Bath + Photography = Natural Fit

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

Good Trainer

(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]

Still Lazy, Still Unoriginal

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/

Lazy and Unoriginal

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

You're Welcome

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

What You Get For Being My Friend

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."

Sexeh Aminal Planet

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*

Je suis un dork

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

Super sweet rendering of future 20SB Badge

Some things to note:

- Racial diversity, including gingers

- Detail work in backgrounds

- Themified colours to match my blargh

- That girl's jawesome red office chair

- Hot guy on the right

And I walk beside him
With a centaur's step
Unlucky shoe trailing behind sure foot
Small worlds for balls in his feet
That turn and spin
As my head and mind follow suit

And I walk beside him
A LiveGhostJournal
Frying, small voice inquiring
After his proclaimer's resonance
Wondering if his secret is gifted to me
Or a cut and paste job
Control x, control v

The elevator's cautious simmer
Alive and sometimes well to this day
Belated
Perhaps the overflowing boil of 17
Now bruised and lacerated
Is biding, biding
Bidding on the future
Tense
Biting tongue
So that the whole truth is blood
Cornering mouth, coating lung
Wishing for his lips as serviettes
Dab once, dab twice
Chasing tail, like three blind mice
And I run to the carving knife
As I walk beside him

He is waiting for a bus. A transfer, actually, halfway between home and the people he's left behind, all of whom drove home to their sheltered little boxes. The lack of transportational assistance makes him feel both indignant and proud that he isn't like them. Couldn't be if he tried and right now he enjoys that, in no small part due to the unseasonably balmy weather. Also helping his mood is that he is at one of his favourite busstops. He thinks it odd to have preferred stops but then again this is hardly the most bizarre of his idiosyncrasies. This is one of those mega-stops where about two dozen buses stop, which always leads to a fascinating motley crew of people waiting around. The urban wannabe couples are a popular archetype tonight; the tall men in baggy pants with their petite lady friends wearing the opposite, but both in jackets with fur-lined collars. There is always a fair bit of affection, nothing too intimate, just some hugs and hair kisses, made all the more sweet due to the practical nature of body heat in winter. It would make him sick with jealousy if he for a moment wanted their lives. No, he prefers to stand alone. He feels alone, ever the observer. Sometimes he imagines himself at the bus stop where he is, acting as they act and it makes him smile, not because he finds it remotely appealing but rather because the idea of finding himself in this situation is ridiculous. Is there anything more counterproductive than a romantic defeatist? he wonders. He also stands alone to get a better look at the beautiful ones. Both genders may qualify, but rarely does a woman make the cut. She needs to stand out, through stature or dress, perhaps her nose. He finds himself staring at tall girls with pixie noses most often, quite the opposite of those waiting tonight. For the men he has much lower standards or perhaps he's just learned not to care as much. Once you've had your share of variety you become more forgiving towards clothing, mannerisms. While his eye naturally goes to the lanky, woolen coat-garbed hair product afficionados, he is always more intrigued by the blue collar types. He chastises this fetish as elitist but secretly loves the classist voyeurism. Bonus point for being short or wearing skateboard shoes; two for carrying a hockey stick. He likes to find the most intriguing one and stare as much as possible without being caught or noticed by the other soon-to-be passengers. Sometimes there are two and he must split his focus back and forth; a pervy tennis match, he thinks. For love. Tonight, however, his singular attention is drawn to one who meets the short requirement; spikey blond hair, eyes of a boy bander, sneakers. Close enough. The boy's posture is appaling, which is just fine. He loves flaws; makes it safer to have his own. Exchanging what he dislikes about himself is practically foreplay in the right setting. The wind picks up, chilly, filling the air not with scent so must as olfactory sensation. It is a feeling of smell, like if he could see with his mouth or taste with his ears. It is the wind that comes on a night when it is warmer than it should be and reminds you that this is your fortune and not your right, that you are existing in privilege within its warmth, bringing you down a few notches. It is the wind of tears, causing them to spring forward not only as the involuntary reaction to air on eye but also as a reminder that this moment is simply a compilation of these same winds which came before during actual memories. These were moments that will be remembered, not like this, a pathetic game played at a busstop to pass the time and to forget that he is standing there alone. As the water evaporates off of his eyes, his vision becomes clear once again and he sees the boy looking at him looking at the boy. He turns away and runs a gloves finger along his lashes, wiping the corpses of tears away. The bus pulls up.

It seems so simple, perhaps because it's so prevalent in the celluloid. Two actors on a screen with eyes locked, gazing lovingly, completely unaware that they are surrounded by some six billion others. That look is so intense, so private. Sometimes there would be the sweet, almost-corny-but-for-its-sincerity smile of infatuation or the stony intensity of passion so all-consuming that to break that gaze would be to die.

And yet, that's exactly what the boy did, this boy that sat across from him and the moment was done. It was an ill-fated moment that began with the best of intentions but devolved not long after its inception because of the boy's, and also his own, inability to hold the stare. It started as that blissful tension that comes before you kiss for the first time, if not the first time ever than after a substantial distance, sometimes all the more meaningful for the time elapsed. A hand - or even a toe - wanders closer, lightly touching, giving little hints that could be mad flirtation or nothing more than an innocent graze if, God forbid, the other person did not respond. Then, thankfully, fingers entwine and you find this most mundane body part inexplicably fascinating. Hands, for the most part, are not that different from one another; veins, joints, nails. But when you touch a new one for the first time...heaven.

Their hands lacing, knees began to slide, legs opening and then closing, wrapping around the other's waist like roots, holding them there, in place, facing one another. Eyes met, his searching his companion's for depth or understanding or any sign that this was organic and correct. And there it was, that movie star moment, as though they'd been frozen. Hairsprayed. Maximum hold. Then the boy cocked his eyebrow and he felt his own respond in kind. Damnit. The movie was done, the reel having caught fire and shriveled as this sign of innocent mockery was exchanged. Not mockery at each other (the rest of the night would prove this) but rather a sign that they were not a silver screen couple, that this intimacy was too much, perhaps just too soon, but in either case unsustainable. His companion, this boy, eyebrow still raised, pursed his lips like the star of a blaxploitation film and then looked away with a grin, and then finally foolishly leaned in for the kiss. It was lovely, always had been, but it was hardly Klimt. Hell, it was barely Sex & the City. Still, it felt good and as they walked to the bed, he was content. The Gables and Lombards were excellent fantasies, but he hadn't seen a true example thus far and was exhausted from looking. He was tired and this would do fine. His lips would burn the same the next morning, the smell of the boys hair still wafting off of his fingers well into the next afternoon.

A Waltz

I realize that lyrics mean next to nothing when read rather than heard, but his came to me as I was scanning my 3,000th legal land claim and writing it made me laugh.

HEY JOE

Joseph's come and gone
His success laying limp on the floor
The apology of lustful epiphany
And misbegotten form
Softly unappealing
Laughably kneeling
Almost turned his own trick
A boozy, hazy
do-not-want-but-i'm-lazy
That blew his divining stick

Hey Joe, wadda ya know?
A lot about lust tonight
The omniescent angel is nothing quite new
This act never turns out quite right
I'll stand up for you whenever you need
As I've layed down most times before
As you come and you go, come and go
And breathlessly fall to the floor

Oh me, Joe
Oh, my Joe
Mi hijo
Mojito

Oh me, Joe
Oh, my Joe
Mi hijo
How I grow

Rockstar
In the mirror, baby
Let me play at American Psycho
Rockstar
Deep in your lovin', honey
Don't you see just how this goes?

Joseph's come and gone
Far gone and out of town
Roaming the street for lost scraps of meat
No thought as he slowly slips down
What fun, this seduction
We all long for suction
From the ones we do adore
And when it's all over,
Then just play red rover
And paint crimson the living room floor

Because of the hope I had in that night. Because of the magic that comes with a first time experience with no expectations and complete honesty, where there is nothing to live up to nor to prove. Because there's a tragic elegance in realizing that you'll never have either again. Because of prophecies long thought dead being fulfilled. Because sickness makes you seem so much more important for a month than most people have for a lifetime. Because although I never truly believed it was about me, if I let myself forget that for a moment, I felt important. Because you're the only person I've ever known that's been both my whole world and meaningless at the same time. Because of how unique I realized we were when I just typed that. Because I also realized at the same time how fucked up beyond repair it was, too. Because you held a great beauty in your potential and even greater beauty in your failure. Because you showed me how to live while completely ignoring the laws of reality and because that forced me to see that your world isn't for me. Because sometimes it's good for all of us to feel simultaneously needed neglected, just for a while. Because although it was difficult to feel so awful so much of the time, it's still better than feeling nothing...

Happy anniversary, Max.

He sits cross-legged on the futon, the crumbs from last night’s pizza crusts harassing his thighs. Stares out the window as the boy sleeps in the other room with noises emitted from his nose indicating that his pulmonary system is enduring some ancient torture. A car drives by. It’s 2:28am on a Friday morning. There is only one explanation for being on the road right now, he thinks: a night of debauchery has just ended. With each passing car, he tries to guess what form the debauchery took. He sees the sports bar Sunfire, the coked-out Chrysler, the booty call Buick. He wonders why we reserve these activities for night time, as though we still feel residual shame from before the revolution. Night shields and protects from admitting the dirty, pretty things we lust after; they don’t have a place in reality. Not yet. We haven’t evolved that far and even so, far less than we think we have. This is that awful refractory period between explosion and recovery, when we understand what we’ve done but are unable to move forward. The marijuana Mitsubishi. His mind wanders back to the boy, barely legal, sleeping in his bed. From this angle, all he can see is a corner of the white bed, an athletic foot leading up to a peach-fuzzed calve. He’s nice enough. Not bad to look at either. Certainly enough to get hard over. Still, despite that stiffness at the memory, it’s clear the boy won’t be treading deeply in his path of life. For each other, they are merely momentary distractions, hedonistic and appropriately shallow. When one is waiting for the intensity of a butane flame, these small Bic lighters are necessary along the way, otherwise one would go insane from the anticipation. The hook-up Honda. Despite his daylight convictions, at times like this he debates whether this freedom is actually weakness, the antithesis to the nobility of chastity. Vows to the latter have been made in the past. They never last long. It’s all too attainable these days. It’s not as though these adult recesses distract him from his goals. He’s ensured that they’re completely unobtrusive, like mistresses that go down back stairs to avoid wives, never to meet. He’s heard this makes for better husbands. He hopes it’s true, that this metaphor will hold true. The groping Grand Am. He thinks about the date he went on last week, how the guy wasn’t all that special and yet within the first five minutes of drinking their tea, he just wanted to crawl into bed and hold him. Fuck the foreplay; let’s cuddle. And the next day, the amount of energy it took to limit his painfully cute and impossibly endearing text message to less than 150 characters, the panic when there wasn’t an instant reply, the relief at awakening to one, and for what? Someone he wasn’t even really into. Time to reassess. This should be easier for him. And yet, despite the encouragement of friends that “you haven’t met someone good enough for you yet,” and that he feels his standards have been sufficiently lowered, there’s been nothing for years. He’s slipping, beginning the all-too-familiar descent into pity and doubt. The hummer Hummer; an internal smile at his joke. Nope. Not doing this. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make diamonds out of coal. He opens them, takes a deep breath as his vision readjusts and walks to the bedroom doorway. The boy, demonstrably awake, gives him a smile of unmistakable intent. He closes the door.

Each and every one of us have them in us, these devils and gods that have died in the near or distant future and, with frequency or sporadic movement, traverse across the highways, byways, causeway of the coils in our head. We don’t control them, at least not without chemicals, prescribed or otherwise. Like a play I’ve seen a million times, these stock figures visit me with varying degrees of frequency and trauma, never asking permission to ruin a day or lift up the corners of my mouth. Sometimes that lack of announcement or invitation pisses me off and I simmer over their presence, but for the big players, I’ve just come to accept their permanent tenancy. I have the most compassion for the ones I’ve cried over. Tears are generally a once-a-year ritual brought on by an incredibly compacted period of emotion, and frankly, I hate it, not in a shameful way, but rather the physical sensations of that release are so abhorrent to me. Unforgivable, in fact, if you’re the catalyst. Now, I can never forgive you, truly, incapable of it no matter how much I want to rebuild the pavement, but because of it, your devils and gods are much safer in bed for that fact. No unexpected weekend visit to my cerebellum could ever be worse than that feeling, like someone has taken a huge needle and thread with a knot in it and stuck it through my chest, with only the knot on the outside, and the needle forcing it to break on over to the other side. Sticks and stones got nothing on an internal needle trying to implode a rib cage. So the memorial day trippers don’t usually bother me that much. Sometimes they’re even enjoyable in a masochistic kind of way, our devils. Your devil is different than mine is different hers is different from theirs. Cause every man, even if he’s straight as an arrow, has a hard on for the devil.

To Demetreus

I walked through our park tonight. Just now, in fact. I was walking home from seeing a rock show with my friends in the village. I have no clue if you liked rocked music or if you even do now. All I know of your musical taste is that you loved Mozart and found Bach dull. I thought you were crazy. Turns out not so much; I now find that Mozart is beyond fascinating and that Bach, well, he can drag on a bit, can't he? Regardless, neither of them are rock 'n roll so that doesn't help me.

I imagine that if you were ever to read this, which you most assuredly won't, you would hasitate at the opening statement. What park? We had a park? Show me park. No, never in our fewer-than-a-handful of times seeing one another did we venture into a park. Not on that first night which plunged me so deep I was a zombie the following day. Not on our second night, which was little more than a requiem for my heart. (You know, I still can't watch that movie to this day? I tried, for the first time, last week, hoping that my chemically-enhanced state would aid in the matter. I told the best friend that my companion was tired and that was why we only watched the first twenty minutes or so. This wasn't a lie, but even still, I couldn't have managed much longer.) And we certainly never went to a park when I saw you with Him at a club that summer and the only thing you could offer was an anemic smile.

So yes, dear boy, you are correct, there was no park for you. Oh, but how there was for me.

This was in the days of the early sonnets, when my Shakespearean acrostics were little more than immature odes to your supposed beauty. I only had you pictured based on the spikey orange hair and bright blue shirt so vivid in your msn display pic, like Sonic the Hedgehog gone auburn for the season. Hardly the medium for high inspiration, but those are the times we live in, no? There is a park, The Park, on River avenue right by Scott street. I'd never been in there, and yet that was where my mind decided that we would meet. It would be slightly misty, not quite drizzling, in the way that May evenings can be in Winnipeg. There would be umbrellas involved. I wasn't entirely clear on whose it or they were, but no umbrella would actually have been opened, as even in my still-developing romantic 19 year old mind, lovers in the rain didn't use umbrellas, even if they were close at hand. I was foggy on how we would have progressed from the first glance to the inevitable Kiss (by which point, naturally, it would have been a torential lovers' downpour), but I wasn't worried; it would happen in whatever way necessary.

Only it didn't. The Kiss happened, of course. Oh dear god, how it happened, the seat dropping away, leaving me suspended in mid-air. I don't remember your lips so much as that floating, that weightless haze that stayed with me for a year afterwards. I almost wish it hadn't had happened. I say "almost" as I could never really change anything, knowing who I became. I suppose I should be happy that I'm so content with my current self that I wouldn't erase the most painful thing I've ever known, but it's little comfort at 2:17 in the morning. I don't need to regret in order to still love you to this day for that Moment and to likewise dispise you for what you stole in it, as you truly did steal. Yes, it may have been unwitting, a biblical Benjamining, if you will. But Sweet Thief, you stole me but good. It took months to undo what you did in that one night, and even after that, to this day, I'm not really healed. That's fine. I don't need to be. Perhaps I make wiser decisions for it, or at least safer ones, although they're hardly the same thing. I've come to accept that there was absolutely nothing rational in My Fall nor in the theoretical recovery. Thinking about you weekly, usually more, is irrational given that you really only provided me with four hours of happiness. However, time was never really a factor in anything we did and those four hours encapsulated an entire lifetime of Disney and Grimm before it. They were everything I had ever thought I could conceive and receive. Everything. Except that they did not occur whilest in a park, let alone that park. And yet everytime I drive by there, I've thought of you, usually just in passing, but sometimes more and tonight perhaps more than I have in years.

So I walked through it and it was lovely. Truly the modern Rembrant I had always pictured. The swings I imagined you sitting on when I would have arrived were angled slightly differently and yes, I admit they were actually baby swings, not that it matters. I walked to that spot, four years after I was supposed to, and turned slowly, getting a perfect 360 view, so I could say that now in my mind, I would forever know what it would really have looked like on that night in the rain.

Fuck.

"You see what you did?!" I wanted to scream, and yet I already knew the answer. I always have.