Faceplanting the Light Fantastic

Ya know, I don't set out to fail at life. Flava Flav aside, no one does. So when I constructed a lovely, simple plan to do an errand on Sunday, I had to clue as to the shit show for which I had just bought a ticket.

I had spent the previous night alone, drinking old fashions and chatting with hometown friends on the msn. At one point in the evening, I had thought I might venture out solo to The Beaver so I popped a couple of my beloved non-drowsy decongestants that turn me into a dancing machine. Or a sloppy mess. Anyone who has read a single post of mine can imagine which of these two outcomes came to fruition. By 1:30am, though still chatting with some Winnipeg peeps, I'd moved on to include a couple of Torontonians, as well. It took every fiber in my fuzzy, cuddle-starved being to resist their suggestion of coming over for rom-coms and laying our limbs on top of one another. Thank god I keep my apartment in such a state of unruliness so that I can under no circumstance accept a spontaneous invitation such as this.

Upon waking the next morning, I felt like crap. What a waste of a Saturday night. The only way to assuage the creeping self-loathing would be to venture forth into the warm (1°C) and bright (overcast) daylight to walk (gimp) beside my fellow humans (mouth-breathers). I had three things I wanted to do:

1. Walk my bike to the nearest gas station and refill the tires, as it had spent its winter attached to a traffic sign outside the neighborhood Montessori school gathering rust. Why I lack the ability to take care of my possessions it beyond me.


2. Ride my newly inflated bike to Chapters and buy Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, the new collection of asshole essays by Chelsea Handler. A reader's note here: When I am writing, the voice in my head is that of the hypothetical love child of Ms. Handler and David Sedaris. So there's anothr piece of the puzzle for ya.


3. Take my new book to Tequila Bookworm, my neighborhood hippiester cafe for my new favourite thing, their smoked salmon platter, hold the gherkins. In reality, I order this so I can inform others that I spent my lunch "gherkin off." Ha...ha.

In order to properly illustrate how wrong everything went, I have illustrated, using my print screen and MS Paint prowess (click to enlarge):

1. 10:47 - I leave my apartment. Despite being overcast, the natural light still burns. I unlock my bike. Wow, unlike germs, rust isn't just a myth.

2. 11:02 - I arrive at Petro Canada and discover a pay-by-the-minute compressed air dispensers. Fudge you, PC. Fudge you.

3. 11:04 - I walk across the street to good ol' dependable Shell. The air dispenser is free. I give Petro Canada an over-the-shoulder finger. When I go to fill up the tire, it inflates with the pressure from the machine and then immediately deflates. Clearly, there is a hole in my tire about the size of an infant's head and it needs to be taken to a bike shop. Fa-fa-fabity-fab-fabulous.

4. 11:08 - I make the unwitting mistake of not walking up Spadina and discovering what would have made my life a whole lot easier (See #5).

5. 11:25 - I reach Chapters on John St. I comb the entire store looking for the book, implementing computers and laymen alike in my search for this tome. I stndd around for 10 minutes while one of the Vested tears apart the backroom searching for the 5 copies that their website claims the store has. Upon his return, he presents me with an apology and a voucher for 15% off at a different store. Finally, something good has come of this. I ask if he knows of any bike shops in the area and am told that there is one just a block up but that people rave about Dukes. Score two for Chapters! "Where is that?" I ask. "Spadina & Richmond," he replies. This is roughly 250 feet from my apartment. POINTS REVOKED, CHAPTERS.

6. 11:59 - I backtrack to Dukes. It is closed on Sundays. I start to seriously question my faith. I fronttrack to the other bike shop.

7. 12:07 - I pass a homeless man in a wheelchair asking passersby to give him "change for pussay.""

8. 12:16 - I arrive at the bike shop a block away from where I was 35 minutes prior. It is closed. I become an atheist. I lock up my bike and kick a pigeon.

9. 12:21 - I catch a streetcar. Step in what may be partially congealed vomit from St. Paddy's.

10. 12:26 - I arrive at Eaton Centre. I jaywalk. Foiled again, coppers!

11. 12:28 - There is a standard escalator practice in Toronto that one stands on the right side and walks on the left. Upon entering the mall, I notice that on my escalator, the Asians all standd on the left and everyone else on the right. Why? If your native tongue were Hebrew or Arabic, I might be able to give this a pass, but Asians? Don't most oriental languages go up-down? If anything, shouldn't they be attempting to ascend the descending escalator and vice versa? I don't get it, Asians. Yes, you have the most appealing natural body odour of all the major racial groups, but what do you want from me?! Incidentally, the only non-Asian is a white woman standing next to her friend and waxing on about how Torontonians don't take advantage of their city's culture and diversity. Lady, first off, you're in a mall. Secondly, based on the size of your ass, it would seem that the only culture and diversity you've been getting is from the International Selections menu at Boston Pizza. Anyway, I get to Chapters and after finding the Humour section (under a big sign that, naturally, reads SPORTS...) I buy my book and get the eff outta there, though I must admit that having listened to Lisa Loeb, k.d. lang and the soundtrack from Glee on their store muzak kinda makes me think that Chapters knows my soul.

12. 12:57 - Now aboard the streetcar with dreams of bagels and a schmear, I receive a call from ESLothario inviting me last minute to his show that afternoon. He insists that I come as he reeeeeeeeally wants me to meet his boyfriend. Aw, hells 2 da no. I tell him that I'd love to but that I just have too much to do though he should call me if they're doing something afterwards. I then make a note to pick up a new sweater after my what-started-out-as brunch so I can feel extra kicky should this meeting transpire.

13. 1:06 - I arrive at Tequila Bookworm and order my smoked salmon platter. It is not nearly as good as I'd anticipated. The book, however, is awesome and while I never did get that call from ESLothario, I still wound up going to Winner's and picking up some madras sneakers that'll be ballin' on my trip to Miami next month.


Finally, I recently got called out by brown sporadic commenter Herr Kanada for making my posts too long. To him, I'd like to say a special thanks for reading and if you have festering occupations with length then that is something you need to take up with your therapist and not with me via facebook chat. Best of luck with that.

For your inconsideration...

I don't really have anything to write about as I've spent most of the last 36 in my apartment being completely insular. However, I feel that I must respond to this very generous, very premature (like many of my older suitors) Prolific Blogger Award:

.


It was given to me by Patrick in an act that some have called "incredibly sweet" (friend S) and others "clearly retarded" (my father). My own feelings on the subject lay somewhere in the middle. While I am so so so grateful for Pat's promotion and the consequent new readership (hi, y'all), I feel somewhat undeserving and unprepared for the repercussions this brings to my world. Let's break it down shall we?

1. Praise - I love it, but I can't really handle it. I can write cantankerous ramblings about the smallest minutiae of my day and get off on those jollies, but I don't do so well with the good stuff. Though you'd never know it from this blog, good stuff does actually happen to me. Sometimes. Okay, like, this morning, I wanted a crepe but I ALSO wanted an omelette so I poured the crepe batter in the pan, let it set for a while before adding the omelette mixture and then the cheese and veggies and then it was like amazing, y'all!...Ok, but see, that's boring as fuck. What does this have to do with praise? Nothing really, I just wanted to talk about my breakfast because I CANNOT DEAL WITH PRAISE.

2. Paying-It-Forward - The other part of this award is that I now have to give it out to seven (7!) other blogs. Now if you'll casually glance to the sidebar on the left...other left...a bit upwards...there ya go... you will see that I have been blogging since 2005. While this is true, the first four years were spent writing for myself and a few friends. Was it still ribald? Frequently. Was there a lot of weird poetry and emo shit? You betcha. It's only in the past, oh, 3 months that I've actually been exploring other blogs and so while I don't mind naming 7 blogs that I like to read, they're essentially the only blogs I read, so it's not like there's a mad rush to the door, physically or virtually hurting each other in the hopes of catching the bridal bouquet that is the Prolific Blogger Award I will be tossing. Mixed metaphor. Anyway, that said, here are 7 blogs that I like and hopefully someone else will too:


1. The Sassy Curmudgeon - This woman has my life. Blissfully married writer in New York that talks about fashion, reality television and dessert all with élan and Caucasian Ebonics. Her diagrams have been known to elicit such hysterics from me that I've had to muffle myself with a staple remover to keep my boss from noticing. It was also through her comments section that Patrick stumbled onto this dumbass gong show of a blog, so big ups for that, too.

2. DC Cised - Young, gay and frequently caustic, this one first got me into exploring the blogosphere. My friends, still rather wary of the interacting with others on line have chosen to refer to this exploration as my "Soon to be making his premiere on To Catch a Predator" phase. Hint #83 that I should stop dating teenagers.

3. Je Mange La Ville - an amazing food blog written out of Portland. Healthy, indulgent, real food. Tons of pictures and really clear step-by-steps. She loves food and her output reflects this. Also, I've done entire gluten/sugar/animal-free cleanses with recipes modified from Michelle's blog. I think she's a sweetheart.

4. The Queer Behind the Mirror - Kama is a recent net friend who is currently writing his thesis. His frustrations with this as well as those with his genitalia make for an interestingly intellectual read. He's also half Indian and half black, so...adorable.

5. Adventures in Reasoning - Stephanie is an awesome chick I worked with back at the Winnipeg Fringe Festival. She is currently blogging about her month-long acting intensive in NYC and her wanderings make for lovely little reads that bring much New York envy.

6. Minty Fresh! - Another young, gay, Asian-American blogger from Cali. Tells lovely (detailed!) stories of his flings and family. Also has lots of great links to other blogs/sites on his sidebar.

7. Caligula Sanchez - This blog definitely comes with a NSFW corollary, as its author is a male sex worker who discusses his life in and out of his work. I find it brave, fascinating and often amusing but it's not for everyone, so if you venture there, do so embracingly.


That's it, folks. Again, a huge thanks to Pat and stay tuned for tomorrow's post when I go back to being an asshole.

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

Je suis un dork

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

Super sweet rendering of future 20SB Badge

Some things to note:

- Racial diversity, including gingers

- Detail work in backgrounds

- Themified colours to match my blargh

- That girl's jawesome red office chair

- Hot guy on the right

Hate On for Laos Week Continues

My Korean-born friend (not the sleepover pal; this one speaks English) told me recently that he will never feel completely at home in Canada, but no less than he would in Korea. He explained that he is truly a product of both societies and requires elements of both to feel whole. Favourite pastimes may include karaoke while eating back bacon or igloo-building while eating kittens. While I heard what he was saying, I could not fully understand the Asian-Canadian cultural experience, partially because I'm full blown Canadian, albeit one of queer/Jewish/Hungarian/gimpy decent, but mostly just because I DO NOT PROTEST USING CONTAINERS OF MY OWN BLOOD.







Look, I get that you guys get the shit end of the stick. Is that an expression? Is now, haters. But seriously, Asians got tsunamis, communism, an entire nation of cab drivers and tech support workers, and to top it all off most of them have to live next to that asshole, Laos. It's pretty much the Ned Flanders of the Orient. So when Taiwan decided to protest...something (I didn't read the article; they're always bitching about one thing or the other), I thought, "Way to go, Taiwan. You gave me years of good Happy Meal toys in the 80's; I will support your right to get all P.O.'ed at The Man."


But this whole blood thing? Not even Amnesty International is down with that shit. They're all on the phone to the AP like, "Oh yeah, we for totes support Taiwan...mmm-hmm...mmm-hmm...Blood, you say?...Ah, I see. We're out."


It's creepy guys. Plus, I'm not technically allowed to give blood in my country cause of the teh ghey and all but people in Taiwan get to draw their own blood on the street and throw it at some dude's house? I mean, what about MY rights, Taiwan? I'd loooooooove to go throw some blerd at 24 Sussex most days, but Red Cross's troglodytian laws say that despite my recent STI testing and near-abstinence at the hands and genitals of Toronto's queer community, I can't help some O negative baby that was in a car crash. Baby don't care. Baby wants to get to be a toddler. Trust me. I know babies.


And once again I've made an entire nation's woes completely about myself and my hemoglobin ambitions. Sorry, Taiwan. I'll buy a shirt at the Gap this weekend. Maybe.

New Cause of Global Warming: Laos

Black Magic just walked into my cubicle, talked at me for 10 minutes about the fruit of her loins (blackberries?...okay, this is verging on racist) and then tossed her laundry list in my garbage can. The only two items on it? Not a word of a lie: deodorant sticks and bounce sheets. Praise...be.


Before moving to Toronto, I was warned by Unibrow* that the winters here are murder.

"It only goes down to -8, maybe -9, but it's a damp cold so it just chills you to the bone. You can never...get...warm."

Needless to say, I was petrified. The fact that Winnipeg averages -30ºC temperatures failed to register with me as it was a dry cold and clearly no -50º windchill could compete with MOISTURE IN THE AIR. I brought all my heavy jackets, even going so far as to pack the balaclava I used to take out "a loan" from First National that one time, and waited for the arctic winter to hit.

And I continued to wait until yesterday when the high was 16º centigrade.

"This feels like spring," I thought to myself, remembering what they were like back in the day. (Winnipeg used to have them up until I was about 6 years old at which time they disappeared, much like the frozen snickers bars in my freezer. Now winter leads right into summer. I blame the Laotians*.)

"But this is impossible! I was promised bone-chilling weather that would chill my bone!"

And then a red-breasted robin landed right on my shoulder and tweeted, "Your friend Unibrow is a little bitch and Toronto is awesome."

Ugh, even the birds here are stuck up. She was right though. I'm pretty sure there was never more than three inches of snow on the ground and the coldest it ever got was, like, -16. So, Uni, way to win at life and best of luck with all future engagements at Opera Minsk.




*Hey, you don't submit a new nickname, it don't get changed, ayit? Respect.


** No, I don't.***


*** Yes, I do.

The Childlike Empress...orer

I think I've kinda lost sight of why I blog. It's become evident to me over the last few posts that my Machiavellian desire to become adored by many has shortened my vision as to why I post for the few. To that end, I had an ol' skool Fleekin Floygn emo realization today. This may not be that funny, but hey, I got needs too. Not made of stone, people; just various scraps of other people's souls and vodka.


There is an album that has been on my iPod for about half a year now. I had never listened to this album before today as it is a blues album by a near-albino former classmate of mine and while I wish to support my friends, past or present, my ears have standards. Not high standards, according to my Dance Mix '95 album, but standards nevertheless. Today, though, I was walking in an area of town that I've never visited and, as tends to happen in during these odd moments of feeling self-reliant, I thought, "What the heck?" and had a gander.

Sadly, as predicted, my gander turned out to be a goose (zing!), The album is little more than the bastard love child of Muddy Waters and Dashboard Confessional. One song even starts, "Why do I feel this way?" Playa, if you're really singing the blues, you'd better damn know why. So I was walking along merrily until the last song started with a possibly (probably) fake dialogue between between my former whateverhewas and his bandmate, and suddenly I missed him. No, wait, I didn't miss him. He's a shmuck. I missed her, the best friend of high school and undergrad who shared him with me, as well as most every other event of my life from 16 through 23.

He linked us physically in a way that we never could ourselves for obvious reasons (read: mah wenis) and we continued to talk about him long after he was gone. This perfectly encapsulates our relationship. We would do have the same experiences, often at the same time but never together and then talk about them afterwards. She was the only person that could empathize with a huge part of my development. She was the only friend that knew that a rave wasn't a bunch of stupid kids in rainbow clothing sucking on pacifiers (they're but a small contingent, so let's let it be); the only friend that knew the unparalleled ecstasy brought by its eponymous drug the first time taken, the joy and openness and, strangest of all, health that was gained by this synthesis; the only friend that I would talk openly with about everything without fear of judgment because we both knew she'd done worse. I had other friends at the time but they either weren't aware of what was going on or couldn't really relate. They would listen and try to take it in, but she would engage, because she knew. She knew it all. She understood the path. She was my proof that it had happened, that there were contributing factors to this David, that it wasn't all by chance. Now she's gone (as in estranged, not dead; you're sick), there is no documentation and I can't help but feel anger and grief that there is an entire crucial part of my life now unknown by everyone else.

Maybe it doesn't matter all that much. Perhaps it's nothing more than losing a photo album, or that part in Neverending Story II where Bastian's memories keep getting stolen one by one. I mean, he's happy, right? ...What? He becomes unbelievably unhappy and almost destroys Fantasia? Sonovabitch...