Some weirdo.

"Security checkpoints, background checks, and gun regulations will do little good if criminals can..."

Sun, 05 May 2013 07:02:04 -0400

“Security checkpoints, background checks, and gun regulations will do little good if criminals can print plastic firearms at home and bring those firearms through metal detectors with no one the wiser. …Now that this technology appears to be upon us, we need to act now to extend the ban on plastic firearms.”

- New York Democratic Rep. Steve Israel • Calling for a ban on plastic firearms fashioned through the use of 3D printers. The first wholly 3D-printed gun has been produced by Cody Wilson, a 25-year-old law student at the University of Texas, who gave Forbes magazine an inside look at its production. The blue and white colored plastic gun, which looks a great deal more like a toy than a potentially lethal weapon, has been named “the Liberator” by Wilson, who runs a company that intends to release the CAD (computer-aided design) file for the do-it-yourself gun online, free for all. Which means with a 3D printer (available for just $1,300 or so these days), and a modicum of practice, whatever background check system the U.S. does have, however spotty, might be circumvented entirely. Rep. Israel urgently wants this avoided, by an expansion of the Undetectable Firearms Act of 1988, to include passages specific to 3D-printed guns. source (via shortformblog)

Consumer protection thoughts

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 09:28:36 -0500

Lately I’ve started thinking a lot about some of the wildly optimistic claims made by some supplement companies, fitness gurus, homeopeeps, naturopeeps, celebrity doctors/corporate shills, and then about the people who consume their products, general issues of consumer choice, and the nature of belief. As with every other type of business on the planet, there are people in the health industry who are responsible and there are those who are fraudulent shysters, and there is a large sliding spectrum of those in between. The person at the organic mart, recommending a non-FDA-approved magnesium supplement for dietary issues, for example, isn’t in the same ballpark-of-evil as the infomercial promoting a supplement to cure cancer. And then there’s Dr. Oz, who has his own evil amusement park. (Dr. Phil mans the rollercoaster ride.) So, too, is there a difference between the consumer who buys some Tea Tree oil, and the one who signs up for 3 easy payments of *insert life-savings here* for ground-up porcelain dust cancer cure, or even the one who buys “memory-impressed” water “cures.” By entering myself into the world of fitness and health, I have come to realize that I need to figure out where I stand on the spectrum, and this is actually a more convoluted decision to make than I had previously thought.

People are willing to pay huge amounts of money for hope. Things like investment and insurance play on our anxieties, our willingness to risk, our competitive natures, and our inner “what-if” thoughts. It seems to be, though, that the profit margin for selling false hope is much greater than that for selling something that has a basis in reality. I would need to research this, obviously, but if you think about it, the basics break down thusly: 2 different companies hypothetically have the same operating budget for a product. “A” company has had to go through only the most minimal amount of product testing before it hits the shelves, and the majority of the company’s expenditure is on packaging and promotion. “B” company, on the other hand, has had to go through rigorous amounts of testing and inspection, and so spends less on packaging and promotion. Not only is company B not benefitting from advertisement, its product doesn’t even become saleable in the same amount of time that company A’s product does. Company A’s priorities are less about the provable effects of its product on its consumers, and more about profit, and vice-versa for company B. I think this is the main difference in what constitutes false and reality based hope.

My sister works in a sex shop that sells, among other things, “dick pills.” Bigger dick, harder dick, sustainable dick, they come in all flavors of “no-scientific-evidence” claim, and when she first started at the shop she felt really conflicted about selling these things. If asked whether they worked or not, she would say that she couldn’t provide proof, and if the person asking wasn’t being a dick himself, might suggest looking up more info on the net. But she found that this even-handed approach wasn’t making it into the skulls of the people interested in buying the things. Her current philosophy is, “if a person asks if the pills work or not, I think to myself, ‘that depends….how stupid are you? They seem to work really well on stupid people.’” In the end, she doesn’t take on the responsibility for consumer gullibility, nor for corporate usury. Just saying out and out that the pills don’t work isn’t something that she can do, either, because hey…it’s her job to sell things. But when she was trying to do so as responsibly as she could, she found that people weren’t receptive to her suggestions of looking for more information on their own, and more often than not, bought the pills outright anyway. False hope sells.

How many millions of dollars are made every week by companies claiming that the latest cleanse, pill, supplement, or shake is the one to wring out your excess fat and turn you into a lean hottie without ever picking up a dumbbell or walking a mile? How many of these products are ever actually tested to be effective in their claims? Almost as important, though, is the question: would it make a difference?

It’s just as easy to throw your money at something scientifically proven as it is to throw your money at something that isn’t. This is where the whole nature of belief and the role of choice comes into play for me. I know that there are companies and representatives out there who are really awful, and who push the most ludicrous things, and get away with murder. (Well…wrongful death, at any rate.) Some measures have been taken towards improving controls for supplements claiming naturopathic remedies, but it’s still nowhere near as rigorously legislated as pharmaceuticals. (One could argue that this could be because most supplements are harmless enough to not warrant the same type of restrictions as placed on pharmaceuticals, but a simple Google search of “dangerous supplements” got 15,800,000 results, and found this link at the top: http://www.consumerreports.org/cro/2012/05/dangerous-supplements/index.htm) I totally do think there should be tighter regulations on supplements, and that there should be a code of standards that hold companies to their claimed effects, but at the same time, I’m not so naïve as to think this will stop the homeopathic practice of “imprinted water” tonics from being sold, or from consumers pursuing it. If people take it into their heads that something works, it is only a certain small percentage of that population that will be swayed away from their previous assumptions by way of scientific evidence to the contrary. Everyone else will simply revert back to their assumptions/beliefs, and go about their business as before. Finally, sort of as a wild card comparison, I always think about how alcohol and tobacco are legal poisons, whose only real regulatory hurdle in getting to the public is the amount of tax levied on them, and the age at which the public is able to buy them. Tobacco is covered in warnings, everyone knows the health risks of smoking, but it is still a legal substance, and it is actually killing people. Alcohol is even more insidious, as its health risks (beyond drunk driving) are never talked about openly, and alcohol’s image is always that much more shiny and presentable in the media. (“Drink responsibly” could just as easily be “Give a hoot, don’t pollute” for all the social impact it has.) My point is this: the burden of proof should be on the shoulders of the manufacturers, and the burden of informed choice should remain in the hands of consumers, for any of this stuff. But in the murky waters of where we’re at right now, the majority of the responsibility is on the consumer to “man up” and inform themselves on the feasibility of claims, and the ratio of false:real hope a product is offering. No one is going to swoop in and save you from spending 80 bucks on a weight-loss pill. Nobody is going to stop you from wasting your money on tiny bottles of water “tinctures,” not yet, at any rate. We as consumers have to make up for the lack of regulation on these things and vote with our dollar. Personally speaking, I aim to be the type of personal trainer who doesn’t promise miracle results, but rather just…actual, quantifiable results. And I will NOT sell you a pill while doing it.

laughingsquid: Little Baby’s Pizza Ice Cream Frozen vomit in a...

Wed, 14 Nov 2012 08:51:04 -0500

laughingsquid:

Little Baby’s Pizza Ice Cream

Frozen vomit in a cup, anyone?

drinkyourjuice: If I die and don’t get a corner just shit on my...

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 09:12:08 -0500

drinkyourjuice:

If I die and don’t get a corner just shit on my grave cause I blew it.

awesome.

laughingsquid: Understanding America, A Recently Released Frank...

Tue, 06 Nov 2012 12:39:39 -0500

laughingsquid:

Understanding America, A Recently Released Frank Zappa Collection

Even though Toronto is now gripped in a pre-winter chill, and even though Canada collectively grips the edge of its seat awaiting the results of the election (AKA the fight between good and “are you fucking kidding me”) in the U.S., I am hoping that the good voodoo I experienced so far today is an indicator of more good things to come. First, I narrowly escaped getting sideswiped on my bike today as a gardening truck swung out past a left-turner without signalling. Then, upon reaching my destination - a breakfast date with my bestie, Pip - discover, through the magic of text messaging, that my phone has been found in the middle of Dupont street, and rescued by a good samaritan. If ever I wondered whether not having a passcode on my iPhone was a good idea or not, this seemed to settle the argument. When Pip and I found the lady at the community centre around the corner from Pip’s house, she said it was literally in the middle of the street - and yet, not run over, not even a scratch on its shiny little face. It must have whipped out of my coat pocket when I dodged the truck. After ingesting our now overdue (but delicious) breakfast, I got back home to check in on my Student Loan status, anticipating yet another 3 hours of circular phone calls to deal with. But no! Lo and behold, the funding has been approved, which means I can keep up my champagne tastes of brand name contact solution and soap. I can even still buy organic yogurt. But I fully intend to still live off the radiant heat of the Dollarama store just below my apartment all winter, and write essays in the dark.

Finally, my Tumblr feed alerted me to the GLORIOUS FACT that Zappa’s estate has released this compilation. I am transferring it to my recently rescued iPhone in a celebration of serendipitous things occurring in threes. I hope the rest of the day (and the fate of the U.S. for the next 4 years) follows suit.

jesus.

Sun, 15 Apr 2012 11:43:11 -0400

jesus.

What would Rob Ford do?

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 10:39:04 -0400

He *might* run into a burning building if he thought there was a bucket of KFC in there to be saved. But I think he’d probably just try flipping the bird to the fire, or maybe charging it with harassment.

HOW IS THIS OKAY?

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 20:34:10 -0500

HOW IS THIS OKAY?:

I’m astounded. I don’t actually know what demographic PETA is hoping to convert, but I’d venture a guess that it’s woman-beating white trash trailer America. I’ll give them a D- for effort at trying to not “preach to the converted…” The “converted” being easy-going, liberal-leaning, “live and let live types,” who, if not adherent to PETA’s exacting standards of human subsistence, then at least sympathetic to the cause. This flies in the face of everything said sympathizers hold dear: feminism, egalitarianism, respect for other humans, LET ALONE totally discludes gays of any gender. But this is liberal pantywaist whining on my part, because, really, the main issue is: DO YOU REALLY THINK PROMOTING ANIMAL RIGHTS VIA A BUNCH OF VIDEOS OF BEAT-TO-SHIT-WOMEN IS GOING TO HELP YOUR CAUSE? Who authorized this? INCREDIBLE. We are living in the fucking stone ages.

Worst. Xmess. Ever.

Mon, 26 Dec 2011 00:05:03 -0500

The point, for me and my sister, was to go to an easy, palm-tree-filled, white sand-filled, warm destination sometime around Xmess to try and distract ourselves from Xmess and its reminders, its loaded sentimentality, due to the death or our Ma in August. Neither of us are really “the type” to attend an all-inclusive resort, because a) Gin’s real pale and would burn like a marshmallow at the slightest hint of sun, and doesn’t drink as much as I do, and b) I tend to like to experience a different country in its authenticity, not in a roped-off, served-on kind of way. But, we were after an easy, cheap, warm getaway, and so we decided to book a trip to Punta Cana. An all-inclusive dealie. The Bavarro Barcelo Palace Deluxe, to be precise.

I’d gone down 2 days prior to Gin and her fiancee, Kevin, because there was no room for me on their flight. The extra days I had were downright pleasant: good sun, good layin’ around time. I took pictures of the beach.

i took pictures of me layin’ around.

i took pictures of the resort, and its endless supply of things one could lounge upon:

HAMMOCK!!! I LOVE GODDAMNED HAMMOCKS!

I took pictures of enormous thatched rooves.

And I took pictures of the strange white orbs that littered the resort, because it reminded me of my friends Lindsay and Michelle, and of The Prisoner:

I drank some, and I worked out some, and I laid around some more. I made some “friends,” (read: dudes who wanted to sell me stuff/bone me/both, but really only got away with selling me stuff, good on them. One was VERY persistent - nice enough kid, but really…he was about 19. He managed to sell me a bottle of rum and 4 cds. But he kept calling my room, reminding me in broken english that his vacation started tomorrow, and didn’t I want beer in my room for my sister? Yeesh. Call room service once and invite the bringer boy to join you for a glass, and suddenly I’m your most hopeful prospect? Honey. I’m not Michael Jackson.)

Gin and Kev finally arrive to save me from myself. Yay! We ate, and had some delicious coffee and brandy and cigars. Witness the excitement!

And they were all cute and lovey and stuff. WITNESS THE CUTE!

So that was all awesome. But then, on their second day there, Gin started hacking away and came down with a pretty serious cold. They took a day off from chillin’ - Kev and I still managed a dinner date, while Ginny slept. Meanwhile, I’d had a few bites from local mozzers on my feety bits and went to see the doc. Here’s where the photos go from “pretty” to “pretty gross.”

Whatever, I went to the hotel clinic, they shot me full of something, and I seemed to be doing fine, until, 24 hours later, the mozzers got me in a renewed attack. That’s when I got worried and went back to the clinic, because this shit weren’t right, y’all. One bite had swollen up on the front of one calf, whilst on the other, it looked like an oozing rat-bite. My elbow had been got, too. Mind, I had gotten these bites and continued on my merry way, working out and such, for a day before I thought that perhaps I’d visit the clinic again for a magic shot of whatever they gave me the first time. But no! They said that I’d have to get sent off to the local hospital for treatment, because, HOLY SHIT YOU’VE GOT DOMINICAN WEIRD-LEG! That’s not what they called it. Gin and I dubbed it that later, but you could see it in their expressions, and in their mad stabbings at the phone to try and get a cab for me asap to the hospital. HERE’S SOME GROSS PICTURES!!

I got bored waiting in the emergency room. so I took these pictures.

I also managed to record a pretty decent hospital ambience wav. file on my iPad whilst waiting. Good reverb. Anyway….

They told me that I had severe infection in the area surrounding the bites in my legs/elbow, plus a severe allergic reaction, and that, to counteract that, I’d have to stay overnight. I have problems with sleepovers anywhere, let alone foreign hospitals that poke you awake every 2 hours with some other fucking thing they want to stick in you. Plus, how do I know your hospital isn’t populated with EVEN MORE MOSQUITOES? But, okay, even though we were due to leave the NEXT DAY, I resigned myself to the fact that I was gonna be tapped for an IV, and made to stay overnight.

I’m a fairly white woman. I’ve never had problems with nurses getting a good ol’ vein to pop up in Canada. Sadly, this was not the case here. I was, for the first time in my life, afraid the nurse had rammed the needle clear through my elbow-vein (not a technical term) when i looked down and saw a little blue vein-balloon happening. Now, I’m a tough broad. But this made me lose my shit. “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” I yelled, instantly springing freak-out-tears in panic mode. No habla Englis. Sure, they tapped another vein, and mimed that the vein-balloon would go away, but it freaked me out.

I mentally calculated the hours that I could feasibly take in all the meds I could and still make an 11 a.m. checkout the next morning. As long as there was SOME improvement in the infection, they’d discharge me, and I’d be golden. No problem.

2 hours later, i’m admitted to a room. I doze heavily, as i think the afternoon I spent procrastinating from going to the clinic again in the sun has given me a wee bit of heat stroke. Either that or the IV is kickass. But around 9 pm, Kevin texts me and says that they, too, are on their way to the hospital, to get xrays for Ginny’s lungs.

Party at the hospital.

Sometime between experiencing her normal hacky symptoms and being admitted to emergency, Ginny starts into a stomach ailment meltdown of unpleasantness. I dazedly keep up with progress reports during the long night of how she’s doing, still intent on busting us all out of there for our flight the next day.

At one point, a nurse comes with a steel bowl of what appears to be hot water, which she sets down at my bedside and dips cheesecloth into, which she then arranges on my infecty calf bits. I later discover that the bowl has 9 teabags floating in it. Weird.

At around 7 am, I try texting Ginny again to try and get an update. The text I get back is short: “Two days.” Buh? The next few hours involve increasing stress, lessening time, and no change in the demeanour of the staff. That means, essentially, absolutely no comprehension of the time it takes for THEM to do stuff vs. the very real timeline that everybody else is facing. No matter what happens, I need to check out of the resort at 11. I fight to get disconnected from my IV, I FIGHT to get discharged. I run down and see Ginny. She’s in absolutely NO condition to fly, and she’s freaking out. My heart squeezes as I tell her that I will taxi back to the resort, check us all out, grab Kevin, arrange for a later flight, and be back to camp with her.

My taxi drives me to the wrong hotel. Brilliant. I lose another 15 precious minutes. Finally at the right hotel, I hit the ground running, I run to my room, pack everything, run to the concierge to stash my stuff while I run to try and find Kevin at their room. No Kevin, but luckily they were on a ground floor, so I went around back, broke into their room, and clipped a note to kevin’s bag telling him to meet me at the front desk. Finally we found each other, checked out, spent too long on the phone arranging a later flight, then cabbed us both back to the hospital.

PICTURES FROM THE HOSPITAL!

We settled ourselves in. Most of our time was spent trying to stop the staff from actively hurting Ginny with shit they’d inject into her IV that would burn her (Me: “Okay. STOP. TAKE IT OUT. STOOOOP!”), asking various people if they knew what was actually wrong with her (ha, no hope there) and trying to find sources of sustenance she could ingest. (like, soda crackers. Not, say, fish and beets. REALLY? I didn’t even know the Dominican KNEW about beets!)

It also saw me venturing out into the wide world of the Dominican fo’realz, yo, because I got bored and hungry and wanted to see what I could find. Oh HELLZ! I got the real dope, yo. Firstly, I’m a woman, and I’m a white woman, and so things like me don’t appear out of nowhere very often there, I rest assured. Every car and moto pass was a beep. I learned that the common attention-getting sound for locals was simply to “sss” shortly through their teeth. I acknowledged some, gave a wave, ignored others. As you do. I kept on my mighty way, just looking for a quick bite, or a cerveza. I settled for a quick cerveza, because most places that sound like road-side food places are actually car-part shops. I went into a place that seemed safe because I saw one woman at the bar as a customer, and ordered a beer. I had the loudest possible miming conversation in history there, if only because the Dominicans like their music CONSTANT, and LOUD. But the situation was illuminating: you are a stranger here. Many people are friendly enough, but more people could just as well not be. Get the fuck out of Dodge. I had my beer, gave a hi-five to my beer-friend, then made my way back to the only outpost of food I knew how to negotiate at: Burger King. God, I was suddenly an asshole. I was an asshole white woman afraid of street meat diseases getting back to my vulnerable little hospital camp-out.

Not only did I do that outing, but I did a NIGHTTIME OUTING, which was even stupider! But I’m like that. I just can’t let quite well enough alone. I went out past dark to get little snacks for all of us, down the road, at the gas station. But really, when you’re left with no choice, you just do it.

Again, illuminating. So much of the Dominican culture seems to rest on being ON the STREET, just standing on the street, and doing whatever: talking, making deals, catching moto-taxi passengers, prostitution, selling bags of whatever they have to sell…And being a 3rd world country, there’s not an abundance of anything else going on. But I threw on jeans and buttoned my leather football jacket as far up as it would go, and powered on into the blind, dark night. I walked fast, and hey, because it’s dark, nobody beeps or does the “sss” thing. Still. This is the shit where you need to be super aware. Chicks may walk alone in Dominican culture but, a) if they do, I’m pretty sure it MEANS something, and b) sure as anything, white chicks walking alone is just confusing as SHIT.

In any case, I got back to the hospital with wee snackies. Kevin and Gin and I spent the next couple of days watching whatever horrible English television was on (FYI: The bad news is, Fox news is everywhere; the good news is that you can sometimes get English Animal Planet. Sometimes.) Another bonus: Dominican being what it is, we (Kevin and I) were never without some sort of soccer coverage. So that was nice.

Here’s a shot of my leg healing!

I know, it still looks really nasty. But trust me, it’s better. And then Kevin got real excited about chickens roaming in the back yard of the hospital.

Just look, off to the right, that’s a wandering chicken. Which is funny, because when I was still in fun and games mode, on my first day, i texted Ginny, saying, “I swear I’m hearing goddamned roosters. Where the fuck are we?”

I haven’t truly painted the full picture of just how horrible this entire ordeal was, simply because i’m tired and i’m leaving SO VERY MANY things out, particularly in the dealings with hospital staff. But I think this well covers the gist of it. We flew back Xmess Day, o holy of holies (nope) and while we’re kinda pissed at such a wasted spate of time, energy, and money, we’re all SO FUCKING HAPPY that we live in FUCKING CANADA. Best country in the world, by far. Holy fucking crap. BY FAR.

MERRY XMESS.

"Gay rights are human rights and human rights are gay rights. It is a violation of human rights when..."

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 02:59:30 -0500

“Gay rights are human rights and human rights are gay rights. It is a violation of human rights when people are beaten or killed because of their sexual orientation, or because they do not conform to cultural norms about how men and women should look, or behave… To LGBT men and women worldwide, let me say this: wherever you live and whatever the circumstances of your life, whether you are connected to a network of support, or feel isolated, and vulnerable, please know that you are not alone. People around the globe are working hard to support you, and to bring an end to the injustices and dangers you face. That is certainly true for my country. And you have an ally in the United States of America. And you have millions of friends among the American people.”

- U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton • Giving vocal support to the plight of oppressed LGBT persons worldwide, at a meeting of diplomats in Geneva. Clinton’s speech is being hailed as a landmark event in terms of U.S. foreign policy towards LGBT rights, and dovetails with the Obama administration’s memo earlier today pledging foreign aid support for the same cause. After her speech, she received a standing ovation. This could well be worth marking down on your calendar for future reference, everyone; this could be a big, big deal, whether Rick Perry likes it or not. source (via • follow)

My cat just stole and ate one of my olives.

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 01:56:00 -0400

…time to start taking up martini-drinking.

Run fotoblog South Humber trail: where they hose down the bodies.

Fri, 04 Nov 2011 20:48:00 -0400

The first time I ran this route was actually during the summer. I’ve done it quite a few times since, but it was quite the little day of discovery for me when I first ran it. Being mazeophobic as I am, yet not being able to work a map or iPhone GPS to save my life (I hope that never becomes literal) I tend to not “try new trails” all that often. (When I do, I write out a list of word-directions in the Notes app on my phone. Because I’m special like that.) Anyhow, this is quite a lovely route that goes along the Humber River (going south towards the Lakeshore) and there are some lovely little parks along the way, plus big green open areas for dogs to run around in. This is the route:

[It’s a screenshot from Mapmyfitness, so ignore the New Balance store plug in the centre of it. Although it would be funny if there were just a giant red NB stuck in the middle of Bloor Street.]

I enter the trail just off of Old Dundas West, and right away I had to stop and take this picture, because I thought it would be an awesome place for a picnic for all my weirdo friends. (See the tiny picnic table in the centre?) As long as we all wore hip-waders, it’d be pretty neat, actually. No reservations required! Plus, you could have the freshest damned fish you could eat. If you could eat the fish from the Humber River, that is. Or if you’re not afraid of dying from horrible stomach ailments. Either way, a fun time to be had by all.

The trail has 2 separate trails for pedestrians and cyclists/pathhogs (i.e., Rollerbladers) and follows quite closely to the river proper for most of the trail going south. Here’s another picture of the river, cuz it’s pretty:

The trail does a funny abrupt end/jogs across a street and through a gussied up overflow parking lot for the Old Mill subway station, and then branches off to develop into King’s Mill Park, which is less a park than it is a big open space behind a secluded-as-shit yacht club. I found this sign posted right at the end of the trail before you get booted off into the street:

…which is pretty great. And I kind of like the look of the construction scaffolding that is currently housing the Old Mill subway overpass. The grid of the bridge within the grid of the scaffolding is nifty.

Once you pass by the secret-as-shit yacht club entrance, (as well as a couple of signs that remind me about just who should actually still own the crap out of all the land I’m running on), you get spat out for a little bit into a residential area. Continuing down along Stephen Drive, the trail hooks back up just past Cloverhill Road. And just after I stop to take a picture of the most amazing tree, (now officially my favorite tree in Toronto so far)

I turn a bend in the trail and discover this weird little place:

It’s like a giant frisbee, except with a hole in it, so an Aerobie. Or, you know, a basin. Anyway, it’s weird. having a hole in the centre of the overhang really negates this as a useful place to have a camp gathering or a picnic…or a night of live music. So, what the hell is it? I’ve become fairly obsessed with finding out, so I’m still waiting on an email back from Toronto Parks and Recreation because when I searched for information on the South Humber park, all I got was this:

Thanks, guys. Very useful. And this is what I found when I tried googling it:

http://www.torontosun.com/news/torontoandgta/2011/03/03/17487441.html

Which actually made a lot of sense, because I paused my run to do a little exploring of the little weird building itself.

From under the hole:

The light that comes through the hole:

Around back of the basin:

And, oh, look: how every terror sequence in every horror movie starts:

Well, for most people, at this point, the internal dialogue would be something like, “do we run backing away slowly, or do we run while crying (and maybe peeing at little bit)?” For me, it was more like, “Do I just go in the door that’s already open, or do I fashion my headphones into a tiny crowbar-like tool to pry the other door’s padlock off? Also, if there are shapeshifters behind the locked door, does it mean that the open door has zombies living in it, or does it just house the shapeshifter’s snacks/discarded victims’ limbs and/or heads? Or will it just be Local Molesting Hobo Gus, pooping in a bucket?”

I have to admit I felt a little nervous venturing forward (I decided to keep my headphones intact.) Probably for good reason. Secluded trail area, outpost of dubious history/use, the closest person to hear my screams would be too distracted by the beauty of their own willow tree to pay much heed, if any at all. Inside the open door was this;

Clearly, this is where Jim, the lonely high school janitor from the local high school, came to live after his wife hung herself from the old elm tree out back of their small but cozy house on the old county road. Childless and alone, Jim continued on at the school, but sold the old house, choosing to live here. He had a plentiful food source, of course. Problem was, there was no way to refrigerate meat at his new little hovel. So he began to salt his own meat, curing it in the lockers he stole from the high school. Years passed, and as child after child went missing Jim became fat. Too fat, eventually, to climb up the ladder he had to prop against the trunk of a nearby tree to cut down their swinging bodies. His wife had given him the idea, you see. He’d soaked a rag in ether in her case, too, held it to her face, dodging her grappling hands, before stringing her up to the elm, letting her drop, and snapping her neck. In fact, he still kept her salted hand in that blue milk crate on the desk. For those nights he’d be feeling amorous.

La la la, here’s the pretty bridge!

And here’s Sunnyside Pavillion! But what the heck is on the steps? If it’s a goddamned human hand, I’m gonna shit my pants. I also hope it’s not just shit.

But no! It’s Ganesh! Chillin’ on the steps of the pavillion! Oh, this erases all earlier feelings of spookitude, and makes me actually quite happy.

a run, some pics, and vintage porn.

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 21:31:15 -0400

I’m slowly building back up to running again, after a shitty summer featuring family death and the resurgence of social smoking on my part, as well as a recent hacky cold. To make things more interesting I like to go in different directions and new routes when I have the time (because I tend to get horribly lost which, on a schedule, can be disastrous. Why yes, I DO have an iPhone. I still get lost. IT’S STILL A MAP, and I can’t read maps unless I can flip them around to be the direction that I’m walking in, but of course the iPhone, thinking it’s being ever so helpful, assumes that I always want to know what true fucking north is. So I still get just as lost as ever. Anyway.)

Tonight as I entered onto my newly discovered and beloved Humber River trail, I chose to go north instead of south. This is the route:

Right away, I notice a distinct difference between going north and going south: there are far less people on the trails going north, and what few there are seem MOTHERFUCKING ANGRY AS SHIT. Eveybody’s biking, or walking, or running, or rollerblading, but everybody - EVERYBODY - is a scowling, growly grumpypants. Some guy was frowning while feeding chipmunks. I’m not lying. Frowning. Feeding chipmunks.

Aside from the unusually taciturn patrons, what a gorgeous greenspace. South-ways on the trail has a shit-ton more views of the very pretty river, but north-ways has a shit-ton more arranged plots of very lovely flowers and gardens. And a bunch of wee bridges and streams, too. I totally dig wee bridges and streams:

I continued on my merry way for a bit until I began to breathe in almost 40% pure gnat cloud. It was then I remembered what a pain in the ass early autumn running can be on nature trails. The one instance in my life where having a niqab would be sweet is autumn running. Those little fuckers - such dense clouds of them, and yet, can you see them until they are in your nostrils, down your throat, sticking to your sweaty skin, and, my favorite, drowning themselves in your eyeballs? Next time, I’m bringing goggles and a ski-mask. Or a niqab. No wonder those people were grumpy.

Eventually I choose to skip back out top-side onto Eglinton to avoid further gnat-ingestion. Eglinton’s an ugly street, a main arterial road in the city, and as such, has all the charm of a freeway. I took some pictures I like, though:

You know, forgotten urban wasteland kind of stuff. Then this cracked me up:

*HUGE* TOYS. Huge. You need a backup generator for these toys. Good luck fitting them anywhere.

Regaining my giggly composure, run run run I go till I decide I should probably turn south towards home. After deciding not to run through Prospect Cemetery, I turn down Harvie street, to find some absolutely lovely homes, nicely attended yards and gardens, and an absolute super-cache of NDP supporters! Every second yard had a Jonah Schein sign on the lawn. And check this out:

I guess they felt they needed to make it extra clear that they REALLY SUPPORT Jonah in the election, what with all the general support he’s getting on that street. Guys, it’s okay. I want him as my boyfriend, too. Be cool.

Here are some lovely roses that were right next door:

Run, run, run. I turn along St. Clair, and nearing my place, remember about the crazy fucking prayer tent that I should also snap a shot of. For whatever reason, I’ve only ever passed by this thing at night, when a) it’s dark and I can’t really get a good picture of it, and b) people are actually, you know, doing whatever they do in there. Now, look. I think our culture is saturated enough with religion, and you actually have to work to AVOID tripping over a church, synagogue, temple or mosque. What possible need can a ramshackle tee-pee style structure built from 2 x 4 and tar roof tiles in the middle of a parking lot, between 2 used car lots, be filling? Is there such a crazy demand for late-night praying that this simply had to be erected? Is this where AA people go after?

Still thinking about the crazy-ass asphalt tee-pee, I’m running on Runnymede when this catches my eye:

It’s just lying on the side of the road, the embankment before the underpass. It’s thick paper, glossy. And, hey, it’s a boob. It caught my eye. I notice that the entire embankment is littered with what turns out to be an exploded collection of vintage porn. Most of it is pages from an old Esquire mag, but some of it is photos, such as above. THIS IS PURE AWESOME. You never find GOOD stuff on the side of the road. Litter is always so fucking depressing and predictable, pop cans and condoms. Even on the Lakeshore, where I constantly search for small animal bones, the only white things on the beach are tampon applicators and styrofoam cups. But this, this was a great piece of happenstantial litter. I snapped up every piece that wasn’t too desiccated by rain, and, telling my inner germiphobe that the rain’d probably washed away any antique spooge that might remain, resolved to a) do this blog post and b) incorporate it all into some collage or other.

Oh yeah, then, amidst all the porn, there was this, which struck me, really, as the weirdest of all. Ladies and Gentlemen, Norman Rockwell:

I’m gonna do more of this type of thing. I can’t guarantee they’ll all be as awesome as this (unless I contrive to somehow include doing laps around the stage at Club Paradise) because, frankly, random porn happens so little anyway, and to have it be bonafide antique porn? We’re talking “odds someone you know will jam with Carlos Santana.” (That is to say, not astronomical odds - well within the acceptable realm of probability, but still rare enough to make you go, “Damn. That’s rare.”)

I’ve taken pics on a few runs, and, though it really fucks with my pace and time and whatever-the-fuck, I typically enjoy the runs I take snapshots on way more than the runs I do that are pure running. It’s because I’m more engaged in the experience of my surroundings, as opposed to just chasing some ephemeral, arbitrarily set distance goal. Don’t get me wrong, I love running for running’s sake, too, but part of the spectacular experience of it is that you can go to all of these places you haven’t been before. May as well take a few pics on the way, I say.

and if you wanted to punch your computer today...

Thu, 09 Jun 2011 14:52:00 -0400

and if you wanted to punch your computer today...:

Our species just really needs to fucking die out, like, right now. Now to enrage myself further, I’m going to check out the “related stories” in the blog, like the one that queries, “push-up bikinis for 7 year-olds. Too young?” HOLY FUCK, YOU FUCKING TWATS, YES, YEEEESS IT BLOODY IIIIIIS!!

awesome.

Sat, 07 May 2011 16:40:33 -0400

awesome.

looooooooooove. My goodness, so dreamy.

Sat, 07 May 2011 16:39:11 -0400

looooooooooove. My goodness, so dreamy.

Wheeee, I heart this. laughingsquid: Network Bug

Fri, 06 May 2011 17:55:42 -0400

Wheeee, I heart this.

laughingsquid:

Network Bug

S-A-T-U-R-D...uh...LET'S PARTY!

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 21:45:25 -0400

“Hey! It’s Saturday Night! SAT-T-T-UR-DAYEEE NIIIIIIIYAAAAHTAH! We need to go out! OUUUTAH! We’ll corral 2 guy friends we think are cute and who totally want to sleep with us but we’ll use them as leveraging mates on the dancefloor. Oh, and let’s bring Katie because she’s chubby and makes us look better.

Then we’ll have to meet at one of our houses to pre-drink, primp, and make awful, subtly cutting remarks about each other’s clothes and weight. No, YOU drive, you have the less-high heels, loser. We’ll spend an hour going from Dufferin to John because we are going where everybody else who thinks like us is going, and because everybody who thinks like us is too stupid/buzzed on Red Bull and Vodka to take a route other than King. After finding the 2 cute disposables and Katie waiting for us at the only Green P that had a parking space kind of open (sorry about those mirrors, Sentra, LOL!) we’ll walk, talking as LOUDLY AS WE POSSIBLY CAN in order to convince anyone within a city-block radius that we are more important and interesting than they are. (This is a scientific fact. It was on Discovery channel. Like, if you see a bear in the woods, you’re not supposed to play dead, you’re supposed to start talking really loud at it to make yourself seem bigger or something. I don’t know, I changed the channel partway thru because there was a re-run of the Swan on. Anyway, if it works with bears, biographically speaking, it works with humans.) So we’ll loudly reminisce about the time in 8th grade we totally made out with each other (it’s totally not true, but guys really want to sleep with girls who have made out with other girls but not in a real way, more like in a pillow-fight way that went wrong) and then by the time the story gets interesting (where we embellish our lies more to get the disposables even MORE desperate to sleep with us) we’ll be in the line.

A lot of people complain about the line, but the line is the only real proof you have that you are at the place that most people in the city most want to be on a Saturday night. How’s THAT for evidence? (See, I could totally be a scientist. It’s just that people don’t want hot scientists. They can’t trust other scientists around us. Their loss, I say. I totally have a better energy-drink recipe in my head, but their loss.) The only thing bad about the line is that other people have obviously watched the minute and 30 seconds of the Discovery channel that we watched, because EVERYBODY is talking as loud as they possibly can in hopes of seeming the most interesting. This is the lead-up to the competish inside. If you can’t hack it outside in the lineup, you are going down on the dancefloor, my friend. The line up is where you pick who you’re going after, as long as they are within ear-shot of you and can see you “borrowing warmth” from one of the disposables by being cute and snuggling into his jacket. We know that leveraging works, because who wants someone that DOESN’T already have people interested in them? (Again, it’s just plain science.) It’s also a great time to reapply any makeup that may have been blown off by your car’s heater or the arctic wind of Toronto.

When we finally get in, around 50 minutes after being in line, we’ll have to gang up on chubby Katie to convince her to take our respective lipsticks and money, because we’re hot, and wearing hot clothes with no pockets, and you can’t dance with a damned purse in your hand. I mean, not unless you already have something else to hang it on, like if maybe you were one of those cripples with the squiggly legs and those special crutches that kind of clamp onto the forearms…don’t they have little coat hooks on them? Anyway, Katie will resist like she always does but between a combination of rallying BFF claims and guilt over making us consider stashing our lipsticks and money in our vags, and possibly contracting some weird disease from the dirty dirty money that will result in our becoming pulpy and warty and not hot, she will relent, and be our little packhorse for the night! Kisses!

We’ll drag the disposables to the bar to get them to buy us our first drinks. Katie has to buy her own. It’s not my fault, that is the way of the world. She wasn’t smart or hot enough to bring her own disposable, so she buys her own drinks. While at the bar, Chantelle eyes a beefy guy with Elijah Wood kind of squeezed-doll-pop-eyed look to him whose gaze briefly lands on her ass, and so Beefy Squeezy Wood becomes her mark for the evening. Nevermind that he actually has a skinny redhead on his arm who has THE BEST GODDAMNED SHOES I’ve ever seen. Like, these were honestly 100% Choo.

As Disposable #1 orders my drink, I catch the eye of a group of guys wearing identical white Gap t-shirts in the corner, and I stick my tongue into Disposable’s ear. When my drink comes, I wetly whisper, “be right back” in his ear. Then Chantelle and I weeble our way onto the dancefloor, mincing meaningfully past our marks.

The dancefloor is a difficult navigation process, especially for females, because there are so many of us. AND we’re all wearing heels. AND we all want status, but not so much status as to be singled out as, oh, I dunno, the girl in the crowd who can Vogue really well. Not that any maniac does that anymore, but you know what I mean. No one wants to DANCE, we all just want to kind of jiggle around and look hot. But who can jiggle and not dance and look hot THE BEST? Ah, that is the true challenge! There are different tactics to use, like climbing on top of a table and dancing there, but most clubs don’t have tables near the dancefloor, and so that would mean actually dragging a bar table into the dancefloor…(huh. I think I just had an idea. File under “genius subterfug!”) Mostly, in these situations, the chicks with the best hair, face and boobs win out; I mean, they can have an ass like something from former East Germany, who can see it on a packed dancefloor?

Chantelle has roots showing. I can’t dance with her. I can’t even be SEEN dancing with her. She will taint me with her roots-showiness by association.

Wow. I’ve written alot. Like, way more than I intended to, but like, I still feel like I want to just not finish this right now and maybe do a second installation. Okay, internet? That’s what I’ll do. Because I have to make sure I paint my nails and have them dry soon because it’s, like, Friday night, right? Kay.

We know as much about your fucked up knee as we do about your fucked up back.

Fri, 29 Apr 2011 20:28:40 -0400

We know as much about your fucked up knee as we do about your fucked up back.

I’m always wondering about the line that defines acts of...

Sat, 23 Apr 2011 01:40:00 -0400

I’m always wondering about the line that defines acts of random art vs. acts of random vandalism. Very interesting. Does it really all come down to matters of taste and opinion?

laughingsquid:

L.A. Police Blame ‘Art in the Streets’ for Rash of Graffiti