2003-11-14 - 3:28 p.m.

Raisin Brain.

Friday. Fuck Friday.

Feels like someone shat in my mouth, kicked the fuck out of my skull from inside out and stole all my fucking money.

"$95 a ticket and you have to pay $7.50 a single? FUCK OFF, YA CUNT. Aw, whathefuck. two dozen tickets please. No, they're not all for me. No I'm NOT sure they're not all for me, don't turn yer $7/hr job into a $20/hr one, gimme the PAPER BOOZE BITCH!"

Maybe she was right.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.

2003-11-14 - 12:58 a.m.

Nothing of Interest Here. Move Along.

What a fucking great day this was.

First I get up early to do some Temple motions down by Science World and end up doing some pretty shoddy Tai Chi with several elderly Chinese folks that din�t know a rick of Engrish. A shriveled old woman of an indeterminate age helped me through my memory lapses with great laughter.

I get to work and get some unexpected mail. Unexpected mail rocks fucking nads.

An ad that we did ran in a newspaper TOTALLY fecked, and the printer was blaming us for the shit. Now, it�s not my department anymore, but I�m really the only one that knows anything about Image RIPs and making the films that produce the plates that make the proofs that go to press that makes the newspapers that you read every morning. I know a lot of strange shit, it�s the truth.

Now the printer�s telling us it was fine on screen, but printed fucked up. My reaction (again..not my department, BUT) was that it passed our internal QC�s, looked fine enough for you to send it to print, you missed it on the proof some fuckin how and you�re blaming us? Fuck them I told our production manager and exec. We can�t control how they fuck our files up when we send them.

I�m soon on the phone with the production guy over at the printer, because I�m the only one who knows how to speak Printerese. I tell the guy to send the files that we originally sent him, BACK to us and let us look at them. Now he says the file looks fucked.

We get the files and they are fucked. �Wait a sec,� I say, thinking of something�the modified date was correct, but I opened the file with a shit-assed little app called BBEdit. It shows you shit written into the file that you can�t see unless you open it this way. Like what kind of computer and what version and registration number of the creator application. None of what was in there was ours. They reset their system clocks and resaved the file.

Printer was helpless. We were victorious. I am a Mid-Day Morning God.

I am John-Sherlock-Fucking-Holmes, I�m that fucking good.

So it was Lotus Awards night. For all that care, these are Vancouver�s advertising awards where 3 companies win all the awards for 4 campaigns. We weren�t one of them, but I and some great Others just got to Vancouver.

I needed to get my hair cut � badly. Here�s the thing. Up until I moved to Vancouver, a good friend of mine had cut my hair for 15 years. Since high school. We�ve always just happened to be in the same places. Needless to say, I�d tell him to cut my fucking hair and he�d do what he�d please and I�d trust him, because he�d cut Lindsay Wagner�s hair! He cut some mean fucking hair.

When we got to BC we first lived in Burnaby, just outside Van, and an old queen�d cut my hair good. When we moved into the city, I had nobody. So I just stopped cutting my hair. And it was near fucking Manson-like, let me tell ya. Been wearing a hat everyday for about 6 months.

So tonight I says Fuck It. There�s a Chinese place just outside Chinatown and I�ll get it done there. I expected the expected �Uhhh. You want cut hair? What kind?� but was very fucking surprised. Asian culture is a fucking mystery to me. Sofia Copola�s �Lost in Translation� captures how absurdly complex and obtuse Asian culture seems to us Gwai-lo and Gaijin. But she does it in a way that does a lot of respect to the Japanese. Go see it if you can.

But I digress.

I�ve found Asian merchants to either be overly WAY overly friendly or they snort and sneeze at you. This place was fucking great. Takes the coat, gives me the Engrish magazeeens (although I read the Chinese pop rags for the illegal looking Chinese popstars in their wee tiny leetle outfits). The Ricks comes and gets me.

And washes my fucking hair. Holy fuck he washed my hair. Now, this is all gonna sound real gay, but he washed my hair three times � and conditioned. And the shit he was using was this cherry-scented shit that my gay cousin used to use. This guy used his fingernails and scratched my head till my eyebrows involuntarily convulsed. If the guy wasn�t a fag I�d have felt compelled to suck his dick or something, for sure! But seeing he was a gay, he�d prolly take a dick-sucking as a sign of hope from yours truly and I�m not gay so, that wasn�t in the cards.

He used 3 kinds of clippers. He used a straight razor, some mini sheep-shears, a pair of scissors that felt like an angry Fraggle biting my hair off and various other sizes of scissors. He knew little Engrish and could blissfully not speak.

I closed my eyes and slipped into and easy, slow-breath meditation and opening my eyes he asked, �Qi Gong?� He noticed the similar breathing technique. �Kung Fu,� I tell him. �Ahhh,� snip-snip-snip.

He kept grinding his cock into my elbows, but what the fuck. What was he hurting? I�m all about getting the most out of people for the least amount of work, so tea-bag away buddy. It paid off. Great cut. Surreal for sure and I�m goin the fuck back just to be fucking gay again for an hour.

The Awards were the typical bullshit awards show. Bla bla bla. Drink drink drink. Yell, yell, yell. Punch, punch, kick. Kick, stab, drown. Y�know how they are. Anyhow, I make it through alive and have fun enough, cause there isn�t an ugly in the room, and everyone�s all gussied up and all the chicks are all whored to the 9�s. Yeah, them�s good times. My Lovely Keeper was a seckzy hoor herself in her �Something-Samantha-From-Sex-In-The-City-Would-Wear� nightie-top and shit�mmmmm. She still out. I had enough and sent her away to frolic with the stupid and the revillers.

As for me, I had enough. I was full of shmooze and wanted to puke. Or at least smoke more drugs. So I went to the coatcheck to get our coats. A hot little number in robin�s egg blue pants and a t-shirt looks down the counter at me and sllliiiiiides right up next to me.

Sidebar: I was amongst the dolled up and I can, when the occasion calls, look perty fucking good. It�s not braggin� to say that shit. A person shouldn�t be ashamed for realizing they have a quality or talent. Ya got it? Fucking use it. Keeper made sure I looked good. It�s her job to dress the rich and famous, so I trust her implicitly. The people I work with took doubletakes all night � Charles Manson to Charles Grodin in an afternoon.

Anyhow, as I was saying, she slllliiiiides next to me and says, �What�s better than meeting a chick in the park?�

I grin, loving this from the get and immediately reply, �Why, I don�t know. What IS better than meeting a chick in the park?�

She gets on her tippie toes and whispers on my earlobe, �Parking your meat in a chick!� Giggles and leaves with a wave. Fuck I love being a man.

And so here I am. Just thought I�d share, y�know? Got me a lil buzz still hapnin� and felt I had some write still left in me. It�s gone now. Go piss off to your boring work-a-days. I�m goin� to bed. Tomorrow�s fucking FRI-FUCKING-DAY!

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.