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

Holy f*cking Christ that is terrifying.

I'm not sure what possesses adults to think of the most bedwetter-creating ideas to entertain children. This twitchy, unstable little critter is merely one more in a long list of inappropriate toys and images for kids. And you thought clowns were scary.

Think these things are harmless? Sure they are. Except when they wake you up in the middle of the night, crashing their cymbals and chattering without you having touched their windup key. Stephen King wrote a short story about one once. Picture 'IT' but with these bulging red orbs eyeballing you in the dark.

Tweeters not Necessarily Bad Spellers

So, according to this article, kids who OMG and ROTFL can LOL at all the h8trs (yours truly) who bewail the death knell of proper English spelling and grammar. According to this, teens who are good spellers can switch into and out of web mode and retain their lexical prowess. Poor spellers are going to be poor spellers, online or offline. Sorry, kids. Maybe you can OLO or LLO? Or you could just go, "ha, ha!" and leave it at that. 

A little clever goes a long way

I am not a fan of most protests. Having been to a few during my student years and having observed even more during my working-for-the-legislature days, I'm pretty blase about the whole exercise. Not that protest isn't meaningful. Just that, well...for the most part, the average protest is more about making angry remarks and less about getting the message across. This is why I like irony, satire and the like. They make protest subtle, stabbing the heart of the matter like a swift blade, rather than bludgeoning observers over the head with it like an anvil.

Remember Kanye West's horrible mic-snatch from Taylor Swift at the MVAs? Here's someone's Kanye-take on US healthcare. Brilliant.


ps - a plug for my homeland never goes unappreciated.

A new book to add to my collection

Behold a masterpiece of mockery:

"The Quotable Douchebag: The 500 Douchiest Things Ever Said" by Margaret McGuire. I require a copy for my shelf.

Choice quotes straight from the egos' mouths:

Gene Simmons: “[I] don’t believe there’s any difference between a monogamous and a polygamous relationship. Those are all just big words, like gymnasium.”

I actually find this one kind of funny. Maybe because I don't take it seriously:

Eminem: "I'm a t-shirt guy now. But wifebeaters won't go out of style, not as long as bitches keep mouthing off."

Ms. Fitz's Monkey(brains) of the Week

***Note: I forgot to post this on Friday. Sorry, Alex.***

Among my top ten films of all time are the Indiana Jones trilogy. Yes, I'm aware that they made a fourth one a few years ago, but for all intents and purposes--since it reflects neither my childhood dream of one day becoming an archaeologist nor my undying love for Harrison Ford in a fedora--I'm giving it a pass.

One of the most famous scenes in the second film, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, is a feast with the maharaja and his entourage, where eyeballs, live snakes ("snake surprise") and monkeys are on the menu.

I love monkeys. I would never actually consume them. But then I got to wondering:

Do people actually EAT chilled monkey brains?

According to Wikipedia (here's your grain of salt to go with that brain meal), they actually DO. That seems almost...cannibalistic, no? Though I'm a meatatarian, I could never eat something that I had an emotional connection to (like a dog or cat) or something intelligent enough to see it coming. I mean, if the damned thing can use sign language, it's off the menu, you know?

Anyway, here's the clip if you'd like to see it (in LEGO-vision!) Forgive Mrs. Spielberg her acting. She married a billionaire director, so either way, she got the last laugh, right?

Twit or Tweet

I'm now Tweeting along the ol' interwebs. Lest you say my zeal for hearing my own voice (digital or otherwise) has overrun my good sense, please note that the Twitter is actually for my work. I am, however, in charge of all the Tweets. Check it out.

Politicians are silly...

...and making fun of them is akin to shooting fish in a barrel, taking candy from a baby, or any number of effortless cliches.

When done well, however, you can't help but snicker and applaud.

I've worked in and around politics, politicians and policy hacks for a few years now. While I don't consider myself a staunchly political person, I am engaged and have developed into a wary cynic, rather than any sort of commentator. That said, I rub shoulders with and socialize with a broad spectrum of politically-minded folk. I worked with Dave Cournoyer briefly and went to school with Adam Rozenhart. They're both clever and quick, ideal qualities for handling the slippery subject of politics. Kudos to both for their ingenuity.

Sometimes, politicians don't need their asses handed to them. Sometimes, they serve it to you on a silver platter. Schadenfreude, baby.

Ok, that's my dose of real-world for the day. Tomorrow: monkeys!

Rubber Ducky Goodwill Mission

Dutch artist Florentijn Hofman (yeah, I can't pronounce that first name, either) has crafted a massive rubber duck and sent it afloat throughout various cities.

His website states:

"The Rubber Duck knows no frontiers, it doesn't discriminate people and doesn't have a political connotation. The friendly, floating Rubber Duck has healing properties: it can relieve mondial tensions as well as define them. The rubber duck is soft, friendly and suitable for all ages!"

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Man, I could really use a bubble bath right now. Or an episode of Sesame Street.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Barrel of Monkeys

I love this game. I still own a glow-in-the-dark set that sits on my bookshelf. I don't really play with it, but it's got a pride of place right next to my miniature Etch-a-Sketch. What? My inner child needs an outlet sometimes, people.

Could you make a full monkey chain? My hands are too unsteady to get all of them to last much longer than a few seconds before they start to fall off. It's more of a skill than a game in that sense.

Nostalgia.

Appalling.

I'm usually very proud to say that I'm a Canadian. We've got a lot of great things going for us (besides the weather) such as universal healthcare, personal freedoms, etc. But sometimes, this makes us complacent and makes it easier for us to ignore dodgy things going on in this country.

Among countries that accept people caught up in human trafficking, Canada is one of the worst. This article calls us "an international embarrassment." Yikes. You don't hear about it, or see it, as long as you stay away from the shadier parts of cities and towns. Even in Edmonton, people probably assume that "well, that happens in a big city like Toronto or Vancouver, not here."

What they don't realize is that in a boom town with a transient worker population, this place is the perfect location for human traffic.

Most women taken internationally are used in the sex trade. And Edmonton's finest just busted their first (and certainly not last) rub and tug using imported Chinese ladies as sex slaves.

There's always a dark undercurrent running far closer to the surface "niceness" of a place than anyone wants to admit, to themselves or others. Until it slaps you in the face like this, and you're forced to look at it. Reprehensible. We can't just sit back and let this happen. If we allow this in our own home, how can we possibly say, "for shame!" to others? There are no politicians yelling about this, even though it's a big issue. Something ought to be done. Read the Future Group's estimation here.

Whenever you start to feel like the centre of the universe...

...stop and take a look at these.

They're the newest photos from the Hubble Space Telescope, and they're spectacular.

Makes you reconsider your significance as a teeny speck, now doesn't it? I also found an interesting explanation for how they get those photos to look so beautiful. Yep. Lots of Photoshop and a little bit of science, too.

This one's my personal favourite:


Amazing to see the way light is manipulated, when so much that we manipulate is with our hands (the word comes from latin for "hand", so yeah, I guess that might have a little something to do with it). Making the intangible tangible. It gives me the tinglies. And no, it doesn't make me feel closer to God. In fact, it doesn't give me a hankering for god(s) in the slightest. The reality of the universe is so stunning and incapacitatingly god-like on its own, there's no need for something beyond it. To me, that is "god": the weightless, seemingly purposeless yet wholly purposeful expanse of...existence. Wow.

09.09.09: A Day Without Cats

A meme has swept the interwebs today, according to Urlesque. The powers that be (robots? dogs? Allergy sufferers?) have declared September 9, 2009 "A Day Without Cats."

At 4am today, I would have agreed wholeheartedly and handed my cat over without a second thought. Take her, damn it! Just let me f*cking SLEEP!

But then I catch myself and realize that I wuv my snuggly wittle kitty witty. Ugh. Wait. Did I just go all kooky about cats? Oh...I get it now.

Help save worldwide sanity and avoid the following websites today:

http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/

http://www.cuteoverload.com/

http://www.fupenguin.com/

These are just a few of the worst feline offenders. Perhaps coming to terms with the oversaturation of pussy cats online will help us get back to the real issues that matter. Like otters. And monkeys.

Ms. Fitz's Blob of the Week

...UHH...I think it's a monkey. Or, perhaps, a totem head from some long-lost tribe?

Isn't it strange...

...the things that jog your memory? Scientists say smell is the strongest trigger sense. Even if I think of a memory through a flash of colour or a snippet of a song, inevitably, the lingering smell of that memory is the last and most stubborn recollection of all.

Thinking about this after spending the past few days helping my Bettsy and her man renovate their first home. I've been stopping over after work, munching on snacks and listening to music as we roll paint on the walls and tape baseboards.

I volunteered to putty in all the holes and dents along the walls, which were many. (Apparently, a band of wild apes wrestled with each other wearing steel-toed boots. There's no accounting for the sheer volume of damage, otherwise.) As I spent the hours scanning the walls and digging my trowel into the plaster, I couldn't help but be reminded of my maternal grandfather, and how my simple actions mirrored his--long ago as they were.

My grandfather was an incredible man, about whom I plan to one day write more than a simple blog entry. My favourite childhood memories relate to the time I spent with him and my grandmother in Quebec.

But I digress.

Grandpa Williams was a plasterer who built his own home and ran his own company, building many homes throughout Montreal. This was the East, before sheetrock walls made home renovations a cinch. This was a time of laths, crown mouldings and decorative flourishes around ceilings. My grandfather was an artist, not only in his work, but in his life. Filling nail holes at my friends' place suddenly became an image of my grandfather, the artisan, deftly creating something clean and beautiful with the same tools.

Even though he retired during my lifetime, I never remember him wearing a shirt that wasn't flecked with plaster. I remember his strong, dark fingers, stained with paint, as he doodled on the newspaper he always read at the breakfast table. I would sit quietly in or near his lap, nibbling on my toast. I'd inhale the scent of plaster and Colt cigarellos (wine-tipped) in silent worship.

As I finished helping last night and made my way home, my mind smelled faint cigar smoke with a hint of sweet wine. And as I drove home, I smiled.

My first magazine.

I published my first magazine as managing editor for my organization. It's a 3x-yearly publication for members and politicians on rural issues (are you falling asleep yet?...) but I'm proud of it. More times for my name in print, and professional, at that. I wrote three features and edited the entire content, chose photos, etc. One more for the portfolio.

Rural Routes Magazine, Summer 2009.

Why Twilight sucks. Pun intented.

I am on the last book of the series, Breaking Dawn, and still feel a strange combination of fascination and self-loathing every time I turn a page. Curious to see if others shared my repulsive compulsion, I Googled "Why I hate Twilight." A flurry of clicks later, I've amalgamated a series of essays, theories and top 10 lists that helped explain this odd love/loathe experience.

Here are a few that adroitly convey some serious issues that I have with the book:

From Vulpeslibris:

"I had always felt deeply uncomfortable about the way this book portrayed Bella. At the start of the book she seemed pretty clued up, a normal teenage girl. By the end she was a lying, pathetic, characterless stooge and all thorough the actions of one man…Edward Cullen."

Comparison to Harry Potter (the far superior series):
"To put it simply, dear reader, I was horrified. Not just by the sickeningly purple prose or the lack of general writing quality, but the books themselves are insulting on every level--as a woman, as a teenager, as a literature student, and as a graduate of the Harry Potter craze. What’s worse is that so few seem to realize it."

From Blast Magazine: "It is important to note that the heroine should not have to sacrifice anything besides her ambition. If you think she SHOULD sacrifice something, make sure that she’s only giving up her family and friends so that the she can devote her entire life and purpose of being to the hero. She should NOT have any kind of hobbies, interests, etc. outside of the hero, and if he leaves her she should become suicidal."

Wikipedia entry about "Mary Sue", the literary cliche of an author inserting him/herself into a piece of writing by making the main character a transparent version of him/herself.

• The anti-Twilight movement
• Twilight Sucks Homepage
• 95 reasons why you shouldn't read Twilight

Last--but not least:

From Cracked's hilarious sendup of the movie "If Twilight was 10 times shorter and 100 times more honest":

KRISTEN STEWART: Me? Oh, no. I'm just a hollow placeholder for all of the teenage girls in the audience to project their personalities onto. I have none of my own whatsoever.

ROBERT PATTINSON: So, the next generation of young women are currently flocking to see a female lead starring in a movie by a female director based on a bestselling book by a female author, and in this movie the main character wants to become completely submissive and self-sacrificing for a male.

KRISTEN STEWART: I love you. Put a baby in me.

ROBERT PATTINSON: At least the other three books can't possibly be more misogynistic and depressing.

They ARE.
END

How to be a Good Girl

"Girls collect achievements by the handful, but often don't have the confidence to own them." Sure, we may outpace the guys around us in school, but by the time we enter college, we'll have given up our leadership roles. We'll make up just a third of business-school students and barely a quarter of law-firm partners. We invalidate ourselves through speech, body language, and weak handshakes. And we still earn less—77 cents to every dollar—and ask for raises less frequently."

Found this article today on how our current generation, while capable, competent and available, aren't willing to grab onto what they want in life. For all my staunch ideas and ability to flap my yap on any subject, I get that paralyzing fear of not succeeding. Do I start to excuse my behaviour, thereby weakening my position? I believe that I very well do. Perhaps recognizing it is the first step towards correcting the behaviour? Let's hope so.

Self-imposed Glass Ceilings

Choice Quote:

"Asked to write down how society expects a "good girl" to behave, [a group of surveyed middle-school girls'] responses ranged from "perfect" and "kind," "intelligent" with "tons of friends" to "no opinions on things" and "doesn't get mad." A bad girl, on the other hand, was described as a "proud" "rule breaker" who "speaks her mind" and likes being the "center of attention." Or, to put it simply, all of the things that make somebody a good leader. "

Yikes. Time to strap those feminist stompin' boots back on, ladies. We've got more work to do, it seems. And we'll have to start with ourselves.

Finally made it to the beach!

Summer's nearly over, the weather's been for shit, and I've hardly gotten out, other than to leave for NYC in June. Can't remember the last time I was in a bathing suit. Pathetic.

Cohorts and divine artsters Jillayne and Sarah C. invited me on a road trip to Lesser Slave Lake for a weekend of sunning, slothing and sipping cocktails. I was in.

Arrived Saturday and hit the beach, which was deliciously warm and sunny. Even went and got our feet wet, though I didn't actually go all the way in. Snacked and enjoyed the weekend cocktail: Amaretto on ice with OJ. Yum.

Had a fire and roasted hot dogs, then made our way back to the Holiday Inn to soak in the hot tub, shower off the sand and sleep like babies on soft duvets. Sunday, back to the beach, then home for a little R & R before it was back to work on Monday. Delicious and delightful and the perfect way to perk me up after a shit week of breakups and car breakins.

Awesome Trifecta.

There are no words to describe the sheer kickass nature of this collaboration. I don't care if they play one chord on a ukelele for 45 minutes straight.

Them Crooked Vultures:

Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters, QOTSA)
Josh Homme (QOTSA, Kyuss, Eagles of Death Metal)
John Paul Jones (Led FREAKIN' Zeppelin)

!!!

They took several of my favourite rock bands and amalgamated them into a superhero group, ready to save the world from pop drivel hell. I thought I was an atheist. But this is proof positive: there IS a god. And He/She is merciful. Click on the photo for more.

Eee hee hee hee! *clap clap clap*

Cubed.

Have you seen the Nissan Cube? It's quickly becoming the hit vehicle of the summer; I've noticed a few putting around town. I took a poll of coworkers just now, and several--to my shock and alarm--think it's cute. THIS is cute?! It's like something the Soviet bloc came up with 40 years ago with a weird name like the Kruschto. I'll admit it's kind of interesting and looks like it'd be fun to drive...if you lived in LEGOland.

My preferences are for small and sporty. Cute. Like the Smart. The Mini. The Miata.

This car is the equivalent of the dumb, lunky kid in kindergarten who ate paste in the corner and gave you the creeps with his walleye. It's the Ralph Wiggum of cars. I choo-choo-choose you? I think not.

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: