five deadly everythings...

22 Twos.

Too many brothers wanna be lovers, don't know what romance is / Too many bitches stuck up from too many sexual advances / No question; Jay-Z got too many answers...That's 22 Twos for y'all motherfuckers out there, ya nahmean? Shall I continue? - Jay Z

That's a pretty random quote. But there you go.

It's our two year anniversary. Too crazy. Christianne is now officially my longest running relationship with a member of the opposite sex who isn't a puppy named Salem.

We didn't quite get to celebrate the way we wanted to because she has a major essay due tomorrow. But I hung out at her house while she typed and we got to watch TV together -- America's Next Top Model. It's OK though, cuz we're having two anniversaries. The next one will be a whole day event, once her mom leaves and goes back to the US.

It's hard to believe that around this time two years ago we were talking like we were never going to take that next step. We were both dealing with personal issues and overweight mental baggage. I maintained that I wouldn't date her "for two years, or until I've had two other girlfriends", whichever came first. If I dated Chris I knew it would be serious and I didn't want to risk fucking that up. I figured I either needed time or experience. She agreed. She knew about my depression and I knew about her various hangups when it came to relationships/boys, and we both respected the ambiguous line we had drawn for each other.

But hey, shit happens. Maybe we were lying to ourselves the whole time, playing it cool, or maybe we really meant what we said but got caught up in the moment, but either way, we ended up becoming official. I won't tell the story here because I know she doesn't want me to, but let's say it was a funny night, full of the sommersaulting emotions that, though they surprised me that night, I've grown to expect from her.

Let me tell you though, we've been through some shit. We get along really well, and we're both level headed so we don't fight as much as I think other couples do. We don't have fundamental problems with each other's character. Most of our fights stem from the issues we have with ourselves, our own hangups, insecurities, depressions, that we end up unloading on the other person in our weaker moments. But for the most part, we're straight.

It's been a great two years. For someone who's been actively dealing with depression, I can say that I've spent an abnormal amount of time laughing and smiling, and that's a lot to do with my girlfriend. I don't like to admit it to her face, but I think she's funny. It goes against my whole "girls ain't funny" thing. And if there's one thing I hate, it's going against my things.

That's something she's been able to accomplish though -- changing me or getting me to admit things about myself. I've changed a lot in the two years that I've known her. I've become more political, goofier, more mature, differently romantic, angrier, calmer, I've changed religions, I've dropped out of school. And whether she was the cause of these paradigm shifts or not, she was always there beside me, either encouraging me on or giving me someone to talk to about my ever shifting world views. She not only listened but debated, supported, and shed light on the shadows of my sometimes narrow pathed perspective. She is the center around which I've pivoted. She's been both the shoulder I've cried on and the tearing eyes I've yelled at.

A lot of couples focus mainly on the future. They wistfully talk about marrige, children, how many dogs they will have. My relationship with Chris has been so great that it's made it possible for me to live in the beauty of the present. What has passed and will come to pass matter less than the present moment, the truth of my existence: she's here, beside me, in my heart, in my mind, right now, now, now.

Nothing else matters. Two years. Will it be two more? 10? It's hard to say, fun to speculate, and romantic to dream. But when it comes down to it, I don't really think about it that much because I'm too busy enjoying the here and now, with her, whether we're off on a romantic dinner or sitting and reading magazines and not even talking. It seems almost a shame to have to quantify or qualify our relationship with numbers.

And like what happened to my "two years or two girls" promise, our connection to each other is strong enough to shatter any number, any perception of time, space or duration.

But that said, it's been a crazy great two years.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:42:00 a.m. | Permalink

Movement.

Sylvia has always lived to my left. Her family is one of the staples in my life, their household a landmark on my street. We have inside jokes that run from before I can remember.

The house to my right, on the literal other hand, has always been one of flux and mystery. The first family to live there during my lifetime, I remember very little about. Italian or Portuguese. Prone to mixing their own homemade tomato sauce in big wooden barrels, sitting outside on their stoop but never acknowledging my existence.

I remember being locked out of my house and staying in their basement until my parents came home. I was tripping out at the fact that their interior was an exact duplicate of ours, but backwards like a mirror image. I thought of allusions to the Bizarro Universe and the Looking Glass. Same kitchen tiles, same wooden steps, same room layout. Gas powered fireplace instead of our log-filled pit. White stove instead of our olive green. They sat me in their basement and never came to check up on me.

I believe the father passed away and they moved.

A month or so later Lance and his family moved in. They were black, which was a very big deal to me because I had been surrounded my whole life by Mediterranean families. They were the only people on my street with skin darker than mine. Drawn to their "exotic" look, I remember asking my father why they were called "black" when their skin was so obviously a shade of brown. "Don't ask them that question, they don't like that", answered my father. "You'll understand one day", he said.

Lance eventually contracted throat cancer after years of gnawing at chewing tabacco. I liked Lance. They moved before he passed and I never got to say my farewells.

The third family to live on my right, the one still currently living there, has always fascinated me. When they first moved in it was impossible to gauge the age of the older children (a brother and sister pair). At first I believed them to be my sister's age, but then I noticed that they drove cars -- too old. Then I noticed that it seemed like they never went to school. Drop outs or already graduated? To this day I still do not know their approximate age. The boy seems like he's balding now, but then again, so do I.

He has a lot of friends and they are always over. Sometimes it seems like his friends are having a party and he's not even there. He's got a thing for Harleys and really bad music. He's been blasting bad music and staring at hogs for years.

I used to crush on the older sister. When she was younger she looked kind of like Britney Spears, and she smiled at me once while she was fixing her mountain bike. I liked the fact that she rode her bike around a lot and seemed oddly dedicated to its maintenance. She washed it about once a week. She's older now and not so pretty. Like Britney herself, she's gone from hot to just looking-like-everyone-else.

I never talked to either of them.

The little sister is a different story. She's a spaz, apparently suffering from some extreme form of ADD. Unlike her sister, she's horribly unattractive, inside and out. She swears a lot, yells at people, and treats the whole neighborhood like her own snot nose -- she's all up in that shit. She used to use my basketball net without asking, and I've often found her sitting in our backyard, eating our grapes. She's the ringleader of the neighborhood 'tween girls. She run tings.

Tony is their father. He's a short, powerful man. Big smile, big calloused hands, face sinking under a wave of worry lines. He worked in construction and it showed in his obsessive lawn maintenance. He would even mow our lawn as well as his, shovel our driveway. He built a concrete path leading to his backyard. He's built so much shit and done so many renovations that I can't really remember what that house looked like before he moved in.

He's a nice guy, the only one in that family that I feel comfortable waving "hello" to.

He recently contracted multiple sclerosis, and the effects are already visible. I don't see him working around the house like I used to. Now he sits in his garage and watches the world go by. His son does the lawn work. When he walks, it's awkwardly and with a cane, and I can see the struggle in his face.

It makes me sad to watch his range of motion deteriorate. He's losing control of his body, and all I can do to help is wave "hello". If history repeats itself, then Tony's last controlled movement may be to leave this house, this street, ushering in yet a new set of neighbours.

A new set of strangers for me to wave to and wonder about and feel bad that I never got to know them.

It makes me wonder if anyone will notice when I finally move out. If anyone will feel bad that they never waved.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:07:00 a.m. | Permalink

Catney, Chen, and Cecilia

Noel Catney and his colleagues are correct. No joy comes ouf of this situation. I've tried to write this entry several times, and can never quite capture my emotions and thoughts perfectly.

I have strong reservations when it comes to policemen. I am afraid of them, and I am sorry that it often leads to me stereotyping them. Above all though, I am afraid of their power, both symbolic and physical. As the ones we entrust with bringing about justice, they wield an incredible capacity for doing both harm and good. This is evident throughout history.

I want everyone to understand: I am proud of and grateful for Catney's (and his force's) work on this case. I know how hard they all worked; passionately, diligently. Their dedication to their jobs and to Celcilia and her family is immeasurable. Cecelia's case was one that touched a deep and sensitive nerve in our community. I don't think I've ever been affected by a story as much as I have by Cecelia's. We were/are lucky to have dedicated investigators like Catney.

That said though, I have some problems with Catney's official statements regarding the man charged with Cecilia's murder, Min Chen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is not just a murderer. This is the most despicable of criminals. This is a child murderer".

Mr. Catney, I understand the emotional weight you feel. I understand the drive, the hatred even, the rage. But you being the chief of our police, holding the authority that you do, I demand better. You caught the suspect, and you did your job admirably. It does not mean, however, that you must extrapolate your job to that of jury and judge.

I can understand why Catney would make such comments, but what I hope people see is that such comments coming from a person of his stature is an obstruction to justice. With a few passionate phrases and a photograph slapped onto a desk like an open palm to the face, Catney painted Chen a bright red guilty to many. Many who might serve on his jury.

Perhaps he is guilty. It sure seems that way. Perhaps the police know he is guilty. Fine. But this is not Catney's place. Catney's job, though well done, is just that: done.

I may point out that Catney himself admitted (in this morning's Toronto Star) that they arrested Chen because his visa was expiring soon, and that if he went back to Mainland China it would be impossible to get him back. Not because they all of a sudden had irrefutable proof (they had been following him for weeks already), but because they wanted to catch him before he left for China.

They as of yet do not have a motive. Nor how Cecelia was killed. If this were a game of Clue (substituting the "room" card for "motive", of course), even with their "strong case of circumstantial evidence" they would be two cards away from being able to delare Mr. Plum, in the conservatory, with a turkeybaster.

But who knows. Maybe the police do have the evidence needed and they just aren't revealing it as of yet. I am not fighting for Chen's innocence. I am, however, fighting for his fair trial, and because of Mr. Catney's remarks, such a trial may have already been compromised.

A fair trial and the assumption of innocence until proven otherwise are fundamental rights of our democratic justice system. We must remember to punish our criminals with Justice, not Injustice.

Injustice helps no one.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:54:00 a.m. | Permalink

Love, Factually

So this white guy walks onto the bus, tall, disshelved with a white collared shirt and pair of worn khakis, and I'm thinking "haha, this guy is soo Chris's 'white type.'" So I joke like "hey, it's your future husband!" Only to find out seconds later that she knows him and that he asked her out long time ago. He also used to train at KATA, and will be coming back soon. What's up with all these guys I have to stab? I'm running out of knives here.

We rented Love Actually under the influence of all the Sbux people who loved it off. I watched it with an open mind and one hand checking my cynicsm at the door, but really, what a piece of shit. I have no idea how anyone could like this movie. Like it, fine, but rave about it? Good lord. This monster had like 30 climaxes. It perpetually ended, over and over for like the last 45 minutes. Conclusion after conclusion, only to introduce a new plot twist, and then new conclusion and new conlusion, like some evil infinity 8 sign that keeps carving its eternal pattern around both your eyes until you feel like just tearing them out yourself and ending the whole ordeal.

Is this what romance is? Love? Did that man love his slutty secretary? Did you feel it? Did that old singer dude really love his manager like a best friend? Did you feel the comraderie? Did Colin Firth and that chick display any type of love that you thought warranted a quickie wedding? Hugh Grant and his assistant? Did anybody really feel any of this? Or was it all just a gimmick leading up to that way-cool!! ending where everybody spatially connected at the airport, thus folding the million narratives nice and tidy in with the opening frames in some false sense of unity and closure?

I think my disdain for romance movies paints me as a cynic. I've heard my girlfriend's accusations, "you're not romantic!" But really the opposite is true. I am a romantic, I do believe in love, love at first sight even. I just don't buy half of this crap they sell us. I'd like to see some approximation at what real love looks, feels, smells like. None of these bullshit relationships that magically grow out of nothing, as if romance and love were nothing more than the utterance of the words "I love you" and a look of longing and hunger, a look that would also work in an Arby's commercial.

I'm not saying that I could make a better movie about love. That I know any better way to go about it. I am, however, saying that most of the movies I see about love feel horribly insincere. And I think being brought up on images of insincere romance and love can actually be kind of damaging to a society. I think it makes us look for the wrong things. Our expectations are out of whack. We're waiting for a couple magic words, a wonderful turn of hack screenwriting phrase, and we're missing something inbetween. I've watched many people in my life claim love for each other while miming all the acts and gestures seen in the movies, only to sense that same insincerity, that same reading from a tired script. I've watched their relationships disintegrate.

This is not everyone, but it happens. This is not every romance movie, but I see enough of them to make me wary and weary of the whole genre.

Love to me isn't this singular, static phenomenon. I've heard stories of love, and I myself am currently in love with a wonderful girl, and the thing I've noticed is that love is not some universal experience, like physical pain. It feels different to different people, it happens in different ways. Why then, do I see the same cues and gestures and plot lines over and over again? Why does it always seem so choreographed?

Everybody, go rent Before Sunrise, then truck your ass down to the theatre and watch Before Sunset. They get it right, at least for me. They get it so right it hurts.

For more, I think the only other recent love stories I've enjoyed were Lost in Translation and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, the latter one especially.

And for the record, I get a lot out of music and poetry when it comes to love. It just seems that cinema is lagging behind other art forms when it comes to expressing this particular aspect of the human experience.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:49:00 a.m. | Permalink

This Entry Is Really Boring, So I'll Give it a Boring Title
 
Freal, this week has been exceptionally devoid of activity.  Recovering from the oral surgery and the subsequent days spent weak and re-learning how to eat, and more importantly digest, solid foods left me with ample time to reaquaint myself with my DVD player.
 
I got to watch a bunch of the DVD's I'd purchased over the last few whatevers but never got around to viewing.  My Alias boxset, White of Kieslowski's Blue, White, Red trilogy, etc.  I still haven't watched Blow Up or The Day the Earth Stood Still yet.
 
Gerard was cool enough to bring me a bootlegged copy of Princess Blade and some McDonald's softie ice cream, so that was cool.  Much better than my girlfriend, who brought me a basket fulla nuthin.  Just joking, but I like making her feel guilty.  Actually, she brought me Booster Juice.  Which if you know me, is all I really want in this world.  More Booster Juice.
 
Some things I've been thinking about:
 
1)  Martha Stewart - like really, who gives fuck?  She got five months.  That's piss shit.  People will rob a McDonalds and get 10 times longer than that in a by far less comfortable prison (which, btw, she's not in and if at all, won't be in for some time).  She gets five months and a free plug for her company.  Effa Martha Stewart.  And eff the people on the other end of the spectrum who say shit like "Good!  She got what she deserved!"  No she didn't you jobbers, she only got five months.
 
2)  What the fuck happened to Much Music?  Who is dressing Rick the Temp like he was hit by a Randy River Rifle?  What does Jennifer Hollit think she knows that we don't and why is she so smug about it?  Why does the new guy look like a McFarlane plastic model of Marcus?  I miss Namugenyi.  The New Music is now only a half-hour long. 
 
3) So I was all worried about the Evil Flies (not house flies...something much more sinister) being back in the basement. They come up out of the fireplace whenever it starts raining outside. But see, I'm in this dilemma where I don't like killing shit unless it's necessary, or unless I'm gonna eat it or something usefull like that. Which means I've spent this summer letting bugs live in my house. Annoying as fuck, but there you go. And then I was all worried about the flies. But then I woke up the next morning to find the flies had been caught and killed in a web. By some other bugs that I let live. And so, nature finds a way. I didn't have to do shit. Amazing.
 
4) The Saturday Afternoon Movie today was Goodfellas. Which is a wonderfull film that at one point in time (before Pulp Fiction stuck a ball in its mouth and raped it) had the world record for highest amount of curse words. So, two things:
a) Why show this film at all during the day when you will have to dub over half of the dialogue, thus losing the effect of half the script, diminishing well written characterizations, and feeding the viewer such tripe as "you bleeding goldfish!" as viable substitute invectives?
b) What is the big deal with swearing anyways if the context is still there? I have the same problems with censors of rap music. They will go to ridiculous lengths in order to censor actual words, but make no effort to conceal the ideas that said words convey. The context is still there. What's dangerous, the words or the ideas? I would hope it's the ideas. Shoot that mother-[dog bark or car horn]-er in the head!. Uhm. yea. Way to censor something. As if some mother-something-or-other (gee, I can't figure out what word that was!) was no longer getting shot in the head. Sigh. We should honestly do away with the whole mess. We've all been swearing since 1st grade. Big fudgin swiss.

Is that it?  Man.  I feel like an idiot now.  Is that all I've really thought about over the past week?
 
In other news, I was supposed to win tickets to Rip the Mic on Saturday with Talib Kweli.  I got an e-mail that said the first ten to respond would win tickets.  I responded within seconds.  Are there that many fast mufuckas on MSN?  Must be my damn dial-up connection.
 
I have no other news.
 
I am looking forward to re-entering the real world.
 
*edit*
This new idiot-proof Blogger sucks ass. I've had to edit this mug about 10 times for some bullshit or other. I can't even do my trademark "peace" sign off. WTF. This is some bullshit. Yay, progress.

peace.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:48:00 a.m. | Permalink

Mkay.  On the real, this new blogger shit is weirding me out.  The world is being idiot-proofed.  Which I guess is a good thing. 
 
I haven't had anything substantial to eat in the past three days.  My teeth and gums are fine, but I'm weak from the lack of nourishment.  I was begging my girlfriend to bring me some Booster Juice for the past few days, and she came through earlier this evening.  Nectar of the Gods, or some shit like that.  I needed the protein.
 
I'm still hella tired though.  I kinda passed out on the kitchen table listening to Blackstar and the sound of my girlfriend's pencil scratching, as she sketched my sleeping frame.  Nothing more relaxing.
 
I think I won tickets to the Rip The Mic tournament tomorrow.  Or at least, I better have.  If I don't end up with tickets then I know the shit is fixed.
 
I'm tired.
 
The bugs are back downstairs.  The Legion of Bugs that attacked my sister and I last year from out our fire place.  The Legion we thought had been demolished.  We killed so many bugs by means of swatting and slapping, enough to fill up a ziplock bag.  And now they're back.
 
Boogers.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:05:00 a.m. | Permalink

Just gauze, hold the food.

Finally got the wisdom teeth out. They're right beside me, sitting wrapped in a sterilized plastic packet on my kitchen table. I only have two of the four, because the other two apparently came out in bits and pieces. They have bloody gum fragments hugging tight around their frames. Looks like crowns of thorns, bloody and regal. I think I just made a connection between my wisdom teeth and Jesus. I'm going to Hell. Which I assume is much like feeling your novocaine wear out.

Why do they give people their teeth back? And why do we take them? LOL. I mean, I'd understand if I asked for them. But I didn't. And yet, I still felt obligated to take them. Is this some cultural practice extending from a childhood belief in the tooth fairy? Whether extracted wisdom teeth, kids who pick their nose and stare at/eat their boogers, or soliders on the battle field picking up their own blown off limbs, we are attached to our bodies whether detached from them or not. No wonder death scares us so much.

It's funny, because what I *did* want were my X-rays. But they wouldn't give those to me. Instead I have bloody molars.

Well, I was fine for the majority of this first post-surgery day, but now the novocaine is wearing off. I popped some codeine but it doesn's seem to be doing much. The pain is still there and I'm far from drowsy or dizzy. So I'm left wondering whether the drugs are not working that well, or if they are, and I can't even imagine what the pain would be like if I *didn't* pop the pills.

And btw, swallowing pills with a frozen tongue is as task requiring much patience, skill, and low gag reflexes. I can't eat either, which for real, is driving me mad. I'm surrounded by the excess of candy that Chris and I bought with the Jaravatas. The Ringolos are taunting me, and I stare back wild-eyed at their salty goodness, a voracious Gollum unable to claim his tiny circular golden prize.



Instead I'm drinking mad quantities of Gatorade and apple cider. I had some yogourt, which was hell trying to feed myself. It's like feeding a giant dumb baby, except the baby is yourself and therefore you can't smack it.

Tomorrow the novocaine will be totally gone from my system. I'm dreading the thought of pain, of gargling salt water into my wounds, of eating soggy rice while staring at Ringolos.

Could be worse though. I could be that kid that my sister had to deal with at the hospital. The kid whose circumcision got effed up. Like, damn.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:06:00 a.m. | Permalink

"You never went through what I'm livin, hell who'm I kidding, depression is practically part of family tradition" - Copywrite

So my sister's depressed again. I hate this shit. There's a whole list of things that could possibly run through a family's genetic code -- baldness, hairy backs, unibrows, mutant X chromosomes, glaucoma, necrophilia (you laugh now, until you start sexin tombstones and cursing your Tito Lito), sweaty palms, depression. My family? We get stuck with baldness and depression. The two antagonistic fires that wind up fueling each other into a shiny-foreheaded teary-eyed inferno.

Even my sis had a problem with her hair falling out a couple of years ago. Like what the fuck.

She's fighting with Morgan now because of it. It's scary because her relationship is sinking along the same fault lines as mine and Maryanne's did. Roles are mixed though; Marisa's the depressed one, but coming from MA's perspective, and Morgan is sane but sounding like me. Oh fuck it, they both sound like me and they both sound like her. You can tell why it's hard for me to give her advice. I'm flip-flopping more than my Tita Norm in a loose pair of chinelas.

She's back at the house for the time being, which is a bitch because she has to commute back-and-forth between here and St. Patrick's station everyday. That's gonna suck, and the inconvenience is gonna do wonders for her depression. If there's one thing us depressives hate, it's otherwise avoidable inconveniences. Like when Julianne Moore breaks down during The Hours after spilling milk on the counter. Like what the fuck, I have to clean up milk now? That type of shit will break a person.

What's killing her is the embarassment. She fought so hard for their relationship to be accepted and respected that she's feeling like a idiotic failure now, having to come home with her tail between her legs and "I Told You So" stamped on her furrowed brow.

It's difficult convincing her to concentrate on herself when there's so much on the line here that she has no control over -- her relationship (which was pregressing so smoothly that there was talk of marriage at one point), her respect, her job, her new home, a shared car, her parents' shaking heads, her own self-respect, as well as the gloomy prospect of once again being in the rut she was in before she left for London: depressed, lonely, single, with no clear ambitions or career paths to guide her through the fog.

She went to London to find something, and that something she found was Morgan. And now the cycle starts anew.

I couldn't do much. She called me early on Friday leaving a voicemail message that I would expect from some hackneyed spy thriller: (crying) "If you're there, pick up the phone, oh god please, pick up the phone". Scary, to say the least.

I've been there. Those types of freakouts. They're not fun. They might be funny to relate after the fact, but they're never fun to experience.

She was a little better when she finally made her way back to the house. Shaken, teary eyed, but no longer evoking the spirit of Kim Basinger in Cellular. We went out for some Sweet Chalet (no, that is not a typo) and did some talking. She told me some crazy assed things. It's kinda weird that she confides in me, but kinda nice. I guess we have this understanding that we're both caught up in this same mess. That even if we can't get out of it we might as well sink together. It might be the first thing we ever do as brother and sister, given our past hatred of each other.

Aside from that I spent the weekend cleaning out my room. If you've seen my room, you know what's up. Fucking disaster. It was weird, peeling away the layers of litter that have built up over the years. It was almost chronological, like a time capsule. Starting with York stuff, moving back towards letters from Maryanne, old short stories, screenplays, mixed tapes, postcards from Blaise, empty weed baggies, forgotten pornography (some *old* assed shit mang), comic books, and so on. Like a therapy session, starting from the present woes and working your way back to being a fetus in your mother's stomach, pissed off that she's not eating enough chocolate ice cream. Regression. This is your life.

It was hard, but I finally fought my pack-rat geek-collector instincts and threw out a bunch of shit that I don't need. Goodbye, Boxing Nun Puppet. Goodbye, Mexican Wrestling Mask. I knew thee well. I couldn't get rid of my X-Men Trading Cards, though -- the first set drawn by Jim Lee. They still smell the same. They're so effin' dope.



If you can make a pussy like Cyclops look like a badass, you can fuckin draw.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 11:30:00 p.m. | Permalink

McCain Deep n' Delicious

Hm. I tried writing a new poetry piece but I just ain't what I used to be. Not that I was ever amazing, I just mean that my passion for it isn't where it used to be. I should go and check out some more spoken word events this summer. This time last year I was promising myself that by next year (now) I'd force myself on stage to perform something. I wonder if, even if my passion isn't the same, I should still hold myself to that promise. It would at least give my friends something interesting to laugh at.

My parents are off to Montreal and I'm home alone. Already the dog has pissed in the house due to my negligence. I think I'm ready to be on my own, but I am in no way ready to be responsible for another life form's well being. That goes for kids, pets, house plants. I let my one plant die a couple of years ago because I couldn't be bothered to water it. It was a gift too, from my brother.

It's 2:35 am and I am blasting College Dropout. It's not my first choice of album to be blasting right now, but it was already in the player and my sleepiness limits my options. It was either that or Endtroducing. I figure DJ Shadow might just creep me out late at night with no lights on, alone.

Went to the movies with the Jaravatas and the girlfriend. Did some skateboarding, body surfing. You had to be there. All the candy ruined my appetite. I feel like I want dinner, but I don't. And it's late so I probably shouldn't. Oh fuck it. I'm going to eat.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:27:00 a.m. | Permalink

Magneto Was Right.

I'm making this lady's latte and she asks me why there are so many kids around here? Of course, I assume there are kids everywhere in the world, so my reply lacks both enthusiasm and an answer to her question. "What's wrong with kids?"

She waves her hand, motioning in a vague direction. "They're everywhere! Is it always like this down here? There are cops by the bus station." Of course, there is both a police station by the bus station and patrolling security guards (standard for any bus station, I assume). Maybe she just assumes the cops are there to arrest the kids. Or maybe something really did happen, a fight perhaps.

"What's going on, did they do something?"

She's apologetic. "I'm sorry, it's just I came down from Scarborough because I wasn't expecting to see this down here".

"See what? What happened?"

"Well, they're everywhere. There's the [motions to one side with hands] black kids on one side, and the [motions in the other direction] filipino kids on the other side."

[For anyone who lives here, this is a normal sight. The black kids congregate on the left side. The flips on the right. This is not gang war. This is not criminal activity. This is a bunch of kids hanging around waiting for slow busses.]

See, the poor lady tried to take a vacation from all the violent ethnic kids in Scarborough, only to sadly discover that (gasp) there are colored kids EVERYWHERE. Even in (gasp) Mississauga.

Why she would assume I wouldn't take offence to this, I don't know. I was so fucking livid I didn't know how to respond. I stood silent as a blood clot, slammed some espresso equipment around, then handed her her drink and wished her "Have a nice life".

I then went in the backroom and yelled like a communist rabble rouser. Ron had to send me on break just to calm me down. Something about anger famishes you. I ate a huge croissant and swallowed a fist full of orange juice in about twenty seconds flat.

Ron was funny and supportive. He reminded me that I seem to attract these weird types of latent racist motherfuckers. (Ron always seems to be here on these days.)

I remember the one dude who told me the story about how he put some dude in the hospital after he tried some stuff with his girlfriend in a club. The story ended like this: "And I'm not racist or anything, but lemmee tell ya, that nigger had it coming." Good thing he added that disclaimer. Otherwise, I might have thought he was racist or something.

Seriously though. I'm thinking these people feel comfortable confiding in me because I'm wearing a uniform and I speak proper english and that type of shit. Because my willingness to smile and nod and please my rich white customers must mean that I really want their frienship, their money, their status, their opinions.

Let me say this once and for all: I don't care how stupid and thuggish filipinos or even blacks for that matter get. How rude, ignorant, violent, etc etc. (Which is horrible generalization in the first place.) Even if they are rude and violent towards me. I will always, ALWAYS, associate myself with them. No matter how "white" you think I act (and I take great offense that some people out there equate proper English speaking skills, professionalism and responsibility with being white), I AM NOT WHITE.

I don't hate white people. Far from that (no matter how much it seems like that sometimes). But I sure as hell don't identify with them either.

I might hate a lot of the ethnic kids I encounter.

But hell yes, I identify with THEM.

OK?

It is not OK to say these comments to me. I will slap you, throw a fist up in a sign of solidarity with my brothers and sisters, and then stomp on your face.

I am Canadian, Asian, Filipino, Not-white.

Now enjoy your lattes and have a nice life, you ignorant racist batches.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:52:00 a.m. | Permalink

Soccer and Starbucks

I tried really hard, because I used to really like the guy. But it's now official: I really dislike Mark. (Not you, Mancini. I luuuvs you, *wink wink*). (wtf? Mike and Mark have two different names. Why did I write that? Why don't I just erase it instead of writing this? Bah.) He's like a twenty-year old miser, a curly-haired curmudgeon, pissed off at the hand he was dealt in life and thus responding by tossing preztles and insults at everyone else at the poker table. Look at that. He's made me break my unspoken promise to not talk bad about people in my blog. I can only take as many asian jokes as I can take. Goodnatured or not, I will eventually get sick of laughing at your bad jokes at my people's expense.

At first I thought it was just me. But just today Maritaz tells me that he made her cry last week. Like, why are mutherfuckers making anyone cry at the store? That's just weird and uncalled for. Tony relayed his own stories, also with the same racial slant that I'm coming from. I talked to some other people and the consensus seems to be the same (not the same issues per se, but the general opinion that he's being a huge gaping asshole lately). Oh well, we'll see how this plays out.

Aside from all that though, I've been having really good shifts lately. I'm tired as all fuck, however. I couldn't even drag my coffee-reeking ass to martial arts. Ron stuck me as a makeshift supervisor today, and I think I did a pretty decent job. It was cool talking to Zana about white people, and Brian about comic books movies. Got to know the new people a little more.

I've gotten some good responses to my last entry, which Kamal liked enough that he posted it on an internet forum that he frequents. He cut and pasted some of the responses that it's garnered, and I'm honored that so many people took the time to read it, and even further time to respond at length. Even my brother send a large e-mail detailing his own journey through the highschool music and social scenes. I edited my post a little bit though, after realizing I had inadvertantly dissed the Flips. Which was never my intention at all.

The girlfriend and I have apparently made the best decision with regards to our relationship: we are seeing each other less. So far so good, and it has already seemingly had a positive effect on us. Miss her more, diss her less.

I don't care about soccer. But why do people insist on talking to me about it, even after I say that? People would ask me who I'm rooting for. I'd say anyone but the Europeans. Portugal lost though, and my street was like a ghost town. Everyone was in mourning. I felt bad for my next-door neighbours. They had already planned a celebratory bar-b-q, but instead spent the day indoors doing god-knows-what. If you knew my neighbours, you'd know how weird it is for them stay indoors. In an appropriate bout of pathetic fallacy, a thunder storm rained on after the game. That crazy greek, Zeus. Dude must love his soccer.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 1:24:00 a.m. | Permalink

When Heads Turn Gray

"I'm sick of hiphop", said my friend Tony. And as much as I wanted to challenge him, I knew I was in the minority. I look around at my age group and it's plain to see: the slang and swagger is still there, but the backpacks have been replaced with collared shirts, the tims have turned to wingtips, and the Friendster bios rarely list hiphop as the sole "favorite music" (if even on the list at all, and now less and less at the number one slot).

Too old for hiphop?

Maybe it's just me because I got into the music late. As a kid I never listened to any type of music, period. My brother was there rockin his 54*40, my sister banging out NKOTB and Milli Vanilli, Donnie Wahlberg hanging taped on her wall and Hangin Tough in her walkman.

A late starter, I only gleaned an interest in music around Grade 7. All the cool kids were into this "grunge" shit, so I decided to tag along. I couldn't vibe with the dissonance of Nirvana but dug the femme-feel of Hole, the melodies of Stone Temple Pilots, and could feel the slower work of Pearl Jam.

I went to school with white kids.

When highschool hit I was introduced to the filipino community: The "Typs" (Typical Filipinos). My years of white-ness had ingrained within me an early ambivalence towards The Typs. I had this preconceived notion that they were poseurs, annoying, fake, unbearably in need of attention and cheek kisses. They liked hiphop. Bah to them and their beats, I said. Gimmie some fukkin guitars, some singing. I couldn't understand what those rap cats were saying anyhow.

Eventually though I shed my self-hate and began to embrace the idea of me being a "filipino"* (or to a slightly more accurate extent, "not white"). The only way I knew of doing this was the same way I became accepted by the white kids -- through the music. I began to learn which songs to mouth lyrics to, which lesser-knowns Biggie Smalls was rollin with, and which R & B chick was deserving of misogynist comments.

Some of the kids were b-boyin, and I'd tag along to their basements and watch them learn to windmill, flare and freeze. I was too shy to try myself, so I mostly played the sidelines and gave props to my friends when they ripped off moves from local crew, Bag of Trix.

I watched Beat Street and wondered why nobody noticed what a horrible fukking movie it was.

This continued throughout highschool -- all the while me sneaking home to listen to my Red Hot Chilli Peppers albums, hoping my friends wouldn't find me in a closeted frenzy of rockin out.

Shit changed in OAC and university, however. Something was happening to me. All of a sudden I wasn't pretending. Oh shit, I actually got hyped at "Nas is Like". Oh shit, Lauryn's supposed to work with Primo on her next jawn! Fuck you, you don't know *shit* about the West Coast.

It's kind of appropriate, I guess. For while hip-hop itself was preaching for me to "Keep it Real", I was fronting till my face blistered. It was only after I began to become comfortable with myself, when I began to lose some of the shyness, to appreciate who I was for what I was, that I began to get hiphop. That I began to love it.

Suddenly everything was different. Politics. Fashion. My whole disposition changed, not necessarily because of hiphop, but along the same fault lines. Hiphop was the vein through which the rest of my life flowed. It was the fulcrum atop which my brain teetered, nodding and bobbing. Beats, Rhymes, and Life.

I was a slow starter. Already OAC and I was just finding out who Rakim was. Who belonged to the Native Tongues. Why KRS was so damned important. What the fuck "boom-bap" meant.

These were exciting times.

My first year at University was one of depression. In a swirl of melancholy and anti-socialness, I spent most of the year locked in my room; the perfect atmosphere for cyber-digging. My Napster was going 24-7 downloading every track ever worth listening to. I was taking bus trips down to Yorkdale to cop albums and singles. I was making mix tapes.

And gotdammit, I was writing rhymes. I was beat-boxing to myself in the shower. I was tagging my name on walls and desks. I was at any hiphop related campus event, in the corner with my hoodie and gunfinger up. This, or so I thought, was hiphop, man! I really thought I was down, and being the only "true head" in the residence building reinforced that illusion. Nobody could fuck with my knowledge. Ian down the hall was hip to Ninja Tune, but didn't know shit about no Jay-Z. Matt on 5th floor could break and speak on Talib Kweli, but he didn't know shit about no DJ Shadow.

University is a time of self-discovery for everyone. Which means, of course, it's a time of fumbling, feeling your way through the dark. And ultimately, it's a time of sometimes embarassing the shit out of yourself.

Read the archives of my personal blog, and you'll witness a young man awkwardly spitting slang like a twelve year old suddenly discovering he can ejaculate. I've gone from both extremes of fake to where I am now: Myself. And who Myself happens to be, is a hiphop head. A little late in the formation, a post-due birth, but healthy nonetheless with all limbs intact.

No, I don't walk with a fake limp. I don't speak with the hiphop accent. I don't wear Ecko, and I don't rock a doorag. I do say "dope". I do give pounds and say "peace". And yes, I still sometimes freestyle to myself when I'm alone.

Tony and others seem to have "grown out of hiphop". I seem to have grown into it.

I realize now that most of my friends in highschool were down with hiphop only because it was the "in" thing to be down with. (I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with that, though.) They've since moved on through phases of raving, house music, and now emo and garage rock.

Strangely enough, they all still have the swagger and the slang. Given the signs of their behaviour, I'm led to believe that they haven't grown out of it naturally, but rather, forcefully, consciously trying to fit the mold of the "grown".

But still, I think if you actually grow out of being a head, you were never really a head in the first place.

Being both old and into hiphop doesn't mean that you have to be 30 and rocking baggy jeans and a throwback jersey. You can wear that suit and tie, cut those 'locks, speak proper english, and still blast that PE from your ride like it's 1988.

You can listen to other types of music and go to different types of clubs. You can dislike Lil' John. You can befriend those who don't know what the fuck a Native Tongue is, and frankly, don't give a shit either.

But still, there's no reason for maturing and growing old to be antithetical to staying hip-hop. Parents all around are still down with Rock and Roll. In fact, Rock is full of legends who have aged well and still get respect as artists, my once beloved Chilli Peppers among them.

It's on the true heads out there to define how this music and culture will mature. There will always be juvenile crap for the youngins, but that's not the complete picture and those who were really down in the first place know it.

*Of course, the political journey and racial awakening I refer to was neither as simple nor arbitrary as I make it out to be. But that, of course, is a whole other rant.

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 12:17:00 a.m. | Permalink

Would You Eat a Minced Meat Cake?

Saw Fahrenheit today. Powerful powerful movie. Incendiary. Heart wrenching. Eye opening. Fist Clenching. Nerve hitting, racking. And that goes for whether you agree with it or not.



I'd like to write a review of it, but I'm not so sure if I'm capable of that just yet. Maybe later. I'm ok writing on shallow movies like The Notebook (review is coming, Bagel), but when it actually comes down to politics or major moments in cinema (why you never saw a Lord of the Rings trilogy review), I can't come up with anything worth saying. I'm too busy being a movie-goer; caught up in the spectacle, the gazing, the power of the propaganda. I'm not thinking.

Work today was a breeze. An odd juxtaposition, though: coming out of Fahrenheit and then coming to work, where Irene is reading a book about Dubya's views on religion. She seems to really like him. "I like his faith", she says, with as much innocence as if she had said "I like his tie". As if she honestly did not know there was any sort of controversy or antagonism towards this cute little God-fearing simple man from the South.

Anyways though.

Work was so dead and got paid time-and-a-half for it. We would have gotten out early if Tony didn't have trouble balancing the tills at the end of the night. I got bored waiting for him so I tagged my name on the milk fridge. Then I changed the "Happy Partner Appreciation Day" sign in the backroom to "Harry Potter Appreciation Day". I was amused with both efforts, though neither one showed any skill. Then I stole a juice and drank it. Then I ate a cookie. Then I stood around some more, felt guilty, and decided to do some extra work. So I did the floors for the openers, something I notice I've been doing a lot lately.

All in all a nice day, until I got home and ate some leftover Chinese food. I ate a large amount of food, really fast, and at the end of it threw up a little in my mouth. There's nothing worse to wash down your food with than a shot of vomit, no chaser. Oh wait, there was a chaser. It was milk. It was not a good choice of chaser.

In other news, FOX's new series is called North Shore. I'm guessing it is to The O.C what Melrose Place was to Beverly Hills, 90210. The thing is, North Shore takes place in lovely Hawaii. Furthermore, the cast of North Shore is exclusively white. Except, of course, for the kooky bartender. Cuz y'know...it's all white people down there, right? Except of course for those kooky service industry people.

Everybody, be sure to watch North Shore. It sounds like great television.


Whaddsdascoops brah! We speakin da kine, yo! Spahk da show, get choke chicken skin! Aloha!

φзαςє.

Posted by Scene -- at 2:12:00 a.m. | Permalink