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.
Showing posts with label Lysander's Travels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lysander's Travels. Show all posts
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
More like MegaFUN (Part 2)
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.
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)
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
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.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Loner Week - Day 1: Jaundiced Swan Lake
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Tableau Deux
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 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.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Winnipeg Recap, Now With Murally Goodness
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Miami Strikes Back (Part II)
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.
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.
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NEXT TIME: Auntie micro-manages brunch; Grandmother owns me at rummy; Daddy's dinner comes in a duck decoy.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Miami Strikes Back (Part I)
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.
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.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Ernest Hemingway Had ED, too!
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.
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.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Inappropriate Dad: So what's going on with your hair?
Illustrious D: What?
ID: Your hair. What are you doing with it?
ID-
Wait. This isn't going to work. SON OF A BITCH. MY FIRST DAY BACK TO BLOGGING AND THIS IS THE SHIT I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH?
Blue ocean, gentle rain, cries of small children...Ok, I'm back.
Aging Hungarian: So what's going on with your hair?
Illustrious D: What?
AH: Your hair. What are you doing with it?
ID: Nothing...
AH: But how did you get more of it?
ID: Dad, what the hell are you talking about?
AH: What? It looks fuller somehow. That's all I'm saying.
ID: I have an awesome stylist and I've found the product combo that works for me.
AH: So you didn't get any, uh...?
ID: No, dad. I didn't have any folicular surgeries, if that's what you're getting at.
AH: Well, good. So why don't you have someone in your life?
ID [to self]: Fuck me...
AH: Is it that you just aren't interested in dating? Or have you just not found the right person yet? I mean, why don't guys want to date you?
ID: Trust me, when I find out myself, you'll be the first to know.
AH: I mean, seriously, what's the matter with these guys? You're way better looking than most of them. You must be able to have your pick of the lot. What's wrong them?
ID: You've clearly never been to Church St.
AH: I don't need to go to Church St. I can tell you that you're better than average looking and it's time for them to wake up and take notice.
ID: I don't know what to tell you, Dad.
AH: Well, work on that. Also, we're putting Finnigan down.
My family has decided to put down my asshole of a dog, Finnigan. While undeniably moppy and cute now that we've stopped going to the effort of grooming him, this dog is the biggest dick you'll ever meet. He'll be all cuddly and fine one minute and then just go off on someone the next, snarling before rushing them and then usually going for their feet. What a motherfucking winner. Clearly, nobility in battle is a trait not found anywhere in my family's dynasty. Evidently, the brochures we read on Wheaten Terriers before getting Finnigan did not include "Giant Douche" on their list of breed characteristics. According to the behaviour specialist at the Humane Society, his aggression will only get worse if moved to a new environment so giving him away is not really an option, nor, despite my adamant suggestions, is providing a wide range of steel-toed stompers to our numerous house guests. So it's nighty night for Kujo.
I'm not really that sad about it. In addition to mental health akin to Naomi Cambell's, Finnigan's just kind of a pain in the ass. He's home all day in his kennel, no one really wants to walk him and he eats dehydrated powdered meat and rice balls. His life fucking sucks. I took him out on Saturday for what I suspect was the last time and he was just so happy frolicking in the snow for the 180 seconds before I took him back in. Living your life, a dog's life though it may be, for approximately ten minutes out of your day is a pretty shitty way of living. Our family has many accomplishments but we just outright failed at Dog. Even my aunt has stated her belief that our dog is depressed at his own lifestyle. I just think we need to cut bait on this one. Conversely, my younger brother is having a rather strong emotional reaction (read: moping around like a little bitch), which I'm secretly hoping will usher him into his Sylvia Plath phase.
In other news, my other brother narrowly avoided death in Chile and I'm a big whore when I go home for visits.
HAPPY BELATED PURIM, MAFUKAS!
Illustrious D: What?
ID: Your hair. What are you doing with it?
ID-
Wait. This isn't going to work. SON OF A BITCH. MY FIRST DAY BACK TO BLOGGING AND THIS IS THE SHIT I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH?
Blue ocean, gentle rain, cries of small children...Ok, I'm back.
Aging Hungarian: So what's going on with your hair?
Illustrious D: What?
AH: Your hair. What are you doing with it?
ID: Nothing...
AH: But how did you get more of it?
ID: Dad, what the hell are you talking about?
AH: What? It looks fuller somehow. That's all I'm saying.
ID: I have an awesome stylist and I've found the product combo that works for me.
AH: So you didn't get any, uh...?
ID: No, dad. I didn't have any folicular surgeries, if that's what you're getting at.
AH: Well, good. So why don't you have someone in your life?
ID [to self]: Fuck me...
AH: Is it that you just aren't interested in dating? Or have you just not found the right person yet? I mean, why don't guys want to date you?
ID: Trust me, when I find out myself, you'll be the first to know.
AH: I mean, seriously, what's the matter with these guys? You're way better looking than most of them. You must be able to have your pick of the lot. What's wrong them?
ID: You've clearly never been to Church St.
AH: I don't need to go to Church St. I can tell you that you're better than average looking and it's time for them to wake up and take notice.
ID: I don't know what to tell you, Dad.
AH: Well, work on that. Also, we're putting Finnigan down.
My family has decided to put down my asshole of a dog, Finnigan. While undeniably moppy and cute now that we've stopped going to the effort of grooming him, this dog is the biggest dick you'll ever meet. He'll be all cuddly and fine one minute and then just go off on someone the next, snarling before rushing them and then usually going for their feet. What a motherfucking winner. Clearly, nobility in battle is a trait not found anywhere in my family's dynasty. Evidently, the brochures we read on Wheaten Terriers before getting Finnigan did not include "Giant Douche" on their list of breed characteristics. According to the behaviour specialist at the Humane Society, his aggression will only get worse if moved to a new environment so giving him away is not really an option, nor, despite my adamant suggestions, is providing a wide range of steel-toed stompers to our numerous house guests. So it's nighty night for Kujo.
I'm not really that sad about it. In addition to mental health akin to Naomi Cambell's, Finnigan's just kind of a pain in the ass. He's home all day in his kennel, no one really wants to walk him and he eats dehydrated powdered meat and rice balls. His life fucking sucks. I took him out on Saturday for what I suspect was the last time and he was just so happy frolicking in the snow for the 180 seconds before I took him back in. Living your life, a dog's life though it may be, for approximately ten minutes out of your day is a pretty shitty way of living. Our family has many accomplishments but we just outright failed at Dog. Even my aunt has stated her belief that our dog is depressed at his own lifestyle. I just think we need to cut bait on this one. Conversely, my younger brother is having a rather strong emotional reaction (read: moping around like a little bitch), which I'm secretly hoping will usher him into his Sylvia Plath phase.
In other news, my other brother narrowly avoided death in Chile and I'm a big whore when I go home for visits.
HAPPY BELATED PURIM, MAFUKAS!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Mommy: How did you sleep?
Illustrious D: Most excellently. Cold room, warm comforters.
M: Oh, good. I put an extra blanket on just in case.
ID: There was an extra one?
M: Yes, the coloured blanket.
ID: Uh, mom? They're called African-American blankets now.
I went home for the weekend to rehearse with a group I perform with/at. This was a surprise for my parents, and my mother, upon opening the door to find me standing there, emitted a sound pitched so high that our dog Finnigan immediately went into heat. The weekend was spent mostly in rehearsals, with the odd tipping of the hat and the bottle to old friends. As no medications, prescriptions or otherwise, seem to be on the horizon, I've rededicated myself to alcoholism. Fortunately, I tend to have friends that share this passion, though none quite at my level, thereby allowing me to feel enabled and superior at the same time. I'm not beating an addiction; I'm winning at it.
While home, I was also propositioned by an old one-sided lover who got me all worked up and then requested that we postpone until the next day. Here is the thing about trying to get with someone who tries hard to be virtuous but is fundamentally weak: we will give in only in the moment. Any attempts at sexual procrastination will be rebuffed. This is not community college; you cannot defer entrance. (That joke would work so much better if I was a bottom.) If you get us all jonesin' and then back off, we're not going to wait until the next night because by then we'll have regained our moral compass or at least what's left of it. Rather we will sit at home all blue balled until some random messages us for a 'cuddle' (read: chew on a nipple*) and then totally go cause I was bored and it was Valentine's Day and I'm unlovable! Or something. Ugh, I don't even have the energy to reprimand myself for being occasionally ho-ey.
* I also learned that under NO circumstances do I enjoy being the little spoon.
Illustrious D: Most excellently. Cold room, warm comforters.
M: Oh, good. I put an extra blanket on just in case.
ID: There was an extra one?
M: Yes, the coloured blanket.
ID: Uh, mom? They're called African-American blankets now.
I went home for the weekend to rehearse with a group I perform with/at. This was a surprise for my parents, and my mother, upon opening the door to find me standing there, emitted a sound pitched so high that our dog Finnigan immediately went into heat. The weekend was spent mostly in rehearsals, with the odd tipping of the hat and the bottle to old friends. As no medications, prescriptions or otherwise, seem to be on the horizon, I've rededicated myself to alcoholism. Fortunately, I tend to have friends that share this passion, though none quite at my level, thereby allowing me to feel enabled and superior at the same time. I'm not beating an addiction; I'm winning at it.
While home, I was also propositioned by an old one-sided lover who got me all worked up and then requested that we postpone until the next day. Here is the thing about trying to get with someone who tries hard to be virtuous but is fundamentally weak: we will give in only in the moment. Any attempts at sexual procrastination will be rebuffed. This is not community college; you cannot defer entrance. (That joke would work so much better if I was a bottom.) If you get us all jonesin' and then back off, we're not going to wait until the next night because by then we'll have regained our moral compass or at least what's left of it. Rather we will sit at home all blue balled until some random messages us for a 'cuddle' (read: chew on a nipple*) and then totally go cause I was bored and it was Valentine's Day and I'm unlovable! Or something. Ugh, I don't even have the energy to reprimand myself for being occasionally ho-ey.
* I also learned that under NO circumstances do I enjoy being the little spoon.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Adventures in Winnipeg
Being home has been lovely. A time for friends, family and constipation. For the first five days of my vaca here I expelled waste exactly twice. That...is a lot of blockage.
Last Sunday was an extended family dinner which quickly devolved into a debaucherous booze fest once the Mennonite card games were brought out. My cousin was mixing me martinis all night and by the time the grownups left around 10:30 I was well in the bag. By midnight, I had compiled a list entitled, "Things that would make me put a ring on it" and thrown up all over the kitchen table mid-laugh. Vermouth in the nose...not fun. Much else is a blur until my brothers got me home at which point I began emptying the contents of my stomach into the main floor bathroom. A firm believer in equity, I then crawled up the stairs and ralphed in the upstairs loo. After throwing up a solid quart of vodka, my body had nothing left to give and began heaving in all sorts of directions. It was at this moment that my bowels graciously decided to relieve me of the previous two days' build up. I will spare you, my reader(s?) the delicate details of this evacuation but it ends with me calling my 19 year old brother into the bathroom and demanding that he "draw a bath." I managed to crawl to the tub and after properly washing away the vomit and shame, I then required his help to lift me out of the bath (while I one-handedly concealed my junk; boy's gotta have some modesty) and he escorted me to bed. He then, at my request, brought me water and a pail, cleaned up the bathroom and did my laundry. He was truly a champ. Well, runner-up champ. The true champ was me who, having completely expelled all the alcohol from his body, woke up hang-over free the next day.
I am a magical being.
New Year's was fine yet sorta lame. It would have been far worse had I not had zero expectations. I went to a house party (Q: does it count as a party if the only organizational element is a table on which to place the booze?) and I was the first one to arrive. Well, not the first exactly, but the first of my ilk. Ya see, our host for the evening is a lovely boy from a small town with a fetish on for opera and separate friendship groups to match this dichotomy. By the time I got there, the small town contingent, which I will delicately label "urbanely-challenged," were already a dozen strong and in various states of world hockey juniors frenzy and inebriation. Fortunately, I was shortly joined by Mikey J and we awkwardly sat on a couch as the women whispered drunkenly (read: talked) in one corner while the men ("men"?) set up an elaborate game involving two bar stools roughly three meters apart, two empty beer cups and a Frisbee. Guess what the goal was. Take your time.
Eventually, my music peeps showed up and we segregated ourselves upstairs, modestly drinking and playing Apples to Apples. This was fine, but it just kind of felt like any old Thursday night. Even midnight was kinda lame as no one could find a television channel in our time zone with a countdown. Someone just kinda started mumbling, "10...9..." and then we all blew our noise makers with all the gusto of a pre-Viagra octogenarian. I had also decided to participate in the Great Decongestant Experiment, Part 2 and had downed three of those puppies. Unfortunately, they just kinda made me restless and caustic, which occasionally drew laughs, but generally I suspect that I was just a big bitch. I'm still down for a third and final attempt in some sort of club setting, but should that prove unremarkable, it's strictly back to street narcotics. That's a promise.
In other news, I made the mistake of telling the little Portuguese that I tend to only be interested in guys that don't reciprocate my feelings so he shouldn't act overly interested. He responded by acting no less available but rather has taken to frequently calling me 'cockweed'. This one may be a keeper.
Last Sunday was an extended family dinner which quickly devolved into a debaucherous booze fest once the Mennonite card games were brought out. My cousin was mixing me martinis all night and by the time the grownups left around 10:30 I was well in the bag. By midnight, I had compiled a list entitled, "Things that would make me put a ring on it" and thrown up all over the kitchen table mid-laugh. Vermouth in the nose...not fun. Much else is a blur until my brothers got me home at which point I began emptying the contents of my stomach into the main floor bathroom. A firm believer in equity, I then crawled up the stairs and ralphed in the upstairs loo. After throwing up a solid quart of vodka, my body had nothing left to give and began heaving in all sorts of directions. It was at this moment that my bowels graciously decided to relieve me of the previous two days' build up. I will spare you, my reader(s?) the delicate details of this evacuation but it ends with me calling my 19 year old brother into the bathroom and demanding that he "draw a bath." I managed to crawl to the tub and after properly washing away the vomit and shame, I then required his help to lift me out of the bath (while I one-handedly concealed my junk; boy's gotta have some modesty) and he escorted me to bed. He then, at my request, brought me water and a pail, cleaned up the bathroom and did my laundry. He was truly a champ. Well, runner-up champ. The true champ was me who, having completely expelled all the alcohol from his body, woke up hang-over free the next day.
I am a magical being.
New Year's was fine yet sorta lame. It would have been far worse had I not had zero expectations. I went to a house party (Q: does it count as a party if the only organizational element is a table on which to place the booze?) and I was the first one to arrive. Well, not the first exactly, but the first of my ilk. Ya see, our host for the evening is a lovely boy from a small town with a fetish on for opera and separate friendship groups to match this dichotomy. By the time I got there, the small town contingent, which I will delicately label "urbanely-challenged," were already a dozen strong and in various states of world hockey juniors frenzy and inebriation. Fortunately, I was shortly joined by Mikey J and we awkwardly sat on a couch as the women whispered drunkenly (read: talked) in one corner while the men ("men"?) set up an elaborate game involving two bar stools roughly three meters apart, two empty beer cups and a Frisbee. Guess what the goal was. Take your time.
Eventually, my music peeps showed up and we segregated ourselves upstairs, modestly drinking and playing Apples to Apples. This was fine, but it just kind of felt like any old Thursday night. Even midnight was kinda lame as no one could find a television channel in our time zone with a countdown. Someone just kinda started mumbling, "10...9..." and then we all blew our noise makers with all the gusto of a pre-Viagra octogenarian. I had also decided to participate in the Great Decongestant Experiment, Part 2 and had downed three of those puppies. Unfortunately, they just kinda made me restless and caustic, which occasionally drew laughs, but generally I suspect that I was just a big bitch. I'm still down for a third and final attempt in some sort of club setting, but should that prove unremarkable, it's strictly back to street narcotics. That's a promise.
In other news, I made the mistake of telling the little Portuguese that I tend to only be interested in guys that don't reciprocate my feelings so he shouldn't act overly interested. He responded by acting no less available but rather has taken to frequently calling me 'cockweed'. This one may be a keeper.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
New York.../Chicago?
Sunday morning at 5:00 I flew to New York for an open house & preliminary interview at HUC. The flights were fairly uneventful as I slept the entire time and didn't get stranded overnight. Upon arrival at Laguardia, wily Jew that I am, I took a shared shuttle van into Manhattan at a fraction of the cost for a cab. What I didn't anticipate was waiting an hour for it to show up, being crammed in with 9 other passengers and having a driver who verged on abusive. He was like one of those psychotically-protective/abusive husbands you see on Maury that can just snap at a moment's notice. Everyone in the van was soft-spoken, extreeeeeeemely white and most were over 70. These factors made getting yelled at collectively by the driver almost comical. We developed this group mentality of survival, comforting each other in extremely hushed whispers when someone would get the verbal smack down and when one of us would reach their destination, we'd all smile, as if to say, "You survived! Huzzah!" and they would return the smile, meaning, "This, too, shall pass."
Finally, at the 2 hour mark, I got out of the van and cabbed the rest of the way. The $11.50 was well spent to get off of the Hell-mobile and it got me to the door of HUC just as the meet & greet (with snacks!) was beginning. We were given a tour of the school, dinner and an exercise in interpreting Jewish law, which left me more than a little bewildered ("I just want to SING," he said). There was an evening prayer service that got me all choked up, perhaps due to all these people being moved by the same (or at least a similar) spirit and looking really happy about it. I felt like a kid who was allowed into his older brother's tree house for the first time and didn't really know how to react. Though certainly not intentional, it was ironically isolating. I went home that night feeling incredibly confused about the whole day, with more questions than I'd had before.
The school had matched me up with a current student for a home stay, a third year student living in Brooklyn. Also staying with her was a 19 year old from Phillie who was, well, 19, and we all know how well I do with 19 year-olds. What is it about teenagers that fuels them to try to impress their elders with knowledge? First of all, we know more than you and secondly, a lot of times the info you're trying to impress us with is wrong. Epic fail: adolescence. He had me up past midnight watch Daily Show clips on my laptop. Ach, well, look...
The following day was significantly better. After a day of sitting in on classes, talking with current students, personal meetings with admissions staff and a kick ass salad lunch, I was much more at ease. The thing that really impressed me is how much the faculty really wants success for their students. The hoops that are presented for jumping are not put in place to intimidate but rather as a means to develop necessary skills. Novel concept, no? I'm still a little wary of the Kumbaya-esque element of the services, but I'll either get on board or learn to adapt. In the end, I got the green light to go ahead and apply, which is why I went in the first place, so yay. I also talked to the most adorable lad who gave reeeeeeeeally good eye contact (holding a gaze is up there with oysters on the aphrodisiac scale) and also gave me this secret handshake in which the index finger is extended during the grip. I remember learning this one but I can't remember for the life of me if it was a Jewish thing or a gay thing. Given the venue, I should probably opt for the former, but damn, pretty eyes.
That night, my host and I grabbed some Thai for dinner and had a great time talking about the school, Judaism, personal history. It's so delightful to connect with someone when in this kind of completely isolated environment. This conversation really added to the good vibes I'd caught at the school that day and that this was very much a Come-as-you-are kind of place, where individualism is embraced. How many faith-based institutions can claim that?
That night, I volunteered at their soup kitchen (I'm an asshole, but helping clothe the homeless and working with volunteers at the Fringe felt a lot alike) and then went for Thai food with my hostess, who is an absolute delight and that dinner was probably a big part of why I'm feeling so positive about applying. These really are very down-to-Earth, rational people who have chosen the clergy as a profession; they have shades of gray. They have their own personal morals but the level of autonomy is really quite astounding.
The next day, I flew to Chicago to transfer to Winnipeg, so of course the flight was cancelled. Satan, thy name is United Airlines. I therefore had a 27-hour layover in Chicago, staying at the lovely and decrepit Wyndham O'Hare (the skid row of airport hotels) and was given one meal voucher valued at $15 during my stay, to be used all at once at one of the astronomically expensive airport eateries. Hellooooo, $9.35 pannini! That night, after much hemming und hawing, I took the train into the city to visit Boystown, the first nationally recognized Ghay Ghetto in the US. It was rainy and deserted. The highlight of my night was a spontaneous Spice Girls sing-a-long by the table next to me at one of the homo restos. It was cute, innocent and didn't involve anonymous sex or narcotics, so big ups. In all, the trip took 5 hours, less than 2 of which were spent actually doing anything. Still, better than sitting in a shiztastic hotel room all night.
The next day, I went to the airport, used $14.78 of my voucher at Quizno's and went home. I feel like I have not slept in 3 years.
Also, last night I ran into, or more accurately avoided running into, a former of mine at Starbucks. This is one of those painfully awkward situations wherein you both know that the other is there and yet you pretend not to notice. At one point, he passed me while on the way to throwing out his cup and did this weird, sound effect-aided jump and half-salute/half-shielding of his face (designed to be playful?). I couldn't help but think, Really? Is this what we're going now? It was 7 years ago. 7 years. For 3 weeks. Like, c'mon. This is Winnipeg, a city wherein you have heard of most everyone before you even start dating them. The pool is that small. The thing that kills me is that if we had met now, 7 years after the fact, we'd probably get along really well. I've had that line from Jesus Christ Superstar in my head all day: Can we start again, please? What an insipidly futile question. It's been done already, like overcooked meat that can never be remoistened. Wow. That was the single worst metaphor I've ever thought up. Still, it kinda makes sense. Ish. The point is, there's no real going back after you've written an angsty adolescent song about them, complete with ever-so-clever homonymical allusions to their name. There's no relationship mulligan, no green 'Back' button. Ooh, but imagine if there was! You could click the adjacent arrow and pick the exact spot you'd want to return to!...
*cough*
Ok, maybe I am just as neurotic as I was at 17.
Finally, at the 2 hour mark, I got out of the van and cabbed the rest of the way. The $11.50 was well spent to get off of the Hell-mobile and it got me to the door of HUC just as the meet & greet (with snacks!) was beginning. We were given a tour of the school, dinner and an exercise in interpreting Jewish law, which left me more than a little bewildered ("I just want to SING," he said). There was an evening prayer service that got me all choked up, perhaps due to all these people being moved by the same (or at least a similar) spirit and looking really happy about it. I felt like a kid who was allowed into his older brother's tree house for the first time and didn't really know how to react. Though certainly not intentional, it was ironically isolating. I went home that night feeling incredibly confused about the whole day, with more questions than I'd had before.
The school had matched me up with a current student for a home stay, a third year student living in Brooklyn. Also staying with her was a 19 year old from Phillie who was, well, 19, and we all know how well I do with 19 year-olds. What is it about teenagers that fuels them to try to impress their elders with knowledge? First of all, we know more than you and secondly, a lot of times the info you're trying to impress us with is wrong. Epic fail: adolescence. He had me up past midnight watch Daily Show clips on my laptop. Ach, well, look...
The following day was significantly better. After a day of sitting in on classes, talking with current students, personal meetings with admissions staff and a kick ass salad lunch, I was much more at ease. The thing that really impressed me is how much the faculty really wants success for their students. The hoops that are presented for jumping are not put in place to intimidate but rather as a means to develop necessary skills. Novel concept, no? I'm still a little wary of the Kumbaya-esque element of the services, but I'll either get on board or learn to adapt. In the end, I got the green light to go ahead and apply, which is why I went in the first place, so yay. I also talked to the most adorable lad who gave reeeeeeeeally good eye contact (holding a gaze is up there with oysters on the aphrodisiac scale) and also gave me this secret handshake in which the index finger is extended during the grip. I remember learning this one but I can't remember for the life of me if it was a Jewish thing or a gay thing. Given the venue, I should probably opt for the former, but damn, pretty eyes.
That night, my host and I grabbed some Thai for dinner and had a great time talking about the school, Judaism, personal history. It's so delightful to connect with someone when in this kind of completely isolated environment. This conversation really added to the good vibes I'd caught at the school that day and that this was very much a Come-as-you-are kind of place, where individualism is embraced. How many faith-based institutions can claim that?
That night, I volunteered at their soup kitchen (I'm an asshole, but helping clothe the homeless and working with volunteers at the Fringe felt a lot alike) and then went for Thai food with my hostess, who is an absolute delight and that dinner was probably a big part of why I'm feeling so positive about applying. These really are very down-to-Earth, rational people who have chosen the clergy as a profession; they have shades of gray. They have their own personal morals but the level of autonomy is really quite astounding.
The next day, I flew to Chicago to transfer to Winnipeg, so of course the flight was cancelled. Satan, thy name is United Airlines. I therefore had a 27-hour layover in Chicago, staying at the lovely and decrepit Wyndham O'Hare (the skid row of airport hotels) and was given one meal voucher valued at $15 during my stay, to be used all at once at one of the astronomically expensive airport eateries. Hellooooo, $9.35 pannini! That night, after much hemming und hawing, I took the train into the city to visit Boystown, the first nationally recognized Ghay Ghetto in the US. It was rainy and deserted. The highlight of my night was a spontaneous Spice Girls sing-a-long by the table next to me at one of the homo restos. It was cute, innocent and didn't involve anonymous sex or narcotics, so big ups. In all, the trip took 5 hours, less than 2 of which were spent actually doing anything. Still, better than sitting in a shiztastic hotel room all night.
The next day, I went to the airport, used $14.78 of my voucher at Quizno's and went home. I feel like I have not slept in 3 years.
Also, last night I ran into, or more accurately avoided running into, a former of mine at Starbucks. This is one of those painfully awkward situations wherein you both know that the other is there and yet you pretend not to notice. At one point, he passed me while on the way to throwing out his cup and did this weird, sound effect-aided jump and half-salute/half-shielding of his face (designed to be playful?). I couldn't help but think, Really? Is this what we're going now? It was 7 years ago. 7 years. For 3 weeks. Like, c'mon. This is Winnipeg, a city wherein you have heard of most everyone before you even start dating them. The pool is that small. The thing that kills me is that if we had met now, 7 years after the fact, we'd probably get along really well. I've had that line from Jesus Christ Superstar in my head all day: Can we start again, please? What an insipidly futile question. It's been done already, like overcooked meat that can never be remoistened. Wow. That was the single worst metaphor I've ever thought up. Still, it kinda makes sense. Ish. The point is, there's no real going back after you've written an angsty adolescent song about them, complete with ever-so-clever homonymical allusions to their name. There's no relationship mulligan, no green 'Back' button. Ooh, but imagine if there was! You could click the adjacent arrow and pick the exact spot you'd want to return to!...
*cough*
Ok, maybe I am just as neurotic as I was at 17.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
My-ami: Part 2 - Sarasota
Monday: Belt in loops, I set out for cultural bastion that is Sarasota, Florida. This pretty little town is the host of the second most Caucasian zip code after Anaheim, CA. I'm pretty sure the hotel house keeping staff were in black face, or brown face, seeing as this was Florida. The purpose of this trip was to see this big shot physio/massage therapist/potential quack who'd developed this program of stretching and muscle building that could possibly really help my lurvely physical state. The trip by car between Miami and Sarasota is anywhere between four and a half and five hours. With my father at the wheel, it took just over three and felt like seventeen. Allow me to digress with a parable about my parents' courtship. At the six month mark, my mother was convinced that Father hated his family. Every time he would speak on the phone with them, it was constant yelling. In Hungarian, a language that makes Wookie sound romantic. He took her down to meet his folks and upon arrival, amid the hugging and kissing, was more hostile yelling. Except everyone was smiling. Hungarians, while capable of providing the audio for a foreign Jerry Springer show, are actually very loving people. Still, this didn't help my stress level and by the time we pulled into the immaculate little town (think Victoria/Transcona hybrid), my hairline had receded another quarter inch.
Searching out sustenance, we settled on the most elegant establishment in the surrounding neighborhood: Chilli's. The Palm, this was not. The wait staff appeared to consist of a hostess with an "I hate yanks!" sticker on the back of her pleather writing pad, a very tall, very skinny, very in recovery from meth fellow fellow and Chuck, our waiter, who I'm pretty sure had replaced all of his hemoglobin with steroids. When you have money, it becomes very easy to enjoy the high-falutin' five-star restaurant lifestyle. However, when you didn't start that way, there's this odd comfort in slummin' it. Cut to my aunt demolishing two empanadas. (Side note: do not order ice tea, even sweetened, anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line.)
So then we went to see this non-doctor and I'll spare you all the details but he essentially stretched me and worked me out for about three hours, leaving me feeling rather lab rat-esque. More on him later. That evening we went to the touristy shopping and dining district, which was a series of curved boulevards surrounding one central square. Think art emporiums, beach wear, real estate shops, over-priced bistros and Starbucks. Thank fucking God. We took a stroll to the beach, Aunty, Father and I, and sat down to watch the sunset. Naturally, this was when the only two cute, young gay guys in the county stroll onto the beach, pooka-shell necklaces in place (I know.) and with a demeanor that said "No, we're not together, but we'd totally show a nice, semi-attractive stranger, say from Canada, 'round these parts." Naturally, this was at the precise moment my aunt decided that she wanted to rest her eyes and that my lap would make a natural pillow. American Gigolo, I am thee. What used to be the lovely pastime of gazing at adorable boys has become an exercise in increasing frustration over the years. I should really just shave off what remains of my hair and settle into monk-hood.After this shrinking of my pride and penis, we went and drank lots of champagne sangria (Yes, you read right and yes, it's amazing) and chowed down on unexpectedly delicious Spanish food. This was topped off with Starbucks (Daddy's maiden voyage) and stroll around the boulevards.
Full and (tragic foreshadowing alert) oddly optimistic, we went back to our hotel at which time I checked my e-mail and my life fell apart. Multiple - MULTIPLE - messages awaited me detailing how the things I'd been planning in the next weeks and months were crashing and burning two thousand miles away from me. I kinda lost it, I gotta say. Sitting in a hotel room with my two Hungarian elders (they're loving, but far from sympathetic), having been pummeled by this guy all day, feeling utterly isolated...man alive, I think it was one of the lowest, non-drug-related moments I've experienced. Aunty gave me a Xanax and I slept long and dreamless.
Tuesday: Awaking to a relatively-kick ass breakfast buffet (read: free), we headed off to see the good non-doctor. The previous session would come to be considered a candy-filled, unicorn-riding wonderland by comparison. Kids, he pretty much broke my toes. I've never experienced so much pain in my life. His whole theory was to wake up the long-dead nerves by stretching and manipulating them so he contorted them in all sorts of directions, laughing that in the past he'd gotten carried away and actually torn the skin. After a good chortle, I went into the bathroom and sure enough, zee skin, she was spleet. I certainly don't mean to make light of a very serious situation, so I say this with sincerity, but I kinda felt like a rape victim. I don't really have an explanation other than I just felt violated. I mean, it was good and all and I think that if I actually stick to it, his methods could make a big difference, but still.
Upon completion of another three and a half hour session, we set out for home. During this time, my aunt received about a half a dozen calls on her in-car Bluetooth with the speaker set at "God's Voice" volume from various other Miami socialite housewives, implementing all sorts of endearments ("honey"; "sweetheart"; "darling"; "hot piece of ass") with the exact same nasal, monotonic whine all of which made for very poor napping.
I spent the evening playing rummy with my grandmother and her nurse, finally free of the bickering twosome and then headed to bed, band-aids encircling my toes.
Searching out sustenance, we settled on the most elegant establishment in the surrounding neighborhood: Chilli's. The Palm, this was not. The wait staff appeared to consist of a hostess with an "I hate yanks!" sticker on the back of her pleather writing pad, a very tall, very skinny, very in recovery from meth fellow fellow and Chuck, our waiter, who I'm pretty sure had replaced all of his hemoglobin with steroids. When you have money, it becomes very easy to enjoy the high-falutin' five-star restaurant lifestyle. However, when you didn't start that way, there's this odd comfort in slummin' it. Cut to my aunt demolishing two empanadas. (Side note: do not order ice tea, even sweetened, anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line.)
So then we went to see this non-doctor and I'll spare you all the details but he essentially stretched me and worked me out for about three hours, leaving me feeling rather lab rat-esque. More on him later. That evening we went to the touristy shopping and dining district, which was a series of curved boulevards surrounding one central square. Think art emporiums, beach wear, real estate shops, over-priced bistros and Starbucks. Thank fucking God. We took a stroll to the beach, Aunty, Father and I, and sat down to watch the sunset. Naturally, this was when the only two cute, young gay guys in the county stroll onto the beach, pooka-shell necklaces in place (I know.) and with a demeanor that said "No, we're not together, but we'd totally show a nice, semi-attractive stranger, say from Canada, 'round these parts." Naturally, this was at the precise moment my aunt decided that she wanted to rest her eyes and that my lap would make a natural pillow. American Gigolo, I am thee. What used to be the lovely pastime of gazing at adorable boys has become an exercise in increasing frustration over the years. I should really just shave off what remains of my hair and settle into monk-hood.After this shrinking of my pride and penis, we went and drank lots of champagne sangria (Yes, you read right and yes, it's amazing) and chowed down on unexpectedly delicious Spanish food. This was topped off with Starbucks (Daddy's maiden voyage) and stroll around the boulevards.
Full and (tragic foreshadowing alert) oddly optimistic, we went back to our hotel at which time I checked my e-mail and my life fell apart. Multiple - MULTIPLE - messages awaited me detailing how the things I'd been planning in the next weeks and months were crashing and burning two thousand miles away from me. I kinda lost it, I gotta say. Sitting in a hotel room with my two Hungarian elders (they're loving, but far from sympathetic), having been pummeled by this guy all day, feeling utterly isolated...man alive, I think it was one of the lowest, non-drug-related moments I've experienced. Aunty gave me a Xanax and I slept long and dreamless.
Tuesday: Awaking to a relatively-kick ass breakfast buffet (read: free), we headed off to see the good non-doctor. The previous session would come to be considered a candy-filled, unicorn-riding wonderland by comparison. Kids, he pretty much broke my toes. I've never experienced so much pain in my life. His whole theory was to wake up the long-dead nerves by stretching and manipulating them so he contorted them in all sorts of directions, laughing that in the past he'd gotten carried away and actually torn the skin. After a good chortle, I went into the bathroom and sure enough, zee skin, she was spleet. I certainly don't mean to make light of a very serious situation, so I say this with sincerity, but I kinda felt like a rape victim. I don't really have an explanation other than I just felt violated. I mean, it was good and all and I think that if I actually stick to it, his methods could make a big difference, but still.
Upon completion of another three and a half hour session, we set out for home. During this time, my aunt received about a half a dozen calls on her in-car Bluetooth with the speaker set at "God's Voice" volume from various other Miami socialite housewives, implementing all sorts of endearments ("honey"; "sweetheart"; "darling"; "hot piece of ass") with the exact same nasal, monotonic whine all of which made for very poor napping.
I spent the evening playing rummy with my grandmother and her nurse, finally free of the bickering twosome and then headed to bed, band-aids encircling my toes.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
My-ami: part 1
On the flight home from my visit to Miami, I watched Juno and cried the entire way through it. This incident serves as the ideal encapsulation of my week in Paradise.
Friday:
My parents picked me up at 6:30. After eleven hours, a layover in Denver spent mostly at the terminal's 'French' bistro (hello, bagel-esque croissants), and no in-flight entertainment, we arrived in Miami. After renting a car and driving to Miami Beach, we drove up to a 40's Spanish-era bungalow where we were greeted by my teary-eyed, 88 year old Hungarian grandmother and the Cuban nurse that monitors her raging diabetes and stroke recovery. I breathed a sigh of anxiety.
Then arrived my aunt, who at 39 *cough*earlysixties*cough* is one of these unimaginably wealthy Miami housewives with condos overlooking the ocean and more prescription pills than a Walgreen's. The Hungarian Dream embodied, she is the love of my life. We all flitted away to Joe Allen's, a South Beach landmark where rich Jewish clientele are served my tanned homo servers. Ours, while not especially attractive, did me a huge disservice in ID'ing me (the Louis was over the river and through the woods at Grandma's house) and refusing to serve me any of my beloved Stoli, as well as completely making my night by bestowing upon me the knowledge that in the right light (ie near darkness), I still look until 21.
Saturday:
After a restful night (thank you, Lorazepam), the four of us, as well as my aunt's octogenarian Westie, set out for Lincoln Road, a pedestrian street in South Beach with lots of chi-chi boutiques and eateries. This marked the occasion of the first of many chopped salads on this trip and also the first of many references to the salad-chopper my grandmother used to chop my father's weed in his younger days. Their house of my father's youth was also a painfully honest one, where drugs, if not approved of, were at least out in the open. I firmly believe that this was the contributing factor in his not becoming an addict and thereby providing me with a much more boring life.
That night we went to The Palm. Just the name alone screams "No one under 60 ever comes here." To properly illuminate my aunt's (or rather, her husband's) social circle, you know how in the old-time restaurants they have painted caricatures of the rich and famous on the wall? Yeah, they're up there. It is one of those restaurants where the waiters still have those really high-buttoned smocks and martinis are large and boozy. So boozy, in fact, that I shamefully nursed one through the entire dinner and was still a bit drunk at 2am when the first inklings of a hangover appeared.
Sunday:
Still bloated on booze and money, the next morning I set out for Aunty's crib, a 19th story condo with marble floors, balcony on two sides on which I could run track meet and a bathroom bigger than my apartment. Nothing heals like time except for affluence. We set out for Bal Harbor, an outdoor mall that looks like the first 100 pages of GQ or Vogue. It's so exclusive that at the restaurants even the waiters are white. Mind you, this doesn't stop the clientele from looking like they were going to the Piggly-Wiggly; this is Miami, after all, where golf shorts are dinner attire. Over a lunch of tuna carpaccio (me) and air (her), Aunty announces that she is going to buy me an Hermès belt. For those that think that Armani is the tops, allow me to illuminate: before there was Versace, Gucci, Prada, Chanel, even Louis Vuitton...there was Hermès. Ol' school luxe, dogz. Think of it as the difference between Placido Domingo and Andrea Boccelli.
I can't even bring myself to walk into Harry Rosen Polo Park, so to enter through the gilded (not really, but stfu) gates of Hermès was a spiritual experience. An adorable clerk helped me go through various buckles (gold, silver, polished, brushed, lined) and straps (various combinations of black, brown, orange, blue and the most ethereal crimson). I love any sort of debate whereupon pros and cons are weighed, but when it is as something so absurdly extravagant as an Hermès belt, I am truly in Heaven. 'Cept my aunt didn't realize the true cost of this religious awakening. Upon learning of the price tag (roughly the GNP of Spain), she informed the salesman that we'd think about it and be back. She then tried to foist on me garish equivalents from Gucci and Prada, either so bland I might as well be perusing Sears or so steeped in motorcycle culture that my beard grew three centimetres on the spot. No, I was smitten and no 100 year old upstart fashion house would fill the void. And so I worked. I mean, w-o-r-k-e-d. I spent the next hour and a half as the doting nephew, sweetly smiling 'No, thank you' s at Neiman's, helping her pick out lipstick at Saks ('Jungle Infusion') and waxing poetic about the proud 170+ year tradition of my beloved H belt. Finally, over iced lattes, she says, "You're so brave. You have all these awful circumstances and yet you never complain [ed. ha!]. I'm just so proud of you."
He was wrapping the belt (reversible black and orange with a brushed gold buckle) ten minutes later.
Friday:
My parents picked me up at 6:30. After eleven hours, a layover in Denver spent mostly at the terminal's 'French' bistro (hello, bagel-esque croissants), and no in-flight entertainment, we arrived in Miami. After renting a car and driving to Miami Beach, we drove up to a 40's Spanish-era bungalow where we were greeted by my teary-eyed, 88 year old Hungarian grandmother and the Cuban nurse that monitors her raging diabetes and stroke recovery. I breathed a sigh of anxiety.
Then arrived my aunt, who at 39 *cough*earlysixties*cough* is one of these unimaginably wealthy Miami housewives with condos overlooking the ocean and more prescription pills than a Walgreen's. The Hungarian Dream embodied, she is the love of my life. We all flitted away to Joe Allen's, a South Beach landmark where rich Jewish clientele are served my tanned homo servers. Ours, while not especially attractive, did me a huge disservice in ID'ing me (the Louis was over the river and through the woods at Grandma's house) and refusing to serve me any of my beloved Stoli, as well as completely making my night by bestowing upon me the knowledge that in the right light (ie near darkness), I still look until 21.
Saturday:
After a restful night (thank you, Lorazepam), the four of us, as well as my aunt's octogenarian Westie, set out for Lincoln Road, a pedestrian street in South Beach with lots of chi-chi boutiques and eateries. This marked the occasion of the first of many chopped salads on this trip and also the first of many references to the salad-chopper my grandmother used to chop my father's weed in his younger days. Their house of my father's youth was also a painfully honest one, where drugs, if not approved of, were at least out in the open. I firmly believe that this was the contributing factor in his not becoming an addict and thereby providing me with a much more boring life.
That night we went to The Palm. Just the name alone screams "No one under 60 ever comes here." To properly illuminate my aunt's (or rather, her husband's) social circle, you know how in the old-time restaurants they have painted caricatures of the rich and famous on the wall? Yeah, they're up there. It is one of those restaurants where the waiters still have those really high-buttoned smocks and martinis are large and boozy. So boozy, in fact, that I shamefully nursed one through the entire dinner and was still a bit drunk at 2am when the first inklings of a hangover appeared.
Sunday:
Still bloated on booze and money, the next morning I set out for Aunty's crib, a 19th story condo with marble floors, balcony on two sides on which I could run track meet and a bathroom bigger than my apartment. Nothing heals like time except for affluence. We set out for Bal Harbor, an outdoor mall that looks like the first 100 pages of GQ or Vogue. It's so exclusive that at the restaurants even the waiters are white. Mind you, this doesn't stop the clientele from looking like they were going to the Piggly-Wiggly; this is Miami, after all, where golf shorts are dinner attire. Over a lunch of tuna carpaccio (me) and air (her), Aunty announces that she is going to buy me an Hermès belt. For those that think that Armani is the tops, allow me to illuminate: before there was Versace, Gucci, Prada, Chanel, even Louis Vuitton...there was Hermès. Ol' school luxe, dogz. Think of it as the difference between Placido Domingo and Andrea Boccelli.
I can't even bring myself to walk into Harry Rosen Polo Park, so to enter through the gilded (not really, but stfu) gates of Hermès was a spiritual experience. An adorable clerk helped me go through various buckles (gold, silver, polished, brushed, lined) and straps (various combinations of black, brown, orange, blue and the most ethereal crimson). I love any sort of debate whereupon pros and cons are weighed, but when it is as something so absurdly extravagant as an Hermès belt, I am truly in Heaven. 'Cept my aunt didn't realize the true cost of this religious awakening. Upon learning of the price tag (roughly the GNP of Spain), she informed the salesman that we'd think about it and be back. She then tried to foist on me garish equivalents from Gucci and Prada, either so bland I might as well be perusing Sears or so steeped in motorcycle culture that my beard grew three centimetres on the spot. No, I was smitten and no 100 year old upstart fashion house would fill the void. And so I worked. I mean, w-o-r-k-e-d. I spent the next hour and a half as the doting nephew, sweetly smiling 'No, thank you' s at Neiman's, helping her pick out lipstick at Saks ('Jungle Infusion') and waxing poetic about the proud 170+ year tradition of my beloved H belt. Finally, over iced lattes, she says, "You're so brave. You have all these awful circumstances and yet you never complain [ed. ha!]. I'm just so proud of you."
He was wrapping the belt (reversible black and orange with a brushed gold buckle) ten minutes later.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Alright, here we go. Been a while, but just STFU and we'll get through this.
I've been trying to update at least weekly but once I reach the week and a half mark the guilt sets in, which is a known killer of creativity. But whatev, we're past that. Moving on...
I was in Ottawa last week. I was the playboy escort to an older woman (I took my baba to a bar mitzvah). It actually was kind of fun. In addition to getting to know some cousins that I really adore better, I spent a lot of time with my grandmother (the aforementioned "baba") and, if we're being realistic, there isn't an infinite amount of time left to do that. She's 87 years old and in very good physical condition, but 87 is 87. It wasn't like babysitting, but perhaps similar to traveling with a child of about eight - they know what's going on, but just need a bit of guidance sometimes. I heard a lot of stories about her life pre-me, some two or three times (but who's counting?) and while she makes no airs about being grand, there is something in that graciousness and humility for the life she's lead that makes her one classy dame.
Also, the aforementioned cousins were pretty great. We didn't have a lot of time together, but solid memories were made discussing indie music over beers (this was actually with a significant other of a cousin, but he was equally delightful) and finding common childhood memories by wiki-ing Monkey Island.
Also, I've been made fun of recently for my alleged over-use of the word solid (def 2). That is all. Doesn't really deserve it's own paragraph. But I like the word, so suck it.
Other tidbits:
The movie Once. Delightful little film, but the music is truly outstanding music, in the singer-songwriter vein. Genius.
I've become kinda obsessed with Rosie O'Donnell's blog. I know! Possibly the most uncool thing ever. However, I'm not there all the time because I think she's a beacon of light in a world increasingly bathed in darkness. Rather, I find the community that does consider her that beacon (and also the one that vehemently opposes that notion) a very interesting study, specifically in the 'ask ro' section. America, while arguably the most fucked of all western nations, is morbidly fascinating.
I've discovered the link function on my blog and let me tell you... like a fat kid on a smartie.
Alright. That is all. I'll be back shortly to resume discussing things that are actually poignant/funny/interesting.
I've been trying to update at least weekly but once I reach the week and a half mark the guilt sets in, which is a known killer of creativity. But whatev, we're past that. Moving on...
I was in Ottawa last week. I was the playboy escort to an older woman (I took my baba to a bar mitzvah). It actually was kind of fun. In addition to getting to know some cousins that I really adore better, I spent a lot of time with my grandmother (the aforementioned "baba") and, if we're being realistic, there isn't an infinite amount of time left to do that. She's 87 years old and in very good physical condition, but 87 is 87. It wasn't like babysitting, but perhaps similar to traveling with a child of about eight - they know what's going on, but just need a bit of guidance sometimes. I heard a lot of stories about her life pre-me, some two or three times (but who's counting?) and while she makes no airs about being grand, there is something in that graciousness and humility for the life she's lead that makes her one classy dame.
Also, the aforementioned cousins were pretty great. We didn't have a lot of time together, but solid memories were made discussing indie music over beers (this was actually with a significant other of a cousin, but he was equally delightful) and finding common childhood memories by wiki-ing Monkey Island.
Also, I've been made fun of recently for my alleged over-use of the word solid (def 2). That is all. Doesn't really deserve it's own paragraph. But I like the word, so suck it.
Other tidbits:
The movie Once. Delightful little film, but the music is truly outstanding music, in the singer-songwriter vein. Genius.
I've become kinda obsessed with Rosie O'Donnell's blog. I know! Possibly the most uncool thing ever. However, I'm not there all the time because I think she's a beacon of light in a world increasingly bathed in darkness. Rather, I find the community that does consider her that beacon (and also the one that vehemently opposes that notion) a very interesting study, specifically in the 'ask ro' section. America, while arguably the most fucked of all western nations, is morbidly fascinating.
I've discovered the link function on my blog and let me tell you... like a fat kid on a smartie.
Alright. That is all. I'll be back shortly to resume discussing things that are actually poignant/funny/interesting.
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