The Venezuelan Veterinarian Story

So I'm having a coffee and a bagel at Cafe Beano when an extremely good looking Venezuelan veterinarian sets a book down on the table next to mine. "Can chou watch this for a minute?" he says in this extremely sexy accent. I say of course. He comes back in a moment, having put another loonie in the meter. We start to chat. This is not abnormal, after all, this is the bohemian local-owned coffee shop Cafe Beano. It's normal that people strike up conversations with strangers here. It's not Starbucks where no one talks to each other cause they're too busy reading the Financial Post.

For a few minutes I think he's flirting with me. And then he mentions his girlfriend and I think, okay, he's not flirting with me. That's fine too. And so I ask what his girlfriend does. He says, "She is a web designer, but she wants to do her Master's in Human Sexuality." Ah. I say. Well, good for her, I'm all for going back to school and being a mature student. "Chess," he says, "she is very OPEN that way..." Ah ha. Now I'm not one to jump to conclusions, and I certainly didn't want to think that this nice young animal doctor might be suggesting anything, oh I don't know, provocative, at 2 pm in the afternoon at Cafe Beano, but it's making me a little suspicious.

Later he says, "I don't start at the Animal Hospital for another two hours... I WONDER what I will do until then...?" Yes. Well. It's a beautiful day for an afternoon off. I'm sure you'll think of something. "Do chou... live around here...?" he asks. Well yes I do. It's a great neighbourhood. You can walk everywhere. He seems slightly confused, as do I, I'm sure. Well, nice talking to you, I say. He says, "Chess... shall we... speak again?" I tell him I am a regular at the coffee shop so sure, maybe I'll see him around some time. "Should we really just...leave it to chance like that?"

Now let me get this straight, I'm thinking, in my head. You, sir, you're not REALLY expecting that after two minutes of pleasant chat and "I'm a veterinarian in an emergency animal hospital" in a cute Spanish accent, that I will a) invite you, a complete stranger, into my home for an afternoon tryst or b) come back with you to your townhouse and engage in a threesome with you and your very Open Human Sexuality girlfriend? Are you? Are you really expecting that will work? Does it? Regularly? Like give me an average out of ten. How many times out of ten do you hit paydirt with this one?

But I don't say this. I just say, who knows, maybe I'll see you around. Have a nice day. And I put on my hat and walk out into the lovely spring afternoon.

- Falcon.

The Arrrt of the Nude

My life, chaotic circus that it is, it's unbelievable what I get myself into.

This weekend I will be in Vancouver for an audition, and am staying at a friend's place. So last night I am talking to my friend about the weekend itinerary, and he mentions that he is shooting some kind of arty nude thing on the weekend for a friend of his. I guess this guy is taking inspiration from famous paintings and "bringing them to life." Pygmalion, Modigliani, that sort of thing. (my suggestion would be Manet - who doesn't like a Dejeuner Sur L'Herbe anyway?) This professional actor/amateur filmmaker has managed to get all his friends - a Wreck Beach-Basketful of well known local actors - to be part of this thing for free. My host was trying to get out of shooting this weekend, since, he explained, he had a friend coming into town (me). The filmmaker's response was, well, why don't you bring her along... You know, as in, he could "write" a part for me. So my friend was feeling me out on this question, as it were.

Now, maybe I laughed a little bit TOO much and too loud at this suggestion. It's not that I'm opposed to nudity on film, in principle, but I think I'd need better lighting and better make-up than this guy has at his disposal in his living room or wherever he's shooting this thing. I do have a certain amount of vanity, I admit it, and fear looking like the ugly stepsister/somebody's mom next to all these young nubiles. I don't necessarily want to be Vancouver's answer to Desperate Housewives. Anyway, I think I said I'd do it if I could have a pseudonym (and a shot of tequila). I think I would have said a mask too, except that my face is the one part I don't mind having exposed...

After having had some time to think about it, I'm sure I'll be disappointed if I don't do it. After all, it would definitely fit into the "never done that before" and "scares me a little" categories, which usually means it's something worth doing. Ultimately, no animals will be injured during the making of this movie, so why the hell not. I don't live there. Who's going to know or care who I am? It will remind me of my old Montreal days, when my roommate Tracey (wannabe lesbian) used to make soft core girl on girl vidoes with the upstairs neighbour Miroslav. I have a feeling this will be much tamer, much artier, more pretentious, although probably with similar production values.

And it's not like it'll be available on the internet... only on big screens at independent film festivals across North America...

Any opinions out there?

- Falcon.

How Dangerous IS Aspartame?

So I'm at Safeway the other day, and in the aisle they're shilling CDs for The Canadian Will kit. That's right, it's your do-it-yourself legacy. There are like 50 of them stacked there - in the soda pop aisle. You know, like, "What do I need? Hmmm... Pepsi...Pepsi...Diet Pepsi...Death. Okay, now I'm ready to hit the check out."

- Falcon

Blonde Justice

Welcome to one of my biggest blonde moment to date:

Tuesday. I walk home from work downtown. I have to go to the library, so I go out back of my building to get my car. And...

Oh NOOO!! It's not there!!! I panic. Where the hell's my car??!!

I think and think and think. And then I remember - I parked it downtown.

THREE DAYS AGO.

Yes, friends, I parked my car on 10th Avenue downtown, Sunday morning. I was on my way to work at the museum after brunch with Misha. Normally I would park at home and walk. But because Misha was heading downtown as well, I just parked close in. I said, "Misha! Don't let me forget I drove today!" He almost called me at 5 that afternoon to remind me about it, but he thought , "Naah, she'll remember."

And now here it is, Tuesday at 5 pm. I call the impound lot but they haven't seen it. But first, before I find this out, I have to go through this humiliation: "Ma'am, do you know your license plate number?" "Um, I think I do --- just tell me, do the letters or the numbers come first?"

So I go downtown, I pass by Misha's place of business and take him along with me. After all, he was there when I parked it, he might as well be there when I picked it up. And sure enough, there was El Toro, the only car on 10th Ave., with a sign that warned of towing at midnight on Tuesday.

On the windshield was a $20 ticket. That's it. You can't park legitimately for that kind of deal. And as if that wasn't amazing enough -

The back door was unlocked.

My car sat, unlocked, in a shadyish neck of the urban woods, for THREE DAYS, and all I got was a $20 ticket.

I am the luckiest, if dumbest, bastard around.

Feel free to share your own blonde memories...

- Falcon

Philosophical Dilemma

Let's imagine a situation.

You're out on the street, here in Calgary, in winter. And you're naked. It's cold. Really cold. And a man walks by and offers you a really really nice parka. Waterproof, windproof, fur-lined, even. It's the nicest warmest thing you've ever seen.

But you can only wear it for 20 hours.

Do you take it?

After all, it's 20 hours that you didn't have before where you feel warm, and cared for, and safe. How can you say no? Isn't that just pride?

But when the 20 hours is up, how much harder is it to give the coat back? Surely, in an ideal Taoist world, you would be simply happy to have had those 20 hours at all, and wholly grateful to the man who gave them to you.

But how much crueler is the bite of the wind when you're back out there naked again... How can you not, at least for a moment, feel a stab of bitterness, longing for that warmth again? It's wrong, of course, because you still have more than you had before. And it's ungenerous to want more from a gift than is offered.

But it's cold out there, friends. And if I am sad, it will pass. I am grateful. I'm just getting used to the cold.

- Falcon

Cruelest Test Ever

So I do one of these internet quizzes, something about discovering what kind of person you're attracted to and why. And of course it all starts in your childhood.

And they ask all these leading questions, like, how close were you to your extended family (not at all), how affectionate were your parents (not much), did they spend a lot of time with you growing up (not at all), how involved were they in major decisions in your life (not at all)... and just as I'm realizing how big a vacuum it really was I grew up in, they hit you with the relationship questions, so by the end of all that I'm in tears waiting to find out what they'll tell me about my life and... the last page is missing. Yup. The one where they calculate your score and give you the results. I guess I'll never know what the deep motivating impulses of my life are.

Well, as if I can't figure that out on my own. Just having someone ask the questions makes it all pretty depressingly obvious. But unfortunately, even if you know that the reason why you pick unsuitable partners is because you don't really believe you deserve to be loved in the first place, how does that help one overcome such feelings? It doesn't, really.

In Merchant of Venice, Antonio says, "In truth, I know not why I am so sad." In truth, I do know. But it doesn't make it any better, Antonio. Truly, it doesn't.

- Falcon

EFFable

EFFable.
Meaning "easily explained," and also, "fuckable."
A play on gods, devils, and sex.

I can't believe it's already the end of March. What happened? Where have I been?

March has been an incredibly revolutionary month. Like all of last summer, it's been full of highs and lows.

I did my show EFFable at Random Acts. It was meant to be a one-off exercise. One night only! Never to be Repeated! Instead it has all spiralled wildly out of control, in the best possible way. I may now spend up to a year or more working on just this piece alone, performing it at the Solocentric festival in May, and perhaps a broader life beyond that...

Several things happened that I had not expected:

1. I made my writing partner mad at me (mostly because I let him know at the last minute that he was my writing partner...but honestly, I didn't know much earlier than he did.) At any rate, now that the show is developing a further life, I now have a Writing Partner: a Collaborator, which I have never had before.

2. The show was part of an ongoing Scandale that is Random Acts. Artists are invited to submit, and told that there will be a $2500 Emerging Artist prize for one artist and one artist only. After the fact, most of the artists are informed that they were never eligible to win the $2500 in the first place, because they were already considered to have "emerged."

The definition of "Emerging Artist" is hotly debated every year. It was decided this year that it applied to anyone who had ever worked in a professional capacity. A friend of mine had been up for the prize but was disqualified as being "too professional" despite the fact that he was not a member of the Actors' Association - Equity - and had never written a play before. There was the misconception that because he had been hired as a professional actor in the past - years ago - that he must be a member of Equity. He has never made his living professionally entirely as an actor nor a writer.

Another friend was also considered for the prize, rightly so, as she was clearly the audience favourite and had worked her ass off on this project, something very close to her heart. But she was similarly disqualified, despite the fact that a $2500 award would have meant allowing her the time to finish this very marketable and timely, brilliant work of art, and would have prevented her from having to take a full time job at the phone company just to make ends meet. She also has a family that demand part of her attention, and commitments like regular people.

For anyone who is not an artist, a full time job at a phone company really does preclude one from having the time to write properly. There is somehow a misconception that brilliant art is something one can accomplish anytime, between making rounds of toast, while on the toilet, or in five minutes before bedtime. It just isn't so. No one would ask a brain surgeon or a lawyer to do his little brain surgery/legal hobby after working 40 hours a week at a mind-numbing job at the phone company and expect them to do their best.

At any rate, on the jury, passions run high, and judges are frustrated and suffering in their decisions. One jury member had gone out of his way to fight for my piece, which I could have told him was a fruitless exercise. Last year, despite never having written and performed a solo show before, I was already considered to have "emerged" and so I had no hope of unemerging this year. Nontheless, I now have a "mentor," which I have never had before.

3. A man in the audience, a Buddhist Actuary as it turns out, is sitting at a table during my show. His companion knocks over a beer bottle giving me an opportunity to rib the audience a bit. The next day I receive a phone call from a friend of mine who had been working the event. Buddhist Actuary had approached her, raving about how much he loved my show, and did she know me, and etc. etc. The next day there is a message for me at the box office: "I didn't spill the beer. I loved your show, and thought you were cute," with a name and number attached. This has also never happened to me before. If ever I thought someone would fall in love with me during a show, I never would have thought it would be for playing myself. Part of the joy of being an actor is being spared the agony of being yourself for a few hours. Or at least being a better, much improved version of yourself that is confident and knows exactly what to say and exactly what they want. At any rate, this is a new unexpected experience for me too.

4. Ah, and one more development comes out of the whole play experience, that is truly ineffable, and so I will not attempt to put it into words here. Some things will remain secret, even here where I divulge all secrets. (but if you come closer, I may whisper it in your ear) At any rate, it is also something that has never happened to me before. Actually, it involves several things that have never happened to me before. Entirely eventful. Mind-waking, eye-opening, profound.

The pattern of my life emerges, and as ineffable as it is, it is nonetheless...visible, in a sense.

I may finally be able to move.

More about Calgary and our impending amicable separation later.

- Falcon
ps I did a test where you find out what kind of dog you are. I am in fact not a Maltese, it turns out, but a Dalmation. Which is much to my relief. I don't much care for Malteses, although Maltezers have always been a favourite.

Sense Memory #2: Everybody Wants to be a Cat

A Startling Revelation:

It all comes rushing in on me Suddenly I see where it all comes from - the love of jazz, passion, slumming in the bohemian lifestyle of a delapidated garret in 19th century Paris, the love of adventure and romance and bad boys, tragic love stories, and the fear of loneliness and abandonment... It all comes from watching the Aristocats. Yup. In two seconds of turning on the tv and seeing Duchess and that Tomcat jazzing it up in that rooftop gin-joint, I am suddenly a kid again, listening to that soundtrack over and over again on my little 45 player.

Sigh.

Sense Memory #1: Interstate Love Song

This song feels like speeding down the freeway on a baking hot day with the top down, wind streaming through my hair.

This didn't happen. This is what did:

A freezing cold motel room in Meaford, Ontario. It's February, and the icy air slices the dark room. The little Russian man who runs the place brings up the space heater while we're at the Opera House preparing for the gig.

When the show is mercifully over, I crawl back to the room while the others go out to the bar. "Are you sure? I don't feel right about leaving you alone here." Please, I tell them GO. What I don't say is that I'll like them much better if they just leave me alone for a few hours.

I am sick with a blinding migraine, and sick to death of my companions. There are five of us sleeping in this room tonight. All too soon, the others come falling through the door, bringing the daggar cold in with them. The crew is here too. I guess the gang wants to party in this room tonight. Someone discovers my very expensive bottle of scotch on the dresser. The one that I bought to make me want to live, just a little, or at least to knock me out and pretend I'm dead. "Hey, check it out! Booze!" They start slugging it back like the shitty 151 they usually drink.

I am under the covers, but I am also floating outside the room, somewhere far far away, somewhere locked inside the blood vessel in my temple that is as clamped and tight as my nerves, where the pain pulses like a star in another galaxy.

Time has slowed down. It's like the reverse of the shriner clown car: people start pouring INTO the room at an impossible rate. Within 15 seconds, little Tyler has thrown himself onto my bed and whipped out his guitar and is singing, at the top of his lungs: Interstate Love Song.

Heart of Light

Ahhh... I can try to be bitter, but it ultimately doesn't sit well with me. Something always gives way and I feel light again.

Nonetheless, Calgary feels lonely to me today. Restlessness sets in and I think about moving again. Not that you can escape loneliness by changing cities. You bring it with you, no matter what else you leave behind. But at least in a new city, without friends, one can justify feeling lonely. At least it makes sense.

- Falcon

Seditious Sedation

I was listening absently to the radio when an ad came on extolling the virtues of Sedation Dentistry. I actually considered it dreamily for a moment. Not that I need any dental work done, but the idea of spending a few hours reclining in a big comfy chair under sedation was intensely appealing. Ah... sweet sweet sedation...

- Falcon

The Hidden Cameras

If you want to see one of the best live party pop-punk-queer-hippie-freak-bands to come out of that slag-heap hell-hole of human misery, Mississauga, GO SEE THE HIDDEN CAMERAS - upcoming tour schedule attached!. Like the Flaming Lips? Frank Zappa? Beck? Scissor Sisters? Kazoos? Slide whistles? The cello? Violins and church organs? Hard rocking guitar riffs? Live animation? You will love these guys.

Last night they played a packed house (tickets sold out weeks ago) at the High Performance Rodeo. A bunch of us only got in because we agreed to form a choir and sing background on all the songs and throw streamers. PS If you have a chance to do this, DO. There's no better way to see a band than to be IN the band...

Check out www.thehiddencameras.com for more.

Stay hip, stay dry,

- Falcon


Upcoming Shows - 2005

Jan 30
Edmonton, AB
The Power Plant, U of Alberta

Feb 2
Victoria, BC
Central Bar & Grill, w/ The Blow

Feb 3
Vancouver, BC
Richards on Richards, w/ The Blow

Feb 4
Seattle, WA
Chop Suey, w/ The Blow

Feb 5
Portland, OR
Holocene, w/ The Blow, Crime in Choir

Feb 7
Oakland, CA
LoBot

Feb 8
San Francisco, CA
Bottom of the Hill, w/ hey willpower

Feb 11
Los Angeles, CA
Echo, w/ hey willpower

Feb 12
San Diego, CA
Casbah

Feb 17
Chicago, IL
Subterranean, w/ The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir

International Avenue Part II

A comment from my friend Turtle bears repeating:

"Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I wondered if anyone was EVER going to notice the absurdity of the name change.  The name change has changed nothing.  Forest Lawn will be Forest Lawn as long as track pants are available for purchase (or theft) and the price of dope is less than the price of cigarettes.  Did anyone really think that the skids would be so deterred by the pure sophistication of a street named "International Avenue" that they would pick up and move?  Where would they move to?  There is no place in the city that welcomes a skid with open arms the way Forest Lawn does.  Bowness comes close, but there are actually properties that are worth something in Bowness.  No that would be too great a culture shock for a "Lawner."


Thank you, Falcon.  I feel better knowing I'm not the only one watching meaningless "improvements" being implemented for the betterment of all."

Thank you, Turtle, for your succinct and heartfelt analyses, and for giving a human voice to the "Lawner."

- Falcon

A Comment from the Pot

Well, I suppose I should have held my tongue a few moments longer on the subject of screenwriters. The Universe marked my haughty disdain and I am now in danger of becoming one.

It seems all my days lounging in coffee shops may actually pay off. I wound up at the same table in a Second Cup with a fellow who, by the time we could see the bottom of our dark roasts, was hinting at hiring me as a script consultant for his Musical Comedy Bollywood Crossover Flick he's producing. And he really does produce movies. I checked it out.

Don't you think that might be fun? Can you think of anyone more PERFECT to be script consultant on a Musical Comedy Bollywood Crossover Flick than me? Don't you think my whole life in its meandering oblique way has been leading to a gig exactly like this? It seems that my whole life is about collecting interesting stories, and subsequently, interesting stories seem to find me, even if I'm hiding behind the newspaper at the Second Cup.

N

Just a few words on words...

For the desperately curious only, this is what my fridge now says:

1. Loathesome mischance
Vouchsafe my discontent
Sanctify melancholy

2. Then do it and wickedly
So much more is in here
Quench thy vulgar measure
That oft did seek
Grace and idle envy

3. Perilous death
Never deceive me

4. Alas if lover ever hadst this lazy torment

5. Methinks she has a too wanton breast

6. Villain
Who wilt slander love with foul mercy
Ne'er tempt my maiden bosom
Farewell fortune and forswear dream
His lordship hast some drunken ghost...

Is everybody's fridge this depressing?
Or is it just Shakespeare's?

If anyone has any cheerier fridge poetry to share, please feel free to post them as comments here. Please.

PS As a sidenote to Shakespeare: I saw a preview for The Merchant of Venice the other day, and as you all know, my future husband Joe Fiennes plays Bassanio in it. I have to say I don't really dig the long hair on him. They have poor Joe tressed up like a greasy Jennifer Aniston. It's... unbecoming. Oh shear thy lank and limping locks, Joe! Let thy neck be once more naked as the noonday sun!

Words, words, words

I am sick of words.

But I can't seem to escape them. I spend my days writing, reading, and writing some more. Even when I am trying to relax, what do I do? Read a book. Or the paper. Do a crossword. Allllll words. Even this morning, I couldn't leave the house for an hour because I was transfixed, standing in the kitchen fully dressed to leave wearing hat, parka, boots, gloves in hand, re-arranging the Shakespearean Magnetic Poetry on my fridge. I couldn't tear myself away until I'd put a certain amount of words in a satisfying order. There's something creepily OCD about it. I couldn't believe an hour had gone. As if that isn't enough, let's say I'm walking somewhere to try to get away from thinking and from words - I wind up having conversations with people - IN MY HEAD. I'm sure there must be some people who think I'm nuts. A character from a show I'm writing will start talking spontaneously and either I'll answer them or I'll speak out loud for them. A little disturbing. And let's say I'm actually someplace with somebody - I'll drift off for patches of time that I'm sure are misunderstood as "comfortable silences." In fact I am having full blown conversations with them - ONLY THEY DON'T KNOW IT. Because they are answering me IN MY HEAD. Sometimes I have difficulty finding the right words to say because I have too many other conversations swimming around my head. I have to pick the words one by one out of noisy push of verbiage surging across my brain like a fisherman spearing mackeral in a rushing stream. I like typing better than writing longhand because typing is the only thing that comes close to the speed of my thoughts. They gush like overflowing bathwater down a staircase. I have to find a way to turn off the taps once in a while.

Even when I'm not reading or writing or listening to the tv or the radio (which are all tightly packed with words) I might be doing something like designing a poster. Fewer words, more pictures, but still a visual way of communicating.

I am beginning to think that I have trouble communicating on the phone or in person because I can't SEE the words. I should tie a cool cloth around my eyes for a couple of days and see if I can turn off the visual communication for a few days. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted from it.

And with that little gush I'll close this vein for the day. Better luck to you all.

- Falcon.

Charming Devils

May I present you with my top ten list of Sexy Devils (in no particular order):

1. Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar. We all know that it's the better part. If Lloyd Webber hadn't written "Gethsemane," the Jesus role would be a complete bust.

2. Lord Asriel in Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series. Not only is he a passionate, emotionally unavailable character with the haughtiest disposition since Mr. D'Arcy swallowed his Pride and Prejudice, but the book recasts the Original Rebel Angel as the GOOD GUY! That's right. God isn't dead in this book, but he's in a hell of a decaying stupor, and Asriel is there to try to unite all the Universes in a bid to free all souls from the tyranny of Death. How do you not dig that?

3. Lucy - short for Lucifer - in Timothy Findley's Not Wanted on the Voyage. It's hard not to root for this contemplative cross-dressing character. He's sensitive and tender, completely opposite God's cruel messenger Noah.

4. The Devil in ANY Tom Waits album is always a slick character. And he's in all of them. He's always one step ahead, even if he sometimes has to hop on one foot. Speaking of which, anyone who has never seen The Black Rider when it was in their home town should be rounded up and flogged. But more importantly, if a gimpy cloven-hooved guy minced up to your door with a crooked smile and a red rose, you'd fall over yourself letting him in the hizzy to sing a song or two. You know you would.

5. And when the Devil went down to Georgia he played a mean fiddle. Now what's sexier than a pagan Paganini?

6. Sting in Brimstone and Treacle. I know a guy whose dad is a Unitarian minister and makes his family watch this film every Christmas. Now THAT'S the power of sex appeal, my friends.

7. Tim Curry in that weird Tom Cruise Unicorn Movie. Even with terrifyingly massive horns and hind limbs you have to feel sorry for the lonely goat. AND as IF you wouldn't let him dress you up like an extra from Bauhaus' Bela Legosi's Dead video and let him take your virginity. Heck, I was already dressed like that in the 80's anyway, and if that thing had stormed up to the doors of Clarkson Secondary School 100 feet tall and burnin' for my soul, (which is way cooler than riding a pony to school even) I would have left my lunch right there under the stairs in the emergency exit and been glad for the chance to skip town. Hey, I just would have been glad someone WANTED my viriginity. And hey, I was living in Missisauga - how bad could hell be? Frankly I would be moving to a better neighbourhood. I digress...

8. David Bowie as the Goblin King in Labyrinth. TAKE my baby sister, PLEASE! Just let me stay with you in your hot crazy cave hovel and listen to you rock out with those Dark Crystal muppets.

9. The Fallen Angel of Milton's Paradise Lost. He can find Paradise any time he wants by my Dashboard Light. (Hee hee. Paradise Lost by the Dashboard Light - starring Milton in the Meatloaf role...)

10. Robert deNiro and/or Mickey Roarke in that Oedipal murder mystery Angel Heart. Okay, the fingernails are kinda creepy but the devil always wears a goatee, and neatly trimmed facial hair is SEXY, my friends! As for Mickey Roarke's peak performance, it's that greasy I-haven't-slept-in-weeks-and-I'm-covered-in-chicken-blood/DRRTY thang that just makes me want to roll him up and smoke him like a Cuban cigar. Okay that really WAS too much information. But I'm not taking it back.

Bonus: The Phantom of the Opera. Not technically the devil, but an emotionally sensitive murderous sociopath, which is close enough. And he's got a cape and a cool mask. (this should be a whole sub-genre: black cape/mask wearing rebels, which would naturally include Zorro and Darth Vadar. And probably August Strindberg.)

- Falcon

Headlines not so Heady...

Recently observed headline:

"Auschwitz Film Sad and Shocking..."

NO! Really? That's a grabber. I think I could have figured that out without the header. It's not like I would be expecting, "Auschwitz Film Buckets of Fun!" Now I know that it's hard to come up with something clever every single time - I'm a writer after all. However, sometimes our efforts are really underwhelming. Try harder next time guys.

- Falcon

The Schmooze Shall Inherit the Earth

Forget about the meek getting it in the will. The meek will be as fucked as they ever were when God's Executor sits down at the table. It's the guy who showed up at the cocktail party and said, "Hey God I really admire what you've done around here - wow, only seven days, eh? That's fantastic. I really think you've captured a nice balance of good and evil. And those antelope? Awesome idea dude. Just gorgeous creatures. Hey any time you want to get together and work on something give me a call. Here's my card." It's THAT guy who will inherit the earth. The capital "S" Schmoozer.

But let's give the devil his due. These double tongued snake charmers have a 7th sense that goes beyond ESP. It's like how snakes can smell everything they need to know about their environment with their tongue. These characters (men and women alike) can sum up instantly what their target needs to feel special. They feed you the right ego-junk - and before you know it, bitch, you're smacked up on your own inflated vanity - and you're HOOKED! And believe me, the easiest egos to pump up are the ones that are already completely deflated.

So get thee behind me Satan! Or maybe let me get behind thee and I'll squeeze in the door after you while the bouncer's distracted.

- Falcon

Stay Level

I asked someone I don't know for help with something. He wrote me back and expressed admiration for my writing, and my looks. Double whammy. Flirting with my intellectual and physical vanity all in one sentence. I'm completely disarmed. I'm all "oh look what a pretty wooden horse let's bring it in and have a beer."

It's funny - as women we would like to think that we are above the trickery of shameless flattery, but it turns out shameless flattery works every time. As much as people can control you with their brittleness, creating doubt within yourself, well, you know what they say about the flies and the honey and the vinegar.

The question is will I really continue to give over my personal power to ANYONE who tells me I'm cool - how do I stay level? How do I believe in my own coolness without relying on lip-service validation by anyone that I think is cooler than me - and that would apply to the majority of people I deal with. I think the guy living under the bridge downtown is cooler than me because he's not all "hung up on materialism." What chance do I have against the creative and productive folk that surround me?

I should be more like my friend Bovine. In this case, it's not just a nickname, it's a state of being that describes him perfectly - as placid and grounded as a two tonne steer. I admire that.Perhaps I should cultivate the Spirit of the Bovine within myself. Placid, unshakeable, gentle yet massively strong. Oh to look on the world with the big brown gentle eyes of Buddhist detachment inherent in the dairy set. Maybe I should start small - maybe I should be more Ovine first.

Til then, I commend myself to your sensible hands and hearts. Yours always, pathetically and loathesomely,

- Falcon