I write like little girls play hopscotch

It's so hard to separate a person and their works. So many people, so many good people, so many people worth studying are complete assholes. 

Right now I'm reading Heidegger, and the man is a Nazi. He, quite literally, is a card-carrying member of the National Socialist party. And I'm not reading his politics, I'm reading his philosophy, his metaphysics. 

Okay, fuck it, I was trying to write that, because that's been in my head for a while, and it was building up to this whole thing where I reveal I cannot separate a person and their work, but that's pretty much a given, that's not worth saying. I don't really know what is worth saying. I'm sitting in my room and there is a typewriter in front of me and I have no idea why I'm writing on a laptop and not on this machine sitting in front of me. I respect the machine, so intricate and hardy and delicate, so much more than this toy on my lap. And I just have no idea why I am on this laptop. It feels like the force of my fingers can break the keys. I don't want to dance daintily across the keyboard, you can't write poetry like that, you can't write beauty like that. I want to pound on the typewriter keys like a percussion instrument until my fingers bleed, I want to hit the typewriter with my fighting words, I want to pour anger and resentment and passion into my words and man the medium is the message, macbooks just have no passion to them, they're too dainty. 

I have known for so long, for so long, that you can't write poetry on a computer. I have known this but I still write on a computer. And I don't goddamn know why. 

Okay this is going too far into anger and I don't want to write angry things. It just feels kind of forced now. 

Today it's raining in Montreal. Or it's not even rain, it's a light drizzle. I decided to walk home from class, even though it's, like, 45 minutes and I already paid $14 for a three day pass. I figure I paid that $14 for the freedom to use the metro whenever I want, so I don't really have any obligation to use it. Just because I can do something, doesn't mean I want to at all. That's a stupid way to think, in my humble opinion. Freedom doesn't mean obligation. But yeah, it was raining, and it was so soft and sweet and sad and I was listening to sad songs and I loved it. I felt good, the world was so white and grey and green and it all looked united in these colours. The world had a single intent, and I guess it still does, since it's still wet and miserable outside. 

The mountain was covered in fog, and it was wonderful. It reminded me of the summer when I was trying to hitchhike down a mountain road and there was clouds all around and it was one of the most beautiful mornings. And the mountain looked like that, except it was Westmount, and it's covered in houses and mansions and castles and you couldn't see the top but I knew it was shrouded in fog. And it's great, because the people up there, the people who paid so much and probably did horrible things to get that money to live up there only saw white, they only saw the inside of the cloud, while I could have the mystery of not knowing what was up there. 

And I guess the inside of a cloud is as close to oblivion you can get, and I don't really know what lies these people told themselves so they can be comfortable staring into that. Or maybe they just shut the blinds and turn up the TV. Or maybe I'm completely misrepresenting them, maybe they're good people, who just happen to have money, and just happen to live up there, and the sight of the inside of a cloud is welcome and beautiful to them as it would be to me. Or so I think. I don't know, maybe I'm just lying to make myself feel comfortable staring at that. Maybe I'm just as bad as these people living on top of the mountain, maybe I'm just as bourgeois. After all, I have a place to sleep at night. 

And I don't know if that's a good judge of wealth but if it isn't I don't know what is. I have a place to sleep at night, and I have a few meals a day. And because of this I'm better off than so many other people. 

Okay, this is too socially relevant, moving somewhere else. 

Goddamnit, I just want to write poetry, man. I just want to write beauty, I just want to write with rhythm, with flow, with no intent but to illuminate a darkened place, you know? But for some reason I can't make myself do this. I blame the machine, but that's just blaming, that's just an excuse. I don't know, I feel like if I was a real poet, a true poet, a pure poet, I could sit down anywhere with the capability of making sound, of communicating in any way, and I could write something beautiful. And I guess if that's how I define poetry, then everything is poetry, any communication is poetry. Or any beautiful communication is poetry, and isn't beautiful communication just art? I don't know if I want to be a poet or an artist as they conjure up completely different images to me. For me, for some reason, the epitomal poet is Oscar Wilde (though he didn't really write poetry, or I don't really know his poetry that well), and the epitomal artist is Picasso. And I guess these are just, like, popular images of these titles, and I don't really want to be either one. I mean, I have nothing against either of those dudes, they seem fly as fuck in so many ways, but that's not me, and I don't want it to be. 

I don't like being compared to people. I mean, I know it happens, and sometimes it's pretty flattering, but I don't want to be anyone else. I'm me, I accept this, I embrace it. 

I'm me, I just need to figure out who that is. 

Dear cats, and kittens and cats who wish they were kittens, and kittens who wish they were cats, and puppy-kittens and Gabez, and Gay-Babez, and Gay BLADES (such a horrible music video.) and Gaylens and Alvin,

I cannot tell anyone and everyone and everything enough just how much I totally really fucking love the people who write on this blog. They write about gorgeous things like being lamp posts or the beauty of walking and shit. I try.

No, I don't.

Montréal is a sweet place. I'm looking for a sweet Montréal job. Hook me up.

Furthermore, I have been looking into citizenships and dual citizenships and multiple citizenships and naturalization and all that bullshit. Here's a little TIDBIT of info for you; in some countries, if you try and gain citizenship in another country, they make you renounce your old citizenship. WHACK. I guess they have their reasons. Or they totally don't.

Oil spills = heart attacks = logic = heart ache = sad cat = space travel.

Now, let's just be quiet, one second, please.

Oh, also, guys, I totally love hipsters. That's you, Repus Eel. I dig your ironic lack of facial hair.

Does Lee ever even update this thing anymore? My updates from now on are going to turn into comments.

Double post. Alter Ego recites: --I Wished to the Biggest thing Around--

Oh
Beautiful moon, the precious,
illuminated bottom of a bottle, top of the only lighthouse,
make me a lamp-post.
TALL
and throbbing of magic glow.
Stark on the street
eons below.

Tuesday. Listen Up. A new story.

Alter Ego:
I will try really hard to post on an actual Tuesday next week. JUST watch me. Just so you guys know the schedule. It is SUPPOSED to go like this:

Tuesday: DayMoon

Thursday: Spiny Norman

Saturday: Cyrano's Mustache

And of course, Super Lee blogs whenever the hell he wants.

















Want to see some of my art?
Click that> WHAT OF IT?

Rollerblading. To the max.

Dear Reader,

You may not know this, but what you hold in your hands is explosive.

I am avoiding writing a response to an Emily Dickinson poem and Lee is doing the dishes.

So last night Lee and I tried (and failed) to attend a Young Rival concert, which was balls because I really wanted to see Young Ri

val again. We stayed home and ate nachos and pretended instead, which was also sweet, because we had nachos. And apple pie. And Nirvana the Band. And Norm was there, too (or was he? I can't really remember. srsly, was he?).

Alvin is in O-town rocking that poor, sad city with his obscene, lady-killing presence. He brought a DVD copy of Disney's Robinhood with h

im. So if you live in Ottawa and you're totally itching to see that movie, then hit him up.

Anyways.

Who even reads this? Besides my mother? Mom, why don't you ever comment. It would probably seriously boost Lee's confidence. Try it sometime.

Hyperlink Assault (should be a video game. OR a legitimate like, charge. we're charging you with hyperlink assault. that's probably not the

right wording. Assault by Hyperlink. or something. I just really like the word hyperlink it's like, high-tech and spacey and stuff. I'm hyperlinking you the info as we speak. Hahaha... the word hyperlink is starting to make less and less sense to me. hey, did you know that there is a 100$ fine for not wearing shoes in the Metro? Yeah, crazy. He kept telling me it was an infraction. He also didn't speak a lot of english.)

For now,

For ever,

For better,

For worse,

Four

times Four

is sixteen.

PS. I fucking love Juice:

Tuesday. uhm. We. Have to talk.

I am very Sorry Tuesday. I still love you. I am in love with you, but I don't know. YOu know. I was just so busy. ANd. AND THEN. And then the next day past and I was all sad and down and I missed you. I MISSED YOU. But I don't know, you know? I just don't think that it is working out right now. I uh, think that we have to. um. b. Break. up.
. . . . . . . .
... ... ... ...
...
. . . . .
Nawwww, just kidding. I love you Tuesday.
Hey! Where are you going? Hey! I am sorry.
Okay, enough diiddlliinng around. Here it is.
Alter Ego:

DEPRESSING. LIKE, SUPES DEPRESSING.

Okay, so that whole guest writer thing was kind of a bust. I'm going to get on their asses about that soon. Or maybe this is the way it's meant to be, guest writers sweeping in for a post or two, then disappearing, never to be heard from again. So they can tell their stories, whatever stories those might be, and then are gone, and when you walk down the street, you can look in the eyes of the people walking past, and never know quite for sure if you know their tragic tale, and that doubt is enough to make it real, because even if you don't know their tragic tale specifically, you know they have one, and yeah not all tragedies are the same, but you can still relate, you can still say, "Don't worry, I know, you're broken, I'm broken, let's have a broken party."And then you make out for a while. 

Yeah, anyways, I was holding back on posting because I was waiting for someone else to, so I wouldn't double post and all that jazz. But yeah, I guess it's just you and me again, just like the old day, the good old days, back when there were, like, dinosaurs and shit. Dinosaurs are fuckin' rad. 

Anyways, as you may have noticed, a bunch of the questions I have gotten so far (speaking of which, ask a goddamn question, peoples), just in general, have been about writing, and why I write, and et cetera. And the only real answer I could give was, "because writing is the tits." But apparently that wasn't enough for you people (WHY IS IT NEVER ENOUGH FOR YOU PEOPLE) so you made me repeat that, like, 5 times. 

And I think I kind of understand now why it isn't enough, why that answer doesn't satisfy. I mean, I'm not saying that just doing something because it feels good is a bad reason for doing it. Hell, that's why I do, like, everything I do. Hedonism is the shit. Of course my hedonism seems to be less about crack and alcohol and more about meditation and alcohol, but I digress. The point is I haven't gotten close to the point yet, because the point is that it's cool to just do something because it feels good, but it's also like if I'm in the right mood, I can just as easily and have just as much fun writing about, like, fuckin' flowers and birds as I would writing about domestic abuse or something. And okay that came out wrong but I hope you get the point. I'm not saying I like domestic abuse, and yes that is a hard subject for me to write about both because it's hard to think about and I (thankfully) have no experience with it. I think I was hit once by my parents and that was when I dyed my hair blue without telling them first, and that was more like something I'd do with my friends. What I am saying is that the subject matter of my writing has very little to do with my enjoyment of the actual writing, except that it's funner to think about flowers and bullshit like that than problems in the world. 

And yeah, the world has a lot of problems. That's a given. Everything, or almost everything, is pretty terrible. I mean, we can all do our part to help things out, I'm drinking fair-trade coffee right now, for example. And I'm mostly doing that because the coffee business is scary as hell and it's tasty. But even fair trade coffee is killing us, poisoning us, because of how far it must be shipped and the comparatively low shipment sizes which means that less is on each boat which means more boats are needed which adds carbon emissions and greenhouse gases which'll lead to Greenland splitting apart and sinking and oh god we are all going to die. Being a good person nowadays has become a bit of a Sophie's Choice, because we can either fuck over the third world, or fuck over the environment, and even that's ignoring the problems in our backyards. The pain and poverty and suffering even in places like Montreal is absurd. 

What I'm saying is that the world needs saving. That is a given, that is a presupposition, the world needs a saviour, it needs righteous might, it needs a riot, a cleansing flame, it needs anger and fury that'll be aimed towards destroying all the right things. What I'm also saying is that I don't think I can be a part of that charge. I know people who are political, who are passionate, who care about the problems of the world, who attack homophobes and save the environment, and I agree with them, (how could I not?) and I support them, and I sign their petitions, and I try to help where ever I can, but I was never able to actually join their groups, to discuss these problems, to hold the petition up to other people to sign. And I don't know why, I don't know what sort of fucked up person that makes me that I can't care enough about this, to devote my life to solving these problems, to relieve this suffering. But, for whatever reason, through some fault in my character, I can't, I can't save the world. 

But I realized today in the shower what I can do. I can't save the world, but I can help remind people that the world is worthy of being saved. I don't know man, it's mad easy to see the world, with all it's problems and pain and suffering and say it's past saving, that there's nothing we can do make it beautiful and whole again. But okay I guess that's the point of what I write, in a way? I write about birds and flowers and true love and kittens and magicians because that makes me happy, and because that's part of the world, and the world is awesome and fantastic because it has to be to accommodate such awesome and fantastic things. So yeah I guess that's not why I write, but why I write what I write, or why I will write what I want to write, or maybe this is just another excuse to not actually become politically active. Anyways, the point is, I am not going to save the world, I just want to remind people that the world is worth saving, no matter how broken and wonderful it gets. 

PEACE OUT!

lee

frailty thy name is woman

Okay, I was going to update yesterday but by the time I got home I was really tired and napped instead and yeah sorry about that team.

Anyhoodle! Questions!

1. alright so i read your earlier post about how you'd choose wealth over 'perfect love' or 'perfect happiness' (to simplify it)... but you see... if 'perfect love' is perfect, which implies it's subjective, than indeed your 'perfect love' could have those imperfections and challenges which you so desire, thus making it everything you want. same goes for happiness. so then which do you choose when perfection involves a bit of imperfection, a dose of challenge?

                               -anonymous

Part of me wants to still choose wealth, for the reasons I gave before, but that'd be kind of ignoring the question I guess. So I shall re-examine this one.

The only way the answer could be different, I find, would be if each one is mutually exclusive, that I can choose one and only choose one, and I can never achieve the other two. The way I see this is that since my perfect love and perfect happiness involves (Alvin says hi) the same problems and conflicts any happiness and love has, then no matter how I live my life, as long as I am constantly searching for love and happiness (which I plan on doing no matter what), then I will have my perfect happiness and perfect love. So, unless I can have one and only one, then no matter what, I will have all three if I choose wealth.

And if they are completely exclusive, then wealth is still the only logical answer, because I am stupid enough to completely connect love and happiness in my head. I will never be perfectly happy unless I'm in love and I'll never be perfectly in love unless I'm happy. So those are far too connected to me to choose one without the other, which is what I would have to do. Therefore, I must choose wealth, regardless.

Woo! I reasoned out the same answer even with that change! I'm rad!

2. Okay, so, At the beginning of our school year, one of my teachers made each student in my class write a question on a piece of paper. She said it could be anything we wanted, as long as we didn't already know the answer.

The other day, she randomly assigned all the questions to people, and told us to write a paper in response.

My fucking question is this:

"How many undiscovered places are there in the world?"

HOW THE FUCK DOES ANYONE ANSWER THAT QUESTION.

You're my only hope.

                       -anonymous

Hahaha, oh my lord, that is a dumb question. I mean the question you were asked. It's just a stupid question. It is a question that cannot possibly have an answer. 'Undiscovered' means nothing, really, in and of itself. Does it mean untouched and unseen by humanity? Or undiscovered by the Western World? Or what?

How about 'places'? What does that mean? How big of a place does it have to be to be a place? Is my living room a different place than my kitchen, or are they both under the place heading of my house? It's just vague. Does a place need to be physical, even? Can the mind be a place?

Even "how many" is stupid. Since that implies an exact number, which is impossible to find because if the places are undiscovered, then there is no way of knowing an exact number. I'm sorry but it's just a stupid, stupid, unanswerable question. It's like a koan.

So, here's my answer to the unanswerable question:

There are four undiscovered places. The mind, the soul, the land and the sea.

Okay, that was fun, I'm watching Hamlet, it's tight.

kisses,

Lee

P.S. ASK QUESTION. 

Well, here I am

Yet another guest author joins the ranks of the Hope & Derring-Do writing staff. I'm sure all two of you awesome readers of said blog are shivering with antici.....pation at what crazy, creative, cool, cummerbund-breaking things I'll be talking about but I'm afraid to say that your hopes are probably misplaced. I am a simple 20 year old male of no special importance to the world as of yet so I will not be able to regale you with tales of my many conquests and/or adventures. What I can do for you though, because you are both so excellent in your reading of exceedingly extraordinary, explosively inexplicable, and extremely extrapolated things such as this here blog, I will do what I can to please.

SO ANYWAY.....

I was originally planning on writing an awesome short story for you two but I ended up rearranging my room for a couple hours.....so that plan kinda fell through the floor like a 300 lbs. dude in a bathtub.......but I promise to write one for next Thursday......or at least early Friday morning....like this.

YA

So I'm sick, I'm a horribly mentally deranged paranoid schizophrenic who steals people's rolls of duct tape and I'm completely beyond help and should be put away in an asylum to rot for eternity for my heinous crimes against humanity. Ok, that was a lie, but the sick part was true, and so is duct tape. I caught a cold a couple days ago and I'm only just getting over it. I apologize in advance if anyone gets my cold by reading this post and/or touching this keyboard. I don't even know how I got it.....I remember being out for hours in cold weather and I think I wasn't really dressed for it either.....but I don't see how that could really get me sick....you silly weather man.

Well, the tea helps. Here at the Beautiful People's Society + Norm (also known as Smooch City) we have about 5, 345 tea bags and tea related objects and somewhere in the ballpark of ONE BILLION and two mugs to put the afore mentioned tea into. So basically, all that to say, I'm not really a tea kinda person. It all just taste like hot water to me, but it smells delicious. I tried camomile for the first time since I was a little boy named Christopher Robin in Winnie The Pooh books and it totally knocked me out. I started feeling sleepy and that dastardly tea made me think I could just jump into bed and fall asleep, but little did I know that the horrifying truth would greet me the next morning in the form of my very own face. I had completely forgotten to brush and floss, and I had accidentally left my contacts in so I pretty much looked how I felt, which is to say great....woops, I meant AWFUL AS ALL HELL. So, I'm pretty much going to avoid drinking Camomile for a while but I think I might use it in my totally awesome ninja/spy/lumberjack adventures as a way to knock out guards and such.

ALRIGHTY THEN

If you are starting to wonder why there's a crazy person writing on the blog all of a sudden, that's because IT'S TRUE and I actually judge both of you for not realizing it sooner.

ONWARDS TO BUSINESS TIME

That's right kids, it's time to get a little more serious, which is entirely impossible because I've been WAY TOO SERIOUS up until this point.

I'm currently over 2 months into living here in beautiful Montreal, inside what is literally the best and most affordable apartment 4 people could ever get in the history of cake, and I still haven't found a job. I know, right? That's totally what I was thinking. Well....I don't know if I'd go that far.....geez.

Anywhat, I'm currently looking for employment as a road warrior/total badass a.k.a. a bike messenger. I've been reading up and I have the utmost respect for the people who do the job and I know how much I would love it and how good I would be at it. I don't quite have all the right equipment yet but I know that I could work my way to being an excellent bike courier. I definitely have experience in the area. During the summer of 2008, from early June to September, I worked at a farm supply/animal feed/almost everything you could possibly think of related to farms store which was - and still is - owned by my uncle Thom. That job was a pretty amazing opportunity and I'm quite grateful for it. I used to live in Ottawa see, and this job was out in Metcalfe (which is technically part of Ottawa but the people who live there don't want to be), check it out bro, it's like 26 km away from where I lived and I had to bike it, every day, there in the morning, back in the evening. Ya, I know. Most of the time without a helmet, biking on a rural highway that doesn't have a shoulder and being almost run over by 18 wheelers day in and day out. And in between those epic biking excursions, I worked for 8 & 1/2 hours running the store completely on my own, which included a lot of physical labour for receiving shipments of feed and grains and stuff as well as moving it for the customers, and these bags ranged from 50 - 100 lbs most of the time, and I had to carry - on average - something like 30-50 of them per day as well as doing all the other duties required for running a store. So that was a cool job, at first it was hard as hell and the scrawny little 17 year old I was at the time didn't really know what to do for the first week or two, but once I got the hang of it I was completely autonomous and totally freaking awesome. So I'm used to physical labour and I think I'm still in relatively good shape.....ladies *wink*

And I'm definitely good with the autonomy thing (I would say independence is my middle name, if my middle name wasn't already Total Social Outcast) and I love biking with a passion because of the freedom, the exercise and the fun of it, so why don't I have a job yet? I don't totally know.....well actually I know exactly why....it's because I'm lazy, and I have no drive to succeed....or so I'm led to believe by my room-mates. It's more just that I've been at this "looking for a job" thing for a month or two and I'm getting really tired, somewhat grumpy, and frankly pretty pissed off at not succeeding. I've also been wanting to get more serious about music, acting, writing etc. (basically anything creative I've every dabbled in) since I'm in Montreal which is a great place for that kind of thing but that kind of stuff requires a job to keep you afloat so you can work on you real dreams on the side.

The part that gets me is that I would have had a job back in Ottawa months ago if I had stayed, I never had a problem getting a job there, but now it's been so long and I'm kind of losing hope......and money of course.
Generally, I'm not the guy who has to borrow money , I'm the guy who lends it. I get the feeling that this all might be a sign that I shouldn't be here in the first place, but I am here, I made the decision to move out when I did, I made the decision to go to Montreal with one of my best friends and I can't regret any of that. It would be pointless to dwell on those decisions because whether they were bad or good decisions for me and my future, they got me to where I am today, and I love this apartment, I like having room-mates who I'm slowly getting to know more and more. I have to make the best of this situation or it will fall apart, so I need a job. I just wish it was easier.

THAT'S LIFE

That's what you have to accept sometimes is that you don't end up where you expected, you don't get everything you want or that you need, and you don't always succeed. And frankly, I wouldn't change it, I'm glad to live and grateful for the life I have lived so far, but just like any of the other 6 billion people on this crazy, spinning, blue and green rock floating in space, I'm human.

So Thanks For Reading, If You Did Read All That
And I'll Be Back Next Thursday, Most Likely With Something A Little More Coherent
And Less "Stream Of Consciousness"

I'd Like To Thank Lee, For Allowing Me To Ramble On About Random Stuff On His Blog

'Til Next Time

This has been Norm a.k.a Stormin' Norman a.k.a. Norman Rockwell a.k.a. Sam a.k.a. That Guy Who I Totally Don't Remember Being At That Place Last Week Where We Were All Hanging Out And Having An Awesome Time

HOW DROLL.

I’m pretty bad at segues so I’m just going to split this post into two I guess somewhat related but also strangely incompatible parts. Cool? Cool.

PART I

I am pretty terrible at mornings.

Since I moved to Montreal, I have been blessed with early mornings. Everyday, whether I wanted to or not, I would get up before 9. And this was nice, this was awesome, I’d be up early, make a good breakfast, leisurely shower, several cups of coffee, catch up online, et cetera, before 10:30, and I’d have the rest of the day to do whatever, my minimal responsibilities covered and good.

Which was nice, when I had minimal responsibilities.

But now I’m back in school, and though it’s only, like, the third day, I have already noticed a pattern.

That pattern is that I’m fucking terrible at mornings.

For example, today I left without shoes, just some flip flops jammed in my bag. Not that this is a real problem, shoes are kind of useless and going barefoot is fun and since the perfect storm of Ghost of Corporate Future by Regina Spektor, an episode of Wiretap in which a character expounds (humourously though not insincerely) the wonders of bared feet, and my hippie roommate, I have been going barefoot more and more often over the summer and it’s actually making me dread the snow and ice of winter that I love so much simply because it means I will need to wear shoes or, even worse, socks. The only real problem I had this morning with going barefoot was that I both had to take the metro (which is kind of sticky), and I was going to a Canadian Environmental Studies lecture, which already made me feel like enough of a hippie, thank you very much.

But this is beside the point, that I am pretty shitty at mornings. I keep on leaving without my schedule or my pencil or something stupid and inconsequential and essential like that, and need to go running back to my room from down the street, and maybe wake up my roommates and shit like that. And I know mornings are hard, even with a pot of coffee, and everyone has these problems except for those freaks that are up at 5 or 6 in the morning (I find those people remarkable and also robots), but at the same time, I have the sort of viewpoint that pushes symbolism and epic metaphors upon my daily mishaps.

The most recent metaphor I have decided on for my life is as follows: it’s like how the ceramic makers in China or whatever always purposefully leave one mistake in every teapot or plate they make. The rationale is that when you stop making mistakes is when you stop learning, and when you stop learning, when you’re perfect, then there’s no point in continuing the craft.

The day I have a perfect day, when I do everything perfectly and awesome and I don’t make any mistakes and I’m smooth and wonderful and perfect, is the day I stop learning, is the day I will die. Because, really, and I’ve noticed this more and more since I’ve been back at school, I never want to stop learning. I know it’s a cliché and terrible and I’m a cock for saying it, but it’s the truth, I never want to stop learning. Because learning and schooling and education is the shit, you know? It’s all that and a bag of potato chips. It’s the bee’s knees, the fly’s thighs, the cat’s pajamas, the cat’s meow, it’s rad, it’s happening, it’s with it, it’s got dance, it’s got jazz, it’s got moxie. It moves man! It MOVES.

PART II

I went to see Vampire Weekend last night, at the Metropolis, with Emily. I had only been there once before, to see Gogol Bordello, and I suppose, of the two, Gogol Bordello was the better show.

That being said, I loved the concert, it was awesome and marvelous and I loved almost every part of it. Emily felt differently, “I could’ve just listened to the album, you know?”

I did know, because as much as I loved it, it didn’t really feel like a concert, or it did because there were people on stage with instruments and there was loud music and it was awesome, but at the same time, they didn’t stray that much from their albums. They only played one song I hadn’t heard before, they didn’t do any covers, or anything the audience didn’t expect, they barely talked to the audience, and the audience was barely involved. I actually felt a bit awkward singing along at points.

But whatever, it was a fun concert and when I didn’t feel awkward, I felt awesome, and there’s something about the united front have concerts, the unity of emotion and movement and passion that I can’t help but love. I just wish it was less Vampire Weekend The Music and more Vampire Weekend The Band, if that makes sense. (Which according to the squiggly green lines under half that sentence, doesn’t make sense, grammatically.)

I loved the lighting and stage design though, but I love those things at concerts, they make it so much more of a show than just the music would. I mean, you don’t need good set design to make a good show, some of the best shows I’ve seen have been on shitty stages, or even on tables, in the middle of bars, but I appreciate lighting and stage design, they help set the mood and make things a bit more awesome and rad.

But what I find remarkable about those things is that they’re designed for really only one seat in the house. Vampire Weekend had this chandelier set-up for part of their set, and I know that from the middle of the pit, it would look awesome and symmetrical and cool, but from where we were, it looked a bit like a mess. It was still awesome and whimsical and really cool, but it was aimed, in a way, at only one person. And I think that is beautiful and so romantic and amazing: this whole set-up, this whole plan, this whole scheme, for only one person. And this person isn’t even, as far as they know, the love of their life or anything like that, it’s a complete stranger. And for that complete stranger, this show is perfect.

And it’s kind of life, because the show and lighting and stage design is perfect for one person, it’s perfect for everyone else, too. Like because a little bit of something is perfect, so is everything else. And I’ve started to think like that more and more. Only in a perfect world could perfection exist.

Okay man for some reason I could write so, so much more here but this is already going on for so long but man I still have more to say and hopefully I’ll have more to say the next time I write, but for now I’m just going to say what my next bit was going to be about. This is just going to be a ton more concise.

In my opinion, Vampire Weekend and Scott Pilgrim have made it not cool, but not shameful, to be a hipster. People have referred to me as a hipster, and I didn’t really consider this a bad thing, because Vampire Weekend and Scott Pilgrim are smart and educated and funny and fun and, in my opinion, not bad role models.

Okay.

That’s it.

See you later.

Bye.

KISSES!

Lee. 

Yesterday. Chipmunk.

Dear Very Fun Words, Yesterday, being Monday September 6th, you were in a Chimpmunk, NO wait. A Chipmunk mood. Yes. I drew you this because you, sir are a Scholar and a Magician if I have ever known one. Enjoy the words everyone.

Alter Ego: There is a girl, whom from zero old until old has been named after a famous cheese. Her name is Cheese Barbara. When she was young, she had Attention Deficit Disorder.

YOUNG:

"Watching Fraggle Rock at your dad's house was the best. I do not get cable in my house" Cheese would tell her best friend, who's father was paying for cable t.v. in the late 80s and early 90s.
"Yeah. I like staying at my dad's house. Television is SO IMPORTANT IN MY LIFE. CABLE ROCKS. FRAGGLE ROCKs. And like you were-" Cheese would right then be distracted by a half opened man-hole cover half a kilometer away and just have to run as fast as she could for it. -She also had super vision as her young person power- (Everyone had one young person power that they loose by the exact time that they turn nine years in old. Don't you remember yours?) Ms. young Cheese's friend was cut off by the explosive force of the near instantaneous-nuss of her friend's (Cheese, that is) running.

YOUNG OVER:

Her ADD, incredible running and supreme-o' vision were GREAT for her: being stupid fit, exploring things and expanding her comprehension of the verse around her. (As in UNIverse, sort of verse). She hardly even noticed that this disorder existed in her, with her, for her. Her not as good looking as her friends did notice, however. THEY NOTICED HARD and it made their lives HARD and relationships with her would always become just too HARD. CHeese barely noticed even this and would make new friends as fast as she could run. Very fast is the answer. Very Fast Words. Fast running.

One day, in her slightly not as YOUNG days, a group of not nearly as good looking classmates made up the term "CHEESE IT" for running away at break-ankle-speed without warning.

NOW:

Cheese is still beautifully fit from her ADD running. She is tearing up her last year of High School. Tearing the shit out of it. She is faster and older after all. Just after class, some more also not good-looking people invited her to go get BOOOOOOOOOOOOO rritoes. She says to this "Suretainly, I am fuck hungry as anyone my teenage age." So, shit. They are walking down the road, but when they arrive to just in front of the adolescent restaurant establishment. THe not main-character people EXHALE ONE BIG-PLUME of "CHEESE IT!" They dash the fuck (not as fast as Cheese would) away. Probably to some cheap and not good-looking strip club. Cheese stood there. She stood there. She is standing. Watching. She watches the reflections of the the blurry-blue jeans of the minor characters' legs, oscillating in terrible unison, in the puddled and shinny streets. She did not move. She was distracted by nothing. Her eyes comfortably fixated on the flapping baseball jackets of the 90s that these fellas were-a-wearin'. She noticed her lack of movement by feeling the places that her legs were not going.
"I'm still hungry" she told the reflections. She took the few quick steps to the Burrito shindig that no one was diggin'. (And I mean, who does not dig BO rritoes? WHO? I ASK YOU).

'CHEESE IT' became a "thing." People just kept running away from CHeese and forget to become friends with her. Eventually everyone 'cheesed it' and Cheese would always stand still and watch until her not as powerful eyes could not see them. She never had to, nor ever did run spontaneously away from anyone ever again. Her mind became calm and focused. She stopped watching Fraggle Rock and she never ever ran anywhere. Her fitness went from beautiful to american -stereotype- notgoodatall. Without running, nor the pull for exploration, she bacame slow in movement and gained minor-character amounts of weight. She did not notice that her ADD was gone, so she could not miss it.

EPILOGUE AND FUTURE:

She is now fat. Her name is still Cheese. The other characters are still not nearly as good looking as her. She is Beautiful. Live on Fraggle Rock.

DayMoon out. Tuesday Sept. 7th
--Oh, yes. For the information, I will be updating this here wonderful blog every Tuesday. Expect some.--
GET SOME.

Hey sorry it's a day late, I only got one question this week so I didn't consider it all that urgent.
I was going to write a proper post to accompany it but I'm actually pretty tired right now and I don't really know why so here I go.

can you please write me an exhaustive list of all lists that do not list themselves
             -anonymous

First off, that's more of a request than anything else. And secondly, no, I cannot. That would be a most unwise investment of time, since I'm almost positive a list of every list that does not list themselves would be infinitely long, as new lists are coming up every day. Lists about things that are not lists. Such a list would of course not list itself, because it is not a list about lists. Also, what manner of list would list itself? That seems monstrously obnoxious and redundant, and I, personally, will have nothing to do with it!
Of course, this is ignoring the true intent of the request, which is obviously to drive me gibbering mad since of course, in a list of lists that do no list themselves, I would have to list my list, but then my list would not belong on the list, and so I would have to take it down, but then I'd have to put it back on and so forth and so forth until I either say fuck it and call it a day or kill myself out of frustration.
There may be a way, through careful wording or some such thing, to list my list, but I simply do not care enough to figure it out linguistically.
So, anonymous, I cannot write an exhaustive list of all lists that do not list themselves. For this I apologize. Please take my very mortal soul in apology.

Kisses!
And ask questions!
Lee!

everything's green and dandy

Guys, I have new roommates! Their names are Felix Hedera Helix and Elizabeth! And they are plants! I love them! 

I've never really had plants before, so this is a really new thing for me. I once had a cactus that I didn't water enough, to show how lax I am about these things. That was actually really neat, because the main plant got all brown and dead looking, but when I started to water it again, green shoots started to grow out of that. It was incorrigible! But yeah, this time I will not let my plants die. For one thing they are in a place I see them everything day. As well, they have names, so they're cool. And also I think Emily would kill me if I let them die. 

Speaking of Emily, remember how last week someone else updated for me? Because I felt like I needed to update but I was too lazy to so I got my roommate to? I hope you liked that because guess what? My roommates are also going to start updating. 

And also I have made a pledge to myself to update for every foreign update there is. 

So, what does this mean? 

MORE OF EVERYTHING. 

More updates, more opinions, more me, more you, more of almost everything under the sun. 

I am psyched for this, and if you're not, then may I suggest you sit through it anyway? See it in action before you make any rash judgements?

Kisses!

-Lee

the burdens of power

Wow, wasn't that guest writer fun on MondayTuesday night? I thought it was fun. 

Sorry about the lack of updates and shit and sizzle, I just moved last week and I'm still getting settled in and guys Montreal is a big city and a really easy city to get lost (metaphorically) in. I was going to hope I'd get out alive, but really I might be able to live a full and satisfactory life here. Who knows! The future's scary!

Anyways, this summer at the Great Glebe Garage Sale, I purchased two items that have become precious beyond all reckoning and reason to me: an Olivetti Lettera 25 typewriter, and a Top Banana mug. 

I would include a picture of the mug, because you might not believe my description, but pictures are the devil, THEY STEAL SOULS. It is a white mug, which says "Top Banana"in, I think, Bolded Times New Roman Font. Beneath is a cartoon drawing of a banana with arms and a smile and face, doffing it's top hat. It is a terrifying and wonderful picture that I sometimes forget about. The mug is one of those things that makes me happy no matter what. The Top Banana mug, according to the guy who sold it to me, was from a grocery store that closed down in the neighbourhood years before. I have asked people from the neighbourhood about this, and no one else remembers, so I don't know how true it is. I personally would prefer to believe there's some sordid history to the mug, a bloodstained past to match it's undoubtedly bloodstained future, because, see, this mug exhibits a most strange and frightening and marvellous power: every single guy wants to drink from this mug. 

When I first got it, I knew I would have it forever, or for as long as I have it, I suppose. I brought it to my new apartment, and I told my roommates that it is my mug, and if I see anyone else drinking from it, I will destroy them. Or I think I did. I am positive I said something similar. Anyways, when I moved in, another gentleman, David Padbury was staying with us for a few days. About halfway through his stay, I saw him drinking from the mug. I started to yell at him, naturally, because of course it is my mug and he had no goddamn right to drink from it. It's mine. I'm the Top Banana, not him. He could never be the Top Banana, there can only be one. Et cetera. This made one of my roommates, Emily McQuarrie, fall out of her chair laughing. I think I scared David, but mission accomplished, I had retained my title of Top Banana. 

One of my roommates, the marvellously talented Alvin DeViller, just moved in a few days ago. His parents stayed with us overnight to help him move in and everything. In the morning, I noticed Mr. DeViller drinking from my mug, the mug. He was challenging me. He was challenging my title. He was bidding to be Top Banana. I was conflicted in how to deal with this new scenario. On one hand, he was challenging my title, he was trying to be Top Banana. And I am Top Banana, I paid the quarter for the mug, it is my mug, I earned the right to call myself Top Banana. He had not. He had simply picked the mug out of my cupboard. He was, naturally, not Top Banana material. On the other hand, though, he was still my elder, he had gone through a lot in his life, and I was worried he would not react entirely credulously at my advances towards the mug. 

From my perspective, there was only one thing to do, I had to swallow my pride, and allow someone else to be Top Banana for that morning. When I was out later, I kind of realized how stupid I was for wanting to be Top Banana so much as to deprive other people from the experience. I mean, it's just total selfish, elitist bullying that would allow me to continue to be Top Banana. I would have to be a hardcore asshole in order to further this movement towards true Top Banana-hood. Why is there even a Top Banana? And why would it be me? If I had to objectively state my own rankings in Banana-hood, I think I'd be lower-to-middle echelon of it. (And no I did not just admit to having a small penis. God, you guys need to stop thinking like that. Being Top Banana has nothing to do with penis size. Besides, in the end it's how you use it.)

So, if you are ever staying with me, and I flip out about you using my Top Banana mug, please just slap me and remind me that other people can be Top Banana too. That I can share the burden sometimes, and someone else being Top Banana does not invalidate my own Top Banana-hood. 

Be excellent to each other, 

Lee.

P.S. ASK QUESTIONS I KNOW I WAS STUPID ABOUT THIS LAST WEEK BUT I PROMISE THAT WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN.