Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
As with most porns, Hardcore Hospital presents a flat, undeveloped plot before the characters start getting cornholed. It goes a little something like this: Dr. Date, the head doctor of Date Hospital, has found the most effective medical treatment known to man. And the best part is, it's all natural!
Sakuya, a fresh-faced virgin with extremely perky tits, joins Dr. Date's team of Special Nurses. Naturally, Dr. Date begins to show an unhealthy interest in his new employee. When the two of them are alone, she confides in him that becoming a nurse, and thereby following in her mother's footsteps, is her lifelong dream.
Dr. Date shows his sympathy by tying Sakuya to a gynecological exam table and cutting off her panties.
He then proceeds to romance her back-door with a series of sinister monochrome rods . . .
. . . advises her in proper enema use . . .
. . . and orders her to shit in a pan.
Some other nonsensical plot-like activity occurs, but only for a minute or two. Soon enough, Sakuya's back in Dr. Date's office, listening attentively to his captivating pearls of wisdom.
Never have I seen a hentai combine rugged ass-play and the systematic shaming of teenaged girls with such craftsmanship. Hardcore Hospital is the perfect video for a steamy evening with that special minor in your life, or destroying the morale of war prisoners.
I give it the following ratings on a ten star scale:
Scary bondage: ***
Anal abuse: *********
Youthful indiscretion: **********
Body fluid (by volume) *******
Tentacles: ** (I feel I should include Dr. Date's pulsating member)
Screeching females: ******
Humiliation **********
Fat Japanese businessmen ****
FINAL VERDICT: As sexually satisfying as watching Poltergeist II and your dad's colonoscopy simultaneously.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
So I'm sitting at work, about a half-hour later, when my vision begins to go out of focus. I chalk it up to fatigue and keep working. Five minutes after that, I begin to feel drunken, and my fingers and toes grow numb. Mild visual halucinations follow. I am calm - too calm. I am stupified. It was then that I realized my mistake. What a strange thrill to expect a stimulant, but receive a depressant!
And it takes every ounce of self control to keep from falling asleep at the front desk, or running around outside in the grass (because I know it would feel good on my feet), or laughing at everything my boss asks me to do. Why, why, WHY must everything be so goddamn funny?
I can't wait until this shit wears off. In the meantime, I wish I had some watercolors and paper, because this relaxation has released my creativity. Whoo!
Fuckin' meds . . . I am buying one of those pill organizers STAT.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Excuse me while I shove my thumb up my ass a little further.
Monday, August 22, 2005
He's changed the cadence of my life, and I miss him more tonight than ever before.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
*******
I had the chance to meet Vince in person tonight. If you dont know who Vince is, just rummage through my blog's comments. He's the sarcastic, literate bastard who signs his comments as . . . well . . . as "Vince."
Anyhow, the two of us drove all over Houston's convoluted highway system, got chinese for dinner, and chilled out at a hookah bar on Richmond Ave. I suppose one way to determine the quality of a hookah joint is by its clientelle. Everyone there seemed to be Middle Eastern or South Asian - a tableau which spoke for the cafe's sheesha before our pipe even made it to our table.
Despite Vince's considerable slep deprivation, he managed to satisfy my craving for rich conversation. You know, Nietzche, indian music, fart jokes, the works.
Vincent told me a story about a man who went up on a plane with some sky divers with the intent of filming their descent. When the sky divers jumped, he jumped with them, camera in hand, but without a parachute. He fell to his death.
Good times had by all.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
He was wearing a tight pair of khaki shorts. He sat down across the room from me, right in my line of vision. He crossed his legs in the figure-4 position. His hairy scrotum fell out of his shorts. I winced. He stared me down. His expression sickened me in ways I cannot accurately put to paper.
I pretended not to notice him after that. I pretended that my brewing cup of tea had suddenly become quite enthralling. At length, he went away, leaving me to my disgust.
It's scary what perversions will drive a man to do in public. UGH.
Yes, I have moved into my new apartment. Sort of. My stuff is there at least.
I'll be living with my friend Katy and an international student named JC. Well, JC isn't her real name, but it's the only transliteration we stupid americans can pronounce. JC and her two suitcases showed up on our doorstep just the other day, fresh from the University of Shanghai. She doesn't speak much english, but I'm sure we'll be fast friends. Once she gets over my freakish appearance.
Yeah, from the way she shook my hand - or very nearly didn't shake it - I'm pretty sure I frighten her.
But she's nice, nevertheless. She had enough room in her two suitcases for housewarming gifts. I received an intricate paper cutting of fish, flowers, and geometric designs. I will hang it on my wall with joy.
Man, I just have to make her something in return. Suggestions welcome.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Yes, thanks to the magic of the internet, I can indulge my vanity in ways that previous generations could only dream about. Now there's modern technology!
But as I was saying, here's a "shout out" to the rest of the world, in no particular order. Here's to Valby, Denmark, birthplace of the sugar cookie. A toast to Epe and Hessen - my two favorite cities in Germany, home to some of the finest fire hydrants and power lines (respectively) in all of Europe. Best wishes to my readers in Namerikawa, Japan, where there's a maiden behind every cherry tree. And also to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where there's a wrathful father behind every maiden.
Next, I want to thank the citizens of Camberwell, Australia for their generous hospitality on my last ambassadorial visit. Sorry about the killer bees. (How was I to know that Mr. buzz and his mate had decided to tag along in my breast pocket?) And I mustn't forget Edinburgh, where, as they say, moore is less. Hah. I made a funny. Now that I think of it, if anyone in the UK happens to drop by Langley, ask Fiona the Stripper why oh why hasn't she called, after all the nights we shared behind the privet hedge in St. Mark's Park, please oh PLEASE dear GOD don't let the magic end. *Ahem*
A dear greeting as well to Montigny-ls-Cormeilles in Ile-de-France, undisputed champion from 1968 to 1984 of Awkward Hyphenated Geographic Location Olympics. And last, but not least, many sloppy, drunken kisses to my readers up north in Calgary, Ottawa, Montreal, and TORONTO! Watch the eyeliner, babe. Ooooh yeah.
DISCLAIMER: if I have posted false information about your home town, suck it up and don't take it so fucking personally. It's a joke. Except for the fact that I really do have international readers. I'm just that cool. Yeah. Whatever, I'm sick of explaining myself.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
-Pet care?
(sitting, walking, baths, etc.)
-Yard work?
(watering, mowing, weeding, etc.)
-Around the house?
(heavy lifting, house sitting, minor repairs, etc.)
Call Eddy Speckle at 314-555-1234!
2005 Graduate of Clayton High School
Lived in Clayton for all 18 years of life
(References Available Upon Request)
Call him, suggested my devious side. Call him up. Why, for five dollars an hour, you could have the lad mixing margaritas for you on the back porch while he pretends to laugh at your jokes. Hell, for seven an hour, you could probably call him "Cockfoster" or "for the entire afternoon. Or maybe you could hire him for a party and make him dance on command. "YOU THERE, Boy! SHIMMY, I say!"
But no, no, I couldn't.
Yes you coooould
No.
YES. Just think: you could hire him to cut your food into bite-sized pieces and FEED it to you! Think of the power, Larkin. The POWER.
Nonsense! He wouldn't do something mad like that.
Everyone has a price.
A price to recite poetry on cue?
Yes.
Fix me sandwiches? Get me a beer?
YES. HE WHO HAS THE GOLD, MAKES THE RULES!
At last, I have decided to hire him to move my fridge for me. *steeples fingers* Eeeexcellent.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Motherfucking corn syrup. GODDAMN IT. It's in fucking everything, man! The shit makes me paranoid. They say it does weird shit to rats, man. I don't want that crap in my food if I can help it. Damn government. It's all their fault. No, really. Read the article.
"Loading high fructose corn syrup into increasingly larger portions of soda and processed food has packed more calories into us and more money into food processing companies, say nutritionists and food activists. But some health experts argue that the issue is bigger than mere calories. The theory goes like this: The body processes the fructose in high fructose corn syrup differently than it does old-fashioned cane or beet sugar, which in turn alters the way metabolic-regulating hormones function. It also forces the liver to kick more fat out into the bloodstream."
"The end result is that our bodies are essentially tricked into wanting to eat more and at the same time, we are storing more fat."
*shudder*
Thursday, August 11, 2005
At the St. Lawrence market . . .
Delicious frog's legs, and Larkin molests the swiss.
At the rave . . .
Hardcore Larkin, hardcore Jim, and laser show one and two.
CN tower . . .
We went on Sunday.
Here's a nice shot of the damned thing dominating the skyline. Tallest manmade structure in the world, they say. I don't know. I dare you to jump off of it and tell me your opinion.
But before you can go to the top, you'll have to go through security. Part metal detector, part bomb sniffer, 100% post 9-11. The air jets tickled.
Not ones to waste a second, Jim and I headed straight for the top observation deck. Boy were we looking sexy after a night of mad clubbing and 3 hours of sleep. Mmm mmm mmmmm. We snapped some cool photos from the top: One, Two, Three, Four.
On the lower observation deck, we found the glass floor. Not for the faint of heart, the glass floor allows tourists to tapdance on "thin air" several dozen stories above the ground. Jim and I decided to walk only on the metal joints between glass panels, deepening the illusion further. After several theatrical photos and a shoving contest later, we moved on to the gift shop. Jim went berzerk on the stuffed polar bear's ass. Go get 'em, Jimbo. That'll learn him for stealin' my diet coke.
And here's what five days of partying Larkin Style will do to you. Booyah! So tired.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
~SATURDAY~
Jim and I decided to stay home and chill so that we'd be rested up for Dark Rave later that night. Before heading to the clubs, we went back to the Indian resteraunt we'd been to on Thursday. This time we ordered some sort of mushroom masala dish instead of aloo gobi. Good stuff. We were so hungry that we ate EVERYTHING. I alone polished off a nan that was distinctly larger than my head. But 'twas not in excess; we'd need the fuel soon enough.
We ran home to change into club-wear and grab our glowsticks before hopping the Bathurst bus towards the club district. At the station, I noticed some goth types headed in the same direction.
Did you know that bondage pants are still in style in Canada? I thought those went out, like, 3 years ago! But no matter. I really rather liked those pants. I almost cried when I had to put mine to rest. (And we all know that fashion is a stupid, cyclical thing, anyway. It's only good for social signalling.)
Since it was already after 11pm, we had missed the reduced fare for the rave, and there was no reason to rush in. Jim suggested that we stop by The Savage Garden for a while. The Savage Garden is a goth club, and therefore strives for an ambiance that screams just how evil it is. The decor strikes a sexy blend between industrial dive and UV-light dungeon. As for the clientelle, there was a varied crowd of corset-bound moppets, leather-clad barbarians with shaven heads, pierced and dreadlocked wraiths, vampiric women leading pet boyfriends on leashes, glistening PVC, electrical tape, black light responsive hair dye, maroon lace, striped stockings, and tattoos. Very cool.
Toronto goths don't dance like Houston goths (I can't speak for St. Louis goths . . . if there are any such beasts.) I guess you could call the Toronto style "coordinated rythmic thrashing." Although I wanted to try it, I couldn't quite muster the courage.
Confession: I used to think that Jim danced a little funny. He didn't look bad, per se, just strange. Of course I didn't say anything to him at Bauhaus last October, but my doubt remained. Not anymore. When I saw Jim dance at The Savage Garden, I could finally observe his moves within the context in which he developed them. And I have to say, he's good. Really really REALLY good. He looked great under the strobe lights. Damn.
After I'd had my fill of The Savage Garden, I dragged Jim over to Fun Haus where Dark Rave was already in full swing. Two handstamps and a pat-down later, we were inside.
In the blink of an eye, I found myself bathed in ultraviolet light as lasers swept across my vision. Despite holding my ears, I couldn't keep the bass from roaring through my brain. Figures danced on all sides. Glowsticks. LED's. UV body paint. Boots, wings, corsets, cat ears, head pieces, face masks filled with Vic's vapor rub, glittering electric jewelry, and shiny fabric.
I felt as if I had finally entered heaven. And everyone was dancing.
I danced, too. Hard and long. I danced liquid style, one blue glowstick woven between the fingers of each hand. I traced a million theoretical electron orbitals in sickly blue light. When I tired of that, I tied my glowsticks to strings and swung them around my body in a series of devilish arcs. Jim stayed by my side the entire time. He danced in his own goth-club style, but with a milky turquoise glowstick (at one point, three) in each hand. We looked fantastic.
The dancers of Dark Rave generated so much body heat that Jim and I had to take breaks outside. We almost passed out a few times (or at least, I did). But we didn't leave the club until we were too dehydrated to dance another step. Not until we'd been at it for hours. Not until the last glowstick faded.
On our way home, a couple off bums asked Jim and I if they could have our glowsticks. Jim threw six dimming glowsticks and a red string at the first bum, which shifted the rest of the bums attentions to this sudden bounty. During the scuffle, Jim took me by the hand and we strode away.
Friday, August 05, 2005
~FRIDAY~
On Friday, the two of us checked out the CN Tower, tallest man-made structure in the world. I had a mind to go up to the top, but a three hour wait stood in our way. Undetered, we decided to try again on Sunday morning.
So, instead of the tower, we took a look around St. Lawrence Market. The lower level had lots of little boutiques and gift shops. I almost bought a pair of underwear with a picture of sushi on it, but went for maple sugar candy instead. Jim bought a little flat of ripe figs and two boxes of B.C. blueberries. No, no, not B.C. Blueberry. Blueberries. As in the fruit. Heh.
On the upper level, we found a bunch of cool fishmongers, cheesemongers, and bakeries. Pictures of me fondling baby swiss and frozen frog's legs pending.
Church and Wellesley village was next on our list. The area was so gay, even the street signs had little rainbows on them. I enjoyed watching all the cute boys-who-like-boys strut around, hold hands, preen, etc. And gay marriage is legal in Canada, too, now! Yay!
All that people watching gave me an appetite for raw fish. Jim, darling that he is, took me to an exceptional Japanese place with edgy decor and seafood so good, it made me cry. The sushi bar itself featured a circular waterway around which serving boats floated, laden with seaweed salad, spicy tuna rolls, edamame, and mochi. We shared a massive platter of the ocean's best. Can I say "orgasm on sushi rice" without laughing? I ate about twice as much as Jim did. *blush*
Later that night, I dragged Jim on my first bar crawl. Naturally, the details are a little hazy, but I'll do my best to recall. The first bar we visited was supposed to look like a hotel lobby and seemed to be the neighborhood's official Yuppie watering-hole. Best martini of my life though. Extra dry, Bombay Saphire, three olives. Yeah, it cost 16 dollars, but the gin was cold and the bartender was hot. Watching her breasts jiggle as she worked the shaker was worth at least 5 bucks. The second place, Flow, I think it was called, was a little less pretentious and had a better DJ. I had two Long Island Iced Teas and bought Jim an Ammaretto Sour. We got seriously tipsy.
On our way home, we stopped to play on a swingset in the public park. Once we got back, I thought it would be a great idea to crack open two glowsticks and practice our moves for Dark Rave. At one point, I passed out from the heat. Jim dragged me to the balcony to cool off. As thanks, I plied him with drunken philosophy until neither one of us could sit up any longer.
Thankfully, we weren't hung over on Saturday morning.
A decent update is on the way tonight, I promise. You, my dears, shall be privvy to unspeakable tales of a stripper named Unique, Pad Thai, and a leather kimono. However, I'm sorry to reveal that they do not appear in the same scene. Can't have your cake, eat it, and wear your fetish boots, too.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
~THURSDAY~
Thursday morning, Jim and I dicked around the apartment for a few hours and indulged in several episodes of Sexy Commando - one of the most hilarious animes known to mankind. A cocktail shrimp pajama party ensued. Afterwards, we took to the streets of Toronto.
We wandered through a fetish shop at some point. I have never seen so many beautiful pieces of leatherwork in my life. They had leather nurse uniforms, fireman outfits, skirts, vests, catsuits, coocoon-like restriction suits, capes, g-strings, and kimonos. Leather kimonos. Leather kimonos emblazoned with cherry blossom designs, writhing dragons, geometric figures, bright and colorful in smooth, buttery leather. *sigh* If only I had a thousand dollars, I could have bought one. We also popped into a fetish shoe store for a minute, where I drooled - literally drooled - over thigh-hi patent leather 8 inch platform boots.
A quick stop by the local dollar store provided us with glow sticks for the upcoming rave on saturday. Of course, we bought blue ones - six of them, just to be sure we'd have enough.
Just for a lark, we slipped into Club Zanzibar. For you strip club fanatics out there, I highly reccomend going to one in Canada. For starters, they have bars. You can drink at a full nude show. And since the drinking age is 19 in Ontario, I bought Jim and I two rounds.
Somewhere between "Monica" and "Alyssa," Jim divulged that he'd never had a lap dance. I took it upon myself to correct the oversight. I bought him a "table-dance" from a girl named Unique who had impressed us both with her athleticism. She gave him quite the show. Another thing about Canadian strip clubs - they're a lot more lax about contact with the client. A table dance in the U.S. will give you a close up view of your favorite girl, but she' isn't going to touch any part of you except your shoulders. And she CERTAINLY isn't going to give you a close up view of her . . . um . . . trade secrets. The law considers that lewd. Not so in Canada. The only real restriction is that she can't sit on your lap.
Afterwards, we went to the Bata Shoe Museum. It's free on thursdays from 5 to 8pm. It's not your typical museum. For starters, it features footwear rather exclusively (except for a really fascinating exhibit on the Inuit way of life). All of the displays are well-labelled and provide a lot of context for the artifacts in question. Good stuff.
By the time Jim and I got out of the shoe museum we were famished. He lead me to an Indian restraunt. Who would have thought that I could enjoy chicken? Mmm, chicken tikka. Aloo gobi kicks ass too. And don't get me started on the nan! *salivates at the mere thought of chewy, fluffy, smokey bread*
We thought about going clubbing after that, but we were just too damn tired.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
What a vacation! At the risk of sounding like a tour guide, I'll say that Toronto's pulsing nightlife, European-style shops, diverse ethnic restraunts, and enchanting locals kept me so busy, I didn't have time to sleep, much less blog. Plus my mobile blogging attempts didn't work, because Rogers GMS network doesn't like my T-mobile phone (irritating, n'est ce pas?).
But here I am, broke and tired, with nothing to offer but a story - the story of a man named Jim (or as the ladies like to call him, Sex-machine) and a girl named me. I mean Larkin. I mean, you know what I mean. I'm the girl. Yeah, nevermind.
~WEDNESDAY~
I flew into Toronto Wednesday evening. To my delight, Jim was waiting for me at the doors just beyond international baggage claim, with a bottle of blueberry juice in hand. How wonderful to see him again! He flagged down a cab, and we hugged in the back seat all the way back to his apartment on St. George street. I recognized parts of the city from my last visit. Some things had changed.
We got some Thai food soon after at a place called Real Thailand. Grand stuff. I had some seriously awsome cold rice-paper spring rolls and spicy, basily shrimp. Hot damn. On our way home, we picked up some groceries. Even abroad, I need my morning bagel fix.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
I have a few activities planned. First, I want to go up to the highest observation deck of the Toronto Tower. Call me a tourist, but I am fascinated with tall structures in foreign countries. It's not the sky-lines. It's not the fact that guide books always tell you to visit them. Maybe it's the tacky t-shirts and souvenirs. I don't know. I just have to go this time.
A little shopping is a must, too. Oh, and the nightlife. The drinking age in Canada is 19, and although college-life has dulled the intrigue of booze significantly, I have yet to experience full access to clubs and parties. I want to go clubbing and dance my ass off. Dance a LOT. It's been a while.
Not to mention Darkrave on the 6th. Can we say glowstix, baby? Oh yes. I think we can.
Many many pictures to come! Be prepared for my first round of mobile blogging with zee new picture phone. (As if anyone in cyberspace gave a damn about my travels.)
Monday, August 01, 2005
Wow. I mean, wow. A lot of work went into creating the illusion of a plot. I couldn't have written a more inscrutable script on a giant acid blotter, in mescaline ink, while getting drunk and high in the basement of an abandoned papermill with a bum named Yosepi. I mean, GODDAMN!
I know what you're thinking. If the movie was so bad, why did I keep watching, right? Well, it's not entirely my fault. While working out the final draft of the screenplay, Lynch rose to the surface of his self-indulgent pipe dreams just long enough to imbue the film with a few vague motifs and themes. They keep you watching. You want to believe in a grand ending that explains everything and ties it all back together. But it never comes.
At least it had some Hott Chix.
