The Strangest Dream, Night Two ...

As if last night's tiger dream wasn't odd enough ...

I really must not be getting enough sleep, because I had another weird dream last night.

I was a student again, and I was applying for some special prize or the other. On this particular day, there was some sort of special test.

I just remember entering the room, really pissed off about something - I don't even know what. I nudge past this tall-ish man in a suit; I mean, I brushed past him and didn't care.

And then I hear a voice say, "Excuse me, are you ... ?" and he says my name.

I turn around, and it's the tall man I just brushed past. He's got kind of an English accent, and for some reason, he looks like he's sweating. I look down at the bottle he was holding, which had a red label, and looked like it was full of water. It seems like, in brushing past him, I caused him to spill his drink.

I apologize profusely and jump to get him some serviettes.

Before I know it, the people are gathering for this test. As it turns out, Tall Man is one of the important people related to this test - he sits down at a small rectangular table of equally official-looking people. Great.

And there's a long table, almost as if it's set up for a panel discussion. This long table is apparently where the prize candidates doing this special test will be sitting.

We get our tests, and as we're looking at them waiting to start, this girl on my left says to me, "Oh look - it's like a library test. I did these back in high school."

"Library test?" I asked.

"Yeah", the girl replied. "Haven't you ever done this before?" The guy on my right and I give each other an, "are you KIDDING me?" look, and mutter no.

Then the test starts. The official-looking people from before have disappeared. But the adjudicator looks like this woman who's my assignment editor at work in real life.

Everyone else is scribbling, some furiously; i'm thinking about how to answer the question. I notice our test sheets are these tiny rectangular cards. I finally go to fill mine out and notice it doesn't look like the others at all.

The adjudicator says, "Don't spend too much time on it. Just get it done as fast as you can."

Perplexed, I turn my card over and over, and finally ask for a new one.

But I notice that the adjudicator and I are the only ones left in the room. Everyone has up and left. But how on earth ... did everyone finish and leave while I wasn't looking?

And that's all I remember from the dream. I dunno what this means? Am I being left behind in some respect in my life. Am I GOING to be left behind unless I do something? And if so, what am I supposed to be doing to prevent this?

At This Rate, The Ides of March Might Kick My Ass

Well, well, well. In like a lion, indeed.

Just when I thought things might actually be mild enough not to wear those horribly thick-soled boots I've been using for the last couple of months, Mother Nature decides to take a pile driver to Toronto.

It's RIDICULOUS out there right now ... blizzarding like it's my birthday. And it's not even over - apparently we're due for some ice pellets, if we haven't started getting them already.

You know, come to think of it, these past couple of days have just been weird for me in general.

So far:

- Work has been absolutely mental. I have never run so much in the hallways at work in my life.

- Yesterday my uncle's mother checked out of the country club called Life on the same day his new grandson checked in. Apparently both of these events happened in the morning, and in Florida, where that part of my family lives.

The little squirt's name is Uriah - sure it's an old biblical name, but coincidentally, it also just happens to be the name of my cousin's father. Not coincidentally, my cousin HATES her father. So she had a bit of a conniption when she found out her little cousin's new name.

- One of my other cousins in England got beat up by his father (due to cowardice, not drugs, alcohol or what have you) and my cousin had to call the cops. (Yes, my extended family is dyfunctional, like quite a few people.)

- Last night, I dreamed a tiger was licking my hand. Okay, not quite. I mean, there was this guy pretending to be a cat at what I think was some kind of TV show or party. And I remember being told to close my eyes, and then having this warm tongue licking my hand. The tongue definitely WASN'T human, and when I opened my eyes - voila! A big, white tiger.

I read one online analysis about the symbolism of tigers and I have no idea what to think, or what this could mean. And I rarely have dreams where I actually remember anything.

And the weather just capped it off.

I know it sounds like none of those things are particularly related to one another, but I just found all that bizarre.

I really hope that "beware the Ides of March" business isn't actually something to take to heart. Otherwise I'd better start wearing a bulletproof vest just before St. Patrick's Day.

Doctors: Love or Loathe Them?

The past week and a half has just shown me why some people hate doctors. Or why other people make it a practice to visit them as little as possible.

For well over two years, I've had chronic back discomfort, the combined result of a minor back injury I suffered about a decade ago lifting a box the wrong way, and an even worse injury suffered at the end of a softball game. Things haven't been the same for a long time.

I've gone to a sports clinic, had chiropractic care, tried an herbalist's dietary supplements (at my dad's insistence) and am currently going to physiotherapy (almost for a year as of March). I've had two sets of X-rays, which haven't shown anything unusual.

Last September at my annual physical, I mentioned to my doctor that I was still having the discomfort. She replied she found it strange that it was still going on for this long, and added she'd look at my file and see if I was eligible for an MRI. I filled out the questionnaire on the requisition form that would be faxed to the nearest MRI clinic, and signed it. The receptionist gave me a number for the hospital clinic and that was that.

In October or November, after not hearing anything, I called the doctor's office to inquire. The receptionist said she'd put a reminder on my chart and would make sure the doctor would look at it.

Fast-forward to the week of February 12. I'm suffering from a stiffness in my lower back and discomfort I haven't had in months. It's prompted me to think: hey - what about that MRI request from September? I haven't heard a peep.

I made a special trip down to the office that Friday afternoon to inquire in person. The receptionist pulled my chart, and opened it to show me that, in the five months since my physical, the MRI requisition form was STILL sitting in my file.

In another dimension, my doctor could have faxed off the form, prompting the hospital to send me the forms to fill out; I could have sent back the complete forms; gotten an appointment; gotten the MRI done; and probably have gotten the results in the same amount of time.

I'm shopping around for a new doctor. I have one prospect, who I'm supposed to be seeing this coming Friday.

Meanwhile, I phoned twice this past Thursday to find out what happened to my requisition form. The clinic (FINALLY) called me back Friday, just to tell me the form was faxed off. My doctor - who I've NEVER gotten a personal phone message from the entire time I've been her patient - left a message on my cell phone to tell me she faxed the form off last Tuesday; and would like to make an appointment to see me to see how my physio is going (um, pretty good up until, like, two weeks ago) and to discuss other options (for treating my back, I'm assume).

While I should be glad she's FINALLY taking a concern, and should understand she probably has a couple hundred patients, I'm annoyed that I have to poke and prod her for medical care.

I'm not a hypochondriac. Outside of my annual physical, my visits are minimal. If there's something which has the potential to greatly affect my ability to function day to day, shouldn't I explore all avenues of investigating and pinpointing what the problem is, and solving it as soon as is needed?

And the worst part is, there are people out there who are suffering from pain and discomfort worse than mine, who are doing the same thing, day after day, week after week.

Just a thought.

Servant of Time

It's amazing how, as some of us get older, we - knowingly or unknowingly - fall subservient to the tick-tick-tick of the 24-hour clock.

I've realized this even more so lately, given the recent change in my schedule because of work, appointments, etc., how dependent I am on having to be at a certain place, doing a certain things by a certain time.

Take today, for example. I barely caught the bus near my house, which usually begins the long trek I make to work each day (albeit at different times). The bus doors, which just closed, opened for me, and breathlessly, I made a point of saying thanks to the bus driver, to convey my gratitude for letting me on, and not driving off as some tend to do.

The bus driver instead replied with an unnecessarily snarky, "Time to get a watch." As much as I wanted to say something in response, I let it go and proceeded to find my seat.

My morning routine, which is a complete blur in my mind, consists of working out at the gym with my trainer, followed by showering, dressing, putting my big clunky boots and huge winter jacket, lumbering to work, unloading my things, inhaling breakfast in the nearby food court, and plunking my body at my desk in time for the start of my shift at work.

From then on, I spend the next eight and a half hours working with - or, as I see it, constantly fighting against - time.

For a huge chunk of my day, I wear a stopwatch around my neck. To time how long things are. Where things stop and where they start. I'm constantly watching the wall clocks to gauge how much time I have, or have left, to complete tasks.

All this leads up to our show, which airs in the evening. The last hour and a half to show time always feels like a quarter of its worth, and yet it never feels like it's enough.

The show itself is 26 minutes long, with a four-minute commercial break. But the first 15 minutes of that show feel like three.

And before I know it, it's all over. But time doesn't seem to slow down until about 20 minutes after that. When it finally does, it's time to make the trek home again ... which takes about 90 minutes. And then when I get home, instead of getting right to the tasks I have to do before I go to bed, I dawdle - much like I'm doing right now - and I end up hitting the pillow way later than I should.

Just thinking about what my day is like should depress me, a lot. But it only gets me down a little, because at the moment, I have no choice. I think my commute has a lot to do with it, because I often wonder what life would be like if I had a little more time.

But perhaps time is, in a way, like money - that no matter how much I have, it will never be enough.

Modified Speech: Kinda Catchy, No?

connect-a-neck: A term to describe a person's slight weight gain, which is visibly apparent in their facial profile, most notably where the neck connects with the chin; not yet approaching double-chin status. (Source: MTV Canada)

I heard this term one weekend afternoon watching some MTV Canada (because that's the kind of exciting life I lead, when not stalking people on IMdB.com). It was part of the "after-party" following the first episode of the new season of the of the reality series, "The Hills". The two VJs were dissecting the breakup of the main character and her boyfriend at the end of the summer.

In the midst of their analysis, the male VJ points out that the now ex-boyfriend had a little something he referred to as "connect-a-neck" - suggesting he'd gone a little soft and lost whatever strong male jawline he may have had, possibly because of no exercise and one too many beers. Then, to illustrate the point to his fellow female VJ, suggested that he had a bit of the same "condition" going on, turning in profile to the camera and tracing the region with his top of his ballpoint pen.

It's stuck in my head ever since. Don't ask me why - I just like the way it sounds. Like the verbal equivalent of a small pair of castinets.


vajayjay haze: What happens in some women, when sexual urges are so strong it impairs the ability to properly focus or concentrate on any tasks whatsoever, until said sexual urges are sated. (Source: Loquacious D ... partially)

Walking home with two friends from a party, one of my friends was talking about the booty call she was going to have later on that night. In recalling her week, had mentioned that it had been a while since her last booty call, so it was making it hard to concentrate on the work she had been trying to do that way. The only way she'd be able to concentrate, she said, was if she took care of business.

"Ah," I said. "That there is what I call the vajayjay haze."

I can only take credit for the "haze" part. Thanks and apologies are due to Grey's Anatomy creator Shonda Rimes for coming up the first part. If not for the skittish American networks, who squirm at hearing the word which kinda sounds like "angina" more than once during a medical drama, I could not have found a venue to use such a great made-up word in a sentence.

I do believe my work is done for another week.

The Case For Napping, Exhibit B

Thought I was plain delusional when I posted this a couple of weeks ago?

Keep reading. Imma let this article speak for itself:


CHICAGO – New research on napping provides the perfect excuse for office slackers, finding that a little midday snooze seems to reduce risks for fatal heart problems, especially among men.

In the largest study to date on the health effects of napping, researchers tracked 23,681 healthy Greek adults for an average of about six years. Those who napped at least three times weekly for about half an hour had a 37 percent lower risk of dying from heart attacks or other heart problems than those who did not nap.

Most participants were in their 50s, and the strongest evidence was in working men, according to the study, which appears in Monday's issue of Archives of Internal Medicine.

The researchers said naps might benefit the heart by reducing stress, and jobs are a common source of stress.

It's likely that women reap similar benefits from napping, but not enough of them died during the study to be sure, said Dr. Dimitrios Trichopoulos, the study's senior author and a researcher at Harvard University and the University of Athens Medical School.

Heart problems killed 48 women who were studied, six of them working women, compared with 85 men, including 28 working men.A daytime siesta has long been part of many cultures, especially those in warmer climates.

Mediterranean-style eating habits featuring fruits, vegetables, beans and olive oil have been credited with contributing to relatively low rates of heart disease in those countries, but the researchers wanted to see if napping also plays a role.

"My advice is if you can (nap), do it. If you have a sofa in your office, if you can relax, do it," Trichopoulos said.

Exactly how stress is related to heart disease is uncertain. Some researchers think it might be directly involved, through unhealthy effects of stress hormones, or indirectly by causing people to exercise less, overeat or smoke.

The researchers in the latest study factored in diet, exercise, smoking and other habits that affect the heart but still found napping seemed to help.

Previous studies have had conflicting results. Some suggested napping might increase risk of death, but those mostly involved elderly people whose daytime sleepiness reflected poor health, Trichopoulos said.

His research team studied a broader range of people, ages 20 to 86, who were generally healthy when the study began.

Still, it's possible that study participants who napped "are just people who take better care of themselves," which could also benefit the heart, said Dr. Marvin Wooten, a sleep specialist at Columbia St. Mary's Hospital in Milwaukee.

"The guy ... who doesn't take time out for a siesta in their culture is probably the guy who is extremely driven and under a lot of pressure," which could increase heart risks, he said.

Siestas aren't ingrained in U.S. culture, and napping usually is equated with laziness in the high-charging corporate world, said Bill Anthony, a Boston University psychologist and co-author of ``The Art of Napping at Work.''

Still, some offices allow on-the-job naps, and many workers say it makes them more, not less, productive.

Yarde Metals, a metals distributing firm, built a nap room at its Southington, Conn., headquarters as part of an employee wellness program. With two leather sofas, fluffy pillows, soft lighting and an alarm clock, it's the perfect place for a quick snooze, engineer Mark Ekenbarger said.

Ekenbarger, 56, has an enlarged heart artery and said he frequently takes half-hour naps on the advice of his doctor to reduce stress.

"It really does energize me for the rest of the day,'' Ekenbarger said.

"It would be really encouraging if employers across the country really embraced that philosophy that napping is a good thing. It makes a big difference in my life.''


I rest my case. Vive les sommes, mofos.

A Strand of Old Age

My mom was helping me take out the twists in my hair this morning, in preparation for my trip to the hairdresser later in the afternoon.

As we were talking and she was helping comb out one side of my head, she suddenly said, "Oh, look - you have a golden hair."

"Golden hair?" I said, wrinkling my nose. "What are you talking about?"

You know when you have that nanosecond where you think you have a clue as to where the conversation is headed, only to be brushed aside and forgotten just as quickly? Well, I thought, either my mom is saying I have a blond hair or a grey one. Or maybe just a different colour.

Didn't matter, because half a second later, she yanked out the hair in question and gave it to me.

At first, I said, "Nah. This looks like a piece of lint." Then I had another good second to look at the wavy, curly strand in question.

Lint it was not. It was white. White, white, white.

"No," I said. "A gray hair, already? This is not good."

"Oh, it's okay," my mom said. "Your brother has a couple of them, too."

"No it's not," I said. "And you pulled it out. Don't you know that for every hair you pull out, two grow back in its place?"

My mom just poo-pooed it. But maybe this is just the start. Today it's one strand. Tomorrow, it's, like, a whole patch. My dark, undyed hair is one of the few physical things I pride myself on (even if the stuff I comb IS the dead stuff).

Sure, I want one of those sophisticated white streaks, but when I'm, like, 50. Not NOW.

Happy Birthday, Bob!

I had all sorts of grandiose plans to try and blog every other day this month in tribute to Black History Month. but then I got tired ... and busy ... and lazy.

So consider this my first post.

Happy Bob Marley Day, everyone!

If you can, come in from the cold ('cause it's coooooooold!) and lively up yourself.

(Happy belated, Melissa!)

New Month, New Posts Coming Soon

Hello my babies,

Happy February!

Sorry I haven't been posting in the last little bit. I lost internet access at home last week, so I was going through withdrawal big time.

I also found out a couple days ago that I'm getting a temporary posting to a new job, starting in about a week's time. So that's exciting (and hopefully NOT regrettable!).

It's late, but I'll try to start posting again soon.

Why I Should Consider Moving to France ...

... or at least why I should now double my efforts for a "Oui to naps!" campaign and petition in my workplace, if THIS actually comes to fruition:

PARIS — The French already enjoy a 35-hour work week and generous vacation. Now the health minister wants to look into whether workers should be allowed to sleep on the job.

France launched plans this week to spend $9 million this year to improve public awareness about sleeping troubles. About one in three French people suffer from them, the ministry says.
Fifty-six per cent of French complain that a poor night’s sleep has affected their job performance, according to the ministry.

“Why not a nap at work? It can’t be a taboo subject,” Health Minister Xavier Bertrand said Monday. He called for further studies and said he would promote on-the-job naps if they prove useful.

France’s state-run health insurance provider will send letters explaining the importance of good sleep. The Health Ministry’s Web site offers tips on how best to get a good night’s rest.

The ministry’s online “Passport to Sleep” recommends cutting down on coffee, tea, colas, and athletic activity after 8 p.m., shunning TV time or working late in the evening, and listening better to the body’s own sleep signals, such as yawning.

Bertrand said sleepiness causes 20 per cent to 30 per cent of highway accidents across France each year.

Okay, so forget about the rest of the story about the tips on how to get a good night's rest ...

Now, think about all the crabby or scatter-brained people you encounter on the road, or run into throughout your day, or work with ...

And then picture what some of them might be like if they had a nice little nap in the middle of the day.

Hypothetically speaking: Slightly happier people ... possibly fewer traffic accidents ... fewer misunderstandings in general ... see the logic? Who's with me, now?

Vive les sommes, mes amis! Vive les sommes!

Childhood Flashback # 1

So, as I was updating my Facebook profile with some of my favourite books, my thoughts wandered back to some of the books I read as a kid.

And then before I knew it, I hit Google and came across this little story pictured at left.

Oh. My. God!

You really don't understand many times A WEEK I had this book read to me when I was three or four years old. It was just your run-of-the-mill, cheapie supermarket Little Golden Book. But I'm sure I drove my mom crazy every time I wanted to read this. It's just so cute, I had to share.

And now you have yet another piece of insight into what makes me the weirdo I am today.

You can actually read the whole book here.

Monday Props

Hey you guys,

Hope you all had a good weekend. Mine was :) .

In any case - and I hope she doesn't mind, since it's actually on her blog now - but my friend's husband has just finished a CD. You can read more about it, via this link here.

Enjoy the rest of your day!

Facebook = Freebase

In addition to reasons 59 and 59A as to why I'm a complete loser and have no willpower, I also now have a Facebook addiction.

I only set up my account last week. But I find myself checking my account to see who poked me, who's written on my "wall", oh, ALL THE TIME.

I'm afraid if someone had to monitor me as part of an experiment to see how many times I logged in a day, in addition to the average number of minutes that elapsed between logins, I'd be very, very afraid.

I'm getting the distinct feeling I'm going to be shopping around for a rehab program by the end of next week.

Or get myself into major trouble.

Hoo, boy.

Christine, You Were Right.

To my friend Christine:

Remember way way back, in our early 20s, when you used to joke that drinking coffee was a cardiovascular workout?

Well, so happens there's a story that backs up the "coffee is healthy" argument:

http://www.earthtimes.org/articles/show/22691.html

And, as it happens, BBC posted this story in 2003, long before this blog was born.

So, I apologize for doubting your premonitory brilliance. I was wrong.

(Dammit.)

But I'm still not drinking the stuff.

Oscar Nominations Announced ...

So the Oscar nominations were just announced a little while ago (although it took me over 14 hours to post them, but whatever) ...

Here are the nominations that matter ...

Best Picture: "Babel," "The Departed," "Letters From Iwo Jima," "Little Miss Sunshine," "The Queen."

Best Actor: Leonardo DiCaprio, "Blood Diamond"; Ryan Gosling, "Half Nelson"; Peter O'Toole, "Venus"; Will Smith, "The Pursuit of Happyness"; Forest Whitaker, "The Last King of Scotland."
Best Actress: Penelope Cruz, "Volver"; Judi Dench, "Notes on a Scandal"; Helen Mirren, "The Queen"; Meryl Streep, "The Devil Wears Prada"; Kate Winslet, "Little Children."

Best Supporting Actor: Alan Arkin, "Little Miss Sunshine"; Jackie Earle Haley, "Little Children"; Djimon Hounsou, "Blood Diamond"; Eddie Murphy, "Dreamgirls"; Mark Wahlberg, "The Departed."

Best Supporting Actress: Adriana Barraza, "Babel"; Cate Blanchett, "Notes on a Scandal"; Abigail Breslin, "Little Miss Sunshine"; Jennifer Hudson, "Dreamgirls"; Rinko Kikuchi, "Babel."

Best Directing: Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, "Babel"; Martin Scorsese, "The Departed"; Clint Eastwood, "Letters From Iwo Jima"; Stephen Frears, "The Queen"; Paul Greengrass, "United 93."

Best Foreign Language Film: "After the Wedding," Denmark; "Days of Glory (Indigenes)," Algeria; "The Lives of Others," Germany; "Pan's Labyrinth," Mexico; "Water," Canada.

Best Adapted Screenplay: Sacha Baron Cohen and Anthony Hines and Peter Baynham and Dan Mazer and Todd Phillips, "Borat Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan"; Alfonso Cuaron and Timothy J. Sexton and David Arata and Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby, "Children of Men"; William Monahan, "The Departed"; Todd Field and Tom Perrotta, "Little Children"; Patrick Marber, "Notes on a Scandal."

Best Original Screenplay: Guillermo Arriaga, "Babel"; Iris Yamashita and Paul Haggis, "Letters From Iwo Jima"; Michael Arndt, "Little Miss Sunshine"; Guillermo del Toro, "Pan's Labyrinth"; Peter Morgan, "The Queen."

Oooh man, I can't WAIT for the office pool to start ....

Why I'm A Loser, Reason # 59

I now officially have no willpower for anything.

Okay, know how you can go to IMDb.com if you wanted to look up information on pretty much any movie or actor you want, for useless trivia, quotes, actor stats to settle bets, etc.?

Well, I pretty much used it in vain today. But see, you have to understand, I was bored ...

So there was this guy I met a long time ago, like twice. He was an actor. And he was fiiine. And I was smitten, and probably have been ever since. (Reason #59a why I'm a loser.)

But the one thing I'd never let myself do is a Google or IMDb search. 'Cause that's borderline stalker-ish and I'd have to admit to myself that I have a serious problem. One that I probably haven't had since primary school, when I seriously loved off this one guy from third- to sixth-grade ... And there was that other guy during my second-year of university ...

In any case, for months, no matter how great the temptation, I said, NO. IMDb to me is like Waterloo was to Napoleon. I give in, it's ALL over.

Today, I met my Waterloo.

I was sitting there this afternoon, waiting on a phone call, trying to focus on work-related Web-surfing, and before I knew it, I veered right off track - checking e-mail, etc.

And the The Temptation hit me full blast. It'd been niggling away at me the last day or so, and I'd mentally swat it away.

Today, I was like, oh hell, I'll just check. It's not like he's done enough to be on there.

I put the dude's name in the search engine, but I didn't even look at it right away; afraid of what I'd see, I looked at another Web page. Finally about four minutes later, I clicked on the page, scrunched up my face and prepared myself for what I might see.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Dammit.

His picture. (Forehead smack.)

His birthday. And pretty much everything he's been in since I don't know when. Plus a big, globbed-together bio.

And then I closed down the page.

Lesson learned, right? Nope. I went back. Again. Briefly. I couldn't help it!

Sweet Shilpa Shetty. I think I officially became an IMDb stalker this afternoon. I'm so embarrassed.

This must be what they refer to as cyber-masturbation. Because while I felt kinda good doing it, I mostly squirmed in my seat at letting myself do it. And I then I felt dirty.

... Aw sheeit. I just did it again. Okay, this stops here.

Excuse me. I have to go do penance for this ridiculous, loser-ish thing I've done. Good night.

My 100th Post! (Or, Why I'm an iPoodle-In-Training)

So, just when I thought I had my social-networking-Web site-management problem under control ...

My friend Lori goes and introduces me to Facebook.

I'm already on Friendster because of one friend, who's NEVER on when I am. And I should've just said, "No. Nope. Last time I took up your offer of invite onto a social site, I never used it for months, and when I did, I discovered some 25-year-old was hitting on me."

But, no. I couldn't resist the power of online networking. The groups. Creating my profile ... oh, the possibilities...

And here I am, about three days later, with my own Facebook profile, signed on to a network, plus three groups, "for fun". Forget getting ANY work done in the afternoons. The temptation is too great.

At least the friends that I know on Facebook poke me when they're online.

I like being poked.

Modified Speech: New Year, New Words?

I meant to do this earlier in the month, but I didn't have a chance to get around to it ...

The first Wednesday of January, I bought a National Post on the way to work (because they were all out of Globe and Mails) and they had this kinda neat little section which read, "What better way to start 2007 than with some new vocabulary?" And you could go to their Web site and vote on the best one, or introduce your own word.

There were about 16 of them on the front, but here are the ones I liked the most and may start using, (if I haven't already). Don't say I didn't warn you.

Googley moogley: adj.
The frustration point you reach when the world's most popular search engine can't find what you're are looking for.

Hangry: adj.
The state of crabbiness that sets in when you haven't eaten.
(So far, my favourite.)

iPoodle: n.
A person who shamelessly jumps on every new technological fad.

Schadenfreudian slip: n.
Accidentally admitting that you wanted someone to fail.

Shpants: n.
Women's dress pant that are not quite clam diggers, not quite capris but also not quite shorts.

Wussam: v.
A response to a question indicating that you were, and still are, in the same condition.

Where Do the Stupid People Go?

Call it bizarre, but I've had this question burning a hole in my grey matter the last couple days ...

Okay, so if you believe - or were taught when you were a kid - that people "go somewhere" when they die, the common belief is (or was) that good people go to Heaven, Paradise, whatever ... and bad, evil people go to Hell.

So where do the stupid people go?

No, seriously. I thought about this the other day, when news kept resurfacing of that woman in California who killed herself drinking too much water, to win a contest that was giving away a Nintendo Wii.

Think about it. She drank herself to death. For a machine. How stupid IS that?

I'm sorry if you think it's mean-spirited or cruel of me to say so (which would probably mean I'll be heading to hell when it's my time) . But WHY would you DO that? NO piece of video game equipment - being offered for free, as a prize - is worth that.

And then there are things like the Darwin Awards, which document people who have killed themselves doing crazy things in the name of ... who knows?

I can't imagine the vast numbers of people who have died due to stupidity. Not due to an accident. Or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or getting what they deserved. Or dying unjustly. Because they did something without using ANY of their brain cells about what the end result might be.

And I can't imagine, what these people are doing right now, wherever they may be.

I have to stop here. My head hurts right now from thinking about this.

Farewell to The Last Little Girl

She was the smallest of my second cousins.

But what she lacked in physical strength, she made up for in personality and, from what I hear, a sharp mind.

And yesterday afternoon at work, I found out my cousin, Adonia, died.

She had sickle cell anemia, which - to probably oversimplify things - is a disorder that affects the properties and number of red blood cells in the body, which can clog blood vessels and deprive the body's organs and tissue from getting the oxygen they need.

This, in turn, means she was more prone to getting infections and becoming ill quite easily.

The last time I met her, she was a tiny baby, barely a toddler.

But from what I've heard from my mom, who saw her last summer, she was extremely bright.

To say her mother is beside herself with grief is probably the understatement of the year, and perhaps even insensitive. She's a teacher in the Jamaican school system, which is often tough and insensitive to the needs of teachers. So when Adonia fell ill, she couldn't drop everything to see to her in hospital.

By the time she did manage to get there, she was too late. From the sounds of it, her last little girl had died in pain and alone.

And I can only imagine what her older brother and two sisters - thousands of kilometres away in the U.K. - must be thinking and feeling right now.

It just feels strange. Just thinking about it, it's like my brain can't process what's happening and has separated itself. It's like looking at myself through a pair of binoculars, or one of those cardboard tubes, the way you might as a kid after the toilet paper was finished.

Her mom - my first cousin - is a teacher ... she won a trip to come up to Canada this spring. And I was finally going to meet her after almost 15 years. Now I'll never get the chance.

My mom says that she's probably better off now because she's no longer suffering.

Is she right?

Happy Birthday, MLK

Although I should have written this earlier - and even though I'm not American - I just wanted to acknowledge the birthday of a giant of the civil rights movement and in history.

From him, a lot of people learned the importance of seeing past colour and breaking down barriers in their own way ... and changing the face of the way people in the world see each other (well, people in some parts of the world, anyway).

Above all, this chapter of history reminds us that it's okay to have a dream.

He did.

The Hardest Part About Turning 30 Is ...

... trying to plan your own birthday party, and not having a plan!

Eeeek!

I've still got just over 11 days left to figure this out, but I haven't the slightest idea of how to make this somewhat memorable. And I'm not going to work the day after, so it's not like I have to worry about going home early.

So far, the suggestions I've gotten are:

• renting out a bar
• reliving my youthful days by either going to somewhere like the old Playdium or Laser Tag.

If anyone's got any good suggestions, please throw them out there. I'd be happy to consider (or combine) any of them.

UPDATE: So I did manage to find a venue for the party. Now the real planning - and waiting for people to respond - begins. Ugh.

iPhone? I yaaa-aaaawn.

If you're a follower of the Church of Steve Jobs of Latter-Day Mac Users, than I suggest you move on to the next blog.

Hell, you want a two-word reaffirmation? Go read my brother's blog instead. Just get the hell on, then. Get to steppin'! Git! 'Cause what I'm about ta say, you're not gonna like.

Okay. So yesterday, Mr. Jobs held his annual keynote address at the Macworld convention (a.k.a. The-We're-WAY-Too-Good-For-The-International-CES-Convention) in San Francisco, and he gives his crazy Apple-obsessed disciples - some of whom lined up in THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT to get in the following day - have some of the Good Gospel According to Apple. Over 2 billion songs bought from the iTunes store ... Apple TV, the new wireless way of playing all your iTunes content...

And then he unleashed what would probably be the digital equivalent of crystal meth, wrapped in an approximately 11 cm x 6 cm x 1 cm shiny thin metal casing. Electronic porn for the masses.

It was nuts. I remember one snippet of tape I saw, where Jobs was demonstrating the locking feature on the phone ("... and you just slide it over"), and his followers clapped in approval, as if to say, "See, non-Apple suckers? Steve's got every problem you've ever had with a phone figured out. And he made it futuristic AND pretty."

I've talked to a couple people I know. One of them thought the iPhone's a sweet package. The other says she wouldn't want an iPod phone, which you could argue, is essentially what this is.

Lookit. Apple plays a good game. I don't completely hate them. As a PC user, they make a good case for wanting to become a "switcher", to use a Jobs-ism. The Mac commercials are funny. The iPod commercials, very flashy.

But a phone-MP3 playing-organizer? For almost $700 Canadian? You've GOT to be out your damn mind.

(And who the hell holds their OWN convention the same week as the other international electronics convention? That's just plain elitist.)

Yes, pretty with bells and whistles and touch screens and slidey things this iPhone may be. But you can never EVER factor out life and human error.

What if the thing gets stolen? Someone didn't just pilfer your phone. They also pilfered your MP3 player, and your organizer.

What if you drop it and it breaks? What? You're not going to be that clumsy? I'm sure Steve Wynn, the millionaire who bought Picasso's masterpiece "Le Reve" in October and then accidentally poked a hole in it the day after, didn't think he was the clumsy type, either. Stuff like this happens, whether you want it to or not.

And if you're Canadian and have enough self-control to wait until it comes north, then I hope you have the patience of Job. One news report I just watched said it may not be up here for MONTHS. I feel bad for all the electronics companies who have been fielding calls since yesterday about a product they only found out about 'round the same time as everyone else.

Listen - everyone's free to choose whatever they'd like. But we're talking about personal electronics! They don't perform surgery, or rocket science, or help solve the world's problems, like poverty or crime. They have flashy lights and sounds, and perform neat electronic tricks that overexcite your neurons. Or in the case of some hard-core Apple users, make them almost rabid to the point of falling into the electronic-device-equivalent of a diabetic coma.

And already with such a flashy new baby, there's already conflict nipping at Apple's heels. Another company, Cisco, has immediately gotten ligitious, seeking an injunction against Apple allegedly biting the "iPhone" name.

And now that the iPhone's out there, it's only a matter of time before other companies try making similar models which, if they worked fast enough, could probably be on the market, in a matter of years, for less money.

I'm waiting to see what people will be like when this thing's available in stores. Will this be civilized, or will this be just like the frothy frenzy caused by the first-day sales of the PS3?

(Which, if sales in Japan are any indication, is getting its bitch-ass WHOMPED by the Wii - at least, for the moment anyway - thank YOU very much.)

Modified Speech: Poo-poos and Plop-plops

Poo-poo (poo-POO): Verb. 1. To express contempt about. 2. To reject with contempt.

(Source: WordWeb Online )

I didn't think this was a new term, but apparently there are still people who haven't heard it. When I was out with one of my friends for her brother's birthday, we were just sitting there, shooting the stuff, and I forgot what I said, but I said "poo-poo" and she whipped her head around in surprise and asked, "Did you just say 'poo-poo' ? "

"Yeah?" I said.

Man, was she happy. "See? I told you!" she said to her brother. Apparently he had never heard the term before and thought she'd made it up, making her a weirdo. I could now vouch for her. Besides her Grade 10 English teacher, that is.


Plop-plops (PLAWP-plawps): Action. What expired milk that has separated does when poured into a cup of coffee or tea by one who does not know aforesaid milk has gone off.

(Source: Loquacious D)

On a run to the coffee shop, my friend was telling me about the latest goings-on in her office, when, at the counter with all the milks, creams and sugars, she picked up a carton of milk and proceeded to pour it into her tea.

Instead pouring with ease into her cup, the milk gave her a little surprise. Plop-plop-plop-plop. Disgusting. I wrinkled my nose.

My friend said, "That's gross. I'm taking this and telling them their milk's gone bad."

"Yeah," I said. "Looks like you got a case of the plop-plops."

"Did you just say 'plop-plops'?" She said, half-laughing.

Yes. Yes I did.

"I can't get it out of my head!"

Ever had a song in your head - maybe from your past, maybe you heard it somewhere - only you, for the life of you either don't remember the name of the song? Or the group? Or simply know that you've heard it somewhere before?

And then it's stuck in your head semi-permanently, driving you absolutely nuts?

That happened to me twice in the last week. The first song, I heard over the holidays in, of all things, a liquor commercial. I thought, how classy is this song? I totally want to download it. I think I've heard it before as a sample somewhere ...

So off I go, look at the credits on the song it was sampled, then do a handy Google search. Nothing. I try again. Still no dice. I kept watching for the commercial on TV. Vanished. How convenient.

I kept Googling and watching until one day by complete accident, I finally Googled the right combination of words and presto! I found it. And in the process, developed a crush on an 84-year-old Peruvian lady named Yma Sumac.

The second song got stuck in my head last week. I was looking for old skool songs I used to hear when I was younger - and now at the occasional Amnesia party - and had this ONE SONG lodged in my brain. I never knew the name of the band. And whenever I tried to search for it online, I'd just get hits for links to Christian sites.

Well, it got worse. I'd hear the song in my brain before my head hit the pillow at night and when I'd get up. Between that, and something I think I read once that in some people, hearing a song over and over in your head is the possible onset of an aneurysm, I was a tad spooked.

FINALLY two days ago, after Googling ... and Googling ... and Googling ... I found the song. I got the name of the band (which is seared in my brain for the recent future).

I really hope that doesn't happen again soon. I don't think the part of my brain responsible for all that torture can take anymore.

2007: Just. Focus.

"You know, you can achieve anything you want to do," my mom said to me over the phone when I was at my friend's house earlier this afternoon. "You just have to focus."

With a brand-new year upon us, I've been sort of thinking of taking her words to heart. Especially with 30 staring right at me from just over three weeks away.

Recently, a friend of mine and I were talking about one of her friends who, in the span of four years, crossed the border and landed a good job, went backpacking in Central America, learned something she'd always wanted to do, found a wonderful man, had his baby, and recently packed up with her family of three and relocated down to the West Coast, where her partner is trying to make a go of it in his field of expertise.

I know I shouldn't even be comparing myself to someone like that. I remember once saying as a young twentysomething, "Everyone is exactly where they should be." That's before the last seven or so years happened.

I almost wish I could meet that young woman of yesteryear so I could ask her, "So where the hell am I? Am I where I should be?" (And then I could tell her what a loser-ish thing that was to say. Almost. I wouldn't want to crush the poor soul's self-esteem.)

Don't get me wrong - 2006 was decent. I had fun. I just think 2007 has the potential to be leaps and bounds better. Call it the typical New Year's optimism people like me get.

I don't like making resolutions, because I just set myself up to break them in a matter of weeks. But I have been thinking of things I'd like to see in the New Year. And even if they aren't fully realized, it'd be nice if I could get them started in some way.

Get a better job. This. Needs. To. Change. My friends and family have heard me grouse all about it. I've talked it to death. It's time for action. I just need to find a way to do it, on my own terms, and not settle. If I, by this time next year, am in the same job, I'm going to quit. I swear. This can't continue, as much as the prospects of being without those fun things like benefits and vacation time hurt.

Get more sleep. Pffft! Thank goodness I never made THIS a resolution. This could be a tough one. Maybe getting a better job = better hours, which may = better sleeps.

Become a healthier version of myself. If one should treat one's body like a temple, then I've pretty much been letting thieves feed the Rottweilers guarding mine with raw beefsteaks and lace their waterbowls with Rohypnol while they happily go a-lootin'. I don't think I'm fat or anything. I do go to the gym regularly during the week. I just cancel it out every time I cram a cookie or potato chip into my mouth, or inhale two or three glasses of Pepsi. Whatever. I think I've lost the fine art of moderation, and I need to go find it. I'm tired of being bloated. On top of which, I think I need to go an extra mile with physical activity on my own time. This isn't about losing weight (although that would be nice). I want to see what my body can do, when I make a little more of an effort.

Be more aggressive with saving money. I'm in a unique living situation - at home with the folks, rent-free - because I'm saving for the elusive down-payment for that also-elusive place of my own I want to one day have. But my "lifestyle" also means I sometimes spend my money in ridiculous ways. Taking cabs home from downtown on some nights out. Going to other banks' ATMs and paying the service charge just to take money out. Buying food and snacks I probably don't need. But sometimes I decide there are certain occasions where I don't spend money. I actually had a friend call me cheap (not exactly in those words, but close). I think I should try and be more consistent. If I'm going to be frugal, let's be all-the-way-frugal. Or if I'm going to spend my money within reason, I should do so across the board. And start socking away more of my hard-earned money, while I'm at it.

Learn something useful. I'd love to learn a new language. I keep saying how I'd love to learn Spanish. I'm also dabbling with a second attempt with learning how to drive, after my double-failure in 2005. We'll see.

Learn something fun. I keep saying I'm going to take up dance lessons because I think I have two left feet, but who knows? And if not dance lessons, maybe it'll be something else.

Do something I'd never dream of doing. EVER. At a party a couple of months back, I was catching up with someone I'd not seen in ages, and she suggested we should get together and do something fun. Like have a girls' day on a shooting range. I've never shot off a gun in my life. And after having my uncle drunkenly wave a rifle at me in Fort Lauderdale earlier in the year, I had my reservations, to understate it. But maybe ...

Go somewhere I've never been before. I've gone to places in the Caribbean and the U.K. But I need somewhere completely different. One of my friends went partying in Croatia last. Croatia! And he had a great time. I'm sure that's the last place he would have considered, had you asked him earlier in the year if he'd be interested in going. My dream place to go travelling would be Spain. It's an obsession I've had for at least a couple years now. But I'm not sure if that's going to happen this year. I don't think my trips even need to be as far away as that. There have been cities on this continent I've never seen, some of which a friend of mine brought up recently: New York. Vancouver. Halifax. Los Angeles. Las Vegas. And I should really just get up and go whenever someone says, "Come and visit!" Honestly, I'm so set in my ways ...

Fill my one-date quota for the year. You people think I'm joking. Seriously? Galapagos Island tortoises mate more frequently than I get dates. For the last several years I kept tally of my one-date quotas for each year, which was pretty much the average. But there's been a famine for the last while. There's not a lot of people I've been attracted to, and the people who have been attracted to me, I've not been interested enough in them to date. (Maybe out of fear.) But it would be pleasant if that changed. Maybe I could go over and above the quota. But that's getting ahead of myself. I would just like to request one thing: a moratorium on geeks, if that's completely possible. PLEASE.

Get a piggyback ride. I thought about this walking down the streets with friends in the wee hours of this morning. I can't remember the last time I've gotten a piggyback ride. Getting just one this year would be life's way of letting me know that youthful exuberance is okay, at any age. Any takers?

But enough posturing and daydreaming. Time to get crack-a-lackin'.

Happy New Year!

Just stepping out for the evening ...

But for all my friends and anyone passing through this way in the blogosphere, have a very happy new year, and all the absolute best in 2007 (which, for those of us in North America, is less than several hours away).

Here's hoping it's a good one!

Player Problem Resolved (For Now)

Following my rant two days ago, I marched down to Future Shop yesterday and got myself a new player, after waiting about 15 minutes in line, of course.

I almost didn't think I was going to get one. When one of the salespeople said there were none left on the shelves, I was like, "Either I'm going to get a new one, or I'm getting one in the same price range, because that cost $240."

So customer service made the guy go to the basement and fish out the one of four players they had in stock.

I am also the reluctant new owner of a two-year service plan, which I vowed not to get, even after seeing all those consumer news reports on how it's a rip-off. Oh well. At least I know if this joystick breaks off, I have a service warranty receipt to wave around in their faces.

Hopefully it won't come to that.

Or this.

Loquacious D and the Player (MP3, that is)

For well over a year, I'd been enamoured with the idea of joining the cool kids and getting myself an MP3 player.

My commutes were long and lame. And workouts in the cardio room at my gym were almost unbearable. Try huffing and puffing on a treadmill that's on an incline while trying to watch either MuchMusic, whatever how-to show on TLC or Wolf Blitzer's Situation Room on CNN. Hard.

This time last year, I decided I was getting me an MP3 player. But then I procrastinated for months. But which one should I get? I mean, I saw all those flashy TV ads for the iPod, and while I admittedly was taken, something inside told me not to fall for the flashy hype.

Enter into my world Creative Labs, which apparently had a line of players which was said by tech reviewers to rival Apple's. For months it was: Creative Zen or Apple iPod? iPod or Zen?

I finally ended my internal struggle last Friday when I marched into the Future Shop downtown after much deliberation and went straight for Creative's newest product, the Zen V Plus. It had everything I was looking for: 4 GB worth of space for any song I always wanted to have but didn't have in my music library. An FM tuner to listen to the radio in the morning. And the most crucial thing: it was SO cute!

It's too bad the honeymoon only lasted until Wednesday night.

One thing I remember reading - which was a bone of contention for anyone reviewing the Zen V Plus - was the five-way directional joystick located just under the screen. On more than one occasion, the reviews stated this device was not the friendliest to wannabe users with fat fingers.
This is a picture of the hand I use to operate my Zen V Plus. No fatty tissue here. Only long, spindly fingers.

So you'd figure chopsticks like those would be ample enough to manouvre a simple device with an eeny-weeny joystick, right?

Well, here's my case for trial separation from my Zen V Plus. Here's a picture of what the Zen V Plus looks like, in all its flashy, cute glory:

See? THAT is the model I fell in love with in all those print ads. Now, here's a picture of MY Zen:

It may be hard to see from the picture, but just compare for a sec. Notice anything different? Let me help you out: the promotion picture farther up has something my Zen is now missing: a JOYSTICK.

That's right. Sometime on Wednesday night, my joystick disintegrated and is somewhere in the recesses of my player, rattling around whenever I pick it up.

Sure, the sound quality is great, and it still downloads like a dream. It's just that now if I want to navigate through all the directories, I need a FINGERNAIL to do it. And I've been running out of those this week.

I think it took me three or four tries - and about 40 minutes - to just find an e-mail for Creative's customer support in the U.S. And now I have to trudge back down to Future Shop in hopes they see my plight and help rectfy this.

'Cause Lord knows, after putting up with Best Buy during my camera ordeal, I do NOT want to have to go through this with their sister company, which I hope is 100 per cent LESS idiotic.

A President, An Entertainer and A Dictator

This has been a bit of a crazy week for check-outs in the world of the well-known.

First, James Brown - the Hardest Working Man in America - decided to stop working and on Monday, he and his dancing shoes took their rest in Atlanta.

(Leave it to the Godfather of Soul to try and upstage Jesus. *Shrug*)

But you had to hand it to the man - he certainly had an arrival and "lying in state" at the Apollo yesterday that could rival any member of any royal family, anywhere. And now word is circulating that cocky R & B entertainer Usher - who considered Brown his mentor, and probably considers himself heir apparent to the Hardest Working Throne - is interested in playing his idol in a biopic, should one ever come to pass.

Then former U.S. President Gerald Ford took his leave on Tuesday. His funeral was today, the beginning of six days of mourning, with all the trappings a former head of state is no doubt entitled to.

And just over an hour and 20 minutes ago, Saddam Hussein got his membership card with the Human Race revoked via a nice, thick piece of rope.

I'm still trying to (a) process the words "Saddam" and "executed" and (b) consider, given the man had another trial that was running concurrently when he got his sentence last month, if that was really the right thing for the authorities to do.

Ah, well - doesn't matter now, does it? That videotape will probably hit YouTube faster than you can say "Suleymaniyah", anyway.

The Colour of Christmas in Toronto ...

... appears to be green this year.

Not like it's the first time we've ever had a snow-less Christmas or anything, but with a few days to go and the worst thing we've had lately being a thin layer of frost in the morning, it's kind of ... well ... odd.

I mean, Ottawa's got snow. There's snow to the west of Ontario. Heck, I'm sure there's even been snow in northern Ontario (you can prove me wrong if you want. I probably am).

But all this rain - which I guess, had it been cold enough, would have been snow - is a bit much to take, even if I still think anything's better than snow.

I guess this is typically what winter in Vancouver is like? Although even their weather has been a bit extreme.

Either way, it's weird to be hearing songs about dreaming of a white Christmas or sleigh bells in the snow when there's no white snow to speak of.

The Nutcracker ... Finally.

So yesterday, my mom and I partook in a tradition many cultural arts lovers and their kids carry out annually around Christmas.

We went to see The Nutcracker.

So what, big deal, right? Well, there's a personal story behind the trip.

According to my mom, when I was about five years old, she promised to take me to see the Nutcracker at Christmastime.

Christmases would come and go, and occasionally while seeing a version of the ballet production while in front of the TV channel-surfing, I'd make a comment and she would say, "Next year, we'll try and go." So the promise continued, and came and went unfulfilled.

Before long, I was in my mid-twenties and would occasionally ask with a wry smile, "So when are we going to see the Nutcracker?"

So THIS year, after about 24 years of promises and guilt on my mom's part (so she says), I decided to nip this in the bud once and for all. Two weeks ago, I trudged down to the Four Seasons Centre, grabbed the last two seats together for the December 16 matinee show, and off we went yesterday.

For someone who's never ever seen a live ballet production, I must say I liked it ... although I did feel a little dazed and sleepy towards the end. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe it was the novelty finally wearing off.

Returning home on the subway, I asked my mom what she thought.

"Well," she said, "if I took you when you were five years old, after a long week of work, I'd probably have fallen asleep."

O, Workplace Gifts

Ah, December. How I love thee.

The tryptophan- and diabetes-inducing food. The fun-but-sometimes-messy-and-rumour-mill-generating corporate party drink-fest extravaganzas.

The workplace gift exchanges.

This year, I decided to go for the gusto and take part in not one, but two Secret Santa gift exchanges.

If you've got the type of workplace I do, you know the drill. Find something, $10 or under and preferably unisex, to give to someone else, and hope when they rip off the pretty wrapping you've covered it in that they like it.

Some people get the zany, off-beat gifts. Others are the lazy, last-minute contributors, who may just settle for getting you merchandise from your institution of work (I've luckily not encountered anyone like this so far.)

Me, I'm kinda the practical-gift-type. Because I don't know about all of you, but it's nice when someone gets you something you can use, that you know won't end up all by its forlorn lonesome in the darkest back corner of a desk drawer or in a box at your house. And it's always cool when you get something in the allotted monetary range, and you see that person get your gift, and when they're checking out their loot they think, "This can't be the limit! But this is such a nice gift!"

I think everyone deserves nice gifts, even if the price tag's in single digits. I don't know if anyone I've given gifts to at work actually uses what I give them. Who knows, they might re-gift them, for all I know.

But I just get a kick out of seeing the look on the face of the person who gets my gift. Even if it's fake, it's just the act of putting thought into a present and giving it that matters to me.

P.S.: I have noticed one thing, though - I've now had the uncanny distinction of having the same person receive my gift two years running now. And it's not as if the gift pool is small, either. I'm hoping it's some sort of coincidence, but I find it weird.

Is that some sort of omen in Secret Santa tradition? Just wonderin'.

Just Call Me an Old Friendster

Last week, while out at Sunday lunch with friends, we got to talking about social networking sites and whether we'd used them.

My friend's boyfriend said he really didn't see a use for them - the only time he interacted with other people was for gaming purposes. My friend doesn't really have time - she's so busy - and so understandably, she said she just wasn't really into it. A third friend shook her head - she really wasn't into it that much. But my other friend mentioned that she's on Friendster. She asked me if I had a Friendster account.

I said no. I also explained that I had been on a networking site before - invited by another friend of mine long ago - but she was never on. In fact, whenever I did log on, NONE of my friends that had accounts used them. So I eventually got bored. And the last time I logged on, I was getting unwanted e-mails from some 25-year-old who had pictures of girls in all sorts of sexy, come-hither poses on his network list. In fact, pretty much everyone listed on his network list were girls in all sorts of sexy, come-hither poses. So I hit the delete button.

A couple months ago, a friend I met through work sent out a, "Hey, I got a MySpace account! Come sign up and visit me!" only to - after I'd created an account, even though I'd never had the urge to have one - find out she'd deleted hers about a week later because she'd been getting unwanted e-mail from someone. (Actually, in between writing this post, I finally got around to deleting my account ... like, literally, eight or nine minutes ago.)

So, then my friend said, "You should join." And as of about four days ago, I'm the brand-new owner of a Friendster profile page. So a logical question might be, why on earth - given my past experiences with social networking sites - would I sign up for yet another one?

And I say, why not? Yeah, consider me a REALLY late-latecomer to Friendster, the original network that's been out for years, but it's all fun. Can't hurt, right?

And if any of you that I'm friends with happens to be on Friendster, look me up. I'm looking to expand my network.

Zanta Sighting # 2

So my friend and I returned back to the building in which we work, to meet up with a couple of her friends before they all went to a party on the east side of town.

We passed by the atrium, which was cordoned off and draped in sheer fabric. Beyond it inside, we could see people milling about and hear someone singing on stage. No doubt the space had been rented out for a Christmas party for some company or the other.

As we headed towards the exit, we passed this elevator, and suddenly my friend said, "Oh my God - that's Zanta!"

I - still in a tryptophan-induced haze from all the turkey and other foods I'd gorged into my body about several hours before - whipped my head around ... and there he was, in all his Santa-hat-jacket-and-shorts-wearing, pectoral glory.

Zanta. In the building of my place of work. Again, being semi-normal. Wow.

That better not be a trend.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes ... sorta.

Pardon the appearance of the blog.

I've just switched over to Beta, and it's kinda warped the look of this thing.

Once I hang of this, hopefully it won't look as bad.

Speaking of which: does ANYONE know how to change the banner of the top of this thing under the new Beta system? I've hated it for months and have been dying to give this site a makeover.

Suggestions are appreciated.

Not Too Shabby, Mr. Bond

So last weekend, a friend and I decided to go see the newly-released latest installment of the James Bond series, Casino Royale.

From the moment he was picked, we'd all been hearing about whether Daniel Craig would be up to snuff, having to fill the shoes of previous Bonds such as Sean Connery, Timothy Dalton and his predecessor, Pierce Brosnan. I actually didn't really care all that much, having never really seen an entire Bond movie from beginning to end.

Until now.

Before going to see the film, I hadn't heard a single bad thing about this movie, considering how cheesy the franchise can be. But now I see why.

I actually really enjoyed it, for what it was. I thought it was pretty sleek, and the stunts impressed me quite a bit.

Daniel Craig did a really good job in this, considering he's a bit of a thug for most of the movie. But it was nice seeing a flick like this with no crazy gadgets, and a bit of character development. I know a number of women were going to see this movie because they thought he was hot.

Personally, I wasn't as drawn to his looks so much as I was to his athleticism. Dang! It's tiring just to see this guy run! Makes me want to go to the gym to work on my fitness.

Here's what interests me about this whole Bond thing now. So Casino Royale was a re-make ... and from what I hear, every single movie in the Ian Fleming series has now been captured on film. So what happens now? If it's decided that Mr. Craig has done good and should make another Bond film, do they write a movie script from scratch? I would think that the allure of the films would be that they were based on books. How would an independent script sell?

In any case, I've gotta say it was four hi-fives out of five for this one. If someone like me likes this movie, then it's got something for everyone who likes a good action flick.

Conjunctivitis 1, Loquacious 0

Ah.

Just when I was perched atop my high horse about how healthy I was ...

I've gotten myself a nice case of pink eye.

If you look at me from the right side, it looks like I've just finished The Ugly Cry.

If you look at me head on, it just looks like I've been punched in the eye.

Either way, not attractive.

Hopefully my boss will take pity on me and let me go to the walk-in clinic tomorrow.

Flu Fightin', My Way

December's here and with it comes many things ... the pleasures - and pressures - of Christmas. The joys of lots of parties and get-togethers (and myriad excuses to be drunk).

And of course, probably the time of year when germs seem to be at their germiest. Yep - it's flu season.

And even scarier than that: It's flu shot season.

Most people make appointments through their workplace or public health centre to get jabbed with the needle. And then there are people like me. Until it becomes mandatory (and something I can only avoid by feigning personal emergency and taking the day from work), I'm taking another pass on the flu shot.

Of course, I know what all the "believers" say: Why? It's not a live virus. You won't get sick from the flu shot. It's egg-based. You might as well just toss in, everybody else is doing it, why don't you?

So, if there was some crazy virus out there and the only way people could protect themselves was to jump into a net above a pit of venomous snakes and hope to get bitten as protection, I should do the same?

Yes, it's a silly and far-fetched example to compare, but here's my rationale as to why I'm not lining up for a flu vaccine:

1) The flu shot is especially recommended for those who are very young (babies and young children) and elderly, because they're more susceptible to illness. I totally understand this. If I had a young child, I would probably go and get the flu shot. I have a co-worker who begrudgingly had his shot for this reason. I'm young, healthy for the most part, and really don't think I need to be injected with something that may or may not protect me from something I might catch. I think I have to be cautious with my own actions health-wise, as well as the actions of those around me.

2) It's been said that getting the flu shot cuts down on the number of sick days I'd probably have if I didn't get the shot and had the flu. Know what? I've heard stories about people - perfectly well - who've gotten the flu shot and fell ill. Not everyone reacts the same way to things. That's why we've got people who can eat anything put in front of them, and people deathly allergic to some of the same foods. So guess what? If I probably have the same chance of getting sick getting the shot as I do not getting it, I'm going to take my chances. I'll wash my hands, wipe down my workstation with alcohol wipes and take my vitamins. If I take really good care of myself, I shouldn't get more than a bad cold (and I've already had two of them). That's what I've got an immune system for.

3) Personal anecdote. Five years ago, working at a car dealership, the boss arranged for a nurse to come so the employees could get their shots. I didn't go to get lengths to hide my defiance, and one day, while talking with some other employees, my opposition emerged, and the "believers" started in on me. It's not a live virus. You'd take your car in for care if it needed it; why not do the same for yourself. (I found this to be really lame, since everybody knows no two people react to something the same way.) And my absolute favourite, when I defended my stance by noting people who had fallen ill after taking the shot, including the company accountant's husband: They were probably not feeling well before they took it.

Needless to say, I stood my ground, and two days later, the boss took the day off because he wasn't feeling well.

So - perhaps to some people's dismay - I'm going to take my chances again this year. Because in my opinion, I think people have forgotten the general tenets of personal hygiene, and that's partly why so many of us get sick.

We sneeze in our hands or pick our eyeducts or noses, or go to the bathroom without washing our hands, and then turn around and touch handrails, buttons and doorknobs. Remember when SARS happened about three years ago? People got dirty looks for so much as sneezing on a subway. Now? It's like it never happened.

I'm not saying that handwashing will eradicate the instance of flu. But maybe if we all try and do our parts to be cleaner - even as part of a personal experiment - it might prove to make a substantial difference.

Stephane Dion: Worried, Yet?

He's an academic ... was a cabinet minister under the old guard of Jean Chretien ... turfed out and then later welcomed back into the ministerial fold by Paul Martin ...

And as of several minutes ago, Stephane Dion just became the new leader of the Liberal Party.

Now, I'm no poli-sci major. I get by with what I know about elections and government, absorbed by people at work talking about it, and watching some TV. I only tune in when there's a good fight or something juicy going on. But the whole thing makes me (a) uneasy, and (b) want to research other countries to live in.

I'm sure the man's pleased at punch with what he did. The first thing out of his mouth was, "Bring on the next election!" I mean, who on earth - outside of supporters - thought this guy would win? From all appearances, he's got the personality of tepid milk.

But what's scarier is that Stephen Harper's muzzling, micromanaging Conservative government probably can't wait to throw down the gauntlet. 'Cause when the next election is called, they may be sailing towards a majority government on the silver platter Dion hands to them. The only one that seems to think this won't happen is Dion himself.

Dion has said previously has the charisma to move people in this country. Really? Because I was watching the convention happenings yesterday, and only saw the man spring "alive" when he won. I've come into contact with smelly gym sneakers with more charisma.

Wonder what Spain's like this time of year ... ?

Literary Cussin's ...

So I was chatting a few days ago with my mom as she returned from a night out with my godmother. There was some sort of special night marking Barbados' independence, and among some of the guests there, my mom (honourary Barbadian that she was) saw Canadian writer Austin Clarke.

I'd heard about Austin Clarke years before I'd ever read any of his material. My mom used to recall stories where she'd taken a night course in English with a couple of friends and had to read one of his books. She hated it, so much so, she never finished the book and never picked up another book by the man since.

My mom recalled pointing him out to my godmother and asking her if she read any books. "I tried reading his latest," my godmother replied, "But I just couldn't finish it. It was horrible."

Why, I asked. Was it the story line? Because I heard there was a problem with the storyline.

The reason? Coarse language. It was the very reason my mom put down one of his earlier books so many years ago.

Now, I'm obviously from a different generation and society, where I've been surrounded by language like this fairly regularly. And, I must admit, I am guilty of having used this language myself, sometimes out of sheer frustration, but other times just for the sake of saying it.

But one point my mother brought up - and I can see where she's coming from - is that, it's one thing to say or hear such words. But to see them leap up from the page ... the weight is a bit different. I remember being a bit taken aback the first time I read such language as a young teenager. Now I might linger on the words a half-second or two longer nowadays if I see them in print, but I don't really flinch.

It does make me wonder, though: is seeing cusswords in books still a big deal. Some folks might say "no" and keep reading. Others might be more selective in the things they read and stop reading books that contain these words.

Sometimes in a newspaper, magazine, or on TV or radio, they sometimes use the words in a specific context to a story. Does the same apply for a piece of fiction? Poetry? When is it considered superfluous and unnecessary.

I eventually would like to write novels someday. Do I censor myself or leave the censoring to others?

My mother would rather I write children's books instead. I guess in that way, she'd be able to read them.

It's OVER!

For all my peeps who are avid watchers of Prison Break, you might appreciate what I'm about to say, which is in response to the fall finale episode that just aired:

WHAAAAAAAT?

Are you KIDDING me?!?!?

How is that ending even ... FRIGGING ... possible??

And it sucks that the show's now on hiatus.

I may just have a seizure. Thanks, Fox.

UPDATE: Okay ... so the hiatus is only for a couple months. I can live with that. At least it'll give me a chance to catch up on all the episodes I couldn't watch. Sigh of relief.

No seizures - for now.

My First Zanta Sighting

Tonight on my way home, I spotted Toronto's mental, scary, unpaid, un-musical answer to New York's Naked Cowboy. That's right - Zanta.

I got my first glimpse at everyone's favourite nutbar, in his trademark Zanta hat, camo shorts, running shoes and socks, and a jacket over his bare torso.

Only he wasn't behaving nuts.

As I passed him on Front Street, by Union Station, I saw him talking to a couple of people in his really quick, I've-eaten-a-jar-of-coffee-beans way of speaking he has. But he was ... calm.

No push-ups. No grabbing his own butt and pretending to make farting noises.

I saw him on Front Street, near Union Station, on my way to the bank.

Very un-Zanta. Maybe he actually is normal ...

At Least It Wasn't Real

Out dancing with friends last night, a new acquaintance and I were both parched decided to head over to the bar for some water.

As we were shuffling and side-stepping our way back towards our group of friends, small bottles in hand, I was separated by a small gang of three trying to push past me in the opposite direction.

I was pushed slightly off-balance, into this girl facing the DJ booth.

"I'm soooo sorry," I said. As I started to say, "Some people kinda pushed me", the brunette turned around. She was wearing those big sunglasses as are all the rage, and obviously drunk.

"Heeeeey!" she yelled over the music, almost in that, I-think-I-know-you-from-somewhere. "Kiss my monkey!"

"What?" I said, looking at her strangely.

She then held up her left hand. On her index finger: some weird little finger-puppet-thingy that looked like a monkey. She then was yelling something drunkenly incoherent to me, and wiggling this thing around on her finger, and I'm pretty sure she ended the sentence with "C'mon, kiss my monkey!"

I thought at first it was one of those weird bachelorette party requirements, or something. But that thought passed. It was clearly weird.

But seeing no way out of it (considering I was sandwiched on all sides by early twentysomethings), I did the only thing I could. I gave the monkey a peck, then tried to move through the crowd as fast as humanly possible.

Nope - not one of my better moments.

But I'm so glad it wasn't a hand puppet.

One Beer, Two Commercials

Everyone that drinks beer has their staple labels that they live by, whether out at the bars, or at home or hanging out with friends.

I don't drink that much beer at all. Except for one - Red Stripe. Maybe it's the little Jamaican in me, but besides the fact I don't find it as harsh as some of the others, I love it and am fiercely loyal to it (and can now justify the yellow T-shirt with the famous logo I got when I visited my relatives one time as a kid years ago).

But it's kinda hard to come by. Out on the town, very few bars don't serve them, so I'm forced to imbibe mixed liquor drinks instead. It's not sold at the Beer Store, either - I have to hunt for the six-pack of stubbies at the liquor store in the Imported section. And even the quantity of the stock's small in size.

So, given all of this, you'd think the ad campaign was virtually non-existent, right? Strangely enough, no. I found out they have commercials.

Obviously, in Jamaica - where it's probably the equivalent of maybe Molson or Labatt or Alexander Keith's (choose your poison) - they're going to be advertising everywhere. Take a look at this commercial touting the virtues of Red Stripe.




It's easygoing. It's leisurely. But it's too boring and amateurish for an audience outside the Caribbean (although I watched it and suddenly had the urge to find a beach somewhere where I could sit with a stubby and watch the tide roll in and out).

So how to sell a beer that's virtually sold or drunk in very few places?

As it turns out, there have been not one, but a SERIES of commercials, which I guess ran in the States during football games earlier this year.

The secret weapon this ad agency decided would best work in wooing that fickle 21-50, like-their-Coors-with-their-beer-nuts target audience? A black dude with a Natural and a Jamaican accent wearing a suit and a Red Stripe sash.

I watched them. There's like, I dunno, 10, 12 of them? It's weird. Watching them, they're not all that funny. Trying to explain them to someone else kind of is.

But here's probably the best one out of the bunch.



I'm afraid, as annoying as the commercials are, the next time I have a hankerin' for the Red Stripe, the first thing that will pop into my head is that floating, disembodied, smiling face, cheering:

"Hooray beer!"

Goodbye, Ed

So yesterday's glee was quickly doused by news this afternoon that a journalistic giant, Ed Bradley, had passed away.

I was taken aback, to be honest. I'd no idea he was even sick. It turns out, he'd kept his illness - leukemia - quiet. It was part of his nature not to complain, his colleagues said.

It's funny. As soon as I was old enough to comprehend, I knew who he was. I'd remember my mom watching 60 Minutes most Sunday nights when I was younger; me sometimes leaving the room because I didn't have the patience to sit through an entire news show. For many years, I think I'd merely taken him and his contributions for granted. I recently learned my brother loved him, had been watching 60 Minutes for a while and looked forward to seeing him in the opening credits.

Later, when I was in school and really started comprehending the kind of work he did, I thought, there's no way in this world I could EVER be like him. He was investigative. Cool. Knew how to ask tough questions and get his answers. I remember being in my graduating year, looking at all the internship postings and seeing a posting for a scholarship in his name, for visible minorities. I glanced at it, glanced again, and talked myself out right out of applying - I didn't think I had a chance.

But I think it was only today that I finally, really, got snatches of insight into what this guy did, and who he was.

The man had been to Vietnam, covering one of the most important stories of the last century. And he almost didn't make it out alive.

He'd done countless stories and garnered many of well-deserved awards for them. This man was journalism personified. He worked hard. And he made sure that his stories were presented the way he intended: fairly and honestly.

But there was another side to him, the side a lot of people outside the industry seem to forget when they're too busy cussing out the media for inaccuracy and apparent heartlessness. The man was human. He was a jazz aficianado. He loved food. And, as some of his friends and colleagues recalled tonight, a man with style, no matter what he wore.

But his passing today touched a lot of people, and brought out the human side in his friends in the business. This afternoon, one of the hosts of the network I worked at interviewed one of our senior correspondents in Washington - a big bear of a man - who, as it turned out, knew Bradley for 30 years, and was in (and also trying to get out of) Vietnam during the war with him. I watched and listened to him recall what he was like, what kind of person he was like.

And then, with about 30 seconds left in the interview, I saw it, the most touching scene. The stoic facade, the composure he had maintained for the whole interview, started to crack. His chin wobbled, and his face fought not to pull and crumple into that expression we all make, just as we start to cry. I'm sure he knew he lost one of his best friends before he sat down in the chair. But I think at that moment, suddenly, he really knew, and realization of him no longer behing around hit him all at once. That's the kind of impression he made.

This evening, I was just thinking about the day, and for some reason, I remembered that one time I had to write an essay as part of my application package to a school here in Toronto. I don't quite remember the details, but I do remember writing that I wanted to be a messenger of truth - something overdramatic and cliche to that effect.

It turns out a messenger of truth's been in our midst this whole time. Except today, he was called to deliver his message elsewhere. It was good while it lasted. He'll be missed.