2000-12-04 - 11:45:29

Oy. Here I go again. I might as well be sitting on my hands because all the exam-type preparation for which I must prepare hasn't yet seemed to hit me like a pile of bricks. Mind you, I really don't need a pile -- just two or three. In any case, they both hurt equally. Bricks are something that irrespective of quanity, they can equally maim on very similar levels.

They do, however, make practical bookshelves. Damn dualistic bricks.

The weather has become cold and cold and cold. Winter winds are creeping through my new-but-not-so-impenetrable windows and the choir of wind is causing quite an uproar in Serin (canary). Bird sounds are peculiar and irritating. Serin concentrates on emitting two particular sounds and I shall do my best to explain within the limited means of communication that we have between us. The first sounds very much like a small child with clogged sinuses forcing air through her nostrils at half-second intervals. Serin ritually performs this little ditty before he goes to sleep and when he becomes unduly discombobulated at his own image in the mirror. Luckily for both of us I have since withdrawn the mirror from his cage which I belive has made him happier - although slightly less emotive - and has made me less edgy. The second Serin-sound is a loud chirping which initially I assumed was brought on by whiny, tenor, male singers such as U2 or Bob Dylan. Perhaps his musical tastes have changed since his mirror-friend has moved out because he was ecstatic about Joni Mitchell earlier this week. Sorry Amber, he's been acculturated to chez-moi.

I spent this night continuing my research on hustling. Montreal is a fantastic city for hustlers because of its myriad of venues for loitering. "Flanage" is certainly an art and sex workers really know it best. Standing outside the peep show on Ste. Catherine the guys seem to get a lot of good business mainly from old, greying men. I sit at the Dunkin just beside which gives me a great vantage point because I can be a voyeur without actually entering that world. I'm not searching for objectivity, certainly, and peripheral glances at the activity appearing just next to me is the instrument of my social research. Do they have a code between them?

The older and the younger must time-share on the space in front of the peep show - one appears for a limited time from inside the show to stand outside while the other splits down the street. They know each other and talk casually. I continue to count the number of entrants into the peep show.. ten in twenty minutes. Seven of them fifty-years-plus and three thirty-years-or-younger. Interesting demographics, eh?

Mom, when grow up I wanna sell my body for cash. Who says that? Mom, I wanna suck dick for money. It's good family dinner talk and more people should be discussing.

I remember being young and driving down Yonge Street with my family just to see the poverty, just to see the crime, just to want to see the underclass and of course the hookers. Look at them. Poor, sad, pieces of trash aren't they? Get the sanitation department in so that nice, middle class families will have nothing to look at anymore. There is no training school for hookers, there is no institutionalisation of their trade, because there is only penalisation. Penalisation by the sanitation crusaders and penalisation by the fucking families driving down Yonge Street to see the hookers without a discussion about occupation and capitalism and feminism and militarism and nationalism and instead of being aware of the bloody body politic we just end up with bloody bodies.