all in a day

pinch me i must be dreaming...

a good ol' prairie boy tabled a necessarily lacklustre federal budget today, one that panders to these monotonous conservative mantras, ignores quebec, falls far short of genuine advancements on key social issues like kyoto or social housing, and bears modest promise for the push for national child care. bon, ça y est.

me ol' papa, ever the drama queen, underwent an emergency septuple coronary bypass today. i'm jetting to the homeland, mainly for mama. am all mixed up about it, given our soap operatic history. wonder how ‘normal’ people would feel right now and how much i care that i don’t. why did i bristle so hard at a friend's email that said what "a good daughter" i am for going home. cuz i'm not good. and neither are these thoughts floating around my head about all this. at least we can be sure that 1) i'm fucked up, and 2) i'll get a front row seat in hell.

and tonight, the first "results" episode of this year's american idol run proved that there really are new lengths to go to drag out and dramatize the dreaded voting results. i didn't think it could get more over the top. the cutting of four was fucking forgettable since those four gave forgettable performances. fuels my frustration about the good vocalists who were axed before this. by the by, i'm not the only one who thinks rashida got shafted.

of fruits and hags

i have long resisted the hideous and unflattering moniker of "fag hag" - a title for unattractive straight women who seek out gay men to adore. last fall, i came to learn an epithet for a related category. the "fruit fly", so explained some young gay boys on the kerry campaign trail, refers to straight women who enjoy the company of gay men, but unlike the fag hag, maintain healthy personal lives of their own (evidently, there are also other definitions). anyhoo, last night when i heard the term "chick friend" used to describe the gal pal of a gay friend, it got me thinking again about the grab bag of labels. to tally: my stable of gay male friends is chock fucking full (i'm a bona fide fag mag). i don't harbour any twisted love obsessions for the gay men in my life that would render me unable to pursue a genuine personal life, à la fag hag. but my personal life is, in fact, a mockery - i can't exactly identify as a fruit fly. i think i'll go with "fag fan"... maybe do a run of hats, bumper stickers, baby t's...

new decor

allow me to draw attention to a coupla features that have recently been added to this pre-fab blog design. to the left of your screen is a listing of a few of my fave sites for kicks and fixes - where you might enjoy visiting if you have the sort of time to waste or kill as i do. i include said links like every other wannabe arbiter of things web.

the other detail over there is an optimistic list of people with whom i've fallen out of touch and would love to know about... some go as far back as 20 years. a long but pamusing shot. ironically, i stole this idea from a blogger who i've lost track of.

if you're keeping score of the battle between my work output and procrastinatory tendencies (as a spectator of my own fucking life, i enjoy following such things) - today's overwhelming drive to make inroads on some fundraising leads was thwarted by this ridiculous glitch. dagnamit, if only my targets were based in less patriotic places. lordy, let not this surge wane.

aw c'mon already

my heartache over losing pascal eight months ago would be quelled if this cat was in my house right fucking now. fo sho. bring him to me dammit - alive. (could've photoshopped the gun outta there, thus rendering the pose more freakish than funny, but why?)

just comm down

five cigarettes, three espresso shots, two comm's strategies. and it's not even midnight. whenever there's a crack in the writer's block, you gotta move fast and fuel that flicker of creativity into a full-on roaring fire. it may be a booty-shaking-cocktail-flowing saturday night for some folk, but this writer is buried in the communications plans for two separate yet equally important initiatives: alain's municipal election campaign and for these guys. yeah fuck it's volunteer stuff, but maybe this creative burst will flame into some job-related work too. either way, best stay where you're at, it's gettin' hot up in here.

my rain is purple

this week, the dormant glee that can only come from compiling cd's was roused. fills me with gid. i'm chagrined to report that several new volumes of 80s music cd's have joined the snowballing collection. i remain in awe of the innocuous shit my avoidance can yield. being half in the bell jar and having mild ocd usually results in spontaneous fits of this or this. the work that actually gets produced from the bluezone pales in comparison to the gleam of my appliances and parquet floor. when i under-work myself into street living, at least the soundtrack of my sparkling cardboard shack will be rockin' retro.

like oxygen

this afternoon i blared the sarah brightman (don't judge me) version of "who wants to live forever" (i was listening to the shins too so fuck off) - hadn't heard it in a long time and may i just say, it's really fucking good. i mean spine tingling soul stirring good. it provoked my spirit for awhile which these days is a big deal. the same thing happened yesterday when i played "the sun always shines on tv" too many times to mention, and loudly. aahhh.

kyoto in penalty box

the scheduled feature documentary on tonight's cbc national news on the kyoto protocol was bumped. the allotted 35 minutes were filled instead with special coverage about an event more earth shattering than climate change - the cancellation of the nhl hockey season. never mind that the first 18 minutes of the broadcast had already been spent on hockey. even mansbridge himself referred to tonight's offensive as a "crush" of news about hockey. in an exhibition of shocking aggression, the story zambonied over the rest of the line-up. spectators expecting a balanced survey of international and domestic news were outraged. said one news fan: "it was unbelievable. i had just settled in with popcorn and a slushie to get my fix of nightly news, i mean, it's a national pastime, afterall. and then there it was, this disturbing assault by the hockey story. i'm still shaking."

benched for the entire news broadcast, poor kyoto protocol went into effect today. a consistent newsmaker, it rose from humble beginnings in the junior leagues of the un convention on climate change. and it's come a long way. over the years, it's earned an especially high scoring record among legislative teams around the european union, but has long eluded being drafted to a us franchise.

night life

after a week of trying to establish a healthier schedule, last night threw me for a loop. in bed at 2. still awake at 3. and at 4. and at 5.

alertness in those hours is an aural symphony. the music of my house is supported by a smoking rhythm section featuring a gremlin percussionist who sporadically flings his cymbals around the furnace. i became intimate with the rhythmic groans of the deep freeze, angry clicking of the electric heaters in my room, catchy taps of the pipes. sitting in with the band last night was mother nature - her pitter patter on the skylights above my bed was so light and gentle, it sounded more like crinkling suran wrap than rain. then of course there were the mirrored sounds inside my body - a concurrent concert to prolong the insomnia.

neither of my two alarm clocks pulled me from the sleep i must have eventually fallen into. an hour past target, i rose after what couldn't have been more than three hours of zonk. at this point, my eyes are puffy and i'm pretty pissed. so much to do, so little sanity.

those fucking badass sleep patterns that lurk in corners in leather jackets, flicking cigarettes, taunting you to the dark side. take it from me - stay clear of 'em. they can really fuck you up.

so cheek

once upon a time near a valentine's day of yore, wendy found photoshop.

singled out

ah, the power of that industry machine wickedly steered by cupids up the revenue graphs. today will generate billions in profits for the clever engineers in cahoots behind the scam. powerful holiday, 'eh? significant others are cued to express. flailing partners hoping for redemption with a mere bouquet or box of heart-shaped chocolates. a harmless cinnamon heart exchange exercise has the power to either douse or ignite the flames of a kiddie crush.

and the unpartnered endure the oppressive barrage of images and messages that reinforce the couplecentricity of the fucking planet. our culture so aggressively promotes the tyranny of coupledom (the brainwash that one should constantly be or aspire to be in a long-term relationship, that being single is always inferior to being in a relationship, and that romantic relationships provide the key to happiness) - no wonder so many singles are rendered especially depressed around now.

well happy v-day to me - the fifth feb14th in a row that i'm unattached. true to my quirkyalone status, i am employing this short list of strategies to get through it:

1. avoid listening to self-pity ballads, especially all by myself, i can't make you love me and this aimee mann killer
2. avoid musing about exes
3. avoid any movie starring julia roberts or meg ryan
4. make a dish that embodies the bittersweetness of this status (i'm right now preparing a pot of my sweet potato and chipotle soup)
5. book a booty call
6. re-read this manifesto for uncompromising romantics while watching utterly unromantic tv like the o'reilly factor, animal precinct, or question period

higher bar

i am delighted to report that adam - one of my favourite writers and people - is back on line. thank christ. honey, how you kick ass over and over again inspires me to kick my own. and now you're fucking blog will be shaming the rest of us to do it better. it will be refreshing, if not humbling, to reach for your blog again - a delightful spritzer for this oft-parched web tourist.

model envy

in a post about words that should exist, miss v mentions one i had come up with by accident a few years back - thrival - a clever (if i do say so myself) combination of thrive and survival.

two horrors ...

1. i am shocked and appalled to learn today that i am not the only one to have innovated the word

2. it was former model/icon janice dickinson who laid claim to having "coined" my term - i'm so fucking proud

and an apology ...

3. for even tuning in at all to this channel where i caught this on one of those where are they now things

an unrelated but equally irritating nugget i unearthed while channel surfing today: psycho couple jonathan and victoria from the amazing race 5 - who gave even the most blasse viewers a huge hate-on - will be featured on a dr. phil primetime special this tuesday about relationship rescues. and of course i'll watch, if only to see how quickly dr. phil comes to despise the contemptuous prick and tyrannized weakling (and also because i'm a sick bastard). believe me, i'm not the only one who feels this way about them.

i can't believe i even know any of this shit. jeezus.

retraction, sort of

ok, maybe i went overboard with the whole all women are actually programmed to long for happily ever after and even the feminist ideal of an equal partner is still just a variation of the prince charming dream, only with a more progressive happy ending, but a fairy tale nonetheless.

in my own defence, it was late and i was unpleasantly buzzed from a vile night of chain smoking. and also, it has been exceptionally jarring to witness the collapse of one of the most powerful and intact earth women i know into a despondent and deluded shell (sorry honey). i have every confidence that b will rebuild and return to self, with or without some kind of relationship with j. but this hush hush and debilitating retreat to ga-ga girldom begs the question, are the revolutionary women really just charlotte york on the inside?

prince charming

my friend b is one of the smartest and toughest women i know. after 17 years, she and a guy, last summer, decided to make their friendship something more. she was optimistic about a potential future. she talked herself into being ok with his redneck friends, his lack of motivation, and apparent disinterest in most aspects of her life. but it didn’t take long for her to realize that his emotional stuntedness may be insurmountable. it went hot and cold for awhile, then two weeks ago, they broke up “for good” with a finality that left little hope for even salvaging the friendship. one week post-break-up, he called her, dropped by, and somehow in one conversation, they agreed to not have a relationship but rather, an affair. so for a week, she tried sex without any caring. now, one week later, she’s like a crumpled doll on the floor – life sucked out and will exhausted. as far as he’s concerned, things are great. it would seem that way, i suppose, when one’s mouth is so full of cake.

so now, she’s confessing the kind of truth that even the bestest of gal pals don’t share for fear of never bouncing back from the halls of shame. obviously she and i have rationalized the notion of hope to death, but last night, we descended past the intellectual and emotional levels of reflection into the dreaded raw place. other women – as seen on oprah or in cosmo, for example – might visit that raw place regularly. some even reside there. but it’s a place where enlightened (hardened?) feminists don’t tread, and certainly never mention if they do. that place is where issues of love and sex are disneyized, where the object of our affection – however toxic or abusive or elusive – becomes a potential prince charming. that place is where we tell ourselves he’s worth holding out for because he’s the ‘one’, we fantasize about how he’s going to change, we scribble his name on scraps of paper, we dream about having his babies. so last night, my friend confessed having spent some time in that raw place, thinking about how he might bring her roses on valentine’s day and kiss it all back to perfection. she confessed to thinking her patience might reward her. she confessed to having hoped for happily ever after.

are even the independent, savvy, resilient, my-worth-ain’t-measured-by-a-man kind of women really just suckers for that kind of happy ending? i wonder if the leap from moxie to meekness is one we’d all rather make. some of us don't buy into the pop cultured messaging like in movies, toys, pop songs old and new that raises so many girls to wish upon a fairy tale. some of us like to believe that we wouldn't settle for less than a healthy and equal partnership with someone who complements us - not saves us. but holy fuck, what if we're really wired to want to succumb? maybe we've convinced ourselves of otherwise only cuz we haven't met our prince yet. and when he shows up and takes us in his arms, we will finally know love. but if he doesn't scoop us into his arms immediately, maybe each of us - feminist or not - is meant to yearn for him, for a chance to jump onto the horse and ride with him into the sunset, or for any invitation from him at all.

obg

q: how many bush administration officials does it take to screw in a light bulb?

a: none. there is nothing wrong with the light bulb; its conditions are improving every day. any reports of its lack of incandescence are a delusional spin from the liberal media. that light bulb has served honourably, and anything you say undermines the lighting effect.

why do you hate freedom?

shout outs

yo yo whassup y'all. i'd like to send a shout out to the guy upstairs - if it is indeed god's intent that my test is to endure work relationships (repeatedly) with oddballs who don't get much but insist that they're brilliant, then all is going according to his divine plan.

the gathering at kinki last night was for jenn and her beau greg (jenn = dear friend and my counterpart in that whole three tart birthdaypalooza of 04), and of course for me too, since i whored myself onto the honour list because one week of shout-outs to my fucking birthday isn't too much. after seven exotic martinis and so-good sushi, i was feeling just fine, thank you. greg and i quietly agreed that i would hold his left ass cheek in my right hand for much of the evening. a shout out to the event planners for arranging more than a dozen pals to cram into a circular booth intended for 8. those hours were both snug AND "happy".

props to my grrl V for keepin' it real on the newly-launched, miss vicky's offhand remarks. and while i'm at it, a shout out to just a few on my current roster of hangouts for coffee and smart comedy: wendy at pound, sarah's que sera sera, mcsweeney's (especially those fucking lists), the onion (duh). for really twisted pamusement, i've lately been snooping around jeff's gimpy dump truck.

final shout outs with much love and props ...

to debbie gibson for taking hers off too
to michael j for just not giving up
to jessica simpson for being so brave - you make us proud grrl!
to jp II for hanging the fuck on, and to his homies
to jimmy prentice for stepping out of line - the mother of all big whoops

peace out.

road rage

not to too quickly deflate the balloon that has been lifting me a bit out of the funk and floating me through all the parted clouds past choirs of halleluiah-singing angels and shit, but if i were a radio psa or a billboard or even a dinky sign taped to the back window of my car, i'd be screaming this:

get the fuck off the road and quickly get yourself checked into a facility
for you are all shitty shitty drivers
i am the best driver in the world
please turn yourselves in to the authorities as unfit to operate a vehicle
i am superior to all of you

ok. that is all.

fête à moi

the cancellation of this year's intended sequel (with a new but equally debaucherous theme) to last year's joint celebratory initiative (the three tarts invite you to come as your inner trollop or midnight cowboy, or leave your pants at the door) gave way to an altogether different kind of birthday for me. it has been fucking amazing. and restorative. and heartening.

it all started last thursday when claude surprised me with tickets to see the royal winnipeg ballet perform carmina burana at the nac. first of all, that piece of music is one of my all-time favourites and secondly, one of this country's premier dance companies muthafucka? i couldn't have imagined how desperately in need i have been for live classical performing arts. my spirit had to undo the top button to let it all hang out after having devoured the experience like a starved lunatic. and then she soared.

then on saturday, steve took me to le tartuffe for what can only be described as a gastronomic mind fuck. we ogled each new course with child-like glee, savoured every bite with drama. the food, the wine, the atmosphere (thankfully unpretentious), and of course, the company - are you kidding me? just the blissful intoxication i needed. he did really well this weekend, on several levels. and he needed to. but more than that, he lifted me up in the way that only he can.

today (yesterday by now), i received a disturbing number of warbly renditions by phone of you know which song. and then tonight, some of the grrls treated me to a delightful evening at absinthe cafe. to be in the company of the perfect handful of good friends enjoying scrumptious cuisine and delicious grrl-talk. we should all be so lucky. and i so am. so while wine glasses were clinking in honour of me, i made a silent toast to myself. for getting it.