The elusive update
It's coming, it really is. Apparently it takes updates slightly longer to reach you when I write them from my hometown, where I'm currently visiting family and friends I haven't seen for months (read: fattening up on barbecued everything and probably drinking too much). But the update's coming. And soon. I've already started it. It's going to be about a man I met on the internet and how I am likely losing touch with reality, but so totally enjoying it. And then you can make fun of me. And then I will make fun of me, too. And he'll probably read it.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The grocery whisperer
The new cashier at the discount grocery store knows he stands out from the rest. Dressed entirely in black, he's literally a stark contrast from the bubble-gum-outfitted cashiers, with logos spanning their asses, making saucy declarations like PINK and JUICY, that I try not to think too much about.
This market is the sort of work environment that thrives on chaos, where I suspect applicants are subject to a minimum decibel requirement, and it fazes no one to get knocked by a skinless lamb riding the butcher's shoulder on its way to the meat counter. Stock-boys clog the aisles, recounting tales of their weekends and things they did to piss off their girlfriends, not always waiting until you're out of earshot to say something that would further piss off said girlfriends. But this market, it's got its charm, and great sales.
I'm not sure how this new cashier got his foot in the door, though. He never wears anything but black. His pants, his shirt, his hair, his eyes, his piercing, all black. And yet, he's found enough common ground with the juicy pink cashiers that they've become his cheerleaders. "He's awesome!" one said for my benefit, fluttering her silver-glittered eyelashes, and he smiled an appreciative snaggle-toothed grin. It was just the opener he needed.
Apparently, her compliment was enough of an icebreaker that he felt a segue was unnecessary, and, turning to me, he said, "I'm an insomniac. I have trouble sleeping." Unconventional, yes, but I'd assumed the statement would be followed by some sort of qualifier, something relevant, so it wasn't yet a story I'd retell. But he went on, and without pause:
"I'm an insomniac because I suffer horrible, HORRIBLE nightmares, really awful nightmares, so I try not to go to sleep until I'm completely exhausted and just can't stay awake anymore, like physically can't keep my eyes open, and that way I'm just too tired to dream anything really, because it's the dreams that keep me awake, because of some messed up things that happened to me, like accidents and shit, and partly because I do that thing on Mount Royal where we dress up like medieval warriors and battle, which I love, but that combined with my memories and all the transcendental meditation I do, well it just sets me up for some pretty crazy lucid dreaming, but I take part responsibility for it as well because when I meditate I can communicate with both sides, you know, like life and death and I really like talking to the dead because I know not everyone can do it and the dead are just so wise because they've seen it all and they can travel back and forth from the physical world, where the rest of us are so limited, but they can go to the realm of the afterlife and come back with this cool perspective and I'm not scared of them, and usually they're pretty nice if you just open up to them, but I think most people would be, so that gives me an advantage. It's all about compassion, you know?" he said, and he smiled. I smiled back and thanked him, sincerely. He'd given me the gift of absurdity.
"Can I get $40 cash back please?" I asked, and passed him my debit card. He smiled at me like an old friend, and processed the transaction. "The colours are in your aura," he said. "I see you can talk to them, too, but more on that the next visit. I'm an insomniac, so I have lots of spare time."
All these years I've lived in Montreal, I thought, and brought visitors to gawk at one of Quebec's strangest subcultures - its anemic Conans and their Red Sonyas - battling in homemade costumes with fur appliqué and fitted leather loincloths, wielding styrofoam swords, swinging axes of plastic, protected only by their shields of cardboard, duct tape and hand-painted logos. All that time, I've just written them off as freaks and weirdos.
It's nice to be right sometimes.
The new cashier at the discount grocery store knows he stands out from the rest. Dressed entirely in black, he's literally a stark contrast from the bubble-gum-outfitted cashiers, with logos spanning their asses, making saucy declarations like PINK and JUICY, that I try not to think too much about.
This market is the sort of work environment that thrives on chaos, where I suspect applicants are subject to a minimum decibel requirement, and it fazes no one to get knocked by a skinless lamb riding the butcher's shoulder on its way to the meat counter. Stock-boys clog the aisles, recounting tales of their weekends and things they did to piss off their girlfriends, not always waiting until you're out of earshot to say something that would further piss off said girlfriends. But this market, it's got its charm, and great sales.
I'm not sure how this new cashier got his foot in the door, though. He never wears anything but black. His pants, his shirt, his hair, his eyes, his piercing, all black. And yet, he's found enough common ground with the juicy pink cashiers that they've become his cheerleaders. "He's awesome!" one said for my benefit, fluttering her silver-glittered eyelashes, and he smiled an appreciative snaggle-toothed grin. It was just the opener he needed.
Apparently, her compliment was enough of an icebreaker that he felt a segue was unnecessary, and, turning to me, he said, "I'm an insomniac. I have trouble sleeping." Unconventional, yes, but I'd assumed the statement would be followed by some sort of qualifier, something relevant, so it wasn't yet a story I'd retell. But he went on, and without pause:
"I'm an insomniac because I suffer horrible, HORRIBLE nightmares, really awful nightmares, so I try not to go to sleep until I'm completely exhausted and just can't stay awake anymore, like physically can't keep my eyes open, and that way I'm just too tired to dream anything really, because it's the dreams that keep me awake, because of some messed up things that happened to me, like accidents and shit, and partly because I do that thing on Mount Royal where we dress up like medieval warriors and battle, which I love, but that combined with my memories and all the transcendental meditation I do, well it just sets me up for some pretty crazy lucid dreaming, but I take part responsibility for it as well because when I meditate I can communicate with both sides, you know, like life and death and I really like talking to the dead because I know not everyone can do it and the dead are just so wise because they've seen it all and they can travel back and forth from the physical world, where the rest of us are so limited, but they can go to the realm of the afterlife and come back with this cool perspective and I'm not scared of them, and usually they're pretty nice if you just open up to them, but I think most people would be, so that gives me an advantage. It's all about compassion, you know?" he said, and he smiled. I smiled back and thanked him, sincerely. He'd given me the gift of absurdity.
"Can I get $40 cash back please?" I asked, and passed him my debit card. He smiled at me like an old friend, and processed the transaction. "The colours are in your aura," he said. "I see you can talk to them, too, but more on that the next visit. I'm an insomniac, so I have lots of spare time."
All these years I've lived in Montreal, I thought, and brought visitors to gawk at one of Quebec's strangest subcultures - its anemic Conans and their Red Sonyas - battling in homemade costumes with fur appliqué and fitted leather loincloths, wielding styrofoam swords, swinging axes of plastic, protected only by their shields of cardboard, duct tape and hand-painted logos. All that time, I've just written them off as freaks and weirdos.
It's nice to be right sometimes.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Iron Maiden's maidens
When I agreed, last minute, to help a friend and work at Montreal's first Heavy MTL festival, I knew, I just knew there was fun to be had. I mean, I know basically nothing about heavy metal or its hardcore followers, so it was in the name of hilarity that I signed up, and brought a few friends along. When all was said and done, it was probably the most fun I've ever had working. I wish I could take my best friends to work every day.
When I agreed, last minute, to help a friend and work at Montreal's first Heavy MTL festival, I knew, I just knew there was fun to be had. I mean, I know basically nothing about heavy metal or its hardcore followers, so it was in the name of hilarity that I signed up, and brought a few friends along. When all was said and done, it was probably the most fun I've ever had working. I wish I could take my best friends to work every day.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Death, destruction and deprivation: A lesson in cat-sitting
Three times I've poked the cat to make sure he's dead. But every time, he manages to revive himself. Initially, I was worried because he appeared to be falling into bits, like the doomed goldfish I had when I was five, but now I'm finding swirling, autonomous clumps of him all over the house, like mogwai spawn. Gremlins. I have gremlins and I fear for my life.
I'm kitten-sitting for friends, while they bask in the sun on a beach in North Carolina, and it's not as easy as I thought it would be, what with all the death, destruction and sleep deprivation involved. The long-haired mini-beast appears comatose all day long, upside-down on the sofa, spawning more mogwai even while exhausted from meowing and playing cat hockey all night, every night.
He arrived with the promise to rid me of any mice I might have, and indeed I've witnessed his homicidal tendencies. A born killer, he sees every beating heart as a challenge to his reputation, and I find it quite unsettling that he watches me sleep. Every time I open my eyes, he's there. The way he looks at me, his dilated cat pupils could very well be the portals to Hell. I can't shake the feeling that if he had opposable thumbs, I'd be dead by now.
We didn't get off to a good start, and I guess that set the tone. I'd let him out of his box to sniff around, and gone to retrieve the rest of his rations from the car, for the term he's serving with me. When I returned, that long-haired, sadistic beast was ready and waiting, and within seconds, and without losing eye contact, he produced a foul grey mass from his throat, and all but gave me the finger. While I cleaned it up, he circled around, produced another and walked off. He'd only been an inmate for five minutes and already I knew he was trouble.
Day 5: I've accepted that there's been a one-cat mutiny, and relinquished control. He's beaten me down psychologically, with the gradual destruction of everything I care about. On Day 2, he pushed a ceramic pot from the window sill, smashing it and revealing to me its ridiculous contents (an anatomically incorrect bobble-head lobster, a dollar-store spaceman action figure, poker chips, an antenna adapter from the Eighties, craft scissors and a beer cozy). Gathering it all together under his watchful eye, I was forced to examine my lifestyle. On Day 3, he attacked the only remaining living thing in my apartment other than me, my starter basil plant. Next, he went to work on some electrical cords, and I was tempted to let him.
Diligently, he guards the windows, preventing my escape, stopping only to refuel so he can create increasingly vile gastro-concoctions for me, as I'm on latrine duty. And worst of all, he can't keep his filthy paws off me.
Perhaps the approach of the full moon has wakened his feral beast within, as I hear happens in asylums, because last night I got no sleep at all. For hours, he tore around the house, the sound of his terrible claws scratching the wood floor as he rounded corners in crazed pursuit of any one of a hundred objects he'd found.
Laying very still and quiet as to not encourage him further, I prayed for the madness to end, and I was very nearly able to retreat to the happy place that is my unconscious, until the big bang. Having survived the terror which ensued, I investigated the sound and I'm still not sure what caused it, if it elicited the attack, or simply served as a warning. Either way, upon hearing it, I opened my eyes and turned my head in time to see the airborne cat's silhouette, in full Halloween arch, flying at me. I barely had time to pull the covers over my head in defense and scream "Jeeeeeeeeeeeeezus!" before impact. "You've got to be kidding me!" was the next thing I said, with a pounding heart.
It's clear now, he truly wishes me dead. He should know, the feeling is mutual.
Three times I've poked the cat to make sure he's dead. But every time, he manages to revive himself. Initially, I was worried because he appeared to be falling into bits, like the doomed goldfish I had when I was five, but now I'm finding swirling, autonomous clumps of him all over the house, like mogwai spawn. Gremlins. I have gremlins and I fear for my life.
I'm kitten-sitting for friends, while they bask in the sun on a beach in North Carolina, and it's not as easy as I thought it would be, what with all the death, destruction and sleep deprivation involved. The long-haired mini-beast appears comatose all day long, upside-down on the sofa, spawning more mogwai even while exhausted from meowing and playing cat hockey all night, every night.He arrived with the promise to rid me of any mice I might have, and indeed I've witnessed his homicidal tendencies. A born killer, he sees every beating heart as a challenge to his reputation, and I find it quite unsettling that he watches me sleep. Every time I open my eyes, he's there. The way he looks at me, his dilated cat pupils could very well be the portals to Hell. I can't shake the feeling that if he had opposable thumbs, I'd be dead by now.
We didn't get off to a good start, and I guess that set the tone. I'd let him out of his box to sniff around, and gone to retrieve the rest of his rations from the car, for the term he's serving with me. When I returned, that long-haired, sadistic beast was ready and waiting, and within seconds, and without losing eye contact, he produced a foul grey mass from his throat, and all but gave me the finger. While I cleaned it up, he circled around, produced another and walked off. He'd only been an inmate for five minutes and already I knew he was trouble.
Day 5: I've accepted that there's been a one-cat mutiny, and relinquished control. He's beaten me down psychologically, with the gradual destruction of everything I care about. On Day 2, he pushed a ceramic pot from the window sill, smashing it and revealing to me its ridiculous contents (an anatomically incorrect bobble-head lobster, a dollar-store spaceman action figure, poker chips, an antenna adapter from the Eighties, craft scissors and a beer cozy). Gathering it all together under his watchful eye, I was forced to examine my lifestyle. On Day 3, he attacked the only remaining living thing in my apartment other than me, my starter basil plant. Next, he went to work on some electrical cords, and I was tempted to let him.
Diligently, he guards the windows, preventing my escape, stopping only to refuel so he can create increasingly vile gastro-concoctions for me, as I'm on latrine duty. And worst of all, he can't keep his filthy paws off me.Perhaps the approach of the full moon has wakened his feral beast within, as I hear happens in asylums, because last night I got no sleep at all. For hours, he tore around the house, the sound of his terrible claws scratching the wood floor as he rounded corners in crazed pursuit of any one of a hundred objects he'd found.
Laying very still and quiet as to not encourage him further, I prayed for the madness to end, and I was very nearly able to retreat to the happy place that is my unconscious, until the big bang. Having survived the terror which ensued, I investigated the sound and I'm still not sure what caused it, if it elicited the attack, or simply served as a warning. Either way, upon hearing it, I opened my eyes and turned my head in time to see the airborne cat's silhouette, in full Halloween arch, flying at me. I barely had time to pull the covers over my head in defense and scream "Jeeeeeeeeeeeeezus!" before impact. "You've got to be kidding me!" was the next thing I said, with a pounding heart.
It's clear now, he truly wishes me dead. He should know, the feeling is mutual.
Monday, June 16, 2008
P is for Park, and Pervert
Dear PP (Park Pervert),
I'm not sure if the video will be for your private collection, or one of those voyeur websites I've seen, with videos of unsuspecting women on beaches in bikinis (and maybe a little nipple here and there), but I'm quite sure you'll be winning no awards for today's footage. If I thought you might, I'd ask for a cut of the profits. Or, a "thank-you" at the very least.
I knew it was risky to blog in a city park in a bikini, or to do anything at all in a city park in a bikini, and that's why I chose the predominately homosexual section, and sat away from the crowds. And I didn't shower or do my hair, but all that succeeded in doing was filtering out the sort of men that care about hygiene. Prime example of how practice can defecate all over theory.
After weighing the risks, there weren't any I thought I couldn't ignore for the luxury of a little vitamin D, not catcalls, drunken lurkers, nor UV warnings would deter me. No, I was going to indulge in one of nature's sweetest lunch combos, a sunny afternoon in the park, warm skin and a cool breeze. How relaxing, I thought, until you arrived. I was instantly and instinctively suspicious, something about the way you greased your man-boobs and splayed yourself under the sun like a giant fuzzy "X" just wasn't quite palatable, but I wasn't bothered enough to consider relocating. I was enjoying my sandwich.
Your awkward spy tactics gave you away and called attention to me. You did your best, but your best caused a ripple of concern to unsettle everyone in the vicinity and ultimately, I had to acknowledge you and gesture for you to stop, for the sake of social norm and my peace and quiet. No one actually believed you were videotaping yourself, not with the camera aimed high over your shoulder, the viewfinder turned so you could see what you were recording, me on your right, and that girl in short-shorts on your left. It would have been more convincing had you said something, as though you were making a video for a far-away relative or had you smiled as though you were taking still shots.
When you knew you were caught, you pretended to be surprised to discover that you'd "accidentally" turned the camera backwards, oh silly you, and that wasn't especially convincing either. I've baby-sat sneakier third-graders.
Going paparazzi on me, and running off, would have been a more considerate approach. Then, I could have gotten on with my day after little more than ten wasted minutes. But no, you opted for stealth too early in your career of "park pervery", and your skill-set doesn't complement your raison d'être.
I know it must be hard for you, perving out all by your lonesome in the big scary city, but I'm sure there are plenty of great women looking for a man with no allure, no tact, no respect, no hope at all, just a pant-load of frustration. Or has that not been your experience?
Either way, if you're wondering where you might be going wrong with the ladies, I may be able to offer a few pointers.
You could have at least stuck around long enough for me to take a successful picture of you (with that little camera in my laptop), taking pictures of me. But, alas, my skill-set does not match my sense of humour.
Sincerely,
Kate
Dear PP (Park Pervert),
I'm not sure if the video will be for your private collection, or one of those voyeur websites I've seen, with videos of unsuspecting women on beaches in bikinis (and maybe a little nipple here and there), but I'm quite sure you'll be winning no awards for today's footage. If I thought you might, I'd ask for a cut of the profits. Or, a "thank-you" at the very least.
I knew it was risky to blog in a city park in a bikini, or to do anything at all in a city park in a bikini, and that's why I chose the predominately homosexual section, and sat away from the crowds. And I didn't shower or do my hair, but all that succeeded in doing was filtering out the sort of men that care about hygiene. Prime example of how practice can defecate all over theory.
After weighing the risks, there weren't any I thought I couldn't ignore for the luxury of a little vitamin D, not catcalls, drunken lurkers, nor UV warnings would deter me. No, I was going to indulge in one of nature's sweetest lunch combos, a sunny afternoon in the park, warm skin and a cool breeze. How relaxing, I thought, until you arrived. I was instantly and instinctively suspicious, something about the way you greased your man-boobs and splayed yourself under the sun like a giant fuzzy "X" just wasn't quite palatable, but I wasn't bothered enough to consider relocating. I was enjoying my sandwich.Your awkward spy tactics gave you away and called attention to me. You did your best, but your best caused a ripple of concern to unsettle everyone in the vicinity and ultimately, I had to acknowledge you and gesture for you to stop, for the sake of social norm and my peace and quiet. No one actually believed you were videotaping yourself, not with the camera aimed high over your shoulder, the viewfinder turned so you could see what you were recording, me on your right, and that girl in short-shorts on your left. It would have been more convincing had you said something, as though you were making a video for a far-away relative or had you smiled as though you were taking still shots.
When you knew you were caught, you pretended to be surprised to discover that you'd "accidentally" turned the camera backwards, oh silly you, and that wasn't especially convincing either. I've baby-sat sneakier third-graders.
Going paparazzi on me, and running off, would have been a more considerate approach. Then, I could have gotten on with my day after little more than ten wasted minutes. But no, you opted for stealth too early in your career of "park pervery", and your skill-set doesn't complement your raison d'être.
I know it must be hard for you, perving out all by your lonesome in the big scary city, but I'm sure there are plenty of great women looking for a man with no allure, no tact, no respect, no hope at all, just a pant-load of frustration. Or has that not been your experience?
Either way, if you're wondering where you might be going wrong with the ladies, I may be able to offer a few pointers.
You could have at least stuck around long enough for me to take a successful picture of you (with that little camera in my laptop), taking pictures of me. But, alas, my skill-set does not match my sense of humour.
Sincerely,
Kate
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
