The Reverend Mother doesn’t actually call Maria a C-face.
But lordy we rewound that about 20 times.
And if you imagine the youngest, Greta, as a nice glazed ham, the film becomes watchable.
He’s Cute!
Squishy the rat died today
A horror I can’t stop replay
So to ease the pain in my mind
I just happen to have a great new find
She’s tall, she’s thin, she’s delicate
And no my friend, she’s not a rat
Squishy is dead, Squishy has died
Squishy the orchid lives, I have not lied
–Sharkboy, 2005
Long Live Squishy!!
The First Fall Sunday
Broadview and Danforth, Sunday, 10:15am.
Dead Robot: What a great day! Not too many of these days left, I bet. Did you see all those contrails in the sky yesterday? They were beautiful. I wish I had my camera.
Sharkboy: They were. Hey… what time does the Apple Store up at Yorkdale mall open?
DR: I checked online. It opens at 11am on Sunday. I’m excited. I’ve never been in a Steve Job’s creation, just used them. I have to take pics of us talking so smile and look good. And use your hands.
SB: What for?
DR: I’ve been challlenged to make a post like Brett Lamb does. His photoplays are the talk of Paris and are world renowned.
SB: How’s this?
DR: Sure. That’s good!
SB: That’s my “manboyant” look.
DR: Manboyant? Is that like the hyper-masculine opposite of flamboyant?
SB: No I was thinking it described those 50-something guys who try to dress like 20-somethings. You know…lowrider faded heroin user jeans, crop tops, meshback hats, and drives a jeep, oblivious to how ridiculous they look.
DR: I am constantly questioning my dress sense now I’m past 40. I was just thinking the other… what the hell are you doing?
SB: Get a picture of me right here!
DR: Lordy this is going to be a long day, isn’t it?
SB: Her eyes seem to follow me. I feel like I’m watching Basic Instincts on HDTV. Okay if we’re suppose to be talking about something, what should we talk about?
DR: Well we did see A History Of Violence last night. You said it was the first Cronenberg film you ever liked.
SB: True. It was good. What I liked about it was that it was a real departure for him. Not like Crash. I can’t stand it when a director is weird for the sake of style.
DR: I liked Crash…
SB: Thing is, any director could have done this movie. There wasn’t much “Cronenbergism” in it.
DR: There was the gore. And there was the theme of internalized struggle. All his films have that… Naked Lunch, Dead Ringers, eXistenz
SB: Never. Mention. That. Movie. Ever. Again.
DR: Sorry.
SB: True there was that whole skitzoid identity thing going on, but if it was directed by Hitchcock, we would have had some style. Dramatic angles, curious pauses in the editing…
DR: Agreed. Cronenberg seems to be just like Wes Craven doing Red Eye. Kinda meatless, but there is something good there.
SB: I had real issue with the son not getting beat up or how suddenly he was a killer.
DR: I think Cronenberg was trying to show that violence might be inherited.
SB: Sure but I didn’t buy it that he was this nerdy goody goody and then switch over to a violent kid so quickly.
DR: I think the choreographed fight scene in the school hallway was a bit too choreographed. If he had “snapped” and fought like a caged animal, then it would have worked for me.
SB: And the whole beginning where the family is so wholesome. I know he was trying to over-compensate the impending evil for greater impact but it was rather unbelievable.
DR: Yeah. He’s moving away from his schlock horror past but he needs to learn balance. Shall we grab a bite to eat before finding the Apple Store?
SB: How about the Yorkdale Mall Food Court?
DR: Sure. Cheap and cheerful. Good lord. Yorkdale mall has certainly changed since I use to work here 11 years ago. This food court is possibly the gayest in the city of Toronto.
SB: It’s suppose to be a New Orleans vibe.
DR: Oh I can see it now that you mention it. I guess I didn’t “get” it. Maybe if they had FEMA reps ineptly telling people where to sit and flooded the room with hip-high water.
SB: Ha! What store did you use to work at?
DR: My Dad’s boyfriend’s store. It was called “Francois” and it sold plaster columns and angels. Tchatchkas, really. Once, back when Steven Sabados was doing CityLine segments, he came into the shop and threw so much hideous attitude at me that my spine snapped and I was admitted to “The Shelly Long Institute for Reaffirming Life’s Goodness” for a week. Chris Hyndman was with him and he was very nice. We chatted and Chris had an approachable personality.
SB: Lets go in here!
DR: They’ve tarted this store up. This was just a basement store with a plain jane staircase…
SB: Yeah now it looks like an adventure ride in Orlando. I wonder if they replace these styrafoam “bricks” daily because of children falling against them.
SB & DR: (breathing in the basement store air at the door threshold) Ewwwww!!
DR: God. They’re all so cute!
They both spy cats in a cage. Instantly Dead Robot tears up and drags Sharkboy from the store.
DR: Sorry. I miss my cats. Those kittens were getting to me.
SB: Apple Store! Mygod! Look how small the nano is. I am loving the colour screen.
DR: You’re warming up to it? I can’t believe you’re joining the Cult of Mac.
SB: It is a cult, isn’t it? What the hell is that?
DR: Its an iSight. Apple’s webcam.
SB: Do I need one?
DR: Do you video chat?
SB: No. Lookit the iPod accessories!! Lookit the printers! Lookit…
After a time, the boys stop drooling.
SB: Its almost time to get to ROTC practice. We should head back.
DR: I am looking forward to getting back to the parades.
SB: Me too. I think the routine is going to be interesting. Challenging.
DR: They got quite a few people to sign up for the winter and I am glad that they’re doing a split performance with the more seasoned veterans doing more challenging twirls.
SB: Can we get a tea before?
DR: Can we go to the World’s Worst Timmys?
Gun Play? Not Right Now
Earlier I wrote about how stupid the ad for Toronto’s “Gun Play No Way” day was. I still stand by that post despite what happened to me last night.
While walking down Broadview I noticed a late model Civic driving towards me with a small child’s hand, holding a cap gun, sticking out of the passenger’s window.
As they drove by people the child was pulling the trigger. With loud pops, he was shooting at people walking down the street.
He fired off a couple at the pair of women who were about 20m in front of me and, as he passed, he shot one off at me too. BAM! I stopped and watched in amazement as other people got the same treatment as the gang-banger-in-training drove by.
What fucktard, train wreck of a parent thinks this is ok behaviour for their child?
Photoplay!
Not quite “City As Blog” material but just as fun:
Mr Incredible at Bloor and Sherbourne Firehall. The other truck has Dash
Mule. I love these stickers from the OZ DVD. Expect more of these.
Vietnamese Littl’ Richard.
End the Lockout!
I had a good laugh at Lectio.ca’s “End the Lockout” blog buttons.
So I made some of my own. Feel free to grab them:
Cooler than Me
I’m having dinner with the family the other night and my 14yr old niece walks in wearing those really high toe socks – black and red stripes. But they’re not on her feet. no. they’re on her arms and the toes are cut off so her fingers are stuck through them like some poor beggar. and to finalize this ensemble she has a Clash t shirt on.
the Clash
she’s 14 and cooler than I could ever be.
Celebrity Gossip! Remember how I said Russell Crowe signed the window of my old store? in talking to some extras and my old shop co-worker, the gladiator himself (quoted as being “scruffy and not very welcoming) was pretty tanked when he did that. talk says he was drinking at a little hole in the wall restaurant (not newells, thankfully) and came out dunk with a pen in hand. I bet you $100 that the owner of the store removes the glass and sells it on ebay…
Fashion Victim
Between 1992 to 1997 I was pretty much a geeky comic book t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. The odd sweater thrown over but not much else. I was working catering so I had “those clothes” (shudder) that would never see the light of day outside my apartment or wedding hall. When I started to work at the Black Eagle and met the oddball characters there, I was introduced into a whole new world of fashion.
When not stocking the fridges at the Eagle, I hung around with Andrew, arguably the most attractive bartender working there at the time. Andrew’s staple fashion statement was sleeveless flanel shirts and army boots. Think FoxTV’s version of a militant lesbian on a guy. He showed me the cheaper side of clothing shopping as only a vegetarian, agnostic mysenthrope could. I have a fond memory of digging into the bins at Goodwill’s “Buy the Pound”, where you rummaged through tons of bins, through piles of unsorted clothing and paid for your booty by the pound (duh!). 30 minutes into my first visit, Andrew taps me on the shoulder and says “Look at your hands.”
My fingertips were orange.
I flinch. I’ve been digging through sweaty, dirty cloth without even thinking about the crud that was sticking to my fingers like niccotene stains. Andrew produces a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket. He’s done this before. Dispite the grossness of it, you could walk away with some mighy cool rags.
“Don’t touch your ears or eyes until we get to a bathroom and you can wash your hands,” Andrew would warn after we left the Buy The Pound.
Ew.
We would try to outdo each other by finding the most outrageous tees ever. But they had to have a vibe to them that if we were to wear them at the leather bar, people would “get” the sarcastic or ironic message they displayed. Or the shirts had to be so uber-macho, they’d elevate us to “hottie” status. Girl’s field hockey shirts, religious conferences and CAT construction shirts were primo. It was in this contest that I discovered my love for hockey jerseys. They represented a masculinity that I was denied as a kid (I had weak ankles and couldn’t skate worth beans) and became like a fetish for me. Intricate fantasies were weaved as I pulled the artifical cloth over my head and smoothed out over my torso. The bizzare-er the team logo, the better. At the height of this madness, I had a sweater per day and could go three weeks without repeating myself. My prize shirt was a Russian jersey the colours of Ronald McDonal’s 70’s advertising palate, with cyrillic lettering blazing across the chest.
This excessive devotion died off when I got my “business casual” job. I only have two left now. A mesh with a big “T” on it and a white, snug jersey that accents my belly nicely, like I should be on footballbigguns.com.
This summer, Sharkboy has jumped on the groovy trend of graphical tees. He’s cleaned out every store from Old Navy to American Eagle. His favorite is a fluffy hammerhead shark applique on a “bar” t-shirt that states he got “hammered” there. Cute!
Today, I’m at McDonalds (no comments please) and I’m wearing a shirt that Sharkboy’s picked out for me: a baby blue Sioux City Tractor Pull ’82 shirt. It’s a romantic nod to our night at Simcoe’s tractor pull. I’m stuck on a 3 letter word of “Nasty!”, middle letter “L”.
“Sioux City is af frellgnuh keptpl!”
I look up. He’s got a pony tail, black socks rising up out of his deck shoe sneakers, up to his knees, and 6 days of stubble on his jowly face. He points. “Sioux City!”
“Ah. I …uh… got this shirt…” How does one explain this trendy shirt to someone so unhip? (I’m being delicate)
He mumbles something too. We both realize at the same time that speaking to each other was probably a bad idea.
I’m sticking to my flaming Darth Vader tee.
UPDATE: This image just in from Andrew:
He remembered that I have a secret crush on Jon Erik…
Precipice
I wake up to CP24 cross broadcasting CityTV’s Breakfast TV. Liza is coo-ing and oo-ing over a puppy. Oh and some bombs went off in London.
I switch over to CBC to see an arial shot of Aldgate station as EMTs try to erect a tent. A Canadian is voicing over from a scratchy British phone line explaining that she heard the explosion and described it as “not your typical English explosion” Whaaa? I think she meant that the rumble was not the usual rumble of traffic or underground train. They say that the cellphone network has collapsed due to the weight of calls.
For shits and giggles, I turn over to CNN. Nothing but technical problems as a reporter fixes his hair while he has nothing to say and the camera lingers on him a bit too long. Meanwhile The voice over describes the bombings as “horrific” and “deadly” and offers nothing in the way of facts, just fear.
I go back to the CBC. They mention Kings Cross Station being one of the points of the bombings and I am back in London, Xmas 1987. My friends and I are wandering around Regent Street trying to decide if we are going to stick around to watch Prince Edward switch on the pretty Xmas lights along the high street or go to Kings Cross rail station and see two of our friends off early back to Leeds. We opt for the former and enjoy the evening. We were so far back that we couldn’t see the Prince but the lights were beautiful.
We drop the friends off at the closest tube station and say our goodbyes. When we get home we hear on the news that several people had died that night at Kings Cross when one of the super long wooden escalator caught fire. People were uncontrollably delivered into the fire by the escalator. Our friends were diverted to another station and it took them hours to get home.
London is a tough city. Londoners are tougher. They’re going to be fine. But I feel a sense of dread now that they’re on the same fear-selling precipice the US went over after 9-11.
Oh look! A puppy!
A Thanks to My Brother
I’ve been reading and posting to lots of blogs both conservative and liberal about the Same Sex ruling. Here’s my two cents into the fray:
See that? Second in from the left? That’s my brother back in the late 70s getting ready to go out into a cold Toronto winter night (note the ski gloves on one of the Sisters). He would answer questions regarding homosexuality, health, religion, and guilt. On the rare occasion, he would be chased, yelled at, belittled and on the rare occasion, threatened bodily harm. He did this to make the world he lived in a better place for lesbians and gays.
Last December, as fruits of his labours …ripened… he and his partner Mark got married. He is a shining example that change will happen for those with patience, intelligence and dedication. I’ve said before that I am greatful for his work and many gays, lesbians and transgendered owe him a rather unpayable debt.
While I am still quite confused as to why some gays would want to join an antiquated belief system that shuns them in the first place, I realize that this law is a way to pull the church’s rather obvious disregard for human rights into the public spotlight and illicit change. Despite the “Ew! I dont wanna!” clause built into it. For some homosexuals, this new law is an excuse to plan a party. For others, it’s a harbinger for further rights and acceptance in a heterosexual society. I’m in that camp. If I were to get married, I would have a small civil ceremony and then 6 weeks later, fleece Sharkboy for half is amazing movie collection.
Just kidding.
For the crazed, angry conservatives out there, I can only say: this morning, as I went to work I didnt pass any shirt-tearing riots, the earth didn’t crack open and swallow me up, there wasn’t any debauched llama-loving in the streets, or yakkety burning bushes. However, I did see a couple outside an office building kissing goodbye and parting ways before going off to their jobs.
Oh wait. That was me and Sharkboy.
But this time, I felt like I didnt have to feel anything other than the comfort that the kiss goodbye was meant to offer me. Just like you’ve enjoyed all your adult life.