So APPARENTLY a convenience store clerk was stabbed multiple times by a long knife wielded by what appeared to be two fifteen-year-old girls in Kitchener sometime Thursday night. If you read my cigarette story from yesterday, I'm sure you'll figure out why this news is both disturbing and coincidental. Evidently the clerk was not "too cute to stab."
I cannot tell you how many times in a day I think to myself: "Hot damn, I'm sooooo glad I don't run a convenience store! Like, gag me with a spoon!" All of my internal dialogues run in a valley girl dialect for some reason, except for when I think about sex. Then I ponder in thick syrupy Scottish.
Posted by Chris at 02:03 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink
April 29, 2005 >> In Japan, student teach you!
I have so very many projects slated for the summer but, caught between the headrush of ending Laurier and the distant starting point of employment, I find myself in a state of restless delay. I'll start next week; really, I will. I'll do my taxes and ready myself for a Masters degree and write, write, write. I'll read ten books in a row. I will become the summer me.
Because so many people have been jumping on this whole "Teach English in Japan" bandwagon, it might be pertinent to mention yesterday's interview. After two hours of presentation material that showcased Japan's gorgeous diversity and broke the company down into neatly rendered flow-charts, I went one-on-one with a particular Tenzin Zongdho - Overseas Recruiter. Tenzin was a sharp edge, and the interview largely consisted of snap-responses to questions that he would later pick apart. Amidst discussing my personal shortcomings, I learnt that you always accept business cards with two hands in Japan: it's incredibly disrespectful to grab a card and quickly spirit it away when you first meet someone. You have to glance at it repeatedly during conversation, showing apparent fascination for your fellow conversationalist's credentials. Jen warned me about the respect issue, but the double-handed card-grab technique caught me off guard. Why the hell do I need two hands to take something that's shorter than my index finger? Well, it's tradition. To be fair, Western culture has some fucked-up traditions too - we just don't notice them anymore.
In a bizarre climax to the interview, I had to 'teach' a paragraph out of Nova's training text to Tenzin while he role-played a semi-comprehending student: "What smoke? Me no know smoke billow. What that?" I twirled my fingers in an effort to explain what a helicoptor was, and reached mightily to describe skyscrapers. Afterwards, we discussed the semantics of understanding and I quietly realized that I can suspend my condescending nature when needed. I can teach.
But do I really want to teach with Nova? I would have to remove any and all piercings, and wear a suit. All the time. I fucking hate suits and I love piercings. The pay is moderately less than what I had expected, and let's face it: I need substantial cash-money to embark on my crazy schemes for the future. I am willing to settle, but I am also willing to look outside my current horizons for something better.
I hear South Korea is big.
Posted by Chris at 02:04 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink
>> Carrying cancer
Cigarettes kill, but they also entertain. The tradeoff is often worthwhile.
Waiting for my Greyhound in ultra-sketchy downtown Kitchener, I was approached by an ugly little imp of a man with grimy yellow fingers. "Can I have a smoke?" Feeling upbeat, I hand one over. Instantly: "Can I have another one?" Well, fuck no you can't. You haven't even lit the one I gave you. "Can I have two dollars?" No! I explain to the fellow that you can only ask any given person for ONE thing, just one, to the great amusement of fellow public-transporters. Unphased, the imp wobbles back and forth, spittle flying from his lips, and regales me with tales of his first cigarette at the tender age of five. He hauls lovingly on cancer and, with great pride, explains that once he packed a pipe full of some gross chew-tobacco and the bowl somehow ended up in the toilet. Of course, he fished it out and lit it up. Smoking is the best thing in the world, and he can blow smoke-rings. He purses his cracked lips, tries and fails miserably. I tell him to get a new hobby and board the bus sideways.
In Toronto, I wait for my ride on the curb of Bay Street. Two tiny girls of fifteen or so are leaning nonchalantly against the wall. One calls me over: "Dude, smoke?" I hesitate, then relent. She eyes me up while her friend smiles widely, showing her braces. "Did you think I was gonna mug you or something?" I laugh: I weigh more than both of these teeners combined and tell them so. She smirks. "I'm packing, you know." She reaches into her jacket and pulls out two foot-long hunting knives and brandishes them fiercely before looking around suspiciously and returning them to their hiding spot.
Holy shit! "She's cut people before," her friend tells me. I nod warily. Getting stabbed by a little girl would potentially be the most embarrassing way to die of all time. They laugh, I smile. They're stranded in Toronto, no money to get back to Kitchener. I should've known - all the fucking crazies are somehow linked to K-Town. A threesome in a nearby alleyway is playfully suggested, but all I can think of are those knives (and STDs, statutory rape charges and EWWW! aren't far behind). I decline and head back to my curb while they mosey back into the terminal. "Thanks for the smoke dude!" she calls. "Thanks for not stabbing me," I reply dryly. A pause. "You're too cute to stab!" And the door swings shut.
People wonder why smoking persists in light of the terrible evidence against the cancer-stick, but the strange and bizarre experiences shared between aficionados of the disease are often too tempting to pass up.
Posted by Chris at 01:02 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink
April 27, 2005 >> Arcade Fire Separations
he tore our images out of his pictures,
he scratched our names out of all his letters.
if you want something, don't ask for nothing
if you want nothing, don't ask for something!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I roll out of bed this fine afternoon, ready to photocopy and research and do all the wonderful things necessary for my interview with Nova in TO tomorrow. Happily enough, travel circumstances form and break and reform and shred via MSN, and I am apparently taking a Greyhound into the Big City sometime tonight. Pressure to hurry-the-fuck-up is alleviated and now I don't have to be a third wheel on Tim and Michelle's magical shopping adventures.
Urgency slain, I decide to write about the super-fantastic-amazing Arcade Fire show last night. I see that Carly beat me to it, and did an A-OK job at that. I grimace. The blogosphere is getting crowded, and what can I say that hasn't already been said? I try anyways. Here we go.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Sherry kindly automotivized us into Toronto mid-afternoon, a full three hours before doors at the Danforth opened. We wandered around Greektown for a while, marvelling at the high volumes of bridal shops and dishevelled individuals smoking cigarette butts that they picked out of patio ashtrays. Carly looked at dogs, as Carly is wont to do, and Regan taught me that dogs essentially walk upright on their 'toes' all day long. Those puppies have some fucked up anatomy.
When we wandered back to the venue, a line of scenesters in skinny ties and golf shoes had already begun to form. I searched for the ultimate emo kid and found plenty of girls in dresses + jeans, thick-rimmed glasses, and work shirts. Borrelli told stories about a friend who made an abrupt decision to shift his image from Limp Bizkit rage-kid to sappy emo putz overnight. I shook my head. Why buy into a scene that's already on its way out?
Nobody knew who the opening band was. I guessed U2.
I was wrong. Inside, later, we watched Owen twist his violin into loops and layers of sound. Many of his songs reminded me of Secret of Mana for some reason, and I was strangely vindicated when we found out later that his act was called Final Fantasy.
The seating in the Danforth didn't lend itself particularly well to smoking, in either the traditional or illegal sense, and I watched the bouncers drag several would-be revellers out on their ears. Guys with big, fancy-looking cameras were also ejected, while teenyboppers snapping shots with cell phones were left unmolested. Apparently only high quality photography is frowned upon (???). I was somewhat relieved that I had forgotten my camera, although I am certainly not high quality.
The Arcade Fire eventually took the stage, nine thin, all in a line and solemn with intent. "Wake Up" opened the set and as I watched each and every member of the band lean forward, mouths open in passionate song, I think I figured out what that crazy high-pitched guy in Waking Life is talking about: a holy moment.
I stared at Sarah Neufeld, the violinist, and for an instant we locked eyes. I knew she couldn't see me - the spotlight was blinding - but I stared until she looked away. In that instant, I saw something new.
The great thing about a nine-piece band is that there's always something interesting happening on stage. The Arcade Fire showcases an eclectic range of talent, as many members switch instruments from song to song and occasionally even within the same song, and if they suddenly decide to start bashing a random cymbal into pieces maniacally, that's cool too. Everyone else can pick up the slack.
One guy looked a whole lot like Napoleon Dynamite. I cringed when the inevitable catcall between songs rang out: "You're my favourite one, Napoleon!" He didn't hear, but Win, the lead singer, savagely flashed the middle finger. I wondered whether he was angry that his bandmate had been monickered Napoleon, or that he wasn't the favourite himself. I'm thoroughly sick of hearing Napoleon Dynamite references by now. Trendiness leads to overexposure which leads to mass appeal which leads to death.
Encore. Double-encore. Regina had a tear inching down her cheek as she sang, eyes closed and clutching, and I knew that a band that could feel this much could never drown in pop-culture mundanity, regardless of how huge they become.
We left and I gushed, unable to grasp at the words necessary to convey how I felt. Lapsing into silence, I held the warmth close.
Posted by Chris at 12:29 PM >> Commentations (10) | Permalink
April 26, 2005 >> Another step in the process
I don't really know what I was expecting when I dropped off my exam booklet, stained with near-illegible scrawls and smeared blue ink, and walked out the door. My very last booklet ever, full of vague ideas about alienation and utopian schemes to restructure the global workforce based on gender equity. Hardly a herculean effort but, at this point, motivation is hardly herculean anyways. It's barely breathing. I take what I can get, and my hand can only stand so much crampage.
Outside, I thought about how funny it would be if a double-row of screaming, chanting Icebreakers were waiting to throw confetti in my eye and force me to cheer about plate tectonics. Leaving the way I arrived at Wilfrid Laurier: saturated with maniacal school spirit, bewildered and in dire need of a drink. One last dose of Hawk pride, a full circle cycle. But nothing: nothing but a sad, sad row of cars coming home from work and U-Hauls tearfully escaping the city. Nothing but nothing. I smiled. It seemed appropriate that an end that isn't really an end would be so very low-key.
I am a WLU graduate, and I feel exactly the same.
Posted by Chris at 11:35 AM >> Commentations (0) | Permalink
April 24, 2005 >> Chatting Like Adults
I don't especially want Adult Chat. I mean, I'm sure it's very nice and all. It sounds swell. Adult Chat implies that super-hot, scantily clad women (just like the ones on TV) are waiting eagerly by the phone - er, keyboard - to talk expressly to ME! However, the reality of the situation is that Adult Chat is spyware garbage that continually disconnects me from the internet in an effort to dial itself into some 1-900 number and rape me silly in phone bill charges.
This beast also installs itself regularly, as soon as I connect to the internet, in fact, regardless of how many times and ways I try to clean its pestilence from the Silver God. See, it's doing it right. now. Motherfucker!
I have a hunch that it is incubating in the disturbingly large number of copies of 'svchost.exe', rousing and pouring forth gallons of Adult Chat spew onto me every time the glow of high-speed connectivity awakens it from unholy slumber. Messing with the incubation process only seems to cull a backlash of anger in the form of a tiny system box that counts down the seconds until my computer reboots. I feel anger. Great anger.
I also want to know a) Why people are big jackasses and code this annoying shit - clearly I will NEVER, EVER sign up for Adult Chat after this molestation, and will indeed make it my mission to inform everyone (you) that Adult Chat is the worst thing in the history of the world; and b) Why are anti-virus programs so retarded? I've run five different programs and each one has found stuff that none of the others uncovered. However, NONE of these five has been able to solve the Great Mystery of Where the Fuck Adult Chat is Incubating Its Evil, leading me to curse their incompetence with great vigor. GREAT vigor!
The whole virus/anti-virus industry seems sorta like a scam to me, like perhaps the viruses and the anti's are secretly in league to take our cash-money and keep us in fear of bots and worms and shellfish and God knows what else. Back in the good old days, there was no Adult Chat. There were no wormy-bugs. There was ASCII porno and tinny MIDI files of the Star Wars Imperial March. All the computers loved each other and they would go down to Silicon Bay to watch the sunset and swap floppies and, when they were feeling spicy, plug man-cables into parallel ports. And it was good, at least until Adult Chat had to come along and dirty everything up.
You're going to die, swaaaaaaaan!
Posted by Chris at 12:30 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink
April 22, 2005 >> Gamestack
You have a fine stack of Playstation RPGs, including an original release of Final Fantasy Tactics and the box set for Lunar: Silver Star Story Complete. It's a wonderful collection of historically renowned and (now) graphically inferior adventures, lined up neatly on the shelf. Every story waits anxiously for a hero, a youth of bravery and wit and most likely of the Fighter persuasion, to come and defeat the ultimate personification of evil which will inevitably creep out of the darkness of the plotline. There will be romance. There will be coming-of-age. There will be menus and magic and maybe a sexy-pixelly white mage. These things are promised and given by convention.
The wait approaches desperation. The sordid love triangles remain unexplored, the mini-games and near-impossible secret bosses are still unchallenged. When will he return? When will he load up his saved game and continue the adventure? When will we be complete; 100%, or at least 75? Please?
But the games sit gathering dust, always waiting, always in need of a hero. Unfulfilled.
You're too busy for nostalgia right now, and you can't remember how to get the Ultimo Sword. It's been a while. Maybe in the summer.
Posted by Chris at 12:00 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink
April 21, 2005 >> The original title was too long.
Continuing with this week's theme of overindulgence and rampant potheadedness, me and Meegan (Meegan and I, says she) wasted a good portion of our evening creating this visual masterpiece.
It's fucking huge in file size because I know that everyone who comes to this site has rich parents and high-speed internet connections. Right? Right.
"Let the magic live on." -Meegan
Posted by Chris at 08:57 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink
April 19, 2005 >> 420
Today is 419, April 19th. Tomorrow is 420.
Point. Last year, when I was a co-op over at Peartree, I accidentally let it slip that 420 was a number of dubious significance. At a staff meeting, I horrified and bemused my coworkers when I explained that 4:20 (p.m. OR a.m.) is illegal marijuana smoking time. As much as these account executives and IT managers liked wearing their professional veneers, they were suitably intrigued by a subculture tradition that I had taken for granted and they had never heard of. I grinned deviously as I told them that their suburbanite kids were probably at home, fucked out of their minds, while they cleaned up their workstations and filled out TPS reports at the end of each workday. Everyone left that evening looking a little bit anxious. Innocence lost, I suppose. But somebody had to tell them, and I did it gleefully. It was always fun to mess with their heads.
Point. Me and Selene used to intently watch the digital clock in P2115 every Wednesday afternoon as discussion droned around us. When 4:20 was spelled out in red, we would smirk and nudge each other while all the other kids in our seminar would eye us curiously. For one minute we were giddy and ridiculous, smokeless tributaries to the magic number. Pimlott noticed one day and we told him too. Spread the word, open up. Recognize. Canada is a fine nation of drug-users, a burgeoning Amsterdam.
Point. While 4:20 is notable, 420 is something else altogether. It's an entire day, not just a minute that creeps by in lazy late afternoons and then again in the dead of night. It's a guaranteed write-off. It's 4:20 for 24 hours. It's Hitler's birthday, but we try to forget that part.
Point. Nobody really knows where 420 came from. People talk about the police code for a drug bust (FALSE) or rearranging Bob Marley's name in some weird numerical formula (WHAT THE FUCK?). There are claims that marijuana contains exactly 420 chemicals, or that the Beatles' "Come Together" (4:20 in length) sparked some ideas. Tool thinks that 420 came from an H.P. Lovecraft story about "curious mirage-plants". Everybody has a theory but nobody knows. 420 is a modern mythology without a past and maybe that's appropriate: an ambiguous holiday for an invisible lifestyle.
Point. Nearly every clock in the movie Pulp Fiction is set to 4:20. Guess what time the broken clock in our basement thinks it is?
Point. 420 isn't for everyone. Drinking isn't for everyone. Meat-market clubbing isn't for everyone. Team curling isn't for everyone. Shetland ponies aren't for everyone. We have incredibly diverse interests, us human-type people. 420 isn't for everyone. And that's okay.
Point. Tomorrow is 420.
Posted by Chris at 12:52 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink
April 18, 2005 >> Weakender
Vowing to make up for a weekend of absolute nothingness, I stumbled out of bed at the very holy hour of noon and prepared to get shit done.
The school is still alive, full of people studying and pretending to study and talking about how they should probably study soon. Girls look better in good weather. I coughed my approval and ambled from place to place, showing my retarded cover letter to Dan and Katty and eventually passing Pimlott's office. We talked for about an hour about IRA bombings and how an A-grade in one school and program is vastly different from an A in another. I left feeling a little better about writing and my quest to find a distinctive voice in this cluttered world of words.
Carly was conspicuously absent from the pubs office, so I grabbed a pita and here I am now, eating it with a fork because it instantly fell apart in my hands.
I always get a grim sense of satisfaction when I click Submit to post an entry like this, an entry that clearly offers nothing but a synopsis of my day. But, you know, this is me being productive. Sorta.
Posted by Chris at 04:32 PM >> Commentations (5) | Permalink
April 15, 2005 >> Gigantopussoir
Today I got an iPod mini and a new bowl for poor injured Gigantos the Big Green Bong. The iPod is blue and has a free engraving on the back: "THE STAINLESS STEEL FIST OF NU-ANARCHY". The bowl is crazily patterned and has a blue glass octopus clinging tenaciously to its side. No matter how hard you shake the bowl, the octopus holds on. It is clearly invincible.
One item labels me trendy, the other paints me as a stoner. It's funny how you can't own anything anymore without making a public statement about your personal identity and lifestyle. But I guess if I wanted to stay secretive, I probably wouldn't be posting all this random BS on the internet, ne? If I was Avril Lavigne, I would probably write a song about how you can't label me because I'm an individual with my skateboard and stripey arm-warmers and hardcore star tattoos and and and and and. The song ends there because it sucks.
Anyways, Gigantos has been relatively disappointing in his (our) quest to become Doctor Gigantos. In fact, he has damaged himself so frequently that he makes a far better patient than physician. I briefly thought about calling him Gigantos the Retarded Invalid, but I've generally found that insulting possessions will always cause them to hate you (in their inanimate way) and seek devious revenge somehow. I'm not willing to risk it.
So instead, Gigantos, inspired by the new octopus bowl, will henceforth be named Gigantopussoir! The delightfully offensive TV show Drawn Together is also semi-responsible. Hopefully a monicker of such epic proportions will shield him from the clumsiness of stonebags in the future.
Posted by Chris at 05:21 PM >> Commentations (0) | Permalink
April 14, 2005 >> Message this
Very restless today. Very sick of being sick. Chugging cough syrup is losing its charm.
MSN 7 doesn't seem to add anything remotely resembling a new feature. Instead it's all bloated with animated wink-things and a whole host of unnecessary bullshit designed to shock and awe twelve year old girls. And what's better, you can actually pay money to get access to more winks, more smiley-faces, more BS. There's more advertising, more mandatory tab links to garbage I don't need (like Lavalife... what the fuck). Integrated search, because clearly we're all too stupid to open a web browser when we want to look something up (and clearly Microsoft is looking to take a chunk out of Google). And the nudging. God, the nudging.
I was kinda hoping for something useful. Like maybe a sarcasm font, because everyone knows that sarcasm doesn't work on MSN. Or different ways to search and organize your list of contacts. Adding tiny, unintelligable pictures beside everyone's name does not help. Neither does this whole personal message italics dealie. We already had personal messages. We made 'em ourselves.
Anyways, looks like a certain corporation is running out of innovations and now it's time to wheel out the Advertising & Fisty-Raping Machine. I guess I'll take a little bit of both.
Posted by Chris at 01:08 PM >> Commentations (6) | Permalink
April 12, 2005 >> History spoken
Every time I walk through the park I see that spot, that untidy little piece of ground where you cried and I sat in stony silence until you were through. Until we were through.
I remember bitter concentration on a baseball game, far away on the horizon. I remember the buzz of flies and other such background insects in the blinding sun. I remember thinking that I shouldn't be so detached, that I should be feeling something, especially now. And maybe I did, but then I pushed it away and then I pushed you away. It's become a habit since.
And when you got out of the car that very last time, I said I would call when I wanted to talk to you again. It's been a year.
Sometimes I wonder who you are now, but I've never felt the urge to pick up a phone and find out. I'm too numb from all the buttons you pushed, from enduring each and every pinprick that somehow found its way into my guts. Every time you left I built myself up a little bit more, but inevitably you'd come back and we'd tear each other to shreds and burn the aftermath. It was twisted and dark and I loved it, but your final pin went straight through my eye and I twitched once, just once, before shutting down.
You see, my overactive imagination would never let me forget. I could never touch you again, knowing. I saw him, talked to him, and he was nowhere near good enough. Suddenly you weren't good enough either.
I never imagined that the walls would one day be too high and too thick even for you.
Posted by Chris at 12:33 PM | Permalink
April 11, 2005 >> Disclaimer
I would just like to point out that this site in no way condones physical violence, drug/alcohol abuse, improper use of a fire extinguisher or general stupidity as the result of a kegger.
We university grads are angelic academics, the great hope for a shining future full of flying cars and neon conveyer belts that go every which way.
Posted by Chris at 02:53 AM >> Commentations (5) | Permalink
April 10, 2005 >> Kegger checklist
Key points of 93 kegger:
-Soccer game, in which the winning goal is hoofed from half-field by Jen and we all watch, exhausted, as it bounces over the Nalgene goalpost for the score.
-Dan's brand-new hackeysack twirly-trick.
-Jack and Hoodie's 50/50 draw, which was occasionally a 100% draw with promises of water balloon attacks. Cash could be donated to the charity of the winner's choice, with the notable exception of AIDS research. No AIDS research.
-A masterful plan to bring fire, Prometheus-style, to the party. After a scouting run, we unbolted a metal trash can from WCI and me and Dan rolled/carried/kicked it down Columbia because it wouldn't fit in Gavin's trunk. We then filled it with a blaze fueled by old drawers and broken up furniture for the rest of the night. Jen and Jack documented the whole thing so we can one day go to jail for our crimes.
-Colin James Campbell's magnificent arrival and subsequent pass-out on the picnic bench.
-Alysia's obsession with Walter the Extinguisher, who was eventually pin-popped and used to douse flaming rubble and then the entire fire-can when the cops arrived out front.
-Me and Tim chokeslamming Cakes through a wooden door. He survived with minor scratches even though we were pretty sure, at the time, that he was dead upon impact.
-An obsession with watching the silhouettes in the bathroom window. It became a twisted voyeuristic game: who's that peeing? When someone started puking it become the ultimate spectator sport, complete with cheers and jeers.
-A keg blockade while we waited for #2 to stop foaming. It never did.
-DeRose and Nik the Greek's sociological survey: which is gayer? Two men in a bubblebath or two men in tighty-whiteys pillowfighting, with feathers flying everywhere in the pinkest bedroom you can possibly imagine? Furious debate and drunken logic broke out for at least half an hour around the fire.
-A near-limitless supply of cheeseburgers, often hand-delivered in styrofoam containers. "Combo number 2? Who ordered a number 2?"
And much, much more, although clearly I can't remember everything. It was brilliance though!
Posted by Chris at 05:29 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink
April 09, 2005 >> Vag. Cunt. Poundbox.
Essays are written and slipped into personalized drop-boxes, never to be seen again. Good riddance!
Saw the Vagina Monologues last night for the first time ever. The seats were hard and uncomfortable, and in my agony I made a solemn vow to myself never to be a rapist or Native American wife abuser. Tudor and Laura were a row in front, all giggly and nimbly-pimbly from whatever X-rated mischief they had gotten up to before the show. Dannyboy Guillemette was a row behind and I told him that tomorrow (today) was a kegger-and-bbq-extravaganza! He took the news with great relish and a side order of pickles.
The monologues themselves were a mixed bag, although generally excellent. Shirley strode the stage, shifting effortlessly between microphone stands, teleporting in her intensity. Alysia was hysterical as she moaned in varying dialects - with the exception of the 'baby moan', which we decided was vastly more disturbing than funny. Liz of That Hole You Punched in the Wall FR!NGE fame pulled out a sassy English accent. Some girl frantically urged us to chant "CUNT! CUNT!" along with her. Some of us complied.
Although there was applause after each monologue, a few ended on a sombre note. I looked Left to Tanya and Right to Allie and Further Right to Rob, trying to figure out whether clapping at this particular time would a) vindicate the performer or b) express my enthusiastic support for violence against women. We decided it was better not to test fate and the Women's Centre.
After the show, I had a cigarette with Alysia and gathered that each of these monologues has a certain history behind it - she shared memories of previous girls who had read memorable roles and what they brought to the performance. The moaning girl from the year before was apparently so hot that every guy in the audience had to cover his wang with a program brochure. I laughed. I wondered if these stories actively evolve, if they shift to incorporate the interpretations of each woman who reads and acts them.
Maybe each monologue is a wall, an incomplete wall bearing a mural about female experience. Each performer is building it up one brick at a time, bringing everyone one step closer to understanding. Maybe the wall will never be done until every single woman in the world adds herself to the Vagina Monologues. Maybe the secret to sharing lies in thoroughness and totality.
Or maybe I just paid 10 dollars and watched a show last night. The only thing I can tell you in certainty is that I liked the bricks I saw.
Posted by Chris at 01:23 PM >> Commentations (0) | Permalink
April 07, 2005 >> Early morning nothing
Hey, if this constant coughing business makes you feel like you did sit-ups all night, am I gonna have some kind of crazy abs in the morning?
We'll find out tomorrow!
PS: I am boycotting MSN because it uses child labour in the Philippines.
PPS: PS's are gay.
PPPS: Not that there's anything wrong with that.
PPPPS: PS stands for Post Script.
Posted by Chris at 01:48 AM >> Commentations (6) | Permalink
April 05, 2005 >> Third Time's the Charm
"If we don't get to see this movie, I'm killing some Galaxy employees with a bread knife," I declared as we hopped on infamous 7C and headed to Conestoga Mall.
I was taken aback when things went flawlessly. I guess maybe the third time really is the charm.
Sin City was amazing and disturbing. It truly earns its 18A rating, combining almost non-stop violence (even more than Kill Bill!) with a lot of tits and some really nifty cinematography. Sparing use of colour in an otherwise bleak & monochromatic world adds some zing. The whole thing is shot in a very film-noire style, with some conventions of old detective movies shining through (non-stop cigarette lighting, idle commentary on the weaknesses of 'dames'). For the record, all the women in Sin City were either hookers or man-eaters - sometimes both.
The plot meanders from child molesting to warrior-prostitutes to clergy cannibalism - dark as fuck, but in some rather unique ways. The story seemed a tad disjointed to me for the first third of the movie, but pulled itself together admirably by the end. Bruce Willis isn't really dead, you know. Don't worry.
As far as I can tell, the main difference between a 'graphic novel' and a 'comic book' is a plethora of dismembered body parts. Does your illustrated text happen to have a superhero? Chances are it's a comic book. Does it feature fountains of blood and vicious gunfights over a severed head? Graphic novel!
Anyways, the saga is at an end. Sin City has finally been seen, and I actually think I want to watch it again soon. As Chad and Jen and Hoodie and Diamond Jack Dow heard me gush multiple times last night, I have a thing for a particular half-asian samurai woman...
Posted by Chris at 12:11 PM >> Commentations (18) | Permalink
April 04, 2005 >> Assez Essay
Being productive is for suckers!
...and I'm a sucker by necessity.
But I still did your mom(s).
Posted by Chris at 02:37 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink
April 03, 2005 >> Chicken Tettrazini and Lilacs
You've been dating Bob for six months.
It's not like you're looking for someone extravagent and super-spectacular. You tried those guys before and they usually try to choke you in some twisted sex experiment or set your hair on fire. You've moved on from the so-called "extreme" and just want to find someone nice, someone who won't accidentally call you at 3 AM when they're really trying to get hold of their coke dealer. It turned out that one morning you woke up on an unfamiliar futon, your breasts mysteriously coated in seltzer and gin, and finally decided: enough is enough.
You met Bob through a friend of a friend and shared a plate of linguine chicken tettrazini at East Side Mario's. He's the middle manager of something-or-other at a local plastics manufacturing plant. You ask for details but don't really listen to his business jibberish - you're carefully checking his face for scars and other evidence of knife fights in the distant past. He's clean. You frown and then smile and then grimace. Bob thinks you're entranced by his supply-chain management initiatives.
When you ask him to describe himself in a single word, he thinks for a while, fork jittering, before deciding on "solid." Solid sounds okay to you. Get the check, Bob.
You promise yourself that everything is going to be different this time around. After three dates in Bob's Jetta (it's good on gas), you decide that his willingness to let you make all the decisions might not be so bad. You've always wanted to watch Sex & the City with your boyfriend, and Bob cheerfully submits to hours at a time.
He's always on time and you get flowers each and every week. Bob has somehow discovered that you love lilacs. He doesn't know that lilacs remind you of getting fucked on the sandy banks of the duck pond by your college boyfriend. You decide not to tell him because he'll probably cry, and nothing turns you off more than watching a grown man weep into your lap.
Your friends tell you that six months is an appropriate amount of time to "wait" with a nice guy. You "wait" and "wait" and finally a half-annum of abstinence is discarded as Bob ravages you for three minutes on his living-room couch. It's depressing, and you choose to watch Late Night's Conan O'Brien while Bob doggedly thrusts away. You idly think about asking Conan to pull your hair.
When the ecstacy is over, push Bob off the couch. Tell yourself that if Bob goes into the kitchen and comes back with a bouquet of lilacs and some take-out East Side Mario's, you'll wait till he's asleep, curled up on his side of the bed in the fetal position as always. Then you'll find a carving knife and give him some much-needed scars.
Bob rolls to his feet, tells you he loves you (again) and meanders towards the kitchen. He's got a surprise for you, he says. You sigh. It's a good thing that Bob has a knife sharpener.
So predictable.
Posted by Chris at 03:30 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink
April 02, 2005 >> Take 2
Galaxy Cinemas, you will pay!
Posted by Chris at 01:38 PM >> Commentations (1) | Permalink
April 01, 2005 >> Gradblow
You weave through the masses of smiling-and-mostly-drunk grads and faces pop out at you, wearing significance. You laugh and reminisce and talk about the future, about the past, about how fucking crazy it is that this is happening to us. Maybe someday it'll all make sense, but right now it's more than you could really ever hope to deal with. You say goodbyes but it doesn't really seem like goodbye: it seems like the Turret and somehow you've been here for hours or maybe even years. Weaving. Reminiscing.
You talk to sorority girls about the meaning of life and all around you the feeling of glorious celebration mingles with a desperation to hold on. There's a VIP card around your neck that doesn't mean shit and you don't know how it got there. There's a rum and coke in your hand, and a rum and coke in your hand. That's two rum and cokes - the crowds in front of the bar don't make single servings an appealing prospect.
The crowds. The neverending stream. You take one last look around and realize that it's a good thing you're drunk, because otherwise you might overthink the whole situation.
Posted by Chris at 12:59 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink