Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

Isn't your favourite cultural product from the late 90s/early 00's Sex and the City? No? Well shut up, hater. You're probably a Miranda. I, however, am a Fast Walking Background Extra #3. Fortunately, Justin Trudeau's recent  Toronto event - where, for $250, I could meet the man glowingly described as "Dreamier than Mulchair" and "Not Michael Ignatieff" by Canadians everywhere - meant I could finally live out my SATC fantasies. Get ready for...

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

by Carrie Bloorshaw

When you live in a cracked-out amalgamated metropolis like Toronto, you get your kicks where you can. Maybe you lick the pole on the Spadina streetcar.

Maybe you smoke some actual crack.

Or maybe you try and get on the first wagon headed out of town, to a new city where everything closes at five, dignity matters, and nobody remembers the time you tried to climb the outside of Sneaky Dee's, naked.

I was thinking a move to Ottawa was in order, and I didn't want to do it on the back of a backbencher. I was shooting for Mr. Big Deal - Justin Trudeau himself.

With my eyes on the parliamentary prize, I accepted Justin Trudeau's invitation for a ladies' night. I would get to know him - really know him - in a few hours. Plus there would be booze. A chance to be intimate in all the right ways with our next prime minister, and knock back a few glasses of cab sauv before throwing it all back up in a cab cab's back seat? Madam Speaker, I move to adjourn... to the venue!

I had  maxed out my credit card to buy the right shade of Liberal Red dress. I wanted the Mr. Big of Canadian politics - big name, big hair, big ideas - to notice yours truly. And notice he did.

It was about the time of my sixth Lib-tini of the night. They tasted suspiciously like regular cosmopolitans with little paper Liberal flags stuck in them, but I didn't even want to know what a Paul Martin-i was. It looked old, and sad, and people kept on ordering other drinks after they had one.

And then - there he was. He cut across the room like Stephen Harper cutting through democratic process in order to prorogue parliament. I held myself up with the back of a chair.

"Hello there," Mr. Big Deal said. "What's your favourite virtue?"

Looking into his earnest, desperate eyes, I couldn't help but wonder - What are the dating procedures when the House of Commons Procedure and Practice just won't do?

"Why, Justin" I purred, falling off of the chair and on to the Liberal party leader, "shouldn't you be asking me what my favourite VICE is??"

I shoved another mini-quiche into my mouth.

"Because it's gluttony. Gluttony, and SEX!"

However, Mr. Big Deal was more acrobatic than he looked. Like Jean Chrétien proving a proof, he wriggled out of my grasp.

As I stood up, the Lib-tini caucus in my stomach started to behave in a very unparliamentary manner. Where had it all gone wrong? Why wasn't I one of Justin Trudeau's real life heroes? Was it because he was married, or did he know I had secretly voted NDP last time because Jack Layton's mustache reminded me of my daddy issues?

Only one thing could save this night, and it didn't come from a bottle. I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the number I kept under "300 Pounds of Fun."

"Hello, Rob," I said, "are you up for meeting one of your constituents tonight?"

Well, Ottawa might have been nice for a term. But I can never resign from you, Toronto. And the best part is, you can't make me, either!

Solving Racism, One Six Pack At a Time

A few weeks ago, I read a little item on The Onion's AV Club about 2 Broke Girls. After being accused of racism due to the half-dimensionality of the girls' Korean boss, 2 Broke Girls would add a "hot Asian guy" to make everything better. Since then, the idea of solving all problems of racism, power and privilege with a liberal application of Preparation S(exy) has made me think. What if other famous examples of racism could be hot-washed this way?

For example, in Gone with the Wind, hire Zoe Saldana to shoot some extra scenes, where she gets in a sexy catfight with Scarlett O'Hara. Petticoats will be torn!!! George Lucas can bring the same technology he used to add scenes to the Star Wars trilogy for those special editions, except this time he'll be using it for marginally less pointless reasons.

In Breakfast at Tiffany's, all scenes featuring Mickey Rooney's yellowface could be re-edited, with the video replaced by an intern shaking a picture of Takeshi Kaneshiro, freshly torn from a Japanese fashion magazine, at the camera.

Disney's Song of the South: Digitally insert a shirtless Shemar Moore into every scene.

Maybe now Disney will let this one out of the vault!

In 300, you could find some sexy Persian and... really, 300 has reached ab saturation, and any attempt to add more attractive men would not only leave the movie as anti-Iranian as ever, but also cause some kind of rift in the space-time continuum, creating a wormhole which smells strongly of body oil.

This Week on NOVAlicious

Gummy Mitosis!
Witness the startling elegance of nature, as found in my baggie of Maynards Juicy Squirts* Citrus. Yes, once I found the middle gummy formation, I spent precious seconds of my life arranging and photographing this delicious illustration. I think it should be included in every textbook, in its edible form.

*Dear CEO of Maynards: UNSPEAKABLE FILTH.

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!

Fake Band Names I Have Known

If you're anything like me, and I pray you're not because you'd be writing a ten page paper right now, you spend a lot of your time coming up with fake band names. I don't have the dedication, or the musical talent, or even the blinding egotism necessary to get a real band off the ground. What else can I say, but tell you that I spend more time coming up with hypothetical album covers than coming up with possible songs?

Whiskey Clandestino
Where it came from: A Jack Chick tract, by way of another forum. There was a topic dedicated to discussing those creepy little pamphlets, and in one strip that, no lie, involved bootleggers, moonshine was translated to "whiskey clandestino" in Spanish. Someone on the board mentioned that would make an awesome band name. I agreed so strongly, I stole the idea myself.
Description: The only all-cover band with a balalaika.
White Man's Pants
Where it came from: A recent favourite, it came from the self-published novel of some wackaloon linked on the Really.Bad.Novels topic at Snarkfest. Contains what might be the greatest two lines in the English canon: "Take back your white-man's pants. I will not wear them." And thus, a new fake band name was born.
Description: Mostly funk, a little klezmer, always drunk.
The Tsarinas
Where it came from: Who doesn't like the monarchs of Russia? Besides Pugachev. Or Alexander II's assassin. Or the Bolsheviks who executed Nicholas II and his family. Alright, so historically they haven't been a popular group, but their titles are pretty damn cool.
Description: All-girl band who's bubblegum pop hides a darker electronic edge.
Fine Yearling Ass
Where it came from: This hilarious Onion article, "Peasant Wedding Gets Out of Hand."

Delirious from the increasing mayhem, wedding patrons urinated out the windows of their thatched hovels, smashed earthenware jugs and whacked blind beggars with gourds.

The already-explosive situation soon deteriorated when a brawl broke out between members of the bride's and groom's families over the ownership of a pheasant.

Description: Alt-country with a lute and a sackbut.

Posting From the McGill Netherworld

Jeez, I'm surprised this thing hasn't rusted over. Right after my last post, I was thrust deep into pre-reading week school work. In two weeks I had a paper, a presentation, five midterms and a few shifts I picked up at work. I gave up even the basic rudiments of grooming and sacrificed sleep so the world would have my essential essay about the McFarlane action figure of Frankenstein's Monster. Who knows when the fate of the world will depend on what this overpriced toy has to say about feminism? The world must know! So, I promised myself I would get back to knitting- and posting- the first Monday of reading week. Unfortunately, I was too busy raiding the parental fridge and spending money on discount yarn to post anything.

And then I promised to myself I would get around to it at the beginning of this week... which ended up becoming an impromptu Festival of Grilled Cheese. When you assume, because your job is constantly running out of important things for sandwiches like... all the elements of a sandwich, that there will be no supplies at all come Monday, and decide to stock up on bread, lettuce, and tomatoes just in case, that will be the day your boss finally pulls through. So, you're left with a bag of extra groceries- what to do? Well, cut those veggies up into a salad, buy a bunch of sliced cheeses, make a bread pudding (with caramel sauce), and have some friends over for a grilled cheese fiesta.

Not only will you be well-fed, but it will lead to awesome conversations. For example, besides my roommate and her boyfriend, I invited pals Josh and Frances. They are two of the most wonderful people, and two of the nerdiest. I think of myself as a dedicated nerd, so this is a high compliment. Josh, dedicated Trekkie, was complaining about the upcoming Star Trek movie, and the following conversation occured.

"Protagitron: Well, at least the cast is full of pretty.
Josh: That's the problem. It's not Star Trek!
Frances: Josh, I watch Torchwood, and sometimes prettiness is the only thing that makes things bearable.
Josh: How can you say that when you said you didn't like Seven of Nine because she's just eye candy?
Frances: But she is.
Josh: No she's not!
Protagitron: Hey, did you know Jeri Ryan's pregnant?
Josh: Ew, it will ruin her figure!"

So, in Labour Economics the next day, Frances and I were studiously taking notes on wage discrimination against women in the workplace. And by that, I mean we were writing notes to each other out of boredom like we were still in middle school. I will have you know, however, that we do not fold them up into those complicated squares. We're too mature for that. So, I made an appropriate doodle:

It was captioned: "7 of 9 suddenly finds herself discriminated against in the workplace."

Frances's reply: "It will ruin her figure. Ahahaha!"

Well, as they say at McGill: Grandescunt Aucta Labore. "Through work, all things grow."

Notes from the Laminate Underground

I'm committing the working faux pas of posting from my job, but I've been switched to media centre duty, and I'm high of toner fumes. Well, no, but things are quieting down, and there usual ten person deep line up for the laminating machines is gone. One thing you must know about teachers is that they laminate EVERYTHING. I know that one day they'll flip on the lights, and a manic teacher will be feeding the students in, foot by foot, Bronte by Tirth (actual names I saw being laminated yesterday).

Which lead me to come up with a worksheet problem that they could photocopy and laminate:

Laminate Math

Ms. Maple wants to laminate her class so that they'll be durable and hard-wearing. If she has twenty pupils in her class, the average pupil is 3'6" high, and laminate costs 0.24 dollars/foot:

a) How many feet of laminate would she require? (assume that they would expand only in width when flattened)





b) How much would Protagitron's employer have to charge back the school?





c) Would her plea of insanity hold up in a court of law?






Don't forget to show all your work!


I've been posting sparsely again, what with the whirlwind of appointments and packing I've scheduled lately. This will probably continue until at least Sunday, since I'm moving back to Montreal on Saturday. Wish us luck and no auto problems.