Imaginary Dates.

Just split with my boy. Not happy to end it. Not wanting to end it. But end it I did. Just not enough. Needs not being met. Maybe one day? Maybe. But only if shit gets sorted out. Want to be there for someone else, but you gotta have them be there for you, too. Right? Right.

So I'm thinking about men I'd like to go on a fictional date with. Maybe it'd be fun. Maybe it'd be a disaster. But it's all pretend, so who cares, right? Let me have my fantasies.


George Strombolopoulos. Long-time crush for probably every female aged 15-40 in Canada. Smart. Witty. Punk. Political. Has his own news show where he comfortably hosts world leaders as easily as Hollywood starlets. And so humble. And gracious. And has delicious facial piercings. Yum.






Caleb Followill. He could use someone like me (snicker). Soulful and beautiful to look at. Talented and that southern accent's probably a killer. And he's got two hot brothers, too. So maybe if it didn't work out, Jared'd be free?









Dexter Morgan. Yes. He's a fictional psychopath. But dayum. When I first saw Michael C. Hall in Six Feet Under, I thought he was "meh." But then suddenly he's got that dorky haircut and the abs with the leather gloves? Hellooooo. And no, I'm not into the killer thing. But that's a great character role. How good of an actor do you have to be to make a bad guy sympathetic? Pretty darn good.






Jon Stewart. I'd laugh so hard. And he's such an adorable mensch. And he stands up for himself and his ideals, not willing to back down on something just for the sake of being nice. See YouTube to watch him bitchslap Tucker Carlson. Swoon.







Colin Farrell. Swarthy Irish bad boy. Not a good influence in any way. But would be so much fun.











Ewan MacGregor. Had a crush on him since "Trainspotting" and he's only gotten better. Can sing and isn't afraid to get nekkid in his movies. Great smile. Better accent. And I hear he's a bit of a kink/swinger in real life. Growl.

Josh Homme. Normally redheads aren't the type I'd find particularly attractive. But QOTSA is one of my favourites. And he guests in or joins new bands every second week. Like Jack White, only without the albinism. He's tall. And tatooed. And is married to punk goddess Brody Dalle. Giant slab of rock n' roll. Mmm.

Fuck you, Penguin.

I love stupid websites with cute, furry creatures on them. Got a YouTube video of a dog going down a waterslide? Sold. Adorable kittens riding a Roomba? Done. I've got CuteOverload and icanhascheezburger on regular rotation every time I logon. I get it. I'm a cute freak. But I also recognize the slightly disturbing, off-balance adorableness of my ways. Which is why I laughed when I found this website:

http://www.fupenguin.com/

Yeah. That's right. Screw the cute animals. They think they're so clever. But we're onto them, cynical bastards that we are!

heh heh.

Squirrelizer!

Lest you've been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you've no doubt seen this gem of a photograph on websites ranging from National Geographic to the NY Times to the London Daily Telegraph. It's of a delighful, adorable ground squirrel (or prairie dog, as we Albertans know them) in Banff, dropping a swift, devastating photobomb upon an unsuspecting American couple.

Squirrelmania has reached a fevered pitch, and I came across this website a few days ago that allows you to insert famous Mr. Squirrely Pants into your favourite photo. I've been mucking about with it ever since, inserting him into staff photos, then emailing my coworkers. Hee.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Cartman's Drumming Monkey

One of my favourite South Park gags was a season three episode in which Cartman gets a monkey with a miniature drumkit who follows him around and does drumrolls to help him learn to spell. It's a WORD MONKEY!!!!

The Hooked on Monkey Fonics monkey would build him up with a little *tsst tit tsst tsst tit tsst tit tsst tsst* and I loved it. Every time I talk to someone who seems like they have their own little soundtrack going on while they blab, I picture the little drumming South Park monkey. That, or the Oompah band episode from Kids in the Hall. Ah...pop culture. How could I define my life without you?

Facebook to become the Ministry of Information?

Scary article from Slate.com on the merging of the Huffington Post (online shitrag of questionable journalistic integrity) and Facebook. Read what your friends are reading! Make news a social event! Have everything you read online tracked!

Selected quote from the article:

"Making Facebook the aggregator of the future has all sorts of implications about how news penetrates certain social groups. Will demographics become even more hermetic in their thinking and news-gathering than they already are? How will folks get information from outside their social group if all news becomes social? ...A Facebook-led journalistic future is fraught with just as much uncertainty as one led by the mainstream media."

Hmm...

Art vs. the Artist

Unlike science, with its hard facts, measurables and logic, art and creative pursuits are subjective. Not that it means an interpretation of a piece of art can't be wrong: it's not an "anything goes" policy, no, no. It is, however, a lot more flexible and filled with minute shades of grey. As one of my university professors explained it:

Interpreting and critiquing the value of a work of art (whether that be a painting or a poem) is like shining a flashlight on a wall. The concentrated beam in the middle represents the realm of possible interpretations, none more or less correct than any other. The closer to the middle you are, the more correct you are. Then as you reach the periphery, it gets fuzzier, until you end up, sometimes inperceptibly, in the dark.

I like that.

In school, I learned many theories and ways to interpret works of art: aesthetic, psychological, personal, historical, etc. One often-contested means of interpretation was to judge a work in relationship to its author/creator.

This makes sense, since a person will inevitably put their influence into a work and will choose subject matter based on their personality, hopes, fears, dreams and dark desires. What comes up for debate, however, is whether you can judge the quality of the work based on the quality of its creator. Does the work stand alone, or does our judgement of it have its basis in our understanding of the artist?

Personally, I'm of the school that says that, regardless of how autobiographical or self-involved a work, a piece of writing or music or art can be judged on its own merit, separate from the creator. Which is important, I believe, when you consider how many artists are also fuck ups and assholes. The creative process is often linked to mental instability and self-involvement. It's what allows the artist to contemplate his soul, dig out a piece and put it on display. It also means, however, that many are addicts, crazies or just, well...bad people.

The artist is not irrelevant to the finished product. However, viewing the end result separately means basing judgement on the merits of the story it tells and how it is told. I mean, Picasso was a misogynist, Charlie Parker a heroin addict and Lewis Carroll loved his 10-year-old neighbour. So you would probably not want to have these guys over for tea and scones. But does that make their art worth less than if they were more staid and virtuous?

These thoughts swirled through my head as I read this article, which details a new book on William Golding, the author of Lord of the Flies. Through research, the biographer discovered that Golding was a rapist. This discovery has shocked readers everywhere and has provoked a call for the book to be removed from junior high school reading lists. Slate's sister website, XX, includes feminist reactions here.

While I find this revelation apalling, I can't say that it changes my mind about Lord of the Flies. Whatever its flaws, I find it to be a tremendous, powerful book that explores the denegration of society through the parable of a group of feral schoolboys. But many others may not be able to look past it. And that's fine for them, I suppose. Though missing out on literature, in my opinion, is sad and, I think, more detrimental to the state of our culture than the fact that this dead author was a bad man.

Thoughts?

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Curious George

George's got it all: monkey-ness, cuteness, cartoon-y-ness and a warm fuzzy part of my chilhood...ness.

Yes, he tested the Man in the Yellow Hat's patience, and sometimes I wondered why the Man in the Yellow Hat didn't just take him to the zoo and be done with his monkeying around. But he was just so insatiably curious and adorable, how could he say no?

I'm curious, like George, always getting into mischief. We're kindred that way.

Clever little monkey, he is.

Hooked on Purpose

You know that buzz you get from constantly checking texts, updating Facebook and reloading your Google searches? Seems that it's the same buzz lab rats get from pressing 'the button' incessantly in research. This article gives it a name: seeking. And apparently, seeking is the most fundamental mammalian drive--more than sex, food or shelter. And not just seeking out physical stimulation, but mental stimulation as well. In that case, I think I'm a dope (amine) addict. And you are, too.

Highlights:

"[Seeking] is the mammalian motivational engine that each day gets us out of the bed, or den, or hole to venture forth into the world."

"The dopamine circuits 'promote states of eagerness and directed purpose'...It's a state humans love to be in. So good does it feel that we seek out activities, or substances, that keep this system aroused—cocaine and amphetamines, drugs of stimulation, are particularly effective at stirring it."

"our constant Internet scrolling is remodeling our brains to make it nearly impossible for us to give sustained attention to a long piece of writing. Like the lab rats, we keep hitting "enter" to get our next fix."

"our brains are designed to more easily be stimulated than satisfied..."

"Since we're restless, easily bored creatures, our gadgets give us in abundance qualities the seeking/wanting system finds particularly exciting. Novelty is one."

Suddenly, my short attention span and constant need for new! different! exciting! doesn't seem like such a character flaw anymore. Not that I shouldn't try to up my pleasure factor and just relax...but at least I know there's a biological impetus behind it.

Hipster Douchebags.

Hipster (n.)

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." ... Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents' money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops.

Urban Dictionary

I've been accused of being overly-hipsterish. Though I will admit to certain pretentious young person tendencies, I am in no way, shape or form even on the same planet as these folks. The only parts of that definition that apply to me would be my small (like, three shirts) collection of ironic tees, tattoos and scarves. And coffee shops. And majored in English at university. Am not drug-addled or cooler-than-thou. Mostly because I don't spend enough hours downloading music to care. I do own sweatpants and have worn them out of the house to buy milk on occasion. Sue me.

The flack's been more vocal, lately, though I'm not sure how I inspired it. I wear pantsuits to work every day and get my hair cut at a salon.

Regardless...

Two of my favourite marrieds, A&S, live in a downtown loft. In their elevator the other day, they ran into a young man wearing this Threadless tee. S snickered and remarked to A that, "oh, I didn't know K's boyfriend lived in the building." Har, har.

Of course, what makes the comment actually funny is that I OWN said shirt, along with several items of skull & crossbone and other pirate-y paraphernelia. Not sure that makes me a hipster. Just makes me someone who likes clever language and men in eyepatches. Right?

The Boy also mocks me for being a pretentious hipster, though I think he overestimates my suave, urban cool. So I wore a scarf on a few dates: it was cold outside. He's pretty anti-hipster, though. Anti-hippy, too. He's a little more rock n' roll, which I like. I'd consider myself more rock n' roll, too, if others weren't so quick to pass me into the hipster category.

I like irony. I do. I read a lot of literature and enjoy the use of thought-provoking language. I like good music and art but I don't feel the need to like those things just to be cool. And yes...ok...I WOULD go to this workout class, but only because I'd be laughing so hard my abs would be rock-hard by the end.

So there.

Something Serious: Esquire Interview with Abortion Doctor

No, this post isn't about monkeys or barf-inducing vampires. It's about a fantastically-written and heartbreaking interview in Esquire magazine with the last late-term abortion doctor left in the US.

People who read the news (both of you) may remember a few months ago when a Wichita, KS doctor was shot in his church by a pro-life wingnut. This interview's with his friend and colleague in Colorado. It's a fascinating read, though not easy.

What this doctor does daily is heroic and his words pretty much sum up my own personal views on the subject matter. I'm ardently in favour of people having the right to make their own damned decisions about their lives, difficult or not, and would challenge anyone to discount the necessity and importance of this doctor's work.

Abortion is a very delicate subject in popular culture. Most movies, TV shows and books simply gloss over it or wuss out at the last second, rather than dealing with the confluence of psychology, physiology, feminism, patriarchy, history, politics, religion, etc., ad nauseum abortion implies.

If you're looking for a trite view of abortion, see the scenes in Knocked Up or Juno, when the pregnant characters take the 30-second consideration route, before deciding to keep their babies.

Phenomenal book, one of my all-time favourites, is John Irving's The Cider House Rules. Don't bother with the movie, because Tobey Maguire's little boy voice cracking will take away from the better story, which is about Dr. Larch's work at the orphanage. A great movie about the implications of abortion is the British film Vera Drake. Both of these are great pieces of artistic expression that don't pass moral judgement on the act itself, but rather portray abortion in all its complexity.

Anyways, back to the article: it's long, but riveting, and definitely worth thinking about. Read here.

The Cat Did it.

hee hee hee.

This dude in Florida turned on his pet after he was arrested for 10 counts of possession of child pornography on his home computer.

"According to a sheriff's report Friday, [Keith] Griffin told investigators that his cat jumped on the computer keyboard while he was downloading music. He said he had left the room and found "strange things" on his computer when he returned." - Associated Press

Wow. That's a new one. I've had my cat accidentally type in "agarzzzzdfdfqwet" on my computer. And I think she's probably sent a few wrong emails while I was in the loo. But 1,000 pieces of child pornography? Erm...yeah, she may be bad...but she's not evil.

See the great thing about pets is that, even if you're a dirtbag, they still love you. Even if you're some pervert who throws your pet under a bus the second the popo arrive, they'll still think you're the cat's pyjamas.

Poor kitty. I hope he finds a nice home where the owners won't blame him for pedophilia. Ok, Ok...so maybe the man's innocent. If that's the case, though, I hope this kitty gets the help he needs and stays at least 100m away from all kittens, petstores and kindergartens.

But hey, now I have a nifty excuse for all that kinky stuff that ever ends up on my hard drive. Not that there would be, mind you. But if there were, it's completely the cat's fault. Little sex addict.

And erm, if any naked pictures of me ever end up somewhere on the 'net, that was totally the cat's fault. It just so happens that I was dancing around naked and left the lens cap off my camera and "click!" the cat jumped on the table and took my photo. And then uploaded it. And posted it. She so did.

Also, I think my cat filed my income tax improperly and was caught doing 120 on the highway and got that $200 ticket. Improbable as it may seem, I saw her working the stick shift the other day when she thought I wasn't looking. No, really.

Bad kitty.

I need a shower.

Must...get...clean...

So this weekend, a friend lent me the first two books of the Twilight "saga". Yes, "saga" goes in quotes, because it's not the flippin' Epic of Gilgamesh, it's tween fiction.

I decided to read them so that I could actually qualify my disgust for the books that turned soccer moms into squealing pre-menstrual girls.

I'm about halfway through the first book, which I'm told you must slog through before you start to get swept away in the love story for all time that is Bella and Edward. And I must say that, as difficult as it is to read and hold down vomit simultaneously, it's strangely compelling.

But the writing is bad. So bad. So. Excruciatingly. Awful.

One day soon, I'm going to find my old shoebox filled with angsty poems I wrote in junior high and compare them to Twilight. I swear to you, the language is the same. Explains why kids go cuckoo for it. It's speaking their lovelorn, inexperienced, self-involved language. But to the adult reader, well...it's a little tough to take without a generous helping of Pepto-Bismol.

I've started a running tally of the number of times the words "dazzled", "despair" and "devastated"--and all synonyms--are used. 200 pages in, and I've lost count. Bella, the protagonist, is so helpless, whiny and needy she can't be trusted to go to a beach without drowning. But her "knight in shining skin" is there to sparkle at her and whisper tormented nothings in her ear.

Barf.

I get it. It's a young female fantasy. The dangerous but beautiful, troubled man just looking for the woman to set him straight. But do they need to put it into such clothes-rending, hair-tearing melodramatic terms? Could the author have at least invested in a thesaurus? She beats you into submission with her nauseatingly minute details of this unrequited love, until you cry out, "no more!"

I've been warned about the second book, told that I'll want to poke my eyes out with something pointy to make the agony stop. Tripe.

And don't go saying that "well, Harry Potter is written for young kids, too, and that's also popular." Harry Potter is well-written. Harry Potter uses a variety of words to convey meaning. Harry Potter stands up to Voldemort and saves the day, rather than waiting for Hermione to come to his rescue while he wees himself in the corner. It's great that Twilight is getting kids to read. Maybe next, though, they could, you know, read something good.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Sock Monkey

Who doesn't love these? Though I never had one as a child, my fondness has grown over the years. They've made a recent comeback, and I've found them at hip home outfitters and curio shops around town. I've got a pattern to knit one, and I even found a sock monkey toque pattern here. Rad, no?

Blargh.

Blargh (expletive):
1. An exclamation indicating that one has absorbed or is emitting a quantum of unhappiness.
2. An expression of barbaric anger or frustration.
3. The noise you make whenever you're going through another FGE (Fucking growth experience).

From the Urban Dictionary (I've chosen my top three definitions from the dozens available.)

Raining. Cold. Dark outside.

Summer has reached its apex and is now dwindling ever faster towards another nine months of snow.

Tired and stressed. Mild bout of depression. Hormones and other girly suckitude.

Personal issues of relationship variety. Anxiety, frustration and a dollop of self-loathing to taste.

Sadness. Emotions high and logic giving emotions the wary side eye.

I think number three about sums it up for me today. Just another fucking growth experience.

Lisztomania.

Wow. Long weekend. Jam-packed with ups and downs. Downs of the frustrating variety, not the depressing variety. The variety that makes one stomp around muttering "fuckfuckfuckfuck" under one's breath. The variety that makes it abundantly clear that I'm not ready for children. Or dogs, for that matter. Since they are, underneath it all, small furry children who never grow up or take care of you when you're old and diaper-clad.

On the flip side? Fantastic good times sort-of made up for it. Immersed self in a band whose music causes pure elation and helped rid me of the "fuckityfuckfucks".

Shall we?

***

Last week decided to do a selfless thing (won't say altruistic, since there was definite reluctance on my part) and told my mother about great seat sale I found online that would allow her to go visit stepdad in BC. Unfortunately, this conflicted with her puppysitting for the brother and sister-in-law, who spent the weekend in Vancouver. Sister was also unavailable, having written her MCAT on Thursday (fingers crossed!) then immediately skipped town for Jasper.

With most friends and all family out of town, I decided to take one for the team and babysit both brother's dogs and mom's wee old grump for Sunday and Monday. Easy, right?

Friday
Washed the new car lovingly for the first time, did some housework and went to see Funny People with one of my favourite sets of marrieds.

Saturday
Decided to enjoy the weather and go shopping, purchasing three new CDs (now on heavy rotation in the Yaris's stereo) and The Lovely Bones, a fantastic read that I quickly devoured over the course of that evening and Sunday afternoon.

Spent Saturday night observing another wicked thunderstorm in Sherwood Park at the brother's with mum. Slept (un-)comfortably with three mixed-and-matched sized bedmates:

• Alden, the well-behaved, 5-year-old lab mix
• Colby, the football-sized Ewok/old man
• Maggie, the year-and-a-half old whippet/demon spawn

Sunday
Awoke at 5am to get mum to the airport on time, driving through a surreal blanket of fog that made visibility nigh impossible and made me feel like I was travelling across some Scottish moor. Creepy yet cool. Returned that afternoon to get ready for the Big Valley Jamboree in Camrose, which was later cancelled after the main stage collapsed in Saturday's torrential downpour and tornado-like winds. One killed. Seventy-five injured. Sad.

Was supposed to see Jamboree with former work girlfriend, but we decided to meet for lunch in Edmonton instead. Since I'd put the dogs outside in the sun for the better part of the day, I (wrongly) assumed Monster, erm, Maggie, would be fine out of her crate for an hour or two while I had lunch. Wrong.

***
I should have known better, considering that in her short 9 months with the brother and sis-in-law, Margaret has been whisked to the emergency vet clinic several times: once having inhaled an entire bag of M&Ms while brother's back was turned, resulting in a $400 stomach pump; the next time requiring her head examined when her face swelled due to a self-inflicted black eye and simultaneous ear infection. Also, considering that she has eaten several pairs of sister's shoes and has a nasty habit of pissing on the carpet if you look at her sideways, this was my bad.)
***

Returned home to what looked like the remnants of a frat party, replete with cups and paper strewn everywhere and shaving foam (!?) covering every surface. Seems Maggie found brother's travel toiletry kit and proceeded to gnaw up the deodorant, shaving cream can and all the razors in sight. Fortunately, razor blades were found and accounted for, so there was no emergency vet trip to remove those from pup's stomach. Shaving foam left carpet sticky, but, luckily, the longest-lasting effect will be a noticeable cologne smell in the living room. Idiot dog.

Monday
Another night of dog cuddles, this time more welcome, as the temperature had dropped noticeably. Put pups outside for some playtime, then headed back into Edmonton with Colby, who was feeling a little peaked. Figured he'd be less bothered by spending time with Ollie in my apartment than by having Maggie constantly harrass him to play. (Lesser of two evils: being pounced on by dumb dog or batted at by bored cat?)

Got home and had time to feed pets, take shower, and grab a quick bite before I met my friend for trip to Heritage Festival. Exited shower to find that, not only was dog sick, he was sick on my floor. Grumbling and cursing, I took him outside, where he promptly howled and had diarrhea, which, being a responsible pet caretaker, I had to clean up. Lovely. Returned inside to find out that he was sick not only on the floor, but on the couch. On my white crocheted blanket. That my grandmother had made me. Ugh. So, now running further behind, and still not full of breakfast, I tossed my blanket in the laundry with bleach and hot water and tossed the dog in the tub, where he received a vigorous bath, followed by a quick towel wrap and an unceremonious dumping on the couch. He was then warned not to puke on the carpet, lest his little ass get a beatdown.

Then it was off to the Heritage Festival with C.P., where we enjoyed delicious meats-on-a-stick from around the globe and took in dozens of sights and sounds. Mmm, multiculturalicious.

On our way back to the shuttle downtown, sister called from Jasper in pain, wondering what to do. I took the obvious, "go the hospital, dummy" route, which she did, though didn't seem to pleased about it. Apparently, it was a ruptured ear drum made worse by an undetected ear infection. And that, friends, is why I don't go cliff diving.

***

And now, the best part of the weekend: my new Phoenix album, "Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix". French rock/pop band with a great single (1901) that I've played approximately 37 times over the course of the weekend. Nothing short of euphoric. Please, buy this album. The songs gave me goosebumps and made me smile when I'd rather have been grumbling about idiot canines.

Have a good week. Immerse yourself in Lisztomania. You won't be sorry.

Oh, fuck off.

Over the weekend, an 18-year-old boy was stabbed to death at a house party in Sherwood Park--at a condo complex next door to where my family lived from 2001-2007. Two boys at the party got into an argument, another boy came to his friend's defence, and was killed for his effort.

Today's newspapers and radio reports included a statement from the accused's father that " he believes his son acted in self-defence."

wha-wha-WHAT?!

While I'm not an attorney in this case, from all the news I've read on the fight, these weren't two boys with kitchen knives sparring in the yard. This was an escalation of violence during a drunken argument. Even if it WERE the case that this boy acted in self-defence, was he in fear for his own life? Was this a kill or be killed scenario? Because that's the only real situation where the taking of another life might be put into a different context. But considering that the boy is being tried for first-degree murder, I call BULLSHIT.

I don't really give a shit what "situation" a person is put in. If you feel that your physical safety is threatened, you have several courses of action to either decelerate or remove yourself from the situation:

1) Walk away.
2) Run away.
3) Scream until someone comes to your aid.
3) Call the cops.
4) Scream, try to disarm or otherwise incapacitate the offender, walk/run away and call the cops.

The father, Mark Faltermeier, says: "He's very sorry for [the killing] and it hurts him a lot. He's very emotionally upset. I told him you've got to be strong to get through this ordeal. It wasn't your fault. You were put in a situation."

It wasn't your fault

...cough...

You were put in a situation

...sputter...

Oh please, sir: fuck off.

He stabbed another kid to death at a party. But it wasn't his fault. He was possessed by some evil stabby demon. The alcohol/drugs did it. The other kids peer pressured him into it. But fuck, no, don't--under any circumstances--place personal responsibility for this heinous act squarely on the shoulders of the perpetrator. No one's denying he did it. Not even this father. But hey, it's ok, sonny boy. Because it's not your fault. You are just a spoiled rich kid who was never taught that your actions have consequences, so just hushaby, little baby, and daddy will try to get the media to whitewash this away for you.

Perhaps one of the reasons a teenaged boy is dead and another may spend a good portion of his adult life in jail is because they were raised with the suburban pop-psychology parenting of high self-esteem and zero responsibility for one's actions. Such is the way of Sherwood Park, mecca of entitlement and complete dissociation with real life and its inherent horrors.

First-degree murder. That's the charge. Not manslaughter. Not a charge that would indicate self-defence as a plausible motivator. First-degree murder. Which means he had intent and carried it out. So don't piss in my ear and declare it glorious raindrops.

The father is in shock. Perhaps grieving the very real loss of his child to the justice system. He's scared for his son. And well he should be. Maybe though, he should have been more scared when he was raising the kid. Scared that he might raise a vindictive little monster who felt entitled to make life-and-death decisions. To raise the stakes for himself and another. To snuff out another's life.

He said he hopes his son has a fair trial and reiterates that the death was "absolutely" self-defence, but declined to discuss the circumstances further under legal advice.

Self-defence? Fuck off. Your son's about to get a heaping dose of the reality he was apparently kept so sheltered from. Tough way to learn. But better late than never. No, wait: it is too late. Too late for the other 18-year-old, who's now lying cold in the ground. You people make me sick.

Read the entire Edmonton Journal article here.

Buckle up, dummy.

Part of my job working for a rural-focused organization is finding and disseminating news on rural issues and government initiatives. The Government of Alberta just published its 2008 traffic safety report, which indicates that the vast majority of fatalities in the province take place on rural roads. And a good portion of those are due to people rolling their cars and being thrown from the vehicles.

Wait, hold up. Thrown from the vehicles? That must be quite a force. Oh, no. That's not it.

The Calgary Herald article explains:

"People aren't wearing seatbelts. That's the case in about 35 per cent of traffic fatalities Alberta RCMP investigate."

Seriously? Wow. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, we're living in the midst of a seatbelt-free epidemic. Did I step through some sort of time-warp, where people are still listening to phonographs and doing the jitterbug? Dear god, folks: they still make people like you?!

With all these technological advancements and new safety measures--and the fact that the average driver has never even been in a car that didn't come equipped with seatbelts--I'm unsure how this trend got going. Are seatbelts somehow uncool? Did I miss the societal memo where we go back to junior high and try to out-idiot each other behind the swingset?

Sure, as a city gal born and raised, I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to combines and cattle, but seatbelts? Sorry. Seatbelts, I know. And we're not just discussing driving in your daddy's pickup down the gravel lane towards the back acres. We're talking about 110 km/hr on a paved highway. There are still lots of things to hit out in the country. There are still shitty weather conditions and shittier visibility.

Is this a throwback, rural machismo cowboy bit of horsecrap? Maybe if the seatbelt came equipped with a giant silver buckle you'd do it up? Or does it feel too tight on your lap? No, wait, that can't be it: wearing two-sizes-too-small nut-hugger Wranglers would cut off any sensation below the waist, thereby negating any discomfort felt by the pressure of a safety belt.

You're not too good for a seatbelt. And trust me, fellas, as a well-endowed female, you ain't felt discomfort until you have a chest strap riding up towards your chin because it won't sit properly across your boobs.

Eegads, people. No wonder people think Albertans are backwards yokels sweet on our own livestock. We can't even get the complete no-brainers down. Fail.

If you can start a car, you can take the 1.5 seconds it requires to do up your damned seatbelt. And I thought me on a cellphone was bad...

Ugh.

A tireless, 71-year-old British heroine is working her butt off to keep the English language from being completely flushed down the loo. Chrissie Maher's Plain English Campaign works tirelessly toward a single honourable goal: making language intelligible.

I must admit to developing a noticeable facial tic upon reading of schoolchildren getting partial marks for inserting "LOL" or "OMG" into academic papers. There are plenty of other travesties, however, sure to keep me up at night.

Selected quotes from the London Daily Telegraph article:

“Youngsters have their own jargon and that’s all very well in its place but if they aren’t taught plain English it will hold them back when it comes to applying for jobs."

“With mobile phones it is so easy to slip back into text language and then suddenly you have used 'woz’ instead of 'was’ in a formal letter without even realising.”

"Research shows three-quarters of school pupils believe it is acceptable to use abbreviations such as 'LOL’ in academic assignments."

I'd be ready to throw my hands up in despair and bewail the total waste of this generation's frontal lobes but for this intrepid crusader.

Now, I know that some of you will go, "oh, stop making such a fuss. It's easier to say things in fewer than 140 characters if you've got some shorthand available." Fine. Good. But when you've got 1,500 words to express yourself and knock your teacher's socks off with your utter brilliance, such usage is repulsive. Get a grip on yourselves, people, and stop fucking around with the language until it bears almost no passing ressemblance to any communication known to humanity.

Communication is the key to language, and if you can't get your point across in a succinct, erudite way, then you've fallen short of reaching what English teachers are supposed to instill in you: the ability to write coherently and effectively. It doesn't have to be filled with purple prose or create a mindgasm with its brilliance. It just has to get the point across in the easiest way possible without making readers scratch their heads wondering what OMFGROFLMAO means or, more worryingly, whether your brain has fled the vicinity of your skull.

Ugh.

Sentimental Schlock

This is a cat post, so any feline unfriendlies can just mosey on by and get on with their eyerolling and under-the-breath muttering about crazy twitches and litter boxes.

Elizabeth Withey wrote this touching article in the Edmonton Journal the other day, which I read on my coffee break and subsequently decided to write about. There are two reasons for this:

1) The lady loses a cat and has her Ode to Pussy on the front page of the arts section. Front page! Remind me again why I'm not publishing in dailies?

2) I too have been the proud owner (and sad mourner) of numerous pets.

In October 2008, I became adoptive mummy to a charming, fuzzy rapscalion I just can't say no to. (As evidenced by the basket of toys, gourmet food and $50 brush I have purchased for her.) So I'm sharing my perspective. (Why? Because it's my blog, damnit, and if you don't like it, you can go elsewhere. No, wait: where are you going? Come back! I renege!)

Ahem.

On the scale of pet crazies, I fit somewhere above the "leave them to run amok in the streets" but below the "give them hats and their own seat at the table". Right around the middle. Don't get me wrong: I love my cat. When I go away for a few days, I do miss her snuggling next to me and look forward (often cringingly) to coming home and seeing what fresh hell she hath wrought on my apartment.

It's nice to have company when you live alone. Even if said company is less verbally responsive than a human being, they'll still give you sass if you're not quick with the food.

It doesn't hurt that I chose a cat (or, more correctly, she chose me: grabbing onto my sleeve as I walked past her at the Humane Society) who is basically a small, four-legged version of myself. Smart? Check. Obnoxious? Check. Full of mischief? Check.

So yes, my furry little mini-me is a companion and pseudo-kid (or as close to a kid as I'm willing to get anytime soon.) I know she's "just" a cat. I know that she's not going to outlive me and I get that her passing, while sad, will not devastate me to the point where I'm going to tattoo her image on my shoulder. But I will be sad. Just as I've been sad at the passing of all my childhood and young adulthood pets. Those were family animals. This one's all mine. So maybe it's a little different. I think I'm a bit more possessive of this one. Especially since she's a mommy's girl.

Don't deny me my kitten love. As silly as it sounds, when the shelter referred to me as providing my cat with her "forever home", I got a little choked up at the thought of rescuing an animal that otherwise might have a shit life on the streets. Even animals given homes are often neglected. Ollie has a little friend who comes and sits at the window while they take turns batting at each other through the screen. I know the owners (they're irritating loudmouths across the alley) and my bile rises every time I see this kitten cross the street. She's barely 8 months old, I'd wager, and she's already knocked up with her first litter and likely not to make it to her fifth birthday. One day soon, if this keeps up, I'm of a mind to whisk her off to the shelter, where she can safely have her kittens and they can find her a new home. A home that, hopefully, won't treat her like a dispensable source of entertainment. 

I'd go on further, but Olivia is in need of snugglage. 

For shame.

Since I'm not a religious monkey, I don't make my way to the confessional on a regular basis. I would like to take this time, however, to admit that I, Ms. Fitz, have a problem and am working towards resolving it. Yes: I am a text-driver.

Six months ago, I would never have texted while driving. Ever. One day, on the way to meet a friend, I texted a quick "I'll be right there" from a red light. Hmm. Easy enough. And besides, I was at a red light. No harm done, right?

...

Several months later, and I would be admonishing myself out loud as I steered with one hand--"this is stupid, why are you doing this?"--while texting with the other.

I make no excuses. I know it's stupid. I have been in vehicles with other people where I have told them to put the phone down and drive. I get angry when other drivers don't pay attention to where they're going. And yet, I couldn't help myself. Until now.

On Monday I picked up my brand new toy: a 2009 Yaris hatchback. I love it. For the love of driving and the cheaper option, I chose a standard transmission. Now, I'm too busy shifting to text. While this may seem like a lame, physical impediment rather than an actual behavioural change, I've effectively eliminated the temptation by placing a stick shift in its way. This is the third day of my challenge to myself. I won't slip. It's far too much to lose.

Bettsy sent me this NYT video clip. Terrifying.

Death of Macho

I read this fascinating article last week on the Foreign Policy website. The potential repercussions and changes if such a fundamental paradigm shift is indeed coming are worth a hefty bit of debate. I'll leave you to read it (it's long, but worthwhile) and let me know what you think. The times they are a changin', but whether that's for good or ill remains to be seen.

Great Irish-American Memoirist, Frank McCourt, Dies

Frank McCourt, who wrote the bestsellers Angela's Ashes and 'Tis died this weekend. Read the NYT article here.

I read these books back in early unversity, probably 2001-2002. Angela's Ashes was well-deserving of its Pulitzer. It was beautifully-written in a nearly tangible prose. You could almost taste the lilting Irish accent in his words.

McCourt was born in Limerick and moved to New York. Both Ireland and New York are places I've visited in the past few years, though both are very different than the places he writes about in the 1930s-1950s.

The Ireland I lived in is so beautiful and was at the peak of the huge economic boom the Celtic Tiger brought. Half the population was under 30 and Dublin was a sea of new immigrants from around the globe. This in contrast to the poverty-stricken place McCourt grew up in, but remnants of that life remained in the attitudes of the Irish I met. Being one generation removed from that sort of third-world life meant a lot of baby-steps in their society that I was fortunate to observe first-hand.

I enjoyed McCourt's writings on Ireland more than his later New York years, but all his works are enjoyable. Angela's Ashes is a bucket-list read, in my opinion. And don't bother with the movie. While I love Robert Carlyle (Begbie in Trainspotting, duh.), it's not enough to really chew on. Something about the Irish and their preponderance for fantastic writing. But that's for another blog post.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Basement Jaxx

Ok, so they're not "real" monkeys. But you've got to admit that any musical group with such a prominent monkey fetish will inevitably end up in my good books. I got this album for Christmas my second year of university (2002? '03?) and it got a heavy rotation in my car stereo. Especially "Where's Your Head At?" Excellent song. Video below.

Those manipulative little bastards.

I love my cat, I really do. For all her attention-whoring, small-item thievery and willful acts of destruction, she's occasionally an enjoyable thing to keep around.

Until, of course, she decides she's hungry at some ungodly early-morning hour, at which point sleep happens through sheer force of will, rather than peaceful repose. Turning over, covering your head with blankets and snoring do not fool her. If the incessant purring in your ear (replete with whisker tickling) isn't enough to get you up and attending to her whims, then the large white mitt suddenly batting at your nose is.

The BBC posted this article on its website today about a university researcher who discovered that domestic cats use a special, high-frequency purr that mimics a baby's urgent cry when they want something from humans. This amazing little adaptation takes full advantage of their owners' instinct to stop the sound by tending to its source.

The researcher linked this annoying, insistent purr with the 4 a.m. "feed me, asshole, I know you've got the pillow on your head but I can see you blinking under there" poking and purring session.

This study explains why a cat purring on your lap is enjoyable (for some) and why the same cat kneading your face and purring in bed brings on the urge to fling it into the nearest wall.

You may have hoodwinked us thus far, cats, but we're onto you now. Sneaky buggers.

My Bookshelf: Shits and Giggles

The old adage that you "can't judge a book by its cover" is patently false. As much of a bibliophile as I am, sometimes a tome grabs you with its humourous, intriguing or downright odd cover, and you can't help but purchase it. Sometimes, the cover alone is worth the price. Often you are rightly let down upon turning the first page. On the rare, special occasion: you discover treasure. This is a story about the second kind.

I bought this book at a second-hand store a few years ago whilst enjoying a summer stroll with Ms. Tack. We stopped in at the tiny shop in her old university neighbourhood to see if we could find anything good.

I saw this at the front of the store, atop a pile of old, torn books on clearance. It had a Post-It price of $1.50 and was missing the back cover. I fell in love with it immediately. The cover had me in a fit of giggles and the insides didn't disappoint, with photos of Scotland Yard's finest straightlacedly employing slick ninja stylings on one-another. The fact that I have a soft spot for antique books didn't hurt, either.

Though I knew that the book was old, it was missing the inside page that held any publishing information. Thanks to the internet, however, I've learned it's origins are even earlier than I first thought (1913!) and discovered a lovely web post about it.

The book currently has a pride of place--cover facing, of course--on one of my display shelves. If you ever want to come over and smile at it, let me know. It was worth every cent of the $1.50 I paid for it.

JU-JITSU SELF DEFENCE"
By W. Bruce Sutherland, Thomas Nelson & Sons Ltd, no date but researched to 1913

***UPDATE****

So I wrote to the Arty Bees Books in NZ to comment on the rare find I'd come across and thank them for finally getting me the information I was looking for on the hilarious little time capsule that is "Ju-Jitsu". Excerpt from their response below:

"Thank you for your kind comments - many of the books that come across the desk are just too wonderful to pass up without sharing, and I'm glad there may have been some helpful information on our site as well as silliness.You might also like to know that a copy in reasonable condition should generally fetch about US$40 - $80... :-)"

Wow. So now I have a collector's item, too! I feel like one of those people on Antiques Roadshow, only without the snooty evaluator.

K

Monday word nerd-out: Awful Library Books

The current record-holder for longest job Ms. Fitz has ever held was a 3-year (yes, sad, I know, but I'm still under 30!) tenure as a page in a county library from the end of high school to my second year of university. Several high school and university friends actually worked there with me, and a few stayed for years after graduation. Years. Seriously. These were not librarians, mind you: for those of you too uncultured to know, librarian is actually a serious profession that requires a Master's degree, at minimum, so no, 17-year-olds who work in libraries are NOT librarians!

Anywho...

Working at a library was actually a very interesting job, and not just because I'm a bookish dweeb. You come across the most obscure, odd or downright hilarious publications, many of which make you wonder why you yourself don't just go out and get published, since apparently they're handing them out (or, at least, they were in the late 70s/early 80s.)

Bettsy came across this fantastic blog today, and I had to share. It's like Awkward Family Photos, but with books. I've got my very own weird and awful book stories to post, but I'll save those for another day. Enjoy.

Awful Library Books

The 2009 Collection

Some ladies can't wait for the new season's fashion lines to arrive. Me? I'm more interested in this fall's lineup of new entries into the dictionary. Nerd is the new black. Haven't you heard?

Merriam-Webster's American Dictionary has welcomed over 100 words to the fold. Among the lucky few are:

• Staycation (to stay at home on vacation)
• Locavore (one who eats locally-grown foods)
• Green-collar (job description for environmentally-conscious careers)
• Acai (the Brazilian power berry)
• Waterboarding (torture technique of champions)

Welcome to Webster's, little guys.

I must admit that this year's entrants don't inspire me the way "d'oh" or "bootylicious" did a few years ago. Although I'm happy to see delicious "shawarmas" finally got their day out of the oven.

Edmonton Journal article.

Mz Fitz Takes Manhattan (and parts of Brooklyn)

Back from glorious vacation rested, re-energized and now faced with a mountain of work that I have very little interest in tackling at the moment.

Trip was delightful. Got to spent a good deal of time with great friend Andy, saw both the largest Pride Parade I've ever seen and spectacular 4th of July fireworks. And don't forget about the Nathan's hot dog eating contest on Coney Island, which was broadcast live on ESPN. It is also a proven appetite suppressant. (Trust me on that one--ew.)

While sightseeing and experiencing were at the top of the list, I did manage to read a New York novel. Unfortunately, it wasn't the Great Gatsby. Nope, it was "The Devil Wears Prada," which I found in my hostel and proceeded to consume voraciously. So my literary diet faltered a bit on my vacation. But it's my vacation, damn it!

Besides, I was plenty arty with my day-long trips to both the Met and MoMA.

"One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years."

-Thomas Wolfe

PS - this one's for Sean:

Off to the Big Apple!

Clever Monkey's taking a 10-day hiatus to recharge her batteries in New York City (!) from the 26th to July 6th. I may or may not upload photos or share stories, depending on how much time I wish to take away from all the fun I'm having.

Thought I'd leave you a little food for thought: the origin of the term "big apple", courtesy of a Wiki-search that led me to an interesting NYC historical website here.

Big Apple Etymology

"The Big Apple" was the catchphrase of New York Morning Telegraph [horse]track writer John J. FitzGerald in the 1920s. He picked up the term from African-American stable hands at the Fair Grounds racetrack in New Orleans in 1920. FitzGerald's first "Around the Big Apple" column, on February 18, 1924, proudly declared:

“The Big Apple. The dream of every lad that ever threw a leg over a thoroughbred and the goal of all horsemen. There's only one Big Apple. That's New York.”

The "Big Apple" racing circuit had meant "the big time," where the big money was to be won. Horses love apples, and apples were widely regarded as the mythical king of fruit.

"The Big Apple" became the name of a club in Harlem in 1934, and Harlem itself was referred to as "the Apple" at this time. "The Big Apple" was revived in the 1970s by Charles Gillett, president of the New York Convention and Visitors Bureau.

Tool.

Tool (n.) One who lacks the mental capacity to know he is being used. A fool. A cretin. Characterized by low intelligence and/or self-steem. (urbandictionary.com)

Conservative MLA Doug Elniski was wrist-slapped by Alberta Premier Ed Stelmach after a series of boneheaded, insensitive comments he made about women became public.

Skipping along his merry way back to the stoneage, Mr. Elniski posted several sexist comments on his blog, made snide remarks about Edmonton's Pride Parade and basically fulfilled every negative conservative stereotype in 140 characters or less.

In a comment on junior high school graduates on his twit--erm, I mean, Twitter--feed, he wrote:

"Men are attracted to smiles, so smile and don't give me that 'treated equal' stuff, if you want Equal it comes in little packages at Starbucks."

Har har har *cough*

On the same page, he gave directions to a bikini carwash where the girls looked "cold". I can only assume he then scratched his ass, sniffed it and then trudged around looking for a woman to club and bring back to his cave.

The thing that pisses me off about this is not the obvious ass-backwardsness of his comments--which are so stereotypical as to be more sad than funny--but that the thought never entered his brain that, being a public figure, his comments might be made, you know...public. Because the internet is well-known as a discreet means of communication. It's bad enough that you think these thoughts, but to actually believe you can get away with saying them? That's a level of clueless entitlement for which awards should be given.

Today he's being chided for his silliness while female MLAs and his daughter defend him, citing his donations to women's charities as proof of his lack of sexism. Umm...no. Supporting women's charities and viewing them as equal participants in society are incongruent. You can believe that women should be in the kitchen baking you a pie and still want to protect them from being abused or living in poverty.

Way to go, Doug. You did 'em proud. And in the same week that our Finance minister, Iris Evans, talked about how women should stay home and raise their kids instead of pursuing careers, as she mistakenly did. I'm so pleased to know that soon I will be able to kick back at home, keep my husband's slippers warming by the fire and vacuum in high heels while baking cookies.

You fucking knob.

Read the Edmonton Journal article here.
Read the Canadian Press take here.
See Dave Cournoyer's take here.

New Literary Genre: the Stripper Memoir

Came across this interesting article on Slate.com's XX site. Click here to read about stripper memoirs.

It's interesting that in any given genre what begins as sharp commentary will inevitably dull and become just another innocuous part of popular culture. Like Ozzy going from Prince of f*ing Darkness to bumbling TV dad and progenitor of sullen offspring.

My literary theory's a little rusty, and my focus was never on feminism, but this article intrigued me.

***

First I want to note how I love that "stripper memoir" is now a genre. Like the rock star heroin odyssey or politico fratboy recollection. It's amusing that people who work in an industry based around titillation would write in such a formulaic manner as to be given their own niche. As author Katie Roiphe concludes:

This stylized form of sexuality seems to lend itself to cliché. In all of these memoirs, there is something false in the revelation and mechanical in the execution, that is—if we take the word of these bored and jaded ladies—something like stripping itself.

My two cents (based on article alone, as I have not yet read these memoirs. Will update when I do.)

***

Ah, sex. The alpha and omega taboo, from the beginning of time 'til our inevitable decline, it is the one subject sure to set pens scribbling. I find it intriguing that apparently self-proclaimed modern and liberated women would feel the need to emphasize their ascension above sexual exploitation in their writing.

I'm not a stripper because I choose not to profit off my sexuality, reserving it for my own private endeavours. However, if someone chooses to make money of their own volition, then more power to them. And yes, you can draw the line arbitrarily wherever you want, since it's your body and your psyche. When you reach your comfort limit and say, "enough," fine. But from reading this article I get the impression that there is judgement toward the other types of strippers in these books, the "lifers" as it were. These writers immerse themselves in this existence, yet keep themselves at a remove from it in order to pass judgement and remain "untainted" according to this article. Roiphe says they display the "same innate, catty, female dividing of the world into sluts and non-sluts, that takes place in the rest of the world." If so, weak.

The archetypes of mother/nurturer and whore go way back and are key players in the successful feminist deconstruction of writing, which is overwhelmingly "masculine" or judgmental and limiting. The idea that women fall into one of two archetypes is tenacious in its survival. It seems that even in our liberated 21st century we find the atavistic tendencies return. Sure, they're reconfigured so that the mother/Madonna figure becomes the wholesome "stripper with a heart of gold, putting herself through anthropology courses, one lap dance at a time" and the whore becomes, well...it's the far endpoint of the spectrum, but the whore becomes the more risque stripper who chooses to pursue prostitution or pornography beyond her oeuvre.

I'd be interested to read the memoir of one of these ladies. The hardened lifers who watch the Diablo Codys and Lily Buranas and think to themselves how those pretentious young twats talk a good talk but have only skimmed the surface of the dark half of the subculture, which they never fully devote themselves to in the first place. It's like first-person voyeurism, rather than immersion.

How does one contend to shatter the notion of "woman as sexual object" by becoming it and then rejecting it outright? So do you either embody sex or purity? What about sexuality as one part of a person's identity?

Are we taking a step forward or backward when we define female sexuality and liberation in terms of exploitation? Would a male stripper have to seek validation with a white picket fence history beneath his greased-up pectoral exterior? Probably not. If not, why do these women have to excuse themselves for doing what they do? If it's shame they feel, then their claims of liberating women sexually are dashed. If they feel superiority, then they have to look at their acts and see that they're exploiting their bodies as much as those objectifying them. If it's an insider's look into the abyss, well, then I'm not quite sure we're there yet.

My heart, she melts.

Thanks to my anonymous "Monkey of the Week" commentator for this video. *swoon*

Click here if you can stand it. 

Miss Fitz's Monkey of the Week

It's been a long week.

Yes, I'm aware it's not Friday, so there's still another day to go, but I needed some cheering after being sick and having spent the past two days driving over 1,000 km across Alberta conducting interviews. (More to follow on that when the energy is replenished. Ice cream cake is helping.)

So without further ado: the white-handed gibbon. Not only does it have a nifty name (I may be biased) but this little guy doesn't care that he's been caught, erm, "white-handed" scratching his ass and had it broadcast across the globe. He's just living his life, swinging free on his ridiculously long arms. Swing free, little buddy. Swing free.

Humourless

adj.

1. Lacking a sense of humour; destitute of humour.
2. Said or done without humour.

Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, 1998.
















I love Chuck Norris jokes, you love Chuck Norris jokes. You know the ones:

"When Chuck Norris goes in the ocean, he doesn't get wet, the water gets Chuck Norris."

These absurd hyperboles are ridiculously hilarious and have single-handedly transformed this otherwise B-list has-been action hero into a cult figure and online phenomenon.

While roundhouse kicks to the face and superhuman strength were included in the Chuck Norris package, apparently good humour and appreciation were not. He launched a lawsuit in 2007 against the author of The Truth About Chuck Norris: 400 Facts About the World’s Greatest Human and is now writing a book to set the world straight on all things Chuck Norris.

Though he may be the "world's greatest human", he's still kind of a jackass, no?

View the story here.

The motherflippin' Rhymenocerous

Clever Monkey spent the weekend in bed with the flu.

With a magnitude of about '9.5' on the suck-meter, there really is little worse than spending the most beautiful weekend of the year thus far (high 20s both days, light rain, sunshine) alternately sweating and shivering in a small pile of bedclothes between trips to the toilet. Slept for nearly 48 hours straight and managed to choke down several crackers, a bit of milk-free tea and some juice--but mostly so I had something in my stomach to puke up five minutes later. Ugh.

Apologies if the cleverness is lacking. I probably expelled it into my toilet.

***

To keep my delirious brain somewhat entertained and keep my mind off of all the fun my friends were having at open-air concerts and along beaches, I played a lot of DVDs. One of these was a belated birthday gift: season one of "Flight of the Conchords."

Now, being fairly pretentious and having lots of hipster friends, it may surprise you that I haven't gotten into the adventures of two Kiwi lads sooner. Late to the game though I may be, I have to say that I'm thrilled I finally caught on. Because these guys rock.

Not only is FotC funny in that silly, irreverent way I find so terribly endearing, but their homages to various musical stylings and witty lyrics are bang on. They've got some great turns of phrase.

I think my favourite season one episode is the one where Bret decides he's only going to answer to his rap persona: the Rhymenocerous. In keeping with the large African mammal theme, Jemaine backs him as the Hiphoppapotamus.

Sample Lyric: " I'm the motherflippin' hiphopopotamus, my lyrics are bottomless...

...

...

..."

hee.

See the video for the boys in their glory.

"Did Steve tell you that, perchance? Gah, Steve!"

Don't call it a comeback...

Yep, that's right.

After a nearly two-year hiatus, the Miraculous Melange of Miscellania has returned, this time with a new look and a new name. It's all to go along with the new theme, which will guide (though not monopolize) the topic threads on this blog.

On the advice of my good friend, Bettsy, I've decided to regroup and revamp to share my snide comments and inner monologues with the world (insert applause here.)

Being a writer and an overall word junkie, I thought that a unifying reading/writing/grammar/spelling theme would be good. With the unlubricated butt-sexing currently being performed on an unsuspecting English language, I figure it's time to fight back against lazy txtrs, drive thru business operators and those who can't tell the difference between "its" and "it's" (you know who you are *side eye*)

I thought it fitting for the first post to link to this website, which the Edmonton Journal today predicted will become the "Google of digital dictionaries". Wordnik takes words and phrases and offers not just dictionary definitions and common usages, but seeks out Twitter feeds and Google searches to track how the word or phrase is being used right now.

Visit Wordnik here. I think my faith in English speakers may start to be restored.

Cheers,
K

Miss Fitz's Monkey of the Week

Baby Pygmy Marmoset. Mmmm, delicious. :)
Do you not want to spread pepper and ketchup on him and eat him for breakfast? I need a baby marmoset. Someone find me a baby marmoset.

K

Woohoo!!!!

Just found out on IMDB that Dead Like Me, one of my all time favorite shows, just finished wrapping up a TV movie (!!!) and will potentially start a new season! yah!!!

Movie and possible season 3!!!

Rant time!

I like MSN. It's a mostly-reliable source of good news, entertainment and often colourfully off-the-wall articles about issues both sociological and pertinent that I would never dream up myself. This one piqued my curiousity instantly, though, soon enough, riled me enough that I felt myself obligated to share and (since this is my blog) opine on the article and explain the bile it raised in my throat. Here....I'll give you a few minutes to read it:

Starter Marriages

Done? Good.

For those too lazy to have read it, this is basically a 'relationships and dating advice" article about the "Starter Marriage": an apparent product of our current generation that is argued as a not necessarily pleasant but altogether reasonable and pragmatic extrapolation of our stubbornly and unrepentantly adolescent social mores.

The author interviews several women (but no men, curiously, though I wonder about their views of this issue) about their experiences with early and disastrous marriages in their 20s and the ways in which this was a benefit in terms of offering a "crash course" in commitment, relationships and the institution of marriage.

It is noteworthy that the interviewees, for the most part, are products of divorce themselves and thus, argues the writer, must teach themselves the values inherent in committed partnerships that they never learned from their parents. Fair enough, perhaps.

I, too, am a fucked up gen-Yer who had my nuclear family go ka-blooey (har har) on me in my teens. And yes, this has presented me with many interesting views, fears and hopes regarding marriage and commitment. It does not, however, mean that I do not believe in the institution or believe that since it's something my parents didn't stick to, that it is something to be taken lightly or "tried on" to see how it fits. And that is what bothered me and got me all self-righteous and persnickity about this article.

While I wholeheartedly agree that one should not feel obligated to remain in a relationship that is unhealthy for either or both parties and applaud people finding their own path, I feel like this is merely the start of some sort of generational "fad" where we cannot commit to homes, jobs or even friends for longer than our 20 second attention spans, let alone relationships. Which is a very sad commentary on our society and one that I don't necessarily find all that palatable. We wonder why divorce, depression, unhappiness and lack of direction are so rampant. Perhaps because we are so overwhelmed by the glut of opportunities and the lack of structure or sense of purpose that we drift aimlessly, awaiting an epiphany that will allow us to discover our true selves (though only after 30, as suspended adolescence has now led us to sequester ourselves in our parents' basements until roughly 26 years of age). What happened to having responsibilities, not only to yourself, but to others and society as a whole?

yes, to thine own self be true....but...to flit about aimlessly, indecisively figuring that, "hey, well, if this marriage thing doesn't work out, I can always get divorced," is a sickening mindset. If nothing is sacred, then everything is unimportant and disposable. Granted, I'm not a religious or traditional person. I am, in matter of fact, the exact specimen of woman interviewed in this article. I am not, however, willing to hold myself to so low a standard that I could allow myself to enter into something so self-deceptive and wholly self-involved. Regardless of what the author says in this story, it IS a selfish act. Commitment is frightening and I myself have often wondered how in the hell I could ever spend the rest of my life with the same person without going insane by year 20...but you know what? If I truly felt that way when it came down to a decision to marry...I would not. There is no "return policy" on relationships. And, god forbid, you get children involved in it, it could lead to so much grief and damage for the next generation it's not even worth getting into here.

Yes, people deserve happiness. Yes, they deserve to be able to correct their mistakes. But there is no Mulligan for marriage. There's no reset button. And if you find yourself bored and lonely and still acting like a prepubescent squealing little girl who doesn't like the idea of growing up and joining the "real" world...then, by all means: don't.

Don't fuck up yourself and others by indulging in something you cannot 100% say you want. Better to be 99% sure and walk away than 50% sure and figure there's some sort of freebie get out of jail card at the end. Life is lonely sometimes. And sometimes, despite your best efforts and intentions, it does not always go your way. And that's okay. Because it's not always about you. And you are not going to get away with living in Peter Pan land forever. So for fuck's sake, please: just grow up, or accept your limitations and try not to screw others up in the process.

Just my 10 cents.

K

Deadbeat Blogger

I know I know. I've been gone far too long. It's been a busy month. I came home from vacation, started a new job, joined a program at Grant MacEwan that I'm now taking part-time and am otherwise usually too tired or just plain not interested enough to blog. Appy-polly-logies to thee and thine. There have been a lot of things I have wanted to write about, but there was just no motivation this past month. I will be better. Promise. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some addictive Scrabulous to play on Facebook (which is, by the by, perhaps the best reason to be on Facebook in the first place!)

I'm not dead,

K

oh, and for your viewing pleasure whilst you await my next post:
Dogslide

Ahhh.....Vacation

Going to keep this short, as I will not waste one more iota of vacation time than needs be...

...am in Montreal (well, technically, Laval, but who`s counting?) for a few days and have access (finally) to a computer. Thought I could pilfer my cousin`s internet with my laptop but, sadly, am too technologically inept to properly enact said pilfering. Thus, I am using her antiquated computer to send a few heidi hos your way...

...that said, the lovely (and envy-stirring) pictures I had wished to post from my laptop will have to wait until I can either figure this out or find a proper wireless connection for my laptop to work. Until such time, you will all have to just take my word for it that I am in a much nicer place than you. :P ....

...Having fun, trying not to get sunburned while simultaneously trying to suntan (it`s a tightrope walk!), eating way to much bad food and enjoying it thoroughly. Will most likely come back with 5 lbs but...eh....ce sont les vacances, n`est-ce pas? Lots of lounging, relaxing, mid-day naps and frequent dips in the river when it gets unbearably hot, and a fridge full of beer, just to myself! (well, now that my uncle is no longer around to steal some....*grumble*...)

...I do miss you all...but not enough to come home. hehehe. Lots of love,

K

Gentlemen, start your...erm...gyroscopes...?

So, among my favorite topics of conversation (a small aside from the usual blatherings on monkeys, squirrels and the like) is Segways. (See October 20, 2006 blog entry for refresher)

It appears that the local police force will be trying out these suckers for the summer (on loan from a Segway distributor, apparently) to see how they aid in maintaining the peace and apprehending criminals during the Edmonton festival season.

While this may all seem fine and good in theory, in practice (as my favorite radio DJ, Garner Andrews correctly pointed out)....well...it may not be so fine and good.

Bike cops have been a regular sight on Whyte and other environs for over a decade now, though I must admit that their little shorty shorts and helmets still make me snicker whenever I see them. They don't command the respect of a constable on horseback (do we even have those here?) but they're great for pursuing vagrants through the idyllic river valley, I'm sure.

That said, bikes have many features that make them excellent police vehicles: speed, manoevreability, lightweight and easy to jump off of to apprehend a felon at a moment's notice. Segways, well....while they're speedy and manoevreable, and have come a long way since the prototype, aren't exactly lightning quick and sure as hell don't take kindly to being hefted about (if lifting them is even a possibility without serious back strain.) The battery-power, while eco-friendly, begs the question of whether you'll come across a cop puttering to a standstill in hot pursuit of a bandit or (laughably) smacking headfirst into the ground because their segway flops out on them and falls over (it's been known to happen.) They're not particularly adept at getting through crowds, I would imagine, seeing as how anyone in the crowd could easily tip you with a jovial shove from behind. And considering that they're planning on introducing the strange gizmos during the Capital Ex festivities, it'll be interesting to see how long it takes for a cop to be humiliated.

Not that being humiliated on a Segway is difficult. Just stepping onto the thing brings out images of super-nerddom or shitty European tourists (again, read old post), not to mention the guffaw-inducing pop-culture memories of one GOB Bluth (hehehe)...

Garner made a good point of how, exactly, a cop was to bring in an apprehended criminal on a Segway. Double up? Place 'em on the handlebars? I can just picture it now: trying to get a belligerent drunken redneck onto the wobble-sensitive Segway without having him topple the both of you over into the ring-toss tent. Beautiful!

Ahh, la. What's there to watch on TV when such entertainment potential will be gyrating down your very block, keeping the streets safe?

*grin*
K