Living, breathing, Aboriginals

So I’ve been secretly plotting to apply for this program out of the country, and I’m trying to figure out how to get the dough to go instead of counting on Lotto 6-49. Anyway, I’ve been researching grants and scholarships online, especially related to all the minority status I get which white people always cheerfully tell me to cash in on. Whatever, it’s like they think my life has been full of free money for being a halfbreed queer crazy pervert. I wish. I mean, that’s such an easy job, pfft! Just hide and make videos, alone, in the dark, in the deep dark. Oh, where was I? Oh yeah, grants.

Anyway, I will not name the organization, but one of them stipulates you must have a “living connection to the Aboriginal community.” Okay, WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN? Does that mean you’re an upstanding member of your tribe? Like doing good Aboriginal deeds? Like I’ve got all my Aboriginal patches. Or does it mean you actually spend your time among living Aboriginal people? Do you have to spend a specific amount of time with your Aboriginal friends and family? Do you have fifty percent cut off if most of your friends are biracial? Does it make a difference if the woman who taught you bannock was your Scots grandmother?

And this ‘living’ word, that troubles me. Because what does it mean to have a dead connection? Like the horrible moment your girlfriend hangs up on you, and in the buzz of the dead line, you realize you’ve lost her forever. Like you’re standing there with the reciever, bewildered and wondering “What happened to my culture? Why did she leave me? I said all the right things, I brought her flowers.” Well whatever.

I mean, I guess I have a living connection to the aboriginal community. I’m living, AND I’m aboriginal! Ha!

What about people who have a dead connection to the aboriginal community? Is that like they hang around with the Aboriginal Undead?

Very weird.

Race, le sigh. It’s completely evolving and people still can’t get beyond a binary theory of it. I don’t know where race is going, but it leaves a lot of us with these complicated meanings in our bodies. Like strings stretching from us around the world, holding us to all the places our ancestors walked.

I have the internet again!

Yes, it’s true. I’ve moved into my new place and got hooked up again. So now I’m set. But it’s funny, it’s been so long since I’ve had the internet at home, that I have forgotten what I want to do.
I spent most of today wrestling with my old/new computer desk. Here’s the story: I wanted a computer desk. They were out of stock of the one I really wanted. So I bought another one. Then a few days later a knock at the door, here was another computer desk, the nice one. So I really had two, but for a year I didn’t care to put the better one together. Then I moved, and threw away my other one. Then I couldn’t find the instructions. A week passed. I got the internet. Then I really wanted my desk together, because surfing while sitting on the floor is painful. Try it and you’ll see.

The problem throughout most of my attempts to get the desk together was the abstract concept behind the instruction booklet. 223306 in HA second hole from the left. Pound small plastic thingy into this slot. Three boards all of the same size were simply titled I, yet three other boards of a similar size were F, T, and SA. And none of them had convenient little stickers saying what they were, you had to look at them all and decide for yourself. And then there was a small tool which seemed to come into use quite frequently according to the instructions, yet didn’t exist, and was square, and looked like you dripped it into holes OR used it to cut something. Honestly, I feel like I should get extra credit just for getting the damn thing together. However there is one extra board, which is rather suspicious.

A suspicious board. It’s quite large as well.

Blah de blah. So anyway my apartment is slowly but surely turning into more of a liveable space. I have the internet, I have a small television, my bed is set up, Clive the hamster killing rat is back up on his little perch above the tee vee. The rug is slowly but surely gathering crumbs. When I first moved in I couldn’t find my medication for a couple days. Fly me to the moon! Then I found it, all shaky and quivery and ready to pounce on someone. Swallow. Yummy mood stabilizers/anti-psychotics.

Fuck it I’m hungry. I’m going now to find some food and stuff. I’m going to surf the net all day and revel in it. I think if you live alone especially, having the internet is kind of crucial to your well being. It’s entertaining anyway.
here’s some fun for ya all:
Tasteful (ha ha!) Cannibal Porn
http://www.mukiskitchen.com

So i didn’t win the lottery

But now the jackpot is up to 24 million dollars. Squeal! Squeal like a little gambling piggy!

I am poor and broke and everyday is my date with poverty. A friend has a bicycle he wants to sell me. I really want it. And it comes with a television. Well, the t.v. isn’t attached to the bike, that would be stoopid. I’d get into a lot of accidents. Anyway, I might have a set of wheels again, which would be nice. I haven’t ridden a bicycle in forever, about half as long as I’ve been celebate. Celebrate Celebacy! Is that even how you spell celebate? Fuck it, I hate celebacy so much, I don’t care how it’s spelled. A bicycle would make me feel better about being terminally single.

Not much exciting has happened, except my roommates drank the milk I was going to live on for the next few days. Which is another reason to be glad I am leaving. I don’t know why the milk bothered me so much, it was all going to expire today anyway.

Oh crap, I’m running out of time on the computer. Can anyone spare four bucks so I can buy a couple tickets for the lottery this week? I’m really living on gambler hopes, it’s pretty tragic really. Don’t even look at me, I’m ashamed.

Quality Assurance

So my phone got cut off. My cell phone, my only phone, my sole connection to the outside world. Sort of.
So I was calling my mom today when this machine lady comes on saying “Your call may be monitored for quality assurance.” And the first thing I thought was, boy, standards for mothering must have changed since yesterday. Or maybe she was on mothering probation. I can’t think of why, although we drive each other crazy sometimes, things have been more or less smooth.
Then I realized my tricky cell phone company has re-routed all of my calls to their office.
So I call the office and he asks me all kinds of ridiculous questions to make sure I really am Ms. Cuthand, the negligent bill payer. I hate having to prove I am who I am. Then he tells me to cough up a crazy sum of money, which I of course don’t have.
Which means I need to call my family for money, which I hate doing because I feel like a sucky baby who can’t take care of herself and I already called earlier this month.
I would have to say calling to ask your family for money is one of the most demoralizing things you can do. And I bet it’s not so shit hot to be on the other end, heavy sigh as you reluctantly reach for your wallet or checkbook.
But whatever.
Boy, I wish other things in life were monitored for quality assurance. Like sex. Say there was like a referee there, “Oi! You’ve had two more orgasms than she has! . . . Hey! Don’t forget to nibble those earlobes! . . . She has a shrimping fetish, remember! And you call yourself a giving lover!” Actually, come to think of it that would be a buzz kill.
When I worked at the phone centre we sometimes had to tell people their call may be recorded for quality assurance. And we were an outbound call centre. Imagine the nerve it takes to disrupt someone’s dinner, tell them this call’s being recorded, and ask for money for the SPCA. That’s why I couldn’t do the job anymore. I just felt like I was being paid to be rude.
So the upshot of the story was I had to call from a payphone in my neighborhood, collect. In my neighborhood all the payphones turn off at nine o’clock to prevent drug deals being made. Like drug deals are only made after nine pm. You can use it to call 911 though, oh thanks, big help that is. I told my Grandmother about the pay phone situation here and all she said was “Those neighborhoods you pick! My word!”
Exactly.
Anyway, if you’re wondering why I’m not calling you, now you know.

My Weird Name

Once in the years I went religiously to the dyke bar, we met this woman who was a hardcore regular. Kind of a white shirt blue jeans gal, I saw her wandering on the street once after the bar shut down and went all straight, she seemed so aimless. Anyway, when she found out my name she went all bizarre.
“What a fucked up name! Thirza Cuthand, that’s so fucked up!”
Um, thanks. Whatever. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve been having to say “My name’s Thirza, T-H-I-R-Z-A.” And when teachers got my name wrong the whole class would say “It’s Thirza.”
There is a friend of a friend who always calls me Ursula. I don’t know how many times I’ve corrected him, it’s like his brain can’t compute Thirza. It comes out Ursula.
Once in high school I was calling this girl and her sister answered. When she asked what my name was and I told her she flipped out on me.
“Nobody’s called Thirza! What is your name! Really, TELL ME WHAT YOUR NAME IS!” I had to hang up on her.
There are Thirza’s out there, I know for a fact I am not the only one.
My sister got the simple name. Sky. I mean, three letters, one syllable, and she even gets a cool y. We used to call her S-K-Y. I asked my mom how to spell it once. “S-K-Y.” She said. I was all “Nooooo, how do you spell it?” I guess I was looking for EssKayWhy or something. Considering Sky doesn’t talk, it’s just as well she got the simple name. I mean, lord knows what would have happened to her if she’d been Thirza. It’s a name that involves a lot of correcting people.
Cuthand scares people too. For one thing it sounds like something violent has happened to your hands. It’s actually a mistranslation of Frozen Fingers. I’m kind of glad I didn’t get saddled with a name like Frozen Fingers, because it would probably make girls not want me to touch them.
“Your fingers are icy Thursa.”
Damn.

Sucky Valentines

Tis a sad valentines day for me, like nearly all valentines days. I had a girlfriend for only one valentines day, and I don’t remember her doing anything for me, although she did mail me a dildo for my twentieth birthday. Thanks. I don’t have it anymore, I cut it up in a fit of pique. Hence the name for my blog, which I have been rather careless about recently. But you’ll all be glad to know in the meantime I have been working on the paper version of Fit Of Pique, to be unveilled this April! Price is three to five dollars, depending on what you can afford. And you will want to own this remarkable work of zine-ness. There’s a centerfold of all the things people put up their bums and had to see a doc to remove. There’s a Bottom’s Manifesto written on a particularily crusty day I had after some bad experiences with tops. There’s the full on story of what exactly transpired during my visit to the looney bin. Alice makes a cameo appearance, and there’s lots of other fun stuff. If you would like a copy, email me your address and I’ll try to send a few freebies out, or we could trade, whatever.

I must state now that I am completely indebted to Louis Cruz for showing me a few of the finer points of zine making.

Anyway, where was I? Besides blathering on about the zine version of Fit of Pique, there’s also some other interesting stuff going on in my life.

I am trying to funnel my love of pot into a less invasive love of gambling. Ah well, one addiction for another. Lottery tickets are cheaper than pot, and give just as much a thrill when you spend time writing shopping lists for the big win. So if you want to get into my good books, buy me a lotto ticket instead of passing on that joint. I’ve decided to quit smoking pot, except maybe at laser shows.

Oh yeah, and an alert for all you readers, in case you haven’t heard a new strain of HIV has emerged that takes only three months to develop into AIDS and is resistant to a number of HIV drugs. So take care all of you.

Anyone got any tips on quitting smoking? I’ve noticed that for as long as I have been a smoker, I also haven’t had a girlfriend. And according to some news reports, Vancouverites really don’t like sticking their tongue where a cigarette has been. Which is really unfair, because when I was a non-smoker dating a smoker I still stuck my tongue in all kinds of places on her.

Soon I will be living alone and have internet access again, so for all you dedicated readers, pleeeze hang on just a little bit longer and this blog will return to it’s regularily scheduled program of complaints, excitement, and general bullshitting around.

Oh I know what I should tell yous all. This weekend is IMAGeNation, and a bunch of my videos are screening at the Raja Cinema. So you should come down and see some of the best aboriginal film and video around. I have been working with the IMAG peeps since we were born, and it’s a cool festival. I can’t believe I just used the word peeps.

Speaking of Peeps, for those cynics out there who need a laugh, here’s a fun experiment. Place a marshmallow Peep in a microwave and press start. It will explode, and it’s quite funny. At least I think it is. But don’t put an IMAG peep in a microwave cause that’s just mean.

Hmm. I am sitting at the computer, trying to think of something intelligent to say. Being a blogger is a bit like that courtship part of a relationship, where you want to completely charm someone and win them over to your crazy life.

So here are some things about me you should know if you want to date me.

1. I don’t keep house well.

2. I bathe on a regular basis.

3. Given an ultimatum to choose between cigarettes or a girl, I will always pick the girl.

4. I like cheesy pop songs.

5. I get sad on a frequent basis, and I’m happiest when I have the chance to just give of myself to someone special.

6. While I have erotic dreams of cavorting with Nicole Kidman, I’m probably the most monogamous person you’ll ever meet.

7. I like gay porn.

8. I’m not scared of committment (although I am a bit scared of my new teeny apartment.)

9. I sometimes eat bacon.

10. I will always want to come to your house late at night armed with chocolate cake and latex.

rUMBLY tUMMY

I am hungry, my tummy’s rumbly, my money has yet to come from the reserve. Oh how I want those Indian dollars, so I can grab a burger or a pizza or a bag of marshmallows or a can of pineapples. Wait, I have a can of pineapples.

Well you’re probably all wondering where I’ve been. I have been without internet access for about a month now as punishment for having the dirtiest room in all of the Lower Mainland. My friend Lynn even lent me a copy of Hoorah for the Filthpackets to make me feel better about it. It’s that time of year again, when I remember all that befell me two years ago, and it brings me down down down. And so I live in squalor.

Until tomorrow, when I finally clean my dumb room.

It all started in Scotland, if you follow the matrilineal lines. Hey, is that even a word? Anyway, my mum’s mum was messy, my mum was messy, I am messy. Housework is not our strong suit. Growing up my mum had this poster on the wall of a woman saying “Housework, it’s, it’s a bitch!” True. There are other things I do well. Such as making things funny. Sometimes. If I’m in the mood.

Some people believe you are only as good as your ability to run an orderly household. If that is true, I’m going straight to hell. I saw a comic strip today of a girl with a messy room and her mother was telling her “Your room is where feng shui comes to die.” I think that pretty much sums up my room.

I had a lucky bamboo plant. I killed it. And it sat on the ledge for about six months. I can’t bear to throw away remains of a plant. Isn’t that silly?

Anyway, that’s about all I have to say today. Life’s been pretty crazy stressful, and I still have to find a new place to move, because much as I am a little bottom, I don’t like punishment.

If I had a cute redhaired girl boss me around things would be different. Send one my way so I can clean my room.

A Bold New Adventure

This little artist is planning and plotting. This little artist is behind in her homework. Spank her!

I am on the hunt for not Red October, but some new digs. And I don’t mean digging a nuclear bunker in someone’s backyard. Just a nice little shell for a hermit crab like me to fester away, occasionally spitting out art. A home where I can decorate things my way. Someplace I can smoke.

Although I am in the process of quitting.

Quitters never . . . I don’t know the rest of that saying.

It is late at night and I am at the corner store again.

I need the internet dammit. It’s my lifeblood!

I am planning a video about figure skaters. Well, not about them really, just about a weird rite of passage figure skaters go through. It should be interesting.

Today is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year. But I think I may have found a home.

Big Belly

This is for all you ladies out there.

Okay, so maybe it isn’t.

My internet is broken. I am at the corner store listening to the owners speak in arabic about the high price of Special K with dried strawberries in it.

I love those strawberries.

The best strawberries in the world are grown in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, but difficulties in transporting them out while they are fresh and perfect means the rest of the world is unaware of the bliss induced by these berries. They are small and sweet and evenly red.

My childhood is dotted with memories of jars of my gramma’s homemade strawberry jam, the way the sugar in it would almost crystalize, and the joy of being the first one to punch a hole in that canning wax. Like busting someone’s cherry, only with berries on the other side instead of an orgasm.

Mmmmm.

So my internet is broken and I am making plans for my life that involve a move. I have decided it is a far better thing to live with other artists, so that’s what I’m going to do.

I am trying to work on a video as well, about fear.

My ipod is still my best friend, although I’m a bit annoyed at the music on it and I desperately need more tunes. 972 tunes aren’t enough! I need different ones. I can’t tell you how weird it is to have it on shuffle and end up with a Carpenter’s tune right after a Marilyn Manson one.