Saturday, September 18, 2004
I'm so going to win that competition next year or the year after
Everything (well, almost)
Girl from the 1950's , Voted Most "Faaabulous", your Worship, Japanese Ghost**only one of these nicknames was ever used. If you know, you know which one.
Missing those days... those days of Math 30, skipping class to be with a crying friend, having my eyelids sliced open by slippery hands, eating homemade sashimi and playing the Friends board game. Playing the meanest (and of course, therefore funnest) game of Charades EVER, wasting massive amounts of time on CP, and laughing as some of us dodged teachers (creepy McKeage) left and right as we skipped class for no reason. The dominance of Big Two. The drama that seemed so important at the time. Someone's first kiss. Scaring them at New Asia. The last day, there at Banana Jak's. Singing the three or four Chinese words we hadn't forgotten how to read from Chinese school. Falling asleep in Ernest's bedroom simultaneously. Coordinated our spares together...so we could waste it in the library. (Not really) having their boobs stared at. Some lesbian-onic boob grabbing, ass squeezing, nipple touching. Someone touching someone's ass like everyday, come on I know it was you. Someone drinking their bum-bum off and getting, for them, soo touchy. Someone denying their complete love of drinking. Someone despising drinking (party pooper =D ). Someone with two other dudes helping birthday boy drink his skinny, children's shoe size-ass off. Someone pretentiously spouting during seminars. Someone's generosity I won't forget when I was pretty much broke... you'll get what you want when I'm a rich old dude, although I can't provide what you REALLY want. Unless it's sex, but that's what someone is else is for. Someone's black coat. Admitting they masturbated, right there on MSN and saved on two people's computers. The "things" that that black coat hid and weren't as obvious until the time they drew their arms back at that person's house. Three-way phone calls. Realizing who we wish we had spent time with more during high school. The devil Charney. The awesomeness of Jan Mohamed. Computer-like writing. Two dudes who wrote like Asian girls. The lunatic Taven. The super-genius Wagner. The evils of chemistry. Being a big brother. Talking at Beddington Mall and chilling at Boston Pizza. Graduation night. And thinking we were the greatest philosophers of our time. Oh wait, I still think that last one. Someone pooping their pants. Oh wait, Colin still does that.
NW- We never see each other, but hopefully you still know I'm there for you anytime, whether it be to listen, or to protect you from some guy. You've got your own knight now, though. He's a good guy and a hell of a lot smarter than you haha jokes. Consider me his assistant then, and make sure to call me if he's a jerk. But he won't.
VL- I wrote this long ass shoutout for you a long time ago. Everything I said back then is still true. You're still amazing and we still don't do enough stuff together. Missing Math 30 everyday. And when are we going to strippers / casino? CC's underage, how lame. Here's to hoping you find your "first and only". Do you remember what I'm talking about?
CC- Brilliant. Cynically optimistic. Tries to show lack of confidence when everyone knows he aced the test. Existentialist Buddhist, apparently. Utterly pretentious raging liberal, like myself. Mr. CC. You say you want security, a steady paying nine-to-fiver in a cubicle where you type away at numbers. In your heart you'd rather be an SNL or Conan writer, though, but you want security so much. You know, for a guy who's so organized, and in some ways, conservative, to my completely improvisational personality and complete lack of shame, my God Colin, you're one of the most interesting and intelligent people I've ever met. You just might be my favourite person to have a conversation with about anything remotely meaningful, except when you're being an asshole or party pooper, which is most of the time, haha. I don't know dude, I wouldn't be half as the pretentious blowhard I am without you. Just know you've had a fucking profound impact on my life in so many ways. Woohoo.
There's others who have been amazing. I'll post something sometime, promise.
comment from way back when
Thursday, September 16, 2004
seeing sanjay at the library
It all started with the noblest of intentions- as some might say, with very typical asian intentions. I was going to the library to reformat my psychology notes and print them off. How very nerdy. But alas, as always, I was thrown into yet another misadventure. Mister Sanjay Biswas, as always, managed to be where I was.
The guy made me realize so many things. It would seem I am learning nothing from university and would be better served as an acolyte at the Temple of Sanjay. Without his remarkable teachings, I never would have known that "the Punjabis are the brave race of India. They are the brave warriors. All the soldiers, they are Punjabi. All the Hindis are cowards. They would rather be professors." Sanjay, by the way, is Hindi.
Forgive my sarcasm. In truth, I highly doubt I will ever meet a more fascinating guy in my life. I also think he stands a good chance of being the first person from my graduating year to die, but that's another matter. The boy genius/completely insane bizzare male chauvinist inspires me. I have decided that one my life's works (how corny is that) will be a book about his life. What better way to celebrate the person who called me late at night on my cell phone, and subsequently had this conversation with, which bordered on pure lunacy (well, actually, knowing Sanjay, probably not, but I digress):
SB: Is this Terry?
TW: Yes...yes it is. Who is this?
SB: It's me, Sanjay. Anyway Terry, you have been my friend for a long time now. Because of that I give you exclusive video rights to my suicide.
TW: What...the fucking fuck. What the fucking fuck are you talking about?
SB: No seriously. I have a handgun, you'll make millions.
TW: (a revolution in reality TV, I'm thinking. but anyways.) Sanjay...no.
SB: (is drunk, I later find out. not surprising.) Come on it'll be cool.
TW: ...No, Sanjay. I have to go.
Really, I'm doomed to be an wannabe-NYC cool writer, with live material like this. Or maybe I can grow up to be a brave bare-chested Punjabi warrior. For King and Curry!
"stella ella ohla, tap-tap-tap, singin' es tigo tigo, tigo tigo tap-tap, es tigo tigo, baloney, baloney, with cheese and macaroni..."
While the acrid smoke sliced with surgical precision into my nostrils and a menagerie of coloured lights pierced the darnkess of the room, a notion entered my head that I couldn't escape. To risk vulgarity- as dancer after dancer stripped and swayed and gyrated and ground the air and mock-fellated, as pairs of jiggling breasts and shaking asses made their wildly cheered processions around the stage, I was puzzled. It wasn't thoughts of these violently thrusting body parts that filled my head so much as the idea that it was someone's daughter up there. Someone's kid. Could you imagine seeing your daughter in a strip club?
"Oh daddy... Daddy??"
"Oh baby.... Baby??"
While I'm an admitted addict of the surreal, I think I'll pass on that particular experience.
We humans believe ourselves to be so utterly advanced. We're civilized- not base animals or simple-minded cavemen or anything beyond remotely akin to the barbaric peoples of centuries ago, but we've really remained stagnant. The strip club is the same as the slave bazaar of the Romans which is same as the football field or wrestling ring or gladiator's colosseum. We bear in our minds and hearts the same basic wanton lusts- blood and sex.
