make awkward with me.

relocation, relocation, relocation.

2010-11-29T20:04:00.002-05:00

New home: http://mot-juste.tumblr.com/

Come say hello.

woman in that coat.

2010-10-27T21:59:00.006-04:00

There is no self-diagnosis for empty. Because hollow and quaking are not symptoms.
Questions pushed aside, not denied but hesitantly unasked.
She stayed still, usually. Unable to disturb, unwilling to interrupt.
Her fingertips bent, folded and danced against her life line. Tucked like her opinions, woven into something and from nothing at once.
She wasn't clueless. Far from.
Not misunderstood, but under-heard. Not quite lonely, but not quite in the light.
Aimless yet not missing. Lost beyond the comprehension of a map. No key to spell out the details that may not be grasped.
At the volume of a drowning gasp, whispered from unconvinced lips.
Her life was a dimmer switch. Stuck before it realized bright.

To market, to market.

2010-08-30T23:23:00.001-04:00

He felt like a Mr. Potatohead with all his parts pulled out. Gouged and strewn about his little blue plastic sneakers. He couldn’t figure out which way was up, drowning in the sudden onslaught of confusion. He could breathe- but only just so, and only if he kept his eyes closed as though he could only keep track of one sense at a time. He felt as though every nerve in his body was reacting at once, each organ rallying for secession, threatening to tear him apart. As far as Alex was concerned, whoever determined the common reaction to horrific incidents was numbness, was decidedly an idiot.
Images of fish, their bellies slit in a smooth, bloody arc, flooded his mind suddenly. Their cold staring eyes pressing into his eyelids, challenging them to rise.
Hot sweat prickled under his arms as the hairs rose on the back of his neck. He clenched his fists tightly, willing his lungs to re-fill with air so that his thoughts would stop ricocheting off the lump of dread that had formed in the one place where gray matters.
What seemed like hours later, his lungs unclenched, pocket-by-pocket, until his lips could feel his breath again. His eyes blinked open and he looked down at weak, shaking fists with knuckles that resembled snow-capped mountains.
“Fuck.”
Now that his breathing had returned his nostrils were filled with the smell of fish- raw and salty with a hint of the metallic scent of blood. He closed his eyes again briefly, and shook his head, hoping the misplaced assault on his nasal passage would waft away. As soon as his vision darkened the fish came back.

***

“Alex, don’t touch that.”
His father’s voice was distant, the warning uttered half-heartedly, but the six-year-old retracted the hand that was poised over a small basket of mackerel in ice even though he was overwhelmed by the excitement of his very first visit to the fish market. It was normally a trip his father made solo, but because his mother had a last minute hair appointment to dash off to, Alex and his older brother Alfie has been carted along with their disgruntled father.
From the moment the boys stepped into the market their senses had been on the attack. It was loud, smelled awful and strange sights seemed to loom from every corner. Their father kept a firm hold on each of their shoulders, only letting go now and then to prod a fish or answer his cell phone. Alex stayed close to his side while Alfie chose to bound ahead every so often before scurrying back when their father’s voice boomed after him.
Alfie was two years older and, as it seemed to Alex, that much braver as well. He was often in trouble but had more stories to share on the playground than any other kid in school as a result. Alex was very much in his shadow there was no denying it, both because of his more diminutive stature and his lack of any semblance of a spine.

Spineless.

Alfie had called him that once. The boys had been throwing a rubber ball around the house and inevitably wound up breaking one of their mother’s Rose vases. Alfie had insisted they keep it quiet- deny it to the death, no matter the punishment. Alex had agreed, but promptly dissolved into tears and truths when their father had been called in to mediate. He’d fallen some in Alfie’s eyes that night and knew he’d spend the better part of their childhood trying to make up for it.
Forcing the memory from his thoughts, Alex chose instead to refocus on his surroundings. He gazed over at the displays of lined up fish corpses with their mouths hanging slightly open, as though in surprise. ‘I was caught?’ A particularly upset looking fish seemed to ask, incredulously.
Alex pursed his lips as he stared down at it. He tried to picture it swimming in the ocean, flexing its fins and relishing in its freedom, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t see past its questioning eyes. It was as though it had been lying there a long time waiting for someone to come by and answer its queries. Alex paused. Could the dead be curious?
“Dad? Can fish think?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“What? No. They have virtually no attention span.”
Alex must have looked confused because he continued. “They’re dumb.” He brought his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “Tiny brains.”
“Like yours,” Alfie whispered hotly in his ear, low enough so that their father couldn’t hear.
Choosing to ignore his brother, Alex turned his attention back to the fish he’d been looking at and was alarmed to find it slickly resting in his father’s palms.
“What’re you doing?” Alex demanded, his voice rising in pitch and concern.
“Checking its gills.”
“For what?”
His father paused his prodding and regarded his youngest. “Red. The redder the gills the fresher the fish.” He pried Alex’s fish’s gills open and held it out for his sons to take a peek.
“Looks red to me,” Alfie said, sounding bored.
Alex pondered this new fact with interest, thinking the reddest gills should be a crayon colour. He decided next that ‘Fresh Gills Red’ would be the sheen of his first car.
“So, you dare me?”
Alex was snapped out of his thoughts by the excited voice of his brother. Alfie was holding something in his fingertips smiling his gap-toothed smile at the man behind the counter as their father looked on, amused.
“Go on.”
Alex soon realized the thing his brother was holding was actually a fish eye. The eye Alex had been looking into earlier to be exact, as the fish his father held now had another gaping hole to match the questioning mouth. Before he could utter a sound, Alfie tossed the eye into his mouth and bit down hard. There was a squishy ‘pop’ sound and a viscous liquid splattered on the front of Alex’s shirt, one of Alfie’s old baseball jerseys that Alex had coveted for months.
“Gross!”
Alfie, their father and the fish salesman burst out laughing at once and Alfie made a show of chewing up the eye, swallowing it and then sticking his tongue out. Alex fought the urge to punch him under the chin hard so it was completely severed.
Their father seemed to lighten up after Alfie’s little show and let the boys wander through the stalls as he picked out fish. Alfie led the way as usual and they zipped around the aisles peeking at the various creatures of the sea. Alex soon forgot about his shirt when they stopped in front of a large metal door that was propped open with a chunk of grimy wood. Alfie wandered up to it and peeked inside, his eyes lighting up.
“Sharks!” He whispered in awe.
Alex felt a shiver go up his spine as he approached the door feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
“Real ones?” He asked, mimicking his brother’s tone.
“See for yourself.”
Alfie moved from the doorway, pushed it open a little wider and moved back for his brother to look. Alex took a deep breath before stepping into the doorway. He could feel cold air and guessed the room was some sort of freezer. He peered inside and was disappointed to find that Alfie had been exaggerating. Hanging from large hooks in the center of the room were large fish, no, enormous fish, but they certainly were not sharks.
“These aren’t sh-“
Before the accusation was out of his mouth Alex felt pressure on his shoulder blades and found himself falling hard on his knees on icy floor. Before he could turn around, he heard the door close with a thump and a sickening 'click' sound filled his ears. Alex sprung to his feet and whirled towards the closed door.
“Alfie!” He yelled banging his fists against it.
He heard his brother’s strangled laughter through the door and felt the anger bubble up inside him. He shouted his name again noticing his breath form a cloud in the cold air. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. He yelled his brother’s name again, hot tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
Alex clenched his fists and turned around trying to find another mode of escape. The room was darkened without the light from the market and the hanging fish cast long shadows against the walls. The longer Alex stood there looking, the more furious he grew, fueled now by fear.
“This isn’t funny!”
More laughter.
Something inside Alex snapped. He spun on the hanging fish, arms flailing so his fists connected with their cold, hardened bodies. He lost control of the sounds that left his mouth, dissolving into a loud keening borne of white-hot frustration. As he struck them, Alex wondered if he was hurting the fish. He could feel the sting of their scales cutting his skin but he couldn’t seem to still his fists.
Eventually, he door was pried open and he saw the stern form of his father in the light through the doorway. He quickly wiped at his tear-stained cheeks knowing it would satisfy Alfie to no end. His heart rose some, thinking of the reprimand his brother would soon face once his father heard about what he had done. Alex strode towards them with all the confidence he could muster, eager and ready.
When he looked up at his father ready to spill his guts, his tongue curled back nearly choking him when he saw his father’s expression. Confusion coloured Alex’s features immediately. The man did not look angered. Not concerned, nor upset. Instead his features were hardened, his lips thin, his eyes dull. Alex knew that look.
Disappointment shadowed the caves of his father’s lower eyelids, as cavernous as the gaping hole where the fish’s eye once rested. Immediately, Alex’s small balled fists released along with the hopeful breath in his chest.
His father’s voice was curt, abrasive. “Come on.”

***

“Come on, Alex.” He muttered aloud, looking down at the mess. His mess. He was always making messes. Acting before thinking, behaving before conceiving.
The body at his feet was still, completely unmoving from head to toe.
“Fuck.” He repeated. He couldn’t quite remember the events leading up to this moment. The exact seconds that blurred together to create a situation he felt wholly and completely removed from. He did remember the anger- the heat behind his eyelids and the pain in the knuckles of his right hand when it first connected to smooth skin and bone.
He closed his eyes again and inhaled deeply. His always was a different kind of anger. Anger that snaps like fish bones, leaving only fish gill red.

The freshest.

Because 140 chrctrs just isn't enough

2010-07-13T13:07:00.003-04:00

Dear Old Spice Guy,

Everything about your ads- nay, your video sonnets- is both awe-inspiring and regular inspiring. While I am not your immediate target audience and do not wish to smell like a man, I do appreciate the humour and wit you use to tickle the interwebs into a quivering mass of giggles and catch-phrases. I also noticed you've been singling out fans (and random observers) to turn each soliloquy into more of a duet. Consider me engaged to be crowd-sourced.

And, as an aspiring copywriter, I tip my invisible-yet-wonderous hat in admiration of the person(s) behind your words. You of course deliver them laced in the kind of perfection only your Old Spice scented face-area can, but to them my hat is now askew.

Pass on my message of gratitude with the sheer brilliance of a thousand-swans-a-diving.

You have my best,

Nimo

p.s. I'm on a blog.

on bent knee.

2010-06-14T12:00:00.005-04:00

Plan B 'Prayin' - Director: Daniel Wolfe from Tom Lindsay on Vimeo.

Prayin'- Plan B

Director Daniel Wolfe nails it again, bringing yet another one of Plan B's songs to life. Pay close attention to the choreography. It's Shawshank Redemption meets So You Think You Can Dance.

brilliant happiness

2010-04-21T01:08:00.002-04:00

'Upular' graciously created by Pogo (see first vid here for more genius)

xo's for the xx.

2010-04-05T23:05:00.003-04:00

straight from south west London to a hot, sweaty corner in Toronto and my heart.

Click here for the original version of the song.

when i say trip, you say hop.

2010-02-23T12:03:00.001-05:00

They're back. Massively.

drop, dot.

2010-02-20T01:11:00.007-05:00

There is something about an unfinished love song that makes her want to hate him.
By putting pen to paper, like kisses awash with the blackened out pour of emotion, he would use his left hand to write while the right scratched at his chin, then his knee before resting on an earlobe. Olivia used to watch his thumb on the skin there, once rendered speechless by each stroking strum. Now she thinks it oedipal and tried to literally shake it from her mind as she waited, releasing wet drops from her hair to her cheekbones, her nose. She stood half in the rain, beneath a stoop that was too small for even her huddled shoulders. He was late again. She knows this and yet she waited. Again.
The first time she was kept waiting, she was greeted with breathless kisses that tasted of tobacco with a hint of honey from the lozenges he used to cover up his smoke. Even then the deceptive part of his person was shouting at her, throwing flushed, spittle-laced tantrums- and she only smiled. It was a smile that lasted minutes, or months, depending on how you looked at it. But that was then. When birds and butterflies were more fairy than food chain and she more grounded than splayed.

She practices what she will say. For if he is musician, I am poet. She thought, chagrin her armor. But I will not speak of seasons and change, I don't care about the leaves turning over, or the sighing of trees. The rain, neither. I despise the rain.

A woman passes by, dressed head-to-toe in running gear, the sound of her lycra-encased thighs swishing by attracted Olivia’s attention. The woman held a sodden magazine, not over her head to shield herself from the rain, but less than an inch away from her face, as though she was trying to walk right into it. Olivia looked down at her wristwatch and decided with pursed lips that she would give him four more minutes. Just as a slow minute dragged by and she found herself distracted by other street-related minutiae, she saw him finally. Leaning against the sheets of rain, head lowered and palms pressed inside pockets. His walk more a lope than his usual gait.

The song was changing him.

He sidles up to her, his mouth habitually finding hers. Her heart falls when she notes that his Benson & Hedges kiss wasn’t laced with honey. He no longer feared her disapproval.

Their greetings were synchronous and he wrapped her shoulders with his denim-clad arm as they started up the three short blocks to the restaurant. He had no apology for being late, and instead was quiet at first, his footsteps muffling her racing heart. They talked sparingly as they walked, heads bowed, not together but against the rain. Her mind was running and he was distracted, the telltale sign was the thumb he drummed gently on her collar bone. While she felt comfort in the small- almost non-descript- intimate gesture, she knew he was probably thinking about rhythms. For the song.

She had gotten a hubristic high when he had asked her out all those months ago, convinced she was about to tame a god. She peered over at him peripherally. Droplets were caught in his lashes making his eyes seem brighter, more focused on the sidewalk ahead. He was indeed a body of myths and she was always his pedestal, and now, though cracked, she was not crumbling.

By the time they reached the Japanese restaurant their light coats were soaked through and the hostess immediately whisked them off their shoulders before depositing them on a nearby metal coat rack. She admonished them in broken English for not bringing along umbrellas, looking pointedly at him as she led them to their usual corner window table. She spoke to them with familiarity, knew to bring one menu for them to pore over together and hovered nearby since they almost always ordered the same thing- a sashimi starter, two spicy tuna rolls and an avocado roll at the end to soothe their singed taste buds. They both liked the restaurant’s green tea, but only stirred around the soup. He would pour soy sauce into their tiny dishes as she opened and sharpened their chopsticks. Every motion was done without a word. They were eerily in-step and it made Olivia uncomfortable. A relationship that moved in autopilot was never what she wanted, especially since her co-pilot had long since fastened on his parachute and tip-toed his way over to the nearest emergency exit.

“Your forehead is bleeding.” It was the first thing he had ever said to her. She was waiting on a street side bench for her bus to come along, when she’d looked over her shoulder for the source of the voice. Tall and unassuming, he was smoking outside a small convenience store, leaning flamingo-style with one foot pressed against a wall. In his left hand he carried a blue-and-white striped plastic bag, the contents of which she wondered about to this day.

“What?”

He continued to look over at her curiously before speaking, took another drag from his cigarette and gestured to his own head. “Your forehead. There’s like, blood on it.”

Olivia blinked and brought her hand to her head and saw when she pulled it away again, a distinctly red smudge.

“Oh,” She said absently. She tried to remember knicking her forehead on something that day and wondered why she didn’t feel any pain. She touched her forehead again and realized it was decidedly not the colour of blood. “Paint.”

“Hmm?”

She started, realizing he was still there, standing slightly behind her. “Oh, it’s just paint. Red paint.” She began furiously rubbing her forehead until it felt raw and she was satisfied that it was gone. “I passed my landlord painting a door frame early this afternoon. It’ must’ve splattered.” He had put out his cigarette by then and come around to stand beside the bench so he was towering over her right. He watched her for a moment, his head cocked a little to one side.

“It looked a little like a Bindi actually,” He said finally. “You know, those little dots some Hindu women wear?”

Olivia had just blinked at this. “I’m not Hindu.” It was an inane response, but he laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that snagged her heart instantly.

She chewed slowly and deliberately, knowing that the added mastication was stopping the words from escaping her lips. Words that couldn’t burn more than if they were dipped in wasabi. She swallowed hard, readied now to say her piece. To finally rid herself of the uncertainty that was being with him. A feeling that had struck a chord with her the moment he announced he was writing again while swiping a Pledge-soaked rag along his acoustic with excitement. Weeks of unspoken resentment churned in her stomach and she willed her eyes open again so she could say them, not realizing that they had been closed.

“Matt?” She stared solidly at the ginger coils on her plate unable yet to look him in the eye as she did it.

“Hmmn?” His mouth was full and it made her lip curl, easing the rising words right to the tip of her tongue.

“Everything is O.K. here?”

The hostess’ voice seared through Olivia’s resolve and made her eyes snap up. She looked at him now, as he smiled and reassured the hostess. Her gaze flickered up between his eyebrows where a single rain drop that had worked it’s way from his hairline lay nestled in the crinkle she had once loved to kiss. A little drop, dot.

Olivia quickly murmured her satisfaction with the meal so that the hostess would leave and picked up her chopsticks again to steal the last avocado piece from the plate they shared. She would be content with a little drop, dot of what they once were for now. And when the song was finished, when the very last note was hummed, she knew she would not hear it. The song already belonged to someone else.

feed/your/head

2010-02-19T22:40:00.006-05:00

With whimsy. With upside downs, inside outs, tantrums, curls, slip ups, mishaps and baubles. With cakes and ices, creams and salves. With picture drawings, drawing boards, board games and game nights. With words.

"Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words 'EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants. 'Well, I'll eat it,' said Alice"
- Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Carrol

Burton baby, don't let me me down, down, down.

Old, spicy, hilarious.

2010-02-12T21:10:00.000-05:00

Do I even need words here?

Badu. Be, do.

2010-02-12T17:43:00.006-05:00

If awesomesauce was a drug, Erykah would be the Badu-est dealer in the 'hood. Thirty seconds into her newest, and utterly psychedelic video and I had heart palpitations and cotton-mouth. I was even able to forgive the Lil'Wayne cameo (there are a milli' reasons why I think he should here on out be known as 'ft. Lil' Wayne'), because while I love vintage Erykah, (two of my fave vids after the jump)the woman sure as hell knows how to make a comeback.

The new track is called 'Jump up in the air and stay there' (not actually from EB's much anticipated LP) and features the pair swirling, twirling and tripping through a kaleidoscope.*

You can peep the vid on her site!

Oldy, but goodys:

The Ode to Hip Hop-

Erykah Badu ft. Common - Love of My Life

The Ode to love-

The Roots ft: Erykah Badu- You Got Me

* Thanks to Pitchfork for the heads up.

blood is rushing.

2010-02-07T00:20:00.004-05:00

A modern-day Neneh, with a Badu twist.

young stranger* (a short short)

2010-02-01T22:43:00.003-05:00

"He did not understand space. Not personal space, anyway.

Even as a young boy he would climb into the laps of strangers fingering earrings and mustaches as though they were there solely to have their tangibility tested. He loved to listen to heartbeats, pressing his head close until systole and diastole became a murmur, a private whispery conversation only he could hear. The general public was a large puzzle that he always wanted to figure out. Smells aroused his curiosity the most, whether it was the musk of the unbathed or the heady scent of an expensive perfume. He often sat too close, leaned in too far and listened too intently.

Uncomfortable was a word he often heard- it was sometimes bellowed if his proximity was deemed invasive- but never quite grasped. He loved people, he would remark by way of explaining his oddities. Police officers were often sympathetic at first, assuming he must be weighed down by an unfit mental state, but were quick to anger when he caressed the fronds of their tethered caps or inhaled their stale caffeinated breath.

Pervert, was a word loosely thrown around in his presence, and he would still look around searching for the person to which the term was being directed."

*inspired by a curious, yet solemn, subway patron

henry and the moustaches

2010-01-12T01:12:00.004-05:00

My word accompaniment:

Henry did not understand what the fuss was about. All the talk about stepping stones and milestones. He'd learned to talk when he had to. To tie his shoes when he needed to. To use deodorant when he was asked to. He tried wine coolers, a pipe, posed for a driver's license photo and volunteered to bring meals to the elderly. His appendix was removed. He quit smoking and started again. He broke hearts, and nursed his own. He tasted the salt of the ocean and his own tears.

He did things. Without fussing, he grew up.

* Image, "the moustaches chased him zealously", borrowed from the talented Marc Johns.

In Short (working title)- excerpts

2010-01-11T23:41:00.000-05:00

He wore a red hooded sweatshirt made of a cotton-wool poly blend that made the skin on his forearms and around his neck itch. He had an attachment to it, in all its holed and tattered glory, and wore it every single day.
Most of his life was a routine.
He woke up, went to work and ate dinner like most normal people. Dull. He was far from spectacular and spent every waking moment running that thought through his mind. While at work, he would watch the drones (masked as actual people) milling around, shuffling papers and pretending to engage in riveting office gossip about the ins-and-outs of some random executive’s personal life. They rarely spoke to him, and he kept to himself liking nothing more than to do the bare minimum and leave as soon as the alarm on his Timex beeped 5 p.m. He had attempted to be social once a few months ago leading up to the company holiday party thinking it might be nice to meet a few people before the mandatory awkward fest that was to follow a week before Christmas Eve. He had wandered innocently over to the water cooler where a few suits were standing, talking, and filled a paper cone with water. He had only just begun to swivel it around, taking a few cardboard tasting sips and catching part of their conversation about so-and-so’s eleven-year-old who was caught with marijuana when he heard:
“Are the files for the Emerson case all set?”
He immediately tossed the cup, water-filled and dripping, into the nearby bin upon hearing his supervisor’s voice and made his way back to his cubicle with a slight nod in her direction.

(...)

He was soon able to appreciate the simpler things in life. Multi-colored bottle caps, French graphic novels and old puzzles littered the floor of his bedroom and living area as he moved from task to task aimlessly and restlessly. He watched game shows, ate pretzels and made paper hats out of newspapers. He was in the middle of his latest simple fascination, an origami crane, when he decided he had had enough.

"too much symbolism"

2010-01-10T17:49:00.006-05:00

Why I like Simon Evans (not-the-writer):

happy feet.

2010-01-10T00:21:00.000-05:00

I've always had a soft spot for Chucks. So much so that my current pair of originally white CT's have long passed egg-shell and off-white and now teeter perilously on the beige side. Unlike the current pair, if these Koh lovelies grace my anticipating feet, I swear that I won't wear them on an impromptu desert trip.

amplified design.

2010-01-02T00:42:00.002-05:00

Not since my (albeit delayed) discovery of the wonder of the Tenori-on have I been so taken aback by technology. Ladies/Gents, what you see above is not modern art, well at least that is not its sole purpose. It's a fan. A freaking fan that has been zealously dubbed, 'Air Multiplier'. Apparently with the way technology is progressing we no longer need prehistoric blades churning in the air if we want to beat the heat. Instead, we now have the option of splaying ourselves before this space-age looking device and waiting for "accelerated air" to smoothly soothe us against high temperatures and low art.

Cool has officially been redesigned.

pretty wings.

2009-12-08T22:14:00.001-05:00

there are lullabies, and then there are break ups that feel like lullabies.

FIN

2009-12-06T02:34:00.000-05:00

I've always had a strange fascination with cemeteries. Not in a macabre or even Tim Burton-esque sense, but because they always seem so peaceful.

You can wander or stand still, have your eyes open or lids drawn and you still feel the same. It's a different kind of euphoria. One that doesn't rush up and drag you along, but one that waits with one hand extended, beckoning.

SadeSadeSade

2009-12-04T22:26:00.000-05:00

I was handled by 'Smooth Operator'.
Magnificently waylaid by 'Kissing You'.
And sublimely humbled by 'By Your Side'

In 2010, I may forget my own name.

she walked a tousled line, caught between two ends that split

2009-11-29T02:54:00.003-05:00

someone has the right idea.

2009-11-28T23:59:00.002-05:00

(image borrowed, not taken)

when great combos get upsized

2009-11-26T21:28:00.003-05:00

From:

Bassment Jaxx feat Lisa Kekaula, 2004

To:

Bassment Jaxx feat Lisa Kekaula, 2009

While 'goodluck' will always have a place in my heart (and playlist) for being a great get-back-at-him-song, I've recently become taken with their newest combined effort 'Stay Close'. Her voice melts over the lyrics and Jaxx's subtle production wraps the song in a weird little bubble that I keep popping.

animated grime culture

2009-11-22T12:23:00.006-05:00

A testament to the notion that
sometimes you don't have to look far for inspiration.

You can stand completely still for years.

i get satisfied

2009-11-21T15:07:00.001-05:00

a not-quite-movement that stuck. with me anyway.

2009-11-19T15:51:00.000-05:00

junk male

2009-11-17T17:02:00.000-05:00

This has to be the strangest thing I have ever received in a junkmail box. My old email addy has become a forgotten step-child which I visit rarely. The random email I received appears to be a love poem of sorts, addressed not to one potential suitor but several (or at least two). Male suitors. The subject line read, "lost and not found" which made me curious enough to risk making my Norton kick into gear and everything that followed was just... weird:

"Aloha, my gentleman

But true love is a durable fire, in the mind ever burning, never sick, never old, and never dead, from itself never turning. Some people have such big dreams, but all I want is to love you, to wake up beside you each morning, to feel the warmth of your hand in mine, to share each moment, good and bad, with you, to lose myself in your loving arms. Some people want so much out of life, but all I want is to share everything with you, for us to talk long into the night, to dream together, and experience all of the little things together that makes life worth living. Yes, I have a big dream after all. And I want so many things. I want to spend the rest of my life with the person I love. And I want to give him my love, and to make our home a place where you always feel warm and welcome, and for us to have a relationship in which we accept each other for who we are and always find a sweet dream in each other’s arms All I want is for us to love each other with unbelievable love. And I do believe that dreams can come true.

A rivederci
Katrina M."

Who is this Katrina and why is she using hotmail for her messages in a bottle?

readreadread

2009-11-16T13:33:00.000-05:00

Growing up in a household where television was considered passage into the depths of hell and complacent mediocrity I spent a large portion of my life immersed in books, books and more books. My littlest sister, a decade my junior, tends to stare at books like they've been teleported forward in time, covered in the dust of dead authors and dripping with the ink that once flowed through their veins. There are no bells, whistles or chimes so her eyes dull and her fingertips wander towards keyboards. Bookmarks are left naked and pages lie flat.

will you stll love me tomorrow

2009-11-15T22:45:00.003-05:00

classic.

ethereal.

ohwereyouinlondon?

2009-11-14T23:36:00.000-05:00

the feeling that follows the the kind of phone call that dissolves into muted sobs can be likened to a small, person-centric black cloud. there was a plea, an impromptu plane ticket and suddenly I was struggling (again) with a small bag of peanuts and dully watching lackluster blockbusters thousands of feet in the air and wedged between curious strangers. they probably wondered why I refused to make eye contact let alone conversation.
at the time I had scrawled, almost desperately, in a notebook- better out than in- words that are far too personal to even entertain the idea of splaying here. in a phrase: I was frantic. rushing towards what I thought would be certain failure and in the end turned into a test of enduring patience.
having left behind my camera (my forethought being that the trip was not for pleasure and bringing it would be like wearing a feather boa to a memorial service) I felt naked, unable to capture anything about (whatIconsidertobe) an aesthetically appealing city. one gray mid-afternoon I found my self standing in a Sainsbury's- having just relayed translated hospital conversations, organized and neurotically re-organized a kitchen- dazed and drawn to a shelf of brandless disposable cameras. I robotically snatched one up greedily, paid....very... slowly (pence are confusing) and then guiltily unwrapped it like a Point Watcher with a candy bar.
then I walked.
I wandered in a haze.
I didn't take the lens from my eye, it seemed, except to wind after each snap. it kept my hands and my mind busied. shapes, colours, words, a faceless face. I was gone for a few hours, but i felt like it was days, years. I was odysseus my travails seared onto film.
by the time I returned to her house and heard the soft-voice call out to me i was refreshed, ready again.

that old rhyme

2009-11-04T18:33:00.000-05:00

secondhand embarrassment

2009-09-03T17:41:00.001-04:00

SHE TOUCHES HIS EYELASHES.

it's carnivale.

2009-08-05T19:24:00.014-04:00

We boarded the TTC rather lackadaisically, the events of the night before still lingering- with age comes consequences and hangovers that sips of caffeine may not cure. My camera burned a hole in my bag, the strap digging into my shoulder as a reminder that I had no room for excuses- I was to attend, capture, and roll out. Wham bam, thank you Ma'am, a first of firsts.

After the TTC there was a shuttle bus, express of course, to a different kind of promised land. Fighting motion sickness and the glare of Caribana themed pro-nails we killed the crawling minutes by counting weaves and louder-than-thou Americans.

We arrived and in a matter of moments realized that the $25 price tag was steep for half a parade and uncomfortable bleacher seats. Defeated, we chose to wander, following the sounds of socca floats, 'braapps' and a trail of fallen luminescent feathers. Finally, like Hansel and Gretel stumbling on the path to the candy house, we spotted a very illegal, very irresistible opening in a once impenetrable iron gate. Bodies surrounded and enfolded us- within moments we were carried through to a blocked off parking lot where the next option was to run. I still have bruises on my side where camera-laden purse smacked unyielding flesh. The crowd on the other side absorbed us, and like fugitives we tried to blend in. The smiles came out and so did my lens.

(Click for colour)

Oh and the shoes! Of course, the shoes.

tighter than Dereon jeans.

2009-08-03T18:16:00.001-04:00

Anyone for a Dundas Square reprise?

2009-05-12T19:26:00.003-04:00

"If I tell you a secret, will you promise to make me stay?"

photo cred.: carpe diem

destined to dream

2009-05-11T19:23:00.000-04:00

She was a lost cause. Woke up late, ate too little, smoked too much. Her idea of a good time was isolating herself from the benign insolance of her peers by subjecting them to long-winded descriptions of her dreams. They fascinated her. While she slept whole worlds would open up and devour her reality. Aliens played red rover with daffodils and cops were ground into delicious hambuger meat. Of course, every time she recollected a dream, outloud with her indoor voice, her friends would mutter amongst themselves. Once she was even asked who her dealer was. Her response was simple, say no to drugs. This both confused and insulted him, standing there with a freshly lit spliff wedged between his fingers and a pocket weighed down by a powdery packet. She had smiled at that, knowing in her next dream he would reappear. Possibly as a marble soldier who would be crushed by a wayward gust of peppery wind.

Where I attempt to suss out the locals...

2009-04-01T15:24:00.004-04:00

Due to poor quality, handling or a combination of the two, I find myself in a new place full of capture-able moments and sadly lacking in the ability to document any of it digitally. If my camera hadn't shorted out, heaving it's last breath moments before New Year's eve, it would provide much needed visuals for those I wish I could be sharing this with. Instead I will attempt (note the disclaimer) to describe what my camera, now gathering dust, would have shown- mainly the following three types of people:

- Tow-headed children in dire need of haircuts racing the chilly surf, while their pot-bellied father half-heartedly looks on, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the sun and any forced interaction.
- Seniors whiling away their retirement creating footprints on the sand and reflecting on whether or not the ones they left behind in their younger years were notable, noticed.
- Middle-aged joggers, caked in sand and sweat, taking bluetooth phone calls while their fanny packs flap with indifference.

They occasionally collide, forced smiles are shared, too-long hair is ruffled, pleasantries swirl in the salty breeze and conversation shallower than the waters of the shoreline ensues.

Each morning I reluctantly walk among them, earphones secured to avoid any in-depth attempts at acknowledgment and wonder if I brought with me remnants of the city. Do they catch the way I avert my gaze to avoid the obligatory hello? A practice picked up due to fear of eliciting unwanted attention from the drug dependent.

I don't want to appear unfriendly, hardened or jaded but I'm not the one permanently surrounded by a picket fence.

like a Virginian

2009-03-27T14:19:00.007-04:00

Not abandoned!

Many apologies errrone, I know I promised I'd try to be back on the ball and have essentially fallen into the epic fail category, but I'm back! Pinky swears and polar bears.

In recent news, I've been (willingly) kidnapped and shuttled across the border to where folks not only over share their personal lives, but do so in decibels that are comparable to sound of planes taking off and landing at the Buffalo airport. We have yet to reach the promised land of Holden Beach, NC and are currently enjoying (albeit cagedly) the peace and quiet of a typical Virginian 'burb. Seriously, if Mr. Rogers were alive he'd be living next door.

Having spent the major majority of my life in various cities, I have yet to fully understand the purpose and/or appeal of living in uniform houses that require you to drive for half an hour to pick up Lactid fat free milk. The nearest Starbucks is practically in the next county- for serious, picking up lattes is a borderline field trip that requires car seats and just-in-case snacks.

The last time I lived in a 'real neighborhood' I wore rompers, light-up sandals and liked my hair in braids. Being here, even for a few days, is very reminiscent of that part of my childhood. The part where we could come and go as we pleased as long as the street lights were still on. Less than a year later we lost some of that independence to the theoretical creeps and cajolers of the city.

I recently came across yet another fragment of my suburban childhood. Where the Wild Things Are was a book I didn't so much read as devour. I loved the images, the characters and, most of all, the little wolf suit that Max wore on his adventure. At first, learning that the picture book might be made into a feature-length had me worried that it was just the media crying...ahem..wolf.

Many months (and full moons) later this wonderfully capturing trailer hit the internets and frankly, I'm excited:

Very different from the earlier, cutesy Disney cartoon version, this one, directed by Being John Malkovich's Spike Jonze, has already been criticized as being "weird and creepy".

I don't know about others who have read the book, but those words just about sum up why I loved it.

Reality Checks and Real Cheques

2009-02-16T13:36:00.002-05:00

When aspirations take a turn, one must insist that they are not for the worst. In a few months I will be rejoining the student ranks, a position I had easily discarded the moment I crossed the newly buffed wooden stage and received that piece of paper. The 'now what?' feeling I had experienced was earnestly followed by the kind of panic that makes you forget that you actually had dreams somewhere.

Words have always come easily to me. The same way athletes enjoy burning muscles, and thespians the buzz of the crowd, words have always been a form of salvation. When I was younger I hubristically fancied myself a god of sorts, able to decide which characters of my own creation I would lead to suffering, longing and the inevitability of death.

And now my own form of deus ex machina appeared in the haze of the media's own version of Armageddon, studded not with Affleck and Aerosmith, but freelance freezes and layoffs set to the music of a Mac being ceremoniously shutdown.

My mother did warn me though. "Writing can be your hobby, your thing on the side," She would vehemently stress. I would push her assertions aside as easily as tucking hair behind my ear. She just didn't understand, I beleived.

Less than an hour ago I found myself accepting an offer for a program that had found me. While perusing the internet one afternoon, in between job postings of course, I had come across the resume of a very random person who I have never met but whose educational and occupational history clearly mimicked my own. It was a surreal checklist that felt like deja vu and looking into the future at the same time. A career I had never quite imagined (not for myself, or in general) had suddenly risen in the ranks of my consciousness. After much deliberation, consistent research and a handful of chats with the Gentleman Upstairs, I became reacquainted with my potential.

I have always believed in karma, but this time I choose to extrapolate that belief unto myself.

not dunzo.

2009-02-09T21:06:00.005-05:00

MAWM has not been abandoned like that 3 million pound 1937 Bugatti they discovered after 50 years of gathering dust and value. Instead, it's been temporarily and lovingly placed in a to-do pile along with organizing my closet and planning my trip home.

In the meantime, you can peep my new project. Still freshly caught in the space between conception and fruition, and not all me.

Details to follow!

the great pumpkin.

2009-01-30T13:16:00.005-05:00

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
(Scandalous!)
* 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.

2009-01-29T12:40:00.007-05:00

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?

2009-01-29T02:11:00.000-05:00

Get. It. Together.

a legacy left.

2009-01-28T12:19:00.007-05:00

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.

2009-01-26T13:04:00.000-05:00

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.

2009-01-22T10:34:00.007-05:00

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."

2009-01-19T20:26:00.004-05:00

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.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I'M NOT WRAPPING UP.

2009-01-14T11:29:00.006-05:00

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.

2009-01-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

i don't want to be a tourist.

2009-01-12T13:50:00.000-05:00

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*

2009-01-01T15:47:00.002-05:00

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.

"I can still actually feel that smell..."

2008-12-30T01:52:00.004-05:00

cute.

i hit my first crush in the face with a tetherball.
then held his hand all the way to the nurse's office.

are you going far?

2008-12-28T13:47:00.013-05:00

Inspired by the best.homage.to.public.transport.ever. three of us decided to see just how far a TTC pass can get you. I've been in this city about a year and a half now, in cities in general my whole life so the 'burbs have always been a scary, mom-jeaned, angsty teen malled, lawn dotted place I rarely venture into. So, on a rainy Sunday we mapped out a route, gathered our bearings and were Steeles bound. We were glaringly obvious fish out of water, lost and found quickly, clutching transfers as reminders of where we came from. Having spent a maximum of eight minutes on a single subway car in the past, the nearly 20 minute stint was enough to start up suppressed childhood claustrophobia that was only further agitated on the solid half-hour bus ride. We peered through misty windows at identical dwellings, cubed into neighborhoods between expanses of basically nothing.

The mall itself was a different experience altogether. Personal boundaries were tested by people strolling arm in arm through narrow walkways, and babies reaching out of buggies for various shiny baubles on easy-access shelves. The sensory overload was immediate, expected and welcome after we spent thrity minutes amusing ourselves with funny sounding bus stops (Waggoner's Wells Lane was especially mirthful in our haze of ennui). We were carried by the flow of the crowd, ducking into the occasional shoe-box sized boutique and revelling at the sheer, miniscule and fuzzy. One shop in particular had me at hello (Kitty) as it was filled with plush or plastic renderings of the Japanese cartoons that were dubbed over at home and helped me learn Arabic.
Soon after I rediscovered the deliciousness of strawberry cream-coated biscuits in stick form, we acquiesced to the flashing, eardrum-shattering call of the enormous arcade. We were immediately enveloped by the scent of prespiring teens, who had their eyes trained on fleeting symbols that rained down the screens in front of them, expressions grave with concentration. Naturally we only debated joining in for about three seconds before the thought of obliterating zombies with machine guns had us battling tweens for turns and rematches.

The main reason for our Markham jaunt, the search for DVDs priced in package deals and sold on the DL, was seemingly in vain at first. One of the shopkeeps we'd asked, led us away from her other customers and, leaning in conspiratorially, informed us that the summer's seige/cop crackdown had left an impression on those that once openly sold bootlegged copies and that they had all but stopped completely. Her tone was grim and bordering on ominous, but the message was clear: keep looking. Somewhere between bubble teas, pointing at strange things in jars and wandering aimlessly (while debating returning to the addictive arcade for "just one more!") a flutter of loose leaf printer paper caught our collecive gaze. Knowing what it was immediately we stopped in front of the store, poised to pounce if we saw it again. Ever since the DVD crackdown certain stores have had to keep secret lists of the movies they had (but couldn't display) that one could order and come back for after a certain amount of time.

We may or may not have entered the store, huddled around that piece of paper, made three selections and listened to a surreptitious phone call in Mandarin. We also may or may not have stalled by eating sushi, wondered what the quality would be like (i.e. heads in the way of hand-held cams vs. FOR PROMOTION ONLY warnings) and returned 30 minutes later with a ripped piece of paper marked "30" in lieu of a receipt.

We may or may not have felt slightly badass on the way home.

would you like some fries with that ploy?

2008-12-23T14:42:00.011-05:00

I have a love hate relationship with Burger King. I abhor their fries, but I like their junior Whoppers. I dislike eating in their "restaurants", but I enjoy that they don't charge me for extra sauces. I hated this marketing strategy, but love this one.

Enter Burger King's "Flame". Obviously nobody's asking the public to genuinely wish to smell like "the scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat". The very idea of reeking of beef is enough to turn ones stomach, and yet there have been reports that the wee bottles of meaty seduction are selling out. That's because the big thinkers behind BK's adevertising realized that it would take a lot more than paper crowns and a king with a giant head to sink a certain special-sauce encrusted ship- especially with their urban-friendly, coolhunted, internationally-reaching endorsements. Can we say Tim-ber-lake between bites?

Now, Burger King has decided to take the more facetious, playful route and created a product that is so repellent and unexpected that it's just aching to be a hit. And cheap! At only around $4 a bottle you can buy the perfect gag gift or stocking stuffer for some dude in your life who'll actually get the joke.

And if even one person is tempted to sink their teeth into the real thing (beef, I mean, not a guy friend) and pop over to their nearest drive-thru, then "Flame" might just reignite BK's fire.

the shortest day.

2008-12-22T19:37:00.012-05:00

We're all orphans this year.

Not in the depressing Twist/Copperfield kind of way, thankfully, but in more ways than we expected. Some are stranded, with family so far that staticky phone calls blur messages of love. Some have parents with reverse empty-nest syndrome that escape to foriegn islands leaving their chicks behind. Some have obligations to friends that demand they witness ceremonies that only happen once (ideally). And some have chosen paths that isolate and yet complete them in the way only a close friend can understand.

So when a good friend decided to hold her very first solo Winter Solstice dinner, we all gathered like bits and bobs from a shop of oddities, bringing with us the overflowing feelings we can't offer to our individual families this year. We broke bread (literally, as grain is key to good fortune), laughed and basked in our post-gorge glow. Terrible weather was easily forgotten, life stresses put on hold, anecdotes cordially drowned out by bursts of cassette tape nostalgia.

We rediscovered that friends can be like family- I even banished my ever-cynical ways as we made jokes about the impending year knowing that if in 2009, we found ourselves abandoned, marooned or deserted, we would find a way to one another again.

As our collective For-Solstice adopted Papa says, "Health, abundance, happiness and all the best for the new cycle."

F. Baz Fitzlurhmann.

2008-12-20T19:57:00.007-05:00

I love me some Luhrmann but ack?!

I won't even get started on the seemingly neverending, poorly written, cattle-heavy Aussie romp that made me wish I was at a screening for anything else- even this (because at least with that there would've been zero expectations, and at least three rows of squeeing teens to laugh at).

Fitzgerald is sacred, and lord knows Baz is capable of better, so if he so much as dreams of making this the last installment of a Luhrmann-Kidman* trio so help me...

* She's way too old to play Daisy, right? Too plastic?

hello, my name is...

2008-12-18T16:44:00.006-05:00

... FUCKING GRACE JONES.

Corporate Cannibal

Now that I've (somewhat) gotten over my endoplasmic embloism, I bring you Grace MF-ing Jones. She's back with a MF-ing vengenace with her in-your-face, creepy brilliance and shows the cookie-cutter music industry who's boss. She will bite your MF-ing head off and lay an egg-case of sheer genius that only those that survive will be able to sample. Men are afraid of her. Women are afraid of fearing her.

Her new album Hurricane (her first after a nearly 20 year self-imposed hiatus/exile) is so her it practically slaps you in the face and says "I'm Grace Jones, bitch".

Also, yes, those are gratuitous chocolate MF-ing Grace Jones heads on the cover art.

Can we just talk for a moment about how she's old enough to be a grandmother and still sometimes wears only thongs to perform? I'm pretty sure she's actually an extraterrestrial.

shut up Piglet.

2008-12-18T15:39:00.007-05:00

I know it's really meta to blog about a blog but I just love coming across people with the kind of humour grandmothers across the universe would never attest to- rage against all things cute and furry.

Par example:

"What. The. Fuck. I don't even know what to say, Platypus. YOU MAKE NO SENSE. You're like some kind of anti-drug message, designed to make high people totally freak the fuck out. You are so weird, Platypus, that they don't even have a universally agreed-upon word for the plural form of you. That's because if you see two of these animals(?) together, the fabric of space and time will literally tear apart. Remind me to never close my eyes again, Platypus, you duck-billed asshole."

Hil-fucking-larious.

Why?

Because sometimes even the adorable need to be put in their place.

Hmmm, I wonder if the doily crocheting, Beanie Baby collecting, Thomas the Tank Engine watchers over at this hellish aberration are aware.

pinching Bennies.

2008-12-18T02:34:00.009-05:00

Ah, schadenfreude.

‘Tis dark times for us all, yes, and as the convenience store owner at the spot I frequent pointed out to me “we still gotta work, less money is still money”. Word. Normally, I would be swept into a depression akin to that of those sloshing around in the wintery haze clutching mall procured shopping bags (some surreptitiously hidden in designer bags brought from home- Bloor West I’m looking at you), but I can’t help but find these tidbits amusing beyond belief.

I promise I’m not an asshole. I will not attempt to justify why I find these articles so funny solely because they speak for themselves. The recession has become in my mind the kind of Robin Hood that would exist outside utopic fiction- robbing from the rich and giving to no one. I have nothing against those that have garnered enormous piles of Scrooge McDuck-like riches through the sweat of their own merit, but I indifferently detest those heirs/esses that were born with diamond-encrusted rhodium shovels in their mouths and whine about it.

Remember this?

Giving up lavish massages or one of multiple vacation homes hardly counts as “slumming it”. I’m not judging though. I’m too busy laughing my way to the nearest temp agency.

tell me a story.

2008-12-11T15:56:00.005-05:00

I'm just going to respond to the recent kerfuffles the best way I know how.

In the form of a children's story.

Yes, y'heard right.

The Little Brown Frog

Once upon a time there lived a little brown frog named Boggy. He was born and raised in a large pond commune in a wide forest filled with all kinds of creatures. The frogs in his commune were all very important. Each had a specific role in the upkeep of their individual homes, as well as the pond at large. Boggy’s own parents were very responsible and his siblings already had their lillypad stations all picked out for when they were old enough to leave the family’s pad. As the youngest Boggy still had a lot of time to figure out what kind of role he would play in the community, whether it was to catch flies or croak warnings in times of danger. His classmates all knew what they wanted to do, but Boggy still wasn’t sure. He didn’t quite fit in at school and was often teased because of one very obvious thing. Boggy was the only brown frog in the whole forest. His peers often called him strange and his family often worried about where he would end up.
“He’s just so different,” His father would croak. His mother could only hide her concern with a smile.
“Maybe he’ll grow out of it.”
Boggy learned to have fun by himself. He made up his own games, went on his own adventures and sang his own songs (as best a frog could). One day a little green frog from his second period Jumping class overheard Boggy singing and playing on his own.
“Well that’s a different game,” She said looking angry.
“It is,” Boggy said carrying on and hoping she would leave him be. Instead his classmate watched and watched until finally he invited her to join. She was hesitant at first, wondering what all the other green frogs would think if she joined in his strange game. But when she realized how much fun Boggy was having she decided to give it a go. Pretty soon more little green frogs from the neighbourhood began to join in against the wishes of their parents.
“Those games are dangerous!” They would warn, when they just didn’t recognize them.
Boggy soon had a small club of friends who all liked his games and began to create their own versions that he would join in. They began covering their green bodies in brown mud hoping to look more like Boggy and began to question if they really wanted to be fly-catchers and guard-frogs. The small club grew and grew and grew until most of the young, even some tadpoles, had joined. They were all so overjoyed and finding new ways to have fun!
Boggy was thrilled to finally have friends and began to throw parties to celebrate. One party in particular was especially grand because almost the entire school was invited. They had to keep it a secret because all the parents and some of the other young were not too happy about what they called ‘Boggy’s Influence’. Boggy sang songs, his friends danced and hip-hopped. Before the end of the party Boggy was surprised to discover that someone from the Amphibian Media had been to the party and left. This was sad news because it meant that their very secret location was going to be made public. The news was sadder still because Boggy was going to end up grounded.
Sure enough the next morning, photos of the party emerged on the cover of one of the smaller news weeklies under the headline ‘Do you know where your spawn are?’ The article called Boggy and his friends ‘Bogsters’ and said they would amount to nothing. His mother was distraught and his father banned him from ever having another Boggy Bash again.
But Boggy couldn’t. He had never had as much fun as he did at those parties and continued to have them. The guest lists grew smaller and the locations more hidden away. These parties lasted for a long time without anyone finding out about them and Boggy started to grow tired of them. The kids that did end up coming to the party weren’t really his closest friends anymore and the games they played were really becoming dangerous because they knew they could get away with it.
Worried, Boggy left one of his bashes early and started to hop home thinking about what to do next. He missed just hanging out with his good friend from Jumping class and even missed being the only brown frog. Most of the little frogs at the party had fashioned brown outfits from twigs, and leaves that they had found around the off-limits swamp.
Boggy hopped and hopped, lost in his thoughts until he saw a twinkling light. Right before his eyes the light grew and grew until it was a glowing fairy carrying a tiny wand.
“Well hello, grumble-pants!” She said cheerily.
Boggy could only stare. “Who are you?”
“Your fairy godmother of course!” She chirped. “I noticed you’re back to being lonely and sad again, Boggy. Did you have a fight with your new friends?”
Boggy explained that he no longer felt like they were his friends and that his original games and songs were turned into something completely different. “They don’t feel like they used to,” He said sadly.
“Well of course not Boggy! Things change all the time! Look at you for example- you went from being a tiny egg, to a tadpole to a bright young frog!” His fairy godmother pointed out. “Wasn’t one of your dreams to have friends to play with?”
“Yes,” Boggy replied.
“And that you wanted to be just like all the other little green frogs?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t see what you have to be grumbly about grumble-pants!”
Boggy considered what she said for a moment. He had wished for friends and he was grateful to have had them, but as for being like everyone else…
“I like coming up with games to play,” Boggy decided out loud. “I like singing my own songs. I like meeting new people.”
“And?” His fairy godmother asked.
“I like being a little brown frog!”
At this declaration Boggy fairy godmother disappeared with a little *pop*.
He knew what he had to do.

The End

dear hiring manager.

2008-12-10T02:25:00.003-05:00

I'm just saying... I'm available.

Career Objective: To secure a placement in the field of blaque communications that will challenge my community relations skills, as well as give me the essential experience and tools needed to succeed in the field of interracial hobnobbing.

Qualifications:

1) At 5 ft nothing I would, even in heels, be suitably below eye-level for all those who think Tom Cruise is statuesque.
2) I’ve been told I eat like a bird so I’ll keep my pesky hands off the ors d’oeuvres (not making the same promise for attractive waiters).
3) I have seen most Spike Lee movies so I can help with references and/or catch phrases.
4) I’m ESL (Ebonics as a Second Language) so I can act as a deciphering liaison between you and other bl-accessories.
5) I have had years of tokenism experience* and can easily adapt to high-paced, multi-tasking environments.

* References available upon request.

motha fucka I'm ill

2008-12-08T22:13:00.005-05:00

Why are parental units capable of being so ominous?

It took a 5 minute convo with pater, who attempted to scare me into getting my flu shot (which fell onto very deaf and now very ringing ears) for me to end up getting it? Full force mind you. I woke up the morning after the celebrated return of one of my faves only to realize that the old wives tale about wet hair in below zero weather was probably true. Throw in a complete lack of scarf and a semblance of pants and you're pretty much begging to be smitten with the nouveau plague.

Had a new Shopper's not literally sprouted up under my building, I would've probably resorted to chewing garlic and sucking on lemons because I'll be damned if I even attempt to engage in that thing called "winter" just for meds.

I have spent the last three days indoors to the point of delirium. I've had heavily self-medicated conversations with my cat (who knows nothing about the coalition apparently), yell-croaked at lame commercials on T.V. and won a hazy game of Clue which I haven't played since I was in fifth grade or so.

The one perk of this phlegmy unpleasantness is that I've surprisingly been inspired to write more. I guess there's something very Dickensian about feeling like you're on your death bed that inspries maudlin, and usually contrite prose. I won't share what I've written lest it be a far cry from what I currently think it is (Poe meets Sedaris), and will reconsider it when my eyes are no longer half-cast and my viens aren't filled with cough syrup.

Lagerfeld Loves My Energy

2008-11-28T16:55:00.000-05:00

Meg Ryan’s dubious expression trumps her When Harry Met Sally fake O.

zOMFG.

2008-11-27T19:06:00.005-05:00

A week tomorrow marks the end of my internship and as per my MO I have nothing planned. I have had many a discussion about what I would like to vs. love to do next. While I’ve learned the type of ink I wouldn’t want to dip my fingers into (newspaper beat reporting par example), I still haven’t quite figured out my niche. And now that there’s that hovering, dirty “r-thing” things won’t be the slip n’ slide into the job o’ my dreams I once envisioned.

Stumbling upon this article(tte)the other day was no help either. If the daughter of a TIME-chronicled, movie-inspiring editor (also the daughter of an editor, natch) is worried about getting work as a writer, WTF are those of us with non-bedazzled family trees meant to do? Try?

Tell me what to do, before I edit myself out of the field altogether*.

* I’m being facetious here, as a change of route would likely mean a law degree and a lifetime supply of valium.

note: adorkable image was snagged from here, where you can find (and purchase) more of the same.

dis-illusioned.

2008-11-26T19:25:00.009-05:00

I spent a great portion of my wee years in the hegemonic, sap-producing, sing-a-long hands of one of the most demonized conglomerates to date. I spent hours watching and re-watching multiple versions of similar princess stories that I have to admit moulded a lot of my tiny self because its watered down, family-time goodness easily grazed past the ever critically protective eye of my mother. Disney movies were a major hit, my friends and I clamoured to own anything stamped with the swooshy logo in a cut-throat fashion that can only be likened to a couture sample sale. The “princesses” themselves were most coveted, followed closely by their dashing chunks of handsomeness and the token eloquent sidekick (some splashed with a dose of sociopathy- re: Eago). Naturally, elementary playground games for us girls involved running to/away from the ever elusive, cootie plagued boys or, if the chase/interest wore off, Princess Game.

As a card-carrying Disney kid (and connoisseur of cool, obviously), I knew all there was to know about every movie that came out and could sing most songs (including celeb-studded versions that appeared after the credits rolled) and yet Princess Game oft left me a little wary. The reason was that our young minds were far from completely socially developed and, as per Cosby’s Darndest Things, wildly uncensored.

The rules of Princess Game were simple- pick a princess and behave as she would. For example, if you chose to be Ariel, you would have to take on the role of a “swimming” mime. In a group of about eight, the debate over who got to be which princess often grew heated (everybody coveted Cinderella), but eventually each girl would pick the princess she thought reflected her the most- hence my conundrum. I recall picking one of the fairer princesses in my first ever time playing, and blatantly being told it was impossible because of my complexion. In fact, the only plausible characters I could pick from were Pocahontas (the darkest of the heroines) or, wait for it, Nahla. In their eyes, because the story was set in Africa, I was closer to a giant feline than any of the princess options available solely based on my pigment count. Inevitably I took on the role of the bare-footed, hair-for-days cheif's daughter, because I would be damned if I got on all fours.

Enter this chick:

A lot can be said here about a million women’s studies-related hoo-hahs, but I’d rather not use up my tokenism membership in one post. I’m also not going to say this new character is in anyway going to soothe my childhood wounds of not feeling like I was being reflected in the franchise that God forgot. Instead, I’m going to revel in the fact that it took 10 years to re-create pretty much the same story yet again. This new princess, who looks like a colored-in version (in Crayola’s ‘burnt sienna’ to be exact) of her counterparts, will likely fall in love with a man that will somehow save/enable her, and will have a wise-cracking lackey (which judging by the teaser is a gum-toothed insect of some sort from the deepest of bayous)that will tag along for comic relief.

Naturally the Big O is involved and, with a release date of 2009, a certain other first will most likely be taking his little'uns to watch the magic unfold (in 2-d!) all over again.

23.

2008-11-25T22:06:00.005-05:00

disconnected from age
mere numbers that
dictate the way in which
you un-choose to live
express nothing but isms
chronologically befitting
according to an earthy clock
lodged somewhere between
an ovary and
a pregnant pause...

Sunday, Un-day

2008-11-16T13:29:00.004-05:00

Sundays are slow days that remind me with each passing hour that I should keep track of time. With constant deadlines, meetings, endings and beginnings I need to learn that mere minutes can expand into entire lifetimes. Forget smelling roses. My weeks are a blur of typed copies, gulped coffees and the occasional salute to youth in the form of weekend romps. There's a disconnect I'm not used to, between my thoughts and my actions. I make wishes at 11:11 and forget what they were by 11:12. I don't so much follow through as carry on.
This un-day feeling is not a novel one but with each passing birthday (my last actually landing on a Sunday) it becomes harder and harder to shake. I miss home, where I could taste the sea salt in the air, and I could hug my littlest sister until she protested.
I woke up late today, even though I spent the night before in with a borrowed DVD. My eyelids lifted at noon, and it took a considerable amount of effort for my body to follow suit. My mother called for the weekly report and the best I could offer was "same old. it's snowing though." She wasn't impressed. I concur.

totes J.

2008-11-11T18:28:00.012-05:00

Like most of you, I like stuff.

I especially like stuff that relates to stuff that I like. If there's humour stuff involved then that's just an added bonus.

While killing time between fact-checking bouts at le work today I stumbled upon (and by stumbled I mean, was directed to by a fellow wordmonger) a lovely blog about stuff a certain group of people like. No, not that one. Similar name, different (albeit overlapping) demographic. Also hosted (and subsequently absorbed) by Wordpress, is Stuff Journalists Like which follows the same format as it's quite hilarious predecessor, and lists exactly that- covering everything from caffiene fixes and shorthand (which I have yet to attempt to grasp) to interns and Barack Obama. My personal favourite so far is #356, mainly because of these 9 words: “Help me, Wolf Blitzer, you are my only hope.”

I'm also the kind of gal that enjoys lists (yes, that kind) in case you haven't noticed.

10 things I hate about... what you say.

2008-11-09T23:14:00.014-05:00

So, the bigwigs (bigwhigs, rather) at UniOx joined forces and came up with a list of some of the most annoying phrases in the English language. Finally. There are quite a few things people say, and I don't mean ESL folks (or ETL, EFL... etc.), that come across as unintelligent, confusing and just plain lazy.

According to the new book these are the top ten most irritating phrases:

1 - At the end of the day
2 - Fairly unique
3 - I personally
4 - At this moment in time
5 - With all due respect
6 - Absolutely
7 - It's a nightmare
8 - Shouldn't of
9 - 24/7
10 - It's not rocket science

... and I don't know if I agree 100%. Annoying words like 'irregardless', and 'irrespective' are surprisingly missing in the tenner, and phrases like "in my humble opinion" (shut up, soapbox), "femme fatale" (shudder) and "easy as pie" (have you ever tried baking one? no? then shut up.) were allowed to slide. I don't know what the rest of the list looks like, but if those aren't on there then they need to do a recount.

While the idea of compiling a list of irritating phrases is absolutely fairly unique, I personally think that at this moment in time- and I mean this with all due respect- they shouldn't of bothered, because at the end of the day it's a nightmare trying to tell people how they should speak 24/7 even though technically, it's not rocket science.

an open letter.

2008-11-05T09:01:00.000-05:00

Dear American Electorate,

Signed,
The Rest of Humanity

the devil also votes.

2008-11-04T16:18:00.000-05:00

The pillar of fashion turns it out.

(Insert comment about voter equality here)

is this ashton?

2008-11-03T18:31:00.000-05:00

It's fairly, if not glaringly(literally), obvious that I am the last person to support/endorse/defend the certain VP hopeful I've come to call Baked Alaska. By no means do I think she's even remotely credible, in fact I have openly mocked her ambitiously misguided views on foriegn poilcy (and basic geography). I've tuned into witness Fey's apt renderings of her foibles and joined in the uproar around her being called a reflection of women in politics (cyanide anyone?).

Granted she's not the brightest bulb (maybe even less "luminous" than the current White House resident), but is this all that funny?

So, she completely fell for it. Haha, so hilarious.

They might as well have just done the 'is your refridgerator running?' bit and called it a day because I'm pretty sure she would've been tempted to check. This prank is bordering on bullying, especially since it's being littered all over the internet (it was even picked up by the AP). Besides, listen to how excited she sounds.

The Palin's-a-dumbass novelty has officially worn off for me. The dead horse has been beaten, decapitated, run-over and covered with maple syrup. And I thought all Canadians were nice, no?

home free.

2008-11-02T21:56:00.000-05:00

i've done a post about this site in the past i know, way back before ecomomic conditions pilfered my old blog in one fell swoop, but i just can't get over it.

i love seeing people's homes.

i'm nosy like that.

mainly because i'm fascinated by people in general. what better reflection of a person's very self than what they choose to surround themselves with? if we are to define ourselves inside a four-walled box, then everything from the hangings and artsy knick knacks, right down to rugs and toilet paper brands should somehow come together and provide an answer to who we are. sometimes it takes a lifetime to get it just right. sometimes you have to work at it and brand your "home" (be it a teeny bachelor apartment or a house with more rooms than residents). i've visited all kinds of homes over the years and within every one i was able to discern a little something about the tenants, whether or not they really wanted me to know.

the site has been adding a lot of new faces/spaces to the list lately, and my personal favourite thus far is Ingrid Schram's. this may have to do with the fact that she describes herself as a "fashion diddler". and it shows.

when in doubt, wear black.

2008-11-01T18:29:00.000-04:00

i know i whined about it.

i refused all candy, laughed at those who wore costumes while the sun was still up, waited until the absolute last second to "make" my own and in the end i wasn't completely horrified. thanks to a small batallion of inebriation i call friends, and to the random bar patron who was dressed as a dress.

here's a brief list (from what I can remember) of my costume interpretations:

1. "a reflection of the economy"
2. wall street
3. enron
4. trade
and my personal favourite:
5. a chart

where every palm tree knows your name

2008-10-29T23:13:00.000-04:00

Ugh. I don't even know where to begin.
Actually, I do:
First, that's not Arabic. I know I'm not fluent, but I'm pretty sure a jumble of tribal yells with the word "Allah" thrown in doesn't equate a language fragment.
Second, I can only imagine the thought process behind the song -"Hey yo, Flip, who got alotta money?"
Third, A-rab? Really? I'm pretty sure Busta's voting for Obama, and yet, he chooses the deliberate and derogatory mispronounciations of the GOP.
Fourth, they fully stole the idea from this guy.

i could have gone as a pumpkin

2008-10-28T18:43:00.001-04:00

As Hallow's Eve and sexified anythings draw near I can't help but try and recall why the event never quite excites me. What could be so unappealing about piles of individually-wrapped sugar, "hilarious" costumes and general tom foolery?

Everything.

I swear I'm not a buzz kill (a majority of the time), but something about nearing quarterlife and trying to make a list of 'must-haves in witch couture' makes me very, very tired.

Once upon a time as a wee little FOB, Halloween was this elusively obscure event that the other kids talked about ad nausuem and I, having spent the toddler/early learning years tethered to a condo, spent the majority of my first two fall months at school trying to figure out how they were allowed to go from house to house asking strangers for candy. I remember approaching my mother one day, a costume parade permission slip in hand, and explaining that a parent's signature on the dotted line would promise a 7 year-old's appearance at school that Friday, dressed in a suitably fun costume (preferably of the home-made variety as prizes wouldn't go to three Rainbow Brites). What a lack of ink-spelled permission equalled, I hadn't known yet.

Of course, my equally foreign mother decided anything drawn from paganism/satanism/too-time-consuming-ism was a definite 'no', so to my horror I was the kid, the foriegn kid, without a costume that day.

The ramifications were as follows:
1. Appearing at school that Friday in my pink sweatsuit to realize I was the only kid in class not in some form of costume.
2. The new, new kid had one of the better costumes, immediately bumping him up above me (the old new kid) on the playground social ladder.
3. No costume meant I had to sit out the parade and the chance to win a plastic pumpkin full of candy the size of my head.
4. Not being in the parade meant I would have to stay behind in class while the rest of the kids went out into the courtyard.
5. Being the only person, including the teacher, not in costume meant I couldn't be left alone in the classroom so I was trotted off to the library.
6. The arbitrary group of non-costumed kids from grades 1-4 that awaited me in the library looked like a model UN, made up of ESL kids mostly.
7. We had to play Hungry Hungry Fucking Hippos.

In the years that followed, my parents eventually eased their vice-like grip on Halloween and allowed my sisters and I to trick or treat (but only to 5 places)and wear costumes (but only if they were store-bought) but somehow that first experience always left a sour taste in my mouth- no matter how many Blow Pops I consumed.

And I don't think she's planning to have a good Halloween either.

worse for wares

2008-10-17T18:33:00.001-04:00

Remember that time you had to sell something you owned because you wanted/needed something better instead? Whether it was selling your old toys in a garage sale so you could buy new ones, bartering with Used CD store reps so you could afford a weekend show, or, as my co-worker confessed recently, selling limited-eition Star Wars action thingies for neek-covered bills to go towards your rent. Most of us have at one time or another sold something near-and-dear, fleeting, broken or self-made in order to make ends meet. I know I have. My sisters and I ran an illegal my-junk-your-jewels cartel at summer camp in grade school where we sold everything from our old books and Happy Meal toys to free-with-purchase lollipop tattoos (that we would apply at the appropriate station). So, I can honestly say I can relate to the saddest headline I've seen since 'Haper wins Minority':

"Last 'Titanic' survivor sells mementoes to pay for care"

Apparently the Britt who was only two months old when the big "practically unsinkable" ship sank (and Leo died)is now resorting to selling her Titanic-related belongings to cover her nursing home bills. Up for grabs is a century-old suitcase filled with the courtesy clothes the family received once they arrived in the States.

My heart.

2008-10-16T09:19:00.001-04:00

on her last night she pulled each daughter aside. bestowing last-minute confucianisms and fragements of what she hopes is awakening is customary. my turn came sooner than I'd hoped as I sulked into the room after her. we sat side by side, the silence palpable. taking my hand to examine, she sighed. i braced myself for the criticism my jagged cuticles usually receive as they bear the likeness of my many moments of weakness. instead she enveloped my hand with hers, whispering "see, they're identical."

yeah...

2008-10-14T19:10:00.000-04:00

don't bother.

except do.

never thought that hip hop would take it this far.

2008-10-12T14:17:00.000-04:00

Yes.

mean girls.

2008-10-10T21:37:00.000-04:00

Due to popular demand (and the fact that I haven't been able to shut up about this only to receive blank wtf stares), I bring you the Mallick-Palin smackdown. If this were boxing Mallick would have TK'd Palin easy (all three rounds)- only to be falsely accused of fouling after an anchor or two made a large enough kerfuffle.
The gist is that Heather Mallick, a well-known Toronto-based columnist for both CBC and The Guardian, wrote a very emotion-driven, clearly opinion-based piece on just how unfit Madam Baked Alaska really is. She uses angry, slashy, very descriptive words that are, in my opinion, intended to shock. She holds nothing back attacking every nuance of Palin's life, from her intelligence to the way she raises her kids. I don't necessarily agree with a lot of what Mallick wrote- although some was witty and dry- but the consequences she received as a result were over-the-top and misguided.
Basically, U.S. right-wingers came across the column on-line, made a big ol' stink about how Canadian tax-payers' money was being used to fund such a hateful site and proceeded to notify the most reliably right-wing news source: Fox.

Yes. Really.

Surprisingly, CBC decided to pull Mallick's article “A mighty wind blows through Republican convention”, which has been since labelled controversial (it's even be added to her wiki page), and an apology/retraction was issued. The article was dubbed "grossly hyperbolic and intensely partisan" which makes me wonder if the same terminology or adamant scrutiny would've been made if the author was a male columnist. Mallick clearly used emotion-charged terms but to mock them as extreme exaggeration? Why not just blame mensies while you're at it?

Long story short Mallick never made any apologies herself, was called a pig by the very same blonde Fox "reporter", and is continually berated by the American public via email, blog posts, message boards etc. She recently posted an update regarding the issue on her website where she weighs in on the events in hindsight.

So, as a CBC spokesman put so pithily, "liberty is not the same as license".... vrai ou faux?
Discuss.
But make sure you don't have it published, lest Fox sics van Susteren on you.

next time, just turn over

2008-10-09T23:45:00.000-04:00

i woke up this morning with the kind of headache that makes you feel tethered to your bed, or at least to your most current bad dream. walked into work only to realize I had two days worth of crap to cram into one (the "perk" of an editorial Friday off in lieu of normal thanksgiving). came home to find my cat in heat (again). misplaced aspirin due to my misplaced thoughts. was almost late in meeting a friend for a theatre date. was moved. had a cabbie that tested my fear of oncoming traffic.

by my count, i nearly cried four times today.

nuit blah

2008-10-05T17:04:00.000-04:00

my very first Nuit Blanche was sub par for the following 10 reasons:

1. being totalled by 40-year old men who can't say excuse me.
2. strollers.
3. strollers with children in them.
4. being followed by a hoard of males who only uttered 'bloodclot' ad nauseum.
5. being too vertically challenged to actually see any art from behind huge crowds.
6. huge crowds.
7. waiting in line for public restrooms.
8. public restrooms.
9. running into people you didn't want to see, while missing the ones you did.
10. overhearing this: "I think Nuit Blanche has lost some of its meaning. I mean, it's all about being just for show now."

it wasn't a complete loss due to the following 5:

1. ndeur/duponchel
2. public drunkeness = shadenfraude.
3. watching an elderly couple study an overflowing trash bin as though it were installation art.
4. seeing faces I've missed.
5. szechwan at 4 a.m.

mother-daughter cliche

2008-09-30T18:33:00.000-04:00

almost a week into the my mother's visit. it's strange how much a year and a bit apart can feel so epically vast. conversation runs dry often. she asks if I've eaten. I shrug or politely answer. she mentions law school ad nauseum. i pretend not to notice, nauseated. we sit side by side. who's line?. i run off to work before she takes her first coffee sip. return to more questions. exhausted I succomb, and say "Sure, Mom."

black monday - the recession took my blog away.

2008-09-28T23:02:00.000-04:00

Hello Friends,

So I was at work on Friday, surfing the internet for election piece ideas when I decided to check my email. Settled comfortably in my inbox was a little note from my ex-blog carrier, Uber, that began, "Thank You. Goodbye. Uber will be turned off on Monday." Just like that. Casual, in passing, an 'oh, by the way'. Now, it may seem like I'm over reacting, dedicating the first post of a brand new blog to the death of a former one, but the irony is just too beautiful.

In my very first Uber post I candidly wrote:
"I've had blogs before, some of which I have shared and others that I have banned to the depths of the internet so I'm hoping this one sticks. I have a tendency to lose interest in my mini-projects, but I'm willing to give this another shot in hopes that one day I make it past 10 posts within the span of an entire year. "

I didn’t lose interest. I went a lot over 10 posts. And quite frankly I enjoyed it. So natch, some other force intervened.

At first I thought it couldn’t be true. I mean honestly:

“The crisis in the economy has claimed Uber as its latest victim.”

That’s the blogger’s equivalent of the Crash of ’29.

I shoved my story notes aside instantly and scrambled to copy-paste my little life-sonnets somewhere safe and finite. And there they sit.

Luckily, I have turned back to my old blog host, one I’ve abandoned easily and frequently in the past, in hopes of continuing and reviving my little blog in hopes that this one will… overcome?

Anyway, thanks to those who’ve followed, commented, frequented and just plain creeped- I appreciate the dedication and I hope this new (graphically challenged) version lives up to your expectations. Think of it as a step-cousin of sorts.