Monday, February 27, 2006

rebel scum

Ever see someone skydive naked? I have, and it's horrible.

Ok, so Thursday night, I ate my words: I squelched home sopping wet up to my thighs. There had been quicksnow everywhere.. I don't have too much to speak about today, though I did go to the Belle and Sebastian show last night, which was fine. Good musicians, and an even better band. I had the disadvantage of not really caring about them before seeing them, so I didn't have my life changed or anything. They had veteran-tight sets, and pretty accessible songs, though the melodies were a bit too complex to generate a spontaneous loveaffair with me. They sing about dreams and horses, so sure enough, the ladies love them (just like Sublime, what's up with that band and girls? Girls take their tops off if they even hear Sublime played in a commercial). They'll go down in my Top 20 shows. As for the rest of this post, today I only have questions..
-Does anyone else aim for the urinal-mint just to get that refreshing smell?
-Ever notice how predisposed to looking at people you are? Even if you didn't know someone was there, the chances of 'casually' looking at some otherwise uninteresting landmark are damned higher if someone is there. Like looking up in a coffee shop and looking directly at someone who'd been looking at you. Eery. I guess the only problem with that observation is that you'll never know how many people you don't see..
-Cogender toilet seat guidelines need to be heavily revised... why do I have to touch a seat I'm not using? Especially BEFORE I touch my winky? Anyone who insists otherwise is braindamaged in the head. The typical counterarguement 'I don't want to fall in' is just a further expression of just how extensive that braindamage is: who doesn't look before they sit down? Especially when half-naked and planning to pass body fluids!? We should at least meet half-way on this one, and accept that the seat'll go up and the seat go down, move it if you need to.. am I wrong? AM I WRONG?
-Which is your favourite dep? There should be annual dep awards, with acceptance speeches and everything. There are some serious deppers out there.. A few along Duluth are more like gunclubs than convenient places to buy baby formula: old dudes hang about sharpening butchering equipment or repackaging Gillette razors. Vote for your favourite dep here!
-Ever notice how the last wisp of a put-out cigarette smoke smells like fish oil?
-Do you ever need to turn the car-radio down to be able to park?
-In the music spectrum, when does reggae become dub? On the remix? Because some of the best dub I've seen has been live.
-I've no idea what a Super Dairy Boy might be, but haven't you always wanted toys like these? Check out the Powerisers!
-Back to DJ names, how's Rambo sound? Or EeryMouthy? Or The Metapickle? I definitely need someone to tell me, or else I'll be DJ Tommy, which sounds a little too gino-house for this lad.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

War On Puddlism

Why do people wearing knee-high, lava-proof, 'I-eat-pectin-free-orphanjam-on-toast' jackboots and then tiptoe around the skinniest of puddles? Come on!! I wade though them in suede slip-ons, and my footsies are drier than a show-poodles quoif. People, embrace pedestrianism!! Wear your shoes out when you wear your shoes out. Why inconvenience yourself for a convenience? I emplore you, in this post 9-11 world, if you don't walk through them, the puddles have won.

OK. So, as I was landing myself a job today, I finally had the idea for Los Rawkiss Knee Bucklers' Cabaret that I needed. ***CHECK HERE FOR SPORADIC UPDATES: THE IDEA IS CURRENTLY BEING INCUBATED*** As I'm trying to shimmy into psy-fi right now, AND come into my ongoing 10 year fantasy of creating music, I'm going to compose a psy-fi soundtrack!! I've got the stipulative story all lined up. Now I just need to factor in the fun. But most importantly, figure out a DJ name, though, technically, I wouldn't be a DJ. I was thinking of a few: The Learnererer, Savage Cabbage, Mr. Mister, Captain Crow or Captain Turnip, DJ Welfare, DJ PalindromemordnilaP JD or, in that ilk: rorriM JD, CollyWobble, PuddleJumper, PigLicker. Or maybe something witty, like: WD40 on the Fly, The Chemical Single-Child, Hungry Hungry Hip, Trance'n'dance. Or political, like: Electricity is for the Weak, Freakanada, Willy Wonky, USreal, ChillWhitey, CondeleezaRiceIsTheAntiChrist, TesticleTariff etc. Basically, I need someone to decide for me... it's too bad I'm saving Optimus Prime as the name for my first-born. Alright, I'm off to celinebriate my gainful employment some more at Laika. Later!!

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

let the wild rumpus begin!!

Forced Perspectives and Squeaky Shoes and Han Solo's Revenge

Today marks the end of a weeklong binge-slump. I've been down in the dumps, taking a fake-it-till-you-make-it approach, only to realize just how prodigiously stupid that is. It's only been for a short while, but with mood comes a noticeable dip in attention-span, sociability, good-will, even 'luck' and 'intelligence'... Those are some damned hard things to try and fake [You can fake breasts but you can't fake good times (...waaaaaaait a second there...)]. Let's go a bit deeper.

Ever notice how a bad mood affects harmony with your environment? Yesterday, sitting with Isabel in front of a rolling DVD Lost-athon, I fired up a stove element to heat some water. A few minutes in, Isabel and I heard a crackling, she asked me what that was, and I replied 'roiling water for my noodles'... however, something bugged me about the sound: water doesn't crackle, so I checked the kitchenette to find the answer: the dishrack was on fire. I'd lit the wrong element. Plastic smoke billowed everywhere, causing the aromatic reminiscence of when I'd amputated Han Solo's blaster arm with a magnifying glass, and replaced it with his head. So, I did the obvious panic response and hit the dishrack with a wet cloth. Eventually it went out. Soot was everywhere, my finger was burnt and I felt like an idiot. This seemed to me to be the penultimate event of a series of unfortunate incidents. But did fortune really have anything to do with it? I am a strong believer in ultimate personal responsibility, even to a degree of psychic/physical coincidence, and so lumping it on bad-luck is also bad faith. Let's go even deeper.

Faith. Trust. Confidence. prefix, com-, "together, together with, in combination," + fidere "to trust" So, loosely speaking, confidence means to go-with, or be-with, faith. This implies a certain psychic predispostion at the very least: I'd even wager that, functionally, the root of all confidence is faith in oneself. Now, considering (consider, literally = "to observe the stars") my actions were revealing my inability to be sure of what I was doing, it left me with a few horrible options... 1) either I was mistakenly confident or, more likely as this was closely attuned to my mood (ie. emotional feedback loop) 2) my confidence was diminished. So I resolve today to restore my confidence.

How to reinstate confidence? Basing this etymologically, my fake-it approach is flat-out lying = how can you fake faith? Basing this emotionally, how do you break a recurring excitation of foul thoughts? Each is, arguing simply, the expression/fuel of the other. The answer lies in the emotional realm, but needs the rational mind as trigger...
1) Recognize the mood, and embrace it. You can't help what you're feeling, last thing you need is to feel bad about that as well (there's such a social precedence on displaying good mood, it's hard not to malign yourself further for not meeting it)
2) Use the mood to achieve what you DO want: effect guided change for the better. Allowing the bad mood to be an emotional loop that reinforces itself (as in, a whole bunch of neuroreceptors that have been, through use, primed to fire more quickly/easily... etc.), it follows that thinking and visualizing good things will steer towards a happier emotional plane. It is important to do this mindfully: sheer aversion to bad things won't do. That's avoidance or distraction and how commercials getcha to buy stuff. Effectively, going towards what you want will act to avoid the bad anyways.
3) Remember that there is no arrival: you don't BE good, you practice it. After you have a goal of worth, be it based in virtue or skill, you have to practice the person you want to be. This is tricky: when viewing another, it is tempting to see them as a finished product. It is easy to criticize and analyze them, your brain has every capacity to do so. However, the brain cannot do this to itself, even though it tries. I won't go into this, but just suggest that it leads to a form of self-negation. Even a positive take on itself is arrogance, a form of assumption.
4) Do not do this directly for others. This is the toughest of all, as people will ALWAYS tell you who you are, give you the reflection you need to know, but to accomplish something for the sheer positive feedback is to act without confidence. I am guilty of this problem. I have a fatuous existential phrase for this: you are what you do, but are judged on how you do it. By all means, accept praise, but don't provoke it.

Wow. Do I ever feel better!
ps. I've no idea how many people read this, but there've been a few short-lived posts that I've hastily removed as it breaks the conditions I set myself as a blogger. I'm sure there'll be more that come and go, but they're either too personal or opinionated to exist for any extended period of time. Look for them though, they're usually the most inflammatory/defamatory.

Monday, February 13, 2006

in your face, interface ace

Fine Finns finally find factors that'll amplify air guitar solos. This gives me an idea: I'm gonna start an air band. We're going to pick up our hands, and sham-jam until we're broadcast on the burgeoning music station : EmpTV. I'm thinking that the band will be called Air Souls. That cessation of music at your favourite coffee shop? That's our hit single! Aren't Finnish people fun?

I watched Donnie Darko again yesterday. As soon as I realized that it was Echo & the Bunnymen opening the credits, and that that seemingly innocuously placed song coincided with the fact that a giant bunny called Frank waded behind most of the action, I began to think there was a lot more I was missing. So I cheated and looked it up... Here there was a breakdown on the imagery. Apparently, rabbits are considered to be symbols for regeneration, perhaps even reincarnation: 'the rabbit expresses hope that life will be renewed, and better than before'.

Attention and intention typically solder to form inattention...
Institutionalized VD is here (finally Yahoo finds more news than Sharon's spleen). I bet today is the world's greatest break-up day... Fucker! Who is that trying to capitalize on my fear of being alone? Nothing more vapid than someone telling me to love, and when... Such a stupid day there aren't even any good websites about it.

Thanks Warren Ellis for not knowing how blatantly I repost your posts...

OK. Last bullet here... Just watched a blind guy pass by the window wearing no pants. Just plaid boxers and wellington boots. I don't know what the ethical thing to do is here. I have a vague feeling I'd be the one accused of public indecency by telling him. But he should know. It's -5 celcius, and 'feels like' -13. Talk about walking around with a white cane...

Friday, February 10, 2006

Los Rawkiss Knee Bucklers ('you have to do something radical...')

I just watched a guy playing the flute in his car as he drove past. Doesn't quite have the same devil-may-care panache of the AC/DC guy who waggled drumsticks through his sunroof everytime he ripped down St. Denis in his 80's Accord. But then, he's a man of legend. I remember Graham and Steve concluding his favourite as Razor's Edge. Which holds up under the closest scrutiny as a most excellent driving tune, especially the live recording. At any rate, in this case, the flute's a bit more seasonal and better for closed-window (tinted, if possible) congested traffic.

Had a riproaring day yesterday, most literally towards the end (my roommates came home and gagged on the noxiousness of my fumes, Justine inquiring as to whether Isabel was asleep or simply unconcious. I think they misinterpretted my redface as borne of embarrassment, it was more from exertion and probable assphyxiation).

Steve and I had quite the episode of chess at Cafe Pi. The atmosphere, always to what I expected was our mutual taste, really made an impression on him. In his words: 'My grandfather's always said that every man needs a club' and, accordingly, 'The first rule of Pi...' It is a fantasy land, alighting on all the chess jockeys' minds as a place to make war on each other in peace. We drank coffee until we could've moved our pieces by jiggling against the table with our feet. So much cerebralism goes into the Pi concept: Red Bull and tripped-out art, musical oddities and humaniacal travesties. All gets processed and reconstitutes itself there as some sort of mineral buildup in the toilets. We did glean a number of noteworthy quotes from the air though, amongst them my favourite: 'In Russia, we have a saying: Treat the working girl like a queen, and treat the queen like a working girl.' It may've been contextual, but it struck me at that moment as particularly sage.

Isabel and I later went to a poetry and prose reading at the Yellow Door. It was good; inspiring work-ethic, commitment, skill-progression, peer-exposure and the like. We saw a deadringer for a your-pants-are-affecting-your-facial-expression Ben Stiller, whom I saw again this afternoon. Same guy, same facial expression. Deadringer, as phrase, comes from a not unreasonable Victorian fear of being misdiagnosed as dead and buried alive. Intricate bell-systems were consequently rigged up in graveyards, so you could jingle for help were you to come around. However, I think Ben Stiller'll be taxidermed. Don't think that'll stop him from making movies though.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

My Dad looks like Sting

Yesterday, Amy, Jus and Elle (a sweet Aussie friend of the girls staying at our place these days) declared that my Dad looks like Sting. Good going Dad, thought you might like to hear that from a few twenty-year old lovelies. We did a few comparisons after that, Isabel to Catherine Keener, Jus to Brooke Shields and Amy to Leonardo Dicaprio. They thankfully seconded my opinion that I don't look like Jeromy Irons, but I didn't want them to refute the Ralph Fiennes one, so I didn't mention it. Then, we Googled ourselves silly... the Images button is simply crawling with pictures with pictures of both Isabel and her cousin's artwork (they have the same last name).

@ @ @

Oh, Justine wanted me to mention the time we were chased around by a werewolf in Frankenstein's (or was it Draculas's?) Haunted Mansion in Niagara Falls. It frightened us silly: Isabel's hat got knocked off, and the werewolf tauntingly mimicked her cries of 'my hat, MY HAT!' Afterwards, Justine mentioned that she literally pooed herself. I made sure to ask her about it at the Ings' Thanksgiving dinner later that evening, noting that she was still wearing the same clothes. I don't know why she asked me to recount the story on the blog, it's pretty gross. But, come to think of it, she's somehow involved in every bodily-function story I've heard or retold recently: she startled some poor bloke on the street with a hiccough/sneeze the other day, giggle-farted in my room once (turning to blame the door-hinge) and unblinkingly supplied the requisite information as to how to make chicken stock ('just bung the carcass into a pot...' Don't know how that's a bodily-function thing, or even gross really, but examples MUST come in 3s, so...). The lady's pure style, and, like, the most creative person I know.

@ @ @
Armand and Amy had a good game of 'what super power would you most want to have?' Teleportation ranked up there, as long as your clothes came with you. Armand claimed his to be the power to heal anybody, or, as Amy rejoined, 'to be Jesus'. Mine'd be telekinesis, for sure. Please post me your superpower of choice in the comments bit below. Or use your mind control, and I'll do it for you.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Here charts Becky devolution into the grotty-grimey girl we all now know her for. This is her Beautiful Becky Stage. Before she moved to the Island...

Bex with our Dad, shortly after she moved to the Island. Great Pic Guys!

Becky with normal people

Um, it was mid-snort? The transmorphogrificationism is almost complete...


My Dad

awww, mushroomies

Here's a subject I've only ever really alluded to, but now want to detail: my roommates. I've always been lucky about who I've lived with, but I've also always gone into the living situation already being friends. And this year, fortune truly smiled... When I think about it, Justine, Amy and Julian took a pretty chance on me: three exchange students, looking for a fourth homie, and from amidst a wealth of sophisticated Europeans and fun-loving where-whos to choose from, they picked a relatively sketchy U.K.adian... ME!! From our August inception, there was equal parts chemistry and fate in the batter. After calling them and joining the list of 'potentials', I had a vague feeling I'd bump into them, and kept my ears open for the accents. Surely enough, I heard them at the decommissioned Cafe Syriapreme (opposite the Bifteck), and though mistaking Justine's voice for Amy's, met the trio as they trooped off to look for an apartment. To trim the story, they got down and dug for apartments whilst I kinda just sat around. And then, when I proved unobtainable (for reasons I can't possibly get into here), held out for my reply, even when they had countless offers from others. It was really heart warming, as for a point, I was teetering on another place, despite it's inconvenient locale. But knew, and felt, all along these guys were the best, the ones for me. The next few entries I dedicate to these three, bright and caring people I'm so glad to call friends... awwwww...

@ @ @
A few things I found out about the JAJ yesterday, and general apartment goings-on:
- Amy owns a UBP, or Universal Bath-Plug, for the uninitiated
- A week after Julian's 'upset stomach', there was still the smell of vomit lingering mysteriously in the kitchen. Not knowing why, Justine thought she'd investigate some of our trash, and stuck her hand into a bucket of refuse and discovered the sauce, I mean, source
- Big Booty, the name of a raunchy-haunches mag that Julian received for his birthday, is still in our vestibule. The one time we tried to get rid of it, it literally broke through our makeshift recycling box in front of our apartment, and flipped itself to the most explicit page. So we brought it back inside rather than cause a taxi crash. Now I change out of my own bootys into my slippers while standing on it
- Amy has slipped on two banana peels since she came to Canada. The first time, she thought, was simply a thighslapper: 'I slipped on a banana peel' She said she said to herself. The second was a little more alarming: 'I'm becoming a cartoon character' She said to herself, with a thought bubble.
- Julian, upon our getting a warning from a pair of nice cops for a noise complaint (back in September, there was simply a monstrous party at our place. The cops came in using their flashlights as glowsticks, I'm not kidding: at the time, and not knowing who brought the flashlights, I distinctly remember saying that I wished cops would raid parties in that fashion), later told me that he got in a conversation with one of the policemen about whether Peter Gabriel's live stuff was as good as his studio work. I have yet to corroborate the story

- All three adore my Quebexican girlfriend. What a truly Global vision they have, to be able to overlook some of her less admirable qualities (being from Quebec) to see, and appreciate, her true cultural charms...

more stories, hopefully furnished with one or two pictures, will surface shortly...

Thursday, February 02, 2006

thank you yet again Billy Idol

yesterday i awoke with billy idol's 'rebel yell' stuck in some oblique synaptic groove. not knowing this to be a good thing or not, i immediately went on a billy idol safari (i hadn't yet remembered the name of the tune, so i received snapshots of a few collatoral billys too). i tell you, it was a very good thing. it did, however, exert some influence on my having slapped Reality with the proverbial glove. i'm quite certain this was foolish: it was wednesday, which is delivery day in montreal, and for some reason also the day that an atypical amount of weirdos (which is to say more than usual) roam the streets. as far as i can tell there is no solidarity amongst the amorphous legion of Reality Resistors. everyone's engaged in a private scuffle with the fabric of their own making. so my personal rally was simply absorbed by the peripheral maniacal mayhem. hmmm, fabric of Reality... perhaps i need to consult a tailor... get a camo-suit made or something.

today i only have questions:
1. where oh where might my Dad be? Bex and i ruminated over that one for a slice. we reckon on holiday, but it's a little difficult to chart his globetrotting movements. though i am concerned, i miss the fellow. i also need to consult him over his kenyan relief agency. more info to follow on that one.
2. does anyone else smell that? i've been having strange, untraceable smells lately, quite complex and flowery. not those burnt-popcorn, about-to-have-a-seizure ones, but real brief and haunting. strange. maybe i'm wishing for an early spring, or maybe it's just time to replace my olfactory bulb with an energy saver.
3. if christopher reeve is really dead, how come there's a new superman movie coming out? huh? i bet a brandnew biggie tune's on the soundtrack.
4. how many hiccoughs can there be in throwing a simple, bleed-from-the-ears after-party? we just had our 'launch' for Rawkiss Kneebuckler Productions fall around our ankles. fuckknobs!!!
5. steve martin as inspecter clousseau? um... what next? ashton kutcher as citizen kane?
6. anyone ever google something sad like 'ashton kutcher' or 'jennifer aniston' before, just to get the correct spelling, and then felt excessively guilty everytime google prompts you their names forever afterwards? like, what if someone ever borrows your computer? how freaking awkward! they've built entire 30 minute-long sitcoms on less of a plot...
7. if you tell a very dear friend a bold-faced lie, but out of general embarassment of how they may alter their opinion of you based one the truth, can it really be excusable? especially when the truth has been one currency that neither have ever defaulted on? the lie multip-lies too. i'm completely em-bare-assed here. Eve, if you're reading this, then you already know how i deceived you. even when i spoke to you today, i got the impression you knew. as i told Isabel, you sounded deflated when we said our goodbyes. and i'm immensely sorry. i will tell you soon.

this Tommy's totally bummed. Reality, this is the sound of me tapping the mat.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Great Red Spot (enhanced)... fun fact: you can fit two Earth's in that there swirling toilet bowl!

My darling mother o'er the Bay

Europa's surface


Louis The Dog

surreal estate vs. anthropromorphic universal fizzics

IT was maybe on the 2nd attempt of trying to push my head through my T-shirt's sleeve when I started to worry about the sub-standard processes involved in the fashion industry these days. OF course, it didn't register that I'd successfully operated the shirt multiple times before, and as complicated as it may've seemed this morning, it had always been pretty straight-forward. POSSIBLE cognitive inaptitude had yet to strike me as an option. AS I blearily bumble my way through this wednesday morning, this sad state of affairs is steadily cementing itself as Reality... WITH all apparent purposefulness, but unrelated to anything I was doing at the time, I poked myself in the eye while asking for my morning coffee. I am now afraid to ask for another. MY hair looks like a hybrid of Christopher Lloyd after a pie-eating competition and a pheasant carcass (I can't even spell here, I first wrote something closer resembling 'peasant circus'). Also, I just received the integral clue to a missing person case I've been working on for a few weeks called Who-Disappeared-Zayna? HER happy e-mail says she's on a beach in Thailand. PROBABLY keeping her coconut rum drink cool beneath the shade of the real Maltese Falcon. AND I'm tired. Very, VERY tired. PAYING rent this morning felt as alarming as pushing my fondest, but disembodied, kidney through my land-lady's door. STARK, outstripped Reality has chosen today to reaffirm itself, and it's got a bit of an unhealthy twinge to it. WELL, I say fuck you Reality, let's take this outside, Reality, whence I will kick you into the absurdist shape I most prefer. FROM now on I put on my T-shirt one foot at a time. IT's up to you if you want to be friends after I publicly humiliate you.

@ @ @
Reality: 1
Tom: 0
The showdown: The snowplough guy almost got me again. Next time I'm going to pull a Legolas: one-step his ploughblade, swing around his cabin-o'-invulnerability, pull the putz out by his ponytail through the broken windshield and give him a stern ticking off. Reality, you are a coward!! Your mother was a Greek! You make children cry! I declare vendetta.