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.