Blanket statement: Videos of beautiful, shirtless men singing pretty songs will always and forever be one of the greatest things ever. Yeah. That sentence made sense, muthafukas.
Oh Jay...why do you and the Madonna-esque gap between your two front teeth keep insisting on not falling madly in love with me?... Wazzat? Cause we've never met and the only contact we've ever had is when I left a singular comment on your blog? Oh right. SHUT UP I DO NOT FALL TO YOUR LOGIC.
This morning there were two girls in the subway seeking donation for sick kids with heart disease. Or worms. I wasn't really paying attention. In my experience, there are three kinds of non-riders you'll encounter in the subway: charitable donations seekers, buskers and people handing out mini samples of Kraft Dinner (I do not know why they do this. I don't have all the answers, people). The girls were about 13 or 14 so why they were doing this at 5:00pm escapes me, though if I had to guess... retarded elderly girl scouts. One of them was small and demure, holding out her tin with both hands and an optimistic half-smile while the other was a dead ringer for Shamu with a mouth to match.
"Change for sick kids! Want to donate change to sick kids?!" she shouted in what I believe to have been whale song.
It's not that I am prejudice against fat people. Well, no more than most people. It's just that - okay, don't turn on me but - you know she totally bogarted her wee friend's KD sample!!!! This, I cannot abide! Also, and it's not as though I take pleasure in making fun of tweens, but if you're 14 and wearing a Hannah Montana leisure suit that barely covers the blossoming fupa you've been cultivating...you're not on my side. In life, I mean. Still, I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt (you know, that she had an Achey Breakey Dad) until there was a huge influx of people, all of whom were ignoring her, and suddenly this massive humpbacked whine of "DOESN'T ANYBODY WANT TO GIVE MONEY TO SICK KIDS?!?!?!?!?!?!" echoed across the whole station. This bitch was seriously trying to find Nemo. I audibly whispered, "Jeezus..." and the cute guy in the argyle sweater in front of me turned around and smiled.
David: 1 Free Willy: 0
Also, a quick note to old people:
Hey! Old People! Learn how to use Gmail properly or get the fuck off my interwebz! When you receive a group message about your goddamned Jewish community choir, do not - I repeat, DO NOT - reply all! Cause then my ass is stuck deleting every single one of your "I'm in! Sign me up!" or "I'm out of porridge :( " messages cause I can't stand to look at the entire cascading conversation riddled with names like BerthaandHerb@fuckingoldperson.com taking up my whole freakin' screen! Now go spread Ben Gay on something!
You know what? That's it! You're getting your own tag! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCK!!!98Q29570YNc0q75yqwt6-yuT]-'
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
My brown friend (Yeah. I have one. Step off!) and I were half-seriously chatting last night about the notion of seeing others naked. My history with shared nudity is illustrious; often times exploratory, occasionally shame based, but always fascinating. I've always been incredibly self-conscious about donning my own suit de birthday, most prominently in the Pan Am Pool change room between the ages of 4 and 10, which is so silly, cause it's not as though size is important at that age anyway. Unless you're a pedo, in which case, STOP READING MY BLOG. My Hungarian father was and still is very quick to point out that there is no shame such appropriate public nudity. Granted, this is also a 300 lbs. man who has met about a third of my friends in a t-shirt and micro-briefs. Despite his European sensibilities, something must have happened to me as a toddler to royally fuck up any normal perception of body image that may have developed.
Despite my aversion to grown ups seeing me au naturel (Blog goal: use as many euphemisms for nudity as possible), I was always the innocent yet pervy kid playing doctor or truth or dare with other kindergartners. Obviously it was never sexual at that age, nor is it to this day to imagine seeing a friend in the buff. It's still weirdly fascinating though. In high school, I had a couple of friends over and we decided to have a three-person toga party that lasted about an hour before it became a strategically placed pillows party. Nothing sexual happened, but it was indefinably exciting to transform my basement into a naturalist colony for a night.
Perhaps my platonic approach to most nudity is fueled by the the dualistic, all-consuming of celluloid and online willies that abound. On the one hand, the permeating presence of over-the-top beauty has absolutely dulled my physical attractions to the point that I'm barely ever drawn to anyone who is not ridiculously out of my league, while at the same time the remainder of the populous become so desexualized that their nakedness is of no consequence. It's on par with seeing someone shirtless; just another detail I can add to the collage of the way I think of you all in my head. Like, brown friend would probably be like, "Aw, look! There's an anteater poking out of that there bush!...Wait."
Wow, that got deep yo! Well, 'bout as deep as The Immaculate Collection, which I think I'm gonna download so I can vogue out on the plane ride home Thursday night.
Despite my aversion to grown ups seeing me au naturel (Blog goal: use as many euphemisms for nudity as possible), I was always the innocent yet pervy kid playing doctor or truth or dare with other kindergartners. Obviously it was never sexual at that age, nor is it to this day to imagine seeing a friend in the buff. It's still weirdly fascinating though. In high school, I had a couple of friends over and we decided to have a three-person toga party that lasted about an hour before it became a strategically placed pillows party. Nothing sexual happened, but it was indefinably exciting to transform my basement into a naturalist colony for a night.
Okay, so maybe it's time to introduce an Oversharing tag.
Perhaps my platonic approach to most nudity is fueled by the the dualistic, all-consuming of celluloid and online willies that abound. On the one hand, the permeating presence of over-the-top beauty has absolutely dulled my physical attractions to the point that I'm barely ever drawn to anyone who is not ridiculously out of my league, while at the same time the remainder of the populous become so desexualized that their nakedness is of no consequence. It's on par with seeing someone shirtless; just another detail I can add to the collage of the way I think of you all in my head. Like, brown friend would probably be like, "Aw, look! There's an anteater poking out of that there bush!...Wait."
Wow, that got deep yo! Well, 'bout as deep as The Immaculate Collection, which I think I'm gonna download so I can vogue out on the plane ride home Thursday night.
Monday, February 22, 2010
My boss just thanked me for something and my response was "Np." I need an internet cleanse.
This was a bit of a funny weekend. Most others are spent preparing for the week to come (sorry, Shabbat), but as I'm going home on Thursday for 10 days I didn't do all my normal rituals, like a big shop in Kensington (unrelated: I need to stop buying cucumbers. I never eat them and they just sit in my fridge like a huge dong, fermenting and eventually releasing all sorts of liquid fun). As there were fewer errands to do, I decided to go out and have an awesome time on Saturday night as Sunday could be spent convalescing. Initially, I was planning on going clubbing in the gay village with ESLothario and some of his peeps, which had potential but wasn't really filling me with dance fever. I account this partially to a fear of reawakening the minor infatuation that transpired last fall at the hands of seeing anyone come within 3 feet of him ( inevitable at a club, from what I understand), but mostly I just have no desire to step foot in the village, rampant homophobe that I am.
Later in the afternoon, I received a completely random message from a chat buddy last heard from about five years ago. We'd gotten chummy prior to my visit to Montreal, where he was residing, in 2005. We did not hang out as he wound up being out of town for all but one day of my visit but we kept in touch for a while afterwards, mostly on the basis of our Toriphilia and mutual boredom. Anywhoozles, he'd seen that we'd both moved to Toronto and proposed we hang out that night at a queer dance party being held in the trendy boho part of Queen West called Parkdale. I am feeling an increasing attraction to this neighborhood, as it seems like a lovely artistic enclave removed enough from downtown to have a sense of community yet only about ten minutes away by streetcar. Additionally, the gay community there (affectionately self-titled Queer West) is present in a very natural, integrated way as opposed to the normal two options of closeted devotee or screaming rainbows. As such, I was very excited, imagining this would be similar to my outing with The Jews. I promptly bailed on ESLothario and began mentally imagining what I would wear, relieved at not having to pick out an ensemble that accentuated those desirable features which I am sorely lacking (pecs, bubble butt, 2", etc.). Imagine my disappointment when I was karmicly bailed on by the Montrealer, leaving me alone with my milk frother and dead dreams of newfound community.
Then, in an odd moment of courage, I thought, "Fuck it, I'm going anyway," and sure enough at 11:06pm, with 5 ounces of vodka and 120 mg. of pseudophedrin coursing through my veins, I marched out the door. I would have walked, but evidently I'm just too stylin'. I arrived at The Beaver, essentially your typical neighborhood bar, at approximately 11:45pm. Initially, I thought this an ironic name for a queer dance party venue until I arrived and saw that the only people on the tiny dance floor were four lesbians. Evidently, they're still considered queer. The tables by the bar were filled with queer hipsters of both genders and a few of their straight friends. As I did not feel like sitting alone like a loser, I opted to dance alone like a loser and made a b-line for the dance floor. The music was indie/old school hip hop. This, anthropomorphically, is not my people. The fact that I shook this ass pretty much non-stop is a testament to how deeply I did not feel like sitting by myself, as well as to the two decongestants I'd downed prior to embarking, effectively teaching me that third times a charm with over-the-counter non-drowsies.
I got hit on twice in the course of the night. The first was by a fucked-out-of-his-mind Stanford Blatch lookalike, but about ten years older, meaning five drug-filled years older. He was also dressed like Rudy of Fat Albert fame. After introducing himself and his lesbian bestie "Ocean" (yeah), he asked me about my life, leaning in far too much for my liking and allowing me to experience that all-too-familiar combo smell of illicit substances and bad oral hygiene. Later in the night, he gave me his number written on the back of someone else's business card. Unfortunately for Stannie, Becky McFarlane, Co-Director of the Ontario Council of Alternative Businesses, is much more likely to receive a solicitous phone call from me than his surely-encased-in-man-spanx ass. Aside from the olfactory assault, I was able to confirm that he was in fact high as a kite when five minutes after giving me the card, he came back over and said, "I just want to let you know I wasn't hitting on you; you just seem like a nice guy." Now, normally I would simply accept this statement at face value, but having been in this man's physiological condition, I can safely inform you that when a person is fucked up, offending someone else or being rejected is the most devastating thing imaginable. I swear that a solid third of my conversations at raves were spent with both of us trying to reassure the other person that we "liked them."
The second come-on had potential. In the dark. I saw a tall ambiguous male form from across the room awkwardly dancing alone and thought he looked endearing and potentially cute. (As to differentiate between his dancing and mine, Stanford had previously told me earlier in the night that he liked my dancing and this had allowed me to grant myself permission to fucking go off on that dance floor. Fat people have always told me that they liked the way I dance. Perhaps the inability to pick up one's feet is a biologically-ingrained instinctual attraction for people with over active thyroids.) After a while, the tall shadowed one comes over and begins shuffling in general proximity to me. We were kind of dancing at each other, like birds or something. At this point, the DJ, who has gradually switched to electro-house (thank the good lord; I can only be black for, like, an hour. Max.) put on a remix of...something. I can't remember, BUT ANYWAY he leans in and says, "I don't think I can survive this remix right now," to which I replied, "Let's find out together, shall we?" We kept making small talk but I was beginning to see him more clearly now and was having my inclination to believe him to be a hottie utterly dashed. He wasn't unattractive, but just...ne pas. I looked at my phone and it was just about 2am, the time that I had built myself up to stay until, so I said goodbye and left.
I realize that this would be a far better story had I met someone of note or had some sort of awesome adventure, but as it was I just went home, did not hook up and/or cuddle with anyone and went to bed solo. Sunday was spent entirely in my PJs catching up on two months of television and little else. I'm actually rather happy with the weekend. Ideally, I'd like to return to the Beav with someone else, perhaps the Montrealer, but I'm not into forcing anything. Not entirely sure if my newfound comfort at being able to do anything alone is healthy, but I tend to get satisfactory results from these outings.
Well, this was my attempt at narrative blog writing. It was...something. If you're interested in reading about someone who has found a way to be happy and hilarious simultaneously, the unicorn of bloggers, check out Sassy Curmudgeon. She had me stifling my tearful laughter with a Received By date stamp at work last week.
This was a bit of a funny weekend. Most others are spent preparing for the week to come (sorry, Shabbat), but as I'm going home on Thursday for 10 days I didn't do all my normal rituals, like a big shop in Kensington (unrelated: I need to stop buying cucumbers. I never eat them and they just sit in my fridge like a huge dong, fermenting and eventually releasing all sorts of liquid fun). As there were fewer errands to do, I decided to go out and have an awesome time on Saturday night as Sunday could be spent convalescing. Initially, I was planning on going clubbing in the gay village with ESLothario and some of his peeps, which had potential but wasn't really filling me with dance fever. I account this partially to a fear of reawakening the minor infatuation that transpired last fall at the hands of seeing anyone come within 3 feet of him ( inevitable at a club, from what I understand), but mostly I just have no desire to step foot in the village, rampant homophobe that I am.
Later in the afternoon, I received a completely random message from a chat buddy last heard from about five years ago. We'd gotten chummy prior to my visit to Montreal, where he was residing, in 2005. We did not hang out as he wound up being out of town for all but one day of my visit but we kept in touch for a while afterwards, mostly on the basis of our Toriphilia and mutual boredom. Anywhoozles, he'd seen that we'd both moved to Toronto and proposed we hang out that night at a queer dance party being held in the trendy boho part of Queen West called Parkdale. I am feeling an increasing attraction to this neighborhood, as it seems like a lovely artistic enclave removed enough from downtown to have a sense of community yet only about ten minutes away by streetcar. Additionally, the gay community there (affectionately self-titled Queer West) is present in a very natural, integrated way as opposed to the normal two options of closeted devotee or screaming rainbows. As such, I was very excited, imagining this would be similar to my outing with The Jews. I promptly bailed on ESLothario and began mentally imagining what I would wear, relieved at not having to pick out an ensemble that accentuated those desirable features which I am sorely lacking (pecs, bubble butt, 2", etc.). Imagine my disappointment when I was karmicly bailed on by the Montrealer, leaving me alone with my milk frother and dead dreams of newfound community.
Then, in an odd moment of courage, I thought, "Fuck it, I'm going anyway," and sure enough at 11:06pm, with 5 ounces of vodka and 120 mg. of pseudophedrin coursing through my veins, I marched out the door. I would have walked, but evidently I'm just too stylin'. I arrived at The Beaver, essentially your typical neighborhood bar, at approximately 11:45pm. Initially, I thought this an ironic name for a queer dance party venue until I arrived and saw that the only people on the tiny dance floor were four lesbians. Evidently, they're still considered queer. The tables by the bar were filled with queer hipsters of both genders and a few of their straight friends. As I did not feel like sitting alone like a loser, I opted to dance alone like a loser and made a b-line for the dance floor. The music was indie/old school hip hop. This, anthropomorphically, is not my people. The fact that I shook this ass pretty much non-stop is a testament to how deeply I did not feel like sitting by myself, as well as to the two decongestants I'd downed prior to embarking, effectively teaching me that third times a charm with over-the-counter non-drowsies.
I got hit on twice in the course of the night. The first was by a fucked-out-of-his-mind Stanford Blatch lookalike, but about ten years older, meaning five drug-filled years older. He was also dressed like Rudy of Fat Albert fame. After introducing himself and his lesbian bestie "Ocean" (yeah), he asked me about my life, leaning in far too much for my liking and allowing me to experience that all-too-familiar combo smell of illicit substances and bad oral hygiene. Later in the night, he gave me his number written on the back of someone else's business card. Unfortunately for Stannie, Becky McFarlane, Co-Director of the Ontario Council of Alternative Businesses, is much more likely to receive a solicitous phone call from me than his surely-encased-in-man-spanx ass. Aside from the olfactory assault, I was able to confirm that he was in fact high as a kite when five minutes after giving me the card, he came back over and said, "I just want to let you know I wasn't hitting on you; you just seem like a nice guy." Now, normally I would simply accept this statement at face value, but having been in this man's physiological condition, I can safely inform you that when a person is fucked up, offending someone else or being rejected is the most devastating thing imaginable. I swear that a solid third of my conversations at raves were spent with both of us trying to reassure the other person that we "liked them."
The second come-on had potential. In the dark. I saw a tall ambiguous male form from across the room awkwardly dancing alone and thought he looked endearing and potentially cute. (As to differentiate between his dancing and mine, Stanford had previously told me earlier in the night that he liked my dancing and this had allowed me to grant myself permission to fucking go off on that dance floor. Fat people have always told me that they liked the way I dance. Perhaps the inability to pick up one's feet is a biologically-ingrained instinctual attraction for people with over active thyroids.) After a while, the tall shadowed one comes over and begins shuffling in general proximity to me. We were kind of dancing at each other, like birds or something. At this point, the DJ, who has gradually switched to electro-house (thank the good lord; I can only be black for, like, an hour. Max.) put on a remix of...something. I can't remember, BUT ANYWAY he leans in and says, "I don't think I can survive this remix right now," to which I replied, "Let's find out together, shall we?" We kept making small talk but I was beginning to see him more clearly now and was having my inclination to believe him to be a hottie utterly dashed. He wasn't unattractive, but just...ne pas. I looked at my phone and it was just about 2am, the time that I had built myself up to stay until, so I said goodbye and left.
I realize that this would be a far better story had I met someone of note or had some sort of awesome adventure, but as it was I just went home, did not hook up and/or cuddle with anyone and went to bed solo. Sunday was spent entirely in my PJs catching up on two months of television and little else. I'm actually rather happy with the weekend. Ideally, I'd like to return to the Beav with someone else, perhaps the Montrealer, but I'm not into forcing anything. Not entirely sure if my newfound comfort at being able to do anything alone is healthy, but I tend to get satisfactory results from these outings.
Well, this was my attempt at narrative blog writing. It was...something. If you're interested in reading about someone who has found a way to be happy and hilarious simultaneously, the unicorn of bloggers, check out Sassy Curmudgeon. She had me stifling my tearful laughter with a Received By date stamp at work last week.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
10 Things I Have Learned From Manhunt
10. The definition of 'slim' is not universal.
9. Nothing says "Looking for a long distance relationship" more than shirtless, headless photos.
8. Most people do not like Asians.
7. Some people fucking love Asians.
6. No one that is out of the closet wears boxers.
5. To be a gay man means two things: You are physically and/or emotionally attractive to other men; you do not know the difference between "your" and "you're."
4. No one looks good in pink boy briefs.
3. "Just an average guy" is code for possessing the 3 Bad B's of Heterosexuality: beer gut, baseball cap, butt foliage.
2. If someone appears too nice, they're ESL.
1. I need to stop going on Manhunt.
9. Nothing says "Looking for a long distance relationship" more than shirtless, headless photos.
8. Most people do not like Asians.
7. Some people fucking love Asians.
6. No one that is out of the closet wears boxers.
5. To be a gay man means two things: You are physically and/or emotionally attractive to other men; you do not know the difference between "your" and "you're."
4. No one looks good in pink boy briefs.
3. "Just an average guy" is code for possessing the 3 Bad B's of Heterosexuality: beer gut, baseball cap, butt foliage.
2. If someone appears too nice, they're ESL.
1. I need to stop going on Manhunt.
Mature Conversation
(via text)
Uni-Brow: hey david [sic]. Woke up coldy. Trying to beat it down before break ends. Which means I'm flaking out...Again. I guess you can add it to the list. Sorry.
Illustrious D: Flaking out on what?
UB: Potential hang outs... Shit... Did I just create that in my head...
ID: Sure did. Still going on the list though.
UB: Ha! Fuck. You get rid of snore-zilla already?
UB: Spart-i-snore
UB: The hero of the birth of insomnia. Frank-in-snores [sic] return
ID: [Uni-Brown], you're not Barney Stinson and you never will be. But yes, the snore of Babylon is gone. Enjoy your convalescence.
UB: Ya. Mine were all of poor quality. This is true. But I set you up for the gold medal.
ID: Yeah. You were really a key player in that one.
UB: I just wanna be on a team.
ID: Well, [Brow}, there have been numerous attempts to get you over to my team but you will have none of it. So I don't know what to tell you. But good luck with everything.
UB: Ha. Check mate my friend. Once again you prove you are in a league of your own.
ID: What a lovely way of saying Single With Good Reason. BTdubs, this entire conversation is going on my blog.
Uni-Brow: hey david [sic]. Woke up coldy. Trying to beat it down before break ends. Which means I'm flaking out...Again. I guess you can add it to the list. Sorry.
Illustrious D: Flaking out on what?
UB: Potential hang outs... Shit... Did I just create that in my head...
ID: Sure did. Still going on the list though.
UB: Ha! Fuck. You get rid of snore-zilla already?
UB: Spart-i-snore
UB: The hero of the birth of insomnia. Frank-in-snores [sic] return
ID: [Uni-Brown], you're not Barney Stinson and you never will be. But yes, the snore of Babylon is gone. Enjoy your convalescence.
UB: Ya. Mine were all of poor quality. This is true. But I set you up for the gold medal.
ID: Yeah. You were really a key player in that one.
UB: I just wanna be on a team.
ID: Well, [Brow}, there have been numerous attempts to get you over to my team but you will have none of it. So I don't know what to tell you. But good luck with everything.
UB: Ha. Check mate my friend. Once again you prove you are in a league of your own.
ID: What a lovely way of saying Single With Good Reason. BTdubs, this entire conversation is going on my blog.
Friday, February 19, 2010
I am exhausted. I am also at work. This is not a good combination for No Homicide February.
I currently have a houseguest from back home who I'm delighted to have stay with me, apart from his sonorous nocturnal vocalizations. The following is a true list of the voiced onomatopoeia I interpreted last night while waiting for the police to arrive with a noise complaint:
-Engine of a Hummer
-Macaque, in heat
-Macaque, mating
-Gibbon, post-coital (touché)
-Major General, modern
-Dehydrated marathon runner, no Gatorade
-Korean making a toast (This one wasn't snoring but rather a shouting of "Spich!")
-Common loon
-Olympic torch hydraulic malfunction (topical!)
-14 year old girl in labour
-60 year old man in labour
-Shredder (villain, not office machine)
-Braying
-Call to prayer
-Ritual circumcision (possibly related?)
-A Magic Bullet
So while I was thrilled to have a live rendition of Planet Earth playing itself out at 4am, I am a might cranky here at work.
Now, I believe in ardent professionalism both on the job and on the blog. I recognize that speaking ill of one's supervisors or colleagues in a secretive but public forum could have detrimental results to my livelihood. As stated in previous blogs, I find questions or comments relating to a person's private life (no, being gay doesn't cause me like pink file folders*) to be completely inappropriate. For example, I would never go around asking a colleague the reasons behind vehemence towards personal hygiene, specifically laundry and bodily cleansing. That she smells of no name laundry detergent and four day old body odour is just none of my business. Nor would I ever describe how her likening my frequent misplacement of my LV wallet to her losing the Bluetooth headset her husband gave her for Christmas in a T.G.I. Friday's smacks of so many racial stereotypes that I'm tempted to nominate her for next year's NCAPP Image Awards (deadline was Feb 1st). I do not kowtow to their 1950's-era perception of gender roles or of suburban family units, no matter that upon hearing my colleague proddingly say, "Men are such babies," it takes every fibre in my being not to give her a huge smile and respond that they also make great daddies. And then write about it. I'm just not that kind of blogger, people. The state of their finances (age 37 + employed husband w/ 3 kids + still renting = you're doing it* wrong) is none of my concern. What they choose to do with their lives outside of work (Playstation with their children, getting a part-time job at Additional Elle for the employee discount, not bathing) is so beyond the realm of appropriate blog topics that no matter how awkwardly hilarious they are to me, I would never use this hallowed blog to air someone's dirty laundry. Even though someone really should. Do laundry. For serious.
*True insinuation
**Life
I currently have a houseguest from back home who I'm delighted to have stay with me, apart from his sonorous nocturnal vocalizations. The following is a true list of the voiced onomatopoeia I interpreted last night while waiting for the police to arrive with a noise complaint:
-Engine of a Hummer
-Macaque, in heat
-Macaque, mating
-Gibbon, post-coital (touché)
-Major General, modern
-Dehydrated marathon runner, no Gatorade
-Korean making a toast (This one wasn't snoring but rather a shouting of "Spich!")
-Common loon
-Olympic torch hydraulic malfunction (topical!)
-14 year old girl in labour
-60 year old man in labour
-Shredder (villain, not office machine)
-Braying
-Call to prayer
-Ritual circumcision (possibly related?)
-A Magic Bullet
So while I was thrilled to have a live rendition of Planet Earth playing itself out at 4am, I am a might cranky here at work.
Now, I believe in ardent professionalism both on the job and on the blog. I recognize that speaking ill of one's supervisors or colleagues in a secretive but public forum could have detrimental results to my livelihood. As stated in previous blogs, I find questions or comments relating to a person's private life (no, being gay doesn't cause me like pink file folders*) to be completely inappropriate. For example, I would never go around asking a colleague the reasons behind vehemence towards personal hygiene, specifically laundry and bodily cleansing. That she smells of no name laundry detergent and four day old body odour is just none of my business. Nor would I ever describe how her likening my frequent misplacement of my LV wallet to her losing the Bluetooth headset her husband gave her for Christmas in a T.G.I. Friday's smacks of so many racial stereotypes that I'm tempted to nominate her for next year's NCAPP Image Awards (deadline was Feb 1st). I do not kowtow to their 1950's-era perception of gender roles or of suburban family units, no matter that upon hearing my colleague proddingly say, "Men are such babies," it takes every fibre in my being not to give her a huge smile and respond that they also make great daddies. And then write about it. I'm just not that kind of blogger, people. The state of their finances (age 37 + employed husband w/ 3 kids + still renting = you're doing it* wrong) is none of my concern. What they choose to do with their lives outside of work (Playstation with their children, getting a part-time job at Additional Elle for the employee discount, not bathing) is so beyond the realm of appropriate blog topics that no matter how awkwardly hilarious they are to me, I would never use this hallowed blog to air someone's dirty laundry. Even though someone really should. Do laundry. For serious.
*True insinuation
**Life
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Fuck you, Facebook Bumper Sticker.
Fuck. You.
Today I realized that whenever I see a person with red hair walk by, in my head I always scream, "GINGEEERRRRRRR!" Unlike most of the population, I find select redheads extremely attractive. I've yet to become intimate with one, but given my lack of sexual discretion, it'll probably happen at one point or another, and likely not with the gorgeous auburn ones but rather the pasty freckled kind that resemble Alfred E. Newman and Opie's love child.
I also had a similar reaction when the girl with autism/the sillies started laughing maniacally on the streetcar this morning, though that was more "Oh my god, I love that retarded girl." Like all children and most pets, I enjoy her in small doses but do not want one of my own. I feel this will qualify me to be a kickass uncle, assuming the my brothers date crazy bitches that poke holes in their condoms in the hopes of hopping on those sweet pilot/electrician trains. My Special Uncle Skills will include teaching the dangers of over eyeliner-ing (nieces), winning hearts with show tunes (nephews) and the importance of brow maintenance (both), as the latter sure as hell hasn't worked on my friends. You know who you are. And that I mean you. And you read this blog. And I'm going to keep mentioning it until that shit gets taken care of.
Welcome to the world, Audible Sigh tag.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Mommy: How did you sleep?
Illustrious D: Most excellently. Cold room, warm comforters.
M: Oh, good. I put an extra blanket on just in case.
ID: There was an extra one?
M: Yes, the coloured blanket.
ID: Uh, mom? They're called African-American blankets now.
I went home for the weekend to rehearse with a group I perform with/at. This was a surprise for my parents, and my mother, upon opening the door to find me standing there, emitted a sound pitched so high that our dog Finnigan immediately went into heat. The weekend was spent mostly in rehearsals, with the odd tipping of the hat and the bottle to old friends. As no medications, prescriptions or otherwise, seem to be on the horizon, I've rededicated myself to alcoholism. Fortunately, I tend to have friends that share this passion, though none quite at my level, thereby allowing me to feel enabled and superior at the same time. I'm not beating an addiction; I'm winning at it.
While home, I was also propositioned by an old one-sided lover who got me all worked up and then requested that we postpone until the next day. Here is the thing about trying to get with someone who tries hard to be virtuous but is fundamentally weak: we will give in only in the moment. Any attempts at sexual procrastination will be rebuffed. This is not community college; you cannot defer entrance. (That joke would work so much better if I was a bottom.) If you get us all jonesin' and then back off, we're not going to wait until the next night because by then we'll have regained our moral compass or at least what's left of it. Rather we will sit at home all blue balled until some random messages us for a 'cuddle' (read: chew on a nipple*) and then totally go cause I was bored and it was Valentine's Day and I'm unlovable! Or something. Ugh, I don't even have the energy to reprimand myself for being occasionally ho-ey.
* I also learned that under NO circumstances do I enjoy being the little spoon.
Illustrious D: Most excellently. Cold room, warm comforters.
M: Oh, good. I put an extra blanket on just in case.
ID: There was an extra one?
M: Yes, the coloured blanket.
ID: Uh, mom? They're called African-American blankets now.
I went home for the weekend to rehearse with a group I perform with/at. This was a surprise for my parents, and my mother, upon opening the door to find me standing there, emitted a sound pitched so high that our dog Finnigan immediately went into heat. The weekend was spent mostly in rehearsals, with the odd tipping of the hat and the bottle to old friends. As no medications, prescriptions or otherwise, seem to be on the horizon, I've rededicated myself to alcoholism. Fortunately, I tend to have friends that share this passion, though none quite at my level, thereby allowing me to feel enabled and superior at the same time. I'm not beating an addiction; I'm winning at it.
While home, I was also propositioned by an old one-sided lover who got me all worked up and then requested that we postpone until the next day. Here is the thing about trying to get with someone who tries hard to be virtuous but is fundamentally weak: we will give in only in the moment. Any attempts at sexual procrastination will be rebuffed. This is not community college; you cannot defer entrance. (That joke would work so much better if I was a bottom.) If you get us all jonesin' and then back off, we're not going to wait until the next night because by then we'll have regained our moral compass or at least what's left of it. Rather we will sit at home all blue balled until some random messages us for a 'cuddle' (read: chew on a nipple*) and then totally go cause I was bored and it was Valentine's Day and I'm unlovable! Or something. Ugh, I don't even have the energy to reprimand myself for being occasionally ho-ey.
* I also learned that under NO circumstances do I enjoy being the little spoon.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Dear Wallet,
Way to get found. You'd pretty much be the awesomest wallet ever if you didn't insist on getting lost every two to five months. If you were my child instead of my wallet, you'd have a backhand with your name on it waiting when we get home. Lucky for you that direct physical abuse only gives you a more supple texture. Too bad the same cannot be said for Rihanna.
You're a real asshole, Wallet, you know that?
-David
Way to get found. You'd pretty much be the awesomest wallet ever if you didn't insist on getting lost every two to five months. If you were my child instead of my wallet, you'd have a backhand with your name on it waiting when we get home. Lucky for you that direct physical abuse only gives you a more supple texture. Too bad the same cannot be said for Rihanna.
You're a real asshole, Wallet, you know that?
-David
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
This Friday I will be returning to Winnipeg for the Valentine's Day long weekend. This is akin, I feel, to a hit and run victim returning to the scene of the crime where they were mowed down over and over and over again, forward then backward, practically used as a human speed bump before the driver sped off with an explanation. (In a new book I'm reading, one of the characters is described as a young Spaniard with red marks all over his face that render him quite unattractive. In my mind, I have chosen to visualize YP in this role. Fictional casting win.) I'm flying in for a rehearsal weekend for an album being recorded in March, which is all well and good, but the director on this project has yet to issue a formal schedule due to having recently suffered a work-related mental breakdown, the only upside of which is that he tells me his symptoms and I will in turn recant them to my therapist in the hopes of acquiring a nice little Celexa nest egg of my own.
Onwards. Everything old is news again: my wallet is missing. HOWEVER, this time I did not lose it. I feel that it was pilfered on the streetcar and you know what? GOOD. I'm glad. This wallet has been the bane of my existence for the past 7 years and at this point it has become a hemroids-level pain in my ass. I don't care about the $40, IDs, transit pass, bank credit cards and random loyalty rewards cards in it. I got another Vuitton that's been in the wings for years, so who needs you, Wallet?! I just want that fucker gone!... Except if I get it back.
In better news, Apple has sent me a new iPod, so I'm assuming the fact that I tried shipping the old one via Fedex by putting it in the UPS box worked out just fine. Lesson: reading is for suckers.
Onwards. Everything old is news again: my wallet is missing. HOWEVER, this time I did not lose it. I feel that it was pilfered on the streetcar and you know what? GOOD. I'm glad. This wallet has been the bane of my existence for the past 7 years and at this point it has become a hemroids-level pain in my ass. I don't care about the $40, IDs, transit pass, bank credit cards and random loyalty rewards cards in it. I got another Vuitton that's been in the wings for years, so who needs you, Wallet?! I just want that fucker gone!... Except if I get it back.
In better news, Apple has sent me a new iPod, so I'm assuming the fact that I tried shipping the old one via Fedex by putting it in the UPS box worked out just fine. Lesson: reading is for suckers.
Monday, February 08, 2010
I just got back from lunch, having had an older couple share my bench. The elderly are right near the top of my list of Things I Just Barely Tolerate, along with ketchup, most immigrants and Beyonce (Hey, Non-Existent Gay Following, consider yourself alienated). However, this couple was something special. They waltzed right over in their leisure suits and matching velcro K-Swiss sneakers and sat their cute little old asses down, barely breathing a "Thank you" as I relocated my Tupperware container to accommodate them. And don't even try that watery-eyed weak-ass smile with me, grandpa. I know all your moves and they don't work on this guy.
Then they really did it. She reached out and put her hand on his knee and he took it in his and they sat there cuddling, holding hands and marvelling at the ubiquity of "all the Orientals." While I'm glad that my hobby is finally catching on, this activity was just too much for me today.
I turned to the man and said, "Why, sir, those velcro sartorial marvels are really quite becoming. Are you , by any force of chance, a size 11?
The man smiled and nodded and reached over to undo the left shoe.
"Oh, no, sir. Allow me," I proffered.
On bended knee, I slowly peeled back the two tabs as they reveled in the auditory emulsions emitted in the breaking away of those two heavenly bodies of attachment.
I lifted the shoe off the old man's foot and held it in my hands. Then I ralphed in and threw it at a ficus.
That'll learn them.
I don't know why I am filled with so much rage today. Perhaps it was last night's Chelsea Lately marathon, a show that while hilarious tend to make me pret-ty hatey. Perhaps it's the fact that I've pretty much been drunk since Friday night and have been sleeping poorly as a consequence, having stupid, inebriated dreams where people are just really mean to me. Like, Regina George mean. In one such dream, I was on a subway car making out with a boy who was essentially a composite of the last two guys that had slept in my bed. He was made up of all of their good qualities and yet I still wasn't all that into him. Telling. This was a reciprocated feeling as he bailed a few minutes into the necking and I was left in a state of confused apathy and uninspired blue balls.
I really am mastering the art of reciprocal ambivalence. Even the gay dating site ads on my blog are subpar, choosing to feature photos of guys resembling John Goodman. One even looks like Roseanne. I take this very personally. It's probably the dehydration and the lack of sleep talking, but can we all together utter a universal 'Ugh'? It's just not working right now, people. The most pleasure I've derived in recent memory has been from scratching my under-moisturized thighs. UPS lost my iPod (unrelated but important) and at this point even my own penis is ignoring my text messages. Sometimes, he just kinda half looks up at me, sighs and says, "Really?"
Another possibility for my funkiness may lie in the time I recently spent with a certain friend whom I always leaving feeling horrible about myself. They're not in the least bit judgey themselves; in fact, he's always lovely and we have good times together. However, I always feel so directionless and crude around this person. It's as though his lack of judgement is a mirror that reflects all the things I loathe about myself. I just feel so self-centred and insipid around him sometimes. Yeah. I'm bitching on my blog about feeling self-centred. It really is such a Marcia Brady experience. If Marcia Brady held conversations with her anthropomorphousized penis.
When is life going to get remotely interesting/happy again?
Then they really did it. She reached out and put her hand on his knee and he took it in his and they sat there cuddling, holding hands and marvelling at the ubiquity of "all the Orientals." While I'm glad that my hobby is finally catching on, this activity was just too much for me today.
I turned to the man and said, "Why, sir, those velcro sartorial marvels are really quite becoming. Are you , by any force of chance, a size 11?
The man smiled and nodded and reached over to undo the left shoe.
"Oh, no, sir. Allow me," I proffered.
On bended knee, I slowly peeled back the two tabs as they reveled in the auditory emulsions emitted in the breaking away of those two heavenly bodies of attachment.
I lifted the shoe off the old man's foot and held it in my hands. Then I ralphed in and threw it at a ficus.
That'll learn them.
I don't know why I am filled with so much rage today. Perhaps it was last night's Chelsea Lately marathon, a show that while hilarious tend to make me pret-ty hatey. Perhaps it's the fact that I've pretty much been drunk since Friday night and have been sleeping poorly as a consequence, having stupid, inebriated dreams where people are just really mean to me. Like, Regina George mean. In one such dream, I was on a subway car making out with a boy who was essentially a composite of the last two guys that had slept in my bed. He was made up of all of their good qualities and yet I still wasn't all that into him. Telling. This was a reciprocated feeling as he bailed a few minutes into the necking and I was left in a state of confused apathy and uninspired blue balls.
I really am mastering the art of reciprocal ambivalence. Even the gay dating site ads on my blog are subpar, choosing to feature photos of guys resembling John Goodman. One even looks like Roseanne. I take this very personally. It's probably the dehydration and the lack of sleep talking, but can we all together utter a universal 'Ugh'? It's just not working right now, people. The most pleasure I've derived in recent memory has been from scratching my under-moisturized thighs. UPS lost my iPod (unrelated but important) and at this point even my own penis is ignoring my text messages. Sometimes, he just kinda half looks up at me, sighs and says, "Really?"
Another possibility for my funkiness may lie in the time I recently spent with a certain friend whom I always leaving feeling horrible about myself. They're not in the least bit judgey themselves; in fact, he's always lovely and we have good times together. However, I always feel so directionless and crude around this person. It's as though his lack of judgement is a mirror that reflects all the things I loathe about myself. I just feel so self-centred and insipid around him sometimes. Yeah. I'm bitching on my blog about feeling self-centred. It really is such a Marcia Brady experience. If Marcia Brady held conversations with her anthropomorphousized penis.
When is life going to get remotely interesting/happy again?
Monday, February 01, 2010
I remember as a kid that my friends and I would play all sorts of funny games with ourselves. Some would hold their breath while passing a cemetery and make wishes at 11:11. Others felt the need to chew equally on either side of their mouths. One of mine was played with an apple, twisting the stem while reciting the alphabet and whatever letter corresponded with the stem coming off was the name of your husband/wife/lovah. I still play this game with unabashed vigour. When I'm seeing someone, I hope desperately that the stem comes off at their letter. When I get a seriously good-for-nothing letter like 'H', I curse the heavens. At the risk of alienating the Harrys, Horraces (Horraci?) or Helmuts of the world, 'H' is not a sexy letter.
Today at lunch I had a granny smith. After I passed 'K', I became very excited as one so seldom gets that far before the stem detaches; I was filled with anticipation at which uncommon letter my future domestic partner's name would begin. As I rounded 'T', I began to become afraid. Why would this spawn of Satan apple not release my love stem?! After 'Z' had come and gone I debated whether or not to begin again at 'A'. Peering down at the freshly frayed green ligaments making up the stem, it occurred to me that this stem was a tangible metaphor for the abysmal failure that has been my romantic life thus far, that love was second only to that fucktard Waldo on my list of Things I Suck at Finding. I felt my innocence and sense of wonder slipping away from me all because of poor selection at the local Asian fruit stand, glancing around at the employees of the food court, Chinese each and every one, and felt their souls laughing heartily at my misfortune. Their mouths smiled, encouraging my daily purchase of a vegetarian western omelet with cheese (extra 50+), but their eyes...oh those eyes! "We do not care if you add 'Asians +++' to your Manhunt profile," they seemed to say, "You will nevertheless die alone and unloved and probably more bloaty than you had hoped for."
No, I said to myself. This would not be my fate as assigned by the employees of Pumpernickel's Breakfast & Deli. I gathered my valour, plucked up and dug what remained of my newly-clipped finger nails into that stem and began twisting with all my might.
A!...
*grunt*
B!...
*moan*
C!... D!...E!...
*wheeze*
F!
*pant *
G!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And off it came.
I do not know if finding true love is as simple as putting all one's strength into twisting off an apple stem. I imagine it is not. I surmise that there are any number of feats and challenges that I will have to face before I find what I am after. But, Gordon, I'm coming for you.
Today at lunch I had a granny smith. After I passed 'K', I became very excited as one so seldom gets that far before the stem detaches; I was filled with anticipation at which uncommon letter my future domestic partner's name would begin. As I rounded 'T', I began to become afraid. Why would this spawn of Satan apple not release my love stem?! After 'Z' had come and gone I debated whether or not to begin again at 'A'. Peering down at the freshly frayed green ligaments making up the stem, it occurred to me that this stem was a tangible metaphor for the abysmal failure that has been my romantic life thus far, that love was second only to that fucktard Waldo on my list of Things I Suck at Finding. I felt my innocence and sense of wonder slipping away from me all because of poor selection at the local Asian fruit stand, glancing around at the employees of the food court, Chinese each and every one, and felt their souls laughing heartily at my misfortune. Their mouths smiled, encouraging my daily purchase of a vegetarian western omelet with cheese (extra 50+), but their eyes...oh those eyes! "We do not care if you add 'Asians +++' to your Manhunt profile," they seemed to say, "You will nevertheless die alone and unloved and probably more bloaty than you had hoped for."
No, I said to myself. This would not be my fate as assigned by the employees of Pumpernickel's Breakfast & Deli. I gathered my valour, plucked up and dug what remained of my newly-clipped finger nails into that stem and began twisting with all my might.
A!...
*grunt*
B!...
*moan*
C!... D!...E!...
*wheeze*
F!
*pant *
G!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And off it came.
I do not know if finding true love is as simple as putting all one's strength into twisting off an apple stem. I imagine it is not. I surmise that there are any number of feats and challenges that I will have to face before I find what I am after. But, Gordon, I'm coming for you.
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