This last weekend found us in the not too far away land of St. Julie where we were teleported away from reality to create our own. The game is called Le Domaine du Createur and the goal is… well whatever you want really. What I’m speaking of exactly is a live action role playing game (LARP) where people dress up in costumes, assume a different personality, name, history, etc… and pretend to be in a fantasy world. We have foam covered weapons, and incantations to memorize for spells. It requires some imagination but it’s tremendous fun. We also have people playing the roles of monsters and other important characters to the story line. All in all, it’s quite fun if you manage to get into it, however I can understand those who have trouble relating to this game.
Every time I've played Domaine I’ve had this overwhelming fear of the dark and getting jumped when I least expect it. However in my own defense I'm pretty good with a blade and my reflexes are on the ball. In any case I’d decided to use this opportunity to challenge my most serious fears and address an issue that I have been pondering upon for quite sometime. That is the classic notion of chivalry and the medieval fantasy novel according to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I’m a big fan of the Arthurian myths, and even have some formal education concerning some of the more influential versions of the legends. Whilst every author is inconsistent and took liberties in twisting and bastardizing the stories to suit the times, the typical Arthurian knight always possesses certain attributes. One great physical prowess. Two courtly respect to women. Three respect to God. Four fearlessness. Five gross stupidity, with some exceptions. In any case all of the men who show up in the tales are portrayed as prime examples of humanity and the incarnation of heroism.
Modern fantasy novels, however, tend to break these rules. Furthermore not too many people play stupid characters in say D&D, or LARPs for that matter. So I figure I have a unique intelligent concept relating to a subject which has fascinated me since I was but a wee lad, and I get to fight like crazy. Furthermore I get to confront one of my great fears. The only drawback to this is that in Domaine, such a character typically wouldn’t last very long. Bingo. A short term character who I’m not afraid of losing. I would go down in a blaze of glory and fire, probably in one game. Domaine gives you six lives per character.
The only thing I hadn’t calculated was that I was sleeping close to the healers of the game and ended up getting my ass saved one million times. Nevertheless I managed to lose three out of six lives, and had a terrific time challenging everything. I was speaking in a bad rendition of a Shakespearian play. In short it kicked ass. At the end of the game I was voted second most implicated character in story line, and third best for role-play. I will now attempt to relate one of my deaths, in my mind the most exciting of the game.
The wolves howled in unison, and it would have brought a slight prickle to the back of Sir Edmund’s neck had he not been warmed by a feeling of comfort in his heart. Sator was ever with him, and as such he could not fail. Sator had already denied him rest twice since his arrival in Terra Nova, and Edmund was convinced that he would not reach the arms of his God before the task which had been laid before him was accomplished. Right now however, his mind was only on how to bring back his friends who had been turned into beasts.
Edmund followed the raiding party which attempted to track the animals in vain. Their prey was too fast, and too cunning in the darkness to be jumped by the clumsy loud crowd. The wolves were intelligent, they would pick out single targets and slowly wear them down. Edmund was not afraid however. Sator would guide him.
In a moment three women showed up declaring an attack by the wolves on the Inn. The women had also died but been brought back by the grace of God. They announced that they would return to the Inn and guard it.
“Nay my lady,” replied Sir Edmund. "The wood doth reek with the villainy of foul beasts. Mayhaps t’would be best that thou abide here awhile whilst I slay the creatures.”
“I’m sorry sir but my boss will fire us if we don’t get back to the Inn, and the magics of this land keep us alive even after death,” replied the old one.
“Then my lady I shall accompany thee and thy friends for tis my duty and honor as a knight to protect and guide women in need of assistance.”
“But sir, there are wolves about.”
“Indeed, and tis not in my nature to allow the weak to walk about unattended. Come fair one and I shall deliver thee unto thy Inn and guard thee with my life. This I swear.”
“Then you are welcome sir,” and off he went, sword drawn, his chain mail glistening in the twilight.
In a few minutes they had reached the Inn which had been put into disarray by the attacks of the evening. The women went about their cleaning whilst Sir Edmund remained at the door his eyes vigilant. Minutes passed and nothing. He turned his eyes away from the firelight so as not too lose his night-vision.
They came on him fast and hard. They must have been ten in number, and at their approach one of the women screamed. He drew his sword and charged the closest wolf felling it quickly with a few smart blows. He then turned to the second.
“Back foul beast. Back to whence though camest from, for the light of Sator is with me and thy assault will not avail thee. Back, or I shall be forced to cut thee down.” The beast merely snarled and pounced at him forcing him back but not before his sword connected cutting deep into the creature’s thigh. Suddenly he was sized from behind as another wolf wrestled him onto a table. It’s jaws flashed in the fire and bit deep into his armor. Edmund pushed with all his might but to no avail. Sator was going to demand yet another sacrifice of him. “Well then beast finish it. End it now so that I may continue my given task.” The creature slashed at his face and jumped off.
Meanwhile the remaining wolves circled. Edmund regained his footing despite the blood dripping into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He noticed the women huddled in the corner and he interposed his body between them and their assailants. He hurled a cry of aid to Sator and charged.
They left him in pieces, blood no longer pouring onto the ground for there was little left of his body for the wounds to bleed from. A fat wolf licked the blood and howled at the sky. Her brothers followed suit, as they retreated into the twilight.
T’was truly a kickass way to die I say.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Trying times are at and end,
Fleeting thoughts to make amend,
Entropy bending power true,
Nothing which is miscontrued,
Falling false lies the cure,
Freeing memory will endure,
Falsely thinking it was done,
Mainly manly it's begun,
Winter heat commences hard,
Waking windows in the yard,
Booming banging on the beach,
Longing loving to beseach,
Vainly vaining valiant love,
Cowards flee the crystal dove,
Tables drop and crash to bits,
Pianos bend in the abyss,
Curdling crying cracking cross,
Rememberance of loss,
Memory is a hard'ning thing,
Sloftly singing suffering,
Careful indifference calculated cold,
Twists that which eye behold.
So run, shout, jump, dance, row,
Welcome my abode.
Fleeting thoughts to make amend,
Entropy bending power true,
Nothing which is miscontrued,
Falling false lies the cure,
Freeing memory will endure,
Falsely thinking it was done,
Mainly manly it's begun,
Winter heat commences hard,
Waking windows in the yard,
Booming banging on the beach,
Longing loving to beseach,
Vainly vaining valiant love,
Cowards flee the crystal dove,
Tables drop and crash to bits,
Pianos bend in the abyss,
Curdling crying cracking cross,
Rememberance of loss,
Memory is a hard'ning thing,
Sloftly singing suffering,
Careful indifference calculated cold,
Twists that which eye behold.
So run, shout, jump, dance, row,
Welcome my abode.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
A Bedtime Story
Once upon a time in a land far far away there lived a lovely young woman named Sandra. Sandra was short. Sandra was tall. Sandra was thin. Sandra was large. Sandra was whatever she wanted to be, whenever she wanted to be. Because of her power, Sandra was able to do anything she wished, and she became very wealthy from being a rock star one day, a doctor the next. Sandra could do anything. Sandra could work. Sandra could play. Sandra would be famous. Sandra would be unknown. Sandra could be rich. Sandra could be poor. And each day Sandra did something different. And Sandra was happy.
One day, however, Sandra grew ill. She tried every remedy she knew. She tried all the things she liked. She made all the things she wanted, but she could not feel any better. She asked everyone she knew. She called everyone they knew. She saw all the doctors in the world, but no one could find what was wrong.
And then one day Sandra met a girl. The girl was small. The girl was skinny. The girl was dirty. The girl smelled bad. Sandra wanted to go away, but she didn’t feel well at all. And so the girl came up to her. And asked her why she was crying. And Sandra couldn’t answer.
Sandra was weeping. Sandra was shaking. Sandra didn’t feel well at all. And so Sandra took the girl back to her big house. And Sandra put the girl in her bed. And together they fell asleep.
Several day’s passed, and the girl stayed with Sandra. She would follow her around. She would watch her. She would smile. Sandra didn’t know what to think. Sandra wasn’t scared. Sandra wasn’t mad. But Sandra felt better, so Sandra let her stay.
Many years passed, and Sandra and the girl became friends. Sandra told her things. Sandra went places with her. Sandra liked the girl. And the girl liked Sandra.
Sandra’s friends were mad. Sandra’s friend grew jealous. Sandra’s friends were mean. They didn’t like the girl. She was small. She was skinny. She was dirty. She smelled bad. And then one day they lied to Sandra.
“She just likes you because of your power.” They said. “You don’t need her. Sandra is the best. Sandra is strong. Sandra doesn’t need the dirty girl.” So Sandra made her leave. And the girl left.
And soon again Sandra got sick. Sandra was ill. Sandra was empty. She asked everyone she knew. She called everyone they knew. She saw all the doctors in the world, but no one could find what was wrong. It was much like the last time she was sick.
So Sandra went back to the place where she had met the girl. And Sandra found her. And Sandra began to cry. Sandra didn’t feel well at all. But she was happy to have found her. The girl was small. The girl was skinny. The girl was dirty. The girl smelled bad. But the girl was beautiful. And Sandra loved her. And Sandra was better.
And they lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time in a land far far away there lived a lovely young woman named Sandra. Sandra was short. Sandra was tall. Sandra was thin. Sandra was large. Sandra was whatever she wanted to be, whenever she wanted to be. Because of her power, Sandra was able to do anything she wished, and she became very wealthy from being a rock star one day, a doctor the next. Sandra could do anything. Sandra could work. Sandra could play. Sandra would be famous. Sandra would be unknown. Sandra could be rich. Sandra could be poor. And each day Sandra did something different. And Sandra was happy.
One day, however, Sandra grew ill. She tried every remedy she knew. She tried all the things she liked. She made all the things she wanted, but she could not feel any better. She asked everyone she knew. She called everyone they knew. She saw all the doctors in the world, but no one could find what was wrong.
And then one day Sandra met a girl. The girl was small. The girl was skinny. The girl was dirty. The girl smelled bad. Sandra wanted to go away, but she didn’t feel well at all. And so the girl came up to her. And asked her why she was crying. And Sandra couldn’t answer.
Sandra was weeping. Sandra was shaking. Sandra didn’t feel well at all. And so Sandra took the girl back to her big house. And Sandra put the girl in her bed. And together they fell asleep.
Several day’s passed, and the girl stayed with Sandra. She would follow her around. She would watch her. She would smile. Sandra didn’t know what to think. Sandra wasn’t scared. Sandra wasn’t mad. But Sandra felt better, so Sandra let her stay.
Many years passed, and Sandra and the girl became friends. Sandra told her things. Sandra went places with her. Sandra liked the girl. And the girl liked Sandra.
Sandra’s friends were mad. Sandra’s friend grew jealous. Sandra’s friends were mean. They didn’t like the girl. She was small. She was skinny. She was dirty. She smelled bad. And then one day they lied to Sandra.
“She just likes you because of your power.” They said. “You don’t need her. Sandra is the best. Sandra is strong. Sandra doesn’t need the dirty girl.” So Sandra made her leave. And the girl left.
And soon again Sandra got sick. Sandra was ill. Sandra was empty. She asked everyone she knew. She called everyone they knew. She saw all the doctors in the world, but no one could find what was wrong. It was much like the last time she was sick.
So Sandra went back to the place where she had met the girl. And Sandra found her. And Sandra began to cry. Sandra didn’t feel well at all. But she was happy to have found her. The girl was small. The girl was skinny. The girl was dirty. The girl smelled bad. But the girl was beautiful. And Sandra loved her. And Sandra was better.
And they lived happily ever after.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Concerning the weekend.
This last weekend found us in the not too far away wilderness of St. Donat on which there is a fabulous lake. The weather Friday was warm, cloudy, some light rain, but not enough to bring down the mood. Upon arriving, an aura of austerity was felt, and all of us lapsed into a comfortable sense of blah. A fire was built to add to the feeling of meh, and dinner was cooked.
At everyone’s insistence I will attempt to do justice to the salad which was eaten after our pasta with vegetarian tomato sauce. And so with what little skill I possess I will attempt to put into words that which was ingested by the females, but not by the males (there is a deeper connotation to that statement, but I digress). The salad in itself was normal, green. I remember it consisting only of lettuce. The sauce which went on top of the salad, however, was smooth, slimy, electric pink. It was a grand pink, a majestic pink. A kind of a pink which would make wrestling costume designers swoon in ecstasy. A kind of a pink which made porn stars, showgirls seem classy. It was a kind of a pink that even Vegas casinos would kill for. A pink so bright that the even human retina could barely behold its glory for more than a few seconds. And so, as I am not one to back down from putting comestible things down my esophagus, I too shielded mine eyes from the neon bright substance and chewed…. I tell truth when I say it wasn’t that bad except that this mental block instituted itself. Hence I backed down from the challenge and abstained from further consumption of the organic thing. Soon it was all eaten, and the women got sick. God bless the masculine instinct.
The remainder of the weekend was spent out in blissful uselessness and unproductivity. We swam, we canoed, we wrestled. The water was cold even after getting used to the temperature. I know this from the masculine thermometer concerning size and hardness. It was fun.
On Saturday evening we temporarily left our sheltered world for a game of mini golf. I was defeated in the first round, but round two favored me when we allowed for “psyche outs.” I highly recommend this adaptation of “Baseketball” rules to mini golf. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking aboot, rent “Baseketball.” It’s a movie. It’s hilarious.
Saturday night found us with two additional guests. We drank, we ate, we spun fire. The evening ended with us climbing up on the rooftop of the cottage, watching the stars. The clouds had parted. It was a beautiful evening.
I would have liked to stay longer but alas, all good things must come to an end.
Going back to a few weeks ago I remember blasting nature and declaring myself a city lover. I stand by what I said, however wish to point out certain differences aboot this trip. Firstly we were in a warm cottage with working, comfortable toilets, and running hot water. The showerhead in particular was extremely effective. Next, there was the lake in which we swam. I love water. Finally the presence of bugs was not nearly as abundant as the last trip. Hence I declare myself a slave to civilized living.
Thank you, thank you very much.
This last weekend found us in the not too far away wilderness of St. Donat on which there is a fabulous lake. The weather Friday was warm, cloudy, some light rain, but not enough to bring down the mood. Upon arriving, an aura of austerity was felt, and all of us lapsed into a comfortable sense of blah. A fire was built to add to the feeling of meh, and dinner was cooked.
At everyone’s insistence I will attempt to do justice to the salad which was eaten after our pasta with vegetarian tomato sauce. And so with what little skill I possess I will attempt to put into words that which was ingested by the females, but not by the males (there is a deeper connotation to that statement, but I digress). The salad in itself was normal, green. I remember it consisting only of lettuce. The sauce which went on top of the salad, however, was smooth, slimy, electric pink. It was a grand pink, a majestic pink. A kind of a pink which would make wrestling costume designers swoon in ecstasy. A kind of a pink which made porn stars, showgirls seem classy. It was a kind of a pink that even Vegas casinos would kill for. A pink so bright that the even human retina could barely behold its glory for more than a few seconds. And so, as I am not one to back down from putting comestible things down my esophagus, I too shielded mine eyes from the neon bright substance and chewed…. I tell truth when I say it wasn’t that bad except that this mental block instituted itself. Hence I backed down from the challenge and abstained from further consumption of the organic thing. Soon it was all eaten, and the women got sick. God bless the masculine instinct.
The remainder of the weekend was spent out in blissful uselessness and unproductivity. We swam, we canoed, we wrestled. The water was cold even after getting used to the temperature. I know this from the masculine thermometer concerning size and hardness. It was fun.
On Saturday evening we temporarily left our sheltered world for a game of mini golf. I was defeated in the first round, but round two favored me when we allowed for “psyche outs.” I highly recommend this adaptation of “Baseketball” rules to mini golf. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking aboot, rent “Baseketball.” It’s a movie. It’s hilarious.
Saturday night found us with two additional guests. We drank, we ate, we spun fire. The evening ended with us climbing up on the rooftop of the cottage, watching the stars. The clouds had parted. It was a beautiful evening.
I would have liked to stay longer but alas, all good things must come to an end.
Going back to a few weeks ago I remember blasting nature and declaring myself a city lover. I stand by what I said, however wish to point out certain differences aboot this trip. Firstly we were in a warm cottage with working, comfortable toilets, and running hot water. The showerhead in particular was extremely effective. Next, there was the lake in which we swam. I love water. Finally the presence of bugs was not nearly as abundant as the last trip. Hence I declare myself a slave to civilized living.
Thank you, thank you very much.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
The Man wore beige shorts, brown leather sandals, and a black shirt. The sun was out, hot, humid. He was sweating slightly. He wore a Panama hat. He waited 5 minutes at the stop for the bus. He got on. He moved towards the back of the bus, and noticed two of them. He also noticed that they weren’t sitting together but at opposite ends. He wondered why.
The first one was tall, blond, muscled. His was hair short, well kept. He must have been no older than 25 years of age. An all American boy. Jimi Hendrix began playing ‘Castles made of Sand’. He was seated. Within minutes an Asian woman came on the bus. She wasn’t pretty. She dressed in a soft pink t-shirt and blue jeans. It was a conservative style of clothing. She was slightly overweight. When she passed him he got up and offered his seat. She declined and moved further towards the back of the bus. He sat back down for a moment and assumed an expression of consideration. Credence Clearwater Revival played ‘I put a Spell on You’. He got up and sat down next to her. Began to speak to her in Mandarin.
Meanwhile the second one closer to the front of the bus assumed his companion’s empty seat. He wasn’t as attractive. When an old woman came on the bus he got up and offered his seat. She declined and so did the woman behind her before another younger, attractive girl, assumed it. He looked at her, hesitated, and withdrew to the front of the bus.
Meanwhile the first one was attempting to engage in conversation. The Asian woman’s replies were short, but polite. It was obvious he was asking the questions and she was giving him short responses. Phil Collins, ‘Jesus He Knows Me’ began to play.
The Asian woman says the longest sentence in the conversation, gets up and moves towards the door. Descends. He throws a glace at his companion and shrugs. It is met with the same facial expression.
He notices Him fixing a stare, he meets it, moves back towards his original seat, sits down, and begins to scan the bus again.
The first one was tall, blond, muscled. His was hair short, well kept. He must have been no older than 25 years of age. An all American boy. Jimi Hendrix began playing ‘Castles made of Sand’. He was seated. Within minutes an Asian woman came on the bus. She wasn’t pretty. She dressed in a soft pink t-shirt and blue jeans. It was a conservative style of clothing. She was slightly overweight. When she passed him he got up and offered his seat. She declined and moved further towards the back of the bus. He sat back down for a moment and assumed an expression of consideration. Credence Clearwater Revival played ‘I put a Spell on You’. He got up and sat down next to her. Began to speak to her in Mandarin.
Meanwhile the second one closer to the front of the bus assumed his companion’s empty seat. He wasn’t as attractive. When an old woman came on the bus he got up and offered his seat. She declined and so did the woman behind her before another younger, attractive girl, assumed it. He looked at her, hesitated, and withdrew to the front of the bus.
Meanwhile the first one was attempting to engage in conversation. The Asian woman’s replies were short, but polite. It was obvious he was asking the questions and she was giving him short responses. Phil Collins, ‘Jesus He Knows Me’ began to play.
The Asian woman says the longest sentence in the conversation, gets up and moves towards the door. Descends. He throws a glace at his companion and shrugs. It is met with the same facial expression.
He notices Him fixing a stare, he meets it, moves back towards his original seat, sits down, and begins to scan the bus again.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Written yesterday.............
Today was an interesting and cool day. Following a conversation and slight persuasion from the Minister of the Interior, I have decided to join a Dragon Boating team. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the sport, Dragon Boating is comprised of a team of 20 people in a long boat paddling furiously in hopes of moving fast and winning a race. There are over 100 teams registered in the race which takes place at the end of July. The winners win a trip to Hong Kong, but we have no such illusions. Some of the teams competing are professionals. We’re just doing it for fun. The only other person I know on the team is Assgrabber so you know we’re never bored. Ohh one more thing. The team is called The Gingerbread Crew. Don’t ask, I don’t know.
My primary motive for competing is the knowledge of the existence of another team comprised of a human being I would like to defeat. Maybe it goes a little further than that but I won’t discuss it here.
Side effects are soreness, extreme fatigue, fun. I went to my first practice today and although my body is only just beginning to feel the negative effects, I found the exercise exhilarating, motivating, extreme. Looking back on the past few days I come to the conclusion that I’m doing more physical activity than I have in a long time. Firstly Calvin and I joined a gym last week, followed by a move, heavy painting over several days, scrubbing floors, etc… I think it was pretty intense, and until this morning my left wrist was giving me grief (The right one isn’t… I wonder why?) Anyways, Dragon Boating twice a week, gym three times, and I’ve just accepted an under the table job ripping down my old residence (Landlady’s idea not mine). Plus I’ve stopped smoking up every other day. All in all I am rather proud of the way things are going. Maybe I’ll be back in shape by the end of the summer.
Went to first training session of my volunteering today and learned how to tackle the software. I’ll start part two on Thursday, where I get to work with a counselor to see how things are done. I think I'm going to enjoy myself doing this, and so far all the people I’ve met are super friendly. Concordia job sucks, but it’s consistent at least.
So all in all with the move and stuff no one could accuse me of being bored. On the other hand I still have loads of work to do in the new place. Paint must be removed from the dinning room floor, the kitchen cleaned and repainted, the bathroom likewise. There is much to accomplish and lots of time to do it. I am content.
This weekend I’m going up to St. Donat with an assortment of people. Let’s see if I can bring back the car intact this time. I’ll be taking full insurance.
Booyah
Today was an interesting and cool day. Following a conversation and slight persuasion from the Minister of the Interior, I have decided to join a Dragon Boating team. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the sport, Dragon Boating is comprised of a team of 20 people in a long boat paddling furiously in hopes of moving fast and winning a race. There are over 100 teams registered in the race which takes place at the end of July. The winners win a trip to Hong Kong, but we have no such illusions. Some of the teams competing are professionals. We’re just doing it for fun. The only other person I know on the team is Assgrabber so you know we’re never bored. Ohh one more thing. The team is called The Gingerbread Crew. Don’t ask, I don’t know.
My primary motive for competing is the knowledge of the existence of another team comprised of a human being I would like to defeat. Maybe it goes a little further than that but I won’t discuss it here.
Side effects are soreness, extreme fatigue, fun. I went to my first practice today and although my body is only just beginning to feel the negative effects, I found the exercise exhilarating, motivating, extreme. Looking back on the past few days I come to the conclusion that I’m doing more physical activity than I have in a long time. Firstly Calvin and I joined a gym last week, followed by a move, heavy painting over several days, scrubbing floors, etc… I think it was pretty intense, and until this morning my left wrist was giving me grief (The right one isn’t… I wonder why?) Anyways, Dragon Boating twice a week, gym three times, and I’ve just accepted an under the table job ripping down my old residence (Landlady’s idea not mine). Plus I’ve stopped smoking up every other day. All in all I am rather proud of the way things are going. Maybe I’ll be back in shape by the end of the summer.
Went to first training session of my volunteering today and learned how to tackle the software. I’ll start part two on Thursday, where I get to work with a counselor to see how things are done. I think I'm going to enjoy myself doing this, and so far all the people I’ve met are super friendly. Concordia job sucks, but it’s consistent at least.
So all in all with the move and stuff no one could accuse me of being bored. On the other hand I still have loads of work to do in the new place. Paint must be removed from the dinning room floor, the kitchen cleaned and repainted, the bathroom likewise. There is much to accomplish and lots of time to do it. I am content.
This weekend I’m going up to St. Donat with an assortment of people. Let’s see if I can bring back the car intact this time. I’ll be taking full insurance.
Booyah
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Some people who read one of my early posts may recall a Spideresque rant concerning the hypocrisy of man towards his starving fellow brothers. On Thursday evening I was shamed and given hope.
After a long and tiring day of painting, cleaning, and trying to organize some semblance of order in our apartment, I took Sucky, Assgrabber, The Wyfe, and their daughter out to Subway for dinner. The joint was empty except for a couple of bored employees, one of whom I tried being friendly with. I ordered a tuna sandwich with honey mustard. It was good.
In mid-meal, a man came off the street with a backpack and a hand luggage bag. Both looked heavy. The man obviously hadn’t had a shower in quite some time and looked hungry. He moved slowly as if disoriented, maybe high on some drug or drunk or both. He asked for a paper cup, filled it with ice, water, and proceed to drink. He then exited with the same slow deliberateness, returned, disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, and came back out. As he was leaving for the second time The Wyfe, got up and asked him something. He shook his head and left.
My first reaction when I saw this man was one of discomfort and fear that his presence would mean the temporary shaking of the sheltered, impregnable wall which I have built up against this sort of thing. Since I have left Africa I try to forget that such people exist, but there are unfortunates even in Canada. I don’t want to get into a discussion about what might have brought this man to his current state, but rather how threatened I felt by his presence. On the other hand I asked The Wyfe the content of her short discourse with him. She had asked him if he wanted a sandwich and he refused. She felt sorry for him and wanted to help. Now Assgrabber and The Wyfe are not nearly as well financially endowed as myself, and I was ashamed by how easily they were willing to give, when all I wanted was for him to disappear. I have been called generous on several occasions, but most often my generosity is a bribe at some kind friendship. I would never have considered approaching this fellow on my own. Sometimes when someone asks me for change on the street I give it, but I hardly ever approach someone to give. Most often it is asked for, and I want to buy forgiveness from a sin or some sort. I feel ashamed of my negative reaction. My first instinct was threat, her’s was compassion.
I realize that I have much thinking and reordering to do in my mind before I can go on criticizing the human race for the way it treats itself. Even though my post was more of a self-critique, I have no right to condemn, when I too am at fault. I want to eventually do something, but I am not prepared to do it now. I am too selfish. I have been working on a plan to buy forgiveness from whatever greater power, society, or myself, but I haven’t the means to implement it as of yet. This will take several years. However in the mean time I will strive to suppress my negative reactions to the presence of the unfortunate. I used to feel compassion, but it has turned to fear. I don’t want to be this way. I’m not proud of myself.
After a long and tiring day of painting, cleaning, and trying to organize some semblance of order in our apartment, I took Sucky, Assgrabber, The Wyfe, and their daughter out to Subway for dinner. The joint was empty except for a couple of bored employees, one of whom I tried being friendly with. I ordered a tuna sandwich with honey mustard. It was good.
In mid-meal, a man came off the street with a backpack and a hand luggage bag. Both looked heavy. The man obviously hadn’t had a shower in quite some time and looked hungry. He moved slowly as if disoriented, maybe high on some drug or drunk or both. He asked for a paper cup, filled it with ice, water, and proceed to drink. He then exited with the same slow deliberateness, returned, disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, and came back out. As he was leaving for the second time The Wyfe, got up and asked him something. He shook his head and left.
My first reaction when I saw this man was one of discomfort and fear that his presence would mean the temporary shaking of the sheltered, impregnable wall which I have built up against this sort of thing. Since I have left Africa I try to forget that such people exist, but there are unfortunates even in Canada. I don’t want to get into a discussion about what might have brought this man to his current state, but rather how threatened I felt by his presence. On the other hand I asked The Wyfe the content of her short discourse with him. She had asked him if he wanted a sandwich and he refused. She felt sorry for him and wanted to help. Now Assgrabber and The Wyfe are not nearly as well financially endowed as myself, and I was ashamed by how easily they were willing to give, when all I wanted was for him to disappear. I have been called generous on several occasions, but most often my generosity is a bribe at some kind friendship. I would never have considered approaching this fellow on my own. Sometimes when someone asks me for change on the street I give it, but I hardly ever approach someone to give. Most often it is asked for, and I want to buy forgiveness from a sin or some sort. I feel ashamed of my negative reaction. My first instinct was threat, her’s was compassion.
I realize that I have much thinking and reordering to do in my mind before I can go on criticizing the human race for the way it treats itself. Even though my post was more of a self-critique, I have no right to condemn, when I too am at fault. I want to eventually do something, but I am not prepared to do it now. I am too selfish. I have been working on a plan to buy forgiveness from whatever greater power, society, or myself, but I haven’t the means to implement it as of yet. This will take several years. However in the mean time I will strive to suppress my negative reactions to the presence of the unfortunate. I used to feel compassion, but it has turned to fear. I don’t want to be this way. I’m not proud of myself.
I apologize in advance for my apparent lack of presence on the net. I am moving and have been without access to a computer for the past several days. I should be connected again soon.
The past few days have been illuminating in the sense that I have discovered just how loyal, or whipped, my friends really are. Last week, Thursday, we went into our new apartment with the intention of re-painting. Our living room/dinning room areas were covered with a vomit yellow color which simply did not inspire greatness. Painting began along with some light moving. Within a few short hours our place had become a bastion of people seeking to aid us in our struggle. The following day, the same people returned to paint/clean even though my brother and myself were not present in the apartment. My brother is studying hard for exams. I was finishing up the final boxes. Yesterday we moved everything, yet again, with the aid of people from the same circle. The place is still a mess and needs some deep cleaning, especially scrubbing of paint residue on the floors, however once again, today, more people are coming to help. Some of these guys helping have been coming back 3-4 days in a row. I feel overwhelmed. The turnout has been great, and I have come to the conclusion that I have the best friends in the world. I dare anybody to try and find better ones.
So this Bud’s for you Mr./Mrs. really really bored person who associates with the Admiral. For your meticulous abilities at painting walls, cleaning dirty old refrigerators, scrubbing soiled toilet bowls, moving heavy boxes, and all under my expert supervision. Placated by a few beers and pizza slices, you bring light to the countertop under that patch of organic matter, a soft citrus smell to the moldy growth in some obscure crack in the wall, a smile to my unhappy face. So kick back and have a cold one Mr./Mrs. really really bored person who associates with the Admiral. This Bud’s for you… and when you finish you can start priming the bathroom.
The past few days have been illuminating in the sense that I have discovered just how loyal, or whipped, my friends really are. Last week, Thursday, we went into our new apartment with the intention of re-painting. Our living room/dinning room areas were covered with a vomit yellow color which simply did not inspire greatness. Painting began along with some light moving. Within a few short hours our place had become a bastion of people seeking to aid us in our struggle. The following day, the same people returned to paint/clean even though my brother and myself were not present in the apartment. My brother is studying hard for exams. I was finishing up the final boxes. Yesterday we moved everything, yet again, with the aid of people from the same circle. The place is still a mess and needs some deep cleaning, especially scrubbing of paint residue on the floors, however once again, today, more people are coming to help. Some of these guys helping have been coming back 3-4 days in a row. I feel overwhelmed. The turnout has been great, and I have come to the conclusion that I have the best friends in the world. I dare anybody to try and find better ones.
So this Bud’s for you Mr./Mrs. really really bored person who associates with the Admiral. For your meticulous abilities at painting walls, cleaning dirty old refrigerators, scrubbing soiled toilet bowls, moving heavy boxes, and all under my expert supervision. Placated by a few beers and pizza slices, you bring light to the countertop under that patch of organic matter, a soft citrus smell to the moldy growth in some obscure crack in the wall, a smile to my unhappy face. So kick back and have a cold one Mr./Mrs. really really bored person who associates with the Admiral. This Bud’s for you… and when you finish you can start priming the bathroom.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Incoming illuminatory discourse on one of my darker sides.
Today I managed to peel myself away from my brilliant Final Fantasy 7 session in order to go out and change the world for the better. Basically the mother of the Minister of the Interior prevailed upon me to serve my fellow man and help save the world and the misguided people in it. She bribed me with speedier access to heaven and all the feminine flesh I can stand when I get there (sounds like I’m selling my soul). I’ve been considering volunteering for quite awhile now and after several days of self analysis I have determined a series of reasons why I am ready to be a volunteer. My motives, however, are purely selfish, though valid, in my opinion. For this reason I wish to illustrate them.
As an economist it is habitual to proceed in any analysis by spelling out some basic assumptions. Firstly let us assume for the moment that I am a decent human being. I know I’m not really really good. But on the other hand I am pure and innocent compared to most of the filthy people in existence. Let us assume that there also exists category of goodness above mine which consists of all the people who are motivated by good things and a genuine desire to help their fellow man and woman.
Righto. Thus as a good person I am endowed with basic morality. In my case maybe a bit more than most, but lets face it, I am a spoiled brat who grew up in the asshole of the world, living in lush luxury whilst people around me were starving. I have seen screwed up shit and been ashamed of myself for not doing my part. However interestingly enough my volunteering has very little to do with going out and paying my dues to society as I am intimidated by disadvantaged people. I get frustrated with the mentally retarded and elderly human beings. In short, working for these people directly is a bad choice for me since, although rewarding, I’m more likely to throw my arms in the air and say screw it. Furthermore I am of the opinion that if I did go out there with the intention of actually changing something for the better, I’d want to do it all out, hardcore, and be proud of myself rather than doing a half assed job aboot it. Hence the reason of saving humanity is no longer a valid one in my case so well lets drop that.
I think that at the end of the day what really drives me is the amount of unproductive time I have on my hands, and the desire to fill it with justifiable quality activities. As a relatively unemployed youth, on a three month vacation, I need to justify my existence by doing things. Too much empty time of my hands makes me depressed. For the summer I have lined up, a very very very part-time job at the Concordia Economics Department, and a Calculus 3 course at McGill. I need to do other things and fast because I'm aboot to finish Final Fantasy 7 and it’s not even July yet.
Second reason. I, as well as the vast majority of the human population my age, am in search of a life mate, girlfriend, companion, sex buddy, whatever they call it, and I find myself in a static situation where I am not meeting new people except though friends of friends of friends etc…. Its sucks, it’s real. Solution? Activities which require me to interact with people. Volunteering is a particularly good option in my case because most of the people who volunteer are female (Don’t laugh. I read statistics on the subject).
Third reason. I get along well with the Minister’s mother, and if ever I get bored I know I can always find entertainment in her words rather than sitting at home wondering which video game to play next. Plus if it sucks, I quit. I’m not being paid. I have no obligations except for moral ones.
Fourth reason. It’s a good cause.
Hence on Tuesday I will be training as a counselor in charge of helping volunteers find the kind of volunteering they want to do. The organization I’ll be helping out places people in over 700 different organizations that need volunteers. Since I’m nervous around the poor, elderly, etc… I don’t have to work with them directly, but I can help them out indirectly. Plus most of the people I’m likely to talk to will be friendly human beings with good intentions.
I promise to keep you guys posted on the development of this, one of my strangest plans in life.
Save the whales. Eat Snacky Smores.
Today I managed to peel myself away from my brilliant Final Fantasy 7 session in order to go out and change the world for the better. Basically the mother of the Minister of the Interior prevailed upon me to serve my fellow man and help save the world and the misguided people in it. She bribed me with speedier access to heaven and all the feminine flesh I can stand when I get there (sounds like I’m selling my soul). I’ve been considering volunteering for quite awhile now and after several days of self analysis I have determined a series of reasons why I am ready to be a volunteer. My motives, however, are purely selfish, though valid, in my opinion. For this reason I wish to illustrate them.
As an economist it is habitual to proceed in any analysis by spelling out some basic assumptions. Firstly let us assume for the moment that I am a decent human being. I know I’m not really really good. But on the other hand I am pure and innocent compared to most of the filthy people in existence. Let us assume that there also exists category of goodness above mine which consists of all the people who are motivated by good things and a genuine desire to help their fellow man and woman.
Righto. Thus as a good person I am endowed with basic morality. In my case maybe a bit more than most, but lets face it, I am a spoiled brat who grew up in the asshole of the world, living in lush luxury whilst people around me were starving. I have seen screwed up shit and been ashamed of myself for not doing my part. However interestingly enough my volunteering has very little to do with going out and paying my dues to society as I am intimidated by disadvantaged people. I get frustrated with the mentally retarded and elderly human beings. In short, working for these people directly is a bad choice for me since, although rewarding, I’m more likely to throw my arms in the air and say screw it. Furthermore I am of the opinion that if I did go out there with the intention of actually changing something for the better, I’d want to do it all out, hardcore, and be proud of myself rather than doing a half assed job aboot it. Hence the reason of saving humanity is no longer a valid one in my case so well lets drop that.
I think that at the end of the day what really drives me is the amount of unproductive time I have on my hands, and the desire to fill it with justifiable quality activities. As a relatively unemployed youth, on a three month vacation, I need to justify my existence by doing things. Too much empty time of my hands makes me depressed. For the summer I have lined up, a very very very part-time job at the Concordia Economics Department, and a Calculus 3 course at McGill. I need to do other things and fast because I'm aboot to finish Final Fantasy 7 and it’s not even July yet.
Second reason. I, as well as the vast majority of the human population my age, am in search of a life mate, girlfriend, companion, sex buddy, whatever they call it, and I find myself in a static situation where I am not meeting new people except though friends of friends of friends etc…. Its sucks, it’s real. Solution? Activities which require me to interact with people. Volunteering is a particularly good option in my case because most of the people who volunteer are female (Don’t laugh. I read statistics on the subject).
Third reason. I get along well with the Minister’s mother, and if ever I get bored I know I can always find entertainment in her words rather than sitting at home wondering which video game to play next. Plus if it sucks, I quit. I’m not being paid. I have no obligations except for moral ones.
Fourth reason. It’s a good cause.
Hence on Tuesday I will be training as a counselor in charge of helping volunteers find the kind of volunteering they want to do. The organization I’ll be helping out places people in over 700 different organizations that need volunteers. Since I’m nervous around the poor, elderly, etc… I don’t have to work with them directly, but I can help them out indirectly. Plus most of the people I’m likely to talk to will be friendly human beings with good intentions.
I promise to keep you guys posted on the development of this, one of my strangest plans in life.
Save the whales. Eat Snacky Smores.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Welcome back me. It’s good to be back. Ahh yes. As anticipated the trip to Northern Quebec turned out to be quite an episode of bizarre occurrences. Once again against all odds I have survived. I have been face to face with lions in Zimbabwe, I have touched coral in a cave in Fiji, I have walked the streets of the world largest cities, I have faked a twitch whilst a Mexican tourist was trying to catch a whale with his camera. Furthermore I am convinced that I have managed to achieve some small measure of enlightenment which I did not yet possess before my departure. I have been. I have lived. I have learned. Hai speke da henglish very well.
These past few days have taught me some fundamental truths. Firstly, mutant mosquitoes from Northern Quebec can survive in close to zero temperature weather. I’m talking Centigrade, although I wouldn’t be too surprised if the Fahrenheit rule worked as well. Secondly, I dislike defecations in areas where I can’t sit down and relax. A well prepared crap is a relieving, relaxing, and enjoyable experience, and I don’t care what you think you think, it’s bloody true, tabernac! Thirdly, if ever you find yourself in desperate desperate need, ask your friendly fireman. He will help you. Fourthly, a man’s patience is measured by a screaming baby issuing blood curling cries the likes of which make me repent all those peeled baby jokes I used to tell as a child… well almost.
Our trek took us to the villages of La Baie de la St. Catherine and Tadousac. They might as well be the same hamlet if not for the 500 yard wide river running through them, but as usual I digress. Tadousac is charming, small. The architecture old fashioned, painted with bright colors. The accent …. rustique, the people friendly, although there was a high density of tourists. La Baie de la St. Catherine is well, not much. In any case there are whales and everyone loves whales. It is a very humbling feeling to come across a 20 foot long creature. Males say size doesn’t matter. I say it does when you are faced with a living animal larger than you by umm say 12 times. I have achieved some small sense of humility. I doubt my friends will notice.
The camping spot was nice, empty, and infested with annoying flying creatures causing me to soak my clothes in repellent every 3 hours in order to keep myself unspoiled. The food was mostly basic in nature with a penchant for the woodsy flavor and entirely too much ash for my poor poor stomach to handle. I slept on an air mattress. Consensus… I am a city boy.
So after 5 days of abstinence from a shower, combined with heavily recycled clothing and Eau de la Antimoustique, I now know what it feels like to be a hippie. I don’t think I mastered the friendly stoner attitude though. In any case the shower I took last night, after my return, was on the verge of orgasmic. I am purged of my sins. I am pure again. God bless plumbing… I am a city boy.
But seriously. Tadousac is a cool town, and it’s too bad we didn’t have extra time to go deeper into the asshole of Quebec, however I look forward to that epic journey sometime in the future. Whales are kickass, incomprehensible Quebecer is charming and challenging to comprehend, water is awesome, rain is soothing, sun is Zen, wind is cool. Reminded me of Scotland.
And so I will close this somewhat dubious discourse with an enlightening quote from the Minister of Culture, who as Minister of Culture, is charged with the education and culturalization of our youth, “To all the Valkyries with tight twats awaiting me in the Halls of Valhalla.” Booyah.
These past few days have taught me some fundamental truths. Firstly, mutant mosquitoes from Northern Quebec can survive in close to zero temperature weather. I’m talking Centigrade, although I wouldn’t be too surprised if the Fahrenheit rule worked as well. Secondly, I dislike defecations in areas where I can’t sit down and relax. A well prepared crap is a relieving, relaxing, and enjoyable experience, and I don’t care what you think you think, it’s bloody true, tabernac! Thirdly, if ever you find yourself in desperate desperate need, ask your friendly fireman. He will help you. Fourthly, a man’s patience is measured by a screaming baby issuing blood curling cries the likes of which make me repent all those peeled baby jokes I used to tell as a child… well almost.
Our trek took us to the villages of La Baie de la St. Catherine and Tadousac. They might as well be the same hamlet if not for the 500 yard wide river running through them, but as usual I digress. Tadousac is charming, small. The architecture old fashioned, painted with bright colors. The accent …. rustique, the people friendly, although there was a high density of tourists. La Baie de la St. Catherine is well, not much. In any case there are whales and everyone loves whales. It is a very humbling feeling to come across a 20 foot long creature. Males say size doesn’t matter. I say it does when you are faced with a living animal larger than you by umm say 12 times. I have achieved some small sense of humility. I doubt my friends will notice.
The camping spot was nice, empty, and infested with annoying flying creatures causing me to soak my clothes in repellent every 3 hours in order to keep myself unspoiled. The food was mostly basic in nature with a penchant for the woodsy flavor and entirely too much ash for my poor poor stomach to handle. I slept on an air mattress. Consensus… I am a city boy.
So after 5 days of abstinence from a shower, combined with heavily recycled clothing and Eau de la Antimoustique, I now know what it feels like to be a hippie. I don’t think I mastered the friendly stoner attitude though. In any case the shower I took last night, after my return, was on the verge of orgasmic. I am purged of my sins. I am pure again. God bless plumbing… I am a city boy.
But seriously. Tadousac is a cool town, and it’s too bad we didn’t have extra time to go deeper into the asshole of Quebec, however I look forward to that epic journey sometime in the future. Whales are kickass, incomprehensible Quebecer is charming and challenging to comprehend, water is awesome, rain is soothing, sun is Zen, wind is cool. Reminded me of Scotland.
And so I will close this somewhat dubious discourse with an enlightening quote from the Minister of Culture, who as Minister of Culture, is charged with the education and culturalization of our youth, “To all the Valkyries with tight twats awaiting me in the Halls of Valhalla.” Booyah.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
For some reason these days I haven’t been in the mood to write much. It’s very frustrating when you have an online journal, but you start becoming afraid to post stuff about other people who might potentially be reading the blog. For the record I’m not referring to the regulars, but there is a lot of stuff I’ve wanted to rant about concerning various people who although have not yet run into this site, I still fear. Funny how that is. Private journals suck cause nobody reads em. Public journals limit what you can let out. Someone give me a human punching bag for a few days.
At this stage in my life I find myself poised for an unanticipated camping trip into the wilderness of Gaspesie. This trip excites me even though I’m not much of an outdoors person. It’s a way out of Montreal with people I love although I’m certain that the baby factor will prove to be a true test of my patience. In any case I’m looking forward to just sitting back and losing myself someplace for a few hours. Should be good, I think I deserve it for no reason in particular.
In retrospect, I feel melancholy this day, but due to causes which I shan’t divulge for the same reason stated above. If anything it prevents me from constantly bitching. I don’t like myself when I complain. There was a time when I used to withdraw myself into my depressions. There was a time when I used to think that it was the only beautiful thing about me. I was really a misguided romantic as a child. I’d like to think that I’ve evolved since then, but somehow I feel that this aspect of me will always be a part of who I am. In some ways this angers me for I do not like to be perpetually depressed when I am lonely. On the other hand I am somewhat proud of the adjective. However, I’m not a basket case and at the end of the day it’s reliving not to be going in that direction. Ultra romanticism is a destructive attribute to possess. It leads to manic depression and a greater collapse of oneself onto oneself. Fortunately I’ll never reach that stage due to my dependence on other human beings, more specifically my friends.
I feel something strong coming on. It’s been building for several months now. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but something in me is about to change. For some reason I am convinced that I am on the verge of some fundamental realization or truth which is going to eliminated one of my major problems permanently. I want it to happen, but I don’t know how or what to expect. I hope it will be positive. I am frustrated.
I want to scream as loud as I can. I want to cry so hard it hurts, and not care about who or what can hear me. I want to violently expel all the stress, hatred, sadness, all that is painful within me. I want it to hurt. I want to crawl out of a physically exhausting ordeal and sleep. I want to hurt someone. I’m afraid of myself.
At this stage in my life I find myself poised for an unanticipated camping trip into the wilderness of Gaspesie. This trip excites me even though I’m not much of an outdoors person. It’s a way out of Montreal with people I love although I’m certain that the baby factor will prove to be a true test of my patience. In any case I’m looking forward to just sitting back and losing myself someplace for a few hours. Should be good, I think I deserve it for no reason in particular.
In retrospect, I feel melancholy this day, but due to causes which I shan’t divulge for the same reason stated above. If anything it prevents me from constantly bitching. I don’t like myself when I complain. There was a time when I used to withdraw myself into my depressions. There was a time when I used to think that it was the only beautiful thing about me. I was really a misguided romantic as a child. I’d like to think that I’ve evolved since then, but somehow I feel that this aspect of me will always be a part of who I am. In some ways this angers me for I do not like to be perpetually depressed when I am lonely. On the other hand I am somewhat proud of the adjective. However, I’m not a basket case and at the end of the day it’s reliving not to be going in that direction. Ultra romanticism is a destructive attribute to possess. It leads to manic depression and a greater collapse of oneself onto oneself. Fortunately I’ll never reach that stage due to my dependence on other human beings, more specifically my friends.
I feel something strong coming on. It’s been building for several months now. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but something in me is about to change. For some reason I am convinced that I am on the verge of some fundamental realization or truth which is going to eliminated one of my major problems permanently. I want it to happen, but I don’t know how or what to expect. I hope it will be positive. I am frustrated.
I want to scream as loud as I can. I want to cry so hard it hurts, and not care about who or what can hear me. I want to violently expel all the stress, hatred, sadness, all that is painful within me. I want it to hurt. I want to crawl out of a physically exhausting ordeal and sleep. I want to hurt someone. I’m afraid of myself.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
The bus was dark, generic, blue. The seats were covered in badly written messages and designs which one could spend hours trying to figure out where they began and ended. The bus was supposed to leave at nine minutes past the first hour in the morning, but as usual it waited a little bit for the drunk people to get on. It was the last bus. The drunkards were always late. He just sat in his chair sideways with his arms leaning on the seats in front and behind him. It was a comfortable position and one which was sufficiently “cool” looking to satisfy his own sense of style. He was listening to music. He was tapping his feet to the beat trying to compete with the drummer who played in the song. He felt cool. He basked in the glory of his coolness. He wore a panama hat. He was a bit drunk.
In the final seconds before the bus left she came on and eye contact was made. It was quickly broken and her expression, which was that of nothing, didn’t change. She sat down diagonally from him and pulled out some music playing device. As the bus began to pull out she began to rock her feet slightly to the beat. And then she made eye contact with him. He tried to hold it and failed. He looked away. And then his mind began to race.
“Good night?” she would ask.
“Not too bad justa couple of drinks with some friends,” he’d reply. “You?”
“Same here. A night out with the girls which got no where as usual.”
“Yup I know that one.”
He lifted his head and yawned coolfully and threw her another glance. She was trying to fall asleep, leaning her head on the hard plastic divider by the door. The bumping of the bus made it impossible. He stared for awhile hoping to catch another eye contact; see if he could hold it a bit longer this time.
She would open her eyes, meet his gaze, and say, “So, what do you do with your life?”
“Well right now I’m a student.”
“So you aren’t working?”
“Nope.”
“So why are you going home so early?”
“Last bus, and the evening wasn’t interesting enough for me to want to pay myself a cab ride home.”
“I see.” She would pause dramatically and assume an expression of pondering, “I have the apartment to myself tonight. Wanna come up for a few drinks?”
“But you hardly know me.”
“Ohh, I know you better than you think.”
She gave up on sleeping on the bus and just looked ahead as if she was thinking about something. He continued to artfully tap his feet to the music trying damn hard to figure out how the drummer made those sounds with only two hands and one foot. The bus made a left turn and began its trek through West Mount. The houses were nice, the exterior designing already laid out for the warmer months. But the yellow light piercing the obscurity gave the flowers a weird visual effect. He was drunk. He thought he liked it. The traffic lights flashed red as usual for this time of night. The bus driver treated them like stop signs, coming to unnecessary complete stops at each one. A sense of urgency assumed itself in him and he started hoping the bus driver would hurry up a bit. Once again he turned to her in attempt to unravel her secrets.
“So where do you live?” He would ask.
“Down Cote St. Luc.”
“Past the Ultramar?”
“Yes about 10 minutes on the bus past that.”
“Right, so I’ll have to cab it home or walk a half hour from your place.”
“We’ll see,” She’d say with a smile, and a feeling of excitement and anticipation filled him.
The bus turned down the road into the beginnings of NDG. Soon he would be coming up to his stop. The ride downhill was faster than the part through West Mount and the Bus driver made no attempts to slow down. Most of them took this part of the trip like this.
“So you coming with me?” She’d ask.
“Yes.”
He pushes the button requesting a stop. Exits the bus and walks across the street. The air is cool but not cold, the lighting dim and mysterious. He tilts his panama hat forward and assumes a Humphrey Bogart look. He walks slowly but deliberately. He is listening to music. He is walking to the beat. He allows the music to fill him. He smiles. He is the man. No woman can resist him. He is cool.
In the final seconds before the bus left she came on and eye contact was made. It was quickly broken and her expression, which was that of nothing, didn’t change. She sat down diagonally from him and pulled out some music playing device. As the bus began to pull out she began to rock her feet slightly to the beat. And then she made eye contact with him. He tried to hold it and failed. He looked away. And then his mind began to race.
“Good night?” she would ask.
“Not too bad justa couple of drinks with some friends,” he’d reply. “You?”
“Same here. A night out with the girls which got no where as usual.”
“Yup I know that one.”
He lifted his head and yawned coolfully and threw her another glance. She was trying to fall asleep, leaning her head on the hard plastic divider by the door. The bumping of the bus made it impossible. He stared for awhile hoping to catch another eye contact; see if he could hold it a bit longer this time.
She would open her eyes, meet his gaze, and say, “So, what do you do with your life?”
“Well right now I’m a student.”
“So you aren’t working?”
“Nope.”
“So why are you going home so early?”
“Last bus, and the evening wasn’t interesting enough for me to want to pay myself a cab ride home.”
“I see.” She would pause dramatically and assume an expression of pondering, “I have the apartment to myself tonight. Wanna come up for a few drinks?”
“But you hardly know me.”
“Ohh, I know you better than you think.”
She gave up on sleeping on the bus and just looked ahead as if she was thinking about something. He continued to artfully tap his feet to the music trying damn hard to figure out how the drummer made those sounds with only two hands and one foot. The bus made a left turn and began its trek through West Mount. The houses were nice, the exterior designing already laid out for the warmer months. But the yellow light piercing the obscurity gave the flowers a weird visual effect. He was drunk. He thought he liked it. The traffic lights flashed red as usual for this time of night. The bus driver treated them like stop signs, coming to unnecessary complete stops at each one. A sense of urgency assumed itself in him and he started hoping the bus driver would hurry up a bit. Once again he turned to her in attempt to unravel her secrets.
“So where do you live?” He would ask.
“Down Cote St. Luc.”
“Past the Ultramar?”
“Yes about 10 minutes on the bus past that.”
“Right, so I’ll have to cab it home or walk a half hour from your place.”
“We’ll see,” She’d say with a smile, and a feeling of excitement and anticipation filled him.
The bus turned down the road into the beginnings of NDG. Soon he would be coming up to his stop. The ride downhill was faster than the part through West Mount and the Bus driver made no attempts to slow down. Most of them took this part of the trip like this.
“So you coming with me?” She’d ask.
“Yes.”
He pushes the button requesting a stop. Exits the bus and walks across the street. The air is cool but not cold, the lighting dim and mysterious. He tilts his panama hat forward and assumes a Humphrey Bogart look. He walks slowly but deliberately. He is listening to music. He is walking to the beat. He allows the music to fill him. He smiles. He is the man. No woman can resist him. He is cool.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Simple random garbage falls off the wall of eternity into a puddle of tarmac on the floor. Cabbage is flung from pot to pot until it stops spinning upon itself. Stoning people seems like mush in the darkness. There are things which come to those who believe in the everlasting wanton ecstasy which is that which we call the death of class. Sometimes I wonder on the matters which penetrate my cavity and ponder on the decisions we make. I may never know truth, but I have felt the sweet and sour feeling of the scratching of a smooth armpit, and that may just be the answer to all the questions. In the end of the inevitable lies the items which make one’s life seem trivial. Sometimes in the gloom I sense a vast protrusion emanating light in the corridors of hatred. And in the lack of space I find a certain twisted sense of luck. But then, I’d wanted better than to crawl on upon the backs of others. We may never know. Oh well.
Friday, June 11, 2004
The summer evening was slowly settling down with an aura of fake fireflies against the cloudy sky. It was as if God had come down and setup flashy plastic neon strips in the atmosphere the likes of which any Las Vegas casino would envy. Neon pink and purple, light permeating the panoramic scene. In short it was magnificent.
In the distance a smoke stack slowly whittled its way into the heavens, penetrating the atmosphere, adding to the purple clouds, augmenting the synthetic odor which hung in the air. The evening was humid, and the earth sighed heavily as acid droplets were painfully inhaled. In the end the smoke might win, but only to its own demise. That is the ultimate reality. What goes up must come down. What begins must end. Only the process was infinite.
The vegetation around thrived on the dirty dampness and unnatural illumination. Soon the temperature would drop and the fungus would awaken, taking in the chill of the evening. They had long ago learned the secret of using the radiation in the ground to build large mushrooms which thrived and maintained them. Even the concrete with all its chemicals and imperfections had become useful. There was no waste for the waste was organic, and the organic thrived.
In the distance a single green weed tried desperately to cling to the life which stifled its existence. It choked and wheezed, feeling the last of its moments spent on survival. In one final dramatic breath the plant expired, leaving behind only small dry seeds at its feet. They too would suffer a similar fate. This sort of thing happened a lot these days. But the vegetation had grown immune to this kind of suffering. It was all part of evolution, and evolution favored them. Their time had come.
In the distance a smoke stack slowly whittled its way into the heavens, penetrating the atmosphere, adding to the purple clouds, augmenting the synthetic odor which hung in the air. The evening was humid, and the earth sighed heavily as acid droplets were painfully inhaled. In the end the smoke might win, but only to its own demise. That is the ultimate reality. What goes up must come down. What begins must end. Only the process was infinite.
The vegetation around thrived on the dirty dampness and unnatural illumination. Soon the temperature would drop and the fungus would awaken, taking in the chill of the evening. They had long ago learned the secret of using the radiation in the ground to build large mushrooms which thrived and maintained them. Even the concrete with all its chemicals and imperfections had become useful. There was no waste for the waste was organic, and the organic thrived.
In the distance a single green weed tried desperately to cling to the life which stifled its existence. It choked and wheezed, feeling the last of its moments spent on survival. In one final dramatic breath the plant expired, leaving behind only small dry seeds at its feet. They too would suffer a similar fate. This sort of thing happened a lot these days. But the vegetation had grown immune to this kind of suffering. It was all part of evolution, and evolution favored them. Their time had come.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Good evening and salutations.
I’m not usually a very political kinda guy nor do I have any strong political opinions more complex than, “I hate Bush.” But allow me for once to rant about the fuss around Regan. Normally I wouldn’t give two shits about this but I’m finding myself back in the States for a change, and so, for a short time I find it justifiable to rant about US matters… (Not that I ever say or know anything about Canadian politics or political history for that matter). But I digress (again).
When I was born Carter was in power, and so by the time I finally came into consciousness the Carter administration, and its mistakes were over and done with. My early years were spent under the era of Regan and all the foreign policy and economics that went with it. Now I don’t claim to know anything about politics, but from what I remember Regan built lots of nukes, and built one of the largest deficits the US has ever known. They called it Reganomics, something I happen to know a thing or two about given my chosen path in life. Reganomics used a principle known as the Laffer Curve. Basically the idea is that you cut taxes, therefore people spend more, therefore tax revenues increase. Apparently under certain circumstances this increase can more than offset the loss achieved by tax cuts. Hence Regan cut taxes hoping to increase revenues, and become more popular. He also spent trillions on the military. Increase in government spending plus increase in government borrowing to pay off the tax cuts, equals huge deficit (A bit like what Bush is doing by the way). After he finished he was an item of humor. People constantly making fun of his Alzheimer’s. All in the spirit of good fun of course. But the fact of the matter is that it took several years to undo the damage which the Regan administration did to the US economy. I would also tend to argue that the number of nukes we had back then was and is still dangerous. But OK we got out of it fine and after all he didn’t destroy the country. He was an uneducated actor who managed to rally the people around him thanks to his charisma and popularity in the movies. Regan was above all an actor.
So now he is dead and the country is covered in flags flying half mast for days (And let me tell you there are ****loads of US flags flying around here). He gets a state funeral the likes of which we haven’t seen since JFK who, I might add, died while still in office. The country is taking a holiday tomorrow, Friday, in memory of him. And now they are talking about slapping his face on the ten dollar bill. Sounds rather comical to me. What I don’t understand is why. Perhaps the US government is trying to bring the American people into a sense of unity by using this man’s death as an excuse. He wasn’t a hero. Perhaps the Republicans are trying to use it as a means of gaining votes? Regan was a Republican. Something doesn’t ring right to me, and I can’t get anyone to give me a satisfactory answer. I found out about Regan passing away on Sunday morning. My reaction was an, “Ohh… That’s too bad.” My reaction is probably not representative given my loose affiliation with the US over the past ten years, but seriously, the US ten dollar bill? I read articles in “The Onion” with titles like “Regan may have been sworn in, doesn’t recall.” It was funny.
Now take a man like Jimmy Carter. OK fair enough he screwed up a couple of times during his administration, but he is still the US’s number one diplomat, and has done countless numbers of things to promote world peace, and save lives. He won a Nobel Peace Prize, and he is still active doing many things for his country. A real patriot. Maybe I’m wrong but somehow I doubt that when he passes away he's going to replace anyone’s face on a bill. In fact, I doubt that they will extend any of the honors they are giving Regan, and in my mind Carter is a much better human being.
Anyways I invite anyone to give me an explanation to illuminate my rather confused reaction to all this hype. I want to stress I’m not angry just confused, so if I’ve offended anyone out there with my potential ignorance, eat me.
I’m not usually a very political kinda guy nor do I have any strong political opinions more complex than, “I hate Bush.” But allow me for once to rant about the fuss around Regan. Normally I wouldn’t give two shits about this but I’m finding myself back in the States for a change, and so, for a short time I find it justifiable to rant about US matters… (Not that I ever say or know anything about Canadian politics or political history for that matter). But I digress (again).
When I was born Carter was in power, and so by the time I finally came into consciousness the Carter administration, and its mistakes were over and done with. My early years were spent under the era of Regan and all the foreign policy and economics that went with it. Now I don’t claim to know anything about politics, but from what I remember Regan built lots of nukes, and built one of the largest deficits the US has ever known. They called it Reganomics, something I happen to know a thing or two about given my chosen path in life. Reganomics used a principle known as the Laffer Curve. Basically the idea is that you cut taxes, therefore people spend more, therefore tax revenues increase. Apparently under certain circumstances this increase can more than offset the loss achieved by tax cuts. Hence Regan cut taxes hoping to increase revenues, and become more popular. He also spent trillions on the military. Increase in government spending plus increase in government borrowing to pay off the tax cuts, equals huge deficit (A bit like what Bush is doing by the way). After he finished he was an item of humor. People constantly making fun of his Alzheimer’s. All in the spirit of good fun of course. But the fact of the matter is that it took several years to undo the damage which the Regan administration did to the US economy. I would also tend to argue that the number of nukes we had back then was and is still dangerous. But OK we got out of it fine and after all he didn’t destroy the country. He was an uneducated actor who managed to rally the people around him thanks to his charisma and popularity in the movies. Regan was above all an actor.
So now he is dead and the country is covered in flags flying half mast for days (And let me tell you there are ****loads of US flags flying around here). He gets a state funeral the likes of which we haven’t seen since JFK who, I might add, died while still in office. The country is taking a holiday tomorrow, Friday, in memory of him. And now they are talking about slapping his face on the ten dollar bill. Sounds rather comical to me. What I don’t understand is why. Perhaps the US government is trying to bring the American people into a sense of unity by using this man’s death as an excuse. He wasn’t a hero. Perhaps the Republicans are trying to use it as a means of gaining votes? Regan was a Republican. Something doesn’t ring right to me, and I can’t get anyone to give me a satisfactory answer. I found out about Regan passing away on Sunday morning. My reaction was an, “Ohh… That’s too bad.” My reaction is probably not representative given my loose affiliation with the US over the past ten years, but seriously, the US ten dollar bill? I read articles in “The Onion” with titles like “Regan may have been sworn in, doesn’t recall.” It was funny.
Now take a man like Jimmy Carter. OK fair enough he screwed up a couple of times during his administration, but he is still the US’s number one diplomat, and has done countless numbers of things to promote world peace, and save lives. He won a Nobel Peace Prize, and he is still active doing many things for his country. A real patriot. Maybe I’m wrong but somehow I doubt that when he passes away he's going to replace anyone’s face on a bill. In fact, I doubt that they will extend any of the honors they are giving Regan, and in my mind Carter is a much better human being.
Anyways I invite anyone to give me an explanation to illuminate my rather confused reaction to all this hype. I want to stress I’m not angry just confused, so if I’ve offended anyone out there with my potential ignorance, eat me.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
After almost exactly one year I find myself once again in front of my father’s old laptop, the same in front of which I typed over 100 pages non-double spaced in the office of the Central Bank of Burkina Faso. The manuscript I produced is dark, and extremely emotional about how much I hated living in Africa, and how badly I wanted to return to Montreal. It makes me think and brings me to several conclusions. Number one, I still hate typing on laptop keyboards. Number two, my father really should get a new computer… I think this one is at least 5 years old. Number three, life has gotten much better since then and I am a better person now, in this instant.
And so I find myself back again in the land of my birth and a significant part of my upbringing. It makes me think of my youth. There is so much similar and so much different. There is a lot of which I detest about the United States, a lot of which I missed. I also get the unique chance to draw certain parallels with Canada, which after just a few short hours here seems completely different. Mind you I’m a downtown Montreal boy now, and here I'm in a hardcore DC suburb. Ironically this place reminds me lots of Brossard, a part of Quebec I’m not very fond of. I look forward to returning to my old neighborhood where I grew up thinking to myself that it is not quite as generic and geometric as Alexandria Virginia. The neighborhood in which I’m currently situated looks to me to have been generated by a computer. Everything is very homogeneous and straight, (even the vegetation). I find this mildly disturbing like the physiological climax in a bad horror movie. But I digress. I am here as a wedding anniversary present from my father to my mother. My mother is very attached to us her children, and so here I am making myself useful. My parents have recently moved into this house which although smaller than that in which we grew up in, is actually cozy despite the copy paste layout of this neighborhood. When we left for Zimbabwe in 1996 most of our belongings were put into storage and have only just recently resurfaced. The place is a mess, remnants of my childhood strewn about the floor. It is a bit macabre from an existentialist perspective. Destiny is an artist.
In a few days I will have some time off to visit with the Field Marshall. I plan on having him take me briefly to my old house and high school so that I can compare and reminisce. I expect the experience to have a minor impact on me, but I am curious to know my reaction. An experiment so to speak. Ideally I’d like to spend some more time here visiting these old emotions, but alas I have not the time nor the flexibility. Perhaps some other time. I’d also like to go back to downtown DC and look at it from my new adult perspective. In my younger days I was quite anti-American, but I think now for reasons which are not valid. I want to re-explore how I feel about this place from a just point of view. After all there is a strong possibility that I will come to live here someday, and I want to make sure I am still interested. And so perhaps I’ll not have time to make all of my judgments but this is fun.
I return to Montreal on Sunday just in time for a game. I look forward to that too.
Travel is illuminating.
And so I find myself back again in the land of my birth and a significant part of my upbringing. It makes me think of my youth. There is so much similar and so much different. There is a lot of which I detest about the United States, a lot of which I missed. I also get the unique chance to draw certain parallels with Canada, which after just a few short hours here seems completely different. Mind you I’m a downtown Montreal boy now, and here I'm in a hardcore DC suburb. Ironically this place reminds me lots of Brossard, a part of Quebec I’m not very fond of. I look forward to returning to my old neighborhood where I grew up thinking to myself that it is not quite as generic and geometric as Alexandria Virginia. The neighborhood in which I’m currently situated looks to me to have been generated by a computer. Everything is very homogeneous and straight, (even the vegetation). I find this mildly disturbing like the physiological climax in a bad horror movie. But I digress. I am here as a wedding anniversary present from my father to my mother. My mother is very attached to us her children, and so here I am making myself useful. My parents have recently moved into this house which although smaller than that in which we grew up in, is actually cozy despite the copy paste layout of this neighborhood. When we left for Zimbabwe in 1996 most of our belongings were put into storage and have only just recently resurfaced. The place is a mess, remnants of my childhood strewn about the floor. It is a bit macabre from an existentialist perspective. Destiny is an artist.
In a few days I will have some time off to visit with the Field Marshall. I plan on having him take me briefly to my old house and high school so that I can compare and reminisce. I expect the experience to have a minor impact on me, but I am curious to know my reaction. An experiment so to speak. Ideally I’d like to spend some more time here visiting these old emotions, but alas I have not the time nor the flexibility. Perhaps some other time. I’d also like to go back to downtown DC and look at it from my new adult perspective. In my younger days I was quite anti-American, but I think now for reasons which are not valid. I want to re-explore how I feel about this place from a just point of view. After all there is a strong possibility that I will come to live here someday, and I want to make sure I am still interested. And so perhaps I’ll not have time to make all of my judgments but this is fun.
I return to Montreal on Sunday just in time for a game. I look forward to that too.
Travel is illuminating.
Monday, June 07, 2004
It wasn’t his first time in a strip club. He didn’t go very often. Maybe once or twice a year at most. He was with three other guys, but it didn’t matter. He knew he would walk out as empty as he’d come in. Perhaps emptier. But maybe that’s what he needed. He didn’t think about it too hard.
The club was plastic, sleazy, dark. What little illumination was provided by the lights on the stage and behind the bar. The rest of the place was illuminated by a dim oppressive red light. The bouncers dressed in tuxedos were trying to pass off the façade that the place was classier than it actually was. The aura of a gentlemen’s club fit for the anti-gentleman. After about thirty minutes of watching the girls on stage and the standard overpriced beers he’d ordered, he went looking for a dance. He wasn’t aroused. He knew he would walk out empty. He didn’t know what he hoped to fulfil out of it, but he went anyway lulled by a senseless romantic fantasy.
He went next to the private area where lap dances were given, thinking that the prettiest girls would be the ones coming out. For a moment he considered going after the ugliest girl he could find but realized he was just being childish. After a few minutes, he found an attractive woman who had been on stage earlier and asked for a dance.
She was fit, shorter than him, almost petite, but not delicate. Long brown hair, but the color of her eyes was indistinguishable in the red light. She gave him her name and asked his. He answered. It didn’t matter. She led him into a booth walled off by cheap cardboard and a cheesy red shiny curtain. He sat down. She asked him if he knew the rules and he answered yes. He watched her. She was attractive. Swaying her hips seductively, touching herself she began to remove her clothing. And then she asked him where he was from.
“It’s complicated. I’m from lots of places. Mostly the US and France. But I grew up in Africa… And yourself?”
A laugh, “Complicated also. But more or less from Quebec City.”
She grins. She strokes his arms and arches her belly towards his face. Hey belly button is pierced.
“Just curious. How old are you?” he asks. He knows it is an inappropriate question, but then he in an inappropriate place.
“24… How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
She guesses, “I think you look 24.”
“You are the first person to guess right.” She is the first person to guess right. He smiles.
“So what are you doing in Montreal? Studying?” he asks.
“No. I was working in a restaurant, but that didn’t work out so I decided to come to Montreal… I couldn’t find a job here so I started stripping.”
“Did you dance in Quebec?”
“No.”
“How long have you been dancing for?”
“Erotic dancing? Only 6 months but I do jazz and ballet. I want to dance professionally, but good dancing jobs are impossible to find. I once did this show. They paid us 1000 bucks.”
“Well that’s not bad is it? Just one show?”
“Well when you consider the two weeks of practice before the show…”
“Right. That sucks.”
There is a brief pause in the conversation as he touches her skin. It is smooth, but not satisfying. Suddenly he wants to provoke a reaction and test a theory. Assuming a conversational tone he ask, “So. How do you feel about erotic dancing?”
She stops her dance. She is naked except for the g-string, her breasts natural, not large, not small. She is beautiful. Her faces assumes an expression of pondering.
“Erotic dance is ok, but it isn’t what I want to do. I’m looking for a job as a waitress but a good job.”
“Well Montreal has loads of restaurants.”
“Yah but they hire students at minimum wage for that. I’ve been there before I want better.”
“Would you keep dancing if you found a job waiting?”
She replies, “No. I would prefer to not dance if I had another job.” This bothers him. For a moment he feel filthy. He removes his hands from her body.
“But the money is better dancing right? You must make what, 200 bucks a night?”
“Sometimes more depending on how hard I try. Some girls can make over 400 bucks a night if they try hard enough.” He gets the impression she isn’t one of those girls.
She resumes her dance and he settles down again. He is a bit upset, but in a few moments the tension leaves his chest and the urgency departs. He is comfortable again. He lifts his hands and strokes her.
She turns to face him and asks, “So what do you do in Montreal?”
“I study economics at Concordia.”
“How long have you been here?
“5 years now. I did my undergrad at McGill.”
“In economics?”
“Yah.”
“So you are doing a Masters”
“That’s right.”
“And then?”
“Probably a PHD. I don’t wanna leave school yet.”
She continues her dance and presents her back to him. He strokes her legs, her ass. They are firm, muscled.
“You must workout loads to stay this fit.”
She laughs evilly. “Nope. And I eat junk food all the time. Although I need to watch it a bit.” She pinches a firm belly.
“What are you talking about? I know people who’d kill to have a stomach like that.”
“Well I dance.”
“True.”
A pause.
“Did you see my show on stage?
“Yes. It was U2 wasn’t it? With or Without You?”
“I don’t like the music they play in these types of places. But that song makes me feel nice. Feel I can express myself to it.”
“Yah well R&B doesn’t do it for me either.”
“What do you listen to?”
Without hesitation, “Classic rock ‘n roll. Mostly 60s 70s and 80s. I’m not into R&B, hip-hop, that sort of thing.”
“Yah same here. Did you see Aerosmith?”
“No I missed them.”
“I was in the 8th row.”
“Awesome how’d you pull that off?
“I danced for one of the organizers of the show. But then he got all sentimental on me and asked me out.”
“Did he want extra?”
“Extra?”
“I hear stories about people asking strippers for something extra. Apparently all sorts of things can happen.”
“Well maybe. But I don’t do that.”
“How did you feel the first time you did a contact dance?”
“It was fine. Didn’t bother me.” He doesn’t believe her.
Her hips are swaying seductively. She is touching him and he fondles her lightly, more interested in the conversation than the dance. He has no erection. She smiles at him. He smiles back. He isn’t horny, just curious. The experience is surreal. He likes it.
As she turns to face him he notices a crucifix between her breasts.
“Are you religious?”
“Yes. I know that’s a bit of a contradiction…”
He cuts her off, “Whatever, religion is subjective right?”
“That’s what I think. It’s the only necklace I have.”
“But what about the clients. Do people freak out when they see it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well I can see some confused religious guy coming in here and freaking out seeing that.”
“Well they are in here to begin with right?” She says this with a hint of steel in her voice. He thinks she’s had this conversation before.
“Sure.”
“Besides. It makes for a good conversation piece.” He knows she’s had this conversation before.
The song comes to an end.
“How much am I up?”
“50 bucks.”
“Ok one more dance then.”
She dances for him, he feels her. Her nipples are hard, her breasts real. She is fit. She is sexy, but he isn’t sexually aroused. He basks in the glory of the moment allowing the sensations to fill him.
The song ends. He gives her 65 bucks and thanks her for the conversation. He gives her two kisses, one on each cheek and goes downstairs.
The club was plastic, sleazy, dark. What little illumination was provided by the lights on the stage and behind the bar. The rest of the place was illuminated by a dim oppressive red light. The bouncers dressed in tuxedos were trying to pass off the façade that the place was classier than it actually was. The aura of a gentlemen’s club fit for the anti-gentleman. After about thirty minutes of watching the girls on stage and the standard overpriced beers he’d ordered, he went looking for a dance. He wasn’t aroused. He knew he would walk out empty. He didn’t know what he hoped to fulfil out of it, but he went anyway lulled by a senseless romantic fantasy.
He went next to the private area where lap dances were given, thinking that the prettiest girls would be the ones coming out. For a moment he considered going after the ugliest girl he could find but realized he was just being childish. After a few minutes, he found an attractive woman who had been on stage earlier and asked for a dance.
She was fit, shorter than him, almost petite, but not delicate. Long brown hair, but the color of her eyes was indistinguishable in the red light. She gave him her name and asked his. He answered. It didn’t matter. She led him into a booth walled off by cheap cardboard and a cheesy red shiny curtain. He sat down. She asked him if he knew the rules and he answered yes. He watched her. She was attractive. Swaying her hips seductively, touching herself she began to remove her clothing. And then she asked him where he was from.
“It’s complicated. I’m from lots of places. Mostly the US and France. But I grew up in Africa… And yourself?”
A laugh, “Complicated also. But more or less from Quebec City.”
She grins. She strokes his arms and arches her belly towards his face. Hey belly button is pierced.
“Just curious. How old are you?” he asks. He knows it is an inappropriate question, but then he in an inappropriate place.
“24… How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
She guesses, “I think you look 24.”
“You are the first person to guess right.” She is the first person to guess right. He smiles.
“So what are you doing in Montreal? Studying?” he asks.
“No. I was working in a restaurant, but that didn’t work out so I decided to come to Montreal… I couldn’t find a job here so I started stripping.”
“Did you dance in Quebec?”
“No.”
“How long have you been dancing for?”
“Erotic dancing? Only 6 months but I do jazz and ballet. I want to dance professionally, but good dancing jobs are impossible to find. I once did this show. They paid us 1000 bucks.”
“Well that’s not bad is it? Just one show?”
“Well when you consider the two weeks of practice before the show…”
“Right. That sucks.”
There is a brief pause in the conversation as he touches her skin. It is smooth, but not satisfying. Suddenly he wants to provoke a reaction and test a theory. Assuming a conversational tone he ask, “So. How do you feel about erotic dancing?”
She stops her dance. She is naked except for the g-string, her breasts natural, not large, not small. She is beautiful. Her faces assumes an expression of pondering.
“Erotic dance is ok, but it isn’t what I want to do. I’m looking for a job as a waitress but a good job.”
“Well Montreal has loads of restaurants.”
“Yah but they hire students at minimum wage for that. I’ve been there before I want better.”
“Would you keep dancing if you found a job waiting?”
She replies, “No. I would prefer to not dance if I had another job.” This bothers him. For a moment he feel filthy. He removes his hands from her body.
“But the money is better dancing right? You must make what, 200 bucks a night?”
“Sometimes more depending on how hard I try. Some girls can make over 400 bucks a night if they try hard enough.” He gets the impression she isn’t one of those girls.
She resumes her dance and he settles down again. He is a bit upset, but in a few moments the tension leaves his chest and the urgency departs. He is comfortable again. He lifts his hands and strokes her.
She turns to face him and asks, “So what do you do in Montreal?”
“I study economics at Concordia.”
“How long have you been here?
“5 years now. I did my undergrad at McGill.”
“In economics?”
“Yah.”
“So you are doing a Masters”
“That’s right.”
“And then?”
“Probably a PHD. I don’t wanna leave school yet.”
She continues her dance and presents her back to him. He strokes her legs, her ass. They are firm, muscled.
“You must workout loads to stay this fit.”
She laughs evilly. “Nope. And I eat junk food all the time. Although I need to watch it a bit.” She pinches a firm belly.
“What are you talking about? I know people who’d kill to have a stomach like that.”
“Well I dance.”
“True.”
A pause.
“Did you see my show on stage?
“Yes. It was U2 wasn’t it? With or Without You?”
“I don’t like the music they play in these types of places. But that song makes me feel nice. Feel I can express myself to it.”
“Yah well R&B doesn’t do it for me either.”
“What do you listen to?”
Without hesitation, “Classic rock ‘n roll. Mostly 60s 70s and 80s. I’m not into R&B, hip-hop, that sort of thing.”
“Yah same here. Did you see Aerosmith?”
“No I missed them.”
“I was in the 8th row.”
“Awesome how’d you pull that off?
“I danced for one of the organizers of the show. But then he got all sentimental on me and asked me out.”
“Did he want extra?”
“Extra?”
“I hear stories about people asking strippers for something extra. Apparently all sorts of things can happen.”
“Well maybe. But I don’t do that.”
“How did you feel the first time you did a contact dance?”
“It was fine. Didn’t bother me.” He doesn’t believe her.
Her hips are swaying seductively. She is touching him and he fondles her lightly, more interested in the conversation than the dance. He has no erection. She smiles at him. He smiles back. He isn’t horny, just curious. The experience is surreal. He likes it.
As she turns to face him he notices a crucifix between her breasts.
“Are you religious?”
“Yes. I know that’s a bit of a contradiction…”
He cuts her off, “Whatever, religion is subjective right?”
“That’s what I think. It’s the only necklace I have.”
“But what about the clients. Do people freak out when they see it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well I can see some confused religious guy coming in here and freaking out seeing that.”
“Well they are in here to begin with right?” She says this with a hint of steel in her voice. He thinks she’s had this conversation before.
“Sure.”
“Besides. It makes for a good conversation piece.” He knows she’s had this conversation before.
The song comes to an end.
“How much am I up?”
“50 bucks.”
“Ok one more dance then.”
She dances for him, he feels her. Her nipples are hard, her breasts real. She is fit. She is sexy, but he isn’t sexually aroused. He basks in the glory of the moment allowing the sensations to fill him.
The song ends. He gives her 65 bucks and thanks her for the conversation. He gives her two kisses, one on each cheek and goes downstairs.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
A masculine roar is uttered loud
And thus the beasts so scared of sound
Started spinning all round
Hearing voice of anger
Fearing wrath of nature
And so they listened to the speech
And so they suffered each to each
And then another roar was made
But sadly much the same
And all the beasts gave in
But seeking it therein
T’was much the same they said
And off they went to bed
And yet another roar was cried
And all the beasts they stopped and sighed
And grumbling turned the other side
And went about their things
For that is what they sing
Forever more without
Any form of doubt
And then another frantic scream
Squealing from the evening gleam
But all the beasts they turned and laughed
T’was just the same as in the past
And so they went about their chores
And when it stopped did they ignore
Continuing on with life
Devoid of all the strife
And then the bawling did it cease
But not a beast was set at peace
For thunder is a common thing
Roaring squealing suffering
And so the mouse suspends his plea
Ignored for all eternity
By all except the wind
Which cradles it within
And thus the beasts so scared of sound
Started spinning all round
Hearing voice of anger
Fearing wrath of nature
And so they listened to the speech
And so they suffered each to each
And then another roar was made
But sadly much the same
And all the beasts gave in
But seeking it therein
T’was much the same they said
And off they went to bed
And yet another roar was cried
And all the beasts they stopped and sighed
And grumbling turned the other side
And went about their things
For that is what they sing
Forever more without
Any form of doubt
And then another frantic scream
Squealing from the evening gleam
But all the beasts they turned and laughed
T’was just the same as in the past
And so they went about their chores
And when it stopped did they ignore
Continuing on with life
Devoid of all the strife
And then the bawling did it cease
But not a beast was set at peace
For thunder is a common thing
Roaring squealing suffering
And so the mouse suspends his plea
Ignored for all eternity
By all except the wind
Which cradles it within
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
I wonder what I’ll do tonight. I’ve been on vacation for a month now and it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten at home more than once or twice since exams ended. Come to think of it, I didn’t even eat at home that much during exams. Ohh well. Today the Minister of Culture and Mister T are on their “breaks” from their jobs as lab rats. Apparently anal lobotomies aren’t that bad but having blood taken from you 10 times a day is annoying. Anyways the plan is to drink heavily sometime tonight and I never say no to a party. In other news I have decided to consume chicken this evening accompanied by tortellini and pesto. Since I’m actually eating at home for a change I might as well make the most of it and spoil myself. Maryanne is arriving this evening. She is staying two days before heading off to Spain (lucky girl!). I spent all day making things barely livable for my guest. Even cleaned out the empty bedroom which we were using for “storage.” So now all the shit that was on the floor is in the closet. I took a nap. The evening is falling and the moon is almost full. The rain falls hard and fast on the ground. There is a roar of a frustrated thunder in the distance, desperately demanding be listened to.
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