Consolation Prizes

It is a fine afternoon for footie in Toronto. Our footie field is a large, pebble-infested driveway with green weeds spurting sporadically across the grayish court. A small red net is leaned against a beat wooden shed. I am appointed keeper. The web designer and the Persian are appointed strikers. Everyone is excited. The Persian, being of a jocose disposition, resolves to frighten me. The animated fellow strikes the ball confidently, intending to bounce the ball off the shed a mere two feet above my venerable head. However, the ball launches far above my head, far above the shed, and over the rickety fence, far into forbidden territory. The Persian, no longer in a festive mood, cusses and grumbles. The designer and I laugh.
"You'll have to hop the fence, man", I advise. The errant striker's countenance changes rapidly, and his face broods, as he's affronted by the eleven foot fence. He's so unnecessarily hesitant. I'm suddenly struck that he might of never scaled a fence before, being a foreigner and all.
"You go", the frightened young foreigner pleads.
Being raised in suburbia, I've been climbing up walls since I've been mobile; thus, I promptly hop the fence with much deftness. I land in firm soot. I beckon for to the Persian to trespass some, thinking it would be good for him to engage in this small, insignificant act of rebellion to retrieve his ever so sentimentally valued football, that is increasing in sappy value every subsequent minute of its lostness. Finally, he comes crashing over the fence in the most maladroit manner imaginable. The designer stays behind.
The Persian and I find ourselves in some unruly, trumpery-filled side yard. The ball--not in view. We sift through the strange, abstract junkyard searching deeper and deeper into its heart of darkness. A crescendo of pressure amounts when a bourgeois appears from the adjoining yard. We pose as fellow residents and bid him "Halloa".
The search is a hapless endeavor (save the discovery of a volleyball, which is promptly booted out of its home territory) and us two raiders retreat back over the fence to consult with the design man and, eventually, with the errant striker's girl.
"You two followers of Galileo," I begin, speaking to the forlorn striker and his girl, "calculate the height of the ball and its velocity to discover the ball's travelling distance."
Contrary to logic and reason, a scientific investigation is deemed unnecessary. Further, I suggest posting images of the ball around the city, and I'm accused of a Hunter. S. Thompson impersonation.
Perhaps the ball has been reunited with Goliath? Unlikely.
Resigning to defeat, the Persian raises his glum eyes towards me, and murmurs, "You better blog about this."
Consider this your consolation prize.

It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die

The (provincial) government gave me moneys today. Who's eating this week?
Speaking of which, the frigger heading Canada's government is receiving colloquial beckons from a stupid little rich kid.
The summit for elites and afternoon tea is coming to Huntsville in 2010! I miss the smell of teargas. I miss the fear of getting beaten. Man, I miss the '60s. Nowadays everyone's a bona fide flagsucker.
If I were an American, I'd be a corporation. Great welfare system, legal immunity--seriously what more could a person want? It sucks to be a citizen these days. Typically citizens are only free from the bondage of the constitution when they're chained to the ceilings at Guantanamo. Or registered in the military. Corporate personhood is clearly the way to go.
"This is a full-blown state-sponsored disaster" -- Kowalski, in response to Goliath being stolen from his own room.
Response: "State-sponsored disaster" is now my new catch phrase. But really, I sympathize with your maladie du coeur, a most natural consequence from this act of terrorisms.

L'envoi (the crux lies herein)
The drug man of truth, Hunter S. Thompson, is the object of study in the documentary, Gonzo. I am throwing a hissy fit of delight.

Turtle Island

I /finally/ completed reading /The Portrait of a Lady/. It took me some time; but pet grief! Henry painted so very much! Mind you I read a plurality of books at once. The aforementioned title is much more epic and conventional from what I usually acquaint myself with. I /almost/ desire to engage in conversation with another in regards to the novel (only with a fellow daffy dreamer, however) but I'm quite content to keep Isabel Archer to myself for now. I really have no time for conversation as I must pound through another six or seven books and beat out four essays within a month and a half.

To pay homage to web design wonder DH, I have created a Twitter account. I really cannot grasp the full functionality and entire purpose of Twitter, but apparently it's worth looking into. As far as I can see, it's just a manifold of follow-the-leader games. And there always appears to be too many "tweets" about the site. And I don't like the epithet "tweet" either. Anywhoers follow me.

Now I Can't Disappear.

I'm not dead; I merely encountered the most devastating disease known to humanity: Irukandji syndrome. I writhed in physical agony and moaned heinous expletives: "Sweet Condi Rice-John Maaaayer! I think Albert Camus described my condition in a novel.
On the same night as my plight Marissa Nadler was to invade Toronto and I was to absorb a gloomy hum outta El Mocambo. Turns out, Nadler cancelled the performance ages ago.
Nadler. Nadler. Nadler. Nader. Nader. Nader. Ralph.

We're the heirs to the glimmering world

Last week I purchased a mobile that is not broken. In my subsequent careless days I lost said mobile on an adventure down in the valley. A few gloomy gloamings later I receive a call: "Come collect your phone. West Ancaster." I arrive at some swank country abode with much land. Much land. The lady of the land hands returns my phone. Further the lady laments: " My land. I'm seeking someone to tend my land. Mulch. Cut. Hoe." Such a blatant slap-in-the-face blessing, I am obliged to tend the land. I begin to maintain the estate this week. Beat.

Today is celebratory because Anne of Green Gables was published a century ago. Children were drag racing in the streets of Uxbridge in honour of Montgomery's tenure in our quaint township all those years ago. I say this because my Mother essentially dined with Sarah Polley on a silver afternoon earlier this month. I really say all this because someone once told me a story about Polley: in short, in the era of the first gulf war, she attended some banquet adorning a large peace sign. Disney demanded that our heroin remove the controversial sign, which was clearly in conflict with Mickey's and Daisy's political posture. The Golden One refused and the Disney Company became quite miffed and she left Road to Avonlea. Beat.

The Fall Semester
Western History: feel pain.
Biology: morphine cannot alleviate the symptoms from this one.
PED: Irukandji syndrome epitomized!
French: my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
I cannot continue! Death would become of me.

For the winter semester, I am tentatively planning to study elsewhere other than this odious province I now inhabit. Likely a more agreeable province. Europe is stale and I've imposed sanctions on the States. But this would be my fourth Letter of Permission from Redeemer and the Registrar is a bona fide frigger and he may not allow me to pursue the courses I desire. Ideally my degree will be completed in December '09. A degree attained in three years. Only one thing stands in my way: the very school I am trying to graduate from.

Spit out your lies and chewing gum

Chrystal is not very receptive to my fm transmitter these days. Regardless of the channel I choose the radio crackles over the auditory delight I am desperate to absorb. To make use of the dissonance I resign to playing My Bloody Valentine and make believe the soft radio buzz is yet another droning guitar. Or if the interfering channel is more "talk" then I play Brian Eno & David Byrne and make believe the chatter is part of the dynamic duo's odd eclectic sound.

The moments I am not plagued by this "First World Problem" of fm transmitter malfunctions, I listen to bad asses from a semi-affluent Parisian suburb of Versailles: Phoenix. Only unfeeling robots would hold their foot steady for "Consolation Prizes."

One cannot be truly indolent unless absorbing Beach House's dream-pop melodies. My transition into nature's incubator has been smoother than anticipated.

And when you're holding me, we make a pair of parenthesis. There's plenty of space to encase whatever weird way my mind goes.

The bowling alley is happening tonight. Intense flashes enlightening Hope's striking features.

Here's how I will employ myself today:
8:15 - Rise. No, seriously rise.
9:00 - Chiropractor. Resist temptation to contemptuously sneer "get bent".
9:25 - Sobey's. Buy something appetizing or at least salubrious.
9:45 - Eat something appetizing or at least salubrious.
10:00 - Call Stacey at Good Shepherd. Inform her of my availability for Friday.
10:04 - Stumble to find the Optometrist's digits.
10:07 - Call McMullen. Friday is a no gooder. How about early next Monday.
10:13 - Attempt to pay Union Gas bill online.
10:16 - Call Mother at the library and ask her to elucidate all this complex online banking business.
10:24 - Pay Union Gas. Won't work.
10:32 - Cash Adom's and Tubb's checks to fill account.
10:45 - Pay bill. Successfully, if I dare.
11:00 - Call Lacie. Express frustration in an offensive manner. Order new external hardrive power chord.
11: 15 - Finish that book.
11:15 - Hell, start that book.
12:15 - Eat something solid.
1:00 - Resign to temptations to play shinny.
3:15 - Shower, stretch, vigorous workout.
4:30 - Now, with your endorphins dancing like Phoenix, gather your resume, assume your business countenance, hit the pavement.
4:35 - Realize this hour is not the most agreeable hour to be hunting poisoned game.
5:30 - Endorphins settle.
6:00 - Eat.
6:30 - Die a little.
7:00 - ? Celebrate Adom's perennial birthday.
? - Let mellifluous harmonies seep through my headphones and rescue princesses.