Deal Breakers

In a new book called "Deal Breakers - When Does Mr. Right Become Mr. Not-On-Your-Life?", two female authors explore the types of situations, or the 'breaking points' that cause women to break up with the so-called loves of their lives. An interesting read, although I only managed to do a cursory flip-through while browsing in Chapters last night. Here's what I found fascinating:

72% of engaged women agreed that the discovery that your fiancee is still close friends with one of his ex-girlfriends and emails her on a regular basis on a regular basis would be grounds for dismissal.

HOWEVER

only 30% of engaged women would break up with their fiancee if they discovered that he had been involved in a one night stand in the first three months of their relationship.

Now, I'm not one to say what is and is not a so-called 'deal breaker', but I'd be willing to wager money that if Steve was still friends with Bridget, it would probably make me happy that he was able to continue a platonic relationship with someone he used to care about. This says good thing about his character, no? But if he f***ed a girl while he was supposed to be in love with me? Call me the minority but that would be a deal-breaker for me.

beginnings

I've always been interested in event planning. My passion was first tapped when I was 10 and saw the movie "Father of the Bride". I decided that I loved weddings. When I was younger, I used to sit in the corner of chapters with bridal magazines, not imagining my own wedding, but dreaming about being in charge of someone elses. This is really stupid, I know. But I don't know how else to put it - it always sounded kind of cool.

Frosh Week was, by all accounts, a practice in event management. I had 4 days, a quarter million dollars, a fundraising goal and a mission statement set by the university that I was expected to exemplify. We used 21 venues and 400 volunteers to successfully pull of the party of the year for 2008.

I was HOOKED. Being in a planning position was like a high for me; now I'm going to do something about it. Humbar College in Toronto offers a Public Relations post-graduate program that includes training in Media, Advertizing, Event Planning and Fundraising. Students get an 8-week internship at the end with companies like Maple Leaf Sports Entertainment and Alliance Atlantis Films, and more than 90% are employed in the field 6 months later. I'm in. My HUGE ambivilence about doing my drama degree has told me that something about it isn't right. I want to make my family proud, but I also want a career that I can be excited about waking up and doing. Like Steve told me - if I'm not ABSOLUTLY SURE, then academia is probably not going to be for me.

So I'm going to be applying for the January intake. I'll work between now and then, probably take the 5000 loan from my grandparents to get started in Toronto and complete the program by November 2006. Am I being impulsive? Perhaps. But I've been SO SO SO SO unhappy lately (even considering what it would be like if I crawled into a hole and hid from the world), and I think that I'm finally doing something about it.

World, here I come!

Goodbye, Walkhome

I have never known how to handle goodbyes, so I generally disregard them. I'm much more a fan of "I'll see you soon". I don't dwell on an end, but try to put myself facing all of the beginnings so that I don't get stuck in the past.

The preamble is to introduce the fact that I am working my last walkhome shift right now, sitting on the familiar couches with the familiar people with the familiar feeling of home. Walkhome was something that I feel into and it literally changed the course of my life. One summer ago I was sitting here with Steve, wondering how I could get him to notice me. Now, I'm calling him to say "I love you" before I sleep. Something about that has to be very, very right. But I'm not sad. Walkhome ended when my undergrad ended, and I am ready to leave Queens and everything that it gave me. I don't want to stick around and see it change, see my memories and my foundations disintegrate as new people coming and old people leaving weaken the things here that made me feel so strong. I don't want to stick around, y'know? By April 21, I was very ready to be done. Working my last walkhome shift is just another step towards being able to close the book on a very incredible and successful period of my life, and another step towards opening a new one.

Walkhome, it's been a slice. You gave me a new family at Queens, -40 degree weather, a feeling that I belonged, amazing conversations, life long friends and a boyfriend that I could have never imagined would have changed my life in so many ways. For that, I offer my thanks. It's been a hell of a ride, and I'm glad I took it, if only to be able to look back so fondly.

-b

turn and face the strange

I need to admit to myself that I have a flair for the impulsive. For example, I quit my job today. I walked into my low paying, demeaning and child-labourish place of work and announced that I was no longer interested in being their bitch. But it didn't necessarily come out in that way. The point is, I did it. And instead of the emotional/tearful pleading, the offer of a substantial raise or the nostalgic sentiments about all 'the good times' they have had with me as an employee, my boss actually used the words "you're easily replaceable". And he used them to try to make me feel BETTER. Which I almost thought was funny - but then I remembered the lack of good-bye fanfare and returned to being angry.

And now I just feel weird. I'm in a freaking STRANGE mood. My heart is pounding, so I know I'm really anxious, but I can't seem to formulate any sort of emotion - I've just shut off. I'm quitting my job and moving to Vancouver and I can't even put two thoughts together about it. You know when people describe an experience as being surreal? That's what I'm going through. I look at the mess that this summer has become and say "this is not my life". 'Cause honestly? My life is now in Toronto. That's where I feel at home. That's where my entire heart rests (fragile, in the hands of one Stephen Johns). So I'm going home and am really ready to be there; as much as people are insisting that I'm going to miss Kingston, this is no longer where any part of my heart resides.

Back to the weird mood. I was playing a set of Pearl Jam songs (Wishlist/Thin Air/Hail Hail/Oceans/Parting Ways/All Those Yesterdays.... if you're interested) and I actually started bawling. I was crying so hard for a few minutes that I started to heave, which was REALLY embarassing because I'm not really sure what I was so sad about. Maybe I'm not sad. Maybe there are lots of emotions that can come out through crying. Maybe I'm relieved and scared and lonely and in love and excited and anxious and tired and triumphant.... and it all became tears. I often cry after sex - releasing the million emotions that it makes me feel (love, vulnerability, tenderness, lust, etc). I'm just so SENSITIVE right now, as if touching me on the shoulder will set me off again.

Everything is so profound. Music beats away in my earphones and I can feel the sound in my entire body... beautiful and strong and meaningless at the same time. Song lyrics are making me cry. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the world - by the depth and the abstraction and the beauty and things like spiderwebs that seem both totally insignificant and divinely inspired at the same time. And I don't know what to do. I don't know how to react to things that seem so much bigger than me. To share myself with the world that I take so much from. I have a really hard time explaing to people that I am so deeply affected by everything: words and people and animals and all the different shades of colour and meaning, by moments and ideas and looks and stories. I am changed everyday. I feel like I have the emotional weight of the world on my shoulders sometimes, because everything I encounter becomes a part of me, I absorb it and try to understand and feel the depth of it.

And I just don't know what to do with myself, and don't believe that anyone could every ureally get what it's like to listen to Pearl Jam and cry. Sometimes, I think, I'm crying for myself and for the spider webs and people I meet eyes with on the train that I feel so deeply about. It's all that I can do.

My thoughts on Pulp Fiction (or, "would you give a foot massage to a guy?")

And after all the hype, it could never live up to the expectations that Steve created in my hopeful little heart. Since I was a devout fan of Kill Bill (and less so of it's successor, but still engaged), I decided to round off my Tarantino experience last night with the requisite first viewing of Pulp Fiction. One day later and I don't really have much to say. Is anyone surprised? I laughed, I thought that the writing was strange and wry and creepy and hysterical in that way that it shouldn't be okay to be laughing. I liked the music; I dug the way that the scenes were strung together in an odd time web. I was vaguely entertained. But I'm gonna leave it there - Pulp Fiction has entered and exited my life, and though it may have had some lasting impact, said impression has yet to surface.

I did, however, like the woman who talked about her pot belly. More women should talk about pot bellies. It inspired me to stick my stomach in the air as high as I could and explain "look at the size of this gut!" to which Steve shook his head and said "oh, Bri". I can't help but to feel that he expects more of me.

Anyway, my sincerest apologies to Tarantino and company - I'm gonna stick to the art house love stories, for now.

a weekend of rock and roll fun

this blog could alternately be titled "I don't believe that anybody felt the way I did", which I thought of in a restless sleep the night after the Oasis concert that Steve and I attended with his bestfriend Paul and Paul's lovely girlfriend Laurie. So if I'm going to be reviewing the events of the past 5 days, that seems as good a place as any to start.

First off, it's really important to know that I'm not making any attempt to provide an objective summary of the Oasis concert - so many of my memories and important moments in life are inextricably tied to albums like What's the Story (Morning Glory)? and Definitely Maybe that to simply review the live experience in a musical sense denies how deeply it affected me. I felt like my entire adolescence, from the early morning rides to soccer tournements with star forward Chelsea singing at the top of our lungs, "need a little time to wake up, wake up", to idly doodling the lyrics "how many special people change" on my grade 9 binder in red pen, to gleefully learning all the words to "Rock and Roll Star", promising myself that when I was famous I would thank Oasis in my first Oscar acceptance speech for teaching me how to be a bad-ass celebrity. Their catelogue practically defines my life experience, and although Steve refers to my fickleness with the use of 'favorite' in his blog, Oasis has rarely been out of the top three spots over the last 10 years.

Granted (and as much as it pains me to admit it), the post WTSMG releases have left something to be desired, the Gallagher brothers still know how to energize a stadium and whether they're playing a fully-backed version of "Wonderwall" or pulling out a better-live-than-I-expected version of their new single Lyla, it's hard not to really, REALLY enjoy yourself. In my case, the word enjoy seems a bit bland -- I was light on my feet, head spinning, lights flashing, dizzy with the kind of high that you can only get from falling in love or attending a freaking good rock concert. I sang out loud unabashedly, took as many pictures as I could without getting caught, and was litereally so engrossed in the experience that I felt like the rest of the world didn't exist.

I know what you're thinking - "Oasis?" .. or something like that. And I *know* that they're not the best band to walk on the face of the earth and I *know* that they haven't made any significant or measureable influence on the rock and roll scene in a long time and I *know* that half of their public appeal comes from the so-indifferent-it-hurts act of Noel and Liam, at once confident, engaged yet always letting us know their ultimate surperiority on the basis of being "the best fooking band in the word". I know all this. I'm not disillusioned about their relative limitations; at the same time, however, I feel like I'm in love. And if you heard the deafening roar of 16,000 fans at the Molson Ampitheatre when the first piano notes of "Don't Look Back In Anger" began during the encore, you would probably agree.




more on the rest of the weekend, including a review of the riot grrls of Sleater-Kinney, later on tonight

a note on setlists

Last night, U2 played "All I Want is You" for the first time since August of last year (or, in laymen's terms, the first time on the Vertigo Tour). This means that MOST of the best U2 songs have now appeared somewhere on this tour (although Hold Me Thrill Me is potentially NOT going to make an appearence) So here's what I hope for the Toronto show -and it's not really too much to ask- just in case a valued member of the band happens to stumble upon my blog whilst they're googling themselves:

Dear Bono, The Edge and esteemed company,

Please play the following, in any order:

- Original of Species
- Who's Gonna Run Your Wild Horses
- All I Want is You
- Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
- The Ground Beneath her Feet
- One
- '40'


Thanks in advance,
Love your fan
Bri Johnson

comments on an action movie from a big-hearted romantic

Quote of the day, for those who are interested (not said by me, unfortunatly): "I'm an optimist. You're like Santa Claus on Prozac...at Disneyland ... getting laid"

I know that I've been writing too much lately about the restaurant, which is understandable once you consider the fact that all I ever do is sleep and act as the corporation of Lonestar's personal bitch. And I'll gladly beg for more, in that 'lick kitchen slop off the floor' kind of way. It's been an interesting experience and it blows my mind to think that the summer is soon going to be half over (I was hired in the middle of April, and am leaving the last week of august). I *need* this job - I need money in the worst way, and have gone to such lengths as willingly closing the restuarant even when I'm not scheduled to, just to pick up the extra 20 bucks.

I started talking about Lonestar only to point out that I talk about them TOO much .. but I have one more interesting point to make. I have a manager (one of 6) who genuinely doesn't like me. She sometimes stands 10 feet away from me during my shifts, looking for things that I may have done wrong. I'm not gonna mention her name, but she's SO NICE to everyone else while I just get the sneer and I almost find it comical. This afternoon, one of my jobs was to clean out all of the but stops and ash bins with a small shovel. Which was lost. When I brought it to her attention, she looked at me, sneered and said "Just use your hands".

Mmmmmmmmmm ... rancid cigarettes.

And I'm done complaining. What this entry was SUPPOSED to be about was some brief thoughts on the movie I saw last night, the long awaited "did-they-or-didn't-they" Angelina Jolie and Bradd Pitt blockbuster 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith". But now I'm kind of not in the mood. My fingers smell like fajitas, I'm getting up in 5 and a half hours to catch a bus to Toronto (I CAN'T WAIT!), and my thoughts on things like movies are usually biased and horribly constructed at best. I'll just say this: as cliche as it felt at times, the movie was 2 things. One: smart. Two: sexy. I had FUN watching it - I loved the way that the typical suburban marriage was underwritten with death threats, knife throwing and sexual innuendos about big guns. The writing was sharp, the infamous sex scene was so hot I almost had to take off my sweater and the premise was layered enough to keep a nerd like me totally engaged. Worth the 7.95? For sure. And with all the lousy movies I've seen lately, that's enough for me.

Next up, reviews of the long awaited Oasis/Jet and Sleater-Kinney concerts that Steve and I are going to this weekend, and a bit of catch up on a bunch of stuff I've been meaning to jot down. For now, I've got to pack, sleep and get myself to toronto in the morning in one piece.

when you know, you know

The latest installment of a certain 20-something female-focused magazine featured a great article if you're like me: in a relationship with someone who really really cares about you, but doesn't ever really say it. In other words, you're living romance free, and perhaps wondering if your man is as in love as you are.

Fear not girls. Cosmo has the answer. And I, Bri, am going to paraphrase it for you.

8 Secret Ways Guys Show You That You're Loved

1. He wants to protect you when you're together, and when you're apart.

2. He's always ready for a photo opportunity with you.

3. You find him wearing clothes that you compliment more often (eager to please!)

4. He lends you his most prized possession

5. He sits beside you when you eat in a restaurant

6. He shares his chow with you (editor's note: feeding someone is SO tender)

7. He brushes the hair out of your eyes (so nurturing!)

8. He makes you look good in front of other people, whether it's commenting on your great job at work, or the way you volunteer at the SPCA on weekends.

And that's that. I'd write more, but again - I'm exhausted. The heat has really taken a number on me, and I spend a lot of time in bed, napping or trying to cool off in front of my fan. More tomorrow, hopefully :D

-b

a bug's life, by brianna marie johnson

Just now, I found one of these fuckers happily crawling on my bathroom wall as I was brushing my teeth.

By found, I mean that I screamed and flailed my arms after seeing something move out of the corner of my eye. man this one was FAST. And I screamed for good reason - these buggers (literally) are about a pinkie finger long, and scary as anything to have a run in with. So I did what any sane person would do. I grabbed the no-scrub mildew cleaner, sprayed the bug until he fell off the wall in a ball of anti-mildew foam, and covered him up with a plastic cup, which I dumped out all of my hair ties from.

Now I'm gonna let the fucker starve under a see-through cup so that I can observe his misery. Also, I'm going to pray to god for the salvation of my wicked soul.

earning my keep

If you're reading this carefully, you'll note that it's 3:45 am, which means that I've either lapsed into my self-injurious pre-Steve days of pulling all nighters for no reason, or that tonight was my first night closing Kingston's largest waterfront patio, which stays open until 2:30 am to host eastern Ontario's drunkest quasi-professionals, creepy men from BC offering to buy me a tequila shot "for later", high school birthday parties (why don't we check ID?) and groups of old women drinking tea at midnight. It was an unbelievable night -as the blisters on my feet are quick to prove- and I'm actually just pretty proud of making it through without throwing a plate at someone. This restaurant is NUTS. I couldn't imagine spending more than a summer there, although for the 10 servers on the patio tonight, the pandemonium was more than worthwhile - they each left with about 150 cash in their pockets.

But the highlight for me wasn't the money. It was a woman who had stumbled over from (the merchant? smidgies? larry's pit stop?) who was clearly skunked, looking for her 20-year-old son and his friends. She noticed that I was wearing a few strings of mardi gras beads (which a thankful customer bestowed upon me in lieu of a tip) and she proceeded to tell me that she was in New Orleans just over a month ago, and she brought back some beads just like them. "And do you know how I earned my beads?" She slurred, grabbing my arm for balance, "like this!" ***slightly overweight 60-year-old woman proceeds to lift up her sweater and show me, and the rest of the patio, her breasts***

That's right. I was flashed. She certainly earned a string of beads from me tonight.

I have so much to write about and so little mental time, although I'm not really doing anything in my life right now besides working and procrastinating about taking my movies back (damn you, no late fees!). I guess I just haven't been in a blogging mood. Hopefully tomorrow, when I wake up at noon well refreshed and sticky from the freaking humidity, I can get back on the bandwagon and start churning out material.

Until then
-b

mis-steps in the restaurant business

Today was my first day back at work after a weekend off, my first day opening the restaurant by myself, and another average day at LS (dare I write the name? I wake up in a cold sweat thinking about my bosses somehow finding my site on google and discovering what a horrid employee I am).

Today:
- an old, hunched over lady dressed in various pieces of silk draped dramatically over her body sat in a table at the corner of the patio and declared to the three other people eating at the restaurant that today -and today only- she would be giving 1/2 price psychic readings. She drank 4 coronas and left.
- one of the awnings caved in on the patio after a downpour hit Kingston. The collected water came crashing over the side, drenching two middle-aged ladies as they were finishing their fajitas
- I broke the LS code of honour and started to hoarde mints, stuffing them in my pockets and into my mouth when the boss wasn't looking, keeping them under my tongue to disguise the fact that I was committing a sin worthy of being fired for.
- a family of 8 (6 kids!) came to the patio all the way from Bath, England. Okay, well - they came to Canada, really. But they would up on the patio. And the kids with the accents were to-freaking-die-for
- a birthday party cleared out, and as I was cleaning up the tables I found that one person had written "Chris sat here, with his boyfriend Miles" and another included (maybe Miles?) "I love men as much as I love your mom". I thought I had found the motherlode, but my shining moment was uncovering a pair of sidewalk chalk brests next to table 122. The kicker? The party was a group of people from a bank, celebrating their boss's 40th birthday. Men. Never. Grow. Up.

And now, I'm cleaning up and taking off to see a movie with friends. When two weeks ago I was feeling miserably lonely, I now couldn't be more busy. I'm hanging out with people from work, hooking up with old friends from high school, going out for manicures with some kids that I was a TA for and seeing my on-campus ladies for lunch as often as I can (and, admittedly, spending time sitting around being lazy, too). Maybe this summer won't be so bad after all? With days like this at LS to keep me busy, I hope it flies by

all around me

I haven't even heard if I got the job in residence yet, but I'm so certain that I did well on the interview (and so anxious about what I would do if I *didn't* get the job) that I spent the better part of tonight picking out potential posters for my new suite. I know, I know - it's all imaginary. But the things that people choose to hang on their walls will tell you more about them than a 3-hour conversation. We can't help but to be reflected in what we choose to surround ourselves with. So without further ado (and hoping that the wait to hear from residence isn't going to kill me), here's my dream room(s):

The Music Room












The 'Everything Else' Room

the supernova relationship: a mid-year review

6 shows we attended together:
1. Mamma Mia
2. Wicked
3. Hairspray
4. Phantom of the Opera
5. Evita
6. Green Day

Cribbage Record: 20-19 (in a rare turn of events, Steve currently holds the lead)

6 amazing memories:
-Charity Ball. I’ve never seen him look so handsome and I’ve never felt so beautiful. We got dressed up to the nines, dominated the party and made a fashionable exit at about the same time everyone else was getting sloppy. This was also the night that I fell in love (or at least, the night that I realized it!)

-The first “I love you”. We were cuddling languidly, getting ready to watch “Singles” when he turned to me, took a deep breath and said, “what’s the statute of limitations on saying, “I love you”? My breath got stuck in my chest and I said, “are you …?”, to which he replied, “I love you, Bri”.

-The shoot-me-now anticipation of our date to see Hairspray. We both knew that we liked each other, we both were dressed to impress and when his hand brushed mine during the show, I thought I was going to explode.

-The first kiss, an explosive, can’t-get-enough-of-you plunge into a tailspin, dizzy, sexy marathon… we kissed for hours and hours and hours.

-Mornings together, lazing around in our pajama pants, watching Sports Net and reading the newspaper, passing the sports and A&E sections back and forth

-Our trip to see Phantom of the Opera, involving a fantastic 4-hour drive down to the States, getting lost in the Detroit ghetto, a scary run-in with a seemingly harmless crack addict, and the moment when the chandelier rose (the highlight of my first Phantom experience)

6 ways that we bond;
1. Playing cribbage.
2. Playing football and soccer on the field in front of his house
3. Bickering about … well, everything (what do you get when you put two stubborn, passionate people together in a relationship? Answer: bickering)
4. Making mix cds on itunes for each other (this is a big, big deal)
5. Making love
6. 6-hour msn conversations when we both should be doing something more productive

6 things that make me love him so much my chest gets tight:
1. The way he listens to me, unconditionally, without judgment and with all of his attention. If I have something on my mind, Steve always does everything he can to make me feel as though he understands.
2. Watching him play sports. There’s something so sexy about it; whether I’m sitting on the sidelines at one of his dodge ball games or watching the way he patiently tries to teach me how to throw a football (again), I’m overwhelmed and impressed with his natural athleticism
3. The fact that he is determined to help me be the best version of myself that I possibly can. He believes in me more than anyone has – whether he’s giving me advice on my grad school application or encouraging me to get back into soccer, or stroking my hair while firmly insisting that I can trust him: Steve is my biggest fan.
4. His blog. I’m reminded on an almost daily basis of how talented he is; if you haven’t been lucky enough to read it yet, check out his blog now.
5. The way he automatically moves over and wraps me up in blankets and a hug and kisses me on the shoulder when I come to bed late at night, even while he’s sleeping
6. How he knows every word to the original cast recordings of just about every show to hit Broadway in the last 20 years. Steve’s a bit shy, but I love to listen to him sing – he has an incredible voice.

6 things he is better than me at:
1. Having excessive sports knowledge (the guy is a veritable encyclopedia of facts, names, dates and other useless sports related trivia)
2. Playing the guitar, the drums and the piano
3. Writing essays, reviews, stories and songs
4. Taking fast showers
5. Navigating the Toronto subway system and successfully handling crazy and scary people.
6. Getting tickets to popular shows on ticketmaster.ca

6 ways that my life has changed as a result of him:
1. I wake up earlier in the morning and like to be in bed earlier at night
2. I eat more potatoes (his parents are British)
3. I feel more confident about living –and succeeding- in Toronto next year
4. I strive to be a better person in pretty much everything I do
5. I follow baseball
6. I can successfully throw a spiral football one out of ten tries

6 things I’m looking forward to:
1. The wedding in Thunder Bay that we’re attending. Not only do I get to see his home town and meet his childhood friends, I get to do so while being dressed up and sipping champagne. I’m a sucker for matrimony
2. Attending Pearl Jam together. The band that formed the basis of our first words to each other finally gets its moment in our collective history
3. Living in the same city. I can’t wait to be 12 (ish) subway stops away. We’ll spend more time together and we’ll also have a much easier job of balancing our relationship and the rest of our lives
4. Les Miserables. The show I’ve always wanted to see comes to Toronto this fall, and there is no one I would rather sit next to for the first time than Steve
5. Taking more trips together. New York City, Niagara Falls, Vancouver … who knows? I love to travel and I love to travel with Steve
6. Many more months of insane happiness. What can I say? I’ve found my partner in crime and I couldn’t be more glad.

wishing I had more rock n' roll fun

It's a good summer to be a music fan. Despite the fact that I missed both Weezer and Jimmy Chamberlin playing live this spring (the first due to an extraordinarily high price for a scalped single, the second due to bad timing), I'm scheduled to see Oasis, Sleater-Kinney, Pearl Jam and U2 in the next four months, and if I had the money, I would be buying tickets to the following acts without hesitation:

- The Rolling Stones (playing in the Skydome, with an as-of-yet-unnamed opening act that'll have to meet or exceed the standard set by either Gordon Downey or Eddie Vedder)
- Billy Corgan (playing music from his solo album, released next month. Is it worth the risk, given that the Smashing Pumpkins defined my musical existence from 1995-1998?)
- Ben Folds (My favorite artist .. or at least in heavy rotation in the top 5, along with the Pumpkins, Green Day, the Stones, Oasis, U2, Norah Jones, Pearl Jam and the Beatles)
- Beck (okay - this one is give or take, but I'd love to say that I witnessed the live performance of the man responsible for Odelay)
- Jann Arden (Sigh. I adore her - it's one of my more guily pleasures. But not 49.90+service charges guilty)
- Paul McCartney (again, enough said. This one defies reasoning, even if the ticket prices are through the roof)

Like - how does this happen? Sure, there's lots to do in Toronto, but when said FAVORITE MUSICAL ARTISTS OF ALL TIME are ALL coming this summer, how do I choose? If I played my cards right, the only member of my top ten left to see would be Norah Jones. The truth is, as much as I should be pumped to see Oasis, U2 and Pearl Jam, I'm in hardcore moping mode. Not so much about the smaller shows, but definitely about the Stones tour - I've got a feeling that even without officially announcing it, there's a sendoff on the horizon. And in these last chance situations, we always regret that which we did not do. If only I could put together money -any money- in time to buy the tickets.

There - I'm done whining. And if you happen to reside in a cardboard box on University, I'm incredibly sorry.

the apple doesn't fall far from the tree

My faithful reader(s?). I extend a sincere apology for the late abandonment of my blog. I love writing - I really do, but lately my moods have been changing as often as my plans for the future, and I've found myself swinging in and out of a pretty sorry-for-myself state; I didn't want to, or have the energy to come here and rant, share or even confide. I'm not sure if things are looking up for me right now, or if I'm just catching the tail end of a brief good mood, but I'm back, with a quick comment (and a review of the movie "Crash" coming tomorrow morning, I promise).

In the restaurant today, I sat a couple that had just flown in from Edmonton. After the requisite Oilers/Flames banter, the lady took a good look at me, and said, "say - I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you Eastern European?" And yes, it's true. I am. And I wasn't offended by the question or even taken aback. It's just not something that has ever been brought to my attention before. I didn't realize it was so profoundly obvious. But I've now had two specific questions about my heritage from total strangers.

So I was sitting in the staff room on my break, eating tortillas and honey (which I don't have to pay for) and I asked one of the managers, Drifter, if I looked different to him. After explaining what had just happened on the floor, he confirmed that both my bone structure and body shape were distinctly Ukrainian/Polish, etc etc. In essense, I've got a pronounced nose, a short frame and I tend to put on weight around the middle. I'm like one of those four foot eight babas, digging up root vegetables for the winte, my stout body wrapped in various pieces of fabric.

And you know what? It's not something I'm embarassed about. I'm proud to be ukrainian. I'm proud of my apple shaped body and my distinct nose and the way that people can tell from my body and my face where my ancestors are from. I'm proud to look like all of the women on my mom's side of the family.

God Bless Babas. G'night, everyone

running to stand still

I've been meaning to write an entry about my frustration with cover songs, after listening (again, I'll admit) to the Indigo Girls' cover the Dire Straits hit "Romeo and Juliet", which, besides being of incredible sentimental value to me, is also one of my favorite songs. And listening to the cover makes me mad, because the whole business of covering a song is inherently fraught with potential landmines. For example:

- When covering a song (like Fuel covering "Daniel", perhaps) is a band paying homage to an inspirational artist, or are they simply too lazy to write their own music?

-What changes when a female artist sings a song written by a man (for example, when Jann Arden covered "You Don't Know Me", which included the line "I watch you walk away, beside the lucky guy". The original song was about a woman, but Arden is allegedly gay. I'll leave that one up to you)

- In what circumstances is it okay to change the lyrics? In the Indigo Girls version of "Romeo and Juliet", the lead singer (I can't be bothered to look up her name) screams out "I can't do anything, but I'd do anything for you", instead of, "I can't do everything, but I'd do anything for you". Picky, I know. But it pisses the hell out of me.

- Also, who gives people the right to be idiots? Case in point: Ryan Adams recorded a cover of "Wonderwall" for an episode of "The OC" a couple of weeks ago. The next day in chapters, two teenagers (or in Steve's words, prostitots) were discussing how "beautiful" the song was. One girl went so far as to claim that "he's SUCH a good singer!" Fine. But the song was written by Oasis. In my humble opinion, if you're not old enough to remember WTSMG?, you're probably not old enough to be watching the shit that takes place on "The OC", but I digress.

That being said, at a show in San Jose, U2 pulled out a cover of "Hello", another Oasis hit, and I got really faint and tingly when I found out. Am I biased? Not necessarily. Over the course of the Vertigo tour thus far, they've also pulled out covers of the Who (I can see for miles), The Beatles (Blackbird), The Stones (Ruby Tuesday), David Bowie (Young Americans) and even Marvin Gaye (sexual healing). This is amazing.

My post, initially was going to be an inspired sermon on my born again Bono-ism. Whatever I was looking for, I found. For some reason, running through tour pictures, reading set lists and reminiscing has put me in an extremely good mood, all inspired by the fact that I wrote "it's a beautiful day" on the Lonestar driveway in sidewalk chalk today (it was). Dear Bono - I'm back. Dear Steve - I'm sorry.

Bright Lights, Big City II

Of all the people in Canada, I'm the last person who I would ever imagine hearing say the words, "Toronto's actually not that bad". Last Monday, I was sitting at a table with Eips and two other Calgarians (Jimmy and Dan Jacob) and she was lamenting on our supposed "western pride". People from the west not only manage to find each other with their western-canada equivelent to gay-dar, but they also are damn proud of it, too. That's right, I was born in the big city of Calgary, home of Peter's Drive In (with 30 milkshake flavours, it's worthy of it's own entry), the Calgary Stampede and my beloved Flames; an existance blissfully ignorant of things like OAC, subways, the "GTA" and Via Rail.

I'm not necessarily a stranger to the Toronto area, either. I spent a summer living in a classed-out condo in Mississauga (which had it's own bowling lanes ... also worthy of an entry!). I visited here frequently, from my friend Sunil's penthouse apartment on Queen's Quay, to trips home with Alana, to shopping days downtown. I never liked it. I was scared of the crazy people, overwhelmed by the traffic and disgusted by the smog
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But when my bus pulled into downtown yesterday, I found myself spotting familiar landmarks (the Kinkos on university, for instance). I can now confidently name at least 5 major Toronto streets, and can semi-confidently get myself from the University Campus to Union Station on the subway. I've been to a few baseball games, seen a dead body underneath a tarp at the Danforth GO station (I have a lot of catching up to do!) and shopped in Urban Outfitters. Tonight, if I felt like it, I could have seen the Black Crowes OR Sarah Mclachlan, watched at least 100 major motion pictures and eaten food from Thailand or Chile. And over the past few days, I've actually started to say to myself ... "Hey. Toronto isn't so bad"; in fact, there are parts of it that are just plain awesome.

Now I'll be the first to admit that it's not hard to like Toronto when the trees are blooming and people are walking their dogs in the park. And it doesn't really compare to the way I feel walking down Kits Beach near my dads house (see below) , or rollerblading on the Stanley Park Seawall, or what it was like to grow up a stone's throw from Banff ... But with my Don interview @ UofT in 9 hours, I'm starting to see Toronto as a place that I can call home - at least for the next 12 months.

a true teenage wasteland

Let me just reiterate before I launch into my latest rant, that you would be hard pressed to find a bigger slurpee fan in all of Kingston, nay- all of Ontario- than me. My high school was a stone's throw from a 7-11 and I would often stop there at lunch and after school. I was the Calgary Soccer Centre's biggest concession customer, etc, etc.

But that doesn't make me a blind follower, like the girl who works at my restaurant and will purchase and wear ANYTHING that comes from American Eagle, even if it is objectively ugly (hello - frilly mini skirts do NOT look good on people over the age of 14). But I digress. The point is, Macs has outdone themselves. If you trust yourself not to vomit, take a look at this advert for their new slurpee flavour and let me know if there is anything that would make you LESS sick to your stomach.

I understand the good intentions behind creative marketing. Why call it "7-UP grapefruit" when you can call it "Pink Pucker"? Even the "Swamp Water" option (which apparently is the Lime Flavour, although I always thought it was a mix of Orange Crush and Rootbeer), is not entirely unappetizing. But bloody zit? Associating an edible product with the most disgusting body function that I can think of is a sure fire way to make people throw up into their mouths, not to create a strong, positive impression.

If you're brave enough - go and check it out. Let me know what you think. In my opinion, there had to be something better to name a Cherry-Coke slurpee. But what do I know? I'm just a lonesome ranter.

In the words of Oscar Wilde

"Dreamers can find their way by moonlight, and their only punishment is that they see the dawn before the rest of the world"