I am one step closer to being a fully-arrived adult after having completed an RSP transaction today. In an effort to continue on this trail of maturity, I will attempt to:
* form as close a relationship with my drycleaner as I have with my arcade token dispenser;
* try two slices of rye bread for sandwiches instead of two frosted cherry pop-tarts;
* treat my dog respectfully. This includes not sticking my finger in his mouth every time he yawns;
* stop passing off the Garbage Pail Kid sticker on my computer as my Chilean foster-child Jose;
* replace the phrase "I'm rubber, you're glue" with "You make a valid point."
Notice to foot passengers in the City of Vancouver:
I, on my bicycle, with my dog in the milk crate in the back, am allowed to ride on the sidewalks of the city, because I say so. This is especially so since I am carrying delicate cargo in the milk crate. I speak not of my dog in this instance, but of the "breakfast bob" containing a fried egg (over easy), ham, swiss, tomatoes and onions.
Please note that I am unable to accomplish speeds greater than 27 km/hour, which also qualifies me as a sidewalk cyclist. For verification purposes, I will direct you to the police officer who stood outside my lawyer’s building as I rode past this morning; said police officer did not scold me for either (a) riding on the sidewalk nor (b) dangling my helmet from my handlebars rather than having it secured firmly upon my melon. The melon, in this instance, is my noggin.
Please also note that the preschooler bell on my bike is not to be used to clear pedestrians out of my path (as was its intention) but so that I do not get slapped with a $15 fine. The bell is only rung when it is necessary to awaken my dog from a particularly long hydrant-sniffing trance.
So, when I am about to pass you and we are both moving in the same direction, do not step towards the curb because I am going to pass on the outside, nor swing your hands as though you’re Apolo Anton Ohno on his last lap, nor is there the need for you to catch me in your peripheral vision, freak, and plaster yourself against the stonefront of the building. I’m not interested in hitting you nor will I steal your digicam while passing. Conversely, when I am about to ride past you and we are moving in opposite directions, unless otherwise indicated on the sidewalk in convenient painted icons of cycles and pedestrians, I will pass on the side I would use were we in cars and driving on a two-way street, which is to say, get to the curb, chump.
Particular notice to the fellow this morning who thought we lived in England: sod off.
On a hottub session in Kamloops, my youngest niece was grilling me about dating and marriage and such (like I know anything about these topics of discussion?). In her list of quite-serious questions, she added, "Auntie, when you were a kid, what did you want to be?" This was an easy answer, and it didn't involve puppies or kittens or babies. Well, not directly.
"Foreign correspondent."
This morning, when I awoke in my downy warm bed to the news of yet another journalist's death while in the line of duty, I was as glad of my life's path as all the grown women who are not veterinarians, and all the grown men who are not firemen. Perhaps 78% moreso.
The day got worse from there. Was the rain. Was the hearty chewing-out I took from an executive producer for undermining her cold front with coproducers. And the agents I've pissed off by assuming their writers can just leap on a project and pull together springboards at the snap of MY fingers. Yes, I understand you need to maintain the illusion your client is doing us a favour by working on this show. Whatever.
Then the stress over booking hotels in two cities. The perk was the accent coming at me from Hotel31, sort of a marbles-in-mouth number that sounded like Dr. Zoidberg. We'll probably end up staying with our first choice.
And then there was the end of the day, the right-now part of the day, the packet of perfect satay from Hawker's Delight, a honey ale, and Liane's brilliant contribution to the Squat CD exchange in my girly multi-player.
Dammit, I forgot to stare into Uri Geller’s eyes last night at 11:11 in the hopes that I will find an Abtronic at the As-Seen-On-TV store. Forget world peace, please, we all know that’s a wasted wish. If I had gazed into his eyes at 11:11 in the morning, the wish would have been to erase the theme from "Silver Spoons" from the heavy rotation tray in my head. How did that even get in there?
Cranky? No! I just got props for the inclusion of the shins on the cd (volume I) I curated for the international Squat CD exchange club. At first, I was intimidated. These folks are from Brooklyn – how can I possibly give them anything new, especially considering one of this city’s most beloved musical entertainment acts featuring guitars and drums performed there last night. We get nothing but Carrot Top and Long John Baldry. But now, after the props, I feel cocky. This will last only until (a) someone emails to tell me they’re using the cd as a coaster because of starsailor, or (b) volume II.
I’m working on this conspiracy theory: the gas companies are in cahoots with the auto manufacturers, and there’s something afoot because, slowly but surely, all of the gas stations in this city are being demolished. Just this morning I saw a pit where the little Chevron used to be on the corner of Cambie and 7th. I’m not sure if this means we should be buying stocks in Ballard, or that Honda is building uglier electric cars, or that Richmond will soon become one giant bank of petrol pumps.
One other thing, with respect to boxes. A bit of a non-sequitor. Yesterday in voice record, one of the actors had to say "I’ve got the box!" and the voice director said "yes, they all know what the box is." At first, I thought of the guy in the wheelchair on Hastings who compliments my milk crate by telling me I have a "nice box", then giggles to himself. I should have stuck with that image, really, but then I turned to Jane, a native of Montreal, and said "oh, shit, remember The Box?"
I don’t get to speak with Mark my travel agent often enough. Nevertheless, he always knows who I am. No need for last names, at least until the actual booking takes place. It makes me feel like Cher. Wait, is that a good thing?
Ticket booked. The Toronto leg will not involve flopping at Paul’s townhouse, but in a boring hotel room on Bloor as Paul is off to Thailand on March 1. After having spent a week sourcing the city last year, I now know where to find books, po chai, X-Large, Campers, tacos, and my agent (hello???). The rest is tabula rasa, especially the social aspect. I guess I was fairly insular with Paul last time around. I can’t really rip up the town as this portion is business, but there’s nothing quite as satisfying as traveling on OPM, as opposed to out-of-pocket.
The out-of-pocket portion will be significantly out-of-pocket, as it will entail hotel rooms in NYC on the CDN dollar. But there are Piscean birthdays that will be celebrated. A quick glance through pollstar reminds too much that Vancouver is a no-fun city in comparison to where I’m going.
Should I feel awful that I’m associating two cities with the food that I can eat while I’m there? Pizza and canoles in NY; poutine jardinaire, smoked meat and empanadas in Montreal. There are finer attributes, yes. It’s all about appetite in some form or another.
One of these days
When you figure, figure it all out
Well be sure to let me know
Well I'll be waiting right here
Come and whisper in my ear what it is I want to know
Two fellows, both with the same first name, and others are getting confused. There's no confusion here as to which I'd pick in a showdown. Hands down, it'd be the newest one. The other, the one recently returned from China -- well, there's just no comparison. Granted, it was good to see him, to get all that uneasiness settled. He gets back on the plane tomorrow while Liane and I make plans for a few days at the Gershwin Hotel. Back to the other coworker. There's been flirting on the sly, but then again, there've been rumors from the receptionist about an England-based girlfriend who has recently relocated. We haven't yet broken the conversational ice, we only speak indirectly through others. Does that make sense? I'll explain further: let's say I want to know if he's leaving to watch the Olympics. Instead of just directly asking him, I'll ask the dogpen if they're going, then glance over to see if he smiles or not. (The dogpen is filled with animators, not dogs, and it'll be empty for a few weeks after a small round of layoffs today).
But today, they didn't leave to watch, they took over the upstairs lounge where I was testing my stack of burned CDs to make sure the G4 hadn't gimped out on the transition from Grace Jones to Chicks on Speed like it had before. There's something fantastic about sitting directly behind the subject of your desire, having the time and space to just observe the shape of fingers, the curvature of a neck. I can't remember what his voice sounds like even though we've spoken, just that one time at the Christmas party when he asked if I was involved with the other coworker who bears the same name. I didn't hear his voice today when his cellphone rang and he scooped it out of his breastpocket, but I was sitting behind, slightly evesdropping for the sign, and I think it may have come at the standard place, right near the end, right before good-bye, from the guy's side of the conversation, and when he mumbled the line, it sounded like this:
moomoomoomoo
Run it together, monotone. Granted, it could have been anything, but damn if it didn't sound like a boyfriend's response to the sing-songy demand of "I love you", the kind that ends on an up-pitch, as though it were a question.
A thought from Moby -- and I tell you, were this to happen, I'd put everything on the block, foresake my health care program, get my dog caught up on his immunizations so we could cross the border (his naturopath stopped his regular shots years ago), and buy myself a fake US marriage for citizenship. Now, Moby:
colin powell is so fucking cool. first he deviates from the stated 'abstinence only' Bush position on stopping the spread of STD's and teen pregnancy by advocating the use of condoms.then he said that French official Hubert Vedrine had 'a case of the vapors' for criticizing american foreign policy. 'a case of the vapors'? he's quoting Biz Markie! isn't that cool? we have a secretary of state who quotes Biz Markie. that made my day. they should play eric b & rakim's 'follow the leader' every time colin powell appears in public.so if bush and cheney for some reason end up resigning wouldn't colin powell become president? that would be amazing. an african-american president who's smarter than just about everyone and quotes Biz Markie.
I’ll premise this with the unequivocal statement that I am straight. But every once in awhile when I’m out with the troupe of lesbians, I give it a thought. Hell, spending the rest of my life in baggy pants is not such a bad thought, especially since I hauled out the decimator nylons this morning in preparation for my run-in with the oft-mentioned fellow. That went smashingly, thanks. As Cainer suggested, I maintained integrity. Plus, I had to get to the chiropractor, and this time the adjustment stuck. Even when surrounded by amazing women, there's something in the previous post that I just can't live without. Yet, there was a moment this evening, dancing in an East Van hall to Bowie’s China Girl – just you shut your mouth -- on a perfect chemical balance, that I was in what could only be termed as "bliss". Bliss. It’s been a long time coming. Every once in awhile I also fool myself into thinking the pick-up is the perfect thing, but really, it’s bliss.
"You have to have respect for the truth just as you have to have respect for a sharp knife. Both will cut you if you're not careful. Used in the right way the truth can be of enormous benefit, used in the wrong way it can do irreparable harm. Your responsibility this weekend, is to be discreet without compromising your integrity. This requires a degree of delicacy but all will be fine as long as you resist the urge to score points. The truth wants to be your friend but it can only help you if you are willing to trust it."
Previously, I had tried to use the truth with the oft-mentioned fellow – I was upfront about my confusion over his mixed-messages – and the truth was met with more confusion. The truth came back to bite me, and I bit harder in return. Not a wise move, in retrospect, not my standard M.O., but my friends are still giggling at this brassiness. Still, I have regrets about how the whole thing went down,.because the truth used here was of the "irreparable harm" variety. I don’t think I’d change how I went about dealing with it, though maybe I shouldn’t have pressed the send button on this email:
RE: Chinese horoscopes…I don’t know anything about the compatibility of horses and dogs as I am a rooster, though apparently I’m not the only cock.
Cainer doesn’t need to worry, I’m not interested in scoring points. And yes, I was right to send that email.
Liane and I have lost two freehosts in the same day, hence the lack of art on our sites. Not so tragic for me, but Liane has swell photos that everyone should see. If anyone feels Valentine-y and would like to win the favour of two not-undecent chicks by allowing us to store our privates, not a lot of stuff, mind, just a few K here and there, please let us know. We'd be forever grateful for not having to deal with freeservers anymore (we're just too ludditen to deal with proper hosting servers), and we promise to leave interesting things in the dresser drawer.
Here's the thing, and I was reminded of this last night, on Valentine's Eve: the best date I've ever had was with Sweet Boy Fred. It took place in the Fall of 2000, or maybe it was 1999, but it was in Montreal, that much I know for sure. It began in the late afternoon, at his apartment. We watched a bit of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg, Fred is Quebecois, see, but mostly he wanted to point out the wallpaper, the use of colour. He mulled over shoes, opted for high-end, and we walked down to Mont Royal. There was a junior league football game on the park slope, so we watched that until it finished and the two teams lined up to slap palms. From the park, we walked downtown, without agenda, and windowshopped at Ogilvies -- it was a Sunday in a Catholic town, and the leaves had turned and it was just crisp enough to justify holding hands without it being a big deal. Then we walked back through McGill, then the park, and he walked me to Tod's apartment next to the Rialto, and we kissed. Just a simple, perfect kiss. I was trying to explain this all to Nicky last night, after my phone call with Karim and our tentative plans for my trip to Montreal next month, and I couldn't quite explain why this was the all-time best date, because, as you can see, it was so simple --- we walked around town. No roses, no steaks, no beaches or even a need for nice underwear. Just present company, and the fact that this date was five years in the making after our initial encounter, which was much saucier indeed.
Okay, I've romanticized that whole day, yes. Now, I'll take a moment to step outside my rosy-toned memory and point out a few things: he wanted to show me wallpaper, he mulled over shoes, we watched young men play football, then window-shopped. If that first encounter hadn't happened, I'd say there's a closet door about to open any time now.
Good news: cheeseburgers and beer were on the boss today.
Bad news: the dermatologist used the word "biopsy" in reference to my leg; and my $25 chiropractic fee was wasted on a spine that won't budge.
Amazing news: Oz is coming to town!
Weird news: so is the oft-mentioned fellow. In fact, he was in town today, and will return later in the week.
Then, with all these Olympics everywhere (robbed! they were robbed of the gold! apparently), I heard an announcer say the phrase "there's a little McDonalds in everyone". When you take away the catchy music and just concentrate on the meaning, you're left with a pretty gross concept, no?
The secret solution to everything is Gravol. That’s Gravol ™, not gravel, which is what the Oregonian pharmacist thought I was requesting when my dog was carsick during the trip to the sand dunes with the crazy Key Grip. Funny, though, he does have a propensity for chewing pebbles.
The only Gravol in the house is fruity-flavoured children’s Gravol, which I drank straight from the bottle before slumpfing off to bed at 8:30 last night. It was all in an effort to stop the constant jaw-clenching that I seem to have started months ago, but didn’t notice until it was pointed out to me by my chiropractor. Now, it’s all I notice, and short of mouthbreathing, I’m trying to keep my jaw in a relaxed position. But all of that conscious relaxation makes me tense. Hence, the Gravol.
So after sleeping off the whole weekend, of course I awoke at 1:30 this morning, completely rested and hours away from falling back to sleep again. My mom had dropped off a stack of magazines yesterday, so I thought I’d lull myself back to sleep with visions of hemlines and matte lipstick. I haphazardly grabbed one magazine, headed back to bed with a petite yogurt, and was more than a little shocked to find the magazine of choice was inStyle Wedding. Despite the fact that I’ve worked in the bridal registry of two different china stores in my youth (Georg Jensen & Birk’s), I’ve never once read a bridal magazine. But there I delved at 1:35 am with my pillows stacked high and the aforementioned petite yogurt, into the world of Vera Wang and $1500 cakes and $800 bouquets and whether it’s kosher to wear a full gown at a beach wedding (answer: definitely not! and shoes for men are optional….which led me to decide unequivocally that I will not be having a beach wedding).
The idyllic scene portrayed was so utterly foreign to me that I may as well have been reading a shop manual for VW engines -- and it’s not just because I’m single. Even when I was in a relationship, the thought of a full-scale wedding was absurd. But then again, there was this amazing oyster silk gown – who am I kidding, every page was filled with amazing oyster silk gowns. I’ve already picked out the perfect number for Liane to wear at her wedding.
This all reminded me of the other Liane in my life, my old roommate from Montreal. On the walk up Parc from Mont Royal to Fairmont, we had to pass the bridal shop. "This is cruel," she’d say, as though we were walking the plank of the pitifully single each time we strolled past their window display. Wait, I wasn’t single at the time. And she isn’t single now. But for a time, our wintery nights were punctuated with a cold walk home past oyster silk gowns.
The secret solution to all this is more Gravol before I sleep. And not the fruity-flavoured children’s Gravol, but extra strength adult dosages. And Nylon magazine.
Sob. This is just downright unfair. Two weekends in a row, lost to pain and dull throbbing not-quite-pain. The only upside: the so-sweet guy from Sami's who offered to help me work the kink out of my neck. Why can't I get these sorts of offers when I feel healthy and can make it worth his while? Plus, I've only managed to burn half of the CDs that I was hoping to get done last weekend, and this weekend. Oh, and Mark, your GA CD is at my place, but I'm too mopey to listen to it.
Robert had the worst foot odor I’ve ever encountered in my life. It was a severe compromise as an anti-foot-fetishist to accept his hospitality when it meant sleeping on the old shag carpeting, discoloured and rancid with foot. There were other problems with the apartment – the lack of refrigeration meant we had to buy milk on a daily basis, and the gravitational overhead flushing tank on the toilet was missing, so we had to use a bucket. But these things paled in comparison to the foot odor. I paled too.
I think he paid the equivalent of $5 a month for rent, so it was easy to overlook the broken fridge and toilet. This was Sector 9, on the outskirts of Sofia. Robert had taught himself English by watching 70s television shows and listening to Leonard Cohen and The Doors. He never quite understood the concept of adjectives or adverbs.
"Koprivstisa is a really town," he’d say.
"Really what?"
He’d cock his head, tug on his Rasputin beard, and look at Simon and I as though we were idiots, then he’d repeat it again, slowly this time, so we’d get it: "Like I say, it is a really town. You must go to Koprivstisa."
Before Simon and I headed off to the country, we needed to do laundry. There was an old machine in the bathroom, curdled with lint, and Simon opted for the ease of technology. I scrubbed my skivvies out in the kitchen sink. For the days following, as we hiked through the Rila mountains, Simon would sniff at his jumper (he was Australian) and curl his nose. Robert’s feet had permeated through all of Simon’s clothes, leaving a dull waft of foot whenever Simon would reach forward to grab stale bread from our packs. Disgusting as it sounds, it was somewhat comforting, in a really sort of way.
Yes, I’ve been feeling low since Friday, since the check-up with my G.P. before he left on a week’s golfing tour of Arizona. He’d informed me that the down-side of the prednisone was just that: down. All part of the "what goes up…" school of thought. So I was prepared for a little depression over the weekend, but not the full-scale backache/headache that laid me out on the couch for two days, too pained and depressed to move my finger enough to get the channel off of the back-to-back showing of "My Girl" and "My Girl II" on the Superstation. That’s a side effect I never want to experience again.
Taking matters into my own hands, I booked a session with my buoyant chiropractor this morning. Ah, blood to the noggin – there’s no better feeling in the world, outside of a belly full of chocolate pudding. So, prescription-induced depression on the mend. Free-flowing blood. And grapes are no longer $4/kilo. Things are looking up again.
Then, a compare/contrast discussion of tattoos with Flashdance and Jane in the 4th floor kitchen and how, ten years after the fact, we’re all a little remorseful. But like the weekend, things could always be worse, like the ex-con on the post-chiropractor bus ride who had "BORN TO LOSE" emblazoned on his right hand. I should have given him the remainder of my prednisone.
The other night, I was snubbed by my old boss Christine. First, let me give you a brief history of the relationship between Christine and I: go to your video store and rent "Swimming with Sharks". Now, picture Kevin Spacey as Christine. I'm the combination of Benecio Del Toro and Frank Whaley -- heavy on the Frank Whaley. In fact, friends of mine have even referred to Christine as "Ackerman" in the past. I should say our working relationship started out like "Swimming with Sharks". It ended as something more like "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane".
But no hard feelings, right. I mean, the city is small and inbred, and the film community even moreso. We've gone our separate ways, and still see each other from time to time, and she does the "sweetie" air kiss, and I ask not about business but about her daughter and her health. Coldly amicable, but amicable nonetheless.
Until Thursday night when I was on a date (?!) at Monsoon, where Christine and three other well-respected grande dames of the local film scene were supping. As they were seated by the door, I thought it only polite to stop by and say a brief hello on my way out. She had her back turned to me as I approached the table, and kept her back turned to me the whole time I was there (just a minute or so) chatting with the others. It wasn't as though she didn't know I was there -- the table was butted up against a full-wall mirror.
I have to admit that I was perplexed by this: I hadn't done or said anything that would be currently floating through the rumour mill, so her snubbing seemed so uncalled for and random. What had I done to deserve that? Of course, in retrospect, I had it all backwards. I hadn't done anything wrong -- right now, everything is going so right in my career that maybe it was a case of not wanting to hear about it -- not that I would ever reel out the spiel. She would only every snub out of insecurity. So I'll take the snubbing as a compliment.
Something else to get excited about: all-around snuggly cutie and cartoonist extraordinaire Josh wants to collaborate on a book with me after seeing the animatic that I worked on last month. He wants to do a kids' book, I'm thinking something more along the lines of a Chris Ware or Daniel Clowes-ish graphic novel. I've been working on this screenplay about a toeless cellist and I think that might work nicely.
Oh shit, TRex is being used to sell cars. There should be some unspoken law in advertising that the good music gets left alone. They can use Nickelback or Dave Matthews to push their wares. I'm saddened by the fact that my brother came to Nick Drake through a VW commercial.
