Oz, the VA of P.I.N.H.E.A.D.

Those who use the Voice of Authority (the VA) often use it to hide their ignorance. I should know. I use that voice all the time, to declaim what are really suppositions, reasonable yet unproven deductions.

The VA can most commonly be detected in older men. They, who are often in the position of being asked for facts or explanations, have grown used to the accrued social wealth of deferred wisdom and now protect their bounty with various arms. The most common arm being the dreaded VA.

Hence, yesterday, this lovely gem, while we were on the road to the Albright-Knox:

Dacnar: Why is the Empire State named the Empire State?
My Dad: (VA) The Empire State is called the Empire State after the Empire State Building.

Which, as common wisdom dictates, turned out to be so far from the truth. But you know, it saddens me to have peaked behind the Wizard's curtain and find that My Dad has this benign version of Turette's.

bum brassieres

Last night, the girls were chatting about the practical rituals of buying jeans. Contrary to popular opinion, that most ubiquitous and utilitarian item of anyone's wardrobe is probably the hardest item to buy. Not because of the happy milling of teenage girls, buzzing around one's bottom, squealing things like "hott" and "booty," but because said booty comes in all shapes and forms and jeans come in variations of bleached to the knee and dark blue. A bit like titties, if you know what I mean... there's a million bras for B-cups but lacey A-cups seem to always come padded.

Anyways, so Annie was regaling us with her latest episode.

"Usually, there's about 18 22-year-old girls running around you. And then one of them asks if they can help you. But you can't say that you're looking for a pair of jeans, because that's all they sell. You have to tell them what colour, what cut. Then they look at you, and come back with five or six pairs. The last time I went in, some gay guy was looking after me. He said... "girlfriend, that pair is like a brassiere for your bum." That was the selling point. How could I say no after that?"

Exegesis
1. disturbing and exhilarating that the world of jeans has become so diversified as to need specialists in the jeans field.
2. frightening and thrilling that these girls (and guys) can become specialists at such a young age. A bit like 15 year-olds dominating figure skating... or chess.
3. A brassiere for your bum? Will it prevent sag? I'm very excited about these new innovations for jeans. Besides saggy tits and saggy face, nobody wants saggy ass.
4. "Girlfriend, if you get these jeans, I can get my commission and use it to buy cocktails at Sailor and get my booty into action. These jeans are like GHB for my ass."

Addendum
Apparently it's now common to pay almost $300 for a good pair of jeans. Am I going crazy? Is this insane? Now I really wish people would just get back to Chinos.

The Discreet Intemperance of Time Past

A has the Plague. It's there, for none to see, because he's too tired now to leave his apartment. I will have to go to the castle myself, garbed as a princess, to cheer this forlorn prince. Perhaps in pink, as it is a fitting occasion.

He's too tired, but dreams of going to France one day. He told me on the phone:

"I was in France once, but I didn't get out of the airport. I was going to Tunis."

A's lifetime of chasing romantic and sexual goals is hidden in the rasping of his voice. I used to think he looked like Chet Baker. I wonder what he looks like now. It's not like he's lost his teeth, but perhaps a hollow or a colour could betray how many times the sun has past through his room.

My last memory of him is quite stale already. Maybe outside at some club, where after exchanging several pleasantries, perhaps rolling a joint for him but doing it too tightly, we passed each other several times in sweaty corridors, slightly blank-eyed, and embarassed to have nothing to say. But, even then, A is something other than a parent, and maybe I avoided him because he is neither parent nor peer.

It's times like this that I wish I have more to give, some secret swiss bank account, a giant crane, magical flying carpets, something to weave an orange skein back into the limpid yarn that is his life... I have nothing really, and now, maybe, I ask him for more.

But, I don't want to speak of it like a last performance. We know that everything and anything is possible. It is a world full of round tires and thirty-year toasters.

There is only one certainty. Everyone dies at some time. And it's not words that are going to make anybody realise this.

Maybe I should have married a chiropodist

I was passed a shoe meme by good old cousin Tym the other day. Yes Tym, I'm not really a meme girl but I'm definitely a shoe girl. Thanks for giving me yet another occasion to reveal my vanity.

*While I'm not currently in my home country, France, and thus may have forgotten a few pairs here and there, I managed to compile what I believe is a very good and reasonable response to this question.

** The irony of writing this post after my anxious non-consumerist expose is not lost on me.

How many pairs of shoes do you have?

1 pair of completely beautiful perfect minimalist boots, flat, no stitching visible (black)
1 Amsterdam mini heels, pointy (black)
1 Italian stiletto boots, pointy (black)
1 flat brownish suede boots, pointed with slouch
1 red 70s boots, rounded toe
1 white 70s boots, rounded toe
1 grayish green fur-lined boots, blunt toe
1 mid calf boots black, rounded toe (black)
1 ankle height boots, pointy (black)
1 calf length lace up almost-dominatrix boots, high stilletos (black)
_____________
10 pairs of boots
_____________

1 blue with little crocheted holes open toe Italian heels
1 pink Audrey flats with braided details
2 black Audrey flats
1 black pointy flats with side strapping
1 wedge with denim detail
1 brown Brazilian stilettos
1 white flats, with scalloped edges
1 red wizard shoes
2 pairs of converse (black denim lo-top, cream hi-top)
1 pair of Asics running shoes, old, scuffed and white.
1 pair of sandals kept from the American Falls Cave of the Winds tour
1 beige flats with circular detail
1 white pumps (round 70s toe)
1 black pumps (round 70s toe)
1 coral pink v-front stilettos (gorgeous Spanish find)
1 navy stilettos v-front stilettos
1 snakeskin pumps
1 Audrey round toed with side buckle and very mini point heels
1 maroon tango heels (strappy)
1 cream butterfly flats (cloisonné butterfly on cream leather)
1 black lace up sandals (so classy!)
1 black vintage round-toed wedge heeled leather shoes, almost oxfords
1 grey-green flip-flops
_____________
25 pairs of shoes
_____________

grand total: 35

But, in all fairness, I moved 3 years ago, and threw away 2 garbage bags worth of shoes, including a really outstanding pair of Sasquatch boots, a beautiful pair of pristine white sorrels, and my pink ankle boots… sigh… And I used to have real authentic Dutch-style wooden clogs with thick oil leather top, black cowboy boots, black ankle stilettos with a black fringe that made me look like I was a groupie for Guns’n’Roses…

I'm not listing any of the brand names involved in my collection unless they say something about the look of the shoe... only exception is the Costume Nationals, but that's to excuse the price.

Am extremely happy to retire my Mary Janes fetish, which happened about 7 years ago. That was a disastrously girly look that said I wanted a pussy-whipped boyfriend, and not a ripe stud.

As for the Asics, those are actual real running shoes, not fashion sneakers. However, I use them fashionably. I like matching them with big athletic socks, running them over the tail ends of my narrow jeans and wearing a lot of gold chains… it’s my M.I.A. look for Paris soirees.

Most expensive pair of shoes: my Costume Nationals, 60% on sale but still $398 (Cdn)
Cheapest pair of shoes: my black Audrey flats, which, incidentally, are almost my most often worn pair… I got that for $2,99 (Cdn) at the Value Village.

Last shoe you bought:
The pink Audrey flats… $50 on sale at B2

How many shoes under your work desk:
Hahaha, don’t work.

5 people I’m passing this baton to:
My sister, since she claims to have 50 pairs of shoes.
La Coquette, for her YSL bragging
Petite Anglaise, because she'll never do it
Schuey, because he's probably the most qualified man with a blog
My finnish ex-roommate, since his answer will be the funniest, or at least will have something suitably pithy and blase to say about memes.

*Addendum* Going to break the rules here and tag another person, since she asked nicely and the finnish guy is on his finnish retreat.

Introducing...
Flare, Korean girl stuck in Paris, addicted to the OC and horrified at large forehead.


I wish Jacinte and Alon had a blog. Those guys really know their shoes.
And yes, I cry when I think I gave up the Estelle Yomeda shoe sale to push lights around for Dacnar's film shoot.

when you're lying flat on your back with a heavy sack and your legs are pawing the air like a turtle... it's unattractive but laughable

It starts with one little bite, one little itch, and then the whole thing goes to pieces. While I was scratching my mosquito bite, I realized I was paralyzed with indecision over buying a book about a fifty-year old man who suddenly finds himself pomading his hair and ironing his clothes so that he can convincingly tell his son why he won't be marrying his niece because said niece has fallen in love with the fifty year-old man. I wasn't wracked with indecision because I wasn't sure about the book. I just don't know how much room I have for books I haven't bought when there are already books I have bought, but haven't read, waiting in the queue for a heavenly space next to my undies and short shorts.

But I was still scratching my mosquito bite, which I absolutely want to carve out with a pen knife it's driving me so crazy, when I realized that I couldn't make that decision now, couldn't bring it unto myself to smoke a nice fat joint, couldn't buy the giant chocolate cake I'd been eyeing on the menu, couldn't buy a ticket to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I just can't buy anything... out of fear... fear of caving to an addiction... which is answering my every whim with something I have to buy.

Why am I doing this stupid treatment now? It makes me so miserable and dissatisfied. I'm almost pulling my hair out, and carving my mosquito bite, while gnawing on my frustrating predicament, self-imposed... like a fatman reading cooking books.

Someone once suggested that I could just try making more money, then I wouldn't have to worry about spending it so much. That's utter crap. Everytime I make more money, I find even more creative means to dispense with it. However logical this sounds, I know it's one of those cruel jokes life throws you. I'm not fond of those kinds of jokes, and while I do agree with the original statement, it's about as logical as asking me why I don't build a space shuttle if I want to visit the moon... just leads to other even more complicated problems.

So, I'm sitting here, frustrated, not drunk, not smoking and glaring ever so darkly at my computer screen when Dacnar, yes, he's here in Toronto, hands me an english translation of Roland Barthes's Mythologies. It's a simple ploy they use on cats and little children. When they are whining or looking bored, you throw them a new toy and they fiddle with it for a couple of moments, forgetting their temporary existential unease. (Oh, yes, cats are capable of existential unease. That's why they scratch.)

I don't think this will last very long, nor the cure for my addiction, nor the addiction itself. I'm not convinced about the longevity of anything, neither pain nor pleasure. I'm sure the memory of pain can cause trouble, and so I cultivate a healthy memory for useless facts to prevent that space from being occupied by unhelpful memories of pain. That way, in times of crisis I am prepared for immediate and appropriate response.

For example, when I was young, some fellow classmate once called me a "Paki," the derogatory form used for anyone who looks vaguely from the Indian subcontinent. I remember feeling quite puzzled and saying quite flippantly, "Oh, you've got that wrong, I'm not from Pakistan. But the capital of Pakistan is Islamabad."

Or somebody asking me why I didn't concentrate on marrying a rich man, since I have such expensive tastes. At which I answer "Oh, I'm quite happy with Dacnar. He really likes the Tour de France. I like the Tour de France...Speaking of which, Jan Ullrich has finished 3rd in the Tour de France for this year, did you know that? He's really fantastic. I'm so proud of our man from Rostock..."

The ABCs of my life

This stems from a conversation I was having with Shelton a couple of weeks ago. We were talking about a mutual friend, over gigantic smoothies at the Easy Cafe, and the following was said (mostly made up from what I can remember but you must trust my artistic instinct on this):

me, Shelton

-Yeah I just saw B a couple of weeks ago. He was fine... but kind of strange.
-B can be strange. I think he's been strange for a long time, but now that he's getting older, he's getting stranger.
-Actually, I remember, during the Orange Pop days, he was weird, but in kind of a cute way. Now, I think it's getting creepy.

(pause to sip)

-I just noticed, that when he was talking to Max, he couldn't shut up. Like, people were getting that uncomfortable look on their faces and he just kept smiling and going on.
-Yeah, B really likes to hear himself speak. But he's not that different from his dad.
-His dad? Oh yeah... A. A's permanently strange. Do you remember when he gave me that pink jumpsuit for my birthday?
-The MC Hammer one? Yeah, that rocked. That was a good gift.
-Apparently now A is always at Vaseline, running around completely naked.
-I think there's always naked people at Vaseline.
-Yeah, but he has such a naked thing. I remember B telling me that it wasn't uncommon for him, growing up, to see A walking around the house completely stark naked.
-yeah...
-and how one time he did nude modelling and he didn't understand why the girls all left when he pulled his buttcheeks apart.
-hmmmmm...

(more sipping... slodging of slushies)

-What's the matter Shelton. You look like you're thinking something yucky.
-Just thinking about C.
-Oh, sorry. That's really too bad.
-Well, C just told me she dumped me because I wasn't organized enough. She also said she thought I was gay.
-I don't think you're gay, but you're really disorganized.
-But I want to be more organized. It's just...
-Well, you're like that.
-But people change!
-Yes, people change... but sometimes, there are people who have permanent passports on the weirdo island.
-What?
-Ok, follow me on this cause it's complicated. So there's this island, and it's full of weirdos. Most people are born on the island, very few people are born on the mainland. Because of this, they've developed a ferry system. Now, at some point, usually in your early to middle twenties, you take this ferry to the mainland and become one of the normals.
-That's nuts. But why do people want to go to the mainland so bad?
-Because, on the mainland is all that stuff you like, cable TV, giant house, central air-conditioning, expensive restaurants... but you gotta get on the ferry to the mainland if you want that because there are no weirdos allowed.
-And who are the weirdos?
-The weirdos are like people like A and B. That family has a permanent house on the island. You could even say their natives. So, while you're waiting for your ticket to get on that ferry, and C, who was supposed to help you get the ticket jumps on the boat with someone else, A and B are somewhere, on the island, jumping around naked with grass skirts and painted red faces.
-Right... but I want to get on the ferry. How do I get a ticket for the ferry?
-You can't. You can't Shelton. Nobody gets on the ferry because they want to. That's the secret of the ferry. There are some things, exceptions, that can make an native islander transform into a mainlander. But, in the end, you just gott know deep down, whether you're an islander or a mainlander, and live with it. I've been on the island for years, and though I pretend to mainland fashion, every now and then, I know I'm on the island for good.
-You wear a grass skirt and a red painted face?
-Nope. That's reserved for A and B. I'm building a submarine out of mud and grass.
-That's cool! What's it for? Can I help?
-It's for exploring what's out there, besides the mainland and island. But, I think I may have a problem.
-What's that?
-Mud dissolves in water.
-...............

Bike Accidents and Collision Courses

Today, I found myself in the unusual position of actually feeling nervous about riding my bike. For some reason, and maybe it was because I'd watched a TV Show called Medium before sleeping, and maybe because I dreamt I was in the future, I had a sneaking suspicion that it would be a great day to wear a helmet. Unfortunately, because of my oversize head, I usually hate wearing helmets. It's one thing to look like you have a head that's made for TV. It's another thing altogether to look like your head should be drained of fluid.

But, I borrowed a helmet off one of my landladies, a pink number, and scooted out.

It was strange, the helmet thing. Somehow, when you feel even slightly protected, the rest of you becomes an idiot. I was going at top gear around the city, ripping around, skidding through corners, squeezing between turning cars, doing everything right. It's like a drug... or a video game. You just go without jamming on the brakes, and when it's all right, you're just sucking in breath and laughing.

That is until I flipped my gears down too fast, my bike made a ka-chunk sound, and for some reason, the chain jammed. I was pedalling rather fast, and my legs were pushing quite a motion, so suddenly they flew off and I found myself completely wobbly, at a major intersection next to a gigantic square... I almost wiped out. By the grace of my reflexes and sobriety, something in my body recovered enough so that I skidded right, then left, then had the wherewithal to skid full left and pull to a stop on the other side of the road... It must have been strange for the streetcar behind me.

So, no damage. Gears still working... and then I get to where I'm going, park my bike and look down. The inside of the right calf is completely scraped by my gears. I've got some fucked up Maori tattoo slithered all on the inside. So I go to the bathroom to clean up, the grease takes forever to come off, until I realize I'm brushing in the wrong direction... that I'm rubbing the grease into my wound. Let me emphasize this, I felt almost no pain.

I guess I must have been in shock or something... no biggee.. it's happened to be me before. The last major accident I can remember was on my way to an exam, a long time ago. (I won't count the time I fell off the back when doubling with Dacnar, save that I landed neatly on my overloaded silver backpack, and spent the next 10 seconds, weighed down, with legs and arms pawing the air... exactly like a flipped turtle, but that was funny and involved no blood)

Yeah, it was ages ago, back in the day when I went to a real university. I was, as everyone knows, late late late, for an important date... the exam for one of my english lit classes, maybe even like my modern drama class... something about Strindberg flying through my brain... anyways, I was cutting straight and fast on Queen St., through the Spadina intersection, when suddenly, whoof, hands skidding on the road, and, thump... thighs flopping behind. I was spreadeagled, ready for business, all over the asphalt. I pulled myself up, and, true to form, checked the bike... it seemed none the worse for wear... so I hauled us back to the corner, where a man, holding a starbucks coffee, suddenly said to me: "did you get the licence plate?"

"Whaaaat?"
"That car," he points on the right, a silver coupe speeding off, "he clipped your back tire."
"Oh."
He looks at me again... "Are you sure you're ok?"
"Yup... gotta go."

Hop back on the bike and speed off. After all, I need to get at least a B on the exam if I want to keep my A, which I do want to have because I knew I bloody messed up my post-modern english lit class (morning=fucking instead of going to class; and whenever I did attend, I related everyone from Margaret Drabble to Julian Barnes to my sex life; teacher went from amused to consternation when hand started flagging in air). So, I want that A, and I get into the hall a touch late, settle in, and get ready to write my exam.

That's when the examiner comes over, and asks me if I need to see a nurse...
"Whaaa???"
"A nurse."
"I don't need a nurse... just give me a band aid and give me my exam."

He hands me the exam, and walks off. I start to write, and about 20 minutes into writing, I start to get shooting pains all over my hands and elbows and knees. I finally take a pause and look down... my knee is bleeding through my pants... my elbows are bleeding through my shirt... and I don't even bother to look at my hands because the occasional rusty smears are telling me all I need to know.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and watched the grit off my wounds, then settle back, where, surprisingly, I find myself enjoying the exam questions. It's amazing how much fun an exam can be when you like the subject and can actually write about it coherently.

And that's the story... I went home, studied for another exam, and pedalled off again the next day. Bike accidents are just one of those things that, when serious enough, can take you out of commission. I do encourage people to wear helmets, even I don't always abide myself. But, having strong passions and desires can over-rule any pain you have.

And that's the story of me and my bicycle race.

_______________

This story was also inspired by the news I just received, half an hour ago, via Gasp that Queenie got into a bike crash on the Belleville hill. Apparently rouler bourré (drunk driving) applies to bicycles too. Alas, nothing more than minor bruises and an elephant man face. But her bike and the back of that car are totalled. So maybe the gods were warning the wrong Scorpio.

It's a jungle out there!

Raccoons and skunks have just ganged up on me and chased me into the house! Fuck, even they don't like smoking. So fascist, this country, against smokers... even got the critters brainwashed. Time to bring out a shotgun!

Better than Email

Is there anything better than getting a love letter in the mail? I thought those days were gone, but I'm happy to realize that a certain mock antediluvian still adheres to the love letter rule. He sent me the most wonderful letter a girl can get... the type even Helen Fielding couldn't concoct in all her Pottery Barn Harlequin style. What did it say? I'm not telling. Somethings are better kept out of the electronic main vein.
___________________

But all this Pollyanna jabbering I have to keep in mind when I ride the bus this morning on my way to work. The bus takes me to the hinterlands of suburbia, where people have magically inbred to be completely uninterested in anything except x-large coke bottles and dollar-store mall mania. I asked somebody, during my lunch break, where the bookstore is in this giant mall. He looks at me blankly and says, there's no Chapters here. Crap... when did all bookstores become Chapters?

Then, out of desperation, I plowed into the Zellers, where I spent half a minute considering a very cheap white particle board shelving unit. It seemed so incredible that people actually buy these things, and yet, I know, if I close my eyes for two seconds, that shelving unit could show up at my doorsteps.

It's not a far step between the violent mad ones who stay on their island of lunacy, and the mainlanders with their particle board shelves.

I walk back, and, being informed that I shouldn't come back to work when I still have 10 minutes left on my lunch break, I decide to hang out in a very narrow corridor. The corridor is a beigish colour, with grey carpet. The carpet displays some navy and red square pattern on a grey background. Cap-heading this dead-end narrow corridor is a giant white planter, sporting two knobby-knee-ed palm trees. Just beyond their crone-ish knuckles is a view of the outside. The view is simple and elegant. A giant expanse of gravel and hulking decomposing metal heads, dripping water. The air-conditioning units are trickling water, and this collects in unhealthy pools in the blazing sun... steaming... The steam rises up, caressing the minimalist glazed mirror windows of the bank building directly in front. And there is nothing else in sight... building front and centre, grey blue skies all around. It's so beautiful I almost cry.

I go back to the boardroom, and finding no suitable reading material, pull out my notebook and write the first sentences I've written in there for ages. In between the phone numbers, addresses, to-do lists, is suddenly something so crystal and forced from out of me, like through my nostrils and out my ears. It's actually not depressing.

And then on the bus going home, I see a sign telling me to donate $50 so that a family of africans can buy a sheep and support their family. It's this same $50 logic that makes sweatshops possible. The loop seems so complete I am shocked. Then I turn because I realize two rastafarians are staring at me... I'm chewing on my knuckles, wide-eyed.

Mama Fiorucci killed me

Yesterday was the combined birthday of Natalie and Ben, not to mention the welcome home of Balint. In celebration, Natalie and Balint threw a bbq at their place, kind of like a little shack with a very beautiful deck, which is where we were, up in the sky.

When I walked through the door, I saw something vaguely shocking: two old men sitting at a table looking studious with furrowed brows. They look like they grew up together, probably struggling valiantly through a chess rivalry. I later learnt these were the couple's fathers. I don't know anyone who has such luck with in-laws. But, in all fairness, I think Natalie's dad deals in art and Balint's dad is an artist.

Ok... after arriving, dressed in short short white shorts, canary yellow see-through top over a grey skinny halter, I kissed as many people hello as I could and then dove straight into the food. It was a veritable tomato explosion... too many tomato thingies, salads... I'm almost sick of tomatoes by now.

Anyways, Trudie, the little Truitster, my favourite 20 pound Eskimo was there, ready to rile me up with meat jokes. She seems to think I'm into extreme eating...

-Hey Sam, ready to eat your camel burgers?
-No. Havin' Eskimo burgers this time.
-What, made out of ice-cream?
-No, made out of ground up bits of you.
-I'm not an Eskimo.
-Yes you are.
-Then you are too.
-Naw, I'm too tall.
.........
(another voice)
-Trudie looks like a rabbit
(another voice)
-Trudie is a rabbit
(me)
-Trudie bites herself for fun.

You probably don't need to hear the rest of that.

Anyways, after salad came drinking. Then smoking. Then, in between drinking and smoking, Balint told me my burger was ready. Alon had gone to the Organic Butcher's and had asked me to choose between lamb burgers... blah blah blah mustard seed... blah blah blah sundried tomato... mama fiorucci... and, like a fool, I chose Mama Fiorucci because I liked the name. Mama in anything associated with food usually gets my choice. Mama cooks good. So, those Mama Fioruccis were ordered and slammed on the grill, and suddenly, out of the blue, there it was, in front of me... a GIANT GIANT GIANT hamburger. I didn't really know what to do so I put some ketchup and mustard on it and went humbly back to my seat, where I was then humiliated publicly by Mama Fiorucci.

Nobody can eat a giant hamburger in over 30 degree humidity heat. It's crazy, and only the starving, fattys, and a herd of rabid mutant rats can accomplish this feat. I mowed through half of it gamely, then moved swiftly onto a cigarette and the rest of my wine. Whew, I have no problems drinking wine.

In fact, to illustrate my no-problems with wine, I then proceeded to drink a shit load of it, then smoked copious amounts of weed, then talked like an idiot. Luckily sun had set by this point, and most of us were reasonably wasted. Then, while talking to Derrick, on why his new name should be La Grease (it's so his fault.. the poor guy's named after an oil rig device), I was suddenly sprayed with cold water. At first I thought I was being spit on, but nooo, it was fucking Jaci and her water gun. Eventually I ended up with wet spots all over my snatch and tits (yes, that crudely!). But I saved the joint, so even if the battle was lost, the war... Jaci, I swear, you must so be in love with me!

And then I think I offended Tara's bf Ben by saying he looked like Frodo, a comment he must get very often. He has the same eyes, the same staring thing. But he winced a little. Well, if you grow out hobbit hair, and you have Elijah Wood eyes, you can expect more than your fair share of hobbit comments.

All in all, a very fun night. I think I even learnt something, but I forgot what.

Oh and everybody keeps asking me how Paris is. I always say the same thing. Paris is great. At which point they ask me what I'm doing here...

I'm so loved in Toronto, it seems!

_______________________

afternote: it is not glamourous to drink 2 bottles of wine practically solo, sleep for 6 hours, and then ride a bus to Milton... MILTON... it's really in the middle of nowhere... luckily my parents have lots of chocolate, food, and alcohol in the house. So I can have my own party with la famille. But, now I have to sleep...

Belated Bastille Day!

Seems like I missed the national days in both my countries... Canada, because the allergies were killing me... France, because I forgot. It's too hot to think.

Some people like to think that Canada is less patriotic than France. I don't think that's true. Canadians are just prouder but less willing to admit so. Canadians plead innocence and passivity with regard to any notion of nationalism, but love to wave their flag, and never hesitate to say "well, thank god we're not americans." The French will always vote against their government and like the idea of blowing things up... it only takes a couple of glasses of wine and some vague threat to get people talking about head-chopping and revolution... ahhh, the past, how attractive we were in youth.

It amounts to the same thing if you ask me.

Either way, it's a pretty civilized kind of nationalism, when seen in comparison to the US, or even Singapore... (the only other national days I've witnessed). The US like to cry, shoot guns, and wave flags... Singaporeans are the maddest of the lot. Every year they write a new song, that plays almost non-stop on the television and radio weeks up to the national day, and people are commanded to wear red... and, strangely enough, almost everybody complies. Then, the crazy Parade dominates the TV... it's meant to wrap the country in preprogrammation with kitschy slogans and weepy stick-together-or-die stories. Like the oriental version of a smurf-like Third Reich.

Either way, I've always liked the french version, maybe because each time I experienced it I was wasted beyond imagination and stuck with a really funny bad band.

The first year, I had gone on vacation with Dacnar to L'île d'Oléron on the west coast, and at some point of the week was Bastille Day. So, we took a break from our heavy Tour de France schedule and met up on the south part of the island along with the other merry-goers, for fireworks and whitey dreads... that's right... white reggae in France for us! It was hilarious... they played all the french variety hits, songs that get old men into the type of dance where they hitch up their pants, drop their crotch and wave their ankles.

Actually, the whole band was playing reggae except for a stalwart keyboardist, who smugly stuck to his 4/4 time. Really great... I got trashed on rose, Dacnar started doing his old-man dance and beery jocks took cellphone pics of his wiggle. I would have liked to have done more, but by the time the laughing was done, it was time to stop drinking... otherwise ground would meet head fast.

My second Bastille Day also featured sand, some reggae band... but I remember less... except that it was capped with yummy sweaty sex. Yes, thanks again Dacnar.

Anyways... yeah, I don't know what this is really about. I drink rose even when it's not a National Day. I'm about to go out with the faggots and drink, eat turkey burgers, and probably tell bitchy jokes... what else is new? Oh, maybe they'll be a couple of capons in the group as well (translate as the pussy-whipped BFs). There are few exceptions to the castration-relation rule in Toronto, but I think might know a couple. Maybe even one will be there tonight (talk about saving face.... why did I send them the link to my blog?)

podcast ate the radio star

Oooooof... if you've been wondering why my posts have dribbled to heat rash and tour de france it's because I've been occupied... occupied with other things... mainly internet radio.

I've always had a soft spot for radio, growing up with Sunday Night's assortment of mystery radio theatre. I'm less music on the radio than talk, having grown up in a country where the talk radio is surprisingly calming. (Actually, the CBC, Canada's Broadcasting Corporation, has a noticeably diction. CBC speakers sound surprisingly moderate, passive, with an edge of cultural snootiness) The problem with music on the radio is that eventually somebody plays something you can't listen to and you spend the next thirty seconds fiddling up and down static trying to find something else.

Well, those static days are gone...I'm into podcasts. Podcasts is basically radio in a downloadable format. Everybody's getting into it these days. Why, podcasting is the new blog. (The one thing it does lack is the clickable links, hence less of a community. But like blogs, they also work by word of mouth).

In related news, Pascal D'Huez will be making two guest appearances on France Culture Radio... one reporting live from Pau, that beautiful town in the Pyrenees, on July 18th, 7pm France Time,... the other a special broadcast in Auvergne, on the Friday... time to posted later.
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*OMG... so funny... listening to some hillbillies podcasting and one of them said that the other was a google bitch... and the other guy calls him an asshole... and he says... "no I'm not. do you remember that time, when I was going through that drunken haze thang, and you insulted me and generally made me feel bad.... well, I'm just telling you to wear a condom before you get fucked up the ass...." The name of the podcast is The Morning Wood... but I warn you, most of the time it's just two hosers getting drunk and burping on mic, and being kind of lame.

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Forgot to tell you earlier but I have some french buddies, The DJ Nerds Mariaque and Sonic Eric, who have their own little music radio show, which they almost podcast. If you have Quicktime 7 Pro, you can save the download... otherwise... it's just available for listening off your browser. Check it out for some sweet pop sounds.

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In other news, organizing my bookmarks the other day, I unearthed a little gem - The Mainichi Daily News. It think it's some sort tabloid Japanese press, but the stories on it are MINDBLOWING!!! This week, "jeans butt fetishist hurls acid on women" beat out "london bombings" for top story of the week. That should give you an indication of their direction.

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ipodderx media aggregator has the funniest little toy. You can convert any text-based rss feed into sound. Hence, just by adding my rss feed, I got my blog converted into an audio blog... and it sounded completely stupid, but funnier. Well, not my whole blog... just the first 3 sentences of each post.

Hot Tarts fresh from the Oven

The heat wave here in Toronto is driving me batty, giving me a rather provocative rash between the legs, and forcing me into movie theatres and other people's homes. I cannot begin to tell you how sick it is during the day, but in the nights, whew, it's steamy.

So how does a normal city girl combat the heat? She gets up early and watches the Tour de France from 9am to 11:30am, screaming idiotically at a large tv screen in somebody else's apartment. From 11:30 to 12, she watches Caribbean Workout... some girls doing step aerobics in the tropics. That's usually enough to catapult her off the couch and into some other activity. Those Caribbean Queens, I like it when they scream at me to kick it up a notch... I have vague dreams of kicking it up a notch, Emeril style, and doing a kick punch while holding onto a plate of spaghetti, sauce flipping in the air, and landing miraculously on designer 60s telephone. I even like their busty black girl, with her belly pumping and hilarious fuck-me smile, shadow punching with earnest glee. But that knowledge is so scary I run screaming out of the apartment.

North American living... in the heat wave... no shutters, personal air-conditioners, fans a go-go, and people thronging in malls and movie theatres. I have taken advantage of the sweat-a-thon to get a combined work-out/sauna at the same time, cycling everywhere. Basically, anytime I hop on the bike, I end up with sweat between my breasts. This is kind of porno, except usually it's gay men I point out my breast sweat to. After sweating, it's usually a shower and a nap.

This morning, I was at Style Icon's place, laughing at how he eats cherries and can't decide what to wear. I mean, this guy's a fashion editor, so he should know! And to be honest, he usually does. I think he was just humouring me from when we used to live together and I had the royal veto on his outfits. But seriously, he was getting his picture taken for a daily where he is being featured as a style icon, so this is a very serious veto I'm holding.

Style icon in North America means: wearing lots of contempo casual, mixed hi-end sportswear with "pieces." It's all about name-dropping remote New York t-shirt designers with more classic upscale names. I'd rag him about it except this is how we giggle... and usually I get to fondle his Merlin toys while he's musing over different shades of grey-green.

Style icon in North America means: enduring laughing fits by ex-roommate, who is wearing ragged short shorts, a silhouettes t-shirt and day old hair, as she mocks the placement of a silver stud, and indecisive t-shirt/short combo.

Style icon eventually goes for a shirt, cream with lavender and purple miniature embroidery (Farhi), silk dark wine tie, slate grey linen jacket with very discreet thin dark purple vertical stripes (M. Jacobs), and one silver thumb-tack looking stud...

but since photo is from waist up... Style Icon keeps his yellow shorts. Eventually, for work, because today is soooo casual, he pairs the yellow shorts up with this t-shirt that reminds me of hospital workers in an old age home. I veto that t-shirt faster than you can say "off." Then he offers me another veto on a dark-green t-shirt... but I like how the v-neck shows off his chest hair, and with a switch on the shorts (oooh, sexy green-grey), it's perfect.

This is life with SI and I... oh, well, really only the morning. I feel like such a harem princess, snappying my finger and twitching my nose daintily at his royal prince-ness bold sartorial choices. Fun... but I can't believe he lets me get away with this shit, especially when my shorts are practically see-through they're so old.

Creep quietly for a nap and a little reading before heading off in the evening to see Miranda July's new film. Riding my bike there, I get the same sweat between the tits action, while enduring cries of "fit" and "hott" and "fine" hollered by sweaty titted basketball type guys. It's nice to know I attract the b-boys while all my professorial crushes ignore me.

We get in and hot damn, the place is crawling with the creme de la creme of Toronto indie art community. Yuck. Lots of lesbians with big-bummed utility pants, people who wear red and turquoise together but somehow think looking like a Chocolate Factory extra is good, granola eaters, in short. People who apologize too much but are so smug that they are vegetarians, and probably into "grassroots" community action... which usually just translates into eating a lot of garlic and tahini and spending atrocious amounts of money at health food stores buying organic horse feed.*

I stand up to wave "Kumbaya" but the sounds are drained by apologetic art supporters asking me to give myself a pat on the back for showing up to this film.

The film is actually pretty good... almost too cute. I'd have to say Miranda July does grate at points with her cuter than cute indie art-girl act... good point, as was dutifully noted out by Annie, "how can she make a living driving old people around and still buy Citizen jeans?" But amazingly consistent performance by 6 year old as IM poop king rules the day. I'd almost just erase all the parts acted by people over 16 in this movie.

As I'm combing my hair tonight, I regret not staying out on the street, parading my wares to randoms while on the bike. I think the hot weather makes my skin glow... like apres-sex glow... I need to bottle this shit... but that's another story.

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*caveat: am currently subletting house from a couple of these professed horse feed eaters. So I really should be nicer... and they are obviously nice people, who would rent their huge apartment to some struggling artist type girl for almost thing... I should not bite the hand that feeds me... oh, what the heck! I'm been doing this my whole life so why stop now?

** almost got up to bitch-slap flaming fagarina behind me who was saying things like "do you wear a shower cap when you shower" to his date... knew I should have when he starting cackling madly at the least subtle moment of the film. Fagarinas need to be exterminated, ray-gun style. Why don't they just stop trying so hard?... We don't hate them any more.

Cyclysm

I'm not sure why this particular word is being used by the OLN to describe Lance's exploits, but I do find it rather humourous. Le Cyclisme is the french way of saying cycling. For the last couple of years, Dacnar, unable to wrap his head round the word cycling, has called it cyclism. So for me, this word has always been associated with a certain goofy french way of thinking about how cycling would translate for anglophones. Now, this word will be associated with a certain lightning-blast, nasty electric guitar version of how Americans view Lance's exploits in France, le version batard of the Tour in American imaginations.

Well, I always though Lance was kind of like a Sauron, one eye, one testicle... the Cyclops. Wikipedia describes the Cyclops as "strong, stubborn, and "abrupt of emotion". Their names eventually became synonyms for strength and power, and were used to signify especially well-crafted weapons." So Cyclysm is like a study of the cyclops... Lance guy.

We could also imagine Lance as a kind of Sauron, and the various attackers as the fellowship of the Ring... romantic and absurd as this sounds. Bjarne Riis could be Gandalf, Vino could be Aragorn, Ullrich could be Gimli, Basso could be Faramir, Rasmussen could be Legolas, and, the hobbit, Frodo, would be Valverde, of course. The discovery team would be the Nazgul. Or crap... this is becoming shit....

More Buffoonery on the OLN

Overheard on the commentary (all spelling errors intentional):

"Merckx was very prolific this morning when he said Lance came here to win."

"Georgie Hincapie and those Discovery Boys are real Trojans."

"It's almost like Discovery is the defensive line and Lance is the fullback."

"We've seen the end of the Kaiser's challenge for the Tour des France."

They are broadcasting the tour on the big screen at Times Square, starting at 9amET tomorrow. Crazy Americans, commenting on the Tour as if it were the Superbowl. Pffff....

Last Year's Hero is This Year's Toast

3pm
They just started to climb the hills in today's stage and Voekler is already with the attardés. Forget about who's gonna win the stage... will our cherub-faced mascot from last year be able to finish? Wow... I don't think anyone cares. This is the value of wearing the maillot jaune at the Champs Elysées vs. for most of the Tour.

5pm
Valverde looks excellent. Basso, Ullrich, Vino all dropped. The answers are clear. Armstrong, bar some monstrous swoop of fate, looks clean to win his Maillot Jaune back, and probably for the rest of the Tour, if his legs are as good as they look.

5:12pm
Allez Rasmussen! Skeletor and Valverde look brilliant. Eh Pascal D'Huez... didn't I tell you about Iles Baleares?

5:15pm
The footage of Ullrich and Kloeden... could be from last year. Ullrich makes the bad face again. We are under 5km. Sure Rasmussen is going for the win. With still 5 more mountain stages this week, and the way Rasmussen eats mountains, I peg him as the man to watch this week.

5:17pm
When will Valverde attack?

5:19pm
Red Light!!! 1km to go.


5:20pm
Rasmussen attacked. Everyone holding on. Armstrong looking... strong. Armstrong attacks. Valverde follows... Rasmussen dropped... Valverde wins... Basso almost a minute behind... Ullrich almost 2 minutes behind. I hate this race. Armstrong is terrible...

You know, Armstrong does the same thing, every fucking year. He drives an insane pace up the hill, then sprints at the end. I think the people who want to beat him have to realize that climbing up hills that way is what he wants. It would be better to try and break up the team by doing intense attacks during slopes of the hill, and try and break up the group. If Kloeden, Vino, and some CSC took turns doing attacks, they'd probably stand a better chance than letting Armstrong play his game. It's really disgusting that year after year, I'm watching the same race when they get to the mountain. If there's one thing Armstrong had in common with Ullrich is that neither of them surprise.

I like tripe

1. found a place that makes excellent baguettes in Toronto. Pain Perdu, up at St. Clair, though Westenders can find the PP baguette at La Fromagerie, on College West of Dovercourt. And, La Fromagerie contains an impressive array of true cheeses, some impressive croutes and blues from Quebec too. Truly a find.

2. you can swim at the Sunnyside pool for free. This is amazing. The Sunnyside pool is right on the lake, literally, and so you while you gaze longingly at the disgustingly polluted lake, you can paddle happily in the mildly chlorinated pool.

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This weekend I went up to my parent's place. Not for want of anything but because it seems to be the only place where I feel truly on vacation. It's a large old house, with a gorgeous spacious lawn and well-tended garden. My dad truly has found his calling in his old age. He should have been a gardener. At night, they turn on the fairy lights and the place, complete with its tiny rock fountain, is like an elfin paradise.

Plus I get to watch as many DVDs as I like, snack on everything in the fridge (my god, my mom keeps that thing so well stocked), get drives anywhere I want, sleep at any hour of the day and read all sorts of all books and history nonsense. Plus they have cable so I was able to watch my Tour de France there.

My mother makes the best soup. It's this Cantonese kind of broth, made of dried lotus roots, pork ribs, carrots, dried oysters, dried dates and peanuts. It's quite brothlike and really, the best thing in the world. I feel like I'm twelve, tucked into my Thomas Hardy, while the radio hums something in the background. I grew up this way, far from the madding crowd, and there are days that I rue not to be content completely with this world, that I seek worldly pleasures and strange adventures.

Still, every adventurer needs their pit stop.

On the way to dim sum, where I discovered much to my chagrin that I have little interest in mixing with my sister's friends, though they are very nice, my mother had a long talk about the Lord of the Rings saga. It seems I was bred in a family that is rabid for hobbits, which might explain why my mother likes my dad (hahaha, just kidding!). My mother said that the lighting of the torches sends shivers through her... a light in the darkness... hope eternal... all that kind of stuff.

Of course I disagreed with her. I'm not a fan of the trilogy. I cringe and shiver when I hear people weep and shudder before plaster cast replicas of Minas Tirith. I am the dark side and I resent our stereotyping as an evil bunch. I hover in the shadows, I love and nurse my vices...

Even as she said this we were driving on a large 3 lane highway, ripping through the flat countryside that is broken up intermittently by blockish concrete buildings that bear signs for some industrial park or another. I wonder, if in all her contentment for super-size over-air-conditioned supermarkets, a house that always smells lovely with strategically placed air fresheners, high-end cosmetic products and new and clean furniture, I wonder in all that if that is what the light at the end of the tunnel is about. That in a well kept house you can hear the sounds of epic Norse battles resung by Enya?

I like that. I want to hold onto that. There is something really heroically consistent about playing Enya in the middle of bourgeois hell... like Socrates with his hemlock.

And then I know I am wrong. I'm being condescending. My mother is happy on her own terms. She's not burdened by existentialism, or friendship or love. She doesn't need friends. She's so happy with her family, with her latin classes, with earning money as a painter of Catholic tapestries (yes! that's her job now!), her big spacious new car, her excellent body that she takes care by working out at the gym, her health, and herself... She's a born organizer and go-getter. She's a workhorse and she's happiest best working. She makes me jealous.

I am dark and malcontent due to some overblown ego that somehow I can change the world. Perhaps, had I been more wise, I would have just gone to the peacecorp, international relations, business... instead of art. Art doesn't change the world. It's just the best point of view to be in when you're too weak to do anything else.

-LIAR!!!-
yeah... I'm lying. I didn't choose to be an artist... It's the only real thing I could say to define the things I dream of doing.

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On a final note, I noticed how people shiver when you say you like eating tripe, pig's feet and jellyfish... all in the same meal. These people have obviously never had dim sum. Here's what we ate, with multiple orders of the same dish, shared between 8 adults:

shrimp dumplings (ha-kow)
shrimp dumplings with waterchestnut and chives
meat dumplings in eggskin wrapper with water chestnut
steamed rice rolls with shrimp and chives (cheong fan)
steamed rice rolls with scallops and green onions
steamed buns with roasted pork (pow)
fried bean curd skin stuffed with fish paste
stuffed deep-fried tofu
steamed tripe
jellyfish
steamed pork ribs with black bean sauce
steamed chicken feet (phoenix feet!)
steamed stuffed shittake mushrooms
meat dumplings with quail's eggs (sui mai + something else)
fish paste stuffed green peppers, fried with black bean sauce
tau-fu-fa (sweet tofu custard)

I carried my stomach home and fell asleep in front of the tv 30 minutes later, where I dreamed of boiled red chicken feet picking jellyfish tripe out of egg-wrapped stomach... yes, demented Prometheus haunts me even after culinary bliss... Dacnar, this is the punishment that awaits you. Be prepared.

ghosts of a man who loves his mamie

Rasmussen did the most amazing imitation of Richard Virenque today, and then some. He pulled away solo for most of the ride through the Vosges, killing mountain after mountain and taking the Ballon d'Alsace solo as if he was on the flats. Even his slightly bow-legged style reminded me of the former dominator of pea-shirts. I've always loved Virenque for his baby-style crying, but Rasmussen, and the skeletal look, he reminded me of some sort of post-chemo kid tearing up the hill. At least he didn't dedicate his win to his mamie, or maybe he did and I just don't know the danish word for it.

Anyways, even the Blaireau was touched.

chapeau et condoléances au petit Zabriskie. J'ai pleuré un petit peu quand son directeur sportif a rétiré le chiffre de son maillot. On voit que son ésprit était déchiré après la contre le montre par équipe, mais maintenant, il faut dire au gosse "courage mon petit mec." Une légende est créée avec le sang et les larmes.

et quand est-ce que Jan va faire attention? Evidemment chaque fois il y a une chute, ça coute chère. C'est pas un erreur, je pense, de dire que si Jan n'avait pas chuté le jour avant le départ, il n'ait pas été enroulé par Lance. Aujourd'hui, encore une petite chute. L'année dernière les chutes de Mayo et Hamilton a precipité la mauvaise performance aux montagnes du premier, et l'abandon de l'autre. Cet édition, Zabriskie a abandonné, sans doute à cause de sa chute au 4ème étape. Boonen, aussi, aura pas mal des problèmes dans les montagnes à cause de sa chute qui a blessé terriblement son cul et son dos. Attentions les mecs!!! C'est déjà assez difficile de battre Lance. Il faut fait attention de pas faire des bétises.

Buffoons on the OLN (Only Lance Network)

While there are many things I can adore my current apartment for, the one thing I do reproach is the lack of cable television. Not that I am a cable junkie... but it's hard to be a sports junkie without cable television. Last month I was fortunate to catch Wimbledon, in all its Federator majesty. This month, I was reserved for the Tour... but the Tour de France is only visible live in North America on one network, the OLN. Usually that stands for Outdoor Living Network, but due to its coverage, I think we can safely call it the Only Lance Network.

Maybe I'm spoiled by France 2 ou 3, ridiculous as that may sound. My summers in France have been coloured in July by afternoons riddled with non-stop non-commercialed coverage of the race. I miss my Jaja commentary, the inevitable screams of "horrible chute," and "grosse défaillance," and "il craque," lighting up the audio track. One gets mesmerized and haunted by the endless repetitions of time differentials, slow-mo's of attacks, and the general spirit of the tour. There is something about the non-stop coverage that stays true to the temerity and perserverance of the riders themselves. We don't stray far from the north. We follow the riders, not sports drinks.

So, to my big "déception," I caught todays re-broadcast of the stage today on the OLN channel. This is the first time I'm seeing the Tour from overseas, the first time I'm getting a taste of the 2005 edition, and let me tell you folks, those commentators are cheese-heads with all the passion and love for the sport as a boy who eats pizza everyday talking about great Italian food.

Complaints:

1. the number of commercial breaks outnumbers the minutes of actual coverage in the first two hours.
2. whatever coverage I do get is speckled by reports showing what a team car is, who Lance is, and tech specs on the Discovery bikes. All which can be gleaned by watching the Tour itself, watching TV and googling the Discovery team... respectively. I find this dumbing down of the Tour lazy and frustrating.
3. all the buffoons seem to talk about is Lance. Lance is really quite boring... especially since we know all there is to know about him already.

Think about it, his career can roughly be cut down to this:
Great promising sprinter wins world championship, gets cancer, bounces back and wins 6 Tour de France, dates Sheryl Crow, starts mad craze for tacky yellow wrist bands, makes recovering cancer aunties love him (despite the fact he's a drug addict), and dreams of running for President.

He's not complicated either: "I like to win, at all costs."

Boring. I prefer Ullrich...
German prodigy from DDR Cycling Camp takes Tour de France by storm winning La Boucle in his second year. Consequent fame makes him a lazy bugger and endless streams of stories spew about mad oyster and choucroute orgies, crazy Ecstasy taking, and it's still possible to find red-faced puffy pictures of Jan from techno parties. He likes to stop training for a good hot chocolate and continues to be disrespectful to his stomach, despite having the shits so bad one time he actually crapped in his shorts climbing up a mountain. Possible future as a sports bar-owner in Rostock.

His motto: "I want to beat Lance...ooooh, is that ecstasy in my sausage?"


Recap:

Happy that Rasmussen has the polka-dot jersey. He likes to attack mountains alone, and that's gutsy, not to mention sado-masochistic.

Karpets with the white jersey: no surprise. I like him... it will be interesting how he manages his climb tomorrow. We know he can do the time trials. Now I wonder why Telecom didn't try and steal him this year? Maybe he'll finish second...

Boonen won't be keeping that green on him much longer. Thor can climb. But I liked looking at Boonen's bum all torn up...

Lance might give up the yellow deliberately. It's more strategic for him to hold off it for a moment and let some unknown, who'll kill the mountain tomorrow, hold if for him.

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*I think this post has it's dubious origins in the fact my mother said the only cyclist she knows on the Tour is..... proving once again that ignorance is the result of poor media coverage, and how only having one dominant media language on a continent makes research limited.

Thibault makes me want to go home

the hottest couple in Paris

I've just had a great night, lots of good talking and joking, and then I got an email from Thibault... apparently fashion week has gone into overdrive. He spent all night partying, party-hopping, one of which involved Hedi Slimane's Champagne a-go-go Birthday party... another a mad BBQ for 500 people... Voin managed to lose Thibault's shoes and, last he heard, at 10am, Voin was still somewhere, at large.

I wanna go back to Paris! I want my Champagne parties, beautiful people and mad friends.

Ahhhhhh.......

Il n'y a pas l'amour heureux - Aragon

I'm sitting in my backyard, watching the sun set on my laundry. In the background is the sound of a some water fowl hooting. Wait... the train is passing. The cat sleeps lazily on the table. A couple of nights ago, my evening glass of wine was interrupted by first a raccoon, and then a skunk. If I want to, I can jump on my bike and be by the lake in 10 minutes. But I'm not in the country. I'm in downtown Toronto.

The captain is on board, and he tells me to drink a pastis. I drink it and he says courage. The little flowers in their pots spring legs and jump off the deck. The kidney shaped pool will drain soon, revealing me among the mossy fug at the bottom. I panic so I ask my mother if she remembers how to change into a frog.

Everywhere is the glints of sun that fall equally on flies, mosquitoes, toe hairs and daffodils. I crave a chunk of chocolate fudge. The train is passing again. All those commuters going back to their giant homes in the suburbs, stuffed into their suits, tired polished black leather bags. My dress pants have been folded up to the knees since this afternoon and I've had three good weeps since.

I'm fine. Alon, Sairah, and Annie are coming over soon, with bags of dessert, wine, food and love. Then we will go to art openings and mingle with the hoi polloi. There will be no quiet crackup. Just clean clothes, nice smelling skin, no loud exclamations, no violence. How I search the violence of Paris again on my skin.

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The girl, maybe fifteen, maybe blond, lies on her back in the grass, looking up at her older lover. He is perhaps fifty, rugged of jaw, riddled with disease, and sporting a pompadour. His gaze is into the far distance, between the forest that lines the lake. He asks her how she would like to die. She says quickly, with violence. He makes to strangle her, their eyes locked in a supreme complicity. And she chokes and grabs what she thinks is his leg. His penis swells with passion and joy. The field mice run around trying to find a sweet flower to suck on.

He stops strangling her. He walks into the forest and disappears inside. She crys quickly. It is not elegant to lie with a dress covered over the body with the sharp disapproval of the sun. The satin sticks gallantly over her private parts, revealing a pouting passion. There will be no more men for her.

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A man waiting at the checkout counter picks up a magazine that advertises sperm donors. He goes home and phones the number, then eats his dinner, and jerks off. Disgusted with the performance of his sex, he calls a friend. He comes over and plays video games for most of the afternoon. The next day the clinic calls him to give his sperm, but when he gets there they ask him for his blood as well. He gives everything, takes the money, and buys a set of clubs for his father's birthday. His father uses the clubs to rape his mother, who then tells her son not to eat so much because he is already over-weight.

Beware the Blog!

I think that people are reading and writing blogs as a form of amplifying their daily existence. Ennui and lack of real experience outside of commercial phenomena have made most people quite incapable of actually thinking and dreaming their own fantasies. We live vicariously, on an ever-expanding collective experience bank...

eg. this reminds of me of the end of Wim Wenders "Until the End of the World," where there is a machine that can record all the emotional imprints and imagery of the dreamworld and replay them ad infinitum. In the New World, people disappear in the waking life, constantly reliving their dreams, which become start to mutate into infinite variations of the same. They disappear into this netherworld of solipsism.

vitriol

Which would be the previous post. But what can you expect from me? I'm lonely, party-free and eating well. I think my husband is coming here soon, and that will be great relief. I'm not sure if I can take a long separation from him... I miss his little sleeping marmot head.

But, maybe the inevitable is coming. If it sucks shit for the next 3 weeks, I'll just pack my bags and go home to France. That's right... that land of sore losers, luckless fools, non-winners of Olympics, referendums, and gosh darnit, just about everything. France is in a bad rut, but I still prefer to be in the sodden twilight of the empire with my lover (yes, the husband again!) than to strut in the bright bourgeois sun of the New World.

What is the whole bloody point anyways?

Have just come over from a visit to Schuey's blog, where one little innocent comment (rather acerbic, yes) has rebounded into serious ego territory. Everybody is so ready to jump on the bandwagon... (I'm commenting more on the comments than on Schuey himself, who I pardon for all his head-bursting blog histrionics)

-yes, protect yourself... it's your blog... do what you want!
-you go guy!

Of course it's his bloody blog... He's still a grown man and I'm no cheerleader.

...which reminded me of the recent publicity manoeuver of a co-blogger, her dumping her Mr. Frenchie over one overheated night of clandestine incandescent sexual pleasure... I think somehow that has managed to manifest itself from "the affair" to "the new life." Quite the fancy footwork, I'll agree. Still, does one really need to hear about that? Mucky middle-aged brits frothing at the mouth like cycloped cheerleaders:

-you go girl!
-yay, pursue your own happiness!

What I find even more hilarious is people, who have never met or seen her, begging for details on the new man. It's like blogger porn.

Yes, this is a criticism... and one I've held back. I don't believe it... I just don't. She'll probably guilt herself into having a long-term relationship with the new guy... I really don't give a fuck... It's just ruining my good read and I'm tired of realizing that half the gagas out there are the same middle-brained conservative boobs I detest... the ones that cheer and talk madly about individualism, choice, and going for your personal happiness.

First of all, everybody I know sports the same mystifying mantra of individualism... it's so generic these days. The only weirdos I know are those who are earnestly searching for absolute normalcy. Secondly, hardly anyone makes choices these days because people don't realize that being an absolute idiot is still a choice, not a default. Thirdly... I have no idea when I ever stopped looking for my personal happiness and when people try to remind me of this, I feel like asking them if they think we're living as undersea dreaming mermen on some plutonian atlantic offshoot world. It's just madness... madnesss.... horror and, encore... madness!

There's nothing more disappointing than hearing mass approval from the handicapped, watching a parapalegic trying to clap.

And no, I won't explain why I write my blog suffice to say that it's out there in the public domain, thus open to criticism... but what the fuck Holy Smokes is really about, well, I'm not sure... and I don't want to be sure.

On another strange note, I had an erotic dream recently involving a blog that I read (not in the blogroll you perverts!) where I somehow ended up in bed with what I imagined this boy to look like (never met him), in his blue tracksuit, thin blond moustache, and a gigantic encyclopedia on lighthouses. The only detail worth quoting is that the unit ended up over-aweing me into submission, despite the fact he looked 14 years old.

Uncool and Cruel

That would be Mother Nature and her evil ways. So I've landed me a swell little pad for the month, and I had all this weekend off to pot around and spend some quality hours with friends and folk. Nope.... Instead I get attacked by first a very low-balling round of flu, and second of all by head-splitting allergies. This makes going out impossible. Even on medication, I still look like I've been crying my face off. While I don't really mind be an emotional wreck (lie), I absolutely hate looking like one (truth). Especially now, after spending a couple of hours parked in front of the television, I realise I'm going to get better just in time for work tomorrow.

If it gets worse than this you won't hear a peep from me all week.

And no... I'm not depressed anymore... just bloody angry and sneezing non-stop.

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And I even managed to miss the debacle that is the Mr. CHIN contest at their annual picnic. I always hate missing greased up hairless ginos with striped hair swinging their packages in front of me... for free... while I eat hotdogs and drink cheap beer. That's the note of melancholy you might have picked up.

Unprecedented

Pascal D'huez, that wily Janus flip-side of Dacnar, is at it again. He's following the Tour de France, the D'huez way. What does this mean? Well, you get all the scoop from the Tour de France, never before inside-the-brain reports of cyclists as they eat giant sausages in random roadside cafes, dreaming of victory... no, it's still something more subtle than that. The romance of the Tour, like the lovechild between Jean Rochefort and Howard Cosell. If that's getting you itchy, and you like men going fast on two wheels and skin-tight shorts, check this out.

Moved and Feverish... Happy Canada Day

I just finished moving to my new place, even further out in the west-end. Now I have a backyard, a clothes line, a gigantic beautiful apartment, and television, with no cable. Why the gripe? Well, I like cable, especially for watching sports, like the Tour de France, which begins tomorrow. It's going to mighty difficult to persuade Dacnar to come to the hinterlands of North America should he find out that not only is his Equipe 3 days old, but that he can't watch the Tour on TV. To be honest, this has left me stymied too.

I suppose I could just save myself up for the mountain stages... like some war bride hangin' out in an empty mansion.

Anyways, I'm also getting really sick right now... feverish... flu-ish... getting dizzy and feeling generally so flat that anything less than a toddler falling down on its face and then getting stomped by an over-excited panda is not making me laugh.

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Happy Canada Day folks. It's so wonderful to come from the country of hockey pucks and Celine Dion. So great to feel a part of something of a country... of some sort... but yeah... fireworks, I might go down and taste me some fireworks, if I swallow enough aspirin and power through the paunchy-slow moving trains of immigrant families. Maybe I'll just turn on my screensaver and call it a day.