The maniacal leftovers...

Once we were many. We'd gather every Saturday at The Only and chat. Well, chat suggests that it was intimate and personal. We'd out-yell eachother in friendly and entertaining ways. We'd "what-if" eachother till the cows came home. We'd invent, create, design, suggest and share. As a joke, Cosmo and I started calling us "The Danforth Square Table," after "The Algonquin Round Table," a group of writers, actors and general wits who would join together for lunch at The Algonquin Hotel in NY during the 20's. I've always wanted to be Dorothy Parker. No one knew what Cos and I were talking about, but there was lots of that going on and so we were tolerated.

Now we're a few. We gathered together yesterday, first time in ages, and minus two of our founding members and various hangers-on.

Somehow we managed to be louder than all the other days combined, including that one time where there were eleven of us at a table that sits six.

Thank goodness I can safely say that it wasn't a manic kind of loudness. Well, it was, but not in that way where all present are aware of those who aren't present and are trying to fill those spaces with voice. Don't get me wrong, we were definately aware of who wasn't there, it's just that the five of us were so many on our own that our voices helped to make the spaces full in a much more natural way.

By the end of the conversation, no one would sit at the back of the cafe, where we were. Whether it was a slow time for the cafe or we scared everyone away doesn't matter. We were alone and free to be as happily loud as we wanted.

And boy, did we want.

The end of the conversation, by the way, came when we became aware that one among us had never visited Silver Snail. We high-tailed it downtown.

Now all of us are well-versed in the glory of a geekdom mecca. It's a beautiful world filled with the new and shiny and the old and obscure. Filled with lust of a really silly kind.

For instance, I procured two new Sandman comics which I'd been coveting, and an American McGee's Alice figurine. (Thanks, Eric!)

New items added to lust list: Family Guy figurines. Has a murdered television show ever had so much posthumous steam?

Most of all, though, there's a signed cloth-bound book of Gaiman's Snow Blood Apple for much less than unsigned copies have gone for on eBay. I know, I've been trying for two years to get my hands on one.

I've decided I'll have a job this week so I can feel un-guilty (Making up words is fun) about charging the damned thing.

The rest of the afternoon involved us pissing off people looking for parking spaces and just continuing The Only's converstation in the sunshine of downtown Toronto. Part of this was the plotting of our newest media attack: A comic. There'll be more in the next few days about our comic on here, but for now I'm tired and I feel it's better to just keep my mouth shut about this one for the time being. It'll be a wonderful surprise, trust me. Anyhow, this planning involved a lot of tearful laughing fits, and we can't wait to share the cause with the world. Well, "share" is too benign a word. More like "force upon," but you'll all thank us. Trust me.

I miss the days when I'd spend the entire afternoon downtown. People seem less aware of loud and obnoxious on Queen Street. No wonder I've always felt so at home down there.

The t-shirts and stores have changed, but it still feels like home.

Whatever happened to Corey Haim?

"What can I get you, honey?"

"Revenge."

"We're all out, anything else?"

~Dead Like Me

As I've mentioned before,one of my friends, a certain Simon, has a fixation with Corey Haim. It's borderline sick, but hey, we like Simon, so we put up with it. It just so happens that our version of putting up with Simon tends to leave us laughing so hard we cry and sometimes fall over. That's not the point.

This evening Cos and I were listening to the radio when suddenly I hear it. "Whatever happened to Corey Haim, Haim, Haim, Haim?" Just as I was about to point it out, Cosmo piped up, "Did I just hear 'Corey Haim?'" which rendered me speechless, I started laughing so hard (This has been happening quite often the past few days. Abs of steel, here I come). I mean, if one or the other had heard it I might think that one was losing it. If both of us heard it, we had to call Simon.

Simon is ecstatic. Further web research provided the following information:

Whatever Happened to Corey Haim? is a real song.

It has real lyrics.

It's performed by The Thrills.

You can download the song off the website or wait until the album comes out. I've emailed it to Simon, we're just waiting for a progress report from him. I do, however feel that the joy of this discovery may carry him through the next few days.

There was an old woman...

Now, admittedly I'm stealing this story from the Neil Gaiman blog, but I just can't help myself.

I'm a Rice addict. Now, I mean, I pride myself on reading just about anything I can get my hands on. Some of it's good, I mean, really smart and interesting. Some of it's what's known as "chick lit," some of which is smart itself; most of which is drivel. But one of my favourites has got to be Anne Rice. She's one of my guiltiest of guilty pleasures.

The woman isn't really that great a writer. Sometimes she's really articulate, but for the most part, she's really just a great story teller. And there's merit in that alone, although I'm sure there are those out there who would disagree with me.

The funny thing is, I'm not one of those people who has to look at car accidents on the highway. In fact, I can't stand rubberneckers. My particular vulturism is celebrity burn out. I love a good old fashioned freakout. The more public the better. Courtney Love is one who's always good. And it doesn't help that I'm a huge fan - I'll still eat up all the dirty stories about her that I can get my hands on. I just can't wait for Paris Hilton's super nova. It's going to be spectacular.

Anyway, I can understand where Anne Rice is coming from. This is the last book in her series, a series she's been writing since before I was born. A lot has gone into those books, and for the most part the stories were wonderful. Okay, Vittorio, the Vampire was sort of dull and out of place, and I never did finish Memnoch the Devil, but that was because her version of heaven depressed me. Other than that, I've eaten these things up, including her last one, Blood Canticle.

I liked most of the stuff that everyone seems to be complaining about. Lestat has always "kept with the times," so it didn't even matter to me that he was using modern speech. I like Mona Mayfair. She was always one of the more interesting characters in the Mayfair Witch series (And that's a difficult claim, most of the Mayfairs were completely batty, and therefore fascinating).

So she snapped. Next week it won't be anything at all. By then Paris' ass will be on the internet again, or Courtney will have tried to kill some new "unsuspecting bystander" (Seriously, she's Courtney Love, who're you trying to fool? You can't take her!)

For now, let us join hands and ask god to bless the independent internet cartoonist.

Come back to me...

Well, I finally got to speak with Rachel. It's been a pretty long week. I mean, on the one hand, I have my best friend, one of the very best I've ever had, who was hurting enough to do something so drastic as to move out of her home with no warning. On the other hand, I have Simon, who I met through Rach, but who I've come to adore and be just generally fond of.

I'm lucky that they're two of the greatest people ever and that there isn't likely to be such a chance that either will expect me to take sides. Which is good. I refuse to judge either of them, it's just not in me to do. I understand that a person's first reflex can be to bang their head against the wall until it really hurts. Sometimes, if someone's lucky, once it starts hurting, the fight or flight concept kicks in and that person will do what's right for them no matter who they knock over on the way out. I also understand that being knocked over can hurt like hell. Another thing I've learned is that these things can appear to relate but can really be independant of eachother.

Sadly, sometimes selfishness is the key to survival for both parties. I'm not saying what happened was selfish, it was really selfishness crossed with a good deal of selflessness, something that will turn out better for all in the long run, but there's no better single word in my language and it's the closest I can come to what I mean without this turning into a large diatribe about growing up.

Clearly, gone are the Trivial Pursuit nights and fondue parties, but other things will take their place. It's just that the thought of the other things not including one or the other really sucks.

I know that I'm just a third party at best, and I feel really selfish having any feelings about the whole situation that aren't pure and clean sympathy. I mean, obviously that was my first reaction: "Poor Rach, poor Si." Once I got over the general shock, though, I began thinking about how this would effect me. I guess it's normal, but we're talking about two of the most generous people ever, so I feel bad about feeling bad for myself.

Altruism is an art form I haven't fully learned yet.

... if I sang out of tune...

I'm so clever! I've come up with an idea for a television show. And this isn't just like the time I wanted to lock the most misogynist, tasteless man I know in a mansion with 12 really attractive professional women and see how long it took them to kill him. Or at least to forfeit the money prize which would require them seeing him on the outside. This time the networks won't steal it, 'cause I'd actually be willing to watch this one.

So, it'll be a spin-off of The Wonder Years. See, I've done the math, and it occured to me that Kevin Arnold would be about the same age as my parents. This means that his kids would be in or around the same age as me and my friends. And we'd call it, wait for it: The Grunger Years.

Instead of "With a Little Help From My Friends" by Joe Cocker, the theme song could be that really awesome cover of "What a Wonderful World" by Joey Ramone. At the very beginning, instead of the guitar lead in from "Sgt. Pepper's..." we could have some screeching guitar feedback by Sonic Youth or The Smashing Pumpkins.

Admittedly, it's a little Degrassi: The Next Generation, but that's doing far better in the States than the original ever did. And The Wonder Years was a completely different show from Degrassi. I mean, we're talking small town USA in the 60's compared with Toronto in the 80's. It's a definate stretch, there.

I'm actually thinking it'd be something more like My So-Called Life, but with more of the wistful coming of age stuff that The Wonder Years did so well.

I would like to be costume designer and the executive in charge of music. That's all I'm asking, with a little "Created by" credit at the beginning. I'm easy to please. If you're interested, contact me through this blog.

Hey a girl's gotta try, right?

A night at the opera...

Oh my god. Really. That and awesome. I can't think of any other short forms of describing my evening.

Allow me first to explain that the one gift I really wish I had was that of singing. I mean, anyone can learn almost anything, within reason. I myself have learned to draw and dance, within reason. I'll never win awards. I - in a different life time - taught myself basic piano and guitar playing. Within reason. I even have managed to delude myself into thinking that I can write quite convincingly, and while my drawings are only reasonable, my painting skills are pretty decent (I can colour inside or outside the lines, based on what's needed). Basic, but decent. I learned French from my cousins and Sesame Street. The one thing I've always wanted to do, and have never been able to teach myself, is to sing.

That's right. Unlike the American/Canadian/World Idol hopefuls, I've never been able to convince myself that my singing is anything more than blah. And I love to sing. It's a cruel paradox I've been forced to live with for nigh on 25 years. It's tragic, really.

So there we are, at the Hummingbird Centre (Which I really want to visit more often, although I'm at a current annual record of 3 times since February) and these men are singing. Really well. I mean, really well. And I'm enjoying it, I really am, especially since I get to watch Mr. Russell Braun as his diaphragm expands to phenomenal levels. I mean, people work out to get muscles like this guy has in his belly.

Anyway, this beautiful, Bottecelliesque woman with flaming red hair comes onto the stage and proceeds to storm around, pouting, pining, and making me hate her. Marina Mescheriakova is the name of the new woman at the top of my hit list. This woman not only has the nerve to be gorgeous and have flaming red hair, but I could actually feel myself turning green while I listened to her.

The Hummingbird site says "Torn between youthful desire and family honour, her broken heart and fractured mind are expressed in the most famous mad scene in all of opera." And, let me tell you, with reason. I don't think I've ever seen anything so stark and chilling in my life. And it was all set to music, with this woman, this woman just wailing her soul out at decibels that would deafen anyone in the first forty seven rows. (Luckily we were in row 48)

And did we ever luck out. Checking the website, I've just noticed that this is an extremely limited engagement with only six shows. Many cheers go to my grandmother for scoring us those wonderful tickets. I will have to eventually have a talk with her, though. The Opera Co. is also putting on a production of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.

While this book is undeniably and indescribably creepy and haunting, it's definitely a good read. And I don't doubt that it'll make a weird opera, but no more strange than the book. And my wonderful, charming and brilliant grandmother had tickets, but she let them go. Let them go! Turns out there are some pornographic scenes that she decided Cos and I wouldn't be willing to sit through.

Now, I've read the book, so I guess I know what to expect, and there's not a lot of pornographic scenes. Nothing that could be taken as sexy, anyhow, so I just consider that nudity. And, come on, it's the Canadian Opera Company, it's not going to be tasteless. And really, who wouldn't love to see those people in their knickers singing at the top of their lungs while Fred and his wife try to impregnate them? She should have given me those tickets just so I wouldn't imagine it over and over.

And finally, I've discovered something new and exciting to bring me back to The Hummingbird. R.E.M. are playing there in November. By many cruel twists of fate, I've never had a chance to see them live despite having tickets in my sweaty little palm on more than one occasion. And, I mean, Michael Stipe is such a prince. I worship at the alter of Stipe, I'll admit it.

So in all, today was good. Before the opera, we got to have lunch on yet another patio with Simon. I'm really into sucking up all the good weather I can get before I land myself a day job and winter comes. Then to my grandmother's for a visit which entailed a good hour and a half viewing of the finer points of Canadian Idol. But 'tis a story for another day, since My So-Called Life is coming on in a few minutes and I really must take my shower before Angela starts whining. Revisiting my dismal teen years and enjoying it!

An explorer in the abstract...

So. I'm completely addicted to the Sims 2. It's alright. Workopolis allows me to email my resume to prospectives. And that's what I've been doing. Please keep your fingers crossed for me. There are some really cool gigs that I found recently, all of which I think I'm qualified for. Most of which I don't have the paper to prove I'm qualified for, though. It's tragic, really. And I have an interview with a temp agency on Monday. I'm not sure if I'm looking forward to that or not.

Now, the Sims. My elderly couple were getting on nicely in their lives, working out, partying, enjoying the woo hoo and their two over acheiving sons (I'm seriously not sure if I love or hate those kids) when all of a sudden, one of the ladies developes this severe shoulder displacement. As in she was walking around the room with her arms straight out behind her. She does yoga on her head. She levitates. It's creepy beyond belief. I've taken pictures, but I can't find them on the computer, so you'll just have to imagine the disturbingness of it all.

A big yay for my Nana. This woman is always landing herself free tickets to stuff. I saw Tommy twice when it was in Toronto, and Phantom once, nevermind all the shows she's sent my parents to see. Anyway, she's branched out from Honest Ed sponsored musicals into "true" art. Cosmo and I are going to see the Opera tomorrow. And it's one he's been itching to see, too. Lucia di Lamamour. It sounds wonderful. And I'm probably spelling it wrong, but my Nana mispronounced it, so I'm at least a little bit cooler than a 72 year old woman.

I recently found an old notebook from about five years ago. In it is some strange, sleep deprived rant, and a story. The story I think is pretty good, but the dialogue is terrible. Okay, it's not terrible, but people don't talk the way I wrote these people talking.

It starts out like this:

"In the beginning, there was a cool, clear evening in October but the crickets refused to sing over the blast of the stereo. There was a roof top and a fire escape and a romantic with a cigarette. A loser escapee from high school, with a safe job and a small apartment. Three months away from paying off her first year in college, which hadn’t yet started.

So young for an old soul. So old for a young body. Never having belonged she sat and missed something from another life. Without knowing it, born back into this world as an oddity – that one which is born backwards. An addict of sorts, this addiction merely one of living in a past not hers. A random accident, some sort of deficiency of those who had borne her.

Cruel, beautifully twisted. She dreamed of hurts and a final revenge she would never be strong enough to exact. Instead she writes herself long diatribes during which she tries to convince herself to be recreated better, more whole.

A day sleeper with nothing to do at night, she slept through her work, coming up with another way to make it less important to her life, for she was afraid of what she saw in her future if she didn’t leave it soon. An explorer in the abstract."

I'm probably deluding myself into thinking it's good, but it's not really because it's mine. I keep looking at these words, and they're in my writing, and I even know the apartment I'm writing about, but somehow it doesn't feel like I wrote these words. Quoting that beginning to the story almost feels like plagiarism. So strange.

Oh well, the good news about it is that it's made me want to start writing again. In fact, I want to fix up that story, 'cause it seems to be good, just surreal.

The truth...

Here's something I don't understand. The short version is this: Cat Stevens converted to the Nation of Islam many years ago. When the terrorist attacks in the United States happened, he criticized the people who had chosen that such an act was a good one, saying "``Crimes against innocent bystanders taken hostage in any circumstance have no foundation whatsoever in the life of Islam and the model example of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.''" Which is a beautiful statement, and one past readers of this blog will remember I agree with, even if it is in a much more drawn out way.

Anyway, this man who condones peace (He's also very outspoken about the American war in Iraq) has been kept out of the United States, and from what I can tell for no good reason. No reason is quoted in any article I've read, except to say that he's on a watch list. Why he's on the watch list isn't mentioned, either. Damn those subversive ex-hippie peaceniks!!

On the happier side of gossip, Britney finally got married. I don't know what my fascination is with her, but there you have it. I also don't think there's enough money in her overly large bank account to pay me to be one of her handlers. Which is probably why I'm broke. Yes, I enjoy implying that I've been asked to sell my soul. The next year (Two at the outside) will be a lot of fun for her whirring publicity machine.

Enjoy this, it gave me a giggle. And, actually, so did this. Especially the part that begins "Her last marriage took place..." I'm apparently not the only one who thinks this is a first (Well, second, I guess) rung in a ladder that Liz Taylor might blush at.

My newly refound Macaulay Culkin's in trouble. Okay, well, that explains his awesome yet stilted (That's right, you heard me) performance in Party Monster. See it, you'll understand what I mean. Actually, as the article indicates, it also explains what he was doing in Oklahoma City.

And another giggle: "Madonna called for world peace Sunday at a conference in Tel Aviv on Jewish mysticism, a highlight of her five-day pilgrimage to Israel. The Israeli government hopes the star - the biggest pop celebrity to visit in years - will revive tourism battered by four years of violence, and officials were on hand at her hotel to share the spotlight. Madonna said she was hesitant to come to Israel but "I realize now that it is no more dangerous to be here than it is to be in New York." Madonna has become a devotee of Kabbalah, a form of Jewish mysticism, in recent years. She has adopted the Hebrew name Esther and wears a red thread on her wrist to ward off the evil eye. Many Orthodox Jews reject the adoption of Kabbalah by non-Jewish pop figures as a desecration of the holy."

The saddest part of all is that if Madonna can't get the Powers That Be to mend their wicked ways, who can? After reading that, I was reminded of the final moments of Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey. You know, the part where our ill-fated heroes travel forward in time to become the best musicians ever, meaning that they can finally fulfill their roles as the cause of intergallactic peace? Beautiful movie, that.

Do you ever feel like...

The whole world's gone to shit? I'm still really happy to be home, don't get me wrong. It's just that since we've come back, I've managed to fight with one of our really good friends over nothing, just both of us being frustrated with the other's personality; One good friend has left another, and there's this whole weird thing with Cosmo's sister's best friend's daughter. Yeah, say that one three times fast.

I was so looking forward to soaking up the last rays of summer, enjoying weekend brunch with "The Danforth Square Table," and looking for a new, non-soul sucking job. Now I'm down to one friend not talking to me, two other friends possibly not talking to eachother, two other friends having just moved into their own place, so incredibly busy, and the realization that my job may have sucked, but at least it payed.

Okay. Time for me to follow my newest mantra in a line of mantras: Get over it. Suck it up, move on. I'm going to shower. Then I'm getting into my flannels, cuddling up to Cos and watching the new episode of Dead Like Me. Then I'm going to bed. Tomorrow's going to take a lot out of me - I'm finding that looking for a job isn't as fun as I thought it would be. Or as fruitful. No fruit for Wanda. And my mother took half my smokes.

Oskar the hero and other bits about home...

I know, I know, I've been away. Sorry Buddy. Things have been a little befuddled around here lately, and they seem to be getting even more so. That's alright, though, 'cause tonight's discussion is mostly about Oskar The Hero and a couple other little things.

First of all, wow. Glorious weather. Until the cold front from Florida hit. I know, I shouldn't complain that I'm forced to wear a sweater when all those poor people have been forced out of their homes. And there were a couple rough days when it looked like New Orleans (Or Nawlins, which I can't say without sounding hopelessly Northern) was going to get hit, too. I'm really sorry for all those people, 'cause that really can't be any fun. In fact, I'll go out on a limb and say something really deep: It must suck. But wearing sweaters makes me nervous, 'cause it means that winter's closer than I though. Yup. Me, me, me.

Oskar was so happy to see us. I mean, he literally won't let us out of eyesight, he sleeps with one eye open. It's gotta be neat to be a cat, not only do you get to sleep for 18 hours a day, but you can do it with one eye open. The only time we don't see him is when he's out hunting. You heard me. Hunting.

The third night we were home, Rachel noticed Oskar playing around her purse. When she moved the purse, there was a teeny, tiny, itty, bitty mousey hiding for dear life. She and I managed to wrangle it into an equally teeny, tiny box and I smuggled it outside to freedom. The next morning, I awoke to a bird on the floor. Dead. Ick.

A couple nights ago, Rachel and Si came over for a bit. Oskar took quite a liking to Simon. Now, the thing is, Oskar's shy. Bitterly so. But he loved Si. Next time he came over, Simon was the proud recepient of a living, full grown mouse. We think it escaped, but we weren't able to smuggle this one out. He was too quick.


Oskar the Brave


Oskar the Cunning


Oskar the Nearly Awake. Rodents and bird beware!

Alright, here's the hard part: Why haven't I been around? Well, let me tell you. The Sims 2. Yes. Far more addictive than The Sims. Why? Because it's 3D. Okay, no, because your Sims can become obsessed with "Woohoo," which is, you know, tastefully done cutaway scenes of underwater/bed/public sex. The woman I adopted was Woohoo obsessed. Wants it everywhere, all the time, with everyone. Well, she did. I already have a nice lesbian couple, one of whom recently turned 54, with two sons. Now the geriatric, Woohoo-obsessed lady has settled down to become a middle aged mother and more than devoted life partner/wife. It's fun. Okay, it's addictive. Leave me alone!!

Also, Cos and I have been engaging in a little Secret Shopping. It's wicked fun. Who'm I to complain about getting paid to shop whilst being bitchy? Only thing is, it's the second job we've done for this company and our cheque from the first job mysteriously got lost in the mail. Whatever. I've decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, so we went ahead and did this one. Another thing, though, is that they always send us to Town Shoes. Nice place, but I don't get to keep the shoes, and I was promised hotel stays and restaurants. Let me tell you, could really use something like that now that I'm out of work. Well, keep your fingers crossed, everyone. On that and the actual job front. I need all the help I can get, in more ways than one.

So, I'm sorry. I've been conspicuously MIA lately, and I'm aware. I'm busy cleaning up birds, helping mice escape in the Avon box version of the Underground Railroad, trying to look for a job, and engaging in Woohoo. My bad, entirely, but I'm working on my Sims addiction, and once I have a job I won't really be able to play as much as I have been, which is both a blessing and a sadness. I'll move past it, I swear.

I missed this...

Today, lunch at The Only. Really disappointed to learn that they don't serve their award winning (Not really, but if life were fair) waffles during the week. I've really been craving them for weeks.


It was nice, though. Simon and Rachel are off this week, so we're getting to do a couple of things that we wouldn't normally. Really helps that Cos and I are shiftless ne'er do well's. (Teresa and Eric, come out, come out, wherever you are)

Then back to our place for Buffy and Dead Like Me. Yes, dear reader, we're all mega geeks. Anyway, as far as we're all concerned, October can't come quickly enough. See, that's when the new Buffy boxset comes out, and our collection becomes complete. A little disconcerted, though, since the insert in Season Six says October and Amazon.ca says November 16th. Guess I know what Cos is getting for his birthday. (Surprise!)

To add to my geekdom, which I'm sure is certified, The Sims 2 comes out later today. Yippee. Too bad about that whole shiftless ne'er do well thing. We could own it, otherwise.

All in all, excepting the brokeness of us and my failure to engage my off button at a crucial moment, thereby allowing my hurt and frustration in a certain situation to take control, a rather perfect day. So very nice to be home.

Buddy, BJ, we miss you. And just so you don't feel too left out:


Pretty, oh so pretty...

Photos!!

Home!!

The "World Next Door" to what, exactly?


"I'm like a baby, she's like a cat..."


Le Gang, March '04
(Back left to front: Yours truly, Rachel,
Teresa. Back right to front: Chels, Erin)


Mmmmm...


Louis Armstrong Park, New Orleans

Home again, home again, jiggidy jig...

"I was out of the radio starting to change
somewhere out in America
it's starting to rain
could you tell me the things you will remember about me
and have you seen me lately?"

Have You Seen Me Lately?
Counting Crows

Long trip. Not as long as it may seem, but quite long enough, thank you very much.

So, right after I posted last time, I went out onto the balcony for a cigarette and there below our car was a bunny. Right in the middle of the city, a sweet little bunny. I called Cosmo out, and instead of seeing the bunny, he noticed that the car was leaking. Thank god it was just the a/c defrosting. I mean, 12 hours in a car is hard on all involved - The poor car just needed some time off.

The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful, but I did realize two things. One, when Cosmo orders rain, the gods listen. And two, Ohio is way too large and definately in the way between here and there.

Oh, another thing: The people at the border were still taking their healthy dosage of "be-a-dick" pills. It's good to know some things never change. Although, I find it really hard to believe that in this day and age they still get so confused when they encounter a car with an American and a Canadian in it. I also find it really hard to understand why my bank account matters to these people, but it does, as do my recent transactions. Big Brother really is watching, kids.

All I can say is, thank god they didn't check the car. No, I wasn't importing cases of Mexican tequilla or cartons of cheaper, assier cigarettes. We were brining in DVD's. Mine that we brought down for the trip, and Cosmo's, since he is for all intents and purposes living here. It's just that we stuffed about 100 into the trunk of the car, all opened and well-loved. But try explaining that to someone who wants to do cavity searches for money. Thank you, gods who brought us rain and saved us from the Customs deamons.

Nashville is wonderful. I mean, I know it was only a night and a morning, but everyone there is so Southern and charming. It more than made up for the lack of Southerness I encounter in Houston. The city's pretty and clean, too.

Ohio's pretty, but like I said, too big. Also, five hours from end to end at the angle we were driving at and the rain didn't let up the whole time.

So we got home and proceeded to destroy the room. The two of us together have far too much stuff and the past few days have been dedicated to reorganizing everything so we both fit and feel at home. So far so good, with only one minor blowout - I'm very protective of my books and their place in the world.

So far we've managed to hook up with Rachel. St. Teresa and Dancing Eric have just moved into a new place and are very unwilling to surface and spend time with the rest of us. Chelsea thwarted our surprise attack and came out screaming. So much for showing up on her doorstep like the waifs we feel like these days.

Other than that, the weather is perfect. I don't mean "kind of nice" or "okay, but I wish it were more/less..." I mean Perfect. That's right, with a capital "P." And thanks to Houston, we aren't even feeling the considerable (Approximately %90) humidity.

Tomorrow I start looking for employment. Yay me. It's been almost 6 years since I had to look for anything, and the best I can say is that thanks to the bank, I know exactly what I'm not looking for in a job. Also, I've learned exactly how much work isn't required for promotions, so come Christmas, I may be the CEO of somewhere new.

Here's a funny link for today.

Anyway, there's much more to get done around here, but the place is feeling more liveable, instead of just lived in. It was starting to get that cardboard box feeling, probably due to all the cardboard boxes we unearthed trying to clean the place out. Totally my bad.

Travelling...

"Welcome to the Caribbean, luv."

~ Captain Jack Sparrow
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl

Okay, so I take back some of the stuff I said yesterday. It's the packing that's a burden. The travelling is great. I love travelling. Plus, Cosmo and I get to be really stupid together. Perhaps one day the stories will come out, but for now, rest assured that your loyal journalist is a complete and utter dork when no one's watching (And quite often when people are watching, too)

So, we're just outside Texarkana, and there, staring me in the face is a giant billboard. Now, this is no social commentary on virginity, it's more of a commentary on in-your-face advertisments and thier overall appropriateness. Also, this billboard caused enough of a giggle that we had to write down the website, 'cause we're a little travel-addled. And also because just as we turned the corner a pair of love bugs landed on my window, doing what love bugs do best.

Tonight we're in a hotel in an undisclosed location. I mean, I will tell, but not right now, as Cosmo would like it to be a surprise. He's watching Othello, which he's never seen before, and we got free internet. So, of course, addict that I already am, I'm posting. (The review's wrong, by the way. This Desdemona is sweet and naive. Nothing more is needed)

Okay, to bed. Cosmo has promised me Shoney's for breakfast tomorrow. One of the only times I'll lower myself to breakfast food.

Packing hell...

"...charisma and eyeliner go a long way."

Ashton Kutcher,
The Butterfly Effect

Two days. Two days! All my rock-star aspirations have gone out the windows the last two days. I can't fathom the amount of money that would make it worth living out of your suitcase. Packing is like... Okay, it's not hell, but rather purgatory. It's tragic. The greatest part about today was when I finished packing up the car. See, it's the longest possible time between now and the next time I have to pack, or unpack, for that matter.

I also hate leaving. But as I keep reminding myself, it's not leaving, it's going away for a while. That makes it a little easier. As I also keep trying to remind myself.

And then the false starts. We were supposed to leave today, but as always, I can't quite get my shit together. And neither could Cosmo. Collectively, it's a lot of shit to not get together. It's alright, though. Everyone back home is busy living their lives this week. Without us. I'll let it slide. Just this once.

(What do you do when someone you love ignores you, then accuses you of neglect? Just the new dilemma in my under-worked brain)

So, after two days of packing, one of which was definately purgatorial, we have two days of neverwhereness. You know, that state of travelling from place to place, but somehow not being completely sure of where you are, or even if you're completely visible. Still, it's nice. Cosmo and I talk at eachother for a really long period of time, then we're quiet. And it's a good transition between here and there.

And I think I've finally come up with a design for the blog that makes me happy. Bless Dave McKean.

Finally, Gigli really is as bad as everyone says it is. No, it really, really is. Maybe, 20 years from now, people will be much more advanced than we are, and they'll understand it. But maybe 20 years from now I'll be queen of the planet and I'll have banned this movie.

Every once in a while I really start to despair for humanity as a whole. And this isn't my "I'm annoyed that someone pushed me for a seat on the subway" kind of despairing for humanity. This is true, honest-to-god despair. It's a nightmare.

I'm the first to admit that I'm soft. I'm a Westerner raised on bad music, worse movies and even worse television. I'm lucky to be alive, to have clothes, food, an education. Hell, I'm lucky I have toilet paper. I know it.

I also know that if I were trapped in the wilderness without so much as a lighter, I'd be a goner. If my arm gets trapped under a rock, I will not amputate myself and walk eight miles to civilization. I will lie there and complacently die under said rock like an insect. I get that.

I'm also going to go out on a limb, here, and suggest that I have no fucking clue what your lives are like. I don't know your hardships, your heartaches, or even what makes your wee heart go pitter patter.

I'm also going to say that it doesn't matter. All around the world, children are children. And I'm speaking as one who doesn't (at this point in life) want any. That doesn't matter. I still think they're precious. I also think that there are enough things in this world against children growing up healthy and happy and whole. Or growing up at all, for that matter.

And after your actions, I don't care. I don't care who you are, what you think, or what you're fighting for. Where I might once have listened, I've decided on deafness. You have lost any clout you may have had with me, any sympathy I may have spared you, any voice I may have raised in your defence. And I have the distinct feeling I'm not the only one.

These are children. You storm a school full of children, wielding guns, wearing "suicide belts" and carrying food for your own consumption (I haven't heard confirmation that you had food and water for yourselves, but I know in my heart that the bullies who could do this wouldn't go in without provisions). You deny food, water and access to washrooms - to children. You start shooting. How? No, seriously, how do you torture and murder children? Which one of you sick bastards decided this was a good idea?

Maybe you don't have children, but some of you have brothers. Sisters. Nieces, nephews and cousins. You have brothers and sisters and friends who have children. I know you. You don't live alone. If you did, there wouldn't have been thirty of you to commit this crime, all acting on behalf of who knows what god; there wouldn't be hundreds and thousands of you who are willing blow up not only yourselves, but also innocents on buses and in the middle of the road and in theatres.

I also don't believe in your god, a god who can condone this kind of action. I'm not talking about Alah, God, Yaweh or Buddha, and I'm not talking about Muslims, Christians, Jews or Buddhists - Or any other religion, god or goddess. I'm talking about you and your sick, perverted version of a god, one that you think would allow you to get into Paradise, no matter what you call it. And shame on you for thinking it!

You delight in bullying, that much is clear. And you're shameless and cowardly. If you weren't, it wouldn't have been children, there would have been food and toilets and you wouldn't have worn suicide bombs. You wouldn't have decided that other people - children - had to die for your cause, and you sure as hell wouldn't have run as soon as the white hats came charging through the doors. Better yet, it simply wouldn't have happened. You are no better than the ones you fight against, and you're so much less than the people you hurt. There is no god that I know of who would love you now.

As for the victims, the families and the survivors: I'm sorry. I feel great pain for you, and know it is only a weak reflection of the pain you feel. I feel sadness and know that I don't understand the sadness you feel. I know that no matter how much I pray for you, it might be too late, and it's probably not enough. But I do. And many others do, too.

I'm going to post this. I'm going to take a breather. I'm going to get back to my life. Because that's what we do, as human beings. And every once in a while, I'll think of you, the victims, not the monsters, and I'll send you love.

Why? No, really...

So. I've been on and on and on about Neil Gaiman this week. See, I've just rediscovered his journal, and I've been reading the back issues, as it were. I love him. I also hate him. And this isn't just a minor disgruntlement. It's like, this deep down, searing, writhing hatred. Not of him as a person, in fact, he sounds lovely (online). It's his genious. I can't even begin to hope to ever write like him. I mean, I could write like him, but my imagination is far too rusty. Damn Catholic school and it's "my way or the highway" mentality (And also for teaching me that it's okay to blame others!!)

For instance:

"Coraline's a short, scary novel for disturbed young women of all ages and genders;" Quote found here. I mean, I say stuff like that, but it's always accidental. I guess the trick is to start saying them deliberately.

"And I wrote my 2001 Xmas card (which turned out to my surprise to be a 26 line poem about pirates and death and ghosts and suchlike Xmassy things.)" Look here for quote. (Cosmo says this is definite proof that Neil Gaiman's "my man.")

"...interrupting a very peculiar dream in which I was one of an order of monks living in a rambling farmhouse, which was trying, in the way of farmhouses in dreams, to kill us all, and I needed to warn the little old lady who lived in a cottage out the back that the house was the sort that ate people, and we were just having an odd conversation about whether or not my eyes were baby blue or dirty green ("dirty green!" I assured her, but she was deaf as well as half blind and paid little attention) when the bedside phone rang with my wake-up call." Find that here.

I need to try and remember my weird dreams. Then I'd have story material. Right? I had this one last night where I was still working at the bank, but they were no longer in the same tower and the one they were in was undergoing hardcore reconstruction and this guy, Aaron Parsons, who was at school with me, and who everyone misses but no one can find, was in the mail room looking serious (Which he never did) and trying to tell me something. Also, my boss, who loved her mall hair, had straightened it and was wearing it in a really fashionable up-do, which she wouldn't ever be caught dead in in real life. She was pretty cool, 'cause she knew her hair was wrong and she loved it and even invited ridicule. Her favourite thing was to primp and tell you "Don't be hating" before it was a cool/funny statement. I think Jamie Kennedy stole that from her, actually.

Anyhow, for Rachel and Simon, who've read the book, and Cosmo who watched the movie with us, I'd like to present the Neverwhere Stops site. To warn you, the site's links are partially dead, but what's there is still good.

And I shall move on, because today I found a new show for me to fall in love with. It's called Father of the Pride. Frankly, anything with John Goodman is good. Anything featuring cartoon lions, tigers and pandas is good. It's just a really good show. So there, I have spoken. And for the record, while my television is always on, I'm rarely watching it. This made me watch, which means you should, too.

And maybe it's just because I'm far from home, but has anyone else noticed Mila Jovovich running down the side of New City Hall in this trailer? It's funny, 'cause I'd forgotten them shooting this up the street from the bank last winter. A friend and I were trying to get to the subway one freezing night and couldn't, because of the burnt out stunt car surrounded by cops in the middle of the road. Fun and games in the city.

Now, this was a post riddled with quotes, so I've covered myself for this morning's which didn't have one, and I'm good for a couple more. Yay me.

Visits through blogdom and other tidbits...

Things I've missed since I've been in Texas:

Birthdays. My father, my aunt, Simon and Eric. You're all getting old and I'm sorry I missed it. Have some ice cream

Brunch. Not that the weather's been good enough for patio eating, from what I've heard, but there's nothing like fruity waffles first thing in the morning to make your weekend happy.

My cat. I'd have a picture if we were at home, but I'm not. So you'll eventually get to bask in the happy that is Oskar, but it won't be today.

Sleeping, uninterupted. Really long story, but when you're living at a halfway house for compulsive people, there's no such thing as sleeping for more than 3-4 hours at a time.

People. I could give you a list, but if you don't know when I'm talking about you at this point in our lives, there'll be no getting through to you.

Things I'll miss when I'm not in Texas:

My in-laws. They're loud and oh-so-funny. Also, bossy, but with really huge hearts. In short, my type of people.

Sleeping past noon. I don't normally like sleeping too long, but if I sleep 4 hours, then 4 hours, then 4 hours, there's no such thing as too long. And if I go to bed at 7 in the morning, 2 o'clock is reasonable.

The food. Which, technically should be in my other list, 'cause it's sooo bad for you, but well, hell, everyone deserves a break once in a while.

Sundry other people who should also know who they are by now. Yes, Buddy, you're one of those people.

But I won't miss the mutant droves of mosquitos. 10 minutes and I got 20 bites on my left foot and 19 on my right, plus various others on my arms. I'm so sexy. Oh, the grass truly is always greener, but at least I know it.

Yesterday, for lack of anything else to do, and also due to my deeply rooted voyeuristic tendancies, I spent an hour or so checking out other people's blogs. It was fun, except for this disturbing trend I've noticed: Apparently, days of the week weren't chock full of enough chocolatey goodness, they've been turned into "daes" of the week. "2dae i didnt no what 2 do wit myself..." Clearly we're not winning awards with our personal writings, but there's something to be said for making it legible, if you're going to make an effort at all.

I found this last night, and would like to dedicate it to Simon, as he's thoroughly obsessed with The Da Vinci Code.

I've found this for my friends who like to read - Specifically Harry Potter, which means specifically Teresa and Rachel. I especially like it where he said "“The humor is lame. That’s kids’ humor.”" Beware: You really shouldn't underestimate your audience. That's why Harry's awesome. And anyone can tell you that the best books can sometimes require multiple readings for everything to become clear. Anyway, a quick read through that article and a look at his website make it clear that not only does this man have no imagination (Kids' humour is not lame. Not always, anyway) but he also doesn't seem to have any scruples. Leading teen chat discussions about his books, anonymously no doubt, is just so very uncool.

Stolen from the Neil Gaiman site, it's a pictoral representation of his Snow Glass Apples, which I've never been able to get a copy of. So gorgeous. Please look.

Also stolen from the Neil Gaiman site, a place where you can join the Morbid Bunny of the Month Club. Have a luck, most of you are gonna get this for Christmas this year.

Anyway, I started this at 10:55, and it's taken way too long to write this. Hollie's on her way to Vegas this morning and I've been helping her pack and fix up outfits. It's definately time for bed. And me without a quote for this post.

Love me anyway.