For you, the dress code is casual.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Whee, fun.

My saucy new little blog is doing well. 250 hits in about four or so days. It's mostly about sex, but it's pretty classy, methinks. I'm using only fine art nudes and retro and modern erotica. I'm having a fun time finding the eye candy and I've just begun what's to be a 6-8 part saga. Oh, you can't imagine.

So, once again, you want in and you can't find a link anywhere, email me, and I'll spot you.

That's the last mention for a while. The readership's more happening than here right now, so I may play favourites. Getting several comments on every posting. Quite fun.

[Said wistfully]: Why, I remember another time like that, on this bloggie right here. Sigh.

Perhaps the summer has me in a different frame of mind. Never know.


Will & Grace's Sean Hayes was on Letterman a couple nights back. The show's entering the final season. Letterman asks, "So, any idea what'll happen at the end?"

And naturally, Hayes does the standard actor response of, "It's up to the writers."

I'd love to see an actor just once reply, "Well, it's my understanding we're all smoted in a fiery wreck. Damned to hell."

Is that too much to ask?

*I think it'd be even funnier in the right-wing US today, given that it's such a GAY show, but what do I know.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

Bong, baby, bong

GayBoy knew I was up late last night. And he knew I planned to sleep in. Still, he calls at 9:30 am and wakes me the hell up. Die, GayBoy, DIE.

* * *

Last night, I was having and chill-at-home night until a midnight walk-n-stone session, and I’d been cleaning up my ProtoPipe--among other things. (Read this.)

It completely dismantles, as I’d mentioned before, and is a gorgeous little brass piece of engineering. I’ve long since run out of rubbing alcohol -- don’t spend $10 or $15 for the crap they sell at dope shops. Spend a buck on rubbing alcohol and grab some Q-Tips and you’re in biz.

So, because I keep forgetting about buying more rubbing alcohol, I’ve merely been scraping all the tar and shit out of my pipe. Frustrated with that ever-present dense, oily taste from the tar, I boiled the bitch up with baking soda and salt.

Then I lost the tar trap.

Now, I wasn’t stoned yet. It took me a good hour of occasionally looking to find that damned thing, but in the meantime, I dug out Baby Bong.

Hand-blown, less than 5” high, with beautiful soft curves, it looks somewhat like an Smurf’s cap. Except that it's glass, and there's no weird blue dude attached.

It’s clear with streaks of mossy green and gold around it, in a psychedelic swirl.

Though I’ve owned Baby Bong for a half decade, I haven’t smoked from it in nearly five years... until now.

In the piece I put a link to up there, “To Pipe or Not to Pipe,” I listed myself as a staunch fan of pipes, not bongs.

I was wrong, people. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Bongs are a hassle, that I grant you, but I was surprised at how much easier it was on my lungs.

I’m no novice here, all right? I’ve smoked pot daily for about six years, with maybe a year off for good behaviour, spread out over that time. I’ve smoked an awful lot of marijuana. (For years, I never paid. I had my generous sources. Amazing what a smile and a sense of humour will get you.)

But I don’t like what pot does to my lungs. If I have to suck a little bongwater from time to time in exchange for less harshness, then that’s what will happen.

And it’s so darned cute!

* * *

It’s funny. There’s a local community for bloggers and I’ve never met them, never hung with them, never went to any of their things. The other day, I log on their site after they sent me an email, and this dude’s looking for an assistant to help with filing and such on a casual, cash basis.

So I thought, “hey, I can do that,” and I emailed him.

An hour later, I get this email back, “I’m sorry. I’ve read your blog, and I don’t think we will work well together.” All righty then.

I was a little pissed off, actually, but hey. I clearly wouldn’t be handing out this URL, let alone my new raunchy site's URL (which I’ll give you when you ask me nicely and is inappropriate for work) to any prospective employer.

But there you have it. Discrimination at its finest. Just because I smoke a little dope and bat around some swear words doesn’t make me incompetent or difficult. In real life, I’m a jovial, easy to get along with chick who fits well into nearly every situation. I’m not unpleasant, nor am I rude, nor am I even unpunctual. I’m a model citizen (albeit a little edgy) with bad habits at home, that’s all.

Silly uptight man. I should’ve known from his ad, since he revealed too much about his stupid allergies to perfume in a “I’m special because I have needs” chip-on-my-shoulder kind of way. (I’m allergic to most perfumes, colgnes, as well, but that’s all you need to know, right? Don’t start listing off a litany of look-at-me-I’m-needy kind of symptoms. We don't care. Jesus.)

I’m probably far better off. I hate anal people.

Loosen up, folks, this ride’s a long one, and if you keep your ass clenched the whole damned way, it could get nasty, like anal-spasms nasty.

(Thank you, Adrian, for the funny little photo.)

Friday, July 29, 2005

The Fear of Riding

(If you've yet to realize I have a new, raunchy blog (that all you little working slaves shouldn't be reading at work, trust me), then you need to email me for the URL. )

It's 7am and all I want to do is sleep.

I was awake until past 1am, having been idiotic enough to come home and write after hanging with WhippedBoy at the beach. I have been known to actually have fun with WhippedBoy, but what we always have is great conversations. I reveal more to him in conversations than I probably do with anyone else, because we have a lot in common when it comes to life experiences and how we got to be who we are. After those conversations, it's not unusual to feel like writing when I get home.

And the effect lingers this morning. The problem?

My scooter
It's what I know I finally need to confront and write about -- the scooter (think Vespa, not Razor) accident last summer that I was lucky to survive. I've never written about it. (This is my scooter, by the way, in the photo.)

I recently went through this hell of writing a 2,500-3,000 word article on scooters in Vancouver for a major local paper, and I was told Tuesday that a major rewrite was needed. I wasn't surprised, I suspected something along that line.

I'd rewritten the fucking thing four times, start to finish, and felt like crying every time. The thing kept coming off as an opinion piece, and I didn't even realize until last night that a lot of it was about safety issues, all the wrong things when you're writing an interest story for a quarter-million people.

Although a rewrite is needed, I was encouraged to do one. The editor liked the idea, liked my writing ability, but thinks I'm off-topic. And I am.

So, WhippedBoy and I were talking about whether or not I do the rewrite. In a way, I feel like I have to. But now I think I just don't have it in me. Last night, talking, I was able to finally acknowledge something that I've been avoiding: For me, riding has changed. Most of the time when I get onto my bike, I enjoy it, but there's a lot of fear.

Fear that escalated two weeks ago when a woman I knew, a very prominent female motorcyclist and safety advocate and all around cool chick was rounding a corner on the Sea-to-Sky Highway when she wiped out, landed in a ditch, and was killed instantly. The riding community was stunned. Personally, I cried and was in a fog until the next day.

For the last two weeks, a lot of thoughts have been running through my head. Two years in a row, I had very serious accidents on Labour Day weekend. And that weekend is coming. And I'm terrified.

And still, I've not told the story of the accident. But soon, I will. This weekend, I intend to force myself to write it all out. It's time. It will be a heavy piece. It'll be hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I remember almost nothing at all about the accident itself. That doesn't mean I don't remember the fear, the shock, the pain, and the horror. For once, I have no idea where this will lead me.

I don't think I realized how much this accident was still fucking me up until I spoke with my friend last night. I didn't realized how much it'd been blocking me.

Think about it, of all the things I write about, with posting every day, the one thing I almost never mention is riding -- something I loved doing so much that I started a club locally that today has over 200 members. It amazes me that I've never written about riding itself, nor about my cute little scoot, or the way I feel when I zip down a rural road on a hot sunny day, darting in and out of tree-canopied sections.

It may not be a crotch rocket, but I consider my bike a huge part of who I am. That I ride, that I had the balls to get back on after destroying not one but two bikes in my accident, that I still have the balls to ride now, considering the fucking idiocy that guides the majority of Vancouver's drivers.

But my fear's getting stronger. And now it's time I write something on it.

So, posting this? Kind of like a contract. Now I have to write it. Soon.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Screw Santorum

So, I had the Daily Show from Monday on tape and only got around to watching it now, armed with my coffee and my bagel. This is a quick, spur-of-the-moment rant. Clearing my head before another gruelling fucking day at work. (God, I hate this working-for-a-living shit.)

Senator Rick Santorum was on. It was a pretty civil affair, but the pigheadedness of the GOP platform was immovable during the brief chat.

Santorum's notorious for being opposed to gay marriage, and that was the primary focus of the interview, and the primary focus of my couch-bound grumblings a few moments ago.

Canada, if you don't know, has essentially legalized gay marriage. I think we're still waiting on the Queen's royal decree (a largely ceremonial last step, when the Q's representative in the country, the Governor-General, ratifies the bill and, presto).

I was feircely proud as a Canadian that my country took that step. I was thrilled it happened so close to our national birthday, too. What a fitting statement.

I have only a couple things to say about gay marriage:

I'm sick and fucking tired of Republicans saying that the sanctity of marriage needs to be protected.

Didn't you get the fucking memo? One out of every two marriages falls apart.

We've got kids toting guns to school, kids participating in "swarmings," and we're still dealing with a crisis of teen pregnancies.

What part of this suggests we got it right the first fucking time? What part of the so-called "family unit" suggests that our kids are getting the love and protection they deserve?

If it weren't broke, I wouldn't suggest fixing it.

But it's fucking broken. It's time. And Canada figured that out. The world's too goddamned short on love, and denying those willing to make that commitment, willing to hold sacred the notion of love and commitment, on the basis of who it is they're loving? Insane.

* * *
If you haven't heard, I have a new blog. Send me an email for the new link. I'm excluding friends and family from the equation since it's largely about sex, so the link won't be published here. You email me, you get the link. Very simple transaction. The Last Ditch @

And I thanked him there, but I'd like to thank him again. Some of the tricky template problems on my pretty new blog were resolved by Digitalicat, and he rocks. Thanks, Digi.

And you should still hit the Top Blog button, because I'm still loving the attention. :)

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Oh, happy day.

The new blog is up and running. Email me if you want the URL. But if you're adverse to sex, then stay the hell away, for god's sake. Heh.

While you're HERE, though, vote me top blog and keep me ego chugging. :) Thanks.

(I'm such an exhibitionist. It's killing me not to post a clickable link. Fucking hell!)

Monday, July 25, 2005

Tick, tock -- tits and cock

Well, it’s that time.

I’m starting a new blog.

No, don’t fret. The Last Ditch will stay and continue to get scores of new posting. The New Blog (yes, it has a name, and no, I’m not sharing it publically just yet) will be a different kind of place.

A bad, misbehavin’ kind of place.

I’m fortunate to have some great caring, supportive friends who follow this drivel and enjoy reading it, but there are some stories I’d like to put on the page and get reaction to that contain some pretty raunchy details.

Details I really don’t need friends and family to know, regardless of how open I am with ‘em. Sorry, guys.

HOWEVER... there are a lot of awesome readers here who will never meet me in the flesh, won’t start looking at me sideways after learning my blowjob technique, and who may or may not approve of my actions, but whose opinions ultimately won’t impact my life in any way.

That said, you’re invited to drop me a line and get the URL for the new site. You can do that by clicking

Yes, I realize that one of the appealling things about me tends to be the fact that I don’t mince words, say exactly what I think, and don’t have any shame, and I realize that hiding an URL from friends and family might seem to fly in the face of that.

But again, you’re presuming I give a fuck. ;)

The reality is, I’ll definitely publicize the site. Probably in the near future. But I gotta get the ball rolling solo, and I’ve got to ditch this performance anxiety first.

Meanwhile, if you want it, you know how to get it. Ask and thou shalt receive. Anybody but friends/family is welcome.

But before you start thinking this is where I start channelling the ghost of Anais Nin or something, you should realize that I don’t plan for this to be erotica. Some will likely mix its way in at some point, but I expect this to be more of my blunt, no-nonsense approach to sex, drugs, and all forms of debauchery. But mostly sex.

It is, though, like this, a writing exercise. Something to break me out of my mold, and get my style moving in a more provocative direction.

I hope to hear from many of you. Don’t worry if I don’t know you or haven’t seen you comment in the past. Doesn’t matter. Drop a line.

(And if you haven't vote me top blog yet? Don't you think it's time?)
* * *

Fittingly, I just complete "the world's shortest personality test," and got this as my result:

You are sexy, powerful, and bold.
You're full of passion and energy.
Sometimes this passion has a dark side.

You feel most alive when you're seducing someone.
You never fail to get someone's attention.
Quick-minded, you're also quick to lose your temper.

(It's pretty accurate, actually. Very.)

*The nun photo? I'm not a dyke, but I think it's sizzle-hot. I was raised Catholic, though, and was spanked by a few nuns in my time. None of them ever looked like this. It's the one time that saying "Holy cleavage, Batman!" could be literal. Provided there's a guy in a batsuit nearby, of course.

Very strange-- everyone has quizzes today. Thank you, Bobbie Mac, for posting this on your nifty blog. It so happens that I'm apparently an evil person. (Keep in mind that the deadly sins include lust, gluttony, sloth, and greed. I'm already off to a bad start, y'know what I mean? Rough, baby.

But I answered some of the questions a little too truthfully, so I'm apparently a horny panderer. I'll show you pandering.

(Click on the level, level 8, if you want to see the fun times that await me in my eternity)

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Low
Level 2 (Lustful)Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Very High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)High
Level 7 (Violent)Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Very High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Low

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

When Friendships Die: Alfred, Conclusion

If you ask ME, I think you should click TOP BLOG and VOTE pour moi. Why? Because I'm charming, funny, and I know how to use punctuation. It's right there---->

(THIS is even longer than the first posting. But I'd hate to split it into three. Deal. :)

Read part one, right here, before proceeding, if you haven’t already.

Writing and photography have been staples in my life for about 15 years. Despite that, few of my friends are artistic. It’s always been a disappointment that the artist friends I’ve had have always been so inspiring and exciting to know, but they’ve always flaked out.

Like Al.

Unlike most of my friendships, Al was a slow decline. It wasn’t one particular event that threw me out of whack, but rather a series of stupid, crass things that, on their own, just smacked of a dumbass insensitive twat. Together, though, it painted a portrait of someone I wasn’t interested in putting effort into anymore.

As I’d mentioned, Al was very much concerned about his image and his popularity. But more than that, he was the eternal hedonist. Whatever offered the best time was what Al wanted to be doing.

And that ride could be fun. Most of the time, though, it was bumpy.


The following spring, in early ‘99, I’d had plans with Alfred. Nothing special. Coffee, a beach, some conversation, and some music. Steff’s basic four food groups for a fine night out.

A couple hours before our plans were to kick off, Al called.

“I gotta cancel.”

“Why’s that?”

“Some buddies have called and invited me to a beach party.”


“Yeah, I haven’t seen them for a while, so...”

“Gee, Al. Sounds like it’s a case of my getting ditched when something better comes along.”

“That’s exactly what it is. Yeah.”

I was dumbfounded. With a “Whatever,” I got off the phone and mulled it over. At least he was honest. Honesty was a refreshing change of pace. I decided not to make a fuss over it.
* * *

Now and then, some other small inconsiderate thing would happen. He’d take out his gum, take a piece, “May I have a piece?” “No, there’s only one more left.” But it was never enough to make an issue of.

But you need to know one thing about me: Girl keeps score. A long, running total.

Al's inanities began to escalate. He slowly became more of an acquaintance than a friend, since I realized that his shortcomings were becoming more plentiful. Most people would have been ixnayed from my life by now. But the boy offered something unique, if undefinable.

But when a cool gig came up, no one was more appropriate to accompany me--music, drugs, and art. So, together, Al and I went to a performance of a friend’s goth-rock band at a warehouse art show opening. It was a reasonably wild night on Granville Island, with lights down low, bare mostly unfinished walls mounted with abstract art everywhere, people doing their drugs in the open, and an awful lot of leather.

The night was a pretty ritzy affair with a lot of sleek style on the cheap. It cost a few bucks to get in (far less than it should’ve) and a couple for a beer. Al was on my arm for the night, and we had an awesome time. I paid his way in, as he needed to get some cash at an ATM later.

Later came, and he was about to get the cash. It was $9 that he owed me, and knowing I was chauffeuring him across town, I rounded it up to $10.

He looks at me, furrows his brows, and counts out for the parking and the drink aloud and says, “It adds up to $9. What’s with this nickel-and-diming shit?” In the end, he gives me $10 and says, “You can buy me coffee next time.”

“Yeah, Al, enjoy the fucking two-zone bus ride home." I paused for effect and glared at him. "Or is that $10 looking a little better now?” Needless to say, he got the hint.
* * *

Soon after that, my mother died, and Al was the first person I hung out with on the night that I’d gotten the diagnosis: One week to a month before she’d be kissing pine.

I don't know why I chose to hang with Al that night. My other friends, the ones who I cared more for then and still love and have around today, were better confidants. Somehow, I think they'd have made the night seem more real, more permanent, more painful. Some occasions call for an aloof artist with a flighty grasp on reality and sensitivity.

So, me and Al carted a six-pack of fine beer to the top of Little Mountain, cuddled under a blanket and watched a meteor shower, talking about nearly anything but the real deal that would soon become my life. For a short while, it was just like old times.
* * *
But like the meteor shower we watched, it'd be a fleeting experience, in more ways than one.

Al was soon more defined by his bullshit than he was by his past. Still, I stayed patient and allowed him more slack than I've probably ever allowed anyone, except a particular ex-lover, who's bound to become one of these stories, too, one day.
* * *

A few months later, during a nice quiet evening in with GayBoy, Zsa Zsa, and her lover hanging out, Al decided it was time to let Zsa Zsa know how he felt about her, regardless of the fact that her longtime partner was present.

Throughout the night, he touched her, sputtered innuendo, leered, and accidentally bumped her every time he could, despite her politely commenting on the sly that she wasn’t appreciative.

Zsa Zsa, as I wrote in my story about her, was a drama queen in her own right. But she was also a multiple-encounter victim of sexual assault. To have a friend, a flawed friend but a dear friend, feel unsafe and harassed in my home at all enraged me, but to have it happen on a night when I'd spent a lot of money and effort to try to create a really nice evening for my friends felt like a slap in the face. Last thing you need with me is to piss me off then offend me about it.

That said, there’s few things I enjoy more than having friends (or a special friend) in, and then spending both my money and my time to do my place up in great fashion and cook an incredible meal to go along with it. But I expect my guests to respect my efforts, to appreciate it and behave in a way fitting of the event.

And that doesn’t include groping chicks who have politely told you to fuck off time and time again.

Naturally, the evening ended on a very shakey note. The next day, I reamed Al out.

“What the fuck were you thinking? You ever touch a chick after she says no in my presence again, you won’t like a fucking thing I have to say about it, let alone what I’ll do about it.”

After that, he apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again. I was pretty pissed off, though, and decided not to contact him again for awhile. A cooling off period was needed, as it were.
* * *

But then, six months later, Al called again. He was going to Japan soon, had met a chick, was teaching ESL and art, and had just moved to a new place.

“Wow, cool. So I’ll get your number. Let me find something to write wi--”

“So, Steff, do you have any weed I can buy?”


“Like, an eighth, maybe?”

I stopped where I was, and spun around in the center of my living room. Candid camera? Anywhere? No? Hmm. Lacking a human witness, I shot the wall an incredibly baffled look as I dropped my jaw, completely confused.

Now, YOU, dear reader, must think I’m a stark-raving pothead, what with the tales I tell. Truth be told, I’m fairly discreet other than with my friends, and I’m certainly relatively classy about my use. I understand the etiquette. (And yes, there is one.)

At that point, I never sold dope to anyone, ever. At this point, I’ll divvy a larger portion up with friends, but I never mark the price up, ‘cos I don’t want to feel like a dealer. Just ain’t my bag.

But dope is something I’m endlessly generous with. Always have been. Hell, for seven years, I got everything I smoked for free, and I always shared. Chances are, you put foot in my apartment, there’s at least 50% chance you’re getting passed a pipe. Literally. GayBoy would cite it as closer to 95%, in his case, for instance.

And Al knew I was generous. In fact, he’d even taken a juicy bud home with him from time to time. But he knew where my line was.

“Al, I don’t sell dope.”

“You might as well,” he derisively retorted.

I sharply inhaled. Thought for the briefest of seconds. And then I snapped. All the times he’d said asshole things to me came flooding back.

“Yeah, dude, sorry. I’m just a little anal after my time in that Turkish prison. Hardy-har-har. Seriously, I was gonna get a pen and take your number, but fuck that shit. You don’t call someone after six fucking months, shoot the breeze for sixty seconds (one-sidedly, might I add) and then ask to buy drugs.

"It’s in fucking Miss Manners, for God’s sake. No, Al, we’re done. Fuck off.”

I violently pressed the “end” button-- (yeah, there’s a lot to be said for the old days: “I slammed the receiver down...”) --and honestly just started laughing. I couldn't stop laughing for about 10 minutes. I felt awesome.
* * *

I haven’t spoken to him since.

After all, if you’re in your mid to late-20s and you’re still treating your friends like you did when you were 16? Grow the fuck up.

Deep down, I wouldn’t mind running into Al again. He’s another one of those people that could well get his shit together, and if he did, wow, what a cool guy to know. But the Al I took leave of... just another dick with a style all his own. A shame.

* * *
Next on the list for When Friendships Die? Hmm. Likely a guy who called himself “Avatar” (GayBoy's laughing) or Damon, both from long, long ago. Then there's my longtime ex-lover, but he's more of a book on his own. Oh, there’s a slew of ‘em, kids. Keep your sanity: Save the stories, ditch the “friends.”

Sunday, July 24, 2005

When Friendships Die: Alfred, Part One

[This is part of a series of postings I intend to be writing about those players that come and go, always in grand fashion, from my life. They’re the people who profoundly affected me but evenutally flaked away with a loss of substance and a lack of permanance, as far as friendship goes. You should at least read the introduction on this posting, about “Zsa-Zsa,” if not the whole story. I consider it one of my best.]

Al was an artist. A writer, a photographer, a sculptor, and a painter, Al was, more than anyone I knew, gunning for the title of “renaissance man.”

We first met when I was about 16, and Al then was a skateboarder with a furious passion for the music of The Cult and The Doors.

He seemed to be caught in this battle. On the one hand, being hip and cool meant everything to him, but on the other, he wanted the emotional content of hanging with the bohemian crowd.

When you were going out with him, you never knew which Al was going to show up; the one who wanted recognition and popularity, or the one holding out hope for world peace and a universal love for the aesthetic.

I always preferred the latter Alfred, the dreamer-philosopher with a passion for knowledge.

I remember long nights of conversation where we’d hang in my car, listen to some music, and talk. For some reason, music, conversation, and cars has always been a theme with the men in my life, and Alfred was an early pioneer.

Though our relationship was strictly platonic, I’d often lie with my head upon his shoulder, both of us reclining in the bucket seats, staring pointlessly at the ceiling or maybe at the city skyline beyond the windshield, lost in conversations I’ve long since forgotten, but I’ll never forget the mood.

* * *

I’ve had a lot of deep friendships in my life. The players, they come and they go, but their impact remains. Al, no matter what my friends today think of the guy they knew, helped make me the in-the-moment, Zen-loving, yet antagonistic chick I am today. His disposition was, at one time, very similar to the one I have now.

Al also had this untouchable aura of safety around him. In his presence, you felt like the world would just be deflected anytime it tried to touch you. Al was like a force field. Lying in his arms was one of the most comforting feelings I have ever known, something I honestly haven’t felt in years, and dearly miss.

* * *

Just before Al went to post-secondary, he did a summer program at the Emily Carr Institute for Art and Design, a world-class art school here in Vancouver. Exposed to inspiring bohemians, Al finally knew who he wanted to appeal to most: Artists.

Inspiration hit like a bomb, and Al was put into orbit. He moved away from those of us who’d been his friends. Not in a malicious way, just in a way that smacked of different sensibilities from old.

But when I went a few years without seeing Al, I distinctly remembered the last night we hung out, how incredibly arrogant he was about music. Not being a huge Doors fan then (still am not, but undeniably love their classics) and loathing the Cult, I was considered out of touch by Al, who was certain his tastes were unparalleled.

If you read my blog enough, you know what bullshit I think it is when people act superior. I’ve got no patience, man. Didn’t then, either. I didn’t make an effort to get ahold of Al after that.

* * *

So, a few years passed, but then we happened on each other one night.

Ironically, it was my birthday. I’d been seeing a wicked double bill feature at the Ridge Theatre with Curly*, GayBoy, and WhippedBoy when I ran into Al. The double bill? My request for Terry Gilliam/Johnny Depp’s Fear and Loathing: Las Vegas and Fonda/Hopper in Easy Rider came just in time for my 25th birthday.

Dinner for us kids had included magic mushrooms and a little dope plus beer. The groundwork had been laid for good times.

Hanging around outside in between flicks, we were smoking dope when Al came out. There he was, a lumbering red-headed giant. At about 6’3 and well over 200, Al cut an imposing figure. He had huge round brown eyes and an infectious smile with a gutsy belly laugh.

He recognized me instantly. “Steff! Oh, my god! Hey, baby!” We bearhugged and laughed about running into each other at a drug night at the movies. Back when Al knew me, I’d been radically opposed to drug use. (Sad, but true. I was quite the conservative, and quite ignorant, in my teens.) To find me there at a known drug double bill was pretty laughable for the big guy.

My guy friends stood back judgmentally, unable to handle Al’s big surfing beads, and just-back-from-Honolulu look, which was in between trends at the time. I knew at once though that Al was still firmly immeshed in his love for the suversively hip, and that comforted me somewhat.

For the next two years, Al and I would be back in touch. Slowly but surely, Al recessed further into the guy that dismissed my music tastes many years before. For an artist, the guy had an incredible knack for being insensitive at the craziest times.

How we fell out happened gradually with a number of instances adding up, and finally, the straw that broke the friendship’s back, prompting me to blow up and tell him to fuck off, this time for good.

That exciting story, Monday night.

Stay tuned.

(*Curly, an old photographer friend, was an employee at a sausage factory. He used to ride home from work on a bike and have dogs chasing him the entire way. There was a reason his house had a fully-enclosed paddock fence.)

[The "Top Blog" polls have reset for the week. It'd be awesome if you'd click it to vote for me. You can vote for more than one person, just once each is all. So vote for everyone you like. But especially vote for those who deserve it.]

The lights are going out, one by one

Ah, my minions, my whores, my fans, my stalkers.

I have decided it is time for order. I have a section in my sidebar where you can read actual good postings.

Let me explain. Most of the time, I post almost daily. This means a lot of lesser-than stuff gets into the mix. But there are good postings, they just fly by quickly.

I’d like to think I’m worthy to judge what’s good and what’s not, so I took some time to weed through the recent past and add some of those to the favourites in the sidebar, plus I’ve also organized my favourite postings into categories. You like my news of the weird? It’s there in one spot. How lovely.

* * *

turtle lantern

I went to the Illuminaries Festival last night. Each summer, in the middle of July, one of the most enchanting evenings in Vancouver occurs. People make paper lanterns and gather in the park for a night of lights and music and fun.

I sadly got there, realized my battery for my camera was at home, had to run home, run back, and got all of two good photos.

Ah, well. These are small format here, but large on Flickr. Clickr and have at ‘er.

This one better shows the dottings of lanterns in the background, on the other shore of Trout Lake, where the festival occurs. People make these cool elaborate floating lanterns, and I love the way it looks:

wide on illuminaries

(There was a long, rambling, fairly personal posting here yesterday. Presto, magnifico, it go boom. Thanks Adrian and Bullish for your comments. It's saved in my archives and might return another time... but for now, no.)

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Discourse with Darth

Darth Vader Desktop 02 1024
Darth Vader stopped by for a beer last night.

What? I have friends in high places. Friends with breathing regulators.

Darth was a little concerned. I was puttering around my place, smoking dope, listening to tunes, and being generally a little apathetic.

Darth glowered at me. Or, if I could see his eyes, I’d expect he would’ve been glowering.

He looked me over, shook that big plastic head of his, and gruffly huffed, “Steff, Steff, Steffie.”


He sighed in that mechanical way of his. “You’re not in touch with your dark side.”

“I know, I know. But it’s July. It’s light for 18 hours a day right now.”

“No, no. You’re too..." Waving his hand dismissively, he concluded his thought. "Fluffy.”

“Fluffy? FLUFFY? No beer for you.”

“Hmm. I think I can rephrase,” said the Dark Lord. “All right. You need to feel your anger. You need to rage. You need to rant. You’re letting your blog readers down.”

“My blog readers?”

“Yes. They have come to know you as a loose cannon. Someone they can turn to in the midst of all this... fluffiness.”

“But... now I’m fluffy?”

“Will I get a beer though?”

“All right,” I sighed.

“You’re fluffier than the Ewoks I keep for kicks.”

“You keep Ewoks for kicks?”

“How do you think my suit’s so shiny? I shine it? I have an evil empire to run. No, no. The Ewoks take orders well. I have some that tend bar in my private quarters when I host... soirees. Besides, and don't let this get out, I think they're sort of cute.”

“Hmm. So I’m fluffy. Wow. ‘Course, consider the source.”

“Just because I’m an evil dark lord and I control an empire and I can kill people using my mind doesn’t mean I can’t be an objective observer, you know. Where in the Emperor’s name is my goddamned beer, anyhow?”

“Right. Ale for you. Spine for me. Sigh.”

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

A Rant on Language

(If you love me, click that. ---> )

A local furniture chain is doing an advertisement that tells the lowly public that with the purchase of a Sealy Posturepedic mattress, you receive a free "super-flat 28" television."


Jesus Christ, people. Something is either flat, or it is not flat. You can't have added degrees of flatness.

Know what the problem with the world today is? People don't say what they mean, but they sure as hell don't mean what they say.

It's a "flat-screen" TV, nimrods. Not "super-flat." I mean, I have a flat-screen tv, and if I find out it's actually really only a semi-flat? I'm knockin' heads, man.

You know, when people ask me how I'm doing, you know what I say? Good. Peachy. Ducky. Keen. Swell. Spiffy. Snazzy. Groovy. Awesome. Rockin'.

But never "fine."

Why? Because it's a LIE. No one's ever fine. China can be fine. Mesh can be fine. The tip of a ballpoint pen can be fine. But people? Pfft. Besides, everyone's lying. (Which makes it ironic when we say "good," doesn't it?)

And when I say I'm peachy, I'm lying, too. Well, I am delicious and I do have some body fuzz, but really. I'm certainly not really ducky. And I sure as shit ain't super-flat, either.

Then again... what is? Jesus Christ. I remember a time when people just tried to speak concisely. You know what this is?

The Age of the Adjective.

God help us.

*The photo is taken at an unfinished carport... but you can try guessing what it is.

A great day for human rights in Canada

Same-sex marriage has been voted into existence by the Canadian senate. With two-thirds of Canadian senators voting to pass the legislation, it's now part of Canadian law.

I may be hetero, but I'm so damned proud of my government, and I'm so happy for my friends who will benefit from this.

And god bless politicians who keep their promises, as infrequently as it may occur.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

This day in history & FLAMING Squirrels

Too good not to share, from one of my fave news sites, was the history of today, July 19th, 1952:

During a series of UFO sightings in Washington, D.C. occurring over July 13-29, unidentified objects are picked up on D.C.'s National Airport radar system. Sightings in the region are so extensive the Air Force is prompted to hold a press conference. Conveniently, these are all "radar mirages" resulting from "temperature inversions."

See? They HAVE been trying to reach us! Pfft, silly government, visits are good. (Heh.)

* * *

And another shameless theft from other sources. My dear friend WhippedBoy sent me an email saying, "
It's a goddamned tragedy we don't get more coverage of this sort of thing," and then enclosed the following news--but first, the necessary preamble--

I live in British Columbia, Canada, home to the last virgin temperate rainforest in North America, the most significant Alpine rainforest in North America (where this story below takes place). Forests litter this province, and every year, forest fires are a very real threat. Two years ago in July and August, we had more than 1,000 fires burning at ONE TIME in this province (which is about the size of Washington, Oregon, and California combined).

We always hear about the arsons and about broken glass bottles left behind by hikers (smarten the fuck up, people) that create a magnifying effect when the sun shines through, causing our forests to burn to the ground...

But you never hear these stories (thanks, JT):
"Once again, a flaming squirrel started a small bush fire. At about 9:10 a.m. Monday, firefighters were called to the area behind a local fruit-packing operation on Highway 97, five kilometres north of Osoyoos.

A squirrel on Fortis B.C.'s high-voltage main transmission lines caught fire and fell into the brush, sparking the fire.

"This identical incident has happened on the same pole one or two times a year for the past several years," said Osoyoos fire Chief Ross Driver.

A squirrel is always found at the base of the pole, dead and burnt. Nearby residents had put the fire out before firefighters arrived."

* * *
What you need to know is STEFF DESPISES SQUIRRELS.

Yes, cute though they may be, the fuckers are ruthless! They've devoured all manner of prized patio possessions, from my killer hammock right throught to padded chairs, Christmas lights three years running (I'm as persistent as those fuckers, it seems), and more than 70 tomatoes from one bountiful patio garden year.

All told? Running total's well over $600. Unfortunately, I'm not into animal cruelty so the fuckers still live. The particular RODENTS in question have always been a pair, one black and one grey.

If I was an American and I owned a gun and I had the right to fire to protect my property... I might be able to pull that trigger.

But no. I live in Peacenik land (and love it), the birthplace of Greenpeace, the haven of dopesmokers west of Amsterdam, and so forth.

I know that Michael Moore, in Bowling for Columbine, seems to assert that all Canadians own more weapons than Americans, and while that may statistically be true, I can honestly say I have consciously known ONE person in my life who's owned a gun.

Maybe I should borrow it.

Monday, July 18, 2005

The Angry Inch

My recent loss of cable television (read my rant entitled "Motherfucker!" here) has driven me to my local DVD dealer for rentals.

This week, I'm renting Queer As Folk: Season Three. And the end credits had me thinking.

Multiple episodes are directed by a guy named KEVIN INCH.

Now, let's think about this for a minute. If you've been sequestered on a coconut-covered deserted island for the last half-decade, Q.A.F. is both a UK and North American dramatic series, and both versions are predominantly based on gay men.

That said, nearly every episode of the North American (because it's shot in Canada even though it's an "American" show) Queer as Folk makes some comment on cock size.

So, you gotta ask yourself: Do you really want to be a guy named "INCH" in that environment?

I would think not. So, if I were asked, I would suggest Kevin should change how his professional name displays in rolling credits.

Perhaps something along the lines of Kevin "Eight" Inch might serve Kev well.

And for my readers with a fondness for male asses, here's one I shot standing in line to get to my seat at a recent football game. I have no shame.

hottie ass

(If anyone's familiar with his character in season three, the hottie violinist named Ethan used to play violin for money on the streets by one of our theatres here in Vancouver, long before his acting career took off. I can recall more than one weekend night spent in line listening to him play, and yes, he was as accomplished a player as they made him out to be in the show.)

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: NO SPOILERS

I smoked the latest Potter book, starting last night, late, and reading it on breaks while cleaning house today. (I'm quick, yeah?) And finished about a half hour ago.

What can I say but wow? This is the Empire Strikes Back of the Harry Potter series.

Some huge twists, others you've seen coming for awhile. Either way, it's the best book yet. Darkest yet. Smartest yet. Most revelatory as yet.

I don't know why some people claim Rowling's not that amazing of a writer. I don't know why the disrespect follows her having sold more books than any other children's writer ever.

Fact is, the sheer vastness of the Potter world, the minutae of detail, the creativity behind all the various aspects of that world... it's unparalleled. The only children's author to have come close to drinking from the same vast well of creativity, IMHO, is Roald Dahl.

Whether it's the Pensieve, Mrs. Weasley's wonderful clock, the method for disposing of garden gnomes (the spin'n'hurl trick) or Bertie Bott's every-flavour beans... page after page has yet another weirdly wondrous invention.

And the people who think it's just reinventing other ideas have CLEARLY not read the series.

If you're still sitting around and dismissively avoiding the books because it's a "fad," then get off your pedestal and pick up a book. You're only cheating yourself out of one of the most delicious experiences as a reader you might ever have.

It's sad the movies came out so soon, it's sad that they were rushed into production, because they could've been things of wonder. As it is, they're entertaining, but they're a world away from the quality of the book.

And the sixth book... well. If you're reading it now, whew, realize the big finale makes up almost 90+ pages. Enjoy!

And if you, like me, have finished it, then surely you understand how incredibly painful it is to know the seventh book is likely two or three years away. Jesus. I thought I wanted to read this one badly after Order of Phoenix, but no, now I really, really want to know how this series ends.

(Unlike the rest of the series, for the first time, you get an idea of where the next one is going, so the suspense is uncontrollable. And now, I say nothing more. Well done, Rowling.)

Friday, July 15, 2005

Today's thoughts

In three hours, Harry Potter unleashes in Vancouver.

I think it's great that London has something fun like the Harry Potter release happening this week. The book is such a phenomenon, and while a lot of people begrudge that, I don't.

I love the series and have loved it since 1998. I love that a book has finally come along after all these years and just inflamed the world with a love for literature. About fucking time.

I'll always be happy I was a bookseller when the first book came out. What a great thing to happen upon well before the world found it. I'll smugly cherish that for some time to come.

* * *

The bombings in Iraq seem to be getting worse. Despite killing dozens per day, mostly civilians, the rest of the world ignores it. It's a travesty when it happens in the UK, of course it is, but it seems understandable in Iraq.

Where is our fucking indignation?

Isn't it time this problem find a solution? Isn't it time the Americans admit they're in over their heads? These bombers, in London and in Iraq, are bastards.

But you have to know when your battle is a losing cause. I would hope the horror of the 50+ dead in London would somehow illustrate the horror of 30+ dying on a given day in Iraq.

Sadly, no. Oblivion seems to continue. How easily we grow distracted.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Two more things

(An example of the kind of thing I'll likely do a little more of: Short and sweet.)

A new rule: If you can't colour between the lines, you're not allowed to drive. That staying-in-your-lane thing's a bitch, and we don't need people with past histories, y'know?

* * *

I could never be a porn star. When choosing your "stage name," you're supposed to pick the name of your favourite pet and the street you grew up on.

I'd be Fluffy One-Hundred-And-Twenty-Nine-A-Street.

Not too catchy.

A few things...

that cloud

I took this photo on a long walk last night, just before the sun began to reach the horizon. And while it's "just a cloud," it had struck me as being this perfect little cloud all alone in the middle of that deep-blue sky you get shortly before sunset.

The sun was hitting the cloud directly as it began its decline, producing this luminescence that's not entirely present in the photo.

But it was after I shot this that I began to walk away, then glanced back at the cloud, and saw something I'd never seen before:

The angle of the sun hitting this cloud caused a shadow to cast across the sky, something barely visible with the human eye, but with polarized sunglasses, I was stunned by this shadow that extended a couple hundred kilometres east across the sky, all the way to the summit of Mount Baker (considerably southeast of Vancouver, in the Washington Cascade Mountains), whose peaks were pink in the setting sun.

I wonder if I'll ever see something like it again and I wish I could have photographed it, but... some things are for memories only as they're impossible to capture. What a fucking sight, and it was visible for all of five minutes before the sun's angle changed yet again.

I found myself wondering, out of the two million people in the area, how many were, like me, fortunate enough to have glanced up and caught this sight? And then I found myself feeling grateful and smug that, regardless of the overall number, at least this one had.

* * *

I'm getting a little tired of the blogging thing, but maybe I'm just a little overdone in general right now. I may or may not be inconsistent. Seems the comments are paltry lately, (thank you those who do comment, though) and it's not really helping to keep me "inspired." Heh. Fuckin' divas.

So, I'm burning out a little, but I don't want be. So let's see if I can change up the mix. I think I can, but I'm gonna need your help.

Read on. (Trust me, it's much funnier and tres irreverent. Forgive me, Ma.)

* * *

Any of you who’ve been around for a while, you might remember my saying once that my dream job -- my pinch-me-I’m-dreaming job -- would be that of a sex columnist at Esquire.

Now, I’d moonlight as an opinion-editorialist, too, because I’d love to be paid to say my two fucking cents’ worth about all the mad-ass shit goin’ down, but advice columnist... too fun!

So, let’s practice.

I would LOVE to receive letters asking advice or what have you, about sex, friends, that jerk next door, whatever. Now, I may not give you the Emily Post/Miss Manners answer the white-bread fan inside of you wants to hear... but it’ll be an effective solution, let’s put it that way.

It will be completely anonymous. You can sign it in any name you want, and that’s what’ll run. I swear on my mother’s grave. She’s dead you know, so that grave thing? Not a problem. Well, actually, yes. A problem: We cremated her. She swims with fishes, my friends.

But anonymity is yours for the asking.

And made-up questions? Fuckin’ a! Bring’em on! That’d be a hoot.

Now, don’t disappoint me and not participate. I know some of you have got to have some questions. I promise. It’ll be worth it. I’ll have too damned much entertainment answering them. I’ll mull ‘em all over and then answer on a night where I down a bottle of wine and listen to Floyd. It’ll be inspired.

And my mom and her fish friends’ll make sure I keep my mouth shut.

Where, oh, where does the email go?

Note, I said email. We want to keep the q’s hush-hush till the answers are with them, non? More surprise, oui? Oui. Thanks for playing.

And thanks for reading.

And a special thanks to those of you who always read and post little comments. You rock.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

What political leader am I?

Okay, so who's going down on me, then,
and where's my cigar?

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

ADHD Chronicles: 07/12/05

All right, clearly, I have trouble stringing more than a couple of syllables together at one time, but I like to think I've still got a few brain cells firing. "Whitening toothpaste." Why do we suddenly have to choose whether we want white teeth? "Nah, Bob, I know I could go after the white teeth, but this week, it's cavities that have me concerned." Jesus, and they wonder why we think life is getting more complicated?

Been to hospitals in the States lately? They’ve got automated teller machines (ATMs) dispensing pharmaceuticals now. Oh, this is just fucking brilliant. Y’all done got a war on drugs, but now you’ve got machines dispensing the “legal” ones? Way to keep an eye on those addictions, FDA. Nice work, George! Why not just do a photo op with the pharmaceutical industry blowing you? While they're down there, they might as well.

I can’t wait for dope to become legal. I’m gonna start a chain of pot-dispensing vending machines called “Bud Banks.” I don’t know if the rest of the world has them, but we’ve got “Green Machines” up here. My Bud Banks would have the slogan, “The real Green Machines.”

Have you ever noticed how no one ever pays at fast food restaurants in commercials? Next time I hit up Mickey D’s, I’m ordering one of those free “Smiles”, a side of fries, saying “I’m lovin’ it,” giving the lowly worker a thumbs-up, and walking out without paying.

I knew a guy in high school who’d gone to a McDonald’s with some friends and there was this big Ronald McDonald statue-thingie sitting on this park bench as in-store “art.” And if you've clicked, you've noticed how Ron's sitting there with his leg crossed, kinda like nature’s cradle, right?

So, buddy leans in and nestles his face down into Ronny’s lap. There’s the clown, beaming like it’s the best b.j. he’s ever been dealt. Snap. Perfect shot. I so wish I had a copy of that photo the dude had on his fridge. Sigh.

The best thing about The Daily Show’s new format is how Jon Stewart can now do hand gestures in front of the onscreen inset card you see while he’s reading off the day’s stories, like last night’s feature on Judge Ticklegown. “Tickle, tickle...”

Vancouver is home to the infamous Harry Potter leak. A local shop put the books on sale a week in advance. The operation was shut down quickly and most of the customers have already returned the books. A court order has issued a gag on the purchasers of the advance copies, and they've been ordered to return the books to the publisher. However, taking the book back is netting these lucky bastards an autographed copy from JK Rowling and an "exclusive gift set".

potter hat on desk
Hell, I’d turn it back in. I’m dying for the new book and secretly am happy to be returning to work this week -- Harry Potter AND Willy Wonka. The child in me is so giddy it’s about to barf. I was a bookseller when Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (the REAL title, America... they thought y’all wouldn’t know what a Philosopher’s Stone was) was unleashed upon the world.

I read it the very first week it was in existence. I have a Harry Potter cap (pictured here) that is my lucky writing hat. You thought it was skill? Talent? Nay, just magic.

Richard Dawkins, a noted cosmologist (no, not make-up, the study of space, silly) was talking about the universe and says it is “queer.” Far too queer, it seems, for us to ever understand. GayBoy will be pleased.

I live in a strangely diverse neighbourhood. Something I’ve noticed, though, is that my local Safeway, in that bin they have at the back with items that are marked down for some reason, always has double-extra large condoms priced down. Is it because the local demand is higher? Or there is no local demand? My flings have not been with geographical conveniences, so I can't attest either way to the "local stock."

hottie number 1
Roses are red
Violets are blue
When they’re this hot
I'd like to take two

GayBoy and I saw a football game Friday night and it was almost as much about the hotties and their asses as it was about the ass-whuppin’ we laid on Ottawa. This was one of the guys. GayBoy is supposed to post the photos of the asses.

The perfect life for me, if it were a math equation:

cabin on waterfront + boat (x sail)
friends (x nth) + self-employed - bullshit

Whatchoo waitin' for, Willis?

An invitation? Fine, then I invite you to vote for me. -->

There'll be a tasty new posting tomorrow, one I actually intend to exert effort on, rather than my usual masturbatory posts. Titillated yet? You should be. Stay tuned.

Monday, July 11, 2005

It's a Weird World After All: Volume Three

A 15-year-old boy was having a leisurely swim in a German alpine lake recently when a large snapping turtle bit his penis.

A large fugitive snapping turtle, that is. The turtles are illegal to own in Germany and can grow to be in excess of a foot long. It's thought the snapper was imported from North America and when it got too big, was dumped in the lake.

Nonetheless, officials are baffled at why the turtle would attack the boy, since they're not exactly known as "predators".

The turtle snipped the boy's winkie, then bit hard on his hand, which then needed several stitches.

No news on the status of the wiener, but local residents are staying away from the lake, where police divers have been unable to turn up any sign of the serial snipper.

Officials state that if the cops can't get their man... err, turtle-- that Mother Nature should be able to nip the problem in the butt. It's not expected the turtle would be able to survive a winter in a frozen-over lake.

(But if they find it, I found this great barbecued snapping turtle recipe.)
* * *

You stupid fucking person! Not you, this guy.

A jar of AIR has been sold for $512. Allegedly, the air is that of the surroundings when Brad and Angelina walked by at a movie premiere.

Wow, it's so nice to know you have so much money you can buy fucking air. You stupid fucking person.

I know people in Africa who might pay for water. Dumb fucks.
* * *
And this? I can't even begin to write this any better than my good friends at one of my favourite news sources, which I don't feel like sharing. It keeps my blog interesting. ;)

Nairobi - A cobbler suspected of sorcery was attacked and nearly lynched by outraged villagers in central Kenya on Tuesday after being caught having sex with a female sheep, witnesses and officials said.

Joshua Kiplagat, 36, sustained a serious head wound when the sheep's owner threw a machete at him after finding him in flagrante delicto with a prize ewe in the Rift Valley district of Bomet, they said.

He was then tied to a tree stump for five hours before being frogmarched naked with the violated ovine in tow to a police station where he confessed to several acts of bestiality that he blamed on the devil, they said.

"I was sent by the devil to do that," Kiplagat told the angry crowd which included several people who accused him of being a warlock and one disgusted woman who claimed to have seen him engaging in sex acts with a dog.

"I saw this man mounting a dog two weeks ago at around seven in the evening and I was so surprised," said the woman, who gave her name as Leah.

The bloodied shoe repairer adamantly denied allegations that he was a wizard and insisted that his affection for animals was limited to sheep.

"I only made love to the ewe twice using two condoms but I never do it regularly," he said in his defence.

Bomet assistant district chief Paul Kikwai, who was present at the police station, expressed shock at the incident and vowed that Kiplagat would be punished although he made no comment on the villagers' actions.

"We have never seen such incidents here and we are just wondering how many people around here engage in this kind of acts," he lamented.

This bud’s for you.

A generous Floridian left a tip of a half-gram of marijuana for a Starbucks employee after receiving noteworthy service.

The uptight twat behind the counter, though, recognized the bud-friendly customer when he returned the next day. She phoned the fuzz and a security guard apprehended the dope-tipping dude in the parking lot...

...but not before his rolling papers and dope tumbled out of his pocket during the scuffle.

The guy was obviously charged and then released on his own recognizance.

Fuck, if that’d happened here in Vancouver, the tipping-for-coffee, that is, the guy would get an extra shot in his coffee and that’s that.
* * *
“Teenage girl reports seeing a man’s face in toilet.”

No, it’s not a new chapter from the haunted toilets of Hogwart’s. It’s a peeping Tom who hangs out in the tanks of port-a-johns.

You thought sex against the outside wall of a port-a-john was bad?

Gary Moody, a 45-year-old joke of a human being, was pathetic enough that he climbed into a waste-filled tank so he could get a beaver’s eye-view.

Naturally, the cops hosed the human waste off the freakazoid before they slapped the cuffs on him. They said it was part of their “hazardous wastes” policy.

Gee, talk about your literalism. If ever there was a dirty old man...

*It's a Weird World: Volume One is here.
**It's a Weird World: Volume Two is here.

More useless trivia

I'm so hip I suck. Took the nerd test -- and got all of 7.142857142857143% correct.

Monday: Revisited

Yes, I've reposted this posting.

First, go see this on ebay. A dude and friends have built a fully-operational mech that stands 18 feet tall.

You can be your very own Transformer for the starting price of $40,000.


Wondering when a guy is going to come up with a plastic dog you stuff your dishrag in and call it the "all women are bitches" ragholder.

(Typo in that joke earlier. Duh.)

Good news, not only do I have that snazzy photo showing coming up in September but they've now told me that THEY will be printing up promotional materials for my show. Say what?

Where the fuck was the memo that I could get my dreams on the go this easily? Stuff is totally fluking out for me these days, after years of fears and apprehensions keeping me from ever trying.

Fear is the stupidest goddamned thing sometimes. I'm just happy I got over it.

Anyhow, this is one of the photos I've been hesitant to share with y'all, because it loses a lot when smaller, and because I just kind of don't like to share everything sometimes.

But I sent this as part of the group that the restaurant used to judge my work with, and I suspect it's one of the reasons I got the show.

In about three hours, I'll be picking up the proofs to my first run of photos. I'll make changes and then, whoomp... onto the expensive ordering of enlargements. This is exciting yet scary.

So, again, this is one of a series of really moody shots of Vancouver that I've never posted. In all of them, large clouds dominate the city scenes, but so do the water and mountains. Here you go. This is Kits Pool, about 5 minutes from downtown, on the awesome Kits beach.

Unfortunately, there's no larger version on Flickr, so this is all you get. Sorry. Protecting my ass. Selfish me.

kits pool tld

Don't forget to click the Top Blog. It reset again yesterday. :) (To those of us in the listings, we can all click for each other as well as ourselves... You just can't vote for anyone twice, that's all. Let's help each other out. A band of thieves against Mike.)

Sunday, July 10, 2005

yard-salin' with gayboy

gayboy and i will be communing with the neighbours today as we attempt to hock our meaningless trinkets.

gayboy went around the hood posting signs advertising a yard sale that features "assorted trinkets" and "various thingies."

clearly he's going after the discerning crowd. i wrote this yesterday, while on the hunt for goods around the pad:

* * *

fuelled by pink floyd and this fanatical feeling that my life’s on the verge of something new and exciting, this compelling need has struck me to clean my closets.

yes, the skeletons (and dust bunnies) are tumbling on out, folks.

small children should rightfully be running in fear. lock up your kids and pull the covers up tight.

if you’re one of the few people who has not found the enlightenment that comes from being turned onto Swiffer -- oh, so deserving of capitalization -- then let me tell you this:

during this cleaning session, after six changes on the Swiffer mop-broom-thingie-thing, i have amassed enough fugitive dust bunnies to kill, easily, two dozen asthmatics.

you look in webster’s and there next to the word “effective” will be the Swiffer.

a cleaning revolution, that. dust bunnies, fear me! fear steff and the mighty Swiffer.

oh, the filth, my friends.

i have this partner in crime from work who has confessed to wearing a dust mask over his face when he cleans. now, that is digging deep for dirt. that’s the kind of cleaning you know is gonna churn up a few intriguing items.

and he, too, is a writer. i think if you’re gonna be a fly on the wall in a cleaning session, do it with a writer or a photographer. god knows i find all these little scraps of paper with weirdness on them. with a single uncrumpling i can be transported to a wine-soaked evening many, many months ago, or a lazy afternoon last week.

other than that, so far? i’ve found ten bucks and my hums of pooh. life is good. (oh, and the condom i've just found that expired on my birthday, sept. 29th, in 1999. something tells me it’s not getting used.)

gayboy and i are doing a yard sale tomorrow (sunday) and i’m sure it’s bound to be a day of debauchery.

three words for you: mojitos and marijuana.

we talked once about doing a “freudian yard sale.” i imagine it would have unfolded like this:

“excuse me, how much is this macrame plant holder?”

“what do you feel it should be?”

“uh... two bucks?”

“is that because of the painful memories with your grandmother prevent you from valuing it more than that? or is it because you’re worried about making the rent again?”

but naturally we handled that yard sale as our natural effervescent selves. gayboy kicked my ass and sold some $200 or something worth of goods.

tonight, i think i have at least a $50 bounty. we’ll see what happens -- in between the fog of the fun of it all.

geez. (cough, wheeze) that dust mask sounds like a good plan now. kid’s smarter than he looks. (sputter, hack)

Saturday, July 09, 2005

welcome, strangers

hi there, happy blogger!

perhaps you’re new to the hood, by way of that always-wacky “next blog” button, or perhaps you’re thinking “hey, wow, it says it’s number three here on the ‘top blogs’ site, so it must be at least readable.”

well, geez, let’s hope so, huh?

nonetheless, i bid thee a warm welcome. hell, if life represented art i’d pull a star trek and beam you a beer.

sadly, you’ll have to use your imagination. but is that such a sad thing? let’s hear it for creativity folks.

after all, isn’t that why you’re here? in the hopes you might find something that justifies your sitting on your ass, surfing websites in the middle of july? whew, tall order, man. but let’s see what we can do for you.

my name’s steff. this here is a little land of my rant and whimsy. i’m a pretty cyclical blogger and you’ll see patterns of readability followed by the odd posting that even makes me giggle. the thing is, though, that you see me at my best and my worst.

why? because i update every single freakin’ day. so there’s a hell of a lot of variety.

a lot of the photographs you see are mine, the ones from about april onwards. recent postings will tell you giddily of the trials and tribulations i’ve endured while trying to get some photo exhibits on the go. then there’s the writing.

i write. i think. i think i write. i’m all right at writing. i like funny shit. i like to swear. i’m politically incorrect. i usually try to be polite about it. but sometimes some people make that too fucking hard to do. you know who you are. bastards.

recently, they’ve been bastards with bombs, spineless motherfuckers who are too goddamned stupid to try and accomplish things by speaking. yeah, that’s right you al-qaida motherfuckers: you’re dumb.

yeah, you may think you’re smart, planning this shit and pulling it off, but any fucker can put a plan into effect. sometimes it’s all about luck. it takes brains, persistence, and integrity to pull things off through talking, to effect change by diplomacy. a dude named ghandi proved that once.

fucking people. then there’s the media. “the bombs were triggered by cellphones...”

oh, hey, now THAT’s good. let’s tell the next generation of murderous bastards how to rig the shit up. yeah, some will figure it out on their own, but considering the stupidity involved in wanting to kill people, you really think it’s good to put any new ideas in their heads?

“i know, i know, here’s what we do: we give them more information. let’s mention the cellphones.”

you couldn’t just say “detonated remotely?” and people wonder why the public considers the press irresponsible? go figger.

and that's your mini-intro to my world of ranting. being female, there's that one primo week a month where you, the reader, gets to benefit from biology. but i'm spicy the rest of the time, too.

in amongst a lot of my postings are some pretty good things i’m proud of. i haven’t updated my sidebar in 6 or so weeks, but some of my favourite stuff can be found there. i especially recommend the wacky history of tagish elvis, which has been followed with **** in the sidebar listing--my only 4-star posting. ever. imho.

thanks for checking in. know what? i love comments. i respond to ‘em all. hang around, speak up, and have fun.

-management. ;)

ps: you can learn about me in the "about me" posting under the favourites section, too.

After now having looked at blogs at the NUMBER ONE and NUMBER TWO position, I've now decided the blog listings are crap, and I'm secretly number one.

NEXT WEEK, kids, let's get it right and PUT ME THERE.

(It resets at midnight every sunday. And it's that red and yellow "top blogs" button you click. Seriously.. go look at 'em!)

Friday, July 08, 2005

goody for me

tee hee! i got my first "real" photography show. i'll have my stuff showing here from sept. 8 - november 8. it's an upscale restaurant in vancouver's trendy kitsilano neighbourhood.

get this-- they'll give me an opening for it with tapas and everything. crazy. that's just crazy. is it wrong to benefit from doing what you do for kicks?

yippee. know what's cool? didn't know a fucking person. no contacts. cold, man. cold! i don't really like using connections to accomplish shit. there's something about knowing it's flat-out merit. this feels SWEET.

and i'm getting up early to do photos of old "tall ships" that we have filling our harbour right now. should be a BOUNTIFUL photo experience.

fuck the people

this is satire, folks. don't take it too seriously.

i hate britney spears. and justin timberlake. and paris hilton. and puff daddy. and michael jackson. and many more.

in fact, so vitriolic is my hatred for these people that i’d suggest they’re all indicative of the downfall of western society.

which leaves me wondering. why are the terrorists bombing innocent londoners?

why don’t they do the MTV awards? seriously. i’ll give you at least two j.los, one ben affleck, three paris hiltons, and a cool half-dozen p-diddys if you leave the rest of us the fuck alone.

fuck, for a guarantee, i'd even throw in tom cruise and oprah's sofa.

you don’t like what’s happening with western society, the erosion of our morals? then go to the fucking source. get the celebrities. they’re the problem. the average joe?

fuck off. we’re who ya want. we’re relatively boring people. we see movies, listen to music, make our own dinners, wash our own cars, and have gym memberships where we sweat it out with the rest of the sorry asses in our town.

we just look hot.

the celebrities? vacuous. droll. uninteresting. they’re advertising vehicles, that’s all. we love them, but we don’t need them.

i’m more than happy to return to an age where we lust after firemen, admire our cops, and drool over literary genius. i’m sick of hard copy, entertainment tonight, and all that shit.

and so is the rest of the world. the terrorists hate it, they keep bombing us for it.

“oh, but we can’t let them win, let’s keep the MTV Awards!”

nah, toast it all. torch it. fuck it. it’s not worth the hassle. let’s go back to indie rockers with torn jeans and english degrees.

all of this is just one big miscommunication, anyhow. we’re sitting around thinking all of islam is full of murdering fuckers (and it’s not) and they’re thinking all white westerners are vacuous people with no morality (they’re half right, but...).

me, i favour the “let’s lock the doors and smoke a bong and no one’s comin’ out till there’s an understandin’” approach to this problem.

great idea, but then the issue becomes real estate. where to put us all, and where do you find that big a bong?
biggest pipe

* * *

and two photos i took this morning. lovin' shootin' ratty old cars these days. (the pristine ones aren't as interesting...)

ranchero lights

volvo headlamp

Thursday, July 07, 2005

London Bridge is falling down

Sans cable and working in a frenzy all day, I completely missed the news about London until tonight.

To my English readers, my sympathies.

To the terrorists, here’s hoping you spineless motherfuckers get the kharmic cheque that’s in the mail, you bastards.

To the media, no shit. I’m watching coverage and the ticker on the bottom says, “World leaders condemn London attacks.”

Someone missed the definition of the word “news,” then, I take it. Of course they condemn it. Know why?

It’s worthy of condemnation! It’s a spineless, cowardly, pathetic act by people who seem to think that random mass killings equate strategy in a war that only they seem to understand.

As a result, we're all left a little more confused, wondering why we smile on our brother and try to get through each day together if all we're gonna do in the end is be driven this far apart all over again.

I think it’s unforgiveable, no matter who you are, no matter where you are, to force your agendas on others. I want to go off on a rant, but there's no need!

Adrian, my beloved stalker, has done a damned fine job of explaining the ground rules of how you behave in other people’s homes, including their nations, and you can read that here.

Now, back to my ranting on other areas related to this fucking bombing.

Who gets my annoyance now? The U.S., I'm sorry to say. I’m pissed off that there’s a kneejerk “Oh, my God, let’s protect everything” mass movement towards security down in the States again. The local American news was reporting how they’re suddenly beefing up security in Seattle.

I can't help it. I think it's wrong to govern people by instilling fear in them.

BESIDES, for one fucking day, just one day, can we let it be about those dead and injured people being dealt with across the Atlantic? Or is that asking too much?

Stupid media. Have some respect. And the American government has got to get over itself. Be vigilant all the time, or save us the goddamned grief and move on.


Okay, ALL Western governments have to get over themselves. Canada's joined the party and we are upping transit security in major cities. PFFT.

It's bullshit. Let England grieve.

Easy Bake Oven

Click on the below and then you enter your name, and it comes back with what your genitals' nickname should be.

And mine was:

Your Girl Parts Are Named: Easy Bake Oven

Trust me, there ain't NOTHIN' easy about me.

What's yours? Post 'em. If you got sack enough for it, that is. I get the sense they're a little cutting.


I'm copying GayBoy, and if I was a boy, my penis and friends would be named:

Your Penis Name is: Harry & the Hendersons

Done like dinnah!

I'm done, done, done! The deed is done. The article has been shipped. Flawed, I'm sure, but so are the rest of the writers they get shit from. Grammar? Stellar, as always, and THAT's always a nice trump card to play. Strunk and White would be proud, man, proud! Whee!

And I've just sent in photos for consideration with a trendy hotspot restaurant in the downtown core who're looking for artists to display. I have low expectations, but at least I don't care about getting rejected. That's a new development.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

it's my party and i'll cry if i want to

breakers in water b&w
and i don't wanna.

party’s over, kids.
i’m a wanted woman.

i go back to work next wednesday. the office was slammed with work about three days after i was laid off. why it took this long to ask me to return is sort of a mystery. but it’s been just enough time to do this article and will be just enough time to get my photo show running.

i’m not a religious person. i’m spiritual, but not in a new-agey i’m-with-yanni kind of way. i’ve had enough shit go down in my life that i can’t help but believe it all transpires for a reason.

i’m not sure how “aware” other people are when they go through life, but being big on both writing and photography, i’m naturally disposed to notice and absorb a lot of what goes down.

i’ve got a scientific mind, too. in an abstract way. i’ve never pursued any kind of scientific discipline, and never will. what it means for me is that i’m really good at noticing patterns in things, in happenings, in people.

it’s not really something i talk about because it means nothing to anyone but me. how it works is that i usually notice all these strange little patterns or probabilities with life. i enjoy looking for pattern. i love finding unlikely order in the middle of chaos. it’s why i take pictures of shit like rebar, or tire tracks in sand, and it’s why my photos seem to have lines of interest in ‘em.

it’s where my obsessive-compulsiveness comes in. i’m fortunate, i have outlets for it.

so, it should come as no surprise that i have noticed a pattern of uncanny coincidences that have led me to conclude that my recent bout of unemployment was not so much misfortune as it was a serendipitous confluence of events.

serendipity: noun the happening upon good fortune

i panicked the first day i was out of work, but then i got my ducks in a row. i had a little cash squirrelled and it put my ass in a sling for rent, and then i took a chance on something i wanted.

let’s face it, i’m a total pussy. i’m strong when i gotta be, but if i can get by on just gettin’ by, sometimes that path of least resistence is a pretty attractive lookin’ mofo.

now that i’m heading back to work, let me just say one thing. it was on one condition.

(after all, i’m entitled to 50 fucking weeks of employment insurance. why not just say fuck it, i need a vacation? why? work ethic, man. my folks raised me right. in a socialist system, for it to work, the net’s gotta be used only when necessary. some folks need it more than others. if you take the system for a ride, you gotta ask yourself if your morals are in the right place. i’m just saying.)

the condition? i want a little more of the ride. i want one more week off, to finish what i got started. my photo show and this article, they’re getting done. then i’ll do the man’s thing--for a bit.

see, the government up here treats us better than they used to. they’ve tightened up some aspects of unemployment insurance, but they’ve improved others. specifically in this way: they’ve begun a program that will teach “arts-related contractors” self-employment techniques geared to success.

in english? they teach writers, painters, photographers, anyone employed in the arts, ways to value their skills, put a price on what they do, and how to sell it and make a living off it, and what you need to know about taxes and legalities to make it work.

i’m on a wait list for the program for august. if my name comes up, my employer’s agreed to “dry up” on work for the month and let me take it.

so how does all this tie in with my little babbling about patterns and all? pretty simply. when things start colliding in a way that makes a door crack open for you, you gotta fuckin’ jump through that crack. it’s the way the world works. but if you’re half-asleep through life, you ain’t gonna see that opportunity.

is this the start of something great for me? who fucking knows. let’s hope. all i know is, some strange coincidences done tumbled out of late, and either it’s just a weird little world or else i’ve happened upon a little forward momentum.

i figure, let’s ride this wave and see when it breaks.


Oh, insult to injury now. I'm TWELFTH of the Top Blogs? TWELFTH?

The fucking housewife who writes annoying letters to her husband in Iraq and who moans about caring for her mother is HIGHER THAN ME?

Obviously she needs whatever joy she can get, but for the love of God, this is just wrong. It's enough to make me want to weep and hang up my blogging shoes, people. 200 hits yesterday and FOUR comments. Not including from me, because that would be even sadder.

I don't ask for much. Just meaningless little comments that make me feel like I'm NOT just sending words into the void. At LEAST click the Top Blogs button in the top of my sidebar. :)

Now... sans TV (make sure you read that rant called Motherfucker! because it's just too fun not to read), I'm sure to get much work done.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Must I really ask?

Humility? Fuck humility. I want comments.

Michael Jackson with boobs! A rant! Getting your dollar's worth with leftover Mickey D's! I've delivered today. I deserve comments. This is a sham, people. Cough 'em up.

Okay, fine, the truth is, I've got writers block with my article thing again and it's pissing me off. I've got 24 hours left. My ego is FRAIL. This no comments thing? NOT FUCKING HELPING.

You CRUEL sons of bitches.

Humour me. Appease me. Tease me. But preferably the latter two. ;)


The two-year spree is over! The fucking cable company got wise to the fact that they've been keeping me stocked with meaningless entertainment for two years for free.

They cut me off. I'm done, Bertha. Done like fucking dinner.

Quel timing, Batman! I'm unemployed! Now I've been left with the stupid goddamned channel that shows daytime "court television," like Judge Judy and that bad-ass black dude and that new feisty bitch on People's Court. It's white trash-black trash TV, man.

And that's all I get now. I don't even get any Canadian television. Oh, man, this is gonna hurt.

But at least there's still Letterman. Who's just begun a two-week hiatus. Nice!

I've done this before, people. I've lived without television off and on for about five years, if not more. I'm experienced. I used to read books. I know how to turn a page. I even know how to fold a corner.

I have many books that require reading. I might develop intellect again. Who knows.

I was pretty pissed off, though. Oprah had just given a woman a house. This woman adopts six kids so they won't get broken up when their junkie parents go to jail, and she's a barista at Starbucks, raising NINE kids, and Oprah gives her a swank in-the-burbs-now-honey house, and BLAMMO. Cable dies.

Fucking timing. I'm working up a sniffly come-on-smile-on-your-brother-and-love-one-another-right-now set of tears and boom. "Oh, technical difficulties..." and I turn it off, on, and realize that the only channels left are the ones that you get when you're a cable-less person.

Denied, baby. Oh, so denied.

Yeah, that's all right. I'm stubborn. Fuck that shit. I got books, dude. I'm gonna get me some edu-mah-catin', bro.

I feel like I just stood up at a 12-Step night and done the whole, "Hi, I'm Steff. I'm an addict. I've had a remote control up my ass now for the better part of three and a half years."

Whew. Liberated. On the road to a brighter, happier Steff. Yeah, that's it. I'll talk myself down from the ledge. My god. What book do I read next? A comedy? Maybe a little Communism? I do have that commemorative edition of The Communist Manifesto. Fiction, there's always a great smart novel to be had in the bowels of my bookshelves.'''

I do confess... I've felt a little shackled by ADHD of late. I feel like I can't think anything through. Maybe not having TV in the equation will make it a little less all-penetrating.

My god. Think of the work I might get done! Imagine the blogging I might do when not consumed by the insane art of mind-suckage known as Daytime Television. Whew. Unthinkable!

Oh, this is too much. I need a drink.

**It occurs to me this will be good for delving into music, too. Bad for piracy, good for me.