Sharkboy and I are watching the Cold Mountain DVD:
Sharkboy: “This is a great movie!”
Deadrobot: “Yeah, surprisingly. They did the editing on a Mac.”
Silence.
Sharkboy: “It was shot in Transylvania or somewhere.”
Deadrobot: “I heard that. They had a real problem with vampires flying in during shooting. (My best Nicole Kidman Aussie accent) ‘Ah kint werk with these constant inneruptions!'”
Silence.
Giggles.
I get the call at 9:20pm:
“Hey! How are things?”
Sharkboy: “Not good…”
Sharkboy was just finishing up Pirates of the Carribean when he heard a noise coming from his bedroom. Flicking on the light he looks up to his small window (the small, basement-sized one that is just above the roof of the adjacent building next door, yet right at the top of his wall) to see a guy with a screwdriver poking at the latch on the window frame. Both men freak. Both run to the back alley. Sharkboy chases after him in his bare feet (in hindsight, this was probably not that bright, but in the heat of the moment…) and yells “I’ve called the police!” Would-be robber gets away.
Then he calls the police.
6 cops show up, take the screens for fingerprinting and then case closed. Damage done: one broken window, two shattered apartment-dwelling human’s nerves.
When I lived nearer to the Village, I was broken into while I was out . My roomies were at home at the time, “occupied” in their bedroom. The roomies thought the noise in the apartment was me bumbling around, when it was really two kids shoving stuff into their napsacks. It wasn’t until one of the robbers opened their bedroom door to get an eyeful of hot gay action did they realize they were being burgled. They chased one of the kids out the front door and heard the second leave via the back patio.
I come home to an apartment full of cops. They ask me some questions then ask me to see if any of my stuff is missing. One of them follows me up into my attic bedroom and as he crests the stairs he exclaims: “Holy! They really did a number up here!”
I am notorious for not putting dirty laundry in its hamper, nor do I put clean laundry away. I generally live the slob life.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, “A real number.”
Damage done: my Nintendo 64; $30USD I was saving for a trip to Kentucky; a pair of GAP chinos, which I took as a compliment towards my fashion sense, and my big city livin’ virginity. It took me a full 2 weeks to realize they went through my sock drawer.
I’m Bear for a Day! Where the hell is my crown, staff and sash?!
If you’ve come to check me out, the pics are down the right hand side there. Feel free to stick around and read.
Pulls tv remote, magazines, old food out from between the couch pillows
If I knew you were coming I would have cleaned up a bit.
The Shuffle and the Mac Mini are hardly unexpected, what with all the lawsuits Apple has been handing out like they were XP Windows Updates. Already GAB has called the iPod Shuffle the “iSuppository”.
But why do I want them so?!? Is it the Sans-Serif font on all their product? The clean design? The fact that I find Steve Jobs sexy (for his brians, only, of course)(though, I bet he’s hairy under that turtleneck…)(where was I?)?
I am thinking, however, that my Da would like the Mac Mini, to get him off the 500mhz Aptiva he’s on right now. Its so slow and buggy, you’d think you were using a 486 on a 14.4 modem. He already has a flatscreen monitor. And the “service calls” I get when I go over for free dinners would be reduced greatly (you know the ones: “I dont know where the camera downloaded the pictures to” or “My email is broken” etc). iLife would solve lots of his worries. Hmmm…..
Last weekend my good friend Tony turned 29 (again). To celebrate him being so incredibly old, we had Fondue (cheese and steak). How 70s!
Enjoy!
Cake! Too bright!
Bear Treed In Toronto
Fondue? Fon Don’t!
Tony gets the call
…And Tony is happy!
…or Electronic Voice Phenomenon, if you will. I first heard of it in William Gibson’s book “Pattern Recognition”: the lead character’s mother becomes obsessed with trying to “hear” messages from her husband who was lost during 9-11. It seems the interpretation of the soundfile is souly up to the listener, hearing what they want to hear. Pretty much like ghost writing, like my Italian Grandma use to do (she claimed to speek to a small child and wrote in the most curious handwriting when answering herself).
Right now I am all freaked out alone in my house listening to the fish tank filter, wind on the skylight and furnace whisper to me from the basement. I was looking for some reviews on White Noise (all of them saying “dont bother”) and stumbled upon www.aaevp.com. I’ve listened to their audio library and cant stop the creeping gooseflesh up and down my legs.
As a kid I was obsessed with alien abduction, Bigfoot and ghost photography. I would scour our small town’s library for all and any books on the subject and would work myself into such a frenzy that I would be sleeplessly freaked out for days. I use stare into our TV in hopes to see a spirit appear over my shoulder in the inky blackness of the idiot tube.
Right now as I type this, I am feeling that same anxiety after listening to some of the audio files on aaevp.
Its like I am a kid again and I am the only one awake in our rambling huge house in sleepy backwater Brockville. One summer night, I had churned myself into such a state after scouring over Sasquatch photos (the one of the guy in the ape suit looking back at the camera two frames before disappearing into the woods) that I was frozen to the bed listening to every bump, creak and groan the house would make. I hit the lights, got up and threw my legs over the side of the bed and looked down to the open book on the floor… open to the drawings Betty Hill had made of her alien captors, precursor to the X-Files “Greys”.
I can tell you I didnt sleep for days and that I nearly crapped the bed in fear of leaving my room to go down the long dark hallway to the loo.
Eventually I stopped looking at that stuff, loosing my faith in the otherworlds. But right now I swear to you I can hear mumbling as the fan on my CPU churns out messages from the afterlife, and I am dreading the climb down from the attic, the chores before bed and the lights out before closing my bedroom door.
GOING TO BED NOW!
…Mister and Mister Daniel and Mark (John?)!
What a lovely ceremony! What a lovely couple! Not a hint of politics or religion and several poiniant quotes from ee cummings to get the heartstrings tugged (yes, I did cry, thankyouverymuch, much to my sister and Sharkboy’s delight). It went off without any screaming ex-boyfriends banging on the windows, yelling “Mrs Bouvier! Mrs Bouvier!!”
Best comment, pre-wedding: “Hey Dan, when you do this again, you need to get a bigger venue.”
Thanks to Mark’s friends and bits of my family, who made the effort to come and get stuck in this crappy weather. Thanks to Mum and Da for your help and words at the party.
Mark, take care of my brother! Thirty years ago he marched (and roller skated in a Habit) through Toronto to get to where you two are today and displayed a tenacity that I wish I had. I am truly greatfull for all the work he’s done and for his stubborn, unrelenting spirit. You are his perfect compliment.
I am proud to call you brother.
I’ve removed the pictures for spacing issues but would be glad to email any to anyone who cares.
What would be a pretty cool together-family thing to do? Picnic? Feh. Together travel? Yerrg! Back wax? Hmmm…
No! How about appearing with your dad as extras on your brother’s TV show “This Is Wonderland”? A while back Mike swung it so we could play DAs in a couple scenes. We got up early, made our way to the studios and started the day of hurry up and wait. We got onto the set at 9am (ish) and was told that we were only doing two scenes so nothing tough. Close to 11 hours later we were done. They must have filmed those two scenes from 7 different angles for 5 pages of dialogue.
Regardless, the Assistant Director made sure that Dad and I were doing something while the camera was rolling. We swapped files for the first scene and debated over a point in a folder in the second. Dad’s a natural! At 73, he took some acting lessons and its really pumped up his confidence.
Here are some pics of that event:
Dad and Mike share a moment before going on set.
Mugging for the only camera they’d let us mug at.
Could my shoulders be more tense?
I didnt get her name, but she was electric in the scene. Her “son” played off her nicely.
I am not sure when this will air, I will keep you posted.
If you’ve read my past blog entries you know that I find extra work really boring yet incredibly mystical when the celebs act/move/sneeze on or around you. This day was no different. Thanks Mike for a fantastic day!
Xmas parties and a wedding loom, so I decide to drag Sharkboy along to Sears to look for fun and flip shirts to wear to these festive events.
“I want a green shirt and a red tie!” I announce.
“My co-worker just threw up in her mouth just a little at that suggestion,” Sharkboy replies.
Through the crowds at The Eaton Centre Sears (Oh bite the bullet and change the g-d name…EATONS IS DEAD!) we make our way into the men’s shirts. After much debate as to what colour to get, I suggest that we measure my neck before going off and getting a shirt that doesnt fit. The zombie clerk, who is visibly unimpressed that she has to actually serve someone, pulls out her tape measure and wraps it around my neck.
“18… 18 1/2… 19… 20,” she says.
I am in shock. Its been a while since Ive bought a dress shirt. I wonder if her chant is actually one big number. Sharkboy looks like he’s going to say something when Zombie clerk cuts him off and pulls me out of my stunned silence:
“You need to go over there,” she points and dismisses me.
Over there is the “Casual Wear” section, subtitled “Big and Tall”
Good lord.
The “fun and flip” concept of a dress shirt/tie combo just flew out the window. At this point I am willing to wear paisley with a striped tie, just dont make me shop in the Big and Tall section!! Sharkboy is light and airy and upbeat as he jokes with the clerk. Easy for him. His neck isnt 1818andahalf1920. Bless him for pointing out that all the posters had humpy Daddy Bears modeling the latest large fashions.
The clerk (who by the way was the best salesperson I have had in years: clever, funny and helpful with the strangest Downunder accent ever–go see her) takes a proper neck and arm measurement and with a flourish, picks out a black shirt from George Foreman. Yes. The punch-drunk boxer has his own line of clothes for the men who, despite grilling the crap out of cheese sandwiches on his bright iMac-esque cookers, cant get their weight under control.
I am ready to race out of there with that shirt (any shirt!), waving my debit card in the clerk’s face while shooting sideway glances to see if anyone I know can see me buying a George Foreman shirt, when Sharkboy says “Try it on!”
Good lord x 2.
I am so eager to get this over with I toss off my sweater right at the cash. Oh no, there are change rooms, sir. The clerk removes all the pins and plastic and scoots me into the first stall. Sharkboy jumps up on the chair in the next and looks over the stall as I try on this shirt.
At a 19-20 collar with 35-36 arm, the shirt came down to just below my knees. And as an added surprise, the button at the collar was attached to an elastic band that allowed the collar to expand.
EXPAND.
I looked like a priest in his robes, ready to preach from the pulpit. All that was missing was the white collar. I had images in my head of gliding serenely into the Xmas party, hands folded, calm smile on my face and blessing the punch.
Thank god for Sharkboy. I would have got home, tried it on, cried like a girl who just found her pic on fatgirlsinpartyhats dot com (dont go there. its no longer the mean spirited parody site) and had to returned the shirt. Eventually we found a shirt that fit my arms and neck.
So. Who’s up for McDonalds for lunch?
Someone on GAB posted a thread of what they were doing 17 years ago. That got me thinking…
In 1987 I was 22 years old and living in central London (England). I was the first man to be hired on front desk reception at the Royal Automobile Club, a posh gentlemen’s club mid-way down Pall Mall. Since I was the only man in a sea of female receptionists, I was always thought the manager and would get complaints, compliments and the odd weird request. One day I got to serve a palace guard in full uniform, his tall black buffalo hat in his accompanying valet’s hands. Bucks Palace was a 10 min walk away and palace guards were not allowed to leave the grounds in uniform unless accompanied by a valet. He wanted to know about the history of one of the trophies in the great hall. There was me, the middle class white kid from Canada doing his best not to stammer at the duo. When he left I kicked myself for not asking if he thought the whole “no laughing” thing was annoying.
The bar scene soundtrack was provided by Stock, Aitkins and Waterman: Rick Ashley (who surprised everyone by being white) and Donna Summer (who suprised everyone by being alive) were never going to give us up. One night in a late night club in Earl’s Court, my friend Liam and I came to be sitting beside a stylish group of gays all decked out in children’s play dress up clothes. The cowboy of the group, sitting nearest to us dressed up in a small cowboy hat, chaps and vest, announced that he “hadda go pee pee” That became our washroom call for years and got more and more exaggerated in reverse English-to-Texas accent as time went on.
That Xmas, my dad came across the pond and we ventured out to The Colherne (or the Cold Hole, as the natives called it), London’s only leather/fetish bar at the time. There I showed him one of the midgets from the movie Time Bandits who would go to the bar wearing his tiny leather wear. As we drank at the bar, a guy tried to pick me up. I quickly introduced my Dad and he tore off in the opposite direction. Dad’s major complaint about London was that when he picked his nose at the end of the day after all his sightseeing, the boogers were black.
It was in London that I discovered my love for short, art-house animated films when I discovered the Brothers Quay. Upon accompanying me to one showing, my friend Liam thought I was on residual acid from my high school days and questioned my movie suggestions from that day onward.
I was dating a 32 yr old man named Nigel. He was living with a guy his own age who was a CEO of some shipping company. I was the other woman. Nigel would let me drive his Mini (’87, remember? A real one!) around London where I would get a real-life lesson in inertia and just how long it took a light small car full of people to stop on wet streets. Once he let me drive the rich boyfriend’s Alfa Romeo Spyder, which lasted only 4 blocks because I was going way too fast and laughing way to hard. The last I heard of Nigel was a 45 record in the mail 6 months after I moved back to Canada: Pet Shop Boys with Dusty Springfield What Have I Done To Deserve This?. The lyrics were shockingly apt.