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Here We Come

Man, when they said it rains a lot in Vancouver, they weren’t joking. Good thing Asha loves water, she loves jumping in puddles and she loves rain. On our walks, she says, “Water.” And then, “Puddle.” And then, “Rain.” I’m all, “Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious.” Mensa, here we come.

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The Front Room

Dylan said, “I was up in the front room and saw this woman smelling our roses and I was all aw but then she started to get really into it and it got a bit gross and I was like bitch smell your own flowers!” I chuckled. “She made it weird,” I said. “She made it weird,” said Dylan.

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Man on Stairs

Feather’s got it in her head that she’s got to guard the baby, she’s always lying down or sitting in front of Asha and making sure nobody approaches. She barks her fool head off at any sign of “danger,” anytime someone rings the doorbell or knocks, anytime someone comes down the stairs, (we call this MAN ON STAIRS), she does it to our roommates, she even does it to Dylan, I’m the only one she doesn’t do it to actually. She’s given herself this job, MUST GUARD THE BABY, at all times, at all costs. It’s a tiny bit annoying, but it’s mostly adorable and amazing. Let’s hear it for Feather, who, as far as dogs go, is one of the world’s best. We love you Feather. Daisy too, Daisy has lick mania and Feather has bark tourette’s.

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Jingle Bells

I often wander around the house chanting old advertising jingles that have permanently damaged my brain. I’ll suddenly appear before Dylan and in an aggressive singsong remark, “Shopper’s drug mart! Everything you want in a drug store.” Dylan will gaze at me stonily and pretend nothing audible just happened. Later I’ll make another sudden appearance before Dylan and announce, “Fabricland! FABRICLAND.” Again Dylan will maintain an impassivity that is impressively total. When he can’t manage it, I’ll detect within him a mental effort to count his blessings. Sometimes it’s plain he’s come up short. In unrelated but equally compelling news, my sense of direction is shockingly poor. That’s why I call myself a Disoriental.

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Daddy’s home

Asha’s so happy Dylan’s home, she’s still asleep with him now, this is the latest she’s ever slept, she’s trying to clock some extra time with daddy. You should see the loving looks she keeps giving him. I was nursing her this morning in bed and she kept pausing to turn and look at Dylan, her eyes sparkling and her whole face shining. She turned her little body towards him and gazed at him a while, perused his elbow, opened her mouth wide and tried to nurse off it. She gave me a little shy side eye knowing that something wasn’t quite right but she hoped for reassurance regardless. It was the cutest.

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Fatherhood

We go out for Korean BBQ so often my baby’s going to be part Korean. While she’s in utero all the food’s going to fuse with her DNA. If Maury Povich did a paternity test he’d probably find that Korean BBQ was just as much the father as Dylan is. If Maury said, “And the father is… Korean BBQ” I don’t think anyone would bat eyes. Maybe we can sue Korean BBQ for child support.

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After the quake

Shortly after we moved to San Francisco, Dylan gave several solemn lectures warning me about earthquakes and how I must act whenever they might happen. He went out of his way to be melodramatic in his speech in order to underscore the urgency. The first time a little tremor occurred, I could hear a scuffling struggle of many quick urgent movements which themselves were more dramatic than the actual earthquake. Then Dylan streaked past shouting, “Run, Nunich​! R​un!” I didn’t run and instead gazed with vague fascination at all the trinkets and things lightly quivering for some seconds on the room’s walls and shelves. Then I went to the door and saw Dylan standing outside in the middle of the yard in his underwear. He was clutching a pile of hard drives and a modular synth. I shook my head at him and covered my mouth​ to​ hide a smile. Dude sure can hustle, no matter how simple or serious the seeming situation and​,​ judging by those hard drives and the modular synth, we get of his priorities quite a good inside glimpse.

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Baby Shower

It’s getting hard to shave my vulva, it’s getting hard just to bend and move. Earlier today I was huffing and puffing and all out of breathe just from trying to tie my shoes. Kalikia sweetly got right down there and graciously helped me out. Pregnant lady problems. Also I’m beginning to think about creating my baby registry and planning my baby shower. I said, “I know baby showers can be a bit boring and lame because it’s all such daytime PG good clean fun, it’s got to be an afternoon early evening thing too since I go to bed at like 11PM, plus I don’t smoke, do drugs or drink so it’s tough. I’m thinking sitting around eating snacks and vegan gluten free cake drinking fruit smoothies and shit like just opening gifts playing Balderdash and maybe baby themed Charades would be fun.” “You think baby themed Charades is what’s going to make your baby shower cool,” said Dylan while he tried and failed to keep a straight face. “God damn it,” I said. “Baby themed charades,” Dylan repeated shiny in the eyes full of merriment and barely holding back a guffaw. He’s been ridiculing my baby themed Charades idea all day. Pregnant lady blues. I mean fuck that guy and fuck you too.

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We Weren’t Always

We once had a black lab named Tricky, we wanted her to chase her tail so we put hummus on it and stared at her excitedly. She saw our excited faces so instead of chasing her tail she wagged it a lot and got hummus everywhere. So there we were all covered in hummus grinning at each other knowingly and feeling dumb. Because of course that is what would happen instead of what we wanted to happen. This is how you learn. Mistakes must occur. We weren’t always the calm collected cool geniuses you see before you. We had to be covered in hummus first.

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Quiet Morning

I remember the first time Bassnectar called Dylan back when we still lived in Toronto and I descended into a loud fit of sneezing. I sneezed like seven times. The entire house shook and the bones in my chest reset. Afterward there was a pause. “What was that?” asked Lorin, afraid. “The thing about Nunich,” said Dylan, “is that she has very intense sneezes.” Years later, Dylan took me to Laos for my birthday. Laos is my motherland, and it’s unknown if I had ever even been there, since I don’t know exactly where I was born, whether in Laos, Vietnam or Thailand. On the first quiet morning bright with sunshine when we landed in Vientiane, I looked around and breathed the air in. Laos is a very poor and undeveloped country with dirt lanes and dry river beds, skinny barefoot children selling trinkets, dulcet women in traditional garments gazing silently, old men smoking and looking on. Laotians are famous for being beautiful, friendly, gentle and polite. I spent my whole life somewhere else so I didn’t feel any immediate connection. I just looked around and was lost in thought. The day was bright and hot, the sun shone inscrutably down upon all. We saw a thin frail old woman making her ancient way slowly toward us. Suddenly she sneezed so deafeningly as to convulse the town. The noise was loud as thunder, a high magnitude earthquake couldn’t have been more disruptive. But no one batted an eye. Just another hot humid day in Laos. Dylan and I looked at each other. “It’s the sneeze!” I said. “The sneeze of my people!”

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Audition

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Our regular maid went MIA so we had to audition a new maid. I joined this great service that has a great app and great prices. I’ve been assigned a team of pros I can choose from and one of them is a young muscular handsome black man with bleach blonde hair. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve had a male maid, let alone a young muscular handsome black man with bleach blonde hair. I think women typically houseclean better than men, but I didn’t want to be sexist so I gave him a chance. I said to Dylan, “Well I’ll be damned. When ever is your maid a young muscular handsome black man with bleach blonde hair?” Dylan nodded his agreement. “It’s so LA,” I said. Dylan said, “Yeah and he’s cool too. But I think Ali Wong would caution me against that guy. That man is a marriage grenade.” “Ha ha ha!” I said. And I laughed a bit too loudly.

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Clones

I said, “I wish there were ten of me to get a ton of shit done every day all day that would be amazing. It would be perfect, we’d all do great work with great results and I wouldn’t have to explain anything, because they’d all be me, so I’d always do what I want in the way that I want at all times always. I could dance, draw, eat, exercise, learn a language, learn an instrument, make music mixes, read, relax, shop, sleep, study, travel, write, paint and create, all at once. I think God really fucked up by not giving me this option.” Dylan said, “So do I get to make out and have sex with all of the clones?” “Listen, buster,” I said. “The clones are for me to make mad progress from many highly productive simultaneous actions. They’re not for you to get your rocks off. You’re not supposed to disrupt my work.” Sheesh. Husbands. “So, no?” said Dylan.

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There Can Be Only

I’m always running into a room with the announcement, “I BOW TO THE BAO” and Dylan always ignores me. So I say it again, sometimes thrice even. Finally Dylan says, “You notice how I never laughed the first 45 times you tried that joke?” And then I just bow deeply, to the bao, and I giggle. This ongoing gag is endless, and only one of us is laughing.

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Funeral

Jason said there were a lot of people at the funeral, too many to count. “Jeez,” I said to Dylan, “probably like 2 people would come to my funeral. Even you, you’d make a big stink. Sigh and complain. Grumble about having to drag yourself away from the studio.” “Haha,” said Dylan, barely listening. Then he said, “That’s not true. I’d be devastated.” “Um, yeah you would,” I said loudly, to help him drive home the point. And we laughed about how at Dylan’s funeral, all his students would gather around the coffin with last minute Ableton questions while the hapless minister, flanked by world-weary go-go dancers, would have trouble getting a word in edgewise, and end up in a rap battle with a belligerent MC, while aspiring producers made it rain demo cds.

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Handstand

Dylan said, “I can’t do a handstand” and I said, “What the fuck are you talking about, everyone can do a handstand.” Dylan said he couldn’t and I didn’t believe him so I pepped him up and forced him to try. Dylan got caught up in my hype, dutifully got into position and did a handstand. I said, “See, you can do a handstand fine.” Then Dylan’s upside-down facial expression changed from mild interest to concern and terror while his body crumpled down like Building 7 during 9/11. The total picture was so hilarious I clutched at my stomach and hyperventilated. “I told you I couldn’t do a handstand,” Dylan said sadly. “Hahaha! I guess I should have believed you!” I said and I didn’t even feel bad for laughing.

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His Eventual Moment

Recently I acquired some glorious new clothing accessories, all woven small gold metal plates across the shoulders with many gold chain accents that are long and fine and draping. The total effect is very opulent, feminine and really lovely. Later at home while writing at my desk, I could hear Dylan behind me sort of rummaging and fidgeting. There was to his maneuvers an edge of suppression and secrecy. I ignored him and continued to work because I could tell Dylan was up to something and I thought I’d let him have his eventual moment, whatever that shit might turn out to be. At length Dylan approached immediately near behind me. “Sup,” he said in a voice meant I guess to approximate the impassive listlessness of a sexy thug. Unhurriedly I turned around. There’s Dylan standing completely naked nonchalant hand upon jaunty hip wearing nothing more than my luscious gold metal shoulders bling. The many long fine draping chains swooshed with absurd seductiveness against his pale bare skin. “Sup,” he said again. Keeping my expression perfectly neutral I gazed at Dylan and made a casual motion for my phone. “Hold up babe,” I said. “I’m filming this.” “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” said Dylan as he scampered away in a fit of terror and giggling.

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Snow Crash

We watched a film based on a true story about some people that survived a plane crash in the middle of winter up high on some mountains and they were stranded with no food and water so they had to resort to cannibalism and eat whoever was the first to die. My sister was indignant about the whole affair. “I would never do that,” she self-righteously sniffed. Her poetic sensibilities were ruffled. Cannibalism didn’t fit into her romantic view of the world. “I wouldn’t,” my sister said again, as though repeating the claim made it truer. “I’d just lie down quietly in the snow, fold my arms across my heart and close my eyes for good.” “Oh please, no you wouldn’t!” I exploded. “You’d be the first to eat us all. In fact I’m surprised you’re not gnawing on my arm right now.”

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The Friendly Stranger

I told Dylan that overnight my arm got all crooked rammed beneath my head and pillow, lost proper blood circulation, and went horribly to sleep. “Yuck,” I said, “I hate that. It feels really awful, like when I bonk my funny bone. I flung my arm away like it belonged to someone else but the arm could just be flung only so far. It felt really fucking weird.” “You know what I do when that happens,” said Dylan, and he made a loose encircling gesture with his hand that I was soon to learn was fairly masturbatory. “It’s called ‘The Friendly Stranger,’” said Dylan defensively when he caught my expression. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” he added. I gazed silently at Dylan and only God can know all the resignation that my silent gaze contained. The friendly stranger. Shit. What planet is this.

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At Least You Made

Dylan caught me gazing interestedly at something and smiling. “What,” he said. “There’s a list I made,” I said. “It’s called ‘Things I Love.’”

THINGS I LOVE
Coconut Oil
Cilantro
Spinach
Mangos
Sticky Rice
Coconut Rice
Peanut Sauce
Hot Sauce
BBQ Grill
Russian Lit
Ketamine
Running
Justice
Japan
Knives
Wolves
Foxes
Dogs
Dylan

“I’m last,” Dylan said sadly. “At least you made the cut,” I energetically countered. Privately I was embarrassed that most of the mentioned loved items had exclusively to do with food. I felt particular dismay at “Coconut Oil” landing squarely in first place. Not to knock coconut oil though, clearly I love that shit. Must’ve been hungry when I saw fit to make the list.

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Allowances

Only once can I remember when Dylan’s djing was a bit less than perfect. His mixing had moments that startled and jarred, he was way off his game, but allowances must be made since it was his first time ever djing high off his face on some mystery drug. His eyes were wide and wild and his entire head was drenched with sweat. At one point Dylan said, “This was the worst idea,” and he had the most hectic expression I’ve ever seen on his face. Later he said, “I think I just shit myself.” “I’m sure you didn’t,” I said, pretending to not be appalled. “Everything’s fine,” I added. Privately I wasn’t so sure, in fact I had to vigorously mask my dismay. Thankfully, Dylan didn’t shit himself, but he almost might as well have. Because sometimes what you believe matters more than the truth. Dylan made a new rule afterwards. No more djing while completely fucked up, especially not on mystery drugs. That whole experience, hilarious as it was, was fairly traumatizing for us both. It doesn’t need to be repeated. Once is sufficient.

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