not quite bread and circuses

The thing is, I am totally guilty of rolling my eyes and/or gagging whenever “Pokerface” comes on anywhere, ever, and even though “Paparazzi” is a huge hit that sends all the gay men flocking to the dance floor to vogue when it’s played at the club (if by club you mean the tiny, slightly seedy only-gay-bar-in-town – 3 dolla drinks, holla! – that is, sadly enough, really the only night spot worth going to, and I do), I just haven’t been feeling Our Lady of Weird. I mean, girl deserves props for her totally out-to-lunch schtick and formidably wacky dress sense – I wouldn’t go quite so far as to call her original, and her chumminess with Perez Hilton is sort of worrying, but she is definitely a breath of fresh air in the pop scene. Fresh, bedazzled, muppet-wearing, probably vaguely latex and cigarette scented air.

But no more. She had me at the killer sparkly McQueens (yes, I’m a closet fashion geek, deal with it), which, if I owned them, would certainly be strutted in the grocery store, because those long shiny aisles are the closest thing to runways we have in this charming backwater, and also I completely fancy the idea of stomping about, a foot taller than I actually am, and terrifying small children in the produce section. Actually, I secretly believe all crazy couture should be purchased and worn to the supermarket – c’est surrealistically appropriate, n’est pas? If I had the bucks to own anything couture I would dress in nothing but, because you only live once, right? Actually, I just wish I had the bucks to own this, which I deeply desire, or bucks at all, really. But I digress, as per usual. I read one review of this video in which the reviewer professed to being reduced to the spouting of nouns – as in “The big sunglasses! The ugly cat! The sex trafficking! The fire! The hair! The fire-boobie contraption’s comeback!” – and I can’t disagree. This shit has to be seen to be believed, because I posess no adequate verbiage to describe its phenomenally strange and fabulous excellence. Go hither, young padawans.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
It’s the first real, lovely snow of the year, and though my facebook friends page is filled with moaning and groaning and decrying the arrival of the white stuff, I chose to sleep in to eleven rather than get up at nine, and now I’m lying under layers of soft, colorful (and most importantly, warm) blankets with no inclination to join the rest of the world at all, ensconced as I am in my hideaway. Especially when the weather is like this I can’t help but imagine my little room as lighthearted version of Rapunzel’s tower, high above the earth. Weirdo, you are saying. I’m sure it’s a fair accusation. Don’t know what it is about snow that, as much as I will complain about it in the coming months, makes me feel safe and domestic and ready to skip through it going “tra la la”. Maybe memories of being a kid coming in after playing outside all day, the niceness of putting dry clothes on, mum having hot chocolate ready, noses and toeses thawing, falling asleep in the dark afternoon only to wake up to supper and laughing with my sister and brothers.

My daily gratitude, something I’ve decided I’m going to post each day in an effort to remember how lucky I am to be afforded such love and magic as I have, is for my irreplaceable P & K, the friends I have known and loved for 9 and 12 years now, respectively, and who I hope to know, love, and laugh with for many years to come. Most people feel lucky to have just one best friend, and somehow we each got lucky enough to have two. In truth there have been times they’ve driven me crazy, times I’ve thought “I wish I knew how to quit you” (and giggled), times I’ve felt left out and mismatched and misunderstood, but it doesn’t matter. It can’t. How can one say anything but thank you for such profound love and friendship?

Moving to Vancouver to become a massage therapist because when I got a shiatsu massage this summer (in a yurt in the coastal forest in the middle of a thunderstorm, no less), the therapist asked if I had ever considered healing as a line of work, effectively lodging the idea in my brain – good idea? Yes or No.

I’ve been having trouble the last few years because I’ve always called myself a writer, always felt like a writer, always planned to make my living from that when I could – but I tripped myself up in the process, asking too much of myself for too little work, then wondering, agonised, why I was producing so little I liked? Learning to trust my voice again has happened slowly and is the reason I’ve started squirrelling my random thoughts away in this blog. I don’t care who likes or doesn’t like them, or even if I like them very much. It’s just the doing, and I think it’s working. P and I have a spectacular project planned that commences Sunday…stay tuned!

Thinking more and more about treeplanting in the coming year, even going so far as trying to get hired for the spring plant with companies that do it down south. I think I have the motivation for the money, and enough suprising strength and determination to be good at it if I tried. There’s an office job that least might be nice, at least in terms of pay, but the more I think about the more I think, “hell, I’m young”, and probably too young to be bored and so responsible, too alive to not go after the marrow of life. What to do, what to do?

I’m ashamed to say I’ve been feeling sorry for myself lately, to the point of believing only the cat loves me, and even then only because I am a most skilled scratcher of behind-the-ears and rubber of pudgy feline tummies. Partly, I blame the shitty fall weather and having nowhere to hoop my troubles away. Partly I blame a late surge of PMS hormones, which, like their manufacturer, can’t seem to do anything in an appropriately timely fashion. Mostly though, I blame the distance of people whose lives have changed dramatically in the last year, or few years. Intellectually I know that this is the way of life, and that we can’t forever while away hours laughing in smoky rooms, or shivering in front of the coffee shop. But damn if it doesn’t feel like a long time since I’ve had anyone to talk to properly about anything at all that comes to mind – like, for instance, restless dreadlocked men who dash in and then out of one’s life before one has had a fair chance to get to know them properly. Roomie P is dear to my heart and I’m infinitely glad to have him around again, but he can’t always be here (nor would I want him to), and he isn’t always the most perceptive or patient bloke, to me anyway. This must be how married people feel, when the novelty of togetherness has worn off and they stop paying real attention to one another. Thank Jesus on a jungle gym that we’re not and never will be married! But I digress. I’ve been in a funk. I’ve been stewing. It’s been one funky stew over here, let me tell you, seasoned liberally with afternoons spent ceiling gazing (which genius came up with the idea of that so-called “popcorn” texture, anyway?) to the dulcet tones of Meatloaf and lashings of nacho cheezies.

Then tonight around seven P wandered in with A and a bag containing the makings of a chicken caesar salad and garlic mashed potatoes. I put on some music and threw together an apple crisp, then we ate and sat around and giggled and suddenly all was right with the world. I felt blessed just to be full and whole and loved, lying in the world’s most comfortable bed watching Glee. Simple things, dude. They make the world go round and I would do well to remember that.

*

So a few days ago I burnt my tongue on some delicious steamed-milk-with-a-coconut-flavour-shot and then I couldn’t really taste for about 24 hours; tonight I was brushing my teeth (and making faces in the mirror, I must admit, but who doesn’t?) when I noticed some weird white patches on said tongue. I brushed one experimentally, and to my horror some skin started to peel off. It didn’t hurt or anything, but to say it was weird and kind of gross is an understatement. I guess it makes sense, that it would have to shed the dead tissue after trauma, but I was suprised. Then, being the grownup form of that kid who asked for a microscope for Christmas and gleefully made slides of the grass, hair, fingernails, and onion skin, my curiousity got the better of me and I took a closer look. Turns out, tongue skin is kind of fucking cool. Soft and stretchy and full of holes where I guess it must have fit over my tastebuds, reminding me, in structure at least, of honeycomb. I won’t lie, I oohed and ahhed over it for a few minutes before I threw it out and got on with the rest of my bedtime routine. Giant dork whaaaaaaat?

First things first: I have decided that Tunde Adebimpe may well be the sexiest motherfucker on the planet. See here and here and here for proof. You may not believe me, and that’s fine, but I will be forced to conclude that there’s something wrong with you.

In related news, TV on the Radio are pretty awesome. I’m pretty sure everyone and their uncle’s schnauzer loves Wolf Like Me, but it is one hell of a pop song, whatever that means, and who doesn’t love a fucking werewolf sex ballad? It’s exquisitely written, and if you don’t dance when you hear it, again, there is something wrong with you.

I love when I’m wandering around kind of burnt out and depressed, too distracted by mundane details of everyday life to pay attention to my mp3 player, and then this little number builds up and bursts out of nowhere and sends tingles down my spine, making me stare up at the ceiling in rapture and wish to god that
if I could just write the same way the song makes me feel, I’d be doing alright.

The song “About a Boy” by Patti Smith- yes, it was written about Mr. Cobain, from what I understand – sneaks up on you in the same way and sort of delivers a stunning smack to the side of your head. I think once read something, somewhere (links as soon as I feel like rummaging through my favorites) that described this elegant bit of noise as having a “ragged, scuffling beauty” and I am not inclined to disagree.

To date I’ve never really thought much of The Ting Tings, but this one makes me dance like a freak. I walked around town listening to it for like two hours, I kid you not. My legs are still sore today.

And doesn’t this sound like something you swear you’ve heard before and can’t for the life of you remember where? First we had werewolves fucking, now we have robots fucking. I bring the good shit, people.

However, you can thank my gorgous web-and-fashion-savvy roommate P for introducing me to this one:

Ooh, and this:

As well as this series, for which I am pretty convinced Isabella Rossellini should win all Oscars ever.

*

I dyed my hair and I’m not sure I’m crazy about it. I got a part-time seasonal job somewhere I was sure I’d be stoked to work and I don’t know if stoked is how I feel. Lately my friends are distracted so me and myself have been hanging out a whole bunch. We need to read more books, and probably to get outside more. Occasionally it’s hard work, learning to enjoy your own company. I’m getting a case of smalltown itch again. I’ll admit I’ve been pouting over the sad lack of suitable suitors. I just want someone who doesn’t mind lazy afternoons spent dazzled by the brilliance of Zeppelin and Queen on the old turn table, making out, and gorging on tasty delights. Must love extremely cuddly Rasta cats, books, discussions about time and the end of the word, dancing, and girls who stay up too late going googly-eyed from staring at YouTube too long . Now accepting applications.
I spend half my time wondering why the hell I ever thought I could write – the other half convinced that I could do something exceptional if only I could get over being self-absorbed and insecure. I set myself a deadline of two years to write and complete a rough draft of a hundred-page novel. It can be utter shit, I just have to do a bit every day, which seems overly reasonable. I also spend an inordinate amount of time considering which career pursuits (other than writer, which was always my airy-fairy dream) could possibly be worth several hundred hours of my precious existence. These days I draw a blank. I just want to do something worth really getting up for in the morning.

I look in the mirror and say to myself (yes, out loud): Welcome your early twenties, your weirdest/most miserable/best/most confused time of life so far. Smile. Wash and put on your face. Brush your teeth. Hug someone at least once a day. Keep your head down but your chin up. Keep the imagination ticking. Sort out the difference between want and need. Don’t be an asshole, don’t hurt anyone. Thank whoever you mutter to when times get tough that you aren’t starving or getting shot at. Breathe.

Everything will be OK.

Obviously, champions munch out on tuna and quinoa salad with peanut sauce, plain yoghurt with organic honey and strawberries, a banana, quaff a mug of Earl Gray, and check their email before rushing off to save the world. Or, as the case may be, before rushing off to dazzle prospective employers with their charm and professional aptitude. Wish me luck?

This is just a dump of photos from my life taken over the last two years.

Mr. Fantastic from the fantastic four. He’s got arms made of elastic so they can stretch for two maybe three hundred miles. He’s been imprisoned in a cave for seven days with no food and no water and no light. And on the eighth day, he manages to loosen a rock and push his way up through the top. And up into the daylight, just as the sun is coming up over the mountains and filling the sky with this white yellow light. And there’s a stillness. And in the few minutes he’s got before his captor—the evil Dr. Doom—returns, he stops for one second. And all he can hear is his own breathing. And he’s totally overwhelmed by how big the world is, and how small and unimportant he is. And as he turns around, you see his face look to the sky and he says very quietly, so that no one can hear him, he says, “Dazlious.”

Sometimes I should feel like I should be ashamed of my love of rap.

But then I think “whatever”, because I will freely admit to dancing to Britney Spears, and I think Ray of Light was a brilliant album, and I like Zeppelin for the moments when it is essential to dance around in my underwear, and I dig Joy Division as well as Queen, and Bjork. I call TV on the Radio “probably my favourite band”. I like Tori Amos and even though I’m iffy on what exactly he’s about, I love Snoop Dogg’s voice. I also found out I loved the Distillers after I saw Brody Dalle and thought she was a babe. True Story. I figure I can chill with Joe Strummer, Le Tigre, and Jay-Z all at the same time, and not compromise whatever passes for cred around here. I just like music and I think it’s silly to have a complex about liking certain kinds of music. I think of it as promoting diversity.

The video that accompanies the song is slightly random, but this is a good one. I love the line, “made a date with Divinity/but she wouldn’t let me fuck.”

After TV on the Radio on the List of Bands I Really Like I usually list CunninLynguists. I was sucked in after hearing Love Ain’t and have been gleefully listening my way through their stuff since.

Shut up. Yes, I love me some Biggie.

“We can burn the incense, and just chat/Relax, I got the good vibrations/Before we make love/ let’s have a good conversation”

I am just chilling in my living room with this gorgeous mofo:

after eating this, to which I added parmesan cheese and whole wheat pasta. It was good, and so was the squash and zucchini I roasted with balsamic vinegar. Damn I am a good cook. My roommates are lucky.

Still languishing, and starting to get cabin fever, but as a ten-minute jaunt to the corner store to buy an onion for soup felt like it required the same amount of energy it takes to run a marathon, I think I am doomed to languish a while longer. But – behold!

Yeah, I’m that person, the girl who will make you soup when you’re sick, and tuck you in, and have orange juice on tap and funky-but-effective natural remedies on hand. It’s funny but true that I, as someone who is mildly horrified by the sudden procreative explosion among her peers and doesn’t plan to acquire any spawn until after thirty, am nevertheless very doting and maternal by nature. Alas, I mother my friends but they don’t tend to mother me, so I guess it’s a good thing that I’m pretty skilled at taking care of myself, too. OJ, check. Infinite supply of tea, check. This stuff, vitamins, water, plenty of bed rest, and wholesome, yummy soup that kicks so much germy ass that Chuck Norris feels like a pansy next to it? (Plus, it’s vegan as long as there’s no fish sauce in the curry paste.) Check. This cold is toast.

Kid K’s Magical Wellness Soup

- 1/2 red onion, diced
- 4 carrots, chopped
- 1 1/2 bulbs garlic, minced
- 4 cups no-sugar-added orange juice
- 2 tbsp grated ginger
- 2 cups quinoa
- 6 scallions
- 3 tbsp olive oil
- 1/2 cauliflower, chopped
- 1 red pepper, chopped
- 3 stalks celery, chopped
- sea salt and ground black pepper, to taste
- 2 tbsp green curry paste
- water or vegetable stock

Combine the oil, garlic, onions, scallions, ginger, green curry paste, and celery in a heavy-bottomed soup pot. Sauté over medium heat until onions become translucent. Cover with orange juice, stir, and add carrots, red pepper, and cauliflower, and quinoa. Add enough water or vegetable stock so that the pot is about 3/4 full. Turn up heat until the pot reaches a rolling boil, then reduce heat to medium again and simmer for 20 to 30 minutes – long enough that the quinoa cooks and the flavours have a chance to knock boots, but not so long that your veggies become a colourless, tasteless mass. Season with S+P and dish up over a bed of fresh baby spinach, because eating your greens is sexy.

So, I had a date with a boy and it went rather well, actually, considering that I have a penchant for obsessing over all the x-billion ways things might go horribly pear-shaped and was feeling much like vomiting until about 5 minutes before we met up. He was cute and seemed fun and sane; we drank beer, danced like mad, talked as best we could between the too-loud music, and he didn’t seem repulsed at the sight of me, so overall I think we can call this a success! Plus he wants to hang out again. Score: Kid K, 1. Long-and-fruitless-life-of-singledom-loneliness-and-despair, 0.

And I asked him out and I paid for his ticket. C’est la manière moderne.

SO COOL.

It may just be the cold medicine talking, but this made me laugh out loud earlier, complete with that snort that we used to make fun of dad for…apparently it’s genetic. Anyway, the commercial is insanely brilliant, comedy gold, and I want to show it to everyone I know.

I am broadcasting from the land of bed, hot tea, and this really weird/awful herbal tincture and juice mixture that delicately mingles the flavours of mango and licorice with bolder notes of oregano and what I imagine licking a coniferous tree tastes like. Certainly not a taste sensation, but at least after I get it down I can breathe again. I don’t understand how it’s possible to get so ill so quickly. Yesterday morning I was a bit draggy and sniffly, but otherwise fine – I hung out with C after I got up and she took me out for some fine dining at the Golden Arches, then we hung out in the park and scarfed those sweet, hot, and morsels of delight known as fresh mini doughnuts, because although it was overcast and chilly mamaguroove were playing, and they make you dance so hard that calories are a negligable matter – and by 8 in the pm I was feverish, congested, sneezing, and of course snivelling. Being sick makes me fully miserable, but then it’s hard not to be a bit cranky when it feels like someone’s trying to inflate a metal balloon inside your skull. I have mostly been lying here, caught between staring at the pattern of peackocks and veiled girls and flowers and donkeys on the wall-hanging-of-dubious-and-much-debated-origin, trying to find the perfect term to express the quality of being pathetic – the best I could muster was pathetitude, which looks just ridiculous enough to maybe be a real word – and spelunking through the vast media cavern known as YouTube.

I was mesmerized by this for a while. Seeing shit like that always makes me think, “hell yes, I want to learn to spin fire poi!”, but then I remember that I am accident prone under the best of circumstances, and decide that perhaps winging flaming balls of flame around my body is just a little too much like tempting fate.

Criminally adorable.

Suddenly posessed by the desire to know if there was a universal version of the movie flight-attendant safety speech (you know, all about the air masks, and emergency exits, and having your tray table in an upright and locked position), I Googled around and ended up here. My favourite moment is, “you cannot smoke, I’m so sorry” (is she the poster girl for sincerity or what?) followed by the ‘oh-no-you-didn’t'/’bitch please” finger wag.

This made me go “huh”.

Have you ever wanted to bang Natalie Portman more?

This girl is something else. I believe the word is “badass”.

Badass in a completely different way.

And then this…

…reminded me of this:

Other items of note:

I have a ton of hooping videos saved to my favourites for inspiration; I can’t wait until I feel better so I can go out and start hooping again. I’m now on my sixth day of cold-turkey quitting, and with my lungs in the state they’re currently in, I don’t miss cigarettes at all.

*boogie*