Got to see a Black Bloc cordon with the protests today.

Several confirmed cases of the killer pneumonia bug that's going around have been found here in Toronto. Officials don't think it's a bio-attack, but I don't know.

I had a dream about Mr. T last night. Weird.

¡°Sweat¡¯s running down your back¡±
The heat is oppressive. Thin spaghetti straps fail to soak up the rapid loss of water.
¡°Sweat¡¯s running down your neck¡±
Towards a gentle curve lined out by a long silver chain.
¡°Heated couplings in the sun
(or is that untrue)¡±
Invitations go unanswered; chance meetings and brief glances.
¡°Colder couplings in the night
(never saw your body)¡±
Some wine to lighten the mood, black lights and left over christmas decorations.

Spent last night on the phone talking to friends. Maybe I should get a phone when I get home.

And remember, kids, sex can kill you.

Jebus, I'm tired. It's really not cool when your schedule gets all messed up and you're not sure if you should be awake or not.

There is so much I want to write about, but it's all fuzzy now. I like that; not writing anything but living it.

Sigh. I'm friggin starving and I've got no cash till my paycheck clears (at 03:00, 5 hours from now.) I can't even get a soda. Tonight is going to suck, just a few smokes and no brews, at least I have two packs of ramen left. I want to just order room service but they stop serving at 20:00 and they have crap food anyway. Grr, I gotta learn to budget better. I should buy mad beer, smokes, and grub tomorrow so I'll be less likely to run out. Sigh.

3/3/3
Nice numbers, but kind of a boring birthday. I don't care about not getting gifts, but I'd like someone to drink with at least.

Russian pop music really sucks. Nothing but horrid No Doubt covers.

I took out my stitches. Didn't hurt that much.

Happy birthday to me

"All the times
When we were close
I'll remember these things the most
I see all my dreams come tumbling down
I won't be happy without you around
So all alone I keep the wolves at bay
There is only one thing that I can say
Did you stand by me
No, not at all"

Damn, Erasure is playing here on Wednesday and I don't think I have enough cash to go. Grr. And there's going to be a production of Chess, but I will have gone home by then.

It's so cold outside I have to pee immediately. My hands feel like cold steel, brittle and hard.

The hotel is full of high school age children. There are police in the lobby. The elevators smell like marijuana and there are beer spills everywhere. My card won’t open my room door so I return to the lobby where the night manager struggles to remember my name. I don’t know why he would remember it since he’s only heard it once or twice. My stay was extended (they still thought I was leaving on February 28th) but the entry cards can only be activated for a week or two. I pass the police officers, thankful that I’ve only had a few shots of whisky and I can still walk without stumbling. I make my egress onto the cold street. Around the corner, I find a shop that carries my brand of cloves. I’ve been smoking Djarum Blacks since I ran out of the X-Tras I brought with me. On the same street I find the gay district. I find one bar that doesn’t look too disagreeable. A drag show is just ending. There are the expected men in leather chaps and motorcycle gear next to boys that look like they’re spending their inheritance at the Gap. There are also women here. This confuses me; dykes and queers don’t normally mix, even in drag shows. The scene bores me quickly and I leave after one beer. A man with a blanket over his shoulders shuffles past, his boots scraping the cement. I begin to sing a Neil Young song (“People shuffling their feet, people sleeping in their shoes.”) I wonder how much money I’ve given the beggars here. I’ve given some $2 coins to calm my conscious (“Don’t feel like Satan but I am the Lamb so I try to forget it any way I can.”) The ones I’ve seen don’t seem to be smoking or drunk. I wonder how they deal with their desperation and cold. It’s below freezing some nights. It’s little wonder so many homeless go to the West Coast, the weather is always mild and there are few areas that it will get so hot or cold as to be fatal. I see a woman, bundled up in rags holding a steaming cup of coffee. She has a little hand-written note asking for money and a few coins in a hat near her lap. The prostitutes I’ve encountered here seem more like beggars than professionals. I leave the subway on Queen, trying to get to a bar. I have taken a wrong turn and I ask a woman directions. She’s very nice and points the way to Bathurst. She asks what I’m doing that night, I tell her just going to a bar and return her question. “Just trying to make some money.” I tilt my head and look at her for a moment. I understand where this could go; I’m just trying to hear her story. I turn towards the street and flag down a cab to take me away. I wonder how close to the curb I’ve been in my life. When I was a child, my mother and I had her mother, sister, and brother to help shelter us. The state of California picked up the tab for a number of years as well. Here years later, I don’t have such a web to catch me if I fall. I would find something, but it would be difficult at best.

So I'm messing up my page in my spare time. I hope this looks okay.

“So take that look out of here it doesn't fit you
Because it's happened doesn't mean you've been discarded
Pull up your head off the floor—come up screaming
Cry out for everything you ever might have wanted
I thought that pain and truth were things that really mattered
But you can't stay here with every single hope you had shattered”

Come up screaming. You’ve done worse damage to yourself in mosh pits. Your constant scowl doesn’t fit you; there was a time when you would have smiled.