Friday, February 19, 2010


I'm sitting in a Starbucks having an iced coffee. An English-speaking Chinese man and his twentysomething son sit across from me me, eating chicken McNuggets, conveniently found next door. The father is reading The DaVinci Code while the son reads Harry, A History. Jazz is playing at a cafe-level decibel.
I hate how nice this feels.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Staying hydrated

An afternoon spent drinking:

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Rave celebrants

This year was the first year where I spent my birthday in the sun. It was surreal, really. I'm used to hot chocolates and everyone telling me by text message that they wish me a happy birthday, and that they really wish they could party with me, but alas, they are broke/studying/cold/all of the above. This year was something different. Instead, a bevy of strange people got supremely high and danced into the night somewhere outside of Bangkok.
Birthdays are best spent with people you know and love. As I could not find anyone on this continent who might fit into the aforementioned category, I alternatively spent it like this:

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

I can't wait to see the Elephants

Elephants have been known to die of broken hearts if a mate dies. They refuse to eat and will lay down, shedding tears until they starve to death. They refuse all human help.

Monday, February 1, 2010


Today I spent the day treading through the prostitute garment district of Bangkok. Pratunam is where all the ladies of the night find the most dazzling outfitry. Beads and sequins stuck to the soles of my shoes. Heaven.

My mission: to find two one-piece bodysuits to enable me to closer resemble Brigitte Bardot and Bambou, two of Serge Gainsbourg's many lovers. Did I mention that my job is to dress up in random costumes and make people feel moderately uncomfortable while they eat overpriced fig salads? Well it is.

After much confused wandering through narrow corridors populated with retired working girls and lithe ladyboys, I finally found a face I deemed friendly enough who would try the least to rip me off. I met two faces: a mother and a daughter spending a Monday afternoon stretching lamé over buttons.

I approached the mother-daughter duo and showed them my haphazard pencil sketch of a one-piece leotard. I explained that I needed song ("two" - I just learned to count to ten in Thai yesterday!), one in black and another in a colour that was not black. I get directed to another stand to buy fabric. There, I (inevitably) get (moderately) ripped off. I pick black PVC and a Barbie pink Lycra to complete my contrasting bombshell looks.

I return to the mother-daughter team and the daughter takes my measurements while the mom talks through a sandwich. The likelihood that she is insulting me is about 90%. Of course, I don't understand a thing. I can only count to ten and give driving directions to a moto-taxi. She does not understand me, either, but I refrain from throwing out any insults.

Talking louder than I should, all the while overcompensating with grand and erratic hand gestures, I try to explain that I want to look like a superhero.

The daughter asks me, "Fit fit?"
To which I reply, "Tight? Yes. Like Batman. You know Batman? Spiderman?"

We stare at each other a bit, she looks at my shitty drawing. A long pause. She opens her mouth: "Catwoman?"

"YES!" I exclaim. "YES! CATWOMAN! Make me CATWOMAN!"

"Same same?" She asks me.

"Yes. Same same." Everything is fucking same same in Thailand. But it's NEVER the same. But by this point I'm sweaty and exhausted and looking much like a buffoon when I really just want to look like Catwoman, so I take my chances and agree to come back in two days, at which point my 2000 Baht should be met with two sexy Cat suits.

Let us pray that I am so lucky to be same same Catwoman come Wednesday.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

I hate plaid.

I really do. I've never liked it. Ok no that's not true. When I was eight I wore faded jeans and a white t-shirt with a plaid shirt wrapped around my waist. It was cool because I was EIGHT and had a sense of Alanis and Kurt running through my country bumpkin angsty veins.

Being a hipster and being gay usually means that you're supposed to like plaid. Quipsters love the shit. But that's just the thing - it's shit. If I had a dime for every time I defied quipster stereotypes I might be able to buy some land in Northern Lao.

And when people try to 'make an effort,' what ON EARTH ARE THEY THINKING when they opt for the plaid option in their closet?

The only time that plaid is formal is for Scottish weddings. I've always wanted to go to one. I have a newfangled obsession with Scotland. Have I mentioned this? Well fuck then that means that I must start liking plaid in a more general sense. I've typed myself into a corner.

Plaid still sucks unless you're Ewan McGreggor or getting married in Glasgow.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Grocery Stores are the new Toys 'R' Us

I love grocery shopping in Asia. Thai packaging designers show their dedication to being ethnically inclusive when populating the aisles with phallic imagery:

Monday, January 18, 2010

Sunday, January 17, 2010


Suddenly it all makes sense.

There are people who have tattoos, and there are people who do not. And then there is I, straddling the great divide with my Prismacolor® arm graphics. The people of the former category always and unfailingly tell of their plans for their next tattoo when they are asked about the one(s) they are currently sporting.

I get it.

Yesterday my friend David sketched a sick tat on my arm for my debut burlesque performance as Billy Idol here in Bangkok. This morning I kept my left arm out of the shower so that I could bask in rock and roll glory for just one more day. Why? Because I fuckin' like it, and for the following reasons:

1) I look badass
2) I have jumped from a 2 to an 8 on a scale of lesbian (Not looking 'gay enough' once wreaked havoc on my soul. I have since decided that there is more to life and fashion than dressing to your orientation)
3) Suddenly I'm one step closer to 'getting the look' of Harper's Bazaar's Michelle Obama-inspired look for 2010: Arms-Are-The-New-Face. Tattoos make your triceps look like they could bench one, if not several Spice Girls.
5) Guys come up to me and ask me about my 'ink,' subsequently showing me theirs. Thus I have more friends on facebook.
4) I look cool
5) I look rad

And suddenly I find myself wanting to book another date with the Prismacolor® set.


That Winona Ryder c. 1994 is universally accepted as forever hot.

I took this photo yesterday at MBK, Bangkok's frenzied consumer haven:

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Hopping back on the wagon

When people ask me, 'What do you do in Montreal?' I usually respond by throwing a few titles around, one of which is 'a writer.'
This is complete bullshit.
You see, there are people who call themselves writers, and there are people who actually wake up every day and write. Hitherto I am the former, but as I tap away at this keyboard I become the latter.

Did I tell you? I'm in Thailand. I've just begun working as an entertainer at a swanky night club.

It's hot. Humid. Tasty. Chaotic.
Did I mention it's impossible to find a fucking good cup of coffee anywhere in this city of 12 million people? It's Sunday morning. I'm off to buy a sequined bra at the market. I'll be scouring the streets for non-instant coffee on the way.

I have mixed feelings about instant coffee. Actually, no I don't. Simply, there is only one person in the world who I deem worthy of making a cup of it, and that is Katharine Ross. Everyone else should hang their head in shame and direct me to the nearest socially conscious, independent version of Starbucks.