You Can Always Do Better

I must be on some sort of e-mail list. Here's yet another sperm-spam, this time from Russia. Ladies and gentlemen, I present, spam comedy poetry:

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No matter your age and actual performance, you can always do better. And the great news is that now you don?t have to wait ? the soft tab gets into bloodstream, including your buddy, in just 15-20 minutes. Down the little thing and start pleasing her in the foreplay, because minutes later you will win her very personal First Prize. Now you can be up for the entire night, reaching heavens of pleasure for both of you. You can now become the king of the bed (or wherever you use it) ? Fast, safe and easy!

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Is this an ad for Viagra or a good 'ol amphetamine?

Quality, Integrity, Motility, Morphology

I had over 80 spam e-mails today. A few were sperm-spam. I have included it below. I didn't realize they could be so amusing. Does anyone know what "morphology" or "motility" means?

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SPERMAMAX is a scientifically validated herbal nutritional blend to enhance fertility by improving sperm quality, count and motility (spontaneous motion).SPERMAMAX is formulated to:

+ Improve overall sperm production
+ Improve sperm quality
+ Improve sperm integrity
+ Improve sperm motility
+ Improve sperm morphology

This premium combination of herbs, vitamins and minerals improves overall health and helps address many of the deficiencies known to decrease fertility health.

The leash holder is gone

It's out. I did it yesterday on the way home from work. I walked along Queen Street, down a flight of stairs and into a tattoo parlor. I paid five dollars and sat in a chair while a man in rubber gloves put the pliers up to my ear and removed the small silver ring.
"You don't like it?" he said.
"I did. But it's been in there for ten years."
"That's a long time."
"Oh, tell me about it."

Ten years ago I was living in residence at Montreal's Concordia University. I was a horny young wanna-be writer awash in St. Amboise beer imbued with endless possibilies of being my own man and leveraging my charms to bed as many ladies as possible. I had two turntables and an imported record collection of drum ‘n bass from England. I played guitar. I wrote poetry. I put expensive wax in my hair and styled it like Brad Pitt in Seven. And having worked at Club Monaco for the summer, I had killer threads. Boy, I was damn cool. And the there were plenty of ladies in the residence who thought I was pretty cool too.

Except Jen.

Jen didn't buy my little act. She was from Washington and didn't take shit from no one. She grew up in the bad parts of Virginia, she said, and went to Wu-Tang concerts. She smoked contraband cigarettes from the Oka reserve and had a 3-foot bong under her bed. And everything I did was not cool enough. As the laws of physics go, I wanted her bad because she didn't want me bad. Nothing worked.

One day I saw her walking down the hall, her coat on.

"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Downtown."
"For what?"
"I'm getting my tongue pierced."
"No you aren't!"
"Fuck you I am."
"Fine. I'm going too."

She pulled back the curtain at Super Rock and sticks out her throbbing red tongue. She smiles and pays the man with the tattooed arms. I glance into the display case.

"I want one," I said. "An earring."
"Seriously?" she asked.
"Ya, up here.” I wanted one up on the top of my ear, not on the lobe. The kind that artsy people have. Just make sure it isn’t on the I’m-gay side.” I paid, we left.

However, Jen ended up with someone else a few weeks later. That's how it went. So, it didn't win me a woman, but it did provide a centre-piece at family gatherings.

Back at home, I’d make a visit to my blockish uncle S____ who is a proud art-hating pig farmer with Irish practicality and deep-seeded suspicion of anything urban.

"You know Mike," he says, yanking on my ring. "I use these to tag my pigs. If you want, I can put a yellow one in there so people can find you. That way people will know you are really gay."

And that went on every Christmas, Thanks Giving and Easter. All my rural relatives wondered if I liked to “dance backwards " instead of dating women.

And my mom would yank on it every so often. "When are you going to take this, this, this... leash holder off. I'll take it off with some pliers."

And my dad: "Uh there's my son. Oh, what's this in your ear? Uh oh. Should we take you to the hospital? 'Doctor, my son has been in a fly-fishing accident'."

But I never took it out. I just forgot that it was there and slept on it night after night. I didn't care what anyone said. Someday it will come out, I always thought. And yesterday was that day. I just decided it was time for a change. Nothing sentimental, not even because I have a job.

The man put my ring into a baggie and handed it to me and I slipped it into my pocket. I walked out the door and felt the hole still there with my fingers. It will take a few months to heal up yet.

Broken at the beginning

I was a lucky person today. Took my camera and taped Broken Social Scene's sound check and photo shoot. Should be up on Chartattack in the next few weeks.

The Commute #2

The subway rushes into the station, ba boom ba boom, bah boom bah boom, bah boom bah boom. The brakes squeal as they pinch the wheels. As the front car passes by, relief that no one has jumped or pushed you over the edge. You are safe. The doors open with a PING. We line the sides, waiting to get in; they, to get out. Inside, find a seat fast. The air is hot with morning soaps and perfumes, coffee breath and coughs. There are groggy stares: at newspapers, books and ads. Or you can close your eyes and notice nothing. Everybody is going somewhere to do something. Anonymous as they are alive. The doors close bing, ding, dong. We ride the rails together before we go our separate ways.

The Commute

Walking to work in the underground tunnel, in the flourescent lights. Everyone's ears are plugged with music, tiny speakers making tiny sounds. Who can hear the clop clop clop of heels and soles echoing from the white tile walls?

Attack him! Not Me!

I don't like blogging about politics. There are too many blogs that do so. But, if you are following the Canadian election (and who wouldn't), than this is the best headline I've seen so far on the CBC website:

Martin attacks Layton for not attacking Harper

Nothing better than an attack on a non-attack.

Blue replaces grey

It came in the middle of the night. I woke several times as my bedroom door knocked open and closed. Bang. Bang. Bang. For days here in Toronto the sky has been grey. The air has been springlike and warm, but no sun. During the night the winds came in giant sighs, rattling my windows. I woke up to a sky as a pure sheet of blue paint. And there it was, the sun. Like the door of the sky was open again.

In-Corporation

MONDAY

Finally, I have made it within the walls of the Emerald City, aka, CBC headquarters in Toronto on my first contract as a researcher. Almost a year ago, I had the fortune of interning at the London bureau. This time, I have entered the mothership.

I am working in a cubicle beside journalists that I have seen on TV for years. It's election time and the place is hopping. Everyone is talking politics and the stories that we'd like to tell but can't (lawyers). If you ever watch CBC Newsworld, in the background you can see people milling about in front of computers. I am one of them. I'd wave to the world, but that is just unprofessional.

My highlights include: Sharing an elevator up with George Stroumboulopoulos and talking about Damian Marley (George is nice), taking a whizz beside Evan Solomon (awkward), and being kicked out of my desk by Paul Hunter (oh, do it again Paul). No sign of Peter Mansbridge yet. But I am close. He's around here somewhere. George is one of kind around here. He walks in with his black iPod blasting tunes with a studded belt that struggles to hold up his saggy jeans.

For years I have been dying to get in here. I'd pass by the building and say, "one day! one day that place will be mine!" Well, those feelings have now passed. You can never hinge your happiness on just one thing. You always want more.

THURSDAY

I finally saw Peter Mansbrige. He was interviewing Steven Harper. Harper, dodged the protesters and slipped up into the newsroom with a posse of RCMP, press people and BlackBerry wielding campaign managers with furrowed brows. Harper passed me in the hall, gave me a smile and a nod. Everything about him was measured: his hair, his suit, the way he smiled and the way he moved his hands. It's a story I'd like to cover... what actually goes on behind the camera.

Maybe after a promotion.

Whatever You Want Lentil Soup

Winter weather requires hot soup. And I'm not talking about no Campbell's cream-of-something. I'm talking about real soup that you make on the stove. I love making soup because there is nothing more soothing than the hot liquid, the soft and savory chunks. But first, I needed some ingredients. Near my apartment, in the middle of Koreatown, there is one Indian foodstuff store. It's called Krishnas. I walked inside and was immediately hit by the smells. There were shelves laden with dried lentils (yellow, brown green), sack of basmati and long grain rice, small baggies of cumin, ginger powder, cloves, cardamom, chili peppers and stick of whatever. Another shelf with jars of pre-made curry and pampadams. Two men sat behind the cash registers, both seated and drinking from steaming cups of masala tea. One was a fat, the other skinny. I wandered around the aisles, not knowing what to buy or even what to make. So I decided to ask what I should make and how would I make it.

"Oh, you can make a very nice lentil soup," said the fat man.
"So what should I get."
"Oh the yellow dahl. Nice."
"And I boil it and throw in the spices."
"You can,"said the skinny man. "But I like to put the spices in a pan with oil, to heat it, the seeds."

Then the two men debated.

"Or you can use powder,"
"Yes powder, but seeds are better."
"doesn't matter, whatever you like."
"Do I drain the water first, then add new water?"I asked.
"Oh no!" said fat man. "Just cook up the spices and throw it in. Keep the water."
"Let it boil down so it's thick."
"I like it soupy, he likes it thick."
"Doesn't matter, whatever you want."
"Then you add the spices."
"Doesn't matter."
"I throw in whatever."
"But not too much."
"There's never 'too much.' I put in sometimes hundreds of spices."
"And then some rice, a carrot."
"Tomato."
"Mmm. No tomato for me."
"I like tomatoes."
"Whatever you want."
"And garlic?" I ask.
"Oh! yes!" said fat man, sipping his tea. "Cook it in the pan first."
"Then put it in. With oil."
"Very nice."
"Yes."
"Thanks," I said.

I walked out with my bag of goodies. I started on my soup this morning. So here goes, my Whatever You Want Lentils:

2.5 cups of yellow dahl
2 cloves of garlic
1 big onion
1 tsp of ground chilis
1 chunk of ginger
1 table spoon of cumin seeds
5 baby carrots
1 cube of vegetable stock
1 tsp salt
olive oil
ground pepper (fresh)
water - enough to boil and thin as necessary

Heat up a pan. Put in the oil. Add the chopped onion. Then add the cumin seeds and garlic. Then add the ginger a bit after that. Cook it until the onions are brown.

In a pot, boil up the lentils until the foam up. Add the cube of veggie stock. Add carrots and chopped tomato. Then scrape the contents of the pan into the lentils. Add a bit of salt and adjust the spices to your own preferences. It's whatever you want.

The next day, snow.

What time is it Chairman Mao?

I love my Mao clock. I bought it for $40 in Chinatown a few years ago. I have a thing for Maoist propaganda. It's got two photos of the big man himself set against a wind-up engine at the back. Instead of a second hand moving to indicate the time, there is a boy in a green outfit waving a "red book" in the air. And of course the kids are all smiling in the red glow of the hammer and sicle. Even communism gets a commemorative clock! Unfortunatly (or ironically), it's obsolte from the outset. It only works for 30-minutes before it needs rewinding or else you lose track of time.

Home Again, rig a jig jig

My new View.

I've moved (again). Here's my new view looking West out the window. Big sunsets. The subway rumbles underneath.

Experience to get Experience

Got rejected from another job.
Need more experience, they said.
It's like needing ID to get ID.

Stupid Retarded

More coversations. This time New Year's Eve.

EXT. OSSINGTON STREET -- NIGHT

There are two neigbouring bars on the same street. It's an arty area, lots of galleries and cafes. recently, there's been reports of over-gentrification. The party-goers are gathered outside on the sidewalk, smokers smoking, chatters chatting. A middle-aged man, slightly balding comes from Party A, walks past us at Party B with his hands in his pockets. He has no jacket on.

"Have a light," says I. He checks his pockets and hands over a lighter. "Having a good night?"
"Fuck ya. Amazing."
"Cool."
"You want two extra tickets to that party."
"Sure!"
"I'll give 'em to ya for $30 each."
"Oh... I'll stick here then."
"You like techno and house?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh you should come them. It's good trust me.
"I don't know."
"It's super retarded. You go in, you can buy drinks in there," he says excitedly, almost too excitedly. "And! It's TOTALLY underground!"

He walks away and turns the corner.

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INT - TTC BUS -- EARLY MORNING

It's 3:30AM after new years. The bus is packed with drunken party people, everyone is chatting with everyone. Strangers have become new friends. Everyone has big revelations, points to make, songs to sing, stomachs waiting to be emptied in reverse. Eyes dilated. A man gets on, he's got a slight mullet, Maple Leafs jacket on. The overheard conversation went something like this. He talking a young woman.

".... Led Zeppelin man. Led Zeppelin is the king of king of bands. Man! Jimmi Page. Fuck can't get better. No way. Have you seen The Song Remains the same?"
"No."
"No?! It's the best movie. So fucking good. I've seen it like 80 times and I still dont know what it means," he chuckles. "Black Dog, Stairway to Heaven. They are so fucking great!"

The bus chugs along, it inside is packed and steamy. Mr. Zeppelin shuffles down the aisle. He's now talking to some other people.

"... oh ya Bush is an idiot! He is such an idiot. God what a moron. Fuck you America! Fuck Americans," he shouts and laughs. It's his big revelation for the night.
"Woah buddy," says on an older black gentleman. "I'm American."
"Ah just kiddin' there man," he says. "Happy new year! Wooooo!"

He shuffles down the aisle, now he's buddy buddy with Mr. America.


"... No it's all about the Leafs. Don't like basket ball or football that much. Never cared for it. No it's all about the hockey. Basketball, nah, too, I don't know. Just not my thing you know. I don't like football. Except I love the CFL sometimes. Go see an Argos game once in a while. But then it's still hockey for me all the way. Go Leafs Go!"

"GO LEAFS GO!" shouts someone from the back of the bus. "GO LEAFS GO!" The person starts pounding on the glass. "GO LEAFS GO."

"Whoever is pounding on the glass. Stop." says our tough-ass lady bus driver. "I'll put this bus out of service if you do!"

"GO LEAFS GO."

"No pounding on the glass," she says.

"Come one toots, drive! We're doing fine. Drive," shouts Mr. Zeppelin.

"Shhh," says everyone around him.