The "knee turn"

So I’m getting off the always crowded #16 Arbutus bus after work yesterday, and I get the always perplexing “knee turn”. For those of you without public transit experience, the knee turn is a situation in which you are sitting next to the window, and you turn to the person sitting next to you to politely inform them of your impending stop, at which point they do not get up to let you out; rather they turn their knees away from you, leaving you to suck in your gut and decide (to quote Brad Pitt in Fight Club) whether to give them the crotch or the ass as you slide by. Am I alone when I say, what the hell is this about? Most people (obviously myself included) manage to stand up, move aside, and allow the exiting party, baggage in tow, to sail past unmolested. In this particular instance I had my (fashionably) large purse and my lunch bag in one hand and, due to the severe angle at which I had to contort my body in an effort to extricate myself from this veritable jungle of limbs, seating and handrails, I managed to inadvertently smack the offender in the back of the head. Needless to say I did not apologize. Michael later asked “how old was this woman?” and I replied that she seemed to be in her late forties or early fifties. His pursed mouth and pained expression led me to believe that I should acquiesce to this woman’s knee turning rationale, because she wasn’t some slack-jawed, gum-chewing juvenile. Either that or his expression meant he had a BM coming. I, on the other hand, believe that her age would have led her to know better, and to practice “do unto others” etiquette.
There are other actions lacking courtesy that I witness periodically on my journey from the downtown core to my happy little ‘hood. The all too familiar situation of young, able bodies taking up seats designated for seniors and the disabled. There are the puzzling individuals who sit next to an empty window seat; clearly introverted and misanthropic riders, clinging to the vain hope that, during the rush hour swell, no one will inquire as to the availability of the seat next to them. Additionally there are the mentally defective that neglect to shed their backpacks, continually and obliviously butting it against other patrons, while engaging in jocular banter with their friends.
To bring this particular castigation to a close, I would kindly petition you to avoid the knee turn when letting someone off the bus… lest you get slapped in the back of the head.

I'm back!

Hello all! Sorry for not updating you on my whirlwind tour of Toronto and London, Ontario. I was really busy... and not really thinking of any of you at all. Just kidding! So our trip was fantastic, I greatly enjoyed it. Toronto is a very beautiful, walkable, vibrant and varied city. We stayed in an excellent hotel in the financial district and were able to walk to all important ports of call: CN Tower, CBC, the Blue Jays game, Kensington, St. Lawrence Market, Little Italy, MuchMusic, and scores of other places that I am surely forgetting!
We arrived in Toronto at some goddawful time early Tuesday morning (we flew out after I wrote my Auditing exam ). After doing T.O. we took VIA Rail to London, which was cool because at 29 years of age I had yet to take a train! London, where Michael spent his formative years, was beautiful. It is very lush, treed with numerous parks and a very cool downtown area. We had a great, but short time there and then suddenly it was time to go home.
I would like to share more of my experience with you, but I would be blogging forever, so instead I am going to generate my third Kerrisdalean. This is the newsletter I "publish" after Michael and I take our trips together. If you are interested in getting a copy of it, please let me know and I will give/mail you one. They're pretty lengthy and we try and include some photos so people have a good idea of the trouble we got into. The trouble on this trip would be: arguing with a CTV executive (who is married to the ex-Much VJ Teresa Roncon); almost punching a person from Quebec on the flight home; my endless search for liquor while in T.O.; the inordinate amount of dead cats; finding the vortex of the world in London at Jalna and Jalna; spending a lot of money on some nice clothes because everyone in T.O. dresses really nicely and I was made to feel like a tree-hugging hippy.
Yes. So, I am definitely glad to be back. I cannot wait to see you all and share my adventures (and endless pics) with you. Hopefully against your will.
I understand things went smoothly in my absence. My mom said it was blissfully quiet. Well I'm back, baby. Time to stir shit up. Vive la CBC!

Shut up, I'm trying to study!

Those of you that well acquainted with me know two things: 1) I have been in school for bloody ever, and 2) I really fret about not doing well on my final exams. You likely also know that I write my final Auditing exam on Monday. As such, I have devoted this weekend to studying, but I am having difficulty doing this. See, some brain damaged individual is playing some "music" (I use the term loosely) too loudly for my taste, and it has essentially become a countdown till the minute the twitch in my eye starts and I rush out into the street, frantically searching for the source of this shitty, horrible noise, and burst into this individual's apartment, yank the electrical cord of their sound system out of the wall and wrap it around their freakin' neck.
I might quickly interject here, that earlier in the day I had to deal with a small Lear-type jet intent on strafing Kerrisdale. It would go roaring past, sending people fleeing for cover (I mean seriously, since 9/11 I think we all get a little paranoid when we get the feeling that maybe, just maybe, that plane is flying somewhat lower than it should). Michael informed me that the pilot was practicing his "touch and go" procedures. Mostly that just made me mad that he would even know what the hell that meant. Touch and go. So similar to our very relationship: he touches me, and I go have a shower.
Anyways, back to the topic of audacious noise assailing me. It's like a mix of Zanfir, Celtic bag pipes and Native American chanting with a disco beat. And it's being played loudly, which I don't necessarily mind on a sunny Saturday afternoon in my 'hood: if it's not cack. And it's started me wondering: who would listen to this? Is it old people who are deaf? Is it young people that have no idea what real music is? And lastly, when I play my music loud it's because I've had a glass or two of wine and I want to rock out a bit. Who is rocking out to this? I mean, are they flying around dancing a mad jig and wigging out on flutes in their living room?
Ah, sweet relief. The music has stopped. The bustle and honking of the traffic on 41st, cars rolling past with their vibrating bass, the chirping of cars being alarmed and de-alarmed and people twisting their tires forty-six times back and forth as they parallel park outside my apartment is music to my ears.
Oh - I spoke too soon! It's back. Now it's a flute mixture coupled with what appears to be a Gregorian monk chant. Someone is going to perish in Kerrisdale this afternoon. It's "touch and go". All I need is an ice cream truck, with it's tinkly, blaring tune (that makes me hungry), to break down out front.

My religion

Once I'm done this auditing course (which is taking up a RIDICULOUS amount of my time), I'm going to give some serious thought to creating my own religion. I mean, if someone can dream up such gems as Scientology and Mormonism then there's got to be some room for me.
The questions/issues that I am finding with religion are as follows:
1) We tend to select a religion based on what our parents subscribed to. If your daddy was a member of a white supremacy group, would you adhere to that morality as well?
2) We also tend to buy into the religion that is dominant in our geographic locale. For example, being born here and opting to go out and "find God", I would likely look to Baptism, Catholism, Lutheranism, etc, solely because they are prolific here in Canada. There are so many more religions, most that we are probably totally unaware of, to choose from so why do we not explore them all?
3) Religion tends to make a sin out of things that make us feel good, like premarital sex and masturbation. Why?
4) Why does marriage factor into religion anyways? I guess I need to re-read the bible, but I don't remember a lot of big weddings being mentioned in it, so where did the concept of marriage come from, and why are we living in sin if we're not married?
5) The earth sustains human life, shouldn't religions really be focusing on that?
6) Religions seem really keen on interpreting their good book and then writing down the "rules". As we've all seen, a lot of religions within the same vein can't seem to agree on the same interpretations (is dancing good/bad? should we drink/not drink). What is our obsession with trying to convert what are essentially parables, into quantifiable rules? Can't we just leave it open to interpretation? Wouldn't that lead to more conversation and soul searching, versus the concept of going to hell because someone chose to interpret something literally?
These are just a few issues I have with religion, so I think that my religion will be the antithesis. It will be about respecting the earth, because the earth gives us life. It will be open to interpretation and discussion. It will be positive instead of guilt ridden. Everyone can join. There will be pony rides. Lots of wine. Maybe orgies on special occasions. Auditing will be banned.
Peace out.

My god-like ability to create

Hello again. I think there is a direct correlation between my marked disinterest in my auditing homework and my piqued interest in my blog.
So I am embarking on a rather exciting journey tomorrow: I am returning to see a specialist to start down the road to getting my tubes tied. I had originally gone to see this fellow perhaps a year and a half ago. After refusing to go back on the pill, use the patch or insert any number of strange birth control doodads into my body, he explained the tubaligation procedure to me. This gave me pause, and I took some time before "making my decision" to go ahead with the butchery.
However! Tomorrow I go to visit the specialist again, to confirm my interest in never becoming pregnant for as long as I live. I can hear a collective sigh from my mother and grandmother as I write this, but they still have Jason to bully around.
So, kind of an interesting thing that's going on with me. Though not as interesting as the janitor in Pacific Centre that yelled "He's gay!" in the general vicinity of the Starbucks there. I don't know what that fiasco was about.
I'll keep you updated, right up until they immerse me in the ether and tell me to count backwards from ten. Lucky I've taken auditing, so I'll be able to accommodate them!

Inbred cats

Michael, task master that he is, politely informed me that I hadn't updated my blog for a while. So I put aside my audit case (due in one week), and postponed the necessary cramming for my auditing exam (writing in two weeks), to impart my words of wisdom and wit to the two people that read this.
On Saturday night I met up with a couple of stellar ladies at Section 3 downtown. I must say the tapas were divine. There was an illuminated sign spelling "NERD" over the bar, which I found overwhelming and intimidating. Highschool memories tend to linger... The fun part at Section 3 was our waiter. He was pretty. I don't want to say anything too vicious, because I am sure he is a great person. I will instead tell you a story about a cat. You know how the bible is full of the action adventure parables of Jesus Christ? This is similar. I will play the role of Jesus.
Many moons ago, Michael and I took a trip to Lethbridge. I know, WTF, right? Maybe I should back the story up a bit further. Michael's brother Rod and his family live in Lethbridge, and Rod was able to get a screaming deal on a Chevy Lumina through his work. Since Michael was driving a Sherman Tank at the time (every time he got into the car there was an air quality warning in the GVRD and Osama sent him a thank you note), it was decided that we would fly to Lethbridge to visit with his relatives, and then drive the new car home. But we're here today to speak of the cat.
Because of allergies, Rod's family had a hypoallergenic cat. I'm not specifically sure how this works, but I went with it. The cat was very beautiful, with regal composure and a long, powdered gray coat. It walked like a supermodel struts. They also had a new puppy with those cute, razor sharp puppy teeth that manage to penetrate thick socks as though made of butter (oh - remind me to tell you about the time Michael wore butter socks). At any rate, I can testify that the teeth were very sharp, like my wit. I lost about a pint of blood over that weekend. So one day the dog goes after the hypoallergenic cat. I braced myself, having a flashback to what happened the day we brought my dog, Blacky (shut up) home: my cat climbed to the top of the curtains and hung there as the dog tried to eat him. At any rate, sure that fur was about to fly and someone was going to lose an eye, I looked on. The dog went for the cat and started chewing on the thing's tail! And the cat just sat there. Unflinching. The razor sharp teeth were paring down on this cat's bony tail and it looked mildly perplexed, like it was thinking of having a reaction, but wasn't sure which one to have (like when Michael asks me for sex). And then I realized that this poor cat was so inbred or genetically modified that its brain was mush, and it couldn't even react normally to the most basic things. And that is my parable about the pretty waiter.
In other news, Michael and I returned to Mahoney's at UBC for lunch, this time with my mother. We sat outside under a tree and I promptly became infested with aphids. My mom told us that ladybugs eat aphids. So I ate my pesto chicken ciabatta and patiently waited to become infested with ladybugs.

Phantom... of an opera

Last night I had dinner and went to see Phantom of the Opera with some good friends. I really had no idea of what to expect, which turned out to be a good thing. Where to begin?
The opening scene was kind of entertaining (set in the future), showcasing an auction of some infamous opera items: the cymbal bashing monkey, something else of some significance, and the opera's chandelier - renowned because it was this chandelier that comes crashing down on our heroine (unfortunately not killing her). Anyways, as the auctioneer announces the chandelier it starts to light up and move about maniacally as the famous chords from the opera are pounded out on the organ. As the chandelier lurches to life, swaying and shaking, with dark and nefarious music belting out of the orchestra pit I think: this could be cool. Okay yeah, and then the chandelier breaks. I'm not kidding; it goes from storming and swashbuckling over the stage to kind of jiggling and limping around (while the music is still bellowing feverishly) like Richard Simmons. It kind of meanders and shimmies around the stage for a while (you can practically hear the stage hands sweating) and then an announcement is made that they are having technical difficulties, and could we please be patient. So they fix it and the show goes on.
Now, I don't know how savvy you are on the storyline of Phantom, but I must confess that I had some questions as the plot unfurled. Here are my questions (along with some assumptions):
1) apparently the heroine, Christine, was being tutored by the phantom (though she never saw him), and she referred to him as the "Angel of Music" and thought that he was either: a) the ghost of her dead father or b) an angel sent to her by her dead father. Right. So just to clarify: she's getting tutored by a disembodied voice that has something to do with her dead dad, and she's okay with that.
2) when all the opera singers sing at the top of their lungs (the more cultured version of a banjo duel), what they are singing is unintelligible, therefore critical dialogues are not understood, leaving the opera patron perplexed and with a headache. This isn't an assumption, it's just my humble observation.
3) the phantom can shoot fireworks from his staff. I was totally hoping the curtains would catch on fire, but they didn't.
4) the opera's ballet mistress also has a staff (but no pyrotechnic abilities) and I think the fact that both she and the phantom have staffs is an avenue that should be explored. To quote a friend of mine, it would great to see them "fight like Jedi".
5) the phantom isn't really a phantom at all. He's a disfigured guy that lives beneath the opera house. When the second act began, I started to refer to him as the "monkey boy in the basement". It helped assuage the fact that I really had to go pee.
6) the lyrics were really bad. Here is an example:
RAOUL
Why have you brought us here?
CHRISTINE
Don't take me back there!
RAOUL
We must return!
CHRISTINE
He'll kill me!
RAOUL
Be still now . . .
CHRISTINE
His eyes will find me there!
RAOUL
Christine, don't say that . . .
CHRISTINE
Those eyes that burn!
RAOUL
Don't even think it . . .
CHRlSTlNE
And if he has to kill
a thousand men -
RAOUL
Forget this waking nightmare . . .
Yeah, it actually goes on longer than this. And they sing it, they don't talk it.
7) I'm going to sing instead of talking at work on Tuesday.
Okay, so that was pretty much it. Oh, except that people stood up and starting giving a standing O at the end. I did not, though I do think a shout out should go to the chandelier guys, for the Shakira imitation.
Then I came home to my lovah, and we discussed a mind-blowing movie that we recently watched called My Dinner with Andre. It was absolutely stellar and one of the best movies I have ever seen. I strongly encourage you to rent it. And then, as though karma wanted to reward me for the 2.5 hours I had spent at the Queen E earlier in the evening: the Big Lebowski came on. Lotta strands in old duder's head right now. God bless the Coen brothers. Now that's an opera I'd pay to see.

Mmmmm... doughnuts....

Is Thursday "High Heel Day" downtown or something? I went for my afternoon jaunt to grab a coffee at my beloved Timmy's, and noticed an inordinate amount of women perched on precarious footwear. It wasn't just a couple of ladies: it was a significant proportion. Since I don't normally work Thursdays I can only infer that Thursday is in fact "High Heel Day". Of course the more likely scenario is that all these women are dressed up, accentuating their legs and flashing their decolletage because they are all being taken to sleek, chic restaurants for dinner and drinks by their wealthy, stockbroker beaus who fawn over their every word (yet still grapple intermittently with their Blackberrys, while pretending to pay rapt attention), and take them to Whistler several times a year, pretend to be okay with the box of tampons left in the loo of their Coal Harbour pad and buy them La Perla lingerie every Valentine’s Day. This will continue unabated for maximum of two years, at which point our metrosexual will realize that his collection, currently comprised of: a BMW (or Jetta or Audi); beater Honda; two bedroom condo replete with 24 hour concierge; a BA (minimum) from UBC or SFU; wardrobe resplendent with Abercrombie and Fitch and Banana Republic; and an obligatory well-worn leather attaché case, is missing the ultimate accoutrement – a pretty, petite wife (she can be heavier if she comes from a distinguished family). And so they will marry; it will be a surprisingly smallish affair, but tasteful and expensive, exchanging platinum wedding bands from Birks. They will upgrade to a townhouse, and our husband will be promoted a couple of times and start working longer hours, or so our content housefrau will believe, until she starts to uncover evidence that her beloved is boffing his assistant, or possibly a coworker. If it turns out to be former she will do nothing as she isn’t threatened by some 22 year old tartlet, no matter how pliable she may be. However, if her rival turns out to be the coworker, tall, willowy Tina or whatever her name is (she can’t remember, she was a bit tipsy at the last office party), the one that is the runner – didn’t her husband say they’d been out jogging together on their lunch hour? – and has very toned and athletic thighs, not to mention an impressive resume highlighting her talent (corporate takeovers), and that way of acting so dismissive when she calls on the weekends (!) wanting to consult Charles on some damn document or the other, if it’s her… well, that’s a different story, now isn’t it?
The best part of today was the sour cream glazed doughnut I had. Who gets the crappy bread doughnuts? Don’t you know what you’re missing (besides a whopping 17 grams of fat)? It was soooo good. And it’s someone’s birthday at work, and it’s rumoured there will be a cake appearance later on this afternoon! Hooray for my sugar high!

Caffeine

I was out with a friend of mine the other day and, because it was 7:30 at night, I grabbed a decaf coffee at one of the fifteen Starbucks located within a six minute walk of my apartment. While sipping my piping hot beverage I mused "how do they decaffeinate coffee?", to which my friend laughed. Thanks man, I wasn't kidding. How do they decaffeinate coffee and how does one really know that it is decaf? Someone opine on this, please.
In unrelated news (okay, it's vaguely related because it occurred en route to obtaining yet more coffee, of the caffeinated variety this time), a coworker of mine told me he had something for me: it was an Evangelical pamphlet. He had a pretty deadpan delivery, and I was unsure if he possessed a level of dark sarcasm to rival my own, or if he really felt my soul needed saving. I did keep it though; it was full of really great, uplifting excerpts from the good Book (of guilt). Stuff like: Christ died for your sins so you should never try to seek happiness; we're all condemned to hell the minute we're born; Freud called, your mother hates you; and don't eat donuts, tubby. Religion, so joyous and happy making.
As a joke, I'm going to create a religion and say some shit about people being expelled from earth and then returning to earth and being dumped in volcanoes because they were bad, and then their ghosts wander the earth and then more humans came and they got the alien/ghost DNA in them and you have to test your level of bad alien DNA. And then I'm going to marry Katie Holmes after I knock her up. I'm actually kind of scared writing this, since Tom Cruise seems to have mythical, far reaching powers that enable him to control the media (maybe it's the bad alien/ghost DNA). I still haven't seen the Scientology South Park, it's like it's verboten or something! But here's the really creepy thing: has anyone seen the trailer for the new Will Ferrell movie Talledega Nights: the Ballad of Ricky Bobby? When the clips first came out they showcased Will Ferrell running around in his underwear (again) screaming "I'm on fire! Help me, Jesus! Help me, Tom Cruise!" - I assume an homage to Days of Thunder. Anyways, the new trailers have him saying "I'm on fire! Help me, Jesus! Help me, Oprah Winfrey!". Come on, how weird is that? Especially after Cruise wigged out on the Oprah Winfrey show. It's conspiracy, man.