The Year of Living Realistically

Goodbye, 2013. Hello, 2014. The tradition on my blog is that I reflect on the past year's resolutions, and come up with a new batch for this year. However, my completion rate has declined from year to year, to the point where zero - absolutely zero - of my resolutions from 2013 were completed. 

So let's try not to set ourselves up for that kind of failure again this year. However, I can't do away with resolutions entirely - there's a masochistic part of me that loves setting ridiculous goals. So my new plan: one resolution a month. I have a month to succeed (or fail) then I can move on. With 12 opportunities, I hope we can at least bring the completion rate up to a stunning 8.33%. 

To 2014! And reasonable expectations!

The Time Grinch Who Stole Christmas

Hey hey hey, ho ho ho, it's Christmas time, and I almost missed it. Actually, if my office party hadn't been last week, I probably would have. I've been busy enough that the first cup of straight-up eggnog has yet to be consumed. 

Okay, there was an eggnog latte somewhere in November, back when I thought I would still have the time to buy a tree and decorate it. Please don't judge me. Occasionally I'll indulge in a ridiculous, expensive whipped cream and flavouring concoction from the 'bucks, like I own an Audi and send my kids to Mandarin class. 

I don't have an Audi. And my kids are really just one cat with boundary issues. 

Anyway, I need some Christmas spirit pronto. Obviously Christmas cards are no longer a possibility, but I think if I can cut some snowflakes while watching Die Hard, I'll be okay. 

The Indignity of Winter Biking

Putting aside the idiotic columnists and angry drivers, getting the Silver Bullet* on the road was one of the better decisions I made this year. As I coasted down hill after hill, free from TTC-induced psychosis, I thought the good times would never end.

And then summer turned to fall, which turned to the fetal winter we're having right now. Snow, slush, ice; all good reasons to stop biking for a bit. I also got a nasty cold in November. With phlegm clogging the bike's engine (ie my lungs) the Silver Bullet was locked up for a week, which stretched into two, and eventually became December. 

And what better month, I thought, to retire my bike for the season and buy a metropass? The city would once again be my oyster, or during rush hour, my sardine can. That lasted for about six days before the card was mysteriously misplaced around Bathurst station. It was kind of like taking $130 and gleefully tossing it out of the back window of the Bathurst bus. 

So it was time to put the saddle back on the steed. The first day wasn't so bad. Sure, my nose ran with rivers of snot, and my legs were as frozen as two fishsticks. My coworker, watching my approach, insisted that a Mercedes almost ran me over, but let's not dwell on that particular indignity. Instead, let's focus on the parade of shame that was this morning's commute. 

I knew it was going to be slushy out there, but I didn't realize how my fender-free tires would liberally spray me with the road's effluvia. Halfway through I regretted my decision to bike, as I opened my mouth to breathe (nose already plugged with cold-induced mucus) and tasted the salty bouquet of fresh road slush. Neither the road conditions, nor tidings of comfort and joy, deterred the drivers from crowding me as I lurched down Spadina. And yet, somehow, I managed to arrive at work (please see "artist"'s rendering, above), only to leave and almost instantaneously go airborne as high winds whipped my bike at the curb, and cardboard boxes and recycling bins at me. 

Which is why I don't understand people who hate cyclists. Save your anger for something else, because eventually the inanimate objects and meteorological events will take us out.

*So named because it is rusty and slow

A 6.0 for Effort

When I was young I decided that I wasn't a very athletic person, and so I decided to resign myself from any and all physical pursuits - volleyball, basketball, tug of war - and pursue a life of the mind.

Unfortunately, the life of the mind has proven as untrustworthy as my own coordination skills, but that's not the point.

No, the point is that yesterday, I strapped on a pair of skates like a good Canadian, and stepped on to the ice at Nathan Phillips square like a good Torontonian.

And then... I stopped.

Skate forward? NO FOR I WOULD SURELY DIE. My mental dialogue was something like "How do you move on skates? How do you MOVE? How how how?" The physics didn't seem to make any sense. Better to stay completely still and not rip a hole in the space/time continuum.

I tried to keep my balance while yelling at my friends that it didn't make any sense. I tried to reconcile the seeming impossibility of my current task (forward movement) with the fact that I used to be able to skate. I could never skate well, mind you, but I used to get around the rinks of Guelph in some way.

Before my brain melted out of my ears and I resolved this paradox by kicking off my skates and wandering to the hot dog cart for a hot dog, Dan held out his hand. I moved forward, like a child learning to walk. And thanks to my trusty personal human post, I ice-walked around the rink. But, damnit, at least I didn't fall.

Weekend Report

I don't know about you guys, but last week felt like a long limp towards an increasingly distant finish line. And so this weekend has been all about recovery, by which of course I mean "doing nothing but watching Scandal, only occasionally venturing forth to drink beer with friends."

Thus, not much to report. I did watch the Saturday night Habs/Leafs game at a Habs bar. I had to get the old Dryden t-shirt out of storage. Last year's strike really burned me on hockey, and I had maybe watched half of a game this season. But I'm glad I went. It might have been the wings, or maybe it was our 4-2 win, or maybe it was even the beer talking (it was totally the beer), but it was a lot of fun.

Now, I'm hoping for a more productive week. Because beer and addictive TV is great and all, but sometimes a girl's got goals.

A Night Out With Protagitron(...'s Overwhelming Stage Fright)

Slide 1 Of My Presentation

Sorry for my sudden disappearance. Duty called. Duty, in the form of a presentation for Toronto's Nerd Nite. Yes, in spite of the crippling stage fright I've struggled against since my childhood, where an annual speech competition meant an annual anxiety attack, I decided I should really get up in front of a roomful of strangers and talk about something. Anything! It could be anything once I got up there, because I would be too nervous to remember what I was actually supposed to be talking about.

However, I had told the organizer I would be talking about comic book films, so I figured I should at least try and give a presentation that was at least 95% about the promised content, and only 5% blank looks and vomiting.

So I dutifully prepared, even through a cold that made me sound like The Thing for a week. Dan made me all of the film clips I requested (awwwww) and I shoved them into Powerpoint (or, rather, Apple's "interpretation" of Powerpoint, Keynote).

Finally, it was go time. But not before ingesting a pint of liquid courage at Tequila Bookworm. Which unfortunately wore off right when I arrived at the venue. Which fortunately was licensed.

The buzz from my gin and tonic was good until I realized I would be following Tyler Irving's excellent and very funny talk on chemophobia. The bar was set high, and guess what was one of my other regular childhood failures - the freaking high jump. Hooray!

Hands shaking, I let the host, Lauren, plug in my laptop, and faced the audience. I opened my mouth. And somehow, magically, most of what I wanted to say tumbled out.

There was applause, and people asked interesting, attentive questions. My one regret was focusing too much on superhero comics with my answers (Stray Bullets would make an excellent TV series! Saga an incredible series of films! And Fatale as well!) but you can't do everything right.

I didn't vomit, and that was enough for me.

If you're in Toronto and have a topic you're passionate about, think about attending a Nerd Nite, and then signing up for a talk. It's not as terrifying as the speech competitions of your youth, and twice as manageable as the high jump. 

Can't Stop Physics: Bobbie Robbie 2014

Sadly, I was unable to score a signed Rob Ford bobblehead doll this morning.

Now, the important thing here isn't that our scandal-scabbed mayor, who's lied about smoking crack, written reference letters for drug dealers, spewed racist, homophobic garbage, and regularly lost battles with inanimate objects, is selling bobbleheads to raise money for the United Way, or that he's doing so on the eve of the first council meeting since he admitted he smoked crack, or that these bobbleheads have lead to long lines outside of City Hall.

Who cares about that anymore? The Rob Ford Experience, I have decided, isn't a municipal political disaster. It's a piece of performance art, forcing viewers to confront the constructs of power and privilege within the fraught sphere of the "public"... OR SOMETHING. Like any good art experience, there is a gift shop with souvenirs. There are these bobble heads.

And so, the really important thing about the Rob Ford bobbleheads is, that I didn't get one.

This is the greatest miscarriage of wobbly-headed justice since I missed out on a "Marty the Marmot" bobblehad giveaway in Victoria, BC. Now I'll never have a physical memento of the Ford Years, just a bunch of incoherent rantings about NFL TIE REALLY and BIKE LANES GIVE THEM BACK.

But what if I never need a physical memento? What if these years never end, and I'm surrounded by Fordliness forever, in a miasma of Russian Prince? Because I think he might win. By coming out about the crack, then stubbornly moving on, he might just pull it off. It doesn't matter that his critics are justified. The less he engages, the more shrill they'll sound. And then he can talk and talk about how much money he's saved as our mayor. The fuzzy truth of that strong claim doesn't really matter. He's said it enough times, that people have started to believe him. "If he smokes and saves me money, I'll vote for him — " one of my fellow citizens recently said, "even if he's a bum."

It's that kind of high quality reasoning that makes me think Rob Ford's bobbleheaded persona could take on the man himself in 2014. Not only will it "save" at least as much money, but voters will love its positive, can-do attitude! That Bobbie Robbie just never stops nodding.

Domestic Friday: Beau's Smokin' Banana Peels

Smokin' Banana Peels was the beer I dreaded most from the Beau's Oktoberfest Mix Pack. It's a smoked Hefeweizen. I imagined it tasting like some sort of unholy charcoal briquette/banana smoothie, like something served up from Satan's Booster Juice.

Hefeweizens do not contain mashed-up bananas, thank Christ. Instead you'll find wheat, barley, and strains of yeast that give a banana-like or clove flavour to the beer as it ferments. Though distinct, it is also subtle, which is exactly what most smoked beers I've had in the past have lacked. Every time I tried one, I felt like I was drinking LiquidSmokeTM with an ABV. 

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that the two flavours, fruit and smoke, were well balanced in this beer. The smoky notes kept the banana from being cloying. The distinctive banana aroma kept the smoke from being choking. Lesson learned: never judge a beer by beers past.

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!

The Bung Goes On: Cask Days 2013

My sympathies are always with the lost, with the misfits of life. Those who hope for the best, but have to settle for the least-worst. So my heart beat in time, yesterday, with those poor unfortunate souls who asked if we had any lagers or light beers at Cask Days.

"Try this..." I said, looking desperately around at all of the India pale ales, each probably hoppier than the last. "... Cranberry kolsch? I, uh, think there might also be a brown ale that's not too aggressive." 

Perhaps my suggestions were poured out. Frankly, I was too busy pouring more beer to find out. 

I had volunteered for Cask Days in a fit of cheery can-do optimism, the same optimism which has led me in to such undertakings as attending a knot-tying workshop and building a subpar birdhouse. Unfortunately, I had also decided to try volunteering at Canzine the same weekend. However, I managed to slot Canzine in on Saturday, Cask Days on Sunday, leaving little room for usual weekend activity of high-impact slothing. 

So I reluctantly trundled off to Evergreen Brickworks, knowing that my SmartServe card would put me behind the casks. I was worried that would mean seven hours of making irritation-inducing judgment calls about people's sobriety, but it wasn't that bad. You could get a half-pint of beer for two tokens, or a quarter for one. With hundreds of casks to choose from - I worked in just half of the area dedicated to Ontario beers, and we still had at least fifty - increased quantity means diminished variety. People were forced into pacing themselves.

Not that I was much of a help picking which brews were worth a token. Volunteers got free admission on their day "off," but thanks to my other commitments, I missed my chance to sample the beers. I also missed my chance to have a medium-sized t-shirt, so I ended up working in an official Cask Days muumuu. People kept on asking me, perhaps because of the authority conferred by the muumuu, what I would recommend. And I kept on saying "Ha, well, I don't get to drink until five. But a lot of people seem to like the No Chance with Morana, or the Cream in Your Jeans." The guests were pretty patient with that, and I also leaned heavily on the knowledge of fellow volunteer Mike, whose encyclopedic knowledge of beer made me feel like a dedicated Smirnoff Ice drinker.

Staying sober meant I also had a lot of time to observe what worked and what didn't for breweries at Cask Days. First of all, dial it to eleven on the beer name. Cream in Your Jeans, Fangboner, and, well, Tranny With a Busted Leg - which I found problematic, but nobody asks beer muumuu girl - were my most popular pours. The outrageous names dared people to order them, if only for the pleasure of saying Fangboner in a public place.

If you can't be creative with the names, then try mixing up ingredients. Because it's the fall, pumpkin is king, but everyone's had enough typical pumpkin ales, so smoke it or brew it in a porter. Add fruit, add spices, age it in oak. If people made it all the way to the Brickworks, they're going to want to spend their money on something novel. Unless they're light beer drinkers, in which case they're grateful for anything drinkable.

I'm not complaining. I'm not a Barvarian purist - just an observer, hoping one of these experiments will become the next great beer style.

Still, when I was finally released from bending over the casks, I didn't go for a 10% stout. I didn't drink an APA with an IBU of 80+. There were no skittles in my brau. Instead, I cashed my free chips in on a simple honey pumpkin ale. The day was so nice I didn't feel like it needed anything more.