not so much a terrier today

My friend Tom took to calling me the Terrier because he knows I can be pretty single-minded. When I'm in Terrier Mode, I can get anything done. grrrrr grrrrr rrrrrr rrrrrrr.

But this the first weekend in a long time where I've been able to do whatever I want. I have no plans, no obligations, nothing to be a terrier about. I do have the three DVDs for The Office though (loaned from a friend), and a whole lot of cold beer. Do the math.

The other option, naturally, is to stay home, watch TV, eat cornchips, and masturbate. (see below)


The Terrier Song (Kids in the Hall)

(Dialog)

Kevin (in drag, holding a dog): "I just got him and I love him and I'm going to name him and it's going to be a perfect name 'cause he's the perfect dog and I love him....isn't he great?"

Bruce: "No. I don't like him."

K: "What?"

B: "Sorry."

K: "What's wrong with him?"

B: "He's just not my type of dog . . . he's just not . . . a terrier!"

(sung by Bruce)

Terriers are my very favourite breed.
They're cute and cuddly and easy dogs to feed.
They'll bring you up whenever you are down.
Terriers average 20 pounds.
When I walk around in this terrier town,
One thing that makes me down,
Is when people put bandanas on their dogs.

Terriers are my very favourite breed,
Cute and cuddly, easy dogs to feed.
Terriers were there in the 11th century,
Napoleon had one to prevent misery.
Terriers are good with the aged,
Studies show that they prolong old peoples' lives.
No one wants to die,
Like this guy died.
Die die, die die.
Die die, die die.
Worms eating your eyes.
Bass solo.

(Notices women behind him in black bikinis and veils.)

Ah, excuse me ladies, you're scantily clad and have nothing to do with the narrative. Therefore, it's sexist. Sorry.

(They go away.)

Wow, that hurt.

You know those mornings that you just can't get out of bed, and you call in sick, if you had a job. You know those mornings when you just wanna watch TV, eat corn chips and masturbate.

Sure you do.

Well, when those days happen . . .
what you should do is start thinking about my friends.
My little furry, waterproof pals.
You know I'm talking about . . .

Les terriers sont mes types favourites,
Jolies, charmantes.
Pas de probleme a maintenir.
Il donnent du joie.
Quand tu es "blue."
Les terries sont a peu pres,
Vingt livres.

Give terriers a chance (Yeah!)
Do the terrier dance.
No, let's not.
But if you want your love to show,
If you want your love to grow.
Then go terri-, go terri-, go terri- errr.

(dialog)

B: "See, your dog just isn't good enough."

K: "I guess you're right."

Will this get me laid? Alright, I’ll take two.

(Read that line with a Norwegian accent.) This was the famous line uttered by Tomas in a surf shop in Oregon, as he was thinking about buying a shirt or something. Tomas was one of the gang of young Norwegian guys I knew in university. Tomas hit on every woman, using the most outrageous lines. On meeting a girl friend of mine and shaking her hand he said – without an ounce of shame, and hear the thick accent, now – “Oooh. Your hands are so cold. I hate to say it but you need a man to keep you warm.” OK, that's not that outrageous, but you get the idea.

The Norwegians were unstoppable. They could eat more, drink more, study more, fuck more, and do it all with an easy manner, complete conviction, and big wholesome grins on their faces. Typical day as far as I could tell (weekends anyway): Drink a two-four (one case each that is), party until 5 AM, then get up at 7 AM to bike a few hundred kilometers up the Sea-to-Sky highway, climb a mountain, fight off grizzlies (stripped to the waist and with their bare hands) to gather wild honey, kayak home, bake bread, eat it with the wild honey while quickly tossing off an A+ term paper, and then be ready to start drinking again by early afternoon.

Aanon, (pronounced Oh-nen) my favourite if only for his cool name, was an objectively beautiful man, one of the drinker-cyclist-maniacs who still managed to make and eat healthy well-balanced meals and get excellent grades in school. But he was kind of cold and aloof, so we never really got close. The other thing that made him my favourite was that he used to answer the door wearing nothing but astonishing underwear. Red bikini briefs. Slutty European sexuality-is-healthy-and-fun underwear that strained my WASP-y sense of shame and propriety as surely as his nasty Norwegian meat package strained the fabric of those shocking man-panties.

He’d just fling open the door like he was expecting family for Christmas dinner. Lean against the door-jamb, casually fling one arm across to the other side, and say “Well, hello there!” First thought: Oh my god the man is naked. Then I would catch a glimpse of some wisp of garish material in the crotchal region in the bottom of my peripheral vision. Leading to the second thought: “don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down”. And as he stood there completely unselfconscious I tried to do the same, tried to look like I saw men in their underwear all the time and not blush and not let my voice crack as I asked “Is Monica home?”

Why can't a woman be just what she seems? Must she be tarnished by men who can only be men in their dreams?

Oh Elvis.

Do you see why I love this man?

I also heard him interviewed by the somehow almost ubiquitous Sook-Yin Lee on CBC's Definitely Not the Opera (DNTO for those in the know). Despite being (ahem) "widely known throughout Canada as a gifted musician, actor, filmmaker, television host and producer" (sorry, what?), I don't think she has any idea what makes good radio, and it always sounds like she's trying TOO HARD. (How I miss the dulcet tones and calm confidence of former host, Nora Young.)

Anyway, in yet another awkwardly conducted interview, Sook-Yin was talking with Elvis and she said something like: "On your latest album, I hear a lot of urgency and intensity. Where does that come from?" He said "Well, I feel intense and urgent most of the time."

Oh, me too, Elvis. Me too.

(And by the way, the answer to first question is: who is? and the answer to the second question is: no, no they don't have to be.)

are you?

...lying in a pool of your own vomit?
...choking on a fried 'nanner sandwich?
...watching reruns of The Golden Girls and wondering WHY ANYONE WOULD SLEEP WITH BLANCHE?

I'm not. I don't need to watch reruns to wonder that.

Hell hath no fury

People who know me know that while I can occasionally be in a very foul mood or have a sharp tongue, I am not a mean person, I don't take pleasure in hurting people, and am terrible at harbouring grudges or truly being vindictive.

But feel free to buy me this.

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage

Anais Nin (whom I've never read, so many gaps in my education, it's not like the 7th century anymore where you could study your arse off from age 8 until you were 21 and really KNOW EVERYTHING there was to know) supposedly said that. I read the quote on an etching of Anna Jane McIntyre's.

I met AJM in first year university. She had a good noodle on her and a quick wit, but never studied. She just drew constantly and played the bongos and danced everywhere and took no guff and played early electronica for me. Then she disappeared, and as it turns out, went to a good art school. I bumped into her on Dundas Street in Toronto a few years ago. It was snowing and she was walking a small dog that wasn't hers. We've been in touch on and off since. Pretty much everything she's produced is something I'd want on my walls.

My friend Louise is going away very soon for a month to hike a pilgrimage trail in France and Spain on her own. She is a gorgeous fabulous brilliant woman, and I don't know if she's read Nin, but she's certainly living as though by that one line.

I'm your #1 fan

I was 21 or so when I fell in love. It was a pure, spiritual, intellectual love, not one weighed down with the confusion of lust or the ache of real desire. I didn’t require reciprocation. It was clear-eyed but heart-pounding, like the kind of crushes I regularly developed on my favourite professors. (I didn’t want to kiss them or sleep with them. I just wanted to listen to them go on and on, being all smart like that, being all enthused about what they studied, being so encouraging and engaging.) Anyway, it was my good friend Paul, who couldn’t believe we hadn’t really met before yet, who set me up with him. I fell for him fast and hard.

But I was almost 30 before I finally saw Elvis Costello in concert.

Here is where I go into a blissed-out reverie about how fabulous he was live.

And then that night, after the concert, I had the Best Fan Dream Ever.

I dreamt that Elvis and I were out for coffee, you know, me and Elvis, buddies, just shootin’ the shit. We were sitting in a cafe and he was telling me about his upcoming marriage to Diana Krall. (I listened patiently, happy that my friend had found a true love he was happy about, though I didn’t know much about her or particularly like her music.) Anyway, I told him about how things were at work, and mentioned that I was writing a lot of poetry on the side. “Poetry?” he said. “Yeah, I dabble a little,” I said. “Do you have any of it with you that I could read?” he asks. “Sure,” I say. And I reach under the little round café table where I discover my hands going straight to a five-inch stack of papers bound with a big rubber band that I suddenly just happen to have with me. I completely unselfconsciously heave it up on the table in front of him and explain “Some of it I’m still working on.”

So then Elvis, totally unperturbed by the ridiculous volume of material I’ve just presented to him, demonstrates his own capacity for friendly patience by reading through a bunch of it, and as he does, he gets more and more animated and excited (in a completely together, low-key, super-cool mature-musical-innovator-and-new-wave-punk-rocker kind of way). He says in a low voice “This is all very good. I think I could work with this actually.” Then he looks at me and says quite seriously, “I think I have my next album here. Normally I like to work with my own words, but I’d really like to use yours and just write the music.” And in the dream I was so flattered and excited and totally pumped.

So, I slowly woke up toward the end of this dream, and there was a moment where I was both still dreaming and totally aware that I was dreaming, so by the time I was actually awake, I was giggling out loud at the sheer awesomeness of my dream. What nerve I had! How delighted I was that Elvis wanted to work with me! How completely prepared I was to collaborate with him like it was the most natural thing in the world!

It’s a great day when you can wake up laughing like that.

And while I’ve got that loving feeling going on, I’ll just quickly confess to my former profs Drs. Menkis, Arbel, Mulholland, and Oberoi -- even the memory of being in your classes still makes my heart go pitter-pat.

Blogging is soooo 2002

Look, I only JUST started wearing 3/4 length sleeves, which have been in since the dawn of the new millenium. I'm slow.

I'm still holding out on the cell phone though.