My mother just called me on my work phone:
Illustrious D: Wha-? Hello?
Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you call me at the office?
ID: No...
SM: Oh, then you must have caller ID (<----that's me!) and can see our phone number.
ID: I must.
SM: I'm going to go to the spa with Gloria to get massages on our day off, but I just wanted to let you know that Dad and I are going to dinner and then the theatre tonight so we will NOT be calling you later to say Good Shabbos.
ID: Mmmmokay. I'll try to not add that to the Feelings of Abandonment file.
SM: What?
ID: You look really pretty today. Is that a BumpIt?
SM: What? We're on the phone. Please be serious. But regardless that's not a very nice thing to say about my nose.
ID: No, Mom, I-... never mind. Goodbye.
SM: WAIT!
ID: *waits*
SM: *waits to see if I'm waiting*
ID: *adjusts balls*
SM: So this may not be the best time to talk about this cause you're at work, but lately...I've sensed that...you're...lonely...for a...rom...antic relationship.
ID: Well, Mr. Shatner, that's a very astute observation. Father has posited the very same hypothesis.
SM: It just seems that you could use it right now.
ID: As opposed to the last 10 years I've been looking for it.
SM: Right.
ID: *readjust balls back to original position* It's like you're in my head.
SM: They say it takes about two years so really get integrated into a place and so you're really just at the beginning still. You have the apartment and a job and you have lots of acquaintances (Mom-speak for "I suspect you're a whore.") and a couple friends like Unibrow and the one that looks like a doll, but I just think you should have a really good relationship.
ID: Holla.
SM: Are there any, um, you know, gay Jewish groups in Toronto?
ID: Yes. It's called Kulanu. The quasi-attractive Jew from back in December told me about it before dropping off the face of the Earth.
SM: Well, you're pretty self-sufficient so I'm sure you'll check it out if you want to.
ID: I'm sure I will, too.
SM: Well, this has been exciting. You work on the relationship thing. It just takes a little effort.
ID: Mother...
SM: That's all I'm saying.
ID: Mmmmmmmm-hmm.
SM: I love y-.
*click*
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sexeh Aminal Planet
I've been inappropriately having e-mail conversations with some New Zealand dude who works at TD Canada Trust and will likely be getting fired cause of it should HR ever discover these exchanges. Today alone, he referenced porn, pedophilia and personal lubricant. Ah yes, the 3 P's of getting your ass canned. We also had a running gag about opening what he called the Manhole Bank.
Illustrious D: I've never heard of this Manhole Bank. Is it simply for making deposits or can you withdraw, too? Is there protection services
Non-Australian: Manhole bank has been there for ages but not been spoken about. You can certainly pull in and out for deposit and withdrawals but gotta make sure you got some sort of insurance protection to do so. Otherwise you are risking you investment! Have you got lots to risk?
ID: The amount I sink into something usually depends on the interest I have it in. Don't have a massive portfolio, so I'd never consider myself a port star, but if I'm really looking come out a head, I manage just fine
NA: Im sure you watch a hell loads of porn… first the czech boys and now that? So so naughty
ID: I can assure you that I have NO idea what you're talking about. I am simply taking about a simple exchange of fluid assets.
And scene.
Yesterday, he gave me mentored me in the ways of picking up strangers in bars (clearly my thing) by advising me to "make sure not to jump and hump immediately." After I asked for clarification and he said:
"I can just imagine you jumping on top of a camel (wild and eager). Then humping it like a rabbit!!! Lol"
Ugh. These fucking lol-ers
What a lovely and underappreciated interspecies couple. Proud Camel. Eager Rabbit. It was bound to happen. Let's exploit my MS Paint skillz to examine what this might look like:
Illustrious D: I've never heard of this Manhole Bank. Is it simply for making deposits or can you withdraw, too? Is there protection services
Non-Australian: Manhole bank has been there for ages but not been spoken about. You can certainly pull in and out for deposit and withdrawals but gotta make sure you got some sort of insurance protection to do so. Otherwise you are risking you investment! Have you got lots to risk?
ID: The amount I sink into something usually depends on the interest I have it in. Don't have a massive portfolio, so I'd never consider myself a port star, but if I'm really looking come out a head, I manage just fine
NA: Im sure you watch a hell loads of porn… first the czech boys and now that? So so naughty
ID: I can assure you that I have NO idea what you're talking about. I am simply taking about a simple exchange of fluid assets.
And scene.
Yesterday, he gave me mentored me in the ways of picking up strangers in bars (clearly my thing) by advising me to "make sure not to jump and hump immediately." After I asked for clarification and he said:
"I can just imagine you jumping on top of a camel (wild and eager). Then humping it like a rabbit!!! Lol"
Ugh. These fucking lol-ers
What a lovely and underappreciated interspecies couple. Proud Camel. Eager Rabbit. It was bound to happen. Let's exploit my MS Paint skillz to examine what this might look like:
Jump & Hump
Some talking points:
1. Just want to go on the record and say that I think raping a camel with both eyes on one side of its head and neck tumours is kinda pouring salt in the wound.
2. Why are you looking at the camera, Rabbit? First rule of working in film: NEVER look at the audience. It makes us feel dirty. If it was my film you were ruining with your "I'ma Punk this dromedary!" eyes, you would be barred from the set. BARRED FROM THE SET!
3. Mr. Sun, why are you so creepy? You're clearly the instigator of this little prank, urging Little Rabbit Foo-Foo to shun his natural boreal habitat for the sweltering heat of the Sahara just so he can stick it where you don't shine. Do you know when the last time the camel had some Oat Bran? THEY'RE IN A DESERT! You got no clue what be comin' outta that end. That rabbit gonna look like a Lindt Easter chocolate by day's end
This got me thinking (cue Sex & The City night time zoom in throw billowy draped window). If a rabbit and a camel could make something work, I had to wonder (Yes! Stuck the landing!) what hope was there for the rest of the Animal Kingdom's interspecies lovahs.
Some talking points:
1. Just want to go on the record and say that I think raping a camel with both eyes on one side of its head and neck tumours is kinda pouring salt in the wound.
2. Why are you looking at the camera, Rabbit? First rule of working in film: NEVER look at the audience. It makes us feel dirty. If it was my film you were ruining with your "I'ma Punk this dromedary!" eyes, you would be barred from the set. BARRED FROM THE SET!
3. Mr. Sun, why are you so creepy? You're clearly the instigator of this little prank, urging Little Rabbit Foo-Foo to shun his natural boreal habitat for the sweltering heat of the Sahara just so he can stick it where you don't shine. Do you know when the last time the camel had some Oat Bran? THEY'RE IN A DESERT! You got no clue what be comin' outta that end. That rabbit gonna look like a Lindt Easter chocolate by day's end
This got me thinking (cue Sex & The City night time zoom in throw billowy draped window)
Bum & Rum
This is strictly for anal lovers. I mean, that giraffe wants it one way and one way only. The parrot is there because parrots are piratey and pirates like rum, but having a pirate give it to a giraffe, even as one as slutty as this one, is just plain wrong
Talking points:
1. Um, how amazing is my Paint fill function prowess?
2. I kinda love that the parrot looks like it really cares about the cheap floozy giraffe. Either that or he got into the love drugs. OMG, parrots at a rave! Picture it! HAHAHA! Classic.
3. In all seriousness though, how ho-ey is that giraffe? I mean, she can't even coordinate her colour palette correctly. Um, hello? You're an Autumn! Chuckles. What a loser.
4. Holy crap, Mr. Sun! Way to step up the creeper game even more. What are you, a giraffe pimp now? It's one thing to act as first grip on a low-budget adult film shot on location in the Sudanese desert, but you're really sinking to new lows here. Didn't you used to want to be somebody? Whatever happened to that screenplay? Huh? You know what, I can't even look at you right now.
This is strictly for anal lovers. I mean, that giraffe wants it one way and one way only. The parrot is there because parrots are piratey and pirates like rum, but having a pirate give it to a giraffe, even as one as slutty as this one, is just plain wrong
Talking points:
1. Um, how amazing is my Paint fill function prowess?
2. I kinda love that the parrot looks like it really cares about the cheap floozy giraffe. Either that or he got into the love drugs. OMG, parrots at a rave! Picture it! HAHAHA! Classic.
3. In all seriousness though, how ho-ey is that giraffe? I mean, she can't even coordinate her colour palette correctly. Um, hello? You're an Autumn! Chuckles. What a loser.
4. Holy crap, Mr. Sun! Way to step up the creeper game even more. What are you, a giraffe pimp now? It's one thing to act as first grip on a low-budget adult film shot on location in the Sudanese desert, but you're really sinking to new lows here. Didn't you used to want to be somebody? Whatever happened to that screenplay? Huh? You know what, I can't even look at you right now.
Blow & Blorjioahwbnr34tlo
Um, so I saved these two drawings and then I took my lunch break and when I came back I couldn't remember why I wanted the possum. I remember seeking it out cause it plays dead. That is all. Let's soldier on anyway.
Talking points:
1. Wow, what did you have for lunch, David? A lot of FAIL? YOU SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH! I TRY SO HARD! SO! HA-A-A-AAAAAAAAARD! *breaks down sobbing*
2. Holy shit, that's some kick-ass coral.
3. How is that possum breathing right now? Even the Creepy McCreepCreep Creeperson Sun has a snorkel. Because possums are the new unicorns, that's why. Trust me. It's gonna be a thing.
4. That blowfish has excellent dental work. Ironic given that teeth are generally frowned upon when blowing.
5. OMG, is that Nemo? Dude, you found him! So much props!
6. *sigh* Mr. Sun... I ca-... There are no wo-... How are you under wa-...? *sigh*
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I want to produce Retarded Romper Room
For months now, I have been bothered weekly (and sometimes even more frequently) by a woman in our office and her special needs child that she brings around. I had never actually seen this kid but had heard their intangible ramblings for weeks now. While I love people with disabilities (holla at mah peeps!!), that love is generally regulated entirely to the autistic/Asbergers-y side of things, such as my much discussed Autistic Retard Girl (ARG) that I see a couple times a week on the streetcar. Today, she and her haggard, split ends-rockin' mama were openly dancing and singing while waiting for the car to arrive. I, in reaction, emerged from the shelter to stand closer to them and fantasized about them asking me to join in and all of us dancing in a Circle of Autism together. Round and round we go! Weeeeeee! Oh what fun, we would have! Unfortunately, that did not happen, but I still liked watching any way. I'm like an Autism voyeur. Trend setter, am I. You'll hear about it soon. Trust me.
Okay, back to the dickhead with the retarded kid. I do not like to know that much about the people I work with. I like to know even less about their kids. Those that work in completely unsatisfying jobs tend to make their families the centre of everything and expect others to do the same. Not only do I not believe that their families are all that and a bag o' chips, but I'm also more and more certain that I don't want any should've-been-BJs running around my pad in the future. This is a notion I have learned not to share with family oriented coworkers as they tend to look at me with a mixture of pity and incredulousness, as though their inner monologue is, "Oh you poor, misguided boy/Fuck you, hippie! My life is awesome!" and I just don't need that shit in my poor, misguided, hippie life.
So fine, enjoy your 2.3 kids and your shitty box house and your accumulating debt. Ain't no thang. Doesn't phase me. But do not - DO NOT - bring your crotch fruit around my way and expect me to revel in their mere presence. Additionally, I appreciate that having a child with special needs must be a huge Debbie Downer, but in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, "Make it work, people!"
There I was getting all pissed off and thinking that if I ever actually see the kid, I will turn tow and march the other way because I do not need to fake a smile and risk getting applesauce residue anywhere near my body just to make some socially inappropriate coworker feel better and the garbled voice is getting closer and closer and I hear wheels rolling which makes me think, "Aw shit, and they're in a wheelchair too?! Fuuuuuuck me," and I get out of my chair and start to make a break for it when I stop and take a look in the direction that the hard consonant-free voice is coming from and...
...I learn that our department has hired a deaf woman who does mail rounds.
*hangs head in deep, deep shame*
There are no words.
But aren't you glad that the emo softy that composed that last post and may have cried at ABBA's Knowing Me Knowing You (baaaaaaaad daaays..) is gone and the douchenozzle you know and love it back? Me too.
Okay, back to the dickhead with the retarded kid. I do not like to know that much about the people I work with. I like to know even less about their kids. Those that work in completely unsatisfying jobs tend to make their families the centre of everything and expect others to do the same. Not only do I not believe that their families are all that and a bag o' chips, but I'm also more and more certain that I don't want any should've-been-BJs running around my pad in the future. This is a notion I have learned not to share with family oriented coworkers as they tend to look at me with a mixture of pity and incredulousness, as though their inner monologue is, "Oh you poor, misguided boy/Fuck you, hippie! My life is awesome!" and I just don't need that shit in my poor, misguided, hippie life.
So fine, enjoy your 2.3 kids and your shitty box house and your accumulating debt. Ain't no thang. Doesn't phase me. But do not - DO NOT - bring your crotch fruit around my way and expect me to revel in their mere presence. Additionally, I appreciate that having a child with special needs must be a huge Debbie Downer, but in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, "Make it work, people!"
There I was getting all pissed off and thinking that if I ever actually see the kid, I will turn tow and march the other way because I do not need to fake a smile and risk getting applesauce residue anywhere near my body just to make some socially inappropriate coworker feel better and the garbled voice is getting closer and closer and I hear wheels rolling which makes me think, "Aw shit, and they're in a wheelchair too?! Fuuuuuuck me," and I get out of my chair and start to make a break for it when I stop and take a look in the direction that the hard consonant-free voice is coming from and...
...I learn that our department has hired a deaf woman who does mail rounds.
*hangs head in deep, deep shame*
There are no words.
But aren't you glad that the emo softy that composed that last post and may have cried at ABBA's Knowing Me Knowing You (baaaaaaaad daaays..) is gone and the douchenozzle you know and love it back? Me too.
Monday, April 26, 2010
I am sad (new definition)
Saturday night I was sitting on my bed with the laptop, drinking wine and feeling generally miserable because my would-be dinner companion waited until 9:00 to cancel. I was consoling myself the the aforementioned wine as well as attempting conversation with this really-dull-but-at-least-he's-online guy that has been on my msn for months. About 5 minutes into the conversation, the following, unedited conversation occurred (It's long. Sorry. Suck it up.):
(500) Days of David says: You like Sam Tsui? That kid is UNbelievable. I'm pretty sure his Lady GaGa medley turned me gay. Again.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yah he is I follow him on facebook hehe(
500) Days of David says: I can't watch him too much. Get jealous
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ol lol Id soooo go on a date with him lol
(500) Days of David says: isn't he, like, 12?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol yah i think Im jsut attracted to his talent
(500) Days of David says: Alrighty, clearly I'm barking up the wrong tree then
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: always been aroused by it
(500) Days of David says: talent? That's fair. Do you have any?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: none that are appropriate lol I used to sing, took lessons for years. did some really awesome concerts can dance...took tap., jazz and some ballet been on stage in community shows.... some really big productions and did a lot of stage managing
(500) Days of David says: what kind of really awesome concerts?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: prob the most noteworthy was Karmina Burana at the Ottawa Art Centre with three top canadian vocalists
(500) Days of David says: yeah? Cool. Done that one a couple times. Though ours was with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. They toured it to Ottawa though. My friend (and future roommate) was the sop soloist.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: we joined up with two other choirs..... was about 500 singers plus the NAC orcahstra
(500) Days of David says: nice! musta been awesome You're a tenor?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep I sang first tenor for that
(500) Days of David says: The gays tend to be tenors
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: i am trying to remember who the soloists were I think Russel Braun was the barione i remember him coming out on his crutches
(500) Days of David says: LOVE him... so amazing. Rusty.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: hes the one who uses crutches right?
(500) Days of David says: oh no you're thinking of Kevin McMillan. He was ours the second time around. Teaches at Western. Bit of a pompous ass. But I like his Carmina.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: fun
(500) Days of David says: You gotta admire a guy who overcomes a thing like that. I mean, making it as a classical singer is hard enough, but to do it without opera? That takes balls.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep for sure and most singers are pompus darling comes with the art
(500) Days of David says: I disagree. The good ones don't need to be pompous. I've met so many incredible singers that are just the sweetest people in the world.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: well clearly u are in the know and i know nothing does that satisfy ur ego?
(500) Days of David says: *cock-eyed emoticon* are you being serious?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: honestly right now...u are coming across rather pompous
(500) Days of David says: Because I disagreed with you?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: "Oh ive done that, and better then u and I know them" lol no...I could care less if u disagreed with me it was actually me just saying the stuff Ive done and u ....well seemed like u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad
(500) Days of David says: I'm sorry you interpreted it that way. I was just saying that it's cool we've done some of the same stuff.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol hon u never really acknowledged what I did just came up wiht bigger and better stuff that uve done and went on about who u know really... it makes u seem arrogant and pompus having to upstage people its poeple like that that made me leave the arts
(500) Days of David says: You know, I think if you went back and read this conversation knowing that I was just trying to relate to you and find common ground, I think you might see that I was just trying to have a good discussion. I'm sorry if you felt I was trying to upstage you, but frankly, that's not what I'm about, and had you chosen to not assume the worst interpretation of an msn conversation, you might have seen t hat there was some common ground. But this...this is just negativity on your part.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol dude
(500) Days of David says: You're a nice guy and it would be great if maybe you could assume other people were as well
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ur always trying to one up me...or minilmize me,...in jest or not
(500) Days of David says: HOW? I never said it was better I said it was the same Are you really that cynical?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol not in the least i find it kinda suprsiding how defensive ut are getting over this most psychological therorists suggest that strong defensiveness is a reaction to self doubt
(500) Days of David says: well if you were trying really hard to engage someone and was met with the reaction of being called pompous, you might be a bit defensive.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Hon... I wish u could see me right now
(500) Days of David says: I know we don't really know each other, but you made the active choice to think the worst
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Im not at all really paying atention to u nor giving u much thought sorry lol u are really using the wrong termonology on this one lol I dindt make the choice to think the worst u are over generalzing and clearly missed what I said well typed
(500) Days of David says: which was what?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted. ur intention was to find some common ground and yes clearly u would get that from re-reading our conversation u are biased from ur intent u know what ur intent was i dont cuz Im not in ur head however. my conclusion...alkthough not a huge conclusion but one none the less came from our conversatons of late You talk about intelectual persutis and conversations and such and u have a tone that, it makes it seem like someone has to be challenged in order to be at ur level u seem to set a bar, and expect people to be there ur wording in your questiosn, come acros as more mechanical rather then general inqusitory of someone in some of our discusons (yes I cannot come up with a specific example, but thats really beacuse I dont give them much thought at aklll...Id rather worry about what im making for dinner or when I can fit in a run) but you come accross with a tone, that people must prove themselves worhty to be at ur level and then with our discussions todya... htis is how I would opperate if I had found out that someone had done the same show as me I would have said oh thats awesome, I loved when I did it...I had this experience rather then that...u went about who was in the show, how many times uve done it...and showing cradentials (winipeg ballet....) and i mentioned the one bari we had...and ur like ow hwe had him the 3nd time round that really does not have a tone of lets talk about shared experiences and yes...u might disagree with me about singers...however... happen to have an older sister who has worked with many many top notch canadian talent (doenst matter who they are) and most of them have an attitude doesne mean they are not nice but in order to survive in that world, u have to be comforable with ur degree of talent, and able to sell it...often times comes across as being pompious and u might think of me as being generally negitvi or cynical It is an easy conclusionn Im sure but it is not even close to the truth I am rahter laid back... I am also really into budist type meditation (mindfullness based stress reduction speicicfially) and I have worked extreamly hard on not being cynical nor nbegative I have a lot of reasons to be both....but it is so far from who I am but again...its an easy conculsion to get to should one not step out of their own sphere and really examine the verbatum and word choices we use not an easy task for sure, cuz we always have our intended context
(500) Days of David says: I'm not really sure where to begin, so I think I'll choose not to. I think we have proven here tonight that the written word in real time can be a very precarious thing. I'm not going to defend the way I talk or try to explain myself cause I think we're just past trying to listen to the other. I'm really sorry that this is the impression you got, as I can assure you it is not one shared by anyone knows me, but that said, I don't imagine you have much interest in getting to know me, so let's say goodnight and good luck and, most of all, good bye.
Did you get through all that? Seriously? Cause I woulda checked out after point dexter here spelled Carmina Burana with a 'K'. Anyway, maybe I slipped myself a roofie or was just super depressed but this almost made me cry. I know. I want to walk away from me, too, right now. I was just so confused about how I could have come across as so horrible! I mean, we meet these kind of people all the time, ones that are always looking to play the victim based on the slightest possibility of misinterpretation. Clearly, this was not about me. Or maybe it is and I'm the delusional one, but realistically, no.
There were so many things I wanted to say to this guy as I sat there for 10 minutes as he composed his final (punctuation-lite) opus. In the end, as you can see, I simply chose not to as there could be no getting through to him and in the words of Madonna, "Your heart is not open, so I must go." Yeah. Referenced the fourth single off of Ray of Light. You're welcome, The World. I could have said that he certainly had a lot to say for someone who repeated twice that he hadn't given a second thought about me. I would say that clearly a little vaca to Tibet is in order because them Buddhist lessons are clearly not paying off. I would also suggest to him to ask the monks how to properly spell 'Buddhist' as clearly that'd been glossed over in his westernized training. I would say that, yes, I do try to expressed myself in an "elevated tone" as to not use the skills I have acquired seems a bit silly, but that I don't expect other people to rise to my "bar" but rather to have decent conversational skills. I would say that I understand that his conversational skills may have been impeded by his constant Laughing Out Loud and simultaneous reading of How To Mask Your Nervous Breakdown Recovery By Calling People Hon A Bunch. I would say that it's time to stop using the word "sad" interchangeably (as in well seemed like "u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad") with "functioning at a level which I am not equipped to deal with and confuses me." Can we reclaim the word "sad," people? It's something that fills you misery, not misguided self-superiority. That this person is so unhappy with their existence (57friendsonfacebook say what?) and mistrustful of others around them really did make me sad. In fact, it made me so sad that I copied it into an e-mail for three friends just so they would tell me immediately that I was not an awful person. So sad that I stopped drinking my glass of wine. See them four horses in sky? Yeah.
So had I felt it would do any good, I might have said some or all of that. Rather, I sadly closed my laptop, rode my bike to a friend's and had him ply me with vodka and chocolate cake until I fell asleep on his couch. Was this the easy way out? Maybe. Was this indicative that my msn days are drying to a close? Quite possibly. Was this taking the high road and acting with a bit of grace, a bit of maturity, despite publishing his e-mail address, kermitty75@hotmail.com, in my blog?
*stares up at the night sky*
I hope so.
(500) Days of David says: You like Sam Tsui? That kid is UNbelievable. I'm pretty sure his Lady GaGa medley turned me gay. Again.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yah he is I follow him on facebook hehe(
500) Days of David says: I can't watch him too much. Get jealous
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ol lol Id soooo go on a date with him lol
(500) Days of David says: isn't he, like, 12?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol yah i think Im jsut attracted to his talent
(500) Days of David says: Alrighty, clearly I'm barking up the wrong tree then
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: always been aroused by it
(500) Days of David says: talent? That's fair. Do you have any?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: none that are appropriate lol I used to sing, took lessons for years. did some really awesome concerts can dance...took tap., jazz and some ballet been on stage in community shows.... some really big productions and did a lot of stage managing
(500) Days of David says: what kind of really awesome concerts?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: prob the most noteworthy was Karmina Burana at the Ottawa Art Centre with three top canadian vocalists
(500) Days of David says: yeah? Cool. Done that one a couple times. Though ours was with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. They toured it to Ottawa though. My friend (and future roommate) was the sop soloist.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: we joined up with two other choirs..... was about 500 singers plus the NAC orcahstra
(500) Days of David says: nice! musta been awesome You're a tenor?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep I sang first tenor for that
(500) Days of David says: The gays tend to be tenors
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: i am trying to remember who the soloists were I think Russel Braun was the barione i remember him coming out on his crutches
(500) Days of David says: LOVE him... so amazing. Rusty.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: hes the one who uses crutches right?
(500) Days of David says: oh no you're thinking of Kevin McMillan. He was ours the second time around. Teaches at Western. Bit of a pompous ass. But I like his Carmina.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: fun
(500) Days of David says: You gotta admire a guy who overcomes a thing like that. I mean, making it as a classical singer is hard enough, but to do it without opera? That takes balls.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep for sure and most singers are pompus darling comes with the art
(500) Days of David says: I disagree. The good ones don't need to be pompous. I've met so many incredible singers that are just the sweetest people in the world.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: well clearly u are in the know and i know nothing does that satisfy ur ego?
(500) Days of David says: *cock-eyed emoticon* are you being serious?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: honestly right now...u are coming across rather pompous
(500) Days of David says: Because I disagreed with you?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: "Oh ive done that, and better then u and I know them" lol no...I could care less if u disagreed with me it was actually me just saying the stuff Ive done and u ....well seemed like u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad
(500) Days of David says: I'm sorry you interpreted it that way. I was just saying that it's cool we've done some of the same stuff.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol hon u never really acknowledged what I did just came up wiht bigger and better stuff that uve done and went on about who u know really... it makes u seem arrogant and pompus having to upstage people its poeple like that that made me leave the arts
(500) Days of David says: You know, I think if you went back and read this conversation knowing that I was just trying to relate to you and find common ground, I think you might see that I was just trying to have a good discussion. I'm sorry if you felt I was trying to upstage you, but frankly, that's not what I'm about, and had you chosen to not assume the worst interpretation of an msn conversation, you might have seen t hat there was some common ground. But this...this is just negativity on your part.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol dude
(500) Days of David says: You're a nice guy and it would be great if maybe you could assume other people were as well
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ur always trying to one up me...or minilmize me,...in jest or not
(500) Days of David says: HOW? I never said it was better I said it was the same Are you really that cynical?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol not in the least i find it kinda suprsiding how defensive ut are getting over this most psychological therorists suggest that strong defensiveness is a reaction to self doubt
(500) Days of David says: well if you were trying really hard to engage someone and was met with the reaction of being called pompous, you might be a bit defensive.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Hon... I wish u could see me right now
(500) Days of David says: I know we don't really know each other, but you made the active choice to think the worst
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Im not at all really paying atention to u nor giving u much thought sorry lol u are really using the wrong termonology on this one lol I dindt make the choice to think the worst u are over generalzing and clearly missed what I said well typed
(500) Days of David says: which was what?
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted. ur intention was to find some common ground and yes clearly u would get that from re-reading our conversation u are biased from ur intent u know what ur intent was i dont cuz Im not in ur head however. my conclusion...alkthough not a huge conclusion but one none the less came from our conversatons of late You talk about intelectual persutis and conversations and such and u have a tone that, it makes it seem like someone has to be challenged in order to be at ur level u seem to set a bar, and expect people to be there ur wording in your questiosn, come acros as more mechanical rather then general inqusitory of someone in some of our discusons (yes I cannot come up with a specific example, but thats really beacuse I dont give them much thought at aklll...Id rather worry about what im making for dinner or when I can fit in a run) but you come accross with a tone, that people must prove themselves worhty to be at ur level and then with our discussions todya... htis is how I would opperate if I had found out that someone had done the same show as me I would have said oh thats awesome, I loved when I did it...I had this experience rather then that...u went about who was in the show, how many times uve done it...and showing cradentials (winipeg ballet....) and i mentioned the one bari we had...and ur like ow hwe had him the 3nd time round that really does not have a tone of lets talk about shared experiences and yes...u might disagree with me about singers...however... happen to have an older sister who has worked with many many top notch canadian talent (doenst matter who they are) and most of them have an attitude doesne mean they are not nice but in order to survive in that world, u have to be comforable with ur degree of talent, and able to sell it...often times comes across as being pompious and u might think of me as being generally negitvi or cynical It is an easy conclusionn Im sure but it is not even close to the truth I am rahter laid back... I am also really into budist type meditation (mindfullness based stress reduction speicicfially) and I have worked extreamly hard on not being cynical nor nbegative I have a lot of reasons to be both....but it is so far from who I am but again...its an easy conculsion to get to should one not step out of their own sphere and really examine the verbatum and word choices we use not an easy task for sure, cuz we always have our intended context
(500) Days of David says: I'm not really sure where to begin, so I think I'll choose not to. I think we have proven here tonight that the written word in real time can be a very precarious thing. I'm not going to defend the way I talk or try to explain myself cause I think we're just past trying to listen to the other. I'm really sorry that this is the impression you got, as I can assure you it is not one shared by anyone knows me, but that said, I don't imagine you have much interest in getting to know me, so let's say goodnight and good luck and, most of all, good bye.
Did you get through all that? Seriously? Cause I woulda checked out after point dexter here spelled Carmina Burana with a 'K'. Anyway, maybe I slipped myself a roofie or was just super depressed but this almost made me cry. I know. I want to walk away from me, too, right now. I was just so confused about how I could have come across as so horrible! I mean, we meet these kind of people all the time, ones that are always looking to play the victim based on the slightest possibility of misinterpretation. Clearly, this was not about me. Or maybe it is and I'm the delusional one, but realistically, no.
There were so many things I wanted to say to this guy as I sat there for 10 minutes as he composed his final (punctuation-lite) opus. In the end, as you can see, I simply chose not to as there could be no getting through to him and in the words of Madonna, "Your heart is not open, so I must go." Yeah. Referenced the fourth single off of Ray of Light. You're welcome, The World. I could have said that he certainly had a lot to say for someone who repeated twice that he hadn't given a second thought about me. I would say that clearly a little vaca to Tibet is in order because them Buddhist lessons are clearly not paying off. I would also suggest to him to ask the monks how to properly spell 'Buddhist' as clearly that'd been glossed over in his westernized training. I would say that, yes, I do try to expressed myself in an "elevated tone" as to not use the skills I have acquired seems a bit silly, but that I don't expect other people to rise to my "bar" but rather to have decent conversational skills. I would say that I understand that his conversational skills may have been impeded by his constant Laughing Out Loud and simultaneous reading of How To Mask Your Nervous Breakdown Recovery By Calling People Hon A Bunch. I would say that it's time to stop using the word "sad" interchangeably (as in well seemed like "u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad") with "functioning at a level which I am not equipped to deal with and confuses me." Can we reclaim the word "sad," people? It's something that fills you misery, not misguided self-superiority. That this person is so unhappy with their existence (57friendsonfacebook say what?) and mistrustful of others around them really did make me sad. In fact, it made me so sad that I copied it into an e-mail for three friends just so they would tell me immediately that I was not an awful person. So sad that I stopped drinking my glass of wine. See them four horses in sky? Yeah.
So had I felt it would do any good, I might have said some or all of that. Rather, I sadly closed my laptop, rode my bike to a friend's and had him ply me with vodka and chocolate cake until I fell asleep on his couch. Was this the easy way out? Maybe. Was this indicative that my msn days are drying to a close? Quite possibly. Was this taking the high road and acting with a bit of grace, a bit of maturity, despite publishing his e-mail address, kermitty75@hotmail.com, in my blog?
*stares up at the night sky*
I hope so.
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Miami Strikes Back (Part III)
Scene 8:
Saturday, I awake at the responsible hour of 8:40 thanks to a semi-deflated air mattress and my body's increasing resistance to Lorazepam. I stroll into the kitchen where Auntie begins to pour me a cup of coffee but, you see, no. Cannot just spoil a boy with double cappuccinos and then give him regular brew like that. Does not work that way. Silly Auntie. So, like a guy whose girlfriend has stopped mid-handjob out of laziness, I shake my head and gently but forcefully guide her hand back to the lever. Ew. So wrong, David.
After my cap, we drive to Epicure, a smaller and pricier version of Sobey's, to get fixins for grandmaw's birthday brunch. We first stop at the bakery counter to purchasemy father's imminent heart attack pastries and my aunt yells at the two ladies behind the counter for not having an almond & cheese ring. Customer service in Miami Beach is appalling, so it came as no surprise when they give it right back to her, being all, "Well, why'intchyou order it in advance, ya stupid white bitch?!" Just kidding. They didn't call her white. Cause that's racist.
Meanwhile, I become fixated on a particular batch of sugar cookies with sprinkles on them. These are the cookies of affliction which our forefathers ate in the land of Egy- no, wait, shit. That's matzoh. Mah bad. Ne'er mind. They were, however, the cookies of my childhood and begot what everyone knows to be my lifelong fixation with all things sprinkles. Except those hard little round ones that ice cream cones are dipped in. Those are the devil. BUT EVERY OTHER KIND. Once, when I was about 5, this old lady who used to make me call her Auntie Doris even though she wasn't my aunt and had a lot of upper lip hair gave me this huge cookie COVERED in rainbow sprinkles (sidenote: gay is caused by neither nature nor nurture; it's sprinkles) and I was the happiest (and flamiest) little kid you ever did see until my aunt (the real one) went and gave it away to her aerobics instructor Carmen's kids cause evidently they were "less fortunate" than me and she didn't want them joining a Puerto Rican gang. Listen up, lady. Sprinkles are worth their weight in gold. Actually, they're worth more than gold. I'm thinking of introducing my own Sprinkles Standard to the National Fed. It's worth THAT much. Those kids were fucking millionaires!
Inner Voice: Uh, did you just write an entire paragraph about sprinkles.
Illustrious D: Pssssh, wha? No. Why? What are you even talkin abo- I love kitties. Did you see this week's episode of Glee?
IV: Not yet. DVR. How was it?
ID: Um, only okay. Like, the musical numbers were pretty good, though Like A Prayer was sorta weak, but maybe the recorded version will be better. But the plot was just kinda lame and the dialogue was borderline ridiculous.
Saturday, I awake at the responsible hour of 8:40 thanks to a semi-deflated air mattress and my body's increasing resistance to Lorazepam. I stroll into the kitchen where Auntie begins to pour me a cup of coffee but, you see, no. Cannot just spoil a boy with double cappuccinos and then give him regular brew like that. Does not work that way. Silly Auntie. So, like a guy whose girlfriend has stopped mid-handjob out of laziness, I shake my head and gently but forcefully guide her hand back to the lever. Ew. So wrong, David.
After my cap, we drive to Epicure, a smaller and pricier version of Sobey's, to get fixins for grandmaw's birthday brunch. We first stop at the bakery counter to purchase
Meanwhile, I become fixated on a particular batch of sugar cookies with sprinkles on them. These are the cookies of affliction which our forefathers ate in the land of Egy- no, wait, shit. That's matzoh. Mah bad. Ne'er mind. They were, however, the cookies of my childhood and begot what everyone knows to be my lifelong fixation with all things sprinkles. Except those hard little round ones that ice cream cones are dipped in. Those are the devil. BUT EVERY OTHER KIND. Once, when I was about 5, this old lady who used to make me call her Auntie Doris even though she wasn't my aunt and had a lot of upper lip hair gave me this huge cookie COVERED in rainbow sprinkles (sidenote: gay is caused by neither nature nor nurture; it's sprinkles) and I was the happiest (and flamiest) little kid you ever did see until my aunt (the real one) went and gave it away to her aerobics instructor Carmen's kids cause evidently they were "less fortunate" than me and she didn't want them joining a Puerto Rican gang. Listen up, lady. Sprinkles are worth their weight in gold. Actually, they're worth more than gold. I'm thinking of introducing my own Sprinkles Standard to the National Fed. It's worth THAT much. Those kids were fucking millionaires!
Inner Voice: Uh, did you just write an entire paragraph about sprinkles.
Illustrious D: Pssssh, wha? No. Why? What are you even talkin abo- I love kitties. Did you see this week's episode of Glee?
IV: Not yet. DVR. How was it?
ID: Um, only okay. Like, the musical numbers were pretty good, though Like A Prayer was sorta weak, but maybe the recorded version will be better. But the plot was just kinda lame and the dialogue was borderline ridiculous.
IV: Bummer.
Our excellent service continues as we approach the cheese counter, universally regarded as the best counter. True story. Our request to sample a honeyed goats cheese is met by the attendant with a "Sure," and a saunter away from us in the opposite direction. Auntie and I do not really know how to react to such blatant disregard for cheese. So disrespectful. I mean, he pretty much raped a cow*. But calm down, it's okay, cause we totally manage - wait for it - to pick out a cheese ourselves. Right?! NAILED IT! After that drama, we grab a cubic metre of smoked salmon, pay $10.00 for four tomatoes and leave, just as soon as Auntie returns to the bakery to berate the counter ladies for not giving her a baker's dozen of bagels. Woman just bought an Armani bag but wants a free bagel. Clearly my perspective on life is genetic.
Our excellent service continues as we approach the cheese counter, universally regarded as the best counter. True story. Our request to sample a honeyed goats cheese is met by the attendant with a "Sure," and a saunter away from us in the opposite direction. Auntie and I do not really know how to react to such blatant disregard for cheese. So disrespectful. I mean, he pretty much raped a cow*. But calm down, it's okay, cause we totally manage - wait for it - to pick out a cheese ourselves. Right?! NAILED IT! After that drama, we grab a cubic metre of smoked salmon, pay $10.00 for four tomatoes and leave, just as soon as Auntie returns to the bakery to berate the counter ladies for not giving her a baker's dozen of bagels. Woman just bought an Armani bag but wants a free bagel. Clearly my perspective on life is genetic.
*To find this, I typed in "cheese cow" into Google image search. Any attempts to act as though you are not totally in envy and awe of my life will be met with a haughty gaze. Haugh. Ty.
Scene 9:
Back at the condo, we rouse the youngins and scramble to put together the brunch. All attempts at artistic interpretation on my part are thwarted by Auntie, who attempts to jazz up the pastry platter by plucking three glittery butterfly ornaments from a nearby orchid pot and tossing them on a strudel. Further, my plan to place the two cheese knives perfectly parallel in opposite directions is promptly rebuffed in favour of - get this - the SAME direction AND one of them is off of centre. It's like she lives to torture me. My revenge is sweet, though, and by sweet, I mean mimosa, and by mimosa, I mean champagne with a couple atoms of OJ.
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Much to my
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After brizzunch, Grandmother skoolz us in rummy before taking her mid-day 17 hour nap. However, this skool be elimentree because she keeps trying to cheat! She's all, "Oh hey, I'm really old and maybe my diaper be full so let me just put down this 8 of spades just cause."
Shit Starter
Okay, I think it's becoming obvious to everyone that I'm pretty much flailing on these Miami vignettes now. So here's some further highlights:
-Going out to eat at Barton G's, a really overthetop South Beach resto where the food is generally served with statues and shit. My father nearly came to blows with the Maitre D about getting us a round table. I nearly asked for blow just to get through the whole thing and then later got a look from a waiter suggestive of another type of blow, which I ignored lest I break yet another Cuban's heart/loins.
-Watching Twilight: New Moon on the plan ride home surrounded by the also returning Vancouver White Caps. I will fully and shamefully admit that those movies totally get to me, as I had those exact same emo-romantic constructs as a teenager and still do, somewhere deep down inside, to this day. I mean, it's just so pretty and everyone's so beautiful and tortured and...ach, it's like they filmed my brain.
-Getting picked up at the airport by Flight Attendant Nick after nearly tossing my cookies all over a Whitecap during landing. As if picking me up wasn't awesome enough, he chauffeured my ass to Kensingston Market to buy groceries, though I think he was a bit taken aback that people can buy food in stores smaller than a cubic block. I believe the exact quote was, "It feels like we're in a foreign country." I feel I held my own though, as I accompanied him, in return, in the purchasing of a Celine Dion album, Madonna concert DVD and Ann Murray's autobiography. Commence application for beatification now, people.
Now that this shit is all wrapped up, stay tuned for next time, wherein I get reamed out by someone bordering on mental retardation and then post his contact info!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Miami Strikes Back (Part II)
Scene 4:
We are sitting in the lobby of a hotel about half a block down from Auntie's condo. My brothers and I had spent the night here as our 89 year old multi-millionaire step-uncle had had Lasik surgery the day before. My brother is convinced that we should get a free continental breakfast because none of us could figure out how to make the shower work. I am convinced that he is a loser. The front desk attendant agrees with me when my brother's answer to, "Why didn't you call the desk?" is to try and stare her down, evidently mistaking ocular focus for reason. After a few minutes of watching Americans (they only come in two categories: obese and The Hills wannabes), my aunt picks us up, chides us for not ordering room service last night and drives us the 25 feet to her condominium, where we are greeted by her 16 year old dog. Point of interest: while the notion of my pre-civil war step-uncle having to read with glasses is abhorrent, they will not invest in cataract surgery for my aunt's now blind westie terrier whose eyes resemble those of Jordie LeForge. The thing limps around the house, halting only to piddle on the marble or when forcibly stopped by a wall it just walked into. Underneath it's wiry, matted fur this dog must look like Rihanna after over-salting Chris Brown's collard greens. Auntie fixes me a double cappuccino while my brother runs around on the 1,000 metre long distance track my aunt calls a balcony. I revel in the fact that I am not at work and take a moment to ponder whether Black Magic would simply bounce right back up if pushed off the 19th story balcony.
Scene 5:
Having just finished breakfast of fruit, yogurt, Grape Nuts and crushed diamonds, we descend to South Beach to meet up with my parents and grandmother for lunch at the poetically named Burger & Beer Joint. I'm gonna be divisive for a moment and state for the record that I do not like restaurants with their menu and edifice type in the name. So lazy. You gotta leave a little mystery there, put in a little effort, otherwise it's just too easy, like giving an amputee a scooter. Not on my watch. You think anyone would have given two shits had Terry Fox decided to scoot across Canada? I don't think so, buddy. Waffle House? Nuh-uh. Pizza Hut? Try again. Sugar Shack? Fuck you. Notable exception: Cheesecake Factory. Why? Cause they make motherfucking cheesecake. Truth.
We all have different kinds of burgers, except my aunt and grandmother, who share a chopped salad. My grandmother is diabetic and my aunt is a manic obsessive, so the former is monitored at every single meal like a prisoner. And like a prisoner, she tries to escape. Often. Since her stroke, my grandmother has regained most of her dialoguic capabilities, but chooses not to exercise them, preferring instead to let everyone else gab on while she bumrushes the breadbasket. This in turn causes my aunt to descend into hysterics, constructing elaborate fences and forts out of flatware, water glasses and condiment receptacles to prevent her mother from achieving Precious-esque sugar levels (Softy, that was just for you). This plan usually works unless there is some sort of dressing or spread in the barricade, which my grandmother will scoop up with spoon or finger. She's not picky. On this particular occasion, my own mother makes the rookie mistake of letting grandmother pour her own salad dressing. Half of it goes into the chopped salad while the remainder is poured directly into her mouth. Think Pooh with a honey pot. And dentures. My father, conversely, limits himself to only some of the cheddar cheese dip that accompanies his behemoth onion rings. This is largely because the majority winds up on the checkered nautical sail he calls a shirt (fun fact: it comes with air vents), but let us not quibble over details. As for myself, I enjoy the brie, prosciutto and sweet onion marmalade burger (real name: The Mustang Sally. Yeah, I butch.) and then down one of the two pitchers of beer ordered for the table. Desperate times...
Scene 6:
Upon arrival in Miami, I discovered that all the bitchin' au courant ensembles I had packed myself had actually just been a dream I'd had and that I had pretty much packed one change of clothes for the entire weekend. Granted, this change of clothes included a blue velvet dinner jacket, but still. My life is rough, y'all. As such, the middle brother, who Auntie has taken to simply calling 'Pichu', is unable to borrow any clothing from me, as previously promised when we first saw him at the airport.
Illustrious D: Holy fucking shit! You're here!
Thunder-Stealing Bro: Yep.
ID: You can totally borrow my pants this weekend!
T-SB: Alright...
ID: *Downie-esque smile*
T-SB: Only problem is that we're not 14 year old girls and you're not America Ferrera.
ID: *crestfallen face*
T-SB: *smug-ass smirk*
ID: Yet...
Auntie takes us to the Gap to buy clothing for Pichu. The youngest brother, who I used to call Pudge because his stomach was distended like that of a World Vision sponsoree, pulls me aside and says that he really wants to get to know our aunt for who she is and not what she buys us and that we should abstain from letting her get us anything. "For totes," I say and I mean it. At the time. Once at the Gap, Auntie and I turn into Stacy & Clinton and dress Pichu up in sweatshop-produced Americana for the next hour until he winds up looking kind of like a clueless technology millionaire instead of the clueless engineer twenty-onaire that he is. The google guys WISH they had a Hungarian housewife and pansexual Jewy gimp dressing them! Also helping us is the store manager who looks like Nicolette Sheridan beaten with a meat cleaver. Not pretty folks. (Wow, so much domestic violence references today. Pat on back.) As a reward for being so altruistic with my sartorial gifts, I allow Auntie to buy me the only remotely interesting looking thing in the store. What? No judgey! I even refrain from getting the straw fedora-esque hat that makes me look all Hemingwayz. Mother tries to put a newsboy cap on my head. I punch her in the neck. Never. Touch. My. Hair. It's like those fucked up floating seeds in Avatar; look at it the wrong way and it'll disappear. Pudge pouts over the failings of his non-materialist plan until he discovers the table marked "Fucking Boring Straight Guy Apparel" and concedes, buying two t-shirts and some cargo shorts. Comrade fail.
Scene 7:
Joe's Stone Crabs, a bastion of the Miami Beach scene. This is a huge muthafukin' restaurant with waiters in tuxedos and diners in lobster bibs. Classy times. They do not take reservations, but my aunt knows a gal who knows a guy so we avoid the two hour wait (for serious) and glide in after the maitre D' is slipped a twenty. And maybe a ball tickle. This is South Beach, after all. The step-uncle orders a couple of bottles of Cabernet for the table, but I abstain, citing my allergy to grapes during a new moon and order a Ketel One martini with a lemon twist. The waiter comes back with an olive-garnished offering, but it is cold so I take and chose to do the mature thing and spit the pits down his cummerbund rather than send it back. Ketel One is also my new favourite because it tastes like water and is amazing with oysters.
I recall the last time I was here and we saw Andre Agassi with family one table over. I ponder who I will see tonight and momentarily fantasize about seeing Chelsea Handler. The thought alone gives me diarrhea. Celebrity does not phase me at all with some very notable exceptions, including Tori Amos, Madonna and Dakota Fanning. That is one snotty beeotch. Chelsea Handler also falls into this category, so I quickly stop thinking about meeting her and imagine instead sending her a packet of my aunt's standard cocktail napkins. Then I think about how she probably receives about ten of these a days from like-minded 'mos and my poor self-esteem returns once again. I look around the table and see my father doctoring his wine with the flop sweat that has appeared on his massive, eye brow-free forehead and is slowly dripping into his glass. My aunt is constructing a Jericho-esque structure around the breadbasket. My grandmother is slyly applying an entire pat of butter to her dinner fork. My mother continuous looks over at me and smiles a huge, so-glad-we're-all-here-together-and-by-'we'-I-mean-me-and-this-here-wine smile. I smile back, mostly because I appreciate how special it really is that we're all together as a family, but at least in small part to the welt that is beginning to show on her neck. Such pretty colours.
NEXT TIME: Auntie micro-manages brunch; Grandmother owns me at rummy; Daddy's dinner comes in a duck decoy.
We are sitting in the lobby of a hotel about half a block down from Auntie's condo. My brothers and I had spent the night here as our 89 year old multi-millionaire step-uncle had had Lasik surgery the day before. My brother is convinced that we should get a free continental breakfast because none of us could figure out how to make the shower work. I am convinced that he is a loser. The front desk attendant agrees with me when my brother's answer to, "Why didn't you call the desk?" is to try and stare her down, evidently mistaking ocular focus for reason. After a few minutes of watching Americans (they only come in two categories: obese and The Hills wannabes), my aunt picks us up, chides us for not ordering room service last night and drives us the 25 feet to her condominium, where we are greeted by her 16 year old dog. Point of interest: while the notion of my pre-civil war step-uncle having to read with glasses is abhorrent, they will not invest in cataract surgery for my aunt's now blind westie terrier whose eyes resemble those of Jordie LeForge. The thing limps around the house, halting only to piddle on the marble or when forcibly stopped by a wall it just walked into. Underneath it's wiry, matted fur this dog must look like Rihanna after over-salting Chris Brown's collard greens. Auntie fixes me a double cappuccino while my brother runs around on the 1,000 metre long distance track my aunt calls a balcony. I revel in the fact that I am not at work and take a moment to ponder whether Black Magic would simply bounce right back up if pushed off the 19th story balcony.
Scene 5:
Having just finished breakfast of fruit, yogurt, Grape Nuts and crushed diamonds, we descend to South Beach to meet up with my parents and grandmother for lunch at the poetically named Burger & Beer Joint. I'm gonna be divisive for a moment and state for the record that I do not like restaurants with their menu and edifice type in the name. So lazy. You gotta leave a little mystery there, put in a little effort, otherwise it's just too easy, like giving an amputee a scooter. Not on my watch. You think anyone would have given two shits had Terry Fox decided to scoot across Canada? I don't think so, buddy. Waffle House? Nuh-uh. Pizza Hut? Try again. Sugar Shack? Fuck you. Notable exception: Cheesecake Factory. Why? Cause they make motherfucking cheesecake. Truth.
We all have different kinds of burgers, except my aunt and grandmother, who share a chopped salad. My grandmother is diabetic and my aunt is a manic obsessive, so the former is monitored at every single meal like a prisoner. And like a prisoner, she tries to escape. Often. Since her stroke, my grandmother has regained most of her dialoguic capabilities, but chooses not to exercise them, preferring instead to let everyone else gab on while she bumrushes the breadbasket. This in turn causes my aunt to descend into hysterics, constructing elaborate fences and forts out of flatware, water glasses and condiment receptacles to prevent her mother from achieving Precious-esque sugar levels (Softy, that was just for you). This plan usually works unless there is some sort of dressing or spread in the barricade, which my grandmother will scoop up with spoon or finger. She's not picky. On this particular occasion, my own mother makes the rookie mistake of letting grandmother pour her own salad dressing. Half of it goes into the chopped salad while the remainder is poured directly into her mouth. Think Pooh with a honey pot. And dentures. My father, conversely, limits himself to only some of the cheddar cheese dip that accompanies his behemoth onion rings. This is largely because the majority winds up on the checkered nautical sail he calls a shirt (fun fact: it comes with air vents), but let us not quibble over details. As for myself, I enjoy the brie, prosciutto and sweet onion marmalade burger (real name: The Mustang Sally. Yeah, I butch.) and then down one of the two pitchers of beer ordered for the table. Desperate times...
Scene 6:
Upon arrival in Miami, I discovered that all the bitchin' au courant ensembles I had packed myself had actually just been a dream I'd had and that I had pretty much packed one change of clothes for the entire weekend. Granted, this change of clothes included a blue velvet dinner jacket, but still. My life is rough, y'all. As such, the middle brother, who Auntie has taken to simply calling 'Pichu', is unable to borrow any clothing from me, as previously promised when we first saw him at the airport.
Illustrious D: Holy fucking shit! You're here!
Thunder-Stealing Bro: Yep.
ID: You can totally borrow my pants this weekend!
T-SB: Alright...
ID: *Downie-esque smile*
T-SB: Only problem is that we're not 14 year old girls and you're not America Ferrera.
ID: *crestfallen face*
T-SB: *smug-ass smirk*
ID: Yet...
Auntie takes us to the Gap to buy clothing for Pichu. The youngest brother, who I used to call Pudge because his stomach was distended like that of a World Vision sponsoree, pulls me aside and says that he really wants to get to know our aunt for who she is and not what she buys us and that we should abstain from letting her get us anything. "For totes," I say and I mean it. At the time. Once at the Gap, Auntie and I turn into Stacy & Clinton and dress Pichu up in sweatshop-produced Americana for the next hour until he winds up looking kind of like a clueless technology millionaire instead of the clueless engineer twenty-onaire that he is. The google guys WISH they had a Hungarian housewife and pansexual Jewy gimp dressing them! Also helping us is the store manager who looks like Nicolette Sheridan beaten with a meat cleaver. Not pretty folks. (Wow, so much domestic violence references today. Pat on back.) As a reward for being so altruistic with my sartorial gifts, I allow Auntie to buy me the only remotely interesting looking thing in the store. What? No judgey! I even refrain from getting the straw fedora-esque hat that makes me look all Hemingwayz. Mother tries to put a newsboy cap on my head. I punch her in the neck. Never. Touch. My. Hair. It's like those fucked up floating seeds in Avatar; look at it the wrong way and it'll disappear. Pudge pouts over the failings of his non-materialist plan until he discovers the table marked "Fucking Boring Straight Guy Apparel" and concedes, buying two t-shirts and some cargo shorts. Comrade fail.
Scene 7:
Joe's Stone Crabs, a bastion of the Miami Beach scene. This is a huge muthafukin' restaurant with waiters in tuxedos and diners in lobster bibs. Classy times. They do not take reservations, but my aunt knows a gal who knows a guy so we avoid the two hour wait (for serious) and glide in after the maitre D' is slipped a twenty. And maybe a ball tickle. This is South Beach, after all. The step-uncle orders a couple of bottles of Cabernet for the table, but I abstain, citing my allergy to grapes during a new moon and order a Ketel One martini with a lemon twist. The waiter comes back with an olive-garnished offering, but it is cold so I take and chose to do the mature thing and spit the pits down his cummerbund rather than send it back. Ketel One is also my new favourite because it tastes like water and is amazing with oysters.
I recall the last time I was here and we saw Andre Agassi with family one table over. I ponder who I will see tonight and momentarily fantasize about seeing Chelsea Handler. The thought alone gives me diarrhea. Celebrity does not phase me at all with some very notable exceptions, including Tori Amos, Madonna and Dakota Fanning. That is one snotty beeotch. Chelsea Handler also falls into this category, so I quickly stop thinking about meeting her and imagine instead sending her a packet of my aunt's standard cocktail napkins. Then I think about how she probably receives about ten of these a days from like-minded 'mos and my poor self-esteem returns once again. I look around the table and see my father doctoring his wine with the flop sweat that has appeared on his massive, eye brow-free forehead and is slowly dripping into his glass. My aunt is constructing a Jericho-esque structure around the breadbasket. My grandmother is slyly applying an entire pat of butter to her dinner fork. My mother continuous looks over at me and smiles a huge, so-glad-we're-all-here-together-and-by-'we'-I-mean-me-and-this-here-wine smile. I smile back, mostly because I appreciate how special it really is that we're all together as a family, but at least in small part to the welt that is beginning to show on her neck. Such pretty colours.
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NEXT TIME: Auntie micro-manages brunch; Grandmother owns me at rummy; Daddy's dinner comes in a duck decoy.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Miami Strikes Back (Part I)
Scene 1:
I embark for the airport at 12:45, hoping to tearfully reconcile with my family in time for a multiple-lavatory-trips-requiring lunch before we have to board our plane to Miami. My grandmother is turning 90 and we are surprising her and her I'm-really-old-and-a-Holocaust-survivor-I-dare-you-to-shock-me heart for the occasion. My aunt (she of Hermès belt purchasing fame) is in cahoots with my father, as he, my mother and my youngest brother are flying to Toronto to meet up with me so that we can arrive together and send the old bag (read: serene elderly lady) into a tizzy. The middle brother is hiking through Machu Pichu and has sent his regrets. As far as excuses, I feel this is pretty weak-sauce.
Upon arriving at customs, I observe that there are approximately 72,000 people waiting in roped-off cues to pass on through to the good ol' US of A. Fortunately, I am ushered along with about 10 people in front of me to the other side of the room where similar ropes have been set up. Unfortunately, this is only because they cannot physically shove any more travellers into the other side and thus we are now in line to get in line. Normally, this would perturb me, but my family has texted to say that they are waiting at a Tim Horton's on the other side of customs and I am trying my hardest to make sure that I do not have to join them. I also receive a text from my obese Hungarian father saying, "I don't think your [sic] ready...For this jelly."
I manage to clear customs 5 minutes before boarding is scheduled to commence and, upon realizing that my family is not holding courst at Canada's favourite coffee-urine fusion house, hurry my disproportionate ass down to the gate so that they do not panic. However, when I arrive I find that they are not there. Know who is? Two thirds of the Vancouver Whitecaps semi-pro soccer time. In any other situation the presence of professional athletes coupled with the absence of my family is ideal, but not so when faced with prospective of 3 days alone with family members averaging 81.333 years of age. Real calculation. I buy some shittastic pre-prepped sushi as the other passengers commence boarding. Why people insist on standing up to wait in a line 70 people deep only to then sit down again on a smelly cramped plane is beyond me. Also, beneath me. After taking out a mortgage to pay for the sushi, I turn and see the back of my father's side rolls just as the final boarding call is being made.
"Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?" I scream at them before hitting my little brother upside the head. "And never recite Destiny's Child lyrics to our father again. Kelly Rowlands is dead to me and you know it."
Scene 2:
We have arrived at Miami International Airport and have just deplaned. My mother insisted on buying us all a round while in the air, plus an extra for herself after my father declined, being far too consumed with watching The Blind Side and crying like a little bitch while Sandra Bullock screamed at some big black football player who I suspect was Precious in drag. Between my mothers lush-flush and my fathers tear-streaked jowls, we are quite a sight marching our way down to baggage claim. Then, about 100 feet away, we see something silvery glinting in the fluorescent glare of an industrial pot light. My supposedly traveling brother is sitting there next to his huge backpack holding a sign coloured thickly with pencil. My mother loses her shit, her voice reaching pitches audible only to small dogs as she screams his name. Great. My place as the long-lost-son-returned has officially been usurped. What a dick.
Scene 3:
We are sitting in a van outside my grandmother's Spanish-style bungalow in Miami Beach, debating on the best way to appropriately Punk her. (Sidenote: Black Magic is on the phone in the next cubicleright now, declaring to her friend in a decidedly not indoor voice how she can leave her three children, all under the age of 10, alone for up to 45 minutes at a time. Somebody needs to put this one out to pasture.) My father is the first to go in and we hear Hungarians screaming love at each other. After about thirty seconds, my jean-jacket-wearing upstanding lawyer of a mother gets out of the van like she is James Bond, crawling under parked cars and scaling walls to get to the front door, despite the drawn blinds and the fact that the Hungarians are deafening small children in Tallahassee. Once she is in, there is more assumed merriment, while my youngest brother and myself climb out of the van and he starts imitating my mother's highheeled highjinx a mere 30 seconds before, while I fall down and promptly pee myself on the freshly manicured lawn. We get to the door and throw it open to find my mom, dad, aunt, grandmother and her large-jugged Jamaican nurse all in a group hug. They turn around and grandmother makes with the tears as she laughs in disbelief that we and our mother have bothered to show up for little old her. My proposition of half a day's wages lost in travel time are largely ignored. My aunt, whose Vesuvian emotions are world renowned, is running around like a cocky Real Housewives of Miami Beach cast-off in Juicy Couture sweatpants, crowing about how amazing we all are for pulling the wool over the cataracted eyes of a nonagenarian when there is a final knock at the door. She stops dead (like the muscles in her botoxed forehead) in her tracks and stares at my father, the colour draining out of her face. I tell her it is most likely a noise complaint from the city of St. Louis, Missouri and she goes to investigate. She opens the door to see my brother standing there and her face collapses quicker than my standards after three mojitos. Loses. Her. Shit.
As it becomes evermore clear that this particular get together is not going to be centred around me, I go and chill of to the side with the nurse, Velma (or Whilemina. Who can tell through my aunt's Hungarian-Floridian accent?), and we watch the rest of them dance around like First Nations people at an Olympic opening ceremony. I like Velma a lot. She calls me Handsome and has gap between her two front teeth that is so large that I suspect it is the real gateway to Narnia. Her mouth was the Gap's flagship store. Madonna WISHES she had a gap like that; the comparison is like a side-by-side penis photo of Shaquille O'Neal and William Hung.
"Weel, ya rilleh mad an awl wumahn happay."
"Yes, I guess we did. Where's the Grey Goose?"
NEXT TIME: I discover that vodka and seafood is a match made in heaven; Dad is still fat; grandmother eats a pat of butter.
I embark for the airport at 12:45, hoping to tearfully reconcile with my family in time for a multiple-lavatory-trips-requiring lunch before we have to board our plane to Miami. My grandmother is turning 90 and we are surprising her and her I'm-really-old-and-a-Holocaust-survivor-I-dare-you-to-shock-me heart for the occasion. My aunt (she of Hermès belt purchasing fame) is in cahoots with my father, as he, my mother and my youngest brother are flying to Toronto to meet up with me so that we can arrive together and send the old bag (read: serene elderly lady) into a tizzy. The middle brother is hiking through Machu Pichu and has sent his regrets. As far as excuses, I feel this is pretty weak-sauce.
Upon arriving at customs, I observe that there are approximately 72,000 people waiting in roped-off cues to pass on through to the good ol' US of A. Fortunately, I am ushered along with about 10 people in front of me to the other side of the room where similar ropes have been set up. Unfortunately, this is only because they cannot physically shove any more travellers into the other side and thus we are now in line to get in line. Normally, this would perturb me, but my family has texted to say that they are waiting at a Tim Horton's on the other side of customs and I am trying my hardest to make sure that I do not have to join them. I also receive a text from my obese Hungarian father saying, "I don't think your [sic] ready...For this jelly."
I manage to clear customs 5 minutes before boarding is scheduled to commence and, upon realizing that my family is not holding courst at Canada's favourite coffee-urine fusion house, hurry my disproportionate ass down to the gate so that they do not panic. However, when I arrive I find that they are not there. Know who is? Two thirds of the Vancouver Whitecaps semi-pro soccer time. In any other situation the presence of professional athletes coupled with the absence of my family is ideal, but not so when faced with prospective of 3 days alone with family members averaging 81.333 years of age. Real calculation. I buy some shittastic pre-prepped sushi as the other passengers commence boarding. Why people insist on standing up to wait in a line 70 people deep only to then sit down again on a smelly cramped plane is beyond me. Also, beneath me. After taking out a mortgage to pay for the sushi, I turn and see the back of my father's side rolls just as the final boarding call is being made.
"Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?" I scream at them before hitting my little brother upside the head. "And never recite Destiny's Child lyrics to our father again. Kelly Rowlands is dead to me and you know it."
Scene 2:
We have arrived at Miami International Airport and have just deplaned. My mother insisted on buying us all a round while in the air, plus an extra for herself after my father declined, being far too consumed with watching The Blind Side and crying like a little bitch while Sandra Bullock screamed at some big black football player who I suspect was Precious in drag. Between my mothers lush-flush and my fathers tear-streaked jowls, we are quite a sight marching our way down to baggage claim. Then, about 100 feet away, we see something silvery glinting in the fluorescent glare of an industrial pot light. My supposedly traveling brother is sitting there next to his huge backpack holding a sign coloured thickly with pencil. My mother loses her shit, her voice reaching pitches audible only to small dogs as she screams his name. Great. My place as the long-lost-son-returned has officially been usurped. What a dick.
Scene 3:
We are sitting in a van outside my grandmother's Spanish-style bungalow in Miami Beach, debating on the best way to appropriately Punk her. (Sidenote: Black Magic is on the phone in the next cubicleright now, declaring to her friend in a decidedly not indoor voice how she can leave her three children, all under the age of 10, alone for up to 45 minutes at a time. Somebody needs to put this one out to pasture.) My father is the first to go in and we hear Hungarians screaming love at each other. After about thirty seconds, my jean-jacket-wearing upstanding lawyer of a mother gets out of the van like she is James Bond, crawling under parked cars and scaling walls to get to the front door, despite the drawn blinds and the fact that the Hungarians are deafening small children in Tallahassee. Once she is in, there is more assumed merriment, while my youngest brother and myself climb out of the van and he starts imitating my mother's highheeled highjinx a mere 30 seconds before, while I fall down and promptly pee myself on the freshly manicured lawn. We get to the door and throw it open to find my mom, dad, aunt, grandmother and her large-jugged Jamaican nurse all in a group hug. They turn around and grandmother makes with the tears as she laughs in disbelief that we and our mother have bothered to show up for little old her. My proposition of half a day's wages lost in travel time are largely ignored. My aunt, whose Vesuvian emotions are world renowned, is running around like a cocky Real Housewives of Miami Beach cast-off in Juicy Couture sweatpants, crowing about how amazing we all are for pulling the wool over the cataracted eyes of a nonagenarian when there is a final knock at the door. She stops dead (like the muscles in her botoxed forehead) in her tracks and stares at my father, the colour draining out of her face. I tell her it is most likely a noise complaint from the city of St. Louis, Missouri and she goes to investigate. She opens the door to see my brother standing there and her face collapses quicker than my standards after three mojitos. Loses. Her. Shit.
As it becomes evermore clear that this particular get together is not going to be centred around me, I go and chill of to the side with the nurse, Velma (or Whilemina. Who can tell through my aunt's Hungarian-Floridian accent?), and we watch the rest of them dance around like First Nations people at an Olympic opening ceremony. I like Velma a lot. She calls me Handsome and has gap between her two front teeth that is so large that I suspect it is the real gateway to Narnia. Her mouth was the Gap's flagship store. Madonna WISHES she had a gap like that; the comparison is like a side-by-side penis photo of Shaquille O'Neal and William Hung.
"Weel, ya rilleh mad an awl wumahn happay."
"Yes, I guess we did. Where's the Grey Goose?"
NEXT TIME: I discover that vodka and seafood is a match made in heaven; Dad is still fat; grandmother eats a pat of butter.
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