August 1998

August 31, 1998.

Ok, I have not received one single bit of feedback on my radical re-design of the index page. This means that you all hate it, right? And you just don't want to tell me. Well, despite what you may have read in certain William Gibson books about voodoo & the internet, it is not possible for me to hurt you in your homes or cubicles (unless you have the latest Netscape plug-in. That Vodun For Dummies book really cuts to the chase...). So I want some feedback, dammit!!

I really shouldn't be writing now. I've got a million things to look after before Saturday's party, plus the fact that Bauhaus are coming to town in 2 days & I can't find my fishnets. I'm not even going to think about moving to Toronto until after the party's done. God, this is going to be an exhausting September. The first week of school always knocks me out, and this year I have to think about getting into a course that the English department refused to let me ballot for, buying groceries for the first time ever, cleaning up after myself (also for the first time ever...okay, I'm a spoiled brat, get over it), mapping out bus routes to avoid the nastier elements of the west end...not to mention a Nick Cave concert, my first rave, Maharet's birthday, Pixie Stix & Q's wedding...it's gonna be a hell of a month. Have I mentioned that my parents have made no move to buy me a bed as yet? Although I have been offered 4 different spare beds as of this date (not to mention Palaver's coffin from the York Cycle).

So I should be cleaning up the living room & planning out decorations & buying cheap cosmetics for my mother & getting rave tickets & buying non-perishables & getting fishnets from the local soft-core lingerie store just in case...but I'm not. I'm here.

And aren't you glad I'm squandering my time with you by whining?

Yesterday I might've saved Trevor a bit of embarrassment if I'd been able to update in the morning. See, we went out to the Garden on Saturday night, both to hang out & to get rid of an extra Bauhaus ticket (Sister Sunshine is going to the Big Apple this week)...and in my mad rush to don club gear in the restaurant's bathroom, I found a black eyeliner that I'd considered long-since lost. It's an axiom of the universe (well, my universe) that all girls want to see their male friends in makeup, especially their boyfriend...and we were going to a goth club, for heaven's sake. A black eyeliner concession outside the Savage Garden would do incredible business...it's de rigeur. So we sat down in front of a well-lighted convenience store 3 doors down from the club, and I put makeup on Trevor.

It came out very extreme, since the eyeliner wasn't the best & I'm not a terribly accurate artist in the best of circumstances: very thick & striking, as was the lipstick. While I applied the lipstick, an old man sat down & asked if Trevor was getting ready for a big date. He seemed dissatisfied with my answer: "yes; I'm it." He must've thought that I was babysitting, playing "big sister fag hag" (as someone else put it) for the night. Kind of ironic, but Trevor looked very feminine, so it was easy to make that mistake. The interesting thing is that although he & Pixie Stix look very similar, Trevor-with-makeup looked quite different from Pixie Stix's brand of femininity.

I found it somewhat disturbing that my boyfriend could break more male hearts at the club than I could. Disturbing, but kinda cute.

So anyway, we danced & we smoked cigarillos (mmm...sweet...I could get used to them). Trevor took advantage of my role as designated driver to get smashed on Jägermeister. Stacy (in full silver & plastic glitter mode) found us & claimed a pair of tickets for herself & the Boy. We caught the last subway to my car. I changed out of my clubbing clothes in the Kipling station commuter parking lot (Aphrodite's legacy of casual nudity lives on). Trevor sang me songs as we navigated the pitch-dark highways. And after a suitable goodnight, I left him to sleep off the Jäger before his sisters descended upon the house the next day.

And of course he forgot about the makeup.

And of course, Pixie Stix noticed as they were sitting around visiting...and of course, she asked incredulously if he was wearing eyeliner. If I had only updated, she wouldn't have needed to ask. And I could've saved him the embarrassment of his mother lecturing him on proper make-up removal. It's awfully funny, though.

(Just thought you'd like to know that three paragraphs ago, I typed "designated river." I'll have to try that at Moosehead Monday tonight...Maharet can be the designated tree, Daniel can be the designated hill, Brandi can be the designated flower, Sven can be the designated ocean, Trevor can be the designated cloud, and I can be the designated river.)

one year ago today: I piss off a myriad of guses

August 29, 1998.

I'm experiencing email withdrawal for the first time in months. Usually there's more than enough to keep me happy...but I'm dying for some responses to the 39 emails I've written in the last week. Not that I'm keeping track, or anything...

As I was such a good girl yesterday in finishing & uploading before noon, I of course squandered one of the remaining summer days in coding a couple of interview transcripts for my other page. In going back, I realized that the one I did last month with Big Bad Voodoo Daddy isn't that great...I whine a lot, and ask dumb questions. I guess that's what happens when one is lazy & one doesn't prepare questions in advance. But I'm quite happy with the way that the Poppy Z. Brite interview came out...if you're a fan, you should go there. I'd like to put up some sound files, if I can just find the damn interview tape. I can still remember her voice: soft southern syllables poured like honey into my fannish ear; weary & slightly ill, but absolutely arresting. Sorry. Talking about her makes me want to write like her, which is clumsy & obvious at best.

"Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes."

- walt

I also spent a large chunk of time analyzing my natal astrology chart using one of those "for idiots" books (I know, hardly inspiring confidence..."isn't 'astrology for idiots' redundant?") I've made myself significantly different charts using a fast & easy website and the manual package Q & Pixie Stix gave me for my birthday. The problem is deciding which is accurate...the computer one puts my moon in Aquarius & Cancer as my rising sign, yet the package puts my moon in Virgo & names Leo as my ascendant. Since your moon sign, your sun sign & your ascendant are considered the most important elements of your chart, I'm pretty confused. Exactly how should I interpret myself?

Trevor & I had a long discussion about all this astrology stuff that just missed being an argument. He's of the position that it represents hubris to project oneself upon the stars when DNA provides so much more material for interpretation. I'm of the position that a little bit of irrationality is necessary in my life...I'm not about to schedule my parties by the phases of the moon & which planets are in the seventh house, but a little bit of the unknowable settles my mind. I think I'm going to get my palm read soon, just to get a clear dose of illogic & celestial harmony. My mother's the same way as I am (so maybe he's right about DNA).

Psychology is a bludgeoning tool, after all. Science can only take you so far. And then what's to do?

one year ago today: the first anniversary of terminator 2 day

August 28, 1998.

I did something really goddamn stupid yesterday.

Before I get into that, I'm going to state for the record that I paid my tuition & my library fines (together it's $2793.50...nothing to sneeze at), so when either organization experiences a clerical error & comes after me with large men and/or unceremoniously cuts off my services, you people can all rally round me.

I've recently realized that I'm a cut apart from most of my fellow students in that I pay my fees on time & I'm finishing a 4 year degree in 4 years. I didn't realize the last part was unusual until I tried to think of others who'd managed it...the Lawyer...Preacher...um...Aly (who's going back to Pakistani medical school shortly)... It's kind of funny that I've set this kind of example for my parents; when they hear about my friends taking longer than the scheduled time, they immediately ask me what went wrong. They don't realize that I'm the unusual one; that I deserve praise. Well, story of my life, I suppose.

Last night I was somewhat grudgingly invited out to a gathering at East Side's to celebrate King Matt's immanent departure for Nova Scotia. See, he's farking huge (6'4", 300+ lbs.), not to mention intelligent & devious, so he's tailor-made for footballing. The problem was money; although his family has the skills to put them into a comfortable income bracket in this area of Canada, generations of life in England will not equal the same kind of financial comfort (does that make any sense to you?) So anyway, the university has bugged him since his senior year of high-school, and now they're throwing gobs of money at him, so he's going. Have I mentioned how proud we are?

But the problems of last night started a long time ago. Midway through my first year at university, I started to get an over-inflated sense of my own social importance, and this translated into a growing coolness for my high-school friends. When Mr. Blonde broke up with me, many of my former friends used our breakup as a reason to totally ostracize me. Most of their feeling was based on somewhat distorted stories of what had gone on between me & Poet (although to be fair to Mr. Blonde, they didn't need too much distorting to be sordid). The party at Edgar Allan's last summer merely crystallized these polarities, in writing large enough for even me to see. Akasha in particular dislikes me, and she's "dating" King Matt...so I haven't seen him in more than a year. In a twisted way, I thought it would be fun to be in a group of people who didn't like me...if the best revenge is living well, then I could live well right in their sanctimonious faces.

But there's something really wrong when your ex-boyfriend is one of the only people who will be friendly to you. Eventually it got to me. The only high point was that Mr. Blonde & I were getting along better than we have in a really long time. I recall thinking at one point that it's much easier to be nice to him if I don't consciously gird myself up to do so. I'd always felt like I needed to keep the channels open so that when we inevitably got back together, things would be wonderful. But now that the blinders are gone, it's much easier to like him.

But I took it too far, as I will usually do. Mr. Blonde & I went off so that I could record a "goodbye" message for King Matt, and I started telling him why I felt so stressed. I'd completely forgotten that he's not a good person to confide in, as he's a scar-for-scar kind of guy...something wrong? The same thing is wrong for him. When I told him that I was experiencing huge hormone surges because I'd begun menstruating yesterday, he actually said, "yeah, been there." Huh?

And then I made my fatal mistake. I mentioned that I was a little apprehensive that my relationship with Trevor is too intense...and Mr. Blonde started comparing the situation to our former relationship, and offering me advice. I was slightly offended that he would presume to know so fucking much about me, when he didn't understand me enough to continue our former relationship...and I was offended that he would assume that every relationship I have now will be modeled on the template of "Aleta & Mr. Blonde." I responded that his comments made no sense. He got up angrily & said, "you know, you could let your guard down with me once in awhile." But I really angry at this point, and there was no way in hell that he was going to out-diva me. I got up myself & snarled "what do you think I've been doing for the last 2 fucking weeks, asshole?" I picked up a chair in passing & slammed it back down for punctuation. By this point, I was a bit tipsy, very hormonal & furious at my ex.

Unfortunately, it was my fault. I should've never opened my big trenchant mouth about Trevor. I should've never given him the opportunity to say things like, "your problem is that you think too much" and "relax, or you'll screw up this relationship." Things so offensive to me when issuing from his mouth, of all the possible mouths that could've been sanctimoniously opened in the giving of superfluous advice. But it's all my fault. I opened the can of worms.

But it was the straw that broke the camel's back, and enough to keep me from joining everyone at Edgar Allan's after last call. I can only go where I'm not wanted for so long.

one year ago today: asked out after a 3 year drought

August 27, 1998.

Argh. I had tentative plans to go to dinner with Stacy yesterday. But that was before I got shanghaied into babysitting Angel-Faced Demon Boy & his two Older Sisters of Evil.

My mother, profoundly uncomfortable with my jobless situation (it's 2 weeks! Get over it, woman!), has mentioned my name about church as a likely candidate to babysit. The first I heard of this was yesterday, when a young mother called me to ask if I was available for that night. Having just woken up & dietcokeless as yet, my defenses were low. I'd babysat the 2 girls about 3 years ago, and it hadn't been that bad.

Little did I know that I was about to be exposed to the worst case of separation anxiety I'd ever seen in my entire life.

The first 2 hours were great, though. The girls adored me, claiming proudly that I was their favourite babysitter (remember, this is only the second time I'd ever babysat them), and flaunting their babysat status to other little girls in the neighborhood like I was front-row tickets to the Backstreet Boys. We took advantage of the gorgeous weather by taking a very long walk to the park and playing until the heat made them cranky (and put the baby to sleep). The trouble began when he woke up, about an hour after we got home. Not seeing his mother, he immediately concluded that he'd been abandoned forever with me. Not a happy baby. It was at this point that Annie (the 5 year old) knocked over both glasses of juice onto the living room carpet, and then wandered away like a baby duck. She & her sister went out to play shortly thereafter, somewhat less enchanted with their favourite babysitter (although I'd kept my temper...not an easy feat when a baby refuses to let you out of his sight & prefers to bury his screaming head in your chest, while ever line of his body says "I hate you. Where's my mother?")

I do not recommend listening to a screaming baby for a solid hour. At one point I called up Trevor, who found it an interesting enough sonic experience to record about 6 seconds of wailing on his 4-track. Boys...*sigh* Demon Baby wouldn't eat. He wouldn't be rocked. And he certainly didn't want to go to bed & give me some peace. Then he pulled the most annoying of tricks in a baby's arsenal: he became docile 5 minutes before his parents came home.

I wonder when I have time between now & the anniversary party to get a hysterectomy?

(Side Note: hysterectomy is, of course, linked to the mythical "female disease" of hysteria, in which the uterus was believed to become detached & roam about the woman's body, thus inducing weakness & mad behavior. In the words of Nigel, "don't say that you've never learned anything from online diaries. Goodnight.")

almost one year ago today: robert a. heinlein dreams

August 26, 1998.

Design change. I have so many elements on my page, but I can't make myself get rid of any of them...at least this new page is more compact. Comments?

Palaver called me at midnight last night. From B.C. I took it as a sign that things weren't going all that well with the parents...a suspicion proven by the subsequent conversation. The first words out of his mouth were, "tell me a funny story." And of course, I went blank.

I feel so bad for him. This is by no means the first time I've ever seen him horribly depressed, but this is substantially worse. First of all, I can't drag him out to drink away his sorrows (although maybe someone in B.C. will do it for me...just look for a depressed, yet well dressed man, possibly with a bowtie). Second of all, exactly what do I have to cheer him up with? He's stuck in a car with his parents for another week & a half, he's missing Bauhaus and his homelife has been made permanently uncomfortable by his jerk-off roommate. Even the university offers no solace.

All I could do was chatter aimlessly about Moosehead Monday. When we said goodbye, I couldn't sleep for another hour. Fuck. I hate feeling this useless.

Today my grandparents & one uncle showed up unexpectedly at my house (my mother later claimed that she'd told me, but I don't think the phrase, "don't stay up too late, honey" qualifies as hard information). My grandma was in fine form today, as Donald (my mom's brother) is driving her batty. I've never seen her so snappish...but she soon mellowed out (for her...she's got a hurricane of a personality). And as has become ritual in my grandparents' visits, we soon adjourned to the local Mandarin for that peculiar suburban phenom of "all-you-can-eat."

Trevor met us there & was immediately waylaid & brought to the table by my grandma (a hurricane, I tells ya). I couldn't do anything but laugh...there's absolutely no way to prepare anyone before they meet my grandmother. They have to sink or swim. But Trevor seemed to enjoy himself. I kept getting my signals crossed in the minutes before he arrived...the entire wait staff was tall & skinny with dark hair, and I was fooled dozens of times. And now I'm coasting on an MSG comedown & I'm due to babysit in 5 minutes...see you later.

August 25, 1998.

Another afternoon in the Plaque Shaque. I'm beginning to hate the place. My supervisor keeps busting my chops...deservedly, I might add. I just can't get worked up about dirt prints on stupid wrinkled pictures of race cars. Limited Edition, my ass.

Last night was one of the best Moosehead Mondays yet. Perhaps the highlight of the evening was the half-hour conversation in which Daniel & Maharet listed all the weird places they've had sex. They've also put in a bid to be the christening couple on my as-yet-unpurchased futon. We'll see about that...

It's kind of a fitting conversation to have, since today is the 3rd anniversary of Maharet's first time...and it would've been my fourth anniversary with Mr. Blonde. Sex & old boyfriends... what a day. I hadn't realized that it was the 25th until I started writing the date on forms at the Shaque - which made me realize how much I've moved on. Last year it was much on my mind, but this year it's just a curiosity...just another date in which I can feel justified in hoisting a pint in remembrance of various milestones, if not in celebration. Funny how dates change importance as the years go on. I hardly ever think of my parent's anniversary when September rolls around, because they've never made a big deal out of it. But before us kids came along, I'll bet it was quite the celebration.

Brrr...never again will I start a paragraph with sex & end with my parents! Make the bad pictures STOP!

After they kicked us out of the Firkin, we went back to my place to watch The 5th Element. Well, I watched it while Trevor & Maharet slept around me. It was kind of cute...but they were somewhat disoriented by the time the movie ended, and thus they didn't pick up on my hinting...so I finally had to act like a bartender: "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Actually, it was a lot more pathetic than that...more like, "I really like you guys, but please go home!" Although I wouldn't suggest that bouncers adopt it as their own..."Take your girlfriends home or I will" is much more effective.

Tangible benefits from Mr. Blonde dumping me: not having to go see Pearl Jam last weekend!! I'm so happy about this that I've been gloating for a month.

one year ago today: "selfish bitch!"

August 24, 1998.

I'm standing in the Plaque Shaque this afternoon. It's an unairconditioned warehouse. I have to repeat the same few motions every 10 seconds or so. Reach, flip, look, measure, plod plod plod, turn, plod plod plod (repeat). In an hour & a half, I'll enter the second phase of repetitive motions. Peel, reach, flip, wipe reach wipe reach wipe reach, flip. Repeat. After an hour, my back starts to ache. After 2, my neck joins in. My lunch wears off & my mood rapidly plunges along with my blood sugar. I'd be preoccupied with violence if I wasn't numbed by the job.

Maharet steals my pen unknowingly. Anger might keep me occupied, but I can't get angry...not with Maharet, not for borrowing my pen. I'm irrational, but I'm not that bad.

A Richard Marx song comes on the radio and I think of a boy I once loved, whom I'd asked to dance when this song came on at the Graduation Dance. There's only one person left in my life who remembers his name; who knows that she can use it to wickedly tease me. She's standing 3 feet away from me. Sometimes she sings the first bar of "Jingle Bars" à la Babe the pig. I wonder if eventually I can get away from all of my embarrassing memories if I just live long enough...and alienate enough people.

I think about all the criticism I've received about this page. Nobody likes the white text on black. I think about it carefully, and decide that although I like other colour schemes, white on black seems appropriate for here. I was woken up by a reporter this weekend who took time out at the end to request that I provide more context to my entries. I think about Amy, and how Kymm hits the nail right where it hurts (as Poet once said) when she says that Parsley succeeds because the entries are little stories unencumbered by unnecessary context. The issues & my pondering take on the shapes of spinning roundabouts...carrying me around & around the same place without going anywhere. 2 hours later, Maharet will give me one of the answers I want to hear:

"Let them get their own goddamn diary."

Stacy's solution to my design problem is simple & utterly evil. She & a few other diarists are gathering soon to plot their take-over of the world. I think that she alone has enough puckishness to pull it off. Sometimes I want to write like her...spare & lush & bold & coy & hiding easter eggs of narrative in the most unlikely of places. But if I wrote like her, then I wouldn't write like me. And that's a bad thing.

Right?

(Sometimes I'm so vanilla & cringing & chicklike that I make myself utterly sick).

I flip through the cherished objects of the area & feel like the protagonist in Clive Barker's Great & Secret Show; looking for ultimate meaning in the contents of the dead letter office. I wonder for the thousandth time why on earth someone would want something like this plaqued. I've lost almost all faith in humanity in the 6 days I've worked in the Plaque Shaque.

I'm glad I only have to do this for one more day. Really glad. Really really really...glad.

one year ago today: st. bartholomew's day

August 23, 1998.

Today was a stretched out kinda day...the sort of day that could fit all the useful activities into a few hours & leave plenty of time at the end. It was a very Gen-X Day, full of pizza & South Park (5 episodes, to be exact). The kind of day where you look back & see that everything is seamless & flawless...that it's a perfect day of sloth & roses, and that any miniscule change could've been absorbed into the general goodness.

It started at the rather unholy hour of 7:30, as I woke up to go to S-ville for church (Pixie Stix & Trevor's mother conducted the sermon). I'm told that their mother perked up visibly when Trevor told her that I'm a practicing member of the United Church & have finished my English B.A. (well, it's basically true. All the courses are done...I just signed up for an extra 3 letters, that's all.) Trevor & I sat hip to hip in the rather beautiful church, not holding hands for once. I didn't make one smart assed remark the entire time...which I think must be some kind of record. For once I was silent. Talking to Trevor is all well & good, but sometimes it's good to shut up & see how much signal-to-noise is created by speaking. We practiced Spider Robinson-style telepathy, which is empathy cranked up as far as it will go. It's not something you can take shortcuts at...I think we're getting quite good, though.

"I like girls with big fat tits, I like girls with big vaginas."

- kenny's "verse" in the south park opening theme

Then to the mall for a South Park collection & home to order a pizza & watch In & Out (gay movies made by Hollywood are becoming the hallmark of our relationship...The first movie we saw was Wilde, last Monday I insisted that we rent The Birdcage, and now this). I'm of 2 minds about the movie; on one hand, it emphasized the truth of perceived stereotypes (looks like a duck, etc.), but it also seemed to deal unflinchingly with the sucker-punch of self-replicating heterosexuality. I could totally buy the idea that there are still "breeders" who are unhappy as hetero, yet haven't allowed themselves a chance to really examine their life, because the alternative is unthinkable.

But I prolly should'nt delve too deeply into this topic, as I lack the experience to be more than a liberal pedant. I've had crushes on boys since I was 5...and I've never really thought too much about my own orientation. I guess I just assume that I'm hetero because I've never been in love with a woman. Pretty flimsy evidence...maybe I'm just not looking in the right places.

Oh, whatever. This is a lot of noise for me to be making about nothing...especially since I spent this entire day with my boy. I mean, how angsty can I get?

August 22, 1998.

I feel really crappy this afternoon. Well, it's morning to me, but technically it's the afternoon. But that's not what's under my skin.

Here we go: another night in the life of Tisiphone, partier extrordinaire. Last night was only saved from utter disaster by 2 things: one, that Baby Jenks was down from O-ville for the night, and two, that we stumbled into a bar where Just Alice - a great Alice Cooper cover band - was playing. But other than that, it wasn't the decadent night of joy that I'd anticipated.

There was a party at Brandi's last night. Most of the people there were folks that I'd been to high-school with...but hadn't been what you'd call friends of mine. They talked about jobs & school & old teachers. I sat in a corner & waited for Trevor to show up, thus ushering in the clubbing phase of the evening. Yet by the time he showed up, 3 bottles of beer had affected me rather adversely, and I felt like we were encased in imaginary lucite, unable to really touch. Such is the difficulty when one person is considerably more inebriated than the other...and by the time I sobered up, I just wanted the night to end.

I'm glad that Baby Jenks came down, though. As previously mentioned, Just Alice was faboo...especially as they played our request for "The Ballad of Dwight Fry." Dancing to the hardrock-alterno music mix was also surprisingly fun, even when they played "Enter Sandman"...although I refused to dance to Creed & Big Wreck. A girl's gotta have some standards.

After they kicked us out, we were left in the awkward situation of having 2 sober people, 5 people in various stages of drunkenness and one Japanese economy car. Against my better judgement, I agreed to continue on to Mr. Blonde's house with the rest of the group. It was a very bad idea...Mr. Blonde was drunk out of his skull, and he proceeded to 1) call up a girl he likes & speak in nakedly emotional phrases to her while 2 feet away from us (nothing says class like a drunken 3 a.m. phone call by a demonstrative drunk) and 2) pull Trevor aside to discuss how he felt about having the 2 of us at the house (which I interrupted right quick). I became quite pissed off at his behavior, and made some really cutting remarks which I now regret, if only because I showed a really ugly side of myself to Trevor. I dunno. It wasn't a good time. Given the choice to do it again, I'd have spent the hours between 2 & 5:30 as I did last Monday: curled up in my basement, watching Pee Wee's Big Adventure with Trevor. It would've been much less emotionally draining, for one thing.

Meta comments that I've been avoiding for political reasons. But what the fuck:

This whole Al versus Gus feud is really dumb. At first I thought that they were just playing with an incredulous audience, because I couldn't believe that Gus would write such bizarre & offensive statements about Al's children. But I have to say, Al's non-direct follow up is not terribly most mature either.

But there's nothing like a good flame war to up the counters, right kids?

And I'm not as shocked as everyone else that Lizzie has called it quits (for now). It's obvious that she was deeply uncomfortable with the feedback inherent online journal format...if anyone was tailor made for the password journal, it's her. Obviously she wants her journal read by a select few friends...or at least people who won't write in. How many times has she ended a paragraph with the words, "don't write in, because I don't want to hear about it"? More times than I can keep track of. It's kind of a shame, because she's such a good writer, but I'm not impressed by these flights of diva-ism. I haven't written her in a long while, since it's obvious that my input is neither appropriate nor desired...so don't kick me in the throat, Kymm. T'wasn't me who caused her to run.

And take it from someone who's gotten really burned by this before: saying "fuck you, you know who you are" is a really good way of angering people who aren't involved and a really poor way of discouraging those who are. Flame away.

August 20, 1998.

Short, scattered thoughts today, like a flat rock flying on top of a pond: skip skip skip...

Skip...I have just answered every piece of mail in my inbox. I haven't been this thorough since I first got email...and only spoke to one person. Wow. I rock.

Skip...although it will quite likely result in nausea for most of my readers, I have to say it anyway: I miss Trevor. Yes, we talked yesterday afternoon. I'm such a basket case.

Skip...there's a party at Brandi's house tomorrow. It was originally intended to be a Brampton bash, but it looks like politics will prevent some from attending. That's kind of a shame...I'd like to attend one last Brampton party during which I'm happy & well-adjusted. Not like the last one. Ohhhh no.

Skip...I kind of like shopping with my mom, even if we're only going to Home Depot. Cabinets & paint chips aren't terribly exciting, but every situation can become humourous. I particularly like laughing at the hideous bathroom fixtures.

Skip...I'm kind of hungry, but I'll be going to be going to bed soon, and I want to be thin & beautiful & therefore happy with myself. Yes, I can be awfully shallow without trying very hard.

Skip...it's okay if goats don't like me. Really.

Skip...Palaver's in B.C. I miss him already. Perhaps it's just because I know that I can't call him up & trade barbs about his churlish roommate.

Skip...I really should make time to have coffee with Stacy. They live so close to my new Basement Wonderland...it boggles the mind. I must try hard not to impose on their hospitality if the weird smells previously present in the Basement Wonderland re-surface.

Skip...I'm going to be in Kitchener the day before Pixie Stix & Q's wedding. This is also Maharet's birthday. I feel like such an asshole. I'm trying to figure out a way to do both, without shafting either party. I'm such a social butterfly that I make me sick.

Skip...goodnight.

August 19, 1998.

Hey, cool! Cody pointed out today that my counter has passed the 10K mark. I shouldn't be inordinately pleased about that (just like I shouldn't be overly gratified if people perceive me as "pretty"), but I am.

I'm like that.

In other stuff, I've just completed a whole wack of pages for my main site dealing with the York Cycle. It's mostly a picture show of various Jesi, plus an exhaustive photo essay dealing with Palaver's turn as Christ. Yes, the event was almost 2 months ago. I am the Queen of Slack (pronounced in the same way as "I am the God of Fuck" by Marilyn Manson.)

What else? Yesterday's entry has gained me a crab. Although I'd discussed my neuroses with him long before the entry was written, Trevor still felt it necessary to give me one of the weirder Beanie Babies. Nothing says loving like crabs...err...scratch that...um...I mean...

(he he he...)

Today we went to the local petting zoo to commune with the more docile parts of nature. We got in free as parents or guardians, although we didn't bring any children. Trevor was an immediate hit among the goats with his bag of alfalfa, yet I was shunned, even when I had a handful of feed. Lots of little kids (both goats & humans) with their parents in tow. One little sway-backed pony wandered around, looking for love. A big goat stepped on my foot (that's the last time I wear open-toed sandals to a petting zoo). I managed to make a goat purr by scratching its' neck & jaw. Very idyllic for 20 minutes...then Trevor went off to work.

Today my mom & I went off in search of decorations for the party. I experiences a moment of TWS (Tight Wad Syndrome) in the fabric store, when my mom expressed a fervent desire for 10 meters of white tulle...at $2.99 a meter, I'd rather make do with less, as I've yet to buy the mass quantities of food & booze required. (No, you're not invited...well, maybe if you're good & promise to bring me a large salad).

I seem to have convinced her to put up the decorations on the day of the party...as long as I take care of the cleaning & most of the food, she doesn't mind doing the creative stuff. Is it chintzy to make your mom help out at her 25th anniversary party? I guess I'm just compensating for the dead weight of my co-host a.k.a. Nic. As long as he pays half the bills, I'm not asking him to do anything else. Well, maybe chop veggies. But that's it.

Days to the party: 17. Today's bills: $44.11. Expenses to date: $66.75. Morale: Tense, but coping. Jaymz says: I'm right on schedule.

August 18, 1998.

This is ridiculous. You'd think that 1 1/2 weeks of sleep dep would be some sort of fucking clue to my body that I don't need to wake up 4 hours early on my goddamn summer vacation. You'd think that. But you'd be wrong.

I haven't slept well since I was 21. I think that I should file suit against my body. I'm sure the Geneva convention prohibits this kind of torture.

Another in an infinite series of "Moosehead Mondays" took place at the local Firkin establishment last night. Brandi was there for awhile, but she rapidly tired & was taken home around midnight. She's having concerns about her boy, and it's somewhat whiplash-inducing to hear of them when she's had a bottle of wine all to herself, as she oscillates between joy & fear.

Ironically enough, her probs are remarkably similar in generalities, if not particulars to an almost-incident that Trevor & I recently had. Here's my hang up. It's actually quite simple: I feel like I don't deserve someone as beautiful & attentive as Trevor, especially not after the shameful way I acted a year & a half ago. I feel like damaged goods. But I'd been swallowing the fear down for the last couple of months because Trevor seemed so vulnerable & in such need of protection from my sordid past...when you're taking care of someone, you can forget about your own neuroses.

One of the reasons I was able to maintain this picture of fragility is that he never talks about the past. Like, at all. He visibly shudders when his sister starts telling childhood stories. And because I was working in a vacuum, I let myself believe that he was still quite innocent & in need of protection. And then we had the inevitable Conversation About the Ex, and I found out that it was a similar situation to mine. (I guess personal problems don't change in basic shape...just in specific shading).

This meant that Trevor didn't need as much protecting as I'd thought. Which finally gave the fears a pinhole to flow through. I've never forgiven myself for messing with Mr. Blonde's head whilst in love with Poet. Sometimes the guilt chokes me. I need to deal with that before I can fully rebound.

Us chix with low self-esteem. Something ought to be done.

I'm a bit stressed out about the party I'm putting on for my parent's 25th anniversary in early September. I thought that it would be the easiest present to give them, but I'm getting a bit anxious about the sheer amount of variables. Trevor gave me Cocktail Parties For Dummies for my birthday, and it's making me feel both better & worse. Better because it outlines a low-stress schedule to adhere to in order to have a wonderful party. Worse because it makes me realize how small the chances are that I will actually throw a good party.

This isn't misplaces humility or performance anxiety. Sure, it's my first party & that's scary, but so what? The real problem is that my father's family doesn't know how to have fun. Some of them are simply unwilling to put any effort into family parties, and they spend 5 or 6 hours camped out in front of the teevee, ignoring the proceedings entirely. Some of them will feel uncomfortable in such a large group. And some of them are simply miserable people who don't know how to enjoy themselves.

The first hurdle was the invitations. My style is to design my own invites, just to avoid the mind-numbing task of filling out printed cards. I mean, desktop publishing is insanely easy these days, so why not feel good right from the outset? But it never works out in practice. I'll bust my ass cutting, pasting, placing, and being witty...and people will think they look "cheap" & "childish." They make fun of the wording. They miss the subtler humour. They generally act clueless & irritating, and it makes me wonder why I bother. I struggled with my conscience for awhile, but I realized that despite it all I like doing it. The feedback may be unsupportive & moronic, but I still feel better writing my own stuff than relying on Hallmark wit.

The previous diatribe brought to you by Microsoft Encarta...making family relations horrid since last Monday.

one year ago today: perpetually teenaged

August 16, 1998.

"There is no genius without a tincture of madness."
"And a side of fries."

- palaver & I on Friday night.

Another 5 hours at the Plaque Shaque this afternoon. I'm on permanent standby, and it's not like I'm doing anything with my Sundays (although I've been feeling really wrecked the past couple of days & my eye allergies kicked in last night - I burst into tears last night, and for once emotion had nothing to do with it.) The girl they got to replace me is the butchest girl I've ever seen. I actually mistook her for a man the first time I saw her. She's very nice, although she could snap me in half. Maybe that's why she's nice.

Yesterday I met Trevor & Pixie Stix's father for dinner in Etobicoke ("the new film from Merchant-Ivory"). I had been warned about his dad for some time leading up to the meeting, but I found the cautions rather superfluous. He's a dad. I've never met anyone who had parents free of eccentricities. Yet I think that the most eccentric thing about the meeting is that he seems nothing at all like Trevor or PS (whom Daniel calls "the twins" after seeing PS on Friday night). If asked to pick their father sight-unseen from a line-up, I would've passed over him without a second glance.

We played snooker. We ate meat. The other girlfriend there is nice, although a ruthless snooker player. Her voice seems to have been ruined by the cigarettes she chain-smokes. I think they approved of me solely because I showed an appetite for red meat & Bailey's Irish Cream. I guess there are worse things to be approved of.

It's like my own Olympic Games! In The Girlfriend Multi-Event Freestyle I'm scoring higher than his last girlfriend on the "meeting of the parent" event. We'll see how the wedding goes - that'll set the scene for the "convincing relatives of Trevor's heterosexuality" event. Far fewer variables, I should think (unless they mistake me for a really feminine guy). I just hope the German judge cuts me some slack.

And then we went to the local megaplex to see The Avengers. It was one of the gathering places for the young & suburban. I was the dowdiest girl my age. But if you try to look the same as everyone else, how will your boy know which one you are? How will you?

There are many things I failed to mention about my recent museum trip, but I'm tired, so I'll just share 3. First, one of my favourite moments in the exhibit was standing underneath the downward-pointing finger of a statue called "Shade." From that angle, you're standing in the spatial focus of the sculpture - the place where all movement is curved towards. You could look up to his bronze face & feel the weight of the enormous statue about to crush you. The other tourists thought I was crazy. It was swell.

Second, I was buzzing on food dep all the way through the exhibit, and it greatly enhanced my emotional response to the sculpture. I found myself wanting to caress the backs & faces of the figures, to trace the curve of spines, to curl my hands into massive unmoving fingers, to step within the circle of tortured bronze arms & kiss perfectly molded bronze lips. I briefly considered taking up the curating profession, just to touch sculpture. I'm weird that way - I'm always playing hide-and-seek with the AGO guards in the Moore exhibit, just to run my hands down his blobbly pieces of sculpture.

My lunch that day summed up the Quebec experience: stumbling through a bilingual menu, chowing down on really fantastic food, and laughing with flirty, funny black-clad waiters. My vulnerability was greatly reduced by souvlaki (try it sometime).

Thirdly, we stopped in a very fecund household near Montreal to visit BiBi's (ma "tante") neices & their spawn. The house was full of babies, toddlers, pregnant women, grandmas & so on. I got to fuss over a 3-week-old baby named Etienne...tiny, red & looking a lot like I did at that age. I know it sounds dumb, but one of the greatest things about Quebec is that everyone speaks French there (and their stop signs are mounted on 2 poles - vive la differance!). Somehow, the suburban experience was transcended. It's impossible to speak French to English ears & sound mundane. I loved it.

As we left the city, I tried to find differences in the houses lining the highway. Trying to find the exotic in Western countries these days is useless. I did the same thing in the UK, but all views from highways are identical.

August 15, 1998.

I saw Pixie Stix & Q on Queen Street last night. I feel like my life is an off-Broadway play with a very small budget for supporting cast...or a Flintstones episode where the background is looped ad infinitum.

I'm really sorry about the lack of updates, but this is the first time I've had a chance to write since 3:30 a.m. Wednesday night. Sometimes I curse my fecund social life.

It all started with Wednesday. The reason I tortured myself with sleep dep on Tuesday is so that I could get up suicidally early on Wednesday morning. Of course, I didn't go to bed at a sensible time...at 11 p.m., I was still making a mix tape for the car ride. I put the question to you: what's more likely to keep me sane on a 9-hour car ride, an extra hour of sleep or a tape of Squirrel Nut Zippers & Nine Inch Nails? No further questions.

It was a very good car ride. BiBi (ma "tante"...elle est l'amour de mon oncle, mais il n'est pas sa mari) has depths of wacky Acadianism untapped in our previous social meetings. She & my mom traded personal history (femme bonding; it's a beautiful thing) while I thought & wrote & slept. The only problem with the driving per se was that her sporty red car acts like a diuretic on me. I was quite afraid that I was developing a bladder infection. But it was just the car.

On our first stop, we found my only souvenir: le coq de bonheur. I was wandering around the Big Apple (it's a tourist trap in Northern Ontario), and I became curious as to why there were so many porcelain roosters on display. Turns out that they represented the Portuguese character of the Rooster of Good Luck & Happiness...and I immediately thought of Trotski, Braveheart & Snag Boy. If any figurine belonged with the plaster bust of Queen Victoria, the bleached wolf skull, the plastic owl, the plastic duck & various other wacky bits, it was le coq de bonheur. I'm so pleased with myself.

The next morning we made it to the museum as it opened (very civilized: 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.), mais sans billets (we couldn't get through to the ticket line). 3 tickets were available for 8 p.m., but we needed to be driving towards Toronto by that time. Our only hope was to wait & see if anyone failed to claim their tickets for the 10 or 11 a.m. showing. I began resigning myself to dragging ma mere et ma "tante" neuf heurs dans l'auto pour rien de faire. I was desole, mais determined to come back...I figured that I could convince Trevor to take the train some weekend in the near future. That even started to seem like a better plan.

We gave up & walked out the doors. As we were holding the door for the couple behind us, we heard them grumbling that there was only 1 ticket left for the 11 o'clock showing. Thank god for sentimental couples!! I just about broke my neck getting back.

It was wonderful wonderful wonderful. I'd never been particularly drawn to Rodin, mais les deux heures quand j'ai devant les salles de Rodin were stunning. I loved how he modeled his figures in realistic, yet impossible ways...poses that one couldn't duplicate for more than 10 seconds. Everything was entirely graceful, yet frozen in the middle of movement. I think my favourite room was the Gates of Hell room, which contained "Le Baiser," "Le Penseur" et "L'Atelier."

What frustrates me about museums, however, is that they always photgraph the wrong pieces, or the right pieces from the wrong angles. "Le Baiser" is always photographed so that the 2 figures seem to melt against one another, but I find the curve & distance between the bodies far more noteworthy. My theory about "Le Baiser" is that she's about to be ripped from his arms, but she doesn't know it. His toes are curled in tension, while her whole body is slack & resigned.

Another piece that I adored was a fragment called "Isis." (One of the revolutionary things about Rodin was that he created completed sculptures that were only fragments...like the fragments that remain of genuine classical sculpture. I think that the technique makes all parts of the body precious & lovely in their own right. Anyway...) "Isis" was a balletic torso that was up on point, with the other leg held above waist level & the pelvis tilted forward. It could've been a really vulgar statue, but somehow it wasn't. Perhaps this is because her pose - consciously or unconsciously - mimicked some picture I've seen of the goddess Kali...or any Indian god or goddess, for that matter. I loved it because it was so impossible, although a ballerina might be able to achieve it.

Natter natter natter. Sorry, this isn't working for me today. So I'll just call it quits now. If you're good & eat your sprouts (& if I feel better), I'll tell you about "The Shade" & the household outside of Montreal.

one year ago today: he's a god...in...

August 13, 1998.

Oh, God. Why do I let myself write on sleep dep? It's almost as embarrassing as when I re-read my drunk entries.

Talk about your No Sleep Till Brooklyn...I've just spent the last 2 days driving to & from Quebec City avec ma mere et ma "tante" BiBi pour voyez a l'exhibtion Rodin. (Sorry. I'm going to keep doing that, I think...at least until I get 8 hours of sleep together). We left at 7:45 on Wednesday morning & returned 45 minutes ago (3 a.m.). We're utterly psychotic, but it was so much fun...

2 days among francophones has awoken my dormant French-speaking ability. I'd pretty much lost most of it in the 4 years since I stopped studying la belle langue, mais dans les deux jours, plus et plus returned to me. I find it very embarrassing to speak French in Quebec, because I'm so superficial as to hate looking comme une idiote. But deux jours took away most of my fear.

It probably helped that ma "tante" is Acadian (that's a francophone from New Brunswick...since the spell checker is clueless, I'm going to assume that most of you Americans will need some help with the term). It takes a lot of the performance anxiety away if you know that you have a safety net.

Beautiful weather, lucky tickets, Kali implications, wonderful food, funny waiters, et le coq de bonheur. I'll explain tomorrow.

August 11, 1998.

It's 6:39 in the morning. I haven't been to bed. My family is just starting to wake up around me, but since I have a sensible reason for staying up all night (I need to sleep early tonight, as I have to get up @ 6 a.m. tomorrow), they haven't given me much grief. Well, my dad just kicked me out of the kitchen, because the smell of the pogo dog I just finished was grossing him out. But it was a cheerful booting out.

I've never stayed up all by myself before. It's kind of neat.

I've seen more sunrises this summer than any other period of my life. Trevor doesn't usually drop me off until 4 or so. The local highways at night are becoming a very familiar sight. We do more highway driving than anything else. Well, we smooch a lot. But other than that...

I'm still listening to the tape he made me for my birthday. I know enough words now that we can duet on "Icarus" & "Feelin' Kinda Sunday." That's also kind of neat.

I'm wearing a soft black polo shirt with the legend "I Want To Be Perfectly Normal" emblazoned on the back. Perfectly Normal is my brother (the punk drummer)'s band name, and they'll silkscreen the logo on anything that holds still for 30 seconds. They have Perfectly Normal briefs. But I think that Perfectly Normal preppie polos take the prize. I'm also wearing 501's than I bought patched. Whenever I wear them, I think about lesbians...I once read a book in which the (lesbian) author claimed that many a girl's discovered her true calling whilst playing with a friend's 501 buttons. Nothing like that's ever happened to be, but I'll keep you posted. They're all ripped to hell & I can't imagine life without 'em.

I dunno...I'm a bit too charged up to sleep. Lots of shit's been going down lately, and it's making me vibrate at a very high frequency.

1. My parents have been fighting...not out in the open, but in the very early mornings, when they're in their bedroom & I'm half-asleep. My mom has decided that she doesn't want a party to mark their 25th anniversary anymore. I'm worried that the strippers issue hasn't blown over yet.
2. I always worry about my brother. I want to protect him & support him, but I don't want to get in his way. I want to help him think & write, but I don't want to push.
3. I've lost 3 jobs this summer. I'm pretty blasé about the implied rejection it carries, but I absolutely cannot deal with vacation time. I just don't know what to do with myself anymore. The little geeky girl who was perfectly happy to spend her summers utterly alone has vanished. I can't amuse myself for long anymore.
4. Close friends have a tendency to disappear & reappear to me as in a sadistic conjuring act.
5. And I find my situation with Trevor very nerve-wracking for a variety of reasons, most of which were cleared up tonight. The whole thing about responsibilities is that it forces one to be somewhat responsible. He needs to sleep once in a while, and there are only so many places we can hang out at night. As neither of us have our own place, we have to conduct our relationship in public to a large degree...and that's quite frustrating at times. I get so sick of being responsible sometimes...it's like having an egg timer permanently lodged in my head, and when it runs out, it runs out.

To sum up, I have no privacy & it's killing me.

Another problem is that we're a rather nervous couple...we tend to play it cool, because we're afraid of freaking the other person out. Eliot said it best, of course:

"And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say, 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'-
If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'

You know. Like that.

This is me on sleep dep. Any questions?

later...

One of the few things I've been able to concentrate on is Stacy's old archives. (I know it doesn't make any sense that I can concentrate on a computer screen for hours, when I can't read Cocktails Parties For Dummies to save my life. Hmm. I think that's the only time the words "cocktail parties" and "save my life" will ever appear in the same sentence. Hope ya liked it.)

I've never been through anyone's archives before...I've read some of my friends' diaries from day 1, but I don't tend to be interested in going back if I come in mid-stream. I'm finding out stuff about Q & Pixie Stix that fascinates me...I feel sort of proprietary towards them, although I can't adequately explain why. I can't even call them semi-related to me...Trevor calls Q his BILT-B (Brother In Law To Be), but I don't have that option. I find these emotions difficult to analyze...I didn't feel this proprietary towards Baby Jenks & her boy when they got hitched, and I was a bridesmaid. Maybe it's because their impending wedding is the bizarre little umbilical cord between Stacy & myself...our diaries will be united by marriage, and I find that utterly ridiculous & utterly cool at the same time.

What the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah.

So I've been reading Stacy's archive. I'm about half-way through January now. Every once in a while she'll talk about the weather & I check my own archives to see if I talked about the weather that day, too. This whole hunger for the gestalt is a little odd for me to get used to...I feel like a diary-obsessed psycho. *smirk* Just kidding...I know almost everyone who has read through my archives, and none of them are psychos...not even you, darling. No, really.

Hmm, if I want to piss off my loyal un-sleep deprived readers, I should prolly try harder than that...I'm just a text-based versh of the Jerry Springer Show, y'all...trying to short out people's brains.

"I'm not gay, but my girlfriend is."

- from a t-shirt worn by a femme friend's then-boyfriend

Come back soon, Poet. We never talk in person anymore, but I dearly love trying to fry your brain by remote control using nothing but words.

Heh. I once inadvertently put him into a spitting rage by quoting Yeat's "Leda & the Swan." Who's the queen?! You know it, sweetie.

"Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?"

(I've really put my Norton Anthology of EngLit {6th ed, vol. 2} through the paces for these entries. Yay, me.)

I'm still singing duets with Trevor. Too bad he's not singing right now & doesn't realize how many words I've learned in 24 hours. Next time.

August 10, 1998.

I'm listening to the tape Trevor made me for my birthday. On one side are different songs that he recorded on any 4-tracks that crossed his path. As a former drummer, I find the home-made percussion really interesting...I think I can hear a hamster wheel on some tracks.

No one's ever made me a tape before. For the purposes of completeness, I should mention that Mr. Blonde wrote me a really cool song that was written for guitar but played on bass. One of my more secret Leo desires is to be an artist's muse. I confided this to Sister Sunshine one day, and shortly thereafter, she gave me a pastel study called, "Aleta's Nightmare, or Oh My God, They Have No Eyes!" That's the ironic distance I was looking for, thank you very much.

Last night Trevor & I attended swing dancing lessons at Ted's. It was one of the worst times I've had in years. Nothing gets under my skin faster than teachers who move too quickly along the learning curve. I'm pretty competitive...I don't play sports or video games because I'm not good at sports or video games. If I can't shine right away when I'm competing with my peers, then I don't want to participate. But I know I can dance, given enough patience...I took 4 years of jazz with indifferent teenage teachers, fer pete's. I'm not a great dancer, but I'm not terrible either.

By the 5 minute mark, I was grimacing with the effort of continuing on, when all I wanted to do was beg Trevor to take me away. By the half-hour mark, I wanted to rip my teacher's liver out of her pert, bouncy, stick-thin body. And then I'd jam it into her mouth to cut off the flow of pointedly unpointed denigrating remarks ("dance on the balls of your feet! I wish I could show you how dumb you look when you dance like that...")

And as an added bonus, it completely stripped off any joy we'd had in swing dancing. We only went out once when the band arrived, preferring instead to huddle with Maharet & Daniel in a corner. At 11:30, we split for Oxey's & just never came back.

This morning I was watching a southern evangelist rant about "Jesus Christ's financial advice." It was utterly fascinating. For one thing, the semantics were wondrous to behold; words like "father," "heritage," "plan," "security" were sprinkled throughout the sermon, creating an emotional response. The audience wanted to trust him. They wanted JC to show them how to be stinking rich. They wanted a genie out of a bottle.

Other words like "strive" "combat" "independent" highlighted the All-American undertone to the speech: you could only come into the "inheritance Christ has promised you" by eschewing "false religions" (the starvation in Comm-yew-nist Russia & Pagan India was righteously laid at the door of religious differences, forgetting entirely that plenty of Christians starve to death every day). Plus, you couldn't get anything without combating your fellow brothers. To me it seemed utterly American: by marrying combat with a desire to protect one's material goods & family, one could acquire a financial excess. Overall a quite disturbing speech.

And it was also theologically unsound - a minor point to be sure, but still. The Book of Job completely destroys the premise that God rewards righteousness & punishes evil. Jesus himself - who lived in poverty & befriended the dregs of society & preached brotherhood & understanding among all men - said something about a rich man, a camel, a needle & the kingdom of heaven.

Americans make me laugh, but not for the right reasons.

August 9, 1998.

...curtain opens. Our heroine is huddled around a single slice of New York cheesecake with a guttering candle jammed in the top. She is crooning in the low, broken tones of the hopelessly mad & lonely:

"happy birthday...to me...happy birthday...to me...happeeeee..."

singing dissolves into a chilling moan of the utterly damned...curtain closes...

That was a scene from the off-off-off-off-Broadway production of "Aleta's 22nd Birthday: the I-Have-To-Insert-A-Lot-Of-Angst-To-Sell-It-To-The-Cappuchino- And-Clove-Cigarette-Crowd Versh"

See, I get to joke about it because I had a bunch of people take me out last night. When I was in my early teens, I spent my birthday alone...we've discussed my social awkwardness before, right? My mom always bought me a cheesecake for my cake, and I'd be able to eat a slice for breakfast for a full week, as there wouldn't be anyone but my family to share it with on my actual birthday. But it never, ever brought me down. I simply had no basis for comparison.

And as a bonus, it also lowered my expectations drastically, so I get as excited as a Jack Russell terrier when my peer group shows interest in my birthday. Except that I hardly ever lose control of my bladder in the living room. (Hardly ever.)

Last night was the goth portion of the celebrations (hey, I don't have a job...I can celebrate every day for the rest of the month if I want to). Trevor, Exodus (formerly known as "Trevor's Best Friend From Mississauga Whom I'm Too Tired To Pseudonym"), Stacy, the Boy, Sven, Palaver & I went out to dinner at Tiger Lily's, where they were super-kind to us, even though we didn't order for an hour. There was a nice sort of thrill in introducing so many of my friends to the restaurant (remember, this is the place where I once pledged to work through the entire menu). Seating Exodus & the Boy together proved to be a brilliant accident, as they synched so quickly that they started to mischievously convince Palaver the late arrival that they were long-lost brothers. It's the goatees, I think.

We laughed, we ate, we waited for people, we traded prank plans (it's best if you don't know too many details, so you can claim innocence later...it's the plausible deniability clause of my diary). The Boy informed me that aspartame (a key ingredient in my daily smack...err...Diet Coke) was used by the CIA in the 50's as a mind-control drug, but it didn't stop me from ordering a can - which I proceeded to spill onto my lap. I have to say: the skirt Jain sent me is composed of some sort of miracle fabric that cleans up incredibly well - perfect for a klutz like me. I'm thinking of dressing my babies in it...it's light & wipes down in a flash. Perhaps I can turn the skirt into a darling suit, as my mom did by changing her wedding dress into my christening gown.

Hmmm...little proto-nearsighted Aleta babies in PVC coated jumpsuits...the mind boggles...

And then we went to the Garden & danced our little black-clad hearts out. I think that the word went out about my birthday, 'coz the club was filled to capacity by 12:30. Of course, none of them approached me, but you know how goths are. We were early enough to get a booth, which proved useful as the crowd cycled through celebrants. Pixie Stix was there to hang with Q before popping off to a rave; they gave me an astrology program to calculate & interpret my natal chart (apparently, she & Q had a bet about where my moon was...whatever that means).

Trevor & I tried our best not to gross out the people around us with Public Displays of Affection, but the alcohol made it a difficult proposition to stick with. Especially when it hit me half-way through the night that one of the main reasons I like the Garden is that there's a higher-than-normal percentage of really skinny guys in black t-shirts...and he's the exact kind of guy I always wanted to be with at the club. It's horrendously superficial, I know, but there you go. My love of goth is firmly rooted in a love of skinny goth boys. And neither of us are really all that goth, it's all for the good.

I discovered last night that Sven can get girlie confessions out of me quicker than any girl I know. He's the only boy I've ever known who talks about relationships in the blunt, take-no-prisoners way that characterizes such a conversation between women. I told him stuff that I haven't told Sister Sunshine...& I was in the most public of places, too. Unbelievable.

To make the birthday experience even more meta that normal, I met one of my readers. She apparently followed a link over from Stacy's July 14th entry & started at the beginning. And despite all of that, she thinks I'm cool & was somewhat shy about approaching. On-line diaries are the easiest form of notoriety these days & such metameetings make me feel like a minor celeb. Undeserved celebrity to be sure, but I still have to keep an ironic distance from my importance in the general scheme of things, or I shall develop a frightfully swollen head. And I already barely fit into hats.

The Lawyer showed up out of the blue, shocking the hell out of me - he was supposed to come swing dancing with us tonight, but he's "laying down floor" instead. And as he pointed out so wisely, "I only get to make fun of these people one night of the year." Sister Sunshine met us at the doors of the Garden, looking wonderful in her fishnets & knee-high black boots. Palaver was dressed in his father of the bride Fireball ensemble instead of his seersucker suit. I found it somewhat disorienting that that although the booth was crowded to capacity & people cycled in & out waiting for a seat, it was all people I became good friends with in the last year. On my last birthday, the only hard-core celebrants were Palaver, Sister Sunshine & the Lawyer.

You know, for all my bitching & moaning, I have some pretty rock-steady friends. Especially the Lawyer...we've grown quite distant in the last year, but there he was, unexpected & totally dependable. There was a rumor going around last July that the Lawyer was my new post-Mr. Blonde boyfriend, and Mr. Blonde was quite happy about it. At the time, he expressed his happiness that someone like the Lawyer was taking care of me. Slightly patronizing? Y'think?

Stacy also shocked the hell out of me by making me a gorgeous dress after seeing one at Siren that she thought I'd like (how's this for weird...I saw that Siren dress for the first time last Friday. It fit really badly & I soon shucked it off. This one fits like a dream). I'm in total awe...she just sized me up & pulled off the best birthday present coup I've ever experienced. I tried it on in the bathroom immediately, and was amused at how much I looked like a Tennessee Williams heroine with my bleached blonde hair, fishnet stockings & visible bra straps. I somewhat regret wearing a green tartan bra, but I gotta be me.

Dressed in diary-related finery, I was the Queen of the Savage Garden. It was swell.

one year ago today: my 21st birthday (well, duh)

August 8, 1998.

Last night I had a dream in which I was hanging out with all my high-school friends in a bowling alley. At one point, I decided it would be a good idea (?) to make out with Mr. Shoreleave...so I did. It was boring & I suffered through about a minute of it before I wandered off. As a metaphor for my relationship with most of my high-school friends, it doesn't do too badly. Suffering through what you think you should do, just because sentimentality & loyalty tell you to.

I guess the ironic thing is that I had a huge crush on Mr. Shoreleave in my teens. I silently burned for him for 2 years. But in all that time, I never dreamt of kissing him. And now, when I could cheerfully go the rest of my life without seeing him, I have boring but slightly licentious dreams about him.

But what was really surreal in the dream, was that after this took place, I "remembered" doing the same thing with Cranly, i.e. making out in public at a really drunk party. I find that this happens with increasing frequency...I'll be dreaming of doing something embarrassingly inappropriate in front of my friends (like walking in the room naked), and then in the dream I'll console myself by "remembering" other incidents when the same thing happened. So not only am I dreaming up weird situations, I'm also justifying them to myself by creating whole strings of false memory & association.

I don't know if it's neat or scary.

From the "I'm turning into a Patsy Cline song" department:

Last night Maharet, Daniel & I went to the hauswarmingparty at what I've tentatively dubbed Hell & Gone Haus. This would be the new residence of Trotski, Braveheart & Snag Boy...the one that's about 3 small blocks away from my own future haus. It's kind of funny how everyone seems to be gathering in the west end this year; and although I know that it has nothing to do with me, I still feel like I triggered something. A butterfly flapped its wings & they all found houses near me.

But anyway...

It wasn't a great party, as it didn't reach the titanic drunken heights of debauchery that made up a typical Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus party, but it wasn't bad. I seem to be over the anxiety that characterized last year's dealings with my res friends - almost all the stars of my anxiety dream were there, but it was cool. Seeing Brigit used to make me retreat & wonder why she doesn't like me with the same all-encompassing heat as she once did, but I'm fine now. The Lawyer's personality jags have smoothed out quite a bit since he got a girlfriend, and he picks on me exponentially less now. Dot's Dot...I was insane to worry about her. The girl's solid as a rock and twice as loyal. And Aly was there, to boot...he's been in Pakistani Medical School for a year now, although he's a year & a half younger than me. Silly people...

But although they were all there, although all of my issues seemed to have been resolved & although I was at peace with one & all (except for Chris: details later), despite the fact that the house was full of people I adored...

My heart still sunk, because Trevor wasn't there.

I'm sooo corny.

Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I haven't been feuding with anyone lately. Well, that's all a thing of the past. I have declared war on Chris (Palaver's roommate) & Palliative. This is the story:

Last Saturday after Mark left Trevor & I, we followed the instructions of Comrade Jen & went to go see if Palaver was working at Hart House. But instead of Palaver, Palliative sat at the Front Desk (for those of you who joined late in the program, Palliative is Palaver's former girlf who's currently fucking Palaver's roommate Chris & spending all of her time over there. This was the unspoken theme of their recent party.) Deciding to ask anyway, we charged up to the desk.

"Is [Palaver] here?" I chirped (I was feeling particularly cute that day).

"No." She responded in a snarly, "serves-you-right" tone.

"Oh. Can I have a tissue?" [ed. note: it was hot & sweaty & my glasses kept steaming up that day]

"No. We don't keep any back here." Same tone. Same barely controlled anger. And then she smiled a tight, bitchy little smile, like she'd seized the moral high ground.

Fast forward to Sunday night. Trevor & I came to pick up Palaver for swing dancing. She & both of Palaver's roommates were huddled in the living room, murmuring but not laughing (it's remarkably like having zombies in the next room). In a fit of silliness & provoked by our high spirits, Trevor wrote "Can I have a tissue?" on the white board in the hall. We left, giggling.

Fast forward to last night. Maharet, Sister Sunshine & I dropped by Palaver's house to wake him up for last night's party. On the white board, "Can" had been crossed out & "May" had been written over it. And under "May I have a tissue?" the phrase "For your nose or your bra?" had been added.

I turned over several rejoinders in my mind. The most high-minded was: "ok, you & me at the bike racks, after school...why don't you act your age?" The most cutting was: "have I mentioned how witty you are? Oh, wait, there's a reason." And the lowest blow was, "you spend enough time staring at me in little black dresses, Chris...decide for yourself." But as Palaver has asked me to take the highroad, I have just decided not to play. Another interesting feud fizzles out.

So there.

one year ago today: "I need a man, a man, a man, a...BLUES EXPLOSION MAN!!"

August 6, 1998.

I'm utterly exhausted. My mother had all of her nursing school friends over for a swim this afternoon, but since it rained all day, I chased after 2 two-year-olds all afternoon. Well, only when they needed chasing. But I'm not used to physical effort at all, so it was a bit wearying.

Imagine me in a frontier situation, hmm?

That's been the hot topic of conversation with myself & Trevor these days...what to bring to the party at the end of the world, what to study up on, what the future will be like. It's probably not a good idea for the 2 of us to pair off & breed, as we'd be raising younguns without benefit of an optometrist. I can't see my hand when it's only a foot away from my face, and he's the same.

Forget entirely that the infant mortality rate will skyrocket (again) if there are no doctors or fresh medicine in the BNW. Is it worth trying to have babies? I was raised with the erroneous assumption that all of my children would live; that it would be unusual if they died. Giving birth is incredibly dangerous without trained medical personnel...sure, it can be done, but do I want to do it? As a culture, we've gotten pretty used to 24-hour medical care...in the Brave New World, there won't be an easy cure for appendicitis, measles, tonsillitis, scurvy, athlete's foot, yeast infections, even headaches. No penicillin. No NyQuil. No (gasp!) Diet Coke!

Trevor wanted to bring all of his guitars with him, until I pointed out that there would be no power to run them. He's currently trying to dream up a Gilligan's Island-esque contraption to allow his 4-track to run on bicycle power. Sigh...boys and their toys...

We're thinking of joining the rifle club & stocking up on survival books. It's an incredibly bizarre thing to contemplate...basic survival puts summer romances on a whole different footing than the culture normally allows. Dammit! Can't I have a few more years of frivolousness?

As Spider Robinson would say, a semantically meaningless phrase.

"Ships were made for sinking,
whiskey made for drinking.
If we were made of cellophane,
we'd all get stinking drunk much faster!"

- the ghost of stephen foster

Last night I bought the new Squirrel Nut Zippers album, "Perennial Favorites." Same gorgeous time-warp production as before - they sound like they've been directly transported from New Orleans in the 30's. But this album seems a little crazier than "Hot!"...there's an eye-rolling skittishness to some tracks that's absolutely compelling.

Today I went swimming in the rain. I wasn't going to at first, but we sat outside until we were soaked to our skins anyway - and the water temp hovered close to 80 at that point. Lovely, lovely temperature. It's the sort of thing I can do with impunity, having a suitable amount of warming body fat...but those constructed of skin & bones suffered noticeably. It was a very Spider Robinson experience: floating in the pool in a sky turned to water reminded me of the weightless scenes in the Stardance series, and being out in the warm rain reminded me of the atmosphere in the first part of Callahan's Secret (but not the events, natch). No, I'm not going to explain...do your research & you won't regret it!

one year ago today: silent little voice

August 5, 1998.

A girl is walking down the street late at night. She is 16 or 17 - barely legal these days, but mature & responsible for her age. She's a gorgeous girl; although too short to be a model, she has (or will soon have) won the "Miss Warworker" Pageant. Perhaps she dreams of being discovered by movie moguls in a soda shop. Perhaps she dreams of a steady fella & lots of sons. Perhaps she doesn't dream at all...perhaps she's entirely a creature of the now, with only a dim notion of the future filtering through her vivacious love of life.

It is the summer. She works at the local fairground near her parents' farm. Each day she walks through the deserted outskirts of Toronto to the streetcar stop that will carry her to her job. She is currently employed in a "burlesque tent" - she and another young girl dress up in "exotic" outfits of Hawaii & Egypt and they dance outside the tent, luring men into grasp of the older strippers. She loves watching the "old broads" put on their makeup & costumes. She has no conception of herself at that age. She is young & she is a siren.

One day she is walking home after work. She is alone. She is trying to keep a lid on her skittishness by counting the footfalls as they echo back from the storefronts. She wants to be home with her three irritating sisters, even if it means losing the arguments that constantly crop up. She wants to be safe in her bed, thinking of the "old broads" & her own excitement in her power over men. But she must continue walking. And she must not panic.

And then she sees him.

Like a Brontë lover, he appears out of nowhere. He is dressed in black. His face is white as a sheet. He says, "good evening" her as he passes. He carries an umbrella.

Whan she turns to look at his back, he is gone.

He could have melted into the deserted street. He could have never been there in the first place. He could've been a ghost.

Her heart continues to pound long after she has reached home.

one year ago today: art & naiveté

August 4, 1998.

This may be the summer of alarming coincidences, but it's also the summer of unemployment. There was the sheet metal place, the sheet metal place that bought the first one out, and now another one bit the dust today...

Goodbye, Plaque Shaque. Goodbye $9/hr. Goodbye 5 hours of Daniel & Maharet a day. Goodbye gay porn (yes, some people get pornography plaqued...I guess it makes cleaning easier). Goodbye 30% discount on laminating & plaquing. Goodbye income.

Hello swing lessons on Sunday. Hello birthday off work. Hello computer - we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the next month.

Argh.

I don't know if I should even bother trying to find something new at this point. Although 4 more weeks of steady work would cap off my summer income nicely, what are the odds that someone will employ me until September? Nil, I should think.

Why do they always say "thanks for helping out" when they break the news to me? Like I go out of my way to waste my afternoons with boring tasks out of the kindness of my heart. Like I'm the Mother Teresa of McJobs.

Argh.

Oh well. I've got my health. My parents will help me out with the finances next year. I have you guys to whine to. And I have plans for all Saturday nights in the immediate future. Besides, I'm turning the big double-2 in 5 days, so I can't be that upset. I get to be the Queen of the Universe of exactly 24 hours out of the year, and that time is rushing upon us. Joy.

'Sides, I have no right to complain about only making three grand this summer. According to my sources, most, if not all active nuclear reactors will succumb to the Y2K problem & melt down on the stroke of midnight on December 31, 1999. The circumstantial evidence for this theory is the observation that quite a few programmers working on the Y2K problem in the nuclear industry have abruptly quit the program & shacked up in Montana with a bunch of canned goods.

Plans are afoot to celebrate that New Year's in North Bay, if not in a more remote locale.

Personally, I think it would be a trip & a half (in the hippie sense) to see in the millenium from north of the tree line, whilst waiting for the world to end. The problem is: what if this prediction comes true, and I just treat it like a roadtrip/party? Could I bear the guilt of condemning my skeptical family & friends to death, if I don't make every effort to convince them to flee the Pickering area?

And on a more practical note, I should prolly start picking up survival techniques. I can't keep plants alive. I can't butcher animals. I can't even eat some common vegetables. As Maharet so wisely pointed out, the picky eaters will be the first to die in a frontier situation.

Just my luck that they spring the end of the world on me now...I'm too old to be protected & too young to have achieved any of my long-term techno-goals (meeting Callum Keith Rennie was not a long term goal.) Will I be the only on-line diarist in a post-on-line age? Back to the little notebooks for me...

"When I run out of booze, I'll need a haircut." - daniel

August 3, 1998.

Argh. It's 9:15, I've been home from work for an hour & a half & I've spent the entire time eating (necessary) & reading The Watchmen (unnecessary, yet compelling). Trevor will be at the door in 15 minutes (or less...he's disturbingly punctual). I should've been writing, but such is my MO.

As they say in Hollywood, I'll do the synopses of the treatment: when we were chilling with Mark in the Whitney Hall quad, I ducked in the building to use the bathroom...and decided to visit Comrade Jen on a whim, as she's still living in the Grad Pad. In the course of our hectic & hilarious conversation (I haven't been that "on" since school let out), she invited us Swing Dancing on Sunday night.

Swing Dancing is one of those things that everybody talks about, but nobody ever does. I'm telling you now: go do it. If you're in the area, visit Ted's Wrecking Yard on Wednesdays, because they have a live band. And some of the people there can really fucking dance. I'm not talking about older people, either...all of the best dancers last night were gen-x skater types in baggy t-shirts & big pants. The kind of people who annoy the more stereotypical aged swing demographic. It was...it was...wow. There are no words.

As I was caught without a swishy Swing skirt, I felt it necessary to go to the other extreme entirely & ruthlessly cage clothes from the male element in my house. Last night was the first night I've done drag, and it felt ultra-cool...when I could forget that I was sweating like it was going out of style (not that sweating has ever been in style). Palaver remarked, "of course it's hot; the trick is not to care." Trevor & made an interesting couple, I can tell you that. But he seemed to like the whole costumed aspect, so maybe I should continue to experiment with my father's back wardrobe.

The dancing itself was somewhat challenging. What with all the fab dancers eating up the floor, it was intimidating to just strike out. We resorted to alcoholic fortification before braving onto the dance floor. Matters were somewhat complicated by the fact that Trevor & I have never danced together before, and swing is...well, a challenging style to start out in, if one is an utter amateur. Our biggest problem was that I kept taking the lead without realizing it. Even in drag, the girl is always led. Such is swing.

Hmm. Guess I can disgorge more than I thought. Cheerio!

August 2, 1998.

I'm wearing one of my brother's wifebeaters, cutoff jean shorts with patches in the seat & a large silver crucifix. I feel so stereotypically Italian.

When you last visited this spunky young heroine, she was engaged in a pathetic story of her biking exploits. I wish I could say that my life has changed dramatically in the interim, but it has not. Same old, same old...but since the same old is fun & satisfying, I won't whine. Much.

On Friday I headed our to East Side Mario's with Maharet & Daniel, as I didn't feel like putting in all the effort of going to the City. Truth be told, I didn't have extremely high expectations for the night, as I was the designated driver (Daniel needs to get shitfaced once in awhile) & I was afraid that he & Maharet & I wouldn't have anything to talk about...we do see each other almost every day now. (It seems utterly unreal that I spent 3 whole years of my life seeing the same 3 people (Akasha, Maharet & Mr. Shoreleave) every single day...and if I didn't, I got antsy).

But of course I was wrong about having a bad time. Quel surprise.

For one thing, Brandi showed up with her new man in tow; so we had an entertaining evening's round of "Let's try not to freak out the new boy at first." It was harder than usual, as Maharet & I were in black outfits & silver ankhs that stemmed from the same fashion sense if not the exact same model. And since we have similar builds & faces yet blonde & black hair, we were like the goth Betty & Veronica. That's a trifle intimidating, I would suppose. Plus, Daniel's increasing consumption made it harder for him to keep track of his mouth (& the gestures he made involving his mouth...)

And then the real wild card was played: Mr. Blonde showed up to hang out. We almost acted like friends. We almost acted as if we liked one another. Almost.

But the evening was far from grim. We all talked about concerts & music & stuff we did lately. I tried to be a humane ex-girlf & not mention Trevor too much, although his name inevitable cropped up here & there. I tried not to gloat, but only Mr. Blonde could tell you whether I was successful. He asked me where his pseudonym came from (another sign that he is still involved with this diary, although he promised to kick a long time ago). And I teased him about boiling my mouth after we broke up. I reacted to his mock dismay at this announcement by killing all sentimentality from the equation: "Oh, like I was supposed to treasure any lingering traces of you on my tongue? Please." It was pleasant, if not entirely easy.

Hmm. Of all the people to take through a Burger King Drive Thru at 3 a.m., I thought he was on the bottom of the list. But life is like that. Well, mine is at any rate.

Yesterday I committed another met'act. Mark of Sui Juris was in town, and since he didn't seem too much like a stalker, I decided to take the chance (but I did bring Trevor along as The Muscles - I am a slightly built chick with very little arm strength, and you can't be too careful with those crazy journal people, don't cha know...) It was a bit awkward to admit that although he used to read my journal every day, I had never followed up the journal link he so kindly provided. In practical terms, it meant that he'd already heard of the bicycle escapade before most of my friends, and that I didn't need to tell the whole story of Blue Monday Friday when it came up in conversation. Funny thing: when Snag Boy would do the same thing last fall, I was a bit creeped out. But I guess cause Mark's "diary people," I didn't think that it was weird at all. We talked shop for hours...Stacy & I have never done this, and I've discovered that a metaconversation's completely different between readers & fellow writers.

But even if Mark wasn't a diary guy, we would've had a good time. We basically hung out for 4 or 5 hours: drinking coffee in the Moonbean Cafe, directing Mark to the souvenir handcuffs from my favorite dollar store on Spadina, getting food at BBQ's, tapping into the internet terminals at the Concrete Turkey & chilling in the Whitney Hall quad. Although my overall efforts were somewhat desultory (we only wandered a few blocks), I have never before shown someone around the city. I'm banking the kharma, so that I can visit other journalists with impunity...or maybe I'm paying back the kharma debt of Stacy showing my through the cold façade of the Garden.

It was also fun hanging out with a de-facto Southerner...although Mark lives in DC, his accent is decidedly Atlantean (I think...but then again, how would I know?) To Canadians, Americans are so exotic...slightly poisonous, but fascinating in the extreme. Maybe this is why we seem so defensive.

Good afternoon, but all these metaexperiences will have their price, I'm sure. Will this journal turn into itself & lunch upon the guts of other journals? Or am I being a silly bitch? Only time will tell.

one year ago today: nobody likes me...think I'll go eat worms

All original material is copyright Tisiphone. That's right...me!

Talk to the Queen of the Harpies.