Cars are real dicks

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

Dear Andrew,

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

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

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

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

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

Speedy recovery,

David

Dear Future Roommate (Part IV)

Part I Part II Part III

Dear Future Roommate,

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

So to that end...

Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Love,

D

Dear Future Roommate (Part III)

Part I Part II

Dear Future Roommate,

I may switch to vagina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIS: i'm looking forward to pride

RIS: it's one of my favorite festivals!

ID: what are you doing for it?

RIS: being gay!

RIS: dressing slutty

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

RIS: u?

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

RIS: really?

RIS: why did you decide to do that?

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

RIS: for sure

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

ID: What are your favourite events?

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

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


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

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


Love,

D

Dear Future Roommate (Part II)

Dear Future Roommate,

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

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

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

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



Love,

D

Dear Future Roommate,

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

Dear Future Roommate,

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

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

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

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

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


Love,

D

Blanket statement: Videos of beautiful, shirtless men singing pretty songs will always and forever be one of the greatest things ever. Yeah. That sentence made sense, muthafukas.

Oh Jay...why do you and the Madonna-esque gap between your two front teeth keep insisting on not falling madly in love with me?... Wazzat? Cause we've never met and the only contact we've ever had is when I left a singular comment on your blog? Oh right. SHUT UP I DO NOT FALL TO YOUR LOGIC.

This morning there were two girls in the subway seeking donation for sick kids with heart disease. Or worms. I wasn't really paying attention. In my experience, there are three kinds of non-riders you'll encounter in the subway: charitable donations seekers, buskers and people handing out mini samples of Kraft Dinner (I do not know why they do this. I don't have all the answers, people). The girls were about 13 or 14 so why they were doing this at 5:00pm escapes me, though if I had to guess... retarded elderly girl scouts. One of them was small and demure, holding out her tin with both hands and an optimistic half-smile while the other was a dead ringer for Shamu with a mouth to match.

"Change for sick kids! Want to donate change to sick kids?!" she shouted in what I believe to have been whale song.

It's not that I am prejudice against fat people. Well, no more than most people. It's just that - okay, don't turn on me but - you know she totally bogarted her wee friend's KD sample!!!! This, I cannot abide! Also, and it's not as though I take pleasure in making fun of tweens, but if you're 14 and wearing a Hannah Montana leisure suit that barely covers the blossoming fupa you've been cultivating...you're not on my side. In life, I mean. Still, I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt (you know, that she had an Achey Breakey Dad) until there was a huge influx of people, all of whom were ignoring her, and suddenly this massive humpbacked whine of "DOESN'T ANYBODY WANT TO GIVE MONEY TO SICK KIDS?!?!?!?!?!?!" echoed across the whole station. This bitch was seriously trying to find Nemo. I audibly whispered, "Jeezus..." and the cute guy in the argyle sweater in front of me turned around and smiled.

David: 1 Free Willy: 0


Also, a quick note to old people:

Hey! Old People! Learn how to use Gmail properly or get the fuck off my interwebz! When you receive a group message about your goddamned Jewish community choir, do not - I repeat, DO NOT - reply all! Cause then my ass is stuck deleting every single one of your "I'm in! Sign me up!" or "I'm out of porridge :( " messages cause I can't stand to look at the entire cascading conversation riddled with names like BerthaandHerb@fuckingoldperson.com taking up my whole freakin' screen! Now go spread Ben Gay on something!

You know what? That's it! You're getting your own tag! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCK!!!98Q29570YNc0q75yqwt6-yuT]-'

Dear Wallet,

Way to get found. You'd pretty much be the awesomest wallet ever if you didn't insist on getting lost every two to five months. If you were my child instead of my wallet, you'd have a backhand with your name on it waiting when we get home. Lucky for you that direct physical abuse only gives you a more supple texture. Too bad the same cannot be said for Rihanna.

You're a real asshole, Wallet, you know that?


-David

10 Things I Love Right Now

1. Sardonic bitch and host of Chelsea Lately, Chelsea Handler. I'm sorry to everyone that's spent time with me in the last week and thought, "What the hell happened to Vamos? He's an asshole." Now you know why.

2. The new bikes at the gym with steerable handle-bars and a dragon-chasing game. Pssst, that's code for staring at nakedness in the locker room.

3. Raw scallops

4. Raw sex.

Anybody? Anybody?

5. The new Metric CD and the Wicked soundtrack. My iPod is seriously bipolar right now.

6. Being in the 25-34 age demographic. Yes, it was traumatic for a moment, but then I realized that it's like being the young hottie of the group all over again. 25 is the new 18.

7. Trying to be a more graceful person and failing nightly when I lie awake every night cursing the boys upstairs and their tap-shoe-wearin' ways.

8. Chai. Just kidding - it's eating my brain and I fucking want to kill everyone. But all y'all should still come on down May 19th to see why I've been such a douche of a friend for the last couple months.

9. Ebola

10. The following letter, which came across my desk the other day and which I have lovingly typed out for all of you to read. Enjoy!




Dear David,

Um, so, what the shit? I know you're all rah-rah-rah about joining the Y (dream big, friend), but we've seriously got to talk about a little something United Nations Secretary General Ban Ki-moon likes to call moderation. I know me and my pal, who incidentally is busy being humped by Finnigan right now, have been kind of douchey to you for the past, oh, 17 years but if payback's a bitch, you bought out the whole goddamned pound. I know you felt like a big man doing your 10-9-8... countdown reps on the leg press, but damnit man, you nearly killed us. We're practically eligible for disability benefits at the moment. So go, do your thing, but seriously du-...aw, shit, Finnigan just peed on Lefty. Sonovabitch!...

Love,

Your Right Quad Muscle

Dear Stupid Drunk Bitch in the Alley Behind The Academy,

Thank you. Thank you muchly for stopping to ask where I was going and why I was marching there. Thank you for asking if I was in the army. Thank you for replying to my response of, "It's medical," with "Like, a doctor in the army?"

Thanks to you I marched my evidently flamboyantly gimpy ass home and threw my work out clothes in the old gym bag, where they now reside by the back door, ready for me to march down to the Y and buy that long-overdue membership so that assholes like you don't ask me retarded questions like that (Yeah. I said 'retarded'. And you know what? I'd say it again. I like it. I think it's fun). Cause it seems to be that when I'm such an eyesore that you simply cannot contain your ignorance any longer, it's time to do something about it.

So thanks.

Love,

Me

PS - Fuck you.

Dear Hottie Who Waters the Plants at Work,

Wherefore have you condemned me to this hell, my HWWPW? Why must you be so infinitely smokinglier than everyone else in a 2 km. radius and yet only make a single brief appearance every week? You taunt, you tease, you are a walking checklist of every single physical quality I hold so dear to my heart. What explicit detail is it that I love so much? Let’s walk through it together, shall we? Is it your frame, noble and broad at 6’1”ish, trim yet sturdy in magnificent balance that makes me want to go throw up right now? Is it your auburn hair, dignified in its slightly-spiked darkness, not flaming and listless like most of its pock-marked Gingey counterparts? Does this fine shade spring from thine chestal region as well, creeping just below the single open-button on your well-sized button down? This is a question I have, beatific HWWPW. Is it your glasses, or even the mere fact that you wear them? Contacts be damned! Is it your high buttock, upon which rests your magnetic swipe card, dangling in a dance of lustful abandon? Is it your cuff watch? Your well-fitted jean? Or simply the way you stretch up to those hanging potted plants? O, to gaze upon your theoretically-shapely calves as they lift you to such heights! I adore thee so, HWWPW. Winding my way through a blue maze of cubicle dividers for the exquisite torture that is watching you tilt a watering can, you the seeming by-product of a union between lumberjack and Shopper’s Optical model. Take me away from all this industrial park madness! Let us away in your 1997 Chevy Malibu to seek great adventures, probably in some maintenance closet at your dispatch centre!

HWWPW, I love you.

Dear Friend...

What a whirlwind time we've had. This is, what, our eleventh year of being intimately acquainted? Better make it twelve. Of course, you've been there since birth, but we didn't really spend much time together until then. I've watched you grow with me throughout the years, through some good times and bad. You were always there to give me an honest opinion of the gents I was going out with and when I disregarded your initial reaction, I always regretted it. You're like my Rock of Gibraltar and, oftentimes, just as hard. Yes, you can be quite the most stubborn of companions, shooting off when I least expect it, barely making an appearance at social gatherings or simply going hot or cold without a moments notice. Sometimes having you in front of me makes me feel like a star and occasionally like a limp rag, but I always appreciate the attention paid when I take matters into my own hands. Even when things get a bit hairy, you manage to rise to the occasion and we thrust through together. If I have one complaint, it would be your inability to accept my protection when I just want to keep us both safe. Yes, I know, you're getting better and I appreciate that. But in these times, I have to be firm with you and I hope you'll return the favour.

I hate you. I adore you. And I know others have felt the same.

Just as you salute me, I salute you, my penis, my friend.