My hero

I could talk on and on about
all the amazing spandex costumes
on spandexman.com.

Underroos, fetishes, man-boys,
Plato's notion of true love,
packages, the beauty of
skin-colour fabric.

Or I could just freak out about the "Click to change" view buttons on the site. That, in my humble opinion, really sells these unitards.

So much expression.
They're jaunty and casual and you can tell
these men just love wearing them.
Mega panache.

So je ne sais quois...

Who's dreams? Your dreams? My dreams.

I met an amazing woman this summer, who, for the most part (if you glanced over the tragic relationship with the man who she was with for 20 years, whom she still co-owned her home with, but did not live with since he had decided to have an affair with the renter of their previous home on the same property about five years ago, but whose son and his girlfriend she still entertains as if it were her own son and guest in the home that his father is not allowed to live in since he still has 'relations' with the new woman), has had a good life. She has a lovely little house with a beautiful garden, pictures of her travels all over the world, and a smile that beckons even the most shy out of the shadows.

I want those things (save the tragic relationship, which, hopefully, is behind me) now. I want to have the intensely satisfying career and the cozy home on the beautiful property and wisdom etched into the backs of my hands from the sands of Morocco and from washing potatoes to store for the winter. I want free time to figure out the best recipe for using up the last of the huckleberries and accolades from my peers all over the world. And I have to wait. I have to wait probably as long as she did, and considering she is 40 years older than me, that might be quite some time.

But, in the age of immediate gratification and lack of patience for developing self, that sounds like a lifetime. Strange thing is, it is. And it probably felt like it then.

No syns for synonym

So you you intend to type "bacteria" into an online dictionary search field, but key in synonym by mistake. Curious, you think to yourself — is there a synonym for synonym? Guess what.

There is no synonym for synonym.

Paglia snacks on Antoinette

Heck. I've always gotten a kick out of rubble rousing Camille Paglia. She certainly knows how to get the media's attention — at least she did back in the days of Madonna-styled feminism (which by the way I prefer to the current Britney-styled mommyism).

Speaking of bitches... I have to give her some sort of nod for dishing about our queen bitch "Marie Antoinette and why she is back in vogue..."

Personally, I would have liked to see her take on gen y in this view, but alas, she went the way of post 9/11 times. Everybody's doing it. And Paglia has never really been a vanguard when it comes to theory.

Invisible cake is so much easier to digest. Though not half as fulfilling.

Shadowing art works

Feed the right side of your brain writing from Vancouver's left side: Doppelganger magazine. They are devoted to publishing lively, intelligent, and critical writing on visual art and literature.

They are interested in boundaries.
Boundaries, they are interested in.
Interested in boundaries, they are.
In boundaries, they are interested.
Are they interested in boundaries?

Love affairs are like words. If you stare at them too long they deconstruct before your eyes and lose their meaning. It is better to scan them briefly to get the sentence of your heart.

Technological Smackdown

So the boy has been in Vegas for T=longtime.

Since he's been gone I've learned a lot.

a) I touch my face too much
b) If I let my hair air dry, I really do look like Lou Ferrigno
c) I have WAY over plucked my right eyebrow
d) bathrobe...mmm, hot

Thank you iChat, for crushing my burgeoning self image.

Reptilian hot buttons

Coco Chanel, the awesome bitch that she is, just sent me this passage...
because it made her think of me:

Rapaille subscribes to the triune brain theory, which describes three
distinct brains: the cortex, limbic, and reptilian. Beneath the
cortex, the seat of logic and reason, is the limbic, which houses
emotions. Camouflaged underneath those is Rapaille's baby--the
reptilian--the layer wired by our biological primal needs like sex,
reproduction, and survival.

"The reptilian always wins"--that's Rapaille's mantra. "So you have to
discover the reptilian hot button, whatever you want to do--design an
airplane, sell diamonds--what is the reptilian brain?" Whereas bad
advertising only taps into the cortex ("Buy this paper towel to clean
up a spill!"), mediocre ads appeal to the cortex and the limbic ("Buy
this paper towel to clean up a spill and reduce stress!"). But truly
effective campaigns nail all three ("Buy this paper towel to clean up
a spill, reduce stress, and satisfy your maternal reptilian desire to
relieve your son's shame at making the spill in the first place!").

I can't wait to locate my reptilian hot buttons. Hisss.

Freshtastic fall

Something monumental has happened to me this summer — what with a broke-down computer, a move and a wedding to end all weddings — but I haven't had time to think about what all of it means, in the grand scheme of things. I think it's time to pool my thoughts for a spell and just soak in it. Then I will towel myself off, wipe the rot off and move on and on and on and on.

I think last weekend was the final polish on my summer monument, a greasy reality shot if you will. After spending a lovely, trying and reflective weekend with a gang of old friends, I know it's time to wipe the slate — 'cause the slate is chalk full of kack. I think the only way I can shuck the husk is to walk away. Shuck anything that caters to my old self (this is sounding like the premise for a self-help book).

But the job is a sticking point. As is my location in this wide world. I am unsure of how to unseat myself. I guess I just need to dive into the pool and portage myself to Toronto. Voyeur-geur. So if anyone is driving that way in the next couple of months, let me know. I make an excellent co-pilot.

Why cremation is the way to go

Sex with dead bodies is like so totally taboo. But three Wisconsin Men don't think so. Their theory? If you don condoms, "sex with dead bodies" is the new black... Tres macabre.

And yet, tres blase. These guys are totally "normal" dudes who decided this would make for an interesting way to pass time. How do three people all agree they have a desire to hae sex with dead bodies? Just how do you bring that up as a topic of conversation? The mundanity of it all is what creeps me out the most.

Thanks Drudge for reminding me why cremation is the way to go, when you decide to go.

Nature Podcasts

When I was growing up, I was only allowed to watch a half hour of television programming per day. But I could extend that limit if I was watching a movie like the Wizard of Oz or The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers — stuff my parents like to watch.

Then one evening, my parents decided to amend the half hour rule by adding that I was only able to watch an hour of nature shows or public programming per day. (Even though it seemed out of the blue, I'm guessing my dear mom had tea with the other mothers that morning where they had all agreed that our social health and welfare depended on us viewing killer whales slaughtering baby seals.) Trust me, slow shots of a lion sleeping, voice professional with coma-inducing narrative, and no muppets can kill an ADD child. And make one even more unpopular on the playground.

But now that I am old like my parents I am absolutely into coma-inducing programming that investigates meaningful things — like male infertility, how the brain categorises visual information and and the death of a star.

If you want to get all Nature with me, have a listen to Nature's Podcasts. Learning is cool kids.

In Which, I Show You My Drawers

I have a drawer.

I have always had it.

Even as a kid, when my dresser was 12 centimeters taller than I was and had 4 big drawers and 2 little ones, I had this drawer. I have this drawer now; even though my dresser is 2 feet shorter than I am and only has 3 drawers that pull out only half way.

My drawer is a rainy day repository.

It has all this crazy, precious stuff in it that I rarely wear...and yet...that stuff has it's very own drawer.

Every once in a while I dip into it...like when I'm feelin' a little sassy or a little sad. Some days you need finger symbols and other days you need mohair socks your mom knit for you. My drawer has it all.

It not just a diva drawer though.

It contains utilitarian pieces as well...like my single pair of add-a-cup foamies (I mean, honestly, who cares if your foamies don't match your bra?) and that extra long, single strap that turns your plain ol' strapless bra into a versatile piece of fashion machinery.

It's a good drawer.

When I was kid it had even better stuff in it. It held silky, polyester scarves and hand-med-down Estee Lauder cosmetic bags with Barbie brushes and Lemon/Lime lip gloss stashed them.

It was great drawer.

That drawer is everything that is great about being a girl...even if you don't pull it out all that often.

Combat karaoke bullies now

Picture this: you're in a karaoke bar when some random karaoke king approaches you, gin and tonic sloshing all over his hands.

He's in your face, shoving the greasy plasticized playlist up your nostrils while his teeth-nipped fingers pummel the listing for a captain and tennielle song. He's screaming "duet", while he spittles on your decollete. He's using his other hand to madly wipe the steaming sweat off his brow. He's plunging your puny little chest with the golden microphone. He's clawing at your wrists, trying to drag you on stage.

Better think sharp, girl. You've got a karaoke bully on your hands.

There's only one solution to such a common problem: The Zuiikin Gals. They're here to help you fight karaoke bullies. Not only will they whip you into shape, they'll also teach you key phrases that will help you rid yourself of karoake kings, forever.

Watch this video to learn how.

SINKing into consciousness

If "double income no kids" are DINKS then I guess "single income no kids" are SINKS.

I'm sinking into that state — and sinking from it. Me and my SINK cannot afford to live on our own. We can't really afford to own a car. We routinely let food go rotten.

Being a one, we think, is really expensive, especially in Vancouver – the land of extreme wealth and poverty. I sojourn in the void between the two indefinitely.

Kind of makes you wonder about twos —we're really set up for them, aren't we? The nation is willing to risk anything for babies (products of twos), I guess, if they're willing to foster an army of DINKS.

Clusty the Clustering Engine — Better than a boyfriend

This search engine is way better than Google: Clusty.

So start using it. Not only does it group your search items into like category folders (tears of joy people, tears of joy). it also has a wikipedia tab and a blogging tab. No joke: Clusty is where it's at. So come be early adopters with me and make it your default home page. Google suddenly feels, oh, outdated and uncool.

So, my computer blew up a second time which is why I've been super incommunicado. And I've been overworked. I tried to quit my part time gig with vitamin v, but they sent me the most beautiful bunch of flowers to my main work place (one day I'll actually get flowers from a boyfriend).

But for now, I have to tell you my bosses are better than a boyfriend: they buy me little black femme dresses, flowers, they forgive me when I'm stressed out, they don't hold my quirks over my head. And they love me.

Yeah, they suckered me back with the flowers and attention.

But I did go on a boat cruise on Shushwap Lakes last weekend. It's like Burning Man on water. I've got to break it down later — when my brain comes back...

The smell of success?

I saved the soap from the hotel in Freeport so that every time I wash my hands for the next three weeks I will remember the Bahamas...

...but...now I'm not sure why I wanted to remember.

Humidity, 25 cent slots, fried food and big, busted bottles of perfume. Yippee! Sign me up for next year!

I know, I know. Boo-hoo.
I had to go to the Bahamas. Poor me.

But it was very disillusioning. I didn't see tropical splendor; I saw poverty, gluttony, ignorance and feral cats. I am too far left for my own good. Everything, from the welcome-drink vouchers, down to the sycophantic hotel staff, it all weirded me out. Everything was commodified. Call me a socialist but it was fucked.

Part of me longed to stroll along in ignorance...but I was reminded of my privilege (again) and felt too guilty to really enjoy myself down there.

There are times when I feel like I chose the purple pill; I see the world as it truly is only half of the time, but keep changing my mind about which is which.



*Everywhere there's lots of piggies
Living piggy lives.
You can see them out for dinner
With their piggy wives
Clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon*.

It is absolutely official!

I am now legally Ms. Mata.

Not in the radical-feminist-overalls-and-moon-cup sense but in the I-was-married-but-now-I'm-not sense.

Hoorah!

I must say, I make a much better divorcee than I do a wife. Being a wife totally sapped my libido and my personality.

Now I feel the pull of leopard print mules and tender young man flesh. Prrrrr. *stretch*

I am resisting...but just barely.

So far I have managed to avoid the frightful footwear, but I can't say the same for Prince William television specials or the new Timbaland video.

meow.

Your gal in Freeport

I apologize for my extended absence from the ghetto (and such bad timing, to coincide with V's CPUke) however this little bitch has been busy.

As much as I have enjoyed my employment hiatus, my cute shoe fund was suffering so I figured I'd better get back to work. I have been doing the resume/interview Cha-Cha. *sigh* There is no quicker way to sap a girl's energy and creativity than to stuff her into "appropriate" clothing and jewelry and force her to be fabulous and charming on demand. *BIGSIGH* However, mission accomplished. I have landed the job and am now free to resume my slovenly and debaucherous lifestyle. Let the chardonnay-and-shake fueled posts begin!

I also had three aunties from TO visiting for a week. "...on your left you will see what is charmingly referred to as Pigeon Park, which you can see is not so much a park as a breeding ground for hepatitis, HIV and bad skin care habits...".

My final and least sympathy-provoking excuse is that I was also in negotiations for a business trip to the Bahamas...which is where I am now.

Cue the Freeport Report:

I have worked three out of my five days here. Oh woe is me! However, you don't really need more than two days here unless you are overly fond of the beach. The beaches here ARE fabulous, but I am of Scottish descent and fry like bacon after approximately 12 minutes in the sun.

The best part of my trip was last night. The Bahamians were celebrating their emancipation day with an activity called Junkanoo.



It was a trip. I recommend Junkanoo as the best thing to see in the Bahamas if you ever go. It was like carnival meets street rave but with an old skool twist. Groups from different towns and neighborhoods compete against each other.



The more elaborate and dynamic the costumes; the funkier the horn playing; the louder the drums and cowbells, the better. It happens 1-3 times a year depending on the island. Seek it out! I recommend taking a chair and several... ehm... Redbulls though 'cause it starts at dark and goes until 3am or well into the next day depending on the island.

Well, the pool beckons, so this girl is signin' off.



Ciao bitches!

Blazer Williams — Console Cowboy

Well, the shadowy figure named Blazer Williams is no longer blinded by the light, it seems. He's finally got his own blog up and running: Redrooffs.

It's all about a number of my favourite things: "Interaction design, wine, Cocoa, Vancouver, and other observations".

Damn — I hope he talks about chocolate real soon.

Now that I think about it, code probably is chocolate for programmers: they're always thinking about it, they wish they weren't always thinking about it, they can't get enough of it, they're always panning for the bite-size pieces of it, wrapped in gold.

I say, bring back the term "console cowboys". Not only is it a hot term, it's also retro cool — it's the Betty Page look for web nerds.

(Your site looks pretty fine indeed. The leading is fabulous.)

All work and no play...

yah, you know — makes Violet a dull girl.

I'm dancing on work coals and navigating boxes – the kind you have to think outside. 'Cause that's the funny thing about thinking outside the box: the box is always there, in your mind's eye. The trick is to just think, methinks. Fuck the damn box. If a great idea is inside it, crawl into it and stew.

I'm going to be hauling long hours at work and work this month, so I am going to take a faux haitus from my beloved blog. So sad. For the month of August, I will be posting on Mondays. Hopefully the other bitches will pick up the slack.

12 days without a home computer and counting...