plugging philip clark

I see you Montreal (I also see you Mount Uniacke, but that's a whole other story).

For les Quebecois or those daring enough to travel deep into the heart of Canada's French country, Philip Clark -- Le Guy who brought to internet-being destroy.hot.action -- will be, in his own words, "giving a little talk and presenting some videos," Friday night, Sept. 30 at the Theatre Nationale, 1220 Ste.-Catherine Est as part of the Montreal Pop Festival.

C'est fun, no?

Do go and listen because I can't, and if you're a hot lady, do also sleep with him, because he really likes that.

That's intense. That's Philip-Clark intense.

bitter much?

When I was twelve or so, I used to say shit like how in ten years I'd probably have a 'real cool job' that I love, maybe own a few horses and I'd drive a yellow geo metro convertible and be, you know, an adult.

Instead I pretty much hate my night job, I don't get paid for my day one, and tonight I was pissed when the 'up' escalator was the only one not moving -- my feet are aching and I'm wondering where I'll find the money to afford comfy shoes and winter boots this year.

I put ten years-plus mileage on that perfect geo metro prediction. I thought at least I'd have a car by now.

Gotta force a laugh cause whatever, and who cares, and life goes on and all that... but right as I open my mouth to squeeze it out, I'm caught in a downpour the weatherman didn't predict without umbrella or raincoat.

Sometimes life isn't a farce, it's just depressing. The only thing more pathetic than me would be me on film.

Yellow is a happy colour.

I already know, but you could e-mail me your stories anyway and tell me I'm not alone.

trial by syntax

This morning a bizarro last-minute dream had me on the chopping block in front of some sort of malicious sadomasochistic linguists who challenged me to conjure up a sentence beginning with the letter 'R' and ending with the letter 'K'. Or did they force me? I don't really know what the penalty might have been, because luckily I came up with something instantly:

Rivers are wilder in Autumn, she thought, as she plunged her paddle into the waves breaking against her kayak.

First of all, I don't recall ever having seen a chick in a kayak. And secondly, who dreams about life-or-death grammar gauntlets? That's right, me. Sorry I'm so fucking exciting.

It's scary grown-up REM Seasme Street. What's your begins-with 'R' and ends-with 'K' sentence? Better make it fast...

show me your jeans

I have a crush on the [must-be-a-guy] who lives diagonally across from the back of my place based entirely on the clothes he's been hanging out to dry, and more importantly because he left them out to get rained on today. That silly well-dressed someone or other. It's a clothes-crush.

the coffee shop school girls

Disclaimer: this is a piece of fiction based on pieces of real.

Their moms don't know they come here after school in their short plaid skirts and tall navy socks to whisper about the blowjobs they gave at the party last night. Amy's got long blonde hair and big blue dishes for eyes that never seem to close. Pimple-faced boys are scared to stand close to her. She tosses her head back sending her hair cascading down across her nylon bookbag strap and looks over her shoulder at the waiter with the red shirt.

"Um, we'll have two iced teas," she smiles like she's sucking a lollipop, then quietly across to Nona, "did you hear that Gen actually let Aaron stick it in her asshole? Just for a minute, and then she said it hurt and made him take it out."

"OH MY GOD," howls Nona.

"Shhhhhh."

"Oh my God. Why wouldn't they just dooooo it already?"

"Cause Gen wants to keep her virginity," huffs Amy matter-of-factly, "I guess I don't blame her."

Nona scrapes leftover crumbs into little piles with a tarnished fork while she pulls a wirey curl straight with the other hand, her dark eyes fixed on the floor. She keeps her head down and her mouth shut, mainly to keep anyone from noticing how fucked up her front teeth are. Her whole upper row sticks out at an unnerving angle like she's been sucking her thumb her whole life. Truth is, it looked a lot worse right after the accident, when her brother swung her around the living room by her ankles, both of them laughing hysterically, until he suddenly caught her front teeth on the edge of the coffee table and nearly took her head off. It's like he was fly-fishing for that table with Nona as the hook. How she tells the story, the dentist had to wail on her jaw with a rubber mallet for over an hour to get them back in shape, but still they never came completely right. Everyone always laughs when she tells it. Nona laughs along. She never mentions the story's a hundred per cent fact. Having her face ripped out of shape like that and hammered back in made her tough as nails. The boys are scared of her too, but out of silent respect.

"Noonnes!" Amy pluralizes Nona's name and says it with a whine so it comes out like something you can't write on paper. "Do you think that piece-of-shit Chris is going to tell Jesse about last Saturday? 'Cause it was so that bitch from OSH who was talking shit about Ryan, not me."

"Chris is a man-whore and Jesse sucks, and what do you care what Ryan thinks anyway?"

Amy's absent-mindedly got a hand on her own ass. She dreams at night it's not solid anymore, that it's blubber slidding across her seat bones. She has nightmares that her ass is old.

"Nona, I wanna go out with Ryan, you fuckhead! You know how much I like him," Amy says with the whine, still petting her butt through her skirt.

Nona keeps to herself that she heard Ryan's been doing jail time on weekends for the assault that left the Pakistani guy who owns the Needs Convenience store near Finch completely pummeled. She doesn't know why. Normally she tells Amy everything.

The condensation is starting to dry off their thin glasses of ice tea, but there aren't any refills.

bubble wrapped

Toronto smells like puke.

Take an antacid Toronto.

Besides the hovering vomit-smell, I've also encountered several instances of unexpected penis, whereby some poor pitiful person is blatantly, unadvisedly, problematically or accidentally displaying some serious genitals in broad fucking daylight/public. Unfortunately, I now have to ask myself whether I care. Isn't it intriguing that the most interesting part of my day is riding shotgun on the TTC? Mass transit: mass weirdness!

Here's what you find when you randomly search flickr for 'bubblewrap':

And here's what you get when you check out more of fast boy's awesome putney pics on flickr.

swag

I've said it before, but it's hotter than a jesus fuck up here. I made the stupid mistake of reading Chuck Palahniuk's Guts on a stifling street car. My eyes rolled back into my head and I coughed back a wad of bile.

But things aren't all bad.

I am doing what I love, even if it's for free.

Starting out, we'll work for nothing -- humbly, subserviently -- and call it opportunity. And I've been about it bitter before, but this time round it's different. They feed me mounds of sushi, let me in on the jokes, and today I left with a bag full of porn that I pawned for milk money. It's a great feeling; helping old ladies up onto the streetcar when you've got a bag full of porn. Haven't you ever seen me smile mysteriously?

dystopia

photo by striatic

This is the catch-up post. Welcome to it.

God it's hot. Goddamn hot. It's the kind of hot where you throw off the bed sheets at night and still your skin is dewy. The back of my neck is riddled with sweat bullets.

That's Toronto so far, that and running up stairs in my new (non-paying) day job also known as an internship (you can find me hauling ass with tapes in hand up and down again at the downtown studios of a certain sports network). I love it. Another evenings-only bar job is surely to follow, but I'm not retching at the thought since, well, how else will I feed myself? And can't I get away with being slightly rude to customers in Toronto? That'll be nice for a change.

I live with a little Taiwanese girl and a fellow Bluenoser in a splendid little house with a fabulous garden front to back. My newfound Asian friend simply laughs in response to everything I say (presumably because she can only understand a quarter of it and/or finds my accent really horrendously funny), and so she's a little confusing ray of confounded giggling sunshine.

I'm also (happily) rehearsing a play that I'll be sure to plug soon. I'll just say that I'm making a sexy shocking cameo with a chainsaw, bitch-boots and a barely-there skirt. Bated?

As for everything else... I'm not sure how it's possible to hate a city and yet be fascinated by the people. I watched a cracked-out wheelchaired wizened-haired old lady rolling backwards with her eyes closed across the intersection at Yonge and Bloor. Down the street at a friend's bar, the women are perfect tens carrying Gucci and sporting well coiffed young business men like accessories. They pair Diesel with Armani and high cheek bones with loads of coin. There's a disconnect between atmosphere and attitude, reality and projection, smoky haze and green green parks. I don't know what the fuck's going on, but the beauty is, I don't have to.

So, you have my cell number. Call me at 4am just to chat. I want your voice to bring me back.

just one day

I'm trying not to imagine the grime smutting the sidewalk just underneath my toes as I click along Queen West looking for a Wi Fi hotspot. This city is dirty, dirtier than I remember. I have the internet in my new apartment (fast, wireless and always on), but sometimes it's nice to get out, say, on a Sunday and give the crowded sidewalk a twice-over. I beat a path with a floating streetcar to Nathan Philips Square because I heard the Cafe there's got a connection and it's licensed.

But also, it's closed. Closed on a Sunday. It's long comfortable patio, chairs stacked high, mocks me.

I double back and purchase a weekly TTC pass from the University subway station thinking optimistically, 'I'll find somewhere else...' as I head back to the surface, 'no matter how many streetcars I have to hop - I've got a pass motherfuckers, it's unlimited ride-time now.'

I hit Timothy's World Coffee, where a sweet little redhead tells me her location is the one of the few without Wi Fi, so I head next door and ask the bell boy at the Sheraton.

"Yup," he says with a grin that curls on the ends, "any Starbucks has it. Nearest one's just five short blocks west."

Fine. I go to Starbucks. Shock me shock me shock me with that conformist behavior. The very gay, very skinny boy behind the counter shakes his head like an electric current is racing through it when I sidle up to ask him.

"No, no no no no - no Starbucks have Wi Fi in Canada. We're getting it - maybe a few months - but we don't as of right now --"

"Well, where?" I smile, cutting him off.

He glances across the street and presses his lips together. It's a secret code I have to break.

"Over there? Over across the street? Is there a coffee shop... I can't see... Second Cup? Are you trying to say that Second Cup has Wi Fi?"

His head does that electric shock thing again except it's moving rapidly up and down.

Dejected, I just nod and clear my throat. Congratulations gay coffee shop boy, for bucking the Starbucks Gods and sending a potential customer to the competition.

I walk in to Second Cup confidently and purchase a bottle of water.

"Goddamn it's hot out there huh?" I laugh in my black shirt, black skirt, black sunglasses, "got some Wi Fi, do ya?" The tall blonde with the smudged purple eyeliner coos, "we used to, but we don't now." I want to yell and throw the water I wouldn't have bought if I had known, but I take a deep breath and accept that I'm not mad enough for that kind of angry display.

"Yeah, yeah," I cough, "so where the hell can a chick with a laptop find some Wi Fi around here?"

She doesn't know. No one knows. Someone says "the chicken burger on Yonge..." and I'm outta there so fast their heads are spinning - I'm up the street catching another streetcar headed West.

I flash the driver my newly bought card and he stops me.

"Look at the date," he smirks, "you can't use that until tomorrow."

"Oh, I... I'm sorry, I didn't... Gawd. Hold on a sec," I whimper as I fish though my wallet for the change I already know I don't have. I end up dropping four dollars on a $2.50 fare, and the steam already blowing out of my ears is now filtering off the top of my head.

I'm sitting next to the window as we skim the street. I'm listening to the Puerto Ricans behind me. I'm formulating. Do I drop the plan? Do I simply go to the Drake Hotel for a glass of wine and abandon my Wi Fi aspirations? In the end I hit the LCBO right across the street from my new home, purchase two bottles of Hoegaarden and sit on my porch, picking up my own Wi Fi from inside the house.

I thought the scenario was quite a bit better, until I had to deny a door-to-door solicitor who asked me to help disabled folks get wheelchairs, because I'd given all my money to the streetcar driver. When he asked for a cheque I told him they were still packed because I'd just moved, and in response this perfect stranger was kind enough to offer me a job as his secretary. I thought briefly that I maybe should take him seriously even though his clothes smelt like Salvation Army, but then he casually mentioned that he was sorry he couldn't stand still; he had to pee.

I hid inside the house until he left, came back out, and this is where I've landed, where I am right now, watching fat gray squirrels dance nut-tangos across the weathered boards, hearing several different spoken languages on porches like mine across this little village and forcing myself to embrace this city; this place of disgruntled streetcar drivers, this coffee shop hell, this home to smelly solicitors and all.

Breathe.

I live here.

It's not the end, it's the beginning.

upper canada or bust

Winters around here are so cold, my father says back in the day he used to light two fags and cup them in his palms inside his pockets.

I wonder if Toronto winters will measure up.

I'm disconnecting 'er. See you up there.

this morning I wished I still had them

I played the Stage Manager in Our Town when I was a senior in highschool. My boyfriend at the time showed up late for curtain and flopped down in the back. Before we'd even reached our first intermission, he and his friend had crept back out again. Two acts later and I was pushing open the big double door of the theatre entrance, hearing him say 'hey baby,' before I could see him standing off to the side of the exit. He had a bouquet in his arms; a dozen red roses.

"You were awesome."

Too angry to let him see me cry, I walked straight up to him, ripped the roses from his hands and threw them to the ground.

"You didn't even see it," I hissed.

It was the first and last time I've been given flowers.

That is, until last night anyway.

This boy and I had been no less dramatic, spending the summer getting drunk, fighting and always managing to fall into bed together.

"You know what? You are a spoilt BRAT. The worst. Go on - go get your own way," he yelled once as he slammed my car door, but I still woke up the next morning in his arms. He was right, and worse, I've never been told off so many times by someone I wanted as badly as I wanted him.

I fall in love a little bit with everyone. I have a hundred hearts to break. We talked about past lovers and train tracks and pain. I guess he wanted to make it all up to me. We went for dinner. I bought a dress - sea green. I don't know why. I never get asked on dates. We ate salmon linguine and drank shiraz. And then it appeared, a bouquet of flowers. Seasonal. Gorgeous. I didn't know whether to cry or laugh or... so I hugged him and fell silent.

And of course, we ended up ruining everything. Some people are like fire and oil. He got too drunk and I got too selfish.

"You don't need any more. I want to take you home. It's me right now. Leave with me. Fuck off, it's my last night. It's me or that beer," I said in my sea green dress. It ended up being the beer, and I ended up walking to the car alone. I stretched out my arm, dropped the flowers. They fell a hundred miles to the ground, and then I ran them over as I pulled out.

Might as well make it two for two.

image by atomicjeep

Tell me I'm a horrible person.

rational/irrational -- your biggest fear?

Mine is that I'm scared I've spent most of my life being exactly everything everyone else wants me to be and now I don't know who I really am.

...and sharks.

touch and go

I quit my job last night.

I wanted to go out with a big bang, like maybe really tell a customer to fuck off with the direct matter-of-fact nonchalance of a film noir-esque action hero, or stop everything, send an arm full of plates crashing to the floor and simply walk away. But I just didn't care enough. Being beyond caring is droning through your menial tasks like always and leaving with a sigh.

Slept in this morning, and couldn't feel guilty about it even though I hadn't meant to. Walked out onto the porch with a handful of almonds and watched the backyard go about its business.

I'm leaving on Friday. I recently told someone in an e-mail the only regret I have is that I'll miss the autumn foliage show these woods put on. Summer's sunset. Colours spread through the scenery like a golden-red flush across skin. The sun slants to a new angle and highlights details you've never noticed before. Really everything is dying, but it always feels paradoxically like a new beginning. Decaying leaves are implausibly fresh. It smells like promise. Not that I meant to wax all poetic about fall, but it's deserving and consequently my fav time of year.

As of next week, things are going to be different around here.

Looking out my backdoor...

...autumn just west of home.

Harvest moons and cows... not forgetting, this is where I'm from (images by photographer Stephan Reebs).

dissemination

For anyone like me (remotely interested in perspective on what's happening in NOLA and a little tired of CNN's thinly-veiled superficiality) please check out Boing Boing's collection of revealing Katrina aftermath links.

For example, here (random blogger reports), here (army's use of word 'insurgency'), here (hero or felon?), here (prison riots), here (federal ineptitude) and here (Bush an imbecile as per usual).

I haven't said much about CBC's lockout situation, but mostly that's because I don't know enough and haven't [yet] gotten too pissed that my morning radio ritual has been interrupted by Sounds Like Canada re-plays. It'd be nice, though, if what the CBC has dubbed a "labour disruption" wasn't also disrupting what would surely be superior Canadian coverage of the crisis in the southern states right now.

And speaking of lockout, check out Mark's blog if you're interested in what's happening on the CBC front.

let them eat cake

"Don't go back tonight. Stay."

"I can't."

"Call in sick."

"They know I'm not sick."

"Call in car accident then."

"I did that already."

"Stay."

"I can't."

"You won't."

"That's not it. Please don't say that. Fuck. I need the money... Look, if I don't work tomorrow, it'll short-staff them and that'll fuck them. Do you know how many people are going to be in Moncton for this? I mean, a lot. And they're going to be hungry."

"You are not single-handedly responsible for feeding the entire population of Moncton."

auf wiedersehen goodnight

The most important rules for saying goodbye are make it painfully quick like ripping off a band-aid or slamming a door to pull out a loose tooth, don't look back or turn around even though you're desperate to, and

never

ever

cry.

At least not until you sail past the very last possible turn you can make to double back into the city. At least not until you're crossing the bridge and you can see the fog rolling in across the harbour, muting the downtown lights - blanketing the places that eternalize all those years' worth of importance - and the bar you just left. At least not until that moment, when you fully know you're actually going to keep driving and your heart is bursting.

You can cry then, as the dark vacuumous highway swallows your car and the streaming repetition of red and white lights lulls your head. And you can try to convince yourself that you don't really care all that much about any of it, struggle with that for what feels like miles and miles until you notice you've barely left the outskirts and realize it's going to be some long fucking drive in the dark.

And most of it is personified in that person you left back there in the bar.

The person who really wanted me to stay.

So I'm thinking about all of it as I drive away. The way she looked at 4am that morning; cool beer and a warm skinny roof three stories up made stupidity seem courageous when we dared ourselves to jump the alley gap to the next house matrix-style. But we feared long falls and narrow ladders, and opted to lay entangled against the tarpaper until the moisture-heavy air began to soak our clothes and drip from our bottles. We'd said things like, "what does your inner drag queen sound like?" or "you're the most sophisticated hick I've ever met," and many times, "that was the fucking funniest thing I have ever heard - " but had known we'd miss out on the pay-off the next day of remembering what exactly we'd heard without writing anything down. Smelling the sea-salt air on her. Drowning to touch her in the shower. Hearing her breathe. Feeling her index finger smooth out the trail of sweat on my spine when the afternoon sun turned her apartment into a boiler. Fleeting, fleeting.

Maybe I romanticize it all too much. Maybe I don't romanticize enough. Maybe it's all water in the air. My headlights cut through the thinning low-slung fog as I cruise along.

Click.

My finger flicks the accel tab on the steering wheel. Each click and I'm moving a mile-per-hour faster. Each flick means more speed.

Click. Faster. Click. Faster. Click. Click. Click. Perilous. Click. Dangerous. Click. Click. Click. Reckless. Faster. Faster. Faster. Each click increases the chance I'll crash. Click. Each click is fate. Click. Another click and I'm burning up. Click. Another click and I hope I'll be going so fast I'll actually be going backward instead of forward. Click. Another click and I know I'll be going so fast I'll be back where I started...

But after all, I'm still hurtling on ahead, so I'm slowing down.

I want to move forward gradually.

But let's not talk about fare-thee-wells anymore, the night is still a misty dome. It's not far and I'll always know you. You squeak like a mouse and growl like a little tiger. Never doubt that you live in my heart.