Once more dyed the rich red colour of sockeye salmon

real outfits for the lads: Smug Mountie is drunk with lemonade and power
real outfits for the lads: future redneck rancher is two seconds away from whuppin' you
real outfits for the lads: you can't see it, but this kid's wearing chaps.
Flashy Gene Autry sling style holster, with artificial firearm and Curse of Gene Autry
Real outfits for the panicked Home Front

Vitals

Written by the guy who hums to himself as he paws through the dumpster

Fueled by rage and fresh roasted peanuts

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Die Schmutz

Worthwhile Palinode Pages:
Humpty's Menu:
one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - twelve - thirteen - fourteen

Can't Stop the Link:
palinode's bloggier blog
The Modern Word
open brackets
smartypants
friday-films
luvabeans
buzzflash
new world disorder
sex & guts!
the memory hole
national pist
Milkmoney or Not
mirabile visu
The Web Revolution!

Fueled by rage and fresh roasted peanuts

Any minute I'm going to stop typing and go to bed. Any minute now.

Two days after I posted this entry, The Viking pointed out that I was confusing yakisoba with yakitori. My sincerest apologies to all yakitori and yakisoba dishes out there.

For those of you who tune in regularly and know my posting patterns, this is a rare weekend entry. I have a Friday entry as well if you've missed it. And please let me know how you like the new colourful look. Amblus called it "nice and manic," my Viking coworker says that my site is looking more and more like a 1975 carpet (with a portrait of Nixon and perpetually changing text? Do I or do I not want to visit the house that hosts such a carpet?), and the general feedback has been positive. But you know how friends can be - backstabbing freaks who don't understand how special my girlfriend is. Ha ha. Among my many powers, I can channel fifteen-year old boys. Much like that forty year old man named Brian I met in Toronto when I was fifteen who tried to get me stoned and invited me to watch TV in his bedroom. He gave me a velour shirt.

It's a strange thing, now that I look back at it - the guy was twenty-five years older than me and tried just about every sleazy manipulative trick used by conscience-free seducers everywhere to get me into bed. At the time, though, I found his attempts to seduce me flattering and harmless, and I liked him because he had lots of beer. He and his friends were fascinating, because they looked to me like a bunch of incredibly regular guys. They talked like bitchy barsluts, but otherwise they seemed utterly normal. I was living in a small town at the time and I'm not sure that I'd ever knowingly met openly gay people. These men were not what I had pictured; they looked more like the guys from my hometown who lived in basements, played guitars and tinkered with Trans-Ams (in their defense, this was 1986 and style was in mighty short supply). The only real difference was that these guys all seemed to be fighting over who got to have sex with someone named Ren�.

Had Brian succeeded in getting his hands on me I might be a traumatized adult right now, so crippled by unconscious shame that I'd be unable to sustain a meaningful hetero relationship and spend my life as a junkie rent boy on the seedy side of some anonymous big city (hey, I've seen the movies). The best I could hope for, before my inevitable OD or knifing behind a dumpster, would be to find some closeted sugar daddy willing to put me up in a nice apartment and cater to my expensive drug habit in exchange for occasional sexual favours. But here I am, unmolested and happily married, nowhere near a dumpster, not shacked up in a fancy rent-paid apartment with all the food and drugs - hey, wait a minute.

DAILY DECISION

Today I decided that the word yakisoba does not just refer to a way of preparing tasty noodles and chicken, but is an all-purpose linguistic intensifier, like so: "Whoah, man, you said she was hot - but she's like, yakisoba hot". Alternately: "Is she cute?" "Cute? Man, she's the yakisoba". Oh, never mind. That's my crappiest decision yet. That ranks up with that version of Dust in the Wind which features soundbites of people talking about 9-11.

WHICH REMINDS ME

A friend of mine named Graham once appeared in a cell phone commercial with a Brazilian girl. She had to mime enthusiasm at a pool table but was having some trouble overcoming her fear of emoting (apparently the girl from Brazil was not hired for her acting talent) when Graham put his hand on her shoulder and ad-libbed "Yeah! You're the shit!". After the shoot the girl approached Graham and told him gravely, "I will not forget that you called me shit". "No!" said Graham. "Not shit. The shit!" "You just called me shit again," she responded. It took him some time to explain the crucial weight we lay on articles in English. Graham could correct me on the inaccuracies in the story, but a)he's living in Australia, and b) in the many years that we've been friends, I've found that I remember Graham's stories far better than he does. Strange but true.

You see the title of today's entry? You see it, up there, always judging, always influencing, persisting in its ability to mean, even in the face of all I type beneath it? Stupid title. I can't escape it. Am I to be the God of St. Augustine and Spy Kids 2, beseiged in His fortress, afraid of His own creation? Can I ever escape it? It wants to end this entry, and I have to stop before it gets here. I have to go to bed. In a minute. Any minute I'm going to stop typing and go to bed. Any minute now.

Retracted on 2003-05-31::2:07 a.m.


parode - exode


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