R-ant Redux.

The ants are back.

And this time they've brought a mouse with them as reinforcement. Not that I blame them, I did wipe out their entire colony last May with a deadly cocktail of borax and icing sugar. So apparently the collective pain-body of ants is real! Eckart Tolle will be fascinated to know this (because he reads my blog) and this pain-body lives on generations after such horrors as the Great Gen-sectocide of 2009. This new wave of ants is relentless, calculated and gives off the spooky vibe "I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER." (insert Jennifer Love Hewitt joke here and flash to creepy dude in wellingtons wielding a large hook. Hey we all own saw that movie, some of us are just more honest about it than others...)

Getting off track.

Ants + mouse = scheduling nightmare for Sarah. Do you have any idea how stressful it is to be responsible for killing numerous species at once? I mean, where do you allot your time? Which pest gets priority? The mouse is a filthy rodent that carries disease and keeps me up at night with incessant scratching in my walls. The ants though are plentiful and just keep marching in 2 by 2 (hoorah! hoorah!). If only there was a combined product I could use to eradicate them both. An-ouse Annihilator. M-ant Murder Mist. Wow. Horrible product names. Someone's in for a pink slip this afternoon. Oh what? You think I don't have staff? You think a blog reaches this sort of stature as a one-woman show? Pff. Hardly. Hang on - Kevin! Where's my pickle bath?! You KNOW I can't blog if I don't soak for at least 45 minutes in a pickle bath! And while you're at it come braid my hair into those Princess Leia side buns I like and pay my Skype bill. What? He's an intern. Got him right off the internet. In this economic climate you can get people to do just about anything by promising them job security and benefits. Is it my fault if he assumes "benefits" mean extended medical and dental? I think the "benefit" of learning from me is worth double that. I'm sure he'll think so too. Maybe not after that root canal surgery he's planning to bill to his "insurance" lands him in financial ruin but there again, life lesson: never assume anything. And I was the one to teach it to him. See? Be-ne-fit. (sidenote: Sarah B.Mus.ed is always taking resumes.)

Back to the topic of mice and men. Oh wait, that was last night's Books-I-Pretend-I've-Read-to-Make-Myself-Seem-Smarter-Than-Someone-Who-Frequents-TheSuperficial.com Book Club meeting notes. I meant mice and ants, back to the topic of mice and ants.

This mouse is a real piece of work too. Total snot-wad. I have put down not one, not two, but three traps with juicy sultana raisins coated in organic Valentia peanut butter and not a single nibble (or subsequent neck snap). No please, continue to eat the particle board under my kitchen sink. I can see how that would be much more appetizing. You know, mice in general don't offend me but this one has made it personal. He's got me running around pounding on the walls like a crazed mental patient at 3:00 a.m. from his systematic scratching. And he's not just relying on good old fashion mousey-sense to drive me insane. No, I'm convinced this mouse has gone high-tech; an infrared camera at the very least. I can just picture him sitting there at Command Central with his teeny-tiny mouse feet up on his teeny-tiny mouse desk watching the screen zoom in on my face. When I'm juuuuust about asleep, that's when he makes his move. He starts quiet at first to make me wonder if I'd even heard him in the first place. I jerk my head off the pillow, hold my breath and wait to see if I hear it again or if it was just a figment of my imagination. When I'm convinced it was all in my mind, I let my eyes close, head drop back down on my pillow and begin drifting off into a peacefu-SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH. And then silence. Only to be filled with SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH once again until my silent breath-holding turns into a thunderous "I hear you, you little fucker!!" Oh yes, we play this little game of back and forth for quite sometime until finally he forgoes the coyness and steps fully into his destiny of Carnegie Hall Wall Scratcher Virtuoso and really picks up the tempo. "And now ladies and gentleman, the performer you've all been waiting for, its Melachi the Mouse soloing on Wood Paneling!" 'With a scratch scratch here, and a scratch scratch there. Here a scratch, there a scratch, everywhere a scratch scratch. Old Macnabber had a mouse. E-I-E-I-O....'

And of course his name is Melachi. How pretentious. I bet it means "rodent with asshole complex." Oh wait, Google says that it's Hebrew and means "messenger from God." Wow, God is trying to contact me through my uninsulated walls? Maybe tonight I should listen to see if I can decipher some divine meaning in those scratches. Or maybe God just sent a mouse to live in my wall. And keep me up. All night. Every night. Well shit, that can't be good. Hey God (he also reads my blog), is this about that time in 2nd grade when I smeared cheese all over the inside of Shannon Reimer's desk during recess? Because that bitch had it coming. (She really did).

Seriously God, its time to let old grievances go and call off your mouse. While you're at it, take the ants with you as well. They're starting to overrun my desk and compu-sdifwuha lairufg aldiuclae liua yscgaliywgef AHHHHHHHH HELP ME-lsiduhgsl siughsli NOOOO NOT THE EYESuehlsieu aliuali faeyliyagr fjo;ij sdofh sdo aodoD7#& weooha )0rg['3i'j.............................

Greetings reader of Tall Human Blog. We are Ant People. Tall Human go on journey. We mean Tall Human no harm. Just many ant experiments. Hope Tall Human like taste of Borax.....NHE NHE NHE *evil ant laughter*

Tempest In A Teapot......being poured by robots.

Due to the underwhelming response to my last post (except for the naked weirdo who showed up in my front yard on his bike. After asking him a few questions it became clear that he did not in fact follow my blog and certainly wasn't there for any audition. Which would explain his heavy breathing and propensity for fondling his own genitals throughout the entire conversation.....)

...where was I? Oh right, no one reads my blog. Which is why I have decided to take a more journalistic approach this week. Lure the public in first with something credible and then when they come crawling back, THAT'S when you hit them with a riveting Where-Did-Lindsay-Lohan's-Boobs-Go? Exposé. So with the Olympics being covered by every major news station and my lack of knowledge on the the fiscal plight of North America, I thought it best to write about an undeniably factual event.

Cue:

No, no, no, keep reading!! I swear this article isn't some sensationalized piece of literary fluff designed to increase ratings. You know I would never do that to my loyal followers.

(Mom).

Island-Hopping Robot Monsters

What started as a bizarre phenomenon confined to a small chain of islands in the South Pacific has now reached epidemic proportions taking over the entire Southern Hemisphere. Droves of island-hopping robot monsters have declared war on the human species, more specifically: humans of the "on vacation" variety. First accounts by survivors describe incidents where loved ones’ heads had been forcefully removed, replaced with the robot monster's own and then photographed by accompanying robot monsters while morbidly posing in tourist-like scenarios (see totally un-photoshopped picture below).
Scientists are speculating that the robot monsters initial modus operandi was "prolonged psychological terror with disturbingly playful undercurrents;" that they were engaging in a drawn-out cat-and-mouse game involving elaborate planning, inconspicuous stalking and brilliantly executed covert attacks. However, those tactics have rapidly degenerated into violent chaos as the scene has since given way to one that can only be described as a frenzy of gore, a hedonistic buffet. Abandoning all former strategies of stealth, these robot monsters are now brazenly tearing limbs off sunbathing vacationers in order to beat other sunbathing vacationers and indiscriminately zapping elderly sightseers with laser beams leaving nothing but smoking piles of ash scattered with metal pins from hip replacements past.

The North American Defense Against Notoriously Unruly Technology (NADANUT as its referred to by geeks around the world) has issued a travel advisory to those planning trips to tropical destinations. They are asking that people consider Arctic cruises as an alternative vacation option until further notice. The US Government has since deployed 300,000 impressionable young soldiers to seize control over what looks to be an unstoppable force of metal and wires. In a controversial move by the US President, the Geneva Convention has been temporarily nullified and the US Secretary of Defense is quoted as saying "any prisoner-of-war will be denied access to battery chargers, hydraulic fluid and single board computer replacement components." Outraged critics of the U.S. Department of Defense-led tyranny have banded together en masse to put forth an appeal to the Supreme Court.

Meanwhile, the Canadian Armed Forces has issued this official statement: "We regret to inform the United Nations that although we would like to help in the effort to bring peace between man and bot, we feel that any interference could be construed as disregard for the personal liberties and right to self-determination of robot monsters as outlined in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. It is this country's policy to maintain a "wait-and-see" stance on any global altercation where weaponry beyond bayonets or buckets of rocks are used to address burgeoning disagreements. We have however drafted a strongly worded letter that is currently being signed by our reigning Monarch, Her Majesty, the Queen.* We feel the content of this emphatic yet objective edict best represents the Canadian sentiment of disapproval towards the inappropriate display of un-neighborliness and insensitivity these robot monsters have thus far inflicted upon the human race. We predict this letter will be ready to send within the year, subject to passing through democratic review at all three levels of government and of course a federal referendum. We would like to publicly extend our best wishes to both robot monster and human and hope that in the process of arbitrating this 'miscommunication', life-long friendship will be the final outcome."

*Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom, Canada and Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.†

† Elizabeth Deux, par la grâce de Dieu Reine du Royaume-Uni, du Canada et de ses autres royaumes et territoires, Chef du Commonwealth, Défenseur de la Foi.

There you have it folks, news coverage gold. I see it as my duty to both educate and enlighten the masses with posts such as this one, so cutting edge that it will no doubt end up in a Bill Moyers documentary. Where will YOU be when I receive the Pulitzer for my reporting of the War on Robot Terror? That is the question you'll all be asking one day. Just like the Kennedy Assassination. Not to say I'm going to get shot in a convertible. Or maybe I will. Roofless cars are splendid and I say a lot of obnoxious things (or so my low readership would suggest). But assassination-worthy? A bit extreme, even for Lee Harvey Oswald.....

.....BAHAHAHA! Yeah, like we don't know the CIA was responsible for that one. Just like that fictitious moon landing. We all saw the reflection of lies in Buzz Aldrin's visor. WE ALL SAW IT. Ooh! My subscription to Flat Earth Society Monthly just arrived. Gotta go.

Finding The Nub

So it turns out that successful blogs are directly related to the amount of effort you put into them (fine print I neglected to read when I signed up with Blogger.com). I am astounded by how often people update their blogs. And over the most inane shit too. They sneeze and its all "type-ah, type-ah, type-ah." I mean if you read MY blog, you’ll see how I stand out from all the rest. I cover serious and relevant topics that make a difference to people’s lives. How many unsuspecting folk did I prevent from wasting two hours by going to see “The Core” with my extensive movie review? That’s philanthropy in its purest form. FACT.

So what about those committed bloggers, ‘eh? They sure do have a lot to say. Is it possible that I have fewer obnoxious opinions than I previously thought? Or perhaps it’s that I am exactly as lazy as I always knew. Whatever the case, its time to post something so people stop sending me emails bugging me to update my blog.

That was a lie. No one does that. Just trying to create the illusion of interest where there is none.

I wonder if I downloaded those sexy animated ladies who gyrate along the sides of the computer screen and wantonly push their pixelated boobs into your face, if my site would get more hits that way? Maybe not the demographic I had originally envisioned but times are tough people, recession and all. Butter rations/slutty online advertising banners. You do what you have to....

Maybe the problem is that there is no purpose to this blog. I just saw that Julia Child movie about the unhappy lady who cooks all the time and then blogs about her unhappiness until someone offers her a book deal and then she becomes happy again (Professional Movie Synopsis Writer - possible future career??)

Fair enough. So what I need is a good old-fashioned conflict. Yes, that’s it. A conflicty conflict rife with conflictions of the most conflicted type, so that people will tune in every week to follow my progress as I navigate through the perilous waters of conflicted..ness...ism..

Soooooo.....any ideas for possible conflicts I could try to right in my life through blogging?

Lets make a list of things that I want to change and go from there.

1.) paying taxes
2.) living with squirrels/rats/possibly a family of possums in my wall
3.) having the flexibility of a 70-year-old man
4.) the lack of fibre in chocolate (more of a national problem. This affects us all people….)

Wow. That’s a boring list. And I bet I could sort out every one of these issues in under 30 seconds. Time me!

1.) I pay very few taxes in the grand scheme of things and often get most of them back at the end of the year due to the 'sympathy clause' in the Canadian Revenue Agency for those "less inclined to be a cog in the machine" (watch out! if you like your job and use any amount of creativity in doing it, you might be one of these insurgents...) The CRA can't fathom how earning less to do what you love might actually be personal CHOICE as opposed to some sort of failure to achieve the 'luxury' of spending 8 mind-numbing hours a day under fluorescent lighting and the oppressive thumb of North America's fucked-up construct of an economy......whatever.

2.) The vermin in my wall might just need a little convincing with a blow torch and some persistence on my part (Persistence^® being the name of the new line of clean burning eco-fuel I found online...).

3.) I joined a yoga studio at the beginning of January with intense determination. A little morale-crushing to get the mat next to the 70-year-old mans who folds himself in half, and then in quarter and then for good measure (because the elderly are show offs) once more into eighths. So if I could get half the flexibility of this particular 70-year-old man I will be content. Also, watch your step Harold. I would hate to see you "accidentally" slip on that icy pavement out back....

4.) I'm thinking that the chocolate just needs to be eaten simultaneously with a box of bran or something. A cumbersome but workable solution.

Ok. That was easy. A little TOO easy. Clearly we need a bigger conflict. Some sort of civil liberty violation. Maybe not directed right at ME because, well, that would suck, but perhaps at someone I know (and like enough to get upset over but not so much that I get the crappy karma of wishing ill will on my friends). That way I can rant and rave about the "system" and "the hand of the man" keeping the little guy down. There is no better ranting than the one directed at The Man. Yes, it does turn us all into ignorant and irresponsible citizens but DAMN it feels good. Kinda like when your brain knows that the large-sized DQ Blizzard following an intense Mexican feast is:

A.) the definition of "bad idea"

and

B.) going to put you out of commission for at least 36 hours

.....but somehow you find your hand autonomously sliding $5.55 across the counter to the eagerly waiting adolescent server anyways.....

Mmmmmm. Blizzard.

Focus Sarah!

Back to the topic of civil rights being trampled, anyone interested in getting arrested for the sake of this blog? Nothing terribly illegal. Just illegal enough, you know, to get picked up by the cops for a night, but then let go the very next day (hey, I'll even buy you breakfast....have you ever experienced a half gallon of creamy smooth soft serve blended with your favorite candy, cookies, or fruit at 7:00am?? You are in for a treat my friend. And by treat I mean bloating, constipation and intense nausea.)

Dammit! Oh Delicious Frozen Delight, your seductive powers hold me in a constant state of yearning.....

Back to the topic of one of you getting arrested. Remember the concept is illegal but not TOO illegal.

Example: Smoking a joint while riding a bike naked.

Through a corporate ground breaking ceremony.

While local news cameras roll.

Better yet, CBC National News cameras.

Live feed.

And maybe you shout something about "capitalist pigs" just as you throw a pie at someones face.

Preferably the CEO.

And then *ding* your little bike bell to bring levity to the situation.

This part is C-R-U-C-I-A-L. The idea here is to downgrade any possible charges of "assault" to "lighthearted silliness that offers everyone the opportunity to look deep inside themselves and realize that when we take life so seriously we miss out on experiencing true joy....and also people end up going to jail on assault charges for throwing pies at other people's faces."

Yeah. That little *ding* really is the linchpin of the plan. DO NOT FORGET THE DING.

Feel free to paint whatever slogans you wish on your naked body. I am open-minded. Disdain for the Olympics, the clubbing of baby seals and "Hey Stop Melting The Polar Ice Caps By Driving Around In Your Penis-Enhancing Hummer H2, You Giant Douche-Bag!" seem to be popular choices these days but please don't limit yourself. I can think of thousands of things to angrily rant about that don't involve any of the usual suspects (like how our country has let the inflation rate of Blizzards go up faster than wage increases. Bastards.)

My god, this plan is brilliant! You see, I am an IDEAS person. I keep trying to explain this to people: "I am a thinker. You should be the doer. Of the things I think. Its just so simple, I really don't get where the misunderstanding (on your part) seems to keep happening...."

All volunteers please leave your name and contact info in the comments section. I'll of course be holding auditions to evaluate bike handling, target aiming and obscenity screaming skills. Be prepared to do this all while naked (hey, would you expect an actor to show up to the dress rehearsal NOT in costume? Didn't think so. This isn't amateur hour people. A BLOG's fate depends on your professionalism)

Looking forward to the cascade of applicants sure to pour in any minute now....



*Since authenticity is key in blogging, I rushed out after writing this and got me one of these (Blizzard AND stomach ache) to be able to post this very real photograph. Unfortunately the whole experience was a serious bummer. Not only did I get stiffed in the "stuff" department (Reeces Peanut Butter Cups is this gal's poison) but they wouldn't accept my $5 bill because it looked "fake." Well screw you DQ on Denman Street! I'll just take my phony money and diabetic coma elsewhere. PS assholes: $3.99 ($4.19 with tax!!) is NOT a reasonable amount to charge for a Small Blizzard and jacking the "extra stuff" price up to 79¢ is disgusting. World. Hell. Handbasket.

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....