Tisember* 1998

Tisember 18, 1998.

The last day of Tisember...it's been a pretty good month, for the most part. It definitely lived up to its promise (after False Tisember, that is).

Today I was woken up by rain lashing against my window. Within an hour into my day, the sun came down & never seemed to set...it was prenaturally golden forever. Yet I, being I, spent the day working on this monitor, readying my webpage for tomorrow's convulsive split. If all goes well, my mommy-safe page should be in place before I go to sleep tonight.

I also made up a little package about The Goat for the next president of Ferguson House, as I'm the only one they know who has an official version of the story so important to the future brainwashing of little cats & kitties still cramming their brains full of high-school. Effectively, it meant that I had to look through my "Poet" file, which contains the first 3 months worth of email in our highly email-centred relationship. There's some very emotional stuff in there, and today was the first day I've ever been able to skim through 'em without a stray tear trickling down my face.

Who was I crying for then? Well, I was crying for Mr. Blonde, trying to somehow ease the knife that will always be in my heart...the knife that plunged in the moment I first saw him weep with despair & loss & loneliness as he sat in another man's bedroom...the knife that comes from everything being my fault. I cried for Poet, so confused & desperate to follow his heart for what he thought of as the first time ever. But mostly I cried for myself, for the beautiful things I smashed because I didn't care what I was doing, and for the heartbreak that drove me to this suicidal carelessness.

The Lawyer's right. I think too much.

"Cut it again."

- tori

On a less somber note, teevee is seriously fucking with me today. I've been desperate to see "Due South" (shut the hell up) for 3 weeks, and although it was listed tonight, it was unceremoniously replaced with..."Home Improvement."

Talk about rubbing salt into a wound...

Tisember 17, 1998.

"Thou saucy earth-vexing strumpet!"

- the eerily appropriate insult awaiting my first visit to some guy's shakespeare page.

I've spent the entire day in a computer-induced daze, but I'm no farther along in preparing for the great webpage split of 98. Have I mentioned that I suck?

"If the Germans had won the war, this is what we'd be doing every Saturday night. This is the 6th Reich."

- johnny depp in the bazooko carnival casino; fear & loathing in las vegas

Last night was kind of interesting. I accompanied Maharet & Daniel to Orangeville, in order to visit Baby Jenks & cheer her on in kareoke finals (yes, you heard me.) It's been such a long time since I've seen her. I don't think I've mentioned her more than a few times since I began this diary, and I was one of her bridesmaids even. So to assuage my burgeoning guilt & make up for the fact that I've missed Christmas & her birthday for 2 years, I went into a frenzy last Wednesday at The Mall & bought her a name stamp (the kind with little hearts around it), a Beanie Baby pug puppy & a water-gun for her 5 year old (my spiritual nephew). Yes, I actually bought a Beanie Baby...and what's worse, I fell in love with him in the 2 days before I gave him to Baby Jenks. I even took him with me to see Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. We bonded, me & the pug.

The kareoke was actually quite entertaining. Since there was quite a bit of country music on the program, we medicated our goth selves with pitcher after pitcher, until Maharet & I were ready to dance & sing along. Baby Jenks knew everyone there, so there was a real family feel to the competition. Plus, she's got an absolutely gorgeous voice & therefore we felt her chances were good. I think that her problem was visualization, as she really didn't care who won. At one point, I remarked that she should visualize me & Maharet singing "Islands In the Stream," because if that actually happened, anything would be possible.

Speaking of anything being possible, despite my unbroken spell of heterosexuality, I somehow became Super Wonder Dyke last night without even trying. Just like Thursday night, I hadn't had the energy to put on something nice, and so I was in cut-offs & a black David Bowie shirt, with my wallet in my back pocket & an old blue bandana holding back my hair. It wasn't a particularly out-there outfit, but combined with my stubbly legs & generally aggressive attitude towards the rednecks filling the bar, I felt like they were sizing me up as one not on the team, so to speak. It's funny...when I get in a room full of rednecks, I want to shock them with free-thinking sexuality, just as the Protestant in me wants to antagonize Catholics when I find myself in Mass. I kept trying to convince Maharet to slowdance with me until I realized that if I was that overt in baiting the rednecks, I stood a fair to medium chance of getting the shit kicked out of me. And I hate pain.

So that was one part of the Super Wonder Dyke phenom. But the other concerned the people I was actually with. We were all chatting about whatever during dinner, and Maharet & I were teasing each other about lesbian encounters just like we always do. When Baby Jenks mentioned a competitor that she disliked, I was moved to ask if this girl was homophobic, 'cause I was fully prepared to hit on her if that's what it took to get her out of the contest. As I said later to Baby Jenks' mother, I felt my dyke powers strong within me.

Lene (one of BJ's friends) then said "what if she accepts? Lucky her!" "And lucky me," I replied with a smile. Lene went quiet for a second, then said, "look, not that there's anything wrong with it, and not that I care, but are you...?" I regretfully asserted my heterosexuality, but made a point of unnecessarily touching her shoulder when I passed & standing near the stage when she sang, just to keep her off-centre. Maharet commented, "so now she must think you're Super Wonder Dyke," (which is where the name originated). Then we simultaneously sucked on our index fingers & touched them over the head of Daniel sitting between us. Sigh. I love my homophilic friends...

In other orientation news, I made the mistake of commenting to the other that I thought the waiter was cute (he looked kind of like Dream...tall skinny guy with ling dyed black hair & a scraggly goatee). For the rest of the night, the others alternately teased me about it and encouraged me to "bust a move" on the guy. Jeez...I live in fantasy land where guys are concerned. I'm certainly not going to go after a guy in Orangeville who prolly thought I was a dyke...and a sloppy one at that (I managed to get sour cream on every exposed part of my body). Besides, I've been feeling very unattractive & self-critical ever since my abortive chat with Callum. I know that's retarded, but such is my self-esteem.

The only weird thing that happened was that my week sleep schedule aggressively asserted itself, and I fell asleep with my head on the table at about 12 a.m., completely missing the results & causing the wait staff to severely reprimand me. They thought I'd passed out, see. I was pretty disoriented when the waitress woke me, and I have no idea what she was saying to me. All I know is that sentences composed of different words seemed to be coming out of my mouth, and I kept saying 'no.' Finally she went away & I could really wake up & feel like myself.

I'm getting a lot better at falling asleep in public places. I used to be a real sensitive sleeper (I still can't fall asleep if someone's touching me, unless I'm drunk), but now I seem to nod off with alarming frequency...New Years Eve, during Planet of the Apes, last night...

Maybe I'm turning into my father. He has the talent that all older Italian men possess...i.e. the ability to fall asleep in a room full of people.

When I got home around 4 a.m., I was once again shocked by the sight of my brother asleep on the couch in the den with a sleeping girl in his arms. My brother & womankind is not so much an abomination as a mismatching of concepts, like the Suez crisis popping out to the corner for a bun. I couldn't help wondering what my mother thought about it...as we all know, she's not that well-adjusted about her children's sexuality...not that they were doing anything when I walked in. And they were unlikely to; as it's an open room right in the middle of the spiral that is my house. But still.

Tisember 16, 1998.

"Hello, I'm actor Troy McLure. You may remember me from such films as "Hitler Doesn't Live Here Any More" and "Pardon me, is this your closet?"

- phil hartman in interview

How many Troy McLure movies can you remember?

My dad is driving me loco. It's not like this surprises me...my dad is an intense person, and living with him is touch & go at best. But there's a new twist this year, i.e. that he refuses to listen to any one else's unsolicited opinion on anything including things that need his attention around the house. It doesn't matter what your complaint is, to him it's "fine."

One of the upstairs toilets is busted, requiring way too much attention. Holding down the flush handle for a full minute & a half - or better, waiting through the recharge phase so another flush can be attempted - is not my idea of fun. Last night I accidentally ripped up a maxi-pad while trying to simultaneously hold down the flush handle and open the package with my free hand & my teeth. It's not good to anger a menstruating woman, especially after such an episode. But you can guess what my dad's reaction was to my demand to fix the toilet.

I almost went into a berserker rage right there.

They say that no one can love or hate you like the person you're married to. I think that the coda to that should be "...unless it's your immediate family."

Last night I went to see Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas with Maharet & Daniel. And like everyone else, I immediately wanted to go on a bender & trash hotel rooms upon leaving the theatre. As Trevor said on Saturday, Johnny Depp is unbelievably good, because he makes a bowlegged balding guy with a coke encrusted nose the most attractive movie character in a long time.

I felt a bit weird in the theatre, as couldn't hack getting changed out of my after-work clothes before I left the house, and therefore looked kind of like a Daisy Duke wannabe in clumsily patched jean shorts & a clumsily sewn-up baby-doll shirt reading "York University Class of 1999" (it's an authentic baby doll, as my aunt got it for me when I was 6 years old. And somewhat ironic now, what with Mr. Blonde graduating from York around that time.) I knew how unattractive the overly-tight clothes made me, but I couldn't make myself care.

Maharet, on the other hand, looked cool & mysterious in her gothware & multiple silver ankhs. We could've been fabulous goths in high-school, if we'd only broken out of the cock rock phase a few years earlier. Too bad we waited until after we graduated, when no one cares.

This morning's been one very strange trip for me. Somehow the combination of hunger, fatigue & blood loss has combined into a state of mind that almost feels drug-induced. Or conversely, like the morning after a wild night. It's almost as bad as that morning in January when I went to class unbelievably giddy & nauseous from drinking all night long with Cranly & Aegis. I'm holding on to lucidity with my fingernails folks. Serves me right for going to a drug movie in the middle of the week.

Tisember 15, 1998.

"Hello. I'm actor Troy Maclure. You may remember me from such films as "Dial P for Psycho" and "Gladys, the Groovy Mule."

- the simpsons

Oh dear. Have you all heard about Phil Hartman? He was shot by his wife this morning, and when the police showed up to get the kids out of the house, she went into another room & shot herself.

I just can't get my mind around it. Phil Hartman is one of those guys you expect to be around forever, creating Simpsons characters & generally being as funny as all hell. He was born in Canada, you know. That has no relevance, but I still feel moved to point it out.

Last night I dreamt that I was standing in a large gathering of people with Poet. We were holding hands & talking about something amusing. I woke up wondering why I felt so comfortable in the dream. The best I could come up with was that since Poet has seen me at my absolute worst (with alarming frequency), I have no self-consciousness around his dream persona.

This made me wonder who had seen me at my absolute best. I'm not sure if I even have a best. I mean, I must by definition, but I have no idea what that is. During high-school, I thought it was while dunk, as everyone seemed to like me better (or at least they were more affectionate & encouraging). Now I'm just not sure.

I'd like to believe that as a writer, this webpage is me at my best, but the jury's still out, hmm? My parents certainly don't think so...

Speaking of this webpage, I'll be making this site mommy-safe & moving Greek Drama to a more anonymous location as of this Sunday. If I haven't already emailed you the new location, please let me know, as I'll not be providing a direct link for obvious reasons. Everyone who's ever linked to the Drama is welcome to update that link, as most of my readers are journal people and it prolly won't get back to my parents. Hey, you can only be so paranoid, right? Right.

I wonder how the Gus is doing, now that Kappa Mutha Fucka is a thing of the past. I can't believe that I've been reading his diary off & on for less than a year...it takes such a short time to establish permanence for me, and I thought he'd be tussin in Charlotteville forever. Plus ça change, n'est-ce pas?

I really have nothing to do this afternoon. I've already cleaned out the stock room, written a complete entry & drawn 2 pictures with Paint. As a true indicator of my boredom, one of them concerns vampires (my work only contains vampires when I'm killing time, as generally speaking very little art or writing starring vamps is ever any good). This painting is called "beware, for the dead draw badly with a mouse." It's kind of post-modern in that way...much like the painting called, "Higher powers command; paint the upper right corner black!" I'm so artsy.

It was just announced that Rancid will be playing the El Mocambo this Saturday night, along with a few local punk bands. One of these minor bands contains a jerk I used to know in high-school...stupid Danny Christopher, making it big. We used to be friends, but then he was really mean to me in front of some girls he wanted to impress. Perhaps 4 years is too long to hold a grudge. But every time I hear favourable reviews of Marilyn's Vitamins I think of the expression on his face as he cut me dead, and I curse him afresh.

(I think I just forfeited my deposit in the Miss Serenity 98 Pageant. Oh well.)

Tisember 14, 1998.

"I never was the fantasy of what you wanted me to be..."

- "playboy mommy," tori

Watched about half an hour on feminism as I hooked my Whinnie the Pooh rug (now that's an interesting contrast, don't cha think?). It starred all the usual suspects, but thankfully omitted Dworkin & McKinnon (who I think are dangerous extremists...all hetero sex is rape? Puh-leeze.) I didn't really learn anything new, but that's what happens when you're an arts major...you get involved in a lot of discussions about feminism with the women's studies majors (a lot of whom are involved with the papers that I've written for).

I'm just not sure if I'm doing enough for the sisterhood, you know? In my lazy-ass way, I keep informed of the issues & try to educate others if the opportunity presents itself. I try to be a sympathetic ear to all people, not just women (my first major was psychology, you know), and I try not to let my prejudices get in the way of being kind. But I don't think that's enough. I've never volunteered at a crisis centre or manned phones for rape hotlines or helped the homeless or even done meals on wheels, for chrissake. I'm just a selfish middle class cunt, I guess.

(If I can't save the world, I'm going to feel guilty about my failure forever...)

"I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore, oh no..."

- james, "laid"

Obligatory Canadian Film Plug:

Last Night, a Canuck film directed by Don McKellar ("Twitch City", Highway 61) and starring Sandra Oh & Callum Keith Rennie (reunited from Double Happiness) has just won the Prix Jeunesse at Cannes. I'm so proud...*sniff*

Canadianism is becoming an obsession with me lately. Last night I made a list of all the Canadian films I can remember seeing, the reason why, and how many times I've seen them (the clear winner in the latter category was, of course, Hard Core Logo at 8 times). I don't know why, but I feel like I should be consuming more overtly Canadian culture.

Which prolly means that I'm about to buy my first Rush album. *shudder* Please talk me out of it before it's too late...

Tisember 13, 1998.

"And is it true that devils end up like you?"

- tori

As you've prolly noticed, today is a special edition of Greek Drama, as I've actually included pictures of myself taken less than an hour ago. And as you can see, not all of my posing worked out, especially in shot 3, where I tried to look sultry & instead looked vapid & fleshy. Oh well.

They're for my res application - no, I'm not really planning to go back, but I need to get my dad off my back for the next month or so, 'cause I don't have a definite plan. So they're throw-away shots. But I thought you'd enjoy them, since there aren't any good colour shots of me as a blonde and that's what you seem to all want to see. (FYI, this is the outfit I wore on Sunday & thus met you-know-who in. And you wonder that he wanted to keep talking to Scenester Chick?)

Today is also diary collab day, an event waited for with drooling anticipation by both the diarist & the reader. Today's topic fits in nicely with yesterday's comments about driving, as the topic concerns one's three biggest fears.

My biggest fears are

• pain
• impotence &
• little scuttling bugs

I fear pain to an almost obsessive degree, which is why I don't do well at sports & never climbed & roughhoused as a kid. But there's 2 sides to the issue for me. I've learned to live with the scrapes & bruises of my lifestyle, and even welcome certain kinds of pain (i.e. the burn of a really intense work-out, slight bruises that result from a night of partying, and then there's the whole biting thing.) So I guess I have a love-hate relationship with pain. I used to fear it far more when I was a child, and it still upsets me.

By impotence, I don't mean anything about sexuality. I'm talking about the kind of impotence of an intelligent mind unable to satisfactorily communicate with the outside world. Crippling accidents are one of my worst nightmares. The scene in "Johnny Get Your Gun" when he's signaling "kill me" over & over in Morse code gives me the shivers.

And little scuttling things are self-explanatory. If a bug is sighted near me, I always shoot over to the other side of the room & beg for someone to kill it. I can't help it. It's not that I can't kill them myself if need be, but I always lose control in those first few seconds. My bedroom was infested with ants when I was 17, and I think I've never quite gotten over it.

Now, aren't you all the richer for having learned all of this?

Tisember 12, 1998.

That's it. My life is effectively over...I have nothing left to hope for.

Guess who I met at the AGO screening of Hard Core Logo? Three guesses & the first two don't count, as Stephen King always said.

Yup.

I met Callum Keith Rennie.

It was everything I could have hoped for in a casual meeting with a stranger who was probably trying to put the make on the pipe-cleaner thin blonde scenester chick with impeccable make-up beside him. (If you detect some hostility towards this character, this is because she was heard to yell "hey! I'm getting laid tonight!" behind Palaver & I in the ticket line. Fucking bitch...and good for her.) Sister Sunshine later told me that he's with a scenester chick every time she sees him, and this gives me solace oddly enough. I introduced myself, we shook hands & smiled, and then I wandered away, as I had nothing to say except "I love your work," and he had very little to say, period. He's got the greatest teeth. They're so white. They gleamed in the dull lights outside the AGO. (According to Sister Sunshine, this is because they're all replacements for the teeth he got knocked out in various punk fights. They're still awesome.) And he looks so cute in his thick glasses. I'm such a smitten kitten.

Palaver & I hung out at the post-screening party, which was much like a house party that you are invited to by someone who doesn't show up...the film community is so insular in Toronto & everyone knew one another. So I watched CKR from afar, sipped untrendy beer & chatted to Palaver until my dad came to pick me up for a record-breaking third night in a row. I kind of wanted to stay & continue to watch at a distance, but responsibility called. It's not as if I was about to say anything I didn't before.

Of course I'm utterly overwhelmed. But on the scale of such experiences, it definitely comes behind Johnette (whom Mr. Blonde & I hung out with for an entire night, watching her throw ice at her producer & getting the party to buy us drinks) or Spider Robinson (whom I also hung out with avec Mr. Blonde. Spider sang the blues to Mr. Blonde's improvisational guitar and Jeanne called me beautiful, just to pick out two of the highlights), or even just getting Poppy Z. Brite's home phone number (which I still have. I'm thinking about giving her a call soon.) But still...

In other news, I read PZB's new novel from start to finish yesterday. It's a Crow novel, & suffers a bit for it. But I have to say: good transsexual character (Lucas/Lucretia). She gets way more time than femmes have in most PZB novels.

Today it threatened rain all day, but didn't deliver until 4 p.m., just before I drove home from work. Rain, like Christmas, brings out the asshole in other drivers. On the other hand, I'm much less aggressive in the rain, ever since I rear-ended a car in the rain 3 years ago. There was no damage to speak of, and the other people never contacted me afterwards...perhaps because I wrote my phone number on a Wiccan supply store business card without thinking through how a suburban family would respond to a boldly hatched pentacle. But nevertheless, I still take it easy. It only takes one impact to kill you, or (worse) cripple you for life.

Tisember 11, 1998.

Yesterday was also quite cool. I made plans to meet Sister Sunshine at Bakka for 5 p.m. so that we could catch some dinner before the Headstones benefit. But she called while I was there to postpone our meeting, and I was left with an hour & a half to kill on a beautiful sunny Toronto evening. I started wandering up Yonge Street towards res & Cranly (who is telephone-less this weekend), and wandered into a tartan shop to price-check a Farquharson tartan for Braveheart's upcoming birthday party (the theme is tartan & leather). Now, I've never been in such a place before, unless you count the time last year when I was actually in Scotland, so imagine my surprise when I found Trevor there. If I believed in fate, I'd start to wonder.

So we wandered up the street, talking about Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas and the comic book store owner on the Simpsons. We all agreed that he should make his gaming more overt, as this was the only thing lacking from an eerily perfect parody of geek culture (Trevor's term, not mine, so don't write me angry letters!) Trevor commented that no matter where he was in the world, he knew that there'd always be a place for him kept warm at the gaming table. To which his friend replied, "unless the guy next to you is taking up both seats."

Sister Sunshine & I caught dinner, gossiped mercilessly & changed into concert gear in the Harvey's bathroom. Well, I did. I was trying my best not to look like we were engaged in a bit of rough trade, which is not easy when you're changing into a black t-shirt, ripped fishnets & a black skirt edged with pimp fur. I looked way more punk than I've ever managed before, even without black eye-liner (which I've temporarily sworn off on the advice of SS), and it was awfully fun to walk past the tourist crowds outside the Eaton's Centre.

The concert itself was boss. We got there half-way through the set of an absolutely adorable band with a name I can't recall. They played really well, even covering "Baba O'Reilly" with as much gusto as they had in their young bodies. But what really got me were their ages. We noticed after the set that they all had black X's on their hands, meaning that they weren't old enough to drink. Then we really realized how young they were by their flier, which had "Bands! Wanna play live?" on the bottom...a phrase I know all too well from my brother's first 6 months of gigging. Ah, it takes me back, I tells ya.

The next band sucked, so I amused myself by wandering around the basement washroom area & keeping an eye out for any members of the Brampton high-school scene and/or Callum Keith Rennie, who toured with the Headstones to get his part down for Hard Core Logo (yes, yes, shut up...I can't help being a smitten kitten.) No dice on either count, and it was with great relief that SS & I lost ourselves in the crowd for the Headstones.

The concert itself was amazing. I knew way more songs that I thought I would, and even the songs I didn't know were too hooky not to enjoy. I went into the pit a few times, most notably for "Cemetery," my favourite Headstones song of all time. That was also great...I wormed my way up to the 2nd row, jumped around & dodged crowd surfers' boots. In 30 seconds, I was baptized in the sweat of the boys around me. And after the song was over, Hugh Dillon (the lead singer) started pouring a few cans of coke on us...so I was baptized in sticky pop as well. It was glorious.

I must say, I was expecting to see an angry Joe Dick sort of performance from Hugh, complete with spitting & audience baiting, but he was actually a nice guy. You could really tell that this was something he loved & was fulfilled by, as opposed to Joe Dick's issues with his band. I guess Hugh can really act after all. Hmm.

Tisember 10, 1998.

I'm not sure where to begin. With the beginning, I suppose, but that seems so pedestrian, so trite, darling. But as I do not want to be thought of as either part of the postmodernists or part of the incompetents that litter the field today, I should just bite the bullet.

Once upon a time...

I never got to Rancho Relaxo this weekend. Both Palaver & I became lukewarm about going after no one else from the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus party expressed interest, so once again I've missed out on a chance to see Jamz Bee. Nuts.

But the party was choice. No sooner had I stowed my bulging backpack in Braveheart's immaculate room & sailed out into the backyard to the strains of "Close to Me" by the Cure, than I was excitingly greeting Cranly, who is unexpectedly up for the American long weekend. I had had a premonition that I would see him that night, but I was utterly shocked to see it come true. We immediately made plans to goth dance & drop acid the next night, although neither activities proved ultimately feasible (see, these are new experiences to Cranly & myself (except for me & goth dancing), and we were supposed to do these things during the school year. But he returned to Massachusetts before we had the chance...)

It was one of those very compact parties, the kind where you keep marveling at how much fun you've already had & at how little time has passed. This proved to be a good thing, as I was all done in by 1 a.m., and had to call my dad to pick me up (stupid 9 to 5 schedule!!) I was all dressed up for Rancho Relaxo, in my bronze cocktail dress, black velvet blazer & black prom pumps, which is an interesting outfit to wear during a backyard barbecue party, to say the least. But what I enjoyed most about my appearance was my hair. My mom curled it into a cute retro bob that went really well with the outfit & my less-extreme-than-usual make-up. People would complement me on my hair, and when I would confess that my mother styled it, they laughed in disbelief. "'Mother' and 'good hair' do not go in the same sentence, girl."

I saw a lot of people that I hadn't talked to in ages. It's only been 3 weeks since I moved out of res, but there's already a touch of distance between Aphrodite & myself. As for Tiger Lily, I'd only spoken to her once between this weekend and our Victorian Fiction exam in early April. And I also chatted with Poet & Preacher, two boys that used to live in my pocket & vice versa, but whom I haven't seen for a very long time. We all know why, but it was still a bit melancholy. And between all of this was Beowulf, someone who insults me constantly in general email form, but who always acts like a friendly cat when we meet in person, forcefully demanding attention & rubbing up against me by way of greeting (not that that's a criticism, I'm pretty touchy-feely during large parties of this nature).

The only thing that went wrong was the result of a stupid accident that was mostly my fault. While I was awaiting out front for my dad to pull up, Wallace & Braveheart were having a playful kick-fight on the sidewalk. There was no intent to harm anyone or anything, but they're both big guys & adrenaline-drunk and I got in the way of a retreat and was drilled right below my left knee. It hurt...but not too much, and I was able to get my pain-and-shock tears under control before my dad showed up, as I hadn't the heart to deflect the possibility of his invasive line of questioning. Now I've got a scrape & a tiny bruise. It hardly seems worth it.

Tisember 9, 1998.

I feel sooo dozy...its' the middle of the afternoon, and I want a nap badly. Everyone's out of the office, no one's calling, and I've finished up all the tasks given to me. I'd really like to just put my head down on the desk & sleep for awhile, but I dread the response of my co-workers. It's not like the time last month when I fell asleep on the floor in front of my 18th century literature professor's office. These people will make fun of me.

Maybe I could get away with dozing off if I claim that the Shadow came through the office on his way somewhere else. He has the power to cloud men's minds, you know...

I just hope that I can snap out of it by tonight. I've got a pretty full weekend coming up, and if I don't have the energy, I'm going to miss a lot of cool things.

There's two things going on tonight alone. Firstly, there's a birthday party at the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus tonight. A fun time is guaranteed to all, as the boys know how to throw a party. Secondly, a new bar on College & Spadina is opening up this weekend, called - get this - "Rancho Relaxo"! To celebrate its opening, Jamz Bee's gonna be performing tonight & tomorrow, probably with his Royal Jelly Orchestra. So Palaver & I & whoever else wants to come are going to cut out of the party & dance to Bee-brand cocktail music par excellence.

On Saturday afternoon, I'm accompanying my mother to a Victorian Tea put on by one of the women's groups at church (so hopefully I won't be too hung-over from Saturday). In the evening I have tickets to the Headstones concert (which is a benefit for The Hospital for Sick Children). I'm giving my extra ticket to Sister Sunshine, as all the Headstones fans I know are hanging out at Edgar Allan's place this Saturday.

Then on Sunday afternoon, I'm going to the AGO to see Bruce MacDonald's new flick - it's a collaboration with Don McKellar (starred in "Highway 61") & Michael Ondaantje (wrote The English Patient) - and then watching their special presentation of Hard Core Logo (this would be my 8th time overall). Then there's supposed to be a party, so perhaps I shall have met even more interesting Canadian celebrities by this time on Monday. My only problem is what to wear. I'm not sure if I can find a happy medium between cool rock n' roll Bruce MacDonald clothes & serious Michael Ondaantje clothes.

And in between all that, I have to pick up the Poppy Z. Brite Crow novel from Bakka, look at the student housing listings, get more Aerie pages ready for the immanent diary move, clean my room, do laundry & sleep. Yes...sleeeeep...zzzz.

Tisember 8, 1998.

This morning I awoke with a white chicken securely fastened to my leg.

As omens go, I don't think that this was a good one.

Well, I'm back to basics here...I'm writing this during my lunch hour on a Notepad. The operating system is Windows 3.1, and the 'n' key doesn't work very well. It all feels so primitive, but it's only been a relatively short time since this was 'state of the art.' Plus ca change, n'est-ce pas?

I'm getting a lot better at wearing the sarong skirt. I've managed to make it through the entire day without the skirt flying open as I got up from my desk. My only problems occurred during my trip to the bank, when I had to step out of the car into a high wind. Sarongs are manifestly unsuitable for a high wind, which poses the question: are there no winds where sarongs were developed? Oh, men probably designed it, now that I think about it. I'm sure you can figure out why...

I'm surprised that I've adapted to it so quickly. I can't climb around, run or sit comfortably in the damn thing, but I seem to be coping. Does this mean that I'm only a purse & a checking account away from acting like an adult all the time??? Horrors.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

- cain to god

I'm awfully sick of being responsible for my brother at work. Last night he stayed out with his band until 3 a.m., and refused to get up this morning. And then he refused to call in with this information, leaving me with the guilt of getting to work (on time, for once) without him. It's like he never figured out that you trade off a bit of your soul to your employer in exchange for the privilege of being employed. This is called responsibility.

But he seems to think that it's just like high-school, where a missed day with no explanation is okay every once in awhile. He never told the Tim Horten's people that he quit - he just left them a letter. If I were his boss (which, I suppose I am in some limited sense, but not in a way which makes a difference), I'd speak sharply to him about it. But he'd never listen.

People say I'm a kid at heart, but I still know what's expected of me in the work world. And my brother, for all of his sophistication in other matters, still thinks like a child & not an employee. And it's maddening when I'm made responsible for this.

I've gotten quite far into Dracula in the last few days. I'm actually glad that I waited this long, 'cause I come fresh from a year of other Victorian novels, and I'm all ready for this one. By the way, I got my marks from the automated system yesterday. Highest mark: Victorian Fiction, 84. Lowest mark: The Short Story, 73. My overall average is 78.

Overall, I think it was worth it to quit Grand & Toy in December.

Tisember 7, 1998.

"Decked out like the devil's own
In butane fumes & bad cologne..."

- big rude jake

I despise Geocities. After Poet so kindly bequeathed me his old site, & I'd uploaded 6 months of archives, they fucked up my password so that I can't get in anymore. I've spent 2 days trying variations of my old password before giving up & registering for a new site.

Grr...

I suppose that this is one of those aggravations that is entirely peculiar to modern life & therefore not worth worrying about. As Gnossos Pappodopolis said, "skip the small shit." And Geocites hassles is nothing if not small shit. Perhaps I lack perspective.

I puttered around the Mall today, running a bunch of tiny errands & even making up some extra ones just to stay out. I was hoping to run into someone I knew, like Maharet or Daniel or even (dare I say it?) God In An Alcove. But no dice. Despite the recent dream I had about burying my nose in his short, sweet-smelling hair, he failed to show up in real space, and I had to go home.

Brandy said something interesting about infatuation a couple of weeks ago, which is that time can be a strengthening factor. I think some statute of limitations has passed in my infatuation for God In An Alcove, and that I've long since gone past the point in which my attraction to him became a part of my permanent makeup. It's so silly, but I think I'm stuck sighing happily over his memory forever.

There are worse fates.

Well, I think that's it for tonight. There's only 11 days to go before Tisember's over & I change theatres for good. And I need my beauty sleep!

Tisember 6, 1998.

Warning: the following paragraph is not nice or pretty or glossed over. All I have to say in its defense is that this is my diary, not the society pages. If you want to read about some nice femme, I suggest you go away before you get hurt. Thank you.

I think it was a bad idea to start out the day by taking a look at the newest rant written by Mr. Blonde. Not that it's ruined my day, exactly, but because work allows me far more time to brood than is, perhaps, entirely healthy. I have 2 comments to make on the piece. In response to the line about friends trusting him with secrets, I must cattily reply that my ex has one of the biggest mouths in Christendom & has been upbraided by more than one person (including myself) for spreading about things told in secret. Perhaps that's less of a reply than a shot. But anyway... My second comment deals, predictably, with the concluding line: "Maybe it's time I got a girlfriend." I believe my snarled response to that this morning was; "well, it's not for lack of trying, you whore."

Well, I feel better for having vented. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Two more observations from last Sunday at the Estate that I neglected to make mention of:

First: the littler kids were paddling around in the pool for most of the afternoon, much to their own amusement. I particularly enjoyed the spectacle of my 7-year-old cousin in black swim trunks. He's got a bit of a belly, and he wears his pants quite low so that in swim trunks he bore a remarkable resemblance to one of those older European men who wander around beaches with their gut hanging over tragically tiny speedos. My cousin kinda looked like a seven-year-old Anthony Quinn.

Second: I also neglected to mention that I got my ass whupped at pool by a 12-year-old girl. It was kind of cool, actually. Somehow, it doesn't hurt my pride to be beaten by a woman, especially a younger woman. Go Sisterhood!

"It ain't no sin to take off your skin & dance around in your bones..."

- our man tom

I'm wearing quite an uncomfortable skin suit today due to the sunburn plus 9 mosquito bites (and here I thought 9 was my lucky number. Guess not.) This plus my general lack of energy & need to be at work today isn't making me the happiest chick on the planet. Oh well. I suppose it could be worse...

...I could be hung over, like some of the guys in the shop. He he he!

Tisember 5, 1998.

Guess what? I've got a sunburn!

Remember last summer when I complained that my skin & hair resist every colour change with alarming alacrity? There's a reason that I'm as pale as snow, y'know...I do go out in the sun quite frequently. Anyway, today was a lovely day & I had nothing really to do and not enough energy to do it properly, so I decided to flake out beside the pool while the sun was nice & hot. I didn't even put on sunblock...I just threw on an ancient bathing suit in neon green (from the first time when neon was cool) & went out with some trashy fantasy novel and a stereo equipped with Big Rude Jake.

I still can't believe that I burnt my shoulders & the tops of my thighs. I haven't seen colour on my skin for at least 3 years (excluding the tattoo, of course). It's so...weird.

My mom's friend just had a baby! He's 8 lbs. 9 oz. and doing great. I'm so happy for the couple...not only do I like them both a great deal, but I'm also proud that the fertility treatments worked. It's so much more like a victory that way.

I don't really have anything else to say today, as I didn't do much today & I'm too tired to pontificate. Besides lying in the sun, I've started a letter to Veronica, updated all of my archives & answered some email. I've had so little resistance to anything that I even watched an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"...and we all know that I'm always on the vampires' side.

Tisember 4, 1998.

I'm so low energy this weekend. I thought that I'd regain my equilibrium once I'd gotten a good night's sleep, but it was not to be. Perhaps I'm having one of my twice-yearly mono scares. But probably I'm just bored.

I spent all day hanging with the relatives at The Estate, my cousin's palatial home. This would be the cousin who owns the company currently employing me, my father, my brother, my cousin, my other cousin...the list goes on. We'll call him Banana, as in Top.

The Estate of the Banana family (I guess we could call it the Plantation, but that would just be silly) is a pretty comfortable place to wile away a day, even if all of my relatives are there & I don't have enough energy to get off the deck chair. There's a pool fed by a double-waterfall system, a swing & ladders set, a trampoline, a gazebo, a rose garden & a pond - and that's just the backyard. Inside there's several rooms tastefully furnished in the neo-Victorian style so popular these days...a style that only escapes garishness by the thinnest of margins. It's a rather impressive set up, but there's just enough teenager in me that I don't want to seem visibly impressed by all the splendor. I watch fireworks from a hot tub all the time, darlings. Suuuure.

I also reflected on Little Bananette #1 today as she sunbathed in a little blue bikini. This would be the oldest child in the family, and at 15 years old, she's already my clear successor as the prettiest girl in the family. I'm not particularly upset about this turn of events, as it unnerves me to be counted the most attractive in any given group. I mean, that's just twisted.

But back to my cousin. I was thinking about the fact that she is the perfect catch if ever there was one. She's 15, gorgeous, intelligent but not brainy, impressionable & very well-off. She is the epitome of conventional girl virtues. And more power to her, really...if she can be happy living the high life, she's more flexible than I.

(Or more brainwashed...)

One of my aunts was particularly annoying today. She's a hypochondriac who only begrudgingly stays alive - she seems fueled by pure anger & bitterness. Her voice is an almost-perpetual hysterical wail. But the really scary thing is that she shares many personality qualities with my father, so I have to assume that she once had a wonderful sense of humour & once enjoyed life.

Lately she's had a weird vendetta against my mom for no apparent reason...she's taken to grabbing my mom & shrieking false accusations that are only vaguely disguised as humorous comments. And she has this glazed look in her eyes that's probably brought on by all the drugs she takes to get through the day, but is incredibly scary nonetheless. If she'd grabbed me that way, I'd've shook free in a second & started arguing back. But my mom likes to keep the peace.

So anyway, the important thing is that an unexplainable hostility towards my mother seems to have sprung up lately. And now I'm included. Yesterday I was jiggling the bathroom lock, trying to pop it & attracting far too much attention from those outside. By the time I got back to the kitchen, they were all teasing me about locking myself in the bathroom...that is, everyone was teasing me except this aunt, who said, "If you locked yourself in, you should stay there."

Well, fuck you twice, dearie.

Tisember 3, 1998.

"If I could spend the rest of my life with you in the summer haze..."

- big rude jake

Man, am I ever wiped out. I think that part of it's the heat - it was very muggy & overcast today - but another part of it stems from the lack of genuine rest lately.

On Thursday night I had a dream about Trotski & Palaver, so I took it as an omen & came up to the city to hang out yesterday night. I had forgotten what summer nights in the backyard are like...it's been a long time. Last night we sat around in the warm summer dark, slowly growing intoxicated & sharing silly anecdotes. I was so high & happy that I actually enjoyed "South Park."

(I had been purposely avoiding it for weeks, just to be ornery. I mean, I can quote large chunks of dialogue from almost every Simpson's episode, so it's not that I'm opposed to warped cartoon shows. I just never felt like watching it. But last night I was laughing & laughing...especially when Cartman kept singing "Sailing Away.")

Although I was the only chick there for most of the night, I was utterly comfortable. Part of that stems from my pronounced butch tendencies, and part of it is that there's no sexual tension between me & most of the boys at Dupont...sexual subtext, maybe, but no tension. I dunno...I've always had more guy friends than chick friends, and the chicks I do like tend to have butch qualities about them. Girlie-girls make me uncomfortable. Always have.

So, to summarize: the boys at Dupont treated me like a queen last night, graciously giving me intoxicants, brownies & a comfortable bed to sleep in (Braveheart's actually...he was in Newmarket). And although I had to sleep at 1 a.m. (stupid work schedule!), I had an extremely nice time. As omens go, this was one of the best I ever heeded.

Boy 1: "Everything he does for her is a little bit farther in the direction of a one-night-stand."
Boy 2: "Single men do that with most of their female friends."
Me: "Present company excluded, right?"
(silence)

- part of last night's intoxicated conversation

I awoke this morning clad in a green golf shirt with a Moosehead crest on the left breast, sensible Marks & Sparks undies & a stuffed green snake. I looked like a Guns n' Roses video, if their operating budget had been about $20. Well boys, we couldn't get any models in lingerie, but we did get a slightly chubby English major in a rather lame polo shirt...no, we couldn't afford a real snake...no, we couldn't afford any special effects to make it look good...look, just shut up & play "Paradise City"! (mutter)It'll all be the same in ten years, you white trash, flash-in-the-pan idiots...

Today I went sandal shopping with Palaver. Due to my previous researches, I was able to locate & purchase a suitable pair in 10 minutes flat, which left rather too much time to impulse shop for objects of pure desire. I started the day with a hundred dollar bill, but I left Toronto with 6˘. I ended up with a couple of books I'd been meaning to get for awhile including Dracula, which I've never read. Yes, that's kind of embarrassing for a sometimes-self-styled vampire to admit, but there you go. Also, I bought "Jar of Flies," the sexiest album ever (if you don't think that Alice In Chains is sexy, then you're obviously less warped than myself.)

Other than that, it was just a typical day of wandering the city with Palaver. Lots of store people today mistook us for a couple, which was kind of amusing. Especially when we would take bitchy little digs at each other which is simply something we do...but others think it's a lover's quarrel. Cute, hmmm?

Tisember 1, 1998.

"Well, outside in the hall, there's a catfight, it's just after midnight, I guess I'll be alright
Laying out on the floor, drunk & poor, how much longer, how much more?"

- concrete blonde

Happy birthday, Mike. Hope you do something other than deck painting to celebrate...

Work is really wiping me out. Have I mentioned that they're babysitting my brother now, as well as myself? The difference is that I have a clear-cut niche, and he doesn't. And since he's never learned the ancient art of acting busy when there's nothing to do and it's 10 minutes till lunch or quitting time, I have to ride herd on him quite a bit so that he won't go off on an hour lunch or start making personal calls. It's exhausting. Maybe I should re-think this whole motherhood thing.

Day 2 of the new clothes:

Today I wore a soft navy t-shirt & a navy sarong w/little cream flowers in a pattern. This would be my first experience with a sarong, and I had to spend 3 hours adjusting the waistband so that it wouldn't fly open every time I moved my legs. It got better as I adjusted to a different & more femme way of moving, but I never got to forget that the only thing between me & exposure was a square of thin cloth & 2 buttons. Women's clothes are insane.

One year ago today: Stonehenge.

I thought that Stonehenge was a lot smaller than I'd been led to believe from all the documentaries. Apparently, that's the most common thing that pops out of tourist's mouths: 'I thought it'd be, you know...bigger. Oh well...let's get some postcards for the grandkids & back to the bus, then.' I had a strong urge to lie on one of the toppled stones, but the guards were quite vigilant in keeping tourists behind the rope. Mum didn't care enough to spend the 4 pounds admission, so she took pictures of me through the fence. Felt a strong tingle of power from the site; this was either a throwback to my Mists of Avalon fantasy chick phase, or a symptom of my very empty stomach. Breakfasts included, my Aunt Fanny.

Slowly rooms are re-opening. There's a bunch of new stuff up in the Photo Album, and everything was rearranged with your reading pleasure in mind. The Guestroom is once again set to receive visitors. The Nursery is open to the sunshine of your love once more. There's more babies, so be sure to check it out. And finally, The Mirror is back up, retooled to be less provocative & mommy safe. I hope I haven't lost your interest now... And because I love you best, here's two things I left off the list in the Mirror:

• Number of times I've been mistaken for a hooker: twice
• Percentage of boys and girls who tasted like alcohol the first time I kissed them: 100%

I'm on the verge of setting up my diary elsewhere. It's the simplest solution to my parental problems...there's really nothing that provocative in the Aerie, anyway. That way I can give out the main site's address to people IRL, and let the journal people have the diary site. I kind of like it better that way. Maybe I can cut down on the amount of tsuris by quietly shifting location. I hope so.