GROUNDHOG DAY.

Groundhogs everywhere agree: six more weeks of winter! Giddy up.

Now tell me, crazies from PETA, how would we get such an accurate prediction about the forthcoming winter months if we used a mechanical groundhog? Eh? Can a machine see its shadow and scurry back into its hole? No.

It would be a lie! A clever little computer program, probably based around the Weather network's forecast, instead of the trusty mysticism and intuition of a fat and cute rodent.

Plus Wiarton Willy totally luuuubbbs his job. He sits around with a feeling of emptiness all year until February 2nd when he gets his chance to shine. Do you guys really want to be the ones to take that away from him? Hmmm?


ps. Better watch who you decide to pie in the face while you're in Canada, lest you be labeled a terrorist.

"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"

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.

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.

BOOO.

Grandaddy Blackberry (aka Balsillie) is going to get jock-blocked by the NHL.

Fuck you Garry Bettman.