Suggestions for Songza

Songza has become my constant companion in my office, as I needed something to drown out the incessant hum of the fluorescent lights. I get a small thrill from picking which situation I would like to play music for, though I know I'll always return to "Northern Soul Dance Party" or "Guilty 80s and 90s Pleasures" eventually. Choices include working out (ha! never clicked),  sitting on a back porch, saving the world, and so on. Unfortunately, there are some categories Songza underserves. I have prepared a list of suggestions for their curators:

• Thinking About Men You Should Not Think About  (Artists include: Bruce Springsteen, The Replacements, Roy Orbison)
• Pretending You're A Character In An Action Movie and Accidentally Stepping on One of the Cats (Artists include: Kavinsky, Justice, Howls of Feline Pain)
• Surviving TTC Transit (Artists include: Kurt Vile, Bon Iver, Incoherent Ranting from the Seat Behind You)
• Really It's Just One Guy You Should Stop Thinking About (Artists include: Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" on an endless loop, just because you're feeling melodramatic)

If you have suggestions, feel free to share them in your comments. And Songza, feel free to hire me as one of your curators. I come cheap!

Domestic Saturday: Indie's Community Nut Job

I would love to bring Domestic Thursday back as a regular thing. Unfortunately, while I've kept up with the beer drinking, naturally, I've fallen short on the other domestic front (even laundry tests my limits these days.) So it's a good thing there's a special beer for a Saturday special edition.

Behold, the Indie Ale House Community Nut Job! Community because it's a joint project between three of the better places in the Junction: Indie, 3030, and Hole in the Wall. Nut Job because a Bulk Barn's worth of assorted nuts were thrown into the brew. And I know because I was there.

My brother works at 3030 (swing by, check out a show, tell him to shave), and because he loves me, he let me take his place during the brewing process. Indie's Jason and Jeff kindly put up with what little help I could offer (thanks limited upper body strength!) and answered all of my questions. I even fetched the odd tool or two out of the sanitizer buckets. The hardest part of the day was knowing that I would have to wait for weeks to taste the finished product, but at least the wort tasted rich and nutty. And now I've had the fermented result, from 3030's cask. It's not nearly as nutty in the glass as the wort I tried, but there's still an initial rich taste which reminds me of the walnuts, hazelnuts and chestnuts we tossed in. It finishes off like chocolate, and if you're getting it from the cask there's very little carbonation. Sadly, it appears as if people who worked very hard for this beer still have to pay to drink it. Workers of the world, unite. I have nothing to lose, and a whole cask of beer to gain.

The Reluctant Giving Tree: Volunteering, With Limits

 Future set of Passion Under the Maples. Source: SimonP

This week I'm searching for volunteer positions in Toronto with demented zeal. And while I should do something meaningful like work in a food bank or man a help line, I find I'm skipping over those positions. And right into things like "giant panda ambassador" at the zoo, gardening, or a docent position at a local museum, The Tollkeeper's Cottage. I have been by the Tollkeeper's Cottage. It's more like the Tollkeeper's Shack, or Tollkeeper's Hovel. And since you have to docent in historical clothing, I feel like your chances of getting an equally historically accurate case of consumption or pleurisy are high. But I wouldn't care - a costume! And the chance to overwhelm any visitors with my tale. For I would be the plucky Tollkeeper's Wife, forced to take the tolls as the Tollkeeper would be too busy with the Tollkeeper's Drinking Problem and Tollkeeper's Brothel Prostitute to man the cottage. Also, the Tollkeeper must never know of my secret passion for the local schoolmaster, although my long walks with Mr. Duffy and our passionate discussions of Lord Byron's poetry have set the local gossip's tongues wagging.

See, wouldn't that be worth the two-dollar admission?

Spinning my tale of forbidden love in Upper Canada (working title: Passion Under the Maples) at least distracts me from wondering why I can't handle the harder stuff. I did try last year, and spent about a month surveying a local food bank. I went on Tuesdays, and every week would cycle through dread and depression. Either I liked the people I interviewed, but felt helpless to do anything for them, or I couldn't stand them and felt guilty about it. I feel like so many volunteer positions end in that feeling of grating futility. And since I'm already spending at least 9-5 on weekdays dealing with people - their needs, their anger, their constant, constant questions - I can only handle spending more if I can do it behind a panda mask.

Please don't judge me.

I Still [heart] Science

If you know me in real life, my last post may have caused some concern. What was going on with the skeptical Protagitron you knew and mostly tolerated? You see, in spite of my B.A. in English, I am an arts geek with a crush on science. Actually, that was my intro to my online dating profile for a while back when I had one. Sadly, it didn't bring the astrophysicists to the door. However, I generally have a healthy skepticism towards astrology, tarot, palmistry, and even nearly every form of alternative "medicine." My poor Dad is mocked constantly for his loyalty to his chiropractor, which would be a good time to make the following embarrassing admissions:

1. I used to go to an acupuncturist regularly
2. One of my holds at the library is for a book on ayurveda
3. I tried reading my tarot cards again today

From that, you might conclude that along with a blockage of chi and an imbalance of pitta, my problem is hypocrisy. Which is not quite true. I never believed in acupuncture and still gained some benefit from my sessions. While the placebo effect did its thing, I was forced to stop doing mine and actually rest. The Ayurveda may be less explicable, and the tarot utterly ridiculous, but I'm doing the former to improve my diet and the latter for the lulz. Though my reading today caused me enough concern that I had to use my introductory knowledge of probability to reason my way out of it. But more on that tomorrow, when I've checked that I didn't make some error out of poorly placed intuition. Today I just wanted to confirm for you all that I am pretty much as woo woo-free as ever, and you needn't worry that I'll try curing myself with crystals.

Looking to the Stars

It occurred to me last night that I may not be making the wisest decisions in my life.

I'm visiting Guelph, so there I am in the bedroom of my childhood home. I think the last life plan I generated in that room ended with me becoming a Russian-speaking economist in Hermes scarves. Well, shoot for the moon, because even if you miss you'll land among the stars...  or commuting 1.5 hours to Mississauga in H&M. And then there's my personal life, where every good decision I think I'm making becomes regrettable 24 hours later.

So I did the mature, adult thing. I engaged in a period of sober and meaningful self-reflection. Well, actually, I shuffled a deck of tarot cards. My skills in the paranormal remain as dormant as ever though - really, with three cats I might as well have acquired a control of magic along with the brain parasites - since the whole spread was hilariously inaccurate. Apparently, my insomnia is really a period of pleasant reflection, as I gaze back contentedly at the hard work that brought me here. Things only got more accurate near the end of my reading, when I found out that my current course would bring me pain, suffering and misery.

On that bright note, I decided to try astrology next. My good friend Caroline is a firm believer in the starry arts, and I'd recently read an article - through Longform - about Susan Miller, astrologer to the fashion elite. Obviously, their weird fascination with the world's ugliest website was the secret to their success, and I wanted in. Here's what the month of February looks like for me, courtesy of Ms. Miller (and the generosity of Wellington-Dufferin Student Transportation Services)

Will the 28th be a glamourous evening? I have no idea. But even wading through the sparkling fairy dust, and mapping out my chart, made me feel like my life was managed. Which is the most I can ask of anything right now, whether science, pseudoscience, or this.