Pauly poll and perspicacious punditry

I have this friend who lives on a farm - well, he doesn't live on an actual farm right now, but he does live down the lane from the farm on which he grew up (upon which he grew??)

Anyway. During the course of an IM chat I was having with my friend - to protect his identity, we'll call him *Jim* - he mentioned that he was going to help his Dad harvest the corn/beans/whatever with a combine. This of course reminded me of Pauly Shore's stellar performance in Son-In-Law.

(IMDb it, peoples. I can't do everything for you, you know.)

(Well, it's not so much "peoples", as it is "person". Sigh.)

So *Jim* and I chatted for spell, during which he proceeded to judge me mercilessly for my appreciation of the comedic talents of Mr. Pauly Shore. I rebuffed his overly erudite rebukes quite handily, I thought - after, the might of Truth is on my side.

Then it happened again when I chatted with my friend Cicero in Pants. I post an excerpt of our brilliant spate of IM for two reasons:

1) It is wrong how everybody judges Pauly Shore. Just plain wrong.
2.) It is always easier to phone it in.

Without further adieu, I give you Jillian v. Cicero in Pants - The "Shore" Thing:

(ps: you should really, really check out this Mafia game. Neat-o!)

(pps: *Jim* will recognize this chat, as it is virtually identical to the one we had earlier.)

Cicero: do you know the game Mafia?
me: um no
Cicero: http://www.mafiascum.net/
me: oooh
Cicero: you might - I stress MIGHT - like it.
me: allow me a moment to investigate
Cicero: it's a forum based game.
me: hold the line
Cicero: kk
me: HELLZ YEAH
it’s a wiki
love it
will peruse in-depth
um this could be addictive
this is pseudo WoW
you sneaky bastard
Cicero: hold on - I'll show you the game I'm in.
me: kk
Cicero: http://www.mafiascum.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=5880
this should go to game 436

(Aside – I have NO idea what that means.)

Its the first one Ive played.
it will give you a flavor for the thing
me: i'm all about flavour
ps: how do you feel about pauly shore?
Cicero: I prefer not to acknowledge the existence of Mr. Shore.
me: really.
i ah...i um hatehimtoo.
yes
Cicero: buh-uh-dy.
me: just wondering
Cicero: lmao
riiiiiight
/outed!
me: come on!
you didn't laugh ONCE at Son-In-Law?
Biodome?

(Cicero changes his gmail status, effectively outing me as a Shore-ite)

me: FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
Cicero: lmao :)
me: suck it, bitch!
Cicero: I would but it's stuck up Pauly Shore's ass.
me: oh that's how it is?
i see. i see.
Cicero: snap
me: snizzAP!
Cicero: never admit to liking pauly shore in polite company. It's like Farm Porn. Keep that shit under your mattress.
me: good advice. works for you, i guess.
Cicero: ;)
me: you are the 2nd person today who has mocked me mercilessly for my love of the Shore
Cicero: I like neither pauly nor such porn. nor Yanni. Nor Zamfir. Nor Kenny G.
me: shut up
they are not the same beast
Cicero: you keep asking people and see what you get.
me: i've been conducting a sort of informal Pauly Poll
is comedic genius.
come down from your ivory tower, Cicero
mingle with the commoners.
Cicero: right. If hating Pauly Shore is wrong I don't want to be right.
me: whatevs.
snob.
Cicero: he's aaaaaaaaaaawful/
me: fucking ENCINO MAN for chrissakes
altho pound for pound, i'd vote Son In Law as his finest work
i liken him to andy dick
dick is better, though
ha
look what i just wrote
Cicero: I had forgotten about Pauly Shore. Why do you continue to sully my brain with this brown brown heiny tar?
hehe
me: that's a good'un
heiny tar
you are on fire
i like to sully people
sullyin' is what i do best
um not really
Cicero: :)


And that's pretty much where it ended. I think we all know who won THIS clash of the proverbial titans, no?

...

(ME. I won. Pauly Shore 4 EVA!)

Do the Right Thing / Sesame Street

Hilarious.

Megatron says "Fuck you"

Sidewalks swallow rage, absorb bile and bitterness. People are pounded to pieces, pulverized in the wake of my stiletto-ed stride, heels stabbing sans merci, relentless legs scissoring. Every footfall in the frantic, steaming morning, every nocturnal step echoed on empty streets spits "go. fuck. yourself."

These are the days of choler, of ill humour, of the simmering, seething miasma of madness glimpsed through the cracks in a bright smile, from beneath dark-lashed lids, lowered. These are the days of mad dogs and Englishmen and all the glittering assholes with their vacant words and dusty promises and bloody hands.

So give me your words, your laughter, your smell. Your walk. The nearness of you. I will take it, all of it. I will take it all and hide it away so that it won't tear at me as I rush past. That sound...that sound is me gritting my teeth as I write, grinding down the small bones of what once was.

Ahoy...

Phoenix - If I Ever Feel Better

"Call for you on line 1, Miss Thorne."

a very good year

i've lost track of how many times i've looked at you
when you weren't looking at me
and smiled.

it's hard to say how often i've smelled cookies
in the hollow of your neck and said
"what's that smell?"
and you've said "cookies."

we've wrestled on the floor a bunch of times
discount laundry safari
you have an armbar on my heart
are you ready?
are you ready?
let's get it on.

freedom of speech, The beauty of

I read many blogs on a daily basis. Most are political or satirical, some are religious. Some are about pop culture, music and celebrity gossip. Some are personal, a-day-in-the-life-of. Some are mainstream, some are slightly more subversive. Some are about shoes. What can I say? It takes a lot to amuse me.

The best part about the blogosphere (although we really do need a new word for this, folks) is that there is literally a whole world of content out there, free for the reading - and we get to comment on it! MAN ALIVE, is there a greater freedom than this?? Sweet, delicious freedom of speech, how I long to lick your creamy centre...

*drools, gobbles*

Wait a second! I just thought of something even more satisfying - Freedom of Speech 2.0!! Using your freedom of speech to quash the squawking legions of slack-jawed syncophants that squat in the Comments boxes of wildly successful blogs the world over!

Witness the outpouring of mindless clucking that was a direct result of an honest critique I made yesterday on this blog post (I comment as Jill, the 9th down the page):

http://stephanieklein.blogs.com/greek_tragedy/2007/01/drinking_the_st.html

Behold the post (and the subsequent slew of fatuous comments) on today's post on the same blog:

http://stephanieklein.blogs.com/greek_tragedy/2007/01/reject.html

Here's the comment I just sent:

Dear everyone,

Honesty does not equal ignorance. Criticism does not equal hate. I'm sure that my next words will see me hastily relegated even further into the ignominious depths of the "hater" world, but this needs to be said.

It is wrong to assume that a person who critiques another persons' work is/has:
1.) less intelligent/competent than the author in question
2.) Mean, ignorant, rude, misguided, hateful, or suffering from repressed childhood memories etc.
3.) anything to gain from the action - whether it be personally, professionally or financially

Let's get it out in the open - I critiqued a recent post ("drinking the stars"). I have been reading this blog since the beginning, and have made several appreciative/encouraging comments about the quality of the writing and the passion with which it is shared with the world. I have left sincere holiday greetings. I have seconded emotions. I have rejoiced at the signing of deals, the offering of together forever, the coming home, the arrival of bundles of joy. I comment on blogs when I am moved to do so - my comments are borne of emotional or intellectual reactions to content that is accessible the world over. This blog is content and it is out there and there is a Comments box.

So I made a comment that expressed my disappointment regarding what I perceived to be a lack of quality/clarity in a post on this site. I didn't make the comment because I hate the author of this blog. I didn't make the comment because I am jealous of the author's life, achievements or hard-won successes. I didn't make a comment because I feel insecure about myself. I made the comment because I enjoy something called freedom of speech - I enjoy it even more because I take a balanced approach to it. I made the comment because I understand that a published author who produces content (whatever the genre, whatever the medium) and puts it on the Internet and asks for comments (there is a box there, folks) should be ready to receive an honest, sincere and not at all anonymous critique of their work.

I have never met the author. I do not know the author/the author's family or friends personally. Very few who comment on here actually do. Yet people feel moved to comment in the proffered field. Why? We do it because we are invested. We do it because we have been welcomed into someone's world in a very unique way. We do it because we have been made privy to the sadness and joy, the dirty little secrets and inner shames, the hard-fought successes and well-deserved victories of a total stranger. That is the nature of a personal blog. The author has something to say, so she says it to the world. Everyone - including me - has something to say, so we say it. We say it because we can.

To all those who comment on this site to heap scorn and cast aspersions upon people who dare to speak honestly, to those who name-call and deride their fellow Internet citizens for sharing their feelings and opinions on a blog that is all about feelings and opinions, I say...keep at it. It is totally your right and privilege to do so. The Comments field will not turn you away.

To the author - for what it is worth at this point, I will not stop reading your blog. Your blog is worth reading. I will also comment when I am moved to do so, either emotionally or intellectually (hopefully both), and I will continue to strive to do so in as fair and balanced a way as possible.

Sincerely,
Jillian

Yeah. I don't know if this comment will make it past moderation.

UPDATE: Checking back today, I noticed that my comment was allowed and ended up sparking further discussion in the same vein. Sorry for the melodrama ; )

It's a girl...no, wait! It's a boy!

*Taken from a semi-NSFW email I sent to a select group of friends the day after the Pussy Balls Incident - there were pictures in the original, but they were a little, um, pink (and graphic), so y'all can just click on the link at the end of the post for cat porn galore. I thought I'd do the charitable thing by giving you the choice I never had.*

Yeah...so it turns out that my little girl isn't really a little girl like I was told she was when I got her. She's got a penis, which makes her a boy.

I made this discovery last night after Scraps had concluded a particularly vigorous and thorough washing session. S/he finished with the undercarriage area and leaned back, purring contentedly, legs akimbo, when.....HELLO!! Cat penis. Not unlike the revolting now-you-see-it-now-you-don't icky pink dog "lipstick penis"...just much smaller. And more ambiguous. A teeny, tiny little nubbin, protruding ever so slightly from what I originally had been calling her vajay-jay.

"What the FUCK????!!!" I leaned in for a closer look. After all, it was quite late and the lighting was poor. "This can't be right. Girl cats don't have dicks." That's right - they don't. Sure enough, the petite pink protrusion was still in evidence. "Okay. Okay. Is that like a giant cat clit or something? Could it be a nipple? A birth defect of some sort?" So many questions. I was becoming increasingly alarmed, but as Scraps was clearly fine with gender ambiguity, I concluded that the best course of action would be to turn off the light and float off to dreamland on a cloud of denial. I would pursue this further in the morning.

Pursue it, I did. I woke up this morning after a refreshing night's sleep, ready to solve the mystery of the transgendered kitten with the help of N, The Man Who Has Owned More Cats Than Me. It went something like this:

Me (sitting at foot of bed, sipping coffee): "So I think that Scraps has a dick."

N (propped up on pillows, also sipping): "Um. What?"

Me (casting sidelong glances at the frolicking cat): "Yeah. I think I saw her dick last night after she finished washing herself."

N (looking troubled): "What did it look like?"

Me: "Like a gross, pink doggie lipstick penis, only way tinier. It was poking out of her vagina. Do you think it's a giant clit or something?"

N: "No, I don't think it's a giant clit. Let's look." (reaches for cat)

Me (recoiling): "Yeah, we have to check...only let's try to not make it like we are touching her inappropriately. C'mere girl...it's ok, Mommy won't hurt you..."

What followed was about a minute and a half of gentle restraint and nervous peering, along with some VERY hesitant (mixed with equal parts of disgust) probing of "the area". The micropenis did not make another appearance, but we did notice two almost imperceptible swellings that could very easily be a scrotal pouch. Testicles. My girl has nuts. Also, we noticed that the little hole from whence the alleged penis had come didn't look very much like a vagina...according to N, who explained the mystery of cat pussy to me with a series of simple hand gestures and head nods for emphasis. He's really knows what he is talking about.

Having concluded the gynaecological portion of the program, we felt slightly more confident about reassigning Scraps' gender, but needed confirmation. Solid proof from an ironclad source. So we Googled "determining gender kittens" and came up with these super-helpful instructions:

"Lift the kitten's tail. The opening just under the tail is the anus. Below the anus is the genital opening which is round in males and is a vertical slit in females. In kittens of similar size, the distance between the anus and the genital opening is greater in the male than the female."

Easy peasy.

Thanks, http://www.vetmed.wsu.edu/clientED/kittenSex.asp !!

letting life in

I'm flying solo for the next 5 days. I will miss him, as I always do when he is not here. I need him like a plant needs the sun, like turkey needs gravy. It's not all bad, though. I plan on spending some time alone, something that I am less motivated to do when he is in close range. I find quiet comfortable. I listen for the sounds of life around me - a neighbour's laughter, hesitant strains of violin music, a dog eager to be walked - and smile to myself in my warm, sweet-smelling space with the golden wood and bare walls. This is precious to me, this pseudo-silence.

He often wonders what is happening in my head, what I'm thinking when I'm smiling slightly and sitting quietly while the world whirls around me. There are times when I am consumed with what transpires in my immediate sphere because it is impossible to not be willingly enveloped in the shouted laughter, the erudite ribaldry. So many good things happen there. I learn, I laugh, I get judo-tossed (sometimes) to the floor. Love is lavished upon my nose, legs are entwined on couches and heads are pillowed on shoulders.

Then there is me, outside it all. The me who wandered off as a little girl to sit in the woods in a sheltered spot near water, sometimes with a book but often with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her time alone. My mother would always smile upon my eventual return, knowing what I had been up to. I don't have a secret garden now, but I take similar refuge in a patch of sunlight on a square of floor stained the colour of honey,the dust motes that dance in front of multipaned windows. The grainy texture of a plaster wall, crowned with moldings thick with years of paint pleases me, satisfies me in a way that is visceral. I love the details, the essence of that which makes something itself, or more than itself.

So I'm letting life in over the next 5 days. I'm going to take the time to count the motes, trace their lazy choreography through air undisturbed by the comings and goings of others. I will take my grandmother's violin out of its case and remember her fingers on the strings, her merry bow arm. I will sip soup out of an oversized mug and bump heads with the kitten that will be welcomed into my home as of this evening. Maybe I'll write it all down, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just smile.

fall/ing

summer
slipped quickly
through fingers outstretched,
straining for quicksilver days hazed
by heat and nights glazed hotter and sweeter
still, a season settled on bare backs, long legs and strong
arms, as season of sentences punctuated by pink polish and slim
wrists, branded by beauty marks inked intricately and dusty
feet dangled, refracted. summer slipped slick through
my hands like a caught fish, all wide eyes and
big mouth begging for depths dappled
dark and light, released by clumsy
hands quickly emptied of life
but moist with memory
of having held it
carefully for a
moment.

Need

There are words inside me buzzing and thrumming and colliding with each other like a shaken jar of bees. Will they disappear if left unsaid, or will they continue to swarm and sting? Will my tongue shrivel, my hands claw if I don't pour out the lines scrolling behind my eyes? Surely they will find an escape route - maybe through my ears or my nose? My open mouth in sleep?

Imagine waking up on a pillow wet and stained with your thoughts, like a nosebleed.

(but not as painless)

Imagine having all these words to say but waking mute.

Flower child

Those of you who know me know that I am partial to evening strolls, either solitary or with like-minded company. The light is good in the late afternoon/early evening, so I tend to take a lot of pictures. As I am also quite partial to flowers, you will likely find me crouched in someone's garden, eyeing whatever they've got going on, phonecam at the ready. Here are a few for your enjoyment...

Hibiscus, ByWard Market

Chrysanthemum, ByWard Market

Hybrid daisy, Elgin Street

Sunflower, Elgin Street

Sunflower, Elgin Street

Ave maris stella

And with the ebb of the tide she was gone,
receding into the pearly grey,
borne away on whitecapped waves.
The gulls, knowing her name as they do,
mourn her in whirling wingflight,
cries cliff-caught and returned on the wind.

Stella maris. Star of the sea.

Stella Thorne died as she lived - with grace, courage, beauty and faith. Her legacy of loving kindness is a bright star by which we might each chart our own course.

God speed you on your journey home, Nanny.

You will be sorely missed.

still

your hands are still now
skin thin like parchment and rings on fingers
curling inward
holding nothing but themselves.

(you used to hold my hand when I was little)

your eyes are blank now
lashless lids over a paler blue than I remember
looking outward and seeing nothing
or inward and everything.

(you used to wear glasses)

your hair is white now
grey gone the way of memory but still
falling in girlish waves washed
by strangers.

(you used to wind my curls around your finger)

your voice is silent now
hushed by the rush of air through the tubes
in your face and the race of the drugs through
the needed needles in your leg. every two hours.

(you used to tell me stories)

go
go now
go and be free
you are loved
you are
still

Spesh K live @ Zaphod's (Byward Market, Ottawa) TONIGHT!

Bust out your bling, fluff that fade and get your ass out to Zaphod Beeblebrox TONIGHT(Friday, June 16 2006) to check out Spesh K, the hottest underground MC to come out of Halifax since Classified and Canada's answer to Gorillaz.

Joined onstage by:
Jugga (from the Boogaloo Trybe and the What's the 411 Tour)
John Akpata (2004 CBC Slam Poetry Face OFF Champion)
Ritallin (poet/MC and author of Cerebral Stimulation)
DJ Alive (CKCU FM Word Life Show)

Hosted by: Nathan Bishop (Celtae, Nathan Bishop Band)

Venue: Zaphod Beeblebrox, 27 York St. Ottawa
Cost: $8.00
Doors: 8pm
Age: 19+

Go West, young man

This past weekend, N and I spent several hours at WESTFEST flyering the masses for a hip-hop show he's promoting (shameless pimp post to follow). We took in some great spoken word performances and a couple of fun local bands. There was a nip in the air, but that didn't stop the fun-lovin', hemp-clad Westboro hippie set from taking to the streets in droves...with their dogs. There were pooches partout. We saw approximately a bazillion dogs, from the prancin'-est of pugs to the beefiest of bulldogs. It was less WESTFEST than it was ButtSniffFest. Despite the canine cornucopia, however, the prevalence of poop was virtually nil. Kudos to the stoopers.

I didn't bother taking any pictures - being far too busy gorging on hotdogs and cotton candy - until we stopped by a used instrument shop for a quick gawk at the merch. It turns out that guitar shops = photo ops...



Hanging guitars



Hummingbird detail



More hanging guitars



N puttin' down his rock star thang


Gee whiz...I hope I don't get in trouble for posting that last one...

*blocks a nose flick & prepares to leap*

Good times.

Window shopping

Looky what I found during a recent evening stroll in my neighbourhood:

Now affectionately known as "the evil nurse window" (Cartier @ McLaren), it looks even better when backlit at night...

...comme ça. It's very Darryl Hannah à la Kill Bill Volume 2.

And then there is this apartment building on McLaren. It's really quite cool.

Get out for a stroll in your 'hood. It'll cure what ails ya.

Streety graffiti

No To War on Elgin St. (outside British High Commission)



Fast Food Zombie (à la Swoon) on Wellington St. (in front of Métropolitain Brasserie)



Sleepy Sheep on the side of Boushey's on Elgin St.



Lion on Wellington St. (near the Chateau Laurier)


Ottawa is definitely not what you'd call a Mecca for graffiti artists; that being said, one can still find little nuggets of street art goodness around town. You just have to look.

These captures are from some of my recent rovings. I'll post more as I find them.

Kingston, ON...yet more pictures.

Night garden - detail of cherub




Night garden - cherub




"Kiddush" urn


Yeah. I went a bit nuts with the pictures in Kingston. These were taken at night, on the way back to the hotel after N's gigs at the Tir. I have a thing for twilight/night photography. Again, resolution is a factor...speaking of resolution, I should probably make one to get me a digital camera.

(Aside: I have never, ever enjoyed a walk more than I have with N. Hand-holding, critter-watching, tree-smelling goodness. He stops and waits for me while I take pictures. Love him.)

Hum. I think this is turning into a photoblog.

The Hotel Belvedere - a pic"tour"ial

These captures are from a recent trip to Kingston, ON (see "Road trippin'"). The resolution is dicey - a phone cam will only get you so far.


Welcome





Architectural detail





Bumbershoots





Lobby reflection / Stairway to Heaven ?





Lobby chandelier





Check-in (through stair railing)





Marble bust - drawing room





Pensive woman - drawing room





Wrought iron detail - drawing room





Radiator - drawing room





Lamp detail - drawing room





Door to terrace - drawing room




More door





Secret garden - terrace





Urn and ivy detail - terrace





Cherub - terrace