I wonder why they call him Minnesota Shorts?

Listen you stupid chief!

OH MY GOSH you guys, they are remaking THE SWEENEY as a film. It is going to be set in the modern day, so no big hair and bigger pant cuffs, but I bet it will still be full of DAMN GOOD COPPAHS.

I am optimistic about the project, because the video shows the director just totally getting it. Yes your gun still has bullets! Run! Bang! Run! Bang bang bang!

Relaxing the mind with origami

Sometimes you just need to unwind! Relax! Settle down for goshsakes! How about with some paper folding?

Okay but don't actually try to make this thing, that will turn you into a lunatic, and undo all of your relaxation efforts. Let's not go crazy.

Her voice is hypnotic. And foooooold.

I could never be your rock critic

Strong opinions about music have led me into trouble more times than I can count, and I tend to change my mind about these things over time anyway, which makes fastidiousness seem silly. (ssssss.)

I think that in many cases I develop a nuanced connection to the material over time - exalting the positive while gently forgiving the negative (welcome to yet another bad boyfriend analogy).

And still, some artists creep up on me and immediately I just want to screeeeeam rather than listen to them. Today I tried out a new album - a free download, so no names because that would be unforgivable ingratitude - which is supposed to be an r&b record, about which I thought, "hooray! ", forgetting that r&b no longer exists and instead we're faced with music that makes you feel like you're covered with hot slime. What I really want to say is "BARF BARF BARF X1000 NEGATIVE EIGHT STARS PLEASE NEVER MAKE SOUNDS AGAIN." But that might negate someone else's beautiful experience with the hot slime album, so I won't. It's agony.

Related: I went to an art show a couple of months ago where all I wanted to do was scream "WHY DOES SHE ALWAYS HAVE TO MAKE IT ABOUT BOOBS?" But I waited until I got home instead, which I felt was evidence of growth.

Questions for a hypothetical conversation with Steve Coogan

This is the face he would make during the interview.

1. Having built up and torn down many characters, some of them over the course of decades, do you ever find yourself slipping into them accidentally, in your mind?
2. Do you think of yourself as a character, noticing your own traits and the way that you speak and walk and dress and so forth? Does thinking about how to be different characters make you more self-conscious? Is this how you ended up playing versions of yourself professionally?
3. Do you prefer playing characters you've created, or is it more relaxed to let someone else write you a part which you can then leave behind when the project's over, eg Roderick the water rat? (Could you ever accidentally slip into Roderick?)
4. Are there aspects of your characters that are aspirational? Do you wish you knew as much about wasps as Tommy Saxondale, for example? Do you wish you were as emotionally resilient as Alan? (Or maybe you do have these things? Would you be able to help me with the raccoons in my shed?)
5. Do you ever wish people would stop laughing and just take you seriously for once?

OH ALSO THIS (1 of 12)

Nick Lowe - "Country Girl", Glastonbury Festival, 25th June 2011

Robot Owen Wilson is Freaking Me Out

One day I will forget what humans look like and just go around hugging mailboxes and shaking hands with trees all day. Doesn't sound too bad.

Ultra-petite daywear.

One of my remotest friends had himself a baby earlier this year, which, you know, finally. Babies are nice, because they don't mind if you make an irrational fuss over them. They don't give you the eyebrows (you know the ones). They feel they're worthy of your devotion. It must be a nice place to be! I've also heard that they vomit unexpectedly and can be cantankerous, but I think that happens behind closed doors, with mother, at 3am. I'm very inexperienced. More of a baby tourist, over here.

As such, I like to dress them up like little squishy dolls!


Green because she is sort of a redhead, as far as I can tell. Those buttons are like tiny sheriff badges. I die.

Quiet humour.

Yesterday I listened to this, which is a humorous essay on opera by Armando Ianucci. (Armando is a harmonized Scottish/Italian blend, which I think is nice!)

Armando! This horse cannot play clarinet AT ALL.

I am also reading The Best of Modern Humor by Mordecai Richler (1986). Both of these things are meant to be funny, and they are! But for the most part I have not been injuring my ribcage over them. There has been nose wrinkling, and I've had to re-read some passages; sometimes it seems like I'm the one being laughed at, for being generally knuckle-headed. Sometimes I make a face like I've just been handed a particularly lurid piece of birthday cake. Sort of a stifled grimace of amusement.

I get a strong sense that this kind of humour is maybe the most sophisticated writing there is, and maybe it is up to all of us to try to appreciate a little bit of it, lest our civilization's funny index be abandoned to the evil whims of John Travolta's hairpiece.

But it's not a chore, I swear! You will love not laughing at things.

Bread Thursdays are All for Loooooove

It is totally Bread Thursday. Does that need any explaining? NO.

These are rolls made with sourdough starter, which makes the dough nice and moist. Make a snake, tie a knot, tuck one end into the middle of the bread and the other end underneath. It is easy.

In fact, everything about making bread is shamefully easy, especially when you factor in that bourgeois classic wedding present, the Kitchenaid Mixer (insert angel choirs here). I am 4 serious Holmes, do not buy bread unless you are currently working three jobs and are just too busy. Or maybe you have a nice relative who makes all of the bread, I don't know. At least, do not buy it from the grocery store, that stuff is like, pudding with crumbs? And petrochemicals probably? Who knows.

These buns also have oregano in them, so your sandwich is extra faboo automatically. Here, I will take you INSIDE THE BREAD:

Terrifying.

What you do then is just stow it in those big freezer baggies, and remove from freezer as necessary for mid-afternoon carb-gorging. Preferably while watching 80s classics! OH LLOYD.

Najibullah Quraishi, can we be friends?

Dear Mr. Quraishi,

Here's the thing: I realize that for you it would be like being friends with a flatworm, but at the same time I would like to ask you some questions. For example, should I be supportive of the Canadian mission in Afghanistan right now? If yes, what should we be doing differently? Should I quit my job and just storm parliament already? What I'm hoping is that you will tell me what to think about the issue, whereupon I will feel more politically confident, and at the very least I will know what to ask for, despite our government's probable unwillingness to provide it. They seem to have their own very fixed ideas. But I'd still like to know.

It might seem like laziness on my part, but then don't you think it would be presumptuous of me to make up my own mind, given my cushy situation? Google Maps cannot even give me directions to Kandahar from here. So you see Naji (is it okay to call you that? I hope so), I'm just looking for some expertise. With your excellent moral compass and range of experience in the field, you're really the most qualified person I can think of. In return, I am knitting you a jumper. What size are you? Do you object to having "JUST A SUPER GUY" emblazoned across the front? I could also go with "FEAR ME, JERKS." Your call.

Sincerely,
Emily.

Gingerino

My brother was ten when we went to Italy, and he remembers nothing of the experience - except the gingerino. Those suckers have old fashioned bottle caps, not twist-off tops, so once you open them you either have to drink it or pour it on the pavement. One relative gave the three of us two bottles each, setting them in a row and then attacking them, overzealous-bartender-style, snapping the little lids off before our startled eyes. And the thing is, the only flavour you could discern in those things, if you could call it flavour at that high concentration, was ginger. As advertised! I would not describe it as a sophisticated taste experience. You may as well drink your mother's vanilla extract from out of the baking cupboard. It goes down your tongue like a bowling ball covered in tacks.

The website suggests some fun-type mixes. To which I say NO. Do not sully the pineapple juice and vodka with this crap. It is like cough syrup without the numbing and possibly harmful drugs. I do not understand you, gingerino, but there are lots of other Italian things I don't understand too, so maybe it is related.

He knew he was right (and also a bit of a jackass)

Anthony Trollope makes fun of himself, his readers, his characters, his book, literature in general, and the world. Andrew Davies completely fails to televise it, but can you blame him really?

Nielyo

The LIVE BAND in STRIPED SHIRTS with HORNS at the Richmond Ohhhhlympick Oval just played 'Sweet Caroline' and everyone in the house sang along, it was magic.

If you are interested in coverage sans Brian Williams, sometimes it is available, like right now for instance over here.

Who's responsible for airline safety?

Not this guy, he's way too busy drizzling himself with butter under an industrial heat lamp.

Cheap joke!

But seriously, this is just freaking me out.

Extreme ladydom

Argh, Casey from Ninja Turtles!
Okay, for the record, strippers.

Things that everybody knows:

- Strip bars are way less interesting in real life.

- Strip-choreography is not generally as creative or interesting as one would like.

- Strippers' bodies are largely plastic, surreal caricatures of womanhood. This makes the experience of seeing them naked equally plastic and surreal. Last week I was in a public washroom when a woman decided to pee with the door wide open, and it sent me running down the hallway of the professional building. Running. Whereas the strippers are just kind of there, you know?

- It's a living, even though most people's moms don't want them doing that.

- It is cruel to refer to an actor who is just doing his job as 'Casey from Ninja Turtles'.

- Stripping is probably forever, barring some nuclear incident, and even then you could take your clothes off for cash in a fall-out shelter, although what you would then spend the cash on I don't know. Maybe you could create some sort of ultra-primitive economy where everyone is simultaneously a stripper and a voyeur, and you all just run around in the shelter shoving money in each others' underwear.

- Don McKellar and Sarah Polley directed by Atom Egoyan in CANADIAN FILM ABOUT LIFE COMPLICATED.

Look into his big pretty eyes, he is having feeelings.

Whoopsum Leap

By accident today my computer thinks it is American and I suddenly get aaaaall the TV.

Shhhh.


It could disappear at any moment, so I am quickly absorbing much Quantum Leap. They must have really wanted that sucker to get pickup, because the Bakula spends 3/4 of the first episode with no shirt on, looking quite Harrison-Ford-y, actually, although with roughly 6x the eyebrows.

UPDATE, 4pm:


I am sure no good will come of this.

The Edible Woman s13e73

This morning my tea smiled up at me with five thousand tiny, shiny bubble eyes. "Charming," you might say. I let it go cold and then tipped it in the sink (after grabbing the appropriate evidence, as you see).

That book is just totally self-indulgent, isn't it? I'm sure that's why I like it. BARF.

The Christmas Problem

I am one of those troubling women who hoards Christmas decorations in massive quantities. Worse, I keep an eye open for them, year-round, in dusty back corners of thrift stores.

A couple of weeks ago it was a wicker basket under a table at a church 'Fall Fair' garage sale.

Thrill to my pink tablecloth with grease spots. These ornaments (except the one on the far right, which is probably homemade - bless) are 'Shiny Brite' ornaments, which I have just finished reading about here. Manufactured in the U.S.A, it says so right on the, uh, lid? So the guess is that they're from no later than 1962, because they're all made from that delightful thin glass that likes to go boom when the cat gets too close.

I especially like these weird tree ones:

They're kind of battered, and that frosty stuff is turning a bit icky, but there is no denying the appeal of those seasonally nontraditional colours. The blue and yellow in particular. I find the vintage approach to be comforting, at Christmas; new and perfect things only serve to remind me that I, myself, am not perfect or at all new (and neither is the family as a whole, woof, amirite?). Instead I choose to embrace the slightly soiled loveliness of somebody else's castoffs.

These 'double reflector' numbers are heavily reminiscent of the ornaments on the tree at my grandparents' farm, many years ago. Although I believe those were plastic, as was the tree. That carelessly globbed-on orange paint is just pure pathos, isn't it? Pure pathos for, like, a dollar? You can get these all over the online auction sites, but that sort of takes the fun out of it; if you find it yourself in a thrift shop and give it a polish with a soft rag, it's like you adopted it, whereas there is far too much choice, sometimes, online, and then you just end up unhappy no matter what. Me and the thrift store, we find mutual satisfaction.