Beam Me To Campus, Scotty

For those not living in the lovely city of London, we're coming to the end of our first week of a transit strike. So let me begin by saying:

Congratulations, ATU Local 741.

You're officially On Notice.

The LTC offered a 9% increase over the weekend but apparently that wasn't enough for the ATU, despite the current economic situation that has many people thankful to have jobs at all. Yes, at this point not even a week without transit has passed (no where near the two months Ottawa endured), but for weeks leading up to the strike the frequency of buses was reduced to exam-period/holiday levels, making it difficult for people to get to school and work on time.

For a brief period this week there were even rumours that the ATU would set up picket lines on campus because some of the transportation services arranged by the university were allegedly being viewed as strike-breaking maneuvers.

The silver lining here, if you can call it that, is today's lesson:

Nothing brings a community together quite like a transit strike.

I'm quite proud of the efforts Western has made to keep the safety and education of its students its primary concern. Campus Police has ramped up its security; the University College shuttle service expanded its routes; carpool sites were created; a van service was added (47 rented vans driven by volunteers, which cater to students living in areas more than a 30min walk from campus); professors, staff, and students are offering rides to classmates and those living nearby; and the USC organized a bike check in the UCC gym. So to the Western community I say thank you. We should be proud of ourselves.

While I don't mind walking to class (so far the weather is still relatively warm), walking home is an incredible inconvenience. By the time classes are over I'm usually hungry, tired, and generally fed up with school. Today was our first day of rain during the strike, but knowing London we can expect many more days like today. And most importantly, because it's so late in the year it's dark by the time I have to walk home. Thankfully, as far as I know, no one has been raped, abducted, attacked by animals, or thrown into the Thames while walking to or from campus. Let's keep it that way, London.

And so to the ATU I say bring it on. Because I'm just itching for another thing to complain about.

Of Magnets & Marine Life

Bloggers, did you have a Magna-Doodle when you were wee children? I certainly did, and hot damn did I love it. In fact, my Magna-Doodle played a major role in one of my favourite home movies.

My brother was just a baby, lolling about a blanket, so I was probably about three or four. My family was hanging out in the living room and I think a Jays games was on TV... Or a Leafs game... My mom was filming my brother and I playing because personal camcorders were a big deal in the early 90s and my parents wanted plenty of hilarious and embarrassing videos to show Adam and me when we got older.

I excitedly tromp over to where my dad is sitting, wielding my Magna-Doodle, to show him my newest work of art. On the screen is a nebulous blob with an eye, a smile, and what appears to be a bayonet protruding from its "head." Wow, Nicole, what's that? my dad inquires. It's a baby narwhal. The bad men were trying to kill it on Danger Bay, I explain with more than a hint of concern in my voice.

Bloggers, I would like you to take four things away from this childhood anecdote:

1. This clearly foreshadows my future artistic abilities.

2. Danger Bay had some badass story lines.

3. Magna-Doodles are better than those stupid Etch-a-Sketches.

4. Jess found this awesome t-shirt for me:

Obsessors, Be Anonymous No More

I'm going to come out and say it: My name is Nicole and I'm an obsessoholic.

Obsessions have been a topic of discussion in a couple of my classes this week. When it comes to obsessing, there are conflicting opinions on how healthy and productive the practice is in our real lives (as opposed to the lives lived in the safety of our own minds).

In my Popular Music and Gender class we talked about how obsessions factor into music fandom. It's highly feminized and generally associated with deviancy. Think Beatlemania with the screaming, crying, fainting, mobbing teenyboppers. Men, of course, don't do this. They think "Oh man, that dude is so f'ing cool, I want to be just like him and sleep with tons of sexy women and play mad guitar..." But girls, girls want to marry John and have Elvis shake his hips in their direction and shoot them one of those famous snarly smiles. Go beyond the screaming to the next level of fandom/obsession and peer into the bedroom of someone with posters all over the walls, figurines and albums littering all surfaces, a camera with a telescopic lens and a pair of night-vision goggles... That someone is a stalker. Stalking = bad kind of obsessing. As someone who has been followed home from an exam, I can tell you stalking does not make your stalkee want to hang out with you or, least of all, have sex with you. Shocking, I know.

Moving on, we've been having guest speakers in my Writing Portfolio class. Today, Western's current writer-in-residence Penn Kemp encouraged us to have obsessions. The fixation on something specific can lead to inspiration. She finds inspiration for much of her work (which includes a lot of perhaps strange, yet whimsical, poetry/sound concoctions) in those things that nag her and constantly swirl around in her mind. When you obsess over something you're likely to think about all kinds of aspects of that thing and delve deeper into it than you would a passing interest. More importantly, if you're obsessed it means you're passionate and what are writing and creativity without passion?

As I said, I'm very obsessive. I believe I suffer from what can only be described as Sudden On-set Obsession Syndrome. Perhaps this is a result of a short (albeit intense) attention span or technological induced ADD. But if this week of dreary academia has taught me anything, it's that I shouldn't be ashamed of my obsessions. This is in part due to my highly respected professor Norma Coates revealing her Sex & The City obsession. If obsessions can fuel my writing then I shall whole-heartedly embrace them, and I encourage you to do the same. Obsessions make for great party themes.

There's Nothing Funny About a "Royale with Cheese"

Some time has passed, yes, but am I in a better mental state? I'm going to have to answer no to that one. In fact, I believe my state has only gotten worse in the past two hours. And yet, not much work has been done. Intriguing. To keep you fully updated, I'm now suspecting my brain feels a little more like this Today's Big Thing video.

So. Very. Very. Wrong.

Redrum! Redrum!

The degree to which I don't care about school right now is shocking. Even with the impending clusterfuck of this week breathing it's rotting breath all over my rash-afflicted neck, I'm just totally unable to focus my attention on my notes. I just do not get this "studying" game with the re-reading of notes and articles. I don't want to do it anymore but I feel like I have to keep going until I sit down at my tiny desk and I'm handed that cursed white and blue exam booklet. I ended a phone conversation because I needed to get back to work but all I've managed to do is hit up Facebook. Uncool. However, I learned that fellow MIT-er and frequent classmate Liz Trinnear just made it to the Top 8 for the MuchMusic VJ search. Cool.

Ok, so while I attempt to return to the real world of studying and homework to write my Run Lola Run shot analysis, I will leave you with this video from the fabulous Peter Serafinowicz. This is kind of what my brain feels like right now. How appropriate that Ozzy Osbourne's Crazy Train just came up on my shuffle... iTunes is such a smartass. (P.S. I suggest watching the video on YouTube to get the full screen effect.)

P.P.S. Just so we're clear, it's pronounced "Red-rum" not "Re-drum." There's no percussion going on here. Not tonight, anyway.

Wish You Were Here

Peer over the edge

Can you see me?

Rivulets flow from your eyes

Paint runs from your mouth

Like a waterfall

And your lungs crystalize...

Once Every Fortnight I Exhale

|> IN

I can't get comfortable. I always feel on edge, anxious, unsettled. I'm blindfolded in front of a firing squad of archers who have drawn their bows and I'm just waiting. Every now and then someone on the squad coughs, shifts his weight from left to right, clears his throat. And every time I hear a noise I flinch. I tense my muscles. I hold my breath. But no arrow is ever fired. So I keep waiting.

I'm living minute to minute because I can't settle into a routine beyond going to class. I think once I read a book or watched a movie that said some people find this kind of existence exhilarating and liberating. I don't know who those people are. At best, I function in two-week periods, living and working for every other weekend. I get lost in that time (a fortnight is a long time, you know) so I put two countdowns on my Dashboard: one counting down to Christmas holidays, one counting down to the end of the school year/university. Turns out counting down the days makes time slow down. The only way to speed up time is to sleep more. Unfortunately, my insomnia and general aversion to going to sleep mean this is not a viable option for me.

Everyone keeps telling me I'll be fine. I know I'll be fine. I'm always fine. I've made it this far. But knowing I'll be fine doesn't negate the fact that I still have to do this. I have to live the next six months in this state of unrest, in this struggle against apathy. And so, there's only one thing left for me to do: leave a path of destruction in my restless wake.

Current location: London, ON - The University of Western Ontario

(Better wipe that smirk off your face, Sudbury, 'cause you're next. Get ready.)

I'll be fine. Yes. We'll all be fine.

<| OUT

Product Hell

Just in case the original wasn't embarrassing awesome enough, now there's the Snuggie For Dogs. Who comes up with this shit?

Resistance is Futile UPDATED

Thought I would share something fun that happened on campus today. I'm sure this arrest really required that many officers. I can't wait for this to spread around campus because I feel a new trend coming on. So stop resisting!

Another winner from today: In class we watched an old short film called The Gay Shoe Salesman where a shoe salesmen sneaks a kiss from the woman shopping, much to the dismay of her friend. Afterwards, the girl behind me whispered to her friend, "Then how can he be gay...?" I wish I was kidding. Laughter was barely contained.

Not too bad for a Wednesday, huh?

UPDATE

Go to YouTube to get the full UWO arrest experience. There are some...interesting comments on the video that I would hate for everyone to miss out on. Check out the CBC article and the LFP article and press conference for more information.

Arc of Time

Today I took out a piece of paper and a pen and discovered I had nothing to write.

Yesterday I saw a really cute, trendy Asian couple wearing matching silver backpacks and it reminded me I had two sleeps until Friday and 198 sleeps until April 30th.

Tomorrow I will go to a class I hate and another frustrating project meeting and I'll try to stay calm because the rash on my neck is getting worse and my insomnia is back.

Damnit, Jay David Bolter

Quick question:

Does media convergence make anyone else feel ill?

I should really stop using course readings as my bedtime snack. Turns out the digestion of remediation is not so immediate. Perhaps it's all the nominalizations?

1,000 Hugs from 10,000 Lightning Bugs

Good evening, bloggers.

I'm pounding keys tonight, working on my Popular Music and Gender essay analyzing the differences in the way music press discusses music legends Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix. I have music on the brain, more so than usual, so I wanted to share my new favourite song with you.

Check out Fireflies by Owl City.

Hope you enjoy.

Welcome Back

I'm going to reprise my blog, begin my return to the online community, by writing about how much I love being alone. Every day I have a block of classes separated by a single one-hour break. Today was the first break I spent alone this week.

Since returning to London I've generally been displeased about spending much time by myself. I'm lucky enough to have one of my best friends living two doors away (and that's the two laundry room doors inside my house) and for the first couple weeks there were a lot of back to school festivities involving countless people and places. But today, within the first few moments of sitting down into a familiar chair and plugging into my iPod I remembered how much I enjoy, and need, this time alone.

I've realized that I drift away in lectures because the unidirectional, constant sound is just enough to make me comfortable (for those unaware, I'm often highly uncomfortable with silence). This time alone lets my mind wander and not risk my nearly completed and grossly expensive academic career.

Like my aversion to silence, I often think that my dislike of being alone is an issue of insecurity. Perhaps I worry that I may stumble across a facet of myself that I don't like, or perhaps I'll return to my dirty habit of over analyzing something in my life that I'm bothered by or seems to good to be true. But I suppose returning to being alone is like riding a bike, and all those worries and apprehension are, in themselves, a product of my tendency to overanalyze.

But I'm really happy about the way things are right now and I'm alright because today,

I am alone.

I am comfortable and I am calm.

I am creative.

I am at peace.

Electric Days and Acoustic Nights: Flight of the Conchords Edition

Sometimes it's difficult to tell people how you feel about them.

Sometimes it's difficult to put those feelings into words.

The tradition of love songs is older than I care to research, but perhaps in this postmodern age people aren't as willing (or comfortable) to make grandiose claims of climbing the highest mountain for the one they love. So the next time you feel like using song to tell someone how much you care, take a cue from Bret and just say it straight.

Electric Days and Acoustic Nights

I love when artists release acoustic tracks or acoustic versions of old songs. Here are a few that are floating around my head while enjoy the wind-down of another school year.

I recently picked up Metric's newest album Fantasies (which got me a free button and sticker, so I couldn't be happier), and I'm really enjoying it. I was happy to discover this acoustic version of Gimme Sympathy.

A bit of a throw-back, this live/acoustic performance by Paramore of Misery Business showcases Hayley's killer vocal skills.

In 2005 Matthew Good released In a Coma: 1995-2005, a collection of previously released songs as well as acoustic arrangements, a stand-out cover of Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence, and unreleased tracks. Rooms, the acoustic disc, is probably my favourite of the collection. While it's difficult to choose a favourite song (as I learned yesterday during a game of 'choose your favourite non-single from each Matt Good album' with Jess and Evan), my pick has to go to Tripoli.

There are numerous more examples, so perhaps there will be future editions of this post, but for now I'm going to end with a nod to the boys back home. Over the Easter weekend Apex did some recordings with Evan and released two new acoustic tracks: Two Words and Coincity.

Enjoy today's selection while you prepare for your exams, attempt to pack for your end-of-semester move, bake some muffins, take a bath, feed your cat, or what ever you're doing that makes you think, "By-golly, I sure could go for some tasty acoustics right now."

Can The Twilight Zone dethrone Fantasia as the ultimate trip?

Up ahead, you see a signpost. You’ve gone back to a time when men wore three-piece suits and women were just their secretaries. You’ve entered The Twilight Zone.

The 1960 episode “Trouble With Templeton” tells the story of theatre actor Booth Templeton (Brian Aherne) who longs for days gone by when his wife Laura (Pippa Scott) was still alive and life was good, though perhaps his moustache was much less charming. There is trouble during a new production and soon after, as Rod Serling (your friendly neighbourhood narrator) says, Templeton enters The Twilight Zone. Mind melding ensues.

While over-dramatics in film and television during this time period can range from amusing to just plain annoying, this episode lands on the side of hilarity. Aherne wears his emotion on his face, with the camera often lingers there long enough for you to notice that his Clark Gable moustache is slightly uneven. While the story line is a bit ridiculous, Aherne's range of emotion makes Templeton a likeable character.

Scott, on the other hand, barely ever changes her facial expression except to emit a jarring hyena laugh, after which her face resumes its blank Flapper Barbie stare. Her spastic robot movements certainly don’t help her case either. This is an example of those annoying over-dramatics.

One of the best reasons to watch this episode is its authentically vintage atmosphere, as it’s a relic from the childhoods of baby boomers. The piano and string-filled theatre-like score and swinging '20s jazz combo perfectly complement their respective scenes, and everyone looks classically stylish in suits, hats, and straight-cut dresses.

A scene of particular note, for which director Buzz Kulik deserves major props, is one that mimics a stage production. It ends with the literal dimming of the lighting and all of the actors poised in tableau. These visual effects, combined with the music, are artfully self referrential in an episode about the theatre. However, there is something oddly unsettling about seeing these generally live elements on screen. Oh, and 10 points to anyone who can spot the guy who looks like Jack Layton in the bar before the fade-out.

While I would definitely recommend watching this episode, even if only for amusement’s sake, I must admit I was disappointed by how much the ending was spelled-out. Perhaps some ambiguity would have prevented the sense of mundane that often accompanies tidy conclusions on screen. I also would have liked to see Serling appear and disappear in a cheesy bright flash, I Dream of Jeannie style, just to add a little pizzazz. Although I suppose that would ruin the creepiness of the camera slowly panning to the left to reveal that Serling has been there all along.

The Modern Monstrous Feminine

For lovers and haters of Sex and the City.

Warning: You might pee your pants.

When Computers Ruled the Earth

I never want to see the day when it's possible for this conversation to take place.

Under the Northumberland Sun

While at work this afternoon, I finally made the call back to the old country to sort out my summer employment. This is something that brings me anxiety every spring and, like most things, I struggle between procrastinating as long as possible and getting it done as early as possible. We all know there is no magic employment tree -- jobs are limited, especially in small towns. I also struggle with where to work and what kind of work I want to do because I'm incredibly picky and like to get my way, which brings me to today's lesson:

Being an adult means putting on your big girl (or boy) underwear and sucking it up (in a strictly non-sexual context, barring certain career choices of course).

This is why I have opted for four months of farm labour back home rather than a job related to my chosen career (a concept that is rapidly turning into something distant and nebulous). Now, this is not on my family's farm, as that doesn't exist, but in the vineyards at the winery down the road from my house where I worked last summer as a Tasting Bar Rep and Server.  The bonus? Built in exercise and tan (after the inevitable burn peels off).  

So back to the sucking it up. My father has been telling me for years that I need to have what he so charmingly calls 'Fuck You money' saved up in case I'm fired, need to quit etc. so I'm going to slave in the dirt for now since unpaid internships may dominate my immediate post-grad period. If only I wanted to be an accountant. Or a plumber.

Why I Would Rather be a Zombie than a Vampire

There has been a recent resurgence – or rather, reanimation – of zombies and vampires in the entertainment industry.

They are probably the two most popular monsters and both have long and ever-changing histories in the arts and entertainment business, but these beasts have had new life breathed into them by popular modern adaptations. There are the Resident Evil and 28 Days Later film franchises and 30 Days of Night, the teeny-bopper book series sensation Twilight, countless video games like Dead Rising and Left 4 Dead…the list goes on.

In light of this, someone asked me which I would rather be: a zombie or a vampire. I didn’t hesitate to say vampire. The modern literary vampire is known to be intelligent, suave and sophisticated, well dressed and even sexy. Think Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire or any of Anne Rice’s other characters. Vampires are immortal yet they walk among the living like normal citizens despite being undead.

On the other side of the horror see-saw, zombies are portrayed as stupid – even when they can run fast enough to chase your moving car – dirty and decaying corpses who groan and shriek, making it impossible for them to blend into the world of the living. Instead of being solitary figures like vampires, zombies travel in packs and are often aligned with the loss of individuality, cults and communism. And I think most people would agree that while the sensuous blood sucking of vampires is sexy, the voracious flesh eating of zombies is just gluttonous and grotesque.

So vampire seemed like the obvious choice. But when I gave the question a little more thought, I realized I was selling zombies short.

What fun is being immortal when everyone you would ever know and love would die? And as much as I appreciate a higher intellect, after living for centuries I have a feeling the novelty might start to wear off. Perhaps zombies aren’t burdened by idiocy, but liberated by obliviousness. After a couple hundred years I don’t think I would mind putting complex theories aside in favour of getting in line to mindlessly chase some people through suburbia or a mall.

Now it’s time to get to the core of this debate. Brains aside, and on to brawn. In a fight between a zombie and a vampire, I am quite confident the zombie would win, no contest. First, the two monsters can be considered equals in the sense that they both possess the ability to transform their victims into one of them. And yes, the vampire could suck the zombie’s blood, but since a zombie is dead its blood probably wouldn’t provide the vampire with the necessary nutrition, rendering this attack ineffective. However, the zombie could eat the vampire. This could result in the creation of a zombie-vampire hybrid because the zombie would ingest the vampire’s blood and, if we are to believe Bram Stoker, would subsequently become immortal.

So I ask you: Would you rather abide by social constructs – except for the odd time you need to feed – and spend your nights in an uncomfortable wooden box for eternity, or would you rather throw restraint to the wind and run around like you’re a kid again, eating what ever you want, including vampires?

That’s what I thought.

Pass this to the front

Dear Forehead,

I want you. On the first day of class I noticed you: your distinguished brow, your brown leather shoes and briefcase, your button-up shirt and well-fitting jeans, and most notably your stereotypically cute face. I don't often hear your voice but when I do I imagine what it would sound like asking me how I like my eggs. I like them scrambled. I can picture us sitting all day in a coffee shop (probably Starbucks), pretentiously dressed and having pretentious conversations about loving Le Corbusier and hating Bentham. I would adjust your tie, like a loving 1950s housewife, and you would give me that sly smile and kiss my cheek.

I like that you appear to be somewhat of a loner, or rather an individualist, as you don't fraternize with the other men in the class. We could be that couple that goes to parties or the mall and privately criticizes everyone less stellar than us. We would exchange knowing glances and sarcastic snickers and when we walk around people will think "My, that's a stylish couple..." and will wish they were us.

Thanks for holding the door open for me. The dress I wore today was for you, so I hope you liked it. And I hope one day we can become the ultimate elitist couple. Our sex life, combined intellect and attractiveness will put Brad and Angelina to shame. But we won't have as many kids. That's ridiculous.

Yours for the taking,
Nicole

P.S. I have a sneaking suspicion you would look sexy with some hobo-scruff.

Do they bring out a yeti?

While having a conversation with a friend tonight, this completely unrelated question came to me:

What happens with zoos during the winter?

It might seem stupid but I'd never thought about it before and it was totally blowing my mind. According to this site, zoos are a rockin' place during these chilly months. They try to house enough animals that don't hibernate to keep people coming, make skating rinks, put on light shows, and do shows and animal performances in theatres. I don't see why I would go to a zoo to ice skate unless I would get to skate with some some penguins or polar bears.

Let's Go For a Ride

A man who looks like Bill Murray is wearing a turquoise toque. A woman almost steps in front of the bus. Two men bond over having the same cane. They clink their canes together in a toast. A man crossing the street is almost hit by the bus as it tries to make a tight left. A grey plastic bag falls to the floor spilling menthols and an energy drink. The essentials. A mother and daughter board.

The mother is dressed in black velour track pants, a taupe racing stripe graces each leg, a gray West-Coast Chopper t-shirt and bright red jacket spotted with NASCAR patches. Her skin looks nicotine stained and overwhelmed by freckles. But her face is a shadow beneath her death blond hair, over-moussed and over-sprayed in an attempt to turn back the clock.

The daughter looks to be about three or four years old. Like little girls do, she’s wearing a monochromatic purple outfit topped with a dirty lavender winter coat. She has thin, whispy blond hair and perfectly flushed skin. But her eyes are her mother’s eyes, heavy-lidded and sadly turning down at the outer-corners.

The two exchanged few words. The mother sat stoically. But the girl gazed about with that sad looking face, absentmindedly touching her hand to her mouth, hesitantly pinching her bottom lip in a gesture I know too well.

Smoker Lady

While walking to my friendly neighbourhood bus stop yesterday, I jetted past a man and woman (probably in their 50s) who were taking their sweet times trudging through the snow. Shortly after taking refuge from the cutting wind in the bus shelter the slow-mos joined me and promptly whipped out a cigarette to share. Though the man was standing just outside the shelter entrance, the woman was standing inside.  Now, I don't care how cold it is, or what's falling from the sky... If you're going to smoke then get the fuck out of the bus shelter. 

Congratulations, Smoker Lady.

You're On Notice.

After some emphatic coughing, I considered the woman may not be able to hear me clearly as her dirty mauve coat hood was pulled up and pulled tight. Obviously she was just plain rude and inconsiderate. 

I abruptly stomped over to her, grumbled an attitude-laden "excuse me" when I realized she wasn't going to clear the entrance, and stomped outside. They seemed fairly oblivious.  I don't know if she noticed, but I shot her my very condescending "you disgust me" face, and wished I could have brought myself to speak up.

She's a saucy girl

For anyone who isn't aware, Journalism is a highly romanticized career. 

I think when I imagine myself as a journalist I'm picturing the roar, boom and glamour of 1920s and 40s America, with the flappers and the cool hats that have little cards in them printed with the word "Press" and young dirty boys selling papers on the corner. I have a little notebook and glasses. I'm ruthless and fast-talking, a cigarette comfortably tucked into the corner of my mouth. I think I got a lot of that from Citizen Kane...

In reality, journalism is sitting at your desk typing away, making phone call after phone call, and trying to make deadline. It's a lot of work for very little pay off. And a lot of people don't call you back. That being said, I will not send out thanks and good vibes to everyone who has called me back. All this, and I'm only doing an internship for the paper's Special Sections. This isn't even news journalism.

I think I'm beginning to learn that journalism may have seduced me into an abusive relationship that I'm afraid to extract myself from. I think what I want to be is a writer. Let's not kid ourselves; most people don't care who wrote the articles when they browse through the paper. I'm a little selfish. I want to work to be about me too. I want the stories to be mine. I want the style to be distinctly mine. 

And so, if I can break out, maybe I'll try to go back to my past love, Creative Non-Fiction. The affair was brief and intense, but oh so sweet.

I Heart Standardization

"Why would Ford commission a devout Marxist to paint his mural?"

- guy in Legacy of the Automobile class on Diego Rivera's Detroit Industry mural

Mid-Week Mix-ed Bag

1. I love that Discovery Channel commercial as much as I hate Nickelback.
   
2. I had a dream the other night where Woody Allen was The Riddler. But I think he was an impostor. Because Elvis Costello was also The Riddler...
   
3. Apparently everyone on the 2 Dundas starts at the same time as me on Wednesdays. So congrats, 10:30am Wednesday class. You're On Notice. I was waiting for 25 minutes for the bus. Like, three "full" buses passed me. And by the time I got picked up at 10:30 there were like 30 people waiting at my stop. Trust me, it had nothing to do with the sudden snow squalls. This happens every Wednesday.
4. KH and I have decided to start a socio-political literary/arts magazine. More on that later.

Set Me Adrift

I want to be a dead-beat

A beat-nick

A nick-knack collector

But what would I do 

With all these things

Too heavy with memory 

To sling on my back

Too precious with heart

To spread on the street

Because I’ll be that girl

With chalk on her face

And red speckled elbows

Toe-tapping the tune

Of the last passer-by

And with the sweep of her hand

Clearing the dust

Of humming and drumming

Everyday life

Before unfolding a palm

And blowing a kiss

To the blank canvas below

Covering it with colour

Perfectly matching your face

Until too many feet

Or too much rain

Turns you into someone 

I don’t recognize

Screen Astronauts Guild?

Ok, so I'm watching red carpet stuff for the SAG Awards while I do my homework. Originally I was just flipping to it during a commercial but now I can't flip back to what I was watching because this red carpet show is a train wreck and it has sucked me in.

These two over-made-up women doing the interviews, we'll call them Idiot 1 and Idiot 2 (because I don't know their names), are asking the dumbest questions and wearing hideous dresses. They just keep asking people who their celebrity crushes were when they younger and not handling deadpan or sarcastic celebrity jokes with aaaanything witty.  They're juggling apples and and making lame sexual references...

Now, I'm not claiming to be able to do any better, but I'm sure there are people out there who could. Why aren't they working tonight?!

However, I did enjoy when Tracy Morgan said he was excited to see James Earl Jones on the carpet because Jones is his biological father.  And when Will Arnett and Amy Poehler ignored Idiot 1 to talk about Jenna Fischer (who was on the carpet) and conducted their own commentary in mocking voices.

Please call me, scam artists

I knew there was reason to be suspicious of that do-not-call list...

Elective Psychopathy

"...We're not reasonable and rational creatures. Far from it. We resort to reason when it suits us. For most people life is comfortable today, and we have the spare time to be unreasonable if we choose to be. We're like bored children. We've been on holiday for too long, and we've been given too many presents. Anyone who's had children knows that the greatest danger is boredom. Boredom, and a secret pleasure in one's own malice. Together they can spur a remarkable ingenuity."
"Let's stuff baby's mouth with sweets and see if he stops breathing?"
"Exactly." (103)

- J.G. Ballard Kingdom Come

Post-Secondary Education

I don’t think I can do this school thing anymore. And I love school. But after fifteen and a half years the novelty is finally starting to wear off. If I have to sit through one more student-made PowerPoint presentation I’m going to try to rip out all my hair.

Congratulations, Post-Secondary Education.
You’re On Notice.

People are always saying, “You’ll wish you were in school once you have to start working all the time,” or, “Why would you want to rush into the ‘real world’ when you’re in university?” Blah blah blah. How about because at least then I’ll be doing something, living, instead of writing academic essays?!

A girl friend who doesn’t share my opinion said that “we’ll never have as much free time as we do now.” I disagree. Most of the ‘free time’ I have now is because I’m not doing my homework.

Instead of learning things anymore, I’m being taught the same things by different people. The overlapping of content in courses is disgusting. And every semester I take at least one class that sounds boring as fuck -- but sounds really useful -- that ends up being a colossal waste of time.

The only classes I enjoy attending anymore are the ones on random topics that, while very interesting, probably won’t get me anywhere in the ‘real world.’ For example: Watching Music on the Small Screen: Popular Music on TV; From Bram to Buffy: The Vampire in TV, Print ad Film; Crash: Landscape, Culture and the Legacy of the Automobile… The list goes on. The only two electives that have proven their worth are Arts & Entertainment Journalism and Creative Non-Fiction Writing.

I’m pretty sure I just keep writing the same essay over and over but through different topics. Some essays topics include: the Jesus complex and technological rebirth in R.U.R and The Matrix; why The Wizard of Oz is a preemptive containment text; labyrinths and the questionable futility of death (particularly suicide) in Voices of Time and The Shining; the perpetuation of female stereotypes in music and failed authenticity in Girlicious…

I’m going to make next year as easy as possible. This is no longer about kill count; it’s about finishing the mission.

Pics or Lies

Sound sure does carry through the labyrinthine world of cubicles. While at work today I heard many things, from the benign (the selling of ad space, the offer of coffee) to the fantastic (guttural frat-boy-esque shouting and the following sporadic comments):

"... and I was like, 'What's this? Oh, it's a golden shower,' and I had to call upstairs to ask how to delete it from my computer..."

"... haha, it's a girl being pooped on..."

"... I think I found the end of the internet... It's this porn site..."

Which leads me to today's lesson:

If you think you've found the end of the internet then you obviously haven't seen 4chan.

HOWEVER, I warn you that this is, in fact, the true end of the internet. Do not be fooled by the site's primitive looking facade or the numerous anime/manga references you might first encounter, for lurking within those seemingly innocent threads live posts to melt your mind into an unidentifiable mess. If there's no room for ambiguity in your sense of morality, this is not for you. The people on this site should be institutionalized. If you can wade through the unimaginable inappropriateness of a large portion of the content there is some really funny stuff. Don't judge me. My gamer friends told me about this.

Inauguration Day

As of noon today, Barack Obama is the 44th President of the United States. 

This obviously calls for some blogging and a celebratory glass of wine before I head to my next class. But what can I possibly say about this?

Obama's address was epic (that part about being someone whose father might not have been served in a restaurant 60 years ago and now being President? Delicious), as was the benediction by Rev. Lowery. The song by John Williams was beautiful and the crowd stretched for something like 2 miles. On the other hand, old Cheney was wheelchair-bound after suffering a back injury while moving out and John Roberts muddled the wording of the Oath of Office.

I hesitate to say this, but despite the obvious weight of this event I couldn't help but feel like I was watching a giant sporting event. The announcer's booming voice and the American national anthem, especially, made me feel like next on the podium would be the starting line-up of the Pittsburgh Steelers...

Superbowl anticipation aside, here's to change! 

Damn that Congress lunch sounds good...

Viva la Gamer

I'm taking a Contemporary Grammar writing course this semester. I know, sounds riveting, right? We've been ever so slowly getting into the real business of it, but today's lecture left me intrigued, and fighting to suppress laughter.

We were talking about lexical rules and how as native English speakers we often know when a sentence is wrong but can't always articulate why (hence learning grammar). For example, some verbs are stative, meaning they don't describe a process but simply a state (like to be). These verbs cannot be used in the structure be + present participle (like is walking). Of course, an example was provided.

Here is the incorrect sentence:

Sue is owning a BMW.

The "correct" sentence is: 

Sue owns a BMW.

Which leads me to today's lesson:

Gamer's are taking English to the next level because there is a context in which that sentence is grammatically correct.

In the event of a woman vs. car confrontation, it would be correct to say that "Sue is owning a BMW" if she's beating the shit out of a Beemer. The car doesn't need to belong to her. It could belong to anyone. All that matters is that she is owning that noob of a car.

The High Road

I have a section dedicated to obsessions and I thought it only fair to dedicate a section to such things holding less savory positions in my mind. And so, with great pleasure, I would like to debut my On Notice section, Colbert style.

Congratulations, The High Road.

You're On Notice.

There is rumoured to be a certain sense of maturity in taking the proverbial high road, but I think that's elitist bullshit. I mean, hey, I love elitism as much as the next elitist, but what's the fun there? You just need to be clever about it. Think controlled burn rather than forest fire. You dig it? I say it's better to slyly lay some burn (flaming tipped arrows rather than balls of fire from a trebuchet) than risking a Hindenburg-level disaster being the pot of gold at the end of your fancy high road.

Over-exposure in aisle one!

I finally got my interview and was out a little after 2:30. I figured the best course of action was to grab some groceries before heading home.

I'm standing with my sad little green plastic basket at the end of an aisle in the produce section. The bananas were making suggestive remarks and I felt I couldn't resist buying a few. So I'm innocently checking out the selection along with two other shoppers: an older woman who was having just as much trouble choosing a bunch as I was, and a big older man wearing giant navy blue rubber boots over a navy blue ensemble.

The three of us each came to our own hesitant fruit decision and were slowly setting the "chosen ones" into our respective baskets when I noticed the man was starting to slowly shuffle away. With his pants down. Luckily he noticed his new ankle restraints and slowly put them back in their public-friendly position and continued shopping.

The truly weird part: While trying to be inconspicuous, I quickly glanced around. No one else seemed to notice and if they did they must have been unfazed. Is this a common occurrence at the Oxford and Richmond Valu-Mart?

Just a quickie

My editor just left for the afternoon to cover the boat show so here I sit, one article in the bag and one article hanging from the tip of the cliff above the proverbial bag. I'm waiting for a source that was apparently going to call me back "any minute" about 30 minutes ago after I spent all week tracking down the person.

I was in at quarter to 9 this morning to do another phone interview. I need to close this set of brackets that is my Friday and go home. Or, pick up some groceries because whilst sitting here I jotted down a list. I wonder what other lists I can make... I do love making lists...

Mmm, mmm. The glamour of journalism. Smells good, right?

In Soviet Russia, the product endorses YOU!

I've always said that the marketing people at Ford are pure genius for snagging Kiefer Sutherland to do the voice overs in their commercials. Not only is he Jack Bauer and a pirate, he's a total fox. That voice. He could sell me anything.

But now my beloved Zach Braff is water. Yes, he is the voice of water in the current PUR Water Filtration campaign.

Although celebrity endorsement is nothing new (hell, good ole Eddie Bernays got a bunch of celebrities to party with Coolidge at the White House so people wouldn't think he was such a sour-puss before re-election), it seems to be getting a little out of hand, no?

 

Is the fact that Zach Braff is the voice of water going to persuade me to buy a PUR water filter for my tap? Probably not, because I'm a poor student and I have a Brita pitcher. It's ridiculous that we can be convinced to buy things because actors are in the ads. You know they're just acting in those, right? That's what they do for a living. Pretend. So stop trying to sell stuff to me. Did you hear me, Andie MacDowell? I already use L'Oreal products!

However, I just saw this celebrity election ad for the first time in my Consumerism class this week (yes, I'm several months behind) and it's actually quite hilarious. Give me a break though, Harrison Ford is in it!

Backwards, into a wall of fire

I've come to two conclusions today.

Uno: I really hate it when people eat a cup of pudding or yogurt by sucking the substance out of the top rather than using a spoon. Either bring a spoon with you or bring a snack that doesn't require you eating like a small child.

Dos: The infamous and sexy Hobo Matt (guy on campus who looks like Matt Good in his Strange Days video who I always see and brings me good luck) must actually have graduated for I have not seen his perfectly scruffy face yet this school year. I wonder if he realized how many times he saw me since we made eye contact so many times (due to my staring). He opened a door for me once. I felt compelled to tell him he resembled Hobo Matt but my small slice of sanity advised me against it. I like to think of his as "the one who got away."

I don't smell bacon

Today was my first day as an intern at the London Free Press. 

On my way home the 2 Dundas stopped a block or so west of Richmond and a well dress young man wearing black shoes and a grey coat and clutching a gym bag stepped onto the bus followed by a few more young people. Instead of gym bags they had signs which appeared to be protesting the war. If you're familiar with the Dundas-Richmond intersection you know the variety of dodgy people these youngster were. They were followed by two policemen. 

The protestors, who had apparently caused a disturbance, were asked to disembark. One of them, the only one who would return to the bus, made some comment like "Oh, he thinks he's such a tough man because he has a gun." From what I heard his friend didn't make it back to the bus because he was arrested. 

I spent the rest of the ride pretending to listen to my iPod while actually listening to this idiot bitch about the "pigs" and that the loophole to dealing with them is to ask, "Am I being arrested or detained?" and if they say "no" then you're free to ignore them and leave. I also learned they were protesting Starbucks. Good thing the girl he was talking to was drinking Tim Hortons.

On my way home from campus this morning the bus driver splashed a pedestrian with slush as he pulled up to the curb when approaching the next stop. By the time everyone got on the bus the splashed guy had passed by us. So the driver crept the bus forward and motioned the guy over to the vehicle. The driver apologized and the guy told him it was okay, there was nothing the driver could have done.

So, with that, I think my faith in humanity actually leveled up today.

Anakin, you're breaking my heart

Got that right.

I'm watching Revenge of the Sith on TV.

That conversation between Padme and Anakin is just golden:

Padme: Anakin, all I want is your love.

Anakin: Love won't save you, Padme! Only my new powers can do that!

...

Padme:...Stop now, I love you!

Anakin: Liar! You brought him here to kill me! Tries to strangle her with the infamous Force Grip.

And let's not forget Yoda's out of control sentence rearranging and the incredibly emotional speech Obi-Wan gives about his love for Anakin after he slices off Anakin's legs and leaves him engulfed in flames. Oh, there are far too many lines to list.

But the epic lines don't end there.

Has anyone seen trailers for the new V-Day movie My Bloody Valentine 3D?

Because nothing says "date movie" like a 3D ride to Hell.

I'm just falling in love with film all over again.