Tendercrisp Death

Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside...
so declares the wrapping on the outside of a healthy burger I purchase at the ubiquitous BK

had work today,
woke up at 6:30
my bed warm with another
stepped out
stepped into snow
trudged forward
thought of norwegian death metal
"immortal"
barbaric face paint
,get to work
now my ears thaw
boots glisten
now hunger pangs...

...and thats how the proverbial cookie crumbles; you end up in burger king looking confounded. Why on earth am I contemplating dietary death? You grap the tendercrisp chicken burger and chump chump,bite away. Exceptionally salty fries...even for the persian that I am this is too much! What's this now?? You bite your tongue? It's bleeding... but apathy has long since taken over the golden reins

heavy rotation:
daft punk - alive
electric wizard - witchcult today (look up bongzilla meets sludge doom metal)

Le boudoir de la femme

“I thought I was through with this day. All I wanted to do was unplug the phone, pour myself a bourbon whiskey, glance through the clippings concerning that particular case, just to check, and switch off the lights except for the old lamp on my desk. Maybe I’ll fall asleep right here, in my office. So there I was, sitting alone in the feeble light and silence, when she came in. Annie. She did not knock before she entered the room but quietly closed the door and turned towards me. I was barely able to see her, but I could imagine her large eyes, her smile. She whispered, ethereal, “Hello”, her voice mingling with the plumes of smoke. The night had just begun...”

Mercury Tear, Catch Me When I Falter

There are three days, and four nights to go
And I won’t be with you anymore
Four nights like this to go

In the trees like a freeway without wind
A devil howling, silent again

And the chill of that sheet
On your skin

We ain’t free my love
We are not our masters
Without side looks faster
Drowned and distanced

Rest and listen
As I cross these miles
I try to tell you “I love you”

The walk we take
In the rain today
Your feet in your boots
Under mine are the greatest

The way we refuse to be saved
The way we refuse to be saved
The way we refuse to be saved

This Station is Non-operational

the robots have taken over
the soul is on hiatus
the last triarii has been breached


Forget about your house of cards
And I'll do mine

JOG ON!!!

Sergeant Butterman, the little hand says it's time to rock and roll!

Okay this day in my post-exam life ..aka brief interval between the next shitstorm of an academic session, was somewhat eventful.

Woke up relatively late..ate.. and headed over to the pub (duke of gloucester) to settle down for a good pint of ice tea and watch the match with my mates. The game in question was man utd away at fratton park against portsmouth. Now following a draw on the weekend at old trafford, picking up all the points was imperative. I don't want to dwell too much on the details of the game... we played exceptionally, especially scholes who nailed his 96th goal for manutd. But alas...

What was most frustrating was this american guy in the pub. This yank would not shut up with his america uber alles accent...shouting out such ignorant comments as would appear to him appropriate. It was like hearing asians talk about hockey.

Anyway as a demulcent measure... I watched "Hot Fuzz" ..following the disappointing draw. It certainly lived up to all the hype. As a longtime fan of british slang and Snatch-like humour, this film was well into my list of enjoyable flicks right off the starting reel. Quick cuts and lots of editing might not appeal to some of my bourgeois faux film critique friends (aka the nags), but it was a solid watch. In the end I was left with a happy after-taste and an impulse to shout out all the wicked british catch phrases I had just learnt. It also had some hilarious segments, where our brit protagonists ripped apart bad boys II and break point (classic yank guy flicks). Despite all these positive elements I am hesitant to put it on the shelf next to Snatch and Lock Stock... in all honesty I don't think Hot Fuzz can wrestle in the same ring as the aformentioned heavy-weights. Hence, Hot Fuzz = KKK/kkkkk, which makes it a pleasant eye candy for one watch ...maybe two.

DS Andy Wainwright: We're just hoping to talk to the last people to see Mr Merchant alive. Namely a Sergeant Nicolas Ass-wipe and Cuntstable Fanny Batterbum.

Danny Butterman: [Smiling] Hey, that's us!

En Passant

"there were bookshops with racks of magazines printed without capital letters or the bourgeois disturbance of full stops" - the buddha of suburbia

let me turn on some sonic youth (circa daydream nation) to help me create the required zen for this post

okay that's better

now let me paint a picture:

a coquette - elegantly poised, meticulously adding salad dressing to her ready-made salad, that she must have purchased only minutes ago from some cornerstore

me - watching from a couple rows away, drinking in the sights and sounds of a city abuzz with vibrant energy that has only just gone under the dark embrace of the night

we are on the streetcar that is carrying us away from the harsh and oppressive heat of the heart of chinatown towards the more plaintive and sullen harbourfront

the day has only left its ruins along the road
vendors are collecting their livelihood and closing up for the night
chinese neon signs still offer me their fried goods and their banking services
I watch it all in a blur
flitting images

back to our coquette; she indulges now in her salad, from time to time adding a dab more of dressing
while asobi seksu that is blaring in my eardrums from my mp3 player lays on pounds more of jarring guitars and beautiful ebullient vocals that steer me carefully into the abyss

Circa July

I'm hesitant today.

I've been waiting for the right moment to bring my blog back into the daylight. It's become akin to a low-budget indie movie that has the critics rattling in their cages and cafés, waiting for the next self-acclaimed scantimonious prick out of paris to declare their new, 6 minute, black and white, silent movie, worthy of the palm d'or.

Well I knew the timing would never be anywhere near perfect to launch my coup de grace (for all the illiterate plebians that read my blog that's the french term for a death blow), but the weather today had me thinking.

Toronto seemed to have been covered in a deathly pall of oppressive humidity, an incubus of grimy heat, foreshadowing the looming disaster that my day would turn out to be. It had me thinking of the story "Death in Venice". Especially since the last few days, a certain putrid smell had filled the hallways on my floor; probably from the garbage not being emptied. Mr. Venezuela must have been attending his son's wedding down in el paso?!

Anyhow, this stench dominated the air and impregnated it with a sort of impending doom. I was weary to leave my room and it was thus that I spent most of the hours of the day locked up in my abode, reminiscing on the past or debating on the future; which brought me to think how closely this situation mirrored that of the man in the aforementioned book (minus the fact that he was lusting over a young boy). His condition and his final death followed that of the city's slow demise (after the introduction of a plague into the venician canals).
Was the foul smell in the hallways and the humid cocoon of air that had beset Toronto a sign of things to come?

to be continued...