Formidably fomidable

Jeezy Creezy. This man's talent is surreal. And I mean talent in the straight-up sense of the word talent. No play on words here, just plays on sound.

Life Affirming

A beautiful Saturday afternoon, 3pm: arriving home with two bottles of your favorite new red wine and fresh cut flowers.

Let's talk about our feelings

Let's say this is some stupid pop quiz and you have to select an emotion that best describes the average Vancouverite: Sexy? Guilty? Depressed? Blissed-out? Angry?

Angry seems weird to me, but apparently Vancouver is the third most angry city in the world, according to a website that tabulates "I feel" statements from thousands of web logs across the world. Searching through this site, I expected to see Vancouver's emotions aligned with a city that has just been named the third best place to live in the world. Guilty that we have so much personal space and clean air? Sure. Sexy due to the proliferation of exercise and drugs? Sure. But ...Angry?

Angry about the traffic up Cambie Street? Angry about the lack of good brunch places? Angry that Soma moved? Angry that the hippies on Commercial Drive just seem to keep replicating? Angry that a 500 sq foot apartment nows sells for over a quarter mill?

What's worse...Torontonians are the sexy ones.

What is the world coming to?

The last banana

I'm sad today. And I am wondering why I can never eat the last banana. I'm staring at my fruit bowl right now, preparing myself to move the most recent last banana to my freezer.

I have a freezer full of last bananas. More than eight. Brown and waiting to be loafed.

What does sadness have to do with last bananas? I don't really know. But I'm sure it's a metaphor for a deep lack of something.

Inspiration/Desperation

I'm a latecomer to Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth. But I'm a BCer--I know all this shit, right?

My boyfriend/fiancee and I drive a 1982 biodiesel Landcruiser--when we drive. Mostly we both walk and take transit. Before Old Dirty Brownie, we both belonged to The Cooperative Auto Network.

But lately I've felt a greater sense of urgency around my usual attempts at buying organic and being diligent about recycling. Maybe it's because I'm now living in Toronto, where people smoke everywhere and throw their butts at your feet; where they shoulder-check you on a regular basis in the endless, subterranean mallplexes that connect the subway stations; or because I see so many people pitching glass containers into the garbage; or because I found myself, this weekend, recycling other people's "garbage" (a plastic, mega-detergent bottle and a foot-high stack of newspapers--not exactly a recycling challenge) in my building's "garbage" shed.

But maybe it started earlier, when a few months ago I found myself gazing in awe at a Ziploc bag and wondering how I could ever have thrown anything so substantial out after a single use (now I wash them and they hold up amazingly well).

But even more recently, I foundnd myself starting to feel desperate. The closest place for me to buy groceries on my way home (and I live in the densely urban core) is a chain supermarket in one of those underground malls. (Near my home, I try to frequent the developing-worldesque fruit market/bodgeas and the single, West Indian meat market, but in still-Christian Ontario nearly everything closes at 6 pm, near when I finish work).

Tonight, at the supermarket, I found myself quizzing the supermarket produce guy about what I could buy that was grown in Ontario; and finding myself unwilling to do anything other than come away with my local hydroponic pepper, apples and heirloom tomato on offer. I found myself in the liquor store buying Ontario plonk rather than the Australian Shiraz I love.

And then, tonight, I had a date with Al Gore. His film was on a digital movie channel while I ate dinner.

We have to do this: keep refusing bags, refusing to buy things made far away (can I make my own olive oil?), keep refusing our cars and offsetting whatever it costs the planet when we take a plane flight.

I almost feel ridiculous for writing this. But when I put my groceries in my tote bag with my shoes, book, and commuter coffee mug tonight and refused a bag, I thought, some day everyone will be doing this and the clerk won't look at me like I'm insane. (Of course, no Choices clerk in Vancouver would, now.)

It also made me think of my hippie grade five teacher, Marie Orth-Pallavacini (who yes, made us sing anti-war songs and didn't shave her armpits), who made us go to our local grocery stores way back in 1980 with our own shopping bags and refuse the new one on offer (I was so humiliated, but I did it)... And think, my god, we're still in the same place, 27 years later.

Well, watch Gore's movie, and do something radical. I know, he's apparently not so carbon-neutral, but who is? The film has its hokey moments, but from a cinematic perspective even these work, and he's still got it right.

Ghetto Tour 2007

So Ghetto Girls, where will THIS summer take us? Admittedly, summer is fucking far away from where I sit: it fucking SNOWED here today. I'd settle for bloody spring! Violet's excellent suggestion to clean house in your knickers was done in for me by the fact of the outside temperature (-2) and the fact that my six twelve-foot windows lack blinds. But I endorse the suggestion if you live where spring exists and window coverings allow.

So, summer. I finally feel I'll be able to enjoy it, when it comes (if it comes), now that I have a home, a tiny toehold in this city. It's been hard to let go and just have fun when I've felt so unsettled, so caught up in change. (See home, below. The chartreuse wall will go.)




Now I just want to have fun, post here, explore more, get back to what feels like normal life. (Although I do have lots of painting left to keep me at home: that fumy, addictive, brain-addling chore.)

Some things have changed for me since joining (co-founding, with Violet) GBS. I've quit a job, taken a new one, moved thousands of miles to a new city, gotten engaged and bought a flat. All of which has proven as unsettling as fulfilling. Not that being unsettled is bad.

But it's interesting: getting engaged has completely quenched any desire I ever had for a wedding--the whole idea fills me with disgust, I'm not sure why. I hope I get over it. Uber-busy hipster Toronto has made me long for quiet, green, unaffordable, less hip (but also more hip) Vancouver. Work is great, no qualms there. The new home is also great, but fills me with dread at the idea of paying for it; apparently this wears off eventually.

I guess my point is, it doesn't matter if you are single or coupled or employed or whattever the fuck: what can you do but dance in your skivs in the summer sunshine angling through your window? Provided they're sort of covered? That is the GBS way. I guess I will have to just do it anyway and freak out the old Portuguese ladies if they happen to peek out their dusty second-floor windows.

Here is to whatever adventures GBS Summer 07 brings our way, here's to whatever trouble and delight we make.

I Love Moomins

We collaged on Friday night with 'movement' the focus. I pasted in a postcard of love-struck Moomins on swings that I got in Japan a few years back. Tove Jansson, an amazing graphic artist from Finland, created the world of Moomins.

Today, I was reading about Acid Mothers Temple, a texturally experimental Japanese band who have a song about the 'Hattifatteners' - characters in the Moomin series that look like ragamuffin socks.
The Hattifatteners are always on the move, with the singular goal of reaching the horizon, communicating telepathically, and assembling once a year when they 'recharge' in lightning storms.
I love it when things come together.

Trains to Brazil my friday off

Ah, happy friday friends. I'm loving this day off — sun, music, an entire day to laze my way through 20 loads of dirty laundry.

If you're having a lazy Friday morning like me, you should listen to Guillemots' song "Trains to Brazil". I'm not too sure how to directly link to the song, so go to their myspace page and click on the song title in the top right pod.

Or watch the video...




Want to have even more fun? Be foot loose and fancy free like me. Dance around your kitchen to this song in boys' underware and a tank top, 'cause no one is watching...unless you want them to. (Have I mentioned how GREAT solo living is on a sunny morning?)

Isn't the wonderful world of their website smashing?

Hush hush, keep it down now, voices carry

email from a friend:

the window washers outside right now are having a full-on conversation about getting blowjobs and they have no idea i can hear them...

Fight like a girl

In the previous post, Mata decided to feature hockey players fighting. I thought — meh, girls pillow fighting is far more exciting.

And then I realized that I haven't said anything about the very Canadian Pillow Fight League. They fight like girls...ruthless.

Here's a link to the official video, where the announcers are impressed that these women "fight like a girl".

Or you can just watch this one...

Bad Day at Work?

Bad week? Bad month? Just generally pissy?

Let our modern day gladiators of the National Hockey League help you blow off a little workaday agro with some socially sanctioned aggression.

Can't wait 'til game day? Go for hockeyfight.com.

Watch those teeth fly and feel better.

This vid is one of my favorites. Even if you don't condone fighting in hockey, even if you don't like hockey you've got to see this one. Keep watching into the second clip. Fascinating...

Georges Laraque (AKA georges foreman) was wearing a mic during the game. Gives an interesting peek into elite sport.

Thanks to MXC for this Nihilist bumper sticker

.......................................I brake for nothing...........................................

Queen of chav

I was reading up on Lily Allen to find out what this precious little sour tart was all about ... and to verify her authenticity.

And what did I encounter but a whole bunch of English slang that I had never heard before. Namely, I encountered the term chav (see the image? that's a chav).

Chav seems to speak to a group of skids that I, in my West Coast Canadian way, call "white yos" (think Surrey boys in gangsta suits). You know, those hard-core yos who talk "street cred" while they're pulling bills from the bank-of-dad.

I'm calling these precious little bits of our social network chavs from now on.

So back to little ole Lily... there's a possee of higher class brits who take on lower class accents for "street cred" (Hello Mr. Jagger!). A few articles on Miss Allen cited her as a pseudo chav. Well, actually, they didn't cite her as a pseudo chav, they called her out as an "overrated queen of chav". I dig this phrase.

Good terms like this equal good times.

So now I'm off to troll Robson Street to see if I can "accidentally" bump into some track-suited hipster and banish him or her an "overrated chav".

More fun terms: chav, scally, townie, ned, kev, yarco, dobber, mallie, meader

Sissie sun on my back

I'm posting from the middle of Union Square in San Francisco. The sun's warming my back; the slightest breeze is keeping me from overheating. Conditions are perfect. Everything is perfect.

But then perfection is a so easy to handle when its natural — so easy that it's hard to trust it.

Most of the time, I'm at work, walking the tight rope that is perfection and just getting it done. Trusting myself enough to sit here and soak up perfect conditions is making me light headed. I'm trying to ignore the niggling sense that I should leave it — and just find something and get it done.

But I've persevered, and won.

The co-worker I am travelling with had to leave this perfect condition to "get something done". I asked him what he had to do. And he said, "I dunno – something — I should get some shopping done."

I said fine. I'll meet you back at the hotel in an hour. I'm going to sit here for a while. Go have fun getting something done.

Spring in Toronto

Alas, this is true. On my way to work in the morning the melting snow revealed still-frozen little piles of dogshit. Lovely!

Spring "arrives" in two days: in Vancouver, the cherry (I almost wrote "cheery") blossoms are already in bloom. OK, in fairness, I brought my umbrella to work once in my first Toronto winter: for that reason alone (and because my full-length down and fur parka cost more than my first car) winter here didn't feel at all like a "normal" winter, ie. rain, rain, grey skies, rain. black skies, rain.

Instead, I got sunny crisp mornings, and sparkly evenings when you couldn't actually see the snow, but the air was full of invisible, iridescent sparkles. One evening after a movie (the excellent Notes on A Scandal ) the Ninja and I both noticed Central Canadian snowflakes for the first time (he's from the East Coast, I the West): perfect, flat, sharp-edged and laughably complex little constructions, again iridescent, sometimes landing singularly, sometimes landing x-ed with a fellow snowflake, like happily copulating little snowflakes, always perfect, always sharp, unmelting, decorative in one's parka's fur.

OK. I guess winter here isn't terrible.

Work wives

Today at work, I had ramen at Kintaro with a new co-worker who shares a similar lifestyle ... and love of bouncy castles.

Amidst slurps of flavourful noodles and juicy smacks of scintilating vegetables done to al dante perfection, he spoke of his former "work wife".

"Work wife!" I exclaimed, honing in on a new GBS phrase,"Tell me what you mean by this."

"You know," he casually gestured, "the person you share stuff with at work – the stuff that's outside of work."

I really love the phrase "work wife" because it befits the bond. You definitely have familial bonds with certain co-workers that lack a proper definition — one that enriches your life, but doesn't transgress. Plus the term is so nouveau '50s...so innocent, yet so Norman Rockwell racy.

Let me define it agan... At work, you have people with whom you are close. With whom you share an emotional bond that transcends the 9-5 boundaries, but never leaves it. This is your "work husband" or "work wife". So work with me: embrace the term and the bond, but not the person.

I think I'm going to make this man my "work husband".

It lifts me up. I need work love...friends, faux husbands, bosses. It makes this capitalist world a more loving place.

p.s. Kintaro has the most amazing ramen in Vancouver. They massage the noodles, and this is good. The noodles are tender, flavourful, and full of love.

p.s.s. The work husband just sent me this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Work_wife

Budgeting Tips for Cash-Strapped Bitches

Faux-Fendi feeling a little light of late?
Forced to choose between creature comforts and luscious libations?

Let the Ghetto Bitches share the wealth.

We give you the Gala Keg!



The equivalent of five and a third bottles of wine for around $30.

The easy-pour spout means less tipsy dripage.

The vacuum seal ensures freshness, meaning no more partial bottles languishing* to go stale and sour.

*can't say I've ever had this problem but some bitches do claim this is a concern.

And as if the above weren't reason enough to start rockin' the Gala Keg...I have one final feature to tempt you.




When you're done with the wine...
the bag doubles as a bath pillow!



Boop boop be doop, bitches.

Sex and vegetables...

...are two things my diet is missing.

Redrum

All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. All work and no play makes Violet a dull blogger. redrum.

Ghetto boy winter

Ah, if we're the ghetto bitches, then these two New Zeland boys are definitely our brothers. They're two hard core sissies, that's for sure. Words to our brothers.

(Who knew "Steve" from New Zeland originated Hip Hop in 2001? I sure didn't.)