Thursday, November 28, 2002
Going to a ROCK AND ROLL SHOW
pilfered from lestabernacles.com
Seeing Les Tabernacles. (link w/SOUND) Feeling too old to be shouting ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL!, so in lieu of that, I use all-caps.
An old friend is now in the band but he hasn't been playing long, so here are some guidelines. (via lil' lib & c-trent )
If all else fails, there's always one rule that will get you through: If at one point in the song you wonder whether to make a badass frown or pull a jump, ask yourself
"What would Iggy do?"
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Wine: Of course
Hours Spent in Front of Computer: 7
Time of awakening: Noon
Prolonged wearing of pajamas: Yes
Coffee Quaffed: Half-pot
State of Shirt: Stained
Sad Reason for Seemingly Unjustified Enthusiasm This Late in Day: Amazing Race
Day Off: Yep
Like fajitas, but with booze...
I am told that when I go to Victoria, BC, I will be bought a shitload of drinks. My friend didn't say "shitload", I put that in there, but he said a less colourful word for "a lot" and I am taking the liberty. I think he would approve.
So when I go back there, whenever that is, I'm in for a potentially lethal amount of booze. I am told that I should partake of a "Mohito." Silly friend, he meant mojito. But I can understand that he does not understand the Spanish rhythms, Latino breezes, and the appeal of a coy and rakish Fidel as well as I. Oh, Fidel !
Silly Friend: The cocktail is making a comeback. It's because we're nearing war. Again.
tumbleweed: THE COCKTAIL HAS NEVER GONE OUT OF STYLE IN THIS HOUSEHOLD.
tumbleweed: WAR BE DAMNED.
So I'm thinking, well, the mojito sounds cool, but Halle Berry did it best probably, holding the tall, cool glass to her forehead, after having emerged from the surf in her bikini. I hate being trumped, so I think I'll stick to a real man's cocktail. Because I'm tough, and then I can be gruff, and not have to work out.
So, I have a few choices here: there's the Old Fashioned, or the plain Martini. That's really about it. Men drink highballs. We're talking mixed drinks here.
But one of my favourites is the Salty Dog. Pronounced "SALTY DAWG!" in a drunkenly belligerent, loud, demanding, slurred-speech fashion. I love it because Artie was fond of it, he was on the Larry Sanders Show(link with sound), one of the few non-Shark-Jumping shows around, and he was also fond of saying HORSESHIT.
Say it out loud, really. You'll love it.
By the by, what do you think of the new banner? Look, maybe for you it's like shooting fish in a barrel, but I put some sweat into that motherfucker.
[nodding in direction of comments]
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
No Meditation Involved. Quite, Quite the Contrary.
Just when I think I've conquered something computer-y, like FTP, it all suddenly doesn't make sense anymore.
On a not wholly unrelated matter, can someone please tell me where is, or maybe, how do I achieve, the backward slash?
There's nothing Zen about this. Seriously, help me.
Easiest. Assignment. Ever.
Just in case you're someone I don't know in real life, well, in real life I'm a reporter. And today I really showed 'em the stuff I'm made of:
I was sitting at home, on the computer after I put in my full day already on the early shift, when I heard the fire trucks. Peeling back the window curtain (or, bedsheet, if you prefer), I spied with my keen journalistic skill two firetrucks going past my apartment building. Normally ignoring the many sirens that blow by my downtown flat, I thought this one was somehow different. Again, my savvy reporter-sense picked up the fact that the emergency trucks were not flying down the street. They were, in fact, slowly rolling. That's when I cracked open my window, poked my head out, and looked to the right. I picked up the phone.
"Hey. It's me."
"You know about the fire?"
"Yeah, Travel Lodge."
"Yeah, well I can see it."
"Yeah, smoke for sure."
You can just contact me through email to hand me the Jack Webster.
Of course I went out and covered it. It's all about it being for the love of the story. At least, when the story is a block's walk away and I just have to slip on the clogs.
Monday, November 25, 2002
this is by Seth. look below for info. I am doing nothing wrong here, okay?
Aimee Mann has a new album. You, in particular, should probably buy it.
The site uses images by Seth, this cool artist from Ontario on the Drawn and Quarterly roster.
A Bumper's Crop
Planning to attend your town's tree-lighting ceremony? Beware. Looking forward to singing Christmas carols under a cool, night sky, shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow man? Think twice. The bumpers are out in full force during the holiday season.
Scotchguard the parka.
Sunday, November 24, 2002
So. We are all so very clever, so very, very above it all, the freaking Onion isn't even funny any more.
I can't tell you how many times I've read people bitching about how it's become tired and formulaic. Mad Magazine takes a stab at it. (link via Chuck's Blogumentary). It's that old story: It Used to be Cool.
"Yeah, the Onion used to be AWESOME, but then everyone and their dog was reading it. My married sister had it bookmarked. Man, she'd, like email me every week with a "heads-up" it had changed and would point me to her favorite."
I say let's not bother anymore. We should all just give a pre-emptive pfft to everything considered marginally funny and be at the ready with our standard reply: That is just so NOT punk rock.
Here is the funniest thing I've read in a good while. It's from the good folk at the American Undershirt:
“Life In The Pseudo-Ghetto”
A One Act Play In 3D
Starring: My (alleged) Crack Head Neighbors
Opening Scene: Outside, late evening, a chilly rain falls. One (alleged) crack head in a hat talks to another (alleged) crack head who has few (if any) teeth.
Hat: WELL, IT”S ABOUT 6:30. TIME TO STAND OUTSIDE AND YELL.
Toof: YEA, CAN”T LET THE WEATHER KEEP US FROM OUR YELLING.
Hat: OH, AND DON”T FORGET TO USE SOME INDISCERNABLE DIALECT ONLY WE CAN UNDERSTAND.
Toof: ROGER THAT.
Hat: AND EVEN THOUGH WE ARE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER, KEEP THAT VOLUME UP.
Toof: CAN DO.
Hat: AND TO THINK, SOME PEOPLE TALK INSIDE.
Yet another unrelated item, in the form of a warning:
Do not. DO NOT tell me, when I say that saganaki is a cheese dish, that I am wrong. Do not suggest the word is Cree, and has some such history of Native Indian unrest. Simply say "that's fascinating."
Cheese, like a good friend, I don't forget.
We all know weblogging and instant messengering is changing the language. Let me point out some of my favorite things about instantaneous written communications:
a lack of capitalization can be very stylish.
the use of italics makes you hear your lover talk to you that much better.
rules of punctuation and grammar can be thrown out the window yielding sexy results: removing. articles. clothing. now.
all-caps, when used sparingly, can make you laugh: So she asked me "How can you eat that hot dog so early in the morning?" and I said WITH RELISH.
The old "..." in an entry can mean so much.
anything in square brackets is like stage directions, and very fun: [nods. blink. blink.]
Friday, November 22, 2002
I can't tell you how I pleased I am that I've had three pieces of pie already, and it's just now noon.
And it's not all the same pie, either.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
(protecting those from a Long Way Back)
I was covering an event today that brought me back to
high school. While I winced at the thought back to my days of skipping class and under-performing (Value Village skirts, band groupie, breaking down in the counsellor's office), I found a sight that warmed my heart: one boy in a mop-top 'do was wearing a Ramones' t-shirt, and another donned an AC/DC one. They were not sitting together and likely do not run in the same circles. While the former will become a web designer, and the other could likely behave himself nicely out on probation, the two probably don't know it yet, but could very possibly become great pals down the line.
Give 'em 15 years and they'll be arms-over-shoulders, enjoying cheap pints, and reminiscing about how cool it was when fucking Ozzy, man! had that show on TV.
It's the weirdest thing to stumble upon webloggers who you've either seen in real life before, know someone you know, or live nearby. I came upon Madame Fabulous, who, from the sounds of it, lives in the wilds of BC. She's been to some of the same places I have, including the Ship n' Anchor in Calgary. This is where she ran into her first kiss, Steve Loree, who I never kissed, but had kind of a passing crush on when he played in Jr. Gone Wild. Apparently, he stumbled onto her site.
Good god. I haven't seen my first kiss since shortly after we shared a long, sloppy one dancing to Stairway to Heaven. I wonder if he's still working on his Mustang.
Thanks to Nerdy Girl for sending traffic my way. The girl's got a keen love for tater-tots and a healthy curiosity for squirrels. I can fully endorse that.
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Well, except for the brood...
You HAVE to play Mansion-Apartment-Shack-House this very instant!
This is my future, dude:
You will live in Mansion.
You will drive a Red Honda.
You will marry Cameron and have 17 kids.
You will be a reporter in Toronto.
I even threw choices like "rusty" and "Lada" in there.
It's amazing the capacity we have to instantly recognize an off chunk of stir-fried chicken when we've never had off meat before.
The Children Need Your Help...
Click Now! to visit the very funny Colin. Stay a little while, observe the human condition. He has spooge metaphors. Yay!
And it's not updated frequently, but Kvetching makes me laugh, particularly when she swears directly at people.
Last but not least in rounding out the pal-list: Here is my old flame's site. It is a study in beautiful design. But I don't know what it does. Look. Admire. Be puzzled at the esoterica.
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
It's not my Christmas wish list, per se...
It's my Christmas supplies wish list, and it's shaping up like this:
2. Goat's Cheese
6. Pot of Gold
7. Lindt Chocolates
9. Mad Kicks
10.Ample Loafing Time
11.Exotic Fruits. and those little jellied kinds too.
Oh. And of course, peace, love and understanding.
The Shaw Internet man swung by yesterday. He tells me my problem is not with the network, but with me. It appears all my conventional memory keeps getting used up.
Boy-howdy. Story of My Life.
The townspeople talked and tittered now when the tumbleweedgal walked by. She had been such a nice girl, singing in the church choir, dating that nice boy from that good family, minding her parents, and dressing sensibly. But then she up and lost her conventional memory, and she's headed straight to hell! Talking of road trips and rumbles! Taking part in drag-races! Wearing those scarves in her hair, and riding about on that motor-scoot! And I've seen her take a flask out of that black zippered jacket of hers! Someone needs to return her conventional memory to her, and bring her back to her senses!
Monday, November 18, 2002
I shall like to say I put myself in a series of scrapes the weekend, but I would be fibbing. One event did cause my cheeks to redden: Crochety old Miss Crocker came to sup, and I had made a true mess of dinner. I sugared the strawberries with salt, and I forgot to put the cream in the icebox, so it soured.
And poor, dear, little Pip up and died. We forgot to feed him because we had shirked our chores. Our lazy, self-indulgence has come to bite us back. Oh, Marmee! You are so wise to stand back and teach us such a lesson!
Now that I think about it: Was Edna Garrett Marmee to her Little Women? (not that they were exactly little, mind)
Sunday, November 17, 2002
If Paypal and Dial-a-Bottle Could Just Join Forces
I am ready to be unleashed upon the festive season! I am geared to finger-foods and party-dresses, good scotch in better tumblers, cheek-kisses, old friends, TV specials and nicely-packaged, boxed chocolates.
I am all about sitting by the fireplace, playing some Jim Reeves, and waxing sentimental with the folks.
I am also big on imbibing far too many mulled wines and making out like a bandit in the boiler room.
I intend to do a little of both this year, because balance, friends, is really key to living life.
Just five weekends to go before Xmas. Consider yourself warned.
Igby Goes Blane
Just when was it that Ryan Phillippe became the next, albeit talentless, James Spader?
Friday, November 15, 2002
She's a Momma Now
The Marilyn Monroe lookalike is my great old friend, Kalyn. She and I were pals at 16 because we wanted to make a difference, but not so much we didn't have time to take a nip of wine and head to the school dance to whip it up to Billy Idol.
While I've been seemingly frittering my time away, Kalyn has been busy moulding the lives of those around her. She's a mom to two gorgeous boys, Jace and Noah. Along with her husband David, she's been busy with the joys and challenges of life. Her youngest, four-year-old Noah has autism. While I don't know how I'd cope, I know how she would: She would spend every breathing moment in the pursuit of giving him every opportunity to progress. She and a ton of volunteers have put in a lot of time into getting a CD together to help fund Noah's therapy. You can read all about it at www.noahsbasement.com.
Put me down for one, Kalyn.
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Ah Miss Mah Big Sis
I'm the one with no shame on the right.
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
I'm turning in early. But I may reacquaint myself with this first.
Monday, November 11, 2002
So I may be just 31, but I'm having an identity crisis.
(It's just not of Ben Affleckian proportions.
Link via Moxie's comments.)
It would seem there's another tumbleweedgal lurking about in this Spaghetti Western they call the Internet.
Please meet her. She's not me, you know. Although it seems we share a love for animal prints. ROWR! AND she seems to have wrassled herself up a fine-looking man.
Here she is again! And she's got a posse! How can I compete with that?
That's it. It's you and me gal. This gun-slinger is calling a show-down for high noon.
Sunday, November 10, 2002
Pretty. Soft things. Sunday.
It's snowing like mad. Big, fluffy, white flakes, coming down softly but purposefully. Finished off the last of the coffee in the percolator while gazing out the window, glad I don't have to be anywhere. Discovering cool sites. Waiting for the Tall One to come by so we can watch Network. It's a perfect 1970s movie day. And I'd rather put the 2002 movie day, yesterday, behind me, thank you very much, but not before I speak to it:
"Hello, Punch Drunk Love matinee movie day. I had hopes for you, but you quashed them. I'm okay now though, 'cause it's prettily snowing outside, and I'm warm inside, lounging about in pajamas. I may even make nachos. But I'm just saying, and no hard feelings, k, but you shouldn't be quirky just for quirkiness' sake. You might want to feature at least one character we care about. And really, matinee movie day, you were going so well. Lazily reading the paper and all. But then I catch the flick and I'm wondering what does Emily Watson's character see in Adam Sandlers'? Honestly, I wasn't expecting the funny charm of Happy Gilmore. I was one of the ones going in expecting something different. But let's not be so different we pass up the opportunity for an engaging story. If I wanted gross detachment, I would have seen The Piano Teacher again. Okay, okay, beauty and violence, I get it. But c'mon, where was the beauty? Why would she trust, or even find charming, a man who vandalizes bathrooms at the drop of a hat? It's not like he had any redeeming features. It's not like he showed us he could cook a curry or had a soft spot for The Carpenters.
Like I said, no hard feelings. I'm recuperating. Faye Dunaway will erase you from memory. She kicks ass, PDLMMD, and so does the restorative power of Sunday."
Friday, November 08, 2002
I think Jerky needs a facelift.
I noticed, with some alarm, the growing array on store shelves while popping in for smokes and Slurpees road-tripping this summer: It is overwhelming. While I'm sure it's a tasty snack-treat, and I've read the industry is growing in leaps and bounds, jerky really can't shake its image as akin to chewin' tobacco.
So I've taken the time to throw my ideas out to marketing teams in efforts to raise the profile and cool-quotient of the poor cousin to the mighty snacking industry:
1. Have one of those guys casually eating a strip of jerky in one of those Switch ads.
2. Animate a beef snack, and DON'T PUT HIM IN A COWBOY HAT AND CHAPS, instead give him a real sardonic bent and put him in a cool comic.
3. Persuade Wes Anderson or Todd Solondz to see the "verisimilitude" of product placement.
4. Throw some freebies in with the Vines' press kit.
5. Get Jack Link plastered on Manhattans, lean in and coo drunk-girl words in his ear, go out on the town in NYC. Go see, I don't know, Spoon play, give him some real finger-on-the-pulse stuff to work with.
6. Tell Canadian businessmen and politicians, flat out, Hot Rods are not jerky, and therefore, not cool.
7. Have some monster-jerky company assume an alias as a twenty-something guy who loves to smoke dope, play video games, make out with girls and go to gigs, and set up a weblog.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
She's Not Barbie, She's Better
It's not very cool of me, but I have to admit I really have a thing for Barbie.
The Stand To Take frowns upon the doll and her vicious influence over the poor body image of today's pre-teens. Screw that, I love the dolls, the kicky outfits, the little soft-plastic shoes, the jeep. The flushable toilet.
Look, I'm not one of those women who attend conventions and collect. I just had it all at one time. I'm not kidding about the pink crapper. You just lifted up the lid, and working on suction, the water you put in there swooshed. That, along with a bathtub, pink carpet and mirror, was located in the bathroom of my home-made three-story home, complete with:
*real linoleum-floored kitchen, with wooden cabinets, and fashionable dining area
*living room with shag carpeting and a wicker furniture set, lamps
*bedrooms, with home-made bunk beds, matching linens and pillows
*pool and cabana
My parents no doubt had a ball setting up the whole thing. They made it, I just populated it with Barbies, Donnie & Marie in their disco-suits, Farah Fawcett (with real eyelashes), and Barbie's young niece Skipper. I remembered that one as the girl who, I swear, grew breasts as you pumped her arm. I was beginning to think I'd gone as soft in the head as she necessarily was in her plastic chest until I found a picture of her. She's called Growing Up Skipper.
I was never a big fan of Ken, because he struck me as a vapid toga-party dude. It's as though I had already nailed down my choice of men early in life: Frat boys--no. Thin, music-absorbed man-boys--yes. If they had put out a man-doll modelled after Adrian Grenier in the Adventures of Sebastien Cole, guaranteed he'd have come over to Barbie's Dream House a lot more often.
But the reason I bring all of this up is I saw the newest Barbie on the market. I guess tired of being a doctor, a mother, a nurse and a teacher, Barbie has decided to do what she undoubtedly does best and has hit the cathouse for some easy money. I, for one, am outraged.
I bet nowadays you can even get little plastic turds for the pink commode, too. For shame.
Monday, November 04, 2002
I should have known it would be a great weekend as soon as I was ID'd for buying a packet of cigarettes. It's a terribly good omen for a girl in her thirties.
I drove into the big city Friday night and met with my favourite uber-up-to-the-minute couple. Lovely time, a few drinks, many laughs.
Saturday consisted of browsing home interior stores and crafty shops with Mum. Sunday was spent eating Dim Sum with Dad, followed by a great deal of loafing and recuperation, made imperative by S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NITE.
Cosh and I met up at the swank Savoy. We enjoyed orange whips, beer and paralyzers, along with phyllo-wrapped goat cheese, and arguments about a series of painted portraits hanging on the wall.
COSH: "...and that's Boris Yeltsin."
TUMBLEWEEDGAL "OH, it's not."
COSH:"Yes, it is."
TUMBLEWEEDGAL:"No, it can't be. It makes no sense: Drew Barrymore, Carrie Fisher, and Boris Yeltsin?"
TO WAITRESS: "Who is that a picture of?"
WAITRESS:"That's Boris Yeltsin. The display is called Famous Alcoholics."
SAYS MAN AT NEARBY TABLE, TO COSH, HAVING WEIGHED IN ON DISPUTE: "Well then, I will apologize."
GAL: "I will not."
I firmly believe that when one is drinking, and when very little is at stake, one should never feel obliged to apologize.
Moved by a drive to see and be seen absolutely everywhere, we shuffled off to a joint best described by Cosh here. Although I threatened him with the prospect, no slow-dancing was undertaken. It would seem my professionally high-lighted hair would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And Cosh is decidedly white-collar, anyway, having likely never picked up a welding torch, nor a hammer I'd surmise, in his entire life.
On our last stop of the night, we ended up at a familiar place that smells strongly of wet dog, with colorful characters and cheap shots of Jaggermeister. But the cheap shots didn't stop with the alcohol. With Cosh briefly gone to visit the little cowboys' room, a slick young Italian came up to chat.
Now, granted it was that time of night when people are scrambling to find that special anyone to go home with. Everyone's on deadline. Still, I should be flattered he's chatting me up, when he drops this one on me:
"You look like Barbra Streisand."
I realize my nose is large-ish, but really. I've never heard that one before. Was it the scarf? Was I reminiscent of Funny Girl?
I have chosen a decent picture of Barbra that I can stand so I don't continue to bristle at the comment.
But then this young buck started to quiz Colby on his ethnicity, suggesting he must be Jewish.
Strange. He's calling us Jews. Considering his choice of celebs, I'll call him a fag. The two cancel themselves out.
COSH:"I can't leave you alone for a minute. C'mon, Babs, time to call it a night."
Hello there, little lady. I like what you've done here. Keep up the good work, darlin'.
(I don't know what it is, but whenever I hear Glen Campbell "speak" to me, I imagine Elvis.)
Friday, November 01, 2002
Let's just say I'm finding it a little bit disconcerting that I'm getting all my music referrals from a bunch of mangy felines. This is, by far, my new favourite song.