february 21, 2001. "Where have they gone? Now there's nothing but flowers..." - the talking heads When we last spoke, I was getting ready to go to bed early, giving up on a rather lethargic day. Then something amazing happened: people came by to see me. Hermione & an as-yet unpseudonymed colleague drove by in pursuit of a night's movie, and they frightened the wits out of me by knocking on the door unannounced (you get a little jumpy when it's dark, you're alone in the house & you haven't seen human beings for 48 hours...trust me.) Somehow we ended up at the Axe, drinking and running the deejay program to suit ourselves. As an added bonus, the Anti-Stephen showed up briefly before moving onto karaoke at the other local bar. "I'm off to throttle the goose," he said. "I hope that doesn't mean what I think it does," I replied. He looked suitably shocked. I used to think that I would grow out of my potty-mind, but now that I'm teaching teenagers I've lost hope. Other Girl: "This song always reminds me of sleazy guys." Anti-Stehpen: "Aw...that's so sweet. Sleazy guys..." Me: "Once I went dancing, and in the course of things I closed my eyes...and when I opened them, I found out that I had danced into the middle of a ring of sweaty genuflecting guys." general laughter Anti-Stephen: "That's what you get for wearing black clothes and closing your eyes." Me: "I never said I was wearing black clothes. beat But I was." Inevitably, the Axe started to suck. As always, there was a point where we could drink until it didn't matter or we could go elsewhere...so we bid the bar goodbye & went off to watch High Fidelity. There's something very calming about watching a movie late at night while your companions huddle up under afghans in various parts of the room. Like being home. Today is Nic's 23rd birthday. The big two three. I called home this afternoon, only to find out that one of my cousins has died in a car crash and my mother is learning Spanish. Not connected items, by the way. Nic & I had the worst conversation ever, made remarkable by his complete lack of interest in staying awake and my almost complete lack of any news from my life. Suddenly there's no "new" after my "what's". But I suspect that'll change once I get back to school. The first week back promises to be a trip through academic hell. Stay tuned. I also spoke to Preacher tonight. For somebody who hates the phone, he's awfully good at amusing conversation. "I hear your province is trying to eliminate tax," I said. "I'm not worried. You'll come crawling back to tax. It can wait." "That's pretty good. You should put that in your diary," he replied. I do what I'm told. My tattoo is 4 years old today. I think I'm chickening out of a second...if it's taking me this long, I'll probably never get under the needle again. I feel very lame, like I'm one of those people who talk endlessly about the cool things they're going to do to their bodies. Oh wait. I am one of those people. I'm so ashamed. I've almost figured out a way to get to Edmonton for Poet's wedding this spring. It hinges on the corruptibility of a South Asian aide-du-camp, 30 cases of single malt scotch and a bald-headed eagle... (Actually it hinges on actually receiving an invitation & finding a cheep flight. But the first is way more interesting.) On an unrelated note, a search for the word "sweaty" in my archives turned up this gem of an entry. I had completely forgotten about the teeter-totter feud between Ophelia, Paris & myself. And I'd also forgotten about the night that Ophelia let me stay in her apartment; the night she only came home to throw up. Just another example of why I shouldn't torch my archives out of writerly embarrassment.