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Happy B-Day MP!

That's right, it's been a year already!

In accordance with the promise I made to myself a year ago, I'm doing the Proust Questionnaire every year on this day.

Happy birthday Marcel!

Proust Questionnaire – Michael Lyons, age 20

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

A warm summer day, a lovely boy and a good book.


What is your greatest fear?

That I’m turning into my mother.


What historical figure do you most identify with?

Judy Garland.


Which living person do you most admire?

Nina Arsenault.


What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Allowing myself to feel inadequate at all times.


What trait do you most deplore in others?

Pushing their hatred and fear on the world.


What is your greatest extravagance?

Hair bleach.


On what occasion do you lie?

Whenever it seems necessary.


What do you most dislike about your appearance?



What is your favorite journey?

Into the imagination.


What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Religious faith.


Which living person do you most despise?

The hypocrite in us all.


Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

“Oh girl.”


What is your greatest regret?

That I didn’t come out earlier.


What or who is the greatest love of your life?


When and where were you happiest?

Laying on a bench backstage at Buddies during a tech rehearsal.


Which talent would you most like to have?

The ability to sing, especially opera.


What is your current state of mind?

Mild anxiety.


If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

That I would not have to worry about money so much!


If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

That I could be more honest with all of them.


If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?

A lesbian.


If you could choose what or who to come back as, what would it be?

An androgynous supermodel.


What do your consider your greatest achievement?

Surviving this far.


What is your most treasured possession?

My ever growing library of books.


What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Resigning yourself to daily misery.


What is your most marked characteristic?

My hair.


What is the quality you most like in a man?

Being easy going.


What is the quality you most admire in a woman?

Glamour, kindness and confidence.


What do you most value in your friends?



Who are your favourite writers?

Joey Comeau, Gregory Maguire and Margaret Atwood.


Who is your favourite hero of fiction?

Glinda the Good Witch.


Who are your heroes in real life?

Any unapologetic queer person.


What are your favourite names?

Algernon and Elphaba.


What is it that you most dislike?



How would you like to die?



What is your motto?

“Bitch, please.”

Shrillest Highs and Lowest Lows

Stolen from someone's lj, because I love this shit:

The problem with Live Journal is that we all think we are so close, but really, we know nothing about each other. Hence, I want you to ask me something you think you should know about me. Something that should be obvious, but you have no idea about. Then post this in your LJ and find out what people don’t know about you.

If you have any questions, as many as you want, ask away. I'm an open book and I love talking about myself.

P.S. Sorry, I never write in this thing. I don't really have an excuse beyond blaming York University, the flu, theatre, a stupid boy and unemployment. That's as good of an update as anyone can expect.

Feb. 15th, 2009

I feel like putting a hole through something.

There Will Come Soft Rains

A poem by Sara Teasdale:

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;


And frogs in the pool singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white;


Robins will wear their feathery fire,

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;


And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.


Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly;


And Spring herself when she woke at dawn

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Personal Ad

Completely unrelated to anything I have decided that if I had personal add it would be like this:

Single, white, twenty year old gay male. I am seeking a cisman, man, transman, transwoman of any race for a slightly monogamous relationship. I would like someone who is mutually more interested in literature then sex. Must be well read, intelligent and looking to give and receive unconditional love. No drama please. If you're good looking it doesn't hurt.


Earlier tonight my friend Carly and I were sitting watching television. We'd just finished Children of Men (which I'd seen before but she hadn't) and we were channeling surfing (as we usually do after watching a movie together, which usually finishes with us watching Sex in the City at 1:35 AM). As usual Carly was picking the shows, because if it was up to me we'd be watching the Discovery Channel or All About Eve (which always seems to be on in the early morning). We settled on LA Ink, which is okay with me, I suppose. It's a pretty standard show formula, a bunch of people and at least one famous person comes in to get their tattoo done, each telling some sort of beautiful or inspirational story and with each artist's reaction to said beautiful or inspirational story, meanwhile there is an encompassing narrative of some sort of drama or obstacle the employees at High Voltage Tattoo need to deal with and/or overcome. Pretty basic as far as that kind of show goes, but I suppose it's nice enough and the tattoos are cool.

Anyways, as we were watching this a woman got a WBC belt tattooed to her back, the lead singer of All American Rejects got his dog inside of a banana tattooed to his lower leg, one of the employees got a flower and monarch butterfly added on to an existing tattoo and a woman got a crazy barrage of symbols in her life tattooed to her back. It was somewhere between the dog in the banana and the final woman's tattoo artist's nightmare that I mentioned to Carly how I can't imagine myself getting a tattoo. I find the idea of getting a pet tattooed on kind of silly and not a good long term investment, as the pet's going to die in a few years anyways, so why tattoo what you could simply keep in picture form? The symbols of the woman I found kind of cliche. I mean, come on... how many times have flowers, hearts, birds and kanji been permanently been injected into the skin of millions?

Of course I didn't say this to Carly, who has the drama masks tattooed to her leg and some platitude on her hip. Which is all well and good for her, I mean, I feel like I'm just being condescending about people with "cliche" symbols tattooed. If there is some enduring, much used symbol that you feel the need to have forever engraved into your body then more power to you, but I'm just not that kind of person.

Of course it may be my fear of needles, or my aversion to permanence that has me dissing tattoos, but this doesn't mean I haven't thought about this before. I find tattoos cool, especially well thought out, meaningful tattoos. And I'm sure that having your pooch, or a pixie standing on top of a pile of flaming skulls which symbolizes overcoming alcoholism and a number of other personal demons are very much thought out. I mean, you're going to have them for life! If I was to get a tattoo, though, I just don't know what it would be. So what are some things that are important enough in my life to have them drawn into my skin?

My first thought is, off course, something to do with theatre and performance. NEVER, though, would I EVER consider the drama masks. I mean, puh-lease. Where will you find a more cliche and unoriginal symbol? (No offense, Carly.) And the limitations of the symbol. Happy and sad. Not for me. And, at this moment of my life, I cannot think of a symbol from my experience in performance that I would want on my body permanently. How does one convey a drag queen in a symbol? A gigantic wig? False eyelashes? A martini glass with lipstick smudges? I mean, you just can't manifest biting sarcasm, sincere bitchiness and exagerated bitterness into an image of having Divine's face inked onto your right ass cheek. Now THAT would be a story to tell the grandkids. So no, for now, no enduring symbol of my sequined sisters.

So now onto my next love, which is that of words. Of literature. Of ideas. Of scripts and novels and novellas and dialogues and et cetera. But how do I instill all of this down into one, simple, non-cliched image? It was pondering this while I was cleaning the stove later in the evening that I thought of it. One simple word that I may possibly consider having tattooed. That word is "lovely". It is a word I use often enough, usually on it's own. It can be used as a noun, "My lovely," or an adjective, "You're lovely." It can be used, as I often do, sarcastically, "Michael! The world is going to hell! Everything is polluted, the atmosphere is fucked, everyone hates one another and your milk probably went bad today!"


However, thinking about it now even that seems silly. What happens when lovely is not how I feel, either sarcastically or otherwise. Maybe I should just get a tattoo that is a line and underneath the line in very small writing it says, "WORD," like a madlib and people can fill it in however they want. Or maybe, in the end, I'm just not ready or meant to have some enduring symbol or imaged permanently engraved into my body.

Sorry Kat Von D.


So in celebration of Obama's first day in office I had a dream about him.

In the dream my roommate Ally, her grandmother (who I have never met) and I were in a really big evangelical church at a Christmas celebration. There was a lot of energetic singing and shouting and general praising of the Lord, but Ally and I weren't really enthused. However soon after this the energy was taken down a little during a number of drag queen numbers who sang sultry and sexy Christmas songs. Wouldn't you know it, the United States of America's freshly elected president did a gorgeous rendition of "Silent Night" in a long dark black wig, a rose colored dress and matching heels.

At the end of the celebration I noticed my family standing near the door. I went up to them and asked them how long they'd been there. My mother replied, "We came in when Obama was doing his number."

Michelle must've been proud.

Of the holidays...

Bad BeginningsCollapse )

Read from the bottom up, facebook style. Copy and pasting was a lot simpler then ranting about it all over again. I'm over it. All that matters is in the end I got Priscilla.

It seems that the malaise I took on at York has carried over with me into the New Brunswick holidays. After the madness of traveling home I spent a couple of days sitting around. And then after that I spent another few days sitting around. And I've continued this sitting around up until today. I've been doing stuff, I suppose. I hung out with friends a few days and... well... that's about it. Haven't left the house other than to do some Christmas shopping at Walmart tonight. But why would I want to leave the house? It's the fucking North Pole out there. I feel guilty though. Everyone keeps saying, "It must be nice, being able to just sit around and relax." Yeah... I've just been so busy this past month... *sigh*

It has been nice seeing everyone, though. Pat and I, especially, have been sitting around doing nothing together. It's nice to do some brotherly bonding, especially when said brotherly bonding is watching The Big Lebowski together (Mark and I have already watched it together a couple of years ago). I've seen Kaitie, and by extension Ida (briefly) and Raven, and tomorrow Jessie and I are going to hang out.

I know I must be getting old or something, because the holidays hold no magic for me now. Instead of actually asking me what I want and going out and buying it Mom gave me her credit card, a limit and otherwise told me to go crazy on Amazon.ca, which to be fair suits me just fine. I'm getting A Lion Among Men by Gregory Maguire, Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, Because I Know You Don't Read the Newspaper by Aaron McGrudger, American Gods by Neil Gaiman, Party Monster by James St. James, The World Ends With You (for DS), Paris Je T'Aime, and the Otto; or, Up With Dead People soundtrack (I ordered it basically because it has one song on it I really want on my iPod, but I'm sure I'll enjoy it). I also took the opportunity to pre-order a copy of Repo! The Genetic Opera, which will be delivered some time in January. The holiday spirit will just keep on going! This, however, will make actual Christmas day much less surprising, but I'd just as soon have no one spend anything on me... if you insist...

I've also done an excessive amount of Christmas shopping for others, which is special for me as I rarely have money. Tonight I got a Cream CD for Mark, a Billy Joel CD for Dad, a package of kitchen glasses for Mom and a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory DVD for Pat. I'm so generous.

The holidays drags by, or, rather, life drags by. I'm becoming increasingly anxious about my job, which I've done very little work for over the past month. The deadline is some time after I return from the holidays, so at some point I'm going to need to buckle down and basically complete the whole damn guide's first draft. If I return and the strike is over I'll have three essays and that to write over the period of probably two or three weeks, and I'll completely deserve it. I've been lazy as hell. If I believed I could keep it, it would be my New Years Resolution to work harder.

In significantly not whiny and depressing news I just found out tonight Air Canada is giving me $100 credit on a flight, which Mom will enjoy. I was kind of hoping for two-way free flight to someplace exotic, but I suppose with all of the complaints over the holidays and in general if this was Air Canada's policy they'd be even more bankrupt than they already are. Happy holidays!

When the man comes around

I really need something to jolt me out of this physical, emotional (and... I dunno... spiritual? Psychological? Creative?) purgatory. I honestly have gotten extremely little to no work done, especially in the past couple of weeks. And it's not from lack of time.

It's like the strike is a very long, boring excuse to procrastinate. And not just from work. Every night I continue to put off going to sleep later and later. This past morning, for instance. At three-thirty in the morning, a decent time for me to be in bed by, I was completely ready to do my nightly exercises and get in bed. Except then, inspired by Prop 8 - The Musical (which I've watched probably a dozen times now) and other videos on www.funnyordie.com I started watching videos about Sarah Palin ("The horror...") on youtube. Then I started watching disaster, violence and riot vids set to Johnny Cash tunes inspired by zombie vids of the same musical style. Then I started freaking myself out by watching the Dawn of the Dead unseen news reports parts 1, 2 and 3. I then started having panic attacks because I realized that I didn't have any effective zombie protection in Pond, which is a very scary thought for me. Then, to take off the zombie edge I searched "riots clip" on youtube and discovered the horrors of the 1992 LA Riots and watched clips of that for quite a while. Then just for good measure I watched a couple of vids of the York Explosion from this past summer. I'm guessing all of this violence and fire is coming from pent up emotions, so I should probably start playing more video games before I snap and start looting York or something. Not that the university wouldn't deserve it.

In any case what terrifies me most about my mentality these days is that I'm actually looking forward going back to New Brunswick for the Christmas break, though Lord knows by the third night of being there I'll want to be back here. At this point I'm guessing that's a major personality flaw of mine, wanting to be anywhere but where I am.

It's a thankless job...

While writing tonight I was digging through my "Creative Work" file and stumbled on this in the "Stories" section. At first I had no idea what it was. I actually said out loud, to myself, "I didn't fucking write this..." Then, after starting from the beginning and reading onward it came back to me. I don't remember the exact date when I wrote this, but it was at some point during high school or my first year of university when I was feeling particularly invisible and lonely in my life. I wanted to write a story about someone who wouldn't be missed if they disappeared (though the story is surprisingly humorous and not angsty). I probably stopped writing it when I got all my angst out and went on with my life. However stumbling on it now I was pleasantly surprised and enchanted by the character. I think I'm going to continue it now that I've matured a bit and write about how he changes his life into something else. The blossoming of a wallflower?

In any case I plan to have a character who leaves him poetry on his answering machine. Anyways, if you want to read it feel free. If you end up reading it let me know what you think!


Victory Rose
A delicate boy in the hysterical realm

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