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.
This is the face he would make during the interview.
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?
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?
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?)
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?)
Do you ever wish people would stop laughing and just take you seriously for once?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I love it when people post book cover scans; old Penguin and Puffin Classics are so delightful, and I'm not above buying a copy of a book I already own because the cover is really great. Generally these are old books I'm digging out of a stinky pile at the local thrift store, while my paramour holds his nose and sags noticeably with every passing minute. He doesn't like standing around in musty second-hand shops. Unfortunately for him, I love it. If all I had to do all day was sift through other people's attics and closets looking for weird old junk, I would be a happy lady. As it is, the bread, she must be earned. And the kettle chips.
Anyway, old books. Here are a couple that I'm particularly fond of. And because we are in Canada, a land peppered liberally with native French speakers and frustrated French students, these castoffs are in French, and all from le Livre de Poche.
La Jument Verte - Marcel Ayme, 1933
How could anyone pass up this book, which is about a green horse, and includes an obviously crazy ensemble cast. As with many old books, this one is lovingly inscribed with its owner's name - useful in case you went to a wild book party and needed to collect your things a week later, when the gin had worn off. So we know that Janice owned this in 1971, and she had very nice handwriting. I'll also mention that all rights are reserved in every country, even the U.S.S.R.; were they particularly guilty when it came to copyright infringement? I do not know.
The back. "A well of health and good humour." (Very roughly.) I guarantee Rene Lalou never though his review would look so funky. If book backs could be this well-designed now, people might bother reading them with some interest. There are more words on the backs of some books than in them, and for what? Abandoned self-congratulation, methinks. This, however, is beautiful. Your local bookstore could display this thing backwards.
le Diable au Corps - Raymond Radiguet, 1923
This book is gorgeous and creepy all at the same time. When I read this on the bus (showing off, obviously) it eventually occurred to me that it could make you look like a proud French smut enthusiast, which is maybe not the worst thing. The problem occurs when you notice the obvious youth of that kid on the right. Ick. Thankfully the book isn't criminally perverse, just sexually weird in interesting ways (I'm defining something here, but I'm not quite sure what). This book belonged to Odette. Charmed.
When Jean Cocteau says you're a phenomenon, and compares you to Rimbaud, and says that your genius is basically a giant burden, you jot it down and fax it to your editor, asap. Probably that's not what happened here, but it's a good tip for any aspiring writers out there.
Le seigneur des anneaux - Tolkien, 1954
It can scream pocketbook all it wants, but that sucker is huge. This is a 1979 edition of a 1966 translation. The fun of this book is to hold it up in front of nerd friends and challenge them to identify it. If you want to make it legitimately difficult, cover the author name, but honestly it's amazing how long it seems to take. Maybe the little hobbit (oops, spoiler) in the bottom right corner, with his loopy hairy feet and spats, seems a bit... goofy? And I'm not sure why we've got TOLKIEN in giant BONANZA-style lettering. I enjoy the big gold rings though, very threatening and Christmasy, all at once. The French edition wins out in this regard also: "Tome" is waaay more impressive than "Book" or "Volume."
I take it back, he's not goofy, he's hilarious and I would like to watch him eat scones and fight dragons in a mountain:
I have not ever watched Doctor Who. I realize that there has been considerable renewed interest in the franchise over the last few years thanks to a Mr. David Tennant, who is considered quite handsome. Fair enough. And the new Doctor (premiering next year!) appears to be even more entrenched in the alterna-cheesecake vein, which only proves that the Doctor Who producers know their youthful nerdlady audience extremely well, and are trying to ensure the series' longevity by installing what is essentially a British Wentz in tweed (fig.1, at right) as their new hero. He's very cute, don't get me wrong, I support you, young nerdladies! Chase that tweed fox! But there are other things to be considered, like the fact that I am ancient, and no longer with it; what is out there in the Dr. Whoniverse (actually a real thing on the internet, gurgle) for moi?
Shall I tell you? I shall. It is the Eighth Doctor series on BBC Radio 7. Starring the lovely Paul McGann, whose voice is really his best attribute anyway. The adventures are glorously improbable, and very silly, and always involve disastrously cheesy aliens (I think this is the deal with Who, M.D., but I'm a beginner, so it stands out) and of course there is a harshly shrieking companion lady who always gets into scrapes, boy howdy. She grows on you, though, despite the constant 'oi!'-ing.
McGann was on TV once as Dr. Who, although I have not seen it. He's solely a radio Who now. Because really: Paul McGann does not need to get dragged onto the TV for this gig anymore. Not that he isn't dreamy or anything, because I think it's been clinically proven that (even at 50, long pause) he is. But oh my grandmother, that is not a good look for him, that eighth doctor outfit. And they assault me with it every time I open the BBC page; like cold defiance. I can handle the velvet jacket and the ascot, mostly. But the hair is beyond the pale.
Here, take a look at this fan art (thank you, dedicated fans, you never fail me), and I challenge you not to spontaneously scream, all together now:
AAAH, FLOATING HEAD!
But really it's the wig's fault. It's very alarming, and fully overpowers an otherwise quite nice looking person. And that was in 1996! A man doesn't need to deal with that when he's reached his fifth decade. It's just not right. It shows a lack of respect, strapping that limp rug on his head. Never again, atrocious wig, never again. He looks like Rex Smith after a conditioning accident.
As much as I love it and will miss it probably, I've left CJSF. So there. I've been doing a radio show at Simon Fraser University for ten whole years, and frankly my old bones don't want to make the weekly drive up the hill anymore. Yes, that's me, so broken down that even a short car ride is a hardship. The bumps in the road! My hips! I mean, yes, it's good knitting time, but the risk of spearing onesself in the eyeball is ever-present. Where is my PSA about that? Blah blah blah, sum up: Flushie flushie goes Singing with Barbra.
However.
I did so used to enjoy bleughing, and so I am going to instead use this space to catalogue my many little projects outside of radio, provided any of them get off the ground at all. Also to complain about my angina (which incidentally would be a lovely baby name, I think - let's rehabilitate that word via innocent children) and itchy scalp. Baby, it's gonna be a ride and a half, and you and I will take it together. Or I'll take it alone, what the shit.
