Nothing to say really

Shittiest blog post ever. I went to the gym today and now everything hurts. I did a solid 30 minutes on the stair stepper mostly at the top of my cardio zone which is like, 168, and then tried to push it to the aerobic zone or whatever the f the other zone is at like 173 for a few minutes which of course made me want to vomit almost instaneously and then I had heart cramps even after I cranked that bitch back down because I’m scared of falling off the stair stepper.

And I did some machines and shit. I don’t know. I never feel like I look any different. I have good form. I read stuff about like, macros and I don’t feel like I eat a whole lot, but there’s also f all I like to eat. I like Nandos. I like Panera. I like Diet Coke, weird juice, cheese, just like, pieces of cheese, protein bars, the full fat chocolate Muscle Milk, all baked goods, that’s about it. I can’t alter my diet to eat 3 meals of liver and steamed asparagus a day, I will die.

On top of that my intestines have always been fucked, and I’ve never found out if I have any food allergies, or found any answer beyond “that’s not right” since this healthcare system is stupid. So I could be fat because of that too.

I’m not fat. I’m just frustrated. I feel like I have two modes in my life: in a complete rut, going insane at the unchanginess of things, wondering if they will ever change, terrified that they will not, feeling completely agenciless OR going batshit insane, parlalyzed with fear that things are moving too fast and I have no control over them and everything is complete chaos. Sometimes these feelings are all encompassing, and other times I feel them at the same time towards different parts of my life. Now is one of those times.

I’m mad that I have love handles and a pudgy stomach despite being skinny as fuck generally and eating well at what not. I’m more mad that I have no idea how to change this situation, which could be complicated by a health issue I also can’t get a hold of.

Everything is in chaos because it’s been that way for months, my grandparents house being sold, a medical emergency in the family, people moving here, spending weekends in other places or with other people in my house which I am no longer used to, shit breaking and then having endless people coming in trying to fix it. Trying to figure out whether I’m going to keep taking music lessons when it’s expensive and the administrative side of the business is kind of incompetent and so it’s constant stress just to get their money too them. Blah, not big things. But I don’t have a hearty emotional constitution.

I took an Ambien 2 hours ago and I’m still totally coherent. Riding the wave of wanting things to change and wanting things to stop changing all at the same time.

I had more to say, or something different to say, I can’t even remember. I’m going to go attempt to hydrate and then watch Mr. Robot or something because why not at this point.

Oh and I will add, just because I just remembered it, today was actually a pretty good day. There has been some sort of Pokemon migration and I caught a bunch of Meowths and Haunters/Gastlys and Cubones which were never around before. Ate a decent pretzel bread sandwich with my sister post-gym as we watched some fail videos of cute animals and children. Listened to the new WOR while stuffing Halloween bags and drinking a whiskey/ginger I made out of my good Jack danie’s reserve out of an insulated skippy cup for practicality. I don’t usually drink hard liquor but I treated myself. Decent episode of Project Runway tonight. If I had gotten more singing in, I would have zero complaints.

Advertisements

B& from DC

I’m just going to write everything backwards because my life is a fucking mess anyway. This all happened prior to my last post, so mid-August, but I think I just learned WordPress uses the time stamp of when the draft was written, not when the post was published, so who the hell knows when it will say this was posted.

My cousins came down from Toronto for a wedding, not a wedding on “my” side, although I’m sure I would have loved to attend because they’re Guyanese and everything I’ve heard indicates the Guyanese party game is on point.

They were nice enough to bring a bunch of my grandfather’s tools, and my grandma’s cooking books, mementos basically as a bunch of my family went to clean out their house and get it ready for sale. My grandpa’s tools was more of a practical thing, he amassed quite the collection and we have some belt sanding to do. As I suspected, I have no idea how the fuck anyone in my immediate family is going to physically handle this belt sander, my grandpa was not a large man, but apparently he did not fuck around. My grandma’s cookbooks are amazing. We got a reproduction copy of one last year when we thought they’d all been lost, with this amazing (in theory) recipe for canning moose. There are some real gems in there. Some because of their super 70s or super Newfoundland content, others for incredibly geographically specific or WTF value like one on indigenous plants.

The best part was they brought the coffee table from Nanny & Poppy’s living room, a true “mid-century” splayed leg, two level, press board lacquered in fake wood kind of thing, that when flipped over reveals a bulls-eye someone had drawn on the underside for use as target practice.

We went downtown to see my Mom’s friend who was staying at this amazing hotel called The Donovan. It had the most futuristic shower that I did not use. We brought her a Welcome 2 Amurica bag that was filled with Old Bay seasoned cheese balls and American flag beer cozies. When the ungodly torrents of rain stopped, we wandered around and went to a bar/restaurant called The Drafting Table that had duck grilled cheeses and “poutine” with sausage gravy that did not taste as bad as it looked but was still not fucking poutine.

View this post on Instagram

When you order poutine in D.C. #poutine #what

A post shared by Kate (@margotsmokes) on

We walked around U Street at night, God, U Street is the shit now. I remember going to see The Blood Brothers at The Black Cat in high school, and our friend’s Dad dropped us off and stayed in the area the entire time because we were not allowed to walk around there alone. Now they have a Room & Board. What a 180. When we went to see Chris Hardwick at 9:30 Club, I couldn’t even figure out where I was. All these contemporary faux loft-y condos? That cool Satellite (?) bar on the back? WTF! I’d live there. If I was going to live in D.C. that would be at the top of my list. I’m not naive enough to think with all this “gentrification” there isn’t some seriously racist and classist politics at bay, but superficially, damn does it ever seem fun down there.

View this post on Instagram

Chili bear #benschilibowl #ustreet #dc

A post shared by Kate (@margotsmokes) on

We went back to the hotel and on the way back we stopped at a liquor store that had individual glasses of Moet in the window. They said they were “display only.” What kind of cold hearted bastard does this to someone? Shame! Shame! Shame!

I got a Sapporo tall can instead. What? I don’t know. I’m not really okay with drinking in front of my family. It was good though. This is going to sound like the ultimate Dad thing, but it was the real sturdy metal can (redundant?) Very satisfying. I can only fine the little normal cans around here.

Proceded to stay up until 2AM talking to my Mom and sister while her friend slept. We are great guests. My Mom snored so fucking loud I did not sleep the entire night on my air mattress, that was rapidly deflating. It was one of those bed height air mattresses, so when it started sagging, the differential between my head & feet and ass-zone was multiple feet. I slept in a v-shape. By morning my head area had also sagged, so my body was at a maybe 35-degree angle, with my feet in the air and my head on the ground, in the saddest, vinyl clammiest, sleep deprived, nauseaus, dizzy, weird hotel specific damp coldest version of Where Is My Mind! available. Then I drank a room temperature Red Bull. Great decision making!

Walked around some more, went to some weird empty bar that was called… World of Beer? I don’t know how old people constantly get tricked by dive bars that serve food, but this was one of those instances. Like, you know how some bars are BARS and they just happen to have food for LEGAL/EXTRA INCOME REASONS and you don’t go to these bars for food specifically because it’s a BAR and also because you put a Steigl banner in the window it doesn’t make you INTERNATIONAL. YES YOU KNOW THIS BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS THIS. Yeah, this was not computing. My Mom’s looking at THE BAR MENU IN THE WINDOW ‘this doesn’t sound very international’ IT’S NOT INTERNATIONAL THEY JUST HAVE A BUNCH OF BEER SIGNS IN THE WINDOW BECAUSE IT’S A BAR. Our campus bar was literally draped in flags. They had irish car bombs and spicy sweet potato fries. That was as “international” as it got.

It actually wasn’t bad, but it was 1. cavernous 2. very dark (already covered by cavernous?) 3. incredibly, incredibly, awkwardly empty.

They had the best root beer float ever though. They used Dominion root beer, but the ice cream is going to plague me until the end of time. I know they weren’t handchurning their ice cream in the kitchen that passed of a chicken nugget as a “chicken fritter,” so it had to be store bought, but where!?

I will say this, as we were leaving, I got struck with horrible diarrhea that I will blame on the duck grilled cheese but was probably just my own ecosystem turning on me violently. The fact this place was empty put me about 40000km from another human as I contemplated how God seriously fucking hates me and Jesus Christ I was just trying to welcome our oldest family friend into the neighborhood and all I got was the worst sleep of my life and no individual cup of Moet and fuck why did I eat a duck grilled cheese at a restaurant I had never been to and FUCK THIS IS WHY I CAN’T TAKE RISKS AND I LIVE A SHELTERED SAD LIFE THAT IS LACKING IN SO MANY RESPECTS BECAUSE I CAN’T EVEN EAT A DUCK GRILLED CHEESE WITHOUT NEARLY SHITTING MY PANTS AND FUCK IT I’M GOING TO SEE IF THERE ARE ANY POKEMON IN HERE.

There were. Not only that, the cave reception was so bad the GPS kept hurling my avatar across D.C. as I racked up spins from a thousand random PokeStops.

I will accept this as divine intervention.

We saw my Mom’s friends new place and it is amaaaazing and her realtor randomly also went to U of T and I continued to not shit myself which I will also accept as divine intervention.

Shits & Pieces: April 2015

George Ezra

I saw George Ezra’s appearance on Saturday Night Live a couple weeks ago, and now I am fucking smitten. 50% musically and 50% romantically. Dear God, he seems a little dangerous, that Gretsch-playing, blues-y, scamp. And that voice, such a deep whiskey-soaked voice oddly juxtaposed on a little baby angel face. I feel like a fifteen-year-old girl watching Elvis. I want to run away on a boxcar with him because our parents don’t understand us.

Sara Barron’s The Harm in Asking

This is the second of Sara Barron’s memoirs that I have read, and I thank God she apparently hasn’t learned from any of her past decisions. Her first book, People Are Unappealing, Even Me focuses on a broader scope of her life and more on her family and their relationships, while The Harm in Asking focuses mainly on Sara and her college and post-college years in New York as a struggling theatre major/Lillith Faire obsessive/wannabe lesbian (seriously.) These times are exactly as cringeworthy, awkward, and uncool as you imagine, verging on an Amy Schumer sketch level of oh-my-God-this-should-not-be-real-but-it-probably-is. Her experiences seem improbable, but never impossible. There is that last tiny thread of recognition, that every memory you wanted to forget was cranked up to eleven and lived through by Sara Barron, with even less grace than you managed to muster up. I LOVE embarrassing coming of age stories, probably because I am in beast mode denial about my own, so this book is an incredibly comforting presence in my life.

Here Comes Greatness (Matt Luem, Greg Fiering, 2002ish)

I’m on a serious hardcore wrestling binge, and this gem was the only useful suggestion YouTube has ever given me. It’s a short (~20 minutes) home video-y documentary about the hardcore backyard wrestling feds of California in the late ’90s and early 2000s. Interviews with wrestlers theoretically shed some light on why they choose to self-injure for no money and almost no audience, but the answer is either elusive or deceptively simple, entertainment combined with a drive to find the line between life and death and poke it with a stick. There is plenty of footage of these guys taking barbed wire and panes of glass in suburban backyards and a sand pit “arena” on the side of a hill, which sits so firmly at the intersection of glorious and bootleg, even the set designers of Mad Max couldn’t have dreamed it up.

Silver Linings Playbook

I read the book because I saw the trailer, then loved the book so much I’ve been holding off watching the movie for around 18 months. I was left with the overwhelming feeling I had no idea what had happened to two hours of my life. I think, had I had no prior knowledge of the book, I would have thought this was a great romantic-comedy. But I read the book and a romantic comedy seems against everything it stood for. I thought the book was a completely heartbreaking story of what happens when life gets in the way of your plans for it, and the illogical, flailing, desperate attempts we make in before the acceptance that everything you had planned for is irretrievably lost. I guess, in the nature of romantic comedies, the film went for the quick, happy, fix everything ending. No one is sad but no one really learns anything. It took something that was beautiful in it’s brutality and rounded all the corners and made it safe, and I kind of hate it for that. I hate that whoever optioned this was served a perfect story on a silver platter, and didn’t use it. It gave me the ultimate ‘I could have done that better’ fan response, that is constantly mocked/rejected by filmmakers. But now I’m thinking if you consciously choose to alter a story and it does not live up to the original, not only is that a legitimate complaint, but you’re kind of self-aggrandizing.

Achievement Unlocked: Indy Wrestling in an Amish Flea Market (and other reflections on the State of Maryland)

I knew instantly, the day, if nothing else, would be interesting.

A couple weekends ago Adriana and I, buoyed only by the desire to see Colt Cabana wrestle before he is sued into oblivion, headed to Joppa, MD to see Maryland Championship Wrestling. Prior to this, I had no idea Maryland even had a wrestling promotion, and neither of us had ever heard of Joppa, which gave the day an overall vibe of what the fuck are we doing. We pretty much banked everything on the faith that if the sound stages for House of Cards were located there, as Wikipedia suggested, the town was probably large enough that we would not get murdered.

The afternoon started with rain, my phone getting stuck in a boot loop, and Adriana’s GPS not being able to pick up a signal because of the cloud cover. Then we were near Baltimore. Dave Chappelle has a joke about how going to the ghetto is fine, as long as you’re expecting to go there. This pretty much encapsulates my feelings toward Baltimore. I realized later I had mapped the address of MCW’s home “arena,” not the building we were actually going to.

Realization #1: Maryland is wonky

There is never a subtle transition into Baltimore, even when you are expecting to go there. You don’t drive into Baltimore, you drive and Baltimore just appears. Like Beetlejuice, or a shitty Platform 9 3/4. And it is weird. This is the spookiness of Maryland. I’ve heard the term “fruit salad” used to refer to something that is heterogeneous but lacking the integration of a melting pot. Maryland lacks the cohesion of a fruit salad, which at least can gather all it’s constituent parts under the umbrella of fruit. It’s more like if you combined everything deemed a “salad” together, fruit salad, ham salad, egg salad, word salad, etc. then spread it out like a crooked hat on Virginia.

I kept trying to cram down my sense of unease as we passed through Baltimore, by reassuring myself we would be back in the suburbs soon. The older I get the more comforted I am by their freakish consistency. All being comprised of equal parts McDonalds and parking lots.

We kept driving and I kept anticipating a return to normalcy, a return to new condo developments and Kia dealerships. Instead we got a steady stream of liquor stores and autobody shops and one dinosaur sculpture made out of fork lifts. We were in Buffalo. Except we weren’t in Buffalo, we were edging up to Joppa, MD, and we had no way to turn around because we were fenced in by about a hundred miles of unbroken Jersey barrier.

When we saw Pete Holmes in February, he told a joke about being booked to stay at a hotel that turned out to be in an unsavory part of town. After some internal debate of whether to stay or flee, he got into his car and set his destination point to Barnes & Noble. I have never wanted to follow this advice more than after we passed the fourth motel with a homemade sign, but something about a town housing a sex industry office park told me we wouldn’t be in Barnes & Noble territory for a long time.

And then yonder, on the horizon,

Panera

A FUCKING PANERA.

I’d like to say this didn’t go down the way it did, but my dedication to truth in storytelling forbids it. This was genuinely one of the happiest moments of my life. I was screaming in the car from sheer excitement. We had made the hot tag and Panera Jesus had beat the fuck out of our enemies. I was going to live to eat another Bacon Turkey Bravo. So what did we do? We went into that Panera. There is nothing to write about it, because you cannot have a unique experience in a Panera. My brief experience in Joppa had already taught me that’s why Panera is awesome.

Renewed, we set our sights towards finding Joppa Center. All expectations for how the day would play out had now exploded, and I was high on the feeling of escaping death, though I was never really in danger.

And then, the second greatest moment of my life arrived: we found a Sonic. In high school, I heard stories of people making a 4 hour pilgrimage to Delaware to pay tribute to Sonic. There are at least 3 in Maryland now, but we’ve never successfully found any of them. We finally got close when we went to go see Calabrese in Baltimore, but it was closed. So to come so close to an open, functioning Sonic right after a time of immense struggle felt like a cosmic sign. We were warriors, and the Sonic was our Valhalla.

Realization #2: the Mason-Dixon line is a bitch

Sonic is a quintessentially Southern establishment, and Maryland, officially a Southern state. Does Maryland possess any Southern qualities like decent barbecue, Piggly Wiggly, or Sonic? No. Are we constantly tempted with commercials for things we have no access to? Yes. The Mason-Dixon line is a motherfucking liar.

It was a moot point because there was no time for Sonic, for it was Colt Cabana day.

Joppa Center is actually a flea market. It turns out in addition to motels and liquor stores, Joppa also has a thriving Amish community. It is a very confusing set up, both physically and morally. We found an open door on the front of the building next to an unattended metal crate full of cotton candy and walked into an antique store with no merchandise. We were politely informed by the owners that you could not reach the show this way, even though you could see people streaming through due to a complete lack of wall. We followed a line of chain link fences down the side of the building, to a backdoor. Inside, it looked like maybe an old gym or cheap banquet hall, with a truly horrible overhead lighting situation.

I’ve heard fabled stories of flea market wrestling. Now here we were in an Amish flea market / antique store in a town with a fucked up ratio of liquor stores to Paneras. We had arrived. Now all I had to do was watch a few dudes beat the shit out of each other in a light tube log cabin death match and Brock Lesnar Guy could go fuck himself.

We sat down on our zip tied together line of folding chairs (just like in my dreams) next to a bunch of hefty but pleasant white people (of course) and across from a child dressed as Sting (oh Jesus, this is too beautiful.)

In terms of actual wrestling,

It was some sort of tag team battle night. The first tag team that came out were called the Appalachian Outlaws, which temporarily caused my brain to double-back from all that Sonic-fueled social progress, and respond with “oh shit, you have fucked up.” If there’s any segment of Maryland I’m uncomfortable with it’s the hick side. I don’t care about The Wire, but once you get into this group that purchases dip and loves the rodeo, I am weirded the fuck out. I couldn’t even watch Teen Mom 3 because of that girl whose boyfriend worked in a coal mine. The Appalachian Outlaws wrestled these Joker-looking types called… The Punk Rock All-Stars (frowny face) in a contract match. What the contract was for I don’t know, but where it was, was on a pole zip tied to the side of the ring. The zip ties really added to the ambiance. When the match was over somebody had to come with a pair of scissors and liberate the pole. I’d like to note that although I do not have an extensive history as a wrestling fan, it is my understanding a contract match is usually the centerpiece of the night. In Joppa the contract match happens first. Probably because the zip ties weren’t going to hold.

Tie for best match of the night was Black Wall Street vs. Sudden Impact. There were so many times I was convinced I just saw somebody fucking die. I don’t know what wizardry/carny bullshit these guys were up to, or if they were just actually beating the shit out of each other, but every hit seemed SO FUCKING HARD. Their precision on land was balanced out by about 20 of the most sketchy suicide dives I’ve ever seen, all done in rapid succession. It was glorious. I think out of 20, there was 1 that seemed successfully executed, although to be fair, that one looked really good. So kudos to that guy (I think it was Drolix?). The rest I was just sitting on the edge of my seat going ‘ohshitohshitohshitohshit is he going to get up? ohshitohshitohshitohshit’ One dude got carried out, and we never did figure out if he was okay.

Torrie Wilson was by far the low point of the night, not because of Torrie herself, who is still the beacon of unattainable womanliness she was during my childhood, but because an “evening gown” match was brought back in her “honor.” It wasn’t even so much as an evening gown match so much as it was a handful of valets trotted out in Bebe dresses. The crowd then cheered for who they thought was the hottest. No stripping, no wrestling, no good vibes. It was depressing.

I really liked these other punky little motherfuckers, The Hell Cats, who just went balls to the walls the entire time. They seemed like they could be Sami Callihan’s younger brothers. What they lacked in precision they made up for with an apparent complete disregard for their physical safety. One guy suicide dove onto the barricade, snapped his finger, then cut a promo trying to hold his jacked up hand off to the side.

Colt Cabana and Lanny “the Genius” Poffo formed the oddest tag team of all time. First of all, Colt Cabana entered to the Art of Wrestling intro (“live from the studio apartment…”) which was incredibly satisfying. I thought we were going to break Lanny Poffo, I just had this image of him crumbling like dry plaster. But instead he did some flippy shit off the second rope, and my mind is still trying to process it.

My other favorite match of the night was Shane Strickland vs. The Bruiser. First of all, Google bills Shane Strickland at 5’10”, which is fucking mind boggling, because he comes off like he is 7 feet tall. If Shane Strickland can’t put Vince McMahon’s rumored obsession with height to rest, there is literally no hope. I’m also pretty sure Shane Strickland could have done his entire match with an egg baby. He just seemed that utterly in control of his movements. The Bruiser seemed to be the hometown hero. They wrestled forever, There were so many near falls I lost count, which I usually find infuriating to watch, but they were just so damn mesmerizing I became invested. The Bruiser won, but the crowd still gave Strickland a lengthy standing ovation. No hurt feelings. I didn’t even know that was possible. Every time I watch RAW I want to punch at least one of them in the face.

Afterwards, we hung around to meet Colt Cabana, which became a deep source of social anxiety as we got closer and I realized HOLY FUCK SINCE WHEN HAS COLT CABANA BEEN SO HOT? I always thought he was cute, but dude is like Adonis-level tall and jacked. He signed my dreidel and then I ran away before I could say something horribly awkward to him.

DSC01550

We tried to leave but somewhere along the way (possibly while fleeing from Colt Cabana) I lost my earring, which Adriana found after much effort. And then we rewarded ourselves for our courage and went to Sonic. And I played my horrible collection of WWE entrance music. A cherry limeade pairs well with Sami Zayn’s “World’s Apart.”

I also subjected us to my horrible early 2000s playlist because when people give me iPod control I become intimidated and freaked out and my first thought was “play some Lumidee” because I am a fucking genius with incredible taste.

And it was great.

Pete Holmes Live from the Ice Planet Hoth

Holy fuck, it’s so cold outside. Adriana and I were going to go see a show at the DC Public Library, but the weather was like, you are going to freeze your ass off and die if you go outside, so we noped the fuck out.

I still want to see a show at the library though. Adriana says they’re renovating the basement and holding punk shows down there for the time being, until they put a new collection or whatever in. Would be pretty cool to see a punk show in a library.

We did go see Pete Holmes at the Improv though, because we bought tickets what feels like six years ago. I actually think I bought the tickets for that before I bought tickets for RAW, so yeah, a long fucking time ago.

I would just like to describe to you how fucking cold it was outside. It was Montreal cold. The kind of cold where you’re pretty sure you can see the air forming into hanging sheets of ice. Everything felt heavy. My usually teddy bear soft Hollister jeggings promptly froze into panes of canvas and then proceeded to rub all of my leg flesh off. We stopped in a bakery because we got turned around trying to run towards heat, and when I looked down to pull out my tickets and check the address, my eyes welled up with what I’m assuming were defrosted tears.

Fucking bullshit.

Pete Holmes was incredible though. Every bit as tall and gangly and adorable as I had been hoping. He had barely any clearance and shoved his arm through the fiberglass ceiling tiles a few times. It was just such a warm atmosphere, I loved his style. He would start giggling at himself, then the crowd would start giggling, then he would laugh harder, then everyone was fucking laughing. Watching Pete Holmes was like if you could get drunk the way they do in movies, childlike joy interspersed with fantastic, well-timed life advice. Like being that perfect three-drinks-in-everything-will-be-okay buzzed forever.

Totally recommend.