Monday, February 23, 2009

big fish; bigger pond

Sarah-Torialist Nicole Prickett

Makin mama proud, even thousdands of miles away.

something for the cheddarless

I suppose we can expect to hear less and less about that bastardly "bathing ape" on Flow 93.5 from now on.

(Not that I listen to Flow. Often. Only when I'm cleaning my apartment. Which I do daily.)

I found these eyesores among the housewares at a Salvation Army. They stood out like, ahem, well, like Bape products in any scenario. Apparently, S.A. hasn't fully developed their 'fresh gear' section yet. It's on their list of things to do after 'organize VHS reserve', and fix the shattered window front.

Too funny.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

WARNING: honesty may contain negativity

The worst part about a good thing is that it will eventually end. We've all heard the saying about the glass. Either it's half-full, or it's half-empty. But really, no one is going to just sit and stare at a glass that's half-full anyways. They're going to do what they do with glasses, and that's drink from them. Eventually, the glass will become empty after so many sips. Of course, you could just look at the glass, maintaining it's half-fullness in all of it's half-full glory, and wait for the contents of the glass to either sour, ferment, or go flat, and then throw it all out anyway – but that would be far more wasteful and disheartening than an empty glass to begin with.

We'd be foolish to consider every positive scenario as a glass half-full, because everyone knows that a glass, no mater the volume of its contents, will eventually drain to nothing, evaporate into thin air, or rot. That's the nature of the glass, and the contents. Either we drink it, or we throw it away – nothing can stay "half-full" forever.

Such a stupid saying. And an even sillier concept.

I've had trouble accepting this throughout my life. I've been called pessimistic when challenging permanence. But, seriously, what is permanent? A physical scar? An emotional scar? A tattoo? Maybe I should get the image of a half-full glass tattooed to my ass to remind me, every time I get naked in front of a mirror, that I'm a cynical, naked, 20-something. Then maybe I'll understand, but not likely.

It's a skill to be able to live in the moment. To be able to take time and smell the flowers, and just for a second stop focusing on the fact that they were sent from a boyfriend exactly 2,229 kilometres away - someone that I can't ever see, or touch, or hear unless filtered through phone lines and long-distance charges.

My mother and sister came to visit for the weekend. Despite the dinners, and the movies, and the shopping, there is always this little voice in the background saying "only 4 more days…only 3 more days…only 2 more days." Of course, that voice, in this case, really did belong to my 14 year old sister who, despite the fun we were having, could not wait to get back home (to find out who-held-hands-with-whom while she was away). But, even if she wasn't here to mark the days as they passed, my own reasoning would be doing the same, focusing on how much time had gone, rather than how much time was left.

Now, they've left, too. I walked them to their cab just about an hour ago. I promised my mother, who could see the dark cloud rolling in, that I would go buy milk and get busy with my list of things to do. But I haven’t. My condo is quiet. Like, dead quiet. Pin-drop quiet. The bed is unmade, and the list of things that need to be done is by my kitchen sink. There is laundry to do, groceries to buy, one essay, two articles, and a midterm on Monday – but all I really want to do right now is pour myself a glass of wine and sulk. A full glass.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

i pay good money for this education:

“If Dante was here, condemning people for intellectual pretension, their punishment would be to sit in hell reading every edition of The Walrus.”
- Peter McNelly, Broadcast Professor & jokester extraordinaire

(*thanks jt)

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

my friends are famouser than your friends

When I was young, I used to dream about dating Jonathon Taylor Thomas. As his loyal and devoted girlfriend, I would be at every live studio taping of Home Improvement, running lines with little Taryn Noah, and helping Zachary Ty with quick changes.

I would attend all of the Jr. Nickelodeon award shows with him, and we'd walk the red carpet together. He'd wear a short sleeved dress shirt, untucked with cargo pants, and I would glide proudly along next to him in a daisy printed jumper and front-flipped bucket cap, a classic look inspired by Blossom. We'd vacation with his family to Disney World, and slowly, his pint sized A-list friends would call me a friend in turn. They'd come to my birthday parties at the indoor golf dome, and they'd send me woven friendship jewellery in the mail when I wasn't in L.A.

Well, I never did get the chance to date Jonathon. I sent three hand-written letters to The Rosie O'Donnell show, expressing why I had to have a spot with JTT on the next 'meet your favourite celebrity" segment – all to no avail.

I eventually got over the heartbreak, and accepted the fact that little girls in butterfly clips and Umbro shorts weren't meant to rub shoulders with the celebrity elite. What I didn't realise (at the ungainly age of eleven) is that eventually I'd stop twisting my hair into faux corn-rows and wear real pants, and that I'd meet my very own celebrities all in good time – and without the help of a nonresponsive, kush-kush flinging lesbian.

Now, it seems that all of my nearest and dearest have achieved some form of well deserved luminary status. I've really made it. I've truly arrived.

SNP will be heading across the pond to lend her keen eye and quick pen to London Fashion Week, Mercanti has been popping up in magazines across Canada and the interweb, Christopher is named one of the 'Chefs of The City" and handed a tasty little sum of money, Merrill, Hannah and Mack are getting online shout-outs like no one's business, and of course, there's this mystery betty below:

Now, I'm not one to throw around the word 'celebrity' without a disclaimer. After all, that would create a contradiction of blogger-ous proportions. These aforementioned cats are icons by my standards, and not necessarily by yours. Get to know them though, and you too will be writing them fan mail in no time.

Monday, February 2, 2009

can you believe this crap?

This breaking news report states that after a custodian attempted to flush a "suspicious substance" down the toilet in the downtown Greyhound bus depot, he was "overcome" by the substance.

His eyes burned, and his throat hurt, and he felt uncontrollably ill.

Uh. Have you ever been into a Greyhound bus station, let alone a bathroom? There are things in the sitting area that can cause that very same reaction.

Diharrea isn't Diphosgene. Send home the hazmat's and call a plumber.

(p.s. who wants to go to New York?)


My futon is situated against a wall. Everyday, I roll out of bed on the left side, because I have no other choice. Today, the left side turned out to be the right side, as opposed to the alternative wrong side, proverbially speaking. Last night I went to bed ridiculously early, intentionally leaving my curtains open, hoping to wake up without my alarm. This morning, like all mornings, the sounds of street construction filtered in. I'm so used to it now that it's nearly calming. Calming enough to send me back to sleep. But not today. The sun, which feels like a long lost friend of mine, beat me to rise. This morning was disguised as springtime, and I was happy to play the fool.

My phone was blinking with a text message. In the message was a joke. Not a very funny joke, really. But it’s the effort that is gladly and pitiably noted. Then a few more messages, and a phone call from Mum. Shower, and a coffee, with time left for some breakfast.

More texts.
C: Today is starting out as a good one! Still meeting at 1?
T: My day has been a bit slow…how about 2?

Between classes, I made a one hour stop off at my newest (version of the same old) caffeinated-watering hole. What has now become something of a weekly tradition has proven to be the only remedy for my typical case of the Monday's. However, today I didn't have them. Missing one of the usual suspects, just the two of us talked, and talked, and were mindful of both time, and good manners.

Walking on the last leg of what felt like a minute-long day, I was still impressed by the calibre of my mood. You see, over the past few weeks I've been permanently stumped. Putting out nothing, and getting the same back in return. I've felt dried up, overworked and underworked, without work, and tired of working on changing it. And what else? I felt sick, homesick, and sick of feeling sick, without any real symptoms of sickness at all, and no reason to stay in bed. All out of no where, and with no end in sight.

Today, though, something's been recovered. My sinus and my conscience are both clear. I don't often read inspirational quotes, simply because I don't find them inspirational -- but as I swallowed the last of my drink, I saw this written on the side:

The Way I See It #276
Anger is contagious.

And then it all made sense.