She's coming to take me away, ha ha...

Well, it's official. I'm getting hitched.

About a week before Xmas, I decided it was time Nadia made an honest man of me. Luckily, she didn't retch and tell me to get stuffed, meaning I'm all engaged-like.

And, if you can believe it, to this woman!



Well, what are you waiting for? Congratulate me, already!

A chance meeting

It started innocently enough; a chance meeting at a local shop turned into a friendly, albeit lengthy, coffee at the coffee haus.

It had been ages since I'd seen her, but she wore the years well. Still short but handsome, with simple makeup and a comfortable jacket, she looked a little worn at the edges -- "well-loved," as she might put it. I couldn’t put my finger on just why, but there was a subtle, inviting allure about her that couldn't be ignored.

Ancient walls, secrets unearthed slid aside to reveal hidden treasure, or at least codified maps with promises thereof. We’d resigned ourselves to friendship some years before, but found ourselves, suddenly, succumbing to long-forgotten temptations. I don't even remember walking home, I was so engrossed in her every movement. It wasn’t long before we fell onto my chesterfield. A scramble of arms and legs, awkward but full of memory, forgave the battered soldier, offered silent thanks.

And then they came. Words, warm and soft and familiar, nibbling at the ear and nuzzling at the neck. Joyous words, breathy and moist, rolling off tongues, dancing ravishing dances. Words, whispered through nervous, quivering smiles. Words, carefree teases with wicked grins and mischievous winks.

Minutes into hours, hours into morning light. It was the morning rush before we stumbled to the coffee haus for a quick goodbye. A chance meeting, unpredictable, unmatchable. Sleep had been expendable, but work was not. Duty called, and I had to be at my desk in 20 minutes. I held her long and hard, until there was no choice but to say goodbye.

She took a place at the coffee haus, and as I walked out the door she caught the eye of a man ten years my junior. He started to pick her up, and I tried to reason with myself – was it too soon for another? Did I even have a right to ask? I walked back in the store and stood behind him, emotions mixed, one hand clenched, the other open, offering.

“She’s quite the lady,” I said, more supportive than challenging. “Have you read that one before?”

“Yeah, years ago,” he blushed, hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “Atwood’s a bloody genius, ain’t she?”

Briana made me

Okay, I've been poked and ridiculed for not updating my blog. So here goes, short but sweet -- just like this girl:
. :D

I saw The Incredibles with my girlfriend and the afore-shown Briana yesterday. Good fun, that. Especially enjoyed the idea that "once everyone's super, no one will be."

Easily transposed to the whole plastic surgery thing -- if everyone uses Botox, no one will look younger.

There. Done for the day. *pokes Briana* Happy, mon cherie?

An appreciation for punctuation

After grabbing the brilliant ode to punctuation, Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots and Leaves, I couldn't help but to dig up this bit from Steve Martin's Pure Drivel:

Times Roman Font Announces Shortage of Periods

Representatives of the popular Times Roman font, who recently announced a shortage of periods, have offered other substitutes — inverted commas, exclamation marks, and semi-colons until the period crisis is able to be overcome by people such as yourself, who, through creative management of surplus punctuation, can perhaps allay the constant demand for periods, whose heavy usage in the last ten years, not only in English but in virtually every language in the world, is creating a burden on writers everywhere, thus generating a litany of comments such as: What the hell am I supposed to do without my periods? How am I going to write? Isn't this a terrible disaster? Are they crazy? Won't this just create misuse of other, less interesting punctuation???

"Most vulnerable are writers who work in short, choppy sentences," said a spokesperson, who added, "we are trying to remedy the situation and have suggested alternatives like umlauts, as we have plenty of umlauts — in fact, more umlauts than we could possibly use in a lifetime; don't forget, umlauts can really spice up a page with their delicate symmetry, resting often midway in a word, letters spilling on either side, and can not only indicate the pronunciation of a word but also contribute to the writer's greater glory, because they're fancy, not to mention that they even look like periods, indeed are indistinguishable from periods, and will lead casual readers to believe the article actually contains periods!"

Bobby Brainard, a writer living in an isolated cabin in Montana, who is in fact the only writer living in an isolated cabin in Montana who is not insane, is facing a dilemma typical of writers across the nation: "I have a sentence that has just got to be stopped; it's currently sixteen pages long and is edging out the front door and is now so lumbering I'm starting to worry that one period alone won't be enough and I will need at least two to finally kill it off and if that doesn't work, I've ordered an elephant gun from mail order and if I don't get some periods fast, I'm going to have to use it . . ." The magazine International Hebrew has issued this emergency statement: "We currently have an oversupply of backward periods and will be happy to send some to Mister Brainard or anyone else facing a crisis!" . period backward the in slip you while moment a for way other the look to sentence the getting is trick only The

The concern of writers is summed up in this brief telegram:

Period shortage mustn't continue stop
Stop-stoppage must come to full stop stop
We must resolve it and stop stop-stoppage stop
Yours truly,
Tom Stoppard

Needless to say, there has been an increasing pressure on the ellipsis . . .

"I assure you," said the spokesperson, "I assure you the ellipsis is not — repeat, is not — just three periods strung together, and although certain writers have plundered the ellipsis for its dots, these are deeply inelegant and ineffective when used to stop a sentence! ¿An ellipsis point is too weak to stop a modern sentence, which would require at least two ellipsis periods, leaving the third dot to stand alone pointlessly, no pun intended, and indeed two periods at the end of a sentence would look like a typo . . . comprende? And why is Time Roman so important? Why can't writers employ some of our other, lesser-used fonts, like Goofy Deluxe, Namby-Pamby Extra Narrow, or Gone Fishin'?" In fact, there is movement toward alternate punctuation; consider the New Punctuation and Suicide Cult in southern Texas, whose credo is "Why not try some new and different types of punctuation and then kill ourselves?" Notice how these knotty epigrams from Shakespeare are easily unraveled:

Every cloud engenders not a storm
Horatio, I am dead

Remembering the Albertus Extra Bold asterisk embargo of several years back, one hopes the crisis is solved quickly, because a life of exclamation marks, no matter how superficially exciting, is no life at all! There are, of course, many other fonts one can use if the crisis continues, but frankly, what would you rather be faced with, Namby Pamby Extra Narrow or the bosomy sexuality of Times Roman? The shortage itself may be a useful one, provided it's over quickly, for it has made at least this author appreciate and value his one spare period, and it is with great respect that I use it now.

Quote, unquote

"Her face is what scared me. It was too wide to be pretty and too flat to be handsome, but she was beautiful anyway."

--- Walter Mosley, from his 2001 novel, Fearless Jones

Shame on the CBC. Shame them to H - E - double hockey sticks.

The following is based on a rant sent to "Viewer Relations" at CBC:

The CBC - Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, for those outside our shores - is a national treasure. Like England's BBC, or Australia's ABC -- heck, even the States' closer-to-corporate-interest NPR -- the CBC has dwindled at times, and shone at others. That's the nature of publicly owned broadcasters.

I adore the fact that comedians like Martin Short, John Candy, Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara all came from SCTV. Dave Foley and Mark McKinney, to name two, came from the uber-brilliant Kids in the Hall. And of course, Mike Myers and the Mask himself,Jim Carrey grew up watching Canadian icons like Don Adams (Get Smart), William Shatner (Star Trek), and Lorne Greene (Bonanza) -- all of whom got their starts, or at least inspiration, from CBC.

It doesn't hurt that I've done some freelance work for CBC Radio One, either. A coupla paycheques'll garner at least a little loyalty now and then.

What gets me red-faced lately, and what should shame the CBC immensely, is their recent decision to displace Hockey Night in Canada with second-rate Hollywood dreck.

The people who have criticized HNiC over the years for being a mostly male-serving testosterone-fest must be wringing their hands with glee. "No pro hockey, so they have nothing to say!"

Why not use these precious hours to showcase the game at other levels? The Hockey Day in Canada broadcasts have been wonderful spotlights to shine on small communities, junior hockey, even the parent-referee issues. But those have only been once a year. Why not expand that marvelous programming to a monthly, or weekly endeavour? There's a lot more out there than overpriced tickets and charter flights filled with baby-faced sports gods.

For years we've been battered about the face and neck with lipservice to grassroots hockey. Now's the chance for CBC to truly SHOW that support. What do we get on Saturday night, instead? The closest thing we've gotten to hockey on our national broadcaster is Adam Sandler punching Bob Barker - two Americans - in a horrid "comedy" about an ex-goon. I'm sorry, but slotting Indiana Jones -- a US-produced blockbuster that EVERYONE HAS SEEN IF THEY'RE EVER GOING TO SEE IT -- into that spot is lazy programming and irresponsible use of the tax dollars used to fund the damned network. If you're going to show films, how about some Canadian content? Let's say, 32 Short Films About Glenn Gould, orJesus of Montreal. How about some shorts or features in prime time for the National Film Board?

Shame on you, CBC. What a glorious opportunity to show the game on the other side of the greed -- and you blew it.

Sometimes capitalism doesn't suck

There's an odd moment, just once in a while, when marketing doesn't inspire the gag reflex. Case in point, the very clever Penguin UK site, Good Booking.

Spoofing the always awkward animal, the men's magazine, Good Bookng offers blokes a thousand pounds if the site's gorgeous blonde -- shown on the site, of course, covered in photography-friendly sweat from a makeup artist's mister -- spots the lucky prizewinner reading the right book in a public place.

Clever use of an awful genre to promote something worthwhile.

Speaking of books, has anyone read Art Spiegelman's ode to 9/11, In The Shadow of No Towers, yet?

The Wet Spots

Hit the Fringe last night with some friends -- specifically, saw The Wet Spots, a vaudeville-style duo who sing mostly about sexually oriented topics.

Highlights

A workout show focusing on Kegels: "we support any exercise you can do while drinking a beer and having a smoke in your local neighbourhood pub!"

Lyrics that are strong throughout the show. Case in point, the ever-popular courtship song, "Do You Take It In The Ass?"

Admittedly, the finale needs a little work -- as a longtime guitar player, John is best-suited to the musical end of things, while Cass' strong vocals are helped by her history in performance poetry, giving her more polish on the acting side -- but it is hard to argue with androgynous blonde afros, bare buttocks and obscene singalongs.

At no time in the years since I met John did I think, "I predict Woodsy will wear a silver thong and tassle pasties, and I will applaud wildly." I was happily not weirded out by the experience.

A good show, check out the website to find a show near you -- they're touring as we speak.

Home.

The following is inspired by the standard holy trinity of any hobby writer:
Random pop culture moment: for me, today, Garden State, a not-so-little film in little film packaging.
Significant life event: Nadia and I just moved to Yaletown (yes, THAT Yaletown).
Last but not even close to least, insomnia.



Home.

walls
paint
dishes
carpet
a lamp you don't remember buying, but you can't imagine life without.

I cuddle up, arms and legs entangled, and I wish we could stay like this forever
almost embarrassing, but satisfying to my core, this sweaty, trashy menage a trois.
It's a scandalous public display -- what would my mother think?
Me, this armchair and a paperback book I only met this afternoon.
The page turned, noon became nine, and I closed my eyes in orgiastic bliss
until the security guard warned me.
The store closes in 10 minutes, sir.

Just like that
I wandered
and the suddenness of night chills my marrow.

The streets are like an old friend
seen for the first time in a while
familiar but different
changed, in the same old way.
I walked for hours tonight, catching up but keeping distant
not wanting to broach anything too uncomfortable,
the off-chance of renewed friendship too precious to endanger.
Still moist from my previous sin
damp with danger
that book was still in my pocket.

She catches my eye, her intangible glow
stolen from inspiration itself.
Please please please give me a piece of that smile
Bask me, treat me, broil me, goddess of the brown bean.
Girlfriend at the new apartment, still moist from my previous sin
the question in my eyes, not my words.
Would you roast me, coddle me, buy and sell my very soul?
I'm sorry, just what you see on the menu, sir.

Just like that
I wonder
Can she read the double entendre in my chai tea latte?
The suddenness of espresso lights my eyes
like an old hit song

boxes
confusion
dis

organ

ization

Where the hell did we get that lamp?
I still can't find the light switches in the new apartment.

But God, it's good to be home.

Got them Movin' my sorry, unworthy ass downtown blues...

Is there anything more humbling, more exhilerating, more infuriating, more baffling than moving to a smaller house? Seven years ago, my grandfather left his three-story home for the comfort of a 15th-floor one bedroom plus den condo "living space." He left behind scads of furniture, countless self-imposed home improvements, and years of memories: his wife of 60 years, the long-since renovated bedrooms of his now middle-aged children, the comfort of a full backyard garden which he hadn't tended himself for nigh on a decade.

Me, I'm downsizing on a much smaller emotional scale, but the task is simply staggering. My girlfriend and I have a modest two-bedroom place in Burnaby, but are tossing it for the high-falutin' fast pace of 500-square foot digs in Yaletown.

We're wondering which things get the boot, and which make the move with us. We're fighting over what kind of lamp to buy for the bedroom, and what colour accent wall best hides the mediocrity of our existing furniture. We're excitedly planning for more entertaining in our home -- we can join the ranks of Vancouver snobs who refuse to jaunt to the suburbs for anything less than a funeral, parental birthday or stag party.

We're leaving the small, petty problems of suburbian Metrotown for the insignificant, pretty problems of upscale Yaletown. They may not be better people down there, but they're certainly better-dressed.

We're terrified, elated, wide-eyed and cranky. Give us a designer fruit smoothie and a cat-sized dog, and we'll fit right in.

Git with His Dickness...

... just discovered Richard Cheese. This guy's the shit, people. Enjoy!

Fleeting nature of life, yadda yadda yadda

I witnessed a serious car accident last weekend. Driving home from a gig MCing a high school after-grad, I had a cop car pulled up beside me at a traffic light on Scott Road in Surrey. Naturally, I let the officer drive faster than me, so I was about 100 metres behind him as we approached the green light at the intersection of Scott and 80th Avenue. It was about 5:30 Saturday morning -- not a lot of traffic on the road.

I was half-asleep, trying to find an energetic song on the laptop and adjusting my headphones -- you know, typical driving activity going 55 along a major thoroughfare -- when a car shot across from the left side of 80th, T-boning the police car and sending both vehicles spinning into the PetroCan parking lot. The grey sedan that ran a red turned a couple of times, and stopped with front end damage and some serious axle misalignment on the grass between 80th and the parking lot. The police car, however, spun about 720 degrees, and added a couple of flips for good measure. It fell over a small, decorative embankment and came to rest on its roof about 5 metres shy of the gas pumps.

Pull over. Swear under breath. Run to police car.

Within 30 seconds there were several stopped cars and a terrified PetroCan nightshift worker at the end of his shift, all crowded around the window of the flipped cruiser. The officer was wedged against the top of the car, droplets of blood spattering the pavement below. He couldn't move, and had a nasty-looking gash in the back of his head. We couldn't see his face, and the weight of his body against his neck made for a rather awkward position for the young Mountie. It's distressing to hear a trained officer of the law, no matter how young, saying things like, "I can't breathe!" and "I'm scared, help me!"


Buddy in the other car wasn't physically hurt -- his response to "You okay, man?" was the ever-eloquent, "Who fuckin' cares, man? I'm going to fuckin' jail!"

Thank you, James Joyce.

Right, so back to the cruiser. One of the passersby had first aid training, so my job basically fell to keeping as many people as possible away from the cruiser, to give the poor guy some space and air. For about 8 minutes, that is, when approximately 32 emergency vehicles descended on the PetroCan like every movie cliche you've ever seen.

I gave a statement, and by the time I was done (in what, 5 minutes?) they'd used the jaws of life to cut the door off the cruiser and get the Mountie on a stretcher. He was joking with other officers (understandably, nervously) and moved his hands, so there wasn't any immediate sign of paralysis. Still, they had him on a spinal board and weren't taking any chances.

Needless to say, I've been a little more cautious entering intersections since then. Something about the fleeting nature of life, the randomness of it all -- had the cop not been next to me at the previous light, would I have booted it just enough to be the victim of the crash? Trying to figure out if it's "I want to take advantage of all of my opportunities" time, or "I need to recognize all the close calls" time. All that jive.

So whaddaya say, folks? Gimme your close calls or Rescue 9-1-1 stories.

Help with code

Can anyone tell me why the heck all of my links -- web- and blog- alike -- list themselves twice when I've only coded them once each?

S'purty durned annoyin', Jebidiah.

Snot

After thorough investigation, it has been determined that the mucous extracted from Jason's left nostril yesterday afternoon did not, in fact, look like the Virgin Mary.

Experts almost unanimously agree the fragment of snot more closely resembled Steve McQueen. One theory holds the bodily fluid was trying to reenact a famous scene from The Great Escape, but when it found no motorcycle waiting upon its host's upper lip, it tried to get back into the nasal passage.

Jason has announced plans to charge $5.79 admission to those interested in witnessing the lookalike booger.

Representatives from the McQueen estate were unavailable for comment at publication time.

Shirking of Civic Duties

I gave blood on the weekend -- the heat, a randy girlfriend and late night silliness at a friend's place meant I spent the entire weekend woozier than usual. The result? A hangover, a fuzzy tongue and Sunday morning number crunching.

In the 6076 days since I turned 17, I've had the statistical opportunity to donate blood 107.96 times. You're allowed to donate every 56 days from your 17th to 71st birthdays -- my next opportunity, for example, will be August 14th, 2004.

Saturday was exactly my ninth trip to Canadian Blood Services, meaning I've shirked my civic duty no less than 98 times over the past 16 and a half years. This is not including all the days I continued a previous shirk -- case in point, I didn't inaugurate my arms to the donation process until I was well into my 20s.

The last few times I've been, I've dedicated to my grandmother, who passed away a few years back. She was a major influence in my formative years; her British accent and love of Scrabble both inspired my membership in the word nerd club. I wouldn't have been a writer or teacher without her. Thanks, Grandma!

This time, as well, I aligned my donation with the Vancouver TheatreSports League 'donor team'. (I used to do improv, so I figured what the hell, bump up their tally by one, y'know?)

So the challenge, I guess, is for me to push others into giving blood. Maybe, karmically, that will offset the shirk factor?

Watership Down

Just finished Watership Down, by Richard Adams. Yes, yes, I know most people read it in high school. What can I say, our Grade 11 English class was deconstructing Pink Floyd The Wall, okay?

Anyway, Adams did a marvelous job of building not just a believable group of characters, but a complete civilization, including class structures, political ideologies, even religious dogmae. Not unusual for a work of fiction -- Tolkien's Middle Earth and Auel's Ayla & the Clan are two examples -- but I can't recall this kind of detail in a story focussed on animals. Animal Farm, maybe?

Feel free to post replies with any other books you've read with such invented animal ideology. (Please, no science fiction or what today is called 'fantasy.' I'm not looking for exhaustive lists of the deities worshipped by the half-men, half-crab creatures of Rigel 4. I want takes on animal philosophy.)

Wank on graduation

I often work for a DJ at high school dances, and this time of year that means high school graduation dances.

Invariably, the kids are jonesin' to get the hell outta dodge; posing for pictures in their tuxes and assorted finery; waiting impatiently for their table to be called to the buffet; nervously tugging at their ties, shoulder straps and/or kilts; and struggling to appear moderately interested during the teacher-led plea for sanity, grad committee-led squeal of appreciation for those same teachers and parents they hated the week before, and the principal's announcement that "this class is one of the finest groups of young people I've had the privilege to work with."

What many organizers amazingly fail to see -- or perhaps ignore in desperate denial -- is that these kids just want a pat on the back and a kick on the heinie. Sometimes a teacher with the appropriate memories of their high school graduation actually manages to get the gig, and they encourage everyone to make it short, sweet and for goodness' sake realistic. Last week's math teacher/MC got it right, and I wish more of them would take their audience into account: "good job, now get out and have fun."

As part of the DJ company, I can say it would make our job easier; we could just get down to the business of getting these kids to dance before their limos whisk them off to their "real" parties. We wouldn't have to wake them up after the aforementioned snoozefest.

"This is the best time of your life," they say, as they do their best to bore grads to tears. Hell, at one dance three weeks ago, there were more parents there than grads. Parents weren't even told WHERE my grad WAS, we were so concerned they'd come down and ruin it for us.

I'm all for having a good relationship with parents and teachers, but kids are not invited to 'adult parties' and staff meetings for a reason: they say, "Imagine, like, you know, trying to like, have a 'serious discourse,' or something, with, like, the Grade Nine haircurling team, like, getting their, you know, say?"

Let's have a little respect and return the favour, yeah?

Adults -- and yes, I am one of you -- there's a reason our kids have a blank expression on their faces most of the time. We're trying to impose on them our values and beliefs, our expectation and disappointment, our work ethic and priorities. Quite frankly, to them we are what our parents and teachers were to us: boring, out of touch, even lame. If we let these guys do a little more of what they want, when they want, how they want -- without letting them flaunt the law, of course -- we may just see more flicker and less dull glare in their eyes. Do all that while making them work for what they get and earn the time spent with computers or Playstations, and I'll bet you'll even see a few fires back there.

Cleanse

So I'm on this five-day fibre cleanse.

What the hell does the English language need with two so similar verbs? Am I cleaning my body, or cleanSing by body? And a 'fibre cleanse?' So, will I end up with the cleanest fibre on the block?

Needless to say, day three is Irritation Day. Now THAT would make a good movie about alien intrusion.

-- Fade to mission control room; UFOs float menacingly on screens as many people scurry this way and that --

Supermodel in Normalizing Glasses for Supporting Role (TM): "Sir, the aliens have reached the planet's surface."

Bill Paxton: "Where did they land, dammit!"

Supermodel, taking off glasses to show sudden uberhuman beauty: "They're... they're in the building, sir."

Bill Paxton: "Don't let 'em in, man, I'm on day three of my cleanse. If they get in here, there's no telling WHAT I'll do."

Bill Pullman: "Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the lead in this film."

-- Paxton kills Pullman with bare hands --

And the cleanse continues...

Wha the fa?!?!?!?!

When I'm not teaching English in a classroom, I tend to tutor foriegn students in their homes. I was doing so the other night as the Calgary Flames took a 3-2 series lead against the Tampa Bay Lightning in the biggest game of the most entertaining Stanley Cup final series in 10 years.

Needless to say, I taped the game. So I finish my lesson with Jun (Korean kid, 14, has trouble pronouncing P and F, but does okay with L and R), and start the trek home to watch the game. I get in the elevator, and an OLD man says, "what did you think of the game?"

"Oh, please, don't say anything, I taped it and I'm going home to watch the..."

"Calgary scored in overtime, what a game!"

*stunned silence*

"Yeah, it was one of the best games I've seen in a while. Enjoy watching it!"

I drove home and watched it anyway. Of course any excitement of the end-to-end, offensive contest was muted since I knew the outcome. Any tension was absolutely sucked out of the game. I suppose this guy walked around for weeks, braying "Kevin Spacey is Keyser Soze," and "Going to see the Crying Game? Great flick -- she's a guy, you know."

This isn't the first time someone's told me the score of a big game I've got on tape. It's like people LIKE to ruin a big game for someone -- "Gonna watch the Canucks game, are yeh? I know you don't want me to tell you the score, but they won 4-1." "Man, did Cloutier ever get lucky to throw a shutout tonight." "It's a good thing Marcus scored that late goal, we needed those two points."

Would someone PLEASE tell me what part of "Please, don't say anything," could possibly be construed as, "Tell me the fucking score!"

... I'm waiting. Someone's sure to spill the beans, if only to ruin it for me.

Troy

What an abysmal waste of time.

Acting, direction, script, even the battle sequences -- they were all utterly awful.

How can you assemble all that money, all those actors (Peter O'Toole? Robert Cox? These guys should know better), and all that historical research, and still churn out a bloated turdfest with soap opera dialogue?

At best this is a poor man's Gladiator -- at worst it's Beverly Hills 90210 Reunion, Rumble on the Aegean Sea.

Brain Ruffage

As anyone who regulary puts their thoughts, feelings, ambitions, rants or raves into words will attest, the process of writing changes immensely if you trade the keyboard for the quill, or vice versa. I, like most, find my writing seems to depend as much on the mode of record as the mood or subject portrayed.

My prose becomes more abstract, even bizarre, when I put pen to paper. Give me a keyboard, and everything straightens up. I go limp (read linear), unable to jump over the chasms of logic I've for so long leapt with glee.

I started to notice this when I was still writing for the Westender. My best work, in my opinion, was always written on paper, usually at a coffee shop or in transit. The work my editors preferred, on the other hand, always came through a mild QWERTY haze. The ol' brain just can't stay active with the bluish glow of the monitor to hypnotize the user. Too passive, this.

Also, I experience far more blockage in front of the computer. The Artist's Way suggests three pages of morning writing to burn the crap off the top of your brain. I liken it more to a laxative than a controlled burn. Pulp and paper, as cerebral fibre. Typing all the time's like a steady diet of filet mignon. Great for a meal or two, but the colon just doesn't appreciate an -- ahem -- regular regimen of beef.

My headal colon, then, needs a rest. Out, damn clot! Get thee to a diary!

Why look for greener grass if brown's your favourite colour?

Reaching.

Grasping.

Stretching.

Striving.

Looking for a comfort that never comes.

But nestled in comfort is an odd discomfort that pushes doubt and dismay onto all those things you chased for all those years.

Shadows creep into the dreams you thought worth dreaming. Dream, nightmare, nightmare, dream.

Ambition or apathy. Take your pick, it's all the same to me.

Cirque du Soleil

Went to Cirque du Soleil on Friday with the girlfriend. Also took my mom, as my father just doesn't go for that kind of thing. Too bad for him, too, 'cos it was everything everyone says it is. At times physically challenging, musically stimulating and freakin' hilarious. (And that was just the lineup for the port-o-potties.)

Personal fave was Statue -- couple, nearly naked, moving in slo-mo into seemingly impossible positions -- spent the entire act picking up my jaw from the floor. (Scooped some of the previous patron's popcorn while it was down there, tho! Score!)

Decided that for today only, I'll not use subjects in my main clauses. Got a problem with that?

My first blog.

Whee.