I think there should be a handbook or guide for straight men to read regarding interacting with less-then-straight men, cause really the social awkwardness and misconceptions are staggeringly hilarious. I will attempt to outline the top 5 key chapters:

1. We don't want to have sex with you. Ok, some of us do, but for the most part, we're really not that interested. We may find you very attractive but we're not out to get you. It's like your pretend lesbians in those lovely little movies you boys watch. You know you haven't got a shot in hell, just kinda fun to look at. And if you're getting checked out be a guy that is very high praise. We have very high standards, much more so than women. So take it as a compliment.

2. We don't think you're one of us. In fact, we know that you aren't. You know that gaydar thing? Yeah, it's real. Also, we know you like to act all revulsed at the thought of another guy but you're not fooling anyone. You know when another guy is attractive; you just aren't attracted to him. We recognize this major definitional difference and so should you. Dicks don't gross you out; you have one. It's just the only one that interests you (and boy, does it ever). We find women hot all the time, in fact we idolize their beauty so much that some of us dress up like them. But I digress. Unless you actually have a desire to kiss stubble (and soberly, you crazy hazing frat boys) you haven't got a drop of 'mo in you.

3. Stop being afraid of the ass. There is a major taboo with all things to do with that particular orifice, but there are also things to learn about it. Such as it's the location of your g-spot. Betchya didn't know that. That's why so many of us enjoy...well, whatever, details aren't necessary. Not all of us like it though. In fact, while most gay guys have experimented, lots don't really find it all that special. It's all a matter of taste. That said, it can be really fun if you just relax and let it be. So we're not saying buy your girlfriend a strap on and go to town, but stop being so sqeamish about it. And your girlfriends tell us everything, so for those of you that do enjoy the odd poke and prod, mazel tov.

4. We don't do the back-slap hug. We embrace. It leads to fewer welts and feels better. Some of us cheek kiss or even do lip pecks (although We think that's a bit much) but when it comes to showing affection for you guys, all bets are off because your whole weirdness towards us, if not individually then as a whole. So when it does come down to hugs, we're gonna let you take the lead. That means that even if we initiate the hug, you initiate the pull-back. Cause when you're uncomfortable we feel like shit. Actually it's because of your discomfort that we've been historically treated like shit, but let's not point fingers.

5. We're not trying to steal away your girlfriend. She's been ours all along. Straight guys should really learn to appreciate their girlfriends' gay friends. They're like her female friends...but guys! Meaning they are completely non-threatening to you and yet you can discuss sports with them. Even if it is only competitive diving. We can be your best allie if you let us. We've had the same problems, the same temptations, all of that stuff that comes with the y chromosone plus we know what to get her for you anniversary and what you should write in the card. And when it comes time for it, the gay blessing on engagement is crucial ; we're the new parents. And if you play your cards right, we'll even agree to MC your wedding and slay the crowd with our witty banter. Seriously, we're fucking hilarious.

Happy breeding.

Gah, I hate blogging. Well not so much blogging so much as my own laziness towards blogging. That's pretty ripe. I always think up really good ideas but it's usually on the bus or when I'm in bed and neither of those are particularily convenient times.

I thought of a cute analogy for my romantic life and bear in mind that I'm still on my ne pas de dating trip: the people I date are exactly like my shoes - they're good for a short while and then I ruin them but of course by that time they are far too dear to me and it takes months to finally discard the remains. Anyone who was witness to my Kenneth Cole loafers (R.I.P.) can attest to this. I had to by new insoles for them in Toronto and when I went to take the old insole out, it literally did so in pieces with the last bunch all cruched up in the toe looking like it had been through a garbage disposal. (Maybe we don't rave in the KCs anymore, k?) Sick, I know, but still I loved them and probably won't throw them away until Finnigan (da dog, not da puppet from Mr. Cross-Dress-up) has his rough way with them. "Scuffed shoes are in!" I tell myself, "It said so in GQ!" Yeah, it said that about pre-scuffed Pradas, following in the steps of dirty denim, not David's So-repolished-they-now-look-like-they've-been-Crayola'ed KCs.

Also it occurs to me that one of the reasons behind my somewhat crappy moods as of late have been my dreams. Unlike certain quasi-hippie-hipsters who live on Van Island, I don't put a whole lot of thought into dreams. I'm sure they mean something but chances are that if my subconsiousness is dreaming about it, my consciousness is well aware of the situation. On of the joys of being once described by a close friend as "the most self-aware person I know". I just don't lie to myself. I may not want to think about it, but all the same I know it is there. So I'm not worried about my dreams in that capacity. Rather, I'm more concerned that they've just been rather dark as of late. I never seem to remember my 'happy' dreams, only the macabre or indifferent and I am often dreaming right before I wake up so the mood of my dream will be my first of the day and no bueno.

Lastly (though who knows? I'm kinda on a roll. Mmmm, roll. Did I tell you that I've gone low-carb? Ok, that'll come after this. Don't get freaked out; I haven't gone all south beach or anything), or actually not lastly anymore, I really like my name. Sure, there are other names that I might like a bit more, but that's because they are associated with the individuals attached to them. I find mine very functional; it was nice and playful when I was younger and will be nice and dignified when I'm older. Ok, agreed, that was one of my more vapid thoughts.

Yes, so the low carb thing, it started like this. I was trying on an outfit that I might wear to the New Years party and it looked good but not quite perfect. There was ever so slight of a curve just below my belly button and it was pissing me off. Then I did the standard "Well if you ate better and excercised" speech in my head which was promtly refused as usual, but then I took a moment to disect why I had rejected that notion. Not a complex answer: it's too hard. And it is, to say that one is going to alter one's lifestyle FOREVER. That's a huge commitment. So I says to m'self, I says, "Self, just try it for a month, just until outfit needs to be worn and see if anything changes. Nothing crazy, just limiting sugar and carbs and try a lot of protein and veggies. And here's the craziest part: try only eating when you're hungry and stopping when you're full." So that's the deal, my inverse NY resolution; to eat like we're supposed to. I'm a little over a week in and it's not been half bad so far.

Ok, so that's quite a bit. I can stop feeling guilty for a while now.

Just woke up from such an odd dream. Must write it down before I forget.

Unity and I are going to a rave. I'm pretty sure we're wearing what we wore on halloween. We get past security and enter into this big, white tent-like structure which is apparently at the top of a hill, so once we get in the door we can see hundreds of kids just chilling on the incline. Near the bottom are rooms that break off and they have bal pits in them, like they ued to have at McDonald's except that all the balls are black. Everyone is having a really good time and we find a spot on the left side of the incline where we deposit all of our stuff. I then notice that the bottom of the hill where the tent ends is actually the kitchen of a house and that it leads to a deck and garden. The rave is half indoor - half outdoor. So we're just chilling when a girl walking up the incline turns back to us and says "They won't let _____ in." ____ here being a guy we know that sells drugs. Unity states very positively that, "Oh well, guess I'm doing this party clean." (Cannot even dress to you how much that reaction would NEVER happen.) I go back up the hill to check out what's going on. I go back out past security and the next thing I know I'm standing in front of them with the dealer as he's saying to the security people (and these aren't rave security, it's like full on night stick guys) that he put his stuff in his car. They said they would need to search both of us. "Fine," he says, and pulls down my pants. Don't remember feeling overly vulnerable at this point and yet my underwear (white bozer briefs...I don't know either) are clearly around my ankles. The guy has hidden his stuff in the folds of my apparently massive underwear, but the security guys see it and demand that he takes it out of my gitch and show them. He opens the bag and it's little baggies of suckers and a couple white pills in each. Flash forward and I'm back in my spot on the hill, laying on my jacket, having gone and been social for a bit. The dealer comes running up to me with a black knit winter glove and a security guy with a big moustache and patrol vest following him. "Do you want any blow?" he yells. "No," I say, "I don't want that shit!" but for some reason I take the glove anyway, stuff it under my jacket and dump out the contents. The security guy chases the dealer into one of the black ball rooms and the comes and sits down beside me. He's just chatting away making friends and when he's not looking a glance under my jacket and notice 5 white pills about the size of my percribed prednizone. I take one as his head is turned but not having any water, must disolve it in my mouth. If anyone has ever taken an oral steroid, you know: it's fucking not fun tasting. Then, feeling slightly buzzed, I go off to find Unity.

Here I wake up and think, "Man that was weird." and promtly fall back asleep. In what is a very unusual case, the dream continues, or rather picks up some 6 hours later...

I wake up on the hill and I'm laying on my jacket. I venture down the hill, through the house part and into the garden which has very high stone walls, like at Raven. I see her holding a pair of sneakers and a couple celebrity magazine, rifling through all the zonked out ravers. (This must be related to the halloween party where the girl I was with was so fucked at the end that she was looking through all the shit people had left behind) The sneakers are for her boyfriend. She found them. Suddenly my brother shows up and is instucted to help us carry all this stuff that we have amassed out the car. The sun is up and my watch reads 8:29. We get on to the highway and I wake up.

I don't know what it means, but it's my mother's fault.

If you are in my intimate circle, you've probably heard my view on '7 out of 10' but for the rest of you, here is my philisophical perspective on that ratio.

7/10 is fine. It isn't outstanding or even great but nor is it necessarily negative (except for the fact that in and of itself it is not great). It's just ok. 7/10 has been the dominant ratio of my life for the past couple months. Between the parties and school and performance stress, it's just been a very emotional Middle-of-nowhere time. Perhaps it was that I was going at things half asses or just being rediculously negative but I noticed a change in how I was perceived, not by my closest friends but by more peripheral ones who would look at me with horrified amusement upon hearing one of my little quips, which as of late have been primarily aimed at one reknowned, soon-to-be-retired choirmaster/blow-hard. Oh, I heard that audible gasp and calm right down. I love him, but, c'mon...

Good news though! I think I finally snapped out of it last night, as I'm definitely an 8/10 this morning which I've not been for quite some time. Last night was rather cathartic as I really got back to talking with my nearest and dearest the way we all enjoy the most. That is having discussions that both challenge, inform, and amuse. It felt like an intellectual homecoming, as well as giving much emotional satisfaction/relief. In addition, I was witness to the first public displays of affection between two of my peeps that were just so natural. In fact I was flanked by two couples and yet didn't feel like a spare tire whatsoever, as I often have in the past. This reassures me that I truly am in the romantic mindset that I have been claiming, as one who is content to observe rather than participate for now, and that brings with it all kinds of freedom.

I keep coming up with ideas for posts but am subsequently too lazy to actually write them. This attitude pretty much extends to my life. Ok, so a couple house keeping things:

To finish of the Pre-dumped-or-not saga, turns out I was...n't? We don't know. I went to Toronto and when I came back the exact same thing happened, I text messaged, heard nothing for a few days before he sent me an e-mail apologizing for tardiness and saying that things were super hectic at the moment and that he didn't know when we could see each other so he'd just talk to me soon. Fine, whatever. The sole fact that he actually chose to respond was a big boost for my ego. Now as to whether his whole "I'm too busy" line was bs or not, well, who knows? I know things do get really hairy (I mean, hello) but all I'm saying is that one makes time for what one wants to make time for, or at the very least states when one will be less busy. Quoi-ever. I probably won't ever hear from him again but at least he's not on my ever-expanding Asshole list.

So where does this leave me as far as my recently acquired philosophies on sex/dating. Um, I don't know. I think I'm still on the Neither Band Wagon, as while he didn't turn out to be an asshole, it was still largely a huge emotional expenditure for very essentially no result after the fact, and I'M way too busy for that kinda bullshit. I'm staying strong; I've already turned down one potential suitor this week.

I went back to the beginning of my blog and read the posts from the first couple months, largely because I'm an ego maniac, but holy crap, was I funny back then. I gotta return to my roots. Or at least go back to Sushi Ya (April 2005).

So after 24 hours of driving myself insane from not hearing back from him, I called again last night and got a hold of him. We talked for about five minutes. Wasn't a stellar conversation but it was enough for me to understand that he was super stressed about this test he's taking today. We both have really busy weeks so we'll hang out next week and in the meantime exchange cute e-mails. What I didn't realize is that his not calling me was not so much a lack of interest so much as a demonstration of his inexperience with dating; anyone who knows about this precarious nature knows that unless you're being coy, you pretty much call back when you get the message. But more on that later. First, let me present what I wrote yesterday afternoon, a mere 20 hours after The Message was left (afterwhich I will present some opinions on how fucked up I am):

------

I have invented a new term: pre-dumping.

Pre-dumping: A complete severance of contact without warning immediately following an implication of romantic interest, the potential for commitment even, such as being curled up in a tight ball on the basement floor, kissing the nape of his neck, smelling the pure juvenile bliss that is the cheap, youthfulness of Addidas for Men followed by a lingering good-bye and a "Call me tomorrow." This is applied only to preliminary meetings, as it implies the termination of a relationship that never truly began.

For those unable to discern what has transpired due to the absence of a chromisone, he didn't call back. (NB: while in the basement, pre-tight ball, we had actually discussed the evils of not returning calls)

I suppose I'm disappointed. I know there should be pangs of resentment, and perhaps there are a few, but more than that, I am filled some something that bespeaks a more serious condition: nonchalance.

It's as though the second I left that voice mail, I knew that it was done with. The boy has always been extremely promt with returning communications (calls, text messages, etc.). So now I'm left with a slew of things I would like to say, but knowing full well from past experience that none of them will garner a response, and yet there's that overwhelming desire to let him know it was a dastardly thing to do or at the very least say, "Hey, it's ok to not be interested. Just let me know and we'll just move on." I have the beginnings but no way to end them. Maybe I should just send him this; might as well go out in a blaze of crazy glory.

I am a bit pissed off, but it isn't even at him so much. I mean, it's definitely inconsiderate and a bit cowardly, but far from a crime against humanity. No, what is angering me is that as far as romantic 'problems' go, these are all I get. The complications I get to enjoy are with people that are still essentially strangers. I don't get to have the big fights ending with either lovely make ups or devastating heart ache. It's like comparing the kinds of sex one can have, one night stand vs. wedding night. We all know upon which we place more value. I have casual, one-night romantic troubles.

And it can't be just him though. This has happened far too much in my 4.5 years of dating to call this one of several isolated incidences. There must be something in my dating style that draws people in while I'm in their presence and then causes them some ungodly repulsion upon leaving my presence. It must be me. I know my close friends will tell me otherwise, but seriously, it's time to own the fact that I have had roughly 4 times more of these 'beginnings to' than actual relationships.

If anyone has any suggestions as to what may cause this, please feel free to let me know. Unless it's "you're a sarcastic bitch." We all know that. However, I never reveal that side until...actually I don't know when I would reveal that side as it's never gotten far enough to be revealed.

-----

So I'm absolutely messed up.

I fully realize this. No matter how much I heard, "David! Relax! It hasn't even been one day!" I couldn't. I was in such a black and white place where there were no extraneous factors and his lack of immediate response meant that a) he was a prick and b) I was a loser. I think we can kind of agree that b still stands. I'm just so determined to be betrayed for some reason, that reason being all the betrayal in the past. Yesterday I was seriously considering taking myself off the market for a good long while. I imagined scenarios where guys would approach me and ask if I want to go out (cause that happens all the time) and me just saying, "I'm sorry; I don't date." And I really meant it because I can't deal with how stressful yesterday was, purely of my own making.

Oh, but the good news is that now, if it does fall to shit whithin the next couple weeks which, I mean, c'mon, than I'll have already gone through this and won't to go quite as crazy again.

God, je suis le fucked up.

I hate the post-first date follow up.

Last night I hung out with a perfectly lovely boy who by all accounts is everything I should want without being perfect, cause no one needs that. Sweet, kind, adorable, the whole thing. We had a great time and he left at 2:30 in the morning, telling me to call him tomorrow/today. Yay.

But see, the second he walked out of that door, it was all up in the air; until you actually speak for the first time after that, it could really go either way. Some guys simply have a way of doing a 180 within a 24 hour period and there's really not a lot the rest of us can do about it. There's no real reason why this one should, but weirder things should happen, so without being too preoccupied, I'm ever slightly on edge.

I called at 6:45 tonight with the full expectation *ring* that we had have a nice *ring* little conversation *ring* and then get together *ring* later in the week. *voice mail* Shit. The worst thing is leaving a message because then the onus as well as the fate of my neuroses are on him. I could have hung up, but with caller ID he would have known that I had called anyway. So I left a message. It wasn't the most brilliant message ever, but it was short, cute, and not too clingy. So now it's nearly two hours later and I haven't heard anything which is completely reasonable and yet the wheels of panic are already starting to grind. I really won't be all that heart broken if he never calls as I've learned not to get too invested this early, but there was potential. And it's been a while since there's been potential. A long while. In fact I believe that back then the word for potential was Oog.

I had a very disturbing, if cliché'd dream on Thursday night. I dreamt that I was in a small doctor's office and the doctor was informing that I had contracted HIV, but not because I had had unprotected sex or shared needles, rather because there was a new strain that was air-born. I feel this was my psyche's inability to actually take responsability for my own actions. Clearly, were I to ever contract such a thing, it wouldn't really be my fault. I handled it slightly better than I imagine most people would, although less well then I've assumed I would. (When you're a member of community with a history such as - and I use this pronoun only in the strictest sense - ours, the thought must inevitably cross one's mind. It's like First Nations and diabetes or Mennonites and the jitterbug. I've long forgotten the rest of the dream, but it was remarkably unsettling not solely because of the news itself but that I couldn't control how I would react. The feelings of despair and helplessness were overwhelming, and I didn't get to 'do it my' way as I've discussed before (the living wake, etc.). There was also a lot of shame. The history of the disease is riddled with shame because it was originally considered a gay man's disease at a time when that was dramatically less accepted and that feeling still holds true today, even with greater rights being passed around. It's also a disease of ignorance, as it is prevented with education and awareness. It's not equal opportunity, like cancer. Hell, we're all gonna have cancer in this generation. HIV is just so simply preventable: use a condom, don't share needles (or really, do heroine at all, cause, c'mon...), know your partner's sexual history. It's all so basic. Essentially, if I was some John Deer from middle America, I would view HIV and AIDS as the disease of the stupid gay man. Actually, perhaps not even the Middle American. We don't really express it due to political correctness, but even those of us who consider ourselves to be more educated still have those stereotypes of the slutty fag and the junkie prostitute as the poster children. Yes, there are marches and elegant fundraiser like for cancer, Parkinson's and all the rest, but HIV doesn't have the dignity of those illnesses because, for the most part, it's your own fault. That's an asshole statement, I know it, but that doesn't make it less true. I wouldn't be embarassed to tell the people I love that I had any other fatal illness, but I imagine that having to admit to this would feel like entering a guilty plea and that there would be punishment to follow, not in something so hollow as death, but rather that judgement, as innocent as it may be, decrying, "You did this to yourself."

I'm having trouble ending my entries lately, so there. That's it.

Hey, my addiction entry that I thought the computer had ate is up! Yes! Addiction rocks.

I want to be in a lesbian relationship. I really do. They just make it look so effortless, don't they? I was dining at Basil's with a friend when two of his girls came up to say hello, exchange kisses, slap some bottoms, etc. These two were apparently two friends who after knowing each other for years decided that they would go on a date and this is what I was witnessing, their first date. They had gone swing dancing. Like...I can't even deal with these girls going to swing dancing on their first date. It's really all too much. After the initial salutations they went outside for a smoke, kinda holding hands while puffing away. Never has smoking been more cute then when two attractive could-kick-your-ass-in-a-second women are doing it whilst holding tiny girl-loving hands. It was all so lovely and simple.

The lesbians really do have it all figured out. You meet, you become friendly, you go on a date - a really date - you go crazy for each other and before you can say "Next month's rent" they're renting a U-Haul, buying a couple of cats and shacking up, and k. d. lang-uishing in their new found devotion.

I think I understand addiction. Not the actual process of being addicted, as I'm not actually addicted to anything, Tori aside. I do think though that I can appreciate what is the driving force behind addiction. And I don't mean any specific kind of addiction (such as drug), just the general concept of addiction.

It's like this. You are given something or experience something that alters your reality in a way that you couldn't have imagined and it's exciting and fun and makes you so happy. Then suddenly it isn't there and there's a noticeable void where it once was. The knee jerk reaction is to try to reclaim that happiness as quickly as possible because, my God, it was so much better, wasn't it? However for most people with logical reasons, we understand that there is a reason we are no longer experiencing these sensation that is most likely healthier than the actual sensation itself (long overdue breakup, come down off drugs, etc.). Despite our urges, we maintain self control and even when we so desparately want to call that ex-lover or pop another cap (I'm not really sure how many 'we's there are that read my blog that fall into the latter category, but moving on). Addiction occurs when those urges are satisfied and we give in.

It's not hard to guess that this whole revelation is due to the party (read: rave) I went to on the weekend. It just wasn't great. The first third was awesome as usual but after that the vibe just went weird and I spent the last 5 hours just hoping for something good to happen, anything, any human connection, and it never did.

I talked about this quite a bit with U the next day, and for the first time we really discussed the negative side to the scene. It's a very superficial neverland, where most people are really gushy and nice at the beginning but it's so surface and the moment it seems you might want to actually discuss something serious or there's a problem, they're like, "Um, yeah, so later..." I'm starting to get to know people and be recognized a bit more by now, which is cool, but it's frustrating that it's so fake.

So now I have all the pluses and minuses of the scene and I really need to assess how much further I want to delve into it or if perhaps it's time to draw back a bit. Also, I love going with my girl, but she is so much further along then I am as far as knowing people and I feel like I want at least one other really solid person there with me as sometimes I am so overwhelmed by my surroundings. I still feel like such a wonderous child there, in an odd limbo between absolute love and social terror, being there on my own. I'll have to figure it out.

In the meantime, apologees to all you fine people who have to put up with me in the couple days afterwards.

We take a lot of things for granted. This is not news. Mostly, though, we tend to think of food, clothing, shelter, etc. as examples of things we take for granted. I'm going to present another example that is never stated and is yet so obvious: Truth.

Not like conspiracy theory / The ____ is out there truth. Just small things. Like recycling. This is what I know of recycling: every week, we have two blue boxes full of newspaper, cans, and plastic goods that get picked up. That's it. That's all the concrete proof I have ever seen as to the existence of recycling. Sure, they made a swell little video on Sesame Street about aluminum cans getting compressed into large compressed aluminum can cubes, but does that actually happen? I don't know! I've never heard of a field trip to the recycling plant nor do I know of anyone who claims to work there.

Now without getting too deep into the concept of belief vs. truth, I believe that recycling exists because I am told it does, but really I have no frickin' clue what happens to our used goods. And where is all this 'energy' they're making with it either? Sure, brown paper is often stamped with "Made from 100% recycled paper", but used cans? bottles? Never hear a lick about them.

I don't really believe that recycling is a sham, but it really does make one wonder: what kind of sick individual would someone write a blog entry on recycling conspiracy?

I'm out of drama.

Well, temporarily out of stock.

Lately when acquaintances have been asking me, "So how are things?" I can only answer, "Oh, you know: school, work, rehearsals. Busy, busy." I know they want more details, but my history mid-term or frustrations with clerical work are not what they're after, which is, in essence, dirt. Something juicey, usually veering on the romantic side of things. However, there's simply nothing.

I used to have good drama. Good God, did I ever have good drama. The boyfriend who ended it because I was destined to burn in hell for all eternity...I mean, that's good shit. Falling for a classmate (who occasionally read this blog - Hey! How are things?) and its subsequent pit falls. Finding my soul mate and then having him leave less than 48 hours later. I was very strong in the drama department.

And now...what? I kissed a platonic friendly-acquaintance while in a slightly altered state and now he thinks I have feelings for him. That is so dramatically lame. Though he kinda is, cause I really don't. Like, REALLY don't.

*sigh*

SCREAM is TONIGHT and I'm so excited that I might urinate in my trousers. My heart literally skips a beat every time that I think about it. My costume is SO killer. I am...the Silver Phoenix. I know, they rise out of ashes and are pretty much fire, but this keeps the them of Fire & Ice from last year, and seriously, silver is so much cooler than gold. Last night I stayed up until quarter to one painting a silver phoenix on a white T-shirt. Here's the graphic I used: http://www.fsclearinghouse.com/armchair.html (Crimson Phoenix) . Gah, I'm so lame, but it's gonna be hawwwwwwwwwwt. *ahem* hot.

So I think I was a little bit rash about that whole abstinence thing. Not because I'm hormonally incapable but rather because I think absolute abstinence really doesn't leave pause to examine each situation and therefore isn't really true to the original intent. The reason I had such an adverse reaction is due to the fact that in the past I have not been true to my own personal standards. This has nothing to do with my perceptions of my own physical beauty or lack thereof or whatnotandwhathaveyou, but rather my habit of 'going with the flow' rather than saying, You know what? I'm really not into this.

When you're actually faced with that type of pre-intimate situation it's very hard to go back on it even if you really want to because at that point there's really no positive social recourse in saying, You know what? I'm really not into this.

And really 'this' means 'you'. And this has definitely been a problem up until now. Without undesirably disclosing any sort of figure regarding my history of partners, it can definitely noted that I was actually attracted in a potent way to a rather slim number of them. The others were more a "Well, we're already here so might as well..." situation. Which is so not kosher.

I have a dear friend who is very in touch with her sexual nature and it seems that whenever she discusses an experience she's had, it's "he was so...hot." or "It was amazing." In short, she has good sex. I, conversely, appear to not have good sex.

So rather than join a figurative monastery, I've decided instead to simply be more true to my attractions and if that means donning the robes and shaving the top of my head until that happens, then so be it.

I've just come to what may be a rather large epiphany. But first, some back story.

Last weekend contained much partying and what with the combination of family gatherings and social events, many ellicit substances were ingested and some events occurred that, while not of extreme importance, have caused me to come to the conclusion that I need to just slow down for a couple weeks and take some Zen time for me. This includes, but is not limited to, abstinence from chemically-altering substances and physical contact that includes anything beyond hugs. Very temporary, but I just feel I need some balance. I'm very happy with this decision.

On to the epiphany.

I just finished watching 'thirteen' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0328538/) an incredibly raw film about a thirteen year old's descent into drugs, sex, and emotional choas. It's amazing if difficult to watch. However I'm am well past thirteen and so my epiphany was derived not by the plot line but rather the final shot of the female protagonist's brother, who is supposed to be about 15 (Don't judge; he looks about 18), and I thought, "Hey now, that is a good looking fellow. Perfect in fact as he isn't so good looking that he seems unattainable." Then a little scene flashed before my eyes completely unchoreographed of this guy doing a little dance, sheet wrapped around his waist, naked torso with just a little bit of pudge (attainable), and suddenly from this nonesensical demi-second fanstasy, a little though hit me.

I am not capable of having an adult relationship.

I do in fact mean a romantic adult relationship as I'm apparently rather good at platonic adult relationships. Nevertheless, this little scene was no different then one I would have imagined at 17, the age of my first romantic relationship. I still want the exact same things. I still want someone who isn't jaded yet by romance, with whom I can really experience things with for the first time, without hesitation or inhibition, someone who doesn't know any better than to just jump in along side me. In essence, I have not evolved (in this department) in the past 4 years.

Holy shit.

I've not evolved in the past four years. What does this mean? Well, for starters, no wonder nothing has worked for the past couple years! This explains why I have no desire for older men despite the fact that I thought we were on a similar emotional level. As for the youngins, I want to be on their level but then I go an use words like capricious and freak them out, plus most of the time they just annoy the hell out of me cause, um, hi, THEY'RE 17!

So am I destined to die alone and unloved? Hell no. This is so not that epiphany. I'm due for that one in about 15 years. I am however doomed to this Peter Pan Syndrome, which is fine given the celibacy thing. So I dunno. This really has no conclusion, so I'm just gonna go about life now. Yeah.

Yesterday I lost my wallet. Well not really lost, but...Well, all will be explained shortly. It was 8:00 and I had just left the government building where I work on Main and crossed the street to catch my bus. Upon, arriving at the bus stop, I realized that I had left my wallet in the building. I went back and swiped my card by the thingie to let me in and it flashed green and then red and beeped angrily, as though to say, "You don't have clearance, bitch." So I had to call my supervisor who had to come back to the building and let me in and then I discovered that after all of that, twas not there. I retraced, I went back to the school, nothing. After that I pretty much freaked out for a bit, rocked in the fetal position, and recomposed, accepting that it was, like Britney's virtue, long gone.

Let me take a moment to explain why the loss of this wallet was so great. A wallet is a wallet is a wallet, even if it is an imported Louis Vuitton wallet. Whatever. It is, after all, only a material item. However, this was a gift from a close friend and adolescent mentor when I turned 18 and was something of a symbol of our evolution from a mentor-student relationship to genuine friendship. Besides that, it essentially contained my life; all my IDs, bus pass, debit card, address book, etc.

So today I'm at school, a bit down about this, but coping with my loss much as Jonny did his black beater. Then one of my friends with whom I'm walking states, "Well, a bunch of us were looking at it yesterday." (I had left my bag with them for a short while.) Really. You guys were passing around my wallet and now it's gone. That's just...so fantastic. Then I start talking to various people who tell me that So-and-so has it and then they give it to Other-generic-but-undisclosed-name and it eventually wound up with one of my friends and it was largely believed that they still had it. So, I'm listening to this, and internalizing this and I'm just getting more and more ANGRY that not one of the three people who had had it in their possession after I had blindly left for the day had bothered to tell me anything about it until I was bemoaning it some 24 hours lately.

I got it back, so fine, whatever, but I was noticeably a little bit upset that no one had even called me the night before. Like, that just..makes sense! So, I'm awful at hiding my emotions so it was clear that I was a bit pissy, and while there was a certain amount of apologizing, I couldn't help but feeling that somehow I was the asshole for getting upset over this. I know grand scheme, a misplaced wallet is not a huge thing; rest assured I do understand this. But I felt like I was being judged as unjustified in being a bit miffed over the whole thing. And it all boils down to this pansy-ass North American politically correct bullshit where you can't express any negative feelings without somehow being labeled touchy. And this was really not a friendship-breaking moment with my friend and I, but I've been in these situations before and everyone else around gets really tense cause, Oh God! someone isn't happy and we're awkward and how do we handle this... It's like most people have two extremes: happy/normal and upset/abnormal and nary the two shall meet. It wasn't a small deal to me and it wasn't a huge deal either. It was simply a deal. Let us be free to have and accept deals.

Like drug deals. Those rock.

I've just come from watching a show on the university channel concerning a reinactment of a mental health nurse dealing with a manic patient. It was kind of boring, so my mind began to wonder, as it does occasionally, onto my romantic history and the hilarity thereof. Generally the memories of all the feelings of rejection and confusion and disappointment rush back with the gale force of Katrina knocking an old plantation house for a loop. However, just now I experienced a rather different perception of what could generously called a less than success history thus far. I essentially did away with all the feelings of hurt and was left with this rather airy sense of disappointment - a great improvement. It's casualness was startling though. This incarnation of Disappointment was not that which was symbiotic with tragedy, but rather more along the lines of "You're out of chicken? Oh no. I really wanted chicken. Well, I guess I'll just have to go with the fish then..."

Essentially, I just thought (and not sarcastically), "Gee, I wish I hadn't have gotten yanked around so much. That kinda sucked. I should really make a point of not getting screwed over so much by romantic potentials. Note to self:..."

Hmmmm. Whatever. That was neither here nor there...

You know what I find positively hilarious? Those scenester-hipster-types who refuse to acknowledge that they are not above the societal bombardment of pop culture. Everyone who has any sense of cultural superiority over another demographic does this. - and we all do; it's called taste. Like some hoity-toity guy that wants to reference Ashlee Simpson and knows full well that she is Jessica's sister, has three annoying singles on the radio (one of which he knows the chorus), and fucked up on SNL. But rather than say, "God help us, Ashlee Simpson is in a movie," he chooses instead, "that sister of the girl on that show with the husband, what's-her-name is in a movie." Dude, you are so not fooling anyone. As much as you would love to believe that your little world is air-tight against cultural entities who you deem inferior, it's just really not. Especially not against such blatantly fabricated celebrities such as L'Ashlee. (It's also rather amusing that she genuinely believes herself to be an artist, an innovator. But it's all relative. Most of us had to be content with spewing our adolescent muck at bi-monthly high school coffee houses. She just gets to do that same thing in arenas.)

We all walk around with a Tiger Beat fountain of knowledge; most of us just choose to suppress it. As we should.

Baker Baker

Baking a cake

Make me a day

Make me whole again

And I wonder

What's in a day

What's in you cake this time

-T. Amos

I feel that I am in a period of transition, as though I'm being torn between multiple dimensions. I'm not overtly depressed but I'm certainly not content either and yet I seem to lack the motivation to affect anything. It's this constant cycle of doing one thing that I don't want to do to another to another to another until the end of all time and I die. Well, not really. There will hopefully be little to no death involved. I see myself becoming more and more insolent lately, and just incapable of putting up with things and moreso people. It seems everyone and their dog is pissing me off, and not because they're acting any differently than how they normally do, but all their little isms are just irking me so. Things that I thought were so solid are showing cracks. Specifically friendships are beginning to appear less flawless than before. Not when we are in each others presence, but rather when I am standing back looking at one of them with others or even by themselves, I'm finding myself asking, "How real are we?"

If we're being honest, there's something within me that feels the need to be important to everyone I know, to matter, to be special. This is not said in the hopes of getting overly sentimental e-mails from friends confirming their commitment to our relationship, though I wouldn't hate you for it. It's more to do with how sick it is that I resent the fact that were I not here, life would go on. I don't mean "not here" as in death, just that there would not be a global shift were I to not be here all of a sudden. In keeping with my existentialism, it really wouldn't matter (cause I wouldn't be here), but it's not exactly a fuzzy thing to think about.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. Probably not a good place. So I'm stopping. Just...guh, people.

*sigh* I'm back at work.

They've missed me. It's obvious by their grey, unemoting faces, that clearly my presence was missed during the four months since I left them. I've not actually worked since the first week of August and while I'm glad to start making up for the aproximate two grand that I've spent since then, I'm not looking forward to the endless numbers and filing. This is the joy that is working for the gov.

I know this will come as a suprise, but I really feel that I was meant to be independantly wealthy. I'd still work for the Fringe and have a music career and all that jazz, but worrying about finances is just such a waste of time. It's not as though I want material items for the sake of having material items. I simply enjoy being esthetically pleased, truly taking advantage of life's beauty via fashion and design.

I just simply must bear in mind that it is a mere four hours until Rockin' In The Free World.

Yesterday started out as the best day ever. I went to a couple classes, during which I spent most of my time sitting on my ass, not really thinking. Then J and I went and undulated in the sickness that is Foody Goody. Kids, it's worth it alone for the ice cream bar; there's 16 different types of hard ice cream! Having completely stuffed ourselves, we went to the village to do some errands: I got some new buttons for my bag including one that I'm kinda nervous about (it's black with a big red stop sign that says "STOP...using Jesus as an excuse for your narrow-minded bigotry"), and I made U the world's best custom-made shirt EVER with a gold insignia of David Bowie circa Ziggy Stardust. Then we sat outside on a patio for an hour and laughed hysterically.
In the evening I got together with U and gave her the shirt, which she loved (SO glad). Best person to give presents to ever. We proceeded to Second Cup where I noticed a boy named K that I went to lunch with once this summer. We got along just fine, but despite his considerable intelligence, there was a snarkiness and a Desire-esque pretty-boy quality which kinda didn't do it for me, so I didn't really pursue it and he obviously didn't feel a strong connection as he didn't really follow it either. We still chat every once and a while and whatever, it's all good. Now, we momentarily locked eyes when U and I were in line but I was on the phone, and then afterwards when he walked by and I said "Hey, how's it going?" and he kept walking, I'm just going to assume that he thought I was talking to someone else. Whatever. Not a big deal, out we went to sit on the patio.

U and I spend an uprorious hour outside and as we get up, who should come strolling down the street than Mr. The-Oddest-Non-Date-Of-My-Life (scroll down a couple months), who in the end turned out to be rather cheesy and flakey. It was clearly too late to ignore him so we both tersely said hello in a fake-friendly way, inquiring as to the other one's summer, etc. "Oh, I love Montreal," he said, having been told I had been there, "but I'm meeting someone inside, so I've gotta go."

Oh, you know they were totally meeting each other.

And you know that somehow, in my sick little mind, I had been envisioning this EXACT situation for months now. It seems so perfect: two pretty, snarky, young, generic guys meeting at a generic location for generic conversation mostly concerning their fake Armani belts and occasionally attempting pseudo-intellectualism. It's moment like this that I just really feel the urge to look heavenly and I say, "Um, are you fucking kidding me?!"

After that I decided to go home and watch Before Sunset, hoping beyond hope that it's duelling cynicism and idealism about modern love would convince me that I was destined for something far greater than cookie-cutter homo boys in their fake leather jackets from Le Chateau Warehouse, that I was destined for a far more grandiose, real suede from Winner's life.

It only kind of helped. I fell asleep in bed with my clothes on. I'm not sure why. I've never done it before. I guess it just seemed like in that moment of lying in bed, I didn't want to remove any more layers, lest they correspond to emotional layers à la "Ogres are like onions".

In any case, I woke up with one hell of a wedgie.

Let's all stop playing the Noble Blogger game. Let's stop pretending that we're all just writing so we can get our thoughts down and really be more self-aware because of it. Certainly this is a factor, but I'm gonna stop lying: I blog because I want people to fucking read it. Yes, it's cathartic to right down my inner thoughts and dreams, but really, the only way that would work would be if I didn't take into consideration that other people might be reading it and therefore censoring myself, which I certainly do. So, having admitted all of this, I debated treating the blog more like a column, à la Sex in the City, but that seemed far too self-serving and arrogant. So I'm going to continue more or less what I've been doing, but without hesitating to reference past posts.

Whatever.

So in one of my initial rants I was discussing the joys of being a slave to public transportation, specifically the decorum regarding proper seating protocol. I saw a couple on the bus on Friday who were not going ga-ga with PDAs (which, you know, I love), but they were holding hands, and that's nice, and not frowned upon at all by society, so whatever, good for them. Anyway, all of a sudden, out of the periphery of my vision, I noticed some irregular twitching in the general area where their hands were so lovingly interlaced. She was picking the dirt out from underneath his nails.

That is so, just, - NAH - not cool. I mean that is a level of comfort far beyond anything I can even comprehend. I can't even get a boy to return a text message, and this guy is having his boogers picked out from under his pinky by his significant other.

I applaud you, sir.

Da bitch is back wit a summer recap

Now that the summer is nearly over, I need some time to reflect on the past couple months and how so much of it went horribly, horribly wrong. 'Wrong' not being necessarily negative, just not as planned.

The Fringe went off very well as far as the staff was concerned. If any of you S of M-ers remember Michael and Andrew's acquaintance, H, with her voice 'loud and strident', well, I had the supreme pleasure of working with her this summer. As in the past, I found myself once again on the divine end of an angel-devil spectrum. Our supervisor LOVES me (note present tense - we're doing coffee this week) and would regularily bring me into her little office space to bitch about how ineffectual our coworker was. While I was happy to be well-liked (as I'm sure most people are), I was by no means pleased by H's lack of work ethic as it just meant more sheehat for us to pick up. Whatever. It's over. I'll be back next year. She won't.

Otherwise the Fringe was same-old-same-old: senior citizens bitching the Starbucks brewed the (free!) coffee too strong, careworkers for our developmentally delayed volunteers dicking off, a constant struggle to explain why our volunteers only got X amount of benefits and not X+amillionotherthings, etc, etc. *sigh* I love it. And I'm so part of the team now; lsat year I was kind of the student who didn't know that much, and while everyone seemed to like me, I still felt like I was working for them. This year it fel like I was working with them, which made all the difference in the world.

Folklorama started the day after Fringe ended which, pour moi, meant getting out of the last show at 12:45am and being at the site of the Israeli pavillion nay 10 hours later for an all day rehearsal the bled into performances at 6:45, 8:15, and 9:45. The entire week was kind of one big pain in the ass with personal and political tensions running high for me. The artistic director also informed me that I'm in the budget for next year which translates into a co-director position, something I've been gunning for for quite some time now but not for the normal reasons. For most, a senior position is a symbol of the work they have put in, their experience, and the fact that they are the post qualified for the position. I acknowledge that I may count these among the reasons I'm happy for the post but they by no means comprise the overall satisfaction. That would be the chance to take a group that has so much potential that it's leaking out of their asses and actually make music with said anal leakage. So instead of simply immitating what we hear on a tape, I'm going to try to turn us into a group of musicians, as far as I can with 4 hours of rehearsal time a week. I just hope that political tensions will subside once this is all announced and that we can get on with being more than we are.

I'm tired, so let's call this Part I to the summer recap, shall we?

UNDER CONSTRUCTION. RE-OPENING SEPTEMBER 2005

I had the oddest non-date of my life yesterday. It was a guy from gay.com who I'd started chatting with only a few hours earlier but we were both feeling adventuresome and said, screw it, let's meet up. I call it a non-date because there is always a possibility of something but no one really knows what the hell is going on, cause we've only "known" each other for a few hours. So we met up and he was very nice, talkative and disarmingly good looking. Not because he was that spectacular, but most of the people floating around cyberspace don't get mistaken for tom cruise in a hat. So it was fine, and I wasn't feeling overly talkative. I was engaging, I guess, but not by normal witty self. I just started realizing how odd the entire situation was. Most people develop relationships (broad sense) because of a common social situation such as school, work, or recreation. However in this case, the only ties that bind (bound?) were the fact that we were two young gay guys sick of being trolled on by DOMs (Dirty Old Man...s). I mean, we could still talk about musicals for twenty minutes but it just felt unatural, and this isn't a comment on him because he was very good at suddenly coming up with a new topic or keeping the conversation alive. I don't know what compelled me but as we were walking to my car, I said, "I'm sorry if I've been less than upbeat, but for some reason this is feeling very unatural to me." And I told him why, all the while thinking to myself, "What the fuck are you doing?! You are actually telling a guy that the past hour and a half as been completely weird. You are SO never allowed out into society again!" But then he did the weirdest thing, I just kind of went there with me, and we totally started talking about it, and I'm not sure if he totally got it, but I could tell that he was really trying to. We ended up saying goodnight twenty minutes later and he said that I'd like to call me. Dunno if he ever will. I'd love to say I don't care, but I do a bit. However, above that, it was an absolutely odd experience.

Watched Saved! again. Made breakfast. chatted a bit. I'm feeling kind of depressed, which is not a new emotion, but one I haven't experienced in a while. I've been really content recently. Not uber-happy, but not down. Just kinda steady, and I guess anything on either sides of the spectrum can rock that. I suppose the downside to being so GAH (passionate) about everything is that you can live this very manic-depressive existance, but since everything has been so steady for the past few months I've gotten into this psychological state of meh-ness. I can't remember the last time I was really HAPPY about something; I think it was the Orville thing and that was almost three months ago (the competition).

Last nights festivities threw me off for some reason. I've taken to putting myself only in situations where I know I'll be fairly compatible; where I can control the variables, at least to a degree. And a big street party is sooo not one of those places. So much liquor, and noise, and rudeness, and pretty people. I forgot how many good looking people there are. It's rather humbling. I know it shouldn't matter, but to say it doesn't at all is just delusional.

And this day-after exhile thing is really not working so well. So if any of you know and love David, call him, cause this kinda blows.

As people, we are victms of abuse everyday. Ironically, we are also the victimizers, so I suppose things come full circle, but still. I myself am included in this support group; people treat me like crap all the time! And yes, I'm assure there's some give or take there. I was blown off today. I was harassed by drunken baffoons. I got thrown into a door by more drunken baffoons. I left my bag at a second cup and I will present the consequent interaction in both what was actually said (and I what I was thinking).

Me: Hi, I think I left my bag here.

Awful Coffee-Hawking Shill: You know, you really shouldn't leave your stuff just lying around.

Me: Yeah, well, I went to watch the fireworks and I guess I kinda...(Really? Cause I was kinda thinking it could be a new trend. Like, leaving your bag in a run down, Yanni-playing, whipped-cream-charging bean hole could be the new black this fall.)

ACHS: What did it look like?

Me: It's black. (It looks like the only bag you've found in the last five minutes, dumbass.)

ACHS (looking at my bag on the floor): Does it have a rolled up newspaper in it?

Me: Um, yes? (No, mine is the black bag you've found in the last five minutes with a rolled up can o' whup ass in it.)

ACHS: Here you go.

Me: Thanks. (I fucking hate you. I hope you choke on one of your seventeen dollar pastries you commie bastard.)

I can't believe that happened. I can't believe that I was shamed by the 25 year old son of a Second Cup owner. Mostly, I can't believe that it bugged me so much that I felt the need to write about it. Like those guys that yelled, "Fag!" as they passed. I shouldn't care. They'll wind up cleaning sewers or something. But still, it's just wrong. Alcohol should not be an excuse for being an asshole. If I was someone who didn't drink, that would totally be my reason why: "Actually, I don't drink. I'm protesting all the assholes that do and shout 'Fag' at people." (I don't know why I capitalize Fag, like it's some sort of diety or something...?)

In other news, I bought a second Tori Amos CD. *sigh* And so it begins...

Today was my last day at the G-O-V, and yet I felt a tinge of sadness as after nine mind-numbing months, I was starting to kinda, you know, like people, a couple to whom I gave this blog, so shout out to my FSWEP peeps, I FS-WEEP for you. Cause it's like wept, but...shut up!

Ok, so I came to several conclusions at work today, and thus I present them to you, dear Blog:

1. Nobody likes me.

2. Everbody hates me.

3. Worms do not equal love.

4. Goats and llamas are universally funny. You just smiled didn't you?

I stood in Movie Village yesterday a disillusioned celluloid soul, when I remembered a passing rave made by my dear friend Tote Bag. "Mandy Moore plays a Born-again." I asked the clerk if he knew of such a movie and he looked as me as though I had just spit in his mouth and replied in the negative. I was about to give up when suddenly I remembered - SAVED! (with the exclamation mark doubling as crucifix). I picked it up, somewhat drawn back by the presence Macauly 'Mac' Culkin in a wheelchair along side Ms. Moore, as well as Jena Malone, who for the record is exactly my type.

I haven't seen this good a movie in such a long time! It was essentially about this high school that put the E in Evangelical. It was actually cute, odd as that adjective seems, how totally it consumed these kids. And then one becomes a gay and his girlfriend in an attempt to de-gay-ify him, gives up her flower and of course gets knocked up, and pretty soon it becomes apparent that none of these kids are who they thought they were. The best part was that it neither glorified secularism nor shot down devotion, and though the latter did take a few good jibes, but the characters were so earnest that it didn't feel like fun was being made at their expense. Rather, it was kind of like observing a different society.

I had another of my bus experiences today on the way home from work. I don't read much on the bus anymore because I love looking at people, searching for beauty. I actually once crashed my car because I saw someone beautiful. It's rather uncontrolable, but no more than any other hobby. When I was 10 I used to collect rocks; now I collect prettiness. But I digress. So I'm on the bus, near the back, on one of those side-ways seats just before the very back seat, the kind that have two very confined seats. At confusion this boy got on. He was my age, but very much a boy: wide-eyed, slightly cautious in his movements, slouchy. I think he might have been just a little developmentally delayed, but in a very angelic way. The bus was very crowded, except for the back seat, which had two people bookending and three seats empty. Still, when he got to the back, he paused, and he got this face like he was thinking, not to the point of pain, but just enough so that I in a blind moment of sociability, scooched my bum over, just a half an inch, but enough to say, "You can sit here." I didn't actually expect him to, and yet he bashfully smiled as he took the seat. I took my right arm from where it was connected at the hand with the left and leaned my elbow on the back of my seat so I could continue looking out the window. I was half facing him, and although I was clearly looking out the window, he arose from his ten year-old's slouch and straighted up, looking about as comfortable as I imagine my father would trying yoga for the first time. Over the next thirty seconds he found a comfortable position, although the hair on his forearm was standing on end. He got off eight very lengthy minutes later, and as his feet hit the cement, he took off in this incredibly awkward but beautiful run.

It wasn't anything. Just a moment.

mothafuggah.

Ok, so I just wrote this big long thing and my ass of a computer just ate it, and so je suis le pissed, but here we go anyway.

----------------------------------

Well, the floodgates have been opened. Very few people know this about me, but I don't believe in 'liking' something, or even 'really grooving with' something. I get full-out lobster-bib obsessed. This takes a lot of energy, as you may image, so I have been known to purposefully avoid certain pop cultural "things" that I know that should I be exposed to them, rampant obession will follow. Take RENT, for example; I put off listening to that for years, and then one day. . . cut to a month later a month later and I'm weeping in the middle of the Centennial Concert Hall. It was very much a wet-nap and cuddle-time situation.

So when I took the vows of Chastity where Tori Amos was concerned years ago, I really, truly, meant them. I listened to one song and capital L -oved it, but convinced myself that this was only due to the emotional placement of Siren - said song - in Great Expectations. But then on Thursday, I'm trolling my way down Corydon when I come across Boys For Pele, her 1996 album, in Music Traders. '"It's just one album and besides, she's kinda weird so I probably won't even like her all that much."

...

I freakin' love her, God damnit!

So now it's all Moses crashing the sea onto the Egyptians, except they weren't newly infatuated with a woman who's produced eight other albums, when of course I simply must have, cause of my freakin' addictive personality, and let me tell you, those other ones are not gonna cost me $7.95 neither. No sir! And let's talk for a minute about time commitment; this is not a woman that puts out wimpy indie-rock 10-track albums, oh no. We're talking anywhere between 12 and 19 on one album. That's 150 songs! So goodbye social life and hello Ms. Amos and her motherfucking gorgeously ethereal sound!

Ok, so in other news, a friend and I were talking last night and we were having this rather philisophical conversation. I say 'rather' cause it wasn't Plato and Aristotle here, mostly due to the fact that our philsophical conversations mostly arise out of trying to out-trump one another with quirky weirdness. Anyway, so we're all discussing the concepts of truth and reality and existential crap like this when he drops religion on me. Ok, back the truck up, I say, Are you sure you want to open this door? I mean, we've opened it a crack before, but once we do this, it's, like, open, and stuff. Now let's just say that my friend and I have very different spiritual backgrounds. We are both well-educated, open-minded people, but when the observant and the agnostic get together it can get messy. Well, he responded, I'm up for it if you are, not unlike two fourteen year olds guys playing 'truth or dare' for the first time (Hey, I said we were both open minded). So we begin, and I think this is going to be one of those awful debates that will enevitably end in the statement, "Well, that's why it's called faith." However through a series of realizations, we come to the conclusion that while he adheres strongly to a religion and I don't really adhere other than culturally, that we can both agree on the fact that NO ONE KNOWS DICK! I mean, we believe, sure, but despite protests from both sides - ok, mostly one side - no one knows, and the fact that we were both so humble in our own humanity was just beeee-yutiful.

I think about religion a lot, hey?

A potentially offensive blog entry

Do you ever think, "Hey, um, am I big racist?"

I was at Zeller's this eve fetching wall tack to hang some of the fine prints I have amassed, and when I got to the line there was this black couple arguing with the check-out madame about the discount on conditioner or something. Now these were middle of the road, over-weight, not-overly educated people, these assumptions from sweeping generalization in regards to their verbal and physical communications, and well, my eyes. It wasn't like I thought any particularily racial thoughts, like, "Oh black people, just hurry up!" but I thought perhaps I was annoyed because subconsciously I resented them.

Then I began pondering my views on other aspects of the non-caucasian minorities...or rather majorities, cause if those kids ever got it in their heads to bring us down, we'd be dead. Anyway, so I thought about the stereotypical drunk native downtown, and the G'ed out ghetto superstars with their skull caps and their ebonics, and I was like, "Oh God! They all annoy me! I'm Hitler!" And that's a pretty big statement for a guy that come next Holocaust is donning a pink star.

But wait! Then I thought, "Ok, so I'm Satan, but what if it was white people acting like that?" And I thought about drunk white people down town, and white guys preaching mysogeny and bad fashion sense, and lastly I thought about white, chubby people arguing about Pears Conditioner and it hit me - I hate them too! Well, not hate, but they bug me. So I'm not a racist; I am pissed off by all dumbasses! Black, white, asian, native, straight, queer, stupid, or just plain moronic.

Pink star, here I come!

This has been something of a mad week. I played foreman while supervising the painting of my room by my brother and his friend. Yes, they got paid, and yes, I'm kinda lazy, but you know what? I have far more important things to do than stand around for three evenings doing something I hate, so I feel justified. In any case, the room is spectacular. THe walls are a lush crimson red, and the secondary accent colours are black and gold. And I say that with the most masculine voice I can muster. It's seriously hot shit.

I started work with the Fringe again, and it was so freakin' good, I can't even say. It's been an entire year since I've been in a job where I genuinely felt needed, cause the government is just one big chorus. One big tone - deaf chorus. By the way, I came across a file the other day for which was the name was Redneck Farms. It's right on the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. I love it.

I'm also having a very flash-back-to-high-school week. My best friend is in from Vancouver. (Whoever came up with the term 'best friend' really just hated humanity, because it's such a final term. It's not like she's my ONLY best friend. She's more the best friend in her category. We should really categorize our friends, hey?) Plus I spent Friday night in a small room with all of my former high school friends and it was spooky. Mostly cause there was about three of them that I actually feel anything more than ick for, and while it's like, a LOT more than ick, there was still a hella amount of ick in that room. And smoke. Cause apparently everyone smokes. Or at least enough people to make a small room seem hot boxed with carcinogens.

Lastly, I've discovered the defining difference between folk music and other genres of popular msic such as rock or rap. The latter two deal mostly with telling a story through instants - This happened, then that happened. They deal with emotions on a very superficial extreme level - I love you, I'm happy, I...hate...everything about you. Folk will tell stories by painting pictures with words of the settings, not of the events taking place. For example, a hip hop song will say, "An' den she wuz shot down in da ghetto" whereas a folk song will say, "the onlookers stared as the girl watched the ambulance pull away". Much more subtlety, poetry. And this is also how folk expresses emotions, not by outright saying, "I'm feeling..." but rather telling a narative to depict their feelings.

I saw a really powerful movie this weekend. Mr. and Mrs. Smith. No, kidding, although I did see that too, and it was pretty damn good. I would so do Angelina and that's not even queer boy talking all big. That's for real. No, I saw Bent, which was about these two concentration camp prisoners that become lovers without ever touching or really making eye contact. Their 'job' in the work camp is to move rocks from one pile to another about 10 metres away and every hour they get a three minute break. During one of these breaks, they make love purely by standing side by side, looking straight head, and essentially having aural sex. It's unreal.

And for those of you who are thinking, "How do they do that if they're side by side, and the guards are watching an man, and his spelling sure sucks," please stop reading this. Your kind is not welcome here.

An excerpt from a letter to a friend...

This has been an incredibly exhausting year for me, for all of us. Between the festivals, and competitions, and performances, and school, and work, and a mad cap social life (you know me ), I'm afraid it's coming back to me and just before the most stressful time, Fringe. I'm hoping the month-long normalacy of 9-5 during June will help prepare me. [Since this was written, I've been approached to start with the Fringe three weeks earlier so the month-long normalaxy is pretty much shot]

Other than physically, I'm no more emotionally exhausted than usual. However, when one is prone to tragic flights of idealism and romance, emotional exhaustion is normal, I suppose. I've been feeling a lot of changes since the New Year, almost like a mental and emotional puberty, trying to diversifymyself, the forms of which is (naturally) art and expression. I've taken to unwittingly directing music videos in my mind whenever I hear a song in a language I understand. Often they concern montages of our friends, many of the images hypothetical as the 'video' is a thesis on our four years together. Another popular one is that salon at my living wake [more on that next time], although I've sat with the idea long enough that it doesn't seem morbid to me anymore. I have my MRI in a month and a half and that's probably contributing to it as well.

I feel like I'm fighting a lot with my own creativity right now, often in very egoist terms, such as imaging detail for detail my own recital as I attend someone else's. Further, there is one matter that I don't quite have the courage to express, and that is a song cycle I've written over the past couple years. There are twelve in total, and the genre is extremely hard to define because I feel that it should extend beyond simply a boy and his piano. I've toyed around with percussion, thanks to B, but I hear the guitars and the bass and yet have no clue where to begin incorporating them. The order is troubling as well as it deals with a vast number of themes, not the least of which are failure, disillusionment, madness, and redemption. At it's peak, I see it presented dramatically with short monologues between the pieces, offered not as explanation, but rather narrative. I have written seven sonnets that I would like to incorporate, one of which was composed in the vein of Greco-Roman myth, the sun and moon acting as two halfs of the whole and so forth.

Essentially, I'm just overwhelmed. I'm happy to say that it is mostly from positive sources, though they can be a bit dampering.

So I'm going to Montreal in August. That is the plan. However there is one obstacle in my way and that is that I'm a cheap bastard. Still, I'm getting lots of help on that front. The transportation is being arranged by my parents as my birthday present, and it seems like my darling friend E may have found me some accommodations. Now all I have to worry about is food, perhaps some honourary compensation for my hostess, and spending money. However, an undetermined period is a lot of time by oneself in city that is schizophrenic with festivals and activities in July and than grinds to a halt come August. Clearly, I need companionship. Not of the salacious kind; God knows I'm not one of those people that needs to have a fling in every city I go to (Already done that Montreal). I'm looking more for sight-seeing, park-walking, wine-drinking companionship. So I've started the search with a couple of e-mails to funky looking guys in the Montreal area, and before anyone even judges for one second, hear me out.

I do not consider myself homocentric in the least. In fact, I often Tom Delay-esque levels of disdain with il mio communitio. Still, there are somethings that my breeder lifemates (And I love ya, yes I do), will just never get, because even though the Jews were slaughtered by the millions, and the Blacks were enslaved my the millions, and the Mennos persecuted because of their ardent love of schmofat, these prejudices/discriminations are no longer an acceptable part of this society. As much as I hate to admit it, as I hate being allied for something as base as biology, there are certain cultural and social bonds that one can share only with another person in the queer category (Let us not label. Labels are for Campbell's soup.) And as for the whole connecting via the internet. . .If you're the type who doesn't like to be downtown at night, hates any sort of performance situation, and considers Friends "edgy" than the world of cyber-communications is probably not for you. You need to read between each line that is presented towards you, and there are definite precautions you need to take, the biggest of which is trust your gut. But honestly, the biggest fault most people have through instant messaging and e-mails is that they are sinfully boring. Yes, you will encounter the odd vampire fetishist that wants to keep you in their apartment for two days without food, but hey, some people are into that. Wow, am I ever not, but you know, go with God and stuff.

So I've found a couple people worth taking to and I realized yesterday that I've just been sending them all my ramblings instead of blogging, so I'm going to pull a little cut and paste job, originally meant to save time, but now that I look at the preamble, it probably wasn't worth it, but whatever:

re: my saviour complex (developed from my first relationship in which we both needed saving. Him, from himself and his nutty fear/hate-instilling family; me, from the fiery pits of hell apparently):

The whole "saviour complex" was simply a fun fact about me; I have no aspirations to save anyone really. I just hate it when people overcomplicate their lives and refuse to make themselves happier due to fear or laziness. Maybe that's my ambition: in lieu of solving the AIDS crisis. I will instead teach the masses how to recognize what Ace of Base was trying to tell us all along: it IS a beautiful life. A major part of that is finding balance in social grace. I fully believe in manners and decorum but political correctness has become a joke; if you get your panties in a knot over being called a stewardess instead of a flight attendant, you have way too little to worry about. Go talk to a Swahili pygmy being chased by a lion. Now that's stress. And he doesn't care if you call him a pygmy, he's just happy if the lion goes hungry that day.

Essentially after nineteen years of angst and over-emotion, I learned last summer that not everything needs to be a big deal. Emotions should be savoured, not wasted.

I think we can all agree that people, as a race, are weird. Bus people, however, are the most bizarre of them all. It's as if when we step on to public transportation, we enter a completely different society with completely different social mannerisms. My friend J and I ride the bus frequently ensemble and we have spent countless hours analyzing the oddities that people come up with while on the bus. I'd love to give an entire thesis on my bus observations but sadly, I am lazy. Therefore, I will only entertain in this entry a single observation that I made today.

Sweeping generality. I'm just going to put it out there, and if it offends, so be it. The majority of people that ride the bus have less than the standard amount of social grace and tend to fall into the lower rungs of society's ladder. There are exceptions: students, environmentalists, 1 car household members, and a slew of other tiny differentiations. That said, a lot of adults that ride the bus have arrived there due to the vicious cycle of conduct. Conduct (manners, grace, etc.) is imperative for social advancement, along with education of course, but they tend to accompany one another. If one lacks proper conduct, education will be more difficult, decreasing the possibility of obtaining a high paying job and all the resulting amenities such as a nice home, disposable income, and a car. I think you can fill in the rest of the blanks.

And generally the lack of manners is on full display on the bus, from grafitti to body odour to public urination. But there is one custom on the bus in which we are downright Victorian: the choosing of our seat. People will do anything possible to move Heaven and Earth so that they - God forbid - do not have to sit next to another person. And if by chance there are no 'singles' left, the sigh omitted from your new bus buddy echoes across the plain in stupified frustration.

Now we arrive at today's observation. I was sitting in a very unique spot on the 18 Corydon-North Main this morning; in new-er-ish buses there are three seats that face the back door right before the steps onto the second level. The right-most seat is ideal as there is a divider between that seat and the first seat on the upper level, lending it to optimum slouching. In theory, these should be the easiest seats to negotiate, socially. One person on the right, one person on the left, and the middle seat is literally the last seat on the bus that would be utilized. So the bus is filling up rather nicely as we approach Confusion Corner and a young man enters, about 20-22, slightly robust, dress: toned down former sk8er. My left leg is aproximately three inches over my proper boundary onto the middle seat, which in bus speak means one of two things:

1. I will let you sit here if you truly insist, but be prepared to be coughed on.

or

2. I'm a man with a certain amount of 'baggage' if you will, and getting me to close my legs is about on par with a Kentucky whore with a yeast infection.

I assure you that my social graces will show that in my case, it was the latter. And this is just fine in a three-seat situation: we can BOTH overlap, praise the Good Lord! However, he, in his über-machismo, chose to stand, gripping the pole two feet from the seat in question. He clearly needed a sign. A sign that would say, "Dude, brother, ombre, you may share this assembly of seats with me, your strong, non-advancing breeder brother." All I had to do was shift my weight ever so slightly, retracting my leg a quarter of an inch perhaps, and we were gold. He sat. We said nothing, although glances were shot a couple times in mere observation of surrounding, and there was peace. And it was was good.

Sometimes it seems that even though I think I know people and consider them close companions, my existential mentality comes back to bite me on the ass. It isn't that I think that everyone considers me their best friend; just every second person. Naturally, I feel that if there is personal information that has become standard knowledge, I already know about it. It comes as a rude shock on the occasions where I hear brand new information and am met by "Really? You didn't know that?" (This is possibly the most moronic coupling of phrases in the English vernacular. Like, no, of course I did know that, you big dummy; I just wanted to make sure that the duck brain we had implanted in you was still functional")

Inevitably, this second-hand 'old news' offends the ego, who feels that he should be amongst the first to hear about anything that happens in the world...ever. The rational thing would be to assume that your ignorance was due to a lack of relivant topic or appropriate time, instead of say "All my friends are merely secretly tolerating me and are meeting to find ways to legally ship my 11th-wheel-ass to Abu Dahbi."

Man, you know you've had way too much Indian food when you're emotionally channelling Odie.*



*of Garfield**



**by Jim Davis

I ask this without pretense or irony and certainly in the least-fairy-esque way possible, but how great is ABBA? I mean, seriously. They defy genre or categorization and are defiantly timeless, and I believe I just realized why: they were positively certifiable.

No, they were seriously crazy. And to truly highligh this, let us select a few of their choicest lyrics:

I was so afraid Fernando we were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die and I’m not ashamed to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry

It was like shooting a sitting duck a little small talk a smile and baby I was stuck

And now you’re working in a bank the family man, a football fan and your name is Harry

It isn't so much the individual lines but rather these were young, verile Swedes traveling from luxury suite to luxury suite with their furs, and sequins, and battery-operated sex toys singing about fighting in the Spanish revolution and alien visits, with metaphors of the Napoleonic wars, tweety-birds, and their duty not to give in to statutory rape. And all with such drama. Its all so laughably over-the-top that you can't help but love it. Except if you're Eminem. Cause I bet he doesn't love ABBA.

It kind of reminds me of my own diva, La Brightman. If you wanna see crazy in a tiara, check this chick out. At the beginning of her last tour, she came down this persian-inspired catwalk waving to the crowd like she was the Queen of Englad complete with cupped-hand and a smile that absolutely grinned Perkiset. Throughout the show she swung on a two-story-high swing being showered with rose petals, was suspended via harness over the stage via harness while doing backwards sommersaults with the appropriate grace of a fourty-three year-old, and hovered over the audience while standing on what can be described only has a 20-foot long, flattened dildo (I think we have those crazy Swedes to thank for that one) while singing Nessun Dorma in a kimono composed of approximately a hundred yards of gold lamay.

God, I should have been born in Europe.

Well I suppose I should post as my blog has e-cob webs hanging off of it. I've been busy in delightful ways, mostly a three-night camping excursion with my nearest and dearest, headed by our fearless leader, A (Shout out to mah B-boy, J! Holla)

Good God, am I white.

Camping was extremely awesome as anticipated and any stress due to food costs and inbalance in contributions were quickly forgoten as I spent most of the weekend honing my Rummy and Asshole skills. During a game of the latter, one of us was induced into an uncharacteristic state of silliness. It wasn't really extreme silliness by any manner but rather this was not a person typically accustomed to any silliness and it was extremely refreshing to see a new side of someone you thought you knew fairly well.

This got me thinking about my little clique. There are about ten of us, plus myself, and we all first met twenty months ago. That is about two months of friendship per individual. This is bears mentioning as two months is also the point in any romantic relationship that I have - shockingly - yet to cross. I've never experienced the point after which you're obsessed with the other person and giddy and just want to constantly touch them and learn about them. I believe that is the thresh hold that I am currently crossing with my SofM friends. We've had a really long honeymoon (two academic years) and now is the point at which I am starting to feel different colours: familiarity, occasional annoyance/resentment, kinship, etc. Even in high school, there were very few buddies of the bosom variety that I was close with for more than two years. There's a certain comfort now. And perhaps this is why I am writing another fleekin blog about my friends. I kind don't believe it can last, quite guiltily I might add as the thought floors me like few others. I'll save the stop story about the first half of my life being spent in self-imposed isolation from my peers for another time.

God, I gotta stop this Oprah shit and get back on the chuckles bandwagon. No, seriously, it's true. / Of course it's true. / I never noticed them before...

Today was baby's first baptism.

My friend C invite me to his baptism today, along with a group of our friends from school. It was the first time I had attended either a Mennonite service or a baptism and I must say that I was rather pleased with both. I am never quite sure how to anticipate religious events of another faith. They make me quite nervous actually; my self-centred nature leads me to believe that I will naturally make some sort of massive, inexcusably sacreligious gesture. I didn't of course and it was actually a lovely experience. I really appreciated the sense of community that everyone there had and how I felt embraced and welcomed into it.

Let me preface this next section: I have a really hard time talking about religion with most of my friends. We talk about it mostly in abstract terms, and never about the merits of our faith. It's just really wise not to, because no one will win; ultimately none of us know for certain. That's why it's called faith. I'm going to get into this just a little bit now, and while I sincerely hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable, I am writing for myself ultimately.

I don't know anything other than what is placed in front of me. I have a lot of opinions and views for a whole schwack of people, but I am aware enough of my own humanity, as well as mortality, that while I am living, I will never really know anything. The most I can offer is this: since I cannot find scientific not spiritual evidence to support or deny the existence of a Higher Power, I believe in human decency. I think about - for lack of a better term - God on a very regular basis, shifting my views by the minute. However, in a situation of formal worship, I struggle to really validate the words written by humans that I am to read. Therefore I spend much of my focus mentally transfiguring any mention of deity into the notion of humanity, that are humanity grants us the wisdom to do what is right onto others and that we bless each other with that respect. The reason I am able to do this is that there is absolutely no qualifying definitions for God. Christ presents more of a challenge, shall we say. At most, my faith prescribes that he was a prophet, of divinely inspiration, but not divine lineage. I - the ever-steadfast fence sitter - will not put forward judgement as I was not there and know not what passed. This is where the majority of my friends and I part ways, as they have a firm belief in this regard, due realistically in part to the fact that this is how they were raised. This has never caused quarell amongst us, and for that I have always been greatful. I think many people (and I must stress that refers to no person specifically) raised under the roof of organized religion tend to stay firmly under that roof without venturing forth, and this is the component which has always troubled me. Take my dear friend S. They were brought up in a clearly Christian house, and have spent the past several years truly exploring what this means for them as an individual. They traveled, they explored, they learned, and in the end they returned to Christianity on their own terms with their own convictions. I believe that this is an example of beautiful faith, on that has been challenged and than reclaimed.

When one wants to convert to Judaism, one is immediately refused. If one truly believes that this is their path they return, and are again refused. If one returns for a third time they are embraced but warned that this is not an easy life, that they will work and they may suffer because of their choice. But at least they choose. This is not to exhalt Judaism above other religion, because I truly do not consider it more or less valid, but it points out how much more meaningful something is if it is worked for and acheived rather than being handed down like a silver spoon of salvation. I'm not saying that everyone should renounce their faith, but rather truly consider what is important to you and why you chose to live your life as you do.

My man C did, and I thank him for sharing it with me.

I recently went to a movie with an old friend. They are not old in the sense that they are aged nor that we have known each other for many years - three and a half to my knowledge. We are old friends because we are no longer truly friends. We were, and then some: friends, lovers, everything in between. In fact, most of what we were was in between. We parted for quite a while before reconciling on the eve of the new year, and since then something has become apparent to me and, I suspect, to him as well: we are no longer current. We are comforts in times of loneliness or of boredom when the friends we currently love in our lives have other plans. And yet we continue the "talk to you soons" although we have nothing more to say.

What is it about the past that disables us like nothing else and makes us long for it with every fibre of our being? Why do people feel the need to cling to it as though we will never see better days than we have aleady lived? It is certainly more than nostalgia; it is comfort. It is a big blanket that we can hide underneath when we don't want to think about our present lives. It is so safe because we already know the outcome - us - and have survived it.

I also think that a lot of what keeps us tied to the past stems from basic social ritual. If I see someone on a bus with whom I was friends several years ago, I must sit by them and we must both suffer the agonies of catching up and the inevitable silence afterwards for the remainder of the ride. Neither of us can read our books, nor can we put on our earphones. We are condemned. And why? Chances are neither of us (or at the very least, I) really gives two cents about our former chums current events. Yes, we wish them all the best, but will they really tell us anything in two minutes of stilted conversation anything that we really desire to know? In these situations, we get very lazy because really, who has the energy to tell someone details of ones life when one knows that the listener is really just observing social protocol. So we are reduced to sweeping generalities that we present in a very bored tone as to discourage any follow up questions that might, God forbid, spark real conversation.

Perhaps I am just selfish with my time on public transportation, but I honestly believe that most people find these situationhs awkward and uncomfortable. Ane yet we adhere to them, because if we don't, we're bastards. And at the risk of sounding like a self-declared disillusioned 16 year old who just found out how they made Mary Poppins fly and as had her hippie boyfriend dump her unceremoniously for a chick who is hippier than you, we're all so fake!

I know I'm part of the problem. Perhaps more than anyone, I can't let go of the past despite the fact that I really do want to, perhaps more than anyone. This is why I keep e-mails that I wrote to my first love when I was 16. It is why I label all my photos, to remind myself if I ever forget how great things were that I never wanted them to be forgoten. It is why I haven't been to a gay bar in nearly a year. You see, gay bars are the weirdest places in the world. There's probably three degrees of sexual separation between everyone in the place and yet these people go there week after week pretending like nothing happened. Apparently, the vapid, souless masses can let go of the past, whereas I who have had probably one third of the experiences of most guys my age in the bar will see one former lover and head straight outside. I can't live life in the present if my past is dancing with its new boyfriend ten feet away.

I feel as though I'm souless on the bus when I should be souless in a club and that everyone else seems to get it right and perhaps that's why I'm alone (FYI, I'm not lonely at the moment, I'm really rather content with being by myself at the moment, but alone is alone), not because I'm too good and just haven't found the right person as U keeps saying but rather that the reason nothing has ever lasted more than two months is because a very deep-seeded part of me is backwards. Whatever. This is just getting me worked up. I am, so to speak, Past Tense.


(PS- That's a double pun. Suck it, Shaw!)

OMAGAD KIDS I PASSED THEORY!

It's so exciting. It's the lowest academic mark I've ever received (woot for a C) but somehow all my other professors were smoking crack and gave me A's so my GPA is still higher than last year, and best of all I never have to see Horton's Polar-bear-and-snowflake-sweater-wearing. crusty-eyed, bad-in-the-sack self again! Oh, except in the hall when I get on my knees as thanks for passing me. Cause you know how some people joke that they did dick-all in any class? Well, I didn't do ALL the dicks, cause that'd be slutty and all, but I really did nothing that entire term.

Today is the Orville J. Derraugh recital, which I've spoken about ad nauseum (if anyone ever spells it "at nauseum" I will poison their cat) and I'm feeling pretty good. The pieces are crowd pleasers, I slept in until 7:20 today, and I'm just going to go into work, do nothing but listen to music and take 25 minute breaks, visit the flower store, have a nice supper, and then make a little debut as a Winnipeg soloist, followed by a little dance, a little love, and any one who wants to get down to night in either of the "dance" or "love" categories should feel free to leave a comment. I know it's not a HUGE deal - it's no recital at the Asper Campus - but as those of you that witnessed by birthday may attest, I have taken to feeling no shame when it comes to being excited over anything in particular.

I have a coupon for 30% of Value Village if anyone wants to get in on the action on Saturday. Going shopping for Ste(phen)'s discorama! SO picking out the 'fro!

Ayit, so it's been 4evah and a day since I last wrote, but for those of you who know (and yo uall do, because the only peeps that read this are my peeps), I had a rather franetic birthday this past week.

In total I was bestowed with a suprise party, a plane ticket anywhere in Canada/USA I wish, and an over-abundance of love for all of my friends that celebrated with me. I must say it was among - if not the - best birthdays I've ever had. I really do appreciate it, kids.

But alas I must return to the real world, complete with a forty-school opera tour that begins tomorrow at 8:00 am. On the plus side, I'll get to wear eyeliner for abot thirty hours a week for a month; that's a good time.

Ok, way too many people are bothering me on msn to write right now. I'll write a mother tomorrow hopefully.

Chris: 3

I have decided that the only way to live my life is to live it through art.

As the dust settles on yet another year of academia, I find myself immersing myself as completely as possible in the pursuit and observation of art. This takes on many forms; the thirty bloody hours of rehearsal that I will endure this week; the media that I observe, whether it be a trite Broadway musical based on an ancient legend or a modern masterpiece of human drama (Angels In America) unfolding on a screen in front of me; and most importantly the art that one creates oneself.

I really do enjoy school for the most part - the other part being theory. However, it is so wrapped up in rules by which I only mostly care to abide. They get in the way of true creativity and render something that could be great into mediocrety by assigning a stipulation as heinous as time to the task. *le sigh* Only Burly understands me.

I have recently exhaulted friends as a lifeblood, which indeed they are, but one cannot live for a group of others no matter how much affection they share. So I suppose one can't live for them but rather appreciate them graciously if you are in the good fortune to find true kindred spirits. However, we argue with friends, sometimes even to the point where the relationship cannot be salvaged. This can not be said for art, because there is no negativity in art itself. You can't disagree with your art as you do your companions and while you choose them both, you mold your art whereas you don't mold your friends, or at least shouldn't.

And what of love? What of that rabid, Bohemian passion for which I have often claimed to strive and have fleetingly even touched? It is not contant. At least not for me. Art will never leave you. It doesn't betray unless you yourself do. We cannot control our desires, but we choose the art and will choose us, and I know from far too much twenty year old experience that the same cannot be said for a lover. I believe in the purity of love, but for now it is not for me.

Art is for me. Art is for everyone. Except Transcona.