Unicorns can suck it

Let's not even pretend to discuss how long it's been. Just suck it, okay? And here we go...


My eyes fly awake. Not literally. That would be disgusting (seriously, what's wrong with you?). It is 5am. My natural inclination in these situations is to curse whatever god I'm diggin' that week and try to go back to sleep.

"No," a voice inside tells me, "You are awake. Do not force it. Embrace the morn."

"But it's still dark out," I say.

"You shut your stupid mouth," the voice replies.

So I get out of bed. Not drowsy in the least, I head downstairs, throw out the day-old coffee I had planned on reheating and boiled water for a fresh batch. I sauteed some garlic and spinach, beat some eggs, crumbled some chevre and made an omelet. Such an indulgence on a morning with classes starting at 8:30. I took the omelet and steamy cup of coffee to my room, watched some Rachel Maddow on youtube and chilled my non-sleepy ass out.

This day was good and it had yet to really begin.

At around 6:30, I was still so totally blissed out on the dawn that I decided to be a sport and preorder a couple grab-n-go Starbucks tetrapacks for the morning class. As previously mentioned, my instructor (Big Fat Greek Mama) had lost her own Big Fat Greek Mama in October and on New Year's Day, Big Fat Greek Papa joined her. Greeks...what a bunch of fuckin' drama queens. In light of this and the multitude of assignments raining down upon us with every passing day, I decided that we needed a treat and that my hasn't-worked-in-6-months ass would be the one to buy it.

I left the house at about 7:15 in order to make my 8:00 pick-up at da' Bucks. As I rode the streetcar to the subway station, my mind was filled with unicorns and rainbows and all sorts of uncharacteristic optimism as represented by elements in a Precious Memories greeting card. I arrived at Starbucks ten minutes early (!) and patiently waited as the bariste (that's 'barista' plural, bitches. Italian-lawyered.) prepared enough coffee to require a pack mule. Fortunately, my natural gate is somewhat of a clop and so I am the perfect substitute.

I imagined what they must think of me. Clearly this was an up and coming professional that worked on upwards of the 25th floor of some office tower and was putting in his dues, picking up coffee for the morning meeting. So dapper in his coat and tasteful yet elegant scarf. So clean-shaven. So ballin'.

Messenger bag on back, one tetrapack in each hand, I cantered my way back down into the subway, smoothly navigating the turnstiles and finding a sweet-ass spot leaning against a pole. I enjoy being pole adjacent. The school being only two stops away, I got there in a jiffy (8:10!) and strode confidently out of the car, a stranger shoulder-bumping me upon the exit. I was unharmed (start breathing again, devoted reader) but noticed that one of the two side pouches on the left tetrapack had been near completely torn off in the kerfuffle. Man of calm and reason I, I simply switched its contents (spare cups, various sweetening agents) to the other side and made my way up the stairs, reaching the 10th step before the other side broke off, fell to the floor and sent two full venti cups of milk and cream crashing to the ground, forming a harormonious, roughly combined 7% stream of dairy cascading down the steps of St. George Station.

I would love to tell you that in this moment of faith-testing I kept my cool in did not proffer an F bomb so vociferous as to send unborn children on the platform into immediate prenatal therapy, but this was not so.

Rebuking the offers of aid from the bum who'd been sleeping on the stairs (it shows a real strength of character for a homeless person to wake up, feel his bum all creamy and to offer help to the bloke the creamed all over him), I noticed a classmate staring at me, shoved the remaining tetrapack in her arms and ran off with the other one in search of the nearest Starbucks. And by ran I mean jogged. And by jogged I mean walked ever so slightly quicker than I normally do. Omigawd, are you seriously gonna keep going with this? I'm in the middle of a story here! JEEZ. So rude.

As I walked ever so slightly quicker than I normally do, I fantasized about how I would lay into the barista just in case she should happen to give me some guff upon my arrival. I was gonna be all "Faulty products!" and "Customer satisfaction!" and "You can't handle the truth!" but then she was all sweet and gave me exactly what I wanted so bitch di'in needed 2 be cut 2day.

I got to class five minutes late which was perfect timing to be all, "Oh, me? Yes, I brought coffee. Oh no, I need no thanks. No, please, stop applauding."

I hate rainbows, unicorns can suck it, and the next time I am unceremoniously awakened at 5:30, I am becoming an atheist, I swear to G-... WELL, SOMETHING. I DUNNO. I HAVEN'T FIGURED IT ALL OUT YET. DO NOT TEST ME! DO NOT TEST MEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

*curtsy*

I had a beer with lunch and now can't think of a title

There have been immeasurable (1) calls for an update, so here it be. Let us classify this as a life update rather than a funny/offensive op ed piece. The reason for my non-bloggitude as of late has been, for those who do not know, that I have returned to school for a rather intense program. Consequently, I will not be blogging with the same frequency or read/comment on my followed blogs for the time being. I know that we're all special snowflakes that deserve all the love and attention in this here blogosphere, but it's just beyond my temporal means at the moment. Selfish, perhaps, but what blogging isn't?

Yep, I call my posts pieces. What…a dickbag.

Future Roommate has gone the way of countless pop stars before her and dropped the 'Future' from her name. In other words, she is now my full-blown roomie. As far as the adjustment from friend to friend-roommate, there have already been smiles and frowns, ups and downs but already I have grown accustomed to her face. While she does not (yet) make the day begin, I feel we've been doing pretty well at communicating needs and wants and she has not yet attempted to castrate me nor I deovarize her, so back pats all round.

Speaking of castration, there are a whole bunch fellow teacher candidates who I feel would benefit from this process. Okay, fine, I'd benefit from this process. Of their castration. Ugh, not blessed by the Witty Hatred Faerie today. Ooh, new tag! I will not list here the full list of homicide-inducing archetypes, but rather will give a top 3:

3. "I'm a teacher candidate who doesn't like getting up in front of a class"
Um, you fail. A lot. And hard. Also, speak the fuck up. Group project partners, this is directed at you. Do NOT get in front of a class of adult learners and say, "Hey, guys… guys?…we're gonna move on so if you'd just like to [flaps forearms in the air, presumably to represent 'quiet' but coming off more like retarded penguin]…"

2. "I'm a teacher candidate who is doing this as a second career and therefore know more about everything than you"
Hey, do you know anything about shutting the fuck up? Didn't think so. Maybe if these jackasses actually listened to the instructor instead of thinking about an answer based on not listening to instructor, they could actually participate productively instead of wasting my valuable-as-that-weird-ass-mineral-from-Avatar time. An instruction to "reflect personally first" does not mean turn to your neighbour and run your mouth off for 5 minutes before asking me in a condescending voice if I'd like to contribute anything. Here is my foot. I would like to contribute it up your ass.

1. "I'm a teacher candidate and I won't shut up about teaching in Korea"

Hey.

Um.

Shut…the fuck…up.

Know who else has taught in Korea? 83% of the world, that's who. If I hear one more asshole (and they're always males) say, "So yeah, when I taught in Korea…" or talk about adding each other on Facebook so they can exchange kimchi recipes I AM GOING TO GO OFF. Kimchi tastes like pickles shit.

In other news, I had a two month thing with a Brazilian (cause I hate the white man) that ended in yet another "You're a great guy and I'd like to keep hanging out but just as friends, no kissing or anything like that anymore " talk.

Hey, Pele: what's Portuguese for "You're not interesting enough to be friends with while clothed"?

Reader Poll:
In the past year, David has cavorted around with a Macedonian, a Portuguese, an Albanian and a Brazilian. What ethnic group should he take up with next:

A) Rwandan
B) Peruvian
C) Latvian
D) None-of-the-above-cause-I'm-gonna-die-alone-and-unloved-ian
E) French

Ich bin nicht cool

Well, it's 10:12am and I've been at work for an hour and accomplished nothing. I feel this trend will likely continue until at least 4:59pm when I may muster the day's effort in clicking "Shut Down" on my Start menu. You're really only supposed to log off but I like to shut 'er down on the Friday because I somehow thinks this counteracts the 23 story building leaving all its lights on for the duration of the weekend.

Magic Powers: Now the only way left to save the Earth

Whoa. That got political. Anyway, let's move on to the real topic. I know you're thinking that someone who spends most of his employed hours modifying Google-searched images in MS Paint is extremely cool. I am here to disprove this myth.

I AM NOT COOL.

I'm not going to chock this one up to failure. That would imply that I am failing at being myself, which would be ridiculous. I kick demon ass at being myself. That self, however, is not cool.

As previously stated, I've been volunteering for the NXNE music festival and am reminded daily of how not cool I am. First of all, I've been driving a 12-seater van to transport bands to and from the airport/gigs. No one cool has ever driven a 12-seater van. The bands thus far have taken two approaches to being driven by me. The first involves all of them sitting in the back and not talking to me, as though I am their paid chauffeur rather than a volunteer who just finished MS Paint-ing working for 8 hours at their real job. On one such trip, a single person out of the seven I was driving wearily stretched out his hand as way of introduction. I in turn flailed about and eye-hand-coordination failed. I think maybe two of our fingers interlocked. I am not cool.

I felt cool for about a moment when I got to go up to back stage security and say, "Yo, I'm here for the band," and he nodded me through, but then the manager says, "You're here for the band? Awesome. They're just gonna finish up and then do an encore. Do you want to wait back here?"

Oh god, I am so cool.

"No, I mean behind the backstage area in that stairwell. Great, thanks."

Aaaaaaaaan we're back.

Another super twatty American manager, when I dropped her off, even omitted an "Uch, could you at least open the door?!"

Bitch, it's a 1983 Ford E350 and you're not Miss Daisy. Back. The. Fuck. Down.

The second approach to the Warning:-Not-Cool pheromones I must omit is that the band will just be a bunch of jackasses. In this case, one of them will at least ride up front with me but will ask inspired questions like, "Dude...dude...how much would you charge to drive us to Dildo Bay?"

"Um, where's that? I just moved here not too long a-"

"Dude, Dildo Bay, Newfoundland. How about Intercourse, Pennsylvania?"

"Uh, I dunno. I'm just a volunteer and I have to work in the morning."

God, lamest response ever. What is wrong with me? I'm not cool, that's what. Then they'll pretend to accidentally blow each other (it's this new thing among comics where they pretend to start coughing and this merges into them pretending to be choking on one of their friends' dicks. It's totally straight. And funny.*), telling mock-racist-but-kinda-just-racist jokes and talking about how amazing their set was.

Um, you're in a Queens of the Stone Age side project - things aren't going all that great for you. Art rock, this ain't.

I am not cool but at least I'm not a delusional asswipe either.

Douchey Bassist: Hey, so, what's the hardest to guys have ever sucked each other off while you were driving them?

Illustrious D: ...

DB: I bet they were from AFI. That guy's hit on me so many times, fuck. So is that gay if I let him?

ID: (trying to be cool) Depends on how much you enjoyed it.

Drummer Who May Be Getting Head From A Groupie: Nah, man, it's only gay if you kiss afterwards.

*It's only one of these things.

P.S. - I left my very first comment on a blog that I love, but failed to omit a key word so it just read, "Clearly, really does hate fags." The writer commented back, "Um, was the word God supposed to be in there somewhere?" and then my internet soul curled up into a ball and died.

Rollins With Mah Homies

Apologies, Global Family excepting Herr Kanada, for the dearth of posts as of late, although it seems to be world wide wacky phenomenon as everyone's output seems to be down at the moment. I chock mine up to the afore/oft mentioned ennui and expect comments of sympathy, frozen snickers bars and cash money to come pouring in from the baker's dozen of winners following my descent into pre-Passover madness. Hey, Ancient Jew Slaves: I feel you, peeps.

Wanting to emerge from my nest of self-imposed isolation and dejection, I called in sick to my regular Friday night dinner invite and went to see Señor Henry Rollins speak instead. I won't bore you with a long preamble about his many deeds and services, as that's what Wikipedia and nakedmalecelebrities.com are for, but he's a punk rocker/spoken word presenter who speaks to the oft disenfranchised angsty masses of suburban adolescents and the messed up adults they become. He also has wacky adventures travelling to strange foreign locales such as Burma or Pakistan, not for gigs or appearances but rather just to check out the places about which we only hear negatively and at the hands of Western media sources. In addition, he is a hetero tattooed tank of a guy who is a huge proponent of gay rights and not being a douche. I wanna hug him in ways I can't even express.

I went to be inspired and I suppose I was. He wasn't quite as humorous as when I'd seen him previously, but was all the same extremely entertaining, self-depricating and generally awesome. While I didn't walk out of the show and book a ticket for Azerbaijan, I did feel inspired to grab a NOW magazine and fill in every free night normally spent sitting at home on the interwebs and drinking wine with an activity of some sort, whether it be a show or a talk or just something to enrich my life better than backlogged episodes of Heroes. I also rode my newly-re-tired bike to and from the show, which always makes me feel like a Big Boy, and I even fixed the chain when it fell off, thereby making my hands filthy and my sense of purpose shine. Small victories, people.

So how did I spend my post-Rollins weekend? Saturday, I tidied my place and took myself to lunch. Then I popped into Starbucks, where I spilled an entire Grande American Misto all over the everything by dropping the jar of honey I was pouring from into my drink. A Hot Dad with a baby strapped to his chest told me I'd done it with "panache" and they made me another drink for free so I'm-a call Win on that one.

From there, I transitted my tuxedo-carrying ass to Buttfuck Nowhere, where I arrived an hour early for a 5pm dress rehearsal of a concert happening later that night, starring my dog-and-pony-show Jew choir (the 'ch' is guttural) and some Protestant equivalent with 3 times the members and 1/3 the makeup. Okay, for serious, United Church Goers, the good lord invented MAC counters for a reason. Hell, he invented Dollarama makeup aisles for a reason! A lesser reason, but STILL A REASON. Moving on, after butchering the Chichester Psalms so bad they became New Testament (zing!...just kidding; I have no clue what that meant), things wrapped up around 10:00pm, allowing me to get back to my urban reality, down three caffeine pills, two martinis and a non-drowsy deconge and bike down to The Beaver to meet fellow blogger The Queer Behind the Mirror (QBM) for some raucous dancing. I managed to nearly get hit by cabs a mere three times and then stood in line outside for a solid 20 minutes while an obese drag queen performed Fleetwood Mac covers, complete with backing band comprised of 1 guitar, 1 bass, 1 drum kit and 17 tambourines, including one played by a man crowd surfing to 'Landslide'. I finally got in around 12:30am, ordered a shot of vodka and a bottled water, kicked off my Kenneth Coles and dropped it in the manner that one might was it hot on the dance floor. Highlights included nearly getting assaulted by a drunk amazonian woman doing what one could infer was her signature dance move, protecting a tiny tattooed woman in a tutu when now-coke-out-of-her-mind Steven Nicks decide to stand/stumble in the middle of the dance floor, and finally getting surprise-ridden by bearded drag queen when I was on all fours looking for my shoes under a table.

QBM and I left around 2:30 and he crashed at my place, making excellent use of the futon. The following morning we went for leakfast (suck it, Brunch) and then parted ways as I went off to meet my aunt and uncle for a play. We saw Breakfast, which is about a house-coated woman descending into madness at the hands of her self help cassette, culminating in dry humping the personified tape after erotically coating it in pudding, banana, strawberries and vanilla yogurt (We just narrowly avoided the splash section). Needless to say, it was a bit ridiculous and hit-you-over-the-head obvious about sexuality and repression, but at an hour-long running time, it was manageable. We then went on a matzah-finding adventure, 'cause evidently most urban grocery stores are staunch anti-Semites. We soon found an embarrassment of riches at a nearby Price Chopper (which, incidentally was our original nickname before "The Chosen People" got all trendy) and then went back to Aunt and Uncle's pad to get toasty on wine and full on his homemade pizza. I got home around 10:30.

So that was my weekend. I did not protest Ann Coulter or participate in any sustainable living fashion shows, but I did keep myself occupied, which I suppose was the goal. I'm still not totally out of the woods yet, mostly cause my weekly quiche didn't turn out that great (yeah.) but it's a move in the right direction.

Lastly, while walking home this week I saw a scarf lying in the middle of the road that had been run over repeatedly. For some reason, I picked it up and thought, "Hey, if laundered this would actually be a really nice scarf for a sweet natured, conservatively dressed straight guy with grooming challenges." Unibrow is receiving it next weekend.

HAPPY PESACH, BIZNATCHES!

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.

For all you foodies out there...

I got 82; how about you?

God, I need a job...

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

My comments after the — dash

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings - … uh, pass
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini — yes, but not together
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Da bitch is back wit a summer recap

Now that the summer is nearly over, I need some time to reflect on the past couple months and how so much of it went horribly, horribly wrong. 'Wrong' not being necessarily negative, just not as planned.

The Fringe went off very well as far as the staff was concerned. If any of you S of M-ers remember Michael and Andrew's acquaintance, H, with her voice 'loud and strident', well, I had the supreme pleasure of working with her this summer. As in the past, I found myself once again on the divine end of an angel-devil spectrum. Our supervisor LOVES me (note present tense - we're doing coffee this week) and would regularily bring me into her little office space to bitch about how ineffectual our coworker was. While I was happy to be well-liked (as I'm sure most people are), I was by no means pleased by H's lack of work ethic as it just meant more sheehat for us to pick up. Whatever. It's over. I'll be back next year. She won't.

Otherwise the Fringe was same-old-same-old: senior citizens bitching the Starbucks brewed the (free!) coffee too strong, careworkers for our developmentally delayed volunteers dicking off, a constant struggle to explain why our volunteers only got X amount of benefits and not X+amillionotherthings, etc, etc. *sigh* I love it. And I'm so part of the team now; lsat year I was kind of the student who didn't know that much, and while everyone seemed to like me, I still felt like I was working for them. This year it fel like I was working with them, which made all the difference in the world.

Folklorama started the day after Fringe ended which, pour moi, meant getting out of the last show at 12:45am and being at the site of the Israeli pavillion nay 10 hours later for an all day rehearsal the bled into performances at 6:45, 8:15, and 9:45. The entire week was kind of one big pain in the ass with personal and political tensions running high for me. The artistic director also informed me that I'm in the budget for next year which translates into a co-director position, something I've been gunning for for quite some time now but not for the normal reasons. For most, a senior position is a symbol of the work they have put in, their experience, and the fact that they are the post qualified for the position. I acknowledge that I may count these among the reasons I'm happy for the post but they by no means comprise the overall satisfaction. That would be the chance to take a group that has so much potential that it's leaking out of their asses and actually make music with said anal leakage. So instead of simply immitating what we hear on a tape, I'm going to try to turn us into a group of musicians, as far as I can with 4 hours of rehearsal time a week. I just hope that political tensions will subside once this is all announced and that we can get on with being more than we are.

I'm tired, so let's call this Part I to the summer recap, shall we?

An excerpt from a letter to a friend...

This has been an incredibly exhausting year for me, for all of us. Between the festivals, and competitions, and performances, and school, and work, and a mad cap social life (you know me ), I'm afraid it's coming back to me and just before the most stressful time, Fringe. I'm hoping the month-long normalacy of 9-5 during June will help prepare me. [Since this was written, I've been approached to start with the Fringe three weeks earlier so the month-long normalaxy is pretty much shot]

Other than physically, I'm no more emotionally exhausted than usual. However, when one is prone to tragic flights of idealism and romance, emotional exhaustion is normal, I suppose. I've been feeling a lot of changes since the New Year, almost like a mental and emotional puberty, trying to diversifymyself, the forms of which is (naturally) art and expression. I've taken to unwittingly directing music videos in my mind whenever I hear a song in a language I understand. Often they concern montages of our friends, many of the images hypothetical as the 'video' is a thesis on our four years together. Another popular one is that salon at my living wake [more on that next time], although I've sat with the idea long enough that it doesn't seem morbid to me anymore. I have my MRI in a month and a half and that's probably contributing to it as well.

I feel like I'm fighting a lot with my own creativity right now, often in very egoist terms, such as imaging detail for detail my own recital as I attend someone else's. Further, there is one matter that I don't quite have the courage to express, and that is a song cycle I've written over the past couple years. There are twelve in total, and the genre is extremely hard to define because I feel that it should extend beyond simply a boy and his piano. I've toyed around with percussion, thanks to B, but I hear the guitars and the bass and yet have no clue where to begin incorporating them. The order is troubling as well as it deals with a vast number of themes, not the least of which are failure, disillusionment, madness, and redemption. At it's peak, I see it presented dramatically with short monologues between the pieces, offered not as explanation, but rather narrative. I have written seven sonnets that I would like to incorporate, one of which was composed in the vein of Greco-Roman myth, the sun and moon acting as two halfs of the whole and so forth.

Essentially, I'm just overwhelmed. I'm happy to say that it is mostly from positive sources, though they can be a bit dampering.

I had an insane day. Not insane like wearing orange and purple together, oh no! This is was like putting your cheek to the wall and humming crazazy. It began with driving my poor sickly mother to work, which led me that I road rage more before nine am then post people do all day. Sadly, the day - and the driving - had just begun. Then it was on to a fitting. A fitting, you say? Aren't fittings fun? Yes, yes they are...EXCEPT when they are for Armani suits...I'm sorry, did I say Armani suits? I meant to say fiber glass orthopedic leg braces. I sat there for two hours while this creepy little (though relatively young: 34?) man dashed back and forth trying to make my feet feel less hell-ish. At the two hour mark, I just told him it was fine and that I would call him next week if they weren't working out, as I quite literally limped out of the office. The worst part is that he responded with, "Please do. This is my life! No seriously, it's my life." That is so...HellomynameisGwenandI'mheretowashyourvagina. Then I road raged my ass to University, went inside, ran around like a chicken that not only has had is head chopped off but has subsequentally, inadvertenly grabbed the axe and chopped off his friends head as well, leaving them both running into each other, all in the pursuit of finding second copies for this $%&^ing competition I had to do. I finally managed to find a second copy from possibly the creepiest student in the entire school, a 43 year old social "special person" ("retard is too un-PC) who for some reason thinks that opening his mouth to omit sound is a good idea. But he lent it to me, so whatever; best friend for the day. This left me exactly enough time to drive home, take 11 (ELEVEN!) minutes to go from street schlub to dashing competitor, and arrive at the audition 3 minutes before I was to go on. (More on this later). After it was over, I got back in the car and drove to this recording session at school where I spent 2.5 hours standing and wishing infinite hell to reign on all tenors. THEN I got to go to a three hour rehearsal for the opera, which blew large chunks of whale blubber, naturally, but on way home (get out the hankies), I saw my first hooker! Seriously, you guys - the first one ever. And she was pretty., but it still made me kinda said, what with the poor self esteem and syphillis and all.

So that aforementioned competition? I sure won the fuck out of it. Well, I was among the four people that won the fuck out of it. We all win a place in a professional recital to be held at Westminster United Church on May 11, AND free head shots. I think I'm more excited about the latter. I'm a camera whore.