After a long absence from posting...hi. and I feel compelled to share one of the best films of this or any other year with the proviso that it is ALSO ONE OF THE MOST DEPRESSING FILMS OF THIS OR ANY OTHER YEAR and makes Christmas dinner with my brother (which USUALLY is the most depressing event of the year) look rather like the teddy-bear's picnic. I give you...Children of Men.
...let's not sugar coat this entry. Cat is off to a bridal shower, which by all accounts is going to be one of those bridal showers, where the guests have been asked to bring one article of clothing (like a sensible sweater, it gets cold in farm country), one household accoutrement (like a nice heavy wok) and one sex toy (because...well...when you live in farming country in Ontario, one doesn't get out to Lovecraft as much as one would want). This was on the INVITATION, and Cat is not one to avoid a challenge.( Read more...Collapse )
A few weeks ago (yeah, I haven't updated for a bit, sue me), I'm working from home. The office that presently pays me to edit is about as organized as a group of table dancers trying to take over the Vatican, so from time to time I sneak out early. At around 2:30pm the phone rings, I assume its my boss. I pick up the phone with the official 'I'm a working stiff' tone of voice and say "Trevor speaking."
There's a pause, a few deep breaths, then I hear "This is Benny. Don't hang up."
Benny's parole dictates that he cannot contact me. Oh, I don't hang up, I cough strategically and hit *211 on my phone, which has been set up in such a way that this call has just been recorded (thanks to the OPP for that little tidbit, and no, *211 isn't the real code, but it's still cool, and hitting * makes the other 3 numbers silent). Since the call is now being recorded, I'm pretty much at ease with Benny saying anything he wants. ( Read more...Collapse )
I am at my computer, trying to create a basic web layout for some mind-numbing sales data of an Ontario environmentally-consious dairy (maybe they make the cows clean up their own shit, I don't know...) when I hear somebody at my door. I ignore it. A minute later, Reece lets himself in (with a key I didn't think he had), takes orange juice from my fridge, sits on my couch. He has not looked at me once.
"Didn't want to knock?" I said.
"No need. Had a key," he said helpfully.
"I noticed. Just now. How LONG have you had a key?"
"I used to be super of this building. I have all the keys. You don't trust me?"
He looks almost hurt. "I'll get into that later. Why are you here?"
"Jane's going to call." Jane is Reece's new girlfriend. Or something. I don't even know if there's sex, although there is decidedly nudity (she is barely dressed at the best of times).
"And Jane's not calling you at YOUR place because...?"
On 9/11, I was still living in Toronto. The building went down and I watched it in a common room. I went back to my apartment, found a few shell-shocked friends, we watched the loop of footage for a few hours. I went out to get some food (since propriety took prescdence over outright horror), and came back with a large, overiced birthday cake.
There was no particular reason for this - I saw it in the baker's case and the woman behind the counter said that it was such a horrible day, nobody was going to want that cake. No sense it having it go to waste. If I had a crowd over, why not buy the cake? Half price.( Read more...Collapse )
I’m trying to go out to dinner with Reece. His girlfriend moved out and he doesn’t cook. I barely cook, and I decidedly don’t cook well enough to inflict it upon onlookers.
So we’re trying to go out for dinner, but the Kitchener/Waterloo/Guelph area doesn’t offer a lot. There are some nice enough dives in Guelph, but it’s too far a drive. The only pubs not packed on a Saturday night are the Firkin pubs (Fox and Firkin, Fiddle and Firkin, Squid and Firkin) but they’re filled with computer programmers in their mid-30’s surreptitiously carrying multi-sided dice in their pockets. We drive around the suburbs and look for inspiration.
“All you can eat sushi?” he suggests, pointing at a passing sign.
“The all you can eat salmonella sign fell off last week.”
He brightens up. “Really? ALL you can eat? And purge later for free?”
Me- Yeah. Sven. Good Portuguese name. Blonde hair and blue eyes and a Swedish accent like all over Svens from Portugal.
Reece- He was the loud guy who managed Morrison's for awhile?
Me- Yeah. He's unchanged. Sven incarnate. Very Sven. All things Sven. It wasn't an unpleasant meeting, I more or less liked him, he's just...incredibly...himself. Thought that maybe he should have changed somehow.
Reece- Don't trust him never did. He's weird. I saw him eat a hummingbird once. He dated Angela Lansbury for a year and a half. He punch a hole in a cow while on a county road just to see through its other side.( Read more...Collapse )
I borrow a flash card from work, it's a 1gb card that they use to carry operating systems around on. I'm just using it to bring home some blueprints for a different project, and when I get it home, one of the files that I DIDN'T erase (wasn't sure if the previous user wanted everything cleared) features a pretty blonde woman who is, shall we say, taking full advantage of a banana.
Or a plantain. The jury is still out.
I'm not into pron, so it did little for me. What DID interest me was which one of the 5 users of the flash card decided that they needed to preserve that little Chiquita moment for posterity. 3 of them are over 5o and happily married, and of course might want to consider such a fruit-driven scenario, but they really don't seem the type. One of them might be a suspect, but I don't think he has the technical wherewithal to play an avi. The other user is me. And I didn't put it on said card.( Read more...Collapse )
I was reading MSNBC's somewhat tacky but psychologically fascinating Dateline series on Online Predators. Essentially, a nice woman with a high voice fakes being either at 13yr old girl or boy in chatrooms, arranges to meet gentlemen at her house when her "parents are away" (replace with air quotes if you will), and Dateline film crews and the cops are waiting at the house to see who shows up.
Lots, apparently. Armed with condoms, sex toys, an apple pie and whipped cream (I don't condone it, but I'm sure the pie was the first target for the cream), and often with booze. I was chatting with Orangey while reading it:
Me- All these guys are asked to bring Mike's Hard Lemonade. That's an undignified tipple. What kind of wine to you bring to the seduction of a 13yr old? Red or white?
Orangey- Blush. It's a pink meat.
Most of the guys (who have watched the other THREE primetime specials on just this topic) announce that they never meant to do it, they acted on impulse (including the repeat offenders), and one guy said he was there to offer Christian Counselling (which involved, apparently, condoms). There was such a turnaround one evening that more than 1 guy arrived at a time, requiring the local cops to set up a booking area in a camper next door. The gentlemen in question were, shall we say, so driven in their goals that they never noticed the camper full of cops and all the parked cars.
Shuddering at the yellow journalism (this is shooting fish in a barrel) and at the practice (they're pretty scary fish) and at the ghoulish delight that everyone takes (we all shoot into the barrel simply by reading it). 'Tis a scary world.
Tell it backwards. After the fight, I told Cat "I'm leaving. You coming?"
She looked at me, looked back at the kitchen where Alice was still crying. "Not sure. Is there enough room for me in the car, with all that bile you're spewing?"
First impulse answer was 'Fuck yourself.' But it didn't really apply. I tried logic and said "She drew first blood. She was warned. And if there was bile, I might remark that I didn't spew it at you."
Cat rolls her tongue into her cheek. "Looks open-source to me."
And now is the time for "Fuck yourself. Call me when you're lonely or horny. You always do. And hey, thanks for watching my back from across the room, eh?"
She looks hurt. It's my second wounding for the evening, and even as I'm leaving and she says "Trevor..." I know she'll apologize. I'll even accept it, later. For now, I'm the ugly man. I got snipped at in an argument at pre-movie beers, and lashed for the jugular. I suppose that I won - Alice cried, the majority of the people told her that she was out of line before she started crying, but put their hands on her shoulders comfortingly once it was over. I must have been ugly. I'm feeling ugly, and more frighteningly, justified.
This morning, I told Orangey that I would love her 'forever and forevers' if she were to wear a pair of panties on her head, and go onto her webcam. Perhaps 'love' would have been too broad a term, to be fair...but 'I would engender towards you a great deal of respect for your improvisational nature and sense of gonzo were you to place panties upon your cranium' would have taken too much time.( Read more...Collapse )</lj-cut)
7:00am. Good Friday morning. Reece calls me, waking me out of a most scrummy dream about ponies. Well, no. I think I was dreaming about JAVA and if it could be implemented into an existing application that I didn't design because I don't program I just fit material into ANYHOW...he calls.
"Want breakfast, big guy?"
"Reece, it's 7am. I'm asleep."
"Bullshit. We're talking. Breakfast is on me. Gotta be someplace open to get the post-mass crowd. Pancakes and bacon, harden those arteries as hard as your rodney. Carla and I are in the parking lot. Chop-chop."
I'm going to tell him to go to hell, but the idea of a free breakfast is appealing, and if indeed my arteries could be as hard as my poetically referred to 'rodney' (it seems a shame to capitalize the name), I could tell people I had a hardbody. So. I get up, and see Carla and Reece at his car in the parking lot.
They have been together for around 18 months, a perfect couple based on the idea that she takes none of his shit (and from Reece, the shit is from time to time copious) and he is genuinely devoted. There are some suitcases on the ground, shovelled into the car, maybe she's going back to Sault Ste. Marie to visit family for Easter. They're laughing and smiling as I approach, she gets a theatrical kiss that can only be described as a smackeroo. She waves at me and drives Reece's biodiesel monstrosity into the sunrise.( Read more...Collapse )
I was shakey and not sure if I had done anything right. I knew what was done, was done. I might have been alone, for a few hours, but there are kindnesses. The ginger-ale was cold, almost crisp in the shape that it folded over my tongue. I took a deep breath, head cracking from everything seen and experienced. I didn't know what would happen, in the near future, or if I would even look back at this at all. I just knew the ginger-ale and it was cold, refreshing, and kind.
You have to put yourself in the setting – a cubicle farm, but actually a bit smaller. A cubicle garden. Five people at a meeting, 4 of them programmers, one a producer. I will be responsible for editing all of their work, so I am the odd-man out, not really the employee of any of them but responsible to each one. And Benny, who initiated this project (a calculator for energy costs, and a webpage to teach kids how to save energy) and contacts the clients.
Benny doesn’t like the fact that he’s not really a ‘boss’ per ce. The programmers, the producer, and I work for the 3 owners of the company, they tell me what to edit, so Benny just gets to suggest a workpath, not to dictate. The meeting is cordial and Benny is in his loveable scamp personae, channelling Tony Soprano from time to time, too polite to curse but dropping the term ‘Frig’ rather copiously.
He talks about 4 different pieces for this webpage. I tell him, and the group, that I can edit them into 2 pieces. Benny says “But I’d promised 4 to the client,” and I say that’s fine, but they might be happier if the content is compressed. I can make it into 2, easily, save the client money and space on their webpage.
"Comedy is when you step in a manhole. Tragedy is when I step in a manhole."
-Mel Brooks, 1967
"Anything can be funny. Feminists say rape can't be funny. Elmer Fudd gets raped by Bugs Bunny. That's...funny?"
-George Carlin, posing a question, 1978
"In Wednesday's London Times, columnist Alan Coren, a former editor of the now defunct satirical magazine Punch, observed that he was on the receiving end of numerous complaints about cartoons the magazine ran during his tenure but said that he based his editorial decisions solely on whether they were funny. The Danish cartoons, he observed, were not. Then, in his own take on Looking for Humor in the Muslim World, Coren asked, 'Suppose they had been funny? Not to us infidels, we don't matter, but to Muslims. I hardly dare ask -- not because I fear the tap on the door and the scimitar to the throat, only because I recognize my own ignorance on the issue -- whether, notwithstanding the sacrilege of any representation of Muhammad, there could conceivably be circumstances under which a gag about him was so terrific that even the devout couldn't suppress a grin. ... And since you ask, that cartoon published yesterday in an Islamic paper and designed to outrage in revenge -- it showed Hitler, in bed with Anne Frank, saying 'This is one for the diary' -- made me laugh. Don't write in, for God's sake.'"
I can hear a hospital announcement in the background, a Dr. Ougi is needed upstairs. So Reece is at least in hospital. He's also a hypocondriac. So although I'm sure of the place, I'm not sure of the reason.
"I'll bite, how did you in air quotes break end air quotes your leg?"
"Slipped in the parking lot that YOU were supposed to salt and shovel"
We share duties between the two buildings in which we live. "And which lot was that? The west or the east?"
"East! YOUR lot!"
"You gave me the west lot last week. Remember? We agreed that it would make more sense since I park my car over there since they moved the dumpster? And you'd take the east lot since the snow blower was already in the back garage? And you might notice that the west lot is not only shoveled and salted, it's also NOT THE ONE I'M SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON?" ( Read more...Collapse )
Benny's not stoned. He's drunk. Lunch at Swiss Chalet (a kinda Denny's clone with bar-b-que chicken for the American readers) has become a 4 beer lunch for two reasons. Firstly, the deliverables from one of the software partners are delayed due to a fire at their office. Secondly, Benny didn't drive today, his girlfriend dropped him off and since he and I are A COUPLE-A GUYS WITH NOT MUCH TO DO, SILVERDUTY IS BUYING US LUNCH AND A COUPLE-A BEERS.
But first, a moment of respect to Swiss Chalet. It's a Canadian tradition. Kinda good, kinda depressing restaurant chain. They tried to become sort of a roadhouse/steakhouse (but with chicken) a few years ago, failed miserably. People go to Swiss Chalet for the rush of carcinogens and chewy chicken and salty crispy fries, not as a pick-up bar. But they left the taps. And a pint of Sleemman's Lager in a chilled pint glass (still steaming with vapour from the freezer) is damn glorious. Cheap paradise in a glass. And bravo, whatever consortium owns the chain.
That was the high point of lunch. I don't like Benny and for more reasons than I'm going to get into. A loudmouth. Not really a boss, but sort of, I'm not really an underling, I'm just a good editor. But there's nothing else to do that afternoon and when the pint with a quarter chicken dinner becomes two, why not. And three is easier after two, four is simple after three. Loudmouth notwithstanding, nobody buys beer and chicken out of malice.