Crikey!

Andy Warhol famously said, "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." My generation seems to have turned his sarcastic observation about the state of pop culture into some sort of birthright - "reality" show contestants and internet "celebrities" are often heard expressing an appalling sense of entitlement - "Dammit, I want my 15 minutes of fame!"

 

Dude. The quote doesn't say a peep about anyone actually DESERVING it.

 

But we do live in an ADHD culture, where in the blink of an eye you can go from Nobody to Somebody and right back again. When I started writing this thing, I figured it would probably go the way of every attempt I made at writing a journal as a kid - I'd write one paragraph, realize I had nothing worthwhile to say, and drop it. Besides, writing longhand is slow and makes my hand hurt. When I started grad school, one of my best friends from college and I used to write journal entries and mail them to each other - yep, that's right, actual letters with postage and everything. That's when I realized that just writing down my thoughts was incredibly unsatisfying - I need at least one other person to read them before they are suitably purged. So who knows, if I hadn't told Em about this thing the very night I started it, I might never have continued it. And now, this here little blog of mine has grown, to the point where I have tens, yes TENS of readers. Okay, maybe more like ten, singular, but hey, that's a whole order of magnitude of growth in, like, a year and a half!

Okay, yeah, that's pretty lame. But I've said before that I write this thing for my own mental health/amusement, and don't really care how many people read it, just as long as someone's out there to occasionally tell me I'm brilliant or that I made hot beverages fly out of their sinuses.

 

But then something happened.

 

Unbeknownst to me (until pointed out by the beautiful and charming maja in the comments), I was quoted and linked by a site called Crikey. To sum up, Crikey is an Australia-based news and commentary site run by incredibly insightful and brilliant people with excellent taste. They did a little "morning after" Oscars piece - a digest of what those in the blogosphere were saying about the ceremony. Among those quoted were Gawker...Slate...Salon...

 

...and The Alchemist.

 

I think the words you're looking for here are "what the fuck?"

 

The statement that got me in? "Number 9: Nicole Kidman's inability to move her eyebrows."

Apparently, Aussies like it when you make fun of Nicole Kidman. Or Botox. Or some combination thereof. Apparently.

 

On any normal day, this page gets approximately 10 hits - most of them courtesy of Ian, Will, and Mup, who faithfully check in every day even though I rarely reward them with anything new to read. In the last two days, I've gotten over 500 hits. That's another order of magnitude, baby! Four more and I'll be Perez Hilton! Except prettier. And more articulate. And with an IQ slightly higher than that of a rotten cabbage.

Of course, the more people are reading your thoughts, the greater the chances that someone you've written bad things about might actually read them. So, just in case they're out there, I should probably apologize to a few people:

Celine Dion - I've actually met you in person. You are a delight. I just HATE THAT FUCKING SONG.

Canada - I give you a hard time sometimes, but I kid because I love. Same goes for you, U.S.A.

Tila Tequila - Oh, who the hell are we kidding, you deserve every bad thing I've ever said about you. I look forward to season 2 of your show so that I can once again rejoin the hatas.

Robin Antin and anyone who has ever appeared on that damned Pussycat Dolls show - See above.

 

As far as being World-Famous, well, I think my recent activity map speaks for itself:

Not bad. Although clearly I have some work to do in Africa and South America. And Greenland. And, well, anywhere that ever embraced Communism. Of course, the vast majority of these people will never return to this page, but it was nice having you here, no matter how short your stay. This is all very surreal - it's like when someone cites a paper I've written - my first reaction is always, "wait, someone actually READ that???" Or when, in my Civic Theater days, I'd meet someone and they'd say, "oh, I know you...you were in <insert name of show here>." Wait, someone actually purchased tickets and SAW that???? Weird. If even a handful of you stick around, then groovy. I'll even try to throw a little Australian content your way occasionally (RussellCroweShirazIanThorpeKeithUrbanColinHayTimTamRupert 
MurdochVegemitePAULHOGAN,BABY!!!). I intend to enjoy this unexpected popularity while it lasts. I also intend to completely forget about all of the little people who got me where I am today. That is, until this all blows over in, I'm betting, the next 24 hours.

 

Tick tock, kids.

10(ish) Things that pissed me off about the Oscars.

1.  Ryan Seacrest.  Seriously want to reach through my TV to slap him.  I always watch the red carpet coverage because it's the only time you get to look at all of the pretty dresses.  But I can't handle the inane interviews.  Or your weird chocolate lapels.  And you can't mute it because then you won't know who MADE the pretty dresses or, more importantly, who made the ass-ugly ones.

 

2.  Mispunctuation.  The title card of the ABC red carpet coverage says "Oscar's Red Carpet 2008."  Anything that is going to be splashed across my screen at every commercial break should be free from glaring grammatical errors.  Unless the red carpet is owned by an actual man named Oscar, I believe I am justified in my indignation.

 

3.  Helen Mirren's rack.  What kind of deal do you have to strike with Satan to get boobs like that?  Mine never have, and never will, look as good as hers do.  And she's literally twice my age.  So unfair.

 

4.  The way...just kidding.  There is no #4.

 

5.  Regis Philbin referring to this as the "80th anniversary" of the Academy Awards.  No, it's the 80th ANNUAL Academy Awards.  If the first one was in 1929, this would make it the 79th anniversary.  Unless you and Joy celebrated your first anniversary on your wedding night, in which case I stand corrected.  He also said something along the lines of "Nobody puts on a big production number like the Oscars."  Um, actually, Reege, someone does.  It's a little thing called Broadway.  Look into it.

 

6.  The excessive use of "My Heart Will Go On" during the "80 years of Oscar" montage.  I fucking hate that song with the white-hot intensity of 10,000 suns.  And again, that was really only 79 years of Oscar - there were no clips from this year's show.  I'm just sayin'.

 

7.  Renee Zellweger's haircut. 

 

8.  The fact that we had to get more than an hour into the show before someone used the word "buttocks" in an acceptance speech.  Thank you, Tilda Swinton.

 

9.  Nicole Kidman's inability to move her eyebrows.

 

10.  The fact that we had to get more than two hours into the show before someone compared winning an Oscar to "male menopause."  Thank you, Steven Spielberg.

 

One thing that did NOT piss me off: No Country for Old Men doing very well.  I don't remember the last time I saw a movie that stuck with me so strongly.  I'm going to go out on a limb and say that those Coen boys are gonna be big one of these days.

I am in an emotional cal-de-sac.

I need to go on a date.

It has officially been so long that I now would rather go on a bad date than no date at all.  If nothing else, just to prove to myself that I'd rather it be the other way around.  I need to mix it up.  Every guy that I've met in the last 6 months that is crush-worthy either proved to be otherwise or taken.  Seriously - I am wildly popular with guys with girlfriends/fiancees.  I think it's because I am reasonably cute and flirtatious, yet non-threatening.  The girlfriends like me too.

 

Case in point:  just before Christmas, I met someone who I had seen every day, and who had made pointed eye contact.  Labmate characterized him as "the kind of guy I can see you dating."  And, as much as I hate to admit it, she was TOTALLY right.  I am not making this up - I decided that yeah, he is My League.  He's not out of it, and not below it, he IS It.  But, he is engaged.  And I've met his fiancee, and I want to hang out with her because she is mad cool and rather like myself.  Which just proves the hypothesis at hand.

 

Remember a little while ago when I mentioned a possible new crush on the horizon?  Well, said human being finally asked me to do something after two months since our last get-together.  The last get-together was at my house, and he stayed all of 90 minutes.  There was mistletoe.  I stood under it for a good 3-4 minutes, chatting, while dinner was cooking.  He didn't take the bait.  Had he been interested, he would have taken advantage of that opportunity.  So, fine, whatever.  We're friends and all.  We went to a movie last week, and when I got home that night, I realized that I had spent the entire evening listening to his opinions on...well...nearly everything.  And only once had he asked me mine.  Now, to be fair, most of the opinions were on things that I don't really feel informed enough to express one of my own on - this year's Academy Award nominees...Canadian history...Canadian literature...but still.  Every time I see him, he makes a point of looking at the book I am carrying, yet he never feels the need to ask WHY I am reading that book, or what it means to me...he's perfectly content being appalled by the fact that I've never read any Margaret Atwood or Douglas Copland.  Dude - Margaret Atwood just ain't my style.  And Douglas Copland...well, he's Canadian.  And there are about a zillion American and British authors with similar sensibilities that, quite frankly, I've heard of a hell of a lot sooner than I ever heard of Douglas Copland.  Nothing against him, but, hell, I'll get to it when and if I get to it.  Meanwhile, you're an English teacher, and the only book you read during the bulk of your summer break was the latest Harry Potter. 

 

So yeah, not really feeling the crush at the moment.  But who knows, it may come back, so please don't use this entry against me later.

 

Unfortunately, in recent weeks, the VGLM has resurfaced. 

 

I've been thinking about him a lot lately.  I thought I had put it behind me, but...well...no.  I haven't.  Even a little bit.  When there's not something else new and exciting to distract me, I realize that he's talking to me more than he used to.  And for some reason, he feels comfortable sharing really personal details with me. 

And he's still Very Good Looking.

After having spent a Friday night binge drinking with a group that included two of his Very Good Looking (yet very, very much engaged) labmates, I ran into one of them on Monday morning as I was getting off of the subway.  So we walked in to work together, making small talk about what an ass we'd made of ourselves a few days ago.  We got off of the elevator, and walked right past the VGLM.

He noticed.

A couple of days later, I was talking to the other one.  Probably about the very same aforementioned ass-making. 

He noticed that too.

I can't help but take a little bit of petty pleasure in that.

 

But, at the same time, whenever I feel the longing for a Really Good Snuggle, I can't help but think about the time that I forcibly snuggled him.  Because it's the only time in recent memory I've felt someone snuggle back.  I need a good snuggle.  I deserve a good snuggle.  An episode of Sex and the City just made me cry because of the way Steve looked at Miranda.

I realized when I came home around New Year's that if I had to pick one way to describe my attitude towards love, it would be "ripe for the picking."  I may have a lot of crushes, and the primary target of my attention may skip around from day to day or week to week, but that's only because I am SO ready to fall in love it hurts sometimes.  It won't take much - just a little positive encouragement, a couple of good dates, a few meaningful looks of adoration - and I'll be gone.  And re-reading that, the feminist in me is screaming and threatening to put on her combat boots and cargo pants.  Girls aren't supposed to say things like that - it makes us look like the vulnerable little things that we all are deep inside.

 

But I'm clearly in a repeating loop here.  So either one of the old crushes or someone completely new needs to take me out on a date.  Give me an excuse to get all dressed up.  I'm begging you - my good shoes need to be taken out for a walk.  Otherwise, they're just going to get cranky and piddle on the floor to spite me.

 

And, for what it's worth, I hear I'm a good kisser.

The Night Shift

The night bus fuckin' rules.

Usually, taking the night bus means waiting a brief eternity. At a cold intersection. And occasionally meeting Zanta. But sometimes, you get lucky. Tonight, I waited for a few minutes before catching the first night bus after the subway stopped running. I have never understood exactly why the subway stops running approximately 6 minutes before closing time. As someone who has closed many bars in her day, all I have to say about that is: Canada is FUBAR. BUT the one good thing about this practice is that that first night bus after closing time is ALWAYS entertaining. It is the one and only time that I find a full bus preferable to a nearly empty one. Busload of drunks always = a good time in the wide world o' Wahooty, ah garontee.

Tonight was special, though. I made friends. Night Bus Friends.

Two of them, to be exact: Vlad, and Whateverdudeihavenoideawhatthefuckyernameis. To be fair, I have a slight inkling of how to pronounce the latter's name, but no fucking clue as to how to spell it, and in Wahooty's world, knowledge = pronunciation + spelling. I am a rather talented mimic, but do not feel like I can say anything with authority until I have seen it spelled and heard it said. Any less is ignorance, and I am one ignorant-ass American, thankyouverymuch.

From Bloor to Sheppard, we had quite the conversation. It ranged from politics to introductions. Yes, in that order. We restarted the conversation several times because it insisted on going awry repeatedly. Vlad and Whateverdude had just met that night. I liked Vlad. Not so sure about Whateverdude. He was a bit argumentative and militant for my tastes, and I remain a wee bit fuzzy as to whether he was Middle Eastern - as the sound, but perhaps not the spelling, of his name would indicate - or South African, or Jamaican. He claimed both of the latter, which is why my Ignorant American self is choosing to just fall back on Middle Eastern, because dammit, that's what he sounded and looked like, and Whateverdude's accent could not have been less African/Jamaican and he is not here to correct me.

Our topics of conversation included: me = American. Me = wearing hat that, while not really stylish, not half bad. Me = not wearing gloves. War = good. Or possibly bad. Or Whateverdudeihavenoideawhatthefuckyernameis. Boys = gay. Maybe. Kinda. Whateverdude may or may not have a girlfriend, but that particular point seems to be moot, as he is headed in a homeward direction with Vlad anyway.

Turns out my new friends, who are new friends themselves, are also friends with the rather sad-looking friends across the aisle.

One of them has, and I quote, "a professor fetish."

No one else on Earth has ever been so fascinated by the fact that I have taught first-year chemistry. And having taught first-year chemistry has never before made me feel Dirty. Hey, there's a first time for everything, I guess.

And this...THIS...is why I don't mind my commute one bit.

Unless it's snowing.