{December} {February}

January 1998.

January 30, 1998.

Quote of the day:

Aegeis looking at the coffee table this morning, which was cluttered with half-empty glasses, half-burnt candles, books, CD's, etc. -
"I feel like that table looks."

"I'm so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest, TAKE ME HOME!!!"
- spirit of the west

What a night.

I was going to go to bed early last night, really I was...then Cranly showed up, fresh from a late dinner, and managed to convince Aegeis and myself to come drink at his house. We all know that I'm a big sucker for the promise of cheap entertainment and social inebriation, so it should come as a surprise to no-one that I was up all night, sucking back Bailey's, Sleeman's and Gordon's until 5 or 6 this morning.

Man, I haven't drank like that since...Preacher's birthday. And before that would have to be that night in September which was the first (and probably the last) complete public gathering of my angels which ended with Palaver nearly passing out in the decorative grass planters in front of my res.

I can't believe that I got up at 9 a.m. for class. I stumbled in (early) wearing someone else's shirt (Cranly's), nauseous, hungry, and woefully unprepared for the lecture. In my backpack were my clothes from yesterday, the ceremonial drinking tiara and beret & what's left of my huge-ass Bailey's bottle from Heathrow. I felt...um...strange. Not respectable, but interesting.

And of course, I managed to bump into a friend of my bro's from high-school while in this post-bender state. 'Twas fabulously surreal. I was quite impressed with my ability to make polite small-talk...apparently, this is a quality which is unaffected by heinous extremes of the university life-style. Live & learn. (And then discuss what you've learned loudly whilst intoxicated.)

Now I'm flaked out at home with my new copy of The Complete Winnie-the-Pooh (with draw-rings by Shepard). The volume itself is as big & heavy as a truck, but wonderfully comforting to an extremely hung-over lass like myself. So I think that I'll go to bed...Tigger should be popping up in this volume, and my attention span is woefully short...

January 29, 1998.

Today I went shopping in Kensington Market with Palaver. It is merely the latest event in an all-out craze that's sweeping through my friends, i.e. shopping for second-hand clothing. Tiger Lily & Cranly are absolutely infatuated with the local Good Will Buy the Pound, to the point that Tiger Lily has developed "rules" that govern each visit and maintain the spirit of the event (such as "thou shall not try on any article of clothing before purchasing it"). The system has been pretty lucky for her, tho'. On Tuesday, she showed up in a fabulous swanky drag outfit that probably cost about 5 dollars in total, and would look at home at a gathering of modern English gentry.

Palaver was on the lookout for a dress shirt with French cuffs, as he is going to a debating tourney this weekend. But I have been trained by Sister Sunshine to shop like a wolverine, and with my helpful assistance, he walked out of Courage My Love the proud owner of a formal vest, tuxedo tails, striped tux pants, black gloves, and a fine dress shirt. Basically, I kept suggesting things, ferreting out accessories, and encouraging him until he reached a total outfit. The overall look is not far removed from that of a father of the bride. But I don't want to give the impression that he bought all those things to shut me up. He walked out of that store as happy as a clam. A clam with a tuxedo, that is. He is going to look fantastic at the Fireball...which is good, because he's one of my dates.

For my part, I couldn't resist a second-hand black velvet evening gown that was offered for the low, low price of $12. Twelve dollars!!! I can't even buy the sale priced shirts at Le Chateau for that. I am deeply in love with Courage My Love, and will probably remain so for a good long while.

January 28, 1998.

In deference to Poet, I am abandoning my "right now!" lists. He only delurks occasionally, and I feel inclined to obey someone who doesn't make too many demands, as opposed to someone who's always pushing me in some direction or other.

So last night I went out to see Spiceworld.

Not even against my will. I wanted to go. And I had an awesome time. You can't go into movies like this expecting high art and gripping drama...you gotta expect 5 chicks with no acting ability who are generally known by one key physical feature. And so I had great fun. For one thing, the supporting cast was awesome. I particularly enjoyed Meatloaf as the bus driver Dennis. Although I thought that they should've given him more to do...like delivering the baby. I was rooting for that.

Another cool thing was that the dialogue in one scene reminded me of res-life.

Scene: young boy is in coma; Spice Girls are trying to figure out what will wake him up.

Posh Spice: Take off your top, [Ginger].
Ginger Spice: Shut up!

But I think that the best thing about Spiceworld was that I left the theatre feeling like I knew quite a bit about the "personalities" of the Girls. My favorite is still Baby, 'cause she's a bit chubby & she's very cute, but I was quite impressed by Sporty. She's definitely the Spice with the least going on terms of physical "perfection" (i.e. her teeth are kinda bad, and she's not that well-endowed), but she'd be a nice Spice to hang around. Unlike Posh. Yuk. Who pissed in her canteen?

And of course, Fry & Laurie were sheer brilliance. I miss Stephen Fry so much...can't wait till that Oscar Wilde biopic comes out. I hear that he's in love (Fry, not Wilde). I think that's cool - he's been lonely for so long - but I always hold out a tiny hope that he'll go straight (or at least let me try to win him back to the fold (so to speak)).

I've been very emotional and confused lately. One of the worst problems with this format is that I'm not free to discuss my feelings about close friends when those feelings change. Not because I fear discovery, but because it's much easier to misinterpret vagrant negative impulses as long-term issues when you're reading something about yourself. In particular, I'm quite confused about my relationship with 2 friends - neither of whom are regular readers, but both of whom are well-known to those who are regular readers. I can't come right out with anything, because I'm afraid it'll be passed on in some garbled form. And I don't want to screw anything up simply because I'm discussing these issues in a public format.

But one thing I will say: I'm feeling incredibly jealous lately. Sister Sunshine has taken up with a photographer at the Varsity, and it's driving me crazy. And the worst thing is; I know that I'm being an idiot and a bitch. I've frequently taken up with res people for various lengths of time, and she never rode me into the ground.

I don't know why I'm freaking out so badly. Maybe it's because sometimes I feel like she's the only person I've got; the only person that won't go away if I act horrible, the only person who won't leave me alone. She once said that I was trying to make her into Mr. Blonde. Maybe I'm just afraid of another breakup, so I'm flaring up at insignificant things to lessen a bigger blow; I mean the final shock.

Shit. I don't know if anything in that last paragraph made any bloody sense. What I do know is that I'm feeling all raw for really dumb reasons, and it's making me crave comfort foods. Which really sucks, on top of everything else.

January 26, 1998.

right now (yes, now!!)

listening:

wearing:

cans of diet coke consumed today:

on my windowsill:

lacking:

most useless thing on the desk:

quote of the day: "my life is meat." - the lawyer

"Can all this fruit be free?!"
- "these apples," BNL

I feel like I did a lot today. Let's see...7 hours of class seems to be my biggest accomplishment. Or maybe my biggest accomplishment today was that I actually showed up in every place I was supposed to be in: class, Fung, tea, class, and the Ferg coffee house. And that I promptly returned my phone messages. And I vacuumed up all the broken glass.

Well, it feels like a lot. I'm tired & hungry...lemme alone...

Existential anecdote of the day:

Veronica cajoled me into accompanying her to Robarts after lunch. I suppose this is related to the female mass migration towards the bathroom phenom. Anyway...so we were inside the concrete turkey (which, BTW, was designed by naval engineers to sink in preparation of a frontal assault by Rochester University) and I had some time to kill while she answered email.

This morning, I'd learned that the Cure song "Killing An Arab" is taken from an incident in L'Etrangier by Camus. My curiosity was, of course, awakened. After all, I read King Lear for the first time because of the Hip song "Cordelia," so I have a history of doing these sorts of things. Found the call number. Went to the stacks. Found a million copies in French, of course. Found but one English copy...and it seemed woefully thin. Took it down from the shelf to discover that all the pages had been ripped out.

Isn't that too existential and strange for words? I thought so...

Has anyone else in this online diary community (the fringiest of fringe cultures) noticed that a helluva lot of Archipelago sites have become a Mondrian horror of nested tables? Since when did coloured squares become cooler than shit? Sheesh. Talk about being thwarted by download time...

January 25, 1998.

These kinds of lists seem to be awfully damn popular in online journals, so I'll fill a bit o' space by telling you

what's going on right now (yes, now!!)

listening:

reading:

worrying about:

cans of diet coke consumed today:

trying desperately to avoid:

wearing:

tasting:

what's stuck on my monitor:

watching:

Not much happened today. I wandered around trying to find "Lavengro," without resorting to the insane idea of paying more than $20 for a book I'll prolly never read again. The only copy I found was entirely without binding. Imagine my surprise when I found it held together with a black cotton ribbon. Spent about a half an hour sorting the pages into their proper order. Sigh. Makes me nostalgic for my summer job, in a completely negative sense.

So this is Superbowl Sunday. Lawyer's having a party, but it's XY chromies only. S'funny...when I was just a wee lass & budding feminist, I went out of my way to complain about shit like this. Now I don't care. I'd prolly make more of a fuss if I liked football, but then again, I'd prolly be invited if I showed any interest in football whatsoever. But I don't care about it at all (Ferg snow football excluded, of course. I'll do anything with my house!)

We have a new Ferg resident this semester. Apparently, yesterday was his first sight of Aphrodite sans shirt. My sources report that he beat a hasty retreat. I remember being shocked the first time I saw Aphrodite's undies in a social context, but I thought the whole thing was too amusing to miss. That's the general consensus of the house, at least. We are all drawn to Aphrodite's displays of nudity to varying degrees: Judith, Veronica, Jenni and Cordelia usually follow suit, while boys try not to gape at her amazing bod.

And Jay thinks I'm making this shit up to tease him. I tone it down, love.

January 24, 1998.

I learned something very important yesterday: that sunflower seeds are high in fat. I know this sounds impossibly naïve, but I had no idea how fattening nuts are. I've been scarfing the things like crazy this year, thinking all the while that the biggest nutritional problem involved was the excess of salt.

No wonder I'm so much heavier than I'm used to being. I've been feeling a real disparity between the body I own physically and the one I own mentally. It's analogous to the feeling I had when I first started to lose weight in adolescence...I remember walking by a mirror, glancing casually to one side, and thinking, "shit! I'm actually thin!" or something along those lines. I was pretty much in a desirable weight zone in high-school...and then came Fung.

I have never mentally adjusted to the Freshman 15. Most days I wake up with the conviction that I could fit into my size 29 stretch denim pants that I bought at the age of 17, had I the inclination. When I actually get dressed, I feel vaguely irritated, like I absent-mindedly checked the wrong body out of central storage this morning; a silly mistake, because this can't be my regular body. Oh no.

And when I noticed this gap between image and reality, I thought it just was a side-product of my much-bemoaned parting with Mr. Blonde. I thought it was natural to feel a sense of helplessness about your body when you suddenly lack someone to tell you how wonderful/sexy/gorgeous/etc. you look on a regular basis. (Isn't it odd how I assume that whatever I feel is natural and general? Boy, I'm self-centred!)

But now I know what the culprit is. I'm eating bizarre amounts of fattening foods. This is my real body. And once I liberate myself from these vile little seeds, I shall be well and truly on the way to the kind of body I so fondly remember from high-school. (And I'm not talking about God In An Alcove this time, either!)

January 23, 1998.

"I don't care if you don't want me, 'cause I'm yours yours yours anyhow..."
- "I Put A Spell On You"

Tonight was karaoke night in Diablos'. Yes, I made an idiot of myself in front of a room of friends, acquaintances and well wishers. But at least it wasn't due to drunkenness. This time.

Braveheart was awesome, singing "I've Got You Under My Skin" and "Superstiton." God, my friends are amazingly talented. Either I only befriend creative people...or the only people who can stand my obnoxious personality are those simply bursting with entertaining ways to do simple things. Yeah, that's it. (Speaking of entertaining, Nigel's latest entry about 3 paragraphs down, is one of the funniest political anecdotes I've read in a long time. Those crazy Brits. Ya gotta love em. But I digress...)

I finally met Holly this week. I've been hearing about her since 1st year through the SMU network at U of T and also in a romantic context with Trotski, but it took me until this week to actually get a face & conversation to match the name.

I prolly met her last year, come to think. I met a lot of people last year, but I can't remember many faces or names. I was way too inebriated most of the time. Sad, but true. (Note to self: do not involve yourself in troubles big & silly enough to require frequent alcoholic palliatives. And stay away from poets. Stupid Keats!! Vision of my true love indeed. But I'm ranting again...)

January 22, 1998.

As today was my day off, I did naught but launder my clothes, watch TV, and argue with/tease my brother. Oh, yes, I was in Brampton last night, rather covertly, if truth be told. Sometimes I like to be mysterious. Actually, I like to be mysterious at all times; sometimes I actually succeed.

My father has informed me that my bosses of last summer have been unceremoniously canned. Not the boss I hated, unfortunately, but the bosses that I had no problem with. Embezzlement is such an ugly word, don't you think? Imagine how nervous you'd be all the time; trying not to flinch when someone asks you how the business is going. Sounds like hell to me.

I'm listening to Marilyn Manson sing the Screamin' Jay Hawkins song, "I Put a Spell On You." Oddly enough, it's a perfect combination of old-fashioned obsession and new-fashioned psychosis. It's neat. God, I love soundtracks. Especially to David Lynch movies. They're so...atmospheric, I guess is the word. Like you're doing something eccentric by default, just by having a particular CD on the stereo.

I am reliving my childhood in a major way lately. Yesterday, Tiger Lily and I pulled a double switch at the Royal Ontario Museum, and snuck into the Batcave for the low, low price of nothing. The Batcave is this awesome walkthrough exhibit in the Natural Science wing that is intended to simulate a South American bat cave. The neatest part is when the stereo & strobe lights suddenly come on, giving the effect that a flock (herd? bunch? group? parliament?) of bats is beating a hasty retreat overhead. We oohed and ahhed and tried to avoid the guards, and generally had an awesome time acting like unsupervised 7-year-olds.

Everytime I go to the ROM, I'm overwhelmed by the sheer amount of effort they put into display. Basically, their collection is pitiful. They have a bunch of stuffed animals, some bugs, some costumes, a few shards of pottery, and a couple large replicas of dinosaur skeletons. Every once in awhile, another museum will feel sorry for us and lend some cool artifacts, or a travelling exhibit will go through.

But the effort is incredible! The layout, the information, the helpful staff, and the innovative museum techniques make each visit hypnotizing. It makes me sad in some ways...the British Museum has all the shit anyone could ever want...the Elgin Marbles, manuscript poems from some of the greatest poets ever, etc. etc. But the layout is pure crap. I guess when you've got the Rosetta Stone, you tend to feel above well-planned displays, and that's all there is to it.

January 21, 1998.

A very nice chap has emailed me the story of St. Agnes, taken from the Catholic encyclopedia. Apparently, she's a saint of relatively high stature who died (as so many young Christian girls did those days) because she wouldn't give up her virginity to a pagan. Coincidentally enough, Poet wrote a very long and hilarious email today that mentions a) being barred from the Vatican City b) getting lost in the catacombs and c) following a series of fish shapes through Toronto. Of course, the email also contained a long well-informed rant about the new Great Expectations, not to mention the line "I just can't take female clowns seriously," so it wasn't all an enormous me-centered coincidence. Or was it??

As for my ritual, it went tolerably well. Fasting was really hard, mostly because I tended to be around people who were eating. I discovered how much of my day is planned around how much time I have until the next meal. When that's taken away, I'm almost at a loss for things to do.

Went on an expedition to the Dominion (when you live on campus, any walking distance feels like an expedition) to find a microwave cake that I could make in the kitchenette. Unfortunately, Dominion had no such thing, so I had to borrow pans from Tiger Lily & Cranly, who're set up much better than I in such matters. So I was talking to myself in front of the cake display, wondering if I should break down and get some eggs, when I realized that the guy next to me was obviously finding me psychotic, and trying not to stare. I contemplated explaining, then I realized how much worse that would make it.

"See, I live in residence, but I need to bake a cake tonight, because it's St. Agnes' Eve. I'm supposed to fast the entire day, make a cake in silence...where are you going? {shouting} Then I cut a slice! And walk to bed backwards! And I'll dream of my true love!! Have a nice day!!"

I ended up staying with Tiger Lily & Cranly, as it's much easier to be domestic there (and it's a shorter distance to walk backwards). It was great. They tempted me with food, tried to draw me into the conversation when I was baking, then dived on the cake when I went to bed. But nowhere else on earth would a chick walking backwards in silence be greeted with the words, "Oh, Aleta's going to bed! Goodnight! I hope he finds you!" It was awesome.

(Who did I finally dream about? It's a secret, of course.)

January 19, 1998.

"St Agnes' Eve -- Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in wooly fold..."
- Keats from The Eve of St. Agnes

"Dinner with my parents - Ah, bitter dull it was!
The food, for all its warming, was a-cold;
My mother while she ate smoked cigarettes,
And this was the boring story my father told..."
- Daniel Pinkwater from The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death

Nigel has informed me that tomorrow night is St. Agnes Eve. No, I have no idea what the story of this particular saint is, either. But apparently, she oversees a romantic ritual by which you can conjure up the image of your love to be by fasting all day, making a cake in silence, eating a slice and then walking to bed backwards. You will then dream of your future love. I think that the fasting part will be the hardest thing to do. I suppose I could creatively interpret it to mean "do not consume food of any nutritional value," so that I can consume Diet Coke, rice cakes and even charcoal briquettes (if I'm suddenly overtaken with the urge to relive my childhood) with impunity.

Damn. I just read about halfway into the Keats poem, and he specifies that the participant must be a virgin. Then again, when did tuberculosis-ridden poets become the final word on Christian ritual? I bet he just threw that virgin thing in to make his heroine seem young & unspoiled, not to mention unbearably appealing to the occasional educated pedophile in his audience.

I just realized something today: I'm not very good at conveying my emotional states in this diary. I tend to sum up an event in some cliché ("it was swell.") without going into the subtleties of the situation. I don't know if this is a failing or what.

I do attempt to convey my feelings in the emotional shorthand of clothing. To me, it's obvious that when I wear the fishnets, I feel a whole lot different than the days when my only clean pair of jeans is 3 sizes too small and I have to worry about bruising a kidney on top of everything else. But I guess it's not so obvious to my audience. Anyway, I feel like I'm coming across as a clothing-obsessed airhead, who can't talk about anything relevant to anything, so I'd appreciate if you'd let me know what you think.

January 18, 1998.

"You're nobody 'til somebody loves you..."

The Swingers soundtrack has been in my room since Wednesday afternoon's impromptu cocktail party. It really rocks, in a swingin', cocktail party sorta way, which is quite a good way after all.

Destiny's going-away party was quite the happenin' bash. She's going to England on a student exchange program for half a year to study art; then she's going to Finland to "finnish" off her residency requirements (he he he!). I knew about 6 people at the entire party, which is kind of a departure from my recent round of parties. And I don't mingle all that well. But it was pretty neat.

Sister Sunshine did a Nobel-Prize-deserving job of swanking me up for the occasion, and I ended up looking like a non-smoking Marlene Deitrich...or an even more elegant version of Posh Spice, depending on your pop-culture demographic. I mean, I had it all going on: gray top-hat, charcoal-coloured fitted pin-stripe jacket, long black gloves, LBD (that's Little Black Dress) and basic black pumps. SS got to gloat the entire evening over me, as I was essentially her creation: the hat & gloves were hers, and she'd pressured me into buying the dress & jacket. Smart girl, that one. She knows her accessories, that's for damn sure.

I suppose that a measure of my outfit's success was that I picked up like crazy. Unfortunately, the only guys I really wanted to talk to were either taken or gay, so I ended up making a smashing impression on the remainder, i.e. various Blockbuster clerks from Destiny's former place of employment.

What is it with me and video store guys? I must be exuding some weird cyclic pheromone, because on certain days, I drop 'em like flies. Mr. Blonde, for example. Although I don't seem to have unconsciously seduced Dirk on our recent lunch date. Maybe the World's Ugliest Shirt acts as a natural antidote. I'll have to remember that the next time I get into a group of video store guys who obviously think I'm too drunk to take notice of their inept pawings.

Um, wrong.

January 17, 1998.

I had a pretty nice time at Palaver's housewarming party, with one glaring exception. The laurels first, then I'll get to the hemlock.

First of all, when I got into the subway, a Christian greeted me. Personally, I've got nothing against roving bands of people with wide smiles, comforting voices, and invitations to church. So I spent 5 minutes "uh-huh"-ing while she did the sales pitch & handed me her card. Okay, I thought, no problems yet. In fact, I felt rather good for being nice to a total stranger, instead of doing the big-city get-out-of-my-face sidestep.

But the detour into the Holy Land caused me to miss the westbound train. Not a big problem, tho', since I didn't have any schedule. Sat down to wait & people watch. Saw this guy who sorta looked like the Lawyer, only taller, baby-faced, and longer haired. So, because I lacked anything else to do, I made a point to get onto his carriage when the subway finally came. He offered me the free seat. Bonus, I thought.

But the best part was at Bathurst Station, waiting for the bus. I was standing, trying to figure out why I felt so good after only 5 hours of sleep, when he walked up to me with a grin and remarked "I gotta say, you're a very beautiful woman." I grinned like an idiot, but remembered to thank him. Then he walked out into the night.

I count it as the best relationship of my life. I was happy, he was happy, there was no time for things to go sour, etc. etc.

As I said, I had a pretty good time at Palaver's house warming. There were a few too many English majors there, tho'. But between the discussions on Swift & Joyce, I learned that Ernest Hemingway lived in Cuba at the same time as Poet's father, and that Ernest taught Poet's father to water-ski. How neat is that? I'm of the opinion that it would have been a better story if Ernest had taught Poet's father to drink like a drunken fish & abuse women, but the truth is the truth, and that's that.

But the rather unpleasant part involved Preacher. I was sitting with him and the Lawyer, talking about whatever, and the general topic of breasts came up. And as I have been on the receiving end of many taunts about my small bra-size from those two, I got up to go, saying something teasing along these lines. And then Preacher, in a voice loud enough to cut through the conversation of 3 rooms, said:

"Oh, you're just mad because you don't have nice breasts."

What did I do? Not much. I was very close to throwing my coke in his face, but in the end, I just walked away. Number one, it's just not true. Number two, it's entirely inappropriate and cruel, and not worthy of treating as humour ("oh, you're just mad because you're a lousy lay.") Number three, it's not my problem if he fetishizes certain things about me and grows hostile, it's his problem.

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Destiny is having a party, and I'm going to be late.

January 16, 1998.

I'm feeling very dreamy at this moment. I can't believe I'm even awake. Yesterday, Ferg celebrated the fresh snowfall with an impromptu Snowfest in the UC Quad. It didn't seem like my kind of thing. For one thing, I'm in total seasonal denial. I have neither gloves, nor scarf, nor hat, let alone snow-pants or a decent ski jacket. Besides, I have early classes on Fridays. But despite all the kvetching, I actually borrowed some wear from my neighbor, pulled on a bunch of layers, and tripped out to frolic.

It was flat-out awesome. We started out with snow angels & snow fights, but then organized an ad-hoc game of snow football. I had the best time. Me, who hates most physical sports and whose football education consists entirely of watching my high-school friends play and helping to display a Maharet-designed booster banner which read: "#62 is very offensive."

Well, I was on the best team. None of the guys on our team were out to prove anything, we had a boy and a girl to co-coach, and I got to express some of my road rage at a certain obnoxious frosh who spent the whole time last night making obnoxious comments. We played for 2 hours, before retiring to the common room for hot chocolate and the planning of schemes (2 of note: a scheme to create a line of Fung clothing ("anybody wan' a sanweech?") and a scheme to paste a Rocky Horror Picture Show style paper outfit to the huge portrait of Howard Ferguson which looks down benevolently on the Ferg high table). I didn't get to bed until 3 a.m., happy, tired, and totally enthused about house spirit.

Now, I'm not a girl who goes in for Nazi-youth style boosterism. I'm perfectly content for those around me to develop an individual attachment to an institution without feeling the need to wear spirit gear, go to every lame event, or chant in people's faces. But the real deal is a powerful potion indeed. I give you the Satan-worshipping as a prime example. The connection in Ferg is between all levels, and it shows. We are the tightest, happiest, most obnoxious house in the UC system, if not the entire university. It's very exciting, is all I can say.

The upshot being that I got 5 hours of sleep last night before classes. Which is fine. I felt surprisingly good all day long, even during my intensely masochistic session at Hart House right before dinner (20 minutes on the bike, 15 on the rowing machine, 3 jogging laps, 30 crunches, and a set each on 2 of the nautilus machines). It's like there's a hidden reservoir deep within me that feeds my recent desire to punish myself through exercise. It's useful, and it helps me sleep at night, but I'm not sure it's healthy...especially since the majority of my year is mostly sedentary. Oh well. What ever doesn't kill me, right?

Well, I'm off to Palaver's housewarming. What's that? Why yes, he did move in a year and a half ago. But they've finally removed the carpet from the bathroom, and thus feel ready to admit guests. Cheers!

January 14, 1998.

What a fucked up day.

Last night was the anniversary of James Joyce's death, so in keeping to what has become Ferg tradition, a bunch of Ferg, beaus of Ferg and expatriate Ferg dressed in funeral black and gathered in a local pub (called, appropriately enough, the James Joyce) to drink to the man's passing in fine Irish style. Cranly did us proud with his short n' sweet eulogy to Mr. Joyce, after which the band swung into "Finnegan's Wake." Both performances elicited much applause from our somber-looking table. Unfortunately, a true Irish wake is rather impossible on a Tuesday night, and I had to leave fairly early, due to early morning classes.

So I started off the day tired and a bit dehydrated, but pretty happy. Took Tiger Lily to Fung for another fine lunch as only Fung offers, after which we hung around a bit with Aphrodite in my room. The girls caught sight of my large bottles of wine cooler. They proposed a detour into pure decadence. I couldn't help but agree, so that...

1:30 p.m. this afternoon found me slugging back wine coolers in martini glasses, all to the tune of the Swingers soundtrack. Pure, pure decadence. And as our giddiness increased, we began to dance to the Latin-flavoured music. Oh, did we dance. Okay, I'll admit it: I was part of a 3-woman conga line today. It was pretty awesome, all told...but I think that the exercise session immediately following the cocktail party was a bad idea. Hart House brought out the masochist in me, for some reason, so the workout was particularly punishing.

Basically, my body's been rather confused. It's not terribly sure whether the social clock is set to party, study, exercise, or what. The endorphins were nice, while they lasted. But all too soon I plunge back into sugar-high headache land. Blech.

January 12, 1998.

For someone who slept to her heart's content this morning instead of brushing up on Pope & Thackeray, I'm pretty freaking tired. I don't know why. I remained on campus the entire day, leaving my room only for Fung, class, and tea at the Union. I guess it's all that exhausting decision-making I did today ("Delete the email? Or transfer it to the misc. folder? Hmmm...") Yep, the crucial moments come hard & fast here in Ferg. Thank god I'm a gutsy enough broad to handle the split-second world-events-resting-on-my-shoulders pressure. You bet.

"Oh there's a fish a fish a fish dead in my heart..."
- from the album "Cowpunk Baby. Cowpunk!" (i.e. one of the downsides to working for the Varsity)

I had to give up wearing my new shoes for the time being. Maybe after I get a new layer of skin, we can begin bonding once more. But until then, there's no way. Ouch. I never thought I could bleed so much from my feet. Kinda gross, actually...

What else? Watched Hard Core Logo for the second time in 2 days and the 5th time ever last night avec Palaver, Tiger Lily & Cranly. Cranly fell asleep about 15 minutes into the movie, which was pretty cute, actually. What a great freaking movie. Go watch it, all of you, right now. It shoulda won at least one Oscar for best Male Actor, Hugh Dillon up against Callum Keith Rennie. Plus, whoever usually makes the Academy feel sorry for them.

I have a question: am I perverse for finding Callum Keith Rennie more attractive the farther he sinks into desperation? Okay, but am I unacceptably perverse? Huh? Am I?

January 11, 1998.

Well, I'm officially through the honeymoon stage with my new Doc's. As of this moment, a literally incredible amount of blood has trickled out of the backs of my heels. It's revolting. I think I'm going to give my feet a rest tomorrow, especially since I have to walk a few long blocks to get Band-Aids.

I tend to think that my various relationships with Doc's are human love affairs in reverse. You meet for the first time. There is a sort of awkwardness whenever you go out together, followed swiftly by intense pain and bleeding when every moment is raw, throbbing agony. Finally, everything between you mellows out, and you form a symbiotic union that strengthens & fulfils you for years.

God, I'm tired. You'll have to chalk that last paragraph up to the lateness of the hour & my poetic mindset. I've been trying to write, but the best thing I've come up with so far is:

There, in the darkness you took advantage of an electric circuit
to paint my body with your coldness.
My body is a crime scene.
fortunately,
I hold out hope that you will be tied to your fingerprints any day now.

All right, I'm packing it in. I have to get up bright & early tomorrow morning, so that I can avoid the early morning measures I resorted to last Friday, namely wearing my pajama top to lectures.

January 10, 1998.

"Someone once said, 'Diaries are only for virgins and generals.' Generals keep diaries to document their adventures for posterity and future publishing deals. Virgins use diaries as a way of killing time since they have nothing else to occupy themselves. Normal people are far too busy having sex to keep diaries...And most of all, I'd really like to stop keeping a diary someday."
- Nicola, from Bust magazine.

I've just had one of the greatest nights out in Brampton...definitely one of the greatest since Mr. Blonde dumped me (not that we don't have fun, Maharet!) It all stems from one of the most unlikely pairings in history: Preacher and my brother. The fact that the 2 of them get along so well is almost scary.

See, Preacher is the kind of guy who sometimes makes first impressions that don't really match his overall character. The people to whom I introduce him (often at a night at Ein.stein's) mostly end up asking incredulously, "that guy's going to be a priest?" I believe that I discussed this issue at length all the way back in June. Anyway, I never expected that my scotch-and-beer-identified, conservative, Anglican, easy-rock-listenin' U of T friend would hit it off with my straight-edged, vegetarian, anarchist, punk-rock-drummin,' post-secondary-education-eschewing brother. But we had the greatest time. It pleases me immensely.

My favorite part of the evening happened near the end of our meal at East Side Mario's. My brother's calzone came with a dish of sauce that he never, ever uses. So, by the end of the meal, we start looking for juvenile things to do, i.e. mashing up everything left on the plate with liberal amounts of spices they so foolishly left on the table or drinking those little cartons of pure cream (one of my more disgusting party tricks). But instead of doing any of these silly things, we decided to dare each other to drink the sauce.

Preacher put up a dollar & dared my brother. Then my brother emptied his pockets, and offered earplugs, 10 dollars and a drum-tuning key (which he quickly withdrew from the pot) to Preacher. But, as the 3 of us were too chicken, we had to turn to the next-best source of entertainment: the waiter, who we felt was just crazy enough to do it.

We waved him over, and offered the dollar and the earplugs. He brought over a tall glass of water, set it down, fixed the little sauce bowl with the steeliest gaze ever seen within an East Side Mario's franchise, and began. We were helpless with laughter. And you know, he could have done it, if it hadn't been for the huge chunks of tomato, floating on the bottom...

He staggered to the back, turning red & holding his stomach. At this point, we felt more contrite than anything else. We felt a giggly sort of remorse for killing the waiter. But he was okay. And we left him a huge tip, which included the original dollar and 5¢ of Canadian Tire money (contributed by Preacher). We are such delinquents...

January 8, 1998.

Today was another day of slack & roses - but since I don't actually have scheduled class on Thursday, I don't feel guilty. Mostly I wandered from res to Fung; socializing , buying people food, and breaking in my new shoes (ox-blood 3-holes - my first pair of non-black shoes since puberty, more or less) So not much to talk about.

Last night, I hung out in the Alpha Sigma Sigma frat house for the first time since that memorable party. Watched the boys play video games and swill girly drinks, followed by a late, late outing to the Dance Cave. It was awesome, in a low-key sort of way. Britboy quizzed me about the female opinion concerning various sexual matters, while Fly courteously offered me alcohol, Snag Boy died gruesomely while trying to outwit the 007 video game, and Trotski played DJ & generally acted like a diva.

It's really strange being the only girl in a house full of guys. I remember doing it all the time at 89 Brunswick last year, but the dynamic was a bit different. I don't know whether that was due to the people, the house, or the ever-looming specter of my then-boyf. Anyway...after awhile, the testosterone-driven conversation started to seem a little strange. (Especially Snag Boy's reasons for falling asleep when...never mind. You don't want to think about it, and neither do I, really.)

Then we jetted off to the Dance Cave, for some last minute dancing. I felt kind of bizarre...all tricked out in a little plaid skirt & short black turtleneck...like a French teacher, more or less...and in the middle of the Beautiful People, it all looked a bit odd. But the first rule of dancing in a new place is to forget that there are people on the edges of the dance floor sucking down Canadian and watching you writhe and twist. Just dance. Usually I'm with my best goil Sister Sunshine anyway, and we dance in tandem no matter where we happen to be. None of that pseudo-lesbian stuff, though (I save that for my other bitches: Tiger Lily & Aphrodite. *giggle*)

January 7, 1998.

"Just a little bit harder!" - iggy

Right now I'm listening to my Christmas present from Sister Sunshine: a gothic 3 CD compilation called "Flesheaters." It is the most cheeseworthy collection I have ever seen. I absolutely love it. It's not even that goth, really. My current favorite track is Iggy Pop re-interpreting "Louie Louie." The Kingsman never sang "every night I take her to fuck alone / she's not the kind of girl I'd fuck at home," did they? No wonder it got banned...

I am the laziest girl in the world. I didn't get up until noon today, thus sleeping through both of my morning classes. It wasn't because I couldn't get up (I probably could, if I hadn't turned off my alarm fairly quickly). I'm just too bored with my courses to attend. Bearing in mind that the semester is only 3 days old, I don't think that this is a very good sign...

Spent a good chunk of last night fucking around on the International Movie Database last night. It started as a simple search for relatively rare Concrete Blonde material. Then, not wanting to disconnect & do some actual work, I decided to see what the IMD had to say about Gordon Currie, my current small-time Canadian celeb obsession.

There was a link to his newest project - a movie called Dog Park, directed by one of my fave Canadians: Bruce McCullough. Which made me start to wonder, 'cause he shot part of a movie in my house a few months ago. It was the subject of much excitement in res, mostly due to the huge Kids In the Hall following here.

Guess who was in my house. Gordon Currie, that's who. God, I can't believe that I was so close...2 freaking months ago! *sigh* I live the most bizarre, Dickensian life sometimes. Occasionally, I even beat out Pip. Fancy that.

January 5, 1998.

Today has left me feeling like one of those lab experiments in which they make the animal question the idea of cosmic sanity. Pleasure! Pain! Pleasure! Pain! It sucks. Hard.

Oh, well. I should start my whining from the beginning. It's all about marks this time. Today I got 4 pieces of work back from all of my yearlong English courses. Ask me how I'm doing. I don't fucking know at this point. I have no fucking clue. One essay did well-and one did miserably. One Christmas test rocked the world-and one gave me the sandpaper shaft. But the really confusing thing is that an equally spectacular mark in the same class balances each bad grade. It's the strangest thing I have ever experienced.

In other news, I ventured into the Hart House gym for the first time since...oh...last April. That's right, folks, I was still in a relationship the last time I turned my thoughts to aerobic matters of the flesh. Which probably explains the amount of flesh I'm currently wearing, come to think.

I know that everyone has an ideal weight, one determined by genetics for the most part. But my body & I disagree as to where that point should be. I think that size 29 stretch denim is a reasonable expectation, whereas my body belongs to the sweatpants school of thought on this matter. And it's awfully hard to win against something that has shown itself capable of diabolical revenge. (Don't believe me? Have you ever have the spins for 7 hours? Exactly.)

January 4, 1998.

"Let the sun never blind your eyes. Let me sleep, so my teeth won't grind." - alice in chains

I think I've finally accepted that I will never get back together with Mr. Blonde, because I've started to buy CD's that I always nicked off him. Like this Alice In Chains album. I remember borrowing it for about 3 weeks in first year, getting totally into the music, and then giving it back, my Alice In Chains craving sated for the time being. It's bizarre the things that nostalgia will infect with poisonous significance, isn't it?

"Like the coldest winter chill..." - alice in chains

A very cute pic of my cousin's rug rat has been added to the Nursery, despite my cousins fervent desire to control any and all media exposure...or something. Perhaps she's just trying to keep him away from the preverts, Satanists, Terry Hatcher fans & Englishmen abusing young children via the Information Highway. Because, as we all know, the only people on the Net are 10-year-old boys-and 50-year-old men. All of whom are pretending to be big-breasted nymphos named Boom Boom. All of whom can't wait to fulfill their wildest sexual fantasies by downloading and masturbating over a cutesy pic of a 2-week-old baby boy. Jeez, I can't imagine anything more erotic...hell, why don't they sell "Parenting" on a high shelf, where young ones can't be seduced into this "alternative lifestyle"?!

Or something.

January 3, 1998.

I have not left Sister Sunshine's basement for more than 36 hours (not counting kitchen raids & bathroom trips). I cannot believe how numbed I am. We just sat through "Encino Man" because we were too lazy to go to the video store for something decent. That Brendon Fraser, though...dumb ass movie, but he is one gorgeous guy. Even when he's acting like a monkey for 2 solid hours.

Um, yeah. We also watched decent, thought provoking flicks...well, one intelligent film: "Blood & Donuts," a low budget Canadian flick about, well, a Canadian vampire. Quite frankly, I made Sister Sunshine rent it for 3 very superficial reasons: it's Canadian, it's about vampires, and they used "Bloodletting" by Concrete Blonde in the promos. But we were pleasantly surprised. All of the characters are really quirky, especially Boya (Gordon Currie), who's got to be the gentlest-voiced vampire ever captured on film.

He's kind of a goofy vamp-although he gets satisfyingly menacing (in a quiet sort of way) during the confrontation scenes. And they outfitted him with The World's Worst Shaggy-Haired Wig, which creates this bizarrely geeky effect. Fortunately, he's in the bath semi-frequently, and his big, stupid hair loses some volume...revealing a surprisingly cute guy (yes, I seem to be going on & on about cute guys this entry. That's what happens when I spent extended amounts of time with Sister Sunshine. My double-x chromosome kicks in. Deal with it.) I should also mention that Boya's best friend spends the entire film doing a surprisingly amusing Christopher Walken impression. And David Cronenburg plays a small-time gangster in a bowling alley. Trust me. You need to see this movie.

The other 3 movies we rented were all Russ Meyer flicks. I quite enjoyed "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" (Tura Santana has to be the coolest chick in cinematic history for her drag race challenge alone: "I don't try anything. I just do it. Wanna try me?") "and "Motor Psycho" (the main character gets bitten by a snake, cuts open the bite marks with his handy knife and spends a full minute screaming "Suck it! Suck it! Again!" to his female co-star. Unbelievable.)

However, I was less than impressed with "Beneath the Valley of the Ultra Vixens." At least the other 2 had a semblance of story, a hint of intrigue, a suggestion of sexuality without being explicit. But "Vixens" is pure porn, written by Roger Ebert, of all people. We had no idea what we were getting into-we sat in stunned silence through the first 20 minutes, only turning it off after the line, "that's the last time I let you fuck me up the ass!" had broken the spell.

I mean, it's one thing to rent a porno, knowing what you're getting into (so to speak). It's another to rent one unknowingly, and to anticipate the snickering of the video store clerk when you have to return it the next day. But, then again, maybe I just know too many video store clerks.

January 1, 1998.

Buono notte!! Happy New Year! Huzzah.

(I haven't slept since approximately 1997, so I'm hurting pretty badly right now...)

Went to the Lawyer's house last night. What a good party. Wore The Dress (my birthday suit), `nets, my new garter belt and a fab black boa. Aphrodite gave me the best compliment: the Love Goddess herself swore I "looked like sex." Felt very slinky.

So many people from res that I haven't seen in what felt like millennia...so much champagne poured on me...so much dancing...by the time the year turned, there were so many people in the house that we were crammed into the living room à la mosh pit, singing & kissing everyone in sight. I really hope that my mono didn't go dormant for the last few days, as yesterday's activity would have made me a Typhoid Mary (Mono Mary? Hmmm...)

I couldn't get over the amount of people who showed up that I assumed were out of the country, most notably Poet, who went home to Costa Rica for a few weeks, and Judith who was on a self-described "spoiled brat tour of Asia." For awhile, every time I entered a room, I was greeted with a new surprising face of a friend. Not a bad way to kiss the old year goodbye...with happy surprises, I mean, not walking into rooms ad nauseaum.

I actually fell asleep a couple hours into the new year, when the spins got really bad...woke up to find Tiger Lily asking if I wanted to come home with her...I refused, preferring to stay rooted until the world made up its damn mind which way it wanted to tilt...and thus spent the first night of the new year huddling under the Lawyer's comforters and fighting off nausea in the coldest house in the world (the heat had been turned off once the place got packed & it was never turned on again). It's bizarre what goes through your mind when you can't sleep for 7 hours. I found myself reciting Paula Abdul lyrics at length to test my memory of the 80's and craving bacon. Aphrodite's boy Paris tried to convince me last night that the only hangover cure was bacon and Gatorade, and the idea stuck horribly in my mind. I can't imagine a worse way to start off a new year, than bacon & Gatorade-but perhaps I'm being provincial.

One of my resolutions is to answer all of my email within a week of receiving it, as I have been hugely derelict in that respect this year. At first it was because I had no bloody time to do anything with 6 courses & a job. Later, my dominant laziness reared its procrastinating bitch head. So yesterday I went through my inbox and answered all the messages that I hadn't gotten around to (in some cases, since November), so that I could start the new year right. I just hope that by making this resolution public, I can be shamed enough to actually answer my bloody correspondence!

In other email news, I came home today to find a 65K email from Poet about his trip home. It's the longest email I've ever received. I can't believe it. Well, I can, because it's Poet, and he does this sort of thing on a rather frequent basis, but still. 65K. And most of the people he sent it to are just going to delete it without reading it, which he knows very well.

meet the players
what has gone before
go back to the index, punk

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

Talk to the Queen of the Harpies.