haphazardly.org

in which i paint a portrait.

It was as I was reading Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs that I realized: yes, this is something I want to do.

In reality, I don’t want to do anything. I found myself agreeing and disagreeing with Klosterman, but ultimately my thoughts didn’t matter. He was opening my eyes to a whole new way of looking at seemingly mundane television, and what it meant as a reflection of the culture of its time. How could I possibly look at anything the same way?

Answer: If I went back to school.

Although I never thought the way Klosterman does when I was in school, I can distinctly remember – amidst the fuzz and completely unaccountable moments – fleeting instances in a large, freezing auditorium at Brock University while my subconscious was annihilated with hard-earned knowledge. Some of which are key terms that Klosterman only half-loses me with, thanks to my half-assed education.¹ With reading I can wing it, and google what I don’t totally understand. Writing it on my own, unless I just chose to steal his manuscript word for word, would prove to be a theoretical fishing net with holes big enough to allow every trout swim lazily on through.

If I were going to write, I’d want it to be professional and witty. Day to day I am quite funny, but that’s all improvisation, and it’s always based on someone else’s daily dose of stupidity. Everyone says or does something silly/stupid/idiotic in a day, and that’s why I rarely speak. I don’t say anything in a public forum without knowing that I am completely right, or else my doppelganger might pop out from the shadows and scathe me as I so often scathe my peers, colleagues, family, boyfriend, co-workers, internet forum posters, journalers, and bloggers. Instead of speaking and acting in ridiculous and idiotic ways (which I would, if I ever let myself, all the time) I opt to watch. I watch and listen, listen and watch, until someone provides me with the material I need to make light of their mistake. This makes me feel both liked (everyone, save for the butt of the joke, is laughing) and heroic (as I made everyone laugh instead of awkwardly gawking at said butt’s stupidity). This stroke to my ego means that I constantly feel good about myself without putting forth a whole lot of effort. Most people feel good about themselves when they’ve accomplished something: mastering racquet ball, learning to play the cello, getting champion in hunter over fences, flying solo, graduating with a 4.0, early acceptance into a prestigious private school, delivering your baby naturally, getting published in the Believer. I feel good about myself when I watch these successful, confident people and pounce on the opportunity to make them look human² and approachable. My heroism simply shines through, and there’s little I can do to stop it.

I am constantly on a self-proclaimed journey of bettering myself. Be it with reading³, painting⁴, writing, cooking⁵, critically enjoying films, or reading about people who do all of these things. As my mother has often reminded me, practice makes perfect. And while I don’t yet feel I have anything innovative or exciting to say about all the movies with mixed reviews, all the books that everyone already likes, or a new and helpful way of cooking up recipes, I will try. And I will try very, very hard to be funny without actually hurting anyone in the process. But in the event that all of these efforts fail, I will probably never update this website ever again.

1. This is not at all a reflection of the school. All my professors were surprisingly competent and actually seemed to enjoy teaching. Students, I feel, have to be equally willing in order for the education to be fully-assed.
2. See: like me.
3. This makes me feel infinitely smarter than I was before I opened the book.
4. Owning a paint set automatically makes you a painter.
5. Something I can be, no joke, quite good at.

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first day’s friendly fire.

This morning, after a horrific wake-up call at 7.30 am, every Gunner and Wenger fan watched Arsenal kick off the start of the English Premier 08/09 Season against a new team: West Bromwich Albion. What should have been a three (or even four) to nill victory turned out to be a fairly shaky 1-0 win. With three points to their name, unfortunately Arsenal don’t have a whole lot to be proud of.

For the second year in a row, captaincy has been awarded to William Gallas, 31. The French centre-back’s credentials and leadership were slandered all last year, especially from Man U (see clip) and Chelsea fans. Good riddance to bad rubbish tended to be the frame of mind, however most Arsenal fans have agreed that the Gallas/Ashley Cole swap worked to the Gunners’ favor.

Last year, when Gallas truly tested the loyalty of his fans and newly appointed captaincy, I was right in there. I defended, rationalized, and was proud to have the passionate player on our team. Nae, lead it. To see a grown man demand perfection the way Captain Gallas did was, despite somewhat flushing my cheeks, a breath of fresh air. What he brought to the field every other game, in the end, outweighed his slightly childish behaviour in this one. I’m sure they all laugh about it now.      

This afternoon at the Emirates Stadium, however, once again we saw a more childish side of our captain. Manuel Almunia, starting keeper and beloved blonde Eurotrash, made two critical saves to prevent an equalizer and, dare I say it, conceding Westbrom to lead the game. Defense, in both these moments, were lax and left nothing between the keeper and the ball but confidence and a nothing-to-lose attitude from the opposing strikers. After an unprecidented clusterfuck of flailing legs and awful header attempts, the ball was kicked out of bounds and set up for a corner. Unfortunately I don’t have a clip, but if I find one I’ll be sure to post it. Once again we see Gallas attacking his teammates, the young Johan Djourou, and instead of commending the efforts and nurturing his colleague, Gallas has the patented death-brow and shouting until Almunia steps in and demands he calm down.

Good for Djourou, though, as he was yelling back. If I had been in Johan’s place, I probably would have cowered all the way to the other side of the field.

Posted in football: arsenal, football: emirates stadium, football: william gallas | No Comments »

fourteen million dollar baby.

images courtesy of adorefaith at thefashionspot.com & vanityfair.com

I’m a few days late, but alas alack! Photos of the most sought-after children in the world have finally arrived and I couldn’t care less.

Sleeping babies? Really? For a nineteen page spread in People Magazine, that’s roughly (excuse my mental math) 1.4 million dollars per page. Jam-packed with pictures, and good for the Brangelina clan for raking it in only to shovel it back out to those who really need it, but I can’t say I’ll be buying this. I can view these images, and in days to come when more people scan the magazine with better scanners, absolutely free. The Higher Ups over at People are pouring that much money into this because a) they have it — now we know whose houses to raid — and b) they believe they will be returned to them, with profit. 14 million spent, 14+ million gained. Plus readership; consumers are that much more likely to subscribe to this up-to-the-minute, well-informed publication. That’s 14+ million of the nation’s (I’m lumping Canada and the US together, as always) earnings, whatever percentage of their pay check, allowance, and pennies earned being pumped back into a publication that can turn it around and spend 5 million on pictures no one wants of Nicole Kidman’s child, Sunday Rose.

Shiloh’s reported 4.1 million I can understand, in the way that you understand something only because you know you have two options: live with it or exile yourself from society completely. There was such a ruckus around Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s relationship that having proof of a consummation was more than anyone could handle. Many heads imploded from the sheer …. I don’t actually know what it would be. Baby pictures of two people you’ve never met would not be exciting, so what is it?

There’s always a silver lining. I am relieved that the original 14 million went to someone as level-headed and well aware as Angie and Brad. Both are huge activists and not only talk the talk (and to the right people, as she is the UNHCR Goodwill Ambassador) but walk the walk — Haiti, Sudan, Cambodia, Iraq, Pakistan, India, Russia, etc. I’d much rather she figure out who needs this money the most; better than anyone who has been elected by the popular vote.

I don’t dislike the baby pictures. Intimate glimpses into famous people are important to this economy and help make our tiny, compromised world go round. I’ll be more excited when the children can walk on their own two feet, open their eyes, and you can tell they’re twins and not just two babies sleeping beside each other.

I will admit, I do have a thing for Zahara Marley; the Etheopian-born first daughter of Brangelina. Even as a baby she had this incredible look of mischief and spunk. My projected future careers for Zahara are as follows: cat burglar, fighter jet pilot, or Doctors Without Borders doctor. All the while making a toss-this-check-to-charity income with a part-time modeling career. Plus, the kid’s got style. If you have to take pictures of a kid you don’t know, take pictures of her. Case in point:

images courtesy of adorefaith at thefashionspot.com

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namibian girls.

For those of you that love riddles, this one’s for you. What do you get when you mix the next Kate Moss (save for the cocaine habit, fingers crossed), a recently-formed former-model New York City rock band, and the old adage: if you don’t show some skin your record won’t get played?

I’ll be honest, I haven’t bought into the Virgins. Abstaining from the Gossip Girl craze (although many of the books have littered my “easy reading” shelves for the past couple of years) has probably shielded me from this young band’s talents. They scored five, count ‘em, five songs for the hit TV series based on the hit book series of upscale, upper crust, Upper Side New York teens that dart in and out of cabs on their parents dime like they were the Sissy Hankshaw’s of the modern world. Avoided this music I did, until I read on a frequently visited thread that a favorite model of mine would be appearing (see: disrobing) in their first music video, Rich Girls.

The surprisingly scantily clad sex kitten that enters the bar in slow motion (is there any other way for a leggy vixen to make an entrance?) is none other than Namibian native Behati Prinsloo. Modelling since 2005, when she was discovered while vacationing with her mother and pastor father, 2008 is proving to be her raunchiest year yet. She was recently signed up to appear as the face of Victoria Secret’s Pink campaign, which is aimed at loud, boisterous college kids who have a penchant for comfortable pink pants and the name of their school plastered to their perky gluts. She has shown more skin than ever before (as is the VS way) but bears almost all of it in the Virgins music video.

Fact: Behati looks smoking. The murky black that circles her eyes allow her to glide through the entrance of our screens like a shark, while the model bounce she’s been perfecting makes her appear almost attainable. The taught heels are reminiscent of a porn screen goddess, but the dark hair and healthy complexion shield her from the cocaine comments. Teetering on the plateau of trash, Behati has somehow managed to remain dancing wildly on the line that separates hoochies and hos.

Until the pole.

Fact: The Virgins, although given a beyond-decent review by Rolling Stone magazine and Allmusic.com, have failed to make a blip on my musical radar. Which is a vast and eclectic radar; I am no snob. But I spent my civic holiday weekend drowning in Ted Leo & the Pharmacists, the Velvet Underground, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the newest Dandy Warhols album, and some intense Decemberists b-sides. Needless to say when I got back Monday night and watched this video all I could hear was: formula, formula, formula. Here’s a hook! Here’s a verse! Here’s another verse! HERE’S THE CHORUS! After that point I figuratively switched the volume off and just watched the images.

They get credit for keeping it simple, as so many bands refuse to do, and keeping up with a theme. This could be a nod to the Cobra Snake scene which has bored me to tears since I heard about it, but the band’s creator Donald Cumming has been apart of that New York Scene scene since he was sixteen. Perhaps my theory isn’t too far off.

Rating: Two stars. Sorry Virgins, but the hot girl draping herself over geeky band mates does nothing for me, no matter how crass and edgy you guys are on the inside.

Posted in band: virgins the, model: behati prinsloo, review: music video | 1 Comment »

still life still, opening act for stephen malmus + the jicks.

Last week I had the good fortune of seeing Stephen Malkmus (of Pavement fame) and the Jicks (comprised of Joanna Bolme on bass, Janet Weiss on drums, and Mike Clark on keyboard/synthesizer) live in Toronto. Cute name for a cute group. Stephen Malkmus reminds me of what my dad was probably like when he was younger. Lanky, bad hair, and still donning weathered blue jeans and a faded red t-shirt that he’s been washing and wearing since the tenth grade.

Surprisingly enough, I’m not going to talk about the Jicks. As brilliant as they were, halfway through their set I was in pain and had enough creepers leering all around me that all I wanted to do was allow the on-coming blind rage to take its course, and claim no responsibility to the aftermath. This urge kind of took away from the musical experience. Standing in one spot ten feet away from the stage, as glorious as it can be depending on the artist and the listener’s level of fandom, quickly became an activity I wanted to cease and desist. What do you want from me? It was a Wednesday night, and enjoying myself was interrupted by obsessively checking the alarm clock backstage and eating half the auburn bun of the obnoxious but smooth-skinned uggo in front of me.

Instead, I’m going to rehash happier times. Times when my legs were not weak, my back was not breaking, and the music still made up for choking on other people’s hair. I’m going to reminisce about Still Life Still, a local band from East York that opened when the insolent Fleet Foxes had the nerve not to show up.

Clearly eager to play, the five-man band explained to the rowdy but open-minded crowd that they had got the call to come in a few hours ago, and made sure to thank us as much as possible for listening. Skeptical but, with no where else to go, I listened. After a few minutes of poking fun at how old they were (one looked like he could pass for my seventeen-year-old brother) my levity ceased when I heard the uppity, experimental sounds coming from the speakers ten feet away. The vocals were good, and strumming, picking, and chords were solid. The guys had chemistry; enough to know how hard to hit it, whose line it was, and when to give and when to take. They were fast-paced, and didn’t lose steam as the night grew on. Wish I could say the same for me.

There was a lot going on up there on stage, but none of it was accidental. Carefully calculated instrumental segue ways did not overshadow the brilliance of Josh, the centre-stage synthesizer and vocals enthusiast. He looked like a normal guy with a normal job that happens to love what he does, and you could tell that with every bop of the head and kick of the feet. Fun fact: On the way to stake out a parking spot I saw a familiar face, none other than Broken Social Scene’s Kevin Drew. Still Life Still’s most obvious influence was, without a doubt, BSS. It was one of those Wednesday’s in which all the stars in the cosmos align so that a solid local band’s hero could hear what they had created.

Unfortunately for me, these guys have not been signed yet. They do have a myspace, with just enough music to make you wish they had more. They played a long set at the Phoenix, and there are titles that I remember that I don’t see on their myspace. All of which were just as good, if not better, than what you can listen to online. So check them out and give them a listen, say hi, and let them know how much they’ve wowed you. And cross your fingers that the Fleet Foxes cancel at your next upcoming show!

Posted in band: stephen malkmus, band: stephen malkmus + the jicks, band: still life still, review: concert, venue: the phoenix | No Comments »

the shankhill butchers

This was an entry I wrote for one of livejournal’s many great fiction communities, 50wordstory. It has been my only entry to date, in fact. But I was relatively proud of it. Three guesses as to what inspired it, go!

His knife hurdled down the coastline as he cried out his plea for revenge across the sea. “Fascists pigs! Blue collared murderers!” The wind heard his desperation, carrying the sound of his voice where, in the distance, it met with the shrill sharpening of cleavers. Wind rattled window panes, “Beware.”

Posted in fiction: short story | No Comments »