Dirty Thirty… It’s Universal.

So me and Luvaboy are BOTH turning thirty this year and within a couple of weeks of each other, so we decided that we should throw a dirty thirty party. I have been scouring the net for ideas. So far I am thinking; dirty martinis, retro porn, Rockband, a dirty pinata (filled with condoms and sex toys), phallic food and sex themed drinks, and retro tunes.

I need a porn that won’t make people who aren’t sexually liberated feel terribly uncomfortable… Maybe Fritz the Cat or something. Suggestions warmly welcomed.

This video is what Diesel did for their Dirty Thirty party. They held a party in 17 cities around the world and created this re-edited 70’s porn to promote the parties. What a masterpiece.

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Global Warming

I had just watched a freaky documentary about the ice caps melting, a beetle that wasn’t dying and was killing all the trees, and some strange animal I’ve never seen before who’s extinction could threaten the food chain.

For some reason, this documentary made me want to do something. But as usual, my intentions were good, but my methods a little suspect. Spray painting all of the SUV’s in my neighbourhood with “Gas Pig” in retrospect wasn’t a particularly novel idea, but it was a revolutionary idea at the time. And it didn’t stop there. I continued on to stuff banana’s in tail pipes so that people would be forced to take public transportation (or… that was the thought anyway). Then, I snuck onto the premises of my local hydro company and spray painted “we’re watching you” on the employee entrance door.

I’m pretty sure it was that, that alerted the cops to my environmental mischief… all the while letting out countless CFCs into the air with the many aerosol cans I used. In some cases I used 2 or 3 colours to get my message across. I snuck out of the premises pretty stealthily and hopped on my bike, so I was gone in a flash. And a girl wearing a pink sweater with two braids being held together by fun fir isn’t a likely suspect.

The next day I decided to skip work and make some pretty posters. I got drunk on Southern Comfort and pulled out some paint, glitter and fabric and made pretty green “Stop Global Warming” posters that looked nice enough to hang in my living room. I was feeling very proud of these posters and wanted to do something with them… I didn’t want to waste them, so I decided to do some research on the internet to find somewhere that would treat my posters nicely.

I passed out drunk with all of the lights on, the air conditioning cranked and my TV on all night. I woke up and realized that this Global Warming thing was making me a little nutty. This would be my 2nd day of not showing up for work, and my 2nd day of not giving a reason or bothering to call. Perhaps I would be saving the environment in the long run, by being fired and not having to drive to work anymore.

I rented An Inconvenient Truth and furthered my obsession with the topic and continued to drink my Southern Comfort. It was probably when I was sitting in the dark with my TV running on a generator and my phone ringing, that I realized how I looked. I began laughing out loud and saying to myself “as if I could stop global warming”. I knew I wasn’t going to stop anything truth be told, but I was hoping to create some kind of stir with somebody somewhere.

Sadly, all I did was increase security at the Hydro company, get labeled as The SUV Saboteur, damage my liver and create some new art for my living room walls. I did make some changes at home too, but it wasn’t me who was the problem, it was everybody else… and if everybody else had the problem, then what could I do?!

I got fired… but not before smashing a few lightbulbs on my way out and spray painting “use energy efficient bulbs you wankers” on the wall in the company cafeteria.

Under The Magnifying Glass


Wanna know what this stage feels like to me right now?

Like a giant sidewalk during a heat wave and I am some poor little fucker of an ant just trying to get to the other side where that Blue Raspberry slushy was spilled. Only hovering above me is this evil little prick with Red hair and freckles holding a magnifying glass trying to burn my ass.

And my $28 hair product, it’ll make great kindling! And my hair will set on fire… melting my face and my entire being… and just as I think I’m about to reach the Blue slushy, I realize, I have no limbs! And I’m not going to heaven because I’m already burning in hell.

How swell.

I’m like a Britney headline waiting to happen up here. One of those scenarios where you don’t quite know what to say, so you say nothing. But you sit there quietly judging me while I quite willingly self-destruct before your very eyes.

Self-destruct. I know that. In Scat.

I have plenty of friends and not many enemies because who needs an enemy when all you need to do to get bitch-slapped is look in the mirror every day.

Or pop 12 pills of ecstasy in a 24-hour period, go to the hospital and have your stomach pumped by judgmental doctors.

Or quit your job at a time when you really can’t afford to, but you do because you just can’t handle that whore of a boss you report to and you’d really like to fuck her over.

Or sit in your living room with a fire burning in a pan that contains the one and only finished novel you’ve ever written, now being used to light your smoke.

What a joke.

And being up here… It isn’t easy and it isn’t comfortable.

But if I’m not up here doing this, then I’m just gonna be thinking about how I can’t. And that sucks.

So really, who gives a shit if I’m an ant burning on the sidewalk. At least I tried to get to the Blue Slushy, because not trying is worse than being a failure.

And that red-headed little prick really needs his ass kicked!

Blonde Ambition


I remember the exact day that the block began. I was in art therapy and we were discussing how random and seemingly out of left field my ideas are, when all of a sudden my therapist said “but they’re not…. You can actually be very methodical with your art. One might even say rational.”

“Rational… me? I don’t think so.”

“What. It’s like you have something against being rational. Logic has it’s place in this world too, don’t write it off. Some of your art is in the moment, but other pieces I can tell have been conceived and well thought out, meaning that your rational mind played a part and ultimately helped you carry out your vision.”

“Okay… So what are you saying here?”

“Well. I think that you struggle with Left brain vs. Right.”

I lit a smoke in his office, but before he had a chance to bitch me out about it I said “don’t worry, I’m leaving. This is too fucked up for me right now. I didn’t come here to hear about what a boring, logical bean counting fuck I am.”

I sped out of the parking lot and went home to smoke some 10-month-old bud I had collecting dust (and god knows what else) in the cupboard. With my daughters visiting their grandparents, and AJ at a retreat, I had the house all to myself. After a few big hauls, the stress from the therapy session began to wander out of my mind and I sat there happily engrossed in my Tostitos, Cheese Dip and an episode of Seinfeld. You know, the one where they lose the car in the multi-tier parking lot at the mall.

Eventually the room became darker and I realized I had been sitting on my couch watching sitcoms for almost four hours and had absolutely NO original or creative thoughts whatsoever, in fact I think it would be safe to say that I wasn’t thinking about anything. At 11 o-clock I wrote off the day and went to bed feeling lazy and hung from the joint I smoked.

Mornings are always great for me because my fucked up dreams are what fuel my writing, painting, sculptures and other creative ventures. I knew that this day would melt away and tomorrow would bring something new.

And indeed it did.

But by new, it was new in the sense that it sucked. I woke up late from my hazy cannabis slumber and reached for my notebook, which I always keep by the bed.

Now what did I dream about…

Oh, I remember I was at the store, and then my sister was there. Then there was some sort of problem with the cash register and the girl had to put a new tape in. And I think we were driving down our old street in….


I had a BORING DREAM! Nothing happened! It was so relentlessly lame that I can’t even fathom the thought of thinking about it anymore. No scandals, no heart wrenching tragedies, no orgasmic sex, no copious drug use, no serial killers, rapists, or spies. Not even any beautiful scenery. Just me at a LAME FUCKING STORE WITH A BITCH BEHIND THE COUNTER WHO CAN’T EVEN OPERATE A GODDAMN CASH REGISTER.

My hands started shaking. I told myself “Don’t overreact Selina, this might just be an off day… Go have a hot shower, that always helps to get the creative juices flowing.”

I grabbed my bottle of pills and popped a couple extra, then went to turn on the shower. I made it nice and hot, almost scolding. My skin turned Red immediately upon entering. After a minute I adjusted to the temperature and closed my eyes as the water ran down my body. I breathed in deeply allowing myself to be open to inspiration.

Oh look, I’m almost out of Australian Shampoo. I wonder why it’s Australian. I mean is it made from some secret fucking ingredient or something…. Shit I am doing it again. I’m having uncreative thoughts.

Something weird… something different. Oh, I could think about that time I walked in on Darrick with a vibrating dildo up his ass…. Oh no… Don’t go there. Just ewww. No.

I got out of the shower, my skin made me look like a freshly boiled lobster.

Figuring that today would be yet another wasted creative day, I decided not to get dressed, or go out. I sat around my house in my bath robe eating 2 day old Chinese Food and reading The National Enquirer.

My phone rang. It was my therapist, probably calling to give me some tax advice.

“Hey, I just wanted to see if we could reschedule next week. Something’s come up.”

“You cock-blocked me you asshole!”

“What?” he chuckled. “Calm down. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m blocked now. Totally!! Even my dreams are boring.”

“Okay. Well don’t give too much power to these thoughts you’re having. You shouldn’t be thinking like that. Go out and enjoy the day or something.”

Frustrated, I hung up on him and threw my chopsticks against the wall. They landed on the floor like a big “X” further reminding me of what a total failure I am.

My block continued for several weeks. I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t myself, I was pissed off all the time, bored, uninspired, and completely lacking in motivation. Nobody wanted to be around me because I was such a bitch. Even my therapist was walking on egg shells, but at least he knows me and can forgive me when I lash out.

It’s hard to tell what specifically made the block disappear, but I remember thinking about how my daughters dolls all ended up naked with rats nests hair, missing legs, and dirty faces. They looked like homeless hookers who had been knocked around by their pimps. And it didn’t matter what the doll was wearing, or how nice it’s hair was, because in the end, they all ended up the same… dirty and naked.

And that was it. That was what inspired me. Dirty naked Barbies lying around my house like washed up whores. I smiled conjuring up artistic images of dirty dolls.

If I had a dollar for every E I took…


When I look back there is no other movement in history that would really describe or come close to explaining the lifestyle of a Raver. The closest comparison I can make would be to that of the Hippies. Only Ravers weren’t exactly like Hippies, because we were sort of materialistic. We loved our swag, whether it was funky technical backpacks, clothing with secret “stash” pockets, or accessories lined with “fun fur”. We were all about image, music, community and love.

With that sort of openness, naturally came drugs. One can’t possibly keep dancing for 8 hours straight without the aide of some kind of stimulant. Many Ravers (those who indulged in drugs) chose to party with E. Ecstasy is one of those drugs that can make you feel so fucking good, that you almost want to stay like that forever.

I remember meeting strangers in bathrooms, holding their hands (guys, girls, whoever) looking straight into their eyes and smiling at them. I remember telling people I loved them and that they were beautiful. I remember not being afraid of expressing myself, reaching out to people, or telling people what I really thought.

The people in the Rave scene were so profoundly intense and beautiful, that it almost took your breath away just walking into a party with lights, bodies, and music all pulsing simultaneously. People smiling, throwing their hands in the air and feeling the music with every fibre of their being. Although drugs were an aspect of the rave scene, so was safe partying. Everybody encouraged each other to drink lots of water, to pace themselves with their alcohol, and to monitor their drug use. There were even people who would test your E’s for you to make sure they were safe.

I always felt as if I was embarking on a new journey with every party I attended. It never got old despite the number of years I did it. Who would I meet? How would I feel? Would I be feeling the music? The drugs? What weird and wonderful things would happen?

When the rave scene was at it’s peak, it was an exciting time, but as with anything that becomes too popular, it crashed and burned. Eventually cops were everywhere, drug-frenzied youngsters were ODing (some dying), and the media was having a hay day attacking the entire scene.

I remember the last party I attended. I knew it would be my last. It felt like the end of a long love affair. And then, I grew up.

Now, I have kids of my own, and I often wonder if they are going to embark on similar journeys with new drugs and new music and new experiences. And I wonder if they are going to say to their friends one day “my mom was a raver when she was young”. And if they did, what would it mean?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raver + http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rave

Blank Like Me


I stared at myself in the mirror long and hard. My eyes were dark and dead, my skin pale and colourless, and my lips parsed shut in a non-existent expression. I looked down at my hands; my nails had been growing back because I wasn’t biting them anymore. 

I breathed in deeply and exhaled with my eyes shut as I stood before my giant blank stretched canvas. It had been gathering dust for two months. People were starting to notice that I wasn’t painting and began asking me if I was okay.  

The truth is, I wasn’t okay. 

It was usually my emotion that fuelled my painting. My extreme highs or extreme lows coupled with either positive or negative energy. This energy was my driving force. It’s what truly made me an artist and separated me from everyone else. 

I stared at the canvas, glanced over at my brushes, and then looked around the room hoping that some sort of inspiration was there like a hidden Easter egg just begging to be discovered. Unfortunately all I saw was a dimly lit room, a mirror that I’d rather not see, and an ugly blank canvas. Blank like me. Blank like my expression, thoughts, charm and charisma. The canvas didn’t have a clue, and neither did I. 

Desperate to feel something… anything, I reached for a piece of glass that I had been using to texturize my paint. It was Cobalt Blue but had speckles of various paint colours on it from past inspiration, long gone now. It wasn’t as sharp now, having been converted from shard of glass to painting tool, but it was still jagged on one side.

I laid down in front of my canvas on the cold ceramic floor holding the piece of glass in my hand as I stared up at the slow and predictable ceiling fan circulating with purpose. I felt envious of the ceiling fan… It knew what its job was. It did its job without hesitation as soon as the switch was flicked. Where was my fucking switch? 

The cold from the floor sent shivers up my spine and made the blonde hairs on my arms stand on end. Tiny goose bumps appeared all over my arms as I held my forearm in front of my face. I stared at the glass and thought about cutting my arm, maybe then I would feel something. But I couldn’t… I wasn’t even motivated enough to do that. All I could do is lie there, like a dead wilted flower lost in the woods. 

I must have been on the floor for at least an hour. The only thing that got me up was my dry salivaless mouth. I headed to the kitchen and reached for a glass. I opened the fridge to grab the usual, some juice or water. I hadn’t thought about a “drink drink”. I had been sober for months. But I spotted an old reserve bottle of whiskey collecting dust on the top of my pantry and opted to leap off the wagon. 

The first glass burned that old familiar burn. The back of my throat twitched with delight as if to say “where have you been old friend?”

Within an hour, I was absolutely sloppy smashed. I nearly fell down the stairs as I was making my way back to the studio, but clutched onto the banister and saved myself from a very painful accident. 

I started opening my paint aggressively. I squished the paint between my hands, it was cold and slimy. It felt good. I stroked it through my hair, then reached for another colour and wiped it on my face. I stripped down to my boyish underwear and bra and began painting my body in its entirety. My face; Red with Black strokes, My arms; Yellow, My stomach; Blue, My legs: Green. When I was painted head to toe I began smearing the colours and designs into each other to swirl and mix the paint on my body. Some parts were getting dry. My face felt tight like I had just been botoxed, or like when you do when you’re putting on one of those mud masks. 

I sat on the cold floor again as I stared at the canvas, still blank. I was tired, and drunk, and the last thing I wanted to do was paint. I had already convinced myself that I could wash my sheets and shower tomorrow. The paint, now almost completely dry, began cracking on my skin.

My body felt tight and restricted as I staggered to my feet. I was just about to turn off the light and go upstairs as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like something out of Cirque de Soleil, like I should be eating fire somewhere. My droopy drunk eyes sparkled as I smiled and began laughing hysterically.  

My canvas may still have been blank, but I was not.

Mind Your Art


I was back in my old neighbourhood again, the one I grew up in. Only it wasn’t as run down and forgotten anymore. The old low-income housing complex was now replaced with modern freehold townhouses, and the old plaza I used to frequent was now a huge assortment big box stores, all with bright neon signs and grande entrances.

The dimly lit pathway that lead to the park I used to get high in, was now the entrance to yet another newer executive complex of 3 story townhouses. I began walking towards one of the houses, there was a for sale sign on the front lawn. A young stylishly dressed professional woman opened the door and smiled at me. She was giving me a tour.

I gathered from the decorated walls, that she was a designer. There were articles about her framed along with pictures of her posing with influential Muslim women wearing beautifully ornate hijabs. Fabric samples were pasted along side framed articles and photos, in between wall sconces and art.

We walked through the living room. It was a small, eccentrically decorated living room. The television was on, and there was a guy curled up on the couch pretending to be asleep. His hair was spikey, he had big black ear plugs in the holes of his ear lobes and had a stylishly scruffy 9 o-clock shadow. We walked out to the backyard, before stepping out onto the patio, I looked back at the guy on the couch, he opened his eyes and then closed them again quickly.

Next we were walking up the tall staircase. I noticed a gigantic piece of art going up the long wall. It was a Giraffe, quite realistic looking too. We toured the upstairs room by room and began to descend the staircase to the main floor again. I looked at the Giraffe on the wall and was startled when it’s head emerged from the wall and stared at me. It began making threatening noises and moving its neck closer and closer to me. She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs and into her living room, apologizing for her art.

As we were standing in the living room gathering our thoughts, the giraffe slowly entered the room making the same noises that he was making to me on the staircase. I knew he was going to attack. It was eerie and terrifying. She pushed me to the side and began to walk closer to her art, trying to reason with it. Suddenly the giraffe attacked her and took her to the ground, he went for her neck and I saw blood pooling onto the berber carpet. She whispered “it’s okay, just go” to me and I ran out of the house.

“Selina…. Selina… Wake Up”

I shot up from my hospital bed with intensity, sweating in my gown. My two doctors were standing over me with a head device and a remote control.
“Don’t be afraid. This helps us understand your mind. That screen on the wall over there will display your thoughts and play them as a movie for us. You don’t have to think about anything in particular… Just be yourself and don’t worry about what is displaying on the wall, it’s all perfectly normal.”

I breathed heavily, still in shock from the art attack in my dream, as the doctor placed the contraption on my head. I swallowed hard and stared at the wall as my thoughts emerged and the movie began to play.

The doctors stared at the wall intently watching the movie of my mind unfold before them, fascinated and making notes. I closed my eyes and went somewhere else. I didn’t need to watch what I already knew. Perhaps to others it would be shocking or interesting or strange… Not to me, it was normal, comforting, and even safe.

My thoughts drifted back to the giraffe, attacking the woman who showed me her house and her whispering “it’s okay, just go”. I realized, that it wasn’t a dream, it was a story, and she was a character in my mind… She was showing me, not her home, but her mind… her soul. I opened my eyes and glared at the doctors who were currently peering into my mind. But not by my choice, I had no say in the matter. I wanted to protect my soul.

I clenched my eyes tightly and thought of nothing… Blackness. No thoughts, no words, no conversations, no images. Nothing. The screen went blank. I sighed in relief.

“I’m sorry, you’re not invited” I said to the doctors as I threw the head piece down to the floor. “Not today”.