Bizarro Corner Diaries

From Wikipedia:

In the Bizarro world, a cube-shaped planet known as "Htrae" (Earth spelled backward), society is ruled by the Bizarro Code, which states that it is a crime to do anything well or to make anything perfect or beautiful.

Growing up, I was what you might affectionately call a "Comic Nerd." While Spiderman was always my favourite, I also had almost the entire run of a series put out by D.C. Marvel Comics called "What If." The basic premise of each issue was to change one or two key components of a superhero storyline and see what happened. Like, "What if the world knew Daredevil is blind," "What if Conan the Barbarian lived in the 20th century," or "What if The Incredible Hulk turned pink instead of green?"

Not to compare myself to a superhero, though my lack of emotions have been said to be "monolithic," lately I've been considering plots for my own issues of "What If." For example, "What if Pizza Diarist updated his wardrobe to that worn by people born in the later half of the 20th century instead of pre World War Two?" "What if Pizza Diarist became less of an insecure loser and cut back on his annoying tendencies towards poorly written self deprecating humour?" But the best one I've come up with so far is, "What if Pizza Diarist parted his hair?" Think of the ramifications!

Perhaps I should take a page from the Bizzaro World rule book and consider it a crime to try for anything that's perfect and just settle for whatever comes along that contains even one iota of what I'm looking for.

Or perhaps I should do like George did in that Seinfeld episode where he acted in the complete opposite way that his gut told him to and changed his life for the better. For example, if I meet an attractive and interesting woman, perhaps blushing, shuffling in one spot and staring at my feet isn't the best route to her heart.

Or, if I have an economics mid-term exam in two days, perhaps I should study for it instead of wasting my time writing this pointless drivel.

Damn you, PEI.
Damn you straight to hell.

If those notches on the headboard of my bed were an indication of the number of provinces I have thrown up in, as opposed to the women I have slept with, there would now be three notches instead of two and a half.

Someone should have warned me that when you order a red beer in PEI it comes as half beer and half sand. Someone also should have warned me that when someone says PEI "is cold", what they mean is that your testicles will freeze into ice pellets if you stumble drunk through the streets of Charlotteown for more than three minutes. Lastly, and take this as my warning to you, don't end your evening doing shots of Fireball Whiskey in the back of a moving vehicle. Just take my word for it.

Add the three together and I'm now much like the province itself: impotent, barren, and squeezing out nothing but mounds of red mud.

We start our evening at a church hall for an all ages punk rock show. My brain, confused by listening to such music without the room spinning, forces my body out into the frigid air for the occasional warming effects of Fireball Whiskey. It kicks in just in time for a rousing set by Be Bad and Gilbert Switzer. After fleeing early to avoid cancer of the ears (aka the headliners), we head to the Charlottetown equivalent of the Shoe Shop. There we ingest sandy beer and martinis named after emotions I'm quite familiar with. From there it's on to Hunter's for new favourite band The Tragedies and more sandy beer. Then it's back into the car, more shots from the bottle, increased spins, incoherent babbling, and back to the home of a kind family of some friends to sleep.

And vomit.

All in all, good times had by all.

PEI or DIE

(please God don't let me die in PEI)

Once again I find myself sitting in front of my computer posting my dying wishes on the night before embarking on a dangerous wintertime road trip. With all the recent trips I've taken, it could almost lead one to think that I have lots of friends of something. But sadly for the fact that I have only three. And one of them just happens to have a car.

Bright and early tomorrow I'll be packed back into the Volkswagen station wagon with Library Girl behind the wheel. [insert nervous laughter here] This time, however, I'll be accompanied by the second third of my friends, Bish, and two young chaps I have yet to meet. We'll be taking the longest bridge over waters that freeze in the world (whoop-dee-doo!) to that mound of red dirt cow and potato covered island known as PEI.

For those of you unfamiliar with Prince Edward Island, I'll tell you everything you need to know about it: It's. An. Island.

Oh, and one other thing: Nobody. Lives. There.

So should I drown in the frigid waters of the Northumberland Strait after our vehicle plunges over the side of the Confederation Bridge, be pummeled to death by potatoes after what few locals there are catch wind that I'm coming, or be crushed to death during a late night drunken cow tipping adventure, I leave all my boring b&w subtitled films to Blandy, any album made by a band with a member that was born or has spent time in Britain to DJ Max, and everything else goes on eBay with all the revenue going to my father. Who's birthday last Wednesday I forgot.

Live for the future, long for the past.

Drinks at Tom's Little Cancer Shack last evening with LG and DJ Max led to interesting conversations and possible new avenues of creativity, which in turn led to lack of sleep later that evening. It didn't help that I was interrupted with a phone request to join them in the midst of watching Wong Kar Wai's 2046. A sequel of sorts to In the Mood For Love, these two films contain the sexiest cells of celluloid ever digitized onto the Digital Versatile Disc medium. Do yourself a favour. Rent both. Heat up your hot water bottle. Unplug the phones.



After days of dragging Quicktime arrows through monotonous amateur porn mpegs to reach their money shots, it was refreshing to give myself over to Kar Wai's world. It's where I want to be. A world that combines emotional restraint and physical abandon. All played out with the occasional sweeping slow motion shot and string accompaniment. Men in impecably tailored suits accompanying women with 60's beehive hairdos and long form-fitting dresses into bedrooms with beautifully patterned wallpaper. *swoon*



The wallpaper is the key.

Two hemispheres of my brain...... are competing?

A Scanner Darkly

Happy Barfday Blandy. (a day late)

I'll be the skinny, geeky looking guy in his late 20s in a sweater vest and thick, dark rimmed glasses looking somewhat morose. Say hi.

Match Point

Opens Friday
Oxford Theatre, Halifax
6:30pm

The Benefits of
Monogamy
Monotony

In order to ensure I can pay April's rent, these last few days I've been forced to descend deep into the bowels of the newspaper I occasionally show up to work at to where they chain up their data entriests. They open the multiple padlocks, feed the guard dogs some mutton chops, and warn me of the tripwire and covered spike filled holes as they lead me to where the Gollum-like drones that rarely see the light of day sit row upon row, hunched over Commodore 64s under an ever increasing tsunami wave of dot matrix printer tearoffs.

Oh, the good ole Distribution Department. Where the unskilled workers and outdated machines (or vice versa) go to have whatever meager amount of contribution they still have left inside of them sucked out. Where the oldtimers go that have nothing and no one to retire to. Where you can't tell if your neighbor's wrist scars are from a failed suicide attempt or one of the many operations they've had to relieve the pain from their carpal tunnel syndrome.

Where the answer to that question doesn't really matter.

Whether it's stacking, folding or stuffing thirteen thousand invoices into twelve thousand nine hundred and ninety nine envelopes (there always seems to be one envelope too few), or switching sixty thousand accounts from "P7" to "7day", it's a place where brains are discouraged. And that is exactly what I'm looking for these days. My brain has gotten me into nothing but trouble lately. So I plug my discman into whatever socket I can find that isn't visibly sparking and switch it on. I unplug my brain from my brain stem and switch it off.

And so begins 6 hours of data entry...

63823531, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823532, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823533, SCM, 03106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823534, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823535, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823536, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, ENTER, 63823537, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823538, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823539, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823540, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823541, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823542, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823543, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823544, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823545, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823546, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823547, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823548, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823549, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823550, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR, ENTER, 63823551, SCM, 033106, 7DAY, CSR...

When Morrissey sings, you don't necessarily hear violins. You
hear supernatural disgust, sublime selfishness, pathological
vulnerability, aching bones, solemn petulance, a numbed
survivor's vituperative testimony to catastrophes that are
scarcely distinguishable - but nothing particularly smooth
and consoling.

- Paul Morley reviews the new Moz record

Fantasies Created
Fantasies Obliterated
Fantasies Fulfilled

or
Highballing it through Gypsy Land

Ummm...

Apparently I didn't make it to Gus's last evening, but I'll just have to take your word on that. Unless B.A. has ditched his reliance on out of tune guitars held together by electrical tape and 1980's Casio keyboard midi's for a 7-piece gypsy jazz band, all the evidence seems to point to my not having left Ginger's. My intention really was to head out at some point, but Jack Daniel's just wouldn't let go of my God damned arm.

There are three signs as to why I feel the apocalypse is closing in:

The weather: When winter lasts only 3 days you know that can't be a good thing.

Stephen Harper: When the devil takes power you know time is running out.

A love life: When I have one you know that gravity will soon cease to exist.

I first met The Woman in the Black Striped Dress three ex's ago (which sadly equates to around 5 years). They were friends and I was at that inevitable point in monogamy when my heart was beginning to wander with my eyes. Last night she said that I looked "as cute as always." I said "that couldn't possibly be a good thing." Later she gave me her business card. I thought that possibly could be a good thing.

The Violinist made herself known by repeatedly punching me in the chest on the dance floor. Granted, I was dancing, so probably deserved it. Later she grabbed a chair and pretended to smash it over Bish's head. When she stole the drink tray from the waitress and threatened to bludgeon me with it, I actually heard a *poof* as all those fantasies self combusted into thin air.

Today I learned how to make homemade bagels. Strike one more reason off the list of why I ever need to leave my apartment.

Fred & Ginger

• Quite possibly the most famous dancing duo ever paired.
• First appeared together in 1933's Flying Down to Reno.
• Went on to appear in 10 films together over the course of 6 years.
• Katherine Hepburn reportedly said, "He gives her class and she gives him sex appeal."

Whiskey & Ginger

• Quite possibly the most delicious two liquids ever paired.
• First appeared together last evening at 5:43 pm.
• Went on to appear in an unknown number of glasses together over the course of last evening. (some reports indicate the number being in the vicinity of 12, though these are unconfirmed)
• Pizza Diarist reportedly slurred, "I give the bartender money and he gives me confidence. Who wants to *hick* dance?"
  

Let me start by clarifying a few things about my recent new obsession with internet porn.

For one, porn has never held a great appeal for me. Perhaps that's because the first Playboy I ever saw was from a pile my friend and I found hidden under a tree stump in the woods behind my house. We would spend our afternoons, each hidden safely from the other's view behind our own tree, learning all about the birds and bees. I blame most of my current sexual hangups on having to grope through dirt, moss, earthworms, and chipmunk dung everytime I wanted to see a woman's naked breasts. That shit stays with you.

Later, my ideas about sex were warped by my afternoons spent playing 16 colour adult themed MS-Dos computer games on my IBM PC XT 286. Oh Leisure Suit Larry, how many other young impressionable geek minds have your ruined like mine.

When I finally reached the world of VHS, porn quickly became a communal thing, watched in high school while getting half cut on cheap wine and fumbling under the blankets with your significant other, their best friend, their best friend's significant other, and a big bowl of party mix. Of course, I was always the one complaining about the paper thin plots, stilted acting, lack of ambient lighting and poor shot blocking. At some point we would just get bored and simply fast forward to the money shots. Who knows what effect all those untold hours of sped up love making has had on me? And if you know, feel free to keep it to yourself.

And lastly, I just find nakedness in general fairly hilarious. Bums are funny.

So here are the "fruits of my labour." So to speak. Excuse the pun.

1) Piss drinking anal fisters? Sooo 1990s. Erotic X-Rays are the future.

2) People in their underpants? Generally not all that sexy. But People in their underpants browsing the bookshelves of a university library? ummm..... I betcha someone out there would find that hot.

3) Victoria Secret catalogues lost their sex appeal after 1977.

4) Girls fighting? meh. Vintage girls fighting? That's what I'm talking about!

Sat, Feb 18
The Grass w\ B.A. Johnston, The Just Barelys @ Gus Pub

This will be my third straight night of binge drinking. You won't want to miss the lack of fireworks.

Is it legal to marry a trailer?

bishop says: (1:30:48 PM)
i love the hot pink and new order with the 18th century shit. brilliant.

from Robot Love and the World Beyond

Does everyone have one of these?

Alright. So grocery shopping on Valentine's Day morning was probably not the best idea.

The place was full of glassy eyed morphine addicts picking up their romantic dinner ingredients for two. While the girl next to me who's feet I swear were not even touching the ground grabbed handful after handful of mushrooms, I delicately selected my eight. While the guy french kissing his cellphone was choosing which whole salmon he wanted to share (with his cellphone?), I asked politely if the fish guy could cut his smallest filet in half and give me one piece. Oh, and five mussels too, please. You'd have thought the condom rack was a Cabbage Patch Kids display in 1983 and the flower department looked like an audience at a Smith's concert. Even the cashier gave me a dirty look as though I were wasting her time with my paltry grocery order for one. And I knew her!

Contrary to popular belief, I'm really not that jaded about love. I know what it feels like to not be able to keep even a single grape down because you're so sick to your stomach with longing to be next to someone. And I'm sure it will happen again. Some day. But it's just that when I'm not in it I don't want to hear about it, see it, taste it, smell it, experience it vicariously through someone else, be confronted by it while buying new Odour Eater insoles or, worse, be made to feel like it's something that's lacking in my life. And that's what Valentine's Day is all about, shoving the lack of love in your life down your throat with a toilet plunger.

So tonight I'm someone's "No Other Option." You know what I mean. The Valentine's Day go-to guy for a female friend who's options are either a drink with you or changing the 2000 Flushes in her toilet and she forgot to buy the 2000 Flushes.

Here's to not being alone on Valentine's Day because of a toilet bowel cleaner.

PEI Road Trip?

Everything I know about
long term relationships
I learned from Siskel & Ebert.

Happy Valentine's Day

you glassy eyed morphine addicts

i mean "lovers"
In anticipation of tomorrow being the best Valentine's Day ever (whahahahaha) and me being in the romantic mood (whahahahaha), not to mention that there's a really good chance that tomorrow I'll be too busy being drunk off cheap wine alone on my couch uttering some sort of sobbing sound similar to a walrus's mating call while watching Children of Paradise in my underpants (whaha.... oh, hmmm), I've decided to post my Valentines to everyone I know on these here Diaries. It will save me money on stamps and a walk to the mailbox. Besides, all three of you read this.

So feel free to click the image to enlarge it, print it, and stick it in your mailbox so tomorrow you can feign surprise and feel the deep love that someone in this world feels for you.

Or regift it. I really don't give a shit.

To Bish

Inappropriate Vintage Valentines

To Blandy

Star Wars Themed Valentines

To The Library Girl

Law & Order SVU Limited Edition Valentines

Will I need breasts this time?

Germans - SS Cardiacs - Bahai Cassette
GUS' PUB! 8pm/$3

It's an odd thing to be a single male in your late twenties. And yes, my female readers may feel free now to roll their eyes and click Next Blog. But it's true. And I'm not talking about this woe is me I love this woman but I want to fuck other woman and I'm just an animal that operates on instinct alone with no self control so pity me shit. Because that is shit.

No, I'm talking about when you're at a show and you're standing next to someone who can't be any more than 16 on a good day and she makes eyes at you, which never happens to you even on a good day, and you've got to remind yourself that give or take a few years of early puberty onset, biologically speaking at least you could very possibly have been her father. And all I can think is:

Jesus. That's a first time experience worthy of a blog post.

Not to mention the fact that I'm starting to enter a period in my life where my lack of movement during the previous 30 years is starting to show. The pressure is about ready to start mounting. So should I just find someone whose face I don't want to rake against a staircase railing and consider myself lucky? No matter what her age?

Of. Course. Not.

Tonight at the Pavillion I find myself surrounded by myself at various stages of my life. Leave it to an all ages show to make you nostalgic for those years of your past that were a living hell at the time but now on retrospect seem exciting and full of endless possibility. Even though they were neither.

That guy hiding in the shadows in the furthest back corner? There's me at 14, so pumped full of anti-acne medication that one drop of my semen would burn through five layers of titanium steel. And see that couple that hasn't stopped necking through three bands? That's me at 16 with the first girl to ever see me in my underpants other than my mother (and my dermatologist!). Oh look. See that group standing over there? That's me at various points during my late teens and early 20s... pseudo goth, closet stoner, worthless degree earner, deadend job holder.

It's like a final scene from a Wes Anderson film except instead of all the characters from the plot the camera pans past me at different ages. Or, perhaps more accurately, any shot from a Fellini film populated by deformities, misfits and freak show runaways.

Finally I hit the urinal before I take the long cold lonely walk home. While tucking my hand into my sweater in order to pull the bathroom door open without having to actually touch the handle, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Here I am, more than a quarter century old, a borderline germaphobe, pretty much at the same point as any number of the versions of myself I ran into this evening.

Let's hear it for history repeating itself, the circularity of nature and a half a bottle of cheap wine waiting for you when you get home.

The trailer for Art School Confidential is finally out. See if you can guess which of the situations I've been in before...

Best Non-Valentine
From A Fake Girlfriend
EVER

Alright, so admit it. You all did it. Each and every one of you scanned through The Coast's annual free two line valentines looking for your name. And if not your name, your nickname. And if not your nickname, some reference to an obscure embarrassing sexual fetish you have. And if not a reference to an obscure embarrassing sexual fetish you have, then at the very least a mention of a "guy with glasses" so that you could pretend for just a moment that someone out there actually thinks you're worthy of taking one minute to write two lines and shoot off an email for free.

Well, to everyone who once again was left without anyone giving two shits about them this Valentine's day, I have one word: SUCKERS!

Leave it to Blandy to come through for me with flying colours. The reference to a song we cowrote one rainy day while stuck out at the BLIP without an umbrella waiting for a bus that was an hour late was genius! And tossing in that word I invented to cover up for the fact that I rarely listen when people are speaking to me?

Whahahaha - A means by which to cover up the fact that you were not listening to a humorous andecdote by combining the initial question of "What?" with exaggerated nervous laughter. As in:

"... and then my grandmother tripped and fell face first into the fireplace."
"..."
"Hello? Are you even listening to me?!"
"Whahahahaha?"

I bow to thee oh Queen of the fake two line valentine.

(now if I can just find out who "Sweeteyes and your Bs and Hs" is. Bish?)

The Notorious Bettie Page

The good news or the bad news first?

From: ship-confirm@amazon.ca
Subject: Your Amazon.ca order has shipped
Date: February 7, 2006 4:17:18 PM AST

Greetings from Amazon.ca!

We thought you'd like to know we shipped your items, and that this
completes your order.

The following items were included in this shipment:
---------------------------
Qty Item
---------------------------
1 Virgin Spring DVD
1 Saraband DVD

Thank you for shopping with us!

Amazon.ca


From: Office of the Auditor General
Subject: Summer Internship Position
Date: February 7, 2006 11:29:17 AM AST

Dear Mr. Diarist,

This refers to your recent interview in connection with the above-mentioned competition.

The Selection Board regarded your qualifications and experience very highly. However, members of the Board feel that another candidate possesses more qualifications related to the requirements of the position.

I also take this opportunity to thank you for the interest you have shown and the effort you have demonstrated in your interview.

Yours sincerely,

Not your future employer

MC5 on local Detroit music show "The Lively Spot"

I don't generally use the word "rad" too often. But that's pretty rad.

p.s. Wait for the punchline.

Pizza Diarist hiding his beer.
How I ended up drunk in a guy's gym locker room tonight is an interesting story...

Sometimes you can drink a pitcher of beer, pull the lapel of your chesterfield around your chin and the flaps of your hunting cap down over your ears, and take the long, lonely stumble home to pass out in your bed wondering when your train was going to come in. Other days you can drink the same pitcher of beer and find yourself at a meeting of the Young Dalhousie Conservatives before passing through a male locker room full of floppy birds and chisiled waxed chests to end up as the loan cheerleader during a volleyball game involving people you've never seen before.

Tonight was definitely one of the latter.

I don't know when exactly it was that I began to see events in my life in terms of whether they would make for good blog posts or not. But suffice it to say that when I was told there was a meeting of the Young Dalhousie Conservatives on the top floor of the Grad House this evening, I decided to drop by for the sake of you, my loyal readers. Well... that and the fact that I was already two thirds of the way through a pitcher of Honey Brown Ale. That helped, too.

So I took a seat next to the person with the most conservative hair cut I could find: parted and flat, held down with something I could only assume was either formaldehyde or mousse (liberals use semen or gel). I stumble into the perfect discussion: the right to bare arms. I'm all about baring arms. Just not when those bare arms are holding guns. So I immediately challenge him on his contention that if everyone just had a high powered automatic rifle the world would be a much safer place. You see, I'm a big fan of just criminals having guns. That way they're much easier to spot. The conversation obviously goes nowhere.

Suddenly I'm invited to watch a volleyball game at Dalplex. The beer whispers to my frontal lobes that that sounds like a great idea, so I tag along. Little do I know that to get to the gym I'm forced to pass through an area in which men walk around naked as though this is ok. Well... it's not! I don't know how you woman kiss those things without laughing in their faces. Naked men are hilarious. Being fairly intoxicated by this point, I laugh like a schoolgirl and skip by the shower stalls, spinning penises like biplane propellers while belting out "Singing in the Rain."

I yell obscenities at the opposing volleyball team until I'm politely asked to leave.

What's happening to me? Is this what rock bottom feels like?

This morning my alarm didn't go off, I was out of coffee, I got sideswiped by a Miata at the corner of Spring Garden and Robie, and I knocked over my full cup of java at Coburg Coffee. I offered to clean it up myself but was told it happened all the time and to be on my way. That's when I ran into The Violinist again.

The only thing I know about The Violinist is that she plays the violin. Out of a city of 300,000 people, I seem to run into her far more consistently than the other 299,999. Of course this means nothing. I probably pass by the same toothpick thin custodial worker with the moustache and sweat stained ball cap twice a day and just don't notice. What can I say in my defense? Read Desmond Morris.

The problem has always been timing. If I'm not in a monogamous relationship when we randomly run into each other, I'm in a platonic one with whom I'm walking arm in arm down the road with after watching a late movie. This time it was her turn to be accompanied by the opposite sex. He had on a Phish-esque necklace with wooden beads bigger than my biceps. And a bike. About as opposite as two people can be.

So we stop and start the pattern of all our other meetings. We remind each other of our names. Small talk. Me, a lot of blushing while looking at the ground and twirling my foot on its big toe. Her, smiling and avoiding my question about how her weekend was. Him, probably with his fist cocked ready to sucker punch me if I cross a line. She asks if I'm not busy and would like to come for coffee. I tell her I am busy and would love to come for coffee but can't. I feel his jaw bone clench tight so I decide to make my exit. I mumble something about it being inevitable that we'll randomly run into each other within a week and she agrees. I don't glance back over my shoulder as I walk away to see if she's looking because that's something John Cusack would do.

My new philosophy on life is to never do what John Cusack would do.

While the option exists for me to make a phone call or two and find her contact information, I do so enjoy being confronted with the meaninglessness and randomness of this uncaring world. I don't leave things up to fate. I leave them up to malfunctioning clock radios, road rage and spilt coffee.

Why are mommy and daddy fighting?

1970's German Wrestling Playing Cards

Someone please teach me how to knit

Beutiful art made with kintting

And I thought my friends were geeks..

Lego Suicide

Last night was the last hurrah for a Haligonian landmark known as the Khyber Club. So excuse me if I wax unpoetically for a moment. I've frequented the Khyber since I was barely old enough to legally do so. I went from playing Pacman tournaments to screening a b&w subtitled Swedish film to an audience of two (including me). It's the only place I've ever experienced someone walking into the bathroom stall while I was, ummm, seated. How could I not go?

So last night we drink every last ounce of alcohol here then head down to help finish off what's left there. The bar should have closed every weekend. It's packed tight. Like most "happenings" in this city, it's too late to make a difference. I don't recognize anyone so can only assume this is the Barber Crowd I've heard about. Either that or they're just the crowd that gathers around car wrecks. The obvious joke being: "Same thing?"

Speaking of car wrecks, the bands aren't my thing. So I drown them out with the sound of my gulping. Which works fine for two bands, but by the third I'm in no state to stand so I mumble my goodbyes and make a bee line for my hot water bottle. Today my heart is broken and my head is pounding. It's Sunday and it's raining. Prior commitments are keeping me from my couch where I belong.

Moira Shearer

1926-2006

Do yourself a favour and go rent The Red Shoes.

guess which one i am

Three's Company

(but five people crammed into a car for 28 hours in the dead of winter eating food that smells like feet and giving hand jobs to truckers for gas money is fucking awful)

aka
Montreal Return Roadtrip '06

In 1637, Renes Decartes said "I think, therefore I am."

At 10:47 pm on Tuesday, January 31, 2006, Pizza Diarist said "I can smell, therefore I need to get the hell out of this car."

Phew. Crossing three provinces in 14 straight hours, eating nothing but deep fried truck stop grub and Poppycock, and acting as a drool sponge for my napping back seat neighbours makes for a very distinctive odour indeed.

Thanks to Legs we're set up with a free downtown apartment for the three days we're in Montreal. While normally it acts as a place for bands from out of town to stay while playing the bar downstairs, a good reason to bring your own sleeping bag and towels on a trip if I've ever heard one, for three nights it was to house myself and my three female traveling mates. Hot, right? Well, not really. Stuck in a small apartment with three beautiful women and none wishing to experience the love that only a man can provide... The story of this trip, not to mention my life.

Day two I spend wads of cash like I actually have cash. And by "wads" I mean I may have trouble buying groceries for the next few months. So while my face may turn gaunt and jaundiced, I got two real nice jackets. And while the knuckles on my hand will soon be quite prominent and my skin will take on this overcooked phyllo pastry consistency, I did score two Fall cds, the first Stiff Little Fingers album and a live Jonathan Richman record.

Priorities, people. Priorities.

I could try to say something about the Low/His Name is Alive show, but my writing abilities are nowhere near where they would have to be to convey even one second of it. I'll try anyway, though: Take that feeling you get when the second line doesn't appear in the circle on a home pregnancy test and multiply that by the feeling you get when the doctor finally removes his fingers from your prostate and tells you that "everything feels fine."

It was that good.

We don't realize until we get home from the show that the dollar store clock I bought to make sure we are up at 5am doesn't work. So guess who becomes the clock? If you guessed anyone but me, then you obviously aren't familiar with how my life works. I go through all the stages of having drunk one two many beers while still conscious. I listen to my cds on broken earphones, which makes everything sound like Tom Waits. After counting cars for two hours I reach the number four. I extract as much excitement from a plastic garbage can lid that blows by as I can. I come to a lot of conclusions about my life that now strike me as the thoughts of a deleriously tired frontal lobe. At 5am I shake Library Girl and she presses the snooze alarm on my forehead and asks for 15 more minutes. And if you know anything about how my life works, you know I go back to the windowsill and give them to her.

Due to lack of sleep, day three resembles a vaselined Abba video. Word to the wise: make sure your traveling partners have something to come home to and the return trip time is cut by a third. I'm forced to defecate into my empty Poppycock bag and hold onto it for composting when we get home. When thirsty I have to open the door a crack, reach down and grab a handful of salty road slush while traveling at 180 km/hr. I don't recommend it.

We roll into Halifax extremely annoyed but with a thin layer of good humor to hide it. By now our jokes have begun to dig below the surface to actual deep seeded neurosis, so it's good it ended when it did.

Roadtrip Rule #1: Don't talk about what was talked about on the roadtrip.
Roadtrip Rule #2: Don't talk about what was talked about on the roadtrip.

I come home to 9 new phone messages, which is 9 phone messages more than normal. Four are wrong numbers. Two are the automated message from Video Difference reminding me of late film I forgot to return before I left. Two are for Library Girl who no longer lives here. But one is from the Office of the Auditor General requesting an interview with me for a summer internship in Ottawa.

Holy shit.