What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
(and remember, you can always e-mail me if you love or loathe anything you're about to read)...


   Friday, July 11, 2008

   ALAS, POOR BLOG

I love a good Letter to the Editor and this week, my friend James Ip wrote:

Scottie - why don't you blog anymore? I checked your site and the last thing was from the fall?...

Sigh. True, so true. What started out as a slight Christmas break became a full-fledged shutdown.

Not that I was lazy. Being the managing editor of fab was always more work than most people assumed a fluffy gay rag would need but, as rumours of a buyout from Xtra became louder and louder, the urge to write about my life or state of mind became quieter and quieter. I endured months of paranoia and aggravation until the hammer came down in February and who wants to read about all that? You, my kind readers, had already endured the entirety of 2005 (aka The Year George W. Bush Made Me Insane)!

In the end though, it kind of worked out. Well, if you can call getting fired along with virtually everyone at the magazine 'working out' but I'm now writing for three gay magazines, including the one that fired me. At the time, it felt a bit like being dumped and then asked for rebound sex but, in the sunshine of a Toronto summer, that water has flowed well past the bridge.

I wrote a massive piece on the first year of the new gay and lesbian radio station and was offered the 'daily roundup' blog on Xtra's website, where I get to put on my Jon Stewart hat and have a bit of fun with the news. That and the ever-addictive Facebook have stolen from this page, my first love, but I think it's time to see just how promiscuous I can be. Now that I'm out of work and freelancing, it's important to just keep writing, writing, writing (preferably for money) and I think this blog could function well as an ongoing 'progress report,' just to let everybody know what I'm up to.

It's a little scary to be living like a journalist without necessarily feeling like one but, in times of self-doubt, I turn to the lovely people who post videos like these on YouTube:


How Not to Start an Interview


Blind, not gay


Disastrous Holly Hunter interview

So yeah, underemployed or not, it looks like the world still needs me! So I'm getting back to work and you'll see more of it here (along with a website revamp, hopefully soon).

Coming up: the 10th annual Friends for Life Bike Rally! Yes, I'm back in the saddle and you'll hear more on that soon...

Labels: fab, George W Bush, homo-a-go-go, introspective, money - lack thereof, repair, working girl, writing

Amazing how Cusack can so charmingly deliver the final ego-deflater.

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at July 17, 2008

 

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Since discovering the joys of YouTube, I've edited together a Doctor Who Pet Shop Boys video and slapped up a Daily Show clip of Jason Jones. Playing around with other people's videos just left me wanting to make my own, however, so I decided to bring along the camera on my last day working for the architects. Thursday, September 22 also happened to be the last day of summer, giving the whole thing a bittersweet quality, so I decided to jazz it up a little with some Shirley Bassey. Oh, enough explaining -- just watch!

Labels: introspective, MeTube, music, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, working girl

That was fantastic!

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at October 12, 2006

 

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WHAT A DIFFERENCE A FORTNIGHT MAKES

The events of Wednesday, July 28th were -- quite frankly -- too distressing to write about (this, of course, means they were the only things worth writing about, but hey...) so I've obviously steered clear of my usual ramblings here.

I'm just so tired of whining all the time.

A couple weeks later, however, I've had both time to decompress and -- surprisingly -- enjoy a major transformation. So, in short, we've got some catching up to do:

(the very long) TOPIC #1: THE UNAWARE SCORPION

My mother knew I was wanting to visit the fine city of Boston at some point so, taking the lead as she's want to do, she talked me into taking a road trip with her. With our birthdays only four days apart, a long weekend of sightseeing and clam chowdah seemed ideal for both of us, so I was cautiously optimistic (I frequently wish I could approach the world with less caution and more optimism but Jane Jacobs titled her new book "Dark Age Ahead" so there you go). I began to look forward to it, to joke about staying long enough to pick up the accent and legitimately yell, "Mah!! Why'd you pahk the cah so fah!"

My friends were surprised. I'd gone without speaking to my mother for much of the nineties after I'd had most of my possessions stolen by a drug dealer she owed money to (as a way of discovering your parent's drug abuse problem, I don't recommend it).

As I approached and passed my thirty mark, however, I've become more understanding of the kind of stresses my mother must have been under -- especially as a young single parent of two, which I've no experience with -- and I've tried to forgive. I saw this road trip as a fun way for us to bond as adults, to show her life on my turf for once, and to paint over painful old memories with friendly new ones.

Idiot.

Right from the start, there were warning signs, notably a refusal to look into hotels or any sort of itinery. "Let's just get in the car and hit the road!" she'd say, making me feel like Jack Kerouac's guidance counsellor. She couldn't seem to understand why I didn't seem more excited by the possibility of sleeping in the car. "It's a car" was all I could say.

We crossed the border on the new Toronto-Rochester ferry, a massive vessel with a smooth two-hour ride, spacious seating and tables, two big-screen-TV-rooms for movies, a small duty-free shop, a bar and a cafeteria counter. Even getting the car in and out wasn't much of a fuss. Highly recommended.

Everything was lovely until we reached the border and Mom started chatting up the border guards, who looked at her with deep suspicion. In retrospect, Boston was obviously the problem. It just so happened that our trip coincided with the Democratic National Convention (those with long political memories will recall how the 1968 gathering in Chicago ended in riots). The guard asked her why we were going to Boston and Mom airily said, "Oh, we're just going to drive around up the coast for a while." This was all true, of course, but way too vague for the guy in black and he told us to drive over to the side checkpoint.

Mom was confused. "What's the big deal?" she said, "I never get pulled over."
"These guys are paranoid right now," I said, "You think you can charm with your dumb blonde routine but it doesn't work on them." We were made to sit in a long, drab waiting room with black-clad, billy-club-toting officers milling around behind service counters with plexiglass windows. We sat next to a Muslim woman grimly watching her husband and teenage son in the parking lot pulling everything out of their car for one of the guards. "They let everyone through but us," she announced to us, "I don't know why."
"Well, I've got a theory," I said, "but I think you already know what it is."
She looked me in the eye and nodded, "Wrong colour."

My mother was finally called up in front of the counter and asked all the usual questions. My passport and her ID had already been taken from us. I heard the guard ask her about previous convictions.
"There was some narcotics stuff about fifteen years ago," she said.
"Well, that alone would keep you out of the country," the guard said, "but what happened in 2001?"
She looked at him blankly and I began to despair. "I don't know," she finally said.
"You don't know?" the guard said, presumably wondering how someone could forget a criminal conviction from three years ago, "There was a probation?"
"Oh," my mother sighed, realization settling in, "yes, yes there was something I was pardoned for."
Her voice was getting quieter but I'd lost interest in listening further, anyway. The last thing I heard was her pointing out to the guard that today was indeed her birthday and the guard agreeing that, yes, this did suck. Would this, I wondered, be considered sad or pathetic?

She came over and slumped into the chair beside me and said, "They're not letting us in."
"I figured," I said, teeth clenched, "but why?"
"Something stupid," she replied. She let out a long sigh and said, "The past always comes back to haunt you."
"What?" I said, feeling simultaneously sorry for her and irritated by her secrecy, like a dentist struggling to pull a tooth. She finally explained that, back in 2000, a 'booster' friend of hers had been caught shoplifting and she tried to take the rap for him.
"What did he steal?" I asked.
"Oh, just a couple of steaks."
"Steaks?"
"Filet mignon."
"Why?"
"He wanted to throw a party for me, to celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Well, it was the night before I went into rehab."
"Again?"
"Yes."
In my struggle to comprehend this whole new angle I'd never heard before, I stumbled into this particular story's 'money line':
"So...they're not letting us into the country because you shoplifted meat?"
"Well, I didn't shoplift it."
I could feel the veins in my head throb.

In my eternal spirit of turning lemons into lemonade, I tried to think of reframing our trip along Canadian lines. It's Pride Weekend in Montreal, I thought -- I've done it before but at least I know it'll be fun. I'm sure she'll enjoy it. I was thinking all this while Mom was getting, yes, fingerprinted in anticipation of her later application for a guest visa -- the one that takes over six months and denied a friend of mine from having one of his parents attend his wedding. Mom showed me the form that let her know she could be considered for a brief visit following the payment of $250 US and -- my favourite bit -- an additional $70 US for the fingerprinting fee. I tend to think of America the way I do China: love the people, loathe their governments.

On the up side, we were escorted back to the ferry and didn't have to pay for the return trip -- score! Things were predictably tense so I suggested we take in the movie, "Down with Love." Such camp silliness seemed like the ideal low-thought diversion but Mom was out of her seat within fifteen minutes. "I'm going back to the duty-free," she said, "I'm going to get that perfume I saw. It's my birthday and I deserve a treat."
"Can't argue with that," I said to her back.

I felt terrible for her, for this awful thing to happen on her birthday, for the guilt I presumed she must be feeling, for the way she constantly steps on the mines she's laid before. But I also felt that horrible impotent rage, the helplessness that comes from everything you want snatched from you through no fault of your own. I really wanted to see Boston and Montreal didn't feel like much of a consolation prize.

At Canadian Customs, I grit my teeth at the process repeating itself. The Canadian guards were understandably curious as to why the Americans rejected us and made us drive over to the side and wait. The Canadian guards lacked all the paramilitary accoutrements of their US counterparts but seemed to make up for it by an increase in swagger and condescension.

We were given cards to fill out, listing what we had purchased at the duty free. "Well," I said to my mother with the guards right by us, "there's the two bottles of liquor we purchased, one allowed for each of us." This was my only attempt at a joke -- both bottles were for her. "And the perfume--" She suddenly waved her hand over the form, shaking her head quickly.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, but she shushed me as loudly as she dared.
I glared at her and handed her the form as we were led to a bench beside the car. We sat in silence while two guards searched through it, until we were finally asked to walk over to a small room.

Inside, we gave the bottles to a man in his sixties who clearly disliked the computer screen he tapped information into. He explained that, because we never actually entered the other country, we had to pay duty on the bottles. Standard Ontario tax mark-up would add another $20 dollars to what we'd already paid. Even I jumped at that one, announcing, "That'll make each bottle cost over $40!" The man just shrugged in a vaguely sympathetic way and I was irritated at feeling myself growing sorry for my mother once more.

The man began to look up info on the second bottle but had obvious difficulty. "Are you having fun learning your job?" my mother said. My eyes widened in horror as I fought to keep a poker face at that one. My man turned to her and said, "Are you being facetious with me, sir?" in a tone that brought the temperature down several degrees. "No, no," she stammered, and went on to explain how much she hated computers and respected anyone who could deal with them. I could see him soften and it was, on the whole, a very nice save but a save nevertheless. He eventually decided to only charge for one bottle for liquor, explaining that -- like a traffic cop -- he had a certain amount of leeway he could exercise. We were both geniunely grateful and I shook his hand, saying, "Thank you for being the first human being we've encountered this afternoon."

In an effort to salvage the day, I offered to take Mom out for dinner. After all, I said, "I've got a pocket full of Yankee money and it's still your birthday." The whole time, however, I was fully conscious of my desire to suppress my bad feelings and make nice, and I felt cowardly, phony and irritated by myself. I especially noticed it as we pulled into the parking lot while Mom was explaining that, even with the duty paid on the one bottle, she'd still saved about seven or eight dollars. "Yeah, because that's the happy ending I was waiting for," I sniped with a more venomous tone than I'd expected. She didn't notice.

It all came to a head over dinner. As she prattled on as though nothing had happened, I jumped in and said, "Just explain to me the perfume thing."
"What do you mean?"
"After not being allowed into the US, after that horrible scene with the customs guards, you still decide to smuggle something -- why?"
"You saw those charges -- I would've had to pay forty or fifty bucks!"
"And did it never occur to you how it would feel -- after having our vacation ruined -- to sit and watch them tear apart the car while knowing that you'd hidden something?"
She just looked at me with a blank expression.
"Did it not occur to you what an extra level of stress that would add to an already horrible day?" In the middle of a restaurant, I was approaching a courtroom-drama volume.
"What do you want me to say? I did what I had to do. I'm tired of apologizing for the past."
"I don't care about the past!" I snapped, "I care about the present! I want you to stop! Just stop!"
Again, she just looked at me, only now with shining, wet eyes. Once again, I was the monster who just doesn't understand her pain. She told me that it was clear I was still very angry towards me and that, for both our sakes, I would have to "let go of that anger." She's completely right, of course, but once again, as always, it's me who does the work.

I went to see my friend James that night, knowing that there was no way I could carry on with this trip yet knowing that calling it off would do permanent damage to an already corroded relationship. He was appalled on my behalf, thankfully, and wisely pointed out that it is possible to love one's parents while staying far, far, safely away from them.

I thought later about that old parable of the scorpion and the frog:
The scorpion wanted to cross a river but couldn't swim. He asked a frog that was sitting nearby if he would take him across the river on his back. The frog refused and said, "I mustn't, because you will sting me."
The scorpion replied, "It would be foolish for me to sting you because then we would both drown."
The frog saw the logic in the scorpion's words, and agreed to carry him across, but when they were halfway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog. The stunned frog asked, "Why did you sting me? Now we will both die!"
The scorpion replied, "I'm a scorpion...it's in my nature."

Fair enough, I suppose, but what do you with someone who doesn't know they're a scorpion? One who never connects past actions with present consequences? Do you hate them? Help them and be stung? Or simply hide from them?

My mother and I have talked since then -- simple, meaningless chatter. I wait for more, demand more in fact, but know I won't get it. I don't know what the next step will be but one won't be coming for some time. I've bigger things to concern myself with...

TOPIC #2: PUTTING DOWN ROOTS

Now with no vacation and a pocketful of vacation money, I decided to take care of me for once. For months now, I've lived in an unfinished apartment, hedging my bets on the possible vacancy of a cheaper unit in the building. I like my apartment -- it's cheap, it's cozy, it's conveniently located, and I've put a lot of love and work into making it a comfortable place to be. Or at least, just the living room and bathroom -- the bedroom's an unfinished disaster, waiting on a decision from me to leave or stay.

Ultimately, however, I knew that -- for better or worse -- money is and never has been my defining concern. After a day and a half or moping around the city in bookstores and cafes, trying to cheer up, I clenched my jaw and headed off to drop a couple hundred bucks at Canadian Tire and Ikea. I spent most of my holiday weekend painting and putting together furniture.

Obviously, I also dropped a chunk of cash on DVDs -- a box set of "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine." Smirk if you will but, along with a handful of "Next Generation" episodes and two or three of the movies, "Deep Space Nine" is the only "Star Trek" that matters. Besides, it was my birthday and I deserved a treat.

A week later, my apartment is still woefully junky -- there's still a lot of work to do -- but my bedroom now has bookcases and an office set-up, a comfortable bed and vibrant brick-red walls. It's a happy place and I've decided to stay.

TOPIC #3: WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

It came out of nowhere on a Monday -- a mention of a possible job in the company my friend Jeff works for.
Tuesday morning, I delivered a new resume and met with the woman in charge.
Wednesday morning, I'd been asked back for a second interview with the human resources department.
Thursday morning, they were calling my references.
Thursday afternoon, I'd been hired.
Friday morning, I was training with the outgoing employee.
Friday afternoon, I remembered to give the record store and the pub a week's notice, since I have to start the new job next Monday.
Each of these nights, I was working at the pub until three in the morning. My head's still spinning.

Now, back on earth, I must admit it's a gamble. It's a one-year contract doing one of those office monkey sort of jobs -- nothing glamourous, don't you worry -- but the environment is great, the people friendly and talented, the pay exactly what I'm making now but with half the hours. It's a win all around and I still can't believe my good fortune.

But maybe that's what a lot of this is about: good luck vs. bad luck. I feel lucky but shouldn't because it's important to remember that no one's hiring me out of charity. I've earned this job because I'm a good guy with a quick mind and people recognize that. If I'm going to continue being stung by scorpions, it'll be because people know that, despite everything, I'm the guy who still wants to help them across the river and it's time to start.

Two weeks later, things are suddenly better.

Labels: Canada, family, friends, introspective, Trawna, working girl

TOO HARD

So, yeah, I'm not quitting the pub.  Not just now, anyway.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that, dammit, I need a vacation.  I feel absolutely spent and in no condition to begin another job hunt.  I'm not entirely happy about it but James is proud of how I backed him up to the management and other staff and that makes me feel somewhat better.

The surprising bit is the notion that I may have been too hard on the pub's managers.  Within days of my angry rant, they called me into the office to collect ideas from me on a security training manual and promise that there'll be a meeting between them and the doorman in the next couple of weeks when it's done.  I feel as though I actually may have changed something which, in this city, is a real prize.  None of this alters how I feel, sadly, but at least it's something positive in the midst of all this aggravation.

But speaking of aggravation, I've still got the other job as well, the one that -- as expected -- didn't send any vacation pay to me this week.  The payroll officer apparently received the request I faxed in to the accountant weeks ago just yesterday.  Yesterday!  She told me there's no way for her to get the money to me before next Wednesday -- after I'll have left.  "I'm not angry at you personally," I hollered into the phone, "but don't you see how my vacation is ruined because another person is lazy?!  How am I supposed to accept that?"  I never thought you could ever hear shrugging over a telephone line but there it was.  Tomorrow, I'll call the accountant and start the entire conversation over, in the vain attempt of getting paid still less than I deserve.

Oh yeah -- job hunt.  It's coming.

Labels: friends, working girl

EASY THERE, TIGER

Despite feeling like a coward and a sell-out, I spent a day or two coming around to the realization that quitting the pub would be just stupid -- not as stupid ultimately as staying at the pub, but definitely not a wise move this week.

So, we stick with Plan A, which was to spend the summer trying to save as much money as I can to help quit, only now with more urgency. I'd been spending money on various books and DVDs and whatnot, and that will have to be dramatically curtailed (the occasional copies of "Entertainment Weekly" and "Harpers" were the first to go, sigh).

James seems OK about everything, though a little frustrated at the spin going on. The story now is that he had the victim down on the ground and was caught kicking him in the ribs. He's upset that people actually believe this but then, he generally has a higher opinion of people than I do. The important point is that he's painting for his show in October.

I had an inspiring lunch today with a new guy at the record store named Sergio. He's a music writer with a lot going on career-wise right now, while setting up a world-music department at the store to pay the bills. Unlike me, he's going in with no illusions that the chain will help him in any way but knows that doing this gibes with his own goals. Sergio suggested that chatting up people who share my values is the best way to finding a niche for myself and beginning to carve away at it. Plus, he was honest enough to tell me that my Brando impression is crap.

So, with all that in mind, I hereby declare: no more obsessing over the pub, no more obsessing over the record store. They don't care about me anymore, if indeed they ever did. As a professional, I will continue to do the best job possible but my heart and soul are no longer theirs. I will focus on me, glorious me. Now to figure out how...

Labels: friends, working girl

WHAT DO I SAY? WHAT DO I DO?

My friend and fellow pub doorman James was called into the bar last Saturday night to remove a drunk and disorderly patron, one who'd wandered onto the patio shared with the bar next door (the one I referred to weeks ago as the "security nightmare"). The drunk guy decided to challenge him, yelling and waving his fists about, and it escalated into a fight. The guy wasn't seriously harmed but vowed to press charges. James was sent home immediately and called back into the office last Monday for a chat with the managers.

James was told that, thanks to him, the pub would have to pay very high legal fees, that he could be brought up on charges, that he was "not the same person" they hired anymore and that they would like him not to work there "for a while." When he asked how long, they just sat and stared at him. Finally, he sighed and said that he'd resign.

I heard it all from James that day and all I could say was, "I go away for one weekend and look what happens!" It was the only joke I could make. I've been furious all week, furious that my colleague and friend was fired for doing his job, furious at knowing that the incident probably would've played out the same way if I'd gone in there, furious that the managers side with some disruptive creep who wasn't even our customer, and furious at their cowardice in the face of a legal challenge that I believe any right-thinking judge would throw out.

I worked at the pub all week, trying to work through my anger and not have some messy emotional display but the anger never faded -- especially on this past Friday, when yet another messy person tried to shove past Lloyd into the bar. When Lloyd grabbed the guy to stop him (an action I've been expressly told never to do -- I'm apparently "too handsy" with people), the guy began screaming death threats and racial epithets at him. I just stood there, feeling completely useless, until the guy finally gave up and wobbled off down the street nearly fifteen minutes later.

This morning, after two more shifts, I wanted to quit. Wanted to quit really badly. It was no longer merely an emotional reaction but a moral one. The doormen at this pub are not supported. Last year at Pride, I got clocked in the side in the head so hard I thought I'd faint. No one said anything about it and neither did I -- it's just part of the job -- but I don't feel so stoic anymore. For months now, working for these people has started to feel like being in an abusive relationship and no amount of money is worth that.

I walked into the office this morning, plopped myself down in a chair, and laid it all out -- my ugly weekend, my disappointment with James' firing, my disgust with the ongoing dirty laundry within the bar (none told here, sorry!) and my feelings of, well, abandonment. In each case, I was met with variations on how difficult running that place is, how a reasonable person would understand and how I don't know the entire story, just the gossip.

"But that's just it," I countered, "this place has been a nest of bitterness and gossip for months now and you haven't done anything about it. No one's heard your side of the story because you can't be bothered to tell it." It's true what they say -- gossip breeds in an information vacuum.

I had my resignation letter in my jacket pocket the entire time, ready to lay it down on the table and stomp out in some Bette Davis huff, but the half-hour conversation drained the life out of me. Bad enough to live in a world full of greedy, evil people caring nothing for those around them; worse to discover that most of them are just well-meaning, stupid people who've no clue how to stop causing harm.

I hoped I could splash some rhetorical cold water on their faces but I left feeling defeated and impotent. Their attempts to make me "listen to reason" made me realize that quitting now would just seem like an overblown emotional reaction -- and worse, maybe it still is.

All I know is that I'm filling with a bubbling, oily disappointment in this pub I've faithfully served for over three years. How can I continue on, when it means turning angry and bitter? How can I leave, when it means financial suicide? And worst of all, from bookstore to office to record shop, why does it keep turning out like this? Are my sights too high? Too low? What the hell do I do next?

Labels: friends, working girl

PACKED!
a day of greed, helicopters, revenge and karaoke

People I see occasionally (that being most of my friends...oy) will ask, "So what have you been up to lately?" and I'm forced to admit that the answer is work, work, work, and little of it rewarding in any spiritual, practical or financial sense. Actually, I usually just say, "Oh not much."

Today, however, I could change all that, as I packed a week or two worth of events into one evening. To start with, I had to leave work early at 3 pm so I could take the street car down to the Bathurst ferry docks. Universal Home Video had decided to hold its fourth-quarter product announcement party (translation: telling us what to flog at Christmastime) at the Island airport and, with my boss and DVD buyer Stan on vacation, he'd asked me to attend in his place.

After a ridiculously short ferry ride (the 'fixed-link' controversy is being held over this?), I arrived at the ridiculously tiny airport and was greeted by people in army camouflage pants and black T-shirts reading "TEU". Under the Universal/Alliance Atlantis logos on the back was their full designation, "Tactical Entertainment Unit." Uh-oh.

Surrounded by young media people aiming at glamour, I was led into a fenced-in area and offered drinks until the helicopers arrived. Seriously. Against the beautiful west-side view of the Toronto skyline, four helicopters came roaring in towards us and I hoped I wouldn't hear "Ride of the Valkyries" as they did. The wind whipped at us as the copters landed and smoke bombs and tiny explosions marked the entrance of two men in suits being rushed towards our gates by a group of TEU officers with rifles, presumably protecting them from those Warner Brothers bastards.

The two men gave a short welcome speech and then led the way into a large aircraft hanger filled with round dinner tables. A stage was set up in the corner with a podium and a projection screen, flanked by regular television sets. At the other end was a line-up of heated buffet trays with a group of waiters behind them and, above us, hung an array of movie posters for current and upcoming releases.

This was all very impressive. Then the guy in charge delivered the opening news that Vivendi Universal's merger with arms-dealing General Electric has gone through, forming NBC Universal (owners of Telemundo!). This new merger, he explained, will allow for an exciting new era in television-on-DVD programming, beginning with...(was that a drum roll?)..."The Apprentice" on August 24th, that irritating reality show that inflicted Donald Trump on us yet again. Among the DVD's many attributes, I was told, will be its "breakthrough packaging" design -- a sound chip that says -- he stopped and pointed at the crowd who yelled happily -- "You're fired!" I began to feel somewhat deflated.

The next 45-minutes consisted of movie trailers, PowerPoint marketing plans and terrible military-themed puns from the guy in charge. Most alarming was the wild applause in response to the news that "Shrek 2" has grossed up to $350 million dollars and that such successes for the company will lead to "what we all want more of...CASH!"

Wow, I thought, they're not even pretending to care about art anymore. I mean, no amount of clever marketing campaigns will excuse "Van Helsing" from being a godawful movie. And, while I welcomed the confirmation of a December 14th release of the fancy 4-disc version of Best Picture "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King", the goodwill was drowned out by gushing tributes to the huge sales potential of movies like "The Terminal," "The Chronicles of Riddick" and "Thunderbirds" -- none of which have opened in theatres yet. I guess I'm just a crank to think that people should like the films before owning them.

I consoled myself by sitting with a lovely group of women from the Universal marketing team and we all enjoyed the truly amazing food from a catering outfit called "On the Move". As we all talked shop, one of the ladies admitted that they too hated the bilingual packaging of their products but insisted that it was necessary without knowing exactly why. I offered my theory of "DVD-customer-as-book-customer" (the parallels are scary!) and they were genuinely interested, which was nice.

By dessert, it was 6:30 pm and just about time for a helicopter ride. As corporate bribes go, this was pretty damn cool. I got to sit in the front seat beside the pilot, with the clear plastic under my feet, as we lifted up and headed past the CN Tower. The view was fantastic, even through yesterday's awful smog, and I asked the pilot if he still enjoyed it. "Every time," he said with a grin, "it's awesome!" As we circled back around Rosedale towards Jarvis and Bloor, I pointed and said, "I can legitimately say I can see my house from here!" The pilot shook his head. The flight back in just over the water was a bit tense (what if we crash?) but we landed gently about ten minutes after we'd left.

One of our own head office people (part of a table I'd quietly avoided) came up to ask me how the trip was and I gushed a little before moving into the requisite small talk. I took a deeper breath and said, "So...is this sort of winding down, then?" and he said, "Pretty much" -- my cue to flee!

My haste, you see, was encouraged by an offer from the very-cute Felipe, an acquaintance of mine who'd dropped by the store earlier that day to ask if I'd take his extra ticket to see British singer/songwriter Dido at the Hummingbird Centre. I called Filipe at quarter after seven to ask if he'd found someone else but no, so I met up with him at the door. He waved off any attempt on my part to pay for even some of the ticket price so I insisted on at least buying him a drink. He graciously accepted a vodka cooler and the Hummingbird's bars feature champagne by the glass so who could pass that up?

I thanked Filipe one more time as we walked through the marble lobby and he said, "Well, it's no big deal..." "Oh, I don't know," I said, "I'm strolling through a concert hall on a summer evening with a glass of champagne and a handsome man at my side -- this is about as good as it gets." He actually blushed at such smarm -- how cute is that?

The concert itself was great -- Dido on CD is mellow and vaguely electronic but the live show was surprisingly energetic, the lighting was fantastic and the girl herself was very funny. She introduced "See you when you're 40" as a song about a particular person which "you should never do as a songwriter -- it's such an abuse of power," she said before shrugging and telling us how she did it anyway. When the song ended, she warned the audience that, see, if anyone upsets Dido, she'll "write a really mellow song about you. That's about as angry as I get."

The concert wrapped up about quarter to eleven, just in time to join the entire record store gang at the Horseshoe Tavern on Queen, where our Tony was playing with his band, Fight Like Gentlemen. Filipe wanted to see Ruby but decided to head home. I tried to talk him out of it but, after an evening in his debt, felt I was in no position to badger.

In the space of a few hours, I'd gone from a glass of wine at the industry party to a glass of champagne at the concert hall to a bottle of Amsterdam Brown at the rock joint. I was pleased at how everything had worked out, even though the others were more drunk. Tony's band played a short set and were thankfully very fun and very loud, with a bit of a 60's power-pop thing going on.

Our lovely blonde Penny was rightly convinced that the Horseshoe bouncer wanted to remove her for being too drunk so we decided to move the party over to Milwaukee's where the gang goes every Tuesday night for "Extreme Karaoke." I never get to join them since I almost always work the door at my pub every Tuesday so I was happy to head over.

By now, it was about 12:30 am and the karaoke guy seemed a bit put-off by our gang pouring in. "Where were you guys at 11?" he grumped. Our security guard 'limeys' Dean and Brooke sang "A Day in the Life" together (Dean, I'm told, only sings Beatles songs) and I got to holler through Chris Isaak's "Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing" in honour of our archeology student Sarah, leaving us last night for a summer placement on a dig in Egypt. Again, how cool is that?

I danced with Penny during one song, which greatly amused Alex and AJ, as she was very drunk by now and grinding all over me. I grinded back, pretending to be some hipster bisexual, but (sigh) such is not to be. The poor girl got no reaction from me and, hey, I was trying. By this point, it was clearly time to go so I dumped myself into a cab and rode home, wishing that Filipe wanted me as a boyfriend or that I wanted Penny as a girlfriend or that I simply get more days like this one.

Labels: friends, movies, music, oh l'amour, travel, Trawna, working girl

RIDING IT OUT

The Sunrise Records Operations Manager popped by yesterday. I know it's a cliché to go on about the oily evil of corporate head office people but, really, talking to this guy is like standing in front of a KFC fat fryer. His level of helpful advice for our flagship Yonge Street store was to tell our beloved Ruby to alphabetize the wall of sale DVDs because, and she quotes, "the customers and staff aren't smart enough" to find individual titles. "Well, I would alphabetize everything," she replied to him, "but I'm not smart enough." Ah, a big wet kiss for Ruby!

I can't stand this kind of garbage but it seems to be everywhere. My friend James told me last night that he wishes I'd quit because working for these people is making me bitter. "Fuck you," I said.

No, James is exactly right. Our poor little record shop gets nothing but grief from the brothers who own it because the sales are lower than they'd like. Anyone with a brain, however, can see that this is an industry-wide problem (thanks, Napster!) and that this particular chain is so badly run that its demise seems all but inevitable.

Right now, DVD counts for nearly 70% of the store's sales but, when our store buyer pleads for more support and flexibility in ordering, he's told that "we're a music chain." Not for long you're not. Every memo we get screams for better customer service but everything we try to get for our customers takes weeks if not months to arrive -- and that's all the customer service they're concerned with, ultimately.

Yes, I'm indeed bitter. I can say without ego that I'm very good at my job and I love being there but I'm sick of working for morons who make a decent living while giving their workers little respect and less pay. Nevertheless, I'm possessed of some sick determination to keep their leaking ship afloat. I've invested too much effort and caring to just walk away. Plus, I think I get some perverse kick out of catching their mistakes.

I talked to our guy at Universal Home Video today about an order gone wrong. The owner's son -- oh sorry, "Sunrise DVD buyer" -- apparently only faxed him page two of our order. How do you manage that? Especially when it's almost all he does? "He seems to have trouble with that fax machine," said Stan, "Maybe you guys should send him over a manual." The owner's son is the ultimate example of the crime of nepotism -- a scarecrow with a head full of money not straw. Watching him in action is a recipe for bitterness, it's true, but I'll ride it out.

I guess I'm just too curious to see how much water this ship can take in.

Labels: friends, insanity, working girl

BEST. WEEKEND. EVER.

Here's my ten-point plan for the best weekend in months:

1. Work the dull-but-not-horrible 10 pm - 2 am shift at the pub, but no others. This ensures that only Friday night is taken up, yet money for bills will still be forthcoming.

2. Sleep in very late on Saturday morning, then stay in bed all afternoon reading a collection of Thomas Friedman essays.

3. Grab the collection of tickets to various movies at this year's Toronto International Film Festival that a well-connected friend generously gave you out of the blue. Chat with a movie-loving married couple from Philadelphia in the soothing Isabel Bader theatre while waiting for the lights to go down for "Emile," a lovely Canadian film starring Ian McKellen, Deborah Kara Unger, and the scenery of Victoria, BC. Delight in McKellen himself sitting three rows directly in front of you throughout, and the entire cast answering questions after the film.

4. Walk briskly over to Yonge Street, grabbing a cup of yogurt and a banana on the way, to get in line for your second movie of the day. Laugh with another couple at the titles of that theatre's screenings: while those with tickets for "Bright Future" can go right in, those of us there for "Sexual Dependency" have to wait. Thrill to the movie itself -- a picked-from-the-book-at-random gamble that pays off in spades with a challenging, sexy, harrowing film experience. Watch the young first-time director from Bolivia score a distribution deal with Alliance Atlantis on the spot. Grab a cup of tea and take a long stroll home on a pleasant summer night, going to bed before 1 am to prepare for a long Sunday.

5. Get up early, grab your yoga mat and head to King's College Circle at U of T, where actor Woody Harrelson hosts a massive outdoor yoga class at 10 am. Obey the instructors from Downward Dog yoga studio for ninety minutes of meditation, stretching and balancing. Realize at one point that the sun is so much hotter than the weather channel predicted but that you're enjoying the cool breeze on your back too much to care about the inevitable sunburn.

6. Race home for the fastest shower/shave ever so you're not too late to meet your friend Gil for a great lunch at the Green Mango. Thank Gil for inviting you to "Lost in Translation," the film with arguably the most buzz at this year's fest. Run into a friend from university whom you haven't seen in over a decade -- he invites you into his spot in line. Remember how you once had a useless crush on him and smile at how he remembers you fondly. Save seats down in front for him, his wife and her friend to return the spot-in-line favour.

7. Thoroughly enjoy the movie -- a melancholy, funny romance that features Bill Murray's best work since "Rushmore." Head over to the Indigo bookstore with Gil afterward to natter about the movie over juice and a sandwich.

8. Walk a mere flight upward in the Manulife centre to the Varsity theatre for your fourth film in two days -- a British, realist take on "Fight Club" called "The Principles of Lust." Feel the movie's lost main character hit a little too close to home and note that every film you've seen this weekend is in some way about the need to connect with others. Ponder how little it successfully happens in these films and less so in your own life. Wonder how you'll resolve that, while loving at how film can so often and so neatly provide a focusing lens in such a way.

9. Arrive late at the Opera House with the ticket you purchased weeks ago to see the Dandy Warhols in concert. Grumble about the lousy sound and amateurish effort by the band until you find your colleague at the record store and discover that he feels the same way. Enthuse at how both you and Thom are proven wrong once the band starts to find its footing and raise your fists in the air when the band starts to seriously rock. Marvel at how the setlist features less hit singles and songs from the new album -- which you're really enjoying -- and more of their earlier prog-rock album material which you haven't heard. This makes you love them even more. Thank Thom's bandmate and friend Kyle who buys you a beer for no reason at all and leap up and down like an idiot to "Bohemian Like You," a frickin' great song.

10. Get home late, ready for work the next morning, and spend some time applying soothing aloe vera lotion to your sun-burned body as you consider that these past two days have soothed your soul as well.

Labels: bookworm, Canada, friends, health, introspective, money - lack thereof, movies, music, Trawna, working girl

THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS WENT OUT IN TORONTO, NEW YORK, CLEVELAND, etc.

Well, wasn't that something?

Nothing's better for the soul than an occasional reminder of how fragile our little existences can be, and I'm proud of how well our beleagured city dealt with its latest crisis. People were spontaneously walking out into street intersections and directing traffic -- you gotta love that. If you're curious what I saw during the blackout (and why else would you be reading this if you weren't?), here's a rough timeline:

4 pm
After five hours at the store, I headed over to the sub shop on Dundas for a late lunch. The counter guy put my sandwich in the microwave to heat it up a bit and -- no word of a lie -- the power went out when he pressed the microwave button. He looked like a deer in the (lack of?) headlights. "You seem to have blown a fuse," I finally said. "No, no," he stammered, "It's the whole store! Why the whole store?" I poked my head out the door to see his neighbours doing the same and another customer came in and told us the street traffic lights were out. "I just got a call from a friend at Yonge and Eglington who says the power's out up there, too," she said. Figuring the record store would be dark, I scarfed down my sub and headed back.

5 pm
Feeling pretty smug in that my tasks require no computer or electrical devices, I was brought down to earth by the near-total lack of light in the store. The emergency lights just weren't bright enough to work by and we all decided to go home. The entire black-polo-shirted staff of World's Biggest Bookstore were lined up at the ice cream truck so I joined them. The sidewalks were crammed with people, motorists were all grid-locked in around us and one guy got out of his car and started screaming at the truck in front of him. It occured to me that these were the two main ways to handle a crisis: relax and get some ice cream, or break down and start ranting. Chocolate soft serve has never tasted better.

6 pm
Stood around with Stan on Yonge and Richmond, trying to hail a cab for Gabe, the assistant manager. At nearly six months pregnant, she was in no condition to walk home to Queen and Roncesvalles. I suggested she go over to the Sheraton and rest in the lobby while the staff (hopefully) helped her get a taxi, but Stan insisted that one would have to come along. Many did, but the ones that weren't full already out-and-out refused to stop. I ran over to one Chinese driver, stuck in traffic, and he started wailing that the boss had insisted he get the cab back to the garage. "I have problem! I have problem!" he yelled with his hands in the air. I agreed with him and looked elsewhere, running out into the street to plead with drivers to at least radio their offices. One guy simply drove away from me but, with the roads clogged, I easily jogged up beside him, matching his speed. "I have a pregnant woman in thirty-degree heat for over half an hour now! She can't take this!," I yelled, "Can't you radio for another cab down here?" "It doesn't matter," he yelled back (with two Indian women cowering in the back seat from me, the crazy man), "The dispatcher won't answer!" Nice. Stan finally told me that he'd walk Gabe down to Front Street -- between the Royal York hotel and Union Station, there would have to be at least one empty taxi. Right?

7 pm
After filling the big Brita filter in the fridge with water (just in case) and cracking open every window in the apartment, I flopped down on the bed and wondered if I'd be at the pub later. I called, but there was no answer. I called my boss at home, but there was no answer. I called my worry-prone father to let him know that everything was fine but he seemed puzzled over why I'd bothered. I explained what I'd just been through with Gabe and the entire story. I paused at one point and he said, "Is anything wrong?" "What do you mean?" I asked. "Is anything wrong?" he repeated. "I just told you what's wrong!" I said. "Oh, it'll be fine," he said, as if I were panicking. I still never get my dad -- he always seems to think there's some terrible problem going on but stays totally unperturbed when an actual problem arrives. Maybe the constant worrying keeps him cool in a crisis, I don't know. Meanwhile, I kept calling the pub -- no answer.

8 pm
Feeling that impotent desire to help without any real means of doing so, I decided to see if my neighbours had enough candles. I'm quite fond of the odd candlelight dinner or reading on the sofa with lots of warm light, so I keep a couple boxes of the ones from Ikea on hand. I went door-to-door around my floor and a couple others and was dismayed at how my neighbours first thought I was trying to sell them the candles. "No, no," I kept insisting, "I just want to make sure you have some if you need them." They seemed to find that peculiar, which disappointed me, but many were grateful. I went down to the courtyard last, where a large group of people were sitting out in the fading sunlight. "I hear you're the Candle Man," one neighbour said and, though I cringed at the thought of that nickname sticking with me, it felt good to be helping out, even in this tiny way.

9 pm
After making an "executive decision" to stay home, I waited for the pub's inevitable "where the hell are you?" call, but nothing came. I put batteries in the radio and listened to the news station for a while, laughing out loud at Mayor Mel's usual idiocy. On the subject of water conservation, he reminded the listeners not to water their lawns or wash their cars for a while -- clearly, the two priorities at the top of any ordinary person's to-do list during a nation-wide power shortage. "And don't use candles!" he blurted out. I obviously leaned forward at that point. "We have to preserve our resources right now," he continued. "Candles? A resource?" I thought. Lastman instead recommended going out to the hardware stores for battery-powered flashlights because "a kid could knock over a candle and start a fire." If Mel wasn't so busy washing his car, I figured, he'd have noticed that the hardware stores -- and everything else -- were all closed. Meanwhile, Michael Coren was busily downplaying his callers' terrorist-attack theories with tact and good sense. I hate it when he makes me like him.

10 pm
Basked in the candlelight inside and the remarkable darkness outside my window -- even with the bank towers lit up with their own generators, the dark city felt gothic. I turned to the jazz station, made some tuna sandwiches and resumed reading the third Harry Potter book. I was actually enjoying myself until the jazz station abruptly went to static. I literally didn't like the sound of that. There was a knock on the door and I opened it to see a wide-eyed young black woman and her small boy. "They said at the office you might have some spare candles?" she said very hesitantly. I glanced back at my living room, lit like the Police's "Wrapped Around Your Finger" video. "Of course!" I announced and handed her a few, feeling most magnanimous. This was the ego equivalent of deep-tissue massage and I enjoyed it, guilt-free like frozen yogurt. After a while, I climbed up the stairs to the roof-deck, astonished by the black city spread out before me and by the amount of traffic still out there. I wouldn't be out driving in that even if I were being paid.

11 pm
Called Gabe to see if she got home in one piece but got a machine. Called Stan to see if he got Gabe home in one piece and he explained how that nightmare had continued. No taxi at Union Station was taking anyone, except for one guy who was demanding $100 for each ride. "That prick!" Stan snarled. He finally walked her over to the Co-op Cab garage at King and Spadina. "King and Spadina!" I said, "She could've nearly walked home!" "I know!" he hollered, "It was awful!" But she did make it home -- like my roommate, who slammed the door shut behind him and began huffing about the three-hour trip home on a crowded bus. "From Mississauga?" I said, "In three hours? You were lucky, I'm afraid to say." He began the typical "how-could-the-powers-that-be-allow-this-to-happen?" rant. "There's too many people and too many cars," he declared, pausing to make fun of all the candles in the apartment. "What would you prefer?" I asked, and told him about the mayor's "out-out-brief-candle" babble. Jerry listened, then went to take a shower, which I found mind-boggling after a discussion of conservation. Feeling wide-awake and frankly a bit trapped, I decided to check out the dark streets. "Is that a good idea?" Jerry asked, "Aren't you afraid of being mugged by looters or some trans-gendered persons?" I'm convinced he either says this stuff to piss me off or he's insane. Probably both.

Midnight
The downtown was deliciously eerie. On Richmond Street, the only light came from the sweep of car headlights or the extra-strange red glow from their tail-lights as they passed. The giant, classic Sam the Record Man sign was dark, the entire Eaton Centre black. With so much "light pollution" gone, you could see the stars in the sky. It's been a long time for me and they were beautiful, especially the bright orange dot of Mars, so visible for the first time in 60,000 years. I snapped photos of the downtown -- not knowing if any would turn out -- because the sight of the abandoned streetcars was too peculiar not to try and capture. I walked over to "the ghetto" where, as always, gay people were making their own fun: a near-campfire on a streetcorner, making out in the street and a group of people dancing in the parking lot across from my pub to a portable CD player. As I stood in front of the pub, I was surprised by a hello-tap on the back from the-boy-I-have-a-crush-on, the latest in an apparently-endless line of guys younger than me and not terribly interested in me. This is not a good pattern but I can't seem to help who I so-very-occasionally fall for. Fortunately, he's one of those preferred guys who is in his early twenties but thinks like someone in his early thirties (unlike me, concerned that I'm the exact opposite). We chatted with Miss Jackee Baker and Amanda Roberts, the two drag queens who were supposed to perform at the pub that night, before moving on.

1 am
The two of us continued on our stroll and he asked me for advice regarding a crush of his own. It's the classic story: boy meets boy, boy likes boy, boy likes some other boy, so first boy keeps his mouth shut. In my too-many years of dating, however, I've learned to relax about these things. I liked being his shoulder to lean on and there will always be someone else coming along later -- maybe even someone my own age. Meanwhile, it's strangely comforting to know that, even as the Premier declares a state of emergency in Ontario, some things in life never change. I walked home and smiled at the big condo tower next door, just a few of its dozens of black windows lit by tiny flickers of candlelight.

2 am
Laid on top of my sheets, trying to get to sleep in a heat I am just not used to (except for that AC fiasco at the store, but I wasn't trying to sleep then). Didn't realize just how spoiled I've been by central heating and cooling, nor by how much happier I am under my blankie.

This afternoon
Back to normal? Sort of. Stan, Gabe and I sat in the dark store with the doors locked from ten till noon -- well, okay, 10:30, since I was late after trying to get my fish-tank pump working again in my home's restored power. "It was either be late," I told my bosses, "or have my fish die choking on their own excrement." I got no argument, only jealousy that my building was back on-line but not much else.

So I've got the day off -- a healthy chunk of it spent detailing all this -- and I plan to go home, make some iced tea, keep the AC off (okay, maybe just really low), avoid using much water and get back to that Harry Potter book. Let's hope the pub's open tonight so I don't go broke. In the meantime, drop me a line and let me know how your evening went.

Labels: bookworm, family, friends, insanity, oh l'amour, Trawna, working girl

RAMBLINGS, NOT RANTINGS

So why so miserable last week? Probably something to do with coming home at 3 in the morning on Thursday to find a scribbled note from my roommate informing me that he won't be able to pay the rent this month or possibly ever. Later seeing the Woody's memo to all door staff informing us that, in effect, we really suck at our jobs didn't help either. Throw in the impossible workload dumped on me at the store all this week and it's obvious that I've been a giant ball of stress.

Thank God for Dad and Josie, who gave me the run of their place on Saturday night. They had to go to an anniversary gathering for some friends but it left me free to make some food, watch horror movies on the satellite dish and sleep on fluffier pillows. Why, it was practically a spa day!

Meanwhile, I was free to mull over my horrible roommate history and, as I do, turn misery into silliness. Thus, I give you:
88 Lines About 4.4 Roommates

Labels: family, silliness, working girl

STILL A BAD, BAD MAN

A brief conversation with the pub manager this morning allayed my fears over any poor reaction to Wednesday night's closing. The photographer who threatened to fight me, as though I were evicting him from his home, apparently plans to apologize. Fair enough.

The record store, oddly enough, became my next problem: the boss took me aside after work today to ask me about a complaint delivered to him, through his assistant, from a customer of mine. It seems that, when I told her we unfortunately weren't selling concert tickets to a particular event at the Opera House, she went away believing that I'd her we didn't sell ANY tickets for the Opera House EVER and that was quite rude to her. Here we go again -- it's the same thing I get occasionally at the pub after I tell people that they need to follow whatever rule they're currently breaking.

I find it exasperating since I generally try to be as polite as possible with people. Having suffered through countless snotty clerks and arrogant waiters in my day, I know how important dealing with someone pleasant can be when you need help. I strive to be that person. I don't even recall the incident in question -- I made that Opera House speech several times today in the same tone. Pointless to worry about it, of course -- you can't please everybody -- but, short of hugging everyone, I just don't see how I can be nicer to customers. Could that be the problem?

Labels: introspective, working girl

DEMONS

After my friend James and I finished working at the pub late last night, we walked to his place nearby to chat for a while over a cup of tea. We do this once a week or so -- co-workers at the pub think "tea" is some kind of euphamism for drugs or something but, no, we are actually having Twinnings tea and watching whatever DVD he's recently picked up. James invested a fair bit of money in a new surround-sound system and, this week, "The Lord of the Rings" is sounding fantastic in his apartment (here's hoping the neighbours' walls are as thick as he thinks).

As I left James' place sometime before five in the morning, I cut through Allen Gardens, as I usually do. It's a large park between Carlton and Gerrard Streets and, like most parks, it's creepy at night but thankfully empty for the most part. Last night, however, I stopped upon discovering a wheelchair standing beside a park bench. There was absolutely no one around. The wheelchair seat held a small clear bag with a candy bar wrapper and an egg inside, as well as a crumpled paper bag that I decided not to open. As I looked at the chair, wondering what had happened to its owner, a spider came creeping along the strands of web that I then noticed all over the armrests. Something about all this weirded me out completely and I backed away.

As I continued along the park path, still wondering if someone out there needed this wheelchair, two guys in their twenties were coming up the other path. They were wearing jeans and grimy T-shirts and one idly scratched at his stomach as I gave them a wide berth. Passing the round fountain in the middle of the park with benches circled around it, I saw a burly man with a goatee sitting on one as he turned to look at me. Silently, he turned away again to face another man on a bench on the other side of the fountain. He too was just sitting there silently. They were like men at a bus station but waiting for what? Sex? Drugs? Rock 'n' Roll? I didn't want to know; I just kept on moving.

Something about the park made me feel a curious sort of fear. Not fear for myself -- I could tell I was in no danger -- but something vaporous, hard to define, and this uneasiness stayed with me all the way down Jarvis Street as I passed various lonely people, a couple of wobbly alcoholics and a man with suitcases trying to hail a cab in front of the hotel. I had turned up the volume on my headphones since the park -- a batch of Fatboy Slim tracks -- and, as I finally reached my block, an elderly Asian man with a straggly grey goatee and wearing a toque walked towards me with his hand raised to catch my attention. As I tensed up, wondering what he wanted, he suddenly started waving his hand hello and he broke into a broad smile as he passed by. It was the last thing I expected. Meanwhile, Macy Gray was singing into my ears:

"All of my demons have withered away
Ecstacy comes and they cannot stay
You'll understand when you come my way
'Cause all of my demons have withered away"

Labels: friends, insanity, working girl

THE WORLD SPINS

And I was doing so well…

I’m aiming to produce at least one post a day here but this has been a hectic week, notably for a big job interview this past Monday (crossing my fingers) and my birthday on Wednesday. Both went reasonably well, though the build-ups were more intense than the actual events. There will be a second interview for the job in question on Tuesday (biting my nails) and the birthday simply featured a lovely lunch with Danielle, dinner with Darcy and a shift at the pub’s crowded 13th anniversary party. People said, “How awful to have to work the night of your birthday,” but I just pretended that the whole event was in honour of me and enjoyed myself.

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, working girl