Signs The World's Not Yet Ending

Okay, for real -

Is it just me, or is life in the world I read about and watch on TV righting itself?

Sunday: Saddam gets the nod for the noose. No- brainer. But I think they should hold off until that other trial finishes.

Tuesday: Britney finally does the right thing and drops her greasy, freeloadin', wrestling-ruining husband in the pile of Things No Longer Wanted, which includes items like those Cheetos she was eating during her trailer-trash pregnancies, and the some of the baby weight caused by said Cheetos. The best part? She goes ice skating the day after ... all the way to the bank. Scary part? I got EXCITED. And I don't even like her that much. I must be coming down with something.

And today? Even better than earlier this week, and way back in high school when all the kids cheered when we found out O.J. was not guilty, combined:

The Democrats got the House. AND the Senate. Aaaand Donald Rumsfeld was shown the door.

Whaaaaat?!

It's, like, the trifecta of justice! I'm so happy, I could cuss. But I'll just settle for having shivers all over my scalp while cussing in my head ... which I hope isn't the pre-cursor to an aneurysm from all the excitement.

If this was only up until now, what else could possibly happen on Thursday to make me do the crazy dance? 'Cause I'm only a couple shuffles away.

Now, if someone upstairs could only do something about this, this, this, and this, then I know this week isn't some sort of cruel joke whose awful punchline hasn't played out yet.

And oh yeah, and if you manage to accomplish all that, I've got a personal request: can someone either do something about this, like, permanently? It's getting on my nerves. I'm also willing to take one of these, which should come complete with this (the second, not the first), and ... this, as ample compensation for pain, suffering and mental distress.

Overheard in Alleyways ... Saturday Night

So my friends and I were walking along a side street parallel-ish to Queen, near Bathurst last night.

As we pass this huge alleyway, we see this guy dressed in black in heavy face make-up sprinting 'round the corner of this building, being pursued by this guy yelling, "Satan is going to get you!" or something to that effect.

The made-up dude yells, "Leave me alone!"

Both of them stop running, but there's about 15 or 20 feet between them.

The guy pursuing then says something like, "Okay, fine ... no offense, but, you just gave me a BLOWJOB, and ..."

My hearing pretty much went funny after that.

Wanted: Patron Saint

So today's November first. All Saints' Day. Or as I'd like to call today, All Sucks Day.

The way things went today, you'd think a couple of those saints gave me the equivalent of the back of someone's hand - thwap! - across my face.

This day has had to be one of the crummiest I've had in a while. I don't remember the last time I was this stressed out about the amount of work I've had to do. It was overwhelming. The work and the demands just seemed relentless. It just felt as if the work would never end.

I've heard the saying that your "in" box is never empty. But mine just seemed like there was a mountain of stuff that keeps getting bigger and bigger, no matter how I try to pick away at it.

And the last straw was when someone asked me to help set something up, about two minutes before it was scheduled to happen. And of course, I missed it. It was the final straw. I think I had my own mini-meltdown. I was so upset, I couldn't speak. I bolted from my desk, went outside for some fresh air. That worked for about 20 minutes. Then I was back and forth from the bathroom, blowing my nose and trying to splash my eyes with water to try and clear up the redness from tears constantly welling up. My friend kept trying to ask me if things were okay.

(Note: if you see me upset and not talking, do NOT try to talk to me. It only makes things worse. Just keep your distance.)

I finally kind of sucked it up and muddled through the rest of the day. I'm so glad I never have to do this day again.

I wonder if they have a patron saint out there for frustrated folks who feel like underdogs, like they'll never get what they've been trying to patiently wait for.

'Cause I think I need a visit by whomever that is, and badly.

Happy Halloween ...

... Beetches. Mwahahahahaha!

I know most of us have to work, but whatever you plan on doing after that, just make sure you have an "ugly" one, all right?

Peace ... and bad plaque.

D's Loquacious Reads for October

Hey kids, I hope you're having a good weekend! Sorry this is so late, considering there's only a couple days (and a few hours left) in October. But I just finished two more books that I wanted to share with you ...

First off is this beauty off to the left - Break No Bones, the latest in the Temperance Brennan series by forensic anthropologist-author Kathy Reichs. This time, Dr. Brennan's on a dig with some students when she comes across a skeleton that doesn't look like it belongs. What she discovers in her post-mortem sets off a series of events that, once again, have her digging beneath the surface - so to speak - and, in true Reichs style, even have her brushing with death.

Couple that with a love triangle between her, her current lover, police detective Andrew Ryan and her estranged husband, Pete, and you've not a nice, sort of light read for those lazy afternoons (or in my case, long subway commutes back and forth). Her stuff's not bad, if you're into the suspense/mystery/murder genre with lots of professional jargon.


This book, on the other hand, is a complete departure from Ms. Reichs' work. Shout out to my friend Kristy, who recommended I read this book (update your blog, girl!). It's AWESOME!

War Reporting for Cowards was written by Chris Ayres who, as a 27-year-old foreign correspondent, got an early morning phone call from his boss, asking if he wanted "to go to war", and without really thinking (because he really wasn't awake!), agreed to be embedded with the U.S. Marines for nine days during the early period of the war in Iraq in 2003.

Problem was, he never wanted to go, and was too chicken to tell his boss, so the results of his journey to embedding has a few darkly hilarious results. His book is a candid look at what happened to him before and during the embedding process, as well as what landed him there in the first place.

C'est tout, mes amis! Take it easy for now, and I'm willing to read things any of you might have to suggest, or are willing to lend me. I'll promise you'll get it back! Lates.

Bad for You, Good for You: The "Ols"

Hey boys and girls,

Ever have one of those weeks where you eat or ingest something, either because you think - or someone tells you - it might be a good idea, only to have your body tell you the truth later?

That happened to me earlier this week. And I thought, what better way to suggest to or warn my peeps than in my blog? Call it my public service for the week. This is probably for the "TMI" category, but here goes (no regrets) ...


Maltitol is BAD. Cruising down the cookie aisle in a small store close to where I work, I had a hankerin' for something sweet, but my nutritious conscience was harping at me for getting ready to stuff my mouth with something not good for me for the upteenth time. And then I came across Aunt Gussie's Sugar-Free cookies. Hmmm, I thought. Sugar-free, hey? I'd seen them in the store before, and considered trying them, but never stopped long enough to consider it. That day, I thought, what the hell ... why not?

I looked at the different types of cookies and biscotti ... turned over the packages and tried comparing them with regular cookies ... they had slightly less fat content ... and they had no sugar. They did have something called maltitol, which is a sugar alcohol used as a sweetening substitute. I had heard that anything with maltitol, you had to be careful not to eattoo much because they have a laxative effect. But I'd had some cookies with maltitol in the past, with no problems.

So I bought a box of chocolate chip almond cookies - small and very flat - and shoved them in my desk. Too bad I didn't exercise any caution the next day, when I ripped into them during a somewhat stressful afternoon at work and inhaled about six of them ... Wikipedia offers up this important tidbit about maltitol (which I wish I'd read then, and not about five minutes before typing this up):

Due to its slow absorption, excessive consumption can have laxative effect (I knew this) and often can cause gas and/or bloating. Maltitol is particularly demonized regarding gastric side effects because it is so easy for food producers to use it in vast quantities (due to its amazingly sugar-like properties) so consumers often end up consuming far more than they could most other sugar alcohols.

Yeah ... so I had so much gas for the next six or seven hours after that, my belly was looking a bit distended. I could've given a Goodyear blimp or a pasture-grazing cow a good run for their money. And the tooting was relentless. No amount of Beano could possibly have helped me.

Aunt Gussie's? Sweet fancy Moses! Try Aunt GASSIE'S.

Moral of the story: Kids, if have to interact with someone you detest and you want to drive them as far away from you as possible, by all means, eat as many maltitol-laden goods as you can get before said interaction. If you want a cookie, just eat the real thing. If you can't have sugar, just eat something else.


Oreganol is (surprisingly, kinda) GOOD. Okay, so I developed this horrible cold over the last week and before long, it was mid-week - The day AFTER the "Maltitol incident" - and I felt like complete crap, and strongly considered calling in sick for the rest of the week. That evening my mom suggested I take the latest wellness remedy she swears by. It's called Oreganol - comprised of Midterranean oregano and wild spice, mixed in olive oil, and touted by manufacturer North American Herb and Spice (converted believers) as a germ-killer.

I'd resisted for months because the stuff just smells vile. But desperate times call for desperate measures. So before bedtime, my mom put four drops in a egg cup full of water and told me to down the stuff. Gah. It was nasty ... but the next day I didn't feel as much like crap as before. I still have the sniffles, though. Was it the Oreganol? I'm not completely sure. But it may have helped.

That's it for now, kids. Posse out. Girlfriend's got to find herself a Halloween costume for this weekend!

The Trouble With Women (With Power)

I remember when I was younger, I often thought about how cool it would be to have more women as bosses, as leaders of countries, just generally being strong and being able to think and say what they want to. And it is like that, in a lot of ways. But sometimes I've noticed how much it's been a case of "the more things change, the more things sound the same".

It wasn't really a revelation, but I was reminded of this a few times earlier this week during conversations with other people, observations and thoughts in the few private moments I had this week. And all the subjects seemed to be related to either women in power or women trying to use the power they thought society had given them with open arms.

On Wednesday, I was watching Oprah's interview with Madonna, who was defending her situation with taking David Banda out of Malawi. I watched about 6 minutes of it at work, decided I'd heard more than enough, and then left.

Later, when I went to the gym and had to kill some time, I hung out in the changeroom and decided to watch some more Oprah. When I switched on the TV, I noticed the Dixie Chicks were on, talking about their new documentary, Shut Up and Sing. Essentially the movie documents the band, from the height of their success, to the flak they took from people following lead singer Natalie Maines' comment during a concert in 2003 about being ashamed of George W. Bush for going to war in Iraq.

At one point, they were discussing the backlash they'd received from former "fans" and people angry at their stance on the war on terror, and Maines recalled people calling her and her bandmates sluts. This, all because they disagreed with the actions of their government. Let's see, is there a definition of the word, slut?

Here's what Merriam-Webster says:

slut

1 chiefly British : a slovenly woman
2 a : a promiscuous woman; especially : PROSTITUTE
b : a saucy girl : MINX

The definitions of this word are problematic and subjective as it is. But to refer to a woman as a slut because she's trying to exercise her country's freedom of speech to voice a personal belief - no matter what other people think of it - is ludicrous, extremely childish and sad, knowing this was said by grown adults. And I wouldn't be surprised if, among those adults flinging insults, some of them were women.

Above all, it's pitiful, given what century and year this is, and angering, knowing this cop-out response has been used in the past, probably in similar circumstances. The one-liner used to explain the film - "Freedom of speech is fine as long as you don't do it in public" - sums up how far people in societies still have to go. Great in theory, but in practice? Forget it. And if you're a woman, it seems like it's just as bad as if a man had said it, if not worse.

A little later that week, a friend of mine at work mentioned that a couple of our co-workers were discussing which Democrat would have a better shot at landing the U.S. presidency in 2008, if given the chance: Illinois senator Barack Obama - the "man to watch" since his new book, The Audacity to Hope was released - or Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Well, in putting my two cents in, I gave it a couple seconds of thought and offered my knee-jerkish response. Given that Rodham Clinton had already been in the White House - albeit as First Lady - I told my friend that my money would be for the underdog Obama, but that in reality that Rodham Clinton would probably get it, given the political machine that's already up trying to pave her way back to Washington. Why not just say Rodham Clinton? The U.S. has never, ever had a woman president, oro come close. But then again, they've never had a black one, either. My personal opinion on this is torn, because if I were American, I'd not just be an American. I'd be an African-American woman. And what would I pledge loyalty to first: my womanhood or my blackness?

Thinking about it later, it reminded me of a conversation I had months ago with a friend of mine, whose mother has this weird opinion on women in power. Call it, again, a case of, good in theory, crappy in practice. My friend's mom seems to think the idea of a woman in power is great, it's about time, blah blah blah. But when a woman - Michelle Bachelet - took power in her native country of Chile for the first time in history, and my friend asked her mom what she thought, she immediately called her (Bachelet) an idiot. And from what my friend said when I asked her, it didn't seem as if it was in response to the woman's policies or her plans on she plans on doing now that she's in office. She apparently had said something similar about U.S. Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice.

Now, I'm no fan of Ms. Rice's policies or political beliefs as part of the Bush administration. But as a fellow woman, would I demonize her or call her an idiot, based on gender? Would I hold the same beliefs if Condoleezza were Connor instead? Hmm, not sure.

Why is it that - and this is not the case everytime - whenever there's a woman in power, and they act the way a man might, that some people - some of those people being women among them - immediately call her names ... idiot ... slut ... whatever? Is it because of what she does or believes? Is it because she's a woman and people don't think she deserves to be there?

Things are getting better. There are women in political office in different stages of government all over the globe. Women are part of various organizations, and make sure their voices are heard in a variety of venues. But are we at the point where we can be critical of individuals because of what they have to say, and NOT bring their gender into it? I think we're still a bit off, even in this day and age. But that's only one woman's opinion.

My Favourite Busker

People have all sorts of little signposts to tell them fall has arrived. A change in weather. The fall colours. Just even the feeling that summer has long left and winter's about to arrive.

For me, it's the return of one guy, and only one: The Paper Bag Busker.

If you've seen him play anywhere other than his usual haunt on the corner of King and Simcoe streets - just outside Roy Thomson Hall - he's got a pretty cool sound, almost harp-like. Usually you hear him before you see him: the sounds from his artful strumming, emanating from his little speaker, his only other companion ...

Then as you get closer, you see the sound's slim creator, standing on a street corner, guitar case open, playing away. Usually dressed in black. And wearing a crisp-looking paper bag on his head, with holes cut out for his eyes and mouth.

It only jars you for about a millisecond; then you realize you're in the presence of off-beat coolness.

I've taken that route often in the five years I've had to commute home from a day of working downtown, and come to think of it, I think he's been there most of that time.

I've also been curious who this guy is. Never out of character, I've never seen him talk, or take off his "mask".

Until today. I happened to be walking from the gym to the subway home, when, way down the street, on the street corner in front of Roy Thomson Hall, was this tall, lanky dude with his guitar case open, looking he was about to set up to perform.

I was still a bit far away, so I couldn't make out his features. I thought it was my favourite busker, and quickly doubted myself.

Until I got even closer and I saw it. The paper bag.

I only looked for the briefest of moments at the dude. He looked older than I thought he would, and I couldn't tell if he was going gray or if he had a crazy dye job. I still couldn't be sure. I didn't want to sneak another look, so I kept going.

I got my confirmation as I started descending the stairs to the subway and heard the faint, familiar strains of the guitar wafting my way.

I probably won't see him unmasked again. But it doesn't matter - I don't want to ruin the mystique that surrounded my favourite man with the paper bag.

The New Cabbage Patch Kids?

I swore to myself that I'd never write about celebrities - as there are so many sites dedicated to them already (which I also read) - but I'm about to break my own vow, because today reeeally got my goat.

You know what I'm talking about - the whole Madonna-Malawi-adoption saga.

According to the latest, The Material Girl - who was in the African country to pledge millions of dollars to help almost a million orphans with food, shelter, and education - has chosen to adopt a 13-month-old boy (that little guy, top left). But instead of following the laws of the country and going about this the correct way (which would be adhering to an 18-month adoption order as granted by the court), the woman has had the child whisked out of the country; by the time I post this, he'll probably be halfway to his new life in London to his ridiculously rich new family.

While the little tyke's dad - who lost his wife during the birth of said son - is happy his little boy is getting the good life he could never afford to give him, lobby groups are saying the exact opposite. Even the man's own relatives are torn over his decision.

Now I understand the whole "celebrities put on their pants, one leg at a time, like other people" philosophy. Non-celebrities adopt kids from different races or cultures all the time. And sure, Madonna's not the first one to adopt a child from another country. Meg Ryan did it. Ewan MacGregor did it. Angelina Jolie did it - twice. Way back when, actresses Mia Farrow and Julie Andrews did it.

But it just seems like lately, celebrities adopting a child from a foreign, often poorer country - or even talking about thinking about adopting a foreign kid - is, like the equivalent of starting one's own Cabbage Patch Kid collection. But for real - no stuffed, cornsilk imitations for these elite folks.

And I'm sure that not all the people who do adopt do it 'cause it's de rigueur. But where's the line between adopting out of good conscience and because they want to provide for another human being, and adopting a kid because it's "in" ?

And - apologies about the cliche - but what about the children? Sure, little David Banda's barely walking and talking, never mind having a clue what's going on. But he's not having a say in what's happening to him. And what will happen when he gets older and realizes, hey, I kinda am different from my adoptive family? Or, what will happen if he starts asking, exactly who am I? Where did I come from? Who are my people? Do I have any biological family left? And the myriad other questions that'll swirl around in this little guy's head when he's old enough to think of them.

But I think my biggest issue is that Madonna - in my honest opinion - abused her star power by skirting the law just to get what she wants, because she can. No one else under normal circumstances would ever get away with what she did; why should she?

If she had just pledged the money and made a promise to visit every so often to check on the progress ... or even just promise to help little David and his family out (or his village, since she could afford to toss a couple million dollars at almost a million kids), I'd totally understand. But I think whole adoption controversy just undermines what she went to Malawi to do in the first place, and basically cheapened it.

Instead of just giving, it seems she couldn't leave without taking something - or in this case, someone - with her.

Happy Friday the 13th ...

... beeyotches.

Heh! Sorry. Couldn't resist.

I LOVE today and every Friday the 13th! So far, things are good - didn't walk under any ladders, break any mirrors (yet), or cross any skunks (phew!).

For all you stressed out superstitious types and triskaidekaphobics - relax! It's just a day.

And since I've got nothing really pithy to add to the subject, here's a little classic Muppetry - and my absolute favourite ! - courtesy of You Tube (before Google starts copyrighting this shit left, right and centre).

Mahna mahna, dudes!

The Little Computer Geek Within

So last week, my computer decided to play possum. It shut down on me early last week, and when I tried to boot it up last Friday, I got a black monitor and the sound of silence from the mini-tower.

Not having any weekend plans - and h0ping to spend what part of the long weekend I did have catching up online - I was faced with the possibility my microchipped piece of crap may have given up the ghost, and that I might have to spend the next several days without a computer. Like in the good old days.

So first, I panicked. And then I panicked some more. And then on Saturday, when I tried my computer again and it still wouldn't boot up, I called my friend Lee.

He came over on Sunday, checked it out and found the problem: the power supply inside had blown a fuse and that I'd need a replacement. It was lucky for me that that happened; had it continued to work, it actually would have exploded and started smoking from the back.

Briefly forgetting which day it was, I inwardly panicked again, until Lee mentioned that we had just enough time to hop in his car and boot it over to Tiger Direct to buy a new one.

Little did I know this would be the beginning of the odyssey towards my untapped inner computer geek. Kinda.

I'd never really set foot inside a computer parts store, being - for years - of the ignorant opinion that your spare computer parts came from the place you bought your computer in the first place; parts were for crazy computer geeks who excelled at calculus in high school and majored in computer science at university.

Was I wrong. I couldn't believe it. This place was a gamer's paradise. Flat screens. Flashy computer tower casings. Keyboards with Bluetooth technology. Crazy aerodynamic mice. You name it, they probably had it. I really didn't realize that people used some of the things on sale to soup up their computers, much in the same way some people pimp out their cars. It was nuts.


Not only did we find my brand-new power supply, we actually strolled around the store. With each aisle we travelled down, I felt a growing, irrational need to soup up my own computer. Replace that clunky monitor at home with a sleek new LCD flat screen ... toss my loud, clacky, squeaky keyboard with something sleeker and quieter. Get some new speakers. Maybe trash the mouse, too. My brain was working overtime.

But I managed to restrain myself, and just buy what I needed. Now my computer runs much better now, in comparison to its former narcoleptic self. But I'm saving a little money for when I'm going out to that shop the next time. And there will be a next time.

(If you're a stranger visiting this site - that's not me in that picture. But pretty good that I found her, hey? Check out Dedi and her geeky friends at Geek Speak.)

The Ills of Working Thanksgiving

Did you all have a good Thanksgiving?

I wish I could say I did, but ... I really didn't have much of one. Neither did the loads of people who ended up at work today. And I think a few omens made themselves known.

First, North Korea decides TODAY to try and prove they deserve a seat at the nuclear poker table, much to everyone's surprise and annoyance.

Then a couple of people here in Toronto are paralyzed because of the botulism in their organic carrot juice (which was recalled, like, two weeks ago), probably prompting junk- and fast-foodie fundamentalists somewhere in the world to break out the "I told you so" dance.

And then, the piece de resistance. You Tube gets swallowed WHOLE by Google.

Did the whole world just tilt sideways?

See, my friends? This is why no good ever comes of making people work Thanksgiving. Bad things happen, dudes. Bad. Things. Happen.

D's Loquacious Reads for September/October

Hey folks,

Happy Thanksgiving. Sorry it's taken so long to write ... life - and a busted computer - got in the way.

Ever go through those periods of time where you don't read any books for weeks and weeks, and then you're suddenly hit with this insatiable urge to read a whole bunch of 'em at once, even though you know you don't have much time for it?

Well, that was me in September. Here's three books I'd heard about and recently got around to cracking open:


David Gilmour's A Perfect Night to Go to China won last year's Governor-General book awards, and with good reason. It's actually pretty good. I didn't really know much about this book going into it - silly me, I actually thought part of it took place in China. So much for that theory.

The book is narrated from the point of view of a man whose young son goes missing one night when the father steps out of the house briefly, leaving the door unlocked. The novel follows the narrator's slow unravelling of his marriage and himself as he searches for his son.

Aside from being a fairly fast read, I found the way the story was woven to be a bit fantastical, which you always want from time to time. I wonder, though, if I read the book maybe a tad too fast and didn't soak it up like a real bookworm should. The ending took me a bit aback (of course, reading between subway sleeps may have contributed a bit to that, too). I'm not going to ruin it here. Just read it for yourself.


I then decided to depart from fiction for a while and picked up Norah Vincent's Self-Made Man. I actually watched a TV interview with her and heard another colleague - who'd read the book - talk about it, so I really had wanted to read this one for a while.

Vincent, a syndicated columnist, decided to go undercover as a man for a year, to really get a sense of the male experience. What she learned surprised her, not only about men, but about women, too. The experience also ends up affecting Vincent in a way that she didn't even anticipate.

I thought this book was not only well-written, but I think it's a book both men and women should read. There's no bashing of the sexes here. Just frank, honest observations by an individual of one gender delving into the world of the other.

Last, but not least was this book - The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. I had heard about this book, but it's taken me this long to get around to reading it. I was actually warned by the librarian checking out the book to me, "Get ready to cry." I thought she was kidding. And believe me, I'm pretty sure I came close a couple times.

The book tells the tale of Amir, an ethnic Pashtun living in the United States, who returns to Afghanistan to make amends for an event that had happened earlier in his life. The narrative then akes the reader backwards in time to Afghanistan - Kabul, to be precise - and the life Amir leads with his father, and his poor Hazara friend/servant Ali and his little son, Hassan.

Hosseini's was an Afghan-American, first-time novelist who took time off from his job as a doctor to write this book. And believe me, the time was well-spent. At the huge risk of sounding like a cliche, this book is breathtaking and heartbreaking. I'd seriously sometimes read a chunk of the book on my way to work, and by the time I'd closed the book, I'd get up stunned, trying to process what I'd just read. I seriously DON'T understand why this book didn't win an award.

I don't know if I plan on seeing the movie adaption when it comes out next year (because I don't want to end up being one of those purists that kvetch when they cut parts of the book out), but I encourage anyone who hasn't read this book: Read it. It's that good.

That's it for now. We'll see if time allows me to do this again in about a month's time. Happy reading!

Subway Ad-Antics

I was reading on the subway ride home yesterday evening, minding my own business, when I heard this clattering sound behind me, followed by some snickering and someone stage-whispering, "Shh! Don't tell anyone!"

I turned around and didn't really notice anything, so I turned around again. A moment later, I hear some talking and the same voice saying, "Shh! Don't tell anyone!"

So I turn around and this time hold my gaze, only to see the owner of the voice rolling up one of the overhead subway ads he and his buddies filched from its casing, and putting it in his bag. I looked right at him, and he again said, "Shh! Don't tell anyone!" putting his finger to his lips in a joking manner.

I shook my head and turned around, trying to immerse myself in my book.

The subway pulled into the next stop, and the ad thief and his cronies get off the train and proceeded to go into the next car. I turn to two girls beside me, who also saw this and asked, "Are they just going into the next car to steal more ads?"

"Looks like it," the one sitting next to me said.

"All right," I replied with my if-you-say-so, sing-song tone.

Just then, the driver announced on the P.A. system, "Would the person who took the ad please leave the train immediately."

I could just see the thief and his friends scamper past our train car. Some of us started smirking and snickering.

And a moment later: "Give that back, you MORONS!"

Musings of a Boomerang Kid

(**Warning: Epic Post**)

"So, when are you moving out?"

I think I may have heard this at least three times in the last week, if not phrased as that exact question, then either as a variation of that question, or a declarative statement that I should move out.

This recently came up - within a 48-hour period - while out with work colleagues and close friends, respectively. The latter case was actually an entire conversation about the subject.

Last Saturday night, while out for dinner with a couple of friends, one of them announced she'd be moving out of the home she shared with her parents and brother and finding a place to live, probably in late October or early November. She declared it was time; she needed her own space, and the idea of living at home at age 30 depressed her.

The other mentioned that she'd made up her mind and would be moving in with her boyfriend at a future, unspecified date. It only made sense, she said. She was practically at his place most of the time, and she talked to her dad, who wholeheartedly supported her. She just had to find an appropriate time to sit down and tell her mother.

Me? I was happy for my friends, but I wasn't really planning on budging anytime soon. I mean, yeah, the distance to get to work blew chunks, but everything else was good. Why change if I wasn't ready?

And herein lies the continuous struggle, the dilemma of a Boomerang Kid.

Like a number people my age, I had the privilege of going away to school and, at some point during my university career, living on my own. Granted, I had financial help from my parents, but the feeling of independence was there.

When I did my first (and only) internship after finishing school, I lived on my own for four months in a basement apartment, and essentially paid for it myself. When the work ended, so did my stay. I moved back home that September.

Fast forward about six years later. I'm still at home. And while it's a long commute to work by public transit (approximately 1 hour 20 minutes each way, on a good day), I made up my mind a couple of years ago to stick it out for a few years longer, because I thought it would be smarter to save up my money until I'd squirrelled enough together to put a sizeable downpayment on a place I could call my own - "the best investment a person can ever make", and all that.

My first vision was to put it towards a freehold townhome. With prices still being what they are, I'd be happy for a decent-sized "starter" condo. And even that mental vision is starting to flicker and fritter away, pixel by pixel, as the housing market gets astronomically more ridiculous.

Sure, I've thought about the idea of me moving out, somewhere, anywhere that would get me closer to work. But the feeling subsides sometimes as quickly as it comes on. My parents, I'm sure, would totally understand if I wanted to move out. But I'm just not moved enough to take the plunge. So I put up with that and the stigma - real, imagined, or otherwise - of being a twenty-something who still lives at home.

I'm not sure if my friend said this, but I remember somebody saying to me, something to the effect of, "Who wants to be 35 and living at home with their parents?"

Wait a second. First of all, I don't have a problem with turning 30, never mind being 30 years old and still living with my folks, so there's no use in getting all depressed about it. I know people older than me living at home with their parents. And there's nothing wrong with them. I have a friend whose entire family - herself, her mother, two older siblings and a niece - all live under one roof. Families like that actually exist. And secondly, who said anything about living at home for the rest of my young adult life? I didn't.

There are pros and cons to living on your own and living at home. My friend made very valid points about renting. Like, for example, being closer to not only work, but things to do and the people you hang out with. And your lifestyle is different - you can entertain friends; if you have a boyfriend, you don't have to worry about spending your time over at his place all the time - you can alternate. And just general independence. You have more of a life.

And I understand that. But I'd like to think, for someone who lives out with her folks in the sticks (by public transit standards), I think I have a pretty good social life. And yeah, the commute can be a bitch, but that's the trade-off for not having to pay rent or utilities, which is more money saved. And what if, one day in the near future, I get a job in another city or country? Just think of all the hassle avoided with trying to ship things to a new place.

On top of which, I have things I want accomplish before I finally move out, that I don't think I can handle if I were living on my own, giving one paycheque a month to a landlord for rent.

Yes, living on your own as an adult and dealing with these things is a fact of life. But so is being an adult child living with your parents. More kids in my generation are doing it. And in a city where lots of people come from their homes in other cities and countries to live here, I consider myself one of the lucky ones who can do that until she's good and ready fly the coop.

And when I move out, it'll be on my own terms, and hopefully when people least expect it ... or stop asking.

Last Week's Word: Showmance

Technically this was supposed to be the word of the week, but I didn't have time, so oh well ...

So, my favourite new slang word of last week is "showmance". Apparently it originated on Big Brother (the U.S. version, I think), and it's supposed to mean a crush - possibly real, but mostly publicly generated - between two single people, usually (a) of somewhat public stature and (b) in a public venue, ie. in front of the cameras (digital, video, take your pick).

This is apparently something that happens from time to time. The most current - and craziest - showmance happened last week, when U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice came north of the border to meet our foreign minister, Peter MacKay. It was a big love-in between the two -- both greeting each other with double-kisses on the cheek; MacKay taking Rice to a Tim Horton's for beverages (total photo-op), introducing her to his family, etc. She also spent the night in his riding - at a hotel, of course.

MacKay apparently is the closest thing we have to single and studly under 40 in Parliament (I'm just repeating hearsay), so it was only a matter of time before the jokes about him and the perpetually single Rice (made out of pure boredom) turned into innuendo-laden gossip.

Rice has been said to have a good chuckle at all the goss a-flyin', and MacKay has probably been too busy burying his nose in other matters to take on the gossip hounds.

But the pinnacle of the "MacKay-Rice" affair had to be on Thursday, when Stephen Colbert got ahold of it with both of his truthy little hands.




My favourite part:
"Kiss me."
"We can't!"
"Jimmy, make them kiss!"

Dutty WHUT?!

Sign # 1 that I'm Getting Older:

So while I was out having a life this summer (or hitting the Captain-Morgan-and-Cokes, take your pick), North America was apparently hit with the phenomenon known as the Dutty Wine.

It's basically this dance that goes along with the song of the same name that's performed by reggae dancehall artist Tony Matterhorn. Now, I'm sure I've heard the song on the radio a handful of times, but never really stopped to notice.

But my ears perked up late one night about a week and a half ago watching MTV.ca (I ain't 'shamed) and there was this discussion going on about what's hot on the 'Net. This girl in the audience got handed the mic and said, "The Colombian dutty wine video on You Tube. This guy does it better than most black girls. It's crazy."

Say whaaat? A guy who wines better than most black girls? Not possible.

So the other night, I was surfing around online and tried to track down the video in question. I didn't find it at first (because I can't spell), but I did discover there were other versions of other people doing the Dutty Wine. Like, 1,704 of them. Probably not counting the repeats, there's probably still over 1,500 out there.

I'm not kidding. Over the last several months, people actually took up cameras and videotaped themselves doing this thing. Teenage girls. Dudes. Video girl-wannabes. Kids. Friends just joking around. White people. Babies. Puppets. Stuffed animals. There was even one girl who was doing it crazily at a party outdoors, in the dust. At different points of the video, she lost both her balance (the beginning) and her hairpiece (the end).

But of all the Dutty Wines I've seen, this one is the craziest - and the one I was originally looking for. Say "hola" the Columbian Dutty Wine.



I guess the key to doing this dance correctly is the neck-roll -- you have to feel as if you're giving yourself whiplash. If you get whiplash, you've either overdone it or have done it wrong.

And the splits?! I love dancing, but after watching all those videos, lawd! I need to go out and order a pair of canes and a neckbrace.

La-la-la-labour Day Weekend ...

Okay, now I officially suck for not writing sooner. Things since the beginning of September have been a complete blur for me.

So, lemme rewind a bit. Nine days ago, I went camping with a bunch of friends up at a provincial park about an hour and a half north of Toronto. I was originally of two minds about it. On one hand, I wasn't entirely sure, because the weather hadn't been stellar lately, and it was threatening to rain. On the other, the last time I'd gone camping was July of last year, and I really felt a burning desire to do it. The burning desire won out; I asked my friend if I could borrow her tent and sleeping bag, and I was in like Flynn.

So we loaded up two cars and headed for the campground. It was pitch-black when we arrived, but we flicked on the flashlights and assembled our tents and air mattresses (hey, people still need a bit of comfort, nuh?). So far the rain was holding off. It was just a tad cold.

That changed the next day. It started raining in the morning; when it let up a bit, that's when two of the friends - responsible for organizing the trip, and the most prepared - brought out the shelter for the picnic bench and other small appliances needed for cooking.

It still rained throughout the weekend, but it was great nonetheless. More people dropped by the site to visit; we took a walk over to the beach, where a couple of them swam; a friend cooked some awesome chilli for dinner that night. Later on in the weekend we went on a couple walks around the campground. We listened to the classic rock countdown that was on for most of the weekend. We even had a slingshot contest, trying to shoot down empty beer cans we put on a nearby bush. I could go on, but it was great.

Of course, it finally stopped raining the day we left, after we tore down our tents. But isn't that the way things usually work?

That weekend left me wishing (a) the weekend didn't have to end so soon, and (b) I could go camping more often. I'd like to eventually rough it - or get as close as possible - at least once.

But, baby steps. First on my shopping list: my own sleeping bag.

A sad end to summer

I was going to post about how sad it is that it's the end of August and summer.

But today, I received a shock and a real reason for a sombre mood.

My friend's father - who was admitted to hospital almost two weeks ago becuase of difficulties breathing - passed away yesterday. She is part of a tight-knit family, so this is understandably an unbearably difficult time for them.

My deepest sympathies go out to her and her family at this time.

I will also be out of town this Labour Day weekend - which is also threatening to be miserable - so hopefully I'll have things to post about when I return.

Blogstipated.

Hey,

Sorry I haven't been as loquacious as usual.

I'm suffering from a combination of writer's block - or "blogstipation", according to this "official" glossary - and laziness.

While I hit my head against the wall to clear out the gunk ...

Check it. Courtesy of British duo Nizlopi. Soooo cute!

(I'd paste the video here, but You Tube isn't agreeing with me. Boo-urns.)

Sound Off: Office Slobbiness

On my last day as fill-in for another job in our office, the people I was working for this week had this yearly meeting to plan their vision for the fall.

I was entrusted with the job of overseeing the set-up of the lounge in which they were having this meeting -- making sure they had their flipcharts on easels with markers, a portable CD player should they need it, and enough tables, chairs, food, whatever.

Fine. That went smoothly enough.

At day's end, I had to go upstairs to retrieve a few things and lay down a tablecloth as a favour to someone else, whose show was having a similar meeting the following day.

I get up there, open the door to the lounge and round the corner.

Good. GOD. WHAT a sty!

There was leftover fruit from an earlier spread, stuck to the table. Coffee rings. Discarded water, juice bottles, pens. I even found an empty Starbucks cup (I'm guessing it was the "grande" size - I dunno, I don't drink Starbucks or coffee, period) under one of the armchairs! It's not like there wasn't a trash can - it was in the middle of the room. And NOT even full!

Believe me, I'm far from being the cleanest person in the world. I know things can get a bit messy at all-day meetings. I even know that yes, in our office building, we have cleaners that come in to tidy up after us.

But just lemme hop up on the old soapbox for a second.

On my favourite TV show, there's a character - a villain, if you will - who's had his hand hacked off with an axe, by another character.

In the space of three episodes, he's somehow managed to:

• wake up from the shock that's knocked him out
• wrap his stumpy, bleeding arm and leave the woodshed in which he was amputated
• stagger through the woods
• find himself a cooler in which to place - and chill - his severed hand
• lope off with said cooler for medical help, and had to settled for a veterinarian
• threatened aforementioned vet by screwdriver to sew on the hand, without anaesthetic
• did NOT pass out, but vomit after his hand was re-attached
• kill the veterinarian by lethal injection and take his clothes
• dye his hair with peroxide
• take the dead vet's SUV and is currently driving to Utah

... all with the use of ONE. HAND.

So tell me this: if a fictional criminal can do all that, with all that loss of blood, and LIVE, how is it that, in a room full of grown adults -- university-educated professionals -- there's NO ONE that could pick up just a tiny bit after themselves?

Just sayin'.

Pluto, 1930 - 2006. Kinda.

Pluto, we hardly knew ye!

The little wannabe astrono-nerd in me couldn't help but blink and choke up a little when I read this this afternoon. (Well, maybe just clear my throat a bit.)

Talk about undoing some 20 years of learning and memorization!

But, for real. Despite the runty, ice-cold exterior and wobbly, weird orbit, you must've known it was only a matter of time before us big eggheads punted you over to the dwarf planet table.

Imagine - if you didn't have all those other particles floatin' around, you might've had, what, another five, 10 years or so?

Kinda sucks for your discoverer's widow, too.

It was a good run, though. Have fun with the other dwarf planets. And remember - in this big interplanetary space park, you're the big dog now. Play nice! Hugs.

Ah, Edinburgh!

Hey kids,

So, after being about four days behind, here I am in Edinburgh, during the International Festival, Fringe Festival, and every other festival known to man right now.

I got here in one piece (and unwittingly managed to buy first-class tickets for the train rides up - like that'll ever happen again), and have been staying with my friend Cindy and her cool flatmates, Brad and Lindsay, at their place just off Leith Walk.

For you film-saavy folks, Leith is the same strip that features prominently in the movie Trainspotting (says Cindy). In real life, Leith is apparently dodgy enough that any friend of Cindy or Lindsay's (well, maybe just a few) who find out they might be walking home after a night on the town immediately orders them into a cab, rather than walk. We were out last night, and (touch wood) we were just fine.

It's been a pretty lazy stay in Edinburgh so far. I spent the first couple of days just sleeping in, loafing, and then only really doing one tourist attraction a day. On Monday, it was Edinburgh Castle. Tuesday, I dragged Lindsay and Cindy on a tour of the new Scottish Parliament.

Tuesday night, we went club-hopping. Cindy - who never drinks - had a couple and it was, well, interesting. We made three stops. The first was to this place called Opal Lounge, where apparently Princes William and Harry have frequented when they are in town. Second stop was the biggest, tackiest meat market in town, (almost aptly) called Espionage, which could give Joker here in Toronto a run for its money. The last - and briefest - visit was at this place called Frankenstein Pub, which was almost dead, save for about 25 people in the place. It was thoroughly cheesy, but fun nonetheless.

Today was slightly better. Cindy and I went to the Writers' Museum, where I took in exhibits on Robert Louis Stevenson (didn't know he was Scottish!), Sir Walter Scott, who has tonnes of books and poetry to his credit, and a huge hulking monument built to him in downtown Edinburgh (near the train station), and the man whose birthday I share (which is celebrated by Scots here and around the world), Robert Burns. It was good.

Then I went over to the Royal Museum. Meh. I spent way too much time among the stuffed animals in the BioDome, and not enough time in the upper levels. And I ran out of time, so I couldn't go to the adjoining Museum of Scotland. I might try doing that tomorrow.

This evening, I managed to go on the Real Mary King's Close tour (yay!), which showed what life was like before part of the old town got demolished and built over. This, I recommend. Partly cheesy, but very infomative.

It's getting late here, so I should go to bed if I'm going to cram stuff in on my last day in town. I'm not sure when I'll write next, but it'll most likely be when I'm back in Toronto. Oh, God. I am SO not looking forward to Friday.

The Midlands: The Abridged Tour

My short weekend in the Midlands was drastically different (and way more quiet) than my previous days in London. And green. I mean, there are green, lush areas in Ontario, and I'm sure in other parts of Canada. But I don't know if they really hold a candle to the lush, rolling hills of the English countryside. It's a bit surreal, really.

I also must say, Sabrina and her parents were so good to me - too good, actually. They more than made me feel at home and spoiled me more than I should have been. I owe them big time and hope I can find some way to repay them for the kindness and hospitality they showed me over the two days.

But here we go:

Saturday: After a good night's sleep, Sabrina and I set out for Stratford-upon-Avon. It's certainly pretty and picturesque, but lemme tell ya, the Bard's Country ain't exactly cheap, either. We went to the tourist information centre to try and find a map, only to find out there were only two types: the ones for 80p, and the ones for 1.25 GBP. Who knew trying not to get lost was so expensive?

We skipped the maps and decided instead to do one of those hop-on, hop-off bus tours. Not bad. We had one of those plug-in guides, so we were trying to follow along as the bus made its way along those narrow streets. First stop: Anne Hathaway's Cottage. How pretty. The garden was enormous and filled with all sorts of plants. They also had staff who gave a brief talk about the history of the cottage in Anne's day and throughout the ages when her relatives took care of it.

We then hopped back on the bus, where we had an actual live tour guide explain things about life in Tudor times as we whizzed past some countryside scenery (and leaned to the right to avoid being whacked in the heads by wayward branches).

Back in town, I went over to Shakespeare's birthplace, which actually had an adjoining museum about his life. That was informative, but it was kind of disappointing, only because the room where Shakespeare was apparently born was one of the last rooms I saw before I left the building. I have to say though, Anne Hathaway's cottage was relatively more interesting.

Sunday: Sabrina took me to her old elementary school, which looked a bit like something out of Harry Potter. She then took me into "downtown" Leek, where we walked around and she showed me her mother's shop (which is named after her older sister, Sophie). It's the cutest town, but I'm sure a lot of towns in this part of the country all look picture-pretty.

We then drove to Buxton, an ancient spa town founded in Roman times. On the way we passed Flash, which Sabrina told me was the highest point in the U.K. (I've read it's the highest village. If someone can verify that for me, please do). In any case, the scenery on the drive up was breathtaking.

A half-hour later we were in Buxton. Apart from the lovely Victorian architecture and beautiful gardens, another big draw is St. Ann's Well, which has natural spring water flowing from its small fountain. I took a couple swigs, and it's (a) unbelievably refreshing, but (b) also quite warm. Turns out the water is - and has always been - a balmy 27.5 degrees Celsius. Buxton also profits from this, as it also has its own mineral water company which distributes worldwide.

We could only spend a couple of hours here, as I left later on in the afternoon for Edinburgh. But we managed to have some tea and scones at a small tea room in town, which capped off a nice weekend.

But it was off to Edinburgh, and trying to cram in as much as possible during the last four days of vacation ...

Stoke-on-Trent, Concluded.

When you last read this blog, I (your twit of a heroine) was waiting for my friend and her parents to come collect me from Macclesfield train station, after missing my actual stop.

I just realized I didn't have my wallet. A frantic search of my hand bag and person a few moments later confirmed it. Nice.

The last place I remembered having it was the phone booth, so I went back out there and checked. Not in sight. I suddenly knew what it felt like to be one of those people in those credit card commercials who go on vacation and lose everything.

I thought I was going to start shitting bricks (pardon the expression). I was looking around, in front of me and behind me, trying to find anyone who looked suspicious enough to swipe a wallet with money and credit cards. I saw this young guy in a gray hooded sweatshirt with a load of grocery bags and immediately my mind started jumping to conclusions. I was like, Oh my God, some yob probably swiped my wallet to buy food and will probably run up my credit card. I'm screwed!

I did snap out of it, went to the ticket wicket and asked them if they had gotten a wallet and daybook turned in. They said to go to the customer service office. I got there, to find an older man just chatting away with the men inside the office. When he finally moved enough for me to pop my head around his shoulder, there they were. My daybook and wallet. Thank. God.

I thanked the man at the office desk profusely for his help, and apologized for being such a twit. I also found out that he thought I'd gotten on the train back to Stoke-on-Trent and put out an announcement for me back there. Hoo, boy.

Things were sorted out in the end. My friend's parents -- bless them, they're the best! -- elected to come and pick me up from the station, since it would take an hour for my friend to drive from Stoke all the way to where I was, and they took me back to their place, where I did eventually see my friend.

The mini-nightmare was finally over. It also made me kind of paranoid, as I vowed I wouldn't let the same thing happen to me when I finally headed up to Edinburgh on Sunday.

Aimed for Stoke-on-Trent. Kinda missed.

So my trek northwards began Friday afternoon ... managed to lug my suitcase onto the tube and up to Euston train station, one of a number of railway hubs in the city.

Got my ticket printed, chilled for a few minutes, and then boarded the right train at the right time. So far, success.

It was at my stop that the trouble began. I noticed the train start to slow down and seeing the signs for Stoke-on-Trent, so I jumped up and began the slightly arduous task of trying to wrestle my suitcase from its hold behind my seat. By the time I got it upright and was making my way to my seat to get my backpack, the train had stopped and passengers were getting on.

It was a nightmare. I couldn't budge, so I had to stand at my seat, blocked in by my suitcase, while other people passed. Finally, the coast was clear, and as I started lugging my stuff down the tiny, tiny aisle, I got my first lesson about Virgin Trains.

Seasoned travellers, please skip this part, because you all know far better than me. But for anyone ever planning on coming to the U.K. and making part of your trip overland: Virgin Trains is NOT like VIA Rail. The train doesn't stop and wait to make sure everyone has boarded or gotten off, that has to. Virgin's Pendolino trains run on a tight schedule, so tight that sometimes, some of its scheduled trains may actually stop longer than expected because they're ahead of schedule.

I found this out the hard way. The train probably stopped for a total of maybe three or four minutes, tops. As soon as I finally made my way towards the doors to exit, the train slowly started pulling out of the station.

"No!" I said to myself as I saw the train moving out. "No! No! Shit! No! Shit! SHIT!"

It was too late though. My friend Sabrina, who was waiting for me on the other side, would have seen people get off, and then would watch as yet another train pulled in a short time later, with no me in sight.

In the meantime, panicked and upset, I first went to find the station manager to explain what had happened to me and which stop I could get off at next to get back on track (so to speak). Went up and down the entire train (I had stashed my stuff on a non-reserved seat in my car). No manager in site. I returned to my "new" seat near the door, very frustrated.

I asked a nearby passenger if she'd seen the manager, and if she knew which station was coming up next. She said no to neither. But bless her heart, she lent me her mobile to try and call and text my friend. No luck, but it was the gesture that counted.

Turns out the next station was Macclesfield, which was about 15 minutes away from Stoke-on-Trent. I stood in the little area between cars with all my gear, and as soon as the train stopped, I was off there like a hobo off a freight car. I went up to the first train staff member I found and explained my predicament. He told me that there was another train going back to Stoke-on-Trent in about 20 minutes and that I had to go to the opposite platform across from us, via elevator.

Great. So I went up and over. On the other side, I looked for a payphone. No phones. Because they were on the way out. On the other side of the platform from which I came. Twit.

So back up and over I went, through the ticket/waiting area, outside where cars waited to pick up people. The phones were on the other side. I made a call to Sabrina, but I got a message saying her phone was off. I called her house and talked to her mom, who told me to stay put.

THEN my that's when my second scatter-brained nightmare of the day took place. After making my calls, I went back into the waiting area and sat down, trying to chill out for a few minutes. After what seemed like 10 or 15 minutes later, I jumped up with a start.

My wallet!

A Wee Update

Hey kiddies,

Sorry for the lack of correspondence over the last couple days.

The abridged version: after a weekend in the Midlands (which began with me trapped on a train), I'm now up in Edinburgh, somewhat alert, and trying not to step in either dog crap or vomit (my friend Cindy's advice to me!).

Will try and write more soon (including a more thorough explanation of the last few days in chronological order).

High Tea? Check.

Seating for one at Harrod's Georgian Restaurant for tea, complete with finger sandwiches, scones, desserts and huge tea pot of green mint tea: 19.95 GBP.

Tip for service: 5.05 GBP.

Taking in the ambience while savouring the gooey, sticky sweet goodness: Priceless.

That's right. I finally made it to Harrod's in Knightsbridge. I went. I ate. I bought tea. I have a plastic shopping bag. I am a Harrod's virgin no more.

(I was going to title this post, "Tea at Harrod's, Bitches!" but considering there are probably friends and acquaintances who got there long before I did -- and probably actually shopped there -- they'd probably think I was an immature loser who just happened to do what thousands and thousands of people do all the ... Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I had tea at Harrod's, bitches!)

I think I was there for about an hour and 20 minutes, but I didn't care. It was great. I did manage to eventually peel myself off of the chair to look around. I barely got a look at the place in the short time I was there, but what I saw was surreal. The Egyptian Room. A chocolate bar. (No, not like the candy. An actual bar. With big churning vats of chocolate instead of hard liquor along the back counter.)

I didn't want to get near anything, for fear I'd in some way damage it and have to pay for it. Costly pots ... pans ... hats ... Fendi and Jimmy Choo bags ... If I was a shopaholic with a penchant for expensive things, this place would be my Waterloo. It was certainly something else.

Earlier, I'd (finally!) gone to the Tate Modern, which I missed on my last trip to London. Of all the stuff I attempted to digest in the two hours I was there, I must say that this was my favourite (next to Picasso, of course). Don't ask me why, but I remember spending more time looking at it than most. Oh yeah, this was pretty good, too.

This, however, annoyed the snot out of me. Don't be fooled by the still picture. I wish I could find a video version of this to properly convey what I mean. Take my word, though - It was almost the audio-visual equivalent of being shot at with a pellet gun.

Of course, me merely mentioning it probably means the artist has achieved what he set out to do. But if you ever go to Tate Modern and stand in front of this thing, leave within two minutes. 'Cause if you're not afraid of clowns before you approach this work, I can see the possibility that you just might be when you leave it.

But on a slightly serious note, I can't believe 10 days have come and gone already! Luckily there's still more to come. If I'm not held up at the train station by long lineups and luggage searches, that is.

The East London Experience

As circumstance (and laziness) would have it, I ended up spending my entire afternoon in evening in East London.

I originally went down there to retrieve my loaned mobile from a friend of a friend, who was kind enough to drive me home last Saturday after missing the subway back. In my exhausted daze, I'd taken it out and threw it on the backseat, and forgot about it until I'd gotten back to my friend's place - about 2 minutes after he'd driven off.

He also had promised to show me around when I was in the area this week, but it wasn't meant to be. He did suggest spending some time at Old Spitalfields Market. I did come through here the last time I was in London, so I wasn't really in the mood to buy anything. But I figured I'd at least have lunch here for old time's sake.

(If any of you get to come here, go to Cafe Mediterraneo - it's where I had probably one of the best chicken salads and hummus ever. I thought I'd be done in 20 minutes. No, ladies and gents. The motto on their bill reads, "SLOW FOOD IS GOOD FOOD", and they're not lying. That thing took the better part of an hour to finish. It was like time slowed down when I ate that salad. I was this close to going home and taking a nap.)

After that, it was down to the Museum in Docklands - quite interesting if you're into the history of London through its ports, docks and mercantile industry. It's actually bigger than I thought it would be - I spent 2 hours in there and only got as far as the abolition of the slave trade. There's way more beyond that, and it's not a bad little place to visit. And for 5 GBP, you can get a ticket that's good for a year. (If anyone plans on going to London between now and Aug 9, 2007, lemme know I'll be quite happy to let you have my ticket.)

By the time I caught the Docklands Light Railway (their version of the Scarborough RT, except things smell, well, slightly river-y instead of like sulphur at Midland Station - yeggs!) back to Tower Hill Station, and tried to grab some dinner, it was time for the main event - the Jack the Ripper walking tour I'd been waiting to take for days.

Funnily enough, the tour guide (really informative) took us back through the part of East London where I'd been earlier (dang) and showed approximately where the murders took place. I didn't know part of that area of town is actually now Banglatown, which is apparently reputed to have the best curry. (Too bad I already ate!). But it was neat.

And here I am, with one full day left before I have to pack up and travel out of the city by train. Sniff. I can't believe it's almost over! Well, time to get some shut-eye and make the best of what I've got left.

Surrounded by clocks. And STILL tardy.

Today, I took a river boat cruise along the Thames. But, as usual, time wasn't on my side.

I bought my ticket and, thinking I had plenty of time to make the boat, went wandering off along South Bank, where a lot of the cultural stuff is located.

By the time I figured out it was time to turn around, and hustled over to the pier, the catamaran had taken off. I had to wait until 3:00 p.m. to catch the next one.

I managed to snap a few pictures, and got off at Greenwich, way on the other side of the Thames. Very picturesque. It's home to the famous Cutty Sark (which brought tea leaves to London), the Maritime Museum, Greenwich University and the Royal Naval College. But I zipped past all of this for what I thought might be the real treasure: the Royal Observatory.

I originally went because of (a) my growing admiration of Sir Christopher Wren's architectural work, and (b) my fleeting interest in astronomy as a child, so I thought, telescopes and great views - sweet. Turns out I was also visiting the symbolic birthplace of modern time and home of the Prime Meridian (a.k.a. The Reason I Have To Do Time Zone Math at Work Every Day).

I also didn't anticipate the fact it was up on a hill. Pretty when you get up there. Not-so-pretty as you huff and puff up there. As much as I admired Christopher Wren just 30 minutes earlier, I was silently cursing his name as I climbed upwards in my wedges. (I bet 20 bucks he didn't hike up there in his pointy shoes. Hot air balloon is my educated guess.)

The view of London from here is really impressive, though. There's also a free tour through the building - the living quarters of the first Astronomer Royal, a Camera Obscura outside, the Octagon Room where they'd peer through their telescopes ....

And all the timekeepers, clocks, and pocketwatches you can shake a stick at. It was definitely something I was taken by. Speaking of time, I was definitely operating on DST (D Slow-ass Time). By the time I got to the section with clocks and watches, I realized I was late for the boat leaving Greenwich for Embankment Pier (where I was supposed to jump off and meet a friend for dinner). Typical.

So I stayed a bit longer, looked around, and then lined up for the famous picture-taking spot where the Eastern and Western Hemispheres are separated by a single, imaginary, dividing line. It took about 20 minutes, but I got my small moment with time snapped (with slightly annoying kids jumping around in the background).

Then I hightailed it out of there (or as much as you can in heeled sandals) back down to the pier. The boat I'd hoped to make it on was full, so I was put on another boat, which turned out to be The Slowest Boat Ever. I was sitting at Greenwich Pier for at least a good half-hour while three other boats docked, picked up other passengers, and zipped away.

I finally had had it and jumped off at Tower Bridge, because I probably could meet my friend faster if I took the tube. I did finally manage to find her, apologize profusely (she was really really good about it) and we had a nice dinner.

But it was definitely a bit of an unpredictable afternoon. And a further reminder of why I need to invest in a wristwatch.

Torture and Jewels at the Tower of London

So after The Day Of Neverending Travel, I slept in and didn't venture out until well after 2 p.m. My plan: to see the Tower of London.

I took the District Line down to Tower Hill. Unlike the other lines I've been on, it's definitely an older one. The tube cars are old and clunky, and the term "Mind the Gap" definitely applies at each stop - it looked like there were about three to four inches (at least) between the cars and the platform. You could definitely jam a leg down there. Well, it looked that way to me, anyhow.

The Tower is definitely worth it. When you surface from the Underground, you can see a piece of the original wall that fenced in ancient London. And the actual Tower of London (a series of towers) is gigantic.

I can honestly say the best part of the Tower is the tour given by the guards there (called Yeoman Warders, or Beefeaters). The one I got was quite lively and very funny. Definitely entertaining if you're a kid. I think the tour lasts about a half-hour, and then they let you loose to see the other towers. We got a glance at where the prisoners for execution were brought in, heard a few of the stories of folks who were imprisoned, even where a couple of Henry VIII's wives were (privately) executed. Fascinating stuff.

Most guide books will say you need to give yourself at least a couple hours. I think - if you want to be thorough - you need to give yourself several hours. Because I went so late, I didn't get to see all of the towers. I spent the most time in the White Tower, but that was because there were so many people. There's a lot of armour, and a lot of weaponry in there, so if that's your thing, you would probably appreciate it. (I must say, if you go to the armoury area, check out the suit of armour for Henry VIII. He was pretty, ahem, generous with the codpiece.)

I then had to scoot over to see the Crown Jewels. This is a must. Yeah, the blinged-out crowns and sceptres are sparkly and impressive. But there's this golden punch bowl ... holy crap.

I wanted to get into the Bloody Tower, but only made it in to see the torture implements in the lower levels (nothing says "pain and suffering" like a device named The Scavenger's Daughter), and then the place closed down.

I definitely would pay to see this again, if only to hit the rest of the towers and Tower Bridge which, even from a distance, is pretty impressive. Alas, another time, another trip.

Birmingham, Scarborough Style

Yesterday, I decided to go visit my cousin Shauna in Birmingham. It was a last-minute decision, as I only found out she was there, the day before I left Toronto. And man, what a voyage that was.

Left the house reasonably early and got myself down to London Euston relatively ahead of time.

After plunking down 35 GBP, along with a few more quid for a cookie, some water and crisps, I waited for an hour and boarded the train (luckily, the right one) on time.

Two and a half hours later, I arrived at Birmingham New Street Station. I called my cousin, who I thought would come and meet me. I ended up having to take a cab to her flat (cost: about 10 GBP).

Didn't do much. Met her boyfriend, caught up with her a bit, ate dinner and watched TV and bootlegged DVDs. (Like the really bad ones where the DVD skips and you could see people's silhouettes when they left their seats, and where the screen was partly obscured when someone got up in front of the camera or the bootlegger's jacket got in the way). But it was very nice to see her again, nonetheless.

I stayed a little later than expected, leaving sometime after 8 p.m. Shauna's boyfriend was more than kind enough to give me a lift back to the station.

I ended up just missing a train back into London and dropped another 35 GBP for a return ticket on the last train to Euston.

That trip itself went well. It was when I finally returned to the station that things got a bit difficult.

I thought - if the train pulled in a couple minutes early - I could dash down to the Underground and try and make my way as far westward as possible. I was doing brilliantly until I skidded to a stop in front of partially closed gates and a whiteboard which read, "UNDERGROUND CLOSED. SERVICE RESUMES AT 5:20 A.M."

What. The. Fuh.

My friends over in Ealing were probably already asleep, and there was no way I was going to wake them and make them come down for me. I already was staying in their home and pretty much eating their food. How inconsiderate and humiliating would THAT be? It would be like New Year's Eve 2000, all over again.

That left me with only one alternative, which people back home know I'm notorious for doing after a late night downtown - I was cabbing it home.

I went out to the main street beyond the station and tried flagging down a cab. Lousy luck. And silly me. It seemed everytime I tried walking farther down the street, someone would get a cab near the spot I just stood. After about 10 minutes of this (and panicked visions of spending the night sleeping on a park bench and potentially getting mugged or worse), I strode back into the station, asked the night staff about taxis, and got directed to a taxi park on the other side of the station.

About 40 minutes and almost 30 GBP later, I was back in Ealing. And soon I was out like a light.

Portobello ... and uh-oh ...

On Saturday, my friend's fiance John and I went down to Portobello Market. It wasn't too bad, if a bit crowded. I've been told it's in one of the more expensive parts of town, being in Notting Hill. But we mainly stuck to the long stretch of road with vendors and antique shops.

Of course, with it being a location flooded by tourists on a regular basis, no doubt things were a bit pricey, depending on where you went. I didn't really see anything that caught my fancy, save for a necklace I ended up purchasing (10 GBP - not the best price, but it was okay).

We then hightailed it out of there, and John took me to this historic old tavern, the Cheshire Cheese. Built after the Great Fire of 1666, it's pretty much remained standing ever since. I had a pint of cider (not Strongbow, but actually quite nice). Unfortunately, most of the bar had been either closed off or reserved for private functions, so I really didn't see a whole lot past the front drinking room, which was really small. Come to think of it, most of the bar (and the staircase down to the toilets) was pretty small. People must've been tiny back in the 17th century. Like Shetland Pony-tiny.

Later in the evening, I met up with my friend Shenaz (who lives in Canary Wharf) and her friend for a play over in the west end, at Hammersmith. It was a political play about the Iranian constitutional revolution of 1906. Interesting stuff.

After, we drove downtown to Covent Garden. I must say - from the back of a car, London at night looks awesome. I tried to take a couple pictures, but they didn't turn out as well as I thought they would. We went to this place called Pizza Express (where they eat their pizza with a knife and fork - !!!) and chilled and joked around for a bit.

It was a great end to a good day ... except for one thing.

Unlike the subway in Toronto, the London Underground - as great as it is - has this annoying habit of shutting down completely after about 12 a.m. So by the time we figured this out, Shenaz's friend - who's from East London - had to drive me all the way BACK to West London. And we had to stop a few times along the way to figure out which way we were going. I eventually got dropped off at about 2:15, 2:30 a.m. or so. I offered to pay for gas, but he refused.

I felt awful. I was also vowing to myself not to let that happen again. Famous last words.

Out of The Hole ...

I haven't had the chance to write for a couple days, and that's mainly 'cause I've been a bit worn out by all the things I've been trying to cram in. I just got home not too long ago from Birmingham, so while I'm up, I'll fill you in.

On Friday, my friend Mandy and I went to St. Paul's Cathedral. I'd been there the last time I was in London, but never got to go above the ground floor due to renovation/restoration. But it certainly felt like I was going in again for the first time (especially when I found out I had to pay 9 GBP. I definitely do NOT remember that part). Being the Baroque style of architecture, the craftsmanship is phenomenal and elaborate. The artwork is unbelievable. The whole place is ridiculous, but in a good way. It just boggles my mind whenever I see stuff like that, to think human beings are capable of such massive works of architectural art. And that's the old stuff.

A couple things I learned about myself (or at least admitted once again):

(a) I am an out-of-shape loser. There are 530 little, tiny steps going up into the upper areas of the cathedral, and I got winded after about the halfway point. Meanwhile my friend - the runner - didn't even break a sweat. Note to self: Resume cardio when I return to Toronto.

(b) The older I get, the more uneasy I am of heights. I'm not scared, per se. Otherwise I never would've said, "Let's go up to the top!" The sections outside the actual building were fine. However, when we got to the Whispering Gallery up in the Dome and I looked waay up to all the artwork above, my stomach and my brain both said, "Oh, hell, no!" in unison, and I held on to that metal bar with at least one hand (and clutching my stuffed MEC bag with the other). Of course, Mandy - being the fearless runner friend she is, ducked in between the railing. Show-off.

Climbing the spiralling metal staircase to get up to the Golden Gallery, the uneasiness continued. I didn't dare look down, and I didn't even attempt to look up. Just straight ahead - or at least at Mandy's feet as she ascended the steps ahead of me.

Once I was outside at the top, I was pretty much fine. I snapped a couple of pictures, took in the skyline, which is quite the sight. But I felt the slight vertigo return on the way down. And I specifically remember getting back down to the ground floor of St. Paul's and feeling a slight wobble in my legs. That can't be a good sign.

We also spent part of the afternoon in the Museum of London. Nope, not the British Museum. There's an actual museum dedicated to the history of London, from prehistoric times onward. I can't speak for my friend, but St. Paul's tuckered me out, so we never made it past Roman times. Luckily the Museum was free.

Then we met up with Mandy's friend from work and we had dinner at or near Kew Gardens. It was a cute little pub called the Rose and Crown. Definitely good food, and the building - like most in London - had a history behind it.

More a bit later ...

A Tale of Two Houses

So two out of three ain't bad.

I wanted - more than anything - to visit the British Library (a.k.a. Wordgeeks' Paradise), but I just stopped short of actually heading inside the premises before having to turn around and head down to Canary Wharf to meet a friend.

(That's what you get when your friends give you a phone you can receive calls on, but can't make because you have no phone minutes and your phone hasn't been topped up. Problem later resolved, though.)

However, I did hit the Dickens House Museum over on Doughty Street (after getting lost on foot - surprised?) first. It's an interesting, if slightly cheesy, place. First I caught a 30-minute video on Dickens' life. (Well, most of it. This was the cheesy part. And I think I was caught nodding off by this 11-year-old blond girl sitting right next to me. I didn't look right at her - who needs dirty looks from a tween, anyway?)

Then I took a bit of a self-guided, brochure-free (one pound fifty pence EXTRA for the freakin' brochure!) tour. Not bad. Saw some objects that inspired his works. Did you know he and his family spent time in debtor's prison 'cause of his dad? Totally sucks, if not character-building for his literary works. He also apparently had quite the gaggle of lady-friends throughout his life. I even got a photo of the last desk he worked on before his death in 1870 (which I'll post later).

Compared to Dickens' residence, Sir John Soane's Museum may look like a typical nondescript historical home on the outside (it's actually three adjoining houses), but the inside is another kettle of fish. I went in blind, not knowing who the guy was (one of Britain's leading architects in the 19th century; responsible for designing the Bank of England), and was actually impressed.

Dude was eccentric. For serious. Mirrors. Tinted yellow glass in the roof. Crazy, beautifully designed domed skylights and ceilings. Artifacts up the yin-yang. Folding walls of paintings with stories. (Oh yes. Folding walls). And oh yeah - there's a sarcophagus in the basement.

Of course, like most museums, I couldn't photograph any of the wicked mirrors or skylights, so all I could really get is this lousy picture from outside (above). But that place seriously makes for good photography. If anyone finds a way to sneak a camera in and snap one of those convex mirrors, I'll be your BFF. Well, maybe not - I'd just think you're really cool for, like, a week.

Update: Responding to my comment about my friends' loaner phone. I was being sarcastic and was explaining a brief moment of frustration, which quickly passed.

In all seriousness, I am indebted to them for letting me stay with them during this trip and tricking me out with a phone and other things at my disposal while I've been here. It's leaps and bounds more than most people travelling do get. I'm very lucky and I know it.

Take Two ...

Much better today.

I actually got my carcass out of bed before noon, got to the right tube station this time, and hightailed it down to St. Martin-in-the-Fields church. Not bad - and surprisingly shorter than I thought it would be.

Also managed to have a muffin and tea down in the Crypt Cafe. My table was actually sitting on someone's tombstone.

After that, I went to buy my ticket for the Houses of Parliament tour. To kill time until the tour started, I went to a place called The Jewel Tower. It's a good primer on how British government essentially works, and a good history. It was also a rip-off, at 2.30 GBP. It should have been free.

I then snuck over to Westminster Abbey. Okay. Didn't expect it to take THAT long. SO many crypts and memorial plaques. And people. (Don't go if you don't like large crowds.) But still, it was all right. Got to touch Geoffrey Chaucer's tomb over at Poet's Corner and see one of the smaller gardens in the back.

Finally, I went on a tour of the Houses of Parliament. Worth every pound, I think. The only thing that would've made it a bit better was if the House was sitting ... but then again, we probably wouldn't have seen as much as we had. And I always thought the actual House of Commons was bigger.

After a late lunch, took a long walk up Charing Cross Road ... took in the sights, had my first Hare Krishna sighting, went through Soho (kinda, briefly), and up along Tottenham Court Road.

I pretty much tired myself out enough to catch a snooze on the tube back (and not miss my stop).

We'll see what's next.

South Ealing Christening (or, A Little Poo on the Shoe)

A bit of a slow start on Day 1 of my fabulous vacation.

I eventually did leave the house after about 3:00 in the afternoon. I tried, in my sleepy-but-fairly-rested haze, to remember my friend's directions to the Northfields tube station. Two rights, then a left, then a left. No problem.

So imagine my surprise when I turned up in front of South Ealing station instead. A check of my guidebook showed I'd actually walked up to the next one up on the Piccadilly line. No worries.

Next step was trying to trying to figure out what kind of ticket I should buy. Which meant getting change.

As I paced back and forth, I was trying to figure out (a) where I needed to go, and (b) who I should ask for change, and (c) who I should ask about tickets. I wasn't sure what to do next. And the station kinda smelled like ass. I wasn't sure why, so I tried to ignore it, since I figured I wasn't going to be there very long.

As I was standing over at the map for the upteenth time, I noticed the floor was kinda slippery, 'specially under my left foot. I couldn't figure out why ... until I looked down.

Crap. Literally.

Someone's dog had shat a bunch of fresh, reddish brown ones on the place where I'd been standing, and I managed to grind the mushy mess into the treads of my left loafer. Classy. I hobbled outside, sidestepped more poop to find some newsprint, something to wipe the mess off. It helped a tiny bit, but not that much.

So, trying to do my best impression of the British stiff upper lip, I ignored the dung, broke a twenty at the guys who (I guess) handle cab service, got some help from a really nice guy at the wicket, and managed to catch the tube to Leicester Square (sitting, with my right leg firmly crossed over my left the whole time).

I managed to get to the National Portrait Gallery (where I later washed my hands and tried to diminish the poop on my shoe before washing my hands again). Not bad, but I think I spent too much time trying to take in all the pictures from the Tudor and Elizabethan eras. Meh.

I couldn't really see much else, since everything pretty much closes between 5:30 and 6 p.m., so I took a stroll down to Trafalgar Square and snapped a couple pictures of the fountain and the monstrous Nelson's Column.

I walked past the Old Scotland Yard, went through Victoria Embankment Garden, and then decided to go home. (Which was interesting in itself, since I managed to get on the wrong line and changed trains probably 3 times before I got back to my friend's place. I honestly don't remember getting lost on the tube once when I was here the last time.)

I did manage to have a nice dinner at an Indian restaurant with my friend, with free Tia Maria shots to boot.

It ended well. But there's always tomorrow.

What's Latin for "seize the sleep"?

Hey kiddies,

Am officially in London - and officially disoriented. My body knows it's almost 1 p.m. here ... but my brain still is on Toronto time (which, by my watch, means it's barely 8 a.m. there).

Uhh, this jet-lag is gonna suck.

As soon as I get my bearings and get my behind down to the Tube, I'll start this vacation - and the pictures - I swear!

Also, a Happy Birthday today to my brother, stuBlog. He'd probably hate it if he found out I linked him, but hey - he's family. And you can't forget about family.