Lunar

In my desperation over breaking up, looking for some sense of symbolism to which to attribute meaning, I decided to celebrate Chinese new year. January 29^th. It was, in my mind the date on which he was to depart. This of course was not what was in his mind, but I swore to live by the lunar calendar nonetheless, proclaiming to all and proclivity that I, yes I, would be heretofore on the lunar calendar and that I may in fact sometimes be late for my appointments, due to the lunarness and all. On Monday, that there Monday not felt, I pulled up a wee java lunar calendar and drank in the phases of the moon. Aha! Full moon on Saturday going out absolute mayhem I can’t wait why don’t I email random friend from high school whom I’ve googled to see if she’s alive in between panting breaths of work work work? Turns out she is alive and in Toronto for but 3 days getting some sort of medcan ( dedicated to keeping busy people healthy!) physical thing because she’s just become a vp in an advertising agency. Medcan I reply. Hmmm. Too bad I can’t do that. It’s against my principles to be poked and prodded and samples taken as though I’m an alien (I’ve always felt strongly that executives should travel in popemobile type vehicles and generally live in some sort of protective bubble room reaching though the plastic and clearing their steamy breath to shake hands with the ‘folks’ when introducing change). That and some lifestyle choices of course….. All of this terribly material stuff aside, as I’m telling her all of this 4 martinis in to our first meeting (must put on show!) in 10 fucking years, she leans over and goes what, you’re on the lunar calendar too? I just started following it this year. What – everyone is on the lunar calendar? That’s funny I thought, I emailed her right after fucking with my lunar phases. And she’s about the lunarness. And she’s here. And I’m here. Hear. Sic. Mmm. I’ll have the white chocolate one thanks. Well, I reply, I do have magical powers but this may be more about synchronicity what with you being on the lunar calendar too and all. At which point I launch in to a lengthy slurring monologue on synchronicity, archetypes, and kinetic energy. Will I ever learn to hold my tongue? i see that slight turn of the mouth, which is understanding just about to be feigned, trying to grasp some common thread, from which they can swing as they interject yes, yes, and nod furiously to pump themselves to and fro.

Sooner or later I end up in this place, never known with whom or why what, but they always get that look, and then I hear the sucking sound of the cosmos as the window gets cracked a little too wide open (again!) if only for just a moment, to get some air. but the sound and the fury make me slam it quickly shut with a turn of conversation, a shake of the head, and a wry smile: how is your sister anyways?

Coming to you live, from the cerebruthalymus gland

A week ago the new coworkers finally had the opportunity to ask me (with feigned indifference) what I used to do — you know — before I started here.

Obviously group think had been itching to ask... because the half-lidded eyeballs dozing around the boardroom table suddenly opened wide to fixate on the invisible zit growing between my eyes. I sweated as they waited patiently for my zit to forage a pleasant response.

And damned if I didn't start to do exactly what I told myself not to do: make them feel uncomfortable by taunting their secure sphere of knowing.

Honestly. I had intended on giving them a sweet and blushing Violet spiel that would not expose my "real" personna. But as I started listing my work — or lack thereof — history, I could feel that daemon seed start to blossom in my cerebruthalymus gland.

We'd like to interupt this inner monologue for a special announcement from Violet's cerebruthalymus gland — live and uncensored: Violet hates being all business. She is disgusted by cute little terms like "blue skying" and can't believe that people take themselves seriously at work. Even though she loathes tidy desks, she is fine with cubicles. This single personna, you all seem to have? Don't you have many? A treasure trunk full? No? Just one? Really? How fascinating.

It's always so distracting, this daemon lurking in my grey mass — here I am, trying to communicate with the outer world, trying hard to talk sense and speak in their native tongue, and bam! the seed begins chirping on like a physical itch hurling itself headlong into my voicebox, causing me to choke on my pleasant and elegiac words.

I might even suggest the word possessed. How come I always allow myself to become possessed by the niggling desire to watch a person or crowds' response to information they may not fully comprehend? Flabberghasted and dumbfounded should not be my power words.

Like an errant exclaimation point, I punctuate my work history with a reveal: I write a blog. They stare at me, shocked and awed. I continue to ignore the gap, growing ever wider between me and them. (Ah, the force: now my cerebruthalymus gland has all the power it needs to take over.)

I'm absolutely dumbfounded by their response. Can you believe that in a workplace of sixty, I am the only one who has a blog? Bejeeze. I assumed everyone had one. I figured it wasn't a big thing. To top it off, I mentioned that I am the webmistress for an online lifestyle magazine. More big eyes. Boy this Internet machine is mysterious to some. Who knew?

I gather my wits and decide to end this conversation now, before I say something really curious. So I politely mention that my blog has nothing to do with work and guarantee them that I have no interest in writing about my co-workers or my work experiences. Eyes glaze.

"Why don't you write about work?" one asks in an almost offended tone.

Mwaaah ha ha screams my cerebruthalymus gland: "I now have the power, you cannot control me."

"Well," I paused, "because the whole goal of maintaining a blog is to retain a part of my identity that I choose not to show at work. I'm trying to keep parts of my identity separate so they continue to thrive and grow..." and, quite honestly, though you're all so very nice, you're also all truly boring.

(As my cerebruthalymus gland is chatting pseudo-philosophically away to my agog coworkers, I am telling the little fucker that I intend to order a full labotomy at lunch. My cerebruthalymus gland continues on, unphased by my idle threat.)

"What do you mean you have different identities — like multiple personalities?" dude asks.

"It's now called dissociative identity disorder," I reply, mentally smack my facturrets head, and continue on full throttle , "Oh, you know," (why do I always assume they do), "because work can numb all that you've worked to become," (smack. smack. smack.)

Life's my science experiment, but I always end up the guinea pig. Funny thing is, this time my cerebruthalymus gland did good. Seemed to work. I have gained a weird respect, not a weird moniquer.

Maybe it's because I no longer care if I get fired.

Monday Gnome

I'm just not feeling Monday. Not at all.

My cohort put the "Coco in Chanel" on the Friday night dancefloor, but what the hell can I do on a Monday at work? Put the violent in chrome? I'm feeling terribly angry gnome.

wasting thyme

Such a happy happy Friday! Friday! Bounce in step, feeling fit and vital for the first time in wow has it been 6 months? 4 months of breaking up is hard to do? Humming and hip shaking through the day. Yoga Friday night involving 5 minutes in each pose and dark circles under the eyes as relaxation melted deep tissues and shifted bones. Home. Corona. Snack. Text message. Come out. Am with ad boys after shoot having drinks - at the annoying queen street fabulous spot that we ab-whore (if only because of the precarious situation known as ‘total financial ruin’). Text back. Am on way. 10 minutes. Perfect. Must wind self up several notches to fly in to the night sans plan. Get to spot, move upstairs where crew is deeply ensconced in drinks where girlfriend is spotted with 12 men. Yes, 12. Drinks start flowing my way with the precision timing of a factory conveyor belt. Lychee martinis, lemon drops, gin martinis, jaegermeister, champagne, white wine. In something approximating that order. Hmm. Of the 12 11 are single. we are the fresh meat (fresh to death! I exclaim later in the evening to but one barely lucid chuckle). We are 2 and can take on 11. an ancient martial art that is felt not seen, heard not done, just been. The conversation is utterly inane and is this: entirely sex and the city. if you had to cast it everyone would be highly accomplished and hopelessly bitter – art directors, photographers, architects, lawyers and hangers-on et. al. some highlights:

Who’s the girl?
Wanna make out?
If we go fuck can she come too?
I think my problems with my father stem from the fact that he had me when he was 39 and he had a stroke last year………..
I became ________ because I was idealistic but now I’m so jaded, my work is meaningless, it’s all a game and everyone’s out to fuck ___________________

Really.

Then somehow the 2 girls and the 12 men get in cabs and head to the strip club. for your eyes only: All Nude Executive Strip Club. Today, as I walked to brunch (and only as i walked to brunch) it occurred to me that this was a strange thing to do given the ratio. Strange to the girls that is. and tortuous to the boys. As homo erotic as organized sports to be sure…. Many highly charged men in a grown-up version of a circle jerk. charming! Strip club is 80’s neon but reasonably well appointed (executive!) and all the girls are pleasant and relaxed. We plan to return shortly with a gaggle of girls. Seems like the perfect warm up spot somehow. I get asked by our host for the evening to take a tour of the upstairs which encircles the club – sure, why not. I’m totally in control here and I’m awfully (wasted) curious to see why you want to go upstairs and what’s there. More naked girls. Everywhere. I get the uncontrollable urge to plant kisses on our host. Heel! Restraint! Whore-mones! This is not the time, place or situation for many many reasons. Visit upstairs culminates in cigarette snuggled deep in a black leather sofa. Then back downstairs. spot non dancing girls so pop over for some reconnaissance. putting the coco in chanel. We break it down. Climate change, politics, religion, why sha ne ne should not go with girl A to do dude B and off I return to the ever more awestruck table. we’re down to 8. The conversation scraps quoted above should surely not leave dear reader wondering why girls were the better way…….

In describing the evening to my sister, it was explained that our time at the one-eyed-hooker was simply excellent and that I plan to return again soon, soon, for a deeper dive in to a pocket of society that is somehow strangely compelling. Feminist studies on the fly in the belly of the beast. I’ve always felt it best to get up close to things… I will be sure to keep you postage. and very very loco.

Obnoxious Limos Patronize 40

A smoking celebration for the roomate's big 4-oh-my.

He was floored. Who would've guessed that the 30-person, stretch SUV limo waiting outside was for him?

Thanks to our fabulously furry hosts for organizing the debautchery
on — way too many — wheels.

Smoke machine, disco ball and beer.

And a limo filled with Vancouver's finest artists...
How chic is that?

This box is empty

From minimalist to monsterous in under 2 minutes: Microsoft designs the iPod package

_____________________________

Update: One shadowy monkey named Blazer Williams pointed out that Microsoft actually created this parody— three cheers for internal leakage.

Life slips sideways

Alright Oksana, I'll see your challenge... and raise you one GBS image (okay. okay. I was maybe 21 here, but who can keep track of time when you've lived in the same apartment for 10+ years?):

1. Where did you live?

• Here, in this 100-year-old brick building with my two roomates. Currently, yammering yellow monsters shake the speakers off my desk. And the people upstairs are polishing their hardwood floors my ceiling at 7 am. But, I'll tell you, all this noise is better than an alarm clock: you can't snooze the ceiling from falling in, or "Buddy!" and "Hey, dude!" megaphoned from the cavernous ditch that used to be the sidewalk. Of late, well...I have been having terror-istic fantasies.
  

2. Who did you love?

• A heart-shaker, a mood breaker, a man-child who professed to "have no feelings". (Thought he was being lovingly dramatic. Apparently not.)

3. Where did you work?

• A place where I drank on the job, listened to Musak, and won an award for "best Vancouver Ambassador 2000". It was a fun couple of months. I think I received $40 dollars in gift certificates to a renown nipple-sucking shooter bar here in Vancouver.

4. What were you listening to?

• Mphfft. Mfptfft. Mphfft. WawoughWawough. Mphfft. Mfptfft. Wawough. Wawough. Tweeee. Tweeee. I wanna know-ow. I wanna know-ow. Feel the bass. Mphfft. Mfptfft. Feel the bass. I'm in extasy. I feel the extasy. High-ah. High-ah. I feel the bass. Can-yah feel the bass?

5. What was your state of mind?

• See above.

6. Where did you imagine being now?

• Anywhere but here. Maybe richer. Maybe famous-er. But it's pretty excellent being here; I just couldn't imagine this state back then. It wasn't on the hierarchical timeline. I went rivulet on the straight stream. Very interesting waters.

7. What is the biggest lesson you have learned since then?

• Life slips sideways.

Five years ago game

Where did you live?
Who did you love?
Where did you work?
What were you listening to?
What was your state of mind?
Where did you imagine being now?
What is the biggest lesson you have learned since then?

All useful questions, looking back and looking forward. Especially if progress sometimes feels difficult to measure.

For me, the answers read this way:
A loft in Gastown, all bricks and fir and open space.
K. He still loved me then, too.
I was in school, doing my Master's. I was off to New York to do an internship at Esquire.
Wilco.
Happy, hopeful, free, nothing to lose, everything to gain.
Where I am now, career-wise, but only in my wildest dreams. Romantically... not here. Good thing we don't always get what we want.
That I can survive anything. That I am more beautiful and smart and independent than I knew I could be. That you come through and go farther and everything changes and nothing stays the same, but it's alright. It's all alright.

Spring Sprung

Spring. Sprung. Sprought. Sprouting. Spree-gotten: I've got the fever, for the flavour.

He worms my mouth

Bjork fatigue hit me about five years ago, and Matthew Barney is dangling his artful willie precariously close to that culture-whore periphery, but I am oh so excited about his next beautiful monstrosity entitled Drawing Restraint 9.

Mommy, how much longer?

Here's something to dampen the tic-tic-ticking of that rumoured mommy clock: gallery of demonic tots. Got your attention? Good. Then, remember to snap on your love glove.

fugh

saturday morning. modern dance class. black tights. black bodysuit. ratty t-shit. keep fussing with hair it looks like shit then it's in my eyes back to shit again in my eyes finally the bathroom fuck it!

so i'm getting tribal on the one's and two's. a wee bit out of my element but fuck it, it's saturday morning with a bunch of chill people, some drums and some earth dancing. then what's his hippie cupcake fuck shows up (who i'd finally met for dinner the week before to explain that being single means for me to be alone, and not for you to be in love with me, and with your brazilian girlfriend from 2 years ago, who you haven't seen since. i will leave that bizarre love triangle for someone else to cipher). so he shows up, dramatically pokes his head in the classroom (left! right!) and then runs in to set up his goddamned tam tams.

pan to the tam tams. i need to bring you up to speed:



from the stuffing of cupcakes in the mouth era (they move quickly now): the hippie couldn’t kiss me because he was thinking about his girlfriend from 2 years ago in brazil who was on his mind because apparently he was ‘falling’. in love. with me. that night i had such a flashback to the early days with what’s his other fack - it's like i wormholed right back to this place we got to when i was crackers and everything was transactional and there was none of the sexual fabric that makes you want to peel off your panties and start screaming in japanese. FUCK THAT GUY. FUCK HIM. mister sensitive hippie went too fucking far with his honesty and left me feeling like a whore. somehow i end up with someone who takes me to this charming place. eats my fucking food, bitches that there is no wine left all WAH, this would go really well with a nice glass of red wine of which there is none left as he eyes the empty bottle. fuck him. fuck everyone. At this point i am so utterly and ROYALLY pissed off and insensed i cannot even see straight. sitting there all high and mighty on his goddamn hippie horse. all i'm confused - i really care about you - help me i'm falling – i care for this other girl but here, why don't i stick my cock the fuck in you? well friend, it's time we spent less time together and more time apart, you stupid ballerina hippie fuck go play your goddamn tam tams in the park.

a bit harsh yes but so necessaire. SO. he runs in to class and starts drumming away, the picture of contentment. why don't i come play for my woman, to show her the ways of the hippie? look at me in the centre where all eyes are cast on me me me. that's right - dance towards me as you fly across the room. make love to me with your eyes and your body as you fly, heaving yourself through time and space in a way one can only do hungover on a saturday morning. dance to the beat i drum for you as we complete the tribal cycle of life....

my girlfriend and i both lose our minds, fuck up our moves and start to wage war against him in the most silent screaming conversation ever, spluttering, eyes twitching, again insensed. we storm out after class - my foot now injured with rage, change and walk out the door of the studio without a word or a look back, moving quickly and purposefully, lest any of this escaped him. he summed up in those moments all that i disliked him for - his incredible need for attention and desire to look at women in tight clothes iced by the terribly inappropriate hippieness of it all.

after dinner last week he had sent his resume to me to get an information interview at my company. then tam tams. then rage. then delete.

Is design political?

Is design political?

Don't know if I learned anything new, but Jennie Winhall's relatively comprehensive survey article on the politics of design (the preference shaping section is interesting) and the design of politics is worth a skimming read... the Adbuster's / Supersize Me section is obvious political pap to us cultural lackeys, but this fact-made-obvious is worth investigating:

"In 2001, design and politics hit the news big time when it was revealed that Florida's badly designed butterfly ballot could have cost Al Gore the U.S. presidency."

Want to know more about ethical design (jumbo shrimp)? Check out RED. RED is a 'do tank' within the UK Design Council that develops innovative thinking and practice on social and economic problems through design.

Violet is the new black

Uh. Looks like "Violet" is a common cyber-pseudonym. (Why can't I be unique? Why?) One Violet Blue exists out there in cyberspace. Fortunately I dig this blushing Violet. She looks like she could hussle any GBS hussy.

She reminds me of sister slush. They both have this dirty betty crocker thing going on; Dear Abbies for the cyber-punk generation.

These days, tips on how to safely surf porn sites is rather practical advice. And as conservative as the Abbster herself.

Jeff Goldblum is watching you poop

Get up and do it

Three hours in the sun and air and blue sky doing taiji with swords this morning. My lungs still feel gigantic and my blood like champagne.

It must be the sun. I feel like I am thawing.

Even my house is full of wind and light. So I take a risk and put on Fannypack, whose beat-ificness I thought all through the dark days had been part of some kind of mass hallucination on all of our--and we know who we are--parts.

Fucking relief that it makes sense again, it and everything that goes along with it: air, water, bass, beer, girls, green trees. I feel like I've forgotten all of them for months and months and months and months.

GBSII: I think it's coming soon.

pot-au-feu pussy

So I'm sitting in the kitchen nook this morning, having coffee with the roomies and a house guest when Veese suddenly announces that our pal's cat Merkin died recently at the ripe old age of 18.

This fact was certainly out of context, as we were just discussing the best porn video titles— the funniest, we all agreed, was "Weapons of Ass Destruction". (Bet'cha there are a lot of Bush's soulless patches scatting around in that video.)

I was suspicious Veese was baiting my innocence and using the cat story as a vehicle to cast the word "merkin" out into our scintillatingly academic, Saturday morning conversation.

Merkin. The word sounded oddly familiar to me. I was sure I'd heard it before. Its definition was hanging off the edge of my... Veese was now madly giggling over the word merkin like a 17-year-old boy with mirrors on his shoes, so I knew whatever the word meant, it was a pretty, dirty thing.

So obviously, I googlismed it. That's right, merkin is slang for a pubic hair wig.

By the looks of them, pubic hair wigs have come a long way since 17th centruy prostitutes used them to cover up their syphillitic scars. Merkin's have truly evolved into a much, much brasher, acerbicically witty thing (hurraugh feminism).

Really — why buy a natural looking merkin, when you can buy a supernaturally fake pubic hair wig (see above photo)? Why not put your treasure trail to good use — since it's valued real estate — and honour your country right at the origin of the species?

I dig this gay little wikipedia fact:

"In gay slang, a merkin means the "official" male companion of a closeted female homosexual used to help allay suspicion that she is a lesbian, the male equivalent of a beard.

It's all chickens and eggs, really. Who cares what came first, when it's all about the Archaic Mother's soul patch.

Did you catch this post's title: pot-au-feu pussy? As I type, I'm feeling this stunning little phrase entering my list of commonly used slang like heroin poured through the ear of Hamlet's pa... even though it is Nabokovian in origin. I'll take Shakespeare over that slacker any day. Shakespeare, I'm sure, would be down with the merkin. Nabokov, on the other hand... well, he ain't taking on any pussy that's lived past 18.

keep me postage loco

och. where to begin. it's important to go back to the beginning or the middle in this or it wasn't worth doing at all. there have been points at which i felt the computer scream fatal error! imminent death! hakkefleisch! and there have been points at which i felt that i was becoming human. participating in all of the classic problems. i fell in love. marched right in to the fiery inferno of love. was loved. was made complete. got restless. looked under stones and picked up twigs. felt love. for someone else. but i didn't love. i felt feelings rush like espresso. something powdered with power. i was offended. got pissed off. i stopped the tide of love. retreated. the tables got turned. i felt betrayal. anger. crushed. consumed. like i wasn't getting to the things i needed to and needed to get this over with. i felt thirst. to devote. myself. to thoughts. to play in a space that was old but new again. to choose to do so. to listen to myself. to ask myself questions. to rethink. to relearn. to challenge. to recognize myself. then more rage. financial ruin. empathy for the world in that i thought i remembered that this had all happened before. to other people. that i had jumped in the arena. was finally living. was screaming. facing myself. this is me? i want to be good. acceptable. to you. but all i do is quietly challenge. nothing. i felt extreme violence. i, the most passive. aggressive. to face that i express visually. and quickly. that your conversation bores me. that when you bore me i want to hit you. that there is so much to say i need to compress and expand and shock. i need to hit myself as much as i need to hit you to make you stop talking. to beat you in to linear regression. in as subtle and furious a way that makes sense to my flawed existence. i need to rationalize and to blur. to excoriate and subterfuge. to mine the things in between things. to embrace logic and data and absolute babble. to jump in to idea space and shake my head until thoughts fly. to get in to that room of conception. walk in the god damned door. lock it. break it down. walk out. peer over the edge of things and fall the fuck off. i feel so much anger i don't know where to begin. it's anger at myself. anger about the illusion. the fantasy world that i occupate.

it's time to break up the icono with a little clast – it’s spring.

time to go ghetto.

Pop Psychology Time!

Am I the only person in the world for whom letters are gendered?

This is not something that I have engineered. Since I was a child my letters have always had an assigned, fixed gender. I always figured that everyone's letters had a gender until one night (undoubtedly by the light of the green lantern) my ex and I were talking and my peculiar alphabetical sex assignment came to light. He thought I was making it up and made me write out all the letters in the alphabet, along with their particular gender. He then spent half the night quizzing me to see if he could trip me up. I completely freaked him out by being able to state each character's gender with 100% accuracy (according to me). It's not very post-modern of me, but all my letters have a gender and those genders never change.

I still have the sheet that we wrote it out on. It's on the back of a flyer for a ronnie burkett show (Who, by the way, is amazing. If you ever get a chance to see any of his shows, you must!).

Here is the list in a slightly expanded form:

a = the matriarch
b = boy
c = girl
d = boy
e = male (e and f are the Ace and Gary/Bert and Ernie of my alphabet)
f = male
g = strong girl
h = male
i = female but in an asexual/sterile kinda way
j = girl, of course
k = male
l = male
m = guy
n = guy
o = female
p = female
q = female a la Janet Reno
r = strongly male
s = strongly female (maybe 'cause she's so curvaceous)
t = masculine female
u = frumpy female a la Laura Bush
v = femme fatale
w = male in a Dad kinda way without being patriarchal (see below)
x = male (curiously opposite to the way science has labeled things)
y = woman (also curiously opposite to the way science has labeled things)
z = male (definitely the patriarch)

I've often wondered if I could blame my atrocious spelling on this unique way that I interact with letters and language. My numbers also have gender and my math is worse than my spelling...

I feel a doctoral thesis in there somewhere.

Philly - Even Cooler Without the Steak

I'm in Philly at the moment, doing my first bid-ness trip ever. And I have to say, Philadelphia may just be my favourite American city so far. That's right, I may even like it better than NYC. Shock, awe and blaspheme, I know.

Philadelphia is stylish, design-y and chill... without the hippie underpinnnings. Everybody here has a hip and sway to them that is confident, but not brash; they are all uniquely hip without the hipster cheeze. I can't quite explain it within the remaining few seconds of battery power, but Philly utterly lacks any pretention that is associated with the Indie Credibility System, and yet there are cool kids everywhere. It's like people here don't have to try not-to-try here. They just be. I dig it.

The streets are quaint and inviting; every street has an inviting restaurant, bar or cafe located on it, that is not a part of a "chain" (except the occasional Dunkin' Donuts). The buildings are beautiful, especially the brownstones — they are utterly fabulous. It's like Sesame Street without the garbage.

And the best thing yet? I have not seen a single 7-11. Ahhhh.

East Market Street is where all the cool is at: the restaurants are have amazingly creative decor that doesn't seem contrived or forced, again nothing here seems painfully over-designed. I ate at "fork', a conservative, yet warm and inviting place to eat.

I never thought I'd fall in love with Philly, but I have. I only wish I had more than four hours to check it out... Philly: you're my kind of town.