I just accidentally, er, doubled the amount of dextromethorphan (cough suppressant) than I should normally have. Side-effects? Dissassociative hallucinations.

Fuck.

I don't know why I keep doing update posts about how retarded/sick I am, maybe as a log for coroners when I inevitably OD on NyQuil and am sent drooling into the grave?

Anyway, in the last few days I've been been in full sick-at-home mode. That means: tons of tea, 70s TV (Charlie's Angels and Alice, mostly), cartoons (mostly Pokémon... I'm looking at you, Katie), choosing a new place to sleep in (I'm in the spare bedroom rather than my room right now), wearing the same clothes for days on end, and most of all, cuddling with my favourite teddy bear, Teddy.

What do you guys do when you're home sick?

As for now, bring on the hallucinations.

I'm getting tested for pneumonia tomorrow! Yay!!

I was coughing blood earlier (only a little; I was not a fountain, as appealing as that image may be.) A part of me -- a small, opera-geek part -- kind of wants it to be tuberculosis so I can be dramatic and collapse in a fit in my lover's arms and die to music set by Verdi.

And the rest of me kind of just wants to get better.

The stupid thing is the rest of me feels a-okay and I'm rather energetic and somewhat cheerful.

Mystery illness, I shall fight you yet!

Okay, so.

The weekend was an adventure. As you could tell in my last post, I had a fever. Well, on Friday my temperature hit 104.2°F and my neck was in extreme pain, so much so that I could barely move it at all. Those are the two main symptoms for meningitis, so we went to the E.R. For all I've heard about our awful health care, I was treated quickly and efficiently. They got me some Vicodin for my neck... and I suddenly became a genius doctor with a maverick streak!

Okay, so they gave me the choice of if I wanted to do a lumbar puncture to check for meningitis. I was feeling better at this point (er, possibly due to Vicodin?) and opted not to, as I was missing a few other key symptoms (mood swings, severe headache, etc.) so they took my blood and checked for other possible things... mono (again, Jesus Christ), strep, West nile, lyme disease... they also did a not-quite-X-ray -- the one that checks your muscle tissues rather than your bones. They found that my lymph nodes were almost the size of tangerines (I mean, that was pretty obvious considering how enflamed my neck was) but my nodes were pressing against nerves and shit in my neck and that was causing all the stiffness and pain and such. So they gave me some more Vicodin and a treasure chest of antibiotics and some stuff to reduce the swelling in my lymph nodes.

Anyway! I am feeling better now. It seemed it was just a bad viral flu, and it has turned into just a bad bad cough now. So my weekend was mostly being doped up on Vicodin and watching 70s TV and Pokemon and sleeping. Alas, no more Vicodin, so my maverick genius doctor streak has gone... which is too bad, I was this close to curing cancer.

Um. How's your life?

Any doctors in the house?

Is a fever of 103.7°F cause for concern?

'Kay, so I'm back from England/Ireland, obviously, but this is not A Post About It -- that will come later. As you can tell from my last post, I'm in the midst of Bluesfest -- actually, today's the first day I didn't go, though I'm not sure I will tomorrow, I only really am mildly interested in seeing the Black Crowes. So far I've seen, er, tons of people actually: Feist, Zappa Plays Zappa (without a doubt the best concert I've ever seen, ever), Snoop Dogg, Matthew Good, Stars (and about 10 minutes of Fergie)... and more to come. That's a post for another day, though!

Right now my Canadian family is over and are all kinda tipsy and it's rather wild and weird as there is no video game device to keep my cousins busy. But it got me thinking about my grandparents since they are here, and they are not part of this Canadian family (being my mom's side, and the cousins are my dad's) and are being overwhelmed by the insanity of my family.

I love my grandparents. More than my parents, more than anyone. I love them more than I've loved anyone. I won't hear a single word against them, not from my dad, nor my mom, no matter how my grandparents try to interfere in that very Jewish way they have. I love them without condition.

And really, I've never met people as loving as them. It's loving to the point of suffocation, love that manifests itself in beauty and warmth and annoyance and fun in equal measure. They're the ones who inspired me to listen to classical music, then opera, and they're still the people I go see plays and concerts with. They love art, and theatre, and architecture. My grandfather was an amazingly talented artist before he lost most of his sight (and is still on the board of directors at the National Art Gallery of Canada). They bring out the art in me, much more than my more bougeois parents. I don't think anyone has done as much as them for my ... personal development, I guess you could say.

More than that, they're the bravest people I know. They're Jewish. My grandmother was born in 1926, in Budapest, Hungary, and my grandfather in 1923. They lived there until 1956. Yes, that means they endured World War II. Comparatively, I suppose they were lucky. Budapest didn't truly give over their Jewish population until 1944, at which time, in only three months, 500,000 Jews were sent from Hungary to concentration camps. In the following half-year, another 400,000 Jews were rounded up, including the Budapest Jews -- my grandparents included. Both of my grandparents went to Auschwitz, the evidence of which survives on their forearms. The statistics, the could-have-been is astounding... a full 90% of the incoming Hungarian Jews were killed on arrival. By some chance -- the same "chance" that makes me most believe in God, I suppose -- my grandparents were spared. My grandfather was actually a favourite of the commandant of Auschwitz, Arthur Liebehenschel, and did sketches and paintings for him (one of which still survives, and I've seen), much like the movie The Pianist. They were both spared death during their time in Auschwitz, but they still refuse to speak of their time there, a point on which I've never, ever pressed them (for obvious reasons.) In 1945, they were liberated. They were two of the 200,000 Hungarian Jews who survived the Holocaust. Yes, one in five odds, and they both survived. Luck, maybe, or something else...

The rest of my family were not so lucky. My grandfather was one of nine siblings; four boys and five girls. Of his family, he was the only one to survive the Holocaust. He lost his parents, and thirty-five cousins, aunts, and uncles. My grandmother lost her father, four siblings, six aunts, five uncles, and twenty-two cousins. These are the only numbers we have confirmed, I'm not sure who else we lost in it; the massacre of Hungarian Jews, coming so late in the war, was not well recorded. It's weird to think that Hitler has a direct, almost first-hand impact on my family. But he did. Entire branches are missing because of that man (if I can call him that.) Dozens of family members I could have known, loved, befriended are gone because of that man. I can't reaonsably express how it makes me feel. I think all Jews are united in this feeling... inexpressable rage, an anger that truly hurts, and, worst of all, a longing that will never, ever go away.

But then I see my grandparents. How much they've gone through, and still they love, and still they enjoy the arts, and spread that love to me. How they have that strength, that inner-valour and inner-beauty despite what they've gone through floors me. How can they live so peacefully, and beautfully? How can they be filled with a love that was most extremely denied them? I don't know how. I don't know how they endured, how they continue to live with that awful shadow above them...

It's hard for me to talk about the Holocaust without crying. It's such a powerful issue, it's such a one-sided issue... it's what drives me to be the Zionist I am, it's what pushes me to be so proud of my Jewish heritage, it's, for lack of a better term, what helps define me as person and a Jew. Is that a good thing? For such suffering to supply me with a reason, an actuality, a personality, a soul? Am I taking advantage of the suffering of fellow Jews for my own sake? It's hard to be Jewish and not relate to the Holocaust in some way, I guess... am I too overly-pampered and overly-priveleged to relate to the suffering of my ancestors?

No, I don't think so. My grandparents tell me, time and again, that they lived and endured so that their children, and their grandchildren, and their great grandchildren could live in the world we live in now. A world with a free Israel, a land where anti-Semitism is scorned as an ancient way of thinking, a world where Jews live happily in a mixed society. My friends know I'm a Jew and they're fine with it, joke about it even. It makes me happy, and more than that it makes me proud. Of where my people of come, and how Europeans and North Americans have changed, how the human race has changed. I don't feel like there could ever again be a climate where Jews would be persecuted as they were before and during World War II. Certainly, there are still a lot of issues, a lot of trouble and strife, but I think finally the human race is working in greater cohesion, and a part of me, a large part of me (even despite my cynicism), thinks that this too will come to a peaceful conclusion.

I've come a long way from the story of my grandparents. I'd like to end with them though, and how much love and hope they've given me. This entire post is inspired by them -- my pride in my Jewish heritage, my belief in Canada and the United States of America, and my belief in a one-day peaceful world. How two people who came from the worst period of human history ever inspired this is truly a tribute to the Jewish spirit, the human spirit...

I leave you with this quote from Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, spoken by the Jewish priest Joseph Kaiyapha (Caiaphas) when told by Pontius Pilate that neither he, nor the Jewish people, would ever have peace:

"I know, I know!" fearlessly replied black-bearded Kaiyapha, and his eyes glinted. He raised his hand to heaven and continued: "The people of Judea know that you hate them with a black hatred, and you will bring them much suffering, but you shall never destroy them utterly! God shall protect them!"

...
Own a pet octopus.
Go to Iceland.
Smoke weed at a Snoop Dogg concert.
Take a roadtrip through Mexico.
...

THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!

Beautiful game, fantastic. Torres is a genius as always, and Ramos too, and even ickle Senna and Xavi.

A por ellos oe! A por ellos oe! A por ellos oe!

Been loving Spain since 06, and finally my beautiful Spaniards have goddamn won something. Fuck yes! Good tournament, good games all around. AHHHHhhhhhhhhhh celebrating in Lahinch, Ireland for a Spaniard victory, sometimes I kind of love sports.

Things!

- SUCK IT, ITALY. Spain all the way, baby.
- I love my huge, loud, annoying, mostly tipsy family. They are wonderful.
- Boxing is actually really surprisingly fun to watch.
- So is horse racing.
- I am going to Blackpool tomorrow.
- Ireland in two days!
- I have been spending way too much of my free time playing Harvest Moon.

Yay!

Since today is apparently Meet Famous People Day:

- I met Jamie Bell today! I say met, but what I mean is walked past on Fleet Street and nodded curtly to him. He was short and cute and fuzzily unshaven and was wearing a fedora.
- I met a Ferrari F430 today! I say met, but what I mean is walked past on Fleet Street, and gleed wonderfully, and stood and watched it growl through traffic and it was blue and was wearing a fedora.

I can't decide which was more awesome!

SHORT LIVEJOURNAL ENTRY FROM ENGLAND:

I have a Sarah, and I have a Jessica.

We are on our way from Oxford to London. No, seriously, I am writing this from the top of a double-decker bus that is bringing us to London. And no, I'm not kidding, for some reason the OxfordTube bus things have wireless. Great success!

I think that's it.

Stay gold, pony boy.

OKAY SO##

SARAH AND I ARE DRUNK ON POWER!!!! AND ALOCOHOL BUT MOSTLY ALCOHOL.JESS IS SAD AND THINKS PEOPLE ARE HOT WHEN THEY ARNT

UMMMM# WE WENT TO SHEFFILED (UNIVERSITY) SHEFFIELD, RATHER AND THEY HAD A FINAL YEAR END DRINK PARTY THING WHATEVER. WE HAVE BEEN DRINKING SINCE 7 PM ANBD IT IS NOW NO LONGERR 7 PM IT IS 3 AM.##

I CHATTED UP A FRENCH GIRL WHO SAID I WAS THE NICEST PERSON BECAUSE IM CANADIAN. CANADIAN PEOPLE ARE NICE AND LEND LIGHTERS. HOW TO CHAT UP GIRLS: DRINK WHISKEY AND SMOKE, THEY LIKE WHEN YOU GIVE THEM CIGAROOS.
#
SHE WAS FRENCH.##

OH JESHYUS CHRIST.#

AND NOWWWW WE HAVE TO GET UP IN LIKE FOUR HOURS CAUSE WE HAVE TO PACK AND THEN I AM GOING TO OXFORDDDDDDD WHICH IS NOT IN SHEFFIELD. IT IS IN OXCFORDSHIRE. NOT SHEFFIELDSHIRE.

OKAY!!1111 HOPE EVERYTHING IS OKAY! WITH YOU? IM GLAD

GOOD NIGHRTIHS!¬

sarah SAYS HI HELLO and jess is lame with spencer?!?!

So, I'm going to England tomorrow! (Surprise!)

Which means, like, I'll be gone until July 3rd!

What am I doing? Flying out on the 9th, landing on the 10th. I'm taking a train down to Cambridge while my parents are flying off to Portugal. I'm in Cambridge, alone, until the 11th when Jess (oh my God Camilla three days) comes down to see me. On the 12th, we go off to Sheffield to see Sarah, who by then will have finished exams. On the 14th, we're going to Oxford (or something like that) and then, at some point, going to London, I think. On the 20th, I leave them (BOO) and go up to see my family in Manchester. So yes, I'm pretty much running all over fucking England for a week. After seeing my family, my parents and I join up and go to Ireland, where we run all over fucking Ireland for a week and a half (seriously: Dublin, Cork, Belfast, Donegal, Limerick... I think that's it.)

And on July 3rd, back home! Just in time for Bluesfest, which I just got my pass for, and which goes on until July 13th.

... it's going to be a busy, busy month.

It's my sisterwife's birthday today. She is the most wonderful, beautiful, fantastic human being on earth. She's everything good about life: she's fast and fun and witty as fuck; she's good behind a wheel and looks killer in a bathing suit; she's three a.m. conversations and four hours on the phone; she's brilliant and sweet and more than a little cruel; she's a garlic-munching, Jew-killing hot piece of ass; she's a coquette chef d'œuvre; she's my dream, my wish, my fantasy, my hope, my love, and everything I need; she's la forza del destino; she's the top, she's the Coliseum, she's Napoleon Brandy, she's a summer night in Spain, Garbo's salary, celophane, sublime...

Happy birthday, love.

So, my phone had died (yes, I have the reverse Midas touch and all my electronics have turned to coal) and I forgot to transfer my contacts to my SIM card. If y'all could comment with your phone numbers (I will screen comments) that would be fantastic.

So, my laptop is falling apart and my power cord is dying (again, for the third time) and the hinges are busted and I want a newwwww one.

Advice? What do y'all use? Do you like it? What should I buy? I refuse to use a Mac, but everything else is game. I'm looking for something cheaper than, uh, $1500, and I don't need it to do anything special as I only use it to write and internet.

I was talking with Grace the other day about ideal places. I've noticed, through conversation, that everyone seems to have one certain place, a city or a country they've either been or wish to go or have read about in books, a place that represents everything good with the world, everything worth living for. It's the place that, when things get shitty, you dream about. It's a place that means everything is all right and okay, as long as you get there sometime. It's the place that at -- oh, 1:27 a.m. -- you look up flight prices for, and click that little "one-way ticket" button, maybe just to see how much it would be.

I could go to Santorini, Greece tomorrow for, oh, $700.

I just got $5000 in inheritance.

There are three seats left.

Hmm.

Hi, so I haven't posted in a long time. Ach. I've been meaning to make this post for several hundred years but I've only just found the time (er, and will). I know there's a bunch of new people reading my blag, so hi to you, if you've got any questions about me, throw em right here.

Spring is here! Actually, considering the sun has just set here right now and I'm writing this on my deck in shorts and a T-shirt without feeling remotely chilly (it's 22.0°C) pretty much means it's summer. I know Canadians bitch endlessly about the weather, and I do too (I mean, this year was an almost-record-breaking year for snowfall, and the cold lasted deep into March and it felt like summer would never, ever come...) but holy hell, when nice weather comes, you can't help but love every second. I think that's what I love about the dichotomy in Canadian weather; when you've got the worst fucking winters any human being should be exposed to, the spring is just made all the more glorious. People who don't think Seasonal Affective Disorder exists doesn't live in Canada. January and February and March made me want to kill myself, but a sunny day in April (like we've had for the past week) is enough to instantly make my day. Nothing can touch me when we've got weather like this. Trust me, smiling and feeling happy for no other reason than you're awake and it's nice outside is a great fucking feeling.

So yeah. With this weather, can't help but feel summer is either here (it's not, the temperature is dipping back into the teens soon, I think) or very very close. Coupled with the fact I'll be done exams in a week and I'm getting really excited about my plans for the next four months. Here they are, in convenient bullet form:

• road trip to Mont-Tremblant in early May
  
• trip to England, Ireland, and Portugal (to see Claire and Sarah! and family) on June 9th - July 3r
  
• Bluesfest! (the only reason to live in Ottawa -- ZAPPA PLAYS ZAPPA IS COMING!!!!!!!!!)
  
• Camping... if Josh motherfucking plans it
  
• possibly road trip to St. Louis, Missouri with Grace

So, lots of stuff to look forward to, lots of stuff to plan, lots of good shit happening. And lots of driving, which leads me nicely into my next little bit.

DRIVING. Er, not much of a segue. In any case, as some of you might know, I got my license late, back in October. Great, so the first driving experiences I had was on snow. But even despite the shitty, shitty weather, I developed an interest in driving, and cars in particular. I made a resolution to myself that the first nice day of spring, when the snow was half-melted and green things were sparking up, I'd go on a long, enjoyable drive. I did that in late March, and ever since I've been absolutely addicted to driving. Now, I'm not talking about purposeful driving here (that is, set destination and time), though that can be fun too. What I'm talking about its aimless driving on country roads, with no rhyme or reason, just blasting along with the windows open and music playing. I've never had something in my life I've loved as fully and totally as driving. It's one of the biggest and most genuine pleasures in my life. I can't explain why; sure, there's adrenaline in the speed (though, my little Corolla can only hit a top speed of 155 km/hr, bless it), but it's more than that. It's.... agh, I can't explain. Just do it for yourself: get a nice long driving music playlist (though, today's playlist consisted of one song played on repeat: ), get a full tank of gas, open the windows, find nearby country roads, and just go. Who cares if you get lost: you're in a car! I've done a whole bunch of these trips, usually between an hour and two hours each, and it's one of the best ways I can fathom of spending my time. Go fast, go long. It's great.

So, along with driving, I've been getting pretty seriously into cars. I love cars. I love, love cars. Even though I might say some car is terrible (...cough, cough, Kia Rio...), I think cars are just superb pieces of engineering. How else can you combine brilliance of technical construction and the beauty of art? And trust me, some cars are art... beautiful, powerful, enormously expensive, incredibly fantastic pieces of art. I'm beginning, slowly, to assemble my Fantasy Ten Car Garage; that is, if I had a billion zillion dollars, what cars I would put into my garage. I've got a few picked out, but there's way too much to choose from. That'll be a later post.

WHAT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT NOW IS MY DREAM CAR. Which, if you've talked to me in the last three months, you might know is the LAMBORGHINI GALLARDO SPYDER. Yes, I am actually twelve years old. This car. Holy shit, this car. There's nothing like it. Nothing. I love a lot of cars, and I had a favourite before this one (the now second place 1974 Jensen Interceptor convertible), but I've just become more and more in love with the Gallardo, and with Lamborghini as a whole. Visually -- well, shit, just look at it. And the sound... Josh and I were talking, and it pretty much sounds like a choir of angels are being sucked into the engine and minced. Yes, this car does not run on fuel, it runs on angels. But, Christ, it's something else. It's more than a car, more than just four wheels. It has a personality, an identity, a power. And, without a doubt, it is the most magnificent thing I have laid eyes on.

And I have laid eyes on it. Twice actually. The first time was at the Ottawa Auto Show that I went to with Josh back in March. There, they had a stunning red Gallardo Spyder and an orange Lamborghini Murciélago (which I am fond of, just not nearly as fond as I am of the Gallardo) they had a couple Lotuses there too (an Exige and an Elise if I recall), but that Gallardo honestly took my breath away. We spent a good twenty to thirty minutes just staring at it. It was the my cellphone wall picture for a month. We asked if we could sit inside (obviously, no) but wow, what an experience.

AND THEN. Last week, I went down to Starbucks to study for an exam. I was sitting outside drinking my coffee, listening to music, when I saw a car pull up maybe thirty meters from me. It was a bright yellow Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder. Honestly. In Kanata. In Ottawa, for fuck's sake. I couldn't hear the engine noise, as I had music, and by the time I turned it off, it was stationary. Mesmerized, I walked over to it (this is sounding like an article to Penthouse). The driver was in the nearby health food store, and his girlfriend was still in the car (you never, ever leave Lamborghinis unattended. Ever.) so I asked her if I could take a few pictures. She said go right ahead, so I did. As I was taking pictures, the car began to attract attention (duh) and people were asking the girlfriend about the car. She didn't know much, so I ended up giving the run-through: 5.0L V10, 0-100 km/hr in 4 seconds blah blah blah. The girlfriend said, "So you're really into this car, eh?" So I was like "IT IS MY DREAM CAR" (I had lost all capability of controlling my voice at this point). Then her boyfriend came out of the shop, and she told him that I was really into it, so he asked me... he asked me if I wanted to start it. I think I answered something like "OH FUCKING HOLY GOD IN HEAVEN THIRTY NINE POUNDS OF YES." So I sat in it, turned the key, and felt the engine (it's a rear engine, so you could feel it right behind your back) roar to life. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. The sheer power of it, the wheel under my hands, to feel as the clutch popped under my foot, the exhaust notes as I revved the engine (I REVVED A LAMBORGHINI)... Someone once said that eating foie gras to the sound of trumpets was their idea of heaven. For me, it's driving that thing listening to Frank Zappa.

As I explain it to people, you don't see a Lamborghini, you meet one. Well, I met one. I shook hands with it. The driver clearly knew he was making my day... week... month... year... and boy did he ever. I was grinning like an idiot for the rest of the day. I've got a picture of me in a Lamborghini on my cell phone. Seriously, guys, there's nothing I've experienced in the last ... forever that has made me that blissfully happy. It's like meeting your heroes, but this hero didn't disappoint. He roared and he growled and he was fucking gorgeous. Yes, this is an unfathomably long love letter to a car, but seriously, it was ... absolutely something else. I can't begin to describe it in words. I just hope everyone gets to have an experience like that. Fwah.

Er. I think that's it. Sorry this is so long. But guys. A Lamborghini.

(During an MSN conversation with Josh as I write my Victorian Literature essay.)

Me: and I am falling back on the age old method of essay writing and using "that is" and "thus" and "once again" to start every sentence
Josh: i hate doing that, try new ones like "the reason for that is..." or "this event was made possible because"
Alex: of your generous donations? my essay will sound like a PBS advert
Josh: "and now, here's betty white to tell you what you'll be getting in return for supporting this essay"

Long post ho! I haven't talked for ages, so here is a long what-I-did, what-I'm-thinking, what's-coming-up thing.

( In my life )

( Politics )

( Supernatural, Jus in Bello, tl;dr )

GIVE ME YOUR FAVOURITE DOCTOR WHO FIC. RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW!!!!