random updates

Good news: I finally downloaded Hardy Heron.
Bad news: it refuses to boot on Live CD, due to a BIOS error I cannot seem to overcome.

One last thing about WWE this week (at least until Smackdown airs): Fo-ley! Fo-ley! Fo-ley!

OK, make it two: Why don't the guys have studio photos, too?

Sunday in six: Flea market, migraine, sleep, no PPV.

Monday: Watching Raw alone with the cat.

Tuesday: At least they still love me.

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time to play the game

Caveat: I did not see Backlash.

Prior to the PPV, but after I posted my predictions, I came across Droz's predictions. I was quite pleased to see that we called them almost identically, except for the Fatal Four Way.

Turns out I was right about that one (Ha!), and across the board, except for the Divas match. And really, I'm quite content to see the girls who can wrestle win. Now I could go on again about this topic, but really, Melina's latest Internet Confessions of a True Diva nails my opinion perfectly.

Much like the cruiserweight division (whatever happened to it, anyway?), the women's division is one where WWE has always lagged behind its competition, and most notably the TNA. The knockouts have room to breathe, in the ring (and sometimes even in their outfits!); they've got real, honest-to-goodness storylines, whodathunk? Sadly, I can't even imagine the day when an Awesome Kong could dominate a WWE ring. How I miss Lita, the wrestler who learned to pose in a bikini! And Trish, who busted her ass (and other various body parts) to grow into one of the greatest champions the division has ever had. In that sense, I have some hope for Michelle McCool; there's something about her that makes me think that if we gave her time, and training, she could do well. You'll notice she wasn't the winner of the Diva Search, either...

And now that I've seen Monday's Raw, I must add this. Someone somewhere must have heard me. Katie Lea can wrestle??? Who knew??? That elbow drop (OK, I know, I know, it's just an elbow drop) had a little Shawn Michaels flair to it, and that drop kick meant business, the landing be damned. With her auburn hair and smoky eyes, she channels more than a little Lita, and that's fine with me. The girls need all the help they can get.

That's EXACTLY what I want to see more of. Is anyone at WWE creative listening? I know, I know, I am by no means the targeted demographic; I've just been buying the PPVs, virtually all of them, for years, I watch the (main) shows quasi-religiously, and I buy the really expensive floor seats at the shows. Better yet, I am faithful. So, please, humor me. More Melina, Katie Lea away from her dumbass "brother", Beth, Victoria, Mickie...and less, much less, bunnies. (Désolé Maryse!)

A few random thoughts on Raw: Triple H vs. Orton is always entertaining, even when we don't see the end of the fight.

Cody Rhodes touching the mike twice in two weeks - isn't that a sign of the apocalypse?

Y2J's shit-eating grin is even snarkier now that he has short hair...more! More! More!

I hadn't realized just how much I missed Mister Kennedy. That was, to quote Y2J again, "brilliant...masterful..."

(472)

dreaming again

I worked my way through a migraine again on Sunday afternoon. I have added "describing what a migraine feels like" to my list of topics to be covered at a later date. Last time, I wrote that I don't really dream when I'm trying to get rid of a migraine. That's not entirely true. I remember dreaming about working out a problem, and coming very, very close to solving it, then being half awake and still being frustrated at not having solved it, then realizing that it had been a dream. So, I do dream when I sleep through migraines; it's just that my sleep is too fitful for me to remember them when I wake.

Sunday night, though, I had one dream I still remember. Another one of those doing something fairly normal with someone really odd. I was at a wrestling event, in a box. It was a small arena, kinda like the place where they held the first Monday Night Raw. So maybe it wasn't a box, it was just the first row of the balcony. Either way, I was watching this show with "the man" himself, the recently retired Ric Flair. It was bittersweet that he was way up in the seats with me, but he was happy. He came up behind me and leaned on the banister, one arm on either side of me. He rested his chin on my left shoulder and smiled.

I could say how odd, but that's a given for each and every one of my dreams...

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and voilà

It's not perfect, but it is a start; I've freehanded and Photoshopped a little sumthin' for the blog header. Hope you like it; I'm actually rather fond of it.

In other news, I have now failed for the fourth time to download Hardy Heron. Dammit. Try again overnight. Wish me luck.

(51)

evil translations

It's a good thing I only have a mildly addictive personality. I've started up a second blog, with a single topic: bad translations. You can read it at Evil Translations.

As a translator, and even as a mere consumer, I come across some really nasty pieces of language, whether in French or in English (my knowledge of Spanish is such that I wouldn't dare presume a text good or bad.) So here, I will expose them to the world (anonymously - all identifying characteristics will be replaced by XXX or some such.)

I've also used a different template and color scheme; as I discover the blogger universe, I realize this one is way over used by the emo/goth/depressed teenager variety. One day, I commit to fully customizing both of them, but for now, my spare time goes into writing, although these days I seem to be missing visual arts - drawing and painting, mostly. But a lot of my supplies have dried up, and I've always found it frustrating that I was unable to reproduce on canvas or paper what I saw in my mind's eye.

In six: Springtime - dogs outside, thoughts of gardening.

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this isn't rocket science

Quebec roads are an extreme sport. Potholes yield to craters, into which I’m sure small dogs and dump trucks disappear; jaywalking is a national sport, since crosswalks are just ornamental; yellow lights means go faster lest the guy behind you, who’s also flooring it, land in your back seat; and speed limits are mere suggestions even less respected than on the Autobahn. So we have the accident/injury/death toll that goes with it.

Lately, politicians have been discussing the possibility of reducing speed limits by 10 km/h in the city. This will create more work for the poor, overworked blue-collar workers, require a slew of new, and probably overpriced, signs, and generate traffic all over the island as security perimeters are erected at rush hour around said workers diligently taking a break while being paid overtime before attempting the installation of said new signs.

Everyone knows that cops in Quebec do not give out speeding tickets for excesses of under 20 km/h, i.e. you can drive at 49 km/h in a 30 km/h school zone, 69 km/h in a 50 km/h normal city street, and 119 km/h on the highway. You can do this in full view of a traffic cop holding a radar gun. Heck, even the signs the government put up to dissuade speeders indicated the fines for 20 km/h speeding and above. You can claim your speed limit is X until you’re blue in the face, but if you enforce at Y level, then Y is your effective speed limit. It’s that simple, really.

If you want to slow people down, just CHANGE THE LEVEL AT WHICH YOU TICKET. No infrastructure required. Start ticketing at 10 km/h over the posted limit, and ENFORCE the darn thing. Changing speed limits is just numbers on signs. Enforcement levels means dollar signs and safety.

But it’s probably too simplistic for bureaucracy. Common sense need not apply.

Today in six: Quoth Peter: “Beware of strange orifices.”

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participation vs. commitment

I once worked for a Vice President who loved motivational speeches and PowerPoint presentations, particularly those that made abundant use of clip art and animations. In trying to initiate change, he often recited the old maxim that “Insanity is doing things the same way and expecting different results.” Perhaps, but (and this is my own quote,) “Ugliness is using every imaginable option in PowerPoint and expecting people to be impressed.”

Another of his tidbits of corporate wisdom still haunts me to this day. He showed it off proudly at one such meeting; on the slide, titled “Participation vs. commitment” was clip art of a chicken and a pig. On the next slide, there was a plate with bacon and eggs.

So let me get this straight: what you’re really saying is that instead of taking the best work I can offer on an ongoing basis and profiting in the long run, you would prefer to cook my hide for your immediate gratification. Nice.

I don’t work there anymore, but then, neither does he. He was fired almost a year before I quit.

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lo-hi morning

What a trying morning. On/Off. Hot/Cold. Up/Down. I would say I'm PMSsing, but I'm not, and even when I do, my mood swings are usually subtler and better contained. But not today.

The cat was jumpy from the minute I opened the bedroom door. Dudley quickly rose to get out of the way, but soon settled back down on Pat's warm, filthy camo pants - perhaps he knew better than to stay under foot. My hair's full of flyaways, including a stubborn strand that flips resolutely out over my right ear, making for an odd, lopsided silhouette. My forehead and the tip of my nose are still dry and flaky, remnants of dry, heated air. I finally remembered to grab that envelope I've been meaning to mail, but I kept going up and down the stairs, to get the envelope, then my watch, then because I forgot the envelope I'd put down, then I realized my sneakers were downstairs.

Rounding the corner of my street, I almost stepped on a frog. I couldn't have done much more damage, as it has been flattened by a car, its innards spewed out over a respectable distance from its backside from the pressure.

Barely three houses fuether, my neighbour drove up and offered me a lift. It was only part way, it meant I would miss the mailbox, and it kinda shot my eco-motivation out of the water, but I accepted nonetheless; they are our friendliest neighbours - I didn't want to be rude. As she dropped me off, maybe a mile or so up the road, a low-flying V formation crossed the sky. A baker's dozen. Only one of them honked loudly. I found another mailbox along the way, and the thought that I would be early for work cheered me up because it meant I could leave earlier too. I kept walking and turned onto the boulevard.

Now, I'm well-acquainted with the trash that litters the most perillous segment of my route. There are four 10-oz. bottles of vodka: 3 Troika and a single Smirnoff. Did they all come from the same source, I wonder? And if so, did their taste evolve over time, or did they drink the good stuff first until they just couldn't taste it anymore? Further on, there's a diaper that looks like its been there for ages yet steadfastly refuses to decompose. But today, I discovered a new piece of litter, just pas the highway overpass: a flattened stuffed spider, like a cheap Beanie Baby rip-off. It startled me anyway, with all its legs spread out to what would be an impressive width in the arachnid world.

*As I wrote this down on paper, I got a paper cut. !@#$%? *

Soon after, I heard a car horn, and my own car pulled up beside me. Turned out the dogs had been barking since I left, and Pat wanted money...for something he deems essential, and something I see as utterly worthless. I ripped into him, probably worse than the situation actually warranted. But it's the same basic argument we've been having for years. Ten years, in fact. And he hasn't done a thing to help. So whenever he opens that door, even just a crack, I let him have it. I just don't know how else to get my point across.

At work, it appeared that I wasn't the only one having difficulty: two close-working colleagues (both in function and working quarters) also went at it, the elder basically pissing at the four corners of her territory in a not-so-subtle display of seniority. The younger busybody may have had it coming, I don't know. I was too busy imploring Buddha to help me stay out of most of the morning's conversations, just in case.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped, just like a sudden downpour; everyone returned to normal, and the rest of the day was entirely uneventful.

Or, in six: Up/Down loop. Then, normalcy returned.

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way too long post for way too long raw

I know, I'm a bit behind schedule to comment on Monday Night Raw, but whatever...here goes. Overall, see Monday's six words (That was not worth three hours) sums it up well. What should have been a rich, dynamic two hours was watered down to a mediocre three. Which is particularly sad considering how good the shows were coming off Wrestlemania, and going into Sunday's Backlash.

First, the King of the Ring tournament: I thought it was a good idea to have it on TV rather than pay-per-view, but this was the worst KOR in memory. Let's take a look at the contenders:

• Chris Jericho: unlikely, already IC champ. The only way this made sense was if he was preparing to drop the belt back to a returning Jeff Hardy, which is a virtual impossibility. I expect the rainbow-haired warrior to be buried for a while, if he comes back. Personally, I hope he resolves his issues for good.
• MVP: unlikely, already US Champ, with nothing much going storyline-wise. Matt Hardy is growing old.
• CM Punk: unlikely, already Mr. Money in the Bank 2008.
• Matt Hardy: no matter how hard they try to push, the stabler of the Extreme brothers just doesn't have that pizzazz. Not much going on storyline-wise either. MVP. Revenge. *yawn*
• Great Khali: why? Like they were chanting a few weeks back, "Show's gonna kill you!"
• Finlay: Once again, a well-liked, respected, talented guy, with as much charisma as he does melanin.
• Regal: what? why? The man with the scariest eyes in the WWE wouldn't even be on Raw if he wasn't GM. Think Val Venis with an accent.
• Hornswoggle: that would've been funny, but no.

Matches were dull all around, although a tip of the hat to Jericho drop-kicking the top rope from under Punk's feet - nice timing. Also, nice to see the Walls are back.

Before I move on to the topic of politics, a few random comments on the rest of the show:

• Re: Batista's heel turn. I like it. He carries it well.
• Cody Rhodes speaks! I mean, the poor child must rely on genetics: it's not like he's going to pick up any pointers on mike skills from his tag-team partner, Spark Plugg.
• Did the divas all decide to take Mickie James shopping and give her a mini-makeover? I'm thinking there was a scene backstage reminiscent of Olivia Newton John in Grease...Mickie James has never looked that good; they finally got the country girl downtown.
• On the other hand, what the hell was Michelle McCool thinking? Those earring were crappy in 1984, and they haven't aged well, either.
• My, my, Beth and Nathalie actually seem to be trying to look feminine...I'm telling you, there was a very busy beauty team nearby...
• I salute Kelly Kelly's courage to brawl in that top...hope the tape sticks!
• Mr. Kennedy returns next week - YAY!
• All four speeches from the main eventers were utterly pointless. Not a single memorable line.
• JBL was way too slow on that clothesline to Triple H. I can't believe he's back, and main eventing to boot. I don't get it. Like the Game said, "Your main event is Orton defending against a former commentator who has been back barely a few weeks and whose claim to fame is beating a midget?"
• (Waaaaaayyyy OT. Bear with me.) Orton reminds me of the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter. As with Draco Malfoy, I think the Hat would barely glance at Orton before pronouncing him a Slytherin.

OK, that does it for the normal part od the show. Now, on to the lamest and greatest waste of time in this three-hour spectacular: the politics. I thought it was an interesting exercise to compare the talents of their respective speechwriters.

1. Hil-Rod's speech. Hil-Rod? Hil-Rod? WTF kind of reference is that? Sounds more like J-Lo or even A-Rod than wrestling to me.
   
   Wrestling references: King of the Ring / last man standing / opening bell / go to the mat / knocked down / taking a hit / People's Elbow / Randy Orton / ready ro rumble
   
   Other relevant elements: Spoke straight to the camera, rather than reading cuecards like Obama. Adapted her promises to her audience's demographic - college, bringing back the troops. Integrated mostly subtle references to combat, rather than WWE per se. As natural and free-spirited as Hillary is liable to get.
   
2. Barack's speech. The Rock references were utterly unavoidable.
   
   Wrestling references: Randy Orton / King of the Ring / If you smell what Barack is cooking?
   
   Other relevant elements: Read all the wrestling references from a cue card over the cameraman's right shoulder. Used few, but direct and hard hitting. Seemed to appreciate the utter ridiculousness of the situation.
   
3. McCain's speech or, Let's see how many wrestling references I can throw at them.
   
   Wrestling references: Finally, the Mac has come back... / settle differences in the ring / To be the man.. / Game over / Whatcha gonna do... / Undertaker / If you smell... / fatal four / cage match / And that's the bottom line...
   
   Other relevant elements: Personalized all his references, with varying degrees of success. Threw everything at his audience. Points for lifting from Ric Flair and Stone Cold. More points for suggesting we introduce Osama bin Laden to the Undertaker.

So, overall, who came out on top? I thought Obama fell fairly flat. McCain's writers need an editor, to reel them back in when they try to cram too much into too little space/time. He may have overenthusiastic connaisseurs among his writers, but he wins on sheer number of references. Hilary's writers, I think, really struck the best balance between selling herself and appeasing the audience. But again, she's as charismatic as, well, Bob Holly.

Does this mean anything? Nope.

Then the WWE went on one of its infamous "What the hell have they been smoking?" bad trips, by staging a match between "Hillary", accompanied to the ring by "Bill", and "Barack".

This time, the wrestling references stayed mostly with the Hulkster vs. the Rock (reminded me of WM18, Icon vs. Icon, baby). Bravo to the Hillary impersonator for body-slamming Barack, taking a Rock Bottom, a People's Elbow, and finally, a Samoan Drop from my saviour for the evening, Umaga (or You-Man-Ga, as per our new King of the Ring.) Also, points to Bill for "I did not have illegal contact with that candidate!"

So, while I'm at it, I might as well record my predictions for Backlash, although, sadly, most matches elicit an "but I really don't care":

12-diva tag: Don't care. The heels won at WM, go with the Faces this time.

Batista vs. HBK: Personally, Batista hands down. But I don't think I'll get my way, what with his recent heel half-turn. It will be the redemption of HBK.

Kane vs. Chavo: In Canada, we only see ECW on Fridays at midnight, AFTER Smackdown. So I'm a little behind, storyline-wise. I'd like to see Kane hold the belt for a while, but "I lie, I cheat, I steal" is the Guerrero motto. As per WWE website, Big Red got beat up on Tuesday. Go with Kane.

Fatal Four Way: Anyone but JBL is fine with me. He should be made to lick their boots. (No, wait, I might get jealous!) But I'll go with Triple H.

MVP vs. Matt Hardy: Matt, just to mix things up a bit.

Big Show vs. Khali: Someone needs rewarding for putting Mayweather over at WM. Show by KO.

Undertaker vs. Edge: I doubt they'd give Taker the belt for a month. And its his poster. Bow to the Deadman.

Today in six: Corporate Wireless Device - Appareil cellulaire d'entreprise.

(1,311) (Wow, my longest post ever!)

in honour of Earth Day

Today started off as one of the saddest Earth Days on record, as I spent over 90 minutes sitting in traffic, attempting to cover the 33.5 km (20.8 mi) that separate my home from the office of the guy who does my taxes. According to Google, it should take approximately 27 minutes. Um. Not.

I know I'm lucky to currently work very close to home. But even when I worked in Old Montreal, I used to take the train. So, I get stuck in traffic maybe three times a year, notwithstanding post-Bell Centre event parking nightmares. It never fails to amaze me that people subject themselves to such aggravation on a daily basis, twice a day. I understand that some people need their car to work; hey, hats off to you - I did it for three months, and I was miserable. And some others work in areas that just aren't properly served.

But I've seen coworkers, often the harried kind for whom there are never enough hours in a day, complain that it takes too long. On good days, they beat me by ten minutes. On bad days, their commute takes two hours to my 45 minutes. During which, I might add, I can read, sleep, daydream, look at the scenery or work on a laptop while they can only stare blankly at the bumper of the minivan before them. I'd also be curious to measure and compare our relative heart rates and stress levels. This morning, by the time I got back to the office, my empty stomach was in knots, my patience was at an end, and my voice was just a little shrill.

Is public transit perfect? Of course not. Between the occasionally smelly seatmate, the gaggle of obnoxious teenagers and the last-minute-means-standing-room-only of trains/buses, cars can beckon as a personal bubble of calm. With public transportation, you have to bend to their schedule, which flies against every convention of our I-want-it-all-and-I-want-it-now consumer society.

But to those who say that a car is the ultimate symbol of freedom, I say:

The next time you're trapped in your beige minivan, boxed in by nine other beige minivans,
(oh sorry, it's light sandstone metallic)
The next time you cut short a conversation or slink out of a meeting because your meter has run out,
(isn't beating a parking ticket thrilling?)
The next time you spend everything in your wallet and the fuel gauge needle barely moves
(yes, they are laughing at you, all the way to the bank)
The next time you're short of breath on a smoggy day,
(when the weather can only be described as yellow)
Ask yourself
Are you really free?

Sunday, in six: Patchwork patterns thrill my mind's eye.

Monday: That was not worth three hours.

Monday (alternate): Go Habs Go! Bring on the...

Tuesday: Stuck in traffic - murderous urges arise.

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national poetry month

Yep, it would appear that April is National Poetry Month, so in honour thereof, a link to another blog I accidentally stumbled upon but enjoy very much: Poem of the Week.

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i really, really love the next blog button

This one, I'm not even sure why I scrolled down the page. It's devoted to the Democrat presidential nomination. But I sure am happy I did.

You see, I enjoy...how can I put this...rejects. Favourite birds? Ravens and crows. Not colourful, not melodious, not even powerful predators. Black, raucous scavengers that most ornithologists can't be bothered with. Yet I think they're magnificent.

Some of my favourite flowers? (Disclaimer: Gardeners may want to look away.) Dandelions. Yup, one of the most common weeds in North America. I find their yellow beautiful, their resilience a thing of marvel, and their method of propagation simply brilliant.

OK, what does this have to do with the Democrat presidential nomination blog I found? Nothing, per se, if only that one of the Barack supporters has a dandelion tattoo on her shoulder blade.

Dandelion tattoos are few and far between, and most artists, seeing as they think themselves deprived of using white ink (but that's a matter for another day), twist the dandelion into all sorts of graphic illustrations of the plant. And this guy/gal's particular interpretation is one I hadn't come across before and which I find quite interesting - even if the quality of the tattoo line itself seems poor.

Wow. I love these unexpected finds.

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on beauty

Another "next blog" hit. This time, a little something called PhotoShopDisasters, which is pretty self-explanatory. And funny. And sad. At the same time.

I enjoy it because it is a reminder that nothing the media produces is as-is. The degree of remoteness from reality varies, but nothing is ever as it seems. How cynical of me. And yet.

Kinda like this, Dove's "Evolution" commercial. That's probably the best known. From there, you can click to so many more, it boggles the mind.

It's a message that needs to be said, over and over again, particularly considering the effect it has on "normal" girls & women's self-esteem. I'll admit, I'd be curious to see what my "evolved" version would be like, but my PhotoShop talents are not that evolved themselves...

I'd also like to give a shout out to all the totally against-the-grain-non-mainstream stars out there, for the strength to be themselves. I'm thinking about Kelly Osbourne, Amy Winehouse, Kat Von D, the early non-conformist Gwen Stefani, and in the world of divas, the Chynas and the Beth Phoenixes. That a number of these women have had or are having serious addiction issues speaks to the intensity of the pressures of fitting in. It goes way beyond high school, unfortunately.

So in the end, I guess my point is to find your own beauty, because we all have it; it's just a question of seeing what your own beauty looks like. If you're looking for someone else's beauty within yourself, of course you won't find it - it's not YOURS. But keep looking, because, I promise, you'll know what it is when you find it.

Saturday in six: OMG, the Habs are blowing it.

Saturday (alternate take): MMA isn't the savagery people think.

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ufc 83 results

Unfortunately, I didn't get to see it, for a number of reasons. 1. I don't belong to their Fight Club, so I didn't have access to the 15,000 or so tickets that were PRE-sold.* 2. I didn't want to pay the ridiculous prices for nosebleed seats. 3. I didn't buy the pay-per-view, because everytime I have, I have wound up regretting it (e.g. UFC 61 Ortiz Shamrock 2.) and because by the time the St-Pierre Serra fight was on, I was likely to be fast asleep in front of the TV. 4. It was on the same night as the hockey (Habs vs. Bruins game 6), so very VERY few sports bars picked it up, at least in my part of the world.

* Yeah, 15,000 pre-sold. So that leaves 8,000 max available at the moment they go on sale. Then they boast about selling out in record time. WTF? To borrow from Y2J, would you please shut the HELL UP?!

But I'm glad to hear the results, with most of the matches I was interested in going "my way." Congratulations to Georges St-Pierre, Rich Franklin, Mac Danzig and Nate Quarry, not to mention the other homeboy, Jonathan Goulet!

By the way, I need to discuss GSP's nickname, "Rush." I really wonder whether the explanation that his manager gave it to him because his first fights all ended in the first round is accurate. To me, it sounds like that story was concocted to avoid having to tell the story of a beautiful example of linguistic transformation. Because I'd be far more willing to believe someone went from St-Pierre (Pierre=Stone) to "Roche" (Roche=Rock), which got anglicized phonetically along the way. Unless it's a Sting-like story, and the guy is really fond of Geddy Lee et al. Either way, his official version just sounds like he lifted it from Mike "Quick" Swick.

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the oddest side-effect of migraines yet

I realized something very strange this morning. I’ve been complaining for the past week or so that the well of words seems to have dried up, that I need to prod myself along to string sentences together, and that even then, the results are uninspiring at best.

Yesterday, I had a migraine. One of those star-seeing, pull-the-drapes-shut-and-go-back-to-bed types. When five foot seven seems so far off the ground, the beeps of the touchtone phone hurt and keeping your eyes open is an event worthy of Olympic status.

By last night, the fog had lifted, and I realized the words were back. I’ve written three different posts both yesterday and today, and I have plenty more to say, on a variety of topics. I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. Is it a preemptive measure, i.e. shutting down all non-essential functionalities? Or an indicator, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm? Whatever it may be, it will definitely be worth keeping an eye open in months ahead (since I get migraines on a fairly regular basis) to see whether there is any kind of discernible pattern.

Wednesday in six: Road trip - living like a rockstar.

Thursday: Migraine: when my brain goes awry.

Friday: Made a true friend at lunchtime.

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Darren in my dreams

Another dream, from a few nights ago.

Late afternoon but not yet dark, I’m returning home from someplace, someone’s home, and I’m transferring all my stuff from their car (at least three people in it, couldn’t say who though) to my own with Pat’s help. We’re in the parking lot in front of the dry cleaners at the corner of my street. Why such a switch would occur there is beyond me, since it’s less than a quarter mile to my house…Anyway, one white plastic shopping bag falls to the ground, in the slushy snow. Its contents are bulky, but soft. I nudge it with my foot, to figure out what it is, when Lil' Darren (aka Moumoune) bolts out of the bag and darts onto Oka Road. It’s been snowing a little, roads are slippery, and cars are braking and stopping at odd angles to avoid the speeding little black dog. I keep thinking he’s going to get hit but cars seem to rolling in slow motion compared to Darren, darting and weaving through traffic. I don’t know whether he’s running from fright, or whether he’s enjoying himself.

I’ve never seen a Pug run so fast; I wonder if he’s that fast in his own dreams.

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the joys of walking to work

At first, I thought that taking over half an hour to walk to work would be a chore, but one I chose as a means of saving money and gas (as a boycott of my ugly car, too.) Now I've come to discover neat little things every morning I walk, and at the very least, the first two thirds of the walk are a nice, quiet moment. OK, so the last third makes me wonder why I put my life on the line just to get to work, but hey...

This morning, I saw two more gaggles of geese. The second was a long trail of maybe 50 or so birds, in a single diagonal. Almost – the other line of the “V” had exactly a single goose in it past the lead bird. Then, two geese broke rank, joining the other side. The checkmark turned into an arrow as it gained on another “V” formation, then into a lightning bolt when more birds broke rank. Suddenly, they turned almost due north, and the structure whipped across the sky before breaking up (at any rate from my point of view.)

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blessed be the "next blog" button

...once again, the unmapped road led me to a discovery. Inspired by NaNoWriMo, a group started a "Sketchbook Month", in which they must fill a 100-page sketchbook within the now-traditional 30-day time limit. Although, come to think of it, they're doing it in May, so they get 31 days, the lucky dogs.

It seems to be picking up steam nicely, and it's already attracted a bunch of really talented people. It's a marvelous springboard blog, so go ahead, dive in!

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how much thought actually went into this?

Nissan currently has a series of ads on French TV, in which a new consultant is being brought in my management, and that employees have been advised to cooperate with him to the fullest extent. His name? Common sense.

Disclaimer: I drive a 2003 Altima that I despise.

OK, so the message I'm getting here is that Nissan is unfamiliar with common sense, its employees are resistant to change, and only now are they coming around to realizing what every one else already knows works pretty well.

Do these people have a marketing department? Where were they when this was approved? That's what really boggles my mind when I see things like this. It isn't that some creative type at an ad agency thought this concept up. It isn't that the team thought it was worth presenting as an option to the client. It isn't even that someone selected it, approved it, and had it produced. It's that throughout this entire process, either no one stood up and said "Excuse me, but doesn't this essentially say we're MORONS?" or no one listened to said person. *shakes head*

Never again a Nissan.

(191)

another artist I admire

I really should have thought of her the first time around I started discussing artists whose work I admire. She is Nephtys, from the eponymous tattoo shop. She's based in Sherbrooke, and her black & grey portraits, honestly, can give Kat Von D a run for her money.

I think my bottom line when it comes to judging portraits is that you recognize the person not from the pose, which is how a lot of artists seem to get by, but by rendering features in such a way that your imagination can easily transpose them into an actual, believable person. Maybe that's why I tend to pay much closer attention to tattoos of people I don't know than of those that I do. How much input is required of me to imagine this person standing before me, moving, in real life? That's the mark of a truly captivating portrait. A little bit like the old superstition that photos took your soul. That's what a good portrait should strive for. And Nephtys does this admiringly well.

(175)

now that's neat

For the very first time tonight, I noticed a banner on FreeRice.

On a sepia-toned world map background, it simply states "This banner is funded by a generous individual committed to help hunger." Wow. Although, personnally, in his/her place, I wouldn't go so far as calling myself generous, but that's me. I still raise my glass to said individual, for an original way to give.

(65)

on jewellery

I don't wear a lot of jewellery, for a variety of reasons. I tend to stick to "my" classics.

I've worn the same plugs in my ears for a year or so, mainly because I've gotten to the point where I can't easily stretch them anymore, even with lube, even after a hot shower. So I'm stuck just shy of my goal, which is zero gauge...I'm a 2 on one side, and an odd midway-let's-call-it-3 on the other.

I'll skip on the body jewellery bit, because few people know its extent; suffice to say my venom is 10 gauge, 5/8".

I wear four rings:

- My grad ring from Concordia, in white gold, engraved with my name, my grad year and program, and featuring a garnet. Yep, a garnet. Partly because the garnet is Concordia's stone, but mostly because the lady taking my order tolf me the ruby (which is my birth stone) looked really fake and pink, and I'd be less disappointed to go darker with the garnet. Lo and behold, it looks like a really rich ruby red. She was right.

- My 2007 Xmas gift to myself, the "Starlet" ring from Missy Industry, which I purchased at last year's Salon des métiers d'art.

- One of the coolest gifts I ever received, my silver ring from Pat. Once upon a time, I bought a cheap-ass ring at Walmart (gasp! I repent...) I really liked its simple block design, and I mentioned in passing I was sad when, after a year or so, the finish started peeling at the corners. I stopped wearing it. It disappeared. For my birthday, I received a box, containing two rings - the original ring, now with almost all its finish removed...and a replica, in silver. I really should get it buffed, because it's been dinged a few times since, but it's still one of the neatest things anyone has ever done for me.

- Last but not least, a beat-up ring Pat found at the club (where else?). It's a rounded square. On two opposite sides, you can very faintly make out the engraving "To Be" in flowing, cursive letters; on the other two, "Or Not". That's another one I would mind recreating in better quality material. I thought the concept was too sweet.

I rarely wear bracelets, because I currently wear a fairly heavy watch.

The only necklace I really wear is a pentagram with a raven (what else?) on a silver chain. Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced it a week or so ago. I hope I didn't accidentally pick it up and throw it out during my spring cleaning the weekend before last. I think I'll mosey on to bed, and hope my dreams give me a clue where on earth I left it. Wish me luck.

(468)

spring is in the air

...and this time, I think it's for real. There was another gaggle of geese this morning, followed closely by a half-dozen lollygaggers, whose insufficient numbers only allowed them to form a diagonal. And I'll mention it here, more as a note to self: the bird Sandra saw in her window was a Northern flicker.

Not only is the sun out, it actually feels warm. As for me, well, hibernation is over, and to switch metaphors in mid-sentence, it's time to exit the coccoon. I want to cut my hair, I've bought more clothes in the past week than I have in the past six months, and it's wonderful. I still haven't figured out the next tattoo, but that's OK - I have until September for that. (Unless you count making the appointment, but that's much less committal.) I do think Scott has the edge, though; 2008 is gearing up to be the year I follow through, so it would be fitting that I finish my back. We'll have to see how that plan holds up, budget-wise; if I need to scale back, I will probably go for the Babelfish I promised myself. And I didn't have to explain the concept to Scott, so that puts him in the running for that one, too.

Monday in six: Went to bed before 10 pm.

Tuesday: Disasters, dilemmas and emergencies - oh my!

(230)

a first milestone

How silly of me to stop writing with only 22 words to go before hitting the 10K mark. There.

(22)

hitting the wall

Now, I had always thought that this referred mostly to physical endeavours, such as running marathons. But once again, the "Next blog" button has taught me something. In this case, I stumbled across a blog run by a stitching circle, and one of its members stated she'd "hit the wall" and not stitched anything in the longest time.

Maybe then, that's an apt description for the loss of words I have been feeling this week. Unfortunately for me, I am well aware of the following:

1) Finishing projects is something I have to work on a lot. I always seem to be full of energy to start things, but then, things sputter out and half of nothing ever concludes. Not with this - I will not let that happen.

2) The best way to break through the wall is to run/stitch/write through it. So there.

In other news, I've realized I am turning into a "Word Count" whore. I want to NaNoWriMo, I want to write 1,600-odd words a day in preparation, and I keep going back to word count everything I do...is this a good thing? I don't know. I keep thinking it's like weighing yourself every day - it just gets obsessive after a while. Yet, numbers are indicated below, in brackets :-)

(214)

pick a topic, any topic

It seems my Thursday six words exercise (Words don't always come so easily) is well-established in my mind. I just don't feel the desire to write this week; it seems I have finally come to understand what writers mean when they say that they have to force themselves to write. Up until last week, I couldn't figure out these brainstorming/word association/freewriting exercises were for. I mean, you just had to pick a topic and go. Except there doesn't seem to be any go to be had...

So I'll pick a topic. Any topic. Because one of the neat things about my original writing journal was that since topics often occurred to me, say, one station before the end of the commute, or just as class was about to start, I created a page of "topics to be discussed at a later date". Now, some of these really are stories I want to put down in writing, some of these are books, movies, music I want to share, and some are issues that I want to use writing as a crutch to my thinking process.

One such topic is whether disgraced athletes should have their professional accomplishments recognized. This topic came about after Patrick Roy, possibly the greatest goaltender in Habs history, as a coach encouraged his players, particularly his son, also a goaltender, to take part in a bench-clearing on-ice brawl. His son complied, and skated across the entire rink to beat up the other goaltender, who refused to fight, staying in his semi-circle, and merely defended himself against the rain of blows.

Disgraceful? Sure. Enough not to retire Roy's number or bar him from the Hall of Fame? I don't know.

Same argument for Michael Vick. Chris Benoit. The list goes on.

It's been almost ten months since Chris Benoit killed his wife and son before hanging himself off a piece of fitness equipment in his home. I taped that week's Raw and Smackdown (as I always do) onto the hard disk of my DVD recorder. I still haven't erased them, but I still haven't transferred them onto DVD. I don't even want to deal with it yet.

Getting back to Roy, should he be inducted?

Well, the criteria, according to the Hockey Hall of Fame, is "Playing ability, sportsmanship, character and their contribution to the team or teams and to the game of hockey in general."

Playing ability? Check.

Contribution to the team or teams and to the game of hockey in general? Check.

Sportsmanship? As a player, he was, as we say in French, "baveux". His intense competitive streak is well-known. Heck, how many other players do you know have called for a trade mid-game like he did? As a coach, well...Unfortunately, I gotta say no on this one.

Character? I'm not sure where to draw the line between sportsmanship and character, to be honest...I think back to the time he's been investigated for domestic abuse. I think back again to his exit from Montreal. And now, this instigation to his son, which was clearly over the line.

If anything, though, his competitiveness might be what allowed him to reach the greatest heights as a player, but it is also his downfall.

So, in the end, score is tied. So which is more important? The player, or the person?

Is it more of a disgrace to sport to recognize people who have done bad things, or to preclude sport-related exploits because people have done bad things? Talk about records with asterisks, man...I wonder how many current inductees have skeletons in their closets, their only saving grace being that they played before the current days of media frenzy?

I wish I had an answer. I really do.

(619)

animal bonding

There was a book review in Saturday's Gazette for "Dog Man: An Uncommon Life on a Faraway Mountain", by Martha Sherrill, which relates the story of Morie Sawataishi, who reestablished the Akita breed after WWII (at which point there were no more than 16 dogs left.)

What blew my mind was this bit:

When his dogs die, he preserves their pelts as totems - a primal, primitive
connection to an object of love.

"I touch he pelts," he says, 'and I remember everything."

His commitment is such that he has never sold a dog, not once. He gives
puppies away as gifts, or barters one for services, but to take money for a dog
strikes him as a violation of the proper, mutually selfless relationship between
man an dog, where you feel "honoured to even possess such an incredible animal,
much less be loved by him."

Wow. If only all animal breeders felt that way, maybe shelters wouldn't be overflowing, the expression "puppy mill" would cease to exist...and pigs would fly, I know. Still, it's an incredibly noble sentiment, one that people need to hear.

Friday in six: Paid to prepare words for others.

Saturday: Carrefour Laval, more for him again.

Sunday: Snowflakes like styrofoam mean further hibernation.

(115)

american psycho

...for what it's worth, I believe Paul Owen is alive and well in London.

I'm also quite glad to see that the "I can drop a running chainsaw dow an elevator shaft and kill the girl who's trying to run away" isn't actually in the book. Because that was ludicrous.

(50)

decisions, decisions

I need to post a little something about the artists I forgot last time – particularly Scott Duncan and Éric Dufour.

I don’t remember exactly where or when I first came across Éric Dufour’s art; could it have been at NIX? I think so. And it was his paintings that drew me to him. Once again, a great sense of line, of colour, his characters, cities, and the ubiquitous honeycomb-like thingies that populate a period of his work…Just last year, there was an art gallery section at the Montreal convention, and once again, I was simply mesmerized by his paintings. My problem is that of all the tattoos I’ve seen, none of them quite capture what his canvasses do. I’m not sure if it’s the colours, the translucence…maybe he’s just not a great photographer, and his portfolio suffers. Maybe the brilliance of his colours shows up after the tattoos have healed, and he doesn’t have the photos to back it up. I don’t know. I know I keep going back to look at his book, hoping something will floor me. I’ll cross my fingers for September.

As for Scott, I remember meeting him very clearly. It was in June 2000, at NIX, back in the Colony Hotel in Toronto. I was a tattoo virgin. It was Friday, the convention had opened that afternoon, and I had carefully perused the books around the room. He was one of the few that had spoken to me, and he had been friendly and easy-going. I knew what I was looking for, more or less, and he listened to me closely. We struck a deal for the next day. Was that really about what was in his book? Not really, although his book shows a good level of depth and versatility. But for this first relationship, I needed to feel comfortable, and there’s something about Scott that is inherently soothing. So off we went. I was a wuss. I sat very poorly.

Aside: I’ve improved over the years, as I’ve come to the realization that endorphins actually make me cry, and that concentrating on my breathing is the way to go. I’ll never do marathon sessions, like Pat’s 6-7 hours of continuous sleeve work. But I’m more patient than Pat (at least sometimes!).

In my defence, when Scott went over my tattoo last year, he stated that he had really “dug into me”…so I guess we learned from each other. Fair enough.

This year, I’m torn between all the tattoo ideas floating in my mind: I don’t know how often Hannah Aitchison is likely to attend the Montreal convention (or even if she’d take on someone else: I hear her waiting list is closed…), or whether I should finish what I’ve started (if Scott is willing, of course…), or whether I should get the tattoo I promised myself upon graduation. Too many projects, too little money. Not to mention Pat will probably want something, too. He has plans to finish his sleeve, as well. Decisions, decisions.

In six: Words don't always come so easily.

(511)

the "next blog" button brought me...

...here.

I share a lot of this guy's humor, and I had to laugh when I saw his post from April 2, titled "The Village People Visit the Museum." I raise my glass to whoever came up with that one!

I love seeing how people use blogs - some to show off pictures of their kids to parents at a distance, some to sell who knows what, and some, like me, who just want to talk about all kinds of crap. It's a wonderful way to waste some time.

Another I stumbled upon and marveled at the amount of work that went into it is The Ayatollah's Teachings. This one I reached via the "pugs" label. And from there, I discovered the Obey the Purebreed! website. More to come.

(135)

single fixed hot blue point Siamese seeks...

...Well, this, apparently:

Unfortunately, it would appear there's no i988888888888888888888888888u777777777777ÈÈÈÈÈÈÈqwwwwwww54
out there, waiting to respond to my cat. Maybe it's alien communication. Considering my cat, that would be entirely possible.

(37)

on dreaming

I had a very odd dream last night, or rather this morning.

I was taking art classes with the teacher I had as a teenager, in her living room, with a group of teenagers. I was seated on a sofa, when a girl with long dark hair walked in front of me, leaned over, and loudly stated that I may want to cover up, seeing as I hadn’t bothered to shave my legs. I felt the teenagers around me gasp. She collapsed into the other end of the sofa (there was already someone seated between us.) I rose, walked over to her, leaned over her, just as she had done, and loudly proclaimed that she might want to learn some manners. I heard teenagers oohing in approval.

At that point, I prepared to leave. As I spoke to the teacher about something, I saw from a reflection in a glass cupboard door that a sofa cushion was on fire. I turned around, and saw two more cushions were smouldering. Another student pulled out a fire extinguisher; as he aimed at one of the cushions, someone beside me (who may or may have been Pat) yelled in protest to his plan. Sure enough, the first burst of what should have been foam from the fire extinguisher was in fact just gas, or aerosol, and the whole thing turned into one big fireball that crept across the ceiling.

We calmly decided that evacuation was the best course of action. I turned to pick up a small child under the arms, but he was already covered in molten synthetic cushion material. It dripped off him, off the tip of his nose, like water. He barely seemed to notice. I put him right back down, afraid I would burn or melt my hands. I picked up Ti-Monstre (my big orange tabby), then Timmy (my blue-point Siamese), who were both calmly sitting on the aforementioned smouldering sofa. I made sure I had my USB key; I had everything – I was ready to leave the room.

That’s when I woke up. How odd. I can’t make any sense of it.

Of course, come to think of it, I don't really remember having non-odd dreams. That's what's so cool about them. I've always had two types of dreams: either doing normal stuff with abnormal people (I vividly recall watching Raiders of the Lost Ark and eating popcorn...with the guys from Metallica!), or doing abnormal stuff with people I actually know (like rescuing orphans in a tropical jungle with my ex-boyfriend and his now wife!)

Sadly, it’s been a while since I really vividly remembered a dream. No thanks to the alarm clock, I presume; and then there’s those whose storylines I would rather not repeat, for all kinds of reasons (personal demons, anyone?) I think back to the recurrent nightmare I had whenever I was sick as a child; I wonder if that’s what transformed into migraines at adolescence. I don’t remember dreaming when I’m trying to get rid of a migraine.

(505)

shutting up with the Buddha

Once upon a time, Pat found something at the Club.

(For those who know him, that comes as no surprise. Over the years, Pat has found litterally hundreds of things at the Club…as well as a couple of people, including me! But seriously, the guy is like a crow; anything shiny or unusual will catch his eye. Watches, earrings, cell phones, money, drugs, Paul’s engagement ring – the list goes on and on…)

As I was saying, then, once upon a time, Pat found something at the Club. Something unique, something I wouldn’t expect to find on the floor of a club at three in the morning: a small figurine of the Buddha, seated, belly bulging, laughing, with a fan in his right hand. The kind you find in Oriental knick-knack shops. Go figure. I’ve kept him over the years, and I call upon his contemplative, meditative nature in times of need. He’s seen better days, which is to be expected considering his background, and the fact he is usually bouncing around at the bottom of my purse, so I repaint the bits where the colour has rubbed off with a Sharpie – mostly the tip of his nose. I put him in my pocket whenever I speak in public, be it in class or at work. And there’s a little nook in the stand of my new monitor that seems just made for him. So there he sits, particularly on days when I need to put into practice my “shut up” exercises (see yesterday’s interminable post, somewhere near the bottom.)

(264)

one at a time, baby

I came to the realization that posting long, rambling entries about fourteen separate subjects doesn't do it for me, which means it probably doesn't do it for anyone else, either. So, from now on, I will devote each entry to (more or less) a single topic. This one is about my writing, in all its forms.

I've written one other thing that's online; it's a piece of wwe fan fic, titled Shelter. A little one-shot, written in a single day almost exactly one year ago. At the very least, it proves that I can write over 1,600 words in a day. And one of the few comments the story generated was from a fan fic writer whose stories I enjoy very much, so that made me smile. I've just reread it, and doggone it, I still like it!

It also reminds me that that story was the first time a character has gone out and surprised me. A lot of writers say this, and it has in fact happened to me. Like I said, I pretty much wrote this straight through in one sitting; but until I got to the very end, I really thought I was dealing with an OC (original character.) Christy's revelation was one to me, too. Go figure.

I'm thinking I might just spend my evenings for the next couple of weeks (semester's over, yay!) typing up all the fan fic tidbits I scribbled madly in the train last year...who knows, maybe there's more stories yearning to surprise me. Find a way to organize them, too…just in case one day I develop the sudden urge to finish one. OK, so it’s only happened once before – that doesn’t mean I can’t hope!

Oddly, this week, I have had very few flights of fiction writing fancy. This worries me a little; not only do I have to increase my output nine-fold, it has to be a single continuous story. And I’ve started blabbing about it; I figured peer pressure would be a good way to keep me on track. Perhaps it’s the technical notices at work that have stifled my creativity…or is it the moon, the tides, the lack of sleep? But I have been going back and rereading older material; like I said, there are quite a few bits I enjoy, and that fills me with both pride and hope. Maybe ya gotta know where you've been to figure out where you're going...

In six: Wish I could have gone, too.

(414)

for a second there...

...I thought someone had stumbled upon my humble ablog. Six comments were awaiting my approval. Six identical pieces of spam. *sigh* I know I write for me, but for a second there...oh well.

(33)

a little a' everything

One small eco-friendly step I have taken and of which I am proud of is my purchase of wooden cutlery from J'Ustenbois. I bought them last year at the Salon des Métiers d’Art expo. It’s one of those “If I pay for it, I’ll care for it” deals. Yes, they are more expensive than just any random set of stainless steel cutlery. BUT, I’m not tempted to put them in the dishwasher, thus losing them to the eternal cycle of utensil consumption in the workplace (do spoons disappear where you work, too?) And I always keep them in my purse, so even when I pick up food on my way to class, I save on plastic forks too. It isn’t much, really, when you consider what it saves me, but I think their greatest success is the discussion that invariably starts up when I pull them out. Yes, I really can cut through pizza with a wooden knife. Maybe their eco-friendliness lies in spreading the word. TAG! Pass it on…

---

I’ve accelerated the pace just a touch, with 6,400 words in just shy of a month. Let’s say that by the weekend, I’ll be at 7,000. Instead of the 50,000 I’ll need to be in November. So instead of ten times faster/more, I’m now at nine times faster/more. Hmm.

I just don’t have confidence in my writing, though. I keep looking at my blog and think it doesn’t have enough pictures. But dammit, it’s supposed to be a writing blog! It’s supposed to be filled with words! Go figure.

---

I really enjoyed Pierre Foglia’s article on cyberpresse this morning concerning the death of four sealers in Îles de la Madeleine. I wholeheartedly agree with him. OK, the loss of four men looking to make a living is a sad event, and not a reason to rejoice. That being said, Canada’s position on seal hunting remains pigheaded at best. Seals are NOT responsible for the collapse of cod stocks, no matter how convenient that would be. People are, particularly the Canadian government for not imposing and policing quotas until it was too late anyways. The seal industry is a public relations disaster, and an industry on life support at that. It is time to let it go.

Some people who know me will wonder why I don’t share the opinion of those who think that the loss of those four sealers is a win for the seals. In this case, I’m holding out hope that these guys come from little villages, where there are few options to make a living. As well, they were killed when the tow they were getting from the coast guard went awry and their boat toppled over. Had they been attacked and killed by seals, I would have had a good laugh and enjoyed seeing karma at work. This was a stupid and preventable accident, no more, no less.

However, I do reserve the right to laugh at every matador/bull runner/rodeo rider who gets bested by a beast. If you’re willing to play, you gotta be willing to lose. It really got my goat when Bodacious was retired, simply because he was too dangerous. Hell, he had figured out that if you buck just a certain way, riders break their faces on his back, and they get off. Problem solved. Of course, they've now retired him to stud. I guess his problem is otherwise solved now. As well, I hope his innumerable offspring have the same knack for problem-solving.

As for Hispanic bull events, they should cease to exist. No bull-fighting, no Pamplona. Not all traditions are worth keeping.

---

Afternoon wisdom in the workplace:
Goodness, I need to learn to shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Sometimes, silence really is golden. You are more keenly aware of the blissfully insane things that get said when you just…shut…up.

---

In six: One class until two weeks' vacation.

(681)

the original flying v

It was said recently in the paper that if the honking of returning geese didn't lift your heart as a sure sign of spring, it was because you didn't have a heart to begin with. I concur.

On the other hand, I remember a few years back, waiting on the train platform during morning rush hour and hearing a small flock of geese coming up from the lake and flying overhead...only to be the ONLY soul at the station to even look up, much less smile. I glanced around: people had their noses in newspapers, books, Blackberrys, or were fiddling with iPods...talk about feeling alone in a crowd.

Maybe the working world has lost its collective heart.

In other news, I finally reached a boiling point over gas prices over the weekend. My car’s engine is seriously @#$%?&ed and it guzzles high-octane gas, which means I topped the $1.30 mark per litre. So this morning I walked to work. By my calculations, I saved about half a litre of gas, or just over one litre if you consider Pat wanted to keep the car for errands this afternoon. It also allowed him to sleep in, and I got to enjoy listening to the birds sing on my way in. A little post-hibernation exercise doesn’t hurt, either. All in all, a good thing. Everyone I told, however, told me I was nuts. We're talking about just over 3 kilometers (or just a shade under two miles) here. It was sunny, not too cool, just perfect for a walk. But it appears that I'm insane.

Or perhaps I just remember the surprises that crop up when you slow down enough to notice them: the crimson cardinal sitting in a still bare tree, calling to the females; the robins going nuts over a small patch of grass (yes folks, I have proof, there is yet grass around these parts!); the crows rebuilding their nest with long stringy stuff...

Well, at least I'll have enjoyed it while it was there.

art, o art, wherefore art thou art

I discovered something, or rather someone, yesterday at the flea market and I forgot to write about it. Her name is Charlotte Nicolin, and she is a Swedish artist who has settled in Montreal. She does these pretty, bright, happy paintings of wildlife: birds, ladybugs, frogs, etc. Maybe it’s just because it was exactly the spirit I was rediscovering after months of hibernation, but she really struck my fancy.

I keep being torn between philosophies. On the one hand, my ecological/common sense (ECS) says I have two perfectly good mouse pads: plain black with white advertising on them, received as promotional items. Functional, yes, pretty, not by a long shot. On the other hand, I want to be surrounded with pretty things that make me smile, things I really enjoy. My eco-side wants to scream consumerism. My artistic side rails against boredom.

These two sides fight constantly. I had the same argument when I had to purchase a notebook as my writing journal. I wanted something pretty, something I would want to tote around and open and fill. I came home with an ecojot notebook, made of 100% post-consumer material. Sadly, it has been underutilized since I began to blog, but I will go through it eventually. In this particular case, ECS was content, but creative was slightly disappointed.

The only I way I seem to be able to bypass this is by getting these funky, enjoyable things as presents…for those who care, my birthday is July 27 ;D

But I digress. Getting back to enjoyable artwork, I thought I’d share some of the other artists whose work makes my heart sing. Now I’ll spare you how much I enjoy the great Masters (think TMNT, particularly Raphael), and how as a teenager, I chose to visit the Uffizi with our chaperones on an overcast day in Florence, rather than strike out on the town with my classmates, and how the nuns had to pull me out the room that housed Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” I still wonder whether it was really to get to the other masterpieces in the place, or because I was in awe before such a delightfully pagan piece. For the record, my favourites usually have a fine sense of line, as the aforementioned Raphael, Botticelli, Dürer, Dali, Mucha…

That probably also plays an important part in my enjoyment of comic book art and tattoo art. For comics, let me name Jae Lee’s ink work and Sam Kieth (my interest in comics peaked right around the birth of Image, so forgive me if I haven’t discovered the latest and greatest…), although I was also a big fan of Simon Bisley and Joseph Michael Linsner. As for tattoos, the realism of Tom Renshaw blows my mind, and at the other end of the spectrum, Yann Black, newly settled in Montreal at Glamort.

See here:
In six: Find old pedometer. Check batteries. Walk.

joy to the world

Today, spring came back. For real. My heart soared.

Pat woke me up with the marvellous idea of going to the flea market. For those who don't know, there's an indoor flea market integrated into the drive-in. When the weather is nice, it expands and people set up throughout the drive-in parking lot. Today, it was packed as if it was July. Subconsciously, everyone, and I mean everyone, came out for a stroll and some bargain hunting. Teenagers in huddles, toddlers howling in strollers, slow-walking seniors...and a lot of dogs. And the canines seemed to be appreciating the walk as much as their masters, if not more. Bernese Mountain Dogs, Dachshunds, Pomeranians, a gorgeous blue-merle Shetland Sheepdog, a couple of Pugs, of course...and sadly, vendors of puppies. I won't get started, if only because I'm tired, and I feel I've said it so many times (although not in this forum). The guys today were hawking particularly big boys - Cane Corso and Neapolitan Mastiffs. The pups were about eight weeks, I'd say, and already they could take on even my Droz (or Papa, topping out at maybe 22 or so pounds.) Goddess bless those pups; may they land in good homes (hoping against hope) and live out long, happy, healthy lives.

Pat stopped the guy with the black pug, just to pet the dog and chat; I know he stops to pet almost every pug we cross, but he makes it a point to stop the black ones, just in case...Sometimes, when he sees someone walking down a side street with a small black dog, as he's driving by, he'll turn around to go check. Just in case. Sometimes I wonder if he does that for me, or for himself; either way, I love him all the more for it.

But enough with the darkness, today was a marvellous day. I came out of hibernation, and it was wonderful. We crossed paths with half of everyone we knew, bumping into someone new every couple of steps. Of course, this is standard for Pat, but heck, even I met someone I used to work with, and that's something else. (come to think of it, I bumped into another coworker on Tuesday, too...now I won't see anyone I know for a year or so!)

Friday in six: Brothers of Destruction are back, baby.

Saturday: A little bit of spring cleaning.

Sunday: Sunshine, melting snow; it's about time.

it's been three years now

but when I stop to think about you, the hurt is as raw as the first night. I usually have plenty of words, but they all fail me when I try to explain how your leaving changed me.

I read miracle stories of reunions years later, and deep down I pray one day I'll have my own miracle. No one else believes it's possible, except maybe Pat. And probably Droz, but we haven't discussed the issue, really.

Did you even survive that night? Did you try to go onto the lake, or fall into someone's pool? Were you dognapped? Are you alive? Are you OK? Do you even remember me? I mourned you, and still mourn you, as much as I've ever mourned anyone. For a little while, I understood parents who kill their children to avoid losing them. If I can't have you, no one will. I truly wished you were dead, rather than with strangers who could never love you like I do. And that is such a scary thought, and a bad place to be.

Pat put your picture up all over town, and I called everyone I could. The guy who delivers the paper looked for you, too; mind you, he was just thinking of the reward. I promised God so many good deeds if he would just send you back my way...

Curiosity killed the cat, but what did it do to my pug? To think that if I had a single question to ask God, that's what it would be...because not knowing really is the worst.

...je t'aime, tite-pute, pis je m'ennuie toujours de toi...je t'envoie des bisous, pis des Greenies...

twenty grains at a time

I'm not a gamer. Back in the day, the only game I ever completed was Super Mario Bros. 3, and that was WITH cheats. (I have since completed the DS version of Cake Mania, and the Sudoku sections of Brain Age I and II. Woot! Yeah, I know, I'm not a gamer, but I say Woot! For the record, I say Frag, too, but that stems from my comic-book days.) For the most part, I enjoy free online games that don't require you spent hours learning the button combinations. There's stuff for everyone out there. But there is one that's special, one I really need to mention: FreeRice.

It's a multiple choice word definition game, with a twist; for every word you get right, 20 grains of rice are donated to the UN World Food Program to help end hunger. It's paid for by the nice people who purchase advertising on the banner at the bottom of the screen. Personnally, I try to give 1000 grains every day I sit in front of my home computer. Today, that took me all of three and a half minutes.

A friend of mine wonders whether the world is worth trying to save, considering where it's at. Sometimes I agree, but if I was starving, I'd like people to think I was worth the effort.

Tuesday in six: Man is pregnant - April Fools'.

Today: Done with standards - what comes next?

melina rocks...

...her latest post on the topic of BunnyMania (click here) is spot on. Some parts of it sound made to provoke, but hey, she's a heel - she's supposed to do that. All I gotta say is "Amen, sister."

In six: Harassment in the workplace - final complete.

it's windy again outside

...and when it's not the roof caving in, it's the tree falling that I'm afraid of. Of course, that actually HAS happened before, so I believe I am well within my rights to worry. So instead of going to bed, or concentrating on homework, I write in here. And every time the furnace starts, or a dog scratches at the floor, or the wind howls down the chimney, I jump. Anxiety issues? Who, me? At least I have the cat on my lap. If the last sound I ever hear is the cat's purr, it will be a good death. However, it means that this entry will be all over the map, but please bear with me.

According to some reports, Montreal's power consumption decreased approximately 5% on Saturday night during Earth Hour, compared to the previous Saturday night, when the weather was similar. It's a start.

I watched Raw last night; it almost made me feel guilty for not believing Ric Flair was the best thing since sliced bread. It's like looking at certain types of art - you understand, intellectually, that there is great talent behind this, but you just don't GET it, emotionally, in your gut. That sums up Ric Flair to me. He's been credited with inspiring the current generation of superstars across the board. I'm their age, more or less; why don't I remember this???

I was relieved to hear that the Undertaker came out with the MacMahons, once the show had gone off the air. Heck, Deadman beat Flair to become 10-0 in Toronto. I was in the seventh row. And I've heard Taker is quite the one to insist on showing respect for those who come before you in the business. I kept searching for him on the ramp, to no avail. But I'm glad to know that he was in fact there. I wonder if it had to do with not breaking character. I mean, the only time we ever saw Mark Callaway, and not the Undertaker, was in one photo in WWE Unscripted. The look in his eyes is completely different. Even in the special edition magazine they had concocted a few years back, it was always the Undertaker character.

It also makes me wonder whether that's why Batista was wearing shades throughout the HOF and Raw. Reminds me of one fellow in cegep; we could always tell when he'd had a fight with his girlfriend when he'd wear shades on a cloudy day.

Now that Kane is ECW champ, I'm really gonna have to start watching the show. Dammit.

Monday: Discovered two lawyers and a buddhist.