My Toronto theme song

Comes to mind, all the time. Then I listen to it like five times in a row. I love the clever irony in the la-da-da-da-‘s too. Swooning for that which kills your soul. Even as you declare how hard it is to forgive. Like it’s a walk in the park. An ice cream cone at the fair!

Here’s to wishing for the days when uncertainty and angst are behind me (if there is such a thing for those of us not engineered to be engineers). Days when I do the work I bring home. Or don’t bring work home (period). Either way, days on which I don’t have to feel guilty for seeming silly to infinitely cool boys (strike that, MEN, a concept I’m entirely unfamiliar with) lightyears beyond my years, galaxies beyond my leagues. In a way I absolutely deny entirely. And a way in which I haven’t in ages (and would prefer not to, thank you very much. So I admit to nothing. I admit.). Or squandering the evening way on drinks on an empty stomach and the building dread and anxiety of the day (and days, and weeks, and months) ahead. Even as things may be coming together. Looking up. What do these terms mean? Foreign as Greek. Italian. Not German (I know a smidgen of that still). Nazis aside, maybe that’s the best one.


some days, you feel like you must have been some kind of Hitler in your past life

I don’t know why these videos won’t embed today. It may be specific to Pet Shop Boys videos, I now realize. As it’s weeks later, I was able to post videos in my latest post, but these ones still won’t work. Even when I retried them. Kinda funny too, as today I feel more like I was some kind of a something-not-so-bad in a past life instead. Or like all my pain and suffering may be earning me something. Finally, but I digress…
What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?
My song today. My face looks as severe as Neil Tennant’s too. Our hair looks a bit similar today! The frizz is on over here. He pulls it off much better tho.
And then YouTube put on the song I was a one-time karaoke star to! “West End Girls”.
Annnnd “It’s a Sin”. My dad’s fave! Especially the part where he speeds up. “EverythingI’veeverdone,EverythingI’lleverdo”. Which is kinda funny, as later in life, that was something I got a kick out in 80s music too. I have realized or remembered so many things we have in common now that he’s no longer with us. I guess this song is fitting today too, for me to wonder what I have done to deserve this, everything I long to do, no matter when, or where, or who, must be a sin. So I look back upon my life, forever with a sense of shame. I’ve always been the one to blame.

New baby

Comes into the world and all this g-emo (cursed combo of goth+emo) can think to say is,”Tell it to cherish the years free of exams and before life brings out its crushing cynicism.”


For me, those days probably ended shortly before (or after) R.E.M’s fantastic album Monster came out. In the golden year in music that was 1994. At the ripe old age of 11 for me. So long ago, I’d totally forgotten about it. Until the fated day I was distracted from studying from my first wretched mid-term exam in a decade, drenched in emo, and YouTube thought it was appropriate to mess with me further by taking me back.

Both a blessing and a curse, like so many things as of late. And maybe like the baby too. I digress. People don’t like it when you’re down on babies. But no one reads this, so I shall speak my mind. Those poor babies, good luck to them down the line. Trying to learn the things they aren’t, tho they paid so much to, then trying to find jobs (through shameless self promotion, faking it, and people they ‘know’ vs. skills). Form meaningful, lasting connections with people they can trust, who aren’t looking to just gain something superficial or cruel from them. I imagine it will be infinitely worse than it already is. It’s gotten so much worse than it was several years ago. There’s that cynic tho. Maybe the baby will be JUST FINE (and who knows, maybe even dandy too).

And even if not. For now, baby has nothin to do… ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!

off-topic (when everything is supposed to be on)

And particularly troublesome, as old-me has come back to haunt me. And old-me was not only almost always off-topic in a sense, but also proud of that overall sense of being.

Strike plus an odd encounter at a reunion show for a band I wanted to see for a decade and thought I never would, brought a lot of the past up. Near suffocating in intensity. There was nostalgia, regret, and a million other emotions all at once. Unsettling and off-kilter and balance obliterating – it was all of those. It felt like the umpteen-thousandth mid-life or identity crisis I’ve suffered. On the cusp of trying to reinvent myself to be successful. To pretend I’m not any of the creative or emotive things I once was, and am only the cold marketable ones I felt I should embrace.

And it makes me wonder, will such disconcerting crises ever end? Maybe if one day, certainty comes to pass. At this point, however, it’s kind of a myth to me.

Zombie of my former self is wreaking havoc on present-me’s best intentions. Rendered incapable of studying, I just spent some time justifying the (accidentally) inappropriate domain name for my professional blog.


Starting with how my first gmail account (from back in the days when you had to be invited to Gmail by your uber-elite techy friend) took its name from a Stephen Malkmus song, “Vague Space.”

Do you want to know where it stands right now?
Do you really care what, when, why, or how?
I came to crave your spastic touch
The honest way you move is too much
Before we can change we could levitate
Erase mistakes of the forest greats
Fermented minds could make them shake
Permission granted for the wolverine stakes,
A Love to tear you off
The formless matters of the brain
Inequality of the drifting chain
A moment I could learn to love
The salutations to the levels above
We’ll split the difference, call it quits
This is no new romantic blitz-krieg
Pull off the foil and watch it break
A whisper’s crushing all the sympathy gates
A Love to tear you off

And from there, going on to include a link to one of my favourite Pavement songs:

Can you treat it like an oil well
When it’s underground, out of sight?
And if the sight is just a whore sign
Will it make enough sense to me?
Pretend the table is a trust knot
We’ll put our labels down, favors down
I’ll watch some yards of twine unravel
And you’ll never get it back
It’s what I want (it’s what I want)
It’s what I want (twine comes down)
It’s what I want, it’s what I want
Don’t you know, I could make you try
Make you try, make you try, make you try
Well, I’ve been down, the king of it
It is all I have, I’ve been down
And I could wait to hear the words
They’re diamond sharp today
I could open it up if it’s up and down
It’s what I want (it’s what I want)
It’s what I want (twine comes down)
It’s what I want, it’s what I want
Don’t you know, I could make you try
Make you try, make you try, make you try
Well, I’ve been down, the king of it
It is all I have, I’ve been down
And I could wait to hear the words
They’re diamond sharp today

Like so many things in the days that have recently come to pass and wreak havoc on poor, unsuspecting, me (with my over-functional messed up amygdala that hijacks and runs the rest of my brain to ruin), this domain-accident led to guilt. And that old familiar need to explain where I was coming from (despite knowing it never gets me anywhere anyway).

Malkmus’s lyrical abstractery is very anti-tech comm. And even more so, anything vague is supposedly the absolute antithesis of all things tech comm (which is what my blog is for). As is anything inconsistent, casual, cool etc.

Yet, to be honest, I’ve seen little evidence of other professionals in this field living up to such claims…. It seems like a lot of talk and little walk. I’m losing some of my faith.

Which makes me think of this song. Which my dad really loved.

Saturday nights after rom coms…

After I watch entirely uncool things that make me wonder what I’m becoming, I listen to stuff like this for some kind of solace with a high success rate.

Can’t wait for this obscurity to arrive in the mail as the first CD I’ve purchased in I don’t know how long… Props again to Paul Mullen for crushing it cool-wise and turning me onto this stuff. Just what I needed, really. And I ctrl-c, ctrl-v to insert this link into this post without the venom that goes into my literally hundreds of ctrl-c, ctrl-v’s daily in my ‘new’ ‘old’ job that I told myself I wanted. Until the carpel tunnel sets in, that is.While 5-7 extra hours I have daily disappear into oblivion. My laziness becomes more apparent than possibly ever before.

And what is it about this music anyway? I keep thinking it’s that if I made music, this is the music I’d make. But as logical as that may seem, to me it’s still weird thing to think for someone that doesn’t make music and never will. I guess most people don’t stop to think about why they like the things they do music-wise. I guess there’s really no point. But the whole what-point-is-there to things conversation could go on forever, and really… what would be the point? The irony of that sentiment…?

possibly my favourite song. yeah, ‘ever’

I just put this on and thought “If I had to die and hear one last song, I’d want it to be this.”

So yeah. It’s hard to pin a ‘favourite’ song by one artist, let alone entirely. But in this moment and many, I’d have to say this is the winner. B-side off  YCNI:M’s “17” single (2005 – 8 years ago, but still  impressively new, really, in the context of the history of music). A song called “Undone.”  Unfortunately, this track exists like nowhere online save for snippets, and WordPress won’t allow me to upload it (THANK YOU VERY MUCH FREESPEECH BLOGGING). Also one of my favourite’s off their album Ignoto. The other b-side on the single is ‘ace’ as well. Anyway not that anyone gives a crap, but if so, I’d be happy to email you the song.

Best I could find online is this lame obscenely teasing snippet:

I think what does it for me with emotive music of this sort is the utmost singability that just feels like therapy in a way nothing else can. A sort of painful and pleasurable letting it out. When no one but the artist seems to understand what it is we are going through.

Milohhhhh. I think the most therapeutic part of this song is the “I’ve come to realize” repeat bridge followed by “Now it’s over, I can walk away”. What a great death-song of such epic proportions. The volume at which I’m playing it is likely to get the neighbors who I perpetually feel sorry for, to finally complain perhaps. But it is, afterall (two words that SHOULD BE ONE), a Friday night. So they aren’t allowed, right?

Friday nights are for getting drunk. For being alone (by choice or otherwise. after forcing someone to let you buy them a couple of drinks) and feeling alone. For feeling misunderstood. For feeling too much. For being emo. For being a pain. For being in pain. And for trying to patiently hang photos in a straight line. When it’s what you are worst at. And when there’s no one to see them but you still care (or tell yourself you do, at any rate). Any project that’s not the dreaded writing, essentially.

Turns out not much has changed music-wise. The best music is rare and obscenely hard to obtain. I just ‘purchased’ two ‘cds’ online for the first time in literally aeons because that was the only way I could get my hands on the likes of  obscure post-hardcore goodness like this :
Thanks to Paul Mullen my never-to-be husband for turning me onto this and giving me exactly what I needed – old-ass music I like that is new to me. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. So says the old-lady that still gets I.D’d EVERYWHERE she goes.

impatience and pale shelter

I am immensely impatient when all there is is pale shelter.

I give too little and expect too much. Too soon.

And this knowledge does nothing for me. Gets me nowhere. Like so much knowledge that comes and goes and comes around again.

Thinking of Yourcodenameis:Milo doing an all Tears For Fears cover night and me having not been there just about kills me. Feeling excited about a retro night this weekend just turns to anxiety. Like all possibly good things are destined to. Like almost all past retro nights have.

Impatience and anxiety breeds disappointment. Time and time again. We tell ourselves the knowledge we didn’t grow up in a cage should be enough to remind us to be grateful, but it all falls away so easily forgotten.

but perhaps the eptiome

Of what my heart considers to be emo. Three songs off Cursive’s 2005 album The Differences Between Houses and Homes. A compilation of songs between 1995-2001. My guess, based on sound and content, would be my favourites fall on the earliest end of this spectrum.
While in general I only love a handlful of Cursive songs and the dischordance found within, and knowing they are likely to not sit well with many people, I really can’t do anything but promote them. Because this is real ’emo’ in the sense that it is pure ‘post-hardcore’ with hardcore elements still in tact. If I made music, it would sound at least somewhat like this, at some point.


“That’s cool. I guess you’re fitted for solitude. The suit doesn’t fit you. Lonely fish. Cry in his cage. Does your owner ignore you?… I want some lonely fish to call my own.”

“Disruption in the Normal Swing of Things”:

“These hands are shaking. They’ve lost all trust in me… AND I NEED THIS sympathy.”


“And I know that the stars all have names. Just some of them aren’t as good as others. Some of them are just letters and numbers. Sometimes I forget that the smallest things can be oh so big”.

‘new’ things don’t always have to suck (though they often do)


After listening to a few rather disappointing tracks off the much-anticipated My Bloody Valentine album, I was pleased to learn the following: Pulp have made a ‘new’ song available. My standards were pretty low once I heard it was a b-side from their last album We Love Life, a wussy collection of wussy somewhat old-people songs hardly worth listening to more than once, in my humble, picky opinion. I was surprised to hear that the song happens to be somewhat of a throw-back to the best days of Pulp. Not 100% but I will settle for an 88% as age has taught me to appreciate what I can get, when and where I can get it.

The disco-tinged effort makes one hopeful of things yet to come. Fingers-crossed Pulp will miraculously choose to play a show in London close to where I will be staying in mid-August. I would pee my pants three times and love it. Fingers even more crossed that the band will release an album of equal impressiveness in the not-so-distant future that will involve Russell Senior. As Senior is to Cocker as Marr is to Morrissey.

a brief history of…


Some less dangerous than others. Some dangerous in more obvious, more definition-of-danger worthy ways. The others much worse in the long run. Those charismatic, handsome fucks that really are no more than the latter. That really have no more worth than, the latter. That manage to climb you like an (albeit rather short) ladder. And what does it say about you that you fall under his charms? That you seek so hard to believe the feigned aspects of interest. Though they leave you under duress?

Those days are over, you say. Those lessons, this time, have been learned. Easy to say this time, in retrospect. In hindsight vision is 20/20 so the cliche says. Meanwhile your new glasses, that you can’t adjust well to your face, somehow leave you motion sick constantly. Though because they are grey, you will never EVER give them up. No not ever.

But you will – return to insurance. Leave the job that looks good ‘on paper’ so to speak. Take a pay cut. Fear a walk around some foreign countryside. Get back to the words. Leave the waste of mind space behind. Monotony and less salary exchanged for sanity. And whenever you have to make such a big decision, at a crucial point, your knees quake. Body aches. Because you are not stable like a crab. Your joints are not reinforced. Like the wood crustacean brought from cuba. That looks at you with sparkly pink eyes. That some poor child, no doubt, created.

You can’t be trusted. But it’s quite contrary to the ways a sociopath is not to be trusted. But your recent encounters with more than one makes you fear for your own superficiality. The cruciality. Of progressing for once, in both thought and deed. While these deranged men work on compulsion, you wish to formulate a difficult, but stick-to worthy plan.

Think about Shoegaze. Think about the many lost days. Your so-many rather lost ways. Think about think about driving yourself mad. Think about your newer of  friends (the others just fed up) telling you they feel so sorry for you, the way you exhaust yourself . Spinning yourself in circles in your head. Think about overtime. Think about doing time. Think about. The ways by which things can be and can’t be. Mine. My  Bloody Valentine (how fitting their best album is called Loveless – a highlight being the circus-whirl of “When you sleep” ) and gazing at shoes. That one is never happy with. Too tight against the baby toe corn. Too tight in a way that shows age. The age that no one else can detect. Those bruises and stretch marks, sagging and bagging. I was young. and now it hurts. That youth gone. Those decisions lost never to be found.

And the utmost frustration, that as your nose changes and you grow to be your mom, who has grown to be your grandmother, everyone still thinks you are 19. Can’t be taken seriously. Or hit on random men your age in public. Because while men allegedly want someone younger, it is still not socially acceptable to approach them. Is it acceptable to approach anything? You really don’t have the heart for it anyway. Nauseate.

Can you wait your whole life waiting to be approached by the right thing when you are so very picky? Picking at all the things you were told not to 17 years ago? 17 years ago. You were full of little scabs to pick at, and nothing more. Things were simple. You were the closest to happy you’d ever been. Even as the ugliest you’d ever been. You were, the leader of the pack. The slightly sought after one. Most sought after of those hardly sought after at all. A confidence you’ve never known since.

Sunday nights. Fear of invisible bugs. Dread of waking to Mondays. Low on sleep. But be happy. It’s what you asked for. It’s what we all live for.

And gazing. Ever. At shoes. Shoes you are perpetually displeased with. Shoes. Bras. Pants. That will never fit. But you will buy more anyway. It’s the one thing you can’t give up on. It will be long before. You get up on. Anything worth noting again. The sky will cave in. Snow will terrify, more than mesmerize, you. As it falls from the sky too  plentiful. Too chaotic. Tom Cruise will remind you of so many men you meet. You never guessed it would be this way. You never guessed. But you didn’t have to guess it was all a game you’d never wanted to play. A game that strained you. That you were forced to play.  A game that you never had time to train for. That never had time to train you. That would betray you, slay you, time and time again.