I have a new site now

originally published june 2006, one of the only things from this blog that ever made it anywhere. everything else is archived because it's painfully bad.


1) Most contemporary British writers are obsessed with Shit: Self, Welsh, Amos, Warner. Try reading four pages without running into somesort of detailed description of bodily evacuations.

2) I've got my car back, and my glasses. It's nice to able to see clearly. It's nice to have a shiny red Mazda in plain focus. My friend Chuck And A Half is back from Las Vegas, and he came with me to retrieve my car. My heart was in my throat the whole time, so I was glad to have someone come with me to do it, especially as it looked like I was going to have to do it alone.

3)Pattern recognition : I've just realized that after I date someone, if it doesn't work out, I become a little creepy around them, go to extreme legnths to alienate them, test their patience and how nice they'll be before they finally brand me irredeemable and strange. I have no idea what it's about, and it's way of embarrassing, but it's like a compulsion, like tourettes or something. I've got Creep Tourettes, bourne of insecurity and amplified by problem-solution drinking.

Rot once told me that my behavior is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I think it's more like, I see what's coming and just start acting all weird so I can blame all the failure on my strange behavior, which I know is actually not who I am so that's okay, right. Which I guess is the definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I think the that term suggests I have some control over things,which I rarely do, it usually goes pear-shaped and then I start acting like a jerk. Does any of this make sense? Dr. Phil? Are you out there reading my blog?

When was the last time you cried, Dr.Phil? Is it hard being the "tell-it-like-it-is?" man? Do you regret your massive donation to the Bush 2004 campaign? What about the universe, Dr. Phil? do you stand under the stars and think of Caesar and Socrates and the Witch Hunts and Dinosaurs? Is Dr. Phil a out-of-control T-Rex of the media, that even you, born Phil McGraw, cannot control? You, born under the same sky (yet totally different, because the stars, Phil, they are always dying )as that great Emperor who met the stars' fate by the hand of his brother? Do you think much about that, when you're telling-it-like-it-is?

What would you tell me, about my own self-defeat, Phil? (for surely I could call you Phil, and dispense with this doctor nonsense now that it's just you and I staring atthe stars)

Perhaps I would hand you the last dreg of the warm beer we'd split, and you'd haul on the bottle, look at me, with eyes heavy from alcohol and impatience and just say "Lainey, some people is just fucked up".


4) I am wearing a thick coat of crankiness today.

5) The end.

6) I bet there is a star named for Dr. Phil. It seems like you can't be that famous and not have had someone name a star for you. Perhaps you or I have even made a wish on the Dr. Phil star. Perhaps it shot through the sky (I have seen so many this summer) as I sat drunkenly staring at it. Somebody once told me I was in love with the sky, but maybe it's just Dr. Phil.

7) I just realized this is the second time I've written about the Good Doctor in as many months. Good heavens (pun intended).

8 or 3 continued) And after we'd named the star, Phil, claimed that little piece of the universe for your namesake, I bet instead of feeling larger, we'd feel tiny. We'd carved out another jack-o-lantern eye in the shape of pop culture, but up there, Phil, you're just a tiny ball of dust and ice amongst others, amongst stars named for great-grandmothers,and unjustly cancerous young boys and astronomers driven to madness by dogma and politics. It would be almost democratic up there, in the sky, past the edge of this galaxy... Your currency here and now, the weight you carry after healing marriages and helping self-esteem deprived women shed layers of adipose tissue so as to further help themselves to a plate of galatic happiness, it would mean little: your star would not live longer or appear brighter against the hoards of light pollution that crowds the night sky outside your Texas home. In fact, Phil, such would be it's fate that, given the speed of light and the Dr.Phil Star's distance from us, your star would already be but a memory made of light, dead millions of years before you ever helped Oprah defend herself against the iron fist of the Texas Cattle Industry. So that glow, that glory, like that newly- found self-esteem of your svelte success stopries, would be but an agreed-upon ignorance, a suspended disbelief as tangible as the satellite waves that beam your hairless skull into pixels on my television.

Do you know what the French word for scalp is, Phil? Cuir de Tete. Literally translated to Texan, that means: the leather of your head.

And we are nothing if not literalist, aren't we, Doctor? That's why you and I get along so well. But for this shared illusion of your star, we're a couple of no-b.s. pragmastists.You're always saying "you gotta get real" and, even though I think we can both agree that your authority is just a another example of a shared hallucination, I couldn't agree more we have to 'get' real or 'be real' or act' real' or 'keep it' real ( though the last one is a little street and therefore a bit scary, non?). We're in the foxhole together, friend. Agreeing to concepts of time and space and love and the vain pursuit of self-satisfaction, because if we didn't, our brains might explode, right through the leather of our heads and out for everyone to see.

And if that were to happen right in the middle of a show, or say in the middle of the "JC Penny Jam for Kids" you so artfully hosted, you can imagine the ramifications. Entire spools of understanding coming undone before our very eyes. 'Getting real' would become a sadly ironic slogan to spraypaint on the cliched brick walls of depressed urban ghettos, and hipster-gentrified hotspots, rather than the life affirming rallying-cry it is today. Long fractures of sanity would snake their way through the sub-urbs and then the cities and then, Phil, there would be the unbearable weightlessness of everything depressing it's thumb upon us. Oh Phil Calvin McGraw, holder of doctorate and gatekeeper of western faith, we can't have it happen.

Let's you and I build a house of televisions and watch repeats of M*A*S* H*.

NEW BLOG!!! GO THERE NOW!!!

I have a new blog at elainecorden.tumblr.com, called Dangerfield! I know what you're thinking: why do I need a new blog? How is it different from trifective?

For your edification, pie charts.

Exhibit A: Trifective subject matter :


Exhibit B: Dangerfield! subject matter:
What are you waiting for?

The Tyee's Vanessa Richmond interviewed 6 BC Fiction writers for a piece on young novelists.
I'm technically only a young half-a-novelist,but I was happy to be asked. The piece turned out really well- even if I distinctly remember saying to myself "no talking, just listening" before we went to panel. Bigmouth strikes again.

A Field Guide to the East Vancouver Male

Further to my post below, complaining about how I can't get a date, allow me to draw you a little portrait of the dating landscape in East Van. No, you don't have to deal with impossibly square dudes, or dudes who want to go to the Roxy, or dudes who don't read, or dudes with shitty record collections but it's still ugly.

Most of my girlfriends are married or in serious relationships, but there also lots that are inexplicably single- brilliant, hot, talented funny women who somehow just end up dating wieners. After extensive research, interviews and my own field studies I've come up with a primer on specific types that haunt Mount Pleasant. Should you go on some sort of EV make-out safari, be sure to bring this along with you.




The Carrbon Copy
Six foot plus and beardier than ZZ-top, this Emily Carr student is likely to be found at a electro-dance party or at a backroom art show where most of the work is, like, panda heads drawn on people or some such combination of wide-eyed cuteness and sinister thrash art. Usually surrounded by a pack of adoring young girls, this kid is the star of his college, and has likely had a couple shows of his own, usually involving neon abstracts, "sound collage" or some fusion of the two ("every note frequency corresponds to a colour" he'll inform you). Yes, the Carrbon copy and his hot, lithe body are minor constellations, glittering with youthful idealism and broad shoulders. You'll feel a little intimidated by all the American Apparel-glad starlets around him, but guess what? The Carrbon Copy is into *you*. He's asked you're friends if you're single. He likes older women, you see ( a minor humiliation only if you fall into the bourgeouise trap of believing a woman's age diminshies her attractiveness). He'll light your cigarettes and ignore everyone else around for the whole night. You'll talk art and culture and even though he sounds a bit ridiculous talking "post" and "parallax" that, you'll still kind of want to french him, because he's young and hot and you are bourgeouise and may not get to make out with an eager 23-year-old again. Proceed with caution: the Carrbon Copy is fun for a night but next week there will be some other woman who catches his fancy, and you'll feel stupid for having a crush on a 23- year-old.

Spot him by
-Ruffled, upkempt plumage
-Belmont mild attached to left wing
-Feathers which slightly resemble that of the female Carrbon Copy, thus making him seem lees threatening to prey.

The Emosogynist
You almost feel sorry for this guy. He grew up in some fuck-nowhere town and moved here after college. He still rates U2 and only came around on the gay marriage issue because of Keith and David on "Six Feet Under". He's in the big city now, though, and free-to-be-me styles, he's gone all indie rock- which means a nice haircut and wearing girls jeans and playing in a band that sounds like, hmmm, let's say... Modest Mouse? You probably met him at a Wolf Parade or Arcade Fire show, and after a few cleverly worded exchanges on MySpace, you made a date. The emosogynist will surprise you by paying for drinks, and later surprise you even more when it turns out he's actually not crap in bed. Here's the problem: the Emosogynist, even though he owns L7's first record, still can't quite see you as an equal. It tears him up inside that he wants to fuck someone that's smarter than him, makes him feel like Keith (or David). You'll go see his MOR band, he'll kind of ignore you in that stupid "I invited you but I'm too busy to say hi because that would mean you're my girlfriend" way that dudes in bands do. Every move you make will be interpreted by the Emosogynist as some play to trap him with your vagina, make him your husband, and suck away from jam time, so you can start popping out babies, because, where he grew up, that's what girls do. Don't waste your time with the Emosogynist. He basically wants to marry his mother.

Spot him by:
-Man bangs
-Tight-fitting band t-shirt
-Preference for Paul McCartney as his favourite Beatle. Aversion to Yoko Ono as the bitch who broke up the Beatles.


The Keirketaard
You can find this dude pretty much at any coffeeshop or dive bar on the East Side. He'll be the one in the corner, reading Camus or some shit that blows your mind its so clever. You'll pick up that he's a all world-weary and sad, and he'll pick up that from you, and being a girl, you'll want to take care of this broken bird and nurse him back to health. And they'll be flashes of hope: he'll be funny in a bitter, sarcastic way, sexy as hell and kind of a broken genius. Just lying on the floor listening to Mingus with this dude will feel like the heaviest shit ever. When you finally hook-up (which will take forever, cause dude has no game except being intense), it will be like sleeping with a Dostoevsky novel. This guy is awesome- it's you and him against the world, happy only when you're together. Problem: you're really only allowed to be happy together. He's like the reverse of Vidal Sasoon: if you don't feel bad, he doesn't feel good. Avoid for obvious reasons: don't try to "stick it out" till he gets happy. It ain't gonna happen (except years later, when you see him all happy with some impossibly cute girl, and you kind of die inside).

Spot him by:
-Checking the darkest corner of a party.
-The book he has brought to the bar (see Houllebecq, Murakami, Pynchon)
-Mating call which resembles the sigh of a disaffected 13-year-old girl.
-Refusal to see a doctor about pathological depression, because that shit is all just the pharmaceutical industry trying to control you.

The Chakra Con
A difficult beast to identify, the Chakra Con seems like the most enlightened character you'll ever meet. He's read Jung and the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and believes in magic and meditation without seeming like a waxy fruitcake. He can make jokes and hang bro-styles with the best of 'em, but he also has a sincere streak that says" hey dudes, I don't care if irony is cool, I'm comfortable enough to be myself". Initially intoxicating, the Chakra Con will probably cry in front of you in the first month, or force feed you his poetry, but instead of losing your ladyboner, you'll think "wow, he really *is* secure with himself!" And then.... it will start with little digs about your "discomfort with your body" and progress further into him using the language of spirituality to undermine you-- your consumption of mainstream media, your penchant for diet coke- they're totally bad for your spirit. He's kind of like the new-age equivalent of an evangelical Christian. It will end when he brow beats you into confessing something really vulnerable about yourself, and he decides that's "unhealthy" and dumps you. You will simultaneously feel better and worse about it when you realize you fell for someone who poetry raped you.

Spot him by:
-Distinctive scent of green tea mixed with last night's stale gin.
-Compulsive need to "journal".
-Spontaneous need to show you "correct form" in yoga.
- Copy of "The Secret" at beside table.

The Dog What Done Shat on the Rug
So named because he's so adorable you can't stay mad at him, this mainstay is pretty much perma-stoned and perma-broke. In some ways, he's like a three-legged puppy. Hopelessly at getting anywhere, but too pathos-inducing for you to simply leave it on the street. At first, it will seem cute, and you will find the two bohemians living in poverty thing charming, but be assured it wears off quickly. Hallmarks of TDWDSOTR include standing you up cause he totally forgot and was just, like, jamming with his bros, drinking your beer, "borrowing" your money and all general crimes committed by potheads. This can end one of two ways- his band will actually go somewhere, and he'll dump you for someone hotter, or you'll look at your negative bank account one day and call it a day (who am I kidding- it's always the former).

Spot him by:

-Leave change on your bedside table. Much like the common magpie, TDWDSHOTR will be drawn to hoarding it.
-A hangdog expression which suggests the world has dealt him a severe injustice.
-Mating call involving the description of "his next album/art show"

The Funnest Guy Ever
He's usually an artist or photographer, and you'll be drawn to him because he's so damn charming and FUN. And hot. He's the dude who will flirt with your friends just enough to make you feel self-satisfied, who'll buy rounds, who wants to go play badminton at the beach at three a.m. He's funny and adventurous and always surprising you. Unfortunately, he's also bi-polar. Or an alcoholic. Or a cokehead. Or he hits women. Or all four! Either way,someone ends up in the hospital.

Spot him by:
-Flock willing to party down with him, but unwilling to lend him money
-Rush of euphoria on first encounter, followed by immense guilt
- Empty bank account at the end of your encounter- he's not stolen it. You've spent it all because you get dumber around him.

The Guy You Can't Get it Up For
Treats you well, makes romantic gestures like mix-tapes and flowers that, even though they are sweet, did you really just buy me a bouquet of carnations with red anthuriums and KALE? Do you know me at all?? How dare you show me love and kindness.May or may not employ baby talk.

Spot him by:
Makes you cringe, basically.
Wide-set, doe eye innocent expression.
Urge to kick/ destroy it.
Waves of regret following encounters.
Grammatical errors you would forgive in anyone else but will not for him.

Pathologically Anti-Establishment Guy
A sort of hybrid of the Chakra Con and the Kierketaard, this guy has no moral compass of his own, so he's just down on everything. People who succeed are sell-outs, people who like to dress nicely are materialistic but people who want to drink sailboats in the park are a-ok. This is the guy who hates every paper in town but would bend over backwards for some column inches in it. At first it seems cool that he hates everything you hate, but then you realize he just hates himself and doesn't want to see anyone happy. Toxic. Possibly the easiest to dump.

Spot him by:
-Contempt for your work
-Willingness to spend the proceeds of your paycheque
-Pre-tied tie hanging on the backj of his doorknob, likely tied by previous girlfriend or IT-eomployed roommate who has been supporting him since they were 12.



*************

I'm sure there's more, but I'm kind of done with this b/c it's depressing me. And yes, I know that's I'm fucked and crazy, too, but that's not the point. I've seen better women than me fall prey to this bullshit. And lest it seem like I'm tarring the whole male gender with a 'toxic' brush, none of my dude friends fall into these categories. It's just ugly out there, is all I'm saying.