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Happy New Year!
Hurry! You only have five more days to feast your ears on all the weird and wonderful recordings from the 365 Days Project.
New look in time for the new year.
Just a short post to let y'all know that I'm still alive. I'm sitting downstairs at my parents house, almost 4pm on a Sunday afternoon, still in my pjs, listening to Danny Michel; my parents are both napping upstairs; my sisters are away. I think this is the first time I have had to myself in the past week.
It rained on Christmas Eve, but it snowed on Christmas Day. A lot. We spent some time actually calculating the weight of snow that was left in front of the driveway after the snowplow went by. (Conclusion: approx. 60 tonnes of shoveling fun!)
I am trying to come up with some good new year's resolutions. So far all I have is to get the hell out of this province by the end of next year.
Dad's awake. Sun is setting. Should probably go get dressed.
Love until soon,
lamb
The twelve days of Christmas for the politically correct:
On the 12th day of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my Significant Other in a consenting adult, monogamous relationship gave to me,
TWELVE males reclaiming their inner warrior through ritual drumming,
ELEVEN pipers piping (plus the 18-member pit orchestra made up of members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union as called for in their union contract even though they will not be asked to play a note),
TEN melanin deprived testosterone-poisoned scions of the patriarchal ruling class system leaping,
NINE persons engaged in rhythmic self-expression,
EIGHT economically disadvantaged female persons stealing milk-products from enslaved Bovine-Americans,
SEVEN endangered swans swimming on federally protected wetlands,
SIX enslaved Fowl-Americans producing stolen non-human animal products,
FIVE golden symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced domestic incarceration,
(NOTE: after members of the Animal Liberation Front threatened to throw red paint at my computer, the calling birds, French hens and partridge have been reintroduced to their native habitat. To avoid further Animal-American enslavement, the remaining gift package has been revised.)
FOUR hours of recorded whale songs
THREE deconstructionist poets
TWO Sierra Club calendars printed on recycled processed tree carcasses
AND a Spotted Owl activist chained to an old-growth pear tree.
My Middle Sister has been in town this week and has conspired to get my Mother and Little Sister to drive in tomorrow so that we can all hang out together and have a day of doing things like shopping, eating out and going to a movie. And then Middle Sister and I can get a ride back with them to My Hometown and not have to pay a trillion dollars to take the bus. Middle Sister is brilliant at scheming like this. But of course, there is a flaw to this plan. The flaw being that both my sisters apparently like really bad movies. They also, apparently, (for who could believe such a thing?) really like Julia Roberts. This does not bode well. Witness:
[after a long story about how much she liked Beyond Borders]
Middle Sister: ... And I really wanna see Mona Lisa Smile!
Me: You do?!
She: You don't?!
[after a long story about how much she liked She's All That]
Little Sister: ...Mona Lisa Smile looks good!
Me: OHMYGOD PLEASE NO. Isn't there anything else you want to see?
She: Well, what about Honey?
I want to cry.
(And I probably will, in the theatre.)
Things to post about when I am not busybusy:
1. Hawksley Workman's Terrible Opening Act
2. How to Fold a Plastic Bag
3. Handel's Messiah
4. Nebraska, and whether it exists
5. 21 Grams
6. My Sisters' Apparent Love of Julia Roberts
The two funniest names I came across today at my weird job were Fornicola and Springhetti. Springhetti is an awesome name.
I cannot believe that my baby sister is sixteen! I remember the night she was born.
I Can't Even Float In Water This Deep: "When I rebooted I got that 'safe and tiny' version of Windows, which could be the scariest shit I've ever seen in my LIFE (and, in case you were curious, is the computer equilvalent of a heart-racingly hopeful birthday card from your recent ex-boyfriend that your hands tremble to open but it's just signed 'JERRY' and that's it) and of course my paper was gone. "
Do a google search for "miserable failure" and check out the number one result. That is awesome.
Clinton Googles Self: "Citing curiosity as his primary motive, Bill Clinton typed his own name into the popular search engine Google.com during a lull in his daily activities, the former president reported Monday."
Defective Yeti: "Turblitzen always seem completely flabbergast to discover that an elevator already contains people who inexplicably want to get out -- they always sort of cry 'oh!' and pull up short. But do they then get out of the way? No, they do not. Instead they just stand there dumbly, occluding half of the doorway like cholesterol in an artery, forcing disembarking passengers to squeeze around them." He comes up with a very good solution to the elevator turblitzen problem, but does not address the much larger subway turblitzen problem. Somebody please get on that as well.
Some things I have enjoyed (over)hearing recently:
A girl on McGill near Square Victoria, pointing out a passing train to her friends:
"I think I'm a trainspotter; I really am!"
Two men who apparently had some unfinished business going on when our office building lost power on Friday:
"You'd think they'd have some emergency lights in the bathroom!"
"I know! [exaggerated scared voice] I can't find my own wiener!"
Movie reviewer Kim Linekin and host Nick Purdon discussing Keanu Reeves's turn in Something's Gotta Give on DNTO:
"I was surprised, he actually acts better than a two by four here."
"More like a two by six!"
Which reminds me of how after we saw Elf, Smire turned to me and said: "This is the first time in my life that I have actually believed [Will Ferrell] can act!"
And while I feel that "act" might be too strong a word, I still found this movie hilarious, which was unexpected.
As someone who hates shopping, I really recommend shopping at 8am on Sunday morning, as I did today. There are no crowds or long waits. It is smooth, smooth sailing.
The fact that you feel physically nauseous from being up so early in the morning and that the myriad of weird smells in the mall serve to augment this nausea to the point of complete revulsion with life itself and that you are so tired that you wander in and out of consciousness and can't always remember how you got to where you are or why you are there, those are the only drawbacks I have come across so far.
Well, that and the fact that shopping requires leaving the house; which, in -20C, is an extremely harsh and painful experience that also makes you question your life rather critically.
That being said, it is rather nice to come home and go back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that your Christmas shopping is done for another year.
So tonight I had one of those ubiquitous Let's meet at the Starbucks on X Street experiences where both parties think they've been stood up, but really they are waiting at two different Starbucks, two blocks away from each other. Except replace Starbucks on X Street with Java U by Concordia.
Also exceptionally, we managed to find each other, and went to the 60s exhibit. Some of the stuff was really interesting, especially the sections on architecture and media; but we left feeling vaguely dissatisfied. I suspect this was in large part due to the fact that the last room of the exhibit was actually a gift shop. Maybe this was a subversive way to reinforce the notion that consumerism and the production of cheap, disposable goods exploded in the 60s. But probably not. I like stuff from the 60s as much as the next pseudo-hippie, but having it there totally cheapened the experience. How completely, completely ironic.
Also disturbing were the tour guides. Prim little old French ladies in sweater sets, explaining how in a particular piece, "All these hearts are supposed to contain penises. The piece is called Heart-On, which is a play on the word 'hard-on.'" I am not making this up. We avoided the tour groups as much as freaking possible because they just made us feel so uncomfortable.
In other unrelated museum news, I think this installation would be really interesting to visit. (Holy insane interactivity!)
Nanny nanny poo poo
I dedicate this poem to all my friends who are still in school:
Twas the night before finals
Twas the night before finals,
And all through the college,
The students were praying
For last minute knowledge.
Most were quite sleepy,
But none touched their beds,
While visions of essays
danced in their heads.
Out in the taverns,
A few were still drinking,
And hoping that liquor
would loosen up their thinking.
In my own apartment,
I had been pacing,
And dreading exams
I soon would be facing.
My roommate was speechless,
His nose in his books,
And my comments to him
Drew unfriendly looks.
I drained all the coffee,
And brewed a new pot,
No longer caring
That my nerves were shot.
I stared at my notes,
But my thoughts were muddy,
My eyes went ablur,
I just couldn't study.
"Some pizza might help,"
I said with a shiver,
But each place I called
Refused to deliver.
I'd nearly concluded
That life was too cruel,
With futures depending
On grades had in school.
When all of a sudden,
Our door opened wide,
And Patron Saint Put It Off
Ambled inside.
Her spirit was careless,
Her manner was mellow,
She started to bellow:
"What kind of student
Would make such a fuss,
To toss back at teachers
What they tossed at us?"
"On Cliff Notes! On Crib Notes!
On Last Year's Exams!
On Wingit and Slingit,
And Last Minute Crams!"
Her message delivered,
She vanished from sight,
But we heard her laughing
Outside in the night.
"Your teachers have pegged you,
So just do your best.
Happy Finals to All,
And to All, a good test."
Note to self: Please, never never ever get bangs again. I know it seems like a good idea at the time, to get your hair out of your eyes and all that, but no. It's not. Because you eventually tire of them and decide to grow them out again. You always do! Do not think that this time will be different! Do not get bangs unless you are ready to commit to bangs for life. Because the months and months and months of torturous in-between-length-hair-you-can't-do-anything-about-or-with-except-cry-over that you will have to endure is not worth the temporary satisfaction you feel that first day when the hair is out of your eyes. It will be in your eyes for months! Think hard about the consequences of your actions. The pure self-hatred you will feel every time you look in the mirror during those months and regret your terrible decision, for example. I want you to remember the self-hatred you feel right now at that point many years hence when you are contemplating bangs again. And if you cannot remember, just remember this: never again. Never. Again.
The 86 Rules of Boozing. #69: If there is ever any confusion, the fuller beer is yours. [via]
My Hometown Stands In For Afghanistan
"What is that? Is that a tank?" someone asked as we got out of the car to say goodbye to Phil. We turned and looked up the street at the large, ominous shadow gliding down the hill toward us. It was dark and I couldn't make out what it was. Probably a hummer or some stupid SUV, I thought.
It was a tank. I watched in disbelief as it rolled by. Two boys nonchalantly looking down at us from it.
"Apparently they are training here," Phil said. "Because the terrain is similar to Afghanistan." He said it like it was a question. I hadn't known.
We hugged Phil goodbye and got back in the car. It was midnight Sunday night. There was no one else on the road. Just us and the tank. As it turned the corner, one of the boys pumped his fists in the air and hooted with glee.
Fucking teenagers on a fucking joyride power trip in a fucking gigantic killing machine. These are the people we are supposed to trust to keep peace in the world? As fucking if!
We made fun of them (Whoo! Look at me! I'm a big man now!), of course, but it didn't make me feel much better.
The tank took a right at the lights, and we kept going straight, to my house. Glad to be getting away from it and the disturbing things it brought to mind. As we drove through the intersection, I turned to watch the tank rolling up the dead-quiet street of my peaceful little town. The snow glittered prettily in the streetlights' glow as the ugly dark lump crawled up the hill.
It was completely eerie. Chilling, even.
Highlights of My November: The Weakerthans, Life Lessons re: Money Management, Thomas King's Massey Lectures, Major Life Changes and Life Changing Decisions re: Education and Career (some decisions pending), My Mom As A Houseguest, The Bible: The Complete Word of God (Abridged), My Dad's Sixtieth Birthday, University Singers Concert.
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