The Fine Print

On my walk home from work a few days ago I came across a recently poured concrete curb. Now I don’t know about your moral flexibilities, but to me fresh concrete is just begging to be messed with. Fresh concrete is the girl that wears a push-up bra under a shirt that’s 3 sizes too small and then gets pissy when all the boys keep staring at her chest. In no way am I excusing unwanted harassment from men but c’mon, no one wears a push-up bra to NOT have their boobs noticed.

Back to the slutty and wanton concrete curb. My attention had been grabbed, and the decision to do something rebellious had been made. Next step: the Follow Through. This is the stage where I usually fail. Some people call it “wussing out” – I prefer to think of it as “giving the consequences some serious consideration as they can often affect the rest of your life.” And when those people go do something stupid and get in trouble for it, I’m sure to be right there saying “Sucka! I guess you should have weighed the consequences, huh?” You know, just to gently remind them that there are sometimes better choices they could make in their lives. I’m a supportive friend like that.

Overcoming my fear that the exploit I was considering might keep me from one day running for Prime Minister (consequences!!), I looked over my shoulder (13 times), gently pushed the pad of my thumb into the curb making a perfect indentation and then sprinted home as if Lucifer himself was hot on my heels. (Hey, hardcore criminals run too! I saw it on COPS. And I dare you to argue that COPS isn’t in the same league as any PBS documentary when it comes to the accurate portrayal of real life. No, I double-dog dare you).

So I was on my bike yesterday thinking about all this for a considerable amount of time. Bike rides are when I have limited distractions from the voices bumping around in my head and am forced to actually listen to their disturbing content (always a mistake). It was during yesterday’s mental chatter that it struck me how stupid my little act of defiance had been. I quite literally left a giant thump print embedded in concrete for the entire world to see. I mean, those guys on CSI can lift a partial print from some hard to reach spot on the underside of a bedroom dresser (where clearly the murderer rested his hand as he paused from his hacking and slashing to catch his breath – fun fact: doing 50 stabs burns a whopping 400 calories!) in minutes. Shit, and here I’ve just handed them a perfect and intact print giving them all the information they need to track me down and send me off to prison. Wow. My stupidity on this one even impresses me. Word to the wise: don’t ever enlist my help in a stakeout, bank robbery or sting operation. I will be the weakest link. Guaranteed. ("Hey guys! Why are you sitting in your car all slouched down like that? Its not sunny today, whats with the dark glasses? Whoa, its awfully warm to be wearing a trench coat isn't it??")

After spending the entire night up listening for the squad car coming to take me away, I've decided that I need to go back to the scene of the crime and somehow erase that print. I know what you’re going to say - “What is this, amateur hour? You NEVER go back to the scene of the crime!” – and normally I would agree but I've got to do something because I can't handle this stress! They would tear me apart in prison. Obviously because of my good looks, but more likely (and dangerous) would be my sense of humor betraying me within the first 10 minutes of arriving. FACT: People in the big-house find incarceration jokes even less funny than airport security guards find bomb jokes.

I was thinking I could casually wander by the curb tomorrow on my way to work and discreetly scratch the thing off with a jackhammer stick or something. But that's kinda stressing me out even more because now we've entered the realm of maliciously defacing City of Vancouver Property. I hear that's a stoning offense! Oh god. Ok. I think the important thing here is to remain calm. How can we come up with a viable plan if we’re all freaked out about the fuzz busting down our door and throwing our asses in jail?! (See how cunningly I made you an accomplice? And I’m really sorry but that’s just the way things played out. You knew the risks when you visited this blog so there’s no use whining about it. Think people, think!)

If you come up with a way to get us out of this mess, contact me ASAP. I’ll be at the Pharmasave buying some Xanax to take the edge off…

The Sound Of Piracy!

Where are all the music geeks hiding on the internet? I have scoured the web in search of a piece of music that, by its very obscure nature, could be The Classical Music Nerd Anthem, and I’m getting nothing. Let me first tell you this: I am a rockstar when it comes to googling. I am like the Keith Moon of googling. Minus the drugs. And pyrotechnics. And hotel trashing (although I once got really mad at my long distance provider and threw all my pants around the bedroom in a really destructive manner. So I guess me and Keith Moon kinda are in the same league of badass-ness). My commitment to the online theft liberation of intellectual property is really quite illegal impressive. I leave no virtual stone unturned, no cyber crevice unexplored, no unprotected PC's music collection unravished. I am what some people (me) refer to as a GOD in the business of finding "free" music on the internet. So what gives?

Now, it looks like there were only two recordings of this piece made so I can appreciate its rarity and not-easy-to-come-by-ness. But I am especially masterful in the realm of finding rare things. This is where boderline OCD comes in handy (or so I’ve tried to explain to my therapist. She still thinks that having to turn the kitchen light on and off 333 times before making coffee in the morning is “debilitating to my daily life.” Pff. Whatever doctor. Who’s going to be laughing when I have in my possession an Adrian Boult-conducted Violin Concerto by Gerald Finzi, huh? Huh? ME. In your FACE. And then spin counter-clockwise 65 times, clock-wise 65, and on the right foot jump up and down 111 times. No! Not 110!! Jesus lady, you want to get us all killed or something?! Nope, nothing debilitating there.....)

Case and point: know what Lollywood is? No, not Bollywood (bet you felt really clever there for a second, huh? “Of course I know what Bollywood is. Jeeze Sarah, you think you’re so much smarter than all us readers don’t you?” “Hey now. I just asked a simple question. No need to make the assumption that I was using your deficiencies in Greater Middle Eastern film trivia to prove that I was in any way better than you.” “Well ok then. I guess. But I still don’t care much for your tone.” “Fair enough. I don’t really care much for that sweater you’re wearing. Can we call it even and get back to this blog post?” “Fine.” “Fine.”) Right. Back to Lollywood. Let me spare you the humiliation of admitting you don’t know what I’m talking about and also save you the 3.5 seconds of wikipedia-ing it would take to undermine my upper hand in this satisfying power imbalance. Lollywood refers to the Pakistani film industry based in the city of Lahore. And the music that was written for the Lollywood films of the 60’s and 70’s are full of fuzz guitars, space echo machines, American and European synthesizers, and a whole lotta awesomeness. Enter the compilation album “The Sound of Wonder!” (the exclamation point at the end makes me picture a very excited Pakistani man in platform shoes and a zippered jumpsuit doing the hustle while shouting something unintelligible yet delightful in Urdu. I am confused as to if this is racist or just plain ridiculous). This CD contains one of the greatest and weirdest pieces of music I have ever rocked out to. For a limited time it is being displayed on my Songs To Check Out at the right of the screen. “Karye Pyar” by Tafo. Take a listen before I replace it with a different awesome song. I do that. To keep readers coming back. You know every time my blog gets a hit, an angel gets it's wings.....

Where was I going with all this? Oh right, I was demonstrating my wicked awesome skills at tracking down digital goods on the internet. So if I can find Lollywood soundtracks from the 60's, I should be able to find Gerald Finzi’s Introit for Solo Violin and Small Orchestra in F major, Op. 6. I MUST be able to. Because if I don’t, I will die. And that’s not just me being melodramatic either. I was at the doctor’s office the other day and he said “Sarah, I have some good news and I have some bad news. And then I have a little bit more good news. But then I have some REALLY bad news. The good news is that what you have is curable. The bad news is that the piece of music that is going to cure you is incredibly rare and damn near impossible to find. The little bit more of good news is that for £17.00 plus shipping you can send away for this CD and live to the ripe old age of 90. The REALLY bad news is that you are cheap and never pay for music when you get it in your head that someone on the internet has it uploaded somewhere… So sadly I am giving you under 1 week to live unless you can find your precious violin concerto online within that time. May your fingers be swift and your googling be fruitful. God speed.”) True story.

Here’s an example of how God messes with humans: I have borrowing privileges at UBC since I am an alumna (alumna is the female singular to alumni, but you knew that right?). I like this very much. Mainly because having special access to obscure academic material reinforces my massive ego (personally this is something I think I need more of. My therapist disagrees. Don't even get me started on the issues I think she has...). I spend more time at the UBC library now than I ever did when I was a student. I’m SO that creepy 28-year old hanging around making all the young music students feel uncomfortable and depressed. “Hey, you’re doing an essay on Copelands Rodeo? Cool. I did that back when I was a student here. I’m an alumna now. They let me come and do whatever I want because I’m an alumna. Did I mention that I’m an alumna? I can use the microwave in the 3rd floor common room and not even have to ask permission. Because I’m an alumna. Awww, that's so cute how stressed out you are about your midterms. I used to be just like you. Freaking out over identifying German Augmented-6th chords or trying to memorize the harmonic structure of Strauss' Elektra. Its so funny to look back on now because you know what? In the end it won't fucking matter. Seriously dude. Not once since I’ve been out in the real world has anyone asked me to display my advanced knowledge of Pitch-Class Set Theory. Yes, I know its cool. You don’t have to explain that to me. Its the rest of the world that doesn’t care. Aaaah grasshopper, you have much to learn. So young and full hopes for where this music degree is going to take you. Hold on to that for as long as you can because after 4 years in the system you’re going to come out the other end pretty broken. And at some point you are going to realize that your parents were right. Getting a Commerce degree would have been the smart thing to do. Job, paycheque, groceries, bed that’s not built out of cinder blocks and 2x4’s. Could have all been yours. But props to you for thinking that you’re going to change the world with your music. Woo hoo! Go misguided and naive enthusiasm! I will totally form a club with you. I mean, I’ll warn you right now that it will probably turn into the "Unemployed And Drunk by Noon Club" once your idealism finally wears off but that could be fun too. And hey, we’ll BOTH be alumni at that point so we can hold weekly meetings in the 3rd floor common room. You bring the Ramen noodles, I’ll bring the crushing blows of reality. Hey I’m so glad I met you - hope that essay goes well!”). Oops, minor mental detour there. Me being creepy is not an example of God messing around. No, here’s the cruel joke: a recording of this piece of music exists on the UBC campus BUT it's in LP format. ARGH! You have got to be freaking kidding me. I get that vinyl is making a comeback and is all cool again. Really, I get it. And I understand that some young people even own turntables. But seriously. Do I really sound like someone in touch with the social trends of present times? Did you not read my post about duct-tape wet-weather gear? (shameless blog promotion! September 21 entry - read it folks). I mean, I bought a hacky-sack last year thinking it would up my street cred, only to find out:

1. they stopped being cool in 1997 (thanks for the memo, friends)
2. I am not a 14 year old boy loitering outside a 7/11
3. I lack the simple coordination to do anything but frantically kick the air and hope that one of those times my foot will connect with the hacky-sack making me look supremely cool.

So, no. I am not in the league of Turntable Hipness. But I am on board with the digital times. And since thieving music off a record requires foraying into the analog world, I will have to continue my search elsewhere. No matter how hard you try, an LP does not fit into the CD slot of an iMac. FACT.

God: 1 Sarah: 0

Someone close to me suggested going out into the real world and trying to find the album in a (gasp) record store. That would be a first for sure. I tend to use record stores as taster buffets. I go in, look at all the albums that may be of interest, give them all a listen using the store's player and headphones, and then go home to torrent the night away. If you think about it, I’m really just doing the most environmentally responsible thing. How many trees get cut down to make a CD insert? How many oil refineries does it take to create a petroleum-based jewel case? How about all the non-renewable fossil fuels required to ship those CD’s? Jesus. All I’m doing is sitting in my basement connecting to the harmless internet, downloading some music that in no way will ever contribute to the destruction to the earth. I should really be getting paid for the service I do. But being the humble philanthropist that I am, I ask for nothing in return.

A copy of Finzi’s Op.6 would be pretty sweet though....

.....if anyone was so inclined to support the good work I do.

World's Wordiest Cyclist

I am a bike commuter. I like to think that I am a bike commuter by choice but I have a suspicion that it has more to do with the high cost of insuring a vehicle in the city (hey thanks all you crappy drivers out there who keep forcing the price up!) and the delusional and corrupt Translink that thinks making someone pay $2.50 to go 15 blocks (sure I'd love to hop on your stinky, lurchy bus where I get the pleasure of being pressed up against a belligerent wino on one side and a pervy businessman on the other) is somehow justifiable and sustainable. No matter the reasoning behind this fact, I am still a bike commuter. And most days I enjoy it immensely. I get to be out in the fresh air, working muscles that don't normally see action from steadfast blogging and hey, who doesn't love having the agility to outmaneuver cabbies and left-hand turners by darting up onto curbs and then recklessly back into traffic with the flick of a wrist? (this is inadvisable for those behind the wheel of a car - fire hydrants aren't nearly as easy to dodge when you're 5 feet wide.....which is exactly what the nice police officer told my elderly neighbor last week.)

Yes, most days I appreciate pedal power. Delight in it. Genuinely feel good to be alive and on my bike.

And then the first Fall shower arrives.

BAM! The repressed memories of previous winters' traumatic weather come screaming back to me the second the first drop of rain hits my horrified face.

Despite my seven winters in Vancouver as a cyclist I have yet to invest in any solid wet-weather gear. This is be because I am cheap fall into the "make-it-yourself-with-materials-you-can-find-in-your-kitchen" column. "No really! Duct tape and zip-lock bags are JUST as effective as your $300 Gore-Tex. Add in a few sheets of tinfoil and it's exactly the same thing that you're wearing at only a fraction of the cost. Hey can you hand me that spatula over there?..."

This low-budget, jury-rigged making-do never really bothered me before. I just embraced the fact that I was going to be very wet, very cold and probably very miserable. Which suited me fine. In fact, it served me pretty damn well. You see, I used to have this whole "life is pain" thing going on where I thought suffering was the bees knees. You know, that gritty middle-class Caucasian style of suffering whereby Roger's Video renting the last copy of The Notebook out from under your very nose sends you spiraling into the vortex of gloom and proves that a.) ALL the bad stuff happens to you b.) there is no God and c.) if there WERE a God, he certainly has your name on his "Humans to Torture" list. Some days I would forget to keep this ruse going and find myself seeing joy in a situation. A tingling would skitter down my spine and I'd feel my lips pull upwards (who knows, maybe it was just a neurological misfiring I was experiencing) but it didn't matter because soon enough that fleeting joy would be replaced with Vancouver's finest black clouds and it would begin to rain. I would get wet, cold and miserable and with complete predictability my inner CPU would be reset to its default of "pissed at the world." A commensalistic symbiotic relationship in action.

Here's the thing: I'm kinda over all that. No longer do the flamboyantly gay and lottery winners of the world corner the Happiness market. Maybe I'm finally ready to admit that we're all capable of being content with ourselves and our circumstances if we just drop the bullshit and stop acting like assholes (theory yet to be tested). Conundrum: winter is approaching. Which in Vancouver means "prepare thyself, the Biblical Floods are upon us." So if I want to keep this chipper persona alive for any length of time (don't worry, when I fall off my self-actualized high-horse we can go burn some Eckhart Tolle books and make fun of disfigured kittens), then I might need to upgrade from saran-wrap pants.

Proof of this point: I was riding to the West End from my house the other day (well across town) and found myself caught in the first spectacular downpour Vancouver has seen since the spring. We're talking 3 inches of standing water blanketing the roads and rain drops big enough to level Ant Metropolis. I wasn't anywhere near my destination so it was clear that I was going to be soaked (duct tape can only remain sticky for so long people!). Let's take a moment to imagine what being soaked looks like. Really let loose here. Think fishing boat in the Bering Sea meets Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls. Got that picture in your head? Ok, now throw an additional 15 buckets of water into that scene and you have ME on Wednesday. Seriously, there couldn't have been more water rushing UP my legs from the spray of my tires if some dude was laying on the pavement spraying my crotch with a fire hose......oh wow. Wait. That did not come out right at all. Fine fine, take it. That's What She Said. But don't expect anymore freebies from me....

So yeah. Wet-weather gear, a priority. But you know what? As drenched as I was, it was still a lovely ride. Maybe it was the warmish temperature or the string of 5 green lights I managed to hit on Burrard Street, but all I know is that I, Sarah Jane Macnabb, stopped for a pedestrian. It doesn't matter that it was a stop sign to me and he was halfway into the intersection demonstrating his clear right-of-way (when has this ever stopped me in the past? My thoughts? If I'm on a bike and you're in a car/truck/van/bus, on foot/rollerblades or riding any sort of animal, get out of my way. That's just how it is. I don't write the rules¹). Yes, I must be a changed person because in addition to my following basic traffic laws benevolence I even smiled at him. True, I came really close to not stopping for him so in return his face was less "smile-like" and more "extreme terror-like" but we both had a good chuckle about it afterward. And by "we" I mean me. Although I'm sure once the adrenaline wore off later that night he was laughing too.

Hey and since I'm sharing, I just wanted to take this opportunity to give a shout out to the lady in the car I was biking behind. Yes, I'm aware that I cut you off. It was my intention to cut you off. And no I don't feel bad about it because quite frankly, when cyclists are passing you (keep in mind that you are in the giant motorized contraption capable of speeds 10 times that of a bike) it's because you're not keeping up with the flow of traffic. And by traffic I mean the gang of angry cyclists being held up by your negligent driving-while-cell-phoning shenanigans which forced them to dangerously weave out in front of your car before succumbing to the temptation of smashing in your tail lights with their kyrptonite bike locks. And yes I'm sure that the text message you were sending to Cheryl in regards to your dinner party was very important but 1.) if i could READ what you were texting, you were driving too slow and 2.) Cheryl is only saying that she can't come to your dinner party. I heard that she's actually planning to go see that new Meryl Streep movie with Debbie instead. Apparently your dinner parties suck. Pot roasts are so last year and plus at the last one you seated her next to Roy, that creepy accountant you work with, and all he did was stare at her left nipple the entire time. What's up with that?!

Wow. Do my posts ever have a point? I'd settle for a beginning, middle and end. Perhaps in the years to come that I maintain this website, I'll acquire such skills. Sink or swim. Although that's kinda of like saying "I'm sure I could land a plane if the need REALLY came up. I mean, I'm pretty confident I'd be able to dig deep and find that complex knowledge and experience somewhere inside of me...." We'll see. At least my blog won't be the cause any fiery deaths if I completely fail at it, so that's something. I think.

¹Except for when I do. Like this one. But don't think that just because you're my friend I'm going to to make exceptions for you. Rules are there for a reason people....

Spread the Word

Temporarily breaking away from the long-winded rant tradition of this blog, I have but a quick post tonight:

If you only see one movie this year, please let it be Sam Mendes' Away We Go. I can't remember the last film I watched where I was so impressed with the writing. I guess that's what happens when you hire a real author like Dave Eggers to write your film. Actually he co-wrote this charming story of young couple looking for their place in the world, with his wife Vendela Vida, which is probably why the writing is so goddamn true to life. I had almost given up believing that anything this smart could come out of Hollywood. It is a rare occasion when I'm pleasantly surprised by the very same industry that brought us such abysmal tragedies as Howard the Duck, Glitter and Freddy Got Fingered........

Into The Core Of My Movie-Watching Soul

So I was recently accused of having bad taste in movies. I believe the person stated it like this: “hey you really like all those really bad B-rate movies, right?” and I was like “what’s B-rate about the Patrick Swayze/Keanu Reeves smash-hit Point Break?” And I meant it. Wait, hear me out!! The tag-line for the movie? "100% PURE ADRENALINE." How rad is that?? (this just in: only dorks and teenage mutant ninja turtles still use the word radical to imply awesomeness...) And to pacify the anticipated barrage of comments from annoying fault-finders out there, let me beat you to the punch. I know that pure adrenaline is the only type of adrenaline the human body produces. Its not like I think there's a "watered-down-with-orange-juice variety" or something. It just sounds cool. Way cooler than "COMING SOON TO A THEATRE NEAR YOU, POINT BREAK: "100% NORMAL ADRENAL GLAND SECRETION." Besides, that may trick audiences into thinking they are seeing some sort of medical drama. So please keep your smart ass comments to yourself. I don't enjoy competition....

Whoops, off topic already. Let's back the truck up. I can certainly see how someone might think I have bad taste in movies. I did voluntarily watch Marley and Me (ooooh so bad). And Blacula (racial twist on a classic horror anyone?). Let's see, there was also Snakes on a Plane, Punch Drunk Love and (oh dear god this stays between you and I) Nights in Rondanthe. In my defense, I didn't go looking for that one. A mislabeled torrent I downloaded dropped it into my thieving lap(top). But yes, I continued watching once the main titles confirmed that is wasn't Knights In Rhonda:4 Nights of Cabiria. And I admittedly didn't turn it off when Richard Gere made his cliched entrance as the Man With A Troubled Past. Even more appalling, I kept watching through the terribly awkward intercourse scene between him and Diane Lane (I'm all for elderly people having sex, but please not on my computer. PLEASE not on my computer). And the nail in the coffin? I waited it out to the bitter end to see if Diane Lane went back to her douche ex-husband or if she stayed with Richard Gere. Ugh, I am so ashamed....

So yeah. I guess when you start adding them up, the list looks a little damning. But to outright label me as a Bad Movie Liker is harsh. Before you feel too bad for me, I got this person back by securing a promise from them to watch any cheesy 80’s movie of my choosing. 'Cheesy' was his terminology. Personally, I don’t find anything cheesy about musical montages in which a do-good neighborhood bands together to clean up a refuse site, transforming it into some sort of community garden within the 1:23 it takes for Journey to get to the chorus of "Don't Stop Believing." Said montage of course includes the obligatory paint-fight scene: cute girl sneaks up behind cute boy to adorably dab paint on his nose and him responding in true barftastic lovey-dovey fashion with an equally pathetic dab on her nose resulting in a nauseating paint/love fest making you question the romance in your own relationship throw up in your mouth; the hose-spraying scene: cute topless boy sprays pack of cute bikini-topped girls with a garden hose, sending them into an estrogen-fueled squealing fit of delight/horror ("Aaaah! Now I'm all wet you jerk! But you're so cute and hey, I am wearing a bathing suit so I guess getting wet isn't the end of the world. But you're still a jerk! That I secretly have a crush on and make out to my pillow thinking of.....jerk.") in their cutoff jean-shorts and scrunchied side-ponies; and of course we can’t forget the post-work party self-congratulations culminating in a giant high-five that freeze frames mid clap.

Nothing cheesy about that.

But I digress.

Whoa. I'm realizing mid-typage that what's about to follow isn't the previously planned clamorous argument convincing the world of my excellent cinematic taste but instead a revelation to you of yet another atrocious box-office blunder I recently made. (Hey, remember in university when you'd be writing a term paper at the last minute and get halfway through only to realize that the body of your essay in no way resembles your outline or introduction? And you'd be left sitting there, scratching your head thinking "Oh wow. I have strayed. I have strayed far. In fact, I am dangerously close to being on a completely different subject matter here. Huh. Hmmmm. Crap...oh well, let's slap a conclusion on this baby and go play some frisbee!")

Wait, where was I going with this?

Right. Back to the topic at hand. Or one of them at least (we seem to have covered considerable ground in this post already). SO, ever hear of an actress named Hillary Swank? Accomplished Academy Award-winner who starred in some of Hollywood's most ridiculously successful flicks such as Boys Don’t Cry and Million Dollar Baby? Well, have you by chance seen the less critically-acclaimed 2003 non-hit The Core? Let me jog your memory. This Epic Fail Of A Movie tells the tale of Swank saving the planet by piloting a ship deep into the centre of the earth to jumpstart the molten core (which has stopped spinning and thus deactivated the earth's electromagnetic field, obviously) by setting off nuclear bombs to induce a rotational force. Ringing any bells? No? That’s a shame. Its not that I’m asking for those 2 hours of my life back. Really. I probably would have just spent them on thesuperficial.com curing cancer or something.....oh wait, in that case I am asking for my 2 hours back. I'm fairly confident that during those painful 135 minutes, I'd have been able to make a pretty serious dent in prostate cancer---THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! Ooooh. Yes? No? I have lost all sense of appropriate That's-What-She-Said placement. Forgive me.

So, The Core. The moment they showed a woman co-piloting a NASA shuttle mission in the opening 10 minutes, I knew that the believability of this movie was going to be squat. Women can barely drive cars, was I really supposed to believe that one could make it into the exosphere without accidentally reversing into a Hubble Space Station? Let's not be ridiculous.

At least I was set with low expectations for the remainder of the film. But here's the thing: its really not about how much the producers made me reach for some semblance of scientific plausibility during these painful 2 hours. It's more about how insulted I felt the entire time. Let's just lay it out there: this movie was meant to be watched by babies, monkeys and inanimate objects. Those are the only demographics that could possibly buy the load of crap this movie throws at you.

Let's begin.

A secret special ship that shoots green lasers (x-rays? who the fuck knows) which basically makes anything it points at a giant smoking hole. That's the method of transportation they use to GET to the centre of the earth. Some questions you may have? Like what about the massive crushing pressure that increases as one moves towards the earth's core? Sure no problem. The secret special ship gets more indestructible with increasing pressure. Okaaay. I didn't see the chalkboard schematic of that one with the corresponding mathematics to prove it, but ok.

Well, what about the giant underground diamond field they run into that badly damages their ship's hull and kills one of their crew members? You made a ship that's drilling down through the earth, out of special super strong material that will go through everything BUT diamonds? Dude, where do you think diamonds live?? Chances are, you're going to run into a few...And its not like you didn't have the money. The US Government said "we'll give you 50 billion dollars" and you took that to mean "well we could build an everlasting ship out of solid diamonds seeing as how money is no issue AND the fate of the world relies on the success of this mission buuuuut...it just seems a bit wasteful. Hmmm. Nope, I'm just not comfortable spending that kind of money. Let's use only half of it and build an inferior ship out of something stupid that will get us all killed." I would have SO fired that guy (don't worry, he dies).

Moving on.

Ooh ooh this is fun! Ok, my personal favourite was the special skin-tight space suits they wore at the centre of the earth when they stepped outside of the ship (you know, to stretch out the ole legs and have another crew member conveniently kick the bucket in order to keep the plot tension high - trust me, the dialogue wasn't doing it). So there they are. The Earth's core. 100 millions tons of pressure on them. And you know what's keeping them from being pulverized into dust? Synthetic stretchy nylon with a shiny finish. I LOVE IT. They go to the trouble of making the ship out of a mythical substance that will withstand the weight of the world due to some fictitious inverse pressure-to-strength ratio, but the suits they wear end up doing the exact same thing! The US Government spent 25 billion dollars on an industrial strength, ship-worthy material that they could have got for $70 in the FabricLand bargain bin. No wonder America is in a recession.

Of course it ends with the classic "oh well, we did everything we could but it still wasn't enough. I guess we'll just sit hear and die while that really sad music plays in the background. But wait! I have an idea! A totally far-fetched idea that I was only just able to think of at this very moment. There is a 0.1% chance of it working but we've gotta try. For the United States of America. For God. For Freedom!!" Pan camera to complex scene where plan gets put into action, world gets saved, yadda, yadda, yadda and end with a one-liner joke to make the viewer "think" about what it all means. Aaaaaand CUT!

Please do not watch this movie. Consider this my Personal Service Announcement of the year. Do all the other things PSA's tell you not to do before you watch this movie. Go do some drugs. Start a few forest fires. Pirate a few movies (did you know its no different than stealing a car?). Definitely spend some time with low self-esteem where you act out in self-destructive and sexually deviant ways. Do it all! Just please don't watch this movie.

So Pumped About Pumps (of the non-penis-enhancing variety)

Like most people who are too poor to own a car commute by bike, I own a bike pump. Its not a great pump or anything but its certainly not a hunk of junk - in fact 95% of the parts are made of steel and other non-hunk-o-junk sounding alloys (that my limited chemistry background prevents me from listing). Now I'm not saying that Lance Armstrong would be excited to use my bike pump or anything, I am just merely stating that this bike pump should be given numerous chances at resuscitation should the need every arise.

Consider the need arisen. My pump has stopped working. Upon dismantling it and calling on some Grade 3 physics, I was able to determine that the rubber plunger washer that creates pressure in the tube was no longer in the spot that it should be at. Nope. Instead it was stuck at the bottom of the column, sitting in its dark, greasy grave with no way for me to retrieve it.

I bet you're already thinking "pfff. Why doesn't she just use a coat hanger to fish it out?" And I bet you're also thinking how much more clever you are than me. Before you go feeling all good about yourself, I'm going stop you right there. I DID use a coat hanger to try and fish it out but there was just no way to get enough leverage to pull it up. Sorry to get your hopes up - please continue sinking into that low self-esteem while I proceed with my trivial bike pump story.

Off to the bike mechanics. There are many on Main street. I really shouldn't have needed more than one....

[That last sentence? That's known as a literary device called "foreshadowing." It's when the author drops subtle hints about plot developments to come later in the story. Now see, when I (the author) said "I really shouldn't have needed more than one," what you (the reader) should infer from that is how I will end up visiting more than one shop as the story progresses. Just thought I'd clarify that for anyone who was sick the day they taught foreshadowing in Grade 9 English].

To protect my ass from getting sued over slander the identity of the stores I visited, I'll just number them.

Store 1 - Run by hippies and anarchists
"Hi there. I have a broken bike pump that I was hoping you could help with. The rubber plunger washer is stuck at the bottom of the column and I'm having troubles retrieving it. Any ideas?"

To which the very young and very high bike mechanic said. "Whoa. Hang on. Show me that again. Where is the rubber plunger washer thingy supposed to go again? Oh right. I forgot. Yeah. Where is it now? Hey its missing! Did you know your rubber plunger washer thing is missing? I bet that's what the problem is."

Once Jamie and I had gone over and over (and over) that I DID in fact know that the rubber plunger washer was not where it was supposed to be, and that NO it wasn't missing, just stuck at the bottom of the bike pump (which he thought was hilARious), we were able to come to these conclusions:

Me to Jamie "You are too high to help me."
Jamie to Me "You have a weird looking face."

Awesome. NEXT!

Store 2 - Run by upscale yuppie know-it-alls
"Hi there. I have a broken bike pump that I was hoping you could help with. The rubber plunger washer is stuck at the bottom of the column and I'm having troubles retrieving it. Any ideas?"

To which a very clean (never trust a bike mechanic who has no grease anywhere on his body) Chad said "No there's definitely no way to fix this. How much did you pay for it? Because if you didn't pay at least $150 then there's no way to fix it. I can sell you one if you like. And hey, I'll give it to you for $125 - at that point I'm not even making any money on it but I like you and I'm a pretty amazing generous guy. Have I ever run into this problem before you ask? Well I'm not sure. Usually when anything I own stops working I just throw it away and buy myself a brand new one. Oh yeah I do that all the time. TV's, cell phones, dirty laundry, a few kittens I once forgot to feed, you name it. That's what money is for, right? Why are you trying to fix this pump? I mean, I'm practically GIVING you a brand new one (for $125). Just throw that one in the trash and get on the Lets All Consume More wagon!"

Conclusions:

Chad to Me: "Hey lady, you living in the Depression or something? NOW is the time to buy, buy, buy and waste, waste, waste!!
Me to Chad: "You are a douche bag. Please take you hands off my bike pump."

Store 3 and 4 were a nice blend of column A and column B.

I was pretty much done for the day when I passed by one last bike shop run by a old smiling Chinese man who greeted me 4 times in under 2 seconds. This had potential.

Store 5 - A WINNER
Once more I explained what was wrong with my pump and within 30 seconds this little Asian man procured a coat hanger and a pair of pliers. It turns out I had the right IDEA but my execution of Proper Coat Hanger-Bending left little to be desired. His coat hanger was just so much better than mine (I could have sworn it resembled an origami swan)..... And before I could say anything, he was handing me my greasy plunger washer rescued from the bottom of my pump, with a giant beaming grin on his face and lots of head nodding. I nodded back. With a giant beaming grin on MY face. He laughed. I laughed. We both laughed. Not sure what we were laughing about but it felt good.

I have no idea what the moral of this story is. Have I ever offered a moral before? I guess I could say some stuff about the evils of drugs and consumerism but that doesn't feel right. How about this:

**Little Asian men who smile a lot and wield coat hangers are probably more able to solve your problems than you think.**

Sarahism © 2009. You heard it here first folks! Go forth and spread the message. And while you're at it, tell more people about my blog. I'm sure if Jesus had a blogger account, he'd have asked the same thing.......

Flying High

You know what I love about airports? I love how they level the playing field for all human beings. An airport is a place where it is totally ok to give less than your best. 75% is aiming high. Pfff. Scratch that. More like 50%. No one tries in an airport. People just walk around sleep deprived, hungry, disheveled, pissed off by the unhelpful people at the help desk, and constantly being assaulted by the loud intercom message for "Mefrraggshdg Adhakawku to please meet the rest of his party at Gate 5."

In an airport it's pretty damn easy to feel good about yourself. There is an excellent chance that you are going to 1.) look better than someone else, 2.) smell better than someone else, 3.) be able to coherently string together more words that someone else and lastly, 4.) fly more under the radar than someone else. You know what I'm talking about. Who hasn't stood in that line-up where some poor Guatamalan dude is frantically trying to explain to the security guard in broken English why he has an entire carry-on bag stuffed with old toothbrushes (something is clearly amiss. DETAIN HIM!). And even though its not a nice thing to admit, we all breathe a little easier as we say to ourselves "well fuck, at least I'm not THAT guy."

And yes there is a lot of bullshit to deal with in an airport. I'm not discounting that. I think we've all been screwed over before by that stupid "100 ml max. for any liquids or gels in carry-on luggage" rule. Yes, like a 105 ml bottle of anthrax is going to be that much more dangerous than a 100 ml bottle. As a general rule, I think any amount of Anthrax is bad. And the flip side of that? A 65-gallon vat of conditioner, no matter how hard a terrorist tries, is not going to bring down a 500-ton plane. Hear that Westjet?! Stop making me fill up teeny-tiny bottles of shampoo every time I fly somewhere!

So we've established that airports are A-OK in my books. Mainly because of the ego boost they give my fragile sense of self. But there's another other reason I love them. Its childish. I admit that fully. Its a reason that appeals to my inner juvenile-delinquent (and by juvenile-delinquent I am referring to the one-time halfhearted attempt in grade two I made at bullying, which ended up with me being the one crying as my "victim" shoved saltine crackers down the back of my shirt and said the F-word over and over). So here's my secret delight - and I'm sure I'm not alone when I say.....

......what is it about being in an airport that really makes me want to make bomb jokes? I KNOW bomb jokes aren't funny. Of course I know bomb jokes aren't funny. Really, I do. But c'mon. There is just something about being in a high security area that makes bomb jokes a little bit funny. Right? And when I find something a little bit funny which I'm not supposed to laugh at, chances are its gonna become real funny, real fast.

Not only do I know that bombs aren't funny, as a mature 28 year-old I certainly know better than to try and make other people see how (my) bomb jokes are (kinda) funny. Especially people standing in the security line. I know better than that. I do. And yet.....

...and yet...

....and yet a tiny bomb joke still seems to sneak its way past my lips, just loud enough for the nearest security guard to hear. **Substantiated fact of the week kids: no matter what time of day, what country you're in, or what previous rapport you may have created with that security guard during the 30 seconds it took him to scan your crotch and pits for various types of metal, it always plays out the same. Smiles instantly fade, foreheads wrinkle in deep concern and the dark storm clouds of suspicion descend. The finger of DOOM gets pointed your way and before you know it, the once crowded line you stood in has dispersed. Crickets. No one wants to be lumped in with the smart-ass that made a bomb joke. No way. And then there's the awkward fumbling around for an explanation of said bomb joke in which you really do start sounding more and more like an asshole. Even to your own ears.

"Well you see sir, its not so much that I think bombs are funny per se, its just that well, you know, its more that we're not allowed to say the word bomb that makes it kinda funny when someone actually does say it, and you're right, i understand that there is a very good reason that we're not supposed to say bomb, you know, because I'm sure when someone actaully has a bomb that's also what they would say, of course in my defense I didn't scream the word implying that I had a bomb strapped to my chest or anything, I more just made an off-hand comment about how if I did have a bomb strapped to my chest it would be-------NO! I don't have a bomb strapped to my chest!! I was saying that if I DID have one....oh fuck. Those dogs are coming for me, yes?......."

Sigh. The day that bomb jokes in an airport stop being funny, is the day I've officially crossed the threshold into adulthood. And not the good kind of adulthood. Not the smoking, drinking, voting, and rental-car-abusing kind. I'm talking about the fiscal planning, Family Circus reading, cat-embossed-track-suit-wearing (because its so comfortable!) kind. So please, when this blog becomes a forum where I post pictures of my feline companion, Mr. Moustache, and talk about the racket kids these days call music, then you have my permission to come and dismantle my internet. Until then, send me any good bomb jokes you might know. I've got a flight to America coming up in the next month and I want to practice my delivery.....

Back in the Blog Saddle

It's happened. Years I have been waiting for the Universe to reveal my superpowers to me and the day has finally come. Granted, its not exactly as I had imagined it (Ability to Turn World’s Oceans Into Giant Dairy Queen Peanut Butter Cups Blizzards), but buggers can’t be choosers. What's that? Oh, apparently its BEGGERS can’t be choosers. Well in my opinion I don’t think buggers should really be choosers either. Just saying.

Right. Back to my superpowers. So here it is: if something has an electronic component to it, any at all, I can break it. With my mind. I don’t need to touch it or anything. All I have to do is have an expectation for it to work and BAM, broken. Crazy, right? And how did I find this out? Well let me tell you THAT fun story.

So, you know when you’re in the middle of a skype video chat and everything is going along swimmingly and then your computer does this?

*&$*$&*&OWHLDGEWFTWER@*#)%&@#*
^&#%@&%$@^#%$@FHUHEF%^^GFE&W^FT#@
FH@*R^TCWUGF@&TR^DWVEFG@*^%#@$@
EFWLKI@#R*@#$^@(^(#^#@(^@RNKIRFHEGEFGK

And then promptly craps itself and goes blank?

And then when you restart it, it does the initial load thing with the Apple icon and the little circle thingy that goes round and round while it thinks about all the things a computer has to think about when booting up but this time it goes on and on and on for a long enough time that you think to yourself “well fuck, this looks like its going to be expensive…..”

And then you get a moment's relief when it stops doing that round and round thingy and goes to the blue screen right before a Mac usually loads the desktop but this time it just sort of stops at the blue screen and then goes no further as if saying "Ha! Sure psyched you out, huh?! Oh man, you should have seen that hopeful look on your face when you thought you’d fixed the problem by merely pressing the restart button! When are you Apple users going to learn this hilarious fact: MACS CRASH TOO. And in horrific and catastrophic ways! Good times, good times.”

Are you with me so far? We’ve all been here, right?

So now not only do I have a dead computer (that btw isn’t even mine so add some guilt to that intense computer rage) but a person on the other end of a skype video call wondering “hey, where the heck did she go? Hmmm. I wonder if I went too far with that dead hooker joke….maybe. But she laughed at the one about the midget in the washing machine so that doesn’t make any sense…..”

While that person spends the next 45 minutes questioning their choice of inappropriate humour, I am busily restarting this computer over and over again trying to bring it back from the brink by making deals with God. “Ok. I know I havn’t been to church in a while. Ok, ok, more than a while. And I didn’t pay taxes last year. Or the year before that. And I steal a lot of movies from piratebay.org. And cheese whiz ISN’T really a food group. And when I “borrowed” that blind guy’s cane to get to the front of the line for Road Trip: Beer Pong Lord of the Rings, I knew it was wrong. And I totally felt bad about it. Throughout the whole movie. Credits and all. Except for the singing hotdog part at the beginning. “Lets all go to the lob-by!” Ha ha. A singing hotdog! That always makes me happy. Maybe that made the blind guy happy too. Although I suppose he wouldn’t be able to tell that it’s a hotdog who’s singing. What was a blind guy doing at the movies anyways?! Maybe I don’t feel so bad after all.

Where was I going with this? Oh right. God. Yeah, so I was telling God that although maybe I’m not PERFECT, that I would try harder in the future if he would just use some of his God Juice and make lucky reboot number 27 the magic one. No such luck. I guess God ISN’T all-powerful after all. Or maybe he’s just stingy with his technology miracles. I have now accepted Steve Jobs as my Lord and personal savior.

Ok. So the computer is definitely broken in some way. Could be hardware. Could be software. Could be on its period. I don’t know about such things as computer science OR computer menstruation.

So in an attempt to let Skype Video Call Person X know that it wasn’t anything they did that ended the conversation so abruptly, I dug out an old PC (*shudder*) laptop and began the process of booting IT up. So of course I was there for another 20 minutes as it tried to update every frigging application under the sun (thank you Bill Gates for kicking my puppy while he's already down and sad about his other broken computer)

I then got to go through the fun song and dance of searching for microphone capabilities to see if continuing on in sykpe fashion was even possible. Of course you can’t just use your handy Mac-based application “Spotlight” to look for where that information might be. No. This is Microsoft we’re talking about. So that piece of information is stuffed in a stupid little yellow folder somewhere with a million other stupid little yellow folders that all look the same and have the word “system” in the title. And its not like you can open them all up and look because you’re computer is running so goddamn slow from its desperate updating and desire for you to renew your Norton Antivirus software. “Hey, you know what Norton? The chances of me getting a virus are pretty low becuase you're never going to stop loading long enough for my computer to connect to the goddamn internet!"

Then I clicked on a button.

And it made this noise: whiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrr whooooooooosh whirrrrrry click click

At which point Skype Video Call Person X said (via gmail chat) “Hey, I have a crazy idea. Do you own one of those telephone contraptions? Let’s see if THAT works.”

And it did.

With some lovely static and feedback. BECAUSE OF MY FORMIDABLE SUPERPOWER THAT BRINGS ANY ELECTRONIC GADGET TO ITS KNEES, BEGGING FOR MERCY.

I have yet to see how this superpower can:

1.) be harnessed,

2.) be useful,

3.) not get me kicked out of every building I visit,

but I am very excited about the possibilities. Maybe I can go to a special school with a bunch of other freaky superpowery teenagers. And then Magneto will come and try and destroy me. But huzzah! I make his blackberry go all wonky, sending spam to his entire list of contacts. And then when he’s busy trying to write apology emails *WHAM* I spin-kick him in the throat. Awesome.

It feels really good to be blogging again. Contributing something noble and relevant to this world is really what it's all about people.

Birthday? I think not.

I have decided to forgo aging this year. 28 came too soon and with too many potential complications. I am staying at 27. Thanks anyway Universe - catch you around next year.

PS. Anyone who can help make this happen (by way of functioning time machine or pre-tested magic potions of the un-mushroom variety) please email.

Nailed.

I was Rusty Nailed yesterday. Not the drink. Or the sexual position. I mean a rusty nail pierced my virgin flesh. Made it BLEED. I'm actually surprised that I lived to blog the tale. They wanted to give me a total blood transfusion and stitch and staple it up the gaping wound with about a hundred or so stitches. And some industrial grade epoxy. And then a CAT scan to be safe. And put in one of those throat thingys Stephen Hawking has. But I declined. I'm tough like that. Tough as rusty nails. Maybe even tougher.

But just to make the 32 paramedics, 5 firemen and 1 trauma surgeon (who all rallied around me in my darkest hour) feel better I agreed to get a Tetanus shot. So off to doctors I went today. Apparently I was 3 years overdue for mine. Once every 10 years people. And you should have seen the needle! It took 2 nurses to bring it in. Left a hole the size of a grape in my arm. No problem - I stuffed my gum in there. Like a real hero.

So I'm topped up. Good to go. Tetanus proof. And you know what that means.........?

Irresponsible Drinking and Rusty Nail Throwing Party At Sarah's House! BYOB.....and nails.

Deadline looming. Time to blog about inane shit that I know is really important to you.

My plant hates me.

I don't know why and I didn't know that plants could, but my plant hates me.

I own am the proud angry owner of a generic tropical plant. Species unknown. The label that came with it said 2" Tropical Plant. A little red flag should have gone up right then and there. What plant doesn't have a name? I'll tell you which: the kind that will grow up to hate you. And slowly break you down. One defiant yellowish leaf at a time.

Blatant subversiveness is the name of this plants game. I prop it up, it grows down. I put it near light, it leans toward shade. I put it in shade, it strains towards light. I have suspicions that its not a plant at all, but a willful 2 year old child (theory yet to be proved).

It has decided that instead of having its leaves grow out at its side like other plants, instead it will have its leaves point straight downwards. Hell bent on making me look like a really bad and negligent plant owner. This plant is the toddler that stands in aisle 4 of the grocery store and screams bloody murder after you've taken out their addition to the cart and said "no sweetie, we aren't going to buy ribbed condoms today" making everyone wonder if you secretly beat your child at home and/or if you are a sexual deviant who shops for condoms in the presence of their 4-year old (I just heard a Republican somewhere gasp in horror). Side note: Both kids and plants collaborative mission = humiliate adults at any chance.

Nothing I do makes this plant happy. A more esoteric person might make a clever analogy here about how this plant is like life and blah blah blah *snooooooooooore* That person has a very different blog than me:

itakemyselfveryseriouslyandsoshouldyou.blogspot.com

I'll just continue bitching about my plant.

That hates me.

I have other plants you know. Alive, flourishing, happy. Its not ME. Its the plant. Who is an asshole. Yes. I just called my plant an asshole.

I am going to surround my asshole plant with all my other happy plants. In the hopes that their goodwill and ability to be normal rubs off on it. I take a risk in doing this though - come the morning I might end up with 7 asshole plants where before there was only one. In which case I will gleefully regretfully pull them up by the roots and start over with better plants. Plants that will DO what plants are meant to do. WHY CAN'T THINGS JUST DO WHAT THEY'RE MEANT TO DO!

Stuck.

So I am starting to get the hang of this blogging thing: basically, if you have something else to be doing, ANYTHING at all, that's when you'll feel the urge to blog most. Compelled, Impelled, PROPELLED! It becomes all you can think about. Your fingertips flying over the keys, your heart racing, your pupils dilating. Yes, blogging is the drug of choice for computer-literate lickspittles straddling the Generation X/Y cusp.

So that being said, here is my entry for today. 20 bonus points for today's theme being:

How to Solve a Problem About the Task I Am ACTUALLY Supposed To Be Doing Right Now
(or HTSAPATTIAASTBDRN for short).

So you know how when you're writing a piece of music and everything is going along tickitty-boo? The moody, broody harmonies reflecting the ever-so damaged soul of a tortured musician are practically writing themselves (except not really. I'm writing them. ME. In case future royalty collections are up for dispute...) and then out of nowhere it all takes a horribly bizarre turn and ends up morphing into that really catchy song from "Beauty and The Beast"? And you're like, "what the fuck? did that just come out of me?" and then you get worried because maybe a blue bird is about to follow. And some woodland nymphs. And a singing mouse. [Note: singing mice are the harbingers of death to a music career. Next stop: pet food jingles. On RADIO].

So yeah, that's happened to you, right? Great. What do I do about it? What makes Belle stop singing: "Newwwww and a bit a-larming, who'd have ev-er thought that this could beeeeeee, truuuuue that he's no prince charm-ing, but she won't dis-co-ver that its him! 'till chap-ter threeeeee!"

Ahhhhh!! MAKE IT STOP!!!


Things I Have Already Tried:

1. a walk
2. eating swiss chard
3. yelling at the squirrels who live in my roof and feast on our electrical cables
4. reading the superficial.com (can you BELIEVE that Heidi and Spencer are still the word's biggest douche bags? Yeah, me too. But Ashton Kutcher sure gave them a run for their money....)
5. watching "Beauty and the Bea-" oh shit! Damn you Alan Menken and your conformist Disney melodies!

Any offers to buy me beer suggestions would be much appreciated.

Dockside Diatribe

So, you know how when you're at a cabin and all you want to do is delve into a really good book while laying naked on a dock? (although you may not find Naked Reading listed under 'interests' on my Facebook page, I assure you it's only because Facebook has a 300% higher readership than this blog and thus wields more power to tarnish my exemplary image).

Where was I? Oh right, Naked Reading. So there I was down on the dock, blissfully soaking up some destructive UVA/B rays, my epidermis cheerfully mutating at the cellular level, when I was rudely interrupted by a boatload, yes I said a boatload, of yahoos (listen well children: a long time ago in a far off land, there existed a world without the internet. In this magical place, access to porn was scarce and the bastardization of the English language had yet to begin; yahoo = redneck, oaf, boor). A boatload of yahoos cruising into the bay for an annoying looky-loo. You know, a slow drive-by rife with obnoxious music, macho tales of hook-ups past (purposely uttered a little too loud), the sound of Kokanee beers being cracked open and of course, the subsequent sound of empty Kokanee cans being smashed against hollow, spray-tanned foreheads. *sigh* well if that don't just set a girls heart aflutter...

Now first things first: if you own a speed boat, one of those souped-up, godawful, fueled-by-machismo speed boats, fuck off. Just fuck right off. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $100. Don't even read to the end of this post. Close your browser window, shut off your computer and fuck off. I'll wait.

Secondly: if you are a self-respecting late-20-something male in a speed boat (see above) and are looking to improve your masculine appeal, here's a tip: only prepubescent girls think Ashlee Simpson is cool. FACT. So, why then, was she blasting from your over-priced (but, like, totally bitchin') sound system in your even more over-priced speed boat? I am confused. You LOOKED like a guy. When the words "Boo Ya!" fell across your lips you SOUNDED like a tool guy. When your buddy farted, you HIGH-FIVED him like a guy. But the music selection du jour pointed in another direction...what was the artsy Chinese girl named in the Baby Sitters Club again....? Ah ha! Gotcha!

Although my nakedness had me rather restricted in the immediate actions I could take (think: Crazy Cat Lady from the Simpsons. But naked. And minus the cats. On a lake. But not in Springfield. Whoa, this analogy is rapidly slipping away from me......aaand its gone. As you were.) against your offensive assault on my nude reverie, it was irrelevant in the end as my intense anger dissipated the second Ashlee started singing "l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e." I'll give you this - it is a catchy song. But c'mon. Seriously? The song "L.O.V.E."? Did you forget you had a penis? (If that happens often, may I suggest tying a string to it and the other end to your hand - so every time you give another "bro" a high-five, you will be reminded that you are in fact a Y-chromosome-toting neanderthal). There are so many other amazing tolerable Ashlee Simpson songs out there you could have picked. How about that song she got busted for lip syncing on SNL for? Or the one where she whines about living in the shadow of her big (bosomed) sister Jessica. Or even th- no wait. Those are really her only songs. So basically out of a possible 3 to choose from, you picked the least bad-ass (did I just refer to Ashlee Simpson as bad-ass? Oh man, I really have to stop drinking expired orange juice....) So to recap: Me=angry, You=12 year-old girl.

So instead of screaming at you losers to take a fucking hike and hurling any available projectiles at your boat (Fun Fact: pinecones and empty sunscreen bottles are really not enough to do significant and un-repairable skull boat damage) I just sort of sat there clutching my towel to my chest (while maintaining a cool and calm iciness) in dumbfounded bewilderment and shook my head wondering what planet you people come from? And if you can you please go back? And maybe take with you the borax and icing sugar I left out for the ants. Trust me, we'll all rest easier tonight. Well, I'll rest easier. You'll be dead conscious-challenged.

P.S. You weren't any more charming when you came back at 10:30 that night just as I was falling asleep, blaring your Goldilocks Rap (not too Black, not too White, but juuuuust right) and screaming (with great eloquence) "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" I can only hope that you awoke in a half sunken boat sporting a large hole in the hull from your buddy thinking it would be "dope" to set fireworks off in the cockpit. And please God, let there be a little (entire stomach contents worth of) puke on the new leather seat you special ordered from assholeswithtoomuchmoney.com. You know, the one with the naked lady hand stitched on it to let the rest of the world know that you like women (that extra $250 really WAS worth it!) even though you spend your days in a speed boat with 3 half-naked men. And I pray so very much that the stereo system is in a few (thousand) pieces after your juice-monkey friend went all roid-ragey on it when it wouldn't automatically skip to track 3 (c'mon Chad, not "Sk8tr Boi" again!) no matter how loud he screamed expletives at it.

R-ant

So remember the "Bring out your dead!" scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Well, it is being re-enacted as we speak in my bathroom on a very small scale.

Up until recently we had an ant problem. They liked to sneak in through the gap where the top of the bathtub and bottom of the tile meet. Which meant there were always lots of tiny ants crawling around the ledge of the bathtub and the occasional pioneer who would climb down the porcelain canyon toward the drain in search of gold. Or a nice spot to put the homestead. Or a better life for their family. I don't know. We rarely spoke. They had the decency to turn the other way while I showered two feet away.

Now I don't really have anything against ants, but when they hit the 1,000 mark in population, I draw the line. Being the googlenut that I am, I spent at least 5 hours looking up old wives tales on how to get rid of these things without using pesticides. Honesty Corner: 4 hours and 55 minutes of that time may or may not have been spent at thesuperficial.com following the sordid details of the Linsdsay Lohan/Samantha Ronson saga. In the remaining 5 minutes I found a commonly agreed upon method of mixing icing sugar and borax together and sprinkling it around as food. The smell of the sugar attracts the ants and when they start eating it, they also ingest the borax as they can't distinguish between the two granules. Then I think it just sort of poisons them (in a loving non-pesticidey way; like morphine to a eutheniz-ee) and then maybe they bring some back to the rest of the gang and it poisons them too. Or maybe its more Heaven's Gate-ey and there's a whole wacked-out ceremony surrounding the sweet Borax cocktail consumption. Ha! Teeny tiny ant Nikes! What, too soon? The statute of limitations has definitely run out on that one, people.

Anyways, I did that for about 2 weeks and they ate it up like candy. Borax-laced candy that is. This reminds me kids: stay away from creepy Philip Seymour Hoffman look-alikes in brown panel vans offering candy. Even the non boraxy stuff. Their sinister plans might revolve around making you watch Capote over and over. Or worse yet, Marley and Me. Oh the humanity!!!

Right, where was I? Ah yes. Two weeks of happy poisoning. And then nothing. Not a single ant. Tumbleweeds. The sound of crickets. A creaky dilapidated door swinging in a tension-filled breeze. And then.....the dismembered ant bodies started to appear. Everywhere! Think Platoon meets Terminator 3 meets Quentin Tarentino's entire filmography meets Wile E. Coyote meets The Spanish Inquisition. And not the John Cleese Spanish Inquisition. Ant arms, ant legs, ant heads, ant abdomens, ant second abdomens, ant brains, ant spleens (at least I think it was a spleen - my Grade 12 high school biology is a little fuzzy at the moment. Did you see what I did there? I just used that spleen comment to let you [the reader] know that I [the author] took Grade 12 biology and am probably smarter than you. Unless you took Grade 12 Biology too. But even if you did, can you honestly tell me that you got 96% in it? I can. I have the transcripts to prove it. Don't MAKE me get out the high school transcripts people, because with it comes the stack of Grade 11 Creative Writing assignments I kicked ass on).

Whoops. Off topic again. Recap: War Amps Society worst case scenario in my bathtub. And this has been the state of affairs every single morning when I go into the bathroom! I have been washing them away at night and then waking up to a plethora of more ant chunks strewn about. It's like Attila the Hun lives in the crack above my bathtub.

So what we think is going on, is that another ant colony has moved in (or a Russian spider) and is basically cleaning house and quite literally bringing out the dead. And in this little play, I'm merely the cart pusher, submissively rinsing them down the drain each night. I'm worried that I may have setup a dependency situation. My bathtub is the new transfer station for the insect world. I have considered putting up a tiny "No Dumping" sign but ants don't read English. And mistranslations can be damaging. That's how "Grandpa Fucking Space Shuttle" came to be printed on millions of children's t-shirts in the Jiangxi Province of China....

So, what the hell?! How long is it going to be the killing fields in my bathroom? This is really creepy stuff. Maybe it isn't a new ant colony cleaning out the nest. Maybe its a sign from the Ant Mafia. They know what I did. Its only a matter of time until I wake to find a severed horsefly head in my bed....

My Passions Have Been Ignited Once Again

So I left out some milk and cookies to see if that would entice my blog elves out of hiding but alas, all I found in the morning was a jolly looking white-haired old man dead on my living room floor. After the coroner left, it was Mrs. Clause who filled me in on her husband's Type 2 Diabetes and adamant negation of the doctor's warning to stop partaking in the goodies the children leave out. I do regret that Santa's last cookie was a stale Chip's-Ahoy I found under the couch cushion, but in my defense the only person I thought would end up eating it was a midget or the huge spider that lives behind my hot water heater (yeah that's right buddy. I know ALL about you!). Had I known the tragedy that would befall the old man, I would have at least sprung for cookies with the chocolate chunks in them. If its your time to go, then go out with a bang. Actually when I think about it, I suppose I would have just put out some celery sticks and a bowl of cottage cheese and avoided this whole 'death' thing altogether. Hindsight is 20/20. Telling your child that Santa is dead due to an EXTREMELY avoidable and reversible disease is priceless. How's that for a Christmas morning Kodak moment? "Merry Christmas Tommy. We thought this year we'd get you the gift of a reality check. You know how much you love your Fruit Loops? Well so did Santa. And now he's DEAD. Adult Onset Diabetes is no laughing matter. Let us all learn a lesson from this. Oh look! its snowing out....."

Ok. Where was I going with all this? Oh yes. The elves have forsaken me. This blog rests entirely on my untiring shoulders. Big responsibility. I will fail you not, Good People of Internet-a-lot.

And now for today's important and socially relevant topic.....


Philip Seymour Hoffman: Man or Sweaty Pervert Better Suited for Meat Grinder?

Let's discuss.

Why do people like this guy?! And by people I mean Nayt Keane and Julia Hilton. Perhaps there are more (doubtful) but my circle of friends is limited and my reclusive nature keeps me from going any further in this poll. I actually did ask them why they think he's so great but I really struggled to hear what they were saying over my yelling "HE'S SO GROSS I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LIKE HIM WHAT OTHER CREEPY ACTORS ARE YOU OBSESSED WITH THAT I DON'T KNOW ABOUT MAYBE WE CAN'T BE FRIENDS ANYMORE HOW CAN I RESPECT YOU ANYMORE LA LA LA LA NOT LISTENING, NOT LISTENING CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA LA!!!!!" We often have spirited debates like that. Eventually I make them see how unreasonably and totally wrong they are (hey btw, do you remember when Burt Reynolds did that 8 episode stint on "Friends"? He was so great in that. Offered a lot of credibility to the role of Monica's older boyfriend. Yuuuuup. Burt Reynolds. That was him. In all his Burt Reynoldy glory. Just acting his little heart out. As only BURT REYNOLDS can do......)

Anyways, I thought rather than have a serious face-to-face discussion with people where I run the risk of being proven inarticulate at very best, I'd rather blog about stuff knowing full well that once its on the internet, it cannot be taken down. And thus must be FACT.

So. Lets begin.

Strikes Against Philip

1. beady little eyes - inbred or just demonic? discuss.
2. profuse sweating. ALL the time. Trait also found in serial killers. Compare and contrast.
3. heavy breathing. And grunting. And strange almost-vomiting sounds whenever he speaks/open his mouth. Hopefully not some sort of disability or else we'll have to take the gutless high road and talk about how he's "overcome" so much in his life and blah blah blah.....
4. the internet's strange love affair with him. Now, it is not easy to find a website dedicated to how terrible this guy is. I have looked. Oh, how I have looked. I googled until the cows came home in hopes of finding some sort of Philip Makes Us Wretch online club that I could join and then send away for a complementary "Don't fillMEup with Philip" coffee mug. No dice. Which leads me to believe two things. 1.) In his movies he performs some sort of weird hypnotizing act with his beady eyes and heaving throaty grunts that brainwashes the viewer. I have of course only been exposed to 1.5 of his movies and possess phenomenal brain capacity that could easily withstand even the most intense of Jedi mind tricks. 2.) People who publicly denounce Phillip Seymour Hoffman are killed within the hour. I am lucky to be blogging this from a secure bunker in an undisclosed location. Fear not people. I will live on. Dedicated to bringing light into my public's dark little lives. Its the least I can do. Seriously. I was originally going to write a blog on how to convert leftover toilet paper rolls into bird feeders but then I realized there was something even LESS useful I could bring into the world of blogging. Personal opinion. So don't thank me. Unless you feel really compelled. In which case I always accept cash (no coins please, what do you think I am, a hobo?) and baked goods.

Wow. How did we get on the subject of my awesomeness again? [Side note - one should never ignore a recurring theme as there is often much truth behind it]. But I digress. Back to Philip.

After doing a little research I came up with some other interesting views that are worth noting:

On the highly respected movie news website digitalspy.com, Hoffman is quoted as saying "There's a certain amount of pain that goes into [acting]. It's painful. It's not easy."

On the even more respected 'pearls of wisdom' website sarahmacnabb.blogspot.com, Macnabb is quoted as saying "There is an EPIC amount of pain while watching Hoffman act. Its so totally MORE painful to be the person watching his films. It's, like, not easy but times infinity. Squared. Cubed. And then times infinity again. Plus one."

Even the STARmeter on imdb.com has him down 4% this week. Vindication.

There you have it folks. When your status starts slipping in the STARmeter, you know its all coming to an end. Move over Chuck Norris. Your 4:00 a.m. informercial slot is in jeopardy. There's a new has-been in town ready to make those paychecks flogging one Ab-sizzler at a time....

P.S. Nayt is quoted as saying "Everything he does, I love. His acting is so enriched. I like him." Keeping in mind that Nayt is a new dad that has not slept in almost 10 months. And might have been a little bit high at the time of said comments. Not to discredit his opinion in any way. And by a "little bit high" I mean caught doing blow out of a hookers navel. Not that that should in ANY way taint your belief in his statements. And also I think the hooker might have had a wooden leg stuffed with cash and anthrax. I'm just saying......

Owen Wilson Talks Funny And Jennifer Aniston Should Go Back to Working at Central Perk

It has come to my attention that blogs need "maintaining." I'm not quite sure what I was expecting but I think in my mind it went a little something like this:

1.) get blog
2.) write first post
3.) elves come in the night to write all subsequent posts
4.) get up every morning and read new posts
5.) drink coffee and feel smug
6.) accept all credit
7.) repeat

So far, none of this has happened. Except for the drinking coffee and feeling smug part. But I did that before I got a blog.

I guess I could try writing a second entry. Buy those elves a little more time. For all I know they could be stuck in Fort Lauderdale at some curly shoe conference. I'm all about giving midgets people the benefit of the doubt.

Ok. So, what? I just talk about things going on in my life? How do you now how much or how little information to share?

What if I just write: since the last time I posted, I've done stuff. Too vague? Alright, how about this: I swapped out my bike seat the other day because it was making my crotch resemble hamburger. TMI?

See, I just don't know. I suppose I could read other peoples blogs and get a general feel of whats appropriate blogging material. That seems like a lot of work though. And I'm already pretty busy writing this......

Ok. I've got a good not-too-personal/not-too-general topic to discuss.

So, you know how when you're at the library on a Tuesday afternoon picking out a DVD to watch later that night because "Real Housewives of Orange Country" PBS's 5-part documentary on Darfur is going to be a rerun? And you're looking for something light, non-committal, the "easy-listening-for-the-over-40-crowd" of movies? And you're scanning over all the titles saying to yourself "no, no, too violent, too boring, not violent enough, too early 90's, too foreign, too American, main character too ugly, main character too obscenely slutty" and then you come across a Jennifer Aniston/Owen Wilson flick with a PUPPY on the cover and you're like "Hmmm, 'Marley and Me,' yeah this one looks good." Right? You know what I'm talking about? I can't be the only one to admit to seeing this movie because it made $36,357,586 at the box office in its opening weekend. FACT. So I know other people have watched it. Paid money to watch it. In the theatre.

So, I took it to the front desk and checked it out. Explaining, of course, to the librarian how it was for my 9 year-old sister who loves puppies...and sub-par acting.

Let me state for the record that I went into this movie with low expectations. Jennifer Aniston, Owen Wilson and a dog. What can I say? I knew it wasn't going to be in the same league as "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitters Dead" "Citizen Kane."

And see here's the thing, I had already read this book. Plot was not an issue. Just a cute story about a guy and his dog. Mildly funny anecdotes of furniture chewing and wading through poop to search for a swallowed necklace. Pretty straightforward man vs. dog stuff. How do you fuck that up? Its IMPOSSIBLE.

And then we watched it. That's where things got a little hazy.

As did my understanding of the word impossible.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS MOVIE ABOUT?! It was like the director shot an entire film about two miserable people played by two b-rate actors with terrible chemistry and then on the last day of filming, the doughnut delivery guy was like, "where's the dog?" and the director was like "what dog" and then the doughnut delivery guy was like "well, in the book there's a dog. He's Marley. You know, "Marley and Me." And then the director was like "I thought Marley was the dude's wife! Uh oh. How much is this dog in the book?" and then the doughnut delivery guy was like "well, seeing as how the whole point of the story is his existence, he pops up quite a bit. Pretty much on every page." and then the director, like, shouted into his parking cone thingy "OK I NEED A PUPPY, A JUVENILE AND AN OLD ARTHRITIC DOG ALL IN THE SAME COLOUR AND BREED! WE'RE GOING TO SHOOT THESE SCENES IN 1 DAY AND FOOL THE PUBLIC INTO THINKING WE DIDN'T GET IT TERRIBLY, TERRIBLY WRONG. LETS MOVE PEOPLE!"

Things That Suck More Than The Movie "Marley and Me"

1.) a high-performance vacuum cleaner (like a Dyson)
2.) plastic spit sucker thingy they use at the dentist

Ok. I thought that list would be longer. But still. A Dyson vacuum! Those things can pick up gold bars with the crevice tool.

So, yeah. Don't rent "Marley and Me." And if you're thinking that a bottle of red wine will make it better, let me just stop you right there. Even a room full of tipsy and witty critics couldn't bring this movie back from death's door. Although, Nayt did get a chance to practice his Owen Wilson accent. And that is no easy feat. Try to say something out loud that sounds convincingly like Owen Wilson right now. I dare you. FAIL. Not even close my friend.

So the next movie we are going to try and enjoy, is "Cold Mountain." Apparently the Washington Post called it "The Best Picture Of The Year" but I never trust anyone from Washington. And if you were smart, neither would you...

We'll see. Its got Old Scrunchee-Face McGee Renee Zellweger in it so I'm not getting my hopes up. But beggars can't be choosers when they get their movies from the library. It was either Cold Mountain or a Pilates Home Workout DVD. And you know my stance on exercising along with condescending spandex-clad health freaks on the TV. Or maybe you don't. Wait. That could be a blog entry. You know, in case the elf thing doesn't pan out......

The Sanctimonious First Post.

So here's the thing: I'm a white female, I'm almost 2 years away from turning 30 and I have opinions on just about everything. Opinions that really should matter to you. Since I wouldn't be doing my part for the Western world if I didn't find some way to cram those opinions down your throat, I'm starting a blog. How have I resisted thus far, you might ask? Well, Facebook. And don't get me wrong, Facebook has served its purpose well. I've played simultaneous scrabble games with people all over the world, posted pictures of summer trips with corresponding witty comments, and of course, shared with all my "friends" my list of favourite movies. I believe I may have even thrown a sheep at someone. But I'm just feeling constrained. Perhaps Facebook is too structured for my gifted right-sided brain. I can't keep staring at that status box every day, being begged to proclaim "what's on my mind." I need a deeper question than that! And yes I'm sure I could find some Facebook Application called Deeper Questions to add to my page. But we all know that somewhere down the line the Indian creators, Rajat and Jayant, of said application are going to be found guilty of copying some American's version that claims to have done it first, and then be forced to cease and desist, leaving all us plebs who have grown to love and depend on our beloved Deeper Questions, in the lurch. Has The Great Scrabulous War of 2008 taught us nothing?!

Right. So to recap:
Facebook = holding back potential creative genius flow.
Sarah = still not over Hasbro's hostile takeover in the online Scrabble world.

The other thing about Facebook? Everyone's on it. Facebook is the common cold. Who doesn't get it? And the few who don't, spend all their time self-righteously telling the world how they'll never succumb to its powerful forces because they take Echinacea and buffered vitamin C (yeah, like that's SO much better than the regular stuff...). That is, until they hear there are pictures of their slutty ex doing jello shooters off some dude's bare rippling abs, posted on it. Then they get it. Ha! So much for moral superiority. And Ester-C. I knew paying that extra $1.99 was a rip-off!

So if Facebook is the common cold, I'm interested in something a little rarer. More exotic. A disease that bed-rest and fluids certainly won't be curing. Enter, Beckwith-Wiedemann Syndrome (which is, of course, my way of referring to "blogging" while cleverly keeping this metaphor alive - try to keep up). My very own website where I could control e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. MUAH HA HA HA HA! Shortly into my evil laughter and chair-spinning though, I realized that to have one of "those" websites you needed to a.) pay money (not likely) and b.) have enough computer savvy to actually design and create a functional website (really not likely). So I lowered my disease expectation down to like, Lyme Disease. Easy enough to get from a tick while walking through the woods but, really, what are the chances that one of those suckers is actually packing heat? (and by packing heat I mean "carrying Lyme disease" but in street-lingo. Just trying to appeal to a broader demographic; I wouldn't want any of those inner-city Harlem kids to feel alienated from my blog....)

After googling possible blog start-up sites I came across Blogspot. Yes, perhaps it was the first hit that google generated but in no way does my laziness that diminish the awesomeness of Blogspot. First, ITS FREE. Second, the sign up process was short enough for my MTV-Generation brain to stick with. And third (this is the best part), I can make up to $1200 a month from my own home by merely participating in a series of not-at-all-shady interactions over the internet with a friendly and seemingly trustworthy Nigerian fellow who only requires my SIN and bank account info (for direct deposit of course). I don't even have to give out my name! This whole blogging thing is like a fairy-tale....

So heading off on my journey to the land of individualism (ha!), I created a so-totally-the-opposite-of-generic web address using my full name (uh oh, I am starting to get a bad feeling about that "online job opportunity"...) followed by .blogspot.com. Oh man, I can practically taste the uniqueness on my middle-class WASP-y tongue! I was then asked to choose a layout from a potential 16 templates (hmmm, well that's not a lot of choice but remember how at Facebook they didn't even offer you 1?) so in the true spirit of nonconformism (and intellectual theft), I ripped-off my friends Nayt and Julia's babies' blog format (thanks Everest! Auntie Sarah owes you one). Basic black. No frills. Lets the reader just zero in on the mind-blowing wisdom being impressed upon their inferior brains (unless they too have a blog , in which case the battle to see who can stay more motivated to write priggish and self-congratulatory posts everyday has just begun. En garde, geeks). Then I just stuck in a black and white photo of myself that gives the impression of candidness while actually having been carefully crafted in iPhoto (oooh yeaaah, welcome to the big leagues), made to make you feel the need to go edit your profile photo to match the arty-ness of mine. And to finish my page off? I added a running commentary on what book I'm reading right now. Of which I'll only confess to the "smart and hip" ones that make me seem way edgier than I really am. Certainly not the pre-teen "Twilight" series that I may or may not have devoured in 6 days after shirking all other responsibilities just to do so....(Edward Cullen I love you! Make me your vampire wife!)

Huzzah! I am now Sarah Macnabb: Blogger Extraordinaire. So I guess this is where I just sit back and wait for the acclamations to start rolling in.

*chirp chirp*

Well, I mean, its only been a few minutes since I posted this. I'm sure people just haven't checked their computers yet today. And it is Saturday so probably most people won't even jump online for another 2 days.......I'm not worried. Remember Kevin Costner in that baseball/corn-field movie? It took people time to realize that he wasn't crazy, just clairvoyant. And then when they finally did realize his genius, they all wanted to play at his baseball diamond. And instead of saying "hell no you fuckers! None of you believed in me when I was building the field. Where were you when I was cutting down all that corn to make room for the pitcher's mound, huh? Huh?! That's right, you were standing on the sidelines laughing. Well you know what? Who's laughing now?!" But he didn't. He was all like "hey guys, no hard feelings about you ridiculing me and my vision. I admit, it must have sounded pretty whacked out! I'm just glad we now have this great baseball diamond on land zoned solely for agriculture. Lets bury the hatchet by playing what some refer to as the Great American Pastime. And after that we can all eat some corn together from the harvest. And then sit around while James Earl Jones tells us stories about following our dreams and other stuff."

Or at least I think that's what happened. It was on cable TV and I kept flipping between that and the E! True Hollywood Story of "Blossom."