Fleekin Floygn

Friends currently on FB chat...

2012-02-01T23:20:00.004-05:00

...listed as I call them in my head.

-Funny girl I've never talked to that 'likes' errthang I do
-Super cool cousin I've met twice and want to be like/steal boyfriend from
-Former trainer/dykiest straight chick ever
-Good friend who's profile photo is still that of his dead dog. Sympathy...but take it down, yo
-Kid I met at a fake modeling gig whose beej-virginity I took
-Kinda needy boring would-look-good-minus-15-lbs chat guy
-Chick I met once through friends who thought I was funny so we like her
-Saskatoon friend with amazing hair and a huge ass I will never get all up in
-High school choir friend whose pubes I saw that one time
-Obese suburban friend with whom I have tons in common, obesity not withstanding
-High school best friend WHO NEEDS TO FUCKING TELL ME WHAT SONG SHE WANTS ME TO SING AT HER WEDDING IN 3 WEEKS
-Jew Gay with big ears
-Morbidly obese cousin
-Mother of the husband of the sister of a good friend who posts stupid shit about bunnies and breast cancer (sorry)
-Cantor who gave me a handy-j in Israel
-Guy who might sell me drugs if the first 5 people I call are not answering
-Aw, she was fun!
-Cousin with undisclosed mental retardation (legit)
-Hot South African that stole the role of Tevye from me by playing him with a Jamaican accent
-Macedonian friend of a friend who is so good-looking I want to bone then kill him
-Brazilian kid from Manhunt I have never talked to
-Demi-midget
-Bird girl that had a kid at 21

Sorry. Twitter has taken all the singular funny things I think about that normally become blog posts and turned them instant 140-character gratification. So just follow me on Twitter. Plus, I've accrued almost twice the followers there in two months than I have here in 7 years...so, ya know, suck on that.

Know what's ridiculous?

2011-12-12T22:33:00.002-05:00

Keeping your shoes on just in case the guy you had coffee with a few hours ago spontaneously calls up and wants to hang out.

Know who's ridiculous? This guy.

ESL adventures on Grindr

2011-12-07T00:00:00.000-05:00

Holy Shit Balls: Hey

Illustrious D: Hiya

HSB: Love? Big? Love

ID: Pardon?

HSB: Looking for love. What kind of love

ID: Platonic or romantic, long term for both

HSB: Ok

ID: You?

HSB: R u hung? Platonically speaking I'm hung

ID: You're platonically hung?

HSB: Looking for big love Yep .))

ID: What...does that mean?

HSB: And platonically HOTT

*sends me picture of his cock*

Too :))

ID: K thanks

HSB: U going?

ID: Not looking for that kind of love.

HSB: But that was platonic Platonic is not physical Ur def need to be clear.

5 Little Known Facts About This Kid

2011-12-05T18:58:00.003-05:00

1. I know I gotta eat lettuce and stuff, but I feel that it subverts the pleasure of eating so rather than make a salad I like to just cut off a big chunk and eat it like a carrot. No dressing. Like a fucking man.

2. I have 2 out of 4 DVDs of the third season of Will & Grace because the "friend" that gave it to me thought it would be "cute" if we "shared" them. I think she's a "cheap-ass bitch." These ain't no travelin' pants.

3. People are always really, really surprised when they find out I've never been to Europe, which I've started to interpret as everyone thinking I'm a abnormally stuck up. Well, congrats on having been to London for 5 days on your grade 11 history trip. You still have a unibrow and no money.

4. I don't like getting frisky before bed or first thing in the morning. I'm tired. Fuck off. Plus, neither a Xanax or morning breath are particularly aphrodisialical. Or something. Come see me, like, before lunch or after the gym and than we'll talk nipple tweaking.

5. I'm on Twitter @theillustriousd. This one isn't funny, just fucking true. So get on that shit. I talk about black bus drivers always being late and why I'll die alone. Probably cause of the racism.

Pimp my kid

2011-11-28T13:38:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, my father offered to fund an eHarmony premium profile on my behalf.

Ignoring the fact that eHarmony is a secretly Christian site that doesn't offer same-sex matchmaking, this was a sweet if horrifically inappropriate offer. Dad essentially wants to be my pimp. He just can't understand why I'm single (as stated many times before here). I love (LOOOOOOOOOVE) the fact that he thinks so highly of his kid that he can't imagine why this would be. It's ricockulously adorable. He also said that he knows I've kinda pulled myself outta the game (true) and that it's time to get back in (perhaps also true).

So taking this under consideration, I decided to redouble my efforts, or because I'd been putting in no effort, simply double my efforts. I bought and paid for a three-month membership at mypartner.com, a site specifically geared to the Gs, Ls, Bs and even Ts looking for something lasting.

My rationale in actually paying for it is this: I invest in school to make me smarter, a trainer to make me healthier, high quality food to keep my body running as best as it can, plane tickets home to see my friends and family to nourish my 'soul'... why not throw a hundred bucks into the ring for the chance at finding something long term?

I read recently that over two-thirds of lgbt couples now meet online. Staggering, isn't it? Seeing as the stigma around it has pretty much come down, alongside the facts that I don't meet a lot of new people and my friends are zero help in this arena (evidently friend-to-friend matchmaking only occurs in Jennifer Lopez movies), this seems like a good shot.

But no more Manhunt, Grindr, even Plenty of Fish. F-in' wastes of time. If I'm making an investment (only $100, I know, but sha!) I damn well want someone who's going to invest in me too. So I'm sending a template message to any and all that seem remotely compatible, casting that wide net, and seeing what happens. This doesn't discredit any of my previous notions of being happy alone regardless. I'm gonna be a fuckin' treat. But might as well see if there's a chance, right?

GRRRRRR SUPERSTAR!

2011-11-04T21:56:00.002-04:00

And I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

So many tags worked for this one

2011-11-01T00:57:00.003-04:00

"I'm scared that I'm going to end up alone. I'm scared that I'm always going to be somebody's friend, or brother, or confidant, never quite somebody's everything. Mostly I'm scared I'm never going to find a guy that I love as much as I love you."

Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.

I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.

This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.

I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.

It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.

A couple enders:

1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.

2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.

Bath + Photography = Natural Fit

2011-10-26T18:09:00.003-04:00

This photo is way too narcissistic for Instagram, but this is MY effing blog, so I'm posting it here.

Flipper the bird

2011-10-20T22:50:00.003-04:00

Oooooh! I'm on Plenty of Fish! Look at my profile! I'm so whimsical and lighthearted! I have shirtless pictures of me doing a handstand! The only thing I want on a date is to laugh! I have a really good orthodontist! I'm one of the 95% of people that count rock climbing as a pastime!

Anyway...

That was cynical, so let's turn this ship around, shall we?!

*turns ship around*

*accidentally mows down herd of dolphin*

*contemplates if a group of dolphins is actually called a herd*

*is too lazy to wiki that shit*

*ewwww dolphin guts everywhere!*

*ok, that last one wasn't even an action*

*Damnit!*

Phew, ship turned around! Anyway, I was on the bus yesterday and saw some dude with a plastic bag and immediately thought, "What a dick. Everybody knows to carry reusable bags with them these days!"

Then I thought to myself, "Hey, do YOU carry around a bag ALL the time? What if this guy does it, like, 364 days a year and this was the ONE day he forgot?"

Then I realized that I'd made the choice to think the worst of him. Oh, it was judgey. E'er so judgey. So I've made the decision that from now on whenever I see a stranger or anyone for that matter in a potentially negative way that I will assume better of them unless proven otherwise.

I feel we should all try this together as a social experiment. It doesn't mean bad things won't happen or that the positivity theorem won't ever be disproved. Still, it might help. As an example, imagine if a person who suspects their partner is cheating decides to not be a psycho bitch and instead just goes, "Hey, babe. I have this suspicion. Is it right?" He might be cheating, in which case, ya know, freak the fuck out. If he hasn't been though you've just saved yourself a lot of crazy bitch internal stress. Ya welcome.

Or another example, imagine if I have, like, three THOUSAND people that read this blog but only 17 follow it cause the rest are too intimidated by the awesomeness of my tag labels.

Anyway, try this in earnest. Report back and tell me how you felt doing it.

Of llamas and wontons

2011-10-16T10:05:00.003-04:00

Life Tip: Don't be ugly and fat. Just try at least.

Been in Montreal for a couple days. It's been fun. Very chill. Lots of walking, which is great cause I'm only eating about twice a day and it invariably involves maple syrup and some kind of pork. Life really would have been so different and obese had I chosen to move here.

The dear friend I am staying with has a lovely live-in German boyfriend whose friend is also staying here. I sleep in the living room and wake up each morning to the two men speaking in German and so keep thinking I'm in the Magic Flute. I'm all, "Get yer hands off Pamina, you koksaugers!" and they're all *blank stare*.

I make friends awesome.

I went to see a concert with a couple of friends yesterday as their good buddy was playing viola in the orchestra. I was told he is 25, Israeli, gorgeous and plays the viola. They talked about him as though Jesus Christ was just the Putzie and that this fellow was the real Danny Zuko. Afterward, we all went out with a bunch of his friends - perhaps 8 of us total - to a Chinese restaurant he recommended, and I gotta say...additional life tip: Do not hype up your friends if they look like slightly attractive but slightly judgey Israeli llamas. This is not a great plan.

I've discussed "shiny people" in the past; those folks that most everyone is just drawn to like an everyday celebrity, and when you're one of the few that are not so into them...it's real awkward timez, which makes me awkward timez.* However, after about a half an hour, I just thought, "Hey, shiny asshole (He's not an asshole; I'm just being dramatic)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You're pretty eff-ing smudged," so then I regained my power of speech so oft lost around The Shinies and just continued on with the evening. Weirdly enough I had a nice moment with pretty much everyone at the table but him so the big final third life tip here is don't get weird around hyped people cause they're probably not that great and if they are that great then they will find you equally amazing and shiny instead of giving you pursed llama lips all night.

*Everything makes me awkward timez.

More like MegaFUN (Part 2)

2011-10-13T16:11:00.004-04:00

4:01 - We depart Kingston. On our way out of town we see the Kings Court Fashion Outlet mall. Hand to god, the only three stores they have are Adidas, Nike and Laura Petites.

5:35 - Just woke up from a nap while listening to Tori's new album. All that clarinet's gotta be good for something.

5:40 - Bored shitty Internet. Start playing Hocus Pocus. Marvel at life.

5:42 - Officially arrive in Quebec and the first person I see is... an Asian. That must be some Doctor Who shit right there.

5:58 - Have to stop playing. Flaming-throwing alligators and homicidal monks are hard on the eyes.

6:09 - Contemplate how lovely it is to be in the country away from all that concrete, also if a motorcycle in French is still called a 'porc'.

6:50 - Arrive at the bus terminal in downtown Montreal. The city smells like garbage. Suck on that, Leslieville. There's a new dump-smelling bitch on the block and she comes with poutine!

12: 30 the following day - Walking down a side street in the rain with bright red and gold maple leaves strewn about the ground. I can't help but think how unfathomably different and likely better my life would have been had I chosen Montreal over Toronto three years ago.

More like MegaFUN (Part 1)

2011-10-13T13:14:00.007-04:00

I am coming to you live from Megabus. I decided on a whim to go to Montreal to see some friends and flights were over $400 so the bus it is. I have heard tales of both woe and triumph from those that have embarked on this, the most economy of travel. The trip will take 6 hours, but they have wifi and I can watch Dexter, so really it will not be any different than any other afternoon in the past 4 months. However, I am hoping that there will be a few minor events to provide some fodder for this, otherwise I'm wasting a lot of time of nausea on this post.

12:40 - Arrive at bus terminal. Hurry to the washroom to change out of my suit, as I've just come from the 'gogue. One stall is broken with caution tape across it (yeah.) and the other is occupied by a gentleman passing a stool of roughly 5.3 kilometers. I change in front of the sinks because a) I'm classy like that and b) if I am the most egregious thing that happens in this bus terminal in, say, the next five minutes it will be nothing short of a miracle.

12:55 - All aboard and neither the wifi nor the power outlets are working. I am surrounded by three other laptop-carrying nerds and we take turns reassuring each other that everything will be fine once the bus starts. We exchange nervous smiles, tentative shoulder rubs and orgasmic sighs of relief once the bus starts and the power/wifi, yes, kicks in.

1:01 - We are about to ~~take off~~ drive away and the bus driver makes a few announcements. Evidently, if anyone going to Montreal gets off in Kingston to stretch their legs, they will be left behind. Bitch is hardcore.

1:02 - "There will be no alcohol permitted aboard." THIS IS BULLSHIT.

1:25 - First wave of bus-sickness from blogging. You better appreciate this, fuckers.

1:34 - I take a few photos. The girl across the aisle looks embarrassed on my behalf. Whatever. She's watching Two and a Half Men. Judgey.

1:52 - The guy across from me has chartreuse headpho-...Ok, this may be less eventful than I anticipated.

2:47 - Holy fuck cakes (New Favourite Expression Alert!), this is the shittiest wifi ever. Can't a guy watch a little Maddow and youtube? Side note: How the eff do Republicans exist in this world? They're like the Middle Earth equivalents of Orcs.

2:58 - I would punch a baby for a coffee right now.

3:01 - A dark-skinned fellow is Skyping someone in a foreign language. If I was more racist, this'd ignite a spark of terror.

3:27 - Feh. Trees. They think they're so fucking great.

3:31 - Watery-eyed septuagenarian giving me the stink eye/come hither look.

3:55 - We arrive in Kingston, the half-way point, and as such, this will be the half-way point for this two-parter cause certain people like to bitch and moan when this shit gets too long. Anyway...the canteen lady/possible transsexual whose windpipe may as well be a cigarette filter pulls up a canteen cart to the rear window. She nearly disembowels a poor lass for asking her to repeat the two varieties of Wonder Bread sandwiches being offered. Also, I notice a (relatively) attractive lad at the back of the bus who is a bit too skinny but is wearing a baseball shirt and therefore can do no wrong. I hope Coach Beast doesn't eat him too.

Good Trainer

2011-10-11T23:40:00.007-04:00

(To the tune of "Good Mother" by Jann Arden)

I've got a weekly gig at a synagogue
I like the baldness of my head
I've got a friend that Skypes me twice a week
Got a rent-controlled apartment
I've got a transit pass

I've got a good trainer
And his squats are what keep me somewhat balanced
Feet not tripping on ground
No scrapes on hand
Or stumbling forward
Into stacking shelves

I....
I've never wanted rippled abs
No, I...no, I...
I've never wanted rippled abs
So bad...

He's bored while I'm masking just how emo I've been
Coming out, thanks to some disgusting, man-filled 'net pornography!
The he says, "We'll have to put that on hold;
We're out of time. Please show your Visa at the nurse's window."

I've got a good therapist
And his "mmm-hmmm"s are what make me sigh
Couch that's kinda round
Gross fake plant
Daddy issues confronting my inner self

I...
I've never wanted happy drugs
No, I...no, I...
I've never wanted happy drugs
So bad...

[musical break with key change]

[modulation back to original key. Bitch, make up yo mind.]

I've got rumblings in my stomach
I like that croissant over there
I've gotta mouth that loves pastry
Gotta choose
Chocolate or car(...mel)

I've got a good baker
And his carbs are what get me by
Gaining pounds
Heart attacks
From all the cream I shove in myself

I...
I've never wanted a glass of milk
No, I...no, I...
I've never wanted a glass of milk
So bad...

Gaining pounds...
Heart attacks...
Gaining pounds...
Heart attacks...

[outro, bows]

2011-10-10T10:36:00.001-04:00

Today while on the streetcar I glanced out the window and saw a homeless man sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk with his shoes off beside him at the very top of Bay Street, which is like Canada's equivalent of Wall Street and given what is going on right now I just thought, "Oh my god, I like my feet to be cold when I'm sleeping too!"

Ok, but it even has an authenticity hologram!

2011-10-09T09:43:00.000-04:00

Tuesday: I accompany Chief NoBalls to buy new clothes for him cause he has a job and a new-found keenness for emulating his more stylish friends' fashion decisions. We go to Zara and look at all the beautiful but on-par-with-Le-Chateau-quality-wise vestments*. It was fun, but I sorta kinda haven't earned any money in three months and no real money in over a year so I'm getting keenly aware that a $40 scarf should really not be on my weekly shopping list, despite the fact that Zara's are big and beautiful and come in jewel tones.

Wednesday: I go to Winner's to buy a white dress shirt as the one I wore to my cousin's wedding last month made me look like, in my father's words, "a homeless Zeller's cashier." I grab two and head for the dressing rooms, but as I do I notice that this Winner's has a suit section.** I riffle through it because in true Winner's fashion it is bound to be rife with disappointment, right? (PLEASE LET IT BE RIFE)

Calvin Klein

Calvin Klein

Ralph Lauren

Ralph Lauren

Other Cheap American Shit Made in Tijuana

And then...a great light descended from the ~~fluorescent lighting~~ Heavens and shone its glorious rays on a black, lustrous Roberto Cavalli two-button number that made even even the possibly-transexual woman beside gasp at its beauty/how much leopard print she was wearing.

I took it to the change room knowing full well that given all zee junk in mah trunk there was no way this was going to fit, and moreover praying that it wouldn't.

*sigh*

You guys...

Like a fucking glove...

So the moral*** of our story is:

$40 Zara scarf = no

$450 Cavalli suit = si****

*Evidently this refers to the robes worn by Roman Catholic clergy and NOT just a direct translation from French for 'clothes'. Fuck it, it's staying in.

**If you can't see where this is going, you got some shit to sort out.

***This is not a moral.

****WHATEVER! THESE FUCKERS NORMALLY START AT $1,200! YOU DON'T KNOW ME!*****

*****Yeah, ya do.

Ew Sucha Loser

2011-10-06T21:38:00.002-04:00

I feel that I'm getting a little too good at this unemployment thing. Since mid-June, I've pretty much done nothing but watch TV online, work out, eat out (I spend about triple on restaurants what I do on utilities), visit Winnipeg for a bit, chill with friends, and...yeah. I recognize this was not the most sympathetic way of starting this post...

Take two: I am a bum.

I saw ESLothario last night for the first time in a year and a half. He looked good. I looked better. Not saying I'm better looking, but in the "who looks better compared to the last time we saw each other" game that goes on in my head and in which I am the only player, well, I won. Being a bum will do that to you.

I feel so much more at peace with life since I last saw him, and I didn't get all emotionally regressive but still... I dunno if we (I) can ever get over emotional trauma. It's not like we went through a break up or that there was anything traumatic in our friendship (and it was only ever a friendship), but in my head...things got a bit mucky, hence small emotional trauma. I had a hard time keeping eye contact, which, not to brag, is normally my thing *breath on knuckles, rub 'em on chest*. I just didn't want to look at him, like he was an anachronism from a time before I went back to school, stopped being a borderline alchie, and found all that inner peace shit that comes with one year of teacher education (lulz). As kind as he is to me and as well as I think of him I can't help but think it would be easier if I never saw him again. He also smelled really good and had on a sweater that was a nicer version of one I own. Whatever.

NEXT TIME: I spend outside my means.

(Chilean Sea B)ass

2011-10-04T22:51:00.000-04:00

I don't care what those damn Chileans tell us, chocolate and chicken do not go together. It's like eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and ass milk.

I don't know know what 'ass milk' is and I don't care to find out.*

*Please define 'ass milk'.

2011-10-03T17:36:00.000-04:00

I got a chocolate milk today after working out (I know! That shit's still happening! Holla!). I hadn't had it in probably 10 years and upon my first swig was dismayed to discover it did not taste as good as I remembered.

Then I noticed it was now 1% instead of 2%.

Then I remembered I was a fat little kid.

Then I added whipping cream.

2011-10-02T14:10:00.003-04:00

It's no huge declamation to say that my output over the past year has been pretty meager. I've written just under thirty entries in the past year. By comparison, in March 2010 there were twenty posts alone.

This troubles me. Not because I'm well-known or read by hundreds. Moment of honesty: 17 followers plus a scattering of friends does not a huge base make. Still, I've encountered some really interesting and diverse people out of those 17 and I remember very fondly the kind of near-daily interactions we used to have.

I've struggled writing in the past year because I went back to school, was busier, yada yada yada...but the fact is that what really gave me a blog boner from December 2009 to July 2010 was working at a mindless job with lots of free time to observe the ridiculous people around me and write it. Plus access to MS Paint. Biiiiiiiiig factor.

The reality is that I've been trying to write from that perspective when those variables are gone. Life...just hasn't been that funny. There's been huge shifts, new points of view that come with education, less ethnic people. Okay, that last one is a lie. I was standing at a bus stop next to a guy named Noodle yesterday. I mean, really...

Still, I went back and read a few of my older entries and was surprised to find I was kind of offended by some of the things I'd written. I know I genuinely didn't mean anything hurtful by them, but was really unaware of how they might present to a stranger. This shouldn't really be a consideration when writing (which is why I'm not taking them down) but I don't think I'll ever really write in that style again.

So I'm going to try to do this again, just a bit different. It might not always be that jokey or caustic, and, let's be honest, it might get damn emo up in herr at times, but as I recently said to a friend:

We'll just try again tomorrow. Try to do better, be better. Improve. We all gotta try.

It's kinda crooked, too.

2011-09-12T11:13:00.005-04:00

So the other night I got kinda fucked up and invited some dude over for cuddles because evidently I never want to have any sexual relations ever again but still get a bit needy sometimes and we kinda just spooned-snoozed (spnoozed? Whatever) until, like, 1 pm the next day cause when you're not really sleeping you can stay in bed for, like, a long time, y'all. Anyway, as we were waking up (read: finally seeing what he looked like in the light) he was all, "I love your neck; it's so cute," and I was all, "Hey, thanks," but THEN today I standing in front of the mirror and was all, "Oh Em Gee what is wrong with my body?...Oh holy crap, it's my neck." It's, like, seriously skinny. Like gross gross skinny anorexia-of-the-neck skinny neck. So, like, what's that all about? Plus, this is my first post in a really long time so I know all y'all thought it'd be epic or at least funny, but joke's on you, babies, cause other than unemployment and accidentally breaking glassware, there ain't a lot going on up in herrrr.

Fucking neck.

Child Nazi

2011-07-26T10:13:00.002-04:00

Recently, I've started to think that, hey, maybe having a kid or two one day wouldn't suck so much cock after all. I know I should probably stop comparing parenting to fellatio before that happens, but bygones.

The main reason why I want to have a kid is that I want to do it better than anyone else. Yep, for me parenting will be a competitive endeavour. I've said for years now that should a global council be formed with the sole purpose of deciding who may and may not have children I would like to be vice-chair. I watch way too much Rachel Maddow to allow hicks who essentially vote in favour of their own poverty to keep on procreating. It's not even my country, true, but things are seriously frightening down there, y'all.

I would love to say that I will be a modest if amazing parent, never judging others for their choices, but that would be a blatant lie.

"What? You let your kid drink actual dairy milk instead of unsweetened organic soy milk?"

"Pardon me? You don't buy 100% peanuts peanut butter and then doctor it with sea salt and honey yourself to avoid all the hydrogenated oils and preservatives?"

Yeah. I'm gonna be that guy. My kid will be allowed to bring whatever boy or girl he or she is dating home, but no fucking way is that little shit eating so much as one Chicken McNugget so long as they live under my roof.

Don't you love how I think all parenting relates to food?

I'm also gonna say no a lot. There's this whole thing now about denying your children things without saying the actual word 'no'. Like, "Sweetie, Daddy would really prefer if you didn't play so close to the freeway." Fuck that. My kid is gonna hear 'no' like an American Eagle employee hears "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey around December 21st. Every ten minutes. HOWEVER, I won't be all stern or parenty about it. I will have various No Characters. The Jolly Pirate. The Demure Geisha. The Opera-Singer-Hating Baritone. An entire cast of personae that will tell him, "Hey li'l guy, you fuckin' up."

Aside from wanting to prove my superiority to other parents, the other reason I want kid(s) is so I can be in a real life Modern Family. In other words, I only want them for family get-togethers and for those rare moments that will make for hilarious moments to tell at family get-togethers. A failed figure skating career? Suck it, Claire and Mitchell: I used to make my five year old brother do choreographed routines to Starlight Express. Essentially, I just threw him in the air a lot like a figure skat-...DAMNIT!

Whatever. So long as wind up with an Alex or a Manny and not a Hailey or a Luke. I mean, they're cute and all but everybody knows you're happier in the long run being smart rather than goodlooking.

Inner Voice: Hey, aren't you smart and miserable?

ZOMG JUST SHUT UP INNER VOICE. NO KIDS FOR YOU!

Rockabye Baby

2011-07-17T16:03:00.003-04:00

Secret message:

Shut the fuck up and go to sleep or I will drop kick your baby ass out of the elm.

True Hollywood Story: Moses

2011-06-25T21:35:00.005-04:00

Today, while sitting in da 'gogue, the Rabbi Older-Than-Elijah began his sermon by saying, "We know very little about Moses..."

Anticipating (correctly) the coming 20-minute snooze cycle, I whispered to Mark, "His favourite colour was blue."

Mark replied, "He was a big fan of Britney's early work."

The following is a Top Ten Little Known Facts About Moses that we composed during the remainder of the sermon:

10. His bar mitzvah reception was at the Olive Garden.

9. His favourite films were The Ten Commandments and Gigli.

8. He used Charmin Ultra exclusively.

7. He was executive producer on Children of Israel Behaving Badly VII.

6. Favourite song: Donna Summer's Bad Girls.

5. He once bought 3 "52% off Old Navy" Groupons.

4. Dislikes: burning shrubbery, armies of Pharoah, dill pickle potato chips

3. He created the trendy mixed cocktail Red Sea Breeze.

2. Loved the pan-flute, the NRA and was a backer of Howard The Duck.

1. He was Team Edward.

Gym, part the third

2011-06-19T21:04:00.002-04:00

Just spent $2,500 on a gym membership and personal trainer.

I had better fucking have someone to hold with my newly muscled arms once I get them.

Cars are real dicks

2011-06-12T12:41:00.002-04:00

An old university friend was in a car accident recently. He was badly injured but should be alright. Phew. I'm not awesome at condolences of any kind and so instead asked a friend to read him a note from me. I'm too busy hating my personal trainer to think of anything that good for the blog, so instead I'm just gonna publish the letter here. Enjoy-ish.

Dear Andrew,

I feel simply terrible. We encounter situations that, like a hurricane-causing asshole of a butterfly, may complete change the course of ones life. This morning, for example, I was about to leave my house when I thought I’d have one more cup of coffee. I mean, who would even question this? Coffee is delicious, Andrew. You know what isn’t delicious? Nearly wee-ing yourself during the rabbi’s sermon. If someone had just popped their head in the window this morning and said, “Hey, champ. You don’t need it. Now scoot!” well, that woulda been creepy. But they would have been right.

I’m rambling a bit. Just nervous, I guess. You see, I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt ever since Sandra told me about your ~~mob hit~~ accident. Is she reading this to you? Say hi for me. Anyway, we’ve known each other for some years now and at once point spent quite a bit of time sitting around, getting hives from sitting on poor industrial carpeting and talking smack about flute majors. Good times. Terrible outfits. My mind has been wandering to Eating a Lot of Pie at That Shitty Restaurant But It Was Amazing Cause We Were So Tired day. Man, I hope that doesn’t become a government holiday. Long ass name to print on a calendar. As Marcy and I dropped you off at 1:30am, there was something I wanted to say, something that may have changed things, but then Marcy said something. It was probably stupid. Stupid, stupid Marcy. Then you closed the door and I thought, “Ah well, another time then.” That time never came though, did it now? No, it did not.

Do you know what that thing I now so desperately wish I would have said? It was, “You cannot run through a car, Andrew.”

I mean, good on ya for trying. Brave man. I sorely understand the temptation myself. You knock over one tonka truck as a toddler and from there the beast grows. But cars, real cars – big boy cars – well, they’re just solid motherfuckers. Even immune to atomic realignment. I made that up, but I think it would be something like Wonka-vision, but with people instead of chocolate. People, Andrew.

Anyway, I’ll keep my ear to the ground should any new developments pop up, cause to pass directly through a Subaru Outback is clearly your dream. We share that, along with a distant-but-ever-present fascination with Mike Klassen’s ass. It may have its own orbital pull by now. In the meantime, though, no more car molestations. Say it with Sandra: NO MORE CAR MOLESTATIONS. (Did he say it? Sandra? Did he?)

Speedy recovery,

David

2011-05-24T11:10:00.001-04:00

Y’all, I seriously wish that rapture had shown up, cuz fer serious, I got nothing to write. My favourite bloggers are either:

a) riddled with anxiety, drama and drunken/drugged-out adventures

b) people that actually have their shit together and lead interesting lives.

I gots neither of these things going for me. I’m out, get on well with my parents, about to have a kinda-interesting-but-only-to-me career and don’t do nearly enough drugs. Seriously. I’ve been looking and – so strange – no one has responded to my “SELL ME DRUGS” craigslist ad. I’m also doing a cleanse at the moment so I can’t even drink. I had three weeks worth of Chelsea Lately episodes to watch last weekend, an impossible endeavour whilst sober, and momentarily contemplated giving myself a vodka tampon enema (yeah, it’s a thing), but after reading into it, I decided that burning sensation, diarrhoea (that’s British spelling, y’all!) and potential death aren’t really my thang. And so I holla’ed back to my decongestant experiment days and popped 3 non-drowsy Advil Cold & Sinus. Unfortunately, they just made me buzzed and really cranky, so at 9:30pm I took an Adivan and called it a night.

Do you see? Do you see why this is not the blog of winners?

Also, follow me on Instagram @theillustriousd. I take cool pictures. Rekanize.

I am NOT what I eat if I'm a dick

2011-05-23T16:33:00.000-04:00

I think there must be some sort of positive correlation between one’s age, the time they have been single and inquiries about if there is a guy/boy/someone special/anyone/new person/dating service in their life.

I have had some form of this question posed to me no less than 5 times this week, 3 of them by my father. He wants a gay-in-law so damn badly. Crazy hunkey.

I had a bit of revelation last month. It’s not all inked in dogma or something revelatory requiring a soapbox. However, after years of everyone and their mom (yeah, moms always wanna make sure I’m getting ass) asking about my romantic life, and me consequently spending a lot of time thinking about it, ye ol’ brain came up with this:

What if it never happens?

Let me say right here before anyone jumps in with, “Oh you’ll find someone,” or, “You’re a great person; it’s only a matter of time.”

You shut your face. Hard. That kind of talk is unwanted here. No, like really hard.

Because, not to be a defeatist, but simply from a pragmatic perspective, what if it just…doesn’t happen? Am I to wander around for the next 20-30 years looking for this elusive thing rather than just being awesome and enjoying the ridiculously cool life I plan on building? F 2 da no, I say. You gotta be okay with just you. Some people get good with Jesus. I’m going to get good with D-sus.

Yeah. That just happened. Sorry.

Robyn covering Bjork

2011-05-20T10:23:00.001-04:00

I haven't been able to find any good drugs in Toronto, but this just totally got me high.

Wax THIS off, mufuka.

2011-05-12T09:26:00.000-04:00

Elderly Grocery Store Owner: Hello! I help you?

Illustrious D: Don't you try you Far Eastern charm on me, bubba!

EGSO: *toothless mouth parts slightly*

ID: Shit...is about to go down.

EGSO: *reaches for 911 button*

ID: I AM HERE TO TALK ABOUT V8 JUICE.

EGSO: *retracts hand*

ID: THIS, Mr. Miyagi, is inferior product.*

EGSO: Uh, that's a V8 bottle with water in it.

ID: Precisely, sir. I bought this bottle of what I thought was refreshing, healthful, not at all disgusting and only bought because I'm on a motherfucking diet bottle of vegitable** juice and what did I wind up with, but water.

EGSO: Sir, I do not believe that you bought it like this.

ID: Or DID I?

EGSO: You did not.

ID: *persuasive eyebrow raise*

EGSO: *shake of head*

ID: *stink eye...like a really good stink eye*

EGSO: *uncomfortably averts eyes*

ID: Ha! I win!

EGSO: Sir, you drank the juice and filled the bottle with water, didn't you?

ID: I ju-! I ca-! WH-? Js-? TIHL?

EGSO: Ok, now you're just putting random consonants together.

ID: Your mom.

EGSO: Wow.

ID: *jazz hands*

EGSO: I think you should leave.

ID: Right-o.

*Wow, the Illustrious D is super racist, guys.

**That's Italian for vegetables. Get cultured, fools.

Two Things

2011-05-03T20:43:00.002-04:00

1. My parents went to a royal wedding theme party where everyone was supposed to wear a fancy hat, a fancy top and casual pants. My father later sent me a group photo of the party wherein everyone's lower half was still considerably fancy (full-length dresses, tux pants, etc). I sent an e-mail asking what had happened to the casual bottoms. His response:

"My underwear was very casual. Dad"

2. Today, while waiting in the rain for a streetcar, I decided to check Grindr and guess who was less than 300 metres away from me. Yep. This is my life.

Loner Week - Day 1: Jaundiced Swan Lake

2011-04-18T16:49:00.014-04:00

I have a week off. I'm doing daily Loner Tours of different parts of the city. Today is Day 1.

First up was brunch at Tequila Bookworm. Smoked salmon platter with cream cheese and a Montreal bagel. Apparently so good that my fat ass forgot to photograph it. Here are the remnants.

Next, I stopped by my old building to see if the bike I had left U-Locked to a pole outside the local Montessori school last July was still there. Admittedly, not on the official Eye Weekly tour, but bygones. Not surprisingly, the bike had been removed, to which I say: Fuck you, Montessori. Fuck you and the humanistic instruction horse you rode in on. You don't know me. You don't know my life.

On to the Lakeshore condominium district, where one developer had built a park and within it an art instillation paying homage to Canadian literary hero, Douglas Coupland. I have no answers for you on this point.

From here I started my trek to Union Station, but got distracted by the gorgeous misty lake and the wouldn't-you-know-it schooner and tugboat sitting in its harbour. As if this wasn't picturesque enough, as I was taking the photo a swan swam up. Yep. A motherfucking swan, motherfuckers. True fact about swans: they are the size of pigmy rhinos. No foolin'. They could fuck your shit up if they wanted to.

From the lake, I wandered to the financial district and attempted to find the PATH. These letters stand for something but I don't care what that something is. Essentially, the PATH is a series of underground tunnels and shops that connect the downtown area bordering between Front and Lakeshore (N-S) and Yonge and York (E-W). For non-Torontonians, it's a lot of goddamn space, ayit? Also, move to Toronto. Also, I got lost a lot and it took nearly one and a half adventurous hours to get from Union Station to Old City Hall. Kinda fun. Kinda old-person-power-walking-in-a-mall.

Next on my list was to buy Spanx at The Bay. Do I need Spanx? Did I just buy tight Calvin Klein undershirts instead? Maybe. Was my entire plan a disaster when I got home later and realized I'd grabbed the large size by mistake? Yes, yes it was.

At this point I was nearly passed out from all the walking. This *points to self in drag queen-esque manner* is not meant for physical exercise. I got a burrito. It was awesome. Then I went to my next checkpoint, which was the National Film Board of Canada, where you can watch a movie in a private booth and NOT slip on semen. Aces. Not aces? The fact that they were closed. Fuck you, Can-con, I'm-a go watch Rango. Again.

I did this thing for Luminato a few weeks back and they'd given me a $10 gift card to Kiehls. Way to treat a boy right, Luminato. I bought a bar of soap for $17 and regret nothing. Plus the counter chick was really sweet and gave me tons of free samples, and they had a wicked backsplash.

Then I went to hipster favourite, The Dark Horse Espresso Bar. Actually, no. They just opened a second location so you know those hipsters ain't havin' it no mo'. Still, maybe the best capp I've ever had. And the wait staff is pretty as was my driiiiiiiiiiiiink! And yes, that is a chocolate pecan butter tart. Hate the playa.

Unicorns can suck it

2011-04-17T21:22:00.000-04:00

Let's not even pretend to discuss how long it's been. Just suck it, okay? And here we go...

My eyes fly awake. Not literally. That would be disgusting (seriously, what's wrong with you?). It is 5am. My natural inclination in these situations is to curse whatever god I'm diggin' that week and try to go back to sleep.

"No," a voice inside tells me, "You are awake. Do not force it. Embrace the morn."

"But it's still dark out," I say.

"You shut your stupid mouth," the voice replies.

So I get out of bed. Not drowsy in the least, I head downstairs, throw out the day-old coffee I had planned on reheating and boiled water for a fresh batch. I sauteed some garlic and spinach, beat some eggs, crumbled some chevre and made an omelet. Such an indulgence on a morning with classes starting at 8:30. I took the omelet and steamy cup of coffee to my room, watched some Rachel Maddow on youtube and chilled my non-sleepy ass out.

This day was good and it had yet to really begin.

At around 6:30, I was still so totally blissed out on the dawn that I decided to be a sport and preorder a couple grab-n-go Starbucks tetrapacks for the morning class. As previously mentioned, my instructor (Big Fat Greek Mama) had lost her own Big Fat Greek Mama in October and on New Year's Day, Big Fat Greek Papa joined her. Greeks...what a bunch of fuckin' drama queens. In light of this and the multitude of assignments raining down upon us with every passing day, I decided that we needed a treat and that my hasn't-worked-in-6-months ass would be the one to buy it.

I left the house at about 7:15 in order to make my 8:00 pick-up at da' Bucks. As I rode the streetcar to the subway station, my mind was filled with unicorns and rainbows and all sorts of uncharacteristic optimism as represented by elements in a Precious Memories greeting card. I arrived at Starbucks ten minutes early (!) and patiently waited as the bariste (that's 'barista' plural, bitches. Italian-lawyered.) prepared enough coffee to require a pack mule. Fortunately, my natural gate is somewhat of a clop and so I am the perfect substitute.

I imagined what they must think of me. Clearly this was an up and coming professional that worked on upwards of the 25th floor of some office tower and was putting in his dues, picking up coffee for the morning meeting. So dapper in his coat and tasteful yet elegant scarf. So clean-shaven. So ballin'.

Messenger bag on back, one tetrapack in each hand, I cantered my way back down into the subway, smoothly navigating the turnstiles and finding a sweet-ass spot leaning against a pole. I enjoy being pole adjacent. The school being only two stops away, I got there in a jiffy (8:10!) and strode confidently out of the car, a stranger shoulder-bumping me upon the exit. I was unharmed (start breathing again, devoted reader) but noticed that one of the two side pouches on the left tetrapack had been near completely torn off in the kerfuffle. Man of calm and reason I, I simply switched its contents (spare cups, various sweetening agents) to the other side and made my way up the stairs, reaching the 10th step before the other side broke off, fell to the floor and sent two full venti cups of milk and cream crashing to the ground, forming a harormonious, roughly combined 7% stream of dairy cascading down the steps of St. George Station.

I would love to tell you that in this moment of faith-testing I kept my cool in did not proffer an F bomb so vociferous as to send unborn children on the platform into immediate prenatal therapy, but this was not so.

Rebuking the offers of aid from the bum who'd been sleeping on the stairs (it shows a real strength of character for a homeless person to wake up, feel his bum all creamy and to offer help to the bloke the creamed all over him), I noticed a classmate staring at me, shoved the remaining tetrapack in her arms and ran off with the other one in search of the nearest Starbucks. And by ran I mean jogged. And by jogged I mean walked ever so slightly quicker than I normally do. Omigawd, are you seriously gonna keep going with this? I'm in the middle of a story here! JEEZ. So rude.

As I walked ever so slightly quicker than I normally do, I fantasized about how I would lay into the barista just in case she should happen to give me some guff upon my arrival. I was gonna be all "Faulty products!" and "Customer satisfaction!" and "You can't handle the truth!" but then she was all sweet and gave me exactly what I wanted so bitch di'in needed 2 be cut 2day.

I got to class five minutes late which was perfect timing to be all, "Oh, me? Yes, I brought coffee. Oh no, I need no thanks. No, please, stop applauding."

I hate rainbows, unicorns can suck it, and the next time I am unceremoniously awakened at 5:30, I am becoming an atheist, I swear to G-... WELL, SOMETHING. I DUNNO. I HAVEN'T FIGURED IT ALL OUT YET. DO NOT TEST ME! DO NOT TEST MEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

*curtsy*

Slightly Nostalgic/Drunken Review of Disney's Cinderella

2011-02-26T20:36:00.001-05:00

0:12 – Worst. Opening Song. Ever.

3:13 – I want birds to pull back my drapes to awake me with the dawn’s rays.

3:43 – But if they tried to touch me or my comforters, I would fuck their shit.

4:18 – I know she just woke up and all, but bitch looks seriously high.

4:41 – Do they hold singing auditions for Disney Princesses? It seems like a prerequisite that birds and woodland creatures must enjoy your vocalizations in order to qualify.

5:14 – BAHAHAHA That mouse’s tail got all knotted up while he slept. PWNed.

5:53 – “Even they can’t order me to stop dreaming!” Deeeeeeeep shit.

7:03 – Why is it always the fat mouse scatting a descant?

7:12 – ZOMG YOU GUYS! CINDERELLA HAS NO TOE NAILS

8:26 – If all the mice (My drunken ass just said ‘mouses’ in my head.. No judgey.) are wearing outfits, isn’t the presence of a naked one kinda pornographic? I mean, he’s fat so you can’t see his junk…but still. Perverts.

8:43 – Jack the mouse: “Hey little guy, we rike-uh you!” Are all mice Asian?

11:54 – The dog just woke up. Is everybody stoned in this movie?! You just know that he and Cinderella totally 420 together.

21:19 – One of the step-sisters is a dead ringer for Olive Oyl

23:55 – Oh goodie, the king looks like the baron in Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang!

26:46 – “Oh siiiiing, sweet nighdngale, sing sweet nighdngale…” Hey, Ella, this isn’t the Apollo. Reconize.

27:17 – She’s harmonizing with her own reflection in a bubble. High confirmed.

27:37 – Female reflection barbershop quartet. Fuck me.

31:14 – CINDERELLIE, CINDERELLIE, NIGHT AND DAYS IT’S CINDERELLIE!

31:21 – For music geeks only: same chordal structure as ‘Be Our Guest’.

32:31 – “Leaving the sowing to the women; you go get some trimmin’.” This line caused then 16 year-old Gloria Steinam to burn her first training bra. Fact.

36:39 – If I had a mouse, I would totally bead its tail with a 9 year-old girl who just returned from a family vacation in St. Lucia.

41:23 – Frazzled-just-had-her-dress-torn-apart-by-step-sisters Cinderella totally looks like Jem. Way to be 150 years ahead of your time, girl.

42:11 – Aw, poor li’l snowflake is crying by her angel fountain. KIDS IN CHINA HAVE NO ANGEL FOUNTAIN.

43:08 – Why is the Fairy Godmother in KKK robes?

44:06 – “I would say the first thing we need is a pumpkin.” Crazy ol’ bitch.

44:19 – HOLY SHIT IT’S MOVING.

44:36 – For music geeks only pt 2: “Bibbidy-Boppity-Boo” = “We’re Off to See the Wizard” chordal structure. Mash-ups to follow.

44:41 – Does anyone else think that nonsense songs are just ways for untalented lyricists to fake it? No? Just me? Cool.

46:10 – So she turns the mice into horses and the horse into a coachman? This seems like far too much work.

46:11 – Actually, buckteeth aside, that’s a pretty hot coachman. I’d hit it.

47:09 – Um, nice dress, but a black choker? What is this, 1996? I don’t think so, buddy.

48:38 – I just counted the processional and there are 15 eligible young ladies in all of France. IS THE CENSUS TAKER STONED, TOO?! Christ on crutches…

51:09 – “Pompous windbag” is the “stupid motherfucker” of 1850s France.

54:45 – The clock just stuck midnight! Ok, I’m on my second bowl of popcorn, which I air popped on the stove with Crisco and a pot. Do any other grain-y-type-things pop or just corn. I mean, I guess rice pops, cause we have rice crispies. And there’s puffed wheat, too, I guess. Clearly, I’m not so engaged in this movie right now.

103:49 – Omg, bitch just locked Cinderella in her room! I forgot about this paaaaaart! It’ll be okay, Gus-Gus! It’ll be okaaaaaaay.

109:39 - THE CAT HAS TRAPPED THE MOUSE WITH THE TEA UNDER A TEACUP! SHIT JUST GOT INTENSE!

113:05 – Stepmother broke the glass slipper but it doesn’t matter cause Cinderella has the other one!!!!!! Ok, I just misted up.

113:43 – Wedding day. Still with the black choker. Really? REALLY?

2011-02-21T17:39:00.002-05:00

There was a boy I went to school with. He transferred to my elementary school in the fourth grade, distractingly pretty features and slightly effeminate manners. Naturally, the majority of his friends were girls. We never had a class together, but stayed in the same schools until grade 12 graduation and he was always a source of interest for me. He still dated girls in high school, the longest, ironically, being with the girl I went out with...in grade 8. First and only, baby. He had a lightness to him. Not pertaining to his loafers, specifically, but rather that his whole spirit was light. His face shone, his features so finely set. I saw him once after high school, at a gay club in Winnipeg, and we did the "Oh hey! We're both out at a club!" hug and that was really all there was.

Nearly three years ago, he was driving down a street in Montreal, were he now lives. There had been a huge storm the day before and the ground was still littered with debris. A huge branch sprawled across the road in front of him and so he stopped the car and got out to move it. At that moment, another massive bow broke off from a tree on the boulevard and fell onto him, shattering his spine. He lost all mobility below the waist, was told that his chances of walking again are negligible and began a new, twisted version of his former life in a wheelchair. He moved into an assisted living facility for others who had suffered similar injuries. His boyfriend of 4 months eventually broke up with him, understandably unwilling to cope with this magnanimous change in the new relationship.

Less than six months later, he met someone new. The guy was a bit older, not too much, perhaps ten years, but if Facebook photos are any indication, they are very well matched. They got engaged last spring. Engagement photos were taken, white background, my former classmate in his wheelchair, newly huge arms, beaming smile, and his fiance next to him, mirroring that facial expression. They're getting married this summer.

This Valentine's Day, the guy I had been seeing for a few weeks prior forgot that he'd asked me to go out with him and made plans with his friends. Despite being apologetic, no make up plans were made, the only subsequent contact being a text message saying 'hug' around 11:30 that night. This was a guy who broke all my dating conventions (white, same age), was a psychic medium (seriously. That was his business), said wonderful things to me and made no actions to follow through on them. In the first week we met, I was at his place 4 times, taking care of his influenza-ridden body and alcohol-ridden mind, and I was glad to do it. On his end, he said that I was beautiful and that he'd waited a long time for me.

Continuing the outlier pattern established, I ended it, not him, which is likely understandable given what you read in the previous paragraph. I issued myself a little pat on the back with not sticking around longer than a couple weeks after finding out what this person really was. He was cracked, marked and broken, not unlike myself, but in no way seemed likely to patch himself up anytime soon and so I walked, like my friend's ex-boyfriend after his accident, and even more justifiably so.

This leaves me wondering, jackassily: ok, if a guy can lose all use of his body below the waist (ALL use) and wind up happy and engaged a year later, what does it say that I've been going at this with a mere limp for 10 years and can't find someone worth sticking around an entire month for? The decade-old dialogue of "It'll happen when it happens" and "Just be patient" have worn thin and I think it's time to perform a spiritual castration, turning myself into an emotional asexual, existing as the lone member of the species and completely self-propagating. Not a sad thing and certainly not a call for compliments, which inevitably accompany any self-depressive comment in the digital age, but I think it would be very freeing.

I've started a couple entries in the past couple months, but none seem right to put out there. This probably isn't either, but I wrote it out for myself, so might as well post it. I miss reading my favourite bloggers and having those electronic interactions, but things are just too hectic with school. I almost long for the days of an autonomous soul-sucking job, the consequence of which was that I had all this intellectual/humorous build up that needed to come out via posts. But this is how it is for now. Hopefully I'll find my way back.

It's not all fun and racism over here at Fleekin Floygn

2011-01-01T22:04:00.004-05:00

Where to start, where to start?

With the last week of classes, so ripe with cheer and social occasions with fellow students that I almost felt normal, almost felt 'Winnipeg', again?

With the week spent in Winnipeg, seeing so many friendly acquaintances and so few friends, the latter having fallen to the wayside by means of argument or silence?

With the minimum five cups of coffee I drank daily while there, owing to all the breakfasts and Starbucks chats, which really just jacked me up so much that I didn't know whether to be elated or irritable?*

With the Mennonite stranger I saw more than anyone else simply because I didn't have enough to do and neither did he?

With the hot chocolate mix and box of Bailey's-infused chocolates** I received from a close friend, having purchased for her everything on her list, including clothing, a teddy bear and a Snuggie, and how petty I felt about caring yet at the same acknowledging that bitch shoulda stepped it up a notch?

With the lovely surprise of a two-day house guest once I returned, thanks to a canceled bus reservation, and who breathed fresh energy into what I'm sure would have been a very bleak and lonely weekend?

With the bleak and lonely week that has followed, during which I left the house exactly 5 times, each time fewer than three hours long, and spent the remaining time in pajamas slowly lulling myself into a state of depression not seen for nearly a year?***

With the simultaneous gladness for and madness due to the silence that comes with a roommate-less house, leading to the radio being on nearly constantly and me actually petting my dickface of a cat**** just to feel that the solitude is manageable?

With New Years Eve, spent with a quasi-friend who really just wants to hit this *points to self-loathed body*, drinking vodka, eating bad Chinese food and watching eight episodes of Family Guy?

With the monthly massages I've been treating myself to just so I can be touched?*****

With, in true drama queen fashion, how I told a friend today that 2010 was the worst year to date and then spent the first day of 2011 not doing a thing to make it different?

*I was almost exclusively the latter.

**I hate Bailey's, and don't give me no guff about it, neither.

***Maybe I have that seasonal affective bullcrap.

****It has been the best week of his life.

*****Yep, it's been that long.

Happy New Year, people.

Also, I shaved my head:

Still Lazy, Still Unoriginal

2010-12-15T12:44:00.003-05:00

I don't think this rendition is as funny as the first, but the roommate tells me she enjoyed it so I'm-a post it anyway. If it's shitty, you can letterbomb her. Put a smiley face next to the stamp. That'll be our code.

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8080515/

My father needs a proofreader like whoa

2010-12-14T21:45:00.000-05:00

Hello parents,

I've attached my summative evaluation from the first practicum for your perusal. In reading this, you may find yourself asking if it was sent with the intention of bragging. The answer to this question is: absolutely correct! I am bragging my ass off! That said, I hope you'll enjoy reading something positive about your eldest and you may chide me later for my braggart ways. However, for the time being, WHOOPIE!!!!!!

D

Reply:
OK, Mom hasn't seen this yet but I have just read it and yes, you have every right to be proud of this exceptional evaluation. I am so proud of you for practicing that which has been suggested to you on many occasion......exceed expectations! Indeed you did and then some!! Good on you but don't let it go to your head... now that you have set the bar this high on your first practicum, achieving it again and again will be no easy task. In fact, you probably will not be able to and not for lack of trying but due to other factors not in your control. Whatever happens, always keep trying to do your best and know that you will be one fine 'teacher in an honourable profession. Carpe Diem tous les jours!! Love 'ya! Dad

Way to keep me humble, Daddy.

Why I will never be in porn

2010-12-05T20:12:00.001-05:00

This would be waaaaaay too much pressure:

Lazy and Unoriginal

2010-12-05T09:22:00.002-05:00

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7944745/

Big City Acronyms

2010-12-03T16:06:00.001-05:00

SCR (Streetcar Rape): What I long to do to an average of 2.8 people per day whilst aboard public transportation. I'm sitting across from one now. His mouth is saying "no," but his eyes are saying, "I can't even be bothered to look up from my iPhone to acknowledge that you exist." My kinda lovah.

AW (the Asian Weave): Needing to veer around my oriental friends who, despite their ability to do an invisible hem stitch in under 8 seconds, cannot appear to move their legs quicker than half a mile per hour. Nor their cars.

SH (Singing Hobo): Fine, I don't really have a definition for this one. I just put two words together and thought it was funny. K, let me come up with one now. Argh. Thinking. So hard. Oh got it! Most of my opera friends by the time they're 35! Ouch. That's mean. Funny though and what is our motto over here at Fleekiin Floygn? Funny Before Friends. Suck it, friends.

HSL (Homicidal Subway Lady): I wanna know what the HR department over at the Toronto Transit Committee was smoking when they hired their voice actor that does the automaton voice for all the subway stops. She sounds like Kathy Bates in Fear. When she announces "Keele" stop, I think that the voices in my head are acting up ago. When she announces "Old Mill" I get the most horrific Die Schone Mullerin daymares (holy shit, that's actually a word!). Bitch be crazy.

GWBWTFA (George W. Bush Without the Fun Alcoholism): Our new mayor. Oh wait…

My streetcar rape victim is getting off the now. It's fine though, since I already did.

On seasonal temptation

2010-12-01T14:00:00.004-05:00

McStoony is an internet cum real life friend from the prairies who has a pretty face, amazing hair, disproportionately large eyebrows and an ass to match them. It's a good thing he does not live here, as that would inevitably wind up in a predictably unrequited love situation. As it exists, however, he does not and is therefore a lovely friend that I enjoy from afar, primarily on Facebook chat.

Illustrious D: There is something fundamentally unsatisfying about going into a Starbucks around Christmas and ordering a tea.

McStoony: that's because you're supposed to get a eggnog chai latte

ID:I know

But I'm also supposed to not have a fat ass.

Although, let's be real, by the end of this month that fact is just inevitable.

MS: do jews even drink eggnog?

ID: yep

eggnog and manischwewitz

never heard of it?

Divine.

MS: i'm on my second helping of chinese food... for lunch. fuck my fat life.

ID: fmfl

MS: haha. thanks. fmfl

ID: it's funny cause everybody knows that m is the fattest letter in the alphabet

MS: :'(

it's so true

She does not think I'm cool

2010-11-20T09:49:00.001-05:00

Having not spoken to my parents in a week, I just finished a phone conversation with my mom with: "Ok, have a good one."

Now that is family intimacy.

I'm a teachah, mufukas

2010-11-11T20:36:00.006-05:00

Ok, not quite. I’m a teacher candidate. But close enough. Incidentally, for those not in the know, the Jew thing just started to be way too much work, so I’ve peaced out on that and have decided that, rather than date 17 year olds, I should just teach them.

Teach them ‘bout my wang.

Sorry. That was inappropriate and probably pretty illegal.

We take several courses in our teachable subjects (drama + music = whatafag), psychology, electives and our education seminar, where we actually learn how to be teachers. Our instructor in this class is like our den mother and also Greek, leading me to call her My Big Fat Greek Mamma. In my head. And in my dreams…

Sadly, her own BFGM passes away a short while ago and she had to leave us for two weeks in order to fly back to Greece for the funeral. She probably did some sun-bathing, too. But mostly the funeral thing. Probably.

Before our first post-Hellenic class, I was a wreck. I don’t do well with those that are grieving, let alone a woman that I had known less than a month yet still desired to rest my head on her bosom. I’m not really sure why but I kind of worship her. It might be that she can’t pronounce ‘sheet’ and it always comes out as ‘shit’. She is my world.

I thought for days beforehand what I would say upon entering the classroom, but nothing short of flinging myself at her feet seemed appropriate. On the day of Her return, I walked into the class and OF COURSE BITCH WAS ALL IN BLACK. Fan-fucking-tastic. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, diva was practically wearing a veil of grief.

The legs and liver were shaking as I approached her, still undecided as to how I should convey my Big Fat Jewy Sympathy. Then tumbling out of my mouth came:

“Hi. You good?”

…

Ok.

Conjure, if you will, the myriad of things I could have said. Make a top 5 list. I dare ya. Now, is “Hi. You good?” anywhere on that list? No, it is not because it is the single douchiest thing a person could say to his mentor/new mother in her hour of need. It is also further evidence that I am never ever cool. Upon hearing the words escape my lips, I was filled with instant shame and regret. I wanted to get a poison arrow to the heel or feed myself to a hydra or choke on a moussaka sandwich. Anything to remove the sting of being the single awkwardest boy this side of the Aegean Sea. I prayed for the Olympian gods to rein down fiery ambrosia on my balding-at-an-even-quicker-pace-if-that's-even-possible head, to inflect such Promethean measures that my callow, stupid-headed poopy-facedness would ne'er rear its ugly 7-headed face again.

Then she turned and looked at me, closed her eyes, gave her head a little nod and said, "Yes, my beautiful angel darling. Is okay."

Tableau Un

2010-10-12T22:55:00.007-04:00

I am waiting at Main Street subway station for a streetcar home. My yoke/load is easy/heavy, having just gone grocery shopping at the 24 Sobey's and local green-grocer. I do not like being weighed down by melons at the best of times, and this is no exception. I have opted to purchase my goods about 10 minutes from our house because the roommate is out of town and I have hobbitted myself up, with only the senile, colloquy cat for company. To trek the half hour by streetcar down to Kensington Market would have simply been too much.

Two people on the bench next to me, a man and a woman, are talking. I have my earphones in and so can't hear the content of their conversations but the occasional head nodding in my periphery is enough to alert me. After a while, the man stands up and leaves. The woman turns and mouths something to me. I take out one of my earphones and turn to her, noticing the overabundance of bags at her feet.

"Do you or anyone you know like candles?"

We gots a crazy. And I do not accept candles from crazies.

"Um, my friends and I are more incense people."

*Mental high five to self*

The streetcar mercifully pulls up and I wish the generous bag lady a good day. I get on and the car quickly pulls away. The lady has stayed on the bench. It would seem that her location is more of a social outlet than a mid-journey repose. A young man sits down on the bench next to her. They talk for a moment and then she starts fishing around in her bag with a huge smile on her face.

I wish I had taken a candle.

Tableau Deux

2010-10-12T22:55:00.006-04:00

I am flouncing down the stairs humming to myself. I have just arrived home for the weekend, home being 1,500 km from where I live. Being in my old house, my old room, my old role brings up massive, ecstatic waves of nostalgia. I am remembering sitting by my tape deck, blank tape inside, with my finger on the record button, waiting to push it as soon as I hear a song I like. (By my 12th birthday, I would have about 20 of these tapes.)

I stroll into the kitchen, humming the bass line from Whigfield's universally-recognized record, "Saturday Night," and I hear from the other room, in a rich, husky, Hungarian baritone:

"DEEDEE-DAH-DAH-DAH!"

My stomach sinks as my father pokes his head into the kitchen.

"You didn't think I knew that song did you? Well it's one of my favourites. It's on the swirly purple and blue cover CD."

I start the bass line again, and again on cue my father comes in with "Deedee-dah-dah-dah." Twice.

"Dad, that only happens once, right at the beginni-"

"No! It happens twice! I know this!"

Later in the weekend, I will walk into the family to the busting 90's beats of Saturday Night and my father will shamefacedly admit that it does, in fact, only happen once. He's checked. Three times.

I had a beer with lunch and now can't think of a title

2010-09-24T13:33:00.003-04:00

There have been immeasurable (1) calls for an update, so here it be. Let us classify this as a life update rather than a funny/offensive op ed piece. The reason for my non-bloggitude as of late has been, for those who do not know, that I have returned to school for a rather intense program. Consequently, I will not be blogging with the same frequency or read/comment on my followed blogs for the time being. I know that we're all special snowflakes that deserve all the love and attention in this here blogosphere, but it's just beyond my temporal means at the moment. Selfish, perhaps, but what blogging isn't?

Yep, I call my posts pieces. What…a dickbag.

Future Roommate has gone the way of countless pop stars before her and dropped the 'Future' from her name. In other words, she is now my full-blown roomie. As far as the adjustment from friend to friend-roommate, there have already been smiles and frowns, ups and downs but already I have grown accustomed to her face. While she does not (yet) make the day begin, I feel we've been doing pretty well at communicating needs and wants and she has not yet attempted to castrate me nor I deovarize her, so back pats all round.

Speaking of castration, there are a whole bunch fellow teacher candidates who I feel would benefit from this process. Okay, fine, I'd benefit from this process. Of their castration. Ugh, not blessed by the Witty Hatred Faerie today. Ooh, new tag! I will not list here the full list of homicide-inducing archetypes, but rather will give a top 3:

3. "I'm a teacher candidate who doesn't like getting up in front of a class"
Um, you fail. A lot. And hard. Also, speak the fuck up. Group project partners, this is directed at you. Do NOT get in front of a class of adult learners and say, "Hey, guys… guys?…we're gonna move on so if you'd just like to [flaps forearms in the air, presumably to represent 'quiet' but coming off more like retarded penguin]…"

2. "I'm a teacher candidate who is doing this as a second career and therefore know more about everything than you"
Hey, do you know anything about shutting the fuck up? Didn't think so. Maybe if these jackasses actually listened to the instructor instead of thinking about an answer based on not listening to instructor, they could actually participate productively instead of wasting my valuable-as-that-weird-ass-mineral-from-Avatar time. An instruction to "reflect personally first" does not mean turn to your neighbour and run your mouth off for 5 minutes before asking me in a condescending voice if I'd like to contribute anything. Here is my foot. I would like to contribute it up your ass.

1. "I'm a teacher candidate and I won't shut up about teaching in Korea"

Hey.

Um.

Shut…the fuck…up.

Know who else has taught in Korea? 83% of the world, that's who. If I hear one more asshole (and they're always males) say, "So yeah, when I taught in Korea…" or talk about adding each other on Facebook so they can exchange kimchi recipes I AM GOING TO GO OFF. Kimchi tastes like pickles shit.

In other news, I had a two month thing with a Brazilian (cause I hate the white man) that ended in yet another "You're a great guy and I'd like to keep hanging out but just as friends, no kissing or anything like that anymore " talk.

Hey, Pele: what's Portuguese for "You're not interesting enough to be friends with while clothed"?

Reader Poll:
In the past year, David has cavorted around with a Macedonian, a Portuguese, an Albanian and a Brazilian. What ethnic group should he take up with next:

A) Rwandan
B) Peruvian
C) Latvian
D) None-of-the-above-cause-I'm-gonna-die-alone-and-unloved-ian
E) French

Generalization Observed in Transit

2010-09-15T12:59:00.003-04:00

If a woman gets on a bus, streetcar or subway with a baby stroller, chances are good that the child in that stroller was not planned.

If the woman is wearing a sweatshirt, hoodie or otherwise, the chance is doubled.

Times a million if she is wearing hoop earrings with a diameter exceeding 3 inches.

Poor People: Accidentally Procreating Since... Um, Forever.

Sassy New Career Change. SASSY.

2010-09-11T16:55:00.003-04:00

I just got the urge to post something for the first time in a couple weeks, so regardless of the shit that flies out, we're just gonna ride this one through together. As a family.

Sometimes just writing down what's going on can replace the need for help from another person. There's some stuff that's been going down for the past week that I haven't told anyone about. It's not that I think my friends and family will judge me negatively or anything, but I just don't feel that any of them will understand what it means. For the most part, my loved ones are pretty squeaky clean. I mean, some of them even think that pot is wrong; they have no concept of how addiction works and that stopping is as simple as flipping a switch. Still, this thing has been taking up so much of my time and energy and I'm getting scared of what might happen when I run out so I just need to hurl this admission into the internet universe and hope that something will help me, free me from its grasp:

I am addicted to Intervention.

It started simply enough. I'd heard about it for years, often when some Hollywood celebrity would talk about their experiences as a viewer, but I never thought that the junk would have any appeal to me. Then on a whim and two glasses of red last Monday I decided to watch an episode and after just one hour I was hooked. I couldn't get enough. As I watched more and more, I got a sick satisfaction from simultaneously drinking a vodka gimlet. In the first 24 hour period alone, I watched 9 episodes. These were really recent and easy to score, but after those were all watched, I just wanted more. I combed my usual video streaming websites like the dope fiends I craved in the hopes of finding some random sexually molested fuck up and their family cry for an hour...and allowing me to do the same. I don't think I even enjoy it at this point; it's more just a craving and I get really pissed off when the addiction is too common. "Oh fuck, not another heroin addict, Jesus..."

I need an Intervention intervention.

Otherwise, it's gonna get nasty, people. I almost want to develop an addiction just so I can be intervened upon by Candy Finnigan. As previously stated, addiction to prescription meds is for dicks, but I wouldn't mind a little alcoholism or coke habit. Something classy. On Intervention, the subject never knows that there's going to be an intervention; they just think they're in a documentary about addiction. Not the brightest bulbs smashed to liquefy meth on, these ones. As a bonus, I would totally lose my shit when I walked into the room and discovered what was going on. I'd be all "Oh helllllllllllllll naw!" and then run/wheeze away while the slightly obese camera man jiggled along beside me. I might even hit him. Cause I'm sassy.

BUT THEN (ooh, sorry, that got shouty. I'll calm down.) But then, I'd go to treatment and reform myself and then - wait for it - become one of the interventionists! Yes, that's a real word! I even have Jeff VandensomethingGerman's whole speech down:

"Well, [Insert name], I've been here since yesterday and I just see a bunch o' people who love you like crazy, so how this works is they're gonna say some things and then you're gonna say what you're gonna say and then we're done, sound good?"

Granted, ok, yes, I could have copied and pasted that speech but I didn't because I WOULD BE AN AMAZING INTERVENTIONIST.*

I mean, I have no psychological training whatsoever, but I'd make a go at it. Sassy, 'member? I'd just start intervening on people I know, knocking drinks out of people's hands, smashing my father's bacon lettuce & fried chicken fat sandwiches to the ground, randomly going up to strangers who litter and yell "INTERVENTION!" before tackling them to the ground and shoving the gum/beer can back in their mouths.

*Once I begin my interventionist career, I plan on moonlighting at Starbucks...so I can be an interventionista. And then - THEN - you will want my life. Yes, you will.

My night was awesome; thanks for asking!

2010-09-04T23:41:00.003-04:00

Illustrious D: Hello, Expectations.

Expectations: Hey, Illustrious D.

ID: Well, thanks for popping by. That was really fun while it lasted.

E: No worries, man. I aim to please.

ID: Yeah, I mean, that little Brazilian number that seemed so sweet and cute...OH, and the fact that he seemed really, really into me...THAT was a nice touch.

E: LOL, I know, right? Man, I sure outdid myself this time.

ID: Really did. Thanks so much for another evening spent by the phone waiting for another asshole not to call.

E: Hey, no probz, dude. Totally random thought: maybe you should post this when you haven't had 3/4 of a bottle of wine to compensate for the fact that you will die alone and when you might actually make coherent sense to the two winners that still read this piece o' shize blog.

ID: Nah.

Shit My Dad Says: Crazy Hungarian Edition

2010-08-31T09:26:00.000-04:00

Illustrious D: Ugh, that guy has total gay face.
Crazy Hungarian Fajhah: What's gay face?
ID: When a gay guy has facial features that are extremely feminine.
CHF: Oh, like with you and your hips?

CHF: Goddamnit! You boys need to stop being so hung up about sex! If you want to have people sleepover, just do it and don't be embarrassed! You get that from your mother's side. It's no big deal! I used to see my sister naked all the time.

ID: Dad, soup smells great! Did you put sausage in it?
CHF: Nope, best hot dogs money can buy.

CHF: You call those oysters? I've picked boogers bigger than those.

CHF: Look at Mr. Money Bags, spending $30 on a haircut. Guess how much mine costs. Twelve dollars and Ernesto does a great job. Actually, he raised it to thirteen. We're gonna have words.

CHF: Did that friend of yours put on a bit of weight? It looks great on her. Nothing wrong with a little something to grab, right honey?

CHF: Do you take half and half in your coffee? I can make it creamy for you.

Dear Future Roommate (Part IV)

2010-08-27T16:11:00.006-04:00

Part I Part II Part III

Dear Future Roommate,

I just got back from a month-long vaca and have P-lenty of stories of my travelings, but you move in next Wednesday, which is a mere 5 days away, and this event will end the now world famous Dear Future Roommate... series, so I figure I'd better spew forth some final installation before it's too late.

So to that end...

Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.

I do not mean that I am going to stick logs of your feces in my soon-to-be-bought dehydrator and than go off on it, Kung Fu Panda-style, nor am I invoking my much beloved/maligned Ebonics to signify that I will be beating you. The first would be completely nonsensical and disgusting and the second would be nonsensical and shameful as you could totally take me.

What I mean is that your stuff will most likely get broken at some point. I am, as my beleaguered uncle has termed me, accident prone. He and my aunt have opened their home to me many times this year, both as a favour when I moved here and at their own request when I house sat for them about a half dozen times in the past 12 months. The following is a list of ways I have repaid them:

- Broken wooden spoon, dropped on floor (Innocuous? Not when it was purchased in Holland.)

- Broken whiskey glass, smashed when hit by strainer being banged on the side of the sink (I'm pretty sure the set 0f 4 was, like, 8 bucks but whatever. It didn't win me any friends.)

- Fucked up hot tub, left lid off and all the water evaporated into ice on their deck + bonus cracked wooden plank (Replacement board was $5 and it was installed for free by their neighbour, so the only real damage was to my rep.)

- Deceased microwave, just stopped working (Okay, this one was totally not my fault; I wasn't even using it at the time. Still happened on my watch, though, so another nail in the coffin of my trustworthiness.)

- Bubbled stainless steel pan, overheated when I forgot about the chicken stock I was reducing (This was the worst one, because I forgot to tell them, resulting in my aunt leaving me a voicemail that would intimidate James Gandolfini and then had to enter into an elaborate web of lies about how I thought it had been there before and that I didn't like her tone.)

- Melted plastic bowl, result of air-popping popcorn in the microwave (Kernels at the bottom got so hot that they melted through the bottom of the bowl and (bonus!) onto the tea towel that was covering the bowl, simultaneously burning and dripping melted plastic on it. This also occurred at 11pm and they were home so I got the ire right away.)

This last one happened just last night and it was at this time that my uncle gently suggested that I might want to buy some cheaper versions of their expensive cookware to use when they're gone for the year.

I broke 1; they're getting 12! YOU'RE WELCOME.

Why do I a) have the forehead wrinkles of
an 84 year old and b) have wrist knuckles?

So FutRo, my point is that unless I spend the next 12 months duct-taped in a corner or you put some sort of thumb-print security shield on the kitchen, I'm likely to break something. It will likely not be through carelessness but rather a complete lack of common sense (eg popcorn kernels get hot, plastic melts, etc.) and when this happens, I request a certain amount of patience and understanding. I will replace anything of monetary and promise to stay away from anything of sentimental value, unless that thing is a skillet or utensil of some sort, in which case, what the fuck is wrong with you? In other words, please do not shame me like a puppy that has doodoo'ed (doodid? doodone?) on the rug, as my aunt tends to do. It only makes me feel like crap and get stress headaches which keep me in bed until 11am, at which time I run out of the house and don't come home until midnight so as to avoid see you and your rolled up newspaper.

So in advance, I am sorry and I love you and seriously, thumb-print recognition technology is, like, dirt cheap right now.

Love,

D

2010-08-13T11:19:00.002-04:00

So I'm on vacation. Clearly.

Back near the end of the month.

Happy Scott Pilgrim Movie Day.

You're Welcome

2010-07-27T16:23:00.001-04:00

Deener said...
New comic idea: Adventures of David and his Pretend Vulva
4:56 PM EDT

Not my body; still my choice

2010-07-23T11:31:00.004-04:00

One of the bloggers that I follow posted recently about needing switch birth control methods and consequently taking the Planned Parenthood "What method of birth control is right for YOU?" online test.

Birth control is not really a problem that effects me, and by "is not really a problem" I mean "will never possibly in a million bajillion years except if I get drunk and overly confident in a bi threesome be a problem."

That said, I fucking love online multiple-choice tests and so I thought, what the hell, and opened up my mind and my pretend vulva to Planned Parenthood. Also, the knowledge that plannedparenthood.org would be permenantly archived in my work's Big Brother-esque internet monitoring system coupled with the fact that I'm outta here in a week makes me kinda wet in my pretend vulva.

I waded through a myriad of tough questions: Would my partner* be willing to pull out? Would I be okay with an initial couple months of side effects, such as tender breasts? What is the most important quality about my chosen birth control? Would I be comfortable with inserting objects into my vagina? My answers in these cases were no**, yes and "That it prevents pregnancy" and "depends on the squishy level."

After 3 gruelling and soul-searching minutes, PP gave it to me straight:

Conclusion: I am not responsible enough to be in charge of my own birth control and clearly need to be monitored by a medical professional to ensure I don't fuck it up.

Wow, Planned Parents. Judgey McJudgejudge Judgersons. Thanks, Mom. Also, they nailed it right in the vag.***

*Okay, I was typing on autopilot and initially wrote "parents." Paging Dr. Freud...

**He'd be all "Ooh, baby, I'll totally pull out. I wanna cum all over your tits," but I'd know better cause he's an ass man.

*** *shudder*

In which I instigate a blog war about... liberal bleeding hearts? Wtf...

2010-07-20T12:04:00.002-04:00

You know, I aim to bring the chuckles over here at FF, but sometimes there are situations that are notably unfunny that I have to comment on. Historically, these have included posts on medical conditions, career anxiety and the ongoing feud between me and my penis. Okay, that last one's a little bit funny.

A fellow blogger submitted this post the other day. It is about how he, a brown man, categorically would not want to come back as a white person in a future life, ending his post with a disclaimer that this was not a racist sentiment and we had the following comment exchange:

The Illustrious D said...
I do want to be white in my next life. But that's not racist either...
July 13, 2010 9:25 AM

Amak said...
@ I-D:I donno whether I should ask this but: Would you still want to be Jewish in your next life? (Assuming there is a next life and assuming you'd have the choice)

The Illustrious D said...
I once heard a famous lesbian state that she hopes her kids are straight. This had nothing to with self-loathing or lack of pride, but rather wanting her kids to have the easiest path possible.To that end, I would come back in my next life as a white heterosexual Christian (at least culturally) man.Though I wanna try one go-around as a woman at some point.
July 19, 2010 12:33 PM

Amak said...
@ I-D:My point in this post was exactly the opposite. I realized I came to value my struggles however hard things might have been for me. I don't want it easier in my next life. Is that masochism? Maybe. But it's also a political consciousness that I seem to embody and that feel committed to and want to keep living by.Thanks for responding, dearest I-D.
July 19, 2010 5:27 PM

Oooooooooooooooooookay. I have several points to make on this subject and I'm doing it here because I don't want to bogart his comments section.

First of all, it is racist. Flat out. You can have all the reasons in the world (and we'll get to some of those in a moment), but it's still racist. It's essentially giving more value in your experience as a non-white more than you ever possibly could as a caucasian. Not religious experiences, nor sexual, cultural or handicapped experiences. This is purely about the skin colour you were born with and valuing it above another's. Sorry, you can paint it in whatever far-left liberal nobility you like, but that's racist.

This is not to say that all races have the same experiences, which is what I ultimately think he was getting at. The implicit tone was saying that he values his experience as a brown person; this is totally, 100% valid. I value myself as a Jew. I value myself as a queer. I value myself as whatever-label-I'm-using-to-describe-my-physical-condition-this-week. It's all worthwhile. But guess what other experience is worthwhile? Being white. I don't really identify as white, but there's a lot of really good shit that comes along with that DNA. In refusing to entertain the notion of having those benefits, you essentially place more value on your oppression, real or perceived, than on being born with a certain racial advantage. It's wallowing, accepting whatever persecution you can grab and holding on for dear life rather than refusing it and moving on.

There is a tendency among young adults to react to the shattering of childhood perceptions of the world with radicalism, fight. We place more value in being different than in being good. More worth in personal struggle than saying, "Fuck you," getting over it and moving up in the world. Petition? Sure, I'll sign it. Protest? I'm there. What's it about? I don't really know, but someone's mad about something so I'm in. Anger requires no research whatsoever. The big issues of the world are not dealt with by the angry, but rather by those who have gone past that to understanding and, in many cases, sadness. It's naive to think that we can solve what the great educated minds of the world cannot, but then again, we're not really looking to find solutions. We're looking to be angry.

Why? We just love being different, even crucified. We base our burgeoning adulthood identity on all these things that separate us from our peers and collect them like they're Pokemon. The harder our journey, the prouder we are of ourselves. "Is that masochism?" No. It's way too smug to be masochism. It's self-satisfying martyrdom, it's weaving your own hairshirt, it's flogging yourself with a smile and it's repulsive. Hey, why not cripple yourself while you're at it? Why not pluck out your eyes or blow off your eardrums? At what point does difference stop being perceived as noble and just as fucked up? Probably the point where you yourself are at, I'm guessing.

As stated, I enjoy the unique perspectives that I've gained from my "otherness." I am happy to own them for the rest of my life and look forward to the things they'll teach me. But they're not fucking battle scars. They're not a button on a canvas messenger bag. Not a sign at a rally on posterboard from the Dollar Store. And they're certainly not a self-congratulatory mock up of an image of white domination on someone's blog. My oppressions, my struggles, they don't put me in a nobler place because I've lived them. It's shit I've been dealt and if someone came up and offered me a contract stating that in my next life I could be a healthy, white, straight male, you bet your ass I'd sign.

Another pre-Tree of Knowledge tale

2010-07-19T23:14:00.001-04:00

I still can't get my junk up to do a legit post, so once again I'm bringing you a tale from my Before They Were Assholes vault. Cause seriously, I was muthafukkin cute kid.

Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.

My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.

Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them. On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.

"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"

"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.

"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.

"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.

"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**

"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"

Fuck.

I love candy.

I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:

"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"

GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!

*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.

** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker

Spaghetti sauce or childhood rosacea? You decide.

What...a fat little fuck.

Here I am sitting in my brother's wheely-chair, pretending I'm little but
really just coming off faggy. Tragic foreshadowing. Butch bathrobe, though.

20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own balls

Fuck you, ABBA.

2010-07-15T09:42:00.006-04:00

Today's Google header is retarded.

Okay, so I have nothing to say at all but I'm getting all paranoid about my low output recently. Low out put = me not putting out = blogging prude. It's like THE RULES made a Blogger! Edition.

What? Even I barely get my 90's pop culture references any more.

So I have nothing to say, as previously...said... so I'm just gonna tell ADORABLE childhood anecdotes and pray that no one notices how shitty this blog has become since I started my monstrous ABBA/MS Paint undertaking.

I am 6 years old, playing in the backyard with my next door neighbour, Nathan. Nathan is going into grade 2 and infinitely cooler than I for it. It is the summer time and as always The Red River Exhibition, a three-week long carnival with lots of rides and deep-fried shit, has pulled into town. It is a modern Neverland and so, like all things related to childhood, such as Full House, Lucky Charms and the notion that "my no spot is just for me," my parents have denied me knowledge of its existence.

Nathan, in his super suave 7 year old voice, asks, "Hey David, are you going to the Ex this year?"

Oh god, he is so cool. I don't even know what the fuck he is talking about.

"Good question, Nathan," I respond, "Let me just go an check with ~~the bitch in the kitchen~~ my mom."

Mother informs me that, no, small child, you shan't be venturing forth to have this "fun" you've heard about in rumours and the liberal media.

Distraught not at the idea of missing out but rather having to tell Nathan that I am not in his Universe of Candy Appled Awesome, I head back outside to face the music. This being 1990, likely Minni Vanilli.

"Well?" he asks.

"No," I reply, "I am not going to the Ex...

...but sometimes I go to the Y."

GOODNIGHT, CHICAGO!

A new bodily goo for me to swallow

2010-07-09T15:50:00.003-04:00

Have you ever felt some tickling the inside of your nostril, presumably a booger in some form or another (fossilized, goo, etc.) and so you sniff really super hard but then that little flap separating your nasal passage from your throat doesn't have time to close so the booger passes through it and suddenly you're wondering what morsel of food just dislodged from your back molar and is drain-circling your throat when you realize that - omagad - it's the booger and so you hork it up really loudly and you taste it and then for a moment it reminds you of eating boogers as a kid and how much fun it was so you try to eat it but then you're all "Um, I'm eating a booger right now," but you can't really stop booger-eating so you just kind of swallow it?

*sigh*

Wow.

My promised ABBA-ductee reinterpretation is still being created. So far I've done 10 MS Paint drawings. I'm quickly coming to hate this project. But I will percevere for you people. Goes I'm a giver. Just not the Lois Lowry kind.

My self-esteem needs a shower

2010-07-06T11:33:00.007-04:00

Once upon a time, the pictures that I uploaded linked themselves so that you could see the larger format, but now the blogging gods have deemed me unworthy of such privelege and thus have relegated my lowly readership to squinting just so they can marvel at the amazing detail I pour into every piece I create.

As such, I have made a top 10 list of my favourite words on my blog Wordle, the idea of which was coopted from Nigel at corndogpenis.blogspot.com:

10. Um - Way to start off with a bang, Wordle. But yeah, I use 'um' way too much.

9. Dildo - No witty comment. I just like that it was included.

8. Bechamel - See, you think I'm classy, but no.

7. Pizzas - Plural.

6. Members - Not as in joint associates of a common club or organization, but rather, penii.

5. Back Pocket - Okay, I realize it's two words, but 'pocket' is inside of the B of 'back' and I thought that was kinda cool in a very Alanis Morissette circa 1996 kinda way. Fine, admittedly not my best blog post ever.

4. Awkward - Just like #5.

3. Magic - as in, comma Black.

2. High - Which clearly I was when I thought this would be a fun post.

1. Failed Many - One on top of each other in my Word and far too telling in my life.

NEXT TIME: I reimagine ABBA lyrics from the perspective of an abductee.

UPDATE: For some reason, this one picture, the one on which I based my whole "Blogger is a whore that hates me and my small ~~penis~~ photos," decided to link all big-like. Even my attempts at failure fail. I am so Garfield on a Monday right now.

Wherein I devote 17 straight (ha) hours to the community that ignores me

2010-07-05T12:25:00.004-04:00

This past weekend, I volunteered 20 hours to Toronto Pride as a result of 3/4 of a bottle of wine. As with my NXNE volunteering, it was a complete shit show and a total waste of time. The following is an overly-detailed account of how my Saturday went:

5:15 - Wake up at housesitting house. Punch their cat in his cat junk for whining at me while I make his breakfast of chicken livers and gravy. Half of the third world doesn't eat as well as this asshole.

6:30 - Arrive at volunteer check-in. Lament pink shirt I'm forced to wear and the fact that the picture for my volunteer badge is the best photo I've taken since 2003. Contemplate scanning it for new Facebook profile pic. Sit around for 45 minutes waiting to be told that my team and I can leave.

7:20 - Walk with group to Vendor Registration tent 10 minutes away. I am the team captain and am completely drunk with power as a result of carrying the walkie-talkie.

8:00 - Darren, a 38 year old volunteer who I inadvertently alienate by guessing he's 40 when asked, goes to get coffee for everyone and a breakfast sandwich for me, a tragic sign of carb-loading to come.

8:45 - We actually do shit for 25 minutes, signing food vendors in and giving them their permits.

9:30 - Chatty-Cathy Darren asks us all what we do and when he learns that I'm new to the city, tells me that he's been here for 7 years and that it "doesn't get easier." I want to punch Darren in the pancreas.

10:15 - A 50 year old white woman in causasian dreads and a tye-dyed muumuu sets up a bunch of hippie-shit necklaces on a nearby picnic table, in clear defiance of those vendors who actually purchased permits. One of my fellow volunteers, a kicky 19 year old aspiring lawyer, asks me if she can be the one to go get all up in Moonchild Rainbowbeaver's grill and, naturally, I say yes. I support her youthful exuberance, but mostly I just don't want to get off my duff.

10:50 - Cindi Lauper begins her soundcheck and I decide to catch a glimpse, handing the walkie over to Darren as secret punishment for getting my breakfast sandwich on a biscuit and NOT THE CHEESE BAGEL I HAD REQUESTED. Turd. In any case, the 19 year old wannabe litigator and I stroll backstage with are super-authoritative volunteer badges and she gets all sassy with the security guard trying to shove us away as I totally gay out when C.Laup passes by within 8 feet of me.

12:00 - A skinny woman volunteer with weird thinning but curly hair arrives, saying that she is a 'runner', meaning someone that can do random errands, but as there is nothing to do, she sits down and joins our crew.

12:05 - I realize this is a man. Stephen quickly becomes a den mother to us all, randomly telling us stories of adventures with lesbians, brown acid in the 70's and jokes with Darren about the joys of leather sex. I want to joke with Stephen about the joys of leather sex. I want to punch Darren in the eyeball.

12:45 - Stephen takes order for coffee and then announces that it'll likely take him a couple hours cause he has to drop off some children. Or Pride buttons. I wasn't really listening.

1:00 - Changing of the guard. Darren et al are replaced by two teenage girls, a quiet Asian who I immediately want to befriend and a curly-haired hippo who reminds me of my retarded cousin.

2:15 - Stephen returns and as Darren is gone I drink both of our coffees, totalling 4 shots of espresso. Lacking is my foam and honey, which Stephen forgot but makes it seem like he didn't hear in the first place. Bloom is sure off the rose with this one.

3:30 - I ask girls what their favourite colour is.

3:45 - Repeated calls are made over the walkie for David. I answer them. No one answers me back. This becomes a running joke that everyone at Pride hates me. This is kinda funny. Not really, but kinda.

4:55 - All that coffee comes back to haunt me and I am escorted to the washroom by Barbara, the little Chinese girl. She goes to the University of Toronto, close to where our tent is and sneaks me into the library bathroom. She's pretty much Michelle Yeoh in Tomorrow Never Dies.

5:05 - I fully Jackson Pollock the toilet bowl.

5:45 - A new volunteer arrives. He is little and foreign and kind of cute. I mentally name him My Little Albanian. He also bears a striking resemblance to this guy who's been messaging me on Manhunt, who incidentally had just had a birthday. I decide to see if they're one and the same, building on my amazingly successful "What's your favourite colour question?" question from 3:30, and ask everyone when their birthday is. MLA's is in August. Myth = busted. But still... I'm fucking crafty.

6:15 - Stephen adds me on Facebook via his blackberry and then leaves.

6:45 - I go for another stroll and some young, kinda cute, kinda stupid guy starts talking me up. I think I've made a new friend but then I realize that he's just drunk and I remember that I don't have friends. Crafty lone wolf am I.

7:00 - Barbara and Tons-of-Fun leave.

7:01 - Twinky boy shows up in a volunteer shirt cinched at the navel and his green-and-white striped underoos more than visibly showing, saying that he's another runner. I tell him that there's nothing to do so to feel free to go run. He smiles huge, yells, "Okay!" and fucking takes off in a flailing jog. I hate him more than Darren.

7:02 - I'm bored. I regret telling Fairy Fox to go away.

7:30 - I try making small talk with MLA and it comes out that he's a huge Mozart fan. We listen to arias on my iPod. Things are looking up.

8:00 - I teach him how to play 'Hot or Not' with a Fab magazine featuring a cover model that looks like Nate from Six Feet Under but totally naked and a guitar covering his junk. MLA says he likes tanned muscle guys with hair only on their heads. I'm fucked.

8:45 - Bag checks at the gate have resulted in a line about a quarter mile long to get in to see Cindi Lauper. A lady asks MLA and I for directions to the beer tent before informing us that she really wanted to bring her kids but that it "wasn't her weekend." Evidently, alcoholism and oversharing does not lead to primary custody. Who knew?

9:15 - MLA and I are tasked with putting up Jones Soda signs all across the top of our tent. I hold the signs while he tapes. We bond.

9:21 - I poke MLA in the stomach. I'm so playful.

9:30 - Things get heavy. MLA tells me all about how introverted he was back in Europe because of his sexuality and how his father doesn't know even now and how he works at McDonald's while going to school for a bachelor of science in biology. I want to hug him.

9:45 - Fresh from the washroom, MLA breathless informs me that that we may get a whole pizza to ourselves if none of the other volunteers claim it. I still want to hug him. Maybe more.

9:50 - Another drunk guy comes up to me and says how much he appreciates the volunteering I'm doing. He then wishes me a Happy Pride and informs me that he's sucking as many cocks as he can in celebration and encourages me to do the same.

10:15 - By the grace of God, we get shut down early. Passive aggressive comments are made at the supervisors about how maybe 17 hour shifts of wasting people's time are a bit excessive.

10:20 - MLA and I listen to Cindi while leaning against a tree. This is his first Pride and had to lie to his father about working all day. He is clearly in awe of the massive amounts of people and music and lights, like a 14 year old dropping E at his first rave. Except instead of E, he's dropping - wait for it - his guard. Deep.

11:00 - We walk back to volunteer headquarters to drop off the walkie-talkie. MLA carries my bag. He's about 5'5" so this is both endearing and sort of funny, too.

11:20 - We walk to the subway, throw out our shirts out - him so his father won't find it, me because I'm an autumn - and exchange numbers, hugs.

12:00 - I get home and talk to Future Roommate incoherently. I tell her that I have a headache which I fear may be do to alcohol withdrawal. I later realize that it's more likely because I've been up for nearly twenty hours and all I've put in my body is coffee and shitty pizza.

12:35 - Receive text from MLA thanking me for a pleasurable evening and that he's never felt so open with someone in his whole life.

Okay, maybe not a total waste of time.

Remembering nothing from my Robaxacetted week except job-related loathing

2010-06-30T09:16:00.002-04:00

I have just arrived at work and am being flanked on three sides by coworkers having personal conversations ranging from barely audible hush to full Springer melt down.

The latter is an otherwise genteel South Asian lady who I affectionately call Indonesian Dr. Philla. The 'a' is cause she's a chick. The extra 'l' is there cause I'm AMAZINGLY KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT LATIN LANGUAGE STRUCTURES. Currently, I'm being unintentionally entrusted with the knowledge that her cousin is back with this cad Antwan, who is evidently "just not a cool guy, you know?" and that he better watch "hisself" cause he played this same game with her friend Monique. It's like I'm working in the projects.

Across from her, another stand up employee is privying me to the knowledge that she's having some credit card debt issues and that the lovely Visa rep just "doesn't understand" that she and her husband are struggling to make ends meet, what with only making $45,000 each annually and that she was under the impression that their 50-inch plasma TV would be a tax write-off as he's an evening manager at Block Buster.

Finally, on the other side, is Black Magic, who is talking about me and the cold shoulder I'm giving her cause she's effectively passed half of her work load onto me. One of the lesser examples but consequently all the more infuriating is that rather than place a letter in the mail room on her way home, effectively requiring to take an additional 15 seconds in her laborious trek, she instead took the time to write a post-it note asking me to do it. Biznatch, how lazy can you get? Well, ladies and gentleman, the answer to that question lies in the size of her ass. I'm pretty sure it's the size of Gary Coleman's casket. One could incubate a baby moose back to health between those cheeks. Our boss seems to be okay with this situation as she knows BM (ahahaha...BM...) is lazy as fuck - trust me, fuck is lazy - and needs the work to get done so she tasks it to the one person currently not on the phone with creditors, recently paroled family members or BFFs named Shanice.

Finally, let it be known that the first two characters were both a ruse and that they're all Black Magic.

Fuck, I hate her so much.

I'm a lumbarjack and I don't care

2010-06-23T12:23:00.004-04:00

Saturday morning, I woke up with the sun, tossed my adorably emaciated legs over the side of the bed, stood up to greet the dawn and threw my back out.

Clearly I'm 52 years old.

As such, I have been on my back on the floor for the better part of the last four days in a hazy stupor resulting from a heady cocktail of Robaxicet, Aleve, wine and Mary J. Hwuana. The latter, it should be noted, was my father's suggestion and required me to locate the dime bag my uncle had shoved in my pocket in lieu of a Hanukkah present last December and that had been living in the back of my desk drawer ever since then. So to my therapist, who may be wondering about my habit of using alcohol and narcotics as a form of escapism, there's another piece of the puzzle for ya.

Some things I have accomplished during my sojourn on the floor:

- Upon discovering tv "on demand", watched an entire season each of The Hills, The City and The Real World: Brooklyn. Bathed twice after finishing each. Douched once.

- Discovered that The Cleveland Show can actually be funny but only when high on the gange.

- Talked to many of my friends and family members only to have zero recollection of these conversations the next day.

- Was visited by a current e-mail buddy who sorta made me wish I was on my back for completely different reasons.

- Created an original dish, a baked layered casserole consisting of (bottom to top): canned salmon, fresh spinach, grilled eggplant, roasted potatoes. bechamel sauce, sliced tomatoes, marble cheese. Tragically, I wasn't even stoned when making this, just really low on groceries.

- Ordered two XL gourmet pizzas from down the street, totalling roughly $60.

- Ordered groceries online. Yeah. It's possible. It was pretty pricey, costing about as much as a Sobey's/Publix but the delivery charge was only $10 and they dropped it off in front of my fridge, mufukas. IN FRONT OF MY FRIDGE. You can't buy that kind of service. Oh wait, you can and it costs $10.

Ok, I'm still a bit high.

Finally, to all the ladies on the subway carrying designer purses and JANSPORT backpacks, a quick lesson:

Ich bin nicht cool

2010-06-18T12:21:00.011-04:00

Well, it's 10:12am and I've been at work for an hour and accomplished nothing. I feel this trend will likely continue until at least 4:59pm when I may muster the day's effort in clicking "Shut Down" on my Start menu. You're really only supposed to log off but I like to shut 'er down on the Friday because I somehow thinks this counteracts the 23 story building leaving all its lights on for the duration of the weekend.

Magic Powers: Now the only way left to save the Earth

Whoa. That got political. Anyway, let's move on to the real topic. I know you're thinking that someone who spends most of his employed hours modifying Google-searched images in MS Paint is extremely cool. I am here to disprove this myth.

I AM NOT COOL.

I'm not going to chock this one up to failure. That would imply that I am failing at being myself, which would be ridiculous. I kick demon ass at being myself. That self, however, is not cool.

As previously stated, I've been volunteering for the NXNE music festival and am reminded daily of how not cool I am. First of all, I've been driving a 12-seater van to transport bands to and from the airport/gigs. No one cool has ever driven a 12-seater van. The bands thus far have taken two approaches to being driven by me. The first involves all of them sitting in the back and not talking to me, as though I am their paid chauffeur rather than a volunteer who just finished ~~MS Paint-ing~~ working for 8 hours at their real job. On one such trip, a single person out of the seven I was driving wearily stretched out his hand as way of introduction. I in turn flailed about and eye-hand-coordination failed. I think maybe two of our fingers interlocked. I am not cool.

I felt cool for about a moment when I got to go up to back stage security and say, "Yo, I'm here for the band," and he nodded me through, but then the manager says, "You're here for the band? Awesome. They're just gonna finish up and then do an encore. Do you want to wait back here?"

Oh god, I am so cool.

"No, I mean behind the backstage area in that stairwell. Great, thanks."

Aaaaaaaaan we're back.

Another super twatty American manager, when I dropped her off, even omitted an "Uch, could you at least open the door?!"

Bitch, it's a 1983 Ford E350 and you're not Miss Daisy. Back. The. Fuck. Down.

The second approach to the Warning:-Not-Cool pheromones I must omit is that the band will just be a bunch of jackasses. In this case, one of them will at least ride up front with me but will ask inspired questions like, "Dude...dude...how much would you charge to drive us to Dildo Bay?"

"Um, where's that? I just moved here not too long a-"

"Dude, Dildo Bay, Newfoundland. How about Intercourse, Pennsylvania?"

"Uh, I dunno. I'm just a volunteer and I have to work in the morning."

God, lamest response ever. What is wrong with me? I'm not cool, that's what. Then they'll pretend to accidentally blow each other (it's this new thing among comics where they pretend to start coughing and this merges into them pretending to be choking on one of their friends' dicks. It's totally straight. And funny.*), telling mock-racist-but-kinda-just-racist jokes and talking about how amazing their set was.

Um, you're in a Queens of the Stone Age side project - things aren't going all that great for you. Art rock, this ain't.

I am not cool but at least I'm not a delusional asswipe either.

Douchey Bassist: Hey, so, what's the hardest to guys have ever sucked each other off while you were driving them?

Illustrious D: ...

DB: I bet they were from AFI. That guy's hit on me so many times, fuck. So is that gay if I let him?

ID: (trying to be cool) Depends on how much you enjoyed it.

Drummer Who May Be Getting Head From A Groupie: Nah, man, it's only gay if you kiss afterwards.

*It's only one of these things.

P.S. - I left my very first comment on a blog that I love, but failed to omit a key word so it just read, "Clearly, really does hate fags." The writer commented back, "Um, was the word God supposed to be in there somewhere?" and then my internet soul curled up into a ball and died.

If I may posit for a moment...

2010-06-16T10:47:00.005-04:00

You know when you're trying to be all well-behaved and staying true to what you actually want in the long term but then some young thing messages you and is all doe-eyed and a bit emo, which has always kinda been your thing, and he's like Come over and you say no cause that would probably be weird and you're not interested in getting physical with someone you don't have a connection with but then you keep talking and he's oddly confessional in that way that just gets to you and eventually you tell him that you're not going over there but he can come over if he wants even though it's past eleven by this point and you worked/slacked all day and then volunteered until nine o'clock so you're totally beat but he has you curious and so he comes by around midnight and it's pretty awkward because half the time he seems like this lost little kid even though he's 23 which is a solid 4 years older than the ones you've toyed with in recent memory so you're kinda proud of yourself for not pedo-ing it up but then at other times he's strangely insightful in ways you suspect he doesn't realize and so you both start watching a movie but it's pretty awkward cause neither of you is doing that gradually-creeping-closer-together thing and in fact he's kind of put a barricade of pillows between the two of you so finally around one thirty you say that you have to go to sleep and he reluctantly turns off the movie and flops into bed but he just grabs a pillow and closes his eyes and turns his back to you and you think What the fuck? but then you break form and actually tell him that this feels weird and that you're not feeling any connection that you'd both hoped might have been there and he apologizes and says it's been a long time since he's slept with someone (in the literal sense) and then you kiss a little but he says his lips are really sensitive and so you snuggle but he says that your stubble is scratching his back and then he reaches for your junk even though you've said you don't really want to go there (emotional connection, blah blah blah) and he stops but then you start because he's all cute and you're not that strong but then you stop it again and you know you're being an awful tease but you just can't because by now it's past two and you really need to sleep and you're getting the sense that despite the fact that you both claim to want the same thing, you're not even in the same orbit and so you toss and turn all night and you feel totally detached from this body lying next to you and in the morning he won't kiss you cause he's self-conscious of his morning breath but you think There's Listerine in the bathroom, asshole but you don't say that cause it's rude and you think about how you wanted this to work but once again it hasn't and so you both get dressed and talk about stupid, stupid shit (his tan lines, your support of local produce) and then part ways and you go to work and blog about it?

Me neither.

Dear Future Roommate (Part III)

2010-06-15T12:16:00.000-04:00

Part I Part II

Dear Future Roommate,

I may switch to vagina.

I'm sorry. That's a bit much to wake up to. But I feel you should really know that your days as best friend to a (debatably) beautiful queer boy may be numbered as I'm thinking of giving up on the unfairer sex and joining Boobie Nation. That's right: I might pull a Cynthia Nixon.

The way I see it, there are only so many times that I want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub with some barely legal Hispanic or clearly-only-cause-I'm-drunk hairy flight attendant. The fact that I seemingly want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub at all is disturbing enough. NO ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO SEE THAT. I could never in a million years tape myself having sex. I barely enjoy looking at myself clothed. One time when I was 17, my sexual partner at the time and myself made a short video of us making out fully clothed and I had to leave the room when he watched it. So you see, Future Roommate, I really don't think you should have to deal with that shiz. No girl that I plan on dating would EVER give up her flower in a hot tub, so rest assured you will be spared the sight of not only my naked ass but also whatever she's got going down below as well. I'm not totally clear on the specifics as I skipped that day of health class. Regardless, I certainly don't want you and I finding out together.

You folks are just so much more enticing sometimes. You're all soft and smell like meadows and have those great chest pillows on which I may rest my weary, newly-heterosexual head. You brush and floss regularly, rarely have dirt under your nails and we could share exfoliants! Plus, girls are generally more forgiving of physical foibles and I could really see myself getting used to a ~~beer~~ vodka gut. I know you have as much vested interest in wenis size as the homos, but at least all y'all will keep any disappointment to yourself and then bitch about it to your friends. That's called being a motherfucking lady. Plus, I wouldn't have to shave my bits anymore.

I know this is pretty big news, FutRo (cute term, btw), but you really need to get over it. I mean, take a look at the kind of shit I have to deal with:

Reason I'm Switchin': [on Luminato, an arts festival] what have you seen so far?

Illustrious D: I went to Dark Star, a new oratorio about perceptions/history of HIV/AIDS. Amazing. And then the National Ballet's West Side Story Suite + a couple new works yesterday. I might check out the visual stuff on the way home (Atom Egoyan curated something?) and then Rufus Wainwright on Thursday.

RIS: cool you're all up on the culture!

RIS: i'm looking forward to pride

RIS: it's one of my favorite festivals!

ID: what are you doing for it?

RIS: being gay!

RIS: dressing slutty

RIS: it's the biggest gay party there is!

RIS: u?

ID: I'm volunteering for it. Otherwise, not sure yet.

RIS: really?

RIS: why did you decide to do that?

ID: Believe in the cause, good way to meet people, etc.

RIS: for sure

RIS: i haven't missed toronto pride since i first started coming in 2002

ID: What are your favourite events?

RIS: well this year i am really excited for cyndi lauper

RIS: and that i have a boyfriend that loves pride as much as i do. beer and cyndi's songs all around!

In summation: art blah, pride yay, volunteering why? and beer + cyndi lauper = heaven.

Fuck this shit, Future Roommate. I'm skipping over heterosexuality and going straight for lesbianism. Prepare yourself to spend a lot of time around macrame and women named Deb.

Love,

D

Actual Father's Day Card I'm Mailing to the Obese Hungarian

2010-06-14T12:01:00.006-04:00

My Dear~~est~~ Father,

I know what's going through your head: you are pretty impressed with me right now. Sure, my brothers may have gone and bought you "real" presents to show their love, but I invested whole ~~seconds~~ minutes in picking out the perfect (expensive) card*, buying a stamp and diligently walking it to my corner mail box. That is called mother$&%*#ing devotion. Also, you are impossible to shop for so I got you the gift of knowing I didn't spend my hard-earned wages on unappreciated crap. You're welcome.

I'm not going to thank you for "everything" or write an extensive list about all the nifty stuff you do for this family; I'll leave that to the other two clowns that emerged from your loins. Rather I'm going to EXCEED EXPECTATIONS and start my own tradition of perennially telling you one thing I am grateful for. Here is this year's:

Thank you for genetically stepping aside and allowing me to have eyebrows. They've been a big hit so far. All the grandmothers that I know absolutely love them, even if their grandchildren have been completely apathetic thus far. I will strive to carry on this proud tradition and breed children who do not look as though they have juvenile alapecia.

You are ~~more than adequate~~ the best and I love you a lot.

David

*Seriously. Check out the price on the back.

Metric is playing Lilith Fair? What a bunch of vaginas.

2010-06-11T13:22:00.003-04:00

Well, I fucked around with the template and now it's ass. Whatever. I think the devil-may-care skewedness of this "design" bespeaks a casual air that is by-and-large refreshing. Mostly though, I'm tired of pretending like I know anything shit all about HTML. It gives me man menses.

In my attempt to becoming a social creature whose sole friend is not the bottle, I decided to start volunteering. For the record, I ran a volunteer task force of about 800 for a large theatre festival once upon a time and can say with confident if not absolute certainty that volunteering is lame. Nothing requiring matching XL t-shirts is EVER going to be a good time. Still, social creature. No friends with the bottle. So I signed up for NXNE, which is Canada's oh-so-clever-and-not-at-all-trying-too-hard answer to the SXSW music festival, as well as Toronto Pride. Unfortunately for me and potentially humorous for you, they called me at 8:30pm a couple nights ago when I was 3 glasses into a bottle of malbec.

Scene: My bed. Computer on my lap. In the midst of watching the entire back half of this season's Heroes. It is no less stupid when drunk.

[phone rings]

Illustrious D: Helloooooo.

Homosexual Volunteer: Hi, this is Tim from Toronto Pride. Is this David?

ID: Who wansht to know?

HV: Um, Tim. Tor-...Toronto Pride?

ID: Suuuuure you are.

HV: I see that you've signed up to volunteer with us. Do you have some time to ta-

ID: TIMMEHHHHHH!

HV: -lk about the roles you're interested in?

ID: Don get frejsh.

HV: Do you have any experience in leadership positions?

ID: Asjh you can see on mah applikashuns, I was volunteer coorjinater fer the winnipeg flinge frestival. So yes...biiiiiiiiiotch.

HV: Ah. Very good. So would you be interested in working in the Pride street fair as a team leader, signing vendors in, directing pedestrian traffic, tasks like that?

ID: I can't sign. Not deaf. We're on the phone, bahahahaaa *burp*

HV: The shift is rather long.

ID: Sizshe does not mattjher to me.

HV: It's about 15 hours long.

ID: Whoa, Pharoah, back the dtruck up. Aiin no way in hall that I'-

HV: You'll be fed.

ID: Deal.

HV: The training has already happened but if you show up half an hour before the start of your sh-

ID: Yerr zexy.

HV: What?

ID: Yerr Mexi...

HV: ...

ID: *attempts to lick own elbow*

HV: Um, I-

ID: ...can.

HV: Yes, well-

ID: NAILED IT.

HV: Okay, well I think that just about does it for us. Thanks so much again. I'll e-mail your schedule and if you have any more questions feel free to call the Pride Info Line.

ID: Is that thish number?

HV: No.

ID: Then what's thish number?

HV: It's actually my cell phone.

ID: Can I jusht call you?

HV: Call the Info Line.

ID: How 'bout just a text?

HV: No.

ID: YOU NEVER REALLY LOVEJD MEAHHH!

*click*

FIN

I need a new creative outlet

2010-06-10T11:01:00.009-04:00

I know I just posted a month ago about getting a ballin' ticket to a concert and to do so again would make me a braggart. And a turd. But suck it, The World. Turd, I be.

So guess who just scored a front row ticket to MARGARET CHO.

Answer: Veteran character actor Charles Durning.*

Yellow Star: Me, fuckers.

Broken Yellow Lines: Sight Lines of Connection.

Green: People that are insanely jealous of me.

Blue: People that are pretending not to be jealous yet are secretly thinking, "Wow, these tickets are so not as good as they looked on the seating chart."

Purple: Mah new best frienjhz

Red: People that are so jealous that it's like they're burning in their own personal Hells. That's why it's red. Don't even talk to me about those assholes in the loges. They will be jealousy-suiciding themselves like whoa.

*Actually, it's me. Idiot.

I need a time code for MS Paint Owning

2010-06-09T08:54:00.007-04:00

Sorry, not feeling this. I'm not sure if it's the rainy weather or that Glee is over or the aimlessness of my life or what, but it's a shittastic time.

Work has been ridiculous. Our biggest project of the year is happening today and the last week has been a shit show. This was Black Magic's responsibility and she crashed and burned harder than I've ever seen professionally. As the unions are nuts I'm sure there won't be any really reprecussions but the rest of us had to put in a lot of extra time to clean up after her ass (ew) and while there's been a lot of, "Oh Illustrious D, you've such a huge help. We couldn't have done it without you. Stick it in me," it hasn't really made me feel better. Plus that last part didn't happen.

Other than that, my apartment is in shambles, my legs may as well be props, I've unwittingly entered into a fight with a friend who is acting like the third graders she teaches (proprs to Boo), I started crying while watching the little autistic girl this morning and Lily & Marshall are having a baby.

I want orange skiis

The one bright light is the way my family said goodbye to me over speakerphone yesterday:

Mom: Bye!

Dad: Bye!

Younger Brother: I'm getting a lion tattoo!

*click*

Of Cocaine-Dusted Cupcakes and Naked Men

2010-06-01T11:03:00.006-04:00

So last night at karaoke, some douche kept being given glasses of red by his friends and then got up in front of the whole pub and sang Sweet Transvestite to amazed onlookers. I did not quite catch his name but I feel it sounded something like Shmillustrious Blee.

On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.

+++++++++++++++++++

I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:

Um, who the fuck am I kidding?

I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!

The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.

+++++++++++++++++++

Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.

Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:

1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.

2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.

3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"

"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."

What I meant: sophisticated.

What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.

I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.

+++++++++++++++++++

Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.

Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.

Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.

Okay, I realize he's not technically bear

hugging but that shit woulda been hard so stfu.

This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"

EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.

After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.

At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.

Give a Jew a take-out menu and he'll eat for a month

2010-05-31T10:49:00.005-04:00

Friday evening, I was invited to dinner at the home of a young couple, the man of which is the son of the older couple with whom we all normally have Friday night dinner. Fuuuuuuuuuuck grammar is hard! It kinda boggles my mind how yuppies can be so proficient in their professional lives and have absolutely no aesthetic clue when it comes to hosting. Priorities, people. Get them. If you're going to forgo cooking and cater, fine, do it. But don't then make one dish and stick it in with the rest because it's not gonna be as good as the crazy high fat/salt restaurant grub and your sad little dish will face more rejection than me at a Calve Muscle Lovers of America's annual general meeting. Secondly, my hostess was bummed because one guest cancelled and consequently there would be too much food. This is akin to saying that the United States of America recently suffered a huge blow to their population growth with the loss of Gary Coleman. There was more food at this dinner than in the whole of Mozambique. Also, it was Thai and lemongrass is the devil. You heard me.

For all of my observations/bitchings thus far, this was actually all okay. Food was decent, there was lots of wine and I had walked close to a marathon (20 minutes) to get to their house, so I was feeling confident in my decision to swan dive into the pad thai. Full pike, half twist. What stuck in my craw though was their house guest, a woman in the 30-55 age range depending on the lighting, who had just got back from Honduras with her 12 year old weimeraner Shadow and his spinal bifida. It literally dragged itself everywhere on its two front paws. So sad. Sadder still cause his owner was a raging biotch.

I hate - HATE - women that go over to visit their female friends and the friends' husbands/boyfriends and spend the whole night harping at the guys in a misguided pseudo-feminist attempt to rally with their friends who needs absolutely no rallying. Couples disagree all the time but stay the fuck out it, yo! This is not an attempt to mediate but rather a nosey-ass gender-contrived continuation of "boys have cooties," and when you are 30-55 years old, this is really unsightly. It's not feministy in the least, as the underlying implication is that the female in the partnership could not possibly hold her own without the help of a sistah. This chick, who is Jewish, also spent the whole night scolding the hosts' dog, debated on how to get into a Ponzi scheme and refused to sing the blessing for the Sabbath with the hostess when asked and said that she would speak it but actually she wouldn't cause that would sound stupid with one person singing and one person speaking.

Are...you fucking kidding?

You get invited to participate in a traditional (albeit Thai) Friday night meal and when asked to put in 10 seconds of effort, you decline because it would "sound stupid?" What a total F U to the hosts. Then she talked for two hours non-stop about how her stomach was sore and she needed to go for a run. Yo, Forest, just fucking run already! Don't just sit there with your close-to-30-weeks food baby and challenge my view on dietary sugars:

Jet-Lagged Hostess: This frozen yogurt is amazing. It's only 3 grams of fat.

Buddha Belly Biznatch: Yeah, but there's a ton of sugar in it.

Illustrious D: Actually, I'm pretty sure it's made with Splenda, so...

BBB: Yeah, but everything has sugar in it. Everything refined has sugar in it.

ID: Okay, but this isn-

BBB: Like, anything with refined grains is sugar.

ID: Yeah, it breaks down into sugar in your body but it's not the same as having just sugar.

BBB: No, but it's sugar. Your body makes it into sugar.

ID: *wtf expression to hostess*

BBB: Like, I'll only eat whole grains because - okay, don't you get it? - it's all sugar.

ID, using grand gestures: I understand that. But a cup of bread *thinks about how a cup of bread would look* and a cup of sugar are not the same thing.

BBB: Yeah, but they are both sugar.

ID, breaking out a power point presentation and finger puppets: A CUP OF BREAD DOES NOT CONTAIN THE SAME AMOUNT OF SUGAR AS A WHOLE CUP OF SUGAR.

BBB: Anyway, that yogurt does look really good.

What is it about me that attracts the misinformed of Toronto to spew garbage at me like their own personal whimsies are scientifically notarized fact? First the 19 year old wombat from last week and now this Dr.-Oz-proselytizing turd.

NEXT TIME: I abandon the reason why I moved in the first place; an ugly, straight guy shows me his ass and gives me a cupcake; a lot of overtanned dick

2010-05-28T12:29:00.004-04:00

I've now referenced Patrick Tillet several times in the past few months. For those of you who haven't clicked on my hyperlink to his blog, first of all, why didn't you click on my hyperlink to his blog? I don't hyperlink for my health, people! Kids in China have no hyperlinks! Hyperlinks don't grow on trees, you know!

Refocus.

Second of all, I'll explain that Patrick - Pat to his friends - Patrick is like a den father (is that a thing?) to a whole bunch of younger, stupider bloggers like me who all follow him like ~~Charles Manson~~ Deepak Chopra cause he's all wise and shiz. As one commenter recently stated, Patrick's blog is like a sequel to Running With Scissors with drugs, the law and mentally unbalanced relatives taking the forefront. In summation, there's some seriously good stuff there.

So that's Patrick.

Now why am I telling you this?

Well, as you probably know, the doling out of blogger "awards" has proliferated the interwebz. I'm not saying it's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's a thing and we're gonna talk about it. Anyway, after receiving nearly every award on the planet by his followers (the fuck is a Blue Award?), he created one of his own called the White Russian Award:

The only reason that I am posting this here is because Pat is a nice guy and that's part of the stipulation of accepting it. I don't know how to embed them in the side bar cause I'm not all worldly and have given myself the HTML Fail Award on several occasions. I'm also posting it because it's fucking hilarious and makes no sense.

Preamble over.

My steady decrease in workload has meant a lot of scrounging for things to do for 37.5 hours of the week and so when I was listed along with about 30 other blogs, I was thrilled at the possibility of following some new ones. I went faithfully to each and every one of them and read a few posts from each and learned that I am truly a lone dickwolf in a sea of nice princes. I am at this moment giving myself the Mixed Metaphor Award.

Every one of them was just so... nice. They all had cute little stories or poems or posts on awards given to them by someone else who was really nice. This is fine. No judgey. I'm certainly not harping on an inundation of niceness, so no "To heck with you, gosh darnit!" comments. I suppose, as I've said in the past, people just have different reasons for blogging and based upon the 30 blogs I saw yesterday, it would seem like a lot of people do it so they'll have this nice little Precious Moments community. (Sidenote: has there ever been anything on this earth less Jewy than Precious Moments ?) I think recognition of another person's efforts is a beautiful thing, but this award thing is getting to be more like daily affirmations affixed to one's mirror than anything else. All this nicety is, well, nice, but it's not me. At least not blogger me. In direct opposition to niceties, my M.O. seems to be thinking of un-PC verbal diarrhea and writing it down before fully pondering that I'll be up all night thinking about how I want to befriend an autistic 12 year old, so you can see where there's some contrary inspiration. This took me back to my days of being the badass slacker of my school's IB program. Both now and then, the idea of my badassery is ridiculous, however no less isolating because of it. Yes, I did so little work in grade 11 that I stayed up for 36 hours on the last two days and did an entire term's worth of homework, but I was also in choir, chamber choir, the musical and regular high school coffee house performer and still made honour roll. So even if I was a bit badass, it was in a very Tina from Glee way. A very queer Tina from Glee way. A very queer racially-stereotyping Tina from Glee way. In fact, I'm frequently rebuffed in real life for being too nice, an irony not lost on a guy whose most frequently used tag is Adventures in No Man Land.

Okay, so what's my point?

No, really, I have no idea what my point was

Maybe that I feel totally not a part of an online community of nice people cause I like really funny and/or twisted reading fodder?

Maybe that if anyone knows any other blogs like Steam Me Up Kid, Monster Apathy or Sassy Curmodgeon to pass them my way?

Ugh, I don't know.

I Love the Smell of Douches in the Morning

2010-05-26T11:11:00.008-04:00

The following is a list of Douchey McDouche-Douchersons that I saw whilst waiting for the streetcar this morning.

1. Popped-collared Douche - *sigh* HOW IS THIS STILL OKAY? No. Just no. Never. Unless it's a jacket. But a polo shirt? From motherfucking Guess?! With writing on the part that should be flipped down?! It's like douchery is in their mission statement. Die in a fire.

2. Obnoxiously Loud Music Douche - Why is it that you never hear Beethoven being blasted through ridiculously over-sized but ineffective earphones? Gimme some ABBA or something! But no. It is always, as you know, gangsta rap and hip hop. Misogyny and drive-by shootings used to be the worst things about ghetto music. No more.

3. Black-in-Brown Douche - There was a black lady in clothing the exact same colour as her skin. Okay, this is not douchey. Perhaps just misguided. Brown is a fantastic colour, but if you can't pull it off (not unlike your own skin) then just accept that this is your lot in life. I mean, do you see me wearing kinda-rosy-with-receding-hair-gimpy-times-coloured clothing? No, you do not.

4. Guy-Who-Lives-In-My-Building-But-Never-Says-Hi Douche - Okay, this one may be kinda self-explanatory. But seriously. Not even a smile? I know you're thinner and have better shoes than me and probably live with an equally austere Asian girl, but c'mon. Sidenote: Asian girls with white boyfriends are my people.

5. Girl-With-Mary-Janes-And-Socks Douche - Hey, Dorothy: no.

6. Offspring-Abandoning Douche - You know what?! I am so sick of all these women that lend their uterii to gay couples and then go off to have a illustrious show choir coaching careers only to turn around and plot to make their long-lost daughters discover them and then be all "I can't be your mom but let's break it down with some acoustic GaGa first, mmk?"

...

Okay, that one might just have been last night's Glee. I'm losing my credibility mad quickly.

7. Guy-From-My-Apartment Douche - Yesterday evening (not this morning, but it still makes the list) I met a chat friend. He is young and overweight and comes from a crazy, crazy Evangelical Pentecostal family that has indoctrinated him to the point that I didn't even rebut any of the messed up hick garbage he spewed at me cause it was just so ridiculous. It was like being at a one-man Log Cabin Republicans meeting. He also had that grating habit of being 19*, wherein he mistook his opinions with facts. I kinda wanted to punch him in his admittedly-unshaven balls. Then, as we're at the door, he somehow launches himself into the air and lands on my lips. At first I resist but then I am reminded of how 19 year olds kiss and I'm all mmmmmmmm and so I let him for a while but then I kinda hovered above myself and was like, "Um, what are you doing? He's 19. And kind of a dick." My kicking out of him was met with surprise and initially resistance but finally, I managed to convince him to leave. He took 5 minutes to lace up his $29.99 Shoe Warehouse travesties and then was all (fat) wounded puppy as he left. Hmmm. Maybe I'm the douche.

* 26 (my age) ÷ 2 = 13, +7 = 20. Damnit! Also, ugh.

Sarah Silverman and Me: Cut From The Same Downie-Lovin' Cloth

2010-05-25T15:58:00.003-04:00

This is gonna be a good week. Know how I know? Curz this morning I got to sit behind my favourite Autistic Girl Gone Wild (AGGW) and her haggard daddy on the streetcar!

I gots a beef with the dad, though, and not, like, an offering of fillet mignon or nuttin'. Nah. This is some seriously skirt steak shit. He has dandruff and really bad shoes. But that's not the worst of it. I feel he ignores her and this makes me sad. I feel that maybe it was his wife's idea to have an ageless autistic offspring and that maybe he was all like, "Okay, baby, sure, whatevs, can I just stick it in?"

I feel he shoulda maybe had a lesson from that big black motivational speaker/bodybuilder on Maury Povich about the negative outcomes of porking your 47 year old wife. I mean, they're pretty much Abraham and Sarah, and then comes along Isaac, 'cept it's a girl and it's kinda retarded and God's all "Dem's da breaks, suckahs! lolz"

Whatever. The fact is I still got to sit behind them and when every once in a while she'd look out the window and shriek in glee at some person walking by or some run-overed squirrel, I screamed along with her. On the inside. Cause I gots decorum.

But then the lady sitting next to me would stare at the girl and I just wanted to take her hand and say, "Hey lady, no fraid-fraid of little AGGW."

And then she'd be all, "What? Is that Spanish?"

And then I'd realized that I'd said the letter phonetically and I'd laugh and laugh and say, "No, no, silly button. A-G-G-W. Autistic Girl Gone Wild!"

And then she'd look all shocked and pretend to be horrified while deep down I'd know she was just as delighted with AGGW as I am. Then she'd start riffling through her bag and I'd casually peer into it and note that she has some balled up kleenex and that weird-ass melon chewing gum and enough Plan B for an entire private Catholic girls high school and I'd be all, "No judgey, Legs Wide Open."

And then I'd take AGGW and her bitter old dandruffed daddy each by the hand and we'd skip off the streetcar as I turned around to tell the lady to have a wonderful day and to enjoy her uterine lining melting out of her body.

2010-05-20T12:24:00.007-04:00

I love Asian people. While this may not always be self-evident given my ~~blatantly racist comments~~ affectionate social commentary, but I really do feel that they are my people. The fact that the Blacks, Latinos, Aboriginals and Albinos all turned me down is besides the point. Asians are my BFFs (FO-EVAH!) because they are sweet natured, well groomed and run killer franchise restaurants.

As previously mentioned, the whole of the food court in my office building is owned and run by a close-knit group of Chineses*. I'd like to go on the record and say, "Fucking good!" They never get any face time any more. All the other more glamorous countries have stolen the spot light. There's Japan, with its silky, silky raw fish and fucked up fixation with pubescent school girls; Viet-Nam, with its omagawd-so-nummers vermicelli and thunder-stealin' war memorials; and Korea, the dark horse, with their oh-hey-we-made-tables-with-BBQs-in-them tables with BBQs in them and disproportional representation in stand-up comedy. Seriously, Koreans run shit. Like, all of it. Majority of sushi restaurants...all corner stores...nuclear enrichment programs. Every time I see what I think is a nice Chinese person - BAM - Korean in disguise. Tricky, they. Hey Korea, quite hogging all the glory! Just cause you got ballin' karaoke doesn't mean you get to usurp cultural power. China had their own goddamned cultural revolution, motherfuckers! Do NOT make me demote you beneath Laos!

Anyway, back to my food court people. I bring healthy food to work allllllll the time. Crustless quiches, vegetable soups, fruit, dark chocolate... I'm pretty much Dr. fucking Oz. But sometimes *cough*onceortwiceaweek*cough* I just get sick of that shihat and indulge in a li'l something called the Fit For Life Dinner from the restaurant - wait for it - Fit For Life. Your world has been rocked. I can tell. So check it: this is all these different kinds salads (lettuce, chickpea, parsley, roasted veggie, fruit) plus tomatoes, cucs, beets, asparagus, roasted potato, half a hard boiled egg and a protein (I get falafel or tuna). It's deliciousness in an Earth-destroying styrofoam container. Mmmm, planetary destruction. My favourite lady is about 40, very pretty, very Sesame Oil of Olay. She packs in the veggies tighter than...something that...packs...veggies...tightly. Simile fail.

Then there's this other lady who's roughly 173, hair magically cemented in place by 8 decades of wearing a hair-net and bags under her eyes so large that you could slip a newborn into each one and just have her shake her head from side to rock them to sleep. No one wants to see that. Lady, how about applying some of that cucumber salad to those peepers, hey? Ugh. Such bad customer service. The worst part. however, is that she is Cheapy McCheap-Cheap Cheaperson with mah combo! Listen up, there are not 1.3 billion of me. We don't need to ration! Just gimme my goddamned three chunks - NOT TWO - of melon and let me continue on my way! Dayuuuuuuum...

So yesterday I go and order it and, of course, I get the decagenarian and she totally jews** me (1 slice of tomato = wtf) but then the really pretty lady is at the cash register and so when I get up there I flash her this cheeky smile and whisper, "You make it better."

She kinda just stares at me for a moment and in those few seconds I realize that I've unintentionally just hit on my hot salad lady in the CREEPIEST WAY POSSIBLE. So then she smiles nervously and goes, "No, no, she make jus as gude..." like that's gonna make me change my mind and wait outside the back alley dumpster to cop an unwelcome pre-Ming Dynasty feel. I don't think so, buddy. If I was straight and into old chicks and super creepy and maybe a bit rapey too, insuring me that my salad was made with equally loving care would not be a deterrent from making you give me a foot*** rub****.

Attempt at writing a short post fail

*Going-to-hell-anyway Joke Numbah Wahn: China recently held a celebrity lookalike contest. The winner was everyone.

** Equally opportunity racism. I gots it.

*** Ball

**** Tickle

Sign Things Cannot Be Going All That Well

2010-05-17T16:31:00.003-04:00

I have just downloaded and am listening to the Twilight soundtrack.

What You Get For Being My Friend

2010-05-14T15:13:00.005-04:00

The following e-mail exchange just occurred between myself and Matthew, a quasi-long time net friend that is visiting Toronto next week.

Big-Ass Matt (last night): " It's like 2:00 a.m. and I think that I should go to bed or masturbate or something equally as productive. Bake?"

Illustrious D (this morning): "I hope you wound up doing both. Masturbaking. At the very least you'd wind up with a decent bonding agent. Suck on that, eggs. There's a new kid in town: semen."

BAM: "Ew, haha. Masturbaking. There's so many double entendres in that brief paragraph that it made my simple minded head positively explode. Anyway: it's okay if Sunday isn't doable. We will find time, rest assured. If even it's only a few mere moments to point and laugh at each other and then part ways."

ID: "The following is an artistic interpretation of the situation you positted in your last e-mail. I truly hope that it does not come down to this, but in the event that it does, this IS the outcome which will occur:

ID (continued): "First of all, where are your goddamn pants, Matthew?! This is Queen St. W, not Cousin Humpin' Crescent, Saskatoon. Also, nice socks. Way to coordinate with the blue shirt. Douche. And man, your ass really is large and in charge. Not gonna lie though. I got pretty aroused cutting and pasting it into my 2 HOUR MS Paint project.

"So yes, please try to not show up to our point-and-laugh date without pants. If they are to come off, I would at least like to be the one undoing them with his teeth.

"KNOWLEDGE!

"Illustrious out."

Winnipeg Recap, Now With Murally Goodness

2010-05-14T09:09:00.005-04:00

Well the lethargy burn out that has been sweeping the blogosphere (Pat Tillett, aside. What a productive jerk.) has finally hit Fleekin Floygn and its soon-to-ask-his-shrink-for-medication auteur, The Illustrious D. Also, talking about oneself in the third person is for asshats so I'm going to stop.

Last weekend, I went to the hometown for the launch of the album I recorded with my all-singing, all-dancing jew group back in March. I've been too full ennui to bring the chuckles as of late and so will present my experience in MS Paint form:

1. The 58B Bus - Toronto is home to the shittiest drivers in the world and I know what you're thinking, that it's because we have such a high Asian population, but shame on you. That's racist. And true. So what should have taken a little over an hour from the time I left (3:30) to get to the airport took nearly two and would have take an infinite number of hours had I not realized I was on the wrong bus as it sped past the airport. This put me at 5:30, the time my plane was to begin boarding. Evidently, Sesame Street's claim that today's show was brought to me in part by the letter B was a big fucking lie. Kiss my ass, Elmo, you red piece of pedophilia fantasy shit. It was the 58A bus that I should have taken. I jumped through the rear window and landed in front of a Sheraton, stole a taxi fan from a group from the National Rhythmic Gymnastics Convention and made it to the airport by 5:45. That's right, motherfuckers. Cab ride, security, gate all in 15 minutes. Jesus loves me. Know who doesnt? Fucking Elmo.

2. Sushi - Mother picks me up outside the terminal (no sense in meeting at Arrivals. Doesn't love me that much.) and she proposes we pick up sushi for dinner. Wow, Mama, you so with the times. 1996 better watch its back. We ordered a meal combo for four, which is appropriate as Father eats entire Ugandan villages for a mid-afternoon snack, Mother barely eats at all and I eat like a goddamned normal person! We're the Three Bears of suburban jewery.

3. Trains - Later that evening I went to meet Suprisingly Interesting Accountant, a chat buddy from North Dakota for the past 5 years. He'd decided to come to cross the border for a post-tax season celebratory holiday and chose the weekend I was there to do it. He invited me over to his friends' place and we sat around, drinking wine, eating Saskatoon berry pie and playing Ticket To Ride, kind of a railroad version of Settlers of Catan. We also didn't wind up going to the bar (literally singular in Winnipeg) so big ups for not having to watch David's Parade of Losers 2001-2009 file by. SIA was actually a pretty great guy, as far as meeting internet friends goes, so there was a lot of win going on that night.

4. Scissors/Eye Glasses -I got my hair cut the next morning. In the 10 months I've lived in Toronto, I've never got my hair cut here once. I either do it myself or wait until a trip back home. That is how deeply rooted is my respect for my bespectacled stylist. Equally deep rooted? My hair shame.

5. Keyboard -That afternoon I rehearsed with the group and then went home and had dinner with the fam. I also rocked out pretty hard with my hippie cousin to some ol schook Regina Spektor. I miss my old piano.

6. Opera Diva wida braid - After dinner, I went to see Future Roommate sing in a kids' opera based on the Bruthas Grimmz. (That's a stereotypical opera singer with a Rapunzel braid. NAILED IT.) The certifiably insane person who'd taken over directing our group had given me an anti-depressant to test drive that night, but my expectations of insta-happy were not to be, as one evidently needs to have a chemical depression and not simply ennui and malaise for it to work. I, on the otherhand, lost the ability to form coherent sentences and became a cantankerous baiznatch, the combination of which really held up my game when meeting Future Roommate's mother for essentially the first time.

7. Nachos? - After the lovely show and my maternally-directed verbal diahrrea, we went fo nachos & drinks with some people. You guys, drawing nachos is motherfucking hard. THE ARE NOT SIMPLY PERFECT SQUARES. Seriously. So frustrating. The little olive cross-sections were kinda fun. But using the spray function to try to make melted marble cheese?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Also, that side of guacamole looks like pea shit.

8. wtf Bagel & Lox... - The next morning, we had a Mothers Day/Mah Birfday brunch and it was lovely. Know what isn't lovely? That piece of crap bagel & smoked salmon I tried to draw. It looks like someone took a discoloured Frisbee, came all over it, then applying some slices of ham (Jew Fail) , peas (THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GERKINS) and purple circles of nothing. Cause purple circles do not exist anywhere. Then I got really frustrated and scribbled all over it. Ugh. You'd think the chosen people coulda chosen Paint-friendly food combos. COVENANT TERMINATED.

9. Chocolate Fountain - After brunch, I was transported to the album launch site, where I sat around for 4 hours until a dress rehearsal that ended an hour before showtime. It was lame. The event was a attempt-at-fancy wine & dessert evening with an hour+ long concert from us, which I guess went alright. If you're interested in reading it, I'll post it here. There was also a new, really cute 19 year old pianist who the Bloated Medicated One convinced me was giving the eye my way. This was later disproved when he showed up at the afterparty with his 28 year old girlfriend. At least I'm not the only one robbing cradles, though in my case, they generally go crawling back after a week or two, leaving me with nothing but a pacifier and dribble stains.

10. Key Fail - After the afterparty, I went to meet another net friend, although one with whom there'd been a bit more flirtation. It wasn't awesome. It was nearly 1:00am on a Sunday night (yes, technically Monday morning, stfu) and nothing was open. I drove him to my group's performance studio as I had BMO's security code and it was be a nice place to chill. Unfortunately, they'BMO had failed to mention that they're changed the locks so then we had to get back in the car and drive back to his neighborhood, searching for a park to walk in only to discover that it was way too cold. We got back in my car, made out for a bit and then he unceremoniously announced that he had to get home. So much ugh.

11. Jam, bitches - The next morning I had lunch with Seventeen Year Old (now 20) and it was so lovely. Having watched him grow from this fat ball of attitude three years ago to the increasingly self-possessed young man he is now is just awesome. He's still so him, just...better. He bought be breakfast. I bought him some of Stella's ballin' jam. We joked about doing drugs together. Ha ha! Look at us! So funny! Talkin' droguas! Ha...ha... *sigh* god, I miss it.

12. Lays Classics - After launch with the Future Roommate and a.w., the former dropped me off at the airport at which point I found out the my flight had been delayed by an hour and a half. Balls. On the plus side, they gave us a $10.00 food voucher for the shitty, shitty Winnipeg airport vendors. I used it to get a Greek salad, potato chips and two bite cookie thingies...and that's it. There was nothing remotely appetizing. My stomach had been on the hate train with me for days and I thought that getting Arby's would be a little too fate-tempty for me.

12. Sick D - On the plane, I made the mistake of telling the stewardess (yeah. I said it. You wanna be called 'flight attendant' then stop wearing whore makeup. Truth.) that my tummy was funny and she handed me a gingerale and kicked my ass out of the roomy, roomy exit row seat I had reserved. Fortunately, she kicked me into my own row, so I guess that's a win. Shortly thereafter, I had my first Hershey Highway experience at 39,000 feet, meaning I Jackson Pollock'ed the bowl, not that some flight attendant named Martin plugged me in the lavatory.

Cause we all know what amazing fortune I have with flight attendants.

2010-05-13T10:28:00.002-04:00

Oh, heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyy...

Um, Reader, is it? Yes, right. Hi.

How are things?

Gooooood, good. Glad to hear it.

Oh, not much. Just teetering ever close to a nervous breakdown.

Hmmm? Oh. Yes, yes, definitely still drinking my liquid weight in alcohol. Actually, funny you should mention that, cause the darndest thing happened last night. I was making this applecrisp martini and-...yeah, I know, they're REALLY good - anyway, I thought instead of shaking it, I'd drop an ice cube in the martini glass and mix it with a milk frother. So it got all frothy and I was all, I'm molecular gastronemy but not really embodied *church giggles*. So then *birthing-esque howls*... I pick up the glass, right...*panting and tears* and the entire bottom of the glass just falls out and lands on the counter perfectly intac-...

Is that your bus?

No, for totes, go, go... we'll catch up later, like when I have the slightest desire to write again.

Alright.

You too.

Air kisses.

Ugh, what a dickhead.

Karmatic Retribution for Talking About Reta-... People With Intellectual Disabilities

2010-05-04T07:29:00.004-04:00

A Text Conversation

Young Portuguese* (2:34am): David, I feel odd.

Illustrious D (7:21am): Okay. How?

YP (7:24am): Sorry about that. I was kinda drunk and feeling bad about the...non...way I left things.

ID (7:25am): Do you feel better about it now that you're sober?

YP (7:25am): You know I don't.

ID (7:26am): Not to sound like a dick, but I don't really know anything either way. The whole hot-cold thing was kinda confusing.

YP (7:27am): Bah, it's cool. Just forget I sent anything.

ID (7:28am): Not really all that cool. Forgotten nevertheless. Happy birthday me.

I'd like to issue a formal notice of appreciation to The Universe for waiting a whole 5 minutes after I woke up to fuck with me.

Imagined Pre-Birthday Messages

2010-05-03T12:09:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow is my illustrious 26th birthday. As I anticipate receiving literally fours of celebratory wishes, I thought I would jump the gun and predict what some of the heartfelt wishes may contain:

Hungarian Father: Hey Muffininski (why he chose a Russian suffix to my childhood nickname is a question for the ages), it's Daddio comin' at ya! Have a happy birthday, Mister, and while you're at it, find me a son-in-law!

Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling to wish you a happy birthday and say that it's okay that you missed our anniversary yesterday. I'm sure the call got lost in the mail. Anyway, hope you do something nice with a ...friend and maybe things will happen to you this year. Can't wait to see you on Friday! If you need a ride from the airport, call us.

Electro Bro: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling again. Your brother sends his regards but he's too busy smoking the gange trying to forget about Finnigan. Hope you're not worrying about having missed our anniversary. Buh-bye.

Future Roommate: Anonymous says: Happy birthday, sweetheart! Can't wait to see you this weekend! We gonna get cruuuuuuuuunk.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted ur intenchun was 2 b born and you did that but ive read a lot of reesurch shoing that u r pompous cuz being 26 isnt that impressive lol oh hon persutis.

ESLothario: *crickets*

Unibrow: Hey, buddy-pants. I just wanted to call and wisjh jhouuu a haaaappsatlihg (message truncated due to rufie someone slipped him in order to tweeze that shit.)

Flight Attendant Nick: :) :P :) :D :P :) :) ;) :D IF I COULD TURN BACK TI-

Iranian Grocery Owner Lady: (upon seeing the strawberries I've picked out) No no no. You can do better than that. Go get others.

Actually happened. Even my produce vendor disapproves of my choices.

Parental Views on my Singlehood: Part the Second

2010-04-30T12:43:00.004-04:00

My mother just called me on my work phone:

Illustrious D: Wha-? Hello?

Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you call me at the office?

ID: No...

SM: Oh, then you must have caller ID (<----that's me!) and can see our phone number.

ID: I must.

SM: I'm going to go to the spa with Gloria to get massages on our day off, but I just wanted to let you know that Dad and I are going to dinner and then the theatre tonight so we will NOT be calling you later to say Good Shabbos.

ID: Mmmmokay. I'll try to not add that to the Feelings of Abandonment file.

SM: What?

ID: You look really pretty today. Is that a BumpIt?

SM: What? We're on the phone. Please be serious. But regardless that's not a very nice thing to say about my nose.

ID: No, Mom, I-... never mind. Goodbye.

SM: WAIT!

ID: *waits*

SM: *waits to see if I'm waiting*

ID: *adjusts balls*

SM: So this may not be the best time to talk about this cause you're at work, but lately...I've sensed that...you're...lonely...for a...rom...antic relationship.

ID: Well, Mr. Shatner, that's a very astute observation. Father has posited the very same hypothesis.

SM: It just seems that you could use it right now.

ID: As opposed to the last 10 years I've been looking for it.

SM: Right.

ID: *readjust balls back to original position* It's like you're in my head.

SM: They say it takes about two years so really get integrated into a place and so you're really just at the beginning still. You have the apartment and a job and you have lots of acquaintances (Mom-speak for "I suspect you're a whore.") and a couple friends like Unibrow and the one that looks like a doll, but I just think you should have a really good relationship.

ID: Holla.

SM: Are there any, um, you know, gay Jewish groups in Toronto?

ID: Yes. It's called Kulanu. The quasi-attractive Jew from back in December told me about it before dropping off the face of the Earth.

SM: Well, you're pretty self-sufficient so I'm sure you'll check it out if you want to.

ID: I'm sure I will, too.

SM: Well, this has been exciting. You work on the relationship thing. It just takes a little effort.

ID: Mother...

SM: That's all I'm saying.

ID: Mmmmmmmm-hmm.

SM: I love y-.

*click*

Sexeh Aminal Planet

2010-04-29T16:10:00.012-04:00

I've been inappropriately having e-mail conversations with some New Zealand dude who works at TD Canada Trust and will likely be getting fired cause of it should HR ever discover these exchanges. Today alone, he referenced porn, pedophilia and personal lubricant. Ah yes, the 3 P's of getting your ass canned. We also had a running gag about opening what he called the Manhole Bank.

Illustrious D: I've never heard of this Manhole Bank. Is it simply for making deposits or can you withdraw, too? Is there protection services

Non-Australian: Manhole bank has been there for ages but not been spoken about. You can certainly pull in and out for deposit and withdrawals but gotta make sure you got some sort of insurance protection to do so. Otherwise you are risking you investment! Have you got lots to risk?

ID: The amount I sink into something usually depends on the interest I have it in. Don't have a massive portfolio, so I'd never consider myself a port star, but if I'm really looking come out a head, I manage just fine

NA: Im sure you watch a hell loads of porn… first the czech boys and now that? So so naughty

ID: I can assure you that I have NO idea what you're talking about. I am simply taking about a simple exchange of fluid assets.

And scene.

Yesterday, he gave me mentored me in the ways of picking up strangers in bars (clearly my thing) by advising me to "make sure not to jump and hump immediately." After I asked for clarification and he said:

"I can just imagine you jumping on top of a camel (wild and eager). Then humping it like a rabbit!!! Lol"

Ugh. These fucking lol-ers

What a lovely and underappreciated interspecies couple. Proud Camel. Eager Rabbit. It was bound to happen. Let's exploit my MS Paint skillz to examine what this might look like:

Jump & Hump

Some talking points:

1. Just want to go on the record and say that I think raping a camel with both eyes on one side of its head and neck tumours is kinda pouring salt in the wound.

2. Why are you looking at the camera, Rabbit? First rule of working in film: NEVER look at the audience. It makes us feel dirty. If it was my film you were ruining with your "I'ma Punk this dromedary!" eyes, you would be barred from the set. BARRED FROM THE SET!

3. Mr. Sun, why are you so creepy? You're clearly the instigator of this little prank, urging Little Rabbit Foo-Foo to shun his natural boreal habitat for the sweltering heat of the Sahara just so he can stick it where you don't shine. Do you know when the last time the camel had some Oat Bran? THEY'RE IN A DESERT! You got no clue what be comin' outta that end. That rabbit gonna look like a Lindt Easter chocolate by day's end

This got me thinking (cue Sex & The City night time zoom in throw billowy draped window). If a rabbit and a camel could make something work, I had to wonder (Yes! Stuck the landing!) what hope was there for the rest of the Animal Kingdom's interspecies lovahs.

Bum & Rum

This is strictly for anal lovers. I mean, that giraffe wants it one way and one way only. The parrot is there because parrots are piratey and pirates like rum, but having a pirate give it to a giraffe, even as one as slutty as this one, is just plain wrong

Talking points:

1. Um, how amazing is my Paint fill function prowess?

2. I kinda love that the parrot looks like it really cares about the cheap floozy giraffe. Either that or he got into the love drugs. OMG, parrots at a rave! Picture it! HAHAHA! Classic.

3. In all seriousness though, how ho-ey is that giraffe? I mean, she can't even coordinate her colour palette correctly. Um, hello? You're an Autumn! Chuckles. What a loser.

4. Holy crap, Mr. Sun! Way to step up the creeper game even more. What are you, a giraffe pimp now? It's one thing to act as first grip on a low-budget adult film shot on location in the Sudanese desert, but you're really sinking to new lows here. Didn't you used to want to be somebody? Whatever happened to that screenplay? Huh? You know what, I can't even look at you right now.

Blow & Blorjioahwbnr34tlo

Um, so I saved these two drawings and then I took my lunch break and when I came back I couldn't remember why I wanted the possum. I remember seeking it out cause it plays dead. That is all. Let's soldier on anyway.

Talking points:

1. Wow, what did you have for lunch, David? A lot of FAIL? YOU SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH! I TRY SO HARD! SO! HA-A-A-AAAAAAAAARD! *breaks down sobbing*

2. Holy shit, that's some kick-ass coral.

3. How is that possum breathing right now? Even the Creepy McCreepCreep Creeperson Sun has a snorkel. Because possums are the new unicorns, that's why. Trust me. It's gonna be a thing.

4. That blowfish has excellent dental work. Ironic given that teeth are generally frowned upon when blowing.

5. OMG, is that Nemo? Dude, you found him! So much props!

6. *sigh* Mr. Sun... I ca-... There are no wo-... How are you under wa-...? *sigh*

I want to produce Retarded Romper Room

2010-04-27T14:28:00.004-04:00

For months now, I have been bothered weekly (and sometimes even more frequently) by a woman in our office and her special needs child that she brings around. I had never actually seen this kid but had heard their intangible ramblings for weeks now. While I love people with disabilities (holla at mah peeps!!), that love is generally regulated entirely to the autistic/Asbergers-y side of things, such as my much discussed Autistic Retard Girl (ARG) that I see a couple times a week on the streetcar. Today, she and her haggard, split ends-rockin' mama were openly dancing and singing while waiting for the car to arrive. I, in reaction, emerged from the shelter to stand closer to them and fantasized about them asking me to join in and all of us dancing in a Circle of Autism together. Round and round we go! Weeeeeee! Oh what fun, we would have! Unfortunately, that did not happen, but I still liked watching any way. I'm like an Autism voyeur. Trend setter, am I. You'll hear about it soon. Trust me.

Okay, back to the dickhead with the retarded kid. I do not like to know that much about the people I work with. I like to know even less about their kids. Those that work in completely unsatisfying jobs tend to make their families the centre of everything and expect others to do the same. Not only do I not believe that their families are all that and a bag o' chips, but I'm also more and more certain that I don't want any should've-been-BJs running around my pad in the future. This is a notion I have learned not to share with family oriented coworkers as they tend to look at me with a mixture of pity and incredulousness, as though their inner monologue is, "Oh you poor, misguided boy/Fuck you, hippie! My life is awesome!" and I just don't need that shit in my poor, misguided, hippie life.

So fine, enjoy your 2.3 kids and your shitty box house and your accumulating debt. Ain't no thang. Doesn't phase me. But do not - DO NOT - bring your crotch fruit around my way and expect me to revel in their mere presence. Additionally, I appreciate that having a child with special needs must be a huge Debbie Downer, but in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, "Make it work, people!"

There I was getting all pissed off and thinking that if I ever actually see the kid, I will turn tow and march the other way because I do not need to fake a smile and risk getting applesauce residue anywhere near my body just to make some socially inappropriate coworker feel better and the garbled voice is getting closer and closer and I hear wheels rolling which makes me think, "Aw shit, and they're in a wheelchair too?! Fuuuuuuck me," and I get out of my chair and start to make a break for it when I stop and take a look in the direction that the hard consonant-free voice is coming from and...

...I learn that our department has hired a deaf woman who does mail rounds.

*hangs head in deep, deep shame*

There are no words.

But aren't you glad that the emo softy that composed that last post and may have cried at ABBA's Knowing Me Knowing You (baaaaaaaad daaays..) is gone and the douchenozzle you know and love it back? Me too.

I am sad (new definition)

2010-04-26T14:22:00.003-04:00

Saturday night I was sitting on my bed with the laptop, drinking wine and feeling generally miserable because my would-be dinner companion waited until 9:00 to cancel. I was consoling myself the the aforementioned wine as well as attempting conversation with this really-dull-but-at-least-he's-online guy that has been on my msn for months. About 5 minutes into the conversation, the following, unedited conversation occurred (It's long. ~~Sorry.~~ Suck it up.):

(500) Days of David says: You like Sam Tsui? That kid is UNbelievable. I'm pretty sure his Lady GaGa medley turned me gay. Again.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yah he is I follow him on facebook hehe(

500) Days of David says: I can't watch him too much. Get jealous

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ol lol Id soooo go on a date with him lol

(500) Days of David says: isn't he, like, 12?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol yah i think Im jsut attracted to his talent

(500) Days of David says: Alrighty, clearly I'm barking up the wrong tree then

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: always been aroused by it

(500) Days of David says: talent? That's fair. Do you have any?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: none that are appropriate lol I used to sing, took lessons for years. did some really awesome concerts can dance...took tap., jazz and some ballet been on stage in community shows.... some really big productions and did a lot of stage managing

(500) Days of David says: what kind of really awesome concerts?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: prob the most noteworthy was Karmina Burana at the Ottawa Art Centre with three top canadian vocalists

(500) Days of David says: yeah? Cool. Done that one a couple times. Though ours was with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. They toured it to Ottawa though. My friend (and future roommate) was the sop soloist.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: we joined up with two other choirs..... was about 500 singers plus the NAC orcahstra

(500) Days of David says: nice! musta been awesome You're a tenor?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep I sang first tenor for that

(500) Days of David says: The gays tend to be tenors

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: i am trying to remember who the soloists were I think Russel Braun was the barione i remember him coming out on his crutches

(500) Days of David says: LOVE him... so amazing. Rusty.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: hes the one who uses crutches right?

(500) Days of David says: oh no you're thinking of Kevin McMillan. He was ours the second time around. Teaches at Western. Bit of a pompous ass. But I like his Carmina.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: fun

(500) Days of David says: You gotta admire a guy who overcomes a thing like that. I mean, making it as a classical singer is hard enough, but to do it without opera? That takes balls.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep for sure and most singers are pompus darling comes with the art

(500) Days of David says: I disagree. The good ones don't need to be pompous. I've met so many incredible singers that are just the sweetest people in the world.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: well clearly u are in the know and i know nothing does that satisfy ur ego?

(500) Days of David says: *cock-eyed emoticon* are you being serious?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: honestly right now...u are coming across rather pompous

(500) Days of David says: Because I disagreed with you?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: "Oh ive done that, and better then u and I know them" lol no...I could care less if u disagreed with me it was actually me just saying the stuff Ive done and u ....well seemed like u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad

(500) Days of David says: I'm sorry you interpreted it that way. I was just saying that it's cool we've done some of the same stuff.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol hon u never really acknowledged what I did just came up wiht bigger and better stuff that uve done and went on about who u know really... it makes u seem arrogant and pompus having to upstage people its poeple like that that made me leave the arts

(500) Days of David says: You know, I think if you went back and read this conversation knowing that I was just trying to relate to you and find common ground, I think you might see that I was just trying to have a good discussion. I'm sorry if you felt I was trying to upstage you, but frankly, that's not what I'm about, and had you chosen to not assume the worst interpretation of an msn conversation, you might have seen t hat there was some common ground. But this...this is just negativity on your part.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol dude

(500) Days of David says: You're a nice guy and it would be great if maybe you could assume other people were as well

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ur always trying to one up me...or minilmize me,...in jest or not

(500) Days of David says: HOW? I never said it was better I said it was the same Are you really that cynical?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol not in the least i find it kinda suprsiding how defensive ut are getting over this most psychological therorists suggest that strong defensiveness is a reaction to self doubt

(500) Days of David says: well if you were trying really hard to engage someone and was met with the reaction of being called pompous, you might be a bit defensive.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Hon... I wish u could see me right now

(500) Days of David says: I know we don't really know each other, but you made the active choice to think the worst

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Im not at all really paying atention to u nor giving u much thought sorry lol u are really using the wrong termonology on this one lol I dindt make the choice to think the worst u are over generalzing and clearly missed what I said well typed

(500) Days of David says: which was what?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted. ur intention was to find some common ground and yes clearly u would get that from re-reading our conversation u are biased from ur intent u know what ur intent was i dont cuz Im not in ur head however. my conclusion...alkthough not a huge conclusion but one none the less came from our conversatons of late You talk about intelectual persutis and conversations and such and u have a tone that, it makes it seem like someone has to be challenged in order to be at ur level u seem to set a bar, and expect people to be there ur wording in your questiosn, come acros as more mechanical rather then general inqusitory of someone in some of our discusons (yes I cannot come up with a specific example, but thats really beacuse I dont give them much thought at aklll...Id rather worry about what im making for dinner or when I can fit in a run) but you come accross with a tone, that people must prove themselves worhty to be at ur level and then with our discussions todya... htis is how I would opperate if I had found out that someone had done the same show as me I would have said oh thats awesome, I loved when I did it...I had this experience rather then that...u went about who was in the show, how many times uve done it...and showing cradentials (winipeg ballet....) and i mentioned the one bari we had...and ur like ow hwe had him the 3nd time round that really does not have a tone of lets talk about shared experiences and yes...u might disagree with me about singers...however... happen to have an older sister who has worked with many many top notch canadian talent (doenst matter who they are) and most of them have an attitude doesne mean they are not nice but in order to survive in that world, u have to be comforable with ur degree of talent, and able to sell it...often times comes across as being pompious and u might think of me as being generally negitvi or cynical It is an easy conclusionn Im sure but it is not even close to the truth I am rahter laid back... I am also really into budist type meditation (mindfullness based stress reduction speicicfially) and I have worked extreamly hard on not being cynical nor nbegative I have a lot of reasons to be both....but it is so far from who I am but again...its an easy conculsion to get to should one not step out of their own sphere and really examine the verbatum and word choices we use not an easy task for sure, cuz we always have our intended context

(500) Days of David says: I'm not really sure where to begin, so I think I'll choose not to. I think we have proven here tonight that the written word in real time can be a very precarious thing. I'm not going to defend the way I talk or try to explain myself cause I think we're just past trying to listen to the other. I'm really sorry that this is the impression you got, as I can assure you it is not one shared by anyone knows me, but that said, I don't imagine you have much interest in getting to know me, so let's say goodnight and good luck and, most of all, good bye.

Did you get through all that? Seriously? Cause I woulda checked out after point dexter here spelled Carmina Burana with a 'K'. Anyway, maybe I slipped myself a roofie or was just super depressed but this almost made me cry. I know. I want to walk away from me, too, right now. I was just so confused about how I could have come across as so horrible! I mean, we meet these kind of people all the time, ones that are always looking to play the victim based on the slightest possibility of misinterpretation. Clearly, this was not about me. Or maybe it is and I'm the delusional one, but realistically, no.

There were so many things I wanted to say to this guy as I sat there for 10 minutes as he composed his final (punctuation-lite) opus. In the end, as you can see, I simply chose not to as there could be no getting through to him and in the words of Madonna, "Your heart is not open, so I must go." Yeah. Referenced the fourth single off of Ray of Light. You're welcome, The World. I could have said that he certainly had a lot to say for someone who repeated twice that he hadn't given a second thought about me. I would say that clearly a little vaca to Tibet is in order because them Buddhist lessons are clearly not paying off. I would also suggest to him to ask the monks how to properly spell 'Buddhist' as clearly that'd been glossed over in his westernized training. I would say that, yes, I do try to expressed myself in an "elevated tone" as to not use the skills I have acquired seems a bit silly, but that I don't expect other people to rise to my "bar" but rather to have decent conversational skills. I would say that I understand that his conversational skills may have been impeded by his constant Laughing Out Loud and simultaneous reading of How To Mask Your Nervous Breakdown Recovery By Calling People Hon A Bunch. I would say that it's time to stop using the word "sad" interchangeably (as in well seemed like "u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad") with "functioning at a level which I am not equipped to deal with and confuses me." Can we reclaim the word "sad," people? It's something that fills you misery, not misguided self-superiority. That this person is so unhappy with their existence (57friendsonfacebook say what?) and mistrustful of others around them really did make me sad. In fact, it made me so sad that I copied it into an e-mail for three friends just so they would tell me immediately that I was not an awful person. So sad that I stopped drinking my glass of wine. See them four horses in sky? Yeah.

So had I felt it would do any good, I might have said some or all of that. Rather, I sadly closed my laptop, rode my bike to a friend's and had him ply me with vodka and chocolate cake until I fell asleep on his couch. Was this the easy way out? Maybe. Was this indicative that my msn days are drying to a close? Quite possibly. Was this taking the high road and acting with a bit of grace, a bit of maturity, despite publishing his e-mail address, kermitty75@hotmail.com, in my blog?

*stares up at the night sky*

I hope so.

The Miami Strikes Back (Part III)

2010-04-23T15:22:00.006-04:00

Scene 8:
Saturday, I awake at the responsible hour of 8:40 thanks to a semi-deflated air mattress and my body's increasing resistance to Lorazepam. I stroll into the kitchen where Auntie begins to pour me a cup of coffee but, you see, no. Cannot just spoil a boy with double cappuccinos and then give him regular brew like that. Does not work that way. Silly Auntie. So, like a guy whose girlfriend has stopped mid-handjob out of laziness, I shake my head and gently but forcefully guide her hand back to the lever. Ew. So wrong, David.

After my cap, we drive to Epicure, a smaller and pricier version of Sobey's, to get fixins for grandmaw's birthday brunch. We first stop at the bakery counter to purchase ~~my father's imminent heart attack~~ pastries and my aunt yells at the two ladies behind the counter for not having an almond & cheese ring. Customer service in Miami Beach is appalling, so it came as no surprise when they give it right back to her, being all, "Well, why'intchyou order it in advance, ya stupid white bitch?!" Just kidding. They didn't call her white. Cause that's racist.

Meanwhile, I become fixated on a particular batch of sugar cookies with sprinkles on them. These are the cookies of affliction which our forefathers ate in the land of Egy- no, wait, shit. That's matzoh. Mah bad. Ne'er mind. They were, however, the cookies of my childhood and begot what everyone knows to be my lifelong fixation with all things sprinkles. Except those hard little round ones that ice cream cones are dipped in. Those are the devil. BUT EVERY OTHER KIND. Once, when I was about 5, this old lady who used to make me call her Auntie Doris even though she wasn't my aunt and had a lot of upper lip hair gave me this huge cookie COVERED in rainbow sprinkles (sidenote: gay is caused by neither nature nor nurture; it's sprinkles) and I was the happiest (and flamiest) little kid you ever did see until my aunt (the real one) went and gave it away to her aerobics instructor Carmen's kids cause evidently they were "less fortunate" than me and she didn't want them joining a Puerto Rican gang. Listen up, lady. Sprinkles are worth their weight in gold. Actually, they're worth more than gold. I'm thinking of introducing my own Sprinkles Standard to the National Fed. It's worth THAT much. Those kids were fucking millionaires!

Inner Voice: Uh, did you just write an entire paragraph about sprinkles.

Illustrious D: Pssssh, wha? No. Why? What are you even talkin abo- I love kitties. Did you see this week's episode of Glee?

IV: Not yet. DVR. How was it?

ID: Um, only okay. Like, the musical numbers were pretty good, though Like A Prayer was sorta weak, but maybe the recorded version will be better. But the plot was just kinda lame and the dialogue was borderline ridiculous.

IV: Bummer.

Our excellent service continues as we approach the cheese counter, universally regarded as the best counter. True story. Our request to sample a honeyed goats cheese is met by the attendant with a "Sure," and a saunter away from us in the opposite direction. Auntie and I do not really know how to react to such blatant disregard for cheese. So disrespectful. I mean, he pretty much raped a cow*. But calm down, it's okay, cause we totally manage - wait for it - to pick out a cheese ourselves. Right?! NAILED IT! After that drama, we grab a cubic metre of smoked salmon, pay $10.00 for four tomatoes and leave, just as soon as Auntie returns to the bakery to berate the counter ladies for not giving her a baker's dozen of bagels. Woman just bought an Armani bag but wants a free bagel. Clearly my perspective on life is genetic.

*To find this, I typed in "cheese cow" into Google image search. Any attempts to act as though you are not totally in envy and awe of my life will be met with a haughty gaze. Haugh. Ty.

Scene 9:
Back at the condo, we rouse the youngins and scramble to put together the brunch. All attempts at artistic interpretation on my part are thwarted by Auntie, who attempts to jazz up the pastry platter by plucking three glittery butterfly ornaments from a nearby orchid pot and tossing them on a strudel. Further, my plan to place the two cheese knives perfectly parallel in opposite directions is promptly rebuffed in favour of - get this - the SAME direction AND one of them is off of centre. It's like she lives to torture me. My revenge is sweet, though, and by sweet, I mean mimosa, and by mimosa, I mean champagne with a couple atoms of OJ.

Much to my ~~delight~~ chagrin, Pichu breaks not uno but duo champagne glasses and sends my I-ain't-payin-for-no-dawg-cateract-surdgreez aunt into a tizzy. Who's crying over their South American surprise now, huh? HUH?! Yeah, you, dat who. And guess who becomes the angelic parallel-knife setting hero. THIS GUY:

After brizzunch, Grandmother skoolz us in rummy before taking her mid-day 17 hour nap. However, this skool be elimentree because she keeps trying to cheat! She's all, "Oh hey, I'm really old and maybe my diaper be full so let me just put down this 8 of spades just cause."

Shit Starter

Okay, I think it's becoming obvious to everyone that I'm pretty much flailing on these Miami vignettes now. So here's some further highlights:

-Going out to eat at Barton G's, a really overthetop South Beach resto where the food is generally served with statues and shit. My father nearly came to blows with the Maitre D about getting us a round table. I nearly asked for blow just to get through the whole thing and then later got a look from a waiter suggestive of another type of blow, which I ignored lest I break yet another Cuban's heart/loins.

-Watching Twilight: New Moon on the plan ride home surrounded by the also returning Vancouver White Caps. I will fully and shamefully admit that those movies totally get to me, as I had those exact same emo-romantic constructs as a teenager and still do, somewhere deep down inside, to this day. I mean, it's just so pretty and everyone's so beautiful and tortured and...ach, it's like they filmed my brain.

-Getting picked up at the airport by Flight Attendant Nick after nearly tossing my cookies all over a Whitecap during landing. As if picking me up wasn't awesome enough, he chauffeured my ass to Kensingston Market to buy groceries, though I think he was a bit taken aback that people can buy food in stores smaller than a cubic block. I believe the exact quote was, "It feels like we're in a foreign country." I feel I held my own though, as I accompanied him, in return, in the purchasing of a Celine Dion album, Madonna concert DVD and Ann Murray's autobiography. Commence application for beatification now, people.

Now that this shit is all wrapped up, stay tuned for next time, wherein I get reamed out by someone bordering on mental retardation and then post his contact info!

The Miami Strikes Back (Part II)

2010-04-21T12:16:00.002-04:00

Scene 4:
We are sitting in the lobby of a hotel about half a block down from Auntie's condo. My brothers and I had spent the night here as our 89 year old multi-millionaire step-uncle had had Lasik surgery the day before. My brother is convinced that we should get a free continental breakfast because none of us could figure out how to make the shower work. I am convinced that he is a loser. The front desk attendant agrees with me when my brother's answer to, "Why didn't you call the desk?" is to try and stare her down, evidently mistaking ocular focus for reason. After a few minutes of watching Americans (they only come in two categories: obese and The Hills wannabes), my aunt picks us up, chides us for not ordering room service last night and drives us the 25 feet to her condominium, where we are greeted by her 16 year old dog. Point of interest: while the notion of my pre-civil war step-uncle having to read with glasses is abhorrent, they will not invest in cataract surgery for my aunt's now blind westie terrier whose eyes resemble those of Jordie LeForge. The thing limps around the house, halting only to piddle on the marble or when forcibly stopped by a wall it just walked into. Underneath it's wiry, matted fur this dog must look like Rihanna after over-salting Chris Brown's collard greens. Auntie fixes me a double cappuccino while my brother runs around on the 1,000 metre long distance track my aunt calls a balcony. I revel in the fact that I am not at work and take a moment to ponder whether Black Magic would simply bounce right back up if pushed off the 19th story balcony.

Scene 5:
Having just finished breakfast of fruit, yogurt, Grape Nuts and crushed diamonds, we descend to South Beach to meet up with my parents and grandmother for lunch at the poetically named Burger & Beer Joint. I'm gonna be divisive for a moment and state for the record that I do not like restaurants with their menu and edifice type in the name. So lazy. You gotta leave a little mystery there, put in a little effort, otherwise it's just too easy, like giving an amputee a scooter. Not on my watch. You think anyone would have given two shits had Terry Fox decided to scoot across Canada? I don't think so, buddy. Waffle House? Nuh-uh. Pizza Hut? Try again. Sugar Shack? Fuck you. Notable exception: Cheesecake Factory. Why? Cause they make motherfucking cheesecake. Truth.

We all have different kinds of burgers, except my aunt and grandmother, who share a chopped salad. My grandmother is diabetic and my aunt is a manic obsessive, so the former is monitored at every single meal like a prisoner. And like a prisoner, she tries to escape. Often. Since her stroke, my grandmother has regained most of her dialoguic capabilities, but chooses not to exercise them, preferring instead to let everyone else gab on while she bumrushes the breadbasket. This in turn causes my aunt to descend into hysterics, constructing elaborate fences and forts out of flatware, water glasses and condiment receptacles to prevent her mother from achieving Precious-esque sugar levels (Softy, that was just for you). This plan usually works unless there is some sort of dressing or spread in the barricade, which my grandmother will scoop up with spoon or finger. She's not picky. On this particular occasion, my own mother makes the rookie mistake of letting grandmother pour her own salad dressing. Half of it goes into the chopped salad while the remainder is poured directly into her mouth. Think Pooh with a honey pot. And dentures. My father, conversely, limits himself to only some of the cheddar cheese dip that accompanies his behemoth onion rings. This is largely because the majority winds up on the checkered nautical sail he calls a shirt (fun fact: it comes with air vents), but let us not quibble over details. As for myself, I enjoy the brie, prosciutto and sweet onion marmalade burger (real name: The Mustang Sally. Yeah, I butch.) and then down one of the two pitchers of beer ordered for the table. Desperate times...

Scene 6:
Upon arrival in Miami, I discovered that all the bitchin' au courant ensembles I had packed myself had actually just been a dream I'd had and that I had pretty much packed one change of clothes for the entire weekend. Granted, this change of clothes included a blue velvet dinner jacket, but still. My life is rough, y'all. As such, the middle brother, who Auntie has taken to simply calling 'Pichu', is unable to borrow any clothing from me, as previously promised when we first saw him at the airport.

Illustrious D: Holy fucking shit! You're here!

Thunder-Stealing Bro: Yep.

ID: You can totally borrow my pants this weekend!

T-SB: Alright...

ID: *Downie-esque smile*

T-SB: Only problem is that we're not 14 year old girls and you're not America Ferrera.

ID: *crestfallen face*

T-SB: *smug-ass smirk*

ID: Yet...

Auntie takes us to the Gap to buy clothing for Pichu. The youngest brother, who I used to call Pudge because his stomach was distended like that of a World Vision sponsoree, pulls me aside and says that he really wants to get to know our aunt for who she is and not what she buys us and that we should abstain from letting her get us anything. "For totes," I say and I mean it. At the time. Once at the Gap, Auntie and I turn into Stacy & Clinton and dress Pichu up in sweatshop-produced Americana for the next hour until he winds up looking kind of like a clueless technology millionaire instead of the clueless engineer twenty-onaire that he is. The google guys WISH they had a Hungarian housewife and pansexual Jewy gimp dressing them! Also helping us is the store manager who looks like Nicolette Sheridan beaten with a meat cleaver. Not pretty folks. (Wow, so much domestic violence references today. Pat on back.) As a reward for being so altruistic with my sartorial gifts, I allow Auntie to buy me the only remotely interesting looking thing in the store. What? No judgey! I even refrain from getting the straw fedora-esque hat that makes me look all Hemingwayz. Mother tries to put a newsboy cap on my head. I punch her in the neck. Never. Touch. My. Hair. It's like those fucked up floating seeds in Avatar; look at it the wrong way and it'll disappear. Pudge pouts over the failings of his non-materialist plan until he discovers the table marked "Fucking Boring Straight Guy Apparel" and concedes, buying two t-shirts and some cargo shorts. Comrade fail.

Scene 7:
Joe's Stone Crabs, a bastion of the Miami Beach scene. This is a huge muthafukin' restaurant with waiters in tuxedos and diners in lobster bibs. Classy times. They do not take reservations, but my aunt knows a gal who knows a guy so we avoid the two hour wait (for serious) and glide in after the maitre D' is slipped a twenty. And maybe a ball tickle. This is South Beach, after all. The step-uncle orders a couple of bottles of Cabernet for the table, but I abstain, citing my allergy to grapes during a new moon and order a Ketel One martini with a lemon twist. The waiter comes back with an olive-garnished offering, but it is cold so I take and chose to do the mature thing and spit the pits down his cummerbund rather than send it back. Ketel One is also my new favourite because it tastes like water and is amazing with oysters.

I recall the last time I was here and we saw Andre Agassi with family one table over. I ponder who I will see tonight and momentarily fantasize about seeing Chelsea Handler. The thought alone gives me diarrhea. Celebrity does not phase me at all with some very notable exceptions, including Tori Amos, Madonna and Dakota Fanning. That is one snotty beeotch. Chelsea Handler also falls into this category, so I quickly stop thinking about meeting her and imagine instead sending her a packet of my aunt's standard cocktail napkins. Then I think about how she probably receives about ten of these a days from like-minded 'mos and my poor self-esteem returns once again. I look around the table and see my father doctoring his wine with the flop sweat that has appeared on his massive, eye brow-free forehead and is slowly dripping into his glass. My aunt is constructing a Jericho-esque structure around the breadbasket. My grandmother is slyly applying an entire pat of butter to her dinner fork. My mother continuous looks over at me and smiles a huge, so-glad-we're-all-here-together-and-by-'we'-I-mean-me-and-this-here-wine smile. I smile back, mostly because I appreciate how special it really is that we're all together as a family, but at least in small part to the welt that is beginning to show on her neck. Such pretty colours.

NEXT TIME: Auntie micro-manages brunch; Grandmother owns me at rummy; Daddy's dinner comes in a duck decoy.

The Miami Strikes Back (Part I)

2010-04-19T11:17:00.004-04:00

Scene 1:
I embark for the airport at 12:45, hoping to tearfully reconcile with my family in time for a multiple-lavatory-trips-requiring lunch before we have to board our plane to Miami. My grandmother is turning 90 and we are surprising her and her I'm-really-old-and-a-Holocaust-survivor-I-dare-you-to-shock-me heart for the occasion. My aunt (she of Hermès belt purchasing fame) is in cahoots with my father, as he, my mother and my youngest brother are flying to Toronto to meet up with me so that we can arrive together and send the old bag (read: serene elderly lady) into a tizzy. The middle brother is hiking through Machu Pichu and has sent his regrets. As far as excuses, I feel this is pretty weak-sauce.

Upon arriving at customs, I observe that there are approximately 72,000 people waiting in roped-off cues to pass on through to the good ol' US of A. Fortunately, I am ushered along with about 10 people in front of me to the other side of the room where similar ropes have been set up. Unfortunately, this is only because they cannot physically shove any more travellers into the other side and thus we are now in line to get in line. Normally, this would perturb me, but my family has texted to say that they are waiting at a Tim Horton's on the other side of customs and I am trying my hardest to make sure that I do not have to join them. I also receive a text from my obese Hungarian father saying, "I don't think your [sic] ready...For this jelly."

I manage to clear customs 5 minutes before boarding is scheduled to commence and, upon realizing that my family is not holding courst at Canada's favourite coffee-urine fusion house, hurry my disproportionate ass down to the gate so that they do not panic. However, when I arrive I find that they are not there. Know who is? Two thirds of the Vancouver Whitecaps semi-pro soccer time. In any other situation the presence of professional athletes coupled with the absence of my family is ideal, but not so when faced with prospective of 3 days alone with family members averaging 81.333 years of age. Real calculation. I buy some shittastic pre-prepped sushi as the other passengers commence boarding. Why people insist on standing up to wait in a line 70 people deep only to then sit down again on a smelly cramped plane is beyond me. Also, beneath me. After taking out a mortgage to pay for the sushi, I turn and see the back of my father's side rolls just as the final boarding call is being made.

"Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?" I scream at them before hitting my little brother upside the head. "And never recite Destiny's Child lyrics to our father again. Kelly Rowlands is dead to me and you know it."

Scene 2:
We have arrived at Miami International Airport and have just deplaned. My mother insisted on buying us all a round while in the air, plus an extra for herself after my father declined, being far too consumed with watching The Blind Side and crying like a little bitch while Sandra Bullock screamed at some big black football player who I suspect was Precious in drag. Between my mothers lush-flush and my fathers tear-streaked jowls, we are quite a sight marching our way down to baggage claim. Then, about 100 feet away, we see something silvery glinting in the fluorescent glare of an industrial pot light. My supposedly traveling brother is sitting there next to his huge backpack holding a sign coloured thickly with pencil. My mother loses her shit, her voice reaching pitches audible only to small dogs as she screams his name. Great. My place as the long-lost-son-returned has officially been usurped. What a dick.

Scene 3:
We are sitting in a van outside my grandmother's Spanish-style bungalow in Miami Beach, debating on the best way to appropriately Punk her. (Sidenote: Black Magic is on the phone in the next cubicleright now, declaring to her friend in a decidedly not indoor voice how she can leave her three children, all under the age of 10, alone for up to 45 minutes at a time. Somebody needs to put this one out to pasture.) My father is the first to go in and we hear Hungarians screaming love at each other. After about thirty seconds, my jean-jacket-wearing upstanding lawyer of a mother gets out of the van like she is James Bond, crawling under parked cars and scaling walls to get to the front door, despite the drawn blinds and the fact that the Hungarians are deafening small children in Tallahassee. Once she is in, there is more assumed merriment, while my youngest brother and myself climb out of the van and he starts imitating my mother's highheeled highjinx a mere 30 seconds before, while I fall down and promptly pee myself on the freshly manicured lawn. We get to the door and throw it open to find my mom, dad, aunt, grandmother and her large-jugged Jamaican nurse all in a group hug. They turn around and grandmother makes with the tears as she laughs in disbelief that we and our mother have bothered to show up for little old her. My proposition of half a day's wages lost in travel time are largely ignored. My aunt, whose Vesuvian emotions are world renowned, is running around like a cocky Real Housewives of Miami Beach cast-off in Juicy Couture sweatpants, crowing about how amazing we all are for pulling the wool over the cataracted eyes of a nonagenarian when there is a final knock at the door. She stops dead (like the muscles in her botoxed forehead) in her tracks and stares at my father, the colour draining out of her face. I tell her it is most likely a noise complaint from the city of St. Louis, Missouri and she goes to investigate. She opens the door to see my brother standing there and her face collapses quicker than my standards after three mojitos. Loses. Her. Shit.

As it becomes evermore clear that this particular get together is not going to be centred around me, I go and chill of to the side with the nurse, Velma (or Whilemina. Who can tell through my aunt's Hungarian-Floridian accent?), and we watch the rest of them dance around like First Nations people at an Olympic opening ceremony. I like Velma a lot. She calls me Handsome and has gap between her two front teeth that is so large that I suspect it is the real gateway to Narnia. Her mouth was the Gap's flagship store. Madonna WISHES she had a gap like that; the comparison is like a side-by-side penis photo of Shaquille O'Neal and William Hung.

"Weel, ya rilleh mad an awl wumahn happay."

"Yes, I guess we did. Where's the Grey Goose?"

NEXT TIME: I discover that vodka and seafood is a match made in heaven; Dad is still fat; grandmother eats a pat of butter.

Ernest Hemingway Had ED, too!

2010-04-17T08:55:00.003-04:00

Sorry, all y'all. I've been not so much with the posting cause I've been hanging in Miami for the past few days and NOT at all because I have no news post ideas and have started and abandoned no less than three of them. Not. At. All.

In the meantime, here's a recap of the last time I went stateside.

Part I

Part II

NB: Part III never actually materialized because I undertook a Gimps Without Borders trip to Uganda and NOT at all because I am an incredibly fairweathered ecrivain whose creative dependability is on par with his penis' ability to maintain an erection around ugly people.

Betchya thought I was gonna say 'not at all' again, di'intchya? Well, fuck you. I'm not your butt monkey.

5(Barely)Alive

2010-04-12T10:31:00.002-04:00

Saturday night began with buying Sprite in a gas station and ended with me inexplicably naked next to a very not naked flight attendant. Let us attempt to unravel the mystery of yet another fucked up night in the big city together, shall we?

The evening began with a very strong martini. I normally do not drink heavily prior to group pre-gaming, but I was feeling slightly anxious about the impending outing, the second in the week with the flight attendants, as well as the insinuation that there might be illicit substances involved. (Despite a relatively intimate history with las drogas, the thought of them still makes me nervous.) The idea of spending yet another evening with near-strangers was weighing heavily, a sentiment with which most transients/emigrés can empathize. One such empathizer was Flight Attendant Nick, who despite his man-child sweetness was actually rather acute at picking up on my reticence while msn-ing that afternoon. I felt much better after going all whiny bitch on his ass, emo-ing on and on about missing the comfort of long term friendships. In hindsight, I probably would have bailed were it not for this oversharing, so that and the martini were justifiable courage in getting my ass out the door.

ID: Hello, Rationalized Alcoholism.
AC: Hello, Illustrious D.

I took the subway to where the other flight attendant, Former Hottub Mate, was living to enjoy some libation along with FAN, two goateed bears and their dog, Pilot, who I spent the majority of the night calling Tyler. I imagine I might have been corrected by one of the other four humans had my increasingly drunken slur not come out as "GHIIIBLOTR" every time I tackled the dog after it started dry humping me.

Upon arrival, FAN asked me what I take with my Smirnoff. I considered telling him Grey Goose, but realized that this might be a lost cause when the mixer I was offered turned out to be 5-Alive or Déli-Cinq to all the Frenchies. The next thing I remember is being in FHM's room belting out the Glee soundtrack and Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album with roughly a 2-6 of vodka in my gullet. Why Stevie Nicks continues to haunt all my weekend misadventures is beyond my conscious level of understanding. Evidently, I cannot go my own way (go my own waa-aa-ay). After that, we merged into the bears' living room to watch the end of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, a childhood favourite and one of the more overlooked films in the Dick van Dyke oeuvre. It's also incredibly fucked up and manages to make Mary Poppins look like a lesson in realism. After the end credits, we moved on to play Scene It, an interactive movie trivia game, on their sixty-inch plasma, confirming the stereotype of gay desire to play with the most inches possible. By this point, I had imbibed as much as I would and felt a bit goofy, but didn't think I was anywhere in the realm of drunk. I even managed to pull off a second place finish with Scene It while embodying the hottest avitar on the screen.

ID: Hello, Small Victories.
SV: Hello, Illustrious D.

The plan was to go to Buddies, a club in the gay village known for my most acrimonious enemies, the Hollister Douchnozzle and the Over-Manicured Twink. I got up from the couch to put on my shoes...and that is the last thing I remember until arriving at the club. Evidently, Smirnoff has a new time-release formula that makes you think you're all ballin' and awesome at Scene It and then - BAM! - need to lean on a 6'2" air steward just to walk down the street.

Now, I am pretty ridiculous-looking sober. I have relatively broad shoulders, a small waist, enormous hips, accordingly disproportionate ass and perpetual stubble. Combine all that with my meandering gate and there's chuckles galore for various squeegee kids and stupid drunk trollops out on the street. The only time I don't look a bit silly is when on drugs, at which point the marginally useful muscles of my lower extremities muster all their strength and I'm somehow able to be all normal times.

ID: Hello, Reason Why David Should Always Have Access to Street Drugs.
RWDSAHATSD: *crickets*

The opposite of this occurs when I've been drinking. Now, I've been known to yell at a bouncer or two when waiting to get into a club and they ask me if I've been drinking a lot. I usually yell at them about disabilities and how they might be able to ascertain the difference between inebriation and gimpiness had they not flunked Kindergarten 4 times. While this attempt to enlighten society about the everyday struggles of the differently abled may seem admirable, the fact is I'm usually drunk as the dickens. In this sloppy mess of a state, I am generally under the impression that I'm carrying myself off rather well only to reflect the next day and realize that I was an absolute shit show. 'That night proved to be no exception. Fortunately, the line at Buddies was so long that we just walked right on by and decided to go to a local watering hole where they have soft-core porn on the TVs and weekly Best Ass competitions. And we wonder why family values coalitions exist.

ID: Hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck.
EH: The bible says that a man and anot-...
ID: You shut your stupid whore mouth.

Now, I don't really recall what happened next. Something went down that I didn't see, but FAN, who had been all but letting me piggy back him as we walked far behind the other three, apparently saw someone making fun of me. Again, I didn't see this and frankly if I saw myself that night I probably would be making fun of me too, but regardless, we got into a cab and took it back to my apartment without telling the others. In retrospect, this seems strange. He kept saying stuff like, "I don't care about it. I just like you for you," and all this other noble stuff, which was all very well and good except that it was just kind of making things worse. God knows that if the whole 7 Deadly Sins thing really exists, I'm going down for all of them, but Pride, I suspect, would be the main culprit. I'm okay with feeling bad about myself; I don't need you to. I'm also inwardly suspicious of anyone that makes the 'it doesn't matter to me' assessment without really knowing me very well. Perhaps I'm overly cynical, but the ability to overlook something as fundamental as physical capability without having the affection that comes with time seems odd to me. It tends to place people in the Too Good To Be True folder.

So we arrive outside my apartment and get out of the cab when I realize that I left my coat at the bears' house. My coat with my keys in it. I full on drunk dialed my friend in the building and it went a little something like this:

Slumbering Jessica: Mmmm, hello...?
ID: Garflehumbghroh.
SJ: Um, hello?
ID: Jmessicarz.
SJ: David?
ID: Are jhou hawm?
SJ: No, I'm at the boyfriends'.
ID: FAAAAAWWWK. Sorwy, were shjou ashleep?
SJ: Kinda.
ID: Oh sit, I'm shorry. I left my shjacket at bye.

Oh yes, internet friends. You can proceed to be jealous of the people in my real life any time now.

I had this crazy notion that perhaps the initial martini had impaired me enough that I had forgotten to lock my apartment door, so after a few minutes we covertly (read: stumbley)followed someone else into the building and walked to my place only to find that Stupid Slighty Buzzed David had, in fact, had enough sense to lock his door. I suggested we jimmy the lock. FAN thought this was unwise. I considered breaking in from the outside by cutting the screen on the window I'd left open. He told me that this, too, was probably not my best move.

We got into another cab and returned to the bar where our earlier companions had wound up. My previous history with bouncers came full circle when I was told with no uncertainty that I would not be going inside. Rather than deriding his education and/or assumed tininess of genitalia, I slunk down onto the steps and waited outside while FAN went in to find the others. It is at moments like these that I feel like a small child again. Nicholas is the same age as I and yet the entire night I felt like his little brother or something, and now I was planted on the stoop outside a bar with his hoody, big woe-is-me eyes and an urge to pee very badly. Eventually, the others filed out and one of the bears went to get the car. Or both of them. They were gone a very long time so let's go with both of them. Meanwhile, FHM had picked up some groady Italian guy and they were sloppily making out on the sidewalk. For the record, watching two unattractive people kiss while you're drunk is a better laxative than Metamucil.

Finally, the auwhora borealis came back with the vehicle and all six of us piled in, with me perched on FAM's lap, hearkening back to my child-like awareness where I also forget that I am nearly 6' tall and weigh close to 160 lbs. My sullenness was lifted when the Disney sing-a-long begins and we all start wailing along to Les Poisons in various degrees of ability. FAN told me I had a nice voice, as if I needed more proof of his inebriation. While it is nice when I'm sober and beautiful when I'm high, my drunk voice sounds like the love child of Peewee Herman and Cookie Monster.

ID: Hello, Further Proof That I Was Raised By 80's Television.
FPTIWRB8T: Hello, Illustrious D.

After dropping off the aesthetically challenged couple and Bear #1, Bear #2 drove us back to FAN's place, all the while talking about the drama that befalls two tops in love and his massive junk. It was very skeezy and reminded me that I am so not of that hyper-gay reality and am probably just a straight guy with daddy issues. We went inside and I promptly stripped to my skivvies, poured myself a glass of water that I regrettably did not drink and and fell asleep in his bed. When I woke up, we were spooning and hung over. We talked for about half an hour, at which point I realized that I was naked. I do not know how or why this happened, though he was quite the gentleman about it, curling into a hedgehog ball while I covered my shame.

The adventure concluded around 2pm in the consumption of greasy pizza, delicious chicken bites and a limp of shame home to catch up on backlogged episodes of Brothers & Sisters until well past eleven that night. It may not have been my perfect night, but at least I didn't wind up with a nauseating guido. So there's that.

NEXT TIME: David ponders whether or not he wants to make good on his acceptance into the University of Toronto's consecutive bachelor of education program. For those who are of the opinion that I should never under any circumstances be permitted exercise influence around children, it's not looking good for you.

It's 6:00pm. Do you know where your crotch fruit are?

2010-04-10T21:22:00.002-04:00

So this is just a completely sober *shifty eyes* Saturday night shout out to Nick, the Cher-lovin', AF cap-sportin', iPod OCD-havin' flight attendant mentioned in the last post who did, in the end, go and read the post and was an absolute sweetheart about the whole thing and is taking my sorry excuse for an ass out dancing tonight. Nick, you're a muffin. And I promise not to post anything more about you on here. Until tomorrow.

Happy Fulbert of Chartres Feast Day, y'all!

Riding in Cars with Boys

2010-04-07T12:51:00.004-04:00

I just bit into an apple and the lower retainer that had been affixed to the back of my bottom teeth since I was twelve broke off. It was supposed to be removed in tenth grade but I stopped returning my orthodontist's calls the previous summer. Consummate professional, but awful lover. Also, I'm pretty sure I just heard my boss say, "That's retarded!" Ugh, so rude.

So the flight attendants...

On Thursday night, I agreed to go out with this guy that I had been sporadically talking with since January. The reason I finally took him up on his invitation? Because he'd offered to drive me and my suitcases from my apartment to the house sitting abode. I am a whore for non-public transportation. After dropping his friend off at a bar, it became apparent that this was not going my way when he suggested Tim Horton's as our destination. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress to a Dunkin' Donuts. This may be more than adequate for some people, but not this americano misto-sippin' G-star. He also chose to by-pass the location a mere block from us in favour of one 10 minutes away just so that he could use his friend's GPS. I'm still on backstory and already the Audible Sigh tag has taken the stage. Granted, he did treat me to my $1.50 cup o' joe (and I mean that; I accept any and all acts of chivalry), but the conversation was about as laborious as that Precious girl's saunter down the red carpet at the Oscars. Anyway, nothing much happened that evening, though he did drop by a couple nights later to hot tub and molest me. It's okay, y'all; I was wearing a really short skirt, so clearly asking for it.

Anyhow, this takes us to Monday. In the afternoon, some random starts talking to me on the msn. Turns out that this is the fellow we dropped off at the bar a few days prior and thought I was cute. I feel that 'cute' in this scenario is code for 'will stimulate the unfortunate looking if bored'. It became clear that the fact that I'd big spooned his friend two nights prior was not a deterant. Neither was loyalty, evidently. Anyway, it soon became evident that this man was reta-... really dumb. To illuminate, I offer this illustrated breakdown of his cranial output:

He kept talking about the two of them picking me and taking me for a drive (No, this is not leading to a three-way public indecency ticket). I received an "Okay, we're leaving now!" pretty much every hour on the hour for the entire afternoon. At 6 o'clock, I looked out the window and there they were, smoking cigarettes and sporting looks right out of an American Eagle markdown bin. For a moment I considered pretending not to be there, that they had the wrong address or that I was out or simply at Hogwarts, but I manned up, petted the kitty and walked outside. Our destination on this balmy Easter Monday eve? Bed shopping at The Brick.

Hear that sound? It's all 14 of my followers swooning in unison. I told them that there were some really great furniture places *cough* a few blocks away, not to mention a Leon's, but evidently the latter was too expensive and the former were not trustworthy as they are not chains (tragic foreshadowing). So we drive north for about 16 hours and the entire time, the newer flight attendant is playing DJ with his iPod. The only problem is that he is only interested in the three aforementioned divas and despite having upwards of 12 (not kidding) remixes of some tracks, cannot seem to find anything he likes. In the 35 minutes it took to get to the store, I'm pretty sure I heard three songs in completion. It was like

"Do you belie-eeve i-"

skip

"If I could tur-"

skip

"Do you be-"

skip

"Music! Makes the pe-"

skip

"Life is mys-"

skip

"Life is a mystery, ever-"

skip

"Life is a-"

Skip

"Life-"

skip

"Life-"

skip

"Cause I'm your laaaaaaaaady-"

skip

"This is a SONG FOR THE L-"

skip

"Life is-"

And so on. Hell, I know thee well. Eventually we reached the hallowed Brick, where the new one was talked into buying a $1,600 king-size bed. At first he protested, saying, "Oh but it's too big for just me," and then pouting in my general direction. You know when a fat person needs pants that are big enough to fit around their waist but they have no butt so they keep having to pull their pants up? Okay, if that's your situation, just go with the king-size. It's alright. No judgey. And you know when a person is so bad with money that they need to put their new mattress on an 8 month payment plan that requires on the spot credit approval? Okay, if that's your situation, you've made some poor choices. And lots o' judgey. But know what garners the most judgey? When you ask me whether your Abercrombie & Fitch baseball cap looks better forward or backward and then flip it around 7 times to fully illustrate. Hey, rotund effeminate men of the world: no.

Things went from bad to worse after I gracefully bit it while exiting the store and the Effeminable Snowman, thinking that I'd merely hurt myself, wanted to make light of the situation and began imitating my walk as he minced down the sidewalk. Naturally, he had no idea that this is actually my regular contribution to bringing sexy back, but still it wasn't awesome. I got pretty quiet after that. Then we got back in the car and drove around looking for a - wait for it - SWISS MUTHAFUKKIN CHALET. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress t-... Wait. There is no equivalent to the devil's own chicken shack. I suggested we go to the Greektown area, because the food is good and the people are hot, but mostly because I wanted to be closer to home when I made my escape.

"It's really nice, kind of like mom & pop bistros and bars all along one strip."

"Well, do any places around there have endless breadsticks?" asked my former tubmate.

"Um, n-..."

"Cause we ain't goin' nowhere without endless breadsticks..."

"Life is a myst-"

"...And dipping sauce."

After another hour of driving around in circles, they decided to meet four other friends for Korean BBQ. I took one look at what was sitting in the front seats, multiplied this by 3 and though, "Nargh, I'm out." Fortunately, it was at this time that my mother called and right on Jewish mother cue says, "Honey, what's wrong? You don't sound so good." I told her that I was out with some lovely new friends but that I was getting one of my chronic migraine attacks. "But you don't have mig-.." I hung up on her.

"Fellas. This has been nifty and memorable, but I'm feeling headachey. Is it okay if I jump out at, oh, say this subway stop that we're just happening to pass as I tell you this?"

Then I dove through the passenger window and called my mom, who laughed the entire time. What a bitch.

Yesterday, the nonsensical softness posted a comment which referred to me as grumpy and a self-proclaimed douchebag. Later, Kama over at Queer In the Mirror pondered about my real life personality versus the one that authors this blog and where the line falls. I told him somewhere in between, as I am generally more caustic and lively in the presence of close friends, but am nowhere near as racist. Some may know London Preppy, a Greek-British blogger who for many years was essentially the leader amonst gay hedonistic oversharers. His life revolved around his body, clothing and various prescription medicated adventures. It read like fiction and after several years he announced that much of it was. In the same way that he his not a complete narcissist, I am not that much of a douchebag as I seem to think. Details and emotions are just often exaggerated for dramatic/humoUr sake. Anyway, the point is that I maaaaaaay have given one of the flight attendants this blog address, so if you're reading, um, hi and I had a great time and, yeah, call me. Also, congrats on learning to read.

I am seriously pissed

2010-04-06T14:11:00.005-04:00

This Easter weekend was pretty pathetic, with me spending the majority of my time faux-convalescing in silk pj bottoms on my aunt and uncle's bed (house sitting again), catching up on streaming TV shows, searching in almost-vain to find a hot tubbing companion and eating more matzoh than my colon would like to admit. The final evening ended in near-suicide while in a car with two Cher-loving flight attendants. I will post a bitchatinous entry on this tomorrow as the wounds are too fresh, but in the meantime there's something pressing that I must address.

Some other d-bag has now given me one of these:

Look, people, I can't deal with this shiz. If you are going to give me praise I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOU.

Evidently, this recognition for writing about stupid shit that happens to me came with a caveat that I overlooked last time, specifically that the recipient is required to reveal five little/un known things about them. So as punishment to Ryan or Jason or Achmed, whoever writes soft nonsense, I'm gonna go all emo (shocking) in...

My 5 Purty Things 'Bout Me

1. Like, omg. I, too, also had really weird associations with chewing food on the same side! Lemme 'splain: First off, I always favoured the right side, so every pattern would have to finish on the right. I would start on the left and then go to the right (L-R), then the next time it would have to reverse so you wind up with (L-R, R-L), 'cept now I'm ending on the left so it then becomes (L-R-R-L, R-L-L-R) and the madness would continue. Some kids are molested by their Uncle Carl; I had eating algorithms. My point? We're all a bit fucked up.

2. Older readers will be familiar with the "Not So Tiny Tim" tag and newer readers are probably staying up wondering what the crap that's all about. Essentially, the NSTT tag denotes posts relating to a medical condition I have called CIDP. I gave a brief explanation about it here, so feel free to peruse at your leisure, but it pretty much boils down to this: I fall down a lot. Sometimes this is funny, more often it is just embarrassing. It doesn't really effect people around me that much, although witnessing one of my splendiforous tumbles is a friendship rite o' passage, but it pretty much informs every physical movement that I make. And for those asking why I can't get it together to rehabilitate my lazy ass, well, I have no answers for you. And also, shaddup.

3. I've never been in a long term relationship. I'll give you a moment to pick your jaw up off the floor and throw something at the gob that just smacked you. All done? Excellent. Unlike my inability to hold down an exercise routine as mentioned above, I really have no answers for you on this one. My friends (claim to) love me, I am constantly being told I'm good dating material and am routinely approached by suitors. Unfortunately, they tend to leave me pretty cold. I suffer from that awesome self-hating affliction of not having the slightest interest in a person once they've appeared interested in me. Clearly, this means that there is something wrong with them. We may be gearing up for spring clothing, but my subconscious self-loathing is in fashion year round!

4. The only reason I drink, do drugs or grope strangers is cause I am bored. Incidentally, preeeeeetty big factor in blog writing, too. This is why I will never be an addict. It's not that I love the sensation of being messed up or felt up all that much; I just have nothing better to do at that moment, which is clearly healthier than addiction...

5. The only time I cry is when watching melodramatic television shows. It only happens once or twice a year, usually after a period of duress and with many non-network show lead ups of misty eyes, usually while listening to Wicked. The last huge bawl came about a year ago (oh shit, I'm due!) during Grey's Anatomy, with a near-cry occurring a month ago while watching the Desperate Housewives where Linette dreams about having a gimpy son and how she forces him to be independent and made me all, "Why didn't my parents do that? Waaaaaah. Oh wait, why didn't I?..." In any case, ABC is responsible for a solid 1/4 of my Kleenex output. The rest? Fist babies.

Okay, now that that nonsense is over, I have to pass this on to 5 other bloggers. My way rebellious theme is Bloggers That Have Ridiculous Amounts of Followers and Will Never Read This In a Million Years. The buck stops with me! Also, they're awesome.

Livin the Dream - Cause there needs to be one straight guy that I read. Sorry, Achmed.

Steam Me Up, Kid... - Cause her dog is black and so am I.

30 is the new 13 - Cause 25 is the new 18. Until May 4th when I turn 26. Mark it in yo calenduhs, bitchezzzzzzz.

HAPSICAL - Cause it's a really awesome fashion blog and also I'm getting desperate.

ecostems - Cause this is the guy I went out with last weekend he seems half decent and three quarters sexeh.

Yeah, I got nothing left at this point. If I were a male orgasm, it's pretty much just be air and lint comin' out.

NEXT TIME: How many remixes of "Believe" is too much? Evidently, not 17.