her songs. This time, it was a lovely Karaoke show, as we were treated to songs about love, dreams, puddles, teddy bears and (of course) amethysts, as performed by two very loud, very flat people and a keyboard. Oh, God. Oh, oh, God. Halfway through their first song I got up to get a drink. Halfway through their second, I downed my drink to try to make the music more bearable. Unfortunately, it didn't help very much. The only thing that helped were Mike Wood's comments :)
The band Sulk were just... bland. I mean, their songs were groovy, but they were... bland. It was too bad, I think they could have really had something if they had stopped trying to be cool for just a second or two. Lorraine what's-her-name from Parachute Club was entertaining. MC says she can't tell her songs apart, and I realized that I can't either, but that it doesn't really matter since I enjoyed both of them :)
So yeah, yeah... here's what I thought of Jian's teeny two-song setlist. Let's start with the less fantastic. "Natalia". Hm. Nice theme. The subject matter is there, it's a good subject, and it comes through. But man, no song's chorus should end with the words "be your man" (unless it's the chorus to Odds' "I Would Be Your Man" which has those exact words in it, but somehow, it's good). Seriously. It just gives less credit to the whole rest of the song. And there WERE some beautiful images in it, they just sort of faded in the presence of that horrendous lingering lyric.
And then he played the song he wrote for Trudeau. I'm not sure what I was expecting. There were all these allusions to Candle In The Wind onstage. I was cringing and thinking (geez, I wish you'd played the other song you were going to play). Then he started. And it was really nice. Simple, personal, and honest. Probably the best song I've ever heard him sing. I was very impressed. So, congrats, Jian.
On another note, I do believe I've gotten my foot in the door of something awesome today. Bryn, a film student whose ideas I've always been in awe of, has the most amazing proposal I've ever heard. Over the summer, she participated in an art fashion where an artist painted her naked body (apparently the process takes hours) along with four others, and then she walked into a gallery full of people. Apparently, the feeling associated with this experience is a brand of self-confidence not often come by. She wants to film five men and five women going through this experience, and have them discuss body issues. I think it is probably the best idea I have ever heard, and I am honoured that I might get to do sound recording on her project. I'm just so psyched about this, it's not even funny. I would devote years to this project, if I could. I think it's incredibly valid, and the way that she states it makes its intention so clear and straightforward. It's wonderful.
I don't know yet what I think of the footage. I mean, most of it is very well shot... we'll have to see how it cuts together. We still have at least two more days of shooting to go. Monday, and then a day at York sometime hopefully next week. I hate that my availability for filming is limited due to the fact that this is Norman Jewison week for my Canadian Movies seminar... First, because I really need to get these shots done as soon as possible, and second because Norman Jewison is not what I would call a Canadian director. I mean, I'd call him a Canadian, sure, but I wouldn't call his films Canadian. Anyhow, I get to meet him Wednesday, and then I'm supposed to be at the Bloor Cinema (for those of you moxyfruvous superfans who stumbled on here, surely by mistake, yes, it's the same one) for another talk by him and a showing of the Hurricane.
It's funny, every paragraph I write in here seems to take me back to racism or sexism or somekind of ism. I mused to Fiona tonight that I wish I was black, because then all the intolerance-induced rage in my head would be taken seriously, instead of just being the ramblings or a white girl who doesn't know what she's talking about. I wrote a nice lump of text on racism while the cable modem was down, that I was going to post here, but it's just not timely now.
Fiona said "the curse of the privileged". I think I took that to mean that I felt privileged and therefore guilty that others didn't have what I have. Which, I mean, I don't have a lot. It's not like I'm a rich little white girl, by any means (although I'm sure I've invested a good portion of my life's earnings in Ani DiFranco albums... another added to the collection just today ;) "Now I have twelve children! I shall call you Not So Soft"). I don't feel privileged. I live on a planet that pretends that everything is fine. It's not yet. We weren't nearly done and somewhere it feels like someone stopped the boat. And it's frustrating.
That's it. That's all I have to say tonight.
I guess what must be in honour of your birthday (we did do it after midnight last night), I cut off most of my hair. I am now sporting a cute little bob. I must have been pretty desperate to have short hair, or I wouldn't have let MC and her dull scissors near my head ;) Nah, just kidding, it's pretty satisfactory. For now. I will want it even shorter soon, I'm sure. But for now, I'll just be content with adding blue streaks sometime this week... what the hell is it with me, that I'm suddenly li'l miss punk rock?? If the old me was here, sitting around, hiding under the bed or something, she'd be openly (but hopefully good-naturedly) laughing at the new me. Is there such a thing as a new me? I hope not.
The at-home haircut was actually pretty hilarious, all things considered. It's not every time you go for a haircut that you hear a tentative "Oops, that was sloppy," from behind you after one decisive snip. Throughout the whole haircut, MC kept saying "You'll like it, it's Ani-like." Which had to be the most hilarious statement ever, to me, anyway. Ani WHEN? I don't think any one person on earth has had as many hairstyles as she has. (and speaking of Ani... well, here.)
Sheryl and Eric are staying with us for the weekend, and yesterday was a wonderful day. Sheryl needed to get some sort of gay pride paraphernalia(sp?) for a presentation she's doing on Gays, Lesbians, Bisexuals and Transgenders in America (I think). Nevermind that this isn't the America the title is referring to, we went down to Church and Wellesley and hung around for a few hours. And we just met a ton of very friendly people (including Danny, the silly-necklace maker, who we all bought a necklace from.
This is odd. The end of this entry just sort of got bitten off. Oh, well.
The fact is that I guess we're all growing up. As a group. I don't mean that individuals are maturing (although hopefully we all are going forward and not backward) but that we are forming different kinds of bonds and starting to have a lot of history with one another. And I mean that for everyone who reads this page... You guys are my friends, and all I want to do is know you more, and know you better, and find new ways to relate to you.
Because you know, otherwise we're all just kind of treading water, instead of getting somewhere.
So yesterday was a bit awkward. I think. The truth is, I'm not a mindreader, and I'm not even that good at detecting hints, so I don't know what the hell the situation is between me and Hugo, except that physical distance seems necessary (I don't mean miles, but feet). And well, okay, that's fine, whatever. He doesn't seem to like to be reminded that we were once good friends. Enh, it's too bad, because I have some pretty good memories of all that. But the situation certainly adds increased tension to the group dynamic, although it's sort of a fake tension... a little glamourous if you know what I mean. It makes me wonder if we're constantly becoming what we see on television. Because (even though I never saw an episode) I think this is what Melrose Place looked like. Well, if you forget the fact that no one on Melrose Place wore glasses or was overweight in the slightest. Still.
Sometimes the TV-like nature of your life is what helps you keep on living it. If I imagine someone watching me, I am more inclined to do things that are interesting and stimulating to me. Doesn't everyone live life like they're on TV? I watch people in the streets, and everything, the way they walk, talk, dress, act, even the way they watch others, makes me think that they are playing to some invisible camera. And sometimes this can be fun, like when you're on an especially funny or exciting episode. But I really wish we could unlearn all this TV-ness. I really wish we could get rid of the frames. Because I want to be able to do what I want without thinking "Geez, we're turning this into a Friends episode", or whatever. I guess what I'm saying is, I want our lives to be original. No one's getting a story credit on my life. That's all.
I just got an email from a friend in Japan. A film we made together is getting some award from TVO and we get to go a ceremony and have dinner and bring guests and stuff. I think I'm bringing MC and Fiona. Two guests each. They'll expect my parents, but hey, I think MC and Fiona are good parent substitutes in this case. They can clap and say "honey" and stuff. They're good at that. So I'm really psyched! I can't wait to have our little award hanging on the wall at school either. I hope we all get a copy for ourselves :)
What I really don't hope, is that the films are shown. The reason I'm really not being modest about this award (although I *did* do fuck-all, being the camera person for a film which was mostly a sit-down interview and still photo shots, with a few special effects thrown in) is that the film was incredibly difficult to make, emotionally. I don't know if it affected the others the same way it did me. But I know that that evening, after Morna, Eri and I talked to Setsuko Nakamura about her experience in Hiroshima, I broke down when I got home. And I couldn't even begin to open my mouth to talk about it with Dave or MC, because they couldn't possibly *begin* to understand how traumatic it was, or how fresh the wound was.
You read about it in books, you watch movies and specials about it on TV, you hear about nuclear testing, nuclear weapons, stockpiles, and all the words start to mesh together and you THINK you know what you're talking about and then you realize, or at least I realize, that I have no idea what these bombs *mean*, what they represent, why they have to exist in the first place. There are so many things that I just hate about the world right now.
I've tried to block all that nuclear stuff out, to just lump it in with the other bitterness-inducing mess in the back of my mind, near the base of my tongue (I still taste it sometimes), but watching that film brings it back in full colour.
What's funny about the film is that I narrate it. Well, that's not funny in and of itself, but I keep forgetting that my voice is on it. And whenever I speak, it makes me jump. At the end of year showing last summer, everyone around me giggled when, after the first two lines of text I suddenly exclaimed "Hey, wait a second! That's me!" Geez, I'm so glad I'm an individual and no doubt the only person on earth who would take that long to recognize her own voice, before she even remembers having recorded it herself.
Blah. I'm babbling and bored and a lot of people reading this have heard this out of my mouth at one time or another (when do I ever shut up?). Well, now, I guess.
We are now entering week 3 of strikedom. I think I have forgotten all I know. I don't even know the days of the week anymore. And I don't care! I pray to the god of hostility every night that he/she not take my precious strike away. I know it's going to be hell when we get back to classes (especially for Economics, which I still have to catch up on). But judging by the turn in the weather, the strikers are probably going to cede soon. It's a lot easier to let go of your convictions when you're frozen and cranky.
MC left today. Whatever. I think she's making a mistake. I think she had lots of other options. I think she misses her mom a little too much. It doesn't matter what I think. So whatever. Now that she's gone, all I have to film is empty space.
Well, and I got to film the naked painted people today. That was fun. We had some nice talks. There was one girl, Caroline, who was really cute but very, very quiet. She was very, very straight though, so I just could not go there after I started talking to her. I think it all went really well, and I can't believe how freakin' much people have to say! I even had some stuff to say! At one point, while everyone was talking about bodies and periods and sexual identity, I whispered to my friend Sam: "Jesus, we're making the Vagina Monologues over here!" That's what it felt like. I really think it's going to be a meaningful piece, and I keep thinking of people that it should be sent to. I keep thinking of people that need to see it. Important people, you know? Yeah, I'm a really bad take-charge girl when it's MY project. Now that it's someone else's, I'm a total control freak. Figure that one out!
I'm kind of tired, and have to work tomorrow, but I really don't want to go to bed right now. I want to go watch my cheesy slasher movie (Bloody Murder! Makes me think of a Martina song everytime I hear the title) instead. So sue me. Of course, this house not really being my home anymore since MC left, it probably means that I'll lie awake sleepless all night afterwards, scared and alone, but oh well, I'll get more thinking done that way. I fall asleep too easily these days anyway. Plus, it's laundry time! Bring on the gore!
"i'm going to miss people, that part i do feel. i know at least one person thinks i'm a bitch for leaving, and reads all kinds of shit into my departure. apparently i'm wasting energy trying to convince her she has it all wrong. hopefully she'll understand eventually, and then she can write a song about that. "
Which means: A) Someone (oh, sorry, MC) spent her last few precious moments at Hill Haus snooping through my notebooks. B) She completely missed the point of what she read there. Which hurts a lot more than A. She's never received any messages I meant her to get from my poetry. It probably says a lot about my poetry more than anything else. Maybe I should just give up on the junk altogether. Oh, and C) That all through the last month, during which MC and I got along exceptionally well, she must have still thought that I was carrying some kind of grudge against her and that I was pissed off at her under my "exterior". Funny that. It's this kind of thing that pisses me off, not that she's moving away.
If MC was on her site calling me a bitch and all that, it would feel a lot better. It would be putting me on her level. But somehow she writes as though she knows something more than I do, as if she's convinced that there's no possible way that I could understand and so she's given up hope or something. I'm like this little tyke that tags along and that she pats on the head. "Someday, sweetie, when you're ready, you'll understand." Well, I'm sorry I project the image of being beyond any hope of change or of rational thought. I guess that's just my bad, as Eggbot would say.
And about wasting your energy on changing my perception. What energy? Where? I didn't see no energy. It must have passed me by when I wasn't looking. Of course, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? The absence of energy, of ever *doing* anything? I really hope that changes for you, sweetie, that by changing your geographical location, you're able to somehow coerce your psyche into thinking it is changed as well. It doesn't usually work that way or anything, but as we all know, the mind is a mysterious thing.
And yes, MC, even though you might not believe me, there are many many things you don't know about me, and they are things which you would never suspect, so next time you want to write about how you think I feel, just don't. I try not to assume what other people think, so I just write about how I feel instead. It might seem self-centered, but at least it's not apt to be wrong. That's what the song you read was about. How I feel. Not about how much of a bitch I think you are. It was about me, and how I know I'll feel lonely but I'll survive, and how much I hope I meet new friends, and what I thought our relationship was like, and how crazy I am. It had nothing to do with judging you. So don't you counter-attack and judge me back, please.
Thank you. Back to your regularly scheduled drivel.
There's this girl. MC and I saw her outside the Sarah Harmer concert that we couldn't get into last month. She's turning into quite a folkie, because she was back last night. She looks incredibly familiar, but I keep trying to convince myself it's just because she fits a certain "type" of woman that I really like. I have a big crush on her. I couldn't stop looking at her all night. What a happy, old feeling that is. That alone gives me lots and lots of hope for my emotional future.
AJ paid me the best compliment today!! I was telling him how much I hate pizza, except frozen pizza. I like the cardboardy taste and texture of frozen pizza. Yesterday I was pontificating about my love of traffic jams, and some other strange things probably came out of my mouth too. And today AJ just snapped. He said I was one of the weirdest people he's ever met! I was so happy to be labeled as weird. It's something I've always suspected but never really confirmed. Thank you!
I have to tell y'all about this, because if you're ever in the same situation, it will be time to realize that you are in a dysfunctional relationship. MC hasn't called me. Which would be just fine, except she distinctly told Fiona to give me the message that she was going to call me the night she moved. I thought, OK, fine, she'll call me. And then she didn't call. I wondered if she was too tired.
Now it's Wednesday. It's been five days. And I know what's going on. It's annoying as all hell to realize. See, I don't want to call her, because that will be giving her what she expects: I think she expects me to be fairly actively upset about her leaving, so she expects me to be the first to call. And now that it's been five days, she might be quite pissed off at me because I haven't called her yet. In fact, she might think that I'm angry at her and giving her the silent treatment. Which is just incredibly fucking hilarious, when you think about it (I haven't done that "I'm not speaking to you" thing since probably sixth grade - and it got me accused of being a baby even back THEN). Nonetheless, I'm fairly sure she's assuming that I'm mad at her.
And given the fact that none of this matters at all in the normal world where not everyone dissects all of their actions to a minute degree (yes, I am aware that not everyone plans out their phone calling techniques eight moves in advance... and I don't actually do that, I'm a very spur of the moment person, actually, and actually that's why I'm just gonna shake my head and say what the hell), I'm just going to call her. I mean, what the fuck are we supposed to do? Let our suppositions and judgements run our damn lives? I don't care if I think you think I'm angry at you, and that in turn makes you angry at me. The point is that I'm not angry at you, so where did all that other shit come from? Where do all the fuzzy logic and implications fit in? They don't really. There's no space for them, and if you let them in then you have this kind of goddamn dysfunctional relationship.
I don't think ahead anymore. I have to physically hold myself back from doing things I used to only fantasize about doing. I'm so happy to be alive right now.
I said I want to disrupt things for a living and careened around a lot. And somehow, that led to both AJ and Jian simultaneously deciding that I was going to call and/or email Michael Moore and ask him for a job. Well, I'm not about to just contact the guy out of the blue. But seeing as how he is my hero, and seeing as how I haven't heard much about him since the new TV Nation show he did a tiny run of a few years ago, I'm going to do a little research first, see what he's doing right now. Then I'll see what I can do. Hey, I could be the next Janeane Garofalo ;)
I talked to MC last night. She apologized for not calling earlier. She didn't tell me much about what she's been doing, and since I can't really imagine what she's doing, in my mind she is standing around in a large grey void . Oh dear. I just had a flashback. My cousin had a story-writing computer game when she was really little that created sentences from subjects, actions and locations. One of those locations was "the middle of nowhere", and that's what I am imagining now, with MC as the little character just kind of floating there, pinned off her feet in the middle of nowhere.
In other news, the bastards at Mandarin Chinese Buffet were undeniably uncooperative when I went to them for help earlier today. I left a clipboard there last Wednesday. It's only been a week, and what's more, I called to check up on it and specifically told them to hang on to it, as I couldn't come to pick it up right away. So what did they do? They gave it to the Salvation Army. What the hell is the Salvation Fucking Army going to do with a broken down clipboard full of my freakin' MAIL and course schedules and class notes... and a KODAK card worth 20% off on up to $3000 worth of film that I hadn't even REGISTERED yet??? Those assholes have not seen the last of my little blue-haired self, let me tell you. I am heading back there tonight after I leave here. Hopefully, the people I spoke to earlier will have finished their shifts and I'll be able to speak to a manager or someone who cares that they just gave away my whole damn life to some perfect stranger. My address and phone number are all over that fucking thing. Yet they couldn't, you know, call me or anything. No, that would be too much effort. It certainly felt that way today, when after an initial half-hearted look around, they just suddenly stopped paying attention to me altogether. Fucking fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. My memory is going to be the death of me.
The biggest contenders were Elliott, Jeffrey, Fudge, Kaiser Sose, Cosmo, Wonderbread (snort), Sushi and Frankie. I ended up settling on Cosmo because he really is so black it's like empty space, and also because it was the amalgamation of two other names I liked: Cosby (SO eighties) and Mo. It fits him. He likes it, I think. He has a vet's appointment tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I've gotten into the designing business. I mostly wanted to make this t-shirt so that I could wear it, but I also wouldn't mind seeing if I can make a little business out of it. So right now there's only one t-shirt at www.cafepress.com/crazies, but soon (I mean very soon) there will be more. Just humour me and pretend you're gonna buy them, K? ;) Oh, and do you think that I should make the same design available on a long-sleeved white t-shirt too?
I used the crazies profile because it was there, and because I like the word crazies, and because I was the one who registered it, anyway. If MC gets upset, I'll move it or something :)
I met this really nice guy from Arkansas last night. I did something I hadn't done in a long time, which is download the list of channels and just surf. I think I was looking for a Bible group to harass or something (kidding! that would be dangerous!) and I stumbled upon this one dude just sitting in an Ani Difranco channel by himself, so I went and talked to him. He's gay and in Arkansas. I've never been to Arkansas, but I had the impression that that was one of those places where they beat you to death if you're gay. *shrug* Shows how little respect I have for those states I haven't explored. Maybe Arkansas has a great gay sub-culture. Who knows? Well, gay men in Arkansas, supposedly.
We didn't get to shoot the naked men this weekend, by the way. Instead, Bryn, the director, got violently ill. I should be calling up to check on her... you know, like a regular human, but I really don't want to have anything to do with school right now. Sad, isn't it? It's been a week since the Dan Bern concert. A week since I last saw my crush, too. Which is probably a good reason to head out to see this Dan Bryk person tonight that Mikey Wood is so adamant about. You never know, maybe she'll be there. Even better: maybe she'll be there ALONE. *sigh* Oh, the plight of the apathetic and horny.
I'm5 6666666666666687. Gah, kitten on the keyboard. He really likes some serious attention. I'm thinking I'm going to have my head shaved today. If Fiona wants to go to Dan Bryk, and there's no doubt I'm going out tonight, then I'll do it in a few hours. I just have to make sure I'm doing something before I leave the house to get shorn.
I can't seem to stop making shirts. Yesterday, I was telling Fiona about this telephone survey person. When I told her one of my hobbies was making music, she asked "Professionally?". Disregarding the contradiction (it wouldn't be a hobby if I did it for a living, now would it?), I just said "No, I just play for myself." So she concluded: "Oh, so you play semi-professionally." I tell you, there was no way of convincing her that I wasn't a professional.
So Fiona and I started bouncing the idea around. Yeah, I'm my biggest fan. I allow myself to record my shows as long as I don't trade them for profit with myself. And on and on and on. A shirt spawned out of it. It's here, but if you want to see the detail on the back, you'd better head here instead, cause they don't show you the full size image at cafepress.
It's funny, you know. I'm very bored right now, but I'm really glad that I have the luxury to be bored. I keep wishing that everything would slow down so that I'd have more time to just sit here and think "Gee, I'm bored." I think that would be a great luxury. That's why I want to be a billionaire when I grow up ;)
I returned movies last night at four AM. It was quite an experience (and fucking COLD! especially now that I have no hair...). No one was out on the street except for the one guy refilling the paper boxes for the Toronto Star. Driving, there were only 2 cabs, and a few City of Toronto trucks which whizzed by at warp speed. The emptiness was eerie.
Yes, I think you heard me right. I am the newly shorn messiah. I did not wait for warmer weather, I did not see the point. I still don't. Get it out. You are allowed ONE "Aren't you cold?" each. No more. Got it? I really feel good about having done it. I'm proud that I can say I know what I look like without hair. I like it. Way to go me, that's what I say.
It's funny, you know. The more I get to know various people, the more obvious it is that we all fit into two categories. I'd say "fake" and "real" but that's not exactly what I mean. "Dishonest" and "honest", either. All I know is, I know people from both camps, and I'm getting better at distinguishing between them, spotting them early. OK, so some people (including one I live with) are very good at hiding the fact that they are in fact "pretenders". But it all comes out in the wash eventually. And well, YKWIS. If for some reason you feel that you have to be dishonest with me, or pretend that you enjoy my company when you actually don't, or lie to me when the getting gets good because you think I'm not cool enough for whatever lies beyond the horizon, then I really don't think you deserve to play with the adults. And yes, we play. It's what we all do. And you know what? When I'm with these "fakes", it doesn't feel like playing anymore. That's how you know that this person isn't really a friend of yours at all.
I'd just like to say thank you to my gang of real friends out there. Hopefully you're all secure enough to know exactly who you are. I love you all.
I got five bucks from Fiona on a bet! She bet me that Jian wouldn't recognize me when he saw me. The actual literal terms of the bet were sort of fuzzy, but she could not deny that he saw the girl before the lack of hair (although he did seem somewhat surprised). Woohoo, free drink!
Wow, we got to see a lot of familiar faces last night. And the people I was with (i.e. Angie and Drea - Fiona had to leave :() seemed to be of the same opinion as I am about clubs and concerts: it's not actually over until everyone ELSE is gone. I have a lot of trouble leaving when there's still a crowd. In all honesty, I feel I need the closure of an empty room before I feel I can depart with the knowledge that I haven't missed anything.
So, we did that, Angie singing about hula hoops in her Chipmunk voice the whole while (*I've created a monster!*). I got to rib Cal a little about that cute little diary he's been writing on his site (ok, so it's been a while) and call everyone a wimp (sorry, Fiona) for being so damn sensitive to smoke. It was strange. Hanging around after a show surrounded by Jude and Cal and Jian and members of Hennessey and Kevin Fox; felt like we'd just been watching the absolutely wrong thing. Seeing Cal set up the stage was pretty spooky as well.
Jian says I'm mean, and I'm not allowed to come to the Andy Stochansky concert. I doubt he was actually pissed off about the little harrassing email I sent him, but still he started in about how I don't even like him anyway, etc. I assured him that I do, indeed, like him just fine, but I think I'm still not allowed to go to the Andy show. Even though I did get a head scritch from him as he was leaving ("I'll never wash my hair again!!!!). Maybe I'll send another sarcastic-ass email about the Andy concert. ;)
I've been holeing up in my room the past 2 days. I really need to do something other than sit at this computer. I need to go somewhere. Even just watch TV. Hell, I got them to reconnect my cable and I never watch it. I took a TV survey over the phone the other day, and the results were hilarious. Turns out I'd only watched 2 hours of TV in the last month that was, you know, actual shows. And one of them I was forced to watch (it was Buffy). Other than that, no TV. I've basically been surviving on corn chips and microwaveable meals, because I hate being downstairs at the same time as Brandy, so between 7-11PM, it's impossible for me to leave this room. I feel like a little mouse in the attic. Today, Cosmo is staying with me. He's been sleeping on the bed since I got up five hours ago, and right now his lower half is about to fall off of it.
I fell asleep to a Woody Allen movie last night. I've been sleeping altogether too much considering how much I'm able to do in a day and how little I actually do. I've got a song. It's not bad. It's half there, or maybe a third there, and I just need a little tiny bit of a push to finish it.
I feel disconnected from everyone except myself. I'm very connected to me right now, and I'm thankful for that. Maybe Fiona would like to come over tonight and ressucitate me, bring me back to the human race. That might be nice. I will ask her.
When I say I'm aware of myself and disconnected from others, it doesn't mean I'm unhappy. That's something which is strange to me. I feel a lot simpler, and a lot happier, than usual. Probably because I'm suddenly so low-maintenance. Hell, I just realized I could have spent all day staring out the window waiting for it to get dark, and I'd probably feel about the same way right now. It's such a calm state of mind. But... I'm ready for it to stop. I'm not ready for the strike to stop (I don't think anyone is) but I'm ready for a raised level of activity for me. I feel... almost healed, which is strange for a girl who never really thought she was wounded at all.
And what I realized was this. What if I'd seen Jeffrey when it first came out. I mean, I remember seeing Roger Ebert talk about it when it was first in the theatres. The clip they showed was Steven Weber and Patrick Stewart shopping for clothes. And I thought, gee, maybe I should see that. But for some reason I got the impression that it was all about Patrick Stewart (I blame Ebert), and I didn't know if I wanted to invest 2 hours to watch the star of The Next Generation.
In retrospect, it was probably a good thing. Now, I can watch the movie and I guess I understand a lot of it, and I've discovered a lot about myself in the 5 years since the thing came out. It's lucky I didn't see it then, when I was fifteen. Because that's the year that I became aware that I might be different. And well, since I went to a school which was incredibly biased, different in a wrong way. At the same time, I was incredibly grateful that I was able to have these intense feelings about people, any people (although for about a year and a half or so, I was sure I was a complete lesbian: I had no feelings at all about males for quite a while), but I was also ashamed that I was having these feelings, and having to hide them because of who I was dealing with, namely nuns who were incredibly strict, and I know I'll sound delusional, but many of them held personal grudges against me.
It was your typical Catholic schoolgirl reaction, I guess. I was also incredibly upset and sort of ashamed that they suspected that I *was*, indeed, "aux filles", as we said back then. It was insulting that they asked me about it. It wasn't any of their business, and even if it had been, I was being taught by various media that there was nothing wrong with being homosexual. So why that look on all their faces when they confronted me about it? So... I denied. A lot. It was disturbing. After a few months, it died down, but it made my last year of high school an uncomfortable one.
Yeah, so I join a les/bi webring (with only 2 sites on it so far) and I decide to spill my guts ;) Sue me.
After I left high school, I mean the summer right after, there was an incident with a man that completely changed my outlook on my sexual orientation. It was someone I was probably cosmically fated to meet, and unfortunately, the timing of the thing was all wrong. I wrote one of my favourite poems about it. I suppose I could post it, but that would take a lot of courage. Hm. I'll think about it. (I did, eventually post it. Just keep in mind that it was a long time ago, creatively, for me.)
Anyway, that's also about the time I discovered Moxy Fruvous, and I was very soon to make quite a few friends for whom sexual orientation was nothing short of irrelevant. I began seeing myself as normal, something I'd never really considered myself to be before. Also, and this is something I've mentioned to a few friends recently, I felt no need to simply announce that I was bisexual. I didn't see the need to do that, when all I had to do was live my life and say what was on my mind, and well, they'd figure that out for themselves. I'm not technically anything but myself, after all.
Which brings me back. What if I had seen Jeffrey when it first came out? I remember being very interested by it. One of two things would have happened. The first is nothing. The second is that it might have provoked a lot of self-loathing. I would have hated the movie for making me deal with an issue I simply was not ready to deal with. Because I wasn't, then. And well, the nuns and my parents did force me to deal with it in a somewhat painful way. But see, it's easier to forgive a person than a movie. Movies aren't variable. They aren't flexible. I wonder if I'm making any sense at all.
Just now, as I was heading into the grocery store to buy lightbulbs at midnight, I had a thought and almost spoke it aloud only to find out its exact words had been spoken, or rather sung before. And I swear, it didn't come to me from a song, but from deep inside. Here it was: "My life may not be perfect, but it's never been lived before."
Tell me again why I love Ani?
I'm weird. People keep telling me that, and I keep insisting that they tell me that (which is probably more frustrating to me than it is to them). But it's true. A few days ago, I got up from my computer, went downstairs. I think it was to brush my teeth, because I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror at the time. And then I heard this noise. And because it was around 3AM, it couldn't have been my roommates. And it sounded like my chair upstairs, moving. And my first thought was: "Gee, I must be lagged!"
Not weird. Crazy. Like when the cable went out. We only got two channels, badly, and one of the problems we had was this constant double image. I remember watching the news and seeing a skyline of Toronto, and just kind of, you know, aimlessly letting my brain soak in information. I don't remember what the new report was about. But I do remember, a few hours later, in the car driving downtown, I saw the skyline of Toronto, live, and I was looking for the other CN Tower. I felt so confused. And it took me about three or four seconds to realize there is only one.
There are many other examples. Plus, I'm actually kind of enjoying being rated a 1.1 on Am I Hot Or Not right now. It's empowering. Probably because the people I consider 1's are the ones who are downright scary, so, you know, at least I have that. Being scary might just be better than being pretty. RAWR! BUY ME A DRINK!!!! It works for me, I think.
Wow. And Adam just showed me something spectacular that I've decided to share with as many people as possible. Here it is: http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/image/0011/earthlights_dmsp_big.jpg . Go there. And promise yourself you'll look at it for more than three minutes. Because it's not just pretty... it's... I don't know, it's more. It's everything. Everything going on at once in one big blur, right there on your computer monitor. And it's just so precious. So incredibly precious and you don't think about it often, but still it's there. I'm going to go here and look often. It's very peaceful.
In other news, I got this flyer today and cracked up! At first I thought it was from those Baptists in Louisiana, and I tried to figure out how they'd found me, but it turned out to be the least inoffensive of all the namesakes.
It's sad that I don't have very much to write. I will try to come up with something so that I can post it after midnight and say it's December first ;)
Cosby's medecine cost me another fifty bucks, on top of the seventy I had to shell out just to have him examined (and who knows how much they'll charge me to have his balls snipped off??), so I was in a total funk when I got to work. I called my parents and left this really vague, nutty, distressed message about the cat, and somehow managed to mention that I'm seeing The Vagina Monologues on Tuesday, too. They interpreted it as "the cat is a money pit", and told me they were sending me some money when I called to apologize about the ditzy message. I did not protest. The cat IS a money pit. But a fuzzy one.
I'm listening to Little Plastic Castle, and every song just makes me go "Oh, yeah!" and then 2 seconds later I totally melt.
So. Vagina Monologues. Opening night. Orchestra seats. Cheaper than cheap. I have no idea how Fiona and I scored that one, but it's got me all excited.
This is going to be a pretty abordable week. If nothing else, Jeff from work is transfering out after Sunday. He's a pretty inhuman creature, but I've been able to stand him, until now. Even when we've fought (which, believe me, has happened - loudly, in front of the customers, no less), I've been able to stand being in the same room as him. But he said something to Tanya today that makes me think I won't be able to work that last shift with him. I just... hate backtalk. I hate when people think something about you and don't say it to your face, but feel the need to discuss it with others. It's been against my policy for a while.
So Jeff took Tanya aside today (and actually, I feel kind of good about this), and asked her to remind me that *he's* the manager (um, supervisor; DIFFERENCE!), and I'm *just* a CSR, and that I should do what he tells me to do no questions asked. Because, apparently, I ignore his orders. He used those exact words. "Manager", "just", "no questions asked" and "orders". As if him having more free time than I do (hence his getting promoted earlier) is a reason for me to bow to his every judgement. Well, Jeff, I'm so sorry that I question your boneheaded ideas. I'm also very sorry that half the time your ideas get you in trouble with Kevin, who is *the manager* of the store, not you. I'm sorry that your increased sense of initiative and your crushing drive to be superior to everyone else cause you to sometimes make decisions which are not yours to make. By sometimes, of course, I mean virtually every shift you work.
*sigh* If only life were like the movies, where all the bad men get what they deserve (well, most do, some just kind of run off) and all the good girls get their own houses and quirky friends and patio umbrellas to drink chocolate milk under. Life would be much better.
This next part is meant to be an apology. No matter how pissed off at me you get reading the beginning of it, PLEASE read it till the end.
I was just thinking about updating my friends page, so I opened up IRC to take a look at my logs to see if I could find some Am I Hot URLs so that I could put up pictures. I started reading logs. What I didn't realize was that when MC used my computer, her logs got put in here too. And I mean, I wasn't LOOKING to get hurt (I might do that occasionally, but not this time - this time I was just looking for pictures of my friends) but I stumbled upon this conversation to which I had two reactions. The first was, you know, regular gut instinct. I felt hurt, mostly because it was all about how much she hated living with me and how she didn't even know why she was my friend anymore (I don't want to say too much about someone else's private conversation - I already feel like I accidentally violated her privacy, and I'm so sorry, but this is something that I'm both hurt and amazed about, and I really want to just write it out. I'm sure a lot of you have had conversations with her on the same topic, and I know she's written about it in her journal, so I don't mind just posting the general lines (just what's above) of what I happened to read here.)
So my first reaction was to feel very hurt by what I was reading. But my second was more to analyze the whole thing critically. It's really amazing how the same story told two different ways can really be that different from itself at the end of the day. The bit I read was her telling a story about something I said to her, and completely omitting the very valid reason why I said it to her (which pertained more to practicality than to antagonism, honestly - sorry I'm being so vague; I promised I wouldn't do that, but this is different). Which doesn't mean she was being crooked: she probably didn't know that that was what was important for me, although to me it was very obvious at the time.
I probably do it too, maybe even more, who knows. We all need to communicate just so much more. That's another thing too. I felt so left out of the loop, MC, when you made all your decisions and told me about them days, weeks later, as a by the way, sort of off the cuff, almost to provoke a reaction. You kept saying you weren't keeping anything from me. Now I know that you were intentionally keeping away a lot of the thoughts that you thought would anger me. And well, I'm sorry to say, but at the time, it was the idea that you were doing that that *was* angering me.
I'm sorry that we didn't communicate better. I'm not putting the blame on you. A lot of the time, I can't speak to save my life, and unfortunately for you, when I'm crabby and curt, you seem to interpret it as being aimed somewhat at you, instead of at the world (oh, cursed world which spawned such a miserable creature as I!). I'm sorry that I can't make my intentions clearer to you. I never ever meant to hurt you in any way. I started out in this friendship trying to protect you from everything bad that I saw, everything that I thought could even possibly hurt you. I tried to keep it all away. Years later, I wisened up and realized that that was never going to be possible, that no one has that superpower (although parents manage to keep that façade up longer than us regular people).
So then there was another tactic. Tough love, I think it's called. How can I help you get stronger faster? How can I help you become untouchable? I guess the answer was: be not the protector, but the messenger of moderate badness. Instead of keeping the bad stuff away, I tried to help you face it. Unfortunately, this meant I had to be the bad guy a lot of the time. "Don't you think you should..." became a regular part of my vocabulary. I played devil's advocate, always bringing up the less pleasant side of things. Of course, the financial aspect of living together didn't help things along, because along with "trying to help" (wasn't any help, I know), I was personally involved, and though I really really tried to keep those things separate, some of the time I really did feel concerned personally, and even more of the time, you thought I did.
I am a control freak. I am so sorry. I do not want to rule your life. You can do what you want. I'm going to go away now. I am way too harmful.
I have discovered something incredibly time-consuming. It's called Everything, and it's sort of taken over my life. I always thought the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy seemed like a good, and feasible idea. And then someone just said "Here you go," and made this. I've been noding (writing) since last night, and I think, or rather hope that I've been making some pretty interesting observations on there. I think everyone should get on everything. It is truly a universal, if slightly brainy, pleasure.
Well, I notice I haven't brought up my feelings yet. Hm. My roomie called today. He left a message about some people coming over and using his room while he's away. They're people I don't like, and I'm not very happy about the fact that they're even coming to my city, let alone to my house. I have already bet someone twenty dollars that they come home completely trashed every night they stay.
MC is right. There should be a rule: you're allowed to have anyone you want over, as long as you are there as well. It's ridiculous to ask me (the other 2 roomies have no idea who these people are or what Fruheads are, for that matter) to basically play hostess to them, while he takes no responsibility whatsoever over the situation. And, well, because I have never really liked these girls (I always seem to see them trashed and annoying and clingy - if they have a nicer side, maybe while sober, I will be the first one to admit that I'm wrong), I will in fact *not* be playing hostess for them. I'm sorry. I have better things to do with my time than tout other people's friends around.
Obviously, if they are coming next weekend, it is to go to the same concert I'm going to. And I'm sorry to sound like an elitist fuck, but I like going to concerts in Toronto, because it's always all the same people, and 99% of the time, there are no people like that around. If someone comes from far away, it's usually a friend of *mine*, and they've come to see me and hang out, not drool over one or two people and alienate everyone else. Fuck, I hate groupies.
Now, the outsider's reaction to that statement, of course, is "Aren't YOU a groupie? Don't YOU follow a band around?"
Yes, I did follow a band around. The difference between me and a groupie seemed incredibly hard to find at one point in my band-following career, when all of our roles were blurry and I was friends with virtually *everyone*. A common definition of 'groupie' is someone who has had or tries to have sex with one or more of the band members. OK, so I'm pretty sure I haven't had sex with any of the band members :) Although, you know, there are situations where I would not *refuse* sex, were it offered to me. Of course, this applies to everyone, not just band members, so it doesn't really count at all, and it just means that if you know the right buttons to push, I'm easy as an EZBake oven.
I'm not really sure what I'm saying, and whether it's about me, or groupies. But I think it's kind of funny!
So, these people, that are coming. I know at least one of them is completely centered on her relationship with one band member in particular, and it's something I *really* don't want to have to deal with that closely. I mean, I can deal with it from a distance, that's fine, it's even a little entertaining at times. But in my own home, it's going to be either very nauseating or a giant headache. Either way, I'd love to ignore it altogether, but I won't be able to, which is what is pissing me off. Plus, I have a friend coming over that weekend, which should come first seeing as how, you know, I'm at least *present* at the Haus this weekend.
Some people need to get a clue. It's so surprising how someone can funtion in the world, hold down a job, even one where they have to interact with thousands of different people, and still have such a rough idea of boundary or tact or reality. Reality. I know it doesn't exist in this house. It hurts.
I want McDonald's instead. What is it with this world, that my human body has been nurtured into accepting the synthetic yet popular food pellets and rejecting the all-natural but less advertised ones?
There is a great panic surrounding frucon at the moment. I don't know how this gets dealt with every year, but the frucon always manages to be pulled off nicely by the organizers. It's a thankless job, promise. I mean, how many of the attendees these days even know who we are, let alone what we do for this thing?
Anyway, despite above-mentioned great panic, I am actually kind of grateful that I'm actually going out and doing something for once. Making calls. Meeting people. Trodding around town for a purpose. Makes me feel good. I did say, after last year, that I wanted to do this for a living. I don't think I'd like organizing a convention around something that I wasn't personally involved with, but I wish I could get paid for organizing frucon. Because, despite all the bickering and catastrophes and risks we take, it is by far the most rewarding job I've had, ever.
Enough about frucon. I'll probably get a beating from co-members who don't want me to talk about con business outside of meetings. Ouch. Yup.
Fiona and I saw the Vagina Monologues last night, with Gloria Reuben as the "floating cast member". She blew me away with her last bit, but the truly shiny star of the evening was probably the flamboyant Sherri Parker Lee. Lemme tell you, that girl can scream. It was quite an enriching experience, altogether, and I want to see it again with another cast member, just to see how much it changes from one show to another (I bet it changes a lot).
Of course, it was yet another testament to those cold Toronto audiences. There was not a soul shouting "CUNT!" when they were urged to. Oh, come on, it might be the only chance you'll have in your entire life to yell "CUNT!" while in your best Sunday clothes, sitting next to your husband and daughter. Do it!
What I mostly learned from the experience was that I have surprisingly few psychological complexes about my private parts. I do not, for example, imagine furniture there. I don't know where that came from exactly, or how many women do this. Is this common?? Anyhow, I was quite surprised at how, you know, in touch I felt compared to the stuff I saw and heard on stage. I was glad.
Plus, I'm really glad I got the image of Gloria Reuben completely losing it while trying to say "somewhere between fish and lilacs". That was worth the admission price right there. :D
It all started when Fiona brought up her elementary school crush. We had a very girly night, talking about crushes and reading horoscopes and articles in Cosmo about "How to get the most popular guy in a room to go out with you" (example of article: "You are standing next to the keg (strike ONE!) at a party, when he walks in, looking like a picture out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue (strike TWO!)...", etc) and ended up talking about our old crushes. I remembered this guy I'd totally forgotten: Oscar. Another brown guy who I was totally infatuated with when I was about eleven.
Now, I confess. I did not do this on purpose, but it seems I have a thing for brown guys (and loud little girls, but that's not the point of this entry). If you only count the very brown ones, that makes 4 in my lifetime that I've pined after, all of them for a year or more. If you count all men who are a bit darker than caucasian, it gets weird. The length of time drops significantly, for one. But there may have been up to 3 or 4 of those as well, I'm not sure.
So anyway, the talking reminded me of Oscar, who was twelve and from El Salvador and had a mohawk and overalls that he decorated with all different colours of pens and markers. You know, it's funny... when I remember other people I knew when I was twelve, they don't look twelve in my mind. They look like they're in their twenties. I wonder why my mind does this, exactly. It's a bit of a panicky feature of the mind, if I do say so myself.
So anyway, that, in turn (along with the mention of Derek from work - who seems to be turning into the same kind of buddy as Topon was, without the "other bonus stuff"), made me think of Topon.
We started working at Zellers a day apart, that is I started working there the day after he did. The reason this happened is that my high school prom clashed with my job-starting day. It was June 23, 1997. At first he seemed really strange, kind of scruffy and awkward, and a little quiet. But I guess I was too, and have always been, so it didn't bother me too much.
He got the job through his best friend Emmitt, who was outgoing and friendly and crazy, and was a master of exotic drug-alcohol combinations on his off time. They were both very into heavy metal, long-haired and ironic, and I liked them both very much at first. Emmitt used to walk around the store singing rap songs interspersed with drum beats at the top of his lungs. He was always in a band, but often ran into the problem of singing and playing guitar at the same time, which he couldn't do.
Topon, on the other hand, was very quiet about his musical skills, but I later learned (and heard for myself) that he was mind-bogglingly good at playing his 5-string bass guitar.
At first, I thought it was Emmitt I liked better. Topon was unreachable, and Emmitt seemed like a good-time guy. I went out with him. Once. We went to see Weeping Tile. Unfortunately, I was not able to enjoy the concert due to his complete lack of movement. It was hilarious, and, if I hadn't been so unsure of myself (it *was* a few years ago) I probably would have laughed at the situation, and done what I'd wanted, which was dance with all the crazy dancing freaks. Instead, we sat in the balcony and I listened as he pointed out every riff that they did differently from the time he'd seen them before. *shrug* It was not so bad, just very awkward, and very cold. I mean that, I remember it as one of the coldest nights I've ever been outside. We left our coats in the car.
Anyway, I'm straying from the main subject, which is Topon. I have a feeling this entry will make me blow my limit on tripod ;)
The thrill of Emmitt wore down pretty fast. It was clear that he was not as exciting as he seemed (although I still adore the name Emmitt now... it's very original, you have to admit). And Emmitt got promoted when he dropped out of the U of O English programme, and the rest of us did not.
We stayed low-grade clerks, even though at our strange store, it was not a low-grade job at all. I remember one night when I was working the smokeshop cash (the main cash), answering phones and serving as a sort of customer service desk as well, and some crisis came up, everyone was rushing around, and I was on the phone to everyone almost simultaneously, and as I was talking to someone on the phone, it suddenly occured to me so clearly that I said it aloud at the same time: "I'm in charge right now, aren't I?", to which whoever was on the other end replied affirmatively. It really freaked me out. But that's the kind of store we were - always short-staffed, and way too much responsibility on every individual, but for some reason, we could always handle it. It wasn't uncommon at night to have 3 cashiers and a supervisor in a store which had two floors and 13 actual *cash registers* which could have been used, but weren't. There would be two people on the ground floor, and one in the basement.
That was on the very barest minimum. The rest of the time, we had two or three on the ground floor, and two in the basement. This is when Topon and I spent most of our time together.
After a very long and happy run in the jewelery department, I suppose I was scratched from someone's happy books, because for the last year or so I was condemned to Housewares, to the deepest darkest corner of the basement where air never circulates. I mean that. The lighting was terrible, and the past-broken bottles of perfume was all you could smell. The good thing about Housewares, however, was that it was full of good places to hide. High shelving in tight spaces where it was easy to pretend that you were folding towels when you were actually only having a conversation. It was close to Toys, as well. Its attraction, of course, if you know me well, is self-explanatory.
I remember, actually, once, long before I was sent down to serve hard time in Housewares, when I was still the queen of the jewelery department, a day when we all worked a stock shift of some kind. Another guy, Chris, whose stint at the store didn't last very long, and Topon and I were sent to unload, unwrap, sort and put away a giant load of pillows. Yeah, it sounds contrived, but it actually was a giant load of pillows.
It was such a tight space that we had to take all the pillows out of their boxes before we could begin to sort them and put them in their proper spots. So before we knew it, we had a field of fluffy pillows spread out before us, about twenty feet long and four or five feet wide. And of course, being the slackers that we all were, we stopped working for about an hour and just lay there in the pillows and chatted idly... Those pillows were my hayloft.
When I became the mistress of the Housewares department, Topon became the master of Menswear. So we were often the only two cashiers on the floor, on days and nights when it wasn't busy. A department store missing a few of its departments in a tourist district in January really doesn't do much business, especially at night.
More often than not, one of us would be visiting the other. The activity I remember doing most in all of my days and nights at Zellers is folding jeans. And so, I would help him fold the men's jeans, and we would talk. Or he would help me fold the towels, and we would talk. If we knew for some reason that we were being watched and needed to stick to our departments, one of us would call the other and make them laugh (I once rang his number and then held a battery-powered lollipop up to the phone. We were retarded). Occasionally, we were both able to escape our mutual departments. On those nights, we would meet in the Toy section and tease each other and play with Bananas in Pajamas dolls and Spiderman Web-projecting wrist thingees.
He had a girlfriend, Chrissy (no relation to my dear friend Chrissy who may stumble onto this page), but for some reason, I felt I knew him better than his girlfriend did. I suppose that's because he told me a lot about the way he felt about their relationship, stuff he never did tell *her*. He was pretty unhappy, kept threatening to break up with her, but never quite did, I'm afraid. He enjoyed having the option to just defer to her opinion. He let her make a lot of trivial decisions for him, it was his way of justifying their relationship. "I have no opinion on the way my watch looks. Chrissy picked it out." She was always trying to get him to stop playing metal, and trying to convince him to dress like a preppy, and cut his hair. To me, those prospects were completely ridiculous.
I guess he sort of used me as a relationship helpline, at least at first, and I did the same to him. Actually, we both joked about him being my official advisor on more than one occasion. The truth is, he helped me deal with some pretty tough and, as of then, unknown things that happened to me in early 1999, and I am eternally grateful.
Then during those last eight month or so, things got better. Things got weird. We were inseparable at work and it wasn't just me... he would seek me out as well. When we hung out, we didn't just chatter anymore; we talked about real things, about... I don't know, more important things than we had before. We fought. Which, I don't care if no one else agrees with me, no one else on God's green Earth, we both knew was the best part of our relationship. The fact that we could be having a great argument (Once, I made the passing comment "Enh, she wasn't your type." It made him indignant and amused, both at the same time.), go home, come back the next night and pick up exactly where we left off. "So, you think you know what my type is, eh?"
It was beautiful.
We both started hinting at having a crush on another employee... but never admitted who the crush was, in so many words. What we did do, was narrow it down to a point where it couldn't possibly have been anyone else. Every day for a week we would meet and play 20 Questions.
"Is it Emmitt?"
Oh, yeah... Topon's voice always sounded like he was trying to let as little air out as possible: in short, as if he was holding in a breath of pot. Which was strange... I'm pretty sure he'd given the stuff up long before, along with alcohol. Although shortly before I left, I did get him to drink *some* alcohol, which was an adventure in persuasion all in itself.
I think only a select few of the other people we worked with liked him, but when they did, they liked him a lot. I think the reason a lot of them didn't was that it was extremely hard to tell when he was kidding. A lot of the time, he would take something and run with it... and score the touchdown... and run out of the stadium... and into the parking lot... and into the KFC across the street... and never, ever let on that he was joking. It was up to you to figure that out. If you weren't smart enough to do that, you didn't really deserve to be his friend.
I seemed to always be able to tell when he was joking. I think that's because I was actually around him when he was serious, which was a rare phenomenon. I took a lot of his sense of humour with me when I left, although nothing is ever as good as the real thing, at least not where he's concerned.
The week I moved to Toronto, he finally got the guts together and broke up with Chrissy. I would have cheered for him if I'd known then.
Three months later, the week I returned to Ottawa to say hi and catch up, he got back together with Chrissy.
I probably should not have ever left at all. I miss him terribly tonight. I'm realizing only too late that not only was he a wonderful friend, but he was also a rock that I am no longer able, or allowed, to lean on. And I can hardly believe that I wrote this much. If anyone other than me got to the bottom of this page, I congratulate them fully for listening to me ramble on about someone they'll probably never meet. And it's too bad for them, really. :)
I closed the store last night. Actually, I was sort of sick all day. Very depressed, and lots of turmoil and yucky stuff going on, and it just hit me all at once yesterday, at least I thought that's what was happening. If you look around real sleuth-like, you might find out things that have been bugging me. Their evidence shall not be removed, because I am not a dictator. However, I found out that that wasn't my real problem yesterday after all.
So, I had to work. I felt so icky, and I was speaking in a monotone, I was so drained. I had no energy, I hadn't eaten, and I felt like I could throw up or faint at any second. I was hoping I'd get to go home early, since I was feeling so poorly and I knew there'd be someone else working the exact same shift.
Well. Let me tell you about Brad and Tanya. They are two of my coworkers who are now dating. And in most respects, that is fine with me. They make a fine couple, I think. However, last night was a prime example as to why a supervisor and his employee should not date. Mainly, because it is unfair to me. Tanya was feeling sick too. Actually, we both looked just about as miserable as each other. The only difference was, Tanya got to sit in the back and prep videos while I did my work and her work up at the front. And well, you know me... ever the martyr. Tanya even got to leave early, so I had to close all by myself. I got home around one, but I was pretty wound up, so I didn't get to bed until two. Then up at seven o'clock this morning and whee!
Today there was a beautiful snow storm which doubled my hour and a half long commute home. And I only had one CD with me at the time. How sad. But I'm not sad... exactly.
Yesterday, I was muddled. Confused. I was shifting blame, I was in denial, I had blinders on. Whatever you want to call it. It came clear sometime during those last hours I worked. What became clear, unfortunately, is that I am up shit creek and I just lost my outboard motor. It was a familiar place, somewhere I hadn't been in... oh, I don't know. Three years? Three or four. I thought that place had shut down, but apparently it hasn't.
And now I just have one thing to say: be careful what you wish for.
Today, I was in a great mood! I found out that Martina was on the cover of NOW by looking into our NOW bin and doing a theatrical double-take. Article by Kim Hughes, of course, of course. Quoting Jian, of course, of course. I wonder why every show I go to seems to be reviewed by Kim, yet I never actually see her at any of the shows? Maybe I'm just messed up and wouldn't recognize her. Maybe. I doubt that, though.
Also, Evan came to visit. Evan is a fourteen-year-old boy who lives in our neighbourhood. Most of the Blockbuster clerks dislike him and think he's annoying, but I think he's great. Sure, he's very very spoiled. But he's also a lot of fun. I let him show me his laptop today. The kids at his private school all get one. OUCH! They also all get a wireless connection. DOUBLE OUCH! I didn't realize! The people I work with dislike him because he's rich, but it's definitely not his fault. He's just a kid, and I don't think he even enjoys being rich. And he still has to go to math class, and pass, and have gym class, and get made fun of by other kids. I think Evan might get made fun of a lot, and that sucks. Cause I think he's really cool.
No one in my house is doing the dishes again. It's making me very angry, actually, because the dishes are all from Brandy's friends who stayed here last weekend, yet it has been a week and they have gone unwashed, which leads me to believe that she wants *me* to wash them. Meanwhile, lovely little Mike who listens to DVDs until all hours at impossible volumes hasn't done the dishes once since he moved in a month ago. I want out!!! I can't believe that I'm going to buy these people Christmas presents!
Did you ever have something just sitting right there on the front of your brain, and everything that happened to you every day just reminded you of that one thing? And you thought about it so hard and so long that at the same time you became both nonchalant about it and passionate about it? Yeah, I guess everyone has at one time or another.
I just fell asleep, just now, writing this. I can't believe I have to go to a party tonight and I'm expected to drink I don't want to drink. I want to sleep. And then tomorrow... school, and Mikey Wood maybe. And then the next day: work. And the day after: work. And the day after that: work, and Martina. Fucking crazy, man. It's a wonder I ever get anything done that's not related to movies. Wait, *do* I ever get anything done that's not related to movies? Probably not. I guess that's kind of the problem.
My present, the plastic recreation of the Titanic with sailing action that also turns into a creepy-looking robot, went over *really* well with Chris, who showed up already drunk from an earlier Christmas party. Action figures were very big this year. Derek got Mel a pipe which she completely freaked out over. What a fucking good time. That's all it was. I'm glad I went. It was so worth missing the Fred Eaglesmith concert, or, god forbid, foregoing sleep for.
Stupid things make me happy. Like reading other people's diaries, or asking my magic 8-ball watch a question, or grabbing the last jalepeño popper from the apetizer plate. More and more trivial things are making me happy these days, and I don't know if it's a result of what I would call my "weakened condition" or if I'm just becoming that way, but either way I like it. Just looking outside at the snow right now is making me smile.
I'm still quite sleepy, but for some reason I was unable to sleep past 8 o'clock or so this morning. I fooled myself into kind of lying there half-dreaming for an hour, then got up. My arms are sore from shoveling in front of the store yesterday, so typing is a chore, but a pleasant one.
Later this evening I think Mikeywood is coming over and we're watching Christmas specials, as many as we can find. I think it's only the second or third time he's coming back since he left us in July. In any case, it should be a blast, even if we don't have the Star Wars Christmas special.
I feel I don't have much to talk about. Not much is happening inside right now, just waiting. There's a lot of waiting and anticipating and gauging going on, but nothing concrete, nothing I can describe. It will have to wait until the world moves a little. Then I'll be able to talk.
I thought about things last night. About fate and choices and surprises. All day yesterday, I was hopping around, so happy to be alive, and marvelling at how weird my life is, and how I don't think I've ever been caught saying that my life isn't interesting enough. The way people form bonds amazes me every day of my life. It was wonderful to think about.
I think that you can't pretend to dictate fate. I did that once. It got me nowhere. Actually, it got me in a failing relationship which turned out to be even more unhealthy than I originally imagined. And all that because I predicted the future. I won't do that anymore.
We all get surprises. Good or bad, every day I wake up not knowing what's going to happen, who's going to be on the other end of the phone. The wonderful, amazing thing about life is that it keeps going (well, at least until that last surprise). Everyone has their own little piece of time that they carry with them and that gets them through everything. Life keeps going, and life always has one more surprise.
There are ways to approach the same situation. I don't know if I know the right way. You can walk in and stamp your foot and make what you want to happen, happen. I tried a modified version of that. See above. I don't think it's smart to demand anything from life like that. I think that might just be tempting fate. But out of all the universe of possibilities, how do you tell the great beyond, "You know, I'd kind of like to go in *that* direction..." without sounding too demanding, without setting off the alarms?
And then there's the other extreme: living as though something else is in control entirely, bumping around in the dark against objects we don't know the names of anyway. A form of apathy, maybe. That's disrespectful to this Mr. Fate as well.
I think I'll leave myself open. I'll leave myself vulnerable. I think that if I live in the present, and listen to what my senses say, that's a form of living life to its fullest. I think that works for me. So I will stop expecting things from life. Actually, I think I already have stopped... things have changed, my perspectives especially, and I find myself grateful for every day. Somehow, I found the magic key to taking nothing for granted, and I don't ever want to give it back.
I think there's quite a good chance I'll marry the next person who signs my guestbook. I mean, just think how much gall it will take to see that previous entry and say "What the fuck," and then add your own little quip right up above the acid-burned spot. The kind of person who'd do that is the kind of person I'd like to marry, or at least hang around with for a significant amount of time. :) For those of you who wonder why I haven't just deleted that entry (I've gotten some questions), I just want to say that I'm not a dictator. That's all. Because it would be very easy to delete it with the click of a button, but I don't think it would serve any logical purpose if I did.
Why delete it? I'm not the person who should be ashamed of it. And I'm not. Go read it, it'll educate you in nettiquette Do's and Don'ts, if anything. In case you're wondering, this would be a Don't.
So, on Tuesday morning I got an email from Lawrence, a guy I go to school with asking me to edit his film project. I sent him back a whopping YES, even though I didn't like his script very much, just because I was really glad to have the position be offered to me!
Today, I got another email from him saying that he'd emailed the wrong Catherine. Not even concretely admitting that he didn't want me to edit his project, but oh lord was he implying that.
Sure. It's apologetic. Still, when he got my reply and realized his error, he could have just said, well, hey, maybe Katherine with a K can edit my project, then. Maybe I should spare her feelings a little. Maybe, in fact, since she responded so enthusiastically, she really wants to do the project and would do a good job. Nope, nothing like that. Just "Oh, hey, oops, hope you find a nice replacement."
Fuck that shit. I hate this whole goddamn department. I am bad at film. Actually, no, I am good at film, but no one seems to really know it. It's partially my fault, maybe. Do I let things happen around me without getting involved? I didn't think I did... But it's times like these you wonder what people are saying behind your back. Do they think I am a bad editor, or sound person, or camera operator? I *know* I'm a bad director. A lot of the time I feel like I should be playing music instead of cutting film. But then, when I do get behind my guitar, I can't think of anything to play. I can't think of anything I want to say, yet there's so much that I actually do want to say. It's frustrating.
The strike isn't going to be over in time for our return post-break. They are having a vote on the second and third day of school. I hope the whole school explodes and a diploma lands on my roof, and then I can breathe a sigh of relief and make my McJob full-time.
I am leaving tomorrow for Ottawa. It's Christmas. I still don't have everyone's present... my grandmother and aunt will have to be shopped for at the very last minute, but I think I did well otherwise. My friends and I are having our gift exchange tonight at the benefit. Hopefully, I'll make it at a reasonable hour :)
My mother and aunt talk to my no-longer-catatonic grandmother as though they were talking to a three-year-old. And it's plain to see that she doesn't have the mind of a three-year-old. It's also plain to see that it annoys her to be talked down to that way, but actually, she's handling it really well, which is surprising. But when they ask her the same stupid questions over and over again, it's *not* surprising that she starts to come up with funny, smart-ass answers.
There was enormous pressure put on me this weekend to make up, in two days, the three months which I had not spent at my grandmother's bedside. These were unrealistic expectations which I could not have dreamed to fulfill no matter how hard I might have tried or how perfect I might have been.
My grandmother's boyfriend got horribly sick on Christmas Eve, and it was obviously something that was to some degree catching, but instead of going home, he stuck around, kissed my grandmother on the *mouth*, touched us all and probably gave it to everyone. Only my dad and I seemed freaked out at this. I, for one, need to work and can't afford to spend my time throwing up. I don't know about the rest of them. Maybe they're just stupid.
My twelve-year-old cousin Roxanne, who had her own near-death illness less than four months ago, is currently having a near-nervous breakdown. Her mother hasn't spent any actual time with her since the whole thing happened in September (a mere three weeks after Roxanne nearly died from a botched appendectomy!). When my cousin asked her mother if she could spend a little time with her, her mom simply told her to come to the hospital. But that's just *so* not the same as actually spending time with her daughter.
Having been the person on the emitting end of those exact words only months ago, and the wounds still fresh, hearing her say that made me want to cry too. I wish I could take her with me. Sure, I had a terrible Christmas, but she has to live with them *all the time*. I'm so glad she's discovered books. When she was smaller, any time I tried to get her to read or write she would protest, even if I bought her nice books to write in or old books of mine to read. She never really got into it, and I'm sorry to say she was a terrible student until now. She's started reading Harry Potter, and her grades have just shot up. Or they had before my grandmother collapsed in front of a slot machine in September.
So I got home today and did everything short of kiss the ground in the slimy downtown bus terminal. I carried my heavy, gift-laden bags like they were towels and I was headed to the beach. When I got home, I was happy to find my cat was not dead, and had in fact been fed recently (which boggles the mind, since there is nobody here!).
I also found the most disgusting, horrible, black leather bean bag chair which was undoubtedly a bad joke of a Christmas present which was played on someone who didn't get it at all. It has a plump little bean ottoman. It's not even comfortable. I hope my cat rips it to shreds.
So, happy holidays to YOU folks! Hahahahahaha!
I haven't even found the energy to unpack yet, and my room is a mess comparable to that of Brandy's (only I have furniture). Well, actually, I did unpack a little, to find a cat toy that was Cosmo's Christmas present. It's this... indescribably hideous concoction. An orange and yellow rubber braid with a red loop at the end and these leg-like, floppy blue and green protuberences on either side... four legs in all. And a bouquet of feathers at the top, purple yellow and pink ones. The feathers are attached to a stretchy band and a green rubber ring so that I can dangle it in front of him. It took lots of convincing before I even got him to stop running away from the thing, but I think he likes it now.
I was informed by Brandy (who is currently winning the favourite roommate contest! Anyone want to switch places?) that the abomination downstairs and its offspring belong to Dave, and that he adores the damn things. So does Mike, the newbie roommate, although he's the type who either likes everything no matter what it is, as long as it doesn't eat his face off, or sucks up unconditionally to people who have cooler jobs than him, such as "tour manager". I informed Brandy that I thought the bean bag chair was hideous, but she told me to keep my mouth shut about that, because Dave spent a hundred and seventy dollars on the set. A hundred and seventy dollars for a blob of black leather and... another, smaller blob of black leather. Um, good for him, I guess?
If those little ottomans were cheaper, I might just go out and buy one every couple of days and add it to the living room, and see how long it took my roommates to realize that the bean bag was breeding. If the little ottomans were cheaper, and if I liked my roommates enough to play a joke on them. I think I'm going to eat their Christmas presents. I bought presents for them because we all exchanged gifts last year, but that was pre-Brandy and pre-Mike, and well, they don't seem to have exchanged gifts at all, so the Jelly Bellies are mine!
Here's something I have yet to relate... Sometimes big words come out of me for no reason. I told my dad the following story and he said I should have been an English major. I could have opened my mouth and told him that I'd love to be an "anything-other-than-film" major right now, which is what I was thinking, but I did not. But I digress. Sometime last week when I was at work, I was making phone calls. Phone calls are an integral part of the day person's job.
I don't know if you've ever gotten a phone call from Blockbuster Video about your late movies. Maybe it pissed you off. Maybe it didn't. I don't care, I just make the calls. I usually have a formula for them, too. Which is why it was very surprising to hear myself leaving a message which went a little like this:
"Hi, this is Katherine calling from Blockbuster Video at the corner of Bayview and Millwood. We're just calling to inform you that the movies Gladiator and the Sixth Sense are currently five days past due on your account. The late fees are accruing at an alarming rate. If you would like to thwart this process, please return the videos as soon as possible. Our phone number if you have any problems or questions is..."
It's happened before. Actually, Ani DiFranco ganged up on me in a quite similar way a couple of summers ago. Don't laugh. On the same day I got my first tape of Ani DiFranco's music, I happened upon (completely by chance) an Ani DiFranco concert as well. And this was all in the same two week period as I nearly obtained Ani's new album from someone else who owed me something and didn't know what to give me.
Well, much like it was cosmically planned that I become an Ani DiFranco fan in July of 1999, I think it's cosmically planned that New Year's Day 2001 will find me praying to the porcelain gods instead of earning double-time-and-a-half at work. It's only a matter of time.
Of course, because I can no longer keep myself from thinking about these things, I have been feeling slightly sick all evening. This, I am inclined to say, is more due to a combination of general nervousness, dread and menstrual pains. But still. Worrying makes me sick, which makes me worry, which makes me sicker, which makes me more worried.
I thought, just as a precaution against nighttime nausea, that I would take one of my Gravol and then go straight to bed on my little Gravol high (it does strange things to me) and at least I wouldn't get sick until daylight, you know? But Dave and Brandy gave all of my Gravol to Mike, who is currently sick. Which, you know, it's fine, because he's sick, and I'm not... *sure* if I am, I'm probably not, maybe, kinda, you know? And I know that, as paranoid as I currently am, if they'd only given him one Gravol, I would have thrown out the rest of the package as a precautionnary measure. That's how crazy I currently am.
Most people think Gravol just makes you drowsy, the way allergy pills can hinder your operation of motor vehicles, but this is not so. It is in fact a very subtle drug. I know. I once had a very intimate relationship with a seriously concentrated Gravol drip directly into my bloodstream. That was the only time during that nightmarish episode that I care to remember. It was fun, even though the drug didn't do much at all to cure me. The only thing it did was mess with my brain something awful. I remember, after throwing up in a little bathroom adjacent to the emergency room cubicle I was inhabiting at the time, trying to make my way back across the room to the bed. It took twenty minutes or so. I lost count, actually. It took so long because after every step, I would forget where I was going. I would forget what I was doing. I would forget where I was. I would forget who I was. I forgot everything. And then I had to remember it all before I could keep going.
Fun stuff, man. I swear, they should sell that shit for more of a profit. Although I'm not sure if the store-bought little orange-flavoured tablets would have that same clean-slate effect. In any case.
Send good health vibes my way, please. I need them, I need to work and make money. In return, know that I'm thinking of y'all who are sickly...
Today was my sixth straight day of work. Including closing the store on New Year's Eve and opening it on New Year's Day. Before those six days, there was one day off and then three more consecutive days. So actually, I have worked nine days with one day off. Or something. What week do your days off belong to when they have alien-sounding names like "Wednesday" anyway? So yes. Today. When I got to work, late because I decided that breakfast was more important than being on time, I decided that it was going to be an efficient day and that I was going to do all my paperwork and have time to sit on my ass afterwards. It was not so.
It was not so because we have "a weirdo at work". His name is Matt. He likes to rub my head and call me "Fuzzy-Wuzzy" (ugh, it's hard just TYPING that!) which my macho self absolutely loves, as I'm sure you know. He can't count money, and in fact he thouroughly manages to screw up as many tills as he touches in a night, so we try to guard our cash well. He refers to his "fantasy world of abstract" seriously, as a place that he is often "trapped" or "lost" in. Yesterday, it took him two hours to put away a pile of returns that we already had ready for him. We gave it to him at two. At four o'clock, we found him wandering in the "L"'s with "D"'s in his hands.
And he puts movies back on the shelf without checking them in.
We all knew this, we just didn't have time to actually do anything about it. Christmas is a time for Playstation 2's and we go hand in hand with that little slogan. As is to be expected, we've been incredibly busy and haven't been able to do any of our routine paperwork which usually keeps the store running.
Today was the first day that I even had a remote chance of doing this stuff. So I started. Four and a half hours later, I was finished, having found sixty-nine movies which had late fees on them because Matt put them back without checking them in. It was impossible to tell how long a certain movie had been on the shelf, so we had to take all the late fees off, one by one. It took me another hour or so.
Our shipment of Blockbuster junk and movies, which usually arrives on Sundays, got to the store at three thirty this afternoon. It was supposed to have been on the shelves before we opened this morning.
Shortly after I began to occupy myself with getting those films out on the shelf while dealing with irate customers, someone came in to inform me that our film drop-off box was crammed so full of movies that it was impossible for them to fit more into it. Oh, yeah. That thing. I was kind of afraid it would bury me in movies when I opened it, but quite the opposite, it was almost geological the way the tapes were all stacked up to form different strata. I had my mystical moment, closed the door and went back to serving my interminable line-up of customers.
It sounds like I was alone, you say? Shouldn't there have been a manager there with me? Someone to help me out?
Actually, he did help me out for a while. Kevin is leaving the company in 3 days, so you could say he's... a little carefree at the moment. But he was doing his share. Unfortunately, *his* boss decided it would be a good thing to come over around three o'clock. The big boss walked in, came straight to me and made me tuck my shirt in, then suggested patronizingly that I use my *amazing* amount of spare time to take a walk around the store and remove some signs for some promotion or another. I did not appreciate the tone, especially not after spending the last four hours swearing profusely at my cow-orkers for letting me fix their boo-boos.
Then he and Kevin disappeared into the back room for what was to be the rest of my shift (a full half hour longer than it originally should have been due to other people's lateness, of course).
Oh, maybe I should shut up about work. I actually had a really great day, despite, or maybe I should say *because* of all that. The day flew by, and I had lots of hyperactive energy left over to go clothes shopping with Fiona (not our original intention for the journey, but hey, Fairweather had a Boxing Week sale, so how could we resist?)
So right now, I'm thinking. I'm wondering if it's me, if it's somehow my fault that I feel I can't live with Dave anymore. What if he hasn't changed at all, and all of this is completely *my* imagination? Would it change anything? I don't think so.
Well, he hasn't changed, exactly, but I've seen more of him. He's not what he seems at first glance, and it smarts when you finally get whipped by the big picture. I hope all the people out there who think he's God (Jian included, apparently) get a little dose of that whip, eventually. Not because I want them to get hurt. But because I kind of like the idea of an overreigning justice, and I love the idea of karma, and well, in keeping with both those concepts, at the rate he's going now, Dave should be alone by 2006 at most. If there's any truth at all in the world, he will.
Not that I've ever had much faith in the world.
I want to write about a dream that I had, which was funny. It was one of those "thrown into a last-minute situation" dreams. I have those a lot, they're probably brought on by anxiety or something, whatever, I don't care, and they don't usually bother me.
In this one, I was going to be participating in a concert of some kind. I had my guitar in one hand, and was wandering around trying to figure out what I was supposed to be playing, when I overheard someone telling someone else that my song would be a cover of Ani DiFranco's "Sorry I Am". Just to show you how much I need to move on and start learning new songs, in the dream, I breathed a sigh of relief and thought "Whew, now all I have to do is tune to DADGAD."
Only proof that I actually can play Ani DiFranco songs in my sleep.
So I tiptoed into the wings and I peaked out at the crowd, and I was pleased to see that the crowd was large and enthusiastic. I was also pleased that I didn't know anyone there. But that didn't last long, because I saw Jian out of the corner of my eye and got mad at him for being there; I'm not sure why.
Then I stepped out onstage. I didn't even have time to get to my spot on the stage before this little chubby South American woman (who reminds me more and more of Bonita, who I worked with years ago) started singing a song which vaguely resembled mine, muttering off-tempo and off-key into a microphone which she held in a very karaoke way.
I tried the best I could to play along. I tried for a whole verse, but it was no use, and I couldn't help thinking that all these people thought that this was intentional. So finally, I stomped over to the lady and let her have it, right on stage. I kicked her off of that stage, no expletives were spared. Then I turned to the crowd, and I was about to sing when I woke up.
I have come up with a really lame interpretation of the dream, which I won't be sharing, but if anyone has any ideas about what it could mean, I'm open to suggestions.
It's Kath. Hi. Remember me? No, probably not. I've only been living with you for a year and a half. But do you know who I am? Do you care? No, not that I can tell. I thought you did. It turns out I thought a lot of things about you that weren't true, and I must congratulate you on your wonderful illusions.
The first and probably the grandest illusion you pulled off was respect. Both for me and my cohort MC. We never suspected a thing until suddenly in September, the charade was over. No more respect. Hm. Suddenly, we were children, and you were the grand adult who was going to find a "real job" and stop hanging around with these kids. You rolled your eyes at just about everything we did. You were oh so much wiser than even both of us put together. I couldn't tell at first, but it looked like you were avoiding being seen with us. And you were.
Just now, you laughed at me when I told you that one of your guests (or was it you?) had thrown out the phone bill which you never pay. Actually, come to think of it, I'm fairly sure it's you. Guests (even the caliber of guests that you bring into this house) usually have more tact than to just walk into a stranger's house, take notes on important bits of paper and then throw them out or leave with them. It's not about the fucking phone bill, Dave. It's about respect. I took care of all the bills and the rent because I thought you trusted and respected me to do it. Now I just do it despite the fact that no matter how many times I remind all of you, the new guy is the only person who pays the bills within two weeks of me putting the totals up.
The second thing I want to talk about is your mysterious problem with MC. No one can figure out exactly where it came from, that you suddenly exploded at her one day for the pettiest of little things and have been holding a grudge against her ever since. I don't even want to *know* why you dislike her so much all of a sudden. I don't care. I'm sure she doesn't either, why would she possibly want the respect and friendship of someone who treats her the way you do?
But I do want to say something here. MC does not live in our house anymore. She hasn't lived here for almost two months. When she is here, she is a GUEST of mine. And I'm sorry, but no matter how much you want to, you are not allowed to scream and swear at any guests of mine. I have been nothing but civil to all of your guests, and even entertained a few (such as yesterday's "Alex") who showed up when you told them to and were stood up by none other than you. So if you have a problem with one of my guests, and I don't care what it is, he or she could have killed your mother for all I care, you take it up with me, not them. Me. Understood?? Nevermind the fact that the reason you exploded once again at MC during her recent stay here was petty and unreasonable. If you really cared that much about your orange juice, put away the expletives and I will give you three dollars to go buy more. I'll even pay the two dollar cab fare if you don't want to walk to the corner.
I thought that we were friends. I thought that that was the primary reason why it was a good idea to shack up. I guess I was wrong. We were nothing but convenient for you. Well, you were a convenience for us as well, something that lowered the rent, amongst other things. The difference is, we gave you a chance as a real friend, and I don't suppose we should have. Maybe we should have just played your game of pretending until someone or something better comes along.
Do you even have any real friends? I'm not sure. The only person I've ever seen you with that I haven't seen you be two-faced about is Melinda. Everyone else gets the same treatment: they are queen and king when they are with you, and they are treated like squeaky fans or irresponsible losers when they are not around to defend themselves. Like your most recent guest. When she was around, you were an angel. When she wasn't, you were reporting on pathetic things she'd said and making fun of things that, at the time, you *helped* her do. I'm sorry if this part seems cryptic. I think this girl is ultimately a nice person and needs some help pretty badly, so I want to refrain from making her sound like a nitwit online.
It just makes me wonder what you say about me when I'm not around. It doesn't make you any more trustworthy, honestly. And I've just about had my fill. I think I'll spend the rest of my time in this dust hole in my room so that I don't have to watch you sneak behind your so-called friends' backs in your infinite hunt for... what? Adoration? Sex? Love (twisted way to find it, dude)? Perhaps I'll insult a couple of your guests to their face while I'm at it. I'll accuse them of having eaten my last cupcake, yeah, and use the words "fuck" and "goddamn" a lot. Yeah, that'll make sense.
Your loving roommate and infinte observer of bad deeds,
I just realized I don't have very much to say today. Not much happening in my life. No new people, and I'm quite happy with the same old people, thank you very much.
The other day, I had this overwhelming desire to watch a movie where people fall in love and then die. I mean a humoungous hankering for total sloppy slush. How unlike me. Well, how unlike me to want to watch someone else's interpretation of the slush. I occasionally try to make my own.
Sigrid and Fiona and I today were whining about needing significant others because we wanted rings to be offered to us. I think it's impressive how distinctly unattainable we people are. It's not that we're unattractive, far from it (well, I don't know about me... but my friends are far from unattractive), so there has to be some kind of deeper force at work here. Something that makes the ratio of früheads (and frühead-related people, including now-reformed früheads - did I forget anyone?) to relationships significantly lower than the ratio of humans to relationships.
Perhaps our standards are higher. Perhaps we intimidate others. Perhaps OUR FUCKING LOUD-ASS ROOMMATE'S GRATING LAUGH DRIVES POTENTIAL SUITORS AWAY. Sorry, that last sentence brought to you by the movie Road Trip, which has Brandy howling like a mad hyena in heat.
Anyway, there seems to be a lower rate of relationships to lifespan among my friends. Maybe we're more down to earth and don't get swayed easily. Maybe we're socially inadequate and aren't programmed to function properly with 99% of the general public. Who knows?
I'm not absolutely dying to have a beau or belle on my arm. I'll tell you when I am. I don't think it's a humongous deal. Actually, the little relationship-phobe in me thinks it's an incredibly bad idea altogether. And I agree with the phobia-gnome for now. I can't force myself to have feelings for someone. I've learned that the hard way. And I guess that's where the phobia stems from, the idea that I'll be trapped somehow, owing feelings to someone, like it's some kind of transaction and I'm selling them short.
All goes hand in hand with Catholic guilt, I guess. Blah.
And how come as soon as I post a revealing letter, my traffic suddenly triples? Huh? ;)
Me. Relationships. Bad. I've been rereading myself, trying to think about my batting average, if you will. When you think about it in terms of the past, it's easy to see why I would shy away from any kind of commitment. I have not had the best of luck with people in the past. It usually ends up something like this. There's a person who's not a terrible individual. We play nice-nice until I realize (usually way too late) that they expect something more from me.
I mean, there was this guy. Actually, this month marks the second (is it only the second?) anniversary of this whole ordeal. It was an ordeal in *my* life anyway. George, who was staying at my house at the time, can attest to it. Someone (actually, the *one* person that everyone in the Frühead community knew, back then - probably still now, although now there are two) who I'd been friends with for about a year decided it was time to make his move.
Now, this person was engaged at the time, to someone else who was *also* a good friend. But for some reason, he thought it was a good idea to try to have cybersex with me while his fiancée was online from another room in the same house.
I couldn't believe it. The event clearly marked me, because I still remember what day it was. December 22, 1998, actually. Later that day, MC and Hugo and I went to the Arrogant Worms' benefit for Malcolm, in Kingston.
The thing was, I had a lot of trouble saying no right away, even though a) the feelings were not reciprocated, and b) even if they had been, the whole situation was wrong and I knew it. I mostly had trouble saying no because he was so honest about it. He just... threw everything out there, and it felt like saying no would have been shooting his words out of the sky one by one like clay pigeons.
So I waited. I couldn't talk about it for two or three weeks while I thought and thought of what to say and how. And when we spoke again, lo and behold, he told me that he had told his fiancée *everything*.
More blows to my sense of trust.
Needless to say, it was easier to just say no after that. But still so awkward between us three. And through no fault of my own... still, I feel guilty. I know I shouldn't. But I do.
Perhaps there'll be another installment of "Why Katherine is Like This" this season on ABC! Stay tuned!
My sea monkeys are no longer visible. Either that or they are dead. My guess is they are somewhere sleeping, like at the top of the tank where I can't see them. Every once in a while, I'll see one swim by and I swear it looks lonely.
Today, I ate lunch in a Mexican restaurant, and behind me the two owners of the place were interviewing a potential employee. Which would have been normal except that the two owners were Korean and the potential employee was East Indian. I love Toronto. :)
In other news, the world is ending. Almost everyone I know (including me) is close to someone who is seriously sick or dying or recently dead... I wish I could do something about that, other than comment about it. I have no other explanation, other than it is the end of the world.
I want to let you all know that I'm thinking of every single one of you. I wish I could reach out my hands across this continent and touch you all the way that I feel I could. It pains me that I can't do this for you.
However, my thoughts are most especially with someone who doesn't even know this website exists. She is twelve years old and she really hasn't had her share of normal childhood, I mean from birth, when she made the Canadian record book for premature birth. She has spent nearly every day of the past six months in hospitals, either because she was in unimaginable pain herself, or because one of the people she's closest to on the planet has suddenly been reduced to a shadow of who she was by a little tiny bomb in her brain.
This is a little girl whose greatest fears are hospitals, sickness, and death, to the point of her needing professional help a few years back, when she wasn't even in regular contact with any of those elements. Now she sees them daily, and is forgotten by her preoccupied family.
I am pained that I can't reach out and take her heart in my hands and soothe it and protect it from all this bad stuff. I don't know why I have such a hard time understanding that I can't make everybody better. I don't know why my own happiness depends on that one impossible task. I wonder if everyone feels this way. I wonder if it gets better. I wonder if you stop caring as you grow older.
I wonder if I'll cry this much when I'm older.
Lays has a new chip flavour. It's Cheddar. It's pretty good... tastes a little like some Cheetos flavouring got mixed in with the potato chips (which might very well be what happened). That's what was new and exciting when I got to work this morning. No, seriously. Derek was hopping around holding a bag of these chips. We all need lives rather badly.
I am angry and exasperated. This is because I've just finished having a day-long fight with a friend about frucon. Stupid things. I wouldn't have minded so much if the subject had been dropped early, in a "agree to disagree" arrangement, but it just kept going and going and going. And it got personal, which I knew it would. How can I not take something personally when I spend most of my time either thinking about the Con or doing something related to it, and then someone comes along and tells me they think the activities are stupid and that the choices that I fought for very hard were stupid choices?
I'm tempted to just resign myself to being that shy little kid I used to be. "Gee, I'm so sorry your comment offended me. I'll stay out of your way from now on so it doesn't happen again." I was so little then. I was nothing. I was worse than nothing. I rammed myself into the ground, into negative matter. I don't want to be that way anymore.
I was just thinking about how much I want to create. I don't seem to write much that's good these days and I used to. I remembered this one story. I wrote it using a tape of someone I knew talking about something that happened to him. I don't think he knows that I even wrote it. I wrote it because I wanted to see if I could take his speech patterns and make them beautiful. To see if his talking, down on paper, minus all the 'you know's and the 'uh's and 'um's, was good enough to inspire praise.
I added almost nothing. A detail here... a little bit of closure there. I wasn't allowed to take English due to being too good at it. I think MC threw a curve ball at the English test in order to get the slightly lower grade and make the advanced English class - maybe she really wanted it. Meanwhile, I crashed almost every single one of MC's English classes that year. Her teacher read my story and absolutely loved it, even though it was only two pages long.
Whenever I let people who know the guy read it, they tell me I should show it to him. I never will. Are they crazy? Am I crazy? I don't know. I feel guilty for taking an anecdote (which wasn't a great feel-gooder in the first place) from someone else and appropriating it for myself. I feel guilty because it is a tiny bit of someone else's life that I didn't even ask permission for. I just took it. I took it.
No matter that the subject is something that's always deeply affected me. No matter that I can relate. No matter that the anecdote is basically public knowledge. No matter that I mention in the first two lines of the story where it comes from. It just still feels wrong after all this time.
And yet it felt really right to write it. I'll never know.
I talked to someone today who plans a convention in Toronto the week after Frucon. It only attracts about twice as many as ours does. His budget is twenty-five thousand dollars. It hurts me deep inside. People don't know. They just don't realize.
Breathe. Yes. Good. Now... forget.
I still want to create. It hasn't left me. But now at the same time as all that, I'm becoming very horny, and I have the feeling the two are related in some odd way. I think maybe this is how Picasso felt ALL THE TIME. If I felt like this all the time, I'd probably explode. But it's nice for a while. Frustrating, but also encouraging, and better than moping aimlessly.
I think maybe... maybe I used to feel like this all the time. Way back when. Like, eight, ten years ago. I was like this all the time. I don't know what happened. Was it my mom? Was it my friends? Was it MC? Was it puberty? Did it have to do with hormones, or boys, or one special earth-shattering experience that I just can't remember?
Somewhere there's a climbing tree,
Yeah. I'm turning into some weird breeder-mutant. I don't know why. See, if someone's timing was right, they could really fuck with me. If they could get me on this kind of upswing, oh, the kind of damage they could do. I would realize it, but would I be able to stop it? Oh, no. Smart idea, putting this up on a public webpage where any sicko could read it. But I am so incredibly vulnerable right now. I think you could do anything to me.
What do you get when you put Andy Stochansky, Kurt Swinghammer, Jian Ghomeshi, Ron Sexmith, Bob Snider and Jason Collett (who wins the "new find" award for this evening - wow!) on a stage together? An amazing evening of music, culminating with an impromptu cover of The Police's "Message In A Bottle" with Ron on guitar, Andy on lead vocals and microphone percussion, and Jian drumming madly on his jeans while singing backup with Kurt. Tremendous.
If it was at all possible, considering I already like Jian (hence the whole "fruhead" thing), he's growing on me. His "Don't Lie To Me" song sounded wonderful this time, when last time (ok, so I was freezing and passing out last time) it didn't speak to me at all. But the highlight for me, because it was so unexpected, was the appearance of Bob Snider!!!
I must be Bob's biggest goddamn fan, man. (That's a joke only I will get, because I'm probably the only person in the world who's both seen Bob live and read "The Fan Man" by William Kotzwinkle.) When I die, or do something great, and they ask me what inspired me, I'll say Bob Snider did, and it'll be true.
He did Dark Corners, Anna Marie (with Swinghammer on Spanish guitar... *sigh*), Ash Hash, What An Idiot He Is, He's An Old Nova Scotian and Dog. I know there was one more, and though it sounded familiar, I couldn't pick out the title of it.
I think I know a secret. I think that at precisely 11:04 PM on January 15th, something changed. I don't know what exactly. Suddenly things got clearer, more together. Jian was in the midst of playing "We Left It All To You", the song he co-wrote with Dar. Kurt and Ron were playing along. And instead of there being a group of songwriters onstage, plus Jian, it was just all of a sudden a group of songwriters. It happened so fast, I almost didn't notice, and I had to make sure it stayed the same way for a while to confirm it, but it sure did happen. It made a noise kind of like coming out of a tunnel, in my head, like suddenly things were in stereo, we'd moved past mono, we were heading towards Dolby Digital. Like suddenly analogies weren't so dumb-sounding.
I can't believe I'm going to Hamilton tomorrow with no way of coming back before four AM. I can't believe I'm only going to be getting three and a half hours of sleep before that. I can't believe I'm doing all this just for Jian. But then again, I can't believe Jian's doing so well for himself. I watched him go from alone to comfortable on the stage tonight. Good for him. I applaud him.
This appears to be the buzzword for last night's trip to Hamilton.
It is a short form of "What the fuck am I doing here?" which was a question I asked myself a lot. Mostly because, well... I've never been a *humongous* fan of Jian's music. This fact is changing rapidly, I must admit. I am being converted :) But still. I was a Fordy person, remember?
Also, it's not like I'm a close personal friend of Jian's... so what am I doing feeling like I need to give my utmost support? But I do... It just feels so weird to suddenly be sort of committed to something that's not my usual cup of tea. Haven't missed a solo appearance of his yet. Probably not going to for a while (although some of that, suprisingly enough, is circumstantial). And his songs have that kind of quality to them, that you can sing most of them after hearing them two or three times.
So I sat there and I watched from afar, and I sang along to "I Always Made a Lousy Boy" and laughed at his jokes and yelled in response and even helped with lyrics (confirming that I am a geek, even when wearing leather ;)
I thought that since this was going to be a full set, he would premiere some more songs, but he didn't. Interestingly enough, the set seemed full even though he only stuck in a couple of extra (fruvous) numbers on top of the opening set I'd seen him do. That's because he spent most of his time talking, of course. But somehow, it seemed not-so-uncomfortable a monologue, this time. As though he'd decided that his show is 45% comedy, or something. It takes a lot of talent to be able to hold a room's attention while joking about Larry from Three's Company and then immediately breaking into a love song.
Only to stop, and start, and stop and start. Heehee.
Well, I got to watch him knock over half the stage including a live mic stand and Martina's guitar. That was pretty entertaining.
Martina made some big fans and I think she sold a lot of CDs :) After Bonnie and Clyde, her first song, someone yelled out a totally honest "Wow!" and the whole room was sold on her (except for the talking bastards sitting right behind us, but *what-EV* to them. I give them the hand).
The room was small. Only about forty to fifty people there I think, but that was all that fit inside. I couldn't help wondering how this place made money at all. They also had last call at one, which pissed me right off.
I got to drink Maudite all night for $3.50 a bottle!!
Probably the highlight for me was Martina singing the Dar Williams part to "We Left It All To You", because she did a kicker Dar impression, and it was wonderful to hear the different version of the song.
Also, the hummus and pizza (which I selected from the Mermaid's Lounge's online menu before even getting on the GO Train) were quite a highlight in and of themselves.
I think... I'm sure this is incorrect, and coloured by my personal memories. But I remember reading, way back when, show reviews from when Fruvous were first busting into the states. The reviews were usually from Chris or Zard, and they seemed to be the only ones who were there all the time, and there was kind of a strange atmosphere to them that came off, even on the computer screen in the school library where I first read show reviews.
Last night, I finally felt that same atmosphere come together all around me. Strange. I said "I feel like Chris or Zard," but I don't think people quite got it. I don't even know if I'm explaining it correctly.
Who even cares? The point is that it's specialer than it looks.
And what the fuck?? ;)
What you probably don't know about me:
I was an insomniac from ages 9 to 11, and probably never slept a full night in those whole two years. I would stay up all night every night and read through every single one of my books. When my mom got up to use the bathroom at four AM, she would find me still awake and freak out.
I have always been closer to my dad than my mom, and will willingly admit to everyone and anyone who wants to know that I look for men who remind me of my father.
My friend Marcy told me that I'm the happiest person she knows, which leads me to believe that she doesn't know me very well.
I'm the unhappiest person I know (so far as I know). I think probably everyone is their own unhappiest person. Don't know why I'd think that.
Sometimes I do algebra for fun. I was a math geek in school, sometimes my math average was 100%. I would correct the teacher on question six while all the other students were still on question one. Sometimes I wish I'd gone into mathematics, but I know that I only like a certain small part of what constitutes math, and that math in college isn't as theoretical as I'd like. Still.
If I have a crush on you, it's very unlikely you'll ever find out.
My grandfather fought in World War Two.
My oldest uncle was conceived during World War Two. Do the math.
Somehow, I'm addicted to buying girlie magazines, like Cosmopolitan, but as soon as I start to read them, I get so frustrated at them that I occasionally throw them across the room.
My grandmother is bipolar. I occasionally get scared that I might have inherited the condition. I believe that my irrational fears about having inherited manic-depressive disorder sometimes condition me into behaving mildly as though I might *have* the disease.
I was never in any fight in school, although I did get myself beat up.
I like working for The Man. The job security is what does it. I don't care that I'm selling out to a big company that takes business away from littler local stores. Big deal. I've worked for the littler local stores before and they've canned me without so much as an explanation. So I prefer somewhere where I have a contract of rights that gets signed before I start. Sue me.
I try to never say anything at all about someone that I wouldn't say if they were standing right behind me. This is actually not due to any negative things I've said, but rather overly positive ones. Two and a half years ago at the Ottawa Folk Festival, I flattered the previous night's songstress to no end, only to find out later that she was standing behind me grinning the whole time. I was more embarrassed about that than I would have been had I been saying bad things about her. I don't know why.
My secret dream is to become a songwriter. Of course, I actually have to finish a song for that to happen.
I can honestly say that I've been in love before.
I think that I have very little regrets. There aren't very many things that I'm beating myself up about. Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if I'd spoken up at a certain time or another, but I wouldn't call those regrets, just speculation.
I still suck my thumb, although a lot less than I used to. I'm a very oral person. Hence all the talking.
I usually know when to stop. I just don't.
I was the best musician in my high school, and that won me a scholarship to band camp in the summer after my fourth year. I haven't touched my saxophone since I left high school 4 years ago.
This one time, at band camp, I was on my bed so tired that I couldn't move, and my roommate came in and had sex with her boyfriend on the next bed and I couldn't do anything about it at all.
I was given the opportunity to try marijuana 3 times before I actually did.
It turns out that I am very allergic to rum. I did not know this last year. Oops.
Marie-Claude and I made our fake IDs in a government office building, using government computers and government copiers. I've been getting into bars since I was seventeen.
My favourite author is William Kotzwinkle. No one seems to know who he is anymore.
My favourite film is Jeffrey. I am the only person ever to have taken it out of the videostore I work at. Even the gay couples don't take it out. I've rented it seven or eight times, other than that it just sits on the shelf.
I no longer watch any TV whatsoever. Maybe when Survivor starts up again, I will watch that.
The girl who works the graveyard shift at the 24-hour McDonald's near my house knows me by sight and could probably punch up my usual, if I asked.
For some reason, small children are afraid of my father.
Because of the guys at work, I am starting to really enjoy hearing about the specifics of wrestling story lines. I still wouldn't watch it, though.
I have no friends at school, and I'm in third year. I find this very sad, but I'm also very content with the friends that I have, and don't really feel the need to add any.
It is a rule of my life that any movie that I buy sight unseen will be the best movie I've ever seen, and any record that I buy without hearing it first will suck.
I can't believe I'm updating at school. Every time I update at school, it throws all my formatting out of whack for months. I must really want to update this site, right now. I think I'm getting antsy that people have been reading the same thing for the past five days. Although I've decided, since I can't stop thinking of more little facts about me, that there will be another installment of "Things you don't know about me" eventually.
My class this morning went an hour and a half over, and for some reason, we all stayed. We screened our long projects, which are at varying stages of completion. The winners of the mind-blowing contest are Elizabeth and Adam (they date, and their projects are always together) who started out trying to use footage from another film Elizabeth had made back in Russia and recutting it to give it a different meaning.
What they showed us today was a five-minute clip of a solar eclipse as seen through one of those eclipse-viewing devices. The shot moved around for while close on the moon-shaped light. At first I thought it was a nightlight of some kind. Then the camera pulled back, way way back, and we could see that it was actually one of those homemade eclilpse-viewing devices like they make you build in school. I think it was made out of a can. Then it just zoomed back in again. The soundtrack? A fairly cheesy (think Lawrence Welk) Christmas record playing in the background.
What really cracked me up was when the clip was over, little, quiet, Russian Elizabeth just said "Isn't it *cool*?"
We all had to agree.
I'm suddenly so sad that I won't be able to see Andy Stochansky once a week after this coming Monday. I'm going to miss him. Fiona and I know his songs by heart at this point, even the newish one he wrote on election day (or should I say especially that one?). o/~ so come everyone, step forward... there can be no shyness here... o/~ It's purdy. I think.
In a slightly (and unfortunately) related story - VERY slightly, I assure you, don't want to be scaring people off of Andy forever - my web surfing recently led me to discover that I *didn't* know what the term "scabies" meant. So I had to go and look it up. It'll be a miracle if I ever sleep again.
Disclaimer: I swear, neither I or anyone I know has scabies. Promise. And if you don't know what they are, don't look it up. Take it from me.
Funny how we make lists of quirky facts about ourselves, all the while not actually knowing ourselves. I mean, sure, I know what I feel at any given moment, to a fairly deep degree of certainty. But I constantly question my motivations for thinking the way I'm thinking, for feeling the way I'm feeling. I don't think I really know what I'm all about. Because deep down inside, I'm trying to convince myself I feel a lot of things, and I'm trying to cancel out a lot of feelings as well. It's completely crazy, I know. :)
Fiona and I have devised a method I call fractal critical analysis. It's not actually as intellectual and devoid of meaning as the title I just gave it makes it seem.
It's like... well, you know when your actions are suspect or doubtful, like if you were being nice to your best friend's girl (we'll use a Cars song here in lieu of any actual situation), but it's quite conceiveable that you're doing that because you want to fuck her? Well, if that theory ever occurs to you, the person with the questionable motives who's being nice, then you're a victim of fractal critical thinking. Because you'll probably conclude that since the idea occured to you, and you doubted your own motives, your motives *must*, logically, be pure and virginal and all that.
Still with me?
OK. But since you've questioned your own motives and decided that doubting yourself and coming up empty-handed means you're fine, what's to stop you from taking it one step farther and doubting THAT conclusion as well? It's a neverending spiral of critical thought.
I don't know why I think of these things, but they can be obsessing. Who is right? Am I right? Is this person just convenient, or do I actually have feelings for them? Am I a hypocrite for thinking that? What is love? Am I a fake for saying I've felt it, or feel it? Am I being influenced by my peers, or did I make a concious decision that just happens to mimic theirs?
Oh, shut it. I know what y'all are thinking. "Why did I come read this today? It's crap! I'm going to stop reading this website!"
I told a friend last month that I wished I could get crushes on people as fast and as fully as she does. I hadn't truly felt anything in years. Except that I had. But I hadn't. You know? No, I guess you don't.
Can you ever truly kill love? Has anyone ever wanted to? I guess so. There's nothing new under the sun... including the realization that there's nothing new under the sun... including that realization. Ad infinitum. My life is represented by fractals, it seems. I'm resigned to it now.
And about what I told my friend last month... Some questions. Do we make things happen just because we're bored? Do we invent stupid messes to stick ourselves into so that we can occupy ourselves by whining about them and eventually finding a way out? Is there more to life than that, ever? Do we just convince ourselves that we have wants and needs, or do we actually love, do we ever actually give ourselves to anything or anyone?
Geezus, just listen to me go on as though the world was created just for me. What the fuck has happened?
Questions? Comments? Syringes?
I'm sick. Used to be, when I was sick, I couldn't sing at all. My voice used to come from a different place. Now I can sing to my heart's content. That's all I care about really. Being able to sing.
I realized something today. Planning Frucon has gone from a couple of hours work a week to nearly a full-time job. I don't know how that happened, but I think of my friends who sit around in offices doing nothing all day and I realize that planning Frucon is even more work than they're doing a lot of the time (no offense to anyone who feels they're doing more work than the Frucon Committee).
I sat on the porch last night and chain smoked and thought about stuff. How things never go the way you plan. How some friendships never seem to get off the ground. How the way things should be and the way things are can be hugely different sometimes. And who decides all that?
I've crossed many paths. I can't figure out why some people stick and some don't. A good bit of the time, the wrong people tend to stick. There are friends out there who are really great people, but who I just look at and go "Huh? What the hell are you doing with me?" And then there's the other people. The ones that get that Jim's Big Ego song running through your head.
Being who we are, seeing what we see,
And is it possible to go from acquaintance to friend after years of acquaintanceship? Seems the longer you wait, the less likely it is to happen. People fall into routines, you know.
I read that cold water makes them less horny. Kinda like humans. Maybe I'll just add an ice cube every once in a while.
I'm in the mood to listen to U2. This is weird. It's the first time I've ever been in that mood, ever. I used to dislike U2. I think it's my state of mind... U2 is definitely music to have your insides slowly pulled out of your body to. Which is what I'm feeling like constantly these days. It's not a bad feeling exactly, I just kind of feel like I'm leaking metaphysically. Like, oopsy, there goes a piece of soul.
Tomorrow's Monday, and there's no Andy Stochansky to make me smiley. What on earth will I do?
I have no more fantasies. It's like my imagination has quit pumping out new material. It doesn't know what makes me happy anymore. It can't say "Hey, Kath, think of this over and over while you do this boring chore - it'll make you smile." I don't know why. Maybe that's the part that leaked out first.
So here goes. I am listening to Guster, the hidden track off of Goldfly, actually.
o/~ Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow o/~
I have eaten so well today. This is the first day I remember when I actually packed a lunch. I've had what is probably almost the exact serving from each of the four food groups. I should be feeling really healthy, and I am, except I really want a cigarette.
I'm not actually quitting, it's just that I don't want to take money out of the bank to pay for cigarettes. That is against my morals, for some reason. So until I get paid on Friday, or unless I can dig up the cash around the house, there will be no smoking. Sigh.
I got a wake-up call today about my essay, which I just got the books for yesterday and am intending to start writing tonight after the Frucon meeting and a small visit at work to... Oops, nevermind, Tanya's not working tonight. The wake-up call came in the form of the handing out of said essays, marked, to the students who dropped them off on time. Not only have I missed the deadline, but the prof has actually had time to read all these papers and grade them. I am so late. And he is leaving the country tomorrow, so I won't be able to give it to him until sometime during the exam period, but oh, well.
One thing I was not aware of is that this is the last week of the term. Strike'll really fuck you over that way. I'm going to be in exams over Frucon, which is great. I have one exam. Just remember to ask me if you see me on IRC if I'm studying economics while typing to you. Because I really need to keep on top of that economics shit.
My new favourite project: sesquipedalian.blogspot.com, a blog that MC and Donna and I have started. MC doesn't seem to really want to contribute to Donna's and my special brand of self-indulgent poetry (*wink*), but I'm sure she'll come around :)
They let me design the site, for which I love them so, and I keep wanting to stick more shit on it, like message boards and notify lists and all that tacky stuff :)
Damn, what is there that is profound to say? I just reread this entry while trying to think of a title for it, and well, the title that best fits it is probably just "February 6". I'm just telling my day. Why is that? That's not very me.
The truth is that there are many things that are profound that I could say. But none of them I want to say on this public forum. Hilarious that when I started this website I A)wasn't really into the whole "community" attitude that these things have about them, and B)didn't think I had anything to hide. Both these points have been proven dead wrong. I like being a scheduled stop on your morning rounds. And I do have things to hide. Lots of things. There's not one particular thing that all of you don't know. In fact, I'm sure if you all got together in a room with some truth serum and talked, you'd get to the bottom of this in a few minutes, just by questioning the right people.
Judy and Maggie's mom from Better Than Chocolate say "lunge". If you want something, lunge at it. It works in the movie. Judy the transvestite and Frances the timid lesbian become the cutest couple. The lunging works. Good thing I'm not dumb enough to think what happens onscreen is real.
But when is it okay to go for it? When is it okay to tell the truth? Because I don't think everyone keeps themselves hidden all the time. If they did, nothing would ever change, would it? People take risks. Have I ever taken any risks? I don't even think I know what a risk really is. And does not wanting to take a risk after evaluating the possible outcomes and weighing them and making a decision make me a chicken, because I'm not willing to go out and bet on the slimmer odds?
See, I knew I had some vague and frustrating things to say!
This is your last straw
And the moon goes up
This is your last straw
- Danny Michel
It's about Jian, of all people. There, I said it. Over twenty-four hours I found out some things... a lot of things. Mostly they were only confirmation of a few suspicions a few of us have had for a while. But even that confirmation was enough to change everything. After all, his band has been at the root of what has made my life my life for almost four years now. If it weren't for them, I would never have heard about York film school (thanks to Mike... too bad I don't appreciate it enough) or met my roommate. Those are only the two major changes. I wouldn't have the friends I have now, either. So when I found out these things about him and the rest of the band, I started looking back at all these past events.
I can't fucking believe some of you out there make fun of this guy. I can't fucking believe you go around calling him a jerk because of something petty like his not saying hi to you after one certain show, or his forgetting your name. You are his fans, and he has done SO MUCH for you. You seem to forget that he doesn't owe you anything. I think he might forget that too sometimes, and it's sad.
That's all I want to say about that. Now I'm all angry at nothing, and I'm going to go write my paper.
I'm going to redesign. It's going to be pretty. I'm not sure quite what it'll look like, but it'll be pretty. It's going to involve a lot of my own photographs, to be sure.
I'm not sure, though, if I should just delve into it at one in the morning, though. Especially since I should be writing dumb-ass songs about Marginal Cost to help me study. Yes, that's right. Welcome to "Crappy Educational Songs 101". It is helping me study microeconomics at the moment. Tomorrow, MACRO! So far my favourite line is "The pleasure you derive from eating apple number five is your diminishing marginal utility."
Pee time. I will be back. I will redesign as much as I can tonight, and then my first new entry will be a long-ass wonderful review of my weekend. How's that? Yay. Very unlikely I'll be done tonight, but I can dream, can't I?
I promised a review of this past weekend. Well, not really a review, but I promised myself I would write something interesting about it here. My weekend started when people started arriving, so while I was at work Thursday (I remember nothing of my last 2 shifts, by the way) MC and Billiam came in and harrassed me and my cow orkers for not having Cool Runnings, and that's when I knew the weekend had begun.
We hung out at my house, doing lines (for my crossword puzzle), then met up with Angie and went out to eat. Then we checked into our lovely hotel, found Ellen and Donna, and we all sat around and watched a show which was titled "Wild Weddings", but which really should have been called "When Weddings Attack". It was lovely.
We got our second wind (well, okay, four of us did) around two in the morning, so MC, Fiona and Donna and I decided it was time to get some bowling practice in (my third time bowling with fruheads this year - scary!). When we got to the bowling alley, it was so late that Cosmic Bowling was over. We played two games during which I *kicked ass*. This was to be my only ass kicking of the weekend. At least, where bowling was concerned.
We ended up at the McDonald's near my house, trying to get there before they started serving breakfast. We just made it. The sun was coming up when we hit our hotel.
Three hours of sleep later, I was on the run again. Friday was the most hectic "revise-your-schedule-every-four-seconds" kind of day. I loved it. We actually got shit done. We bought tons of supplies, got all our programs and leftovers downtown, picked up all the raffle prizes and then I split from my gang of girls and joined AJ. He was literally driving around looking for us and I ran to the street corner so he could pick me up. Could I live without cell phones? I think not. Too bad I don't own one myself.
We picked up the guitar, and then AJ and I got involved in all this frucon pub badness. It was to be minor badness and actually the only badness of the whole weekend, but it freaked us out a little. Luckily, I also got to be interviewed by my old Rochester/Montreal/Orillia buddy Rachel. She rocks the mic. I told her all these terrible things about fruheads, of course. Because we're all such terrible people.
So I was quite disappointed that MC, Fiona, Angie and Ellen got to go to Tortilla Flats (where *I* had been wanting to go) before Jian's concert, while I had to find a way to pick up those untimely jigsaw puzzles. Thank you thank you Donna. Those puzzles were pissy indeed. But it was fun cause we got to sing :)
Then we went to the Rivoli and there was a line out the damn door. Of all the time I've spent there, there has never been a line out the door. I kind of just wanted all the people to go home at that moment. Butcha know, all was good and I even got a chair of my very own.
Jian was excellent with his band. Way more confident than I've ever seen him before. Fiona and I stared at each other in awe when he started dancing around the stage, actually moving around while playing his guitar. Natalia and Song for a Father sounded amazing with more instrumentation. He has a new song which is obviously written for a band.
He finally got to read the Starbucks letter to a Fruhead audience. I was wondering what kind of a reaction it would get. Well, not really wondering exactly, I mean, I knew... but it was nice to be there when it happened.
Oh, yes, and Fiona and I saved the world. Just thought you'd like to know that. *grin*
After the show, I wandered around and suddenly thought how interesting it would be if I took down all of my friends' thoughts about the show. I got some nice stuff (I guess I must have missed talking to Chad), and I wanted to show it to Jian because of something he said a few weeks ago: that he wasn't sure if fans of Fruvous who saw him play solo were just being nice when they said encouraging things, or if they really meant it.
I haven't done anything with the quotes since. Oh, well.
That night Donna and Potter and Sara and I practiced and ate pizza until about three in the morning. When I got back to my room, MC and Fiona were still working on putting together the laminates for the Con which was starting in seven hours. Oh dear god.
We got another two or three hours of sleep. Then it was Con time. I hardly remember the Con, it was all such a blur. The best part? Visiting the fruheads who were working on my crossword puzzle and giving them hints :) I was glad to see they got a ton of answers right! By the end of the Q&A, I was trying my best to look normal at the raffle table, but I could hardly stand, my feet were so sore. We committee members insisted that we draw the raffle, and I was really glad to be onstage and looking like I was actually a part of something, finally.
We went back to the hotel and had a hysterical dinner where we acted like seven year olds and threw packages of sugar and cream at each other. I was so happy to hear Jen say "Apetizers... They're the food you eat before you eat, to make you more hungry." I knew I wasn't the only one who thinks of Eric Cartman whenever they're in a restaurant.
At the Fruvous show, we didn't even have to stand in line. They were letting people in already when we got there, and it was so cold that AJ bought another ticket instead of waiting outside for Chad. The Supers are usually a band that bores me to death, but for some reason, that night they were incredible. Maybe Sigrid's enthusiasm was contagious. I let her borrow my lighter for 'Only You' (I think) and we all swayed together. When she gave it back, the lighter was red hot. Long song.
My favourite bit of the Fruvous show? The impromptu verse of 'Tempted' that just seemed to come out of nowhere and hit Dave. I wish they room had been smaller so that when Jian left the "in a pool of..." blank hanging open for Murray, he could have heard me yell "CRISIS!". Swimming Pool of Crisis was one of their Tall New Buildings songs.
Someone threw their bra at the stage. It wasn't even a sexy bra, just a normal everyday extra-support bra. Fruheads are such geeks I bet it hadn't even ever been worn, and was bought before the show especially for "throwing on stage" purposes.
After the Fruvous show, we all sat around. I talked to Katie Contino for a long time. That was nice, we hadn't really even spent time together since like Frucon One. Fiona and Mikey and I tried to start Danny Michel singalongs to keep from falling over, but the only song we could all remember was Hartley, and that got tired after three runs.
Hugo was there and was civil. I find myself thinking a lot about stuff we did when we were friends. I wish we could be friends again.
Finally, exhausted and whiny, I must have convinced someone to drive me back to the Comfort Suites, because I'm fairly sure I woke up in my bed the next morning.
We let Fiona sleep and drove to the Colony for the Fruhead Brunch. Unfortunately, the section they gave us was so small that Doug, AJ, Chris, Zard, MC, Angie and I had to sit on the other side of the restaurant. But friends came to say hi and bye anyway, which was so wonderful. Afterwards, a bunch of us gathered in a little glass room adjascent to the restaurant and harmonized. I got to spend time with Gella for a little while before she left, and I was glad.
Then we went bowling. I think I might have given people harder directions than were necessary, but keep in mind, I don't drive. The important part was that we all arrived in one piece, and that most of us arrived before Jian (ahem, Chrissy and Dan).
I got my ass kicked by everyone. My amazing score of a few nights before just didn't feel like making an appearance this time. But that's alright, because I have an excuse. I bit my tongue during like my second frame, and had blood flooding my mouth, and it was gross. Then when that died down, as I was just about to release a ball I found a piece of tongue in my mouth and bowled into the gutter. I was the walking wounded, really I was. It wasn't my fault that even Jian Flintstone got the better of me. I swear.
Oh, check this one out. You will truly melt.
So after a dramatic energy crash at bowling, I managed to gain back enough energy to get back to the hotel and then to (don't ask me how) walk to C'est What. Yes, AJ, Fiona, Angie, MC and I - five committee members - walked. It was a nice night, that is until it got deathly cold. We stopped midway to have some Thai food, then proceeded to wait in line to greet every single one of Tory's musicians, and became sicles. At one point Tory came out and taunted us, then went back inside. Sigh. I was wishing Donna was around so that we could entertain the crowd with some hep Jim's Big Ego, but when she actually got there, the only people we entertained were ourselves.
Tory's show was Tory's show. Never disappointing, although this one was fairly short. He has a few new songs which are very good. They are very much a progression from his old songs into something new, which is pretty impressive. He, as well as the opener Glen, seemed to assume that we were all there to see Dave Matheson play (he's been playing guitar in Tory's band). I thought that kind of sucked. I mean, most of the fruheads who were there had no idea that Dave would be there! I think only those of us who were at bowling or live in Toronto and were at the previous Tory gig knew this.
Tory's gig served as a kind of after party to the Con. When the music was over, we mingle and hung out and talked for about two hours. Others stayed longer while Fiona and I walked back to the hotel and got pizza. It was strange to be in a place with a microwave oven that works, let me tell you.
Monday AJ and Fiona and I formed a personal crusade against one goddamn truck that repeatedly prevented us from dropping the sound equipment off at Steve's where it belonged. I swear that sequence belongs in a movie. 1. miss the turnoff 2. turn around, find a giant truck heading into the alley 3. go around the block and try again 4. find the same truck now backing into said alley 5. try to find the other end of the alley 6. when you do find it, start up the alley only to come face to face with the giant truck which has now decided that it is headed the opposite way along the narrow corridor 7. swear, scream and refuse to back up 8. turn around instead and leave the alley 9. give the truck guy the finger.
Stupid Witchblade crews.
So that's about my weekend in a nutshell. I want to thank everyone who was polite enough to say I sounded good during the Open Mic. Truth I either wasn't used to monitors or they were turned way down. In any case, I have no idea what we sounded like. I did, however, enjoy myself, and I have no doubt I'll be singing again.
I love to sing.
I fell asleep last night around six o'clock. Didn't have dinner. Just came home and got in bed for a little while with the light on. Woke up almost ten hours later.
Am I depressed? Probably. I've got Nields songs running through my head and a looming terror about the two research papers that are due on Tuesday. But more than that, there's something I want that I can't have. Don't you hate when that happens? Sometimes you're not even sure what that thing is, exactly. You just feel like there's something missing in your life. Well there's definitely a big gaping hole in mine, and it's getting bigger, and that thing is getting farther and farther away.
And you just know that once you've got it, you'll throw it away like yesterday's papers. You know deep down inside that you have the ability to be just that shallow, and it scares you into a perpetual paralysis. And your mouth stays quiet, and your hands stop moving, and you start convincing yourself that you're smaller than you really are. Then sooner or later the chance is gone, and the big gaping loss and sadness are actually covered up by a thin relief that you didn't embarrass yourself.
What's it worth? Everything. If I draw the conclusion that I'll be miserable no matter what option I choose, only then will I feel ready to open my big fat mouth. Till then I just sit here making excuses for myself and watching my whole life slip away.
Heh. It's not like my life hasn't slipped away before. It's not like I haven't ached in quite this way before. It's not like any of this is new. And it's not like I have any reason to expect that the outcome this time should be different. So I should just shut up and get on with my life right away. Stop wasting my time. It's not worth it. None of it is worth it.
Earlier I was listening to Ben Folds, something I haven't done in about a year.
I'm about to head to work. I'm afraid I'm scaring the extremely loud slug who lives downstairs and calls himself Mike. I was trying to figure out what I could eat, and it just hit me. I'm the only person who's done dishes in the last month. Mike has *never* done dishes. Never. In the whole time he's lived here (four months). Dave's dish-doing frequency has gone down about 50% when he's even here, and Brandy's has gone down probably about 85%. My lunch options were greatly hindered by the growing pile of dishes in the sink and on the counter. I realized I didn't give enough of a fuck about my nutrition to give them the satisfaction. Also, sometime while I was finishing up Frucon, someone either ate or threw away my bread. I slammed the fridge shut and stomped up the stairs in disgust. There will be no eating for me.
I'm hoping that being at work will help me become more human again. Of course, I could just be completely antisocial instead. Maybe they'd send me home then. I just really don't know what to do except sleep. I'm thinking I'm going to head to work early so that I can chain-smoke outside first. The fact that this thought is cheering me up at the moment can be summed up in one word: scary.
I'm listening to some pretty music. See:
I wish I could have said
Oh, yes. Although this is not the original Bad Thing which is making me go on and on, whining like a sick puppy, I realize I have neglected to mention yet another detail of my life which is Bad. My father, one of the very few people I love most of all, probably has cancer. He has a tumour in his neck which is going to be removed, and then he's going to have radiation therapy. This is a guy who's never been in hospital before, ever. And though he's been assured that even if it is cancer, it will most definitely NOT lead to death, of course it's scary. What's scariest is that I can't wrap my brain around the concept. I just wander around worrying about other things and thinking "Kath, your dad has cancer. REACT!" but I don't, I just go on.
I and my strange survival skills go on. I need something to look forward to, even when I really just feel like closing my eyes to the rest of the world. So I make up little things to make me happy. Like chain-smoking on the way to work, or sneaking a smoke in my room. Or watching Mickey Mouse cartoons. Or using vanilla-scented body lotion. These are all ridiculously small things that I invent, and that keep me going. Eating ice cream from the container. Going through every page of Cosmopolitan (which I actually hate). It's the action more than anything else.
Like now. I'm going to go light a candle. And that's a Special thing to do. And I feel good about it. Because I'm lighting a candle now, I'll be able to finish my paper for film class in a minute. Isn't it wonderful?
I feel like such a failure. Some part of me knows that I am fully capable of going out to a concert and having a good time. Really, I am. But tonight I was just surrounded by a crowd of people, and there was Fruvous on the speakers before the show, and then there was Hennessey opening up, and well, staring at Pam has never made anyone feel good about themselves, has it? The woman is perfect.
I enjoyed seeing her and Rory. They did a favourite Crowded House song of mine, which made up for the absence of any Jesus Christ Superstar number. But it was just too much. I just got really claustrophobic and pissed off that we had to wait over two hours after doors and it was eleven-thirty and the opener had just ended, with no sign of the headliners yet. The crowd was just scary. All the voices. So I left.
Now I'm sitting on IRC and no one is talking to me. I'm thinking about thwarting my original plan to get drunk and have fun on my computer, and just going to bed instead. Bed I understand.
Myself, on the other hand... that has yet to be determined.
Well, I got to leave work early today, which was good, because I ran out of energy about an hour before that. It was balmy today. I got hot walking around in my jacket. I went outside as much as I could while it was still light, but I knew when I headed home it would be glacial again, and it was. The wind was terrible, but there were puddles on the ground where the ice was still melting. The day was beautiful.
Much like the way I couldn't make it through a whole concert yesterday, a seven hour shift today was just impossible. Maybe I just haven't been eating enough. I have no energy and it frustrates me.
Mike the roommate is throwing up again. It has to be the fourth time since the beginning of January that he's been sick. It's the fourth time that I've noticed, anyway, and he's pretty discreet about it, so there may have been more. My theory is that he's dying. Either that, or he has some strange fetish or compulsion that requires him to eat something which is otherwise inedible. I don't want to know quite what that thing is, but I have a few ideas.
I have opinions and theories on everything, it seems. Do other people think this much? Or do they succeed better at distracting themselves with mundane activities and small talk?
Now playing: Fred Eaglesmith, "Lipstick, Lies and Gasoline". First saw Fred because of Moxy Fruvous, of course. Then MC's mom gave me this album for Christmas, because I liked him so much.
It's not fair how everything reminds me of Moxy Fruvous. There should be a way to get some distance, at least some of the time. Sometimes it's really acute, too. Like yesterday. The chick at the door of the club was Jennifer from Maple Music who I picked up the gift certificate for Frucon from. Then about twenty minutes later, Heatseeker Boy came on the loudspeaker.
Even though I didn't get to know Hennessey through Fruvous, they are now eternally linked in my mind. Plus, I was surrounded in the same people who'd been at the Con the week before...
The songs on the radio have all been covered or referenced by Fruvous. Or they are old Wham! songs that remind me of old Fruhead friends of long ago. Or they are Sarah Harmer. I can't get away from Sarah these days, any more than I can escape that other band... And all the people in the store keep renting Gladiator, and it makes me laugh because of what Mike Wood told me yesterday. But it also makes me think of Fruvous.
Make. It. Stop.
Just give me one day.
Everyone cheer and clap for me! I have finished a paper on the effects of the Great Depression on the motion picture industry!
Of course, I still have to write one about the content of the class. This is going to be way harder than anything I've ever done before, actually. Because A) a chinese restaurant stole most of my notes (no really, they did. And gave them to the Salvation Army. Bastards.) and B) I slept through or can't remember most of the class. I honestly can't tell it apart from a class I had last year in the same room. So I'm basically fucked... Oh, well.
I'm considering not writing it at all. I'm fairly sure I'll still pass if I don't. Fairly sure. And I mean, I know so little about what we did in this class, it's going to be obvious that I just forged the 2500 word paper out of thin air, anyway. I'm sure I'll get a much better grade on the one I just finished... despite the lateness.
I hate it when I talk about school here. I hate school. It is way too intrusive. There are much fluffier, lollipoppier, teddy-bearer, candy-caner, puppier things to be thinking about. I really can't bring myself to concentrate on technical things when there are so many theoretical things out there. I'm beginning to think I'm cut out to hold a retail job the rest of my life and just wax philosophical once in a while.
I'm having some serious self-image issues right now, I think. I'm fat, and that's not good enough. I'm not hideous, but that's not good enough. I work in retail, and that's just not good enough at all. It's pissing me off. I mean, I'm pissing me off. If I could just stop lingering over these stupid insecurities, I'm sure that the big picture of Me that occasionally makes appearances on film would be much less difficult to watch.
I get so disgusted by watching myself when I get like this. My movements, mostly. They get cut off. Like I suddenly am unable to perform any task fully. It makes me feel like an imitation instead of the real deal. And I know I do it, but I can't seem to stop. I move like I'm pretending to do what I'm actually doing... like a dance teacher, only giving the impression of an arabesque or a pirouette. Only, dance teachers have grace when they do this.
I like to think I have grace when I don't.
I miss myself. I love how crazy I am. Unpredictable. And occasionally embarassing. I miss feeling connected to my body. Feeling right. Knowing the way that I move.
All this means is that I'm going to be back to my old self soon. I know it.
Oh, shoot shoot shoot. Just as I started typing this I remembered that I'd promised myself I would call my parents this evening. Pardon me while I step out and you are none the wiser.
Ah. There. That's better. Apparently I am absolutely to see Oh Brother, Where Art Thou as soon as possible. Maybe I will work up the zeal to agree with that statement sometime in the next few weeks. And the cash.
I am now officially a geek. I have gone out and bought a chess manual from Indigo.ca. I looked at all the books, Fiction, Biography, Self-Help, Fantasy, Romance, Erotica, Gay/Lesbian Studies, Books on tape, even their gift shop. And I finally settled on "The Right Way To Play Chess". I've wanted to own a chess book for a long time, actually. It's not just a spur-of-the-moment thing. See, I go on these chess kicks every few months, and play against myself for days at a time. I've often thought during these kicks, that it would be lots more fun if I knew what I was doing.
Also, as Fiona said, I need a hobby.
I can't believe I am still procrastinating on writing my last paper. I only have about fourteen hours before I actually have to hand it in, and most of those will be spent sleeping or in class, or on public transportation. None of those things involve sitting at my computer, obviously. Unless I can find some way to combine sleeping and typing. Which isn't very likely. So why am I even writing this at the moment? I should be working towards my goal of sleeping a minimum of four hours tonight, not spilling my innermost chess thoughts.
Not to be confused with chest thoughts, which I feel free to share at any time I please. I feel that my chest has gotten somewhat bigger. Or maybe it's just gained a bit of 'tude. In any case, I don't like it. I don't like looking down and seeing breasts dominating everything. It reminds me of... well, it's just *wrong*. I've been thinking of binding lately. Not that that would solve the problem in the long run, but I think it would be an interesting experience. Am I sharing too much? Making you uncomfortable? I'll stop now if you like.
If you have any thoughts on binding or if you would like me never to speak a word of it again, tell me here. Thanks.
I just finished my second paper in twenty-four hours. I like writing papers. It's something I'm good at. Unlike certain other things which leave me groping in the dark. I have decided to give up film. It is really not for me. It's unfortunate. I swear there was a time when I was happy doing this, but I can't really remember that time anymore.
I actually talked to my mom about it. I don't give a fuck about film production classes anymore. I walked out on one today. Just couldn't stomach the idea of staying for three hours talking about different brands of lights, so I called my mom and let her know that I was finally snapping.
Way to go, me. I feel ever so much better.
But I wish there was something I could talk about here other than school today. So I'm going to talk about what a crybaby I am. It's true. You all think I'm really tough I'm sure ;) But out of all my friends, I am most likely to burst out crying in an embarassingly public place, for example. It pisses me off. I mean, try playing the toughie while blubbering. Impossible! Yet I can never seem to cry when it matters. Funerals, for example. I get dirty looks because I seem so disaffected. But say one observant thing to me over IRC and off I go. Must be a hormone thing.
About those funerals... my family, I'm fairly sure, thinks I am cold and insensitive. It doesn't help that I moved hours from all of them and can't visit them often. Whenever I do, it's during a family emergency, and I'm expected to be upset, scared, meek, malleable and sensitive. Unfortunately, I get very tired of being upset, scared, meek, malleable and sensitive, and so I don't do it all the time. Sue me, you know?
Dat's it for now. More later, no doubt.
I blew the power out again. It was a boneheaded thing to do, I'll admit it. I simply forgot and turned the toaster oven on while the microwave oven was still cooking my pizza. The whole house went dark. Well, actually, no. When that breaker goes, only the slightly inconvenient stuff gets turned off. The TV, living room and kitchen lights, oven, toaster oven and microwave oven, bathroom lights and the lights in my bedroom. Dave's TV also went, which was strange. I remember it working during previous semi-outages.
It's like the house was only designed to drive us crazy, not ruin our lives. The fridge and my computer still work whenever that circuit blows out.
So Fiona and I had to relocate in a hurry to catch what we thought would be the final episode of The Mole. They are in fact stretching the show into tomorrow, which is a good thing. More of The Mole is always a good thing.
For some reason, the show has gathered almost no popularity. I can't see why. It's completely compelling, way more exciting than Survivor, plus mentally challenging. And the contestants who are on The Mole are aware that they're playing a game, and they're much more pleasant to watch interact with each other.
You get to see people fight, *plus* they jump out of airplanes. All right!
I don't think I am blue any longer. Just overwhelmed, but hopefully that will change when I talk to an advisor who can let me know what to do in order to change the structure of my academic life. But in the spirit of being blue, I've been humming this song all day. Tell me it's not beautiful.
Even though high
And if extinguished I'd be happier
- Jim's Big Ego, Down Here
Now playing: MC's copy of Gotta Get Over Greta, which has just resurfaced after over a year's absence. Yay! If only my Crowded House album (which I was looking for when I found this) would do the same. Sigh.
I don't like it when people re-release albums with different track listings. It takes away so much of the credit I'd given them for making the album. I mean, the order of the tracks has got to mean something. Just ask Danny Michel, who puts warnings of "Just say no to random suffle mode" on the backs of all his albums.
Or just listen to Dan Bern's Fifty Eggs, one of the best-flowing albums I know. Would it sound the same if One Dance came first? NO! Would it suck? Probably not... but you wouldn't get as much closure. Have you ever listened to an album only halfway, and gotten the whole thing earwormed for the rest of the day? It's because there was no closure.
Some albums are just designed clumsily (or perhaps sneakily) enough to have no closure. Others don't work unless you listen to the songs in order. I like the second kind.
This version of Greta is different than the first version I had, from a tape someone made me. That tape is long dead, but it had closure, or so it seemed (although sometime after Cowards and before the end, it did lose a bit of momentum for me). This one has a completely different order. I'll probably get used to it very fast. But right now, I'm reeling. How can starting with I Need A Doctor be a good idea? That's obviously a middle song.
I'm going on like this partially because I feel strongly about it. Also partially because I am trying to jar my grey matter into writing a brilliant little biography of Jian Ghomeshi for MC. It needs to be finished before I go to work tonight. In five hours.
And cleaning this sty would be nice, too.
It took me two hours to do the dishes today. Dave came home last night and whined about the kitchen, then abruptly took off again. He is partying in Peterborough. I think he should move back to Peterborough. I think that's what he thinks too.
I think it's sad that not only do the other two people who live here never do any cleaning, but that everyone expects that it's up to me. I don't think that's very fair. Dave comes home and bitches at *me*, not Brandy or Mike. You know, I wish things cleaned themselves, but they don't. Except, for Mike, they do. His dishes just magically appear in the cupboards all clean again after he's used them. He's none the wiser to the process known as "washing". Same with the bathroom. No one here can even conceive of putting the roll of bathroom tissue *on* the dispenser. They can fish it out of the cabinet and use it, but they can't accomplish that one other simple task.
Once again, this is not what I want to be talking about. I am so sick of bitching about things.
Here's what I wish existed. I wish everything came with a number. That number would be the percentage of responsibility that you have toward whatever you are doing at the moment. For example, I could look at today's 2 hours worth of dishes and know that I was only responsible for 15% of them. So then I could do 15% of them and leave the other 85% for someone else.
This is quite a radical thought coming from someone who usually likes doing things for people.
MC mentioned in her entry about maps that to go from Japan to DC, you would have to head North-East over Alaska. And I stared and stared that the area-accurate map that she linked to, but all I could think of was: "They're on the same latitude. How could it be better to go anywhere but straight East?"
Then I just saw it. How you totally have to go over Alaska to get from Japan to DC. Epiphany. It was beautiful.
I emailed my profs very late yesterday and let them know I was dropping out of film production. I already have an answer from one of them. He is asking me if I am leaving because of his teaching. I have to laugh. He was the best thing about the whole programme. I hope I can get around to telling him this later today.
Do I update this thing too much? I think I'm addicted. It's just so easy to sit here and think up something to say.
I had fun at work today. The shift was going so well it actually found me pronouncing the words: "Why the hell would I want a real job when I can have you guys?" We watched Kindergarden Cop. And laughed and laughed. And rewound the good parts to watch them twice.
"I'm going to aaask you twooo questions. Whooo's yor daddy, and wot does he dooo?"
"Everybohdy get yor milk."
"You son of a beetch."
We had customers asking us to rewind. We watched the "Who's your daddy" part three times. We had customers standing in the line refusing to be served for fear of missing some brilliant Ah-nie line. Some days I just love my job.
I also found out today that the BB in BB-gun stands for ball bearing. I had no idea. My reaction to this?
Adam decided that he and I should only communicate in high-frequency sonar sounds, so we squealed at each other all day. Tomorrow I work some more, and then get to go see Sarah Harmer at the Music Hall. Tickets are more expensive than I would have liked, but that's okay, because I get some Danny too.
I am steaming.
No, I didn't just come in from outside, although I'm sure that would make me steam too.
The reason I am steaming is that I'm angry.
The reason I am angry is an old one indeed.
It's just come back to hit me in the face. On January 3, 2000, I called in to my job at the bakery to find out when I was working next. I'd just come home from a weekend of partying in Buffalo. Lovingly, my boss told me not to come in anymore. Just... not ever. No reason, nothing. I only went there once after that, to pick up my last paycheck and vacation pay. My cow orker gave me a look of confusion when I told her I wouldn't be coming back. She hadn't heard. She slipped me a free croissant. I left in a hurry.
That was a year and two months ago. Today, I got a T4 from them in the mail, saying that they paid me $428.50 in the year 2000. My big fat beautiful ass, they did. I didn't set foot in that place in the year 2000 more than once. Even if somehow they counted my final check and vacation pay in that total, it surely wouldn't count up to four hundred and change.
My assumption is that for tax reasons they are pretending to have paid me. Either that, or they made a mistake. In any case, I'm going to go over there tomorrow and ask them what the fuck is up.
They were never good at bookeeping. Ever. I cringed every time they wrote me a check, actually. But this is just terrible.
I really don't need to be telling the government that I made more money than I actually did last year. My income is currently way below the poverty line, and I don't need to pay taxes on money I didn't get. However, if all I get is my ten dollars in tax money back, then I'm all for it. I'm not quite sure how this works anymore.
I'm reluctant to get my dad to help me this year with my taxes, what with the cancer thing and all. I mean, it seems trivial. But it's still something you have to do. And we had so much fun doing it last year, strangely enough. You can have fun doing anything.
Random thought I had today: I'd like to legally change my name to "+1" so that I could get in on the guestlist of every show I'd go to. The bouncer would explain that the spot was actually for someone's date or guest, and then I would calmly pull out my driver's licence. No one can argue the "+1".
This led to the idea that we should show up early to shows and pretend to be Jack Ross in order to be let in on his guestlist spots. I will not say who came up with this idea first, between Mikey, Squee, Gigi and I, only that it was the short-haired, bespectacled one with the slight French accent. ;)
My plans for today included doing laundry, renting the new movies for next week at work, and going to Rahier and yelling my ass off at them. I only did two of those three things. Well, I'm not actually done with the laundry, but that's because laundry in my house takes a day per load, pretty much. Our dryer sucks.
I didn't go to Rahier. I figured that they'd probably have some sort of half-assed reason that I wouldn't be able to argue, and I'm still mad enough at them to want to avoid them if at all possible.
Also, I don't remember the owner's name. At all. Her first name is gone from my memory. I know that her husband the pastry chef was called François, but... that's as far as it goes.
I figure it's better if I just stay away. They wouldn't recognize me anyway, what with my hair. I know a lot of my friends didn't last month.
Has it seriously only been two weeks since Frucon? Wow. Some days can seem like years.
Now playing: "Up Up Up Up Up Up", Ani DiFranco. The song, from the album of the same name, is filling my room with beautiful melodies and impressions. I love this album.
I haven't been listening to Ani very much lately. I've been listening to Danny Michel and to Guster. Strange for me. They're both singable. But I usually prefer to listen at least somewhat regularly to a chick singer with a broad range that I can try to match. I like to kill my voice when I listen to music ;)
Tonight is Junos night, so I will be watching The Lone Gunmen. It's not that I'm protesting the Junos. It's just that they're too strange to watch. Sarah Harmer is playing, and she's nominated for Album of the Year, or a similar award... up against BNL and who knows who else (I certainly don't, as you can see). I just can't conceive of Sarah in the big time. Still, after all this time. She's just the lead singer of that band that Emmitt took me to see five years ago in that near-empty club.
Weeping Tile was never a big deal. Then they went away, and I saw Sarah opening for Moxy Fruvous in Syracuse by accident. And I knew her songs, and it was the strangest thing, out there in the middle of New York state (well, not the geographical centre, by any means, but you know what I'm getting at).
She was tiny then. Now she's performing at the Junos. It's difficult to come to terms with that. She's *my* Sarah.
Also, lack of interest plays a large part. I will know who won by reading it in the paper tomorrow... why should I invest two or three hours just to find out tonight? I am not that interested.
I'm somewhat like the semi-sportsfan who reads the score the day after the big game to see whether or not he's made any money in his office pool. It's a more general sort of outcome that I'm looking for. I don't care who had the best jazz album. But I hope the industry as a whole recognizes smaller, more underground and independent artists with talent, as well as the big guys. I hope it is moving in that direction.
The plan for tomorrow: play phone tag with the automated enrollment service at school until I have dropped all but one class, finish watching whatever videos I don't have a chance to watch tonight, and then head off to school where they're having a blood donor clinic. I want to give blood, and the fact that I'm going to go as far as York University to do it is fairly crazy, I admit it. But still. I always intended on doing it as soon as I was allowed to (turning 18 I think is the threshold), but never got around to it. I always felt bad about not following through. No longer!
It's another one of those updates from school! I just came from giving blood. In a lot of ways, I wish I had given before. Mostly, the reason I wish I'd given before is because it's freaking humiliating the way that the volunteers fawn all over first-time donors, while the card-holders just stroll in and stroll out. No, I don't feel sick. Now, either. Nope. Not now, either. Listen, I'm perfectly fine with you sticking a needle in me. No, seriously, there's no problem. Yes, I'm fine. No, I'm fine. No, I don't want another cup of juice. Nope, still not sick. You don't have to carry my bag for me. You don't have to hold out my coat for me. You don't have to pull my chair out for me. Oh, for Chrissakes.
They gave me a pin that says "first-time donor" on it. I'll likely hide it far from human eyes until I get one that says "seasoned veteran, do not coddle". Honestly.
It's not like it was the first time blood was taken from my body. It just so happened that it was the first time I gave the blood to Canadian Blood Services in a neat little bag, is all.
My chess book came today. It is beautiful, never been opened. I read two chapters on the bus here and I love it. I'm so glad I bought it. Soon, I'll be reading that annoying little section in the Saturday paper where they have the chess problems, and recreating championship matches using Algebraic notation and my sweet little board at home.
Yes, I'm aware of how geeky that sounds. I don't care.
I think I've offended MC by telling her that I can't see her this week when I come home. The funny thing is, there's no one I'd rather see. I miss her so much, it's not even on a scale with anyone else, parents included. But the fact is that when I go home, my mother runs my life. There's no other way to explain it, it's just like that. Whenever I make appearances on the home turf, there's this expectation from all of my family members that I will spend every waking minute of my visit making up for the year and a half that I wasn't there. Ultimately, everyone ends up disappointed. Especially me. I don't want to spend my time making "appearances" to prove to people I haven't seen in a long time that I still care about them. I want to genuinely spend time, make plans with them. My own plans. Not my mother's haphazardly-scheduled drop-ins.
There's nothing I can do. My dad has cancer, and though it would be nice to take my mind off of that for a few minutes tomorrow, I'll get dirty looks if I spend any time smiling.
What a terrible day. You can tell it's been a terrible day when I say the best part of it was having vital fluids drained from my body. Honestly.
After giving blood, I went to the computer lab, where I had a discussion/conflict which left me in tears. Then I waited forty-five minutes in the snow for a bus. I was the second-to-last person on the bus, crammed into other people, and feeling crowded and claustrophobic and weak.
I wasn't on the bus for very long when I started feeling like I couldn't breathe and my vision started blacking out. So I crouched/slid down to the floor of the bus, and got my knees all wet, crowded between other people's feet and bags. Still, no one offered me a seat or anything. Buncha savages in this town.
By this time I'm just miserable. So when the driver says that the subway isn't running, I'm not incredibly surprised. I end up on a shuttle bus to a station that works. Then on the subway. I finally get sick of the subway somewhere sort of near the bus station, so I get out and cut through the very snowy Nathan Phillips Square to get to the station. I'm fairly sure Fiona is gone by now. It's almost eight o'clock. I left school over two hours ago.
Still, futility aside, when I find out that she is gone, I get mad. I get on the subway and head home. Another forty-five minutes or so.
How terrible. Luckily, the snow looks beautiful. Someone behind me in line for the bus all those hours ago said "Would it be inciting violence to say that it looks pretty?" It does. It looks very pretty. Too bad it's cold. And wet. And slows traffic. And makes vision difficult. And kills people in highway pileups. Too bad it's evil. It actually looks quite pretty.
I just want to say Congrats Fiona!
I'm probably not allowed to say why yet, and I gotta go to work anyway. So that's all. :)
Wow. I uh, had something to say when I turned on FTP. I know that. So where did it go? Dunno...
Oh, yes. It was just a small comment. I just read AJ's diaryland page, where he talks about eventually getting out of debt, something we all admire him for I'm sure. I wanted to say congratulations (wow, twice in 24 hours!), and also wanted to observe that I think that $738 a month is a small price to pay for peace of mind. I think that's wonderful.
I'm having some trouble typing right now because there is a piece of pork chop wrapped in a plastic bag in my trash can, and the cat keeps trying to get at it. Pork is very bad for cats, or at least that's what I was told growing up. For all I know, it could just be something my mom said so that there'd be more pork for her.
I will be working forty hours this week. I think I'm happy about that. I think. Most of the reason why I'm suddenly working full time is that Melanie quit, and stopped coming to her last four shifts, just like MC did. I linked you to MC's page so that you could go see the cute picture of her head.
I don't understand how some people decide to can their personal websites and just use diaryland. I know of two who've done it. Maybe it's because of my computer's instability that I feel that diaryland is unreliable and more difficult? I don't know. I'd like to think that it's because I've devised a system of updating this site that is completely 100% efficient.
Whenever I want to update, I simply give the latest rant a name, add it to the toolbar, transfer both these files to the site, and then type. It's a lot easier than opening up Netscape and going to Diaryland, and logging in, and clicking Add Entry. Plus, I hate text boxes. They annoy me. And usually the number of characters per line isn't set in them, so that you could end up typing just one endless line if you were into that sort of thing.
I mean, why bother when you can just set "wordwrap" in notepad?
Sometimes I think if everyone thought like me, the world would be much more efficient ;)
It would also probably have more fistfights and sarcasm.
My readership is dwindling. There's been a slow but steady drop over the past week. I guess I can't drop a bombshell every week. Or do I ever drop bombshells? Maybe I drop too many bombshells, and you're all just telling me that my gross sensationalism isn't working anymore.
I can't believe what my roommates did to me. It was really mean. They made me seem like the bad guy by witholding first money, and then information.
I pay the rent. Every month, everyone is supposed to give me their money, it goes into a bank account especially for rent, and I write a check with puppies and kitties on it, and everything is fine. Right?
So my roommates rarely pay their rent on time. Usually by the fifth of the month I have two out of three portions and my overdraft protection can cover the rest for a few days. It sucks, but it has to be done.
So this month, there was no money. Dave was away during the first few days, and I didn't see Brandy or Mike at all. And I admit, if I hadn't sort of wanted to get them into trouble, maybe I would have left them a note. But by now I'm so sick of that kind of irresponsibility that I didn't even want to bother. My plan was to call the landlady, give her my part of the rent and let her know what's going on.
Then my dad's operation got scheduled for the seventh. I left early on the sixth (Tuesday) and got back late on the evening of the eighth (Thursday). Not too long.
Didn't see any of my roommates on Friday, although there was a cheque on my bed from Mike. After closing the store, I came home and decided to listen to phone messages I might have missed. Well, lo and behold, I was able to piece together what I thought was a large part of what had happened from the messages.
Our landlady called on Wednesday night about rent. Dave tried to get in touch with me by calling Melinda and asking for my parents' number (yeah, like she would have that?). Melinda gave him MC's number, but he never called MC. Which leads me to believe he was only sort of pretending to try to reach me in the first place.
This is what I knew of the situation when I walked in the door tonight to find him sprawled on the couch watching Joe's Apartment. I went into the living room and asked if I could have this month's rent. He told me the rest of the story.
He and Brandy got in touch with the landlady while I was away, and paid her their part of the rent in cash.
Which definitely makes me look like a total irresponsible flake. I realize that I should have tried harder to get the rent out of them, but honestly, they should know when it's the first of the month and rent is due. It's not like it's hard to figure out.
By this point my head is already reeling with the idea that Jane thinks that I'm the one who's been slacking on rent, when really what's going on is that I was protecting her from a bouncing cheque.
Then Dave drops the big one. "She said she'd be by to pick up the rest on Friday."
"Today is Saturday."
"Yeah, it is. I was out last night." He gives me a blank look, then shrugs apathetically and goes back to watching TV.
So the money did not get to the landlady at the appointed time because I was not informed of the appointed time until it was thirty-six hours too late.
I won't be staring at my feet and mumbling when I finally do get to see the landlady. No, sir. I will not be shy and withdrawn, even if she does intimidate me. Because I a) Have somewhere to go, so eviction is not that scary and b) Am not to blame for this sick, crazy situation. I must keep these things in mind.
I'm going to call her tomorrow morning and get things straightened out. Meanwhile... who's going to be dropping bombshells, eh, Dave?
If you've gotten to the end of this post, I urge you to discuss this matter further. Come to my Message Board and read MC's post.
Now playing: "Accidents Will Happen", by Elvis Costello. Yay, Elvis.
I mentioned something about this yesterday and it piqued Donna's curiosity a little too much, so I thought I would follow through and write about it here, because it's been on my mind lately. I've been thinking about it because I seem to be having some back difficulty. Anyhow.
I've been thinking about childbearing. Not because I want children now. Not because I'm planning to have children at a certain point in my life. But I'd like to have kids, eventually. And I'm worried.
I have double-jointed hips. They're terrible. If I stretch the upper half of my body while seated, chances are one or both of them will pop out of joint. Oh, it's not physically obvious. It's not like my legs turn inside out, or start hanging at odd angles. But I can't move until I ease them back into place. The whole process can be very painful.
So I've been thinking about having children. I've always thought that when I eventually had kids, it would be a natural childbirth. But what if I can't do that because of the automatic disconnection of my legs from my body? I know that *sounds* silly, but it's kind of upsetting.
The problem isn't that it would hurt. I mean, having kids is supposed to hurt, right? But rather, the loss of control of my legs after my hips dislocate. I can't bend my legs very well. Try fitting them into stirrups.
This thought is really bumming me out.
I just got back from seeing O Brother, Where Art Thou with Fiona, and as we got out of the theatre, we almost ran smack into Don McKellar. So, of course, suave chica that I am, I hurried around the bend and proceeded to have a full pointing and whispering loudly fit in full view of a couple of ushers and confection stand employees, who probably laughed and told Don about it later.
Don McKellar. The mind behind Highway 61, Twitch City and Last Night. Last Night, man. The gas company guy. The hommage to Pete Seeger. That all came from his brain.
Last night, I walked home from work at one o'clock in the morning. It had been teetering from snow to rain to sleet all evening. When I finally left the store, the ground was covered with a carpet of very thin ice that crunched when I walked and made a sound not unlike a child biting into a hearty spoonful of Cap'n Crunch.
I walked, and I thought about inventing a giant weather-machine that would cause breakfast cereal to fall instead of rain. That way, families with little income or in places where food was scarce could just leave bowls out on the sills and sidewalks every night, and they would automatically be provided with their part of a complete breakfast when they woke up in the morning.
Light dustings of Carnation Instant Breakfast mix. Flurries of Rice Crispies and Chex and Honeycomb (the porous cereals). Veritable hailstorms of Sugar Crisp, Cap'n Crunch and Count Chocula, not to mention Cocoa Pebbles.
I thought about all of this as I walked home last night. Then I realized I couldn't devise a way to make it rain milk in just the right proportion, and the pretty dream fell apart.
My dad was right about O Brother, Where Art Thou. The movie *did* do for fall what Fargo did for winter, and I *was* the only person laughing at a lot of the jokes (well, Fiona did too, but she counts as me for all intents and purposes right now). When MC and my dad and I went to see The Big Lebowski, we were the only ones who made a sound in the theatre. When my parents and I and a friend saw Fargo, we cackled alone through the whole picture.
I thought crowds in Toronto would be different. I mean, how could anyone not die laughing at the much-repeated, desperate plea of "Is you is or is you ain't my constituency?" coming late in the film? You'd think that audiences here would "get it" a lot more than those back home. I guess every town has its percentage of average folk.
Tanya reminds me of the people back home. She has the same kind of goals, the same kind of attitude. She hangs out at the same bar every night. I like it. It's comforting. She's a small town gal in a big city. And up until recently, I was a big city gal in a small town.
My back appears to be healing nicely. I hope I'll be alright tomorrow at work. Today I forgot that I had class until it was too late to go. But that's alright, because it was too far to go anyway, and I needed to stay off my feet.
I've been watching Debbie Travis on TV a lot lately, and I've been daydreaming about epoxy finishes and ice palace-themed living room/dining room combos. I want to make a headboard out of an old door. Hey, I've got a bed! Now all I need is a door!
I'm not much of a renovating person. Strange that these shows would affect me so much. All I want in a place is an adequate and hygenic kitchen, and no bugs. I don't think I'll be getting much renovating done anytime soon, not even something as simple as decorative lampshades made with feather boas.
I thought I should update because it had been two whole days (two and a half, actually). But I'm just sitting here trying to think of what to say, and I can't think of anything.
Fiona and Mike and I went to see Lindy last night. It was something he's been doing for a year called the "Uh-Oh Variety Show". The point is to showcase new talent, so there are two opening bands, and then Lindy comes on.
I'd like to talk about the first band, whose name was Detective somethingorother. Some girl's name, I don't remember. Six guys. One drummer, obviously not old enough to get into the bar, one bass player, suffering from what appeared to be the same affliction. These two made the up the "Velma and Shaggy" part of the band. There were two horn players, dressed in bright colours and looking like they were a part of a completely different band, and a guy playing a Moog, who was so serious-looking that Mike described him as the Dr. Smith to their Lost in Space family.
Oh, and then there was the lead singer, with the charisma of a paper plate (I found myself looking at the immoble, sullen-looking Moog player more) and the voice to match. He sang like little kids trying to sing, with no clear idea of pitch, and wavering confidence throughout.
They were terrible. But... entertainingly so. They reminded me a lot of Topon, for some reason, with that philosophy of "the louder the better" shining through. Also, their songs were mostly one verse long, never longer than two minutes. Mike said it was like going to the library and just reading the first page of books. I had to agree.
The second band was somewhat better, and of course Lindy was excellent. Excellent, excellent, excellent. The fact that I kept falling asleep throughout the set had nothing to do with the music... although I've noticed that loud music makes me sleepy.
We went to visit a basement apartment yesterday. It was... built for Bilbo Baggins, most likely. Very low ceilings, but kind of cute nonetheless. My dad tried to convince me that the lack of light would drive me crazy. I don't know. I don't think we're dying to take it, but there were some advantages.
The main one being that it is surrounded by Italian restaurants (well, it's in Little Italy, so that's logical). We ate at this wonderful place called Eden where everything was on special and delicious. I had a two-dollar Sleemans. Can't beat that.
But I have to keep reminding myself that there's no *actual* hurry to pack up and go. I've got a roof over my head right now, and so does Fiona. So we can keep looking till we're satisfied.
All *I* want is some nice counters. Is that too much to ask?
Now playing: Guster's "Great Escape". Everytime I hear this song I walk around all day whispering "circle circle dot dot dot".
Our store has a new mascot. A few weeks ago, we found a little ball bearing sitting around, and yesterday we realized how resilient he was, because we hadn't lost him yet, he was still sitting around. So he's our mascot. Adam and I got bored and played ball bearing baseball with the handle of a screwdriver. I'm the only person ever to have hit a ball bearing baseball. What's more, I knocked it out of the park. I like this game.
Sometimes our antics remind me of my first job and all the strange people there. Racing up and down the escalators when the store was empty. Chasing each other around on two-wheelers. It was never boring there. Sometimes I wonder if I'm putting it up on a pedestal because I don't remember the bad stuff, but the truth is, I remember being in that store doing my job and thinking "Wow, this rocks." Jobs like that are hard to come by. You could do whatever you wanted if there were no customers, provided you listened for the jingle of keys. All supervisors had to carry these giant keychains which made tons of noise. Sometimes I wonder if it was for our benefit that they were so easily spottable.
Yesterday was St-Patricks Day. Tanya went to the bar next door and got a huge pile of Guinness and Kilkenny temporary tattoos, and I put one on my hand. Later in the evening I decided I wanted to balance it out by putting a tattoo on my other hand, but since I didn't have any water left, I simply licked the tattoo into place.
What I didn't realize was that this was going to trigger a violent flashback, movie-style. I was sitting there with my tongue on my hand, and suddenly, I remembered. This had happened to me before. Well, not *me* licking my hand, because I'm sure that's happened countless times, and it's so uneventful that I don't keep a record of tongue-hand contact. But... gah, how did I stray so far from the subject?
Once upon a time, in the dark recesses of my memory, there was a Topon and he licked a tattoo onto me. It's weird the things that just get forgotten. You'd think I'd remember something like that. I mean, it's not everyday someone presses what is ultimately an "inside" organ against your skin for a full minute.
It sort of makes me paranoid about what other really strange things I might have forgotten about.
Cause, you know, I want to tell my grandkids about this stuff. Of course. Temporary tattoos, strange first encounters with members of bands, misadventures in gas station-less towns in Vermont. What if I forget all that stuff?
Oooh. Even worse. What if I turn into the guy in the Stephen King short story who decides to record everything that happens around him, and after years of recording birds and plants and cars he starts recording his own breathing, and then he dies????
Er, maybe I should drop this subject.
Or maybe I should just get a medical degree, start dealing drugs, get stranded on a desert island with hundreds of pounds of heroin, and amputate my own body parts for food.
Because thinking about any Stephen King short story eventually will make my mind go to the Ultimate Stephen King short story. Ya know.
It's amazing the stuff you do to take your mind off being bored. A few weeks ago, I was updating this diary several times a day, but I didn't specifically feel like I had too much time on my hands. Now I realize that I must have had some sort of surplus, because it's all I can do to find a minute to write here at one AM, when I really should be in bed because I have to actually do things tomorrow morning. And afternoon. And evening.
Tomorrow is going to be a Very Busy Day, all things considered. It would be a Very Busy Day even if I didn't have a seven-hour shift in the middle of it. Isn't that sad?
I've been reading Marn's diary compulsively. I mean that I started at the very first entry and have been making my way slowly but enjoyably forward. I wish Marn came in book form, so that I could curl up under my blankets with it.
I want to take a moment to talk about my favourite colour, which is green. I also like orange and brown (very seventies, I know), but green all-around wins everytime. Strangely enough, it all started with my dead aunt.
To put it bluntly.
My aunt Nancy had breast cancer on and off for about five years. We basically all thought she was out of the woods when one summer, she abruptly got sick again, and seemed to just peter out like a flame.
She died in September, two days before my sixteenth birthday. My actual birthday was spent at the funeral parlour viewing her body, and later dividing up her stuff among family members. Because I was the only female in the family who hadn't suffered a freak accident in the reproductive area, they made me take all the *girlie* things. At the time, it seemed like the most inappropriate thing for me to have. I'm pleased to say I haven't changed my stance on that one bit. It's still disgusting and fucking bizarre.
I also got all the shoes, which was strange. I was a sixteen-year-old who wore nothing but sneakers and Doc Martens, and suddenly I owned twelve pairs of high-heeled shoes. I couldn't figure out what to do with them. I was scared to throw them out or give them away. My mother guilted me into wearing them more that once, I'm afraid.
A lot of the clothing that came home with me that night has been hanging in my closet ever since, waiting for such a time as I might need a black short-sleeved wool dress, or some other strange item.
There was only one thing that I remember wearing. It was just a simple T-shirt, a rich emerald green with a sweet but simple embroidered crest in the middle of the chest. For some reason, I felt good in that shirt. Really good.
It was a very confusing time in my life. One day while I was wearing the green shirt, something happened. Someone whose opinion Mattered told me that the shirt made me look beautiful.
I was never without it after that. It was the first thing I pulled out of the fresh laundry, and it had its fare share of emergency washings for special occasions.
The shirt lasted about two years before finally developping holes around the crest and collar. I don't know where it is anymore. It doesn't really matter, as special as that shirt was to me. It's somehow as though the shirt has died, and I've moved on.
I've moved on to more green clothing. There's just something about the colour that still makes me feel all peaceful inside.
And it's all because of my aunt Nancy, who died on my sweet sixteen. Go figure.
If you want to make me smile, wear green.
Well, welcome to halftime of Busy Hectic Day. This halftime brought to you by God's Bus, which took me where I wanted to go in one-third of the time I had budgeted. Yep, sometimes it's good to be alive.
Now playing: Martin Sexton, "Hard Times", from In The Journey. I was thinking as I walked along today that I was lucky to get on the Martin Sexton train when I did. Back when he was a total unknown with one tiny album under his belt. He swooped in and became the darling of Summerfolk, and I was there to witness it. Then Black Sheep, The American and Wonderbar came out, and even though it was nice to see him live again, nothing was ever like those first few times.
Once, I went to Martin's website and there was a banner that said "rare mp3s now available!" or something like that. And I clicked and bounced with glee while I waited for the page to load. And then I realized as I saw the titles that I owned basically everything Martin had ever recorded, and that the mp3s meant nothing to me, because I had them all already.
As some of you probably already know, Cosmo's tail has been... altered. Brandy was bleaching her hair, and he, as she put it, "got in the way". He now has a nice little red-headed splotch of fur at the base of his tail. Nice, in that "really terribly tragically horrible" kind of way. My cat was perfect. Uniformly black, sleek, a stain. He was beautiful.
When I saw the spot, I wanted to cry. I'm still not sure why. I guess it's just time he and I got out of here. I think he feels it too. He seems restless. This month is going to be a flurry of activity and hopefully at the end of it, we will take all of our belongings and leave this house to someone who still has a shred of sanity left.
I know, I know. Go to bed, Kath. You sound like you need it.
AJ has a new entry up (finally ;) about what to do if you have feelings for someone who is already in a relationship. I'm to understand that the discussion originated on Sally's page.
I realize this isn't exactly related. But my brain's just yacking this morning, so I'm going to go with it. AJ is totally right. In theory. I mean, that's what great about giving advice. Everything is theoretical, and you don't have to deal with the messy practical side.
It's all well and good to say "Hey, share your feelings, it can't hurt", yadda yadda. But not everyone reacts the way you would, AJ. Not everyone would say "If I wasn't already in a happy relationship, I'd go out with you in a second."
Some people would just laugh at you. Some people might feel sorry for you. Some people might be offended (strange as that may seem). Some people might pretend not to be affected by your admissions, only to grow increasingly uncomfortable in your presence, until whatever acquaintanceship or friendship you might have had is completely ruined by unnamed tension.
There are lots of things that can go wrong.
And you never really know anyone.
OK, so that said, someone being in a relationship isn't a terribly humongous obstacle to your happiness. Whether or not they're in a relationship, I don't think it would change the nature of their reaction to your confession of a crush. So I guess what I'm talking about is risks.
Adventurous as I may seem (yes, yes, I know you all think so), I am very reluctant to take risks. The funny part though, is the reason why in a situation like this I balk at admitting feelings for someone. If they laughed at me, or told me to get lost, it would probably suck (and has sucked, as a matter of fact), but it wouldn't be nearly as bad as what has become my "worst fear".
I'm really scared of initiating a relationship only to have the original feelings wear off, leaving me in the position of leading someone on.
I know. There's a one-word answer for that. "Don't." But... you know it's not that simple.
For one thing, it's happened before. For another, the more I think about it, the likelier it is to happen. I guess the root of the issue is self-trust. And I guess I don't have much of it. I don't trust my own feelings, I second-guess everything, then I second-guess the results.
And I hate to be put in that position, of knowing that you eventually are going to hurt someone. It's just a matter of finding the right time to do it.
I've yet to find that magic hour.
Meh. I don't think that made much sense at all. Just ignore it if it didn't. Maybe later I'll be brilliant again. In the meantime, I need to get cracking. We're going to a content sale in the hopes of finding a desk, a table and some chairs, or something else we can stick somewhere and perhaps sit on or stick things on.
I'll leave you with these words from Hennessey:
"I'll cut my hair this once Delilah,
Now playing: Dido, "Thank You". Wonderful song. Sadly, contrary to what I'm feeling.
This is going to be short and sweet. I'm sure you're all sick of my ranting about Dave by now. But I just have to say one thing, and be warned, it's rather crude.
Why is it that when you're sure the dick can't possibly be rammed further up your ass, someone gives it a little push, and there you go.
I feel like I've been constantly getting fucked up the ass for the past year or so. The worst thing is that for the first few months, I just let him do it. In all honesty, I've just been letting him do it all along.
So tonight, after what was probably the most subdued but worst conversation I've ever had with him about "things that matter", I stormed out of the house. I didn't take any money, just keys and my movie, because when I'm upset, I run.
It was too cold to run for very long, though, so I stopped as soon as I turned the corner off of our street, with the cold cutting into my lungs. I cried all the way to work. I tried to figure out whether or not to call my parents this late. I tried to figure out if it would freak Derek and Chris out to see me screaming and hysterical.
I didn't care, though, I just needed to be somewhere there was light and people. So I went into work. Derek said you know things are bad at home when you come to work to get away.
I told them both what happened (something I will spare you from), and they both agreed that Dave is a complete asshole. I also explained why it is that all of my friends adore him. They agree it's a pretty pathetic situation.
I just hung around, made myself a little bit useful, used the phone to call Fiona, and finally my parents. I thought about a line from Almost Famous, which I'm about to paraphrase badly, no doubt.
"This is the circus. Everybody's trying not to go home, and nobody says goodbye."
It is late morning. I am walking along a fairly busy street, enjoying the security of my new cell phone. I am going to be right on time for work.
As I walk, an oldish gentleman catches my eye. He is wearing the uniform of the fifty-plus males in my neighbourhood: a black leather jacket, black jeans and wire-rimmed glasses, with scraggly grey hair. "Excuse me," he says as he enters earshot. I smile. I must be having one of those 'ask me for directions' kind of days.
But he doesn't ask me where Hanna Road is. Instead, he asks, in a fairly thick yet unidentifyable accent, "You speak English, yes?"
I answer in the affirmative, and await further questioning. He says "Maybe you can help me. I'm looking for a word."
Oooh, vocabulary questions. I smile and agree to help. He's already talking with his hands and hasn't even asked the question yet.
Slowly, he starts. "You know, in a henhouse?"
I blink and wonder if I've heard correctly.
"In a henhouse, there are little staircases for the chickens. The chickens, they climb up and down the stairs. They are staircases built specially for the chickens."
I nod, hoping he will change the subject to something I know a thing or two about, like office supplies.
"You know? You know the little stairs I mean?"
I think of the movie Babe, picture a pig falling off a hay-covered slab of wood, and nod tentatively.
He finishes. "What is the word for the hen stairs?"
I stare at him for a while without answering, wondering if the pause will make me seem smarter. Then I say, "I don't know... I guess I would call it... a ladder?"
He leans his face close to mine and squints, as if he's trying out the word 'ladder' and it doesn't quite fit right. Then he seems to have a flash of brilliance.
"A chicken ladder?"
"... I guess...?"
He then simply saunters away, muttering 'chicken ladder' under his breath.
PS- I want to thank you all for your support and participation on my message board. Y'all are wonderful :)
Well, today's trip to school (which is not yet over) was a complete waste of time if I do say so myself. I came to submit a portfolio and to grab a summer calendar, with the intention of enrolling in some summer courses.
Stop one: the creative writing office where I would submit my portfolio. The secretary takes one look at my paper and tells me it's supposed to be an anonymous portfolio. I come within an inch of saying "Maybe you should have mentioned that last month when I came in to ask for information about how to get into the course," but I don't. She says if I bring it back early next week, they'll still consider it. They better, or it will be one of those "my life is over" moments that I always try to convince myself not to have.
Stop two: the registrar's office where I pick up a summer calendar. I open the calendar to find that the Arts department doesn't even offer English courses in the summer, and that Humanities offers only courses that have nothing to do with my major. The closest thing I can come up with is Intro to Linguistics, which I really don't think is necessary, and which would take away two whole evenings of work a week from May 28 to August 17. This seems a bit excessive. Most of the other summer courses last only until July, and involve about three hours a week of class time. This one is a whole month longer, and involves six hours a week. Do I really need to give my whole life to this one class?
I wonder how I'll break the news to my parents, that I won't be taking a summer class.
It's worrying me that I care more about my job than about my school life. I mean, sure, it's important to me to get good grades and all that, but in the face of the fact that I'm being trained for a promotion, the B+ I got in American Film I seems really pointless.
Yes, being trained for a promotion. I will be the rockin'est manager ever. We'll watch movies all the time. It will be heaven. Promise.
Now, hopefully no one will resent me for moving ahead.
Two words: scary Americans.
Feeling unsafe has never been so reasonable.
In Springfield, Massachusetts, a disgruntled McDonald's employee lunges at and threatens to maul a little old lady because the woman can't remember that she ordered a number 2. Next to the violent Egg McMuffin waving ogre is another employee who tells a teenage girl to fuck off after she asks for napkins rather impolitely.
Somewhere near Albany, New York, a man gets thrown off a Greyhound bus for drinking. He got on the bus already drunk. At first, he seemed retarded because of the way he was slurring his speech. Turns out he was just really inebriated. He and the bus driver have a heated argument with many a use of the words "motherfucker" and "asshole" in all their different forms. They do so in front of a three-year-old girl who is sucking on a pacifier and watching them quietly. The drunk man tries to hit the driver. He says "If you wanted to see my cans, why didn't you just say so, motherfucking asshole?" and throws a beer can at the grumpy Greyhound employee.
Why does it seem that the people of my country are so much more reasonable than their neighbours? Is it because we're constantly told that we're polite, friendly and down-to-earth that we start to believe it?
Likewise, is it because Americans are constantly reminded that violence is everywhere that in fact it does pop up all over?
I don't even want to hear it, Adam.
Well. I'm listening to Revelling/Reckoning for the first time. My best description is... well, I was walking down the street listening to it on my discman and resisting the urge to scream the neighbourhood awake and make them all listen too.
It is... sex. Sweet, soft, brainy, teasing, two-hour sex. Beautiful. I didn't even know I needed it.
I talked to my dad about his treatments, which started today. He called unfortunately while we were being seated in a restaurant. The waiter made rude comments about my cell phone while Fiona ordered me a Diet Coke.
Later, when I got off the phone, he said, "Those things can give you a tumor, you know."
Yeah, I thought, so can eating vegetables from your own garden. Bastard.
I asked him very politely not to say that again. Inside I was just in shock. Now I feel like crying.
My mother will never tell my father that she thinks that's what caused his cancer. But she's turning her vegetable garden into a flower patch this spring. She blames the neighbours' pesticide use. I don't know what to think.
Well, I am sitting here wallowing in disappointment. I just thought I'd share. I'm utterly disappointed in
I had a good day, though. It was a Mikey day. Mikey and I went to a hockey game, and managed to
Upon hearing that Jian has taken up the bass, Mike decided that it couldn't be that hard, so he was
Then we went to see Memento with Fiona.
The funny thing is, I'd heard a lot about this movie. I knew the basic plot, the format, I'd heard
But I wasn't nearly ready for what the film did to me.
Someone (i.e., not me, cause I don't have the time) should do a study of the effects of this film on
Somehow, the format of the movie, which is seen from end to beginning, conditioned my brain into a
The feeling was eerily familiar, and I realized that's exactly the way I am when I'm stoned. Only, I was
I sincerely hope this was all part of the filmmaker's plan. Otherwise, I'm seriously screwed up.
I'm still unsure as to whether I'm thinking straight.
Go see Memento, then we can all be fucked up, instead of just me and possibly those other two
Screw it, man. Why can't we love who we want, when we want? Why does everything have to be so
That is, until they stop us from functioning.
That said, we enjoy the boundaries we erect for ourselves. We enjoy the trials and tribulations of
Case in point: I just got queried by a user on AIM who asked the eternal question "I am horny; what
I told him to jack off and go to sleep, sound advice if I ever heard it. He asked me to help him jack
It seems we all want to be satisfied in some way, and that way involves having others bend to satisfy
I guess that's what love is, in a way. Two people (or a person and a lemon, according to the book I'm
Now I've gotten off-track and bored with myself. Where was I? Does it matter?
Who here has some deep desire that they feel is somehow insatiable or unreachable or impossible or
Come on, I know I can't be the only one, don't leave me standing here with my hand up in the dark.
I don't think I know what I would do if my wishes were suddenly realized. Do you? I think the world
I listen to the silence tonight. Earlier, outside, it was more profound, and I was smoking and talking to
Well, so much for poetics, ladies and gentlemen. From now on, the light stays on. A spider just crawled
They say what you fear is what you secretly desire. Bullshit, if you ask me, fuck. What we have here is
If only you could have seen me climbing over my chair in full-fledged panic, dear reader! If only you
If only you could have seen me erase all those unsightly thoughts from my head and strike, strike
Then you would have complete faith in me, dear reader, to go out and get what it is that I want. Face
Except... I was there. I saw myself stand up to my fear. I know how difficult it was; I am perhaps the
Everyone needs someone to give them blind encouragement, dear reader. If I could give out
Thank you, and goodnight. Although I don't believe my insomnia has been cured by the spider
Now Playing: Crowded House, "Recurring Dream". I just bought another copy after mine was lost forever
You all don't want to know how the move went. Suffice it to say that I had to spend a lot more than I
I've been teetering on the edges of sleep since we moved, sleeping kind of like I do when I'm
I've been having strange dreams. One of them came true, at least part of it did. I didn't see any
OK, so it's not that impressive. Watch it. I can impress you.
Two or three years ago (though by the quality of the writing, it seems like more), I had a dream that I
Today I suddenly remembered it, and made a connection. The dream basically foreshadowed a few
And well, there are wisps of Dave in every moment of that dream. I won't go into explaining them. But
I don't think it's crazy coincidence. Two dreams in one week... I hope I might just be getting better at
I skipped Radio Monday tonight. My mother will kill me. Greg Keilor and Jim Cuddy were both on the
And what do I have to say for myself, young lady?
Now Playing: Hennessey, "Life On AM Radio". The track that's just starting is "You Will Know". I should
Speaking of rocking, who's looking for me? Eh? Who's searching the web for another diary featuring
Please speak up and end the mystery. Thank you :)
I need a seriously good collection of eighties music. I have none. This is a shaaaaaaaaame. I was
It seems that my stalker would like to remain anonymous. Perhaps they are ashamed of whatever it is
Friday, I found ten dollars on the ground, so Fiona and I went to see Shrek. Afterwards, we voluntarily
Yesterday, at work, a little part of me broke. There was this lady. Christina Potts (yeah, that's actually
A few months ago, her husband called the store because he needed to talk to her and knew she was
Yesterday, she told me that she and her husband are no longer living together. I stood there in shock
Oh my goodness. How terribly terrible! I only updated THREE TIMES in the month of MAY!
I don't know what's come over me. I feel stupid now just reciting what's been going on... seems like
Oh, God, I really am talking like a hick, aren't I?
Now Playing: Fiona's BOCA 2001 record which I "borrowed" from the kitchen table ;) Right now, a gang
I haven't been absent from my computer so much as I suppose avoiding my website. I was posting to
Now why would I be avoiding my web site?
I'm still a little uncomfortable with the idea that my parents now have the internet, but I don't think
Speaking of websites, Marcy, a reporter who hangs around at work, asked me to help her with her
I can hardly believe the kinds of crazy questions she asks. It's like these people are incapable of
"What do I do after I get to the google website?"
"Type in what you want to search."
"There'll be a space to type stuff into."
She reaches for a pen unsteadily. "Okay, let me write this down. One, connect. Two, type
"You click on search."
"Four, click on search. Then what happens?"
"You'll get a list of websites that match your search words."
She looks alarmed. "Wait. Web pages or web sites?"
"Pages, sites, whatever matches your search words."
She panics. "But what's the difference?"
"What's the difference between a web page and a web site?"
"Basically? A website is comprised of many web pages." At this point I finally use a word
Chrissake, people. Whatever happened to just clicking around and figuring stuff out. You can read,
I've been doing a lot of sitting in my bed lately reading James Herriot's works. I am strangely able to
I just finished reading a hilarious chapter about a butcher who was incredibly rude and demanding, yet
Similarly, I find that the customers who demand over-attentive service and begin to yell at me when
That doesn't nearly compare, however, to my sales career at Zellers when I witnessed a very strange
Actually, I just came up with that name and I don't find it particularly clever, but I was tired of spending
Anyway, these people. They will buy anything as long as it's on sale. They would go out of their way to
I call this the downside, but it's actually quite enjoyable to take a ranting and raving customer over to
It's good to be right.
Richard Marx makes me cringe. Actually, just the thought of him makes me cringe, yet I am currently
I'm having one of those "life is beautiful" days. Actually, it started last night, when I went out for a
It's a lot of pressure, I'm thinking now. Today I feel obligated to keep a minimum amount of pleasure
Not that it's ever been hard for me. I love every little thing. I could spend all day just looking for pretty
The logical part of me is insanely attracted to the kooky, pebble-loving side of me.
I think this is where most of my personal problems stem from.
A blue tambourine. Robbie Williams. "HA! It's no longer a capella!!"
It's the easy stuff that's the most fun.
For days now I've been wanting to wander far and wide. I've been wanting to find that really big and
I need someone to take me to see art. I won't go on my own. I need Mikey to decide that it's time for
I just finished watching a special on Robert Lepage. He was talking about theatre and saying that his
Shortly after writing the previous entry, I headed off in search of adventure with only my bag full of
I walked along the Danforth, looking vaguely for a place to send the presents. Stopped into some
Then, after posting the gifts and finding the perfect card for dad (a sweet but not sappy one that read
I found a swingset and swung until I made myself sick. It didn't actually take as long as you'd think,
Along Broadview there was terrible construction, so terrible that it was impossible to cross the street
A block North of Gerrard was this crazy house with rainbow shutters and tricycles hanging from the roof.
Sure enough, though, there it was. A long banner across the front said "KIDS KILLED BY DRUNK
Again I marveled at the simple truth yet complete irrelevance of that statement.
Did I find beautiful things where I thought I would today? Yes. I walked a long, long way and took the
I even got a bit of a sunburn, which makes me happy. And tan lines! I feel healthy now that my skin
Mmmmm... I need to wash all the smog off before I go to bed. It makes a clammy film over my arms,
Finally! A hot day has been spent the way a hot day should be spent! With lots of ice cream, and plenty
Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, I'll go to bed tonight deeply unsatisfied. Somehow along with
I like my own company so much sometimes, it's hard to understand why others don't simply want to
Well, Buskerfest came and went. I saw both Dave Tobey and Joe the pathological liar there. If I were
Bill was there. He recently cut off his long, long red hair. Shaved it, like me. I thought it might make
There's another person that I want to talk about though. I'm baffled at the fact that he makes a living
From a long way off, you can tell it's going to be stupid. And he's not doing anything else. He spends
Then, back to a snail's pace again, and after a few minutes of "Easy... Steady now," I realized that a)
To make a painful thing shorter, I'll just say that he spends about fifteen to twenty minutes "jumping"
The first time, I stayed just to see if there was anything impressive at the end of the act at all. But
Not that you have to be able to juggle machetes while standing on your head on a bed of hot coals.
But there should be a final thing that everyone is staying for. Something you inform them of
Walking over a fence is not.
How DOES he make his money?
I decided not to go to school today. I'll go tomorrow. There are too many dishes in this place and I feel
I'm all sweaty. You don't realize how much you like being sweaty/tired until you don't have the chance
Oh dear. I just spoke to Tanya. I was supposed to be at work an hour ago. How terrible do *I* feel.
Hrm. How did I mess up my schedule so badly yesterday? Still not sure. But it all balanced out,
Retarded little Sean, who was supposed to take my place, stayed at rugby practice for an extra hour or
We sent him home to get shoes. Instead, he went back to the rugby practice and (surprise, surprise)
Yes, I realize my tenses changed back there. I just don't have the energy to make them match.
So we ended up just sending the idiot home. You don't have the presence of mind to a)bring shoes in
I, of course, am being sarcastic. I know not everyone could do my job, but as far as jobs go, it's a
Now playing: "Egos Like Hairdos" from Puddle Dive, Ani. Yay for that. This is the third time I try to
I just realized something! I finally had a dream about Cosmo! Now I know that the cat is truly mine. I
"Old Herriot may be limited in many respects but by God he can wrap a cat."
Well, I thought I had lost my Ben Folds Five "Naked Baby Photos" CD and now here it is, in a bag from
I will have to make a seriously huge meal for lunch, because I am famished. I just made the mistake
o/~ Big brother got the keys and I got jackson cannery o/~
We've been playing CDs at work. Friday I walked in and there was some Hip-Hop on. They immediately
But Adam said he wished we had some Steely Dan, so like Mary Poppins I pulled a record (Fiona's
They Might Be Giants got tiresome after a while, but Tom Waits lasted all the way through until we
It was so perfect, hanging out in a store full of eight-year-olds while listening to Tom Waits, and no
On Thursday, it's going to be me and Phill, and he says to bring my Moxy Fruvous albums. I think I'll
My father said he would call me yesterday and he didn't. I'm pissed off, and of course worried,
Oh, and good news! Visa doesn't want their credit card back! All they want is a hundred dollars. I bet I
Now Playing: Heh. Love Polka #9, by George (by George!). I'm going through old mp3s. This is an
There is no one online at the moment, no one at all. I hope that's because you all have better things
I'm almost done with the fourth James Herriot book, but I'm reluctant to finish it, because I don't want
Last night I spoke to my dad for nearly two hours. We had a great conversation, and afterward I
I am bored. I am boring. What can I do to change this?
I want to sing, but I don't know what to sing. I want to write, but I don't know what to write. I am the
I need a project. Something that doesn't involve computer games.
o/~ We lie in our beds and our graves, unable to save ourselves from the quaint tragedies we invent and undo, from the stupid circumstances we slalom through o/~
I slept past noon today. How terrible. I hate sleeping late. Of course, I had a reason, the reason being that last night was like five last nights in one, but still I hate waking up late. It's two o'clock now and I still haven't done anything.
I have the ominous feeling, looking around me, of being one who is about to be thrust into the Twilight Zone. It just feels like something odd's about to happen. Not sure quite what yet.
If I work it just right, I should have enough money for Mariposa and Falconridge without having to beg for more. I hate begging for money. It makes me want to cry. But not being able to feed myself also makes me want to cry. So it's a double-sided coin. Is there such a thing as a one-sided coin? No, cause that would be a sphere.
I'm leaving in two days, so I should probably start thinking about what I'm going to bring. I should probably do a little laundry tonight. But if laundry means I have to miss You Don't Know Jack, then laundry can wait until tomorrow. I rock at You Don't Know Jack.
I'm musicless. Let me fix that.
Now I'm yak-less. I guess I'll just shut up then.
There's not much to say, except that I'm convinced, and I'm in love. Go here to find out why.
I woke up this morning and realized that I haven't been optimizing my resume as much as I should have. I am, after all, CEO of a non-profit organization. That's right, the non-profit organization known as Frucon. OK, so Michelle and I share signing power. We can be co-CEOs. It would still look wicked on my resume.
Happy Friday the thirteenth. I am tired.
Now playing: Counting Crows, "Recovering the Satellites" - long time no hear.
So, uh, how pathetic is it that I only wrote three times in July, eh? And that I've spent the first week of August without adding anything, as well. You'd think I was getting a life or something. Really, what it is is this: I'm addicted to being outdoors until I'm too tired to be there anymore, then coming inside, lying on my bed eating ice cream sandwiches and watching videotapes, and then starting the whole thing over again.
I wanted to talk about the bugs, because they're the reason my habit has been robbed of its' "outdoor" aspect. I've chosen not to go outside anymore if I can help it. Because we've got these lovely green aphids that swarm around in big pollen-looking clouds, and breed when it's hot. Which it is. Very. Hot.
So yesterday we basically thought the aphids were gone. Fiona and I were walking in front of Nathan Phillips Square, and somewhere between one end of the square and the other, there was suddenly a rebirth of little green bugs.
Did you see that X-Files episode with the little green bugs?
So did I.
I think yesterday led me to a discovery that even Mulder and Scully would have been proud of. Those little fuckers like the colour yellow. A lot. It's like yellow was their school colour and they were having a pep rally on my tank top.
And of course, the fact that I've been spending so much time outside has made my skin the colour of a wheatfield, otherwise known as "yummy bug food". I didn't realize aphids were so perceptive.
Fiona and I waited for the bus after our errands, and after about five minutes I was curled up into a twitching ball of "why me?". Luckily enough, I was close to my workplace, so I just rushed in and grabbed a random shirt from the floor of the store room (possibly the least-sanitary thing I've ever done, but at the time I was desperate) and whipped it on.
And the bugs moved their pep rally somewhere else.
Ain't science grand?
I feel sorry for Anna and Brandie, moving in during this scary infestation. Hopefully none of their furniture is yellow.
And... I wanted to ask the world this. Does it make me a freak that I would volunteer to help someone move? It seems, at least the way other people approach it, like the most heavy-handed, committed thing you can do. Asking someone to help you move is like asking them to bury you in their backyard.
When Fiona and I moved, no one helped out except our parents. Fiona's brother came and went like a flash, practically shoving a few items down the stairs. Doesn't anyone gain satisfaction in manual labour anymore? Don't people want to exercise their sense of community?
Am I strange for taking satisfaction in a job well done?
Another question: why are there so many movies lately about severely conservative people's lives being turned upside down by open-minded, grounded individuals who teach them to love life? The first one I saw reminded me that I've always longed to do that for someone.
Now, after seeing three in a month, I'm wondering. Perhaps the whole uptight-upright thing has something to do with the wacky distribution of power in the US government.
Well, I seem to have missed an important landmark in the life of this website: its one-year anniversary which happened sometime late last month. Now, if I was enterprising, and had lots of time today, you would get a retrospective of some of my more touching moments, Oscar-style. But since I'm leaving for work in half an hour (what else is new?) I'm going to skip all that.
It's bound to make me gag, anyway.
You know what's difficult? Constantly upkeeping a very high standard for reading material. The problem is that I read a book that I loved, loved, loved. So now I'm trying to read this Pulitzer-Prize nominated piece of crap.
See what I mean?
But it's helped... Dave Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" has helped me to realize that probably "true confessions"-type novels are something sensitive which I should probably put off for now ;) Much as he likes to pretend that he's hiding humility behind his exhibitionnism and self-righteousness, I simply don't see it when I look at his book.
I didn't want to write about this...
School for me is starting next week. I didn't go today because my only two classes were tutorials, and well, why go to the tutorial when there hasn't even been a class yet? My first and only class on Monday is a one-hour Creative Writing class at the leisurely hour of one-thirty. Mmmmm... talk about easing me back into it...
OK, prepare yourself for an assault, as I am about to (instead of doing the logical thing and throwing the past out the window) stick ALL of my old diary entries into this blog. Cause I'm just nuts that way. You might want to avert your eyes for a little while.
Well, let's see what this baby can do.
9.9.2001This is my test entry, only to be taken as a test and nothing more. Thank you very much for this opportunity.