It's a little bit funny.
Despite the reference to Elton John, I'm serious. It is a little bit funny. How stress can affect you. What I mean to say is that I'm currently very stressed out about a situation going on. I will be vague here, but most of you already know what I'm talking about. But yes, I'm a bit stressed about that thing. Oh and all those crazy course I've taken and thinking tells me that the solution is to get into action. That when you're stumped about something, when you don't know what to do, do something. I know that soulds counter-intuitive or solpsistic but it's true. Writers will often say that when they've got writer's block they sit down and write, just random crap until the log-jam in their head breaks and whatever stands in their way is gone, and they can write again.
So as much as I've been conspiring to get things moving, life has not agreed with me. My 'do something' plan was to talk to someone, and she's been singularly unavailable for conversation for a while now.
But in the face of this i'm stressed out. Freaked out actually. And considering how little I like what I'm doing, I'm still stressed out. It's a little bit funny how you can give a shit without giving a shit.
Sorry this is one of my aimless postings, no editing.
Best Copy Ever
What follows is some of the best advertising copy every written. The guy who wrote this is a genius. I'm not actually being sarcastic here. I figure if you can get a gig to write box-copy for a rubber band company and still come up with something this good, you're a fucking star.
click the image for a larger view, and to read this poetry.
A story showed up
Interesting sleep last night. I had a dream, that apart from being weird for any number reasons (naked Members of Parliament for one) but the real reason it was cool, is that I came up with a short story while asleep. I have written some of it down and will write it today.
I love it when a story just shows up. Maybe sleeping Mark is a better writer than awake Mark. We'll see, I'll post it here when it's done.
Hawk or Falcon
Last week Eric and I were doing chores, throwing out garbage, dropping off stuff at Goodwill, recycling old computers and crap and generally getting ready to move. On our way back to the house we were hungry and stopped for a late lunch, it was about 3pm I guess. We went through the drive-through at the McDonald's near my house. For those who don't know the neighborhood, it's very urban - built in the 1920s and 1930s, lots of houses, some apartments and the odd plaza/strip mall. It's not a place conducive to wildlife. Unless you consider racoons and squirrels as wildlife. And let's be clear - we don't.
While we were waiting at the window for our order, something caught my eye. I saw a very big bird land in one of the sad half-barren pine trees at the edge of the parking lot. It was this:
I don't know if the bird is a hawk or a falcon. The picture is a sparrowhawk, it could have been a north american goshawk I think. Or a falcon. Not an eagle tho', because it wasn't a bald eagle, and not a golden eagle either, and that apparently is the entire list of eagles you'll find in North America.
The bird perched on the tree for a couple of minutes then swooped down, he made straight for our car and flew above us, barely inches above the roof of the car. It was very exciting actually. But the 4 girls who had just exited the restaurant didn't enjoy it as much. The bird flew directly over them. Their screams were fun. I'm pretty sure the bird thought so too.
Remiss
Hey, so I haven't blogged in a few days. I'm sorry about that. But the two things that are actually going on in my life right now are either boring, or under the embargo. So until something changes I don't really have much to say. A couple of random thougths, however, that I felt worth sharing:
1. Why do they add voiceovers for babies in commercials? It was bad enough when they would add some cutsie baby-voice (usually provided by a 54 year old woman). But now they've taken to doing it with adult voices. It's a little freaky I have to say. There's a diaper commercial right now that has a 'surfer dude' voice for some toddler. It's weird on many levels, not the least of which is that 'surfer dude' ceased to be a recognizable thing about the time that Sean Penn finished Ridgemont High. And well it's anthropomorphizing babies and that is a bit odd to me. (I know it's the wrong word, but if giving human characteristics to a non-human being or object is anthropomorphizing, then what do you call giving adult characteristics to a child? And what would Jon-Benet Ramsey have to say about it?).
2. Why are automotive body repair shops called "Collision", not "Collision damage repair" just "Collision". It's weird that they name their companies after the reason you are there in the first place.
"Hi, what do you do for a living?"
"Oh, I am a bomb disposal Expert."
"Really, how interesting, what's your company called?"
"BOOM!!"
Don't EVEN!!
So, Bert slags me for wantin' only young things. Heipel slags me for being so much of a rice queen that I'd fuck a rolled up rug if it was Oriental, and then Hamish jumps up and down on me for wanting to ride Ken Watanabe (old and orange was his issue with Ken).
The irony of course is having these three fucking lecture me about what and who I want to fuck. Bert, who's taste is more catholic than anyone I know. The man who, while fully gay, fucked a woman. He has, as Hamish is fond of pointing out, a sexual bingo card, trying to get one of each (in a row, column or diagonal). Heipel, the vampire, who stays young looking from a combination of hair dye and the blood of 22 year olds. Of course we're all jealous (that they're so young) and they're all disappointed (that he's so broke). And Hamish, wee, sweet, Hamish. Two words for you sweetie: Schemie Teenagers.
So all of you, don't EVEN get all up in my face about who or what I like to fuck a'ight?!
Not entirely about young'ns
Bert accused me of being only into young guys. He cites my pics below as evidence. Of course that is because there are rarely old farts in the Olympics. But in further evidence that my RiceQueen-ness is NOT entirely based on liking boys, but rather a more mature appreciation of beauty, here is a guy for whom I would, frankly, happily, be his bitch.
Yay For Spandex
And yay also for Joji Kato and Lee Kang-seok.
TV Sports Announcers Can Suck My Dick
I like watching the Olympics. I have no interest in sports generally, either playing or watching. I will never watch professional sports unless it is in person, and unless the ticket is free, and it occurs on a night when there's not likely to be anything good on TV. But I love watching the Olympics. Summer ones are better of course. They wear less for a start. But even winter, with its preponderance of spandex (woo hoo Luge!) is fun.
I love the Olympics, not just for its near-pornographic qualities, but also because there seems to be something at stake. These are young people, who tried to get good at something and succeeded. They've been chosen to represent their country, against all other countries to see who's the best of the best. There's national pride at stake, they're often adorable in how much it means to them and so on. And they're doing it because they love it. With the exception of the hockey players I think, they're all amateurs. It is cool.
But today while watching Men's 30km pursuit cross-country I remembered one of the main reasons that I simply cannot stomach watching sports on TV. The people who are hired to talk while the sport is going on. OH MY GOD THEY ALL SUCK!!!! All of them. Every. Single. One.
The entire profession is repulsive and annoying. They're there because the people who are broadcasting to you don't actually trust you to just sit the fuck back and watch guys ski. They fear that unless someone is droning on and on constantly spouting one inane observation after another into your head that you won't watch. I think they honestly believe that they're adding positively to the experience of the sport. When in fact they're destroying it.
Now I understand if something weird happens and they need to explain - like when one guy wiped out and took down 6 other guys with him. They went back replayed it, and helped the viewers understand the pile of spandex-clad norsemen (grrr hot) that we were seeing. Okay. Fair enough. Or if the sport is just so fucking wierd as to require explanation. And some of the Winter Olympic sports are just that.
"Well, Reginald, in the Men's Ante-Spear 500m, teams of 3 men on skis, and carrying spears, chase an Antelope, or now, in the modern version, a cardboard cutout of an antelope dragged behind a ski-do, around a field strewn with rocks and cat-vomit."
But again, tell us what it is. Remind us a couple times in case we tune in late, and SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Especially something like Short-Track Speedskating. I mean how much can you say about a sport that requires two guys to skate as fast as fucking possible in a circle (okay 'oval') for two minutes? Seriously, that's the oldest, simplest version of a game you'd play as a kid "Last one there's a rotten egg!!" You don't need to explain that!
But I stomach it. Because I love the Olympics. But that is why I just can't watch professional sports.
Because as bad as that crap is when there's
something at stake, I can't take it when it's a bunch of guys damn near my age trying to act like it means something.
That's why sports announcers can suck my dick.
Should I?
Bert suggested something to me the other day. He was telling me the story of a writer who - with various arrangements - has a 'blog' on which he posts a new story every week or so. He's been doing this for a while now and has actually managed to get a few books out of it. Not everything he writes is good, but he writes a tremendous amount.
Bert suggested I do the same, either chapters of a book or stories. What do you think? yes no? Would you read?
I love the Olympics
Zhang Dan & Zhang Hao from Harbin China.
Yum.
owariyokereba subete yoshi
おわりよければすべてよし
First I apologize for the crappy transliteration of Japanese. But I've written above is a haiku that means "Alls well that ends well." So did Shakespeare come up with that? Or did the Japanese haiku writer? Or is it some expression of some universal hope that humans have that somehow what they're going through will be made worth it by some happy ending?
Because that's kind of what it means. It's not a very happy sentiment really when you think about it. It's not saying that, oh gosh aren't things just peachy. It's more an expression that while currently things are shit, you can at least hope the end will be alright, and that maybe the end will be so good, that you'll forget what you dragged yourself through to get there.
You can tell I've had a good week eh?
Look over there ->
I've added a new link to the side of the page. I stumbled across a fella's blog a while back and have been reading since. I commented on his and he replied. He's a good writer (and as i mentioned in an earlier post a more prolific one than any of us). So friends, meet Shigeki, Shigeki, meet my friends.
I'm stupid
At work they gave me the forms and the booklet for enrolling in the pension plan here at work. Participation is mandatory. I started to read it and a familiar feeling came over me. Like nausea or that 20 second warning before a bout of violent explosive diarrhea hits, I felt... stupid.
In a strange detached way it is kind of curious how utterly, completely and instantly stupid I feel when I deal with money things. It's really strange. But my entire life I have ben this way. When I try to take up financial matters, I become retarded, or dyslexic. Only two times in my life have I been able to be 'good' with money for any extended period of time. Of course on both occaisions I still lived at home - making any 'money' conversation much easier to have. Before and since I have been profilgate.
Eric can retire in something like three weeks I think. He's one of those people who had RRSPs in the womb. I on the other hand have nothing in the bank. And givnen how I feel about money, and how money makes me feel, it's likely to stay that way. I was telling Joe today at lunch that my plan is to die before I retire. Either that will entail my working until i'm quite old (thank god the province just got rid of mandatory retirement) or i will merely kill myself at 64. Either way, I'm good.
I was trying to parse out the feeling. Joe was curious and a little stunned at the vehemence of my reaction, but I couldn't explain it. I just get stupid around money - I always have. There are elements of hating the system we're forced to participate in. I mean i really do think that mutual fund companies and banks and isurance companies are evil - on a scale of human evil that ranks up there with Torquemada and the Corn Laws.
But really? that's not it. I wish it was something so honourable as wanting to not participate in the capitalist whatever. But that's not it. I just feel stupid, I don't undertand money, I'm bad with money and that's just it.
Back to the Future
Today I'm not at work. I had a couple of days of holiday left over from last year that I had to use up, and so today is it. Instead of relaxing or packing or doing any of the things I know we need to do I'm acting like I'm still self employed. My friend Henry is doing a big pitch today to a certain large chain of chicken restaurants here. Um, I really shouldn't name them you know, but I'l use a euphemism or nom de web. Let's just call them the um, Belgian Chateau then shall we?
Anyway Henry runs a company that I worked with a lot when I was freelance and running Spark. Henry's focus is on general web and advertising stuff, but with the slant of doing it in Chinese for mainstream clients. Hence the pitch to Belgian Chateau. He asked me to help out so I spent a chunk of Sunday helping him write the pitch and today we're presenting to them.
The other bunch of work I did on the weekend was write about 4000 words of a book. I'm co-writing a book with a friend of mine. I think I mentioned it in this space before, but it's about getting into grad school. He's the research guy and I'm the writer guy, so it's a nice balance of work.
On saturday I went to Starbucks and sat and wrote. For three hours or so I just typed. It was a lot of fun really, and something I've been missing. I love writing when the ideas are there. When I don't have to struggle to figure out what to say I can just be free to write. And I'm usually quite pleased with the results. And there's usually no shortage of writing. I am quite pleased actually with damn near 4000 words in three hours. And the part about not having to do any research ... I like that most of all.
So this weekend and into today, feel an awful lot like things used to feel - the best of it anyway - when I was freelance. And it's kinda cool.
unrelated facts
Two entirely unrelated facts/thoughts occured to me today.
1. did you know that some people beleive that the word "nooner" means more than simply the all request show on CFNY radio during the lunchtime hours?
2. The doors/walls on the stalls in the Royal York toilets go all the way up and down (unlike your average walls/doors on toilet stalls).
Interesting facts eh?
Anyway back to work after an utterly uneventful break.
A Short Story I Wrote
Yah so Bert said writers should publish, and get out there, and not be so fucking stingy and that any exposure is good. Ok. So here you go Bert. Here's a story I wrote.
***
Playing Chase
In the darkness we ran. Chests pounding, breathing heavily, we ran from the guy who was it. Chase. Simple rules, like hide-and-seek only you could run. And you couldn’t leave the courts. The courts was a housing estate. One hundred ten townhouses arranged in three u-shaped ‘courts’. Officially named Frimette Court, but known to us and everyone outside of it, as the courts. The boundaries, of both the courts and our game, were Kennedy Road on the east, the hydro field on the south, the back alley (an alley behind a plaza) to the north and the creek (a revolting green-hued river-ish thing to the west.
Tonight it was Joe Green. Joe was the third son in a family of boys – Joe, Jeff and Brian. They were Scottish and lived in the third court, we lived in the second, my brother Paul and I. ‘It’ was chosen with the traditional “eenie-meenie”. This was about the time when “catch a nigger by the toe” was dropped in favour of “catch a tiger by the toe”. Not from political correctness, but rather from respect. For Junior. Junior Johnson was a black kid who lived in the second court – and he was the fastest runner. And his name was actually Junior. We didn’t understand that too well, but the summer before my cousins had visited from Ireland and we had to explain Ciaran, Deirdre and Fiona to our local friends, so we weren’t about to make fun.
The group assembled in the large area in the middle of the second court. There were about twenty kids ranging in age from 5 to 13 or 14. Even then we realized that all us kids of different ages hanging out together was kind of weird – but it worked. I was 9 and my brother – who was eleven – was still protective. I suppose I hadn’t turned into a smart-ass yet. And he hadn’t begun his solo journey through puberty. We could still get along. So because Paul hung out with his little brother, and Jeff Green was under orders from his mother to watch Joe and Brian it just sort of happened that the group crossed age boundaries. On Saturdays we would go to the Elane or the Golden Mile cinemas to watch a movie. Two bucks was enough for bus fare, a ticket and popcorn and pop. More if we walked home and spent bus fare on more junk. But only if we all agreed to do it. If anyone insisted on taking the bus then our parents would know what we were up to and that meant trouble.
So we stood around waiting for the game to begin, just on the other side of the hedge where last summer my dad had caught me finishing the butts he’d flick off the front porch where he sat drinking beers. So ‘eenie-meenie’ was begun, but only among the older kids. First off all there were 20 of us and I don’t think there are enough parts of ‘eenie-meenie’ to go around twice. Besides if one of the younger kids was ‘it’ the game could go on for hours. With the sun almost down the game of chase was about to begin. It was only ever played at night. Paul, Jeff, Joe, me, Chris, Robert, Kyle, Adam, Timothy and Junior formed a circle and put our right foot forward. Chris knelt down and ‘eenie’d’. Joe was it.
He’d count to sixty, we’d run and he’d chase. When he tagged you out you’d be on his team. So what began as 1 against 19 ended up as 19 against one. The one was the winner, but the game didn’t end until he was caught. Sometimes he won through excellent hiding skills and nerves of steel (to stay hidden for half an hour or more). And sometimes he won because he could run. Junior was only ever caught late in the game when ‘it’ consisted of more than ten others. No one person could chase him down, so he was only caught because he was cornered. Elaborate strategies were devised to flush him out, herd him towards other players. Junior won more games than anyone. He loved the strategies as much as we loved coming up with them. If we watched a new James Bond or some war movie on Saturday at the Elane and the schemes would end up even more elaborate.
So we ran.
Kyle and I took off for the third court. As we jogged through the concrete park between the houses we discussed hiding places.
- We should go behind the dumpsters. I said to Kyle
- Nah. Garbage day is tomorrow. They’ll stink.
- Let’s hide behind 110 then.
Unit 110, the last house. The streetlight was out there and they had hedges all around the side. Very good cover. Not a great escape route, but good hiding.
- Okay. But lets go through the back, I’ve gotta pee.
- ‘kay.
The rules were that you couldn’t go in the house, not even to pee. Besides we were boys. Not a species given to using indoor plumbing much anyway. Kyle ran ahead and darted down the walkway between 103 and 104 and peed. I waited at the end of the walkway to keep watch. I saw some of the others hiding. One of the younger kids asked Adam’s dad if he could hide in the front yard, behind the fence. He said sure and went back to sipping off his stubby Carling Red Cap – trying to feign guiltlessness in case whoever was ‘it’ came by.
I glanced back at Kyle he was finishing up on tiptoes dodging the growing puddle of pee between his feet. He joined me at the end of the walk and we ran down to 110. There was a huge evergreen by the house. The kind where you crushed the leaves between your fingers and sniffed them. Aromatic, like the Vicks your mom rubbed on your chest when you had a cold. Underneath the bush was a pretty big hiding space, invisible to the outside. Kyle and I settled in for a wait. Between sniffs of crushed leaves I told him where the others had hidden that I saw. Chase made for short-lived alliances. As soon as your co-hider was caught he’d be sure to make a beeline for your spot.
We heard, but couldn’t see, footsteps. Running. Joe had already caught up with some of the guys. I knew that Chris would be one of them. He liked getting caught. He didn’t like hiding but preferred chasing. I’m sure some of the younger kids had been nabbed. The kid who hid at Adam’s house would be caught by now. Even I could see his white Adidas shorts behind the hedge from across the court when Kyle was peeing. We sat quietly, waiting.
- C’mon. It was Joe’s voice. C’mon. I think that’s all that’s here. Did you see anyone else?
- No. Adidas shorts kid.
- What about you Chris?
- No. Let’s try the first court. I think that’s where Paul and Adam went.
- ‘kay.
They ran. But still we waited. The old double-back routine was well known. After ten minutes we chanced a whisper.
- They gone?
- Yeah.
- You wanna move? I’m getting bored. And my bum is damp.
- Yeah. Okay. Where you gonna go?
- Dunno.
We crawled out from underneath the bush.
- I’m gonna go this way. I said, pointing vaguely in a direction that could have been anywhere. You?
- Yeah. I’ll go this way. Said Kyle. Pointing in the opposite almost anywhere. We couldn’t be too careful. If Chris, Joe, Adidas boy, and whoever else were on their way to get Paul and those guys, the game could be over soon.
- ‘kay.
- See ya. I turned.
- See ya. Said Kyle from behind as I ran back the way we had come.
I deked behind the fence and ran back into the concrete park. I spotted Adam at the same time he saw me. He was coming from behind the houses. We both slowed down but he continued walking towards me.
- See anyone? He said.
- Yeah a bunch back that way. You?
- Some.
I swallowed deeply and glanced around, judging my escape route. Either a straight run into the second court – madness considering the open ground and the potential for ambush. Or over the nearest fence then steeplechase over a dozen more through the super’s backyard and down the other side off the second court, bypassing the open areas. I figured I’d make it over the first fence anyway. I was good at fences. So I asked the fateful question.
- You caught?
Rules were you could hum and haw, you could try a delay, you could mumble, but you couldn’t lie to that question. So anything other than an a clear ‘NO’ meant danger.
- You?
Run! I turned and bolted straight for the fence. He dodged to my left, assuming I’d make for the second court. That gave me the extra half second to make the fence and jump. I used the fence jumping method my brother had taught me – the patented Cosgrove-boys’ fence leaping system. Run, jump right foot and right arm first. Leg halfway up, arm grabs the crossbar, hoist! Bend over the top, left arm swings over, grabs the fence. Straighten left arm, straighten waist, now I’m upside down. Push off with my right arm, flip, land. Done. Three moves, your crotch never gets near the wire bits at the top. Then I run across the yard and launch myself over the next one. I’m vertical on the second fence before he’s hit the ground on the first one. And I’m free. By the third fence he’s giving up.
I make it around the back of the houses now, there’s not much cover there, but I can swing around and come into the second court in the dark, the lights aren’t good.
I came down towards the parking lot. I heard laughter. By this point we were pretty good at filtering out any grown-up noises. Our entire game would take place in front of dozens of parents on their front porches, chatting back and forth and drinking beer, smoking cigarettes. But we managed to ignore them.
I heard laughter and stopped. I crouched down behind Mr. Mahoney’s pick-up truck. I recognized my brother’s voice and Adam’s, then Chris and Joe. As they came closer I crawled underneath the pick-up. I wasn’t afraid of it moving. It hadn’t been started up in the 4 years we’d lived in the courts, so there was no fear of it driving away now.
- Who’s left?
- Uh, here comes Tim and Robert. Oh they got Junior. Cool.
- Yeah. So that leaves…
- Your brother.
- Yeah? Okay who saw Mark?
- I did. Kyle’s voice. He was in the third court.
- I saw him run up through the back yards towards the first.
- Yeah? Sneak. Okay you guys go up that way. Kyle you and me will go down to the third.
I heard them running away. My brother’s feet and two other pair were still visible from my hiding point. But then they left too. After a few minutes I poked my head out from under the truck and pulled myself out. I brushed myself off crouched between cars. I think my brother went down one way, so I decided to follow him. I figured if I was behind him he wouldn’t find me.
I stood up and began to slowly make my way along the houses. Then in the back of my head I registered a sound. The hair on my neck stood up. Over the guffaws of Mr. Diamond from his porch on my right, I heard another sound. A footfall. I turned and, silhouetted against the porch light, was Junior. He’d waited. Our eyes met. I didn’t know a metaphor for it then. But when I’ve watched nature shows since that night, and I see a gazelle and a lion, I recognize the look in the gazelle’s eyes and I know I’ve felt what he feels. But like the gazelle I did what instinct told me to do, regardless of the hopelessness of the situation. I turned and bolted.
Less than a second later Junior was in motion behind me. So close I could hear him breathe. And we ran, across three front yards, over Mrs. Iverson’s hedge, down across the driveway, up over the other side, up the hill, into Jimmy-the-porch’s backyard, over the fence, out the other side into the first court, back down through the park to the second court. All the while Junior was closing the distance behind me. Without looking I could see him running, his long, graceful stride, eating the distance easily. Sweating with the exertion but not panting, not like me, my lungs burning, churning, wanting to explode, wanting to scream but not having the breath, legs flying, arms swinging, each jerk and gesture willing me forward. The thrill, the rush, the pure adrenalin fueled flight. I rounded the corner and spotted the rest of the group at the bottom end of the courts and swung left towards the open end. The all saw me and watched, no need to try, Junior was in pursuit and would have me soon, no fences to foil him, no obstacles just flat, dry grass – Junior’s natural habitat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the guys jog forward to get a good view.
I knew I’d won the game. I knew that I was the last one and could stop with honor.
But I ran. Junior lengthened his stride, reaching for me. But I ran. I dropped my head and thought faster, willed myself faster, willed myself away.
And.
Then.
The unbelievable happened. I found it. Some burst of energy. Some magical reservoir of power. And I pulled away. The distance between me and Junior grew. I looked over my shoulder and saw the surprise on his face. The lion was cheated. I rounded the corner and kept running. The stupidest, gazelle-smiling look on my face.
The House, The Blog, The Job and other things not written of.
I've been noticing that I'm not the only one to go from being a regular blogger to a never blogger. All my fave blogs have dropped off in the new year. Heipel is the only one writing with any kind of regularity and he's usually the least prolific. Bert has retired (although he's written two entries since his retirement - clearly he's using the Cher definition of 'retirement'.) FashMagSlag has penned a mere two entries. IcyJoe has only one since wishing us Happy New Year. And my output has been rather crap too. In fact the only blog I read regularly that has remained as prolific as ever is some guy in Tokyo who's first language is not English. I mean it's a shame really that I and my writer friends can't produce as much as a graphic designer writing in a terribly foreign language (I don't know if his being Japanese or his being a graphic designer makes him less likely and less qualified to write - but I digress) he's still funny, cute and prolific.
So in an effort to catch anyone who reads this up with what's going on - and to completely prove that you've really been missing out on NOTHING at all while I've been silent - herewtith is a wee update.
The House:
We have started packing. I think I'm up to 4 boxes now. Yes we're terribly behind and I have to admit I'm getting a bit stressy about it. However, this weekend I SWEAR I'll pack some more.
The Job:
Don't ask. As you know I've stopped blogging about the job because it doesn't take a genius to google me and find this thing and so I won't every say anything that'd get me into trouble. What I will say is that about my job is that I do have one.
The Relationship:
Yes, still have one of those as well. THings are good right now actually, spending money makes us happy, and having just bought our condo and then starte buying shit to go IN the condo, well let's just say we're deleriously happy.
The Health:
Crap, thanks. Yah so i'm still fighting this skin thing, which the lastest skin-doc says is psoriasis not excema. Both of which are latin words for "your skin's kinda fucked and we don't know what to do." I'm on one last batch of western meds before i visit Mr. Chen on Danforth who can cure all manner of things with a needle, burnning moss and dried snake. At this point, it can't work any less than my fucking western meds so why not? 24 days without smoking. Nobody's dead yet. that's a victory. I'm a bit more hyper. It's like on three cups of coffee when I'm not, and then of course when I AM on three cups of coffee watch out. Oh and the fact that the acupuncture and the hypnosis worked on the smoking leads me to put a bit more faith in the hooky pooky arts.
Lately due to stress and whatnot the health's been a bit off generally, this weekend it's a sore throat thing. Which sucks, but there you go.
Oh, and i'm organizing an orgy for February. That should be nice. I mean fuck dinner parties; let's have the kinda party you'd really want to go to.
More anon.
