Words At Arm’s Length

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I just had to share in my disgust, really. I can read almost anything without getting grossed out. I’ve read a LOT of horror. I’ve also read a lot of survival and travel narratives that describe various bodily functions, and though I don’t revel in such descriptions, I read through them quickly and move the hell on.

It seems, however, that stories about elderly women seem keen on describing in AMAZING FUCKING DETAIL the protagonist’s defecation and urination. I call thee out, The Stone Angel and Remnant Population.

Okay, I get it. In our winter years having a decent bowel movement is a pretty big deal. But if you’re writing, spare me the paragraph about burying old lady shit in the woods or the soiling of the granny panties. I shouldn’t have to suppress a gag reflex for a whole goddamn page per chapter. Stop.

The counter argument, I imagine, is that women considered to be “old” (and this age varies quite a lot) are invisible and thus the talk about their shit and piss is a mere backlash against the bullshit silence and mystery around women’s bodies. Word. I can respect that to a point. But fuck you if you think that anyone actually wants to read that garbage for an extended period of time. Pointing it out is one thing, making us languish in the intestinal tract of your narrator is another thing altogether. The woman poops. Noted. Let’s move the fuck on.

Or, shit or get off the pot, if you will.

Did you know Canada gives money to people just so they can learn French in a city that doesn’t suck goat asshole? I got clued into the Explore program a few weeks ago and am finishing up my application as we speak. Toronto was an option, but I’ve been to Glendon College and I say MEH. I applied for Montreal, Vancouver and Ottawa in that order. I hope I get it. 5 weeks in another city to learn French, free room and board with possible work placements afterwards? I’m down.

On a hasher note, I’m reading Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler. Fucking disturbing. Loves it. Feminist post-apocalyptic dystopian novels might just be my favourite new sub-sub-sub-sub-genre. As long as the gratuitous death keeps up, that is.

Via Feministing.

Well, I’m impressed that they actually MENTIONED the mother in this ad, but this is seriously fucked up. Does the Catholic Church seriously think women get abortions with utter disregard for what could potentially be? That mindset is completely ridiculous to me, and is presumptuous to say the least. Women get abortions for a reason: medical, mental, financial, emotional or any and all of the above, and there are obviously more I’ve left off the list. “What could I be giving up?” is a logical and valid question for a woman getting an abortion, but it works both ways. What kind of life could the woman be giving up vs. what kind of life could this fetus eventually become. Feministing called this particular ad “tacky” and I couldn’t agree more. Single mothers CAN raise children on their own. Of course they can. But sometimes it’s not a viable option, and having a mother and a father there is not the only criterium for having an abortion.

So basically, this ad can go fuck itself. Peace.

…is pretty dreadful. I think I’ll just stick to listening to Zooropa and Achtung Baby on my iPod.

It sounds “current”, I guess. The lyrics are pretty awful. I should really lower my expectations from the U2 brand.

Being gay in Canada is pretty sweet. I’ve rarely come across much in the way of direct conflict due to my prediliction for the man-on-man. At worst it’s been a conversation killer, mostly causing the extinction of unwanted small talk at work, so hey, hidden bonuses all around. It’s not so fun to be a queer in the States this week, though. As many of you know, Barack Obama’s inauguration is this week, and at a time that should be celebratory for my LGBT kindred south of the border much of the wind is being taken out of their sails.

I’m talking, of course, about Obama’s complete cock-up in terms of the religious pomp that so unfortunately surrounds the Presidential inauguration. First, Obama picks Rick Warren to give the invocation. Rick Warren runs the notoriously homophobic Saddleback Church, and when he was chosen there was much in the way of outcry from the gays in the U.S. Obama’s camp decided to do some damage control and invited gay Episcopelian bishop Gene Robinson to do the pre-inauguration invocation. Then promptly shut off his mic and didn’t include him in the television broadcast. Hmph.

There’s a lot of back-and-forth blame going on right now, between HBO and Obama’s camp, but from what I’ve read around the web, it seems to be the President-elect’s fault that the gays were shut down yet again on the public stage in the States.

This is just fucking confusing to me. Obama keeps regressing further and further away from thinking of the LGBT community as equal. Rick Warren’s speech will likely be spread wide across the Tubes, and I have a feeling that he’ll make some questionable comments about (if not completely and outright condemn) gay marriage. This will be the religious message that people will associate with Obama’s years in office. He should fucking know better, and yet he, like pretty much every other politician, will bow to the will of the religious majority. The regression frightens me. Because I see it happen more and more every day, in the way people speak, on TV, in movies, in politics, and this backswing we’re in could lead to something bad for people like me. Gay is still the punchline, and I cringe when I see people on TV use the same old bullshit to choke a laugh out of middle America. Gay is still a perjorative word, and I’ve even caught my best friend using it recently. It chills me.

I’m making a vow right now that I’m going to get my fucking writing out there, and that shit will be nowhere in it. None of my gay characters are going to die just because. My gay characters, which I know will be naturally included in my works, will not be targets nor will they be cloyingly perfect Uber-queers that couldn’t possibly exist in real life. Just people. Possibly people with super-powers, depending on what I’m writing (GOD guys I’m not made of STONE).

I will listen to Rick Warren’s speech, and Obama’s. I’ll be listening very intently. The gay community of the U.S.A. will be listening, too. They have been. They’ve heard Obama promise to repeal the army’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy, and heard many other promises as well. I hope that they take Obama to task if he fails to deliver on those promises, and I’ll be cheering them on all the way. The minorities in countries have to speak loudest because the have the most to gain and the most to lose, and our governments should WANT to help these people, to protect their rights. That’s why governments exist.

Well, if all of North America gets really bad, I hear Spain is super nice.

Nothing like a little literary HoYay to make my day. Say hello to Dr. Watson’s Inner Monologue, the least self-indulgent slash fiction I’ve ever seen:

Now all I need to find is some James Joyce slash fiction and my life will be complete.

Okay, I think I’m over the caffeine-free hump. I feel re-energized. Well, that’s a lie, BUT I have faith that my sleep will be more regular and I won’t be up until 4 a.m. repeatedly checking Facebook and my Google Reader wondering why no one shares my absurd waking hours.

The smoking thing, well, I plan to kick that soon too. Yes, I weakened and had a lapse. Quitting multiple substances at the same time is the job of a much more strong-willed person. I can’t imagine how irritable I would be with multiple withdrawal symptoms working in tandem. I think I’m enough of an asshole without any help, thanks.

Back in the school/work flow now. I need more hours to make Toronto a reality.

Did you ever notice how grey St. Catharines is? In the winter, it’s just endlessly colourless. The clouds roll  in and suck the life out of me in November and continue feed off me for 5 months. It’s not always bad though, just…exhausting to look at. There was a day last week, I think it was just before I left for Toronto, the snow was falling so gently and I just stood there in awe of it. I don’t think I’d ever seen such a picturesque snowfall. I immediately started composing lines in my head, like some Romantic poet (perhaps with a SLIGHTLY less deviant lifestyle). But snow like that doesn’t last. We run the gamut in St. Catharines, rain to powder to hail and back again, sometimes in a few hours time. The Rockwell-esque portraits of winter are few and far between.

Some woman called me today from the Brooklyn Academy of Music. This lady wanted me to renew my membership for a place I’ve never been (The BAM is where Joanna Newsom played on a fateful trip to not quite New York almost a year ago). She said she was originally from Buffalo and was hoping that some of the snow we were having would come her way.

“You can have it” is what I SHOULD have said, but I just went along politely (“AHAHAHA why yes I WOULD love to donate to your cause, but…”) I bet one costume at that gentrified yuppie art clusterfuck costs the same as my entire tuition. Whatever. I mostly silently cursed her for living in New York and thought about calling her back to find out how the transition from Buffalo to the Big Apple felt. Bet it felt real nice.

Days without caffeine: two

Days without nicotene: one(-ish)

Moments in which I crave either or both: Too many to count, each stretching into an eternal, frantic tempest of self-moderation and guilt

Can people just sleep through withdrawal? Or does one become a sleep addict?

Working at the video store has its ups and downs, but the most interesting part of my job is the customers by far. Regulars are the best, especially those whose cigarette brand I have memorized, or the ones who have me pick out their lottery tickets. A lot of nice folks. There are two subsets of customer though, that irk the shit out of me. The first would be the popcorn-lovers, or, as I have dubbed them, the Flavocol Junkies.

For those not in the know, Flavocol is the weird butter-salt-esque chemical that we use to give the popcorn that movie theatre taste. It also has the (un)fortunate side-effect of producing the “popcorn smell” that people seem to enjoy so much, that I’ve become completely immune to already.

The problem with these douche-nozzles is that they waste my fucking time while simultaneously making themselves look like lobotomized bloodhounds trying to sniff out the asshole of an equally impaired twat waffle. Same fucking conversation every time:

*customer stops handing their money over and sniffs the air*

Customer: “Oh, that SMELLS SO GOOD. What IS that? Is that the POPCORN?”

Me: “Yes, sir/ma’am.”

*customer continues to sniff the air, raising their nose high in the air*

Customer: “Wow, that smells great! I should get some!”

Me: “Well, it’s $2.49 plus taxes for a small bag of buttered popcorn.”

Customer: “What, you mean it’s not free? HAR HAR HAR!”

*customer sniffs the airs so hard that their sinuses come to the brink of collapse*

End transaction.

Look, I’m glad your sense of smell is still intact, but I don’t need to know that the smell of popcorn is hitting your olfactory G-spot. It’s also extra-special now that cold and flu season is in full swing, and the sniff of the air gets a harmonic assist with whatever excess fluids are lingering in your nasal cavity. Just buy the fucking popcorn or don’t and get the hell out.

Customer #2, neophyte scratch ticket buyers. A few friendly tips:

1) Scratch the whole fucking card. I don’t have time to scratch off whatever remains on your inevitably losing ticket to find the 4-digit code that tells me that your card is not going to get you that trip to Punta Cana.

2) If your ticket is a loser, you can fucking tell. It’s called PLAYING THE GAME ON THE TICKET. Don’t just scratch haphazardly and then stare blankly at the ticket like it’s going to fucking shout out “Bingo!” at you. Read the instructions, toss the losers, SIGN YOUR FUCKING TICKETS, and THEN hand them to me.

3) Don’t wait endlessly to get your tickets checked. you fucking goons. Those customers behind you waiting for over 10 minutes while you get your tickets checked? They’re not sighing loudly at me. They’re sighing at you and the 40 tickets you didn’t bother to get checked in the past year. You’re standing in the way of people’s nicotene addictions, and when they brain you right in front of me while I’m checking your twelfth “Cash For Life” ticket, I’ll just smile benignly and keep the winnings for myself. All $4 of it.

You’ve been warned.