Stupid Confession of the Day

So, T.A. PAUL- my second favourite T.A. of all time, and thus deserving of the constant capitalization- invited me to his New Year's shindig. I decided not to go. In other words, I am forfeiting the right to see one of my favourite authority figures get drunk and weepily sing along to the Carpenters for Guelph.
I also made the brilliant decision to tell everyone I still knew in Guelph that I always get morose on this date, and am quarantining myself away from the general population to contain the suck. Which of course, makes it perfectly understandable that I am mildly miffed that no one in Guelph has invited me to their New Year's thing.
Which I, of course, would just refuse anyway.
Sometimes I don't make sense, even to myself. And yet, still:

Diving In The Resolution Dumpster

I've been visiting the scrapheap of my broken resolutions over the past few days. I'm trying to decide whether I should do New Year's resolutions this year or just forget it, and say they're a clever ruse to sell exercise machines and Suze Orman books. It's the cyclical nature: I am miserable and unhappy about myself, so I make resolutions aimed to fix them, but then I make them too ambitious, and when I inevitably spend most of the year eating granola bars in front of the computer, I get to feel bad again just in time for December.

So, I won't make the same kind of resolutions. Anything about my weight is right out, for obvious reasons. I always say I want to be more informed about the world, but the world is scarier the more you know about it. Maybe I should swap "watch the National every night" with "watch Entertainment Tonight every second week?" No, that's even more depressing than failure. And don't even get me started on my attempt to green my living. My life is supported by a thin tissue of take-out containers and impulsive shopping, and the thought of deodorant crystals makes me ill. Also, if the end times are right around the corner, I want to go out driving an SUV with one hand and mashing a Big Mac into my gob with the other.

No, I'm not so decadent. Furthermore, I still lack my G2, so driving any vehicle outside of a bicycle is out of the question. I guess it would be easier just to give up resolutions entirely, but I'm still optimistic. And I figure if I set some goals, even if I fail a little, there's a good chance I'll accomplish a bit more than I would otherwise. So, this year, I'm setting just five simple goals. Prepare for limited success, world!

Protagitron's Resolutions for 2009

1. Learn how to cook Indian food
2. Read all of Remembrance of Things Past
3. Graduate
4. Visit New York City
5. Be more frugal

Oh, and then there's Protagitron's One Big Resolution for 2009:

1. Be less of an obsessive, neurotic, depressed weirdo and enjoy life... you delightful dumbass.
   

Obscure File Categories, 1

From the files of "Sexier in Theory Than in Practice":
Shopping for bras. Particularly with a mother who insists on only buying the ones in boxes because the sale is better. I will say that the new bra keeps my girls up, but it also looks like a relic from the Soviet Union and could, quite possibly, stop one of their tanks.

The Tackiest Thing Ever

Please Note:

1. Lavender and teal colour scheme
2. Stills from the movie around the base
3. Arch
4. Quotes on the arch
5. The fact that one of those quotes is "I carried a watermelon!"
6. That there is a button you can press which then plays audio clips of those clips, as well as this monologue: "Look, spaghetti arms. This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine. You gotta hold the frame."

Reader, I purchased it. But only at 50% off, and only to plug the hole in my heart after my nascent tradition of "Buying a Batman ornament after Christmas" was quashed.

Guelph Digest

I thought my blog needed some sex appeal. This is my favourite mug from my Grandfather's "Naughty Mug" collection.

Well, how was everyone's Christmas? I spent mine Chez Grandma, in the town of Ingleside, which is kind of like a suburb of Cornwall, a town whose most notable feature was its paper plant. Which has since closed down. I feel bad about making fun of it, because the people there are quite nice. However, being in a small town when you're stuck with family, and old enough to resent the fact, is no fun. Although Guelph is not Montreal, you can still get out of your house and go somewhere. In Ingleside, there is no "there" there, at least outside of the house after regular business hours. Unless if it's somebody else's house. What I'm driving at is that I spent a lot of time upstairs, reading, this Christmas. I still recorded two bits of Grandmotherly wit and wisdom to carry you guys into the New Year, however:

1. "And they were selling popcorn for thirteen dollars! I just about shit myself!"
-Grandma Protagitron on her encounter with price gouging at a production of Mamma Mia.
2. "And she was using the toilet, so I had to pee in the sink! It was that or piss on the floor."
-Grandma P again, on proper bathroom etiquette when traveling in the state of New York.

What year is it at Grandma's house? Is it 1954, 2004, 1982, 1983, or a year represented on none of these calendars?

I am now back in Guelph, considerably more enlightened. Also, considerably better dressed. Montreal friends, there is a reason to get out of the city. I don't care if you're going to Ontario, or Moose Jaw, or even staying in Quebec and going to some po'dunk town where the locals give you the stink eye. The second hand clothing is going to kick Montreal's ass. I'm not saying that Montreal doesn't have good thrifting, just that you are competing with 1 620 692* other people for the choice items, and they are probably craftier and better at haggling than you are. So, you can either be lucky, fork over some serious coin, or content yourself with the best the early 90s has to offer in burgundy corduroy.

Guelph Haul

I am never lucky, so I am Guelphy. In today's haul: Vintage herringbone jacket, made in Edinburgh sometime in the sixties, judging from the label. Diane Von Furstenberg scarf, which I paid more for than I usually pay for secondhand goods, but 14$ for DVF is a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And, from Value Village, the Bluest Coat in the World. It is so blue it is post-post-blue. It deserves its own biohazard sticker. The legally blind might be able to make out light, dark, and this coat. I love it, and plan to be buried in it.

There is another good reason to go to Guelph: All Strung Out. Mote has her own (awesome) yarn store. I wasn't around when it opened, but I had to come down and drop a few dollars. Not as much as I would have liked, but I am under severe financial and space considerations. Also, my stash is in danger of smothering the cat, which would just push me over the edge from righteous to sad spinster. So, I limited myself to just some Diamond sock yarn, which is a gift for a friend anyway, and some Noro Kureyon Sock, which is for a secret project. But here's why you shouldn't do the same:

1. Supporting local businesses is awesome.
2. Mote is a lovely person.
3. Who doesn't love yarn?

I can't think of a better three reasons. And for those smartasses who are wondering if I even knit anymore, some day there will be pictures. Or maybe line drawings. Whatever.

Winter in balmy Guelph. Slushtastic!

In That Holiday Spirit (of Twitchiness)

I don't know whether it's the fact that I'm a bit sick, or if it's the holiday blues, or maybe it's the 'nog, but I've been acting damn strange lately. 

The good thing is that I'll be visiting Ingleside over Christmas, so it's not like I'll stand out much in my weirdness.

All slagging of miniscule Ontario towns aside, I know it's not the 'nog. But more on that later. 

Until then, I actually went to see a movie! A real one, in a theater with tickets and everything!

Frost/Nixon Dramatizes the story behind the famous interviews by David Frost of Richard Nixon, which prised some honesty about Watergate from Nixon years after he resigned. That I could only write that sentence because I read movie reviews says something about one of the problems Frost/Nixon faces. Nixon is a generational figure, either as a sinner or as a joke. To me, he was firmly the latter, and the first things I learned about him were, in order, Watergate; the V for Victory fingers; "I am not a crook!"; and that he was the owner of a pair of magnificent jowls. The bitterness shown by some of the movie's characters over Cambodia, or over betraying the American people, is confusing when you're wondering if he's the same lovable old guy from Dick. Frank Langella's excellent performance as Nixon, and the pull of the underdog narrative, also make Frost's eventual triumph less than satisfying for anyone who was not a victim of the seventies. It becomes almost unwanted.

There is one other issue, the conceit of editing it as a partial documentary. Although the scenes set during the interviews act like narrative film, they are awkwardly broken up by documentary-style commentary by the major players, played by the same actors in aging make up. When people are reminiscing, they are already acting out their version of history, and by the time you have actors acting like they are acting, things are starting to get a little overcooked. I do feel like I am being a little picky, however. In spite of these two issues, Frost/Nixon is quick-moving, and interesting. You can barely feel the two-hour long running time. And, at least watch it as a historical document on insanely wide ties.

Praise YHWH!

As of 11:45, I have finished completely with Jewish History: 400-1000 CE. I feel like there are now two paths of celebration open to me:

1. Watch a Christmas movie

2. Order a bacon cheeseburger, and ask for shrimp on the side. To garnish with, at my will. 

I am so happy, and yet so sleepy, and all I can think of is Maimonides. The wind calls out his name, and yet smells of rendered pork fat. I am confused. 

Random Moment: An Ode to the Familiprix

Familiprix Classic: Direct From the 80s EconoWrap Christmas Paper. For My Familiprix Gifts.

I'm very fond of the Familiprix near my house. In my area of P.S.Chuck (Point St. Charles- I am trying to make this happen,) life is sustained by three places. There is the depanneur. Rather, there are several, but they are interchangeable in their quality of stocking everything but the one thing you went there to find. Even when that one thing is butter. Which they usually have, but not when you're halfway through a recipe, although you can content yourself with sandwiches in packages, green sugar, balloons, panty hose, cat litter, lentils, and a giant liter of green hair gel in a tub. And porn. If you're hungry, there's Centre Pizza, serving Crispy Delight chicken and ice cream. 

And when you need pills or something a little classier than the dep, there is the Familiprix. It is not a drugstore in the mode of Pharmaprix or Jean Coutu. Rather, it's what I imagine the old-timey drugstores of black and white movies would look like if they were allowed to order things from the present day. They carry one line of everything, and only one line of everything, and you learn to like that one line, because really it's your fault for forgetting to stop off at the Pharmaprix. Apparently Cover Girl won the battle for make-up supremacy, while those bug-eyed Russ creatures have a lock on the stuffed animal gift rack. I am letting you all know this, so you can figure out where your Christmas presents came from. 

It all sounds like I don't love the Familiprix, but I do! I do, because the lack of choice is liberating. I go there, and I am only confronted with one kind of chips, and one kind of pencil, and am not paralyzed by the agony of abundance that affects the privileged and the neurotic. Because, in Mother Familiprix, TAMPON CHOOSES YOU. 

And I like it that way. 

...

Sign Papers Have Rotted My Brain #836:
While walking home from the bus today, for no reason, I eagerly yelled out "TITLE TIME!!!!"
My paper, by the way, already had a title.

Stuff, AHOY!

I'm sorry. I had a traumatic presentation last Thursday, and to heal myself I went and secluded myself in a charmingly rustic New England inn. There, I met a handsome and troubled doctor, and we engaged in a tender but halting affair, that only ended when he went off to some place where the people are swarthy and the food flavoured with chili peppers. Unfortunately, there he was taken and decapitated by El Chupacabra. But I am a stronger woman for having loved.

Wait, no, that's the plot of the next Nicholas Sparks novel (in my head) Afternoons in Moca. I've just been holed up with tea and any one of the six papers I'm working on for the end of the month.

Anyway, some links that might entertain or amuse:

The history geek and comic book nerd that are married in my heart are enjoying this graphic novel in progress:
Family Man: Being the adventures of a young man with few answers but a big nose in 18th century Germany.
Also, if you have a store somewhere of juvenile stabs at literary greatness (I have an epic from 2nd grade called Chimp Saves the World) you'll enjoy this girl's attempt at ripping off Sweet Valley High.

1. BROKEN HEARTED: Emily has sworn off dating…forever! She can’t understand why people fall in and out of love or why people get married and then get divorced. Then she suddenly feels really different around her good friend David Morrison. Could this be the dreaded “L” word?

The sad thing is that they sound just like the real thing. Which reminds me: when I was in junior high, I found a volume from a Sweet Valley High rip-off series called Cheerleaders. It was titled Overboard! and the tag line was- I shit thee not- "Romance, AHOY!" Which is something I think of at the most inopportune moments, and giggle.

Hurligig

My one roommate is trying to bake an Obamacake in the kitchen right now, because God gave her a sign that if she baked it, he would win. We just had to mop up Cake We Can Believe In off of the kitchen floor though, so I feel like the signs have neutralized themselves at this point.

While she's at it, I am invaliding. Which means I am drinking tea with my cat and trying to ignore the mountain of readings I am not doing. And I think I am perfectly justified in my sloth because I spent my whole morning puking my guts out. Here's a handy video illustration of my morning, with just a touch more bigotry:

So, yeah, having to leave work because you're vomiting in the second floor washroom: not the sexiest thing ever. Also not sexy: cab drivers who don't know where Bourgeoys street is, and then won't listen when I try and give them directions. He just kept on going further and further away from my house, until I just started moaning "Take.... me to... Wellington... go left.... or just put me... out of my misery..."

He finally made it to Wellington. Where he started to make a right. Also, he was playing the theme from Schindler's List in the cab, so I don't know what any of that was about, but I didn't care, because I was home, home where no one could see me vomit and I could curse my body in peace. Home, where I could rest in between crawling to the bathroom by... watching some kind of marinade being poured over raw pork on the TV. Thanks, CBC. Or, once I crawled back to the couch and changed the channel, the View. I went back to the pork. I'm back on solids now, but I think I may have to go kosher from now on.

The (Fabulous!) Depression

Lange's Migrant Mother: So Hot Right Now?

Hey, remember the economy? It doesn't have glasses or speak in an Alaskan accent, and the last I recall hearing about it was that it had gone deep into FUBAR territory. As far as I could tell, currencies were all over the place, lenders were going bankrupt, and a whole country- Iceland- was about to go tits up, which would really throw the future production of Icelandic sweater patterns and sullen blondes into question. I couldn't tell much more. I started to regret dropping my economics from a major down to a minor. Maybe if I hadn't, I would have the code to understanding all of this, knowing whether it was worth buying while prices were low, or if I should just invest in canned food and a shot gun. Instead, I feel adrift, moved around by people who aren't speaking my language, while I flail around at analyzing navy recruitment ads in a postcolonial context.

The media took care of my fear by moving on to the presidential election and the World Series. Well, all of the media except for lifestyle media. Just check the New York times Style section. Restaurants across the land a feeling the pinch. Apparently, the situation is even so dire that a new portmanteau is required: "recessionista." If that doesn't make you barf, I'm sure they'll come up with an even more ralph-inducing term that uses "sexual" on the end. Destitutosexual, anyone? No one knows he's downgraded from Kiehl's to Suave! Gawker put up a photo album of the newly jobless. The weird thing is that it's all beginning to seem a little festive, like there's a kind of kitschy joy in the bathos of it all. It reminds me of when I used to read Little House on the Prairie and think "Wouldn't it be fun to live like this? Why, I could have salted pork, matching flannel nighties and my very own button jar!"

The thing is, life in pioneer times wasn't all that fun, and I'm just thinking of the dental care. The Great Depression wasn't that much better, although it did have toothpaste. And we couldn't even manage half as well as they did. They were used to thrift, used to having to work. If I ever have to go on the road to find decent work and food, I would probably eat a poisonous berry off of the side of the road after blowing all of my cash on Wendy's. You know what they did to stretch out food on the cheap? Use a lot of eggs and cheese. You know what's expensive now? Eggs and cheese! We would have to live off of margarine and the jars of cheap cocktail weenies at the Dollar Store, and that's a whole lot more intense and less fun than trading the Prada in for a knock off. I don't think this is going to be as bad as all of that, but just in case, I'll be pulling the Grapes of Wrath off of the bookshelf. Maybe there's a special section in there about cooking cheaply I've forgotten.

From The Files of Minor Annoyances

There are many things about the world that confuse me. Fundamentalist Christianity. The economy. Personal relationships. The Burger King burger that comes with mashed potatoes and fried onions as garnishes.

And another thing: girl versions of sports team merchandise. In other words, is there no team logo safe from be-pinkening? I wanted a birthday present for a friend, a simple Canadiens shirt, and what did I find? Rhinestones. Rhinestones, and hunter green, and black, and pink, and then more pink, and then a shirt that had multiple Habs logos scattered over the shirt with a big tattoo rose in the middle that said "Montreal Canadiens." Does Quebec have an equivalent to Chavs? If so, here's a FrancoChav costume for Halloween: bleached hair, tight acid wash jeans, and that shirt. Note how sneaky that crafty NHL is:
Oh, what a cute ringer shirt... you might think. However, on closer inspection:
Rhinestones! Unnecessary rhinestones!

I will not stand for this. Well, not until they pay me great big wodgers of cash for my distressed fuchsia on rose Detroit Red Wings design, complete with matching glitter logo pin.

VIA Strikes Again

I have my… issues with transportation. I have been screwed over on a plane, in a bus, on a boat, and in a train. Oh God, how I have ever been screwed over on a train. If you’re not Canadian, and if you have never experienced, you probably have never experienced the joy of a VIA trip, you poor thing. The limitless joy of watching a seven hour trip stretch out to twelve, the exquisite beauty of sitting on a broken-down train in the middle of Ontario’s armpit, and the wonder of the four dollar chips are all part of the VIA experience.

I would go on the bus, but the bus experience has involved staring at a grease patch, with one single white hair smack dab in the center, a former seat tenant had left until Toronto. Which, really. I can forgive the grease patch, but the perfectly placed, thick, white hair just seems premeditated.

So I go by train, to limited degrees of success. I’m actually writing this on my way home from Guelph for Thanksgiving, on the train. This trip has gone, all things considered, reasonably well. We are a mere ten minutes late, and I got to sit next to my roommate for most of the trip. However. I needed glorious Internet access for a school project, which Via conveniently offers on most of its trains, if you pay nine bucks for a full 24 hours first. Rather inconveniently, this service is apparently a fickle beast that doesn’t like the Toronto-Montreal corridor. Yep, right after I had cited (in appropriate MLA style) my last source, I switched trains, but apparently left Internet access behind. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, but temporary is now going on five hours, so I guess VIA got me again.

Their welcome e-mail wished me a “productive day.” Now they’re just being mean. 

(Posted after I got home to functional Internet and the cats.)

My Future Beckons, And I Think It Has an STD

My roommate and I have made a pact- by the end of the week, we'll have some kind of rough idea of what we're doing with our lives. WHICH IS WHY I'M CURRENTLY HYPERVENTILATING INTO A BAG. We're not talking a detailed narrative here- who knows what the ETA on the house in the suburbs and the one kid in Montessori will be- but at least a general plan for the next year. OH GOD I AM OLD. I'm currently vacillating between grad school and a year off teaching abroad, but important details, like which grad program, where, what country I want to teach English in, and so on, are still blank.

Katie is doing much better, and has actually narrowed down her schools to a shortlist. While she's been doing that, I've watched the Celine Dion made for tv movie. I might have some catching up to do, particularly now that I'm traumatized by what turned out to be, to quote Iris, "soft porn about their relationship." "Their" meaning Celine and Rene, or rather Celine and a creepy older Quebecois man who managed her since she was twelve. Played by an Anglo actor in a bad wig.

My procrastination isn't because I'm scared of growing up- that's a fate I've accepted with stoic resignation- but of getting letters of recommendation. I hate writing CVs, and I hate harassing people to lie and write something about how original and engaging I am. BUT I DO NOT WANT TO BE A FAILURE. If they were all more honest about this, mine would read something like "Protagitron does her work semi-competently, and even spells her name correctly sometimes. She will probably not make any major or minor contributions to her field, but she will pay her tuition on time, and generally smells inoffensive."

Come to think of it though, I don't know if I could even get that far. Most of them don't know who I am, and if they do, they know they hate me. I was keeping one professor in reserve, the ever-delightful Professor Mole, but ruined it all by talking to him outside of class a few days ago. Here's how that conversation went:
Protag: Hello, Professor!
Mole: Protagitron, how are you doing?
P: ... I'm... here. That's, uh, half the battle, right?
Mole:... Yes. Yes it is.
P: ...
Mole: ...
P: Have a nice day?
... and scurry. At this rate, even my application to CDI College isn't going to be processed.

Just Call Me Mrs. Crazy Man

I never thought I was the marrying kind, but thanks to SnarkFest, I've finally found a man who's changed my mind. Let me introduce you to my future husband- that is, if he doesn't "iggy" me.

"If I find that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain the parts of this profile that pertain to you, I will simply state something like: "It is clear that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain what I stated in my profile, you are now iggied." Iggied means that you are put on my ignore list so that I no longer receive messages from you."

Well, I better read carefully then. Let's look at some of his qualifications:

"You cannot walk seven (7) miles non-stop averaging 1 mile per 20 minutes and without drinking or eating anything during the walk."

He'll never see the Ho-Ho's I've hid in my fanny pack! Great, on to the next one:

"As my wife, you will have no desire for a career of your own, since as my wife your career will be working side by side with me starting and running our own businesses (Yes, I’ve started and ran my own successful businesses in the past). Only my future wife and me will know the details of the businesses until they are started. All you will know now is that they will be financial in nature, they will help others financially."

Well, that doesn't sound shady at all, so I'm on board. In fact, I'm willing to transfer all of my current assets to him RIGHT NOW. I hope he can use a couple of bucks and a coupon for a free Subway cookie for his business venture. But, wait!

"I was married once, 20 plus years. I haven't kissed a girl since being divorced over three years ago."

Wait, someone divorced this peach? But, why? Who could show such a stunning lack of judgment? What could this perfect man possibly have done to warrant a divorce?

"Most women, even those ten years younger than me look older than me. I want a woman who looks younger than me."

You know, I think something's coming to me...

"Sorry, but when it comes to turning me on, light chocolate to white skin color is needed. However, there are exceptions for darker skin, but they have to be very beautiful."

Yep, I'm definitely locking in on an answer...

"I want a woman whose goal is to be praised by God with the same praise God gave Sarah, Abraham’s wife, that is, God praised her for her servant attitude and obedience to her husband even to the point that Sarah called her husband lord and master. Such a woman can scarce be found, even in the Christian community who supposedly believe the Word of God. Scarce can be found a Christian woman that even comes close to receiving the same praise from God as Sarah did."

But it's only a hypothesis... could he be a giant toolbox? Is that it?

"And generally never becomes a problem for the man to fulfill. But, as time goes on, the wife starts using her sexual favors as a tool to manipulate the man into giving her what she wants or doing what she wants. First, this shows that the wife is becoming less submissive and more disobedient. But the bottom line is, when the wife demands payment, whether in the form of things (getting her what she wants) or actions (do this or that for her), she has become a whore."

I better whore around for more evidence before I present my conclusions to the public though.

"Where the slave and wife are most similar is when they are given a command. In this instance, they are both to obey with all their heart, mind, body and soul with an enthusiastically positive attitude. They are to both obey because they love the one giving the command."

Ah, eureka! RESOLVED: CRAZY INTERNET MAN IS A GIANT DICK. QED.


Ah, the Internet. It's always like turning the rock over on humanity, you never know what's going to crawl out. Still, immersing myself in the mind of this loon made me wonder if I had my own list. If I was looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with, what sort of criteria would I put on my list? And then I remembered that I had a list like that. When I was eleven. It was full of ridiculous things. He had to be tall, at least six feet, but that was mostly so I could have a minion to reach things from the high shelves at the grocery store. I wanted him, and I do not lie, "To care about the world and NEVER VOTE PC OR REFORM." It was 1998, in other words, and I underlined never twice. Oh, and he had to have dark hair and blue eyes, be "impossibly handsome," (I think I had hit the Harlequin stash then) wealthy, drive a nice car, and give me a library of my own. Then I realized that, as of Tuesday, I was twenty one. Exactly ten years older than my checklist, although you wouldn't know it, since dep owners still ask if I'm buying beer for my parents. And what has changed? I've learned that I would let all of my requirements go for some people, even when the situation was hopeless and doomed, doomed, doomed to anyone of sound mind or sobriety. And I like it better that way. At least I'm not trying to leave Harlequin cover copy.

I guess I could come up with a new list. Right now, it would read something like "Must be nice, enjoy arguments, and tip well." Smelling inoffensive is also desired but not crucial. As for the online crazy man, I don't know. I'm trying to be kind and positive, but I can't help hoping the perfect checklist girl gives him a raging case of stealth junk rot. Because they don't publish Consumer Reports for people, jackass.

A Love Letter, A Little Too Late

My roommate's cat in Stitch Niche yarn.

For the past week or so, I've been trying to ignore the fact that my favourite knitting store is about to close down. Which is easy enough to do when I'm a few hours away, and can keep myself busy with school and work. Or when I can convince myself that Frankie will somehow find a way to keep it going. But I have to accept that it's going soon, and before it does, I want everyone to read me get all mushy, so they can know how much the Stitch Niche meant to me. You see, it saved my life. When I dropped out of school second year and needed to pull my life from the brink- and maybe kill some stash at the same time, if that wasn't asking too much- Frankie's kept me going. Every week I would show up, pretend I was happy and normal with the other women, and knit a little more. Another block would be added to Leo's baby blanket. Another pattern repeat to Katie's socks. And in between all of the stitches, I didn't have to pretend as much anymore. I might not have become happy or normal, but I was a little more so. Enough to get by on, to get to the next week, until I had made it through a four months and could pass for a functional human being. Sure, it wasn't just the Stitch Niche- stores as places of mystical transformation work better in books than in real life. Real life is messy, and has to deal with counselling sessions, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, repeats of Canadian Idol and other petty grievances. But it, and all of the women there, meant a lot to me. They meant safety.

Before this, I never really understood why people got upset when stores or businesses closed. To me, they were just places, and the public shiva over Sam the Record Man or CBGB struck me as excessive. I thought those people were just substituting something that could be bought for communities that had to be earned, the kind that grow up around beloved parks and dignified churches. I was wrong. If we buy things to fill a need, than why can't the places where we buy mean the same to us as that church? Especially if they maybe, finally, begin to fill that need? Even if they don't, maybe it's just the residual nostalgia that makes us sad, for when happiness was something that could be purchased with legal tender. I don't know. Trying to quantify it just makes me sigh irritably.

And, anyway, my sadness is only a part of this. There's everyone who used to show up, and then there's Frankie. This place was her time, and her love, and her effort. And it was nothing but bad luck that she had to close it. I hope, if any one's reading this in Guelph, that you'll find time to visit it in the next few weeks, and to buy some pretty yarn as well. Alpaca doesn't quite take out the sting, but it's a good place to start. It was a great place. But Frankie will always be a great person.

Praise Jesus and Pass the Undies

I'm beginning to think my life is a romantic comedy without the romance. In other words, a whole lotta awkwardness and pratfalls. I mean, really, a few weeks back my cat took a mighty shit on my bed while Q the Ass got his stuff. At work, I have to contend with both my unfortunate, doomed crush and the cash tyrant who has conceived an intense dislike for yours truly. Oh, and today, when I went into the Gap to try on a skirt, the saleswoman told me to make sure I had underwear on. I was, frankly, taken back. I always thought I radiated that essential Protestant prudishness, the kind that means sensible white cotton at all times, when instead I've been musky with wanton harlot. Wanton, lady business-airing harlot. Who just wants a plaid skirt. TO DO HER WHORISH UNDERWEAR-FREE BUSINESS IN. God. Perhaps I should consider wearing my underwear on the outside, like Superman, every time I shop at the Gap. It would be marginally less embarrassing.

Anyway, all that awkwardness was for nothing. On me, the skirt looked suspiciously like it came from an R. Crumb drawing. It was less "cute but warm" and more "plump teen who's sexually available to creepy, skinny dudes who will then draw them performing fellatio on an ostrich." Well. At least I have a Halloween costume for this year, but I might need to drag around an essay- with illustrations- explaining it.

Next Up, Whenever I Carve Out Some Time: I get all mushy about some sad knitting news I heard of out of Guelph.

4 AM: Protagitron SMASH

Okay, so it's 4 in the morning, and I'm not asleep. Thank you, Douchebag Debaters Society, for choosing 1:30 in the morning to convene outside of my window in the alley. Oh, I shouldn't be too hard on you. One of you made me laugh with "Don't be walking like that! This ain't LAVAL!" And you did break up the meeting, like, two hours ago. I have only myself to blame at this point for my insomnia. I'm just feeling obscurely unhappy with myself right now, and instead of exploring the issue, I'm just bouncing ideas for genre fiction around in my head.
I've always wanted to be behind a series of books. Not, like, Harry Potter levels of success, but the kind of middling series that spits out a new volume every six months or so, for small but consistent profits.

The Butch Strongdyck Adventures:
I really hate the name Dirk Pitt, but Clive Cussler must be doing something right looking at his print runs. Apparently many, many people want to read about a terribly-named man doing ridiculously manly things in the most ludicrous fashion possible. It's never enough for Dirk just to punch someone, he has to punch some one while driving a jeep on a treacherous mountain passage, and instead of punching that person with a fist he's punching them with a cobra. Wait, no, that's something I want to use in the first Butch Strongdyck adventure, "Nile Dragon."Butch also wants you to know that his relationship with Dill McKidd, his wisecracking right-hand man, is only one of deep friendship, and not homoerotic in the least. No matter what Dill says about Bangkok after his fourth sloe gin. Butch Strongdyck is a registered trademark. All rights reserved.

The Two Hearts Agency Mysteries
People, look at the Women's Network, 'cause clearly the desires of an entire gender can be expressed by a network. The ladies, they dig the weddings. And ladies dig mysteries. They'll have to dig something that awkwardly combines the two with a dollop of product placement. Best friends and business partners Kate and Alice run Two Hearts Wedding Planners, and solve more than the case of the poorly altered Jessica McClintock gown. Whether a guest has received a Lalique champagne flute through the throat or choked on a Tiffany Novo engagement ring, Kate and Alice, like the bride, get their man. Also, every title will be a pun, each more horrifying than the last. The first in the series? For Groom the Bell Tolls.
It tolls for HEEEEEE.

By the way, trust me on the time. It's 4:36 am now, but the Blogger time stamp is being all screwy. Oh, I only wish it was still 11:55 pm on the 22.

Chasing the Applications Dragon No More

I'm trying to wean myself off of the Facebook teat for a bit. So, the account has been deactivated. The last time I tried this I barely made a week. This time I'm going for a month.
Pray for Protagitron.
I've already got the shakes.
In other Internet news... you get out of one fandom, and things suddenly get interesting. I went through a few years of being a minor X-Men fangirl, and have the shirt to prove it. Unfortunately, the virus-like spread of X-Books, and the unfortunate Ratner movie stilled my beating mutie heart. But now Deadpool and Gambit are going to be in the Wolverine spin-off movie, which means my butt is pretty much in a seat.
Yep, Gambit was my first fictional character crush. And he's played by Tim Riggins from Friday Night Lights. My fandoms are colliding.

Mythbuster

I just demagnetized my monthly metro pass for the second time this month. This is why I went one and a half years without buying another monthly pass, because I would screw it up at least once a month, and have to waste minutes standing behind confused tourists waiting to flash the troll in the booth my card. This time, my pass wasn't kept by my magnetized name tag, or next to my cellphone, or anywhere near the North Pole. It was just in my back pocket.
Cogito Ergo Sum*: MY ASS HAS ITS OWN MAGNETIC FIELD.

Those yo momma jokes are true! IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU.

*Yes, I know this is not how it should be used.

It's Cake to be Square

I started a new project last month. I always had a weird half hour before work. My brain wasn't functional enough to read a book, but it was too functional to keep itself busy with the asinine CTV morning show. When they did a segment on a giant lobster being moved to an aquarium, I knew I needed to do something, before I drowned myself in my morning coffee. So, I started crocheting. I had hoarded all of my scraps of worsted, heavy worsted, and chunky yarn for no reason, and the collection was reaching absurd, Howard Hughesian levels. I needed a project to use them all up, and the logistics of planning a whole knit blanket were just too imposing at the time. My brain was still struggling with the semantics of why the tupperware collection still needed a box. And if it would be meta to put them in one of those big tupperware storage containers. Oh, and the mysterious crust in the fridge of incredible adhesive powers was bothersome as well. So, I turned to that classic, the granny square. With little to no thought, and a couple of segments of the Daily Show, you have another square. And another, and another, until you have a nice little pile. It's also nostalgic to remember which project each yarn came from, or when it was added to my stash.

I'm running out of scraps though, so I might have to go off and finish some projects in order to liberate some yarn. Or else buy more yarn, which won't be any help at all.

I think I have my priorities all mixed up. At least in baked goods, I know it's cupcakes first, now and forever. Just yesterday I mentioned Les Glaceurs, and today on a walk to Atwater Market, I found a place on Notre-Dame that's also in the teeny cake shilling business. This place is called Itsi Bitsi, and the cakes come with their own handy box. I tried the coconut cupcake, a tasty option. They certainly don't skimp on the coconut for garnishing the icing. I don't think it beats the Red Velvet cupcake, but that's just the addictive power of FD&C Red No. 40 talking. However, I don't see any peanut or nut-related cakes on their menu, which might just make it K-friendly. I shall have to find out. Right now, I'm going to call the cupcake race a tie. A delicious, delicious tie.

Please don't call CPS on me.

An old photo of the 'Stache I found, as a place holder for new content. 

Dear lord, I haven't written since the first? I didn't mean to be so neglectful. The past few weeks have been busy, but in the quiet, banal way that doesn't provide much bloggable material. Unless you really want to hear about my quest to find the perfect vintage curtains from Value Village. Or the discovery of a cute cupcake place in Old Montreal that serves adorable Red Velvet cupcakes. Or how many times I've seen the McGill logo at my job. 

Wait, *do* you want to hear about the curtains? I can take pictures, but I might have to clear off the desk first. They're from the sixties, and come in this horrendous, green exploded-houndstooth pattern.

Oh, and I've also developed a bit of a thing for someone at work. I thought I had finally ground such tender feelings under the jackboot of my bitterness. I was wrong, and finally admitted i when I realized I was clandestinely checking the work schedule. And making excuses to take stuff down to text. And chat to the fellow in question. 

I can be terribly dense at times. 

I would write more, but, well, it butts up against some of those weird blogging issues I have. Like, how much do you share? I know there aren't very many people who read my blog, and most of those that do know me offline. Chances are, they'll probably know the person in question if I ever talk about personal stuff. It was a risk I took when the Q situation went down, but most of the people I knew who read the blog knew what was going on anyway, and I kept a large chunk of it out of the blog. I don't like to out my secrets on my blog, even though I like to be as open online as I can, short of posting my Social Insurance Number. I try to write only things I wouldn't be ashamed to say in public. And a personal blog is more interesting the more, well, personal it is. However, as I know from experience, it can be weird to stumble across yourself making a guest appearance in someone else's blog, or find your anonymous secret revealed and broadcast. I want to find the right balance, something that's occasionally amusing, but won't lead to termination of employment or restraining orders. And I'll write more about it once I find that balance. 

Oh, and I still knit, I swear. I even have a bag of granny squares to prove I crochet!

Home and Garden

Here's a list of things I will do, in the interests of home improvement
1. Put Ikea furniture together
2. Hammer in nails
3. Use a power drill
4. Use anchors
5. Use a screwdriver

And here are those I actually do well:
1. Use a screwdriver

I have had to do all of them in the past few days. The results have been mixed.

Life AM: After the Move.

It's a truth Protagitronly acknowledged that moving sucks. It's annoying to pack- where does the bundt pan go? It's both round and bumpy! It's useless. It's annoying to lug things up and down the stairs, particularly armoires silly people blithely purchased from the New Rez furniture sale only to realize they weren't even going to provide a furniture cart. And it's annoying to unpack, when you realize you have to figure out how to hang things on walls when you have a pathological fear of banging things into walls. How would one manage a major drywall malfunction? 

And then there's the Ikea furniture. Allen wrench, my ass. 

Anyway, I've been pretty busy with that and running errands for it, so there's been little knitting or blogging happening lately. Fortunately, I met a woman at my job who also knits, which means a new recruit for the Knitting Club. 

Also in the plus column: seeing Dark Knight for the second time. I don't think it's a perfect movie, but I think it's the best super-hero movie I've seen so far. In spite of taking some liberties with the canon, it stylistically hews closer to the source material, or at least the source post-seventies O'Neill and Adams. What bothers me though is the coverage in the press, which now frequently runs a companion piece all about what the film is saying about the Bush administration. Read the rather unfortunate Klavan piece that started it all here, and then the NY Times follow-up. Now, don't be mislead. I'm a good little cultural studies student, so I know that context matters; that every movie, even the seemingly benign, has an ideological agenda; and that that ideological reading depends on a complex, fluid relationship between the art and the viewer. I read the books. I passed most of the courses. But it's this dogged insistence that every movie be projected through the lens of post-9/11 America that bugs me. Klavan's article was mocked in blogland, but it wasn't a wild connection to make about a blockbuster. I remember when 300 came out, and every review I read saw it as naked (rather, shirtless and oiled) propaganda for the Iraq war. I don't think the current mess hasn't had an effect on cultural consciousness. Rather, there are other factors, and simply focussing on the Iraq War as the only way to read new movies is, well, myopic. 

Department of Canons and Mysteries

Only one class changed my life in second-year university, and it managed to do so while showing me samurais getting skewered in the neck and rent boys getting screwed. I'm sure you've all guessed by now that class was Shakespeare on Film. I thought of it this morning when I woke up at 5:30 with my cat's paw on my back and his breath in my ear, and a line from a Rilke poem running through my head. Blame the lecturer. The first day of class she read Archaic Torso of Apollo to us, whose last bit reads

" and not from every edge explode
like starlight: for there's not one spot
that doesn't see you. You must change your life."

It was the last sentence. And I could hear it in Jenn's voice. "You must change your life." I must change my life? How? Would either my favorite masters student or sickly German poet please tell me? I do not know. This is all a mystery. I hope the change is something more meaningful than doing the dishes more often.

Also, a conversation with my roommate last night reminded me that movies or TV with believable, likable teen girls are rare. So rare, I'm trying to come up with a girl canon. So far, I have Daria, Freaks and Geeks, Ghost World, and both Buffy and Juno to some (very articulate) extent. If anyone has any other suggestions for the Girl Canon, please send them in.

Cram it, Katy Perry

Whenever I'm in Montreal I slide into a music bubble. What's going on in mainstream music? I suddenly have no idea. I'm still not sure who Hannah Montana is, or what she does. Or if she's not just a clever hologram deployed by the Italian leather-booted thugs at Disney. At least in Guelph, I had basic cable and was desperate enough to tune in to the Edge. In Montreal, I just put on podcasts and rent Russian action movies. When I do listen to music, it's either stuff I've scavenged from the superior music collections of my brother and my dad, or synthed-out eighties stuff I've downloaded in shame. I can't imagine how empty my life would be without downloading. I would be too embarrassed to go to the record store to fill the hole in my heart, a hole that can only be filled with synthesizers and fake hand claps.

How out of it am I? Well, when Madonna's Hung Up came out- the one that sampled "Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight) and I started hearing it everywhere, I just assumed Montreal was in the throes of an ABBA renaissance.

So, it takes a rare song to penetrate the fog of my ignorance. Unfortunately, Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" has done so, helped along by my So You Think You Can Dance addiction. Can she go away now? Not only is the song annoying- her voice sounds tinny and Pro-Tooled, the production's flabby- but her act bothers me. I don't mind when someone like, oh, Madonna plays around with sexuality. And it isn't that a failed Christian-rock singer is capitalizing on fake-lesbian chic that bothers me. Rather, it's her purposefully dim stage presence. I don't have much patience for the kind of little-girl antics that make women pout and stand all knock-kneed. It's not that it makes them look stupid stupid, it's that it makes them look like they want to look dumb. Which is just sad. And then she puts her hand to her mouth when she hopes her boyfriend won't find out about her girl-kissing ways, because she's just too naughty. The whole song reminds me of girls who make out with other girls not because they want to, but because their boyfriends want them to. No one but Focus on the Family's bothered, hetero norms aren't challenged, and only men are getting off. Ten bucks says most of the girls who'll make out in clubs to this song- and to whistles from their guys- will be raising kids in the 'burbs ten years on. Even the ones who think they kind of liked it. And I'll bet another ten that Katy is on some one-hit wonders compilation. Or maybe that's just what I hope.

Now, to get that taste out of your mouth, how about a fun dude-on-dude song?
High School Confidential- Carole Pope

Leaping Lemurs!

This capybara went on record as saying "Baroo?"

The Biodome is pretty much my favourite place in Montreal. Not even Schwartz's or Basha comes close, lacking as they do in puffins and capybaras. Want to know how much I like the Biodome? You see, like many a kinda-hetero woman, I have my wedding already planned. Instead of having a Vera Wang dress or tea roses every which way though, I only have two kind of odd desires. The first is that it must be at the Biodome. And the second is that the sloth will be our ring bearer.

Penguins already come with tuxedos, perfect for any wedding or formal event.

Yeah, so the ceremony might take hours, but it's going to kick ass. I still haven't decided whether the reception will be sorbet in the penguin area, or canapés in the Laurentian habitat.

Hyacinth macaws

So, every year I make a pilgrimage to the Biodome, where I check in with my old friends. This time I dragged a human friend, Frances, along. She got to hear me wonder the same questions I always do, like "What happens when one of the animals die?" "Do they feed it to the other animals?" "What would traumatize little children more- seeing a lynx eat Bucky Beaver or a caiman eat Zoboo?" Sadly, these questions were again not answered in the twenty-minute presentation "Les Secrets du Biodome" Frances and I attended to improve our French. My french must be getting better, because I understood most of it. Then again it's pretty easy to translate from the French "The capybara eats the placenta" when you're actually seeing capybaras. Eating. Placenta. The movie was more interesting on a fasion note than an educational one. The lovely Geneviève, our presenter, had those great cargo pants that zip off into shorts. The ones that always seem sexy on women... but only women in certain professions. Biologists, archaeologists, can all rock them and look like the fiery love interest of some adventurer. I, a lazy English student, always look like a comfy but sturdy turnip. Not to self: go all Single White Female on Gen-Gen's lifestyle. It will probably lead to face time with tamarind monkeys.

Porcupine up a tree.

The big draw for me this year were the lemurs, also known as John Cleese's favourite animal. I almost wrote Chevy Chase there, which is weird. One's American, one's British, one's funny, one... not so much. Plus, I'm quite sure Chevy Chase's favourite animal is his own ego. Cleese, at least, has better taste in movie projects and animals, as I found out yesterday. Lemurs are very keen-looking creatures, even when they're not jumping around the trees and just hanging out. Their big yellow eyes always look a little overwhelmed. Or maybe over-stressed, kind of like a student in the middle of exams. I sympathize. Since they're only visiting, their habitat is just a big shack in the middle of one of the hallways, done up to look like a Madagascan home, and you shuffle past the lemurs and then out into the gift shop. They seem to like to hang out together, and will clean each other like cats. Speaking of cats, don't tell the big guy, but I kind of want two lemurs of my own now. One for cuddling at each end of the sofa.

My lemur buddies. I've named the one on the left Margo and the one on the right Captain Franks.

A Few Things About My Brother

This is my brother.
I think he's pretty cool.
He's got a bitching tattoo and he can play guitar real well.
But he's got a very cute girlfriend, so don't get too excited.
Sometimes he drives me crazy, but he has a good heart.
He's back in Canada after a brief foray into South Korea.
It was horrifying for him, but his stories provided me with much amusement.
Apparently his Korean apartment was much nicer after the Russian prostitutes moved out.
He made it out of the country without the Korean police turning him into bulgogi.
I really like bulgogi, so I would have been torn between sadness and hunger.
I'm glad he's back.

The Death of Resolutions

My resolution to worry less lasted exactly one hour and forty-three minutes, or until some complete stranger wrote down his contact information and told me I should get in touch if I was interested. I stuffed his e-mail in my pocket and made swift exit from the computer lab, before my brain kicked in again and I reflected on the situation. Now, this is a rare enough occurrence in my life, since my default expression is less “flirty” and more “twitchy,” but I still have a protocol for such situations:

• 1. Assess the situation: Does the dude look creepy or unhinged? If so, make swift exit or else camouflage self as metro seat or post-office box. If not, assess the dude.
• 2. Control for likely scenarios:
• Dude senses my weaknesses, assumes he can use me
• Response: glare
• Dude is probably playing a joke on me
• Likely situation in high school
• Response: glare to the corner
• Dude is delusional
• Response: grimace, nod in kindly fashion
• Dude is trying to lure me into cult/weird club
• Response: 1. Smile kindly
• 2. Think of potential horrors (Scientology, Neo-Nazis, Lithuanian folk dance)
• 3. Glare
• 3. If neither scenario seems likely, initiate contact from a pay phone using a voice scrambler; run background and credit check

Unsurprisingly, I’ve never made it to step three. This specimen seemed to be within my age range, which can only mean things are looking up. Until then, I had been huge with the “Old Man Buying Oka Cheese at the Grocery Store” and the “Random Middle-Aged Arabic Guy on the Street” demographics. I still pegged him as a one and chose not to get in touch with him. My kindly neighbour Athena says that I passed up the chance for some perfectly good casual sex, and that the only reason I chickened out was because I’m too comfortable complaining. I don’t know about the latter, but I still think I only passed up the chance to be the floating elbow and skull in some stew pot. I do wish that I could have the normal person response to this, which would be to be flattered but uninterested. My crimelibrary.com addiction keeps on getting in the way though.

Some More Simple Math

Being thrust out into the world without Internet showed me how scarily attached I've become to it. Life is livable without the Internet, you just watch a lot more Dr. Phil and hope the restaurant you're going to won't kill you with a food poisoning sandwich.

The last one actually led to revelation: If I don't dial back on the anxiety, I'll probably stroke out before I'm thirty. I was meeting my pal Frances for dinner at this little basement snack bar I always wanted to go to- Moe's, on Maisonneuve and Lambert-Closse- and was convinced that she would hate it, I would hate it, I would hurl on some kid trying to watch Wall-E at the theater... Then I realized that in the past twenty-four hours I had worried about losing my job, failing an exam, failing a class, having to find another job, when I was going to get to do laundry again, whether Gibby the Degu was feeling neglected, and probably a few other things I've forgotten to write down. And then I realized that was kind of sad, and pointless. I didn't lose my job, I did fine on the exam, I probably won't fail that class, I did laundry yesterday, and Gibby has the memory span of a gnat and is probably doing just fine.

I met Frances for dinner, and there was no food poisoning chez Moe's. Damn tasty grilled cheese and milkshakes, though, and they have a small, fuzzy TV on, so you know it's a Protagitron kind of place. We shared a side of fries, drenched in ketchup, and talked about whether assholery is an inherited or acquired trait. The outdated poster of Patrick Roy as a Habs goalie hanging on the wall reminded us that his family is proof of the former. Then we talked about impossibilities of Jewish families (her) and of Ukrainian ones, and of dealing with any kind of Montreal construction. I have resolved, however, to somehow skip age and religious boundaries to become an old Jewish woman kvetching at a funeral. I think it's my calling.

Be it also further resolved not to worry quite so much.

Confession: I Have a Batman Returns "Thing"

Sad confession time: In high school, when things got rough, I would buy a half-pound of wine gums and rent this movie. I'm sure I could have bought a spanking new DVD with the number of times I rented the fuzzy VHS, and two scoops of wine gums with the change. I'm aware that this, er, "episode" in my past has probably coloured my view of the movie, and that now I'll find it impossible to look at it with any kind of critical remove, but you know what? Everyone needs their thing, a movie or band without either critical or popular acclaim that they still love. Common guilty pleasures do not count, because everyone either loves Dirty Dancing or they are lying- lying!- to themselves. I had a friend who was convinced that U-571 was underrated, another that thought that Ronin was the best action movie, and some weirdo who thought that Troy had a certain charm. That last person might also be me. I'll never tell. You know that your thing is futile, that you'll die knowing it will forever be in the 6.99$ bin at Wal-Mart, and no artistic revival will be staged. But you don't stop.

When I have to justify my love for this movie, I put on my cultural studies hat and say one of the following things. It's the kinkiest mainstream movie ever released. Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman is an interesting character of the post-feminist backlash. I like the gothic aesthetic.

Now, most of these things, I would argue, are true. Whatever it is between Batman and Catwoman is decidedly queer, queerer even than Batman and Robin in the Schumacher films- and the latter had goddamn leather nipples. Burton understands that S&M relationships aren't about the clothes, they're about the head games. And Batman and Catwoman are trying on both roles, screwing with each other's heads on the rundown, nightmarish rooftops of Gotham City. It's a good thing too, since they never get around to having sex, and all of this mental fucking is the only thing that keeps the movie from being a two-hour long tease.

I could say all this, and more, but I just like the way the movie feels. It's a nasty little movie, but it's fun. It's a fantasy about how freakish, and yet sickly beautiful the city can be. I share Catwoman's opinion on when it comes to movies, if not to men- "Sickos never scare me. At least they're committed."

Precious, Precious Internet

The wireless I had been, er, "enjoying without financial remuneration" finally decided to pooch out a few days ago, and so between that and my grandmother not having any Internet, there was very little blogging to be done. Which is probably for the best. Since it would have been a non-stop roller coaster of "Life is awesome!" alternated with "Why, sweet Jeebus, why?" Like my grandfather's death, I'm going to file this time away somewhere in the things that are too exhausting to blog about. Most of the past week or so has been too tiring even to talk about with my friends. I may or may not be employed next week. I may or may not be a passing student. I likely won't be loved, but it's nice to know that there are many people who will still like me.
Still, universe, if you can't throw me a cookie, please be so kind as to throw me a bone once in a while.

Anyway, I'm going to enjoy some Facebook stalking before I have to return to the Internetless hinterlands of my apartment. I'm probably watching you RIGHT NOW. Or at least reading your status.

The Facts of Life

Today was... not such a great day. I'm going to write things down in list form, because complete sentences just seem daunting right now. In parantheses, you will find the Protagitron Wellness Meter, describing my approximate level of emotional health, with matching colour schemes. Yes, I was inspired by those frightening terror alerts they broadcast in American airports. Crimson is the worst- a three valium day- and blue is the best. When I'm blue, I'm just high on life.

1. Job interview at 11:00 (-2)
2. I get the job*- in spite of nervousness and copious amounts of sweat. Yay! (58)
3. Presentation in class. Starts well in spite of nervousness and copious amount of sweat- a motif of the day (83)
4. Notice prof giving me the biggest wtf? look ever as she listens to my part (68)
5. Decide to stare her down. Advantage: Protagitron (78)
6. Go home to get blank check for job, food, rest (90)
7. See truly horrific photo of me posted on Facebook (68)
8. Descend into moodiness; phone parents (53)
9. FIND OUT MY GRANDFATHER DIED. (-47)
10. Still digesting news that my GRANDFATHER DIED, and I was calling my parents to bitch about my looks (-62)
11. Mood: very glum and tired- think of how sad my grandfather was for a large part of his life (-70)
12. Find out I will have to phone stupid telecom company (-75)
13. Can't even gather the energy to count out money for flour. (-77)
14. Decide that call can go to hell, or at least move to tomorrow (-67)
15. Cookie baking similarly postponed (-70)
16. Return to bookstore with employee forms (-65)
17. Proceed to make ass of self as I explain about the grandfather, babble on about family history, and look generally morose and distracted (-85)
18. Return home (-84)
19. Knock over drinking glass; break drinking glass (-87)
20. Call from Josh- argument over how to deal with politics in art raises spirit (-72)
21. Remember grandfather is dead (-92)
22. Call from Frances; spirits lifted with commiseration (-84)
23. Discover odd bug fiesta near ceiling light fixture- wtf? (-89)
24. Decide to go to bed, wait for life to begin anew tomorrow. (-85)

Maybe some other time, I'll write all about the background to this job, or why I have a phobia of telecom companies. I might even write about how my grandfather's death made me feel. Or not. This is hard, sometimes. And sleep is easy.

Stole Half Full

I finished exactly half of my stole,
To knit is much better than to tole,
Fewer noxious fumes-
I don't even need to leave the room.

Look! At what I made,
Decorative achievements only fade.
I could wear this as a hat,
I could even put it on my cat.

Please be sending me my poetry award tomorrow, thank you and good afternoon.

Armchair Critique!- The EW 25 New Classics

I have a certain fondness for Entertainment Weekly. I think it usually strikes the right balance of punch and substance when it comes to pop culture. Interesting without being pretentious. So, I was intrigued when they released an issue of the New Classics- the best pop products of the past 25 years. That's a smart date, since it stops the lists from being glutted with either the New American cinema of the seventies, or music from the same period. And yet, I was disappointed with the movie list. So I'll do what blog are for: armchair critiquing of published work! My revised list is at the end, print it off and laminate it, yo.

The Bitching:
25. Shrek- Off the list. I confess that I hold Shrek more or less responsible for the trend in animated movies towards hideous CGI and pandering, stale jokes. Check the shelf life on those Matrix jokes, would you? Sure, I should probably blame Disney's Aladdin, or maybe Robin Williams' Genie, but I won't. I like Aladdin, and the characters don't dance around to Smash Mouth at the end. I would replace this with the ultra-depressing Grave of the Fireflies, an animated Japanese movie. The animation somehow works better to show war's price on childhood.
24. A Room With a View- (Keep) I was debating whether to drop this down a few places, but it captures a particular moment in filmmaking really well, and the cinematography is beautiful.
23. Memento- (Keep)
22. Rushmore- (Switch) I would swap this with The Royal Tenenbaums. Wes Anderson skates pretty close to twee in all of his movies, but I think The Royal Tenenbaums, even if it has more quirks than Rushmore, has more heart.
21. Schindler's List- (Keep) And not just because I'm worried I'd go to hell if I kicked the Holocaust movie off the list. Because of its earnest and sometimes leaden reputation, I forget how good of a movie this is. It's almost perfectly crafted, and the perfectly tuned performances keep it from getting too glossy.
20. The Lion King- (Switch) I'd swap this with Disney's Beauty and the Beast, just because I like the songs- and Belle- better.
19. Casino Royale- (Bump Down) I think it's a great action movie, and it represents everything I love about EW that they would out a recent genre picture on their list of the New Classics. I still wouldn't rank it this high, and would put it in the 25 slot and bump up Grave of the Fireflies.
18. Do the Right Thing (Bump Up) I think it's criminal that this move is so low. I'm going to save it for spot in the top ten. Spike Lee may be a self-aggrandizing jerk, but this movie gets a lifelong pass from me, as one of the least-glossed and most honest pictures of race relations in the early nineties- as if all that much has changed since then.
17. Jerry Maguire- (Bump Down) Sure, it gave the world a few catchphrases, but it's a pretty limp movie. I would either switch it with My Beautiful Laundrette, for brutally mixing race, sexuality and class, or Cameron Crowe's earlier ... say anything. I'll decide which one gets the chop at the end.
16. Boogie Nights- (Keep)
15. Edward Scissorhands- (Keep) I would almost question how high on the list this is, and then I remembered how totemic this movie is for misfit teenage girls- like me. Just for that, it stays.
14. Crumb (Keep)- One of the best movies I've ever seen, it's not just about Crumb and his genius, it's about Crumb and his family, or maybe just how close people can get to the edge of madness and not fall in.
13. Goodfellas (Keep) But switch with Crumb.
12. The Matrix (Keep)- I had big, Reeves-shaped reservations about putting this movie this high on the list. But I had to admit I couldn't think of any action movie that both changed and defined film from 1999 on like this one.
11. This is Spinal Tap (Keep)- Hell yeah.
10. Moulin Rouge- (Switch) Do the Right Thing can go here. I wanted to kick this off the list, since my high school friends practiced a kind of movie terrorism with this at sleepovers. And yet, I can't think of a musical in the past 25 years that's as popular or as interesting, so it will just be dropped down a few pegs.
9. Die Hard (Keep)- I'm the world's biggest Die Hard apologist, so this one will not be budging an inch. Way to go, EW!
8. The Silence of the Lambs (Keep)
7. Hannah and Her Sisters (Bump Down)- There's nothing really wrong with this movie, I just don't think it's that good. I'll pull Tom Twyker's Run Lola Run out of the basement, as a great post-modern action film that, as any rental place will tell you, is a renting classic.
6. Saving Private Ryan (Bump Down)- Another of those movies I don't mind, but wouldn't rate this highly. Since this movie needs more Brits, I'll put one of my favourite movies- Secrets and Lies- on it, and move another movie up. Appropriate, too, because Leigh's kitchen-sink film is about domestic battles.
5. Toy Story- (Keep)
4. Blue Velvet (Keep)
3. Titanic (Bump Down) Titanic always felt too nice and silicone to me, and it's responsible for unleashing Celine Dion on innocent wedding-goers everywhere. For an epic with sweep and disaster, I'll pick up a personal favourite, Farewell My Concubine (1993.)
2. The Lord of the Rings (Bump Down) I just committed nerdicide, and I don't care. These movies are long and boring. Give me Pan's Labyrinth as a fantasy over this dreck.
1. Pulp Fiction (Keep)

The New List (Better than the New Coke?)
So, here's what my personal New Classics list would look like:
25. My Own Private Idaho
24. Schindler's List
23. Memento
22. The Royal Tenenbaums
21. My Beautiful Laundrette
20. Beauty and the Beast
19. Ran
18. Moulin Rouge
17. Secrets and Lies
16. Boogie Nights
15. Edward Scissorhands
14. Goodfellas
13. Crumb
12. The Matrix
11. This is Spinal Tap
10. Do the Right Thing
9. Die Hard
8. Run Lola Run
7. Blue Velvet
6. Grave of the Fireflies
5. Toy Story
4. Pan's Labyrinth
3. Farewell My Concubine
2. Silence of the Lambs
1. Pulp Fiction