23 year old men

Ah, how the weekends do fly by. Especially when you sleep in until 11 o'clock so you have very little daylight to work with. This past weekend was a pleasant, low key one, which began with the viewing of Jack Black's newest flick "Nacho Libre". Black's corpulent, often half naked body was featured prominently in the film and his accent varied from the intended Mexican to some kind of Californian surfer-dude inflection. There were midgets. A couple of times I thought the movie had momentarily morphed into "School of Rock". Overall this movie was hilarious; I laughed so hard I cried within the first half hour. It was written and directed by the same guys that did Napoleon Dynamite, so if you liked that movie you will enjoy this one. And if you like seeing people get hit by beehives, you will like this movie. And finally, if the thought of Jack Black flexing his buttocks to the extent that his "slacks" ride halfway up his ass appeals to you, again, you will like this movie.
On Saturday I went to the Jazz Cellar at Broadway and Dunbar with a very good friend. If you have not been and are looking for an ideal, romantic date I highly recommend! The music was fantastic, the venue was very cozy and I think most people thought that my girlfriend and I were lesbians. That's okay, it would not be the first time that had happened. I'll not regale you with the entire story now, let's just sum it up by saying: no matter how frenetic your schedule is, it's never a good idea to go out for dinner with your friend of the same sex on Valentine's Day.
After the jazz club we decided to go for a drink in the neighborhood. This, strangely, proved far more difficult than one would have thought. It would appear that every young person in Vancouver was at a Hallowe'en party on Saturday night, and all the pubs, bars and various dens of iniquity were DEAD. We finally got roped into going into the Copper Tank by a very assertive employee of said establishment and, because it was raining and it appeared gay friendly, we decided to go in. Ah memories of the Sandcastle! There was a live band (badly) playing country music with a few top forty thrown in. Happy nostalgia. Some people were dressed up, and irony of ironies, one fellow was going as Napoleon Dynamite. Excellent. So we stayed for a drink and then my friend excused herself to go to the loo. I focused on the hockey game and, lo and behold, after I had been left by myself for three minutes a young man came over to me and said "Are you really married?", to which I turned, saw that he had kind of a cute Gord Downie thing going on and was at least five years younger than me, and said "yes, I am". Not to be deterred, he came up with one that was new to me "Like married married, or going to the bar married". Ah, young grasshopper. I replied "Take me you starving UBC student. I like your jaunty cap". No, I actually responded "Like married married", to which he said... come on, guess. Just guess! He said "cool" and then left. Cool indeed. Then my friend came back with a similar story as to how another youngster in the bar had declared that he loved her as she walked past. We left shortly thereafter, but I was left with questions, as I always am. Especially after tax exams.
Here are my scattered ruminations and unintelligible thoughts. What are 23 year old menboys thinking when they hit on women that are a least a handful of years older than them? Are they that sexually confident? Are they bringing something to the table that I happened to miss out on when I had my one night stands oh so many years ago? More specifically, are they in it for themselves, or are they interested in ensuring that whoever they manage to persuade into bed has as much fun as they do? The next day I had this conversation with Michael, with my argument being that the young guys are likely hopeless and the sex would be inadequate and that I don't understand where their confidence comes from. Michael basically said I was frigid. He suggested a scenario in which an unbelievably good looking guy takes home a woman who is enraptured by his looks and, while maybe she doesn't have as much "fun" as he does, the night can be passionate nonetheless because he is attentive and tries hard and is so good looking that it doesn't matter. I said, "Oh. Where are these men?". My solution to this whole inadequate one night stand sex was this: men should have scorecards. When women sleep with men, they can rate the various activities on a scale of one to ten, tally it up and maybe leave a comment or two. You know, something like "Johnny shows potential, and should be encouraged to try new things" or "if it weren't for the stellar toe-sucking, Dave should be taken out and shot". A guy, such as my 23 year old Gord Downie, would approach a girl, they can flirt harmlessly and then she can request to see the score cards. He will produce them, she can review his ratings, see where he excels and lacks, maybe make a couple of phone calls to check his references and then decide if she wants to go home with him. I think it works. I think I may add it to my election platform, which will now be comprised of:
1) huge tax credits for purchasing fuel efficient cars
2) ensuring separation of church and government
3) organizing a team of stealthy, elite ninjas to kill George Bush, Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, Tucker Carlson and Conrad Black
4) revising the Income Tax act from 2,800 pages to 100
5) legalization and regulation of marijuana and prostitution
6) a score-card review systems for one night stands
Hey, you might not agree entirely, but it's better than Stephen Harper!

Lost is getting dumb

Alright. So I raced home after a coffee date with a friend last night in order to watch Lost at 8 o'clock. Of course after I had careened through red lights, cut off several cars, engaged in a little bit of off-roading, and waved my fist in anger at an aged pedestrian (with what I inferred to be a bum hip and severe back pain) who was hobbling too slowly across the lane, I learned that Lost is aired again at 9pm. Oh well. The silver lining is that I got to brush up on my aggressive driving, and the august resident struggling to get over two lanes of traffic on a dark and rainy Wednesday night got his heartbeat up a little. Which likely killed him. But it's all worth it in the name of seeing Jack sweaty, stripped and strapped to a table. God bless the writers of Lost for that - but for that only! What the hell is with this show? If you missed it, because you have life, say, here is a synopsis for you:
Kate and Sawyer are still living in cages. Jack is in a building and he gets to watch cartoons. He was removed from his room to try and save someone that his team had shot, but she died. Kate got a clean change of clothing, but Sawyer got the snot beat out of him. They strapped Sawyer to the table and apparently put a pace maker in him that would cause his heart to explode if his heart rate exceeded 140 (which he could attempt to control by watching the heart rate monitor on the watch they gave him). To prove... something... they shook a bunny rabbit with the number 8 painted on it to death. Then Kate found out she could escape from the cage so she climbed out, but then climbed back in. Then the bad guy told Sawyer they were just kidding and they hadn't given him the pacemaker of death. Ha ha. Joke's on you. HOW STUPID! This is getting more retarded and convoluted than a soap opera. I am going to guess what next week's episode will be like:
Kate gets yet another change of clothes. This time, though, it is a Bavarian barmaid's outfit and the others tell her she has to shoot below a 68 on the golf course they have built specifically for this purpose or they will shake another bunny to death. The bunnies on the island band together and try to build a raft to leave, but when they get off the island they are astounded to find they have been sailing in circles... and in addition to procreating way too much, are running precariously low on carrots. Hurley runs out of food and dies within minutes. They find the Scottish naked in the forest. Again. Jack gets to watch CTV's Ghost Whisperer on tv as a reward for good behaviour, and in response attempts suicide by holding his breath. I get introduced into the show as the woman who gets to aid Sawyer in the shower. The CTV censors are outraged because they can't find enough black censor bars to cover everything that needs to be covered. Jin and Sun find a Club Med on the island but don't tell anyone and rack up a tremendous bill having far too many umbrellaed drinks and engaging in a twenty minute conversation which is not subtitled for the viewers. Locke comes out of the closet, and joins the naked Scottish guy in the forest where they frolic like nymphs.
Yeah. I'm not sure what to make of that show anymore. I feel like a whore for devoting another blog to it. I also kind of want a bunny.

A most productive Monday

In addition to honing my skills to better BS my way through exams, calculate the present value of some damn thing or another, and aid the residents of the Disney kingdom with all their irreverent and quirky tax and accounting issues, I have also become very adept at procrastinating. Yes. I was told to expect twenty hours of homework a week with my current class but my general loathing of the topic at hand, coupled with the fact that I am almost now counting the days that must pass before I am free (diploma in hand) from school, have resulted in heretofore unheard of levels of increased productivity in just about every other area of my life. Except exercising, of course. Exercising is hard, and it makes me winded.
Today I started (or didn't, depending on how you look at it) by deferring the laborious chore of getting out of bed. When I work I get up at 7. Today I got up at 9, after convincing myself that I had done something to deserve the extra two hours of sleep (though I did stay up later than normal the prior evening to watch THE TRAGICALLY HIP perform cuts from their new album "World Container" on CBC, hosted by none other my future husband George Stroumboulopoulos).
I then did a couple of hours of homework, but only after checking my work email in the hopes that some critical accounting emergency had arisen which could only, hopefully, be resolved with an hour long call in to the office. I also made coffee, wrote out a to-do list, and watered the plants. After my first crack at capital gains, I called my mom and had a lengthy conversation. Then I did some laundry. A little more homework and bam! it was time for a nutritional lunch to replenish all the vitamins and minerals that are undoubtedly necessary to maintain such high levels of not doing income tax.
Because I still had several hours remaining in the day, I showered, shopped for sundry items at London Drugs, taking meticulous care to ensure I was obtaining the best possible deal. This was followed by a trip to the fruit and veg store, and then the removal and folding and putting away of the laundry. A little more homework was managed, and then it was time for 40 minutes of pilates. Must keep limber!
I finished the final question and, having put in a solid 4 hours and 40 minutes of homework, will finish off the remaining hours of the day by blogging, checking email and watching Simpson repeats.
And this, my friends, is why I am getting 70% on my tax midterms. Can someone call me? Does anyone want to go for coffee? I have 3 hours to waste before I can officially call it a day...

I still hate tax

Well, I got the results of my first income tax midterm. Yeah, it was messy: 49/70 which works out to a B- or some such thing. Super. Apparently the high mark was around 58, and the class average was 50%. As one of my illuminating fellow classmates pointed out: if the class average is hovering around 50%, does that not mean that perhaps the teacher is lacking somewhat in her abilities. And then she proceeded to tell the teacher this. Good times. If I were a vindictive teacher (which I'm not, solely because I'm not a teacher, so that instead makes me a vindictive bookkeeper which is so not as scary) I would totally fail that student. I know why I did poorly though, so I can't blame the prof entirely (though she hasn't exactly been stellar).
Mostly the low mark came from, hmmm, how to explain? From not studying much. And drinking a lot of wine. I think there were a couple of "night out with the girls" in there, which tend to culminate in me sprawled on my fraying couch promising never to imbibe to such a wicked extent again. Oh, and the secondary issue that may have been detrimental to my mark related to me answering tax questions with gems like "if Client A simply opens an account in the Bahamas, he can launder all his income through there and avoid taxes in their entirety" and "why would Ms. X remit her quarterly tax remittance: she needs to stand up against the man since she voted for the Green Party in the last election". And, when pressed for time towards the end, I answered three questions with "I don't know", "$6,000" and "oh shit, we have to declare that?". I have a feeling I may be audited this year.
And such is my first income tax midterm. One more midterm and a final to go, and if I keep above 67% I will be a happy, barely knowledgeable, half blind graduate.
Oh, and also? I am purposely doing poorly so none of you will come and ask for tax advice in the coming months!!

Experiences of an inept texter

A few months ago, a friend of mine introduced to me to the novel concept of texting (and yes, he did look at me with pity – and a small degree of fear – that I, the reasonably intelligent person that I am, had yet to embrace this particular technology), which I have come to realize has both pros and cons.
Texting is fun, because it allows you to send a brief message to a friend or loved one, and it means “I’m thinking of you, happy face, but I don’t really wish to talk to you”. The person at the receiving end feels good that they are featured in their friend’s thoughts, yet feels no obligation to engage in conversation, though may return the message using some ridiculous emoticon or abbreviation that is to be interpreted “I am glad that we are friends and that you are thinking of me, wine glass, heart, thumbs up sign”.
My personal favourite is taking a scene from the BBC office, whereby Tim, who loves to ride and deride his colleague Gareth, calls him up (on his giant, dorky cell phone which is ensconced in a ridiculous ‘80s holster) and when Gareth answers, Tim simply says “cock” and then hangs up. This is fun to text to people randomly. And then hope they get the reference. I am also fond of “u suck”.
The downside of this is that sometimes texting seems like a good idea, at the time, which in one particular experience was after I had had two glasses of wine, but really is not. Such was the case when I was in Yorkville, Ontario a couple of months ago. I must say, in addition to being slightly tipsy, I was also suffering from an unfortunate mixture of giddiness at not being at work while knowing that my friends were, and jet lag. I wished to rub this in their face by saying “I’m in T.O., bitches”, however, finding the periods and commas proved tiring and cumbersome, so I fired off this glorious text, thinking it hilarious. What my friends received was “I’m in to bitches”. I was puzzled to receive a couple of text replies such as “why?” and “what happened?”. Clearly my friends were idiots, asking me what had happened. I had booked my vacation, gotten on a plane and was with Michael in Toronto: that is what had happened. Surely I had told them about this. It was not until some time later that I realized that they thought I had become a lesbian whilst traversing Ontario with Michael.
The other thing that puzzles me about texting is the voracity and dexterity with which some of my chums can bang these suckers out. After wrestling with my cell phone this past weekend to get out a 7 word message to a friend, I was stunned to receive one back in mere moments which was approximately a paragraph long, did not use contractions and used italics to underscore issues that the sender felt were important. I felt embarrassed and impotent, not unlike George Bush trying to read a children’s book about a goat.
Such is my texting experience thus far, at which, sad to say, I appear to be sorely lacking and slow in learning. Perhaps it is that I am missing opposable thumbs, which has proved difficult in the past. But at least now, when you receive “cock” on your phone, you will understand, somewhat, the meaning behind it.

Infallibility and the selling of Canada's secrets

The great thing about friends is their extraordinary ability to listen to the latest stream of verbal diarrhea, where you talk a bunch of smack and make idiotic, repetitive statements about something that you (and only you) find infinitely intriguing, and then, because they have known you for more years that you care to point out since that would make you feel old, they can easily write it off, or feign forgetting what it was you had been talking about in the first place. It's kind of like going to confession, except you don't have to say a bunch of Hail Marys afterwards, instead you have another glass of Lindeman's Bin 65 and tell them how much you love them.
Such was the case last night as I met up with two fabulous (effervescent, even) ladies with whom I have been friends for many moons. I remember the look on my friends' faces when I apologized that they had had to put up with my idiotic antics in the past. I think that up until that point I had thought of myself as being infallible; not being allowed to make mistakes. I don't know why I was so hard on myself: certainly I have seen the majority of my friends in various circumstances that perhaps didn't showcase their character in the best light, yet I have never judged or thought less of them, so why would they judge or think less of me? I do make mistakes, and I'm quite sure I will continue to engage in acts of incredulous stupidity as time passes. It's what being fallible human is all about. To err is human, to forgive divine.
Before I continue, and because this drivel is about to get even sappier, I will confess that I am not drunk or high, and am aware that such a glorious and uplifting blog about friendship is out of character for this author who fingers Hummers in her spare time. Instead of studying income tax.
I think that somewhere, betwixt bad perms, home economics, loser boyfriends, bad fashion choices, embarking on careers and engaging in post secondary education certain relationships become elevated. Up until now I have believed that only my family was immune to the situations in which I find myself entangled, and that only they had the good graces to roll their eyes, yet again, as they helped clean up the aftermath of some overblown drama. Now I understand that my friends offer this, and have offered it for longer than I have been aware, and in this they have become my family.
And because this blog has now reached a level of sappiness that is starting to make me queasy, I will leave you with this: what is up with people that cover their mouths when they're talking on their cell phones. I mean, what, are they selling state secrets? Are they calling plays in a football game? If the conversation is so confidential that you actually have to cover your mouth for fear of lip readers, don't have the conversation on the #16 bus, or at the Tim Horton's in Pacific Centre. You look like a dummah.

Hollywood thinks you're stupid

Daryl came over last night to watch Lost because his tv is only twelve inches or something ridiculous like that. Wait, was he talking about his tv? I dunno. At any rate, we grabbed some sushi (yes, Michael, I am actually getting sick o’ sushi having had it twice this week now) and had ourselves a little tete a tete before hot, hot Sawyer came on. I mean Lost. Hot, sweaty, dirty Lost.
For some reason we got onto the topic of lying. Wait, I remember the thought process: a commercial for a scary movie came on, I peed my pants and professed to be thoroughly terrified of scary movies (like Hustle and Flow), Daryl relayed some Bhuddist dogma to me about the negative energy needed to create such bloody gore-fests, I countered that it was disturbing that such a large segment of the population has a penchant for such violent carnage. Then there were a couple more links to the six degrees of Kevin Bacon-esque exercise and we finally arrived at lying. And how we dislike lying and how lying is bad. I professed that I would like to see Though Shalt Not Lie as the eleventh commandment (due to my staunch Catholic beliefs and fervent worship of the holy book, of course). We discussed how lying is common place – nay! utterly acceptable and rarely questioned – in our society. Let us take politicians for example: do you trust them? Would you agree that they are the most despicable, rotting lot you’ve had the displeasure of not meeting? They lie and they connive and weasel and WE DO NOTHING. Sure, the act of catching and trying liars would be akin to nailing jello to a wall, but there must be something the public can do to hold the people that are elected to lead our country accountable. Imagine a world where we could listen to a political speech, hear about a political platform – and then vote on it, knowing that it will be so! I currently elect my bureaucrats by discerning which one makes me feel least like showering in scalding water and scouring my body with a brillo pad. Politicians must think we are stupid.
Which segues nicely into the next topic: Hollywood thinks you’re stupid. See, I love Lost. I think there is a lot of nice eye candy, a unique and interesting premise and lots of divergent and converging plotlines (yes, I understand the opposing terminology of divergent and converging, but it holds), unfortunately there are some aspects of it that, no matter how undressed Jack or Sawyer are, I cannot get past, such as: the women don’t have hairy legs or underarms. I have tried to buy into the premise that razors were found in the luggage. That’s minor. The larger issue stems from the treatment of our beloved Jack, Kate and Sawyer by the infamous “others”. If you’re not a Lost fan you may wish to tune out now. But remember when our precious threesome were captured, and the head of the others told them that the others were “the good guys”? If that’s the case, why don’t the others just explain who they are, how they came to be on the island and stop making Jack and Kate sleep in a cage (though it was uber-funny when Jack walked into the plexiglass wall)? I don’t get it. And the head other guy tells Jack to “have patience”. Why? Well, I think it’s because if they just explained it all right now the series would come to a grinding halt. Yeah, they’d all sit down and have some chamomile tea and it would come out that the others are distant relatives Nordic Vikings that were waylaid on the island some centuries ago, and they’re xenophobic which accounts for their unfriendly behaviour, but that there’s a great therapist in the village and maybe if they all try, they can hug it out, bitches. So we’d have a couple of episodes of heartfelt apologies, and admission from Kate that she really can’t choose between Jack and Sawyer and perhaps a frisky ménage a trois would help clear her head (it would me, I tell you what). And we’d find out that Sun is actually pregnant with Hurley’s baby (another case in point: why isn’t the fat guy losing weight?). And then it’d pull a Bob Newhart and it would be discovered that this is all Charlie’s heroin induced stupor. But no, instead it is dragged out like a horrid soap opera (further proof – as if wrestling wasn’t enough - that the entertainment industry thinks you’re a dummah), becoming less intelligible with each passing segment. It begs the question: when will we see Jack and Sawyer naked? Sweet, sweet god, when?

It's hard out here for a pimp

A couple of people have recommended that I watch the film Hustle and Flow. I just want to state that no, I will not watch it. This is the plot line, taken from the Hustle and Flow page of the IMD website: "With help from his friends, a Memphis pimp in a mid-life crisis attempts to become a successful rapper." Okay. I'm not even sure where to begin. In fact, I'm so flabbergasted that I am first going to comment on something else: did you see the last Academy Awards? During the awards there was a performance of "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp", a song from the movie. Now think back, because I believe if you had seen the performance you would remember it. I remember it. I remember it because it was utter shite. I don't know any of the lyrics except for the refrain "it's hard out here for a pimp". Occasionally this refrain will get stuck and reverberate in my tiny pea head, enraging me like a dog that has been stung by a bee on his nose: what can the dumb dog do about it except keep clawing at his head? And this is what I do. Sometimes I try and render myself unconscious to stop that horrific train wreck of a song from looping over and over in my mind.
To return to the aforementioned (and now much lamented) Hustle and Flow let us start to dissect the plot line. With help from his friends, a Memphis pimp in a mid-life crisis attempts to become a successful rapper. Huh. I'm just really surprised that some dumb *sshole flogged that line to a bunch of marketing people and they said yeah, I'll buy some of that crazy you're selling. So, pimps have mid-life crises? It's kind of funny, because when middle aged white collar workers have mid-life crises they start to act kind of like pimps, showcasing all kinds of flashy shit, driving fast, heaty cars, etcetera ad nauseum. But let's really look at the crux of this statement: a pimp and a mid-life crisis. So what, up until now he thought it was all good? It takes him until he's like forty to realize that pimping out his stable of bee-atches isn't the thing to do? I mean, is he like sitting there at 4am some morning, drinking Jim Beam and smoking Camels and thinking "I really wish my highschool career counsellor hadn't recommended a life of pimping to me"? And then he does come to realize that he wants out and he decides that becoming a rapper is a sure bet? God knows that some days I want to throw down the Texas BA II Plus and the abacus and become a lion tamer, but, you know, it's a total shot in the dark and I have fears of not making it.
I'm bored with the plot line. I want to take issue with that shit song again. It's hard out here for a pimp. F*ck you. It's hard out here for a 30 year old bookkeeper with a diploma living in the most expensive city in North America. And guess what? I bet it's significantly harder for the prostitutes that have to have sex for money and then give some to the pimp. Yeah. Doesn't matter how bad my day is, how messed up my account reconciliations are, how late I am remitting GST: I never have to have sex against my will for money! I turn Michael down constantly.
Who dreamed this stupid movie up? Have we run out of people to feel sorry for? To make heroes out of? Let's see, we did the world trade centre, United Flight 93, Pearl Harbour, and we're currently idolizing the coast guard guys in choppers (the Guardian) and Iwo Jima. I think we have a long, long way to go before we have to start feeling sorry for - or caring about - pimps. We can put accountants on a pedestal for one. How about "it's hard out here for a tax accountant". Or we can give an ode to Monica Lewinsky via "it's hard out here for an intern in a stained dress".
I will not watch this movie.

Rummoli - it's Canadian!

Wow, it's a two blog kinda day. This blog will serve to illustrate my bi-polar disorder, having traversed from the trenches of nuclear warfare to Canadian boardgames.
After a lovely Thanksgiving feast at my folks' place this weekend, I was able to successfully cajole my unwilling family members into a rousing game of Rummoli (which is a strange hybrid of rummy and poker). It was a blast! I love board games as Michael will gladly attest to, as I often try and coerce him into a game of rummy or a chess match. Look, it's more fun than reading and it's more of a mental challenge than trying to understand the point or plot of Hugh Heffner's new show "Pimp My Slut" or whatever it's called.
I made my family play round after round until Michael and my brother ran out of chips, my dad eventually yawned and announced he was going to bed - it was like, 9pm, and I won the big pot. By pot I mean a lot of chips. By chips I mean round cardboard tokens.
Excited and euphoric from my win I had a great idea: I would take the game home with me and have a Rummoli night! This game is so easy to play (the poker part is a cinch because the Rummoli board has diagrams of all the possible poker hands you can have), and if you lose at poker, you can still win the other combinations on the board (my coup de grace was the Ace-King of Diamonds combo).
So. I would like to use this blog as an open invite to Rummoli night at my place. We can have some snacks, drink some beer, play for pennies (possibly, just possibly, nickels) and have a grand old time. I am thinking 7pm on Saturday, October 21st? If you've received a link to my blog you're invited! If you have no desire to play Rummoli with me, think of Michael. Poor, poor Michael. I will make him play and play all by himself if no one else shows.
If you would like to come please post a comment or fire me an email so I can gauge interest. Seriously, it's fun. It's an ideal game for someone who has kind of been wanting to start a poker night, but doesn't know how to play poker. In otherwords, if you're a loser like me, and Go Fish is your forte, you will have fun!

Kim Jong Il

Thanks to the creators of South Park, every time I see Kim Jong Il on the news I laugh. I remember the Kim Jong Il puppet in Team America, and I keep expecting him to say "Hans, Hans, you're breaking my balls here, Hans". But he doesn't. Now that we're on the topic of the illustrious Kim Jong Il (how would you shorten this? would you call him Kim? or Mr. Il?), what exactly is the ruckus about? So the guy wants nuclear weapons, don't we all? No wait, that was the wrong argument. My argument is this: the US, Russia, the UK, France, India and Pakistan all have nuclear weapons - why shouldn't North Korea? I mean, is anyone comfortable with any of these countries having the ability to nuke another country off the face of the planet? The US is scariest of all, because we all know that they can take sabre-rattling to an extreme with Canada when they realize that, due to an abysmal lack of conservation, preparation and rational thought, they are out of clean water and oil and want to pilfer ours. And how secure is Russia's big bomb? God, they probably don't have it anymore! It's been stolen and smuggled and sold on the black market and now the Russian Mafia have it and are going to change their mission statement from "ve take your gambling site down unless you give ten million dollars now please" to "ve take your country you capitalist pigs". The UK? Uh, yeah. Don't want to diss my English heritage, but I'm not entirely comfortable with some ruddy guy having one hand on the button and the other wrapped around a Guinness.
I guess kind of digressed there a bit and engaged in some unwarranted country bashing. Yeah. I really hate Greenland too. I mean, what's the deal down there? Does anyone live there? You never hear about them. What are they doing? Does anyone else get the feeling they're biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to do... something? I bet they've got the bomb for sure.
Okay, back to my original point: who died and left George Bush in charge? How come every time something of global significance occurs the world casts its eyes to him to shed some light on the situation? Who is he to say North Korea can't have the bomb? It's the same argument that relates to the environment: the "developed" countries have decimated their forests, polluted their waters to become the veritable superpowers that they are, but god forbid India should not follow strict environmental guidelines. And oh! let's all dictate what should be done with the Amazon. I'm certainly not advocating environmental irresponsibility here, and certainly in a perfect world Ed Begley Jr. would be president, but let's not forget where we came from.
Anyways. I don't purport to know what the answer is. If I were to guess, however, it would be that no one should have the bomb. And if it is totally necessary that such a weapon exist, then the UN should have it. But, since it does seem to be a race to get the bomb and to balance out the inequality between countries, we should try and get one too. Anyone know anyone? Got a little yellowcake uranium?

Blogworthy: the new “spongeworthy”?

Twice now I have been pressured to update my blog because too much time has lapsed, which is both complementary and trying. I am pretty excited that the three people who actually read my blog have created a little network amongst themselves, where they call or email one another and say, “Okay, whose turn is it to stroke Duder’s ego this time?”, and thusly they come up with comments that sing my blog’s praises, and ask for more frequent postings. On the flip side it is trying, because sometimes I become panicked as I try to determine what is “blogworthy” (to pay homage to Elaine on Seinfeld’s “spongeworthy”).
Here are some items that have been simmering on my back burner of indecisiveness:
• Last night I tightened the screws on the hinges of the door-closing mechanism on the entrance door to our building. I do this because our bedroom is located above the front door, and when the hinge mechanism isn’t set to Duder standards, the door slams loudly, waking me up, and causing me to punch my partner and yell at my coworkers the next day. I understand that this is a sign of total neuroses, which is underlined by the fact that the building manager put up a sign some months ago requesting that the individual who was messing with the hinges knock it off, because said messing was resulting in the door failing to close. See, I try to walk a fine line: how slow can the door close (to minimize the bang!) before it is too slow to have enough momentum to actually close all the way? Is this blogworthy?
• I bought a push up bra, and even I am now staring at my chest. I made a pass at myself last night when I was looking in the mirror. These things are amazing. The top boss at work said more words to me today than he possibly has in the two years that I have been in his employ. Is this a good thing? I have the same academic and intellectual capacity. Hmm… blogworthy?
• The guys that have moved into the suite downstairs are fourteen years old. I’m not kidding. I remember having crushes on similar looking guys when I was in Grade 9. How were they able to rent a suite? One of them rides a skateboard for Chrissakes. I’m not making this up. I went down to tell them to turn down their stereo last weekend (the dishes in our cupboards were actually rattling), and one of them came to the door carrying Optimus Prime and wearing a one-piece pajama thing with a bum flap. Blogworthy?
Yeah, I feel like I’ve got nothing today. I’m tapped out. It’s the Income Tax that’s killing me right now. I was pulling my hair out about a particular question the other night, and it went something like this:
Billy Jow is a music teacher at a local high school. He works full time and earns $50,000 per year. In his spare time he has started teaching piano lessons to kids in a spare room in his house. In talking with some of his friends he learns that he may be able to write off some of expenses as home office expenses. Billy earned $3,700 from May through December of 2005 and had the following expenses: music books $300; paper and supplies $900; piano and bench $2,400; snacks for students $200. What tax advice do you have for Billy Jow?
My answer was: pocket the money you dumb f*ck. It’s $3,700! Maybe in your spare time you can get a frickin’ girlfriend and stop entertaining – and feeding snacks to – minors in your house. You’re a loser. And what kind of shit piano did you pick up for $2,400??

I'm out

I suppose it has been a while. I wish that I had a good, interesting and valid excuse, but I really don't. My excuse is embarrassing and shameful. I think I might have ended up on the always entertaining show COPS over the weekend. Good times. Though I really don't want to regale you with the horrendous details of my Saturday night bacchanalia, I do feel the need to repent. Since my skin burns and people hiss at me when I try to attend church, I will instead repent here. Here is my prayer. I shall title this "Ode to an Overworked Liver".
Oh liver, how I love thee, and yet punish thee cruelly and unnecessarily. Quick shout out to stomach too, for the things I made you digest between 8pm and 1am on Saturday night. Liver, I am sorry to make you quaff such an extraordinary amount of (predominately) Okanagan VQA wine. I apologize for also making you have a Heineken at the Royal downtown. Oh brain, can you please fill in the gaping void that would explain what prompted me to hang out with a bunch of nineteen year olds at the Royal in the first place? Feet, beloved, calloused feet. I do blame you for taking me to Sip, after stomach and brain rebelled at the incessant loud and crappy music at the Royal, when instead you should have walked my sorry ass over to a cab. Oh body of mine, great betrayer and purveyor of dry heaves on Sunday.
And that is the "Ode to an Overworked Liver". To refer back to the title: I'm out. No more partying. I'm pushing thirty, it's too expensive, it takes too long to recover, it's not fun, and I shudder to think what anyone that had the misfortune of bumping into me (though more likely I stumbled into them) on that woeful evening thought of my character. There are an inordinate amount of things that I would rather spend my time and money on, and I shall start to explore these things in the Saturday nights to come.