(under reconstruction)

bye-bye-blogger.

2010-01-24T22:37:00.000-08:00

... but I'm only saying goodbye to "Blogger" with a capital "B."

I've moved.

See you on the other side!

(in the meantime)

2010-01-22T23:05:00.000-08:00

take in some late-night wars with me (the Coco kind, not the inner battles of nocturnal nature versus 9-5s)?

interior (re)design show, online version

2010-01-22T21:53:00.000-08:00

helllllo loyal readers,

After months of lacklustre, uninspired blogging, I've desired to start this blog on a little process I like to call metamorphosis. The current plan is to make it more portfolio-ish as a prelude to my upcoming entry into RL (see: REAL WORLD), a hub of sorts to bring together my plethora of social media sources, media in the traditional sense, as well as some more career-minded data. I may switch platforms altogether, but as of now I'm currently toying with a few different formats and designs, so please bear with me during this awkward growth phase (think of it like growing out bangs - worse than before at first, but by the end the result is much more functional AND aesthetically pleasing!). Essentially this blog shall transform from a soapbox for personal rants to, well, something much greater. All I can say about this great transfiguration is this: don't switch that dial, stay tuned folks.

kass

happy december 1st.

2009-12-01T10:36:00.000-08:00

*this post was inspired by miss Julie M.

It used to mean the first chunk of advent candy, the Santa-Claus-Countdown's commencement, sheets of fresh snow and the onset of panic at the mall. It'd be the day the decorations were deemed necessary, the kitchen reeked of sugary cinnamon buns, and the final bad preschool-crafted ornament was hung on our otherwise perfect tree.

Then, puberty struck.

Brothers, boyfriends, buddies who more resemble little boys all began the journey to grow some semblance of a facial forest for that long, hard month of Novemeber. Facial hair competitions no longer just reserved for playoff beards, testosterone-toting men took it to extremes (no names will be mentioned). Some, for an unselfish cause, but more, 'cause they could look like southern-state pedophiles and art-house whack jobs without man-to-man judgment. Nay, it's a chance for a man to give another a "dude, you look goooood" without getting a cut-eye in return. A pat on the back that says, "man, you are a man. I can see your testosterone growing out of your upper lip. Let's go life some weights, but only to get huge and ripped upper bodies while we still have stringy chicken legs." That was Movember 2009.

And now, on the first of the last month us of the (mostly) less hairy kind have a whole new reason to rejoice. Nothing to do with holiday happiness, only scruff-less gents and bare-chinned chums. A return to dating dashing young men and not bearded bums. In December, Santa Claus reserves his spot as the only man allowed to have a shrubbery shrouding his fine features.

And if he's not the only one, you might find me, running down the street with scissors.

There are, however—and let me stress—a select few Movemeber members who did it with good fashion, and for them, I offer up a humble tribute. But allow me to make my case clear—if your moustache doesn't reach these levels of majesty, save it 'till next year or face eleven months of severe ostracization by womankind.

(via http://www.alanpowdrill.com/)

I'll have two double flu shots, on the rocks, please.

2009-11-26T12:15:00.000-08:00

Thought swine-flu fighting suits were too much?

Now, even a screwdriver's dose of Vitamin C's not enough to wash down the guilt of not drinking one of these "proactive" concoctions:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/22/fashion/22shake.html?_r=2

Superpower, anti-H1N1 cocktails!

Perhaps my smartserve certificate can suffice as a PhD. Bartenders, usually the purpotrators, the aggravators of caused illness - now the medicine men and women.

Take one, two, or twenty, and call me in the morning. Or better yet, call me when you're about to pop the first potable placebo, because my social life could use a good fixxer-upper.

twi-hardly

2009-11-26T10:30:00.001-08:00

Just in case you needed any further confirmation that Twilight's a waste of your time at dusk, dawn, whatever...

NORTON SHORES, Mich. (WZZM) - A teenager watching the vampire movie "The Twlight Saga: New Moon" at a Norton Shores theater was bitten on the neck by another movie-goer. Erin Westrate says the 30 or 40-year-old man sitting in front of her at the 5:00pm showing of New Moon on Friday. She says he was acting creepy from the movies' opening scene.
"Every so often if I said something or my friend said something he would
lean back and make a sexual comment that was very unnecessary and not needed,"
says Erin. Once the movie was over she tried to leave the theater but the line
to leave was slow. Erin then says he grabbed her by the back of the hair and
pulled her down and bit her on the neck. The bite did not break the girl's skin.
http://www.wzzm13.com/news/news_story.aspx?storyid=116041&catid=14

Maybe my thoughts are a tad sadistic, but after relentless media and general conversation saturation, sometimes, obssessives - you get just as much reality as you deserve.

TERROR IN AMERICA!!! (and a few thoughts of my own..)

2009-11-25T12:36:00.000-08:00

Well, I've finally solved the mystery.

Wondering why I was never blogging, nor really had anything to put once I'd forced myself to stare at the blank text box, I've cracked this elusive case.Twitter and Facebook are eating all my stories.The birth and growth of social media is the undoing, the death of Blogger, at least, it has been for me.If I were better at this, I'd save the goodies, the things I'd debate over, excusively for the blog. Unfortunately I'm owned by impatience, and the tendency to devote my attention to all things immediate and convenient.

But here, I sit at my desk and stare at this lonely, neglected blog. With eight hours a day at a desk, and embarassing ratios of work:play, I can no longer pull the "but I just don't have time!"

Thus, I present you:

FEAR.
PARANOIA.
CONSPIRACY!

I just pitched this story to our Cross-Platform Contributor here at Connect with Mark Kelley, but I'm going to be all selfish and post it here first:

http://911.wikileaks.org/

"From 3AM on Wednesday November 25, 2009, until 3AM the following day (US east coast time), WikiLeaks is releasing over half a million US national text pager
intercepts. The intercepts cover a 24 hour period surrounding the September 11,
2001 attacks in New York and Washington."

This is great. It's insight into unabashed human reaction and interaction in face
of disaster. Phone companies can, hopefully, glean some valuable data to work
with when it comes to heavy wireless traffic. Maybe, just maybe, we can dig for
some evidence on the biggest question of all - whodunit?

But that's just what's wrong. When I say whodunit?, do you think terrible, beard-swathed
terrorists with turbans, or, more daunting: the white collar company recording -
and potentially releasing - every text message, email, and call you receive?

how to (almost) die: dummies edition

2009-11-02T17:46:00.000-08:00

On a rainy, rushed-hour-night, ride, ride, race your bike quickly through red lights. No light on your bike, no laws paid regard. Cagers careen out from their starting block, heads down. Brakes and bell, broken. Bones, somehow, not.

Bike stays on the balcony, until brake pads and brain are fixed.

something's whacky with the weather, and it's not El Nino

2009-10-27T14:54:00.001-07:00

Some say playing the weatherman/woman (meteorologist, whatever) can help get you a seat in the newsroom. But for some, it's more likely to get you onstage... most likely in a circus.

showtime

2009-10-27T08:05:00.000-07:00

For the last three years (and then some), this is what I've been fighting for.

Let me lay this down like mastercard:

Two gruelling hours each day honing my skills, perfecting every detail of every movement, not just my own, but also in synchronization with theirs - exponentially more difficult. Another chunk of hours devoted daily to manipulate my body, building the strength and endurance to the best of its ability. Countless days spent fighting with myself, with others, trying to diagnose what went wrong, did anything go right? No work, no money, no time. Weekends spent away, New Years spent sleeping, nights out, drinks denied and countless carbs consumed. Tears and blood, sacrfice and sweat, and every word of that is true.

Saturday, I woke up, far too early, and in a cold sweat. Within the hour I was practicing yogi breathing to calm mild hyperventilation, sweat beads dribbling down my back (not that I was hot). My hands trembled with the feeling only anxiety brings.

It shouldn't have been any different from the other hundreds of times I'd woken up these days, but it was. The day dragged and drew out till six p.m., I was doing anyting to take my mind off the thing.

And then it hapenned. It all just hapenned. Two hours and twenty minutes later, I was in shock. That didn't happen.. us? It couldn't. But it did. I ran, bolted out to meet the others, jumping and hugging and screaming and laughing like a fervent lottery winner. Except this, this was priceless. In hysterics, uncontrollable, delusional. This was it.

This was it. Or was it just the beginning?

http://firefly.ryerson.ca/sportsandrec/sports/varsity/index.cfm?team=131&page=press&article=1524

Tweedle-drums and Tweed-l-dy

2009-10-14T21:13:00.000-07:00

How can you doubt he's the hippest president to roam planet Earth?

No matter how it's said over the years, the meaning's the same:

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
If your weekend (or whatever) didn't appear on Facebook, did it really happen?

Tonight, I went to see one of the world's greatest bands play at Toronto's greatest venue. This statement is unarguable.

I went alone, finding a cheap deal on floor seats way past the sell-out date. Alone doesn't scare me - I'm a rare, semi-reclusive Gemini who enjoys being surrounded by people as much as I do being surrounded by emptiness - not that tonight was empty, Wilco's Jeff Tweedy and his band of brothers filled every inch of the room with something that sounded better than any record of theirs, a full spectrum of sound that was full of breaking intensity and steady serenity at the same time.

After nearly two hours of bliss, I left alone, the way I came, wanting to gush about the show's greatness and why it was so. Times like these, I think, I wish I could learn to like nicotine, to stand around and make talk with other social smokers. But a smoker I will never be, and as I walked away from Massey in my hazey daze, I tried to find another way to start a chat with another fan, to recollect the show - it's what I like to do to better engrave the show in my mind, to make it a more permanent memory in my scatterbrain. But no, why loiter, why intrude on a group chat, I thought. I came home to spill my last two hours in speedspeak to my roommate, only to find her fast asleep. Not knowing what to do, I poured myself one last drink and went on the patio - being across the street from the Hall has its benefits - and played voyeur to those leaving. I tried to eavesdrop from ten floors up, imaginary including myself in their post-concert convos. Here, now, I'm youtubing everything Wilco to assure myself, they were indeed as grand as I'd percieved. And I'm blogging, waiting for the first eager commenter to tell me yes, they enjoyed the show too and also thought the lead guitarist was strung out, Tweedy's honesty was adorable, the ticket was more than worth it. But I'm still not sure.

Yes, I fell in love again with Wilco. What I still can't figure out, though, is why I need someone to tell me that I should.

zzzzzzzz.....

2009-09-26T20:31:00.001-07:00

I've peaked at twenty-one.

In the olden days, or rather, four mere years ago, I would spend three or four days on end playing volleyball games all day long, surviving on little sleep and staving off sickness with a healthy, balanced diet of mini eggs and fruit leather. Today, it's eleven-thirty, I've eaten my mix of complex and simple carbs, proper protein and fats ratios. I've exercised for four months leading up to this day. Today, I've played two games, and I'm tired, weary, and whiny, and I've bailed out on night-time hangouts for a second night in the row. Sad as it is, I don't have enough left in me to give this blog entry some dignity by drawing it out, instead, I'm choosing to drift off, securing the double digits of sleep I need for sustenance.

I hope it's not downhill from here.

final destination

2009-09-07T20:40:00.000-07:00

(this piece was originally published on Torontoist.)

Not an excerpt from your typical Saturday night show stub. And unless you've recently taken some wedding photos, not a place where you'd typically head from downtown (because we folks at Torontoist ah-hem, never leave the city's core). But this Saturday evening, the downtown kids "who know" willingly made their way east to the borough for some artsy-fartsy fun.

It was Stillepost that tipped us off about Bite Your Tongue, a mini music festival featuring Final Fantasy and friends. Presented by the Toronto Arts Council and Theatre Centre, the show included six artists in four hours for ten dollars, a bargain by any means. But with a bargain always comes a catch, one we picked up on when we picked up the ticket. To find out the hidden location, concertgoers were told they must return to the location of ticket pickup, given nothing more than assurance that the secret spot's "majesty" would more than justify the trek. We were instantly enticed—mystery, adventure, and music, oh boy!

Come Saturday evening, we exchanged our tickets for a program of artist bios and some basic directions. A long, lonely subway ride to Kennedy and a bus through residential areas made us wonder if we'd missed our stop, but a friendly bus driver informed us we were drawing near to a lesser-known city landmark. Off the bus and now walking through the parking lot, we passed by Guild Inn itself. (Later, the locals—who got in free, unaware of the event—would tell us the inn was previously an artists' colony. Owned at the time by a couple who spent a good part of the mid-twentieth century collecting pieces of art and pieces of demolished buildings, it stands today as a publicly owned property and historical site filled with gardens and fragments of the city's history—like this piece from the not-so-permanent Canada Permanent Trust Company.) Across the field and atop the Scarborough Bluffs, we were greeted with a birds-eye view of water as far as the eye can see, and sky and clouds delightfully unobscured by the CN Tower. And yeah, we'll admit: at the beginning, the scenery was far better than the sound.

Like many avid concert-goers, we expected the music to start late, and missed more of the show than we saw. Gowns, fronted by a grungy female with an immaculate blonde bowl-shaped haircut, played a heavily distorted guitar and keyboard set contrasted with whispery, wallowy vocals. The crowd didn't seem to care, however, until Owen Pallett strolled onstage, violin and MacBook in tow. Smooth, soft falsetto with sudden punches of sound and a modern take on the violin made Pallett's sound the model for baroque pop. He riffed through his newer repertoire, scoffing when the audience requested 2005's "The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead." And during the set, it was a pleasant surprise to see the perfectly disciplined performer stop abruptly mid-song to flick a spider from his ear, showing us that Owen Pallett is, in fact, human (at least to all but Polaris Prize judges). His set, unfortunately cut short by the park's 11 p.m. noise restrictions and longer-than-planned opening acts, was intimate and interactive, short and sweet. The later police presence remained a friendly reminder that while events like this are cool once in a while, they can't always cater to the crowd who wants an encore and another round. So while the ride was, for some, longer than the event itself, it was certainly more about the art of getting there, of urban discovery and experiment. And now that we've been, we'd say it's worth going back.

INSOMNIAAA

2009-08-31T01:40:00.001-07:00

leaving the bar early, cold sober, coming home "to sleep" but really just to watch PBS 'till 5 a.m. (or later).

Here I go again (on my own...)

2009-08-17T01:51:00.001-07:00

Sigh.

Looking at the date for the first time in what seems like months (and which is probably close to the truth), I know it's time. School was out for summer, and now it's nearly back in session, and with an intimidating Masthead class and a far more daunting internship approaching, this can only mean one thing: It's time I re-learn how to write.

In the last two months, the longest (and most clever) passage I've written lies in a Facebook message, and nothing more. I chose to take a leave from Torontoist with travel plans in mind, and then with them botched I took the break as a vacation from writing, being far away from the goings-on of the city I was to be in the know about, and knowing I'd have plenty of the writing to do come fall. And what started as Torontoist hiatus turned into a full-fledged internet hate-on, something appropriate for a summer outside and away from the screen, but also one that left my blog blank. Many a time I've been in this same position, hit with personal guilt when I open 'my diary' to see the last entry two weeks, four months, one year ago. And it's not like I'm letting any readers down (right?). But now, it's not just personal, it's... professional. Well, semi-professional, at least.

Practice makes perfect, and though this blog isn't written for broadcast, it's a turn in the right direction. Turn-in/in-tern heading in the right direction. Right.....

Immeubles

2009-07-19T20:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, staying in one city too long feels like house arrest. The bigger the city, it seems, the longer you last. But when you're surrounded by everything the same, the same now as it was so many years ago, the expiry date draws nigh. It's like itching powder sifted down my shirt, upping the dose every day, making me move, or at least want to. The irony is, the ones who pour the powder are the same who are pulling back, saying no, no, no.

Back to the Future's

2009-06-18T19:41:00.001-07:00

*Note: This is a piece (my last, at least for awhile) I originally published on Torontoist.com.

Yup, it's that time again. With sun umbrellas spread wide open, customers in shorts and shades, and pitchers of the finest local brews waiting to be poured, Toronto's patio season is back in full swing―at least for most bars. But unfortunately for a few, and a few very near and dear to our hearts (and livers), some outdoor havens are left stuck in limbo.

It's been far too long since we've heard about the official rulings for Future Bakery and the Labyrinth (nothing since some speculation from when the heat lamps were still on in January and February). We didn't really know what to expect until we saw those glorious doors open, bringing on all we'd hoped for―visions of Oreo cheesecake and Creemore Springs dancing in our heads―that was, until 11 p.m., when the doors closed prematurely, and the patio shut down to our utter dismay. And worse yet, the doors next door failed to open altogether. Skimming the web, we found no recent word from local news outlets, nothing beyond vicious commentary on the blogosphere. It took a few phone calls to find out just what is happening to our beloved Bloor West bakery and its newer neighbour.
Both Future's and The Labyrinth were bought out by Sumit Kapur early last year. And in Toronto, when a bar takes on new ownership, the owner must reapply for two new permits―one from the AGCO and a City of Toronto patio permit for use of a public sidewalk, one that cannot be obtained without the agreement of the community surrounding the patio. Since the sidewalk, as a rule, belongs to the city and its citizens, it is the latter license that came under contention when the transfer of ownership gave neighbours a chance to state their case about the state of the two patios.

Kapur has thus far had two meetings with the Harbord Village Residents' Association (representative of the area of Spadina to Bathurst between College and Bloor and not a part of the Annex as the common reference would entail), the first on January 26, co-chaired by Councillor Adam Vaughan and the residents' association Chair Gus Sinclair, and the second on April 3 with Vaughan and his constituency assistant Dale Duncan. Duncan told us that the first meeting set out to discuss concerns and the second to solidify details―which patios will be open and at what times. Although both patios, under new ownership, inherited a 2 a.m. closing time, some residents with the HVRA requested an earlier closing for The Labyrinth at the second meeting. They complained not of overserved liquor, but of lack of control―no one on the patio to control a few belligerent smokers making early mornings miserable for locals. They say the intention was never to close The Lab's patio altogether, but rather, to start off with a more reasonable time for the more rambunctious patio of the two, with the premise of a later closing time in the future should it prove permissible.

Kapur, however, wanted full-fledged operating hours―when we talked to Vaughan, he told us that Kapur "wouldn't take yes for an answer" when offered a compromise. Kapur rejected the notion to give the patio an early bedtime altogether, refusing to bargain with the residents and agitating an already fragile relationship. It was at this meeting that Vaughan gave what the HRVA refers to as the "garbage-dump analogy," asking Kapur if he then should be allowed put a garbage transfer station in a lot on Brunswick Street that works at all hours of the night and is both smelly and noisy, to which Kapur nodded his head. Strike two. After being denied their request, the residents decided to withdraw their initial offer, leaving Kapur and the patios with the hours under which it currently operates―Future's till 11 p.m. and The Lab, zilch, nada, zip.

Next came a slew of letters. Letters of anger, of annotation, and of apology. The HRVA and Vaughan both received a round of memos, some simply unhappy and some furious, both anonymously and from residents, but all blaming them for the patio's closure. Vaughan sent a letter to the editor at NOW, sending well-wishes for the "return of the Annex landmark." The blogosphere dumped a large share of the blame solely on Vaughan, a man who has served as an advocate for Future's patio―fully in its support―and also a mediator between the owner and the neighbours. And finally, in a letter to Vaughan (potentially spurred by the HRVA in order to encourage cooperation with residents) posted in the comments of a more recent and somewhat unrelated NOW article, Kapur apologized to Vaughan for misinterpreting "his assistance as a hindrance," something for which he was "completely embarrassed":

Perhaps it was the worry over keeping my business a going concern in more uncertain times; worry over keeping my employees happy and with a place to work; worry for my livelihood.....all of these things occupy my attention on a daily basis. Where I went off the rails was in thinking that my business concerns trumped the concerns of the neighbourhood in which I operate, let me tell you: I have finally received the message.
Kapur ended the letter with what he told us was a request to "sort out the patio situation" before the summer's end, noting that he will have to prove himself first with a respectable patio crowd under the current hours at Future's. And in the future, it looks like that is what may be in store. To officially change the hours, the Toronto and East York Community Council must approve the motion at City Hall during their next meeting on June 23. And from the sounds of it, most are in favour of extending patio hours at friendly neighbourhood stand-by Future's (most likely to 1 a.m. for Friday and Saturday nights). Both Vaughan and the HRVA told us they plan to go ahead and extend Future's patio's hours.

The Labyrinth, however, may first have to navigate a messy maze, with its closer proximity to houses and slightly blemished reputation. Vaughan says he thinks that "if [The Lab] can show it is a legitimate and proper business, the community will be open-minded" when it comes to open doors. This current interim period, however, is a chance for Kapur to build a good track record, a temporary "leash" for operation until The Lab proves a good neighbour―and once it does so, Vaughan welcomes The Lab to reapply for its prized patio position. But until then, Vaughan says, "the burden is on [Kapur]."

So that's how the story goes. Prepare for longer hours in the later summer at Future's and keep your fingers crossed for its patio next door, at least for now. But if we may ourselves put in a good word for Kapur and for both businesses in question―so long as the douchebaggery of The Brunswick House is allowed to be in operation, we say both Future's and The Lab are certainly fair game.

Talkin' shit about a pretty sunset

2009-05-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

Everybody loves sunsets.

This is, in fact, true. Never will you find a nay-sayer―between sunsets on beaches, sunsets over snow, and sunsets even from a cramped car, they're a universally-percieved sight of natural beauty. Sunsets are for first kisses, capping off a long, fulfilling day, or kicking off a night of things that can only really happen in the dark. If you ask a person if they would like to go watch the sun set from some comfortable location, they will almost always oblige. Bunnies, rainbows, sunsets, and love.

But what goes up must come down, which means the day is dawning on another realm, all of it a part of the beautiful balance that is nature. See, sunsets are nice. But it's predecessor, in my opinion, really holds the power.

Sunrises are saved for the more grandoise. I've seen a lot of sunsets, and they've all been nice and lovey-dovey and pretty, and I can't take away from that. But every sunrise I've watched (and I'm certain I can recall them all) has been symbolic of something ending, something beginning, something special. I don't mean just waiting at the bus stop on a goddamn early school day, no, that's just the opposite, it's the norm, it's godawful. But when you really sit and watch the sun rear its perfectly-spherical, luminous head, it sinks in.

Perhaps its this time of year, and being home that's giving me a bad case of nostalgia. I vividly remember the night of my grad―three years ago next week. I'll refuse to gloss over and say that a perfect night was had by all, because that was far from the fact. I divided my night jigging to Cyndi Lauper, and later, singing love songs to a toilet bowl at the Agricom. We couldn't decided on the after-grad destination, and spent the latter part of the eve peeing in Boston Pizza's, and miscommunicating with a limo driver. When we finally returned home, we rolled down the tinted windows and stepped out with bloody, blistered feet and bam!, there was the sun, saying hello, last night is over, you are done. I remember looking around at my friends and playing some reality-t.v. like game show―who, in one year, five years, will make the cut of the Real World, which friends will really "keep in touch" like they say they will (for the record, from that car ride, three). I remember watching the sun rise from an untouched acerage, and thinking of beginnings, and endings, and not much else. A Night to Remember, but that was just the grad's theme. A whole different world to wake up to, that's what it really meant to me on that late-late-night, that too-early-morning.

Then, another time.

Last year in the gorgeous Gorge in Washington State, with two of my best friends from home, and one new friend, watched the sun rise as we packed up our campsite after a long, aptly-titled Memorial Day weekend. A weekend ending with goodbyes to places, to our campsite and our tent that we didn't once sleep in, to all the music played on a stage framed by nothing but blown-wide-open skies. We'd soon head in the car home together, and then I would solitarily head away by myself to my new home, my first summer away. I wondered what it would be like to spend it without the friends I'd had forever.

Last night, well, by now, two nights ago, I drove an old friend with a past home after a long night out. We reminisced, and as that familiar luminous body rose, I remembered the last time we'd driven this road. The last time, it was when two people became something more than friends. We'd climbed a bridge and conquered it, singing from the top to no one who'd hear that it was ours, that we were a "we." The other night seemed the same. We drove around familiar circles, and when dawn struck we were left to wonder if that was all really in the past, or if the past was playing into the present―into the now, into the new. It all seemed too recent, too real. As the car door shut and I was left alone in what was by now near to broad daylight, I drove home in dead silence, music not too crowd my wandering mind.

What has happenned, what is to come... real sunrises mean beginnings, endings, but nothing in between.

unnecessary news: news that's totally unessential, but perfect for those awkward parties and first dates

2009-05-21T16:15:00.000-07:00

DegrasRiRi?

Oh Canada, get ready, because you just might make the spotlight on Perez for the next fifteen minutes.

Apparently Chris Brown's ex-pillow-cushion has been canoodling with a Canadian who plays someone with a visible physical impairment. Via People via Eye, may I present to you: Rihanna and ~~Jimmy Brooks~~ Aubrey Graham.

"The two of them were stealing kisses here and there the whole night," says the source.
The singer's group danced until midnight, when the new pair left together. "They were very cute. Both of them were in really good spirits..."

This marks the first time Canadians and the Carribean have been associated since Cool Runnings. Next week: Chris Brown releases old photos of Rihanna making fun of people in wheelchairs.

Let's All Hate Coldplay (but please, please don't)

Just like that pussy kid who always turned the other cheek, Gwyneth Paltrow's bleary-eyed activist husband renags: "SUE ME MORE!!!". Via Twitter via Pitchfork via Coldplay's website via NME (next project: link trees?):

"Some people are suing us at the moment, and although it was initially a bit depressing, now it's become really inspiring. You think, 'Right, if everyone's trying to take away our best song, then we'd better write 25 better ones.' And so just at the point where I was thinking about getting fat and becoming complacent, I've been finding more inspiration. Now we've got more to prove than ever before."

So that's it. Coldplay sorta rips off someone's stuff, which is legit (all music takes its "inspiration" from something else, it's just a matter of making sure it's an expansive idea instead of some obvious carbon copy). Someone else gets pissed because Coldplay will always be more succesful at ripping off their shit (and probably because their girlfriend gets all sappy about that bloke Chris Martin) than they ever were at making it in the first place. That someone sues Coldplay. Chris Martin and those other three guys miraculously don't have the ability to get angry, instead, they turn it into some wonderfully charming observation about the colours of stars. Coldplay makes eight billion dollars. Your girlfriend leaves you for a singer-songwriter who plays open mic nights and probably has a shitty construction job but is full of emotion and other effeminate qualities. "Someone" out there is now broke, single, and worst of all, p3wned by Chris Martin.

The Globe and Mail Online Gets a Makeover

They make a video. Nobody cares, except for whiny commenters who express their complaints, because everybody knows that change is bad.

Good morning, good morning!

2009-05-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

Unemployed? No more health benefits?

Ease up. Pfizer wants to help you.

They won't give you a job, nor pay off a year's rent, but they're willing to help out with another bare necessity―with free one-year subscriptions to, among others, everyone's favorite peppy little pill―Viagra.

It's funny, but it's also feasible. Ya dee ya da, recession, reschmession―sex always sells. You can't stop people from having sex when they can't afford theatre at night (in fact, they'll probably spend more on birth control out of fear of bringing a little bundle of financial burden into the world). Sex shops are selling out―not selling out like arena artists begrudged by those who read Pitchfork, the other kind―and getting their best business from all those who're getting some. (In March, I did a story for broadcast on Queen West's Condom Shack's resexssion successes―they said this years been their best by far. This means we, as a society, are either getting sluttier, or cheaper. Or both.). But it all kinda makes sense. It's cheap, easy entertainment. Well, just not easy for all... hence the help of Viagra―friskiness that's fun and frugal!

mmm.... stiegl.

2009-05-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

Mama Kass finally settled down and got herself a job.

Well, and by "settled down," I mean I now get to drink Jager out of the asses of pinatas, serve six-litre pints of Honey Brown in vases still stamped with Home Sense tags, and sell beers and bratwursts I'll never be able to pronounce. And, uh, get paid too.

Meet my new home, weeknights, weekends, days―whatever. 'Cause if it all goes as planned, well, by the end―I won't really know the difference.

(If you're in town this weekend, drop by. It's disco pirate party time. It's a bar, duh. But friends get a 25% discount.

...and yes, there will be hot tubs.)

SUM 301: Supplementary readings list

2009-05-14T12:38:00.000-07:00

in my summer, every day is a (lazy) sunday.

Eggs benny on a thursday at noon, books without deadlines, decaffienated tea because I only realy have to be half-awake anyways. I sit on soft surfaces, only beds, couches, pillows, and carpets. It's all soft, no reads harder than hard news.

My routine is thus, I sleep, I eat, I run, I read, I do yoga, in whatever order I please. I work, but really that's just hanging out with a drink my hand in a wunder-ful place.

See, the pace is slower here, and the only place I really need to go is upstairs. Outside's still too cold today, but when it warms I can simply take my routine outside and let the sun work its ways on my skin, my hair, my insides, too.

Shit-dis-stuburbing

2009-05-11T18:50:00.000-07:00

... well, my mom thinks it is at least. For good times "out west,", but really just east of Edmonton..

Learn an instrument. Preferably one that is stupidly loud and could not possibly be allowed in a condo, particularly one that's good for rage management. Drums will do.

Develop a good score-keeping system for Jeopardy. My baby bro, newly accepted into college, with an IQ that makes him a certified genius and more books under his belt a year than I in my lifetime, has come close at beating me at my game ofmastery. But hasn't prevailed yet. Alex would be proud.

Go Walmart-ing. Slightly cooler than go-karting, this activity is when you raid various local Walmarts and new, improved Walmart Supercenters (!) in search of one specific item. Yes, I'm sure it has ruined all local businesses; yes, it is definitely a cult. But they have in-store McDonald's! The way I look at it? Makes me think of that commercial for some credit card witht the two ladies pushing shopping carts:

"So, how much did you save back there?"

"2 bucks"

*Stifles a laugh*

"And how much did you save?"

Tonight's mission? Season eight of ER. (Fun fact: I have never watched an episode of ER).

And when all else fails: Ice cream will do.

prayers for the prairies.

2009-05-05T16:47:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to the wild wild west.

...well, minus the wild part. So far Sherwood Park has been, as usual, quaint, pleasant―words sometimes considered synonyms for drab, and dull, but that's a matter of perspective. The pace of the place is, to say the least, a small adjustment from the days of jaywalking the city, but once it sinks in, it doesn't hurt so hard.

Sometimes life out here's like a scene from Full House―with seven people in one house (NOT including a dog named after brand-name amonia), I'm prone to assume the role of Stephanie, the poor middle child who's life is sooo unfair. And as for sleeping in, well, that's not an option when your sister tap dances above your bedroom at 8 a.m. But being woken up my a human sound instead of a machine (I'm talking about YOU, cranes at St. Michael's!) is sorta comforting, as is warm, streaming sunlight that won't be blocked out by a neigbouring condo at 11:01 a.m. (makes afternoon tans tough).

The suburb's the suburb, it's not worth glossing over. I could spend my months here honing in on what they don't have―which is plenty―but while I'm around, I mine as well take on what they do have to offer. Parks-a-plenty, free and fresh gourmet, old friends, family, and, of course, a room of my own.

Me and ~~the local geriatrics ward~~ Some of the fam who I love very much!

And I thought I had problems.

2009-04-19T21:57:00.000-07:00

You're walking down the street to work. En route, you spy a picture of *insert the man/woman of your dreams here* and think to yourself "dammmmn!" And then, out of nowhere, you let out a moan, begin to convulse violently, and when you, er.., come to, you finally realize you've been hit with a tremor of pleasure, provoked by a photo. It's like a wet dream, save for the sleeping part.

Sounds pretty exciting, right? Apparently, it's a bit of a ~~moaner~~ groaner when it happens 200 TIMES A DAY.

The world's fascination with freaks will never end―and of course, neither will mine. For a good ol'-fashioned study break, take a trip to the virtual circus with these weirdos. If I could have any one of the listed superpowers, I'd have to choose #3. Why? Blame Canada.

Why I shouldn't be in broadcast.

2009-04-18T08:50:00.000-07:00

Cadbury means contentness.

2009-04-16T22:56:00.001-07:00

I almost forgot about Easter this year.

Thankfully a last-minute Sunday dinner saved me from celebrating bunnies and springtime and whatever else for which we share turkey and candied sweet potatoes.

But there's always one sure-fire way to know it's spring (not talking about the showers, nor the flowers).

Sure, the world was a happier place on the outside today. But that's all superficial anyways. True happiness on the inside can be achieved anytime, for a limited time, with the little things in life.

... Just as long as those "little things" are mini eggs.

Summer, bloody summer

2009-04-13T21:50:00.000-07:00

My summer was all laid out.

Four months in Asia. Fly into Singapore, head North 'till I'd eaten every piece of Pad Thai and Pho on the continent. Hike, skydive, thrill-seek, adventure. Of course, ambition, when planned in pairs, sometimes falls through. I counted up my losses, accepted defeat, and made a compromise.

I set myself out, instead, to head home to lounge with mom and pop, eat Chef Frere's exquisite food, educate my little sister on getting past puberty (now that I think I'm finally over it myself), and, of course, keep a little extra coin in my pocket. I was unreasonably enthusiastic to visit the prosaic prairies, to relax, and sleep in my high school hideout. And then, come July, to rent a flat in Prague, and stroll along the promenade for a month or two. Sleeping in, and drinking Czechvar until I slept again. And I wasn't ever planning to go it alone.

But now, it seems, I am―right here.

Since Sunday, I've hastefully been arranging interviews―of the summer job sort, people pointing the mic at me instead of the school year's opposite―in hopes of earning checks to cover my coffee for next school year, instead of a plane ticket to anywhere the hell outta here. I've stopped trying to sell off my room to some stranger. My little sister will stay stuck to fend for herself at the dangerous age of thirteen. No one will be left to scarf Mike's leftovers at ungodly hours. For me, it's more concrete, more city, more same ol', just with the addition of some occasional sunshine. Those had better be some damn happy rays or I'll be carrying S.A.D. with me all through this sorry summer.

mamakasss

2009-04-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

is wishing all of her blogs were just 140 characters, so she could blog more.

Drug wars: Last glance at Mary Jane

2009-03-07T09:25:00.000-08:00

After a debacle like this, I was a little worried that the world's most lenient legislature was leading other nations in the wrong direction.

But just as the first signs of greens are showing outside, they're showing up in the news too. And when The Economist says it, you know it's true. And what better way to aid this thing called the recession? We (well I, by proxy) have a black president, we have gay marriage, and yet we still can't smoke da reefer without Harper upturning his pudgy nose. But the eternal question remains―can we do it in our lifetime? Roll a j from the rocking chair? Bring the bong to the retirement home bedside table? Smoke dope with the grandkids?

Yes we can.

The Inliers.

2009-03-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

*Disclaimer: This post is not meant to be a racist tirade, but simply a cultural observation I've recently made which has allowed me to come to terms with some failures of the past. Don't hate.

~~I remember piano concerts as a kid.~~ I remember throwing rampant tantrums in the car every time before I was to play in that concert I so loathed. It wasn't that I hated playing piano. It wasn't that I had stage fright, or even remotely disliked being the center of attention. All I ever hated was not being the best.

Every spring and every fall, I'd cram-practice for a week, playing the piano for an hour a day rather than an hour a week in preparation for Ms. Dorothy Weiss's seasonal recital. Two hours before show time, my little sister and I would dress in our Sunday best, hoping to impress all the well-to-do parents with our class, if not our classical piano. I'd bring the sheet music in the car, trying to commit each grace note to graphic memory, to nail each bar deeply in my brain.

And then we'd walk into the concert hall, late of course.

Scene: rows of piano students younger than I, all seated politely, with legs crossed at the ankle. Pretty skirts and perfectly-polished shoes, glasses, and of course, smug smiles. Beautiful little Asian girls and boys who were perfect, and perfectly better than I at anything I could do on that grand instrument. No matter their age or difficulty, they'd walk properly onstage, play their little hearts out without missing a trill, or an accent, or a crescendo. Perfect posture, perfect and proper. At the end, they'd turn and face the audience, bowing with a prideful, yet unconceited grin.

Then I, a foot taller and five shoe sizes bigger than most, would stumble onstage in a daze, sit down, and think of all ways could go wrong. And many of them, I did―my lithe fingers tangled, my crescendos started loud and ended soft, and many of my last notes were resemblent of that Arthur episode where he fails on the last note of Fur Elise (don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about). I'd bow, embarassed, thinking how I should, instead, be bowing down to all the future Yannis and Yokos in the room. I was green-eyed and confused about why the Asians were just so damn perfect, and wondered what in the miso soup was making them so much better than I.

Well, I spent yesterday at the U of T Robarts library. Unfortunately, I also spent most of the night. Throughout the day, everyone of every race seemed to be there, navigating the stacks in a less confused fashion than myself. But when I finally got on that elevator at 9:55 p.m., I stepped into a box that may have fit better on a different continent... and that's when it all made sense.

Just like The Outliers said, success doesn't happen by chance. It happens with a specific set of circumstances, a certain environment, a combination of drive and work ethic. And that's exactly what I was surrounded by in that elevator last night―people who'd been raised to understand the long hours proper study requires, and those dilligent enough to stick it out, because it's engrained in their culture. No wonder everyone thinks of the west as fat, lazy Americans―by comparison, we are.

So maybe it's time I took a lesson from overseas experts and came to expect that good marks only come from long, hard hours. And that magical pianist's touch comes from days and days of hours and hours of gruelling practice. After all, the rigorous work always means a better reward.

explosions in my brain

2009-02-03T21:22:00.003-08:00

All you need when course readings are rough (and when you don't have time to maintain a real blog).

(Click-the-pic)

Digging for yukon gold.

2009-01-28T18:42:00.000-08:00

If you think your kitchen cupboards are a cool, dry, and most importanly, safe place to toss your tubers... think again.

Small growths I can understand, but when my spuds are swimming in a cesspool of toxic sludge, it's time to do away with my dinner-turned-science experiment in the only civil method possible―hurling them off the balcony.

Bon appetit, neighbours!

If you like BJs,

2009-01-27T20:33:00.000-08:00

then you should read this.

Oh-bama (the obligatory inaugural post)

2009-01-20T15:04:00.000-08:00

Today was a good day―and that doesn't just mean I got to eat free samosas.

I walked into class today with plans to drivel at the feet of my Critical Issues prof, begging him to end class early on account of a historical event which all journalists should be required to witness. To my delight, the prof had the same plan.

So I and a herd of journalists-to-be headed over to the Student Centre where we were greeted with pins, refreshements and big, big screens. The president-elect's face was plastered around the room, always portrayed staring into the sky as if god was personally dictating his each and every action. There was the clichéd thick air of excitement in the room―but that may have been because volunteers were laying out trays and trays of wings and deep-fried plantains on a nearby table.

When Obama first walked onto the widescreen, the students paid their collective respects through whooping and cheering, myself included. Aretha Franklin came in and sang her song, but no one really heard anything due to her deafeningly loud headwear. No, seriously, did she pick that off the top of the last year's Macy's Christmas Tree? That girl's got balls.

Wardrobe cuts aside, while Obama's (somewhat shaky) inauguration made me happy and hopeful, full of glee and giddyness, it sparked another distinct emotion.

Obama's inauguration and subsequent speech today turned me emerald with envy. Why? Because Canucks like me have to live vicariously through our big brother, the U.S. (Although I'm half-American, I can't only consider myself "one of them" when they do something good*. I've lived in Canada since I was born and can't justify calling myself anything else―yet.) And if any of you are the youngest child, or simply have the over-achieving older sib with a barrage of accomplishments you can never live up to, you know that it plain and simple sucks. We have a leader whose economic policy disagrees with that of every other forward-thinking nation in the world, who prorogues parliament (which I see as a hold on anything democratic), and possesses a head-tilt-and-smile routine that only a child molester in-the-making could have (politically incorrect, yes, but who ever said I couldn't be?). The one time in recent memory where Canadian politics got interesting, the good guys ruined it with a cell-phone quality piece of youtube crap which had more people focused on the leader's library and less-than-desirable accent. I'm not saying I want George W. to pack his parka and move north to stir up some shit and maple syrup in Ottawa, but can't we have some change to believe in too? We're far happier to cheer for an American man that we are any Canadian leader―'cause well, our head honchos just don't change much at all. No one's making a killing selling iconic Harper pins and t-shirts.

In the same year that whites, blacks, potentially-terrorist Muslims and everything in between chanted, "Yes, we can," under Obama's charismatic leadership, more Canadians shuttered their doors and stayed inside than taking a few steps out to vote in some national election. We ended up with a minority Conservative government. Ho-hum.

Do people even care enough about Canadian government to make a noteworthy response if that kind of a powerful leader were to step up to the podium?

If I were a politician, I'd do something about it, seriously.

But since I'm a bored, aspiring Canadian journalist, maybe it's high time I make like a bird and migrate south, 'cause in Candian politics, well―maybe we can't.

*That is, unless Jeopardy closes admission to Canadians. If so, I will toss my Canadian passport and wave hello to the stripes and stars in a second.

First-past-the-post.

2009-01-14T10:43:00.000-08:00

Their music has always been manna for critics, and milk and honey for weird indie kids (the kind who actually like the wacked-out experimental sounds they're supposed to listen to). And to the average listener, it sounds like sugar-happy toddlers unleashed on a keyboard loaded with trippy samples, animal sounds, and wobbly vocal mods.

Last year I winced and pulled my hood over my ears at their ~~music~~ ~~sound~~ "experimentation" onstage at Rogers picnic.

But this time around, everyone's getting merry about their new collection. Two weeks in and its already the best album of the year―and don't be surprised if it holds its ground for another eleven and a half months.

This time around the post, the crazed combines with the conventional to create a masterpiece accessible enough for the open-minded radio listener, clear and sunny enough for the well-weathered ear, and still innovative enough to make dryest critics drip with excitement.

As for the album, I grant you three guesses. (Clue: the hint's in the puns. You know me, you know my lust for the lowliest form of literary musing.)

1, 2,... 3.

Merriweather. Post. Pavillion.

I've always liked Animal Collective (their studio work at the least), but sometimes their sounds are too, er, animalistic for me to corral. I'd file them away in the "experimental" section of my iTunes and hope one day my music tastes matured enough to appreciate the layers and the levels.

Now, I don't have to. Finally, the collective has reached the perfect balancing point, the place where experiment and audible melody work harmoniously together, where inventions come from actual intentions, and where their "music" (which I might have just named "noise" pre-M.P.P.) is truly good music. And that is why this album is, and probably still will be, to the critics and the common folk, the best album of ~~2008~~. Shit. 2009.*

*That is, unless any of the following bands reunite and/or release an album on or before December 31, 2009: TV on the Radio, Radiohead, Wilco, or the Beach Boys**.

**Seriously.

Scrumdiddilyumptious.

2008-12-06T22:41:00.000-08:00

I love to eat.

I remember back in the beginning of high school (really not that long ago), the glare I received from my little sister's baby-sitter as I brought up an ravaged, empty, cheese-encrusted nacho plate from my room, only to snag a tub of cookies 'n cream ice cream from the freezer with one grubby hand, two slices of pizza in the other.

She stood with her hand on her hip as she told me, snarkily, "You know, Kasandra, if you keep eating like that, when you hit puberty, you're going to blow up."

I turned around, grabbing the Nesquik, and replied, "Well, 'till then, I'm gonna have to live it up."

Oh, and I did. And I have. I don't know when (or if) I ever really hit puberty, and while I can't claim to be as stringbean-y as I was in my hey day, I haven't hit the helium stages yet.

My tastes of course, have matured with my body. While I still have more sweet teeth than any other kind, I can always appreciate a good, delicious meal. And without my chef-in-residence brother around to cater to my stomach's every whim, nor a checkbook equipped with the means to cover nightly extravagant dinners out, I'm left with two hands, a fridge, an oven... and the internet. My mother kindly passed down the homemaker's tradition with a gifted Betty Crocker cookbook last year, and I kindly shoved it atop the fridge to gather dust alongside dishwasher warranties and vacuum manuals.

Instead, I've turned to a much more interactive, innovative, experimental (ok, and prettier) source―the food blog.

Tonight I dragged my favorite foodie friend out (or rather, in, as staying in is lately my favorite) to help indulge in some deep-dish apple pancakes a la mode. Mm, a veritable masterpiece, best when seconds (and, inevitably, thirds and fourths) are shared. Of course, I shovel much faster than I snap photos and could never manage to start a food blog of my own, but I'll happily turn a friend's hungry head in their direction.

And so, a few of my favorites:

Closet Cooking. Young guy from Toronto, often cooks for one. Perhaps we're soul (food) mates? Who else could make a 13-word recipe title sound so enticing? (Roasted Butternut Squash and Caramelized Onion Pizza with Gorgonzola and Crispy Fried Sage )

Love and Olive Oil. Misleading Italian name, not entirely devoted to C-A-R-B-S. Wondefully scrumptious cupcakes.

Think you know how to make nachos? It's not-so. Check out these fatties from a real Homesick Texan.

Pinch My Salt caught my attention with the cheeky name, and then further irked my inklings with a real recipe for sweet potato fries. Can't... resist....

Now, if you get caught up in the vicous cycle of food blogs, don't delusion yourself of your desires. Indulge, once, maybe twice. But a tip of advice from my personal pool? Don't get really 'heavy' into the desserts section a week before your bikini'd beach vacation. You'll pay for it at the gym, and in the pictures. Ok?

Blog appetit!

(Make)Over it.

2008-12-03T22:05:00.000-08:00

Hottie or nottie?

Truth is, none of these women exist. Not online, not in the real world. They are our (or white America's) standards of good looks, the difference between the babe-alicious and the "I wouldn't touch her with a 10-foot poles".

Each of these pictures is a composite of about 30 photos from a certain ranking range at HotorNot.com, making up the ho-hum "6", or the hoOOoo baby "10". Gentlemen, you now have a gauge to base your shallow appearance-based judgments for any hun that walks her hot (or not) buns past. And, according to PSY124, you're more likely to help the "7" than the "6" if she trips and falls. Why? Even babies know it, and show it―they prefer pretty faces from the moment their squinty little eyes slide open―good-looking people get further in life (at least, according to social psych―don't quote―or kill me).

But what is this good-looking anyways? The difference between the "9.0-9.5"ers and the top of the heap is merely make-up, or more likely, some conniving chicks white-washing clean their blemishes with the not-so-secret brightness/contrast tool. Photoshop is a beautiful thing. How else do you think Brit Brit made her comeback so fresh-faced? Further, may I stress: EYELINER. Lots of it, and only in midnight shades. Lip plumper. Or, as it appears, that icy-purplish shade known as acceptable only in select seventh-grade myspace circles, yet seen as offensive and utterly embarassing anywhere else.

While I've considered it in the (distant) past, I've never allowed myself entry onto the vicious world that is hotornot.com. And in retrospect, I'm glad. Cause even if I'd earn the unattainable perfect 1-0, I wouldn't―I couldn't be satisfied. The miss perfect ten of hotornot is a photoshopped, Maybellined falsehood. Maybe its subconscious jealousy speaking, but imo, the only way to find girls who actually look like this on the net is by visiting your favorite friendly porn site.

the good kind of mix-up.

2008-11-24T19:13:00.000-08:00

It's time to reintroduce the mixtape.

Or perhaps "reintroduce" isn't the right word. Since CDs, then MP3s, Ipods, and the resurgence of vinyl, mixtapes have experienced a few moments in silence, but they've been repetively glorified as icons of the early 90s in all kinds of pop culture memorabilia. From best-selling books to boombox bags, the mixtape never really shut up -- even once the sales of blank tapes did.

My home collection of personal mixtapes is mostly stolen from Rick Dees and the Weekly Top 40 -- a collection of Enrique, Love Inc., and Vertical Horizon -- one which I refused to be ashamed of. I've carefully written the tracklisting in gold gel pen on each label, some a few times over when I ran out of 1-dollar blanks. I listened to more mixtapes than I bought real tapes, and I didn't own a discman, nor a CD player 'till mid-junior high (is that old?). I'm sure everyone and their dog wants to say they were a mixtape afficiando back in the good ol' days, but I'm pretty sure I played my part -- and I played my part loud. I mean, there was a large Coldplay phase somewhere in between... but no more needs to be said about that. Chris Martin's still one hot dada.

Anywho, now that I've bored you with my nostalgia, it's time to regrasp your attention, as I introduce you to something a little more aesthetically appealing than my own bewildering babblings. Now that muxtape's gone all muddly, and because I cannot afford to send each and every one of my three loyal blog readers their own personal tape, I have had to track down a substitute. And don't give me any credit, it wasn't a tough task.

So now please, I insist -- sit back, relax, and allow yourself to be soothed by my first "favtape". If you know me, you know I'm the nerdy music junkie type -- but I've had to tone it down for my introductory work (and fear not, I'll bring out my signature full-on weird-out stuff in due time).

Now I know we all listen to foreign music - sure, Rolling Stones and Rihanna are outta-towners, but here I suggest you delve into some deeper cuts. And so, for the purposes of this playlist, I've ignored all artists from Canada, the States, and U.K. -- not cause I dislike 'em, but... well, they're just too easy. I've specially imported some select tracks from Sweden, Denmark, Japan, Australia, Lichtenstein... oh, and this one dude from Santa Fe, but his band is named after a place in Lebanon -- that counts, right?

But don't let me do all the talking -- I've entitled my masterpiece "Erocktic Exotica". Listen, let the travelling tracks soothe your ears, repeat... there will be more to come.

for such a small price, ms. perry requests your presence....

2008-11-18T22:57:00.000-08:00

where I belong.

2008-11-18T08:06:00.000-08:00

Some way, somehow,

No matter how much work I've done, regardless of how much homework I have left to do... on Monday nights, the point at which I realize I can work no longer always seems to align perfectly with the buffering of a certain gossip reel...

NYmag awards the highest number of points -- 25 -- last night for Derroda's personal ringtone "I'm a Slave 4 U" for whenever Eleanor summons.

My own tally?

I'm a slave to Gossip Girl. Plus 25 for owning my Monday-nightlife, JRN 312, 0.

You probably don't care, but...

2008-11-12T19:20:00.000-08:00

...after years of complaints, insults, and quitter talk, a new saga has begun in the sports section of my life...

coach bob got the axe. And as it turns out, he was the one dumb enough to drop it on his own foot.

D-oh!

In his futile attempts to secure the full-time position of coaching the women's team, Bob failed to recognize that the mere "technicality" of posting the job position would cost him his team.

We've got Olympians, national team members, Americans, Brazillians.... and Bob. One of these things is not like the other....

Meet Dustin Reid. He has a Nine Inch Nails tattoo--he's pretty fuckin' cool... at least for a coach.

All that really matters? Bob's gone.. gonzo.. kaput!

a postcard from Sweden.

2008-11-03T23:04:00.000-08:00

Meet Gustav Ejstes.

He's the one-man musical mastermind behind Swedish folk-psych-fantasy rock outfit Dungen (DOON-gen). He records every aspect of entire albums by himself, and graciously allows a few good men to accompany him on tour, carrying instruments and standing on stage... it's like he's in a band or something.

The mass of musical instruments he brings on tour probably outweigh his slight frame, yet cannot overpower his mastery over each object he plays. A man of the many talents, Gustav can play a magical flute while simultaneously smoking cheap cigarettes. He's a man with the midas touch, everything he touches turns to musical gold. He's the magnificent merchant of everything beautiful and Swedish (he even makes dirty captain mo's and ginger ale mix well). He likes rap as much as John Bauer.

And, more than anything else, this 28-year-old loves 6 a.m. lectures towards unassuming younger women on life accomplishments and success. Bless your sweet, sweet Swedish soul, Gustav. Please come back to Canada.

it's not farewell, it's just "for now".

2008-10-26T16:18:00.001-07:00

League's on. I'm (temporarily, I hope) waving bye-bye to blogosphere and welcoming the world of volleyball. I can blog the rest of my life, but now's prime time for play.

If you really want to see me, come to a game. Bring a sign that says my name in obnoiously huge letters. Bring noisemakers, and if you choose, a brew or two... I'll never tell....

Found, kitchen counter, 8 p.m.

2008-10-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Kass,

I took a coule shots of your vodka [of the nine-dollar-per-litre bottle from New York] one night after the LCBO closed. Here is some Grey Goose.

(heart) Russ

When I walked in the door four hours ago, fresh off my four-hour flight, my roommate skipped over to say hi with the glee of a six-year old on Christmas morning. He'd painted blank canvases for the bare walls on the weekend―the decoration we've dreamed up for months, yet never put art into action. For once, the place looks lived in... new DVDs and a TV to watch them on. Mood lighting for the rooms. And even, if the kitchen sink isn't always clean as per my nazi-style inspection, I can't get mad―because who am I kidding; I had to steal his camera just to write this post.

Russ―1, Kass―0.

Polly put the kettle on...

2008-10-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

all I ever do when I go home, is go for coffee.... catching up on growing up and all the goods and bads that go along with it (in fact, it's gotten so bad that I have to rotate coffee shops so the baristas don't think I'm a caffeine addict... and I'm not, I swear).

... but somtimes, nothing warms the hands (and, *tear*, heart) like a good ol' friend and a good cup o' joe.

overheard at the polls...

2008-10-14T16:56:00.000-07:00

"Sorry, you need something to prove your address before you can vote."

"Uh, nobody said that..."

"Well, then we can't let you vote today, sorry miss."

Rifling through wallet "Library card? No. Letter from a curator? No. Fishing license? Hell no!"

"Do you live close?"

"Um, kinda, but ... don't ... have... time.. can you please... just..."

The pollsters mumble amongst themselves. "Okay, miss, whats your address?"

I read my address off the card I just handed her (duh!).

"Well miss, let's, er, just say that your provided us with proper I.D. Here's your ballot."

Ah, the convenience of corruption.... Canadian politics, whatta joke.

When you hear ringing and your phone's unplugged....

2008-10-05T22:22:00.000-07:00

... you probably need to invest in a pair of ear plugs.

Ratatat and Tiger, Beck's and Beck. My white weekend's been full of bevvies fit to the tune of the music. But because I need to revel in a few minutes of shut eye, stat, I'm giving the quick run-down...

Ratatat was wild(cat), perfect music for gamers who also enjoy sailing. A brilliant hybrid of natural outdoorsiness, with jungle and ocean themes, mixed with the sounds of Sega Genesis and euro beats, and topped off with a majestic light and dry-ice show. My only issue? I fear for a case of whiplash for the keyboardist. Happy t(r)ails to you, Ratatat!

MGMT, this time around appeared, as my pal so eloquently put it, "a cross between Prince and Axl Rose." With mullets and handkerchiefs, the dirty New Yorkers did recall a certain Welcome to the Jungle, but with less badassery and more inter-ga-lac-tic plan-e-tar-y. My, how their hair has grown.

Beck, oh Beck. Are you crazy because you are on drugs or on drugs to help you live through your artistic(?) craziness? Beck's popularity would be shot without his rock anthem choruses and catchy slacker anthem riffs. It's like Cobain passed the early 90s alternative torch, er guitar, directly to Beck for the rest of the decade. Sure, you may be able to shout along to soy un perdedor, but what comes after "why don't you kill me?" Obscure, muttered beat poetry dots the funky, bass-heavy beats all throughout Beck's varied repertoire. Well, except for his latest. Beck's certainly feeling guilty about something lately, as his latest release does sound a whole lot depressed. I guess even rock stars go through mid-life crises...

Bad karma from above.

2008-10-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

This is what happens to bad journalists....
Bloggers beware.

Dear "gentle"men at the library...

2008-09-29T19:33:00.000-07:00

Go home. I don't care if you're commuters, this place is meant for the mute. I don't want to hear three phone calls about your trip to Holt Renfrew tomorrow and the size of your deep-v, because it probably won't look good when you wear it with your douchey sideways cap. And you won't be picking up any chicks with the amount of gas you pass. Rolling on the ground laughing at bodily functions is reserved for the toddlers on playgrounds, and crackheads in my backyard, but loudly, purposefully, at the library? Not my idea of a rootin', tootin' good time.

"Settle down, boys," I say, and flash the international symbol for "shh." They drop the level down a few decibels, belch a few more times, and spend twenty minutes talking about fat chicks on Facebook.... and then another twenty about how they should get going. I turn to agree, but they are leaving. The pretty-boy in the Hollister shirt apologizes for his pal's rudeness, rather than saying sorry for his own like a man, and I lie, roll my eyes and say it's ok.

Finally, at 10 p.m., it's quiet. I reorganize my books, uncap a fresh highlighter, and get ready to get down to business. But then I hear that familiar rustling... and a soft "hey" from my left. It's pretty-boy, back in blue, and wanting to make ammends. "I'm so sorry, I really want to make it up to you. Can I take you to lunch?"

I look up, squander a snicker, stare deeply into his eyes... and say "no," and nothing else.

"Well, can I at least have your number?"

Sorry, I only date boys who are out of diapers. Go back to the 905.

signs of the apocalypse.

2008-09-18T12:12:00.000-07:00

Inflation. Stock markets crashing. Cheaply outsourced labour.

None of the financial headlines have played a major role in my life of cheap thrills, until now―Dollarama, the everything-for-a-dollar-and-sometimes-less emporium, isn't living up to its great name.

According to the news, the store's infamously low prices will jump after sixteen years of standstill. For someone who feels so passionately about the establishment, and spends approximately half of her dollars at the 'rama, this news is absolutely detrimental. Where will I buy my shampoo? Juice boxes? Cases of spam?!

Dollar-and-twenty-five-cents-er,ama just doesn't have the same ring to it.

on procrastination.

2008-09-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

sometimes, the dread is far more miserable than the deed itself.

and a warm welcome goes to...

2008-09-16T17:23:00.000-07:00

guess who's joined the blogosphere??

the bitch is back.

lilo, hohan, red-headed slut (yes, like the shot), whatever name you assign to the bitch, she's out there.... and blogging on gay rights (and a mysterious "special someone"). Feel free to become commenter no. 3207... no, wait, 3212...

dear body...

2008-09-13T23:42:00.000-07:00

... sorry for being so cruel to you. I promise to sleep more than six hours a night, consume no more than four alcoholic beverages for day, stop substituting cookie dough for meals, and try to come home before two on school nights.

At present, it's the best effort I can make.... I'm going to bed. Goodnight, world.

election selections.

2008-09-06T16:16:00.001-07:00

Tonight, I'm staying in again with strep.

Common sense should denote me devoting time to write something intelligent, perhaps provide some insight into an intellectual matter. And there's one matter that matters a lot, but something I tend to avoid (especially for someone with U.S. citizenship).

I must admit, I'm typically a tad behind when it comes to the political race, but today, I've decided to up the ante, to broaden my horizons, to enter the critical, analytical blogosphere that is all to do with the U.S. election.

I'd talk Palin, but I'm over the teenage-pregnancy hype, I'd speak of change, but Obama's got that covered... I'd talk McCain but I don't wanna bore anyone to sleep. That being said, there's only one last logical angle to cover...

the beautiful angles of Levi Johnston's chin.

Happy voting!

oh dear god.

2008-09-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

Froshies are trodding on my territory.

Scads of Abercrombie-clad clones are trampling all over my home stomping ground..

My backyard is backed-up with over-eager freshmen and all of the o-week, type-a's, busy pumping up newbie spirits and putting a damper on mine.

When I walk, I want to walk fast, mission-walk, through clear streets. I've got a lot of limb from the waist down and don't want to put it to waste. Call me a claustrophobe, or a country folk, but I just need some room to stretch out on my home street.

this is the end, my only friend.

2008-09-01T08:16:00.000-07:00

It's the last day of summer.

Well, technically it's got three weeks to die off, but my landmark is typically the day before school begins.

So here we are, after months of wishing for summer, it's gone daddy gone. I spent the first half of yesterday in regret, and the second half wishing I had a better tan... but last night I looked through forgotten photos from the four months past. Sasquatch to Seattle, Niagara to New York, B.C. to BluesFest on the beach. I read books I've always wanted to, and some that I needed... I started listening to hip-hop. Some summer it was, and it's not that I'm ever reallyready to go back, but at least I can accept the fact.

So, today I'm spending the day basking in the last of the smoking rays, baking my skin 'till it's bronze, finger painting and playing at the ex, and dancing 'till it's way past bedtime. I'll come home and sloppily lay out my fresh notebooks, new pens, and my never-been-used schoolbag, and cat-nap 'till class... so what if I show up a little bleary-eyed. Bring it on, fall.

The following is a small memoir to such a sweet summer.

... but you're freaking me out.

2008-08-26T08:58:00.000-07:00

The next city, I love you film stars an all-star roster of players and directors similar to the last (which I did, in fact, love). This time, I'm hoping for little quirks to make big moments, to make the flick―from the predictable New York accents in delis to unexpected encounters in front of brownstones, and perhaps a little love on the soundtrack from James Murphy. 'Cause right now, it's a little unsettling to hear the trailer's theme sung by a Canadian.

jagerbombs, anyone?

2008-08-23T23:17:00.000-07:00

Accoring to the Star, this is douchebag.

According to a certain communist's favorite blog, this is douchebag.

As for me... this is douchebag.

Now, compadres, I must ask you to act as intellectuals. Redefine Webster's. In an age where the term is entirely relevant, and widely-used, but rarely, if ever defined, I ask: what, loyal readers, does being a douchebag mean to you?

Feel free to point fingers.

the riddler

2008-08-23T00:29:00.000-07:00

We've heard the riddle. It's about as puzzling as the case of the chicken or the egg, and just as persistent.... If a tree falls in the middle of nowhere in the woods, and there's not a lumberjack in earshot to hear it, does it really make a sound?

But with lumberjacks replaced by tractors, and fewer handsome woodsmen to saw away at the pines, we're left with the need for a new update on the age-old riddle. And when you're working your weekends away, you do a lot of thinking, and not a lot of colourful story-telling―no catching up over coffees, no stories over Starbucks nor Strongbows, no face-to-face heart-to-hearts. So, Riddle me this: If some story-worthy, unbelievably exciting thing happens to you, and you have no one to tell it to (at least by the time it slips your mind), is it really that great after all?

You tell me.

in the meantime...

2008-08-20T22:31:00.001-07:00

from what I hear, the designer lines at h&m were supposed to be... er, fashionable.

I don't have the internship to prove it, but I can still call out bad clothes when I see 'em. Please, get out of my cheap Swedish emporium...

maybe I should get a mac

2008-08-20T19:56:00.001-07:00

I just wrote the most deep, thought-provoking blog of my life.

.... and then Safari crashed.

Alls I can say, is that it involved this photo, and was brilliant (I'm sure). Alas, I need to get back to life in the real world before I can return to the world wide web... in the meantime, read this.. and this.

Will write later.

xoxo

the best nights are...

2008-08-15T00:33:00.000-07:00

the kind when you need a shower before you go to bed.

quite the fortnight.

2008-08-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

In two weeks, I've...

Cut my hair... twice.
Screamed at my credit card statement after a NY trip where the most common phrase to exit my mouth (even for Orbit at 7-11) was "charge it"... and then again, when I realized all I bought was pretty, frilly summer dresses and went out and decided I needed to buy a week's worth of practical clothing.
Taken on two new jobs. Only one shall remain next week.
Acquired a taste for hip-hop. Yes, even the typical rock-or-bust chicks have their phases. Nothing beats biking to beats a la the Midnight Marauders (this, of course, was aided by an ode to NYC's hip-hop scene circa 1994. Jonathan Levine makes Boyz II Men look whack, er, wiggity-wack).
Bought a television after a year's hibernation. ... And then a splitter, so I can watch t.v. AND read nymag simultaneously, because that's absolutely and entirely necessary.
Drank blueberry beer and a green apple beer float... and actually enjoyed the latter.
Lived out of a suitcase. Not the same bag, mind you, but out of a bag for two weeks straight nonetheless.

Oh yeah. And partied with Kenneth Hotz.... God's gift to womankind.

vote yang.

2008-08-13T22:47:00.001-07:00

Since when has cuteness factor been first priority in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics?!

The Ancient Greeks, the originals, played naked. Dicks flopping around during discus throws aren't exactly "cutesy".

Bad teeth and children go together like milk & cookies (and hopefully the former is not a result of the latter). If you don't think these kids are cute, then go dig up your grade one class photo.

are YOU ready?

2008-08-11T15:39:00.000-07:00

It all started out with pink.

The rebellious, fashionistos at high school, rockin' the pink tee (likely to be paired with a fake-vintage-logo trucker hat, a la Ashton Kutcher). Guys were finally comfortable with their sexuality, and not afraid to step out in a nice rose shade.

A few years ago, American Apparel extended the classic v-neck shape to the men's department. At first, it was a v, now it's a vee... the deep v. I saw a vee so deep last week (at Sneaky Dee's, mind you) that I was worried the wearer's chest hair was soon to transform into treasure trail. And apparently it won't be a cut above for the coming season―men's vee's are here to stay. Chest hair, beware.

T-shirts are one thing. A basic shape shared by both sexes for years, a standard cut, a standard material. You can't really go wrong with Fruit of the Loom. But for every fall-back staple in fashion, there's an equal and opposite unfortunate piece, that gives me an utterly unimpressed reaction.

Men in skirts. What happened to men at work? It's like Boyz II Girls meets Backstreet Babes. What's next, men in floral, floaty dresses? Call me a traditionalist, but if a 'man' ever shows up on a date wearing an outfit more effeminate than I, I'll bid my farewell and boot it to the nearest Amish community... even if I'm running in heels.

all washed up

2008-08-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

Thursday, 7 p.m. - 3 a.m.

Friday, 9 a.m. - 5 p.m., 7 p.m. - 3 a.m.

Saturday, 12-8 p.m., 9 p.m.- 3 a.m.

Sunday, 12-7 p.m.

I'm only home because my work got rained out―four hours of downpour, for four short hours of redemption. I could have biked home in the end, the drizzle, but instead I took a taxi, knowing I'll have to walk it tomorrow. I'm spending a good fraction of my earnings to save my legs. Sorry if I've disappeared, I'm just trying to make up for two months of too much. June & July, I loved you, but you're bringing my bank account down and it's time to make it up. 60-hour work weeks on the way, and I don't really feel like myself.

Mostly I think I'm just pretending to be my roommate.

drug potion no. 9

2008-08-05T22:22:00.000-07:00

For the last few weeks, I've felt the uninhibited urge to do something wild, crazy, something entirely out-of-character. I'd been dying for some new dye under my skin, but couldn't decide on a design. I wanted a haircut, but was wary of the length, not to mention the cost of a good crop. I'm not badass enough to pierce anything besides my ears, and any other body modification was essentially out of the question. So how's a good girl to satisfy her reckless cravings?

The answer can be found in a simple count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...9 camel no. 9's.

This weekend, I left my athlete lungs to succumb to the beauty of the pink box, the rarity of the American-breed, the long, narrow sick-on-a-stick between my pointer and middle finger. I said 'when in Rome' (which, in this weekend's case, was actually New York City―and there will be more on that later), and made a pact with myself to polish the pretty pack before Tuesday dawned. Saturday night came, and I socially smoked my way through my share of a 26 of Seagram's, a couple of Mexican beers, and some classy champagne. My buzz wasn't killed thanks to the booze, but I can't say I craved the 'tine. I smoked once the next day and struggled through half a butt or two. Nine cigarettes in a weekend―not bad for a rookie, but for once, I feel accomplished for not meeting my personal goals (mom would be proud).

My preferred summer treat on a stick? Popsicles. There is no substitute. Smoking still sucks (no pun intended), even if all the pretty people stick to it.

Oh yeah, and if anyone wants to bum a smoke, let me know. I've still got the rest of the pack back in Canada.

british invasion

2008-07-31T16:51:00.000-07:00

When I was fifteen, I was known as "the Coldplay girl." The manically obsessed, poster-hoarding, freckled-faced nerd who bought every b-side the day it was released. I cried when I procrastinated too much for tickets to their Edmonton show. I cried again when I got tickets to see them in Las Vegas, but the kind of cry where you can't contain your joy. I went with my mom to the concert, bought the merch, and wrote the review (which, by the way, was my first published work... in the Edmonton Journal).

Well, I did a little grave-digging and dusted off a little gem I found on an old external hard drive. My portfolio from my application to the Journalism program―the original review. I planned to post it for your viewing pleasure, but I didn't want to lose any/all two of my dedicated readers and decided sternly against it.

Coldplay last Wednesday however, is way deserving of the praise my high school writer's hand doled out, and much, much more. Who else can cater to nine-year-olds, their moms, and the people with good taste in-between? Sure, the show sounded a little more Bono-infused than I'd hoped, and I left wishing they'd played more of their older repertoire, but I'd known that I would before I walked in the door (two songs late, I might add). But if that was the worst of their musical catalogue (IMO), then they're a stellar bunch of lads... it's not often that you hear a true, unpracticed had-to-be-there encore where one of the most technically perfect bands of our age loses tempo, but it's moments such as these, when they play their first beautiful song about a beautiful world, that you hear the genuine passion. They're brilliant musicians alone, and collectively it's mind-boggling.

After his little stint, I'd say even Will Champion could go solo.

but we're doing it so well

2008-07-28T23:38:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I'm going to get a fake i.d.

Sure, after many turnaways at Picadilly's, and turn-arounds at the LCBO, it feels legit to be legal here, but it's time I upped the ante a bit. 19? Pff... 21? It's not Vegas, but it'll do. I'll take a gamble with my pride if it means getting into any NYC hotspot or cool dig that I/we choose.

The four of us get in far, far too early on Thursday. We'll probably be groggy like pre-6 a.m. coffee, but unwilling to sleep. Me, I'm unwilling to unpack. It'll be my third ride on the Greyhound in less that a week. I'm not really living at my place, I'm not really living away from home, but for once, I'm really living. I'm not working, nor worrying, I'm just doing it all, and doing it now, as I please.

And as unproductive (and unfamiliar) as this slacker lifestyle may sound, I feel like, for once, I'm getting the most out of summer months.

another one bites the dust

2008-07-16T22:07:00.000-07:00

Hayden P. or LiLo? You decide.

Ugh, and she was so loveable in Remember the Titans.... yet another hopeful child star, ruined.

... whooo's next?!

Bore-book

2008-07-16T16:29:00.000-07:00

On a vacation once upon a time, a friend set me straight while I was greedily snapping photos of all my surrounding scenery―"Pictures look better with people," she instructed. When I got my photos back from the trip, the first forty or so were fast-flips, "nice" but nothing more, but the rest, after receiving her wise words of wisdom, were pictures worth a thousand words, or at least a second glance. Lesson learnt, I'm not saying that you need to cover the Eiffel Tower with a close-up of your giddy face for it to be picturesque, or even that every last picture must contain signs of human life. No, not at all.

BUT, when I see entire Facebook albums (frequently under the titles of: "Random, [insert name here]'s Random Pics, or RANDOM NITES OUT!!!) which consist of the following (and include captions like "BONNYVILLE!!!; the beautiful scenery [thanks, tips], and, my personal faaav, ... the lack thereof. Yep, the picture's boring enough that there's no possible description)... it makes me squeamish (part because I'm guilty of wasting my own time browsing, and partly because it's just morally wrong). But don't let me do all the talking... see the horror for yourself:

Now, by NO MEANS am I suggesting that it's even acceptable to post four, or even TWO albums of one night at the bar with you and every party pal from frosh week smiling with your eyes shut and a Smirnoff Ice in hand, because really, a) you're trashed and probably don't look that good, b) the photos all look the exact same except for stage of your drunken eyes and the fullness of your drink, and c) it invades my news feed religiously, ever Sunday morning. Drinking doesn't have to be in moderation, but pictures do, for Chrissakes!

The moral of the story?

Stop wasting precious Facebook bandwidth and go back to Photobucket where no one cares. Or, at least, where no one with unimaginable amounts of spare time and a high fever will have to see them.

TGItuesday

2008-07-13T22:11:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been spending a lot more time downloading .torrents than spending downtime downtown, browsing record shops. My personal theory firmly states that more of my dirty, sexy money goes direct to the artist when I pay for their concert ticket than when I give way to their greedy record label by buying their overpriced merch. I'd drop twenty bones to see a show in a heartbeat, but fifteen for a c.d. means I'm more likely to open my web browser than my wallet. It's about as illegal as finding those under-the-table tax breaks you know your parents willingly take. And if my mom says it's ok, than it is. I harbour no modern guilt for my mass downloading.
Well, Tuesday, I was feeling lucky. I'd spent the last few days saying 'hell yes' all over again to Guero, and was reminded by a friend that Beck's new album hit stores that very day. It could have been the B.C. booze, it could have been one fall too many off the boat, but personally, I think the Modern Guilt got me inside HMV. On my way out I noticed the wonderfully psychedelic cover of Ratatat's new rousing record. Impulse struck, and I took both up to the counter. The cashier was your typical mall-music-store geek (fortunately not of the overbred emo family), drooling over b-sides and the latest LPs, and man, did he drip when he saw my selections. An initial burst of pleasure with the first CD, and when he flipped over to see the second I swear, he could barely keep it in his pants. He wished happy listening as I walked away, reasserted and highly confident in the brilliant, undeniable taste in tunes I already knew I possessed.
Me and my dad walked away, me feeling satisfied, and maybe a little proud. I mean, not that I had bought (er, Daddy had helped) a brand-new CD, but I'd make the day of an overly-enthused, small-town music geek. And once we put the futuristic sea chanties of LP3 on the stereo out on the water, my day was made, just as well.

I Wish I Had Met the Walrus

2008-07-09T22:11:00.001-07:00

I've been yearning to watch the full-length version of this animated short since it came out last fall. Finally, a heads-up on YouTube gave note of the hippie shrine, online, in it's entirety.
God bless John Lennon. (and Josh Raskin)

Whine-ery

2008-07-09T18:30:00.000-07:00

Today, I couldn't sleep past 10.

I leaped out of bed, laced up my runners, got on my (dad's) bike. I went uphill, then downhill for an hour, and came back inside only to go back outside, out on the water. We went tubing to tunes, and as Mick Jagger crooned, "am I rough enough?"... I slid off the inner tube in sync with his "ooh," and with the aid of my lifejacket, popped my now-throbbing head above water. I came back inside again, and left within ten minutes, with dripping-wet hair only to drive, to sip and sample wine at one of the World's Top 5 Vineyards (at least according to Travel & Leisure), which in reality, made my head pound a little worse. Mission Hill Winery offered "gorgeous, breath-taking views" of the Okanagan Lake, and rows and rows of grape-vines made me want to lay down and nap. Which I, and my little sister did. We lied on the grass and stared at the sky. Got up and ate and ate again, playing dumb to the fact that we'd have to wear our barely-there bathing suits, baring our near-bulging bellies in a few hours. We shopped and strolled the town. We'd scarcely stopped all day in the plus-35, dry heat. And when we came back to our beach home, I caught myself complaining to my dad, like I have (too) many a time.

"I'm bored," I whined, slouching, sinking into the corner of the elevator.
"But you haven't stopped all day," he says, rolling his eyes.
"I know, but...."and I gave up on my defense. All around me is green, lush, summery, just as I've been yearning for... but where is the flashing, scuzzy "Zanzibar" sign. No angry, road-raged, sun-scorched drivers. No 10-dollar pitchers of headless beer. No homeless men to dance with on the streets at night(!).

Parents.... they just don't understand.

Vicious Cycle

2008-07-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

Last summer and this one as well, I've been considered a "server", dropping, cheap eggs and otherwise mediocre eats. Last week, I vetoed the online shortcut and opted in favour of the full-fledged, 3-hour Smart Serve licensing class. 'Smartly', I biked sans helmet, in a dress too short for walking, showed up sweaty and inevitably tardy, only to be told things I already know, and have practiced (however illegally) from the comfort of my very own neighborhood restaurant. Someone copied answers from my government-issued exam, and I left my workbook behind at the practice bar in favor of the faster ride to the real thing. I left the TIB and biked Bathurst to Bistro as per usual, where an spiked Iced Tea would sit, ready to refresh me. I learned just a half hour ago how the 4 shots in one drink would put me and my BAC (which is blood alcohol concentration, not consumption by the way) at precisely double the legal limit.... and I saw that drink sitting there in all it's glory, completely disregarding that my chugging would make me an unlawful, illegal cyclist. Not that's thats ever mattered (read: riding through gardens and throwing bikes over suburban fences in the home-town). 8 ounces and 2 hours later means either a) I'm a standard college student, or b) I'm borderline bar ejection. Who knew it was legal to have intoxicated individuals in the bar? Uh, is there any other point?

Last time I sat my booty (shorts) at Bistro, I was booted.

This time, the laconic 'tender gave a wink as he called my posse 'smart girls' for cutting off soon after that last pitcher. True, it's tough to make the call when four shots costs a dozen dollars, but with work and working out and never sleeping in? The sky started spitting the second we stood from our chairs, and I hopped on my bike and headed east. The rain picked up quicker than my speed, and I booted it back, catching drops in my bangs and on my legs as they pedaled with a strange drunken confidence down College. Sure, I took a few confused, nay, misjudged turns, but the ending result was undeniable. Biking through the lit-up quad, surrounded by flowers and that fresh, summer rain smell, I felt no guilt, no remorse, just pleasure. I forgot my iPod and instead, sang on the bike ride home. A little solo karaoke never hurt anyone.

But my dog ate it!

2008-06-27T15:10:00.000-07:00

After spending someone else's vacation spending your dollars and theirs, you come to wonder where all the Washingtons went. You look back on a few blurry pictures, but your memory of the night is still fuzzier than the photograph. A few concert stubs, the words fading from the dampness of the back pocket, created by your crowd neighbour's sweaty... whatever. A train ticket, a plane ticket, and a TTC transfer, paid for only by the quarters in change from overpriced drinks.

And suddenly, it dawns. Money's great, money makes the work go 'round. Money is quite possibly the only material possession in the world that can make every person in the world giddy. Just listen to the Lotto 649 testimonials. But the funny thing about money, honey, is that it ain't worth nothin' till you spend it.

And that's just what we did.

You might be wondering where I've been the last month (or, more likely, you haven't noticed at all), well, I've spent the last two fortnights digging deep into my pockets, enjoying every pretty penny I pull out. Sadly, now I look kinda like the guy off Monopoly who pulls the lining from his back pockets out of the poor broke ass of his jeans, and puffs out the floppy bottom lip in desperation. Patios, pitchers, road trips, all the summer staples of a cockaigne (word of the day, look it up kids) seem perfect, but the pocket can't take it. My wallet's burnt a black hole, and the sun's not coming to wash away my pain.

So what can a poor girl do? D-uh. Invent a thrifty, spend-free guide to summer in the city! Heed my wise advice and you'll be thankful once October rolls around and your broke ass can't even pay for a ten-dollar Halloween costume.

*feel free to leave further, more conniving ideas in the comments box

Make friends with someone who does good deeds to benefit all of his friends.

Couples and couple of friends bike rides. You can't hold hands but you can bike side-by-side, which is way cuter anyway.

House parties, house parties, house parties. I can't stress this one enough. You will spend money at the bar, and at Big Slice. It's inevitable. Avoid the temptation by mingling with drunken pals old and new, preferably the generous kind who'll spot you a drink―or two―each. And the best part is, you'll actually get to talk to your friends without straining and engaging in a little ear-to-mouth-shout-style convo when you're standing next to the amp. Which is highly beneficial, especially when you're a straight guy trying to talk to another straight guy. Or worse, when someone's got a wild (turkey) case of bourbon-breath.

Hang out at book shops and/or record shops and read and/or listen as you please. No one's gonna stop ya―you're just learning about your future "purchases". And what wise worker would want to prevent your highly-educated purchase?

Look for free festivals. Luminato, far past. NXNE, just missed it. Pride Week's just begun. And even if you don't consider yourself part of the rainbow, evyerone's gonna be drunk, drugged, and crazy. Beats the $16 movies. Speaking of beats.... Beats, Breaks, and Culture―Ladytron, Thunderheist, Crystal Castles... and free haircuts. The madness! And yo, if you like dem Marley boys, you will already know you must be here for Caribana―the ultimate BYOW summer carnival.

And if the impossible happens, you've exhausted all your options and all of the above fails: walk, nay, run to the nearest park for some quality people-watching. ~~Allen Gardens~~ Crack Park, Trinity-Bellwoods, Ashbridges, the world's your film noir. The only equipment? X-ray eyes and an inquisitive mind. And if you're really curious (like my roommate), bring your pa's binoculars. A little voyeurism never hurt anyone.

Cold War Kids Heating Up... to more than 98 Degrees

2008-05-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

*disclaimer: please excuse the lame-ness of this title, and read on. I promise it gets better.

Ugh, I know it's so not like me to behind the times when it comes to bands. But here and now, I'll (un)willingly admit my shortcomings—I've *gulp* been slacking.
But I was disadvantaged.I first heard the jarring, wavering, yet punchy baseline of Hang Me Up to Dry in the dish pit of my unfortunate last-summer job at East Side's, and asked my fellow music devotee to explain to me why I'd never heard such a tune before. He went into his spiel, and before I knew it I had tuned the poor rambler out and headed back on the floor to respond to whining from overstuffed Canadians for "MO' BREAD! MO' SALAD! MO' DIET CO-CA CO-LA!", rather than succumbing to Nathan Willett's astoundingly unforgettable, piercing (and not in the pitchy ear-paining way) pleas. How could I associate such music with great things when I'd already associated it with crying over fresh-cut onions, mushy, half-eaten three-cheese capilletti, and lasanga al forno more resembling of lasagna a upchuck. Can you really blame me?

Well, in short, yeah. Cold War Kids are now waging the good war over my ears, and I think they're winning. Their Orange County sounds soothe my cravings for Cali. Seeing them at Sasquatch this weekend shot my respect off the thermometer for these heated hotties—they played harder than they skated, their guitars bouncing and swinging like punk-pop-rock dance partners, but kept it smooth with undeniable underlying piano riffs, and topped it off with the layering of a voice as powerful as the young Zach Condon. With bountiful layers, Cold War Kids are not layered like onions, no, they're a 5-tiered, majestically decorated cake with a smooth, delicious inside. And the icing on the cake? They're amazing live. The harmonies of Saint John will blow you away faster than you can blow out the candles.

Cold War Kids are here to stay, and now I can vow my loyalty as long as they're around.

My "social profile".

2008-05-16T15:55:00.000-07:00

Sigh. I thought I was wised up to facebook and all its wicked ways.

Nope, they always find a way in.

Today, I received an e-mail with the subject heading: "Kasandra, These are your Most Powerful Peers."

Most powerful?! How could I turn down the offer to see a plain, black-and-white list of my most powerful 'friends'?

Well, duh, I opened it. Here's a little mail-snooping for you. Names have been substituted...

Most powerful and trusted friends:

1. loveable, intelligent drama boy from alberta, 59 points (status: player)
2. funky toronto dj, 45 points (status: player)
3. loveable, intelligent drama boy from alberta, 38 points (status: somebody)
4. uh, did we go to summer camp together?, 38 points (status: somebody)
5. loveable christian high-school girl, 38 points (status: somebody)
6. loveable, intelligent drama geek from alberta, 36 points (status: somebody)
7. stout church boy from alberta, 35 points (status: somebody)
8. 'loveable' church girl future homemaker from alberta, 34 points (status: somebody)
9. loveable, intelligent drama geek from alberta, 34 points (status: somebody)
10. nice smile, who are you again?, 33 points (status: somebody)

You are at position #85

85?! $%&% it can't be. I'm not even a somebody, at this rate, I don't even think I make the rank of a nobody!

Apparently to become powerful, I need to keep my mouth shut, smile bigger, have less opinions, go to church, and take more drama classes.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

*warning: ACTUAL, unadulterated written content follows

TIP: Political! power is a pyramid of how many people trust the people that trust you. And the people that trust them - it goes pretty far. This number also means that if you wanted to send a message or thought to the whole world, these are the people who would accept your message as trustworthy, because they have faith in people who have faith in you. Think of it as your influence and reach.

since when does Stephen Covey write the self-help script for Facebook? Last time I checked he stuck to middle-aged, middle-class homemakers with "issues."

Look Facebook, I love you, you know that. You tell me who's cool and who's not (helllooooo, mini-feed!), but now you're telling me how to make it big in life?

I'm thinking of the influence and reach in my life and I'm quite frankly disappointed by the overwhelming presence of you in it.

I guess when an application's named "Compare People" (no, not products, not companies.... PEOPLE—your adorable, virginal, little sister versus my creepy, early 30s, balding boss—it must be morally wrong.) Status is measured in points gained from people's votes.

So, REALLY, when you say someone has "power", it means they win the all-too-popular popularity contest.

And when you're not just "somebody" anymore, you're a true playa.

Guess that makes me a playa....hata.

boo, hiss.

2008-05-11T21:26:00.000-07:00

This is me, "out".

This is me, learning Cobrasnake parties aren't all their cracked up to be (that is, unless you're cracked out. and in retrospect that probably explains the good time had by many hipster attendees)...

But it WAS a learning experience (see mom and dad!)—a party's no fun without the music. And now I remember why I like all this "going out" in the first place—it's the rock 'n roll, the beats, the funky-good feel that starts with a toe tap 'till it reaches the top.

And since summertime=concert time, and shows+friends+drinks=good times, if I did my math correctly that means we get good times times two. And math WAS my best subject, after all...

back in T.O.wn.

2008-05-03T23:09:00.000-07:00

I was web-surfing the other evening, and mysteriously came across a family childhood photo on someone else's website. It looks as if my little brother just peed the pool and grandpa's taking him out while I pout (yet foolishly forget to flee!) Otherwise... uninspired tonight.
I feel under-rug-swept and underwhelmed 'cause I've got nothing cooking on the back burner, with no homework and looming deadlines boiling over I'm cooling off... just like the frigin' weather.
I'm caught up on Gossip Girl (which you can, of course, still watch online) and Rolling Stone (but seriously, Heidi Montag on the cover?! mon-tagonizingly disappointing).
In the last few weeks, I've devoured I'm With the Band, and a couple of books from a couple famous Chucks. My pages are all water-logged from the countless hours I've logged reading in the bathtub (and, admittedly, sweating on them on the stationery bike).

Ah, yes, but one lone discovery as of late: city biking!
Far more interesting (and stunningly dangerous) than biking in suburbia, biking to work is faster than walking, eco-friendly, and just looks damn cool. 'Specially if your bike looks like the one I've got my sights set on. But, lessons learnt: when borrowing a bike from someone less vertically inclined than yourself, ask first if you can raise the seat. Not only do you avoid looking like a clown riding downtown, but your ass will be suitable to be seated within the next few hours (ouch). Bike lanes are o.k. but bike paths are twice as nice! Bike rides to che(er)ry blossoms in high park and new ideas and summertime feelings blooming.
First, however I must conquer getting out of bed.

SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

2008-04-23T20:53:00.000-07:00

*Note: This photo was taken April 22, 2008, in Sherwood Park Alberta.
N.B. Sherwood Park is NOT, for the record, located in Siberia.

I flew from sandal tans and shoulder sunburns, not to be measured in miles, but degrees—all 35 of them.
-10 snowy, and all-around-gloominess in Edmonton, +25 and tropical in Toronto.
I left the house once day, to find a pair of rainboots (which I have a pair of, in Toronto, but foolishly didn't think I would need for my short stay out west). Maybe now that I have the means to go outside, I will do so tomorrow.
I'm generally an active person—I walk (almost) everywhere, I get full use out of my free gym membership, I can't stand to spend a whole day indoors. Today, I slept 10 hours, watched t.v., read the paper, read a magazine, read a book, napped while my mom drove, and napped while my mom cooked summer. After dinner, I read in bed and only got up to sit at my desk.
Alberta folk speak of the "gorgeous weather" when the snow (sorta) turns to slush, some sun pokes out, and the mercury hovers 'round 0. It's safe to drive when your round-the-corner skid time maxes out at two seconds instead of six or seven.
Drinking grey tea instead of pink lemonade, eating chili cause its too chilly for sorbet.
I went out for a week straight, bare-legged in the city. Now I won't leave the house bare-fingered for fear of losing feeling.
Pity me.

Lester B. Pearson International Airport, 2 p.m.

2008-04-20T22:07:00.000-07:00

Every road-trip to the air-port turns the little cogs in my (way hungover) head more than the the last.
Today, I sit in my uniform green vinyl seat, carefully positioned around the perimeter of the gate (to which I always arrive either obnoxiously early or last-minute late) sip my Starbucks and cast my judgments upon all my fellow passengers.

First off, I try and figure out why in god's name anyone who doesn't live on a farm, or have some billionaire business job, is flying to Edmonton. When I realize everyone is either taking care of business or visiting family, I find reasons to poke fun.

*Disclaimer: This experiment is for observational purposes only, no feelings are meant to be hurt in its publication.
Up on the docket today:
A grim foreshadowing of what I hope not to be fifty years from now.
Old country bumpkins, dressed in plaid and army-print ballcaps.
A cute old couple sits, clothes and faces wrinkled on the edge, slouched into their seats with their flood pants and long socks, and extra-support shoes. Everything about their mannerisms mimics each other-legs crossed left over right, glasses, hands folded neatly on laps, short but neatly kept hair cuts-they must be so (many years) in love.
Everyone looks old and out-of-touch, old faded jeans not worn ironically, ballcaps ballcaps everywhere, army print on exactly 6 passengers of the 26 in my line of sight. Oops, make that seven. Last time I checked, that trend died with the German army in 1945.

A four person family- what are they doing in Toronto? Perhaps a connecting flight from a rural area?
Dad's wearing a Disneyland tee-shirt, track pants and runners, mom's got matching reflective (ugh) track pants, runners, and a strange baseball t-shirt that says "Dry is not an option"- oh god, I think it's a Disneyworld shirt too. Yep, definitely heading home from Florida. The older of the two mussy-curled gurls has green army pants (!), brown shirt, and skate shoes. She's gonna be a little basketball player with attitude, the way she rolls her eyes and slouches. Her little sister's the princess, in a pink shirt and matching pink army pants, and Kim Possible (more Disney) kicks.
Typically Canadian, mom's passing out Timmie's from a bulk bag..WEST JET FLIGHT 197 GOING TO EDMONTON WITH CONNECTIONS TO KELOWNA AND VICTORIA, READY TO BOARD IN TEN MINUTES. PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU HAVE YOUR ID AND BOARDING PASS READY FOR PRESENTATION. Hoochie mama just took a seat across from the old farts, tiiite dark jeans (apple bottoms maybe), a tighter, too-short t-shirt, metallic blingin' rings, bracelets, and earrings that would surely stretch out any normal lobe. She's got a bikini top under her shirt (uh, wrong flight, hun?). Her braided ponytail isn't really a 'tail' per se, rather its like a pineapple sprouting out the top of her head-higher than cheerleader-high.

A couple sports fans decked out in blue jays polos and MORE BALLCAPS, carrying backpacks and cellphones on belts. Beer bellies and crossed arms, these are THOSE GUYS, the annoying ones who hang out at sports bars, drink bud light, and eat mild wings. They probably just came for the big game. Too bad they wasted their time on the Jays.

A potentially gay business man has just seated himself straight across from me. Khakis and a white, long-sleeved dress shirt, but the heads-up? Perfectly bald head and a white sweater draped over his shoulders, and tied model-perfect in that Ralph Lauren prep-esque manner. He smiles, almost too politely when he notices my subtle upward glances are directed at him (oops). ANYONE WITH SMALL CHILDREN, PETS, OR SEATED IN EXIT ROW, WHICH IS ROW TEN FOR THIS FLIGHT, PLEASE PRESENT YOUR ID AND BOARDING PASS AT THE GATE. GENERAL BOARDING WILL COMMENCE SHORTLY. The old couple are clutching each other tight, the young pink army girl is whining to her mom, and I'm sitting, waiti....LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE, WE INVITE ALL GUESTS IN ALL ROWS. PLEASE HAVE YOUR BOARDING PASS READY FOR PRESENTATION, AS WELL AS YOUR GOVERNMENT-ISSUED PIECE OF PHOTO IDENTIFICATION. THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING WEST JET IN YOUR TRAVEL PLANS TODAY.

Ah, and all the keeners line up. Hoochie mama's looking peeved in line, tugging at her jeans and pushing out her fat lower lip. I must be 30, give or take a couple years younger than the caucus of this flight. Passengers are clutching their Tim Horton's for dear Canuck life.
Alas, the line is shortening, my time has come to join the masses. But now you know next time to hit Terminal Three, watch your back, cause I just might be watching it too...

eeyaaaawn.

2008-04-16T23:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight I came home and changed my alarm from 4:35 p.m. to 12:00 noon. The sun wakes me up each day but I greet it by raising the middle covers and giving the big 'f u' to the morning.
I'm spending more hours out than in, and more nights awake than asleep. I wake only for books and beer.
My mood is set by the thermometer. Perhaps by thermostat has an anti-lethargic setting...

The In-Betweeners.

2008-04-12T23:39:00.000-07:00

A quasi-familiar feeling tonight.

My laundry's halfway done—the clothes are clean but lying crumpled on the floor.

My schooling's 49 per cent—essays and assignments complete, exams yet to be written.

I'm halfway up the stairway to health, with smoothies and salads during the day, but hot dogs and re-heated cookies at night.

I'm somewhere between sobriety and bacchanalia, somewhere in the 150s of a 300-page book, stages of sleep and rest confused between the bed, the couch, and the floor.

I can't decide between super-sweet Sugar Ray and The super-sick Sonics.

The only thing I've completed is the (fully-necessary) full glass of water in front of me.

Spring's here, but summer's peeking its red-hot face 'round the corner.
Evenings are long, but too short to be considered the epic nights of an endless summer.

I'm queen for a day, but joker for the night.
The glass sits half-full, and half-empty, but either way, it's at tipping point.

Personal Ventilation System.

2008-04-07T21:08:00.000-07:00

*Disclaimer: The following are actual quotes from actual journalists from an actual website. Proceed with caution.

Angry Journalist #3708:

I’m angry that I can’t use a three-foot apostrophe to beat seven shades fo shit out of the next wanker, who uses the professional moniker of journalist, who fails to understand singular and plural, etc…

I feel beating them with a ‘grammar’ truncheons may both teach them via negative reinforcement methods and act some for of therapy for me… and it would be fun.

That is all. Now I must go relieve myself in the editor’s coffee cup.
Angry Journalist #3444:

i dont get paid enough to pay rent
Angry Journalist #3326:

Journalism degrees are toilet paper (I have one).

Angry Journalist #KASS:

j-school ruined my life, two years later I don't know what to do and I'm scared to live in poverty. It's 3 a.m. and I'm still paying to do homework.
The weather welcomes outside and the night is nigh but the bright lights of my laptop are all of the nightlife I get to see tonight.
My scanner and printer are on the fritz that means extra work extra time extra money.
Please, j-skool, don't make me move to Regent Park...

Read, write, repeat.

2008-03-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

I remember the day when I first discovered the word "repetitious".
'Twas once upon a time when my age was just one digit, in my neighbour's living room, listening to a little Marvin Gaye ditty, a song I thought was entitled "Sexual Feeling". I didn't found out its actual title 'till a couple years ago, but what I did learn was that when the same words (or as I would later see, activities) repeat themselves over again and again, and this means they are "repetitious".
Now, I can only dream that repetition means simply listening to Marvin Gaye on repeat.

Every day, I wake up and write (at least some) notes in class, read my 'readings', write for a blog, read books for English, write down orders at work, read e-mails, write replies, read news, write my own version of news, repeat. My life as of late resembles some never-ending laundry cycle—brain-wash, rinse, repeat.

I started reading for pleasure (about pleasure) in I'm With the Band, the Pamela des Barres epic where she reveals vivid detail of the sexual feelings and healings of her wild-child, effortlessly-cool, hippie-chick youth. Not only have I had to cut myself off from social life and living in general, but I had to cut myself off from living vicariously through the enticing life of a groupie extraordinaire. School and serving have me home(and)working all the time, and no time remains for workouts or working the rest of my life out.

TSN turning point (and possible internship, but more on that later):
Forecast for tomorrow: 13 degrees. So what if its raining, I'll sing in it. 19 days, nine-teen days 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19. I'm going to be such an optimistic person.... soon...

Go your own way.

2008-03-27T22:31:00.000-07:00

For so long I've wished I could stretch my too-long legs further and straddle the two cities where my life lies. Sherwood Park, home sweet home, place of all good things old and nostalgic, and a select few of the most perfect people.
Alas, one can only reminiscence on the "glory days" for so long (and preferably no longer than a year or two, lest I be caught dead wearing my grad sweats on the streets anytime in the future). Scrumptious summer is starting to spring out of this half-hearted sunshine, and I can't see it the same driving around in SUVs, staying stagnant inside, and coming home to curfew. Especially the curfew.

Toronto offers work, weather, and a thousand-and-one more ways to enjoy it all. I can't imagine deserting this haven, how could I leave behind an entire summer's vacation? I've already begun two to-do lists, of wants and wishes. Suite 1005's staying alive for a sweet, sweet summer.

It's a girl!

2008-03-24T19:23:00.000-07:00

Oh, hello there.

I suppose I can't christen this site a newborn, however I can dedicate the baby as a rebirth. It's a little-known-fact that I'm no stranger to life online, in fact I've spent summers in this other dimension, pale, chilled summers in the basement on everything from Neopets to Nexopia, Dollz to Don't Panic, before getting a little more personal. I've kept the blog running since junior high, but it's remained in the private sphere for years and years.

But at a time of Facebook, Digg, youtube, Flickr, etc etc etc..., the facade of online privacy is falling through—I figure if my writing is subject to critique, or at least some form of ~~loyal fan base~~ readership, then—I 'm coming out, I want the world(wide web) to know.

And now, it's time that I let you all into my life, in photos, in rants and raves, in relentless banter about nothing and everything... and into my little corner of the world.