Yes, guy.
Ladies Learning Code - February Edition
February is going to be one of those educational/self-improvement months.
On the go I already have:
- A one-day bartending/mixology course
- A screenwriting class
- Short fiction class (tentative)
And now…Ladies Learning Code just annouced their February workshop: Intro to Photoshop & Illustrator. I am soooo there!
Anne Sexton sometimes seemed like a woman without skin. She felt everything so intensely, had so little capacity to filter out pain that everyday events often seemed unbearable to her. Paradoxically it is also that skinlessness which makes a poet. One must have the gift of language, but even a great gift is useless without the other curse: the eyes that see so sharply they often want to close.
“
| — | Erica Jong on the poet Anne Sexton (via cameliaoaks) |
I’m doing a reading tomorrow!
Hiya.
Life’s been busy, so less posting here. I haven’t been non-posting out of laziness, I swear, it’s out of true-blue, bonafide business. Tons of projects on the go, tons of scheming, and tons of hustling, all the while battling massive S.A.D. that hit me like clockwork shortly after Christmas.
Unless some crazy circumstances pop up, this will definitely be my last Jan/Feb in Canada. I can’t do it anymore. Anyhoo, I am dragging my post-work butt off the sofa to do a reading tomorrow, 9pm, at Alleycatz bar at Yonge and Eglinton.
Not sure whether I’ll read the latest short story I workshopped, or an excerpt from my manuscript. I have both pieces prepared. Here is the info:
The Toronto Writers’ Co-operative presents
its 4th
Exchanging Notes: a literary cabaret
on Tuesday, January 24
Exchanging Notes is a 3 hour showcase of spoken word with live musical accompaniment. Styles will range from rap to rock to classical to jazz to things there are no names for. Our venue, Alleycatz, offers a well-stocked bar and an impressive cuisine (see menu attached and below). Have dinner, enjoy a few drinks and the entertainment of the poetry and prose of the Writers’ Co-op with musicians too numerous to mention.
The evening will conclude with an open mic for writers & musicians. Bring your words and instruments and join in!
There is no cover.
Exchanging Notes: a literary cabaret
8 PM
Tuesday, January 24
Alleycatz
2409 Yonge Street (2.5 blocks north of Eglinton)
Info: exchangingnotes@live.ca
Thurston calls himself “a politically active, technology-loving comedian from the future.” He writes for the Onion, does standup comedy, has a terrific book coming out this month called How To Be Black, and does public speaking, using satire. “I was a computer programmer in high school, but I discovered I wasn’t very good at it—it was too tedious,” he says. “I was a philosophy major [at Harvard]. I did management consulting right out of school. But then I started doing comedy, and I love it. People say to me all the time, “What are you? You need to focus.” Maybe so. But for now, this smorgasbord of activities is working.
“
| — | This is Generation Flux, Fast Company. |
If I Were a Black Girl Writing About Being a Middle Class White Man
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When I was a little white boy, people would smile at me all the time, even strangers. They’d say “My, what an adorable little boy. You’re going to grow up to be a big strong man one day, aren’t you?” and I’d nod.
Grown-ups would speak in gentle tones to me, hanging off of my every word – an action I’d become so used to over time, that the expectation of having people’s undivided attention on me as I spoke became automatic.
Teachers would select me for advanced placement testing and help prepare me for the exams, whether I showed the aptitude or not. If I was slower to catch on to lessons in class, it wasn’t mine, or my parents’ fault, I was reassured, I had a learning disability. A teaching aid would be brought in at the school or my parents’ expense.
If I were disruptive in class, the sympathetic teacher would not scold or suspend me. Instead, the teacher would schedule a meeting with my parents, recommending more testing so that I could be diagnosed with ADD or ADHD, where I would take meds, behavioural therapy, or be sent to a specialized class or school that met my needs.
The special care, encouragement and attention to my “disabilities” would allow me to focus on my lessons and I would go on to pass all my classes with relative ease.
I graduate high school and go on to attend college, my parents’ alma mater, thanks to their connections to the alumni association. I spend the next 3 years binge drinking via keg stands and chasing co-eds, until senior year when I meet a nice, middle class girl just like my mother (though I do not realize it at the time), and settle down with her.
After college, my dad’s old golfing buddy offers me an entry-level job at MegaCorp. My clean cut, hearty All-American looks are familiar to my colleagues, and comforting to my superiors. I remind them of their yonger selves. I am quickly promoted. I take up golf and am promoted again. I don’t bother to learn much about the technical aspects of my job thanks to the huge influx of highly skilled immigrant labour – and why would I? I possess the intagible qualities of a leader, that certain je ne sais quoi that can’t be taught. I can in-source all of those tedious taks while I focus on being The Boss, which I become when I’m promoted yet again, this time to CEO of MegaCorp. Now I’m busy doing high-level things, like flying around the world to close Very Important Deals and attend Very Important Board meetings.
Unfortunately at one of those Very Important Board meetings, I discover that shareholders are demanding bigger profit margins and the only (quickest) solution seems to be layoffs, so that skilled labour that propelled me to the top of the ladder will have to be let go. I do not think about what the impact will be on them, their visa situations, their families and their prospects. They all lose their jobs, their health benefits, their pensions but when I am let go, it is over a tumblr of scotch with the Chairman who assures me that the golden parachute that will guide me to safety is polished and ready to go. I can retire now if I want, he tells me, but I don’t retire, instead, I am promptly hired into an executive-level position at SuperCorp.
In the evening when my wife sets out dinner, after her own long day of work, I look at my own kids, rosy-cheeked and bright, and realize they’ve probably already ‘succeeded’ at life before they even began.
To survive the truly hostile environment on set, I started to pray nonstop to my God, as working-class women often do, and to listen nonstop to Patti Smith’s “People Have the Power.” I read The Art of War and kept the idea “He that cares the most, wins” upmost in my mind. I knew I cared the most, since I had the most to lose. I made a chart of names and hung them on my dressing-room door; it listed every person who worked on the show, and I put a check next to those I intended to fire when Roseanne became No. 1, which I knew it would.
“
| — |
And I should Know by Roseanne Barr. One of the most groundbreaking and bullshit-calling pieces I have EVER read. EVER. Every woman must read it and re-read it whenever they need to call upon a strength hidden deep within themselves. |
Boyfriends, how they anger me. Or, I finally learned to control my temper.
As predicted, some family drama is going down. Luckily, I don’t care.
This post is about something I DO care about: BOYS.
How to NOT piss me off if you’re a boy/friend (because I have fucked up principles):
- Post a comment about how pretty some girl I don’t know looks in a photo on Facebook.
Sigh, fair enough, she’s damn gorgeous. Why pretend otherwise? Plus, she has a kid, so extra props for getting her pre-baby body back. Comment away, old chap.
Back in the day, this would have sent me into a violent, blind rage the likes of which you’ve seen. I’m not sure whether I’ve just lost the will to fight, like, at all, or if I’m like, growing up or some shit. Either way, this new, calm/coolly indifferent me is a little eerie.
- Ask me out on a date, then tell me you’re married/engaged/have a live-in girlfriend.
In which case, I pick up my linen napkin (since we are in a fancy restaurant, the napkins are linen), dab the corners of my mouth, put the napkin back down, pick up my red wine glass, watching you flinch, waiting for me to throw it in your face, relaxing your shoulders when I put the glass to my mouth, then cringe again as I proceed to chug the entire thing. Thanks for letting me know, I say. Dab. Dab.
I then wave over the waitress (she looks stoned by the way…like really? Is this my life?), order 3 more glasses of red wine (yes, all at once, it saves us BOTH time), change my order from pasta to filet mignon then get the creme brulee.
We talk about common interests, careers, crazy pasts, political leanings, future aspirations, whether you and your wife will have children or not, etc. etc.
The bill comes, and I don’t even bother with the fake wallet-grab. You’re so paying for it all.
I say thank you for dinner, and go home. I forget about you and your douchebaggery, but the memory of that delicious filet mignon is burned into my brain for life.
- Offer me hard drugs on the first date.
I dunno, people have vices. I’m over it. I forgive you, but let’s just be friends, mkay? Unless you’re hot and/or rich. Just kidding.
- Tell me your ex-girlfriend is internet stalking me. Because you gave her my full name, as well as a detailed bio, including SIN number, likes, dislikes, pets (none) and allergies (cats).
Girl, if you’re reading this right now. I’ve been there. I am the ultimate internet girl stalker, so I find this whole thing both scary and relate-able. FYI, I’m not worth stalking. Okay I am, but, you’re probably cool so, yeah don’t worry, you’ll eventually move on and forget I exist. Then one day you’ll suddenly remember me, perhaps because I posted on a mutual friend’s Facebook wall, and you’ll laugh to yourself and think “That loser Melissa? Why on earth was I so obsessed with her? I’m WAY more awesome!” Promise.
- Tell me you’re not not interested in a serious relationship, or getting married. Ever. Oh, and you you’re not into “exclusivity” either. Then proceed to be the sweetest, most caring, most supportive, kind, giving, flattering, treat-me-like-queen NON boyfriend that I ever had the pleasure of NOT having.
Seriously, though? Do you not realize we’d make an awesome couple? You’re an asshole, and now I’ll have to marry someone else. Our kids would have been perfect, you know. PERFECT. Fuck you.
- Answer the phone very drunk. When I call you long distance. And you’re a bad drunk.
Oh, hello fiance/future husband #1.
You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.
“
| — |
-Azar Nafisi Did I tell you guys that i’m moving to Sao Paulo? (via laceandcake) * Yes. This quote. Slavka is moving to Sao Paulo. He’s taking a chance on <3. He stuck his toe in the deep end of the pool, and now he’s jumping in. I couldn’t be more excited for him. I give Slavalicious full credit for starting the trend of running away with someone to an exotic country. Stamped it, forrealsies, no take-backs! |
