Diamonds are Forever


Ewww. I just returned from 12 days in Yellowknife, a place where generally, there are no crowds, and you aren't forced to slalom through 25 senior citizens just to cross the street. I am having trouble re-adjusting to the simple task of walking in Toronto. It is gross. I have a foot injury, so while I may appear dexterous, it is actually quite difficult for me to move out of the way of speeding wheelchairs.

This morning I was in a pissy, hungry mood so I took a stroll to the grocery store down the street. Upon entering, I immediately became even angrier over having to actually make a decision in that irritable state. I have since diagnosed myself with "IBS", or Irritable Brain Syndrome. I decided that, instead of carefully choosing food items with which to plan a nutritious meal, I would grab my top 3 favourite food items: Green Energy Smoothie Drink, Crispy Mini's - sour cream 'n chive flavoured, and turkey bacon. I was happy, for a moment, until I reached the checkout counter.

There are 3 cash registers in the local grocery store. Today there were only 2 cashiers. There were 10 people ahead of me in line. In fact, the line up was so long I was actually still standing in the deli section, where I found my turkey bacon.

Still in the pissiest mood ever, I decided to eavesdrop. The woman ahead of me was talking to the man in front of her. Or rather, he was talking AT her, in the most wonderful Dutch accent. He was babbling about "old life" when there were no cars, or something like that. I wasn't really listening at this point.

Finally, a third cashier came out, and the line began moving. Goldmember and I reached our cashiers at the same time. He asked, "How are you doing today?" She replied, "Okay." He said, "Why are you not doing wonderful?"

She replied, without a hint of sarcasm or irony, "I would be wonderful if a stream of tiny diamonds were flowing over my body."

He replied, "Well, now we all have something to dream about."

Now, I don't have a problem with "positive people" per se, but I do have a problem with happy diamond lady. She is one of those people who says, "Have a beautiful day!" She says it really slowly while handing back your change, while looking you in the eye, to let you know she really means it. Okay, it might be wonderful to maybe OWN a diamond, so that you could wear it or just look at it once in awhile. But a DIAMOND SHOWER? I don't understand. I think I need to investigate Diamond Lady. I am going to start a mini-conversation the next time I am in there, and attempt to extract as much cheesy, uber-positive rhetoric as is humanly possible in a 5 minute visit.

I may need disguises for this one....

I am going to Vegas in 1.5 days. This is very exciting. I get to actually go somewhere with my 3 hot girlfriends, who are all equally lovely on their insides as well.

We are going to see "Zumanity", the "sensual side of Cirque du Soleil". I hope I am not embarrassed if there are gyrations or nudity, because at this point, I am uncomfortable just thinking about it. I don't think I could see the show with my boyfriend, or any member of my family. Even writing the words "member" and "family" in the same sentence makes me uncomfortable. I suppose all that will be worked out soon in therapy.

But I am excited to see dancing and ropes and all the cirquey stuff... it is really quite amazing, when you think about it. Imagine being a dancer in one of these Cirque performances... "No, I can't go out tonight. I have to go to dance practice now. I am going to be suspended on a 100 foot rope by my right foot, and then dropped into a giant wooden wheel where I will run like a hamster into a pool of orange sparkly water." See, no boring "work convos" when you are a Cirque performer. None.

Right now, I have the movie "Pulse" playing in the background. The main character is played by one of my favorite 20-something actresses, Kristen Bell.

I am afraid I have disappointing news: It is SO bad, that I have stopped turning around to view the TV screen. In fact, I am actually afraid to walk near it. There is a small possibility that I will be forced into a twilight-zone-type entertainment vortex where every time I sit down in a movie theatre, expecting to see the latest Eddie Murphy character, I see Kristen Bell in "Pulse." And it just happens, over and over. And then I ponder suicide, since death appears much more palatable than an eternity of viewing Kristen Bell in crappy dark eyeliner and greasy skin.

Hello;

The Flight of the Conchords

I love them!


here

Michael Kuss looks like a freaky hockey coach. A freaky hockey coach for a pee-wee aged girls team. Seriously, who needs to be that excited about the weather? I am confused every time I see him.

So I am addicted to America's Next Top Model cycle 8. I love how they call them cycles -- ironic, isn't it? A cycle is a continuous loop, with waste products (old ugly models) and nutrients coming in (new young blood). There is no career or longevity involved here. They promise a photoshoot with Seventeen magazine - a photoshoot that noone will see and that everyone has already forgotten about 10 minutes ago.

Update -- Jaslene won ANTM cycle 8. My favourite girl, Natasha the Russian girl, lost. I think they used a neck-shortener on her during the final moments of the show. I will look into it.

My Day that Sucked

by Ben

I am off this week for March break. Decided to do a few errands, a few of which required going to Staples, which required driving. I don't know about you, but I have safely been driving in Toronto for the past 4.5 years, without incident. Today was, without question, the worst driving day I've ever experienced.

I was nearly sideswiped by an old man who turned left, without looking. He just blindly drove into oncoming traffic. I had to slam on the brakes, and my purse flew against the windshield, spewing my incidentals everywhere.

I wonder what he was thinking, as he pulled in front of my car. "I'm just gonna go. Carl's gotta turn left. Carl's gotta go! Death don't mean shit to Carl! I'll die if I have to! Die!"

Or maybe he just took a huge shit in his Depends, so his judgement was off.

The rest of my journey provided me with multiple examples of driving school 'don'ts'. Did ANYONE watch 'license to drive'? If Corey Haim can pretend to drive safely, all fucked up on drugs, then why can't the average person in Toronto actually drive without incident? Okay, that argument was weak. But when YOU fall asleep at the wheel and sit there when the precious left hand arrow appears, don't give ME the finger for your failure.

I then went to the video store. I rented something, everything was fine, until the see you en tee behind the counter decided to re-charge me the late balance on my account that I had paid on Tuesday. I looked her in the eye and said "I came in Tuesday, and YOU helped me, and I'm all paid up, and that's the end of this fucking story."

Okay, I didn't say Fucking because I was at the FILM BUFF on Roncesvalles and was therefore surrounded by 300,000 children, so I kept my language clean. But seriously, now I'm paranoid that this has happened before, unbeknownst to me.

And now my oven doesn't work! Thanks alot God.

Has anyone seen Zanta? I saw him once at Ossington station. It was pretty cool. He didn't do any push-ups, he just yelled, "oh yeah oh yeah" like Macho Man Randy Savage. I am glad he's getting more press as of late, since I find it really difficult to describe Zanta to those who've not experienced him.

Musak Mayham

What do you call a creepy polish person who owns a pharmacy? No really, tell me, this isn't a joke. Last night the pharmacy below my apartment forgot to turn their music off. It's weird, because I have never noticed that they played music in the store. Now, it's all I can hear. Even with my own music on. I can hear Cher, Oasis, Avril Lavigne, Cheryl Crow. It's a non-stop hits brigade over here.

I noticed the music right before falling asleep. It wasn't loud per se, just really really obvious. It was like having a clock radio underneath the bed. In fact, I roamed the apartment looking for lost, misplaced clock radios in hopes of finding my culprit. After deciding that yes, I cannot sleep, I moved to the couch. All was fine until 4 am, WHEN I WAS AWOKEN BY OUR LOVELY PHARMACY MUSIC. Yes, it was in fact loud enough to be incorporated into my dream. I dreamt I was buying a condo with Cher. Shakira, in a jealous rage, busted in with some moves and called me a liar with her hips.

When I came home from work, all fresh and well-rested, I noticed the music was still on. It was extremely noticeable now. I decided to do an experiment, in order to prove that the Pharmacy below us was indeed the guilty party. I waited, with my coat and hat on, for a recognizable song to come on. I then ran downstairs and listened. Jackpot. Yes, they were demons and they needed to die. I noticed a giant speaker in the ceiling right below the spot where I estimated my bed to be.

I asked to speak to the manager. I asked her if she was capable of remembering to turn the music off at night. She just stared blankly and said, Vhat?

I tried another approach: the telephone. I spoke to the same women (I could sense the vapidness even over the phone). She told me that they never leave the music on past 9 pm. End of story. No apologies. Nothing. What the fuck? Why was it so fucking unfathomable that a small mistake was made, and that Dagmara the Pharmacist forgot to turn off the music? She couldn't even admit it, nor say sorry, nor assure me it would never happen again.

I have a game plan, and it centers around the advantage of public domain: I can go in hers. She can't come in mine.

How about a fish wrapped in orange peels discretely hidden in the wall of cleaning supplies? How about some cat feces (I have a never-ending supply) stuffed into a box of Raisin Bran, and then put "back" on their shelves? Or better yet, I could pop down now and get me a box of Pot Of Gold....

Amidst all of the Anna Nicole Smith waste products inhabiting every single celebrity gossip site out there right now, I found something amusing.

It was a photo of Jodie Foster and her secret lesbian lover of 14 years, with the caption, "Silence of the Clams."

Brilliant.

I watched WWE wrestling on Sunday night... It was a "Royal Rumble." See, I used to be obsessed with wrestling, and everytime I revisit my old obsession I begin to appreciate wrestling even more. Some of my old obsessions, like large bangs, do seem "old" and "tired" and "ugly" as I get older. But not wrestling. I loved watching the freaky big men head-butt the little men. But it isn't really an obsession you can really, like, obsess, over. Noone will know what the fuck you are talking about. Shawn Williams? Khali? Crack? I don't care. I can handle it. It's better than being obsessed with Corey Haim, who won't even reply to my Myspace friend request. [And I FUCKING PURCHASED "BLOWN AWAY"!]

I love Thursdays... especially those without homework aka marking 'n shit.

I am planning my summer vacation already. It will go as planned: finish work on June 15th. Sleep for 5 days. Go to Vegas with my very very very best friends in the whole entire world for 4 short nights. Hop on a plane to Yellowknife to visit bro; hopefully, joined by sister sometime thereafter. Maybe camping, canoeing, basically need/want to be outdoors for most of the time. Fly home and weep at the imminent and impossibly unavoidable new semester ahead of me. Too much going on...

AND
there may be another "spa weekend" coming up in March. See, a bunch of us went away last November to a spa and, for the most part, all had embarrassing and awkward massages.... mine was a "lymphatic drainage" massage.

I knew what lymph was and that it carried toxins to your colon, so I thought, giver. Drain my lymph. Tell that shit which way to roll. Make it say momma, etc., etc.,... I ended up basically feeling like I needed therapy in order to re-enter the general domain of 'real life' again.

It was a pretty awful massage and there was inappropriateness written all over my 'rubbers' face. Pretty scary, considering only weeks previous to that I had a shiatsu massage gone wrong. See, shiatsu is the most harmless thing, since you're fully clothed - I mean, what could go wrong? Well, first off, they put me in flannel pajama pants. I don't know why. I mean, they didn't speak English. After that I was prodded (painfully - and I had this done before and knew how painful it was supposed to be) and I realized the pajama pants provided more of an authentic surface for one lonely shiatsu massage therapist attempting, successfully, to cop a feel.

Remember Evie?:



How about Vicki?:




I loved them both as pre-teens, for the following reasons: One girl -- a beautiful blonde half-alien with the power to stop time by simply pressing her fingers together; the other - a cute, super-strong robot who always kept her cool and made the bully-bad-boys go running till they could run no more.

Not only are there no more positive pre-teen role models nowadays, but we've completely gone the other way. To be crass and rude and pantiless is considered "daring" or "fun" or "extravagant" or "what slutty rich role models do."

When did Classy=Flashy=Whorey? I remeber when Flashy equalled Flashdance and that was cool because Alexandra didn't "strippy-dance" like her friend, the fallen figure skater. Oh no, back then, Flashy=Ultimate.Coolness. the end.

oh yeah. this was taken right before I attacked that vamp-hating bitch.

Kidding, love the buff.

More on Madame Tussaud's and all the "waxy-but-kindareallooking celebrities".... after the jump!





Okay, so I like totally hit it off (wink wink) with this random dude, who I met in the line up for the roller coaster at New York New York:



and these nice gentlemen gave me directions to the Burger King:




and then that blasted tiger got all bitey and shit and they took off (typical!).