April 1998

April 30, 1998.

I just got my roots taken care of so that I can sail into the day-job world with aplomb and monotone hair. Now I'm as blonde as Mike's doctored picture, but without the gray shadows. It's neato. I kind of look like Cranly in his Sick Boy phase, only I'm not a male or in a suit. As I said to Cranly, I look like him, only like me.

I'm really getting to enjoy the world of blondeness, although I've been feeling phantom bleach itching all evening. For those of you who've never bleached their hair, the peroxide burns for about 5 minutes before your scalp adapts. If it doesn't stop burning, it means that the bleach is eating into your scalp, and you will shortly develop sores all over your head. Brrr...how yucky is that?

I did learn something interesting today while the colour was being stripped from my hair. Apparently, there are some curly-haired women who have developed straight hair during or after the time they give birth, and vice versa. This interested me greatly, as I've always been puzzled as to why my hair went from wild, curly & full of body in high school to straight & fine now. It's not the dying, because I didn't start that until I became bored with straight hair. And it's certainly not due to pregnancy. I haven't gone on The Pill or any other massive doses of hormones. So what the hell?

Then it hit me. Sex. My hair started losing thickness & curl right around the time I lost my virginity. So it stands to reason that the longer I continue to not date, the thicker my hair will become, until it eventually becomes curly again.

I guess every gray cloud really does have a silver lining.

Cranly's leaving town tomorrow for the summer. We were supposed to go goth dancing before he left, and now we won't get a chance until August. August!! The whole goth thing will be over by August. (Although I hear the Bauhaus might be reuniting & touring this summer. Pant pant pant swallow drool...)

So just to cheer myself up, I'm uploading a photo of Goth Cranly & Goth Tisiphone going to the Beck concert last spring. We may not have the Savage Garden, but we'll always have Beck. Yeah. You think about that.

April 29, 1998.

I moved all of my clothes & books out of residence today. It felt so weird...but not as depressing as it has been in the past. I guess I'm used to the constant uprooting by now. One thing's for sure - I'm never allowing my mother to come near me on Moving Out Day. She is a terrible mover...she can't relax, she throws everything helter-skelter into baskets so that I can't keep track of anything, and she rushes through a 20 minute moving job when 40 minutes spent packing would keep everyone happy and productive. I can't understand it. 5 minutes after we leave, she's fine. But for that 20 minutes, she insists on making everybody miserable, including herself.

"I told her 'affection' has 2 f's, especially when you're dealing with me."

Right after I posted yesterday's entry, Sister Sunshine & I went out to grab a ticket to Edgefest (Foo Fighters!! Sloan!! Rusty!! Yay!) We ended up slumming down Yonge Street, slouching around the mega-HMV, and looking at all the over-priced shoes to be had for the new season. While we were at HMV, they started piping in the live Sloan Intimate & Interactive a few blocks away. We were having such a good time watching the monitors, that we just up & struck out to Much Music to catch the last few songs. We got into the crowd clustered around the open window just in time for "Underwhelmed," one of my all-time favorite songs. As they were roaring into the last few bars, the lead singer screamed, "keep playing!," ran out the window past me & Sister Sunshine, hailed a purple mini-van turning left at the light, jumped into the open door, and got carried down the street.

All the tech guys were freaking out trying to protect the microphone wire. It was the coolest thing I have ever seen. I can't wait until the full show at Edgefest.

April 28, 1998.

It's 4:21 p.m., and I'm done my B.A. I'm done! I have one more year to add the Hon. part onto the degree, and then teacher's college. Hey! I'm done my B.A.! Woo hoo!!

I can't believe it. Today I walked through Philosopher's Walk, past the place where they herded all of us bright-eyed bushy-tailed frosh on the first day of Frosh Week. Today is just as sunny as it was then, and I couldn't believe that it's been 3 years. Honestly, it feels like 3 months, or 3 weeks, or 3 minutes.

I guess alcohol does that to the long-term memory...

Last night I watched The Adventures of Baron Munchausen in preparation of today's exam in 18th century literature. I've never watched movies to study before, but my professor was right on when he claimed that it summarized many of the themes of the course. It was so good...I'm going to force everyone around me to watch it, so they too can be converted to the magic of Terry Gilliam.

Hey, finishing my B.A. has made me into a dictator...how about that? I can't wait to finish Teacher's College - I'll probably attribute the rising & setting of the cosmos to my own command. Cool.

Now is probably a good time to outline my 5 goals for the summer. Ahem:

1. to earn enough for tuition
2. to lose 17 pounds
3. to find a good house to rent for next year
4. to read most of the books in one of my courses next year
5. to finish my Winnie the Pooh hook rug

I should probably include love & excitement in there, but they always crop up without making it necessary for me to pencil them into a day planner.

April 26, 1998.

I can't believe that I got guilt tripped into going out to dinner tonight. Sure, my modern art exam is in 16 hours. It's just like me to make a prior commitment though, isn't it? See, today was my cousin's first communion, and I'd promised to attend far before my exam schedule came out. And when I found out that I had an exam on the following Monday & Tuesday, I couldn't back out, 'cause the food had already been ordered. Fucking caterers. Everyone felt sorry for me - his mom asked if I wanted her to write me a note to give the examiner. If I thought it would help, I'd take her up on it.

The whole thing made me a tad irritable to begin with, though. Half of my family is Italian, and therefore Catholic. It's part of their ethnic identity, and I'm cool with that. I just get p.o.'d looking at the fake kind of pomp that attends modern Catholic childhood. Is a miniature wedding dress all that important to developing spirituality? And is it really necessary to spend all that money on pint-sized formal wear, rent a hall & videotape the first communion if the parents neglect to take their children to any subsequent confessions or masses?

Despite all of this ill-natured crabbing, I did have a pretty good time today. I especially enjoyed telling my little cousins that I didn't take communion because I'm a Protestant, which is right next to Pagan, and if I had gone up to take communion, the Host would've burst into flames. Yes, I abuse my authority as an elder member of the family. Just wait till I'm a teacher!

April 24, 1998.

Spent the entire afternoon with my mom, shopping for tomorrow's gala event. I can't believe how easy it was to spend $200 on groceries for an afternoon barbecue. I think it was the 5 varieties of cheese that did us in, actually. Blue cheese and Havarti? Sheer decadence!

We also made a concerted effort to find hummus & baba ghanouj, since we'd never tried it before. When my relatives entertain, the hors-d'œuvres don't usually tend to go past the vegetables & dip/rye & spinach dip phase. We'd hoped that with hummus, we could push entertaining into a whole new level of sophistication!

(I've decided to end every paragraph with an exclamation point. Whee!)

I watched some very funny observational stand-up tonight. It was all about shared baths, and the horrible pain that ensues when one stands up too fast & catches the faucet at the base of the spine. I tried not to laugh too hard, as I was sitting with my mother. I really wanted to audibly agree with him, but again, my mother doesn't really want to know that I've experienced faucet-in-the-back pain in such a situation.

It really hurts, though.

I had a really interesting dream last night, but I think I'm taking up way too much space with my dreams lately. I'm tinkering with the idea of setting up a separate column à la Beth, but I probably should just keep the dream discussion to the little blue diary Tiger Lily bought me for my birthday, and leave you nice folks alone.

April 23, 1998.

Today is my daddy's 50th birthday. In honour of this milestone, his co-workers decorated his office thusly. Palaver's of the opinion that Labatt's 50 is only kept on the market by people who buy it for those turning 50. We're serving it at the party on Saturday, so I'll let you know...

I'm a bit drunk now, actually. It was a typical Ferg crowd. Veronica, Aphrodite, Kathy (who I've never mentioned before, but privately believe to be the most gorgeous girl in residence), Dar, Del, Foo Man & myself all went out for a pint or 2 at Ein.stein's. It's only been since Palaver's birthday, but it seems like ages since I've been there. Perhaps it's because Ein.stein's was my second home last year, and I'm not used to only visiting once or twice a month instead of once or twice a week. I had a good time, though...I like them a whole bunch. And it's the kind of setting where I can talk freely with people I just nod to on a daily basis (especially Del. He lives 2 doors down from me, but he never says anything). I had a really good time, especially during the peanut fights. For some reason, all the girls were competing to throw peanuts into each other's cleavage, so there was a lot of clavicle exposure for awhile. (I know that sounds like a frat movie, but it's true, I swear.)

Last night I dreamt 2 very interesting things. The first was a dream in which I remembered a few instances of menage à trois avec la Petite Araignée et Mr. Shoreleave, in the pre-Mr. Blonde period. It was only as I woke up that I thought to myself, "hey, wait a minute!"

Of course I've never been involved in a menage à trois with Maharet & Mr. Shoreleave. I've never even kissed him on the mouth for Pete's. (I have kissed Maharet, though...we were drunk & it seemed like a good idea. I thought that she used too much teeth - it was a very hard kiss. That was the same night that we took turns experimenting on Daniel's inner elbow, seeing if we could break the skin & drink a tiny bit of his blood by sucking alone. Needless to say, we were very drunk & had watched The Hunger earlier).

The second dream was also interesting, and almost certainly stems from Stacy's comment about meeting me. I was hanging around the Savage Garden as it closed, and of course I ran into Stacy, although she was a blonde and not a violet (my spontaneously created word for someone with purple hair). We were getting along quite well - we went to a fabric store together - until I saw my mom. She was alternately running & flying in an attempt to catch up with the bus that we were on, until she slipped on a patch of ice (it was winter) & fell. As I rushed to help her, I woke up.

I'm sure that hearing about my dreams must be really boring to you by now. But then again, most of you have no way of verifying whether the stuff I record is empirically true or not - so I might as well be delving into my subconscious most of the time. (I think that last metaphysical sentence was the beer talking, so I'd better give up now...)

April 22, 1998.

The Toronto Star Horoscope for today's birthday claims that "an old relationship will come back to you on your terms." Gosh, I hope not...that would spoil a lot of carefully constructed anger & bitterness & defensiveness.

"Undead undead undead..."

I'm finally done assembling my modern art study notes. I've discovered to my horror that the only hour I skipped all semester (it was right after the midterm that took place 2 days after the Fireball & I still had a miserable cold) contained an entire movement: the Bauhaus, to be exact. I'd really been looking forward to that lecture, too, and not just because I know all the words to "Stigmata Martyr." (little goth joke for you all)

But I find that I know way more than I thought I did about 20th century art. The lectures that stretched on & on ("conceptualism," "minimalism," "op," "photo-based art in the eighties") can be neatly summarized in 1/6 of a page, leaving plenty of room for dadaism & surrealism, 2 movements I particularly fancy.

On a dada tangent, I bought "5 Novels," a huge book by Daniel Pinkwater about a month ago. It contains a novel called "Young Adult Novel," which is about a group of kids in high-school who call themselves the Wild Dada Ducks, and try to live their lives along dadaist principles. It's high-larious...especially when the vice-principal (Horace Gerstenblut) informs them that as the school does not officially sanction them, they don't exist. They retaliate by printing up & distributing a bunch of cards which say "Horace Gerstenblut n'existe pas."

They're filming another movie on campus right now. Word in the Grad Pad is that Reese Witherspoon's in it. Now, I could care less about Reese Witherspoon, but with the kind of luck I have, Callum Keith Rennie'll probably be in it, along with Gordon Currie. Paranoid? Perhaps. You'd be too, if you'd spent all day in your room listening to "Ska-Nadian II" over & over; studying art history from 1880-1940 and from 1960-1989 (I didn't buy the text for the intervening 20 years) and all you'd had to eat was left-over pan-Asian food & a smog dog. Of course I'm aware that it's all exclusively my fault, but it doesn't mean that I'm not going to whine about it.

I've redesigned the guestroom for your crashing pleasure. It's awfully flowery around here all of a sudden & I don't know why...

April 20, 1998.

Ugh. I'm burnt out.

I've been making some long over-due overhauls to the rest of the page for the last few hours, and I'm at the point where I don't want to see another plain text read-out for the rest of my life. Let me summarize the changes & additions:

• I've added 2 new poems to my poetry page. The first is called "Bathsheba." I recently found it scrawled in the margins of my modern art history notes, and I rather fancied it. The second is "Dream #1," a poem I wrote about one of the incredibly interesting dreams I've been having recently, now that I can sleep in to decent hours.
• I've updated & changed the lay-out of the library so that the text doesn't spill onto the wood molding border anymore
• I've finally rescued the first couple pages of my guestbook from where they were languishing in obscurity (i.e. my hard drive)
• I've changed the look of the New page, which reflects my determination to use the damn thing in the near future, and
• I've created a page that lists other diaries that I read. All the other diaries have 'em, and I'm nothing if not a mindless lemming...

My next project is to post some lyrics & a poem that seem to have gotten lost in the shuffle. Then I'm going to tear down & rebuild the guestroom & the backdoor...they suck right now, and I don't like it. And when I'm done that, maybe I'll finally put up a list of favorite authors. Urr...maybe I should concentrate on getting a life somewhere in there. Y'think?

Today I tempted Sister Sunshine away from her Film Essay, as I was in dire need of food (I'm out of Fung money, which doesn't sound bad until you consider the alternatives: smog dogs or starvation). We (of course) schlepped down to Tiger Lily's, as it was too gorgeous a day not to be walking outdoors for a sizeable chunk of time. Brit Boy tagged along, as he was curious as to the meaning of "pan-Asian" cuisine. But he didn't stick around once we began chick shopping in earnest.

I bought a new pair of cheap-ass sunglasses today. I've never quite become used to sunglasses, especially since I became unable to wear contacts in the summertime (it's some weird allergy that I can't circumvent). My only other pair of sunglasses cost $12 5 years ago at Sears. They're perfectly round & iridescent and I bear more than a passing resemblance to a hippie insect when wearing them. Maharet, Mr. Shoreleave & myself all bought a pair that day, and then we walked across the mall parking lot in the sunset, wearing our new shades & singing "Bad to the Bone." I remember being very happy to be alive in that evening.

My new pair is very skater. Long oval lenses in a clear frame. I don't know why, but they make me look adorable instead of fashionable. But I'm happy with this kind of trade-off.

April 19, 1998.

The Lawyer came by this evening, for the first time in ages. We talked about Seder dinner & our upcoming art exam. Apparently, it's only one question, it's only on the second half of the semester, and it's worth less than the midterm. And here I've been working very slowly...err...like a madwoman. That is, if madwomen play a lot of minesweeper in between flipping through her (mad) notes on Cubism. Which is an image that I'm not sure I endorse.

What else is there? Umm...lessee...it's been a pretty slow weekend. The most annoying thing that's happened is that I keep activating the automatic grammar check during the typing of my art study notes. I find a long wiggly green bar that keeps flashing in & out of existence very annoying indeed.

The most exciting thing that's happened...err...I'm not sure if anything exciting has happened in the last few days. Tiger Lily & I almost got into a shouting row last night over my somewhat puckish pranks on the Grad Pad Buddha. We were getting into the issue of blasphemy rather heatedly, then Palaver had to start harping on how I tend to laugh at the pretentious diction during church services. I felt grievously put-upon...for what it's worth (i.e. not very much, actually), I've been a practicing Christian since birth, while TL's done a bit of experimenting & Palaver's an agnostic. So nuts to you both, God likes me best (she says, in her brattiest voice).

April 18, 1998.

Tonight I saw Austin Powers, Int'l Man of Mystery with Palaver. I saw it for the first time with my mom, right before we left for England. She'd heard good things about it, but it wasn't doing too well in its' first week, and we didn't think it'd be there when we got back. We both thought then that it wasn't in-your-face enough, although the femme-bots helped. Tonight I was much more relaxed & perhaps because of this, the movie seemed a lot more coherent. Go fig.

And just in case you're keeping score, this would be the 3rd movie I've seen with Palaver this week - Lost In Space on Tuesday (not goth or homosexual enough), Dark City on Thursday (good dream paranoia & great acting by everyone except the lead (Rufus Sewell)) and now tonight. Every 2 days, like clockwork. Unbelievable. But I have to admit that Palaver peer-pressured me into a good thing when he cajoled me into buying a Festival Pass, which gets me into any of the 6 repertory cinemas in town for $3.50 per movie. And the popcorn's really cheap & greasy, too.

And while we're on the subject of Palaver, I need to clear up some confusion: Dirk is not a double pseudonym for Palaver. I met Palaver at U of T in Brigit's room, 2 years ago. Dirk used to work with Mr. Blonde at Jumbo Video in Brampton. Dirk is my intellectual solace when I feel trapped at home (along with Maharet & Daniel, that is). Palaver is my poncey intellectual solace when I feel alone in my love of the Sisters of Mercy. And - here's the important bit: Palaver wrote the description of Tisiphone's Angels. Dirk has a really cool webpage that I advertised here a little while ago.

I'm sorry if the preceding paragraph was a little heavy-handed, but even Palaver himself is getting confused, & I needed to clear things up once & for all.

By the way, the only time I double-pseudonym is if a) I first refer to someone by their real name because I consider them a minor character, but then decide I want to treat them in depth so I make up a name, or b) if I forget what I'm doing (i.e. I sometimes call Maharet "Little Spider" by mistake), or c) if I'm telling a story a certain way & a new pseudonym seems in order for the entry (i.e. calling Maharet "Little Spider" in the Spanish entry so that it would translate neater, or calling Snag Boy "The Crispy Bread Boy" in the Damon Runyon tale). You heard it here first, folks.

April 17, 1998.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green
And was the holy Lamb of God
In England's pleasant pastures seen
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning Gold
Bring me my Arrows of Desire
Bring me my Spear: Oh clouds unfold
Bring me my Chariot of Fire
I shall not cease from mental flight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant Land

- jerusalem

About the dream I had about being a prostitute...of all the weird things to get multiple responses about. Look, if you happen to be an Asian guy reading this, it wasn't meant personally. But it might better your chances with me in the future if you learned some Blake (just kidding).

Last night I drempt that I was dating one of the guys in Ferg whom I never talk to - the type who always wears muscle shirts & tearaways & never says anything. No, not Rocco...the one who looks a bit like Henry Rollins. I have never found him attractive in the slightest ("I don't like men with too many muscles") and didn't even like him in the dream, but there I was, dating him, going to a football game like a good girlf would. It was like I'd totally skipped the period of mutual attraction, & gone on straight to the meat & potatoes world of long term coupledom. Fortunately, King Matt was at the football game as captain, so the dream got more fun. (King Matt is a friend of mine from high-school. At 6'4" 300+ lbs., he's easily the biggest guy I know, yet the overwhelming effect of him is somewhat tempered by his soft, English accented voice. I watched a lot of football when we hung around together).

I think this dream is about my fear of dating people that I have nothing in common with just to signal to the world that I date people. If that sounds confusing, it basically works like this: unless you date people, people assume that you're too weird to date. This is why I dated Cory, my seldom mentioned 1st boyf. This logic chain is widely considered Maharet's best piece of advice, and functions as a truism, since I netted Mr. Blonde not 3 months after my exhibition relationship (think of it as a pet show, and you can't go far wrong).

I'm not even sure if there's room in my life for romance. Most of the relationships in my life function as married couple unions: me & Sister Sunshine, me & Palaver, me & Cranly & Tiger Lily...the list goes on. Palaver spent another night on my floor yesterday. I mean, how platonic can you get?

As for Cranly & TL, Trevor, Sister Sunshine & I were talking about group sex a few days ago and he said that the worst part would be talking to them the next morning. I can't imagine this being a difficulty if Tiger Lily, Cranly & myself ever get it on. Mornings will be the exact same round of pancakes, tea, hurried showers & yawning that they've been all through the past year.

"Nothing lasts forever, except poetry readings." - The Kids In the Hall

I went to Trotski's class' poetry reading tonight. It was the first time I've been to a poetry reading (excluding coffeehouse experiences that are best left unmentioned). I decided to expunge all colour from my appearance, doing the all-black thing that's so alien to me (snort). I'm still wearing the beret & gobs of black makeup, although I changed out of the French resistance outfit as soon as I cleared the door of my room (for those of you keeping score, this is the outfit that involves a black velvet t-shirt over black lace fur-trimmed skirt that doesn't quite cover the garter straps & tops of my black stockings).

All of the poets were excellent, of course, but some of them hit me harder than others. I particularly loved the poem called (something like) "Ode to my Neck," which mentions what a good place the neck would be to hold an ambush. High-larious. It made me want to get up & speak/chant some of my own poems. Maybe next year, if I'm good enough to get into the seminar.

A casual acquaintance of mine gently bit me on the neck with no warning. He said afterward that I was the only person who didn't squeal & flinch away. Don't get me wrong; I'm a squealer & a flincher under most circumstances. But I've never outgrown my teenage fixation with biting & being bitten. I love it. He had no idea...

April 15, 1998.

I had a throwback night last night, one that came close to duplicating one of last year's Romantic bouts of self-abuse without the psycho-sexual-alcoholic overtones. It wasn't half as over-wrought as all that.

Aphrodite's been a bit too wound up to sleep normal hours lately. I suggested an Irish Cream nightcap (no, that's not a veiled sexual reference - I'm talking about Bailey's), so we made a date to be inebriate (bad grammar, but it rhymes). She had gone down to the Grad Pad to study, and I followed her at about 2 in the morning. There were approximately 10 people in the Grad Pad & a full-throttle study/party was going on when I got there, complete to constantly brewing coffee, a portable CD player pumping out "Sedated in the 80's," afghans, laptops and text books in every lap. Then the drinking started in earnest. Within a half an hour, I was on the outside of a fifth of a mickey of vodka, Comrade Jenn was measuring my tattoo, the Beatles were blasting and everyone was alternately singing along & trading first impression stories.

It lacked a few key details to duplicate Fireball '97 night, notably stolen chocolate ice cream and the naked figures of Cranly & Butler haranguing us for hiding their clothes during their streaking outing. Oh, and there was a lot of other stuff about love & betrayal that wasn't there, which was a good thing. But still, I managed to do some of my best drinking in that room, and I'm glad I was able to continue the tradition.

The evening ended for me at 4:20 a.m., when the other chix left to trace their naked torsos on Comrade Jenn's mirror. I am far too filled with self-loathing to participate in such an exercise, so I became depressed & went to bed. I need to lose at least 10 pounds before I can even like myself in any stage of undress again. Sad, but true.

"I've kissed my cousins more often than I've kissed anyone else"

- Sister Sunshine commenting on non-WASP forms of greeting between kin

Spent a GREAT afternoon with Trevor & Sister Sunshine today. It seemed every time I've been with her for the last couple of months, we just grouse at each other until one of us gets fed up & ends it. Yet we were on our best married-couple behavior today, laughing at in-jokes, telling stories in tandem & making fun of each other's wardrobe. Perhaps it's because Trevor was there. But any which way, I was smiling like a fiend when we parted ways, and that's far too rare lately.

April 14, 1998.

Here's my new favorite joke, courtesy of my friend Kittyfish:

A chicken and an egg are lying in bed. The chicken is smoking a cigarette with a satisfied smile on it's face and the egg is frowning and looking a bit pissed off. The egg mutters, to no-one in particular, "Well, I guess we answered THAT question..."

Just to keep you kids abreast (huh huh...she said 'breast') of the changes to my other pages, you should know that my newest title graphic on the front hall was created by Dream, just as the last one was. I think it looks absolutely jizztastic. 3 cheers for Dream! Hurrah!

Speaking of jizztastic things, Dirk's brand new web page is all that you'd expect from an artist & philosopher...and maybe just a leetle bit more! I adore the page, perhaps in spite/because of the fact that it's also home to the rantings & ravings of my ex boyf, in the appropriately-titled Ern Malley's Caustic Cardigan Corner. It's shapeless woolly fun for the whole family.

I feel like a bit of a ring slut lately. First there was all those journal rings...perhaps 5 is a trifle excessive. But now I've also joined the Poetry Webring to get more exposure for my writings. Then I had to make a faux goth logo for myself, since theirs sucked. The hardest part was choosing a category. Depressed? Caustic? Bitter? Or just plain mediocre (yeah, like they'd have that as a category...) I think I need some advice on this one, so I urge you all to take a look through my vanity shelf & let me know what you think. Please?

My room is still a pit of paper & clothing. Every time I return to it, I almost get depressed...but then I scream "why hasn't the maid been by?" in mock-executive frustration, and it makes me feel a little better.

Wow. I can't believe that I'm already over 200 words, and I haven't even started blathering on about my day. Can I fill up space, or what? ("Do I know what a rhetorical question is?" - Homer)

I wonder sometimes how Aphrodite maintains her incredible figure. She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and yet she has a body that could stop traffic. When I asked her today, she responded in typical Aphrodite fashion, "what are you talking about? You & I have the same figure." I don't know what crack she's smoking, but I definitely want all of the guys around me to start using it.

April 13, 1998.

"Back in town, and my all new friends, they say, how've ya been?
Well, fucked up & outta place, that's how I felt back then..."

- double-talkin' jive

I have REALLY got to get off this self-pitying Guns n' Roses kick that I've been on for the last few days. It's just not helping the suave, world-weary university air that I try to cultivate...key word being try, folks.

Speaking of being back in town, I had forgotten how messy my room is. I came back & there were exam notes, clothes, CDs and Victorian novels everywhere. Plus, the room was stuffy, the daffodils were dead, the sheets still unwashed and the stuffed animals lonely. I also have more useless crap to put away, since Tiger Lily has given me a bunch of stuff that she has no room to store this summer, including a ouija board (no planchette), audio cassettes of assorted Anne Rice novels, and a black fringed cocktail dress. None of the stuff I actually own, mind you. And I just cleaned up my other room, so I guess I expected this one to correspond. I'm sooo naïve...

As to yesterday's quiz, the answers are:

• "I'm tired of waking up tired..." - Jain informs me that although I've only seen it in Hard Core Logo, it's from "a song of the same name by The Diodes, a late 70s/early 80s new wave Queen Street band, same vintage as Martha and the Muffins." So although she wasn't exactly taking the quiz, she deserves a special prize for knowing all that Toronto info.
• "She's tired all the time..."- is by Big Sugar. Nobody answered this one at all, although I know that Poet knew it. But he gets no credit, 'cause he didn't play.
• "I can't stop thinking..." - is from a Guns n' Roses song called "Bad Obsession," which also contains the choice line: "but I can't stop thinking 'bout doin' it one more time / but I already left ya and you're better off left behind..." Amy gets the prize for this one, as she not only knew the artist, but she gave me the song title in the subject line of her email.

I wish I had appropriate prizes to give out (or withhold, as the case may be). But I don't. I can't even learn to make cute little awards for the 4000th & 5000th person to visit my page. Maybe Dream'll help me...

I'm a little pissed off that everybody except me was invited to a party for Wallace last Saturday night. I know that I'm something of a pariah in the scene, but it still hurts a bit. Oh well.

Last night I drempt that I was a prostitute. I was just about to see a repeat client of mine, a mid-30's Asian man (I just knew that he was a repeat client, this isn't a serial dream) when Poet came by to talk about William Blake. So I had to postpone the prostitution to talk about the Romantics. Poet had a great deal more white in his hair than I remember him having in real life. I kept asking him if he was really there to talk about Blake: I had some idea that he came over to stop me from prostitution in an off-hand manner. Then I woke up.

I read somewhere that many women fantasize about prostitution, although they would never do it. But this isn't where the dream comes from. I don't fantasize about that sort of thing, especially not since I became more acquainted with the actual routine of a prostitute. It seems degrading & boring rather than sexually liberating & lucrative.

I think that the dream is fall-out from a Jain entry where she mentions my birthday entry and reflects on the Queen Street scene. I dream so prosaically that I can usually trace the themes back to events within days of the dream. I am boring boring boring...well, except for that dream I had about Satan organizing a lawn party last night. Dirk & Spider Robinson were there, and a fun time was had by all (before I woke up, that is.)

April 12, 1998.

"I'm tired of waking up tired, waking up tired..."
"She's tired all the time, lord she's tired all the time..."
"I can't stop thinking, thinking 'bout sinking, sinking down into my bed..."

(Quick Quiz: which lyric was Big Sugar, which was Guns n' Roses, and which was somebody that I don't know but I remember Callum Keith Rennie & Hugh Dillon singing the line in Hard Core Logo? Answers available upon request, if you really care.)

God, I'm tired.

Even when I sleep 9 hours, I yawn through church. Can't help it, I guess. Although I think that of all 3 services this weekend, this morning's was the best. Everything reminded me of university folk, though. The scripture included the phrase, "Woman! Cease your lamentations!" which is one of Palaver's lines as Christ in the upcoming PLS production of the York Cycle. And one of the girls was eating the left-over communion bread after the service-the exact thing which got me in trouble with Preacher, back in September.

Instead of a solid chocolate bunny (drooooool...), my parents got me a little teddy bear wearing a bunny suit for Easter. It was one of those impulse buys (it's really too cute to pass up) that had to be justified. Since they don't know any adorable little girls, I got it by default. I mean, I can be pretty adorable, but it's not what I'm principally known for. Still, it's appreciated. I don't get adorable stuffed animals from a significant other anymore, so I miss them.

Speaking of my previous significant other, I found a bunch of his letters yesterday when I was kicking around my room. They still brought tears to my eyes. Not that they were Cyrano de Bergerac epistles of high poetry & deep emotion, they're mostly about books & being bored & other things. But there's a core of innocent, honest emotion in them that makes me cry still. Before last year, I could make all of my decisions based on the fact that Mr. Blonde would love me & take care of me. It was the lynch pin of my emotional life. I don't know what my lynch pin is anymore.

To raise my spirits, I started to search for my favorite letter ever. It dates from a drunken weekend in which Mr. Blonde toured the strip clubs of Montreal with Edgar Allan. It reads a lot like that love postcard from the Simpsons:

Dear Marge,
Maybe it's the beer talking, but you've got a butt that just won't quit. They've got these big chewy pretzels here {squiggle squiggle squiggle squiggle squiggle squiggle squiggle} Five dollars?! Get outta here...

Unfortunately, I couldn't find it. But I know it's there, nestled among the rest of the crap I hold onto for sentimental reasons. Someday it shall resurface, and I shall laugh & laugh...

April 10, 1998.

Wow. Am I ever wiped out. And I haven't done anything of note since Wednesday night. I guess I've always had a childish faith in the "one good night's sleep" as a cure-all for a week or more of stress. But I'm still pretty exhausted. I've yawned my way through both the Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services. But it's not like God expects great things of my churchin' manners at this point.

Speaking of the Big Guy, my mom took me to see Robert Duvall in The Apostle yesterday afternoon, as the latest in the series of "serious movies that my dad refuses to see with her." I wasn't terribly thrilled at the possibility, since I find the intolerance of the Bible Belt-type preachers more than repulsive. Sven himself is the disinherited son of a Southern Baptist preacher, and I'm not inclined to look favourably on anyone who would use religion-based culture to completely reject someone as good-hearted as Sven. And I've also been more than a little creeped out by Robert Duvall ever since The Handmaid's Tale.

But I loved it. I thought it was a really interesting look of a basically good man who let his emotions rule his life. There was nothing false or odious about the preacher character, which made it a welcome break from the current hip portrayal of holy men as base perverters of a power-mad greedy superstition. I can't stand people who think that mentioning "molesting little boys" as soon as someone says "priest" makes them look sophisticated & worldly-wise. (I feel much the same way about women who say, "I'm not a feminist, but...")

It reminded me of the Methodists in George Eliot novels, especially Dinah in Adam Bede (thank you, Prof. Shaw...). Both the 18th century English Methodists and the 20th century American Baptists thrive off the same core of personal, emotional connection with an otherworldly figure of Jesus. I'd like to find out the connection (if any) between the two movements, but there are no books on Methodism in the Brampton Public Library system. Lots on Catholics, lots on Anglicans, lots on Lutherans, though. Conspiracy, anyone?

Perhaps this is my mandate: to write a book on the Methodists. There have been worse mandates. And there have been better. I'll have to think about it.

The other cool thing I realized when I was watching the film, is that God created rock n' roll. I don't mean in that "all things bright & beautiful" sense. I'm talking about the literal progression of African-American spirituals to what we now call rock (or rawk, if you happen to be wearing a Metallica shirt as you read this). I guess that's why more musicians thank God than actors do. (I suppose actors could thank Dionysus as the god of drama, but it just wouldn't be the same.)

In other Me Not Doing Anything In Particular News, I've seen Mina Shum's Double Happiness twice in the last 24 hours, thanks to City TV's scheduling. God I love that movie. I always start crying when she gets out of her date's car & starts running down the street with her arms outstretched. And, of course, it feeds my Callum Keith Rennie obsession. I had forgotten that his character is working on his English Masters. Yum.

April 8, 1998.

I thought I was exhausted yesterday. Yesterday was nothing. Yesterday was way before the five hours of studying & subsequent intellectual corn-holing of my Victorian Fiction exam (although I can't complain - Tiger Lily is in far greater despair than I am, and I managed to answer all 16 questions on literary theory, provide an example, yadda yadda yadda). Yesterday was before a 3 hour career planning seminar to identify my skills. Yesterday was before I accompanied Judith to the awards ceremony of the Hart House One-Act Play Contest to maow down free hors-d'œuvres. Yesterday was before 2 1/2 hours of excellent student produced drama.

But I can't complain. Except for my extreme fatigue, I've spent the entire day in a state of almost giddy happiness. No more in-class finals! No more Victorian Fiction! Judith won 2nd place in the play contest, and is on her way to getting it produced!! And and and (this is the best part!) I got 88% on my Swift essay. Eighty-fucking-eight!! I love my professor unreservedly. I shall spend the rest of my life worshipping at the altar of McDayter. This is the best essay mark I've ever received in my entire university career, and it's in third-level U of T English - 18th century literature, no less. To paraphrase Gordon Korman, if I was really cool, I would've accepted it as my due for a lot of hard extra research. It's the idiot in me that wants to run around cheering.

Aegis' drama class put on their academic performances in the theatre next door tonight. It was awesome - I can't believe how many people I know in the Drama department now, mostly thanks to Aegis & Judith, who are always involved in first-rate productions. Jason was there. He's such an awesome actor, in addition to being the embodiment of the sensitive-skinny-intellectual sort of babe. As Poppy Z. Brite would say, I nurture a girl-boner for him. I kind of wish that he'd been more pliant to Judith & Veronica's plan to match up him & Tiger Lily at the Fireball, but I'm kind of glad, too. Don't want one more thing to be jealous of, quite truthfully.

(I can't believe I actually had the nerve to write that last paragraph. Maybe I've been up longer than I'd thought...)

Now they've all gone out to drink, giving me the courtesy of not bugging my weary ass. But in a way, I miss the bugging. I feel like a Mike Meyers poem: "Un-love-ed. Un-need-ed. Un-want---ing?"

I suppose it always helps to put a faux-beat spin on the problem.

April 7, 1998.

Last night was the most hardcore, full-throttle night of group studying that I've ever experienced. A bit of background: Cranly has been spending a great deal of time in the Grad Pad (i.e. the Ferg basement suite), catching up on his readings. Which readings you say? Well, all of them. (Somewhere I hear Poet screaming "All of them!!!" in his best mock-Gary Oldman) So Cranly's been spending 23 out of 24 hours camped out in the Grad Pad with a few Norton's anthologies and an endless stream of caffeinated beverages to keep him company.

Last night I came in from my Canadian Lit final at 9 p.m., realized that if I started studying for this morning's Eastern Literature Final in my room that I would give up in 20 minutes and fall asleep, and decided to join him in the cold comfort of the basement. It was incredible. I was up till 3:30 a.m. with Cranly (who was writing a years worth of journal entries on American literature), Tiger Lily (who was smashing her way through Wuthering Heights in preparation of tomorrow's exam) & Butler (who was writing a Taoism essay). We studied, drank tea, and generally acted low-key snake (especially Tiger Lily, who had forgotten that Good Friday bumped up "last day of class" exams to Wednesday.)

It was marvelous. I got way more done in the chilly Grad Pad than I ever would in my cushy room, and I could take a break whenever by wandering into Butler's room and offering to write a paragraph or 2 of his Taoism essay. I honestly can't remember another time this year when I've felt so keyed-up, relaxed, studious, intelligent and as happy as a kipper on a cracker. I got 6 weeks of reading done in 3 hours, and went to bed right before the Chinese food arrived.

But I'm nearly dead at this point. I've been reading and studying for the last 3 days straight. I've had 2 exams in a row. And I have another tomorrow morning. So is it any wonder that I haven't been updating frequently? (she cries plaintively)

April 4, 1998.

I feel very odd this morning. Good, but odd. It's like I'm on the cusp of something tremendously exciting...something either to come or that has just happened. I know I've felt like this before, I just can't remember most of the occasions specifically...this is a post-concert, post-party, post-doing something really stupid with one of my friends feeling. This is how Christmas Eve felt to me when I was little. I know I felt like this before & after the Heads experience.

It was a really good concert last night.

In honour of Palaver's birthday, a great lot of us gathered at Ein.stein's for the traditional insane birthday drinking. I was really proud of the sheer number & variety of people that kept trickling in to well-wish...it was awesome. The other neat thing about this first time in Ein.stein's was that a great deal of Ferguson Haus was there for an official house party with food provided by the haus. So I got to oscillate between the 2 parties.

This proved useful when Preacher showed up, as I had someplace to go so that he wouldn't flee the scene as he has done in times past. And then he came over & proposed a truce, so that an escape route was no longer necessary. Did I accept the truce, you say? Could I do less on Palaver's birthday? I was very polite.

Then at 11, Palaver, Trotski & I piled into Sven's car, bound for Lee's Palace & the Big Rude Jake concert. We left most of the drinkers behind to wait for our eventual return, which I suppose was kind of a bad deal for them, but what can you do? Sven was playing some raw punk rock that was very reminiscent of my brother's type of music as we drove, and I was almost jumping out of my skin with excitement. It felt like being 17. Don't ask me how.

The show, as I've mentioned, was unbelievable. I think my favorite song of the night was "Quiff," an ode to lesbianism, which goes, "my girl's queer for cats, she's queer for cats and that's a fact..." The in-between rants were also choice. Example: "I've figured out why you Canadians are all so polite. It's because being polite is the subtlest, best, most final way to say, 'fuck you, pal. I don't want to deal with your bullshit.'" They're such an amazing combination of thirties-esque jazz, mid-seventies Tom Waits, early rock n' roll & post-punk. And they look so stylish in those suits...

Jake's got an all new American band, and they're really cool, though not as cool as the Gentlemen Players, I must admit. The guitarist and I had a weird flirtation thing going on during the latter half of the show, most memorably, during "Night of the King Snake," when I sang the last verse to him instead of to Jake as one normally does at a concert.

Well, do you know what it means to love a woman with the King Snake Blues?
Well, you can love her like no other man and lift her up like no one else would
Well, bang your head against the wall, it really makes no difference what you do
She loves them thirty silver kisses, she don't love you...

Perhaps now would be a good place to describe my outfit, as it has bearing on the anecdote to follow. I was more or less done up exactly as I was on my birthday in fishnets, maryjane docs & The Dress (a lace-up black velvet number with huge trailing cuffs...très gothique). I was one of the only goths in attendance at the concert, for obvious reasons. And I was dancing in the front row, next to a guy who looked a bit like a flaming goth version of Colonel Clink (if he piloted a submarine), who kept shouting out requests...good ones, I might add. So of course this guy is drawn to Jake's attention sooner or later. Jake started heckling his faux-submarine goth uniform, giving Palaver a chance to bellow, "Iceberg, dead ahead!" in his best Titanic accent & crack Jake up. Then Jake looks at me & asks, "is this your girlfriend?" Colonel Clink: "No. I wish." Jake (looking at me again): "Just play your cards right." And how cool was that?

Jake also made fun of Trotski's hair on stage, which is nothing new. Apparently, Trotski's been to 6 BRJ shows, and Jake's publicly made fun of his hair half of those times. But Trotski has no cause to doubt his own coolness, especially at last night's show. At one point, he was talking really loudly behind me. I turned around to give him a poke in the ribs & saw that he was talking to Jaymz Bee. Jaymz Freaking Bee!!! I really wanted to ask him if I could see his Burl Ives tattoo, but I thought that it might be rude. I would've shown him mine, dress and location notwithstanding...

After the show, we cabbed back to Ein.stein's, for a few more pints. There will still some Ferguson people there, and the first thing Eric said as I cleared the door was, "Aleta! I never noticed your breasts before!" Talk about your welcoming comments, hmm? I responded with something along the lines of, "it's about time, Eric. We've known each other for 2 years!" at which he blushed & subsided.

And, like that famous evening in September, the night ended with Palaver passed out in my room, overcoat & shoes & all. Only this time I had to sleep on the floor. Oh well. You only turn 28 once, right? And my floor is surprisingly comfortable.

April 2, 1998.

Comments on yesterday's entry:

That's the worst Spanish I have seen in a long time. But full marks for doing it in Spanish. I loved it.- poet

Oh no. Please don't start using that AltaVista translator! The thing is so horrible, it's just as illegible to *Spanish* speakers as it is to we espanol-illiterates. Just to test this hypothesis, I had a spanish-speaking linguist friend take a look. He said that he couldn't understand it... and he speaks Spanish about as fluently as english! -mike

Hahahahaha (See I *am* psycho) You can't stop me from getting my fix, I just had to use that wonderful Altavista to read your Spanish entry, of course I have NO clue because the translation was super messed, you should try it out.- anluan

Just for the record, I did use the AltaVista Translator to turn my prose into Spanish. As I pointed out to Poet, I have absolutely zero knowledge of structure, let alone terms. I'm not sure why I chose Spanish...maybe I'm just teasing Poet over the fact that I kept begging him to say something in Spanish for months last year, and he never did. I don't think there's deeper psychology to it...just the desire to trick, I suppose.

The original English of it is as follows:

It's gotten awfully cold awfully fast. It seems like forever since it's been cold enough to wear my leather jacket, but really, it's only been a week. But I've already adjusted my pocket habits (i.e. where I habitually reach for my keys & I.D.) Now I have to readjust them. How maddening.

In other crunch time news, I'm well on my way to finishing the second of the 4 books that I have to have read for Monday. Am I dead, or what? At least I don't have anymore essays to write.

You thought that I was avoiding telling you about Saturday night, don't you? Well, not very much happened. Little Spider (a.k.a. Maharet) and Daniel were up for the Lawyer's party around 9. We went over a few hours later to a house full of people I didn't recognize...kind of like the anxiety dreams normal people have. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if I'd been alone...I would've just buttoned up in a corner with Heather until reinforcements arrived. As it was, I felt horribly at a loss...how was I to back up my claim to Little Spider and Daniel that the Lawyer threw the best parties around? So I regarded the arrival of Sven & Palaver as entertainment from heaven. Eventually it filled up with people I knew, but the music continued to suck, the people mix was bad, it was way to crowded to be comfortable, etc. etc.

Definitely the worst party I've ever been to at the Lawyers. The evening was only saved from total banality by the arrival of the police to warn party folk off the roof/balcony. At about 2 a.m. we gave up, went to Cora's for post-party-pizza, and then home. Not worth a trip from Brampton, I'm afraid. I felt so bad for Little Spider & Daniel...but what can you do, really? Just hope for the best & be as entertaining as possible, I suppose.

So that was my Saturday night. Was it fun for others? Just curious...

I especially liked the translation of "Little Spider" to "La Pequeña Araña." The other cool thing was that "entertainment from heaven," when re-translated into English, reads "hospitality of the sky." Ah, the poetry of AltaVista...

We all know that my life is governed by bizarre coincidences. But this is especially weird: Snag Boy is friends with someone I knew in grades 4 & 5. Someone whom I had a crush on, I might add...but then again, that's really not news! But what's really odd about the whole thing is that Snag Boy thinks that this guy is really frocking cool...you could almost call it a non-sexual crush. I tease him mercilessly, as I wouldn't if I hadn't known this other person. It's just so strange, the little orbits I make in life, and how everything keeps spiraling back in weird ways.

Today I went on an unscheduled caffeine binge. It started at Fung, with my customary Diet Coke & lunch routine. At 1:15 I went off to have tea with Trevor at the Moonbeam Café (under the Lawyer's quarters). I'll just detour at this point to remark that it was awfully nice to talk to a fellow U of T student about tattoos. Nobody else I know here has them...and they look at me with a bit of queasy horror when I describe the process of whatever. He's got a Rutherford-Bohr atomic diagram on his left shoulder (the typical atomic symbol) and a zero on the right. It reminded me of Dirk's proposed tatt: he wanted to get a perfect, empty circle. Which always makes me want to say, "you know...for kids!" just like in The Hudsucker Proxy.

Then Trevor & I ambled off to tea at the Union, for my third caffeine fix in 2 hours. Today was the first time I've been to tea in ages...ever since I got fed up with a friend of the Lawyer's who thinks it's funny to cajole me to have sex with Preacher. Ha ha fucking ha.

I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight...so...wired...

Finally, it's Palaver's 28th birthday today...but to me, he'll always be a winsome lad of oh...27. And not a day older. Happy birthday, my pet. Enjoy 28-hood. We'll all be there soon (well, maybe not that soon...)

Sigh. I'm sorry. I deserve to be beaten for all of these cracks. We'll see who laughs last, hmmm?

De abril el 1 de 1998.

Se consigue terriblemente frío ayuna terriblemente. Se parece como por siempre puesto que se es bastante frío para desgastar mi chaqueta de cuero, pero realmente, se es solamente una semana. Pero he ajustado ya mis hábitos de bolsillo (es decir donde habitual alcanzo para mis claves y identificación.) Ahora tengo que reajustarlos. Cómo maddening.

En otras noticias del tiempo del crujido, estoy bien en mi manera acabar el segundo de los 4 libros que tengo que haber leído para lunes. Soy muerto, o qué? Por lo menos no tengo más ensayos a escribir.

Usted pensó que evitaba diciéndole sobre la noche de sábado, no usted? Bien, no mucho sucedido. La Pequeña Araña (a.k.a. Maharet) y Daniel estaban para arriba para el partido del abogado alrededor de 9. Pasamos algunas horas más adelante a una casa por completo de la gente que no reconocí... clase como de los sueños de la ansiedad la gente normal tiene. No habría sido un reparto tan grande si sido... would've solo de I apenas abotonado para arriba en una esquina con el Brezo hasta que llegaron los refuerzos. Mientras que era, me sentía horriblemente en una pérdida...cómo era para sostener mi demanda la Pequeña Araña y Daniel a que el abogado lanzó los mejores partidos alrededor? Miré tan la llegada Sven y Palaver como hospitalidad del cielo. Llenó eventual para arriba de la gente que conocía, pero la música continuada para aspirar, la gente la mezcla era mala, él era manera a apretado para ser cómoda, etc. etc.

El partido peor he estado definitivamente siempre en a los abogados. La tarde fue salvada solamente de banalidad total por la llegada del policía para advertir a gente del partido del roof/balcony. En cerca de 2 mañanas dimos para arriba, fuimos a Cora para la poste-partido-pizza, y entonces a casa. No digno de un viaje de Brampton, estoy asustado. Me sentía tan malo para la Pequeños Araña y Daniel... pero qué puede usted hace, realmente? La esperanza justa del mejor y sea como entreteniendo como posible, supongo.

De modo que fuera mi noche de sábado. Era diversión para otras? Curiosos justos...