Knitting Ferocious Spiders

Reminded me of this one: tickle doll, like voodoo, only nicer. which I used to deface something else, many years ago. Trust me, it was very clever.

Coming home in a cab and passing the site of Toronto's new Opera House, I remembered a little piece of graffiti I've been meaning to scrawl in felt tip across a poster or two on the boards surrounding it... something that hit me square between the eyes one silver-lit Sunday morning on the streetcar: Operatic scale, every note a bill!

it's been fun Spent my day off with the surrogate hetero boyfriend. destroying our bodies Drinking. it's been great just being together Dear god. crash another car smoke another cigarette It's a miracle I'm still alive, though I may not remain that way; my body is threatening to stop at any given moment. and make love to all our favorites on the radio I've managed to pull it together enough buy a two liter bottle of Coca-Cola, and listen to "Lethal and Young" by Hawksley Workman three times (see the italics), but now I think it's time to pull the duvet to the sofa and watch Oliver Stone's Alexander.... cause we don't know how to make it go we were only told how to burn it down and then skip town Which may not be very rewarding as our dear director has apparently removed a good portion of the homo content for his cut. so don't look so damn tragic you knew this had to happen Which was the only reason I liked it in the first place. so don'...

Having come to some sort of synthesis between purpose and penache at the strip bar, 12 weeks into the adventure my income has finally stabilized; though I do admit, I am still subject to the whims of the market. Now, I get to start focusing on the nuances... there is such a thing as professional pride. Though I am not entirely sure how much the average detail really makes to the fellows who routinely take up the seats in perverts row. The problem plaguing me presently is one of hair, or rather, its removal. In the week before I went in for my first day, I made and appointment with gentleman who runs his own esthetician practice, primarily for that all-important stripper procedure: the bikini wax. I was not entirely impressed with the guy's efforts, and had to do a little touching up with creams and razors later, which seemed to defeat the purpose as well as put me out the better part of $100. I have had it done before, you understand, primarily out of curiosity, and at the recommen...

Satisfactorily, my blog seems to be garnering a little more attention of late. Especially when I update on a regular basis. Which is nice; I am a writer, I like people to read my stuff. Even nicer is the fact that judging by the numbers, my readers are not just people I know, nice to think I might be entertaining for my prose's own sake... but then it begs the question: Who the hell are you people? I would genuinely like to know, as there seem to be only a couple of you who feel compelled to comment, even though I have gone to the trouble to make it so you don't need to register or anything to put something down. The internet is supposed to be an interactive medium. So, gentle readers, I would like extend an invitation: leave a little hello, or rant, or rave; something, anything that might mark you as having been here. Down at the bottom of each post there's a little orange-y comments link. Click on that. I would love to hear from you. ... Also, email the link of this site...

Is the poetry of poverty. I hated physical fitness when I was young. My mother, a kinesiology major in University, feared for my health. Sedentary to the extreme, I think she had visions of me arthritic and jaundiced by the age of 25, as she watched my eyes twirl hypnotic spirals, fixed with an unblinking stare upon the television. My own imagination treated my physical form's evolution little better. I didn't have many high hopes for it. I was painfully thin, and by the age of 20 had picked up any number of bad habits that weren't going to do anything positive to my health. We were all surprised when I managed to make a go of actually working out. Ironically, I think what made it possible was taking up raving. Despite the chemical enhancements, dancing six consecutive hours at a frantic pace got me into the best physical shape I had ever been in, and I found that I liked feeling more in control of my body, less at its whim and mercy. Maybe there's something to this.......

In a truly spectacular fait du compli I have managed to put off paying my cell phone bill long enough to be disconnected for the fourth time in 18 months. It's approaching the level of becoming a party trick. You wouldn't think that I can do this so often, but I can! When days can come to such treacle oozing slowness, it is astounding that I can so frequently lose track of such constant, repetitive tasks. I mean, it's not like there are months when I don't have to pay for phone service. I somehow manage. It's a good thing I don't really call anyone anymore; or that anyone's trying to date me.

"So did you have fun?" "Oh, yes." "That was great on the dance floor." "What's this?" "There were these two really hot guys dancing with each other; [Spider] just smiled and got right in between the two of them." "Good for you!" "Thank you. Thank you." "You disappeared later. What happened?" "..." "You didn't." "Did." "That's hot." It's a pity we pansies don't high five each other more often.

I want to work with Joss Whedon so badly it hurts. About two years ago, just after I had broken up with Autobahn , to date my most involved of relationships, I was visiting ChikiMonkey and he asked me if I'd like to do some bite-sized reviews of some PS2 games and a DVD boxed set for this . I narrowed my eyes. "Do I get to keep the games and the DVDs?" "Yep." "Gimme." The boxed set was a pre-release of Whedon's Firefly series. I had just discovered Buffy in syndication that year. Late, I know, but it doesn't mean I love her any less. Or the show itself. Something to know about me is that I am hopelessly, desperately, in love with the narrative. It's been this way since I can remember. The affair has been going on forever. When I was four I was scouring the corners of my imagination for stories. I cast my mother and made her act them out with me. Good storytelling makes me tremble. I've been known to lose my breath reading or watching...

A side effect of my work, especially when coupled with prodigious amounts of alcohol, is the annihilation of reservation. I'm getting real good at talking to people, and beyond that, my skills as a flirt are no longer recognizable. I'm operating at a level of efficiency I find completely alien. It never used to be this easy . I used to be shy. Well, shy-ish. What happened to that? Don't know exactly, but one thing's for certain: that ability to love, which I fear has been burned right out of my heart , is not necessary to raise the bar concerning sexual adventure. Love, shmuve. Let's be very, very bad instead. Oh, yes. Lets. The thing about going home with a couple, say a pair of tall, beautiful boys with cheeky slogans on their tee shirts, especially when they've been together for about a year, is that you get to be the guest of honor. Thrust snug in the middle, so to speak. I don't know that anyone could actually turn down the opportunity to be a birthday ...

It is becoming evident to me that many bloggers, if one were to generalize, are what you might call organized folk. Many of those who make a go of this particular shot at the communication medium are list makers and arrangers, people who make things line up "just so". Everything in its place, all places labeled. I am not one of those people. Obsessive codification and systematic arranging makes me sleepy. I do, however, generally know where almost everything is, in a vague sort of subconscious way. Except my keys. I never know where my keys are. When I need something, like a specific book, or some knick-knack for this or that project (I have projects... they take time and unspecified amounts of concentration; this is why I don't call people back; I am not just sitting at home watching telly) I feel like I'm dowsing for water, stumbling about with some forked sprig -- ah, ha! the thesaurus! Somehow I knew it was in that end table. I wonder if my brain works something...

I love enough, I suppose. There are many people in the world I tack with that affection, etherise to the board of my life with sharp distinction... but I don't know that I have it to be in love anymore. Maybe I don't even crush anymore. Maybe I'm just worn too thin, worn down so close to being worn out... right out of emotional existence. This merry-go-round has a life of its own. Its horses are galloping circles in my half-life brain, and I think it has something to do with the fact that it's been two years since I broke with Autobahn , and set off to ride my own amusements, suffer my own vertigo; grip myself when I plummet.