Some Things I Miss About Victoria, BC

I'm not a mammal who handles the heat well. So Toronto's recent wave of warm weather - and all the sweating, thirsting, and general whining it brought with it - has made me miss my old home. Victoria. Where the weather is neither too warm nor too cold, and people still wear Baja pullovers. And now that I've started missing Victoria's climate, my mind has turned to the other things I miss about that city. I did one of these for Montreal, and now it's Victoria's turn.

1. The Drink and Draw crowd: Leaving this band of interesting and talented young folks behind was the hardest thing about moving back east. Sure, they were inspiring artists, but they were also excellent people, welcoming an odd girl from Ontario into their brunch eating and bike riding lifestyle. Thanks to Facebook, I know they're all doing well, but that doesn't stop me from wishing I could know that from first-hand experience.
2. Hernande'z: Their bean burritos haunt my dreams. Sometimes I wake up with a tear upon my cheek, wondering why my mouth tastes of delicious, delicious beans when all my fridge holds is a frozen dinner I forgot to put in the freezer.
3. Legends Comics: I still haven't found a replacement in Toronto for my favourite comic book store. It wasn't just that their selection was awesome, but Gareth (one of the co-owners) is such a peach. He gave me a hug when I was preparing to leave the city, and I briefly considered never washing my arms again. I decided against that- it would be disgusting otherwise - but I did use him as an example of excellent customer service in a job interview.
4. Seeing Whales on the Way to Vancouver: British Columbians were greedy when it came to natural beauty, and it has made them weak. WEAAAAKK. They barely seem excited when a bus ride brings stunning vistas of lakes, forest and mountains. My walk in my current Toronto neighbourhood brings me to soul-stirring sight of a Popeye's Chicken outlet. Anyway, I once saw a whale and her calf off of a BC ferry, and my heart grew four sizes that day.
5. Cold Comfort Ice Cream: Ah, Saturday mornings. When I would mount my faithful Korean wonder bike, Bikegolgi, and zip down to the Moss Street Market. I always bought a few vegetables, but those were mostly out of guilt. The true goal of my mission was always an ice cream sandwich from Autumn. Favourites included sour cherry with rosemary, honey lavender and apricot.

Drawing Catwoman: Too Big Not to Fail

Image credit: Tucker Stone, The Comics Journal

That... thing comes from Catwoman #8. Now, I have a few problems with the image, but somehow it's the little ones - and not the glaring, anatomically incorrect ones - that niggle most. WHY ARE THERE TINY CAT CHARMS ON THE STRINGS OF HER BIKINI BOTTOM? First of all, the strings. The strings. Why? Now, I may not be a sexy cat burglar myself, but I think they might pose some practical issues. For example, they might unravel right over a laser sensor. That's both embarrassing and unprofessional. Then, the charms. I always figured Catwoman was a confident thirty-year-old woman with some BDSM tendencies, not somebody with the same tastes as a teenaged girl. On the other side, are there charms that express her dedication to chess club and marching band? And oh yes: I almost forgot about the breasts.

Now, talking about the depiction of women in superhero comics isn't the freshest topic in circulation. It's been so churned over, that critics and artists have reached some kind of uneasy detente over the matter. Women will continue to be drawn like they don't need rib cages, and people who don't like it can pass over the spandex for any D and Q title. That's not the point of this post. Rather, I wanted to figure out why this image bothered me more than some of the first drawings of Catwoman I saw as a young, fresh comic book fan. Those were dark years. Those... were the Balent years. For the uninitiated, Jim Balent was the main artist on Catwoman's solo title back in the late '90s, and a firm believer that female anatomy included beach balls embedded just below the neck. Here's an example of his sensibility:

And yet, swimsuit issue Catwoman irritates me more. Jim Balent's vision was so ridiculous that it could be interpreted a clever parody if you were feeling generous, harmless silliness if you weren't. But this Catwoman is just realistic enough to irritate, just realistic enough that it doesn't seem patently ridiculous. It seems achievable. Furthermore, the artist, Adriana Melo, is a woman. Female writers or artists are still a minority on mainstream titles, but when we do get representation, this is the product? I know I should take a deep breath and give Melo the benefit of the doubt. I can't fight for more female creatives, only to dictate what they can produce. And I'm not so naive as to forget Melo was probably working under certain (DD-sized) expectations. But still. At least give Catwoman a form-fitting wetsuit and lose the girly charms. Otherwise, we might have to call Balent back in, that is if he's not too busy haunting vaginas.

RIP Pistache

Other things Pistache loved beside human affection: lying on a plate for no discernable reason.

My favourite foster cat, Pistache, had to be put down a few days ago. I guess I've truly become the crazy cat lady I had feared was my destiny, because the news has put me in a funk. The funk is incomprehensible to my friends and family. Pistache had nearly every disease known to cat, from FIV to a brief bout with ringworm. Of course, this didn't stop him from trying to force his physical affections onto any conveniently located human. He was remarkably affectionate. According to the shelter, where he once held the record of most obese inmate, he was rescued from a cat colony in Rosemont, circa 1999. I doubt he was born into that colony, because the call of the wild had long ago been put on mute to his ears. He once escaped from my apartment in Montreal, only to immediately enter the open door of the apartment next to mine. He couldn't even kill an ant. I saw him try. And then fail. But although I couldn't trust his skills as a mouser, he was just a big bag of unconditional, rather smelly, love. He would curl up beside me as I read a book, watch me type on my computer, and attempt to sleep on my collarbone as I watched The National.

Life events and an ill-timed move meant I never got to adopt him permanently, but he spent the last two years of his life perfectly content with a friend. And although she replaced me in his heart, nothing could ever push him out of mine. Because, though I've never met another cat who smelled so bad, I also haven't met one who loved so much.

Why You Should Read William Langewiesche

Every week, or at least whenever I can remember, I link to one piece of non-fiction writing on my Twitter. I try to vary the authors and magazines as much as I can, which is hard. Because all I want to do is share William Langewiesche's work, and that would take the better part of a year of faithful linking. I guess I'm a Langewiesche fangirl, in the way other people geek out over G.R.R. Martin or Neil Gaiman. He has a beautiful style, without being a beautiful stylist. His prose is direct and his diction rarely surprises, but he's a genius at presenting the facts at their proper facets, so they can illuminate each other. He's at his best when he describes the failures of machines - shuttles that explode, ships that sink, airplanes that collide with each other - or of the men who run them, and at his worst with one-subject profiles. Profiles are all about the colour and texture of the notable they're describing. They circle instead of heading straight for the problem. As a former pilot, Langewiesche is more direct. He describes the circumstances of every collapse, then works through to the end with clarity and grace, so that it almost seems like fate. Here are the final sentences of my favourite piece, "Columbia's Last Flight," from the November 2003 issue of the Atlantic:

As had happened with the Challenger in 1986, the crew cabin broke off intact. It assumed a stable flying position, apparently nose high, and later disintegrated like a falling star across the East Texas sky. 

And now you have something to read for the rest of your Sunday.

Domestic Thursday: Blind Owls

When it comes to knitting sweaters, I have a pattern. No matter how energetically I start, two years later I'll only have the back, front, and lonely sleeve of a painfully dated sweater. Kate Davies' Owls Sweater is the exception. The more I knit, the more I liked knitting it, until I gave myself a wrist injury cabling the owls on the yoke. But now I have to sew on 40+ wee button eyes to a stubbornly fluid piece of fabric, all so my decorative owls can see. This seems like the kind of tedious work in the service of twee that should be contracted. Who would be an appropriate party? The missing third Deschanel sister?

News from a Social Media Hermit

For my few dedicated readers out there, I'm sorry I disappeared so suddenly and abruptly. For reasons I won't go into here, I thought scaling back my Twitter and my blog were necessary for a short period of time. Of course, I missed serving up my loopy thoughts on everything from the Tebow trade to Mad Men on a semi-frequent basis. My poor friends were stuck listening to me ramble on in person. But I had made a vow, and by gum, I would stick with it. But yesterday I realized that deleting my blog and disappearing from the Internet were the wrong decisions, and choosing to stick with them was kind of like keeping your foot on the gas and hoping the brick wall would bend to your will. Now my Twitter's back, and so's this blog, so expect a post on those playoff ads for the Hockey Hall of Fame in the near future, and more beer. Facebook will remain dormant though, becuase - ew.

Hate-Watching the Walking Dead

Although they're not "spoilers" as such, plot points of recent episodes will be discussed. Be advised.

As established by thinky types on the Internet (and accepted by yours truly) we're living in a golden age of television. I am, of course, spending these burnished years watching a bunch of irritable characters I don't like, engaged in actions that make little sense, during an hour that leaves me bored nearly every week. Yes, The Walking Dead has become the only TV show I regularly watch, and I have no idea why. I didn't even want to start watching it. I had read the first two dozen issues of the comic, which started strong before devolving into a travel diary with the occasional disemboweling. Also: the kind of retrograde sexual politics that really make you appreciate how progressive Dawn of the Dead was - in 1978.

So I should have known better, but then I also bought a ticket to Sex and the City 2. Sometimes I don't make healthy lifestyle choices. The pilot was pretty tight, but The Walking Dead soon became The Talky Living, as debates over whether to go on living in a dead world, and whether to value survival over morals, were endlessly rehashed. Characters were tweaked from scene to scene, seemingly just so these arguments could have legs. And outside of lead Sheriff Rick, his wife Lori, and best frenemy Shane, the characters are tragically, yet hilariously underdeveloped. Whenever the action drags, just try and figure out what T-Dog, the sole surviving black member of the group, does whenever he's not on screen. That's about 98% of each episode. Is he basketweaving his way through the zombie apocalypse? God, I hope so. But in spite of all these problems, I keep on watching. Shamefully, it's probably for the gore. In a world of Downton Abbeys and The Good Wifes, there must be room for a decent zombie chomp. And The Walking Dead can still engage by making it an unexpected corpse, from turning Sophia into a child zombie, to gutting Dale last week. Until it runs out of people to kill off, or the budget gets cut to the point where all deaths happen offscreen, I'll still be watching, waiting like a thirteen-year-old boy for the good bits to go splat.

Mr. Nice Goon

Another year, another English Canadian film is anointed by some mysterious marketing power. The francophones can be counted on to support their movies, but we anglos need prodding. We need the kind of prolonged campaign that covers every surface in Toronto with marketing, the kind of offensive usually only mustered by the CBC for its comedies (ie, the reason why when I sleep, I dream of Mr. D, which may be why I also wake up screaming.) This year's candidate seems to be Goon, judging from bus stop ad saturation. Sadly, it's not an adaptation of the cult horror comic. Instead, it's about Doug, played by Sean William Scott, a loveable hulk with fists of steel and a brain of cotton candy. Doug finds his calling on the ice as an enforcer, getting on the rink only to mash somebody's face into pudding. I might have found the movie funnier in another year. But after a season dominated by player safety and concussions, a season which also started with a string of dead enforcers, it's hard to chuckle. I may have even found it funnier on another day, but the theatre was almost empty that weeknight. But even playing a decade ago to a full house, Goon would have some issues. Scott's endearing, and Liev Schreiber as Doug's more philosophical rival goon is great, but they're both in a movie that's mostly predictable. An example: Doug's disapproving father is trying to save face at shul, using his other, doctor son. But that's before this other son bounds away to meet up with his partner. I immediately calculated the likelihood that the partner was either another man (90%), or a ridiculously trashy shiksa (10%). And lo, the partner arrived, and verily, he was fabulous. Sadly, Slap Shot still does it better, and it's almost 40 years old.

Domestic Friday: Marmelade Cake and Wellington's Special Pale Ale

Ah, marmelade cake. It's so good it survives even my accidental screw-ups. Like the slight charring of the edges. Or my dislike of fiddling with parchment paper, so the top and bottom both become a little too brown. Whatever, it all looks fine if you take the time to pose it just so in the afternoon light. Don't worry, I'm usually drinking my tea out of the same mug I've used for the past two days, and the only plate is the shirt that catches my crumbs. But I figured I would make the effort for you guys.

The recipe is Lucy Waverman's, printed years ago in the Globe and Mail. I've reproduced it below, just in case the Globe ever takes it down. Take her advice though, and put the effort into cutting out the parchment paper. You won't have to fluff your cake as much I did.


Ingredients:
Cake:

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 cup room temperature butter
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup Seville orange marmalade
• 1 teaspoon grated orange rind
• 2 eggs

Glaze:

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup orange juice

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Place parchment paper on base of an 8-inch round cake pan. Butter sides of pan (I would grease the underside of the parchment paper first too.)
2. Sift flour, baking powder and salt into a large bowl.
3. Add butter, sugar, marmalade, rind and eggs. Beat with an electric mixer until well mixed. Spoon batter into prepared cake pan (it's pretty thick).
4. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes in middle of oven or until a toothpick comes out clean. *Place a layer of parchment paper over top of the cake during the final 15 minutes of baking to keep if from becoming too brown.*
5. Bring sugar and orange juice to boil. Remove from heat. Prick holes in cake (or stab it with a fork!!) and brush with glaze. Cool for 30 minutes, then remove cake from pan and let it cool some more.
It tastes wonderful with tea, but give this cake its due and skip the bags for loose tea leaves.

You could also drink some beer. This blog will not judge you. This week's beer is a shout-out to my hometown of Guelph. Wellington Brewery is Ontario's, and apparently, Canada's oldest indie. Founded in 1985, it is still going strong in the G-spot, as well as wherever its distinctive rubber boot taps can be found. The Special Pale Ale is, surprisingly, mild on the hops. It's good for drinking in quantity, but if you're expecting a West Coast-style IPA, you'll probably want more bitterness. But then nothing will ever make you happy, will it?

Paths to Resilience

Back when my work days were rated X, I used to try and start every one of them in a state of pitched over-excitement. It was fake, of course. But I figured that if I went in at 9am as if I was high on life and/or cocaine, I could leave at 5pm feeling only mildly disgusted with the human condition. Lately, though, it seems like I've lost that ability. I wake up feeling cursed. Not cursed like I'll turn into a werewolf when the moon is full, or cursed like a streetcar is going to run over my leg before noon. But I am becoming increasingly worried that nothing will work out right that day (or ever.) So I have moved on to stage two of dealing with this. And that, by the way, is repeating Albert Camus' quote that "In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." Unfortunately, the best I could muster today was muttering "Invincible summer! Invincible summer! INVINCIBLE SUMMER!!" as the wind strafed my face with ice pellets. At least there's always stage three: baking a marmelade cake.