So I’m pulling the cat out of the bag, not that it was ever really in the bag, but I’m making it public: I am officially obsessed with Paris Hilton’s new show. As Paris continues to attempt to satisfy her hunger for a new bff, she has managed to thoroughly entertain me, and dare I say it? She’s kind of starting to win me over. So, maybe that’s the real cat that is out of the bag–my new found appreciation and empathy (did I really just say empathy?) for her.

Dear God, I never thought this day would come, but as previous television shows have changed my opinion about what I thought were shallow, pathetic individuals, this one seems to be doing the very same thing. Perhaps, I’m the shallow, pathetic individual, being so easily swayed and addicted by such trash. Perhaps, but watching this gaggle of girls and a faggy Asian disaster, fight for her affection, has me hooked.

Once again I am indebted to Mtv. Thanks again for the good times, and like a generation before me, I can confidently say that I lost a whole hell of my life to music television.

Don’t mess with this lady, she’ll knock your tits off if you come to her house with no costume.

I love this rant, especially all the time that she spent devoting to how she buys the “full-sized” chocolate bars… I’ll show you a full-sized chocolate bar!

But, nothing, nothing beats the hyphenated mega word at the end:

“It is the no costume, no comments, no speaking, just- hand- me- the- free- candy- you- bought- with- your- hard- earned- money- and- I’ll- walk- away- with- no- acknowledgment that I am completely over.”

http://www.kattitudes.com/creative/2007/10/22/no-costume-no-candy/

Parade of Lost Souls

I spent tonight in the company of a three-year-old and a cacophony of bubbles and the beating of drums during the Parade of Lost Souls on Commercial Drive. The candle-lit tables and shelves scattered throughout Grandview Park caught my attention first. Perhaps it was the opportunity for the slightest of heat that drew me to the fire, or my fascination with the strange edifices that they adorned.

Parade of Lost Souls

The streets that surrounded the park were covered with decorations as unique as the costumes around me. I am amused to see faces in windows and the lifelessness of houses that have been left vacant of surprises. There is a unique fascination that we westerners seem to have in Halloween, and I wonder where its origins lie. Why we find cause only once a year to dress silly and traipse around escapes me. Often I find it merely leaves us feeling obligated to outshine others or perhaps guilty for not partaking. Needless to say, this festival is a gift to the neighbourhood and the city, bringing light and sound to an otherwise deadly still season.

A sign proclaims to honour the dead, above me, and white birds born of paper dance around our heads. It is in the delicate nature of these things that I find us to be celebrating life more than anything. And, amongst all these various forms of death, it is the vibrancy of the changing of seasons, the fire, and the musical accompaniment that shine through.

The clear skies send the chill in the pavement through the soles of my converse and up into my legs and abdomen. As I walk away I can feel the heat of the festivities on my back and hear the fireworks fading in the distance. Soon my companion and I reach 1^st Avenue, and I’m reminded of the existence of cars and pavement. We are forced to walk once again on the sidewalk and the shock of reality sets in.

I wonder sometimes, if to an outsider, it is the traffic jams and the regular routine of our work-weeks that seem peculiar. If it is in the honouring of the dead that I find such warmth, why is it still, that in what we call life, I find such a cold embrace? It seems sometimes, that all our struggles need to dissipate, is the closing of roads and a certain balance of chaos, fuelled by candles, bubbles, and fireworks.

I woke this morning to an insect buzzing in my room. I became accustomed to the wasps and flies during the summer, but I am stumped as to what could have made its way inside so late in the year. And, with all the windows sealed this last month, I am shocked to see the corner of my room clustered with ladybugs. From my vantage point on my pillow I can make out four of the little insects moving erratically around the walls and ceiling of my room.

I have friends who would have me count the spots on the things and relate them to charts and meanings in numerology texts. Some of them would have me take some deep meaning from the insect’s love of my room; a spiritual beacon perhaps?

I’m just happy to see movement, the sun still shining, and the backdrop of this city still as blue as ever.

It helps me not to miss the summer so much.

What do you get when you put two men who lack communication skills in a long-distance relationship?

You get a relationship consisting of beating around the bush and walking on eggshells.

You get a relationship as cliché as it is amazing, and as confusing as it is inspiring.

And to add to the whole situation, you get a dilemma as unique to our generation as collectable vinyl toys, skinny jeans, and global warming. Our generation is now faced, with the Facebook-breakup.

So, to start I must impart a piece of wisdom to all the users of the interweb. Do not, no matter how secure or wonderful a relationship may seem or truly be, think for two seconds that sharing this information to all of your friends on the web is a good idea.

Relationships are sacred. And, I suppose, you could say the same thing about a person’s middle name, their birth date, or their sexuality. But who ever thought about programming the relationship status into Facebook had deep, dark ulterior motivations

Breakups are horrible. As wonderful and amazing as I may feel it is to “still be friends” with an ex, what did I assume to be getting myself into when I defined me and my partner as being in a relationship in the first place? Sure, you get lost in it all; complete and total infatuation. And, it feels good to broadcast these emotions across that world. And, it was nice to rub my new-found love in the faces of those who never wanted to see me happy again. Although, what prey tell do I have my enemies as so-called friends on Facebook any way? My cyber-sins run deeper than first meets the eye, but the last laugh was definitely at my expense.

So, what do you get when you end a long-distance relationship with someone who is as deluded and naive as yourself? You get to sit down and write an email to them, explaining that the Facebook form of their that relationship, that they have been so proudly broadcasting across the web is ending as painfully as the flesh form of the same relationship did.

So, I’ve come to realize over the years as the internet has taken more precedence in our lives, that there is something beautiful in sharing ourselves across the world. The possibility to share our talents, and meet amazing people that we never would have is a gift. But, in all these beautiful freedoms there is also the possibility for sexual atrocities and corruption, false information, and this.

So thank you and fuck you Facebook. As your popularity begins to decline across the world, maybe some of us would like a way of telling all our friends and family that we are ending our relationship with you too.

Trevor Ellestad and Facebook have ended their relationship.

Only, I’m just not ready for that yet… I’m still much too smitten.

These days the world seems to be failing upon itself. There is little left financially, politically, or emotionally to keep us hoping that something better is around the corner. And, I wonder if it is merely my optimistic streak, or I’m aware of something that CNN isn’t, but I’m still hopeful. I find myself changing, learning and growing, and though the motions are small, there is indeed a movement forwards.

I’m alluding to something in the way that I lay here; I am completely still and yet I’m rattling inside. I look at all the corners of the room and I think about the way my things lean against them.

These days, we’re all conquered by the turmoil of things; by the sway of the vote and the deconstruction of the earth. I’ve come to realize that I am a disposable piece of a generation that understands little of the impact it will have in the years to come. All of us are finding ourselves at a place in time delicately balanced between chaos and complete destruction.

Yet, amongst it all, I somehow believe that we are discovering something amazing. We are rising to new heights in music and art, and we are discovering something about ourselves in our youths. We are dancing and moving like never before, and though the economy may like to slow us down, we are determined to move faster. We are determined to do more with less and I have the highest hopes that we will accomplish this goal.

So, what do we do with all this nonsense?

What do I do about the mirrors that lean against the walls and the slow rattle that they make when trucks pass on the street?

I take what this nonsense has to say and I learn something from it. I realize that there will always be movement; the slow creep from one state to another that will keep us begging the question, what do I do with these rattles and where do I go with them? And, what comes next?

When I was younger I would never tell anyone that I was having my period. I was soo embarrassed. I wouldn’t even buy my own tampons. Not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t ask my dad to buy me some if I didn’t have any, which eventually led to a horrible incident in high school that included a rugby jersey tied around my waste and my seat in science class smeared with blood. I chose to go through a day of absolute agony instead of just saying “Dad, can you buy me some tampons?”

Now it is a completely different story. I will tell anyone who is listening that I am bleeding. “This is why I am acting like a weirdo” is written on my forehead. That or, “My uterine walls are shedding,” or “I have really bad cramps.” I have a sandwich board and a bell adorned with psycho faces and pads. “Hey, everybody!! It’s my lady time!!!! I have a bloody vagina!!!!” I scream in the middle of a busy bus stop.

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I can hear the ladies at table seven talking about cookie pans. Their confident laughter and boisterous conversation is turning my stomach. A part of me wants to walk calmly to their table and graciously ask them if they are happy with their drinks and whether their meals are all they hoped for. This same part of me wants to walk briskly to their table and tip their meals into their laps; turning quickly and gracefully I will then walk out the front door.

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My hand-eye coordination has improved with the changing of the seasons; I just caught a wasp in mid-air with a tiny cup. A feat that I surely couldn’t repeat if requested to do so.

It has been days since we’ve seen the sun, and now again it has come back with clear skies to grace Vancouver with its presence. Fall has arrived and still these days are warm. Yet, the wasps don’t seem to know that soon their homes will be flooded with water. They must not fly so freely into buildings where glass will keep them from food and turn them to the dried remnants of what they once were. These remnants of bodies will fill our dust-pans as we clear out the last bits of summer. Brooms grasped in our sun-kissed hands, our skin’s color fading slowly.

Welcome to October.