Is it a plum? Is it an apricot? No! It's...

M: Have you seen the pluots?
A: What?
M: The pluots. See?
A: What is it? I don't understand... Ohhhhhh. Plum plus apricot.
M: Yeah, pluot!
A: So how come they went with pluot? Why not... aprilum?
M: Well, perhaps they thought about that and found it was just TOO ridiculous.
A: Huh. So pluots eh?

Break!

I'm leaving K-town for a while, starting this evening.
You can contact me if I feel like being contacted.
I haven't decided yet!

It is my last day of work! Here is a song in the true spirit of celebration.

Song of the Day:
Tomber la chemise ~ Zebda

Mush

Song of the Day:
First Day of My Life ~ Bright Eyes

Testing New Option for Song of the Day

I apologize if this autoplays (esp. for anyone at work right now) -- that was not my intention.

Song of the Day: Spanish Doll ~ Poe



What do you think?

Ammo

In thirty years, when I'm living with my parents and they respond to everything I say with "And if only you hadn't posted that on the internet..." I will be able to turn around and say:

Mom, Dad, at least I didn't do this.

Life's Not Fair, Baby

Do you ever get the feeling that you're being punished for something, and you don't know what you did?

#500 -- Now In Retrovision!

A retrospective of a personal website is unfortunately not like a cozy episode of CBC’s Rearview Mirror. There are no colourful sets, or black and white dramas, and certainly no upbeat musical numbers. In fact, it would be much more accurate to compare it to a night time stroll down a very dark alley off a very disreputable street in the bad part of town – you never know when something’s going to jump out at you and make you cringe.
To further illustrate what reading my archives is like for me, allow me to paint this allegory for you (an allegorical painting). It’s like being almost 23 years old and happening across a note book from your first year of high school, wherein, carefully taped to the first page is the first poem you ever composed. You typed it up, printed it out on your dotmatrix and proudly presented it to your grandmother, who then quietly asked your mother if she thought you might be a teensy bit suicidal.
It’s like that. Not that that ever happened to me. Not that that note book exists.

Needless to say, in the three-odd years I’ve been doing this, I think my posting technique has improved. A lot. In fact there are some things I’d really like to remove from those archives, but for the sake of being honest with myself I have not. It takes a long time to establish a blogging ethic, discovering what you are and are not comfortable with, and the ramifications of some things you thought were okay, but then turned out not to be, when, oh say, your Catholic relatives started reading (Hi guys!).

So, for your perusing-pleasure (or boredom, whatever works), here is a brief overview of the development of this blog, in honour of my having composed, now, 502 posts. Happy Landmark, Blog-o.

On the 23rd of July, 2003, I started this blog for two reasons. 1) I had happened across More Than Donuts in a completely unrelated Google search for cheap mannequins (long story) and it was the first I’d heard of this whole blogging phenomenon. 2) I had an incredibly annoying coworker and wanted to make fun of him, and entertain my other colleagues at the same time.
I named the site after a poem, and thought that it would be oriented towards self-publishing some of my creative writing.
But that was not to be.
The site has had several distinct periods during its existence. The first, where I was just finding my feet, working at OMAF, and turning 20 is a little confused, and highly sarcastic (that’s um, changed). The second, where I leave the country for a year, and completely reinvent myself and my relationship to the world, is not nearly as representative of this transformation as it should have been. HOWEVER, this was also the period in which I started majorly sensoring my content for personal reasons, and started a mirror site to which I only gave access to my girl friends. The third, which began when I got back to the country, and ended when my computer was stolen at the end of January, was largely inspired by the antics of my then-roommates.
So far as I can tell, I’m still in the fourth incarnation. Honestly I’m not sure what it’s about yet, but right now, more than any other time in my life, I feel like I have a pretty good idea who I am, if not what I’m doing.

An important aspect of this site, and one which you might not have picked up on, is that there are a lot of references which are actually inside jokes, or statements of which only a few people would understand the full meaning. My father has said that my writing (fictional) would be more understandable (and therefore, I think, more enjoyable) if I would stop being so obscure and make my meaning more accessible.
But I can’t seem to resist making the reader work for me a little bit. This may mean that only one person will ever understand the entire meaning of everything I write, since so far, of all the people for whom I have hidden meanings, only one person has ever understood them consistently. That’s okay with me. It’s just one more thing that delights me about him, my audience of one.

My mother commented the other day that this website might present a problem for me when I want to get a real job. Perhaps she’s caught on to the fast-growing trend of people googling other people (note to employers: don’t tell anyone that I told you to do this, because it might result in restraining orders, but it’s actually… not a bad idea), and it’s true that by entering my name in quotation marks you can come up with an archived entry where I actually used it. At the moment, though, despite my rants and sarcasm and my generous (if I may say so) helping of ‘tude (haha!), I doubt my innocuous little website poses any threat to anyone. I hope I can always say that about all of my creative outlets.

Here’s to the completion of 500 more.

Lunchtime Passtime

Take a quiz!

I got 9/10.
How'd you do?

DUDE!

I forgot I was sort of keeping track but see down there? That last post?
THAT WAS #500!

I honestly feel like I should make a cake.

I was talking before about how I was going to do this whole retrospective when I reached 500, you know, blog about blogging. Maybe I will, but not in this post. In this post I will simply provide 2 links, the first serious, the second ridiculous -- because one should always balance out the two:

1. PostSecret - this guy gets people to send him secrets anonymously on homemade postcards, which he then posts to the internet.

2. Art Frahm - "a study of the effects of celery on loose elastic" or further evidence that people in the 50s were seriously sexually repressed.

Taxi Driver, Bus Driver

I leave the FH in a rush convinced I’ve forgotten something and feeling guilty because my boss came in and I was leaving. The taxi is waiting and makes a huge U-turn to take me to the bus station. Off I go.
As a rule I really hate taxi rides, and bus rides. Living in Kingston I’ve had to get really used to both out of necessity. The taxis because the public transit in this city, speaking generously, really, really sucks, and so the taxis by default do a booming business. The buses because as my mother has pointed out “You have to come home sometime,” (oooh, out of context! I’m gonna hear about that one) and they terrify me only slightly less than trains. I have this whole transportation anxiety. As with my fear of grocery lines, it seems to me completely groundless. I have never been in an accident of any kind -- neither in transit, nor in a queue. My therapist (should I have one) would say, I suspect, that I have control issues. I choose to think I’m just wacky that way. “Wacky” sounds way more fun than “control freak”. The only way I really ever want to be thought of as a freak is in the ebonic sense of the word (parents please don’t look that up). But I digress.
I’ve had a lot of strange taxi drivers during the time I’ve lived here. I prefer the ones who don’t talk. I don’t like the pressure of having to make polite conversation with strangers. I’m paying you to drive me somewhere, and eventhough you may think your life story is a bonus to the service -- the chocolate on my pillow -- it’s just not. When I’m in a cab I’m usually so worried about getting to the bus on time, or so tired from being on a bus for 4 hours and worrying the entire time that there’ll be no cabs when I get there, that I just want to get from point A to point B with the minimum cerebral operation possible. Open door. Dump bag. Close door. Give address. Stare... Give money. Open door. Grab bag. Close door. A very simple transaction. So shut the hell up. Please. I know, I know, I’m such a bitch.
Today’s driver was likeable, in that he didn’t speak, and let me sit there and worry away, craning my head to see the traffic through the windshield. But when we were almost at the station, he rolled down both front windows. I would have really thought nothing of this action, but he looked into the rearview mirror and explained. “Sometimes there’s a sulfur smell from the engine.”
“Oh,” I said, nonplussed. A sulfur smell from the engine?
“I tell all the passengers that... so that they won’t think it’s me.”
“Oh,” I say again. I think, Now I do think it’s you.
I get to the bus on time (I choose to think that this is only thanks to my worrying -- if I didn’t worry, clearly I would miss it -- WACKY!), and get a seat by myself -- there are no fat or stinky people with cell phones or sandwiches in sight (that’s another, much funnier story). I watch out the window as the bus driver flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, grinds the burning remains out on the exterior of the pack, and slips the rest of the cigarette back into place for later lung-blackening. A stray passenger is loading his own baggage and leaves on large bag out. The bus driver tells him no, that bag is too big, it has to go under. Clearly the skinny man in shorts and very high socks wants to take it on with him. Instead, he allows it to be stowed, but first opens the zipper and pulls out a huge bundle of what looks like new t-shirts and clutches them to his chest. He gets on the bus. I think, “Oooh, this is weird.”
The driver closes the baggage compartment, but it doesn’t close properly, he’s smushed it on someone’s duffel bag. He shoves the thing in with his foot, slams the compartment and gives it another kick for good measure. I think, “Shit someone’s going to be pissed off that their bags been all smushed,” and “Yes, let’s have the angry man drive us all in a large vehicle on the 401.” When he gets into his seat I half want to call out to him to go ahead and finish his cigarette, we can wait.
Behind me a girl sneezes 4 times in a row and snorks it back into her head. I’m all of a sudden reminded of the fragility of my mortality.
I think, “Oh my god. I’m going to die.”

I'm a High Priestess!

With way too much time on her hands!

You scored as II - The High Priestess. The High Priestess is a card of intuition, instinct and hidden knowledge. She knows all your secrets, you can hide nothing from her. Yet you will never know the secrets she herself protects.If well aspected in a Tarot spread, this card can indicate the use of intuition to solve problems; trust to your instincts. If badly aspected, it can mean suppression and ignoring of such instincts - following your head at the expense of your heart.

II - The High Priestess		100%
III - The Empress		94%
XVI: The Tower		81%
XI: Justice		75%
VIII - Strength		75%
I - Magician		69%
XIX: The Sun		63%
IV - The Emperor		63%
VI: The Lovers		56%
X - Wheel of Fortune		56%
XIII: Death		44%
0 - The Fool		38%
XV: The Devil		38%

Which Major Arcana Tarot Card Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com

This is from a site where you can create your own quizzes!
I'm gonna make one for M&C!
And go make another dub!
And figure out how to turn off this damn exclamation point!

Dub

"Mr Frances Leeds, recently returned from a journey into the shadows -- where he learned that there is no darkness deep enough it cannot be breached by the human heart. . . or The Twilight Zone"

I shit you not. I actually witnessed that episode today. Man what were they THINKING in the 80s? These shows are TERRIBLE.

In other news, I may expire quietly and alone in the FH late in the night. Why? Well barring option c), you can blame the Macs -- I don't know how, but it will be their fault. They'll have all ganged up on me because earlier I yelled "That's fucking right you mother-fucking piece of fucking crap I've got your fucking number so don't try any more bullshit with me. I FUCKING OWN YOU." It's pretty easy to get excited when you conquer some frustrating aspect of Final Cut. There are victory dances involved. But the comps tend to take it a little personally...

If you ever wonder if it was nice to know you, I tell you now that it was.

The Wisdom of the Cookie

Listen carefully. An upcoming important message may be subtle.

Oh great, now I'm going to OVERTHINK EVERYTHING. *snicker*

Anyone with something to say -- save me the the brain aneurism and just be blunt.

“Dude…”: My Week on Random (it’s better than repeat)

- I was attacked by a bat at work – my first FH bat experience! It was very exciting and pretty hilarious to see everyone running around with their hands over their heads.
- V and I were casually offered an opportunity to make a porno film (producing, not starring) by an acquaintance we met walking down Princess St. In the post-analysis I said “I thought for a minute he was suggesting we make porn.” And V said, “He was ... He has a history. Never mind.”
- V and I spent a good portion of one evening sticking notes in the wall of the Break-up Booth at the Sleepless Goat.
- When I told him about a recent purchase, TM exclaimed, “You have an ARMBAND to go with your mp3 player?” And I said, “Hey if you get to go to BC and work at some yuppie quantum computing company in Burnaby, I’m allowed to have a fucking armband for my mp3 player.” He didn’t seem to think that a) his job would be yuppie-ish at all, b) that my argument was relevant and/or c) that it was adequate justification for my having an armband.
- I was thoroughly terrified by lecherously grinning man on bicycle outside my house, which prompted me to lock my door at all times, turn my fan off so that I could close my blinds all the way (and subsequently slow-roast to death), and be too afraid to walk home alone after 11 pm. I’m starting to get over it now. Some of that is because I’ll have COMPANY this weekend. Hurray!
- I was accompanied by a *slightly buzzed* V to the mall to hunt for b-day presents (which reminds me, Happy Birthday brother!), but managed to get her to the food court quickly enough to avoid anything more than a little loud-talking in Sport Chek à la “I HATE Sport Chek, I don’t want to be in here.” (Also I’m not supposed to be telling this story until such time as is appropriate i.e we’re together and equally sloshed – so let’s just pretend, okay?)
- I got two emails in one day from different people, both with the subject heading “dude…"
- I was forwarded this link to many things you can do with cola, which made me almost never want to drink the stuff ever again, not just for the good of my body but also the good of my soul. ALMOST NEVER.
- And then there was this whole episode during the heat with zombies. But I think it’s just as well I don’t get into THAT one.

All in all it turned out OK, although I didn't realize that while it was happening. Funny huh?

Did I Stutter?

I don't talk properly sometimes. Frequently actually. I don't know if you know this about me. I have a hard time getting words out of my mouth before my brain is on to the next thought, and so sometimes the sentences get mixed together, or I say the wrong thing entirely. It takes concentration. I established a long time ago that I'm much better at writing what I mean than saying it. Which is why I like writing better, and also, I think, why I'm such a stickler for proper grammar when I write. I get the message across for the most part when speaking, but people laugh at me a lot. I'm okay with this. You can even go ahead and point it out when I combine two words together to say a word that doesn't exist (*cough*TM*cough*). "Did you just say torking?" I think it's funny too.

A: What were you going to say?
V: Oh something, but I'll wait till these people are gone.
A: Oh, so either you're going to say something about sex, or you're going to say something about someone that someone might know someone else you're worried that that someone or someone else and that might get back to someone... something.
V: Uh...
A: The second one?
V: The latter. Yeah.

When I was younger I used to be really embarassed about this. And sometimes I still get tongue-tied in a public situation, like a store, because I psyche myself out thinking I won't talk properly, and then I can't make myself talk at all. Yesterday in the PEC I was paying a membership fee, and it took me a full 10 seconds to get the words out of my mouth properly. The women in the office laughed at me. But I laughed at myself too. I think that's important. It's a good way to deal with embarassment, being able to laugh at yourself, and it's one of the most useful things I've learned to do since graduating from post-pubescent, adolescent awkwardness. Don't take yourself too seriously, or people will be laughing AT you, in a bad way, and you won't be able to join in.
That's my deep life-coachy advice for the day. And here is a song.

Song of the Day:

steal compass/drive north/disappear... ~ set fire to flames

Instrumental. Cool more for the desire to follow the directions in the title than anything else really.