Freaks and Geeks

I've been half-reading a whole bunch of books lately, and a few that I haven't finished are: French Women Don't Get Fat, a diet book disguised as a fancy French lifestyle book; Ash Wednesday, Ethan Hawke's second novel, which is so embarrassingly bad that I can't bring myself to finish; Runaway by Alice Munro, where I've started the first story about sixteen times and never gotten any further; and The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford, which I'm determined to finish, so more on that later. Ahem, probably much later.

Annnywaaay. One book I did manage to finish, which makes #27, is Paul Feig's Kick Me. If you don't know Paul Feig, it's okay, he's not actually a household name. Best-known as the creator of the truly amazing Freaks and Geeks, one of my all-time favourite television shows, Feig's prose style is easy-going, and I really envy that. The book is so funny. I was reading it on the TTC coming home from work one night and was laughing so hard I had to put the book away for fear of serious public embarrassment. It's such a wonderful, honest portrayal of just how plain weird you are as a kid. How you do the silliest things and how truly brutal adolescence can be—highly recommended summer reading!

I've watched a bunch of movies too, but only because I've been feeling seriously under the weather lately and have had less than no energy to do anything at all. Except kill the ants, of course.

The Ant Invasion

As if my hair falling out doesn't already suck. As if the fact that I can barely eat anything these days without a) feeling like I'm going to throw it back up again and b) having an upset tummy for more than a few hours, we've got ants. Not in the house yet, but they have invaded our front patio stone area (which I hate, by the way). So today, the RRBF and I bought some Ant Attack. Down with the ants! In my silly obsessive compulsive way, I'm standing outside, as it's about to thunderstorm, standing in my socks and flipflops, watching to see how many are still scurrying around and stuff. Is the disease now affecting my brain?

I'm Not Embarrassed...

...to admit that I love a good Greatest Hits record. Amazon just delivered Neil Young's Greatest Hits and Sloan's A Sides Win: Singles 1992-2005. I've been singing "Underwhelmed" for the past two weeks and took it as a sign that I should probably dump that song into my iTunes—except that I can't because they've encrypted the silly CD and it totally scrambles after importation, which is seriously annoying.

Press and Anti-Press Coverage, Moi?

The first book I abridged two summers ago, Little Women, has been on sale now since May. It's kind of exciting to have not one but two ISBNs associated with a product of my blood, sweat and arthritic fingers. If only they would get the author correct—on Amazon it's listed as Lucy Corvino, the illustrator, who has an important role in the production of the book for sure, but isn't the author per se.

A couple of days ago our editor, Frankie, sent us all a note that the Wall Street Journal was publishing an article about the series. Unfortunately, the WSJ has a pay-to-read policy so I couldn't read it until Bookslut posted a link to the article. Oh, it's kind of cool to have a mention on Bookslut, but Jessica Crispin said something totally catty:

Wouldn't you love to have that job? "So, what do you do for a living?" "I dumb down the world's classic literature for the young and the stupid."

Ahem, Ms. Crispin, I do have that job, and I'll have you know that we didn't think we were dumbing down the books at all. In fact, it was a hell of a lot of work to ensure that the shorter, abridged versions of all three books I've written now are not only similar in both tone and manner to the original, but also conserve the integrity of the classic. I think all of us that wrote them felt the same way. Perhaps the reading public agrees, as I step down from my high horse by noting, the 10 books have now sold over 500,000 copies. Not too shabby for "dumbed down" content.

Wednesday, Wednesday

A nothing day, but it's a shame that so many days pass like this, in a normal, everyday routine of getting up, going to work, coming home and just being happy to see the sun, to feel the warmth on your skin, to ride your bike. There's nothing special to remind you of how you spent the day, it just goes like water through your fingers.

And to see a trailer for a documentary on penguins. Oh. My. Goodness. How awesome is that? Makes me think about joining the Canadian version of Netflix, if I could only remember what it's called—because they have a great selection of documentaries that you can't get at your local Video 99. Now, porn, the video store near us has, in droves, but penguins, well, they're not as, ahem, sexy.

In My Travels Today...

I came across the campaign to Make Poverty History, promptly signed my name and then ordered some white bands. And no, not because Bono or Kate Moss told me to, and especially not because of silly old Sarah McLachlan, but because it's probably the most important global issue of our time, right up there next to saving the environment. What do I want my generation to be remembered for? Generosity and good rock and roll.

Now I'm going to get on my bike with tears streaming down my face and go to poetry class.

Descending Into Sickness

We spent the Rock and Roll Boyfriend's birthday looking for antiques. We went back to Aberfoyle so he could buy his 1969 Planet of the Apes poster from Poland. I bought a pair of 1970s lamps for our future living room. It's only a year or two away.

Then we went for dinner with my brother and our good friend Kate. I lasted through dinner and then had to go home because my energy had collapsed by that point. He had a wonderful birthday though, and that's all that matters considering this time last year we had one of the worst fights in our entire relationship.

Today is a holiday Monday. Which meant that because I did all the chores on Saturday, I fell into a sickness stupor. Hence, I watched a lot of daytime television, including Oprah. With Tom Cruise. And Katie Holmes. Ew. He kept kneeling on the floor and punching the wood. Ew. I'll still see War of the Worlds, though. But you know, not to be negative about those in love, but these people are actors extremely good at acting. Yawn.

I finished Sue Miller's Lost in the Forest. I think that's book #26. The book got a rave review in the New York Times, and many people I know have been raving about it. The book is passable, and Miller's prose reminds me a little of Joyce Carol Oates, that sort of American, easy style that reveals the ins and outs of family life exceptionally well. She has also mastered the flashback, and excels at intertwining many different stories from the past and present together.

On the whole, the book would make a good cottage read, something halfway engaging but perhaps isn't destined to become a modern literary classic.

Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood

The warms sunshine makes the pavement hot, and cars seem out of place in the city spewing their exhaust and bad tempers. I've stopped crying today, but I don't really feel much better.

We've started summer hours at work, so I left at one yesterday, came home, watched two movies (Breakin' All the Rules [very bad] and Baadasss! [very good]) and stayed on the couch for hours). Those are films #5 and #6, I think. This morning the Rock and Roll Boyfriend and I went out for brunch (blueberry pancakes, yum!), and then to visit some friends in The Beaches.

Tonight we're supposed to go away for his birthday for a couple of days. Fingers crossed I have enough energy to sit in the car and watch the side of the 401.

Stupid Disease #3579

This morning I cried all the way to work, knowing that it's not at all rational to bawl on the middle of the QEW for no good reason, I'm chaulking it up to the disease. Again. Like everything else these days, I'm feeling so sick and tired all the time that I'm surprised I can still even go to work.

The Rock and Roll Boyfriend got his hot little hands on an advance copy of Cuff the Duke's new album. I think it's scheduled to be released in August. Anyway, the first song is one of the best songs I'd heard in a long while—there's a great harmonica part that reminds me of The Low's Rosy and Grey, one of my all-time favourite tunes in university.

There's a lot going on in the evenings this week. I had school last night, where I read a poem called "Born in the Sign of July." The girls in my writer's group really liked it, so I wanted to try it out on a larger group—turns out half the people in the class thought it was about my dad, which is strange considering it's love poem, but it went over well anyway. The teacher used some of the lines from my poem to explain one of his favourite things about poetry; its ability to convey an entire range of emotions in just a few short lines, and how effective it can be by just using spare words vs. long, drawn out explanations that you find in prose. Ahem, or like you find on this blog...

Tonight I'm off to the Premier Dance Theatre to see some modern dance. Watching dance is always so bittersweet, soft reminders of all the things I've had to give up in my life and where I've ended up now as a result of my health. It's a neverending cycle these days, and I'm not coping particularly well.

Then tomorrow night I'm going to review Lords of Dogtown for Chart magazine. I have a thing for skateboarders, but I don't have high hopes for this film—go ahead, call me Betty and get over it already.

Then on Friday it's time to say goodbye to Suzy Q as she goes off to teach English in an extremely foreign country for a year. See, there's a lot going on for someone who can barely make it out of bed in the morning without barfing and feeling like my stomach is trying to digest knives.

Five Things I'm Obsessed With Today: Fav Blogs

1. I heart Zach Braff's blog. He seems like such a geniune fellow, and especially considering Garden State has sort of catapulted him into another world in terms of the whole being famous-thing. If he's ZBizzle, can I be DFizzle?

2. Scarbie Doll's Martinis For Milk. A dear, sweet friend who never ceases to amaze me in terms of her mad writing skills.

3. Hissyfit. The name says it all. Wing Chun is one of the smartest, funniest, and savviest writers I know. Not to mention Glark's also most kick-assiest sense of humour. Check out his Star Wars / Pride 2005 desktops. Heh.

4. Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind. I'm not a big reader of crime / mystery fiction, but as far as litblogs go, it's one of the best. Even better than Bookslut at times because of Weinman's pure, unadalterated love of literature.

5. Kim's Fresh Hell. It has my favourite tagline of any website I've ever come across, "All pop. No culture." One of those things that makes you think, "Damn, I wish I wrote that..."

There are so many others that I love too, too many to list, but honourable mentions go to pamie, Blondie, and to Chicklit, where I wish-I-wish deborah would start up a blog because I'd read it everyday.

Anyway, some things to keep my mind off my rotting stomach and ill-feeling, stupid diseased body.

I'm Scared

The disease is scaring me this time around. My achy joints and over-tired exhaustion coupled with heightened kidney function levels and the sinus headaches make me think that this time the disease is more like the first time, and I actually feel sick.

On a sweeter note, I bought a cute pair of flip-flops for summer. Let's hope the sheer power of cute, new shoes makes me better.

Film #4: Kingdom of Heaven

Well, it's a huge ham-bone of a movie, from start to finish, but I honestly rather enjoyed it in all its bloated goodness. Orlando Bloom, criticized for being stiff in many of the reviews I've read, really wasn't terrible at all, and I think Liam Neeson might just be developing an entire career out of being the "oh-wise-sage Daddy that dies."

It was exactly what I needed tonight. And I laughed with Zesty afterwards because I don't know anything about the Crusades from a historical perspective, so even though I'm sure there are historical imperfections in the film, that didn't bother me. She joked with me and said, "Ignorance really is bliss, isn't it?" In this case, maybe she's absolutely right.

Oh, and I heard Orlando Bloom on Virgin UK radio last weekend talking about the film and he said, "It's nice to go from being a boy to a man." Ahem, I heard that and I still enjoyed the picture—now that's saying something.

Television, Ahem, Sucks?

To know me means to know that I love television. No, let me re-phrase that, I love watching television, sometimes to the extent that it borders on complete and utter obsession.

But lately, I haven't been watching much television at all. I've been reading, I've been writing, I've been blogging, I've been sleeping, but I haven't been watching television, which is completely and utterly unlike me. In fact, I've missed so many episodes of television shows that I used to watch faithfully that I don't even know who I am anymore. What's happening to me?

But there are still a few things I'm faitfully watching this year, but instead of, like twenty shows, it's only three or four: Gilmore Girls, which is the best it's been in two or three years; ER, because I'm sickingly addicted to the show; and Deadwood, which has replaced The Wire in my heart for now, but not for always.

Writing Advice

Having been trolling around the internet the past few days, weeks, months, well, years now, I'm always interested in reading writing advice. Something about the inspiring words of other writers spurs me on and makes me think at some point I'll actually finish something that might get published, but on the whole, it's just nice to read other people who think writing is important enough to want to advise other people about how to do it.

One of the best "Advice to Writers" columns I've read is Jennifer Weiner's. I've read all of her books, In Her Shoes being my absolute favourite, and I frequent her blog on a regular basis. Her last book was a bit disappointing, but I have hopes that it was a blip on an otherwise stellar career in chicklit.

A couple of other inspiring things I've seen over the last little while is this article about common mistakes many writers make and how to fix them. I love grammar. I love books about grammar, love to read articles about grammar. Now, I don't necessarily understand grammar, but I do love to learn about it and think that it's important, and am still stunned that Eats, Shoots and Leaves made me howl out loud. Honestly, it's a book about grammar that's intelligent, funny, and easily digestable. Anyway, I like this Holt Uncensored article quite a bit.

The other day I read Diana Gabaldon's advice to writers. Now, I've never read a single one of her books, but she gives sound advice, much like Stephen King's On Writing. I've never read a single Stephen King book of fiction, hate his EW column, and generally can't stand many of the movies that are made from his books (Stand By Me the obvious exception to the rule), but I've recommended On Writing to every single one of my friends who are writers, even bought a few copies for people as gifts—the ultimate recommendation from a girl who tends to be cheap in terms of buying presents for friends. Annnyyywaay, Diana Gabaldon's web site kind of sucks, but her advice section is sort of interesting, even if she writes tripe (ooops, did I say that out loud?).

The Disease is Kicking My Ass

The meds are so hard on my system. I'm exhausted. I find it hard just getting out of bed even though I'm sleeping well at night. And so many of my symptoms are disease symptoms, the sore joints, the losing weight, the cough, the sinus headaches, that I'm actually scared for the first time in many years. Maybe the disease is getting the best of me this time? Who knows. All I can do is go for my tests and wait to see what the doctor says.

The Worst Poem I Ever Wrote

The assigment was to write in pentameter. Of course, I thought it was to write in iambic pentameter, so that's what I did. Here's what I came up with, and it's quite honestly the worst poem I've ever written in my life:

Imitating Travel

The cab came in along the FDR,
I rolled the window down to feel the air,
The East River, a finger’s breadth away,
And everything I see wants me to stay,
Beyond the pale of this quick two-day trip.

Honestly, it's the worst thing I've ever come up with...

One Of Those Days...

...Where you feel like having cereal for dinner, and you do. I just sent in a short review to Chart for Blade: Trinity. What a piece of poo that movie was -- not like I was expecting anything different.

I also watched Alfie this weekend and thought it tried just a bit too hard to acheive that balance between loveable cad and tragic ladies man, but whoa, is Nia Long good. I read somewhere that Jude Law's such a good character actor that he should only be cast in supporting / character-type rolls, but he's so good looking that people keep trying to make him a leading man, and it just doesn't work. I'm almost on side with this, maybe it was in Vanity Fair? Anyway, he's good in the film, but again, it just doesn't feel right...

Maybe I'll start keeping track of the films I've watched this year too, like the 50 book challenge, only it'll end up being about 500-to-one in terms of the movie-to-book ratio and can I really live with that?

Oh, and add another one to the list. Let's count it #3, Open Water. Terrible film with lame dialogue and moments of scariness, but as the Rock and Roll Boyfriend pointed out, it could have just as easily been a short film and been just as effective.

#25 Everything Changes

I loved The Book of Joe so much that I sped right up and read Jonathan Tropper's latest novel Everything Changes in twenty-four hours -- not straight, but pretty darn close (minus the time spent at the Suburban Fund Raiser, of course).

It's another really swiftly crafted novel that buzzes along like a film but still feels like the work of a master fiction crafstman. This time, it's the story of a thirty-two-year-old man, Zack King, who has the world by the, ahem, balls. He's got a beautiful fiance (but he's in love with another woman); he's got a good job (that he hates, being the middleman and all); and he's got a great apartment (that he shares with his millionaire friend who simply hasn't recovered from the death of their best friend). When his father returns after being away for the better part of his adult life, Zack's own life starts to unravel. And with Tropper's ability to weave excellent characters into larger than life the book is really impossible to put down.

#24 The Golden Spruce

I finished John Vaillant's The Golden Spruce this past week. It's an interesting non-fiction book that tells the story of a magical golden tree that grew in Haida Gwaii, that is until a slightly crazed man chopped it down in protest. The book itself is solid, it's written in the style of Touching the Void or Jon Krakhauer's Into the Wild.

Once Grant Hadwin chopped down the tree, he disappeared. His story, intermixed with the story of how logging evolved in Canada and how it all fits with the current situation with the First Nations of the Pacific Northwest, makes for a read that feels unsettled, especially when you start thinking about the trees that are logged every day and how our natural resources are being depleted at an astonishing speed.

The story itself didn't stay with me as long as thinking about the trees did, or has. It made me think of the things I use everyday (paper towels, computer paper, newspaper, books, notebooks, paper bags) and how they all have to come from somewhere and then go somewhere when I'm finished with them. How will the Earth survive the billions and billions of people like me who simply don't think about what they use every day and how it affects the very world we live in?

I started looking at every single paper towel I used to wipe my hands dry after using the bathroom at work and decided I'd let them air dry. I decided I was going to try to make my work paperless as much as humanly possible and use both sides of each page I printed. I decided that I would use everything I bought and think carefully about where I shop (Kensington Market this weekend, at the health food store). In the end, I really am going to try to be more committed about leaving a smaller footstep. Let's see if I actually get there.

Suburban Saturday Night

My stepmother had a fundraiser for her local branch of [Insert name of bland non-urban suburb here]" Crime Supporters. It was a completely surreal evening. Totally fun in a completely surreal sort of way. We drank way too much because what the hell else is there to do at the crazy suburban arena where I grew up watching my brother's hockey games, eating stale popcorn and never wanting to learn how to play ringette. Thank goodness girls are playing hockey these days.

To make the evening even more strange, I ran into one of my best girlfriend's from high school. We haven't spoken in at least ten years. She's got three kids and her husband sort of looks like John C. Reilly, but he works in Waste Management, and she has no idea what he does. In her own words, "I don't really ask." They've got three kids, which is also strange because she was the most f**ked up girl I ever knew. Her own mother used to lock her in her room for days and, at one point, she poured Draino or something equally harsh into her mother's tea because she was so sick of how she treated her. Makes you hope that she's learned from her mistakes and that she's a better mother than the one that raised her.

She often came to school completely loaded and would do the strangest things. Sleep with the boys I loved, mess around with my cousin, pretend she was pregnant -- and once let a bunch of people in my house to have a party when my dad and brother were up north and I was at camp.

But now she lives [insert the name of a bland suburb here] and seems to have turned her life around. Her dad, who was a lovely man, died about eight months ago from liver cancer, which is quite sad. Funny how you remember people you once knew in a certain way and can't really conceive of them not walking the Earth any longer.

All in all it was the stuff Adam Sandler films are made of. A totally rude MC making obscene cracks about people's breasts as they came up to win door prizes. My Rock and Roll Boyfriend drinking 1.5 bottles of wine and me dancing with someone I've known my whole life and his crazy wife to a really bad funked up version of one of my favourite Bob Marley songs. Where you just have to cackle as the sweet couples are dancing around you like it's a wedding reception and there are women wearing ball gowns they bought at the mall that night just for this special occasion.

Bike Girl

The hip, it works! Went on my first bike ride of the season this afternoon and it was glorious. It didn't hurt (well, it hurt my barely-used muscles) and I didn't forget how everything works. And I bought myself a shiny new red helmet to celebrate.

Ah, spring!

A Voice Calls To Me

I've just spent the past hour listening to poets read their work. The power of the internet to bring the voice of Yeats, Williams, Thomas, Eliot, Walcott, Plath and Ginsberg to my ears long after even the possibility existed for me to hear them read in person.

In particular, I was moved by Anna Akmatova's "In Memory of M.B." and Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California." Not to mention actually hearing Dylan Thomas read one of my favourite poems, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," a poem I copied to write my own poem, "Johnny Cash II."

But I think the poem I loved the most was Langston Hughes's "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."

It's so wonderful to hear the words in the voice that was meant to speak them, the voice that created them, the voice that must have come alive in their heads. Such a reminder that poetry is such a vocal art, that so much gets lost sometimes in the translation to the page -- that so much is gained when it's alive and in the world, echoing just beside you. Ah, the wonders of the modern world.

Cause and Effect

The meds are taking quite the toll on me these days. That's the strange thing about the disease, how I don't necessarily feel its presence, other than being a bit rundown, but I am utterly at the mercy of its treatment. The doctor doubled my dose of CellCept, which means my stomach is having a really hard time, seeing as the main side effect is nausea, upset and, ahem, loose bowels. I can't even begin to describe how ill I feel, like a mixture of extreme seasickness and that awful hangover you get from drinking too much cheap wine. Mix in the loaded fatigue from the disease and I'm barely functioning, let alone enjoying my life.

And the shame is that there's lots to enjoy right now. The weather's finally picked up. My tragic hip is functioning well, so I can walk again, which is quite a blessing considering the last two years of hellish pain. Oh, and it means I'll be able to get on my bike soon too. The Rock and Roll Boyfriend has steady work for the first time in many, many years, so I'm not worried about getting the bills paid or losing the house. I'm writing a lot more and taking a class I enjoy, and reading voraciously, but I'm doing it all under a haze of extreme nausea clinging to the hope that this miracle drug will kick the disease on its ass and I won't lose my kidneys or drown in my own blood when my lungs start hemorrhaging.

There's a cause and effect to everything in life, and that's something that you're never more acutely aware of than when you're taking any kind of medication. There's irony in the fact that what's supposed to make you well makes you just as sick as what it's supposedly fighting.

Thursday Night Rock!

The Rock and Roll Boyfriend played a good show last Thursday night. Of course, that was the tail end of my week from hell in terms of not sleeping at all, so I wasn't all that thrilled to be in a crowded club listening to loud music, but I'm glad I went.

They opened for Greg MacPherson, who I love, who had his record release party for his lastest album, Night Flares. Instead of his usual one-man-with-guitar-all-alone-on-stage deal, Greg had a whole band, and I kind of liked it, all loud and raunchy like drunk sex.

The Boyfriend and the band played most of the new songs from their upcoming album, and it was a nice change to see him playing his own stuff again. Not that I don't like it when he plays with The Weakerthans, but I do like to see him in his element as well.

Book your calendars now -- they're playing with The Deadly Snakes at North by Northeast on June 9th. But don't ask me about the guest list, because they never have them at those damn festival shows. I think even I have to pay. Where's the fun in being a Rock and Roll Girlfriend if I have to pay?

So the Disease is Making Me Sick?

I saw the specialist today about the disease. Because the symptoms of the disease are flu-like, he thinks that I haven't been getting sick because of an infection, but because the disease is grumbling. Which is strange because that's not the usual way the disease attacks, sort of slowly and over long periods of time; no, it's usually swift and sure like a snowstorm in January. He's decided to double my meds to see if that'll kick it back into submission, which means yet another adjustment period to the new dosage.

"Fun with Meds!" That'll be my version of Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Instead of honking a horn on a cool bike, I'll be examining the myriad different types of nausea and explaining complex medical terms to kids. Anyone want to call TVO for a development deal?

Iambic Pentameter?

So, my assignment this week is to write five lines in pentameter. Yes, hold your breath while I try and figure that one out. Okay, you might as well breath because there's no way in hell I'll be able to do it. I can't write in pentameter. I can barely write a poem in free form half the time.

So far, I've come up with one line: "The cab came in along the FDR." It's been echoing around in my brain for the last three weeks. Fingers crossed that I actually come up with four more before tomorrow's class.

#23 - The Good Doctor

There's nothing I love more than a good South African piece of fiction. It's a strange thing to say, I know, but Damon Galgut's The Good Doctor, with its shades of Coetzee, reads like an exquisite piece of literary art. The parallels to Coetzee's work are well documented. Almost every reviewer brings it up as a point from which to discuss Galgut's work.

The story of an older, almost-divorced doctor who works at a nearly abandoned hospital in a former township, The Good Doctor examines the idea of moral ambiguity almost perfectly. Presenting us with a character we can neither love nor hate, we inevitably find ourselves deeply engaged by him anyway. As a young, upstart (...inky pup! I always think, damn you Shakespeare in Love) doctor wends his way both into the life of the protagonist, Frank, and into the routine of the hospital, his whole world changes.

While there is no outward conflict between the two men, there is a deep sense that things will never be the same; it's a subtle change that time brings, one that comes with a strange subsection of events that have both a cause and an effect, but are so indicative of something post-colonial that it's refreshingly disturbing to read. Highly recommend it on a rainy day where you were already feeling bad about reading the frightening stats in your newspaper (for example: one in four adults in Zimbabwe have HIV. The US uses 25% of the world's oil resources, etc) and want a deep, interesting novel to keep you company for a while.

Bowling Road Kill

Remember that episode of Sex and the City where Stanford exclaims, as Carrie trips and falls on the runway, "Oh my God, she's fashion road kill?" Yeah, well, as of Saturday I am officially Bowling Road Kill (tm ragdoll).

That's right, you heard me, bowling. It was Glark's birthday and, as was the custom last year, we all went bowling. And, well, I suck. I didn't fall down flat on my face as Carrie did, but I sure came close. "How?" You ask. Well, first I bowled gutter ball after gutter ball. Then, I swung back my cute pink ball, promptly let go and watched it fly -- in the wrong direction. I'm lucky I didn't kill anyone. Oh, and then I managed to jump up and play in the wrong order, thus ruining Stee's fabulous track record. But that part was okay because the dude that works the alley fixed it so the score ended up being correct. My friend Wing Chun kept saying, "You're so pretty. You don't need to be talented." Ha!

So yeah, I'm officially Bowling Road Kill. They were all embarrassed to be seen with me. They were all embarrassed to go out with me.

Oh, and it didn't help much that my Rock and Roll Boyfriend bowled perfect strikes and spares pretty much all afternoon. Sigh.