Things!

If I was a disembodied voice I would be Morgan Freeman's voice.

Hello, it's the voice of God. No contest.





The days are all melding together in a cough riddled haze. I finished exams and WHAM - sickness. Uggghhh!

DONE and fire alarms.

My semester is ovvvaaaahhhh.

Glory be.

I think - I'm not sure, but I think - I may have wrecked my last exam (Europe: 1917-1922). Wrecked as in answered the questions right for the most part and in a way that will blow my jerk professor away with their brilliantness.

That or I wrote a bizzillion pages of bullshit. I dunno.

Well, whether I rocked it, or whether I somehow rewrote the history of the Russian Revolution, the exam period itself was eventful. Halfway in, the fire alarm went off.

Maybe it was that everyone was really into their exams, maybe it was the fact that it was -20something degrees Celsius outside, maybe it was because the proctors were just staring at us not knowing what to do, or maybe it was because everyone's brains were fried from all the studyage they'd been doing, but no one really moved. A thousand students sat and blinked dumbly wondering what to do. Then few stood. And then some proctors started telling people to sit back down. Then we all sat.

And five minutes later, with the alarm still going off, everyone stood up and went outside.

There was no fire. There was probably just some asshole who got into his math exam and realized that he knew nothing. If he was ever found, failing the exam would be the least of his worries.

After being let back in, the alarm continued for another 15 ear murdering minutes. A collective sigh and round of applause accompanied its silence.


-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

And also this:[From Buttersafe.com]

This is the exact reason I stopped wanting to be a surgeon. Damn invisible patients.

Interesting note: Invisible people's blood turns visible once it leaves the body. It's an oxygen thing.

bbbbbbbeeeeeeeetttttttaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Iodine 131 is a radioisotope of iodine and has a half life of 8.02 days.

And tomorrow (actually later today I suppose) my mum is going to be ingesting some so it can tear through her body and obliterate any remaining pieces of thyroid that happened to have gotten a firm grip on the inside of her body when the surgeon went in and yanked the whole thing out.

I'm going to have a radioactive mother. Crazy.

In preparation for this treatment, she has had to cut iodized salt out of her diet (which is really hard given that salt is apparently in EVERYTHING), among other things. Like chocolate, which I have a feeling was harder for her to give up than the salt.

Anyways, she has to go off and live in isolation for a few days so she doesn't turn us all into glowing green people with flippers. But the stupid thing is, the hospital, where she is getting the treatment (called ablation), and which is equipped to handle radioactive people, refuses to even keep her there for a day. So instead she gets sent out into the world to share her beta particles and gamma rays with everyone.

When they say health care for all, they damn well mean it. Iodine 131 for all!

It's a good thing she is a responsible human, and hiding herself in an empty apartment for a week. Otherwise, who knows how many people could get Chernobyled?

It is especially important that she not be around me or my brothers, since (irony) radiation causes thyroid cancer, and it is also familial! Yipppppy.




Ok, well, I'm off to go pretend to study some more.

ps. The treatment is called ablation. Not the hospital.

pps. But don't you think that would be a cool name for a hospital? Ablation Hospital. "AH!" for short. Same thing people say when they find out they need to go there.

PS. by the way, etc.

Here is the Semi Precious Weapons t-shirt I bought.

It is simple, but I think it effectively conveys their message.

[Picture: Yellow t-shirt with block letters saying "I can't pay my rent, but I'm fucking gorgeous. Semi Precious Weapons"]

That signature right there apparently says "Justin Tranter" though I have a sneaking suspicion it is just a "J" with a squiggly line after it.

I asked for an autograph and he went right for the boob area. What a rock star.

The rest of the band's sigs are on the back, and some involve my name, so I won't put up a back view, seeing as how this is an anonymous type thinger I've got going on.

O and if youz is interested, here is the band:

Cole (Bass). The dude who signed my sailor hat.

From Left to Right:
Dan (Drums),
Stevy (Guitar),
Justin (Lead Vox)


Those there on Justin are the yellow tights I mentioned before. I want them.







And while I'm here, I'd just like to make a general plea to the media at large to stop calling articles and reviews and other things about Lady Gaga "Going Gaga for Lady Gaga" or some other, equally uncreative variant of the same headline. It was moderately clever the first time, but after the bizzillionth profile of the girl, it has gotten old, grown a beard and died. Think of something novel, gosh darn it.

"Raise a glass to mend....

My room is a mess and must be cleaned and I have an exam on Friday that I need to do some hard core studying for, since I know next to nothing about the material. Sooo.... naturally, I'm here, honing my procrastination skillz.

It has been many a day since last I wrote. And I call myself a writer...

Right well, I never did a review of the Gaga concert. But really, what could I say that you couldn't infer from my open invitation for her to marry me? I dunno....

It was like being at a play, I suppose. A play with an ambiguous story line and a near lethal audience. I had to have CONSTANT VIGILANCE (Mad-Eye would be proud) to ensure no one accidentally crushed my 11 year old brother.

She had multiple costume changes with each get-up more ridiculous than the last. I'd say my personal favourite was either the black spiderweb type body suit she had going on or the space-age Bowie-infused glittery light-up extravaganza she wore for the first few songs. Or maybe the Cleopatra-style golden bondage suit. There really were too many to choose from.

How 'bout this one with the built in external rib-cage?

(If you click to embiggen, the pictures will only get blurrier. I wouldn't recommend it)

But more than the madness of her clothing (if you can call it clothes.... not sure it quite falls under that category. Maybe underwear. Or art) it is her voice that sets this woman apart from many disappointing pop tarts/stars of today. She can actually sing. She has inflection in her song, emotion in her voice... she sounds legit. And if I'm gonna pay for a concert, I better damn well get to hear the artist's voice, real time, coming from their actual mouth.

The show began with a projection of a free-floating Lady Gaga on a screen that made up the 4th wall of the stage, with a count-down in the corner to when she would appear. [Note to anyone planning any type of show: count-downs make EVERYTHING way cooler (I mean think about it, what usually follows a countdown? Something crazy... a spaceship launch, a bomb, New Year's.... the anticipation drives people into a frenzy, I'll tell you that)]. When she finally became visible in her light up costume beyond the screen she sang "Dance in the Dark," off her new quasi album.

Madness ensued in the form of a stellar set. High-lights included: her questioning of the audience asking "DO YOU THINK I'M SEXY? DO YOU WANT TO FUCK ME?!?" (My brother was minorly horrified.), her intimate rendering of "Speechless" with just her and the piano (which the whole crowd seemed to know despite the fact that it had only come out around five days prior to the concert), a dentist chair on which everyone seemed to die at one point (even the Lady herself), and the time one of her backup dancers lit her a cigarette and I thought 'man, someone should give her a bylaw ticket, how funny would that be...' [Ottawa has a no smoking in public establishments bylaw].

She finished up with an encore of "Eh Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say)" and "Bad Romance" which she sang from the centre of a giant metal Bohr-Rutherford diagram minus the electrons.

When I showed a picture of that to my mom she said it must mean Lady Gaga thinks she's the centre of the universe.

"No mum," I replied. "Then she would have to believe in a geocentric model of the universe, and I'm sure she's smarter than that. Surely she only thinks she's the centre of the solar system."

I'm so cheeky.

But in a very scientific, I-can't-help-it-I-have-only-two-social-skills way.

The only quibble I saw was when she seemed a bit iffy on when to come in for "Beautiful and Dirty Rich." I could have sworn I saw her motion to a dancer in a questioning fashion, but then, who the fuck knows what I saw, the crowd was so thick and tall it was a work out to see anything at all.

Speaking of shortness, my poor bro. He's about up to my chin. Many people took pity on him and pushed us ahead of themselves.

That went on for a bit until we hit this wall of bitch. It was several girls who were just nasty about making fucking sure that this little 11 year old kid didn't get any further. I completely understand people not wanting to let us past them, we never pushed to get past people, and I'm surprised we got as far as we did. But these girls were quite wicked. They were calling my brother names to each other just loud enough for him to hear and using their asses to push anyone behind them backwards. For some reason they felt entitled to more room than everyone else on the floor. I wanted so badly to break them. Instead I spent a good deal of time devising ways to get away from them before I flew off the handle. My brother took to calling their ring leader "the whore."

Other people on the other hand, amazed me with their kindness. Some people took it upon themselves to ask others if we could move in front of them. But one girl - and whoever you are, I wish you would read this - saw my bro and put him on her back for a bunch of songs. So thank you soooooo much to the girl with brown curly hair and a purple and black scarf for being an amazing human being and restoring my love for humanity just when I thought it was gone due to "the whore" and her posse.

Putting him on my back wasn't nearly as effective as putting him on the tall girl with the purple scarf, but that's what I did, after the she left. Dear lord he's heavy. It didn't help that I tried to dance with him up there.

So there you have it.

O and Kid Cudi, the other opening act after Semi Precious Weapons, was a'ight. Not quite my cup of tea, but I enjoyed it and his rappiness. Brother dear, though, actually fell asleep standing up during his act. I just looked down in the middle of "Pursuit of Happiness" to find he had his eyes closed, oblivious to the roaring crowd. It was ok though, since he had no way to fall down, as we were packed in too tight.




.... all the broken hearts of all my fucked up friends"

Hola El Niño

It's December 2nd, and it's a positively tropical 7 degrees Celsius outside.

Huh.

I CAN'T PAY MY RENT BUT I'M FUCKING GORGEOUS

WELL. AT THIS POINT YOU MAY BE THINKING I PRESSED CAPS LOCK TOO HARD AND IT STUCK THAT WAY. BUT NO. I AM ACTUALLY SHOUTING!

(and also pressing caps lock would be the smart thing to have done. I just held the shift button down the whole time. I got halfway through and thought 'GEE I SHOULD REALLY JUST PRESS CAPS LOCK. O WELL FUCK IT, I'M ALREADY HALFWAY THROUGH')

Anyways. On to business. I went to LADY GAGA yesterday with my lil' brotha. And I shall speak more about that later, but right now I have an English assignment that is overdue, so I'll make this brief. Suffice it to say, I may have shouted "MARRY ME GAGA - IT'S LEGAL HERE!" several times. I'm assuming she'll get back to me on that one.

After touring, obvi.

Right, but what couldn't wait til post-English essay was the opening band: Semi Precious Weapons. They were.... wilde. Like, take-your-clothes-of-on-stage wilde (PS, don't click the link if you have a problem with seeing a man's bum. I didn't record that, but someone a few rows ahead of me did. Lucky tall bastard) (PPS, I don't give a fuck, click the link anyways, it's EPICNESS INCARNATE).

And ya... I was quite taken by them. They rocked my fucking socks. Seriously, not sure if my socks will ever recover. But that's ok, I'm willing to sacrifice socks for music. Any day.

Semi Precious Weapons even went and hung out in the lobby after the show and did autographs and pictures. That was thrilling. And they were lovely people. Cole the bassist signed my sailor hat (which I insisted my bro wear to the concert. I also made him wear my red skinny jeans and a silver belt. He was soo on board.) And Justin the lead singer had the cutest yellow plaid tights on. Jealous. I'm also slightly envious that he is a six foot tall man and can walk/dance manically around in six inch heels, while I am a 5 foot short girl who can't deal with heels period. Really, at my prom even, I wore my heels for all of 77 seconds before I ditched them under the table and danced around barefoot. o wellzz.

And that is why, when I get around to changing it, Song of The ____ goes to Semi Precious Weapons. I am a fan. In body and soul. And Facebook. HA.

Magnetic Baby - Semi Precious Weapons
Semi Precious Weapons - Semi Precious Weapons
Her Hair is On Fire - Semi Precious Weapons

There is always an over-abundance of scantily clad women in the vids.

ps. I bought a SPW T-shirt with the title of this poste on it. My mother was not impressed.

hmmm

On Friday mornings, the weekend always feels like it has so much potential. More often than not, by this time Sunday, all that potential has been wasted, and I spend the rest of the evening kicking myself/frantically doing assignments.

A+ for another well wasted weekend. Fuck.

On a happier note, I'm going to Parliament on Tuesday to watch 45 minutes of mud slinging and name calling called Question Period, when the elected members of the federal government gather to ask each other questions. It's just a whole lot of showboating and ridiculous antics. The opposition asks questions of the party in power, and everyone gets indignant. Michael Ignatieff's eyebrows become scarier, Jack Layton's mustache takes on a persona of it's own, and Stephen Harper has a constant look of smug constipation (I didn't know it was possible to be both at the same time, but honestly that's all I see when I look at him).

And then I'm going to be like a real journalist and participate in a scrum, which seems scary and useless at the same time.

Last time I was in a scrum, I was playing rugby. I wonder if they bite in this one?

..... I know I will.

I like the word "fervor"

Hello people of the world (HA)!

I did not combust, implode, explode, evaporate, or shrivel into a hollow, inhuman husk of a body from doing my project. I did, however, discover the wonders and slightly freaky effects of energy drinks. Maybe it is because I avoid them with impressive fervor, or maybe it's because of the three coffees I had prior to downing most of the energy drink, but for a good half an hour, I looked like I'd just done a line of cocaine.

The bottle says it is to "help temporarily restore wakefulness when experiencing fatigue or drowsiness" but this bottle of toxicity went way beyond being useful and put me into a state of 'wakefulness' that rendered me too fidgety, hyper, giggly, ridiculous and restless to actually get any work done. My orange-haired friend thankfully cut me off from my supply and drank the rest herself. And in the meantime, I went and ran up and down two flights of library steps in an attempt to calm myself down.

After that, I eventually went back to being a normal person, able to speak without bursting into fits of uncontrollable laughter. That was around 10:46 pm. An hour later, I took the bus home (a sketchy thing at the best of times, but midnight on a bus is a rather alarming experience. Yet I find myself there all the time) and at 4:30 am, I fell asleep with my paper not done, my computer precariously on my lap. At 5:11, I jolted awake in shear terror that it was time to leave for school, realized I had an hour and a half to finish the thing, and finished it. Success!

It's probably crap, but no matter, at least it's done. Now I can start crying on the inside about other imminent deadlines.

Goodness Gracious. Great balls of....

FIRE.

I anticipate spontaneously combusting sometime around the hour of 4 o'clock Friday morning, right around the time that I realize I will never be able to finish this blasted journalism assignment.

Just giving you a heads up in case I never post again.

We are not all polite.

Exchange between myself and Mr. Stickuphisass from across the street whilst canvasing the neighbourhood for the Arthritis Society:

Me: [ring doorbell. waiting.....waiting. nearly give up. turn to leave.]

[door opens]

Me: "O hello. How are you today?"

Mr. Stickuphisass: [stares blankly] "What are you selling?"

Me: [stricken dumb for a beat] Ah. [nervous chortle] Not selling anything today sir. [force a natural looking smile] I'm just canvassing for the Arthritis Society -

Mr. S: Not interested. [closes door before I can say 'bye' or any such parting words]


I shouldn't have bothered going to his door. I'm pretty sure that last year the same thing happened. I probably even muttered the same profanities as I walked away from his house.

On the bright side, everyone else was really nice. Even the ones who didn't give me money. And I raised $100. BooYah.



Ps. I can't believe I wrote a post on November 5th and forgot to mention Guy Fawkes Day. It's like my favourite foreign holiday. So...."Remember, remember the fifth of November, the gun-powder treason and plot. I know of no reason the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot." And yet it took me three days to realize that I forgot it.
I also love the movie "V for Vendetta."

Innuendo and other

I am a big fan of puns. I say that with no shame.... well ok, I say it with very little shame, much less than you might think.

Bad puns, good puns (is there such a thing?)....

Anyways, I did not come here to talk about puns, I came here to talk about double entendres and how the best double entendre in the world occurred today, but I got side tracked by puns...

The scene played out like this, and I'll warn you, it's vaguely sexual. Reader discretion is by no means advised:

I was downtown for a "Drop Fees" rally, because, as you may know, tuition is heinously high and breaking people under heaps of debt. And Ontario has the highest fucking tuition fees in Canada dammit.

Right, so downtown with my new orange haired friend, and I'm carrying my coat, a drop fees placard, a foam hand flippin' the bird with "F**k Tuition Fees" written on it, and my empty Timmies coffee cup. The coffee cup was blocking me from putting on the foam hand....

"You'd better throw that out," says my orange haired friend, "It's hindering your fingering."

I turned to her and starred for a solid few seconds.

"That's ok," says I. "I shall compensate with my mouth."

And I put the cup in my mouth. And carried it.


So there you go. I laughed my ass off and thought it was a genius moment.

I talk. I listen.

Have I mentioned yet that this year is infinitely less crap than last year? The crap is so much lesser, I might even venture to turn that pessimistic statement around and say that this year rocks ever so much more than last year. But that would imply that first year had anything at all that rocked about it, which it didn't.

Anywho. My least favourite thing about this year - other than the midterms, the deadlines, the essays and so on - is all the interviewing I have to do. I have to interview people all the time for assignments, but it's not the speaking to people I don't know, the asking awkward questions, or even the points in the interview when I forget what exactly I'm trying to say that are the worst aspects of being a journalism student - it's playing back the recordings of my interviews that I hate.

I can't stand hearing my own voice. I hear myself speaking to people and I think why does anyone like me? I sound like the biggest dumb ass to ever grace the planet.

halleluuuuiaaaaaaaa glory be.

Journalism Prof is my new most favourite person for giving us a week extension on our huge, ginormous, stupid, spiteful assignment. It doesn't quite make up for the fact that he assigned it in the first place, but at this point, it comes pretty damn close.

Songofthe.....

I totally just updated the so-called "Song of the Week" (very, very big mistake to have put a time period on it, I should probably just call it "Song of the _____") after a month and a half of forgetting about it.

For this next undetermined amount of time the songs shall be My Manic & I and Cross Your Finger/Crawled out of the Sea by Laura Marling. She gets two songs because I am currently obsessed (majorly) with her album "Alas I Cannot Swim" (and have been for the past at least two months). I had to order it from Gloucester, UK.

She is amazing, and worth so much more than the 4$ of shipping I had to pay to get her album. Actually, when I think about it, it was really cheap to get the disc. It was about 12$ (Canadian) all told, which is probably less than I would have paid for a CD in a store. I don't understand how they made any money at all.


Once, she was the opening act for Neil Young while he was touring in the UK. How I would have killed to be at that show.


Speaking of shows, I went to see Metric again recently. God, they're so frweakifing amazing. And I would marry Emily Haines anyday of the week. Except on a Monday. Mondays suck. Or a Wednesday really, cause that just seems like an extremely awkward day for a wedding... right in the middle of the week.

Anyways, I had to cart my 15 year old bro and his four really tall friends there in the minivan. I felt so cool, you have no idea. I think I almost ran a car off the highway because all I could see when I tried to look out the back window was heads of teenage boys. And then on the way back from the concert, half of them were high. That was a joy and a half to deal with....

Me: "Ok John, where do you live?"

Boy Voice: "Turn left!"

Different voice: "NO! Stop here!"

Third Voice: "John's homeless bahahah."

Some other Idiot Voice: "Right. Beside that school over there! In the field."

So, ya. Dumb. But it was worth it to see Metric.

And again speaking of shows, I have tickets to LADY GAGA! I bought one for me, one for my little 11 year old brotha. It's a surprise for his birthday and he doesn;t know yet! With a brother like him, I almost don't feel bad that I don't have a sister.


If you never noticed before, my taste in music is quite eclectic.

NotAlice out.

Gay Ol' Time

Overheard whilst I eavesdropped on a girl talking to avoid doing mountains of work:

"It's been eight months! That's like.... two years in lesbian time. I'm just taking it one day at a time."

Awesome, so if you want to calculate how long your relationship has lasted, in lesbian years, you just need to do this simple conversion: multiply the length in straight years by three.

Hmm.... I wonder if it's like cat years and the conversion factor gets smaller as years go by.

No no... I'm pretty sure the conversion factor would get exponentially larger as years pass. Yes, definitely.

I am tired. Hear me Snore!

Hello all. Remember me? The one who writes this blogge.... or doesn't these days. Just wanted to say:

Damn exams to hell.

I have a mid-term tomorrow. And the next day.

So obviously I am writing a post, when I should be studying. Erg I make myself so mad.

What has happened done recently? Not much. A bus driver drove past me whilst I stood in front of the door practically crying to be let on. I was published in my uni newspaper. It I turned 19 somewhere between this post and the last one. It snowed today.

And I am slowly headed towards a breakdown. But it's cool. I've always (and have probably mentioned this before) wanted to experience a padded room.

Family invaded my house over Thanksgiving (which was last weekend, because I'm in Canada, and that's how we roll. Also, pilgrims and Native peoples would never have a picnic in November, because that would be stupid and in the snow). Usually only one or two relatives trek on over to O-town for spankgive'r, but this year hoards and fleets of them came from all over the place to take care of my mother who just had surgery to get some cancer out of her neck (really, it was her thyroid that was taken out, along with some lymph nodes). We had a whole smorgasbord of family here.

So with the family everywhere and going to the hospital and cleaning for guests and being sick (with what I'm gonna say was SWINE FLU. runn for yourr livvvesss ahhh...) and making sure I was a proper fucking host to all the relatives all around (and I love them to death, but I am so goddam busy with school you have no idea, and they are reeeaallly distracting) in the absense of my mother, I haven't gotten any school shit done, I haven't done readings, I haven't been to all my classes, and I can't even manage to write a proper sentence (see this one is going to be the run-on sentece to beat all run-on sentences) and now I have a mid-term tomorrow that I didn't even realize I had until yesterday. So fuck.

That is why I'm headed for a breakdown.

Now I shall study.

Whoa. Hello.

I am a bad blogger.

I will write a real post soon, so as not to be such a lame person.

Muse-ic

I chose this song of the week pretty much solely so I could use that title for my post. It's a horrible pun and I am not afraid to use it.

This song (Bliss by Muse) reminds me of being on the city bus. Mostly just because I tend to listen to it on the bus on the way to school, not because it has anything to do with buses. Because nothing is "so easy to love" about a bus, and they certainly don't "resonate happiness." They resonate crankyness.

First day of school tomorrow.

Kill me now.

Song of the Week FAIL Vol. 57

BAH. Song of the Week last week was actually up for two weeks. I forgot.

This week (or two, or month, as the case may turn out to be) the song is My Moon My Man by Leslie Feist or just Feist as she is usually known as. She is Canadian, and no, she's not good because she was on an iPod commercial, she was on the commercial because she's amazing.

My cousin says I look like her. Calls me Feist sometimes. I suppose maybe we have a similar chin. And we both have the bangs thing going on in brownish hair. And, of course, I can frequently be found at airports, dancing on those moving conveyor belt sidewalk thingers (this would make sense to you if you had've clicked the previous link and watched her video).

Those things would be great if they weren't so fun to fool around on. I mean, their fun factor totally outweighs the practical side of them. I'll be on one, going forward in the proper direction, and I'll suddenly get the unoverridable urge to dash in the opposite direction. To run off against the current of groved metal and people and hand luggage and children starring down at their feet in wonder as they take steps that carry them unnaturally far forward. And then I stop abruptly and allow the walkway to take be backward a few feet, then start running again. So I don't end up getting anywhere faster. I don't really get anywhere.

They are just so gosh darn amusing.

Canada Writes.

O Canadian literature. The beloved Margaret Laurence. The other Margaret, the Atwood one. W.O. Mitchell (I always say it as Whooooa Mitchell in my head. And out loud. I can't control it). Lucy Maud Montgomery, who ensured that the little island of Prince Edward will forever get a steady stream of Japanese tourists making the pilgrimage there to see the real house of the fake red headed girl in the fake town of Avonlea, in the real town of Cavendish..... incidentally, all she succeeded in doing for me was ensure that the main character was so bloody annoying that I couldn't force myself to finish reading the series, I got to maybe book number six and thought "goddam. Anne is having offspring, the stupidity is multiplying. Must stop."

..... but I digress.

So yes. Canadian writing has fans all over the world. But one little piece of Canadian work is garnering some unexpected attention for just who seems to be a fan of it. You see, deep in the vaults of the CIA, live the assholes who devise torture methodes, and they have a copy of Transport Canada's 92 page epic Survival in Cold Waters: Staying Alive.

It is a piece of writing generally used by folks inclined to go boating out in the frigid waters that hug our shores to, you know, stay alive and such, should the ocean fancy jumping up into their boat, or their boat fancy diving into the sea. But the CIA, they take the use of this study a bit farther and use it to help the doctors gauge how much pain they can put prisoners through with the use of cold water dousing, without killing them.

I do not even know where to begin pointing out the things wrong with that sentence.

First of all, using a SURVIVAL guide as a means to inflict maximum pain on a human being? It's a tad disgusting. Sure it is out there for general use, but this is never what it was intended for. A person is supposed to learn from that guide how to survive, escape a disaster in cold water with their life, preserve themselves while trying to minimize the pain they experience. But the CIA turned it into a guide to pain, a goal of severe trauma with a side plan of keeping the prisoner alive.

Second, what kind of doctor takes part in torture? Certainly one who has no business calling themselves a doctor. Despicable.

A survival guide turned into a torture guide.

I think I'm going to go bash my head against a wall for a bit.


Well, at least I now know what to do with my copy of Anne of Green Gables: use it to beat the shit out of people. But you know, not 'til they're dead, just until they're thoroughly annoyed.

Who is John Galt?

I had meatballs for lunch today.

Also.

Work today involved a lot of sitting and starring at a solution whilst it sorted itself out through a column of silica gel and drrrriiiiiiippppped ever so slowly into an Erlenmeyer flask (Invented by that guy over there to the right, Emil Erlenmeyer in 1861. Not to be confused with Oscar Mayer, who made a hotdog around then that still looks and tastes exactly the same). Erlenmeyer flllask. Erlenmeyer flaaaaask. I think that might be in my top ten of favourite word combinations. I could say it maybe 72 consecutive times without getting tired of saying it.

Anywho, I would pour the solution was that I was working into the top of the glass column, and as the liquid trickled through the tube, getting itself all pure and what not, I had a lot of time to do nothing. So instead of doing nothing, I read Atlas Shrugged. And I'm only about 213 pages in, so don't nobody go spoiling it for me.

It's wierd. I can't read a whole lot of that book in one sitting - it's just too depressing and frustrating to immerse myself in for too long - but when I'm not reading it, all I do is think about it. Or change the Erlenmeyer flask under the column. I feel like I've reached the climax of the story, but I have about 80% of the book to go. Every character is either a detestable piece of scum dredged from the bowels of the Valley of the Severely Dim, or an intelligent, ambitious person, a prodigy in their field of work, and therefore despised by the aforementioned scums.

I'm still waiting for the part when Atlas finally shrugs and the world goes tumbling off his shoulders and shatters on the museum floor. I'm sure it happens soon.

But. I don't know what to make of this book. Philosophy like this makes one part of my brain scream and another part shoot into thinking overdrive. It's intriguing. It's riveting. But every so often I have to stop and just puzzle over humanity. Could we really end up like that? Is society destined to become a giant contradiction of itself? Can humans as a collective sink to such loathsome levels that they especially hate themselves?

Who is John Galt?

Shut up brain, just shut up.





Side, mostly unrelated, note: If you google john galt erlenmeyer meatballs, this post comes up first. Woohoot.

Update 25/08/09: Not anymore. Fuck.

Another Great Victory for Vikings: Spam.

I've never had spam, but I'm thinking of trying the Spam, spam, spam, baked beans, spam, spam, and spam.

SQUIRREL!

This made the front page of the National Post, this past Friday.

Straight from the Too Damn Cute files comes this inadvertent snapshot.

It's not exactly news I'd expect on the front page, but it's definitely cuter than Stephen Harper, or some other stupid thing that might make the national newspaper's cover.

Happy Woodstock.

Woodstock was occurring exactly right now 40 years ago. How I wish I had have been alive.

In honour of the three day, peaceful, talent racked hippie-fest, Song of the Week goes to Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit, a eerie sounding song dominated by Grace Slick's powerful vocals issuing blatant LSD references. One of my favourite songs. Go ask Alice.

Oddly enough, this song made it onto my Canadian History exam as one of the terms we had to define. It's not Canadian, but the culture of the 60s permeated the Canadian collective, so it was relevant. Plus my Can Hist prof is just that amazing. I, you might guess, had no trouble defining it. The trouble came later in the exam when I was trying to think of who exactly Joseph Howe was and I kept imagining him as a hookah smoking caterpillar.

Anyways, another song I ought to mention is Woodstock by Joni Mitchell. The reason the song probably sounds so sad is because Joni wasn't actually there. At the insistence of her manager, she played a different gig whilst Woodstock went on without her. Poor thing.

Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (a band that did, in fact, perform on the hallowed grounds of Yasgur's farm) did a cover of this song. It's also super sweet.


Right well, peace.

wait a minute.....WHO MADE THIS BIG MESS!??!

My uncle and aunt and their three kids are coming from St. Catharines to visit for the weekend. So I need to go home and madly clean my room, since I possibly will have one or two cousins sleeping on my floor. And currently, there isn't room to walk on it, much less sleep there. There isn't really room on my bed either, but I don't mind. I am small.

I really don't understand how I allow the crap in my room to take over the floor like that. It's skillfull, really. I believe I learned these skills at an early age. It wasn't my fault. Good thing I also learned how to clean efficiently, by stuffing things under cushions and such.

Crazy Canadian televison programs.

...I love the Big Comfy Couch. But it did give me delusions as to how fast it was possible to clean a room. I don't think I noticed as a child that they sped up her movement during the 10 Second Tidy.

I used to be able to do this though. O man I want one of those rugs.

By the way, my uncle who is coming commonly refers to coffee as the devil's drink. So he should be a positive influence in my (failing miserably) attempt to ditch the juice.

I confess

Someone brought a great honkin'* slice of chocolate cake to work for lunch and put it in the fridge.

Now that's a gamble.

If I still ate gluten, that shit would have been gone five minutes ago.




*That felt wierd to type. I don't think I'll ever use that word again.

I quit.

I think I am going to try quitting coffee. Or at least minimize my intake. I will probably feel healthier, maybe even live a few extra years longer.

But I'll probably be asleep for those extra years.

Tour de Sorebutt

So I have done the MS Bike Tour! It is finished, and I am left with a complementary cycling jersey, a Bike Tour t-shirt, and a very very sore butt. That's what 150 km of cycling gets you (and of course, a great sense of accomplishment and happiness that I survived, and helped out with a cause very dear to me).

It felt even worse than the time I did a spinning class and I thought for sure that nine months later I would have stationary bicycle babies. With eyes in the handlebars.

I hate spinning classes.

Anyway, I discovered that the area between Ottawa and Kemptville - where we slept the night before heading back to Ottawa - mainly consists of corn and cows with long, straight roads dividing them. Every so often there would be a beautiful, dilapidated barn surrounded by crumbling silos and bails of half eaten hay being munched on by pinto horses that we could gaze at for a few seconds before it faded away behind us..... but there was mostly corn.

We'd be on the same road for 5 km or something and there would be corn the whole way. Then finally we turned a corner annnnd..... more corn. O then a cow farm - cue the stench (honestly, I could have sworn I was breathing in cows, that's how potent their smell is). Then corn. Then corn. Corn.

So it made me wonder, where the fuck does all this corn go? We must ship it all away. I mean, nobody in all of Ottawa should be going hungry when there is about a bizillion square kilometres of corn growing all around the city. Really.

So, that's all.


O also, song of the week is Fashionable People by Joel Plaskett, a song which I might have linked already in a previous post, but no matter, it is a marvy song.

Song of the week

Rainy Day Women - Bob Dylan

It won't stop raining here. Well, actually today it didn't.

So this song seemed like it had the right title for my mood as well as the weather.

Vikings A Go Go

Where do I wish I was right now? Oddly enough, Manitoba. At the Icelandic Festival of Manitoba. Because, yes, you guessed it, there is a Viking Village. And people reenacting vikingness. And one of the best things is that the village in in a town called Gimli. Named after the dwarf in Lord of the Rings. Well, not really, but if I lived there, that's what I'd tell people.

It's taking place right now. I'm thinking one year I'll go be a Viking in this festival. I think I'd look very menacing and brutal as a Viking. And gross, because I bet it's part of the costume to have bits of chicken and human fingernails stuck in your beard. Although the discovery of 51 headless Viking bodies in a pit in England has lead me to believe that the Saxons found the Viking look offensive.

I do not want to get my head chopped off. No sir.

Speaking of Manitoba, I've never been to the west of Canada. Nowhere west-er than Ontario. But, with Newfoundland visited, I've covered all the eastern provinces. I've even been to the most easterly point in all of North America, called Cape Spear.

You know, other than the irksome fact that I was with my osodumb parents and my insane brothers every waking and not waking moment of my time in Newfoundland, it was the most perfect time ever. But I will never go there with them again. That was agonizing.

Here is a picture of a puffin. I took about fifty seven pictures of this particular one. They are just too damn cute.

Here is a picture of a post office in a...um.... very special town. (Notice the name on the sign. Click to enlarge)Ya, it's actually named Dildo. After a captain. The captain of a vessel full of seamen.

Here is an iceberg. We took a boat through a bunch of them, and I confess I said "ICEBERG, STRAIGHT AHEAD!" about 23 times. With the accent and all. There were tourists from England on the boat. Not sure whether they were more impressed by that, or my multiple renditions of "I'm on a Boat, Muthafucka." This one, while not from Dildo, was apparently inspired by one.
Sciencey side note about Icebergs: They aren't actually white. When they froze 10 000 years ago, they froze with air bubbles, and they reflect white light. So when you get up right close to one, it sizzles, because it's melting and the air bubbles are going into the water. Also, they taste very fresh.

This is a newfie speedbumpus, or a moose. On the island, there are something ridiculous like 100 000 of them things. They are so numerous and so stupid that when driving you have to constantly be on the lookout for them because they are apt to amble onto the highway and stare at you whilst you accordion your car against their massive bodies.
The locals would stare at us in horror when we told them we planned to drive through the night to our next stop..... as though night driving means certain death by moose.

This is an underwater graveyard. The blue buoys are the men and the white ones are the women.Nah, just kidding. It's actually a muscle farm. I ate a muscle while I as there that had a pearl in it.

So there you go, so pics of Newfoundland. It takes too long to upload them, so I'm gonna stop now. But there are some others like one of my fifteen year old brother frolicking among sheep that always give me a good chuckle.

First Installment of 'Shit Written On Walls'

Found in St. John's, Newfoundland.


I took this just round the corner from the 'financial district,' which is more or less a block in the city that has all the banks on it. It reads "MAKE YOUR SELF SCARCE" which just goes towards promoting the stereotype that everyone there is nice. Even their graffiti is more polite. Anywhere else you'd find the standard "FUCK OFF" written unimaginatively next to a giant penis with eyebrows or something.

to be 30.

Well, it's a pretty sorry time in the life of a writer when the writer hasn't written for seven days.

But I haven't anything to say.

Life is boring. I'm pretty sure I've successfully hermitized myself. One of the only things I've been successful at in a long time. Sadly.

I'm going to end up a 30 year old who feels the need to get shitwrecked at parties and say really obnoxious things really loudly and dye her hair platinum blonde and in general be a plastic whorish type lady because of my wasted youth.

Which reminds me, I did go out the other day when aunt brought me to a 30 year old version of a house party. It was, at moments, fun, and had delicious jello shooters. There were two types of people there: the chill ones getting a bit tipsy and having a bang-up time, and the ones who despite being 10+ years older than me were acting about three years younger than me. The latter group included at least one plastic whorish type woman (PWTW). I think she even took a shot of amaretto from between her ginormous fake boobs. Pure class. She was the first person we ran into coming in the door. I briefly tossed around the idea of leaving.

At one point the host of the party couldn't be found (we found out later that he was pissed that people were hiding bottles and caps around his house and went outside to cool off. Apparently alcohol makes him a real pain in the ass Type A.) and PWTW, no doubt believing she is being incredibly helpful pipes up with "O my god, he's MIA. O. My. God. He's. M. I. A. He's MIA! OMG. O my fucking god, he's MIA. He's MIA. O my goddddd!"

No word of a lie, that is exactly what she said.

I wanted to punch her right in the silicon boob.

Instead, I stood behind her and imitated her, silently mouthing her words, much to my own amusement.


Ps, I changed the song of the week. Give it a listen, Regina Spektor is amazing.

Happy Moon landing Day

Yay for space.

For you skeptics, here.

Post that should be about Newfoundland but isn't because I don't feel like it. It was wonderful but I'll write about it later.

Well, I'm home now. And I fully plan on writing a Newfoundland overview at some point....later. But these days I haven't felt much like writing, which is an odd way for me to feel. It is also very bad because I've come to the conclusion that the only way for me to become famous is to write a book or something, as I have neither the talent nor the skill to do anything else. I probably don't have enough writing gusto and je ne sais quoi to be an author anyways, but at this point it is the only way I see to potential fame. FAME.

Buuuut... I haven't written a journal or a blogge or lyrics to songs I never finish in a while. It's been a lazy little while, mentally speaking. This lethargy is just another reason why I'm a failure at life in general.

I ALSO fail because I completely forgot about Song of the Week. So I am going to change it right now.... Ain't she gorgy?

I don't know why exactly I want to be famous. It's insane really. I'm crazy and stupid enough as it is, I'm sure I'd end up as one of those coked out, drunken famous people whose name rings vague bells in people's minds but they can't quite remember why. Still. Despite seeing the private lives of the rich and famous splashed across the tabloids and told in daily 30 second clips on TV, every mundane thing they do twisted into a 'top story', I'm intensely jealous of them. Secretly. So don't tell anyone.

To want fame is probably one of the most masochistic desires there is.

This is like when I was little and all I wanted out of life was the ability to do magic. When I was eleven I cried all night once because my letter to Hogwarts never came..... I'm still convinced the owl carrying it just died along the way and they never realized.

Well, now I'm older and my dreams are more realistic, yes, but just as unlikely to ever come true.




So remember kids, if you shoot for the stars, you will probably land among asteroids. So wear a helmet and elbow pads.

And even if you do make it, you will probably be incinerated by the stars' heat. Or die from lack of oxygen, because, DUH you're in space dumbass.


God I hate those stupid metaphors.
That is why I choose to butcher them.

Newfoundland and more to come.

I have a load and a half to write about Newfoundland.... but there isn't internet access in the cabins we're staying at. Right now I'm sitting in the lobby area/general store/library/icecream shop of the cabin place, the only spot nearby with internet. But I have to go to bed. I'm so tired, plus the store is closing any minute.

So I'll maybe put some pics.... if I can manage to sort through the 56 788 933 ones I've taken so far.

O btw, its been sunny and warm the whole time so far. What? Madness.

I have even tanned.



EDIT: I have even burnt.

An Airport with free internet access?

NO WAY. this must be a dream. But no, it's true. I'm currently in the Halifax airport and I am using the internet without paying for it with my soul. Or money. It's amazing. Whoever thought of the novel idea of free internet is a winner. A true hero.

The East coast really is full of the bestest people.

Even the girl in the store where I picked up a magazine (Rolling Stone....it has the icky Jonas Hoes on the front, but we are all told as children not to judge a book by its cover, ya?) was genuinely nice. She actually seemed to be asking questions about where I'm from and where I'm going because she wanted to know (not in a creepy way) and not just because her employer was there checking to see if she was exuding the right amount of fake friendliness.

Anyways, know what I just realized? Well....since Newfoundland is super special and gets its own time zone that's an hour and a half ahead of Ontario, instead of having to wake up at 8:30 am to make my schedueled time ticket to pick my classes, I get to sleep in and do it at 10:00 am. Beauty, ainit?


Well, that's mostly all I can think of right now. Flights aren't exactly the most riveting things to talk about, unless you've survived its crashing or you joined the Mile High Club (ya it's got a website), neither of which I'm planning on doing, because to be a survivor the plane has to crash first, which would suck, and also, have you ever seen Snakes On a Plane? Well I have and let's just say that two members of that club came to a painfully awkward end upon receiving several venomous bites in places that should never be bitten. Or could be, I guess.... if you're into that.

So ya, that was scaring. And all I would be able to think about would be snakes slithering out of the toilet.

Gotta go. We is bording. Peace.
And remember kids, the only place better than where you are is anywhere else.

New Weekly feature perhaps?

I think I may add a new weekly feature to this here blogge.

It shall be called "Shit Written on Walls" and it shall be of the interesting graffiti I see. It won;t necessarily need to be written on walls, but I like that title, so that is how it shall stay.

Trouble is, most of the interesting graffiti in the world resides in washrooms and it is just a tad unsettling to hear a camera go off in the stall next to you whilst you're on the toilet. I would like to do this in a way that doesn't make me look like a total creepo.

You've got a bloody right to sing.

So the weather here sucks balls. It's rainy and cold. If it does this in Newfoundland, I will boycott talking about the weather for ever. I won't give it the satisfaction of getting my attention.

It already has every other Canadian to talk about it all the time anyways.

Geez I'm sometimes so stereotypical.
My fall back conversation starter? The weather.
My fall back blogge post topic? The weather.

I think it must be that we get so much of it up here. You know, diverse weather. It's constantly changing on us so it never really gets old. Hmmm...it's odd that I don't have a "weather" tag. I have a climate one, but that is different. Get it right.

You know what are dangerous? iPods. And I don't mean that people wear them and get hit by cars, or wear them and suddenly they're blind to the world because they're searching for a song, or wear them and go deaf because they're too stupid to turn the goddam volume down (yes I'm talking to you dumbass at the front of the bus whos music I can hear through the music I'm listening to on my iPod), or wear them and fall off cliffs because the music in their ears drowned out the telltale sound of the cliff breaking beneath them.... No, I'm talking about when I'm out in public, maybe at work or in the mall and I've got the damn thing plugged into my ears and a really top notch song comes on and I have to catch myself before I burst out singing right there and then.

Sometimes just for a moment I can't catch myself and I end up with wierd stares because I just sang something like "Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead..." (Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen - though I sincerely hope you already knew that, and me telling you so was just redundant because that song is probably the most bomb song to ever be sung), and they're thinking, 'let's get outta here, there's some freak singing about her psychopathic murderings.'

So I guess the danger is that I may get put into a mental institution.

The music...I just can't suppress it. I just know I'm in for trouble when Bowie or Queen or Paramore or Supertramp or ..... (signifying endless list of artists) comes on.




So remember kids, the only fate you have is the one you take for yourself.
Peace.

Are YOU Heterobifunctional?

I swear, my vocabulary is expanding exponentially as I work at this job. It's boring as hell, but my vocabulary is not suffering. No sir.

So a guy was talking to my boss today and starts saying things about "heterobifunctional" something or others. Honestly, I didn't hear another word out of his mouth after he said "heterobifunctional" because my mind, of its own accord, started coming up with definitions of the word.

I basically came up with this, it's golden, no kidding: "Someone who is basically a heterosexual individual, but, if the conditions are right, can swing the other way should the need arise. They are probably not very good at it. They are just functional."

Eh? That was the very first thing that popped into my head.

But, in reality, the word is not nearly so interesting as that, it just means Crosslinkers with different reactive groups at either end, enabling sequential conjugation between two different functional groups in proteins and other molecules.

Not overall a fun definition.

What I do with my time.

I leave for Newfoundland on Thursday! I'm so excited. All I have to do is devise a way to completely block out the bleating whining/shouting/angry mutterings of my family, and the trip should be a hoot and a half.

I don't know if I'll be able to post while I'm there. Have they heard of the internet?
Just kidding.
But seriously, there has to has to HAS TO be somewhere with reliable internet there so I can register for Fall classes. My stupid registration time ticket is while I'm there and if I don't register RIGHT THEN, I will end up with classes I would never consider taking but am stuck with because everything else will be full.

In other news, I realized that I have been doing absolutely nothing with my life this summer. Sure I'm working, but that is not personally fulfilling, and it is boring as hell. I need to do something real. So I decided to sign up for the MS Bike Tour, a 150 km bike trip spanning two days with all the raised funds going towards Multiple Sclerosis research, a cause very close to my heart indeed. I'm on a team and all. I'm psyched, but I am also sososososoooo out of shape it's scary. I need to start turning my useless self back into some semblance of an athlete so that I don't die embarrassingly on a bicycle on a lonely stretch of road somewhere between Ottawa and Kemptville.

It is a cluttered mess.

I was reading a blogge post, as I often do, of a random person's blogge whom I don't know. It was very fundamental Christian with lots of Atheist bashing and what I guess is called right wing extremism. Sounds scary, don't it? (Example)

And you know what's interesting is how Atheists and Fundies will sometimes visit each others' blogges and angrily comment on how absurd one view is, or how bad they are at making an argument. The anonymity the internet provides not only allows people to have well thought out debates, but also for lines to be crossed during those debates that might not otherwise be crossed in real life, face to face conversation (mostly because that type of line crossing gets people beaten up).

The internet makes for some of the trashiest, most honest, most thought-provoking, wildest and craziest, most unbearably mean-spirited, and most spot-on arguments you'll ever see. It's all a jim-jam of articles and blogge posts, critics and cynics, activist and apathetic sites that can spout all sorts of nonsense, or sometimes, all sorts of compelling arguments. You can say what you want, unchecked. All those thoughts popping around like jumping beans in your brain with nowhere to go now have a tiny internet sized soapbox to stand on.

[Did you just picture a jumping bean on a soapbox, because I totally just did.]

Anyhoo. As I read this particular post, which happened to be a Fundie ripping into Atheists like they are some sort of hydra exponentially growing new heads to eat at the 'truths' of the Bible, I had to laugh, partly because what the guy says is so ridiculous, and I had to cry.... because what the guy says is so ridiculous. And not just Fundies are guilty of this. Dumbass, horribly insulting works come from all sorts of groups, religious or not, political or otherwise. Stupidity is everywhere.

In the comments section of the post, someone said the author must be a Poe. Now whenever I see the word Poe, I think of my dear friend Edgar and his pally the Raven. Consequently, I thought that the commenter meant the author was a poet, or maybe a creepy bird. I knew this was an absurd notion, and I also knew that my knowledge of internet lingo is severely limited, so I looked up "Poe" and found many things including "Point of Entry," "Portal of Evil," "Polynesian staple food made from the corm of a kalo plant," and this Poe of the teletubby variety. I briefly thought that the commenter might have been calling the poster a Portal of Evil, until I came upon the Urban Dictionary and learned that a Poe is "A person who writes a parody of a fundamentalist that is mistaken for the real thing."

Now that makes more sense.

But I really doubted that this particular blogger was a "Poe".

But how can one know, in the end? And there are more than just Fundamentalist Poes. There are parodies of all sorts of sections of society, from Emos to bird watchers (maybe not bird watchers actually, but anything is possible).

So what if I am a Poe? An extremely convincing parody of a teenage girl who is sometimes bitter, sometimes giddy, sometimes confused, sometimes mad as hell, sometimes fed up, sometimes annoying her readers reader with her dumb and awkward - but not obviously fake - problems.

Well, I'm not just so you know.

But then maybe I am.

SPOOOOKY.

I'm here for the anonymity people. Not so I can argue, just mostly to vent... maybe comment on a blogge or two that I find particularly intriguing.

I don't wanna convert people to anything. I mean, what would I be converting people to anyways, Stupidityism? I think yes.

HAPPY CANADA DAY eh?

Take off ya hoser. Go have a beer.

With a beaver.
Or just eat his tail. SOOO delicious.

Ps. this is a picture of a beaver saying "Ok, so yes, I did just chew through a tree and put it through your roof. But really, what do you want me to do about it?"

tomorrow.....

....is Canada Day. The best day of the year. Ever.

Last year, my intolerably ridiculous parents decided that of all the days in the year, we had to use July 1st as a traveling day. I spent Canada Day last year in a car with my two bickering brothers, my cranky mom and my tired-of-this-shit dad, coming back from my grandparents' house six hours away.

Their horrible, horrible judgment meant I couldn't partake of the joyous festivities!

Clearly, they do not love Canada as much as I, otherwise they would want to express their love by walking the streets of the Capital in a drunken haze. Nothing says "I LOVE CANADA!" like dressing in red and white and being publicly shmammmered.


This year shall be different. I will not be driving anywhere (because that would be very irresponsible, now wouldn't it?). I will be doing something fun, though I should probably figure out what that is going to be.....

This is why I write.

I always contend that keeping a video blog will only end up making you look like a fool.

This belief is probably due mostly to the fact that I would look like a major tool if I ever tried to "vlog." My voice sounds funny when it is recorded. My face looks funny when I speak. I am constantly mistaken for my little brother when I answer the telephone:

Aloha!

O hey kiddo, your mommy home?

No, everyone is currently at work.

Are you home all alone?

Yes actually. By the way, who do you think you're speaking with? 'Cause this is Alice.

O geez sorry, I thought you were your brother....

Ya, no doubt.

So I picture myself on Youtube saying these things instead of writing them, and I physically cringe. If this were a vlog, you'd see how grimacey my face can get.

Just be thankful it isn't.

But some people can pull them off. Like this person in Australia. She is kinda funny. And now I really really reallllllly want to go to a sci-fi convention. I will find one, and I will make the best costume ever, and I will go. It wold be eleven levels of kick ass fun.


In Conclusion: I shall start a vlog.

In real Conclusion: Never.



EDIT: she is not kinda funny. She's fuckin hilarrrr.

I spy 150 YEARS IN PRISON

The CIA is recruiting.

Or are they?

Yes, actually, I'm pretty sure they are. John Stewart says they want all the laid off investment bankers and peeps from Wall Street who stirred the downward spiral that is the present day economy. Ergo, not me, as even I am not that big of a fuck up.

I think I'd like to be a spy. I could work at CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Jah man. Seriously, I can scale walls and speak French, so I'm pretty sure I have all the necessary requirements.

ps. Bernie Madoff was sentenced to 150 years in the big house. No not one of his mansions, prison duh. But MSNBC has keenly pointed out that the bad man, according to a regular life expectancy, only has 12.6 more years to live. So, overkill maybe? But then, he isn't exactly a regular person. He swindled people out of millions. Now, you'd think that kind of deed would weigh heavily on his mind and the stress of knowing how awful of a person he is would reduce his life span, but when you're as stupidly rich as he was, you can, in fact, buy years of life.

A List of Ten Things.

I don't generally (o looke, I spelt it rite!) consider myself in any position to be giving out fashion tips. I don't think I'm particularly good at critiquing style or anything. I mean, getting dressed in the morning usually consists of a trip to my floor (because I literally trip over all the shit on it) where I pick up a clean pair of pants and a shirt, and then maybe a walk across the room to my belts and ties and scarves and feather boas and other crap like that, and then I put it all together to get an outfit that may or may not match.

But, when I read this, I simply felt I must weigh in with my (perhaps misguided) opinion. It is one of those dumb "top ten" articles that are always the first thing I see when I sign into my email that I feel I may as well read. It is by Heather Adler, and it's about 10 fashion trends that were started by celebs and we all regret in retrospect.

The thing is, I don't regret all of them. In fact, I find myself disagreeing with Ms. Adler at every turn.....

1) "The Rachel" (refering to the mid 90s style of haircut popularized by Jennifer Aniston in Friends)
Ok, actually, I may have to agree with this one. So, moving on...

2) "Shoulder Pads" Adler says: "In that crazy, mixed-up time in our lives known as the ‘80s, nothing really seemed to make much sense, but why the world decided women should go for the football player look continues to stand out as a point of particular inanity."

Right, well, shoulder pads weren't so hot, but I think that they didn't just come out of nowhere. I believe that back in the 80s, women were still kinda breaking into the professional world, and in an (ugly) effort to be taken seriously in a male dominated career, they made their shoulders more masculine. Because, as we all know, to this day, pay grade is determined by one's shoulder to shoulder measurement.... a sad reality involving glass ceilings.

However! Some people seeking androgyny and futuristic/blast from the past looks seem to be able to pull off these pads. Like the world's current ambassador to pop culture, Lady Gaga.

I personally do not wear them because my shoulders are already somewhat monstrous. Not good for buying blazers, great for equal pay.

3) "Legwarmers" Adler says: "After the juggernaut that was “Flashdance” swept the world, youths everywhere started donning leg warmers, perhaps in a misguided attempt to fool people into thinking they were dancers. Suddenly, these useless little tubes of fabric were available everywhere and in every colour: Speckled leg warmers! Floral leg warmers! Neon leg warmers! The rarely seen but mystical striped ankle warmers! If you were one of the people who wore these to sweaty clubs in the dead of summer, hang your head in shame."

They are not useless! They keep your legs warm! Duh. As a proud owner of at least three pairs of the things (one of which is *gasp* NEON GREEN) I can attest to the veracity of that statement. And if people happen to think I'm a dancer, well so much the better.

But ya, if you wear them to a sweaty club, you're pretty dumb.

4) "Stupid Baby Names" Adler says: "Way before adopting foreign orphans was all the rage, stars were breeding amongst themselves and producing celebuspawn, which they quickly cursed with ridiculous handles."

Agreed. But I will not make fun of the ludicrously named kids because the spawn of famous icons are people too. But seriously, hello parents of these children with o so weird names, why would you do that?

5) "Dressing like your crazy, alcoholic uncle" Adler says: "When Woody Allen’s “Annie Hall” came out in 1977, it suddenly became cool to look like a dishevelled dude. Women everywhere copped her style and started wearing socks with high heals (never a good idea), loose-fitting jackets and vests , and developed a taste for ties. Avril Lavigne would later bring back the latter trend and it proved to be equally obnoxious."

First of all, I don't have an alcoholic uncle, but I've got an alcoholic grandpa, and he doesn't dress nearly as well as this Annie Hall character. Second, it has always been cool to dress like a dishevelled dude. Vests and ties are perfectly fine. In fact, I wear them all the time. My only regret is that people sometimes believe that I wear a tie in homage to Avril Lavigne, which is not true in the least. I wore a tie first, thanks very much.

6) "Shoes that look like medieval torture devices" Adler says "Ever since “Gladiator” came out in 2000, designers have been cranking out something that looks like a cross between a shoe and a bondage device and peddling them to unsuspecting women. For some reason, this continues on today and society has yet to realize it looks dumb."
First of all, YAY for bondage.

Second, how did everyone in the world but her miss that memo?

I'll tell you why these are still in fashion: every woman secretly wants to be a dominatrix. So for the women who can't because it is not socially acceptable/they already have a day job, the next best thing is to wear these wild and crazy shoes. I applaud these wild and crazy shoes. They don't look dumb, but they are slightly intimidating (it's the backup plan to the shoulder pads...if your very large shoulders don't get you an equal salary, then beat the shit out of your boss with your medieval torture device that is cleverly disguised as shoes).

They look like they'd be a rather masochistic thing to wear, honestly.

7) "Tiny, little cars suited for clowns, not people" Specifically, Adler is speaking of the Mini Cooper. She says, "The tiny, bug-like auto has remained at the forefront ever since, despite the fact just looking at one diminishes your masculinity by 25 per cent."

I like the Mini Cooper ok? And what this woman is saying is that small cars are associated with femininity, and big cars are for REAL DUDES. Thank you so much for your overt play towards gender stereotyping, Heather. This is how I think: small cars are associated with smart, environment loving people, while big, gas guzzling cars are for the people who obviously have money to burn on filling their stupidly big gas tanks and don't care for the environment. SO.

Also! Clown are people too.

Don't try to tell them otherwise, or they'll kill you in your sleep.

8) "Drag queen makeup" Adler tells of how the 1963 Cleopatra movie sent girls into a tizzy dolling up their eyes with alotta colour and fake eyelashes. And how this is bad.

In case she hasn't noticed, this look for the eyes is quite in style. For girls...guys....little kids who raid their mother's makeup drawer.... everyone, really. Plus, why she be raggin' on drag queens? They are the awesomest. Don't knock Drag Queens or they'll knock you out.

9) "Tight, white, polyester suits"
Adler, shockingly, does not dig these suits. Or John Travolta. She may think that being the mother in Hairspray was a bad thing for him, but I thought it was sosososososo funny.

If I had a suit like that, I'd wear it EVERYDAY.
And I would disco too.
Everyone would say I was sick cause they'd be catching my Saturday Night Fever.

BAM.

10) "Capri Pants" Adler fondly refers to them as "the bastard child of shorts and pants," and asks, "Hey, do you want to make yourself look shorter and fatter in one easy step? Wear some Capris!"

Capri pants are comfy, and great if your street floods just a little and you wanna walk around outside without having to roll your pants up. Also, they are sometimes called "Clam diggers" because people can regularly be spotted digging for clams in them. Again, no pant rolling necessary! Ergo, Capri pants are just fine.

Also, my five foot frame really can't look any shorter, so do I care? Nah.

That's it.


ps. see that tag down there that says "fashion sense"? Well, I bet this is the first and last time I use it.

Song of the Week

I was finally able to change the song of the week because I'm at work where the internet actually functions. At home of late, I have been restricted to Google searches and it's pretty well a 15% chance that the search result I click on will actually open. I am sometimes able to look at blogges, but I can't comment or post anything.

Anyhoo, Song of the Week is going out to Michael Jackson. The man was as mad as a hatter in his later years, but damn could he sing and dance. You can not deny the dude had talent and then some.

Or you can, but I'll fight you.

post 111.

One Hundred and Eleven is a great number.

Just sayin'.



And also, sea anemones have invaded puppies. And made them glow.

That's just wonderful, since people have been trying to save space and energy by eliminating the need for night lights for years. So there you go.

And I have tried to publish this post since Saturday about 27 times, but the internet at my house is the shitter. Really, for what you're getting, it is not worth this hassle.

Well. on the Tequila?

O. Wow.

One year ago this moment, I was getting wasted out of my mind at my aftergrad party. Earlier that day, I said goodbye to high school, stupidly believing that graduation means you can leave behind the kind of drama that high school is full of. Well, you can't, but whatevs...

And thinking about what happened a year ago tonight, I remember why I started this here blogge in the first place. The wild and crazy events of that night ended up growing into the reason I eventually entered as a naive writer into the bloggosphere.

The whole night had a rather surreal feeling. Probably because I was very intoxicated. I learned many lessons that night, learned a lot about myself, and mostly had a bomb time. But by the end of the night, I was thoroughly terrified and mightily relieved.

Some things I learned:
1) People who take Ecstasy with their alcohol are clinically insane for a few hours.
2) Shit happens on crowded buses, and while everyone around you might be completely gone in a drunken daze, they still can see you and remember what happened the next day.
3) Gay guys are extremely fun and low pressure to dance with.
4) Tequila.
5) there are more, but this list is getting annoying.

It was a weird evening. My cousin was visiting from California, so she came with me to Aftergrad. My date and I went to prom and everything together, but were never really together. He had off-handedly asked me to prom during English class one day because he had no date. I had known it was coming and said yes because I wanted a corsage (which he didn't get me anyhow, so what was the point?). The two of us had been going through that awkward time before two people start dating, but we had never actually bothered to start dating. I was minorly interested in him, but looking back, I have a feeling that that interest was mostly to mask the bigger interest I had in someone else.

Anyhoo, the after party began well, despite my deadbeat date. I had a fake ID, so I got an alcohol bracelet, allowing me to spend heinous amounts of money on tiny, overpriced, under-liquored drinks. I discovered Tequila and mostly stuck to straight shots of it. I learned it makes all inhibitions just vanish. Other drinks just kind of mask them, but Tequila, dear God....it's like you can't figure out why you had qualms about doing certain things in the first place. Like any societal pressures, any dos and don'ts nurtured in you, any anything go *poof* and you just act. Am I going to fall asleep against the chest of this guy while still dancing with him? Yes, yes I am.

Fairly early on, a girl started going a little wonky. It looked like she had just managed to overdrink really fast, but as she got stranger and sicker, it was evident she had taken something besides alcohol and we were pretty sure it was Ecstasy, though she denied it the whole time. We brought her to the washroom where she puked and was sometimes seen flailing in an alarming manner, then puked some more. We took care of her in shifts. But then I got really tequila-ed up and forgot about her.

I danced up a storm. I danced with a gay dude who had "officially" come out just about a month or so before graduation (but everyone had known since....well probably since the beginning of high school). I danced with a guy from the year below us who is like 6'2" and moved like he was a giant cushion (which was why I fell slightly asleep....my head only reached his chest area). I danced with a group of friends. I danced with my date for a bit and then watched him dance with my cousin as I disco-infernoed like it was 1969. I danced while waiting in line for liquor. I danced with the girl I had secretly fallen head over very little feet for.

I was so busy dancing that 3am rolled around and people started to file out of the club area to the buses to bring us back to the city, and I didn't notice. About a third of the partiers got on to one of the two buses, the doors snapped shut and it took off. The rest of us were woken from our dancing stupor by raging bouncers screaming at us to get the fuck out of there and on to the fucking buses.

Too many people piled onto the bus. Three or four people to a seat, more lying across people's laps, and more in the aisle. I was sitting with the girl I had been dancing with. In the seat in front of me sat my cousin and my "date". Making out. I was gawking at them, they were seriously going at it. At one point, my cousin turned to me, suddenly realizing through her drunklyness what she was doing and gallantly asked me if I wanted her to stop.

No, I said. Then I was unable to contain myself any longer and I burst out laughing. It was so funny. The subtle irony. By all means, I said, keep at it.

So they did.

And I was sitting with this girl.
.
.
.

Anyways, by the time the bus reached the Perkins restaurant we were to be dropped off at, rumours were circulating. Clearly, drunkeness does not make people blind. My buzz was wearing off slightly and there was a little seed of fear growing in the pit of my stomach. But still, my blood was about 65% tequila and I could ignore the irksome feeling for a while. We got off the bus, and my cousin, girl, and I went into the washroom of the Perkins where the bright light seered our eyes and also revealed the giant hickey on my cousin's neck. Laughing ensued.

And look, there was Ecstasy girl wobbling her way out of the restaurant with....who is that? Her mom. Ouch. Well, she's alive. Insane looking, but alive.


Next morning I was sober and scared out of my wits. How many people saw? How many people did they tell? What the fuck had I been thinking (well obvi, I wasn't thinking, my brain was elsewhere, shacking up with tequila and making bad-judgement babies)? Why did I drink soooooo much tequila? Where does inhibition go when it is forced on vacation by a bombardment of alcoooool? Sure, just about every bus seat had one or two sets of people makin' out, but they wouldn't be the gossip on everyone's lips the next day. There was also a itty-bitty button of relief holding closed my cardigan of fear. Just a little relief cropping up saying the truth....is....goood.

And with my wierd mutant blood, I was not hungover. Small perk.

I scarcely spoke to that girl after that night. My infatuation had been warped into fear and I'm pretty sure, that's a chemical change that cannot be reversed. Fear lead to guilt at not caring about what she might have been going through. Hence the blogge was started as a place to deposit all the swirling ridiculousness going on in my mind.

'I had so much to say, and no one to listen,' (Jerry McGuire, which I am currently watching). I couldn't talk about it with my friends because how would they react?

So, blogge.



Side Note: I can talk to my friends now. Whatta difference a year makes.

PS. That was an annoyingly self-involved poste. I'm truly sorry.

Wisdom

Hello

Brevity is the soul of wit.

And that is all I shall say. Witty, n'est pas?

AHAHA. These are jolly times.

O my. Someone in India searched "JOLLY FUCKING" (all caps) and low and behold, a Google search where my lovely, misspelled URL is the very first listed search result!

This a milestone in my blogging experience. A proud, proud moment, only slightly tainted with shame at the search term used. But whatevs. Can't have everything.

I'll bet the person was soooo disappointed when they stumbled upon a blogge post about a Christmas song.

~~~~~

In other, less exciting, but more relevant news, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario (LCBO) strike date has been pushed back to allow for talks to continue with the provincial government. The workers' Union wants to change the fact that 60% of the LCBO's workers are part-time, thus not receiving benefits. The government says "Fuck no.*"

For those of you who live outside of Ontario and don't know what the LCBO is, it is basically one of two institutions allowed to sell alcohol in the province. The other its the Beer Store.

Once upon a time there was prohibition in Ontario and other parts of Canada. It didn't last all that long (except for in PEI, where it raged for 48 years of shear hell, from 1900-1948. I'm sure they were fine though...they had their potatoes and Anne of Green Gables to keep them occupied) but in Ontario, when it ended, one of the agreements was that all sale of alcohol would be closely regulated by a government body. I volunteered to be that body, but the LCBO was formed instead.

It's not a horrible thing. There are worse things than the government having a monopoly on the sale of hard liquor. Like, say this. But it's still pretty bad.

Everyone in Ontario was under the impression that at midnight last night, the LCBO would go on strike, thus leaving the population without the lifeblood - I mean, liquor - they can't live without.

Seriously, I've heard that if the average blood alcohol level of the population of Ontario goes below 0.044, the death ray pointed at Toronto is deployed and meese take over the legislature. (This might actually be an improvement though....)

Anyhoo, so last night, thousands and thousands of crazed dependents stormed their local LCBOs and cleaned out their shelves. Ordinary citizens were forced to spend wicked amounts of money on bulk purchases of their favourite liquors. Car trunks were piled high with cases of wine, Vodka, rum, and wierd foreign beers that you can't buy at the Beer Store. By the end of the night, when the commotion subsided and the stores closed, all that could be heard was the whispers of the Ghosts of Liquors past through the vacant shelves. And mournful, banshee-like wails of customers banging desperately on the doors, who had arrived at the store just moments too late.

In Ottawa, the rush wasn't quite as bad as elsewhere, being that we have Hull so near, with its SAQs and Depanneurs (french for "sketchy corner store"), it's grocery stores and Costcos (beer in bulk cases is a marvelous thing). But in Toronto, the threat of a strike loomed with the most dire consequences: Pride Week is right now, with the parade taking place on Sunday, and I'm not sure, but I think they fuel their floats with Cosmos; the garbage collectors are also poised to strike at any moment on strike and the large segment of the population that was planning on riding out the strike and rancid smells by being drunk the whole time might now be forced to move on to plan B - building a ladder up the side of the CN Tower (how that would help, I don't know, but these are the people whose plan A was to be drunk) and we all know how hammers and nails falling from that height can be a nuisance to the people they land on; and of course, the death ray. So the LCBO stores were mad houses.

Said one "19" year old girl to the Star Toronto, "It is very unsettling for university students who worked hard and want to party [but won't be able to do so because they will fall victim to the death ray.]"

The apocalypse has been averted - at least for now.

I'll drink to that.





*I'm paraphrasing. What they actually said was "Fuck no you goddam fucking union. Suck my over-extended budget, you good for nothing - hey is that camera on?"