accelerated decrepitude

I reached across the big table's hallowe'en spread, past the mutilated oatmeal finger cookies and maggot ridden muffins, and opted for a simple green-gut dipped carrot stick.

"Do you smell burning?"

I picked up this awesome fur coat in Kensington for $25 as I happened by, speeding through some last minute costume shopping. It's now in my closet -- an amazing vintage piece I'll forever gush over as one of my 'best.finds.ever.' This fur coat proves Toronto's obsession with labels is whack. 'If it ain't real (Louis Vuitton/Puma/Diesel) it's not worth a mention.' Fuck labels. This coat was basically vastly under priced because it didn't have one.

Still, until I was sampling the party favors, the labelessness of the fur was like a lingering question mark. Maybe it wasn't even real fur, and it was I who'd been had by the price. The coat kept getting compliments. I was thinking that maybe I was wearing a fake fur and I should stop talking about it.

"...smells like, smells like burning hair."

The short blonde wig with bangs-to-there I was wearing was seriously hampering my peripheral vision. To see something in any direction other than straight, I'd have to turn my head. I turned my head down and to the right just in time to see my arm ablaze. The arm of my new what-a-steal fur coat grazed a candle on the table and suddenly it was on fire.

"Ack!"

Yeah, I screamed "ack." I think that's the same sound written in comic book villains' speech bubbles when they're thwarted.

Like an idiot, I blew on it, then I got wise and patted the thing out with my other hand. I examined the burnt spot looking for obvious damage, but there really wasn't any to speak of, just the longer hairs singed down to meet the short furrier ones. I ran my hand over it. You couldn't tell the arm had even been on fire except for the burnt-hair smell still hovering. Like the time I lit my own hair on fire by accident - on the phone and not paying attention - after I smoothed out the spot, I couldn't find it anymore. Real fur.

We were at a house party on High Park Ave. My friend (dressed as Shania Twain in the 'Man, I Feel Like a Woman' video) called it a mansion party. OK, I'll give her really big house party.

The costumes were great, beer was aplenty and I was sweet on a cowboy coincidently, like myself, a recent (reluctant) export from Halifax. I got to thinking as we chatted congenially, 'is this it? this could be it! this is the kismet meeting that will hopefully lead to a date, that will maybe lead to a relationship, which will finally make my social life in Toronto ultimately more interesting!' But the cowboy wasn't down with my plan; he was sweet on Supergirl, the blonde in the expensive super-midrift baring costume.

Still, good times.

The costumes are even better on the long ride home at something like 4am, when they're in drunken disarray. The killer from Scream has his mask on backwards, the fairy can't take the heels anymore and now she's barefoot and not so pure. Leeloo Dallas is across the street, frightfully fucking angry at her boyfriend or whoever. She's throwing a fit and punching windows, but they're not breaking. Sorry hun, fifth-element strength doesn't automatically come with the costume.

"Run Lola Run!" quips the peanut gallery watching from my side of the street. "No! Kick Lola Kick!," and they all dissolve into fits of laughter. Right hair, wrong movie.

I must've passed a hundred girls with glistening faces - a glittering army of angels, pixies, fairies floating in corsets, ribbons, feathers and thigh-highs.

Chicks just wanna have wings.

Me? I revived last year's Pris from Blade Runner costume. Standard pleasure model. In Halifax everyone got it. In Toronto I was a bit of a puzzle.



Get an extra hour of sleep when the clocks turn back. Stay up an extra hour the night before. It all cancels out.

rituals

Miss me?

I've been busy with the theatre, so I left the internet alone for the time being to let my blog (theoretically) spark some interest in the show (I'd like to bell the cat a bit and ask, did anyone come out for Pulp Fiction - Live! because of it?).

It's closing night tonight. Last board-tread for another character before I confine her to the vault.

We hit up the back room of Big Papa Bordello's on Queen West for my birthday after last night's show and found some comfy couches in the back to flop down on. We had just the one round of drinks and called my birthday quits, but not before I opened my gift: a slightly disturbing torso-shaped pillow with the circle/arrow shaped masculine gender symbol on the front (my lovely girlfriends had ironed-on a feminine symbol on the back too -- thoughtfully and effectively making my torso either a dude or a chick). So now I have this fluffy dual sexual or transsexual (or, hell, asexual for all I know) pillow that I really hope won't scare the bejesus out of future bedmates. I also got a book.

The masculine/feminine symbols always remind me of Peter Gabriel's video for Sledgehammer.

Philip Clark got me a birthday present too -- he wrote a completely naughty post for me about a trip to the beach we took this summer that you won't be reading until I get permission to edit out the phrase 'lucious bahoobs,' because frankly (and Philip knows) I hate the word bahoobs.

So damn, I'm old. Twenty-four years of me. My brother once said, "when you hit 24, 25 or so, your face, your jawline's going to get a bit huskier -- it's when you'll stop looking like a girl." I suppose that means I'm supposed to be hardening up by now. Good thing I've still got soft pillows.

pulp fiction - live! in toronto

Alright Tarantino fans out there in the Big Toe, put on your fabulous boots and walk to the Big Bop.

Pulp Fiction - Live! opens tonight @ the Kathedral. Show starts at 8pm, booze-in-a-cup available from the bar.

That's right, I said Pulp.

Come see the show that rocked Halifax and London, England. You know you wanna.

my boots are already there

freespacesonry

I used to believe there could be nothing more inviting than the spindrift fingers of early-morning sunlight filtering through a window onto your lover's bed while you're both still in it.

Now I know that's wrong -- It's gigantic empty rooms that are irresistible. Those hauntly cavernous and silent expanses where you own all the air, you can pull off your arms, detach your legs, throw all your useless appendages into space and just be.

MTV Canada is gutting the second and third floor of CTV's Masonic Temple Studios at Yonge and Davenport Streets in Toronto to make room for all the huge celebrity egos sure to be jostling for headspace when the station gets up and broadcasting.

The word 'gigantic' unfortunately doesn't do the vast long-forgotten two-story ballroom justice. It's crowned in old dark wood and shaped like a proscenium. It's warmly gothic and dichotomous. Victorian grotesque meets Renaissance classic.



It's so gorgeous just as it is, I won't bother imagining how it's going to look with fields of electronic lighting, soundboard and personality crammed in.

I think it's sad. But I understand that's the way of things. I do wish walls could talk though, before they go that way.

don't steal my idea

I want to move back to Halifax, get a massive bank loan, buy up the old Maple restaurant building downtown, fashion a hot swank pseudo-industrial plush strip club called 'glazed' and run it until I get married or bored.

Any investors out there want to have a go?

sweet potatoes

I used to think women who talked about their babies were being narcissistic. Blah blah blah he's teething, she's just gorgeous, he can't sleep through the night, he is so precious, she's so hyper, they really need a nap, he only drinks from one breast so I'm lopsided and etc and so on forever and ever.

In my experience they have nothing else to say except what pertains to their children and nothing used to bother me more. Used to until last night anyway, when I met my cousins' babies, and I swear I've never seen anything so fascinating.

Baby Will is blonder than blonde and his eyes are bluer than blue. He doesn't mind staring either. He stared right into my awed face for five minutes without looking away. Let me ask this: who does that besides maybe your significant other during the honeymoon relationship phase? Babies who've just met you understand your face better than your friends do.

Still staring, Will's head stays angled in my direction while his body turns and abruptly smacks into an armchair. Falling in a baby-heap to the floor his beautiful face contorts and his lower lip hits maximum forward pitch. His hands fly awkwardly into the air and his two index fingers press together over and over.

If I didn't know better, I'd say this perfect nearly-two-year-old non-verbal is trying to communicate via sign language.

"Yeah, he signs," says his mom, "the two fingers together like that mean hurt... he can sign thirsty, hungry, more, and help."

I didn't think I could be more fascinated by baby Will, but he's headed towards me saying again and again with his fingers, 'hurt, hurt, hurt...'

He doesn't look much like my side of the family being as blonde as he is, but his daddy (my first cousin) does with his big set of pie-sized Irish eyes.

We're gathered in the living room next to a lit fireplace talking about who's absent.

"You heard about Adam right?" asks my second cousin to the room while bouncing a wide-eyed baby Xander on his knee.

I don't know who Adam is, but I've heard his name. He's the long-time, not-so-great-influence best friend of my cousin Dave. Poor Dave. When my family says Dave's name, we also say 'what a sin... such a sin.' Whenever I see Dave, he's shaking. He's always coming off something -- something hard.

"Well Adam was on... some drug... he said he couldn't live having to see the crime and the inhumanity anymore, and he took a spoon and pulled out one of his eyes. They took him to the hospital and put him in restraints, and even though he was in them, he managed to pull out the other eye... I went to visit and his dad had him tethered to the rope tied from the house to the dog run, so he could walk out and pet the dogs."

"Holy sweet Jesus," I muttered.

"It's not that unusual, "says my cousin Jen calmly. She's an ER surgeon. "We've got a guy, every time he comes in he's cut off a little more of his penis... last time I saw him it was just all gone."

"Will, Will," says his Mom, "do you need a kiss?"

Baby Will's still gesturing.

Moms aren't narcissistic. They are the paramount in selflessness. They talk about their babies because, for them, their children are their whole world. They teach them sign-language, they worry about when they're hyper, teething, or can't sleep. It's all they care about - all they know. Part of me wants to know what that feels like, to know what it feels like not to give a shit about yourself anymore, to know what it feels like to live for someone else - to keep them safe from all the inhumanity and heal them with kisses.

That and feed them a boat-load of turkey on the last real stat holiday until Christmas.

I'm so full.

driving me crazy

The person who once told me the most vile and refutably funny joke I've ever heard is now dead. And I can't remember it.

Yes, I know the joke's still on me.

routine baggage check

I think they have Russian accents. I can't tell, so I'm edging closer to them as they embrace on the escalator. My hand is inches from his and her head is level with my chest. They're so lovely I want to become invisible, step between them and close my eyes.

It's 3pm, the air is cooler than it's been since I arrived in Toronto and I'm thinking about how autumn changes things.

I rub my hands together and examine my nails. They're soft, long and healthy looking. Completely recovered from harsh serving work I subjected them too this summer, when they were cracked and brittle and I never had the time to soothe them. The nails grew and my cuticles healed, and today I realize I don't need to fly the 'manicure direly needed' sign anymore.

So summer's truths are long past, each October the same: things I clung to in the heat start to fizzle. The cold and dark come in to creep over it all.

This year, I miss mostly the idea of you. What am I saying? Every year since you turned around and jumped off the face of the Earth I've missed it. I can't tell you how I don't confuse this feeling anymore with actually wanting you to come back. You wanted to go, so you can stay gone. But when the leaves start to fall, I always wonder if I'll ever feel again the way I felt when I was with you.

cold coin

What the banks don't understand is, if they don't loan me money or set me up with credit to spend rashly or appropriate things I can't afford, they're jeopardizing my God-given right as a middle-class Canadian to bury myself under a mountain of debt. Bitches.

let's go to all the best nightclubs

Just try to meet people. Living in Toronto is like swimming in the sea and being dehydrated. I'm growing out my pubes anticipating not getting laid.

a letter to the bride

I'm looking at these dresses and it's so hard because so many of them are gorgeous, so I think you have to help. There are parts of the selection process that really have to be up to you.

There's a big group of us, and finding something to flatter everyone will be hard, but guess what? Weddings happen every day and bridesmaids mostly manage to look pretty swell, so here's what I'm thinking...

Have all the girls e-mail you and let you know what amount they're willing to spend on their dress.

I'll start.

I'll say $250 is max for me. I'd love if you could find something for less, but if you love it, I'll love it.

Second, what will your wedding dress look like? Have you thought about that? Is it medieval, vintage, modern, beadwork, corsetry, strapless, full, flowing, princess, sleek, lacy or satin...etc. Maybe if it's strapless, you'll want everyone strapless, or everyone with straps even to accent you. Do you even want something themed/complimentary with your dress? or totally opposite - figure out how you feel about how the bridal party will look as a whole. You may/may not care, but if it's a factor then we can narrow this shit down.

There's the matter of length too - it's no longer unusual to flirt with hemline - decide whether you want traditional long or we're going with something different.

It might be best to think about whoever in the bridal party has the most unusual shape when you're picking something... if a dress is going to look good on the person who's hardest to, erm, please, then chances are everyone else will look great too.

So that's about it - except one more little thing: since the dawn of the wedding, brides have gotten excited about planning the day. You're the one who gets to dictate what this thing looks like. You need to steer the big bridesmaid ship a little more confidently - stop throwing it out there for everyone else to decide. Let's round up who's available and go to an actual store to try some on. Then the ultimate decision should be up to you, and everyone else can follow. Next e-mail you send out should say: 'Hey ladies, please respond quickly and let me know the max price you personally are willing to spend on a dress so I can start narrowing this decision down.'

Also, don't worry about the disgruntled grumbling about 'bra' situations and shit like that. We're here to support you and not the other way around. And besides, there's nothing duct tape can't fix.

I'll wear anything you want anyway, you know that.

Oh yeah, is there even going to BE a wedding? Are you guys still not talking?

'We must share equally in the cosmic joke that is bridesmaids-dom.'

stalemate

There's a screaming kid, it's too damn hot and there's this weirdo next to me. We have this exchange before I run off the streetcar --

"Hey Baby, SHUT UP. Someone give that baby a valium!"

"We were all babies once and unfortunately for the rest of us you still are."

"I got dropped on my head as a baby."

"Not from fucking high enough."

"You can't help it if you're beautiful."

"Asshole."

in response

There are pigeons huddled together, their heads hidden under greasy wings. They're always in the same spot, an old concrete buttress above the boarded up door. Black festers.

The building is covered in their shit.

Things we thought would be beautiful when we built them.

I'm sending out a little prayer to you through the cool air. Not the Jesus kind. The kind where I smile where I am, and where you are, the bus comes on time, or someone lets you jump the queue, or spontaneous goodness happens.

Thanks for the e-mails.