"Is it true that voluptuous crocodiles only live in Australia?" asked Jenna.
"I don't even know what voluptuous means," said Adam. Both of them were 8, and Adam had ADHD while Jenna was cursed with Ginsbergian light-visions that pounded her nightmares. She'd befriended Adam in a fit of insanity one recess, near the swings, and they'd taken their lunch together ever since.
"Voluptuous means alert," said Jenna, but Adam didn't care, didn't even listen, just stared at Jenna's skinny upper-arms and buck-toothed smile - the kind of gaping expression she always wore when she thought out loud. Why do I even hang out with this girl, he thought, why do I share my drink-boxes, and to be spiteful he said that Australia didn't live anywhere, that the whole country was a myth. At which Jenna looked thoughtful, and nodded, and Adam hated her more than he hated anybody.
(c) Joy Waller 2004 all rights reserved
Relaxing. In a word. In more words: A par-tay involving sword fights and a delightfully drunk Ben, and a game of I Never that had me admitting to scandolous liasions in elevators and scandalous piss-shows on public property, and Sambuca being the star of everything, as always ("Sambuca! Purr! Show them your purr!"), dozens of empty beer cans, me hurling a lighter into the street and screaming (that is a dumb pointless detail but I felt so empowered - stupid lighter), and other drunk things. On Sunday some of us went to the beach. I sun-tanned for the first time in ten years (there ya go, Carey. You can't steal it anymore).
Today I worked all morning and Matt hung out on the patio all morning, and when I came home it took me fifteen minutes to realize I was a huge blight of negativity in his world. In fifteen minutes, I bitched about:
- finances
- the Telus bill
- an ad in "Reader's Digest"
- two customers at work
- finances again
- some person who hurt my feelings
- my health
- one of the two customers again
I felt bad. I apologized. He was all tanned and high. I was all high-strung and ruthlessly white. Whatever. Did I mention I'm poor? It's happening. But I have a job interview on Wednesday.
I stole this from the blog of somebody I don't even know. I think her name is Lisa, or maybe Sabrina.
Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says:
"Even the children knew that excitement was generating under that umbrella and turned toward it - and it seemed to Rosemary that it all came from the man in the jockey cap."
Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?
A piece of watch.
What is the last thing you watched on TV?
"The Addams Family," a couple of weeks ago.
WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is.
1:03pm.
Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
12:55 pm.
With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Matt playing guitar.
When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
I had a cigarette on the patio about half an hour ago.
Before you came to this website, what did you look at?
I was reading Joanna Schneller's column in the globe and mail online.
What are you wearing?
a beige skirt and a tie-dyed green tank top.
Did you dream last night?
Yes - I dreamed that my younger brother and I were children and we were enslaved by this strange woman who said she was our mother but she really wasn't and we kept trying to escape this evil farmland place we were living but I was always hampered by the younger brother because he was younger, and this, of course, was the way the evil woman had planned it.
When did you last laugh?
I laugh constantly. The last time I laughed really hard was last night when I heard F on Jess's answering machine, screaming, "We are nhilists, we believe in nothing, we will bite off your johnson if you leave a message!"
What is on the walls of the room you are in?
A yellow-and-purple clock, a framed quote that reads: "I don't feel a need to explain my art to you, Warren," and a picture of Mae West smoking a cigarette with the caption, "I used to be Snow White, but I drifted."
Seen anything weird lately?
Last night Matt and Colin had a sword fight in the Vic High playing field. That was weird.
Last movie you saw?
"American Pop."
If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
Greece.
Reveal something that no-one knows about you.
Sometimes when no one is around, I pick my nose.
If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Oh, you know. Make everyobody love everybody else. Make them!
Do you like to dance?
Sometimes. If there's good ska music playing and I've been drinking banana rum, or something.
George Bush:
An embarassment more than anything else. How did he make it through Harvard if he has difficulty forming complete sentences?
Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
I will never have children, but if it was a girl, she would be Rain.
Same question for a boy.
Meh. Lawrence maybe?
Stretch your right hand all the way out, what is the first thing you touch?
A red lamp.
Interesting. My hangover is gone. I've had three beers now. It works.
I've been looking at job banks online. Some of the descriptions are ridiculous. Like this one:
"While performing the duties of this job, the employee is regularly required to talk or hear. The employee is frequently required to use hands to finger, handle, or feel tools, or controls. The employee is occasionally required to stand, walk, sit, reach with hands and arms, climb or balance, and stoop, kneel, crouch or crawl."
Augh!
I've gone and PROVED the vicious, un-true rumour about me!
Which makes it true, now.
The story is this: a couple weeks ago a friend of mine was hanging out with a boy, and my name came up, and the boy, who does not know me, said he had heard about me and that I was no fun to get drunk with, apparently, because I did not "get rowdy." Now, I can be a bitchy, catty person, and I know that people are going to say bitchy, catty things about me in return, but please, ladies, lets get our facts straight.
So ... Yesterday was a wonderful afternoon of gin-and-juice in the living room followed by Pale Ale on the Felicita's patio and then Moosehead back at Matt's and my house, with an entourage of wonderful people who had come to drink and discuss and be impulsive. It was the best kind of party, where everyone is your friend and it was not planned in advance, just a kind of organic, smooth, slurry bit of randomness with splashes of liquor colouring the edges of everything and people with eyes and smiles that were on fire.
And, shortly after 10pm, I passed out.
Now I'm so upset. The rumour was founded on some kind of obscure fact that I myself was unaware of. And in the morning I was out of cigarettes, and a plate had been broken, and I felt a huge sense of loss.
But we're having another party tonight! And you're invited.
Somehow spammers got access to my private email account. Today I received a message with the subject "Drug turns a normal guys into studs!" Wanted to cry, and spam them with ads for the CP Style Guide.
Drinking too much again, and lovin it. Three weeks ago I made a budget for myself and it has totally disappeared now. I've decided if I'm going to be poor soon, there's no point in living frugally now, because then I'd be twice as unhappy. I think. So I'll binge till I run out of money.
Wow! Ears still ringing from what Kumar would have called "best play ever man," except it was a concert. The Pixies played the Curling Club, just steps away from the infamous Green St., and I'm shaken. Highlights:
- Kim Deal. Everything about her. She got on stage wearing black sweatpants, a baggy black t-shirt, and no make-up, and then she kicked ass. At one point she puffed a cigarette while she played, but unlike most bassists, who would tuck it on the neck somewhere, she actually held it in her fingers while she did all these complicated bass things.
- Joey Santiago played a guitar solo with his ass. And then with a beer can. He had a shaved head, and looked like a cute, stylish turtle. Frank Black also had a shaved head, but looked more like a convict. He had three or four huge, thick wrinkles on the back of his neck. As MR said after the show, "It seems to me there used to be a lot more hair in this band."
But, really, I know what the main highlight was:
That, and the "Where is My Mind" song from Fight Club.
Just a brief note: Ben is the coolest and nicest person ever. If anybody feels like unexpectedly giving him a present, I'd say the karmic winds are blowing in his direction for the next few days.
And then, there were ten. Mildred misunderstood, counted only nine, and Humboldt grew weary, said, "What is the point of buying the most intellectual woman in Ottawa ten diamond necklaces, when she only sees nine?" Mildred took offence, thought he was condescending in light of her poor A-Level Mathematics grades. "I thought you married me for my spine," she said, "my hopelessly long legs," but Humboldt merely brooded, kept the tenth necklace in a secret pocket of his waistcoat. It felt like a fairy tale, although there was no wicked step-mother, and Humboldt pouted because of this lack.
Maruca took me to Father's house, even though I told him Father tended to lash out at my lovers. This was perhaps premature of me, as Maruca and I had only loved twice, but then if you want premature, try loving Maruca. He kidnapped me, really -- lured me into his golden Mercedes and told me we were going duck hunting. We drank champagne and were halfway to Moose Jaw when I began to suspect. "I can handle your father," he said, fondly, when I protested. I answered, "Yes, but can my father handle YOU," at which point he accused me of being oblique.
Interesting thing - Devon was saying that a band she had a few years back was the ORIGINAL Wide Mouth Mason. The now-famous band stole her name, or at least, got it registered first. But she thought of it before they did. And then her friends would go see the other band and pay $15 or whatever and then go running to her to complain that they'd blown $15 on some crappy band that had stolen her name.
Last night Matt, Colin, and I watched "Martha Inc." An incredible movie! Who knew Cybil could do such fascinating things with her eyebrows and the veins of her jaw? She was monstrous, and decadent, and so, so, misunderstood. I have an enormous respect for Martha Stewart now. I want to order back issues of her magazine. I want to say, "Yes, darling, you do, you DO have balls, and they're bigger than everybody else's." And then I will make tartlets.
After the movie we were picked up by the large white "party van" and spirited away to Gordon Head, gulping nips of Gibsons finest and wearing too-tight seat belts. The party we went to had a band playing in the living room, and they were very young and happy, which made me feel old and bitter. Matt and I wandered into a donwstairs kitchen looking for cups (there was not one single cup in that kitchen, or even empty cupboards where you would assume the cups once were), and a huge man in a Superman t-shirt came in and asked us what we were doing. In retrospect I think we broke into someone's basement suite and the people who lived there were not connected with the party upstairs at all. Maybe. We used their bathroom and then went back upstairs.
After that: sitting on a comfy couch on the patio (tea lights on the railing!) talking with the people I came with and making no attempt to find new friends. Many rye and cokes.
And at 1:30 or so we went to Paul's Motor Inn for water and vegi burgers. I think we were loud. A colleague of Matt's came over and accused him of not coming to some party he was supposed to have been to the night before. She came and talked to him about it three times. Matt's like, "I'm sorry, I was watching stock footage of the Pierre Trudeau election in 1968." None of us were terribly impressed with her.
Some tasty quotes from www.curioustimes.com:
"Two new studies released last week suggest ways in which men and women can avoid cancer. For women, the prescription is doing housework; for men, masturbating as much as possible. ... The American Association for Cancer Research claims that doing housework can reduce a woman's risk of endometrial cancer by as much as 30 percent ... Meanwhile, a second study of over 29,000 men in the U.S. confirmed the results of an Australian study last year which suggested that men can protect themselves from prostate cancer by ejaculating as often as possible. .... 'The more you flush the ducts out, the less there is to hang around and damage the cells that line them,' said Graham Giles, lead author of the Australian study."
I don't even want to analyze this. I just want to laugh, and then masturbate for a couple hours.
Matt's gig last night - very eclectic evening. For example, an older Russian gentleman of my acquaintance buying me a rye and coke; graffiti in the washroom that said "Help me ... Help me ... Fuck it;" stimulating conversations on the patio that shifted from the Bronte sisters to Tarantino films in an eyeblink; etc. A mellow, interesting evening.
I watched "The Addams Family" again today. I marvel at Angelica Houston. When we watched it last week Matt said something along the lines of "There's no wrong turns on those curves," and I couldn't agree more. I must connive to meet her ... But, there are doubts. A couple days ago I called Ben in a panic, saying, "If Jude Law met us in person, would he like us?" Ben felt he would, but I remained unsure. I must get rid of this insecurity issue. I must act with more confidence when (thinking of) meeting famous people. The next famous person I have a chance with is Kim Deal, at the Pixies concert this Wednesday. Please please please.
Well, the votes are in ...
| What kind of drunk are you? Sloppy Drunk You are a liability in public places, because you tend to elbow glasses, knock into wobbly tables and back into waitresses holding full pitchers. You probably wake up in the mornings wondering where you got all those bruises. You're embarrassing, but amusing to watch as well.
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| Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests. |
Much time has been spent dragging myself from one end of the house to the other, desolate, replaying conversations in my head for the purpose of analyzing them, feeling terrible, and then wondering why I should feel terrible if the conversations, on the surface anyway, were sincere, enjoyable, and stimulating. Also I've been drowning in the insane genius that is Anais Nin's diary, and sipping a smoothie, and looking up movies I have seen on rottentomatoes.com. I think maybe I'm wasting my time.
Hit the town last night with Jess and Steph! Got drunker than I had thought I would, which the more clever among us could probably have predicted, and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. Then I took a cab home. If I was a cab driver I would tape record every drunken late night conversation I had with a passenger, and then I would sell it to them the next day. I wish I could remember that conversation. I remember being quite happy and jolly though, until suddenly I was on the front porch and the taxi was cruising back down the street, and then I felt very lonely and uncertain.
Just finished revising "The Science of Domesticity: An Erotic Tragedy." For once I didn't change a title during a revision. This title is wordy and a bit stupid, but I'm fond of titles with colons in them.
There's going to be a new show called "Queer Eye for the Straight Gal." Super-sweet! But I don't think it's going to be the original Fab Five. Perhaps they'll use lesbians.
A sunny patio, and two cocktails before noon. I'm off to a meeting at 2, then who knows what the magic of a Thursday late-afternoon-early-evening will bring??? Treats, I hope.
Bit of an odd experience at the Monday night writing thang - Alpha-Male versus Alpha-Bitch type thing. I didn't like it. I'm irritable around aggressive people who question and criticize every damn thing you say. And, I'm sorry, but I hang around fags - I'm GOING to use the word 'honey,' more than once, and it's rude to object to that.
But aside from that, it was uber-fun and productive, as always. We did a postcard story exercise, which went very well - I think we'll be doing at least one of those every week. And after we got bored of writing we stumbled down the street to the George and Dragon for beer and smokes on the outdoor patio. Steph and I discussed the frustration of having to "censor" our clothing choices when we go out to a bar, ie, if I wear this shirt that is totally comfortable and fun, will I have to fend off drunk jerks? And alternatively, will I be offended if I DON'T have to fend off drunk jerks? Important questions.
Yesterday I made another stew, with ingredients purchased in Chinatown: squash, ginger, celery, mustard seed, cilantro, garlic, onions ... A smashing success. I've been doing intensive reading on the topic of past-life regressions and reincarnation. I'm pretty much a firm believer now. Tonight I'm going to hypnotize Matt and if it works, he will hypnotize me, and we will see what kind of people we used to be when we lived here before.
Here is the postcard story:
Gas pours from the dead fridge. Bridget cried at the funeral, hurled herself onto the pile of microwaves, old stoves, and Champion-brand juice makers. Her fridge was the only fridge there, and she couldn't stop thinking about mouldy cheese, limp celery, juice that had turned dark blue. She should have guessed, months ago, that these welfare-grocery-mart tenants were trying to deliver a message. "Loss is soon approaching" - it was practically spelled out in those ketchup-stain scratches by the vegetable crisper. Yes, loss, thinks Bridget, but you didn't tell me it would be a mass grave.
(C) Joy Waller 2004 all rights reserved
This year's Pulitzer Prize winners have been announced. Of the 21 individuals who won awards for art and journalism, only 3 were women.
I flew into a rage at Shopper's Drug Mart today because they only had two different kinds of red juice (cran-grape, which I bought, and some disgusting little "mixed fruit beverage" number). I think I'm spoiled. I flew into a rage two weeks ago when Matt cancelled plans to go out for sushi. "All I want is sushi," I moaned (privately). "That's the only thing that will make me happy." And that's stupid. Sushi? Red juice? There's got to be more important things to rage about. I'm growing less mature with every weekend that passes.
Films seen recently: "Gattaca" (decent), "The Kid Stays in the Picture" (decent and depressing - women were referred to as 'broads,' which I secretly loved), and a ghastly Polish thing about an aging ethics professor with a cute grey jogging suit. Really, it was unwatchable. Polacks! (By the way, I might BE Polish. There has been recent talk that my paternal grandmother, deceased since the 70's, lied about her ethnicity due to anti-Polish sentiment swirling around the slums of North Van, which is where my father grew up. She had told everyone she was of Irish descent. So now I'm not Irish? Where then, does the weird mystical reaction to drugs, and the curly hair, come from? Certainly not Warsaw.)
Yesterday was absolutely perfect: homemade smoothies with strawberries and banana, sun sun sun, a new patio table that we got for FREE off someone's driveway (it is a nice table, white metal and glass), then beer and cigarettes and guitar at the new table, aborted plans to see "Jersey Girl" (who wants to, anyway), then beer and pizza at the Brickyard, where a very handsome man and I made out in a corner booth, and the evening culminated with what I can only describe as the Sex Olympics.
Ahhh ... Tuesday afternoons at Big Bad John's. The sun beating down outside, and inside, the darkness and dampness of a cave. No one there but middle-aged, red-eyed businessmen in sad power ties, plus me and a group of poetry kids who had never been there before. (Two of them had, actually - we drank about seven pints each between 2:30 and 5:30. One of them, a 26-yr-old man with a long black beard and devestatingly haunting poetry in the tradition of Raymond Carver, said at one point, "Damn, you're a demon to keep up with, aren't you?") At about 6 it was off to the film screening, where I sat near the back in a stupor, trying to keep up with student films set in WWII (complete with thick German accents), or starring young children, or with menacing black balloons at a staff picnic.
Wednesday was quiet.
Thursday the drinks began at 10 am with champagne and orange juice, then off to Felicita's for a racous afternoon on the patio with writers from every walk of UVic life. It was the last day of school. I convinced people to skip classes. I rashly ran into my workplace and shrieked at my boss and several co-workers to come join us for a pint (had to apologize for that the next day - was not fired, thankfully). Then down to the beach, where I waded in frigid waters and drank wine and purply vodka and yelled about my hairy legs. On the way back to the pub I fell on the road, and someone (Danika I think) gave me a flower. I had wanted to stay for Beerology, but Matt put me on a bus and made me go home, where I scrawled out the rent cheque in the messiest handwriting I have ever seen, and was passed out before six.
"Don't worry, Leela ... He's walking on sunshine now."
And today? Breakfast at the Polish Deli! Grilled vegis and eggs and toast and hashbrowns and a huge cup of coffee. We threw toast for the birds. One of them, a crow, actually walked sideways to sneak up on a piece.
