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Tuesday, September 30, 2003
If you're a regular reader of this site, you may realize that there's a recurring theme in the posts. In fact, you might notice many recurring themes in my writing since I am, as a packaged whole, not so creative. Sometimes, however, you might find I'm repeating myself simply because a certain event recurs again and again with alarming frequency.I mentioned this summer how even my fourteen-year-old cousin, Alicia, through her own brand of teenage altruism, lavished upon me a free sample of Neutrogena face-wash she had received from her dermatologist. Obviously, she looked at her skin and then at mine, thus deciding to pity me and demonstrate sacrificial love to someone worse off. The difference of age stings me only slightly. It's when your donor is twenty-five that things really make you clue in, since, ultimately, they have more power and won't give you only tiny samples. They, afterall, have access to forklifts. This past Thursday, Joanne, immediately upon entrance to my apartment, handed me five different types of facial cleanser. I feel that one bottle may be taken as a gift; five bottles is an effective way of telling me I have a problem. The gift bag consisted of a NeoStrata Daytime "matifying renewal fluid", Clear Action Moisturizer "medicated to help treat and prevent pimples", 90 Clearasil deep cleansing pads, Neutrogena Clear Pore "Oil-Absorbing Astringent", and a Clear Pore Daily Cleanser/Mask. All the bottles have the word "clear" written in conspicuously bold font, which is something that, apparently, my face is not. A thought immediately buzzed in my head; something that I had written a little more than a year ago. Had it been the other way around, and we switched the product to deoderant, and I gave Joanne five different brands of high-end hygiene products, all with the words "smells good" in conspicuously bold font, would it mean that I thought her armpits weren't so April fresh? What Joanne may be thinking is "this boy needs to bulk up his hygiene." So feeling slightly self-conscious, I looked up from the bottles to Joanne's beaming face. "Well," I cleared my throat, "thank you very much; I hate your guts." Actually, I didn't really say that. Because I really don't. However obvious the delivery, I always appreciate spontaneous acts of goodwill demonstrated through a friend strongly suggesting a more vigorous program of daily facial cleansing. So instead, I said, "Thanks for showering me with such thoughtful presents." I quickly added, "Speaking of showering, you might be wondering, but I do in fact shower very regularly. So.. that bottle of shampoo you're handling right now, which I'm afraid you're about to give me, needs no introduction into my present regimen of hygiene. Soap, too, is no stranger. Yes, I am familiar with the brand name Ivory. I don't think soap is some sort of sea algae." I now have enough facial cleanser to last me til the age of 40. By then, I'll probably be getting anonymous packages of nose-hair clippers on my doorstep, exercise videos, and Hair for Men. You all are much, much too kind. Friday, September 26, 2003
Email of the Week from an incoherent lunatic:Notice that you haven't written in several days. If you want to keep me as your reader, I insist that you write something soon. I hate hate hate hate (end of email) Posting has gotten incredibly irregular lately because having discipline as well as friends from out of town is not in any way conducive to writing. Enter Justis and Joanne. I write best when it's quiet. I write best when there are little distractions. And I also write best when half my conversation that day hasn't dwindled to the sophisticated repertoire of body hair, nostril size, and intestinal gas. But here's a note to Joanne, who might find it helpful to read this part in writing, as to fully inculcate the matter at hand into the matter in her skull: I do not have an accent. For somebody who has seen me only a handful of times in the past seven years, her insistence that I have changed the way I speak since my arrival to New York is easily dispatched as it makes no sense whatsoever. However, the good thing about Joanne is that, to her, it's as if 'going dutch' means she pays the bill and I wear wooden shoes. And with that comes a thank-you. Posting will be short and sporadic since, as only my mom would know, I'm practising incredibly, incredibly hard. Sunday, September 21, 2003
Attention, everyone.After receiving a notice from Amos that there is yet another rapper called EpideMIC in St. Louis, and having Gerald, my own epideMIC of sorts, blaming me, once again, in a subsequent email, saying that it's all my fault his rap name is epideMIC, I want to apologize ONE MORE TIME for my entire lack of integrity in doling out rap names four years ago. However, one must poke fun at epideMIC, and EpideMIC, and Epidemic, and EPIDEMIC, and epIdEmIc, for their vain struggle to make themselves feel like they have significant individuality and claim of the name by flexing this individuality through an arbitrary assortment of big and small case letters. As if it made a difference. "Excuse me, I didn't order a hamburger. You must have misunderstood what I meant by haMBurGER." I believe the term "futile" gains nothing and loses nothing whether you have totally lost all control of your shift key or not. But the fact that no rappers are exactly scrambling to be dubbed 'The Shooter' shows very clearly that I've done someone a little bit of a favour as well. Thursday, September 18, 2003
Some of you may be wondering whether I can really cook or not. I can cook; however, my method is one of improvisation. As a result, people are always surprised at the variety involved in my dishes.Admittedly, whenever anyone asks me what I'm going to make, the first thing to come out of my mouth is 'maybe chicken stir-fry'. Some pessimists love to point out that every culinary venture I have taken, though initially having nothing to do with chicken, has never failed to somehow fall under the procrustean axe of chicken being stir-fried. But those that are jealous will never fully realize true talent. No; it's not just an ordinary chicken stir-fry: it's chicken stir-fry with a theme. Take, for instance, how I had this ambitious idea to make myself an omelette today. Many of us have heard that it's easy to make omelettes. Some of us have heard it so much that we believe it. Some of us even go out of our way not to order an omelette whenever eating out for breakfast, despite how much we love them. This is because they're so easy to make. You might as well eat at home! we're told. Omelettes somehow are whisked under the same reasoning for why we don't pay three dollars for a bowl of Corn Flakes. The two things you need to know about omelettes are a) they're not Corn Flakes, and b) you can't just pour them into a bowl. The basic instruction for making omelettes is to beat three to four eggs and pour it into a skillet, heated with some oil. When it's cooked on the one side, flip it over. Frankly, to me, flipping the egg over is at the exact same level of improbability as seeing me suddenly fly into a spontaneous backflip. It's not impossible, but I'd need substantial equipment to do so. Flipping the egg, therefore, is where I run into problems. Pouring the egg is no problem. Into the frying pan, even. But any maneuvering of the egg after it's half-cooked becomes a dauntingly religious task. It's because eggs and my frying pan love each other. They refuse to separate themselves after only a few seconds of, though admittedly, hot intimacy. Fast becoming brown on the other side, with the top-side still slimy and raw, I succeeded only in destroying its shape, breaking the whole thing into chunks of egg with further attempts to turn them over. It was at this very moment that a sad realization came to me: this isn't going to be an omelette. I exercised a moment of improvisatory decision-making and decided to cut up some chicken thigh, throw in the spinach and tomato originally intended for an omelette, and stir it vigorously in a very confident manner. What, it's.. it's chicken stir-fry! But with an egg theme. Yet another success. Brilliant! Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Contrary to what some of you have been emailing, and what a delightfully clever and jesting bunch you are, the metal-covered Bible is not a leather-bound one wrapped in tinfoil.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Nearing August, I told my mother and my sister very clearly that I wanted to live in a minimalist style. I just had it with bulky, stressful moves where I realized that half the things I have belong in a dumpster, not in my suitcase.It came to my attention that my mom was going to the Canadian National Exhibition, also known as the C.N.E. What scared me is that C.N.E. is a place rife with tchotchkes and gimcracks; useless things and novelties that simply wear off within a few hours. Nonetheless, I figured my mom wouldn’t be getting me anything since, afterall, I had told her I wanted to live with the least amount of junk possible. So I let my guard down because, usually, this would be a red-alert occasion. My phone rang. It was my mom. She got me an automatic vegetable slicer. “Mom!” I protested, “I told you that what I didn’t want was a bunch of STUFF!” “But,” she said in a quiet, hesitating voice, “it’s very small.” I paused. She may just be the sweetest person in the whole world. My sister, Melodie, had mentioned for a whole month that she had gotten me something that I had told her I thought was cool, in passing it by somewhere in Granville Island this summer, which, though much more beautiful, isn’t at all unlike this notorious C.N.E. I’ve been talking about. So when she insisted that she would send it to me in New York, inward groans prepared me for bulky key chains and furry animal hand-puppets. A few days ago, I got a package and inside was a metal-covered Bible. It didn't matter that I had three other Bibles already; my sister had the foresight to have gotten me a New Living Translation. In reality, I had totally forgotten how I had wanted it. While reading it this morning, I realized that you should never doubt your family; that, and living with a little bit of clutter is sometimes worth it. Saturday, September 13, 2003
To all the students living on their own for the first time, click here.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
There has been an incredible amount of inquiries about why I don't talk about any of my romances on this site, which, strangely, all came within this same week, from different people, emails, and instant messages. Well, to kick it off, I suppose we may as well start from the beginning:Right off the bat, I totally disagree that girls mature faster than guys. Back in elementary school, when everyone else was complaining about cooties in their counterparts, I liked girls. In fact, an obvious sign that I matured faster than girls is that I liked girls and they never liked me back. This had nothing to do with my hatred for showering regularly. Or my rotating outfits that revolved only around two shirts. Or my rainbow-coloured Punky Brewster shoes. I was so mature I started liking girls when I was in pre-school. Her name was Nicole, a pretty blonde with smart, blue eyes. She was quiet and way more advanced than the rest of us: for one thing, she could tie her own shoes. I asked Brad Armstrong, a mouse of a boy with an irrepressibly scratchy voice, whether he liked any girls in the class. He turned towards me, startled, and said, like any true friend would, “Girls?? You like girls?! Gross, get away from me!” “No way!” I thought quickly. “I don’t like girls. And I definitely wouldn’t like Nicole, if I liked girls, I mean.” “Oh, okay,” Brad said. “Wanna play Lego?” I remember it was winter; I saw big, fat flakes fall lazily from the sky outside the window. I was wearing a little parka number with a hood which you tightened with strings. I really wanted to go outside and play with the other boys, but the teacher was surrounded with kids. She was helping them into their boots, one by one. So I clumsily tried to tie my hood myself. The teacher finally took notice and chuckled, “Oh, Adrian. That’s very creative of you. Um..” She looked around. “Nicole? Can you please help Adrian with his hood?” Nicole, who was in a corner with three of her other friends, combing the tail end of a pink My Little Pony, quickly turned and walked over to me. Even in childhood, there are ineffable moments where a very palpable grace glimmers all around you, and you’re just glad that you picked that day to have scrubbed behind the ears. She grasped the strings and, in a few quick and deft movements, my hood was securely fastened around my head. I looked at her, the rim of my hood framing her pretty little face. “Is that okay?” she asked. I nodded. I was in love. My head was swimming. I couldn’t let this magical moment pass. I had to get my feelings out of the way. She had to know. She was the one for me. I knew it. I took a deep breath. “I like you,” I blurted out loud. All around the room there was a gasp. Her bottom lip quivered. “Ew! You’re gross!” she wailed, as she spun around and ran away. Okay. That went well. I stood there with my mittens, which were strung through the sleeves of my parka, hanging sadly in dejected gloom. Brad, who always seemed to show up at inopportune times, spat out, “Hey! I thought you said you wouldn’t like Nicole even if you liked girls!” “I..” My four-year-old mind raced to find something ingenious. I decided to sell out, “I was just kidding with her. I hate girls. They have cooties.” “Oh, okay,” Brad said. “C’mon, let’s go build a snowman!” I looked back at Nicole, who had long forgotten that I had just splattered my heart onto her feet. If you scratch the word ‘cooties’, underneath you will find four-year-old jilted love. Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Procrastination is sitting in front of your computer with the very noble intention of scheduling your day.
Since I was applying for my Social Security Number today, I ended up in Harlem again this week. One might say that I do live in Harlem – what with Harlem being a few blocks away. Many people have commented on my accent. I don’t have an accent. You have an accent. We must all realize that, by objective definition, everyone has an accent. The very idea of an accent stands itself up only on colloquial understanding. There’s a certain Romanian cellist and even he says I have an accent. “Leesten,” he said, last year, in Montreal (so, apparently, I’ve had an accent this whole time). “I reel-ly fink you haff an ack-sunt.” Properly put in my place, I had nothing to say back because, I mean, what was I supposed to say? That he doesn’t? So I was waiting in the office today, nearly two hours, and I was eavesdropping on several different conversations going on around me. I found it funny that they were grumbling, talking about a certain someone. “Y’know. Mrs. Pah-sons. (Parsons.) She’s da one in da bidness suit, naw’mean – da one wit da accent. Whas gawn wit dat.” The accent. I mean, she’s the one with the accent. You know who they were talking about? A Canadian. Wait. So Canadians have accents too? No way. Anyway. I knew, I had this sneaking suspicion, that people would say that my accent has gotten heavier during my stay in New York. I knew they would do this. I don’t know why, but that’s what people do. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. So one of my friends from back home, who always wishes to be unnamed, brought this up the fifth day I was here. “I think you’re starting to talk more like a New Yorker. I mean, you’re saying words differently.” Seriously, I have been talking the same way for years and I have been here for like, two weeks. Why all y’all gittin up in mah bidness? Friday, September 05, 2003
 Just moved all the things into the apartment. That in itself is a long winding adventure which ends with me wandering around the picturesque and neighbourhood-friendly streets of Harlem. However, Eric and I were able to have the foresight to stop off at a Costco in Queens, buying nearly four hundred dollars worth of meat, computer supplies, cereal, Korean instant noodles, and frozen foods. Because of this same foresight, I literally cannot leave the apartment. (To your above-left is a picture of the door we use primarily to get in and out. To my architect friends, Jon, Latimer, and Joe: my resident architect, Eric, knows very well that this is a fire hazard.) However, in light of three emails from the young, I intend to teach you boys a few male bachelor skills. 8Will Teach You How To Cook: No one likes to wait around while you’re heating up frozen chicken pot pies. You have to wait half an hour or more until it’s ready. But when you microwave them first, and use the oven only to toast the crispy likeness of having baked it, like I did, making the whole process ready and done in less than ten minutes, you simply must conclude that I am, in fact, a genius. (Note: this same technique can be used for taquitos and chicken nuggets.) Thursday, September 04, 2003
This Educational Moment has been brought to you by the number 8, and the letter W:The very first cafeteria came in 1885 to New York City, this day. As a result, many have enjoyed such delicacies as Beef Flakes and Mashed Salmon Pie for 118 years and going. For inexplicable reasons, these delicious entrées make a considerable number of appearances at summer music programs. Wednesday, September 03, 2003
I am a heavy breather; an upsetting majority of people think this is because I’m unfit.Back in Montreal, I would often talk on the phone while walking back and forth between school and my apartment. It was a great way to save time and do two things at once. One day, I was walking up Aylmer when my mom called on my cell phone. We talked a little bit about my summer travel plans when she commented on how long the walk home seemed. I explained a block in Montreal meant two and half in Toronto – at least, as far as it concerns the McGill ghetto. After another minute of conversation, my mom asked whether or not my cello was heavy. Confused, I told her my cello was in my locker at school and that I wasn’t bringing it home with me. Upon hearing this, my mom cautiously ventured, "I think you may need more exercise." Apparently the combined effort of talking and walking causes me to breathe savagely – so much so that those on the other line think I’ve had the sudden vitality to simultaneously climb a tree. However, I vehemently disagree with the assumption that heavy breathing is the immediate outcome of my being fat. Some people just breathe loud. No exercise can free you from that. The phone rang in my uncle and aunt’s house in Vancouver. Since nobody picked it up after several rings, I answered the phone. To my surprise it was my Uncle Moses from Taiwan calling. We talked for a bit until my Aunt Jennivine picked up. That’s when they started talking intensely about something else and I was caught in another one of your classic cases of social confusion. Was I supposed to listen in? Or was I just supposed to say, “Well, seeing that none of this concerns me and it seems as though you two have totally forgotten I’m here anyway, I’m going to hang up now”? But, as this site likes to show you what not to do, I decided on keeping on the line, not knowing that their current topic was going to last well over ten minutes. Suddenly, my Aunt Jennivine, who has excellent English, said, “Who’s breathing so obscenely on the other end of the phone? What is this? A late-night hotline?” What? I wasn’t even walking. Put on the spot, of course I stuttered my first syllables and sounded like a pervert. “Uh, it’s.. me. Adrian. I’m.. going now.” You know, I heard exercise is good for me anyway. Monday, September 01, 2003
Good News:The music video is done. It looks great and, quite frankly, though I've said this before, it's weird seeing me on tape, acting all serious. A million thanks to Michelle for her editing, directing, patience and masterminding the whole thing. Also to David Johns for the magic that only he can do with the camera. Geniuses, both of them. Check out David Johns to see what you're up against. 
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