Andrew Kaufman Reads from Born Weird: The Exuberant Bodhisattva attends another literary event

For a change from the usual sex and body parts, here is my second consecutive blog about a Halifax literary event. This time I went to the Spring Garden Road library where all the pigeons of Halifax congregate for pizza crusts and rejected hotdogs. On Tuesday night, the library also hosted author Andrew Kaufman who read from his new novel Born Weird.



This is Andrew Kaufman, and the cover of Born Weird (Photo From Here. And you can watch him read an excerpt)

 Born Weird has a yellow cover. Inside it tells the story of the Weird family, named this way due to a mishap at Pier 21. The family consists of five quirky siblings who find themselves on a quest to reunite at their Grandmother Weird’s deathbed. There, if they arrive on time, Grandmother Weird promises to undo the blursings she cast on her grandchildren. A blursing, if you were wondering, is

a blessing + a curse.

Usually it is something that started as a blessing and eventually turned into a curse. Just like when you fall in love with someone because she rescues broken-winged ducks and abandoned pet turtles from the park, and that ends up being the reason you break up.

Blursing.

Now you know.

Anyways, from what I’ve heard and read so far, Born Weird is as playful and zany as the word blursing. Already I’ve been to Vancouver, Winnipeg, a cardboard city somewhere in Ontario, Montréal and the Kingdom of Upliffta, where Abba, one of the sisters is Queen.

At the Spring Garden Library, one of the cool people in the audience asked Andrew why so much of his work centres on a road trip? Andrew said quite simply that it provided a good narrative structure and he loves structure. He loves quests. Quests go back to his favourite superheroes from his favourite comic books. Actually, what he meant to say was that quests go back to his fondness for classics. The Odyssey, The Divine Comedy. Etc. Andrew added that road trips make the quintessential Canadian experience. Everyone from Halifax know this. Everyone in the audience had been on a big road trip. We had all been on road trips, and they'd changed us forever



This is Eliot, the Big Black Dog, having a bath before his Christmas road trip to Ontario. 

The Road Trip was one of the big highlights of his life. It changed him forever.

The next intelligent question from the audience was whether or not Born Weird evolved from something shorter like All My Friends Are Superheroes and some of Andrew’s other work. Apparently, Born Weird was the first book Andrew wrote all in one go, as a single, longer piece. Andrew said that he is more comfortable writing around 17 000 to 20 000 words, which is more the length of a novella rather than a novel. In Born Weird, he got around this by giving the Weird family lots of siblings.

And the third thing we learned was that in the nineties, Andrew used to tell stories out loud. Spoken Word. Stephanie Domet, author of Homing (a novel that involves pigeons and Spring Garden Road), and Fallsy Downsies (about a folk musician on a road trip) asked Andrew if he missed that. Andrew said no, and not only because Spoken Word is not quite as cool as it was in the nineties. Besides Spoken Word, Andrew also gave up filmmaking. He feels like making books leaves you with the most satisfying and enduring product. Ten years later, a spoken word performance is long forgotten whereas in ten years, a novel lives on, moldy in someone’s basement.

It seems as though Andrew Kaufman is somewhat self-deprecating. Perhaps that’s his blursing. Or a clessing, a curse that ends up being a blessing. I think it’s part of his charm.

If you live in Halifax, I recommend buying Born Weird at The Bookmark, on Spring Garden Road. Andrew Kaufman signed my copy and I vow to keep it far away from my moldy basement. Can’t wait to read the rest.

The End.

Nothing weird about this girl.

Follow Andrew Kaufman on Twitter: @severalmoments
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I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

The Exuberant Bodhisattva attends Bookcamp Halifax 2013
Five Days of Creative Recovery
Asking Matt Wiviott About His Life

 

 

The Exuberant Bodhisattva attends BookCamp Halifax 2013

 

This Saturday, I attended BookCamp Halifax 2013 at the Khyber Centre for the Arts. BookCamp Halifax is a so-called “un-conference” where all the strange and lovely book people in Halifax gather together to discuss book issues such as publishing, marketing, and of course, writing. The event was free and open to all kinds of book people of all calibres.

I started the morning with “Putting the 'Media' in Social Media." I had a vague inclination to live tweet the entire un-conference. Then former Chatelaine editor-in-chief Kim Pittaway reminded us that on Twitter, she doesn’t so much notice your absence as your irritable presence. Over the course of the day, my Twitter fans were privy to a few ingenious comments about a free macaroon, the colourful and delightful Khyber bathrooms, blue underwear and dinosaur porn, but that was about it. From the workshop, I gathered that social media is certainly helpful, however, it can quickly become a huge distraction and time suck. The most important thing about being a writer is how much you write, not how many Twitter followers you have. At the social media session, an audience member suggested brand new tweeters to follow the 2-2-2 rule: two tweets, two retweets, and two replies per day. This is supposed to help you accumulate followers over time.

(To retweet or to reply to my innovative and brilliant tweets, find me on @mypelvicfloor)

My next chosen session was “How to Make Headlines: Writing for Magazines and Newspapers.” The panelists were Halifax Magazine editor Trevor J. Adams, freelance writer Chris Benjamin, The Coast arts editor Stephanie Johns and fashion magazine publisher Amanda Kincaid.  I’ve always been a fan of Chris Benjamin’s writing in The Coast. When talking about freelancing, he said that when he first started, he was attached to a bunch of big ideas that he wanted to write about and change the world. Over time, he found he had to learn to hold these ideas a little less tightly and focus on the story that needed to be told, and the people. I thought that this was good advice. We also got advice from Trevor and Stephanie about writing pitches. Trevor gave the simple model of 3 paragraphs. One about why he should care, one about sources, and one about visual possibilities, something I’ve never really thought about. Overall, I found the session quite useful. Maybe someday I’ll write a pitch.

After lunch I went to Steven Laffoley’s session about Creative Non-fiction. I thought the presenter looked extremely familiar before realizing that he was the English teacher who stands in the Halifax Grammar School parking lot every day greeting students and parents. I walk by him every day on the way to the bus. My boyfriend Robbie, the Boatman, used to be his student. He said he was a wonderful teacher. And he runs like a madman. Apparently Stephen Laffoley also babysat Robbie when Robbie was seven. Wish I’d been around for that.

Mr. Laffoley, as the Boatman calls him, has written six books. His most recent one about boxer George Dixon. He sees creative non-fiction as a cinematic exercise of framing facts in the way that tells the best story, and turns the facts into timeless literature. He also said that writing is like coughing up a lung, which I appreciated. I guess creative non-fiction is selling pretty well these days, especially historical fiction in Nova Scotia where people are interested in their history and there are so many interesting stories from the past. Sounds like a good cure for pelvic obsessions and self-absorption. I may consider this.

The next session was How to Write a Novel in 30 Days, by Stephanie Domet, who hosts the CBC radio show Mainstreet and Atlantic Airways. The horrendous idea of composing a novel in 30 days comes from National Novel Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo, a worldwide network of writers who take a pact to write a 50 000 word novel during the 30 days of November. Stephanie hilariously and charmingly described how she haphazardly signed herself up for the trauma so she could report about it on the CBC radio show Definitely Not the Opera.  The month was a disaster of total procrastination. By Day 15, she had some vague ideas about a character who couldn’t leave the house, and a ghost at the Spring Garden Road Library. Over dinner, her friend joked that she might as well add pigeons to the mix. So she did. But by November 27, she had less than 20 000 words down. That meant more than 10 000 words per day. Still, she did not use her time wisely, and on the last day, ended up writing 20 000 words. Writing a novel in 30 days is about quantity, and not quality. People who have succeeded in the past say that it helps to have an outline of your characters wants, fears, the worst things that could happen to them, and how you could orchestrate that happening to them. You can follow this advice, or as Stephanie seems to have done, just write like hell. In either case, in the end you get a draft that you can surgically repair into something beautiful. Stephanie got a published book out of her 30-day novel Homing. And now she knows that if the shit ever again hits the fan, she is capable of writing 20 000 words in a day. But this is to be avoided.

I considered doing the 30-day novel month this year, but I thought that it would turn into an overly ambitious New Year’s Resolution. I suppose that there are still 20 days left…  That’s 2500 words a day. We’ll see.  When I started I Let Go, I vowed that it would be published on Amazon within three days. Most of it was done in three weeks. Not terrible, however, most people can read the entire thing in about 45 minutes. Oh well.

The final session of the day was where I learned about Dinosaur Porn.  In a fragmented skyped presentation, Sean Cranbury spoke about how the internet and digital media has opened up all sorts of possibilities in publication.  Putting publication in the hands of the creator has allowed for the unlikely rise of Dinosaur Erotica on Amazon.  After learning about self-publishing on Amazon, college students Alara Branwen and Christie Sims have taken it upon themselves to grace the literary world with tales of dinosaur boning and prehistoric lust.

I was immediately compelled to do further research on this. In a Huffington Post Interview between author Alaran Branwen and reporter Hilary Hansen, Branwen postulates that dinosaur erotica appeals to our more base, carnal natures. Some people also probably like the idea of a big, powerful, massive male roughly having sex with a smaller female. It’s like the ultimate sexual experience with an alpha male, which is something that we are all inherently wired to enjoy.”


At Halifax BookCamp, I unfortunately didn’t get to discuss this alpha dinosaur sex experience with any of the participants, but this is my only complaint about the event.  Otherwise, I had thoroughly satisfying day, filled with tips and inspiration that stemmed far beyond sex with pterodactyls.

Many, many thanks to the speakers, volunteers, and organizers.

The End.

After you're done with the T-Rex:

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

Five Days of Creative Recovery

Creative Practice, Simon's Genies, etc.

Yours Til Ekam Inhales

 

 

 

 

How I Am Old

28 years ago today, I was cut out of my mother’s stomach. I was headed out the vagina feet first, which isn’t usually recommended.  Legend has it that my father turned white as a ghost. My mother said that after she knew I was okay, she thought that she might die, but that it would be okay because I was already born. 



Mother, Sister, Me. All of us born.



I heard of a pregnant lady who’s getting a planned c-section this Thursday, on Halloween. A Halloween Caesarean. I feel like if it were my caesarean, I’d pick another day.

 

Today, I am overwhelmed with Facebook, text, and other digital birthday love. Even Google seems to know that it’s my birthday. There are colourful cupcakes and cakes on the homepage. Thank you Google, but thank you more to all the other real people I’ve met in real life and who remembered me.

On the bus this morning, I decided I would make a clichéd list about things that make me old.

1.  A small bunion is growing on the inside of my left foot. Despite years of diligently spreading my toes barefoot or wearing devastatingly practical shoes. Also, I think spider veins on my legs are in my near future. So be it. My short shorts aren’t going anywhere.

 



Long Live the Kino Shorts

 



2. I like to go to bed at 9 P.M. Even better is to go to bed at 8 P.M. and read library books until I fall asleep. Conversations after 9 P.M. exhaust me. Parties are the worst. No part of my body can make peace with why I am upright, awake and speaking.  My bedtime is geriatric.

3. I hate the people on the bus who blast horrible music through their headphones with the arrogant assumption that I might like to hear their lyrics word for word. One afternoon I asked some dude on the 80 if he might like to mute the video game music that was massacring my ears.  He looked at me with enormous disdain and called me a stupid fucking c-word. So now, on the bus, I say nothing. I sit, sighing, glaring and shaking my head like a seething eighty-year-old woman.

And that’s it. Otherwise, I am not very old. I look back on words and photographs from every year of my life, and even from last week, and I think, what a baby, you’re so young. As though the person looking back is so wise and aged. A week later, a year later it will be the same thing. Me looking at me, so young. 

 



Me, taking action, getting action, 27 years old.





Me nasal-flossing in Miami, 26 years old.



Me and my sister at the Halifax Harbour. 26 years old. Very sophisticated.



Me, 16, reading Amelia Bedelia at summer camp.


Me, Darby and Joanne, singing Kirtan, the first year I started Mysore, 22 years old.



    

Rocking the houla hoop, and tie-dye, on Mary Street in Perth, Ontario, 7 years old.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
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I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

What the fuck should I do with my life? Part One
What the fuck should I do with my life? Part Two
Happy

 







 





What People Really Need

The mug Jadwiga made me was blue on the inside, white on the outside, and covered with strange creatures. A mixture of  humans, cats, and bunny rabbits, the creatures had long oval faces, dots for eyes, a round nose, crescent shaped lips, and eyebrows. Human half-circle ears at the sides and pointy ears at the tops. Behind the heads were large, half-circle bodies, supported with tiny hoofs and concluded with a round tail. Between the creatures, Jadwiga (pronounced Yad-Vee-Ga) had painted small flowers with yellow centres and five or six red petals. For my birthday, my boss Nathalie had ordered the cup from the L’Arche workshop where Jadwiga worked. It was supposed to be from my entire L’Arche house of people with intellectual disabilities. On the bottom, Jadwiga wrote, “To Erica, from Jadwiga.” Jadwiga loved to write her name on everything she created. And if anything had her name on it, she hated to throw it out. In the mail, she’d receive membership offers from credit card and insurance companies.

 



To Erica, From Jadwiga



“Well it is for me,” she would say. “Jad-wi-ga, it says. Jad-wi-ga Lukasik.  That’s me, Er-i-ca.” Often she’d take the scissors and cut her name out of the envelope, storing it amongst piles of paper in her desk. Every morning for breakfast, Jadwiga ate a small bowl of Cornflakes with milk, a piece of toast and jam, a glass of orange juice and instant decaf coffee poured into a mug. Always she used the same dishes. A bowl that would hold only the permitted amount of Cornflakes, (our restrictions, not hers), a small spoon to measure the jam and eat the cereal with, a small white plate, a short juice glass, and her special mug.

 

“That is my cup,” she’d say. “With a cat on it. The cat was black and on the white cup was patterned floral designs and calligraphied letters. Regularly, Jadwiga would sound out the words.

 

“What. People. Rea-lly. Need. Well what it says, Erica?”

“You can read it,” I’d tell her.

“What Peo-ple Rea-lly Need. Is. A Good. Listening to.  Okay. That’s very interesting.”  She’d look at the cup for a moment. “Well, Erica, one day, it will be gone. Broken. My cup. With the cat on it.” Every time she heard something shatter in the kitchen, she’d say. “Well, it is my cup, proba-blee. With the cat on it.” When she discovered it wasn’t her cup, she’d say, “Well, one day, it will be my cup. Gone. Broken.”

One day, Jadwiga’s cup did shatter. I think someone dropped it as they were drying the dishes.

“I knew it,” Jadwiga said. “It was my cup. Gone. Broken.”

I lived with Jadwiga for two years in the L’Arche community, from when I was 19 until I was nearly twenty-two. Now I am almost twenty-eight and I live in Halifax with my boyfriend.

The other morning as I was getting ready for work, I’d left my empty coffee cup with Jadwiga’s strange creatures on it on the ledge at the top of the banister. As I reached for it before heading downstairs, I knocked it over and it shattered, the strange creatures’ amputated limbs and divided bodies spread all over the upstairs hallway. My cup. Broken. The one thing that Jadwiga had made for me. She likely won’t make me anything else. She is old now and can’t remember who I am. I should never have been so careless, leaving the cup so precariously at the top of the staircase. Then again, even if the cup had been spared that morning, another morning, it would have been gone, broken.

All the broken pieces

On September 20, I called Jadwiga to wish her a happy 74^th birthday. She is used to receiving phone calls from her sister Lucy and she began to speak to me in Polish.

“It’s Erica,” I said.

“Oh, Erica,” she said, confused. “Well, Erica, you will prepare yourself and supper, and eat it alone. I tried to explain that I wasn’t alone. I was in Halifax. I had a boyfriend, and at that time, a dog.

“Well, I’m not feeling very good,” Jadwiga said. “But it’s okay. You too, proba-blee. Not feeling very good.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” I said. “Sorry, you’re not feeling well.”

“Well, Erica, thank you for your call. I won’t keep you. You will prepare yourself a supper and eat it alone.”

“That’s okay, Jadwiga. I’m not in a hurry.”

“I said I won’t keep you. Goodnight.” And she hung up.

When you have a cup, the Buddhists says that you should see it as already broken. Because soon it will be. And then you won’t be disappointed.

The cup is broken. The bus is broken. The relationship is broken. This body, this life. My body, my life. Gone.

I put the broken pieces of my cup in a plastic bag in the basement. I never bothered rinsing off the coffee residue.

Now I am taking a picture of the broken pieces. After that, I will throw them in the garbage, and then they will be gone. 

Jadwiga's Strange Broken Creatures:





The Image on Jadwiga's Broken Cup with the Cat:



What People Really Need Is A Good Listening To.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt 

My Life's Purpose
A Broken Body is Not a Broken Spirit
Not Separate From All That Is
 

 

 

 

 

Obituary: Eliot, the Big Black Dog

Robbie and I are heartbroken to announce that Eliot, our Big Black Dog, died on Friday, September 27. Eliot was the very first underdog of the Underdog Club, a Montreal-based dog adoption program that finds homes for hard-to-place shelter dogs. The handsome young man was placed into the loving and dedicated hands of Underdog Club founder Fern Breslaw and Robbie Cameron, also known as “The Boatman.”



Eliot, the Very First Underdog (Photo: Jamie Leblanc)



Eliot even got to be in an art show on. (Photo Jamie Leblanc, Design Fern Breslaw)


Soon after his adoption, Fern brought Eliot along to work with her at Cossette, one of Canada’s top ad agencies. Cossette employees have fond and vivid memories of Eliot’s charm, exquisite good looks, and the time he got diarrhea all over the carpets of the production office. As a Cossette employee put it, “we all get the shits. Good for Eliot for reminding us of our humanity.” Over the years, Eliot would regularly provide his caregivers with such reminders. Cleaning up Eliot’s myriad excretions was known to relieve back pain, creative blocks, and financial angst.

Following his stint at Cossette, Eliot returned home to accompany his pitbull boxer brother and fellow underdog Charlie through his emotional struggles. With both dogs and humans, Eliot always played a bit hard to get, but Charlie loved him dearly and the two were good friends.



Charlie and Eliot, fellow underdogs

 In 2009, Robbie and Eliot moved to Halifax, where Eliot was embraced by the Cameron family, who bought him a luxurious bed, invited him to many parties, and treated him very well. Eliot used to love to raise hell in Point Pleasant Park. One morning, to his great delight, Eliot found and chased a raccoon into the woods. An extended period of screeching and unpleasant noises ensued. By the time Robbie could get to the scene, the raccoon had perished and Eliot stood in immense self-satisfaction, his tongue dragging down to the ground.

Horrified, Neighbour Malcom saw to it that Eliot was banned from the park. The Wildlife Protection Services said that he could return upon successful completion of obedience school.  Despite our attempts with a private trainer, we felt quite certain that Eliot could never be trusted with a raccoon or anything equally tempting. He never returned to the park; however, he continued to adore his walks during which he chased after sticks and barked at every dog he passed. 

Throughout his life, Eliot was always excited to get to his “next thing.” He loved the transitions that would lead him to the subsequent item on the agenda. Getting into the car, and out of it. Arriving at the party, and then leaving. Walking up the stairs to go to bed. Although he was not a particularly affectionate dog, he seemed to take comfort in the predictability of his routines. And he always seemed to like having us around.

Last Christmas was a wonderful time for Eliot. He got to celebrate with the Camerons and open lots of presents. Then he got to go on a big long car trip to Ontario. Car rides were one of Eliot’s favourite activities. The trip to Ontario entailed thousands of stops and starts and exciting next things. Eliot probably had more fun than me and the Boatman combined.  



Eliot loved the trip to Ontario, except for the bath.



On the way home from Ontario, we stopped in Montreal so that Eliot could reunite with his dear friends Fern and Charlie. Due to Charlie’s emotional problems, the visit was not a big success. Charlie was inexplicably terrified of his old friend and Eliot had to stay in a kennel.  That said, we are happy that Eliot had a chance to return to his roots before his passing. Also, we are so grateful to Fern for starting the Underdog Club and adopting Eliot with Robbie so that he could enjoy his great life.

For Eliot, the ageing process was difficult, but thankfully quite brief. Plagued with arthritis and fragile hips, his legs gave out one by one. Over the past month or so, we treated the pain with various pills and remedies. Just a couple weeks ago, we took him to the beloved cottage one last time.  Sadly, not long after, it became clear that Eliot’s pain and discomfort were too severe to manage and that his life, once full of joy and excitement was now miserable. In respect for this majestic young man, we made the heartwrenching decision to put him down.

Eliot enjoyed one last car ride to the vet’s. We had to carry him out of the house. On his way into the trunk, he tried to leap out of our arms. He looked excitedly out the window for a few moments before lying down. At the vet’s, he lay down again and we pet him and said goodbye. As the vet opened her needles, Eliot perked up, always interested in a package or present. It took the vet a long time to find Eliot’s vein. While she was looking, Eliot got calmer and calmer. Right before she found it, we could hear the vet’s front door open and another dog walked into the vet’s office.  Eliot lifted his head, let out a final soft “woof,” and he put his head down.

We miss him so much.

Thanks to everyone who loved him.



So long to our dear and wonderful friend.

Poopy Mango Baby Wipes and the First Day of Christmas
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex

The Boatman Invents a New Word

Most of the world is familiar with the verb, "to shart." Sharting occurs when you think you have to fart, and being in a somewhat appropriate location, you let loose. Go "balls out," as Nobel at the Yoga Dragon Den puts it. It isn't long before you realize that the fart comes with a wet, brown stinky surprise.

I had a roommate who once threw his pyjama bottoms in the garbage. I asked him why and he said, "Ya know when you drink too much beer and then you fart and it all runs down your legs?" He was talking about a shart.

It recently occurred to me and the Boatman that sharting had an opposite,  but it didn't have a name. The opposite of sharting is when you think you have to take an enormous shit. Your tummy's brewing and bloated and you know it's going to be huge. Maybe you have to go so badly that you cut in front of the old lady with a walker headed into the stall with her pink-shoed grandchildren. When you finally sit down and it's time for the beautiful explosion, all your poor anus has to offer is gas. The contours of the toilet bowl magnify both sound and odour so that the person who comes to relieve his or herself afterwards will be promptly armed with adamant accusations.

Until just a few days ago, there was no word for this tragedy. The Boatman and I considered the possibilities for at least 3 and a half days. Finally, last Wednesday, just before noon, the Boatman was on the can passing leftover breakfast gas when a breeze of inspiration came upon him and whispered into his ear the perfect word for farting on the toilet.

And the word was: Foop.

Definition: Farting on the toilet, when you think you have to poop prolifically.

Usage: "I was ready to crap out all the Harvey's poutine, but when I sat on the toilet, it was just a foop."



The Boatman, founder of the word, "foop." Once the Boatman wore a Maxi Pad, and it was a big success.
Now he has invented a new word. He's just one big success after another.

If you're a dog, fooping usually occurs on the grass.  For everyone else, it only counts as fooping when you're on the toilet. Just in case you're having a contest and/or keeping track.

The Big Black Dog has had many foops and sharts in his life and we love him very much.



Eliot,the Big Black Dog, pre or post foop or shart

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

Snow Day (contains more invented words from the Boatman,
but do not read if anything about miscarriages is triggering for you)
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex
Poopy Mango Baby Wipes and the First Day of Christmas 

 

No fucking good for anyone: Me and McGill Frosh

I arrived in Montreal for McGill Frosh Week a seventeen-year old relative kiss-virgin. Never had I ever seen a grown man's penis. It had also been over two years since I'd had a drink. One weekend when I was fifteen, I'd drank three glasses of white wine and proceeded to hotbox a shed out in the country with some friends. The evening led to hideous oversharing of deep psychological issues and how-to bulimia sessions. I ended up traumatizing my friends as well as vomiting several times. Subsequently, I renounced all alcohol and drugs, convinced that I was a raging alcoholic. I have since changed my mind on this matter several times. That said, at seventeen, I was fervent in my angelic ways. An aspiring Christian, I was going to study English Literature and Religion, determined to become a famous writer and find God and/or Jesus. At university I believed that I would study amongst likeminded young people like myself. I was ready.

The McGill student frosh experience began on the campus grass. After taking the subway by myself for the first time in my life, I walked up McGill College, wearing black clogs, a jean skirt and a little pink t. shirt over my La Senza hydralift bra that was meant to augment my ostensibly pre-pubescent breasts. (At the time I did not yet believe in the eternality of my tits.) It was barely 11 a.m. Music was blaring and hundreds of froshees were scattered across the field wearing baggy fluorescent green t. shirts and drinking out of tall plastic fluorescent green cups. I knew that my group was supposed to meet in the far corner of the field at the bottom of the hill. I imagined that we would begin by sitting in a circle, sharing our names, our majors, and perhaps our deepest dreams. This may have all already taken place, but when I got there, the party was well underway. My frosh leader with shaggy blonde hair and smudged make-up stood at the front of a scattered crowd.

"Hey Froshees! I'm Kelly. I'm your leader! Who's ready to get DRUNK?" Everyone except me screeched and screamed. I sat down carefully in my jean skirt so that no one could see my underwear. A guy was walking around applying red facepaint underneath everyone's eyes. I prepared myself to awkardly decline. I was not a warrior. But when he got to me, he went right to the next person.

"Who's going first?" Kelly screeched. She decided that she would go first to show us how it was done.

More cheering.

The guy with the facepaint came to the front and started clapping his hands. A pitcher of beer appeared from the crowd. These memorable words filled the air.

"Here's to Kelly! Here's to Kelly, she's a horse's ass.

Why was she born so beautiful, what was she born at all?"

I watched, horrified and wondering how everyone else seemed to know all the words.

"She's no fucking good to anyone, she's no fucking good at all.

Everyone seemed so delighted except for me.

"So.... drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink."

Kelly started chugging the litres of beer as everyone screamed and clapped. With a quarter of the pitcher to go, the chant went on.

"What are we waiting, she must be masturbating."

At that time in my life, masturbation had never occured to me. On my fifteenth birthday, a few months before I'd written myself off as an alcoholic, I'd gotten drunk and announced to my friends that I'd never really made out with anybody and needed some practice. Lewis, the only single guy at the party (who also ended up in the hot box) volunteered. We made out enthusiastically for much of the evening and apparently I wasn't horrible at it. But we'd kept our clothes on and for me, the practice session hadn't evoked much thought of my genitals or anyone else's. I had been fairly certain that my sexless tendencies were the majority.  I didn't realize that almost everyone around me had spent a great deal of their adolescence considering their own genitals and everyone else's. And this wasn't over yet.

Kelly finished her pitcher and a skinny froshee named Brendan stood up to be the next motherfucking horse's ass. After watching the ingestion of at least seven more pitchers, it was time to go to the Peel Pub. I thought that maybe I would be saved from this, being only seventeen, but Kelly was all ready with a pile of fake ID's. Someone handed me the driver's licence of some overweight 24-year old with long black curly hair and darkish skin.

I felt my face get red and flustered and my heart pound as I imagined myself getting arrested at the Peel Pub for this poor attempt at fraud.

"Don't worry," said Kelly. "It'll work. I've been getting into bars here since I was 14." I considered asking Kelly what she was studying and then opted against it. Peel Pub was dark and crowded. I doubt the bouncer would have been able to see my ID had he decided to look at it. Inside Peel Pub it was more of the same beer pitchers and drinking songs. Someone pulled out a funnel. One by one everyone got pulled up to be sung into oblivion. Everyone but me. Clearly, I wasn't the motherfucking masturbating type. If only they'd seen me in the hot box. (Is that even the right way of referring to it?) I stayed at the Peel Pub for 10 minutes and then I went pee. The bathroom floor was saturated with vomit. It was not yet noon. I went home to my residence where I decided to take a nap. The drink mother fucker song permeated my head as I lay down and for the next seventeen days, at least.

I spent the rest of Frosh week napping, getting ahead on my course readings and exploring grocery stores. I wrote all this because although I am no longer an aspiring Christian who self-righteously abstains from alcohol, I feel that much of Frosh week is obscene and disgusting. People are outraged by the St. Mary's frosh scandalizing sex chant and rightly so. But as reports on the issue have admitted, the distastefulness has been going on for years and years. While the horse's ass motherfucking drinking song doesn't explicitly promote rape, it is hardly empowering for anyone involved. In both 2010 and 2011, students have died playing their drinking games. This is a tragic, shitty, and embarrassing way to go. No fucking good for anyone. As we reflect upon how those involved in the sex chant should be held accountable, I think that we should think beyond the Saint Mary's student union and beyond this isolated incident.

The End.

My Friend, Chuckie.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

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