e.l.b.o.w.

That's shorthand for the club I'm thinking about starting up, "Educated ladies blogging on wrestling". I read a lot of stuff online, including about the WWE, but between incessant pop-ups and lame adolescent chatter, I find little to sink my teeth into.

However, I've come across Ms. Linda Robin's blog on ProWrestling.com. I don't always agree with her, but I certainly respect what she has to say. You can read her draft review here. So with that, I officially extend the invitation to become the second member of my elite club; hopefully, there are more of us out there...

One other thing I thought I'd mention: at no point during Raw did it dawn on me that J.R. didn't know what was going on. He's J.R., for Pete's sake! That's so unbelievably harsh; I thought the days of proverbially "screwing Bret" were over. As I watch the reactions again, Cole knew. He had to know. *sigh* I read that one all wrong. Darn - I still get suckered in sometimes.

But, I am happy to read J.R.'s second blog post, and I hope he realizes the influence he has on a show's success. All the best to both new teams, and to Tazz for having to continue dealing with Adamle.

(210)

Paul? Paul! Paul!

The 2008 WWE draft has just concluded, and it has opened up some very interesting possibilities. A quick overview:

• Ray Mysterio to Raw: a great thing, in that it avoids him instantly falling back into feuding with la familia. I would have loved to see him go against Jeff Hardy, but unfortunately, that's not going to happen. I'm looking forward to his return to see who they have in store for him. Perhaps he could position himself as contender and be Randy Orton's official welcoming committee when he returns.
  
• Jeff Hardy to Smackdown: quite possibly a great thing. He was often utilized on Raw as an alternate opponent to the usual Orton/HHH feuders; maybe now he can have a good run with Edge. Heck, they made magic together back in the golden days of tag teams. Hopefully the switch isn't perceived or meant as a demotion; as they say, better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.
  
• Matt Hardy to ECW: not sure what to make of this. Reuniting the Hardys for one night was one of Vickie Guerrero's best decisions, but I can certainly understand the wisdom behind not having the brothers on the same brand, to continue building each brother individually. Once again, it avoids the obvious pitfalls, but since Smackdown and ECW overlap fairly often, it opens the door to the occasional run-in.
  
• CM Punk to Raw: good for him - more exposure, new opponents - but not so hot for ECW, which is the clear loser by the end all is said and done. Pat still doesn't like him, but this guy really has grown on me. Give him room; maybe a run with Jericho could be entertaining. Anything but HBK, really.
  
• Batista to Raw: fair enough, just to change from Edge/Undertaker. Would've been nice to have an Evolution renewal - heck, Randy Orton does have the odd good idea sometimes - but no. So now what? Well, as of next week, John Cena's gonna need a dancing partner.
  
• Umaga to Smackdown: well, it's where the very big boys congregate, so why not? Of course, I need to specify that there are two types of very big boys: there's the surprisingly talented considering their size, e.g. the aforementioned Samoan bulldozer and the Big Show, and then there's those whose size is apparently their sole redeeming attribute, e.g. Mark Henry and the Great Khali on most days. I hope they use him well, because he is fairly enjoyable, in a snarling, Polynesian kind of way.
  
• Kane to Raw: this is another one of those ruling in hell types. I love seeing Kane back on Raw; I just hope he doesn't get lost back in the shuffle like he was before going over in the first place. I've always had a soft spot for the younger brother of destruction; welcome back, honey - and give 'em hell.
  
• Mr. Kennedy to Smackdown: I was never quite sure why he was on Raw; apart from his couple of run-ins with Regal, which were priceless, he never really found his niche. So the loudmouth from Green Bay goes back home to Smackdown, and I hope he starts seriously nipping at the heels of the champ. He's close, so close; just a little more, a few more wow moments, and he'll make his way to the top tier. Jeff Hardy has the lead in this particular race, but Kennedy has the mad mike skills. Gentlemen, start your engines.
  
• Triple H to Smackdown: OK, this was unexpected. But I like it. Except it means one of two things, really: either Cena wins or Batista wins come Sunday, so as to keep one belt on each show. We'll know more after that, but I'm thinking Triple H is gonna mow through the current roster, and he'll have to make new stars. See previous bullet, re: Jeff Hardy and Mr. Kennedy. The stage is now fully set.
  
• Michael Cole vs. Jim Ross: Not so unexpected, since Foley's been laying it on thick about working with J.R. for the past few weeks. However, it fits. Adamle is in no position to go anywhere, Tazz is the last remaining link to the original ECW, and shifting Jerry Lawler to Smackdown would really have been seen as a demotion. J.R. is a habitual victim of evil WWE machinations and bad breaks, so it's fitting that he should bounce over to Smackdown. It really is the best thing that could happen to Mick Foley. Opinions are mixed, but he's the best hope we have right now; this is such a difficult job, and it just has to be learned on the job. He's got the affable personality and the ring experience to really grow into a respectable commentator; hell, he's already better than JBL ever was! The only bit that bothered me a little was hearing Michael Cole say he'd called every Smackdown except two; he's the one caught in the midst of this shuffle, and I know he'll do well no matter who he's paired with, but I thought that fact needed to be acknowledged.
  

In other news, I really enjoyed this episode of Raw for the most part. McMahon's Million Dollar Mania still pisses me off, and I thought it was entirely inappropriate to close off such a momentous evening with a @#$% phone call, until it all went awry and we were treated to another one of Vinnie Mac's Oscar-winning moments. "Paul? Paul! Paul!" The only thing missing was him sitting up and winking at the audience. Ah well, if that's what it takes to put an end to this vulgar attempt at bribing the audience, so be it.

(954)

not quite the perfect storm

I’ve thought about trying to describe my migraines for the longest time, but I’m always afraid that my words won’t do justice to the subtleties of the chemical storms that blow through my mind every couple of weeks.

In some respects, I am lucky, in that I’m only afflicted with migraines every couple of weeks. I’ve known coworkers on daily medication who would otherwise be non-functional six days a week. For my part, there are two “storm seasons”, that occur essentially at the end of weeks 2 and 4 in any given cycle. They last for about two or three days, when I am vulnerable to developing migraines. They usually crop up overnight, so the minute I wake up, I know the kind of day it will be. I can sometimes beat them down with ultra strength Motrin; I’ve tried some prescription medication, but they leave me so out of it I’m no more functional that if I simply had the migraine. But sometimes, after a few successful attempts at delaying the inevitable, a built-up, monster migraine strikes; it’s as though my body needs to “reset” itself somehow.

When they do strike, I am pretty much useless: I suffer from photosensitivity, sensitivity to sound, mild dizziness (more like vertigo, like 5’ 7” is so far off the ground), the traditional single-sided head pain and general miserable-ness. The pain usually resides right behind one eye - not always the same side, but always only one side at a time - and it sits there like a hot coal in my eye socket, radiating crackling lightning across my skull.
Sleeping it off is really the only option, and even then, sleep comes fitfully. I always sleep on my side, but I must remain with the painful side down, otherwise, I can feel the blood flowing down from the hot coal, like lava burning everything in its path. So pressure points and comfort be damned, until my mind finally shuts down to attend to the matter at hand, weathering the storm. It doesn’t usually last more than one day.

That was the situation with the contraceptive pill I was on. Two months ago, my doctor suggested I try a different kind, one that had had positive reviews for girls with these migraine issues. I thought, “Well, why not?” One month and one pack later, I know.

On week 2, I spent an entire weekend dragging myself from the bed to the Lazy-Boy, lost in a fog of discomfort. It wasn’t a migraine per se; the pain felt different, alien. I was sensitive to the light bulbs in the living room, so going outside was out of the question. I listened to the TV more than I watched it, and reading was near impossible. In all, it was a useless weekend. I hoped that while it lasted longer, I could habituate to this new threshold and with the right timing of Motrin, I would gain some functionality and things would work out well. How wrong I was.

Week 4, Friday: Woke up with that lopsided feeling. Knowing I had an important deadline, I took a Motrin and got ready for work. Once there, I realized staring at the computer monitor was increasingly difficult, as was simply keeping my eyes open. I pushed on, putting together the document as best I could. The Motrin was having no effect; again, the pain felt foreign, and I didn’t know what to expect - it was so unlike the familiar migraines that had ruled my life since the age of thirteen. I bummed a couple of extra-strength Tylenol from a co-worker. They just made me nauseous. I figured a little bit of fresh air might set me straight; in my haste to get outside, I took the shortest route, forgetting that that entailed using the stairs next to the cafeteria, where they were busy cooking broccoli and cauliflower. I’m sure that I developed a slight greenish tinge at that point. Nonetheless, I made it outside in one piece, but the fresh air didn’t help that much. I returned to my desk and, alternating between closing my eyes and resting my head on my desk like we used to do in grade school and typing frantically, I finalized the document, forwarded it to the powers that be and called my boyfriend to come pick me up. I was in bed by 12:15 pm, and I tossed and turned for the longest time before crashing into dream-laden sleep. I awoke around 7:00 pm; my head certainly wasn’t cleared, but at least I could keep my eyes open. We had dinner, and I was back in bed by 11:00pm.

At this point, I should remind you that I was at the tail end of a fairly extensive translation project. I had two chapters of draft translation, and the complete review of the document to complete by Monday morning.

The pain crept back in overnight; I was up for five minutes or so on Saturday morning to gobble down more Motrin, then I crashed back under the covers, trying to avoid looking too closely at their stark black and white pattern. In all, I was up by 2:00pm; while the migraine dozed, I worked fitfully on another chapter, typing diligently for two hours or so before I retreated to my pillow once more. I missed dinner on Saturday; I ate a pouch of instant rice while watching “So You Think You Can Dance.” I typed some more and finished my first draft. Then I slept some more, hoping against hope it was over.

No such luck. Again, I completely bypassed the morning, only daring to rise once the sun had peaked on Sunday. This time, the early-morning Motrin seemed to finally get a grip on the storm. When I got up, I felt exhausted, but I could actually string a sentence together. I even showered, washed my hair and stepped out for dinner. With a trusty Tim Hortons’ extra-large double double in hand, I settled down to knock my project out of the park. Finally, the storm subsided, as though I had finally prevailed in a three-day battle of the wills. I worked feverishly throughout the evening and night, returning the project by email a few hours early before returning to bed as the sun crept up.

So now, I start a second pack. Hopefully, next month, I won’t have the same deadline issues. Hopefully, next month, my own body won’t quite feel so alien. Hopefully, next month.

(1,086)

one week of drought

It's an odd little title, given that last week saw more rain fall than in the previous month or so. But my blog ran dry on the first week following the end of classes. At a time when I thought I would have plenty of time to savour and devote to writing, instead I joined up with a new client and a massive freelance project, combined with a new contraceptive pill that made me discovered as-yet unexplored migraines on an unforeseen scale. So this week, there were no words other than those I was paid for. Oh well.

(98)

a funny little dreambit

Now follow me deep into the convolutions of my mind, into a little dreambit I had over the weekend. I actually dreamt that the dreambit I wrote about earlier, about the car crashing into the mall, was happening right before my eyes. All I could think (in my dream) was "Wow! That dream was actually déjà-vu!" Oh, and the fact I identified the mall as Place Alexis-Nihon, even though it really doesn't match up with the actual mall which, the last time I was there, was one of the darkest and dreariest downtown malls. But I have to admit, it is the very first time I remember dreaming about a previous dream. I mean, there have been times when, after being semi-awakened in the middle of a dream, I have resumed said dream, but never days apart like this.

In other news, I just learned that Finger Eleven used to be the Rainbow Butt Monkeys - hey! I've seen them live! Opening for I don't remember who, but I have seen them on stage! Wow! Who knew you could learn something from the MMVAs?

(184)

words, words, words

I stumbled upon this little blog called Trois choses. Its greatness stems from the simplicity of its concept: each Monday, it publishes three words. Participants have one week to provide three photographs representing the three concepts.

Coincidentally, I graduated this week, and I was thinking of buying myself a new digital camera as a celebration and a promise, since we all know a picture is worth a thousand words...

(69)

2 lopsided dreambits

The first one was so vivid and detailed that I grabbed a piece of paper to jot down the details before they faded. Here goes:

There were three of us: myself, Pat (who was not really him but it was in my dream, you know?) and a third character, an older lady, who for the sake of conciseness we shall refer to as my aunt, because she reminded me a lot of my aunt Lise, even though it wasn't her exactly.

We are on a tour bus in a city said to be very dangerous for tourists, with an elevated violent crime rate. I can't say which city we're in, but it feels old and Mediterranean. I'd like to say Venice because I know we were headed for the "ponte vecchio", except the city had this dry, dusty, sun-baked feel. Another coach is either parked or stopped in mid U-turn right across the street, blocking the way. That's when we decide to exit the bus and continue on foot.

We are soon accosted by two thieves: one male, unseen, and a young, headstrong female accomplice. She’s pretty and blonde, with a rounded face and pretty curls, but she’s hard as nails. She blatantly plunges her hand in my aunt’s handbag, pulling out a fistful of jewellery - pearls, silver and gold chains - and calmly returns to her table at a little sidewalk café with a terrace elevated a few steps above street level.

I look over at my aunt, who is rooted on the spot I stride over to the thief’s table and grab for the jewellery she is still holding in her clenched fist. Some is dropped, some is broken, and I manage to pry some away from her, although there isn’t much left. I notice her earrings: a silver wing extending along the outline of her ear, over a teal-coloured hemispheric button that hides the clip. I return my aunt’s possessions to her, and I notice that she was wearing similar wing-shaped earrings, except she has lost one in the scuffle. In sheer retaliation, I stride back to the thief and yank off one of her earrings, a clip-on that does no damage. With a heavy and improvised Southern drawl, I sneer, “What, did you think we were dumbass Americans?”

The three of us reunite and walk past the café. The male accomplice stands at the edge and tells us to look to our left. There’s a pack of mangy-looking, obviously stray dogs, scruffy, emaciated mutts, one of which may have resembled a Golden Retriever in different circumstances. There are maybe six in all, looking wild but exhausted. We come to understand that they plan on throwing them off a cliff as revenge for our acts. We doubt that they will, that they could even catch them, and that even so, it might almost be doing those poor creatures a favour.

We keep walking up the narrow street and reach a crosswalk. Ahead, we can glimpse a section of elevated highway with gridlocked traffic. “Shall we go right?” we ask. “Yes, let’s.” So we do, even though I’d swear our hotel is somewhere off to the left.

---

That night, when I settled into bed, I remembered that I had also dreamed of a fridgeful of Mason jars, filled with all kinds of jams, preserves, ketchups and curries. And every single one I picked up had moths and larvae growing between the surface of the preserves and the lid - I could see them crawling and even flying in the tight space. I didn’t open a single one, returning them all to their fridge.

(606)

dreambit

I'm in a mall, heading into a crowded, narrow little store. I'm not sure whether it's a bookstore or a music store, but its wares are shelved from floor to ceiling on the right wall and the rear, and in the middle, there's a long rack with more merchandise. The cash is on the left wall. Everyone is moving in the same pattern, since there isn't enough room to cross paths. It's like a Visa debit card commercial. You enter on the right, hope the people in front of you don't stop to examine something before you reach your item, then circle around the back into the lineup at the cash. It's busy, but not hectic by any means.

Suddenly, there's a huge crash behind us. I turn and look out into the mall; settling dust makes everything hazy. I've only just entered the store, so the few people behind me have already exited to see what's happening. Like a lot of malls, there are stores around the exterior perimeter, and the center is open, up to a skylight, with escalators and staircases running up and down at each end. Right in front of us, precariously perched on a staircase landing, is a silver Toyota Corolla, that has apparently crashed from the street, one level above. It must have reversed into the mall, since its nose is facing the hole it has just created. There are three passengers: two men in front, apparently unharmed, and a woman with light hair in the back seat, bleeding but not critically injured. They are trapped in the car and calling for help.

An ambulance driver climbs over the staircase railing, to try to reach a car door. He slips and somehow plummets down between the landings, as if the mall stretched several more floors below. People scream, including the woman in the car. As if on cue, dozen of people climb over the railing and jump as well, this time voluntarily.

*Note: That'll teach me to watch the preview to "The Happening" before going to bed.

(343)

another online art gathering

Yep, just like me to find something all of two days after it has occurred. In this case, it's a blog of note, and it was added the day before the blessed event. In my defence, I spent the weekend domesticating a new type of migraine, so I was nowhere near a brightly-lit 22" monitor.

Still, the idea of Drawing Day appeals to me immensely, so I still salute the efforts of the participants and put myself a reminder for next year :-)

(83)

i can't believe i'm saying this, but...

...hey Vinnie Mac: I do not want your money. I do not care that you want to give it away. I want to watch wrestling, dammit. And you come along every other minute, interrupting with this crap idea of yours.

Besides, how can you ever hope to lose your image of appealing to the lowest common denominator when you yourself choose to shill shamelessly to the basest modern desire? You're digging your own grave.

(74)

more free philanthropy

Somehow, in a world where everything seems too expensive, I enjoy donating other people's money. I've already mentioned FreeRice, and now, there's more.

I found this one via the NaNoWriMo website.

Goodsearch is a Yahoo-based search engine that donates 50% of its ad revenues (i.e. about a penny per search) to the charitable organization of your choice. There really are charities for every taste, and the search engine is solid, so why not?

(73)

3 dreambits

1. In my aunt's kitchen (who passed away in 1992; I haven't set foot in her house since then, even though I still have a cousin who lives there.) My father is standing over the stove, which is an odd place for him to be; my mom is seated at the table, I think, and there's someone else, either my aunt or my cousin, in the doorway to the living room, behind me. Everyone is chatting normally, I couldn't say about what. I want to go out into the backyard. I open the inner door (or is it already open?) I look up; in the top right corner, two spiders in a web: one large, pale one, completely immobile, and another, smaller, moving across its back. Whether the larger one is trapped by the smaller one or whether it is the smaller one's mother is unclear. I scream through the small talk, "...but FUCK, doesn't anyone realize how FUCKING scared I am?" People turn to look at me. (My father was certainly not fond of swearing in general, and me swearing in particular. This situation, in real life, would have required all my cojones.)
   
   
2. Peewee, Pat and I are watching a movie in a house I don't know. There's a lesbian sex scene in it (not that it is relevant to anything.) I say something, Peewee mishears me, takes great offence, and storms out. Later, we're elsewhere in the house, and there's a bunch of people lounging around, like the morning after a party. As I'm telling the story of my falling out with Peewee to Kris, Peewee walks in and repeats what he heard me say. I correct him, which completely defuses the situation; he gives me a long, long hug, and resists when I start to feel awkward and pull away.
   
   
3. I'm in a large, open park, where tons of people are picnicking. Suddenly, there's a ruckus. Someone screams that there's a vicious dog attacking people. I spot him quickly - a large Dane-type, solid blue (not blue blue, blue the dog color - gray for the rest of the world.) I go towards him, and try to wrap my hands around his muzzle, to control him until help arrives. I get the definite feeling that he's humoring me, and that he's letting me hold him; I would stand no chance if he wanted to get loose and attack me. Someone shoots two arrows through his chest. I scream for someone to finish him off. I release him and stumble over him, falling onto my hands and knees. Behind me, I hear the "thwack" of the third arrow into his skull. I begin to bawl, a loud wail that resonates from deep down in my belly.

(460)

hero of the day?

I just have to mention the performance Kent Desormeaux turned in at the Belmont Stakes. In an industry overpopulated with, shall we say, not the straightest and narrowest of walkers, the man followed his gut and pulled Big Brown back, finishing dead last. In a year that saw Eight Belles put down on the Kentucky Derby track, the story holds. That he is being worked over by everyone and anyone who had monetary interest in the outcome of the race comes as no surprise. Some are even going so far as to say the fix was in, thanks to the mob. I'll take my chance at being naive. I salute the guy who thought to put the horse first, and racing be damned.

(123)

other people's words

I came across a few tidbits that, for a variety of reasons, really struck a chord deep within me.

First, Jean-Marc Parent, whose career as a stand-up comic in Quebec took him waaaayy up, then waaayy down, then back again, and seems to have stabilized as a grizzled veteran of the scene. His latest show, Urgence de vivre, was partially inspired by his heart problems. This is what he had to say about life:

J'ai toujours aimé la vie, mais j'ai jamais eu confiance en elle. De toute façon, personne ne devrait avoir confiance en la vie. La vie, elle t'avale, c'est tout.

Then, a coworker lent me Shopgirl, the novel by Steve Martin. She said that there was something in the way he wrote that she thought would appeal to me, and she was right. I found him a keen observer of human quirkiness, taking a simple little story and weaving it into something unique.

A few things really leapt off the page at me:

However, Jeremy does have one outstanding quality. He likes her. And this quality in a person makes them infinitely interesting to the person who is being liked.

---

Her penalty is that the men she attracts with her current package see her only from a primitive part of their brains, the childish part that likes shiny objects that make noise when rattled.

I can only hope that somewhere down the road, I'll be able to string together words like that. Not because they are these great exercises in eloquence, simply because of the basic truths they allow to shine through their simple word sequences.

(179)

pondering words

I wrote a bunch of things this week on paper, that I didn't take the time to post here. Here's a short sample...

I am absolutely incapable of stringing words together today. A heavy, sleepy fog has drifted onto the landscape of my mind, prompting me to pull the drapes shut and retreat for a nap with a thick blanket, a mug of hot chocolate and a drowsy cat in my lap. It's a warm, sunny day outside, but it's not inspiring lazy, hazy feelings; my inner world has shifted to the Southern hemisphere, to a gray, hibernation-inducing chill I generally associate with November. It sounds dingy and depressing, but in fact, it feels absolutely neutral. Like an approaching mid-summer storm, it is useless to argue the sun isn't out; pack in your garden tools, head inside, and ride out the rain. Listen to it tap-tapping on the roof, thank it for watering your garden, and ponder how many shades of gray Mother Nature can concoct when she sets her mind to it.

Just a few days later, I developed two days' worth of "new" migraines, which I will discuss in a later post.

(193)

a couple of random thoughts on the latest PPVs

I didn't make any predictions for either Judgment Day or One Night Stand. My mind was elsewhere for the most part, so I had no concrete expectations, I guess. Overall, I enjoyed both a whole heck of a lot.

Particularly the divas. Not since the heyday of Lita and Trish have we seen girls, you know, actually fight. Like, talent, rather than booty. Yay. More, more, more.

"Fuck! I broke my collarbone!" With those five words, Randy Orton threw future storylines, and particularly the upcoming draft, for a serious loop. I wonder where they were planning to go with that Orton/Batista interlude before the diva match. It was also really interesting to see how Triple H reacted; having twice been seriously injured in a match and finishing, he couldn't bring himself to expect the same of Orton and offered up one of the weakest finales since Austin pinned Owen Hart with a broken neck.

Y2J's run-in during the stretcher match ties as the low point of the evening with the cameraman's clumsy attempts not to show us the mattresses under Jeff Hardy and Umaga (with apologies to Orton and Big Show's real-life injuries.)

And last but now least, the end of the Undertaker? I'm not sure I buy it, but there was one moment, right when Taker started up the ramp, when his face changed, and Mark Callaway took in the crowd for the "last" time, his jaw set, his eyes betraying the intensity of the emotion. If this really is the end, then I am in serious mourning. If not, let the deadman rest awhile before returning to fight another day.

(272)

four days in six

Friday: Could not get here fast enough.

Saturday: Rainy, sleepy, movie, snacky, sleepy.

Sunday: Forever a creature of the night.

Monday: Getting back to blogging - feels right.

(27)

hindsight is always 20/20

So Richard Martineau, of whom I have written about previously, posted à "free to good home" ad for his dog on his blog. Turns out that since the birth of his third child, the couple has had little time to devote to the dog, who is bored silly.

A few of the comments gently chided him not to have any more children, lest the eldest get bored. Another spoke up, saying that hippy tree-hugging animal-lovers will boo hoo the fact he's reneging on an implicit promise to care for the dog its entire life, while they should realize that it takes a real animal-lover to be able to let the dog go to someplace where he will be truly loved and cared for. I thought about this, and it almost made sense, except that:

1. If you can only spare the time to care for a limited number of beings, due to time constraints or whatever, could you not foresee this? Did it not dawn on you that you wanted children within the next fifteen years or so, and that they would take up a lot of your free time? Because let's be frank, you do not want to change your lifestyle to accommodate the dog and the baby. So be it, but you should have thought of that beforehand. I also sincerely hope your parents and in-laws are in good health; I'm afraid to ask how you would solve the dilemma of becoming a caregiver as well.

2. If there were enough foster/adoptive homes to handle and care for all these no-longer-convenient pets, it would be a wash. Problem is the numbers are anything but even. So goodhearted people pour money, time and their hearts into cleaning up your mess. And you have the gall to title your post "Chien à donner - snif". Cry me a river, buddy.

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