Bulford phoning at just the right time yesterday afternoon, just when my come-out-of-nowhere jitters were making me into a mazey girl, “just a courtesy call from your local neighbourhood criminal to say we should hangout more often.” Met at the Garrick’s Head, smoked French cigarettes (which was appropriate, since I was wearing a French dress) by wet paint and went to sell my Czech camera. Money from said camera got me a grilled artichoke sandwich and a bowl of salmon chowder at Bean Around the World (more on how the dollar stretched later!). Bumped into Erin and her ex, Michael, on the steps of Bean Around, sitting with guy playing banjo.
Four of us tromped over to Value Village, where Bulford and I bought a stack of books each. I spent another three dollars of the camera money on the Selected Short Stories of Henry James, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and (!) The Aristos, by John Fowles. Haha! I hate John Fowles! Or so, the journals he published last year really had an adverse affect on my view of him! I mean, rightly or wrongly. But honestly, how can I ever read him the same way again after I read, and re-read something like this in total amazement??
But for real though, you should all read it. If you don’t, there’s probably a certain ring of disparagement in your lives. A hint of something . . .never . .found.
Several hours at Bulford’s, after a walk there. Majority of time kept with the setting down of a spoken word track from one of my poems with keyboard, mic and laptop. The poem being: Among the Serious at the Hospital. For some reason, it’s actually quite sexy. Though obviously, the reason for sex is quite clear, and that being Bulford’s singing in the background and our total and complete misappropriation of certain ball-kicking feminist phrases, which are looped, believe me. We know of what we loop. We’re making a spoken word CD. Yes.
Then, the crowning glory for the camera money: a divided mickey of gin, which I transferred into a much more than half-emptied club soda bottle (sorry, tonic is just too sticky for me these days, has been for over a month now). Bulford poured his half into 7-Up, with lime, natch. We eyeballed our bottles with dread. Dread because the stench of liquor was so strong that it made me feel like a clichéd, Slavic version of myself, and of course, Bulford has that uncanny ability to see a few seconds into the future, so you know, the curled face.
Carted covert him & her gin over to the Visual Arts building, where Bulford’s Xavier was fronting The Raygun for a VASA (!!!) event! There should be grander typographical allowances for more exclamation marks here, I mean, really, how to slot more in without it looking grotesquely silly? And moreover: Valentine’s Day! A Valentine’s Day event.
Highlights included:
Bulford needing to pee on our way through the back woods to the building. Trotting off to the bush, saying, “this is wooded enough! No it’s not! But THIS is!” Proceeding to pee. Oh, urinary indecision.
Boy in pink dress. I believe he won some award.
A knife. In a wall. A knife stabbed into a wall. Not that I had like anything to do with it, or anything. Don’t even try to ask me about it; I’m just too traumatized.
The Raygun’s special Valentine’s Day song. The key lyrics being: DOWN WITH LOVE! God! God! Lyrical perfection! My little bum was shaking its thing.
When something was set on fire by a certain someone in the men’s washroom, where I was peeing, because I was asked to pee in there. A quick blaze.
Bulford saying (to me), “want a beer? I’ll buy you a beer.” Then, promptly turning to the beer selling madam, “hi. I’ll have three beers!” And at that moment, I knew I’d never again witness a guy buy me “a beer” in a more apt way. When you know me, you really know me.
And, of course, The Raygun was BRILLIANT. Meaning: when I got home, I was too horny to even masturbate. So, I slept. Slept quite well, with only one interruption.
Also, this post tells me it's February 12th. Wow. That's impressive.