dogslife

I knit. And I have to figure out how to follow patterns strictly.

When you write about not being able to get a job in publishing, I think of Dean Allen, of textism, who never graduated high school, spent years working all over the book industry without ever being a writer or editor, and now lives an idyllic life in the south of France doing freelance book design with the love of his life. Stick it out and you will be rewarded in some great karmic way.

I'm between crafts at the moment, but in my old craft, it was important to 1. always historicize and remember that 2. the text isn't the language. Though I suspect no. 2 was stolen from 3. the map isn't the territory.

Drat! When I read your journal, I figured you might be down for the count. Being sick is very little fun. I'm hopeful that photogrrl and I can still get a lunch together, but even if we can't, it's not as though Toronto isn't an easy trip to make. The unexpected one-two punch of the computer needing some bodywork and of the serious consideration of a car played a little havoc with my vacation schedule, but I think my plans (of a proper toronto visit and other locales) have merely been delayed, and certainly not cancelled.

Besides, I still have some friends to see and shopping to do while I'm in town, and will manage to stay busy.

I hope that your health improves and you manage to make it out, because not only am I delightful company (even if "this is a guy I met on a porn site" might make for a marginally awkward introduction to my friends ), but because I'm sure it will be a hell of a show. But if it's just not in the cards, then I'll settle for you simply getting better.

Deal?

Ah, ya caught me. Hell, I was on the boards most of last week. I tried to be sly about it, but I'm sure the minor caught a boob or two. Oops.

I've just been hella slacking on my journal, and journal comments for others. It's an ebb and flow kinda thing for me. I'll write about my week with the kid soon. I promise. Probably.

(I've just been so distracted by my shiny new computer. )

I received my first rejection letter. Does that count as an accomplishment?

I have a dealer quote and an insurance quote.

I won't lie - the sunroof crowds my six-foot-three frame.

But I'm in love, boychuk!!!

What's the deal on Sunday night?

Sunday night - doors at 9pm, show at 9:30, according to the listing at Doughty's website. That should facilitate an early retreat to Mississauga.

I'm going out with some friends from Toronto for dinner, and I expect we'll get to Lee's Palace around 9ish. Sound good?

Science has a way of going to one's head anyway... at least it does for me.

I'm back.

It couldn't have been Jesus in the bathroom stall. Jesus was clearly busy arranging for three brand new Protege 5s in the colour and trim I wanted (they have a moonroof, which, in addition to making me ask what's the fucking difference between a sunroof and a moonroof?, I very distinctly didn't want, but at this point I'm willing to play ball) to show up at the local Mazda dealership. I'm beside myself with unabashed glee.

I finally saw the Mazda 3 Sport up close. It does look like a space car, but I don't like it in person anymore than I liked it on the webpage or in the commercials. The Mazda 3 sedan is an awfully sexy bitch, but the Protege 5 stops me cold at every viewing. Today will be an exciting day of insurance quotes and preliminary haggling with the salesman.

I'm prepared to walk away if the deal doesn't look good... I'd really been planning on making the purchase in a few months, and I'd have a few more financial ducks in a row by that point, but if this works out, I can swing it.

Sweet, sweet indipendence. Goodbye, Greyhound. Goodbye taxis. Goodbye, crappy grocery store across the road that systematically stops carrying every single food item I like. Goodbye, waiting for the bus.

Hellllllllllllllllllllloooooooooooooo car!!!

You're not going to write me a book report on The Cave? At the rate I'm going, you will have finished it, plus penned your first novel, before I'm in sight of the end.

I think I found my copy for ~$3 USD, at a bizarre bookstore in a bazaar in a small beach town that only sold heavily discounted books published 1-3 years ago. How do these stores exist?

My father doesn't fear or hate, but he does say really really really stupid stuff racically in an attempt to be funny. TO PEOPLE'S FACES. It's all really really retarded and not meant to be hurtful. Seriously, think Curb your Enthuasiam and you have an idea.

...anyway the main reason I'm leaving a comment is I never clicked on your profile before. I swear I thought your profile pic was Jesus until just now! Now that I've seen it enlarged and realize that's a t-shirt and not white robes, nor does it look anything like Jesus, I feel like an idiot.

Anyway, I'm glad to hear your making sure your youngest brother is being raised right!

I think I already knew your name, through some other avenue, before Obuibo. However, I get no hints from Obuibo, so maybe I'm missing something. If it's a literary reference, it's likely in my blind spot, which is quite wide. I tell myself, hey, I'm a linguist- we don't 'do' literature.

If you ever do unleash Obuibo, he should submit some things to the Words section. I'm sure it would be much better than a significant portion of what's already there.

Saramago- The Cave. I never read Blindness, but picked up a copy at some point and either gave it to someone as a gift or misplaced it among the boxes of books. Either way, it's taking me forever. The style of prose reminds me of Fuentes' style in The Death of Artemio Cruz, which makes me worry that it's an artifact of reading Spanish in translation.

My sister and I went through a situation that was similar to yours with your brother. She's a bit younger than me, but grew up with me around the house. Your approach worked for me. If you can give a reasoned explanation, I think it wins kids over. Too bad the same doesn't work for adults, who usually have some cretinous explanation for their prejudices (cf. the HerrHakenkreuz debate on the CE board last week, for example).

Sunday, March 7th, at Lee's Palace in Toronto: Mike Doughty. Formerly of Soul Coughing. All around snazzy cat. I've described Soul Coughing as "hyper-literate stream-of-consciousness-white-boy-jazz-hop". His solo stuff is just like that, only acoustic. I have no idea if you're close enough to TO to make the trip out feasible (I've just been operating on the assumption that you're in/near Mississauga), but I intend to be there, with a few bucks reserved to buy you a beer if you make it out.

Just thought I'd throw it out there. What could be more fun than a night of great music and my unfettered fanboyism?

You know, I think the only significant cosmetic difference between the Mazda3 and the Protg5 is the front grille. And I do still prefer the 5, but it looks like the 3 may have it trumped in every other category.

I gotta test drive one of those space-car bad boys.


[Edited on Feb 23, 2004 1:57PM]

Wow.

I once had to do live sound for a Church service at which the nice guest speaker who travelled all the way from the US of A to share his message of God's eternal love explained that if people were capable of dealing with sex responsibly, we simply wouldn't have homosexuality. Don't get me wrong - it was as candycoated a way as I can imagine of conveying that God loves everybody -- except fags, of course. But the chilling thing was looking over the faces of the assembled faithful - smiling as they felt the divine justification of their bigotry fall over them. I was pissed.

I had to make a call between professionalism and personal justification - I wanted to throw the entire board wide open and let the bastard's head explode from the feedback, and just walk out. Unfortunately, the guy that ran the studio at which I was working at the time was a member of that church, and it would have cost me my job. Alas.

But I have a lot of gay and bisexual friends. Anybody who uses "that's so gay", or its equivalent, gets a polite but firm warning from me. Itent counts for a lot - I'll very often use certain words for ironic purposes - ie lampooning the mentality of those who use them normally. But I'll only do that in certain circles - people who appreciate the irony, and who know what I'm about.

I remember there was a gaming news site that I used to read fairly regularly. It is populated, as most gaming sites of any notability are, by a handful of guys who actually understand the industry and are capable of providing a bit of actual insight into games and gaming, and about a million teenage dipshits who haven't left their mom's basement in months who value that most vital of internet freedoms: to use words that your parents won't let you use in the house, and to hide behind total anonymity while you do it.

The average comment thread on the site would probably garner about 10 posts from users. Usually, something being "teh ghey" will be one of those comments. On one occasion, somebody took issue with it. This thread quickly grew to an unprecedented 90+ posts. There were maybe a half dozen of us recommending a little respect, courtesy, and sensitivity. And about fifty dipshiats who wanted to trumpet the unassailable logic that it was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, and other useless bullshit. It was heartbreaking to realize there were that many assholes lurking at the site, and that it would take such a pointless (as pertaining to a gaming news site) topic to drag the trolls out of the woodwork. And boy, did they have a lot to say on the matter.

I wish there was a way to physically smack somebody upside the head through the internet. I'd have worn out the button that day, but it would have been worth it. I merely stopped going to the site. I'm still horrified to think that mentality can even exist. Sigh.

My father, I'm happy to say, is my hero. We have a great relationship. He was always strict, and I've inherited his temper, which I don't necessarily like in myself any more than I liked it in him, but for the most part he's an extremely loving, kind, and generous person. He has more friends than anybody I've ever met.

Retired now, he spent the largest part of his career as a teacher (before which, I'm pretty sure he held every conceivable job on the planet, from miner to folk singer) - and it was through that vocation that I came to really understand and respect him. He was always going the extra mile for his students to see that they got every opportunity (attention he lavished on my brother and I in equal measure, forming a support base along with my mother that I attribute as the chief factor in every success my brother and I have had), and he was especially good with kids who a lot of other teachers - and people in general - might have written off. He didn't care about race, creed, or circumstance. He treated everyone well, and with respect.

There was one awkward moment I can recall - he had travelled to Toronto to visit my brother and I, and after a lovely dinner out (at Seniors, near St. Clair station, and if you've never had the pleasure but enjoy a good steak and taramosalata, i can't recommend it highly enough), we were standing at a subway platform. The assembled crowd was the typical cultural mosaic that you'd expect on any TTC platform. My brother and I were long since accustomed to the city's diversity, but you could spend days patrolling our hometown and scarcely see a face that wasn't white. (I want to emphasize this, at the risk of giving away the end of the story: there is a very important difference between a surprised observation and any kind of prejudice.)

So, while we ticked off the minutes for the next train to arrive, my father looked around and said "Wow, it looks like we're the only..."

My brother and I froze. I forget who had the presence of mind to cut him off first.

A firm "Dad..."

He paused, a bit confused. But he wanted to finish his point.

We were quickly reduced to pleading, hoping that our conversation hadn't yet reached a volume sufficient to draw any attention outside of ours. "We know Dad. Please. Let it go."

Unwilling (did I mention he's stubborn?) to leave his sentence unfinished, he compromises with "...people from Northern Ontario here."

Sigh.

Occasional awkward moments aside, he's a great guy and has been a wonderful father. I couldn't ask for a better one.

My dad is a paraniod schizophrenic and a recovering alcoholic. Unfortunately, he didn't start "recovering" early enough to play a major role in my childhood. Sometimes he would miss our softball games, or picking us up for the weekend because he was at the bar. While we were spending the weeekend with him, he'd go for a long "walk" and come home reeking of booze and cigs. He's a bigot, and still refers to African-Americans as "coloreds." One day he told me he was proud of his kids, and I'm thinking "oh, that's nice." Then he goes on to say he's so proud of us because his girls like boys and his boy likes girls . He'll pacify you to your face, and then turn around and do the exact opposite when you're not around. Last week, he hit a dog while driving, and refused to check on the dog, even though my brother begged him to.

So, yeah, that's my dad. And I love him, I guess.