Thursday, September 29, 2005

After-School Midnight Activity: Party Prep

Around midnight tonight, Brie and I started making "conversation" posters for the Circa 1995 party that we're holding tomorrow night.

Brie's posters are amazing, down to the last ying-yang.

Mine look like a 11-year-old made them. Of course, this was done purely for artistic merit, since I was eleven in 1995. Ooooh. Can you see the depth and thought I put into my work now?

Yah, that's what I thought.

Katrina adds her contribution to our "What do you remember. . . circa 1995?" poster.

My memory? "I got my first bra- which I refused to wear. Mainly because I was flat until I was 18."

The "before" poster. Hopefully, I'll remember to take an "after" picture before we rip the poster down during post-party clean-up.

It might be a couple of days until I get the party pictures posted, because Mike is visiting me from Alberta for the week.

So, in the interim, what do you remember from 1995?

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Mansion, Apartment, Shack or House?

Apparently I'm going to be an apartment-dwelling gynecologist.

This game is definitely circa 1995 for me. It reminds me of long hours spent in the gym at intramurals, trying to avoid both teacher's glares and whatever type of ball they were trying to force me to play with. I was more interested in my future. A future that didn't involve jerseys made of mesh, or the pressure in the locker room to wear a bra when I was flat-chested, or 11-year-old boys making fun of me because I couldn't walk without running into a wall, let alone put a ball in a net.

So in celebration of what an unatheletic, undeveloped, proud geek I was, I encourage you all to play a game of MASH.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Raise your hand if you love fake appendages!

Oh, I do! I do!

However, I can't deny that I feel kind of ridiculous. Like a Barbie. A very glamorous, small-chested Barbie, with a digital camera as my action figure accessory. "Totally Hair Barbie" always was my favourite.

I mean, I've never even worn fake nails before, and I only wear false eyelashes on Halloween. Yet, here I am, sporting a full head of human hair, most of which I did not grow myself. Thank you mystery Japanese girl(s)!

Besides, what am I going to tell people? I can't really attribute a sudden full head of thick, long hair to puberty. I suppose it's plausible that those cobbler elves that fix shoes in the middle of the night may have taken up hairdressing. . .

. . .after all, are shoes even really "cobbled" anymore?

Monday, September 26, 2005

A Rant for the Elitist Masses

That’s right. You. You, as in, the collective sphere of elitists who are invariably reading this. An oxymoron, you think? Well, of course that is what you would think. You would challenge my argument simply by the title, without reading the reasoning. And that is the point alone.

Do you see my point already?

No, of course you don’t, because you are conditioned to disagree with everything. You are conditioned to hate everything, because each and every one of you is a unique fucking snowflake who acts as a collective blizzarding mass.

It’s more of a liability for me to admit that I like Jack Johnson (which I do) than, let’s say, Craig David (which I do). Why? Well, Craig David is blatantly uncool*, which instantly renders him likeable. My love of Craig David could be reduced to a quirky penchant for catchy pop dance songs that contain such lyrics as, “I’m not a man to play around, oooh baby.” Whereas, Jack Johnson is on the verge of being cool. As in he was, let’s say, two years ago. And now that his music appeals to the mass audiences, he is rendered instantly unlikable.

I was telling a story the other night about an interaction I had at the Jack Johnson concert when a new male acquaintance interjected snottily, “Well, that explains it.”

I stopped my story, “What?”
“Well, you were at a Jack Johnson show. It explains a lot.”
“I like Jack Johnson.”
“I’m not a fan. The song they play on the radio is annoying. He has no musical credibility.”

We have an interesting example here, because the male in question:

1) obviously hasn’t listened to any of Jack Johnson’s music apart from a radio single (although, I must note, I agree the latest album kind of sucks)

2) has based his opinion solely on one song

3) has probably chosen to side with this opinion because liking Jack Johnson right now is decidedly uncool

4) yet, the male in question readily admits he listens to mainstream radio.

My response? “I don’t listen to the radio.” (And to clarify, I don’t listen to the radio because I own a large CD collection and no radio, not because I’m on the current neo-luddite “I hate everything that involves technology, but everyday I go home and talk through the mask of msn” trend that is growing in popularity right now.)

Oh, but oh- don’t fool yourself into thinking this only applies to music. This applies to theologies, politics, ideologies, nonsensical conversations about inanimate objects. Tonight I was informed by my roommates that bananas are “in”. However, if you dare discuss that particular fruit two months from now, prepare yourself for the ramifications! No, two months from now teapots will be the hot shit.

“That shit is teapot.”

Wait, now I’m infringing upon Mark’s territory.

I can reference albatrosses at length at social gatherings, only because the subject will never be cool, and is therefore at the height of coolness. Who would’ve thought I’d be so hip, so edgy?

Another example: Vice magazine. Why do people suddenly hate Vice magazine? Well, it’s so hip that it makes fun of its readership’s alleged coolness, rendering it incredibly unhip. (Vice is instantly cool for this reason, since they hate everything. And hating stuff is cool. But since they acknowledge that they hate everything, does this make them uncool? I’m not sure. It might change next week.)

Some things are popular for a reason. Shaving/grooming your genitals is popular for one very distinct reason, which I don't think needs to be elaborated upon here.

The only thing that is popular right now is hating things (even if that thing is pubic hair). You’re only cool if you hate everything. Remember that stoner kid from high school wearing the Marilyn Manson t-shirt and playing Dungeons and Dragons all day, and working on his ‘stache? Well, he’s the coolest thing around because not only does he hate everything, but he also doesn’t give a shit. He wins by default. He’s so inherently uncool, that he’s cool again. But the moment that it’s acknowledged that he’s ridiculously cool, his cool credibility is instantly lost.

We live in a society that values originality. We live in a society that values impossibility. Originality is impossible. As soon as one person decides something is cool, others will follow. And as soon as a second person jumps on the bandwagon, that cool thing is immediately uncool.

After examining all of this, weighing the evidence and still disagreeing with me, I have one final question for you:

How else can you explain last year’s trucker hats?

I am not a vegetarian. I shop at Goodwill because I’m poor, not because it’s trendy. I believe that owning music for posterity reasons is important and brings lasting happiness. I don’t know how to use a Mac computer. I like pirates and parrots (but right now, mainly parrots). I haven’t quite jumped on the robot or ninja bandwagon (which are both very cool right now) but I’m working on it. Instead, I think about elephants a lot. I never liked boy bands, even when I was in grade eight and all my girlfriends fantasized about Nick and Howie and Brian at sleepovers. I buy chai tea in concentrate and drink it with cold milk. I don’t have any hearts or frogs tattooed on my body, although I will admit to a small black star on my hip. I regularly dance around my room in my skivvies. I know how to play ‘Magic: The Gathering’ but I have never smoked pot. I was straight edge but never drew thick black lines across my hands. I keep a blog, even though I have been told that blogs (with the exception of the politically orientated ones) are a truly narcissistic act and worthless. The only three things in life I excel at (in no particular order) are: jigsaw puzzles, hula-hooping, and Scrabble. I’m moderately okay at cribbage and sometimes writing.

I don’t hate many things.

I’m exhausted, I’m tired. I’m tired of defending my ideas, my beliefs, my music, my friends, just because they/it/she isn’t cool enough. I want to listen to Jack Johnson and drink tea and play Scrabble in bed. I want to wear slippers knit by church ladies, and lie around in my underwear all day and cuddle.

Because cuddling never goes out of style.**

*My usage of the adjective “cool” is decidedly uncool at this point in time. Awesome is a better adjective at our current place in history, which is exactly why I chose to use the word “cool” throughout this rant. However, I just couldn’t bring myself to use the word “sweet.”

**However, in the previous two years, cuddling did become abnormally popular. This trend was marked by the creation of New York cuddling parties. Sad, but true fact. The elitists even claimed cuddling as their own for a brief time. Also, I’ve noticed a surplus of “I love spooning” t-shirts as of late. What will the next popular trend be? Foot rubs? Back rubs? What other secret pleasures could the masses possibly decide to ruin and monopolize on? There is money to be made here.

This isn't worth remembering.

My awesome hair. . .

. . and Brie's awesome ass.

Coming soon: China's Circa 1995 Party

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Memories Deferred

I've been reduced to writing jotted notes on scraps of paper, later transferring them to post-it notes, and then putting the post-it notes in my journal in hopes that at some point I'll be able to sit down and write some concrete thoughts for myself.

Which probably explains why I haven't written any thoughts for you.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

No Captions Required

Brie was kind enough to allow me to post the photos from her photography assignment.

Be that animal!

On Thursday night, all the residents of China headed to the Ram in the Rye for pub night.

Waiting in line.
I'm really good at parties, but I'm not very good at line-ups.

I'm also good at imitating a 15-year-old with bloodshot eyes.





And Sasha, who somehow managed to look like she just completed a romantic tryst prior to posing for this picture.

Friday, Sasha pleaded with me to go with her to the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM). I had been at job training all day (after consuming one too many beers at the Ram the previous night), and had to trek through the pouring rain home on more than one occassion. Needless to say, I was exhausted, and in no mood to go to the museum.

However, after she presented a very convincing argument pointing out that the party we were headed to later in the night was in that direction anyways, I found myself tagging along with her. I tried to convince myself the experience would be fun an enlightening.

Then, for 45 minutes, I watched her take pictures for a school assignment. Like this.

And like this.

Yup. So fun and enlightening.

On our way out of the museum, she asked me if I still wanted to go to the kid's "wonder discovery zone."

Yes! Of course I did!

Sasha met her soul mate, the turtle. (She definitely wouldn't get along with the hare.)

And I began a game called, "Be that animal!"
"Be a snake in brine!"

"A fish in brine!"

We took a brief break from "be that animal!" to make some rubbings in the children's zone.

To the batcave! (I can't help but wonder how many other people have taken this exact same picture, while saying the exact same thing. None, I would guess, since I'm so brilliant and original).

"Hey, it's one of those things!" Sasha said.
"Um, a giant seagull?"
"No, one of those things! They come from New Zealand."
"Um, a giant seagull?"
"No, it's one of those birds!"
"Well, it's obviously a bird." Sasha and I stood there in stumped silence. Until, yet again, brilliance hit me. "I have an idea. Maybe we should actually read the plaque. It will tell us!"

Brilliant, I tell you!

"Ohhh! An albatross!"
"Oh, like from the movie the Rescuers Down Under!"

This conversation is relevant in remembering the night, because it was actually pretty much the only thing I discussed with people once we got to the party. Strangely enough, people are quite vocal when it comes to their opinions and recollections on albatrosses. Who would have thought?

"Be that gopher!"

"Be that leopard!" [or was it a spotted jaguar?]
My growling skills that I learned during the 2006 calendar photo-shoot came in handy here.

"Be that lion!"
Sasha and her doppleganger.

Sasha has an affinity for raccoons. Ever since Project Pigeon Poke though, I'm not sure I feel the same way.

"Be that mystery animal with wings!"

"Be that bat!"

"Be that snake!"

After this photo was taken, a sad event occurred- my camera batteries died. I was unprepared for this turn of events, and was unable to capture the rest of the night that involved a Bob Marley mega-mix danceathon, an iguana, stylish plastic bag hats and a lot of gin.

I hope the Girl Scouts don't take away my badge.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Pictures that don't involve dead things.

Brie and Katrina are enrolled in a fashion photography class right now. What better excuse for me to take pictures?

Brie taking a picture of Sasha's judy. This photo is really backlit, but I prefer it that way.

The creepy hair salon next door. This sign featuring makeup from 1979 is not placed there for ironic or trendy purposes- it has actually probably been there since 1979.

This is also in the window, depicting how wonderful a facial must feel. I suspect this has also been in the window since around 1979. There were many other amazing signs in the window, but right after I took this photo, the owner of the beauty salon (who, by the way, is our next door neighbour and irrationally hates us) came out to yell at me.

Sasha doing a Chloe-esque jungle pose.

Sasha on our roof. Another really back-lit photo, but I enjoy it.

One of Brie's assignments was to take a photo of someone blowing bubbles.

She was also instructed to take pictures of someone taking photos. That would be me. This is a picture I took of Carlton street when Brie instructed me to sit on the ledge of our roof and take a picture.

I have bruises from being on the roof so much this week.