One Book-Orgasm After Another

When shopping for a new purse, I kid myself by measuring strap length, zipper durability, goes-with-clothesiness, ease of opening and closing, whether it will bump on my ass when perched on shoulder or give me uni-boob if wear the strap diagonally across my chest, etc, but in reality, only one thing truly matters: whether it is big enough to hold a book, and hopefully two.

Recently I have been living the life of a nomad (a nice smelling nomad, it goes without saying) so the bigness of my bag has been of even more importance than normal. Purse-packing really sets your priorities straight. I will take my chances and leave the umbrella at home in favour of a book. My god, I will leave behind my cell phone, my gum, and 3 out of 5 tubes of lipgloss to make room for whatever I'm reading. I'll even leave the tampons on the table - and girls, you know what kind of trouble you're asking for when you leave the house ill-prepared! But there are few places I'd really want to be book-less, and many places where I'd probably go nutty without one: just in the past 30 days I've taken 3-hour subway rides, waited in a walk-in clinic, stood in line to return stuff behind 25 or so other people waiting to do the same, been trapped in an elevator, spent a lunch hour indoors while it rained, and met a chronically-late friend for drinks at a pub. I suppose other people use this down-time to, oh, bite their nails or develop neuroses or whatever, but me, I prefer to expand my mind and enrich my thoughts and culture my intellect. It's just a thing I have.

And lately, this thing has been lucky. I have been buried under a veritable orgy of literate. My book-karma is through the roof. I mean, I'll be the first to admit that I am not a book critic. I read a book wanting to love it. If bibliophilia was a crime, I'd be locked away, which is a shame since what I've seen from prison movies, the reading selection consists mainly of condensed reader's digests and other depressing material. But the god of words smiles down upon me because I am free to lust after as many books as I please. Lately I have encountered so many incredibly good books, I've just wanted to hole myself up in my room and never leave until my eyes start bleeding, which I rather hope wouldn't be for a while, and certainly not before the climax. But keeping a good book to yourself is a rather selfish, masturbatory experience whereas I have always been a giver. I like to share my good fortune with as many people as possible, which is why I started my book review site six months ago. However, I continue to get emails asking me which books I'm currently reading, which leads me to believe that people are a lot sillier than they appear. Check my sidebar. See the Quickie Book Reviews? Click on any of the titles and it will magically tell you whether to love it or leave it.

I've recently read my 108th book this year, so there are lots of titles to choose from. If you'd like to recommend something, please do so. If you've already read something featured there, please comment and share! Don't make me moon over my author-crushes all alone!

I know I can't be the only one getting my rocks off on books. What's the last thing you read that gave you the shivers?

I Broke My Blogger

It all started Monday morning when I woke up feeling like someone had stuck a wire coat hanger down my throat and used it to strip the inner layer.

No, that's not true.

It probably goes back to the Wednesday night before that when I became intimately involved with the bedding of a woman who hadn't previously slept indoors in months and had the word COMMUNICABLE practically tattooed across her forehead in perma-dirt.

Or, really, it can probably be traced back to the unholy hours of the Sunday night\Monday morning before that, when my friend Cynthia had to bust me out of a room where I was being held captive by a mad black woman threatening to bust a cap in my ass.

Well, let's just say that trouble has been brewing for a while.

Anyhoo. The painful strep-ness of my throat was evident from the moment I woke up on Monday, but I raked a comb through my thinning hair and rigged a belt through the loops of pants that have grown way too big for me during the past few months, took a 3-hour bus ride into work where I struggled to stay on my feet for 12 hours and 'counsel' women with problems that sometimes actually seem trivial in comparison to my own (shame on me!), then took another 3 hour public transit joy ride back to the couch I am presently sleeping on and slept maybe 4 hours before repeating the process, only this time with an ear infection, a sinus headache, and a sty to boot.

And then I got a chest cold. And I probably should have called in sick right there and then, but I thought if I could just get through this week, I'd have enough money so that the next time I got sick, I could, you know, maybe afford penicillin. So I made a steady diet of Benylin and Halls and somehow survived the week (fyi: subway + migraine = worst thing ever) and when I got home, knees shaking, I was ready to collapse from relief and exhaustion and I ached for deep, uninterrupted sleep.

But the phlegm in my lungs had other ideas, so I spent the night being racked by coughs, and any time I attempted to get horizontal I'd be punished with a lack of oxygen, and I don't know about you, but I find being unable to breathe to be pretty uncomfortable.

So then I got the bright idea to be productive and I forgot to try not to die. I stacked some pillows behind my back, bent my knees and with the laptop balanced on my thighs, I thought I might finally be able to write a word or two to say hello to you all. And then I sneezed, propelling the cursed laptop right into my noggin (how on earth do corners always crash directly into your eye?) and in a flash of pain and potential blindness, I had two incongruent thoughts:

1. Emergency! Wake Jason!
2. Holy fuck this is embarrassing! Do not under any circumstances wake Jason or admit to anyone that this has happened!

Well, you can guess which one won out. He brought me ice and Tylenol, and a soup bowl full of Benylin and made soothing noises, and politely locked himself in the bathroom so I wouldn't hear his fit of laughter (but he didn't turn on the tap so I heard it anyway) and now I have an egg on my temple, a bit of a black eye, a bit of a swollen lip, and after all that violence I didn't even knock the damn cold out of me.

So you see why I cannot possibly write a post today, don't you?

Forgiveness?

Serendipity wears a badge.

Erratic posting once again as my life is once again thrown into chaos, but let me ask you this in the meantime:

If 911 sends you the same police officer 3 times in 2 weeks, is this coincidence or is the universe sending me some kind of signal? And if I buy him a donut, is that considered flirting? And would you go with a cruller or maple dip?

Bet You Can't Have Just One.

Man on the street: Hey pretty lady, what are you so smiley about?

Me: I just had 15 orgasms.

Man on the street: Oh.




If I had known how quickly that shuts up men, I would have been using it years ago!

The Best of Peter Frampton

The best offer I ever refused: When I was in high school, a man 12 years my senior proposed to me in a Tim Hortons. We were not dating or otherwise romantically involved (although I may have been schtupping his best friend). His ex-fiancee-turned-lesbian was squatting in his house and refusing to vacate. His life was a mess and apparently I could turn things around for him. I had no idea how to respond to such a question, but I found the strength to break his heart. I was never in any danger of accepting, but I sometimes like to wonder how different my life would be if I had said yes.





The best gift I ever gave: Hm. Well, I made my mother-in-law cry when I gave her a scrapbook about her son. I made my friend cry when I gave her a baggie full of pre-rolled joints. I made my mother furrow her brow when I gave her a hand-painted toilet seat. But I think the best would be the night Jason walked me to my class (criminology) and before slipping in the hall, I handed him a card. It wasn't a special occasion, but the card told him that gifts awaited him under the bed, and to open the big one first. It was the highly coveted PS2 which he hadn't even dreamed of getting his hands on, along with several games to get him started. I put beer and treats in the fridge and left a note to call his friends and not to bother picking me up from class - I knew he'd be busy. By the time I got home that night, he already had a serious callous going, but he still paused the game to give me a hug.



The best lie I ever told: I don't know how my bra got in his car.

The best skirt I ever misplaced: It was a black Tommy Hilfiger mini skirt, and my sister bought it for me a size too big so it hung on my hips instead of my waist. I loved that skirt. It prompted one boy to observe you wear the shortest skirts of anyone I know (though I was actually wearing a different one of decent length the day a man stopped me on the street and asked how much I charged for blowjobs). And then one day...poof. Well, okay, there was no poof. The vanishing was absurdly quiet. I held hope in my heart for months that it would be found alive and well, but it never was.



The best movie I never saw: Star Wars, hands down. Any of them. It really infuriates people.

The best funeral I ever crashed: I was 9, I think. Some old lady died. I didn't know her, but I was staying with my aunt and she took me into the bosom of grieving strangers and left me to my own devices. The family crowded around the corpse to pose for photographs. Some of them said cheese, others made attempts at solemnity. One little girl sat cross-legged on top of the coffin. I remember there being salmon sandwiches of a suspiciously vibrant pink colour cut into impossibly tiny triangles. I didn't eat them. Back at the house, a woman I didn't know said that "the kids" should go swimming, and she thrust at me a green bikini of unknown origins. It was too big and the pool was the last place I wanted to be, but I hadn't been given a choice. I stood on the diving board seething, and then leapt in feet first, somehow managing to lose my ballooning top in the process. I covered my baby boobies and tread water like crazy until someone I'd never seen before and luckily never saw again handed me a towel and I made my escape.

You'll never guess what I had down my throat today.

Me: I swalled a bug at Glencairn today.

Him: The subway station?

Me: Yes. It was a big one.

Him: What where you doing all the way out there?

Me: I walked out there to take the subway, obviously. But you're missing the point here: I swallowed a bug the size of a golfball. I felt it hit the back of my throat. He left quite an aftertaste.

Him: But Glencairn is way north! How many perfectly good subway stations did you walk past to get to it? You must have walked for hours!

Me: Gah - you see these two big meaty things hanging off my torso? They're legs. They're made for walking. So I walked.

Him: Gah yourself - you know those little brassy coins in your purse? They're subway tokens. Guess what those are for?

Me: Oh, I quit.

Dear Lace Hipster Undies:

Where have you been all my life?????

The illusion of cutesy butt cheeks is finally mine!!!!

Paltry Excuses for my Recent Non-Blogginess

1. Discovered a dormant addiction to guacamole.

2. Saw Travis at Kool Haus; was inspired by Doug Payne to die and come back as a bass guitar.

3. Carried around Homer Simpson's head on a wooden stick for the better part of a day.

4. Wasn't terribly surprised to hear that Patty the transvestite prostitute would be spending another night in jail.

5. Was enticed to eat overpriced ice cream pellets; forced to concede that they were good.

6. Realized that donating my crap clothes was a bad idea since ill-fitting clothes are still better than having my naked ass touch the grimy plastic of a subway seat.

7. Listened to a man cuss out his wife, loudly, via cell phone, on a jazz bar patio, for more than 30 minutes, while he pretended to be at the office and I polished off 3 drinks but not the whole plate of nachos because it was bigger than my head.

8. Did I mention the guacamole?

Cat-Sitting 101

1. Do not actually try to sit on, or ride the cat. As funny as it is, they don't really like it and it's not technically what their owner meant whey they asked you to catsit.

2. Don't bother making friends with the cat. If the cat wants to hide under the sofa for 3 days straight, let him. It's better than contracting cat-scratch fever the old fashioned way....trust me.

3. If the cat insists on being served its wet food in your shoe, comply. There are grosser things the cat could be doing in your shoe. Again, trust me.

4. If the cat appears to dislike the movie you are watching, trust it's opinion and shut the damn thing off. The ensuing cat showdown just isn't worth another 20 minutes of Sandra Bullock. As cats are not allowed in Blockbuster, be prepared to leave the remote control wherever little paws can reach and watch cable at the cat's mercy - if the cat shows a preference for late night latino talk show hosts who appear to have traded sex for money or blow for the past 60 years or so, then so be it.

5. Do not do yoga in front of the cat. Don't even wear yoga pants in front of the cat.

6. Don't fall for the "but I'm still hungry" look - it's a dirty trick that all cats play. The cat is NOT still hungry. However, when you overfeed it, the cat will overeat, until it's little belly is extended in bloated, resulting in explosive cat diarrhea the next day. Not only will you spend the next 3 hours scrubbing your friend's carpet, couch, drapes, and improbably, the top shelf of a very large book case, but you'll also have to kiss goodbye your favourite pair of Chucks (but for hygienic reasons, don't actually kiss them goodbye, don a double pair of latex gloves before incinerating them at your nearest toxic waste dump).

7. When you give the cat its shot of insulin (yes, the cat is diabetic) and suddenly the cat goes all crazy-eyed and starts acting like a donkey who just finished drinking a bucket of beer, call the vet immediately. Don't stop to take hilarious-but-insensitive video of the cat with your cell phone, then post it to Youtube, then call 3 of your easiest-amused friends to come over to see "the diabetic cat who's shit-faced on insulin". And when you finally do get to calling the vet, who says to come immediately, do not stop of slurpees, or to buy a new pair of Chucks.

8. When you get to the vet's office and she asks what kind of cat this is, don't say "um, orange?" and don't guess that his name "might be Charles", because the cat will turn out to be a girl, and you'll look like a dumbass. Remember that little note on the fridge back at your friend's apartment? The one with all the cat's details, that says something about what to do when the diabetic cat reacts badly to its insulin? Turns out, you should have brought it with you, or at least read the damn thing instead of mocking it, and your anal friends who wrote it - both sides, front and back! - about an effing cat, christ it's just a cat, do they think I can't sit and watch their dumb cat?

9. Also, it turns out that vets politely require you to have cats in some sort of carrying case when you go to their office, and frown upon just throwing the cat in the trunk of your car, and then trying to coax it into the office via an intoxicating trail of fruit loops (as a matter of fact, fruit loops don't go over well with diabetics in general).

10. Never catsit for people you actually like and expect to remain friends with. When they get home, receive the vet bill (and the bill to replace your Chucks, naturally), see that their heirloom turkish carpet is harbouring telling stains, and that you went through a 25 bag of cat food in 36 hours, and that their beloved Mrs. Fudge (Mrs. Fudge? Seriously? You named your cat Mrs. Fudge?) is recovering from diabetic coma and deals with the emotional trauma of having the 2058th highest-rated cat-related Youtube video by shredding random pieces of furniture....well, let's just say that you probably won't be receiving a thank you card in the mail anytime soon. Cat people can be such snobs.

Things That Amuse Me

One of my favourite offshoots of blogging is that people not only write me great comments (and let's face it - the comments are what make this blog worthwhile) but they write me vastly amusing emails as well. And so, with margarita swimming stealthily in my stomach, I share with you the gems that made me smile this week:

Mr. Unedited Meat wrote to me that he too has been enthralled with the Feeling Droopy? soup campaign on Dufferin Street. Sadly, the sign has since been replaced and seems to now focus on some sort of deli meat, and is far less witty. Okay, so soup is a tough sell in 40 degree heat, but corned beef is even tougher on aesthetics alone, and frankly it makes me like the mustachioed, safari-hat spokesman that much less. Mr. Meat was also gaying it up at the pride parade recently, and was astute enough to note that being crushed by fat men in leather thongs is far less exciting when you're sober.

Anthony thought I might need some beer money, and sent me a link to sell my DNA for the low, low price of $5000. Now, I don't know about you, but $5000 sounds good to me. That's a lot of martinis (well, with taxes and tip, about 275 of them, which, frankly, is like, what?, 3 decent benders?). The part that doesn't sound good to me is that some company will actually own the patent to my DNA. So, conversely, the website also encourages me to sell my friends' DNA instead - once it leaves their bodies, it isn't theirs anymore. So potentially the fact that I only wash my sheets once a week means I am sleeping on a goldmine here! Let's start the bidding!

Boris, meanwhile, was kind enough to take my self-confessed shitty poem and tell me how to make it better. Granted, it's called a shitty poem for a reason ( a very good, very cliche-riddled reason), but it's always nice to hear from readers, especially ones that call me "pleasing to the ear", when it did not involve my tongue.

Mike sent me a newspaper clipping involving the sad demise of my own siblings. A big rig tipped over, and more than 240 goats, stacked 4 deep in the back, were killed. Obviously, I don't like to read about so many nice goats meeting their makers, but I was also dismayed to read that the goats were worth $150 each. Frankly, when my time comes, I hope my retail price is not listed in my obituary. And in the meantime, I'm damn glad that as bad as "economy class" is, cramming us in shoulder to shoulder, at least there's not someone prone to nervous shitting stacked over my head. Plus, the peanuts. Those poor goats died without peanuts.

Finally, Sandra gave me a huge reason to smile when she confessed that she landed on my page by actually googling how to kill a goat. That rocks! Of course, I don't really know how to kill a goat, so let me refer you to the 4-H club of Cornell University, who suggests first finding someone who "is used to killing goats." Sounds good to me. Then you stun the goat with a sharp blow to the head, and then cut his jugular. Of course, if by goat you mean me, I would prefer to be sent a case or two of fine Canadian whiskey and a few slabs of bacon. No, that's not enough to kill me, but don't worry, I've had a head start. :)

Hijack!!

Greetings Goat readers!

This is Rod and Chris and we have hijacked Jay's blog in honour of her [cough]th birthday!

We apologize in advance for the fact that we both suck at writing. In fact, Rod can barely read - but he makes an exception for Kill the Goat, because this is an exceptional blog, I think we can all agree.

Party hat or no, never ask a lady her age.

If you've been reading here for a while, then you know that Jamie is almost certainly Canada's next great writer, probably the best friend any of us could hope to have, and a prolific curser of seamen proportions. She's a doll, and we all love her.

But she's been going through a rough time lately. I think she's kept it purposely vague on the blog, but I think I can tell you that she's lost someone very close to her, been violently attacked, suffered more health setbacks, and continues to live through various repercussions of all these things. But she's so strong that she just keeps going, through more than any one person should have to live through, and she's only [cough] years old for heck's sake! Any one of us might easily have folded by now, but this girl doesn't know how to give up. She's still making us laugh, asking how we are, shaking her thing like there's no tomorrow (not that we were looking, Jason...well, okay, maybe Rod was a little), and as you read this she is literally helping the homeless. Can you believe that shit?

So, to make sure that this year is a better one for her, we've gone directly to the source (by which we mean her blog, as Jamie would never agree to having us "dumb down" her blog if we actually had asked permission) (by the way, Jay, your passwords are ABSURDLY easy to figure out) and we have it on the authority of a previous post that Jay wants nothing more in life than a new tattoo, and a lot more sex.

Stop!!

Please do not send pictures of your penis to her email account. As per her own rather loud admission in a crowded bar, Jay is currently having "the best sex of her life."

Today we are focusing on the new tattoo, and we're taking up a collection to make sure she gets it. If you would like to make a birthday contribution, click on the paypal donation button in the sidebar to your right. Also feel free to inundate her with birthday wishes and spread the word via your own blogs, and if you live in the GTA and know of a great place to have a tattoo, or could contribute original artwork, be sure to send those details along too.

Happy birthday, sweetie. We love you!

*****Jamie's Edit:


Aw, guys, you're making me all misty.
This has got to be one of the best birthday surprises ever - I don't think I've ever been gifted with hundreds of needles to rip apart my flesh before, and the fact that so many of you are willing to contribute to that pain and torture really means a lot. :)

It's true that my day did involve a crazy lady who chugged hand sanitizer, so my birthday festivities are really only just commencing. I've got a whole week of scoring free lunches planned ahead of me.

Oh, and boys - I am far too young to have to be coughing over my age already. Sheesh.

I Steal Puppies.

So I was walking down the street, heel-toe, heel-toe, a little bit jaunty because I was humming some Al Green to myself, and I was swinging my purse to and fro (I'm a voracious purse-swinger. Lots of times, the straps on my purses will break mid-swing, flinging my purse and its contents far and wide, sometimes directly into oncoming traffic...it's funny how the strap never breaks when my purse is calmly sitting on the floor of the car or beside my chair at dinner...not, it only breaks when it's mid-air). At any rate, I was safely ensconced in Jamie-bubble and there isn't normally much that would burst it - I could walk by the world's hairiest man wrestling a llama and I wouldn't notice, I could step over a pile of severed limbs spelling out my initials and I wouldn't look twice, I could walk through a replica of castle Grayskull made entirely of gouda and pretzels and notice little more than a rumbly in my tumbly - but a sweet little puppy trotted out to the sidewalk to greet me, and in mere moments I was all moist-eyed and sugar-tongued.

He was a cutie, which is a fancy way of saying I can't identify breeds. But he had short little legs and an ironic smile, and a coat of fur that looked like it would shed very negligibly. But the best part was that he was unleashed and people-less. And did I mention he was about the size of my purse?

The thing is, I don't have a dog but would like one very much. If God himself happens to put a purse-sized dog in my path, who am I to argue? I need a pet, and this dog seemed in need of some water, and it just so happens that I have a tap or two in my house, which is a pretty astounding coincidence, no? It seemed like the universe was practically forcing this puppy into my purse, and then forcing me to run furtively with the squirmy dog back to my place, ignoring shouts of "Stop, thief!" and "Dog-napper!", which, to be fair, could equally have been "Chop beef!" and "Hog-slapper!" for all I know. There are some pretty sketchy butchers in my neighbourhood. And that being the case, thank goodness I've rescued this poor dog before he followed the fate of the skunk.

All right, so I didn't steal the dog. I just thought about it. A lot. I thought about his little eyes, and the way they seemed to see straight to my soul and say "Hey lady, give me a cheese slice!" and how I don't actually have any cheese slices, but I know where I could get some, and how we'd have a happy, calcium-rich existence together forever, or at least until one of us got run over by an ice cream truck.

And then, a couple of days later, I was again confronted with temptation when a dog boarded the bus I was on. This guy was a golden retriever (which is probably the only breed I know, because one starred on Full House), and I could tell he and I were kindred spirits because he got on the bus, looked around disgustedly at the other riders, and then collapsed in the middle of the aisle, taking up more space than he deserved with a definite air of superiority and I-don't-give-a-shittedness. Unfortunately, his owner boarded right behind him, which confused me because he had protuberant elbows and forest-green corduroy pants, so on the one hand I thought clearly this man does not deserve to be a pet owner, but on the other hand I thought perhaps the dog is his only friend in the whole wide world, and as puppy-free as my life is, at least I have proportionate joints and seasonally appropriate clothes. But the pity was fleeting as I am quite self-centered, and I used the rest of my bus ride to establish eye contact with the dog who remained comfortably stretched out on the floor, looking like it quite expected to be fed peeled grapes at any moment. I felt like if only I could catch his eye, we could silently communicate our intentions. I thought that as we approached my stop, I could pretend like it was just another pole on a long and pitted road, but then at the last minute, having fooled everyone into thinking that I was staying seated, I would leap through the doors just as they were swinging shut, sort of Kill Bill-style (if Kill Bill had been a movie about the seedy underbelly of public transportation) (call me, Quentin!), and the dog, casting a "so long, sucker" glance at his ex-owner, would follow suit, and then we'd both stand on the curb and smirk as the bus pulled away with the bamboozled Mr. Big Elbows staring aghast out the window, helpless and alone.

But it turns out that I didn't do that one, either.
I guess I'm just a softie at heart.
Or, you know, a pussy.

One of those two.

Video Killed the Radio Star

I was born in an MTV world and grew up obsessed with channel 29, which featured Canada's equivalent, Much Music. But while I couldn't live without it during high school, I haven't seen it since, and I wondered why...except not really, because even very brief channel-surfing reveals the stark truth. I remember the glory days of music videos - when real musicians who played real instruments made miniatures movies that actually meant something in terms of the music they were set to. Today videos feature short shorts, bouncy cars, and not much else. The days of the 'concept video' are clearly over, and the stuff that I remember are relics of the past.

1991 Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit

The opening chords to this song served to incite an entire generation, and the video defined it. It was later called an anthem for apathetic kids, but as the video aptly shows, if the kids are apathetic, it's only until they found a suitable outlet. The video captures not what high school is like, but what high school feels like - dark, angry, and teeming with anarchy. I have never heard another song where the distortion is so fucking appropriate.

1992 Guns N Roses, November Rain

It's hard to believe that Axl Rose was ever cool, but nothing lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change. However, for a brief time (well, not that brief, this sucker clocks in at nearly 9 minutes) Guns N Roses ruled, and this song and its video were nothing short of iconic (and set the standard for mini skirts and tongue-kissing in church). The video is epic, and leaves no doubt as to the true rock godliness of Slash, who features prominently, not just atop the piano, but in the church yard playing his face-melting solo.

1993 Aerosmith, Livin on the Edge

This video is a time capsule of social ills - school violence, unprotected sex, theft, vandalism, the wrecklessness of youth - and it turns out that much of what was wrong with the world then is still wrong with the world today, only by now, we do know what it is. Combining lyrics inspired by the L.A. race riots (If you can judge a wise man\By the color of his skin\Then mister you're a better man that I) and unexpected, theatrical imagery, this video was a mainstay then and a treat to come across now. Nearly 15 years later, my heart still races every time Joe Perry just barely misses getting pulverized by the train.

1994 Live, Lightning Crashes

Birth, death, forces of nature, the whole damn circle of life for those of us who were too old to go see the Lion King. This song made me realize that not only could lyrics could be poetry, but so could video.

1995 Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees

This is probably the only Radiohead video that's anything less than subtle and obscure, but not to worry, it still has that unassuming Radiohead essence that we all expect. The song comes down hard on the artificiality of the life we've constructed, and the video draws parallels to mass consumerism, and both call attention to the vast, empty voids that result. Lonely and desperate, it's no wonder this song has sunk into the consciousness of so many people.

1996 Smashing Pumpkins, Tonight, Tonight

Somehow, the video, which features a zeppelin to the moon, manages to capture both the urgency and the longing of the song's lyrics while painting a dreamscape which contrasted dramatically to the usual Pumpkins fare.

1997 Green Day Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)

Releasing an "adult" sounding acoustic song is often considered the most punk thing these boys could do. Lyrically about a breakup, the video highlights the crossroads at which we often find ourselves, and is surprisingly introspective for a single off an album titled nimrod. But no matter how much it was overplayed (it even made it into the final episode of Seinfeld), it made us all hope that one day we'd grow up to be half as mature as Billie Joe - for what it's worth\ it was worth all the while.

1998 Fatboy Slim, Praise You

Most excellent video EVAH. It has nothing to do with anything, and that's probably why it was so stand-out-able. It was novel, but the strange thing was, the novelty never wore off, and I find that even 10 years later, this one still makes me smile.

1999 Our Lady Peace, Thief

It's hard for me to pick just one OLP video because I doubt even Raine Maida's mother is as big a fan as I am. I even have a scar on my body from rushing down the stairs when I heard the opening strains to a newly released song (fittingly, the song is called clumsy). And though the band has many honourable mentions in terms of video, I chose this one for its simplicity and the fact that it's hard to watch and not be moved. The song's lyrics grapple with a little girl's cancer and I think the video is just plain grief.


And finally, the only video I find worthy of mention since 2000, brought to us by a man who's career spanned many pre-MTV decades - Mr. Johnny Cash. Originally this was a Trent Reznor song, but with this video, JR brings new meaning to it (and proves that radio stars can adapt). It's emotional and raw, and especially poignant because his wife, who appears in the video, died unexpectedly as it was released (and Cash followed soon afterward). This is Hurt.


Which ones meant the most to you?

Random Encouters of the Perverted Kind

I think by now it's well-documented that either my pheromones are putting forth a big stink or someone taped a sign to my back, but either way, I'm getting stopped on the street like crazy.

At first I thought it was just a fluke of my neighbourhood - either all the horndogs live on my block, or there was a blonde shortage, or they're all a bunch of lascivious drunks - but the truth is, as long as I'm alone, I will get stopped no matter where I am. Not just my flirty men, but primarily by flirty men.

Actually, on the weekend I was with Jason, walking up my street at night, when a cheerily drunken fellow us bid us good evening, and I wished him one back, which put Jason's panties in a bunch. "Don't encourage them!" he hissed, as if being polite is somehow a bad thing. But then he was distracted - the red blotches we were following were almost certainly blood, and we began to wonder where this trail would lead us. However, when the drips of blood ended, there was a very large pool of blood, which means it was the beginning, not the end. The shattered plate glass door seemed to be to blame. We had just missed a bar brawl, and whoever got cup up during the smashing had obviously fled the scene. Jason grabbed me tighter and insisted I not walk at night anymore (not that I ever listen).

• A man stopped me on Davenport to ask me where my dog was. Apparently the only reason anyone ever walks in Toronto is to let their pet crap.
• Walking down Ellesmere a guy wearing a wife beater looked me up and down, licked his lips (this happens in real life!?!?!) and said Why don't you take me home with you? , except with way worse grammar that I will not stoop to copy.
• Waiting for a bus on Dundas, the little old lady who was waiting beside me noticed a hand-written sign saying we should head "2 poles north" for a detour bus. Crossing the intersection, a man walking by said "You look very beautiful this morning" to which the little old lady replied "WHAT?!?!?!", and he repeated "Um, she looks very beautiful this morning." And the lady turned to me and said, "You really do." And then we saw a really big plush horse, discarded in the middle of the sidewalk.
• Catching a street car on St. Clair, this really old couple came over to me and told me all of their problems - they haven't been in this end of the city in 40 years, and they're very lost, and they just want to get back on the Yonge-University line. I assured them that I could get them there, and they stood flanking me, so encroached upon my personal space that anyone walking by would assume that I was a beloved granddaughter, and not a complete stranger with a rudimentary knowledge of the subway system.
• Last week I walked to Dufferin Mall on a day it was supposed to rain - I figured the rain would alleviate the heat and make the walk more bearable. But it never did rain. So when I got to my destination I made a beeline for the vending machine, where some dude bought his beverage and then offered to buy mine so gallantly that you'd swear he'd just offered me a bottle of Dom instead of flat Pepsi.
• On the walk back, a guy dismounted from his bike, panting, and sheepishly admitted how hot it was. He walked his bike beside me for several blocks, asking me all the standard pre-asking-out-on-a-date questions, and while I felt somewhat relieved (because he was cute, and my age, whereas a good many of the flirters are not), I mostly felt grossed out, because what the hell is he doing picking me up when I look like this? (note: "like this"= walking "shorts" that used to be ugly pants that I shortened myself, a shirt the colour of cantaloupe flesh, which usually only attracts bees, unwashed hair in a scrappy ponytail, nothing on my face except sunscreen and sweat. Not hot.
• A man with white chest hair peaking out from between the strained buttons of his denim shirt tapped me on the shoulder to tell me that I was a classy and refined kind of woman. "Know how I can tell?" he asked, and I wrinkled my nose instead of answering, but he told me anyway: "It's because you have such delicate ankles. You can tell a lot from a woman's ankles." I'm not sure if this line used to work in 1957, but I wasn't buying it. In fact, I do not even have particularly delicate ankles. Get a clue.
• Not two blocks later another man came running up behind me, and I moved over so he could run by, but instead he slowed down and said "Whew, I caught you" which I pretended not to hear. "You look like you could use some company" he said, which I pretended not to hear. "Do you maybe want to sit and talk" which I also ignored. And then I made yet another last-minute, unplanned turned down an unknown street to ditch a guy I don't know.
• I was sitting on a park bench reading Death of the Heart, and a guy in a suit sat down beside me, close. And he bumped my leg with his leg. And then he did it again. And then he kind of rubbed them together, which prompted me to say "Don't touch me", which I thought was clear. Until he rubbed some more. So I said "If you do that again, I'm going to yell PERVERT!", and I kind of yelled it then a bit too, so he got up and left.
• I was having a little stroll around the neighbourhood after the sun went down, and an older woman in a shawl was waiting for the light to change. "I like to walk at night time" she told me. "Me too", I said "it's so much less hot." "Oh yes, the heat, all day I take ice baths. But me, I walk at night because it's quiet and too many people make me wobble. I wear the special pantyhose, but still I wobble on the swelled ankles. I eat many apples a day but it never stops." We passed by a house that lots of birdcages hanging from the porch, and she said "Some people are so strange."

This is true.

Postal Ponderings

Last week, I accidentally bought air-mail envelopes, and I've been surprisingly hard on myself about it.

I ducked into a "dollar store" because I'd had one of those lightning bolt moments - usually I write my shopping list on my forearm with a sharpie - but for some reason I remembered all on my own.

And I remember standing in front of the shelf, mulling between 25 business sized envelopes for $2.00 or 50 square envelopes for $1.50. I remember bristling over the fact that very little in the store seemed to actually cost one dollar. I remember grabbing the $1.50 box, not so much out of cheapness as out of principle, because these damned grifters had lured me in with the promise of 4 quarters and were now trying to strip me of 6, at least.

Oh, that really puts the lump in my mashed potato.

As fate would have it (is it still fate when the event largely inconsequential?), I did not notice the tacky red and blue border on the envelopes until my dollar-induced stupor wore off at home.

I don't know the rules about air-mail envelopes. If I drop one into the mailbox addressed to, say, myself, will the post office note the postal code and keep it on the ground, or are the blue and red stripes some sort of trump? Will they put that envelope on a plane out of some sort of professional obligation, let my letter wrack up a few frequent flier miles, and have it take the scenic route back to my front door? Or does the most direct route win? I mean, how much credit can we give our postal workers when they are, by definition, pretty unstable to begin with?

Just what is the point of the air-mail envelope? Ostensibly mail is routed according to the address affixed to it, and also by the postage paid. Common sense seems to indicate that if a piece of mail is to be delivered within the same city where it was posted, planes are pretty excessive, but if it is to be mailed overseas, then perhaps a truck is insufficient. But it is a FACT that this air-mail envelope does exist - does its existence prove that postal workers cannot be trusted? Or just that they have poor geography skills? And what if a postal worker is colour blind? My god, just think of all the pornography that might get lost in the shuffle!

So yes, I have been contemplating the fate of mail a lot recently, and while I may test out some of my theories in the future, I thought it prudent to get some regular envelopes in the meantime.

This time I went to the Dollarama, which is worth the extra walk when I need some piece of crap that I am unwilling to pay more than a dollar for. It makes me wonder what we ever did before these dollar-meccas sprang up everywhere. I mean, I don't know about your shopping habits, but there are a few things that I consider to be strictly dollar store purchases. Now that I know I can get it for dirt cheap, I am unwilling to pay more than a loonie. But it made me wonder - how much would a box of envelopes cost anywhere else?

I suppose it's possible that I could get them for 77 cents at Walmart, and equally possible to pay $4.99 at Shopper's Drug Mart.

Anyway, you'll be glad to know that this time I didn't cheap out. I even got the self-sealing kind. I stood in line to pay, and at the dollar store, I always like to have my money in hand. Ever since I can remember, taxes where I live were 15% - 15 cents for every dollar. So if I bought one box of envelopes, my purchase would total $1.15, and I don't have to wait for the cashier to tell me so, I could get rid of some nickels and dimes, have the money ready even before it was rung up, and keep the line moving quickly. And I'm particularly good at knowing my intervals of 15 because I used to work at a bar in a trailer park where Wednesday was "wing nite" , 15 cents each (with the purchase of a beverage).

But ever since the dumbest Canadians conspired against me and elected a crappy conservative to government, taxes are down to 14%.

That really puts a dent in my fender.

Because, you see, today when I bought my envelopes, I did not celebrate the penny in my pocket. As we all know, pennies are meaningless. Totally irrelevant. There is not a single Canadian who is walking around feeling richer because of this 1%. Even on larger purchases, the savings are not noticeable because even if you did save a chunk of change, chances are you didn't actually "save" it, chances are you spent it. That's the way it goes with money.

But while my penny is insignificant, and even the collection of pennies in the bottom of my purse, and the pennies that spill out into the car, and the pennies that fall out of pockets into the couch cushions...even all of those pennies combined are chump change, but when the government collects all the chump change in Canada, well, that's a lot of chumps.

And I'm sad to say that while I am not benefiting from this 1% "savings", I worry about those who will suffer. We all love to bitch about taxes, but at the end of the day, we do like our roads to be smooth and our hospitals to cure us. And if the worst should befall us, we as Canadians do have that expectation that the government will step in and save us. Single mothers still need housing subsidies, and hungry kids need breakfast programs, and disabled people need the means to support themselves, and the underemployed need resources, and deserving students need grants, and important research needs funding. And how will we pay for those things if not with our taxes? Because between you and me, I haven't exactly been saving my pennies to donate to charity. So the bottom line is, someone somewhere is going without.

I have seen firsthand what a difference our tax dollars can make, whether it's shelters for battered women in our own country, or dollars to end AIDS in Africa. The government expected this 1% decrease to cost them $5 billion dollars this year. Who will pay? The cities? The farmers? The next generation?

It's funny how the Dollarama has made me nostalgic for Chretien.
How a dime and 4 pennies seems tragic compared to a dime and a nickel.
How a box of envelopes can cost so little, and yet so much.

A Love Letter to Great Friends

A toast to all the friends who have helped and who continue to help me pick up the pieces:

To Cynthia, who cooked me chana masala and distracted me with her gory knee and offered me "the good tissues" when I finally let some tears fall;

To Karl who bought food for my fridge and was the only reason I couldn't call myself penniless;

To Vics who sent me tea and chocolate and an addition to my Sparkle Wall and inspiration via karaoke, and to K. who continues to send me postcards that make me smile;

To Katie who lets me jiggle her baby;

To Joy who sent me a symbolic picture to hang, and who somehow knew that I would also need a hammer to hang it with;

To Kim who literally offered to adopt me, and would have sent me the plane ticket and official membership into her crazy family had I only given the word, and who did it all while making me feel like her "Augusten Burroughs" instead of "charity case";

To Alex who believes in the healing powers of a Bollywood night;

To Caroline who heard it all before anyone else, and didn't even wince;

To Tug who introduced me to Sark;

To Silvia who has a big heart, and who would drive 1000km round-trip and put me up in her own apartment just to remind me that I have people who love me in Ottawa;

To Ms. Mac and Antipo who cheered me with their creative swear-words;

To Stella & Ewan & Napoleon, who sent me worldly postcards;

To Helen who was immediately generous, and then sent sweets and whatever happiness could fit into an envelope;

To Miss Great Dane, who sent me a lovely hand-made card and some desperately-needed posters for my glaringly white bedroom wall;

To the Handsome Man in Yellow who has been both confider and confidant;

To Moxey who sent watercolours and love;

To Deeleea who sent me courage in the post, and better yet, has continued to foster it during our many time-warped chats;

To Vince and to Serendipity who sent speedy kind words;

To Rod who is my self-appointed superman and will be here when I need him;

To Colleen and Beth who both sent their own amazing photography to adorn my walls and combat the ugly in my room;

To Kat E who sent me Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo Good Luck (bad luck) egg and took my subsequent ribbing good-naturedly;

To Van who sent me my very own Kill the Goat CD;

To Jude and Moogie who keep me sane with their emails;

To Rhys who keeps me grounded;

To Eclecta who loaned me books and gave me treasured photos and told me that I would survive;

To the many I've surely forgotten (please, let me know);

And to all of you, who come and read despite the fact that being internet-less has meant less frequent posting and less frequent visiting of all my favourite blogs, and who click on ads to put pennies in my pockets and leave me comments that assure me I'm not half as crazy as I think -

A big thank you, to friends in many forms, who remind me that I am not alone.

Because of you, I count blessings instead of tears.

xx

Spying on the Neighbours, Part 2: Return of the Limp

This time the weather was much nicer, so I headed south east for about 2.5 km and no matter how many times I walk the same route, it never gets boring.

FYI: between this walk and this one, there are
27 barber shops\beauty salons
48 places where you can be served alcohol

Does this not seem excessive to anyone else?

1. Besides the mice @ work seen on my previous outing, this particular walk yielded: internet c@fe, web st@tion, and web fusi@n.

2. A bar\eatery that advertises "pub and grub" - not sure if this is honest, or unappetizing, or both.

3. The first of many murals, this one oddly depicting a bank vault that is raining money into the waiting people's hands. There are 3 banks within spitting distance of this mural. Does this not make them nervous? Do we really need enormous artwork to incite lawlessness? And why this particular building? It houses a Mac's Milk convenience store (for all your slurpee and cigarette needs) and Curves, one of those pussy "gyms" wherein you never break a sweat.


4. This neighbourhood is lined with tiny, family-owned stores that seem to sell nothing and everything all at once. One such store advertises: helium balloons, satellite installation, fresh kiwis, change watch batteries. It's closed on Sundays and Mondays, never open before 10 or after 5. Kind of makes me feel like I should get into the helium\kiwi\battery business.

5. As usual a bunch of old men have brought rusting vinyl-covered chairs from ancient dinette sets into the middle of the sidewalk, and they all sit there, congregated, always finding something to gesture madly about. Not only do you have to step around this mass of pot-bellied men, you have to step out into oncoming traffic just to give them a wide enough berth - these men are spitters, and the area around them is a no-walk zone.

6. Another store that sells: cleaning supplies, antique handicrafts, baked ham and raw almonds. I like that. Sounds almost poetic, until I note the other sign that says Indian groceries upstairs, Mexican groceries in basement, and I feel bad for the segregated food, the salsa and tortillas that are made to hide in shame downstairs, victims of culinary prejuidice. I rage against the injustice until I can justify it: mexican food has a lot more cheese and beans, high fat content, so having to go up and down stairs to retrieve it is probably just heart-healthy. Right?

7. Then, another mural, this one depicting movie scenes. At first I think it's just as random as the first, but then I see more clearly. This one is cleverly placed between a grocery store and a blockbuster. When you come out of the grocery store, glad to be alive despite the tomato-squeezers, you look at the mural and think it might be nice to treat yourself to a movie. But once you get the movie, you realize that you won't want to watch it snacking on the arugala in your shopping back, so you go back to the grocery store and buy a vat of chip dip and a family-size bag of ruffles, which is enough food for at least 2 movies, so you go back to the video store and rent a second one. So you see the mural is a conspiracy to get you to consume, driving the economy but emptying your wallet, and all you wanted to do was make a nice salad and maybe hit the gym, but now you're bound to go home and sit on your fat ass, shovelling well-seasoned lard into your mouth via deep-fried carbohydrates, and pretty soon you have no energy to go to the gym, even if you could get your wobbly thighs into your yoga pants, so instead you rent more movies and swallow more salty snacks, and the Evil Mural People cackle greedily to themselves.


8. Anyway. The next store I hit sells blinds, draperies, and bras. But mostly bras. They were having a sidewalk sale, but bra sales always make me depressed. The A-cup bin overflows with pretty bras, all lace and eyelets and bows. The B-cup bin does likewise, not needing to bother with support straps and underwires. But by the time I get to my bin, the C-cup, the bras in there are dowdy in comparison. The vast majority of them come in white or beige. And don't even get me started on the sorry contents of the D bin. But, in the back of the store, in a dusty pile, sat a tangled mass of mini blinds. This made me absurdly happy.

9. Another human obstacle: an old lady who stood pointing towards the sound of a piano. She pointed very fiercely, but I'm not sure exactly what she expected me to do about it. Did she want me to enjoy it? Hate it? Investigate it? Or was she just looking for confirmation that she wasn't crazy and someone else could hear it too? I kept walking, and for all I know she might still be there now.

10. A store called Lit - I look inside and it appears to sell clothing. I am confused. "Lit" is the french word for bed. Why would a clothing store be named Bed? Not for another 3 blocks do I remember that Lit is also an english word, as in "to light", which makes me embarrassed for a minute, but then, it's still a rubbish name.

11. An aging couple stops me for directions, but clearly no one has told them they're getting on in their years. They're both dressed in their version of "hip" clothes - skin tight, of course, that seems obligatory when you're fat and over 60 but in denial about both. Absurdly, they are both wearing matching belts that dip below their matching bellies. They ask me for the Boom Boom room, and I wonder if they've recently escaped from the 60s, and all I can do is shrug. Much later I recall a breakfasty place simply called Boom, but it's wayyyy down the street so I feel confident that I won't have to sheepishly run into them again.

12. This happy place usually has dozens of warm bodies lined up outside of hit on the sultry summer evenings. You can tell it's happy just by looking at it, but I think anything you can put sprinkles on top of is happy by default. I've never been in there myself, but I delight in it just by ice creamy osmosis. On the other side of it is a Tibetan buddhist temple, so I believe this corner has a lot of good karma going for it.


13. Walking by a restaurant that makes "Seoul Food", I walk by a green van with an elderly man in the driver seat who yells something mangled at me, and my earphones firmly in place, I pretend not to hear. So he follows me. Of course. The van pulls up beside me and slows to match my walking pace. The driver yells at me, asks if I want a ride. It's a gorgeous, if melty, kind of day, and I tell him so and move on. But he follows. And yells So you like exercise? By which point the many cars stuck behind him are now honking impatiently. He beckons me over, and I shake my head no. I am grateful there is a lane of traffic between us. He won't give up, though. He wants me to come talk. He wants to go out for coffee. He wants me to get in his van. What the hell is an old man in a mini van doing chasing 20somethings? This man could be my grandfather. And then it hits me: my grandfather has recently purchased a minivan. So this guy keeps following me and I'm getting to really not like it, and I decide that rudeness be damned, I'm cutting through someone's backyard, where vans cannot follow because I need another stalker like I need for my eyebrows to catch fire. I decide to get home before van man can find me again, but all the way home I think of the letter I should compose to my grandmother along the lines of Pa might be trolling for more than just fish.

14. Safe at home, but bothered by the heat, I take off my pants and sit in front of the fan until I feel I've cooled down. I stay inside for at least half an hour, wanting to hide from van man, but the sun is irresistible and I have some errands to run. So I head out towards the grocery store and I don't see any green vans, but a guy on a bike does stop me and mentions something about me and a man and almost causing an accident...I assume he is referring to van man, but I don't care to hear anymore so I wave as if I'm an idiot and move my feet in a hurry. I pass the movie mural again, and this time I concede that the conspiracy to have me in front of the television might not be such a bad idea after all.

Neighbourhood Watch

When I left my front door, I walked a little over a kilometre in a north-westerly direction.
Here's what I saw:


1. A cocky restaurant.
Can a restaurant, or indeed, any inanimate object, be cocky? Well, if it festoons itself with banners claiming not only to have the best shish kebab in town, not only the best roasted pork in town, but also the best "potatoe omelette" in town. And frankly, it's a hole in the wall, and I can't help but wonder if it does so many things so wonderfully, how come the tables are all empty?

2. A cop on a motorcycle.
Hummana-hummana.

3. The cat in the picture belongs to the store. No word on if the cat is Russian, or for sale, for that matter. Every time I walk by the store is closed, and finally I noticed a hand-written sign that states that it opens by appointment only, so I guess you have to be pretty serious about your Russian Stuff.



4. A church asking for "young hearts" (18 months to 5 years) to be signed up for classes early. They like to get ahold of their souls while they're still young and impressionable. Brain washing, ahem, I mean, religious instruction is most effective then.

5. A plaza where you can get body waxing and fight your traffic tickets all in one convenient location!

6. A convenience store selling "dinning tables" that look like they fell off the back of a truck (literally) for $95.

7. The first of many internet cafes that cleverly and uncleverly use the @ symbol in their name - mice @ work.

8. The St. Simon religious supply store - which, according to fancy stencilling on the front window, sells: books, oils, power (power?), incense, and floor wash.

9. A billboard for Bud Light that says "1970s pimp smooth"...which is a good thing?

10A bar called U DRUNK.

11. A restaurant I mistakenly thought was Italian, and I mistakenly thought was a restaurant (check the sign), and that guarantees "niceness", which I think is an excellent thing to guarantee, but hard to measure.



By this point I had gotten to the library, thrown my books down the slot and finally noticed that rain clouds had blotted out the sun. In a matter of minutes it was almost completely dark, and the wind picked up street dirt and tried to deposit it in my eye or mouth, or both, and everyone else had the common sense to run for cover, but I kept on my merry way.

I was somewhere between the waxing\traffic ticket place and the mice @ work when it started to rain, which is not an adequately wet word for what actually took place. Oh sure I could have stood under the bus shelter and caught a ride home, but what's the fun of that. My sandals were already slippy and my shirt was already see-through, so what the hell? On I walked, seeing everything in reverse (except the russian cat, who had been let in). An old man leaned out his door to beckon me inside, which I thought was really sweet, but I waved and kept going, although when lightning was sizzle in the air around me, I sort of rethought it, but too late, so I sloshed my way home through instant puddles where I rung litres of water out of my bra and hair and so forth.

So my walk was cut short, as is this post, but believe me, it's not for lack of material but for fear of electrocution.

My Boyfriend is a Singer in a Rock&Roll Band.

Well, I don't know what you losers did last night, but I got to see my boyfriend live in concert!!!

Seriously, if you don't know him, shame on you: Hawksley Workman is a rock god, one of the most exciting, talented, quirky, and incredible singer\songwriters to come out of any woman's vagina, ever. I'd like to lock him in a closet with Joni Mitchell and a bottle of scotch just to see what would come out.

And it was my profound honour to be able to sit in the Harbourfront audience last night and enjoy him, because indeed, his live performance is among the best. He's got a swagger and an energy that are a thrill to watch, and I have rarely seen any musician connect so fully with his audience.

The event host kicked off the night by asking the audience who they were there to see - this was stupid of her. Of course hundreds of voices roared back Hawksley, the obviously answer, so if she wanted to alienate and embarrass the opening act, she did that quite well, I think.

The Stills are a newish band from Montreal and probably they didn't need to be reminded that they weren't the main event. I'm not a complete Stills neophyte, I do know a couple of their tunes, and it's decent stuff, although filling an hour's set seemed to be a stretch for them, and a couple of the songs seemed a bit derivative. I was, however, pleasantly surprised that they managed to sneak a french song in there. Plus, they eagerly convinced us of their hardcore-ness by drinking beer and saying 'fuck' onstage, and yet, I couldn't help but notice that their act started on time (to the minute) and really, what the hell kind of rock and roll show starts on time?



Now for the important part, which I know you're all waiting for:

Coolest haircuts, in ascending order:
1. drummer
2. guitarist\vocalist guy in the middle
3. keyboardist (I know he's wearing a hat, but still...I always like the keyboards guy, they're always so much more eclectic and untortured looking...and they rarely wear skinny jeans)

Also, one of the dudes seemed to struggle with the "talking to the audience" bits between songs - at one point he seemed to have forgotten what city he was in, and referred to us as "beach people" (the other guy corrected him - it's a harbour, not a beach) - and it's not like this is some sort of whirlwind U2 tour they're on.

At one point the drummer put down his sticks and picked up the maracas. It was a cool sound, but I think if I were a drummer, I'd be above playing the maracas - they just seem like the pussy of percussion, don't they? It's probably much harder to get laid from playing the maracas.

Anyways, as The Stills finished up, so did the sun. And while it set, the roadies got busy setting up for Mr. Workman, who had the self-respect not to start on time. That's how it's done. I mean, how else can you get an entire audience to start chanting your name? Nobody chanted for The Stills (though one guy kept waving his crutch and yelling Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiills...I think he was the bassist's little brother). Oh, and during the intermission, this dude from Degrassi: The Crap Generation showed up, and it was funny how no one cared or hassled him, which is so Canadian (either that we're laid back, or that no one watches the shitty TV we make, you pick).

So Hawksley finally makes his appearance and he opens with Paper Shoes - excellent choice - always start off by informing the audience that "singing is about sexual confidence" (and better yet to let the audience fill that part in for you). And when he gets to the part about letting the "berry juice just slide out from in between your legs", some guy whooped his appreciation and I smiled the small smile I always do when I hear that part on my mp3.


At the end of the song he sniffed the air and said "I smell drugs" which was true, someone was bathing in eau de cannabis, and most were partaking in whatever the beer tent was selling, and I thought: I am among my people. And then it started to rain. No, it started to pour. I was among the lucky, the few closest to the stage who were under the canopy, and I think we all said a little prayer that no lightning would strike our huge metal structure as we all danced happily and wetly to the music we love so much.

And then we all booed the evil condo-dwellers who "hate rock and roll" and wanted to limit the concert to a pathetic 90 decibels. Instead of cranking the amp, we endeavoured the break the decibel barrier by singing along "like church" to You, Me and the Weather (fittingly, although the rain did stop and it was a beautiful night).

By this time it was fully dark outside (which is why I have no good pictures) and the light sculpture Pulse, also part of the Luminato festival, was sending spotlights up into the dark sky all schizo-like (apparently to the timing of the heartbeats of the people walking by), and Hawksley made some comment that Batman was being summoned to help us get louder, and then he slipped into a little SuperTramp and I guarantee you that we rattled the panes on those prissy condo-fuckers' windows.

And then he played one of my favourite songs, You and The Candles, his "political" contribution, apparently, and he prefaced it with the warning that he may forget the words (not that we'd let him), but that he didn't want to be Axl Rose (who used a teleprompter), but maybe envied his hairband collection. I can't even tell you how beautiful it was, and then Anger as Beauty...I've never heard it sound so ethereal, and then he morphed Jealous of Your Cigarette (Matt, I thought of you!) into The Who's Won't Get Fooled Again. It was awesome, as in, a sight to behold.

And when we all sang Smoke Baby together, I got shivers, and not just from the cool breeze coming off the harbour. No, it was magic, like a big group orgasm and no one could get enough. And when he sang Your Beauty Must Be Rubbing Off, I danced on a bench like no one was watching, not even the man who inspired it all.

So yes, it was a great concert. And in the end, I wasn't even disappointed that he left out a few of my favouritest songs because the set list was perfect as it was. And as the crowd left in one big mass, headed for a subway tunnel that's always too small for the crush of people trying to fit in it, we didn't even feel the claustrophobia because we were all still vibrating with the goodness.

And if I've inspired you to check out this Canadian icon (and for fuck's sake, I should have), check out:
-Even An Ugly Man (there is not a person on the face of this earth who won't fall in love with this song)
-No Sissies (the song I love to bounce around to; infectious in the good way)
-We Will Still Need a Song (this song + chilled white wine = the greatest inspiration I know, it's invigorating...and if you see me dancing down a sidewalk, chances are, it's this song making me do it)
-Smoke Baby (still one of the sexiest songs I know)
-Your Beauty Must Be Rubbing Off (feels good in the soul)


Happy music making.
Don't be a stranger to the danger that is kissing you.

Bullets and Butterfly Wings

(or what I did this weekend, in no particular order:)

• Learned what partially-digested, regurgitated feta looks like (fyi: pretty much the same).
• Was asked by a man on the subway if I was part of the Rocky Horror Picture Show cast on Bloor. When I said that I wasn't he insisted that we "could be twins!" and I prayed that he wasn't talking about the transvestite.
• Went bra shopping. Couldn't find what I wanted (invisible straps) so I bought one in "neon watermelon" instead because I figure if I can't hide it, I may as well show it like I mean it.
• And this bra doesn't just show straps, either. Was told that my cleavage was "bordering on nipple" but when I readjusted I heard a disappointed "oh, no, that wasn't a complaint."
• Took the time to caramelize some onions and was quite pleased with myself.
• Hugged a friend who really needed it, and felt better myself.
• Met an old man who likes to talk - heard about his illustrious night life bartending on Yonge, and how he once did lighting for Nat King Cole, and saw the mob dump a body with a chicken head in its mouth and piano wire around its neck, and was tipped a hundred dollar bill by Louis Armstrong for dry-cleaning his "costume" and once appeared in an Ann Margaret movie.
• Discovered that it is entirely possible to drink a 750mL bottle of Ketel One in 3 hours, but quite inadvisable.
• Dropped a phone on my foot, leaving a bump and a bruise shaped like Madonna in profile.
• While the bread may very well be the freshest you've ever tasted, by the 5th or 6th time you gush about it, people start to wonder about you.
• Suffered more hair-related-harassment.
• Took hubby to a new doctor, whose receptionist\wife\amazon woman inspired confidence by being unable to "spell" our postal code, by repeatedly stamping upside down, then turning the stamp 360 degrees only to find, shocked, that it was still upside down, and by marking Jason as "female" on his chart.
• Passed out on my porch around 2am.
• Saw a man exit the Jehovah church, tip a box he was carrying, scattering hundreds of crayon-coloured butterfly wings to the wind (it was the most beautiful litter I've ever seen).
  

Turn Up the Funny, Turn Down the Suck

Remember when I used to be funny?

Yeah, me neither, actually, but if you look in the sidebar, there is a little-used button there that confirms someone once thought I was funny enough to nominate me in a humour category. Of course, I also seem to have been nominated in a 'freaky' category, so I maybe I should just strike the nominator off my Christmas-card list and retire to Boca Raton.

You've all been wonderfully indulgent as I've whined and moaned and made an ass out of myself, and I wish I could say: the end is nigh! But the truth is, this post is not going to be funny, either. Sorry. All of you funny-enthusiasts can just take your raisinettes and please file quietly out the back door. There will be no killing of the goat today; we might poke it with sharp sticks, or call it fat, or make fun its orthodonture, but no goats have been killed in the making of this blog.

Skunks, on the other hand, were not so lucky.

The other day I happened to mention that I liked the smell of skunk. This is true. It's not that I don't mind it, I actually think it's kind of nice. And there were a couple of brave bloggers who also stood and confessed that they too are as retarded as I am.

Yes, yes, retarded is a harsh word, but the thing is, a skunk's spray is such an effective deterrent that even bears will leave the lowly skunk alone. In fact, of all the animals that would willingly eat its meat, only the horned owl actually preys on skunks because horned owls apparently have little sense of smell. All the others think he's just too stinky to take the risk. Kind of like my Uncle Roger. He always offered $1 and a Tootsie Roll to any kid who would hug him, but his boiled-cabbage, overpowering-armpit, steeped-in-cheap-rye, just-finished-shovelling-out-the-styes scent proved too much. No takers.

So yes, it does seem kind of odd that I should like the smell of skunk. I feel I should use this gift to my advantage, but hunting skunk just seems a little pointless, although I'm told that in certain states (and I won't name names, but you know who you are...coincidentally, many of the same states where it's legal to marry a first cousin), skunks are kept as pets. Of course, in that case the anal glands (the ones that contain the spray) are first removed. I wonder who's job that is? And can they possibly be paid enough?

And what is a skunk without his anal glands? I mean, the word skunk literally means "one who squirts", which makes me glad that my parents called me Jamie, which, if a little boring (Scottish pet form of James, which is biblical), at least doesn't refer to what I may or may not do with any of my orifices. The species of skunks found in Indonesia are called "stink badgers", and while that's not exactly the pretty kind of name you get engraved into 14K gold, I do find it highly amusing.

Anyway, I just think that the anal gland approach to self-defense is both practical and ingenious - and far more convenient than carrying mase! And isn't it impressive that they've also developed strong ass muscles so that the spray will shoot out a good 7-10 feet? I mean, I think Glade should study skunk butt. Every time I buy one of those air fresheners, it promises to make the whole room smell good, but usually you have to stand right next to it to pick up the scent. Skunks get the job done right!

However, I find their baby-making to be a little less romantic than the suave and debonair Pepe le Peu might have led you to believe. In fact, after mounting the she-skunk from behind (ahem), he repeatedly bites her in the back and the neck to induce ovulation. Then he loves her and leaves her, no child support or anything, and if she should happen across her baby daddy again, watch out because the boy-skunk is likely to snub or even try to kill his offspring. But oddly, though skunks might claw or bite each other to death, they will never ever spray each other. I guess that's their equivalent of hitting below the belt.

I realize this is a lot of skunk talk, probably more than you wanted to know, but the thing is, I was walking down the street trying to think of what to make for dinner. There's a little butcher shop near my house, and generally speaking, I love to buy food this way: cheese from the cheeserie, bread from the bakery, fruit from the fruitery...it's all so much more fresh and wonderful. But I'd noticed that this butcher sells strange things, such as ox-tail, and yes, goat. Goat!

Now, I realize that lots of people eat goat. Curry goat seems to be a real favourite around here. I'm not a goat snob, but basically we're all born thinking that some animals are food and others are not - me, I think cow = yum, cats, not so much. So I worried about going in and finding that large sections of goat are actually fairly unappetizing, but then fate once again stepped in, because as luck would have it, I didn't have to enter the shop to be grossed out.

There in the window, hanging for all to see, was not a goat, but a skunk, still in its skin (or I might not have recognized it), freshly dead by god knows what means, trussed up by its hind legs and with a price tag hanging from its snout.

Now, I had worried over goat which I acknowledged was food, just not for me, but I had never even considered that skunk might be considered a meal. But then I looked it up on the internet, and sure enough: "Skunk meat untainted with musk is tender and good eating." Good eating.

Can this be true? And who could confirm or deny such a thing - for surely to admit to having eaten skunk is tantamount to...well...well...well there's just no precedent! But I'd certainly have to strike them off my Christmas card list as well. Feeling somewhat faint, I came across a recipe for Baked Skunk, which claims that when seasoned with paprika and sage, the meat is quite tasty.

Now I'm a bit afraid to leave my house. I'm afraid to see either a skinned skunk or a slightly-decaying skunk hanging from the same noose....or worse, to see that the skunk is gone, has been purchased, and is roasting in one of my neighbours' ovens as we speak...the question is: WHICH ONE?

How Not To Drown

I learned how to swim by the unrecommended method of throwing a kid into a pool and seeing what happens.

Here's what happened:

My first “swimming” lesson was when I was 3, and consisted not so much of swimming but of the “superman” maneuver. It was practiced at the municipal kiddie puddle (7 inches does not a pool make!), where us kids were encouraged to push off from the sides and “glide” with arms outstretched until momentum prevented us from going any further. My mother paid $45 to have a gum-chewing 17 year old “teach” me how to do this.

By the time I was 5, my mother had added 3 other girls to the family, and facing another hot summer, I guess she finally realized that the little plastic tubs we generously called pools were just not going to be enough for her pack of little mermaids.

For some reason, I remember pool shopping. I remember the showroom where the above-ground pools we were perusing were displayed – you could choose between faux wood-paneling and slightly darker faux wood paneling, and between a blue pool liner and a blue pool liner with an indistinguishable pattern on it. Most of the pool shopping was lost on me, being too short to see over the sides of any of these gems, but the thing that really stands out in my memory is the saleswoman, who wore sandals, and no nails on her big toes. The lack of toenails meant her toes had no depressions, they were just these fat, round, bulbous things, and I knew it was not polite to swear, yet I couldn't take my eyes off of her freaky deaky toes.

Back in the day, above-ground pools spread like a rash in my neighbourhood, and instead of barn raisings, we had pool raisings. Many friends and relatives had come to help, but the day our pool was installed was still the longest day of my young life. But just when it seemed like it would never be ready, it was, or ready enough, anyway. The walls were up and the water was in, and though the pool had no access point or ladder, my father figured it didn't matter much because he could stand at the side and lift me over the edge.

Not yet being a swimmer, someone blew up an inner tube for me, and tossed it in the pool. Then my father swung me over and tossed me at the tube. His aim was good, but remember that I was small, and I passed neatly through the donut hole and was quickly sinking towards the bottom.

The adults, gathered around for what promised to be the first jubilant splash, looked on, horrified, as little Jamie seemed to drown before their eyes. And, there being no ladder yet installed, and me being out of arm's length, there was no way to reach me. So they just stood there and watched.

I flailed my limbs but they just sliced through the non-resistance of the water. My little round body in its pink frilly bikini went down, down, down, and though too young to understand the mechanism of breathing, I felt the burning of water in my lungs, which seemed to scream up! up! Up! Somehow I managed to reverse my sinking body and I broke the surface of the water, spluttering and coughing like I was a 5 year old who smoked 6 packs a day. When I had sufficient breath, I yelled to the grownups “Did you see me? I swam! I swam!” and they muttered their praise while looking at each other guiltily out of the corners of their eyes. I should have been a little pink blob on the bottom of the pool but instead I was clinging to the siding imploring others to join me in my newfound splashy freedom. A smarter kid might have clutched to the inflated tube, but once I had defied death that first time, I wanted to go deeper, faster, longer.

Many years later, many swimming lessons later, I consider myself to be a strong swimmer, which is a good thing because this time I have been tossed into the metaphorical deep end, and once again, the flotation device is just out of reach.

Life throws you into these sink-or-swim situations and it's amazing how powerful our sense of preservation is. We paddle on, no matter how many waves crash over our heads, no matter how many stitches we have in our sides or how tired we get. But what happens when you are thrown into the dark and forbidding water not alone, but with a weaker swimmer?

These are the moments in life that are infinitely hard: the days when we've just been treading water; the days when we've been slipping under; the days when we can barely keep our heads above the water line. I don't want to drown while trying to save someone else, some days I don't even know that I can save myself, and yet I can't not try, I can't. So I'm trying not to drown, not to let either of us drown, but it's hard. It's hard enough to fight the current on your own, but with the extra burden, progress is slow, and sometimes the undertow is stronger than I, and I feel us both being pulled back out toward the uninviting expanse and I think how nice it would be to relax my muscles, take a few deep gulps of water and let swirling water suck me under. But other days I see the shore, or I think I see it, on the horizon, if I squint real hard and ignore the burning sun. I stroke through the water like crazy, hoping to feel the sand between my toes before long, and I tell myself to just keep swimming.

I am trying hard not to drown. Oh yes, life's a beach.