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the great pumpkin.

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We all know sex sells. We also know that getting people to eat vegetables requires a certain level of persuasion. The folks at PETA took both aspects into consideration and created an ad that NBC banned from being aired during the Superbowl:

Apparently, the women being sexual with veggies is just too explicit for viewers who are already used to watching half-naked women prance around with various objects (it's called halftime).This is some of the breakdown of what NBC had particular issues with:

* licking pumpkin
* touching her breast with her hand while eating broccoli
(Brazen Hussy!)
* pumpkin from behind between legs
(is that even English?)
* screwing herself with broccoli (fuzzy)
(okay, can you guys imagine some overpaid NBC exec having to write that in an email?)

See full list of gross acts here.

And just because: Whoopi gives us "the gist"...

not diana ross.

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I swear this is not a music blog.

All ye who hate on all-girl pop groups can suck it because England has churned out quite a few good 'uns. The lingering Spice Girls, the ever-elusive All Saints and the quaintly consistent Sugababes were staples in my household growing up so I'm not embarrassed to admit that every now and then I check in on the ladies to see how things are going.

In the early 2000's one of the Sugababes founders, Mutya, left the band citing personal reasons (caaattttfiiigghhttt) and had basically fallen off my radar since. Recently, a friend of mine re-introduced me to the flighty member who had apparently released her first solo album in 2007. Now, it's hardly innovative music and sticks very closely to the same motif throughout but, it's pop. You either love it or you hate it.

Mutya Buena- B Boy Baby ft. Amy Winehouse

p.s. Is anyone else overwhelmingly reminded of Love Actually?

hey, songwriters?

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Get. It. Together.

a legacy left.

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When I was in middle school I wanted my sisters and I to create our own hip-hop group. Not for fame ourselves, but so we could one day open for TLC. I wanted nothing more than to get to meet the women who made enormous overalls and bulbous neon hats cool. I bought their third album with my allowance when it came out right before a trip to Africa and spent over two months with just FanMail in my Walkman. LeftEye was my favourite and I often tried to emulate her snappy rhymes and brim with her cheeky in-your-face attitude. After she passed, the remaining members decided to find a new addition to the group in the UPN produced lameness called R U the Girl? which resulted in the adoption of some little scrub who referred to herself as O'So Krispie (no jks). I'm glad nothing, or at least nothing I've witnessed, has become of the new trio.

In recent news, LeftEye's posthumous album Eye Legacy was finally released yesterday after being post-poned at least three times. I've heard a few tracks and Lisa's rapping style shines through even though in some instances the production doesn't seem to quite match. It's become fairly obvious that save some kind of time machine excursion to Honduras in '99, there's not much that can be done to recreate and help us relive those days.

Except maybe my top three TLC video montage:

3. Waterfalls.

2. Creep. (apologies, the YT jerks won't let me embed.)

1. What about your friends?

happy start-stop Monday.

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Also, this is supposed to be my lucky year. According to the moon, an ox and fingers I've kept crossed since I was 12.

not an obligatory inauguration day post.

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The internets is swimming with all kinds of Obama-is-terrific related pieces, posts, fan vids and songs and yet it didn't take long for me to find one of the worst homages EVER. I understand that the rap scene is all about spitting lyrics about paper, paper chasing, bitches and the occasional street clash. I also understand that penning deep and reflective lyrics are far from most rappers MO's. Finally, I understand why Obama is sweet, sweet fodder for those in the rap game because of the main thing that's been driven into our skulls- he's black (that definition is obviously thanks to the omnipresent one-drop rule, but whatever).

This bastardized version of the already over-bastardized "roses are red" poem is lame personified. While I have been partial to Jeezy in the past this so-called song is reprehensible.

Exhibit A: "My president is black, my Lambo's blue?" For real Jeez? You still had to squeeze in the tight ride? Making it a democratic blue doesn't make this less of a douche-bag move. What next? My first lady's black, and she's wearin' my chain?

I do have to admit though, that some of the lyrics are amusing enough. It's hard to completely abhor a rapper that can say the following:
1. I will email Jesus,
Tell him forward to Moses and CC Allah
2. Sydney Poitier, what it do?
3. Stuntin on Martin Luther, feelin just like a king.

I guess this was just his totally street, totally straight way of proclaiming his own little crush on Obama. Hey... Obama Girl? You might want to sidle over some.

"i'm vexed by your texts."

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Inspired by a show I can't help but watch (and love- CB call me) these rap comedians seem to take a certain mystery lady's XOXO's to heart. Plus, they clearly have a lot of time on their hands/ actually dedicatedly watch the show because a majority of their references are dead on. Be sure to note the "Mars, Veronica" part especially.


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Every so often you come across the kind of article that makes you wonder just how painfully earnest journalists can be. So eager to find the best angle for a story that has been told a number of times already, they sit doubled over key boards as the minutes gather into hourly clumps. It's all about keeping it fresh, real and, most of all, objective. Right?

Somewhere across the pond, one writer in particular came across a video clip that sent him into a tailspin of emotion. He had it! The incident he later dubbed "global disaster" involved a Britt, a couple of glorified metal bookends and a lot of tears:

Apparently Winslet's acceptance speech (really, it was more like an inauguration to respect in the acting world after five nominations) made one journalist seethe 'How DARE she???' and write the hilariously convoluted piece housing such gems as:

" The problem, I think, is the primetime airing of awards shows on network TV... Because awards shows are broadcast on the same medium - and treated as news - an equivalence is created, no matter how unfair. Which means that in times such as these, actors and actresses risk appearing extraordinarily isolated from reality if they do a Winslet after winning a gong. "

Yes, because the fragility of the collective American psyche is hinged on the opinions of the Hollywood elite, who are so connected to their own personal reality. Escapism, anyone?

"Also, if Barack Obama can hold it together in Chicago on election night, then surely Winslet - a professional actress - can tone it down in LA on Golden Globes night."

Apparently, actors are now equivalent to politicians with a posse of advanced orators writing their speeches.

"Indeed, part of me wonders if Winslet was simply hamming it up for the Americans, as such public displays of emotion are hardly in the British DNA."

Did you know that emotions were inheritable? Like Down's and hemophilia. Figure it out in one of those Punett squares.

Maybe she shouldn't have spoken so "off the cuff", yelled at the teleprompter guy (is that a job?) and borderline proclaimed her heart would go on for Leo, but she won a damn Golden Globe- let the girl celebrate. I'm sure America can handle it.

in case you were wondering.

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i don't want to be a tourist.

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Restless already.
Dreaming of new cities, news faces, new hands to hold.
This ingrained wanderlust is both blessing and curse, especially when the snow falls softly-like this- and drowns out even the loudest of sirens.

nouveau new*

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Everything’s a race.

We’re all familiar with the tale of the tortoise and the hare. We can relate in one way or another to either character- the overzealous, cocky hare or the ambitious and diligent tortoise- each with the red ribbon of victory set in their gaze.

New Year’s Day is a most sobering experience, both literally and figuratively. Once you’ve settled your plans, popped cheap champagne, shared a countdown kiss, and finally slipped out of your divine and dapper clothing into dreamless sleep the next morning awaits, hanging over the previous night’s celebration like a Dickensian ghost. Resolutions are made- some shared, others locked away in the recesses of childlike journals or private thoughts- and weigh heavily on the months to follow. Once made public, there’s the inevitable struggle to come up with one stronger, better, faster resulting in several proxy resolution wars that clamour for attention. Who plans on making the most drastic changes? Who wants to make the most money? Lose the most weight? Love more? Argue less? The options are always endless, and yet comfortingly repetitive in the endearing fashion reserved for every calendar year.

In each New Year even being born comes down to competition. At precisely midnight Toronto, and possibly Canada’s, first ’09 baby slid into existence taking her first breath just seconds after 2008 took its last. Her birth was anticipated sooner than January so, in a way, she’s already falling just a little short of the cascade of expectations that will frame her childhood. The two other new little GTA additions didn’t quite make the cut and may or may not spend the rest of their birthdays being gently and glibly reminded of it.

It’s an aide memoire that silver and bronze are reserved dusty spaces on shelves out of eye-level, and this year coming out on top seems to be the theme. As tired and/or cliché as the thought might be, life is a race full of the kinds of the hurdles and challenges your parents warn you about even though they sometimes seem to trip on them along the way. We’re told 2009 is a new page, a clean slate, a fresh start and in some ways we begrudgingly agree.

Find your marks.

*this post has a second home.