leroBlog

When my friend Sis moved to town, she found a bachelor in a cracky bit of Toronto. The house was divided into several single-unit places and each one was filled with oddballs. One woman was interested in permaculture and lined the small patch of front garden with newspapers. Another brought her a framed pencil crayon drawing of two chickens pecking at a lettuce patch. Her landlord was an 80-something man with stringy white hair and an IV drip on wheels. He would come to visit her to have philosophical talks and also drop off gifts. One day, he offered her a box of 9 mm Luger bullets.

Six months later, after I’d broken up with my live-in boyfriend Peter, Sis and I decided to move into a nice two-bedroom in the Kensington Market. We lived there happily for three years. Eventually, she moved out. Shortly thereafter, a colony of roaches moved in, as well as a Brit named Rich. The exterminator was called in multiple times, but unable to get rid of the roaches. Frustrated and kind of terrorized, I called the landlord in a panic and screamed A BOMB THE PLACE! I DON’T CARE! JUST POISON EVERYTHING. The landlord organized the requested A-bombing, but told us we first had to clear out all the kitchen cabinets (they were mainly in the kitchen.) My boyfriend at the time (another one) was helping — cleaning out the one above the fridge. He tapped me on the shoulder with the box of Luger bullets in his hand and a question mark on his face. Then he pointed up at the cabinet to show me that we’d accidentally stashed them with a cylinder of butane and a large can of chalkboard paint.

When I moved into the place I’m now living, I brought the bullets. Now I use them as joke arts and crafts presents.

I gave this particular bullet with YOUR NAME on it to my friend Pat tonight. His eyes were so filled with emotion!

Here is some goofing from 2006. Shot and edited with love by two friends the morning and afternoon after a long long evening getting lap dances at Club Paradise.

video by adrienne, perfect singing by tim.

Corey Mintz made the mayor of Toronto dinner. But first, he made dinner for the mayor of Awesometown. It was largely meat-based. For that, he is true and good. And also for other things. But I can’t spell them out right now, as I have to go run the stairs of Casa Loma 89 zillion times because I have body image issues.

this was put up and taken down and now it is being put up again.

this week i’ve had a cough i can’t shake and some shakes i can’t cough.

Analysis from a friend:

So there’s this game where every person has a dog breed equivalent. You can do it in one of two ways: physical appearances or disposition– no one comes out happy playing the physical appearance version and it’s usually just based on haircuts anyway– so I’ll just do disposition. You are The Blue Heeler, a tireless herding dog, easily one of the smartest breeds.

Their physical energy mixed with their intelligence gives them a higher rate of mental disorders IF they’re not given room to run, a job to do and, most importantly, attention.

I met a guy who breeds these dogs when I was a kid, and among all the anthropomorphization a dog breeder is disposed to getting up to out in the woods, what stuck with me the most is that, according to him, the Blue Heeler is the only breed that will work or play catch with you until it has a heart attack. The dog’s sense of well being is outweighed by its need to be engaged.

I’ll admit that Blue Heelers specifically fascinate me, so I’m prone to projecting a fair bit. ALSO I just went to the wiki site to see the soul of a dog breed. Or the things dog breeders make up out there. Alone and going crazy with dogs.

Throwing money at laundry problems is worth it. Today… FIRST EXPERIENCE WITH THE WASH-AND-FOLD. Today… new motto: HANDLE MY DELICATES, I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!

While the washers and folders were doing their little thing, I wrote Post It notes and used thumbtacks of JUST THE RIGHT SIZE AND COLOUR to affix them to my corkboard AND THEN wrote out tasks in dry erase marker AND made infused syrups and did other ridiculous bullshit.

I meant to use this time to write a humour piece for The Rumpus. (There IS a Post-It note telling me I must write something for The Rumpus.)

On Thursday night, I had a bicycle accident. I swerved around a large truck, the bike became caught in a streetcar track and I was propelled off it. Oddly, I landed on my feet and began to run. Then I turned around and held out my hands to stop the cab that was about to crush me. I had some pizza in my bag for my friend Nick, which I delivered to him. As I was handing him the pizza, tears-explosion.

On Friday, the bike was stolen. On my walk home, as I was screaming to Abi on the phone about how I deserved to be crushed by the cab and how I didn’t deserve nice things, I stopped to punch and kick this abandoned Christmas tree.

On Saturday, the guys at the bike shop felt sorry for me, so they gave me a $1,000 ride for $600. It’s my new lil mama and I love it.

On Sunday, it rained and the bike got wet.

On Monday, nothing bike-related happened.

Yesterday, a car hit me while I was riding, but I bounced off a parked car to my right, managed to straighten my bike and continue onwards to the blood testing clinic.

This child is wanted for the rodeo. Please contact me if you find him, or the rodeo.

a friend pointed out the tongue’s involvement in both albums by The 6ths (and in the name of the band The 6ths)… all meant to be said in the Out Loud:

1. Hyacinths and Thistles (by the The 6ths)
2. Wasps Nests (also by The 6ths)

no one ever pointed THIS out to me until Alana bought me the year-late housewarming gift of a silicone baking tray with little punctuations… ampersands are apparently based on babies doing it to themselves with their hands.

tonight my bicycle was stolen. once you have finished donating to haiti, perhaps you’d like to donate to my New Bicycle Fund. i am a lot like haiti: warm, spirited and with structural integrity that is generally doomed.