Thai Lady Girl Sanctuary

For the two or three of you who haven't heard me gleefully pant out "Thailand on Fridaaaaaay, Thailand on Fridaaaaaay", hear me now: I'm going to Thailand on Friday and I won't be back here for two whole weeks.

So, if any of you know Oksana, Mata or Coco personally, please harass them into posting while I'm gone — lazy-assed bitches. (And comments DO NOT count as posts... Oksana, I'm talking to you.)

What? Still lazy?

Fine. Then heed this second warning Ghetto Girls: if you don't post, I'm giving the boys over at ghetto pimp summer your access codes for the expressed purpose of posting outrageously embarassing shyte under your names.

So now that I got that little bit o' housework out of the way, I'm going to dream about my happy place.

Thailand. Ahhhh. This'll be my first time off this rock, aka North America, and I'm feeling a little too mature (hah) for the full-moon party scene.

My happy place now figures me on a remote beach, lying in a hammock, reading a good book, and sipping some girlie tropical drink in a coconut husk, accessorized with pastelle parasols and speared fruit wedges fashioned into replicas of thai boats. (A cabana boy waving a palm frond over me would be a bonus.)

Check out this Thai getaway Mr. 3 recommended I visit: The Sanctuary


Ahhh. Don't you just love the full-cheeze of that name? Sanctuary. I am picturing Michael York as my island greeter, fists waving in the air, upper lip sweating, Logan's Run cauterwauling: "Sanctuuuuaaaaaarrrrryyyyy".

Okay this picture has inspired me to get all romance travel novel on your ass...

I will spot Mr. York off in the distance — acting all extreme-actor-like — drop my backpack on the sandy beach, and run toward him arms akimbo (preferably wearing some sort of a sci-fi smock/sarong hybrid).

As I run to him over the sandy beach (in slow motion and panting breast, of course) ignoring the shells slicing my feet, he will drop out of his yoga pose, anticipating our embrace (see the picture? see the love that could be mine?). I will then fall into his arms and say, "Look Logan 5: There IS Sanctuary and we are soaking in it."

Gay-O-Meter

How gay are you?

I came out 63% gay... I figure it's because:

1. I have been in a street fight — with a boy (I was losing up until I realized words hurt, so I took him down with my steely wit).
2. I DO know how to change oil in a car, jack a flat tire, use jumper cables, and drive a stick shift,
3. And if I didn't, I wouldn't admit it.
4. Plus, I'm cool with lesbian porn.
5. Yes, I think my BGFs are hot babes . . . because they are. I dare any of you to argue me otherwise (see #1 before you think about taking on the dare).

So I'm a happy and well-adjusted het with lesbian tendencies. Not surprising, but rather droll. What I really want to be is a warrior princess.

A more appropriate quiz — suited to my gay tastes — would be titled "Fag, Fruit Fly or Queen?"

Take the gay-o-meter quiz yourself. Let me know how you score.

Go scan violets you chrome

Chic or schtick, I simply can't think of a smarter (packs light) or cooler (retro design) gift from NYC. Leave it to Valentine to find a candy for Violet, accented with pseudo-chrome. I wonder if I could morph "Choward's" into "Chrome"?

If this shitty-looking box office bomb wasn't coming out, I would have styled myself a retro-superhero, named Violet Chrome. And this would be my ride:


Except that it would have wings, nuclear-turbo engines and maybe a honkin' "Violet" logo on the side (because superheros are never faulted for having a healthy narcissistic streak).

Now, what would my super power be?

Right - I should look on the web for a super quiz. (Oh, lorde? Is that my superpower? Lightening-fast Google fact concatenation? Finds information on anybody and anything anywhere in milliseconds?) Fine. I give. My superhero costume now includes thick, black-rimmed glasses. And my superpower is sucking information out of things — a mind-reader, web-weaver of sorts.

So, I've accepted that Violet Chrome, the superhero, wears nerd-chic super glasses, but my outfit will be way cooler. It will look like one of those square metallic security tags (RFIDs) you find in books, except the copper elements will be a metallic Violet. I'll pull those elements off my suit to jack into systems.

And the dark side is always tempting me to join their side with cooler technology that will let me jack in harder and faster (yes, I will pant heavily whenever the bad guys tie me up and torture me).

There has to be a quiz out there somewhere that will help me discover my innner super power. I'm going to call on my Google powers...now. SHAZZAM!: what's your superpower? and KACHAW!: what would your superpower be? See how fast I am?

Dangit. My superpower is "Super Strength" - like He-Man - and my superpower would be "Animal Wrangler". Great. I can move mountains and talk to the animals. Why do I always end up looking like a hippie? I think I'll cultivate my own uban superhero personna.

So, Valentine? What's your superhero?

GB Road Pops

"Ghetto bitch" must be a marketable psychographic (there goes my ICRS )... because Coppola has developed a drink that seems to strategically target us. That's right, I'm totally willing to sell-out to:

Sofia Mini Blanc de Blancs sparkling wine

Sparkling wine ? Fabulous.
In a can? Oh yes - road pops.
Drinking it through a straw? Mmm hmm - It's kitschy, like juice boxes for adults.
Sophia as our patron saint of class-trash? Hells yah, we love her films.
Hot Pink? Of course.

... I'm so sorry Ms. Klein. Most of my life is no logo (minus the Mac 'n' Sony). Going local is the plan - I try not to buy Starbucks, I don't eat McDonalds - but I can't stop myself from fetishizing this brand. I am simply too weak-in-the-knees to fight this brand's power.

Masturbation is the new politic

>>WARNING: ALL THESE LINKS LEAD TO SEX-RELATED SITES. IF YOU CLICK THEM, YOU WILL BE WITNESS TO DILDOS, REFERENCES TO SEX - THE ACT AND THE TOYS - AS WELL AS SOME TRULY BAD PUNNING.

Seems that masturbation is the new online politic, which is a relatively pro-active and pleasurable politic. It's great for those of you who hate protesting in large groups.

Comon' kids it's so easy and it's still hands-on, but you don't have to quest for a partner ("make love not war"). Hell, you don't even have to get out of bed. It's your own private politic: Masturbate for Peace.

If you're more Dionysian, then Dildo Art may charm you (but isn't Salvadore Dali's art already filled with fantabulously floppy phalluses?) Or, you can run away and join the cant circus.

Looking to learn the facts? Find yourself a sex tutor. Or read over the top 5 cunning linguist tips, as well as tips from men and women.

Back in Black

Dang. Dang. Dang. Gotta dye the mop top back to black for a job interview. When it comes down to brunette vs. blonde ambition, brunette wins.

Ghetto Spheres

Being a sworn ghetto bitch, I may never own a home, but, dammit, I swear that I will own one of these fairy-land tree houses created by the Vancouver Island company, Free Island Spheres.

(Hmm. I wonder what sex would be like in one of these? Rather swinging I bet.) Check out its plush interior :

Glossolalia

UbuWeb is an indie resource dedicated to all strains of the avant-garde, ethnopoetics, and outsider arts: www.ubu.com.

I can nerd out on this site for hours - Samuel Beckett, Gertrude Stein, Lacan... see you in a few weeks.

I'm digging the ethnopoetic section. Nice to see a little hommage to 'ole Gertie. I've been a fan of her for years. Her punctuation-less rumination on writing is amazing.

Wondering what the image is all about? Well, it's a Shaker drawing. They documented their "visions" in this manner. I like pictographs - sometimes our alphabet limits, expecially when you're trying to capture something as ephemeral as a "vision".

Shakers, I'm just finding out, are a fascinating offshoot of the Quaker movement. But unlike the Oat Heads, Shakers aren't about marriage and kids, and their rituals consist of trembling, shouting, dancing, shaking, singing, and glossolalia (this is one of my favourite words along with word salad.) And they invented all these nifty items: the screw propeller, Babbitt metal, the circular saw, the clothespin, the flat broom and the wheel-driven washing machine. What a great Christian cult.

White Pump Music

Ah, the always brilliant and witty Sister Slush provided me with this comprehensive music review stylesheet... It's a biting and too true reveal.

The last recommendation might be difficult to implement though - I don't own white pumps, and my hair's too short to tease.

rebopper© mindwash

Does anyone else think it's tacky that Reebok - er, make that "RBK" - created a limited edition run of Basquiat-inspired running shoes, sold exclusively at the MOCA? (Apparently not on the web.)

I mean, Basquiat was rather, um, dis/interested in copyright. And now? Should his art live on in a $$$ corporate sneaker?!? It just doesn't feel right.

Behold: here are some of Basquiat's tags. I think they point to why I'm feeling a bit queasy about RBK's Rebopper campaign:

SAMO© as an alternative to mindwash.
SAMO© as a neo art form.
SAMO© as an end to to mindwash religion, nowhere politics and bogus philosophy.
SAMO© as an escape clause.
SAMO© as an end to playing art.
SAMO© as an end to bogus pseudo intellectual. My mouth, therefore an error. Plush safe.. he think.
SAMO© as an alternative 2 playing art with the 'radical chic' sect on Daddy's $ funds.
SAMO© saves idiots.

Who makes the cash? His family? Meh. I doubt it.

SAMO©, would not approve of such a copy-rip-off. Then again, maybe he would be cool with it, as I'm guessing that it's going to be a bevvy of daddy's little boys who will be $uckered by RBK© and MOCA© (then again, SAMO© is supposed to save idiots). But in any case, if SAMO© isn't the one getting paid, I just don't think this campaign is all that cool.

Advice from Sister Slush

Sister Slushpile: what was your recipe for writing music again?

You know - something about being mean, ironic and bitchy. It cracked me up... and I need to use it.

• Fully marketable rock star image generator
• Learn how to play a "lock and loll" rhythm...

Smartest Blonde Ever

Ah, I think this may be the smartest blonde joke ever...

The REALLY Ugly Side of Beauty

Now here's a little wakeup call for all us Ghetto Bitches. Try running the cosmetic products you use through this excellent online database created by the Environmental Working Group.

As we know but often forget, the cosmetic industry and cosmetic ingredients are all but unregulated in North America; most of the products we use (even those of us who try to be all-organic, as of course us byatches do) often contain things like acrylamide, (found in foundations and lotions, it is strongly linked to mammary tumours) and dibutyl phthalate, an industrial chemical known to damage the liver, kidney and reproductive systems, disrupt hormonal processes and increase breast cancer risk. Not to mention, feminise boys.

My favourite nail polish brand, OPI, for example, is labelled Higher Risk. Its ingredients scored as the following: cancer hazard, reproductive/developmental toxicity, unsafe for use in cosmetics, illegal ingredients (EU only--unregulated in the good ol' US of A), potential for harmful impurities, ingredient(s) not disclosed on label, estrogenic chemicals and other endocrine disruptors, irritants - eye, skin, or lungs, persistent/bioaccumulative, immune system toxicants (allergies, sensitization), classified as toxic, no safety information in 37 regulatory/toxicity data sources.

Of it's 61 ingredients, 28 "raise health concerns" and 5 carry "violations, restrictions or warnings."

Nice.

I think I'm going to spend a wee bit of time on this site getting informed. Then sending my "beauty" products out for incineration.

The Modern Girl's Fairy Godmother

I have always had a thing for Cinderella and her brand of girl (be she Pretty Woman or Bridget Jones). It is a sad commentary on my life and speaks volumes if you know my particular story. Recently this particular fable has once again taken hold of my sub-conscious.

I have figured out that Cinderella's fairy godmother is alive and producing results for many a modern girl...and her name is Botox.

You look fabulous for the ball, she affords you confidence and opportunities that may not have been available to you in your work-a-day, hum-drum guise but late in the evening the clock's ticking begins to sound loudly in your ears. You are still the same sweet loveliness underneath but at midnight (or in 4-6 months in the case of Botox) the spell will be revoked and all the wages of all your sins will be returned promptly to your face like the pumpkin it is. Only this time there is no glass slipper with which to identify you.

Perhaps the moral of the story for the modern girl is that you are responsible for making your own glass slipper...

Or perhaps you just keep begging that syringe-touting bitch of a fairy godmother for just one more hit of that sweet sweet spell...

The Source Bitch

I would need the limbs of Kali to count the individual digits comprising the tumid phalange of talent enrapting me in kultcher, so I'm going to take the "girl crush" angle to narrow down my hommage to the creative and interesting beings surrounding me.

But first, I'm going off topic to rant about Kali - I've just realized she's GBs god mother, and I have decided that girl crushes are rivulets of her being. Because...

Kali's a classic ghetto bitch.

And according to Wikipedia, she just may be THE source bitch - our archaic mother out of whose primordial trailer park we all slithered.

Born of the killer of daemons, aka momma Durga, daughter Kali is considered a creature of indiscriminate violence and wrath with complex Tantric beliefs. (Hot!) She's also the consort of Shiva, who's the destroyer, the auspicious one, and the nature of bliss. These are some hot ghetto bitch momma gal pals, Kali playing the black female to Shiva's white. It is a balance in one through two who consort.

Such dichotomous beings, these portieres be. Yes, they are window dressings framing a symbolic view of the act of containing, maintaining, and navigatiing oppositions within our selves. This is a healthier perception of being, and more realistic. (I guess I'm comparing this to the Western pantheon of gods, divided trinities, and Hollywood's " good, bad and ugly" paradigms.) How many people are truly one-sided? And of the small group of people who are one-sided, how many do you perceive as healthy and whole beings? Not many, me thinks.

Throughout all histories - East, West, North, South, and ET - embodying a "life and death" construction in one singular being is considered trigger-finger dangerous - and one to be watched, controlled, killed, or interestingly, revered as a god. Mortals who are allowed to posses this power never act alone. They are always perceived as conduits of a greater power - they are priests, madwomen, and the possessed. And these vessels are always State stamped.

Girl crushes: all girls have them in various shapes, forms and aspects. We are all conduits, containers, dichotomous beings. So why wouldn't we see aspects of our selves and not-selves in other beings? We all need to sit with Shivas to sit with ourselves.

Now, I'm not really thinking sex when I talk girl crush (I know, I know - it all distills down to that in the end). But look: dykes and urbandictionary.com define girl crushes as "non sexual" too, so I'm validated by heteros and homos.

Girl crushes are telling. They point to the black and whites of a girl's personality, the obvious and the sublimated. They hint at her self-imagining and her actions - kinetic and potential. They draw out what is hidden, what destroys, and what she can't admit to wanting. Beautiful, sophisticated, charming or accomplished - it is what we want deep down inside of ourselves that we externalize in our girl crushes. Boys, you should take note of your girl's crushes.

So, I am going to bash off a list without thinking in the hopes that I can "read" it like tea leaves... and pay hommage to some fierce ladies while I ponder my self. Feel free to make your list of "crushes" in the comment area.

Hadley Howes - mind spews art in decorative form
Kathleen Ritter - her base of data slays me
Bloggaphile - one smart cookie
Doppleganger of 50 Books - never minces words
Slushpile - always minces words; a beautiful pastiche
Pat Cadigan - The Queen of Cyberpunk
The girls of Go Fug Yourself - wordsmiths and bitches,
par excellence
Bazima - serves tasty internet milkshakes
Dee - raiki sandwiches and road trip meeting minutes
CocoRosie - um, hot, talented and unwaveringly alternative
Elaine Scarry - one of my absolute favourite thinkers
Angelica Huston - does Hollywood on her own terms
Diane Arbus - a rare photographer of the uncomfortably human
Katherine Dunn - one of my favourite writers: I make all my boyfriends read Geek Love

Breaking news: Oksana toxed on last mission

Where are my partners in crime, I ask? Oksana is down for the night, as she was toxed on her last social mission (word to the wise: never kiss the piggy bank).

Coco? wonder what happened to her? Rumour has it she's currently "becoming single". I respond with a chortle-ific "mwahaha." Coco, I anxiously await you and your Poppins purse o' plenty on the other side of life, though I don't know if I have any sage words for the already wise.

If you must know, it's weird being here at this age. It's an interstitial position in a world of twos. Coco - you will be watched by squinty and perplexed eyes. You will be perceived as a subverter of the known order of things (I know, you already were... welcome back); a pandora's box, lid slightly ajar. Gasp. The horror.

I wonder if we can make the "other side of life" Montreal? It's oh so fabulous and French there, though I was rather disappointed to hear about the height restriction in Montreal. The munkin garcons I did see were incredibly hot and well dressed, but they were oh so wee. Why is that?

Mata?

Rufus the rock muppet

It's muppets for rockstars and kids. It's Pancake Mountain!

Rufus the sock muppet talks to Henry Rollins, George Clinton, Thievery Corporation, Arcarde Fire, Juliette Lewis and more...

This show is sketchy, cheap and satisfying like a chicken burrito after a long night of drinking.

Suicide Orange

OMG — like, you go blonde, and then you totally forget to post. Sorry about the wee lapse, I guess the peroxide went to my head.

I must say, I'm feeling rather Madonna, circa "papa don't preach" and Sean Penn (remember? they were married). I don't mind this comparison. But I do mind that I don't look all that different with blonde hair. Seriously. I was hoping for a complete change. Ah well, maybe my identity is more fluidly solid than I thought.

And please, don't fret, my fellow dark-hairlings: I'll be back in black in no time. This is just a test of my operating system... Since I'm working from home these days, now's the time to go suicide orange blonde. I'm rather curious about the results, the difference in perception — mine and others'. So, stay tuned for "blonde ambition from a dark, dark heart" reports... only on GBS.

So, what exactly does the Internet have to say about blondes? Better research...

ROCK
Blonde Redhead
Concrete Blonde
Dylan: Blonde on Blonde
Platinum Blonde

NOT FUNNY
List of Blonde Jokes...
Dumb Blonde Test
Definition of Blonde

BLONDE NOT BLONDE
Cattlemen Prefer Blondes
Flickr Blondes
Blonde Dollz
Leffe Blonde
Blonde Brownies

Bebedot Blonde Font
Versace Blonde

FACTS & NEWS
Blondes to die out in 1000 years
National Blonde Day - What day is that again?
Blonde Assassin behind Kennedy Downfall
The Dumb Blonde of American Journalism
La Femme à la Mèche Blonde
Vargas' Blonde Sambos

BOOKS
Summer Blonde
Blonde
Dirty Blonde and Half-Cuban

FILM
Legally Blonde
Loves of a Blonde
The Real Blonde

SMARTEST BLONDE - EVER
Mae West

Pho Bich Nga

"Pho Bich Nga" is definitely a GB battle cry.Doppleganger over at 50 Books is promoting this free word association site: who in the what now

I know a few of you word nerds will fall hopelessly in love with it. I mean, really, who can resist associating with a word like Hot Dog? We've all fallen lips over assholes for this tube of good lovin'.

Today, the site's host Glark is going off on Signs. I really do think that "Pho Bich Nga" is the best sign ever. Can you top it?

~I spy~

I spy to live. Were it only lewd conduct, prostration and fat rollering I would not have lasted long. But those for whom I preform do not know it is Ms. Hari who wields the probe. I collect their secrets and feret them away to my bitches in the ghetto. I throw down the loot and we pick the bones clean. I have found my way into the ivory tower (granted I have to take the back stairs) and now nothing is safe. I will not stop until all the ghetto bitches have infiltrated like rats up the mooring tie. Alight sisters; up...up...to Upper Middle Trash (not mine, that one belongs to Violet).

Night tale

First night of the new year, a dark road through a mountain pass. The Ninja clicks once, twice and captures the first story of the new year: the hare and the tortoise. Which will you be this year? And why?

Nerd Humour

Question: What do computers eat for breakfast?

Answer: click here

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.