Gunning Down All That Is Good

Em dredges up the sentimental schlock and travel plans

2007-05-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

So I was working another closing shift tonight as usual, when between the back-aches and leg cramps I realised...I'm tired of my job. I've been at it almost a year now, and I still love it, and it's still fun and interesting and easy work that I get paid well for (and the tips are INSANELY good, comparatively, and against all logic better than what I got in the cafe.)
I can stick it out for the rest of the summer, definitely, but beyond that--the monotony and consumer-driven focus of selling high-quality, (if overpriced,) espresso-based beverages is getting under my skin, and I'm eager for a change.
This is why I'm not going back to school next year. Not yet. God-willing, I've got my entire life ahead of me to get that degree, and it's not like I'm getting it to satisfy anyone other than myself, so what do I care who judges me on whether I take a year or two longer to get it?
I need to re-evaluate. Gain perspective. Possibly seek therapy.
In any case, I've the summer "off", to work for money.
Then--the fall. Heather, Scotland, a few weeks "vacation" and to see what I'd be getting myself into if I go with L'Arche.
The Philippines--PJM, the kids, the families, the school, the slums. I really don't know quite what to expect. Losing my inhibitions, my fear, (I know they're there;) gaining a respect for my fellow man, compassion, appreciation for all the advantages I was born into in Canada, to a good family, to know that I did nothing to deserve it. Given my premature birth, my initial struggle to survive, the invasive but necessary surgery with a 25% mortality rate--I HAVE to assume I was put on this earth, in this time, in my place, for a purpose. To believe anything else, I think, is to insult those millions of people struggling and suffering in underdeveloped nations and poverty and crime-stricken communities, to throw all I have back in the face of whatever power granted it to me, or worse, to believe that I did something to DESERVE it all. The stories I've heard from PJM, what these kids have been through--they deserve everything I have and so much more, and I want to try and share it with them, if I can, in the few months I'm there.
Home, again, I suppose, for Christmas. Mum and Dad want me with them, and PJM gets busy around that time of year, in any case, and volunteers would only get in the way.
In the new year--Ireland. Heather would be close by, if anything goes horribly awry. Perhaps I'll get to see a bit of Europe (put that EU citizenship to work!) and even if I don't, I'm always up for a life-changing experience, and that's what I hear about the work Heather does.
Next March, someone remind me, though, to re-apply to university!

Moving Between Pit Stops on a Roadtrip When You Have to Pee Real Bad Moves Faster Than This

2007-04-28T17:47:00.000-07:00

Amazon.ca.
Seriously.
How long does it take to ship a single book?
Are you having monks hand-bind and illuminate the script?
What is your DEAL?
Last time I ordered anything, it was two books and a handful of DVDs.
It got here faster than this.
Is this because I didn't spend 30 dollars to get your precious Super Saver's Shipping or whatever?
Are you punishing me for being frugal for ONCE?

I mean, geez.
I knew Amazon was passive-aggressive, (tracking what items you've LOOKED at and jacking up the prices if you don't buy on first viewing;) but I didn't think it was THIS bad.

I need to stop putting things in caps before Jamie confiscates my capslock key for abuse.

Hello-hello-hello-echoes

2007-04-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

Aie--I've so neglected my poor little blog. Everything's happening on my LiveJournal and Youtube. :(

So I'm house sitting for just over the next two weeks. The dog already knows her favourite person (Mum,) is gone and is absolutely forlorn and my heart breaks for the poor wee thing.
And I'm already hearing noises at night and wondering if I forgot to lock the door and if my Wednesday night regular (nice Czech guy who is generally nice, if a little overly flirty,) followed me home after I mentioned my parents were on vacation and is waiting in the hallway to dismember me.
You'd think the dog would start barking at an intruder, but once she's asleep she's dead to the world and she's a coward when she's awake, anyhow.
Really--the worst I have to deal with is wolf spiders. Which--I'm getting quite the collection under jars and overturned cups because I can't bear to use a piece of card to slide under the cups after I've caught them and transfer them outside because I've a habit of picking pieces of paper too weak to work and end up dropping them and they've scurried back into my closet or under my bed before I've a chance to scream blue murder. So...I leave them under the cups. Until they die. It's so horrible and cruel of me, I know. But...I'm a wimp. I won't run away from spiders--I'm not as bad as Nicki--but that doesn't mean I adore the creatures.

Now, should I entertain any readers? I think Jackie and I have lost any readership we ever had.

I don't dance. Or sing, all that well.
I...snark.
I...rant.
I make a decent cup of coffee. Even if I don't drink coffee, personally. (It's a living. Or...something.)

I should really go bug Jackie. See if we can smack together some kind of MSN snark.

ETA: Jackie's got three more exams to go, apparently, and calculus is going to eat her soul.
That's what you get for being a sciences major. *sticks out tongue*

ETA2: Oh man. This lemon meringue pudding cup is GLORIOUS. I swear some birds just broke into chirpy song. It doesn't even move like normal pudding. It's all...wow. I--wow. Words fail me. Hunt's Dessert Favourites Lemon Meringue. (I don't know if that's how you spell Meringue and I don't really care because all this typing is now taking me away from the pudding for longer amounts of time.) Ooooh baby. This is good pudding. ...This CAN'T be good for me.

Time Capsule MSN Conversation

2006-11-03T16:12:00.000-08:00

...I think this is over a year ago by now...
Thus it's safe to post. Back when Jackie was breaking up with Will and still mooning over BritAndy. She and BritAndy have since tried dating and broke up a long time ago. Oh teh drama!

Emily:
you know who I hate?
Jackie:
who?
Jackie:
make it quick though, I have math up the wazoo
Emily:
Citizen Kane.
Jackie:
haven't seen the movie yet, but want to
Emily:
We watched "the greatest movie ever made" in film class today.
Emily:
What a load of shit.
Emily:
All I could think leaving class was "What. An. Idiot."
Jackie:
Sars has an article about it
Emily:
And then, lookie, it's his ex-wife who left him who is oh-so-fallen-upon-hard-times because she is drinking rum in a dive empty nightclub with bags under her eyes.
Emily:
If that's all it takes to be miserable, somebody hand me a Percocet.
Emily:
I'm in a divey living facility, drinking rum with bags under my eyes.
Emily:
I see no difference
Emily:
and yet I don't bitch about my past every minute.
Jackie:
you're not drinking rum
Emily:
"Boo-hoo, I married the richest man in the world!"
Emily:
well, I was.
Jackie:
were not
Emily:
I am staring at the empty bottle of Bacardi right now, hon
Emily:
Salude.
Emily:
shit I have a midterm tomorrow
Jackie:
you're an alcy
Emily:
am not!
Jackie:
I'm tired and cold and boy-fused
Jackie:
similar to con-fused but more specific
Emily:
fused...to...a boy...?
Emily:
damn you, I nearly choked on my Mentos
Jackie:
you'll live
Emily:
only problem being that if I live I must take and therein fail my midterm tomorrow.
Jackie:
which class?
Emily:
*eyes the Mentos then begins to chew on one, inhaling deeply at the same time*
Emily:
Philosophy in Literature
Jackie:
ha!
Emily:
hush you, I'm trying to suicide here!
Jackie:
you won't fail
Jackie:
want to hear about my boy-fusion
Emily:
yes, because it's better than porn
Jackie:
... *sigh* sadly, you're right
Emily:
then again, a lot of things are
Jackie:
so the bf and I are splitsville
Emily:
awww
Jackie:
(porn is quite overrated from a girl's POV)
Emily:
well, not to sound cynical, but I never would have bet money on your guys anyways.
Emily:
no more than five bucks, anyway.
Jackie:
dude, now everyone says that
Jackie:
at the beginning it was "we knew you'd go out" and now it's "I knew you wouldn't last'
Jackie:
but it was a very amiable split
Emily:
well you don't wanna go up to the happy couple and be like "Dude, you are SO never going to make it!"
Emily:
well it can be both
Jackie:
I would
Emily:
like we knew that eventually you'd try each other on for size then come to the realization that it wasn't a perfect fit.
Emily:
Although that analogy could be taken in a dirty way, it's not
Emily:
Well, yes, I would too, for people I didn't really like
Emily:
but I like you guys
Emily:
and a little part of me wanted to see you guys make it
Jackie:
sadly, we did not
Emily:
mmhmm
Emily:
oh, geez, would you look at that? Your life is over and you're only 17. Woe.
Jackie:
I'm not taking it that hard
Emily:
neither am I
Jackie:
give me some credit. I instigated it
Emily:
the above was meant to be said in a dry monotone
Jackie:
seeing as you're psychic, you know what's coming next.
Emily:
friends again?
Emily:
with benefits on birthdays?
Jackie:
ew, no
Emily:
and more BritAndy angst?
Jackie:
:P you
Emily:
...translation...you love me so much you want to lick me?
Jackie:
kinda
Emily:
mkay
Jackie:
you taste like communal showers and rum
Emily:
they're not communal!
Emily:
...really...
Emily:
well, not completely, anyways
Emily:
there's locking doors and curtains and umpteen walls
Jackie:
ha
Emily:
all anyone can see is my feet and hairy ankles
Jackie:
hee
Emily:
hairy no more! I shaved!
Jackie:
huzzah!
Jackie:
anyway
Emily:
continue
Jackie:
it's not so much BritAndy angst
Emily:
btw, may I blog this? If I change the names?
Jackie:
oh hell yes
Jackie:
wait...
Emily:
?
Jackie:
I dunno if Will reads the blog
Emily:
yeah?
Emily:
so ask him
Jackie:
wouldn't *that* be fun
Jackie:
no
Jackie:
then he will
Emily:
but if you don't give him the URL and remove all traces of it from public profiles he may have access to...
Jackie:
he's read it before
Emily:
damnit. Then this is like the entry I did on Will's Closet of Love that never saw the light of day?
Jackie:
it's "what's Will gonna say when he finds out, because even though BritAndy and I are not even considering anything yet, it's going to happen, that's pretty inevitable, we're going to leave a seemly amount of time. Currently he's just wining and dining me. But still..."
Emily:
Curses. That one was a gem, too.
Jackie:
eww I don’t remember that.
Emily:
I thought he was coffeeing you
Jackie:
he's in midterms, kinda busy
Jackie:
think about it, you probably see him on campus.
Emily:
. . . maybe he's held a door open for me somewhere...
Emily:
wouldn't that be weird
Emily:
now I need to know where he lives
Jackie:
not on campus
Emily:
still.
Jackie:
creepy
Jackie:
I don't even know exactly where he lives
Emily:
okay
Jackie:
Polish Girl turned out bitchier than we imagined
Emily:
Aren't they always?
Emily:
She's Polish...they are so unassuming, until they foist their sausage upon you!
Emily:
And then it's nothing but a one-way ticket to Acid-Reflux City!
Jackie:
Said she had no time for a boyfriend. And then got one and was showing him pics of new guy (who apparently looks like a pirate!)
Jackie:
a week later.
Jackie:
I think we need a "relationship recovery and tackiness" record book
Emily:
...kind of like a guide to teenage romance?
Jackie:
haha mmhm
Emily:
Oh my god, even as a parody, people would totally buy that
Jackie:
I know
Emily:
I think it should be a serious effort. With diagrams.
Jackie:
mmhm
Jackie:
and flow charts
Emily:
we need to start plotting out chapters and such
Emily:
there's so much to cover
Jackie:
"see him flirting with other girl?

yes - progress to phase 5 (begging for him back to reestablish feelings that you may exploit)

no - proceed to phase nine (flirting with his best friend)
Emily:
ohhhh yowza
Emily:
so is it a guide to relationship revenge or teenage relations in general?
Jackie:
no idea
Emily:
and is it meant to be taken seriously, or as a cynical parody that will make little boys everywhere call us dykes?
Jackie:
I don't know
Jackie:
you're over-thinking this
Emily:
I over-think everything.
Emily:
This you know by now.
Jackie:
Tom Cruise knocked the girl up
Emily:
I'm not having sex, I need some output for my intellectual energy.
Emily:
Haha! I know!
Emily:
Poor bastard.
Jackie:
... sex doesn't involve intellectual energy
Jackie:
bastard being cruise or bastard being child born out of wedlock?
Emily:
I was referring to the kid.
Emily:
And they're probably going to give Kal-El Coppola Cage and Apple Martin a run for their money in the Shitty Celebrity Child Names Department
Jackie:
Please let them name it L. Ron Hubbard Thetan Holmes Mapother Scientologist Goofball Dorkus Malorkus Cruise.
Jackie:
- Redhead Papers
Emily:
Love.
Jackie:
http://erindailey.typepad.com/the_redhead_papers/
Emily:
Okay, so call me paranoid, but I think I've been seeing a lot of signs of the apocalypse lately.
Emily:
Including or not including the TomKat litter.
Jackie:
what *are* the signs of the apocalypse?
Emily:
These freaky-ass weather patterns and earthquakes everywhere alluvasudden
Emily:
and tsunamis
Emily:
people dying in mass amounts
Emily:
in a short space of time
Emily:
Right now St. Peter's doing crowd control at the Pearlies, and he's close to losing it.
Jackie:
haha
Jackie:
Adult Toy and Video Store (Fun shopping for couples!)
Thousands of erotic items at fantastic prices. Discreet shipping.
gah
Emily:
bwaaaaah I have a mid term tomorrow and it's 8:30!
Emily:
WHAT?
Emily:
heh.
Emily:
I found the funniest site BTW
Jackie:
discreet shipping
Emily:
it's the Kama Sutra online with animated pictures
Jackie:
as opposed to all those other places that write "ADULT TOYS" on the boxers
Jackie:
oooh
Emily:
the little pixel people are barely touching
Jackie:
hee
Emily:
hahaha
Emily:
get some of that shit delivered to your cubicle at work
Jackie:
or... someone else's
Emily:
your boss's office, even
Emily:
or in the Colonel's instance, drop a dildo in the deep-fryer.
Emily:
Or cover it in ice-cream.
Emily:
Then lick it off in full view of some horrified group of "Happy 6th Birthday Leon!" Party
Jackie:
it'd melt
Jackie:
leon?
Jackie:
blog this.
Emily:
Change the names?
Emily:
because it's all or nothing
Emily:
I mean, it's not like you to be this...covert.
Emily:
Who are we trying to spare here?
Jackie:
no blog the adult discreet shipping part
Jackie:
we can blog the rest later when all settles down
Emily:
mmk so I'm saving all of it
Jackie:
and if you still have that "will's closet of love" thing I wanna read it. I don't remember it at all
Emily:
will blog it later when I'm done midterm

Meme for Lack of Any Real Gunning

2006-09-11T20:13:00.000-07:00

Jackie, note the lack of high-schoolish snark here lately. Could it be we're turning into surly, repressed adults?

Anyhow--

1. A book that changed your life.
A very wise fridge-magnet once said "In ten years you'll be the same person you are now aside from the books you read and the people you'll meet." So...they're all functioning in the sense that they're chipping away at things in my life and somehow altering even the most prosaic parts of it.
2. A book you've read more than once.
The Scarlet Pimpernel.
3. A book you'd want on a desert island.
My aunt's old 60's hardcore Girl Guide handbook, before Girl Guides restricted themselves to making snowmen out of styrofoam balls to give to people in extended care facilities rather than heading into the woods with a sharp stick, a compass and some pemmican and kicking Mother Nature's ass. This book tells you how to do everything and has some handy camping recipes as well as amusing little adolescent anecdotes involving how to deal with hypothermia.
4. A book that made you giddy.
Northanger Abbey. No idea why. No, wait, I do know why. It begins with an H and ends with an enry Tilney.
5. A book you wish had been written.
...uh...that one where a bunch of nuns went into space. ...It came up today in my stage-writing workshop, okay? Nuns in space. Roman Catholic ones.
6. A book that wracked you with sobs.
Bridge to Terabithia.
7. A book you wish had never been written.
Wings of the Dove just because it was made into such a God-awful movie, I can't bring myself to trust the book, because it was the characters I had problems with, not the direction or the acting. Henry James can suck it.
8. A book you are currently reading.
Perfume by Patrick Suskind
9. A book you've been meaning to read.
Heat and Dust by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. Keep starting it every few years and then I wind up putting it down and forgetting it.
10. Tag 10.
...Is there some kind of Internet voodoo curse I can gamble with, instead?

Long Overdue

2006-08-23T19:08:00.000-07:00

"Twirl, Jackie, twirl! Give me more of the twirlage!"**

**What I was actually barking at her while this photo was being taken. She's not saying "cheese" so much as she's laughing at me for being a photo nazi and telling me I have lipstick on my teeth.

Some of us had to do our own makeup and hair that morning, Miss.

2006-05-06T13:43:00.001-07:00

So the other day I tried driving standard transmission again. I did much better than the first time.
Still ripped off the stick-shift bobble, though.

2006-05-06T13:43:00.000-07:00

So the other day I tried driving standard transmission again. I did much better than the first time.
Still ripped off the stick-shift bobble, though.

Geographical Claustrophobia

2006-04-30T15:43:00.000-07:00

People need to stop talking about Crash.
Because I keep thinking they mean the crazy sexy Canadian Crash rather than the Oscar-winning Crash. I've seen neither of them, but...I heard of CrazySex!Crash first, so...there you go.
And when I ask them to clarify, it gets embarassing because not many folks I talk to know about CrazySex!Crash and think I'm just looking for an excuse to be lewd and perverted.
"No, Grandma, I'm not *into* that kind of..."
Sigh.

Also, I'm posting in a sense of guilt because I leave shortly for San Francisco. I'll only be gone for a few days, but whenever I go anywhere there's the secret and unacknowledged fantasy that you'll have a wild adventure and never come back. Not in the sense that you're dead or being held hostage by Venezuelan pirates or anything, but more like you randomly love it there and put down roots and have some kind of liveable income and spend the rest of your life in a place where it doesn't rain ten months out of the year.
Not that I don't love home, but I'll be damned if I spend the entire summer working on the island without at least one great escape wherein I can actually feel geographically connected with the rest of North America.
Problem: I don't know what I'm going to do in San Francisco, exactly. I'll probably be there for less than 24 hours, really. (At least there's no time-change. I've done NYC in the same length of time and had to spend a few days sacked out on the couch once I'd staggered off my second plane of the day at the local "international" airport. --It was a connecting flight from the mainland and the only reason you're "international" is because your piddly Jazz asshats can take us to Seattle on a clear day, so shut up.)
So I have/had an awesome plan to improve my outlook on life and get me out of whatever ruts I'm in so I can get into bigger and better ruts--only I'm dealing with severe motivational constipation on the issue.
Yeah, it's great that I could change people's lives through volunteer work and all, but Jeopardy's on.
And when Jeopardy is the only thing you can excell at, you do not ignore the fact that Jeopardy is on.

I can't even keep track of whether or not I gunned anything down here. I'm in a happy place because I came home from writing an exam only to be handed my passport and a customs form, which is possibly the best greeting in the world. Unless I'm being deported.

Weather Report

2006-02-25T14:11:00.000-08:00

Well...jus' started snowin' out about these parts.
Yeeeep.

Okay, I can't really speak for Jackie here, but wow have we ever become the laziest little sluts you ever saw. How long has it been since an update? How long?

Admittedly, I've been doing a fair amount of LiveJournal-ing, but that's more to my personal life and things which are only of interest to those who know me personally, I suppose.
No worries, I'm not turning into an emo-kid or anything. Hell I barely know HTML and have a free LJ account so it's hardly oh-so-different-and-speshul. Basic layout, bare-bones graphics. Whatever.

If you're looking for an update, well here:
Let it be known that last night Em imbibed more alcohol than she has ever had in one sitting and for good reasons relating to this was not later allowed to jay-walk downtown in the dark. Guys at the bar with interesting tattoos bought me shots of Jagermeister like it was supposed to make me coo and wince because I'm a girl and because I've never done much drinking before. Well nice try, but I've had Buckley's worse than that.
Then they groped Jackie a little who fumed more than I have ever seen her fume (and righteously so,) for Jackie is Jailbait Who Dresses Classy & Older. They asked me where we were headed later, because obviously a group of 17/18 year olds and two 19 year olds, one of whom was driving, are going to go out and hit the bars. So basically, I was the only one at our table with some alcohol down me. Some being two margaritas, the Jagermeister and two Bazooka Joes thanks to Chris who promptly announced that he was taking me drinking sometime and then only told me AFTER I'd downed the Bazooka Joes that they turned my teeth blue. Thanks, Chris.
Anyhow, when they asked where we were headed later, I told them flippantly that I didn't know, and "we'll see. Bye."
Since they bought me a shot but otherwise left me alone, I wasn't too mad at them. There are compensations to being the heavy girl in the group--namely that my friends are the ones who get oogled and groped, not me. Because of this tacit camraderie, I didn't want to admit that I wanted to go home and sleep because I was feeling a little woozy and had been working all day up until that point after a fairly sleepless night previously. I also had to go pee, but again, for the sake of appearing wordly and harmlessly flirtatious, I pretended I had no such thing as a functioning bladder and breezily trailed out the door--a decision I came immediately to regret and thankfully some folks wanted coffee so we went to some Italian coffeeshop a block away and I apparently spent a long time in the washroom, as by the time I came out five or six people had their drinks ready to go. (To be fair, Chris had warned me about this and earlier has refused to let me go pee. Apparently, if you "break the seal" after you've started drinking, you will never stop peeing. Chris then, to illustrate his point, launched into a parody of Don Hertzfeldt's "Rejected Cartoons," using the anal-bleeding section as a backdrop. Only instead of the classic "my anus is bleeding!" he substituted someone I assumed to be me, screaming: "I can't stop peeing!"
At the time I thought nothing of it, but when I got up this morning--whoo boy, he was kind of right.

Overly-friendly ("but still friendly!") guys at bar, Chris and his knowledge of drinking lore, and Emily's new-found circle of acceptance in the coterie of drinkers--gunned down!

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell Like Ass. ASS, I TELL YOU!

2005-12-12T01:08:00.000-08:00

Or certain recreational drugs you find in the back parking lot in fourth period. Because clearly, some recently-initiated parents were under the influence of something.
Scooby-Snacks. Sentiment. Stupidity. Something.
Have you SEEN what those psycho witches (and one unfortunate walking ego with even more unfortunate hairplugs) in Hollywood are doing to their children?
Nicholas Cage: I loved you in City of Angels, but-- Kal-El Coppola Cage? Come ON! I cannot understand why your trophy wife didn't have the cajones to stand up to you on that one after she gave BIRTH to the kid. (Maybe she didn't understand the implications as English is perhaps her second language? Perhaps Kal-El means something beautiful in Korea as well as on planet Krypton?)
Ms. Paltrow (Mrs. Martin?): I am sorry I can never remember how to spell your first name exactly. And I'm so happy for you about the guy from Coldplay, as his music is nice and he looks like a sweetie and everytime that music video for The Scientist comes on MuchMusic I watch it in open-mouthed fascination as the tape runs backwards. BACKWARDS. But seriously: Apple? And if the rumours circulating re: your bun (FRUITcake?) in the oven are true, then can we expect a baby brother Orange to make an appearance sometime in the next year?
Shannyn Sossamon: I cannot believe I just spelled your name right on my first try. Perhaps it is being difficulty named yourself (see above,) which leads you to name your child Audio Science. Audio. Science. I know you DJ now in LA where everything is cool and hip; and I live in the woods, my parents vote Conservative, and I still think that white socks with black shoes are okay for casual outings, but honestly? I think you mixed up the birth certificate and the record label brainstorming sheet when you were filling out that pile of forms.
Julia Roberts: [Get a snack, kids, this tabulation will take a while to sort out in my brain.] Okay, you have my pity and undying confusion. You have been romantically linked with any number of decent (and not-so-decent) men. Most have either raw appeal or classic good looks of some sort going for them. If not one, then the other. Dylan McDermott is a certifiable hottie who looks delicious when slightly unshaven. Daniel Day-Lewis, while reportedly a jerk to some of his lady-loves, was in some good movies, and it never fails to crack me up watching him trying to scrape off the slutty leech that is Winona Ryder's Abigail Williams in The Crucible. You lived with Liam Neeson. I don't know if that involved sex, or if y'all just ate pizza and watched re-runs of The Honeymooners. In any case--good for you. He's got a delightful speaking voice, and seems an interesting person. You dated Matthew Perry--who, if I recall correctly, was in Friends. Now, personally, I never bothered to follow that show since I wasn't *cough*mysister*cough* all too hooked on it. But he was adorable in Fools Rush In, and Selma Hayek beats Penelope Cruz's Latin little butt. (We only need one of them in Hollywood. Having them stand too close together at any awards show looks bad, somehow.) Next on my list: Keifer Sutherland. My boy is Canadian, his dad is Donald Sutherland, and Keifer is admittedly hot in an I-just-fell-out-the-back-of-the-cutie-car-and-I-can't-find-my-pants-will-you-help-me? kind of way. Then: Benjamin Bratt. His last name irks me for obvious reasons. And his hair is a little too oily. But, who among us hasn't gotten a nasty bout of the flu and, due to the inability to remove oneself from the sheltering embrace of the duvet, shirked the shower for a day or two and gotten a wee bit "natural" in the process? His problem seems more chronic, is all I'm saying.
Then there was Lyle. Lyle Lovett. Whose very name sounds like the preppy boy with iron-creased slacks that the Sandra Dee character falls in love with. Lyle Lovatt looks like his face was ironed. And his personality seems not all that dissimilar. WHY did you do this? WHY? You could have had any one of those men on the preceding list. (Did I forget Brad Pitt? Did I forget that you were ENGAGED to BRAD PITT?) Oh Lyle. No. Lyle is the bastard slimeball from George in the Jungle--he is Brendan Fraser's un-loinclothed nemesis with effeminate hair and weird lips. THAT is only an EXAMPLE of people named Lyle.
Okay, so I get that you moved on and are now married to a nice camera operator (whose relative anonymity ensures that I cannot figure out what he looks like or any aspects of his personality according to someone other than yourself.)
So you had twins. Great. Boy-girl twins. I am a twin myself, of the same kind. I have a twin brother. Twins run on both sides of my family (ohsweetmotherofmercy--I'm told it skips a generation *fingers crossed*)
So. Twins. You are given a golden oppourtunity. Two chances at naming two children. If you fuck up, there's always zygote numero dos to make things a little less self-condemning. (I was zygote number two--trust me, we're better!)
So what did you DO with your not one, but TWO golden oppourtunities as a spanking new mum and Hollywood maven to show the rest of them how it's done?
You kill every hope for the future of humanity that was left inside my tar-coated, withered heart.
Clearly acting before the epidural had had a chance to wear off--"Quick! Let's name 'em before my hushband getsh back from the nurshery!! LOL! *giggle* A-hee...hmmm let's shee...shhhhh! *giggle* No, I'm fine, I don't think the drugsh are wurking! Ohhhh shiney pen...listen, it clicks! *click-a-click-a-click-a-click*"
First: the daughter, as she escaped the most unscathed of the two. Hazel Patricia. Both of them fine, upstanding, beautiful names. For my grandmother. She is going to get dragged down to the beauty parlour kicking and screaming by a gaggle of hags who want her to join their bridge group and sit around in a caftan with curlers in her hair, smoking Virginia Slims and playing bingo on Thursdays.
Then: Phinnaeus Walter. For. The. Love. Of. Fuck. Fineas would have been bad enough. But no, let's put some extra letters and toss another diphthong in there! PHINNAEUS! Is it Latin ("ae")? Is it Greek("ph," "eu")? Is it Irish ("Finn")? No one knows! He will not be able to spell his own name until he reaches the age where most children are constructing small sentances. Because that's what his name is. A small sentance! No--an acronym! Please Help--I'm Not Nerdy As Everyone Usually Says. [No hon, you are.] And WALTER? He was the cute sweetheart in the later Anne of Green Gables books, and I cried when he died in the trenches of WWI, but not way in HELL would I ever name my son WALTER, lest he suffer a similar fate to that of his sister by way of sitting in the park, playing chess and passing wet wind until it's too dark to see the board anymore. Also makes one think of walnuts, and I, for one, would not want my son as the prime ingredient in some really tasty fudge.
It hurts to think about this...I'm sorry I ranted so long. But--gaaaah! These are our leading examples in North America! And clearly: something has gone horribly, horribly awry!

Higher Culture Gives Me Nightmares and Giggle Fits

2005-11-05T23:44:00.000-08:00

Em says:
I went to a concert.
Jackie says:
What concert?
Em says:
Some operatic recital. Songs of love and farewell, I believe it was called.
There's one awesome lullaby in the program which kicks ass.
It's all "go to sleep, or all this bad shit's gunna happen to you"
It's like "demons from hell will come and kick your ass and tie you up with snakes unless you shut up and go to sleep. So sleep peacefully."
I was laughing harder than would be considered in good taste at such a gathering.
Jackie says:
Hehehe. I'd sing that to my kids
Em says:
Me too.
Check it out:
"Quiet! Sleep! Or I will make Erinnys whip thee with a snake
And cruel Rhadamanthus take
Thy body to the boiling lake,
Where fire and brimstone never slake;
Thy heart shall burn, they head shall ache
And every joint about thee quake;

Quiet! Sleep! Or thou shalt see
The horrid hags of Tartary,
Whose tresses ugly serpents be,
And Cerberus shall bark at thee,
And all the Furies that are three
The worst is called Tisiphone,
Shall lash thee to eternity,
And therefore sleep thou peacefully."

Jackie says:
O.o
Em: says:
I know
'Sleep tight kids!'
Jackie says:
"Dear Whoever Wrote That Nursery Rhyme,

Love!

Sincerely, Jackie

p.s. My kids are in therapy. Lots of it"

Em says:
"Tomorrow Night: Bedtime stories with Jackie!"

Jackie says:
Oh. Hell. Yes.

Hallowe'en Just Got Scarier!

2005-10-31T23:54:00.000-08:00

Em: So I'm spending the day at [Old Highschool] during a day on reading break—at least part of the day—the later part—no sense in getting up early.
Jackie: Haha.
Em: Plus I'm trying to avoid someone who goes to [Old Highschool.]
Maybe I can wear glasses and disguise myself.
And a toque.
And a wig.
And a fake nose.
And a huge pimp coat.
Yeah...
Jackie: Haha. Wicked pimp coat.
Em: It is a good coat.
Jackie: But hon? Hallowe’en? Is now. Not reading break.
Em: But no seriously there is kiddo I must needs avoid. Who is madly in loff with me. Haven't seen him for ages, thank God. So will go totally incognito.
Jackie: Who? Tell me whooo
Em: [Blankity-Blank-McBlank]
Jackie:No idea who that is.
Em:Yeah I think he's in grade 11 this year.
Jackie: . . .wtf?
Em:...Yeah. He *really* wants to see me, just to hang out, to talk or whatever. Even with other people around. (I think he wants me to feel comfortable. I will never be comfortable around his smarmy ass from now on, as you will soon see.) But I'm like no. No, you ask me for x-rated pictures of myself because you are horny on msn you immediately are jettisoned from the privilege of even being my friend. He just wants to chill, as friends, but I know he would think it would turn into something more eventually because he's oh so charming, but SHIT!Jackie: Hehe.
Em: I just never want to speak to him again.
Jackie: Gooood plan.
Em: I can't even feel sorry for him, he's completely changed from the kid I met and became half-friends with. Not even GOOD friends, more like passing acquaintances. I don't see him at all since before grad, we don’t speak all summer. Then a month or so ago it’s all on msn, "I loff you date me plz!" And I'm like, “flattered, but no, is this a prank? Get off [Blankity’s] MSN account you perv.” And then the other night he's all like “I still loff you x rated pics I'm horny plz.” Me: “No.” Him: We can chill as friends. Me: “No, we really can't. I told you no and you still pleaded your hopeless case in the worst way possible.” I don't even feel bad about hurting him anymore because he doesn't respect or know me worth shit. At first I was all “ohh must spare little boy’s confuzzled feelings.” He’s not confuzzled! Just horny!
Jackie: Haha.
Em: And he's all like" I could get to know you."
Jackie: Oh man.
Em: And I'm like "I don’t wanna get to know you! At all!" And he's all "But *I* could get to know you!"
Jackie: You: "or not…"
Em: And I'm like "GO AWAY NOW PLZKTHNX!
Thing is: THEN he's all like "You sound totally like my friend, you need to talk to him I'm at his house I'm gunna go wake him up." And I'm like "don't bothe--" too late. So his friend comes to talk to me, and is all "I can see your point but I'm 16 and have dated a 19 year old." and I'm like "good for you but shut up that doesn't mean I'm gunna do it. And it's honestly not the age thing. If, in the unlikely case that I found a 16 year old who could satisfy me in a relationship, then all the better. BUT my grudge here is on the fact that I am being treated like a cheap 15 year old girl. Just because they put out behind their lockers doesn't mean I'm going to "chill" with your friend just so he can get his sick jollies.

Pfft.
Look, if XXX-rated pictures of Em are in such high demand, here you go. [Edited for my own personal shame. You should see the grin I’m wearing. It is truly sick. Hee.] Note that personally, I am not x-rated in this picture. Rather my surroundings.

ETA: Have removed the picture since it pushes the entire page around in weird ways. If you reeeeally want to see Em standing in a porn shop, leave e-mail address in the comment section.

Well This Is Unexpected...

2005-10-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

Shit guys! Look!

My blog is worth $564.54.
How much is your blog worth?

I should cash this sucker in and make for Mexico. Or, pay off part of my tuition...yeah..."tuition"...

ETA: $USD!!!!!!!!!! *dies*

Truth is Proven to Be Stranger Than Fiction.

2005-10-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

Haha.

Gunners Go Gatsby: A Literary Analysis

2005-10-17T19:04:00.000-07:00

Because no one else gives a fuck whether you expand your mind or not.

Explaining why pillow-talk with Gatsby is impossible, Nick Carraway is a closet homosexual, and the sexual politics of the Roaring Twenties are akin to 13 year olds on monkey bars, only with more martinis and feather boas…And intrigue and death and shit.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby takes place in the summer of 1922, with most of the events taking place on Long Island communities and in the city.

Cast:
Nick Carraway: The Narrator. A young stockbroker. He is an outside observer who provides nothing but a clinical depiction of everyone and everything, because he happens to know all that goes on with everyone, and yet he is never directly involved. Nick spends the novel describing his relationship with his neighbour, the fantastical and wild Jay Gatsby, whom Nick comes to know and respect {love sexually?} greatly over the course of the summer months.
Jay Gatsby: The Title Character. A young, eccentric bon vivant millionaire with a shady past. Possibly the only fictional character I could ever be persuaded to fellate.
Daisy Buchanan: Principle Love Interest of Gatsby. Whore Gold Digger Wife of Tom. Cousin of Nick.
Tom Buchanan: Daisy’s Two-Timing Asshole of a Husband, Whom No-One Really Likes, and Yet No-One Ever Gives a Big Enough Fuck to Tell Him to STFU. A former schoolmate of Nick’s back in college days.
Jordan Baker: Pointless Exposition Carrier and Distraction from the Truth That Is Nick Carraway’s Love for Other Men.
Myrtle Wilson: Tom’s Married Mistress. Wife of the George, who runs a dumpy little gas station somewhere in the hell between Long Island and NYC.
George Wilson: Myrtle’s husband. Runs a shitty gas station.

Scene One: Mostly in the Buchanan’s hawt mansion.

Nick: [moves to Long Island, next door to some dude named Gatsby. This will be important later on. How a poor young stockbroker just starting out manages to get a house situated next to an extravagant mansion is beyond me.]
Daisy and Tom: [invite Nick over for dinner.]
Nick: [meets Jordan Baker.]
Jordan: Hi! I’m here to ferry information to you that would otherwise never reach your hearing. Hey, did you know that the first five minutes after you meet someone is the best time in which to tell them that your host is having an affair with a married woman?
Nick: No, I did not know that. Also, it makes more sense than telling said host’s wife, who is one’s hostess, my cousin, and allegedly your best friend.
Jordan: I’m cynical!
Nick: Well, go you…! I guess.
Tom: Well, folks, have we accomplished all the exposition we need to have to move forward?
Jordan: I think so.
Daisy: Can I come back from whatever menial task sent me out of the room and hearing distance yet?
Nick: . . .
Jordan: . . .
Tom: . . . No.

Scene Two: NYC, Tom’s secret love-nest.

Tom: [goes on a trip to NYC, taking along Myrtle and…Nick? They sure spend a lot of time bonding for people who tend to passively hate each other.] This is my secret lair where Myrtle and I sex each other up!
Nick: Your tales of sexual congress with women hold no fascination for me, but I must say I love what you’ve done with the place!
Tom: [smooches Myrtle]
Nick: Are these drapes silk?
Tom: [humps Myrtle]
Nick: What a darling little chesterfield!
Tom: [unbuttons Myrtle’s skirt]
Nick: Why don’t I make us some mini bruschettas?
Tom: Oh holy FUCK, you need to get laid. By a woman.
Myrtle: What’s up with your heartless bitch of a wife? And I love you.
Tom: [punches Myrtle in the face] Shut up about my wife bitch!
Myrtle: I love you so bad. [faints from broken-nose angst]
Nick: Y’know, having witnessed all of this, I surprisingly feel no familial loyalty nor even common human moral decency and will not breath a word of this to Daisy.
Tom: Now I remember why I like you.

Scene Three: Gatsby’s Carnival-of-Fun Mansion

Random Servant: [yells across the lawn] Hey! We’re having a party here tonight!
Nick: Yeah, I noticed. Every fucking Saturday. How am I supposed to sleep around here?
Random Servant: Usually one starts with an attraction to the opposite sex. It just ups your chances of scoring, is all I'm saying. At least in West Egg. Soho might be more your style. Then you just find a string of loose, vulnerable women, and--
Nick: No, I mean, how am I supposed to sleep if you guys make so much fucking noise all the time?
Random Servant: Right. So...are you coming? [insert bad pun here] I mean, will you be there?
Nick: I haven’t received and invitation from my would-be host.
Random Servant: Personal invitations are for pussies.
Nick: . . .
Random Servant: Whatever. Here, a personal invitation from Jay Gatsby.
Nick: You just scribbled it onto the back of your to-do list.
Random Servant: Are you coming or not?
Em: [sits on her hands]
Nick: Sure. I’ll be there. [attends the wildly Bacchanalian party, wherein he comes across Jordan Baker.]
Jordan: Hi!
Nick: Oh no. You’re here for more exposition, aren’t you?
Jordan: Mmhmm!
Nick: Shit. Best get it over with, then. A-hem. I hope we get to meet our host amidst this throng of people.
Jordan: Fat chance. I’ve been to, like, a bajillion of these parties and I’ve never seen him once. He rarely comes up to people and talks to them. Although clearly this occasion is special, for it would otherwise not merit documentation in a novel where every scene is important.
Gatsby: Hello you two!
Jordan: Voila!
Gatsby: [is surprisingly young for being so wealthy. {Em asks: ‘male gigolo?’} He fakes a good British accent and has an amazing smile… {‘my money’s still on the gigolo-theory,’} …and tends to call everybody “old sport,” {ho-kay, not so much. I mean, for fuck’s sake:
Random Love Interest: “Ohhhhh JAY! Oh y-ES!”
Gatsby: “I love you!
Random Love Interest: “I love you too! That was amazing!”
Gatsby: “Jolly good, I say, old sport.” *lights a cigarette*
*sound of a vinyl record screeching to a halt*
Random Love Interest: “Wait, WHAT?”

In any case: NO. Do not ever refer to a piece of tail as “old sport.” Just not sexy.}

To continue…

Gatsby: Jordan, I must speak with you privately on a matter requiring some delicacy. [They leave, and shortly Jordan returns, chock-full of exposition.]
Jordan: [tattles to Nick-Almighty-Narrator, clinching the perception that she is only there to serve as a means of transporting more evidence to Nick’s ears] Nick! GUESS WHAT! Gatsby knew Daisy before she was married, in 1917, down in Louisville, and they were deeply in love, and Gatsby still loves Daisy and spends his nights staring across the water of the bay at the green light he knows sits at the end of Daisy’s dock. (Totally not a metaphor.) Gatsby’s mansion is directly across the water from the Buchanan estate. All of Gatsby’s wild parties and wealth have been to impress and attract Daisy. By implementing the “bring all your friends” policy, he had hoped that sooner or later someone would bring Daisy to his home so she could see what she was missing. Unfortunately, Daisy is a stuck up psycho with no friends and even Jordan doesn’t want to bring Daisy to a party because Tom would have to come too and Tom is a whiny little bitch.
Nick: Don’t we all know that by now.
Gatsby: [approaches Nick, somehow knowing that Jordan’s lips are looser than Myrtle Wilson, and that now Nick knows the whole sordid history.] I need you to invite Daisy to your house for tea, and arrange a reunion between us, but it can’t look like it was arranged, it must be natural and like I’m not even trying and oh my stars it’s grade seven all over again. Dude, you can, like, get her over here, and I can totally talk to her and see if she still likes me.
Nick: Why can’t you just invite her to your house?
Gatsby: It’s just easier this way.
Nick: Easier for YOU, maybe. What if I want to arrange my own social life for a change?
Gatsby: I am your social life, dude. You are officially awkward in a social context. Just do it. I’m nouveau-riche and used to getting my own way in everything.
Nick: GOD! FINE! Daisy, get your ass over here!
Gatsby: Great. I’m going to hide in the closet here. Now when she gets here, see if you can see if she likes me or not, and then, if she does, I’ll come out of the closet, and if she doesn’t, I won’t. {Seriously. There is so much UST here between Nick and Gatsby, and, well, with Gatsby we’ll never know, but with Nick, it explains a hell of a lot about his on-again-off-again relationship with Jordan. A sporty, flat-chested girl who plays golf and is named JORDAN.}
Doorbell: Ding-dong!
Nick: …For fuck’s sake…[lets in Daisy.]
Daisy: Hi Nick! Why did you want me to come over? You NEVER invite me to your place. One would think you had an ulterior motive in inviting me over for tea.
Nick: Uh…I…love you?
Gatsby: BITCH! [charges out of the closet and slaps Nick.]
Nick: Damnit Gatsby, I was creating a fucking RUSE for you to do your shit! I’m hopelessly gay, remember?
Gatsby: …right. Uh. Jolly good, old sport. [turns to Daisy woodenly] Oh, hello. Have…we…met? Ah! Daisy! So good to see you again…and how have you been? Because I totally haven’t been stalking your every step for the past few years and the intimacies of your life are wholly unknown to me…
Daisy: WTF?
[awkward pause]
Gatsby: I…love…you?
Nick: [sneaks out of the room to find an ice-pack]
Daisy and Gatsby: [get...it on...I mean...jiggy with it...I mean...reacquainted.]

{So that wasn’t an exact re-telling of the scene, as I made some allowances for Nick’s blatant homosexuality, which was not made evident in the original scene. But you get the idea.

Anyhow.}

Time: [passes.]

Scene Four: A Luncheon at the Buchanan House, to Which Gatsby Has Been Invited, for Some Reason.

Gatsby: [leers at Daisy]
Daisy: [simpers and blushes]
Tom: [gets jealous and enraged at the idea that his wife could ever possibly be unfaithful to him]
Double-Standard: [is glaringly evident]
Tom: We’re all going to New York City. Now.
Gatsby: Cool. Daisy and I will go in my one-of-a-kind-Rolls Royce. It’s bright yellow.
Daisy: Let’s roll!

Scene Five: The Plaza Hotel, NYC

Nick and Jordan: [come along for the ride because Nick is our principle narrator and needs to know these behind-closed-door things, and Jordan is there…I dunno…in case Nick misses something she can fill him in.]
Em: I’m not sure why they’re all randomly in this hotel suite…
Tom: Daisy, you’re faithful to me, so Mr. Purple-Silk-Shirt-Gatsby {I kid you not, there is all kinds of gayness in the wardrobe} better step off if he knows what’s good for him.
Em: And now I know.
Gatsby: Tom, Daisy and I were in love long before you two even met and she is totally going to leave you for me…eventually.
Daisy: Uh. No. I’m really not, Jay.
Gatsby: WTF? What was that interlude in the Rolls all about then?
Daisy: Um…I’m gagging for it?
Gatsby: Good enough.
Tom: Look, Gatsby, Daisy and I have something you couldn’t possibly understand…we have an understanding—
Gatsby: What, an open marriage? Oh, no, because in this, only YOU get to screw around behind your spouse’s back!
Nick: Oh snap!
Jordan: Shut up, Nick! Silent observers, remember.
Tom: [blurts and points a finger at Gatsby] Gatsby made his entire fortune bootlegging alcohol and drugs!
Assembled Company in Prohibition-Era America: [le gasp!]
Gatsby: [shamefaced] This is true. But I did it all for love of Daisy!
Daisy: I choose Tom!
Gatsby: Bugger.
Nick: Oh really?
Jordan: Nick! No! Down boy! Remember, I’m your cynical golf-playing love interest.
Nick: Whatev.
Tom: Heh.
Daisy: Well aren’t I the heartless bitch…
Tom: Tell ya what, “old sport,” just to prove how emasculated you are at this very moment, I will let you drive my wife back to our house in your Sex-Mobile all alone. Hell, take the scenic route. We’ll see you there.

On the way back to the Buchanan house:

Gatsby’s Sex-Mobile: [mows down Myrtle Wilson outside the gas station in one of the best fits of epileptic irony I have ever seen.]

Scene Six: Back at the Buchanan house

Gatsby: [stands outside and stares up at Daisy’s window in the gathering dark.]
Nick: Anything I need to be told so I can relate it all in an omniscient perspective to the reader.
Gatsby: Daisy was driving, but I intend to take the blame.
Nick: Well, that WILL be important. [makes a note] Thanks. Goodnight. Have fun…stalking or whatever the shit you’re doing right now.
Gatsby: Cheers, old sport.

Scene Seven: the Next Day, Shitty Gas Station

George Wilson: [mentally unstable] Oh doesn’t my life suck?
Tom: The dude driving the car who killed your wife was totally Jay Gatsby.*
George Wilson: VENGANCE! Where’s my shotgun?
Tom: Eheheheheheh. [backs away]

*There is some backstory and subplot about how Gatsby’s real name isn’t Jay Gatsby, and who he was before he was rich, and some Jewish guy who helped Gatsby in his illegal activities. However, Sparksnotes.com has seen fit to leave this subplot out, and I’m basing this on my memories of the book, which I read this past summer, referring to sparksnotes.com for the finer plot details.

Scene Eight: Gatsby’s Mansion, first chilly day of autumn.

Gatsby: [eccentric in the midst of heartbreak] I shall go lie on my floaty air-mattress in my pool.
Random Servant: It’s too cold, sir.
Gatsby: Screw you. For some obscure reason which is never made clear, this reminds me of Daisy and the love we once shared. I will go float on my floaty air-mattress and NO ONE WILL STOP ME! [floats peacefully, with his eyes closesd]
Em: Oh I love the smell of irony in the morning.
George Wilson: [stumbles in, mad with grief, and a .22] YOU SLEEP KILL MY WIFE!
Gatsby: [opening one eye] Ah, well, you see, that’s only half-true, old sport. Well, not true at all, really, the people you’re looking for are just across the—
George Wilson’s Gun: [goes bang]
Gatsby: [gets gunned down]
Em: Hey, it wasn’t me. I didn’t give him that gun. [hugs Gatsby’s lifeless body] Noooooo!
George Wilson: [turns it on himself]
George Wilson’s Gun: [gives a repeat performance to enthusiastic bravos and encores.]

Scene Nine: A bunch of places

Nick: [is the only one who shows up to the funeral he planned for Gatsby.] Hmpf. Their loss. Although I must say that the robin’s egg blue ruched satin in the casket just sets off Gatsby’s eyes SO well…goodnight, sweet prince. Or something.

Jordan: Hi!
Nick: Oh, hey Jordan! By the way, GET LOST!
Jordan: You-you’re breaking up with me? Oh boo-hoo…now I’m even more jaded than before! I’m so young, so cynical, what a modern tragedy! You don’t even need me for exposition or boring the readersby taking the attention away from Gatsby with our fruitless farce of a romance?
Nick: No. No more exposition is needed. The main character is dead. The Fucking Title Character. Seriously, who kills the Title Character? Who? The killing is no. Shut up Romeo and Juliet. Shut up.
Jordan: But I—
Nick: Shut. Up. Now I need to tell people what happened to me.
Readers: Like we care.
Nick: Shut it. You have to read this book to be fulfilled as an intellectual. I WILL ENRICH YOUR LIFE AND YOU WILL THANK ME FOR IT!
A-hem.
So I moved back to the Midwest.
Readers: Ohhhhh.
Nick: Because the wealthy friends and acquaintances of Gatsby have gotten corrupt and have no souls.
Readers: And you *just* realized this?
Nick: I am disgusted with the moral decay of this society.
Readers: How are you any different from everyone else?
Nick: Gatsby’s dream of Daisy was corrupted by money, greed, and lies. Much like the American pursuit of individual happiness. Blah blah American Dream Metaphor blah blah fishcakes. Gatsby had the ability to make his dreams real, which made him “great,” however, the era of dreaming—both Gatsby’s and the American—is over.
Readers: No shit?
Nick: [bows] Thank you and goodnight.
Readers: I just wasted five hours just so this in-the-closet-fag could tell me that reality bites?
Em: Can I get a W-T-F???

This ends our educational segment for the time being. I know a promised a recap of Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife by Linda Berdoll, but good Lord I just couldn't. It was all I could do to finish reading it. Much less take detailed notes.

Guest Gunner

2005-10-17T12:27:00.000-07:00

Today we're going to hand over our guns to Dame Edna, as we Gunners are joining the walkout in support of the BCTF's prolonged strike action.

In conclusion: Tom Cruise and Madonna's Teeth (or The Space Therein)>>>>GUNNED DOWN!

One Day, You'll Look Back on This and Laugh...

2005-09-29T00:10:00.000-07:00

...or cry. Whatever.

During November reading break (we DO get a break in November somewhere, right? RIGHT???) I plan to go visit my old highschool. Should be fun. Or horrendous. One of the two.
Also cruising down memory lane in a lime green Pinto: My Old Job. All summer long, through two places of employment, dealing with people like Mr. Random-Sexual-Harrassment-Wrapped-in-a-Thinly-Veiled-and-None-too-Funny-Joke. Or the Milk Nazi. Woman gave me the most trouble a human being can give. Or the Muffin-Man. Or the family that comes in right before closing and orders half the inventory you have in the back room to feed four people.

Note: computer internet is sketchy at the mo, so I will post what I can of this entry and finish it later.

You couldn't pay me to be Alan Rickman...okay maybe you could...

2005-09-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

Today I openly voiced what I have known inside for a loooong time.
The Number One Reason I Never Want to Be a Famous Actress:
Fanfiction.
Now, being a writer of fanfiction, (shut UP, Jackie,) and knowing that most fanfictions, even when based on "books," use the characters who look like the actors who play them in the movie versions of the books.
Harry Potter fiction?
You bet your Bludger they've got little Dan, Emma, Rupert, Alan Rickman, Michael Gambon/Richard Harris et al. running about in their mind's eye enacting all manner of things as the plot of the fanfiction winds along.
Phantom phics? Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum are the ones doing the tearful reunions and "I made a mistake in choosing Raoul! Turns out he's abusive and sex with him is rape even though I'm his legal wife and evidently had no reservations about the act before!" in every single goshdarn EC out there. Unless you get a hardcore Leroux goth-baby who has Christine as a blonde. And even then, no one really tries to describe the characters unless they are making a point out of it. And that point is usually "I am making her blonde because you are all illiterate amateurs!"
Pfft. Screw 'em.
Heck, when I write fics, even about books, even if I use information form the books, chances are that 98% of the time I will be picturing the actors from the movies playing the parts I am writing for them. (Exceptions include my Viola in 12th Night fics because I want her as a brunette. Don't get me wrong, I *hearted* Imogen Stubbs in that movie. And Ben Kingsley and Toby Stephens were the shizznit. *triple heart*)
So yeah, whenever I see disturbing fics involving these characters, my heart goes out to the actors and I pray they never discover what some sick people are making them do for fun.
If I am ever famous, I am putting out a copyright on my image, allowing no one to write fanfiction about me or any of the characters I play. If the authors can copyright their created characters and plots and written word and forbid people from ff.net from using them, why shouldn't actors do the same with the roles they create?
And if I DO get famous, a shout out to the fanfic'ers:
I'm watching you. You sick fucks.

The Phantom Menace (with pictures by Em!)

2005-09-11T19:33:00.000-07:00

So in response to Cleolinda's thing with the Mary-Sues, I give you Em-Sue. The doll to the left here is me "before" about as normal as I can make it, given that translating oneself into cartoon format is harder than it sounds. Enjoy the crap story here. Anyhow I will post a link to this on my LJ because LJ picture thing is messed.
My name is Emeliea Rosea Mia Dolores Divyana Amethyst Xenia Jewelle Pogostick Marion Fern Hannah Sharone de l'Angelle. I am a poor orphan, working herself to death in a cruel Parisian factory during the long, harsh winter. (Luckily, the lack of food makes me skinny and the lack of heat gives my skin a flawless alabaster tone.) Ohh but look! A woman named Madame Giry saw me dancing and heard me singing sweetly on a street corner late at night, as I am so lonesome and poor and pitiful that dancing & singing is the only thing that makes me feel better when I'm not fainting with hunger and chills. Anyway, she offered me a job as the prima ballerina at the Opera Populaire, spying my natural grace and talent! She also hinted that I would have a good (read: positive) chance of getting the lead soprano role! Whoa so much is happening! I gotta go lie down or eat some sugar or something...
So ohmigawd I am being taught to sing by this AWESOMELY HAWT guy in a MASK OF MYSTERY! He insists I wear my slave-girl costume, even though I'm totally moving up in the world and will not be in the chorus-line much longer! In between lessons he seduces me with more music and hawt groping! I'm so tingly I can hardly think! Not that that's a problem for me. I never have to think anyway, tingly or not!
OMGWTFBBQ! I am the new STAR SOPRANO at the Opera Populaire! Everyone is in love with me because I am gorgeous and I sing like an angel! Hee! Off to more parties with handsome stagehands who kiss reallyreally well but whom I can never marry because they are poor and they will drink themselves to death for love of me--SO SAD!--oh well! Maybe the newly-widowed Vicomte de Chagny will be there! He and Erik will have to fight over me! *squee!* What fun! Toodles!
So then I totally married Erik, and this is my old-fashioned wedding dress, but it's BLACK because I haven't quite gotten Erik over his fear of non-monochromatic colours. But yay! He's learning to like pink and sparkles!
So on our honeymoon, Erik and the new Mrs. Phantom (that's me!) went to a fancy-dress ball, and I went as Super-Sexay Red Death because I knew Erik would love it and then we went on to have lots and lots of sex and babies!

Won Ton...Want One...Wantonly....

2005-09-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

So I'm skulking around campus, getting a feel for the place, and turning a corner, I spy a familiar face. However, I am already heading in the opposite direction and my feet, if anything, speed up to carry me around the next corner and out of sight, where I allow a silly, silly grin to light my face, a grin which even now leaves traces of itself branded on my face as my heart goes pitter-pat and my tummy twists itself into a knot. A Knot of Love.
Then again, that could be from hoofing it up 8 flights of stairs for the nth time this morning and the fact that "breakfast" was a banana and a mug of green tea. (I'm so scared I'll run out of food points that I am on a bit of a fast to see just how little I can survive on.)

Turns out Hawt Asian Boy I have been lusting after in semi-secret for the past two years actually works at the university. I should have known this, indeed, I did somewhere in my wayward little heart, but I did not expect to see him, much less on my first morning, and without previously learning his whereabouts and stalking him there.
Now, this certain university probably has the highest amount of Asians per capita than anywhere else in the city, maybe excluding Chinatown. And Chinatown is all of two blocks long. This is more than two blocks. They are everywhere. Lucky for me, as I *heart* Asian boys. Too bad the majority of the populace is Asian girls. But no, lesbanism is not for me, not while there are such people as H.A.B. in the world.
Over the last two years, I have cherished a massive crush, bordering on obsession, for this boy, but hesitated to approach him with any kind of overtures, as he was in a position of authority and I was a student, his client in many respects. Thus, I knew that any liason between us would be regarded as highly illegal, and sending one's true love to jail as a result of your amourous trysts is hardly on par with flowers and candle-lit dinners in terms of telling them you care.
But now, I'm wondering, will my courage fail me as I finally seem to be on equal footing with this boy? Am I just looking for a reason to avoid rejection?
Would it be so very morally wrong to pretend I was suicidal just so I could tie up his hotline and abuse his counselling services for my own pleasure?
Hm...a sudden urge to slit my wrists or take some prescription pills is coming over me...
...That and a massive craving for Chinese food.

Um...

2005-09-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

I was just at the fair. And saw a carnie. With no arms. And a hook for a hand. A HOOK.

Yarr, t'is a good day for a merry-go-round.

Oh my gosh. OH MY GOSH! There was a FAIR? With CARNIES? I should have gone....
Curse me moving. That's right kiddies, Em is upwardly mobile and living on her own(ish). With a roommate (who hasn't shown up yet.) And a whole floor of other girls. A whole building, in fact. In a cluster of other buildings. Between two other clusters. In a row of clusters. In the middle of a SELF-SUFFICIENT MINI-CITY. So, not on my OWN so much as away from home.
But it's Labour Day, so everything is closed, including my nearest building with wireless internet capabilities, so instead of sitting in a cozily swank leather armchair in a spot of sunshine, I am curled up on the stone steps outside in front of a fountain to catch the network, and I think it's going to rain and my bum is getting numb. Boo.
~Em
p.s. If he had no arms, was the hook attached to his shoulder? Must make operating the rides awkward. Mmmmm fountain smells like lakeweed... *barfs* I need institutionalized breakfast...

Passing Wind & Gas Cramps - The Myriad Ills of New Orleans

2005-08-31T23:30:00.000-07:00

Jackie:
US Hurricane - death tolls so far around 100.
Stampede in Iraq - over 900 dead, 450 more wounded.
Em: Canada's top headline being "Disgruntled fishermen gather beside Fraser River to ponder fish ban" - priceless.
Jackie: but which is getting more press? *hates CNN*
Em: OHMIGOD those poor happy go lucky New Orleaners! What will happen to flashing our boobs for beads and gumbooooooooo? *cries* Oh! voodoo!
Jackie: Hee hee.
Em: I forgot to mention voodoo!
Jackie: *snerk*
Em:Maybe this is the climactic ending of a voodoo war! "I's gunna bring some bad juju on y'all!"
Jackie: http://edition.cnn.com/US/ Check out the flooded city. Flooding has only stopped because the water levels have reached equilibrium.
Em: Ohhhh soggy! The city has reached it saturation point? It's official: the corpses have sponged up as much of the mess as they're ever gonna.
Jackie: Ew. And no, but the water level in the city and the lake beside it are now the same, so the lake isn't pouring into the city anymore. We're going to hell.
Em:*sneeeeeeerk* It's difficult to care anymore...it's 11.30 and I'm too sleepy to moan.
Jackie: Not so much for the corpse remark as putting the Pope in my death pool. Has New!Pope given a statement about the hurricane?
Em: Nah. But he probably thinks the Big Easy deserved it.
Jackie: Haha probably. "See how the lord Smiteth thou Large city of Easyness.
Em:"Voodoo and frank-tittie-flashing! They had this act of God coming! Not to mention Alabama...damn southern Baptists..." Can't you just see New!Pope giving South the finger? Can't you just see the Hand of God doing the same?
Jackie: And Thou! Governor of Alabama! Thy neglected thy studies at college! Thy soundeth like a HICK! Thy neck gloweth with the colour of the fires of Hell!"
Em: Hurricane Katrina: God's Way of Saying "This Shit is Bananas..." Now would be a *great* time for a Gone With The Wind joke...
Jackie: Straight to hell.
Em: Somehow a hurricane in southeast America means gas jumps .40 in northwest Canada.
Jackie: US lost 1/4th of their oil supply thus they're buying up our oil. Goddamn Yanks.
Em: Ironic that we’re cursing the South, but calling them Yanks? So let me get this straight: they want our Western Canadian oil, but they won’t take Alberta beef and are bitching about BC’s softwood lumber? Why don’t we just tell them our oil is full of mad cow disease, our lumber is fertilized by anthrax and then use it all ourselves because WE KNOW IT’S PERFECTLY SAFE TO CONSUME?
Jackie: Hate to say it but we're not northwest Canada. We're southwest Canada. We're technically below the damn border.
Em: Higher gas prices means I am selling my car and getting a bus pass, so New Orleans can just shut the hell up about their death tolls and maybe I’ll shut up about having to ride stinky public transport with weird Asian kids who are in a semi-comatose state who have had their liscences revoked for street-racing while on drugs. (Don’t get me wrong, I like Asians. Just those kids who ride the bus and seem to be in a deep sleep for the majority of the ride, then as soon as the bus hits their stop, the open their eyes like those bloody mechanical dolls and get off the bus after pausing silently a moment to stare into your soul…it’s creepy, is all I’m saying.)
I know we’re southwest, but we're about as far away as cool people can get from the hurricane-site. The Yukon just ain't cool. Yukon is the kid who played D&D with his cousin then went and blew shit up in his backyard on prom night.
Jackie: Heh. This is being blogged.
Em: Ladies first.

Trailer Trash

2005-08-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

So I found a new trailer for the upcoming Pride & Prejudice, as opposed to the one from yahoo films which I have been playing back about 50 times a day in the throes of fangirl glee. This one I like better, although I don't know why, because they take what everyone knows is a Jane Austen rom-com & light social satire and make it look all dramatic, esp. at the end, where all the lighting is blue and the ominous music and unsmiling faces of the lead actors would make one think that death is in the cards here. I mean, besides Lydia and Wickham's mutual sluttery, there's not a lot of heavy social issues to deal with here. I mean, I was watching Sense & Sensibility the other day, and holy STD's, was there a lot of rakery going on. I mean, Wickham's a rake, but Willoughby is oodles of hotness and has actual charm (sorry, but Greg Wise wins my heart over Adrian Lukas, and I have an intense inner debate here, since Willoughby is undoubtably eviller in my view, not even attempting to change his ways until it is too late, but Wickham is forced into reform and doesn't even WANT to change.) I mean, the difference is in their redeeming qualities. Wickham fucked up and was forced to marry a penniless woman he doesn't truly love, whereas Willoughby has the harshness of having a worse reputation than Wickham, then being forced to marry a rich woman for money, while the penniless girl whom he really loves loses her mind and gives herself pneumonia during the most suicidal walk in the rain EVER. But still, I think Sense and Sensibility is the darker of the two novels, because of the whole dealy with Willoughby actually having a past to answer for with Beth and all. Wickham's victims are nameless and faceless plot-drivers.
Anyhow, watch the trailer, see if you don't agree that the trailer-makers are totally trying to make the ending seem ambiguous and even possibly sad/dramatic/dark/angsty, when in fact you know the whole thing will end in a Regency-era double wedding.
Firth and Ehle's Kiss in the '95 version is one of the most memorable moments of modern movies with women between the ages of 12 and 85.

Joe Wright: We know how it ends. Thanks for trying to make it appealing to the gothbabies who haven't a clue about Austen, but no dice for the die-hard fans or kids who lent half a brain cell to their studies in highschool Literature class.

Note that they also manage to make Mr. Collins make a sex joke during a sermon. I...don't...know...
All I can do is thank God they never had the same idea for David Bamber, who was perfectly all I expected Mr. Collins to be as a character, and creepy to the nth degree to boot.
The only reason Collins in this movie can get away with a *snerk* kind of sex joke is because Tom Hollander is just so damn adorably idiotic. Creepy morons get no sympathy. Hollander's portrayal just seems to be a mild, bumbling fool, but Charlotte Lucas has not much to complain about in the '05 version here. At least I can look at Tom without being all like 'For God's sake man, it's called anti-perspirant," as was the case with Bamber. Hollander is also closer, I think, to the book's description of Collins, a small, bantam man of about 25 years of age. Bamber was too stocky, and a little too old for a convincing 25 years old. Also a little too *shwa?* for my tastes. Hollander can do the awkwardness perfectly, without making girls in the audience go "ick." We know Lizzie can never marry Collins, but we can see why Charlotte Lucas has a couple of good reasons to marry Hollander's Mr. Collins. In the '95 version, every possible feeling revolts against the idea, and there is no sympathy nor understanding of Charlotte's position because Collins is just so bloody insufferable and not so rich as to be the man about town. Hollander's expression is that of a puppy who just got caught pooping on the carpet. "Awwww he's just so stupid. Let's forgive him this once and clean up the mess." Whereas Bamber was like the dog who humps your mother-in-law's leg under the dinner table while stealthily sneaking food off of blind old granny's plate. "Ew. Bad dog. BAD DOG! Let's have him spayed. No! Put down!"

Update: Turns out that the actor and actress who play Bingley and Jane ae currently dating. *cue the chorus of awwwwwwws!*

Reasons My Job Rocks, Comparitively.

2005-08-11T19:53:00.000-07:00

1. Tips. Comparatively: Nicki works at a movie store, and as far as I know, doesn't get much by way of tips. (So bring in your f**king resume, already!)

2. Free food. Tasty free food. Comparatively: Last job, food was only 50% off, and not much better.

3. Breaks! Comparatively: Last job, no breaks unless there was no work left to be done, which is never. Boo.

4. Unionized health/dental plan! Hooray! Comparatively: Relying on Dad's health plan. I think I'm still counted under my Dad's health/dental plans. What happens now? Do I get twice the coverage? Does this mean I can break both legs for the price of one?

5. Physically/mentally-competent people (customers/co-workers.) Comparatively: Last job catered to old people who don't shut their mouths when they eat and was sexually harassed by asshole who lasted all of three weeks in his job, thank goodness. My customers now, even the oldest ones, must be fit enough to travel on their own, and are therefore pretty sharp. People with rest-home tpye problems have aids who attend to their needs, being much more knowledgeable and sensitive than I. Mind you, I am getting my ass pinched by this one guy, but I plan to tell him off next time, and again, UNION! We have a whole policy on that harassment shit and it's posted in the storeroom and I've already reported one fellow co-worker and I'm not afraid to do it again, should the need arise.

6. Famous people! I sell lattes and bagels to famous clientele, including, but not limited to: that evil Russian chick from Goldeneye, but who Jason from work called "The hot girl from X-Men," but she's Dutch for real, w00t!; Stephen Harper, whom no one seems to recognize but me; everyone's favourite ex-patriate in Italy, whjo is evidently very rude in real life; and this kid, who apparently comes through often and orders a cinnamon-raisin bagel with cream cheese, and who was pursued through the airport by my co-worker (the asshole who I reported, actually,) in order to get his autograph. The fact that it was a 20 year old boy chasing another 20-something boy instead of a 13 year old girl positively cripples me with laughter.
I have only worked here a little over a month and the star-studded atmosphere still tends to make me reel a little. All this while wearing a hairnet and up to my elbows in garbage because I dropped another fork in the trash by mistake.
Comparatively: Jackie sells deep-fried chicken to fatties and a certain ethnic group of people whom I will not describe because by doing so I would be saying that they are in the same catergory as fat people and are uncool in inverse proportion to famous hotties. And I am not a racist bigot.
On weekdays, at least.

Pro-Panties

2005-07-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

Get out the hand-lotion, fanboys, for this ass-tastic entry will consist of panties, thongs and/or the lack thereof.
So I was at work yesterday, fending off the world's most massively invasive wedgie ever, when I started considering switching to thongs. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool granny-pantier, because that's the way I like it and there ain't nothing wrong with swathing my ass in Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton. People are always telling me that thongs are comfortable because there is no material to get wadded up, as with my bikini-cut underthings. But there is still the invasiveness. Wadded or not, that is a foreign object creeping up my backside in a frenzied attempt at recon with my colon.
Another pro-thong statement I've heard is "No VPL! Yay!"
Why do people want to hide the fact that they wear underwear? The tell-tale lines where my panties and butt end and my legs begin are hardly something I feel ashamed of. If the skirts and pants you are wearing are A) too tight, B) too short, or C) too see-through to allow you to wear whatever underoos you please, there are larger issues to face here. "VPL ruins the flattering line of your clothing!" No honey, your ripply stucco-butt ruins the *flattering* line of your clothing. If your tube-top masquerading as a miniskirt is tight enough for us to see the cellulite encroaching upon your ass cheeks, and your sphincter is offering to reveal itself completely at any moment...wearing a thong hardly makes it better. Why not just go without any underwear? Because only complete whores don't wear anything under their skirts? Given that I've shot down any possible argument in favour of thongs, they seem to me just a useless fad with a couple of half-assed (you'll excuse the pun) supporting arguments.
The so-called 'granny panties' seem to have garnered an unfair reputation as being unsexy because there is no willful butt-flossing involved. Look. Let's compare thongs to tooth floss, so long as the term butt floss has surfaced. Flossing your teeth is good for you, yes. And yes, it is easier and more comfortable to floss your teeth with a thin thread than with a sheet of fabric. But that doesn't change the fact that the floss still snaps against my gums and makes them bleed from time to time. Now given that comparison, I really am in no hurry ot see if butt floss has a similar effect. Anal bleeding is really not a thing to toy with. My panties are sexy, and I chose tasteful clothing that covers my ass and is loose enough to allow free movement while not tripping me up. I've heard no complaints so far that my choice of underwear makes me a total stuck-in-the-past loser. You know why? Because, deep down inside, no one really gives a shit what kind of underwear you prefer, in spite of the myriad "Boxer/brief" questions asked on those e-mail surveys "Things You Never Knew About Your Friends!" Things, perhaps, which are irrelevant and repetetive? And why, oh why, does the boxers/briefs question appear in the girls only section? Wouldn't it make more sense to ask a guy what HE prefers? But no, it's what do guys want girls to be like and what do girls want the boys to be like? Why not ask them questions pertaining to their own gender, as one would assume they know more about it?
Wrong: Hey boys! Do you prefer long or short hair on a girl?
Right: Hey girls! Do you like to wear your hair long or short?
Wrong: Hey Boys! Do you like sweet, shy girls, or a ballsy girl who asks you out and makes the first move?
Right: Hey Girls! Are you shy or ballsy?
Wrong: Hey Girls! Do you prefer boxers or breifs on a guy?
Right: Hey Girls! Do you even give a rat's ass what a guy wraps his ass-hole in? Y'know, the place where poop comes out?

Survey Says: Nope.

Thongs, the fascination with thongs, and internet surveys which are always the same in spite of having titles like: "Jayne and Katee's Wicked Kewl Survey! FWDFWDFWD! U'll totaly learn sumthin new an interesting about ur pals!"
Only not.

Anyway: Gunned Down.

Jackie's Note:
Emily hits so many points here you'd think she was genius. hee hee. A good point being that no one really cares whether you're wearing "granny panties" or a thong. And it's true! Thongs are usually my preference, I find them more comfortable, but then again I've been wearing them for a few years. It's like a bra, you'll fuss over it for a week and then you won't even feel it anymore. And for the "granny panties aren't sexy, ew, my boyfriend will dump me" bit, oh shut up! If your boyfriend comments at all in a negative way because you've got plain cotton panties and all of his friend's girlfriend's wear hooker panties, he's a weenie and you should kick him out on his heinie as soon as possible. Because honestly, they all look the same on the floor. No seriously. I'm not kidding!

Gotta Be KD...

2005-07-24T20:36:00.000-07:00

. . . "Ketchup-Dependant," that is.
Now in my younger years, during various stages of Exploratory Taste-Bud Development, I'll admit to adding ketchup to any number of foods, sometimes in copious amounts. Almost any kind of pasta; meatloaf; you name it: it had ketchup on it, or could, conceiveably. My sister even went so far as to add ketchup to her chocolate ice cream in the fourth grade. We've all had our moments, is what I'm saying. But this is beyond anything I have ever heard of, and that included my cousin who would only eat Kraft Dinner with half a bottle of Heinz poured over it.
So today at my workplace, which is a cafeteria-style restaurant type of thing, we kind almost ran out of ketchup. This is a huge deal, apparently, because you have absolutely NO idea how many burgers/hot dogs/french fries/onion rings we sell in a day, not to mention about a dozen other grill items that come with your choice of fries or onion rings.
And that's not even including breakfast items, which come with hashbrowns.
I have seen my fair share of people who believe the sole purpose of the fries is to transport the maximum amount of ketchup into their mouths. (This is a paraphrase of the guy from negativepostitive.org, I still can't find his name anywhere on his site. Anyhow, credit goes to him for that thought.) When I was about 6 years old, I was one of those people. But I grew out of it, see.
Now I have it on good authority that a few weeks ago, a shipment of ketchup was a little bit late, and one morning, we had to go without. We had people purchase whole breakfasts (which consist of two eggs done any way you want them, your choice of brown or white toast with jams/jellies/peanut butter/marmelade/honey, your choice of bacon, ham, or sausage, and hashbrowns,) and when they discovered we were out of ketchup, proceeded to try and get their money back or return their breakfasts to the kitchen, insisting that the food was of no use to them. Like the cooks are really hoping the food will be returned to them uneaten because they have SO many uses for it...
Honest to God. These people get a hot, tasty, varied, and by no means lacking in nutrition, albeit fatty, and yet they cannot consume a single bite without the aid of a chemical-laden-red-dye-number-47 bastardization of an ancient First Nations spiced fish sauce called ke-tsiap (or something similar...can't quite recall the spelling of it.)
Please, the ketchup normally comes in small packages or squeezy bottles, and people are free to add as much as they like to their meals. It is our free gift to you. So in the future, if the ketchup makes all the difference, why not just grab a bowl and spoon and eat your ketchup that way? It's free, so you're saving, like, a bajillion dollars by not ordering food you don't actually need to enjoy the ketchup in all its undefiled glory. And later, if you want some scrambled eggs/fries/hashbrowns/hamburgers with your ketchup, order those too. But don't insult our intelligence and lower our opinions of you by ordering a full meal, then refusing to eat something that has been prepared just for you, as you asked, simply because it has no ketchup with it. This just screams "trailer trash." (Not that I am knocking living in a trailer. There are some very swanky trailer parks, like the ones where retired people live. You know the ones I mean, the "let's dress up and go out to K-Mart for our shot-gun wedding anniversary" kind of trailer trash.) If it's so important to you, why not carry about your own travel-bottle of ketchup? Then, one of two things will happen: A) You will never have to worry about asking for your money back on a ketchup-less meal again, or B) You will realize the sadness of your state and the extent of your mania and seek professional help.
"I can't eat this. I want my money back."
I only want to hear these words if your hamburger has raised its head and mooed at you.

Those unhappy folks whose blood has been replaced almost entirely by Heinz products ------->GUNNED DOWN!

An "LOL-OMG-WTF" Free Zone: An Online Conversation Between Your Favourite Gun-Toting Gringas!

2005-07-17T21:01:00.000-07:00

Em: I love Gabrial Yared!
Jackie: Me too!
Em: At least his music. I have no clue what he looks like or the extent of his voical abilities
Jackie: Guess who's going to Karaoke night?
Em: Speaking of voical abilities...you? Hee! *voical* Newest word EVER.
Jackie: Karaoke night. I can't spell that word... My workplace is inappropriate.
Em: *fusses with IMDb* Damn Gabriel's compsed for a lotta movies here...I only ever liked him for Possession, but he's done other stuff too. I cannot find my Possession video tape. I know it is at home somewhere. Boo.
Jackie:
City of Angels makes my life.
Em: The one with Nicolas Cage pre-hairplugs, Meg Ryan with the same haircut she always has and the only song from the Goo Goo Dolls that I will ever recognize upon hearing?
Jackie: The same.
. . . p.s. the Unfaithful soundtrack is amazing!
Em: Mmm never heard it. Not a Diane Lane fan after she was rude to my aunt in an airport.
Me likies the Possession soundtrack...oh well...can't find Monsoon Wedding either. Both will turn up.
Jackie:
Ok wanna hear what the guys at work said to me yesterday?
Em: And how!
Jackie:
Behold! The Conversation Went Thus:

*inappropriate comment of a typical sort*
Me - *eyeroll* you guys are so juvenile
Greg - Jackie, ever since the baby it's not been the same between us.
Alex - *laughs*
Me - Greg you're retarded
Greg - When they're that big, they're not just for the baby anymore!

Em: *still fussing with IMDb* Damn I want to see this movie when it comes out :
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0437954/

And hee! Your boobs got made fun of!

I *heart* Italy!

I *heart* the Black Death!

Jackie:
They're like that aaaalllllllll the time!
Greg and I had a fight over my bra size...oooh ooho I love Italy/Black Death too!
Em: Hahaha, who doesn't?
Jackie: *fusses wioth IMDb* Oh, wait.
Em: Duuuuude.
Jackie: Mischa Barton.
Em: I got an Ick Story similar to the one you describe above, only marginally creepier. But it'll keep. Let us get the Mischa-Gunning out of the way.
Jackie: Oh yes, let's. Only we'll have to fire about 50 times each to actually hit her. It's like she's 2-D. She turns sideways and disappears completely. From our eyes, at least, if not our unfortunate memories.
Em: Ick is like my word of choice, and I think it applies to Ms. Barton.
Jackie: *still fussing with IMDb* And Hayden Christensen. NEITHER can act!
Em: Yeah but hopefully she'll be in a silent role as she neither speaks Italian nor can pull of a convincing accent. It's just a guess, as I've never seen her try either, but dude. And Julia Stiles is going to be playing a Scottish woman in the upcoming future. Are there no hot Italian or Scottish women? The men of the two regions are considered hot by default in North America, as their accents automatically single them out as being cultured, sophisticated in a James-Bond-esque, European manner, and able to do things to a girl that have yet to be made legal in North America.
Jackie: Like rape, torture, or dismemberment?
Em: A) Those aren't legal in Europe...at least I hope not. And B) That's not quite what I was going for, but I believe my point stands if I make it clear that I mean *sexy* illegal things.
Jackie: Like bestiality? Or incest? What about syphallis? "It's not just for Europe anymore?"
Em: It's like I'm talking to a 6 year old. A highly-educated, smart-mouthed, vodka-swilling, cynically-jaded, shoots-from-the-hip, take-no-prisoners-or-crap, forward-thinking, buzz-quashing, gratingly-honest 6 year old.
Jackie: That would be the awesomest 6-year-old, EVER.
Em: True. We should totally pool our money and adopt a kid. Or buy one.
Jackie: Like off eBay? I don't think we'd have enough money. Can't you just grab one from the park or one that's lost and wandering the aisle of the grocery store with the pint of fudge ripple they wanted mommy to buy, crying because they had to go wee, but had let go of the shopping cart handle so they can't find mommy, ergo, they cannot find their way to a washroom in time and thusly have wet their Disney-Princess-Print Pull-Ups?
Em: I don't want a kid like that. The fact that they wandered off to fullfill their own selfish desire for ice cream then wee'd themselves in public shows a single-minded, reckless disobedience in order to pursue your own self-interest and a self-centred lack of direction that causes them to pridefully wallow in their own filth rather than ask a stranger for help locating the nearest mommy and/or washroom.
Jackie: . . .
Em: . . . Come to think of it...such a child would be putty in our Gunning Hands.
Jackie: Please note that none of your twisted concern is directed towards the idea of us stealing a child away from its mother.
Em: In all fairness, you seemed to have shot down the idea of adopting.
In any case, Hayden is hot and from Vancouver. As a West-Coast homeboy, he needs our respect for that.
Jackie: But. He. Can't. Act.
Em: True.
Jackie: Point!
Em: "Darth Vader: Dark Sith Lord or Surly, Constipated Teenager With An Articulatory Problem?"
Jackie: The latter. Oh, the latter.
Em: Exactly. I've never even seen any of the *new* Star Wars movies, and I'm *still* all like, "Dude, they make Metamucil in capsule form for a reason, and that reason is so we can easily slip it into the pill-box which contains your other capsulized space food and no one is the wiser on your problems which revolve around bloaty-ness, gas cramps, and Natalie Portman."
Jackie: Haha. Ew.
Em: And Obe-Wan is actually a speech therapist. But nothing can fix Anakin's stilted dialgoue, save for a Tazer to George Lucas' head! Or the gift of a thesaurus! Or some as-yet undiscovered yet talented writer whom they can pay off to write the scripts under Georgie-Porgie, Puddin' and Pie's name. And maybe a few rousing sessions of Space-Scrabble.
Jackie: Mmhm.
Em: And what is Portman's problem? She's spent at least two movies digging Anakin when she was totally in Garden State with the delectable and funny Zach Braff, and then more recently she cozied up to Jude Law/Clive Owen and it was totally hot.
There's better things to be a-doin, honey! Braff, Law, and Owen, to name but a few!
Jackie: Zing!
Em: Okay, speaking of horrifyingly sexual comments at work!
So I'm just standing there, right, doing my job, and this kid who works there, whom we shall call Brad, who I've known for, like, most of my life, comes up to me and is all "The cook (whom we shall call George) wants to know if you're single." "George" is, at a guess, pushing mid-forties, if he's lucky, mid thirties. My response is "Really funny, Brad. Whatever." *walks away*
Then later...
The boss is looking for people to work the evening shift, and George is all like "Hey Em, what are you doing tonight?"
Me: (as anyone with a Hollywood-fueled adolescence knows, this is the usual lead-up to an asking-out) *oh God!* : Uhhh I really have to do my laundry.
Him: Doncha wanna stay here with me *winks* and work a double shift?
Me: *has been there since 5 am and was up hours earlier due to tummy aches* : Uh, I really, *really*, REALLY need to do my laundry. (This was true.)
Him: *turning to Boss* Hey, I *really* need to do my laundry tonight too!
Boss: Shut up George, you're working tonight.

So yeah...I did laundry, and it was good because there was no one to ogle me whilst I separated my lights from my darks.
Jackie: Eww.
Em: I know! But I dunno if he was just shooting the breeze in a friendly way, because the wink didn't *seem* skeezy unless Brad was there to chuckle at me behind my back. Which he wasn't at the time. But you know me, I over think this stuff
Jackie: Mmhm.
Em: Well, shit.
Jackie: Nanyhoodle, I'm going to go watch 7 Year Itch. Good luck wrestling with your indecision over mixed messages and mistaken interpretation of the circumstances!
Em: I hate you sometimes. This makes me wish I worked at KFC and only had to deal with out-and-out comments on my boobage. I can fend off open remarks from nit-wit ass hats. It's the cryptic skeezoids who looks as if they could actually withstand a solid hit to the groin that worry me.
Jackie: Don't forget to stock up on mace!
Em: Shut up.
. . .
Where can I buy some?

Show Me You Care, Mommy.

2005-07-13T23:18:00.000-07:00

z0mg!
Okay, so I'm only just getting *into* reading and/or watching Harry Potter and all that shit, and yes it's mildly entertaining, but I ain't about to go psycho on it's ass adn I actually have to sit down with an alotted amount of time to read it before I actually get any reading done. I'm almost finished the Goblet of Fire and could care less when I get to OotP, (The Order of the Phoenix...I mean honestly, try saying OotP out loud, it sounds soooo stupid,) much less the Half-Blood Prince. But seriously, check out the PotterPuffs LJ, just because I have a passion for links, esp. fandom links, and the HP fandom spews out a good amount of hilarity. Those quasi-inspirational links that have thoughtful or dreamy phrases in whispery, pastel cursive plastered against the backdrop of a moonlit landscape, an ocean at sunset, or a misty unicorn make me physically ill. There may be moments were I go "awwww" but never, no never, would I use on of those on my LJ or MSN picture. Those need to be pithy and colourful as well as THOUGHT-provoking, rather than I-can-taste-the-bile-rising-provoking. Same goes for psuedo-serious goth/emo/punk links about being misunderstood and how screaming lets the pain out or being silent keeps the pain away or something about either being disruptive to society or going quietly insane because of this pain these emo-kids seem to be dealing with on a daily basis. I've seen hundreds of these icons, many from the same people over and over. If this is such a problem in society, maybe we need to have the heads of our nation's youth examined?
Which reminds me, I wsas working tonight so I missed the two-hour premiere of Brat Camp. Pity, that. There's little I love more than seeing parents who have obviously missed a step somewhere along the way sending the products of their batshit parenting skills to a psycho wilderness camp in order to change their ways and watching trained professionals make the kids into productive members of society in a way that the parents failed to do.
Nothing says "I love you and want to re-establish the parent/child bond," like making your progeny go rock-climbing without a harness and take part in myriad trust exercises with OTHER PEOPLE.

Anyhoe. I give you...
The Em Icon Song:
I love icons, yes I do...
I love icons, and so should you...
When I can't find new ones, I feel blue,
I'll take some icons, how about you?
Icons make my world go round
Icons turn it upside down
Icons brighten my otherwise dull and coma-inducing existence,
Now I shall end this song at Jackie's death-threat insistance.

. . .

Potter Puffs is love.
Brat Camp is *love.*
Emo must die.

Jackie: Now Available In T-Shirt Format

2005-07-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

I want this shirt so badly it hurts my brain.

Speaking of Weird Ass Night-Frights...

2005-07-09T20:10:00.000-07:00

Reminded me of the hella weird dream I had last night. No I didn't eat anything weird, but I did get up at 4 am to go to work the morning shift (which I have to do again tomorrow, so it's almost time for me to go back home and sleep--that is to say, I'm home right now, like, where I live normally, but I'm housesitting, so yeah.)
Anyway. It was a bizarro hybrid of my old job and my new job, in which I am at my current workplace, and yet I am dealing with the personality of someone I used to work with at my old job, who got fired for reasons which shall become obvious later on.
Basically, I was being felt up by the prep chef with little to no warning. Naturally, Dream-Me freaks out and runs away screaming and the rest of the dream is me avoiuding him and him apologizing awkwardly.
Now, I was never actually felt up, the prep chef seems like a nice, responsible, respectful guy (only worked there about a week,) and the problem guy was at my old workplace, and the harassment never progressed beyond overtly sexual comments and innuendos and random compliments that just confused me at first, then made me uncomfortable once I realized their full intent.

Anyhow, the Moral: Molestation--Just Say No! (Even in nightmares. Make that ESPECIALLY in nightmares. Because you can control dreams to a certain extent...at least I can control mine somewhat. So if it happens, and Dream-You lets it happen, you are a sick, twisted fuck with hidden S&M kinks.)

ETA: Damn... "seems like a nice, responsible, respectful guy..." screw that shit. Fucker's got an anger management problem like I've never SEEN before. Went on a rampage last night right around closing and made a kid cry and totally chewed out the cook for the tiniest misunderstanding. I thought he was going to turn green and start yelling "Prep chef maaaaad! Burn! Crush! Destroy Aaaaaaaall!" and then start twisting solid pieces of metal in his fucked-up rage. Given this new, disturbing facet of his personality, it up the Ick Factor considerably with the dream here. I'm not worried about being felt up, I'm worried about getting my face messed up if I forget to fill the used cutlery bucket with the right brand of sanitizer...

Revenge of the Pierogi Demon!

2005-07-09T14:22:00.000-07:00

Do you know what happens when your Inner Russian speaks up? Those of you without Inner Russians won't, but those of you that do may be able to sympathize with my dilemma. Let's start from the beginning.

Working the strange shifts that I do (usually 4pm or 5pm till 10:30 pm) and sleeping as late as I have begun doing (usually about 9 or 10am wakeup), my mealtimes are somewhat off. I eat a big Sunday-style, eggs-bacon-and-hashbrowns-extra-butter breakfast at around 11. Need for lunch eliminated. Then, I get kinda hungry around 4, but I'm at work by then and don't usually wanna eat what we're serving. Not that there's anything wrong with our food! It's sanitary, honestly, nothing like that. Just after smelling KFC for a few hours, you don't wanna eat it. Trust me.

So by the time I get home, I'm starved, but pretty much everyone in my house is asleep. Yeah, they're that cool. So I'm sitting up, usually on my computer, and I feel a need to snack a bit, which I do. A few crackers with cream cheese, maybe and apple and I'm good.

Usually.

Last night, my Inner Russian attacked and demanded Pierogis. RIGHT THEN! You can't shut up an Inner Russian. No, it's just not possible. The only fix is to eat pierogis. Which, given that everyone in my house was asleep, was not going to be easy. Thankfully, Inner Russian comes with Inner KGB Attachments, so I'm very sneak.

This is one irrational post. It made sense last night.

So, sneaking up the stairs with a pack of frozen pierogi, trying to convince the dog that slippers aren't food, I manage to microwave 'em up (gross, I know, but the frying pan woulda been too loud!). And my god they were good. Put a little pat of butter on top, splash a bit of vodka over the top (you don't get the boozey feeling, just a nice acidic zing!) and I almost died. I ate seven. By myself. Alone. Just the pierogis. And they weren't little. It wasn't pretty and as I polished off the last one, I thought to myself "this is going to cause a few messed up dreams".

The result: a dream about a bakesale where my cookie-shaped cell phone was sold and someone ate it. I know.

Mindfucking Muffins...

2005-07-08T20:07:00.000-07:00

Y'all know that guy from The Simpsons who runs the military supplies/army surplus store?
Yeah. Okay picture him in your head.
That done, make him have a one-sided conversation with you.
Okay. Done that? Ready for this?

This guy came into the cafeteria where I work today, and swear to God, did exactly that. Except every second word was fuck, in either as a noun, exclaimation, or a descriptive verb, such as "fucking *blank*." He bought a coffee, and as he took his own sweet time paying, he asked me repeatedly who was in charge or who owned or operated this place (I said she's be back in 15) and complaining that he'd never seen a worse facility, that he'd seen better in Mexico (a generalization meant to say that Mexico is a dirty place, and we, as Canadians, shouldn't even be on par with them, much less below them in standards.) Now Jackie and I happen to both love Mexico, and resent this assumption. (Jackie's grandparents live there, for crying out loud! Dirty, rat-infested, drug-smuggling, don't-drink-the-water Mexico is not a place where one allows their grandparents to live. Smog problems in the cities and myriad tourist traps along the coast aside, it seems an enjoyable place.)
But back to the carnival.
So he's saying all of this in a soft, stilted patter of words, mumbling a little, as if he were shyly trying to ask me if that is the correct time? I had to strain to catch his words. But caught thenm I did. It was scarier than most things I've witnessed. There was this guy earlier in the day who, because I made a mistake and was going to have to ring in his muffin seperately from his coffee and then the Visa machine took forever to work, walked off without paying for a muffin and I didn't say anything because he was too fast and I was too scared. The guys behind him in line, said, as a JOKE, "oh it's free then," and he's just like "yes, that's right. It's free."

What I should have said: "Pay up for the muffin, asswad. I don't get paid enough to take shit from you. Nowhere in company policy does it state that YOU or anyone gets a free muffin because the cashier has had a bit of a rough five minutes."
What I DID say: *fusses with the paper roll and punches agitatedly at the Visa machine, fighting the urge to stab herself in the face with the pen.*

But the Swearer...
I thought maybe he had Tourette's...I meant, I know several people with Tourette's, and coprolalia is hardly something I can hold against someone if it's involuntary. His quiet rage was so very violent, yet restrained, and he was dressed like some creepy ax-murderer in a tight t-shirt tucked into baggy cargo parachute pants and with his head shaved completely bald.
The fact that he looked a little like my quite recent ex-boss DID occur to me...
I couldn't remember the last time I came across someone who dressed in such an odd way (on paper it's looks normal, in real life it was another experience entirely,) so my first thoughts were along the lines of hoping that his aid would come running up any moment, apologizing profusely and hauling him off as he continued to spout off obsceneties.
Because, harsh as it sounds, my first reaction was that this guy was obviously pulling for Team Canada in the Special Olympics, because buddy obviously can't seem to dress himself and he's talking like he just spent 6 months in electro-shock therapy. (Which someone I know recently went through. Seriously. It fucks your mind more than I or Jackie ever could.)
Or that maybe he was one of those dead-pan jokey-types who like to get the waitresses all riled up or scared then laugh and say, "just kidding," as you stand, sweat streaming from every pore, praying and hoping against all hope that your manager doesn't come in just then.

But no. He finished his diatribe and walked off, and I just stood there, because beyond telling him the correct amount or the change or reading back his order, I didn't open my mouth once. This was late in the day, and I was crashing down from my Coca-Cola high from earlier, so I was operating on auto-mode, in a semi-catatonic state where everything was by rote.
Me and the prep cook had a nice little laugh over it later on, because as a very wise woman once said to me: "[You] don't get paid enough to live by the rules of 'the customer is always right.'"

Special Olympics Headliner WHo Actually Has No Diagnosed Mental Disability------> Gunned Down! Muffin-Stealers----------> Made to Pay for The Muffin They Stole, Then Gunned Down!

Hilary Duff: The E! True Hollywood Story: "Ohhh Shiny Trendy Faux-Dork Tweenily Implausible Angst!"

2005-07-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

So the dog woke me up early for walkies, I went out and was back in by 9 am. We'll see how HE likes it when I have to work a 5 am shift and thus take him out for walkies around 4:30 am.

So while I had breakfast (BigAssBowlofFrostedFlakesOMG!) I pondered over which movie to watch as I have yet to figure out the inner workings of their TV's mind. Last night I had a Harry Potter filmfest, as I haven't seen any of the movies in full until now. As it was, today's selection was either My Fair Lady or The Lizzie McGuire Movie, since I haven't had time to fiddle with the DVD player, otherwise I would watch Ella Enchanted...then again DVD special feautres take me hours alone, so be glad it was VHS-only at this point.
If you're going to watch a DVD, better start around 6 pm and have the whole night free. And plan on sleeping late the next day, cos there are parts you're going to want to watch again.

Since I didn't feel up to the task of admiring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn's classic performances, Lizzie it was. I knew right away that I'd hate myself for this later...
This might take a while. Don't worry, I packed extra ammo. *loads a cartridge easily and cocks the gun with a jaunty little wave to Hilary Duff* This is going to hurt you more than it's going to hurt me.
Let us begin the carnage.

First off, there's the clever little character of the younger brother, who, though predictable in his actions and eventual end, is cute to watch. He is also a semi-plotter in the downfall of Our Lizzie, so thus he may have the honour of the illustrious title: Junior Gunner in Training. He could do well...very well..in the right hands...he could be magnificent...I can see it now...a Gunner Boot-Camp for Teens with Smart Mouths...
But I digress...
Given the title of this piece, it is inevitable that everyone's worst, perkily blonde nightmare is going to grace the silver screen within all of ten seconds into the film. Looking far more trendy and perfectly made-up and coiffed than any self-proclaimed "dork/loser/nerd" has any right to be, Lizzie bee-bops and gyrates around her room in a manner than we all know would be embarassing for us, but is, for her, an omen of things to come. Kate, the supposedly "popular hot chick" dresses like a 30-year old CPA and looks like a tweeny soccer-mom. You know the guys at your school would be all over the Lizzie and tell Kate to take a hike to the nearest GAP and PLEASE buy something that isn't tailored for a weekend in the Hamptons, picnicking and gathering wildflowers.
So Lizzie's "getting ready for graduation!" This gave me a pleasant shock of surprise. Here was something I had never considered possible: Lizzie...grown up...dealing with adult issues in a mature manner...I dared to hope, for one shining moment...
Then it came out: Junior High Graduation. Why the hell would anyone commemorate Junior High graduation? Sure we had Grade 8 Farewell, but, that was nothing close to a full-scale graduation seen here.
Next, Lizzie is thrown into an impromptu public speech, through some convoluted rule that expects her to have a thrilling speech ready at the drop of a hat. Implausibility Count: 1. Her teachers are over-the-top and just plain unreal. Then again, this movie is at least 25% cartoons...
Naturally, she embarasses herself in a stiff and awkward manner and ruins the whole thing, because, duuhhhh that's what dorks DO. They wait until the moment is right, then their oafishness strikes to render them humiliated to the utmost.
Screenwriters: *high-five* We know teenagers SOOOO well! Everyone is going to love this because everyone can sooooo relate to exactly this situation!
Now, as a regular-run-of-the-mill dork, I can tell you that this only works in movies. Real Dorkdom requires more of a subtle art. Embarassment is more often a constant ebb and flow of day-to-day humiliation and bad luck. People will remember the one time a popular person disgraces themselves, but true dorks are distinguished by their inability to ever rise above their abjectly-constant embarassment.
Now Lizzie must leave the country and go to Italy on a school trip (which you know is only an excuse to bring along her friend/love interest Gordo and some jocks and bitches to make her life seem more miserable than it really is,) because *gasp!* she'll never live it down! Oh my God she's only 13 and her life is OVER!
By the way, in the few eps I caught of the LM TV show, I was rooting for a Gordo/Miranda romance rather than Lizzie/Gordo. Kinda like the Ron/Hermione Movement. The two sidekicks make a great couple, and the star must be left alone to leave them an out for dating a hot new person every week. Given that Lalaine left the show in 2003, I suppose they had to make the movie without her. But a guy/girl best friend relationship with no third-person girl to make it a platonic, group sort of love is just too tempting for the screenwriters to resist...you know from the get-go that Lizzie and Gordo will have a "moment" but continue on as best friends in order to ressurect a sequel.
Anyhow...Lizzie has a tender moment of goodbye with her mother, who is fluttering in a protective, archetypal manner which completely belies her facade of a Cool Modern Mom. As I recall, she found a reason to let the mask slip in every episode. Fascinating glimpses of a well-developed character or flip-flopping helplessly between stereotypes as to appeal to more of the tweenage masses? You decide. Anyhow, Lizzie says a cool goodbye, then runs back and hugs her mom, sniffling and the audience now sees how special their mother-daughter relationship is because they can be open and share as equals...
No tweengirl wants to be open with their mother...and no mother in the audience, however much they may want to, is buying this bullshit. Implausibility Count: 2
So Lizzie sets off to Italy, on the German carrier Lufthansa, which, coincedentally, has no direct flights to Italy from the USA. I would hope they're travelling in coach, because no way in hell would her outfit, no matter how trendy, be allowed in first class. On planes, there is a dress code, and even if you are in coach, people will appreciate it if you smarten yourself up and wear some nice neutral-tones pantsuit. She falls asleep on Gordo's shoulder, and he wakes up and smiles at her, and this would be a nice time for him to drop a friendly kiss on her head, but even I see the creepy implications would be coming too obvious, too early, at this stage. They get to Italy, no one looking the worse for wear, and Lizzie looks resplendant after a 14 hour flight in coach. They arrive after dark to their hotel, and Gordo takes Lizzie up to the rooftops to enjoy the...sunset?
"If I could turn back time!" Apparently, on the Disney channel, you can. Anyhow, the setting is perfect and with a tinge of the romantic and adventuresome, and they make a pact to have an adventure, and you know now it's all going to happen to Lizzie and Gordo will spend his days in hit hotel room, thowing meatballs from room service into the air and catching them in his mouth while waiting to show up just in time to save Lizzie's ass and provide the requisite angst of a possible love-triangle.
Now here comes Fez...excuse me 'Paolo', who sees Lizzie, who looks exactly like his singing partner, who just happens to have left him in the lurch, and through the plot-twists meant to show the darker side of showbiz, with threatened lawsuits against Paolo (because, supposedly, this is all Isabella's fault, so why don't they make her singing partner pay through the nose because it's not like he's famous and fabulously wealthy) he now needs Lizzie to impersonate Isabella and save the day and win his heart! Implausibility Count: 3. If they wanted to show us the nitty-gritty, why not just show the footage of Hilary Duff selling her soul to Satan? (For 'Cheaper By The Dozen'? Honey...get your money back.)
Since everyone lipsynchs while on stage, there's no worries since Lizzie can't sing (except where y'all kow she's going to HAVE to in a public spectacle sooner or later,) and she can't even get a half-decent Italian accent in her English. No one seems to worry or notice, though. No one even recognizes Paolo and 'Isabella' when they are together, except when Lizzie needs a pick-me-up or a comedic bit of autographing to re-enforce the idea that, yes, these people are famous. (In case, y'know, you forget or something. It can happen.)
So in a whirlwind romance with lots of kitschy little Italian modes of transport covered in fire-engine red chrome to make it Euro-modern, Lizzie sees Rome in style, but basically gawps at everything without soaking up any history or relevant knowledge. Lizzie's experience of Roman Culture never progresses beyond "Golly gee, that sure is swell-looking!" and "Ohhhh! Shiny!"
So she learns the songs and dance routine alongside Paolo, with lots of shimmying and glances and touching while alone on a vast stage in a swirly skirt and heels because it's not like they have choreographers or anything for this. Lizzie and her Paolo, always with compliments at the ready, watch a fireworks show which only succeeds in giving Lizzie's face an unnatural colour and her eyes are over-mascara'd and shining like bulging glass bubbled in her face, which is beginning to look not unlike the Bratz dolls of our previous discussion.
In Hollywood tween-speak, that's what we call "wonderment, awe, and budding romance."
Implausibility Count: 4. When someone looks like their head is about to explode, it probably means their about to puke on your shoes, not give you a kiss.
Gordo watches the fireworks alone from the rooftop where he so recently stood with Lizzie.
Awwwwww. Now watch him turn disconsolantly away in the turmoil of his teenage angst!
So now Lizzie's set to perform at a huge event, on stage, in front of millions, (Implausibility Count: 5. I'm not even going to explain this one.) and Gordo sacrifices himself and gets sent home in Lizzie's place (except where he doesn't leave.) She realizes the errors of her way, but decides to stay, because being anything but self-centered at this point would be a major character-consistency faux pas. And Lord knows, this movie is ALL about being consistent.
So, in a twist no one saw coming, Isabella returns and tells Gordo everything, how she is the good one and Paolo is bad and Lizzie is going to be embarassed and that's just her worst nightmare. Because again, supposedly, Lizzie can't sing. Except where, for the purposes of this movie, she CAN. Paolo is going to ruin Isabella through Lizzie being bad, but what he doesn't know is that Lizzie can sing well enhough to match a superstar. And he didn't even clue into this when he was, like, five feet away from her during rehersal where he told her to actually sing.
Now if I were the writers (besides never writing this in the first place,) I would have it so that they turn off 'Isabella's' mic and have Lizzie wow them all and leave Paolo without his master plan. (Wondering: did he form the entire wretched plan the moment he saw Lizzie, knowing that in the real world, no one would enter into such a harebrained scheme of impersonation and double-crossing?) Paolo is *only* 17, so of course he is old enough to be an adult and yet young enough to sex up Lizzie without it being illegal. (Then again, I don't know the laws in Italy.) However, they chose a much more indirect path. Isabella sings for Lizzie, and Paolo's mic gets turned off, and he sings sooo bad. (Implausibility Count: 6. If he sang so badly in the first place, how the hell did her get a record contract? Besides being a pretty face, don't you have to work the small-time gigs and nightclubs for years before you can make it big enough to have some record exec CARE enough to have someone GOOD recorded over you? And if so, why not just paint up the actual singer and make them look good? It seems to me to be less work to make a singer pretty than to make a pretty a singer.) Implausibility Count: 7. Paolo's voice is cracking. Not a lot of 17 year olds who have supposedly gotten through the worst of puberty, with professional voice coaches are able to sing a song in mid-range and fuck it up that bad. Paolo runs off stage and cries, bitching to his security guard who tells him to grow a pair and fuck some gelato to warm up, because
That. Was. Cold.
Isabella and Lizzie are resplendant and sing together, with Lizzie taking centre stage and then Isabella just chills backstage because damnit this is Lizzie's moment and damned if she CAN actually sing. The only part I liked was here because they whipped off Lizzie's fluffy antique skirt to reveal a totally hot new costume, because it reminded me of seeing The Phantom of the Opera on stage when Christine does the super-ninja onstage transformation between verses during Think of Me.
Implausibility Count: 8. Lizzie believes Isabella's story of Isa: Good and Paolo: Bad. Why, we're not sure. To paraphrase: "Who are you going to believe...a boy you've been falling in love with for the past two weeks, or a girl who randomly showed up with Gordo and looks exactly like you except for the hair, and at this point you've got to believe that Gordo has ulterior motives in breaking you and Paolo up, plus this other girl has a vendetta against Paolo because it's been obvious for months that they are on the opposite ends of the good/bad spectrum and hate each other..." now we're just not sure who is telling the truth, but to quote Oscar Wilde: 'The truth is entirely and absolutely a matter of style." And because Lizzie doesn't need boys aside from her tween-love-angst, this movie is all about individuality, finding yourself and girl power, so the truth MUST be told by Isabella, because she has a vagina and Paolo has got to be a dirty rotten liar otherwise there is no cause for Lizzie to fly into Gordo's arms at the end.
Implausibility Count: 9. The dance sequence kicks ass. Now one would assume that Paolo would have been a part of this had he stuck around on stage, and yet the entire thing works seamlessly without him. The male back up dancers are the ones lifting and spinning Lizzie, and the girl dancers don't seem to be at a loss for what to do. One can only assume that Paolo had planned ot stand off to the side and look hot.
What ever happens to Paolo anyway? I mean after he finishes crying? I would have appreciated some plot hole resolution there...have Lizzie and Isabella nad Paolo have a chat or something...to invest so much time in a character, then have him turn out to be the uber-villain planning to *gasp!* humiliate our poor little star with absolutely jack-shit by way of a denoument leaves a little something to be desired. I would have liked to see Paolo as more of a human rather than a bitchy little diva with a one-sided personality and one motive and master plan which backfires. Sure, he acted all nice and lovey-dovey, but we see where THAT got us, didn't we? Welcome to He-lied-and-broke-my-young-and-tender-heart City: Population: You.
Reminds me of Marcello in Under the Tuscan Sun. The moral: never trust Italian Men. It's the Americans who will stand by a Yankee blonde-girl in times of trouble and catch her if she falls. Lizzie gives a kiss to Gordo, but it doesn't lead anywhere as they kind of have an awkward chuckle and head back inside as the credits roll on the fade-to-black shot. Now the "awkward chuckle" is hard to define. It could mean any number of things, from "awkward meaning this was a bad idea, it'll never work out and let's just be friends again," to "awkward meaning this could lead to a sequel where we actually DO hook up," or "awkward meaning wow that was surprisingly hot for me so now we're going to go back inside then sneak back to my hotel room where I will let you tenderly deflower me."
The movie was a glittering tween-fest from start to finish, and if you'll excuse me, I have something infinitely more fascinating to do called brushing my teeth...

Everything I just said except Phantom and brushing my teeth--->Gunned Down!

Gah, the Botox needle must have slipped...

2005-06-29T09:36:00.000-07:00

You know what this is?! THIS is what's wrong with the kids these days! Look at this thing, it'a barely humanoid! It has barely any nose, freak eyebrows and eyes, lips that look like they crashed into the collagen truck and clothes pulled off of some trannie hooker in a back alley! In the '80s!

I thought Barbie was supposed to be making a new name for herself. One with more natural curves. Mattel: making a whole new type of freak barbie doesn't justify the damage you're doing. Little girls need nice rolemodels, or at least ones that have vaguely attainable features and not SLUT CLOTHES! And c'mon, you called them Bratz. All i hear is people complaining about the bratty kids today and how terrible and criminally-prone they are, but what image is this sending? Dress like a night worker? How's a six year old supposed to figure out that maybe spending time in the Boom Boom van with that devilishly weird-looking Bratz-boy Blaine is not actually a good thing to do? Combine the toys and shows of today and its no wonder kids are messed up. The lame parents don't help either.

I don't advocate child abuse, but I'm glad my parents gave me a good smack when I deserved it. It helped me learn to respect my elders, no matter if I liked what they were doing or not. Wow, I realize we rant a lot about kids here. Well, a lot considering the number of total posts.... Anyway!

Kids, Bratz dolls, Barbies, Mattel ----> Gunned Down!

The Phaaaaantom of the Paper Aisle

2005-06-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

The following was an actual conversation which happened exactly like this, except I edited the format so y'all don't hurt your eyes straining to read it. Aren't I just June friggin' Cleaver?!

Jackie says:
Guess who has a car! That's not her own, but that she gets to drive!

Em Says:
you do!

Jackie Says:
I do!

Em Says: heh welcome the teenage world

Jackie Says: haha. Her name's Peppy because compared to the van.... she's very peppy

Em Says:
no one "owns" their own car unless they fail to graduate, have no plans for post-sec and work 3 part-time jobs and move out when they're 18 and live with a bunch of drunken buffoons they call homies or peeps….Sweet. What make/model/colour?

Jackie Says:
Honda sedan, light blue, 1994. She’s an old lady car

Em Says:
aww but it's a 94! That's newer than any car my family currently owns!

Jackie Says:
Haha and it’s only got 74,000 km on it!

Em Says:
our newest car is a 91 volvo and we're thrilled cos it has airbags

Jackie Says:
haha

Em Says:
ohhh did I tell you I quit at the cafe de la Crap and got a new job?

Jackie Says:
No! where?!

Em Says:
The airport. It’s marginally better because it's unionized and looks easier and pays more per hour?

Jackie Says:
awesome

Em Says:
yeah. The second time I went into Local Office-Supply Store, the manager wasn't there but the woman who was there said she was pretty sure the position had been filled. Oh well, I will still buy copious amounts of obscenely-priced penware from them

Jackie Says:
Aww too bad! My mom said you shoulda used her as a reference cause she practically owns that store with all the stuff she does there. All the ladies know her by name.

Em Says:
aww thanks for telling me now

Jackie Says:
Sorry, she only told me a day ago when she asked if you'd got the job

Em Says:
Jared then Bonnie and Karen or Karlie, can’t remember which.

Jackie Says:
Karen. She and Bonnie are really nice.

Em Says:
I think it was Bonnie who told me the position had been filled. I heard someone calling her Bonnie. Which she responded to. Which is a good indication that she is used to being called Bonnie. Which probably means that's either her given name or she is easily confused with the real Bonnie, the chances of which are very, very slim. Unless she is Bonnie's identical twin, and even if she was a twin. Why would both be hired at the same store and why the heck would they be working the same shifts? Cause that's just confusing.

Jackie Says:
Whoa Lady Talk-A-Lot. Bleach blonde hair?

Em Says:
Although having both twins there at the same time would help them to keep track of them both,. If they're both there, then they couldn't pass themselves off as their twin and pull some highhanded hijinks

Jackie Says:
Uh Em? The hair.

Em Says:
uhmm Bonnie? blonde? Nah I thought she was more along the lines of Asian, possibly mixed with South American descent

Jackie Says:
that's Rosa… shut up, I’m in there a lot making copies for my mom.

Em Says:
But maybe with blonde highlights. Why were they calling her Bonnie?

Jackie Says:
Dunno. Maybe Bonnie was elsewhere. Rosa loves my puppy and melts into a Rosa-puddle when we take her in there.

Em Says:
Maybe the counter was in my way and I couldn't see exactly who they were talking to. I was kind of hidden behind a display while I was watching them

Jackie Says:
. . .

Em Says:
Oh my God that sounded horrendously creepy.

Jackie Says:
haha it really did

Em Says:
Phaaaaaantom of the Office Supply Store!

Jackie Says:
Oh man, go to bed. Honestly, you’ll give me nightmares of pen-stabbings and Punjab lassos made out of scotch tape.

The Fuck Stops Here

2005-06-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

So during my whole pre-grad stress, along with shitty-job stress and exam stress and other random stress I probably created for myself (because one or two kinds of stress just LOVE company, so you create unneccesary stress just to shut up the Other Stresses which are already quietly shrieking inside your skull, night and day, for weeks on end...) on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being mellow-as-if-comatose and 10 being Dear-God-let-me-take-a-nunchuck-to-the-left-temple-right-now, I was operating at around 12, meaning my days were spent in a haze of perma-fear which caused me to have dizzy spells, break out, stop sleeping well, and my tongue became so sharp I started to cut the insides of my cheeks and my gums with my acidly bitchy remarks. Exam stress culminated in me eating what could possibly be the most fucked-up diet ever hear of today alone. Mostly because we had a huge Father's Day BBQ a few days ago and I'm helping to eat our way through the random leftovers and shit in our fridge which has replaced all normal food.
Em's Sustenance For the Day:
Breakfast consisted of a buttered hamburger bun with sauted onions and mushrooms on the side. And a glass of Coke. (It's the Breakfast of Champions, folks! Nothing says "I am ready to take an exam which will alter my future as my good marks in it alone will determine if I get into the only university I applied for," than burger-topping-leftovers, warmed over. THERE IS NO PLAN B HERE!)
Lunch was ice cream cake, potato salad, and pasta salad, and more coke...I mean Coke. In that order.
Dinner was eaten at someone else's house, therefore making it normal and sensible. I had great tasting ham, with carrots, broccolli and scalloped potatoes.
I get home, and I slide right back into the Fridge Contents of Madness: Dessert is 5 Bean Salad.
I've felt vaguely ill all day, but I dunno if that's what I've been eating or my relief that all my crap is done with.
But now grad is over, I have written all my final exams, and tomorrow I have what looks to be a promising interview at a new prospective job, meaning hopefully this weekend may be the last weekend I need to work, even then I may be able to quit before the week is out. I'm getting a haircut on Friday, will probably end up dying my hair, and for some reason I've been having visions of myself with a nose ring and having shed about 40 lbs., ("Ha!" Say You, After Reading What I Have Eaten Today) which is a very very uber-sexy me. This makes me happy beyond reason.

The result: Mentally, I feel as if God just handed me a fattie the size of Madagascar and said " S'cool, kiddo, I gotchyer back. Ain't nuthin' bad gon' 'appen when I'm here. You wanna go get some Irish nachos?"
And I say: "OH GOD PLEASE YES!" and then we go play arcade games and have random fun around the city in a colourful, sunny film montage of shots of us having fun with boardwalk games, eating all manner of chili dogs and ice cream novelties while "I'll Stop The World and Melt With You" by Modern English plays in the background as God and I buy some silly hats, He wins me a big purple stuffed dog and we head out across the lake on those foot-operated paddle boats.

Summation:
School's Out For The Summer.
School's Out For Ever.*

*Not for Jackie. Heh.

Nothing Is Gunned Down Because All Is Right With The World And Em's Gastrointestinal Fireworks Have Obviously Begun To Leach Dangerous Toxins, The Poisons Seeping Their Way Into Her Cerebellum...Quietly...Oh So Quietly Going Mad With Joy...

...No Really, We Don't Care

2005-06-21T16:36:00.000-07:00

I hate the social pages. Really. Hate hate hate. WHY did someone invent those? Probably because they didn't have telephones and it was the best way for gossip to get around (Jewish fish-market exempt). Now, we have phones, e-mail, blogs, fax machines etc. There is NO need for people to announce their wedding/engagement/baby's birth. Obituaries I understand; when your relative dies, you don't know all of their friends and such. When you're getting married, if you don't remember them, they shouldn't be at your wedding. Don't get greedy over the presents!
And really, no one cares! Really, I swear!!! You're spending way too much on an ad that, at best, you'll keep in a never-looked-at wedding album and, at worst, could implicate you into inviting a basquillion people that you really don't want there because you feel obligated too because goddamnit they found out about that wedding. That was a really long sentence....
I think that reality TV and too much MTV has given people a bad case of NJS (Nick and Jessica Syndrome!). Everyone is convinced that if it matters to them, it matters to thirty million other people, which is usually not the case. Regardless, when rich people get NJS, we end up with Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica; Britney and Kevin: Chaotic; Rob and Amber get married; and the entire E! Network. Ok, I'll admit that celebrities are interesting, probably because it's funny to see them spend loads of money that they don't have. Unfortunately, it gets rid of all of the decent, fictional shows on TV; fictional shows that can teach us lessons and educate us, rather than show us how the fabulously rich spend their fabulously large paycheques.
This world is messed up enough, we don't need that kind of stuff on TV. It's not fair when Joan of Arcadia gets cancelled and a Brittney Spears' show lives on. J of A was a really good show, not obsessed with violence or anything, just making religion a bit more positively represented in a time when Christian churches could use some good press. I mean c'mon, the scandal with the priests and the kids...
And to think this all stemmed from the social pages....

Reality TV, self-centered people, social pages, churches, wedding announcements, and Jewish Fish Markets ---> Gunned Down!

Em: I *hate* seafood.

2005-06-20T23:39:00.000-07:00

So the town we live in is about 70% seniors. And suddenly, this show shows up. It hurts my brain to think of the clientelle.

So I Sez To Jackie, I Sexz...*Sez***
(Was that a typo? I'm not sure...)

"Skid has a nightlife? But...but...the 5:00 pm curfew! Everything shuts down! So if you have a late-night yen for fuzzy handcuffs and a Big Mac, you're in luck, because this place and McDick's is all that is open.
I need to start taking my camera places. Except it's a craptastic film camera. I have yet to go fully digital. I have not got a cellphone, a digital camera, a webcam, my family has never owned a camcorder of any kind, nor a video game system. I have no MP3 Player, and I broke both my discman and my dad's, and thus have been without one for over a year now. We recently got a DVD Player and we're thrilled and trying to figure out how to use it.
New Deal: Jackie will take the pictures, and please let me do the captions!" -Em

2005-06-20T18:15:00.000-07:00

We have pictures! Because I rock. So does tech support

Coming Soon:

2005-06-11T14:56:00.000-07:00

Pictures! As soon as I can make this photo program work, we'll have pictures to go along with our posts. Ones that we take, not those "steal them off of a google image search" deals.

Unfortunately, tech support has a zillion other people to help too. Sheesh.

You Been Sokyrka'd

2005-06-01T16:51:00.000-07:00

So I know I'm supposed to be working on my Lit project, but whatev I already have most of it plagari--I mean written down and waiting in my e-mail inbox to be printed off (Arial, size 12 font) and glued to my gigantic piece of cardboard in time for my oral presentation tomorrow.
In the meantime, under the pretence of doing said "homework" I am messing with my sister's computer while on a guest account, and having noted her newest CD acquisition lying on her desktop, of course I'm going to listen to it.
Class, let us review the standard of practices in my relationship with my sister, who is a few years older than myself.

Her Barbies + Me Playing With Them = Sister Getting Pissed.
Her Clothing + Me Taking The Good Sweaters = Sister Getting Pissed.
Her Books + Me Reading Them and Forgetting to Put Them Back or Insisting They Belonged to Me All Along = Sister Getting Very Pissed.
Now I am faced with this equation:
Her New CD + Me Listening To Same CD = ?
Answer, anyone?
You guessed it.
Luckily, my sister is out of town for the next few days, so as long as I put the CD back, I can freely listen to its tuneful offerings.

So...this is Theresa Sokyrka's new album, These Old Charms.
The jacket art is colourful and quirky, the song titles are a neato mix of new alternative and old jazz standards. The album's title itself is intriguing and tinged with an aura of nostalgia which brings to mind a cozily dim living room with shelves crammed with tiny dark glass and stone sculptures and other such bric-a-brac, and there's one of those stained-glass lamps that were popular in the 70's hanging from a thick, dusty brass chain from the ceiling.

Some of the newer songs are all right, mostly because I've never heard anyone sing them before.
But the old songs "re-done" by this down-home Saskatoon girlie just grated on my lil' ol' love of the classics.
She did them well...indeed, I voted for her (several times in fact) during the course of Canadian Idol. Well, except that my first loves were Billy and Jacob in seasons 1 and 2, respectively. But after Jacob got voted off by some insensitive voters (boo! hiss!) it was all up to Kalan and Theresa. Now I liked Theresa at this point, but then again, there was Kalan Porter...the first honest-to-goodness Pretty Boy I have ever seen in the flesh. I mean, sure you HEAR about them, and you even call some people by that name. But Kalan was actually beautiful, gorgeous, pretty...and a boy. He had ridiculously long eyelashes and pouty lips that should have no place on a man's face. Add to that his flawless complexion, his wildly curly hair, and his way of glancing at the ground as if he would scuff his toe and say "aw shucks..." at any moment...
Damn.
Why did I vote for Theresa? She lost anyways. Then again, she's pretty too. Then again, I'm not a lesbian.

In any case...
She screwed with the classics. Either too slow or too fast or with too much scat. Call me a puritaniacal with no imagination, but I just liked the songs the way they were. I don't know what exactly was wrong with them, but they just didn't fly with me.

Note on the Scat:
Is the fact that scat is a colloquial term for poop (or can be used as a verb for running away) lost on everyone but me?

I'm trying to listen to God Bless the Child and all I can think is that when she scats she sounds like my Sims when they're arguing about their kids.

Final Note: The CD is okay to look at, but for God's sake don't put it into your CD player unless you're into scat. (Some of it was okay, but only for about 5 seconds at a time. Too much scat. Too much.)

Confessions...

2005-05-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

I.... My...... I'm..... My name is Jackie, and I work at KFC.

My name is Jackie, and I not only work at KFC, I still moderately enjoy the food. That's not to say I've eaten KFC more than ten times in my life, because I haven't. As of my employment, I'd only eaten there maybe 6 times, and since I started, I've only had 1 meal and a few fries from there.

It's not as bad as you may think.... it's worse!

The grease starts out in pretty margarine blocks. It's then melted into vats and we cook chicken in it. After a while, it gets kinda skivvy what with the chicken bits. Then we put it in a new vat and cook fries in it. Fries and burgers and strips and anything else that isn't a boned piece of chicken. That's right folks, the boned chicken is the healthiest. And yes, the gravy is made of vat-scrapings. But y'all knew that.

My complaint is the customers. "It costs how much?! Did you add that up right?!" Lady, you ordered 20 pieces of chicken, a bunch of wraps, some kids meals and a slew of slaws. I entered it right and you know that because I read it back to you. I also know that the CASH REGISTER DID THE ADDING! But I can print you a receipt if you want. Shut UP!

Also, drunk guy? I did not serve you the wrong order yesterday because I didn't WORK yesterday. Shut UP!

Also, dear Original Canadians: no, you don't. No. You don't need that super-size (pardon me, mega-sized) meal. NOOOOO!

Customers at KFC --> Gunned Down!

Moslem Moslem Moslem...

2005-05-15T18:46:00.000-07:00

Now that you've had your dose of non-PC-ness...

(MOSLEM!)

...I have a test...(two actually) tomorrow, neither of which I have studied for, but the one first thing in the morning is on Islam.
I was at a Christian retreat all weekend (which was awesome btw,) and I figured A) I already gotta lotta shit to carry, B) When will I have time to read my Bible, much less a textbook? (Answer: Never.) and C) It could be considered 'inappropriate' for me, in a position of leadership, to ostracize myself from the group by barricading myself in my tent so I can study up on jihad. And I do know how ot spell Muslim, so no flames for that.
In fact, in my own defence, nothing here is flame worthy, because while I speak of Muslim terrorists and whatnot, I also give an eye-roll to the Baptists of the world, so no way am I saying all Muslims are scary, just as I'd like you to know that not all Christians are scary. (Just the Baptists. Eeeeeeee.)

So having spent all weekend either worrying about my test on Islam tomorrow or giggling over how scary everyone at the retreat (mostly Anglicans,) finds Baptists (the Original Bible-Thumpers,) my thoughts can be summed up in this one statement:

FUCK! EXTREMISTS! (In the tone of voice as one would say: "Fuck! Bees!")

BTW: So my good friend Kathleen was in charge of the whole weekend, pretty much, and she had some great stories to tell from attending Bible college on the mainland, including how she killed one town's ONLY squirrel and how shes been branded a rebel hippy becasue she's from the Island, and shes the only Anglican there among a bunch of Mennonites.

Jesus loves ya! *thumbs up and winks*

Warming Up

2005-05-14T19:50:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone/no one,

We're getting ready for the Golden Gun and Silver Bullet awards but to really truly understand why we've assigned various compositions of weapons to various people, places and things, you must understand more about your writers.

Jackie:

Style: Classy, a bit provocative with a touch of the by-gone glamour of the fifties. Also a touch of the happy housewife pearls of the fiftes. Yes, she does vacuum in them.

Likes: Cute children when viewed from a distance, pink and red nailpolish, red lipstick, cheesecake, high heels, puppy breath, snotty cats, good old movies, Jane Eyre and stroooooong coffee. Oh, and drinks with umbrellas. Those kick ass.

Dislikes: Any children in close proximity, men (yes, you too!), anything requiring hands-on creativity, people that drop out of highschool because "they're adults" and snotty, wannabe-West Coasters.

Em:

Style: usually somewhat intelligently sarcastic, wry humour with frequent eye-rolling activity. Likes to use many historical/literary allusions, so watch for them. A fairly dry wit, comparable to a lot of British comedians. Imagine me typing in deadpan, if you will.

Likes: Thai food, Sting, reading, simulation computer games, hottubbing, molecular biology texts as bedtime reading, songs with lots of harmonies and flat notes, the word 'angst,' lilies, interior decorating magazines, popgurls.com, and long walks on the beach. Would happily be stranded on a deserted island so long as she had a copy of Pride and Prejudice, a fully funtional DVD player and TV to play the BBC version of said book and, of course, Colin Firth.

Dislikes: try-hards, seafood, posers of any subscription (doesn't matter if you're 'goth' or 'punk' or what, if it's fake, and I can tell, I will snub you,) footballs (they never bounce where they hit the ground,) two-faced bitches, and idiots who cannot carry a conversation to save their life.

A Plea

2005-05-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

Please, for the love of God, a Midol! Miiiiiiiiidooooooooool!

*twitch*

*fin*

Kingdom of Really Really Really Nice Hair

2005-05-01T21:14:00.000-07:00

Does anyone think Kingdom of Heaven looks like a cross between POTC and Gladiator? It's like Orlando Bloom and Ridley Scott had a cinematic baby, but minus the Russell Crowe and Johnny Depp, thereby making it unwatchable.
Orlie's Hair is the same as always, thick, full, slightly curly in a rogue-ish way, (as his hair is untameable, so is he!) dark brown, long-yet-short-enough-to-not-fully-render-him-a-trannie. Geez, place this kid in a period-costume of undefineable era (consisting of tight pants and billowy white shirts, a sexy fashion phase spanning hundreds of years all over Europe,) and his hair matches perfectly.
Mr. Scott has recycled some battle shots from Gladiator and computer-edited in some plate armour and Crusader's flags to match up the eras, from the looks of things.

This is all I've gotten out of the trailers so far, but a Lucilla-look-alike in similar billowy indistinguishable costume is the love interest, and the music is an exact copy with a few minor key changes to make it sound edgier.

A thought:

2005-04-28T17:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, we're bad people that don't update, but you're bad people who don't comment. It's like going to a concert and not clapping. Honestly, just say "haha" in an anonymous comment. Cause if no one's reading...

Snow White: Childhood Icon or Hitler Youth Mascot?

2005-04-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

So I was watching a handful of old Disney flicks A) Because I'm kinda coming down with something, and B) We're doing Snow White as a play.
I am a tree/evil spirit. Whoot for costume changes!

Based on Dr. Merlin’s Litmus Test, where questions are answered or true/false statements verified and points are awarded.

I give you: Disney’s Snow White:

-A noun or adjective not normally used for a name (especially for human characters)[1]? Snow. White.
-Is the character's name in the title of the story or is the title otherwise a description of the character? (i.e. "The Girl Who Could Fly")[5] "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves." (Note how the dwarves as individuals are not given equal billing.)
-Is the character the same gender as you?[1] Female. That’s undoubtably more than half the viewing audience. All the little boys went with their dads to see Transformers, or some similar manly movie where people, once dead, STAY THAT WAY.
-Is the character from the same racial group as you?[1] Caucasian. "Hello immigrants! Welcome to the USA, circa 1937! Please accept this bottle of hair dye and compact of pale white face powder. Don’t leave the house without applying ample amounts of both! This is America, we welcome everyone seeking the American Dream and place them lovingly into our homologous melting pot!"
-Is the character not subject to limitations normally put upon someone of this species?[4] Like, for instance, coming back to life after being dead and not eating or expelling waste for what one would assume is a LONG period of time, considering the dwarves took time to mourn AND build her a beautifully crafted etched glass and gold coffin.
-Is the character a teenager or in her/his early twenties?[1] Now personally, Snow White has all the form of an 11 year-old. No bosom. I repeat, no bosom. No matter how good and sweet she may be, the fact still remains that Snow White is 12, at the most, only a foot taller than the other dwarves. This, in fact, makes the Prince Charming a pedophile.
-Does the character look like s/he is a teenager or in her/his early twenties for no apparent reason[2]? Not really, no. Again, ELEVEN. Disregard.
-Is the character beautiful or roguishly handsome?[1] In Walt Disney’s mind, yes. Which raises questions about why he would build a garish amusement park, such as one would lure little children into one’s den of sin with. *cough*MichaelJackson*cough*
-Does one or more of the others find the character highly attractive?[1] Yes.
Do others see him/her as a threat because of this?[1] Helloooo? This is the angsty crux of the story!
-Does the character have really nice hair that you describe more than once, or on the first page?[1] God, the Magic Mirror practically moans orgasmically when he describes her hair "black as ebony."
-Is the character otherwise physically disabled? (anyone who says "She's so pretty that it's like a disability because everyone hates her or wants to have sex with her" will be summarily keelhauled)[subtract 2 pts] - No.
-Is the character no longer disabled at the end of the series, or else dead?[1] Well, technically she is dead, but she stays that way for all over five minutes.
-Is the character mentally disabled? (read: at the functional level of Forrest Gump or below)[subtract 2] Matter of opinion, but I’m gunna say yeah on this one.
-Was the character adopted or did he/she otherwise live with people who were not his/her parents as a child?[1] Apparently.
-Add points for each aspect seen somewhere during your character's life:
-abandoned by caregivers[1] Absentee father who married a psychotic bitch. Yes.
- born or forced into slavery[1] By psychotic bitch. Yes.
- born or raised in extreme poverty[1] See above. Yes.
- sole survivor of a calamity[2] Psychotic bitch-mother’s reign of terror and plot to murder her: yes.- physical abuse[2] Probably by psychotic bitch.
- sexual abuse by a caregiver[3] …Now if the psychotic bitch stepmother queen had an unresolved sexual attraction to her stepdaughter--besides being a lesbian/incestuous/pedophilic sex-sandwich that’d make Freud die of joy—it gives a whole new motivation behind her supposed "jealousy" of Snow White. Ew. And ew.
- rape[3] EW!- illegitimate birth[2] Perhaps. Note how few Disney heroines have solid mother-figures in their life.
- later parent of illegitimate child[1 pt each] She lived with 7 little men. Chances are she was preggo before she hit Prince Charming’s horse. So that’s 7 possible points for being a pre-teen ho bag.
- any other life experience inspired by V.C. Andrews[3] Oh, the boundless possibility.
-Does the character share your religious beliefs?[1] There is that one pointless scene where she prays to a window (which is what a lot of Disney characters do when praying,) so I’d assume so.
-Did the character have an unusual birth or unusual experience in early infancy? (i.e. abducted, placed in a basket and set afloat, visited by Three Weirdos, etc.)[1] Does her birth-mother (who undoubtedly would have treated her nicely and changed Snow White’s future,) dying count?
-Does the character have a very good singing voice?[2] As a matter of fact, no. But one must assume that it sold in 1937.
-Does the character have better taste in music than you do?[1] God no. There’s a yodeling sequence. Has anyone else noticed the dwarf’s tendency toward Germanic-looking folksy decorating? The faces carved on the wooden chairs, organ, and water pump come to mind, along with the instruments.
-Does the character do what you do for fun or profit?[1] I do clean my house, but Snow White really seems to get a bang out of doing the cottage, but I'm not even going to make that similarity a distinction. So what does Snow White do that I do? Slave for 7 little men and wait around for Prince Transvestite-in-an-unrecognizable-period-costume? Nope. Not really. Though I do envy her pretty coffin. Not that I want it for my personal use or anything.
-Is the character royalty of any type?[3] Yeah.
-Does everyone end up liking the character?[1] Of course. She’s Snow White.
-Does the character just "know things" for no apparent reason?[2] Kind of. Well, in the play we’re doing she guesses everyone’s names without any reference to what’s carved on beds or coat hooks. It’s like she’s precognizant or something. Then again, she’s completely clueless about the apple thing.
-Do animals (especially fuzzy ones) instinctively like the character?[2] It’s an integral part of the film.
-Does the story end with the character's wedding?[2] Yeah. It was the beginning of a cherished Disney animated feature tradition!
-Would you like to be friends with the character if you met in real life?[1] Nah. I’d probably give her a lollipop and send her off to clean my room. Or sell her into slavery to some trailer trash guy in a wifebeater.
-Do you introduce the character on the first page of the story?[2] Yes.
-In the first sentence?[1] Yes.
-Does the character save the day and/or another character's life?[3] Yeah. Though I’m not sure how.
-Through magical/mystical intervention?[1] First kiss bringing someone back to life: yes.
-Through dying? [3] Kind of. Again, death appears to be only semi-permanent.
-Through almost dying?[2] See above.
-Does everyone go into mourning?[1] Hell yes.
-Does s/he get not-dead by the end of the story?[4] Yeah.
-Will s/he get not-dead in the sequel?[4] I hope to God there is no sequel. Ever. Although some part of me remembers vague snatches of a cartoon where it was Snow White, but with longer hair and a (somewhat) better wardrobe going off with her fuzzy animal friends to rescure Prince Charming because he’d gotten himself into some kind of jam and managed to fuck it up to the point where he is absolutely helpless and useless. Think about it. All he has to do to "rescue" the Princess is get his mack on her while she lies senseless and inert. Although considering they believe she’s dead, having to muster up the courage to kiss a corpse must’ve been interesting. Although, like I said before, Snow White doesn’t seem to decay at the natural rate.

Now let’s add up the points.

0-14 Developed character, unlikely MS.
15-20 Borderline character. Characters in this range are potential MS's, who can go either way dependent on the author's skill.
21+ Mary Sue/Gary Stu. Proceed with greatest caution.
35+ Reconsider your character and plot. Please.

Snow White’s score: 83/170. Hm. Now because the Litmus Test was based on the Gargoyles fandom and written fanfic by the author making the test, obviously some questions were non-applicable seeing as Snow White is human, with no apparent magical powers aside from her angelic goodness, and I am not the creator of the movie or play. So I did a basic tally of how many questions were nullified by the Gargoyles thing, which was a difference of about 79 points. So it’s more realistically 83/91.

Snow White: The Original Mary-Sue, back when Mary Sue was cool for approcimatly five minutes.

In this movie, Boring Perfection whistles while she works, makes friends with the cute furry woodland animals, and wears a collar like one that would prevent my dog from biting its stitches. And as a side note, considering that with the dwarves' penchant for Germanic folksy crap and Snow White's name and personality tendancies and the whole emphasis on hard work and a simple country lifestyle, the whole thing smacks of Nazi Propaganda and the Aryan Myth. It was 1937, and Hitler was in a full upswing, almost at the height of his pre-war powers, which was a full 4 years before America even entered World War Two, which had pretty much been going strong and was ignored by the US since 1939 when things really took off for Germany and Chamberlain realized the appeasement policy was absolute crap and they were now to get their asses handed to them on a platter unless they did something drastic and elected Churchill.
Gaaaaaah.

Snow White: Gunned Down!

All The Money in the World and They Can't Afford Decent Hats!

2005-04-09T14:40:00.000-07:00

Oh Camilla. Honey. I know that you and Charlie are gloriously happy and on your way to Scotland, but...you couldn't have gone to the alter wearing a better headpiece? I dare not call it a hat. It was like a headband...made of spiked feathers. I can tell you didn't like it. The wind itself was even trying to rip it off your head as you exited the church. Your fingers were just itching to tear the bloody thing off. I could care less if it was made of silk and Swarovski crystals or diamonds or whatever. It looked like a very fememine, yet still very scary pitchfork had been pinned to your halo of hair. It looked like crap, and you knew it! Expensive designer crap, but still crap. I could see you clutching at it as the wind buffetted around you both, throwing hubby's comb-over straight up into the air while you tried not to dig manicured nails into your skull out of frustration. I was reading your lips, and thisi s what I got:
"Fuck. Fuckitty fuck-shit. Bugger. Bugger. Bloody bugger....bugger it...bugg--SOD OFF!" as Prinny tried to help you out with your hair. Married life's a bitch, isn't she?
I know that you could hardly help it. I'd been hoping that the British Royal Family's women's tendancy to wear the most ridiculous headgear wasn't communicable by marriage, but apparently I was to be disappointed. Eugenie, the Queen, Fergie...even the spectators and world leaders, no one was spared. If you have a vagina and a modicum of social status, you are thereby forced to wear the most hideous hats in all of Christendom upon your fashionable little heads. The rest of the world usually leaves the run-way model art nouveau shit ON THE RUN-WAY. But not you. You and your dear now-mother-in-law love to lead the pack into the haberdashery, milliner's or even a craft supply shop, carrying nothing but a squirming toddler and a glue gun. Half an hour later, you emerge wearing the sweetest little creation imaginable upon your blue-blooded tete. Even Fergi's daughters, who ought to be running about playing field hockey or studying for exams at this age...they are relegated to the ranks of Hideous Hat-ness, for all purposes looking as if they mugged the Cat in the Hat on the way to the wedding, dyed his jaunty little chapeau--the hobo-esquely battered Abe Lincoln striped stove pipe hat--black and cream, while adding a giant velvet bow and perhaps some spiked feathers to give it that zingy touch of femeninity.
Eugenie...sweetheart...it's really not as bad as it looks...well, actually, it is. But there's nothing you can do about it. Once you hit your teens, you know that you must forever eschew the hairbows and braids for the Realms of the Royal Hats. It's like some sick kind of fashion-world bat mitzvah--on crack.
I put it to you all--who among you has ever seen any female member of the Royal Family in a hat that you could honestly wear while attending a conservative wedding Down South, or to a posh business meeting? While walking down the streets of NYC? (I know in NYC anything goes, but we're talking a hat that you could wear as part of a rich-looking ensemble, that people could see you in and not respect you any less or assume you are on drugs or part of a parade.) In my entire life, I have never seen ANYONE wearing a nice hat in that sector. Even Diana--bless her heart--never wore any hats that struck me with their normalcy and good taste. Only her poise, good humour, and killer face and body carried off those hats with a smidgen of grace beyond the utter humiliation that would have consumed a lesser noble. I can't be angry at the Queen or the late Queen Mum, because as they are getting up there in years, their hats have been less ambitious and subtly tasteful. But I have yet to see a simple hat on either of them, (one that doesn't include feathers or mounds of draped tulle or cheesecloth.) I respect and adore the Queen as the Queen ought to be respected and loved, so I never say anything out loud about her hats, though I can't help thinking things. Who could?
The Bottom Line: Whoever is the Royal-Hat-Picker-Outer needs to be sacked. Now.

Anyhow, best of luck to Charles and Camilla, I hope you'll be very happy! :)

Guess Who's Home?

2005-04-07T20:11:00.000-07:00

Hello poppits! I'm home! Fully rested, ready to snark about Mexico when ambition permits (at the present time, she isn't permitting), full of drive to eventually write the GG's and SB's, and all that jazz.

Just a little preview of the Mexican gunning:

Mexicans drive like no other people on the planet. No, really. They have these insane versions of intersections in which six major streets feed into this roundabout thing called a glorieta (spelling subject to being wrong). Three lanes of traffic, speed limits subject to being ignored and in the middle of all of this: a park. No, I couldn't make this up. Park. Children running around and playing. Average mexican mother has quite a few kids and I don't think she can watch them all at once. Bye bye Juan and Estelle, victims of the GLORIETAS OF DOOM.

To Be Continued.

EM: (Later) When you said poppits I got this freakish image in my mind of Jackie dressed in scary Dame-Edna style, be-dazzled with her be-jeweler and sequined from head to toe, with cat's eye glasses, a bouffant hair-do, and the sneaking suspicion 'she' was born as a man. I can even hear DE's slightly strangled voice echoing in my ears..."Hell-OH poppits! Yes my dears...it's REALLY me!" Dame Edna: *preens* Em: *shudders*

Celebrity Match-Ups, Episode One: Josh Groban vs. Andrea Boccelli

2005-04-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting in my room, in front of my computer, checking e-mail, doing various menial tasks, freezing because first I took off my blouse that has the almost-annoyingly long sleeves to eat dinner (I don't like shit dragging in my food every time I reach for the salt.) Then I took off my bra because there was weird grainy crap settling in between the two layers of fabric, making itchy little bumps all over my chest. I have no clue what it is or how it got there. So now I'm wearing a tank top, there is no heat in this section of the house, and it is early April. (Yes, April, but early April.) To get my mind off the fact that I'm too lazy or nihlistic to go grab me a sweater or plug in the space heater, I was thinking, maybe I ought to get some music to listen to. Given that the speakers don't work on my computer, the only solution would be to plug in my CD player and go find a CD I want to listen to. (Yes this could, conceivably be more work than plugging in a space heater AND grabbing a sweater combined. Whatever.) So I'm debating what I want to listen to, when I hear my Dad in the kitchen down the hall, whistling merrily while he does the dishes, and listens to my Josh Groban CD.
There is some backstory to be had here.
Basically, my father's first reaction to Le Monsieur Groban was "He's no Andrea Boccelli."
My reaction: "A) His name is Andrea, and he's a boy. B) His last name is two l's and one e away from being the Italian word for lawn bowling. C) He's blind, and kind of scruffy looking. (Not really his fault, though. If I were blind, I wouldn't be to keen on taking a razor blade to my face and neck either.) The only thing Mr. Boccelli has going for him is that he's from Tuscany."
The result: The War of the Ages. Until now it's been The Josh vs. The Andrea. Which sounds unfair, like a guy fighting a girl. But it's not. Anyhow, let's take a look at the stats, shall we?

Josh---
Vocals: Dulcet, young, pure, and sexy. It's like he's sexing up your ears. 1 pnt.
Song Choices: Romantic, and usually tragic. A good portion of them are in Italian or Spanish or French, but these songs are usually nonetheless understandable and are tempered with songs in English so as to give you a taste of the exotic without making you feel like you need to know 4 languages to appreciate the CD. 1 pnt.
Dress Code: Tasteful, yet relaxed. Like the boy next door taking you on a date. A classy date.
Looks: Let's just say the CD ought to have some kind of visual stimulant along with the recording to make the experience complete. None of these jacket photos. I'm talking holographic images that move, and maybe even dance amongst waterfalls, rose gardens at dusk, and lit candles... 1 pnt.
Place of Origin: LA, California, USA. Hm. We'll need to work on this. LA is all well and good, but the big city doesn't even have much of the stuff of dreams in it, besides Hollywood. NYC is much the same, but with the old-world glory of the immigrant stories ofthe diverse peoples who have settled there. I know there are diverse peoples in LA too, but I've been to LA twice and all I got was food poisoning, sun stroke, and abandoned by my brother in front of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. At night. LA has few happy memories for me right now. (Note to Mr. Groban: this could change if I'm given tix to a concert in your hometown. *winks*) o pnts.
Total Score: 4/5 pnts.

Andrea---
Vocals: Not bad. Given that you appeal to my father, though, there's little to no sexual spark here. I'd give you a hug. At most. 1/2 pnt.
Song Choices: This may be because of his place of origin, but I have yet to hear him sing in English. I can only take the romantic languages for so long before my brain starts to leak through my ears as I try to translate the rudimentary meaning of the songs. o pnts.
Dress Code: Snazzy, but again, my father likes you. Could be a sign of being a little bit stodgy. (P.S. I love you Dad!) 1/2 pnt.
Looks: Again, scruffy. Not even sure what his eyes look like. You'd think it wouldn't matter if he opened them or not. But it's just a little uncanny, even if he's not doing anything that would normally require sight. 1/2 pnt.
Place of Origin: Tuscany. Okay, here I can give you full points over Mr. Groban. Tuscany is a beautiful place, and on my list of top places to visit before I die. (Actually, it's probably at THE top.) 1 pnt.
Total Score: 2.5/5 pnts.

Well, there they stand. So my only logical conclusion would be to have Mr. Groban go to Tuscany. Andrea can tag along if he wants. Poor little guy. I'll buy you some gelato.

Now I'm off to re-comandeer my CD. It's like when toddlers have to pick a toy, and the one their sibling has always looks the most fun? Except that it IS my CD and I have been looking for it for weeks. I even asked my Dad about it, and he said "It's on top of the..." and wnet off to do something else. I assumed he meant on top of the microwave, which is where we keep a box of CD's in the kitchen to listen to. I have looked there, however, and my Josh CD is not to be had. I am no assuming he meant either on top of the fridge or on top of the cupboards above the stove, both of which places are significantly out of my reach. So I KNOW he listens to it, and I KNOW he has it. But he still feels the need to hide it from me, like some kind of dirty little secret.

Welcome to the Fold, Dad. It was bound to happen that you've come to admire Josh's vocal abilities (but one would hope not his looks :S) and the fanclub welcomes you with open arms. It's okay to cry a little. There, there. Your struggle against the inevitable is over...

(Sounds eerily like futuristic cult or governmental melting-pot, a-la-Big-Brother.)

Aw Heeeeeell No!

2005-03-31T13:40:00.000-08:00

Well, it could have been worse. Much worse.

You're Mariane Dashwood from Sense &
Sensibility! You are the romantic
youngster, also found in Jane Austen's work as
Catherine of Northanger Abbey and
possibly Georgiana Darcy of Pride and
Prejudice. You wander through life like Red
Riding Hood in the forest, picking wildflowers
and humming a happy song... and you can't see
the wolf right in front of you! Ruled by heart
and not by head, you are best advised to to
learn a little caution, before you are forced
into a better acquaintance with the ways of the
world.

Which Jane Austen Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hint: It's NOT a S&M Orgy

2005-03-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

What's lit by a swivelling lamp, involves sharp metal tools, and tastes like blood and latex?

Em just got home from the dentist. Joy. My face was sprayed with cleaning grit, and even now my mouth tastes like bloody mint and my teeth go *grit* when I bite down. It's like I've been eating sand. Minty sand.

Also had my first lesson with a standard transmission. Double-joy. While shifting into 2nd gear I somehow managed to let my zeal lead me to rip the ball off the top of the stick-shift, exposing bare wires.

Needless to say, Mom drove the rest of the way home.

I'm getting something to drink. Ice, maybe. Or alcohol.

Agent Em Out.

Moulin Ruse

2005-03-30T12:31:00.000-08:00

This is going to be a general rant. Don't expect anything extremely witty and or funny. I'm just horrified at the moment as to my mother's viewing choice on TV.
Today began all right. Got up around 11. (Ah Spring Break.) Considering my body clock usually sees fit to wake me up around 8 am (weekends included,) it's nice to know that I am able to sleep in SOMETIMES. Then again I was also up past midnight finishing TWO chapters of a fanfic because I was hit by a gargantuan guilt-trip along with creational fervour. I barely managed to brush my teeth and drag a nightshirt on over my head (because sleeping in blue jeans rarely turns out well the next morning. That is, unless you have a penchant for buckle and seam marks all up and down your legs and stomach. I don't, so I had to rouse myself enough to actually button this shirt. (Which, at 12:30 pm, I am still wearing, along with striped purple flannel drawstring pants. It's purple plaid, soft, fuzzy, warm, and comfortable. I went through a lot of trouble matching up the buttons and holes in a sleep-deprived, pain-racked state, and damnit I am going to wear it as long as humanly possible, in order to wring out the last drops of its usefulness as a garment.) I had a couple of storebought blueberry scones (they were okay. A little dry, but okay.) My mother also saw fit to hook up the juicer attachment to the food processor and make fresh squeezed orange juice. Always before in my life, orange juice was squeezed by hand more for the novelty of having "hand squeezed juice" rather than the need for liquid sustenance. These attempts usually resulted in two desecrated halves on an orange, which no one wanted to eat, and half a tablespoon of sour, pulpy-yet-watery, thin yellow liquid that was drunk for the sake of saying we didn't waste it. Anyhow, this orange juice was somehow better. It was the sweetest orange juice I've ever tasted (including stuff from concentrate) and the oranges were well and truly gutted by the machine juicer, not leaving me to feel guilty that my whim for fresh-squeezed orange juice was depriving a starving child of his vitamin C. The machine yielded more orange juice than Iwould have expected.
Anyhow. My mother woke me up this morning with a glass of the said orange juice. This leads me to remember my cocky-assed Foods teacher, who is a nice enough guy but a little bit odd in the head. Half of the girlsi n last year's graduating class were in my Foods class and those same females repeatedly expressed a wish to jump this guy. In my opinion, this was becauseh e was the only male teacher under 30 who wasn't A) Married B) An intern or C) Weirdly disfigured in the face. This guy looks normal. Which is a rarity at my school. The general male population was dropped on its face at birth. Considering that the girls in my Foods class hooked up on a regular basis with male from the general population base at my school, it's understandable that their tastes in men had been lower to fit the standards of their circle of acquaintance. Thus the lusting after the teacher. *shudders* Anyhow, this teacher, besides being a cocky little bitch most of the time, loved to hear us complain about how crappy it is to wake up on Monday mornings and have to go to school. He would regale us with tales of how, throughout his life, he never had an alarm clock, as his mother would always wake him up by shaking him gently and bringing him a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. I'm pretty sure this wasn't the 50's, but still, I can picture his mother in a frilly apron and crinolines, with a freakishly bouffant blonde hair-do. She would get up, dress, do her hair and nails and make up, then set about fixing a full breakfast for her family, including toast, waffles, pancakes, oatmeal, cold cereal, sliced fruit, ten kinds of fruit juice, milk, tea and coffee. EVERY DAY. I kinda liked (read: felt pity for) this teacher, and though most of the time I felt like patting him on the head, I also felt the insistant urge to take an electric mixer to his face. Usually I just sat there and made caustic comments on his lack of female companionship, along with calling his sexuality into question. (Note that I never outright insulted the dude, I just made casual, smooth little observations about his life, or what we saw of it.) The other girls thought I had no sex drive because I wasn't eager to throw myself at this man and hump his leg. The legality of the case wasn't an issue to any of them, one of whom I know for a fact plans to become a lawyer. God help us all.
Incidentally, I've recently come to the realization that I have no sex drive. None. Nada. Libido es nunca. (Not sure if that is even proper Spanish, or any existing language for that matter.) This doesn't bother me beyond the vague irritating idea that as a teenager I really ought to be feeling some kind of tingly-ness over the opposite sex. (This doesn't mean I prefer girls. I don't. I happen to have a crush on a MALE celebrity, but I don't fixate on this as a possibility, so it's not like I'm eschewing all men of my own acquaintance to save myself for a certain heartthrob. I just...can't...feel anything romantic towards the men and boys I know.) Besides, the perfect men in history are all fictional, (Jesus aside. And I'm not about to go crushing on Jesus.)
But back to my main grievance at the moment. My mother, innocently channel surfing...has come across Moulin Rouge, which has been playing almost incessantly on MuchMusic or MuchMoreMusic for the past week or so. Now personally, I can't stand Moulin Rouge. The colours and lights are all very pretty, and the songs are good. But I'd rather listen to the songs without being forcefed the story as well. If MR were an indie film, or had done substantially less well at the box office, I might find it vaguely palatable. The fact that it is so overrated and every teenybopper from here to Boston just drools over this movie is enough to put me off even the best movie. (And this is NOT the best movie.) The story is predictable, and the only characters I ever liked was the midget and Jim Broadbent (whom I wuv as a cuddly wil' Bwitish actor. He's just so cherubic.) After hearing many many girls gushing over this, I got so fed up that I watched it once in its entirity (for far be it from me to judge a movie I haven't seen,) and vowed never to do so again, unless upon the pain of death. I have nothing against the cast, or director or anything. The set and costume design was lovely, the choerography watchable, the lighting magical. I loved Baz's "Sunscreen" monologue (never got around to watching Romeo + Juliet. The idea of Claire Danes wearing wings and making out with Leo is not enough to induce me to rent it.) Nicole Kidman divorced Tom Cruise and has a cute accent, so she must have SOMETHING going for her. Ewan was good in Big Fish (which was a good movie, I found, in spite of the HBC-ness. She was in so much makeup it was hard to tell who she really was half the time.)
Just the never-ending slew of "OMG I luved this movei it was so GR8!" and "OMG i totaly cryed at teh end, u guyz!!!11!1!1!!!!" was enough to render me ill. This story is classic. It ends tragically, and yet love perserveres beyond death. Try reading some romantic novels from the late 1700's, early 1800's. Many heroines met the same fate. There many Bollywood movies which have the star-crossed duo's dying. This ending is not rare, and simply because this is the first movie YOU have seen where it happens does not make this "teh best movei of teh centurie!" Just because Hollywood finally cashed in on the "tragic end to the bittersweet romantic tale" jackpot doesn't mean it's a breakthrough in film-making. MR made this ending mainstream, and somehow, the movie has managed to sell out its perfectly good story by revamping it so 15 year olds the world over are wishing they could fall into true love and then die. I'm not saying death is the end to love, but why mess with a good thing? If you're alive and in love, let's hope it lasts longer than that.
MR has made a classic story go big-time Hollywood, and what kills me is the fact that there are many great books and movies out there with similar stories which have been glossed over by the big-named-big-budget mask of the Moulin Rouge phenomena.
Don't tell me that the Bohemian lifestyle of 1899 Paris can be shown in a movie that cost $52.5 million to make, and raked in $58 million at the box office. In Hollywood terms, this might be paltry, but that is still more money than I plan to make in my lifetime. Bohemian Paris wouldn't have been full of fresh-faced young actors and gorgeous starlets wearing silks and satins and jewels (albeit costume jewelry) who live in decadent, well-lit apartments. It might have been more historically accurate (of not as visually appealing to the drooling masses,) if it had been a lower-budget production with realistic settings. I know, I know, the movie isn't supposed ot be 'real.' It's a movie about the once-in-a-thousand-liftimes kind of love that trancends death. Big whoop. The point is, my darling little pre-teens, that that's exactly it. Don't go looking for that kind of love any time before you're twenty, at least. You may not find it until you're 60. You may never find it. That's what the reality of it is. It's great that we've taught a generation to dream again, but at what cost? I, for one, do not want to sell my soul to Hollywood in order to achieve and maintain a sense of the miraculous in everyday life.
We shouldn't look to a fantasy movie for the basis of our reality. The fandom for MR is a mask to cover our society's desperate need for love, magic, freedom--whatever those Bohemian ideals are--and a desire to create the same. We need to look inside ourselves for this kind of happiness, freedom, and magic. Because you sure as hell won't find it by sitting inside a giant elephant's head while Ewan croons to you and Elton John has to be physically restrained to prevent him from beating someone to a bloody pulp.
If I had my life to live over again, I'd go to see Moulin Rouge in the theatres, and when I came out at the end, I'd find the producer, the director, the creative consultant, the popcorn-slinger--anyone would suffice--and throw a handful of toonies into their face, screaming: "I've paid my whore!"

Wearing jeans to bed, freshly squeezed orange juice, my former Foods teacher and his Stepford Mom (ick,) my sex drive, and most of all, Moulin Rouge-------------------->GUNNED DOWN!

P.S. If you're into bittersweet romantic musicals, I highly suggest seeing Elton John's Aida. (Verdi I think did the opera, which is great, but I like watching things in English.) Aida follows similar lines, (think R&J in ancient Egypt, sorta, but with twists,) and it has more of an uplifting ending, in my view. I like tragic endings too (DPS) but uplifting ones are good too, to show that people can recover. Aida puts an more interesting spin on things in my mind than does MR. Or R&J for that matter (if I have to read "I did this for my higschool english project..." one more time before I read a half-assed R&J fanfic poem, I will kill someone.)

Eastern Europe and California---I Love You!

2005-03-23T22:27:00.000-08:00

Day Two:

Projected Food Intake:
Soup and Vegetables

Actual Food Intake:
Cheerios, Leftover burrito, fruit, and perogies.

I've always wondered where we got our sterotypical Eastern European folk men and folk women. The tubby lil' cherubs with the ruddy faces, paisly headscarves and accents that sound as though they're speaking with a moutful of marbles. And fudge. But now I have the answer.
Perogies.
The buck stops here, diet-wise. Frankly, the whole idea of dieting and all that has always sounded vaguely stupid in my head. During Spring Break, with a lot of time on my hands, I figured I might as well try it before I knock it.
I have tried.
I will now knock.

This was one of the most singularily stupidest ventures I have ever set out upon. All I succeeded in doing was adding more roughage (sp?) and liquids to my diet while eating smaller portions at dinner. This is good. What is not good is that I have a huge stainless steel pot half full of soup sitting in my downstairs fridge.
Now in this case, it would be optimistic to say that the pot of soup is indeed, half EMPTY, rather than half full.
This soup is good, and I will eat it. But no amount of weight I could ever lose would make up for the self-imposed guilt I felt over eating the foods I liked. I did not stuff my face with greasy mounds of pizza and hamburgers and deep fried ice cream (which btw actually exists and is okay in moderation from this Mexican restuarant in town.) The point is, there's nothing horrendously wrong with the way I was eating before. If this 'diet' has made me do anything differently, it's been that instead of having pretzels or copping out for nachos with cheese, I am now reaching for fruit. I like fruit. And drinking lots of water. This is good. This is a good thing. Now comparitively, it's horrible; because I SHOULD be eating soup and nothing but soup and feeling miserable.
I find that I don't give a shit how I SHOULD be feeling about all of this. The fact is, I feel good. Great, in fact. I have made minor changes in my life that will affect me far better in the long term than crash dieting will in the next seven days. I am forming good habits rather than getting into the cycle of yo-yo dieting (which I have never experienced, as this was my first true attempt at any kind of established dieting scheme,) which I hear is really, really awful, and less healthy than consistant work.
Is it better that I should sit, feeling miserable because I'm eating soup, guilty because I ate a burrito and a handful of perogies over the last 48 hours; or, should I sit and feel happy because I like fruits, veggies, water, cranberry juice and skim milk and could very easily fit these things into my life on a regular basis to eke out the other good stuff I consume as opposed to existing solely on them for the next week?
Personally, I'd rather feel happy, eat what I like in moderation, and enjoy the diverse yet healthy fare that the planet has to offer. Don't even start with the chemicals and pestecides covering the juicy plum I'm about to bite into. If I can't see it or taste it, it might as well not be there. If I get cancer when I'm 50 or 60, so what? Hpefully they'll have cracker cancer treatments by the time I've consumed enough DDT-laden California strawberries to induce a tumor. If not, at least I'll have eaten a helluva lot of good strawberries.
Except, well, no offense California, but your strawberries suck. They have no taste. They are, however, very, very pretty, and look very well in pasteries and stuff with their size and colour. There are other things about you that I love, California. Your amusement parks are the cleanest I've seen anywhere; redwoods are kick ass trees (BC wins the Awesome Tree Race hands down, though;) Hollywood has put out some good stuff over the years, (also some shitty stuff but that's all a matter of opinion and we won't open that can of worms until we hit the GG and SB Awards;) and getting lost with my family while on vacation and circling through Inglewood in a rental car full of white Canadians was a scary thrill ride I'll never forget. To this day, I lock my doors when I drive, and I live in a town that can rival Florida for retirees per capita.
So thank you, California. And thank you, Eastern Europe, for making perogies and borscht accessible to the world.

Note: The Golden Gun and Silver Bullet Awards are coming soon! The Emmys were taken and the Jackies sound like something weird covered in body paint from a drink-sodden frat house Down Under, so here we are with the GGs and SBs! The lists are being tweaked up until the last minute before posting, so send us your comments and thoughts on who or what you think should be given either award. (GGs are on Santa's Nice List; conversely, SBs are on the Naughty.) And unless Andy stops bugging us about it, he will be stricken from the list of remote possibilities of receiving either award.

"Hiya kids, to thine own self be true, neither a borrower nor a lender be, and remember, drinkin' and drivin' don't mix!" (Actual quote from a hilarious radio play known as the 6 Minute Hamlet.)

Anyhow, catch you all on the flip side (where ever that is, I'll probably be there after last call at your local bar,) and remember to think of Em and Jackie for your everyday bitchy satire and pms-ing needs!
(Seriously, with this website, all you need is a blow-up doll with a caustic expression on her face and a mouth full of razor blades and you've got yourself a bonafide girlfriend.)

Pretend Like Nothing Happened

2005-03-22T18:36:00.000-08:00

The Death-Wish Diet: Day One

Projected Food Intake:
Specially-made Diet Soup
Fruit
Sugarless juices, skim milk, and water

Actual Food Intake:
1 large bowl of Diet Soup (eaten somewhere between breakfast and lunch.)
An apple, an orange, 1/4 of a canteloupe, 1/8 of a watermelon
2 huge glasses of cranberry juice, 1 huge glass of skim milk, and water, water everywhere... (there was a can of ginger ale I tried to smuggle upstairs, but that got intercepted by Mrs. Em's Mom.)

Around 4 pm my mother began planning dinner. Not just dinner. Nothing gross like seafood anything or crap a la cardboard. She began to concoct the most mouthwateringly glorious burritos on the face of the earth. I have had these burritos before, and they are one of my favourite dishes in the history of EVER.

Now, here at GDATIG, we have a fondness for burritos. At least I do. I'm not too sure how Jackie's feelings tend when it comes to the sweet, succulent tortilla package of Mexican meat, given her recent foray into the Heartland of the Burrito itself, and the myriad references to Peter Jackson's 'burrito,' which have arisen in the past.
Me, however, I love burritos.
I am on the Nazi-Diet-From-Hell, and my benevolent mother sets about making the best burritos I have ever tasted. Burritos from a shack at the side of the road would have been temptation enough, even if I were stuffed to the brim and on my way home from a burrito-eating contest. But burritos, from a glorious recipe, decades old, handed down to my mother from a nice old lady at my church...(a nice old lady who is unofficially the Past Mistress in the Art of Cookery,) what mortal could resist?
For these, friends, are the burritos of the gods.

For when Odin sits in Valhalla, for what does he need mugs of foaming mead? To wash down that burrito!
When Zeus, Hades, and Posiedon have their poker nights on Mount Olympus, what does Zeus beg and plead with Hera to make for him and the boys? Burritos!
When that Vishnu is busy multi-tasking, and he gets a rumbly in his tumbly, he needs a meal that can fit easily into 1 of his 4 palms. Where does he turn? Burritos!
How did Buddha get to be so cuddly and corpulent? Burritos!
When people go to God for spiritual fullfillment, so sayeth the Lord:
"The answer? I am the Lord your God...and burritos!"
When Jesus and his disciples had the Last Supper, did they break bread together? No, they had burritos!

I think I've made my point. Until now, I've never understood why people made such a big deal about how diets are so hard. Until now, I've been like: "Yeah whatever, quit your whining, bitches." Until I was still hungry after eating all the fruit and soup I could hold and my mother began to make burritos.
I had a long talk with my mother, who told me that she did this diet for seven days, lost 6 of the predicted '10-17' pounds then gained back five. Given this, I did what I felt I had to do. What I felt I owed to myself.
I owed myself that burrito. I ate that burrito. It was the best burrito I've ever tasted, touched, held, gazed at, in my life.
I make no attempt to hide what I did. I have justified my eating that burrito. I will eat fruit, veggies, soup, whatever the diet specifies, for lunch and breakfast. At dinner, I am allowed a responsible portion of whatever my mom has made. In this case, one burrito. And a half. (Note that these burritos were not made to be eaten one at a time. In a perfect world, I could have eaten upwards of three on a good day.) Did I abuse the power of the diet? Probably. Did I bribe my mother to let me have half another burrito and two Tostitos? Hell yes I did. You can't have burritos without a nacho chip or two to keep it company. Was any of this fair? To me? To the dieting principles? Of course not.
A Covert Burrito-Eating. Lies, Deceit, and Stuffing Oneself with a Burrito. Burrito-gate.
Call it what you will. All I know is that I had a burrito. I'm not proud of it, and I know I have failed, as all humans must, for what are we but the flawed, tattered remnants of our former selves? Man has fallen, and humanity sunk to an all-time low. All that can raise us to a higher state of being is God. God and the Burrito. I may have sold my soul to own that burrito for one glorious, shining moment, but when the dust has settled, you have to ask yourself, did I make the right choice? Was it worth this agonizing guilt, this everlasting shame in the eyes of my fellowmen, simply to feel the sweet, spicy, beefy juices mingling with my saliva and running over my tongue and down my throat, to fill my stomach as it hadn't been filled all day? Have I sacrificed my morals, my ideals, simply for the fading illusion of something better than this bereft, woebegone state of despair? I have sold out to The Man for a burrito.
And DAMN if it wasn't delicious.

My report will continue on Day Two of the Death-Wish Diet in what could very well become a week-long reporting special.
This is Agent Em, signing off to continue re-con in the Death-Wish Diet Combat Zone. The area is littered with ice cream and munchies. It's a mine-field out there, girls. You'll have to watch your six. We ain't in South Beach anymore, ladies. Anyone who doesn't think they can take the heat can go home right now and spend the night with a pint of Rocky Road and a Meg Ryan movie marathon.

P.S.
It doesn't help that tomorrow is National Chip and Dip Day, followed by National Chocolate Covered Raisin Day, then, the 25th is both Pecan Day AND Waffle Day. The 28th is Something on a Stick Day, and I'm guessing it's going to be either cool, creamy, and sinfully rich; or hot, salty, deep fried and smothered in condiments and a sweet honey/beer batter. It's going to take all the horror they can muster on the 31st, 'Clam on the Half Shell Day,' to turn me off of my lust for the forbidden.

P.P.S.
We speak of this to NO ONE.

The Death-Wish Diet

2005-03-21T12:19:00.000-08:00

In lieu of Jackie, we now have Nicki, who had become a mutual guest blogger in Jackie's absence. This convo began this morning on msn as Em announced the adoption of a new diet which her mother tried years ago with limited success. This diet involves copious amounts of soup. Em is attempting to slim down for Grad or she must face the frieghtening prospect of Scary Metal Panties. (No shit, I saw them at Sears. The corset is not lost, only forgotten; not dead, only sleeping.)

I give you: The Death-Wish Diet! Atkins, Eat Your Heart Out! (A number of really bad jokes and puns could be made with that one sentance, but we shall refrain.)

Em Says:
Hiya kidlet.
Nicki Says:
Heya hunny.
Em Says:
Mmm endorphins.
Nicki Says:
Lol, oh yeah.
Nicki Says:
Coffee Crisp
Em Says:
Nice.
Em Says:
I got this recipe for soup online, and I'm gonna do this 7 day diet thinger. Here’s hoping.
Nicki Says:
Yeah I may do that too.
Em Says:
Cool.
Em Says:
I'm gonna go buy the soup ingredients, make the soup, and start tomorrow.
Nicki Says:
Koolies.
Em Says:
So I can return to school all svelte and smug.
Nicki Says:
I'm gonna wait till after my birthday.
Nicki Says:
Then I'll do it.
Em Says:
Yeah, that makes sense. Dammit I just remembered we have a freezer full of three kinds of ice cream. Dammit, dammit, dammit! And nacho chips in the cupboard! DOUBLE DAMMIT!
Nicki Says:
Lololololololololol.
Em Says:
Oh hush you. This is what I get when my mother shops when she's hungry, a house full of ice cream, chips, butter tarts and stuff.
Nicki Says:
Nacho chips are ok in dieting.
Em Says:
Yeah but chips aren't on the list of crap I can eat.
Nicki Says:
Yummy yummy.
Nicki Says:
Yeah I know that.
Em Says:
*sniffle*
Nicki Says:
It sucks.
Em Says:
I'm gonna do this at home though when I can distract myself with the TV and computer and won't be mindlessly stuffing my face like I do sometimes when faced with a vending machine at school.
Nicki Says:
Lol, and I'm the one who has to be away from the house, like at school where I never eat.
Em Says:
Good point...it may actually be rougher watching my family eat chips and ice cream while I have...soup.
Em Says:
Kind of like self-induced PMS.
Nicki Says:
Hella.
Em Says:
Man I am going to be one crabby bitch.
Nicki Says:
I know I was.
Em Says:
Maybe it's a good thing I’m going to remove myself from polite society for seven days and then emerge like a butterfly from the cocoon.
Nicki Says:
Lol. Yeah, maybe safer.
Em Says:
Yeah. Anyone who knocks on my door or calls my house within the week following tomorrow will suffer pain unheard of since the Holocaust.
Nicki Says:
So go with a 20 foot pole, got it!
Nicki Says:
Then run like shit!
Em Says:
I'm on this energy-giving elixer soup shit, trust me, I will catch you.
Nicki Says:
Lol, even when I start 20 feet away, I’m fucked.
Em Says:
Exactly.
Let sleeping bitches lie.
Nicki Says:
Hella.
Em Says:
So I'll be like the guinea pig and test run the diet.
Nicki Says:
Haha! Yay test-subject!
Em Says:
Hush. :P I get the feeling the next week’s gonna be hellish. Goodbye bread, I’ll miss you!

{Convo ends when Nicki leaves to go get a turkey sandwich and Em goes to buy her ingredients for The Soup.}

No One Is Envying Em

2005-03-20T16:31:00.000-08:00

Bon Voyage! Jackie is in Mexico and Em is jealous of her bathroom decor.
Em is feeding her neighbour's rabbit for the next few days while they're on vacation and no one is jealous of her.

BTW: Looks like Em will be remaining local for the summer, and I'm going to apply at a local grocery store tomorrow because my friend Amanda works there and said that they might need soemone over the summer due to someone going on maternity leave. Plus I have experience as a grocery bitch. (Thank you, Last Summer!) I hope I get in here, cos apparently it's a really nice place to work, and it's much closer to home and I know people there.

Now look! We did a guest entry for Nicki's blog! Hoorayyyyy!

Check this out:

http://turtledance.blogspot.com/2005/03/guest-entry-from-gunners-at-gunning.html

St. Patrick Can Kiss My Shamrock

2005-03-15T21:05:00.000-08:00

Warning: The entry below contains copious amounts of mild hatred towards a certain person. If you read this and realize it is YOU, think hard over what I've said, because you KNOW I'm right and you're one screwed up person.

Random Notes Before We Start in on the Hate:

GG and SB Awards: they’re on their way to publication. We’ve been compiling this shit for months. Trust me, it’ll be the event of the season. Watch your TV guide for showing times in your area.**
**For those of you who are somewhat dense, we will not actually be appearing on TV.

Jackie on Holiday! Jackie’s gunna be on haitus for the next two weeks, getting sunshine and all that good vitamin D crap. When she returns, we’ll be expecting a full Gun-Down of Mexico and its people. We will be saving the GG & SB broadcasts until she has returned, and probably delay them until spring break is over, because Em’s plans as of yet are not very firmly in place and she could wind up on the other side of the continent for all she knows. (Em: I am really, really beginning to get weirded out by referring to myself in the 3rd person here.) Anyhow, she will be missed and her return shall be heralded by Em standing in the airport with a gigantic bunch of balloons, a clown with a ‘Welcome Home!’ sign, a brass marching band, and an obscenely huge bouquet. (Em: *snerk* Yeah, no. I am SO broke…)

On a similar note…Em has a job interview tomorrow! *Fingers crossed!* If I get the job it means all my internet access will be restricted to weekends, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’d rather have limited internet than no job. And it’s a sweet job in my opinion.
And on to the Main Attraction:

St. Patrick’s Day. The Day of St. Patrick. Saint Patrick’s Feast Day.

If by ‘feasting’ you mean ‘drinking and lots and lots of green,’ then I can agree whole-heartedly. Now, I don’t have a particular hatred for the Irish. In fact, I kinda have a soft spot in my heart for them. They try so hard at everything, and you have to give them props for being so consistent in their good-natured (sometimes not so good-natured) hatred of the British. But I’ll get to the general populous in a minute. Now, my beef with the Irish goes back. Waaaaay back. Say, about what is it now…*counts* It’d be about 6 years, I suppose. I met this girl. This Irish girl. This scary, dangerous, Irish girl. She and I were friends for a while, (and sort of still are on a speaking-acquaintance.) We were too much alike I suppose, to get along well. I can be fairly stubborn, but she's plain pigheaded. She is deceitful and mean. I'm being honest here. And I'm not hiding. I'm even being nice by not publishing her real name anywhere. Although she might somehow find this and realize it's her. But I don't believe that she could honestly deny any of the accusations which are to follow here. She was a stubborn, hard-headed, cocky, arrogant little bastard. (Sounds like I am describing a guy, yes, and this chick is fairly butch and has been known to make out with girls when drunk, but that is not the point and she has a boyfriend with really long hair now.) It’s been a love-hate relationship. Mostly mild, annoyed hate on my part for the past few years. She used to be a really good student, a ‘good girl,’ if you will, but not to the point where she’s goody-goody. She was just ‘good’ enough that it made it really awkward when she started chronically lying to her parents and trying to cover up her weekend (sometimes week-day) drinking binges in which the aforementioned girl-on-girl action would occur, insisting that she didn’t know what she was doing. I’m not aware of the status of her grades exactly, but it’s painfully obvious that she has gone form being a preppy poser (oh God don’t get me started on her being a poser.) Except before she began the smoochiness she’d call around the room with a rousing "Hey everyone! Look at me! Look at what I and ______ are doing! Tee Hee! We’re so avante garde it hurts!" Her poser-ness began when she began drinking designer coffee.

Now there’s nothing wrong with coffee, designer or otherwise. Unless you’re drinking it for the express purpose of being noticed to be drinking designer coffee, projecting the image of a cool urban socialite with money burning holes in her cute preppy pockets. I seriously doubt that she even likes coffee beyond her newly formed habit now as a result of forcing herself to give in to peer pressure and buying the percolated Hell-swill for 5 bucks a pop. Take up tabs of acid. Please.

Now, as I’ve said before, this is a small town. My mother was stopped at a red light one day in the ‘downtown’ area. (Note that downtown is about a five minute walk from uptown.) She glanced over casually to see our wee lassie sitting in front of a posh bakery with a foreign-style name and European architecture. Wrought iron and all that rustic chic shit. For fare to offer they had posh European baked goods and designer coffee. Our girl was seated in a street-side table, with a grande cup of designer coffee in front of her. My mother watched in amusement as she began to arrange herself. I swear. She settled herself for a good long while, (the red lights take forever in my town so my mom wasn’t holding up traffic or anything to observe this,) put on her expensive sunglasses, leaned back in her chair ever-so-coolly and just-so, and balanced some post-post-modern book on her knee. (Which, by the way, probably bored her to tears. This girl thinks herself a genius and can’t even bring herself to acknowledge other’s brilliancy. Am I bitter? Probably.) This girl once said to me, about one of the most brilliant young writers I know, "Y’know, she’s a really sweet girl, but I’ve never heard her say anything worth listening to."

Em: *recoils* Oh no she did NOT just say that. If *that* girl is not worth listening to, I need to take a vow of silence, like, right now.

She also remarked, quite bitchily, something about Jackie along the lines of "That girl has an answer for everything." Yeah. Because Jackie is GENIUS and knows EVERYTHING you WISH you DID, you Guinness-swilling eejit. This Irish girl also believes herself to be mucho artistic, the be-all-and-end-all of artistic photography. She went to Quebec for 2 months (or was it 4, I can’t remember, all I know is she was GONE,) and came back full of airs as ever. She likes to think she’s French and speaks French around predominantly English-speakers to prove some point that no one else is aware of. She took pictures of empty coffee cups, some acne-boy’s face close up, someone’s grandma, half a dog, French street signs and brick walls, arranging all of them in black and white in an artistic portfolio, which she made a .pps (PowerPoint presentation) out of them all and showed it along with some angsty alternative music. I nearly peed myself trying not to laugh and/or cry.

Anyhow, my mother nearly pissed herself laughing at this because it was so blatantly obvious this girl is on Poser-Crack. I’ve known this for years. Actually, after reviewing all that, not to mention the myriad bitchy comments and crap she’s put myself and others through over the years, I realized I don’t really like her at all. She’s two-faced, dishonest hop-head, and I wouldn’t be sorry to never see her again. She’s horrendously Liberal/Green/Hippie (not that individually they’re bad things, but all together she’s beginning to sully whatever good there was left in being a hippie by making being a hippie chic and poser-ing it all over again, but this time with a different sub culture. I just got over her punk rock phase, please, make it STOP! She’s into memorizing songs and names of bands no one knows about (reads: no one CARES about,) who are playing a gig downtown somewhere in a skeezy bar. And this ‘up and coming obscure band who’s coolness is inversely proportional to how well they are known’? It’s really her acne-prone boyfriend’s garage alternative rock band, singing something he wrote the lyrics to with minor homosexual undertones and blatant heterosexual ovetones.

Boyfriend on Lead Guitar (only knows 3 chords) and Vocals: "You left, I said, that’s fine! I’m in love with my angst and this heart of mine…is unbreakable…unless my band breaks up. Because the boys mean more to me than you ever cooooould, because doncha know it’s all about the music, it’s not about you, it’s not about me, it’s not about uuuuuuuus, it’s about the Baaaaaaand! Go ahead and leave, I never loved you except when we fucked at that party…*and so on*"

This is a Good Alternative Song because: it speaks to teens on a deeply personal level and addresses their issues while bantering about the metaphysical aspects of the community of The Band rather than the individual (did I mention this girl is a Communist?) as well as a liberal use of heartbreak/teen-romances-ending-badly imagery, along with the word ‘fuck.’

This girl has handed me enough flyers for various causes for me to provide a homeless person with shoes for the year. Her goal in life (besides somehow getting into active politics,) is to come back to my high school on a few years, take the two certain teachers, and just get stoned with them. (Names withheld to protect the teachers.) "Think of how much we could learn," were her basic words. Well yeah. And think: how much of that ‘learning’ would you be able to retain?

Yeah. I thought so. NONE.

My experience in the realm of drug use is limited, but after frequently observing close friends taking tests and doing other cognitively challenging things while under the influence of the so-called ‘wisdom weed,’ I’d have to say that my confidence in your confidence is lower than the municipal reservoir during a drought.

So back to the Irishness and the base of all my hatred. As you can tell, this girl has already got a lot counting against her at this point. Then she compounds the problem by pretending she’s Irish. I mean, hereditarily, she is Irish, by both parents, I believe. However, she is not an Irish citizen. She has never been anywhere near Ireland, from what I know. And yet she is Irish to the core. She took the dancing lessons, (the ones where they cane the little girl’s arms if they dare try and move them while they dance like Michael Flatley’s bitches.) She did a project on it, poster board and all. She begins to swell, ever so slightly, around St. Patrick’s Day, and you can almost see the nationalistic pride bulging out slightly from her otherwise lanky frame. (I won’t get in to gunning down her physical attributes because she can’t help it. None of us can.) And if anyone dares malign the Irish in any way, she shall fly to the rescue and defend the honour of her people. It’s exhausting. She’s like the one-woman IR fuckin’ A.

Now when people make fun of the Dutch, I usually let it slide, because I’m good-humoured about everything and I know that my ancestral people do have various humourous follies and foibles. The only time I get pissed is when people don’t even make the effort to check their sources and say something completely off-base or when they quote Goldmember for the 80, 000th time and wonder why I’m not amused. Even then, I don’t get pissed or violent. I quietly correct them, or, if the situation merits it, I get a little lippy and give ‘em a set down. When Jackie does it, I just dish it out about the Russians, and it’s fun aggression all around. If anyone has MORE reason to defend her people, I do. Because I am a citizen of the Dutch Realm. Legally. I’ve never been to Holland, but I’d like to go at some point, but I don’t let my citizenship, or even my ancestry give me a reason to get in people’s faces for expressing a valid opinion on the nature of a certain culture. Here’s a sample conversation with our Girl of Focus (we’ll call her Carlie.)

Em: Hey, you know what I’ve noticed? The Irish drink a lot of Guinness and tend to wear green on the 17th.
Carlie: *twitches* THAT’S BECAUSE THE BRITISH AND EVERYONE ELSE REPRESSED US AND DENIED US OUR RIGHTS AS A PEOPLE! THE GREEN SYMBOLISES OUR STRUGGLE AS A PEOPLE AND WE HAVE PREVAILED AND THAT’S WHY WE’RE THE GREATEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD BITCH! DON’T EVER INSULT ME THAT HARSHLY AGAIN! I WILL NOW GO SULK IN A CORNER UNTIL SOMEONE APOLOGIZES AND ADMITS THAT I AM RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING!

Now let’s try that, but with a little thing called Role Reversal.

Carlie: The Dutch have a morally deficient society, with liberal drug and prostitution policies.
Em: It’s true about the policies, but mind you, they’re in place for the protection of the people. Crime in Holland is a smaller problem because the law works with the prostitutes and drug users to keep it safe and clean. And anyhow, I thought YOU were pro-Liberal.
Carlie: ONLY BECAUSE THE BRITISH REPRESSED US! "I’M FROM HOLLAND, IZN’T DAT VEERD?" *inane laugh*
Em: Yeah whatever. *shrugs and goes to find something more interesting to do*
Carlie: What? Can’t you take a joke? ARE YOU A REPRESSED BRIT OR SOMETHING?

GAH!

This is why I am wary of the Irish. I like the jolly, ruddy-cheeked Irishmen who offer you a pint and tell you dirty jokes while you watch a cricket match. I don’t prefer having the bloody history of the Irish rebels shoved down my throat in the manner of scary TV evangelists, except with nationalistic idealism rather than Jesus. I like Jesus more than I like the Irish. It’s a no-brainer.
Now back to St. Patrick’s Day. I’m not averse to it, in general. Sure, the parade is pointless and obnoxious…(you don’t see any other minority getting an international holiday and parade to celebrate their minor saints/deity figures.) but I actually kind of like Guinness (one of the only alcoholic drinks I can consume in comparatively large amounts without feeling ill.) My father has a rather humourous Guinness t-shirt which reads "1 St. Patrick’s Day, 364 Practice Days—GUINNESS" and I giggle every time I see it. In fact, I believe I’ll dig it out and wear it on Thursday. It’s even funnier as I don’t tend to drink much. Anyhow, and I have a green hat I can wear. Green is actually my favourite colour. But if I chose NOT to wear green (say I’m allergic to the green dye in food, beer, and clothing,) why the hell should anyone get to pinch me? If people pinch me without justification, I PUNCH them with justification.

Some Old Irish Bat: Ah! Lookit who’s not wearin’ the shamrock green o’ the St. Patty’s Day! Watch out, or you’ll get a wee pinch! *goes to pinch Em*
Em: NOT A SNOWBALL’S CHANCE IN HELL, BITCH! *sends old bat flying into oncoming traffic* Look who’s not wearing her MANNERS-HAT today!

Keep that in mind. Pinch = Punch. The only difference between a pinch and a punch is the I and the U and how they interact. YOU pinch, I punch! Remember that.

Annoying, Hateful Poser Irish Girls Who Give Their People a Bad Rep, Over-Zealous Pinchers, and Bad Alternative Bands Who Write Their Own Lyrics and Can’t Be Bothered to Learn How to Play an Instrument----------------------------------> GUNNED DOWN!

56 Things That Are More Interesting Than Physics!

2005-03-10T17:20:00.000-08:00

This list was originally entitled "50 things we'd rather be doing" during a Physics class, but then there were 6 more things, and then "56 Things We'd Rather Be Doing As Opposed To Physics" didn't quite sound so snappy.

Special thanks to my dear Sars for helping compile the majority of this list. More thanks to Shanny and Jeff for their contributions. This list is verbatim, so some comments are in brackets.

Please note that no offense was meant by any of this. We were just so bored...Also, the experiment being performed at the time involved lit candles. This makes more sense later.

1) Gouging out our eyes
2) Having sex (You know you were thinking it) (I so was)
3) Masturbating (Spelling?) (it's fine. And hee!) (Oh you know you do it too)
4) Spending someone else's money
5) Teleporting
6) Drinking crantinis
7) Drinking anything
8) Vomiting up toes
9) Menstruating
10) Slitting wrists (oooh charming)
11) Peeling carrots
12) Playing with fire
13) [name of a manslut we know] (yes, physics sucks that much)
14) Playing Candyland
15) Getting an STI (see #13)
16) Making wax caps for my fingers
17) Parallel parking
18) Cleaning out a deep fryer. With a straw.
19) Melting pen lids
20) Throwing hot wax at Will
21)Synchronized swimming
22) Swimming in one's own urine
23) Donating blood (go do that everyone! It's a nice thing!)
24) Being assigned to shine George W Bush's shoes.
25) Hitting Will with a ball of wax.
26) Losing said ball of wax.
27) Face-wiping Sarah *followed by Sars getting a face wipe*
28) Composing a musical tribute to Joan Rivers
29) Wiping one's own ass with one's tongue.
30) Eating pie
31) Lighting self on fire
32) Playing Lord of the Rings Monopoly
33)Spontaneously combusting
34)Cleaning a running blender with a man's genitals.
35) Getting a bikini wax. From a guy.
36) Eating an entire meatloaf
37) Eating tater tots from under a couch
38) 3 words: toe lint tapestries.
39) Eating drink umbrellas
40) Killing flamingoes
41) Playing doctor with needle junkies
42) Assembling ships in bottles that are still full of liquor.
43) Becoming a T-shirt ninja
44) Drawing World Maps. Blindfolded. While drunk.
45) Being assigned to clean the Special Ed. Room. (hee hee, spit and drool room) (that's terrible. Even for us)
46) Eating dirt.
47) Sucking on pennies.
48) Eating tinfoil
49) Using dryer sheets as breath fresheners.
50) Eating wax balls.
51) Scrubbing the floor of a men's prison shower. On your hands and knees. In a french maid outfit.
52) Falling victim to a mosquito swarm.
53) Watching Fiddler on the Roof ten times without bathroom breaks.
54) Braiding together the tails of three rabies-laden squirrels. (then you have to put nuts in three corners of the room!)
55) Duct-taping two hungry cannibals back to back.
56) Riding an alpaca. (a clean alpaca) (Ew! Not like that you sicko!)

Rent-A-Phantom

2005-03-07T13:49:00.000-08:00

If you, like (*cough*Beyonce*cough*) many others, wish to rent a Phantom (*cough*random Techie*cough*) to serve your personal murder/obsession/vocal training/unmasking needs, it is advisable that you visit the below link before entering into any contract.

http://dailydigest.net/rentaphantom_disclaimer.gif

Enjoy your rented Phantom and please remember that you will be responsible to clean up after them as well as return them in the condition in which you first recieved them.

*snerk*

Okay now that I've done that, I'll be off to augment and tweak the lists for the GG and SB Awards...(Coming Soon to a Pay-Per-View channel near you!)

~E

Watch Out Oscar...

2005-03-05T23:09:00.000-08:00

Keep your wits about you Emmy, and Globes, you're going down!

Gunning Down All That Is Good Presents......

The Golden Gun and Silver Bullet Awards!

This is the time when the Academy of Gunners (Em and Jackie!!) elect the things that are truly good and truly truly horrible.

Golden Guns show immense appreciation to people and things that make this world worth living in. Silver Bullets are given to people and things that are the ire of our very existence, and maybe even yours too!

Only available on the Gunning Down All That Is Good website, it's going to be quite the event.

Note: nice pretty happy comments of encouragement help us write faster ;)

The Oscars, The Grouch

2005-02-27T19:09:00.000-08:00

Note: links ought to work now. Let's hope it sticks. If it says Hilary Swank but you get a picture of Paul Giamatti, it's not my fault, I've tried many times to make it work.

Thoughts Upon Watching a 5 Minute Segement of the Academy Awards

...in which Beyonce whored herself (19th century-style!) and ultimately mucked up 'Learn to Be Lonely'.

Now as anyone who knows us here at Gunning knows how we feels about the recent film version of the Phantom of the Opera. They know that, the few issues--concerning Patrick Wilson's foppish hair and Emmy's difficulty in hitting a few notes or nuances and her very real need to eat a sammich or two--aside, we loved the movie, music, booby-licious costumes and the whole kit and kaboodle. Now, upon hearing that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber had his newly-composed song 'Learn to Be Lonely' (a part of the movie's soundtrack,) was nominated for best new song, there was varying amounts of joy and confetti which were only a little bitter because no costume or acting nominations followed suit. Upon hearing later that the said song was to be performed at the Oscars, there was again varying amounts of joy and celebratory pie.

Then I actually watched the segment.

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

Beyonce, it appears, was chosen to sing the song, for reason that are unclear to this author. If they were trying to make her out to be a Christine-figure, they failed utterly. According to different interpretations based on the original book, movie, and musical, there is always arguments over Christine's being blonde or brunette. (Book-Christine is blonde, Movie/Musical-Christine is brunette. Seeing as she's Swedish, I'd go with the blonde, logically, but I just cannot face blonde heroines so I prefer the brunette version.) But even I know that Christine is not black. No way, no how. This is not racism. Think about it: in the mid-late 1800's, would anyone hire a black woman to work as a chorus girl in a prestigious opera house, much less promote said girl to the status of leading diva soprano? In the name of equality, I must say that, sadly, white chicks were all you saw on stage. Even if there was a black character, usually they were portrayed by Caucasian people who rubbed coal or something on their faces.
But back to Beyonce.
So she's wearing a dress in filmy layers of black in a bell-skirt style that one would assume is a modern take on an old-fashioned classical style. And you'd be right if it weren't for the necklines that plunges beyond all reason. I know that boobies on display weren't exactly taboo back in the day, but the neckline just didn't work with the rest of the dress. It's like trying to match a baseball cap with a Scarlett O'Hara getup.
Thankfully we are spared a full view of Beyonce's considerable charms because she is positively dripping with various diamonds and spangles which are frickin' huge. We assume this is a take-off from the Swaovski crystal stage jewelery worn by Christine during the movie. Unfortunately for Beyonce, this just looks as if the ill-fated chandelier happened to fall directly upon her. No worries, folks, she's not hurt or anything! She just picked herself up, brushed away some of the dust, re-arranged the shattered light fixture pieces around her face, neck and shoulders, and off she went to the Oscars!
Now, in general, that is all that's wrong with her appearance, aside from one final teeny-tiny issue. Hey eyes. Beyonce, honey...I don't know what happened! Neither do you, apparently. But here's my hypothesis:
Beyonce, on her way to the Academy Awards in her sporty, sexy little automobile, finds herself alone on the side of the highway with something wrong under the hood. Being the empowered, independant woman that she is, instead of flagging down help, she hitches up her Vera Wang and goes to work on her carburetor. She finally locates the problem, fixes it, and as a last touch, checks her oil before she slams the hood, wipes her sweaty brow with her hand, then returns to the driver's seat and roars off to the Oscars.
Honey...it's called an oil rag. Learn how to use it. Also: checking in the mirror beforeyou trip lightly out onto the stageis a good idea. The smears of motor oil gracing your eyelids does nothing for your image. We all KNOW you are a dirty black woman. (Not that black women are dirty. Beyonce just happens to be black as WELL as dirty. Metaphorically dirty. See: Beyonce's videos and elastic bands masquerading as her tube skirts and tops.) Anyway, hon, your makeup does not necessarily have to be your mission statement.

Small side note: Tech-crew member garbed in a half-mask and black cape put in place to pointlessly lead Beyonce down the stairs then make an angsty, cape-swirling exit 30 seconds later. She can change a tire, ladies and gentlemen, but can she traverse the trechery that is stairs all by her lonesome? Apparently not.

How can I find so much rage within a 5-minute segment? I have no idea. I know that later in the program, Mr. Birthday Boy Josh Groban will be performing "Believe" along with Miss Knowles. This depresses me so much that I have a 50/50 chance of actually making myself sit through it. On the one hand, it's Josh Groban. On the other, it's Beyonce. I can't decide if he is irrepairably sullied by her presence or if she is to be canonized by his influence.

(At this point, Em typed an amazingly witty segment which she somehow inadvertantly deleted and will now try to recreate. The bloom has gone off the rose, somewhat.)
So Beyonce might have been able to pull if off if she hadn't been off-key and trying to make it sound sombre by being a half-note flat and making hand motions reserved for gospel choirs. Poor Josh stood stricken, clutching his mic for dear life and trying to maintain his aura of hope and innocence in the simple joy of Christmas while Beyonce looked ready to bust out the booty-licious moves. Also, just when you thought her dress choices couldn't digress from horrid to disastrous, she proves us wrong. She shaved the scales off a trout and stitched it into a clingy sheath. Sequins weren't even hot in the 80's when they were fashionable. No one looks good in sparkly clothing. Plus...I have only ever seen eyes like this on stuffed deerheads mounted on walls.

So long as I'm ranting about dresses: Hilary Swank: Honey, for a second, I was so proud of you. I saw you sitting there, gearing yourself up to win Best Actress, and I thought "Wow. She looks so nice! Her hair is in a nice simple elegant style, and she's wearing a high-necked, long sleeved, floorlength navy blue dress. She looks like she's put on a few pounds, and she has yet deigned to cover up her sternum which may not yet be ready for public viewing. Her jawline is less abrasive and she's not smiling too widely and she looks downright feminine! I just love it when people accept their genders and are radiant!" Then she stood up and turned around. My eyeballs, upon viewing all of her shoulders, back, waist, hips, and a large expanse of her upper behind retreated into my nasal cavity and my left pupil tried to bail out my ear canal. A few minutes, a commercial break, and several close-up shots of Kate Winslet in a tasteful, lovely bright blue gown, my eyeballs managed to crawl back to the forefront of my skull, where they proceeded to get watery as Jamie Foxx rambled about his grandmother and his dreams.

P.S. Is this woman kneeling or standing?
P.P.S. And WHY do Clive Owen's date's always do this? WHY?
P.P.S. It's comforting to know that if MJ ever bails on us, we have this guy to give us our dosage of feminine-man-ness.

OMG WE'RE UNDER CONSTRUCTION!!!!1!!1!!!

2005-02-23T10:06:00.000-08:00

NOW, AGAINST MY BETTER JUDGEMENT, I'VE BEEN SCREWING WITH THE FONTS ON THIS MOFO. IN CASE YOU HADN'T NOTICED, RECENTLY ALL POSTS HAVE BEEN INEXPLICABLY IN CAPS. SO I SWITCHED IT, SOMEHOW, TO ALL LOWER CASE. I CANNOT TELL IF THIS IS BETTER OR WORSE BUT I AM TYPING THIS ENTIRE POST WITH MY CAPSLOCK KEY INTENTIONALLY ON IN ORDER TO SEE IF IT HAS ANY EFFECT ON THE CHRONIC LOWER-CASE/UPPER-CASE BATTLE WE ARE WAGING. IF ANYONE KNOWS ANY WAY TO GO BACK TO THE HAPPY TIME WHERE CAPITALS ONLY APPEARED WHEN WE PRESSED THE SHIFT KEY AND MANUALLY INSERTED THEM, PLEASE LET US KNOW. HOPEFULLY THINGS WILL BE BACK TO NORMAL SOON, AND WE CAN FREELY POST WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A KINDERGARTENER WHO DOESN'T KNOW CAPITALS YET OR SOME SCARY KIDNAPPER WRITING A RANSOM NOTE ALL IN CAPS. (BESIDES, EVERYONE KNOWS KIDNAPPERS USE CUT-OUT LETTERS FOR RANSOM NOTES.) I ALSO DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN IF IT TURNS INTO HACKER-SPEAK WITH EVERY SECOND LETTER LOWERCASE AND EVERY OTHER LETTER UPPRCASE. IF THAT EVER OCCURS, YOU CAN SAFELY ASSUME THAT I'VE ATROPHIED AFTER DAYS IN FRONT OF MY COMPUTER AND AM AT PRESENT TRYING TO BREAK THROUGH THE FBI'S FIREWALL AND ANY EXPOSURE TO NATURAL LIGHT WILL PROMPT A SWIFT AND DEADLY ALLERGIC REACTION.

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVES...

{Later: OMFG I'M A GENIUS! Lookit all the capitals and little letters! Only where I want them! Look! ---> I aM nOt A hAcKeR, tHaNk GoD, oR i'D hAvE a SeRiOuS cAsE oF cArPaL tUnNeL sYnDrOmE...aNd TyPiNg LiKe ThIs WoUlD mAkE mE wAnT tO eAt My OwN hEaD, tO bOoT!}

Gunning Gone AWOL

2005-02-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

Hey y'all, I (Em) will not likely be updating much within the next few days as I have gone to Musical Theatre to kick ass and rock out on stage. If I have any time in which I am not performing, sleeping, or doing schoolwork, any and all writing I do will be relegated to me trying to update my Phantom story on fanfiction.net because I've made a new rule at Jackie's suggestion which in future will hopefully speed up my posting on ff.net but for now it has slowed me down because one day of delay in writing costs me that and more in posting speeds. This rule consists of me not posting any chapter on ff.net until I have at least the next two chapters written. Meaning, you will not see chapter 3 until chapter 5 is done. I cannot do this for my blogs as it will drive me mad, so this applies to fanfiction only. Blogs will be intermittent and whenever I can afford time to update. Therefore I leave any updating here to Jackie for the time being (don't worry she is very entertaining and Russian,) and AtP and the Chronicles of Sad will lie dormant for at least a week while I recover. (AtP will be updated more likely than the CoS because the CoS are just funny short things I put in whenever I have the time or inclination, so don't expect to see a lot of new updates on the CoS, especially not in the near future. I know Helena needs to take us all on a little trip to the Land of Backstory in order for us to get and insider's view of the Axis, and I have at least a paragraph started there, but please, the fanfiction needs my attention for now, also before Ruth hurts me for the delaying there. I also need to re-tool chapter three because I have Erik saying and doing things that are normally reserved for weepy old men, who sit in a dim corner holding an empty beer glass, mourning their pasts. Erik is none of these things. He must be cold, heartless, a ruthless killer (hee. Ruth-less.) except I tend to think he's mellowed after the Christine Fiasco. He's lonely, yes, a genius, yes, with a tender side if someone--anyone--woulkd love him, yes; but that is still a far cry in my mind from him sitting down with a tub of Ben and Jerry's while he sniffles over "An Affair to Remember" while he talks to his cat who's name is Muffin about how women are so confusing and Christine sent him mixed signals. (Don't tell me she is NOT the Past Mistress in the Art of Wishy-Washy-ness. She'll totally make out with Mr. Questionable Sideburns at the drop of hat and then turn around five minutes later and get her mack on with the Phantom of the Hotness. Then she insults both by pretending the hang-ups here are emotional and connected to her deep-seated "Daddy issues." Yeah--and I gave birth to a muskrat name Pierre.)
Anyhow I'll be back in a few days.
And thank you to the Anonymous Commentor! You have made my (our?) day(s?)! We need you and more of your kind to leave comments! I prefer the anonymous one to the ones from people I know, because the people I know are in a headlock from me who is shoving my writing down their throats and then extracting a compliment from their bums.

The Penis Soliloquy—Em’s Answer to the Vagina Monologues

2005-02-16T15:59:00.000-08:00

Okay teenage boys, you insolent little shits, hear me out.

Penis. There. I’ve said it. Penis penis penis penis penis. A funny little word for a funny little thing. (Yes, it CAN be massive, compared to, say, a toothpick or even a cocktail wiener—no pun intended—on a cold day. Now shut up and listen.) See, this rant started in my mind after an odd conversation over lunch involving older people, namely grandparents, having sex. Needless to say, any and all lunching ended shortly thereafter. But what’s the hang-up? Grandparental, (and even parental) lovin’ is a lot more common than we prefer to think. The next time Gran’ma’s takin’ out her teeth and Gran’pa’s poppin’ his ‘heart pills’ (read: you know they’re Viagra) like they was Pez…while you’re just trying not to listen to the bedspring squeaking as they take their afternoon ‘nap.’

Now on to the main body of my rant.

Boys: If you’re going to crack jokes about Viagra, be prepared to handle the real issues that pop up. (Har.) Viagra is there for a reason: to treat erectile dysfunctions, which tend to plague the elderly generation. Face it, there IS sex after 40, and copious amounts of it too, given the amount of middle-aged mothers giving birth we’re seeing in the news. (*cough*Madona*cough*)I remember a story in a magazine from someone’s grandmother named Cornelia, who was over 80, and yet she admitted she had a very active sex life. Now if you care to discuss the reality of this, go ahead and comment. If the idea makes you ill, please reconsider the next time you think to yourself "Dude, I could totally make an awesome jokes involving dicks and Viagra right now! Because DICKS are so funny, and they are even FUNNIER when they DON’T WORK! Guh-huh-huh-huh-yuk-yuk-yuk!"

Proceed with caution.

Because if you breathe a word of what you’re thinking, I will be on you faster than anyone can say "Aww, it made a funny!" I will hunt you down, take a big, spike-laden mace to your nutsack, and laugh myself silly when YOUR penis fails to work. For anything. Learn to love the colostomy bag, dipstick.

A note to boys:
When girls say they want a ‘tender’ man, they mean emotionally. They want you sensitive so they can break your spirit, crush your soul, flay your sensibilities raw, and re-mold you into their willing love-slave. Physically, they want you tough as steel and twice as hard. If we wanted something that went *squish* when we hugged them, we would grab ourselves a teddy bear or a tub of Rocky Road.

We, however, as women, owe it to ourselves to keep a layer of insulating padding around ourselves at all times, in order to protect ourselves from mishap (it don’t break if it can bounce) as well as sheltering any and all fetuses, if we choose to have them. I know I may be what’s called "unreasonable" or "unfair" but since when has life ever been fair? If you enjoy being tubby, laughing at dick jokes, and being lonely, by all means, continue in that same vein as long as it pleases you. If not, please, put It away, don’t let gluttony take away from precious Me Time (and by ‘Me’ I mean ME, not YOU,) and we’ll only ever want your lower extremities to come up in the conversation if there’s any problems we need to know about in order to make sure we stay satisfied. (Bleeding sores and other creepy growths must be reported IMMEDIATELY to Management (the woman) so that she may take you to the doctor, whose diagnosis will confirm her initial suspicions (which are always right anyhow,) and she may then dump you off at a male brothel, you sick cheating bastard. And no spreading strawberry jam on your breadstick to freak your woman out either, even as a joke. That WILL get you dumped, no matter how clean you may be.)

Viagra jokes and lazy, fat-arse boys…good things in today’s ‘accepting of all body-shapes and crude jokes’ society----------------------->GUNNED DOWN!

Grab A Bucket, Hallmark

2005-02-13T15:06:00.000-08:00

...cause you're gonna need one to hold all of my hatred.

Warning: the post your are about to enjoy has scary levels of bitterness.

Yes, cliche, I'm going to have a Valentines Day themed post. Oh my god, how unoriginal of me.

Did it never kick anyone in the forehead that MAYBE there are so many angry Valentines day posts because Valentines Day is inherently Evil? Evil?! First of all, I think we all have to lay off of the Cupid. Michael Jackson got in trouble for his interactions with little children, yet we have a major holiday landmark which is a baby running around in next to nothing! With a weapon! Nice gun control there Dubya, someone gave a two year old arrows!

Now in and of itself, I have no problem with February 14th. It's a nice, non-threatening day, not drawing attention to the fact that it's in the shortest month. What bothers me? The fact that people take it as their Get Out Of Social Propriety Free card. Now I recently heard on the radio that a country in Asia (perhaps Vietnam, I can't be certain) was attaching hefty fines to anyone caught canoodling in public with someone they aren't married to. And I'm not talking two hundred bucks. Over a thousand and sometimes with jail time included. Russia has a similar but less harsh approach: about $100 CND if you're caught kissing in public.

Does Canada have anything like that? Nooo. Valentines day is the high point, but all year really, couples believe it is alright to put their private activities on display. No, thanks, I do not want to see your tongue in her mouth. That's gross and makes me wanna drink pure ethanol.

Also: guys, red roses are romantic, but they take about as much thought as breathing. I personally despise roses. Any man caught giving me roses would have the thorns summarily shoved somewhere VERY painful. Go with some pretty orchids or daisies or some flower that doesn't quadruple in price once Feb. 1st comes around. Honestly, is it worth it? Also: don't buy her a ton of chocolates AND a skimpy lingerie number. You will give her such a conundrum: eat the yummy chocolate, or look good in the lingerie? She can give YOU lingerie for Valentines day that she'll wear, but you really shouldn't buy it for her. You'll buy the wrong size or something itchy. Dumbass.

Make her a cd! Cook her dinner! Go for a walk on the beach! Seriously, this holiday doesn't have to cost money unless you're dating a gold digger or a crow (cause crows like their shiny things). It's about love and being in love! So be in love, but do it IN YOUR HOUSE so I don't have to see you. If one more couple swapping saliva bumps against me on the bus, I'm gonna can 'em both.

Wow, tangent much. All I'm saying is that maybe we should take this holiday out of the calendar. Shut UP Hallmark, as if you need more money. Shut UP hormonal teenagers, as if you need more excuses to make out on my locker. And finally, shut UP lax government that doesn't fine people for too many PDAs.

Valentines Day, puppy love and roses---> GUNNED DOWN

Planned Parenthood: The Unofficial Site

2005-02-08T11:09:00.000-08:00

This site apparently encompasses perfectly the position of one of the children I've had the misfortune to come across in my babysitting stints of yore. I took one look at this and felt my ovaries spontaneously recoil, while my Fallopian tubes cried out in horror and begged to be tied.

Enjoy.

These 'Ships Are Sinking...Thank God.

2005-02-03T19:38:00.000-08:00

Against all my instincts as well as Jackie's warnings, I've only recently entered the realm of writing/reading fanfiction online. Now I can kind of see why I felt trepidation and Jackie, outright fear and anger.
I've seen some stuff I don't understand, and some stuff that kind of make me angry or confused, (Erik/Meg shippers,) but up until now I've been able to stomach it all with good grace.
Until now.
Undoubtedly in my mind, the sickest and most wretched of fanfic writers are the Harry Potter fans. Just look at this list of combinations. I haven't read past book 3, and parts of book 4, seen only the first movie, and even then it was a downloaded result of someone smuggling their camcorder into the theatre. Even so, I understand most of these pairings and a few of them just made me gag out of sheer horror. (Namely, Lucius/Hermione and Harry/Lily or Lucius/Draco.) So pale freaky looking old men with young girls because they want to mold their minds, and then that's plain incest, respectively. There's taking a story and playing with it to amuse yourself, but there comes a point where you're crossing boundaries into the dark realms of the illegal. I know it's all in your head, but when you post it online and a surprising amount of people back you up with so-called 'evidence' for your spin-off, I get a lil' bit worried that your mum's been over-medicating you again, my dears. Now sometimes it's funny to think these things that you know EVERYONE is thinking at some point (Snape/Draco, *snerk*,) but you never, ever, say them aloud!
God, what IS is with Lucius? He's being paired (read: whored out) with every minor character in the series! Neville, Percy, Bill...and what is with Lily coming back from the dead to hit on characters like Ginny? Even I know this is wrong people! I, who know next to NOTHING of the series, know that the mental images connected with a Harry/Hagrid 'ship are plain disturbing!
Now the most disturbing 'ship I've seen on that entire list has to be the Lucius/Harry pairing otherwise entitled 'Power and Pride' (a title which conjured up images of a bad bodice-buster novel with a strong-willed redhead heroine being seduced by a dark broadchested warlord with a scarred past.) Now it's not necessarily the entire thread revolving around this 'ship--although God knows this one has at least a few years of therapy in its aftermath--that got my goat, so to speak; it's more the people who are initiating and supporting it. Now I don't necessarily want to go after any ONE person in particular, but dear God I can't help it in this case. Note the instigator, one Rhysenn. With every answer I got regarding this entire debacle I found about 5 new questions, and in search for the answers I stumbled across his LiveJournal.
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
The poor guy has a boyfriend who looks like a Kenny G figure who's fallen on hard times. Or maybe a Benjamin Bratt who lost his scissors and cannot cut his hair, no matter how much he wants to. (The profile shots aren't bad, he looks almost like Sandra Bullock with curly hair.) But back to Rhysenn. He seems to have a penchant for supporting any and all disturbing slashy-type fics, most of which no doubt came out of his own head. While I applaud the imaginativity (is that a real word?) I have to question any and all evidence behind these kinds of claims. Granted, it's called SUB-text for a reason, (sub meaning 'under,') but I just can't help feeling it's all a rather shaky theory about Lucius and Harry. I haven't seen the trailers or movies and I don't spend much time reading anything into whatever Dan Radcliffe says or how he delivers his lines. However, our 30-something friend Rhysenn has deemed it fit for him to find Dan's seemingly chaste "Don't worry--I will be," hotter than a whore in hell. And others have found enough evidence in the Chamber of Secrets trailer to agree with him on this point.
'zed' said: "...there should be a rule banning 12 year old wizards from sounding so sexy. Harry's "Don't worry. I will be." was 100% non-canon, and that boy deserved to be spanked for using that tone on an adult - especially Lucius Malfoy." I know I may be flogging a dead horse here, but please note that you may be the first human EVER to use the words "12-year old wizard," "sexy," and "spanked" in the same train of thought. I just love how this blurs the line between reality and fantasy. Are we talking about Dan Radcliffe or Harry Potter? Either way it's sick and yet no one seems to care who it is exactly that they're lusting after and whetehr or not they actually exist outside of the dark recesses of their minds.
Rhysenn responded with an enthusiastic: "Ever since Dan's voice broke, he's got this extremely sexy low voice that makes *me* melt. Perhaps I'm transferring my cradle-snatcher instincts onto Lucius instead."
No shit, Sherlock.
The rest of it all was various horndogs commenting on the final scene in the trailer being chock-full of sexual tension and innuendo. I haven't seen it, but in my persistant, willfull naivete, I'm hoping, for all our sakes, that the innuendo was the witty/pithy kind people use in a non-sexual way during showdowns/gunfights/ninja-standoffs etc in the manner of James Bond or similar, and that the tension was the strain that can be expected in a scene of supressed violence between two arch-foes. Just because they're fighting doesn't mean they secretly love each other. Sometimes two people who hate each other...just plain HATE each other. No over-compensation or cover-ups...they just out-and-out hate each other. Rhysenn comments on how he wrote a Lucius/Harry fic subtitled 'Lucius Stealing His Son's Boyfriend" or something similar.
Now I don't want to go pissing off the male gay community, but ever consider that it's not all about you? I mean, somehow you find reason enough to take a freakin' CHILDREN'S BOOK and turn it into your own transgendered, pedophilic sausagefest because of so-called 'subtext' and 'implications' in the movie trailers. You must be the next generation of the people who played records backwards and heard messages from Satan/the dead/John Lennon/aliens.
Rhysenn even said it himself: "...surprisingly, people were... morbidly intrigued..."
Good God, people have even mentioned an all-male Malfoy threesome with Harry.
There are folks who take the time to write this down so they can share it with others who are interested?
Due to all this horror and extreme empathy I have felt on the part of little Danny Radcliffe, who has become an unwitting sex-object to men in their thirties, I hereby declare the formation of:

The Pity for Dan Radcliffe Club!

Using avatarity.com and my own pitiful skills with my Paint program, I have managed to make what I consider somewhat humourous and supportive icons for MSN convo pictures. I'll send some to you if you comment and ask for them. :)

Don't 'ship the L/H! Join me for the March on Washington to formally declare our rights to pity poor little Danny R, who shall henceforth only be referred to with the word "poor" in front of his name.

Fanfiction that verges on the illegal and wrong (not a good thing, IMHO,) ------> GUNNED DOWN!

Update a few minutes after posting: Against all my gut instincts, I delved deeper into Rhysenn's profile on LJ, hoping to discover the root of the problems here. And I discovered that I had made a grevious assumption based on the pictures on the LJ.
Rhysenn if a woman.
My sincere apologies to anyone offended by my taking them for a homosexual man. You might want to change your pictures there or put a disclaimer at the top of the page.
I still think L/H is eerily creepy.
Am I close-minded? Maybe. But I WAS willing to accept you as a gay dude. I figure that since it's the thought that counts, karmically-speaking, I'm off the hook, as it were, and nothing you can say or do will condemn me to re-incarnation as a tapeworm in Mary-Kate Olsen's intestines. (Feeeeeeed Meeeeeee!)

"It Takes Two...Cranes to Haul Kirstie Alley Off to Fat Camp"

2005-01-31T20:51:00.000-08:00

Started as an innocent convo, turned into Em's rant about the 80's and THE Fat Actress of all time. --Note that I am not making fun of fat people in general. I'm no string-bean myself. But GOD!--(read on)

Jackie says:
Haha Dead Pools!
Em says:
So who's gunna die this year?
Jackie says:
Ummm dibs on....oh what's her name.
Em says:
Kirstie Alley? ("I had a great time getting fat..." Actual-honest-to-God-quote-out-of-Alley's-mouth [in between bites of a Crunchie bar])
Jackie says:
she's, uh, really old.
Em says:
*points out from screen* YOU'RE CHUBBY TOO! FETUCCHINE! I actually hate that commercial.
Jackie says:
You saw it?!
Em says:
I've only seen it once…but OMFG!
Jackie says:
OH MY GOD I KNOW!
Em says:
FUCK OFF BIOTCH!
Jackie says:
I KNOW!
Jackie says:
I hope she dies under the knife. And someone on Extreme Makeover.
Em says:
Yeah. The Swan: Celebrity Edition --- This week Kirstie Alley LOSES and DIES in the same episode!
Jackie says:
Hee hee I know. Or I hope she looses weight, but then gains it all back
Em says:
Hee...She was all skinny in the movie with the Olsen twins. What was it called? She was the uppity social worker, rebel with a cause who got it on with Steve Guttenberg?
Jackie says:
Uhhhh..."It Takes Two"
Em says:
…All svelte and like "look at me I have a romantic yet comedic horseback ride with Steve Guttenberg!" (Audience: ew.) And then she ends up having this huge ass (no pun intended) food fight at the summer camp Steve owns because he’s a rich bitch. OMG now I get the irony of it all! She gets her head pushed into mac and cheese and has butter all over her face in that scene! *hunts for pictures* All I can find is this poster. Kirstie Alley in black on the right. Vaguely funny because A) because black is so slimming and B) because she's on top of the world's biggest wedding cake. EVER.
Jackie says:
Yesh
Em says:
Omfg...top of the list look!
Glad to know she's accepted herself the way is and evermore shall be. Oh wait...SHE'S CHUBBY TOO! Does the show feature her screaming "FETUCCHINE!"?
Jackie says:
No.
Em says:
OMG she plays HERSELF! What is it, reality tv show?
Jackie says:
Yeah.
Em says:
The only way I'd watch that was if it were a sitcom, because then it would be even sadder if she wasn’t playing herself per se, but, y’know, she totally WAS.
Fat Actress is called a 'comedy' but why do I get the feeling it'll have one on one interviews with KA while she cries and dabs at her puffy face with a Kleenex while sad piano music plays in the background and she talks about how all her friends left?
Jackie says:
Mmhm. …And her Olsen twins movie? Parent Trap ripofffffff!
Em says:
I know…"parent trap of the 90's" is what one person called it. Except they actually found lookalikes in the Olseons instead of giving us Lindsay Lohan/ Hayley Mills x 2 and with a body double’s back.
Jackie says:
Hee hee.
Em says:
Dammit I wish I could find pictures of Kirstie Alley with her face in the buffet in that movie. Just to, you know, put on my desktop or something. Frame it maybe. Just to remind myself that she has plotted her own ruin. Creepy foreshadowing in that one movie alone. Found a line from the movie spoken by KA that just about made me pee my pants:
[Kirstie Alley’s Caracter, whom we shall simply refer to as Kirstie, or KA, is speaking of Steve Guttenberg’s character, her love interest, the millionaire with a heart of gold (literally!):] "Guys like him like girls with food names like Cookie or Muffin or Candy, not girls like me. " My Thoughts: Well we all know Kirstie LOVES things with food names like Cookie, or Cupcake or Candy...or FETUCCHINI!
Jackie says:
Hee. Oh here: actresses trying to lose weight ---> gunned down.."Yes, ok, I understand that we should be promoting a "healthy image" but dude, you're just another lardy American!"
Em says:
Oh God it gets worse:
(spoken while KA is on a horse)
KA: I can't believe you talked me into this
Olsen 1 or Olsen 2: You're too tense. Relax
KA: Oh, I've got a thousand pounds of wild animal under my butt and she says relax!
Jackie says:
hee!
Em says:
*dies in spasms*
Jackie says:
Thousand pounds IN your butt!
Em says:
*coughs* *hack* *gag* She is predicting her own doom at the hands of the fettuchini! This entire MOVIE is a conspiracy theory of foreshadowing which proves that movie execs have been injecting collagen implants all over KA's body for the last 10 years, slowly...!
*******
Steve Guttenberg: I don't know what's more bruised. My butt or my ego (Me: considering KA is your love interest, it's probably your butt AND your ego.)
*******
KA: You go on in, and I'll wait right here.
Olsen 1 or 2: DIANE BURROWS! YOU GET YOUR BUTT UP HERE THIS INSTANT!
KA: Okay, Okay.
My Thoughts: *an hour later* Olsen 1 or 2: I MEAN NOW!
KA: *dragging her butt* ugh...can't...stairs...*collapses* (And we thought it was only Rita McNeil who had this problem. No joke, my sister's friend lives in Cape Breton and once saw her Royal McNeilness STUCK in a snow back while her friends fluttered about helplessly and her tiny little pooch yapped at her. I only wish they'd had a camera. But they did turn the car around and drive by a second time just to make sure it really was the Rita. And she gave them a dirty look. :D)
Jackie says:
Hee hee.
Em says:
Okay wtf is up with the ending of this movie?

KA: Sorry to ruin your wedding. I just didn't want the wrong girl going down the aisle. I mean the wrong flower girl.
Stevie G: I think you had it right the first time. (Acts all coy like he totally knew the score.)
Jackie says:
*gag*
Em says:
So Steve Guttenberg was all prepared to marry the bitch from hell for no apparent reason—(who existed in this movie for other than providing a vent for physical comedy to be unleashed upon the token *bad guy/girl* as well as being a human prop with which to give this film MORE romantic angst and to make this movie drag on and on forever amen)—KNOWING full well it would seem that he loves KA. So KA and Olsen 1 or 2 (mistaken identity provides a subplot for the KA/Stevie G love story,) have to show up and save the day?
Jackie says:
Dumbass.
Em says:
And suddenly, he's all cocky and suave about how he knew he loved her all along? I repeat WTF?
I Quote:
Steve Guttenberg: You know the feeling when it's the bottom of the ninth, the bases are loaded, and you know the next one's coming right down the middle... and then... you just connect... and for an instant, you know that it's going over the fence and out of the park... and further than you could ever imagine?
Butler: Yeah, that's a great feeling.
Stevie G: Yeah. [pauses, closes wedding ring box] Clarisse [wicked bitch plot-point] hates baseball. (This is code for, I met a really amazing woman but I’m going to marry this other one because she makes me feel the exact opposite of everything good and I feel obligated for some reason…) OMG! So many examples of wtf-ness here…Oh. Oh God.
Jackie says:
What now?
Em says:
Says here they offered KA's role to the chick who played Aunt Becky on Full House, with the Olsen’s as well.
Jackie says:
Oh GOD! Why are you doing this to yourself?!
Em says:
I need to know and dissect the truth here. It’s just so sick…they wanted her to play Diane, (KA), Bob Saget to play Stevie G's role, and John Stamos to make an appearance as the creepy kid-collector named Butkis who practically molests the Olsens. It's like slash fiction gone wrong on Full House. Where 'Aunt' Becky is suddenly the girl's new Mommy and Daddy is kicking Uncle Jesse’s ass because Uncle Jesse just groped Michelle and put her to work in his sweatshop. GOD, WHY!?!??
Jackie says:
Hee! I never watched Full House.
Em says:
It was like a hallmark of the 80s and early 90's. It was ‘Saved By the Bell’ for the under-10 crowd. My first kind of soap opera, with drama and teen angst and shit.
Jackie says:
I know Full House. I know what it was and saw a few eps, but just didn't really bother
Em says:
We (the kids who watched Square 1 TV --it's gone boohoo!) were fully into the shows like Full House. And my Mom used to let us watch Golden Girls with her and we'd all feel grown-up because on days we stayed home from pre-school or kindergarten we would get to watch an adult drama revolving around middle-aged housemates and their respective love lives (or the lack thereof.) But Bea Arthur...ew. I seriously think my five year old self thought she was a man most of the time. A man in a yellow-satin housecoat or puffy-sleeved velvet caftan.
Jackie says:
Haha.
Em says:
Full House ran from 87-95. I think they put out a series of books based on Full House. I read one, from Stephanie’s point of view, about her crush being stolen by her best friend on the tennis team for the doubles matches and she got all pissed, trained her little heart out and went out to whoop their asses on the court but then I forget how it ended. Reminded me of every Babysitter’s Club, Baby Sitter’s Little Sister and Sweet Valley Twins/Jr. High/High/University book I’d ever read. OMG WTF they now have a series based entirely on Elizabeth's solo trek to London? -_-' is nothing sacred to you, people? What next? Kristy gives up babysitting nad goes to NYC to sell herself in the cabarets?
Who else loved Todd and couldn't care less about Tia as a character? *waves hand* ME! Oh, oh! Me! The authors of my childhood, Judy Blume, Francine Pascal, and Anne M. Martin. Only problem was Martin's inability to think of good titles. I remember being less-than-impressed with BSC # 10: "Logan Likes Mary Anne!" and BSC # 13: "Good-bye Stacey, Good-bye." BSC # 99: "Stacey's Broken Heart," and many more in a similar fashion. Way to give away the plot, dipshit.
Ahh the 80's and early 90's...overdone in pastels, wearing cool acid wash jeans, side pony tails with neon scrunchies and high tops. And tying their jacket/sweaters/windbreakers around their waists. Flannel, lots of plaid and inexplicable flannel. This must’ve been the early 90’s fashion because I was born in 1987 and I remember all this when it was cool. 'Grunge' is the word…
So ‘It Takes Two’ came out in 1995, the year they stopped Full House. I guess if they'd gotten the cast to play all the roles in the movie they couldn't continue the TV show because people would get confused and wonder why Jesse and Becky were pretending nothing had happened between her and Danny and why weren’t the girls afraid of Uncle Jesse?
Jackie says:
I know. Hee
Em says:
Aww the chick who played DJ ended up marrying one of the Bure brothers. Not Pavel.
Pavel was the Dan Cloutier of his day. Everyone had the hots for Pavel. At least my sister did, I think, and all my older female cousins. I was too young to understand.
Jackie says:
Hee.
Em says:
Damn she’s married the one named Valeri. *snerk* Her hubby's name is Valeri...
Jackie says:
Oh dear God.
Em says:
Who was also a hockey player. For the Calgary flames though. (Note: Calgary as a city sucks ass.) Haha ‘divides her time between Calgary and LA’....suckeeeeer! She has 3 kids and they've all got preposterous Russian sounding names.
Jackie says:
Hee hee.
Em says:
Natasha Valerievna, Lev Valerievich , and Maksim Valerievich…oh no her child’s name is Maxim. Playground murder, here we come…
Jackie says:
Oh God hee
Em says:
Aww now Valeri plays for the Dallas Stars. Do they even have ice in Dallas?
Jackie says:
Yes, inside.
Em says:
Oh! GoD! CreePy!
"Candace was introduced to her husband Valeri Bure by former "Full House" co-star Dave Coulier(Uncle Joey). After their marriage, Valeri sent Coulier an autographed hockey stick with the message, "Dear Dave, thank you for Candace."
The guy who played Uncle Joey…How creepy is that? It's like "You belonged to Joey and then Joey gave you to me and you're mine now, so thank you Joey!" It’s like almost-incestuous swingers.
Jackie says:
Eep.
Em says:
Ewewew need to post this sometime all about KA and the fucked up cast of Full House and all things (mostly books) 80's *makes mental note*

I know I was all over the map on this one, but once I delved back into my childhood I just couldn't seem to stop! Square 1 TV taught me my first math problems (which turned out to make me barely pass math last year) and Sweet Valley and the BSC taught me how to read my first novels, which pretty much started me on my torrid love-affair with the written word.

Won't Somebody Think of the Children...again...?

2005-01-31T13:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, I wasn't planning on gunning down anything in particular in this post, but then I stumbled across todays VG Cats and saw that Scott Ramsoomair has already done it for me. Long may he live and you all ought to kiss his comic-genius-ass for this tidbit of sheer joy in wordless comedy. It rendered me helpless to the volley of giggles that erupted forth as I consumed this marvel. Let's face it. It's something we've all seen/wanted to see: debauched behaviour in broad daylight, with children in attendance whose minds have just been sullied and irrepairably traumatized by what they've witnessed. Now there are some kids I like, and doubtless I'll end up having my own someday and I'll like them because I will HOUSETRAIN them and teach them how to behave in public. On the whole, I dislike the children of this last generation who think they're so bloody entitled to everything. Makes me feel ancient to say it, but in MY day, we weren't anywhere NEAR as spoiled as the brats I encounter most of the time. Granted some kids of my age group are spoiled rotten tweens who go shopping every friggin weekend and sometimes during the week and blow 150 on a single pair of designer jeans (which contain not enough fabric to make a half-decent tank top,) and then complain because everything they have is shitty in their eyes. Try wearing some bright neon snowpants, and a tie-dye t-shirt and you'd be a king in an African village for having such awesome quality clothes. Brats will always be brats, but there's a severe increase lately in the number of brats I see walking the streets. And this worries me. So parents, make your kids behave, and if your ungrateful spawn whines about child-abuse the next time you tell them "no" for anything, sit them down and have a talk about what REAL child abuse is. Don't DEMONSTRATE it to them necessarily, (I'm not averse to well-deserved spankings, but I don't want a lawsuit at my doorstep if one of you takes a two by four to your toddler, then give me credit for the suggestion,) but explain to them how some children get jack shit in their stockings and recieve beatings if they spill a glass of juice or slam a door by accident. Kids these days learn everything from TV and magazines, so show them pictures if you can find any. It's these little things, the time taken out of your day to talk to them, and the visual presentations, that can strengthen your bond with your child as well as re-enforcing the fact that YOU are the adult, the parent, who makes the decisions. (There ARE crap parents out there, but the majority of them are fairly smart people who know right from wrong a helluva lot more than YOU, kidlets.) This is NOT debatable. Once you're solvent and a legal, self-serving adult in the eyes of the law (read: moved out, with a job, over 19, and NOT mooching off your parents at every oppourtunity,) THEN you can bitch about the rules and have them changed. It's called voting. Laws exist for a reason, and your parent's household rules are form of sub-law. So long as the parents CARRY THROUGH with their promises of punishment (whatever it may be) as a consequence for a deliberate flouting of the rules of right and wrong, kids will learn to respect their elders and become productive, independant members of society.
Then again, some kids fight the system any way they can.

Children (and this probably isn't the last time you've seen them here...no matter how many times we gun them down, a new generation keeps being born and coming back to life...) --------->GUNNED DOWN!

Brought to You By the Low-Budget Production Co.

2005-01-30T17:17:00.000-08:00

**NOTE: this post is going to be huge, so if you haven't got a lot of time on your hands, come back later, or return to GDATIG once we've got a shorter post to give you. Also full of swearing and bathroom/bodily-function humour. What can I say, it's what I do best. But if such things offend you or will change your otherwise good opinion of me, leave this site now and never come back.

The Phantom of The Opera

(re-written for a cast of two ambiguously-gendered actors, an alien, and a tech-guy named Johnny) By Em and Onnada

Please note that the lines and directions marked with the number 2 will be the females roles, while the ones marked with a 1 are all the male roles. However, this was written by and for the amusement of two girls, so the roles really aren’t too gender-specific. This was written in snatches over a few months in early 2003 by yours truly (Em) and Onnada, beginning at a Camp Retreat and stretching over the next little while through e-mail correspondence. Written out first entirely by hand in my journal, the original copy may have some changes made to it for purposes of updates, clarification, or new jokes as I plan to post this online. Namely, I wrote three different endings in my journal and ultimately tooled up one of them and used it here. The other endings involved homoerotic slasher-type stuff, which I just couldn’t stomach, even though I wrote most of it, as well as death by various means for varous characters. The original ending just isn’t all that funny. It’s sad and depressing and beautifully artistic...all characteristics which we have since endeavored to throw out the window. As there are several characters in the Phantom of the Opera, both male and female, I suggest having name signs or different hats/wigs to identify who the speaker is. To get the full comedic effect of how bad this whole thing is, it helps to have some working knowledge of the Phantom of the Opera’s plot. See the musical or new movie, or even read Cleolinda’s version under Movies in 15 Minutes. This was actually written about two years ago, and Cleolinda’s genius in the Mi15M only served to inspired me to dig up my journal and type up the script I have here. And add a lot more swearing and low-brow humour.

Begin: Actors 1 & 2 on stage. Keep in mind that as there are no set changes or anything (horrendously no-budget here,) any and all plot expositions and scene changes will be verbally done by the actors.

Act One

1 and 2: (Overture-Hats) Duuuuuun! DUNDUNDUNDUNDUUUUUUUN! D-d-d-d-duuuuun!
2: (Carlotta-Hat) Dammit! Hate! Spew! ITALIAN! SHRIEK! Doggie! Bleh! (*exits*)
1: (Manager-Hat-A) Tha fuck? (Manager-Hat-F) Our diva bitch-in-residence, Carlotta, has walked out of rehearsals here after throwing an impressive yet highly incomprehensible fit! Who will play the lead in tonight’s opera? (Manager-Hat-A) We are SO screwed!
2: (Mme. Giry-Hat) This girl is undiscovered, and yet somehow I know that she is an amazing untapped talent. (Christine-Hat) *hits operatic note*
1: (Manger-Hat) You’re hired! (Exposition-Hat) THAT NIGHT.
2: (Christine-Hat) *hits operatic note*
1: (Raoul-Headpiece *You may actually prefer a wig, given that Patrick Wilson’s hair is now an integral part of the character*) I remember her (*points to Christine-hat-wearer*) when she was a little girl! Oh. My. God. I think I’m in love with her.
2: (Exposition-Hat) AFTER THE SHOW (Christine-Hat) I must be left alone in my dressing room!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) I’ll just show up in her dressing room!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*ponders many things with ‘angelic’ composure while waiting for…something…to happen*)
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Knock. Knock.
2: (Christine-Hat) Who the fuck are you?
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) I’m your…childhood sweetheart!
2: (Christine-Hat) If by ‘childhood sweetheart’ you mean the long-haired brat Vicomte de Shag-me who threw rocks at me and threw my scarf into the ocean, then yes, I recognize you.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) So what’s new, hot stuff? Your corset has done wonderful things for your otherwise pitiful rack, and thus I have deigned to shower you in my lust—erm—love.
2: (Christine-Hat) Oh. My. God. I think I’m in love with you. Experiencing…rekindlings…of a childhood romance…thought to be dead long ago.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Actually it WAS dead. I was fully into guys back then. But now—HELLO! Corsets and plunging necklines! Boobies galore! Wanna go grab a bite to eat? Burger? Milkshake? (*winks*)
2: (Christine-Hat) I…
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Great! I’ll go get my hat! (*leaves*)
Audience: …isn’t he already wearing one?
Author: It’s optional. Like I said, it could be more beneficial to wear a wig. So they’d be wearing a hat on top of a bad wig on top of their own hair. Hm. Tricky.
1: (*re-appears*) (Phantom-Hat/Mask) Muhuhahaha! Come with me!
2: (Christine-Hat) Aight. (*leaves with Phantom*)
1: (*re-appears again*) (Raoul-Headpiece): Where the hell did she go? For although I appeared not to listen to her ramblings about some ghosty-thing-a-ma-joob, it strikes me like lightening, with all the clarity of a window-pane, that she has been spirited away by none other than the Angel of Music! And this I can surmise from muffled voices and a locked door! I am the MAN! I OWN Sherlock’s ass! Whoo-hah! (*does pelvic-thrust and exits*)
(*Both re-enter*)
2: (Christine-Hat) (*dazed*) Take me with you down into the darkness!
1: (Phantom-Hat) Well I don’t need to be asked twice! My mask of mystery will conceal my ugliness as I seduce you!
2: (Christine-Hat) I will follow you…my angel of music…
1: (Phantom-Hat) I command you to sing!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*sings*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) I command you to love me and marry me! (*gropes*)
2: (Christine-Hat) My Angel of Music is surprisingly earth-bound and seems to be occupied by things other than music at the moment…
1: (Phantom-Hat) Boobies! REAL ones! Not like those wax ones I made that just melt or go all squishy and shift to the left…(*glee*)
2: (Christine-Hat) Creepiness…overwhelming…(*faints*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) Score!
Both: (Expositions-Hats) THE NIGHT PASSES…
2: (Christine-Hat) (*waking up*) Who the HELL is *that* and what am I doing sleeping in it’s lavishly furnished S&M-style lair…and WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY SOCKS? Was I ravished? (*checks*) Ummmmm nope. Just had my stockings stolen. But STILL. Who the hell is that? (*creeps*) Gunna get it…gunna get it…gunna get it…MINE! (*grabs mask and then cowers fearfully*) Eeee!
1: (Phantom-Hat) DAMMIT WOMAN! I would have simply used you for my sadistic home videos then let you go. But now that you’ve seen my face, I can’t do that. You’d run to the feds like I was some kind of PSYCHO, and we can’t have that happen, now, can we? You’ll be my filly (*twitch*) I will have ugly children to follow me in kidnapping beautiful young girls! Our children would be like genetic Russian Roulette...what would win out…your heavenly beauty or my Satantic-spawn hell-flesh?
2: (Christine-Hat) Well, I’m just pretty, and your kinda ugly, well, that ain’t natural. I think you’d win. You face’d peel the paint off a Camaro. Not that I’m insulting you. If I’m going to be kept here I’d like to NOT sow some bad karma for myself.
1: (Phantom-Hat) No problem. I’ll just go kill your lover…I mean…buy some…cabbage.
2: (Christine-Hat) Cabbage?
1: (Phantom-Hat) I’ve heard it’s an aphrodisiac. And it IS your wedding night, and I mean, arrrr! (*does the kitty-growl and claw-the-air hand thing)
2: (Christine-Hat) Wedding night! I’ll never marry you!
1: (Phantom-Hat) Yes you will! Or if you REALLY don’t want to, I’m all for the pre-marital se—
2: (Christine-Hat) Just go buy your cabbage.
1: (Phantom-Hat) I will sweetpea! (*leaves*)
2: (Christine-Hat) (*yells after him*) Don’t forget your mask!
1: (Phantom-Hat) (*comes back in*) Oh yeah! (*puts it on*) Whoo…THAT could’ve been ugly.
2: (Christine-Hat) (*mumbles*) Not as ugly as you…
1: (Phantom-Hat) What was that, dearest?
2: (Christine-Hat) (*does the Bambi-eyes thing*) But I really, really, REALLY want to go back up! (*pouts*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) FINE! I’ll take you back to the surface! But you’ll come to me when I command it!
2: (Christine-Hat) But I…alright. (Exposition-Hat) BACK UP TOP
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) You’re back! Where have you been?
2: (Christine-Hat) Erm…I cannot say, Monsieur Vicomte de Shag-me.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) We have a letter! You have to take Carlotta’s place.
2: (Christine-Hat) Well, shit! You KNOW the Phantom will come after me!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) You’re one crazy little soprano! Get out there kiddo, and knock ‘em dead!
2: (Christine-Hat) And if I don’t, HE will! (Exposition-Hat) FORESHADOWING!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Whatev.
2: (Carlotta-Hat) The HELL??? I leave for 3 days to get a little ‘me’ time and you REPLACE me with some chorus-girl who got it on with (*turns to Raoul*) Monsieur Shag-me?
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) No thanks.
2: (Carlotta-Hat) I cannot let that little show-stealer steal my…show!
1: (Manager-Hat-A&F) Fine you moron! Play your damn lead!
2: (Carlotta-Hat) I will! (*sings*) LalalalasomethinginItalianlalala (*Makes funny noise*) GACK! Supernatural…power…forcing…me…to…*funny noise*
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Christine! We need your help!
2: (Christine-Hat) He’ll kill me!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) You’re nuts!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*looks helpless and lost*)
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) I love you!
2: (Christine-Hat) Me too! That is to say, I love you too, not I love ME too! Well I do love me, but I still love—
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Shut up and let me grope you! (*gropes and slobbers on her face*)
2: (Christine-Hat) Let’s get married!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Right on! BOOBIES AHOY!
2: (Christine-Hat) But I still maintain that I’m in grave danger! Take me far far away!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Okay, just do this one performance. I’m sure it, like all the other operas you perform in within this show, won’t end up deciding both of our ultimate fates at the hands of your crazed genius stalker-friend.
2: (Christine-Hat) Oh Monsieur le Vicomte de Shag-Me!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) With pleasure! (*more groping and slobbering*)
2: (Christine-Hat) Wait! I’m due on stage!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Okay! (*both leave*) (*1 comes back on*) (Phantom-Hat) Damn you! I will have my revenge!
2: (Exposition-Hat) FAST FORWARD TO THE BOWS! (Christine-Hat) (*bows*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) CURSE YOU! Hahahahaha! (*evil laugh*) (*wads up a sheet of paper into a ball and chucks it onstage at Christine’s feet.*) (*Awkward moment of confused silence*)

ACT ONE—FIN

Act Two

1: (Exposition Hat) SIX MONTHS LATER! AT A NEW YEAR’S PARTY. (Manager-Hat-A) What a party! (Manager-Hat-F) (*inhales deeply*) Yeah, this is some shindig. (Raoul-Headpiece) Hey, now that we’re engaged, let’s get up and dance!
2: (Christine-Hat) Woohoo! (*takes a swig from a bottle*)
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) (*grooves*) (Phantom-Hat) I’m HERE! …AGAIN!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*gasps*)
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) But you’ve been gone for months!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*gasps again*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) I have been writing my opera! Here you go! (*wings it at Manager’s head*)
Audience: Wouldn’t that be…his own head? Given that there are only two actors, and…
Author: SHUT UP!
1: (Phantom-Hat still) Christine must play the lead, however.
2: (Christine-Hat) (*gasps again*) Fuck. Great for my career, bad for my personal well-being.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Oh, and FYI, fuckers, she still belongs to me! (*snaps fingers*) Engagement ring, now!
2: (Christine-Hat) But…it’s real…(*gasps again*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) All the more to pawn, sweetling. Give it here, bitch.
2: (Christine-Hat) Well, okay…(*hands over the bling*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) (*disappears*) (*re-appears*) (Raoul-Headpiece) Why’d you give him the ring?
2: (Christine-Hat) He made a good point, He still has a claim over me, ever since I unmasked him…
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) That ‘unmasking’ better not be some slutty metaphor. I ain’t marrying no whore.
2: (Christine-Hat) No, I really just took his mask off. His face. Took the mask off his face.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Just the mask?
2: (Christine-Hat) Just the mask.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Ooookayyyy…(*still gives her a leery and suspicious look*) (Exposition-Hat) REHERSALS! (Conductor-Hat) He can’t sing it right…damn Italian that he is! Stupid Sicilian! I hope he DIES! (Exposition-Hat) FORESHADOWING! (Idiot-Italian-Hat) I yam now reech! I juiced arrive een Paris and ze Opera company geeve me a job juiced becoz I yam Italian. I can’t seeng right! But I weel learn! I never make the same mistake twice! Lalala—(*stops*) I never make the same mistake three times! Lalala—(*stops*) I never…weel, I HAVE to learn eet eventually! (*grins and humps Carlotta’s leg*) (Midget-Hat) (*humps Carlotta’s other leg*)
2: (Exposition-Hat) IN A GRAVEYARD (Christine-Hat) So…Swedish Dad o’ Mine…you’re dead, I miss you, ummm what am I forgetting? Oh, did I tell you that I’m kinda engaged to Raoul, Vicomte de Shag-me, except I totally got owned by this freak who—
1: (Phantom-Hat) (*aside*) *cough*fuckyoubitch*cough* (*To Christine*) ...Come to me, you poor orphaned girl! Your dead father sent me to you!
2: (Christine-Hat) But he’s…dead?
1: (Phantom-Hat) Look closer…but not too close—I don’t want you to recognize me as the freaky-faced creep.
2: (Christine-Hat) Daddy?
1: (Phantom-Hat) Sure, if that’s how you get your jollies. Then we’ll try some good old-fashioned incest.
2: (Christine-Hat) I’m sorry I ever doubted you.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Piffle! Think nothing of it! Now, come away with me, never to return!
2: (Christine-Hat) I’m wavering in a very vulnerable state between decisions here.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Oh no! He’s luring her back! (Phantom-Hat) Come to me! (Raoul-Headpiece) Let her go, you bastard! (Phantom-Hat) Come on! Come to me! Decide for ME! (Raoul-Headpiece) He’s NOT your father, you loopy actress! No more crack for you!
2: (Christine-Hat) Oh! I choose (*eeny-meeny-miney-mo’s it*) You! Raoul de Shag-me!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) FUCK YEAH! In your FACE, Mask-Man! (Phantom-Hat) Oh. Oh nuts. Well. Screw you both! (*disappears*) (*re-appears*) (Exposition-Hat) THE PERFORMANCE OF THE PHANTOM’S OPERA (Phantom-Hat) (*In Character as Don Juan*) I’ll hide behind the curtain, with a mask on, and seduce my unsuspecting prey-love!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*In Character as Aminta*) Hmmmmm, no one is here! (*eats an apple*)
1: (Phantom-Hat IC) (*skulks out onto the stage from behind the curtain*) HEY!
2: (Christine-Hat IC) (*gasps and drops the apple*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) (*supposedly in character but eerily NOT*) You have subconsciously come here to ‘become one with me’! Which is a nice way of saying...let's get it on! (*grooves a la Marvin Gaye*)
2: (Christine-Hat) (*same as Phantom, character-wise*) True. That IS why I came here. Because I am a slutty ho. If you ask me to explain it though, well, what an awkward situation THAT would be. I mean, I’m just sitting in your room eating apples. If I were you, I’d kick me out, or scream, or wonder if this was some weird fetish or something.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Well, I’m just horny.
2: (Christine-Hat) Well okay.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Is there something going on onstage that is glaringly obvious to everyone but me? (Phantom-Hat) Stay with me forever.
2: (Christine-Hat) (*whispers*) I know you’re the Phantom.
1: (Phantom-Hat) I know that you know that I know I’m the Phantom.
2: (Christine-Hat) I don’t follow.
1: (Phantom-Hat) I am the Phantom!
2: (Christine-Hat) Oh. Right.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Take this ring and come with me!
2: (Christine-Hat) Yessssss! (*takes it*)
Alien: (*enters*) I’m an alien! (*exits*)
Author: I know this alien thing is pointless. It was written late at night and somehow has become an integral part of the show.
1: (Phantom-Hat) (*wraps his cloak around himself and coughs. Then takes Christine, wraps the cloak around them both, and throws both of them to the floor.*) Damnit, where is the fucking trapdoor? Johnny? Where the fuck is that fucktard Johnny?
Johnny: This is a low-budget production!
1: (Phantom-Hat) How low budget?
Johnny: 3 dollars. And 2.25 of that is paying for the hats, headpieces and Post-it notes for the set and the cast party.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Do we get paid?
Johnny: Um…only the alien.
Alien: (*offstage*) ROCK ON!
Johnny: And we have no trapdoor.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Oh. Oh right. (*slinks off side*) (*re-appears*) (Raoul-Headpiece) We have to find them! (Exposition-Hat) IN THE PHANTOM’S LAIR (Phantom-Hat) Damn you are such a bitch!
2: (Christine-Hat) Are you going to eat me?
1: (Phantom-Hat) Maybe. (*pause*) Maybe not.
2: (Christine-Hat) Are you happy?
1: (Phantom-Hat) (*smiles, claps, and capers gleefully*) VERY much so!
2: (Christine-Hat) Happy that you have killed so many?
1: (Phantom-Hat) Sure.
2: (Christine-Hat) How many?
1: (Phantom-Hat) None, actually.
2: (Christine-Hat) Oh. So you wouldn’t even kill for me?
1: (Phantom-Hat) No. Killing is wrong.
2: (Christine-Hat) That’s a bit rich coming from YOU.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Maybe so.
2: (Christine-Hat) Why won’t you kill anyone to get me?
1: (Phantom-Hat) BECAUSE YOUR LOVER HASN’T SHOWN UP YET!
2: (Christine-Hat) O_o …well I kinda walked into that one...
Anyway, you’ll never win my heart! I love the Vicomte de …(*impressively*) Shag-me!
1: (Phantom-Hat) Well sure. (*gropes and slobbers on her*)
2: (Christine-Hat) No! Fuckkity-fuck-shit! Get OFF me!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Unhand her, you cad! …wow…somehow that doesn’t sound nearly as hot and heroic as it does in books and movies. (Phantom-Hat) Such is the magic of the theatre in rendering things flat and dull. (Raoul-Headpiece) Fine then. Get yo’ hands offa my bitch, mothafucka!
2: (Christine-Hat) I hate you both.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Make your choice!
2: (Christine-Hat) How ‘bout a compromise?
1: (Phantom-Hat) How ‘bout a threesome?
2: (Christine-Hat) (*shrugs*) I’m cool with that.
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) Erm...
2: (Christine-Hat) Right on. I’ll go poison your wine, Phantom…I mean…get some cabbage.
1: (Phantom-Hat) WOOHOO!
2: (Christine-Hat) (*leaves*)
1: (Phantom-Hat) So..yeah…I’m getting some choice bootay tonight. (Raoul-Headpiece) It ain’t gonna be mine! (Phantom-Hat) Oh no! By ‘threesome’ I meant ‘I get the girl and you die’. (Raoul-Headpiece) Fuck.
2: (Christine-Hat) (*enters with wine*) Here you go!
1: (Phantom-Hat) Where’s the wine?
2: (Christine-Hat) Um…it’s cabbage wine.
1: (Phantom-Hat) Nice. (*quaffs, then kinda falls over) (Raoul-Headpiece) Christine, I…I can’t…
2: (Christine-Hat) Shhhh I’m poisoning him!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) (*grabs her by the neck*) WE SHARE A FUCKING BODY! Wot the bleedin’ ‘ell…
2: (Christine-Hat) When did you become British? This is the freakin- PARIS Opera, dumbass!
1: (Phantom-Hat) I’m dying!
2: (Christine-Hat) GOOD!
1: (Raoul-Headpiece) No, I’M dying!
2: (Christine-Hat) Shit! Fuck! Shit!
1: (Phantom-Hat/Raoul-Heapiece) (*dies*)
2: (Christine-Hat) (*after a pause*) …well…That’s ONE way of ending things tidily. Hey Johnny? What are you doing after the cast party?
Johnny: No plans.
2: (Christine-Hat) Wanna go grab some coffee?
Johnny: Uh…sure… (*They exit*)
1: (Phantom-Hat/Raoul-Headpiece) (*twitches*)

ACT TWO—FIN

Author’s Note: Ending is changed, so it’s more of a parody now than an actual two person version of tPotO. Actually, considering there’s really 4 characters I can’t even say it’s a to person version of it. Let’s just say it started out as a two person version of the PotO and evolved into…this. In the real show/movie, the Phantom is vanquished (but not killed) and Raoul and Christine run off together.

That's all for theatrical script efforts for now. Next: BOOBIES : The Musical!

Call the Betty Ford, Honey--Oscar's Been Hitting the Crack Rock Again

2005-01-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

Well the nominations are in and the reason the Oscars are gold and shiney is because pretty much everyone associated with them have popped one too many E tablets within the last year or so. Am I biased? Maybe. Prejudiced? Perhaps. Ignorant and Petty? Definitely. The only movies on the lists that I have seen are Shrek 2, The Passion of the Christ, and the Phantom of the Opera, my reasons being (respectively) it was out on rental (I'm cheap,) I was curious, and I was half-crazed with phandom. Wait! I also saw Spider-Man 2 on a bootleg DVD courtesy of my brother's friend Aaron. Phantom: Hell YES for Art Direction, Cinematography, and Song ('Learn to Be Lonely'.) The first two I can understand, but for the song, I can't help but wonder if the nomination would have been quite so accepted if the composer wasn't quite so well-known and respected. Yes ALW is a veteran of his craft and no doubt he's got the goods, and I love this song and he delivered splendidly on any and all promises made by his past works. But--if he had been a younger, not-so-well-known composer, with just as much genius and the same song, would it have been nominated? I can't answer my own question, which is why I'm posting it here. Most of the big-name movies nominated (Million Dollar Baby, Ray, The Aviator and so on) I haven't seen either because I'm broke or frankly I have no interest in them. I made the trip into town twice to see Phantom, payed too much money to sit in a cramped and weridly layed-out theatre and watch it. And I loved it. The movie was not at fault, I just happened to spend all my extra cash on Phantom and I don't feel like I missed out from the other movies out there, aside from a vague sense of inferiority because I don't know what I'm talking about when I talk about those serious-acting-drama artistic-type movies that people see then 'discuss' deeply in dimly lit coffeehouses where they also read poetry or talk about politics or philosophy or smoke cigarettes. And not to echo Cleolinda so much as go into more depth on the issue: Costumes Nominations. I haven't seen any of the movies specified under Best Costume Nominations, but I re-iterate: Why not POTO? Here's the rundown of what I think of the costumes in these movies based on the trailers I've seen on TV and not the actual movies:
The Aviator: Oh. My. Gosh. They dressed everyone in costumes based on the majority of what I can find in my Grandmother's closet or the stock wardrobe for Evita. Pilot uniforms are nonetheless uniforms, and here I give you--the recipe for 1930's-40's starlet fancy dresses: 1)Take colourful silk and satin slips, add a dash of feather boas and metallic beaded fringes sewn on at strategic points. 2) Crimp hair and set to simmer for 30 minutes, or until everyone looks pale, pinchy-faced and repressed. 3) Glimpses of bony sternums should occur once Leo has taken one of any number of random starlets up for a romantic ride in his aeroplane, and only after he has nearly let you both plunge to you deaths by letting you take the wheel while he goes back to make some martinis. 4) Set Auto-Pilot for 3000 ft in the air and have hot/sweaty/romantic/artistic/significant-to-the-story-how? sex in the back while the wheel is left mysteriously unattended.
Ray: Give Jamie Foxx a pair of sunglasses and set him loose. How high can your costume budget be? I know that amount of money spent doesn't equal quality of costumes, but how many different pairs of Ray Bans can you buy? (Didn't realize the "Ray" thing (pun?) until I'd typed it. And I'm leaving it in. Just because I think it's funny. I hope no blind people are reading this and take offense.)
Lemony Snicket: Every time I hear this title I mistake it for some kind of British sweet, perhaps a sour lemon drop hard candy type thing. Good Lord, they gave Jim Carrey a beard and a half-bald head and a coat and tails suit. Then they dressed him up as a sea capitan. How...Hallowe'en of you.
Finding Neverland: I keep on confusing this one with the Peter Pan movie from earlier in the year. Both fail to impress me costume-wise, at least from the commercials. Peter Pan--the mermaids were mostly CGI, otherwise that would have been some cool costuming shit. In Finding Neverland, all I can see is that they put Johnny Depp in a pinstrip suit, (which I CAN appreciate and therefore would nominate, but not seriously expect to win.)
And last but not least Troy: Oh Holy Hell. How do you nominate this movie for costumes of any kind? Give me scissors, a dozen sweaty, unwashed, bare-chested Brad and Orlando look-alikes and a truck full of potato sacks and I can recreate your 'costumes' for this movie. You might argue that "a lot of research went into the clothing of the time..." yes and I'm sure any eagle-eyed movie-goer would notice a mistake such as "Oh my goodness they draped his loincloth the wrong way! That's at least a decade too early in the Massive Timeline of Trojan Haute Couture! What a fashion faux pas! The Trojans are spinning in their graves!" Considering they had a brand of condoms and a virulent strain of computer viruses named after them, I don't pity the Trojans, or what they wear. They obviously have bigger things to worry about, such as screwing up hard-drives & preventing proper computer processes and screwing people & preventing babies, (babies could be called 'proper human processes if you consider the course of nature,) than how their potato-sacks are cinched around their waists or draped across their shoulders.
I think Phantom deserves at least a nomination, given the deep symbolism in some of the costumes as well as the utter grandeur and period detail of it all. The Straps of Inconsistancy, are, of course, in a league of their own. As is Carlotta (Minnie Driver)'s wig for Il Muto. And maybe they deserve a makeup nomination too, just because they besmirched Gerard Butler's good looks so much ON PURPOSE. Or maybe they deserve demerits for that...can't be too sure. Definite demerits for Patrick Wilson (Raoul)'s hair. I know for a fact that the "flipped" look for the ends of your hair didn't come into vogue until the 60's, and even then, it was primarily restricted to women.

Oscar-nominated movies, Trojans, blind people, (inadvertantly, I swear!) and (yet-again) Raoul's Hair---Good Things---> GUNNED DOWN!

*just realized blind people WON'T be reading this, because they CAN'T*
Phew.
Looks like I get off scot-free. :)
('Hm? What scot? Like the paper-towels?')

Reasons I Don't Go to the Local Cinema

2005-01-17T18:28:00.000-08:00

I live in a small town. I live 15 minutes OUTSIDE of a small town. A small town with ONE cinema, with 2 mediocre screens, exorbitant ticket prices, twitchy, underpaid staff and a really really sad turnout half the time. So. I go with my family to see a movie this past Christmas break, before my sister heads back East to go to school. We head out to see Meet the Fockers, which is a good enough movie in itself. But all the amazing/awful/creepy/memorable stuff happened before the movie even started. My parents insist on leaving 45 minutes before the show starts to make sure we get good seats. Thus we arrive half an hour before the movie even starts, and if they cleaned these theatres between shows (which they don't) then we might have surprised the groomers from the previous showing. It was the day after New Year's. I am the only one in my family not nursing some kind of hangover. So, we're all alone in the theatre, my brother, sister, mother and father-- but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me list my reasons for why I hate the local cinema, yet also why I keep returning.
Reason No. One: There's something you need to know about my Dad. He kind of gets a bang out of verbally belittling members of the entertainment services industry. Usually it's only a slightly
incompetent waitress who happens to have some bad karma coming her way who ends up bearing the brunt of my father's incomprehensible and undeniably slightly senile rage. But this time, it was the equally sharp-tongued-yet-patient ticket seller at the counter. My Dad was pissed because they couldn't take debit. The woman pointed out that 3 banks (all three banks in town, mind you,) were within easy walking distance if he wanted to withdraw the cash. Now since we have half an hour lying spare due to being unfashionably and neurotically early, the rest of my family is nodding fervently and nudging my dad to take a trip outside for ten minutes and go get some cash. Somehow, my dad found enough cash on him to buy all our tickets, but that wasn't enough. For some reason he hated using cash rather than debit. For some reason, after he had bought the tickets, and after their transaction was apparently at an end, he continued to berate the crap system while taking a reeeally long time to put his change back in his wallet. He actually physically lingered by the counter to prolong the confrontation. By now he's repeated his stance on the issue about 15 times, so he can't be trying to get his point across. No doubt it's firmly planted in the woman's mind and my entire family is now on their Wall of Shame or something. So my mom, sister, brother and myself are standing in the lobby, pretending we don't know our Dad, which is pretty harsh and impossible, given that we can't go into the theatre yet because Dad still has all our tickets in his fist and the lobby itself is probably roughly 10 x 10 feet (10 x 9 really, it's more oblong) and we're the ONLY OTHER PEOPLE THERE.
Reason No. Two: When other people eventually start filtering into the theatre, one of the first things I see is two couples. Both girls looked to be 15/16, and 18/19, and their male partners looked to be about 20-ish and 30, respectively. There was just something eerie about the whole setup. They weren't any girls I knew, and considering it's a fairly small town with one high school it was weird. Maybe they came through town in their trailer. Maybe they left the kids with the girl's mother who lives with them in the trailer so they could go out for a night of society and culture in the latest Ben Stiller flick. Maybe they're cousins. First cousins.
Reason No. Three: The woman who owns the cinema makes a speech at the beginning of every movie. I don't want to offend, but this woman could lay off the butter on her popcorn for the next few decades. She was wearing a violently green, thin silk blouse. And no bra. Heaving bosom. NIPPLES APPARENT!
Reason No. Four: The aforementioned 40/50-something Chunks Ahoy Harlot made us *clap* in appreciation of EACH and EVERY PREVIEW! I'll clap after I've SEEN the movie IN FULL and had a chance to make my own deductions of how good it is. 75% of the good parts in a movie are shown in the trailer, and yet the previews they showed sucked as a whole. Except for the POTO trailer (which they did NOT show but I have seen elsewhere.) That was like a crack-rock of pure joy. And the movie was like a 3-hour long orgasm. God, I get tingly thinking about it.
Reason No. Five: In response to my e-mail asking when they would be showing POTO, they gave me the world's vaguest response EVER. 'We don't know when...but sometime in the future we hope to...' Well, that's just fan-fuckin'-tastic. I might as well phone Miss Cleo and ask HER. At least I'd get to hear her accent and snicker. There's nothing funny about the woman at the cinema.
Reason No. Six: When I realized I was sitting in a dim theatre at the end of a row, neurotically scribbling into a notebook while glancing around me as if I feared arrest. I was simply observing. But I have not the gift of subtlty. My mother noticed and commented on it. God, I'm creepy. I'd hate to sit next to me at a bus stop. If I ever become a drug-addicted hobo I'll be absolutely insufferable.
Reason No. Seven: The following conversation before the movie started:
My Mother: *glancing at me rummaging through my purse* You brought a BOOK?
Me: *a little more lippy than I should have been* Correction. I brought TWO books.
My Sister: *laughs*
Me: I hate this family. *sulks*
My Brother: *something snide but forgettable.*
My Father: *sits at the other end, oblivious. Most likely still fixated on the ticket woman and wondering if he won or lost that battle.*

Reasons Why I continue to GO to the Cinema in spite of the above reasons.
Reason No. One: I am way too lazy to make the 1/2 hour journey into the main city ever time i want to see a movie on short notice.
Reason No. Two: However bad ticket prices may be here, they are 4 dollars more in the city.
Reason No. Three: Parking is hell in the city.
Reason No. Four: Amusing car games can be played on the way into the cinema. Namely: Hit The Senior Pedestrian Who Shouldn't Be Out On The Streets After Dark. We have a curfew for a reason people! So that the teens can come out after dark and frolic undisturbed!
Reason No. Five: half of my friends ARE the surly, underpaid employees.
Reason No. Six: for more money than is necessary, you can buy movie posters which help cover up a bad paint job on the walls in my room.
Reason No. Seven: they have a nicely laid out and not-too-confusing snack counter, where they don't try and foist the combos on you. I can buy my Fuzzy Peaches in peace and leave unscathed.
Seven for Seven.
So I'm no closer to closing my inner debate every time I go to see a movie.
But...
Random gripes:
The seniors in my town. They call the cops on you if you jump off the end of the pier to go swimming. They're constantly watching you from the windows of their stuffy condos, have hte cops on speed dial, and their fingers poised over the button. My Dad redeemed himself from the unfortunate ticket-episode by suggesting this: in his youth, when they wanted to piss off the waterfront senior residents, they'd build a driftwood raft, soak it in accelerant, set it alight, and shove it off into the middle of the water. This prompts the nosy seniors to report someone's boat is on fire and be made jackasses of.
I drove by someone's Christmas display the other day, and they had wooden home-made painted toy soldier lining their driveway, each about 4-5 feet high. This is fine. Except one of the soldiers was black. Charcoal black. Now before I get hatemail over this, I have no problems with black people. I love 'em. I'd only hate them if they were Swiss. No, my issue was this: it was an unnatural shade of black for skin. Also, there was only one of them. Why paint ONE black, among 11 other white ones? It shows you are trying to be racially fair, or you ran out of white paint or something. Either way you looks obnoxious. Race shouldn't matter to the point where we have to specifically single out any one race simply to say "look, we included them!" If you're going to have black soldiers as lawn decorations, make more than one. Have one side of the driveway black and the other side white. Or intersperse them so it doesn't look like they're having the Civil War. All it would take would be the white home owner standing in his driveway to upset the racial balance and convince people that the South had risen again.

Happy Thought: Do, Date or Dump (a variation of DINAO, albeit with more options and thus less torturous fun for the participants.) Pick a person, then decide among the three. Less mentally stimulating, but perhaps worth a try. I've only ever heard of this and never actually tried it.

The Local Cinema; Senior Citizens; and poorly-thought-out lawn decorations: in some people's opinions, they are Good Things-----> GUNNED DOWN!

Mr Rogers? Or the Pope?

2005-01-13T18:54:00.000-08:00

So if you've never heard of a little game called Death Is Not An Option, please click here and read that whole article. The premise is that player 1 picks 2 people and player 2 has to pick which one they'd sleep with. Death is NOT an option and use of the Coma Card is illegal!

This round took place in History today. Originally on topic, eventually not. Read at your own discretion.

Em - Gorbachev or Yeltsin?
Jackie – Gorbachev. Tito? Or Castro?
Em – Castro. Mmmmm Cuban. Phantom of the Opera time! Andre or Fermin?
Jackie – Raoul or Carlotta’s Lover?
Em – Raoul.
Jackie – Ew. And ew.
Em –Buquet the drunken stagehand? or Reyer the conductor?
Jackie – Buquet. He’d pass out before long. Innkeeper from Les Miserables? Or Buquet?
Em –Buquet.
Jackie – We likes the drunkie stagehands.
Em –Giving up: coffee or vodka?
Jackie – Gah! You! Evil!
Em –Bwah!
Jackie – coffee. *shoots self*
Em – Hee
Jackie – Giving up: Phantom of the Opeara or Bollywood?
Em –Eep! Bollywood I guess. Oooh imagine if Bollywood did Phantom.
Jackie – Hee hee. Phantom? Or breathing?
Em – In an alternate universe where I can live without breathing, breathing. Even now, breathing.
Jackie – Sad.
Em –The skeevy guy from Breakfast Club or the blonde nerdy guy
Jackie – Ew ew death!
Em –NOT AN OPTION
Jackie – Blonde nerdy guy. [Boy 1 sitting near us] or [boy 2 sitting near us]?
Em – * begins fashioning a noose out of shoe laces*
Jackie – I wouldn’t do that to you. No more people we know.
Em –Deal. Living forever in Switzerland? Or Saudi Arabia?
Jackie – Switz. You know I made my friend pick between teachers once. *evil giggle*
Em –William Holden or Cary Grant?
Jackie – Grant. Willem Dafoe or Danny Devito?
Em –Danny Devito!
Jackie – Ew. Give up sweet foods? Or salty ones?
Em –Sweet. Judas? Or that guy possessed with the pigs?
Jackie – Who was he? Wait, I don’t wanna know. Judas. I like the bad boys.
Em – That murdered Jesus? You ARE a bad Catholic. Sumo wrestler? Or David Suzuki?
Jackie – Sumo wrestler! Suzuki would keep running scientific commentary. And might be into roll play…
Em –Ew.
Jackie – Mr. Dressup? Or Mr. Rogers?
Em – Dressup
Jackie – Mr Rogers? Or George Bush Sr?
Em –Bush. Marilyn Monroe? Or Katherine Hepburn?
Jackie – Monroe. Hepburn’s too manly for me. And I’m straight. I dunno
Em –Right. Agreed.
Jackie – George W Bush? Or Mr. Rogers?
Em –What is with the Rogers thing? G.W.
Jackie – Ew! Michael Moore or Mr Rogers? DEATH IS NOT AN OPTION! Hee!
Em – Michael Moore.
Jackie – You have a fear of sweaters don’t you?
Em – Mr. Rogers? Or Kermit the frog?
Jackie – Kermit. Mr. Rogers or the Pope?
Em –Pope! Just because you know it would be cool to say you DID! It’s the freakin’ Pope! Talk about a challenge!
Jackie – He’s 1000!
Em –Blog this!
Jackie – Hell yes. David Hasselhoff? Or David Spade?
Em –David Spade. Adolf Hitler or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
Jackie – Adolf. See reasons for Pope.
Em – Ru Paul or Dame Edna? OJ Simpson or Ashlee Simpson? Peter Jackson or Michael Jackson?
Jackie – Edna, OJ and Peter. And Ewww! Ashlee Simpson!
Em – Her nose
Jackie – No more must be said. Michael Caine or Sean Connery?
Em – Caine! Wait, Peter Jackson?
Jackie - You'd pick Michael?
Em - On one hand, you've got someone wanting you to be six. on the other.... "My preacious."
Jackie - I'm gonna go eat my burrito.
Em - There's a raging burrito in his PANTS!
Jackie - oh dear god.
Em - Precious!

*cue Lunch*

But, I understand? Is that hundredth repetition really necessary?

2005-01-11T22:04:00.000-08:00

Wow does the Education system every get me upset.

No, I'm serious. I'm currently drinking some kind of relaxation tea, so I figure I won't get too worked up and that's a good thing. Let me just have my one little caps fit.

THE EDUCATION SYSTEM IS AN UTTER AND COMPLETE FAILURE.

*exhale*. Thank you. First of all, can we lynch whomever came up with the idea of self esteem? Yes, ok, I know, loving yourself is important. I'm all about potential, different learning styles and people that learn slowly.

I'm ok with that.

What's not ok is making kids think they're normal when they're failing. I'm also not ok with bright (or even average) children stagnating in a classroom while the dimmer bulbs struggle with something. That whole "never leave a man behind" thing? Didn't even work for G.I. Joe. See how he's fallen off the map? It doesn't work for education either. Let gifted kids excel, give help to kids that have problems learning in a normal format, DO NOT PUT THEM ALL TOGETHER AND HOPE IT WORKS!

I'm in highschool and you know what? I don't appreciate all the time I waste in a poorly-ventilated, oddly climated building. It makes me sick (both figuratively and in the literal "inhaling the germs of 800 others way). I will zone out for an hour and miss NOTHING. I will giggle about my teacher in a beret (props Em) and not miss anything (that said, his class rocks. It's one where I do very little stagnating).

STREAM THE EDUCATION SYSTEM! In ten years, it won't matter if the "dumb kids" were getting picked on because they were in a "dumb kids class". What will matter is that they got the special attention they needed, recognized their shortcomings and remedied them. In a normal classroom, they feel stupid because they don't "get" stuff. And the teachers are trying to keep everyone attentive and thus NO ONE LEARNS. Except the teachers pets. And damn you to hell anyway.

We need a Machiavellian education Minister and we need him/her NOW! Enough of this self-esteem, all together, cooperation bullshit. ENOUGH!

Oh, and do you need an example that kids are not learning? Go read some e-mails or chat logs. I've seen teachers actually ACCEPT "ur" and "y" on test papers. That's right. Because our underpaid teachers are wimps and won't fail kids. Yeah, nice work teachers.

Self esteem, teachers, and a fair education system ---> Good things: GUNNED DOWN.

Gays and Dolls...

2005-01-11T21:46:00.000-08:00

The website that started it all:
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/nyc/51526837.html

Jackie:
Look at this!
Em:
O_o
Jackie:
I was like "the hell?"
Em:
Heehe Nazi kitten
Jackie:
I know!
*Then*
Jackie:
Ow random chest pain
Em:
Haha wouldn't it be so gross if boobs grew all at once. Just "Ow--DAMN!" then *pop**shplunk!*thhhhbbptt* 'Wow...I have knockers..."...But then you wouldn't know the difference between puberty and a heart attack
Jackie:
Thhhhhhbbptt?
Em:
Like when you let go of a balloon and it flies around the room
*pause*
Em:
Oh God I just realized how little sense that made
Jackie:
Yeah...
Em: *face/palm*
Well...that was an EXCEPTIONALLY bad moment in the history of me.
Em: *changes the subject*
But still...NAZI dolls...and he has 5-6 GAY doll sets?
Jackie:
Haha I know

How do you TELL if a doll is gay? Is it just...EVIDENT, in the case of the Ken doll with their white briefs painted onto their exceptionally molded plastic butts? (Hey, I always liked Ken's butt ~Jackie) Or is it something you ASSIGN to them, like when you take your Skipper doll and say "Okay, Skipper is now named Raven, we will dye her clothing and hair black, and paint her with eyeliner until she looks suitably goth, and then she will write poetry about death and the dark side of the moon and others who live in celestial orbs just as dark as she is..." How would you do that to a Nazi doll? Name them Nigel and have him invite Jerome into his Nazi tent for tea and a game of skat? Or hot raunchy buttsex? Do we make Nigel speak with a German accent? 'Ja, Dahlink! Vee loves de colour few-jah (fushia)! Vee suggested it for de death camp uniforms, but der Fuhrer, he said NEIN!" Do they play Madonna, Barbara Streisand and Bette Midler records in German? Do they wear tight leather pants and go to European disco dance clubs to pick up hot Aryan men?
Since when do these gay Nazi dolls have a better social life than I do?

Okay, just to re-cap: Puberty, heart attacks, Nazi dolls, people who collect said dolls, the social lives and details of these dolls, basically everything German/European>>>GUNNED DOWN!

My Apologies to the Swiss: You're Just So...Evil

2005-01-01T14:00:00.000-08:00

My world is shattered. Or was, rather, last night, just before midnight, when I was offered an alcoholic drink, took a sip of someone else's, and then...refused. Politely of course, (I'm Canadian for crying out loud,) but the fact remains that I refused liquor. On what basis, you might ask? The fact that I will not be legally allowed to consume alcohol for just over a year? (A couple of months in Alberta.) No. I have no qualms about social drinking so long as I don't over do it. Perhaps I'd already drunk so much that my eyeballs were floating? No. The reason, dear people, is that I've decided, much against my better judgement, that I dislike the taste of alcohol. Yeah I screamed in horror too as I came the that realization. I have no idea what's wrong with me. I'd like to drink...I'd like to enjoy it at least, but it's beyond me at this point. My sister (older and therefore wiser?) said that once you reach a certain point in your 20's, you prefer beer aboveall other things. God I hope this is true. It's okay for me to not like alcohol now, but once I hit legal drinking age, socially, I'm doomed. Will I have to be resigned to a life of "No thank you, I'm driving," or "I'll just have a cranberry juice/ginger ale/water w/ a wedge of lemon."? I do not like being around drunk people unless I can be drunk as well. That's not to say I've ever been drunk, given my aforementioned taste preferences, I'd find it difficult to down enough liquor to get to that point. Simply, I don't like being around peopl who have things I want and can't have. Envy is a sin, I know, but I don't envy material goods, I envy abilities and skills. In this case, the ability to enjoy alcohol. It's like instant heartburn or indegestion for me. Apparently the burning, searing pain tearing it's way through your vitals and making a beeline for your bladder is a pleasant sensation to most people. I even went so far as to try mixing a tablespoon of Baja Rosa with about 2 cups of milk and ice cubes trying to make it bearable, and it almost was (lovely strawberries and cream flavour) but then I made the mistake of thinking about tequila and wondering if there was a worm of some kind in the bottle and then I nearly threw up. It must be said however that I drank 3/4 of that glassful and I'm proud of the fact. Even though it was probably only 25% actually Baja Rosa at that point. This whole drinking issue makes me so sad I could cry. I will not be able to enjoy the holiday season or any other social occasion where liquor flows like water, simply because I have this thing called a gag reflex. Alcohol is great. A lovely thing. In the words of Ben Franklin "beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." My inablity to consume said beer or any other alcohol for that matter is what I like to call "proof that Satan hates me and wants me to be miserable." What I need is a smooth-drinking cool kind of liquor. Actually I'm okay with Dubonnet. It's not too bad, and it doesn't burn as much as everything else I've tried, (read: Communion wine, rye and Baja Rosa,) but sadly you pay 6 bucks or similar for something akin to a shot glass in size. Thus I need to find a cheaper way to get drunk.

Or perhaps I should look into joining a convent. Ohhh there's an idea. Talk about dropping me behind enemy lines. I'm not Roman Catholic, in fact I'm Anglican, which is about the biggest slap in the face possible for Roman Catholicism. Basically a religious denomination formed on the basis of a randy British King declaring he wanted a legal harem, so he broke with the Roman Catholic Church and made his own Church, by which he was both King and Pope, yet it was (and is) still referred to as a part of "the Holy Catholic Church" (according to the Apostle's Creed.) So it's like this: say you have an Italian restaurant, Luigi's. Luigi, the owner, says to the cook, Mario: "you cannot-a make-a ze spaghetti sauce-a with-a ze fettuchini noodles! Only spaghetti noodles with-a ze spaghettie sauce-a!" Mario is a little bit disgruntled, because he really really really wants to try the same sauce on the fettuchini noodles. So, Mario quits his job, buys the property next to the same restaurant, and opens his own restaurant, with pretty much the same menu, only a different name, (Mario's,) and (here's the kicker) he serves spaghetti sauce on whatever kind of pasta he damn well pleases! Luigi is shocked and horrified when he sees his sacred spaghetti sauce served over first fettuchini, then bow-tie pasta, then *gasp* ravioli! So the two restaurant owners live side by side but never talk to each other, one thinking he has made a kick-ass upgrade from stodgy old Luigi's regime, the other thinking that Mario and all the patrons of his restaurant are damend to Hell for all eternity for mucking up the covenant of pasta/sauce combinations. This is basically what happened with Henry the 8th's split from the Roman Catholic Church. And here I stand today, wondering if I ought to join a Roman Catholic convent and wondering if they'd even let me in. The nuns would probably curbstomp me, given the chance. Not like the cool nuns from the Sound of Music who take apart the Nazi's car so they can't chase the Von Trapp brats across the border. I'd like to know how they learned to do that. Is there some kind of auto-shop class being taught in Austrian convents since at least the late 1930's that I'm unaware of? I'd also like to know why the Von Trapps went to Switzerland of all places. They'd return to Austria in 15 years and be unable to do more than eat chocolate, make watches and army knives and fiddle with allen keys while trying to put together furniture. And why, if they're all Austrian, do the Von Trapps and most of their friends have American/Canadian/British accents? Julie, this isn't Darling Lili. You're not a German pretending to be British. You're a Brit pretending to be Austrian and failing utterly. Funny enough, only the bad guys have accents (read: Germans.) And even so, Rolf, who turns out to be the spawn of Satan, has an American accent. You half expect the Aryan Rolf to show up, re-named Ralph, wearing 50's style swim shorts, hugging a surfboard and shouting "Radical, dude!" while sporting a longer, sunbleached Californian hairstyle along with a sun-kissed tan. Liesle (Americanized as Leslie) will end up a chain-smoking housewife, married to Rolf, with two perfect children, only a 50's version of Desperate Housewives. While Rolf is away at work (generic "businessman"--Mafia much?) she goes on a bender and beats the kids. June Cleaver...with a meat cleaver. And pearls. So then she wipes the blood off the pearls and meets her hubby at the door looking daisy-fresh. "Where are the kids?" "Taking a nap." The Eternal Nap, that is. Then Ralph gets it in the back of the skull with a frying pan. Leslie takes all the cash from beneath the mattress and runs away...to Switzerland.

Alcohol, religion, and the Sound of Music: Good Things-->GUNNED DOWN!

My point? Switzerland is the source of all evil. Everything the Swiss touch they turn to crap. Evil crap.

England and Holland: A Death Struggle?

2004-12-30T15:34:00.000-08:00

Okay. Here's the deal. I just wasted the better portion of my day in or travelling between here and the branch office of the Netherland's citizenship office. We all got there, early this morning, and with all our documents, and are then informed, (contrary to the letter we'd received,) that my brother and I did not, in fact, have to be present at the time for verification of our identities. THAT happens after the forms are sent to the central office in T.O. to be verified, stamped or made into origami, whatever the hell they do with their time there, and sent back to the branch office. This is not the fault of Canada. It is (sadly) the fault of the Dutch inner workings of their government, as well as the fault of my Dad's company for forcing him to relinquish his citizenship years ago so he could get a job with them, but that's all water under the bridge I suppose. I'm not angry at my countrymen (Dutchies,) I'm just....disappointed. But I read a bunch of pamphlets while I was waiting and now know lots of interesting facts about the Netherlands regarding working visas for au pairs, drug policies, and the entire history of the Dutch Royal Family. Apparently cannabis is legal to be used but illegal to be in possession of. This point always confused me. How can you smoke it or otherwise consume it without possessing it? Do you set it in front of you an a table, and without touching it, lean close in and inhale deeply? If it's in your hand, it's your possession. Unless you stole it. But seeing as you're probably already in deep shit for possessing the said MJ, you might not wanna try and get yourself off the hook by professing to have stolen it. There were no pamphlets regarding the red light district, which, along with the drugs, is one of the two main reasons most people visit Holland today. Why include the drugs in the scope of tourist information and paraphanalia if you're not going to offer them paid-for sex as well? I wonder if it's included on the menu for hotel room service.
"Our Soup of the Day is clam chowder. Today's Specials include the Eggs Florentine, the clubhouse sandwich, the steak Oscar, and a lovely Australian dame known as Shelia Blydge! Dial the front desk to order."
Honestly I think I once saw a travel program where they had what I can only describe as a sex "vending machine." Think of little rooms, with one wall made of glass, stacked on top of each other. Like pigeon holes or mail-boxes at offices. In each room, a different woman, dancing around in skimpy clothing, with a number displayed at the bottom of the window or something, You dial up the number of the girl you want and you get her ASAP. Kinda sick, but fascinating. A vending machine for human flesh. (And you thought you'd seen it all when Disney came out with a cartoon entitled The Story of Menstruation.) No joke. http://www.snopes.com/disney/films/menses.htm
Well, in the past, Holland has given me much to be proud of. Prostitutes and liberal drug policies aside, I've always admired their sharp intellect as a nation, their refusal to back down internationally, even though lots of other countries around (read: Germany) could easily annex them within a month. Their spirit, vivacity, and undying support of their monarchs gives the Dutch a history to be proud of and a future to look forward to. Their Royal family show's England's Royal Family how it's done! (Disturbing thought: I have fairly equal portions of English and Dutch blood in my family. Inner battle, much?)
Holland: I am ashamed of your poor written communication skills which involved me wasting my day in a smoggy fartbag of a city. Call me a traitor, but I find droppies (dropjes?) appallingly bad and I cannot tolerate any kind of black licorace. And I'm not too crazy about tulips, either.
England: Your Royal Family is ridi-damn-diculous. You have extraordinarily bad teeth as a nation, Prince Charles has the ears of an oragutan, and the majority of the populace have faces akin to those of most equine animals.
Not sure who wins this one but...
Trixie--you go, girl! Show Lizzie how it's done!
(I know I know I just totally insulted the chick who's visage graces our currency. But she never spent nigh unto 11 hours making a journey that turned out to be all for naught.)

I almost wish I was a napping kind of person. *yawns* Too awake to sleep, too tired to do anything more than go watch Mean Girls again.

Ten After Six in the MORNING?

2004-12-29T19:37:00.000-08:00

Hell's bells. Just found out I have to leave my house at 6:10 am tomorrow morning. Which means any and all AtP updates/homework/anything will be delayed indefinitely until I get home. Which should be mid-afternoon. I have to go to some kind of embassy/office to get my Dutch passport, or to at least qualify for said passport/citizenship. Blergh. What kind of
bureaucratic office only operates between 9 am and 12:15 pm Monday to Friday except on Wednesdays? Oh, that's right, A GOVERNMENT-FUNDED ONE!!! What I wouldn't give for a cushy job like that. Usually I'm a morning person, but in this case I can make an exception, seeing that I don't count it as being morning unless there is some kind of natural LIGHT visible. I don't know about where you live, but during the winter, (yes even this close to the Artic Circle,) 'mornings' around 6 am tend to be black as the proverbial abyss. Now, if I lived here:
http://www.kkbedbath.com/sunrise.jpg
...seeing the sunrise might not be so bad.
However.
Seeing as it is often grey, cold, and cloudy where I live, and vegetation consists mostly of scrubby evergreens with cones and needles, the likelyhood of me standing on a sandy beach listening to whispering palms and watching the sun rise over the already warm ocean with it's gentle waves is slim to none. Beaches are rocky, windswept, and wave action could kill you in some places. Greenery grows no where near the water's edge, and salt leaching in the soil will kill any hardy plant that dares try and eke out a living along the shoreline.
Simply put:
I wish I was in Hawaii.
And that government would stop putting up so much damn red tape just because I wanna be legally Dutch; thus forcing me to get up an an unGodly hour to traverse a great area to get to their tiny office that's inconveiniently located and who's operating hours are only good for those who have nothing else to do with their mornings.
Can't wait 'till I get to vote in the next provincial election.
Shut UP, Liberals. I'm not French-Canadian, nor of any visible minority, (sadly. I wish I were EI;) and I will most likely end up working hard to make my living in the future. Thus I will not benefit from voting for you, given than you only cater to the whining non-taxpayers. Squeaky wheel may get the grease, but this hard-working, 'normal' wheel is gunna fly right off the axis when you least expect it!

Excuse me, is this your spawn in my crab bisque?

2004-12-29T17:59:00.000-08:00

Jackie: You know what bothers me? Kids in restaurants.
Em: yeah
Jackie: I went out to lunch yesterday
Em: ohhh bad.
Jackie: EXPENSIVE lunch.
Em: ohhh even worse.
Jackie: *twitchy glare* All I wanted was a nice, overpriced chicken sandwich with tomato and pesto soup! I did NOT just pay $35 for THIS
Em: *pops a blood vessel*
Jackie: did you know that the price of the average main dish is EXACTLY correlated with the number of screaming children in the restaurant? Drink prices go up with the number of apparently deaf and blind parents.
Em: awwww muffin
Jackie: honestly. I just kinda held my elbow out and hoped one of them would run into it. Does that make me a bad person?
Em: No. More a caring person. You want them to grow up and be productive members of society, respectful of their surroundings and their elders. Rather than the hooligans they seems to be well on their way towards being. YOU are all that's standing between them winning a Nobel Peace Prize or lifting their heads out of a puddle of their own drool/alcohol/vomit/urine ten years from now.
Jackie: But something must be done. So, how the hell does one go about talking to the parents ? I tried once and they told me that I was a kid once and people tolerated me. Rather than inform her that I actually sprung from the womb this size, I said that my parents kept me in check or kept me at home.
Em: yeah
Jackie: she glared. And it’s not too tough!
McDonalds = kids restaurant
Overpriced Italian place on the waterfront= NONE OF THE UNDER EIGHT SET!!
Em: I'm reminded of a Calvin and Hobbes comic where Calvin’s uncle finds Calvin going through his luggage looking for a present. He then quips: "Did Mommy and Daddy raise you by themselves, or did they just untie you for my visit?"
Jackie: When I'm old and rich, I'm going to open a restaurant for adults. no one under 18!
Em: heehee
Jackie: wait, I'm not 18 yet.
Jackie: To be safe, no one under fifteen!! Even though I'm older than that....
Em: I think some restaurants already do that
Jackie: really? Well mine will be better.
Em: yeah some really fancy ones have an age limit. Like pubs. They don't let in kiddies except in Britain. They're cool about it there
Jackie: that's cause they only serve booze
Em: And British kids can behave. Thank you British Nannies!
Jackie: So to summarize: Never eat at restaurants. The end.

We Be Hataz, Yo!

2004-12-29T16:41:00.000-08:00

Over a period of weeks, I have constructed this flow-chart of the Jackie/Em thought-process in a sort of stream-of-conciousness list. Only less abstract--just barely less abstract.)
Jackie: I'm bored. And afraid of the flames!
Em: Afraid of the flames? I'm afraid of staple guns. And pretty much any small objects flying at my face.
Jackie: No. Afraid of the flames I'll burst into the second I walk into a church. I haven't been in a year. The Big Guy frowns on that, doesn't he?
Em: (In all her Anglican/Episcopalian wisdom) Ahhh I've never seen that happen before. The flames that is. And I've met with a lot of C&E's in my life
Jackie: c&e?
Em: christmas and easter 's. Organized religion's answer to those who come but twice a year to save their morally bereft souls
Jackie: we called them: "Twice a Years"
Em: Yeah. But you know the people I mean
Jackie: mmmmhm
Em: usually they're just annoying
Jackie: The reason Christmas sermons aren't enjoyable
Em: Yeah. It'd be so much nicer if they just didn't bother J
ackie: the kids of the devout Christians
Em: There’d be room left for the old people who come regularly
Jackie: mmmhm
Em: Unlike the young families with 6 brats who don't know how to behave in public, much less church, who arrive an hour too early and save seats for their entire extended family by draping their coats and diaper bags over every pew in the first 5 rows, as well as all the choir seats. The old people are relegated to fold-out seats in the middle of the centre aisle at the back of the church.

Jackie: Yup. I hate those people Em: And the kids are dressed "for church" but they look positively ill, with the girls inevitably wearing some kind of festive headband or scrunchie from the 80's, the boys in mini suits, and the girls in some ugly ass crushed velvet dress and white tights and black shoes with gaudy leather bows
Jackie: Christmas-Hate: When EVERYONE thinks they can release a Christmas CD. No, you can't.
Em: *shudders* now I can't get the idea of Mariah Carey out of my head with the Christmas CD crap. Is she dead yet?
Jackie: Ummm nope.
Em: damn. Hope for a Christmas miracle of some sort, then.
Jackie: we need death pools this year
Em: Indeed we do. But now that Hope is gone there seems little point in trying to match one with the Pope
Jackie: oh no, hope still here
Em: Bob burns eternal?
Em: Damn I'm cold. Hey there's another thing I hate about Christmas: We never get a white one, and yet, we freeze our asses off.
Jackie: Bribing children to support the homeless. What the hell kind of values are these? "Bring in food to help starving kids, and you'll get a pizza party!" Screw you pizza party and your capitalist ways!
Em: and it's not "GREEN" where the hell is it ever GREEN in December? After the scorching heat of August, everything turns brown! It's a BROWN Christmas. Oh geez, the can drives. Hate for the can drives.
Jackie: And our school’s sad turnout.
Em: *snickers* yeah. We suck.
Jackie: One class in {rival school} had 600 cans. BY ITSELF.
Em:…Holy Shit {Rival School}!!!
Jackie: Yeah. ONE CLASS
Em: We need to give them condoms or something. They've obviously run out of ways to amuse themselves.
Jackie: hee hee
Em: Wait...did I just imply that our school is slutty and could care less about academic pursuits? ...and supporting the homeless in the Christmas season??? *balks* I'm a bad Anglican.
Jackie: Nah. Just a realist
Em: Tithing just got shot to hell. A realist? Damnit, my career as a fiction writer is over, then. Curse you, Christmas! You ruined my shot at the big-time with your inexorable taunting and provocation of my cynicism! Cuuuuuurse Yoouuuuuuuu!
Jackie: hee hee. You know what else I hate?
Em: What?
Jackie: the evil personification of fruit cake.I LIKE fruit cake, when made well. Some people have never even had it but "know" it's evil. My mom makes a killer fruitcake
Em: GAH! *twitch* I just hate candied fruit period. Hot cross buns, I just can't eat. Candied orange peel is the closest I think I ever got to liking dried, sugary hard tarry bits of fruit that have unnatural colours and consistencies and stick to your teeth for hours. Baby Jesus is cool, though. I'll bet HE hated candied fruit too. Your mom is nice.
Jackie: how do you know my mom?
Em: I met her at the Christmas fair, remember? And the rest of the brood…

Em: (days later, we somehow get on the topic of hairstyles) What if you got a bob hair cut?
Jackie:I hate bobs.
Em: Yeah no one really looks good in a bob. That’s why I hate pictures of people from the 1920’s. And a large portion of the Chinese population. *pause* Not that I hate the Chinese people. Just their choice of the same hairstyle for everyone. It never works on anyone. No one looks good with a bob. I love veggie eggrolls and plum sauce. China – I love you!
Jackie: Smile’s back.
Em: Are you smiling at my accidental offending of the Chinese people due to my lack of political correctness and lapse in sentence structure that turned out sounding like a really bad racial comment?
Jackie: Yup.
Em: I really don’t hate anyone…*open mouth, insert foot* Wow this is really far off the topic of Christmas and what we hate about it. More of a plain list of Things We Hate.
Jackie: I have no problem with that.

Welcome!

2004-12-29T16:32:00.000-08:00

Welcome. Please enjoy your stay! Hopefully you find us half as amusing as we find ourselves. Feel free to comment on our disgusting prejudices. They aren't real.

Pre-emptive apologies to:

Anyone of European descent
All Russians in AA
The Dutch
The British
Blind people
Children (but these are minor apologies. I don't like most children).
Anyone of Asian descent
Vegetarians (you have awesome food, but you make yourselves easy targets)
ALL Historians.
Famous historical figure we are going to cause to roll in their graves.
PETA (props for the hard work, but calm down. Sheep don't mind being sheared!)

Cheers!