I am exhausted. I am also at work. This is not a good combination for No Homicide February.

I currently have a houseguest from back home who I'm delighted to have stay with me, apart from his sonorous nocturnal vocalizations. The following is a true list of the voiced onomatopoeia I interpreted last night while waiting for the police to arrive with a noise complaint:

-Engine of a Hummer
-Macaque, in heat
-Macaque, mating
-Gibbon, post-coital (touché)
-Major General, modern
-Dehydrated marathon runner, no Gatorade
-Korean making a toast (This one wasn't snoring but rather a shouting of "Spich!")
-Common loon
-Olympic torch hydraulic malfunction (topical!)
-14 year old girl in labour
-60 year old man in labour
-Shredder (villain, not office machine)
-Braying
-Call to prayer
-Ritual circumcision (possibly related?)
-A Magic Bullet

So while I was thrilled to have a live rendition of Planet Earth playing itself out at 4am, I am a might cranky here at work.

Now, I believe in ardent professionalism both on the job and on the blog. I recognize that speaking ill of one's supervisors or colleagues in a secretive but public forum could have detrimental results to my livelihood. As stated in previous blogs, I find questions or comments relating to a person's private life (no, being gay doesn't cause me like pink file folders*) to be completely inappropriate. For example, I would never go around asking a colleague the reasons behind vehemence towards personal hygiene, specifically laundry and bodily cleansing. That she smells of no name laundry detergent and four day old body odour is just none of my business. Nor would I ever describe how her likening my frequent misplacement of my LV wallet to her losing the Bluetooth headset her husband gave her for Christmas in a T.G.I. Friday's smacks of so many racial stereotypes that I'm tempted to nominate her for next year's NCAPP Image Awards (deadline was Feb 1st). I do not kowtow to their 1950's-era perception of gender roles or of suburban family units, no matter that upon hearing my colleague proddingly say, "Men are such babies," it takes every fibre in my being not to give her a huge smile and respond that they also make great daddies. And then write about it. I'm just not that kind of blogger, people. The state of their finances (age 37 + employed husband w/ 3 kids + still renting = you're doing it* wrong) is none of my concern. What they choose to do with their lives outside of work (Playstation with their children, getting a part-time job at Additional Elle for the employee discount, not bathing) is so beyond the realm of appropriate blog topics that no matter how awkwardly hilarious they are to me, I would never use this hallowed blog to air someone's dirty laundry. Even though someone really should. Do laundry. For serious.




*True insinuation

**Life

Fuck you, Facebook Bumper Sticker.

Fuck. You.



Today I realized that whenever I see a person with red hair walk by, in my head I always scream, "GINGEEERRRRRRR!" Unlike most of the population, I find select redheads extremely attractive. I've yet to become intimate with one, but given my lack of sexual discretion, it'll probably happen at one point or another, and likely not with the gorgeous auburn ones but rather the pasty freckled kind that resemble Alfred E. Newman and Opie's love child.

I also had a similar reaction when the girl with autism/the sillies started laughing maniacally on the streetcar this morning, though that was more "Oh my god, I love that retarded girl." Like all children and most pets, I enjoy her in small doses but do not want one of my own. I feel this will qualify me to be a kickass uncle, assuming the my brothers date crazy bitches that poke holes in their condoms in the hopes of hopping on those sweet pilot/electrician trains. My Special Uncle Skills will include teaching the dangers of over eyeliner-ing (nieces), winning hearts with show tunes (nephews) and the importance of brow maintenance (both), as the latter sure as hell hasn't worked on my friends. You know who you are. And that I mean you. And you read this blog. And I'm going to keep mentioning it until that shit gets taken care of.

Welcome to the world, Audible Sigh tag.

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.

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

This Friday I will be returning to Winnipeg for the Valentine's Day long weekend. This is akin, I feel, to a hit and run victim returning to the scene of the crime where they were mowed down over and over and over again, forward then backward, practically used as a human speed bump before the driver sped off with an explanation. (In a new book I'm reading, one of the characters is described as a young Spaniard with red marks all over his face that render him quite unattractive. In my mind, I have chosen to visualize YP in this role. Fictional casting win.) I'm flying in for a rehearsal weekend for an album being recorded in March, which is all well and good, but the director on this project has yet to issue a formal schedule due to having recently suffered a work-related mental breakdown, the only upside of which is that he tells me his symptoms and I will in turn recant them to my therapist in the hopes of acquiring a nice little Celexa nest egg of my own.

Onwards. Everything old is news again: my wallet is missing. HOWEVER, this time I did not lose it. I feel that it was pilfered on the streetcar and you know what? GOOD. I'm glad. This wallet has been the bane of my existence for the past 7 years and at this point it has become a hemroids-level pain in my ass. I don't care about the $40, IDs, transit pass, bank credit cards and random loyalty rewards cards in it. I got another Vuitton that's been in the wings for years, so who needs you, Wallet?! I just want that fucker gone!... Except if I get it back.

In better news, Apple has sent me a new iPod, so I'm assuming the fact that I tried shipping the old one via Fedex by putting it in the UPS box worked out just fine. Lesson: reading is for suckers.

I just got back from lunch, having had an older couple share my bench. The elderly are right near the top of my list of Things I Just Barely Tolerate, along with ketchup, most immigrants and Beyonce (Hey, Non-Existent Gay Following, consider yourself alienated). However, this couple was something special. They waltzed right over in their leisure suits and matching velcro K-Swiss sneakers and sat their cute little old asses down, barely breathing a "Thank you" as I relocated my Tupperware container to accommodate them. And don't even try that watery-eyed weak-ass smile with me, grandpa. I know all your moves and they don't work on this guy.

Then they really did it. She reached out and put her hand on his knee and he took it in his and they sat there cuddling, holding hands and marvelling at the ubiquity of "all the Orientals." While I'm glad that my hobby is finally catching on, this activity was just too much for me today.

I turned to the man and said, "Why, sir, those velcro sartorial marvels are really quite becoming. Are you , by any force of chance, a size 11?

The man smiled and nodded and reached over to undo the left shoe.

"Oh, no, sir. Allow me," I proffered.

On bended knee, I slowly peeled back the two tabs as they reveled in the auditory emulsions emitted in the breaking away of those two heavenly bodies of attachment.

I lifted the shoe off the old man's foot and held it in my hands. Then I ralphed in and threw it at a ficus.

That'll learn them.


I don't know why I am filled with so much rage today. Perhaps it was last night's Chelsea Lately marathon, a show that while hilarious tend to make me pret-ty hatey. Perhaps it's the fact that I've pretty much been drunk since Friday night and have been sleeping poorly as a consequence, having stupid, inebriated dreams where people are just really mean to me. Like, Regina George mean. In one such dream, I was on a subway car making out with a boy who was essentially a composite of the last two guys that had slept in my bed. He was made up of all of their good qualities and yet I still wasn't all that into him. Telling. This was a reciprocated feeling as he bailed a few minutes into the necking and I was left in a state of confused apathy and uninspired blue balls.

I really am mastering the art of reciprocal ambivalence. Even the gay dating site ads on my blog are subpar, choosing to feature photos of guys resembling John Goodman. One even looks like Roseanne. I take this very personally. It's probably the dehydration and the lack of sleep talking, but can we all together utter a universal 'Ugh'? It's just not working right now, people. The most pleasure I've derived in recent memory has been from scratching my under-moisturized thighs. UPS lost my iPod (unrelated but important) and at this point even my own penis is ignoring my text messages. Sometimes, he just kinda half looks up at me, sighs and says, "Really?"

Another possibility for my funkiness may lie in the time I recently spent with a certain friend whom I always leaving feeling horrible about myself. They're not in the least bit judgey themselves; in fact, he's always lovely and we have good times together. However, I always feel so directionless and crude around this person. It's as though his lack of judgement is a mirror that reflects all the things I loathe about myself. I just feel so self-centred and insipid around him sometimes. Yeah. I'm bitching on my blog about feeling self-centred. It really is such a Marcia Brady experience. If Marcia Brady held conversations with her anthropomorphousized penis.

When is life going to get remotely interesting/happy again?

I remember as a kid that my friends and I would play all sorts of funny games with ourselves. Some would hold their breath while passing a cemetery and make wishes at 11:11. Others felt the need to chew equally on either side of their mouths. One of mine was played with an apple, twisting the stem while reciting the alphabet and whatever letter corresponded with the stem coming off was the name of your husband/wife/lovah. I still play this game with unabashed vigour. When I'm seeing someone, I hope desperately that the stem comes off at their letter. When I get a seriously good-for-nothing letter like 'H', I curse the heavens. At the risk of alienating the Harrys, Horraces (Horraci?) or Helmuts of the world, 'H' is not a sexy letter.

Today at lunch I had a granny smith. After I passed 'K', I became very excited as one so seldom gets that far before the stem detaches; I was filled with anticipation at which uncommon letter my future domestic partner's name would begin. As I rounded 'T', I began to become afraid. Why would this spawn of Satan apple not release my love stem?! After 'Z' had come and gone I debated whether or not to begin again at 'A'. Peering down at the freshly frayed green ligaments making up the stem, it occurred to me that this stem was a tangible metaphor for the abysmal failure that has been my romantic life thus far, that love was second only to that fucktard Waldo on my list of Things I Suck at Finding. I felt my innocence and sense of wonder slipping away from me all because of poor selection at the local Asian fruit stand, glancing around at the employees of the food court, Chinese each and every one, and felt their souls laughing heartily at my misfortune. Their mouths smiled, encouraging my daily purchase of a vegetarian western omelet with cheese (extra 50+), but their eyes...oh those eyes! "We do not care if you add 'Asians +++' to your Manhunt profile," they seemed to say, "You will nevertheless die alone and unloved and probably more bloaty than you had hoped for."

No, I said to myself. This would not be my fate as assigned by the employees of Pumpernickel's Breakfast & Deli. I gathered my valour, plucked up and dug what remained of my newly-clipped finger nails into that stem and began twisting with all my might.

A!...

*grunt*

B!...

*moan*

C!... D!...E!...

*wheeze*

F!

*pant *

G!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And off it came.


I do not know if finding true love is as simple as putting all one's strength into twisting off an apple stem. I imagine it is not. I surmise that there are any number of feats and challenges that I will have to face before I find what I am after. But, Gordon, I'm coming for you.