Girls Go Luddite

Zee Ghetto Bitches are taking off on a wee winter vacation. So I leave you to plunder this list of the Top 50 Videos of 2005.

If you're missing us, put yourself in the hot little hands of CocoRosie. They're fine, fine Ghetto Bitches. And so fucking alt and hot.

If you need more bitch before New Years, check out Antony and the Johnsons. This lovely creature gets a supporting Ghetto Bitch role.

Tom vek's new wave fruit booting is oddly hypnotic. Can't stop watching.

the colour of television

Now, no cheating (back away from the google search field or I'll cyber-slap you).

Who wrote the following sentence, and where did this person write it?

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."

And is it not the best sentence ever? Discuss.

Rogue Riskmas

I'm attempting to do this suburban holiday thing, but I find it all together insane - the trivial talk, the art of the common, and the unspoken rule to never risk the impossible. And all the eating. Meal upon meal. Snack attack after snack attack. Dozens of bowls of hard candy congealed together into garish lumps of tooth rot. Yes, during this festive season, food is evenly distributed throughout my house, which is actually rather convienent because I quickly cram my mouth full of food whenever I have the urge to start hurling epithets.

I wonder what Foucault would have written about the North American suburb? Cul-de-sacs are panopticons, for sure. And maybe these are the most refined prisons ever; for, their denizens don't even see their own prisons; worse, the occupants die to live in this state: it's called mort-gage.

And for all the upholding of "private space" around here, they sure are a suspicious friendly bunch: always dropping by to find out how you are, tongues waggling for tidbits of gossip, acting as generous as the yule-tide gift of fruit cake in red cellophane, which is only good for trash and door stops, unless you live in these parts, then it's the greatest foot-in-the-door tactic for initiating the game I like to call "best thy sanctimonious neighbour". Next year I'm suggesting we brick our doors closed with this year's cakes.

You know, if you mix in a bit of "Brave New World" into the suburb-opticon batter, you've captured the gel-capped rapture infecting this place. Here, rogue elements (what I call "life") threaten the common security and are therefore relegated to sensation-sanctioned spaces (like Butchart Gardens!!!) - joy, progress, development, and the sublime drive the needle-exchange buses in unimaginable lands far, far away. Here, feeling and joy beats not in the heart of man, but in the days of a calendar. Here, change is a threat - security outweighs progress - and therefore the definition of progress has shifted, becoming more tantamount to its stagnant antonym. Here, "Progress" means never losing the job you hate.

Here, the fear of freedom reigns on such a massive scale that whole regions live in the same house, though suburbanites call them "their own". Sure, the facades are different, but everyone who lives here unconsciously understands that underneath this surface difference every house is actually the same, and this undercurrent is happily policed, from neatly trimmed lawns to fix-it notes tacked onto worn doors. No wonder good boys smash Christmas lights and cute girls deface Barbie - wouldn't you want to see your wardens? Wouldn't you want to call a fake a fake?

You can spread Foucault's theory on thick like Olestra around these parts. You can also listen to people wonder on and on about the causes of cancer. Is it genetics? Or specific environmental things - like chemicals and second-hand smoke? Sure it is all of these things. But it's not the ingredients, it's the batter; after a lifetime of supressing freedom and chance, your body will revolt and go rogue... think about it.. it's only Natural.

Goonie Girls

Yesterday, I had a white-trash-debutante day with Mata Hari. We started drinking Strongbows (we figured Champagne was too rich for our ghetto blood) around 11 am. A poo poo platter of holiday cookies was breakfast.

We attempted to watch soap operas, but opted to watch The Goonies instead. I used to have a crush on Josh Brolin; Mata, on Sean Astin. They were so young. When I first watched Goonies, I remember thinking Mr. Brolin was an adult, now I realize he was a teen. Mata and I agreed that we identified with shorn-haired Martha Plimpton - the sassy, outspoken, dikey girl who didn't get the guy. Uncannily enough, we are two of the three girls I know who still sport short hair. Maybe Goonies made me the ghetto bitch I am today? Scary, and yet, somehow relieving.

Seriously, Goonies is the template (or used the template) for all "boy adventure" movies, from Clint Eastwood spagetti westerns, to all the current teen movies: four boys - one smart, one funny, one nerdy, and one "other" with a funny accent; two girls - one pretty, and one tomboy; and one big adventure where they must outrun the bad guys, get the gold, and save the people in need.

To this day, I love Goonies. All the "mouse traps" in the flick are awesome (same goes for Pee Wee's Big Adventure). I always wanted a house full of them. Wait: I live in a house full of mouse traps. Too bad they're actually used to catch mice. Mind you, I do have blue astro turf on my bathroom ceiling, a huge mural of a bird on my living room wall, and a Persian peaks on my kitchen door frames.

Weird to think my childhood fantasies have come true. Well, except for Josh Brolin, pirates, and pots of gold.

Nerd.

All of us, crazed girls. For Kalaja.

That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling she knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.'

William Butler Yeats

Barbie Mutilation

Barbie provokes feelings of "rejection, hatred and violence" among some youngsters. Girls saw Barbie as an inanimate object rather than a treasured toy. While boys often expressed nostalgia and affection toward Action Man - the British equivalent of GI Joe - renouncing Barbie appeared to be a rite of passage for many girls, Nairn said.

Maybe it's because "Mattel has dedicated itself to promoting Barbie as “a lifestyle, not just a toy”. Hmm? It's a class thing kids; class size is an issue. And Math is hard for poor Barbie.

The evil manipulation of sugar and spice biases the news... again. Thank goodness boys still treat their G.I. Joes with TLC.

Funky candy for chocolate-deprived white kids

I knew it: I knew the Friendly Giant made more of an impression on our generation than he is given credit for. I came across this cracked-out "Friendly Giant" fan's song/interview. Freaky and... well, freaky. But I can't stop listening: Paranoid Android.

The Friendly Giant was a freaky show. Seriously. It was all mellow and slow and that was just wrong: my child-spidey-radar told me that no grown man was that mellow without being some sort of a creep. I assumed he had an illness that had exiled him to a castle and forced him to only talk to animals - some kind of leprosy of the mind. I figured he was a sex pervert who loved children but wasn't allowed to touch them in their "special places". Eww.

In retrospect, I think it was tailored more for our pot-smoking parents, which my anxiety-ridden parents definitely weren't. (And probably why I didn't get this "mellow" man's charm.)

Oh, flashback: I remember my mom forcing me to watch the Friendly Giant and Mr. Rogers - like it was going to be therapy for my ADD. Hah. Wrong. Never understimulate an ADD person. It's all about overstimulation. Ritalin is speed, you know. Two wrongs making a right-on.

Now, I was all about the Electric Company (and the first Spiderman cartoon - who knew?) The Electric Company was like funky candy for chocolate-deprived white kids, of which I was very much one.

Oh and mom, if you're listening: carob is NOT a chocolate subsitute and you CAN'T replace sugar with apple sauce.

Anyways, even though I wasn't into opium-inspired children's programming, I was totally into the Electric Company. This program was all about the 70s bling fer-snizzle fer-kiddles. Obviously this program was cool: its theme song starts with a yell. I can't find this one song that was always on, but it was funky-to-the-analog-keyboard degree ("analog" seems to be a cache word for the hipsters, so I'm using it).

Where is the funk these days? I started down memory lane, and now realize that my childhood was filled with the funk - funk was where the "proactive" was at:
Spiderman Theme Song
Shazam
Josie and the Pussycats
Where's the funk now? Barney? Teletubbies? Ew. How awful and vapid. Maybe it was a blessing growing up in '70s? Hell, my mom still sports a Scottish afro. How cool is that? Word to the sporran.

(ps This is a beer-drunk post. Does chocolate go well with beer?)

Fire Arcade

The day I moved to Vancouver a fire broke out on the fifth floor of my ghetto apartment. I was sharing a one bedroom apartment with my high school friend. It was located the seventh floor; the view, our only feature.

My mom moved me over in our beige station wagon that I called the "skin mobile". We fit all of my belongings into the back, including the single mattress that I used as my bed for many years - I refused to buy a futon.

When I was packing up my things I had included a set of shakespeare's plays. They were beautiful books my great aunt had once owned: gold-foil text, chocolate skins mottled with age, smelling sour and inviting. No one in my family ever cracked their spines.

But my mom refused to let me take them.

"What if you have a fire or flood?" she pitched her voice to a whiny falsetto. I winced as I always do when she hits her dog-whistle: "Mom, I'm on the seventh floor; I don't think I have to worry about flooding. And no one reads them... or are they a part of your decorating scheme?" ... of which we had none (to this day, an only-I-am-in-the-know joke is the only strategy for muting the call of the dog-whistle ).

So my mom moved me to Vancouver in a beige station wagon but Shakespeare stayed at home. And we had a fire that night.

Three women just about to go to sleep on 3 single mattresses suddenly smelled something burning. Then the fire alarm went off. I assumed it was a false alarm. Because a fire on the first night in your first apartment is just too novel. My life wasn't a story.

To give myself a reality check, I popped my head out the door to see how the other neighbours were responding. A fat, shirtless man holding a beer can was doing the sam. I asked him if this happens often. He shrugged, slugged the last of his beer, swore, and closed his door.

I did the same... closed the door that is. Mom's not too keen on swearing.

When I turned around, I was facing 2 sets of wide-open eyes. A pause. Then whoop: three nightgowns flew over heads, tits flashed and civilian clothes doned. Down the stairs we went along with half-tied robes, birds in cages, gekkos on shoulders, and six packs of beer.

There was an apartment fire on the fifth floor.
It had started to rain.
A burning couch came flying out the window,
And landed on the new manager's mini van.

My shirtless neighbour snapped a Lucky beer out of its plastic ring and handed it to me. "Showtime," he said.

Fire men streamed in and out of the building.
"Some of them are cute," mom said.
I looked over at her, first shocked and then pleased.
So, she notices these things.
"Fire meat," cackled the cougar holding a bird cage.

"What kind of a portent is this? my first night in my new life," I paused.
I never answered this question; I was suddenly distracted by a rubber-and-suspender-clad fireman.

I think my mom looked over at me and pitched, "See? I knew you shouldn't have brought the books."
But I'm not too sure. The fire muted her.

Sweet Dreams Sweet Kalaja

kalaja_closeup2
Originally uploaded by goodbye sweet kalaja.

As our brother said: Sweet Dreams Sweet Kalaja.

A beautiful mind.
A poem within us.
I will echo you.

Please take the time to know her through her music and animation: oscillator on zed

Words that Should Be Banned

I didn't feel like writing today, so I decided to publish a poem I wrote when I was eighteen. I thought it'd be funny. But it's not. It's just painful. I wince and run.

Have you ever viewed the memory of your young self as someone else - not you? I just did. Ouch. Such a dramatic young thing: candles, black book, Baileys and milk, Alice in Chains playing in the background for inspiration...

Fortune sweet thief
Rise crazy in my breath,
Let me be ugly beside myself
Steal my body away
To another place,
beside myself.
I want to be beside myself.

Let me drift crazy -
Roam animal over network circuitry,
Traipse leviathan over ground,
Laugh Medusa:
Dine on pearls:
Turn towers into domes.

Hot words to raise me up
Fill me up
Spit me out
From the belly of the whale:
Slough off gray skin.
Its membrane is boring me.

Stocking Stuffer

Yeah, the title is dirty and so is this great stocking stuffer suggestion, boys 'n' grrls: mini pearl.

It's so cute, and so practical. It's great on its own, but if you so desire, you can hook it up to a dildo to make it shimmy and shake. Instant vibration.

Doesn't it look like a cheap Barbie toy? Well, it is - cheap. That's why it would make a great stocking stuffer and "starter kit". And so unassuming.

Boys: this is a "quaint" sex toy. Buy it along with a gift certificate. Trust me, you will want to go shopping with her when she redeems it - just make sure you've both booked the night off.

Have a boo at womyns' ware this holiday season. They provides gifts that keep on giving and giving and giving and giving.

Mae West and Petit Mortes

I love my girl roomate for many reasons. And you should love her too. Why? Because she's the coolest, most practical, most boy-friendly, girl-first feminist ever.

I dig her view: screw long, dry didactic tomes on why this world sucks. Screw hierarchies, screw patriarchy, screw dualisms. Instead, go screw yourself. Yes, this is her mandate. It's ever so much more fun, and empowering...

The story of my roomate - oh, let's call her - Mae West:

By the time Mae West was 15, she had orgasims down. She had been doing it to herself for years. It had brought her much pleasure. So, she decided it was time to spread the word - and her friend's legs. Yes, Mae's feminist mission was to make sure all of her female friends knew how to pleasure themselves. Oh god yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Her first convert was her akward best friend. Mae quickly realized that before she could teach, she had to preach the new gospel, and yes, she had to deal with some Freudian fears.

At the tender age of 15, Mae's friend was titallated by the concept of buying a vibrator, but she could not bring herself to do it - no matter how hard she tried.

Why?

Because she worried that if she died, her mother would find said vibrator - post humou(rou)sly.

Right. Why worry about awakening your blossoming sexuality when you can make it more complicated? Yes, it's much more terrible to have your sex toy discovered AFTER YOU DIE. And again, we find a real-life application of the death drive. And the petit morte comes to Canada! L'ecriture feminine written on the body... speaking of books:

So Mae, in her infinite wisdom, circumnavigated her closeted friend's fear with a little craft work. Mae created a "book safe"* in which her nervous friend could hide her pleasure dome. Such an impractical solution that worked perfectly. Because sometimes, there's nothing practical about our fear. You've got to trick it most of the time... or tease it.

Guess what book Mae chose?

You got it: Great Expectations. Ah, l'ecriture feminine was never so tangible - a much more pleasurable read.

*(Book safe: a book's core is hollowed out in order to store nefarious and precious items.)

Elitist Taste Makers - I Will Follow

These K.I.S.S. kids unravel the tangled web we weave - Whoot: One Day, One Deal. Ah.

Santa Bunnies

I'm trying to get into the festive seasonings, but I swear it's still early September. I know: I've dropped out of this world for a few months, but the Fionavar Tapestry weaves a mighty compelling warp and weft. I'd rather celebrate the season with the pagans. So, this is my attempt at electro-shock therapy-ing myself into feeling festive:

Holiday movies:
• A Christmas Story. Or check out the 30-SECOND BUNNY RE-ENACTMENT - it's for the ADD crew.
• Whazzis? This is the best find ever: DR. SEUSSVILLE! I want to live there... uh oh... getting distracted... focusing on jingle bells and egg nog...The Grinch that Stole Christmas! You know, it's a classic. And for all you drunken word nerds out there who are too cheap to buy your nieces and nephews gifts, just print off some free grinch games, like Whoville's Holiday Whobilation Word Hunt, staple the pages together, and voila, you have a nifty gift for the young'uns.
• The Muppet Christmas Carol. If I were a muppet, I'd be one of the grumpy old men.

Holiday cheer:
• Eggnog literally means eggs inside a small cup (noggin). Texan Eggnog. I recommend at least 2/3 of a cup of rum... at least. If you're visitng your folks during these merry daze, make it one full cup.
• A whole site devoted to christmas cookie recipes.
• Make snowflakes!

Holiday tunes:
• Nana Mouskouri's Christmas Album.
• Harry Belafonte's A Merry Christmas.
• Santa Baby - Shockingly, Madonna was NOT the originator.

I am sinless and the root of sin derives from me

You know, we went kinda wrong somewhere around the 2nd century BCE.

Okay, I can be more precise: faith went kinda wrong when it signed a blood oath with "hierarchy" and "binary" and proceeded to take over the world. Trust me, double-speak was around before 1984 was born of Century's loins.

Check out this poem from the Nag Hammadi called "The Thunder, Perfect Mind".

I am absolutely fascinated by this poem. I mean, this poem was written in Egypt around 2nd or 3rd century BCE, and it has a better grasp on "identity" than any current identity politic.

It's a lovely poem, speaking more about what's in between the "names", between the "language". And, really. This is where "we" reside - language can never name us, really - and yes, I'm getting all Derridian on your ass. But man, what makes us think we, post-post and post-moderns, invented this theory? What egotistical, history-smacking toadies we all are.

Whenever I read this poem, I chuckle at the thought of our "Progress". Are we wiser? Smarter? Fairer? Really? Are we really?

Oh god, what's happening to me? This is the second "religious" post. Next thing you know, I'll be writing about the nifty new waterfall temple I built in my bedroom and chanting hymns to Sophia and the snake of knowledge.

Cats Are Loaded too Much

This cat wiki has the catchiest titles, including some of the hits you may already know and routinely use,
Such as:
Big Cat Longer than One Side of Kotasu
How about:
Too Much Cats Are Packed in a Box
Don't forget, the ever favourite:
Fights of two cats with claw extended
... actually, that last one is my favourite one.

Creative Design

When I was 10, my mom started going to church - without my dad.

My old man wasn't really into religion. More precisely, he wasn't really into the idea that Jesus was the son of God. The immaculate conception really pissed him off. Usually, he would sit in stony silence listening to someone talking about the way of God. His face would get redder and redder and his head would start tic-nodding up and down on a horizontal axis. It was the final sign that he could no longer contain the pure, spitting anger building up on the back of his teeth like Satan's plaque.

Once he built up enough of his jizzy force, he would start foaming at the mouth and hurling headlong statements like, "Mary got knocked up by some guy and to save face she named God as her bastard child's father. Com'on, are we really to believe that God would bother taking the time to come down to earth and impregnate a woman with his child?" And then he'd seethe on and on about the whole fandango, until his face exploded like Veruca Salt. Then he'd quietly walk over to cupboard and pour himself a mug of boxed wine. The conversation was OVER.

I was always shocked that he could get so angry about th whole thing. For a man who vehemently insisted that he didn't believe, he sure believed very strongly in this opinion. He was almost speaking in tongues.

My mom went to curch without my father, but that didn't stop her from dragging us along. It was okay. She was United, which is probably one of the mellowest forms of Christianity out there. Mom stuck with the "pro gay ordination" side when the factions split, so it was pretty interesting watching the flock split ways - I was pretty confused by the "nice" people who went the other way - I though compassion and love of your fellow wo/man was a pretty important aspect of this faith. Guess not.

So, when my grandfather started dying, my mom decided that my brother and I should get baptised. I was about 12 or 13. Now, I had no desire to get baptised. Even to this day, I'm not really into any kind of institutional ritual that deems you are part of the sanctimonious "in" crowd, whether it be through marriage, baptism, or sorority hazing. It seems so weak - like a crutch.

But I was cool with doing it for Grandpa. He was a cool guy. He never pushed anything on me - except for those powdery, white candies in rumpled white bags that, along with salt, Scottish men never seem to be without. So, I figured I'd do it because I loved him. But, if the minister was going to make me give up my belief in evolution, then I was not going to do it. It was then that I forged, what I now call "Creative Design". Yes, I decided to believe that "Adam and Eve" were the first sentient (as those bloody Humanists like to call it) apes.

So, I sat with the minister in his chambers before they dribbled water over my head, and told him I was only willing to get baptised if I could believe that Adam and Eve were apes. He leaned forward, peered at me, and said, "That's fine, but are you a good person?" I figured that I was pretty good, so I said yes. And he leaned back in his leather desk chair and said, "Good, then you can believe what you believe." What a hoot.

These days, I'm truly fostering a belief in "Creative Design". But who wouldn't want to be a member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster?

Office for Soft Architecture

For the poetry lovers among us - yes, I'm talking to both of you - let's move to Amsterdam and frequent the art salons: Mediamatic.

What's wrong with Canada? Why can't we integrate art into our daily routine? Why the blockades? Why the fear?

By the sounds of Mediamatic's mandate, Amsterdonians have figured out that embracing the element of suprise does not signify a loss of control, but instead shows confidence in change - and thus, a much more exciting world, they do have: "It matches the topical with heritage in a sometimes fuzzy, but always surprising way." I want to live in a fuzzy, surprising world full of topical history and art!


I finally have time to read - more than one book at one time. Here's what's currently in rotation:
1. Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
2. Occasional Work and Seven Walks from the Office for Soft Architecture by Lisa Robertson
3. The Summer Tree by Guy Gavriel Kay (Why must all sci-fi/fantasy websites be in tones of soft purple? Why?)

Here are all the books that I have read with talking cats in them:
1. The Master and the Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
2. Not Wanted on the Voyage by Timothy Findley
3. Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

Ghetto Pimp Summer vs. Zeus Pimpin' Eternal

Take this and bookmark it - you myth-loving bastards: Encyclopedia Mythica.

It's been a number of years since I read the classics so I'm feeling a bit rusty at the Pantheon gates, but Zeus sure did get around, and around, and around to it: Zeus' consorts and offspring. This god had some serious Freudian issues, which is retarded because gods can't die. He didn't need to make little copies of himself, so why the drive to procreate? What would drive a god to pro... wait, I got it: there's only one thing gods can't have, and that's human nature. And if he couldn't be human, at least his sperm could become human. (Ignore Athena - that was simple revenge.)

Hey there's a goddess named Pheme. So that's where "fame" comes from.

Zeus should start writing for Ghetto Pimp Summer - they never post, and the only pimping talk going on over there is about music, fiancees, and technology. Yawn. Zeus: If you can hear me, please help these boys out - their blog needs a shot of your prolifically pimpin' attitude.

Canadians: Intergalactic Friends and Alien Lovers

God I love Canadians. And I get such a kick out of being one. Why? Because we make the weirdest news. I spotted on this snappy headline on Drudge: "Former Canadian Minister Of Defence Says UFOs are Real; Warns Of 'Intergalactic War'..."

What a great article. Really. I dig this Former Canadian Minister's style, even though I suspect that he had one too many Laser Floyd nights at his local planetarium. But perhaps this crack politician is onto something. Maybe we Canadians should take a cue from this man and work on fostering our political Star Trekkie-ness. We coined the term "Global Village", and now it's outdated. We house William Gibson, and revere him as a genious. Let's introduce the term "Intergalactic Village" and make it our mission save friendly aliens from America's intergalactic foreign policy! Com'on. It'll be fun. Who's with me?

Let's hit American where it hurts: Roswell. They won't even see it coming. That's right America: we don't like how you intend to treat aliens, and this time we're not going to passively sit here and let you shove your brand of foreign policy up our ass. We'd rather alien probes do that.

I mean really, what if aliens are nice people, and you blow them up first - before we ask them if they have a cure for AIDS? Or worse, before we find out they are, like, totally hot with funky sex organs? We've watched Star Trek: we know that ALIENS ARE HOT. This time we are going to fight for our right to enjoy everything alien: new cuisine, hot sex organs, neat-but-totally-useless tech gadgets.

We crack me up - what other country is cool enough to constantly ignore the childish antics and prater of our big brother, and then get pissed off over THE HUMBLE TURBOT AND ALIENS? That right: us. You can push us Canadians pretty far America, and we just kinda watch and quietly make fun of you. But if you take on our fish or aliens, well, then you will feel the full extent of our wrath and ire. We fight for food... and alien sex. Watch us take you down with our "shock and awe" tactics.

Vote yes to aliens. No to intergallatic war. It's your duty as a Canadian.

The Poop of Life

I watched a rather sweet, but not at all saccharine, movie last night called "Me and You and Everyone We Know". It's a damn fine movie.

The writer/director Miranda July is an Oregon artist. And I must say, she has a knack for realistically portraying the poop of life.

I loved the instant messaging "poop" scenes. So earnest. Now, everyone knows that poop is a bodily function. But who knew it's also a lovely form for exploring human miss-and-connection. July has really honed in on "communication errors"- between what is said and what is incorrectly assumed - and explored how difficult, uncomfortable, and necessary these breakdowns are, as well as persistance, and the willingness to put yourself in potentally embarassing situations in order to re-align and expose the true intention of the conversation. I can relate.

Scatalogical form over function - this is what makes this film rock. The base art of communication devices explored right down to the solar anus - I'm sure Bataille may shudder at this comparison. But reallly, this film is all about the poop of life, from sunrise to sunset.

Design Whores

For all you Ikea catalogue-weilding design whores out there who just don't have an apartment or budget big enough to satiate your nesting addiction, please introduce yourself to this virtual placebo: Design a Room.

"Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down!"

Did any of you grow up with weeble wobbles? I did. They were my favourite toys. And they got along famously with my acorn people - Weebles were anglos, and acorns were francophones (obviously: acorn stems are natural tams). I remember giving the little guys baths. Then this rot would grow in between their plastic casings and their cardboard faces, turning them into mutants (maybe why I'm so fond of the Alien series).

Well, they've come back... and they're just not the same. In the good old days, they were egg-shaped, now they are these gawdy plastic-faced McDondald's gifts. And there's no plastic casing! They're nothing without those casings... nothing.

Whoah! I'm getting to the age where I can finally say "It's just not like the good 'ole days, bah!" I am now off to enjoy my new-found curmudgeonly ways... and gather acorns. I'm suddenly feeling crafty.

No quarter

Yeah but guess who the girl is who thinks she's fat but is nothing but gorgeous?

And yes, I was hung over. YEEEEAH!

Three Bottles Later.....

HEY OKSANA! HOW'S THE HANGOVER TREATING YOU, YOU BEAUTIFUL THING? IS YOUR KIND, SMART FRIEND FEELING SHITTY TODAY TODAY TOO?

Props to you for posting drunk. I feel your physical pain.

how to start

Ooh girls. Let's get a man's perspective here.

So I show a man I love and trust pictures of all of us.

"She thinks she's FAT? My god. What the fuck."

Essentially, what the fuck is wrong with women that the beautiful smart ones feel inadequate? That the smart kind handsome men feel lost? Where have we gone wrong, when we're single and we feel like the last ones standing, unmarried at 36 and suddenly feel like old maids, when we can't embrace our beauty, power, intelligence?

Fuck this stupidity. We have to stop this kind of thinking.

Only beauty. Only truth. Only power. OK? No more bullshit.

What is, is.

I looked at a picture of myself tonight taken when I was 26. I remember thinking at the time that I looked incredibly fat. I was in Nepal, covered in coloured powder (it was the huge Hindu festival of Holi). I looked exhausted, exhilarated.

I was tiny.

Dear Bacovegetarian

Dear Bacovegetarian,

I am a 30 year old woman who has been single for over a year now, and
I need some advice. Now, I'm not looking for the Dear Abby style of
advice, I'm looking for some pearls of wisdom from a man who is a
self-proclaimed guilty meat-sneaking vegetarian. Feel free to get off
topic whenever you like.

Why am I coming to you for advice? Well, you have consistently
provided me chicken nuggets of wisdom - and that's the kind of wisdom
this ghetto bitch needs.

(Did you know that their chicken nuggets are infused with beef fat;
their "shakes", with chicken lard? Now that's bacovegetarianism to the
extreme. But I'm getting off topic.)

Here's the thing: I live in a major urban centre that is just too damn
small, and I am finding that my sex, er, six degrees of separation
have whittled down to about two. And in a town like this, that's just
too narrow a dating margin ... "we can't keep meeting like this,
really... no, really. No, I'm not being nice. I mean it: we have to
stop meeting like this".

I know that moving to another city and starting afresh, is really the
only complete solution to my problem, but that's not currently an
option. So, how can I turn my dating pond into a lake? How can I
recover those lost four degrees?

Please Bacovegetarian. You're my only hope. The Last Ghetto Bitch
Standing - the queen of single, the Violette le Duc of Vancouver,
the expert third wheel - needs your advice.

Here's to restating the public/private divide,
Violet

Ya well...

it is a n-affair if you shag in a sprout farm then violently stuff mini cupcakes in your face.

A new best fiend for Coco

Dear Sprout Hopper,

Now, I know that constantly clearing one's metaphorical cache can suck up what few precious drops of spare time you have remaining after slaving away at a week's worth of white collar labour, so I have found you a new best cyber friend. He is always with you. He will never leave you. And he won't tax you with his psychological hangups. Oh, and he's discreet and very professional: Online Alibi Services.

Yours in hermitage,
Violet

N-affair-ious

Now this ghetto bitch is here to weigh in on a post-love situation: so po-lo it hurts. Real bad. It’s not so much that she didn’t listen but that an agitated state dulled her senses with its’ deafening roar. For days she replayed the Halloween madness: Coco’s ass hanging out of some frilly pink panties sold by a tattooed priest. A doppelganger and a yo boy. The strange thing for Coco was not so much the events that went down through night and on in to day and early evening. Not so much those as the presence of a boy who she barely knew wandering around her house and generally falling in to the role of boyfriend number 2. Watching it all unfold, listening to suggestions of the communal living arrangement that would leave her pulled 3 distinct and different ways (some of them highly pleasurable). Coco started to think that perhaps a 2 boyfriend model might work though never under the same roof. But she’s aged about 6 months for every day that has gone by since then. She has moved quickly through dysfunctional social models to a model of solitary confinement involving a pile of books and maybe a camera. This boy stuff is so damned distracting. As though she’d fallen down the rabbit hole she was determined to watch where she was going in the future. BUT he leaves her just so damned breathless…. Is it a n-affair if all you do is text each other? Is there harm in this? Isn't this some arbitrary conceptual communication-space? What are the boundaries? Does it “depend”? Is it wrong to meet under trees and make new wear patterns with your shifting feet as they tippie toe? Just as long as you don’t lie down says Violet. Be sure to buckle up if you do.

Not gone yet

Ah yes, thank god I never post. Forget it--am back. Have been too paranoid to post at work since the day some tech in Calgary started moving my cursor around on my monitor, and I realized, probably too late, that they can watch me whenever they want.

So I don't work freelance and can't post as much as Violet. But damn, I thought I had the Lithuanian greeting down correctly... Why does Salesman Toby look so scared?

IMG_6310
Originally uploaded by thermistor.

Speaking of PandaCams...

IMG_6280
Originally uploaded by thermistor.

Parasitic Subway Project by German Mindfuckers

Parasitic Subway Projector: See Sharks Swim in NY Subway Tunnels
View the [Quicktime]
So what if I've ripped this off Metafilter?!? This subway art projector project is so ghetto beautiful (just the way we like it)...and German, it deserves another blog.

Plus we're ghetto bitches, and so, it is our duty to comment on these German Artist Boys' flair (they all look like the dude squatting down in the lower right-hand corner of the image)...

Ready? Suck some air in. And spew forth.....

What the hell?!? The stereotypes abound in these artist-boy units - they are, like, totally German: high-concept artists in all-black, tailored clothing. Cyber Bald. Neatly-cropped hair and pointy, black leather shoes. Obsessive-compulsively clean. Techno-fetishists. Design hoars. Invisible uber-American humour.

German boys are such mind fuckers. We kinda find that hot (et tu Coco?)

Get the Fruit

Get the fruit... BUT don't let the panda hit the ground. Wouldn't want to turn him into a blood orange.

Wow. I still think the panda cam is my favourite, but there sure are tons of "cams" out there:
Times Square Cam
Fish Cam
Venice Cam
Volcano Cam
Corn Cam
Montreal Cam (Hi Valentine! Hi Rajipie)
Old Faithful Geyser Cam
Loch Ness Monster Cam

We!rdo Manifesto

Hey you! We!rdo...Yeah, I'm talking to you. See this image? The cute little orange creature hanging out on a Montreal trash can, looking all classy and DIY? Well, that creature is you. That's right. You're a We!rdo. But then, who isn't?

So, let me take this opportunity to welcome you - my dear We!rdo - to the group.

It's pretty fun here. We do goofy things: it keeps us from taking ourselves too seriously. "Serious" is murder—something will die if you take yourself too seriously, whether it be your vim, your vigor, or your art and soul. Just take a look at the news from the "norms": it's killing them...and their ratings.

Now, my new little We!rdling, don't you go conflating serious with integrity— we have a healthy regard for the latter. As you can see from the picture, you still choose to wear a crown. You know a little pride enrichens the spirit; itegrity, the world.

But what? What are you saying? You won't join us if you can't be ironic? Well, We!rdo, check out your t-shirt logo. It's an inverted crown. Hell, if irony is dead, it means that we're all zombies ... so we prefer to think of our irony as turned upside down—jumbo shrimp, if you will. We say screw hiding the scarlet letters, we're proudly wearing ours in orange!

Alright We!rdo. (Yes, I'm talking to you.) Now that you're officially in our group, you must help us write a manifesto. What should a We!rdo manifesto should include?

Tequila Face Redux and Revised

IMG_6214
Originally uploaded by thermistor.

Okay. I don't remember Halloween so good. But thankfully I had three wits still hanging about my very inibriated person: one, you're drunk; two, you're bored; three, get out and grab a cab. So I ever so gracefully exited the party and and left my gun holster of tequila with Juan Valdez (no joke).

But what the hell? Look to your right: Who is this sales man? And why is my tongue fondling his moustache?

Oh. Wait. The tequila haze is lifting... I'm rrre-member-ing: he's Oksana's new boyfriend. I think his name's Toby... that's right. I remember now: He's Lithuanian. He told me this is how Lithuanian's greet each other. Whew. I thought it was something sexual! But I was only being polite.

THANK GOD OKSANA NO LONGER POSTS HERE. Because she is one jealous byatch. If she saw me greeting her new squeeze, or saw me post a picture of it on this blog, she'd don her saucy ninja outfit and slowly gouge my eyes out with her Tai Chi Sword.

(Hey, if this is a Lithuanian greeting, I wonder what a Lithuanian squeeze is like?)

On another note: My roomate and I were discussing the content of my last posted link. (I've left the dirty parts out - brown bunny my ass, he's just a lonely guy.)

Roomate: I think Gallo is becoming barely un-retarded. You know, he's _________ and that means she _________. Of course if his mother ___________ then he might be _________.
Violet: Mother? Mother! No! What's that got to do with _____? He's not about the mother. Leave her out of this.
Roomate: That post redeemed him: his irony is straight up. He's a particular kind of voyeur. It's not the attention he's seeking, it's the response. Of course he also found the one way he could _________ with ___________ and have splattered all over ___________. 'Tits gotta be nice to piss off ________ers.
Violet I think that Gallo is suffering Kristeva's Melancholia. I mean, look at how he _________ with the ____________. He just found a contract, and swapped up the language. It's legally sound. I mean that's the real horror, not the content.
Roomate: Yeah, I think he's okay with that.
Violet: What?
Roomate: Yeah. I guess...

Clear you Cache

Dear Cookie (aka Heartless),

May I suggest clearing your cache - literally and metaphorically? No electronic residue. No poetic trail. And remember to buckle up. Better re-freeze that key.

~Violet

If I had a Million Dollars, I wouldn't spend it on him

Dirty. And funny. And pontentially profitable...(p.s. scroll down page until you see the word "sperm")

I'm like a Fig

A boy gave me a compliment:
He told me I was like a fig.

I gave him a quizzical look.

He explained that I was as rich like one.

And so I considered its merit:
sweet pink flesh
safely encased in a teardrop skin,
the secret to a fine lamb stew...

How delightful. I'll take it.

I am a fig.
And rich like one.

What a wholly unique and delicious compliment.

Petit Mort on Halloween

Dear Heartless,

You didn't listen to me, did you? I give you great advice and you don't take it! You could've have easily locked the key in a block of ice. I know you: you have a hairdryer. You could have escaped your own chaste prison. (Trust me, a boy licking the steel edges of your belt would have vaporized that ice block in seconds - yum.) But I guess you're more glass princess than iron maiden, now aren't you?

May I recommend belladonna "soothe" your next issue?

Dilated pupils, I've heard, are considered attractive on women. Something about our, ahem, "souls" being wide open. I wonder what that's all about? I just read an article that suggested men prefer women who are quiet. Open? Closed? Which way to go, my heartless f(r)iend?

As you know, I come from a long line of witches and hags, and I recommend belladonna to kill - I mean quell - what ails you. Trust me, we've been using it for years to look good, feel funky fresh, and drop dead weight.

So what if your vision's a little blurry and your heart rate increases? You're used to that. Administer it as a tea or offer it up raw: you can produce vivid hallucinations, described by many as a 'living dream'.

Isn't that what you really want, my dear belladonna? A living dream? Something you awaken into? Isn't that worth the threat of a petit morte?

Iron Maiden

I AM THE BEST FRIEND EVER! I GIVE INCREDIBLY PRACTICAL ADVICE ON LOVE AND RELATIONSHIPS.

BEHOLD!

MY LATEST AND GREATEST NUGGET OF ADVICE:

Dear "Heartless",

There are these neat belts...they have a metal pad that goes in between your legs, and a lock in front of your pussy. If you want to remain faithful to _________, I would recommend you buy one, lock yourself into it, and give him the key. I know they sound a little old fashioned, but they do the trick.

I say, why bother working through those pesky emotional ties, when there's a simple material solution? Free yourself from feelings. "Down with emotional ties, up with material bonds."

You bestest singlest friend,
Violet

(p.s. The ghetto fable is a'comin' and I foresee an iron maiden and a glass princess in the story. Hmmm. Maybe they should have a cat fight.)

Wolf Eyes versus Shark Tooth

Disco Naps are out: Ghetto Naps are in.

While lazing about on the opened futon couch, laughing at the antics of the Desparate Housewives, eating cookies off of our bellies and sucking back beers (who knew prone breasts make a convenient beer holder?), Coco Channel - my charming friend and cohort in the way of the ghetto nap - suggested that I should beware of Wolf Eyes.

She was contemplating the mess we had stepped into the previous evening.

"Nice. Coco," I replied, "You have such a way with words."

I furiously stuffed an olive in my mouth while I waited out the hideous flashback to the previous night. I muse out loud: "Why would Wolf Eyes - someone who never wanted to see me again (because it hurts too much) - spend an evening slobbering all over my chest, repeating the self-help mantra: "I'm okay, you're okay"?

Coco purrs, "Because he's pissing on his territory: 'If I can't have you, no one else can', hissss".

"Oh lord, I'm not even a housewife." And waiving my beer around in the air like a lefty pamplet, I announce in my throaty, Deitrich voice, "This kind of drama should remain in the box, daahhlink."

I wipe the beer spittle off my chest with the duvet. "Maybe I should call this the summer of 'Beware of Wolf Eyes and The Shark Tooth'? I'll make it a bitch fable on the blog."

Coco huffed and chortled, "He just kept looking at you with wolf eyes, waiting to devour." And swinging her head toward me without disrupting the obnoxious platter of heathenry precariously balanced on her chest, she hissed at me with mad eyes and said prophetically: "Beware the Wolf Eyes. Don't get trapped under his spell".

Stay tuned for the charming ghetto bedtime story: "Beware of Wolf Eyes and the Shark Tooth".... Trust me, it's required ghetto bitch reading.

Won the competition, lost the boy

Yup. I am the only ghettobitch left standing. Therefore I am the winner. And I must confess: I WANT TO GIVE MY CROWN BACK.

Please!?! Can I give it back. Let the runner up don the tiara of single-tude. It sucks being single in fall and winter. Summer is ghetto bitch time, and I've had fun watching all my challengers head toward the love lights like bunnies on the road home from Burning Man.

Ah summer: girl bitch, boy bitch, it didn't matter, they all fell, and I cackled with schmee glee. Two of my main competitors actually started dating each other. I'd like to think that I manipulated them for competitive edge, but the femme bitch actually manipulated me (willingly) in order to date the boy bitch. Talk about a mental game.

But now? It's gloomy, moist and melodic. I desire a boy with whom to wear matching sweaters, and sip mugs of hot cocoa laced with Baileys, while snuggling up all cosy-like next to the fire — Falcon Crest lovin'.

Tequila face

31790568_1b2bd67536
Originally uploaded by Oksana1000.

No reason, just love the compadres of summer.

Bang Bang

Bang!

Bang! Bang!

Curiouser and Curiouser. What's happening to Alice? She's burned her gingham pinafore, sold out the Mad Hatter and bought herself a Che hat... in the name of art.

We support.

(ps This image has nothing to do with the Pink Terrorists... but we are asking ourselves this question: What's going on in Vancouver? What's up with the byatches taking up graffiti all of a sudden? What inspired this mass movement?)

Pink Terrorists Attack!

Do you know that Pink Terrorists are sundering various Vancouver statues, swathing them in hot pink fabric, cocoons of beauty, warming their cool stone features with the prettiest terror we've ever seen.

Who are they? And what's their mission?

Check these radical byatches out for yourself here: Pink Terrorists

We ghetto bitches support this kind of terror. We like their style, and their mandate: “If we can’t take over the world, we can at least make it a lot more pink.”

(Before the sun rose, I was sent on a rivulet mission that delighted my divaness. I was a documentor, of sorts, sitting at Starfuckers, chai in hand. It was a wonderful cover for such nefarious activity. Who would guess that a Starfuckers client was up to good in a no good way?)

Yeah weddings

The best part about a totally traditional summer wedding on an island is when some of the guests peel out of their party gear and jump in the ocean. Holla.

Cyber Sun Salutations

This work thing sucks. It really does. The boredom is infiltrating my system like varicose veins. Assumption #1: work makes you ugly. Assumption #2: every single girl needs a distraction to remain effervescent. Facts: I work. I am single. I don't have a distraction. Ah, that's why I'm feeling like an ugly byatch these days.

Yoga Rules (by my main gal from Slushpile and me, Violette):

1. Clothing:

• A. If you are going to wear light-coloured yoga pants, please wear underware that soaks up your crotch sweat.
• B. If you're a guy then note this important rule: the inside net of your shorts should be snug, tear free and hidden. (We don't need to see your bid-ness a' waggling and a'dangling in front of our peepers.)
• C. While you don't need to deck yourself in thousands of dollars of Lululemon, recycling your 80s thong-up-the-ass Jane Fonda aerobic gear - complete with twisted headband - will just distract other people.

2. Voice: Don't ask questions in class, use the "irreverant, hushed yoga voice".
3. Massage: Never, ever ask your Yogi for a massage mid-class.
4. Cell Phones: People who "do yoga" do not have cell phones (they fuck with your chakras), so hide your little cyber salutations before you enter the studio.
5. No Chaka Khan Jokes: they do a downward-dog death everytime.
6. Wind Mills: If you know you're doing "the plank" plan ahead and pack some Beano.
7. No grunting: It ain't tennis, and you're no Anna Kournikova.
8. Deodorant: Yup. Even if it's that crystal hippie shit.
9. Be There or Be Square: If you think you are "cool" and a mover-and-a-shaker for leaving class before the blanket-and-relaxation time, turn around just as you're leaving the studio and check out the disgusted (yet very zen) stares giving you hate (in the most healing of ways).
10. Community is for Caring: Yes, you may save sharing the "communal mats", but note the adjective: communal, as in communal feet, communal sweat, communal drool.
11. Yoga Warrior: No laughing at those who are flexability-challenged.
12. That Weird-Competition Thing: thou shalt not battle thy mat neighbour. Apparently, yoga isn't competitive. If you need to take someone down, just wrestle after class.
13. Hot Yoga Instructors:

• A. Make sure to do a move incorrectly, especially if it involves bending over getting your instructor to re-position you from behind.
• B. Bear in mind: yoga teachers are very in tune with themselves and the world: they can sense mental rape better than the average joe.
• C. That said, many yogis close their eyes during class - save your lusty glances for those times.

14: Water: It is the elixer of life (and the gods). And sure, you need to re-hydrated. But yoga is not a Gatorade commercial, you know? You don't need to tilt your head back like a Muppet cartoon and make slurping Animal/Cookie Monster noises.

Sissy Girl Slap Party

Daddy Robe
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

So you return to the uber-swank hotel room that you and Coco have agreed was designed for a rich Daddy and his posse of Toms of Finland.

The glass shower is just begging to be filled with half-naked boys dancing around, slapping each other, and letting out shrill girly “ouches” (you imagine the sweet slappy boys of Guy Maddin’s short film Sissy Boy Slap Party as your entertainment.

You dawn the white robes provided by W Hotel. They have weights in the hem, the rich fabric swooshing around you making you feel like an international man of intrigue, power and sex (the pockets just begging for crisp 20 bills, lubricant and candy). You flop your bellies on the 350 thread-count duvet bed, replete with a faux fur blanket, to stare and ponder the pristine white bathroom calling out: dirtier, dirtier.

You and Coco take turns pulling swigs from a bottle of white wine and casually discuss calling the front desk and ordering up three 5-star men. Hey, they look so bored standing around the lobby; you’re just positive that they’d love to be your entertainment (what man doesn’t secretly want to strip down and dance for a lady making luxuriously naughty demands of his mind, body and soul?)

You discuss the male posture, in particular, the rich Daddy posture. Coco decides to walk like a man, so she eases herself off the rim of the hootch juice and saunters through the room, her imaginary cahonas making her swagger like Clint Eastwood chomping a wet stoagie and heaving a satchel full of contraband gold like its fairy dust. You both agree that it is satisfying to pretend to colonize and own such decadent space.

Coco Shoes
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

You make the mistake of looking out the window. One of the Boys Who Stand ‘Round (aka “Google Eyes”) sees you… you think... but then you’re not too sure. Maybe it always seems like he’s looking at you: he has google eyes after all. Coco and you agree that google eyes make him the best Bouncer ever… you always thinks he’s got his eye on you.

I decide to obsess on Google Eyes for a spell. Not only does he have google eyes, but he also has an amazingly small pinhead. It looks like he has this “big man” suit on and there’s this skinny man’s head sticking out… and the head is bobbing around like its on a spring.

Suddenly the Coco/Daddy espies a high heel in the corner of the room. She pounces on it: it’s beautiful; it’s rich; it’s beautiful being a woman. You ponder lines for a time.

Fluffy Cloud
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

You fall on the floor laughing at the Daddy décor, and you, two bitches, sullying it.

You agree that the Velvet Design mafia has done up the whole hotel: one design fag calling up his buddy to say, “listen Mary, I’ve got this fabulous gig designing the drapes for Montreal’s Hotel W. You just have to jet down from Ibiza to work with us. We need your experience with beds, floors, and showers. Cause you know, girl, you've been face down on more surfaces than Mr. Clean himself.”

God—you are so done with the weight of the robes. It's Ms. Dress-Up time.

Coco, belly down on the floor, flips over and straight-serious, gestures to the corner of the room, and says in her best WASP-voice: “Oh, did your friend design this?”

You take time out for bouncing on the bed. You decide that going down the hall for ice is an adventure-trek. You come back to fill the sink with ice. You use all the shower products to make a foot bubble bath. You fall asleep in a fluffy duvet cloud.

Hootch Juice in Montreal

violet_window
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Toxed in Montreal
You know when you’re rampaging through Old Montreal totally toxed on organic substances and corked on a bottle of hootch juice, and you suddenly realize that this is the best time you have ever had, and that you are so glad that Quebec is a part of Canada?

And you rage around yelling “what is that?” at every piece of architecture that you cannot believe actually exists in Canada—Safdie’s cube-living space Habitat, some Thunderdome made of spun sugar. And then you rest, taking time-outs in a park right behind a glowing white Russian Communist Castle?

Coco Channel and Sugar Water
And then your friend starts getting low blood sugar and begins to whine incredibly hootch statements like, “I want to go back to the hotel. I need Perrier. I want my Prada shrug”.

And you realize that life is great and you have an amazing byatch-of-a-friend...because when she turns into a bitch she is fabulous: she is a Coco Channel upstart and you’re right into just loving her performance, her arms waving around in an amazing Issey Miyake-like pattern of delight.

And then, you suddenly know that there is no way you are going back to the hipster hotel you’re staying in (for one glorious night) in this state... Actually, to qualify it for yourself, you rephrase that thought: there is no way you are going through any hotel lobby, especially the beautiful lobby at Montreal’s Hotel W, in this state.

coco_floor
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Cute Drones in Hipster Purgatory
Because you remember that when you left the grandeur of your hotel room three hours ago the cute boys standing around the lobby supposedly “working” (more like just standing around lookin’ good) were setting up velvet ropes around the staircase leading up to the two, sliding-glass, entranceway doors.

And then you have a horrible throught: W’s club entrance is just outside the hall by the elevator that leads up to the safe haven that is your amazing hotel room. And you'll be returning to that hall just as everyone is arriving at the club. And then you know: there is no way this byatch here is going to deal with that hipster purgatory.

Lobby Issues and Camel Guilt
And so you reel around, take a swig of the hootch juice roadie, and smoothly say, “Look Coco, I have no problem going back to our hotel room, but I’m currently having issues with hotel lobbies”…

And then she looks at you, her sea foam-rimmed eyes narrowing just slightly. And purring like a famished cheetah, she hustles these words: “I do everything for you. Everything. Who organized this trip? Who can go without water like a camel, so that you can drink whenever you’re thirsty? I do everything for you.”

You then think to yourself: this is the most enjoyable argument you have ever had. And you jump in on this cougar action like a rich bitch at an H&M sale.

“Fine Coco… but if we go back to the hotel, we’re not leaving again. I’m having ‘issues with hotel lobbies’. I will only go through lobby hell once. I’m having issues with hotel lobbies.”

But her Roman jaw is set.

And so you happily give in to her desire to return because you remember that the Miu Miu purse that she is currently sporting—the purse that she had, earlier on in the evening, confidently set on the check-in desk like she owned the W—had got you the upgrade to the super-deluxe room you were currently returning to. So you contentedly give in to her need for Perrier and a foot bath in the Jacuzzi-sized tub.

Paris is a Buring Hotel Lobby Purgatory
And so you head back. But as you approach the W hotel, and its much-feared and Wallpaper-esque hotel lobby, you see, off in the distance, a line-up of French hipsters blocking your easy, smooth and classy re-entry to your hotel room. And you decide: “Fuck it. I’m a byatch, and I can do this lobby entrance like Paris Hilton on her best sleazy night”.

But as you approach the hell that is your hotel entrance, Coco Channel starts having second thoughts and veers away from the velvet ropes.

And you think to yourself: “there is no fucking way that you are not going through these ropes with me. I got over my issues with hotel lobbies. Deal byatch.” And so you grab the collar of her draped, off-the-shoulder shirt, and yank her through the shiny, silk-clad throngs. And you tell yourself to repeat this Hilton-esqe mantra: “I am staying in this hotel. They are merely drinking in it. I am the fabulous bitch here. They are merely low brow hipsters”.

Velvet Skip Rope
Fortunately the cute-boys-just-standing-around-who-are-supposedly-working part the velvet ropes (as cute boys have been trained to do, act or non). And as you elegantly glide—make that careen—through the first sliding glass doors, you are suddenly scrunched in their automatic-ness. But, you grit your teeth. You will not fail on this hootch mission. And again, a cute work boy comes to your rescue and “escorts” you and Coco through the second doors. And you think, “So this is what it feels to be Paris… ghetto”.

Stay tuned for Part II: Violet and Coco’s Night In…

Stag boys

Boys wrestling: hottie hot hot!

Yum!



[Editor's note: Please note that Ghetto Bitch Violet Chrome is off becoming an ever finer Web diva, and may not be posting much in the next while. Will try to kick her sorry ass, so we are all treated to her intellectual musings. Meanwhile, you'll have to be content with my sucky-sex-etc. shit.]

Champagne and karaoke

Last week was beyond busy. The Ninja disappeared for five days, literally and figuratively, to deal with a heartbreaking crisis. I, meanwhile, was trapped for two of those days in an utterly fucking useless company seminar, frustrated by my inability to help him. Saturday I had a freelance corporate shoot that went off fine, but it involved a load of prep, lots of client handholding, and I had a killer hangover.

Thank god for the bright spots: hanging with the girls Friday night for a stagette of Chambar, champagne, and (for the chicks who didn't have to get up the next morning for a shoot, anyway) karaoke.



Best of all was having the Ninja crawl through my bedroom window at 8 am Sunday morning, post-stag, stinking like a brewery, alive, beautiful, back again.

Getting Gay with Che

An instant message conversation with Bacovegetarian:

You look like a gay che supporter
I'd get gay with Che.
if he wasn't dead.
Would you have let me watch?
All that attention might make me anxious.
Ah yes, forgot you men have trouble "faking it"
That's why god invented viagara.

I am unstoppable

I just received an "invitation" to attend a three day corporate/reeducation/seminar thing next week. Three days. Fuck.

Don't get me wrong, I like my job. I like having a job. But I have never liked forced/group anything. Except sex.

Oh, I'm kidding. Just losing my mind at the thought of three whole days under the fluorescent lights, with lots of flipcharts, "idea sharing," and lunches of cold chow mein.

Girls love BJ

Ah summer. Summer is--among other things much more ghetto, and much more bitch--wedding season.

This offers us non-Bridezilla girls (with full respect given to the sisters who are) a marvelous excuse to buy a sexy new dress.

And for that, there is only one place to turn: Betsey.



I love Betsey. I love that the Ninja loves Betsey.

Good to be here, not there

It's good to be here, and not there.
A smile is creeping up from my lungs -
Maybe it's just the 35 degrees;
I'm sucking back air like Persephone
Spelunking her way through hot cave springs
And loving the clotted colour.

Cobra Snake Soft Cups

what do you like?
need soft cup with really good shape
like round?
whatever doesn't make me look pointy.
heh. i hate pointy
yuppers
seams over the nipple? ew!
not so sexy
i like my bras to hold them like two upturned boys' hands
okay, that goes in ghetto
this is a hipsters website outta New York
might be good to plunder for hair cuts
awwwww
yummy
I love him
I have to look at him again
heh!
yup, still yummy
I can see that underneath that good boy smile is a naughty one, but he'd draw out being a good boy just long enough to drive me crazy.
I love you, dirty girl!
Hot chick. Dig her hair.
She's got a Vice do
they are all, like, 17
But they're so fucking cute these kids
I wish I had that kinda style figured out when I was a young'un
Damn my grunge youth.
omg, it's JO!
JO's unretarded twin brother
It's like jo was one chromosome short of cute, which makes it more disappointing
yeah.
'cause if a guy is kinda ugly, he's usually really fucking hot.
Check this: FIX YOURSELF GIRL (you got a camel toe)!
You have created a monster with me with this damn site.
Why lip rings ruin your looks.
Aye, it's addictive.
Voyeuristic.

Instant message about a ghost

i saw him last night for a meeting
he's very tanned, very blonde, and was wearing
this little cuban hat
so weird to see him

really?
ah

so completely surreal

are you more detached?

yes
yes i am
but
it's a bit like being visited by a ghost
i remember
my body remembers
everything
my life
everything i ever felt, dreamed of, experienced
vanished
and then there he is
so strange
i don't feel ache or love

interesting

just a lonely feeling

what a lovely poem

like an abandoned house

you should ghetto that chunk

heh
really?
not too fromage?
can i include the part about the too tan/too blonde/too cuban?
heh

oh yeah
do it
seriously
and then I'll go in and hyperlink all the phrases
to weird internet stuff
do it
i dig what you said
your words make it sound better than it feels

the weirdest part was seeing his hands again
crooked little finger
i had forgotten
but i hadn't at all

Summer, baby, summer

Thank fuck. It's a sunny day, the Ninja spun me to work on the moto after spoiling my ass, and GBS has finally officially arrived. My bones and skin are aching for sun. I want dirty Havaianas from walking the sticky hot city streets; cool swims in the green lake up by Whistler; cold Keith's; dirty beats, a dirtier boy and warm late nights. I want skirts with no underwear, American Apparel boyshorts in every colour, and to clean lovestruck boys off the streets after Violet, as she strides along in those Frye boots of hers. (I just said boys three times. Hmm.)

I also want to wear my gorgeous new Aussie bikinis. Bring summer on.

You got cyber lungs? Pump up the ventolin and weird and wonderful things will happen. Check out the Spanish artist Jamie Hayon. Mad style.

Mono Brows

nomobrow
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Maybe it's my fascination with Frieda Kahlo. Maybe it was my childhood love of Burt from Ernie and Burt. But I love Super Greg... once you clicked on the link, click on the image you see to your right, and you will know good "mono-brow lovin'".
If you want to "remix" Super "Monobrow" Greg, click here: Super Greg Stash Remix. It's Paris Hilton hot.

Fuschia Slag

It's almost the weekend, and thank god, I say. Rain or no rain, it's still Ghetto Bitch Summer, and GB girls know where to go.





Tonight that would be painter Mark Neufeld's show at Production Studios.

I once was smacked in the face by one of Mark's early paintings. It was at a show at the Dynamo, back in '98. I found I couldn't move: I must have stood in front of the piece, feet nailed to the floor, body vibrating, for twenty minutes. That had only happened to me before in New York and Europe, in museums. Here I was at home, on Hastings Street: I couldn't believe what I was feeling.

At the time, Mark and I were both slaves at the same diner (him, dishwasher, me, waitron). His other job at the time was as a gravestone carver.

He just won the first ever Joe Plaskett Award for his work. It is one of the largest and most prestigious visual-arts awards in Canada.

Geek Love for a Gemini Birth

bilde
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

All geminis know that two heads are better than one, and in honour of the two GB geminis, a special pussy was born: Two-faced kitten.

Now Geek Love is one of my favourite novels, so it only makes sense that I would find this "gift" charming.

61 Ways to Get Fired: Fire Us Up

So, I'm at work, still waiting for "the word". Are we fired? Are we re-hired? (The latter ain't looking so good.) My co-workers and I have discussed filming the various ways we could get fired for every day of our remaining contract, hence the title "61 Ways To Get Fired".


Anyone out there have suggestions for "Ways to Get Fired"? Feel free to leave them in the comment area... you don't have to "login" to tell us how you'd "fire us".

You know, I think our whole generation is firmly rooted in the work ghetto--stuck between the reality of a contract job market and the surreality of a work world comprised of corporations who want our eternal "alliegance"... without strings. Seriously, check out Miriam-Websters third definition:

a: an isolated group
b: a situation that resembles a ghetto especially in conferring inferior status or limiting opportunity.

I can truly say that the 38 and under workforce are "isolated" and have "limited opportunity". So why not celebrate it?

Bitches brew

Mmm-hmm, in honour of all the Geminis we know and love, wait for a hot night (or don't bother) and pour yourself (and whoever caused you to fall off the "I'm going to be single all summer and make out with everyone" wagon) a shaker of the following:

The Geminini

- Fill shaker halfway with cold, pure agave tequila (El Jimador Silver is fine, Embajador de Oaxaca Mezcal shows mad game).

- Add a handful of ice.

- Pour in fresh-squeezed OJ and a splash of raspberry juice, until the shaker is about to overflow.

- Cover, shake and pour into a chilled martini glass (or plastic beer glass, if you're at a Gemini party; or your lover's mouth, if you're dirty--and we know you're not dirty, you're dirtiER)

- Drink: and get so drunk you talk dumb shite, dance your ass off, laugh your ass off, forget large parts of the evening, and maybe do stupid things that turn out to be fine once dawn rises and you sleep a bit and talk a bit and fuck a bit.

Gemini Raging Fire Party

raginfire
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Heat up the dance floor.

grumpypartyboy
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Don't get pooped out too soon.

highfives
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

If the dance floor isn't your thing, try a little party soccer - high fives all around.

goaltender
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

And if you're not into exerting energy on the dance floor or the soccer field, be a goal tender. It's chill.

dancefloor
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

But really, the dance floor is where it's at: a raging fire, burning feet, and lots of smoking hot folks.

tastytongue
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Taste the fun.

Ghettoscopes June 9-15

Aries
You have moments of almost childlike joy and innocence and experience events in a delightful new way. Neat-o. Make sure to turn your dolls around when you’re having sex this week. It’s creepy when they stare.

Taurus
You are powerful this week: you have nothing to lose and a considerable amount to gain. Of course, if you’re trying to lose weight, this horoscope sucks.

Gemini
Look around you nature lover, listen to the language of the breeze. If it’s hot air, leave ‘em a breadcrumb trail.

Cancer
You’ll be expected to make quick, brilliant decisions on the spot. Think pink.

Leo
Fabricate interesting stuff. Remember: your given name is your first pet, your surname is the first street you lived on.

Virgo
You’ll feel a crescendo of attention during the next two weeks. Hide the glassware, and keep that proverbial lampshade on your head. Photos are incriminating.

Libra
Don’t sit home, trapped between the same old sofa cushions. Get out and order yourself a sandwich. You can be the meat.

Scorpio
This week, you’ll weave a mystery out of golden threads. So, remember the name “Rumpelstiltskin”. And remember to charge interest.

Sagittarius
Better communication might lead to better sex. Or it might not. Our lips are sealed. Are yours?

Capricorn
This week is like turning a new leaf in your love zone. Better be something about doing away with fig leaves. Cause that’s the only zone you should be concentrating on.

Aquarius
The screws are tightened and the gears greased in preparation for an ambitious undertaking. So grab you tin-foil helmet and purple sneakers because this week’s going to be out of this world.

Pisces
There’s no need to settle for something that doesn’t move you. So keep on keeping on. And on. And on. And on. Every night and every day.