I am seriously pissed

This Easter weekend was pretty pathetic, with me spending the majority of my time faux-convalescing in silk pj bottoms on my aunt and uncle's bed (house sitting again), catching up on streaming TV shows, searching in almost-vain to find a hot tubbing companion and eating more matzoh than my colon would like to admit. The final evening ended in near-suicide while in a car with two Cher-loving flight attendants. I will post a bitchatinous entry on this tomorrow as the wounds are too fresh, but in the meantime there's something pressing that I must address.

Some other d-bag has now given me one of these:




Look, people, I can't deal with this shiz. If you are going to give me praise I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOU.

Evidently, this recognition for writing about stupid shit that happens to me came with a caveat that I overlooked last time, specifically that the recipient is required to reveal five little/un known things about them. So as punishment to Ryan or Jason or Achmed, whoever writes soft nonsense, I'm gonna go all emo (shocking) in...


My 5 Purty Things 'Bout Me

1. Like, omg. I, too, also had really weird associations with chewing food on the same side! Lemme 'splain: First off, I always favoured the right side, so every pattern would have to finish on the right. I would start on the left and then go to the right (L-R), then the next time it would have to reverse so you wind up with (L-R, R-L), 'cept now I'm ending on the left so it then becomes (L-R-R-L, R-L-L-R) and the madness would continue. Some kids are molested by their Uncle Carl; I had eating algorithms. My point? We're all a bit fucked up.

2. Older readers will be familiar with the "Not So Tiny Tim" tag and newer readers are probably staying up wondering what the crap that's all about. Essentially, the NSTT tag denotes posts relating to a medical condition I have called CIDP. I gave a brief explanation about it here, so feel free to peruse at your leisure, but it pretty much boils down to this: I fall down a lot. Sometimes this is funny, more often it is just embarrassing. It doesn't really effect people around me that much, although witnessing one of my splendiforous tumbles is a friendship rite o' passage, but it pretty much informs every physical movement that I make. And for those asking why I can't get it together to rehabilitate my lazy ass, well, I have no answers for you. And also, shaddup.

3. I've never been in a long term relationship. I'll give you a moment to pick your jaw up off the floor and throw something at the gob that just smacked you. All done? Excellent. Unlike my inability to hold down an exercise routine as mentioned above, I really have no answers for you on this one. My friends (claim to) love me, I am constantly being told I'm good dating material and am routinely approached by suitors. Unfortunately, they tend to leave me pretty cold. I suffer from that awesome self-hating affliction of not having the slightest interest in a person once they've appeared interested in me. Clearly, this means that there is something wrong with them. We may be gearing up for spring clothing, but my subconscious self-loathing is in fashion year round!


4. The only reason I drink, do drugs or grope strangers is cause I am bored. Incidentally, preeeeeetty big factor in blog writing, too. This is why I will never be an addict. It's not that I love the sensation of being messed up or felt up all that much; I just have nothing better to do at that moment, which is clearly healthier than addiction...


5. The only time I cry is when watching melodramatic television shows. It only happens once or twice a year, usually after a period of duress and with many non-network show lead ups of misty eyes, usually while listening to Wicked. The last huge bawl came about a year ago (oh shit, I'm due!) during Grey's Anatomy, with a near-cry occurring a month ago while watching the Desperate Housewives where Linette dreams about having a gimpy son and how she forces him to be independent and made me all, "Why didn't my parents do that? Waaaaaah. Oh wait, why didn't I?..." In any case, ABC is responsible for a solid 1/4 of my Kleenex output. The rest? Fist babies.


Okay, now that that nonsense is over, I have to pass this on to 5 other bloggers. My way rebellious theme is Bloggers That Have Ridiculous Amounts of Followers and Will Never Read This In a Million Years. The buck stops with me! Also, they're awesome.


Livin the Dream - Cause there needs to be one straight guy that I read. Sorry, Achmed.

Steam Me Up, Kid... - Cause her dog is black and so am I.

30 is the new 13 - Cause 25 is the new 18. Until May 4th when I turn 26. Mark it in yo calenduhs, bitchezzzzzzz.

HAPSICAL - Cause it's a really awesome fashion blog and also I'm getting desperate.

ecostems - Cause this is the guy I went out with last weekend he seems half decent and three quarters sexeh.


Yeah, I got nothing left at this point. If I were a male orgasm, it's pretty much just be air and lint comin' out.



NEXT TIME: How many remixes of "Believe" is too much? Evidently, not 17.

Post on mah wallet

As previously stated, I have a very complicated relationship with my wallet. We're like a couple in an abusive relationship that neither party is willing to leave because "maybe this time it will be different." Like, "maybe this time he won't get lost on the streetcar," or "maybe this time he won't try to broil me alongside homemade croutons." Our cycle of abuse is legendary in the public transportation office of any city I've lived in and a source of neverending snickering from my friends. Evidently, psychological battery is funny to some people.

Thusly, I present an illustrated history of me and Wallet.



The Beginning


Illustrious D: Omagawd, I can't believe I got a Louis Vuitton wallet for mah 18th birthday! I will love you and treasure you for life! Yes, I will! Cootchy-cootchy-c-...

Bitch-Ass Wallet: What up, baiznatch.

ID: Hey, there's no need for that kind of language. You are supposed to act like a gentleman.

BAW: Gentleman this
ID: Wow. Rude.

BAW: Know what else is rude? Your face.

ID: Good one.


So we got off to a bit of a rocky start, specifically when he insisted on calling me "ADRIAAAAN" for the first six months. After a short while together, we went on a three-month-iversary to Winner's.

ID: Hey, this bag is really fly. How'd you like to ride around in that?!

BAW: Yeah. Sure. Whateverz.

ID: Cause it even has these awesome snappy pockets so you'll never get los-...hey, what are you doing?

BAW: Nuttin'

ID: You were for totes checking out that little Chanel number!

BAW: What? Nah. You trippin'.

ID: Trippin' over your lechery, mayhaps. We have been over this! You like other boy wallets! FERRAGAMO! That's it, we be out! Hey, where'd you go?

BAW: [be all hiding in tube sock bin]




ID: Fuck me...


That was the first time of many when Wallet would decide to venture out into the world without adult supervision. Although, there was one occasion where some of the aforementioned snickery friends were directly responsabbible for our separation.

Walletnapped


Music School Walletophile: Hey, there little wallet.

BAW: Wha-? You talkin' to me?

MSW: I don't see any other cutie-patootie wallets around.

BAW: Oh, garsh...

MSW: What say you and I go for a little ride in mah van together?

BAW: I dunno, the awesome [and handsome] guy that carries me around said to stay right here so that his dumbass behind could find me later.

MSW: ...

BAW: ...

MSW: I got candy.

BAW: LET'S DO THIS.




So then they went off together and didn't bother telling me 'til the next day, causing me to be all angsty and post a real PO'ed rant about takin' mah shit and then not telling me 'til the next day which I'm not gonna link cause I was all angsty. 'Preciate.


Mid-point Review: My wallet is a whore who will go with anyone from transit ticket takers to Superstore check-out clerks. This li'l gem of a story happened last December the day before I was to fly home to Winnipeg

ID: Gee, we got on the 502 car instead of the 501. I hope we'll be alright, little buddy

BAW: Get the AIDS and die.

ID: Whazzat?

BAW: Bet on maids and pie

ID: wtf?

BAW: *cheeky eyebrow raise*

ID: Are you having a stroke in instalments?

Obese Bus Driver: This streetcar will be turning at McCaul so haul ass outta herr.

ID: Son of a bitch! I knew I should not have listened to you and your "The higher the number the fewer poor people are on board" logic. [Dismounts streetcar] I cannot believe you suckered me with xenophobia yet again! When we get home I'm gonna bend you over and rap-

After that, I vowed never again to be taken in by that little scamp. I called up my friends and crowed, "Well, guess who the fuckity-fuck has gone and left himself on the streetcar again. You know what? I don't even care. I have another one just waiting at home BEGGING to hold all my shit. That's it! We are done! WE ARE DO- hello?"

Our great tale would end there was it not for a cooking misadventure last week involving my tardiness at Stove Orientation when I moved into my building, resulting in turning on the wrong burner and branding my little man like the cow hide he is, in fact, not made out of





BAW: Holy crap balls, that is the lamest drawing ever.

ID: YOU SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH.

BAW: No, seriously, dude. That bandaid looks like a cross section of an egg sunny side up.

ID: Actually, that's fair.

BAW: The blood detailing is nice though.

ID: Thank you.



FIN

Creepin', Hatin', and Playin'

o hai

I've been too busy breathing into a paper bag from reading this to do anything remotely productive. That said, I've been heavily programmed as per my Rollins Manifesto and so I have seen some things in this world over the past few days and feel the need to list them. And who doesn't love a good list? That's right - no one. Wait. You there, the one with your hand up. Get the fuck out...We're waiting...Okay, you know what we're all just gonna sit here until you and your list-hating smirk leave... No? Fine then. Catch ebola.

1. HEY LISTEN UP, BABIES - jay kay, I'm not gonna start by yelling at babies. We all know I communicate with them and their training-pants-aspiring ways far too lovingly to ever yell at babies. Unless it's not mine. Then for shiz they're getting an earful. Like, hey, why's your poop always green and your barf always white? What, brown isn't good enough for you?! That's racist...

2. I won the genetic lottery - Monday night, I had a Passover seder at my mother's cousins' in Thornhill. For those not in the know, Thornhill is to Toronto as Orange County is to LA. Well, with a lot more Jews. And no style. Or No Doubt. Actually, it's not that much like Ora-...THE POINT IS that it's a suburban moneyed enclave where nothing is built taller than three stories and they add the word "Bistro" to their Country Style Delis just to feel fancy. Not a word of a lie. Anyway, the whole night was pretty much a bad scene out of Fiddler, complete with borderline retarded cousin. The mother kept trying to get me to sing, which, no. I'm really not all that fantastic but I hate being put on the spot in a way that will not actually demonstrate skill. Singing a lame-ass prayer at a passover seder is like handing Andy Warhol some crayons and a Disney Princess trace-and-colour book. Actually, wait. Those are awesome. [simile retracted] Still, it's stupid. Then there were the young Israeli couple who were so goddamn cynical about everything that I was tempted to cut a bitch with some jagged matzah. The only things they seemed to enjoy were each other and discussing their internet download plans. I mean, talk about a conversational boner killer. Then there was the aforementioned cousin with intellectual disabilities. Actually, I feel this is unfair to people with genuine intellectual disabilities. The girl is just stupid. In addition to having her mother tell her 25 year old ass how to dress for dinner, she walked into a wall and a folding screen on separate occasions, blew her nose in her sleeve continuously and waxed poetic about her commemorative Olympics glass for five minutes straight. She is a very special girl, ironically in a very Olympic way.

3. Being creepy has paid off - A couple weeks ago, I eye fucked a very nice looking gentleman whilst aboard the subway, a gesture which was returned on his part. Evidently, in the realm of eye sex, I am versatile. A couple days later, I was wasting time online and came across a profile for my occular transit lover and wasted no time finding a place on his msn with Facebook stalking privileges. Long story short, we're having drinks tonight and I will be informing our future Mongolian grandchildren that their grandpas met when Zaida David was creepin' on the subway. See? It's not only 12 year olds with autism that interest me. Mostly, though.

4. Apple tells it like it is - So 'member when you were little and you'd be all on the computer and happy cause you were listening to Barbra Streisand singing a Pretty Women/Ladies That Lunch medley while playing solitaire and the world was so nice and well and good because you were a solitaire god that won, like, at least 2 outta 3 games and that meant you hadded skillz and would go places in life? Well, turns out that it was all a lie. 'Cept the medley. That shit is real and it is awesome. I've started playing Klondike, which is Apple's version of solitaire that comes with all iPods, mostly because when you win, the kings animate and start giving each other gang hand shakes and I love gangs (read: ethnic people and whiteys that want to be like them). HOWEVER, evidently my solitaire prowess, like my innocence, calf muscles and sobriety, is gone. I win maaaaaaaybe 1 outta 6 games and this has led me to possibly the most mind blowing conspiracy theory ever: Microsoft only put the easy-to-win solitaire permutations into Windows so we would be lulled into a false sense of accomplishment and love them more. Like, oh my god. This is like an absentee father who's always disappointing his kid by never takin' him places or givin' him hugs or buying him Jem and the Holograms fashion plates or whatever and then slipping the kid Flinstones-brand roofies so that the kid is all quiet and doesn't complain about all the dumb shit being done to scar me. Ahem. But now I know the truth, people. Solitaire isn't all fun and games cards bouncin' all over da place in beautiful cascades while the voice of a generation sings about hats. No. It is cold, wheel turning on the subway while mean people judge you for not trying your hand at Music Quiz and only earning an average of $14 per game. $14?! Fuck you, Apple. But thank you for finally showing me the truth.

OMG OMG OMG I JUST GOT A 6TH ROW CENTRE TICKET TO SEE RUFUS WAINWRIGHT IN JUNE AND I KNOW NO ONE CARES BUT I CAN'T ACCESS FACEBOOK AT WORK AND I NEED TO OVERSHARE. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

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!

Next up: Llama Merkins

Okay, so I just found out the our first lady's first name is Laureen.

CANADA: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.


Now then, I've recently begun to enjoy the smooth, creamy stylings of one T.L. Bocina, who waxed nostalgic recently about a former lover and it got me thinking about mine. The infant that has come to be known as the Young Portuguese was in my life and my hot tub for a short while, not a good while, and in that time he was remarkable for no reason whatsoever. Yes, his street cred and lower lip were oddly intoxicating, but he had no real defining characteristics that will stand the test of time except that he is the most recent and therefore at the forefront of my rejection neuroses.

Last night, I had yet another dream in which he appeared and was not an asshole. I would like to issue an edict to stop invading my subconscious with fantasies about his non-assholedom as I know this to be a fallacy. His lopsided spectacled smile has as little effect on me as a Mach 3 razor has on his ridiculous and troubling amount of underbelly hair. I can forgive many things; bad haircuts, backne, occasional racism and psychopathological knowledge of the Going-To-Hell song from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, inclusive. But seriously dude, it's like a fake alpaca stomach weave from Crafts 'N Things. You could make a pashmina outta that shit.This is about as appealing as Ranjit, the accounts receivable guy who regularly pees in the adjacent stall during my daily iPod solitaire break in the employee washroom. (The guy pees and then for a solid minute and a half just stands there waiting for aftershocks that generally occur 15-20 seconds apart. He then does up his zippy and stands there for another bit, I dunno, praying or something. I can't really tell, but why else would someone stick around post-emission? Pro tip: If your god requires lauding and thanks after urination by light of fluorescence, you picked the wrong religion.)

Okay, this was originally gonna be an attempt at being deep but clearly I lost my concentration roughly around "fake alpaca stomach weave." Sorry. I'll try harder tomorrow.

Il pleut dans ma tainte

I don't really have anything to say, so this is likely to get rambly, people. I apologize.

I have been experiencing what the French refer to as ennui. Who can say why? Not me. That's what makes it ennui and not just regular Americanized depression brought about by Big Macs and a literacy rate encroaching on Chad's. Is it the the let down after the uproarious celebrations that followed my historic blogger award last week? Perhaps. Is it the two e-mails sent in error at work yesterday, leading to gentle admonishment by my Boy Scout leader-esque supervisor? Likely. Is it the fact that I now spend most evenings alone without the slightest inclination to call friends other than Misters Fidditch and Stolichnya? Doubtful.

I'm not exactly subtle about these things. Yesterday, I arrive at work dressed entirely in grey and proceeded to sprawl out on the floor in star-fish position, counting the holes in the ceiling tile above me before crawling into my coat cubby for a well-deserved 9:15 nap. Further, when the fluorescent hell that is my overhead light burned out, I took this as a tangible metaphor for my life and affixed the following sign to the back of my cubicle for maintenance:

That is not a joke. As you can see by the sketchy black lines on the top and right side, this is a scan of a real sign hanging in my area. I like it dark like the little grey storm cloud that's taken up residence over my head and under my taint.

I'm presently inclined to invest in a waist coat and some Absinthe in the hope of becoming a good ol' timey lush. I'd stroll into the office at half past 11:00 in cut-off gloves and disheveled mutton chops, yelling "Harlot!" at my boss before taking my tantrum to the basement food court, where I would likely moon my Chinese lady friends who serve my daily java. This, however, loses its appeal in imagining, as my boozy melt downs would likely occur in front of Booster Juice and I simply have too much respect for the açai berry to let it come to that

On the up and up, Black Magic holla'ed a "Hey, boo." at me while passing in the hall today. Sexual harrassment, say some. The only thing allowing me to cling to sanity, say I.