Hold yer horses

In the slow process of getting off my ass to write something.

Maybe your New Years resolution should have been patience.

And mine, motivation.

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.......