Paranthetic Paragraphy

I could live in this paragraph.

Right now, please. Because the one I'm currently messed up with is collapsing. Why the hell did I accept a job as a writer? Really. I ask myself that ten times a day.

(I wonder if their coffee stand is called Paranthetic?)

Irregardless of how it is impacting our language

IMPACT is a noun — the striking of one body against another; collision.

IMPACTED is an adjective — wedged together at the broken ends; prohibiting eruption into a normal position like an impacted tooth.

IMPACTED is often mis-used as a verb — "to have an effect" — and frequently appears in the jargon-riddled remarks of politicians, officials, and analysts.

Though most word nerds disapprove of the use of impact as a transitive verb and the construction "to impact on", the verbal use of impact has become so common in the working language of corporations and institutions, most assume it will eventually become unobjectionable.

"Irregardless" is not a word, regardless of its vernacular use. I shudder whenever I hear it.

messed up monkies

Sigh. I hate when somebody calls me on my whiny bullshit.

Stealth Birthday

Happy Birthday Oksana, my fabulously mysterious friend and GBS compatriot! I love you ms. hottie ninja.

Ephemeral kack

Fascinating. I just tripped into the "merchants of cool" interview, which was a wander off the path, a falling into the sea, and immediately fixated on the section of the interview that speaks the the causal and growing rift between adult and teen: "These days it's just because they [adults] don't have time [to understand the teen generation]. They're time poor. And it's intimidating".

It is scary — losing time, time slipping away, being time poor. I'm turning adult and I don't like it that much. My adult brain is too soaked up and wasted by the ephemeral kack called "working for a living". My attention span is shortening and my ability to think wildly open is closing.

Aldous Huxley is winning the dystopian bet. Life and living free, as constituted by logic, nation, and capitalism, and, yes, even socialism, is reduced to feed the machine we call real. A system's gross and/or control relies on this reality. But it's just one path we've carved deeper and deeper for centuries. It's a curious sphere that most people blissfully navigate in the grumpiest of ways. Why can't it be different? Better? And knowing more? Enlightening?

Why is doing it — life — another way not as real or valid? I am fascinated by the space between a living that is ethical and content, yet often monitarily poor, and a living where personality is reduced by a meted wage. It seems a no man's land.

I wish my state would cast me off to that island resting wildly outside of the Brave New World.

Dirty little group secrets

Remnant email from my time as a jaded-post-raver:
(I'm pretty sure I taught Sunday morning... at least, I think it was Sunday, who knows.)

Sent: Saturday, January 26, 2000 5:28 PM
Subject: weekend workshop: group interventions, dynamics & aspirations

We at Sensitive Group WorksTM invite you to a weekend workshop to make your group better, stronger, and more insular. We promise that after this workshop, nobody will understand your group, nor will your group understand anyone outside of it. Our service is guaranteed, and if you are not satisfied with the results, your group gets its money back!

After some intensive research on our part, we have devised a tentative schedule for your weekend, with your members contributing to help you highlight your strengths and mostly your weaknesses.

Reach out and learn from your own group!

Friday Evening: The Weekend Warm-Up — "All about it!" with Coco Chanel
Artificial enlightenment and its benefit for you and your group!

BYO yoga mats for everybody's new favorite pastime and leave your watch at home. Don't plan on sleeping, for this seminar may take you into the early hours of the morning.

Saturday Morning: The Morning After — "Totally wicked!' with Lorna Laush
Group cohesiveness and why you are important to your group!

Sick of attending all your group functions?
Let Lorna inspire you to always participate!

Saturday Afternoon: Total Group Domination — "What's your problem?" with Mah Belle
Monitoring your group and cultivating your mothering skills!

Are members of your group unwilling to follow the rules?
Helping the group understand why you are right!

Saturday Evening: Cerebral Saturday — "Yes please" with Steve & Gunter
Strengthening group-mind control with ESP

If you can't read the minds of your fellow group members, how can you possibly maintain a united front against outsiders? Learn the patented MindlinkTM from the real originators!

Sunday Morning: Consensus & Politics — "BoingBoing" with Violet Chrome & Lady Bird
Nurturing political correctness and the feminists within.

Coercion and trade-offs are replaced with creative alternatives, and compromise with synthesis. Get it? REALLY? Because we sure don't!

Sunday Afternoon: Sensitive & Caring Brunch — "For sure we're snobs!" with WA Holden, Jack Exass & Jorde Pante
Taking friend lessons, and the brotherhood of cleanliness.

Learn how to make oil and water mix into a zesty Creole, lard, vegan vinaigrette while keeping things clean, dammit (especially your cat's asshole).

We look forward to hearing from your group.
Just remember...
Nobody knows you, your dirty secrets, and your weaknesses better than your group!

Sexy Results

If my breasts could sing and eat cake like this orally fixated pair, I wonder what they'd say about this hypnotic and compelling video by the Gang of Four, mod-discotheque band Death From Above 1979?

Unfortunately my breasts only have nipples — one each — so alls I can do with my talking head is spit out this: the results of "Sexy Results" is not so vanilla sexy really, though it is a fantastic summary of post-post-feminism-cum-metrosexual-male, with a dash of gen y's easy breezy attitude toward media and the naked body thrown into the cultural mix.

Snack on Skullet

I'm devouring Ivan E. Coyote's collection of short stories Loose End like a celled don before a contraband plate of momma's famous spaghetti... I never could chew thirty times before I swallowed.

There are so many tasty tidbits in this book; I want to leave you with a long list of them. But I have decided to act ladylike for once and watch my table manners. So I leave you to macrobiotically masticate on this:

"...a couple of skinny Dungeons & Drangons-looking guys [were] sporting what I call a skullet, which is a guy who's hair is long at the back and gone on the top."

Vespa and Sears bastard child...

The Pa's a car buff, so is the Uncle. And in my lame attempt to talk "old cars" with the males in the family, I mentioned that a co-worker of mine owns a beautiful '63 Vespa Scooter, which is an elegant light grey with white detailing.

So the Uncle excitedly pipes up (but directs his response toward dear old dad), "Remember back in Saskatchewan? They sold Vespa scooters at Simpsons-Sears under the name 'Allstate'?"

Well, my comment failed to get me into the boy's club, but they did spark me with an excellent hipster item that just screams violet: a ghetto version of a vespa. Now that's sort of my ride, don't you think?

I want one. A Simpsons-Sears "Allstate Cruisaire" — that'd make for some heavy ICRS* points.

*Indie Credibility Rating System: those who are seen at the coolest live shows, have the freshest do, and mix with the right people; those who are eternally hunting cool points to flavour them hiper-than-thou, in this here illusion-of-the-moment lifestyle. I use ICRS with all the irony I can muster, but I still play the game... just with monopoly money.

Apocatropolis

I have always loved that fantasy in which some flesh dissolving agent, be it nuclear, chemical or biological, has removed all other people from the city, leaving me (and perhaps some River Phoenix-looking vigilante) alone to explore the reminants of a fragmented society. I used to imagine going into the Harbour Castle in Toronto (my aunt used to live there and it was the Ritziest place I'd ever come across) and searching through all those posh apartments for the necessities of life. Perhaps burning piles of LL Bean catalogues to keep warm. I was always worried about how long canned goods would last, but not to the point where I imagined myself as some Snowman type character, fighting off wild animals for years-old cocktail wienies.

{I was terminally shy in high school and would spend countless hours daydreaming of just such a fate. HEY! If you grew up in a cultural vacuum like I did, you would have done the same. The only street-cred I had in high school was being one of the only two kids within a 50km radius who had access to a satalite dish in the early 90's (read: MTV and HBO). Now ask me why I pine for Julie Brown ("J,J,J is for Julie, U,U,U I love U too-ou-ou, L,L,L love you oh so truly..." I could go on).}

Anyway, where was I going with this?? Oh yes, (I'll call this my Virginia Woolf stream-o-consciousness blog). So I recently stumbled across this website and it stirred up in me that long retired fantasy of being the only person alive in a vast concrete museum. Part of me wishes I had the nerve for urban exploration but the social conditioning has worked depressingly well on me. Sadly, I just don't have the chutzpah. My heart pounds and I get all squeaky until I just cave and gasp "Let's just get outta here". The closest I ever came was when myself and two friends after a show at a local hotel, and after many buckets of ice cold Sols, discovered on our way out, that the pool was unlocked and went for a little unauthorized dip.

sigh.

Karaoke version of "Silent E"

Hey kidlets, sorry for being a "silent v"— the body's been numbing the mind. Got a nasal infection...Thank the snake-healer's god; I just thought I was depressed.

Turns out that my head is not filled with insanity, but thick, green, oozing snot. The doctor actually looking into my ear cavity and said "Yuk". So now I'm on some time-lapsed antibiotics to battle the bod from inside —$100 bucks for killer pills. Sigh.

Remember when I was going off about the '70s kids show "The Electric Company"? I think I was talking about how this show pretty much formed the person I am today (eclectic, ADD, in need of constant stimulation, etc.). Guess what: The Electric Company has a DVD box set coming out, and here's the awesome video trailer for it. For the love of chair, I will get this DVD set and throw an Electric Company Party. You're all invited.

P.S. I found this trailer on Apollo Pony. It is a very charming video blog.

P.P.S. I discovered it whilst touring Johnny Valentine's lapsed blogs: I guess Valentine actually fell into the sea.

Lockdown bitches!

Martha and Lil Kim, together again.

Who doesn't *heart* Perez and milkfat??? The Gwens one is great too.

Oh grow up

What's required here? A requiem, or a celebration? We've all been outed: we don't have to grow up. (Right? Right???) The article's analysis is superficial, but it manages to hit close enough to convey the delicate scent of what--desperation? Or maybe this is just what grown up now is. I don't know. Nice though that they referenced a perpetual favourite photo series, Ari Versluis and Ellie Uyttenbroek's Exactitudes.

That's fucking interesting man...

I'm Meebo: good for you, terrible for business

Got the urge to instant chat, but can't sneak the appy onto your bid-ness hard drive? Because you're working for "the man", and he tracks bandwidth usage like my roomates track their new investments (like it's all a game)?

Well, here's a new IM trick to throw up your IT sleeve: Meebo

Meebo. It's so sly. You can login to all of your instant messaging services without leaving any clues.

Trust me, that pesky IT dude — you know, the one who forgets to clear your login information after he's been sneaking around your e-territory — will be none the wiser. It'll feel so glorious pulling the fibre optics over his eyes.

Now all I have to do is remember my old logins and passwords...

soeksi

indeed about the what else do you do. you hone yourself in to a working, exercising, playing and artmaking machine is what you do. right now it's all got to be fit right in but tomorrow, nae 5 years from now (inspired by the 5 ago) where do you want to be? on call, still answering business questions because it's fun and it's like problems i couldn't be bothered to solve in university (get a fucking calculator and you have to pay me to work with others being catch phrases of days gone by), making pictures and things because that's where ideas sizzle and heaven's only knows, i can't keep'em all to myself. to do so would be rude. the flow is sometimes the very long way around. the right way. the gather yourself and step in to the light way. can't imagine why who has what ideas because nothing's really happened yet. as it happens it actually gets a bit quantum which is not what i see. month after month the art mags arrive - most can be deconstructed to the desperate gasp for air we collectively suck and then sigh. so tediously linear in that you asked for my attention. then added text and told us all the things you were sad about. whatever is our malfunction? we're all guilty some of us even pay for the self flagellation. when you're rich, it's easier to job it out. i wonder if the whole of the art world is but a whore for the mind. for consciousness.

Ride Me

So there was a reason why I saved my old email conversations: torture, tormenting, and telling:

so he has emailed me already. i was telling susie i am
going to wait until he gets rich (he has a frame
company called bastard boy) and then move to
california, grow dreadlocks and teach yoga.

meeting him threw me for a wee loop - i have some serious
shit to deal with regarding my life work. this
office environment (my first real one really) makes
me absolutely ill. diane was but a small segment of
the greater problem and although i have healed from
that event something has ripped through my
subconscious.

boy has made me think about this in
totally indirect way. everyone here hassles me about
what i do. no one knows me so they judge my
appearance and it's what else do you do? when i say
i work for a bank. it's excellent really.
everything, as usual, is most surreal.

Ah, days gone by, and still the tam tam drums beat on...

Knowing me knowingst though, uh huh

Gotta love it when your weekly horoscope prophetizes your future vantage like a wolf crying at the periphery of your intuition:

"....Richard Tarnas... suggests that God is an artist--more in the mold of Shakespeare [art] than Einstein [math]. Your assignment, Gemini, is to practice seeing the world like that: as a sublime work of art crafted by a master of drama, suspense, and storytelling. In my opinion, your life these days is a lyrical example of this divine craft. "

Divine craft – how bewitching. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a unicorn.

(Mata, shouldn't that have been "Warning! Cat POO content!"??? Call me squeamish, but I can only hope those images of Live!Cat!Poo! fade from my brain soon. Cute cats, though. And respect for even attempting to train a cat--not to mention two--to do any damn thing.)

On a less scatological note, this if for those of us (read: me) who sometimes long to move back to NYC:

April 4, 2006, Manhattan


April 4, 2006, Vancouver


Cherry blossoms, sunshine and modernist crab sculpture --how lucky are we?

Warning! Cat Content!

According to Mr. Paul Kunkel author of "How to Toilet Train your Cat", it only takes 21 days to toilet train the average cat. My boyfriend is an optimistic guy who never shys away from a challenge, where as I am more of your laisse-faire kinda girl. So when boyfriend came to me with this "21 days to a litter-free home" project my first question was, "Do I have to actually do anything?" he said "No" and so I heartily agreed to the Cat Toilet Training Project.



The first several stages went surprisingly well. We (read: He) placed the litter box beside the toilet and slowly raised it up until it was at the level of the toilet. We did it a few books at a time so the cats didn't wise up to this ass jacking [I knew those Canadian Health Care Management texts would come in handy some day]. Once we were at the level of the of toilet we had to decide between Mr. Kunkel's two methods: standard or alternative.

The standard method is where you slowly slide the box over each day until it rests on top of the toilet. Once the cat is used to jumping up on the toilet you can remove the box. We quickly learned that our cats are alternative [I suspected].

The alternative method is the toilet-seat-over-the-box method.


My cat, Jones, is 19lbs of furry delight but he's not too bright. He has trouble dialing it in sometimes...


His cat, Arizona, is 8lbs of pretty princess. Her aim is much better...

but she likes to watch...


I'm afraid we can't claim resounding success with the Cat Toilet Training Project. It has now been approximately 11 weeks, we still can't use our second bathroom, we are still buying kitty litter on a regular basis and only one of the cats consistantly hits the bowl...

Maybe Mr. Kunkel's 21 days was a typo...21 weeks maybe?

Poodle Power meets Liger

I know this is old-skool viral, but the "ex-fat girl" in me just had invite the beefy spandex beauty and her pumping-poodle pals to come work the GBs for summer.

(Hmm. I suddenly smell Madonna's freshest rip-off inspiration – two years later.)

Plus, Nagi Noda's jazzy wisdom is rather good:

• The important thing is to be strong.
• Beauty and strength — this is connected to everything in life,
  connected to victory and happiness.
• Victory and happiness is important for everyone.

What a corporate art whore. Good for her, I says. Her next adventure in furry loving — $Hello Panda$ cum Liger of Napoleon Fame — should rake in the c-c-c-cash like a virgin unicorn slut trolling a Las Vegas plushy convention.

Pfft. I'm so sick of this bi/betwixt/between thing... it's so nineties.

Lunar

In my desperation over breaking up, looking for some sense of symbolism to which to attribute meaning, I decided to celebrate Chinese new year. January 29^th. It was, in my mind the date on which he was to depart. This of course was not what was in his mind, but I swore to live by the lunar calendar nonetheless, proclaiming to all and proclivity that I, yes I, would be heretofore on the lunar calendar and that I may in fact sometimes be late for my appointments, due to the lunarness and all. On Monday, that there Monday not felt, I pulled up a wee java lunar calendar and drank in the phases of the moon. Aha! Full moon on Saturday going out absolute mayhem I can’t wait why don’t I email random friend from high school whom I’ve googled to see if she’s alive in between panting breaths of work work work? Turns out she is alive and in Toronto for but 3 days getting some sort of medcan ( dedicated to keeping busy people healthy!) physical thing because she’s just become a vp in an advertising agency. Medcan I reply. Hmmm. Too bad I can’t do that. It’s against my principles to be poked and prodded and samples taken as though I’m an alien (I’ve always felt strongly that executives should travel in popemobile type vehicles and generally live in some sort of protective bubble room reaching though the plastic and clearing their steamy breath to shake hands with the ‘folks’ when introducing change). That and some lifestyle choices of course….. All of this terribly material stuff aside, as I’m telling her all of this 4 martinis in to our first meeting (must put on show!) in 10 fucking years, she leans over and goes what, you’re on the lunar calendar too? I just started following it this year. What – everyone is on the lunar calendar? That’s funny I thought, I emailed her right after fucking with my lunar phases. And she’s about the lunarness. And she’s here. And I’m here. Hear. Sic. Mmm. I’ll have the white chocolate one thanks. Well, I reply, I do have magical powers but this may be more about synchronicity what with you being on the lunar calendar too and all. At which point I launch in to a lengthy slurring monologue on synchronicity, archetypes, and kinetic energy. Will I ever learn to hold my tongue? i see that slight turn of the mouth, which is understanding just about to be feigned, trying to grasp some common thread, from which they can swing as they interject yes, yes, and nod furiously to pump themselves to and fro.

Sooner or later I end up in this place, never known with whom or why what, but they always get that look, and then I hear the sucking sound of the cosmos as the window gets cracked a little too wide open (again!) if only for just a moment, to get some air. but the sound and the fury make me slam it quickly shut with a turn of conversation, a shake of the head, and a wry smile: how is your sister anyways?

Coming to you live, from the cerebruthalymus gland

A week ago the new coworkers finally had the opportunity to ask me (with feigned indifference) what I used to do — you know — before I started here.

Obviously group think had been itching to ask... because the half-lidded eyeballs dozing around the boardroom table suddenly opened wide to fixate on the invisible zit growing between my eyes. I sweated as they waited patiently for my zit to forage a pleasant response.

And damned if I didn't start to do exactly what I told myself not to do: make them feel uncomfortable by taunting their secure sphere of knowing.

Honestly. I had intended on giving them a sweet and blushing Violet spiel that would not expose my "real" personna. But as I started listing my work — or lack thereof — history, I could feel that daemon seed start to blossom in my cerebruthalymus gland.

We'd like to interupt this inner monologue for a special announcement from Violet's cerebruthalymus gland — live and uncensored: Violet hates being all business. She is disgusted by cute little terms like "blue skying" and can't believe that people take themselves seriously at work. Even though she loathes tidy desks, she is fine with cubicles. This single personna, you all seem to have? Don't you have many? A treasure trunk full? No? Just one? Really? How fascinating.

It's always so distracting, this daemon lurking in my grey mass — here I am, trying to communicate with the outer world, trying hard to talk sense and speak in their native tongue, and bam! the seed begins chirping on like a physical itch hurling itself headlong into my voicebox, causing me to choke on my pleasant and elegiac words.

I might even suggest the word possessed. How come I always allow myself to become possessed by the niggling desire to watch a person or crowds' response to information they may not fully comprehend? Flabberghasted and dumbfounded should not be my power words.

Like an errant exclaimation point, I punctuate my work history with a reveal: I write a blog. They stare at me, shocked and awed. I continue to ignore the gap, growing ever wider between me and them. (Ah, the force: now my cerebruthalymus gland has all the power it needs to take over.)

I'm absolutely dumbfounded by their response. Can you believe that in a workplace of sixty, I am the only one who has a blog? Bejeeze. I assumed everyone had one. I figured it wasn't a big thing. To top it off, I mentioned that I am the webmistress for an online lifestyle magazine. More big eyes. Boy this Internet machine is mysterious to some. Who knew?

I gather my wits and decide to end this conversation now, before I say something really curious. So I politely mention that my blog has nothing to do with work and guarantee them that I have no interest in writing about my co-workers or my work experiences. Eyes glaze.

"Why don't you write about work?" one asks in an almost offended tone.

Mwaaah ha ha screams my cerebruthalymus gland: "I now have the power, you cannot control me."

"Well," I paused, "because the whole goal of maintaining a blog is to retain a part of my identity that I choose not to show at work. I'm trying to keep parts of my identity separate so they continue to thrive and grow..." and, quite honestly, though you're all so very nice, you're also all truly boring.

(As my cerebruthalymus gland is chatting pseudo-philosophically away to my agog coworkers, I am telling the little fucker that I intend to order a full labotomy at lunch. My cerebruthalymus gland continues on, unphased by my idle threat.)

"What do you mean you have different identities — like multiple personalities?" dude asks.

"It's now called dissociative identity disorder," I reply, mentally smack my facturrets head, and continue on full throttle , "Oh, you know," (why do I always assume they do), "because work can numb all that you've worked to become," (smack. smack. smack.)

Life's my science experiment, but I always end up the guinea pig. Funny thing is, this time my cerebruthalymus gland did good. Seemed to work. I have gained a weird respect, not a weird moniquer.

Maybe it's because I no longer care if I get fired.

Monday Gnome

I'm just not feeling Monday. Not at all.

My cohort put the "Coco in Chanel" on the Friday night dancefloor, but what the hell can I do on a Monday at work? Put the violent in chrome? I'm feeling terribly angry gnome.

wasting thyme

Such a happy happy Friday! Friday! Bounce in step, feeling fit and vital for the first time in wow has it been 6 months? 4 months of breaking up is hard to do? Humming and hip shaking through the day. Yoga Friday night involving 5 minutes in each pose and dark circles under the eyes as relaxation melted deep tissues and shifted bones. Home. Corona. Snack. Text message. Come out. Am with ad boys after shoot having drinks - at the annoying queen street fabulous spot that we ab-whore (if only because of the precarious situation known as ‘total financial ruin’). Text back. Am on way. 10 minutes. Perfect. Must wind self up several notches to fly in to the night sans plan. Get to spot, move upstairs where crew is deeply ensconced in drinks where girlfriend is spotted with 12 men. Yes, 12. Drinks start flowing my way with the precision timing of a factory conveyor belt. Lychee martinis, lemon drops, gin martinis, jaegermeister, champagne, white wine. In something approximating that order. Hmm. Of the 12 11 are single. we are the fresh meat (fresh to death! I exclaim later in the evening to but one barely lucid chuckle). We are 2 and can take on 11. an ancient martial art that is felt not seen, heard not done, just been. The conversation is utterly inane and is this: entirely sex and the city. if you had to cast it everyone would be highly accomplished and hopelessly bitter – art directors, photographers, architects, lawyers and hangers-on et. al. some highlights:

Who’s the girl?
Wanna make out?
If we go fuck can she come too?
I think my problems with my father stem from the fact that he had me when he was 39 and he had a stroke last year………..
I became ________ because I was idealistic but now I’m so jaded, my work is meaningless, it’s all a game and everyone’s out to fuck ___________________

Really.

Then somehow the 2 girls and the 12 men get in cabs and head to the strip club. for your eyes only: All Nude Executive Strip Club. Today, as I walked to brunch (and only as i walked to brunch) it occurred to me that this was a strange thing to do given the ratio. Strange to the girls that is. and tortuous to the boys. As homo erotic as organized sports to be sure…. Many highly charged men in a grown-up version of a circle jerk. charming! Strip club is 80’s neon but reasonably well appointed (executive!) and all the girls are pleasant and relaxed. We plan to return shortly with a gaggle of girls. Seems like the perfect warm up spot somehow. I get asked by our host for the evening to take a tour of the upstairs which encircles the club – sure, why not. I’m totally in control here and I’m awfully (wasted) curious to see why you want to go upstairs and what’s there. More naked girls. Everywhere. I get the uncontrollable urge to plant kisses on our host. Heel! Restraint! Whore-mones! This is not the time, place or situation for many many reasons. Visit upstairs culminates in cigarette snuggled deep in a black leather sofa. Then back downstairs. spot non dancing girls so pop over for some reconnaissance. putting the coco in chanel. We break it down. Climate change, politics, religion, why sha ne ne should not go with girl A to do dude B and off I return to the ever more awestruck table. we’re down to 8. The conversation scraps quoted above should surely not leave dear reader wondering why girls were the better way…….

In describing the evening to my sister, it was explained that our time at the one-eyed-hooker was simply excellent and that I plan to return again soon, soon, for a deeper dive in to a pocket of society that is somehow strangely compelling. Feminist studies on the fly in the belly of the beast. I’ve always felt it best to get up close to things… I will be sure to keep you postage. and very very loco.

Obnoxious Limos Patronize 40

A smoking celebration for the roomate's big 4-oh-my.

He was floored. Who would've guessed that the 30-person, stretch SUV limo waiting outside was for him?

Thanks to our fabulously furry hosts for organizing the debautchery
on — way too many — wheels.

Smoke machine, disco ball and beer.

And a limo filled with Vancouver's finest artists...
How chic is that?

This box is empty

From minimalist to monsterous in under 2 minutes: Microsoft designs the iPod package

_____________________________

Update: One shadowy monkey named Blazer Williams pointed out that Microsoft actually created this parody— three cheers for internal leakage.

Life slips sideways

Alright Oksana, I'll see your challenge... and raise you one GBS image (okay. okay. I was maybe 21 here, but who can keep track of time when you've lived in the same apartment for 10+ years?):

1. Where did you live?

• Here, in this 100-year-old brick building with my two roomates. Currently, yammering yellow monsters shake the speakers off my desk. And the people upstairs are polishing their hardwood floors my ceiling at 7 am. But, I'll tell you, all this noise is better than an alarm clock: you can't snooze the ceiling from falling in, or "Buddy!" and "Hey, dude!" megaphoned from the cavernous ditch that used to be the sidewalk. Of late, well...I have been having terror-istic fantasies.
  

2. Who did you love?

• A heart-shaker, a mood breaker, a man-child who professed to "have no feelings". (Thought he was being lovingly dramatic. Apparently not.)

3. Where did you work?

• A place where I drank on the job, listened to Musak, and won an award for "best Vancouver Ambassador 2000". It was a fun couple of months. I think I received $40 dollars in gift certificates to a renown nipple-sucking shooter bar here in Vancouver.

4. What were you listening to?

• Mphfft. Mfptfft. Mphfft. WawoughWawough. Mphfft. Mfptfft. Wawough. Wawough. Tweeee. Tweeee. I wanna know-ow. I wanna know-ow. Feel the bass. Mphfft. Mfptfft. Feel the bass. I'm in extasy. I feel the extasy. High-ah. High-ah. I feel the bass. Can-yah feel the bass?

5. What was your state of mind?

• See above.

6. Where did you imagine being now?

• Anywhere but here. Maybe richer. Maybe famous-er. But it's pretty excellent being here; I just couldn't imagine this state back then. It wasn't on the hierarchical timeline. I went rivulet on the straight stream. Very interesting waters.

7. What is the biggest lesson you have learned since then?

• Life slips sideways.

Five years ago game

Where did you live?
Who did you love?
Where did you work?
What were you listening to?
What was your state of mind?
Where did you imagine being now?
What is the biggest lesson you have learned since then?

All useful questions, looking back and looking forward. Especially if progress sometimes feels difficult to measure.

For me, the answers read this way:
A loft in Gastown, all bricks and fir and open space.
K. He still loved me then, too.
I was in school, doing my Master's. I was off to New York to do an internship at Esquire.
Wilco.
Happy, hopeful, free, nothing to lose, everything to gain.
Where I am now, career-wise, but only in my wildest dreams. Romantically... not here. Good thing we don't always get what we want.
That I can survive anything. That I am more beautiful and smart and independent than I knew I could be. That you come through and go farther and everything changes and nothing stays the same, but it's alright. It's all alright.

Spring Sprung

Spring. Sprung. Sprought. Sprouting. Spree-gotten: I've got the fever, for the flavour.

He worms my mouth

Bjork fatigue hit me about five years ago, and Matthew Barney is dangling his artful willie precariously close to that culture-whore periphery, but I am oh so excited about his next beautiful monstrosity entitled Drawing Restraint 9.

Mommy, how much longer?

Here's something to dampen the tic-tic-ticking of that rumoured mommy clock: gallery of demonic tots. Got your attention? Good. Then, remember to snap on your love glove.

fugh

saturday morning. modern dance class. black tights. black bodysuit. ratty t-shit. keep fussing with hair it looks like shit then it's in my eyes back to shit again in my eyes finally the bathroom fuck it!

so i'm getting tribal on the one's and two's. a wee bit out of my element but fuck it, it's saturday morning with a bunch of chill people, some drums and some earth dancing. then what's his hippie cupcake fuck shows up (who i'd finally met for dinner the week before to explain that being single means for me to be alone, and not for you to be in love with me, and with your brazilian girlfriend from 2 years ago, who you haven't seen since. i will leave that bizarre love triangle for someone else to cipher). so he shows up, dramatically pokes his head in the classroom (left! right!) and then runs in to set up his goddamned tam tams.

pan to the tam tams. i need to bring you up to speed:



from the stuffing of cupcakes in the mouth era (they move quickly now): the hippie couldn’t kiss me because he was thinking about his girlfriend from 2 years ago in brazil who was on his mind because apparently he was ‘falling’. in love. with me. that night i had such a flashback to the early days with what’s his other fack - it's like i wormholed right back to this place we got to when i was crackers and everything was transactional and there was none of the sexual fabric that makes you want to peel off your panties and start screaming in japanese. FUCK THAT GUY. FUCK HIM. mister sensitive hippie went too fucking far with his honesty and left me feeling like a whore. somehow i end up with someone who takes me to this charming place. eats my fucking food, bitches that there is no wine left all WAH, this would go really well with a nice glass of red wine of which there is none left as he eyes the empty bottle. fuck him. fuck everyone. At this point i am so utterly and ROYALLY pissed off and insensed i cannot even see straight. sitting there all high and mighty on his goddamn hippie horse. all i'm confused - i really care about you - help me i'm falling – i care for this other girl but here, why don't i stick my cock the fuck in you? well friend, it's time we spent less time together and more time apart, you stupid ballerina hippie fuck go play your goddamn tam tams in the park.

a bit harsh yes but so necessaire. SO. he runs in to class and starts drumming away, the picture of contentment. why don't i come play for my woman, to show her the ways of the hippie? look at me in the centre where all eyes are cast on me me me. that's right - dance towards me as you fly across the room. make love to me with your eyes and your body as you fly, heaving yourself through time and space in a way one can only do hungover on a saturday morning. dance to the beat i drum for you as we complete the tribal cycle of life....

my girlfriend and i both lose our minds, fuck up our moves and start to wage war against him in the most silent screaming conversation ever, spluttering, eyes twitching, again insensed. we storm out after class - my foot now injured with rage, change and walk out the door of the studio without a word or a look back, moving quickly and purposefully, lest any of this escaped him. he summed up in those moments all that i disliked him for - his incredible need for attention and desire to look at women in tight clothes iced by the terribly inappropriate hippieness of it all.

after dinner last week he had sent his resume to me to get an information interview at my company. then tam tams. then rage. then delete.

Is design political?

Is design political?

Don't know if I learned anything new, but Jennie Winhall's relatively comprehensive survey article on the politics of design (the preference shaping section is interesting) and the design of politics is worth a skimming read... the Adbuster's / Supersize Me section is obvious political pap to us cultural lackeys, but this fact-made-obvious is worth investigating:

"In 2001, design and politics hit the news big time when it was revealed that Florida's badly designed butterfly ballot could have cost Al Gore the U.S. presidency."

Want to know more about ethical design (jumbo shrimp)? Check out RED. RED is a 'do tank' within the UK Design Council that develops innovative thinking and practice on social and economic problems through design.

Violet is the new black

Uh. Looks like "Violet" is a common cyber-pseudonym. (Why can't I be unique? Why?) One Violet Blue exists out there in cyberspace. Fortunately I dig this blushing Violet. She looks like she could hussle any GBS hussy.

She reminds me of sister slush. They both have this dirty betty crocker thing going on; Dear Abbies for the cyber-punk generation.

These days, tips on how to safely surf porn sites is rather practical advice. And as conservative as the Abbster herself.

Jeff Goldblum is watching you poop

Get up and do it

Three hours in the sun and air and blue sky doing taiji with swords this morning. My lungs still feel gigantic and my blood like champagne.

It must be the sun. I feel like I am thawing.

Even my house is full of wind and light. So I take a risk and put on Fannypack, whose beat-ificness I thought all through the dark days had been part of some kind of mass hallucination on all of our--and we know who we are--parts.

Fucking relief that it makes sense again, it and everything that goes along with it: air, water, bass, beer, girls, green trees. I feel like I've forgotten all of them for months and months and months and months.

GBSII: I think it's coming soon.

pot-au-feu pussy

So I'm sitting in the kitchen nook this morning, having coffee with the roomies and a house guest when Veese suddenly announces that our pal's cat Merkin died recently at the ripe old age of 18.

This fact was certainly out of context, as we were just discussing the best porn video titles— the funniest, we all agreed, was "Weapons of Ass Destruction". (Bet'cha there are a lot of Bush's soulless patches scatting around in that video.)

I was suspicious Veese was baiting my innocence and using the cat story as a vehicle to cast the word "merkin" out into our scintillatingly academic, Saturday morning conversation.

Merkin. The word sounded oddly familiar to me. I was sure I'd heard it before. Its definition was hanging off the edge of my... Veese was now madly giggling over the word merkin like a 17-year-old boy with mirrors on his shoes, so I knew whatever the word meant, it was a pretty, dirty thing.

So obviously, I googlismed it. That's right, merkin is slang for a pubic hair wig.

By the looks of them, pubic hair wigs have come a long way since 17th centruy prostitutes used them to cover up their syphillitic scars. Merkin's have truly evolved into a much, much brasher, acerbicically witty thing (hurraugh feminism).

Really — why buy a natural looking merkin, when you can buy a supernaturally fake pubic hair wig (see above photo)? Why not put your treasure trail to good use — since it's valued real estate — and honour your country right at the origin of the species?

I dig this gay little wikipedia fact:

"In gay slang, a merkin means the "official" male companion of a closeted female homosexual used to help allay suspicion that she is a lesbian, the male equivalent of a beard.

It's all chickens and eggs, really. Who cares what came first, when it's all about the Archaic Mother's soul patch.

Did you catch this post's title: pot-au-feu pussy? As I type, I'm feeling this stunning little phrase entering my list of commonly used slang like heroin poured through the ear of Hamlet's pa... even though it is Nabokovian in origin. I'll take Shakespeare over that slacker any day. Shakespeare, I'm sure, would be down with the merkin. Nabokov, on the other hand... well, he ain't taking on any pussy that's lived past 18.

keep me postage loco

och. where to begin. it's important to go back to the beginning or the middle in this or it wasn't worth doing at all. there have been points at which i felt the computer scream fatal error! imminent death! hakkefleisch! and there have been points at which i felt that i was becoming human. participating in all of the classic problems. i fell in love. marched right in to the fiery inferno of love. was loved. was made complete. got restless. looked under stones and picked up twigs. felt love. for someone else. but i didn't love. i felt feelings rush like espresso. something powdered with power. i was offended. got pissed off. i stopped the tide of love. retreated. the tables got turned. i felt betrayal. anger. crushed. consumed. like i wasn't getting to the things i needed to and needed to get this over with. i felt thirst. to devote. myself. to thoughts. to play in a space that was old but new again. to choose to do so. to listen to myself. to ask myself questions. to rethink. to relearn. to challenge. to recognize myself. then more rage. financial ruin. empathy for the world in that i thought i remembered that this had all happened before. to other people. that i had jumped in the arena. was finally living. was screaming. facing myself. this is me? i want to be good. acceptable. to you. but all i do is quietly challenge. nothing. i felt extreme violence. i, the most passive. aggressive. to face that i express visually. and quickly. that your conversation bores me. that when you bore me i want to hit you. that there is so much to say i need to compress and expand and shock. i need to hit myself as much as i need to hit you to make you stop talking. to beat you in to linear regression. in as subtle and furious a way that makes sense to my flawed existence. i need to rationalize and to blur. to excoriate and subterfuge. to mine the things in between things. to embrace logic and data and absolute babble. to jump in to idea space and shake my head until thoughts fly. to get in to that room of conception. walk in the god damned door. lock it. break it down. walk out. peer over the edge of things and fall the fuck off. i feel so much anger i don't know where to begin. it's anger at myself. anger about the illusion. the fantasy world that i occupate.

it's time to break up the icono with a little clast – it’s spring.

time to go ghetto.

Pop Psychology Time!

Am I the only person in the world for whom letters are gendered?

This is not something that I have engineered. Since I was a child my letters have always had an assigned, fixed gender. I always figured that everyone's letters had a gender until one night (undoubtedly by the light of the green lantern) my ex and I were talking and my peculiar alphabetical sex assignment came to light. He thought I was making it up and made me write out all the letters in the alphabet, along with their particular gender. He then spent half the night quizzing me to see if he could trip me up. I completely freaked him out by being able to state each character's gender with 100% accuracy (according to me). It's not very post-modern of me, but all my letters have a gender and those genders never change.

I still have the sheet that we wrote it out on. It's on the back of a flyer for a ronnie burkett show (Who, by the way, is amazing. If you ever get a chance to see any of his shows, you must!).

Here is the list in a slightly expanded form:

a = the matriarch
b = boy
c = girl
d = boy
e = male (e and f are the Ace and Gary/Bert and Ernie of my alphabet)
f = male
g = strong girl
h = male
i = female but in an asexual/sterile kinda way
j = girl, of course
k = male
l = male
m = guy
n = guy
o = female
p = female
q = female a la Janet Reno
r = strongly male
s = strongly female (maybe 'cause she's so curvaceous)
t = masculine female
u = frumpy female a la Laura Bush
v = femme fatale
w = male in a Dad kinda way without being patriarchal (see below)
x = male (curiously opposite to the way science has labeled things)
y = woman (also curiously opposite to the way science has labeled things)
z = male (definitely the patriarch)

I've often wondered if I could blame my atrocious spelling on this unique way that I interact with letters and language. My numbers also have gender and my math is worse than my spelling...

I feel a doctoral thesis in there somewhere.

Philly - Even Cooler Without the Steak

I'm in Philly at the moment, doing my first bid-ness trip ever. And I have to say, Philadelphia may just be my favourite American city so far. That's right, I may even like it better than NYC. Shock, awe and blaspheme, I know.

Philadelphia is stylish, design-y and chill... without the hippie underpinnnings. Everybody here has a hip and sway to them that is confident, but not brash; they are all uniquely hip without the hipster cheeze. I can't quite explain it within the remaining few seconds of battery power, but Philly utterly lacks any pretention that is associated with the Indie Credibility System, and yet there are cool kids everywhere. It's like people here don't have to try not-to-try here. They just be. I dig it.

The streets are quaint and inviting; every street has an inviting restaurant, bar or cafe located on it, that is not a part of a "chain" (except the occasional Dunkin' Donuts). The buildings are beautiful, especially the brownstones — they are utterly fabulous. It's like Sesame Street without the garbage.

And the best thing yet? I have not seen a single 7-11. Ahhhh.

East Market Street is where all the cool is at: the restaurants are have amazingly creative decor that doesn't seem contrived or forced, again nothing here seems painfully over-designed. I ate at "fork', a conservative, yet warm and inviting place to eat.

I never thought I'd fall in love with Philly, but I have. I only wish I had more than four hours to check it out... Philly: you're my kind of town.

Personal archaeology

10 pm and should be working
on my first feature article
ever for national magazine,
looming due...
[that on top of film delivery,
starting business,
day job...
god am busy though
not complaining]

but:
i've been bugged by this recurring image
of past boyfriends as
geological layers
strata and substrata
according to assigned significance.

want to blog this with pictures
of each of their hands
no time for that though
just for the layers and their detritus.

layer G is the lowest-
yields first fragments of love
and healthy families
how they work
and can be,
full of generosity
and reciprocity.
a foundation for how i know
mine can someday be.
also contains the broken shards of
first heartbreak.
colour is bleached blonde
and dark brown.

[layer C, just below it, is only a green-eyed sliver
of muscle and dust
well placed
precious
fine
and as light
and insubstantial
as sixteen.]

layer J (above G)
is grey
and gold
and full of creativity
food
wine
jazz
dub
pot
forests
adventure
warm water
and incense.
also contains bits and pieces of
wasted time and effort
depression [his]
and cut cords.

layer C is the black of lust and
danger.
every girl should have one and
move on
fast as possible.

layer K
is all about abundance
and lack
you can see the
fat seasons
and dry droughts in this one.
from this layer i have scraped
the tiny
gold nuggets
and tucked them into my bosom
where they belong.
gold is mine now
i am my own gold.
this layer remains the dark of black soil
untilled.

the little intervening layers are fun
but narrow
red soil of joy
orange soil of play
on a hot afternoon
weird soils you basically forget
except for that weird tattoo
or irish accent.

ok enough of this self indulgence
had to do it though.

nice to be where i am now, i must say.
on the surface, with a companion
who is not soil at all
more like sunlight.

My (Hipster) Crowd

Though we seek anonymity, we choose to submerge our autonomy, instead roaming nomadically through shifting cultural landscapes in pack-like groups.

When we, the hipster generartion, enter elaborate and clandestine public rituals lasting only 7 ADD seconds, what are we seeking? Self? Same? Erasure?

And are we supporting the de-individuation or de-evolution of culture? Or something else?

Take the time to read flash mob creator Bill Wasik's Harper's essay, "My Crowd: Part 1: Or, Phase 5: A report from the inventor of the flash mob". Not only is it a brilliant little essay, it'll also help you to enlighten and question your hipster ways.

Body Before Console

Identity before brain: body before console —
What powers the knowing eye?

Programmer or Serial Killer?

As I was taking a leisurely stroll through the wilds of the world wide web, I came across this question: "Did you know the first computer programmer was a woman?"

"Why no," I thought to myself, "I didn't".

Then I told myself, "aspect-of-self who I call 'Violet', this mystery woman may just compliment the current roster of GBS patron saints" (who are currently Lady Scorpion, Mae West, and Kali).

"Yes, self," I myself decided for this GBS spectre of self, "Skip writing about your other self's trip to Thailand and just write about the fact that the first computer geek was a chick."

And besides, our mascot — you know, the Girl Guide who pitched her own tent — could use a smart, nerdy friend around here; the other bitches are a bad influence on her, always dragging Boy Scouts into GBS to tempt her innocence.

So I googled "first computer programmer" to find the name of our new patron saint, and of course something way more interesting came up... a quiz entitled: Program Language Inventor or Serial Killer?

I know my serial killers. I got 9/10. They're always the ones you least expect.

Take the quiz and view all the creepy pictures: the programmers are unkept and have this wild look in their eye, while the killers are nattily dressed (except one) and dead calm. The shock and awe of it: there's a programmer who also happens to be a serial killer.

That dude should be the subject of a TV movie of the week...doh... right, focus girl: the GBS patron saint for this week is: Ada Byron Lovelace

And, no, she didn't marry "that Byron" — she sprung out of his loins.

Wait a second.

Now I'm starting to think about Byron and Shelly: two sensitive guy pals who saw the smarts in women:

• Percy spit out a daughter bedded Mary, the woman who wrote Frankenstein,
• And Lord B. sprung another who invented the first program language.

Wow... If I decide to get knocked up, I'm bedding me a poet...

My New Local

In the epic wasteland of Vancouver scenesters and flavour-of-the-week watering holes, I think I may have found my niche. Right along the lines of The Atlantic Trap and Gill (minus the hot turkey sandwiches) is Curl at the Marpole Curling Club (8730 Heather Street). I can't say enough about it. I fell in love with this place during my first visit last week.

What's in store for you should you venture down to the ass end of town? Jethro Tull on the Hi-Fi and glasses of wine (you get your choice of red or white) for $2.95 and they fill’er right to the top. You can even curl a bit if you feel like it. Thursday is Business Ladies Night. Get out there and network girls!

Oh sure, I have tried denied my white trash heritage in the past but this place brings it all screamin’ to the surface. It reminds me of the period in my life when my family lived in Atikokan (which is two hours NORTH of Thunder Bay in Ontario). We lived there for four years and my mother used to curl every winter. I don’t think she particularly liked it but it helped to stave off the winter-induced suicidal ideation. My sister and I spent many an hour sitting in the curling lounge eating boiled hotdogs and reading Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books.

I call for the first GBS field trip.

Major Arcana

LOVE this 70's rock tarot deck from local design guy Bienvenido Cruz. Rock on!

The Mata Sutra

We didn't learn everything from our mothers.

Not to slag on them: they were women with their own lives and troubles, who unquestionably loved us, no matter how complicated our relationship with them was, or remains. (Mine finally feels as if it is slowly untangling.)

But it's strange to think of the weird little biases and prejudices we hand on, or pick up. In my case:

Buy only black shoes. Any other colour is impractical.
One purse is enough. Black.
One coat is enough.
What's makeup remover? Use baby oil.
What's shaving cream? Use soap.
There is no such thing as lipliner, or makeup brushes. The little brush that comes in the eyeshadow container is fine.
You look better in navy blue than black.
Wear flats, not high heels.
Spices are dried things that live in a cupboard. It's OK to keep them for a decade.
Lack is the paradigm: abundance isn't yours.

These stuck with me for a long, long time. It has taken me a long time to shake them.

On the other hand, she also taught me:

Jumping on the bed is a fun thing to do.
You can run around India and endanger yourself and still be loved, few questions asked.
Singing in the house is a sign of happiness.
Cleaning is rewarding.
Women work, and are thus both cool and strong.

Later I learned what her story was. How affected she was by her own mother (mad, selfish and largely absent). I don't judge her for what she gave and didn't, how she alternately (and I'm sure unintentionally, both loved and crushed me.) She was 26 when she had me, for fuck's sake, she looked like the girl on the Modess package up there. Ten years younger than I am now. God. We were talking the other day about how much has changed since she was a girl: think sanitary belts, think that there is nothing left in the world priced at 49 cents.

So I thank her for the Mata Sutra, all that she taught me, the good and the bad, what I had to learn and what I had to unlearn, or learn for myself.

...

On a completely other note, just how cheesily fabulous is Legends of the Fall?



Total melodrama, the gorgeous Julia Ormond and Brad Pitt (both luscious and wrinkle-free, just like we all were twelve years ago, I suppose) and best of all, you can do the spot-the-Gastown streets in the city scenes. Once again, the Alberta landscape steals the show.

Burning Chrome

Mercifully, the whole thing is starting to fade, to be-

come an episode. When I do still catch the odd glimpse,

it's peripheral; mere fragments of Violet Chrome,

confining herself to the corner of an eye. There was

that flying-wing liner over Vancouver last week, but

it was almost translucent. And the shark-fin roadsters

have gotten scarcer, and freeways discreetly avoid un-

folding themselves into the gleaming eighty lane

monsters she was forced to drive last month in her rented

Toyota. And I know that none of it will follow her to

Bangkok; her vision is narrowing to a single wave-

length of probability. She's worked hard for that. Tele-

vision helped a lot.

Travel Tips from Friends

• bring condoms (this was everybody's first recommendation).
• you don't need malaria pills where you're going, but you can still ride the elephants.
• don't bother taking the dysentery pills; you'll lose tons of weight (eww).
  
• just buy some flip flops when you get there.
• it's hot there.
• it's totally hot there.
• you're going to soak in your own sweat.
  
• make sure to eat the papaya salad.
• don't bother with Bangkok, just head to the beaches.
• make sure to bring your passport.
• if a deal looks too good to be true... it is.
• seriously, once you get there, if you don't want to come back... don't.

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."