If I write anything, you'll find it after lunch.

Tonight Ren (names changed to protect the innocent, ie. US.), the man who initially showed us the apartment on behalf of Commvesco, dropped by. More to the point, he was pretty much dropped in my lap by roommates who didn't really know what to do with him, but I suppose that's the curse of being considered "the responsible one," (although that's a rant for another night). Anyway, at first Ren just talked about the fact that it was fine we decided to paint our rooms and such (after all, the roof sprung several major leaks during the ice storm such that we were greeted with fairly unsightly water damage to a lot of the existing the paint... the leaks continue to await the contractors they promised us), so long as we sent the company a note promising to repaint before we moved. And that was fine, because we were going to do it anyway. I live with crypt-loving types, the sorts who like their bedrooms as dark and unfriendly as possible, so there was a lot of extreme painting (navy blue and black) going on. I won't even talk about my roommate Ben's room, because it makes me want to cry. To ge fair, even my purple walls, I suppose, might to the unrefined eye be considered undesirable.

Anyhoo, Ren then brought up the unpleasant business of our rent. You see, Ren made a major error when he showed us the apartment last May, which was simply this: although Commvesco manages the building, takes care of collecting rent and providing repairs, they don't actually own the building itself. All they do is manage it on behalf of the actual owner, and I'm sure at a hefty fee. So, acting as a representative of the owner more than Commvesco (although he works for the latter), Ren presented us with the tentative terms of our habitation: the rent for the five bedroom apartment was a thrifty $1300 monthly (among five people it is not at all unreasonable), and we were to be taking up the last three months of the existing lease. In September, according to him, we would have the option to renew at the same terms, with the added bonus that it would be free as we would have paid our last month's rent.

What he neglected to realize was that the owner of the building actually wanted $1800 a month for the apartment, and, being a prick, said owner was mightily pissed that his interests were not being satisfied, to the tune of "Well, you'd better make them pay $1800 a month, because that's how much I want for it" which is a very very bad thing indeed. Ren, being kind of a goof but not an unkind or unfair person, insisted that there was no way we could be expected to pay that much. For one thing, this place just isn't worth that kind of money. I mean, yes it's in the market, yes it's nice, and yes it's big and comfortable, but it's not a luxury apartment, and you don't charge your tenants $1800 a month unless you have something to show for it, like solid gold robots that tuck you in and smite your enemies and play the bagpipes to make men weep. So, the idea was that, since you can't arbitrarily hike the rent during the period of a lease, the rent would go up to an argued-down minimum of $1500 in September, which was still a lot of money. I mean, I could easily afford that (heck, I was paying $325 last year, and I was getting a lot less out of it) but three out of my four roommates are welfare bums (I mean, "students," yeah... that's what I meant... sigh...) and I could see ourselves looking for a new apartment already (and honestly, to move for the first of September, we'd almost have to start looking right now).

I was not to be foiled so easily, however, and fortunately I had a loophole the size of, well, to be honest, the size of my big freaking bedroom that I wasn't about to give up without some sincere fisticuffs. Though you can't really call it a loophole when it's the principal term of a binding contract.

When we signed our lease, Commvesco seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that our lease was supposed to only be for that aforementioned three months, with the option to renew, and instead simply assumed we were going to be occupying the premises for a standard year. Thus our lease, a binding contract, states that we're to be occupants from June 1 1998 to May 31 1999. Commvesco has this extreme inability to get the left and right hands a'talking, like any large company. As it stands, and as it pointed out, the owner of the building can go fuck himself (I apologize for my profanity, but I am extremely irked by this man, whoever he is... and because I was considerably more polite, yet firm, during all of this, I really need to let some hostility out) because we signed a lease stating we get to pay $1300 a month for the next year, and there's not a bloody thing in the world to be done except be glad to take it from us.

I mean, he was counting on the influx of students in September to get this place filled up at the price he wanted, and Ren swore it would never happen and he'd be stuck with an empty apartment because no one is going to pay $1800, and the owner's attitude was simply, "I'll take the chance." Which, and this goes completely contrary to my sugary attitude (cough), really makes me just want to say, "Hey, go to hell you greedy bastard! I'll spit sulphur in yer eye from a lake of fire before I pay you a cent over what I signed on the lease", and frankly it's completely out of our hands, and completely not our problem. If owner boy is mad, he can scream at whoever dropped this plum of an apartment into our laps for such a sweet price while at the same time insuring that we got to stay here for at least a full year.

Bah! Humbug!

Blimey if I almost didn't forget to mention it -- speaking of our posh new digs, check out my room.

Broken here, with another guest snivel for Rob, because after all, boys have to sleep too.

So, our house is over run with ants, which is, say, better than over run with roaches or flies, because all ants really want to do is carry off your lunch. If you happen to be in the way, it's your problem - whereas I swear the more malevolent types of bugs actually seek to annoy you. Rob assures me, most of the annoying bugs only want your blood. We're were thinking about investing in some ant traps, but I believe that an ant farm would be far more humane and just. I mean, we don't have to kill them, but we can trap them in colonies like oppressive overlords till they learn their lesson, can't we? [Hee, hee, hee, look an ant! It's the ant colony for you, my six legged friend!]

(Rob's entry: Actually, they seem to have specifically overrun my room. This is because I have two huge windows which are constantly open, and their major congress seems to be along the vertical heights of our house. Closing my windows gets rid of the ants, but makes my room uninhabitable in this weather. Sigh.)

New additions to the house include a lush orange tree, which is being carefully safeguarded from the cats, and furniture which the cats better damn well leave alone if they know what's good for them. Can you tell that just for awhile, Broken Illusions has gone totally domestic on you? It's not that there's anything wrong with the life of a hausfrau, it's just that most people (me included) never thought I would go that route. Well, there's pride in having a well-kept home where you can have company drop by without having to ram the closests full of junk. There's joy in having your own kitchen, where you can prepare breakfast at 9 p.m. if it suits you. There's delirious bliss in soaking in a bathtub you know for a fact is clean, because, god dammit, you cleaned it yourself! Ah, it's surely the "our first home" syndrome sinking in.

Aside from that, I'd like you all to know that your benevolent Rob is fast developing a nasty case of carpal tunnel syndrome - thank you very much, you snivel demanding masses! Ah, Don't blame yourselves, my dears... It's the keyboard at work that's ruined him. He tells me the board is ever so slightly smaller than a normal board, and this forces his hands into even weirder hovering positions. At home, Rob uses what is called the "Microsoft Natural Keyboard." The keypad is split into two halves on the same board, and it has a curving, slightly rising plane on which to rest your fine and delicate wrists. He'd been lusting after it forever, and when Rob finally brought it home, he took to it like a fish to water. It took me months to get used to it myself, as I am a typist of the 'hunt and peck' order, but I'll say this for it - my arms don't ache after a whole day of typing. Now, Rob is, of course, too proud to wear one of those silly typing wrist braces to alleviate the discomfort, and until better, cheaper technology comes around he won't be telepathically dictating snivels. No, it's the good old fashionned clickety click of the keyboard for Rob.
Boy, what a martyr. (grin)

I never thought I'd long for Winter until this Summer. When people start dropping dead from heat exhaustion, it's time to fill the bath with ice, crawl in, and go to sleep. (Don't do that, incidentally - it's a good way to die.) Hell, even the Canadian government has decided it's too cruel to force its employess to work in this weather! I'm up to three cold showers a day and lounging in front of a fan with ice water just to survive. I resent and envy all of you with air conditionners, you lucky creatures. If you love thunderstorms as much as we do, get out there and do a rain dance. (C'mon, if you really loved me, you'd do it!) I keep eyeing public park fountains with the kind of lust reserved for a great romance.

And, so, this heat having made me so cranky...

I've been thinking about how to have a non-confrontational confrontation with stupid people who really piss you off. Really, it's difficult to let someone know you're angry at them indirectly, unless you take out a page in their favorite newspaper, but really, that's too much effort to spend on people who suck. I've decided the best possible way is to approach a friend of your foe, and ask, "Hey, do you know Joe?" When they say yes, punch them in the head and ask them to pass it along. And run. (Again, don't actually do it. Or do it on your terms. I don't want any angry mail from your relatives once you've been jailed for punching someone!)

My roomies and I were having a satisfying discussion regarding Nature vs. Nurture in the outcome of a person's personality. Sometimes, you can't save stupid people. Sometimes, you just have to get them out of a bad environment and hope that they'll sort it out on their own. Sometimes, you have to grit your teeth and let them be stupid. You're only one man/woman. There's only so much you can do. You're not anybody else's messiah, you know. (And all that pessimistic jazz...) By and large, most of the company I keep is with people who have done a remarkable job of overcoming their genetics and environment. It just goes to show you that natural selection does affect our lives. Now, I wish natural selection would get around to eliminating the people who find their strength in the 'moral majority.'

Moppets, the question of the summer is: "Now that it's all nice and legal, where, oh where are all the topless women in Ontario?" You don't see many out and about - at least not in Ottawa. Here's my theory as to why that is... All we wanted was the right to go topless. All we wanted was the legal support of the de-sexualization of breasts. The moral majority was all set to preach and scream about the ungodly and wanton hoardes of women baring their breasts in public, and all I have to say to that, is "Ha ha, on you!" Sure, breasts have a sexual function. Guess what? They also feed babies. Where's the shame in it? Isn't it natural? Aren't we born naked? And for all the bible-thumpers, remember - God made Eve just as naked as Adam and had them both run naked through Eden. Repression over our bodies leads to nothing but unhealthy attitudes about gender roles and rights. A body itself isn't good or evil - it's the intention in the body.

How could anyone think, even for a second, that the goal of seeking the right to go topless was intended to be an evil force on the world?
a) Canadian summers are the sauna of your nightmares.
b) When it's too hot to breathe, you're not likely to want to wear clothes.
c) When you've shed every stitch of clothing because it's so hot you can't breathe, you're probably not thinking of using your nudity to lure anyone into anything even remotely sexual - because it would mean that someone's warm sticky body might get pressed up to yours and your precious air might be inhaled by some other oxygen pig.
d) Come on, people! Control yourselves! They're just breasts! Here, let me take away their sexual allure: Your mother has breasts! Your grandmother has breasts! Nuns have breasts! Cows and pigs have...well...udders and teats, but you get the idea! Mammals, people, we're all just mammals!

*sigh* Like I was saying, sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and let people be stupid. Which is not to say that you have to be stupid yourself.

Anyway, Moppets, my best regards and stay out of the heat.

-xo Broken.

Consequently, on my way home from work I'll periodically stop in at the Rideau Centre's pet store and procure myself a bag of two or three crickets (just pennies), dump them in with Sartre, and let nature do its dirty work. Crickets are awful little buggers if you ever really look at them up close, and I feel little pity for their deaths in the gullet of an unsympathetic amphibian. That's human of me, isn't it? To rationalize that, if it's ugly, it's perfectly OK if it dies horribly. Mmmm hm. At any rate, last night I got them vitamanized which is just a process of scooping some powder into the bag and shaking the now highly agitated crickets about until they are properly coated in otherwise lacking essential vitamins and minerals. During this I had a brief chance to talk to the clerk about the green tree frogs on sale at the pet store, as she had several of her own and I was extremely curious as to the care involved in keeping them safe and happy -- thinking about buying one or two myself. If you were previously unaware of my deep sentimental attachment to frogs -- all frogs -- then now is the time to learn. Frogs are my most favourite of creatures. When an authoritarian and oppressive state religion is enforced under my dictatorial rule, frogs shall become part of the spiritually elect. It will be punishable by death to bring harm to a frog. I love frogs. When I was four, my father (I was his favourite) would make my older brother and sister scour creeks, ditches, ponds and puddles for the purpose of bringing frogs home for me to play with. He would just give them this look, the dad look, and it would be done. They still, I think, vaguely resent this power situation to this day. Although my love of frogs, guilty though I might feel about that whole phase of my life, has never lessened.

This was the first time I'd brought home these specially fortified crickets. I'd gotten an extra one for free because it was tiny, and because (I like to think, although I'm characterisitcally wrong in these manners) I'm just so bloody charming. I also brought home candy, but it was neither related to the crickets nor the salamander and shall not otherwise be mentioned -- but Broken and I liked it muchly. I put the crickets unceremoniously into the terrarium, and that should have been the end of it, but we were, as always, curious to see if she would be hungry enough to notice them in that certain "voracious" way. They were out of crickets two days previously, and such it was that she hadn't eaten in several days, and was quite possibly starving. Indeed, perhaps it was hunger that motivated her, or the fact that suddenly the crickets were now bright white, instead of casually blending in with the sphagnum moss of her habitat, but she almost immediately noticed their presence. Crickets are smug little monsters, and at first they were brazenly walking on Sartre's head. This didn't proceed for terribly long, of course, as suddenly she started lunging after them and snapping her jaws in pursuit. The crickets scattered, but like a surprisingly dedicated predator (Emperor Newts are remarkably slow and deliberate in their movements. Casually observing them, they will remain virtually unmoving for hours, and might only if you check in on them periodically, have gradually expended enough energy to turn around and face the opposite direction or, if you're away long enough, actually have moved to a new spot), she stalked after them, coming into range and slooowwwing right down until her movements were almost imperceptable. To the mutual amazement of her two keepers, the Salamander then snatched a hapless cricket with a lightning snap of her jaw, and began smooshing it against a rock to both orient its position in her mouth more suitably, and put an end to its steady attempts to escape. With a few movements all that remained was a protruding leg, and then nothing. We'd known her to eat two crickets seemingly in one evening once before, and so, proud as parents, we watched further, hoping she would continue the hunt. However, she was satisfied to remain where she was, perhaps sated from hunger sufficiently to notice that the lights were on and we were staring, quite rudely.

I walked in on her later on the hunt once again, however. Because our house cats are most decidedly bad kitties and because we've been keeping our doors open to accomodate any and all possible breezes in this beastly heat, I was frequently checking to make sure that all was well in Broken's bedroom. At that point, the salamander was quite fiendishly stalking yet another cricket, and but for my interruption she would undoubtedly have seized it. Still, not an hour later, both of the original survivors had absolutely disappear, and the distinctly swollen abdomen of one newt seemed just stretched enough to be holding three meals. We had read that Emperor newts are extremely greedy eaters given half a chance, but I think what was so amazing for us was the sense that Sartre is truly becoming content in her life within the confines of Broken's old aquarium, and faring extremely well. In the face of all adversity, illness, stress, and our inexperience, a small and simple little creature in a matter of weeks has progressed from a hunger strike to actually eating unashamedly in front of our eyes, in daylight. It makes us both feel extremely confident about her chances for a long and healthy life in Broken's (and, less directly, my own as well) care. I really do think that in the hands of any others, poor Sartre might not have survived (possibly succombing to the ravages of the Salamander equivalent of a flesh eating virus), and it's nice to know that although she'd probably be much better off in the wild, we haven't done her any harm by keeping her with us.

It's increasingly becoming my opinion that people are just incapable of taking proper care of animals, especially exotic ones, and its a shame they can be so easily obtained by anyone with sufficient currency and an inclination to think of the creature in question as especially cute or attractive. Certainly owning a pet has tremendous advantages to human and animal alike, but a domesticated dog or cat in comparison to an exotic pet which might not truly be suited to a life in captivity evoke different feelings from me. I don't even want to think about how many ferrets, hedgehogs, iguanas, amphibians, scorpions, tarantulas, chinchillas, and rabbits (and so on and so on into eternity) meet horrible deaths or suffer neglect simply because people don't always put the proper thought into the specific requirements of such high-maintenance animals which are tantalizing and exciting but may quickly lose novelty (especially in the hands of children. NEVER buy children pets under the assumption that they will take good care of them, because they won't), and come attached with unique problems and needs which many people are not equipped to recognize or treat. I think now of the sad hamster burial grounds left behind in houses from my childhood, and I almost wish given us the exclusive dominion over goldfish or insisted that we simply pay more attention to the cats, because as sinister and misanthropic as hamsters are, and as much as my younger brother and I loved them, there has never been made a poorer match in my life than a nine-year-old me and a helpless hamster, and that includes some pretty explosive relationships.

And now, and now I have to go to bed.

For you see, Sunday is at last the much awaited big day I have been anticipating with nervousness, excitement, eros, apprehension, self-doubt, joy, and terror. Sunday, at noon, downtown, Corben (delightful fan and fast friend that she is) and I shall finally meet.

And I'm sure you'll be hearing all about it.

Meanwhile, yet another website has been uploaded to Agriculture Canada's server which features genuine Rob Brand slavery and love. While I did nothing more than exactly as I was told (and with a smile), I do nevertheless feel exceedingly proud of my role in its genesis. If you yourself are proud of me, or want some convenient excuse to facilitate trying, I cannot recomment this to you enough.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

Return to days past for more Classic Drivel.

Back to Purple People Eater Town.