Friday, June 6, 2008
Down Into Hades
Sorry that a weird empty post popped up. That was an accident, something while I worked on a big , long post about my men troubles, and an acquaintance of mine who I alternately admire and despise. However, it is much too hot in Montreal to retrieve anything, and so I'll continue to enjoy my new hobby: sweating.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Beware My Awesome Powers
A few days ago, my Dad was in town and we were walking along Sherbrooke, right past the Musée des Beaux Arts. The posters for the big Yves St Laurent show had just gone up, which meant I had just found out about them, at which point the following conversation transpired.
Protagitron: Oh. My. God. I have to see that! The clothes.... the draping... WHY ISN'T IT ON NOW?
Dad: Is he still alive?
Protagitron: Who? Yves? Oh God no, I'm sure he died a couple of years ago.
Dad: Oh, I thought he was...
Protagitron: Nah, he's dead.
Then, a few days later, I saw this headline on the Times:
Oh God, I killed "Yves" with my brain!
Fortunately, I'm seeing the show this Sunday morning with some friends. We'll have to get there early, since the lines have been crazy ever since his death. Sniff. Morbid rubberneckers, all. I'll have you know I'm just going for the DRAPING.
Protagitron: Oh. My. God. I have to see that! The clothes.... the draping... WHY ISN'T IT ON NOW?
Dad: Is he still alive?
Protagitron: Who? Yves? Oh God no, I'm sure he died a couple of years ago.
Dad: Oh, I thought he was...
Protagitron: Nah, he's dead.
Then, a few days later, I saw this headline on the Times:
Yves Saint Laurent, Giant of Couture, Dies at 71
...Oh God, I killed "Yves" with my brain!
Fortunately, I'm seeing the show this Sunday morning with some friends. We'll have to get there early, since the lines have been crazy ever since his death. Sniff. Morbid rubberneckers, all. I'll have you know I'm just going for the DRAPING.
Monday, June 2, 2008
(Sex à New York) dans Montréal
Between studying last weekend, I paid my XX chromosone dues by seeing Sex and the City. I had to. I couldn't take passing another cluster of women talking about the movie, in bars holding cosmos, in groups in front of the theater, or in crowds wearing Sex and the City shirts. It was either resist and die or give in to the madness.
I always knew I would give in to the madness. I have a weird relationship with the show. I hated it when it was on the air. I hated the characters, I hated their clothes, I hated that their voices would lurch in and out of normal hearing range and dog whistle shrill. I hated seeing Sarah Jessica Parker's face everywhere. And the nameplate necklaces and those stupid flower pins! But after my emotional breakdown of '06-07 coincided neatly with the local ABC affiliate broadcasting edited for TV episodes, it grew on me. Like a fungus. I downloaded the original episodes online. Although it was surprising that a woman named "Samantha" had always been there, I only loved it more. I never forgot its faults, but I found that it occasionally threw out insightful or touching bits along with the crap. It became like comfort food, or crack, or maybe a bit of both. Meth-laced mac and cheese. So of course I had to see the movie.
Now, ninety percent of the stuff written about Sex and the City is pretty damn asinine. I'll never understand the obsession with pegging where in feminism it belongs. My personal opinion is that while it could not have existed without feminism, it is not particularly feminist as such. There's also the stock topic of how vapid it is, which I think misses what part that plays in its appeal. So I won't bore you with more limp cultural analysis. I'll just give you a recommendation.
First, if you've never seen an episode, do not go. The whole thing won't make any sense and you'll garrote yourself with soda straws out of boredom. If you've seen the series, and liked it, bear in mind that the movie is around two and a half hours long, and most of it is about Carrie. Charlotte, the pressed and pleated WASP (who converted to Judaism, so throw a J in there) gets barely any screen time, although some of the better laughs. The infidelity story between Miranda and Steve- and God bless the person in the audience who hissed "Bastard!" when he confessed- is refreshingly adult, but a little rushed. The best part of Sam's storyline is its provision of male nudity. The rest is all Carrie this, and Carrie that, and between the new decor and the constant Starbucks cups, she's beginning to feel a little overpolished, a little too safe and flat. Even Big looks like he hits the tanner too much, or tweezes too often. The weird thing is that, in spite of all this, it's still satisfying. Like the show, it was bad for me, but I liked it. Call it the Cheetos defense of movies, and buy a ticket if you want the same. But please don't tell me if you're a Miranda or, dear Lord, a Carrie. 'Cause I'm a lady Stanford Blatch.
I always knew I would give in to the madness. I have a weird relationship with the show. I hated it when it was on the air. I hated the characters, I hated their clothes, I hated that their voices would lurch in and out of normal hearing range and dog whistle shrill. I hated seeing Sarah Jessica Parker's face everywhere. And the nameplate necklaces and those stupid flower pins! But after my emotional breakdown of '06-07 coincided neatly with the local ABC affiliate broadcasting edited for TV episodes, it grew on me. Like a fungus. I downloaded the original episodes online. Although it was surprising that a woman named "Samantha" had always been there, I only loved it more. I never forgot its faults, but I found that it occasionally threw out insightful or touching bits along with the crap. It became like comfort food, or crack, or maybe a bit of both. Meth-laced mac and cheese. So of course I had to see the movie.
Now, ninety percent of the stuff written about Sex and the City is pretty damn asinine. I'll never understand the obsession with pegging where in feminism it belongs. My personal opinion is that while it could not have existed without feminism, it is not particularly feminist as such. There's also the stock topic of how vapid it is, which I think misses what part that plays in its appeal. So I won't bore you with more limp cultural analysis. I'll just give you a recommendation.
First, if you've never seen an episode, do not go. The whole thing won't make any sense and you'll garrote yourself with soda straws out of boredom. If you've seen the series, and liked it, bear in mind that the movie is around two and a half hours long, and most of it is about Carrie. Charlotte, the pressed and pleated WASP (who converted to Judaism, so throw a J in there) gets barely any screen time, although some of the better laughs. The infidelity story between Miranda and Steve- and God bless the person in the audience who hissed "Bastard!" when he confessed- is refreshingly adult, but a little rushed. The best part of Sam's storyline is its provision of male nudity. The rest is all Carrie this, and Carrie that, and between the new decor and the constant Starbucks cups, she's beginning to feel a little overpolished, a little too safe and flat. Even Big looks like he hits the tanner too much, or tweezes too often. The weird thing is that, in spite of all this, it's still satisfying. Like the show, it was bad for me, but I liked it. Call it the Cheetos defense of movies, and buy a ticket if you want the same. But please don't tell me if you're a Miranda or, dear Lord, a Carrie. 'Cause I'm a lady Stanford Blatch.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
My Big Fat Greek Examohgodthepuns
Well, I just had a week of nutty shenanigans to contend with. Instead of trying to rent an apartment in the city, I will soon be buying a hut in the far North and living amongst the polar bears. They cannot harass me by phone or e-mail, only eat me which would be ever so preferable.
Ahem. Anyway, I have my Greek Mythology final tomorrow. Today I did seven straight hours of it. I think I've ODed on our Hellenic brethern. I've changed the cat's name to Philoctetes, and the degu's to Ajax. I'm so desperate not to study any more, even though I still need to be able to locate Aulis on a map, that I'm watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding on tv. With bad reception. Maybe it will tell me something more about the Aeschylus tragedies I haven't read yet. I think John Corbett is playing Orestes!
Wait, no, my tv reception is just that bad.
Ahem. Anyway, I have my Greek Mythology final tomorrow. Today I did seven straight hours of it. I think I've ODed on our Hellenic brethern. I've changed the cat's name to Philoctetes, and the degu's to Ajax. I'm so desperate not to study any more, even though I still need to be able to locate Aulis on a map, that I'm watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding on tv. With bad reception. Maybe it will tell me something more about the Aeschylus tragedies I haven't read yet. I think John Corbett is playing Orestes!
Wait, no, my tv reception is just that bad.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
I Have Seen the Future, and It Has a Post-It With My Name On It
I spent the long weekend at my grandma's house, an Internet-free dead zone haunted by the ghosts of garage sales past. It's always a little uncanny, because every time I use the upstairs bathroom I realize that the same bottle of European Formula shampoo has been in the tub since I can remember. That's at least 12 years, people. I think it's ossified. Grandma's house does provide the laughs though, as her obsessive pack rat nature has sometimes lead her to branch out from her usual collections of thimbles, spoons, depression glass, flow blue china, etc, into the truly bizarre. So, I play a little game of "One of These Things..." My all-time top find was a lesbian pulp fiction novel, which just edges out the statue of Moses with horns. Kinky grandma.
Even while I was exploring the house with fear and awe, my relatives were portioning off pieces of it. Is this kind of dividing the spoils common? When people aren't even sick or infirm? My aunt even asked for the car. My aunt doesn't seem to have a high opinion of granny's longevity. Or else the resale value on her ride is really, really good. The whole thing kind of weirds me out, but I refuse to get shafted. So, the next time I visit, I'll engage in a little plan called "stealth post-it noting." I see an object? Bam! Suddenly a Post-It note with my name on it is there. Who put it there? Was it me? Probably. Expired can of soup? Bam! Table? Bam! Cheese in the fridge? Bam! The house? You better believe there's a 3M product with "Protagitron" on it on the porch.
Bam!
Even while I was exploring the house with fear and awe, my relatives were portioning off pieces of it. Is this kind of dividing the spoils common? When people aren't even sick or infirm? My aunt even asked for the car. My aunt doesn't seem to have a high opinion of granny's longevity. Or else the resale value on her ride is really, really good. The whole thing kind of weirds me out, but I refuse to get shafted. So, the next time I visit, I'll engage in a little plan called "stealth post-it noting." I see an object? Bam! Suddenly a Post-It note with my name on it is there. Who put it there? Was it me? Probably. Expired can of soup? Bam! Table? Bam! Cheese in the fridge? Bam! The house? You better believe there's a 3M product with "Protagitron" on it on the porch.
Bam!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Open Letter to a Skunk
Dear Mr. Skunk,
While I admire your tenacity in making it in the big city, it would be nice if you could spray somewhere that is not right underneath my apartment window. I am currently agonizing over a minor life choice, and your fragrant emissions are adding a certain unfortunate je-ne-sais-quoi to my cogitations. Try the entrance to the Atwater Metro, it's not like your stink would stick out there.
And yes, Mr. Skunk, I realize that I am thinking way too much about this, and that I'm taking my stress out on you, but... but... you smell bad. So there.
Yours,
Protagitron
While I admire your tenacity in making it in the big city, it would be nice if you could spray somewhere that is not right underneath my apartment window. I am currently agonizing over a minor life choice, and your fragrant emissions are adding a certain unfortunate je-ne-sais-quoi to my cogitations. Try the entrance to the Atwater Metro, it's not like your stink would stick out there.
And yes, Mr. Skunk, I realize that I am thinking way too much about this, and that I'm taking my stress out on you, but... but... you smell bad. So there.
Yours,
Protagitron
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Protagitron Under Water
Yesterday I had my first swimming lesson. It's been one of the major hush-hush shames of my life that I can't really swim. Sure, stick me in the water and I won't drown. I'll even do a half-hearted doggie paddle, before listing to one side and lurching towards a comfortable sitting rock. But breast stroke? Butterfly? Freestyle? I am fluent in none of those. I managed to get through summer camp by signing up for arts and crafts and drama religiously- you should see the gimp bracelets I can crank out- but I didn't want to get through adulthood without at least knowing how to do the front crawl.
I mean, if the movies are to be believed, and they must be, humanity faces one of two futures. Either we become a flooded wasteland from climate change, or we become a zombie wasteland just because. And since I couldn't take zombie defence classes, I was left with learn-to-swim classes.
These classes are, by the way, a ruse. A clever ruse to get your money. First, there's the explicit costs of the classes themselves. Then you must purchase a swimsuit. Which requires not only money, but a masterful strategy to find not only one that is practical while not boring, but one without a few inches of shirring, hideous floral prints, or, God help me, rhinestones on it. Swimsuit manufacturers of North America, I will kindly provide you with three pieces of useful advice. First, there are some flaws no amount of artfully-applied shirring can hide. Second, no one wants to look like Grandma's sofa. Thirdly... rhinestones? Seriously? But a swimsuit was found.
You're not finished yet, though, The swimsuit requires various hair-removal purchases to be made. I am, genetically, cursed to a sideshow freak level of hairiness. Thank my Ukrainians and Scottish ancestors who probably decided to grow their own clothes. So, you buy a waxing kit, razors, and a depilatory in the hope that one of them will unlock the key to ad-worthy smoothness. The waxing will just unlock the key to a nasty-ass rash. Which means the purchase of some hydrocortisone cream must be made. And more alcohol, if I'm going to brave public viewing looking like this.
By the time I lurch into the gym, out a good chunk of cash and kind of tipsy, I realized I couldn't find my way into the pool. And not because I was that drunk. Because I couldn't find a damn door. I could see into the pool from windows, but all of the doors said "Pool Office," or "Pool Equipment," or "NO ENTRY- Male Swimmers must use locker room entrance." What's a female swimmer to do? Wander around aimlessly for fifteen minutes before going into the "Office" door, naturally.
The class itself went well. I like the water more than my skin likes wax, thankfully. Our instructor also seems like a nice goofy guy. Who is also blessed with a divine torso. As soon as my eyes started to wander south of his head, I would start to dumbly stare at his abdominal muscles, my mouth going all slack jawed. I have turned into a twenty-year old, female lech. This kid is going to turn out to be sixteen or some such nonsense. But until then, I'll do whatever Abdom- Andrew tells me to do.
I mean, if the movies are to be believed, and they must be, humanity faces one of two futures. Either we become a flooded wasteland from climate change, or we become a zombie wasteland just because. And since I couldn't take zombie defence classes, I was left with learn-to-swim classes.
These classes are, by the way, a ruse. A clever ruse to get your money. First, there's the explicit costs of the classes themselves. Then you must purchase a swimsuit. Which requires not only money, but a masterful strategy to find not only one that is practical while not boring, but one without a few inches of shirring, hideous floral prints, or, God help me, rhinestones on it. Swimsuit manufacturers of North America, I will kindly provide you with three pieces of useful advice. First, there are some flaws no amount of artfully-applied shirring can hide. Second, no one wants to look like Grandma's sofa. Thirdly... rhinestones? Seriously? But a swimsuit was found.
You're not finished yet, though, The swimsuit requires various hair-removal purchases to be made. I am, genetically, cursed to a sideshow freak level of hairiness. Thank my Ukrainians and Scottish ancestors who probably decided to grow their own clothes. So, you buy a waxing kit, razors, and a depilatory in the hope that one of them will unlock the key to ad-worthy smoothness. The waxing will just unlock the key to a nasty-ass rash. Which means the purchase of some hydrocortisone cream must be made. And more alcohol, if I'm going to brave public viewing looking like this.
By the time I lurch into the gym, out a good chunk of cash and kind of tipsy, I realized I couldn't find my way into the pool. And not because I was that drunk. Because I couldn't find a damn door. I could see into the pool from windows, but all of the doors said "Pool Office," or "Pool Equipment," or "NO ENTRY- Male Swimmers must use locker room entrance." What's a female swimmer to do? Wander around aimlessly for fifteen minutes before going into the "Office" door, naturally.
The class itself went well. I like the water more than my skin likes wax, thankfully. Our instructor also seems like a nice goofy guy. Who is also blessed with a divine torso. As soon as my eyes started to wander south of his head, I would start to dumbly stare at his abdominal muscles, my mouth going all slack jawed. I have turned into a twenty-year old, female lech. This kid is going to turn out to be sixteen or some such nonsense. But until then, I'll do whatever Abdom- Andrew tells me to do.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Protagitron SMASH.
No posting because I've been slacking off in every interesting area of my life. My stash should be confiscated for failure to appreciate it. My sewing machine as well. What has been taking up my time, besides summer classes, poor life decisions and painful gym sessions? Apartment drama llama ding dong.
Basically, I'm trying to negotiate between what I want, what my beloved roomie wants, what new roomie wants, what my old landlord King Douche wants*, and what my cat wants. Only the cat is being satisfied right now, because all he wants are scratches and food. So, all of my entries would be totally dull right now anyway, because it would just be re-hashings of contingency plan A or B, and parts of the Régie de Logement, and the math of subletting our place at a price that moves without losing more money.
King Douche has also installed what I like to call the TetanusGiver. For whatever reason, the perfectly nice banisters on the outside stairs were removed and replaced with odd bits of wood haphazardly nailed together. You'll either get slivers, poked by a rusty nail, or fall off the side if you apply any pressure to it. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, for something, but that period has now stretched into a week plus. At least I will have a handy tool of suicide should this situation remain ever bleak. If the broken neck from my fall doesn't get me, the tetanus from the rusty nails eventually will. Or massive hemorrhaging from a sliver.
I would post photos of the Tetanus Giver, but my camera cord is temporarily out of my custody again. So my blog posts won't be getting any more exciting any time soon.
*Who, by the way, looks suspiciously like Buffalo Bill. Hopefully what he wants is not my skin for his lady suit.
Basically, I'm trying to negotiate between what I want, what my beloved roomie wants, what new roomie wants, what my old landlord King Douche wants*, and what my cat wants. Only the cat is being satisfied right now, because all he wants are scratches and food. So, all of my entries would be totally dull right now anyway, because it would just be re-hashings of contingency plan A or B, and parts of the Régie de Logement, and the math of subletting our place at a price that moves without losing more money.
King Douche has also installed what I like to call the TetanusGiver. For whatever reason, the perfectly nice banisters on the outside stairs were removed and replaced with odd bits of wood haphazardly nailed together. You'll either get slivers, poked by a rusty nail, or fall off the side if you apply any pressure to it. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, for something, but that period has now stretched into a week plus. At least I will have a handy tool of suicide should this situation remain ever bleak. If the broken neck from my fall doesn't get me, the tetanus from the rusty nails eventually will. Or massive hemorrhaging from a sliver.
I would post photos of the Tetanus Giver, but my camera cord is temporarily out of my custody again. So my blog posts won't be getting any more exciting any time soon.
*Who, by the way, looks suspiciously like Buffalo Bill. Hopefully what he wants is not my skin for his lady suit.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Hello Mr. Chippy
Yesterday? Should be struck from the calendar. Sometimes I feel like I just lurch from one disaster to another, and sometimes I don't lurch- I identify the disaster, and instead of avoiding it, I roll around in it. To take away the sting, I applied liberal amounts of alcohol. Which lead to a funny conversation with my beloved roommate.
Protagitron: Did you get me a CD? And a drink? I found them on my desk.
BR: Um, yeah. Remember? I read out the titles of the songs?
Protagitron: Hmm, no.
BR: And you thought they were all depressing? And then I told you Macho Man was on it?
Protagitron: Nope, still nothing.
BR: And then you sang Macho Man for me?
Protagitron: Oh God. Are you lying to me?
BR: No.
So, I'm calling off the sauce for the next few days. I have the rest of the week off, since my summer classes don't start until next Monday. There are new prints of Last Year at Marienbad and Pierrot le Fou playing at the Cinéma du Parc. And Iron Man comes out soon. It's going to be a good week for popcorn and movies.
Speaking of Iron Man, I had the most delightful encounter at work the other day. Every so often, an old man comes in and buys fifty cents of chips. Since it's always at the end of my shift, and I'm usually pretty cracked out about what fresh hell my boss has caused me- most recently, cleaning up a moldy case of Pepsi- I'm always frighteningly peppy, so I think he's usually a little frightened of me. I call him Mr. Chippy. But the other day, we both stopped to watch the trailer for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull play. I tossed out that I was desperately looking forward to it. He said he was more excited about Iron Man. That became a fifteen minute conversation about comic books and their movies, where we found out we disagreed about Frank Miller but agreed on Neal Adams, loved X-Men but hated Spider-Man III, and that he held shares in Marvel. And was planning on going to their shareholder meeting! So, snack foods- bringing nerds together again.
Protagitron: Did you get me a CD? And a drink? I found them on my desk.
BR: Um, yeah. Remember? I read out the titles of the songs?
Protagitron: Hmm, no.
BR: And you thought they were all depressing? And then I told you Macho Man was on it?
Protagitron: Nope, still nothing.
BR: And then you sang Macho Man for me?
Protagitron: Oh God. Are you lying to me?
BR: No.
So, I'm calling off the sauce for the next few days. I have the rest of the week off, since my summer classes don't start until next Monday. There are new prints of Last Year at Marienbad and Pierrot le Fou playing at the Cinéma du Parc. And Iron Man comes out soon. It's going to be a good week for popcorn and movies.
Speaking of Iron Man, I had the most delightful encounter at work the other day. Every so often, an old man comes in and buys fifty cents of chips. Since it's always at the end of my shift, and I'm usually pretty cracked out about what fresh hell my boss has caused me- most recently, cleaning up a moldy case of Pepsi- I'm always frighteningly peppy, so I think he's usually a little frightened of me. I call him Mr. Chippy. But the other day, we both stopped to watch the trailer for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull play. I tossed out that I was desperately looking forward to it. He said he was more excited about Iron Man. That became a fifteen minute conversation about comic books and their movies, where we found out we disagreed about Frank Miller but agreed on Neal Adams, loved X-Men but hated Spider-Man III, and that he held shares in Marvel. And was planning on going to their shareholder meeting! So, snack foods- bringing nerds together again.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Monty Living
I wrote the exam on Monday. It probably isn't the finest exam I have ever written. By the end, I was so desperate for the warmth and sunshine the open window in the exam room promised, I was barely managing to write a coherent paragraph. The last question may not even have coherent sentences. Some of them may just be sentence fragments. But I had scheduled dollar tacos and beer with my friend Erika, so I didn't really care. There's this slightly gringo Mexican resto and bar on Peel, Carlos and Pépés's, that has loonie nights- cheap pints and cheaper tacos for me. Is there really beef in those tacos? What do you care? It's a dollar!
Furthermore, that was game seven between the Habs and the Bruins. Watching a game in a bar in a real sports town is amazing. The way the bar goes nuts after every goal, even when it's the fifth, everyone dressed in jerseys and Canadiens gear, the general sense of merry, drunken, abandonment. And then, walking along Ste. Catherine after the game, you see traffic backed up for blocks and blocks. Everyone is honking the horn and screaming, waving flags and hanging out of car windows. Because an event hasn't happened until it's been Facebooked, everyone who isn't part of the revelry is taking pictures of it with their cellphone. It's too bad it descended into rioting and vandalism, but it was nice to feel a part of an imagined community for a while.
Tuesday was somewhat less eventful. I had to work, but at least pal Josh called Katie and me up and invited us over, even though I was a little whiffy with sandwich grease. He was going to make us matzo pizza if we brought over a movie (only stipulations: dry, "non-fiction.") I was initially a little wary of the matzo pizza. It sounded... unnatural. But it wasn't so bad. Tasty, even. The boys rejected our choice of documentary, "Gay Sex in the 70s", though. They preferred the crossword puzzle doc, "Wordplay." It wasn't a bad choice, but not nearly enough grinding.
Furthermore, that was game seven between the Habs and the Bruins. Watching a game in a bar in a real sports town is amazing. The way the bar goes nuts after every goal, even when it's the fifth, everyone dressed in jerseys and Canadiens gear, the general sense of merry, drunken, abandonment. And then, walking along Ste. Catherine after the game, you see traffic backed up for blocks and blocks. Everyone is honking the horn and screaming, waving flags and hanging out of car windows. Because an event hasn't happened until it's been Facebooked, everyone who isn't part of the revelry is taking pictures of it with their cellphone. It's too bad it descended into rioting and vandalism, but it was nice to feel a part of an imagined community for a while.
Tuesday was somewhat less eventful. I had to work, but at least pal Josh called Katie and me up and invited us over, even though I was a little whiffy with sandwich grease. He was going to make us matzo pizza if we brought over a movie (only stipulations: dry, "non-fiction.") I was initially a little wary of the matzo pizza. It sounded... unnatural. But it wasn't so bad. Tasty, even. The boys rejected our choice of documentary, "Gay Sex in the 70s", though. They preferred the crossword puzzle doc, "Wordplay." It wasn't a bad choice, but not nearly enough grinding.
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