My iPod just totally crapped out on me, which was directly inspired by my computer's self-inflicted death only seconds preceding it. Sigh. Whoever claimed technology was going to make my life easier clearly has never weighed the pros and cons of flinging a 7-year-old Dell out the window.
Pro: The fucker, which has recently developed HAL9000-like symptoms of doing the opposite of what I'd like it to do, will be dead.
Con: In the course of throwing it out my window, I may crush a jogger.
Actually, on second thought...
Pro: In the course of throwing it out my window, I may crush a jogger.
Looks like everything's coming up daisies over at Casa Del Muerto Computerico.
I know I've railed against the alleged awesomeness of living in a post-digital world before. That was more of a general rant against things like Twitter (for the soulless), and failed to mention amazing advancements in humanity, like the drive-thru or the 3D movie. Although...as these "advancements" progress, I have to wonder if we're not going to advance ourselves right into 1957. Seriously...3D movies? What, Smell-O-Vision was too revolutionary? I feel like we're living in Back To The Future Part II, where everyone has a talking wristwatch and a digital beanie.
In any case, the sudden illness of my iPod is a total bummer. It's not broken - I didn't, like some people I know, put it through the washing machine. But as my computer was figuring out a way to ruin my day by dying, it decided to clean out the contents of my MP3 player. Sort of one last "Fuck you!" before whirring busily into the black death screen. A 21st century murder-suicide.
Now I have to go back, somehow cajole the Dell into behaving for more than 25 minutes while I reload the digital doodad, and then, and only then, can I toss the bastard out the window. This saves me time how? Yeah, okay, Walkmans are for chumps and Discmans are the most awkwardly designed product on the planet. On the other hand, aside from the mountains of batteries they consume, at least they fucking work. There's no "Oh, let me boot this up and plug this in and pray that these things will be compatible and oh, SHIT, I have a crappy Dell that can't handle a goddamn Word document, what's it going to do with iTunes, oh, phew, okay, let's just install this update and drag this icon over here and sync these things up and then eject - always eject! - it and ahhh....music."
Couldn't be simpler.
I like my MP3 player. It's easy to use, infinitely portable, possesses the strange ability to fuck with a plane's takeoff, and has Solitaire. But to use it, I need to work with my computer, and I hate my computer. It's like having two boyfriends: one who is sweet and makes me great mixtapes, and one who maliciously destroys my major essay the night before its due. But they're best friends, and I can't have the great mixtapes without hanging out with the essay-eater...and hating myself for it.
"So get a new computer," I can hear you saying. In the words of Randy Jackson: yo dawg, that's money. And seeing how my ass is un-em-ployed, there's precious little scrilla to be had for fun adventures in New Computerville. (Hell, some days, even Grocery Junction is a little too far down the tracks.) No, I'll wait it out, maybe spend some money to get the Evil Dell fixed, and pray that the next time it decides to wipe out of of my favourite tech-toys, it leaves my toaster oven alone.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
After School Special
On Friday night, I went to Guelph. Rode the bus and everything. You may ask why, on a Friday night in late April, when the trees are budding and the sky is blue, would I choose to spend time on a Greyhound bus stuffed with businessmen and students. You would be right to ask, but the answer is simple: my brother was in a play.
It was awesome. He played the King of Hearts in a student-directed adaptation of Alice Through the Looking Glass (which is a nifty bit of casting, seeing as how, in the last couple years, my brother has morphed into something of a babe magnet), the loopy and hallucinatory Lewis Carroll tale. If you've only seen the Disney flick, do yourself a favour: grab a copy of the story, smoke a fat joint, and trip your shit out. This is maybe the single weirdest kids story ever told.
This play was less flowers-and-singing and more leather pants-and-goth makeup. Alice looked like she had been styled by Avril Lavigne, all tutus and striped stocking. The Queen of Hearts, who shrieked "Off with his head!" every 15 seconds, was wearing leather leggings, spike heels, and blood-red lipstick. There was a hookah and a breakdancer. All this in a high school production. Like I said: awesome.
What was even cooler was that their play was for the Sears Festival, a province-wide drama competition for high school students. This festival, which culminates with an Ontario showcase, draws from a pool of more than 300 schools, eventually winnowing the competition down to 12 schools from across the province. This is sort of like the Tony Awards for adolescents. For schools with even a semi-coherent drama program, this is the Big Deal. There's an unfortunate propensity for these shows to deal with Teen Issues in heavy-handed ways (I've seen multiple productions that force young actresses to play bulimic by simulating self-induced vomiting onstage), but the quality is usually exceptional. In addition to performances, the festival also offers workshops in various subjects, and the chance to make out with people from other schools.
I did a little student theatre in my day - we also went to Sears, but we never made it past the district competition. I blame myself; while I am hella dramatic, that doesn't necessarily translate into any sort of aptitude for the limelight. I would turn in the sort of shouty, self-conscious performances that make audiences grit their teeth. I had a blast, of course, being part of the troupe, and I also dug feeling like we had made something. Unfortunately, yeah: talentless motherfucker that I am, Sears wins were always well outside my grasp.
Theatre programs are important for high schools. I always feel a little bad for people who went to rah-rah sports schools, because that was totally outside of my sphere. In my school, cool kids performed in school shows. There were the requisite dramatic girls and the guys who persued them, but there were also people who loved the technical side, or costuming, or stage combat, or writing plays. It's seriously one of the most versatile media in terms of finding a creative voice: actors, singers, dancers, painters, tech nerds, organizational obsessives, fashion wannabes, and hangers-on all have a home.
I'm so proud of my brother and the rest of the cast for doing so well. There are some really talented actors and actresses in the show. These people who will be involved with theatre for a long time to come. But it's not really about the future; it's about following Alice down the rabbit hole one more time.
It was awesome. He played the King of Hearts in a student-directed adaptation of Alice Through the Looking Glass (which is a nifty bit of casting, seeing as how, in the last couple years, my brother has morphed into something of a babe magnet), the loopy and hallucinatory Lewis Carroll tale. If you've only seen the Disney flick, do yourself a favour: grab a copy of the story, smoke a fat joint, and trip your shit out. This is maybe the single weirdest kids story ever told.
This play was less flowers-and-singing and more leather pants-and-goth makeup. Alice looked like she had been styled by Avril Lavigne, all tutus and striped stocking. The Queen of Hearts, who shrieked "Off with his head!" every 15 seconds, was wearing leather leggings, spike heels, and blood-red lipstick. There was a hookah and a breakdancer. All this in a high school production. Like I said: awesome.
What was even cooler was that their play was for the Sears Festival, a province-wide drama competition for high school students. This festival, which culminates with an Ontario showcase, draws from a pool of more than 300 schools, eventually winnowing the competition down to 12 schools from across the province. This is sort of like the Tony Awards for adolescents. For schools with even a semi-coherent drama program, this is the Big Deal. There's an unfortunate propensity for these shows to deal with Teen Issues in heavy-handed ways (I've seen multiple productions that force young actresses to play bulimic by simulating self-induced vomiting onstage), but the quality is usually exceptional. In addition to performances, the festival also offers workshops in various subjects, and the chance to make out with people from other schools.
I did a little student theatre in my day - we also went to Sears, but we never made it past the district competition. I blame myself; while I am hella dramatic, that doesn't necessarily translate into any sort of aptitude for the limelight. I would turn in the sort of shouty, self-conscious performances that make audiences grit their teeth. I had a blast, of course, being part of the troupe, and I also dug feeling like we had made something. Unfortunately, yeah: talentless motherfucker that I am, Sears wins were always well outside my grasp.
Theatre programs are important for high schools. I always feel a little bad for people who went to rah-rah sports schools, because that was totally outside of my sphere. In my school, cool kids performed in school shows. There were the requisite dramatic girls and the guys who persued them, but there were also people who loved the technical side, or costuming, or stage combat, or writing plays. It's seriously one of the most versatile media in terms of finding a creative voice: actors, singers, dancers, painters, tech nerds, organizational obsessives, fashion wannabes, and hangers-on all have a home.
I'm so proud of my brother and the rest of the cast for doing so well. There are some really talented actors and actresses in the show. These people who will be involved with theatre for a long time to come. But it's not really about the future; it's about following Alice down the rabbit hole one more time.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I Love You, Dan Savage.
Despite the fact that he's gay, American, married, a father, and lives 3000 miles away, Dan Savage is totally my type. He's got deliciousness that comes from being one of the most successful and influential sex columnists in the Western world. (Brief aside: does the Eastern world have a corollary position? I would guess yes, but I doubt it's the same.) His advice to the lovelorn and lustful is usually spot on, and Savage presents the kinky and questionable as just another sign post along that long highway we call Sex. Or, if you're feeling punny, Route 69.
Dan didn't blaze this trail - Dr. Ruth was first on the sexual-advice scene, and she's a great old bird. But Savage does it better than anyone else. His take on sexuality and modern love doesn't fit into any one morality or ideology. Kinks, polyamory, alternate living arrangements - all fair game, all equally as valid as the white picket fence and the wedding ring. But Dan is also renowned for his ability to cut through the bullshit. He regularly points out to the people who want his advice that they themselves might be the problem. Dan responds to this week's lead question with the blunt statement, "You are an asshole," and you know what? He's right. The guy, who describes himself as both "very attractive" and "very intense" - watch out, ladies! He's a whole lotta man! - does seem like he would be a chore to date.
That's not to say that Dan Savage isn't political: obviously, gay rights are near the top of his list. More importantly, he takes a clear-eyed view on hypocrisy, especially when it comes to American leaders who have some skeletons in their own sexual closets. One only has to google "Santorum" to find out how far Savage's reach extends. It's the thrill of seeing him call someone out, in print, coast to coast, that really gets the juices flowing. The sex advice is great - reading his diatribes about Ted Haggard is gold.
As a bonus for us Canucks (I have never used that word before...weird), Savage Love often praises Canada for both its laissez-faire attitute towards regulating sexuality (gay marriage, for example), and for not thinking our laissez-faire attitute is unusual. It's only really unusual when compared to places like Arkansas, where dildos are illegal. Seriously. That can't be healthy.
But getting back to the sexy business - which is, after all, Savage Love's bread and butter. My respect for Dan Savage is largely due to his attempts to bring normality to a wider range of sex than we usually get. Like it or not, America is a sexually nervous place. Someone once pointed out that America was founded by Puritans, people who were looking for a society more repressive that, you know, 15th Century England. What they created was a nation that collectively freaks out about any number of sexual basics (abortion, birth control for teenagers, sexual education) and still finds time to invent Hugh Hefner. Conflicted? Confused? You bet. So Dan Savage, which isn't coming from a place of "should" and "mustn't" and "secret" is a total revolutionary.
When Dan Savage tells his readers that they can, indeed, enjoy a finger in their ass and not be gay, it carries a certain amount of currency. When he advises someone to DTMFA, he's being both a blunt friend and a relationship expert. When thousands of people read his column (online and in print), and listen to his podcasts, and talk about his responses in their daily lives, how can this guy not be swinging a serious pair? For that, Mr. Savage, I would gladly marry your gay, married, American, persnickety ass. You've made the world safer for queers and kinksters, even only a little bit, and that deserves a salute and a around of applause from the orgy room.
Dan didn't blaze this trail - Dr. Ruth was first on the sexual-advice scene, and she's a great old bird. But Savage does it better than anyone else. His take on sexuality and modern love doesn't fit into any one morality or ideology. Kinks, polyamory, alternate living arrangements - all fair game, all equally as valid as the white picket fence and the wedding ring. But Dan is also renowned for his ability to cut through the bullshit. He regularly points out to the people who want his advice that they themselves might be the problem. Dan responds to this week's lead question with the blunt statement, "You are an asshole," and you know what? He's right. The guy, who describes himself as both "very attractive" and "very intense" - watch out, ladies! He's a whole lotta man! - does seem like he would be a chore to date.
That's not to say that Dan Savage isn't political: obviously, gay rights are near the top of his list. More importantly, he takes a clear-eyed view on hypocrisy, especially when it comes to American leaders who have some skeletons in their own sexual closets. One only has to google "Santorum" to find out how far Savage's reach extends. It's the thrill of seeing him call someone out, in print, coast to coast, that really gets the juices flowing. The sex advice is great - reading his diatribes about Ted Haggard is gold.
As a bonus for us Canucks (I have never used that word before...weird), Savage Love often praises Canada for both its laissez-faire attitute towards regulating sexuality (gay marriage, for example), and for not thinking our laissez-faire attitute is unusual. It's only really unusual when compared to places like Arkansas, where dildos are illegal. Seriously. That can't be healthy.
But getting back to the sexy business - which is, after all, Savage Love's bread and butter. My respect for Dan Savage is largely due to his attempts to bring normality to a wider range of sex than we usually get. Like it or not, America is a sexually nervous place. Someone once pointed out that America was founded by Puritans, people who were looking for a society more repressive that, you know, 15th Century England. What they created was a nation that collectively freaks out about any number of sexual basics (abortion, birth control for teenagers, sexual education) and still finds time to invent Hugh Hefner. Conflicted? Confused? You bet. So Dan Savage, which isn't coming from a place of "should" and "mustn't" and "secret" is a total revolutionary.
When Dan Savage tells his readers that they can, indeed, enjoy a finger in their ass and not be gay, it carries a certain amount of currency. When he advises someone to DTMFA, he's being both a blunt friend and a relationship expert. When thousands of people read his column (online and in print), and listen to his podcasts, and talk about his responses in their daily lives, how can this guy not be swinging a serious pair? For that, Mr. Savage, I would gladly marry your gay, married, American, persnickety ass. You've made the world safer for queers and kinksters, even only a little bit, and that deserves a salute and a around of applause from the orgy room.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
From Supergroups to Prettyokaygroups
I have a bone to pick with supergroups. Under my very unscientific definition, a "supergoup" is comprised of a number of high-profile musicians, notable for their involvement in other, already established bands. This isn't a simple case of someone going solo, or leaving their original band to make a new one - and I realize that the example of Dave Grohl is a little facetious, but he was the first guy that came into my head. I guess Nirvana kind of broke up with the death of Saint Cobain, but whatever: jumping ship is jumping ship, Grohl.
The Travelling Wilburys are, in my under-informed opinion, the first and best of the supergroups. The fictional sons of Charles Truscott Wilbury, Sr., the original lineup included Geore Harrison, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne. (I hadn't heard of him either - apparently, Mr. Lynne fronted the Electric Light ORchestra. As in, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for?," which was one of the strangest parts of the movie The Virgin Suicides. I digress.) These superstars got together for ten days and made some seriously awesome music. Music so good, in fact, that my sister knew all the lyrics when she was two years old. She would bounce around in her car seat, babbling the words to Last Night, to the amusement and slight horror of my parents. For the uninitiated, it's a song about a murderous hooker.
These days, supergroups are so lame. What, am I really supposed to be impressed with Velvet Revolver? Can it. Scott Weiland freaks me out - a dude that into his own hair needs a serious dressing down. Plus, heroin is boring. I dig the Perceptionists, but they can barely be called a supergroup, and besides, hip-hop is mostly about cameos and guest verses anyway.
Tinted Windows marks the official passing of the supergoup. This little line-up has the drummer from Cheap Trick, James Iha of Smashing Pumpkins fame , the guy who wrote That Thing You Do!, and - wait for it - Taylor Hanson! From Hanson! Aieee! When I read about them in Spin, I had to wonder how this foursome met. Wife swapping party? All-nigh poker game? Church? Mineral water convention at Lake Tahoe? Seriously....wife swapping party?
Sigh. We devolved from Blood on the Tracks to Appetite for Destruction to...MmmBop? If we're really talking about supergroups, let's bring back some "Handle Me With Care." Lenny Lewis did a great cover on her debut solo album, and had a little help from her indie rock friends: Conner "Bright Eyes" Oberst, Ben "Death Cab for Cutie" Gibbard and M. "She & Him" Ward. That's what I'm talking about. That's a supergroup. A supergroup made up of former child actresses and whiny pop geniuses, sure, but it beats out the Hansons by a country mile.
The Travelling Wilburys are, in my under-informed opinion, the first and best of the supergroups. The fictional sons of Charles Truscott Wilbury, Sr., the original lineup included Geore Harrison, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne. (I hadn't heard of him either - apparently, Mr. Lynne fronted the Electric Light ORchestra. As in, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for?," which was one of the strangest parts of the movie The Virgin Suicides. I digress.) These superstars got together for ten days and made some seriously awesome music. Music so good, in fact, that my sister knew all the lyrics when she was two years old. She would bounce around in her car seat, babbling the words to Last Night, to the amusement and slight horror of my parents. For the uninitiated, it's a song about a murderous hooker.
These days, supergroups are so lame. What, am I really supposed to be impressed with Velvet Revolver? Can it. Scott Weiland freaks me out - a dude that into his own hair needs a serious dressing down. Plus, heroin is boring. I dig the Perceptionists, but they can barely be called a supergroup, and besides, hip-hop is mostly about cameos and guest verses anyway.
Tinted Windows marks the official passing of the supergoup. This little line-up has the drummer from Cheap Trick, James Iha of Smashing Pumpkins fame , the guy who wrote That Thing You Do!, and - wait for it - Taylor Hanson! From Hanson! Aieee! When I read about them in Spin, I had to wonder how this foursome met. Wife swapping party? All-nigh poker game? Church? Mineral water convention at Lake Tahoe? Seriously....wife swapping party?
Sigh. We devolved from Blood on the Tracks to Appetite for Destruction to...MmmBop? If we're really talking about supergroups, let's bring back some "Handle Me With Care." Lenny Lewis did a great cover on her debut solo album, and had a little help from her indie rock friends: Conner "Bright Eyes" Oberst, Ben "Death Cab for Cutie" Gibbard and M. "She & Him" Ward. That's what I'm talking about. That's a supergroup. A supergroup made up of former child actresses and whiny pop geniuses, sure, but it beats out the Hansons by a country mile.
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Run In My NYLONs.
It's hard to believe that NYLON, that most boring of fashion bibles, is ten years old. Back in the day, when it was a lush and gauzy love letter to people like Liv Tyler and places like Berlin, it was a treat to read. Now, its cover models look they're being photographed while being held for ransom. Nylon no longer holds that same delicious wonder as when it first arrived on the scene, especially back when Helena Christensen was running the show. The inagural issue allowed readers to peer into her Indian travel diary; by 2009, the magazine was strictly for the underfed and overdone.
Besides the fact that Nylon went transformed from pretty and mellow into a harshly-lit attempted knock-off of European magazines, it feels like it's trying too hard. Nylon is supposed to be a mash-up between New York and LONdon (I guess because NYPAR sounds like an antihistamine), but its "big names" on the cover are never quite A-list. Sure, it snagged La Lohan recently; but when was the last time she worked? Instead of pretty models, it tries to create It-Girls out of people like Camille Belle and those trollopes from the new 90210. Who? What? Wake me when it's over.
I have a complicated relationship with fashion magazines. I read Teen Vogue way longer than was appropriate (well into my 20s), but never really got into Woman Vogue. Can you blame me? Those fashions aren't even really escapist half the time - its like they were imported from the planet Equestrian Countess and have no bearing to things shaped like clothes. I can't afford $3000 leather leggings. I would look like a fool in $3000 leather leggings. I have nowhere to wear $3000 leather leggings. And yet: the cursed leather leggings, taunting me from the pages of Vogue. Also, Vogue once espoused a shape, like the hourglass or the inverted triangle, they dubbed "The Popsicle," which apparently means you're to wear a tunic over your (you guessed it!) leather leggings.
I wish fashion magazines had more fun with what they're doing. I see no reason to wear a frock made of, like, peacock feathers and pony skin, but this is the kind of bonafide craziness that shows up in these rags. But it shows up seriously: there's no wink to the fact that 90% of the clothes that grace the pages are totally nuts. They're either way too expensive, or so not appropriate for the temp job you just picked up at Scotiabank. In either case, these ultra-serious clothes are not going to be coming near my frivolous self any time soon. They're gorgeous! But without a sense of humour, to adore fashion is to adore the superficial; fun for a while, but ultimately dull.
A few years ago, I was really into the whole fashion thing. I still love really well-designed and well-made clothes, but wrapping a Marc Jacobs scarf around one's neck and feeling all proud of your fashion (or money-spending) skills is weak sauce. I fall prey to labels sometimes - hell, just last week I was all "Are those Campers?" to a bemused stranger. Fashion magazines, because of their national readership, are hard-pressed to pimp out awesome indie designers or local heroes. Instead, they have to rely on cachet as created by cash money. That is, if I can't afford it, it must be special.
Fuck that.
I stopped reading Nylon a few years ago, when the cover girls morphed from anonymous models into all-too-recognizable faces: Paris Hilton and Avril Lavigne? I think not. When Li'l Kim showed up wearing a skirt made of stuffed animals, I was done. I can't work with that, you know? Am I supposed to go places wearing a jacket made of Muppets? I'm...no. Given a choice between that and the cursed leather leggings, I would be genuinely flummoxed. If these are my style bibles, maybe fashion atheism is the way I roll.
Besides the fact that Nylon went transformed from pretty and mellow into a harshly-lit attempted knock-off of European magazines, it feels like it's trying too hard. Nylon is supposed to be a mash-up between New York and LONdon (I guess because NYPAR sounds like an antihistamine), but its "big names" on the cover are never quite A-list. Sure, it snagged La Lohan recently; but when was the last time she worked? Instead of pretty models, it tries to create It-Girls out of people like Camille Belle and those trollopes from the new 90210. Who? What? Wake me when it's over.
I have a complicated relationship with fashion magazines. I read Teen Vogue way longer than was appropriate (well into my 20s), but never really got into Woman Vogue. Can you blame me? Those fashions aren't even really escapist half the time - its like they were imported from the planet Equestrian Countess and have no bearing to things shaped like clothes. I can't afford $3000 leather leggings. I would look like a fool in $3000 leather leggings. I have nowhere to wear $3000 leather leggings. And yet: the cursed leather leggings, taunting me from the pages of Vogue. Also, Vogue once espoused a shape, like the hourglass or the inverted triangle, they dubbed "The Popsicle," which apparently means you're to wear a tunic over your (you guessed it!) leather leggings.
I wish fashion magazines had more fun with what they're doing. I see no reason to wear a frock made of, like, peacock feathers and pony skin, but this is the kind of bonafide craziness that shows up in these rags. But it shows up seriously: there's no wink to the fact that 90% of the clothes that grace the pages are totally nuts. They're either way too expensive, or so not appropriate for the temp job you just picked up at Scotiabank. In either case, these ultra-serious clothes are not going to be coming near my frivolous self any time soon. They're gorgeous! But without a sense of humour, to adore fashion is to adore the superficial; fun for a while, but ultimately dull.
A few years ago, I was really into the whole fashion thing. I still love really well-designed and well-made clothes, but wrapping a Marc Jacobs scarf around one's neck and feeling all proud of your fashion (or money-spending) skills is weak sauce. I fall prey to labels sometimes - hell, just last week I was all "Are those Campers?" to a bemused stranger. Fashion magazines, because of their national readership, are hard-pressed to pimp out awesome indie designers or local heroes. Instead, they have to rely on cachet as created by cash money. That is, if I can't afford it, it must be special.
Fuck that.
I stopped reading Nylon a few years ago, when the cover girls morphed from anonymous models into all-too-recognizable faces: Paris Hilton and Avril Lavigne? I think not. When Li'l Kim showed up wearing a skirt made of stuffed animals, I was done. I can't work with that, you know? Am I supposed to go places wearing a jacket made of Muppets? I'm...no. Given a choice between that and the cursed leather leggings, I would be genuinely flummoxed. If these are my style bibles, maybe fashion atheism is the way I roll.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
If You Can Read This, The Bitch Has Been Eaten By The Undead
In event that zombies rise up and take over the world (slow, shuffling rising, naturally), best to have a plan. My friend Raza sent me this list of zombie contingency plans, which are okay. (Most of them seem to rely on the basic premise of feeding your grandmother to zombie hordes.) But they lack a certain...finesse. A certain je-ne-sais-quoi. They fail to take into account that I, upon zombie uprising, will not transform into a ripped action heroine capable of dismantling the undead with my machete. I will still be the same basic nerdette, albeit with a crippling case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
This zombocalypse will require a cool, collected head. Someone with working knowledge of firearms and the back roads of Canada, along with the ability to create a fire by giving kindling a tough look. Unfortunately, my gang tends to be a pretty high-strung bunch. If zombie-fighting skills included "smoking cigarettes" and "flirting with strangers" and "writing webpages" then yes, we would prosper. But I kind of doubt it.
However, for the sake of argument, I'll outline my zombie plans. These are all reliant on not falling prey to step 0.5: become a zombie.
Step 1: Recognize, fool! Zombies, unless actively covered in gore, are not easily spotted. They could be escaped mental patients, or people under sedation, or having a seizure. I'm not hating on those demographics, but seriously: red herring much? So, make sure I'm vigilant about when the transformation happens. Spot 'em quick.
Step 2: Load up on supplies. I'm thinking a couple weeks worth of food, a whole bunch of water, Diet Coke (it's an addiction), "lady products," candles, camping stove, walkie-talkie, crossbow (not that I'll know how to use it...right away), warm clothes, bike gear, batteries, flashlight, a tent, sleep gear, trashy magazines, and maps. Anything else I can pick up on the road, but that food and water is the kicker: I'm holing up in my place for a while, at least at first.
Step 3: Hole up in my place. Invite non-zombified friends over to play Boggle and get used to not having the internet. Learn how to shoot the crossbow. Get really tired of eating food from a can. Get really scared every time we hear gunfire outside. My place is decently big; maybe a half-dozen or so people can hang out. They have to bring their own crap, though. I'm not a damned post-apocalypse Zellers. I figure safety in numbers, safety on the top floor of a house, and safety in not going fucking insane all by yourself.
Step 4: Hit the road. After a while, Toronto's grocery stores will be trashed and my non-zombified friends will be tired of sharing a bathroom. I'll be travelling by bike. Yeah, I know: wimpy, right? But bikes are easier to fix than cars, I won't have to worry about gas, and they're super quiet. You pilot a tank down Yonge Street and people notice that shit. We'll head east, and then once the border gets a little easier to cross, south. Obviously, at some point during this journey, we'll have to remove someone's appendix with, like, a Bowie knife and dental floss, and start having insane dreams. Naturally.
Step 5: Find a safe space. I'm thinking maybe a quiet island, but one that has plenty of arable land and is accessible by one (!) bridge. Zombies are stupid and can't work boats. But I, likewise, will probably die if I try to live outside in Canada during the winter. Fighting the undead will continue, we'll all be incredibly fit, I'll be in charge of running the still and my friends will be in charge of repopulating the earth.
So there you have it. From zombie insanity to utopian saloon in five easy steps. Couldn't be simpler.
This zombocalypse will require a cool, collected head. Someone with working knowledge of firearms and the back roads of Canada, along with the ability to create a fire by giving kindling a tough look. Unfortunately, my gang tends to be a pretty high-strung bunch. If zombie-fighting skills included "smoking cigarettes" and "flirting with strangers" and "writing webpages" then yes, we would prosper. But I kind of doubt it.
However, for the sake of argument, I'll outline my zombie plans. These are all reliant on not falling prey to step 0.5: become a zombie.
Step 1: Recognize, fool! Zombies, unless actively covered in gore, are not easily spotted. They could be escaped mental patients, or people under sedation, or having a seizure. I'm not hating on those demographics, but seriously: red herring much? So, make sure I'm vigilant about when the transformation happens. Spot 'em quick.
Step 2: Load up on supplies. I'm thinking a couple weeks worth of food, a whole bunch of water, Diet Coke (it's an addiction), "lady products," candles, camping stove, walkie-talkie, crossbow (not that I'll know how to use it...right away), warm clothes, bike gear, batteries, flashlight, a tent, sleep gear, trashy magazines, and maps. Anything else I can pick up on the road, but that food and water is the kicker: I'm holing up in my place for a while, at least at first.
Step 3: Hole up in my place. Invite non-zombified friends over to play Boggle and get used to not having the internet. Learn how to shoot the crossbow. Get really tired of eating food from a can. Get really scared every time we hear gunfire outside. My place is decently big; maybe a half-dozen or so people can hang out. They have to bring their own crap, though. I'm not a damned post-apocalypse Zellers. I figure safety in numbers, safety on the top floor of a house, and safety in not going fucking insane all by yourself.
Step 4: Hit the road. After a while, Toronto's grocery stores will be trashed and my non-zombified friends will be tired of sharing a bathroom. I'll be travelling by bike. Yeah, I know: wimpy, right? But bikes are easier to fix than cars, I won't have to worry about gas, and they're super quiet. You pilot a tank down Yonge Street and people notice that shit. We'll head east, and then once the border gets a little easier to cross, south. Obviously, at some point during this journey, we'll have to remove someone's appendix with, like, a Bowie knife and dental floss, and start having insane dreams. Naturally.
Step 5: Find a safe space. I'm thinking maybe a quiet island, but one that has plenty of arable land and is accessible by one (!) bridge. Zombies are stupid and can't work boats. But I, likewise, will probably die if I try to live outside in Canada during the winter. Fighting the undead will continue, we'll all be incredibly fit, I'll be in charge of running the still and my friends will be in charge of repopulating the earth.
So there you have it. From zombie insanity to utopian saloon in five easy steps. Couldn't be simpler.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hip-Hop Hooray
I know that's it's generally considered lame to be say such-and-such album "changed my life," but in this case, it's true. Let me set the scene: I am thirteen. I have two younger siblings. I have my very first job. And in the process of working at my first job, I meet this crazy redhead who goes to raves and swears and is skinny as hell and just impresses my thirteen-year-old ass to death. At the end of the summer, she hands me a cassette tape and tells me to check it out.
On one side, Belle and Sebastian was wienering out, with some Elliot Smith and Elvis Costello thrown in for good measure. On the flip side, like a message from the gods, was my beloved Jurassic 5.
For those of you who are from parts of the world that hate fun, J5 is a Southern California sextet made up of four MCs and two DJs (one of whom played the science teacher in Juno!). Lots of Islam and basketball and an MC with the deepest voice I've ever heard. The album I was listening to, over and over, every day, was their debut LP, which changed my life.
Before you're all like, "But how could this raucous hip-hop have affected you, Canadian girl loser and freshman in high school?" let me remind you: two younger siblings. My brother is eight years younger than me, which means that when I was 13, he was five years old. When I was starting high school, we were still listening to Raffi and Sharon Lois and Bram. Oh, and this little number called Unplucked!, which made me want to hurl myself right out of our minivan every time it was played. Which it was. Daily.
Furthermore, we lived in a teeny tiny town, with Ottawa (read: shitty) radio stations that played Billy Joel's song "River of Dreams" every fifteen minutes. There was zero access to good music. My parents liked Leonard Cohen, who, to a twelve-year-old, sounds like a sex-obsessed brontosaurus, and my first CD was Dance Mix '95.
You can see that I'm starting from pretty rough scratch here.
In any case, J5 was the tape I played all the freaking time. I dug out my walkman and listening on my way to school. I played that thing as I was falling asleep. Strangely, at no time did I ever wonder if there were other like-minded music acts out there; not until later in high school, when my classmate Graham put together a tape for me, did I encounter Mr. Lif and Aesop Rock. When I went out and did my own research, there was a wealth of shit out there (all of which, it should be noted, drove my mother crazy). I'm not going to name-drop everyone I've ever listened to; suffice it say there was a period of time when I was fucking obsessed with it.
The Hip-Hop Years (1999-2003) were some of the most fun I've ever had as a music fan. I still listen to hip-hop. I still love dancing around in my underwear, fully knowing how strange I look, not caring. For example, the new K'naan is freaking my shit out. Seriously: go buy it. Buy it. It's incredible that I can trace a decade-long interest back to a single source. From that initial tape to a entire world of music? Pretty awesome. One might even say life changing.
On one side, Belle and Sebastian was wienering out, with some Elliot Smith and Elvis Costello thrown in for good measure. On the flip side, like a message from the gods, was my beloved Jurassic 5.
For those of you who are from parts of the world that hate fun, J5 is a Southern California sextet made up of four MCs and two DJs (one of whom played the science teacher in Juno!). Lots of Islam and basketball and an MC with the deepest voice I've ever heard. The album I was listening to, over and over, every day, was their debut LP, which changed my life.
Before you're all like, "But how could this raucous hip-hop have affected you, Canadian girl loser and freshman in high school?" let me remind you: two younger siblings. My brother is eight years younger than me, which means that when I was 13, he was five years old. When I was starting high school, we were still listening to Raffi and Sharon Lois and Bram. Oh, and this little number called Unplucked!, which made me want to hurl myself right out of our minivan every time it was played. Which it was. Daily.
Furthermore, we lived in a teeny tiny town, with Ottawa (read: shitty) radio stations that played Billy Joel's song "River of Dreams" every fifteen minutes. There was zero access to good music. My parents liked Leonard Cohen, who, to a twelve-year-old, sounds like a sex-obsessed brontosaurus, and my first CD was Dance Mix '95.
You can see that I'm starting from pretty rough scratch here.
In any case, J5 was the tape I played all the freaking time. I dug out my walkman and listening on my way to school. I played that thing as I was falling asleep. Strangely, at no time did I ever wonder if there were other like-minded music acts out there; not until later in high school, when my classmate Graham put together a tape for me, did I encounter Mr. Lif and Aesop Rock. When I went out and did my own research, there was a wealth of shit out there (all of which, it should be noted, drove my mother crazy). I'm not going to name-drop everyone I've ever listened to; suffice it say there was a period of time when I was fucking obsessed with it.
The Hip-Hop Years (1999-2003) were some of the most fun I've ever had as a music fan. I still listen to hip-hop. I still love dancing around in my underwear, fully knowing how strange I look, not caring. For example, the new K'naan is freaking my shit out. Seriously: go buy it. Buy it. It's incredible that I can trace a decade-long interest back to a single source. From that initial tape to a entire world of music? Pretty awesome. One might even say life changing.
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