fun!

cheers to the Wiggest of men for taking this fantastic pic. so good, i had to share it.
viva!!

dude, that is so not cool

ok, i've survived some bad pickup attempts before. like the time that fella tried to woo me with one word. what was it..? oh yea, he'd looked at me and grunted: "boyfriend?"

that was bad, but last night i met the new champion, and crowned him emperor of idiots.

i was at the opening gala for the PuSh festival, drinking and mingling and all in all having a very lovely evening. (even though it was in a cafeteria... who came up with that winning idea??)

at one point i moseyed over to talk to the fabulous DK, who was talking with a coupla guys. turns out i'd met one of them before - a tent supplier for the children's festival. then i met the other guy, who also does crew work. the two guys were leaving, but we had just enough time for new guy to mention some show coming up that he's working on, me to ask if he needs any crew, him to say yes, and me to give him my number. work, yay!

later that evening, i looked at my phone to ascertain exactly how late it had become, and how little sleep i was going to be getting. i was surprised to see that i'd missed 2 phone calls, and received 1 text message from a number i did not know.

guess who:
new guy.

he didn't leave a voice message, but that's ok; the text message was plenty. it read: "at the cat's meow would love to pet your kitty"

(aside for non vancouverites: the cat's meow is a restaurant/lounge on granville island, near the opening gala.)

wha...??? i mean shit man, we'd spoken for perhaps one minute. and it had been entirely about work! there had been no flirting. hell, there hadn't even been any real chitchat or friendliness. just an explanation of the work, and the dictation of contact digits.

pretty impressive, hunh? oh wait, it gets better: he's married. at least this one wore a ring. man, i have a knack for attracting the real winners, eh.

so there you have it, the new "all-time worst pick-up line i've ever be subjected to."
(shakin my head)

Sunparlour Players, revisited

i'm listening to an album, the recorded effort of the Sunparlour Players (the band i raved about in this post: http://like_you_care.blogspot.com/2006/04/sunparlour-players.html ) and wow - being catapulted into smiles i despaired i'd forgotten. oh, how all-consuming can heartbreak seem... but tonight, it is the musical bliss that is all-consuming.

smoking a stress-soaked cigarette, smelling the born-again air, grinning madly, stomping a wild foot.. oh the sunparlour
players!!! i love it i love it i love it!!

and yet.. their album is good. it has all the energy and musicality and vigour i love in them. and yet... it lacks that mad onslaught of cacaphonous glee! i can't taste that charge in the air, smell the sweat on the necks of head-bobbing throngs, feel the kick drums through my bones. i think the real problem is that i'm longing to see them perform again.

and it's not just a desire to see them. it's a low deep rumbling. i felt it the other night, when i was hanging out with that young hottie, the perceptive james dean type... he saw it. he asked, and i ask myself: is toronto truly calling?

a part of me feels i left it prematurely...

shrug
who knows what's to become of me.

james dean

okay, okay: time for a little frivolity, for fuck's sakes!
grin
___

i'm a girl who likes crushes. i find them invigorating, stimulating, fun and healthy. and generally, they happen at work - so they're also a great way to find a few giggles in an otherwise long day...

for the longest time, i had fairly unwaivering standards to my crush-recipients. they were generally either uninterested or otherwise involved (and actually faithful, so being otherwise involved actually meant something). the benefit to this was that i could engage rather freely in unabashed flirtation without any fear of consequence. it was always playful, never with expectation or weirdness. just good, clean, light fun.

well this year, in my many crushes, i strayed from my standards twice. both times, i was seriously affected. blushing, diverted eyes, shuffling feet, tongue-tied - the whole bit. once was in may, a fellow crew member during kids fest. the other was this past month, a bartender at the restaurant i was working in.

now.. what's particularly fascinating about these two fellas, other than their ability to render me useless in their presence, were their similarities. they both have this great, thick, messy blonde hair (for some reason, i haven't dated nearly as many blondes as i have brunettes).

and they were both Young. i joked in may of exploring my inner cougar, but the basic idea was that it would help keep the flirtations light, as per code. well, it was the idea anyway, until they opened their gorgeous mouths and became so damned interesting!! kids these days, i tell ya... anyway, the may hottie was 19, the december one, 23. i just turned 33. it was quite shocking to me! most especially because, since i first discovered lust in my early teens, i've mostly dated guys who were way too old for me - as most recently demonstrated by my 49 year-old lover.

the exceptional crushes were also both very... well... shy. quiet. and... oh, i don't know... they had this uncomfortable and yet superior nonchalance about them. a way of standing, looking, being that was just.. very cool. if i had to sum it up in two words, i'd say: "james dean."

and so it seems i've developed a bit of a james dean fetish! i dunno, but i find this interesting. i mean, there is a strong possibility that a big part of what i found attractive was just how opposite they were to my aged, dark-haired, loud-mouthed, socialite lover.

or maybe i'm rediscovering a long-forgotten, full-on james dean fetish. see, i was pondering all this the other day, when i suddenly remembered a poem i'd written when i was around 14, about james dean. oh man, i wish i had it with me, i'd transcribe it for you! (it's currently in storage, where all my shit's been living in cold loneliness since march.) i'm sure it's terrible, but very earnest and passionate! perhaps i'll try to remember to share it, when i'm some day reunited with my estranged life... i'm sure it would give you all a good shudder/giggle!

but for now, i'm just ponderin... i dunno, maybe i've just come full-circle. maybe it's time for me to be 14 again...

GASP! e-fucking-gads, i hope not!!!


but dreams
of being kissed by james dean
make lonely nights so much funner!

shhh...

i spew
vitriole
and venom
on everyone

i bury
hurt
with violence

i channel
everestian self-loathing
into armageddian rage

i'm feeling sorry for myself. there is no love. there is no beauty. i hate myself and everything. i hate i hate i hate i hate i hate i hate.

shhh... the brain is whispering again:

"shit sister, you need a reality check. you have friends, family, food, shelter. you're healthy, smart, resourceful. and you're feeling sorry for yourself because you have a broken heart. ok, it hurts and i'm sorry for that. but a heart broken by someone whose oldest friends gently warned was selfish and immature.. a heart broken by someone who didn't know how not to lie and hurt all the women who loved him.. a heart broken by one like this is something you'll get over. you'll survive it, and you'll survive it more easily than you could ever believe right now.

"but this hatred? it will consume you, rob you of all the things that make you beautiful, like compassion and a lust for life. it will make you ugly, unable to see all the beauty and power and mystery in the world. it will rob you of your ability to feel, and offer love. so shut the fuck up and get your shit together and lighten the fuck up. there's more important and interesting shit in the world."

my brain..
she's so smart.

the last noel

this year i've really done it. at the age of 32 (almost 33!), i have stopped believing in santa claus.

the man in red, the son of someone's god, the pc alternative nomenclature de choix, the 25th of december: i'm done with it all. after years of playing the pro side, i'm now a con. no - i'm not the con: xmas is the con. a delusion we feed our kids so they can be miserable when they grow up.

well no more, i say! i'm through defending a fat man in a red suit that flies animals that frankly, taste a little gamey to my delicate palate. i'm done giddily counting down the days to inevitable disappointment. i'm finished with those bright beautiful packages, torn open with bared claws. the gifts may be perfect and generous and joyful, the turkey may be moist and the gravy divine, but it doesn't matter. nothing can save this day. we crowd together under a veil of bright bohemian ideals, but none can escape that weight in the air, thick as back alley urine.

no more dying tree shedding pine tears all over the living room. no more bright and fucksmiled carols. no more sitting around family tables, overstuffed and oppressed. no more twinkling lights. no more stupid grins on inflated snowmen. no more, i say.


oh, and bah humbug.

live by the fire...

how nice, to be sitting with a fresh computer in your hands, gazing at a new-dollar-bill dawn, contemplating the greater things in life. pondering interesting and amazing things! like how differently people, or even the same person at different times of his/her life, can measure time. how they can all live their different schedules. take, for instance, how one schedules one's leisure time.

for many people, work happens consistently from roughly 8-9 am to 4-5 pm, always on monday through friday. always has been, always will be. for this breed, the work week ends with.. well.. weekends. that's when they get to immerse themselves in a range of stimulating activities, from family fun at science world to 3am martinis with friends.

for people working on a theatrical production, mondays are the fabulous woohoo days - only they call them "dark". it's a great day to get some laundry done, call your agent, surf youtube. it's also your one chance to stay up all night drinking red wine and waxing philosophical about who the fuck knows - or remembers. well, it's your one chance to do it without it hurting too much the next day. it's hard, you know, to be great when you're bloated and belching up last night's bourbon.

some people's schedules are directed by weather or season, some by contract opportunities.. there is a wealth of unique rhythms.

well, i'm currently working in a restaurant near the saddledome. you know, down over there, in the red mile. (do i even have any calgarian readers? does anyone else know what the red mile means? well if you have no idea, and hey, why would you, the calgary flames are a hockey team that dazzles fans in an arena called the saddledome. and as far as i understand, the red mile is the part of the trendy 17th ave that juts out from said saddledome.)

so these days, i have to consult a hockey team's game schedule when determining the activities that will enhance my leisure time. it is a pele mele pattern, a constellation of home vs road games. it is complex and it is based, i think, on the language of dolphins. and it's my life.

so... i guess that means i'm "living by the Flames?"

resolutions

it's that time of year when we western types like to take stock of all we've accomplished and blown in the last solar cycle. and then we like to make decisions designed to improve our state and lot. some people call it a crock, a cliched delusion. a lie we tell ourselves so we can feel like we're doing something productive with our sad little lives. like there's a chance we'll get our shit together. i don't know, perhaps it is a delusion. but it's also a ritual, and you know how i love ritual. and new year's can be a very intense and powerful time for a ritual reassessment. (it also doesn't hurt that i've just had one of those life-altering experiences that beg for a shift in perspective.) and so... i have some new year's resolutions.

i'm gonna wash that rage right out of my hair
i have been drowning in a consumptive rage for over a year now. sparked by a series of unfortunate lovers, fanned by a neglectful soul, it has become an inferno. i want to stop hating the world: strangers, friends, myself. i want to love, not scorn. i want to be consumed with compassion and warmth, not spite and ugliness. but i don't know how to do that. i have some ideas, like less booze. i am bruised and bleeding, beaten senseless by my crutch. but sobriety isn't the whole solution. booze is one of the symptoms, but it's not the illness. i've spent a fistful of grey hairs self-analyzing, and it's brought me some understanding. but i don't know what to do with it. i need strategies. i need external wisdom. i need help. i need a therapist. or a teacher. or guru? i'm feeling alarmingly wide open to spiritual guidance, for the first time in over 10 years.

willing more word's worth
less wallowing, more writing. i already have a handful of ideas for my next project. new ideas, and ideas i had abandoned in the fog of love. after two stunted years, i will be writing about something other than him and us. and i'm sure it means that for the first time in two stunted years, i will be able to complete something.

retirement
for my whole little life, my heart and her flaming emotions have been telling me what to do. well you know what? she's a fucking bully! and like most bullies - she's not that smart. it's time to retire my heart and see if my brain can do any better. imagine the possibility: making decisions based on rationality, not emotion! my first step toward that ideal was my decision not to disappear in a haze of melodrama. oh the heart's hurricane - a spoiled infant thrashing and gnashing in the grocer's aisles. when he broke up with me, the banshee bellowed: go home, go now, go go go curl up in your friends' laps!! run, don't walk!!! but then, right there underneath it all, i could feel this frequency. a slow, steady, throbbing hum: "shhh. breathe. now then kaen," my brain whispered, "it's going to be a busy week at work. and you have no idea what the fuck you're going to do for home, work, life... who knows where your next income will be coming from! wouldn't it be nice to go home with a bit of money in your pocket?" and for the first time in the history of my decision-making, my brain won.

finding true love
ok, so even though i'm submitting myself to the brain's dominion, i can't totally ignore my heart. pretending she doesn't exist is as stupid as crowning her queen. i'm heartbroken, and i have to feel that. let it wash through me. (the operative word being through.) and i have low moments when i wish to never again to be lured into this mortifying coil we call love and relationships. but come on - you know
my mantra: love is a fairy tale for fools and dreamers, and i just happen to be both. i have a deep hunger, a hollowness that has spread since i first learned to cry; i don't think i'll ever be able to give up on dreams of romantic love. but i need a respite. i need to learn how to direct all the energy i waste on love and sex, toward friends and family and myself instead. and maybe, just maybe i'll realize the companionship and love i seek already exist. well, of course i already know: my friends and family love me. they know me, they accept me, they understand me. i know this, i first discovered this a few years ago (and even recorded my epiphany in this post: http://like_you_care.blogspot.com/2005/01/friends.html). but then i got lured into lust, and then i became consumed by love. and i forgot. but now that i'm listening, my brain is reminding me to be fulfilled by all i have. i was deeply hurt when my last lover would take me for granted. and yet is that not exactly what i do with my friends: abandon them for months or years, only to return broken and frail to their nurturing arms. i need to tilt the viewfinder, redirect my gaze. i need to spend some time falling in love with my friends. and myself.

breathe

snow-tipped air
sharp in a throat
sore
from born-again smoking

glide
through the raw
red
circular slide

race through the
fractal map
of my dying lungs
charge through to
my bleeding heart
surge up to
my flailing brain

a rush of cool
of perfect
of fulfillment
of everything
and then
so quickly
it races away
hot,
tainted
bumping
and grinding
its way out of the pink

and then again
and
again
innnnn
and
ah
o
ooout.

his & hers

so ok, maybe i'm getting old...

but i tell ya, i'm sick to death of the avant-garde/post-modern/pre-i-don't-know-what inspiring bar and restaurant owners. specifically, i'm tired of having to spend valuable peeing time deciphering clever, genderless photos or symbols on bathroom doors.

ok, i can appreciate everyone wants to be clever, and hooray for them. really. i fully and heartily encourage cleverness and artfulness and creativity. but there's a limit, isn't there?

the other day, my friend alana and i were both fooled by the very effeminate pilot on the door to a toronto bar's washroom. it was only the (blessedly empty) urinals upon entry that gave away that this was no chick's washroom.

i know it doesn't matter for single-occupancy rooms, but what dude wants some chick walking in while he's talking to a man about a horse? or, for that matter, if he does happen to want it: what chick wants to be in that situation?

can we please just go back to good ol' fashioned "his and hers" logos that stodgy old fogeys like me can interpret? please??

(grin)