So Fight Club

8:30 - alarm clock bleeps. It's one of those "smart" alarm clocks that bleeps louder and louder the longer you let it go on. Everything's "smart" these days though, like food and cars. One day we're going to make something that's smarter than we are and then we'll be in trouble.

8:39 - alarm clock bleeps again. Every muscle in my body screams and acid runs through my veins as I turn to slam the snooze button. Heroine junkies understand. Lupus victims understand. This is the kind of pain your body inflicts on you because she hates you wants you to die.

8:48 - alarm clock bleeps. I'm fast this time. It goes off before it gets a chance to raise its ugly shrill voice. HAH!

9:01 - alarm clock bleeps. I need to take a shower. I didn't get home til 1 a.m. last night and passed out. Dance class ended at 10 p.m. I had to wait at the corporate condo with all the salesguy after their poker game - $50 sit-in, $150 for 3rd, $200 for 2nd, $300 for 1st. A good sized pot for a bunch of single guys with large disposable incomes. I don't have keys for the apartment (lost them), and Ryan was at his mom's fixing her laptop. He didn't pick me up til well after midnight.

9:10 - alarm clock bleeps. Michaelangelo made it look so easy when he spun on his shell (the Ninja Turtle, not the artist). Maybe if I had a turtle shell, it would make it easier. Basically, how you do a back spin is you sit with your left leg straight out, and your right leg tucked in from the side (side split). You hold on to your right hamstring as you kick it in a wide circle across in one motion throwing your body to its side and following that motion with your left leg kicking in the same direction while scrunching your body into a tight little ball so that you spin balanced on the space between your shoulder blades. It's all in the propeller motion of your legs - the more strength you put into your kick, the faster you'll spin. Kinda like figure skating.

9:19 - alarm clock bleeps. I'm awake now so I can turn off the alarm clock. Lying in bed, I can feel every bone on my body that had made unhealthy contact with the dance floor last night. The outsides of my thighs. Two spots on the back of my hips. My elbows. The muscles around my forearm and armpits are swollen from trying to do The Worm.

9:25 - in the shower. I've never been in a real fight before. I've wanted to though. Once in grade 6, this boy Andrew and I were arguing and I was so angry, my face turned red and we were pushing each other in the snow. Then the bell rang and we went back inside and I didn't talk to him for the rest of the day. He used to get into fights with other boys. He and this boy Lou from the younger class fought behind the playground. Everyone went to watch, and even though I went, I couldn't watch. Physical violence is so distastful to me. And yet, I wonder what it would be like to hit someone. Smack them with my knuckles across their face and watch the little splash of blood fly from their mouth all slow-mo like in movies. I wonder what flesh feels like under such an impact. Will it really feel like I'm hitting another human being, or will it feel like warm wet clay? Sometimes when I'm really angry with someone, I daydream about kicking the living shit out of them. Yet I know I could never do it. Fighting like boxing or karate is exercise. Like Tae-Bo or kick-boxing. I'd do it. But fist-fighting out of hatred or spite - that's just tacky.

9:59 - riding bike to work. Work starts at 10:00 a.m.

10:05 - at work. I feel like I'm 80 years old. It's going to be a long day.

Hello my darlin'! Hello my baby! Hello my ragtime gal!

Last night I dreamt that I was doing freezes like my body weighed nothing. I had a balance problem, but I had no trouble lifting my legs up in the air. It was awesome... if only real life were like that. I have another dance class tonight and I haven't been practicing. =( I'm also feeling extra lathargic and have been forgetting to take my vitamins. I've got a large cup of coffee that has to last me all afternoon if not into the evening. It's really tempting to drink a Red Bull for class, but I'm terrified of well... dying.


My friend, Rita, just got home from Hong Kong. I really miss Hong Kong. I haven't lived there since I was a baby, but it's a very interesting city. It blows my mind how many people are stuffed onto that little island. The apartment buildings are so tall and so close together, they would dwarf our financial district. People dress so crazy there (Note: not stylish like Tokyo... just crazy), and there's so much good food! I really hope datura & I can arrange to go there together because it's a real blast with a friend. You can go on all kinds of adventures and the subway system there is so advanced you can go anywhere by subway! And because of space issues, most people don't own cars, there are always taxis everywhere all red and shiney vroom vroom vroom! My mom's friend has an empty apartment there where he lets guests stay when they visit where I stayed briefly last time I visited, and it'll be available for me next time I go too. =)

Even though I haven't gone anywhere this summer... I'm really glad I took the job here. I'm making some decent summer-job cash (better than most people who have to work retail or service), and I get to spend my afternoons sitting here with my Roastery coffee (I know it's not organic, K - I. don't. care.) chatting with people and doing the crossword and reading the newspaper... good thing my bosses won't read this! =D Life is sweet... I'm lucky because I have so many good friends in this building.

Cheers!

And tho she feels as if she's in a play, she is anyway...

I feel bad that my post of the day was an angry post. So I'll try to write another one.

This morning, Datura comes by early in the morning (a rarity) and says, "If someone writes in a complaint, how could you find out how many other people have the same complaint, but haven't written in about it?"

She suggests a survey.

Good idea... my boyfriend - Programmer & Site Management Extraodinaire agrees. It's the only way, really, to answer such a question. You ask on the survey, "How often do you write complaints to the site? Never/Rarely/Sometimes/Often/Always" Then you take that information and apply it to the different complaints you receive to get a rough estimate on how many people out there have the same complaint.

But no, apparently it's too much trouble.

As opposed to READING THEIR MINDS THROUGH THE INTERNET?

The answer apparently is: Let's Google it!



OK - no more work blahgs. It's just that I spend so much time at work! Tonight, there's supposed to be a life-drawing class at The Gladstone, but I can't go again because of stupid carpet cleaning and stupid visiting Ryan's mom (not that she's stupid, just the distance there is stupid because we have to rent a car). I miss drawing, I should start drawing again. And I should definately look into taking some good pictures of my drawings to start an online portfolio.

There's something very soothing about drawing someone. You become intimate with them in a way that very few people in their lives will ever feel. I always considered maybe drawing on the streets, you know the kind who haunt tourist areas for like $10 a pop. But I only like to draw people whose faces interest me. My favourite piece in my collection would be my portrait of Charles Manson, post-incarceration, pre-Nazi scar on forehead. I drew it for a project I was doing on Helter Skelter for my law class in high school. I offered to give it to my law teacher (who replied, "Why the fuck would I want to keep that in my home?"), and I'm glad that he didn't want it because I think it's one of my better drawings. It was surprising since I usually can't draw men very well because my lines tend lean towards the feminine side.

Besides, I wouldn't want to ever charge people for my drawings. I draw because I love to, not because I need to make a buck. However, I guess since I'm in school now and everything, I accepted $150 for a portrait I did of Ryan's mom's fiancé's daughters for Christmas last year. Just while I'm in school, I think it's ok to sell your art. That's what being a starving artist is all about, isn't it?

My Friend Reilly

Another uneventful morning. Remember back in elementary school and high school when summer seemed endless? Three months of summer vacation is enough to completely wipe out anything you might have unwittingly learned during the other nine months of school. I'm still in school and I technically had four months of summer vacation. But it means fuck all when you live on your own. My goal for this summer is to save $4,000 for the school year. This means I have work 8.5 hours every single day and I have to curb my spending despite my blood-lust for summer clothes.

I'm still trying to decide what I want to do during Labour Day Weekend. Ryan is going to be in Regina for his great-grandma's 95th birthday. And I think by September, I'll have reached my $4,000 goal and will have a couple hundred left over for some last-ditch fun. Part of me wants to find some last-minute flight somewhere and have an adventure. A completely unplanned, crazy adventure starring me and my digital camera. I also have the option of flying to Calgary to hang out with my friend, Dr. Reilly Smith, but unless the flights to Calgary go down in price significantly (right now they're at $388 return), I don't think I'll be able to afford to go.



Let me talk a little about Dr. Reilly Smith. When I met him oh many moons ago, he was just Reilly Smith, medical student with a student loan he has to repay in pennies. We met when I went to Montreal for a French-immersion program for the summer and while I was expecing mostly high school students like myself, it turned out that university students (like Reilly) used it as a cheap excuse for a vacation. The deal went that you paid an $80 application fee, and they give you a free room at l'Université de Montréal for 5 weeks. Included was supposed to be three meals at the cafeteria, but because it was under renovations, they gave us all $600 instead, which most people spent on booze and lived off of canned soup. The downside was you had to attend classes 3 days a week - some people even got homework and tests! The rest of the time, there were group-arranged excursions to places like the Biodome and the beach and an Expos game. For the month, I basically hung out with my neighbours on the 14ième étage - Reilly, Colin and Margie. Colin was in school for engineering and Margie was in school to become a French teacher.



Reilly is the only one of the people I met in Montreal who still keeps in touch with me. He's a very decent fellow who goes on crazy back-packing adventures all over the world. He's also a doctor - some kind of mental-health type doctorb in Calgary. He has wild curly red hair he keeps cutting and letting grow back. I am obsessed with his hair. I have many pictures of the back of his head from Montreal. It's like Orphan Annie's hair all shiney red and orange tumble curls. Mmm... For someone who has straight black hair that resists a curl like an 8 year old boy in a conjugal visit, Reilly's hair is like the Holy Grail of hair. He's extremely useful in all kinds of situations, like if you need someone to peel the skin off your sun tan on your back or if you need someone to walk you home at night who'll find a giant piece of wood to hold as protection.

AND he's single! If anyone's interested in this stud, let me know! Starting bid is at $100.



These pics were taken by Reilly - he's also a photographer with a real analogue camera. Ooooohh... special.

I Heart Rock'n'Roll

Friday night, I was invited to Ryan's boss' BBQ&Kareoke Extravaganza at his house in the Beaches. It's taken me a long time to get used to being around people - especially working people with real careers; people who work together; people who talk a lot about work.

I used to describe myself as "socially retarded" - seriously, I'd tell that to random strangers just to excuse my silence. It was really lazy of me because I was obviously not afraid to go around telling people that I was socially retarded, so it was pure laziness and not fear that made me shy. It's a fucking drain always trying to remember someone's name and what they like to talk about and trying to think of something you have in common. Sometimes, you meet people who you naturally have things in common and it's great because it's like meeting a new old friend. But most people - like 90% of people I meet - are people you need to work hard at.

So my first reaction there is - What am I doing here? I don't know anyone! But I drank a sugar-free Red Bull and smoked a small joint, and next thing I knew I was singing Imagine on the kareoke machine.

Anyway, this was a great office party - partly because it was at the boss' home and there was free booze and BBQ for everyone. Ryan happens to work with some really nice and fun people. His boss had all these biker buddies - sweet old gentlemen in leather with bad-ass tattoos up and down their wrinkley arms and legs - a legacy of a dangerous past dyed into their skin. Lots of Montrealers who I believe are some of the funnest party people in the whole world. They're so funny and they dance really big and they have great rythme. They are people raised by the beat of the bongo drum and the conviction that all people should be treated equally.

They drank and drank - but everyone was at an age when they're too old to get wasted and start puking all over the place. There were torches lit out in the backyard where people chatted and chilled all evening. A video game area was set up for someone's 7-year-old son, and there was no lack of young men in their 20's keeping the kid company. Inside, down in the basement, we all kicked off our shoes and danced and sang kareoke til the early hours of the morning - so loud it was that you could hear it on the street if you opened the front door. I sang my fair share - Imagine, Sunday Morning, Bohemian Rhapsody, Welcome to the Jungle, I Love Rock'n'Roll, New York New York, etc. Kareoke has come a long way since I was little when my Chinese family would have kareoke parties. Only back then (and I'm talking about around 10 years ago), we used giant lazer discs and the only songs that were available for kareoke were oldies. That's how I know how to sing Que Sera, Diana, End of the World, Unchained Melody... All those songs remind me of my mom.

I surprised myself at what a good time I had. I was worried for a moment down in the basement when I had a sudden flash of deja vu - from a dream I had where Ryan was cheating on me. I have those dreams a lot. But the reality is what we make it, and I didn't let my paranoia get the better of me. Whew! It feels good to be sane and chemically balanced for a change...

The Re-Re-Re-Re-Re-Re-Re-immergence of Hip Hop

It is my belief that Hip Hop is taking a major break in the mainstream right now because it was so oversaturated in North America that even kids in Aurora are switching from 92.5 to 107.9 this summer. This is going to give hip hop culture the time to re-coop, weed out the losers who were a flash in the pan anyway (hopefully that includes 50 cent), and come back as a positive and energetic contributer to mainstream music.

BTW, for those of you who have asked, I started my break dancing lesson BEFORE So You Think You Can Dance. I just happen to love the style, and I've always loved dancing to hip-hop music. Plus, I think b-girls are fuckin hot. I've done the goth-girl, I've done the rocker-girl, I've done the hippie-girl, and I've done the retro-girl... but none of those girls have any friggen skillz! I want to be able to rock it with the best of them, and break-dancing is definately the way to go. It demands serious committment and determination, and just because I don't go walking around with one pant leg rolled up and a beanie cap on my head, doesn't mean I don't have the moves.

bGirl sTance

My first break-dance class was fun - exhausting, but fun. We learned how to up-rock (the little dance you do before you throw yourself onto the dancefloor).

The second one was not so fun. We learned how to CC (the Russian dance where you have one hand on the floor and you're throwing one leg out and switching back and forth) and the 6-step (when you have one hand on the floor and you rotate around in a circle by swinging your legs and your body around). That class was awful and I seriously began to wonder if I had gone in over my head. I couldn't keep up with the class. By the end of the class, besides having seriously strained my hamstrings, I still didn't know how to do the 6-step - even after staying behind after class. I couldn't have felt more stupid and useless. Fortunately, everyone in my class is super friendly and supportive, and most of my anxiety was internal.

People naturally have a tendancy to choose activities they can excel at. No one wants to do things they suck at doing. But I'm changing. I'm not the same wayward girl who quit the film club because she didn't have a video camera; or the girl who quit drama club because the other members wanted to create a play called "The Walnut Wars"; or the girl who quit hip-hop dance club because "hip-hop sucks" (it doesn't btw); or the girl who quit Japanese, Mandarin and Chinese class because she didn't want to memorize the characters. No, that girl didn't know shit.

The last class (yesterday) was the best so far. We were learning how to do freezes (where you balance on your head and hands and lift your legs up in the air). This was definately by far the most difficult exercise we've learned in that class. And after kicking myself the entire previous week for sucking so bad, I went to that class with no expectations except that I'd probably fall on my face and break something. But no biggie - I paid for the lessons, so I was going to go and soldier onward. I promised myself not to do anything I didn't think I could physically handle and stay safe. I still tried. And boy did I try. We were taught 3 different freezes, and I could only really do the last one (where I'm partly standing on my head, my left knee held up with my right arm, and my left arm holding up my body at my hip). It took a long time. All the girls were having trouble.

At first, I was afraid of holding myself up with my head. This is hardwood dance floor, I'm talking about, not something you'd want to hurt your head on. I also realise that my muscles are not strong enough to hold my body up - not the muscles in my arms, or the muscles in my torso. The teacher says once we learn to distribute the weight evenly between our two hands and head, we don't need a lot of strength at all to do a freeze. Right, buddy. Says a boy who has no body fat and tight little muscles balled up all over his body. My ass is damn heavy and I fell over a lot like a sausage rolling off a table many times.

But when you're in class, it's hard to just give up. Nobody forced me to try, but I couldn't just sit there staring at everyone. At one point, I just took a deep breath, put my hands and head to the ground and felt my whole body paying attention... waiting in position. And suddenly my legs were up in the air. It lasted for about half a second, but it was happening - and the whole class appluded! - then my arms gave out and I fell on my shoulder.

Break dancing is like nothing I've ever tried before. I never did any sports. I used to forge notes to get myself out of gym class. I prefered intellectual endeavours and artistic pursuits where I could think or draw myself to the top. I didn't have to be the best, but being one of the best was where I felt most comfortable. I've never been the laggard. I've never been the one who had to play catch-up. I never had to stay after class. I avoided anything physical because I knew my body wasn't really made for sports. I can't run for shit and I throw like a girl (I can catch tho!). And I hate being in direct competition with people in physical activities because no matter how hard I run, or how hard I throw the ball, I'm just never good enough.

So here I am in a break-dancing class doing a fuckin freeze on my head! You can't imagine the kind of calm you feel when you're balancing your whole body on your head and two hands. It's kind of like yoga. With better music.

The Art of Being Min

I'm a blog-junkie. It's just so goddamn relaxing and satisfying. There's really nothing more gratifying than seeing your opinions and experiences published online - published anywhere! If I could see my words in print - even better! But on a blog, you also get all these nice people (datura, frosted, clownboy, du hast smoke!) reading it regularily and responding... it's a little like being famous and it's a little like having friends. It's so cool using these blogger names too - after all, isn't that what being part of the world wide web in the new millenium is all about?

The art is by Colin Stark - found on www.colinstark.com.

Who I am online is not who I am in real life. It's always been this way. Since I first got the Internet when I was 12, I've been a chat junkie. The very idea of being able to communicate with total strangers around the world was so enticing that by the age of 13, I had an ICQ list of 160 - most of whom were older folk in the States (even some Quake II clansmen). That may be the reason why I never really fit in at school or amongst other people my age. No one else I knew was really into chatting with strangers. I love strangers. Even now (especially now) there's nothing I like to do more than meet some cool strangers and force them to be my friends.

But like I was saying, I'm different online. When I write online, I write big. I write aggressive. I write deep. I write obscene. I write glib. I write sarcastic. In "real life", I talk nice. I talk quiet. I talk honest. I listen. Datura said my last post sounded intimidating - like I was some trendy city-girl who knew what was what. As much as I love that she thought that because yes, a part of me does aspire to be That Kind of Girl, I really am not. I don't go to parties. I don't really have a lot of friends in the city (or in general). I don't drink or do coke. I don't go see plays or visit galleries very often (although I'd like to). I don't go to see local bands play (because honestly - too many of them really suck so I don't go unless someone trustworthy recommends them, which happens rarer than you'd think). I don't have a lot of really cool trendy clothes (working on it!). I don't do any real art-art - nothing gallery-worthy anyway. So yeah... tons of stuff I don't do that would disqualify me as a trendy city-girl who knows what's what. What I do have is a healthy self-esteem and a decent vocabulary to express my opinions.

This is not who I used to be, and this is not who I will be tomorrow - but it is enough to get me through today at least.

Min_o sez...

What's with all the fucking product promotions I've been doing on my blog?




Vice

I don't need to tell you that Vice is an awesome magazine. Everyone knows that already. But did you KNOW that they'll send you a free CD full of sometimes-awesome-sometimes-really-weird music and a DVD of videos-you've-never-seen-before-because-they're-so-fucked-up-and-or-shitty if you subscribe? I know it's a free magazine. I know you can pick up a copy at Metropolis Records and the Vice store that is now located on the far West side of Queen St. But come on... I did the math. If I went downtown on the streetcar, it costs $2.50 each way ($5 round trip). You do that for 10 months (the subscription is for 10 issues) - and you're out like $50. I spent $35 in December and have received every issue PLUS a free CD&DVD in my mailbox minus the headache of being downtown and it's all wrapped in very environmentally-unfriendly plastic so every issue is pristine and shiney. HAH!



Believer

Haven't read it yet, but it looks fucking awesome. It's published by McSweeneys, whom I heard of after reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. Ryan heard about it somehow and got a subscription because of the music issue which includes a free compilation CD of covers of really good bands (yeah, we're both free-CD-whores). There are no pictures or ads in the whole thing, and it's basically a book with excerpts from other books so basically you have the luxury of sampling new books in the comfort of your own home before you go out to buy it. They also have interviews with different authors (and in this issue with musicians like Beck) and editorials. I've found that all McSweeney authors have great prose and wit, and it's a real pleasure to read anything they compose - even a fake geological book about giraffes (best fucking giraffe book I've ever read - kicks Jim Giraffe to the fucking curb).

Comme il fait...

La Filme

I watched Charlie & the Chocolate Factory on Sunday and it was disappointing. In a nutshell, these were my main problems with it:

• The Oompa Loompa Musical Sequences (not just because the original was perfect - they just totally over-did it)
• The Character Developments and Relationships (the relationships between the parents and the kids weren't as clear as they should've been since this is a big theme in the book, and especially lacking was the relationship between Charlie and Grandpa Joe)
• Johnny Depp (yes, I said it - JOHNNY DEPP was a big problem. He was wayyyy too creepy! Too much Michael Jackson, not enough Jean Wilder.)

But there were other things I loved about the movie:

• The Look (Tim Burton never fails.)
• The Musical Score - minus the Oompa Loompa shit (Again, another area where Tim Burton is always extraodinary.)
• The Cast (everyone looked and sounded like characters from the books, and the acting was perfect - if only Johnny Depp didn't make Willy Wonka so unnecessarily creepy)

I'm really looking forward to see The Corpse Bride - the next Tim Burton movie. It's claymation like Nightmare Before Christmas which was an amazing film. Johnny Depp is the voice of the main character - big surprise! But Emily Lee is in it and she's always very charming, so I think it will turn out to be a very well-rounded cast of characters.


La Musique

Ryan's trying to get me to listen to a band called The Coral. Even he admits that it's a bit boring. I think it's groin-numbingly boring. Mmm... I love using the word groin. Obscenity is so much fun! There is no fun in being politically correct or polite all the time. You have to be those things most of the time to make the occasional boughts of obscenity special. If you're obscene all the time, then you're just an asshole (look at Charles Bukowski!), and you'll die a lonely, angry man.

But back to the music thing - it's really difficult for me to get into new music. The main problem is my job. Although I can blast music in reception all day, I can only mentally register like 5 songs because of all the distractions. That's why I always put on my favourite play list - 140 hand-picked songs, so if I ever have a free moment to listen to music, it'll be guaranteed something I like. On the days when I'm actually trying to try out a new album, I put three on rotation and just keep listening to them the entire day. Usually by the end of the day, I'll have some favourite songs picked out to put on my play list.

I find it really difficult to get into new music. It's like new songs have to fight my old songs for a spot in my brain. This is probably why songs from movie soundtracks always make it because of the additional emotional value that song will already possess.


La Livre

That's enough rambling for today, I think. I should make some time to read On the Road (J. Kerouac) - Ryan's copy which I suspect was stolen from The Aurora Public Library (the stamp inside gives it away). Ryan has agreed to read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers finally! It's one of my favourite books, I recommend it to anyone with any kind of literary interest at all.

More on "Stoned @ Werk - After Hours"

Ha-ha! And the cleaning lady thinks I'm here on unholy business. What devilry! What mischief! What fun!

Stoned @ Werk - After Hours

So... it's 8:15 p.m. and I've unwittingly broken into my office. I don't have keys to my apartment and my common-law boyfriend is nowhere to be found. It is my suspicion that he is at the bar getting semi-drunk on an empty stomach (he doesn't usually eat without me). But I was panicked for a moment wherein I stupidly (thanks Christopher!) opened the window to get some of the air conditioning out (yes I am a horrible beast) and triggered our alarm system. It was quite the commotion! But fortunately, I have the code so I was able to deactivate it. Now I'm just sitting here listening to some music and writing my blog. Just relaxing before I go over to the bar and get really upset with Ryan. Hopefully he'll be smart and leave quickly because I don't want to scold him in front of his workmates. Still... he should have known better. Wow! My grammer is quite good whilst I am high. How very interesting. I said "interesting" in such a way in which I pronounced every single syllable.

Fak u! Not all posts can win Pulitzers.

The last post was pretty heavy, and this isn't one of those heavy woe-is-me blogs because I'm not that kind of person, which is probably why I've never been able to write a blog because I usually don't have anything to say, for example, today there's really one thing on my mind and it's the innumerable mosquito/black fly bites I have on my feet, swollen and pulsing with poisoned blood, my ankles are so fat it hurts to walk, but all I'm thankful for is the air conditioning I'm privvy to enjoy at this job where I sit comfortably on my ass all day talking to people about the weather and movies.

So there you have it folks... if I'm not waxing intellectual about life philosophy, I'm bitching about mosquito bites. That's modern day middle-class hedomism for you, eh? Yeah yeah... I'm a fucking twit.

Drill a hole in my wooden head and Insert Here.

Life has a way of answering your questions - you just have to keep yourself open for the answer.
In my last post, I lamented about how I felt left out of all the "fun" drunk people have. Last night showed me many things - a. I'm not socially retarded even though I don't drink. b. There's more to life than pretty people and parties.

These things I already knew. But the mainstream of popular culture bombards us with the idea that a. if your life doesn't revolve around pretty people and parties, then b. you are socially retarded ESPECIALLY if you don't drink.

For someone who spends as much time watching television as I do, it's no wonder I leaped into the pits of despair drama-queen style about my social status. I am, after all, still a young girl with unmentionable vulernabilities hidden in my psyche waiting for the least opportune moments to trigger itself and unleash that unholy beast known as Jealousy, Spite and Wrath. But life is a series of questions and answers, and last night's epiphany was all part of the spiritual quest I am on.


Lesson 1 of the evening: It doesn't matter what you're doing, as long as you're doing. Even if you suck.

First, I went to my break-dance class. I was terrible, but for some reason, I wasn't embarrassed. I suck! So what? Life goes on - the important thing is that I'm there and I'm learning. I'm determined to train my body to be able to do this because I'm still young and I still can.


Lesson 2: Stop being such a neurotic mad woman. What matters is WHAT happens, not what you THINK is happening.

I had to meet Ryan at the bar for a drink with the people from his office, but because it was so filthy hot and I was so sticky from my class, I decided to walk down King St. for a bit. I walk by 606 where my ex boyfriend works and saw his friend Matty. Matty and I used to get along pretty well, I think. We used to talk about piano and life and stuff. So I waved at him and he waved back. Maybe I was wrong, but I took the wave as an invitation to say hi and chat. I wasn't interested in talking about my ex boyfriend with him. Not anymore. Nothing left to say, really. But the bouncer (whose name I could never remember) stepped infront of me. Maybe I misread his intention, but as he chatted with me it occured to me that maybe he was trying to keep me away from Matty? Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I felt I had more to say to Matty than to the bouncer. As you can see, I was being super neurotic. Aside from the maybes, what happened was: I walked by 606 and talked to the bouncer about break-dancing. That's it.


I didn't learn that lesson right away. Because I was feeling slightly rejected and insulted (I mean, come on - I am NOT the crazy bitch psycho ex-girlfriend you need to hide behind a bouncer from), I decided to walk around through some side streets looking for a place where I could just sit and relax and stop thinking so goddamn much.

I walked by a giant church and considered sitting on its front steps, but some idiot thought it would be cool to light the front up as if it was some kind of concert venue. I wanted something less open. I wanted somewhere safe and enclosed.


Lesson 3: Once you have no standards, you are free to go beyond them.

Across the street was an art gallery where my old boss Rod used to always say he wanted to buy stone sculptures from so I thought I could sit on one of the sculptures. The gallery was closed, but still lit so I just stared at the paintings. I don't know if it's just because I like to draw a lot or what but when I look at a piece of art, I find I spend more time checking out things like brush strokes and bleeding than anything else. The featured artist did black and white life paintings, a lot like the charcoal drawings I do. Maybe I can paint too? I was inspired. Not inspired in the sense that I thought of something I could go home and draw, but by seeing someone else's work, I could imagine myself working on my own art. It's not difficult. There are no rules with art, no rights or wrongs. It's possibly one of the easiest things you can do like breathing and blinking.


Lesson 4: When life teaches you a lesson, you need to create something with it and share it with those around you. If you keep your life all to yourself, you would not exist.

So I thought to myself, what am I doing here whining about what some skinny barback thinks of me? I barely knew the guy... only that he was a big doormat who let his cokehead girlfriend walk all over him (this is not spite talking... he really is like that and she really did do that). So as I was staring at these paintings, I was finally able to drive away my insecurities and focus on my possibilities. I COULD paint if I wanted to. I just need an eisle (which I wanted to get anyway), some pre-stretched canvases and some acrylic paints. I make art that could make people happy, cry, scream... share my experiences and my ideas.


You can only stare at the same paintings so long, though. On that lonely side street, I wasn't ready to go to the bar, and what I really wanted - no needed - was more art. Art is a relfection of one's emotions (methinks), and I wanted to experience someone else's because I was So Done with dealing with mine.


Lesson 5: The secret to a really good time is just people who are willing to listen and share.

A side door to another gallery was propped open by a big rock, and there was a little grey tabby cat curled up on the step. Tell me that's not the most inviting door in the universe? I walked inside, "Hello!" Next thing I knew, I was introduced to Olivier (the artist and gallery owner) and Ryan (a graffiti artist), sipping green tea and just chatting about art, break-beats and life.


When I finally left after my little tea cup was drained and the cats were vying for Olivier's attention, I was exhilerated. I made a new friend and I finally learned that those false images of the good life shown on TV are just an empty dream full of fake smiles and heavily mascaraed eyes. I'm not the same girl Matty and Anonymous Bouncer knew. I'm not the geeky, socially inept retard that hot girls pick on on TV. I have talents and I have fears; there are people out there who are going to open up to me and I should reciprocate generously; there are also people out there who just aren't going to be on my wavelength, and I need to be ok with that or I'm going to be stressed about something I can't help. Life is too short and too precious to let petty societal shit trip me up.

These lessons are not new... I have watched movies about them, read books about them, talked to myself about them... everything but do something about them. So here I am, writing them down so I won't forget again. It's time for me to listen to my life lessons because I'm really tired of repeating the same mistakes over and over again.

Nobody wants to be an alcoholic more than me.

I'm a non-drinking, non-cig-smoking, pot-smoker. Basically, this means I don't go out very much and sit at home laughing a lot. For the most part, I feel like a total loser. As much as I complain about how bars and clubs are a waste of time and money (and part of me knows this is usually true), I can't help but feel that I'm missing out on something very exciting. Sure we can hide behind the pretense that trendy club people are intellectually inferior and spiritually void, but this is just an assumption. Being a left-wing hippie-type person, I don't actually get to associate a lot with people on the Other Side. All I have are pictures that show them having an awesome time.

I just finished looking at someone's photo gallery with pictures of trendy girls with shiney, streaked hair showing lots of cleavage and hipster guys with those perfectly faded jeans and vintage-print t-shirts at a bar or a club looking like they're having the time of their lives. I don't have pictures like that. My pictures are of camping trips - buncha white people in plaid around a camp fire; or my puppy Peaches being cute; or my best asian friends at dinner on the rare occasions when we actually all get together. My vaction pics are of architecture and landscape; funny faces; funny signs. That's why I haven't put up an online gallery because who would want to see that??? I don't think I have any pictures of hot people getting drunk. The only hot people I know I only get to see at (of all places!) in strip clubs where (as I have learned) you cannot take any pictures. Not even of your friends.

So am I boring? Sure I watch an unhealthy amount of TV, and I can rarely muster up more than 5 minutes of chit-chat... but I have interesting things to say - sometimes. Right? I don't know anymore. Going out to a club and bar sober is torture. At first it's fine, and I feel great being out. But as people start drinking more and more, it's only natural that they become increasingly obnoxious. And then I start to resent the people around me for having a better time than me. It's unfair, I know... but I actually physically cannot handle alcohol and it bugs the hell out of me. Pot's not the same. Pot makes me want to sit somewhere and talk forever. I can't do coke anymore because it's too expensive and besides it's a stupid drug anyway that'll ruin your brain and your relationships with people (sadly I've seen it happen). Everything else is too far out for public places. I just want something legal that I can abuse and get high off of! Sometimes I wish to God I could drink just so I don't feel so left out.

¿ Whassup wid dat ?

This is what you get.

The Poo Lady

Once upon a time, there was a very big city where millions of very busy people spent their entire lives running around in it. This very big city had lots of very tall buildings of glistening glass and bright flourescent lights which twinkled in the night sky making this city quite beautiful and exciting - from far away.

Upon taking a closer look, the city streets are lined with garbage and filled with thousands of cars inching their way along the hot pavement pumping so much black smoke into the sky that the city birds are greasy with dirt and grime. The people are so busy that they charge past one another on the street without a smile or a friendly word to one another. Some are much much much too busy so they charge down the sidewalks talking to their pinhead-sized phones; others are too distracted by their John Grisham novels and their iPods to notice any one of the millions of people in the city.

Amidst the engine roar of the cars, the people yelling into their mobile phones, and the greasey pigeons and seagulls that screech at little children with ice cream cones like vultures waiting for their prey to die in the desert, there lives a little old woman too small to be noticed who goes about a very strange business indeed.

She wears droopy dresses made of old curtains and little old shoes that shuffle slowly as she makes her way from garbage can to garbage can. In those garbage cans she pulls out little plastic bags filled with little clumps of poo, which she extricates and scatters on the ground.

The Poo Lady does this at many garbage cans in the city, scattering dog poo in a seemingly random design. Her hands are permanently stained brown and crusty when she goes home to her rundown old victorian house where she lives with Crazy Screaming Guy, Quiet Humming Guy and The Pirate. She often sits by her window and feeds crumbs to the neighbourhood raccoon who enjoys tanning on the roof.

Some people think that Poo Lady is crazy. They speculate on why she scatters poo and argues over whether or not she is after the tiny plastic bags that people buy specifically to hold tiny pieces of poo. They watch her every day and tell their friends about her. She is as amusing to them as a FOX reality show; she is someone they can talk about during their cigarette breaks.

But Poo Lady doesn't need a reason or an audience. In this very big city where very busy people run around all day chasing impossible dreams, Poo Lady scatters poo without expectation for reward or praise with only a mysterious faith to drive her forward. For someone who probably can't spell the word "enlightenment", Poo Lady is pretty damn close.