Mthr Fckng NEW YEAR

My first conscious memory of the year 2012 was waking up in a bleary state of mild disorientation in order to phone my restaurant for an on call brunch shift.

 "I think I'm still drunk!" I unabashedly declared to my manager over the phone.

 "It's a good thing we don't need you anyway."

 The next seven hours were a tortuous circuit between my bed, where I half-watched back episodes of reality cooking shows on the internet, and my bathroom, where I clutched the toilet tank in white-knuckled agony as I heaved water and bits of bile into the bowl.

 In a spot of luck I had thoroughly cleaned the bathroom the week before.

 However, this does not mitigate the fact that this is, by far, the absolute worst way to start a new year. Especially one that I hope will be a vast improvement over the one before. It's so typical; being a pukey, hungover mess on New Years Day. And in those moments between heaves, the toilet bowl still clutched between my thighs, I stared out my unwashed window at the adjacent rooftops and the immovable grey sky and I made a resolution: FUCK THIS!

 Fuck the regrets. Fuck the things left undone. Fuck the fear.

 I am a wonderfully talented procrastinator, I have trolled the internet for new, brain-nullifying ways to waste time (see: foodporndaily.com or peopleofwalmart.com or epicmealtime.com for example). And though this has made me fluent in the language of viral videos and funny or die skits, it has stymied my creativity.

 So again I say "FUCK THIS!"

 This year will be about DOING, not thinking about doing but DOING in the active, take-charge, kick-ass kind of way. And ok, it's the 4th already, but being a few days late is no reason to not attend the party, it starts today, it starts now, REBECCA IS GOING TO BE DOING THINGS!

 Such as? you may be asking. Such as, I reply, the gym, outdoor festivals, people's birthdays, the park, for a walk in the blinding snow, the things that make me feel ALIVE.

 And it starts now.

 The ipod is sort of charged and my gym membership won't renew itself.

 Here I go.

My Christmas Wish

It's that time of year when everything on TV, the radio, especially the advertisements that blanket every surface within sight, are all about Christmas. And family.

This year Christmas is hard. It's the first one I'll have without my father. My father is not dead. But we don't speak, we haven't spoken in almost a year. I know this isn't uncommon, it's actually frighteningly common, but it's uncommon to me.

My father was my world when I was a little girl. He was a superhero. Before arthritis made running too painful he would don these electric blue spandex running pants every morning. He never jogged, my dad RAN. He wore a black fisherman's hat, with a peaked brim and I thought it was the coolest hat in the world. My father is also the greatest story-teller I've ever met. At bedtime he would tell me stories about his boyhood in Port Angeles, catching fish of mammoth proportion and running down backwood trails to escape marauding cougars (okay, well he never SAW the cougar but he claims that he heard it growling from the undergrowth), or he told me stories of teenage shenannigans he partook in during his salad days at the all-boys Catholic boarding school he attended. A friend once told me that my father could read the phone book and have everyone who listened hanging on his every word.

My father was the kind of guy who, if he was a stranger, you would meet and you would immediately take a liking to him. His purity of heart shone through every part of him.

Outwardly he was the image of respectability; steely grey hair, a moderate paunch that betrayed his love of good wine and good cheese (oh, and OYSTERS!), a slightly florid but kindly face and a movie star smile.

It's true that at times he drank excessively, his moves on the dance-floor can charitably be called "enthusiastic" and his love of the written word never translated into any finesse with interpersonal communication but my father....

He is the best man I have ever known.

A conspiracy of circumstances has made it impossible for us to speak but there is not a day that goes by when I don't ache to be swallowed up in his arms.

My father also gave the world's best bear hugs.

Maybe it's the season, the xMas cheer, the incessant carols, or the sentimental Tim Horton's ads that dominate every bus shelter, but I feel his absence so strongly.

Maybe I'm hoping for one of those hackneyed Christmas miracles. The kind where long lost family is reunited in a beautiful street side scene with plump snowflakes, dewey-skinned female protagonists and a script that gives the characters all the right lines to say.

It won't happen. This I know.

But every day from now until the 25th, I can imagine, I can believe, that I might get a Christmas miracle of my own.




Love you Dad.

Busboy, Bastard, Server, Slut

Helllloooooo!!!

It's been way too long since I've updated this puppy. I blame the merciless, relentless, heart-breaking, ball-breaking, tear-inducing, drowning-in-my-own-sweat patio season endured by all service industry folk in this smoggy, humid crucible otherwise known as downtown Toronto. It was a bitch.

Long hours were made longer by hangovers, lack of food, "creative" input from the corporate overlords and, of course, the single greatest problem with the restaurant business - the fucking GUESTS!!!

Ok, I've been in this business for around a decade and I've served every type of guest that crawls under the cruel sun. I've served Johns taking their Russian-emigre "lady friends" out for dinner before getting down to business (she usually spends the whole time texting delicately with her acrylic nails while he fidgets and nervously downs three beers before the entrees arrive). I've served sad old British couples who want to talk my ear off about visiting the _____ Museum but whenever I'm away from the table they don't speak to each other, rather, they stare silently into space.

Don't get me wrong, there are AMAZING guests out there who have touched my heart. Only weeks after same sex marriage became legal I served a quiet wedding dinner for a gay couple who had been together for decades and were finally able to make it official in the government's eyes. In some strange twist of fate that same night I was also serving a bachelorette party. The bride to be was a vacuous bottle-blond with an "I do hot room yoga" body and a bitchy expression permanently botox-ed to her face.

Any long-term service industry person will admit that we love and hate our guests by turn. They can make our night, pay our bills, make us laugh and remind us why we do this job and do it well, because the gracious members of society appreciate it.

But - oh LORD! - how they test us with their ridiculous questions and needs (NEEDS! NEEDS! ALWAYS you NEED something from us!!!!). Yes, it is our job to answer your stupid questions without making you feel stupid yourself. But we do reserve the right to laugh behind your back when you are gone.

Late in the summer I did an informal survey of my work colleagues and compiled a list which I call:

THE DUMBEST QUESTION YOU CAN EVER ASK A SERVER

These are some classic dumb-ass questions, yes, they're often used as indelicate entry points into more involved conversations but these questions remain, undoubtedly, ridiculous.

"Do you guys serve food?"

My imaginary answer: "No, that food you see the table next to you eating, that's prop food. In fact this whole 'restaurant' is an elaborate movie set. Wait...you're not an extra?"

"What's in a gin and tonic?"

My imaginary answer: "Tequila and orange juice."

"Do you have bathrooms?"

My imaginary answer: "No, we just pop-a-squat next to the patio and let 'er rip. But if you have a loose movement would you mind kicking some dirt over it so the flies don't get at it?"

"What is your coldest beer?"

My imaginary answer: "Well, since you asked, and clearly being an individual with refined tastes, we'll crack open the cryo-freezer in the back and you can have one of our speciality, 'absolute zero' Heinekens."

"Is that a real burger? Like a MEAT burger?"

My imaginary answer: "No, this restaurant is actually part of the militant wing of Greenpeace. Our mission is to foist non-meat burgers to an unsuspecting public as the newest vigilante tactic in our ongoing battle for world dominati- I mean, veganism!"

In a similar vein...

"That New York steak on the menu, is that a BEEF steak?"

My imaginary answer: "No, it's ostrich. Duh!"

And then there are the delightful conversations that we service slaves get to have with the more obtuse members of society. Conversations where stupidity persists beyond the initial idiotic question and we are forced to respond with barely restrained condescension.

The following is a conversation I personally witness between a bartender at my work and an elderly Chinese woman. It was a ridiculously busy night and patience was scarce. Bear in mind we are a SIT DOWN, serve-you-at-the-table restaurant, not a corner store.

Woman: "I want an iced coffee in a can or bottle."

Bartender: "We don't sell those. We're a restaurant."

Woman: "I want coffee to go."

Bartender: "We don't have to go cups."

Woman: *points at another guest's drink* "What's that?"

Bartender: "Pineapple juice."

Woman: "What other juices do you have?"

Bartender: "I can do either apple or pineapple juice to go." (These juices come in individual bottles.)

Woman: "I'll have two apple juices and two coffees to go."

Bartender: "We don't have to go cups."

Woman: "Are you a manager?"

Bartender: "No."

Woman: "I want to talk to a manager!"

Most industry staff accept the give and take, love and hate nature of the business and in the long run allow themselves to be comforted by vast amounts of booze and the fact that most of our income is tax free (that's right!) but every once in a while a guest takes it too far and actually insults one of us, by proxy, all of us, with their ignorance.

My restaurant has two menus; a black jacketed food menu and a brown jacketed drink list. Several months ago a coworker was serving a party of 10 in our dining room. They had arrived in good spirits, all wearing sailor hats for some mysterious reason, and proceeded to eat and drink their fill. Unfortunately some drank significantly more than their fill. What had started off as an amicable server-guest relationship turned sour when my coworker attempted to cut off some of the drunker members of the party.

That's when shit got real.

Apparently when the party had sat down the server had told them that food was listed in the black menu and drinks were listed in the brown menu. No harm, no foul, simply providing information. But when she later decided to stop serving certain people alcohol (which is her legal obligation, not just her legal right) a WHITE female in the party told her she "didn't appreciate the racist service."

Yes, RACIST service.

"She called it the 'black' menu and the 'brown' menu. Some of the people in this party were really offended. Some of the people in this party are LAWYERS!" Blah, blah, blah.

I think all servers and bartenders have at one time or another been called incompetent, and maybe even deserved it, but this woman's vicious, drunken tirade showed true ugliness.

Of course this is a rare exception. Generally the abuse and idiocy levelled at service industry workers slides right off, some of us even enjoy it. And generally we're pretty happy people; we eat well, we drink well, we live it up, we have sexy (slutty) coworkers and we're usually sleeping in our warm beds while 9-to-5ers are commuting to their grey-walled cubicle hell holes. So sure, we'll help you kill some brain cells with liquor after work and take your abuse. But just know that when you see your server laughing with the bartender as she picks up your drinks, there's a decent chance she's laughing at the fact that you just ordered a drambuie "neat."

Terminal Hospitality

I've been feeling a little guilty of late that I've let my once beloved blog lie fallow for an entire month. That's an entire month of lying in bed watching on demand episodes of Dateline while eating pasta out of a cast-iron pot while my ass fat incrementally expands into ever larger pools around my inanimate body.

Well, not quite.

There was the April exam-bonanza-period and then, once school was all wrapped up, I felt the need to do nothing for a little bit. In part because I'm extremely poor but I also think we underestimate what goes on in our subconscious when we are apparently doing nothing. Sometimes it's healthy to let the dust settle a little bit and appraise the field of battle. Then, once the horses have been watered and the soldiers provisioned, set forth once again into the great abyss/cosmic adventure known as life.

With school all done and the balance on my credit card inching closer and closer to its limit the time has come to launch myself full throttle into the disastrous chaos of the restaurant industry.

Fortunately it was easy to secure a job. With the name of the famous, temperamental TV chef listed as the last employer on my resume I breezed through three interviews and landed myself a job at a brand new restaurant scheduled to open after the May long weekend on the moderately polluted shores of Lake Ontario.

This job will mark my first venture into the cultish world of corporate employment, my company owns roughly a dozen profitable Irish pubs around the greater Toronto area. And it wasn't long before the cold, inhuman grasp of corporate culture grabbed me by the throat.

Which is not to say that working for a corporation isn't without benefits.

The company I now work for operates a famous and well regarded craft brewery here in Toronto. So on a drizzly morning last week all 50+ front of house employees gathered at the flagship brewpub for several hours of "beer tasting." Now I put 'beer tasting' in quotations because, as seasoned a drinker as I consider myself to be, I'm not really TASTING my liquor before noon. Oh, I'm DRINKING it but the passage from cup to stomach is a rather murky journey.

A prominent beer writer lectured us about the differences between ales and lagers, the finer points of dry-hopping and gave us a brief history lesson on the origin of the term India Pale Ale.

(Apparently this term was applied to regular English pale ale that was shipped to India. The beer was heavily dosed with hops which, though now a vital part of beer production, were added as a preservative. This is how IPA's developed their signature hoppiness. By the by, Keith's is NOT an IPA!!!! It's commercial quality shit juice.)

At 11 a.m. the group dispersed and released me, feeling rather saucy, out into the world. Whereupon I promptly returned home and took a nap. More beer tasting followed, this time in the evening (thank god!).

My fellow staff and I sat elbow to elbow at long trestle tables 'agitating' modest pours of amber liquid in our glasses before shoving our noses inside and making snobby declarations such as; "Hmm, burnt caramel." "Very hoppy with a funky bitterness in the mid-palate."

Tonight we were back for MORE training. The session started with a three page written beer exam full of trick questions.

e.g.

Question: Is it a matter of importance whether beer is made with spring water?

My answer: Yes. The mineral content of water will change the taste of the beer and certain beers require a certain flavour profile in their water to achieve the desired beer-style characteristics. For example a British ale should be made with hard water with a high mineral content whereas a pilsner should be made with soft water to evoke more floral characteristics.

The right answer: No. Tap water can be treated so that it mimics the characteristics of spring water.

B*llshit!

This was followed by an enlightening training video, something right out of one of the great cult films made about blue collar misery such as 'Office Space' or 'Waiting.'

The video's inspiring title is "Service that Sells!!!" and the affair is narrated by a fat American who jabs his finger directly into the camera while exhorting "THAT'S service that sells!!!" or "That's NOT service that sells!!!"

He encourages us to "make our service sizzle NOT fizzle" and to push guests ordering take out over the phone to buy drinks and desserts. Overlooking the fact that someone who has the unwelcome task of picking up a large takeout order for the weekly "special office lunch" does NOT want to be responsible for/carrying in their car anything that might either spill or melt.

He drones on and on but eventually shows his true (evil!) colours.

"Restaurants employ bussers who, unfortunately, have to come in contact with the guests. The guest experience is lessened every time they come into contact with one of these people. They're fizzling, not sizzling. Guests who ask a busser for a refill will almost always get the response 'Not my job!' or 'No habla!'"

The room erupts with laughter.

Of course this douche-bag probably doesn't realize that the Mexican busboy he is accosting for his refill of unsweetened ice tea is probably PRETENDING not to speak English.

I know I would if this wooly barbarian was breathing in my face with congealed bits of bacon leftover from his fully loaded potato skins clinging to his gums.

Ah, the industry! I love it, I hate it. But whether I like it or not it's kept me in cold beer and Bangladeshi-made H&M threads for years. Getting back into its hateful, seductive fold is like a coming home.

To end my tirade I leave you with a message written by my crazy downstairs neighbour on the communal whiteboard in the hallway of the apartment building. It's kind of sad but if I didn't document her insanity no one would ever believe me.

And "Lucas" is her perpetually yapping bundle of canine horror i.e. her dog.

Social Graces

Let me start off this post by venting about this absolutely atrocious Scrabble hand I pulled. I mean, just look at it! Who on earth pulls five E's. Needless to say I lost the game but ONLY because of this severe handicap in the lady luck department.

The term paper/exam season madness is raging full boar on campus these days. I my diet has degraded to a constant intake of coffee, sugar-free energy drinks, diet colas and crunchy snack foods that I can stuff in my maw while also pounding away on my laptop keyboard. I haven't been to the gym since last week, the energy drinks have turned by piss a curious shade of nuclear yellow and for reasons I can't explain or justify I've been listening to Josh Groban songs on YouTube. All in all I feel slightly off kilter. Maybe this is a creeping kind of psychosis brought on by high levels of stress and a near lethal daily caffeine intake.

NO MATTER! Though if I have a heart attack the next time I drag my ass to the gym I wouldn't exactly be surprised.

But other more troubling (and certainly more important) thoughts have been crowding my mind of late.

Maybe someone out there in cyber space has an answer for this question that I have to admit has stumped me for quite some time.

I've been to several house parties in the past, complete with food, music, drink, company, that at first seemed entirely normal. After a few strong cocktails of course there comes the necessity to use the loo. Everything's going fine, the bathroom looks clean, as I sit and do my business I replay all the cool things I said to the hot actor fellow as we hovered near the spinach dip. Enjoying the memory I mindlessly reach to grab some TP and - GASP! - lo and behold, there's none there! Panties still in position around my ankles I search desperately for kleenex, towelettes, ANYTHING! that is within arm's reach. But of course there is nothing.

Quashing my irritation and with the determination that this sorry state of affairs is not going to ruin my night, I do the only thing a woman can do, shake dry. Not a perfect solution but it will do. Now I turn my attention to the sink. Probably best to wash my hands even if I didn't have the chance to wipe.

Getting the hands wet, checking make up in the mirror, inspecting teeth for embarrassing particles of food - okay, looking good!

And of course the soap tray is empty. Peeling back the shower curtain with my dripping paws I inspect the bathtub area for any sign of cleansing material, hell, even body wash would do. Nothing. Under the sink amidst the clutter of dusty cleaning products and disintegrating bath bombs ... still nothing.

Well, nothing to be done I suppose. I'll just have to dry my hands and hope my hypochondriac friend has some hand sanitizer in her purse.

The empty towel rack stares at me with cold mockery.

After a clumsy wiping on the unfriendly vinyl surface of the shower curtain or a series of dabs on the overly fuzzy toilet seat cover I return to the party feeling soiled, like the girl who steps out for a cigarette out back with that guy and then comes back brushing leaves off her knees.

The host swoops by riding a wave of social euphoria; "Heeeeyyyyy! Good to see you! Are you having a good time?" "Well actually--" "Good!!! Oh- Oh my God, I've got to talk to ______. So glad you could make it!!!"

And with that they've flitted away. I wince as I see them shake a newcomers hand in welcome. If only they knew!!!

So why do people do this? Throw a party ... with PEOPLE who are DRINKING and will eventually need to PISS!?! Is it a sadistic inside joke? Do they flounce around their party revelling in the fact that they know everyone's hands are coated in an imperceptible layer of shit particles? When the party wears on and the drunkards start molesting each other do they silently rejoice in the utter filthiness of it?

I know it's a little gross and I'm even reticent to mention this disturbing social phenomena but I've been present at parties like this several times. Anyone who knows me personally is aware that I'm not exactly a prude but there is something decidedly unwholesome about organizing a social gathering in your home and then not providing people with the means to be sanitary.

To finish I bring you the most hilarious realtor sign I've ever seen. It's been up for months along the route I walk to my cousin's house from the Yorkdale subway stop through Toronto's bastion of orthodox Jewishness. I don't know if it's the bad pun, the cheesy pot o' gold graphic or the hardcore beard action on the headshot, but the sum of the parts is beyond priceless.

"The Power of Christ Compels You!"

Today is a soggy, dreary day in Toronto.

You can feel that spring is just out of reach like when at the end of an action movie the hero tries to save the bad guy from falling into a crevasse/cauldron of boiling lava/bottomless mine shaft etc. and their hands almost, ALMOST grasp each other but at the last minute the ledge gives way and there's a lot of shouting "nooooooooooo!" with agonized expressions contorting in an extreme slow-mo close-ups.

The snow is still clinging to existence though only in sad little piles where once it was heaped into drifts. As the snow has receded the sins of litterbugs are gradually revealed. Errant dog owners who didn't clean up after Fido and allowed God's dandruff to bury their surrogate child's rectal excretions now litter the streets in various stages of decay. Toronto's healthy (and by that I mean large) population of smokers have been decorating the ground all winter with their discards and the pavement around the entrance to the local dive bar is especially carpeted with a plethora of butts (strangely enough so is the entrance to the Ryerson business school). The snow that remains is sad and filthy from being constantly bathed in car exhaust and it is clear that this year's winter is on its knees at last.

BUT! as I said today is gloomy and threatening to drag my mind, which is already fantasizing about weekends in cottage country and the season of constant sweating yet to come, back into the dark months that I'm already forgetting about.

So what better way to divert my mind (for some reason writing my poli-sci essay about Israel and Palestine isn't exactly "diverting") I decide, for no particular reason, to have an EXORCISM MOVIE-A-THON!!!

And I'm honestly shocked how many exorcism/possession themed movies there are out there. First I watched 'Case 39' a rather vapid Renee Zellweger vehicle that showcases her usual squinty-eyed, pouty mono-expression to fullest non-effect. Zellweger plays a social worker who winds up with the devil incarnate (in the form of a cute little brunette) living in her house.

Then 'The Last Exorcism' a mockumentary about a charlatan reverend who brings a camera crew out to duelling banjo country to show them that exorcism is nothing but a fancy parlour trick that only fools rubes and products of generational incest. Of course things don't go to plan! Dun-dun-daa!

And lastly 'The Exorcism of Emily Rose' which styles itself as a smart legal thriller with some B+ acting talent in the leading roles. A priest goes on trial after Emily dies from her unsuccessful exorcism and a sassy, power suit-wearing chick lawyer must defend the priest who performed said unsuccessful exorcism. She's tough, sexy and an agnostic ... but not for long!

All these movies were made within the last three years, another one with the eternally creepy Anthony Hopkins came out last year as well. And that is just what my lazy ass can think of off the top of my head. I'm sure a halfway diligent Google search would reveal that there have in fact been dozens of films in the exorcism/possession genre released in the recent past.

But what puzzles me is, why?

The only "possessed" people I've ever met were either born that way or were under the influence of a healthy dose of alcohol or narcotics. Who, in North America, that you know PERSONALLY, has every met a person possessed by the devil? I feel confident saying NO ONE!!!

So why this ridiculous fascination, why this elaborate mythology surrounding a practice that has absolutely no connection with our lives? Those of us who are of European decent, are we merely shedding the indoctrination of centuries past? The Inquisition, the accusations of witchcraft, the suspicion of things we cannot explain. Is this how we, as modern, logos-oriented beings reconcile the fact that a hundred and fifty years ago we were locking people up in sanitariums for being "hysterical?" We turn this coiled monster of superstition and mistrust that lies dormant within us into a quaint cinematic device with its own cheesy conventions. Conventions like the young girl in the tattered night dress, the shaking four-poster bed, the contortions and the requisite crucifix waving.

Clearly these stories still hold a fascination for us as a culture, we enjoy indulging in them even if on a surface level they are not part of the fabric of our beliefs. Maybe the child within us still wants to believe.

When you're a young child and have to get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night you do so with extreme trepidation. You know you shouldn't be scared but you still are, so you move quickly and quietly, like you're on a mission. Finally after you make those last quick strides and you jump back into the warmth and safety of bed and have the covers pulled tightly around you. You little chest and heart pump double-time with excitement because now co-mingled with that fear of darkness/boogeymen/creaky floorboards is the pleasure that comes from a rush of pure adrenaline.

It could be argued that superstition is the embodiment of this fear/pleasure complex. And since we're now adults and can't openly admit to such foolishness we pay an outrageous $13 to sit in a dark movie theatre and pretend we're kids again, hiding under the blankets.

Fast forward!!!

I wrote this blog entry over a week ago but for whatever reason I kept forgetting my camera at home and so had no photos to accompany the post. But today is St. Paddy's Day and I had a super sexy photo shoot with a pint of Guinness this evening. Black nectar to quench my black-Irish thirst. Erin go Braugh!

Amateur Korean Porn Stars

It's time to return to one of my favourite blogging subjects; my profound and enduring hatred for my obnoxiously loud neighbours. My apartment building is small, only four units total, so I do have the rare pleasure of actually knowing all my neighbours but somehow, instead of making me feel some kind of solidarity with them it only makes their lack of consideration or social grace all the more intolerable.

Last semester there were a couple of loud, drunk Ryerson students who liked to go get wasted at the bar, especially on Thursday night (the pre-weekend) and come home to blast Euro-house music mixes at 3 a.m. But at least they were nice if I ever ran into them in the hall and usually after exceptionally loud or late nights there would be a humble apology scrawled on the whiteboard next to the front door.

However, in December the kind alcoholics moved out.

Let it be said that the corridor in my building is narrow, moving furniture through it is a nightmare, getting my desk up the stairs was a nightmare of Biblical-plague type proportions. So I understand when people bash into my door at the top of the stairs inadvertently from time to time. One night during exams there was repeated buffeting against my door as if some idiot, who didn't realize the door was locked, was trying to home-invade me to steal my stereo. My irritation mounted. Every couple of minutes an elbow or anonymous inanimate object would connect thunderously and shake my door almost off its hinges.

As luck would have it I had no groceries in the house and had to step out to the supermarket. Lo and behold a couple of "kids" were moving in all their worldly belongings. The foyer was cluttered with Ikea furniture partially disassembled and tacky framed posters.

As I exited the building I greeted one of my new neighbours.

"Hi, my name's Rebecca. You're moving in?" A dumb question I know, but sometimes stating the obvious makes a convenient ice-breaker.

The kid looked at me like I'd threatened him with a knife.

"Oh ... hi." Pause. "Uh ... I'm kind of busy. I'll talk to you later." And with that he carried on hefting a hideous shelving unit into the building.

Now, I try not to judge people. After all everyone HATES moving day, it's stressful, it's tiring, you don't know where any of your shit is, something is going to get lost and something ALWAYS gets broken no matter how much wadded up newspaper you use. But despite all that when you're meeting your new neighbours for the first time it behoves you to BE F*CKING POLITE!!!!

So the new upstairs neighbours and I didn't get off to a great start. But they keep odd hours and I've never run into them in the hall or at the post boxes since that first fateful encounter. Fine with me. And that would be the end of it if it weren't for the noise.

As far as I can tell it's a couple of guys and one of their girlfriends. Whenever they come home for the night, usually between midnight and 2 a.m., there is a spastic flurry of female giggling that accompanies the progress of their leaden footsteps as they ascend the staircase. Now this may not sound annoying but imagine you're trying to fall asleep or masturbating or (rarely) actually trying to study for school.

Once my evil neighbours are home they stomp around as if they were trying to scare away demons or practice for their summer jobs as grape stompers at a vineyard. I've lived in apartments for the last decade, for the most part peacefully co-habitating with a plethora of different people as diverse and numerous as there are stars in the sky. But my current upstairs neighbours have to be the most inconsiderate bastards I've ever shared a roof with.

Last Friday at around midnight there was some kind of mass hysterical convulsion going on, they were thumping so forcefully that my ceiling fan was actually shaking back and forth. To add insult to injury their invasive stomping woke me a little after 8 the next morning, that's right, SATURDAY! Anyone who wakes me up before 9 on a Saturday is in my shit-book for a long time.

Tonight the couple came home around midnight and after thumping up the stairs proceeded to have loud repetitive sex, presumably on the floor since I could hear a slightly uncomfortable amount of detail. It's now almost 2 a.m. and the girl is screaming in a weird sporadic bleat that could be either arousal or panic, I can't be sure.

As usual I'm sure I'll sit here in bed steaming about my neighbour's total lack of consideration for the fact that they live in a building with OTHER PEOPLE. But by the time morning rolls around I'll be too tired/distracted/apathetic to write a passive-aggressive note of dire warning on the whiteboard in the hall and I'll simply let the matter of their bizarre and boisterous nocturnal activities slide.

My neighbour on my floor (also located below the domicile of ridiculous childishness) is going to be of no help. K, who's very nice, smokes enough weed to put an elephant in a coma so I'm sure he's not the least bit disturbed by the fact that amateur porn could be in the process of being made above us.

So what am I going to do about my situation? Probably nothing. But God does it feel good to bitch about it!!!!

But to end on a positive note below is a picture of my first EVER ROYALTY CHEQUE!!! This is the holy grail of writers the world over. It is something we all dream about but never dare hope to see. That is to one day get PAID for our writing. Transcendental!