Another way to meet a boy: Hit him

Unlike the last two experiences which took place in shopping zones, this one took place in a coffee shop.

It was also typical of my asinine and completely clueless behaviour. While working in Montreal a wee bit back, I stepped out for lunch on St-Catherine. Naturally, I had my laptop with me; it was wrapped in a scarf and inside my purse.

I have a tendency to swing my purse while carrying it. This habit I developed at the age of 4, when I was given my first purse (it was a Strawberry Shortcake purse and it made me smell like strawberries rolled in syrup. I loved it.) and my dad would place change in it. I thought it was cool to swing it around so passers-by could hear how rich I was. Am quite lucky I was fat and cute, otherwise I would have just been ugly, noisy and annoying.

Standing in line at Second Cup, I was bumping my laptop off the counter. Or so I thought.

The gentleman in front of me turned around and asked: Are you having fun? which I thought was an odd question, but I immediately slipped into surfer mode and responded with: Yeah, totally, and smiled because I thought ‘how nice of him to want to know’. He started laughing.

Honestly, I had no idea what was going on, or what I'd said that was so funny.

I kept swinging my purse...only now it had stopped bouncing off the counter.

When R stopped laughing, he said: You know that you've been bouncing that [pointing at my purse encased laptop] off my leg since you stood behind me, right?

Because I had forgotten that my laptop was actually inside of my purse until he mentioned my swinging habit (hee), I offered the stellar response of: Oh my god, I hope I didn't ruin my laptop!

He thought it was funny that I didn't care about his leg.

He was attractive, gregarious and forward, which is really nice (go Montreal boys!)…but still not my type.

He flattered me by telling me I had pretty eyes and a beautiful smile; and as all y'all are aware, flattery will get you everywhere...but not my phone number.

He insisted he buy my coffee, but I refused because I don't like obligation of any type.

He insisted I take his number, which I started to do, because I felt bad...but told him I wouldn't call him...but here's the thing: I was placing his number into my mobile, and by accident, I clicked the Menu button rather than the OK button and so it didn't save. So, I immediately knew I wasn't supposed to even have his number, but I didn't tell him that. The mobile angels had made their decisions and I went along with them; I pretended it was saved. And said goodbye quickly, because am a shit liar.

Of all the boys I have met randomly at this point, he was - by far - the coolest.

I hope R is happy.

U2 & UN

.1. This is why U2 should only be seen in Montreal.

During the entire show on Friday night, T & I were quite aware of the difference in delivery and reception between the band and the crowd.

I think it's because of Montreal's political world and their complete embrace of everything inspired, politically, by U2.

Next tour, I'm going back to Montreal > but, for the final show, rather than the first. Don't you know? It's always better the second time around.

.2. Am thinking of going elsewhere to work with the United Nations.

Will keep y’all posted…and eventually explain why am in such a mood...

U2's Vertigo Tour

T, K, D & I went to U2 last night.

When I landed in Ireland, the first place I went to was The U2 Wall. I got lost, but a really nice taxi driver took me and refused to accept payment. God, I loved Ireland.

If unfamiliar with The U2 Wall, here’s a small blip: ” The U2 Wall is located down an alley way near the docksides on the south side of the Liffey. Marked only with a small plaque, the grafitti covered crumbling walls mark the now vacant Windmill Lane Studios where U2 recorded their early albums in the late 1970s”. My addition to The Wall was: ”You began as the call to one generation and have since become the voice of all that followed. Thank you.”

I hadn’t known what I was going to write, and the fact that I got lost gave me a little more time to think…

Last we saw U2 was during their Elevation Tour, the final night they performed in Montreal. That show was insane because for nearly 60% of it, no one could hear Bono because the crowd was singing so loud. He kept removing his earplugs and laughing.

When he was later asked which of the venues was the loudest and craziest, he said it was the night they played the last show in Montreal. We couldn’t speak for days after that show…

Anyway. Arcade Fire (whose name I originally misheard as 'Our Gay Fire') opened, and although I like the punk edge of their music, I am curious as to how they got together, and what their jam sessions are like. Watch them perform, and you’ll understand my curiosity. They’re a local Montreal band worth catching, and they’re opening again tonight and Monday (in Montreal).

When the lights went down, in preparation for U2’s entrance and we were watching the stage waiting for them to come out, I actually felt as though I were going to explode. The sound was deafening, in anticipation of their arrival and the energy within the Centre was absolutely electric.

Within our section, I was one of five other people on my feet nearly the entire time. At certain points, T & K would stand up…but it was predominantly me, and it was great! At one point, though, I almost climbed over the chairs in front of me to join the other four who were equally rocking out, but they were a little weird.

It’s a U2 concert…how can people remain seated?

The visual of the concert was pure funk. The experience left me teetering between: Feeling as though I were inside of an arcade that had crashed into a lava lamp and / or standing inside one light that’s part of a light show in a Japanese disco. Either one was super cool.

Apart from the regular brilliant performances of Mysterious Ways, Where the Streets Have No Name and Sunday Bloody Sunday, there were a few others which stood out…

I have to say that Original of the Species and A Man and a Woman possess some of U2’s top lyrical content and are reminiscent of their work on Achtung Baby. Listening to their performance live was incredible.

They did a spectacular rendition of One with a lot more guitar, making it sound more bluesy. It’s always been a lazy / lounge song for me, but listening to them perform it the way they did, I was forced to sit down, close my eyes and get lost in the guitar.

The ending of the show was equally unique, with each one of them leaving individually and their screen images fading out. Bono left first, then Adam, the Edge and finally Larry. While Larry was the last one on stage, he pounded out the craziest beats and the crowd went wild. Pardon me while I gush here for a moment; Larry Mullen Jr will always be a fox. He’ll be 78 years old, and a fox. He has the world’s best upper body, and his forearms are. Just. Perfect.

As much as I love Bono, Larry is the definitive of cool. Probably because his controlled exterior looks like it's always on the edge of exploding wide open. But it never does.

After coming home, I couldn’t help but think about the wonder of it. These four boys from Dublin who started as a little punk band and who are, now, to me and so many others, the quintessential band of several generations the world over.

Stadiums in almost every part of this tiny globe erupt when these four men come on stage.

And when all is said and done, they go home to be dads and husbands.

Wow.

Boys: Vaulting over the line

I am too nice to people, and this is often times misunderstood as an open door for unacceptable behaviour (on their part).

A couple of days back, I was approached by someone in Bridgehead; His name is O (please don't mistake this with the notorious Story of O because that would be gross). He seemed like a relatively nice individual, and he proceeded to tell me about his life. I listened.

End of story.

I listened because I felt sorry for him...period.

When asked for my telephone number, I declined. And so, he insisted I take his contact information (I should have said no). Actually, I should have known something was amiss when he approached me in line, and stood much too close to me...staring at me.

As politely as possible, I tried to make it clear that although he insisted I take his number, he wasn't going to hear from me.

I guess that politeness is often times lost on people.

He wrote his number and e-mail on the inside cover of a book I was reading. A book which I fear I will have to burn asap.

Today. I received a call from this person on my mobile. Recall: I had refused to give him my contact information.

When I asked him how he found my telephone number, he told me he looked me up on-line (wtf?), and as I was making it painfully and embarrassingly clear that this was unacceptable, he asked me if he could email me. Standing with my mouth agape, I said “NO, you can not,” right before I closed my mobile.

I sttod staring at my mobile thinking: one can’t really be melodramatic with a mobile, can they? You don’t have the luxury of slamming them down like a regular phone, when angry and wanting to expend some of that energy. So delicate are mobiles: you have to pay attention, look at them, pinpoint the End button, and then press it gently. How inconvenient for my mood.

But I digress, and my point it: This guy needs medication.

And boys...don't call a woman unless she gives you explicit permission to do so (one fine example of 'explicit permission' is "Here's my number...call me...").

Belly dance to this

Two of the sexiest belly dance tunes that you simply must download are:

Daret Al Ayam (by: Ro-Je)
&
Zenia (by: Petrol Bomb Samosa)

Holy WOW.

You can find both of these on Electric Oasis: Exotic Arabic Grooves, which I picked up at the HMV on St-Catherine in Montreal. They have an extensive electronica section in the basement; look for camels on the covers of CDs...those will be the ones indicating 'Arabic' grooves. Stupid god damn packaging, but killer tunes.

A Hollywood boy I'd give it up for...

...is not the man who said this:

"You know how a little girl cannot be a woman but a woman can be a little girl? That's a quality I like."
- Matthew McConaughey

T just sent me that quote and although it makes me weak at the knees, I still wouldn't give it up for Matthew. But I do love him.

Wild cows don’t graze in Nova Scotia (nor do they come from Europe)

My parents had intended to name me ‘Nuha’. When I was born, all my parents could see were a set of eyes with what appeared to be two arms and two legs.

Maha, in Arabic, is a type of gazelle that is renowned for her eyes. In Arabic poetry, a very common turn of prose is ‘uyoon el-maha’ (transliteration: ‘the eyes of the Maha’).

In African, it means ‘beautiful eyes’.

I've also been told that, depending on the language, the definition of my name varies from:
- Water
to
- The ultimate state of 'being'
to
- The Seductress (capital 'T', please)
to
- The Virgin (capital 'V', please)

When I was younger, I used to tell people my name meant ’wilderness cow’ until my mother overheard me and got really angry with me. At that time, I had a warped sense of ‘exotic’.

It was then that I used to tell people I was European (Palestine is so close to Europe, no?!) because I had no sense of geography.

I believe that a part of me is still royally pissed that am not the exotic European wilderness cow.

And…that’ll never be half as bad as T who used to run around declaring how she was Pilipino (she's as pale as they come, has wicked blue eyes and blonde hair). She cried when her mother told her she was from Nova Scotia. Is it a wonder that she’s one of my best friends?

Memories of his Melancholy Whores

Am currently on a Gabriel Garcia Marquez bonanza. I am re-reading three of his works at the same time and wanted to share two things with you

The first is a short quote that is very poignant because I have always believed that nostalgia is one word for ‘bored with today’. It doesn’t mean that you are weeping or are sad for the past, but that you don’t believe – usually subconsciously – that your present is worth paying attention to. As soon as I realized that, I tried to get rid of the word ‘nostalgia’** from my own personal lexicon and tried to pay attention to details of right now. (**Another word I try to never use the active of is ‘regret’; that’s another blog entry saved for another rainy day.)

Naturally, it’s impossible not to rethink and review the past – be it for signs we missed or mere curiosity to understand a current situation – but the essence of nostalgia is usually rooted in some sort of melancholy, and so it is fitting that the title of Marquez’s work of art is Memories of my Melancholy Whores.

The quote is: ”The adolescents of my generation, greedy for life, forgot in body and soul about their hopes for the future until reality taught them that tomorrow was not what they had dreamed, and they discovered nostalgia”. (p. 38)

&

Yesterday morning while looking out through windows peeking at snow covered streets and yellow trees, I was drinking my morning coffee, listening to jazz and the following made me so sad I actually cried for both of them…

Damiana has served as the maid of the book’s main character for years; today he turns 90 …

“I could not resist the temptation to ask: Tell me something, Damiana: what do you recall? I wasn’t recalling anything, she said, but your question makes me remember. I felt a weight in my chest. I’ve never fallen in love, I told her. She replied without hesitation: I have. And she concluded, not interrupting her work: I cried over you for twenty-two years. My heart skipped a beat. Looking for a dignified way out, I said: We would have made a good team. Well, it’s wrong of you to say so now, she said, because you’re no good to me anymore even as a consolation. As she was leaving the house, she said in the most natural way: You won’t believe me but thanks be to God, I’m still a virgin.

A short while later I discovered that she had left vases filled with red roses all over the house, and a card on my pillow: I hope you reach a hunnert.” (p. 39 & 40)

I wish to close my eyes, sink in to a very thick, soft & warm chair while Gabriel Garcia Marquez reads his own stories to me.

Would you like to touch my hair?

.1. That question should be asked before you attempt to touch anyone’s hair. Or, better still, you really ought to receive an invitation to do so…I would think this could be something especially sexy (or downright creepy, depending on who’s doing the inviting).

A little while back, T and I were at the movie theatre enjoying a film. We were the only ones in our row, and there were either 5 or 6 boys seated directly behind us. Everyone else in the theatre was to the front of us.

I had my hair down and I had it flung over the back of my seat; I was sitting quite low in my seat and so this was the best way for me to be comfortable because my hair is long.

About a half an hour into the movie, I felt something on my hair, but I didn’t think much of it. Not even the second time, about 5 minutes later. The third time I felt a hand slide across my hair; I think the button on the boy’s sleeve tugged on my hair, and so my senses immediately went into overdrive and I figured out what he was doing. He was playing with my hair.

He was unabashedly touching my hair. This boy who I don’t know.

He was only about 16 years old and so, rather than embarrass him I just opted to sit up and pull my hair forward. I was mildly annoyed, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss.

That was the same evening a couple of gummy bears melted between my legs, but I’ll tell you about that some other time (and it’s really neither as perverted nor as unhygienic as it sounds…).

Earlier today, I should have recalled my feeling of “mildly annoyed” with the little boy.

I went out at lunch and was on the escalator in the shopping mall. (Although I think Madonna is crazy and hasn’t released anything worth shit since Like a Prayer, I felt obligated to purchase Confessions on a dance floor.) In front of me was a woman who had the most extraordinarily beautiful weave. It was this long wavy thick black hair and I was mesmerised by it.

For the first 5 steps, I contemplated touching her hair. Honestly, I couldn’t help myself. When we reached the 6th step, I reached out and touched her hair. I petted her. And then a man walked past us on the escalator and looked at me like I was a psychopath.

Rather than keeping my mouth shut, I kind of mumbled “It’s so soft”. He smiled, cocked an eyebrow and kept going down the stairs.

She never turned around (probably because she was arguing with her boyfriend “you’re such an asshole!” on her mobile). Lucky me.

.2. T lost 15 pounds. As a joke, she’s being introduced as thus: “This is T. She’s lost 85 pounds.”

She doesn’t think it’s as funny as we do.

.3. Madonna’s back.

Download Sorry…and then download Forbidden Love...

The Azores & friends

I am so excited about this!
H & C have just purchased a little home on the coast of the Azores. H says it is a writer's haven and so think have found my next destination; next she is there, will most likely join her with my baby mac. Sun and warm water sound terribly ideal at this point in time. LOOK!







And some more good news from friends. Isabou has landed her dream job. Felicitations, love. (God knows you deserve it...)

Does Jordan have Smees?

.1. L & R are safe in Jordan. R was at a hotel next to one of those where some asshole exploded; L had picked her up not 10 minutes earlier.

We're still waiting to receive a complete list of all those injured and those killed.

And on two lighter notes...because there's always at least one lighter note...

.2. Seated in a meeting today, one of the gentlemen said "...its the Smees that run those meetings..." and I thought: "Smees? Are those, like, little people? Like the Gnomes of this Century?"

Turned out he was talking about System Management Experts. SMEs.

.3. The driver I had this morning was a man who'd driven me before. He was trying to convince me of this and I honestly could not remember...and then I decided that this comment was appropriate:
"You weren't bald then, were you?"

Erm. Naturally, he hesitated before confirming that he'd indeed been bald for the last 11 years.

You know, it could have been much worse. I could have said something equally stellar like: "You weren't a fatso then, were you?"

I really need to get it together.

.4. Gravol: Patience in a pill.
Neo Citran: Potentially, the date rape drug.

How to meet a boy

If interested in meeting a boy, I strongly urge you to use one of my two favourite tactics:
a) Throw something at him; or,
b) Spill something all over yourself.

I recently received the phone numbers of two men, both of which I threw out, but it was still fun to receive their numbers (and a wee bit humiliating, but I’ll get to that in a second).

Both of these incidents occurred in a shopping zone, the first took place inside of a store, whereas the second unfolded on the escalator.

.1. I was in the same card store as the first boy. He was really really pretty (really) and he had this fantastic Parisian accent. I don’t know how we started chatting, but he asked me something and I responded. It was a blur because of what I did next.

Wearing a white button down shirt, I was drinking chocolate milk (moo).

After I responded to his question, he commented on my ring, telling me he thought it was ‘beautiful’ (you all now think he’s gay & that’s okay with me). I thanked him and decided that this was the appropriate moment to drink some more chocolate milk. I was just that thirsty.

I must have done this too quickly, because I put the chocolate milk to my lips and tipped it back, and then all of a sudden, it was all over my face. Well. Not my entire face, like, not my nose and eyes, or anything. Just my mouth, neck and white shirt.

I have a tendency to be slightly delusional and so I thought to myself ’Maybe he didn’t notice’. And so, as casually as possible, I pulled the chocolate milk container away and smiled at him.

He must have thought I was some kind of handicap.

He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me.

I fumbled my way through thanks and laughed at my clumsiness…and then he told me I was charming (this must be French for ‘retarded’) and gave me his number, should I be interested in having ‘chocolate meelk wiz me sum ozer tayme.’

I threw out the number and went home to take a shower.

.2. This was slightly more recent. I was on the escalator heading down. There was a man a few steps ahead and below me.

I was headed out to my car and so was holding on to my car keys in my left hand, had my mobile in my right hand and was trying to fish something out of my purse with both.

My keychain is a gorgeous (& very heavy) silver ball; a very special gift. Anyway, as I had my head buried in my purse, I accidentally flicked my hand up and propelled the large silver ball at the gentleman on the stairs below.

I couldn’t have planned it any better; my keychain smashed him in the back of the head. I almost passed out.

I stood there, completely immobilised, staring at the keychain as it flew through the air in slow motion, ending its journey by ricocheting off this man’s head. I was terrified of what it could have done and what his reaction was going to be.

I must have had my mouth open when he turned around because he smiled at me and so I took that as an immediate ‘I’m ok’ signal.

I laughed and walked down the escalator (we were near the bottom), asked him if he was okay and apologised profusely, then made the following stupid remark “I was just trying to get your attention.”

I grabbed my keys, apologised again and started to walk away. A few moments later, I found him walking next to me and saying something clever like “Instead of maiming me, all you needed to do was say hello,” and he handed me a business card.

I must admit, this was very smooth. But. I chucked the card on my way to the car so it couldn’t have been that smooth…

Libra girl / Scorpio boy Compatibility

As mentioned earlier, I’ll blog a month-by-month Libra girl / (insert that month’s sign) boy compatibility. My first blog entry in this weirdness was Libra / Libra compatibility.

What follows are excerpts from Linda Goodman’s Love Signs re the compatibility between the Libra woman and the Scorpio male. All bold font is my own idiotic commentary…and for the record, I love reading this stuff, especially when I recognize a lot of it; but the last sentence makes me wonder what kind of crack Linda’s smoking.

“I feel I have something to learn from this person,” muses Libra, when exposed to Scorpio’s unrelenting gaze. “I somehow understand this person better than anyone else ever will,” thinks the Eagle, after studying the Libran carefully.

And so they approach each other, tentatively at first, but with a certain degree of fascination – for the unknown, on the part of Libra – for the known and vulnerable on the part of Scorpio.

Scorpio, however, is far from an ‘unsuspecting soul.’ Scorpio invented the word ‘suspicious.’ You don’t fool one easily. Governed by the perceptive Pluto, most Eagles can see straight through the silk and satin of Libra’s wiles and seductions. Libra can trick Scorpio only once, if that often.

If he [Scorpio ] loves her [Libra], he’ll share more of himself with her than he ever will with anyone else, but this doesn’t mean he’ll either invite or permit her to wander around in the more private recesses of his mind, heart or soul. These secret compartments are reserved for himself and his Maker – his God.

The retaliatory surprise of a wounded or angered Scorpio can seriously shake her Libran equilibrium. This man is deeply sensitive behind his image of self-sufficiency and confidence. Libra is a masculine Sun Sign, also a Cardinal Sun Sign of leadership. A smart Scorpio man knows the Webster definition of both ‘masculine’ and ‘cardinal’. So he should comprehend that this girl, with all her womanly ways, will not become a contended concubine, not even for him. She can, at first, be undeniably convincing in her pose of soft feminine submission, especially if she really loves him. But behind her cheerful countenance and satiny façade, she’s miserable unless she’s made responsible in some way regarding matters of importance.

…if she isn’t mentally stimulated she’ll become a very sad lady. Of course, admittedly, there’s nothing more stimulating than trying to capture the love of an Eagle, but once she’s won that round, she’ll become restless.

…she needs companionship. She withers when left alone. Libra rules marriage and partnership. I think ‘withers’ may be a strong word; am single and far from 'withered'. It may be better to say that >> when *in* a relationship, Libra withers when left alone…

Scorpio can be intimidating, but a Libra woman is not easily intimidated. Quite true.

Yes, she is a female. Still, her masculine mental processes will give him a start now and then.

…his habit of silently appraising her virtues, when she needs to hear them praised aloud, of being critical in a detached and unemotional way, can trouble her more than he guesses.

The Libra woman will have to call on all her considerable reserves of charm and tact to learn to be tolerant of this man’s dark moods, his long silences. He hasn’t left her, he’s only swimming out a little further from shore than usual into the deeper waters of mediation upon life’s mysteries, and he doesn’t need a bodyguard to float along beside him. He prefers to make nocturnal excursions alone.

In the beginning, it will cause no small amount of tension between them that he sometimes communicates best with a glance, or perhaps a touch – while she communicates best the way all humans were made to communicate, verbally with sounds called words. A Scorpion, however gregarious he may be regarding other areas of his life, will never find it easy to be excessively verbal when expressing his emotional or sexual or romantic feelings. If there’s a harmonizing Sun-Moon aspect between their birth charts, she’ll understand this, begin to measure her words and communicate more often with her dazzling Libra smile – and an eloquent silence. This is interesting, because the Scorpio men I’ve met, I’ve always been exceptionally compatible with, and it has to do with the latter part of this, which is reflected in the fact that I was born under a Scorpio moon (this, of course, if you give a shit about Sun Signs).

Her fondness for fun and people and entertaining can be a sticky net for the Scorpio who’s easily lured into losing himself through various escapes, from drinking or the temporary high (or low) of grass, to ever more dangerous artificial stimulation. I guess this means I really have to give up the cocaine. Damn it!**

However, an evolved Scorpio male of tenacity and purpose (and there are plenty of these) who can resist such siren songs – and the enlightened, mentally stable, emotionally balanced Libra woman (the kind who far outnumber the Libran party girls) have a solid chance to form a strong association when they fall in love with their heads and hearts in equal measure.

It’s safer for their marriage if she trusts him than if she doubts him.

Marry her, or you’ll just lose her – to another man, perhaps – or she’ll find a sensational career to wed. Libra women play all games for keeps.

The funny thing is that the idea itself will probably have originally been hers, not his. She’ll sweetly plant in her lover’s mind so subtly and gently, he’ll forget where it came from and be innocently convinced it was his suggestion in the first place. That’s what astrology means by the female Libran’s ‘iron fist in a velvet glove.’ When it punches out the perception of a Scorpio, you can be certain it’s mighty powerful, however velvety.

And unlike the unfortunate Libra / Libra sexual compatibility, the following gives me hope! The Scorpio man will probably satisfy every sensual and erotic longing, every secret need for affection and fierce devotion the Libra girl has ever dreamed about romantically – except one. He definitely will not recite poetry to her in the middle of their mating – nor will he whisper declarations of his devotion about her during their intimate moments. Good, because I would think that the recital of poetry during 'mating' would make me laugh my ass off. I bet Pisces does this...they're such little girls...I KID.She’ll remind him, perhaps even coach him. He will attempt to comply. But since this sort of thing lacks spontaneity, she’ll begin to think he doesn’t really love her. He does. But this man is uneasy with open displays of sentiment and romance. He thinks he proves he loves his woman by both his loyalty and his sexual intensity. Why should she need words, to hear him repeat ‘I love you’ constantly? I don’t know why, but she does need it.

Using Libra logic, I’ll remind the Eagle that a small amount of spoken endearements will prevent a large amount of unreasonable jealousy. Even something as cute as 'Nice rack!' would suffice. Humor, gentlemen. Always humor. Whether his features are plain or handsome, the magnetic force field of Pluto pulses in his aura, and his undeniable magnetism with women can make this lady very jealous. Could Juliet have doubted Romeo, with such constant declarations of love? Nor did she. Nor will this Libra woman, if she receives her Juliet birthright from him.

It might be a blessing to us all that they fell in love. She can provide an idealistic outlet for his controlled but driving ambition, helping him guide it into channels that could bring justice to the planet’s abused and weary souls. His deeper wisdom will check her airy indecisions, gently molding them into a sensible approach to her daydreams. Her logical mind will help him straighten out the complicated tangles of career, family or personal involvements which are sooner or later faced, to some degree, by every Water Sign, even invincible Scorpio.

The combining of the Eagle’s bottomless confidence with his Libra woman’s great sense of fairness can be a beneficent thing for everyone within their sphere of influence. Their personal love has an excellent chance to expand outside themselves into a tremendous energy for all mankind and womankind. If the two of them should silently meditate together within the Pyramid or whisper magic mantras in an ancient Incan temple…what wonders might occur!

**The cocaine reference is a joke; I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between it and icing sugar.

See you next month!

Ha ha ha

D took us to Just For Laughs show this evening. I was excited to attend because I absolutely. Adore...

Shaun Majumder.

He was the host and…then there were:
.1. Scott Faulconbridge:He likes to wear diapers on his head. My dad could use to learn from him. And…he received the biggest laugh from me when he was discussing male shrinkage in cold water and ended with “…In cold water, I have a vagina…”
.2. Rod 'Rodman' Thompson:His wife must adore him and I thought he was hysterical, most especially when he was talking to Whitie in the front row, saying he probably didn’t understand him.
.3. Rocky LaPorte:I almost passed out because I was laughing so hard and forgot to breath.
.4. Carl Barron: An Australian dude who spoke his own special language and has forever affected the way I wear flip flops.
.5. Ryan Belleville: A Canadian boy living in L.A. (whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?!) who pretty much killed me. This guy’s energy level is insane and I almost collapsed a lung.

But I was there for Shaun.

I still remember the first time I saw him; he was wearing a baby bonnet and seated in a baby seat for some comedy skit. An image I couldn’t erase while we were chatting later. Frankly, there’s not too many men who would leave me wanting more if the baby bonnet were the first impression…make certain you listen to the sound clips at the bottom of his page; I almost wet myself listening to Learning Chinese.

Here we are backstage (This photo was taken right after he forced me to hold his grapes (fascist!))...


He may be an excellent comedian but he is a shit blogger. GET BLOGGING, SHAUN! (& erm. Will gladly hold your grapes any day.)

Oh! Make certain you catch the Just for Laughs show when it comes to your area (they went to Moncton...apparently, they'll go anywhere...)

When they say "bow"

.1. As I left the court room today, I was asked to "bow to the bench" before they'd allow me to exit. I didn't know what that meant (I should, considering I studied Law), and so found myself in a full-out curtsey that would have made the best debutants green with envy.

The man who had told me about this condition to "bow to the bench", looked at me like I was a psychopath and then broke out into a little giggle. I giggled back, but was uncertain about what we were giggling (I later figured out we were both laughing at me).

I think all I needed to do was actually nod at the Judge.

Sometimes, it's fun to be me.

.2. On my way back, I walked past a hotel and there was a man getting into his car. He followed me while by3akisni, which in English means something along the lines of flirting, but is usually only one-way (whereas flirting usually entails a two way interaction). He wasn't rude or crass, and he was a relatively young and attractive man. Maybe in his late 30s.

I had my music on and so I didn't hear him at first. I noticed something creeping alongside me instead. A blur out of the corner of my eye, I eventually turned to notice what it was.

He offered me a ride "in [his] Ferrari". He felt obligated to tell me the make of his car because I may have mistaken it for a Chevrolet. You know how us girls can be.

Politely, I declined...& he was actually a little taken aback by this and once again referred to the make of his car, The Ferrari.

Here's the thing. I like nice boys. I like nice boys who aren't flashy (even when they have enough money to buy 200 Ferraris); that this man kept referring to his car as though it were an appendage I needed to take note of was really quite comical.

What a strange guy. I imagine he's relatively boring company...

Maybe if he was in a Chevrolet, I would've been kinder (although I still wouldn't have taken the ride).

Tragedy Khadafi

This coming Monday, on November 7th, Booker Sim will have his NYC premiere of Tragedy: The Story of Queensbridge.

I honestly wish I could be there. First and foremost because Booker is such a nice guy and one worthy of support (not my opinion alone) and because Tragedy Khadafi is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Am listening to Still Reporting right now.

And...for the record, I love the new poster for the documentary. The older version, with the gun had no essence of hope to it. He's praying in this one, since his hands are positioned proper for Muslim du'a (prayer). I got goose bumps when I saw the new poster; it's a much more powerful image than the previous. Job well done (Bravo!).

Graduate Students are a Mosqueing

.1. Mosqueing: The act of going to Mosque.
E.g."Are you Mosqueing tonight?"
"Yeah. We're heading over there after breaking fast."
"Cool. Call me when you're done Mosqueing."
"Ok."

T & I made that up. Hope no one things ‘tis sacrilegious (when it's really just funny).

.2. Last night, L’s laptop freaked out and shut itself off from the world. She was completing a presentation that she had to give at one of her Graduate seminars this morning.

After her computer freaked out, she freaked out and landed at T’s, where they redid the presentation – over the course of 4.5 hours – on T’s laptop (which L is using, as I type, to give her presentation).

For the duration of the 4.5 hours, L was sobbing while dictating to T. Usually, the conversation would go astray and L would begin as thus “…start a new bullet. *sniff* Type: uhm. Oh my god I can’t do this. *sniff*. Ok. TYPE: POWERPOINT SUCKS! *sniff* *wheeze* *sniff*…”

Unbeknownst to me, I was there for comic relief. I discovered this mere moments after I opened my mouth for the first time and decided to punctuate L’s hysteria with “So I was thinking, you know, that there’s really no need to shop so much when you have girlfriends who have the same style and are the same size.”

I was dead serious, having deep thoughts while drinking my warm milk. Rather than berate me for being so shallow at such an inappropriate time, I was instead greeted with “Oh my God, absolutely! Go try on my new winter jacket.”

.3. While I was completing my M.A., I too occasionally broke down and rang T, wailing about how I was never going to complete my Thesis.

This, then, begs the question: Is crying an inherent part of a Graduate student’s life?

Imagine the poor bastards completing a PhD.

.4. I drink warm milk every night. It’s a staple of my diet…much like the diets of young barnyard animals, actually.

Warm Company & Great Music

.1. A whole lot o' you keep asking me to open up the Comments field on this blog.

Guess what?

Comments are now open, beginning at Cusack ushers me into my Carlsberg years.

Go crazy.

.2. Last night had a great evening with three brilliant and hilarious women. No matter where L is, her place is always home. She has this unique ability to find the most incredibly rustic apartments (& this new one of hers is no exception). As soon as I walked in, I felt as though I had just arrived, at home.

On the way out, R made a good point; that it is L's Art History major that gives her the talent and the know-how for making any space comfortable to any visitor.

With my strawberry and cinnamon tea, I sat in the rocking chair for our 5 hours of private heaven, our soundtrack being The Best of Bill Evans on Verve (think Chet, but without the vocals). This morning, I woke up thinking: I can't wait to see these women again, and soon.

.3. One of this generation's greatest contributions to the world of music is Enigma's MCMXC a.D. (Limited Edition). No matter where I might be, this CD is always with me, and that's the way it's been for the last 14 years.