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.