Today, while sitting in da 'gogue, the Rabbi Older-Than-Elijah began his sermon by saying, "We know very little about Moses..."
Anticipating (correctly) the coming 20-minute snooze cycle, I whispered to Mark, "His favourite colour was blue."
Mark replied, "He was a big fan of Britney's early work."
The following is a Top Ten Little Known Facts About Moses that we composed during the remainder of the sermon:
10. His bar mitzvah reception was at the Olive Garden.
9. His favourite films were The Ten Commandments and Gigli.
8. He used Charmin Ultra exclusively.
7. He was executive producer on Children of Israel Behaving Badly VII.
6. Favourite song: Donna Summer's Bad Girls.
5. He once bought 3 "52% off Old Navy" Groupons.
4. Dislikes: burning shrubbery, armies of Pharoah, dill pickle potato chips
3. He created the trendy mixed cocktail Red Sea Breeze.
2. Loved the pan-flute, the NRA and was a backer of Howard The Duck.
1. He was Team Edward.
Showing posts with label Jewy McJewjew Jewerson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jewy McJewjew Jewerson. Show all posts
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Of Cocaine-Dusted Cupcakes and Naked Men
So last night at karaoke, some douche kept being given glasses of red by his friends and then got up in front of the whole pub and sang Sweet Transvestite to amazed onlookers. I did not quite catch his name but I feel it sounded something like Shmillustrious Blee.
On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.
+++++++++++++++++++
I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:
Um, who the fuck am I kidding?
I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!
The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.
+++++++++++++++++++
Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.
Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:
1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.
2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.
3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"
"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."
What I meant: sophisticated.
What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.
I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.
+++++++++++++++++++
Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.
Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.
Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.
This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.
The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"
EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.
After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.
At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.
On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.
+++++++++++++++++++
I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:
Um, who the fuck am I kidding?
I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!
The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.
+++++++++++++++++++
Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.
Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:
1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.
2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.
3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"
"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."
What I meant: sophisticated.
What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.
I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.
+++++++++++++++++++
Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.
Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.
Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.
Okay, I realize he's not technically bear
hugging but that shit woulda been hard so stfu.
This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.
The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"
EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.
After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.
At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Winnipeg Recap, Now With Murally Goodness
Well the lethargy burn out that has been sweeping the blogosphere (Pat Tillett, aside. What a productive jerk.) has finally hit Fleekin Floygn and its soon-to-ask-his-shrink-for-medication auteur, The Illustrious D. Also, talking about oneself in the third person is for asshats so I'm going to stop.
Last weekend, I went to the hometown for the launch of the album I recorded with my all-singing, all-dancing jew group back in March. I've been too full ennui to bring the chuckles as of late and so will present my experience in MS Paint form:
1. The 58B Bus - Toronto is home to the shittiest drivers in the world and I know what you're thinking, that it's because we have such a high Asian population, but shame on you. That's racist. And true. So what should have taken a little over an hour from the time I left (3:30) to get to the airport took nearly two and would have take an infinite number of hours had I not realized I was on the wrong bus as it sped past the airport. This put me at 5:30, the time my plane was to begin boarding. Evidently, Sesame Street's claim that today's show was brought to me in part by the letter B was a big fucking lie. Kiss my ass, Elmo, you red piece of pedophilia fantasy shit. It was the 58A bus that I should have taken. I jumped through the rear window and landed in front of a Sheraton, stole a taxi fan from a group from the National Rhythmic Gymnastics Convention and made it to the airport by 5:45. That's right, motherfuckers. Cab ride, security, gate all in 15 minutes. Jesus loves me. Know who doesnt? Fucking Elmo.
2. Sushi - Mother picks me up outside the terminal (no sense in meeting at Arrivals. Doesn't love me that much.) and she proposes we pick up sushi for dinner. Wow, Mama, you so with the times. 1996 better watch its back. We ordered a meal combo for four, which is appropriate as Father eats entire Ugandan villages for a mid-afternoon snack, Mother barely eats at all and I eat like a goddamned normal person! We're the Three Bears of suburban jewery.
3. Trains - Later that evening I went to meet Suprisingly Interesting Accountant, a chat buddy from North Dakota for the past 5 years. He'd decided to come to cross the border for a post-tax season celebratory holiday and chose the weekend I was there to do it. He invited me over to his friends' place and we sat around, drinking wine, eating Saskatoon berry pie and playing Ticket To Ride, kind of a railroad version of Settlers of Catan. We also didn't wind up going to the bar (literally singular in Winnipeg) so big ups for not having to watch David's Parade of Losers 2001-2009 file by. SIA was actually a pretty great guy, as far as meeting internet friends goes, so there was a lot of win going on that night.
4. Scissors/Eye Glasses -I got my hair cut the next morning. In the 10 months I've lived in Toronto, I've never got my hair cut here once. I either do it myself or wait until a trip back home. That is how deeply rooted is my respect for my bespectacled stylist. Equally deep rooted? My hair shame.
5. Keyboard -That afternoon I rehearsed with the group and then went home and had dinner with the fam. I also rocked out pretty hard with my hippie cousin to some ol schook Regina Spektor. I miss my old piano.
6. Opera Diva wida braid - After dinner, I went to see Future Roommate sing in a kids' opera based on the Bruthas Grimmz. (That's a stereotypical opera singer with a Rapunzel braid. NAILED IT.) The certifiably insane person who'd taken over directing our group had given me an anti-depressant to test drive that night, but my expectations of insta-happy were not to be, as one evidently needs to have a chemical depression and not simply ennui and malaise for it to work. I, on the otherhand, lost the ability to form coherent sentences and became a cantankerous baiznatch, the combination of which really held up my game when meeting Future Roommate's mother for essentially the first time.
7. Nachos? - After the lovely show and my maternally-directed verbal diahrrea, we went fo nachos & drinks with some people. You guys, drawing nachos is motherfucking hard. THE ARE NOT SIMPLY PERFECT SQUARES. Seriously. So frustrating. The little olive cross-sections were kinda fun. But using the spray function to try to make melted marble cheese?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Also, that side of guacamole looks like pea shit.
8. wtf Bagel & Lox... - The next morning, we had a Mothers Day/Mah Birfday brunch and it was lovely. Know what isn't lovely? That piece of crap bagel & smoked salmon I tried to draw. It looks like someone took a discoloured Frisbee, came all over it, then applying some slices of ham (Jew Fail) , peas (THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GERKINS) and purple circles of nothing. Cause purple circles do not exist anywhere. Then I got really frustrated and scribbled all over it. Ugh. You'd think the chosen people coulda chosen Paint-friendly food combos. COVENANT TERMINATED.
9. Chocolate Fountain - After brunch, I was transported to the album launch site, where I sat around for 4 hours until a dress rehearsal that ended an hour before showtime. It was lame. The event was a attempt-at-fancy wine & dessert evening with an hour+ long concert from us, which I guess went alright. If you're interested in reading it, I'll post it here. There was also a new, really cute 19 year old pianist who the Bloated Medicated One convinced me was giving the eye my way. This was later disproved when he showed up at the afterparty with his 28 year old girlfriend. At least I'm not the only one robbing cradles, though in my case, they generally go crawling back after a week or two, leaving me with nothing but a pacifier and dribble stains.
10. Key Fail - After the afterparty, I went to meet another net friend, although one with whom there'd been a bit more flirtation. It wasn't awesome. It was nearly 1:00am on a Sunday night (yes, technically Monday morning, stfu) and nothing was open. I drove him to my group's performance studio as I had BMO's security code and it was be a nice place to chill. Unfortunately, they'BMO had failed to mention that they're changed the locks so then we had to get back in the car and drive back to his neighborhood, searching for a park to walk in only to discover that it was way too cold. We got back in my car, made out for a bit and then he unceremoniously announced that he had to get home. So much ugh.
11. Jam, bitches - The next morning I had lunch with Seventeen Year Old (now 20) and it was so lovely. Having watched him grow from this fat ball of attitude three years ago to the increasingly self-possessed young man he is now is just awesome. He's still so him, just...better. He bought be breakfast. I bought him some of Stella's ballin' jam. We joked about doing drugs together. Ha ha! Look at us! So funny! Talkin' droguas! Ha...ha... *sigh* god, I miss it.
12. Lays Classics - After launch with the Future Roommate and a.w., the former dropped me off at the airport at which point I found out the my flight had been delayed by an hour and a half. Balls. On the plus side, they gave us a $10.00 food voucher for the shitty, shitty Winnipeg airport vendors. I used it to get a Greek salad, potato chips and two bite cookie thingies...and that's it. There was nothing remotely appetizing. My stomach had been on the hate train with me for days and I thought that getting Arby's would be a little too fate-tempty for me.
12. Sick D - On the plane, I made the mistake of telling the stewardess (yeah. I said it. You wanna be called 'flight attendant' then stop wearing whore makeup. Truth.) that my tummy was funny and she handed me a gingerale and kicked my ass out of the roomy, roomy exit row seat I had reserved. Fortunately, she kicked me into my own row, so I guess that's a win. Shortly thereafter, I had my first Hershey Highway experience at 39,000 feet, meaning I Jackson Pollock'ed the bowl, not that some flight attendant named Martin plugged me in the lavatory.
Cause we all know what amazing fortune I have with flight attendants.
Last weekend, I went to the hometown for the launch of the album I recorded with my all-singing, all-dancing jew group back in March. I've been too full ennui to bring the chuckles as of late and so will present my experience in MS Paint form:
1. The 58B Bus - Toronto is home to the shittiest drivers in the world and I know what you're thinking, that it's because we have such a high Asian population, but shame on you. That's racist. And true. So what should have taken a little over an hour from the time I left (3:30) to get to the airport took nearly two and would have take an infinite number of hours had I not realized I was on the wrong bus as it sped past the airport. This put me at 5:30, the time my plane was to begin boarding. Evidently, Sesame Street's claim that today's show was brought to me in part by the letter B was a big fucking lie. Kiss my ass, Elmo, you red piece of pedophilia fantasy shit. It was the 58A bus that I should have taken. I jumped through the rear window and landed in front of a Sheraton, stole a taxi fan from a group from the National Rhythmic Gymnastics Convention and made it to the airport by 5:45. That's right, motherfuckers. Cab ride, security, gate all in 15 minutes. Jesus loves me. Know who doesnt? Fucking Elmo.
2. Sushi - Mother picks me up outside the terminal (no sense in meeting at Arrivals. Doesn't love me that much.) and she proposes we pick up sushi for dinner. Wow, Mama, you so with the times. 1996 better watch its back. We ordered a meal combo for four, which is appropriate as Father eats entire Ugandan villages for a mid-afternoon snack, Mother barely eats at all and I eat like a goddamned normal person! We're the Three Bears of suburban jewery.
3. Trains - Later that evening I went to meet Suprisingly Interesting Accountant, a chat buddy from North Dakota for the past 5 years. He'd decided to come to cross the border for a post-tax season celebratory holiday and chose the weekend I was there to do it. He invited me over to his friends' place and we sat around, drinking wine, eating Saskatoon berry pie and playing Ticket To Ride, kind of a railroad version of Settlers of Catan. We also didn't wind up going to the bar (literally singular in Winnipeg) so big ups for not having to watch David's Parade of Losers 2001-2009 file by. SIA was actually a pretty great guy, as far as meeting internet friends goes, so there was a lot of win going on that night.
4. Scissors/Eye Glasses -I got my hair cut the next morning. In the 10 months I've lived in Toronto, I've never got my hair cut here once. I either do it myself or wait until a trip back home. That is how deeply rooted is my respect for my bespectacled stylist. Equally deep rooted? My hair shame.
5. Keyboard -That afternoon I rehearsed with the group and then went home and had dinner with the fam. I also rocked out pretty hard with my hippie cousin to some ol schook Regina Spektor. I miss my old piano.
6. Opera Diva wida braid - After dinner, I went to see Future Roommate sing in a kids' opera based on the Bruthas Grimmz. (That's a stereotypical opera singer with a Rapunzel braid. NAILED IT.) The certifiably insane person who'd taken over directing our group had given me an anti-depressant to test drive that night, but my expectations of insta-happy were not to be, as one evidently needs to have a chemical depression and not simply ennui and malaise for it to work. I, on the otherhand, lost the ability to form coherent sentences and became a cantankerous baiznatch, the combination of which really held up my game when meeting Future Roommate's mother for essentially the first time.
7. Nachos? - After the lovely show and my maternally-directed verbal diahrrea, we went fo nachos & drinks with some people. You guys, drawing nachos is motherfucking hard. THE ARE NOT SIMPLY PERFECT SQUARES. Seriously. So frustrating. The little olive cross-sections were kinda fun. But using the spray function to try to make melted marble cheese?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Also, that side of guacamole looks like pea shit.
8. wtf Bagel & Lox... - The next morning, we had a Mothers Day/Mah Birfday brunch and it was lovely. Know what isn't lovely? That piece of crap bagel & smoked salmon I tried to draw. It looks like someone took a discoloured Frisbee, came all over it, then applying some slices of ham (Jew Fail) , peas (THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GERKINS) and purple circles of nothing. Cause purple circles do not exist anywhere. Then I got really frustrated and scribbled all over it. Ugh. You'd think the chosen people coulda chosen Paint-friendly food combos. COVENANT TERMINATED.
9. Chocolate Fountain - After brunch, I was transported to the album launch site, where I sat around for 4 hours until a dress rehearsal that ended an hour before showtime. It was lame. The event was a attempt-at-fancy wine & dessert evening with an hour+ long concert from us, which I guess went alright. If you're interested in reading it, I'll post it here. There was also a new, really cute 19 year old pianist who the Bloated Medicated One convinced me was giving the eye my way. This was later disproved when he showed up at the afterparty with his 28 year old girlfriend. At least I'm not the only one robbing cradles, though in my case, they generally go crawling back after a week or two, leaving me with nothing but a pacifier and dribble stains.
10. Key Fail - After the afterparty, I went to meet another net friend, although one with whom there'd been a bit more flirtation. It wasn't awesome. It was nearly 1:00am on a Sunday night (yes, technically Monday morning, stfu) and nothing was open. I drove him to my group's performance studio as I had BMO's security code and it was be a nice place to chill. Unfortunately, they'BMO had failed to mention that they're changed the locks so then we had to get back in the car and drive back to his neighborhood, searching for a park to walk in only to discover that it was way too cold. We got back in my car, made out for a bit and then he unceremoniously announced that he had to get home. So much ugh.
11. Jam, bitches - The next morning I had lunch with Seventeen Year Old (now 20) and it was so lovely. Having watched him grow from this fat ball of attitude three years ago to the increasingly self-possessed young man he is now is just awesome. He's still so him, just...better. He bought be breakfast. I bought him some of Stella's ballin' jam. We joked about doing drugs together. Ha ha! Look at us! So funny! Talkin' droguas! Ha...ha... *sigh* god, I miss it.
12. Lays Classics - After launch with the Future Roommate and a.w., the former dropped me off at the airport at which point I found out the my flight had been delayed by an hour and a half. Balls. On the plus side, they gave us a $10.00 food voucher for the shitty, shitty Winnipeg airport vendors. I used it to get a Greek salad, potato chips and two bite cookie thingies...and that's it. There was nothing remotely appetizing. My stomach had been on the hate train with me for days and I thought that getting Arby's would be a little too fate-tempty for me.
12. Sick D - On the plane, I made the mistake of telling the stewardess (yeah. I said it. You wanna be called 'flight attendant' then stop wearing whore makeup. Truth.) that my tummy was funny and she handed me a gingerale and kicked my ass out of the roomy, roomy exit row seat I had reserved. Fortunately, she kicked me into my own row, so I guess that's a win. Shortly thereafter, I had my first Hershey Highway experience at 39,000 feet, meaning I Jackson Pollock'ed the bowl, not that some flight attendant named Martin plugged me in the lavatory.
Cause we all know what amazing fortune I have with flight attendants.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
It is a well known fact that I love to play the Bus Hottie game. You know, where you pick cutest person on the bus and stare at them while trying not to get caught. Toronto is an embarrassment of riches for transportational aesthetes and sometimes I even have to choose between two or more. The down side is that the bus, subway or streetcar is generally packed and so I generally settle on who is the most easily visible while maintaining an air of non-stalkerdom.
Today, on the way home from synagogue, the most beautiful guy was standing on the platform waiting for my streetcar. Now, by 'most beautiful' I do not mean your Patrick Demseys or Justin Timberlakes of the world, but rather my ideal, which, while varied, was perfectly encapsulated in this individual. About my height, perhaps a bit heavier due to lack of emaciation, still slender but with some slight padding in the good places. Hair was full, dark and unruly. Pale skin but with heavy eyebrows and stubble, with no sideburns but tufts of regular jutting down. Pouty lips. Soft eyes. We didn't look entirely dissimilar. He was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to engage him in Eye Contact Wars. He was also wearing the exact same hoodie as I was, thereby confirming my longtime suspicions that my narcissism is so great that I pretty much just want to fuck myself. This, interestingly enough, has also been suggested by others on occasion.
Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out something resembling a tensor bandage with a loop on the end, through which he placed his index finger. He then proceeded to wrap his wrist in the material, which revealed itself to be an elaborate camo-patterned wrist ornament that even gets wrapped 'round the fingers. In other words, it looks pretty badass. So I'm catching glimpses of him in all his prettiness, with his casual yet specific attire and this very intentional accessory and I'm picturing him, as one does, in different social situations with me as my "person" and suddenly thought to myself, "Uh, who do you think you're kidding?"
It became very clear to me that here was this guy without any pretense or uniform and I was dressed in a suit, dress shoes, a kippa in my pocket on the way home from a house of prayer. My boho, rave-y, empoverished-but-happy fantasies are extremely at odds with my current career path. Cause even if he had, as the fantasy went, come over and struck up a conversation, leading to mutual love fallings and all the bliss that my little emo faggy heart has ever wanted, at what point in that haze do I say, "Oh, by the way, I can only really be with a Jew so how do you feel about converting?"
I suppose the big concern that I'm trying to iterate is that what if neither of these worlds is enough? I'm never going to be happy working in a thankless job, completely stifled of creativity, but the relationship that I still desire isn't all that conducive to a leader in a religious community.
There's no epiphany in this post. This just happened half an hour ago. But...fuck.
Today, on the way home from synagogue, the most beautiful guy was standing on the platform waiting for my streetcar. Now, by 'most beautiful' I do not mean your Patrick Demseys or Justin Timberlakes of the world, but rather my ideal, which, while varied, was perfectly encapsulated in this individual. About my height, perhaps a bit heavier due to lack of emaciation, still slender but with some slight padding in the good places. Hair was full, dark and unruly. Pale skin but with heavy eyebrows and stubble, with no sideburns but tufts of regular jutting down. Pouty lips. Soft eyes. We didn't look entirely dissimilar. He was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to engage him in Eye Contact Wars. He was also wearing the exact same hoodie as I was, thereby confirming my longtime suspicions that my narcissism is so great that I pretty much just want to fuck myself. This, interestingly enough, has also been suggested by others on occasion.
Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out something resembling a tensor bandage with a loop on the end, through which he placed his index finger. He then proceeded to wrap his wrist in the material, which revealed itself to be an elaborate camo-patterned wrist ornament that even gets wrapped 'round the fingers. In other words, it looks pretty badass. So I'm catching glimpses of him in all his prettiness, with his casual yet specific attire and this very intentional accessory and I'm picturing him, as one does, in different social situations with me as my "person" and suddenly thought to myself, "Uh, who do you think you're kidding?"
It became very clear to me that here was this guy without any pretense or uniform and I was dressed in a suit, dress shoes, a kippa in my pocket on the way home from a house of prayer. My boho, rave-y, empoverished-but-happy fantasies are extremely at odds with my current career path. Cause even if he had, as the fantasy went, come over and struck up a conversation, leading to mutual love fallings and all the bliss that my little emo faggy heart has ever wanted, at what point in that haze do I say, "Oh, by the way, I can only really be with a Jew so how do you feel about converting?"
I suppose the big concern that I'm trying to iterate is that what if neither of these worlds is enough? I'm never going to be happy working in a thankless job, completely stifled of creativity, but the relationship that I still desire isn't all that conducive to a leader in a religious community.
There's no epiphany in this post. This just happened half an hour ago. But...fuck.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Chag same'ach and Shana tova a tutti.
That's right, loyal reader(s?), your local fleekinfloygn posts are now available in Hebrew and Italian. I guess that makes me an Itali-Jew. That's catchy. Patent pending.
So mama just left. She was here for about 5 days with my grandmother, attending meetings and then chillin' 5770-stylez with me for Yom Kippur. It was actually awesome. In addition to getting on really well, she'd rented a car, which was AMAZING, though I'd never own a car in Toronto as my blood pressure would go through the roof (Incidentally, my blood pressure is 107/68 so take that, suckers).
It was a very synaoguey time with 5 hours on Sunday and over 7 on Monday. The music was incredibly beautiful, the sermons occasionally interesting and the liturgy presenting me with my same issues with the theology that I always have, though I think I'm coming along way with approaching it philosophically rather than literally. Also, one of the things about Reform I love is the way that they discuss transgression. In more traditional denominations, they pretty much just read a laundry list (what does that mean, anyway?) of things that made you suck; essentially a lengthy elaboration on the basic 7 sins, though I think they are themselves a Christian concept (Sandra?). Conversely, in Reform the approach in much more humanistic, adapted for modern times and insistent that we are all guilty of being douches at times (my term, not theirs) and that this atonement is both individual and communal, which I like very much. Some of the English readings are a bit fruity for me, but I think that's only because I feel that in synagogue, I want to mean everything I say, which ultimately is a good thing. There wasn't a lot of humour in this part of the weekend, what with it being the gravest day of the year and all, but, nevertheless, here's a rough representation of a tableau one might have seen:
Otherwise, adventures with mom were awesome, many of which included large gatherings of little-known family, all of whom were extremely kind but would inevitably would ask that same questions over and over again about my existence in their fair land. I suppose this is natural, but it is exhausting all the same.
My favourite MOMent came, however, not amongst family but strolling down Queen St. W on Saturday afternoon. We'd gone out to make some purchases for a gathering the night, she some wine, me some samosas from the local falafel eatery. As we walked home, it began to rain, so we shared her umbrella, trekking side by side. After a couple minutes, it became apparent that we were both getting wet thanks to size of the umbrella and the natural distance two people put between them whence a-strolling. Mom squeezed in, putting her hand on my waist as I held the umbrella over us both. I didn't think anything of it until my mother, loin of my fruit, says, "Oh, I wonder if everyone thinks I'm a cougar!"
Um, ew. Just...ew.
That's right, loyal reader(s?), your local fleekinfloygn posts are now available in Hebrew and Italian. I guess that makes me an Itali-Jew. That's catchy. Patent pending.
So mama just left. She was here for about 5 days with my grandmother, attending meetings and then chillin' 5770-stylez with me for Yom Kippur. It was actually awesome. In addition to getting on really well, she'd rented a car, which was AMAZING, though I'd never own a car in Toronto as my blood pressure would go through the roof (Incidentally, my blood pressure is 107/68 so take that, suckers).
It was a very synaoguey time with 5 hours on Sunday and over 7 on Monday. The music was incredibly beautiful, the sermons occasionally interesting and the liturgy presenting me with my same issues with the theology that I always have, though I think I'm coming along way with approaching it philosophically rather than literally. Also, one of the things about Reform I love is the way that they discuss transgression. In more traditional denominations, they pretty much just read a laundry list (what does that mean, anyway?) of things that made you suck; essentially a lengthy elaboration on the basic 7 sins, though I think they are themselves a Christian concept (Sandra?). Conversely, in Reform the approach in much more humanistic, adapted for modern times and insistent that we are all guilty of being douches at times (my term, not theirs) and that this atonement is both individual and communal, which I like very much. Some of the English readings are a bit fruity for me, but I think that's only because I feel that in synagogue, I want to mean everything I say, which ultimately is a good thing. There wasn't a lot of humour in this part of the weekend, what with it being the gravest day of the year and all, but, nevertheless, here's a rough representation of a tableau one might have seen:
Otherwise, adventures with mom were awesome, many of which included large gatherings of little-known family, all of whom were extremely kind but would inevitably would ask that same questions over and over again about my existence in their fair land. I suppose this is natural, but it is exhausting all the same.
My favourite MOMent came, however, not amongst family but strolling down Queen St. W on Saturday afternoon. We'd gone out to make some purchases for a gathering the night, she some wine, me some samosas from the local falafel eatery. As we walked home, it began to rain, so we shared her umbrella, trekking side by side. After a couple minutes, it became apparent that we were both getting wet thanks to size of the umbrella and the natural distance two people put between them whence a-strolling. Mom squeezed in, putting her hand on my waist as I held the umbrella over us both. I didn't think anything of it until my mother, loin of my fruit, says, "Oh, I wonder if everyone thinks I'm a cougar!"
Um, ew. Just...ew.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
New York.../Chicago?
Sunday morning at 5:00 I flew to New York for an open house & preliminary interview at HUC. The flights were fairly uneventful as I slept the entire time and didn't get stranded overnight. Upon arrival at Laguardia, wily Jew that I am, I took a shared shuttle van into Manhattan at a fraction of the cost for a cab. What I didn't anticipate was waiting an hour for it to show up, being crammed in with 9 other passengers and having a driver who verged on abusive. He was like one of those psychotically-protective/abusive husbands you see on Maury that can just snap at a moment's notice. Everyone in the van was soft-spoken, extreeeeeeemely white and most were over 70. These factors made getting yelled at collectively by the driver almost comical. We developed this group mentality of survival, comforting each other in extremely hushed whispers when someone would get the verbal smack down and when one of us would reach their destination, we'd all smile, as if to say, "You survived! Huzzah!" and they would return the smile, meaning, "This, too, shall pass."
Finally, at the 2 hour mark, I got out of the van and cabbed the rest of the way. The $11.50 was well spent to get off of the Hell-mobile and it got me to the door of HUC just as the meet & greet (with snacks!) was beginning. We were given a tour of the school, dinner and an exercise in interpreting Jewish law, which left me more than a little bewildered ("I just want to SING," he said). There was an evening prayer service that got me all choked up, perhaps due to all these people being moved by the same (or at least a similar) spirit and looking really happy about it. I felt like a kid who was allowed into his older brother's tree house for the first time and didn't really know how to react. Though certainly not intentional, it was ironically isolating. I went home that night feeling incredibly confused about the whole day, with more questions than I'd had before.
The school had matched me up with a current student for a home stay, a third year student living in Brooklyn. Also staying with her was a 19 year old from Phillie who was, well, 19, and we all know how well I do with 19 year-olds. What is it about teenagers that fuels them to try to impress their elders with knowledge? First of all, we know more than you and secondly, a lot of times the info you're trying to impress us with is wrong. Epic fail: adolescence. He had me up past midnight watch Daily Show clips on my laptop. Ach, well, look...
The following day was significantly better. After a day of sitting in on classes, talking with current students, personal meetings with admissions staff and a kick ass salad lunch, I was much more at ease. The thing that really impressed me is how much the faculty really wants success for their students. The hoops that are presented for jumping are not put in place to intimidate but rather as a means to develop necessary skills. Novel concept, no? I'm still a little wary of the Kumbaya-esque element of the services, but I'll either get on board or learn to adapt. In the end, I got the green light to go ahead and apply, which is why I went in the first place, so yay. I also talked to the most adorable lad who gave reeeeeeeeally good eye contact (holding a gaze is up there with oysters on the aphrodisiac scale) and also gave me this secret handshake in which the index finger is extended during the grip. I remember learning this one but I can't remember for the life of me if it was a Jewish thing or a gay thing. Given the venue, I should probably opt for the former, but damn, pretty eyes.
That night, my host and I grabbed some Thai for dinner and had a great time talking about the school, Judaism, personal history. It's so delightful to connect with someone when in this kind of completely isolated environment. This conversation really added to the good vibes I'd caught at the school that day and that this was very much a Come-as-you-are kind of place, where individualism is embraced. How many faith-based institutions can claim that?
That night, I volunteered at their soup kitchen (I'm an asshole, but helping clothe the homeless and working with volunteers at the Fringe felt a lot alike) and then went for Thai food with my hostess, who is an absolute delight and that dinner was probably a big part of why I'm feeling so positive about applying. These really are very down-to-Earth, rational people who have chosen the clergy as a profession; they have shades of gray. They have their own personal morals but the level of autonomy is really quite astounding.
The next day, I flew to Chicago to transfer to Winnipeg, so of course the flight was cancelled. Satan, thy name is United Airlines. I therefore had a 27-hour layover in Chicago, staying at the lovely and decrepit Wyndham O'Hare (the skid row of airport hotels) and was given one meal voucher valued at $15 during my stay, to be used all at once at one of the astronomically expensive airport eateries. Hellooooo, $9.35 pannini! That night, after much hemming und hawing, I took the train into the city to visit Boystown, the first nationally recognized Ghay Ghetto in the US. It was rainy and deserted. The highlight of my night was a spontaneous Spice Girls sing-a-long by the table next to me at one of the homo restos. It was cute, innocent and didn't involve anonymous sex or narcotics, so big ups. In all, the trip took 5 hours, less than 2 of which were spent actually doing anything. Still, better than sitting in a shiztastic hotel room all night.
The next day, I went to the airport, used $14.78 of my voucher at Quizno's and went home. I feel like I have not slept in 3 years.
Also, last night I ran into, or more accurately avoided running into, a former of mine at Starbucks. This is one of those painfully awkward situations wherein you both know that the other is there and yet you pretend not to notice. At one point, he passed me while on the way to throwing out his cup and did this weird, sound effect-aided jump and half-salute/half-shielding of his face (designed to be playful?). I couldn't help but think, Really? Is this what we're going now? It was 7 years ago. 7 years. For 3 weeks. Like, c'mon. This is Winnipeg, a city wherein you have heard of most everyone before you even start dating them. The pool is that small. The thing that kills me is that if we had met now, 7 years after the fact, we'd probably get along really well. I've had that line from Jesus Christ Superstar in my head all day: Can we start again, please? What an insipidly futile question. It's been done already, like overcooked meat that can never be remoistened. Wow. That was the single worst metaphor I've ever thought up. Still, it kinda makes sense. Ish. The point is, there's no real going back after you've written an angsty adolescent song about them, complete with ever-so-clever homonymical allusions to their name. There's no relationship mulligan, no green 'Back' button. Ooh, but imagine if there was! You could click the adjacent arrow and pick the exact spot you'd want to return to!...
*cough*
Ok, maybe I am just as neurotic as I was at 17.
Finally, at the 2 hour mark, I got out of the van and cabbed the rest of the way. The $11.50 was well spent to get off of the Hell-mobile and it got me to the door of HUC just as the meet & greet (with snacks!) was beginning. We were given a tour of the school, dinner and an exercise in interpreting Jewish law, which left me more than a little bewildered ("I just want to SING," he said). There was an evening prayer service that got me all choked up, perhaps due to all these people being moved by the same (or at least a similar) spirit and looking really happy about it. I felt like a kid who was allowed into his older brother's tree house for the first time and didn't really know how to react. Though certainly not intentional, it was ironically isolating. I went home that night feeling incredibly confused about the whole day, with more questions than I'd had before.
The school had matched me up with a current student for a home stay, a third year student living in Brooklyn. Also staying with her was a 19 year old from Phillie who was, well, 19, and we all know how well I do with 19 year-olds. What is it about teenagers that fuels them to try to impress their elders with knowledge? First of all, we know more than you and secondly, a lot of times the info you're trying to impress us with is wrong. Epic fail: adolescence. He had me up past midnight watch Daily Show clips on my laptop. Ach, well, look...
The following day was significantly better. After a day of sitting in on classes, talking with current students, personal meetings with admissions staff and a kick ass salad lunch, I was much more at ease. The thing that really impressed me is how much the faculty really wants success for their students. The hoops that are presented for jumping are not put in place to intimidate but rather as a means to develop necessary skills. Novel concept, no? I'm still a little wary of the Kumbaya-esque element of the services, but I'll either get on board or learn to adapt. In the end, I got the green light to go ahead and apply, which is why I went in the first place, so yay. I also talked to the most adorable lad who gave reeeeeeeeally good eye contact (holding a gaze is up there with oysters on the aphrodisiac scale) and also gave me this secret handshake in which the index finger is extended during the grip. I remember learning this one but I can't remember for the life of me if it was a Jewish thing or a gay thing. Given the venue, I should probably opt for the former, but damn, pretty eyes.
That night, my host and I grabbed some Thai for dinner and had a great time talking about the school, Judaism, personal history. It's so delightful to connect with someone when in this kind of completely isolated environment. This conversation really added to the good vibes I'd caught at the school that day and that this was very much a Come-as-you-are kind of place, where individualism is embraced. How many faith-based institutions can claim that?
That night, I volunteered at their soup kitchen (I'm an asshole, but helping clothe the homeless and working with volunteers at the Fringe felt a lot alike) and then went for Thai food with my hostess, who is an absolute delight and that dinner was probably a big part of why I'm feeling so positive about applying. These really are very down-to-Earth, rational people who have chosen the clergy as a profession; they have shades of gray. They have their own personal morals but the level of autonomy is really quite astounding.
The next day, I flew to Chicago to transfer to Winnipeg, so of course the flight was cancelled. Satan, thy name is United Airlines. I therefore had a 27-hour layover in Chicago, staying at the lovely and decrepit Wyndham O'Hare (the skid row of airport hotels) and was given one meal voucher valued at $15 during my stay, to be used all at once at one of the astronomically expensive airport eateries. Hellooooo, $9.35 pannini! That night, after much hemming und hawing, I took the train into the city to visit Boystown, the first nationally recognized Ghay Ghetto in the US. It was rainy and deserted. The highlight of my night was a spontaneous Spice Girls sing-a-long by the table next to me at one of the homo restos. It was cute, innocent and didn't involve anonymous sex or narcotics, so big ups. In all, the trip took 5 hours, less than 2 of which were spent actually doing anything. Still, better than sitting in a shiztastic hotel room all night.
The next day, I went to the airport, used $14.78 of my voucher at Quizno's and went home. I feel like I have not slept in 3 years.
Also, last night I ran into, or more accurately avoided running into, a former of mine at Starbucks. This is one of those painfully awkward situations wherein you both know that the other is there and yet you pretend not to notice. At one point, he passed me while on the way to throwing out his cup and did this weird, sound effect-aided jump and half-salute/half-shielding of his face (designed to be playful?). I couldn't help but think, Really? Is this what we're going now? It was 7 years ago. 7 years. For 3 weeks. Like, c'mon. This is Winnipeg, a city wherein you have heard of most everyone before you even start dating them. The pool is that small. The thing that kills me is that if we had met now, 7 years after the fact, we'd probably get along really well. I've had that line from Jesus Christ Superstar in my head all day: Can we start again, please? What an insipidly futile question. It's been done already, like overcooked meat that can never be remoistened. Wow. That was the single worst metaphor I've ever thought up. Still, it kinda makes sense. Ish. The point is, there's no real going back after you've written an angsty adolescent song about them, complete with ever-so-clever homonymical allusions to their name. There's no relationship mulligan, no green 'Back' button. Ooh, but imagine if there was! You could click the adjacent arrow and pick the exact spot you'd want to return to!...
*cough*
Ok, maybe I am just as neurotic as I was at 17.
Monday, June 30, 2008
It's Britney, bitch
Dude, it's so not Britney. Did you really think it was? Consider yourself pwn'ed mothahfuckahhhhhhhh. Seriously, the only thing that Britney and I have in common is a cheap weave and an obligation for child support.
Updating in the summer is hard, yo! I'd love to say that this is because I'm off frolicking my ass off in some goddamn meadow with a sensitive satyr who has become my lover, but alas and alack, this is not so.
I have, however, been getting up to some good shit.
For starters I am obsessed - OBSESSED - with Kathy Griffin. Yes, I realize that my frequent declarations of obsession for strong, funny women that could easily be drag queens falls into the category of gay stereotype, but you know what? I can't fight it. I'm not made of stone, people. Men aren't funny. End of story. This bitch talking smack about Lindsay Lohan is. (Side note: FireFox just tagged the word 'Lohan' as not in the dictionary. Like Don McLean, I inquire as to when these people will learn. Lohan will live forever. Right click. Add to dictionary)
Little known fact: I've actually met Kathy Griffin. For shiz. During my summer in Montreal, my ampley-bossom buddy and I went to see her at a club for Just For Laughs. Afterwards, we loitered around hoping to catch a glimpse, busing tables, smoking butts, etc. and when the security said we had to leave, we made a mad dash around him to the stage door, whereupon the lady with the face so tight met us with passive enthusiasm. There's still a photo floating around my apartment somewhere., but I still remember the feeling of my hand on her waste, inadvertently stroking her poly-blend black top.
That's kind of the biggest news. Otherwise, I went on a ten-day tour with Chai, which could have been a Bravo special had it been at all interesting. I nearly took out half the singers at one point, such was my rage. God bless the portable DVD player, as it was the only thing that stood between me and Chomocide. (Michael Park, that one was for you.)
I've also started seeing someone, though since day one I've just been waiting for it to end, fatalist that I am. We've fallen into this nice pattern where we see each, two days go by, I get anxious and screw someone else, his roommate calls me and tells me lies about infidelity, gang wars are started and then we cuddle. It's all very sweet. Seriously, it's probably gonna end in about 23 minutes.
Updating in the summer is hard, yo! I'd love to say that this is because I'm off frolicking my ass off in some goddamn meadow with a sensitive satyr who has become my lover, but alas and alack, this is not so.
I have, however, been getting up to some good shit.
For starters I am obsessed - OBSESSED - with Kathy Griffin. Yes, I realize that my frequent declarations of obsession for strong, funny women that could easily be drag queens falls into the category of gay stereotype, but you know what? I can't fight it. I'm not made of stone, people. Men aren't funny. End of story. This bitch talking smack about Lindsay Lohan is. (Side note: FireFox just tagged the word 'Lohan' as not in the dictionary. Like Don McLean, I inquire as to when these people will learn. Lohan will live forever. Right click. Add to dictionary)
Little known fact: I've actually met Kathy Griffin. For shiz. During my summer in Montreal, my ampley-bossom buddy and I went to see her at a club for Just For Laughs. Afterwards, we loitered around hoping to catch a glimpse, busing tables, smoking butts, etc. and when the security said we had to leave, we made a mad dash around him to the stage door, whereupon the lady with the face so tight met us with passive enthusiasm. There's still a photo floating around my apartment somewhere., but I still remember the feeling of my hand on her waste, inadvertently stroking her poly-blend black top.
That's kind of the biggest news. Otherwise, I went on a ten-day tour with Chai, which could have been a Bravo special had it been at all interesting. I nearly took out half the singers at one point, such was my rage. God bless the portable DVD player, as it was the only thing that stood between me and Chomocide. (Michael Park, that one was for you.)
I've also started seeing someone, though since day one I've just been waiting for it to end, fatalist that I am. We've fallen into this nice pattern where we see each, two days go by, I get anxious and screw someone else, his roommate calls me and tells me lies about infidelity, gang wars are started and then we cuddle. It's all very sweet. Seriously, it's probably gonna end in about 23 minutes.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
So a little preface for this one.
1. Despite the humour that will hopefully follow, let's remember that I really am the least offensive person ever. Well, perhaps that's just a slight misnomer, but all the same, despite the seeming intolerance for, well, everyone, I really don't care enough to be truly prejudice, never mind towards the mentally challenged, so just stfu. I love everyone equally, if not at all.
2. Bear in mind that I'm a big ol' Jew, so i can say all this shiz. You can't. And if you don't think it's as funny as half of my office (the bulk of this has been adapted from a work e-mail), then, again, stfu.
Ok, so there is a woman at my place of jubilant employment, henceforth known as K, who works in the mail room and has Downs syndrome. Ok, I know. Red flags are already going off like crazy, but hear me out first.
(Actually, before you hear me out, allow me to go slightly blue for a second. Clothing choices: is there no parental or guardianental supervision here? I really think that it is a sign of how little respect we have for the mentally challenged that we assume that they are not worth looking as appropriately presentable as others. Granted, personal expression should be encouraged, but I feel guidance is needed as well. There's just way too much lyrca and Disney-inspired back packs going around. Yes, I'm an asshole, but I'm right and you know it.)
So, I went over two years acting as the perfect model of acceptance and diversity with this lovely girl, going out of my way to make sure that my garbage and recyclables were clearly separated as to not gain her ire, before some very odd behaviour began. Anytime she saw me, she would run in the other direction. I'm not kidding. This 35 year old woman with an English choir boy haircut would literally turn heel and fly away from me. I realize I go through the occasional unseemly fat phase, but this is just uncalled for. Kindness did not help the situation as any salutation would be met with the covering of eyes with her hand while power-walking away; the holding open of a door earned me a look like I had just run over her puppy with a military-issued roadster. Being a friend to all (I'm practically Thumper), this was very disconcerting to me and proved puzzling (though hilarious) to my supervisor and fellow students. Look, we're not mean. None of us would ever dream of making fun of her, it was simply a very odd and, yes, humourous situation.
To make matters even more confusing, there was this totally random moment a few months back where she snapped out of it and seemed to really like me, to the point that we were trading mutual Eastern European heritage stories and even singing Edelweis in the middle of the mail room (She thinks Captain Von Trapp is dreamy).
So about a month ago, one of my fellow students, henceforth known as L, was working with K and my name came up, as I had just walked by and K had put her hand up as a shield to block her vision and uttered a very filter-free "Ugghh!"
"Why, K," my coworker posited, "Whatever is the matter?"
"I don't like him."
"Why not?"
"Well, he's Jewish and he knows that I'm Christian so he probably doesn't like me."
Ah. There we have it. A year of mystery boils down to good ol' antisemitism.
"Well, K, I'm Christian, and David and I are still friends. I'm sure he likes you."
And I do. From that point on, appreciating that this was probably a very stressful situation, I did my best just to avoid her as to not add any undue stress. I realized that this wasn't really bigotry so much as misguided ignorance that, let's face it, could not be curbed.
Then, today, I snapped.
Frequently, when arriving in the morning I will get to work, or rather the Graham/Main intersection, at the same time as a certain other employee who may be deduced by her love of Julie Andrews and racial intolerance.
As I am not one to cause undue anxiety in others, I try to stay behind her, out of sight, in the hopes that my Jew-y presence won’t ruin her morning. This often means walking at an excruciatingly slow pace, which coming from me really does say something.
However, this morning I was in no mood for Fraulein Heil and her fourth reich and decided to make my presence known by walking very clearly in front of her at my own reasonably leisurely pace.
The recoil effect was instantaneous.
Paying no heed, I strode confidently into my God-given place of employment and pressed the button for the elevator (I would have taken the stairs but my messenger bag was weighed down from 5,000 years of oppression.) However, I decided, just for kicks to see just how long it would take Ms. Eva Braun to enter the building after me (I mean, really, I’m already going to hell for killing her lord; what other shenanigans could I get up to?).
FOUR MINUTES!
Four minutes it took before she poked her head around the corner! And was really cold out today!
On the plus side, she was wearing some killer brown pinstripe trousers that go stunningly with the hot pink Barbie backpack.
1. Despite the humour that will hopefully follow, let's remember that I really am the least offensive person ever. Well, perhaps that's just a slight misnomer, but all the same, despite the seeming intolerance for, well, everyone, I really don't care enough to be truly prejudice, never mind towards the mentally challenged, so just stfu. I love everyone equally, if not at all.
2. Bear in mind that I'm a big ol' Jew, so i can say all this shiz. You can't. And if you don't think it's as funny as half of my office (the bulk of this has been adapted from a work e-mail), then, again, stfu.
Ok, so there is a woman at my place of jubilant employment, henceforth known as K, who works in the mail room and has Downs syndrome. Ok, I know. Red flags are already going off like crazy, but hear me out first.
(Actually, before you hear me out, allow me to go slightly blue for a second. Clothing choices: is there no parental or guardianental supervision here? I really think that it is a sign of how little respect we have for the mentally challenged that we assume that they are not worth looking as appropriately presentable as others. Granted, personal expression should be encouraged, but I feel guidance is needed as well. There's just way too much lyrca and Disney-inspired back packs going around. Yes, I'm an asshole, but I'm right and you know it.)
So, I went over two years acting as the perfect model of acceptance and diversity with this lovely girl, going out of my way to make sure that my garbage and recyclables were clearly separated as to not gain her ire, before some very odd behaviour began. Anytime she saw me, she would run in the other direction. I'm not kidding. This 35 year old woman with an English choir boy haircut would literally turn heel and fly away from me. I realize I go through the occasional unseemly fat phase, but this is just uncalled for. Kindness did not help the situation as any salutation would be met with the covering of eyes with her hand while power-walking away; the holding open of a door earned me a look like I had just run over her puppy with a military-issued roadster. Being a friend to all (I'm practically Thumper), this was very disconcerting to me and proved puzzling (though hilarious) to my supervisor and fellow students. Look, we're not mean. None of us would ever dream of making fun of her, it was simply a very odd and, yes, humourous situation.
To make matters even more confusing, there was this totally random moment a few months back where she snapped out of it and seemed to really like me, to the point that we were trading mutual Eastern European heritage stories and even singing Edelweis in the middle of the mail room (She thinks Captain Von Trapp is dreamy).
So about a month ago, one of my fellow students, henceforth known as L, was working with K and my name came up, as I had just walked by and K had put her hand up as a shield to block her vision and uttered a very filter-free "Ugghh!"
"Why, K," my coworker posited, "Whatever is the matter?"
"I don't like him."
"Why not?"
"Well, he's Jewish and he knows that I'm Christian so he probably doesn't like me."
Ah. There we have it. A year of mystery boils down to good ol' antisemitism.
"Well, K, I'm Christian, and David and I are still friends. I'm sure he likes you."
And I do. From that point on, appreciating that this was probably a very stressful situation, I did my best just to avoid her as to not add any undue stress. I realized that this wasn't really bigotry so much as misguided ignorance that, let's face it, could not be curbed.
Then, today, I snapped.
Frequently, when arriving in the morning I will get to work, or rather the Graham/Main intersection, at the same time as a certain other employee who may be deduced by her love of Julie Andrews and racial intolerance.
As I am not one to cause undue anxiety in others, I try to stay behind her, out of sight, in the hopes that my Jew-y presence won’t ruin her morning. This often means walking at an excruciatingly slow pace, which coming from me really does say something.
However, this morning I was in no mood for Fraulein Heil and her fourth reich and decided to make my presence known by walking very clearly in front of her at my own reasonably leisurely pace.
The recoil effect was instantaneous.
Paying no heed, I strode confidently into my God-given place of employment and pressed the button for the elevator (I would have taken the stairs but my messenger bag was weighed down from 5,000 years of oppression.) However, I decided, just for kicks to see just how long it would take Ms. Eva Braun to enter the building after me (I mean, really, I’m already going to hell for killing her lord; what other shenanigans could I get up to?).
FOUR MINUTES!
Four minutes it took before she poked her head around the corner! And was really cold out today!
On the plus side, she was wearing some killer brown pinstripe trousers that go stunningly with the hot pink Barbie backpack.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Paintergate has been resolved. Thanks to all for their support (read: Michael) in my time of need. The apartment is once again back to it's former glory, but a little bit wiser for its new coat of paint. Almost like an off-white sheath of knowledge. It now knows that an apartment, as much as one may preen over that is still just a habitat and should not be used as a distraction from actually going out and getting a life.
In addition to that saga drawing to a close, yesterday also marked the end of my seasonal employ with the High Holiday Quartet. This is a good thing; I was not enjoying who I became in those last two weeks. Nothing short of a harpy, necessarily so, but a harpy all the same. I would regularly wake up to fantasies wherein I verbally berate someone to the point of mortified speechlessness. That is so not zen, yo.
Aside from putting a stop to my conductors' rage, the end of my sacred tenure also means a new overabundance of time, hence this post. That's right, kids. It's that most nefarious of all ramblings, the Bored Blog. It's like a Drunk Dial but with less illicit substances and more typos.
In addition to that saga drawing to a close, yesterday also marked the end of my seasonal employ with the High Holiday Quartet. This is a good thing; I was not enjoying who I became in those last two weeks. Nothing short of a harpy, necessarily so, but a harpy all the same. I would regularly wake up to fantasies wherein I verbally berate someone to the point of mortified speechlessness. That is so not zen, yo.
Aside from putting a stop to my conductors' rage, the end of my sacred tenure also means a new overabundance of time, hence this post. That's right, kids. It's that most nefarious of all ramblings, the Bored Blog. It's like a Drunk Dial but with less illicit substances and more typos.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
To start us off right, big shout out to Mikey J and Mummy-Cat for their always-insightful and appreciated feedback. Waaaaaaaaay nicer than the anonymous reader who used to leave comments on U's blog calling her various not so nice things behind the veil of anonymity. He was kind of a dick.
I just woke up from a four hour nap. I think anything more should just really be called 'sleeping'. And the reason for said nap? A six-thirty wake-up call followed by a five-hour High Holiday service. Imagine, if you will, a newborn baby dear. He is new to this world, just having learned how to walk properly. So, feeling rather good about his newfound mobility, he goes out for a stroll with his little bunny companions. Of these little bunny companions, some have been around for a while and are wisen and aged in respect to this world of daisies and babbling brooks, while others are even newer than the fawn and you just kinda want to kick them. Like, hard. Sometimes you even think, "Lord, God (you're a very religious fawn) why in Heaven did I choose this fucking lagomorph as a strolling companion?! WHY?!" But I digress...So you're strolling around with your little bunny friends and suddenly the grass ends and the ground becomes hard and black and you think, "Oh this must be a road. I've heard about these things, but I've never actually been on one" So you step on up and oh, it's not so bad...
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM...
That look is what I felt like up on the bima (altar-equivalent) today
(NB - The above was composed two days ago. I have since experienced my second day and it was much less oh-crap-I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-why-did-they-hire-me?!)
Coming off of this sense of accomplishment, I definitely feel the urge to let loose and have an adventure tonight, one that takes me from a party to a park to my bathtub to my bed. Anyone interested in partaking may call me or leave a comment.
Ooh, also, I've taken down the "My Future Husband" link. For those who never visited, it was linked to a blog called vividblurry, which used to be very funny and slightly touching at times as well. I just visited it for the first time in a year only to find out that the lad's body dysmorphia has become so rampant that it is little more than an ode to a gym bunny. Guys actually send in their Before and After photos and in return receive congratulations. It's gross.
I just woke up from a four hour nap. I think anything more should just really be called 'sleeping'. And the reason for said nap? A six-thirty wake-up call followed by a five-hour High Holiday service. Imagine, if you will, a newborn baby dear. He is new to this world, just having learned how to walk properly. So, feeling rather good about his newfound mobility, he goes out for a stroll with his little bunny companions. Of these little bunny companions, some have been around for a while and are wisen and aged in respect to this world of daisies and babbling brooks, while others are even newer than the fawn and you just kinda want to kick them. Like, hard. Sometimes you even think, "Lord, God (you're a very religious fawn) why in Heaven did I choose this fucking lagomorph as a strolling companion?! WHY?!" But I digress...So you're strolling around with your little bunny friends and suddenly the grass ends and the ground becomes hard and black and you think, "Oh this must be a road. I've heard about these things, but I've never actually been on one" So you step on up and oh, it's not so bad...
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM...
That look is what I felt like up on the bima (altar-equivalent) today
(NB - The above was composed two days ago. I have since experienced my second day and it was much less oh-crap-I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-why-did-they-hire-me?!)
Coming off of this sense of accomplishment, I definitely feel the urge to let loose and have an adventure tonight, one that takes me from a party to a park to my bathtub to my bed. Anyone interested in partaking may call me or leave a comment.
Ooh, also, I've taken down the "My Future Husband" link. For those who never visited, it was linked to a blog called vividblurry, which used to be very funny and slightly touching at times as well. I just visited it for the first time in a year only to find out that the lad's body dysmorphia has become so rampant that it is little more than an ode to a gym bunny. Guys actually send in their Before and After photos and in return receive congratulations. It's gross.
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