{June} {August}

July 1998

July 31, 1998.

- from my traveling journal, written at the side of the road this afternoon

"Last night I read 'V for Vendetta' non-stop. My dreams were full of concentration camps & a tough man who survived them. We ate fried chicken together, me, my friends & this conspiracy survivor.

"I think this is a sign.

"Today I must either mobilize & protest against the onrushing neo-fascist Ontario - or I should let Colonel Sanders make me dinner.

"Who's to say?"

I had an pseudo-adventure this afternoon, although nothing really remarkable happened. Every year I take my bike out of the garage for a punishing round of the block or so...just so that I can feel like I did something athletic & summery. Well, today was one of those days.

It began with a walk to the local gas station for air, as my rear tire was as flat as Kate Moss' tummy. And, just my luck, a whole battalion of mini-vans pulled in behind me, just as I began to incompetently fiddle with my valves. 3 different people offered advice...it pretty humiliating. And then when I finally got to the dry cleaners, I realized that I hadn't grabbed my dress for dry cleaning. I'm an idiot, ok?

Then I realized that my back tire was flat again.

D'oh.

So I spent a lot of time pushing my bike around, and a lot of time resting under trees with bugs crawling over my legs. Brr...I'm itchy just reminiscing. That was my athletic escapade for the summer...hope you enjoyed it.

"...looks perfect as cats!"
- the cure

Other than that, I've spent a lot of time in the last few days reading comic books. Don't worry, I'm not turning into a 10-year-old (not yet), but I find that I've been in a hell of a lot of comic book & role playing conversations lately. And the key word is "in," as I cannot really participate. I just don't know enough about comics or RPG's. So I stare at my hands & wait for the conversation to turn (while I curse the name of Alan Moore!! Well, not really.)

This also has a lot to do with getting in touch with Trevor's personality roots. Apparently, he spent most of his time in high-school with multi-sided dice & an in-depth understanding of the difference between pre-Chaos & post-Chaos DC Universes. I, on the other hand, was busy drinking peach schnapps & coke, perfecting my euchre game, collecting black t-shirt's & learning all the words to obscure AC/DC & Alice Cooper albums.

It's like the Montagues & the Capulets, hmmm?

one year ago today: twiggy is the only one to make eye contact

July 30, 1998.

My second day in the Plaque Shaque was even worse than the first, as I didn't get back from Streetsville until 2 a.m., and my wretched body woke me up brutally early this morning. What was I doing in Streetsville, you ask? Oh, visiting Trevor, watching Bladerunner and marveling at the fact that he owns a short-necked black El Degas electric bass, just like Maharet. I've never seen another of that make since she bought it 5 years ago (the salesman tried to sell her a red bass with the promising slogan "it's red - good colour for a girl.") I also met Trevor's mother last night. She reminds me very strongly of her children...I know it's supposed to be the other way 'round, but I stick by the order in which I met them. She told me that she'd "heard a lot about me," a statement that always makes me feel like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Like what?!?"

I definitely need to switch to decaf.

Maybe I should say a few words about the Plaque Shaque, just so I won't have to describe it again. It's a warehouse where posters & whatever are made into laminated plaques. I work with Daniel & Maharet in the sorting & cleaning department. We spend about 5 hours on our feet with very little time off for good behavior. It's not hard, but it is a bit numbing...I find myself unable to sustain any complicated line of thought for long. The pay is decent and there's not a lot of hours all told, although we "work until it's done." We don't start until about 2 p.m. We all drive in together. I'm 2 doors down from High-Tec, my former place of employment this summer. I have yet to spend more than 30 seconds with anyone with greater authority than Daniel. I also have yet to record my hours for the last 2 days.

But at any rate, it's better than moping around the house; waiting for Nigel to update.

The Summer of Dickensian Coincidences, Chapter II:

Veronica wrote me from K-town today. Apparently, life in the perfect couple continues apace. I felt a spurt of self-righteousness when she mentioned that she's having trouble finding a place, as we were supposed to live together until she & Judith decided to abandon me to the whims of fate. My prospective apartment may be a bit dank, but it's still a sure thing.

But here's where the coincidence comes in: Veronica is working with a boy I went to grade school with...and, further, someone who had a big crush on me at that age (or so he confessed to Veronica). Yes, I had some small measure of magnetism at age 10..not much, but some. Hey, why do you think I liked hanging out with boys? It was for the adulation, baby!

But to be serious for a moment...it's kind of shocking that such a mind-blowing coincidence could have been reduced to a mere curiosity at this point. I'm not sure if I'm living out a Dickens novel or a Poe mystery...everything is certainly not what it seems, that's for sure.

July 29, 1998.

My body is conspiring against me.

Today was my first day at The Plaque Shaque, and this apparently was the signal to begin bleeding. You know those little charts that assign a point value for stressful situations? I bet I just flipped off the end of the chart. Sigh.

By the way, I don't really care if I just made my male readers cringe away from their monitors. I've lived in co-ed situations my entire life, and I have no patience for shrinking violets. I'm not about to shove menstruation in people's faces, but I refuse to characterize myself as "sick," goddamn it.

I miss Cranly. He is a boy with a positive attitude towards menstruation. I love that.

Anyway...

Yesterday afternoon I traveled to the City to interview Big Bad Voodoo Daddy for the Varsity. If you've seen Swingers, then you've heard of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy...and for those who haven't been good little gen-xers, they're a swing band. I don't actually find them as interesting as Big Rude Jake, but they're a pretty solid little outfit.

The interview went quite well, thanks for asking. I happened to be toting the inevitable gray tophat around with the intention of returning it to Sister Sunshine...and it was a hell of an ice-breaker. Kurt (the very cute drummer who seemed to like me) tried it on immediately, and was thrilled that it matched his slacks. As I didn't have a single prepared question, I winged it. They seemed to enjoy a structure-free interview, and I enjoyed the lack of pressure. This is only the 3rd interview I've ever done (the other 2 were the Heads and Poppy Z. Brite), so I'm still a terrible rookie as yet. I only do the ones I ask for, and I don't ask for many...but they all seem to jell.

One of the side effects of winging it was rather amusing: we were talking about the Squirrel Nut Zippers, and I blurted out the fact that I can't go to SNZ concerts for fear of seeing Mr. Blonde. They sympathized with my plight, and offered to dedicate a song to me that night. But I never found out if they actually did such a money thing, because the stupid promoter refused to put me on the list (press always gets a free ticket...always). I dressed up anyway & tried to get in on pure charm...but although a good number of men commented appreciatively on my velvet evening dress & gray tophat outfit, it wasn't enough to get me in. Fuck.

But with the benefit of hindsight, it's prolly better that I spent the time writing the article instead of boogieing in the front row, right? That's the sensible, adult thing to do, right?

Right?

one year ago today: poet lurks & becomes angry (again)

July 28, 1998.

I've been rejected from Archipelago for the second time. But I've spaced out my rejections by a year, so it's not the crushing emotional blow that it could be. But still...I've wanted to be a part of that webring from the very first, because that's where Kymm & Gus & Meghan were. I applied for Archipelago before I applied for Open Pages. Oh, man...

The good news is that it's not my personality & writings, just my pseudo-goth design leanings...I don't find white text on black backgrounds particularly hard to read, but I seem to be in the minority. But then again, some journal readers surf an incredible amount of text in a day, (have you seen some of these lists?) and I only check about 4 journals a day. The problems are so minor that I could change everything around & resubmit, but...is it worth it? Lucy isn't a diary nazi. She doesn't set out to dictate guidelines, she just states reasons. And I respect that...I just wish that I could've been up to snuff. Oh well. We'll see what next year brings.

I came down this morning to find that I'd stupidly left my new Smashing Pumpkins CD running on perma-repeat since approximately 9 p.m. last night. What can I say; I'm an idiot. The CD is pretty good, though...I'm not a Smashing Pumpkins fan at all...in fact, I loathe everything between "Cherub Rock" & now...but I really like this new album. Maybe it's 'cause Trent's pal Flood did a bit of mixing on it, so it's got a taste of NIN. Or maybe it's 'cause half the album is so soothing & laid-back that it reminds me of the classic Neil Young album "After the Goldrush." I dunno. I just like it. Nothing more articulate than that.

I had a really fucking weird night last night. The first part wasn't weird at all; just your typical fun night out with Maharet, Daniel & Trevor at a local pub. But I started to feel really sick at about 3:30 in the morning...the kind of sick that doubles me over with stomach pain, but doesn't seem to be caused by anything major...just staying up late & drinking cola. But once I got home to bed, the real weirdness began.

At one point I was half-asleep, flailing vainly for a comfortable position. My hand hit a post, and I suddenly realized that that wasn't possible in my bed. I opened my eyes & discovered that I was completely turned around. I'd set up my pillows at the foot of the bed, and I'd been sleeping like that for who knows how long. It seemed like too much work to get back into the normal way around, so I didn't bother. But when I woke up this morning, I noticed that one of my posters had been half-ripped from the wall. It must have been me, 'cause I lock the door at night...and besides, I've done it before. I think that the stomach cramps may have had something to do with it, although who can tell?

But although I'm perfectly well-acquainted with the fact that I do really weird shit in my sleep, it's always a shock to wake up & find evidence of it.

The classic story goes as follows: It was my first year in res, and I lived on the 3rd floor. I'd gone to bed in a girly pink nightshirt & panties. I locked my door & went to sleep. Then I dreamed that I got up from my bed, walked to my friend Ding's room on the 2nd floor, sat on his bed, talked to him, got up, and walked back to my room. And as I was dreaming this last part, I woke up...and found myself about 20 feet down the hall from my room, walking towards the stairwell. Half-asleep, in my underwear, in the middle of the night. I'm really lucky that Preacher didn't pop out of his room at that point, now that I think about it.

And no, I hadn't been in Ding's room. I checked.

one year ago today: "you're waiting for him." "hitler?!"

July 27, 1998.

Spurred on by a casual comment made during Saturday's party, I've just spent the better part of an hour trying to find out what my rising sign is. I think it's Cancer, but I'm not sure...(if anyone can help me out here, I was born on August 9, 1976, at 4:07 a.m. in a town roughly 43.06 degrees north, and 80.75 degrees west. In eastern standard time zone. The whole thing is making my head ache, so any help would be greatly appreciated.)

Anyway. The girl who began talking about star signs was Corinne, another member of the cross-over brigade. See, she used to live with Trevor in a co-op, and thus knows Pixie Stix etc. I was quite surprised to learn that at one time Corrine had been known as Super Goth, 'coz although we saw her at the Garden on Friday, she dresses like a raver. The very good reason for that being: she is a raver...a self-described "candyraver," which means that she compulsively gives away candy when tripping on E. She described her conversion to the big beat people as a result of others loading her up with E & taking her to a Valentine's Day rave. Both Trevor & I found it a trifle disconcerting that her lifestyle 180 seemed entirely based on ecstasy...and not the life-affirming free stuff, either.

But she was awfully cute in her orange shirt & little girl accessories. I've discovered from this party that ravers are good people to hang out with, even if they do tend to monopolize the stereo. Sister Sunshine's tophat made the rounds one again...it just seemed part & parcel of the big beats & growing intoxication.

In other news, I'm developing Jesus hair. My hair is at the unattractive length in which it's too long to be tidy but too short to be luxurious...I just look ratty...much like teenagers in the 70's, greasy rock musicians & the Christian God. But the weird thing is that I appeal to a previously untapped demographic of men (i.e. the Molson Canadian-drinkin' Tragically Hip-listenin' baseball cap wearin' former grunge boys); unfortunately, it's a demographic that I'm not terribly interested in.

But the really big news of the day is that Maharet has secured a job for me at the laminating place where she works with Daniel. I'll be sorting posters into size piles for 5 weeks...not the most demanding of jobs, but it's only 5 hours a week & I'll be with Daniel & Maharet.

I've spent more time with Maharet this summer than I've spent with her since we graduated from high-school. It's kinda cool...I'd precipitously given up on the whole high-school crowd a few years back, but it's nice to still be able to talk about the good times with people who don't make me murderous or bored.

July 26, 1998.

"Now you can write about this in your journals."
"Not everything we do is meta!"
- palaver & me, after stacy & i hugged goodnight

But I guess that's a lie, because almost everything that I did last night, and thus everything I want to write about today is linked to the fact that I keep an online diary. Quel surprise.

First meta thing: I have been shamefully negligent in not mentioning that eileen has written a fine article about some of her favorite entries for one of the metajournalling pages. And my Damon Runyon-esque entry for March 7th is used, which, of course, makes me a better person than the rest of you mortals. Yeah, right... But anyway, it's a good article even if it does mention me. Go read it.

Second meta thing: Remember I mentioned that I was somewhat anxious about giving this URL to Trevor? Well, that noise you heard on Friday was the shoe dropping. But his only comment after reading my recent entries was concern about the state of my home life post strippers-on-the-credit-card episode. (Everything's fine, BTW...nothing was ever mentioned that day or afterwards.) He also seemed a trifle intoxicated by the possibilities of regularly appearing in an intercontinentally-read web-journal (Nigel counts as intercontinental, OK?) I just sat quietly while he bubbled over with suggestions...most of my friends have gone through a phase when just appearing here either made them incredibly angry (Akasha comes to mind, although I wish she wouldn't) or utterly delighted. I must say that I'd rather have Trevor go the delighted route. Makes things easier.

And the third meta thing is, of course, that I saw Stacy last night. There was supposed to me a cocktail party at the Loft, but it got cancelled at the last minute & we ended up at a house party in the house next to Palaver's place. The guys who live there used to live with Trevor, and thus had people there connected to Stacy in weird ways. (The small world vertigo effect is getting better every time, kids.)

To make this truly meta, I must now analyze my time with Stacy, although I'd rather experience it than chronicle it. But anyway: there are still awkward moments and sudden patches of dead air, but I think this can be explained by our specific personalities rather than the medium in which our friendship was born. See, we're both girls who like being girls, but don't make a lot of close girlfriends.

In some ways, male companionship is just simpler. The concept of the sausage party with myself as the only exception doesn't really phase me (maybe it's 'coz I like being the centre of attention as the only girl). And my only close female friendships involve women who share that same bias towards male friendships.

It's just that I get so intimidated sometimes...she's so cool...she's got everything together that I'm still waiting for: a great job, an amazing loft, a kicking wardrobe...the kind of life that just beckons & shimmers all the more temptingly from my home in the suburbs. And not only is she much cooler, she's way more sophisticated than I am (she & Palaver discussed wine years last night for a few minutes. Wine years!! I don't even drink wine, for cripes.) It's not that she makes me feel jejune or anything, but I've been so lacking in social graces lately that I sometimes wonder why I hold any interest for her, other than that we share the same alma mater & we like the same goth club.

That may be the most pathetic paragraph I've ever written. I'm a miserable insecure sod sometimes. I almost cried in the first 5 minutes of The Mark of Zorro tonight--during the swashbuckling part, not the genuinely sad part where his wife eats lead. I conclude from this that I am hopelessly premenstrual, so expect more depressing entries for a few days.

Sorry.

July 25, 1998.

"We only have 3 children, Homer."
"Shut up, shut up! If I don't hear you, it's not illegal!"
- homer on tax night

Last night I dreamt that I was in a shallow pool, splashing around with some friends & strangers. Guys started closing in on me, as if to kiss me. With no small measure of drunken cunning, I closed my eyes, reasoning that if I couldn't tell who it was, then I would be innocent of any wrong. After a minute I opened my eyes & it was Trevor.

I think today is going to be a good day. I have an irrational amount of favoritism towards the 25th day of the month, which I suppose is a hold-over from my 3 years with Mr. Blonde. The 25th was our monthiversary (we started going out in high-school; cutsie-poo stuff is therefore inevitable). And it still makes me expect good things every time the 25th rolls around.

But right now, I feel like shit.

It's poetic justice, really...I should be punished for drinking so much substandard Molson beer. What can I say? There's no cover at the Garden, which means that you have to drink shitty beer in order to stretch your money, or you won't even begin to approach drunkenness. Palaver always makes fun of me for drinking Canadian at the Garden, but I find it an antidote to some of the goth pretentiousness...by the way some of them sip they're red wine, you can just tell that they're wishing it was, you know, real blood...

Ach weel. I had an awfully good night last night, despite my crabbiness of today. I was scheduled to club with Sister Sunshine, and as I've stood her up two weekends in a row, I wasn't allowed to miss last night for the Second Coming. And being the lazy sod that I am, I also used the opportunity to drag Maharet into the city for her first goth club experience. Palaver met us down there as our proof against slimy guys & for the sheer crack (he's the only boy I know who 'oooh's with delight when I announce that we're going dancing.) We took our sweet ass time getting down there, having first spent an hour in Sister Sunshine's basement messing with our makeup. She'd wanted to do Siouxie Sioux eyes on me, but lost interest half-way through...so I looked like Darcy in the "Ava Adore" video (with pink eyeshadow) instead. Which was fine with me.

Needless to say, it was nigh-on the witching hour before we made the club. We began to chat with the Door Guy & DJ Lord Pale (who was wearing a new Bauhaus shirt.) As Sister Sunshine bantered with the Door Guy, I made mention of something Stacy had written about his trip to Hollywood to see Bauhaus, which of course led to the, "how do you know Stacy?" question. I always feel a bit weird confessing that our association was borne in a world of wires & motherboards; that we're examples of "those kind of people" so maligned in the media...you know, people who (gasp!) meet through that venue of child porn & naked pictures of Terry Hatcher. Normal people are not supposed to meet people on the Internet, or if they do, they don't talk about it. Much like masturbation, come to think. And when DJ Lord Pale (who was being utterly charming, BTW) mentioned that he'd "heard of me," that utterly threw me for a loop. I used to venerate goths, you see (they're easy to venerate, cause they're so damn unfriendly to strangers.) Like online diarists are to the gus, Toronto goths were my little constellation of personal superstars. So you can guess how it made me feel. As of that point onward, my social skills melted into slag...which was rather unfortunate, as I met Q (Pixie Stix's betrothed) last night during this phase. I'm sure I made a great impression...*sigh*

As it turned out, Sister Sunshine stayed at the entrance talking to the Door Guy for almost the entire night. She never does that. We got in some great teasing on the way home...especially because he was wearing her gray tophat when they finally came inside. Giggle...

We spent the night in a typical Garden fashion: getting drunk on shitty beer & dashing out to the dance floor every time something half-way decent came on (highlights: a Tom Waits song from "Bone Machine," "Let's Go to Bed" & "Bloodletting"(!) Have I ever mentioned that I have every Johnette Napolitano album ever released?) I was wearing The Dress & the black lace up stockings that Jain sent me, obeying her mandate to have fun in the clothes she sent me. I was also wearing the gray tophat for the beginning of the evening, until it gravitated to Sister Sunshine & the Door Guy in turn. The total look was somewhere between Smashing Pumpkins, Siouxie Sioux & Tom Petty, to tell the truth. We hung out with Pixie Stix & a variety of Garden denizens, getting in the way of the pool players & capriciously abandoning our beer to dance. I found myself correlating gestures that both Trevor & Pixie Stix share, until it got too weird & I stopped. I also chatted with Cody, who was in a somewhat anti-social "watching the pretty girls go by" mood, although he would dance (but only when the rest of us weren't). For a night that started so late, it became a more-than-adequate night on the town.

And then the crisis hit: Daniel decided that he didn't want to pick us up from the subway. My only option was my brother Nic, although I hate to call him out to Queen Street at 2 a.m. But he behaved magnificently. As Palaver mused during his short ride home; "I wish I had a brother like Nic...or a brother that looked up to Nic..." (It was that kind of hooray for the brother night: earlier, Pixie Stix had related that she'd called Trevor from Minneapolis for a ride home. Later Maharet sighed: "and my boyfriend won't even pick me up from downtown...")

Err. I guess that's it for now, folks. Tonight I'm hitting the town with Trevor, Palaver, Stacy & the Boy, and I'm still in cut-offs & a too-small white t-shirt. I'm such a sex-kitten, no?

July 23, 1998.

"Getcha little sumthin' thatcha can't get at home..."
- tom waits

This morning I awoke to the sound of hysterical shouting & sobbing. Within a few seconds, I realized that I was listening to my mother scream at someone. I could hear anger, betrayal, sorrow and even a sort of resignation...almost as if she was gearing up to take blame onto herself. I heard the word "pig" over & over. I was at an utter loss...when emotion this strong runs through the house, I immediately turn into a 7 year old & try to figure out where I can hide. I guess this comes from the fact that my parents have a pretty harmonious relationship, and I don't really know how to handle it when things really break down.

So I hid in my room until my mom had left, and then I snuck downstairs, resigning myself to the fact that I was up at an ungodly hour. On the table was the credit card bill for my parents' joint account. There were 3 purchases highlighted; all for "Runway 66." One of the totals was more than a grand.

So let's recap: from circumstantial evidence, I have determined that my father, fuckhead that he is, charged almost $1200 on my parents' joint credit card at a strip club.

Nice, hmm?

This follows close on the heels of Edgar Allen's new pastime for the Brampton people...apparently he feels it perfectly appropriate to bully girls & boys alike into accompanying him to the Latin Quarter for a night of pasties & g-strings. I feel like my life has been cursed with strippers. And as Edgar Allen started this insane sleazy ball rolling in my life, I feel perfectly justified in disliking him all the more. Not rational, I know. But who gives a fuck. This world is too insane for me to avoid irrational grudges about the sex trade.

Yesterday Mom & I went to visit the basement apartment again. Surprisingly enough, most of the repulsive smell was entirely gone...I guess it was just the dishes that needed doing. I'm starting to think that this may work out...if I invest in a good carpet deodourizer & clean out the trash in the foyer, it shouldn't be too bad. I can't believe I'm seriously considering brands of carpet deodourizer instead of looking for a room, but quite frankly, my tail's in a crack. I have nowhere else to go. And besides, Trotski, Braveheart & Snag Boy are moving in a couple blocks away...so it might not be a total hell. Right? Right.

I really have nothing more to say tonight. I've been working like an albatross on the long overdue York Cycle photo pages, and quite frankly, I'm burnt out.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

July 22, 1998.

My tealeaf reading for today:

From the erotic ocean of the unconscious
the sun will rise
and shine on the sand and the rounded stones
battered by an infinity of challenges
to the shape of perfect love.

Last night I hung out in Trevor's basement, listening to Concrete Blonde & talking about Jackson Pollack. I can't hide the overwhelming goofiness that takes possession of me when I'm around him. I try to be cynical & reserved; try not to build castles in the air & try to keep some part of myself back in case things go as badly as they did the last time romance was in the air, but I'm terrible at this holding-back bit. I mean, I watch Casablanca & I cringe. I feel burned by the whole idea of Romance. If I was to get particularly melodramatic about it, I could say that Romance left me screaming & drunk on the floor. Romance took away all my dignity. And I'm fucking afraid of it, to tell the truth.

Most of the time I feel like I've been nipping at a secret store of champagne...all giddy & secretly smiling. But like I said, Romance fucked me over. Cynicism became my defense. And now it's one I can no longer hold onto.

God, that was a depressing line of thought.

I think that was my neck talking, actually. I just finished an hour-long conversation with the Lawyer, and it's made my neck cranky & sore. Thus I am acting like the old woman on the porch in To Kill A Mockingbird.

"Don't you say 'hey' to me, you ugly girl."

And I'm also a bit tense because I gave Trevor this URL yesterday. I'm afraid of an ill-considered line of thought blowing whatever-it-is between us to pieces.

Wow, I'm just a big bundle of neuroses today, hmm? I actually had a very lovely time last night, and I'm doing a piss-poor job of expressing it. Normal reactions just aren't my thing...I find myself acting all sweet & girlie, and I immediately think that it's a bad thing. That's just not normal, right? I feel like it's my birthday. I feel like I'm carrying a new Sandman collection home from the Beguiling. I feel like the world's my oyster. And I don't know why I can't express that for shit. I don't know why I guard my positive emotions so close, while I let my negative ones have free reign over every medium possible.

Hmm. I'm not mad, I'm just drawn that way.

Jay is back from the dead, albeit in San Francisco. He's also dropped me from his links list, which I attribute to the declining frequency of nude events in my life. Unfortunately, I've managed to get a weird series of sunburns this summer, so my nude form is less like a small-chested Grecian marble (ha! Like it ever was...), and more like...a girl...with irregular sunburns...really far up her legs...because she wore a bathing suit that was too small 2 days ago...

(this entry is going to end before my slipping command of metaphor destroys...umm...that thing...)

July 21, 1998.

I had a really good time last night. I ended up going out with Maharet & Daniel, as it's always important to sew up a party by sharing impressions & pooling gossip. (So the pastry party won't be truly over until I talk to Palaver--damn boy's been hiding again.) Going driving with Daniel is always an adventure, as he's one of the few people I know who can understand the importance of driving aimlessly on velvety summer nights. We ended up in Mississauga last night, speeding along pitch-dark roads and laughing like some teenage urban legend come to life.

This is one of my best memories of teenage life: piling into the car & just going. Going to the video store or Burger King or someone else's house became like an end in itself...sure we got somewhere, but the best part was the going. And always we could be marked by the streamers of sound that floated behind our parents' cars: an obnoxious squeal of Bon Scott or Anthrax or Metallica swirled in our wake, and was almost as important a companion as the humans. In the winter we scraped the snow off the roof of the car mid-flight & threw it at other cars. In the summer we roamed through the silent, glittery world of a relatively tame suburb after most people are in bed. I recall one night of crawling around a minigolf course, getting drenched by the sprinklers & laughing about it. I recall nights when we stood on playground equipment & swapped t-shirts, the boys macho-ly ripping theirs right off, but the girls performing the girl trick of changing inside a t-shirt that mothers teach their daughters for ever & ever amen.

I'm getting maudlin.

But it was that kind of night. It was like we didn't have 3 years of oddness & separation between us. It was like we were older & wiser & still essentially the same. It was a magic night, is what I'm saying, and I don't get too many of those.

But the prosaic facts are this: we went to a local tavern. We pounded a few. And we talked about people & places & things. We talked about Sven hanging off a big guy called Sugar at the pastry party (Daniel was confused, because Sven seldom sets off what is so odiously referred to as gay-dar.) I solicited their opinions of Trevor, as it's always important to canvas the participants after the first meeting between significant people in one's life (you have to watch for an almost-concealed cringe that means that you need to keep 'em separated for the duration - although I'm happy to report a cringe-less response.) We talked about the utter lack of aggression in a typical Toronto party, something that sets it apart from a typical Brampton party. We talked about the one exception to this, i.e. Chris calling Braveheart "wiener-boy" for the duration of the party and asking Daniel to "kick wiener-boy's ass" with Daniel's shiny doc's (Chris is the roommate who's fucking Palliative, so he'd already lost the moral high-ground in our minds. This just confirmed it.)

And we had a long, detailed conversation about Mr. Blonde, about the way he's responded to seeing me with Trevor & the way he's been acting since we broke up over a year ago. It was one of those important conversations where you try your hardest to put a nagging issue to bed, hopefully never to rise again. I'm tired of having to talk about Mr. Blonde, but I still worry about him. I don't think he's been truly happy since we broke up...not because I'm essential to his happiness, God no. But the lifestyle choices he's made (i.e. mack mercilessly on any girl with 2 legs, 2 eyes, etc.) don't seem to be working. I feel like I've been richly rewarded for not leaping into bed with every boy to happen along, so it's easy for me to point to his bottom-line behavior & identify it as the problem. But I haven't talked to him for a year, so how can I presume to know him?

I just hope that these long conversations will eventually kill any residual guilt I feel for him, and that I can eventually sail into the rest of my life unfettered to past ports...if you catch my drift.

(Almost like that last paragraph was written by Spider Robinson, hmm?)

July 20, 1998.

It's 9 p.m., and instead of making plans with my Brampton friends or accompanying my family to my father's baseball game, I'm staying near the phone, so that if Trevor calls me to go for coffee after he gets off work, I'll be here. Someone slap me, for I'm in relationship limbo.

I think it started when he convinced me to get a tex-mex breakfast on Saturday. I've never eaten tex-mex in my life, and I certainly shouldn't've started on a morning when I was desperately hungover. But there I was, docilely eating refried beans & salsa.

It's seriously creeping me out. I feel more & more like a replacement body in a bodysnatchers skiffy story. None of them mentioned tex-mex, but that was prolly just an editorial oversight.

Today I basked in the luxury of a hot summer day with no family buzzing around to bring me back to responsibility. I swam, I lay in the sun, and I read The Dead Zone for the millionth time. I also checked Stacy's page repeatedly, just to see if there was anything from the party. I think I have too much time on my hands.

Actually, I know I have too much time on my hands. But I have utter faith that my tragically short attention span will eventually kick in & make me restless for gainful employment. (The tuition fee schedule came today: forty-two-hundred bones. I'm never gonna make it out of here alive...)

If you haven't already read Kymm's entry for today, go there immediately. I've never seen such a dramatic entry, ever. My emotions did a complete 180, and yours will too. So go.

There's some new stuff up on my other, mommy safe page, so if this entry isn't enough me for your liking, you should check it out. That is all.

July 19, 1998.

I've started dreaming about being back at work. I think it's time to get a new job & re-route my subconscious a bit. Although I will be sorry when the time comes to take off my black nail polish...a.k.a the "I don't have a job so I can look like a freak" nail polish. And I will regret not being able to go for coffee at midnight. And I'll regret all the things I promised myself that I'd do & never got around to. So I suppose that means I should get moving this week & see all the art & animals & reproductions & people that I can't see when I'm doing the wage slave bit.

I'm starting to pick up Trevor's mannerisms. It's kind of bizarre...the geek in me compares it to skiffy Heinlein-esque tales of bodysnatchers, but the socially-well-adjusted part just accepts it as inevitable. I tend to do the mockingbird thing on a regular basis, especially when I spend a lot of time with someone of distinct mannerisms. A good case in point is last summer: I was spending almost every weekend with Palaver, and Palaver's former roommates used to tell me that I'd begun talking like him. Palaver speaks in a very distinctive dramatic rhythms, and I was a little freaked out by this comment. But now I can't even tell that Palaver speaks differently than the folks I went to high-school with. That's familiarity for ya.

I caught myself in the same net on Friday when Maharet & I went to the liquor store for party supplies. When the cash register lady saw the wallet photo of Daniel, she immediately commented on his attractiveness. And I thought, "Daniel? He's not attractive. He's Daniel." But upon taking another look at Daniel, I realized that I was very wrong.

Makes me wonder what mental shorthand my older friends use to think of me. Am I still the gawky 17 year old with long curly hair & very few social skills? Wait, bad example. Er...

Tonight we went to Little Bananette's 16th birthday party (this would be the cousin who has it all). I didn't really want to go, because I don't really like spending 5 or so consecutive hours with that side of the family. The $3 million house filled with distracting toys doesn't help after the second hour, and it's just boring & annoying. The hot topic of conversation was my cousin's upcoming wedding (upcoming in a year, that is), and what the married ones would do over if they had the chance. I made my own list in my head, as there was no point in being the token freak at the table. For one thing, I greatly admire Pixie Stix's "rock"...it's hard to get that shade of orange plastic these days (but seriously; I know I could marry someone who gave me a plastic engagement ring...it's just so money...) Suggestions from the others included a live band, a putting green & a fire-eater (ok, I suggested the fire-eater).

Disturbing revelation time here: apparently there will be men at the wedding who are "connected," and thus packing. I don't know about you, but I'd be a little nervous if guys with guns had access to an open bar & my annoying relatives. And what could I do if they persistently hit on me? (I'm such a sex machine, as you know...) Maybe I should wear a sack instead of The Dress (i.e. the black velvet lace-up number from Siren with trailing sleeves...you know, the one that was a birthday present to myself. The one that I was wearing the second time someone mistook me for a hooker. That dress...)

I've changed the cast list around...split the list into "people I mention frequently" and "people who are needed in the occasional anecdote." The main cast page also has somewhat meatier descriptions, plus entries for the 3 people who straddle both Stacy's world & mine. Hope you like it...

one year ago today: an ill-considered entry that made maharet very mad at me

July 18, 1998.

I was asked recently if I would consider starting a notify list. Have I really become that sporadic? Looking back over the last week, I guess so...but I'm doing much better that I do during the school year, when I often go for 3-4 consecutive days without an entry. Hmm. But I'm feeling much better now...

From the alt.perspectives department:

Okay, there are now two more perspectives on last Tuesday's run-in with Dirk & the Ex, by Dirk & the Ex respectively. I'm just waiting for Trevor & the waitresses to write their own accounts at this point... The event seems to have taken on a narrative life of its' own, which I don't think it deserves. I didn't have the Ex's perspective on Blue Monday Friday, and that was a far more interesting time. Anyway...

"I am a brick house. I am stone. I am one of those statues on Easter Island with no eyebrows."
- me at about 11 a.m. this morning

Everybody's getting laid in the online diary world. I find the trend somewhat disturbing, especially as it coincides with my own graduation from bitter twisted singlehood. But fear not, prudish readers! I have had it revealed to me that the lovely Pixie Stix (a.k.a. Trevor's younger sister) is a semi-regular reader of these pages, and I hereby vow to keep these pages sibling-safe. So no graphic descriptions of...well, anything. I mean it. It was weird enough when I found out that Trotski's dad & Tiger Lily's mom used my pages to check up on their kids, but this takes the cake...this is a whole new level of TMFI, and I'm not going there. (note: tmfi = too much fucking information...which I suppose is a pun, considering the subject material. I'm so witty.)

And if one of you online diary people get involved with my little brother, I expect the same repressed courtesy, ok? Ok.

I had a lovely time at Palaver's pastry party last night. Maharet & I spent the entire afternoon concocting phillo pastry, spinach dip in pumpernickel & an improvised trifle. We hardly ever get domestic, so when we do, it's an enormous adventure. And my mom was there to direct & concoct along with us, which took all the anxiety out of the cooking, as we could trust to her experience. As we were to meet Trevor at the party later, I was reminded of the King of the Hill episode in which they flash back to high-school, and Hank's sudden case of mono prevents him from learning that Peggy's a horrible cook. I'm not a horrible cook, but it made me laugh nonetheless, as I imagined a parallel universe in which things like that actually impressed boys. This would be the same world in which people went to the convenience store packing...no wait, that's not a parallel world. That's Minneapolis.

Maharet had convinced me to share in her vodka & so-co last night, which is something I haven't done in ages. I find that the hangover from liquor is particular painful, & not conducive to sleep in the least (so I'm a very tired girl at this point). Anyway, I think I've beaten back any opportunistic scurvy infections with the sheer amount on orange juice I consumed last night. It brought back fond memories of high-school drinking bouts, but there is a very good reason why I gave up drinking 7 glasses of orange juice a night. For one thing, it ruins breakfast the next day...I just can't face a tall glass of undoctored oj.

When we arrived at 8:30, the party was in somewhat less than full swing, so we buttoned up on one of the couches & began consuming large quantities of vodka, so-co & oj (comfortable screwdrivers?). Consequently, I was already 3/4 drunk when Trevor showed up @ 10:30. I felt that this was perhaps a bit of an error in judgement to get that loaded that early, but I was at the drinking point of no return, and I kept downing comfortable screwdrivers with abandon. So by the time Stacy & Pixie Stix showed up, I was pretty happy. So happy that I went to microwave a batch of phillo pastries...and then completely forgot about them for about 2 hours, at which point I re-discovered them, untouched & waiting for me in the micro.

There was a really good mix of people at this party, although they tended to segregate themselves on the basis of roommate affiliation. But as this kept Palliative away from us, it was almost certainly for the best...I tend to be even blunter than usual when I've been drinking, and I don't like it when my friends are being regularly sexiled by their own ex-girlfs. Sven was in fine form, staying until dawn & graciously letting us see his hair re-growth (he Nair'd his chest & stomach a few weeks ago, for although he is one of the more hirsute men I know, he is revolted by body hair). Some pretty little Asian chick fell asleep on Daniel at about 3 a.m., and he spent the rest of the night sitting on the couch so as not to disturb her. Preacher was utterly charming, which is a sight I haven't seen in ages (He & Poet started kibitzing as they usually do, and I compared them to Statler & Waldorf, the cranky old muppets. Immediately, Preacher began to sing the S & W part of the opening theme, and Poet joined in: why do we always come here, I guess we'll never know, it's like a kind of torture to have to watch the show.... Preacher expressed a desire to be the one with "the long hooked nose"). Tiger Lily dabbed some whipped cream on her nose & instructed me to lick it off by way of goodbye. Maharet, Stacy & Pixie Stix compared notes on Newfoundland. Palaver changed into his blue silk dressing gown on the stroke of midnight, and resembled a bespectacled Hugh Heffner from that point onwards. Stacy told us the incredibly rock n' roll story of her wrist tattoo. Pixe Stix told anecdotes about herself & Trevor as children, including the interesting fact that 2 of the 3 children were named for characters in To Kill A Mockingbird, and the exception to this system was nicknamed Boo for a time. I also learned quite a bit about Q, her betrothed. I got quite a big reaction to the mermaid (yes, she's still on my bicep). Reactions ranged from shock & horror (Preacher) to comparisons to The Little Mermaid (Poet) to expressed desires that I get her done permanently (Casey...although he'd rather I got Lara Croft).

All in all, we didn't leave until after dawn. Maharet & Daniel stuck it through to the very end, which made me very happy. They'd gone into the party knowing only a bare handful of people, and I'd feared that they'd be disappointed or lonely or bored. But it was not so. Maharet took an entire Polaroid party series last night, including a really bad shot of Stacy, Pixie Stix & myself that I have smuggled in my paper diary, as I have been told that if it surfaces online, I will be hunted down like a dog. So there you go.

Today I explored the under-appreciated world of sleepover chic, as I really wasn't paying attention when I packed for the night on Friday, and my pajamas were the only suitable apparel for today's excursions. I thought I'd get a much bigger reaction for showing up to Sneaky Dee's & the Bloor Cinema in an oversized t-shirt & my brother's boxer shorts, but I just looked like another tourist. We saw The Killer this afternoon, which was my first action movie in a long time...when I'm not with a boy, I don't go to many shoot-'em-up fests. It was amazing...if you want to see some righteous ass-kicking, I have just discovered that there is no one better than John Woo & Chow Yun Fat. It doesn't impress the boys as much as "The Godfather," but I'd be willing to bet that John Woo movies could even replace knowledge of the infield fly rule as a path to the young men's hearts.

one year ago today: a really crappy party at edgar allen's

July 16, 1998.

First off, I'm sorry my pages have been going apewire. There seems to be this weird thing going on in my computer where I can only upload half a file or so...or the files on the computer suddenly became corrupted & unreadable & I have to download them from the server. I don't know what's wrong...perhaps some pc voodoo is in order.

"Did I miss something? Your page now loads as a pop up add, and an expanse of white. It's very minimalist and pretty..."
- riyati

I have been receiving quite a bit of congratulation on my announcement that I've finally graduated from bitter, twisted singlehood. It's kinda neat, actually...like there's a bunch of aunts & uncles getting all misty-eyed over their keyboards. Palaver read "necked" in the July 12th entry as "nekkid," and called me up to congratulate me on "getting nooky in the park." I was almost embarrassed for about 30 seconds, until I realized that it wasn't my Freudian slip. He's so gracious, though...I was much more lonely & bitter when he announced that he was dating Palliative (who's now fucking Palaver's bearded roommate, for those who joined late in the program).

I had avoided saying anything until some definite benchmark had been reached, because there's nothing more embarrassing than misreading relationship signals. It wasn't just that I didn't want to commit anything to writing...IRL, my standard response to all questions has been "we're not dating...we're not dating...we're not dating! Can we talk about something else?" When you use language to describe something, it always changes the object or experience in question (which is why I don't live a life; I live a series of anecdotes). For the past few weeks, I've felt like the characters in the Never-ending Story who mine dreams, and have to keep utterly silent to avoid destroying their crystal pictures.

Not all reactions are sweet, though. 2 nights ago, Trevor & I went out for cokes at midnight. As we were in Brampton, my ideas for a venue were pretty much limited to places where my high-school friends tended to frequent. And sure enough, as we pulled into the East Side Mario's parking lot, I caught sight of an awfully familiar white cube van ("the shaggin' wagon," as Maharet calls it). I'm proud of myself for not following my first reaction, which was to turn tail & flee when I saw Mr. Blonde & Dirk comfortably ensconced in a booth. Instead we avoided them altogether by going to the patio. But I couldn't leave without saying hi to Dirk, so on the way out, I pulled us over to the booth (where 2 waitresses had established themselves in the meantime). The next five minutes were very awkward for Mr. Blonde (who, I learned later, was trying to put the moves on one of the waitresses) and Dirk (who hates to be caught in the middle of such scenes). But I was just coasting on the residual MSG from my Tiger Lily chicken satay dinner, and I was psychotically calm. The other online shoe has dropped, BTW...although he will almost certainly hotly deny that it was a direct reaction to seeing me with Trevor, there is a new rant about some perfect girl that he met a long time ago but can no longer find. You should follow the link; he attempts to rationalize his mimbo behavior of late in a haphazard sort of way with the following: "when I became single again about a year ago, I adopted the 'have fun with all of the wrong ones, until the right one bumps into me' type philosophy." Awww...makes me feel all happy that I spent 3 years of my life with someone as dignified as this...isn't he a sweetheart?

one year ago today: kharma kharma kharma

July 14, 1998.

Last night I was watching the Nation's Music Station & a Janet Jackson video triggered a forgotten anecdote from the Rum, Sodomy & the Lash party of the 4th. By about 3 a.m., Trevor, Trotski, Sven & I had traveled up to Trotski's bedroom to chill out & listen to the Big Rude Jake album "Butane Fumes & Bad Cologne." Hearing the doorbell, I wandered downstairs to see what was going on...completely forgetting that I'd absentmindedly carried the bull whip downstairs with me. At the front door were 2 cops investigating a noise complaint from one of the neighbors. As I was coming down the stairs, Fly was dealing with it, but the conversation stopped as I came into view...at this point, the cops reminded us to turn down the stereo in the backyard & then they turned & left quickly.

It wasn't like they were intimidated, it was just like they didn't want to get involved, you know?

It seems that Celebrate Bauhaus Week is taking on a life of its' own, even after the end of the official week. Besides myself & Stacy (I swear, I'll write one entry that doesn't link to her this month), the mad brunette has joined the black clad fun. One more person & I'll start a webring...and I'm not sure if that was a promise or a threat.

Last night I flipped out at my brother. I mean, really flipped out. It was insane. Last night I went to bed early, as my schedule for today was crammed full with walking & errands. Imagine my surprise at 2:30 a.m. when I awoke to the sounds of laughter, splashing & conversation in my backyard.

I was not happy. I was not rational. I wasn't even fully awake. But nevertheless, I stomped down the stairs in my elephant nightshirt, flung open the door, and screamed/snarled at the nearest figures in my strongest possible voice: "Do you know what fucking time it is?! I've got a million fucking things to do tomorrow! Shut the fuck up."

Hey, in a neighborhood as quiet as ours, he's lucky no one called the cops. 2:30 a.m. on a Monday night...jesus. And I couldn't have saved him with a bull whip this time. Not that "saving" would be my first impulse.

This afternoon I attempted to deal with my pending homelessness by checking out the campus listings. I must say: it doesn't look too promising. I am currently 55th on the waiting list to get back into res, so that's pretty much out. My parents are being less than helpful in my time of need. Although they won't let me make a move without their explicit approval, they blame the Shithole Situation entirely on me. Currently they oscillate between insisting that I do whatever it takes to get back into res & insisting that all the Shithole needs is a can of Lysol and I'm making a fuss because I'm just a spoiled girl from the suburbs. It's incredibly demeaning. And it makes my head hurt.

Also this afternoon, my mom & I saw the travelling Impressionist & Post-Impressionist exhibit at the AGO. It was groovy, but not overwhelming like the Renoir exhibit of last year. We got into an argument about a Cezanne still-life - she called it "crap" and I hotly retorted that such a view is incredibly ignorant of Cezanne in general & this painting in particular. But even she couldn't say anything nasty about an unfinished Cezanne landscape that made the view melt away into a wash of blues & greens & browns. It was completely gorgeous & drippy & striking. I was also impressed with the van Goghs...there was an early study from his time as a theology student among peasants, and a later one from his most vibrant & trippy phase. This last one affected me deeply, as late van Gogh's tend to. I think it's the way the energy crackles off the canvas in great sheeting waves of visual orgasm. It made me want to buy the man a bottle of wine & get him to take the afternoon off. Where's that time machine when you need it?

(Yes, I'm nattering on. But I have to feel that 8 months of modern art instruction did me some good...)

one year ago today: gaining my reason, losing my reasons

July 13, 1998.

Today is the first day of my week off. I feel good...kind of tired, but relaxed. The Braccholi Boys (i.e. the little boy cousins that we babysat a few weeks ago) are here to swim, so I can spend my first free day with little boys. Joy.

Have I ever mentioned that I hate little boys?

Ok, that's not strictly true. I have a love/hate relationship with little boys. I hate them because there's so damn many of them in my family and they're so obnoxious when they're together. But they're my kin, so I love them despite their horrible boy behavior. But still...a whole day. Maybe I should seriously re-think this whole reproducing goal of mine.

A few things that I forgot to mention in yesterday's mammoth entry:

It turned out that the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus, despite being one of the best places on earth, was a good place to be depressed in. Braveheart was recently fired from the Gap for being sweaty, and then his bike got stolen when he was drinking away his getting-fired sorrows. I have never seen the boy so depressed in my life. And then there's Snag Boy...he had a scholarship to do anthropological work in Africa this summer, but his professor had a heart attack, so he can't use the money. To compensate, he bought a $2 African-style embroidered shirt & went to the Zoo's Africa exhibit. And then there's me, fired & potentially homeless. But at least I've still got my health, right? Right.

And the other thing is another example of the 2 degrees of separation theme which dogs my recent steps. Seems that Trotski's parents were at a Raindog gathering (Raindogs are Tom Waits fans), and they met the Reverend Jack Dick Davis, one of my more constant readers of last year. His ex-girlf Miette has told me some not very savory things about his behavior during & after their breakup, so I'm not as pleased as I might have been. Just fascinated, really. What a small world this is, and what a tiny place it has become thanks to computers.

I found myself getting caught up in the bullshit politics of online journalling this morning. I was surfing through my faves, just chilling & catching up on what I missed while I was in the City. One of them put up a fave journals list of her own, and I began to sulk when I found that I wasn't on it. Y'see, it wasn't enough for me this morning that Jain sent me clothes & Stacy invited me out on my anti-anniversary & the gus had an erotic dream about me & Poet (who can't stand my actual company) can't get enough of my online writing & Cranly is utterly happy when I mention what a mench he is on a semi-regular basis. No, I wanted to be on everyone's fave list, or I'd hold my breath...until I turned smart, I suppose.

Not to mention that this was never my intention when I started to write. I didn't have high literary goals, or anything (I think I wanted to jack up my counter, actually). When I was in high-school I never cared what the In Crowd thought of me. I wonder why I care now.

one year ago today: white trash got down on their knees

July 12, 1998.

Day 7 of Celebrate Bauhaus Week:

Success.

I have tickets.

I spent 40 minutes on the phone to the Evil Empire Friday morning. I called 270 times (I kept track). And I didn't get through a single time (I found out later that Deep Purple tickets went on sale the same day...go fig). Five minutes later, my dad called.

--So Princess, did you get the tickets?

--No, Dad...I was on the phone for 40 minutes and I couldn't get through

--Well, let's see if I can get through [dramatic pause, cue exciting music] on The Internet!

(Historical Note: Ok, he doesn't call me Princess. I'm embellishing, because this anecdote is funnier if you think of a whitebread 50's TV dad as my father. And there was no pause, dramatic or otherwise. My dad says those same words so often that they've been leached of all drama queen possibility)

And a few short minutes later, I had 2 tickets...not to mention the 2 that Daniel snagged for me. I drown in Bauhaus tickets, kind of. Well, not really...Sister Sunshine gets one, Trevor gets one & the last goes to Stacy. But it's neat to have enough to be generous.

I'm listening to Nine Inch Nails really loud right now. It's not that I'm depressed, or that I want the world to go away, it's just that I need to listen to something very extreme right now. Trent is angry, but his anger pushes his into a very real ecstasy...kind of an ecstatic scream, like a manic depressive perfectly balanced on the cusp. I've read that some priests dedicated to the goddess of love (doesn't matter which one) used to go into frenetic states where they would castrate themselves in the name of the goddess they served (although I will not vouch for the objective truth of this statement, as it was gleaned from a Marion Zimmer Bradley-esque short story written in the height of fashionable paganism).

It has not been a very good weekend.

Don't get me wrong, some parts of it have been fucking magic, and I'll go into those in detail. But some things happened to fuck up areas of my life that I naively thought were secure.

I need to scream. It was that kind of weekend.

"Don't think you're having all the fun, you know me, I HATE EVERYONE!!!!!!"

To start off with, I lost my job on Friday morning. Oh, don't worry about it too much, it's not the end of the world for me. It was confirmed last week that George (the 30 year old who told everyone in the office that the 2 of us were dating until my father put a stop to it) is definitely starting with them on Monday, so I'm well out of it. And as Trevor pointed out, they've been jerking me around for the last few weeks, so why should I be sorry to go?

So: I don't have a job. To console my not very upset self, I bought a $45 Nine Inch Nails bootleg CD from the NIN-Bowie concert I attended nearly 3 years ago. And I'm taking next week off to relax. Plans in the works include a trip to the Zoo and lots of swimming in the backyard, not to mention designing a website for Palaver's roommate (the one who isn't fucking Palliative, Palaver's ex). So I'm relatively sanguine about the whole thing.

I spent almost the entire afternoon on the phone with Maharet, which was a hoot. We were trying to figure out why people didn't do crafts when they're ripped...I'd love to point to a quilt, sigh, and say, "I don't know WHAT I was thinking." And on a similar tip, why samplers have fallen by the wayside. In the course of the afternoon, samplers which I have promised to make include:

  • "If you love her, just keep on loving her." - a guy in high-school
  • "Feminism will never get anywhere as long as you girls are divided on the Aerosmith issue." - Trevor (I think "feminism," "you girls" & "Aerosmith issue" should be picked out in a different colour from the rest)
  • "Hey, don't you spit on my monkey." - Trotski, in reference to "The Hunger" (yes, it does make a sort of sense)
  • "Maybe they're evil because they never learned how to dress." - me, musing on the motivations of the "evil A/R guys" in the Serial Joe video

Maharet accompanied me on the ride down to the City, and we met Sister Sunshine for a cheap & somewhat spicy meal at the Green Mango (all the Thai you can eat, & lots of free water to drink). After eating our fill, we sashayed into a nearby CD store (all forward motion after a Thai meal with Sister Sunshine falls in the category of a sashay) & then to the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus. We laughed, we experimented with the flat escalators, they ganged up on me & refused to let me use a bathroom en route, we talked about girlie stuff like make up. They bonded. I've seldom been happier with femmes in recent memory. It was grand.

And then we watched vampire movies at the Frat Haus until 3 a.m. After a suitable interval, Daniel & Edgar Allen showed up to pick up Maharet & ended up parked on the couch just before we started The Hunger. We all had a great time. I should prolly say "continued to have a great time," but it was a different tenor of good time. And thus the night will go down in history as The Night Edgar Allen Wasn't Being a Jerk, and people years from now will claim that they were there. It was a truly historic occasion, kids...sorry you missed it.

The thing I love best about crashing at the Frat Haus is being awake for about an hour before everyone else & just sitting by myself with a book & a coke in the sunlit living room. It's almost as good as showing up at any other point in the day, when they're up & about & playing eclectic music on the stereos (i.e. Thelonius Monk upstairs & Rosemary Clooney downstairs). I have realized too late that their house is one of my favourite places on earth...it's like where good university students go when they die. But I say too late, because their lease runs out at the end of the month. Just my luck.

"When I was a teenage whore, my momma said, baby, what for? I give you everything, why do you want more?"
- hole

Palaver & I got together for food & witty banter yesterday, which is utterly reassuring in it's bizarre familiarity. I often feel as if we're having only one conversation that's periodically interrupted by sleep, food & other people. It's this big intricate spiraling mess of sharp observations & ragged personal anecdotes & gems gleaned from media, and I feel privileged to be a part of it...that is, until he makes fun of my tattoo.

We went for a walk through Kensington Market after lunch & ended up in a really bizarre scene: attracted by loud guitars & what looked like a free performance, we wandered over to take advantage of some free entertainment. What we'd stumbled on was not a concert, however; it was a fairly successful local band of 15-year-olds who sound a lot like Rage Against the Machine called Serial Joe. They were shooting a video in the park & we'd walked onto the set. Shooting a video is fairly boring, but what kept us rooted to the spot was the half dozen or so teenage whores sitting on folding chairs & waiting for their cue. It was just so bizarre to see a very young band singing (relatively) serious music while 15-year-olds with bigger breasts than me danced around & on them. Palaver commented that he & Preacher & Poet may joke about little Catholic school girls, but the reality is just too sleazy for words. It was disturbingly Lolitæsque. Hell, I didn't have clothes like that until last year...and I certainly don't wear vinyl hotpants & bikini tops with a boa & hooker boots. ("Our precious cargo." "The hotpants, sir?" "Aye. The hotpants.") I really hope that it was done ironically, because it came off like a Whitesnake video for the crucial Hanson demographic.

But while it was frightening in the extreme, it was also enormously entertaining. Many times during the rest of the day, I was able to rescue my flagging spirits by this memory alone. How dare I be upset on a day which brought me Teenage Whores?

"I keep getting older & they keep staying the same age."
- dazed & confused

"I was up above it, now I'm down in it."

And then we wandered by the basement apartment where I have agreed to live in next year. Although I hadn't seen it before yesterday, I knew that my Future Roommate had looked really hard for a nice apartment. I really like her. I trust her. And this is why I removed my deposit from res without going to see the place.

How can I put this politely? How about it's a fucking shithole. No joke. There's one tiny window, and it's in the bedroom I'd have. The lighting is gloomy, the ceilings are low, the front hall is full of trash left by the last tenant, and the place reeks as only basement apartments can. So to sum up: I am paying $475 a month for a shithole of a place that's 7 blocks away from campus. When I told Trotski about it, I started to cry.

Jesus. My first reaction was that I fucking knew things were going too good, that I didn't deserve to be as happy as I've been lately. With 24 hours worth of perspective, I can see that it's that kind of thinking which keeps me miserable for long stretches. But then I just thought that it was my bad juju catching up. Welcome back, princess.

Fuck.

Then I went to a somewhat morbid night of live comedy at the Tim Sims Playhouse with Trevor & Trevor's Best Friend From Mississauga Whom I'm Too Tired To Pseudonym (I'll work on it some other time). I used to be something of a live comedy addict, gathering up my high-school friends & travelling into the City to see an improv group called The Chumps as frequently as my budget allowed. But that was on Queen West (close to the Garden, as a matter o' fact), and this place is in the fashionable part of downtown, where the cars are relatively new & adult couples down from the suburbs like to come down to spend a "raucous" evening out. It was an interesting scene...interesting & expensive. One of the comics we saw is being flown out to New York to audition for Saturday Night Live in a few days. Here's where it gets morbid: he's being flown out as the next in a series of "funny fat guys." It's like there's regional finals, and then semi finals, and then on to the nationals...all to be the next guy to self-destruct in New York for our collective rubbernecking amusement.

I sometimes feel like I'm the only sane woman in a perverted culture, but perverts always feel like that.

Saw Stacy at the Garden. She was wearing goth camouflage, which I mention only to emphasize that a) she looked amazing as always, and b) bet you didn't know that goths needed to blend in against a black background, huh? We chatted about my prospective shithole & Bauhaus tickets (I'm such a child of the 90's...I lost my job & my happy dreams of a house, but I've got kick-ass concert tickets. Kee-rist.) But most of my energy was spent being half of That Annoyingly Affectionate Couple Who Aren't Even Wearing Black, So Who Do They Think They Are, Anyway?

Yeah, you read that right. I was part of a couple. I am currently part of a couple. I have to change the Info page, because I have a Sweetie. The crossing of the Rubicon into coupledom actually took place at the Garden, when Trevor asked me to accompany him to his sister (a.k.a. Pixie Stix)'s wedding (yeah, asylum & Greek Drama are going to be united by marriage. Weird, huh?) Later in the evening, we went to Chinguacousy Park & necked. I got bit by a mosquito twice. It was grand.

Are you guys still with me? You've never been with the Girlfriend Model Tisiphone...I just hope you'll be able to love the less cynical me just as much.

July 9, 1998.

It's now exactly one month until my 22nd birthday. I'm registered at Sears, Siren & New York Fries. Purchase accordingly.

Last night the air-conditioner was doing jack about the humidity, so I opened my bedroom window before I went to sleep. Big mistake...I slept so soundly that it was really painful getting out of the green tartan nest of my bedclothes. Mental note: if I close my window, my sleep will be light & troubled...but I'll be able to get up the next day.

My sleep was also somewhat troubled by one of my brother's bands, as they were practicing in the studio room in the basement (yes, this house has a (poorly) acoustically tiled studio room. My brother got calf-eyes when he first saw it...I think that's why we bought the house.) My old house had a practice room in the crawlspace (which we called the Cave-and for those who know me IRL, yes, we had the same phone number there...cool, huh?), and although the house was pretty small, all the walls & rooms deadened the sound pretty well. But this house (which we affectionately call the Wedge) is open concept, so the sound spirals everywhere.

But since he's been doing this for 6 years, I'm pretty used to loud guitars booming out of my basement. Thank god for earplugs, though...they made so many nights in res bearable (like the night that Veronica & Deb went crazy studying for Latin class & decided at 2 a.m. to play hockey in the hall outside my room. Although I recall nothing of this night, Veronica claims that I stomped out of my room in pajamas and roared at them to shut the hell up, for Christ's sake. Yes, even in tattered K-Mart pink & white pj's I play the dom...)

Last night I went a little crazy.

Besides the angry French missive (everything's fine now, BTW), there was a long letter from a relatively new correspondent of mine, who wrote on my email stress levels. A lot of letters I answered this week date from a month back, and I feel like this is insufferable behavior in an instantaneous medium. As Mike jokingly put it, crucifixion's too good for me. This letter outlined simple, reasonable steps to maximize my time on earth, and I began to realize that there was something wrong with my evenings. Instead of maximizing my down time, I'm fucking it away on teevee & silly computer pursuits. I saw my weeknights stretching away from me, an endless row of scripted nights that were all routine & no damn fun.

I uploaded yesterday's entry. I got up. I turned off the monitor. And I went to the library, for the first time in too damn long. Between then & now, I've read Postcards From the Edge & The Commitments.

I feel really great, too.

I dreamt of Stacy again last night (we were in the cool, brightly-lit & expanded Siren that only exists in my dreams). A couple days ago, I invited her, Gomer & the Boy to an upcoming dessert party at Palaver's house (with a very interesting theme: "the "Palaver's ex is fucking his bearded roommate and seems to think she lives here" party"), but realized that as this was the 4th invitation I've tendered to her in a month, I'm behaving remarkable stalker-esque.

I think it's because she reminds me of Katherine, a friend I had in high-school. Or maybe I'm inordinately drawn to redheaded Newfie femmes (hi, Maharet!) Or maybe I'm just overly anxious to see my name in a cool journal. Who knows.

But I feel like I'm acting like an overgrown unhouse-broken puppy: jumping up on people, knocking over furniture & generally destroying things in my efforts to be friendly. I hate feeling like a dog.

Day 4 of Celebrate Bauhaus Week:

Nic is losing heart. He's begun telling me graphic stories of Nirvana ticket rushes that ended in failure. Looks like he's psyching himself useless. I need to inspire confidence in him if I want these suckers, and I'm certainly no Henry V. On one hand, there'll be a lot of oldschool goths panting for tickets...but as Trevor pointed out, that's all. I don't expect to see a lot of cross-over from Love & Rockets fans (i.e. the part of Bauhaus with no talent). And babygoths don't even know the name.

So I'm hoping against hope.

Later: Scoooooorrre!!!!! Daniel's going tomorrow morning, so I can be assured that he will take every measure necessary to secure these tickets. I feel much better.

Still Later: Oh my God. I'm such a putz...Aphrodite just called me to wish me happy birthday (a full month ahead of schedule) and I couldn't figure out who it was for 5 minutes. In our defense, we've only spoken 3 times since school ended. But as Aphrodite so succinctly put it, we're both assholes...she for forgetting the month of my birth & me for not recognizing her voice.

Sigh. I'm getting stupider with age, I just know it...

one year ago today: writing poetry @ work

July 8, 1998.

Guess what? The French hate me!

Well, not all of the French. It's not like I've been turned down for the Legion of Honour, or they've taken down all of my paintings in the Louvre (ha ha ha ha ha.) But there is a woman in France who wants to kick my ass.

Yesterday I spent a draining amount of time answering email (I whittled my inbox from 90+ to a mere 31 - how's that for bouncing back?! You don't have to answer that.) One of the emails I answered was a sweet little note from a guy in France, who told me that I was really pretty. Pulling on my 9 years of academic French, I arduously composed a message...which contained only his comments & my one-line reply: "merci beaucoup." Today I got an irate letter in French, asking if I was in an escort service, and demanding to know why I was corresponding with "son mari" [her husband].

This was when my shreds of French came in handy, although I had to consult a pocket French-English dictionary to translate "whore" & "anger" for the sentences "je ne suis pas une putain" [I am not a whore] & "est-ce que tu as furieux contre moi?" [are you mad at me?] respectively. Hey, my grammar may be bad, but it's the best I have to offer. Hey, I just misspelled "grammar." Remind me why I'm an English major again?

So there you go. If we as a diary community can voodoo Lizzie's downstairs neighbor away, can we work on this French woman later? I reserve this as a last ditch option to be sure...but it's interesting to contemplate, n'est-ce pas?

Day 3 of Celebrate Bauhaus Week:

This morning I did a dry run to the Evil Empire, in preparation for Friday morning's mad dash for tickets. My mom has graciously allowed me to borrow her credit card, and my brother has promised to be in the Mall at the nearest physical terminal when tickets go on sale. He may have to trample a few old-school goths, but he's built like Iggy Pop...real skinny, but when he strains himself, muscles & veins pop out of nowhere to bulge on his arms. It's eerie...I don't recommend the sight. My only problem on this front is convincing him of the effort required (i.e. every last fiber of his being). He's a slacker.

Last night I drew up a battle plan to get these tickets: I'd phone the Evil Empire while Nic goes to the Mall. Each of our goals would be 2 tickets. This is a plan that covers all bases...I'll be able to sell any extras in a heartbeat, if it comes to that. I laid out this plan to my family at dinner, and so now we're all committed.

I'll get tickets or I'll choke their rivers with my dead.

And it seems that Stacy has taken up the cause of Celebrate Bauhaus Week, though her friend DJ Lord Pale has tickets to the exclusive industry gig in Hollywood this Friday. Makes you grit your teeth, mmm?

one year ago today: al schroeder "discovered" me to the established community, although I didn't clue in for a month

July 7, 1998.

Update on Celebrate Bauhaus Week:

I called The Evil Empire again this morning, and found out that although the venue only holds 1000, the wristband policy is not in effect. This means that I may have to struggle over a pile of emaciated corpses & pledge my first born to the Prince of Darkness in order to get tickets. This upsets me somewhat, but I am determined that I shall not miss the concert of the year (if not the decade) due to piddling moral scruples.

Rah. I'm sorry...I've been reading feminist sword & sorcery all afternoon, and I just realized how much the last paragraph sounded like something Red Sonya would say. Yikes. What's the line in Conan about the purpose of life? You'd think I'd know it by now, as I've had it quoted to me endlessly, but there you go.

Sister Sunshine seems smugly confident that she can get tickets through the Varsity, along with an interview. I made her promise to take me, but it was given with a very irritable counter-promise that I keep my mouth absolutely shut, as I would "take over" & "ruin her interview." I was very offended...especially since Sister Sunshine spends a week after every interview moaning about how stupid she felt in front of _____ because she didn't have anything to ask them. We did one interview together in a local comic book store, and I will freely admit that I took over...but I thought I was helping her out, not cramping her style.

It all seems to be just another variation on the cranky theme that's been playing through the last year of our relationship. It seems like every second or third time we get together lately, she makes a point of telling me how annoying I am, or how boring I am, or whatever. I can't argue back anymore without blowing the sullen pilot light of her anger into a vicious blaze that shocks me into silence. It was never like this before...we've had a really peaceful couple of years. But I feel this resentment at the back of every encounter now, and it's making me defensive & more than a little depressed.

I don't know what I'd do without her. But it seems more than likely that she's happier without me.

In happier inter-personal relationship news, Trevor has decided that he wants to take me to see Titanic before it leaves the big screen. I've been holding out against seeing it, because who wants to be another weepy lemming in a whole herd of weepy lemmings? But I've been promised certain things that I'm not at liberty to reveal now (although I'll feel no compunction afterward), and these...additives...promise to up the ante considerably. I may even be looking forward to it by the time next weekend rolls around.

Go figure.

Finally, Cranly informed me last weekend that his Merry Crew of Pranksters has actually located a house for next year...and the Lawyer has assured me that my future house & Cranly's (& Butler's & Casey's & Brit Boy's) will be about 3 blocks from each other. So it looks like I'll have a neighbor living with me in the region of Hell & Gone. Cool.

And speaking of the party, Stacy's entry concerning the same is up. She mentions something that I'd forgotten: i.e. my gothware. I'd originally planned to wear my green Ferg tartan bra & Jain's long black PVC skirt...and that's it. I figured that at the very least, I'd give Preacher an aneurysm. But I chickened out & threw a little velvety black top on over the tartan, which is probably a good thing...the skirt had a tendency to slip back down to my hips, and hitching it up every couple of minutes would've been a drag & a half. I should also point out that Stacy looked very fetching in her LBD (little black dress). I honestly think that glitter's a part of her body chemistry, because there was just the faintest dusting all over her exposed skin, like it was embedded in her very flesh. Very cool.

one year ago today: the entry that got exerpted in my fem|mass listing

July 6, 1998.

Bauhaus! Bauhaus!! Bauhaus!!!

I declare this week to be Celebrate Bauhaus week, and you're all welcome to participate. This morning at 7:15 the radio announced that a Toronto date had finally been released: September 2nd @ the Warehouse. It took a lot of self-control not to phone around excitedly at that ungodly hour. I've been on the phone with Ticketmaster (i.e. the Evil Empire) 4 times today, trying to find out if wristbands will be handed out...even so, I'd have to bribe my brother to buy them on Friday, since I'll be working. It's not a terribly good idea to ask for the morning off of your first week in a new job. Nope nope nope.

Speaking of the new job, it still only exists theoretically, as no one has confirmed that I'll be working for the new metal men. Oddly enough, none of this bothers me. I haven't felt one shred of anxiety since I found out about the closure, although it means the end of the comfy little space I've made for myself. And it means the end of my financial valhalla, as I doubt that the new people will be willing to go $11 per hour for a summer receptionist. But I can't make myself care.

I also couldn't make myself care when my former boss enjoined me to periodically walk around & check on the material as they closed the deal today. I think that I've done quite enough this week for the sinking ship...I didn't see him rushing to help me & my brother clean out offices. I didn't see him at the office yesterday afternoon, when I was so hung-over that I couldn't walk over a certain speed. Serves 'em right if they get screwed hard & deep in this buy-out.

I feel a little like Scarlett O'Hara: "As God is my witness, I'll never clean out a stockroom for that company again!"

This whole Bauhaus thing has made me itchy to start a webring. I'm not sure how those ideas connect, but there you go. Something gothic & a little cheesy, like "Dark Entries: Journals written by the Children of the Night." Or "Release the Bats! A ring for gothic scribes." And the logo could be something dreadfully campy...like bats silhouetted against a full moon, or letters that dripped blood. I dunno. I'm still amused by the gus' sex web ring, exclusively for diarists who've had sex with each other & those who've had sex with them, etc.

I had nothing to do today, and I mean nothing. No computer to play with, nothing to read that I hadn't already read a million times, no phone calls to speak of, nobody to talk to, and no ostentatiously large craft project (i.e. the Rug). So I tried something that I haven't done in ages: I prayed.

I'm not really what you would call a practicing Christian, since I don't practice the ritual part of it as often as seems necessary to others. I have always believed in God, and I always get a little annoyed that the moment of silence & meditation in church services isn't long enough for me to really chat with God (or the Goddess. I don't visualize gender-specifically). The only time I've spoken to God at satisfying length proved pretty ironic: I had a long talk about what to do about Poet, and the next day I went bonkers, drank a suicidal amount of booze with Tiger Lily & blacked out with her on his mattress.

The Greeks thought that madness is divine. I'm not sure if I proved it one way or the other that day.

After that, I snagged some money from my dad & went off in search of the Details magazine that apparently mentions Nigel. I say "apparently," because I not only couldn't find the magazine, but the clerk had never even heard of Details. Sorry, babe...that's notoriety for you.

P.S. Day 6 and the mermaid's still doing great. I'm so pleased. Although I've had to train myself to mind my right arm...and that's altering my behavior in other ways. For example, I stop myself from sliding down our nubby sofa, because I don't want to scrape off the rose on my back...and then I realize that nothing will scrape off my rose.

one year ago today: wait, I had a point

July 5, 1998.

Oh dear. I haven't been this hung over in quite some time. Remember the "rum, sodomy & the lash" party for Braveheart's birthday? It was also the celebrated Last Fling at the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus, so there was a lot of joi de vivre going around. I drank much more than was good for me, and we were out so late that Trevor & I watched the sun rise from the 407 on the way home...so now I'm too nauseous to sleep. But I had a great time.

Cranly was there as advertised: up from Massachusetts, strung out on Day Quil & just digging the scene. Aphrodite & Tiger Lily showed up in risqué gothware (yes, there's other kinds), including the PVC dress that I'm wearing in the infamous fishnets picture. Tiger Lily also bought a whip, prompted by the entry of a week ago in which I purchased a headshop whip of my very own. But I was the only girl there with handcuffs. The three of us were the token doms of the party, and in a party where there was a communist flag earmarked for everyone's favourite lesbian (we had to discuss this at length), that's not such a weird thing to be.

(I can't believe that I go to parties where I'm not the only one in PVC brandishing a whip & handcuffs.)

(I might have taken the dom thing too far; Trevor & I went to a beer store before the party handcuffed together. And I had the whip in my other hand. But it was fun. Just goes to show: when you've got handcuffs, you've got an anecdote.)

When I go to these parties, there's always a frission of dismay when I see certain people. It always comes from the sick feeling I get when I look at someone & realize how much distance has grown up (? out? down?) between us. But I was rescued from such a fate fairly early on when Stacy, Gomer & the Boy unexpectedly showed up (after visiting Palaver's home by mistake). We had a really good time in the kitchen swapping stories & laughing uproariously (we were that annoying group who blocks the fridge, not to mention the way to the backyard). Although this was my first meeting with the Boy (sounds like business, doesn't it), I ended up smacking him a few times for obnoxiousness...he kept making fun of my drunken speech & insinuating obscene conclusions to anecdotes I told about the other party goers. It was cute.

And then, after I was a bit too drunk to handle it, the really weird thing happened. After some discussion, it was determined that Trevor's sister & BILTB (brother in law to be) are Pixie Stix & Q, and thus I've been hearing of her upcoming wedding from 2 completely different sources.

The other really eerie connection thing went like this: I went to last night's party with Trevor, and although we went out for coffee a few times during the school year, there was a long gap during exams...and the only reason we've been brought to the other's attention (so to speak) was that we met in a tartan shop in Tisember. Now follow me here: I never go into places like that, but I had time to kill & wanted to price a kilt for Braveheart's birthday party (the theme then was "tartan & leather"). And Trevor was only there to price a kilt for (drumroll) his sister's wedding. And then at that very party...well, I don't have to explain this part, you can make the finishing connections yourself.

Weird, huh?

Also last night, Trevor & I caught Jaymz Bee & his Royal Jelly Orchestra at a street festival. It was really cool...the audience was full of families & lone packs of pre-teens & funky adults, which is a demographic that I haven't been in for quite some time. Jaymz worked the audience like...well...like a pro. But like a swing band leader/over-enthusiastic puppy dog rather than a skilled manipulator. During a few songs he spent the entire time kissing women in the audience (I'm proud to note that he kissed me first of all, during a cover of Perry Cuomo's "Music to Watch Girls By.") I just wish that there'd been more Jaymz & less backup singers...but you can't argue with a set that has an emcee guy in a tuxedo sing "Cocktails for Two" & "Bessame Mucho."

one year ago today: 'thou shalt not speak of poet' week

July 3, 1998.

Today I was supposed to drop acid & go goth dancing with Cranly, but it's probably best that he's too sick for such activities, as I spent the entire day packing up my office's files & disposing of everything else. Over the last 2 days I think that I've removed every staple ever stapled in that office. It almost makes me long for the old unenlightened days when paper was thrown away instead of scrupulously recycled.

Do you know what it's like to spend your last day of work cleaning up the accumulated mess of 2 1/2 years? To know that you have until 4:30 to finish an impossible job? To realize at 4 p.m. on a holiday Friday that the stupid fucks at the Bank of Montreal didn't pick up their direct payment terminal as promised? To have cuts all over one's hands from handling paper from morning till night & be covered in dust & sweat from climbing up & down unsteady shelves? To develop carpal tunnel from removing staples?

Needless to say, I was in a really ugly mood when we finally bugged out a half hour past quitting time. And I get to go in on Sunday afternoon & do it all again. Yay.

"Everyone has records these days. It was one of our better ideas."
- crowley, an angel who did not so much fall as saunter vaguely downwards

But the party tonight was pretty good. It's my second cousin Christopher's 8th birthday today, and we all went over for the traditional family barbecue. I don't always have a good time at these things, but tonight was an exception. For some reason, all of Christopher's aunts & uncles (the ones not related to me, I mean) seemed to find me fascinating. One of their daughters (I'll refer to them as a collective; it's just easier that way) is going to U of T next fall for English, so we talked about what she should expect. She's going to St Mike's (the catholic college), but she's commuting, which'll be drag & a half. I can't even imagine university life without the glorious procrastination of res, not to mention the wonderful people I've met through Ferg. We also had a short discussion about the police and unconscious racism, during which another of the collective kept remarking to my father how smart I was. And yet another uncle reminisced aloud about the way I used to spend my time during these parties a decade ago: in the corner with a book in my lap. Yes, I was extremely introverted when I was younger (not that I've changed all that much). Between the ages of 10 and 16, I didn't have any close friends, let alone best friends. Maharet, Akasha & Mr. Shoreleave were my first true best friends to come after Christina (a sweet girl that I met through enhanced classes, and who was my best friend until she moved back to Newfoundland).

But my favourite moment occurred after the presents were opened. A small herd of small boys began to stampede up the stairs to open & exploit the brand new Nintendo paraphernalia, but Christopher slipped & was trampled. So he's wailing on his mother's knee while a few of the surrounding women (including me) coo sympathetically, and the only boy who stuck around announced that he was "the only cousin who cared." Chris' mother commented that Chris' older brother hadn't stuck around, to which Chris tremulously cried, "that's because he doesn't like me." Chris is like me in that every little set-back is a huge disaster, especially when he's an a highly emotional state...but the way he said it brought tears to our eyes. My mom was utterly astounded...I don't cry at movies, I don't cry at funerals, I don't cry at weddings...and there I was, trying to find a kleenex at a family party. It was high-larious.

And everyone liked the mermaid once they found out that it was a transfer. It was quite the conversation piece...it's so tacky that to get something like that permanently says to most that the tattooed girl (i.e. me) is either a sailor or a dyke. Which is more than half the fun of such a design.

one year ago today: I am trendy instead of evil

July 2, 1998.

I can't believe that I'm still awake. I really can't. Let me tell you about my Canada Day:

10 a.m.: woken up by Sister Awake paging Sister Sunshine. (Sister Awake was our ride, and the only reason Sister sunshine had a ticket to Edgefest was that Sister Awake is a huge Moist fan. Like, moaning about the lead singer when his name comes up in conversation huge.) Eventually we get out of bed.

10:30 a.m.: Those fuckers at McDonalds refuse to serve us lunch, as apparently Canada Day counts as a weekend. We sulk & order sausage mcmuffins, which proves to be my fatal mistake (well, one of them). Our healthy breakfast is rounded out with some exotic buns from the nearby Chinese bakery. Before we hit the road, Sister Awake prepares for the journey by unexpectedly reciting the Lord's Prayer in Armenian; I am impressed, but this is old hat to Sister Sunshine, who tries to distract her in the middle.

10:30 - noon: The ride down is very pleasant. The day is sunny as all get out, but windy enough to take the edge off. We listen to Radiohead, The Jackson Five, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion & the Stone Roses, and somehow the sun & the anticipation & the perfect sound quality & the speed of the car heterodyned into something amazing: I found myself in love with the Stone Roses. For the rest of the day I kept singing snatches of "I Want to Be Adored" ("no need to sell my soul, he's already in me, I wanna be adored...") When we get to the park, we notice the large taco waving people into the parking lot, and immediately feel sorry for whatever poor underpaid teenager is in that dumb suit. Sister Awake begins singing "hello Taco Boy, goodbye heart..." to our general amusement.

Noon-2:30: We wait in line to be searched & questioned & let into the prison...er...park. We play band t-shirt poker (Sister Sunshine won when 5 Marilyn Manson's walked by in a row) and other pop culture time wasters. As we stood between 2 fences, surrounded by young concert goers & feeling remarkably like animals in a slaughter chute, we noticed that the group ahead of us all had Molson Canadian (i.e. beer) slogans painted on their faces & chests (the slogan, like the burb, is "I Am...Canadian"). Although I had spent most of my teenage years hanging out with this demographic, I could not help loathing them & their molson-canadian-drinkin' tragically-hip-listenin' clean-scrubbed meatheadedness. And when they spontaneously began to sing "Oh Canada!" en masse, I began to wish, just for a second, that they could not claim nationality with me. I've never been less proud to be a Canadian than I was in that moment. And then they seamlessly segued into the Flintstones theme. Oh, how I despised them. It's even worse when you consider that I am only 2 years away from being them.

This was the first time that day when I felt too old to be there. Unfortunately, it was not the last. From now on I can only clock my day by the bands onstage.

Bif & Rusty: We only catch the end of both sets. I'm mildly disappointed, but there's too much ahead to worry about missing the first acts. I rapidly consume a hot dog & pop - my second fatal mistake. We wander a bit & sit comfortably through the Econoline Crush set. No problems yet...although I have begun to have phantom Brampton-people sightings. Oddly enough, I meet no one besides the Sisters. But when you consider that the park holds 35 000, it's not that surprising.

Sloan: Awesome. The first line of the first song wrapped up the entire day & gave it back to us: "anyone who's anyone'll be there..." I had forgotten how annoying it is to be 5'5" at a large outdoor concert...it takes far too much work to maintain sightlines, and the band is still only half the size of my pinky finger. I almost kill some blonde bitch in front of me who's extremely careless with her cigarette; I almost get it in my face twice. Being pushed & pummeled by a huge crowd of tall guys who desperately want to get in front of me does not do much for my temper. But Sloan is twice as good as life, just to make up for it.

Foo Fighters: Although we're the same distance back, the crowd is worked up to a much greater degree now, and we're caught in the ginormous pit during "Monkeywrench." Sister Sunshine leaves halfway through the first song, as she's wearing open-toed sandals. Not to mention that a swirl of forward-bound moshers nearly carried her away with them. This leaves me & Sister Awake to mosh...that is, until I begin to feel the effects of my gastronomical mistakes. I decide that I need out of the crush before I vomit on 15 strangers, and I spend the rest of the set lying down on the grass, thinking about the first Foo concert I went to (it was truly the superior experience, as they were still small enough to play a club, and the only ones who came out were 15-year-old Nirvana fans. Thus the pit was so gentle night that Mr. Blonde & I had enough energy to mosh all night long. And the other good thing was that I was one of the very few people in the audience who knew the material, so I could scream back "I'll Stick Around" with an utter lack of self-consciousness.) After the set ends, we regroup & decide to find something to eat during the Green Day set.

Green Day: We eat some really disgusting & overpriced food. Then we cruise the booths & immediately get waylaid by the temporary tattoo tent. After much deliberation, Sister Awake gets a monkey on her chest, Sister Sunshine gets a head-and-shoulders picture of Elvis & the logo "Don't be cruel" on her bicep and I get a huge multicoloured mermaid on my bicep. From then on, we referred to Sister Sunshine's right arm as "the King arm," and spoke of her having to protect the King, hail to the King, and so on. It was the most gloriously tacky tatt that I have ever seen...even more so than Jaymz Bee's Burl Ives tattoo (which is real). I, on the other hand, looked as if I was about to join the Merchant Marines (assuming such a thing still exists). I couldn't resist, tho'...I saw it, and a line from Nick Cave echoed through my skull ("in came a sailor with mermaids tattooed on his arms.") We come back to the stage in time to see a man in a lemon suit playing taps on a shiny trumpet. It was that kind of day.

Moist: This was Sister Awake's raison d'être, so Sister Sunshine & I respectfully withdrew, so as not to ruin her time by pointing out how much Moist does indeed suck. The set was just as short as the others, but while the other sets whetted my appetite, the short Moist set was the closest thing to mercy that I could imagine.

Tea Party: The Sisters decide to piss me off by constantly screaming through the songs, as I was the only one of us who'd admit to liking the Tea Party (which makes the Sister Awake pseudonym highly ironic, to those in the know). Pissed off by their assoholic behavior, I go as deep into the crowd as I can in 4 songs...after which they yank me out to go home. But they relent at the last minute, and we catch the end of the concert: the Tea Party with Edwin (formerly of I Mother Earth, a band as shitty as Moist, if not more so) singing Bowie's "I'm Afraid of Americans." It was heavenly.

Midnight - 2 a.m.: we finally find the car after 20 minutes of walking. Someone has sideswiped us, and the window stalls at 2 inches down...making the ride home a freezing cold hell. Sister Sunshine & I sleep, while Sister Awake fights traffic. There are no magical Stone Roses moments...just a seat belt buckle jabbing into my side.

Although I only had 5 hours of sleep last night, I was in charge of cleaning out the entire suite of offices vacated by the now-defunct Wesbell High-Tec Manufacturing. Do you know how hard it is to sort through files & remove half a million staples from paper to be recycled when you're bone-tired & sick as hell from greasy non-food? I am amazed that I was able to get through the day without vomiting.

And I want to sleep now.

one year ago today: my weird uncles & slamming back shots of barbecue sauce

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