Lessons in Flirting, #2So, I went to this party on Saturday night, on the corner of Prince-Arthur and de Laval. (Now I know how the other half lives.) Got absolutely drunk and then had a conversation with a friend, who was either giving me the brush-off or was coming on to me. I couldn’t tell which, as I was concentrating too much on staying upright.
On another matter, whodda thunk it, it turns out that Sir Bob Geldolf, he of
Boomtown Rats and Live Aid fame, is the man responsible for the
Survivor series. It turns out
he’s pissed at someone in Australia, but then, this
wouldn’t be the first time...
Where’s Jay? Jason Mewes has disappeared. Hell, even
I turned up for court.
Where’s Benny Hill when you need him?Today is the annual cancer-research event, when all the girls from the Montreal’s various private Catholic high schools jog up the mountain, to finally all congregate at Beaver Lake. Now, I’m not big on
Beavis and Butthead innuendo, but am I the only one whose mind tends to wander at the mention of jogging Catholic school girls, and Beaver Lake? (Ooh, can’t wait for the
Google hits for this one.)
Select this!Went to the courthouse yesterday for jury selection. About 140-150 potential jurors were there. Thirty minutes into the proceedings, there’s a live audio feed from the Bordeaux Prison, where the judge was. He starts off on this spiel about what the trial was for (the Hells Angels), how the day would proceed (long), and how we could ask for an exception (many and myriad). He was actually quite a humorous fella. At one point, he enumerated what the 13 prisoners were accused of, and it was astounding; about 11 of them are accused of 13 (yes, 13) murders, one accused of two murders and the other of nine (if I remember correctly). Nice guys, the rat bastards.
So, when the potentials are asked who believes they should be exempt, approximately one third get up: they are then bussed off to the prison to meet with the judge. The rest of us are given coffee and doughnuts. The remainder are then split into two groups and we are told to wait around until 11:30am, when we’re given lunch (kinda tasty, actually). The first group is then bussed to the prison, and my group finally heads over at about 2:30pm. We’re all sent into the court one-by-one and, being one of the last numbers called, I’m finally summoned at about 4:30. Told to stand in the booth, I’m asked to place my hand on the bible and swear. Um, no, sorry, can’t do that. For some reason, I saw that book and absolutely refused. That never happened before. The judge takes it all in stride and simply asks me to swear to tell the truth. Yeah, I’ve got no problem with that.
“Age?” Tell him.
“Occupation?” Tell him.
“Any social contact with a police officer?” Um, well, my ex-landlord is a detective on the anti-gang squad. “Thank you, you may go.”
Now, the thing is, contrary to my previous proclamation, the thought of receiving almost
$150/day for five days per week sure was appealing, especially when you consider that I had been told at my job that I would still receive my regular salary. For six months, I could have sat pretty, reaping in mucho needed cash.
Hang ’em allLike so much else, I often make choices about future occurences before they actually happen. I had always told myself that, if called, I would fulfil my civic duty and serve on a jury. I mean, sit around, get
free food, decide a person’s fate, rail against perceived prejudice (like
Twelve Angry Men or Fonzi in “Happy Days”), stay in a hotel if the day’s trial went late, etc.
Unfortunately, I’ve been summoned for jury duty for this coming Monday and, now that it’s happened, I have absolutely no interest in taking part. Most likely, it’s for the Hells Angels trial, and in my opinion those rat bastards can all rot. There were too many bars in my old neighbourhood that went up in flames last summer, some of them with apartments above, and it’s no fun coming home wondering whether your own place might become a victim to collateral damage. It also sucks to have a pool hall next door and not be able to go because it’s a biker hang-out.
Mind you, if I weren’t working I would probably go for it, if only to declare those arrested-development, fat-gut morons guilty. Well, that’s my rant.
Let's get bombedParty on November 14, you're all invited (but please don't show up).
Escaping to RealityI admit it, I’m a
Survivor whore. Have been since about the fourth show in the first season. There was such passive agressive infighting going on, it so reminded me of the company where I was working. It was so easy to associate personalities from the show with co-workers. As the locations varied, the competition became somewhat predictable, but it’s always a joy to see what some folks will do for their fleeting 15 minutes.
All this to say that
Survivor Thailand is starting tonight. My VCR is all set, I tell ya. I’m keeping an eye out for all the extra silicone, and especially soft porn guy,
Brian Heidik, who is now, supposedly, a
used car salesman. (I guess he couldn’t, um, “keep it up” in the porn business.) I love the fact that, on his bio, it states that he acted in “Doogie Howser, M.D.” That so screams
fluffer, if you ask me.
Looking for a telephone booth to changeThe boss unit made a sly crack today in front of the other writers about me not wearing a suit at work. Has anyone ever felt the obligation to dress to the nines for work?
I find it to be a double standard that the women can wear anything (within reason), whereas the guys in the department tend to sport phallic symbols around their necks. (And yes, that's exactly what ties are.)
Didn't we get beyond this phase? I can't believe that I actually look forward to casual Fridays.
Ugh, the
truth is out there.
It had to happen Well folks, you’re not going to believe this, but it seems the chimp to the south has his own
blog. Strange, I didn’t know the
good ole boy could spell, much less figure out how to turn on a computer.
Changes in the worksOkay, I got tired of ending up on web searches for Elvis trivia. The guy's dead already.
Rugby player discovers rival's tooth in his arm one month after match. My question is, did the player who lost his tooth realise what had happened?
Some people’s parentsSaturday, I was out in the Laurentians with friends. Okay, so we were climbing. The geology of the site makes it so that certain cliffs are around corners, so you will be climbing without seeing other folks about 100 metres away, but you can often hear them. At one point, we all start hearing the cries of some kid, and this isn’t anything like having stubbed a toe or tripped over a branch. The kid has been bawling for about 10 minutes, and isn’t stopping. I figure that the kid might have hurt himself with a fall, so I grab my first aid kit and head over. It turns out the boy is near the top of the cliff, about 20 metres up, and is absolutely terrified. So much so that he’s nearly out of his mind. Next to him on another rope is some adult, most likely his father, who has a hold of the boy’s arm, berating him and shaking him. After seeing about 10 seconds of this, the parental unit pushes the kid away, telling the person holding the kid’s rope to lower him off.
What the
fuck is wrong with people?! Your kid is terrified, he’s bawling his eyes out and all you can do is yell at him and treat him like shit? Why the fuck was the kid up there anyway? I wish I could say that this is a male/penis thing, but I’ve seen this happen all too often with mothers also. There are some screwed up people out there, is all I can say.
So, is this going to change the tides?
Adventures in flirtingGetting back in the dating game, I've been attempting various approaches. So here I am the other night, sitting next to a fairly attractive woman. Not having much experience making the first move, I steel my nerves and, affecting a deep, suave voice, make my move:
Me: Hi there. Come here often?
Woman: Laughs.
Me: You know, I don't do this often, but I noticed you from across the room and said to myself, "Um, now she looks like someone I'd like to know."
Woman: Laughs. Uproariously.
Note to self: Either I need to improve my technique, or sweaty, dirty climbing gyms are
not good pick-up spots.
Okay, truth time: it was all in jest on my part, but she did say hi to me last night, so all may not be lost.
Just passing this along. I wonder if he was a top or a bottom.
Brushes with coolnessWay back when, at the social club at the university of New Brunswick, I was standing at the bar, naturally drinking the first of what would be many beers that evening. Knowing that I had many hours of imbibing ahead of me, I decided to drink from a glass, something I never did at the time. Looking across the bar, made eye contact with an attractive woman. Trying to act cool, brought the glass to my lips, all the while maintaining a come-hither gaze with said hottie. Unfortunately, I tipped the glass too quickly, splashing the crotchal region of my pants, leaving a huge wet spot. Needless to say, there was no love connection that evening.
This seems to be a recurring theme in my existence. Last night, I was coming up the escalator at Laurier. Looking good (in my mind), feeling good, I was suavely climbing the stairs. Then, of course, the front of my shoe catches one the risers, and I fall flat on my face. Get up, keep blushing face down, and scurry off home. Nice to see that all that modern dance training has paid off.
Am I mistaken, or is that Marianne Faithful doing the latest Gap stretch-jeans commercial? And another thing, am I the only one who thinks the guy doing another Gap jeans commercial is incredibly hot? Not to have anything read into this sentence or anything.
It always seems to happen. Whenever I go into a store in this city for the first time, I can always be sure to see one particular person. Last night, being in the Pointe, I dropped into the local IGA to pick up some
cat food. I've never been to this grocery store and never thought I would, since the owner also had another IGA in St-Henri and it was never a pleasant shopping experience. Anyhow, walk in, stroll the aisles and standing there is Ed Fuller, star of
Fringe Festivals Past. Hadn't seen him in two years, the last time being in an Internet café--now defunct--the day he was leaving for Chile.
Now, Ed being Ed, he didn't really have any plans for South America, didn't speak a word of Spanish or anything; he had simply scored some cheap tickets. I swear, one of these days, I'm going to walk into some illicit "massage" parlour, and he'll probably be manning the desk.
Putting my shirt back on last night, I noticed that the fabric behind my shoulder was ripped. I have no idea whether it ripped when I took it off or put it back on, or whether it was like that all day long at work and no one mentioned a thing. That would be most embarassing. And no, I do not have Lou Ferrigno muscles or anything.
Ever think to yourself, “Wow, I should get a life,” and really mean it?
For some reason, I've been struck with a sudden case of the blahs. Sitting here, doing research, and just not getting into it. Granted, maybe part of this is because I paid off some bills today. Like everyone, finding it hard to stay ahead.
I think Frances the cat is feeling down these days also, but I’ve been keeping her placated by copious amounts of cat nip. When I lived on Waverly, lo those many years ago, various neighbouring cats would come into my apartment, and occasionally spend the night with Frances and I; Frances never seemed to mind. Now, however, when any of the
many cats at my new place try to come into the apartment, Frances sits at the back door and swats and hisses at anything that moves. (I think she’s tired of always having her food stolen.) She’s definitely getting irascible in her old age.
Speaking of cats, am I the only one who’s noticed that a majority of bloggers have cats? Just goes to show that we are controlled by the felines of this world.
Move over Hello KittyWell, the new Harry Potter Nimbus 2000 Broom, as advertised on
Amazon, is really starting to make the rounds on various blogs. Read the
Editorial Review, and then go read the spotlight reviews. I don't know how many of the reviews are serious, but some of them are absolutely hilarious.
Wise as sageComing back from New Hampshire last night, after an amazing 3-day weekend, the driver decided to put on some
Marillion in the cd player. I don't recall listening to the band before, having simply written them off as just another heavy metal hair band from the '80s. I couldn't have been more wrong, and I don't know if this is a good or a bad thing. What comes out of the speaker is just more British concept band bullshit à la early Jethro Tull or Genesis, or any of those other really annoying bands from the '70s that needed at least five 18-wheelers to transport each member's instruments to the various stadium concerts. Now, the driver, whom I've met only a few times, is practically creaming his jeans, going on and on about how Marillion were basically "singing poets. Everything they say means something!" (Um, well, everything I say means something also, but whatever.) I'm pretty much blocking out the sound, trying to wipe memories of
Yes and
Emerson, Lake and Palmer from my mind, when the driver (we'll call him Pete) goes, "Oh, and here, when Steve Fish sings, 'And the wet spot on the table,' well that means that he's just raised his glass of beer and the wet spot is the ring caused by the glass. You see, he's in a bar. Amazing music, isn't it?!?" I nod politely, realising that hair-metal, crotch-revealing-spandex-pants-wearing music might not have been so bad after all, but this is my ride so I'm not complaining... out loud.
Later on in the drive, just as we get into the Vermont side, we're waved down by some guy on the side of the road. We quickly judge if he looks dangerous, decide that he isn't, and stop. It turns out that his car has broken down: something wrong with his alternator, whatever that is (I know nothing about cars), and the battery is no longer juiced. Pete makes a u-turn in the middle of the highway and we try to boost the car. Meanwhile, other passengers get out of the car, two other guys and one girl. It turns out they're from the west island, and were basically just travelling the East Coast of the States. Early 20s, good-looking in that privileged upbringing sorta way. At one point, Pete removes the jumper cables, and the car just dies. Meanwhile, one guy opens the trunk to get something, and afterward the trunk no longer stays shut. Their car is falling apart in front of our eyes. Finally, the girl comes around back with some burning
faggot, and there's smoke everywhere. "Is that sage?" I asked. Turned out that it was, and she was by now ready to try anything to get things to go right. Pete, who is as straight-laced and square as they come (see his adoration of Marillion), pretty much freaks out, grabs the jumper cables, throws them in his truck, gets in the truck, turns the truck around and honks for me to get in. I wait for 5 more seconds, expecting at least one of the stranded folks to ask for a ride to the nearest garage, and then just go back to the truck. I felt that Pete should have least offered a ride to one of them, but felt it wasn't my duty to tell him so.
Anyhow, called Kim an hour or so ago, to find out how she's doing. Everything's okay, except that now the apartment's resident ghost is back: Kim woke up the other night and saw a tall, thin man at the foot of the bed. The ex figures that he's pissed off 'cause she's done some remodeling, and from experience we know that he doesn't like change: our first year there, he terrorised our cats, and he's also inverted mittens and stuff like that. He (if it is a he) was becoming quite annoying back in the winter, and I was given a sage smudge for my b-day, which I haven't used yet. I guess I'll have to go back to the old place and drop it off; I was once told by a certain
someone that it's possible to ward off spirits with it. I'm keeping my gargoyle, however.
