BEST...EPISODE...EVER

Halloween.  I fucking love the shit out of this made up and inconsequential holiday of ghouls, ghosts and goddamn sluts.  Yeah, even the sluts I find favorable at the moment...even sluts can be redeeming once covered in blood and cuts.  So a few glasses of wine in, I turn on XXII.  It was so well executed it seemed to not even have happened.  So good in fact that I forget the lot of it, 'cept for the amazing satisfactory feeling I received throughout and following.  What a throwback to the ole days...cleverness oozing from every pencil sketch and delivered dialogue.  Witty, humorous, topical...relevant.  Like a man, it was brilliant in its original state, but I'm sure I'll find something to dislike...greatly, soon enough.  Saturday night - wandered on down to my local Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra to catch Psycho and some brilliant musical styling.  I showed early so I could partake in the awesome wine selection and smoke a doobie before partaking in Hitchcock and his humor.  I had forgotten his propensity towards humor...so funny!  I sulked about the room with my glass of red, lonely and lost when I hear my name...a gorgeous and apt friend of mine works the events at Epcor.  Superb!  We chat about and make plans for the following moments after the show.  She teaches me all about the sweet "loge" I will be housed in(and the fine art of drinking gin once settled in our cozy pub) and I proceed to find my seats all baked and wasted and junk.  Argentina is my new befuddled home away from home.  So the show...Psycho...big screen...wicked seats...the fucking orchestra supplying all of the movie making music supported by a super hot french chick who was way too young and far too talented.  Henceforth...all films in the future will provide live music or I shan't be inclined to participate.  It was goddamn wonderful.  Intermission I consumed more appetizing wine at a furious rate and stroll about the room with such an inflated sense of self esteem...it was nearly troubling.  Anyhoo...show ends and Lovely Friend and I hop on over to the local watering hole for a brewsky and some chitty chat.  I, who had not slept for like three days previous was ready for pass-out time following awesome conversing with skilled friendo, headed to the train for a quick trip home.  I get this wicked bad feeling.  I felt exposed, vulnerable.  Not good vulnerable, but I am going to get fucked and left for dead kind of frailty...the kind of fragility exploited in films for prophet and shock value.  So, trying to ignore my guts(not recommended ever), crammed my ear phones in to listen to some calming musac.  The effing Ipod wouldn't work and this was enough of a sign for me.  I skedaddled back to a well lit and open bus-picking-up area.  I shit you people not...the moment I felt safe and illuminated for potential rapists to see...the Ipod turned on and played.  In my state I thought that was pretty fucking cool...now I think it's pretty fucking awesome.  Technology may have saved my life...and yet I abhor it so still.  Ah well...The Simpsons paid obeisance to Psycho tonight and that was the point of this entry...mmmm, relevance.

Foundation of Fraudulence

Is it true?  Is no one happy?  Would I know if I was?  Is it so that when recognition of happiness occurs, it's already passing?  On its way to a more lucrative hustle who will cherish it far more aggressively than I?  I need a challenge.  A testament to my patient and stoic nature.  Ha.  I've always felt like I've been working towards something special.  Anything i do is usually a new challenge...a progression of sorts, in some regard.  'Cept when it comes to matters of the heart.  What an ignorant and empty fucking statement that is.  I am foolish.  Reprehensibly so.  I do stupid things daily.  It usually turns out alright and when it refuses to...well, shit.  Shittiness permeates my decision making abilities.  What the hell is timing?  I'll tell you exactly:  fucked in the butt hole...and not the good kind.  No little pinky with a dollop of lube, but a fist...a drunken Irish mans sweaty and engorged meat mit pounding the ole lookie lou without regard or remorse.  Now I know that was somewhat graphic and disturbing...the Irish are despicably horrific human beings and i know all to well about the anger we carry about, waiting for the most inopportune moment to erupt and unleash a wrath of fury previously thought to be extinct in us learned creatures.  I'm a freak.  Can't I change the Game?  Am I even required to play?  I think I'll just say pass til someone wins and I can go home...inebriated and alone.  Sounds mournful or positively delightful - depending on the day.  Today more so the former.  I need to get smarter, better at everything I care about.  Distractions will be my source of power and ultimate strength.  Now who's the cheese eatin' surrender monkey?  Although, investment is essential to surrender so maybe that's not.. quite.. it.. either. 

Discerning Taste

I have it...and I know when I'm being shit on and lied to.  I despise actors.  I abhor other actors.  I believe that to be the reason i haven't flown the coup to be a part of the mass hysteria that is America.  They talk so very much about themselves.  No, scratch that...they converse only about others-those they know or who are related to in some fabulous and related fashion to their passionate endeavors on stage or film.  Fuck, it makes me want to wretch.  I was subjected to such scrutiny and masturbation this evening.  Though it is 2am I, low and behold, quite sober...and obviously angry.  I am not interested in verbal diarrhea-ing myself to complete strangers about what I've accomplished in the "theatre world"(it's small  and incestuous), nor am I concerned with who I've met/fucked/worked with or been born from.  Why cannot a real conversation occur between these people...I ask myself whilst consuming Tuborg at a furious rate?  There must be more to our feeble and empty lives than rehearsing regurgitated diatribes and tossing them to one another like a pile of steaming fecal matter.  I would have much rather carried on a convo with the waitress about Vegas and the drunken time she would have with her mommy than listen to another masturbatory statement about who has offered you what role and which director you "love more than life".  We people circulate round a drain of insecurity and ego...striving for recognition and appreciation in a false world of make believe.  I do my best to remain apart form this absolute cesspool of a wank fest but when immersed so fully without my permission, I get a little pissy.  I want more to offer the world than a good story and a fleeting remembrance of shit accomplished...it's only what we do, though ever passionate about, not....NOT who we are.  Now get me another fucking Tuborg.

Where the Brink Meets the Beaten

I will never understand the life I've lived and what has brought me here.  I will never understand why I haven't more time.  One hundred seconds or one hundred years...they go by just the same...in a blink and a whisper.  Death comes knowingly and yet I still waste the minutes in less wonder and more worry.  I have missed so much in these years of mine.  Moments mean nothing til they've passed and now nothing still.  I value that which forever eludes me.  Shall I be grateful?  Is that the proper way to soldier on?  Shall I scream of things forbidden to the blackened sky with only my lovers headlights to further my ferocity?  Perhaps I shall remain awake for my future days so as to not squander the ticks of clock i have left.  Why contemplate such things if our paths are so written...the truth will never find me for tomorrow I shall wake and mistake it all again.

Morbid Me and My Mortality

I am going to die someday.  It's cool.  Worse however, is the fact that I shall age...and then perish.  There will come a time when my ears are larger than my face, wrinkles will be the only calling card of who I once was, repeating myself will be expected and ignored(even laughed at), and I will be alone in all of this misery.  Why are we given youth if only to have it stripped from our flesh and replaced with folds of a forgotten past and a sucky future.  At some point I will not be able to stand on one leg, remove my shoe and shimmy a rock embedded in the sole.  I won't be able to walk great distances without my family fearing a tumble or for death to find me there amongst the fall leaves.  Society will ignore me, and individuals will pity me.  Or worse, they'll say to themselves, "Look at that cute old lady trying to traverse that step up the sidewalk."  Ugh, worse than pity and death.  Our world holds youth and vitality in such esteem, I admit, I tend to get caught up in it all as well.  However, I don't think it's the way society perceives aging that bothers me as much as being useless does.  You begin your life in diapers and finish it making toilet paper pumpkins, of which, you are so very proud.  When will my time come that toilet paper pumpkins will be the highlight of my day?  How soon will the degradation of my body limit everything I hold dear?  Now that I am aware of time and its passing, my life will be over and the slow painstaking march to death that tragically takes place is all that will await me.  Waiting to be worm food and nothing more.  Doesn't seem fair to give us just a taste of beauty, lust, use, and energy, only to gradually siphon it all off the top so incrementally that one day you wake up and you're in a home with other death door candidates...waiting an endless wait of puzzles, 5pm suppers and sleep.  I hope I get hit by a bus on my eightieth birthday.  

I Love(the idea of)You

All of the time.  All the time this happens...I perpetuate because it feels so good to feel so bad.  I make a person into something they should be, I am rudely awakened to the disappointment of who they really are and what they offer, and our separate ways present themselves-in the form of tears and regret...mostly.  We all know what the feminist movement did to women.  Where did the men get left?  Somewhere between confusion and arousal methinks.  They love our exclusive ways...our take no prisoners attitude.  However they(and I suspect us) cannot reconcile our independence with our vulnerability.  We are meek creatures with big hearts and infinite tear ducts.  Sure we want our space and resulting freedom to do as we please in skirts and heels if so inclined.  We also want to be taken care of.  To be the one nurtured for a change...to be so immersed in passion that we forget all the bullshit we're suppose to be remaining strong about and fall into orgasmic bliss.  The problem lies in the truth of it all for the truth is so very shallow.  The realness behind our tactics are so vacant that to speak them out loud would ruin the whole party of nothing we set up for ourselves.  A gathering of emptys' on a doorstep had the promise of enjoyment and that's how we all live our lives.  Falsely piling empties till it's time to recycle and face the inevitable stained and moldy staircase.  Men want women and women want men.  It's only ever been this simple.  We complicate with our "ideas" of what is or should be.  We live in a perpetual dichotomy of wanting what we want and struggling against those wants out of fear someone will recognize us as frauds, judge such fraudulent behavior and demolish the shells we've contained our petty games in.  I think that I have encased my essence inside so many layers that i am incapable of love.  I do not say this to evoke some knee-jerk pity response, but to attempt to understand how to remove the whole lot.  Sure bad things happen...sometimes really bad things...but what have you be shown about yourself now that you can use?  Hiding behind my enclosure is no way.  I want to live so real it scares other people.  Literally people will run from me.  The things I hold back on a daily basis out of social responsibility, courtesy(not to say I'm going to be a dick), and trepidation are outrageous.  Frailty is not highly regarded in our society...we can wear slacks and vote but perish the thought we be real.  What if my "realness" is not the reality I see for myself?  It's true to who I am but not who I'd like to be.  Then what?  Then I have no choice but to live in this vortex of blighted hope and candor...  waiting ever so patiently for the rest of the world to join me.  Maybe if I could stop judging others, see their truth and love them...regardless of ambitions and grammar...I would have that freedom from my layers I so detest to find peace, passion and a nice hard cock.