And they wonder why 12-year olds are on diets

I, just like 98.6% or so of the women I know, have body image issues.

It is nothing profound, really. I don't have a plastic surgery fund. I don't cry when I look in the mirror. I've never been on a formal diet.

It is more along the genre of an occasional cursing out of my jeans, a grabbing at my stomach critically in the mirror when I get out of the stomach, a groaning at the occasional photo, a wishing that I had more time to spend at the gym.

But, really, I eat healthy, I don't get winded going up stairs, my boyfriend thinks I'm sexy and I fit into my Size 6 jeans, so I'm not doing too bad, right?

Apparently not, as again I was reminded today.

Here's a recent photo of Jessica Simpson:

Okay, so maybe not as toned as she has been in the past, but morbidly obese and unhealthy? Hardly.

Explain to me, then, how this is justified? In the New York Post??

Ugh. I have a hard time not just going on some tirade right now. You all know what I would say, anyways, about how she is still skinnier than the average woman, about how this has nothing to do with health despite the claims that our fat aversion is about that, about how we have just made countless other women who may have been proud to be the same size as Jessica Simpson feel worthless and ugly. It's all been said before. We've all heard the arguments about how we need to be media-literate, how we need to base our self-esteem in other areas, how we need to stop taking things so seriously and learn to take a joke-- but, still, I'm not sure how it is possible not to have comparisons like this feel like a slap in the face.

When bloggers attack... or, you know, write about stuff they see

As you may have heard, another blogger has been dooced.

For those of you who aren't yet familiar with all the lingo, being dooced refers to being fired as a result of one's blog, so coined because of the unfortunate experiences of the now infamous Dooce.

New York based Belgian blogger Natalie Bakker works at a Belgian themed bar. On a recent night, she recognized the Belgian minister of the defense, along with some other government employees. The next day, on her blog, she wrote of her embarrassment over her fellow countryman's drunken behaviour. She also expressed frustration at the fact that another staff member had told her their trip to NYC was funded by taxpayers, and despite the fact that the UN meeting they were planning to attend had been moved to Geneva, they decided to go trough with the trip because they had never been to New York. (you can read the details of the story here)

A few days later, Natalie's employer received a phone call from the defense minister's office, and soon afterwards, she was fired. It is unclear whether the minister directly requested her termination or not.

Upon being confronted, the defense minister made the following quote, speaking of the danger of bloggers and their freedom to post information at will:

I want to take this opportunity and use this non-event to signal a dangerous phenomenon in our society. We live in a time where everybody is free to publish whatever he or she wants on blogs at will without taking any responsibility. This exceeds mud-slinging. Together with you, other Parliament members and the government I find that it’s nearly impossible to defend yourself against this. Everyone of you is a potential victim. I would like to ask you to take a moment and think about this.

So, while a journalist would have been lauded for gaining information about a scandal arguably relevant to the public, a blogger who receives and publishes the same information is fired.

Paparazzi are allowed to set up camp outside a celebrity's front door and try to gain access every iota of information about what they had for breakfast in order to splay it all over the newsstands and the web. In contrast, a politician, who, by his very job, is accountable to the public (or, more specifically his constituents, who pay his wages), is expected to be granted the utmost privacy in a public space? Did Natalie ever sign an employment agreement certifying confidentiality to all that set foot in her workplace?

I do agree that the internet has made for a decrease in privacy, and we still have yet to realize the full extent this may impact our lives. If anything, cases like that of Ellen Simonetti (a flight attendant fired after posting pictures of herself in her uniform, despite never mentioning her employer by name) are starting to remind us of the visibility of whatever we post alongside our names. It is doubtful Natalie meant to create an international scandal by virtue of her written rant-- but, by the power of Google, that's arguably what happened. 

I'm interested in your opinions on the topic. Do you think the firing was justified? Should she have known better? Have you ever had any negative consequences of your blog being unintentionally discovered? What do you do to keep your blog from causing any damage in your personal life? Any other thoughts?

Inspiration and fast food

I don't know if there is much that I can say about last night that won't have been already spoken.

I joked around on the phone with an American friend that the little election pizza, beer and CNN party was merely us being "just another group of opinionated Canadians". However, despite the fact that this is not my election, I will be damned if I didn't feel a swell of pride as Barack Obama stood before a crowd, uttering the words "Yes we can" with utter conviction. People had real hope in their eyes again.

I'm sure we all heard the cliche that tonight, history was made. However, I received an email from a Black friend today that really drove this home-- he said that he woke up this morning, and the thought that there may actually be an African-American president made him want to cry, as ten years ago, he would have never expected this to even be a possibility in his lifetime. How phenomenal for this to have been proven wrong.

(I also learned today that my mega-crush, Jon Stewart, has hairier knuckles than expected. I would just make him wear gloves.)

Rather than belabour the point any further (and, as I write this, I am still anxiously awaiting the results of Proposition 8, the results of which may diminish some of rose colours on my glasses), I will direct you to a delightfully non-political and comical post I wrote over in the land of Libby of In This Skin about why your job is nowhere near as horrible as my first (fast-food) job. It has tales of grease, polyester and maltreatment. You know you want to click.

Scaredy-cat

I don't entirely understand those who enjoy being scared. 

Perhaps my nervous system is just oversensitive, but I find any substantial thrill seeking a little unbearable.  Don't get me wrong-- I'm not a total wimp. I'm open to adventure and going off the beaten path... but you will never find me skydiving, let alone on a particularly treacherous rollercoaster.

I'm also not a huge fan of horror films, as you can imagine. I trace this to the the shift from cheesy teen slasher films, a la Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer, or plot driven scary flicks, like Stephen King films, to the torture porn trend of Hostel and Saw. Frankly, the notion of watching really gruesome scenes makes me cringe. I've already written about my neurotic need to read about the plots of these hideous films once they come out, for fear of being ambushed by the movie in some situation and being surprised by the unblinking cameras detailing a slow, but creative, murder scene. It somehow makes me feel more at ease, as though I am psychologically preparing myself... just in case. (It makes sense in my head)

With this in mind, it may make sense that I haven't seen a horror film in years-- until the Duke talked me into one this week. 

And I somehow agreed to watch it, in the dark, late at night.

It is funny, knowing the cycle of anxiety disorders at a rote level, to notice how badly I worked myself up. It was probably both my continued emphasis of the fact that I simply don't do scary movies, as well as the rotating thoughts of "I know they're going to die. I just don't know how horrible and nightmare inducing its going to be" that started me off. Midway through the film, I was a ball of nerves, sweaty palmed, with a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that weighed me down to the bed. Through clenched teeth, I told the Duke that I had vetoed any sudden taps on the shoulder or rapid movements. The only physical contact was to be my iron tight fingers gripping his arm.

It was only towards the end, when I realized the primary deaths were relatively mundane (how sad is it that I call vicious stabbings mundane?) that my lungs began to feel like they were taking in oxygen again. 

As the credits rolled, and my toes unclenched, we flicked through the channels a little, in an attempt to inject some happier thoughts into my brain before I went to sleep for an early morning of work. One film came on, a truck rolling through a deserted landscape. We only settled for a matter of moments until bold letters announcing "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" stamped themselves to the screen.

Back to flicking. Suddenly, an elephant on the screen, then Robin Williams.

Great, it's Jumanji. I can do this.

Haha, he's melting into the floor! 

Waiting, what's that crawling through the window?

GIANT SPIDERS?!?!?!

(Ahem. Huge arachniphobe here.)

At this point, I pressed the off button with enough force to leave an imprint in my finger, declared the mass media to be conspiring against me, and accepted that the night would probably be rife with dreams of masked intruders and foreboding children singing in the background. 

Ugly

Last night, I went to the Canadian premiere and panel discussion of America the Beautiful.

America the Beautiful Trailer from J B on Vimeo.

In some ways, it was a story we’ve all heard many times before: plastic surgery is on the rise, girl’s self-esteems are down, models depict an unrealistic ideal of beauty that most women can’t achieve, etc, etc. However, the fact that this tale has been on repeat, or that it isn't always perfect in its execution, doesn’t mean that it is without value.

It is just too much of a damn shame to see beautiful girls of 12, 13 years old, staring into the camera with wide, earnest eyes, and asserting with every iota of their being that they are ugly. This is not spoken with the flutter of eyelashes and the search for praise. It is stated with utter conviction, as though nothing could shake their fundamental faith in their unattractiveness and their subsequently diminished worth as a result.

Yes, it is simplistic to blame it all on the media. We are not merely vessels that absorb and regurgitate what we see on television. But it is also blind and shortsighted to pretend as though the barrage of images merely ricochets without even grazing the surface.

A sociologist reported on how she saw the rate of bulimic behaviour in Fijian adolescent girls increase from 0% to 11% in three years—coincidentally timed with the introduction of television to the island.
A 6 foot model who weighs 130 pounds is told she needs to lose 15 pounds, despite the fact that this weight loss will put her at a BMI in the severely underweight category. When asked about health concerns, she sneers and laughs. “If you want to worry about your health, you go to college.”
Fashion designers justify these requests by stating that fabric is expensive, so it is much more affordable for them to make runway outfits in a Size 0.
Research shows that minutes looking at a fashion magazine results in substantial drops in 70% of women’s self-esteem, and that watching pornography or films with hyper-attractive women make men rate their own partner’s attractiveness as significantly lower.

The filmmaker doesn’t posit a solution, outside of seeing the beauty in everyone, and learning to love oneself—the same messages that have been thrown into Seventeen magazine for years alongside swimsuit spreads and treatises on how to get boys to like you.

I don’t have one either. Awareness is a start, but can be dangerous, too, because images and stories intended for shock value often instead inspire teenage girls. I know that when I watched clips of modeling agencies tearing apart a tiny teenage girl for gaining a pound, I should have been focused on the absurdity of the situation, rather than pondering how appalled they would be at my body.

Perhaps I am a hypocrite, for harping on about the cruelty of beauty ideals while embarking on my own intense diet and exercise routine for the primary purpose of losing weight.

Perhaps media literacy is the key, and if we even spent a proportion of the time that we do harping on kids to say no to drugs instead informing them about the gap between media depictions and realities, they would be substantially better off.

Or perhaps low self-esteem is merely the cross we all have to bear as a part of growing up.
I certainly hope not.

Why I can't just flip the page

Whenever he saw me reading a newspaper, my dad would always ask me to report on one piece of good news.

Although occasionally, a tale of deserving lottery winners or cats with nine lives would leap from the page, usually, the search for positivity would take several minutes of frantic flipping with ink stained thumbs. Thus, in very few words, my father taught me both about the value of optimism, and, more memorably, the pessimistic bias of the popular media.

I sometimes wonder if reading the newspaper is more harm than it's worth. While I am generally a firm believer in the value in staying informed, particularly in local issues that both have an impact on one's life and that one can potentially influence, this is the stuff of the bottom article on page 30. This is not the stuff of headlines.

I don't need to spit out the cliches about sex and violence selling, or how the average person is ignorant to the fact that crime rates are actually decreasing, or whether most headlines have any direct relevance to the lives of the general population. On an intellectual level, I know this. But I still let it all sweep me up on a personal level.

Blurry-eyed and in my pyjamas, I went online Thursday morning, only to be instantaneously bombarded with the same horrific story as the rest of the world. An innocent man, a good man, slain in the most horrific way possible. I found the details searing themselves into my brain, wanting to distract myself from these awful facts I had no right knowing that were cycling through my head, over and over again. Yet, I still felt compelled to read more, to mindlessly click on the next link, preparing myself for another sharp breath of air as my eyes absorbed some of the cruelest and horrid details I'd ever read.

And then it was just too much, as though the reality of the event just collided with me at once, and the tears began plummeting. Tears because, as sensationalistic as it was already becoming, less than 24 hours later, what grounded the story was that it happened to someone very real.

Perhaps this is why I shouldn't read the news. In order to be able to process the vivid declarations of accidents, overdoses, assaults and murders, you almost have to stop seeing the people, and just focus on the event as a story by itself. And I've never been very good at reiterating "Oh, isn't that awful" and just flipping the page.

Sued for trolling?

Two Yale law students, fed up with threats and lies being printed alongside their full names at the law school admission forum, AutoAdmit.com, filed a lawsuit against multiple anonymous trolls. Thus far, three of these trolls have been identified, and will likely have their names published in court proceedings. Efforts are underway to identify the remaining trolls, who, amongst other slurs, threatened sexual assault and made claim that the women had sexually transmitted diseases. The complainants claimed that the number of posts led to these slurs being the first item listed with their names on major search engines, and that multiple complaints to the site administrator led did not lead to a removal of these posts or banning of the trolls. 

Although the suit has yet to be resolved, and the article suggests that it is questionable it will even make it to trial, it has opened up the proverbial can of worms regarding anonymity over the internet and free speech. Up until this point, lawsuits against trolls had been thrown out, under the cover of freedom of speech and rights to private expression. 

In my eyes, these individuals clearly crossed the line-- uttering threats should never be lumped as freedom of speech, which originally had far nobler intentions regarding political freedoms, rather than giving random people full right to slander individuals or groups for shits and giggles. I also think it serves as a good reminder that the internet is not supposed to be the lawless Wild West. Simply because you can hide behind a screen and say things you wouldn't want attached to your real name doesn't mean you have free rein to be malicious. It also serves as a reminder that none of us are nearly as anonymous as we would like to believe, screen names, phony back stories and avatars aside.

As the internet worms its way into our day-to-day lives to a greater extent that anyone would have predicted, we are witnessing issues that have not had to be considered before coming to the front stage. The access this medium provides to different populations and subcultures has had tremendous benefits-- a billion examples come to mind, like the teenager in a small Southern town, struggling with his sexual identity, who is able to find some solace through these wireless yet concrete connections, and who is able to be open about his identity, if only behind a screen name at first. Yet, as with anything this innovative, there is always the potential for abuse. I am appalled at some of the hatred I have seen spewed out on various forums, all behind the veil of anonymity. I sometimes wish I had remained a little more sheltered, so as not to know that all it took was a screen blocking their faces to reveal the hatred, misogyny and racism simmering within some people.

This case brings up many interesting questions. Should trolls and others who engage in online harassment, which may or may not cross into the realm of that described in this lawsuit, be subject to identification? Should people have a right to anonymity online? If so, where does the line between stating one's opinion and trolling lie, and how can we identify it? Does the identification of people by their IP address set a dangerous precedent for tracking people for a variety of reasons? 

What do you think?

The saddest (but sweetest) story ever

Dying eight-year-old 'marries' his school sweetheart
An eight-year-old boy who had set his heart on 'marrying' his school sweetheart achieved his final wish the day before he died of leukaemia.

By Laura Clout

Given only weeks to live, Reece Fleming proposed to his 'special friend' Elleanor Purgslove at a laser tag party.

After she accepted, their parents arranged a make-believe wedding at Reece's home in Mackworth, Derby. He died the next day with his family.

Reece's mother Lorraine Fleming said he told her, "I can go now" after his wish had been granted.

The 28-year-old said: ""He was so proud of her, and we were proud of them both."

Reece was diagnosed with leukaemia in July 2004, when he was aged just four.

He fought the disease for four years until May when doctors told him he had just weeks to live.

Ms Fleming, said she and his stepfather Mick Thompson had tried to help him achieve as much as possible before his death, including marrying his sweetheart.

"When we found out that we only had a few weeks with him we tried to do absolutely everything with him that we could.

"Him and Ellie had been 'special friends' for a couple of years but then they broke up.

"We said we'd have a pirate party, and Ellie came. She went to visit Reece a few times in hospital as well.

She added: "We also had a football and laser quest party, apparently that's when he proposed to her."

The pair went out to dinner in the mayor's limousine and the families organised a 'wedding', complete with rings, a stand-in vicar and a certificate.

The ceremony was carried out on July 4 and the following day Reece died at home with his family and a Macmillan nurse.

At his funeral, mourners followed a horse-drawn hearse on foot.

Ms Fleming added: "Even on the Saturday that he died, he got out of bed and walked to the sofa.

"He always tried walking, right to the end, so we thought if he walked for us then we would walk for him."

The Island Diaries- Part 2

With a whopping google reader of over 500 (argh!! *insert convulsions here*), I am officially back in Internets-ville and all that other fun day-to-day life stuff that the end of a holiday entails. The snippets below are just a few random thoughts that came about during my week away when my laptop and I had some quiet moments. More coherent narratives (including photos and bachelorette party escapades!) soon to come. 

***

I have a certain affinity for small town newspapers. I think there is something about the unique combination of kitschy advertisements, local news bits, and blatant opinion pieces that remind me of home.

Take the actual title of the paper, which always includes some sort of semi-witty pun. Small town papers and puns go together like pancakes and maple syrup. Or the front page headline. While the big city paper box will be emblazoned with tales of multiple murders or drug busts, here, the month of July is accompanied by the announcement of the Annual Church Fair. Obituaries are not a generic few square inches of text, but rather half pages with large, smiling photos and anecdotes. There is even an elegy for Lucky, Doreen and Dan’s beloved dog. Letters to the editor tell of the latest controversy over the Island Improvement Committee’s recent meeting. A half page ad, accompanied by a photo of a laughing woman in horn-rimmed glasses and a lei, declares “When U are 21,915 days old, should U be having this much fun!?!? YES…. If you are Lois!”, and proceeds to invite the entire island to Lois’s 60th birthday party at the community hall.

My favourite, however, has to be the RCMP report, written by the island’s apparent sole RCMP constable. It informs residents of the newest speed limit signs and warns them to “please stop when you see me jump out from behind the bushes with my handheld radar gun”. It also details a case in which a man selling $20,000 worth of Snap-On Tools passed away, and his family is unsure of whether they were stolen or sold prior to his passing. The highlight, however, is a personal plea for information regarding the islander supposedly cooking Ecstasy in their home.

***

Some days love feels like more of a tragedy than others. Today, I sit on a ferry bobbing away from him. Normally, I make a particular point of covering up that heart on my sleeve, but today, it feels a little inflamed and exposed. My practical mind tells me it is only a matter of weeks at most, yet the sunlight sparkling on the water still seems a little phony. Perhaps it is the dramatic goodbye, rife with movie-perfect embraces and spectacularly blown kisses. Perhaps goodbyes, even the little ones, are meant to always sting a little.

***

Staying in a house with parents always has a bit of a regressive effect. The Duke’s parents are fairly liberal folk, and thus are accepting of him and I sharing a bedroom, given the fact that we do so in our day-to-day life. However, given the close quarters, we’ve taken what feels like a step back into Grade 12 in our tricks to get a little “private time”. Living together involves a certain neglected freedom, meaning that shutting the blinds is the biggest concern when the urge strikes. When staying with one’s parents, it involves a careful planning, that of whispers and excuses (“I think we are feeling a little tuckered out, so we’re thinking of going to bed early.”), of murmurs and bitten tongues, and of creative locations (“We’re just going for a short hike!”). I’m suddenly reminded again of being ten years younger and in the back of a cramped station wagon due to sheer lack of other options.

Here comes the sun and other weekendly snippets

As predicted about a week ago, the disappearance of the clouds from the sky leads to the clearing of the clouds in my mind. 

It also doesn't hurt that Surfergrrl and I have backstage! passes! to! JACK! JOHNSON!

For reals!!!!

Us and Jack, in barefoot glory, eating banana pancakes. Just you wait. He's writing a song about it.

***

Does anyone remember, back in the days of The Sixth Sense, when M. Night Shyamalan was considered a creative new force in cinema?

Knowing that makes watching The Happening infinitely more painful.

I don't even have the words to express what a bad movie this was. The theatre starting laughing hysterically when a tear-stained John Leguizamo shouted "Don't take my daughter's hand unless you mean it!", and then just didn't stop... and it wasn't supposed to be funny. Even when Marky Mark shouted "We'll be okay if we outrun the wind!", it wasn't supposed to be funny. Seriously, it was some of the most lazy and cliched filmmaking I've ever seen. We actually were laughing hysterically for the next day about how horrific it was. It makes Snakes on a Plane look like an Oscar contender.

***

Saturday was wonderfully sunny, which excited the Duke and I to near manic levels. We decided that frolicking in the sunshine was the most important item on our agenda, and headed off to the lovely green seclusion of the botanical gardens.

I may eventually move under an umbrella tree.

***

My friend N. is the ultimate conversation starter. A few weeks ago, after gorging on BBQ left a group of people sprawled out and silent on a friend's massive deck, she decided to kick-start the chatting by asking everyone to tell the story behind their worst scars. Saturday night, as we sat on a rooftop patio, sipping wine and watching seagulls float overhead, she had another request-- everyone's worst drunken vomiting story. We heard of sleeping in ditches, passing out in toilet bowls, and, worst of all, of covering tell-tale stains the next morning with a towel during an open house. Each one had us breaking down into peals of laughter. 

My own? Involves my 19th birthday, a Monday night, a grasshopper martini, and my mother. More details available upon request...

(I'm not sure such details are really everyone's weekday morning cup of tea)

***

"Let's get our dumplings on!"

"It's like a meaty surprise!"

.

.

.

.

Sunday morning dim sum!

However, I'm afraid that getting one's dumplings on was nowhere near as fantastic as it may sound.

We arrived at the stated place at the stated time, supposedly to meet up with about 10 other friends for assorted tasty, ingredients unknown goods. Instead, we were met with utter chaos. A restaurant that literally seated hundreds, with families squeezed into every which corner of the lobby, and people surging towards the host. I managed to make it to the front of the line, attempting to inform the host about our reservation. I was blocked by arms and shouts from every which direction, and eventually just slammed my feet down, elbows out, with my torso literally pressed up against the host's podium, in an attempt to be noticed. 

The first woman asked me for how many. I told her I had a reservation under my friend's name. She just walked away. The next man, after another several people shouting names and numbers at him, actually started getting information from the woman directly behind me, who pointed out that I was clearly in front of him. I again told him about the reservation. He crossed it off the list, nodded, and then went on to the next person... with no effort to get me a table. Two minutes later, I ask him again. He asks me how many again. I tell him 12. He nods, and ignores me for another five minutes. I don't know if he's telling me that I need all the twelve people here this very moment, or the table is still occupied, or what. My friends are all now 20 minutes late. I hear yelling erupt in the crowd about the poor service and people butting in line. We decide to just leave, as it isn't worth this drama for a brunch we didn't even organize for people who couldn't show up on time. Of course, it is then they all arrive en masse, and it turns out that someone had already gotten a table 20 minutes ago... something the host never even bothered telling me.

Several deep breaths were had.

Several more were had when we experienced possibly the worst service on the planet. We were put in a side room where the carts didn't apparently venture, and where the waiter barked at us to hurry up and order despite having no menus. This was the same waiter who had the balls to tell us our hour late sticky pork buns were still being cooked. 

At this point, the Duke summed it up aptly in saying "I think we already know that the possibility of a tip has been completely eliminated. Now it's just a matter of how much we have to steal from them to make this entire experience worth it."

***

Post dim-sum, with some lovely new china in hand (kidding!), we moseyed over to the Car-Free Festival in one of the more eclectic areas of town. It was there that we were greeted by bongo drums, lemonade stands, people parading down the street declaring "You can't buy our rivers!", and the following interaction...

L: Wow, that guy dancing over there has some seriously short shorts. I mean, I pretty much can see his balls.

*Pause*

L: Oh God... I did just see his balls.

Me: Me too!

L: Well, he puts a new meaning to the phrase "rock out with your cock out!"

***

PS. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there!

Stranger than fiction

So the documentary film festival is in town this weekend.

This means that I spent a good chunk of yesterday's sunny hours in a dimly lit cinema, processing narratives of African dictators and European counterfeiters.

(As a side note, the Duke just bought me the Planet Earth/Blue Planet DVD boxset. 10 DVDs full of David Attenborough goodness? And a day long date of documentary films? I just had a geekgasm.)

In all honesty, as a whole, I wasn't blown away by the festival. Some of the work was pretentious at best, as were some of the attendees.

(A note to the fellow comparing our premier to Robert Mugabe... seriously? I mean, I agree the guy is an asshat, but cutting social funding is hardly equivalent to torturing those who oppose you. You need to drop the shock tactics, and go back to first year poli sci to learn your facts a little better.)

However, after learning about the case of Lucio Urturbia, an apparently simple bricklayer and family man, who, after being arrested for one of the largest counterfeiting scams in history, managed to negotiate with CityBank to pay him(!) to stop his scamming, I began wondering why, as a society, we're so entranced by fiction.

Sure, I enjoy escapism as much as the next person. I can admit to plans to see the Sex and the City movie one night and go to the documentary film festival the next without feeling like too much of a hypocrite.

But, really, though, aren't the stories of real people infinitely more interesting than the same old tired cliche of boy makes bet about girl, boy meets girl, some hilarity ensues, boy and girl fall in love, girl finds out the truth and freaks out, boy convinces her he loves her despite it all, and they live happily ever after?

Most of the real life stories I've seen documented on film or on paper elicit way more ideas and conversations than the average Hollywood fare, and stay with me for exponentially longer. Not to mention that I have tremendous respect for the art and effort behind such filmmaking (in fact, I am completely guilty of over-romanticizing it)-- the idea of being so passionate about a story or an issue that you feel the need to dedicate years of your life to sharing it is astounding to me.

I suspect I may be preaching to the converted, to a certain extent. While I doubt that the majority of you have watching documentaries in the bathtub as your back-up Friday night plan, the regular reading of blogs seems to me to convey a bit of fascination with real life over fiction. There is something compelling about following along with someone else's life through their words. Similarly, though I'm not one to spend much time praising the intellectual merits of reality TV, one has to wonder if the current fascination with it may be in part to the (apparently) real stories of everyday (or not so everyday) people being more provocative than the laugh track enhanced tales of the poor emasculated father in a house full of women.

I think it kind of comes down to the adage of "The more you learn, the more you realize that you don't know." And the more I realize that I don't know, the less I feel like ignoring it all for the sake of a story for which I already know the ending.

Mismatched eyelashes and bony elbows

My left eye opens wider than my right eye.

My nose has a bump on it.

I often show too much gum when smiling in photos.

My thumbnails are too square.

My butt has been known to jiggle.

... and so forth.

These are some of the things I contemplate while looking in the mirror.

However, I have enough insight to recognize that the average person tends to be oblivious to the shape of my thumbnails, and is more inclined to notice the colour of my hair or the way in which I laugh.

At least I do most days.

***

Today, as we were flipping through the channels over lunch, we came across a documentary entitled "S&M: Short and Male". This show proceeded to detail the humiliation associated with being a male of the vertically challenged variety. It spoke of shoes with top secret heels. Of short men's stores with secret back entrances. Of the frustration inherent in a tall man's world where mannequins tower over you. And, most frighteningly, of parents putting lifts in the shoes of their seven-year old son, so he would no longer have to look up at his peers.

I am as aware of anyone of the "tall, dark, and handsome" ideal, of the mockery of Tom Cruise (for scientology-unrelated issues), and of my girlfriends' asserting their height restrictions on potential dates. However, I have a bit of a confession for you all-- my boyfriend is short. I also have a second confession for you-- this doesn't bother me at all. In fact, there's many aspects of it that I like. I don't need to stand on my tiptoes to kiss him. We fit together when we hug. What I like even more, though, is that it doesn't bother him. He doesn't bemoan society's mistreatment of him or women's shallowness towards him. In fact, I am the first woman he's dated who has been shorter than him.

Still, there is a perception out there that his genetics should somehow be upsetting to him, that he should be falling victim to "short man syndrome", and thus wielding power in the most petty of realms to make up for his insecurities. And, at least according to this documentary, a more recent addition to these perceptions may be coming from advertisers, in order to create a demand for their products.

The notion of insecurities equalling big bucks is hardly a new concept. In fact, I often wonder if it comes down to a chicken and the egg type question. What comes first-- the insecurity or the product? Did women really stay up late at night worrying about the quality of the pores on their noses until pore strips were created? Were blondes really oppressed by using shampoo intended for brunettes until recently? Were we all convinced that our teeth were frighteningly stained before whitening products became so commonplace?

It seems less likely that companies picked up on a genuine underlying concern so much as inserted this concern into our societal narratives in such a way as to convince us that we really should have known it all along. Commercials display scientific looking diagrams outlining bacteria and layers of skin, and proclaim statistics such as "83% more curls!" and "three shades whiter in one tube!" 

And, as simple as that, *poof*-- another body issue that needs to be remedied.

This is the only way that I can think to explain the fact that we live in a society of 7-year old boys with lifts in their shoes, 12-year old girls getting Brazilian waxes and 30-year old mothers getting vaginal rejuvenation surgery.

And it's good for you!

An article I thought my bloggie peeps may find intriguing...

Blogging's Good For Your Health
Claudine Ryan, ABC Science Online

March 3, 2008 -- Blogging can help you feel less isolated, more connected to a community and more satisfied with your friendships, both online and face-to-face, new research has found.
The research, from Swinburne University of Technology in Melbourne, found after two months of regular blogging, people felt they had better social support and friendship networks than those who didn't blog.
Researchers James Baker and Susan Moore have written two papers investigating the psychological benefits of blogging and regularly updating personal Web pages with information that invites others to comment.
The first, published in the latest issue of the journal CyberPsychology and Behavior, compares the mental health of people intending to blog with that of people not planning to blog.
Moore says the researchers messaged 600 MySpace users personally and directed them to an online survey. A total of 134 completed the questionnaire; 84 intended to blog and 50 didn't.
"We found potential bloggers were less satisfied with their friendships and they felt less socially integrated, they didn't feel as much part of a community as the people who weren't interested in blogging ... they were also more likely to use venting or expressing your emotions as a way of coping," Moore said.
"It was as if they were saying 'I'm going to do this blogging and it's going to help me'."
And it seemed to do the trick, as the researchers' second study shows.
This study, which is yet to be published, was conducted two months later. The researchers sent out questionnaires to the same group of MySpace users; this time 59 responded. Bloggers reported a greater sense of belonging to a group of like-minded people and feeling more confident they could rely on others for help.
All respondents, whether or not they blogged, reported feeling less anxious, depressed and stressed after two months of online social networking.
"So going onto MySpace had lifted the mood of all participants in some way," Moore says. "Maybe they'd just made more social connections."
Moore acknowledges this is early research and hopes to follow a larger group of people for a longer period time to test some of the research findings.

***

Okay, so maybe not the best designed of studies (pssssh, myspace blogs? So 2005!). However, I do find it interesting when a subculture, such as this one, becomes a formally recognized as worthy of research. I also am fascinated by the effects of technology on our culture and psychology-- for instance, I previously pondered the connotations of Facebook taking away the experience of losing touch with people, an experience I would argue is a reasonably vital part of the transition to adulthood.

These findings actually mesh really well with research showing significant psychological and health benefits of writing about one's  secrets, even if no one will ever read them (by Jamie Pennebaker, if anyone's interested). It seems to be an interesting combination of catharsis and gaining insight-- which seems fitting for this particular endeavour we are all engaged in, doesn't it?

And, yes, apparently my geekyness has officially seeped beyond all walls supposed to contain it. That's what overwork will do to you, I guess. I've forgotten how to even pretend to be cool.

Thankfully, I'm in a slight pause at the moment, sort of a brief stop on a boulder in the midst of a rushing river. I will try to come visit your sides of the world soon, I promise, before the currents rush to sweep me off again!

A nerd tribute

(Remember those bad high school reports that started with "Webster's Dictionary defines love as a strong affection for another..."? Here's my juvenile attempt!)

According to the test below (which is surely the definition of academic authority), a nerd is someone passionate about learning/being smart/academia. And, according to the extremel diagnostic quiz below, I am a nerd.

Your Score: Pure Nerd

82 % Nerd, 34% Geek, 26% Dork

For The Record:
A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.

A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.

A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.


You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.


The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendences associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.


Congratulations!


THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST

***

It's interesting, considering I have always self-labelled as a geek, which sounds a little more appealing to me, although apparently a little incorrect.
However, I do like to consider myself a bit of an incognito nerd. As perhaps indicated by my low levels of dorkyness, I can hold my own in social situations. It's only once you get to know me a little that I start recommending documentary films or picking apart films that misrepresent random psychological facts.

I don't do a good job at hiding the nerd clumsiness factor, though. I most recently managed to dump a glass of wine on my laptop.
See... trying to be suave with the wine... not so much.

But this post is not about the nerd in me, but rather my fondness for others in this category. For instance, after going to see Super Bad this weekend, I desperately wanted to stroke Michael Cera's character's hair (in a totally platonic and comforting manner), as his social awkwardness was so very endearing.


However, the #1 Nerd?
(totally not Steve Urkel, who is pretty much 100% dork!)

Dilton Motherfuckin' Doiley!!!

He's short, wildly intelligent, wore round classes before Harry Potter made them cool, looks great in a lab coat, and delightfully awkward.

In short, screw deciding between Archie (ugly and a bit of a man whore), Reggie (vain), Moose (seriously? "Duh"? How about "Um" instead?), and Jughead (gay or maybe even asexual).
If I lived in Riverdale, I would totally seduce Dilton Doiley.
And then we could hang out in his basement lab after school in lab coats and talk about how platypuses are goddamn cool.
He might even disassemble his robot girlfriend for me.

I don't remember

It feels as though I have about a million blogs to write, and nowhere near the time to do so these days. My drafts folder is filled with half-started thoughts that get put to the side when cleaning, *academic* writing, and, okay, Harry Potter, get in the way. It is actually a little frustrating to have one's musings feel a bit backlogged.

This particular stream of consciousness began last night, and then became delayed for a more enjoyable reason- a fascinating, involving conversation on the topic that helped put me back into last year when I was falling for a certain fellow through coffee shop discussions that seemed to span an entire evening. I decided to take my lunch break to finish it off over some of my kick-ass potato salad.

I'm also frustrated at my seeming inability to catch up on all my fellow bloggers- I feel like I need a coffee shop date with all of you to be able to really reimmerse myself!

***

As a part of our seemingly new ritual, the Duke and I have just finished watching yet another documentary film in my superb clawfoot bathtub.

Many times, new ideas are sprung from these films that have become my odd little escape from reality (yet, escape into reality...), but I often try to stifle them a little, as I find my mind getting overcome with facts and tangents, which then distract me from immersing myself in the film.

However, this most recent film has stimulated the brain cells so much that I am writing whilst wrapped in a towel.

In a recent post, I talked about my revelation, as Eve so nicely put it, that home isn't necessarily a place, and how reassuring a genuine sense of self can be. I just watched a film that made me question where that sense of self exists, and what would happen if its essence were to suddenly vanish.



Unknown White Male is a documentary film about the experiences of Doug Bruce, a 35-year old living in New York, who mysteriously and with no apparent explanation, found himself on a New York subway one day with no recollection of who he was or any aspects of his past. Although there is some debate to the veracity of his claims, this film documented his reconnection with friends and family members, and his attempts to rediscover and redefine who he is.

Perhaps most intriguing about this character study was the fact that Doug did not seem to have any desire to remember. Outside of some moments of fear and confusion while sitting in a hospital with no identity or knowledge of where home may be or what it may entail, he really engages in little deliberate reflection about what he used to be like. It's especially odd, because everyone else in the film seems to endorse the notion that they would be trying desperately to remember in such a situation, whereas he is content discovering things anew, with apparently no expectations. His sister comments early in the film that he never asked her anything about their childhood. This is what lead people to assume that he might be lying-- the seemingly forced distance between new Doug and old Doug. It is a funny thing that our society that we may not be, in a sense, really permitted to start fresh, and it is only through such a severe turn of events that someone is really allowed to start from scratch and re-create who they want to be. And, by all accounts, he is a very different person- it is even evident to the viewer through comparing the man being interviewed to brief homevideo clips.

Which leads me to thinking about to what extent one's experiences, rather than some vital essence or core, make up who one is. As people, we seem to cling onto the notion of a stable personality, a consistency that remains true no matter what situation we find ourselves in. However, Douglas Bruce went from a man completely consistent with his upper class upbringing- slightly arrogant, cynical, outgoing- to a quiet, reflective, observant individual once concrete evidence of this upbringing erased from his mind. His memories shaped who he was to such an extreme extent.

At contrast with the sense of peace he had with his new self and his gradual rediscovery, with fewer boundaries and expectations, of what his "new" self was to be, was the reactions of people around him. One of the most striking moments was when he had a video camera filming the airport as he was about to be reconnected with his father and sister-- and you realize that you, as a viewer, have as much of a sense as he does which of these masses of people are his core family.
His ex-girlfriend reflects, in one scene, of how him being such a different person challenges her sense of the veracity of their past together-- it is almost akin to his death, how she feels as though because the Doug she loved no longer exists, suddenly their past is less real.

At one point in the film, he returns to London to reunite with friends who've known him for over twenty years. They are all desperately looking for something to link them to the Doug they used to know. One friend just clung to him and wouldn't let go. It all seemed so un-reciprocal, and almost selfish- these people were utter strangers to him, yet they needed so intensely to feel like the connection remained.

His words on these people who loved him with such fervour seemed so hollow. They would be crying their eyes out after seeing him again, and his reaction would be "Well, they seem with very nice fellows. I wouldn't be opposed to visiting with them again." He willingly admitted that he lacked this bond to some of these people who held onto it so strongly, and he knew it was hard for them. The other funny thing about his speech pattern was how concrete and literal it was. He used no metaphors, seemingly because he had nothing to compare his experiences to.

These are only a smidgen of the thoughts that came to mind in watching this film. Although it does occasionally resemble a hodge-podge of art film stock footage, in an attempt of the director to make it creative, I challenge anyone not to watch the film and seriously ponder what they would be like if they, too, suddenly could no longer remember.

Onions and salt-water taffy

Onions are potentially the foulest vegetable on the planet.

When they aren't evoking tears with their pungeant, searing smells, they are ruining the taste of perfectly good food by virtue of mere contact with their acrid flesh. My sister and I used to battle over whose side of the table the onions would sit closer to.

Salt-water taffy, by contrast, is exquistely scrumptious.

I love their chewiness and multitudes of flavours.
My sister figured out that I had a crush on the Duke before I had even realized it because I bought him a bag of salt-water taffy.

So, the scene has been set...
Onions = bad
Salt-water taffy = good

With that in mind, I would like to throw a big, smelly onion at the following things:

Phone Stalkers
A few months ago, I posted about a mysterious late night phone call. This experience actually repeated itself about a week or two ago. This time, I woke up with a start (again), heart slamming against my chest, thinking that there was no way I would get another late night hang up. I was wrong, I realized, after hearing a click against my ear after several panicked hellos. As before, this call was from a private number.

Late this morning, another call and hang up from a private number (after listening to me say hello several times). I get to thinking that, though those previously described incidences were the only nighttime experiences, I actually think I've gotten a few such daytime calls over the past few months, and my cell phone has also recorded a significant number of calls with no messages left from a private number. In fact, I don't know if a single call from a private line over the past four months has ever resulted in a single word being said to me or my voicemail. whereas I don't think I've ever got a single wrong number on my cell phone (I no longer have a landline).

This realization irked me a little bit, especially since I live by myself and have an occasional tendency for pessimism. I decided to call my cell phone provider to see if they could tell me the identity of the last caller, figuring this might help ease any worries I'm having . They claim they can't, but I should call the police, who could probably get this information. I contemplate for a moment, then decide to call a police advice line to find out if there is anything I can do. The woman on the phone tells me of an option for tracing calls on landlines, which then are delivered to the police if more than three calls happen and I call then to tell them so.
It doesn't work with my cell phone provider. She says they should have some way to trace calls-- so now I'm waiting to hear back if such a mechanism does secretely exists. It seems a bit odd that there is no mechanism to trace the identity of a potentially harassing caller.

I've surmised a little about the identity, if this really is the same caller. I consider that it may be a former client-- but the problem is they should not have access to my unlisted cellphone number, suggesting it would be someone I know. The only other villain I could think of is some drink guy who stole my friend's phone six months ago and then tried to booty call some of her friends with numbers from her phone book.

EDIT: Two more calls at 12:30am. I'm starting to get a little freaked out.

Psychiatrists
Ah, yes, the eternal psychiatrist vs. psychologist debate.

...as several of my readers query "But aren't they the same thing?"

I try not to be black and white on the whole issue of psychiatric meds. While they are undoubtedly overprescribed, a great deal of this is attributable to overzealous G.P.'s, and these medications also have helped people get the courage to get the therapy they really need.

But it would be really wonderful if you, psychiatrist, might express a little faith in your clients, and not attempt to degrade progress made in client's external psychotherapy by sweeping statements about how they can never hope to live without medication, or how every potential bump in the road is a steep precipe trecherously close to a full relapse, that can only be prevented by increased dosages and new add-ons.

Ever heard of the notion of self-efficacy? You know, helping your clients to believe they are strong, effective people who can work towards improvements?

If you don't believe in them as anything but a dehumanized victim of their "chemical imbalances", how are they supposed to think of themselves as above that?

Old Crushes on Facebook
Two of my most passionate crushes of my early teens added me on Facebook last week. One I had remained in intermittent contact with since the fateful night at the local pool when he decided to "go out" with a friend of mine and I went home and bawled my eyes out to Mariah Carey singing "I can't live if living is without you", and thus knew him as just another person for many years afterwards.
The other disappeared from my life, and thus remained a frozen at 17 and a little magical in my mind. He was the older boy who my 13 year old self had found hopelessly funny and dreamy. He'd once thrown me into a lake with all my clothes on, and we'd tangoed across a bridge.
And, now? He's not ugly, or doing ridiculous things with his life. He's just, well, mediocre.
And I'm a little sad to find that out.

***

But, wait... this post isn't entirely negative!
So I'm handing out some tasty salt-water taffy to the following....

My skin
Despite being of as Western European in origin as they get, I somehow inherited skin that looks deceptively exotic at times.
I joke around that people play pick an ethnicity with me at times, especially during the summer, as people have asked me if I am Italian, Russian (I actually have a great Russian alter-ego, as a side note), Spanish, part-Asian or First Nations.
This is highlighted nicely in the summer by the fact that two afternoons at the beach (one being overcast), people are commenting on how nice and tanned I am. Woo!

Six Feet Under

Damn, it's a good show! I'm seriously crushed I only have a season and a half left.

Freud's case studies
I don't care how crazy some of his interpretations are-- these things read like brilliant mysteries being solved!

The Duke's return
Shut up.
I miss him.

Austin in a week!
Yee-haw!
A Canadian in Texas has got to make for good comedy, right?

On art

This Saturday, the Duke, two friends and I spent the afternoon in the art gallery.

An exhibit, labelled From Monet to Dali, focusing on the great artists from 1864 to 1964, was being featured.

While I am hardly an art connoisseur, and I in fact resent those who try to analyze art in extreme detail (as with poetry, I believe your visceral first reaction is the most important), it was intriguing to see the works of such famed artists as Renoir, Picasso, Monet, Manet, Rodin, Van Gogh and Dali, and hear the stories behind their work.

For instance, Rodin's The Age of Bronze was so anatomically detailed that there was an uproar about the work, as people believed it was not a sculpture, but rather an actual molding of the model. The model had to volunteer to have an encasing done of him in bronze to show that it was indeed different from the actual work.

It was also intriguing hearing about how evidence of social change was displayed in art. The paintings of this era were not, as it the past, heavy on deities and the upper class. As well, a lot of impressionist and post-impressionist works were not heavy on symbolism (though this definitely was the case for surrealism). They instead were just paintings of real life, particularly that of the lower classes. It is strange to thing of how the subjects used to be more limited to the upper class, as if they were the only ones living lives worthy of art.

I bought a print of Rousseau's "Fight between a Tiger and Buffalo". Another random fact-- despite his focus on the tropical in many of his works, Rousseau never left France. Which may explain why the bananas are upside down in this painting.

Upstairs from this exhibit, and having a little more breathing room, was a retrospective on the art of Huang Yong Ping.

The contrast between these two exhibits was an eye opening experience about the diversity of art.

Ping thrives on controversy and the unusual. I was more compelled to take pictures of his work, because, while the photos in the first exhibit were beautiful and doubtlessly many were controversial in their time, they weren't the conversation pieces that Ping's were.

(excuse the quality, as they were taken on my cell phone)




For instance, this was some sort of a wolf/crocodile/mermaid cross dining on spiritual symbols being dangled by a fisherman.


I found this one charming, though I don't want to think what happened to the poor explorer to whom this hat belongs.


I challenge you not to giggle at this one!

There was also an enormous model of a crashed Chinese spy plane you could walk in, filled with bats, that apparently didn't please the Chinese government a great deal; two large cages, featuring only knawed bones and petrified feces; and wooden vertabrae of an enormous python dangling for something like 50 feet over the other displays.

However, the centerpiece of this retrospective was controversy and the dichotomously posed question of whether animal rights or artistic freedom is tantamount. Essentially, without going into too many details, his piece, entailed "Theatre of the World", had a variety of animals, specifically lizards, spiders, scorpions, snakes, and insects, all in a model of a panopticon prison. The SPCA claimed it was inhumane, the artist and the gallery claimed the work was making a strong point and the SPCA's requests were censorship. Ultimately, the animals were all removed, and now insults abound, calling both the SPCA and Ping extremists, etc, etc. I loathe to take sides on such a thing, as I think it is too complex of an issue to simply place one value over the other, and I just want to stay away from either side after seeing the dogma being spewed from both sides.

Yet, it is a little refreshing to see art creating controversy again, because at least it is drawing people back into the gallery for something besides readily recognized names.

A morning in the life of...

On the days that I see clients, I wear semi-professional gear. I don't know if any of you felt this way when you had to start wearing blazers or ties to work, but this brings out mixed feelings in me. I enjoy, in some senses, striding around in my high heels, tweed skirt, latte in hand. It feels like I am playing dress up. Sometimes I think I am fooling people, and they believe me to be in their little young professionals club. Other times I feel like a fraud and am convinced that everyone can see the girl who can't hold a coffee steady and squeals at spiders beneath my big sunglasses.

Today I felt rather styling with my black heels. I took two steps out the door, and realized that if I was going to make it through 'til tonight, I'd better slip some flip flops in my bag.

I lasted all the way 'til the coffee shop in my heels.
And nearly spilled coffee changing out of them.

You can dress me up, but you can't take me out!

***

At this coffee shop, while dumping some sugar into by cup, I listened to a mother explaining death to her two daughters, who were probably around the 5-7 range. She said "You girls know that when you die, your family never forgets you, right?" She then held up the obituaries, and pointed to a picture of a very young boy. She said "This boy has been in heaven for twenty years, and his daddy put this ad in the newspaper because he still loves him so much."

It was a strangely beautiful moment.

***

Two things that shouldn't exist: leather baseball caps and banana flavoured milk.

***

On the bus, coffee in hand, I sat down on a forward facing seat directly behind a woman on a sideways seat, who was writing on some formal looking reports. I was appalled to notice that, as was clearly visible over her shoulder, she was actually editing people's therapy reports on a bus! At first, I was hesitant as to what to do, as of course anyone who sat in her vicinity could and would read them- as I was doing at that very moment. However, as she pulled out a second report, and I was confronted with the full name of a father who was coping with the trauma of his child's death, I decided that I had to say something.

"Excuse me."

She looks at me, irritated, without a word.

"Just so you know, I can clearly read the report from over your shoulder, so you might want to be careful."

She turns around, and indignantly folds the paper over so the initial title with the client's contact information is covered, and continues taking notes. After the first page, she continues marking it up without even attempting to shield the information.

What I wanted to say, "Listen, you disrespectful bitch, I'm a therapist, too, so I know how unethical you are being. I can't believe anyone would present themselves as caring about someone's well-being, and then be callous enough to expose the confidential details about a grieving father's therapy to anyone and everyone on public transit. Furthermore, I can't believe that you aren't even ashamed that someone caught you doing this. I wish that I had stayed silent a moment longer so I could have read your (or whoever's report it was) identity on the last page, and reported you to your college, because that is probably sufficient to get your license revoked. You don't deserve to work with these people."

***

On the bright side, I am going to see the fantastically delightful Feist play tonight. I officially command you all to watch the clip below of My Moon My Man, which is my current favourite song!

Rain, rain, go away

A few thoughts for today...



I am really really sick of rain. It is amazing how much continual downpours can restrict one's life... particularly when one lacks a car and has osmotic boots.
On the bright side, all this rain results in a downright beautiful spring time. The cherry blossoms and daffodils are already starting to emerge, and my urge to frolick is increasing substantially.



***

I went to see my first apartment today. It was actually available a month earlier than planned, but sounded perfect on paper, so I decided to take a look anyways. While the apartment itself was almost a perfect replica of the apartment in my head that I want (hardwood floors, lots of windows, in a heritage home), there was mad construction going on right behind the house (they were just starting on a huge apartment building and probably 5 dumptrucks drove by in the 20 minutes we were there) and the landlady seemed like a bit too much of an uptight control freak for my taste. Plus the rent was exactly my maximum, and, as my lovely boyfriend reminded me, you should never pay your maximum except for something that is relatively close to perfect.
Ha! All this overanalyzing and I don't even know if they will offer me the place.
It is actually relatively hard for me to turn anything even semi-decent down, because I am tempted to just grab the first liveable place that pops up, in order to spare me all the apartment hunting drama.

***


Went to go see 300 last night. The battle scenes were downright epic, and the cinematography was spectacular, but anything that wasn't fighting was a downright cheese fest.

Prime example, as said by King Leonidas: A new age has come, an age of freedom. And all will know that 300 Spartans gave their last breath to defend it.

It was funny, because all the talk in the film about justice, freedom and liberty sounded a lot like American propaganda, rather than a movie about the ancient Greeks.

Historical accuracy was also a little debatable. While I was surprised to hear that the battle did in fact occur, I love the fact that they forgot to mention the thousands of non-Spartan allies that helped.

Oh yeah, and Frank Miller films will bloody slaughterings and plenty of random breasts are guaranteed to attract some less desirable movie goers. Like the teenagers in front of us shotgunning beers... they then got up to go to the bathroom like 5 times during the movie! The people beside them were so pissed off. The running commentary probably didn't help their case.

***

I thing they have a separate breeding centre or genetic lab to create the servers who work at restaurants like Earls. How many skinny porcelain skinned tall 21 year olds really do exist in this world? And how can they all be in one place?

***

I really despise how my tendency to provide a listening ear gets me stuck in the middle of the most complicated interpersonal situations ever. I'm somehow found myself in the midst of something-- and I have no clue how any of it even relates to me!

Further proof that I need a life

On the Simpsons this evening (which is getting decidingly less and less funny each time I watch), Bart goes to see a psychiatrist.

Mistake- On his psychiatrist's door, she is referred to as PhD, not M.D... meaning she is not a psychiatrist at all, but one of us (aka. a psychologist). This would also explain her use of projective techniques rather than ritalin!

Correct- Bart is only able to see his psychologist for the 5 sessions paid for by the school. Ahhhhh.... the joys of managed care.
His issues are remained horribly unresolved at this point, although, granted, his therapist did a pretty poor job of preparing him for termination and the associated abandonment issues he experienced.

I am such a geek.