January 20, 1999.

In case you haven't noticed, there's a new linx page. Such things function as a lightning rod: the people who aren't on them hate me, drawing criticism away from my more serious writerly faults. Like using the word "writerly," I suppose.

There's also new & better content in the about me section. I was motivated to kick my ass into a funnier shape after reading lizzie's admonitions on the subject. I take myself way too seriously, but it'll be easier to take if I spread out the pretentiousness in the entries rather than smack you with 'em all at once. Or something. If for no other reason, you should check it out to view a black & white half-shot of Violet (the world's cutest puppy).

So yesterday I went into a headshop with my roommate.

I was very disappointed. The whole goddamn raison d'etre of headshops is to preserve an indefinable aura composed of filth, shoddy merchandise, drug paraphernalia, redneck slogans and wank-worthy posters of supermodels. I should've know something was wrong just by it's location in the mall. Headshops wither & die like a hothouse flower in the sterile environment of the modern mall. But I ignored my forebodings, and allowed myself to be cheered by the genital and breast pasta prominently on display.

It was horrible. Unlike the shops that line the sleazier sections of Yonge street, this one was, in order: brightly lit, intelligently laid out (with large aisles), full of cute stuff that an average parent would buy in a twinkling and suspiciously filth-free. No posters of Ozzy on the toilet. No elaborately feathered roach clips. No borderline Nazi jewelry. No carny-esque sales help.

You know what there was? Cute stuff. Rave stuff. Overpriced preppy-ware. They took the good things about headshops and made themselves a squeaky-clean cardboard simulacra, a hollow mockery. This is a dark day for youth, my friends. A dark day indeed.

Went out drinking with Agamemnon, Dirk and the Boy after a late showing of Elizabeth at the local rep cinema. The upshot of the night was that the Boy has been invited along on the Week of Unholiness immediately preceding Agamemnon's ordination. Gah. Not something I want to be a party to...they're going to take all the good things about modern civilization and flush 'em down the toilet. There will never be another ordination like this, and I'll bet the universe is heaving a sigh of relief as we speak.

Well, I should go. Paris invited me out to a café for the usual Wednesday night gathering of boys. They tend to drink, get melancholy, discuss past instances of sex with nostalgia, despair of ever getting laid in the future, and make the occasional witty remark. I only go once in awhile, because it's a bit more of a toxic atmosphere than I enjoy...Wendy & the Lost Boys, only with beer & melancholy. Later, luv.