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I was bringing my bicycle home after a tune-up and repairs. It's a Raleigh, from I'm guessing the 1950s, painted a deep scarlet red. Prompted by my mother, I took a short test spin down the street; having not been on a bike for over five years, the cool wind rushing past my face and through my hair felt wonderful. As I neared the end of the ride, a woman walking by chewed me out for riding on the sidewalk.
Let me say now: I whole-heartedly agree with her sentiment that I was in the wrong, as I on principle also disagree with the practise (although, honestly, I had never had much trouble with bicycles on sidewalks. I step aside; I move on). Perhaps she had had some poor experiences with rude cyclists, or maybe her first son got run over by one or what have you. Even so, I felt maligned.
She will never see this, of course. But I am a petty human being. I am filled with a desire for justice, which naturally compels me to, yes, blog it. (1) The only reason I dared to risk Toronto bylaw -- because they are of course ever so strictly enforced -- was because the sidewalk was deserted, in a quiet residential neighbourhood. If, say, a string of kindergarten children or newborn kittens stood in my bike's trajectory, I would certainly have restrained myself. A lone, snotty woman who did not even stop to reprimand me but merely kept walking out of what I perceived as cowardice I consider low priority. (2) I have this distinct feeling that she would have never spoken to me if I had been a burly, well-tattooed man, or an elderly woman. I feel this, because I have a friend who is exactly the same type. She would rebuke young teenagers and stylishly dressed professional couriers, but never a word against tough-looking men, or those revelling in their golden age (the appropriate term nowadays, apparently). I have held my tongue against her, because she is a friend standing up for her personal principles. But if we are walking through a rough part of the city at 2:30 AM, I should think that it is a small sacrifice to just shut up until we have passed through. (The streets at this time, of course, are otherwise totally empty anyway.) (3) I stopped for her to pass, with plenty of room to spare. I think, such a courtesy could have been acknowledged. I was barely a five-man posse forcing my way by in a storm of pedals, spokes, and thick-tread wheels with enough grip to rip the flesh off your bones. (4) Very clever of you to quote the fine at me (which according to her is, by the way, $190). Pity you have no authority to enforce it, deferring to a higher power who is performing more important duties at this moment such as guarding your home city and your children. It is more of a pity that you so sincerely believe such monetary pittances deter any intent of criminal activity. (5) I was honestly amazed that she did not say a word about my lack of protective headgear. It astonished me exactly how much "self" was in her self-righteousness. She had absolutely not a drop of concern about the fact I was potentially risking my life, but only that she had a street-length of space for her walking pleasure. I said as much to her, but she was too far away and I was unable to discern her reply. (6) This is my lower class prejudice coming through. She was a well-dressed woman, living on a fairly well-to-do street. Frankly, it seems to me that only a few members of such a group would be able to have the time and inclination to bother fellow citizens about their transportation habits. The same will also rebuke you for consuming meat even when you are a natural omnivore, and make loud noises of disgust while you try to eat with what's left of your dignity and self-control. (7) Finally, I really do think there are greater causes to champion. Harassing a cyclist would be low on my list of "Things to Do for the World Today." Consider. At least I was riding a bike. I was not enjoying the recirculated air inside my monstrous sport utility vehicle guzzling fifty litres of petrol oil (the car, not me) while contemplating my next plan to disembowel and eat orphaned baby birds. You should have been thanking me. But anyway. The bike's looking really good. . Monday, July 12, 2004While observing a conversation on the tagboard on the topic of sexual schedules, I made the following remark:
"I like that term. 'Losing' one's virginity. As if it merely fell behind the dresser and is waiting for rediscovery while gathering dust ..." I am amused by this phrase. Obviously a construction with a bit of a history, it must've stemmed from a time and culture -- back in the proverbial "day" -- much more puritanical than today's ... so wonderfully conservative (as though I am not!) and innocuous-sounding. With current social trends every day taking a step forward in sexual equality for all, to say one has "lost" one's virginity seems a dated turn of phrase. It distances the person from what he or she has done, as though it had been through no fault of their own, maybe as a bow to the socially proscribed modicum of shame and modesty. To have "lost" also implies a temporary vacuum ... please help me find it. Perhaps the term was coined with women particularly in mind ... again, from an era past, when females were regarded much more as the fairer and weaker sex and as simple vessels in the act of reproduction, and when the most highly regarded attributes of femininity were qualities like passivity and demureness. (I use past tense here as a nod to recent advances, but I acknowledge that sexist attitudes prevail today, still rather rampantly ... against both sexes.) To say one's virginity was "lost" seemed to fit those modes of thought ... that she was not so much as the instigator as the one instigated upon ... that such an event was not so much in her control (although in some cases, this might still be applicable). To have "lost" implies clumsiness, carelessness -- in other words, the intellectual inferiority and emotional immaturity of women, as compared to men. As I mentioned before, a "loss" is never initiated by the bereaved; it happens when it does, hardly of the affected's own accord. "Oops! There it goes! Silly butterfingers ... simply wasn't paying attention." In the interest of equality and female empowerment, I suggested that more dynamic terms be used, to more closely involve the most relevant party, being the woman herself. "I obliterated my virginity last night! Take that! Bang! Bang!" (Pun unintended.) I. Action. She took charge. She caused an occurrence; the occurrence did not cause her. Wailfulrhyme came up with "annihilated" (which I remarked somehow reminded me of Space Invaders ... which might therefore make it a popular hit with gamers) and Rocker volunteered "desecrated" (which immediately made me believe that whoever used this term would have done so upon in a confessional box or cemetary). For those not so radically action-oriented, I offer "given away." Take it; I bestow it upon you. It's a gift.
A thought:
He reads, softly and clearly. The pages are turned with musical crispness; he smoothes them with large, gentle hands. The light is warm, golden, transforms the pages from a pale white to a creamy ivory, and reflects in his eyes. The room, quiet ... as though existing purely to accomodate his voice, which speaks the words with rhythm and surety. I lay my cheek against his lean, sturdy shoulder; my breath comes slow and gentle as I listen. He smells like soap, and ... himself. I stay at his arm; our legs entwine. I watch his toes flex and curl. He smiles when I brush his neck with a finger, and tilts towards me -- the heat between us grows in anticipation -- his eyes drop briefly to my mouth. But his smile becomes sly, and he leans away. Not a word is missed. I sigh. The seduction continues.
There's a tendency for alien underwear to creep into my collection now and again, usually my mother's, who used to buy the same Hanes as I did and which created all sorts of awkward, cringeworthy problems. (I've long since acquired a large distinct batch and defined clear borders, so I may return to my usual habit of grab-and-go.)
So when a few days ago I was weeding out old, ill-fitting, high-waisted undies -- which bunch up in a somewhat unsightly manner over my current styles of pants -- out of a crammed drawer, I wasn't all too surprised to find a batch of pretty, lacy panties. They were clearly not mine, I thought, as I shovelled aside a pile of practical white cotton, but I was fairly certain I knew whose they were. "Moooooooooom!" My mother was watching her soap operas. "What?" I held up the handful. "Your stuff." "They're not mine. They're yours." "Huh?" "Remember? That one shopping trip when you said you wanted to try something different and be feminine?"
"Uh..." But blue and violet lace? Impressionistic flowers? Ribbed edges? Black baroque lace? This was getting too sexy for my stodgy ways; did I know this supposed Gloria? Then ... "Oh. Oh. Yeah. Jeez." I stared, still flabbergasted. I had underwear I didn't even know were mine. I suppose as I grow older, this will become a more frequent occurrence (hopefully...?). Well, at least they were surprisingly comfortable. (For some reason, even though most of my upper undergarments are black, most of my lowers are white. Eh? Strangest of all is that I like to co-ordinate even my socks when I am able; how have I so long tolerated this discrepancy?) Now I face every female's worst nightmare -- I have these fancy skivvies (other synonyms for "underwear" include but are not limited to: bikini, bra, briefs, BVD's, corset, drawers, intimate things, jockey shorts, jockeys, lingerie, long johns, panties, shorts, smallclothes, underclothes, underclothing, undergarment, underpants, undershirt, underthings, undies, unmentionables, woollies), yet nowhere to wear them. Alack!
I dislike fast food, and moreover, fast food places that feign distinction, with completely straight faces.
One of the strategies employed is by tugging at strings of health-conscious consumers. When McDonald's unveiled their "Healthier Choices" menu, I was torn between laughter and bovine-esque gaping. Clearly, they knew that the reasonable capabilities of the average Mickey D's goer were not impressive; by "healthier", the consumer would somehow deduct "healthy." The same consumer, however, also never quite realizes that while being quickly devoured by a man-eating lion may be slightly more pleasant than having one's genitals dunked into a barrelful of sulphric acid, it is still not pleasant. Another terrible ploy is to parade "ethnic" dishes. For the uninitiated, fried chicken wings are not Chinese food. That shiny red glop -- allegedly sweet and sour sauce but looking more like the goo from Ghostbusters and tasting like it -- is not Chinese food. If you should ever be unsure whether what you are eating is authentic and of quality, the words "Chinese-Canadian" and "buffet" and -- sorry, but it's true -- the proliferation of Caucasian customers are generally reliable tip-offs. The décor and uniforms are usually equally appalling. At Made in Japan, for example, they have faux wooden framing and matte linoleum combined to imitate rice paper doors. The employees wear red and tan outfits designed to look like strange Oriental bellhops, because obviously it is not tolerable for them to wear simple shirt and pant ensembles like other human beings with the privilege of dignity in the workplace. I am uncertain why this is such a prevalent policy, but maybe companies think that such attire would disrupt the otherwise total illusion that a noisy, sticky food court in the middle of downtown Toronto is in fact Shogun Japan. Perhaps they should be focusing on the edibles ... for instance, when my runny, nutty teriyaki sauce is squirted out of a soft squeeze-bottle onto my dry, well-done, tasteless chicken. Egh.
Today I underwent the written test to obtain a G1 Ontario driver's license, three years after I theorectically qualified when I became 16. So I take my time ...
Being a scholastic perfectionist, I was overcome with anxiety before the exam. Of course, as it turned out, it was absurdly easy and peppered with hilarious illustrative videos from the 80s. Being the government however, in order to wear my nerves down even further, they dared to give me the incorrect test and quizzed me for about twenty questions or so on the Commercial Vehicle Operator's Registration system beforehand. I confess. I don't have any heartfelt intentions to drive. I only really want the small piece of plastic that lets me into bars, the back of seedy bookstores, and other delightfully savoury locales. When I casually mentioned this to my parents, who mere moments ago were congratulating me, unleashed a barrage of reprimand, partly because they don't understand English as well as Cantonese, and partly because their knowledge of the Ontario licensing system is approximately twenty years out of date (they believed I had a year to complete my first road test, when I had closer to five). Strangely, these misunderstandings between us occur extremely often, and in the end -- speaking in the most objective sense of course -- they are usually at fault. But they also usually manage to make me feel like the big bully instead. Bah. Well, anyway. Congratulate me. The first day of my life in the fast lane (accompanied by a fully licensed driver with at least four years of experience) begins today. (Witness my triumph here. The blacked out areas are really rather unnecessary, but they give me an inflated sense of prudence and importance.)
Someone once remarked on the Blogdrive main tagboard that he found it interesting that there was a term for the hatred of women ("misogyny") and yet not a term for the hatred of men, implying a double standard.
I, in the course of composing an ode to men following the hurtful accusation that I lacked a healthy appreciation of said demographic, stumbled upon this word, supplied again by those etymologically friendly Greeks. Thus, I present to you: Source: Dictionary.com. . Tuesday, July 06, 2004I need to like coffee and alcohol. It does not seem to be a regular item on most "to do for self-improvement" lists, but the fact is, because I find neither alluring or fit for my personal consumption, my social advancement is being obstructed as a result. First, coffee.
I've noticed that a common opening line suggests getting a coffee. How do I respond without committing to an inaccuracy? Going the way of honesty results in some terrible utterance like "I'm sorry, I hate coffee, but please, like Calgon, take me away"? If I should submit, what do I do once I am in the coffeehouse? Mochas, lattes, frappucinos, javas, espressos ... Italian is the descendant of Latin, yes, but the Romans unfortunately kept to water and wine. I have had one coffee in my life. It tasted precisely what it was -- brewed beans. The gag reflex kicked in as advertised and at that moment I developed a counter-instinct towards coffee. I also have a natural aversion towards drinks that require additives. I have my tea and my milk, but apart -- a simplicity and conservatism that seems to permeate every aspect of my life. Second, alcohol. The members of my social circle, one by one, are entering that stage where alcohol has been opened to them, and experimentation and bubbling discussions about ideal mixes are abound. Smirnoff's, Everclear, Bailey's, shooters, coolers ... and I sit there, like a stone, staring ahead, holding onto my juice, Coke, water, whatever that is keeping me apart. It's difficult to ignore that distinct feeling that I have been left out, and more difficult not to flaunt moral superiority as a way of dealing with that isolation. Naturally, then, the resentment begins to run both ways, slowly thickening into a poison. Strangest of all is that I have this thought, this intellectual though not "gut" urge, to join them. That I should. That why shall I not enjoy myself, and submit to these alleged effects, melting away tension, and stiff lips? I have been told. I am a "downer." A "prude." I am "uptight." Therefore, shouldn't I in fact have the greatest need to partake? And yet while there may be a need, I have no real want. I don't want alcohol. I want conversation, laughter, all that used to come just fine without any 80 proof aid. But, now, there's something wrong with that. No, don't say "But you are a prude, Gloria"! This is my blog -- I expect to be pampered, to be indulged, to be humoured with pitying sympathy. A pat on the back and a reassuring "Naturally, naturally, m'dear" -- that's what I want. |
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture. home | contact | profile art blogging body childhood consumerism dream durr family fashion film history humour internet language lit nerd people poetry rant romance school sex social relations toronto ttc work 
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