"And if I could touch your hand, this rock would turn to sand, so this is where we stand"

I had to buy an new iPod (I had to!) because my old iPod was getting screwy. I bought a video iPod. The first video I put on it was this.

I am absolutely in love with this clip. I don't care if Slobodan Milosevic was or was not the choreographer, nor if Michel Gondry was or was not one of the dancers. What I care about:

1) The host.

He looks like the sort of guy who kidnaps martial artists and has them fight to death in a tournament he hosts on his private island, but the turtleneck and jacket suggest he just wants to putter around the house this weekend.

2) The guy

It's an old stereotype that people of one race can't distinguish between people of other races. For me, that's not the case ... except when it comes to Scandinavian men. Honestly, I can't tell if this is one of ABBA boys, the dude from Blue Swede, or some new guy entirely. Regardless, his English (and hair) is fantastic. Wish I could say the same for ...

3) The girl

Clearly the product of a Finnish initiative to clone Diff'rent Strokes star Dana Plato, this woman is far too cheery for someone who has just sung the words "How can I be sure you're not pretender? [sic] You want me today, but what about tomorrow?"

Maybe she's happy because of ...

4) The dancers.

They are totally insane. They're like a cult. They start off with what looks like a really unmotivated (and unsynchronized) calisthenics routine, and then they get weirder and weirder. Case in point:

And that's just the first in a series of completely ridiculous, unrelated, and flawlessly sequential dance moves. If I had the inclination, I'd do more research on this show because I need to know if these were just session dancers or if they were the Finnish equivalent of the Solid Gold Dancers.

Speaking of which, when are they going to release DVD's of Solid Gold and/or Dance Fever? I don't remember anyone clamoring for Highway to Heaven, but they're up to Season 3 for that show, so what's the deal?

The More You Know: I also put some episodes of The Venture Bros on the iPod, but they're intentionally funny, and thus less suited to my snarky blogging skills.

Three people will get this ...

and all three will want to kill me for being such a huge nerd.

But what can you do?

When I saw this sticker:

my first thought was, "Emacs is better."

Voila un caca comme moi, un caca parfait

So you love the Cloaca machine, but you want to try it at home? Well, the WFMU blog has found just the thing for you: http://www.desyeuxdesoreilles.com/lamachineacaca/intro.htm It'll teach you nutrition and French!

Speaking of which, I think my life right now is un caca parfait. My apartment is ankle-deep in clutter and my kitchen is hip-deep in dirty dishes. My clothing needs laundering. All I ate yesterday was chocolate and burritos (homemade, but still ...). Thankfully, La Machine a' Caca can show me what my weekend has become.

But hey, at least I'm not the kid who's going to give you one of these for Valentine's Day:




People explicitly asking for hugs is sad enough, but when it's a kid who identifies with the Hulk ... gah. It's borderline heartbreaking.

There are chocolate coins inside, so it's not completely heartbreaking.

So many jokes, so little space

Mike Green, check your email

Rebecca, I think you already check your email regularly, so there's no need to alert you.
Trish, I finally got the package I sent to myself from Florida, which means your Christmas present is on its way.
Justin, you should come to class.
Kevin, your team needs more defense.
Colleen, you should offer to borrow your boyfriend's car so we can go to see Hostel.
Colleen's boyfriend, you're a righteous dude.
Nancy, I keep meaning to email you to ask for Aunt Jeannie's address.
Leah, in theory I could just ask you.
Ulyana, I guess you might have her address, too.
Taissa, I never write to you and I'm sorry.
postsecret.com, I keep meaning to write to you but then I'd be crossing that sacred irony threshold.
WFMU, thanks for posting the complete Jan Pehechan-Ho clip.
Maura, you never read this so I'm going to have to email you that link.
Mom, you don't read this either, but I doubt you'll dig the clip as much.
Crystal, you need to read (and return) Drop City.
Mike Engelhardt, I've got this great book you should read called Drop City.
Jessica, I want to sell your art on the internet.
Professor-guy in CMPT 350, if my "Mattress Master" website doesn't get me an A, I'll spend even more time in class daydreaming about murdering you.

Everybody, the first assignment for CMPT 350 involves making a webpage for some business called "Mattress Master". Content-wise there aren't a lot of rules, so I'm including the lines:

"Obey the Mattress Master! Find succor in his low low prices! You will bow down before the glory of the Mattress Master, knave!"

and I'm including this image:

(I think I'm going to have to PhotoShop it so it's more mattress-y.)

Mike Love, I can't remember if it's you or Al Jardine who looks like that guy, but either way you're still a douche.
Oster, you're the best damn smoothie machine ever. If you were anything other than a blender, calling you a "smoothie machine" would be downright dirty.
The Sheaf, you need to get an additional copy editor (or just pay me).
[Your name here], I'm sorry I forgot you.
Canada, now you know how I felt at the end of Election Day 2004.
Campus pub, your wings are lousy and that's OK.
Hooters, your wings are great and that's not OK.
New York, I miss your pizza.
Montreal, I miss your transit system.
New York, I miss your transit system, too, but your pizza is more important.
Chicago, you had good pizza as well, but let's not kid ourselves.
Saskatoon, sometimes in the right light you're kinda pretty. It's just a shame that your women aren't. Oh snap!

For me, it'd be that Gwen Stefani "Hollaback Girl" song

Over at the WFMU blog there was a post about Boney M, and this comment was posted at the end of the article:

In "Touching The Void", that movie about the mountain climber who was left for dead...at one point towards the end of his journey, on broken legs, dragging himself down the mountain, he starts to hallucinate, finally believing he is going to die...a Boney M song is on a constant loop in his head. He says, "This is the last song I want to die to".

That's the kind of information I could use. Who said blogs were good for nothing?

Where have I been? Makin' smoothies

Justin got me a gift card to Canadian Tire with the intention that I buy a rice cooker. I was all set to buy a rice cooker, too, but then I got to Canadian Tire and they had only one rice cooker for sale.

Me, I likes the variety.

So you can imagine my delight at seeing a half-dozen different blenders on sale. I took the rice cooker gift card and bought a blender. The blender's name is Oster, which sort of sounds like "Oscar" if you say it like Katharine Hepburn.

Which I do.

Often.

For the last week I've been making smoothies. I was exceedingly proud of my experimentation for the first two days, but I was sitting in class on Monday and I started laughing because I realized I wasn't some Smoothie Michelangelo; basically all I did was make my own strawberry yogurt. But oh, what a yogurt it was.

"Are you sure you're not gay?" asked Hippie Crystal

I know someone signed me up for the Jared phone calls. Great. Je t'aime. Now, for the love of all that is holy, please get me a digital rectal examination simulator. I can think of no better place to store my keys.

"Free Marissa" is the new "Donna Martin Graduates"

You've got to feel bad if you're a coach for some team sport and you coached some ragtag group of misfits/oucasts/underdogs to victory, and your life hasn't been made into an inpsirational movie. Do these not-quite-inspirational coaches feel bad when they see their contemporaries raking in the feel-good sports movie dough?

Yes. Yes, they do.

The solution? Jared. You know, the Subway guy who makes a living standing next to his old pants. I've been involuntarily signed up for Jared's twice-daily inspirational phone calls, and lemme tell ya, after a long day at school, there are few things more uplifting than hearing:

Hi, this is Jared. You can add a little incentive to your goal by playing Subway Restaurants' Fresh Resolutions Instant Win Game, with hundreds of prizes awarded daily when you try one of their eight delicious subs with six grams of fat or less. These are the same subs that I ate when I lost 245 pounds. My big prize? Better health and confidence. That's something everyone can win.

Maybe I'm just an old curmudgeon who has yet to learn the true meaning of Christmas, but that message isn't really inspirational. (And that second sentence is unwieldy, but that's another matter.) What'd be inspirational: a Million Little Pieces-like story from Jared's past, something along the lines of "One night I ate two dozen Twinkies and washed it down with turkey gravy. There was a lump in the gravy and I started choking, and eventually blacked out. I woke up hours later, covered in gravy and bile. I think the weight of my body falling forward dislodged the gravy lump, and then my stomach empited its contents all over my "Winning in the fight against anorexia" t-shirt. Thankfully I had another box of Twinkies on hand, so I sopped up the discharged gravy with a few of those heavenly golden snack-cakes. Who says rock bottom can't be delicious?"

You know, it occurs to me that while I can't remember Jared's last name, I instantly know who we're talking about when the name "Jared" comes up. He's like Cher, except he's had his boobs reduced, not enlarged.

Up in the corner it says, "Instant Win Game & Sweepstakes." I don't know if anyone can be a considered a winner in this situation

I have a feeling that this won't work in Canada, which is too bad because most of my nemeses live in the Great White North. But yeah, if you're going to sign somebody up, please please let me know. And please don't sign me up. Or do. In fact, I insist you do. But don't tell me. And if it doesn't work in Canada, then just call me twice a day and tell me to lose weight by eating delicious sandwiches.

Karaoke: It's not just a good idea -- it's the law!

There comes a point in every wing-fest when you realize that eating wings and drinking swill just won't cut it.

[ED: Replace "wing-fest" with "31-year-old's life" and you've got something.]

What will cut it, you realize, is karaoke. Something with a dash of 80's power chords, but open to improv improvement. Yes indeedy. You want "Total eclipse of the heart" and you want it Baroque. But are your friends up for it?

[ED: What do you think?]

Sadly, nay.

[ED: Your friends have nothing to do with it.]

So you're back home at 10:52pm, and you're dying on the inside.

[ED: You'd be ok if you'd just spring for own karaoke machine.]

So what's the solution? It's obvious ... die a little on the inside and just watch Bad Santa. You haven't watched that yet this season, have you?

[ED: No, you haven't.]

So you'll watch that, even though you wanted to watch it with someone ...

[ED: Why must people refuse to accept that Bad Santa is the best Christmas movie ever made?]

... and you'll forget ... well, you'll forget everything.

[ED: Even school?]

Even school. You've got all Sunday to pick a museum for your database class.

[ED: What about the other stuff?]

What other stuff?

[ED: Indeed.]

Hey, nice one, italicized superego. You totally made me forget--

[ED: Shh shh shh ... Bad Santa!]

Right, Bad Santa! Thanks, Voice o'Reason. You've saved me again.

[ED: Anything for you, trouper.]

Anything? Can I call you late at night and ask you--

[ED: Oh ... I'm hard to reach after hours. I've got an answering service, so your best bet is to ...]

Oh, ok. No problem. I just ...

[ED: Yeah, you know I get a lot of crank calls and so it's best for ...]

No, no, I totally understand ...

[ED: You know, 'cuz if it was just you, I'd totally --]

No, I understand completely. It's cool.

[ED: It's cool?]

Yeah, I'll be fine. No, I didn't know why I thought-- I didn't want you to think -- Yeah, no, it's cool.

[ED: Cool. OK. Because ...]

Yeah, it's cool. I'll just go watch Bad Santa.

[ED: Cool.]

Talk to you tomorrow maybe?

[ED: Yeah, I dunno. I've got a lot of things ... just leave a message with my service, ok?]

Yeah. Cool. "Talk to you tomorrow if I talk to you tomorrow!" Heh heh.

[ED: I've got another blog I have to talk to now, so if you don't mind ...]

Yeah, it's cool.

Some questions have such obvious answers, that merely asking them is a waste of time

When I'm going out for wings, I'm not going to wash my hair beforehand. Why would I? I seek not love, but wings. Saucy wings, like I like my dames, but wings all the same. The wings care not how my hair looks; they just want my mouth to be receptive to their yumyumness.

Wings are easy.

Rollerskating for fun and profit!

Having just finished watching the first episode of Rollergirls, it has become abundantly clear that I must move to Austin, Texas, and marry one of the rollergirls. Doesn't matter which one, since their shared affinity for violence and alcoholism makes them pretty much interchangeable.

Also, the weather in Texas is probably nice, so that's like a two-fer.

I had a terribly boring day. I started walking to school for the first class of Stats 2: The Legend of Curly's Gold, but after three blocks I decided that it was too nice a day for class and small talk, so I turned back and spent a few hours installing, uninstalling, and re-installing Windows.

Did I mention the small talk? It's getting out of hand. Yesterday I spent as much time engaging in small talk as I did in class. "Engaging" is not the right word; if I were into the small talk, I would be engaging in it. As it was, I was trapped. Hey, here's a tip: if we're having a conversation and I say "Yeah, how about that" more than once, I'm secretly praying for a ceiling tile to fall on your head. "Yeah, how about that" is your cue to find someone else to tell about your $500 graphics tablet (which, honestly, is little more than a cyber-Etch-a-Sketch). I'm thinking of adopting some variant of "Good talk -- see ya out there" as a way of ending conversations.

I'll tell you what: no rollergirl would tolerate the inane small talk I've had in last two days. She'd probably hit you in the head with her forearm, tp your house, and then go country dancing without underpants. (Country Dancing Without Underpants Girl was probably my favourite rollergirl. Ladies, take note!)

Birthday? Birthday!

I am back in Saskatoon, home of the all-you-can-eat shit sandwich. By that, I mean:

• it's 1:05am
• I just got home after spending 13 hours in the vise-like grip of Air Canada and I have the tension headache to prove it
  
• school starts in 9 hours with another fun-filled semester of Stats
• apparently people have been leaving "Happy Birthday" messages on the cellphone I got in Florida, which really impresses me because I asked for no voicemail on that phone
• did I mention that I spent half my birthday on planes and in airports?
• ... and the in-flight movie from Toronto to Calgary was In Her Shoes?

Yeah. Sorry about the lack of updates, [you know who you are], but I was in Florida and connecting via AOL, or as I like to call it, "A-O-Hell."

Tee-hee.

I have a bunch of cellphone images to share with y'all, but tonight is not the night for that. Tonight is the night for frolicking in my underpants because I finally have fifteen minutes to myself. I love everybody, but sometimes I just gotta have my underpants frolic.