June 1998

June 30, 1998.

What a pleasant day.

Although I've been kept quite busy for long spells answering the phone, this has been a day of slack unparalleled in my recent experience. I've gotten so much done on my rug this week...I've only had it for a week & it's already almost half done. I'm just burning through this one.

Last night Trevor called me for a spontaneous outing to see Wilde. Trevor commented that the movie made him think of me...and he's not the first...I felt guilty accepting, as I'd promised to see it with both Dirk and Palaver over a month ago. But I couldn't resist...I won't have a chance to see it with either of them until Sunday at the very earliest. And it's Stephen Fry. Stephen Fry as Oscar Wilde. Do I need to say that my weakness was played upon?

(This is exactly why my mom saw A Clockwork Orange twice in one day, I think. We're just girls who can't say no to movies.)

So. Wilde. What was it like, right?

Well, utterly fabulous, of course. The major biographical points seemed to have been covered, although I assume that a certain amount of historical speculation must have spiced up the script. I adored the fact that they showed him making love to each of his 3 main boys; Oscar Wilde is famous for being convicted as a homosexual, but it still takes courage to show frankly homosexual scenes in a major movie. The relationship of Oscar & Lord Alfred (Boise) wasn't simplified a bit, although I emerged with a profound dislike for Boise...he's such a spoiled tyrannical little queen and Oscar's such a gentle sweet man that I couldn't help mentally begging Oscar to dump the stupid, grasping bitch diva.

I also bought a whip at the local head shop. I couldn't resist...I was tearing through the mall last night, depositing my paycheck & picking up the York Cycle pictures, and I passed by the mall's outlet for Doc Martens & "Oh my God! They killed Kenny!" shirts. The theme of Saturday's party flashed before my eyes ("rum, sodomy & the lash"), and I found myself $20 poorer but one boss bullwhip richer.

And thus my parents thought it was terribly amusing to call out, "your keys are on your bed; next to the whip!" when Trevor came to pick me up. It was pretty funny, actually. Mistress Tisiphone prepares for a discipline party by gathering her instruments of domination. Rowr.

Try not to expect an entry for tommorrow, pets. Although it's Canada Day, I'll be at an outdoor concert from noon until the wee hours. So in advance: Happy Dominion Day, my fellow Canadians. Party hard & be proud, just like me.

June 29, 1998.

Yesterday I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to hear "Man That You Fear" off of "Antichrist Superstar." Maybe it was a reaction to being responsible & normal (well, normal for me) in order to properly babysit the boys. I can't very well curl up with a bottle of Bailey's in my room, wearing the fishnets & crooning Cure songs at the top of my lungs. Parents tend to look down on that sort of thing...can't imagine why...

This weekend has left me with a sour taste in my mouth (or maybe that's just the diet coke). Although I was really too sick to do anything fun (excepting The Truman Show), I peevishly regret missing out on Toronto last weekend. These feelings were thrown into sharp relief when they kicked Dirk & I out of the bar at 12:45 on Saturday night...and all I could think was, "man. I should be at the Garden right now." Last Saturday we stayed so long after the 2 a.m. closing time that Phil started bellowing at us, "if you don't work here, GO HOME!" To which Palaver replied, "can I get an application?" "No!"

Oh well. Next weekend should be super. Cranly's coming up from The Enemy to the South for the weekend & there's a party at the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus to celebrate Braveheart's birthday. This party's theme is "rum, sodomy & the lash," so that should be a good time. I'm especially looking forward to going in the turtle pool, as I was too young to drink beer the last time they let me in a turtle pool, and I need to make up for lost time.

Yesterday I installed a 3D CD-ROM version of Monopoly into my computer. It's super cool...graphics, music, computer avatars...but my mom's right. Without the feel of the money in your hands, if loses a lot of its' appeal. But discarding the human element helps immensely. I couldn't play Monopoly with my friends in high-school because it revealed a really ugly side to some of their characters...Mr. Shoreleave, for instance. Playing against a computer avatar eliminates all that struggle; it's just business, baby.

June 28, 1998.

Last night I dreamt that I was in North Carolina, following the gus around. He was being very very annoying...every time I tried to say something, he would make fun of me to this other girl who was with us. It wasn't until after we'd visited the house of Kristen the Eco-radical (I actually thought of her by this title in my dream) that I realized that this annoying person didn't look anything like the gus' pictures...and then I realized that he wasn't the gus at all! I was very relieved. And then we opened up a car trunk & the real gus popped out & hugged me enthusiastically. End of dream.

I don't like to come over all psychic & shit, but there were only 7 weeks between my dream of Stacy and my first real life encounter with Stacy...although the 2 incidents were the same in name only. Maybe it's time for me to buy a bus ticket south...

*giggle* (not to fear, gus...I doubt I'll be on your doorstep any time soon...but if I do, I'll be wearing the pink dress that shows off my bra to great advantage. Promise.)

So last night I saw The Truman Show.

Jesus wept, what a good movie. Kymm's right, though...although it's advertised as a comedy, there's very little that's funny about it (although it's very amusing from an ironic point of view. The little failures of the actors, the pat All-American-ness of the little town, and the whole solipsistic concept are quite cleverly done). Oddly enough, it was a lot like Dark City...if anyone involved in Dark City had been interested in making it a good movie, that is.

But what really blew me away was the performance of Jim Carrey. He is, quite truly, all that one could ask of in a hero. He's strong & kind & intelligent & clever & funny. It's the performance of a lifetime, that's for sure.

And finally, it's Diary Collab day once more in our fair community. This month's question is about winning an insane amount of money...how would you arrange the payments and what would you spend it on?

I find 100 million dollars difficult to visualize, let alone apply to myself. Okay, here's the plan: I'd prolly start by moving to an anonymous location immediately, and communicate with my friends & family by secretive & controlled means. Of course, this would mean giving up every friend & relative, as money would create tension between us. I'd make an equal cash present to every one of my immediate relatives...maybe 100 thou each, with 2 million each for my mom, dad & brother. I'd track down the one thing each of my friends wanted most in the world & buy it for them...guitars, private concerts, horses, swords, manservants, dioceses, patrons, girlfriends, celebrities, the whole 9 yards. I'd give 50 million to various good works...churches, inner city outreach, medical research, women's shelters, the NDP, etc. I'd buy myself every toy I could ever want & sculpt my body into the ultimate sex-goddess machine. I'd buy Whitney Hall & let all my friends live there for free. I'd spend 20 years living out the ultimate sexual/social/moral debauch...parties so wild that Marilyn Manson would leave early...and then I'd give the rest to a Zen monastery & retire there to live out my life in contemplation.

Nahh. I wouldn't do any of that.

Plan 2: I'd give away 99 million to charities & use the rest to live out a comfortable life...one not restrained by financial considerations or the need to toil, but with enough surplus that dinner would always be on me.

But I don't need 100 million dollars. I don't need 100 thousand dollars. I like my life. Money would just devalue everything that's already good in it.

June 27, 1998.

Well, that's it for my office. As of the 6th, the new owners will be taking over...and I heard that they're hiring all the losers who got fired from my office over the last year...including George Stewart, the asshole who spread rumors about me & him dating. To paraphrase Veronica in Heathers, "And to think that I once thought he was so cool..."

There's been talk that I should see if the new owners will need a femme dogsbody to run the new office. But I think it would be a very bad scene. I'd have to work with Laverne, who obviously bears a grudge against me & barely said goodbye to me on her way out yesterday; Paul, the shop foreman who got fired last month & who flew into a murderous rage when we made him take down his nudie calendar; and of course, George the lecherous lying lush. Oh boy. Can't wait.

Where's that chicken processing job again?

We have our boys up with us for weekend, so I promised to stay home & watch 'em whenever my parents couldn't (which is oftener than you'd think...my mom's a nurse & works changing shifts, and my dad plays baseball every weekend). I feel really good about offering to do it, too...I need some time away from the special kind of debauchery that can only be achieved by somewhat pretentious arts majors cutting loose. I'd planned to do something really wholesome today, like take the boys to the petting zoo, but I was foiled by my own biology. I can't even swim with them in our backyard, for pete's. Too tired, too nauseous, too headachey.

But I've gotten a lot of work done on my rug.

"I don't trust anything that bleeds for a week & doesn't die."

- a line from "in the company of men" which palaver never tires of quoting at me

Today I realized that I own very few movies that can be shown to boys aged 12 & 7. Currently I own 2 vampire flicks, "Raising Arizona," "the Rocky Horror Picture Show" & a homemade tape of "Hard Core Logo." So we watched "Raising Arizona." Their favourite part is when the bounty hunter blows up.

But the flip side to that is that my music collection has expanded to include quite a few albums suitable for kids pool parties. Well, maybe not suitable, but at least quirky & non-detrimental. Trad jazz, for the most part. For instance, this afternoon I played the Jaymz Bee album "ClintEastWoodyAllenAlda," then Big Rude Jake's "Butane Fumes & Bad Cologne," then "Hot!" by the Squirrel Nut Zippers. I find that trad-style jazz & swing reaches pre-teens in a unique way. I can't exactly play Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, Nirvana or the Dead Kennedys.

Wow. What a weird paragraph. Does anyone else think that I have schizo taste in music?

June 26, 1998.

When I walked into the office this morning, I felt remarkably like Charleton Heston seeing the chimp on a horse. It was a madhouse, and I don't mean in any humourous way. Laverne was locked up in her office, tears streaming down her face as she incoherently cursed & shouted into the phone. I guess she just found out that today's her last day. I can't believe that they didn't have the courtesy to tell her a week ago. But then again, the story's been changing every couple of days. A week ago, I was to work with my manager for the rest of the summer, receiving the final cheques. On Tuesday, my father told me that I'd be staying in the empty suite of offices for July only. Yesterday I was told that the new owners (!) would move in on the 6th of July, and that I might be able to get a job with them. Last night my mom started looking through the want ads on my behalf. She mentioned a poultry processing position just opening up.

...shudder...

My father's offered to pay for both my rent & tuition, but I hope that won't be necessary. Tuition I'll accept, but another month in an office (any office) should put me into a very comfortable bracket. I dunno. I could always temp for 6 weeks or so, but I don't know what that would pay. On the upside, my household expenses should be $1500 less than I was paying for res. Of course, my parents paid that. But still...

Last night the power went off in the middle of the night. So my rejuvenation scheme (i.e. going to bed at quarter to ten) failed miserably, as the creeping temperatures that resulted from the air conditioner shutting off promptly woke me up. To this annoyance was added my brother, as he was talking on the phone in the next room. I picked up my phone to yell at him, but I couldn't even upbraid him about what time it was...my clock was blank, of course.

I feel kind of guilty complaining about the air conditioning shutting off for one night, when people like Palaver have no air conditioning at all. Not to mention that some people who live in the poorest parts of the tropics will never experience air conditioning unless they're a servant or a whore.

Last night I dreamt that everyone I knew was in my living room, including university people. There was something so manifestly wrong about Poet sitting on my floor that I was compelled to snarl at him. Much like life, I suppose...he always brings out the Brooklyn fishwife in me, although not for the last year.

I also had my mall anxiety dream. I frequently dream about being in cavernous, opulent places that are closing down around me. Sometimes it's sinister buildings on campus (always St. Mike's, though...never U.C.) Other times I'll be in a mall, and although I can see beautiful displays, I'm lost alone in echoing halls. It's very creepy.

Yesterday's entry seems to have gone way over better than I could have expected. Not only did I feel much better for having written it, but several people who have never written to me before made a point of telling me that I needn't take it to heart so much. And that Web Site Garage site that Nancy Firedrake mentioned in her first entry is absolutely brilliant. Expect my download speed to improve markedly...although I must point out that the idea for tweaking this page (and thus the radical improvement) comes from none other than the wonderful gus. He's a smart boy, that one.

One more incestuous journal ref for tonight: have you all read Meghan's current entry about those vapid LOTH bimbos trying to sue her? I suggest you all follow her link to the LOTH bulletin board...I left a message there, and maybe you'll feel similarly moved by their pink chiffon stepford wives venom.

June 25, 1998.

"She's perfect in a fucked up way..."

- everclear

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...

Okay, right off the bat: Nancy Firedrake is absolutely right (more on this later), and incidentally, I'm a great big jerk.

I'm a brat. I know this. My friends know this. My enemies know this. You know this. It's not something I'm particularly proud of...I'm not one of those girls who wants everyone to love her & let her say incredibly obnoxious things at the same time (from my information, Kat Bjelland fits this description exactly). I don't want to be a jerk. But mostly I can't help it. And this is one of the places from where I fire shots. I've always used my diaries to say little bitchy things that I'd regret if I thought about them for more than a second. I've done it to the Gus. I've done it to Nancy Firedrake. And I've done it to quite a few of my real-life friends (I recall one entry that prompted Poet to call me "a racist fucking bitch").

And my comment on Monday about Gingko falls into that category. I can list off a million reasons why I should be taken off the hook, but I won't because I shouldn't be. Suffice it to say that I was feeling really bad...everything hurt, I was bone tired & more than a little irritable. And when I saw the banners, I just reacted badly. Everyone was gathering around to help Gingko out & I acted like the 13th fairy at Sleeping Beauty's christening. I had a morbid curiosity to see how everyone would react if I resisted the "feel-good pity party". And this morbid curiosity persisted yesterday, when I doctored one of the banners...mostly to find out who would leap to Gingko's defense.

And the worst thing - the absolute worst thing - is that I acted with tragic amounts of tunnel vision. If one of my real life friends needed a boost & I could provide it by declaring a week in their honour, I'd do it. But because it was someone whom I don't know & don't read, I acted like a spoiled 7-year-old at another girl's birthday party. I'm sorry that my bitchy little throw-away comment has been taken to heart by the journalling community. Talk about putting my worst foot forward.

And Nancy Firedrake is especially right in pointing out that I have no right bitching about download time. I guess that I still think that only my friends & I bother to visit, and thus I can prevail upon them to wait forever. The design will improve starting next month, although I won't go to separate pages for each day...the thought of so many pages in a Geocities single-directory account gives me the creepy-crawlies.

"My diary is simply a very young girl's record of her own thoughts & impressions, and consequently meant for publication."

- cecily

Yesterday afternoon I finished Heart of Darkness & read through "The Importance of Being Earnest." Thank God for the Norton Anthology of English Literature...without it, I'd be so bored here. We're winding down, see...all the boys in the back were let go yesterday, which leaves very little for the rest of us to do. Tomorrow will be everyone else's last day...that is, everyone except me & my manager. I'll be staying in this empty suite of offices all day, answering the phone & receiving payments. I can foresee getting a lot of reading done...not to mention my new hook rug.

"The horror! The horror!"

"I don't try anything. I just do it. Wanna try me?"

- varla to hot-rod geekboy

Last night I traveled to the city to see Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!! on the big screen. You know what? Their breasts look ever bigger on a wide screen. Sister Sunshine & I were trying to figure out why Varla didn't pop out of her shirt (I suggested electrical tape.) For some reason, cute little emo boys were everywhere in the theatre. It was adorable...I need me one of those. Guess what's weird: there's an eerie similarity betwixt Little Virginal Bikini Girl & my Future Roommate...except for the d-cup, of course.

We also saw a bunch of res people at the local Subway before the movie, including Rocco, Pelé Pete, Warrior Princess & Her Bitch. In the course of making small talk, Warrior Princess said something really nice to me that I want to gloat about. I had just told her about my mom calling me a whore every day for a week, and she started talking about style...that sometimes one's style changes & parents just have to get used to it. And then she said that she loves what I wear - that it "takes balls" - and that she'd wear some of the same stuff if she had the balls. You must understand that Warrior Princess is an impossibly beautiful girl...definitely in the top 3 for my res (the other 2 are Aphrodite & Victoria), and she'd be a clear first anywhere else. Her face & body are perfect, both in the modern and the classical sense. She's also very nice & intelligent. To have her complementing me in this area was mind-blowing.

And the final neat thing about last night was that the Bloor was presenting a Native benefit before Faster, Pussycat!, and there were lots of the Toronto Beautiful People milling around the street, including Adam Beach & (drumroll) Callum Keith Rennie (you could tell that it was a Canadian event, as everyone rushed out immediately afterwards to grab a smoke.) He either has a lot of light blue shirts, or he was wearing the same thing as last time. And it frightens me that I know that.

June 24, 1998.

St. Jean Baptiste Day

"I'm tellin' ya, kid: life is a shitstorm, and the only umbrella is art."

- peter faulk, "tune in tomorrow"

I'm turning Trevor into a Callahan's Crosstime Saloon fan. It's fun...I haven't converted anyone in a really long time, and it's one of the books that I like to spread like a Spider Robinson missionary. In fact, there were only a few days in my entire high-school career in which I had the entire series together, as I was perpetually lending them to people. Luckily enough, I managed to get them all back, which isn't my track record...I still chafe over my fruit drawer (Poet), my copy of Stranger In A Strange Land (Baby Jenks' husband) and my Talking Heads CD (a friend from high-school).

Stacy's entry for last Saturday clears up a lot of confusion...I was wondering, in my typical over-sensitive chick fashion, if I'd done something wrong at the plays or in the Garden. I guess it's because alcohol makes me more sloppily affectionate & more touchy-feelie...and I, in my typical carpel tunnel vision, assume that it's the same for everyone. I had just never guessed that it would make her realize how little we actually know each other.

The horrible sunburn update:

My nose has finally burst from it's shackles of dead skin. Despite the novelty of little bits of skin constantly rubbing off, I'm very pleased...it means that the worst part is over, and that I've only a little while to go before I look like a human being again, and not like an underdone steak.

Last night my father & I went out to one of those mega-craft stores to pick up some rug binding to finish the Winnie the Pooh rug (almost done!) While we were there, I couldn't resist picking up another. It scares me a little how much pleasure I derive from sitting still for 2 hours a night, working with bits of wool. Maybe because it's the only time in the day when I'm not sleeping, reading, eating, driving, writing, talking on the phone, washing, or various other little essentials. It's basically the only time of the day when I let myself off the mental hook & just work with my hands.

It reminds me of an anthropological case that I learned about 2 years ago: the anthropologists were in a small African village, and they decided that the 4 hours each day spent cooking beans for supper could be halved if they introduced a different bean. So they convinced the village to plant this new bean, but the women who cooked the meals started complaining about the new taste. This baffled the anthropologists, so they conducted blind taste tests & found out that the women couldn't actually differentiate between the taste of the old beans & the taste of the new. Then they realized that the 4 hours spent cooking the old beans was the only time in the women's day that they could take a break from their grueling physical tasks to gossip & relax. It's a classic example of the West not considering all the factors before they implement "improvements."

So, although I love the designs that I do, it could be anything & it would make me just as happy. Cool.

June 23, 1998.

Yesterday I went shopping for bathing suits with my mom. It was one of the most depressing experiences of my life...not just that I faced the possibility of spending $58+ on something that made me look & feel like shit. It was also shopping with my mom, who seems to think that I have the body of Kate Winslet. She was actually trying to get me into a bikini...I had to try on one of those 50's style bikinis just to shut her up. Then there was the black suit with white piping that made me look eerily like a Hostess snack cake (actually, I laughed my head off when I saw myself in that one).

I can't even talk about this anymore. That's how traumatizing the experience was. I just wish that I could get one of those 20's style suits that go from the neck to the knees.

Noxzema girls may get noticed, but that's only because they were too stupid to put on sunblock & they resemble boiled meat. I only wish that it was a miracle cure, as I'm sick & tired of being taken by surprise by my ugly complexion every time I look in the mirror.

Today at work I was so tired & so bored that I went into the filing room, turned off the light & crawled under the table to take a nap. The really scary thing was that it was very easy to sleep on the thin carpet.

"The spirit of St. Jude has revealed himself to her..."

- hard deep junction blues

I've been very irritable lately, if you haven't picked this up already. Part of it's this bone-weariness that I feel every day. Part of it is waiting for the official notice that my company is defunct, so that I can talk about it with my co-workers & let out the breath I've been holding in since Friday. Part of it is that my nose is irritating me, and there's nothing I can do about it except cake myself with cold cream & try to think of other things. But my brain just isn't working up to par lately. Despite the lack of deadlines & strenuous academic exercises, I've been terribly off my game lately.

Maybe it's the hours I'm keeping. Maybe it's the weird diet I've been on...i.e. the lazy diet, where you're too lazy to make yourself anything more complex than pogos for dinner. Maybe it's last weekend taking its' gruesome toll on my mind, for despite the fact that I padded around barefoot all day & sat for hours on sandstone steps, my face is the most damaged part of my body.

I dunno. I guess I just need a good sleep, right? So off to it, then.

June 22, 1998.

You may have noticed my new Mom Disapproves Award on the index page. Yes, I've decided to celebrate it. Would you like to apply for this award, or it's good twin; the Mom Approves Award? Then hie thee hence, hellion.

Last night I had my first ever vampire dream. Yes, I've never before dreamt of being a vampire, despite waking dreams of that nature. Although the dream had a contemporary setting, the whole thing took on a "Carmilla"/"Christabel" feel, as there was an overt sapphic theme to the dream. Definitely erotic.

(For all of you who were not obsessed with vampire literature at some point: "Carmilla" is the first serious piece of vampire prose ever written, and "Christabel" is a subtle poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge that never overtly mentions vampirism. Both involve beautiful virginal maidens succumbing to evil lesbian vampires, which would be my role.)

"I've got an alumni newsletter full of friends who'll drive those propane trucks just for the life experience!!"

- wiener boss negotiating with texan truck drivers; king of the hill

Last night I went to bed while twilight still glowed overhead. I haven't been to bed while it's still light out in a long time. My excuse is that it was the Vernal Equinox, so it wasn't that strange. I was all done in after "Due South," "the Simpsons" & "King of the Hill," and just decided to be sensible for once.

About "Due South": this was the first time I've been able to catch an episode in 6 weeks (stupid MBA finals...all the basketball players must die). There was a really unintentionally funny part when the 2 cops are dealing with one of the black gangs' HQ. See, the Mountie (Paul Gross) was being exaggeratedly Canadian, as he always is, and the Chicago cop (Callum Keith Rennie) was demonstrating how "with it" he was by using innercity lingo with the security outside. It was laughable. All I could think was, "as a punk guitarist, there's no one cooler. But when he tries to be innercity hip, you can tell that he was born in England & raised in Vancouver." It was like watching Preacher sing "No Woman No Cry"...so very white.

Speaking of being white, I really need Noxzema. I can feel my nose getting ready to peel at any moment, and there's nothing worse that feeling like you're going to burst out of your skin at any moment.

As a direct consequence of radically moving up my bedtime, I was cheerfully awake at 6:45 this morning. As I was tripping down the stairs to check my email, I noticed my hookrug, which still needs a bit of stitching. I seriously considered it for a second, which shows you how rational I am first thing in the morning. I'm a horrible seamstress in the evenings, for Pete's. Imagine how bad I'd be in the morning.

Is there anyone else who thinks Celebrate Gingko week is utterly lame? It's just an online journal, folks. Sure, she started a webring, but so did a lot of people. And her page takes too long to download. I'm obviously not one of the people who believes that an online picture is worth a thousand words.

Similarly, this metajournalling.com thing also irks me. It may not be intended this way, but the whole project seems impossible cliquey. And if my university press experiences have taught me nothing else, it's that cliques produce boring art. Without exceptions.

June 21, 1998.

I usually come back from the city on Sunday drained & in need of a good scrubbing. But this weekend took the prize. I'll start from Friday night & the Big Rude Jake concert, and work chronologically to one of the most monumentous experiences of my entire life.

If possible, Jake put on an even better show than last time, although I didn't feel the same disorientation the next morning. This time I decided to go in Swingers Chickware to minimize any teasing from Jake. With my mom's help on the hair, I managed to assemble a pretty foxy ensemble: my black velvet Fireball dress, black pumps & my black boa. Mom curled my honey blonde hair around a pair of silver barrettes & lent me red red lipstick, so I was almost perfect as a 40's chick...but something was missing. On the way out from the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus, Trotski stopped to get a fuchsia rose from the blooming bush in front of their house, and a few poked into my left barrette finished me off. This is how good I looked: Palaver complimented me. Even Jake stopped to talk to me a few times before the show...much better than the last time, when he made fun of my goth ensemble.

The show itself was, as I've mentioned, un-fucking-real. There were less people than last time, thus leaving more room to swing...and we swung for over 3 hours. They played forever, and the musicians were in rare form during the solos. You know how jazz solos work, right? They'll be jamming in the bridge, and each instrument gets about a minute to solo & shine. When the bass player got going, though, he almost caught fire...and the rest of the band let him go on as long as necessary. It was a very robust solo, earth shattering in its deep rumbling phrases & quick sentences. He plucked away for about 2 full minutes before whipping out his bow & starting to work with that. And when he was done, he just stood exhausted with his arms wrapped around his baby, unable to play her until the guitar solo. It's very rare to see a jazz man give that much, and we were wildly appreciative.

It's difficult to pick out a favorite song, but I'd have to go with their cover of the song "Big Ten Inch" (you may know it from the Aerosmith album "Toys in the Attic") and "Let's Kill All the Rockstars." Palaver particularly enjoyed "Hotel California," as they are the only band who could ever turn it into a swing song & actually make it smoke. And Trotski, although upset that Jake didn't make fun of his hair, commented that they manage to avoid playing any song the same way twice.

I don't know what else to say. It was swell. And it was a good thing that I got to glory in my gothpale nightbloom complexion one last time, as it was ruined for a long time by Saturday's activities. Which we now turn to...

"Woman, cease thy lamentations."

- one of palaver's lines as christ

Just after noon, I trotted out of Palaver's house with my hair still wet from the shower, as I'd promised roughly half the planet that I'd be at Victoria College at noon. Obviously, I'd masochistically underestimated the distance to campus from Palaver's house, as I ended up an hour late & ravenously hungry. (I need to consult my notes at this point...)

I arrived just in time for the tail end of play 23, "The Transfiguration." There were all sorts of people camped out on the grass, little kids running around, old academics pontificating on the veracity of the performance, merchants & societies set up to ply the tourists & official beggars soliciting donations. For every person seriously noting every nuance of the performance, there were another 3 laughing with their friends, running around with their kids or asleep in the shade. It was very medieval, in the best possible way. I immediately fell in love with the atmosphere...very relaxed & generous, as I hope the real middle ages were. Plus, it wasn't raining, nobody had leprosy & there wasn't stinking piles of shit everywhere...a cleaned up middle ages, you know.

I flopped down on the grass to watch this play & the next, not thinking too much about finding some shade, despite the fact that the sun was at zenith & I could actually feel sweat trickling down my back...which was a completely novel experience for me. Anyway, to make this part of the story short & sweet, I stayed out in the sun from noon till sundown. Average temperature was about 40 degrees Celsius (that's about 112 degrees in Fahrenheit), and I wasn't wearing sunblock. My face has never been this sunburned. It was excruciating, but well worth it...and it's the kind of experience that one wants to leave as one markedly different.

The day went on. A variety of people found & deserted me, most notably Trevor, who was my constant companion; Stacy, who commented that the whole thing reminded her of SCA gatherings; Ian, who wanted to go to Hell after he saw the sexy Merry Widow-clad devils in "The Harrowing of Hell" (#37); and Sven, who actually showed up at sunrise for the beginning of the performances, and was dressed like a Hell's Angel but comported himself like a poet. We watched play after play, laughing at some of the performances (#27 - The Last Supper - was put on by high-school kids who didn't project their voices adequately - I was caught wondering if I would go to Hell for yelling, "speak up, Jesus!"...not to mention the sulky bitch diva Christ of #29, who kept tossing his hair in a less-than magisterial manner) and admiring the novelty of others (the Harrowing of Hell Christ was dressed like a Crusader, Christ before Herod (#31) was silent & Asian, Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene (#39) came from Birmingham (UK) and was a perfect fair-haired-Saxon-William Blake-Jerusalem Christ).

One of my favorite moments came during Christ before Herod: when Herod asked the crowd if anyone would defend the life of Christ, a very drunk Native American in the front row got unsteadily to his feet & started shouting to defend Christ. The actor playing Herod just continued with the play, shouting down the man as if he was an audience plant. It was amazing.

The Judgement of Christ (#33) used the audience to a slightly more premeditated end: when Pilate asked the crowd which criminal to release, most of us knew our cue: "Barabas!" And what shall I do with this Christ? "Crucify him!" It was wonderful, in a horrible sort of way. I mean, who wants to be on the side of the Romans & the corrupt Jewish authorities? I felt much better hissing in unison at Judas whenever he entered or left the stage.

And of course, Palaver was great. I took an entire sequence of Palaver Crucified photos which should be ready in a week's time. I was kind of pissed off that the Virgin obviously read her lines out of her little book. I could've done way better than that, for pete's.

As part of my donation, I bought 2 indulgences (20 years off Purgatory, you know), to which they kindly threw in a scrap of St. Francis of Assisi's undergarment. I gave one of the benefices to Preacher, as I was sure he'd appreciate it.

I have to say that overall, it was the most monumental thing I've experienced since travelling to England, which was in turn, the most monumental experience of my life thus far. There was something so satisfying about being able to make it to the end of the cycle just as the last light fades from the sky. I'm told that they only do the cycle every 20 years, so I'm in the peak of condition for it...I can go 10 hours without food, sweating in the blazing sun & actually enjoy it. It was far more grueling than any outdoor concert, although both types of events have the same sense of cultural siege that one must be well-prepared for.

Anyway. It was great. I highly recommend it when they do it again.

After this, we went out for food, beer & then dancing at the Garden. Although I had all of Javina's goth gifts with me, we didn't have time for me to change. Charitably speaking, we all looked like shit - sun burnt, sun-addled & bone tired to boot - but we declared the night An End to Vanity, as befitted our day of watching morality plays. As always, the Garden was wonderful...I bounced between Palaver, Sven, Trevor, Will Hunting (a Ph.D. in mathematics who played Joseph of Aramathea in Palaver's play), Greg (the guy from high-school that I found on my 21st birthday) and Stacy (who looked fabulous in ultra-glitter-goth ensemble). DJ Lord Pale made my night by playing "Going Out West" by Tom Waits right before my request of "Release the Bats!" And then we sat around in Palaver's living room, talking about fine scotch & criminally young women until 4:30 a.m. or so.

I tell ya, there's nothing more satisfying than taking a shower after you've repeatedly sweated through your clothes, danced like a maniac, slept in the same t-shirt & then traveled almost an hour on the transit system. I stank abominably, and my face was hot to the touch. But I wouldn't trade a single second of it for the world.

I don't think that my digestive system has recovered, though.

June 19, 1998.

Last night I dreamt of Gord Downie. (For all you non-Canadians, he's the lead singer & writer for the most popular Canadian band ever - the Tragically Hip). I was walking along the streets of Toronto & heard a busker singing a recent Hip song in that distinctive nasal voice. I looked over, and sure enough, it was Gord & an acoustic guitar. He was rather grimy, dressed shabbily & wore a plastic supermarket bag tied over his head to protect it from the drizzle. I immediately surmised that he was testing out the songs in the only real way...if people will give you a quarter, it speaks well of your musicianship. I was the only one who recognized him, although that's patently absurd. In reality, Gord would be mobbed by big, hearty Molson Canadian drinking guys if he dared to pull a stunt like that. I asked for his autograph in a French accent, but he slipped away like a wily little minx. It was like rock mythos meets fairy tales - straight out of the prince & the pauper plus admonitions not to turn your back on the fair folk.

This dream made me feel more respect & liking for the Hip than I've felt in ages. If only it were true.

All right, I have officially stopped rolling. There's been a palpable feeling of doom hanging over my office as more & more examples of my fuck-up former boss come to light. We are much more in the hole than anyone thought. Yesterday Laverne (the other office chick) called me into her office on the QT to see if I'd heard anything. I replied in the negative, but in the long chat we had, I'd advised her to brush up her resume just in case. She's got 3 kids & a mortgage, for Pete's. I was just trying to give her sensible advice, as it's always a good idea to remain ready for unemployment at any time. It's a tough old world, baby. Grab it & growl.

And then today, my manager called me in for another quiet word. In it, he confirmed that the company had till the end of June, and I was instructed to keep it under my hat. Furthermore, I'd be the only one to handle the receivables after the end, so I was set until fall. On one hand, it's nepotism of the finest quality, but to give myself fair dealing, keeping me on @ $11 per hour to handle cheques is way cheaper than paying Laverne a full time wage to do the same. But you can imagine my guilt. Everyone I looked at was blissfully unaware that the axe would fall in 11 short days, if not sooner. Laverne had sensed something in the wind but she couldn't feel the sick certainty that I did. I had to get out of the office.

So I called up my mom.

She was the only person I knew of in the area who would be free for lunch, and whom I could tell without breaking my vow to my manager. A plate of fish & chips calmed me down more than somewhat, and I was feeling much better when I sailed back in the office door. But then my manager called me in for another chat.

Was I sure that I hadn't known anything about this before he told me? Of course. Well, [Laverne] told me that you'd come to her yesterday & warned her to update her resume. I did, but it wasn't in that context, and besides, she'd called me in. Okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on this one, but she definitely implied that you'd warned her about it yesterday. Well, I didn't. Okay then.

That shark-faced bitch. Pulling the oldest trick in the book: making herself look trustworthy by implying that I couldn't be trusted with sensitive situations. Maybe she senses that she's on the way out & that I'll be protected by connections. Or maybe she just resents the nepotism that got me here in the first place, although she herself was bugging my dad to secure my services for this summer. She seemed to like me well enough before, but this situation has brought out a really ugly side of her, one that I wish I didn't have to acknowledge. But there it is. I'm working with a two-faced weasel. Oh well.

June 18, 1998.

"I call you up whenever I'm stoned..."

Hey, Big Rude Jake's in town again!

Unfortunately, the glad tidings of his arrival have been somewhat leavened by old problems that I refused to deal with when the issues were fresh. Namely the thick coating of frost obscuring the friendship of Tiger Lily & myself. When I was instructed to tell Aphrodite about Jake's date at Lee's, I was curious as to how he found out her digits, as she was getting a cell-phone for the summer & hadn't distributed the number. When Palaver told me that Tiger Lily had called him from Aphrodite's place earlier, and that although I was doing the calling around, Tiger Lily was organizing the night out, my temper predictably flared. I wasn't mad that I was being asked to call Aphrodite, I was mad that Tiger Lily has been ignoring me since just before our Victorian Fiction exam in early April.

I was very bothered by it at the time, as it seemed wholly inexplicable & sudden...and it involved Cranly, too. One day we were thick as thieves, getting drunk together & wrestling in laundry. The next, they'd completely & utterly withdrawn. What made it worse was that they'd taken up residence in my basement, and they would write notes on Aegis' door inviting him to come down. Despite the fact that my door was a mere 90 degree rotation from Aegis', there were no notes for me. If I ventured downstairs, they usually left the room post-haste.

But since it was exams, I was willing to let it slide. Most people go a little crazy around that time of year, and some go completely around the bend, so it was easy to rationalize. And before Cranly left town, we'd walked around a bit & recaptured some of the easy grace that characterizes my best friendships. But as of my departure to Brampton, I had not been contacted by Tiger Lily, who knows both my res number & my Brampton number from last summer. I did my best to ignore it, and I think I did a pretty good job of bandaging over the cuts. But last night reminded me that suppression is not a good thing in the long run; to return to my original metaphor, under the band-aids, ugly stuff is still oozing about.

"I wish people weren't so set on being themselves, when that means being a bastard."

- robertson davies

I am pathetically grateful to Nigel for recommending The Rebel Angels to me. I've finally broken my string of bad literature-y novels this summer. I love it because it's so marvelously clever without automatically assuming that clever people don't care a fig about the big questions of spirituality. All of the main characters have a fabulously large soul, and even the villains are not given short shrift. It's like Anne Rice, if Anne Rice were at all intellectual or clever. And the setting is so obviously U of T that I wonder he bothered to pseudonym it.

June 17, 1998.

Last night I saw a small group of adults walking around our street. They were all well dressed & white. I hadn't realized how deeply unusual it was to see adults walking around my neighborhood en masse until it actually happened. To misquote Oscar Wilde, the suburbs are a foreign country; they do things differently there.

As I said, the interview went really well last night. We found each other right off the bat by the signs we'd agreed upon - her red corduroy cap & the daisy behind my ear (my mom set that part of it up, don't blame me). She's a small hippie-looking chick with a blue-green pentacle around her neck (although I suspect it's just for ornamental purposes, as she didn't mention being Pagan) & long straight brown hair. The first thing she wanted to know was if I would rat her out to my mom if she phoned in "sick." I assured her that my loyalties to my mom do not include telling her the complete truth...my tattoo being a notable example. To follow up, I had her make the same promise, as the last thing I want is for my mom to find out about me stumbling home at dawn drunk out of my skull, or (better yet!) entertaining gentleman callers after curfew.

Well, I can always dream, right?

I was up-front with her about my pages, as I wanted to assure her that I wasn't naively encouraging stalkers to seek me out or vindictively turning the weirder element onto those I disliked. As she's never even surfed the web before, the explanation started from square one. I also thought that it was a good idea to tell her about the diary, as it's something I'm heavily involved in & requires an explanation. Most people don't understand why I do this, let alone what it involves. Basically, I wanted to assure her that it wouldn't pose a security risk to us and that I wouldn't use it to deal with any problems that might come up between us. And I had to explain why we would require call waiting, as she had no idea that the net involved phone lines. It was cute.

"They have the Internet on computers now?"

- the lord of the flies episode of the simpsons

It figures that Sister Sunshine has announced that she's moving out of her parents' home the day after I find another roommate. Just my luck. But I was awfully glad to talk to her today...we gabbed for hours this afternoon, and there was no tension or anger like usual. In fact, I'd venture to say that the bad spell is over. I hope.

Today I got THE BEST surprise care package in the mail. I'd sent Jain my meatspace address just before she went offline for good last week, just in case she wanted to sent me a realtime letter or postcard. She wrote back, "expect a surprise." And then she sent me a goth care package par extraordinare...including nail polish, handmade jewelry & a gorgeous PVC skirt that I'm sure she wore out dancing on her last night in Seattle, as it still smells like cigarette smoke. But as sappy as this sounds, to me it's the smell of someone who loves me.

I just can't believe it. Random acts of kindness & generosity must earn double bonus air miles on the kharmic wheel of rebirth, right? If so, she's already halfway around the world...

June 16, 1998.

~10:30 a.m. on a 386 using Notepad~

I'm on a roll & it's scaring me.

I'm quite used to being on a run of bad luck or slogging through an unbroken string of mediocrity (although these streaks seldom last too long...May being a notable exception.) But having everything I've been anxious about suddenly work out is disorienting, to say the least.

Take the guy issue. I've spent an entire year either in denial about the demise of Mr. Blonde & myself, or falling madly in love with friends that I know I can't have. It's been a psychoanalyst's wet dream, kids. But this weekend I've been dropping 'em like flies... And do you know what it's like to suddenly be allowed to stop worrying about bullshit friendship politics and what the group will say if you date one of our own? Do you know what it's like to suddenly be freed of the incestuous rock I've crawled under??

It's fucking magic, is what it is.

Next is Stacy. I was always just a little nervous about meeting her. I mean, what if she wasn't as cool IRL as she was online? Worse, what if we had nothing to talk about? I mean, we read each other's pages, so we both have a fairly good idea of what's been going on with each other lately. And when you can't start with small talk, where can you start?

But not only did I have a good time, but she did too. In fact, she said so many nice things about me & Palaver that I had a difficult time leaving the basement, as my head had swollen to an enormous size.

Thirdly is the fact that I'm meeting my Potential Future Roommate in the Tequilla Bookworm this evening. Now I know that I'm going to ace this puppy. I mean, I'm on my home turf, here...on Queen West, equidistant from Siren, Savage Garden & Palaver's palatial home (I believe that Stacy & Gomer's words upon stepping inside were: "so, who has to die before we can live here?") I'm home.

But the older I get the more I realize that I can have more than one home. Brampton & Toronto in their entireties are home to me, no matter who may be in them at any one time. Queen Street West is my home. Whitney Hall is my home, no matter how long I stay out of res. U of T campus as a whole is my home, except the St. Mike's campus, which I loathe. Maharet's apartment will always feel like home, even if I don't visit for years at a stretch. Mr. Blonde's old house will always be home to me, especially since it only saw the good days of our relationship & none of the bad stretches near the end. Tiger Lily's condo & Palaver's palatial pad will always seem to welcome me. And I'll always love my first house, which was affectionately called The Cave, & where I lived for 17 years.

It remains to be seen whether I'll have to break in a new home next year, but I'm hopeful. After all...I'm on a roll. Right?

~9:45 p.m. @ home~

Interview verdict: I'm in there like swimwear. More tomorrow...

June 15, 1998.

So Palaver's gearing up to play Christ this Saturday.

No, I don't mean that he's going to give alms to the poor or heal people or preach to the masses or turn the moneylenders out of the temple or even act passive-aggressively. I mean that he's going to play Christ in a loincloth in one of the York cycle plays to be performed at U of T next weekend. These are little mediaeval plays written for Easter weekends in the past that attempt to dramatize...well...everything in the Bible, more or less. There are 60-odd plays in the cycle, and they will be performed chronologically from sunrise to sunset (although I don't have to be there till the afternoon, as the Resurrection is one of the latter events).

Apparently they'll be using a coffin in his play, and Palaver's lobbying to keep it afterwards. Hey, it's a great conversation piece. When I heard about this wrinkle, my first thought was that I don't have a bed to sleep in for next year yet...

Oh, come on...it would be so money. It's not like you didn't expect it of me... Do you think it would queer the interview with my Potential Future Roommate??

In other Jesus news, Trotski was asked by an artist friend of his to pose as Jesus for her, as she's got a commission to decorate a church. Is it just me, or do I have too many Messianic friends? What with Palaver & Trotski posing as the Big Guy, Preacher working for him & others pretending to be Him, there's too many Jesi in my life.

Today I talked to Maharet before she went to work (she works the plum 3-7 shift, while I get up at an ugly hour to earn my beer & skittles). I had sort of promised to be in town last Saturday night, but I stayed in T.O. until 1 a.m., thus scuttling any plans I could've made with the Brampton people (no, I don't have the stamina to stay up past 1 most summer nights...Friday was a notable exception). They'd ended up going to Edgar Allan's place to hang out, something I wouldn't have had too much enthusiasm for anyway. Remember, this is Mr. Blonde's best friend who used to pick fights with me over the way I was treating Mr. Blonde...way before I really started treating him shamefully. But as soon as he dumped me, Edgar Allan was nothing but sugar. Apparently he was quite disappointed by my failure to make it that night, as he'd cleaned the whole place just to show it to me.

Awwww...

"You walk & talk like royalty, you've got such class,
And your ass, your ass, my kingdom for your ass..."

- jaymz bee, "you put the babe in baby"

Currently I'm grooving out to my new Jaymz Bee CD...definitely worth $9. My current favourite song is "ClintEastWoodyAllenAlda," about a "celebrity identity crisis" with the killer lines:

"I wanna be a Canadian citizen, a French babe at a beach blanket bingo, I wanna shout punk philosophy using conspiracy lingo,
Buffy Saint Marie Antoinette FuniCello Biafara...

He's such a good guy, that Jaymz. You gotta love a man unafraid of using the word "chick" in practically every song.

June 14, 1998.

Yesterday Palaver & I hit Queen Street West to drop off his dry cleaning, but it developed into an enormously expensive shopping extravaganza. I really shouldn't go to Queen Street when I'm flush...I want practically everything on the street, you see. Yesterday I bought

• replacement fishnet stockings & horizontally striped purple & black tights that I've coveted since high-school
• The Rebel Angels by Robertson Davies, because when an Englishman recommends a Canadian author, I have to read it.
• 2 CDs: "Broken" by Nine Inch Nails & "ClintEastWoodyAllenAlda" by Jaymz Bee & the Royal Jelly Orchestra
• 2 albums: "Alice Cooper's Greatest Hits" (from before "Billion Dollar Babies," when he started to suck) & "Songs Of Leonard Cohen" for me mum to replace the copy in which I put a skip
• a Concrete Blonde video compilation containing all the videos from the first three albums, and
• a used black leather car coat with silver buttons & wide pointed lapels which Palaver characterizes as a Nazi Staff Coat, but isn't, really.

This is why I should never get a credit card.

In other news of the day, Palaver fell head over heels in love with a Siren jacket that I was showing him purely for anecdotal purposes (it was cut like the velvet one Mr. Shoreleave wore to the Prom). It's a black brocade jacket with pointed cuffs & lapels, and it is impossibly well-tailored. And, as I previously mentioned, Palaver fell deeply in lust with it. And with good reason: it is the best piece of clothing that I have ever seen on him. I tried it on, too, and fell almost as much in love with it on me, but the best view of it is definitely from behind. Both Palaver & I were moved to comment on this in identical queer, dead tones. For me, it was the voice of someone deeply disturbed by how insanely attractive I suddenly found Palaver, but I can't comment on what he was thinking.

Palaver has decided to get another job, moreover, to go back to waiting tables to afford this jacket. It's just that good.

One of the things that may make this frenzy worthwhile: the guy who runs the vinyl store where I procured my Leonard Cohen is enormously eager to trade a bunch of comics for any CD's that I want to get rid of. He's got a bunch of first run Sandman & the Maxx to get rid of, and although some of the Sandman's retail for $90 down at the Silver Snail, he couldn't sell them to save his life, & now he just wants the space.

But since I have very little crappy CD's anymore, I decided to quietly ask around my friends for any of their CD's. I'd just feel too guilty giving him what I reviewed for the Varsity in exchange for stuff I really want to read & share with my CD-contributing friends.

Hey, Stacy...are you sure that you don't have a Jingle Cats album lying around? ~just kidding~

Then we spent an hour sitting around in Palaver's house in front of the fan. Such things become important when you leave the ubiquitous air conditioning of the suburbs. And then we walked to Suspect Video for "Blood & Donuts," as Stacy had informed us the night before that one of her friends did the makeup for it...and then Palaver figured out that he went to high-school with the same girl. If that wasn't enough, the rental clerk then told us that Gordon Currie (the vampire star of the movie) was her sister's boyfriend for a long time. I've said it before & I'll say it again: the downtown Toronto scene is ridiculously small.

As for today, I'd promised to meet Trevor for tea at the Moonbean Café at one, but I was horrifically late (my standard line is that I was born late & I haven't been on time since). How does one find a facial expression that conveys both, "I'm so glad to see you!" and "I'm so sorry I'm late..." at the same time? I sure couldn't figure it out. But at least I made a decent impression, as I actually looked nice today (new striped tights, ox-blood docs, black t-shirt & jean jumper...I was a blousy purple babydoll dress away from being a Strawberry Shortcake character.)

We ended up wandering around Courage My Love (cannot resist that place) & having a long chat about gaming & the English monarchy in his old house in Kensington Market, where the ceilings are high & all the sounds of the Market fade to a far away drone. I've been running on very little sleep & it was all very soothing.

For a record-breaking second time in one weekend, I found myself curling up with a guy that a barely know (although I know Trevor slightly better that Gomer). It just seemed like the most natural thing in the world...but he really shouldn't have bit me right before I hopped on the Spadina bus homeward. I became loath to leave...as Aqua (yes, Aqua, the "Barbie Girl" people) say, "bite me, I'm yours."

June 13, 1998.

This is the second ever remote edition of Greek Drama, as I'm writing it on Palaver's roommate's pooter. Palaver isn't actually awake yet, and I already killed about an hour watching Tori Amos videos before I realized that this was wasted time, as I could be writing! Yes, I'm just like a Skinner animal...give me a keyboard, and my worries about hunger & boredom will magically disappear, as I have been conditioned otherwise. Cool, huh?

"Metronome, I want out, I'm alone + I'm an easy target..."

- foo fighters

Before I start, I'd like to say something to one of my sneakier audience members: bug off, Mr. Blonde. Don't promise to stop reading & then renege & then bitch at me for writing about you. If you want to keep up with me, pick up a phone, you lunatic. Nobody invited you here. Go away.

And happy anniversary of the day you dumped me. I hope you stub your toe. Not enough to make the nail turn black & fall off, just hard enough to annoy.

Last night was awesome. Palaver miraculously called to throw his hat into the ring for my little anti-anniversary celebration just before I fell asleep on Thursday night, so I was in far better spirits about the whole thing when I awoke on Friday. Spent much of the day applying coarse brown string to index cards & bulldog clips whilst on the phone to various U of T people. I was a pipe cleaner away from running a daycare. (Speaking of dumb revelations, I was 16 years old before I figured out that pipe cleaners did not originate as an arts & craft supply...that they were used to clean pipes. Kooky...)

Then I came home for the "getting ready for the city" beauty rituals that I'm far too lazy to do during the week and a bowl of beef stew - then I was in the car with my bro, lamenting the loss of the Gardiner Expressway Hump & arguing about the politics of the "legalize marijuana" issue. By 8 p.m., I had arrived at Palaver's palatial home, where he was still conquering Europe via computer. I thus ventured out to the beer store by myself, as Palaver would never drink anything as proletariat as beer & besides, he was still running a campaign in Czechoslovakia. Well, actually he just doesn't like beer, which I think is a symptom of not drinking in his teens...you have to start with getting high off of shitty alcohol before you really appreciate it.

The Friday night beer store crowd is far more interesting in downtown Toronto than Brampton, I'll tell you that much. In Brampton, I stood a fair to medium chance of seeing at least on person that I went to high-school with, which is always fun. Here, it was just motley. There were older men buying cases of Molson products destined for backyards & poker games. There were kids trying to figure out how $10 would get them drunk that night. There were 3 tired-looking punks with a big placid rottweiler. And there was a dead ringer for Messianic Model Trotski in front on me, and I mean, dead ringer...except that this one was taller (!), had really blue eyes & no glasses to interrupt their Jesus-gaze. And, he had more hair. His head was an even bigger sphere of brown curly hair. It doesn't seem possible, does it?

Luckily for the 2 of us, social salvation had arrived earlier that evening via this magical thing called email...i.e. Stacy read Thursday's lament about my lack of drinking companions & invited me to a BYOB party/fund-raiser in the Queen West area. We showed up around 10:30 with a backpack full of Corona & whiskey, only to find out that the party was not, in fact, BYOB. It was high-larious, in a totally awkward way...we didn't know anybody there & we'd brought out own supplies to a fund-raiser. Perhaps tattooing "asshole" on our foreheads would've been less trouble. But at the same time, it was really funny.

We kind of drifted around for awhile, looking at the still frames of dance groups & performances, and digging the vibe. There really wasn't anything else to do...we had to drink a certain amount before the initial embarrassment of the faux pas had worn off & besides, we had no idea which one was Stacy...if she was even there. This is the dilemma of the Internet acquaintance...I found myself looking for a specific wrist tattoo, in the absence of an actual knowledge of her appearance. Finally, a friendly guy had to introduce us.

You know what? She looks nothing like she did in the dream I had about her. But that's a good thing.

"You're the Leader, Marge? But you look nothing like those lima beans...

- the cult episode of the simpsons

I'm not sure what the protocol is at this point. As Stacy is a fine & articulate on-line presence herself, I don't know if it's appropriate to tell you things about her that she herself doesn't choose to share (I had much the same issues with myself when I met Aaron for the first time & found out Javina's "real" name.) I'll just content myself with sketching out my overall impressions of her, without delving into much detail. First of all, she's very pretty. I had a sneaking sense of joy every time one of the less-attractive persons at the party proved to not be her, and the superficial side of my personality was satisfied by her looking cool enough to match her journal.

(It's the tunnel vision of the modern web page author: somewhere in the back of one's mind, one expects to be one of the few cool exceptions to the putergeek stereotypes. Meeting Aaron got me over that idea right quick, but you can only see so many jokes about geekdom before it seeps into your subconscious, will you or nill you. Anyway.)

I think that we both were pretty unrecognizable as our somber goth web personas. But that's such a good thing, that I can't even begin to describe it. Let me put it this way: I already liked her from her journal, but Real Live Stacy is 10X better. I think I'm so exuberant about it because I seldom meet new people that I like right off the bat. I suppose that means that old age is stiffening me up...but I've always been an introvert.

After a suitable interval, we ducked out to - where else? - the Savage Garden, where we proceeded to dance, drink & talk until closing time. I met a few of her "characters" (known IRL outside of online journalling as "friends"), and really seemed to hit it off with Gomer, a blonde former captain of the football team, yet in a Sandman shirt. It was the ideal gender mix of friends & first-time acquaintances, and we traded anecdotes in Palaver's palatial front room until 5 a.m. I spent this entire period of time resting my head against Gomer in some fashion, as he makes a great pillow. In retrospect, I realize that I've never before felt comfortable enough with a first-time acquaintance to cuddle up to them like a lazy cat. It's remarkable. I wonder if he's like that with everyone, 'cause I sure as hell am not. I'm pretty touchy-feelie with my friends, but I tend to put in a lot of hours with them before I shamelessly use them to rest against.

I have to say that if was the most quality night of the summer so far. I never had the chance to turn away & sigh for my Tragic Lost Love...I was too busy dancing to "White Wedding."

June 11, 1998.

We have a new toilet! And I'm sure you're all as pleased as I am...

This morning it took me over an hour to commute to work. I'd like to say that I heartily regretted all the time it took away from the single-minded performance of my position as Paper Ape, but then I would be a liar. I quite enjoyed it, actually...although my knee got abominably stiff from holding down the break petal. Hmmm. I wonder if I should start carrying a cane like Trotski? Think of the guys who would fall at my feet!

Speaking of guys, tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my break up with Mr. Blonde. I'm not particularly upset by it, but I would like to raucously celebrate in a way that I couldn't then, perhaps by drinking the night away in Ein.stein's. But, alas, I am the loneliest girl on earth.

I can't find a drinking companion to save my life. Sister Sunshine & I had that fight last weekend. Palaver hasn't returned my phone calls for 3 weeks. I'm still waiting for Tiger Lily to tell me her new phone number, if any, so I haven't spoken to her in 2 months. Ditto Aphrodite. Trotski's too busy with summer school. Braveheart's working at the Gap. Snag Boy's going to London for the weekend. Cranly's in Massachusetts. Aegis' in Ottawa. Judith's at camp. Veronica's in Kingston. I'm not calling Preacher or Poet...I'm just not, okay? Everybody else in Toronto either wasn't around at the time or not close enough to prevail upon. And I feel it would be inappropriate to celebrate with Brampton people, even Dirk.

If I have to spend the night drinking left over Labatt 50 & watching teevee, there'll be some hell to pay, I tells ya.

Lately I've noticed a strong upsurge in tender & nostalgic feeling towards Mr. Blonde & Poet. I find myself smiling over their remembered antics & wishing that I could take care of them once again. Last night I fell asleep smiling at the thought of future possibilities with Mr. Blonde. 24 hours ago, I'd convinced myself that we could be in love again after a suitable time apart (say, 5-8 years). I was convinced that the magic wasn't used up.

But when I woke up, these castles in the air began to tremble & fall apart.

I awoke to an email message from Mr. Blonde, asking me out tomorrow to talk & make peace. I responded vaguely, as I had no idea what to say at that point. But euphoria filled me as I drove to work...the euphoria that can only come from having hand (in the Seinfeldian sense). Finally! After a whole year, he was asking ME to talk to him! I have hand! I have hand!

Uncharacteristically for me, I kept quiet about the whole thing all day. I didn't report it to anyone or ask anyone's advice, like I normally do. I just considered & smiled to myself. By 4 p.m., I'd decided to agree to the meeting. I felt strong enough to take anything. Besides, after Blue Monday Friday, I'd regained the moral high-ground lost in the Poet debacle. I was the virtuous one again. Hoorah.

But his answer to my earlier response burst this latest smug bubble. 'Coz, he didn't want to "make things right between us" because he feels remorse or cares about my life. He just wanted to fill in "well-adjusted to ex-girlfriend" on his karmic balance sheet.

I dunno about you all, but I didn't spend a year putting my overly-self-piteous self back together just so I could make him feel like a good guy. Up until very recently, it used to be quite the opposite: I rarely lost an opportunity to bait him & make him feel bad about dumping me. Making him feel shitty was my raison d'être. I guess I'm past that. But it doesn't mean that I have to follow his script.

Does it?

June 10, 1998.

I think that I'm making my various diaries into an something that doesn't chronicle my life, but just obsessively details all the memories that I don't want to lose. For example, last night I had very vivid dreams - which is a rarity in the middle of the week - and I spent about 20 minutes this morning curled up with my dream diary, writing down details & making interpretive connections. But this has begun to scare me a little.

For example, last night I dreamt that I was playing the flute in my bedroom. Upon waking, my first thought was: "How odd. I haven't played the flute for 4 years." The fact that I was able to pinpoint such an obscure thing about myself and, moreover, the fact that I wanted to, is creepy. And it's something I do far too frequently these days. In the car, before I go to sleep, or whenever, I'm always totting up the days or months or years since certain experiences, like having sex or drinking to excess or even seeing people my own age. For lack of other interests, I am becoming obsessed in the study of myself.

I really need to do more with my evenings, I think. Lying fallow is one thing, but I'm twisting in on myself.

(Just for the sake of completeness, the last time I played the flute was during my vacation to the Queen Charlotte Islands. Butch's (Maharet's dad's) fishing buddy was a former hippie & a huge Jethro Tull fan, and he had a gold flute that he'd taught himself to play. He asked me to take a look at it from the benefit of my 4 years of indifferent formal instruction. So I played 2 scales & pretended to know what I was talking about. The whole thing was very groovy.)

Something that I keep forgetting to mention about last weekend: my brief masquerade as a gutterpunk. See, after spending my entire Saturday night bouncing from club to club, dancing like a lunatic, drinking beer & letting my purse rest on a very sludgy dance floor, I was none to clean by the time I went to bed in Sister Sunshine's basement. And a whole night of festering in my own...um...whatever didn't help. When my dad showed up to take me home, I was in black tights & black skirt with the pimp fur from the night before, beer-sticky docs & a relatively clean little black t-shirt. My hair was uncombed, my teeth were unbrushed, and my eyes were more than a little bloodshot from an allergic reaction to my contacts. I smelled like a gutterpunk, too.

It was great.

(But of course I showed & changed as soon as I got home. I'm like that.)

June 9, 1998.

One of the things that makes working with my brother bearable, is alternating tape days. I had to institute this rule for my own sanity, because if left to his devices, I will be serenaded with unsigned punk demos and very low production values for the hour we commute every day. I haven't made tapes for myself in years...ever since I went off to university & left my über-walkman at home. That was kind of a big step for me, as I spent 4 years of my life filling in the occasional silence with the steady pounding of raucous music.

Anyway, we'll fast froward to last month, when I didn't have any tapes to play on my tape days - except for stuff that I've mostly grown out of. So I hastily cobbled together a mixed tape (mostly made up of the mixed CDs that Mike and I sent each other a few months ago) and taped it on a 90 minute tape that's still labeled Pearl Jam "Ten" on the A side and the Tragically Hip "Up to Here" on the other...two albums that I never have the urge to listen to anymore. (Can I give unnecessary detail or can I give unnecessary detail?! I think my anecdote skills are degenerating lately...however, we must go onward!)

But I've been listening to that tape for a month now, and it's beginning to bore me. So this morning I grabbed a new tape almost at random. I ended up listening to some very interesting stuff on the morning commute. The tape started play with the last 3 songs of the Concrete Blonde album "Mexican Moon," and then a couple of songs from the Red Hot Chili Peppers album "BloodSugarSexMagic," something I haven't heard in forever. I found some of the lyrics amusingly appropriate to my own self-pity & brooding during this last year of single-hood:

"Had my share of winning, now's my turn to lose..."

"I can never change just what I feel, my face will never show what is not real. Should've lied, I'm such a fool, my eyes could never never never keep their cool, showed him & I told him, and it struck me, but I'm fucked up now."

(I'd always take the spiritual depth of the Red Hot Chili Peppers for granted, but this morning they struck me as frat boys who'd read a few books on the "Mystic East" & bought a few Wiccan candles. I'm not sure if this is entirely fair, but how else to you categorize a lyrical shift from "I want to party on your pussy, baby" to "a mountain never seems to have the need to speak"?)

And then there was the cock rock phase of the tape, briefly relieved by a Nine Inch Nails song. I had the biggest interest in cock rock when I was 17 - bands like Z.Z. Top, AC/DC, George Thorogood, Led Zep - I'm just glad I eventually grew out of it. But now I realize that most of the subtext was entirely lost on me, unless it was dead obvious. I can't believe that it's taken me this long to figure out that when George Thorogood sings, "she changed the lock on my backdoor, now my key won't fit no more," he's talking about s-e-x.

God, I'm naive.

My hair's been lying heavily on my shoulders lately. I've had it short ever since February of 1997 (I got it cut the day before I got my tattoo), but I've decided to let it grow during the summer. Now I'm in that irritating phase where my hair is just past the tops of my shoulders, and constantly brushes my collarbone. It gives me the shivers, I tells ya. I can't decide whether to give up or to stick it out.

Oh, the things I think about when I have nothing to do for 5 days out of 7. Song lyrics, hair length, what to write in the journal & Callum Keith Rennie. In that order.

June 8, 1998.

"You should let alcohol be the wind beneath your wings. You should get drunk a lot with guys like Callum Rennie, and piss off of fast moving trucks..."

- "advice to young comedians," bruce mccullough

I am ordering everyone who gets the Canadian comedy channel as part of their cable package to watch "the Kids In the Hall" when it comes on at 1 a.m. tonight (Toronto time, that is). Or if you're a working stiff like me, set up the tape. In the first episode, Neve Cambell is an extra in a sketch about Catholic School Girls (I can just hear Preacher starting to drool...except that he's never asked for the change of address, so he's effectively locked out. In the words of Mrs. Krabapple: "ha!"). Although I knew that she's Canajun, I never knew that she did any work on Canajun teevee before she made it big with "Party of Five." (a show I scrupulously avoid, BTW. I may have an unconscionable weakness for "Due South," but I have not been attracted to young adult soap opera since I was 15 years old.)

Today was a very quiet day around the office, as most of my co-workers were out moving around equipment or at home hepped up on goofballs. Laverne (one of my nominal bosses) fell off of a truck & right onto her back yesterday, so she stuck it out just long enough to put herself in incredible agony before going to the doctor's. Honestly, I don't understand this level of devotion to one's occupation. I would've phoned in sick & popped codeine-flavoured downers in front of "the Price Is Right," and to hell with the office. It's not like we're that busy these days. In fact, one of her jobs today was to make a complete inventory of the furniture in the office. It makes me think that the end of our little sheet metal company draws nigh.

So I spent the entire day leisurely working on an inventory project & reading Robinson Crusoe in the lulls. My God...what a boring book! I can't believe that it was so inspirational to so many people! But then again, writers like George Borrow were pretty boring as well. It's like tracing the lineage of the long-winded literary tradition - but I'm on vacation, damn it! When am I going to enjoy a book that I've been meaning to read, huh?

Yesterday Cranly asked me for my new addy, as I neglected to include people I know IRL in my announcement letter last month. I seem to be one of the few diarists who allows people she knows IRL to read their diary. I kind of didn't have a choice before...I'd already told everyone about my webpage, and I was stuck with the fact that people like Preacher, Poet or Mr. Blonde could dial up my negative thoughts on them with the touch of a button. I think that I was overly polite talking about some things that really got under my skin, just because I didn't want to appear ugly in front of other people who knew me. Conversely, I couldn't share some really interesting positive wrinkles in my personal life because it would be like calling a meeting to announce to my friends who hit on me & whom I hit on.

But the questions remain: what if I get mad at them? What if I want to snarl something about them to my more anonymous readers, but I can't because the RL ones know exactly where to find me? What if I can't write about a new guy because I think that somebody IRL would either tease me mercilessly or get offended? (sexual subtext is always present among friends, you know)

Oh well. This is a rather fruitless line of thought. As Bette Midler said, "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." And with that in mind, I think my qualms are gone.

June 7, 1998.

Last night didn't go as well as it should have. We worked really hard for it, but, well...

Sister Sunshine invited me to go out with Charity & herself for "their second assault on the Velvet Underground" (a dance club near the Savage Garden, with a more "alternative" feel - read: frat boys with Molson Canadians in their hands watching from the edges of the dance floor & the Beastie Boys on the set list). So I got all dolled up in my club wear, making sure to wear solid black tights in order to forestall any "whore" accusations from the parental units, and I was on my way.

I was scheduled to meet the Sister on Queen West at 8 p.m., but I decided to lie to my parents & get dropped off during the daylight so that they wouldn't freak out about me being in a subway station by myself. My mom drove me through the rose-clad street I may be living on next year before dropping me at Bloor & Brunswick -- over an hour before I was scheduled to meet my other companions. So I walked. But by the time I made it down to Queen, it was past seven and there was nothing open but restaurants & one bookstore, so I read an instruction manual on hugging to kill time (women: if you want to make yourself more huggable to hetero men, simply wear a bra, as most men really want to hug chicks who's breasts stick out.) I just couldn't believe that there was a period of time in which my favourite street in the world became boring! But there you go.

Anyway, after we'd met up, caught up & ate up (not to mention stole a poster of the upcoming Oscar Wilde biopic from the restaurant's bathroom), we wandered down Queen to the Tequilla Bookworm, my favourite place to hang out in the entire city. I've formally introduced myself to the guy who works there, but although he recognizes me, he obviously can't think of my name to save his life. He's a sweetie, tho'...which is why I love to hang there.

By 11 p.m. we'd sailed into a very dead Velvet Underground, & decided to play pool until we felt like dancing (which was almost never...the dj'ing was abominable). Whilst playing hilariously incompetent games of pool, we were joined by a very friendly guy who seemed to embody the term "lanky," and who introduced himself as Cai. He suggested doubles, and since we had nothing better to do, we acquiesced. It was kinda cool...like we were all getting picked up at the same time, but not in a way that made us feel uncomfortable. He was so at ease with us that Sister Sunshine even asked if he were a friend of mine, as he did somewhat resemble the strays I pick up in the university scene (he strongly resembled Casey, as a matter of fact).

The four of us had a pretty good time until another skinny guy joined us, who Cai introduced as his brother. In the manner of all brothers, he verbally abused Cai's pool playing & playfully kicked him repeatedly - which changed the tone of the game more than somewhat. But it didn't become seriously creepy until he tried to persuade us to put off dancing in favour of another game:

Cai's Brother: Stay for another game.
Me: But we want to go dance! Why don't you put down your own I.D. for the balls?
CB: I'm not allowed to carry I.D....I was just released on murder charges.
(pause)
Me: I can see how they wouldn't want you to have pool balls.
CB: We'll come dance with you.
Me: Uhh...I'll be right back...

And after conferring with my associates & wishing Cai a hasty goodbye, we of course split the scene. What with bad music, expensive beer & a creepy guy who knew our names, it wasn't worth it anymore

This left us on the streets at 12:15. We still hadn't had a chance to dance yet. We tried the Bovine Sex Club (nobody dancing & a bunch of older men propositioning everything in sight) and the Savage Garden (they were both too sick of the goth rut we've been in) before giving up on Queen & heading to that haven of the university set, the Dance Cave. And it was great. The music was finally good enough to dance to & it's much easier to ignore creepy guys when you're on the dance floor. We stayed until just after the ska set, during which I tapped unknown reservoirs of energy & skanked my little heart out. And they played "Get on the Scene"! If there's one song that makes my night when I'm out with Sister Sunshine, that would be it.

"Can I take it to the bridge?!"

On the way to get a cab, I had my first ever fight with Sister Sunshine. Over the last year, things have been getting somewhat strained between us. I'd get upset when I had to compete with the Varsity for her attention & she'd get short with me & point out my emotional problems. Lately it seems like we can't have fun together at all. It's like she doesn't have the energy to enjoy herself, or that she's barely holding in her anger about something...and when she can't anymore, things get really bad.

Last night I made some bitchy comment that I'd intended to be sarcastic, and she snarled back something about how I always had to be the victim. What can you say to that? Any more display of upset is just proving the point. So I shut the fuck up. For the rest of the night I spoke about 6 words.

What I want to do now is to wait until she feels better. Until she wants to try again. I think that's the right thing to do...but the problem with me giving other people space is that I find it very difficult not to let my own need for them control my actions. When Mr. Blonde & I were "on hiatus" last year, I made a point of seeing him every day, and I was the perfect girlfriend all of those times. I just couldn't let go. And I don't know if I'll have the strength to do right by Sister Sunshine either.

June 6, 1998.

I think that I finally have a place to live.

My mom's friend has found a basement apartment to rent that includes a largish room for me if I want it. Up sides:

• the houses on that street look très cool & much better kept than the usual student digs in the Annex
• a largish room with one roommate (who's a professional nurse & not a starving student) is way better than a spare hallway with 4 roommates à la Poet's digs in 89 Brunswick 2 years ago.
• There's a supermarket a block away, which might even be 24 hours.
• I'm a block away from El Convento Rico, which offers Latin dancing lessons every Sunday. You can't ask for better than that!

Down sides:

• It's rather expensive to share with only one other. The rent will be close to $500 a month...and I prolly won't have a job during the year, if last year's Grand & Toy fiasco serves as any type of warning.
• I'm all the way to hell & gone...campus is 7 long blocks away, which means that I'll have to transit a good deal of the time.
• My parents have expressed extreme unease that I will be living in a situation which they can't control, and their paranoia will prolly make a move difficult to say the least.

But to tell you the truth, I can't really see the downsides now. It's just too exciting to contemplate moving out...especially because I'm trapped here for 3 more months of my father's tantrums, my brother's callousness and my mother's over-protectiveness.

Geocities has just given me 5 more MBs of free space per page (I run 2 these days), bringing the per page total up to 11. Honestly, I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do with it all. I was just able to fill 3 MBs on my other page before the split...and people have repeatedly told me how overwhelming in size my page is upon the first visit. I don't know if I should even add more to the other page...it may just be information overload, you know?

But I have decided to flesh out the Drama by adding pictures to the Cast page. I've got about a third of the pseudonyms equipped with mugshots now, so it should take me about another week to finish it off & upload. That is, if I don't become intensely slothful or spend all of my free time working on my Winnie-the-Pooh rug. I'm only about 20 rows away from finishing it, you know. My only concern is who to give it to. It was originally intended for my cousin's baby Jake, but my visit to Windsor has confirmed for me that they wouldn't appreciate it at all. Maybe I should give it to Alesandro, the pup born to my mother's friend a few weeks ago.

Or maybe I should just keep it to decorate my new bachlorette pad. Y'think?

June 5, 1998.

"In you I feel so pretty, in you I taste God..."

- billy pumpkin

This is me on the notebook at work, killing time once again...

I'm really running out of things to do to keep myself amused here.

It's been a very slow week at work. We've been closed down to reorganize & take inventory, which means that it's been dress down day all week. You know, I never thought I'd live to see this day, but...I'm heartily sick of wearing black t-shirts & blue jeans. It's only been 3 years since high-school, the time of my life when I wore jeans & a t-shirt an average of 5 out of 7 days. During this time I stockpiled enough t-shirts to last the rest of my life, as their half-life is effectively infinite...I wore my very first black t-shirt to work yesterday, for pete's. But it palls now. This morning I deliberately put on my velvety maroon hippie shirt, just to give myself a break.

Last night I wrote & sent out 32 email responses in 2 hours. 32. I think that's a personal record for me...way more than Valentine's Day, when I wrote responses for the entire afternoon. And I haven't even touched the longer messages.

32. No wonder I wasn't getting any mail for the last few days...I was dropping the ball in a major way!

"Undead undead undead..."

Most exciting news of the day: the Bauhaus have reunited & may be touring the N. Am. continent this summer. The Bauhaus, folks. The band that formed the year I was born & broke up when I was 8...the band that I was totally unaware of for another 8 years after their heat-death. It's like having a chance to see the Doors - even with a bloated Jim Morrison singing lead, you can't miss it.

I might even buy pixie boots for the occasion...or maybe I'll offer to be Stacy's slave girl just to borrow some of her ultra cool gothware for the concert.

June 4, 1998.

"This is the noise that keeps me awake, my head explodes & my body aches..."

- garbage

One of the downsides to working full time is that I'm now over-familiar with the currently popular music. Such is the result of keeping the radio on every day. But I have to say...I adore the All Request Nooner. (For those outside the T.O. area, the All Request Nooner occurs on the local alternative radio station between the hours of 12 and 1 p.m. As the name suggests, it's requests requests requests, which provides a welcome break from the tight rotation of popular yet shitty bands like those Van Halen rip-offs Big Wreck.) I'm a sucker for 70's & 80's alternative, like the Cure, the Clash, the Ramones, the B-52's, Siouxie & the Banshees, Elvis Costello & even the Pretenders. Yesterday I even heard "Blue Monday." Half of me wanted to get up from invoicing to dance and half of me wondered vaguely when Mr. Blonde would walk in a la Cinco de Mayo.

Oddly enough, I had a similar situation in first year, when Palaver would walk into the common room every time the Everything But the Girl video "Missing" came on Much Music. One afternoon we watched teevee together for 2 1/2 hours, in the certainty that it was only a matter of time before it came on. And this sort of silliness is why I love Palaver dearly.

The Hermit's back! There was a SoHo purge a few months back, and her website fell under the swinging axe, disappearing until she had time to resuscitate it. I read a few of her journal entries today while I was supposed to be getting ready for work (2 days w/o a shower...I feel like I'm festering back in Ferg, fer chrissake). This is the first time since last August that I've read her stuff, and I was once again knocked back by interesting coincidences in our lives.

For instance, 2 of her Dream Jeopardy categories are "the good old days of Sassy" and "Little House on the Prairie series." I literally learned to read on the Little House books, going so far as to have a Little House-themed birthday party when I turned 6. (My dad designed the invitations & my mom served hot dogs & Kraft Dinner, my favorite meal at the time.) And as for Sassy what can I say? I learned about Poppy Z. Brite and the dangers of credit cards from the old Sassy. My brother used to devour the magazines after I was done (which tells you how interesting they were, as I've only ever been able to convince him to read one book - The Queen of the Damned - in our entire lives).

Perhaps I should come up with my own categories:

• The Simpsons
• Performances of Callum Keith Rennie
• Organizing Stock Rooms
• The Callahan's Crosstime Saloon Series
• Sandman Comics
• The Frantics' routines of the 80's
• Getting Drunk/Going Out On the Town When You're Very Broke or Very Cheap (too many nights to link to)

Someone on the radio just made a crack about how hard it is to "type one-handed", as in "when one is masturbating to cyberporn." It made me realize how good I am at typing one-handed - not from masturbating online, though. For one thing, I mostly confine myself to online journals, most of which are not that sultry. And for another thing...well, never mind about that.

My prodigious skill at one-handed typing comes from the approximately 15 essays I write a year, most of which are concerned with books of one kind or another. If I was an organized person, I would do research beforehand & write down likely quotes on a piece of paper or a 5 x 11 card or some such. But since I am not an organized person & I always wait until the last week (if not the last night), I usually end up with an open book in my left hand as I hunt & peck out a likely quote with my right. Hence my expertise.

I'm so boring, hmm?

June 3, 1998.

"What of this is as good as it gets?"

- jack

So last night I went out to the movies with my parents.

(Just on a side note: I seem to have passed some sort of saturation point with this project, as I find that I can't relax anymore unless I fully write up every experience immediately afterwards. It's not like I'm writing for an audience anymore (although, I am of course). I'm just writing to keep myself from twitching uncontrollably as my brain fills with unrecorded wit & spit. It's been driving me crazy to wait this long to talk about last night, dig?)

Anyway...so last night I went to the movies with my parents. As previously noted, we were supposed to see an Eraserhead/Clockwork Orange double-bill at the Capitol, but my mom chickened out at the last minute. So we went to see the Good Will Hunting/As Good As It Gets double bill at the Fox instead. (Have I mentioned that I love my Festival pass? Thank God Palaver peer-pressured me into buying it!) Seeing the movies was a good idea, but I think it was a mistake to see them with my parents. It prolly would've been better to see the more disturbing movies with them, if that makes any sense.

For one thing my mom hates Jack Nicholson. Hates. As in "cannot refrain from expressing her negative opinion of him for a full minute." Now, I think that Jack Nicholson's cool, but I don't have a crush on him or anything. But hearing her bitch & moan all the way through As Good As It Gets and for some time afterward was not the most pleasant of experiences for me. I think that Jack Nicholson movies with my mom is going on the Never Again list, as a matter of fact.

For another thing, my mother & I haven't agreed on a movie since Bruce McDonald's Dance Me Outside in 1994. This month alone, we've argued about The Apostle, The Full Monty & the BBC version of Moll Flanders. And of course, she couldn't understand why the Helen Hunt character would go for the Jack Nicholson character. Oddly enough, I was in total sympathy with Helen's yo-yoing emotions, as her relationship with Jack was in some respects eerily similar to my own relationship with Preacher, in that he was alternately attractive in acts of great kindness and downright offensive in many of his personal comments. Like Jack, most of Preacher's obnoxiousness is simple plain-speaking and not malicious intent. (It got really strange in the dinner scene where Jack wears a navy blazer, blue shirt & yellow patterned tie...what are they doing, reading my mail?)

But there the similarities pretty much end. It's made clear that Jack is a kind man handicapped by his extreme obsessive-compulsiveness (I don't know why Preacher's like Preacher, but it's certainly not mental illness). For an actor usually accused of acting like himself in every picture, I thought that he gave an incredibly subtle performance. He really felt himself at the mercy of this obsessive-compulsiveness, and there was a really vulnerable side to the character that was, well incredible. I mean, he's such a macho actor (usually) that I couldn't help being impressed. Unfortunately, many other people in the audience didn't get it. They laughed uproariously at his anti-Semitism, homophobia, misogyny and sheer meanness, as if it was the punch line in an Andrew Dice Clay routine. They didn't seem to understand that he was honestly suffering, despite his misanthropy.

As for Good Will Hunting, what can I say about the film that hasn't already been said? It was a very simple story with some very good acting (and a very nice set, I might add...) You all know that Minnie Driver's "Harvard" residence is my res, right? Matt Damon is seen leaving from the Ferg door a few times...and the quad he passes through in his underwear is, of course, our beautiful quad. I'm so proud of us...

Actually, I do have an original thought to express about the movie. As I was watching Matt Damon, I kept thinking, 'boy, he'd be a great prettyboy version of the gus in the upcoming made for teevee movie about open pages.' This idea greatly amused me, and I spent the 20 minutes before I fell asleep last night casting the other diarists that I peruse. Ben Elton would play Nigel, of course (no explanation needed). Tori Amos as Meghan (they look sorta alike). William Hurt as Al (he's got the beard, you know). Jeanne Garafalo as Lizzie (sarcastic sarcastic sarcastic). And then I fell asleep before casting further.

(Who would be me? Well, I'd have to go with the obvious & cast Morgan Fairchild. Yeah, my wife, Morgan Fairchild...who I've seen naked. (Little John Lovitz action there...))

When I left the theatre, I was much more impressed with Good Will Hunting, but I've been thinking about the subtleties in As Good As It Gets all day. I'm not sure if that makes it the better movie. But I'm honestly glad that Melvin the Misanthrope got the Oscar (although for the record, I don't think Carol the Waitress deserved hers over Queen Victoria).

June 2, 1998.

"I felt cheated."

- the first sentence of johnny rotten's autobiography as quoted to me by tina weymouth of the talking heads

I finally finished Dracula today. I must say, I wasn't terribly impressed with the ending. It's a lot like The Big Lebowski - it was going real good until the very end, where it seemed like they all got tired & decided to wrap things up really quickly. And I'd expected some pornography, damn it. I distinctly recall Stephen King making a comment in Danse Macabre along the lines of; "What Stoker is saying in a pretty classy way, is that Lucy is coming her brains out." I was sorely disappointed by not being able to identify such a passage.

"Here's to remember your sweet everything, light a roman candle & hold it in your hand..."

- soundgarden, "fourth of july"

I've been idly perusing pizza fliers during spare moments today. I never realized until now that Double Double, my favorite pizza chain in the world, also delivers cigarettes. If Mr. Blonde had known about this while we were dating, I'm sure I would've been bumped one lower on his list of favorite things. That sounds bitter, but it's really not...we used to have a running joke that I came in around 3rd on his list of favorite things, right after Pearl Jam & Snapple. In fact, a lot of our running jokes involved lists, like lists of his party tricks or bets that grew to insane heights & involved things like chocolate sundaes, backrubs, posters, french fries with gravy etc. We were such a couple of kids...kids perfectly happy with the pleasures that the Mall could afford in the way of gifts & such. I call it "kiosk taste," as opposed to jewelers taste (we'd rather have identical rings bought in a kiosk than something expensive) We got our ears pierced at the same time & always shared my hair dyes. He always asked me to paint his nails whenever I was doing my own, although he'd usually pick it off in a couple of hours.

I'm not sure where I was going with this. It doesn't hurt to think about all of this any more, but I still miss the sensation of being absolutely in sync with someone else.

"Hate, hate your enemies and save, save your friends and find, find your place, and spread, spread the truth."

- nirvana

Apparently Nancy Firedrake has the exact same albums I bought in high-school, 'cause every new entry from the house-sitting Gus mentions another one. It's getting a little strange for me, because I haven't heard anyone talk about those albums in a serious fashion since I was actually in my teens (as opposed to now, when I'm just metaphorically in my teens). I really regret all the time I spent at age 16 thinking about & discussing the future of Guns n' Roses (one of my goals when I was 17 was to drive a car really fast over a cliff & jump out at the last minute & then play a guitar solo & throw the guitar over the cliff...just like in the "Don't Cry" video. 'Kay, shut up? 'Kay, thanks.)

Although I do like the new Smashing Pumpkins single, which is a band I haven't been able to stand since high-school. Maybe it's Billy Pumpkin's repeated use of the word 'whore.' Or maybe because it sounds much more menacing than anything I've heard on radio for a long time. Or maybe it's because it's just a good song. I dunno.

"If you pull your crooked teeth, you'll be perfect just like me."

- billy pumpkin

June 1, 1998.

As stated previously, I spent yesterday in a weary flurry of activity, hooking my Winnie-the-Pooh rug, mending my clothes with nightmarish results (as Amy stated so eloquently, I am craft impaired for the most part) and altering webpages for today's great split. I almost had a heart attack when I realized that I'd downloaded my poetry page with a great big "Transfer Interrupted!" notice smack in the middle of "pretty daisies," which I wrote the day I contemplated getting my tattoo. I think it's the best thing I've ever written, and I'm more than a little attached to it...but I had no idea where my first draft had gone to, nor could I find a copy of the email I sent to everyone containing it. I looked through an incredible amount of old email before I gave up & wrote whatever seemed to fit.

But in the process of looking, I found a really amusing transcript I'd written of a (R)evolution meeting (the arts paper that never was) back in November of 1996:

9pm-9:20pm - Waiting for people to show up. Many are hiding because they have not finished their promised articles. Spent the time discussing The Tick in detail.

9:20 - Decide nobody else is going to show. 6 people crammed in my tiny room. (better than the usual 13 - with 4 smokers)

9:21-9:40 - Discuss article situation - everyone is pressured by essays. Decide to put off paper's release until we have quality issue - not to mention more than 6 articles. New release date set for mid-Jan.

9:41 - Entrance of Mr. Blonde & Sister Sunshine, who begin sword fighting with rolled-up "Swingers" posters. Meeting breaks up. Promises are made to write. Poet (the editor) leaves to drink a lot. The rest flee to a cocktail party. I remain, trying desperately to finish essay corrections before I fall asleep...

Yes, this is how I spent much of my time in first semester of last year. I'm not sure what to think of myself.

"no cigarettes, just peeled havanas for you..."

- tori

I almost died on the highway today. I started changing lanes without checking my blind-spot, saw the trailer just in time, swerved back but overcompensated, and fought the careening car for 2 of the scariest seconds of my life. During all of this, the Stone Temple Pilots were loudly demanding: "if you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend." Ha ha.

Then as I was finding my way back to my work (I'd missed my exit in all of this hullabaloo), I saw a huge dead carcass on the road. I mean huge, like golden retriever huge. What am I, Nancy Firedrake??

Today marks the exact one year anniversary of the day I was first introduced to the concept of online journalling by the Mighty Kymm. I followed a link from a Sandman fan page, and the rest is history.

Tonight I vegged out & caught Bruce McDonald's "Platinum" on CBC. Highly recommended, if it ever comes on again. It's a 2 hour TV movie about a small Montreal indie label run by a very cool divorced couple. They have weird independent acts & lots of good intentions, but they're really kept afloat by a 17-year-old bubblegum star (kind of like a young English Mitsou). It was supposed to be developed into a series, and this pilot concerns the signing of a hot grrl rock group.

Lots of familiar Canadian faces like Terry the DJ from Hard Core Logo, plus weird cameos by pop stars like Henry Rollins, Shonen Knife & even Mitsou herself. It tried really hard to keep my attention, but not too hard. I liked it, especially the Action Boy character, a multi-talented sweetheart of an artist who mixes like Beck, sings like Trent Rezonor & dresses like The Crow. Mmmm.

Just so you know, there might mot be an entry for tomorrow. Nic & I have to stay at work until inventory is done (groooan...), and then Mom & I (and possibly Dad) are going downtown to see the Eraserhead/Clockwork Orange double bill at the Capitol. My mom once saw CO twice in one day. I can't even sit through the first five minutes without leaving. Tomorrow is my chance to prove myself to...myself.

"Allow myself to introduce...myself."

- austin powers

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

Talk to the Queen of the Harpies.