Sunday, October 25, 2009

Conversation 1

He crawled under the covers, arranged his pillows and shimmied down deep. Lying on his back, his hands unconsciously reached along his middle, from thighs to nipples and then she whispered:

It's not something you need to worry about.

What's not? he asked.

That. All that. That stuff you worry so much about. The moss over the chiseled sculpture you want to be. 'Imperfection'. Whatever. He won't care.


No. He really won't. I mean, how forgiving are you? How much do you look past? And you think He'll give two shits? C'mon, now. You spend time conjuring necks, shoulders, even a rogue shoulder hair and they're far from perfection. Your Him won't want anything that isn't you, right?

I suppose not. But He doesn't have a face.

Why would he? You don't know His face. Honey, you plop your current fancy onto His face and expect to call that home.

What's wrong with home? I like home. It's always at home that He's there.

I know. And that's where He's be, but if all you're working with is a him, you're putting up drywall before there's any structural support. Don't put him into Him.

This is what you come up with as I'm trying to fall asleep? Jeez...

C'mon now, D, you brought me. Clearly I need to be here.

So then I'm keeping myself up.

There is no keeping. You're not being kept up. You're just up. This is time we need to spend together.

Alright. So what else do you have for me?
Sound bite overheard on the bus from two DG/sk8er guys sitting behind me:

A: This sucks. I spent a dollar but I only made a dollar.

B: Well, you know what they say. You have to spend money to make money.

A: But you didn't make anything.


B: Shut up.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

You have to be so careful it hurts. When 98% percent of your sensory experience becomes about plastic and glass, it really is a danger zone. There's no real emotional damage, not if you're well adjusted enough, but you begin to see or imagine things that might not really be happening, like you're hallucinating on solitude. To say that there's no damage here is to imply that there isn't necessary unhappiness, which is good. It's nice to know that you're balanced enough to rationalize what needs to be rationalized in periods of uncertainty and transition. On the other hand, without growth seeds, no happiness blooms anew and so you begin to see false buds and vines in the remaining 2% of your experience. It isn't really even about what you've conjured versus what's really there; evidence is almost a non-issue. In fact, the real point is that you lead yourself to these imaginings without evidence in either direction and you fill in what you lack. If you have a surplus of Female, you find blossoms of the Male; if you have a lot of the Old, you grow the New; and if you're surrounded by the Impersonal and the Superficial, the ground hurls up huge redwoods of Passion and Intimacy. It is entirely unjust, to you, to the subjects of these waking dreams and to the very ideas of what you really do want.

But congratulations because you've discovered the mirage, Houdini's Garden of Eden. You recognize what's really there and what you're simply using for bargaining with the Universe. And you realize it more and more quickly, too, leading to fewer and lesser disappointments, missteps with shorter strides. You free yourself of the vines sooner and perhaps at this point you prevent others from getting entwined at all. This is a welcome change and you should celebrate. This may not make you any happier, but at least it's real.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

It is a well known fact that I love to play the Bus Hottie game. You know, where you pick cutest person on the bus and stare at them while trying not to get caught. Toronto is an embarrassment of riches for transportational aesthetes and sometimes I even have to choose between two or more. The down side is that the bus, subway or streetcar is generally packed and so I generally settle on who is the most easily visible while maintaining an air of non-stalkerdom.

Today, on the way home from synagogue, the most beautiful guy was standing on the platform waiting for my streetcar. Now, by 'most beautiful' I do not mean your Patrick Demseys or Justin Timberlakes of the world, but rather my ideal, which, while varied, was perfectly encapsulated in this individual. About my height, perhaps a bit heavier due to lack of emaciation, still slender but with some slight padding in the good places. Hair was full, dark and unruly. Pale skin but with heavy eyebrows and stubble, with no sideburns but tufts of regular jutting down. Pouty lips. Soft eyes. We didn't look entirely dissimilar. He was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to engage him in Eye Contact Wars. He was also wearing the exact same hoodie as I was, thereby confirming my longtime suspicions that my narcissism is so great that I pretty much just want to fuck myself. This, interestingly enough, has also been suggested by others on occasion.

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out something resembling a tensor bandage with a loop on the end, through which he placed his index finger. He then proceeded to wrap his wrist in the material, which revealed itself to be an elaborate camo-patterned wrist ornament that even gets wrapped 'round the fingers. In other words, it looks pretty badass. So I'm catching glimpses of him in all his prettiness, with his casual yet specific attire and this very intentional accessory and I'm picturing him, as one does, in different social situations with me as my "person" and suddenly thought to myself, "Uh, who do you think you're kidding?"

It became very clear to me that here was this guy without any pretense or uniform and I was dressed in a suit, dress shoes, a kippa in my pocket on the way home from a house of prayer. My boho, rave-y, empoverished-but-happy fantasies are extremely at odds with my current career path. Cause even if he had, as the fantasy went, come over and struck up a conversation, leading to mutual love fallings and all the bliss that my little emo faggy heart has ever wanted, at what point in that haze do I say, "Oh, by the way, I can only really be with a Jew so how do you feel about converting?"

I suppose the big concern that I'm trying to iterate is that what if neither of these worlds is enough? I'm never going to be happy working in a thankless job, completely stifled of creativity, but the relationship that I still desire isn't all that conducive to a leader in a religious community.

There's no epiphany in this post. This just happened half an hour ago. But...fuck.

Friday, October 09, 2009

10 Fashion Trends That Need To Stop

10. Hollister shirts - I've said it before and I'll say it again: you look like a douche. Aside from the store essentially just being A & F's slightly challenged little cousin, wearing what amounts to a Fruit of the Loom shirt with block lettering on it for $50 just confirms your douchery.

9. Skinny jeans - You know who looks good in these? No one. Even the people that do look good in them still look like disasters. When you American Apparel drones can interchange jeans with lycra leggings, it's really time to stop.

8. American-style sunglasses - of any sort. Venetian blinds, Buddy Holly ('cept for Dan Levi; lurve you), anything but black, white or earth tone...what it boils down to is that if your sunglasses don't make you look like you're a) navigating the streets of Rome of on a Moped, b) stepping onto a yacht in 1966, or c) landing a WWII era fighter jet...just kill yourself.

7. V-neck tees - I love v-necks. To a degree. But when we can see your navel and you're not Rex Harrington, you need to take it up a couple inches. And trust me, a couple inches can make aaaaall the difference in the world.

6. Purple v-neck tees - Yes, these are so bad that they deserve a separate ranking. I love purple as a formal accent, like a mauve shirt or a purple-inclusive tie. But when your entire torso is adrift in a sea of crayola crayon royal purple, one of two things is going on. If you're straight, this is the sartorial equivalent of knitting; it's nothing but a faux-sensitive display to try to win the affects of the af-whore-mentioned skinny jeaned AA skanks. Or Michael Park. And if you're gay, then you're trying to make a statement about how out you are. You know what works better? Public displays of putting a penis in your mouth. Sure, it's a misdemeanor, but if you're that desperate for displays of homosexuality, you'll love prison.

5. Large purses - It looks like you're carting around a patent leather turkey with tassels. It's called a day bag, ladies. You can fit more stuff in them, they're chicer and you can still have a standard-sized purse for your lady junk. *shudder* Lady junk...

4. Tattoos - A little daisy on your ankle is cute. A collection that requires the implementation of a dewy decimal system is not. Seriously, do you know how lame those are going to look in 50 years? Better yet, do you know how lame those look right now? I'm all for self-expression, but if you want badly drawn variations of Microsoft clip art enrobing your corpus, just go out and by an Ed Hardy shirt, fool.

Oh Jesus, I just wanted to bitch about purple V-necks and now I'm stuck with a mother f*cking top ten list. Fail: Vamos.

3. Casual office wear - Dress casual is fine. If you wanna knock yourself at Reitman's and Mark's Work Warehouse, you go right ahead. But if your work outfits include Mickey Mouse sweat shirts, hot pink tanks with the spaghetti straps buried inches deep in your shoulder fat or anything contain a wolf, a bear or a loon, may God drop a cubicle wall on your Frito-eating ass.

2. Retro-Grunge Plaid- Hey, entire staff of Tequila Bookworm coffeehouse, it's not 1992 and Kurt Cobaine has moved on; shouldn't you?

1. Crocs - I'm sorry to leave you on a hack bit, but these really are the rubbery work of Beelzebub. I get that occasionally ugliness maskes a trend. Some are even named accordingly (Uggs). I get it. I think it's moronic. But I get it. This, however... so much ne pas. The colours are barf-worthy, they get filthier quicker than a Flava of Love reunion special and they kind of make you look like a Kiebler elf. So unless you are Rosie O'Donnell, Whoopie Goldberg or Sarah Halmarson...back the f*ck off.

I need to bathe.

Saturday, October 03, 2009

I'd really like walking home on weekend nights because I'd rather people think I was really drunk than disabled.