(’cause I’ve not done one in a loooong while)
- for June 15, 2007 -
Put on a Genesis album. Stand in place. Relax. Let your body hang loose, limber. Sway. Then leap! Leap again! If you hit a wall, turn the other way. Leap! Leap again! Repeat until Phil Collins sings his last word, and when the drumkit stops, it’s time for a pint of ice cream. Make it banana flavoured. Eat it all up. Puke if you need the room. Then, yes, break out the Blue Oyster Cult…
(’cause I’ve not done one in a loooong while)
My friend and coworker E had a birthday party for her dog, Leia (whom you may remember from this post), who turned 2 years old.
Dogs and their owners were invited, including my sister and her dog, Whistler, a black lab (whom you may recall from posts such as this)
It does seem a silly thing to do, but, to be honest, it was a lot of fun. Whistler was the only large dog there, and likely weighed as much as the other crowd of pups put together. Still, didn’t stop him from playing with them. Whistler is a big goofy child who can play rough with me and large dogs, but plays quite gently with the littler ones. I’m a proud uncle because Whistler was certainly the party doggie.
Here’s a picture of him with Bennie and Harley, the only dogs who weren’t afraid to really get their paws dirty with him. Then again, Whister is a hard dog to keep up with, and kind of grabby, taking toys away from the littler ones, or chasing down balls intended for them.
After the party, I was at Aden’s Aunt’s place for a big send-off soirée, full of food and wine, and, yes, more dogs. Later that night I had a dream that my sister got me a boxer puppy, but it was not a nice dream since I new, despite her insistence, that I didn’t have the time to devote to a puppy. Awww. Bad dream… but cute.
Had a dream last night that the comic book writer/artist Dan Jurgens was giving me shit for my repeated lambasting of him and his silly 1990’s comic book legacy. I didn’t really care. I don’t hate his work but I really don’t like it all that much either… it’s mediocrity at its most mediocre.
My Flickr account now has some Londonish photos up. Not feeling photogenically inspired these days due to my long working days, but I’m sure when Aden’s out next week there’ll be gobs more.
You will notice in the set some bizarre photos of people wearing spandex… that’s because last night I joined my friend Mar for Hot Breath Karaoke (described as “London’s only Award Winning* karaoke-meets-wheel-of-fortune-on-AM-radio-at-a-car-boot-sale!”>, which was cut short by the arrival of the not-yet world famous improvisational dance troupe, Duotard for the first ever DANCEOKE!
Hot Breath lasted for 90 minutes, when HB’s Emcee (originally from Vancouver) and his wife (orginally from Ottawa) stripped down to their spandex and performed some stunning feats of ironic interpretive dance. Following a 10 minute break, they returned in new, sparklier suits to lead the crowd in the first ever Danceoke, guided by the Wheel Of Feel. The pictures explain nothing… I guess it’s a “you had to be there” kind of thing.
I have a feeling this kind of ironic dance is going to become big, considering how popular shows like “So You Think You Can Dance” and “Dancing With The Stars” have become, alongside all the various movies about dance (most recently the generation-definining “Take The Lead”), there needs to be some sort of smarmy, indie backlash.
(now with video)
…imagine what I could do on a relaxed Friday afternoon.”
A conversation at work involved the mocking of one co-worker’s portable hard drive, calling it a toaster. This segued into a conversation about toasters and then the fact that there are now toaster bags for cooking things in.
Seriously. And not just one company is making them, but at least four:
1 (love the description on this site)
4 (now available from Papered Chef)
From there, the conversation grew to discuss Japan’s pinache for developing useless inventions (aka “chindogu”). One person invented a cap that has a suction cup on the back of it so that you can suction your head to the window behind you so you don’t slide over when you fall asleep (optional display board stating “Wake me when I arrive to…”). This article is a good primer on the phenomenon of chindogu (noting that attempts for an American tv show, “Funniest Home Viedoes”-style, hasp been proposed).
We began to discuss things like the “tube strap” which would allow you to harness yourself to the overhead handrails and have both hands free to read the paper (optional: “tube seat” ala swingset style), or the prepackaged baby squeeze feeder. All brilliantly stupid ideas, which prompted the statement that titles this post
If you will recall, a few weeks ago I did a performance piece for the vlog website Wide Right. “Snappoh”, I mean, “Oh snap!”
Well Dave @ WIde Right wrangled me and the Pitcher into another one, but this time just using our extensive vocal talents. Actually, it’s me copping Kevin McDonald’s comedic choking technique from the infamous “kebab” sketch on Kids In The Hall and Amber sounding bored as a 911 emergency operator.
Take a look, be impressed, and enter the contest if you’re savvy enough.
Amazon.com is now selling superhero costumes, including these $800 Batman, Hulk and Superman latex costumes.
But, oh frick!
Space Ghost. I’m so buying that one.
V for Vendetta
Some more modestly priced costumes include
South Park’s Satan
Speed Racer’s Racer X
and accessories like
and Cap’s shield and boot covers
Superhero boots black and red
Bizarro Superman mask
There are some ladies costumes, but they make me feel all funny in my lower regions for some reason.
Oh what the hell:
Batgirl and Classic Batgirl
Supergirl and Classic Supergirl
Purple jumpsuit Catwoman
There’s even stuff for the kids:
Hellboy (there’s no way my mom would’ve dressed me up as Hellboy…)… not to mention one for the adults too
This Baby Flash is absolutely adorable
Teen Titans’ Cyborg
Can two straight guys spend an afternoon roaming around vintage stores trying on shirts and jackets, then later comparing wardrobes in front of a mirror and not be completely ironic? Why yes, yes they can.
In the pursuit of a shirt to go along with my dad’s hand-me-down three-piece wedding suit, GAK and I hit Kensington yesterday (walking along Dundas and hitting the mob of Portuguese football fans just as they were spilling out of the bars/laudromats/cafes/auto repair shops/bakeries etc to flood the streets with fireworks, whistles, flags, other assorted noisemakers, and shortly thereafter, a congestion of horn-honking traffic). While I found my shirt (well, actually, three different ones, just to make sure) in relatively no time, GAK had taken an interest in finding a ruffly tuxedo shirt, and thus the vintage store shopping began.
While we were rifling through the racks at the first store, suddenly we started noticing how cool the western shirts were, and how gaudy (in both good and bad ways) the disco-era polyester shirts were. A frenzy of fashion faux-pas had us in stitches for most of the afternoon, making our way through a half-dozen different shops around the market. I picked up a few lightweight button-down t-shirts (much needed), refrained from buying a perfect-fit (but-where-am-I-going-to-wear-it) red “flock of seagulls” (as GAK called it) shirt with a big ol’ snap-on bib, and found a nice corduroy jacked with leather elbow patches that totally fit but I wasn’t sold on the colour… plus being summer and all. GAK did eventually find his frilly tux shirt, but we didn’t manage to locate “the ugliest shirt” in a size that fit me (all the ugliest shirts were either too big or too small).
I put together the ensemble at home to make sure I worked and yes a good day of fashion was had. Although it’s going to be 32 degrees today so I’m not sure a polyester shirt with a three-piece suit is really going to be in the cards for me.
Oh, and then there was this bit of awesomeness:
A baby blue shirt with crochet flowers on the shoulders and chest. Wicked, alas, a large.
Who says dress-up is just for the ladies.
Because I’ve been a bit of a dick recently, when Toast posted this introspective and somewhat disarming comment on his current status of being all I could do was make a tired old “mid-life crisis” joke… to wit:
Uh oh… Toast is going to buy a convertible…
I don’t actually mean to make fun of Toast’s pain, but isn’t this what typical guys friends are supposed to do? Aren’t we supposed to just deny each other’s emotions and rather start poking fun, because acknowledging emotions and showing sympathy is like a sign of being the gay or something. But then Toast and I are sensitive males, and we’ve had great conversations about life and everything else in the past, so we don’t fall into the usual trappings of machismo and whoswhatzis. And I called him a pussy earlier this week too. It was in jest, but perhaps I’m descending into dickishness these days.
My number 1 fan wrote a lovely bit to Toast, saying all that I probably should have said, but then she also says this:
If you got a convertable, I bet Graig would grow his hair out, so that when he got rides with you, he’d have Wolverine hair in minutes flat.
Which makes me laugh… because I’ve had Wolverine hair. And as penance for my dickishness of late, I’m going to share that photo with you (a little humility never hurts):
Taken Halloween 2000. Those claws are made of cork, and they were rubber latexed to my hands, and they’re obviously non-retractable, so when I was out I had to drive with them still attached and every time I had to turn the wheel they would snag on the dashboard… and as you may know I’m of a moderate hirsutedness, so each time those claws would snag I’d feel a sharp and painful tug on my hands.
Taking the claws off at the end of the evening… yeah… it took about three to five weeks for the hair to grow back.
Ah yes, cutting one’s own hair is not for the feint of heart. It’s a trying endeavour, especially trying to do it all with scissors. With the dense brush that was my mane yesterday, it took upwards of three hours to slice and dice my way down to something of reasonable length. Trouble was, I didn’t have a game plan. It’s been so long since I last skizzor’d my hair (I was handy with the clippers not too long ago… okay, about five or six months ago and I’ve let it grow since) that I forgot what to do when you’re taking slicing edges to your hedge. I didn’t know what the end product was going to look like and so I just ran with it until everything was kind of uniform with a bit of messy bits just so that I can be a teensy bit punk. Seriously though, all these nords (yes, nords!… don’t ask me what it means, I’ll figure it out later) who pay tens, if not hundred(s) of dollars for their oober-style to look like whatever trendspotter made the soccer rags that day ain’t punk, they’re pretentious.* Me, I’m more punk. Why? Not “Why” but “Y”… as in DIY. And DIY, as we all know, is punk.
Anyway, the hair is, well, whatever. It’ll grow back, right? The real difficulty was that my knuckle on my left middle finger kept getting in the way, and is thus all scarred up from it’s battle with scissors (I’d say it lost). ‘Tis nice to be free of the mop. I liked having long hair, but the right side of the back o’ me head grows faster than the left and evening it out was becoming a pain in the ass… not that trimming it all dow was any simpler mind you. Since it’d been a good two or three years since I last skizzor’d DIY style I forgot exactly how to do it properly, so there’s a bit of unevenness and the odd patch that sticks out (or sticks in, if you will), but c’est la punk. Am I hitting how punk this is hard enough?
When it was all over and done, there was a Tribble in the sink, and my whole body was covered in hair that just wouldn’t wash off. It’s still there. How’d that happen? GAH!
* N.B. That was my weak goings at a rant against the wealthy and popular and arrogant… sorry. Have headache, and no, not from haircut.
Let’s talk moustaches, specifically my moustache.
Ach, a picture’s worth a thousand words…
according to Maria at least. She’s gets so exhausted from reading the recent stream of extremely long posts she can’t even write a commet to tell me so.
[Littlest Hobo reference here]
I miss The Beard. I know it was overheating my face but still, I loveded it like it was a part of me.
I only hope that, like the littlest hobo or Dr. David (nee Bruce) Banner or the Fugitive or Sam Beckett it’s moving from town to town (or time to time) helping people as they need it.
Two days without it and already the comments have been as abundant as when I first grew it. My favourite was the cleaning lady (the one who previously told me through an interpreter I “looked like Christ”) who said to me today, without assistance “No bearda?”
I shook my head. “Nope… all gone.”
She scrunched her face up. “Aww. Lookta good.”
I smiled broadly and said “Thank you” and she gave me another “Ach” with a flappy wave of the hand and a cute older lady smile.
Seriously, I’m going to adopt her as my third grandma. I love the ones I got, but I’m feeling greedy.
I would get into the numerous “young Jesus” and “what happened to Jesus” comments (my response to the latter: “Jesus went into the cave, he’s hibernating until winter”… apparently somewhere in my subconscious, Jesus is a reverse ursine I blame Stephen Colbert)
I’m updating my blogroll soon… anyone I’m missing (aside from maria, jen’s scotch blog and robot johnny?)
speak now or forever wait until the next time I update.
For the two wheelers
Poll time for the cyclists out there (Tanya, feel free to take this topic an run with it):
Do you feel safer biking on the road:
a) in daylight during morning/evning rush hour traffic?
b) late at night with blinking front and rear lights?
I feel fine doing my morning jaunt across Dundas, although I find the evening jaunt a little bit hairier (especially since the warmer weather and people are driving more aggressively to get home faster). I was just noticing, however, that riding home tonight at 10:30 across Bloor with front and rear flashies going off, I felt safer. Not only could I see the movements of the cars better, but I could also tell better if a car or many were coming up behind me. And it’s so much easier to tell if there’s someone opening a door (the interior light goes on) or if they’re starting the car or just finished parking.
Plus there’s less traffic.
Night biking may sound more dangerous but I feel as long as I’m visible via blinkies then I’ll do okay (I do get extremely nervous if batteries die out before a night bike).
[putting street sofa pictures here]
(photos by TripleDoubleYou)
[enter jackassery caption here]
[enter witty caption here]
Felt it coming on Monday (probably as a result of my non-food eating/3-hour journey through gribblies-central Ikea on Sunday) and tried to stave it off with the echinacia and vitamins and copious amounts of tea and water, alas, the bug got me and I took yesterday away. The day was spent chilling out, drinking pots of tea, watching The Flash and Calimari Wrestler on DVD (reviews to come), monitoring the work I was missing for emergency situations, and playing some City of Heroes. I always feel guilty for taking sick days, but today I feel better for it, although I’m still drinking way too much and peeing all the time.
I also got a massive case of the munchies last night, and spent the majority of the hour between 11pm and 12am munching down on cheese (mmm chevre) and crackers. Odd that.
Warren Ellis is a grumpy old man in training, a cantankerous old fart waiting in the wings. He’s also one of the comic mediums best and most prominent writers, and he’s obtained and maintained a huge on-line following through is various web efforts like the old “Warren Ellis Forum” and the current The Engine. He’s also got a plus-sized mailing list of tens of thousands where he writes nuggets of surl like this:
Doesn’t Stephen Harper look like the kind of actor a US or US-but-
produced-in-Canada TV show uses as the bad guy when they can’t afford a British actor?
(Which, when David Warner is still working, is kind of unimaginable. But still.)
You know the kind of guy. Grey hair, so white you can practically see through his skin into his circulatory system, with the kind of unblinking half-glower that let’s you know that no matter what he’s talking about, he’s actually thinking
about shoving pregnant lesbians tits-first into a woodchipper. He’s the white guy in the suit whose last job was sitting behind a big desk condemning Tia Carrere to death in an episode of RELIC HUNTER.
Paul Martin should never have let on that he was desperate. And now he’s in the bin and you’re ruled by the guy who plays Creepy Vice-President in Sci-Fi Channel shows.
He’s crotchity, but I still like him. Go buy his books. “Nextwave” and “Blackgas” both debut on stands today. The first issue of “Book3: Ultimate Extinction” came out last week (both Book1: Ultimate Nightmare, and Book2: Ultimate Secret are out in trade). “Fell” and “Desolation Jones” come out often enough and his Apparat Singles Collection came out two weeks ago. His infamous “Transmetropolitan” is still available in 10 handy collected editions.
The loverly Freakgirl has entered into the realm of multimedia anti-star, as a snippet of her blog was turned into a, erm, blipvert (to steal from Max Headroom and for lack of a better term) on CBC’s Zed TV (enter in “freakgirl” in the search string, click on “watch” and violin! there you are).
The basement is still a mess, no word on when the drywall people are coming in. Colour me frustrated.
This morning as I was walking into work I saw two pigeons standing on a manhole cover drinking from the shallow pool of water it held, their heads slightly touching. It was very cute.
silly things to do
by me - 25.01.06
find a pen, stick it in your ear, but not too far. Just far enough that it stays in.
Find another pen… well, what do you know, you have another ear. Two more pens will fit nicely up each nostril too. Now take great care not to trip or fall onto anything or else you’ll wind up hurting yourself. For the coup de gras, shower yourself with eraser shavings (you may have to make your own eraser shavings, and it’s simple… find an eraser, and start erasing until the eraser is all gone or else your fingers are cramped and bleeding). Science is fun.
by me: December 25, 2005
Eat a whole cheesecake by yourself, followed by a bag of Doritos (if you’re feeling especially silly make it Cool Ranch), and then 2L of ginger ale. Yeah, that’s silly.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
by me - 05.12.05
Go to work party. Drink. Eat. Drink. Drink. Drink. Carriage ride. Drink. Dance*. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Collapse from exhaustion. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Drink. Dance. Dance. Dance. Got to an afterparty in a crazy taxi. Drink. Drink. Go to an after-afterparty. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Go home. Collapse. Sleep for four hours. Wake up still drunk. Drink appx 4 litres of water (intermittently, of course). Sleep. Sleep. Sick. Sleep. Sick. Sleep. Sick. Sleep. Sick. Sleep. Sic..no wait… sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Eat. Get cracking on moving that furniture.
(*when I say “Dance” that by proxy also means flirt with as many co-workers and partners of co-workers as possible)
A friend of mine is seriously addicted to Lost. She recently rented and devoured the first season DVD box set over a weekend, and has been trying to play catch-up on Season 2 for the past week and some. She even went the route of getting bit-torrent, trying to figure that behemoth out and ending up very frustrated that three days later episodes 2 and 3 were still only between 30 and 40% completed. So she put a call out on Craigslist (I think) and found someone who’d been keeping them digitally. They scheduled to meet up today at lunch, and he’d give her DVDs with the season-so-far burned to it for, like, $5 (the cost of the discs essentially). My friend told her boyfriend and he said something to the effect of “you’re not going unless you take a friend with you… for protection. Who knows what kind of creep he could be” (never mind that they were to meet on one of the busiest street corners in the city).
This is where I came in. I received an phone call yesterday:
E: Erm, I need your services, your protective services.
Me: Uh, okay?
E: Blah blah blah meetup, Lost, strange guy,… blah blah blah
Me: Sure, I’m up for the challenge, or at least the walk.
E: OK bodyguard, how’s 1pm tomorrow to escort me to the meeting point?
Me: As long as you don’t bust out the Whitney Houston song. I’ll escort you to your destination, and should push come to shove, take a bullet for you should the deal go sour.
The thing about the meeting was E didn’t have any sort of identifiers for the guy, and she got his phone number but forgot it at the office. So we were just standing around a coffee shop looking for someone who may or may not be the type of guy who would burn a third of a season of Lost for five dollars.
E spotted a guy hovering in the corner, sort of casually drinking his coffee, casually playing his PSP and casually looking around.
“D’ya think that’s him?”
“Who’s to know? It could be anyone.”
It was though, and the transaction went smoothly. I noticed the sniper rifle across the street at the TV studio was trained on me the whole time. I did my job well.
The thing about ordering IKEA on-line is it takes them 48 hours to get in touch with you about your order. And then they say it’ll be within 12 business days for delivery and they’ll call and schedule a delivery date.
Uh, I thought it would be similar to buying it at the store and getting next day delivery once everything was confirmed, but nope. And the delivery charge for on-line was about three times what you’d pay in-store. Oooch.
Needless to say I cancelled that puppy and I’ma go there this weekend and get it delivered.
I have no ‘net connection at home.
I find it hard to know what to do with myself when I can’t surf or blog. Thankfully season 2 of Arrested Development is waiting for my attention, and the complete Ripping Yarns was delivered by Amazon today (only 5 weeks early!).
SILLY THINGS TO DO
Go cow tipping, but instead of cows, use hot dog carts, and instead of carts use vendors, and when I say “tipping” I mean give the hot dog vendor an ourageous $4 tip on top of a $1 hotdog. Yes, tip 400%. That’s just silly. And don’t eat the hot dog. Feed the pigeons, and by feed I meen feet, and by feet I mean kick and when you’re done kicking the pigeons, give the hotdog to the homeless dude bugging you for change. And by homeless, I mean not the guy who is wearing new boots bugging you for change or the Mississauga punkass kid who is wearing a brand new Gore-tex jacket.
This silly thing to do will win you humanitarian awards, and by humanitarian I mean DIY, and by DIY I mean take a marker and make your own damn award because your condescending attitude ain’t taking you nowhere in life.
And last, but hardly the least I’d like to give a shout out to my Moms, who is celebrating her 39th birthday today for the xth year in a row. I had a tremendous evening out with some coworkers yesterday and our topic of conversation led to our families, and the people I was with have had some very interesting childhoods, with some serious parental issues. On my way home I was thinking about that convo, thankful for my rather “normal” upbringing, and I, in my slightly inebriated state, got a little weepy after receiving a voice mail from my mother whom after all these years is still looking out for me. She’s certainly not overbearing or annoyingly protective, she’s just a tremendously great Mom (*just*), and she’s always there for me. When I eventually become a parent, I know I’ll be a great one, because I have a great one to emulate.
Love you Mom.
(and yes, to anyone wondering, my mom does indeed read my blog, and no I don’t care. I think it’s actually pretty cool that she does.)
I’ve not been sleeping properly recently. I’ve been feeling… distracted and thus not getting to bed at any reasonable hour (and the fact that I finished watching Scrubs season 2 in four days has absolutely very almost little to do with it). I also blame the Colbert Report for keeping me away from my pre-bedtime comics reading by an extra half hour. Not to mention my “alarm clock” is my television which wakes me up with an episode of “Third Wave” or “The Outer Limits” every morning… actually, doesn’t so much as wake me up as incoporate into my dreams which let me tell you get pretty freakin twisted come 7:30 in the morning. Maybe I should switch from Space to the Food Network or something. Mmm, tasty wakeup dreams.
So with my post 2am sleepytime and my 7:30ish wakeup time I’ve been getting that uncomfortable 5.5 hours of sleep. I’ve identified previously that getting only two hours sleep actually isn’t as bad as five hours. And five hours is definitely worse than seven. After five hours sleep, I feel like I’ve waken with a hangover, even though I’m two days removed from any drinks.
And I’m completely unable to focus at work. I’m not sleepy and I’m not really distracted. I’m more like an ADD addled child, moving from topic to topic, quite hypnotic. Spending minutes just ALT-TABbing through my windows eithere working on multiple things for seconds at a time or flipping, flipping, flipping, trying to figure out what I was *just* about to do.
And then I ate a banana which has made me feel all funny. Like drunk funny. I think it was laced with something. Oh, pink spider monkeys crawling on the switch rack… SUPERGROVER CAN FLYYYYYYY! Whoops. Just hit someone in the head with Grover Kent.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
You know what looks pretty? Teethmarks in ham. Go to it.
Winter changes everything in the big city, including how one travels. I notice most drivers don’t really seem to change their habits at all (hence the massive number of traffic accidents reported on first snowfall), but pedestrians fare a little better. It’s almost innate how differently we walk when all of a sudden it’s cold and we see the snow on the ground. Two days later some sore muscles in my ass and the back of my legs are proof that normal stride is abandoned in favour of something that will keep you upright as you move on down the road.
Winter walking is a much different task then other seasonal walking. There are many factors we must process when we’re hoofin’ it down the sidewalk:
-what’s on our feet? Boots or shoes? What are the treads like? Have we had slipping issues with these before? Have we road tested these things in previous winters?
Today I’m wearing a pair of Caterpillar shoes which have these strange treds which look like they should be rugged and meant for all terrain but get really dangerous on slick surfaces, such as movie theatre floors. So on rainy days I take a little more care, and these days, when I come across a cleared section of sidewalk, I take much more care. In fact, in winter I walk with a much shorter but hurried stride, doing a little pivoting step each time to wear my foot into the ground and ensure that the tread will take to the surface. One of the other things I do is constantly prepare myself for a slip and fall, extending a hand towards something solid to grab onto should my stability come into question. And mentally preparing yourself while your walking, especially when approaching 90-degree turns or steep inclines, is always useful. Being prepared can save you a sore tailbone, a dislocated shoulder, or a fractured skull.
-what’s the sidewalk look like? Is it cleared or fresh snow or well compressed? If it’s fresh snow, is it heavy or light? If it’s cleared, does it look salted or roughed up, or kind of smooth or glossy?
Well compressed snow on a sidewalk is actually tonnes better than a clear sidewalk. A clear sidewalk is much more prone to forming ice slicks, since the tiny remains of snow are exposed to more sunshine and have a greater likelihood of melting and refreezing, especially with salting, forming a (sometimes invisible) slick. And when fresh, loose snow has fallen, it’s often deceptive and when walking is at its most dangerous, as it conceals ice but provides no additional traction. Of course, a heavy accumulation of snow will affect how you walk as you’ll need to lift your knees up like your drill seargent told ya to in order to make your way through it.
Of course there are other things to take into account, such as distractions (like talking on a cel phone or a beautiful person walking past) or low visibility (evenings or heavy, windy snowfalls with snowflakes stabbing your eyeballs), but if you stay aware of your surroundings, and even more, your footing, you’ll have a safe and enjoyable season trudging through your winter wonderland.
There’s something incredibly beautiful about photographs of dancers in motion. It’s something even more interesting when juxtaposed with the comparatively stillness of a rock band behind them.
Yes, Frank has pictures of the Hidden Cameras/Toronto Dance Theatre show and it’s lovely stuff.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
by me - 25.11.05
Enter the dragon. When you’ve had enough of the dragon, exit the dragon. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.
It’s sleeting outside.
It’s that sort of wet snow stuff that melts almost immediately after it hits the ground only it’s just heavy enough that the melting can’t keep up with it so there’s a nice patina of snow here and there.
I love weather like this (but then I also love rain), and the 25 minute walk up from Harbourfront (see the Hidden Cameras/Toronto Dance Theatre on sidebar) was the perfect time to enjoy it. I almost wished the walk was longer so that I could spend more time outside, but I was feeling rather jazzed after the revue, so it may have affected my mood some. I would have spent more time just aimlessly wandering but I wanted to get my thoughts down about “In the Boneyard” before the repeated sleet-poking of my eyeballs whisked them away.
Perhaps I should go back out now. Or sleep out on the balcony. Or not.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
by me - 24.11.05
Take many photographs of the back of your head and then find an unblemished wall in your abode and pin up all the photographs in a collage so that the entire wall is covered. Pluck out some nose hairs and sneeze all over your collage. Wipe the collage down with some hydrogen peroxide followed by varsol, then coat with a heavy layer of varathane. Peel your collage off the wall and walk it down to the nearest gallery and offer to sell it to them for $1.5 million. When you are rudely rejected, teach them a lesson by setting their gallery on fire. And when there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire. But don’t do that last part.
The last time I was single, my brain was trying to wrap itself around the ages old question of “what do women want”. After a weekend oversaturated in “Sex and the City” watching, I can honestly say I don’t really give a damn about what women want. In the spirit of modern-day self-absorption, now I only care about what I want.
Being less glib, my thought process is less “how do I attract a woman” and more “how do I know if I’m attracted to a woman”. I suppose it has something to do with being more self-confident, more comfortable with myself, and quite satisfied with who I am, thank you very much. So really the onus is on me to now figure out what I want in a relationship/partner (besides a Beauxbaton Girl outfit hanging in the closet).
I’m making lists, but lists are kind of futile. They’re as much about characteristics and traits that I don’t want as much as those I do, but it’s not like I’m going to meet someone and start checking things off. I don’t believe in “the perfect woman” and having lists (and taking them seriously) can only serve as a disservice to potential girlfriends, as they’d be completely incapable of meeting up with ideal expectations.
A friend told me his list, which was utterly simple:
He wants to someone he can make smile and someone who feels confident in their relationship.
I’m not sure if this is perhaps too simplistic, but it’s certainly a nice set of blocks to start building upon. Ultimately each person is an individual, and we’re all on our own paths of growth and progression. Sometimes those paths cross, sometimes they run in parallell and sometimes they merge (and sometimes only to fork off again). It’s difficult to say that someone who seems perfect today will still be perfect a year down the road.
I’d like to think that there’s someone out there for everyone, but kismet and karma and all that kind of spiritual stuff is all pretty lacking in my modern philosophy, but it hasn’t always been. It’s perhaps naive thinking, but at times it’s also oddly comforting to think it, it gives the love-lost something to hold onto, like belief in God or Eskimos or LL Bean.
In my current thoughts, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the concept of dating. I’m not ready to hop into another relationship just yet, but I feel ready to date. At the same time, I don’t get the point of dating if you’re not looking for a relationship (well, I get it, but I’m not that primal). My goal love-wise is to find that special someone that will be the other path that merges and doesn’t fork off (nyuck nyuck), but that’s a lot of pressure to put on a potential date, and I guess until I can just go out and enjoy someone’s company without trying to determine if she’s “the one” or not right off the bat I shouldn’t be doing it. Maybe I’m not ready to date either, just ready to look…?
Where’s this all going? I dunno. I guess it’s just to say I’m in a judgemental phase and I will be ruling on all single women, so watch out ladies. Here come da judge.
I’m so lame.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
by me - 23.11.05
Bathe in cookies. If you find them to be a little rough on your skin, add milk.