Urine Trouble, Young Lady!

I had two beers and a coffee after work today.

It was on an empty stomach, and even though I remembered to pee before I left (twice, in fact), I got about twenty minutes into a walk home before I needed to pee yet again.

What a conundrum.  I kept missing taxis and streetcars, so I ended up walking the whole way home.

By the end, every step hurt.  A motorcycle roaring past hurt.  Some stupid song on my ipod, urging me to hold on, was also painful.

I thought about Tycho Brahe, and how he might have died of a ruptured bladder.  We can pretend that I know something about Tycho Brahe, and didn’t only just read about his supposed unfortunate demise whilst reading the Bathroom Reader a few days ago.

I even saw a guy peeing off a bridge, and you better believe I was jealous.  But the jealousy just made me have to pee even more.

I’m fine now.  I peed out a long sweet relief, complete with praise to a god that I sometimes believe in, and now I’m eating potato chips (horseradish and cheddar, how fantastic!), and thinking about what I should do with my night.

Maybe more beer.

Gretel

I have a love of baked goods that verges on unnatural.

Sometimes I dream about a grocery store with a huge baked goods section.  In these dreams, I stand in front of the display, exhilerated by the variety.

The dream dictionary suggests that these dreams have something to do with nourishing the soul, but in my case at least, they’re wrong.

I just really like baked goods.

And I rarely indulge.  Do you know how fat I’d be if I went to a bakery every time my appetite warranted it?

But I went with some friends to Nova Era earlier this week, after smoking a joint, no less.  I bought a tiramisu tulip and a Portuguese custard tart.

And today, my errands are going to send me back in that direction.  I just looked at the Nova Era website.  I want a sweet egg hankie.

You Could Braid the Toe Hair, Too

Today is the first day in a long time where I’ve actually needed to cover my feet while inside.

I have bad circulation in my hands and feet, as any longtime bed buddy could tell you.  Imagine, winter after winter of my cold and sharp-calloused feet, searching for the warm limb of a loved one to press up against.  Even in my sleep.  It’s enough to make a man lose his hair.

I know, you’d think it would be my personality that tested a good man’s love, but my feet are even worse.

My own little Dorian Grays.

And today is the start of my foot winter.  I had to dig out my slippers.  New ones, pink, with socks underneath, to avoid clamminess.

I’ll be accepting applications for bed warmers starting this week.

One More Thing . . .

I have this song stuck in my head.  That is all.

Fame Whore? Nah, I’d do it for Free

To make matters worse, I’ve joined a band.

And I can’t even play an instrument!

Yet.  But I’ve decided on the keyboard, simply because it’s something with which I’m familiar.  I used to play Bibbiti-Bobbiti-Boo on the piano as a child, so I figure it’s the easiest instrument to learn.  Anyway, I have a knack for teaching myself the finer arts with only the faintest wisp of outside help.  I’m hoping that this knack transfers from fashion design to music, at any rate.

It should, it all boils down to mathematics, right?

So yes, I’ve joined a band and I start practicing with them tomorrow.  They call it “jamming”, which sounds either painful or tasty.  Maybe both.

I got in trouble for calling it a girl band when describing it to a friend.  But it’s a bunch of girls who are in a band, so doesn’t that make it a girl band?

Or does calling it a “girl band” take away from its legitimacy?  Like making any sort of gender reference reduces the impact of these fine musicians?  Or maybe the connotations of “girl band” bring up thoughts of kids playing house, like we’re just acting out the motions?  Lip synching our way to the top of the pops, like Britney and the Boy Bands of the 90’s (which would, in and of itself, make for a great band name).

Stop confusing me!

It’s a girl band, and I’m in it.

Hold Fast

I’ve never been known for my leniency toward stupid cultural trends.

I have strong opinions about the stupid choices you people make, and I let those opinions be known to whomever crosses my path.  Loudly, like a crazy hobo in training.

I used to work in a restaurant that afforded me the luxury of seeing all sorts of bad ideas work themselves out in real time.  Nothing like a customer base of cable watching suburbanites to make a snobby server/servant cringe.

For example, surely you remember that whole Atkins craze from a few years back?  It was ridiculous; dozens of obese secretaries ordering bacon cheeseburgers without the bun, with caesar salad and a diet coke.  Because they needed all these calories in order to sit at a desk and type.  I was of the opinion that if they’d simply ordered the bun by itself, they’d have the caloric intake necessary to get through the day.

This was around the same time that those hideous mesh sandals started popping up on feet across the GTA.  Those sandals made me so angry.  They were ugly and they were everywhere.  Luckily I found out that they were popular only because they were dollar store cheap and cooling to the feet.  Mind you, the same effect could have been had by wearing adorable chinese slippers, but whatever, people are jerks.

Skipping over a few annoying crazes (Uggs, ponchos, and crocs -did you know you can now buy crocs on Queen West? Why?  Why do people hate me so much?), I have one more beef.

Fucking tattoos!!

The big ones, specifically.  Sleeves and chaps (or whatever you call the full thigh tattoos), no longer restricted to the hardcore punk scene.  Every sucker has one, and you all look like assholes.

I understand why it’s such a big trend.  You see, it has to do with sexual selection.  When you live in a highly populated area, you have more competition in regards to mating, therefore, you need to work harder at making yourself attractive to potential mates.  So, for the fat and the boring, full body tattoos are a wonderful way to catch a live partner.

Unfortunately, you’ve all done yourselves in by adopting this trend so expansively.  No, I’m not going to lecture you all on how stupid you’ll look when you’re sixty, I don’t really care about long term effects, and besides, you all kinda look stupid right now.  What has happened as a result of this trend, is that tattoos have now become the symbol of the mediocre, precisely what you people had been trying hard to avoid.

A friend of mine called it perfectly when he told me that he had been planning on getting more tattoos a few years ago, but decided against it when he saw how many others were doing it.  “Tattoos are so pedestrian now.”

Pedestrian.  I love that word, by the way.  Hearing it come out of the mouth of another makes me glow a little.

Here’s one last link, in case anyone feels like shearing the wool.

No Dancing Around These Parts

It’s funny.

The day after this incident occurred, I suffered a shameover in regards to my actions.  That I was in the wrong, and my behaviour was unwarranted.  However, now that some time has elapsed, I’ve begun to think that maybe I judged myself too harshly.

Last week, I went to a little bar to watch a little live music.  I went with some friends who were acquainted with the musicians, and it should have been a lot of fun.  We’d all had a few drinks and were loud and rowdy enough to provide a good audience for the band.

I guess I wasn’t invited to partake in the festivities, because the reaction of the musicians to me and my behaviour was less than friendly.  My friends, who knew them, were not subject to this attitude.

Some guy showed up with a mop covered in buttons and I asked him what the hell it was and what it did.  It was crazy looking, and I was looking forward to finding out about it.  He wouldn’t tell me, instead giving me a patronizing “You’ll see” as a response.  I guess I will see, since it’s obviously beneath this artist to explain his work to someone who isn’t educated in that field.

So whatever, I was a little embarrassed at his shunning, but still full of mirth and good times, so I let it slide and continued to try and enjoy the night.

They performed, and were really good.  When asked for requests, I suggested Jackson, because I felt that the combination of male and female singers would pull off a great rendition of that song.

No.  We played that last night, you should have been there, it was great.

Well, fuck me.

So then, the topper of the night.  This one is understandable from their perspective, simply because by this point I was drunk and obnoxious, and tired of being shunned by the honky tonk mafia.

Sort of.

They played another good loud song, and everyone was shouting and cheering and singing along loudly.  The place was full of raucous action, but my banging a beer glass on the table (splashy splashy!) to the beat of the song was just too too much.  Girl singer, a good friend of the friend I was with, came over and asked me if I could please stop that.

My friend’s explanation was that girl singer had been bartending all day and was probably tired of rowdy drunks.

So what, she shows up at a honky tonk bar at midnight?  To get away from obnoxious drunks?

Lesson learned:  When among unsuccessful local musicians, try not to act like you’re interested in what they’re doing.  And no fun allowed, either.  It goes against their nature.