Creepin', Hatin', and Playin'

o hai

I've been too busy breathing into a paper bag from reading this to do anything remotely productive. That said, I've been heavily programmed as per my Rollins Manifesto and so I have seen some things in this world over the past few days and feel the need to list them. And who doesn't love a good list? That's right - no one. Wait. You there, the one with your hand up. Get the fuck out...We're waiting...Okay, you know what we're all just gonna sit here until you and your list-hating smirk leave... No? Fine then. Catch ebola.

1. HEY LISTEN UP, BABIES - jay kay, I'm not gonna start by yelling at babies. We all know I communicate with them and their training-pants-aspiring ways far too lovingly to ever yell at babies. Unless it's not mine. Then for shiz they're getting an earful. Like, hey, why's your poop always green and your barf always white? What, brown isn't good enough for you?! That's racist...

2. I won the genetic lottery - Monday night, I had a Passover seder at my mother's cousins' in Thornhill. For those not in the know, Thornhill is to Toronto as Orange County is to LA. Well, with a lot more Jews. And no style. Or No Doubt. Actually, it's not that much like Ora-...THE POINT IS that it's a suburban moneyed enclave where nothing is built taller than three stories and they add the word "Bistro" to their Country Style Delis just to feel fancy. Not a word of a lie. Anyway, the whole night was pretty much a bad scene out of Fiddler, complete with borderline retarded cousin. The mother kept trying to get me to sing, which, no. I'm really not all that fantastic but I hate being put on the spot in a way that will not actually demonstrate skill. Singing a lame-ass prayer at a passover seder is like handing Andy Warhol some crayons and a Disney Princess trace-and-colour book. Actually, wait. Those are awesome. [simile retracted] Still, it's stupid. Then there were the young Israeli couple who were so goddamn cynical about everything that I was tempted to cut a bitch with some jagged matzah. The only things they seemed to enjoy were each other and discussing their internet download plans. I mean, talk about a conversational boner killer. Then there was the aforementioned cousin with intellectual disabilities. Actually, I feel this is unfair to people with genuine intellectual disabilities. The girl is just stupid. In addition to having her mother tell her 25 year old ass how to dress for dinner, she walked into a wall and a folding screen on separate occasions, blew her nose in her sleeve continuously and waxed poetic about her commemorative Olympics glass for five minutes straight. She is a very special girl, ironically in a very Olympic way.

3. Being creepy has paid off - A couple weeks ago, I eye fucked a very nice looking gentleman whilst aboard the subway, a gesture which was returned on his part. Evidently, in the realm of eye sex, I am versatile. A couple days later, I was wasting time online and came across a profile for my occular transit lover and wasted no time finding a place on his msn with Facebook stalking privileges. Long story short, we're having drinks tonight and I will be informing our future Mongolian grandchildren that their grandpas met when Zaida David was creepin' on the subway. See? It's not only 12 year olds with autism that interest me. Mostly, though.

4. Apple tells it like it is - So 'member when you were little and you'd be all on the computer and happy cause you were listening to Barbra Streisand singing a Pretty Women/Ladies That Lunch medley while playing solitaire and the world was so nice and well and good because you were a solitaire god that won, like, at least 2 outta 3 games and that meant you hadded skillz and would go places in life? Well, turns out that it was all a lie. 'Cept the medley. That shit is real and it is awesome. I've started playing Klondike, which is Apple's version of solitaire that comes with all iPods, mostly because when you win, the kings animate and start giving each other gang hand shakes and I love gangs (read: ethnic people and whiteys that want to be like them). HOWEVER, evidently my solitaire prowess, like my innocence, calf muscles and sobriety, is gone. I win maaaaaaaybe 1 outta 6 games and this has led me to possibly the most mind blowing conspiracy theory ever: Microsoft only put the easy-to-win solitaire permutations into Windows so we would be lulled into a false sense of accomplishment and love them more. Like, oh my god. This is like an absentee father who's always disappointing his kid by never takin' him places or givin' him hugs or buying him Jem and the Holograms fashion plates or whatever and then slipping the kid Flinstones-brand roofies so that the kid is all quiet and doesn't complain about all the dumb shit being done to scar me. Ahem. But now I know the truth, people. Solitaire isn't all fun and games cards bouncin' all over da place in beautiful cascades while the voice of a generation sings about hats. No. It is cold, wheel turning on the subway while mean people judge you for not trying your hand at Music Quiz and only earning an average of $14 per game. $14?! Fuck you, Apple. But thank you for finally showing me the truth.

OMG OMG OMG I JUST GOT A 6TH ROW CENTRE TICKET TO SEE RUFUS WAINWRIGHT IN JUNE AND I KNOW NO ONE CARES BUT I CAN'T ACCESS FACEBOOK AT WORK AND I NEED TO OVERSHARE. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Rollins With Mah Homies

Apologies, Global Family excepting Herr Kanada, for the dearth of posts as of late, although it seems to be world wide wacky phenomenon as everyone's output seems to be down at the moment. I chock mine up to the afore/oft mentioned ennui and expect comments of sympathy, frozen snickers bars and cash money to come pouring in from the baker's dozen of winners following my descent into pre-Passover madness. Hey, Ancient Jew Slaves: I feel you, peeps.

Wanting to emerge from my nest of self-imposed isolation and dejection, I called in sick to my regular Friday night dinner invite and went to see Señor Henry Rollins speak instead. I won't bore you with a long preamble about his many deeds and services, as that's what Wikipedia and nakedmalecelebrities.com are for, but he's a punk rocker/spoken word presenter who speaks to the oft disenfranchised angsty masses of suburban adolescents and the messed up adults they become. He also has wacky adventures travelling to strange foreign locales such as Burma or Pakistan, not for gigs or appearances but rather just to check out the places about which we only hear negatively and at the hands of Western media sources. In addition, he is a hetero tattooed tank of a guy who is a huge proponent of gay rights and not being a douche. I wanna hug him in ways I can't even express.

I went to be inspired and I suppose I was. He wasn't quite as humorous as when I'd seen him previously, but was all the same extremely entertaining, self-depricating and generally awesome. While I didn't walk out of the show and book a ticket for Azerbaijan, I did feel inspired to grab a NOW magazine and fill in every free night normally spent sitting at home on the interwebs and drinking wine with an activity of some sort, whether it be a show or a talk or just something to enrich my life better than backlogged episodes of Heroes. I also rode my newly-re-tired bike to and from the show, which always makes me feel like a Big Boy, and I even fixed the chain when it fell off, thereby making my hands filthy and my sense of purpose shine. Small victories, people.

So how did I spend my post-Rollins weekend? Saturday, I tidied my place and took myself to lunch. Then I popped into Starbucks, where I spilled an entire Grande American Misto all over the everything by dropping the jar of honey I was pouring from into my drink. A Hot Dad with a baby strapped to his chest told me I'd done it with "panache" and they made me another drink for free so I'm-a call Win on that one.

From there, I transitted my tuxedo-carrying ass to Buttfuck Nowhere, where I arrived an hour early for a 5pm dress rehearsal of a concert happening later that night, starring my dog-and-pony-show Jew choir (the 'ch' is guttural) and some Protestant equivalent with 3 times the members and 1/3 the makeup. Okay, for serious, United Church Goers, the good lord invented MAC counters for a reason. Hell, he invented Dollarama makeup aisles for a reason! A lesser reason, but STILL A REASON. Moving on, after butchering the Chichester Psalms so bad they became New Testament (zing!...just kidding; I have no clue what that meant), things wrapped up around 10:00pm, allowing me to get back to my urban reality, down three caffeine pills, two martinis and a non-drowsy deconge and bike down to The Beaver to meet fellow blogger The Queer Behind the Mirror (QBM) for some raucous dancing. I managed to nearly get hit by cabs a mere three times and then stood in line outside for a solid 20 minutes while an obese drag queen performed Fleetwood Mac covers, complete with backing band comprised of 1 guitar, 1 bass, 1 drum kit and 17 tambourines, including one played by a man crowd surfing to 'Landslide'. I finally got in around 12:30am, ordered a shot of vodka and a bottled water, kicked off my Kenneth Coles and dropped it in the manner that one might was it hot on the dance floor. Highlights included nearly getting assaulted by a drunk amazonian woman doing what one could infer was her signature dance move, protecting a tiny tattooed woman in a tutu when now-coke-out-of-her-mind Steven Nicks decide to stand/stumble in the middle of the dance floor, and finally getting surprise-ridden by bearded drag queen when I was on all fours looking for my shoes under a table.

QBM and I left around 2:30 and he crashed at my place, making excellent use of the futon. The following morning we went for leakfast (suck it, Brunch) and then parted ways as I went off to meet my aunt and uncle for a play. We saw Breakfast, which is about a house-coated woman descending into madness at the hands of her self help cassette, culminating in dry humping the personified tape after erotically coating it in pudding, banana, strawberries and vanilla yogurt (We just narrowly avoided the splash section). Needless to say, it was a bit ridiculous and hit-you-over-the-head obvious about sexuality and repression, but at an hour-long running time, it was manageable. We then went on a matzah-finding adventure, 'cause evidently most urban grocery stores are staunch anti-Semites. We soon found an embarrassment of riches at a nearby Price Chopper (which, incidentally was our original nickname before "The Chosen People" got all trendy) and then went back to Aunt and Uncle's pad to get toasty on wine and full on his homemade pizza. I got home around 10:30.

So that was my weekend. I did not protest Ann Coulter or participate in any sustainable living fashion shows, but I did keep myself occupied, which I suppose was the goal. I'm still not totally out of the woods yet, mostly cause my weekly quiche didn't turn out that great (yeah.) but it's a move in the right direction.

Lastly, while walking home this week I saw a scarf lying in the middle of the road that had been run over repeatedly. For some reason, I picked it up and thought, "Hey, if laundered this would actually be a really nice scarf for a sweet natured, conservatively dressed straight guy with grooming challenges." Unibrow is receiving it next weekend.

HAPPY PESACH, BIZNATCHES!

Next up: Llama Merkins

Okay, so I just found out the our first lady's first name is Laureen.

CANADA: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.


Now then, I've recently begun to enjoy the smooth, creamy stylings of one T.L. Bocina, who waxed nostalgic recently about a former lover and it got me thinking about mine. The infant that has come to be known as the Young Portuguese was in my life and my hot tub for a short while, not a good while, and in that time he was remarkable for no reason whatsoever. Yes, his street cred and lower lip were oddly intoxicating, but he had no real defining characteristics that will stand the test of time except that he is the most recent and therefore at the forefront of my rejection neuroses.

Last night, I had yet another dream in which he appeared and was not an asshole. I would like to issue an edict to stop invading my subconscious with fantasies about his non-assholedom as I know this to be a fallacy. His lopsided spectacled smile has as little effect on me as a Mach 3 razor has on his ridiculous and troubling amount of underbelly hair. I can forgive many things; bad haircuts, backne, occasional racism and psychopathological knowledge of the Going-To-Hell song from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, inclusive. But seriously dude, it's like a fake alpaca stomach weave from Crafts 'N Things. You could make a pashmina outta that shit.This is about as appealing as Ranjit, the accounts receivable guy who regularly pees in the adjacent stall during my daily iPod solitaire break in the employee washroom. (The guy pees and then for a solid minute and a half just stands there waiting for aftershocks that generally occur 15-20 seconds apart. He then does up his zippy and stands there for another bit, I dunno, praying or something. I can't really tell, but why else would someone stick around post-emission? Pro tip: If your god requires lauding and thanks after urination by light of fluorescence, you picked the wrong religion.)

Okay, this was originally gonna be an attempt at being deep but clearly I lost my concentration roughly around "fake alpaca stomach weave." Sorry. I'll try harder tomorrow.

Il pleut dans ma tainte

I don't really have anything to say, so this is likely to get rambly, people. I apologize.

I have been experiencing what the French refer to as ennui. Who can say why? Not me. That's what makes it ennui and not just regular Americanized depression brought about by Big Macs and a literacy rate encroaching on Chad's. Is it the the let down after the uproarious celebrations that followed my historic blogger award last week? Perhaps. Is it the two e-mails sent in error at work yesterday, leading to gentle admonishment by my Boy Scout leader-esque supervisor? Likely. Is it the fact that I now spend most evenings alone without the slightest inclination to call friends other than Misters Fidditch and Stolichnya? Doubtful.

I'm not exactly subtle about these things. Yesterday, I arrive at work dressed entirely in grey and proceeded to sprawl out on the floor in star-fish position, counting the holes in the ceiling tile above me before crawling into my coat cubby for a well-deserved 9:15 nap. Further, when the fluorescent hell that is my overhead light burned out, I took this as a tangible metaphor for my life and affixed the following sign to the back of my cubicle for maintenance:

That is not a joke. As you can see by the sketchy black lines on the top and right side, this is a scan of a real sign hanging in my area. I like it dark like the little grey storm cloud that's taken up residence over my head and under my taint.

I'm presently inclined to invest in a waist coat and some Absinthe in the hope of becoming a good ol' timey lush. I'd stroll into the office at half past 11:00 in cut-off gloves and disheveled mutton chops, yelling "Harlot!" at my boss before taking my tantrum to the basement food court, where I would likely moon my Chinese lady friends who serve my daily java. This, however, loses its appeal in imagining, as my boozy melt downs would likely occur in front of Booster Juice and I simply have too much respect for the açai berry to let it come to that

On the up and up, Black Magic holla'ed a "Hey, boo." at me while passing in the hall today. Sexual harrassment, say some. The only thing allowing me to cling to sanity, say I.

Faceplanting the Light Fantastic

Ya know, I don't set out to fail at life. Flava Flav aside, no one does. So when I constructed a lovely, simple plan to do an errand on Sunday, I had to clue as to the shit show for which I had just bought a ticket.

I had spent the previous night alone, drinking old fashions and chatting with hometown friends on the msn. At one point in the evening, I had thought I might venture out solo to The Beaver so I popped a couple of my beloved non-drowsy decongestants that turn me into a dancing machine. Or a sloppy mess. Anyone who has read a single post of mine can imagine which of these two outcomes came to fruition. By 1:30am, though still chatting with some Winnipeg peeps, I'd moved on to include a couple of Torontonians, as well. It took every fiber in my fuzzy, cuddle-starved being to resist their suggestion of coming over for rom-coms and laying our limbs on top of one another. Thank god I keep my apartment in such a state of unruliness so that I can under no circumstance accept a spontaneous invitation such as this.

Upon waking the next morning, I felt like crap. What a waste of a Saturday night. The only way to assuage the creeping self-loathing would be to venture forth into the warm (1°C) and bright (overcast) daylight to walk (gimp) beside my fellow humans (mouth-breathers). I had three things I wanted to do:

1. Walk my bike to the nearest gas station and refill the tires, as it had spent its winter attached to a traffic sign outside the neighborhood Montessori school gathering rust. Why I lack the ability to take care of my possessions it beyond me.


2. Ride my newly inflated bike to Chapters and buy Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, the new collection of asshole essays by Chelsea Handler. A reader's note here: When I am writing, the voice in my head is that of the hypothetical love child of Ms. Handler and David Sedaris. So there's anothr piece of the puzzle for ya.


3. Take my new book to Tequila Bookworm, my neighborhood hippiester cafe for my new favourite thing, their smoked salmon platter, hold the gherkins. In reality, I order this so I can inform others that I spent my lunch "gherkin off." Ha...ha.

In order to properly illustrate how wrong everything went, I have illustrated, using my print screen and MS Paint prowess (click to enlarge):

1. 10:47 - I leave my apartment. Despite being overcast, the natural light still burns. I unlock my bike. Wow, unlike germs, rust isn't just a myth.

2. 11:02 - I arrive at Petro Canada and discover a pay-by-the-minute compressed air dispensers. Fudge you, PC. Fudge you.

3. 11:04 - I walk across the street to good ol' dependable Shell. The air dispenser is free. I give Petro Canada an over-the-shoulder finger. When I go to fill up the tire, it inflates with the pressure from the machine and then immediately deflates. Clearly, there is a hole in my tire about the size of an infant's head and it needs to be taken to a bike shop. Fa-fa-fabity-fab-fabulous.

4. 11:08 - I make the unwitting mistake of not walking up Spadina and discovering what would have made my life a whole lot easier (See #5).

5. 11:25 - I reach Chapters on John St. I comb the entire store looking for the book, implementing computers and laymen alike in my search for this tome. I stndd around for 10 minutes while one of the Vested tears apart the backroom searching for the 5 copies that their website claims the store has. Upon his return, he presents me with an apology and a voucher for 15% off at a different store. Finally, something good has come of this. I ask if he knows of any bike shops in the area and am told that there is one just a block up but that people rave about Dukes. Score two for Chapters! "Where is that?" I ask. "Spadina & Richmond," he replies. This is roughly 250 feet from my apartment. POINTS REVOKED, CHAPTERS.

6. 11:59 - I backtrack to Dukes. It is closed on Sundays. I start to seriously question my faith. I fronttrack to the other bike shop.

7. 12:07 - I pass a homeless man in a wheelchair asking passersby to give him "change for pussay.""

8. 12:16 - I arrive at the bike shop a block away from where I was 35 minutes prior. It is closed. I become an atheist. I lock up my bike and kick a pigeon.

9. 12:21 - I catch a streetcar. Step in what may be partially congealed vomit from St. Paddy's.

10. 12:26 - I arrive at Eaton Centre. I jaywalk. Foiled again, coppers!

11. 12:28 - There is a standard escalator practice in Toronto that one stands on the right side and walks on the left. Upon entering the mall, I notice that on my escalator, the Asians all standd on the left and everyone else on the right. Why? If your native tongue were Hebrew or Arabic, I might be able to give this a pass, but Asians? Don't most oriental languages go up-down? If anything, shouldn't they be attempting to ascend the descending escalator and vice versa? I don't get it, Asians. Yes, you have the most appealing natural body odour of all the major racial groups, but what do you want from me?! Incidentally, the only non-Asian is a white woman standing next to her friend and waxing on about how Torontonians don't take advantage of their city's culture and diversity. Lady, first off, you're in a mall. Secondly, based on the size of your ass, it would seem that the only culture and diversity you've been getting is from the International Selections menu at Boston Pizza. Anyway, I get to Chapters and after finding the Humour section (under a big sign that, naturally, reads SPORTS...) I buy my book and get the eff outta there, though I must admit that having listened to Lisa Loeb, k.d. lang and the soundtrack from Glee on their store muzak kinda makes me think that Chapters knows my soul.

12. 12:57 - Now aboard the streetcar with dreams of bagels and a schmear, I receive a call from ESLothario inviting me last minute to his show that afternoon. He insists that I come as he reeeeeeeeally wants me to meet his boyfriend. Aw, hells 2 da no. I tell him that I'd love to but that I just have too much to do though he should call me if they're doing something afterwards. I then make a note to pick up a new sweater after my what-started-out-as brunch so I can feel extra kicky should this meeting transpire.

13. 1:06 - I arrive at Tequila Bookworm and order my smoked salmon platter. It is not nearly as good as I'd anticipated. The book, however, is awesome and while I never did get that call from ESLothario, I still wound up going to Winner's and picking up some madras sneakers that'll be ballin' on my trip to Miami next month.


Finally, I recently got called out by brown sporadic commenter Herr Kanada for making my posts too long. To him, I'd like to say a special thanks for reading and if you have festering occupations with length then that is something you need to take up with your therapist and not with me via facebook chat. Best of luck with that.

For your inconsideration...

I don't really have anything to write about as I've spent most of the last 36 in my apartment being completely insular. However, I feel that I must respond to this very generous, very premature (like many of my older suitors) Prolific Blogger Award:

.


It was given to me by Patrick in an act that some have called "incredibly sweet" (friend S) and others "clearly retarded" (my father). My own feelings on the subject lay somewhere in the middle. While I am so so so grateful for Pat's promotion and the consequent new readership (hi, y'all), I feel somewhat undeserving and unprepared for the repercussions this brings to my world. Let's break it down shall we?

1. Praise - I love it, but I can't really handle it. I can write cantankerous ramblings about the smallest minutiae of my day and get off on those jollies, but I don't do so well with the good stuff. Though you'd never know it from this blog, good stuff does actually happen to me. Sometimes. Okay, like, this morning, I wanted a crepe but I ALSO wanted an omelette so I poured the crepe batter in the pan, let it set for a while before adding the omelette mixture and then the cheese and veggies and then it was like amazing, y'all!...Ok, but see, that's boring as fuck. What does this have to do with praise? Nothing really, I just wanted to talk about my breakfast because I CANNOT DEAL WITH PRAISE.

2. Paying-It-Forward - The other part of this award is that I now have to give it out to seven (7!) other blogs. Now if you'll casually glance to the sidebar on the left...other left...a bit upwards...there ya go... you will see that I have been blogging since 2005. While this is true, the first four years were spent writing for myself and a few friends. Was it still ribald? Frequently. Was there a lot of weird poetry and emo shit? You betcha. It's only in the past, oh, 3 months that I've actually been exploring other blogs and so while I don't mind naming 7 blogs that I like to read, they're essentially the only blogs I read, so it's not like there's a mad rush to the door, physically or virtually hurting each other in the hopes of catching the bridal bouquet that is the Prolific Blogger Award I will be tossing. Mixed metaphor. Anyway, that said, here are 7 blogs that I like and hopefully someone else will too:


1. The Sassy Curmudgeon - This woman has my life. Blissfully married writer in New York that talks about fashion, reality television and dessert all with élan and Caucasian Ebonics. Her diagrams have been known to elicit such hysterics from me that I've had to muffle myself with a staple remover to keep my boss from noticing. It was also through her comments section that Patrick stumbled onto this dumbass gong show of a blog, so big ups for that, too.

2. DC Cised - Young, gay and frequently caustic, this one first got me into exploring the blogosphere. My friends, still rather wary of the interacting with others on line have chosen to refer to this exploration as my "Soon to be making his premiere on To Catch a Predator" phase. Hint #83 that I should stop dating teenagers.

3. Je Mange La Ville - an amazing food blog written out of Portland. Healthy, indulgent, real food. Tons of pictures and really clear step-by-steps. She loves food and her output reflects this. Also, I've done entire gluten/sugar/animal-free cleanses with recipes modified from Michelle's blog. I think she's a sweetheart.

4. The Queer Behind the Mirror - Kama is a recent net friend who is currently writing his thesis. His frustrations with this as well as those with his genitalia make for an interestingly intellectual read. He's also half Indian and half black, so...adorable.

5. Adventures in Reasoning - Stephanie is an awesome chick I worked with back at the Winnipeg Fringe Festival. She is currently blogging about her month-long acting intensive in NYC and her wanderings make for lovely little reads that bring much New York envy.

6. Minty Fresh! - Another young, gay, Asian-American blogger from Cali. Tells lovely (detailed!) stories of his flings and family. Also has lots of great links to other blogs/sites on his sidebar.

7. Caligula Sanchez - This blog definitely comes with a NSFW corollary, as its author is a male sex worker who discusses his life in and out of his work. I find it brave, fascinating and often amusing but it's not for everyone, so if you venture there, do so embracingly.


That's it, folks. Again, a huge thanks to Pat and stay tuned for tomorrow's post when I go back to being an asshole.

Dear Future Roommate (Part II)

Dear Future Roommate,

Next year, you will be eating a lot of unknown crap. Not the food itself; I know I can cook like a muthafuka so you'll enjoy the taste. It's simply that I eat/cook with stuff off the floor. I do not have a 5-second rule. I have a the-floor-at-my-local-convenience-store-is-clean-right? rule. In short, I am disgusting. I always tell myself that I will wash fruit/veggies/my hands but it feels weird and, well, non-Jewy. Yes, the mothers of our tribe are always (nasally) yelling at us, but not about the normal WASPy concerns. Germs, no. Bringing the local wino to Saturday services at synagogue, yes. Being the local wino in Saturday services at synagogue, well yeah, that too, if you're me or Hershel "Dumpster Diver" Dantowitz.

In truth, I blame my oft-stoned Hungarian emigré of a father and his whole wasted-want-not approach to any item that he owns, from televisions down to individual-size boxes of Sun Maid raisin boxes. Instead of being like, "Kids in Africa don't have _______," he was all, "You don't have ______, so enjoy that onion skin before I give it to your brother!" Do you see what I'm coming from, Future Roommate? ONION SKINS.

My relationship to germs is akin to that of Central Park residents to 9/11 conspiracy theories ; we're not getting the whole truth. I am distrustful of many things in this life, including recycling, all versions of CSI and Olive Garden's Neverending Soup, Salad & Breadsticks. I am equivally skeptical of the party line on germs. I look at all the Purell-wielding helicopter parents and their asthmatic allergic-to-air snot progenies and I gotta think that maybe a little dirt is good for the body. I mean, look at me. I used to eat acorns as a kid and I turned out great! Little potentially-degenerative neuropathic immune condition that elicits dozens of gawkers a day and a furious determination not to fall on public transportation...but no allergies! See?! Germs are our friends!!

So if I occasionally 'reuse' a fallen strawberry while preparing your fruit 'n nut platter in the morning, I'm sorry and you're welcome. Kids in Africa don't have fruit 'n nut platters.



Love,

D

Je suis un dork

HALP! I got a sweet-ass widget for 20 Something Bloggers, this network I joined but, true story, I am a total html n00b. If anyone can tell me how to properly embed it, I'll...do something for you.

Super sweet rendering of future 20SB Badge

Some things to note:

- Racial diversity, including gingers

- Detail work in backgrounds

- Themified colours to match my blargh

- That girl's jawesome red office chair

- Hot guy on the right

Hate On for Laos Week Continues

My Korean-born friend (not the sleepover pal; this one speaks English) told me recently that he will never feel completely at home in Canada, but no less than he would in Korea. He explained that he is truly a product of both societies and requires elements of both to feel whole. Favourite pastimes may include karaoke while eating back bacon or igloo-building while eating kittens. While I heard what he was saying, I could not fully understand the Asian-Canadian cultural experience, partially because I'm full blown Canadian, albeit one of queer/Jewish/Hungarian/gimpy decent, but mostly just because I DO NOT PROTEST USING CONTAINERS OF MY OWN BLOOD.







Look, I get that you guys get the shit end of the stick. Is that an expression? Is now, haters. But seriously, Asians got tsunamis, communism, an entire nation of cab drivers and tech support workers, and to top it all off most of them have to live next to that asshole, Laos. It's pretty much the Ned Flanders of the Orient. So when Taiwan decided to protest...something (I didn't read the article; they're always bitching about one thing or the other), I thought, "Way to go, Taiwan. You gave me years of good Happy Meal toys in the 80's; I will support your right to get all P.O.'ed at The Man."


But this whole blood thing? Not even Amnesty International is down with that shit. They're all on the phone to the AP like, "Oh yeah, we for totes support Taiwan...mmm-hmm...mmm-hmm...Blood, you say?...Ah, I see. We're out."


It's creepy guys. Plus, I'm not technically allowed to give blood in my country cause of the teh ghey and all but people in Taiwan get to draw their own blood on the street and throw it at some dude's house? I mean, what about MY rights, Taiwan? I'd loooooooove to go throw some blerd at 24 Sussex most days, but Red Cross's troglodytian laws say that despite my recent STI testing and near-abstinence at the hands and genitals of Toronto's queer community, I can't help some O negative baby that was in a car crash. Baby don't care. Baby wants to get to be a toddler. Trust me. I know babies.


And once again I've made an entire nation's woes completely about myself and my hemoglobin ambitions. Sorry, Taiwan. I'll buy a shirt at the Gap this weekend. Maybe.

New Cause of Global Warming: Laos

Black Magic just walked into my cubicle, talked at me for 10 minutes about the fruit of her loins (blackberries?...okay, this is verging on racist) and then tossed her laundry list in my garbage can. The only two items on it? Not a word of a lie: deodorant sticks and bounce sheets. Praise...be.


Before moving to Toronto, I was warned by Unibrow* that the winters here are murder.

"It only goes down to -8, maybe -9, but it's a damp cold so it just chills you to the bone. You can never...get...warm."

Needless to say, I was petrified. The fact that Winnipeg averages -30ºC temperatures failed to register with me as it was a dry cold and clearly no -50º windchill could compete with MOISTURE IN THE AIR. I brought all my heavy jackets, even going so far as to pack the balaclava I used to take out "a loan" from First National that one time, and waited for the arctic winter to hit.

And I continued to wait until yesterday when the high was 16º centigrade.

"This feels like spring," I thought to myself, remembering what they were like back in the day. (Winnipeg used to have them up until I was about 6 years old at which time they disappeared, much like the frozen snickers bars in my freezer. Now winter leads right into summer. I blame the Laotians*.)

"But this is impossible! I was promised bone-chilling weather that would chill my bone!"

And then a red-breasted robin landed right on my shoulder and tweeted, "Your friend Unibrow is a little bitch and Toronto is awesome."

Ugh, even the birds here are stuck up. She was right though. I'm pretty sure there was never more than three inches of snow on the ground and the coldest it ever got was, like, -16. So, Uni, way to win at life and best of luck with all future engagements at Opera Minsk.




*Hey, you don't submit a new nickname, it don't get changed, ayit? Respect.


** No, I don't.***


*** Yes, I do.

The Childlike Empress...orer

I think I've kinda lost sight of why I blog. It's become evident to me over the last few posts that my Machiavellian desire to become adored by many has shortened my vision as to why I post for the few. To that end, I had an ol' skool Fleekin Floygn emo realization today. This may not be that funny, but hey, I got needs too. Not made of stone, people; just various scraps of other people's souls and vodka.


There is an album that has been on my iPod for about half a year now. I had never listened to this album before today as it is a blues album by a near-albino former classmate of mine and while I wish to support my friends, past or present, my ears have standards. Not high standards, according to my Dance Mix '95 album, but standards nevertheless. Today, though, I was walking in an area of town that I've never visited and, as tends to happen in during these odd moments of feeling self-reliant, I thought, "What the heck?" and had a gander.

Sadly, as predicted, my gander turned out to be a goose (zing!), The album is little more than the bastard love child of Muddy Waters and Dashboard Confessional. One song even starts, "Why do I feel this way?" Playa, if you're really singing the blues, you'd better damn know why. So I was walking along merrily until the last song started with a possibly (probably) fake dialogue between between my former whateverhewas and his bandmate, and suddenly I missed him. No, wait, I didn't miss him. He's a shmuck. I missed her, the best friend of high school and undergrad who shared him with me, as well as most every other event of my life from 16 through 23.

He linked us physically in a way that we never could ourselves for obvious reasons (read: mah wenis) and we continued to talk about him long after he was gone. This perfectly encapsulates our relationship. We would do have the same experiences, often at the same time but never together and then talk about them afterwards. She was the only person that could empathize with a huge part of my development. She was the only friend that knew that a rave wasn't a bunch of stupid kids in rainbow clothing sucking on pacifiers (they're but a small contingent, so let's let it be); the only friend that knew the unparalleled ecstasy brought by its eponymous drug the first time taken, the joy and openness and, strangest of all, health that was gained by this synthesis; the only friend that I would talk openly with about everything without fear of judgment because we both knew she'd done worse. I had other friends at the time but they either weren't aware of what was going on or couldn't really relate. They would listen and try to take it in, but she would engage, because she knew. She knew it all. She understood the path. She was my proof that it had happened, that there were contributing factors to this David, that it wasn't all by chance. Now she's gone (as in estranged, not dead; you're sick), there is no documentation and I can't help but feel anger and grief that there is an entire crucial part of my life now unknown by everyone else.

Maybe it doesn't matter all that much. Perhaps it's nothing more than losing a photo album, or that part in Neverending Story II where Bastian's memories keep getting stolen one by one. I mean, he's happy, right? ...What? He becomes unbelievably unhappy and almost destroys Fantasia? Sonovabitch...

I love to ponder the fields so wheaten / I love it less when I am beaten

Aaaaand I just walked in on a maintenance worker washing his feet in the employee bathroom. Awesome. Score another one for multiculturalism.

I reeeeeeeeally need to stop looking at Blog's of Note. They just anger me so. I will admit that they led me to my new hetero obsession, La curmudeone sassé, but other than that it just makes me irrationally envious of the abstract artists, Alaskan hikers, monster movie geeks (this one is especially wtf) and Susan Boyle-worshipping octogenarians out there. Grandma lists Freecell as one of her favourite pastimes and has 345 followers, yo! Although, the fact that her name is Bernie and that she entitled her blog "Old? Who? Me?" is actually pretty funny, BUT EVERYONE ELSE...GAH! I realize that in the past I've called other bloggers out for calling other bloggers out (wait...) but this is ridiculous. 172 people -including Bernie! - are following a farmer's wife (her listed profession) write poetry about rain and her dog, who I think came 12th in last year's Ugliest Dog in the World competition. I won't quote a sample of the poetry, cause that's just bad manners, but suffice to say...it's pre-tty amazing.

I really shouldn't complain; in the past two weeks my followers have skyrocketed, literally tripling. You know what though? That's okay. I'm a late bloomer. I am the Kevin Arnold of the blogosphere. And realistically, how much personal devotion can one really give to 300 followers? Random Americans Who I've Never Met, I am here for each and every one of your three asses.

In other ne-...oh who the fuck am I kidding? I'm in love with an East Indian man at work. He is in his late 50's and has the body of a little person but in full-sized human form. When he walks, he tilts his pelvis down so that his little medicine ball ass is a good 2 feet behind the rest of his body. It almost looks like he's trying to pull an imaginary dog sled. Solo. He also has a British first name and a Spanish last name despite his South Asian parentage and likes to sport two-sizes-too-small polo shirts that showcase his size Bs in a very flatteringly light. Anyway, he sends me into a complete tizzy. I just want to put him in a plush flower costume and take pictures of him, Anne Geddes-stylez. If he ever came in sporting a newsboy cap or anything in argyle, I think I would just pass away.

Lastly, I'm house/cat/hot tub sitting again this weekend so if y'all know anyone that would be interested in coming over for a soak and then dating for a month before dropping off the face of the Earth, send him my way. The jets are already on. My expectations, off.

5 Things That I Love Right Now That Have Nothing To Do With Two Glasses Of Wine

1. Frozen Snickers Bars - omagod, have you ever tried one?! How about just a third of one?! They are aMAzing!!!!!!!

2. My New Snickers Belt - A girl that I know made me a belt - wait for it - made out of snickers bars. Well, the wrappers. And plastic. And a buckle. And a bunchaotherstuff BUT it is awesome! She also gave me three (3) of the snickers in a small plastic baggy which I then froze (see point number 1).

3. Parks & Recreation - And no, not just cause of the wine. Big part of it, though.

4. Fiona Apple - J.H.C. that bitch is amazing.

5. Finally convincing someone else that Chelsea Lately is amazing - Thank God for aw (her initials, not otomatopeia). She gets me and my me-isms.

Tomorrow when I'm a bit hung over at work I will compile a list of 5 Things That I Hate Right Now That Have Nothing To Do With The Fact That I'm A Dumbass That Drank Two Glasses Of Wine On A Weeknight. And it will actually be funny. Maybe.

Pimp my ass, Bill Cosby

There are two types of gay men in the world: insanely beautiful ones and insanely beautiful ones that are lazy. I, naturally, fall into the latter category.

It is my belief that pretty much everyone can be beautiful to some degree or another given the right diet/exercise/eyebrow maintenance routines. There are some exceptions but they are all straight. (Please do not log on to any online hook up sites or World of Warcraft tournaments in order to prove me wrong. That's just rude.)

I am well aware that physical perfection is not that hard to obtain. Just jokes, kids; it takes crazy kinds of dedimacation. Still, given that a solid 75% of Toronto's homoyoudon'ts seem to have some iota of sculpture to their form, it probably isn't that ridiculous to undertake. That said, I am ridiculous and refuse to lay a foot on a pedal or a hand on a barbell until such a time as I a) want to impress someone or b) get made fun of . The fact that I refuse to do it "just for me" like all those other assholes claim to is probably a pretty good indicator why Bill Cosby once offered to do a commercial spot for my ass. No, I choose instead to jump on whatever new eating habit is presented to me as gospel and just rock that for a while until Reese's introduces their next limited edition offering (I have tried everyone one for the past ten years; please do not be jealous of my legacy). Given that I'm going to be seeing judgmental Hungarian relatives in roughly 6 weeks time, I might want to get that. On the other hand, I hear that they're coming out with a Peanut Butter Cup/Turtles hybrid, so prolly not. Whatever, screw you, Hungary. Way to get beaten in, like, every war ever. Losers.

In other news*, ESLothario is back with his boyfriend of the last five years and I don't care. Is this personal progress people? We think so. I had a genuinely happy-for-him reaction when he told me and he just seemed so sweetness-and-light about the whole thing that even my caustic jealous ass couldn't turn that smile into a shit pile**. He also said that he wants to set me up with a friend of his. This made me excited for two reasons. First, the only infinitesimal success I've had with dating has come not through the 98% of my experiences derived from online dating sites but rather introductions through friends. The Mennotobans failed MISERABLY in this regard (way to all be in the closet *slow claps*) so bring on the Balkans. Secondly, I became very intrigued as ESLothario has fucking...HOT...friends. Like, for serious. He's pretty much the ugly one of the bunch. So naturally, I had high hopes...until he whipped out his iPhone. Now, I am, admittedly, kinda picky about mah menz, but I do my best not to judge until I get to know someone and certainly never from one picture. That said...really? You have an entire harem of Bel Ami models on your facebook and the one you've chosen for me is the Eastern Block's answer to Owen Wilson? MY DAD THINKS I'M HOT!

Good thing I don't have a live journal cause my emotional state or whatever for this post would be "annoying." Dayuuuum...

*Hey David, it's me, your blog. You write "In other news" like every couple of posts, dude. You write a blog; ALL OF THIS IS OTHER FUCKING NEWS.

**That was my flip take on "Turn that frown upside down." Will it flourish in our vernacular? Only time can tell. Early polls, however, say not well.

Dear Future Roommate,

This coming Fall, I will begin a year-long house sitting stint with one of mah besties from my hometown who is dragging her sorry soprano ass cross country to live with my sorry might-as-well-be-a-castrato-for-all-anyone-cares ass. This will be the very first time that I live with anyone other than my family. The fact that we will be living in a house other than an apartment will make a huge difference as far as the crampings of our respective styles (or lack thereof; Paisley Ghetto Hoodie, I'm-a lookin' at you), but nevertheless there are some things about me that she should probably learn about before hand and what better way to express these very personal idiosyncrasies than in a very public blog. Thus, I present part one of...

Dear Future Roommate,

In the time that we live together, you will, at some point, see my penis. Now, I recognize that this may not be the smoothest entrance into the list of points you should know, but I figure I'd just throw you into the deep end, clothes on, right off the bat.

DO NOT BE AFRAID OF IT! No one is. This is not something that I wish to happen, having outgrown that stage of my life along with my fascination for Fruity-Os and Starlight Surprise Barbie. I feel I should warn you nevertheless, because despite my frequent shame regarding him, the Peen has a way of appearing out of the blue for no. Reason. Whatsoever. I wish I could tell you (and future lovers) that he is simply too great and magnificent to be sheathed, but tragically, I am Jewish and this is not the case. Unfortunately, God's chosen people were only given superiority above all other nations in the low-hangers that accompany the main attraction. This may explain why we are such a self-martyring people. Also, the Holocaust.

Additionally, we are genetically disposed to carry the Grower-Not-A-Show-er gene. This means that while we, in fact, can hold our own come show time, we are rather unassuming in the off-season. Also, please note that the house is generally kept rather cold and that I immerse myself in water with some frequency. As such, appropriate responses should you walk in on any nekkiditude would NOT include "Awww!" or "It looks like a corsage!"

Also, please note that even if I happen to show you mine, I under no circumstances want to see yours. Unless that circumstance involves copious amounts of uppers, Cialis and a bisexual Latino. I love lady bodies, especially the lumps. They're like little pillows of delight that squish me when I am hugged by the womenz. Also, I am fascinated at how the attach underneath. Is there a clear crease or more of a gradual sag? Is the underside white like underneath a watch band? Do you need to lift them up when washing to get at stubborn under-boob lint? These are questions I have, but notice how none of them have to do with vaginas. Not interested. Thought sometimes with alcohol. So given our predicted mutual drinking problem, it will probably come up at some point. Well, this paragraph was a bust...

Anyway, I'm sorry that you need to know all this, but not actually, cause why the hell would I write about it if I didn't want the whole world to know. Clearly, I am an attention seeking blog whore. Still, I will try to guard you from my shame and if nothing else I promise to keep up the manscaping. The fact that I expect the same courtesy grooming from you should be a given.


Love,

D

Encounters with black people

Earlier today, I overheard a conversation in the next cubicle over wherein a large-derriered admin assistant was talking about making something but then quickly corrected herself and said, "Not that I created it. The only one that can create is God."

Bitch, it's an Excel spreadsheet. Calm the eff down.

Then just now I was walking to the bathroom to get my spider solitaire on when another woman stopped me to make small talk, remarking that she hadn't seen my "sturdy gate" in a while. I informed her that I had been visiting my hometown and she started going on about how people there must hate Toronto for having warmer weather.

"Though they all hate Toronto for more than just the weather, cause we got everything here," she said.

"Werd," I said.

"And they don't gotta be hatin' on us 'bout the weather. Talk to the Controller," she said pointing towards the heavens.

I mumbled something about complaining to "Upper Management" that she laughed at before walking away. Shit son, do black people ever love Jesus!

Hey, everybody remember my coworker who openly cried about our boss on my second day in the department, referred to her food-baby as n*ggeritis and asked me about where I like to put my penis? Who doesn't. Well, she's at it again. This time her absolute disregard to workplace decorum struck not in the form of a depleted supply of Arm & Hammer For Her but rather in an e-mail forward subjected "How to Teach Kids About Sexuality." Let me present select examples from this educational illumination that uses office supplies to represent different sexual relationships.

It started out simply enough:







































Now pay attention, here's where things start to go south:














Hey, I know you're all jazzed cause Obama's prez. We all are. And yes, I will admit that I enjoyed the movie 'O' far more than most. But if a Blackie and a Redskin decide to go at it, that is no one's business but their own! And wait, does this mean that the blue pens were white guys? Oh, I see. Blue like smurfs. Cause we have smaller penii compared to your giant African pantsnakes. Just cause it is universally true does not make it okay to forward to me!














This would be funny if the person to whom you forwarded the word 'ejaculation' didn't have to look you in the face and smell you in the pit for 1/3 of his waking hours.















Okay, I'll admit that this one is pretty funny. It's more she-male than tranny, but bygones...















Again, I will reward you with moderate applause. The fact that you even went to the effort of commandeering a Viagra-blue sharpner really shows the detail work we were looking for. (This also reminds me of a line I once gave a fellow classmate at music school: "Hey, I boned your mom last night. At first, I thought I might have trouble staying sharp cause she was so flat, but luckily I was a natural." It's not good.)














Okay, now this shit is hilaaaaaaari-o. 'Specially seeing as God hates contraception.















Um, what?! Are you even legally allowed to say that in public?! SO MUCH NO! Though that red pen slut is totally asking for it...

I cannot even comment on this as I am slowly rocking myself in a corner. In what body odourless world is this woman living in?! Just cause we're all in a seriously messed up time period of excusing pedophiles, does not make it remotely okay to forward this shit to me!

Buuuuut, it's pretty fucking funny that you did. Rock on, Black Magic.

HOLY HELL! Is anyone else getting crazy ad jumps when trying to access this page? Not cool, spam ninjas! NOT COOL!

(I just pressed the stop button a buncha times and it seemed to help.)



UPDATE: Turns out that the super cool hit counter that I installed a couple weeks ago to feel all self-important was an embedded spam jumper... program... something. It is gone now along with the part of my ego that was devoted to noticing that the new super cool hit counter I installed a couple weeks ago feel all self-important still hadn't moved past zero.

Additionally, a girl laughed at me last night as I was hauling my suitcase and a small bag of groceries home at 11:30pm and one of the apples fell onto the road and rolled to the other side. When I picked it up she yelled, "Ewwwwwww, he's still gonna eat itttt!!!!"

Hey. Dumb, drunk if-Rachel-Evan-Wood-mated-with-a-bovine lookalike. Protip: It's called soap and water. Many of us use it to wash produce. Also, our genitals. I suggest you begin using it for at least one of the items mentioned. Well, at least she didn't ask me if I'd done a tour in Afghanistan.

Inappropriate Dad: So what's going on with your hair?

Illustrious D: What?

ID: Your hair. What are you doing with it?

ID-

Wait. This isn't going to work. SON OF A BITCH. MY FIRST DAY BACK TO BLOGGING AND THIS IS THE SHIT I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH?


Blue ocean, gentle rain, cries of small children...Ok, I'm back.


Aging Hungarian: So what's going on with your hair?

Illustrious D: What?

AH: Your hair. What are you doing with it?

ID: Nothing...

AH: But how did you get more of it?

ID: Dad, what the hell are you talking about?

AH: What? It looks fuller somehow. That's all I'm saying.

ID: I have an awesome stylist and I've found the product combo that works for me.

AH: So you didn't get any, uh...?

ID: No, dad. I didn't have any folicular surgeries, if that's what you're getting at.

AH: Well, good. So why don't you have someone in your life?

ID [to self]: Fuck me...

AH: Is it that you just aren't interested in dating? Or have you just not found the right person yet? I mean, why don't guys want to date you?

ID: Trust me, when I find out myself, you'll be the first to know.

AH: I mean, seriously, what's the matter with these guys? You're way better looking than most of them. You must be able to have your pick of the lot. What's wrong them?

ID: You've clearly never been to Church St.

AH: I don't need to go to Church St. I can tell you that you're better than average looking and it's time for them to wake up and take notice.

ID: I don't know what to tell you, Dad.

AH: Well, work on that. Also, we're putting Finnigan down.


My family has decided to put down my asshole of a dog, Finnigan. While undeniably moppy and cute now that we've stopped going to the effort of grooming him, this dog is the biggest dick you'll ever meet. He'll be all cuddly and fine one minute and then just go off on someone the next, snarling before rushing them and then usually going for their feet. What a motherfucking winner. Clearly, nobility in battle is a trait not found anywhere in my family's dynasty. Evidently, the brochures we read on Wheaten Terriers before getting Finnigan did not include "Giant Douche" on their list of breed characteristics. According to the behaviour specialist at the Humane Society, his aggression will only get worse if moved to a new environment so giving him away is not really an option, nor, despite my adamant suggestions, is providing a wide range of steel-toed stompers to our numerous house guests. So it's nighty night for Kujo.

I'm not really that sad about it. In addition to mental health akin to Naomi Cambell's, Finnigan's just kind of a pain in the ass. He's home all day in his kennel, no one really wants to walk him and he eats dehydrated powdered meat and rice balls. His life fucking sucks. I took him out on Saturday for what I suspect was the last time and he was just so happy frolicking in the snow for the 180 seconds before I took him back in. Living your life, a dog's life though it may be, for approximately ten minutes out of your day is a pretty shitty way of living. Our family has many accomplishments but we just outright failed at Dog. Even my aunt has stated her belief that our dog is depressed at his own lifestyle. I just think we need to cut bait on this one. Conversely, my younger brother is having a rather strong emotional reaction (read: moping around like a little bitch), which I'm secretly hoping will usher him into his Sylvia Plath phase.

In other news, my other brother narrowly avoided death in Chile and I'm a big whore when I go home for visits.

HAPPY BELATED PURIM, MAFUKAS!

I TMI'ed your mother last night

Hey, remember that time that I went back home for a work-vaca and forgot I had a blog? Yeah, me too. Lolz. But not really at all.

Are you ever about to pee in a strange washroom (e.g. in your childhood home) and you notice a really loud clock that sounds like it's yelling at you and then you can't start the pee stream going? Just me? Alright then.

I'm stalling. I just really don't have anything to blog about. This entire trip, recording this album, has essentially just been one big headache. A worthwhile headache, perhaps, but no less painful. Yesterday it took me 2 hours to record 45 seconds with five people giving me feedback but no instruction. How is that even possible? Answer: With Jews, anything is possible. I mean, we crucified the son of God for fuck's sake.

Sorry. Too soon?

This really was an unfortunate attempt. I'm going to stop now. Oh, but before I go, just a little FYI that Manwhore Winnipeg David is back, so if anyone knows any morally questionable 18 year olds or sheep, you know where the comments section is (Rabbi Berkowitz, I'm looking at you).