Monday, June 26, 2006
Fat vs. Fat
There's this blog I occasionally read which focuses on being fat. It's written by two fat chick best friends who write about their funny life situations, how they feel about being fat (usually bummed), shit that they eat, just generally funny (or not) stories about being fat (I think they are both morbidly obese, greatly over 200 lbs and over 5'). It's not really a fat-positive place but it is at times a hilarious read. It is NOT about feeling proud about being fat.
Recently the girls talked about a reality show they watched where several fat Brits were brought to a Mayan Riviera resort (for fatties) and then exposed to this appalling-sounding American woman (also fat) who was supposed to coach them or build them up or shame them or some damn thing. The entry prompted some readers to get into the American vs. English stereotypes in the comments section (people, you can never win when you make generalization...).
One of the comments I liked the best was the one that seemed to provoke the most ire:
"stiffupperlip said...
I saw this ages ago when it was on British TV. The trouble was the woman was american. Very american. In fact, she embodied everything about americans that the rest of the world hates. She was loud, stupid, massively fat, obnoxious, idiotic, garishly dressed, overly emotional, arrogant, and infuriatingly annoying. So putting europeans, or anyone who isn't used to the spectacularly crass nature of americnas, was bound to be a damp squib. They should have found some similarly vast, stupid Californians and put them on the show if they wanted everyone to get along. But the real point of the programme wasn't this at all. It was intended to amuse British viewers by showing us that whereas in the UK people are rightly ashamed to be walking planetoids, in America there are people crazy enough to believe that morbid obesity is really just another form of empowerment, and good self-esteem is more important than having a fully functional heart. We don't have idiotic feel-good emotional crap for television in Britain; the idea behind the show was to have a laugh at the delusional and self-indulgent "philosophy" that has taken root with some americans."
I didn't see the show so I don't know the point of the show. And "stiffupperlip" makes tonnes of generalizations here... and yet the end of this comment makes so much sense to me. You should be at least a little ashamed to be so fat. The American woman on the show is wrongly walking around believing that being all "Yea fat!" is some sort of right-thinking empowerment thing and that you should put your emotional well-being before your physical health. The philosophy of being accepting of fat is self-indulgent.
Me, I want to love and accept the morbidly obese people in my life and NOT judge them, but why don't they do something? I don't know anyone who's morbidly obese who really WANTS to be that way.
There's this blog I occasionally read which focuses on being fat. It's written by two fat chick best friends who write about their funny life situations, how they feel about being fat (usually bummed), shit that they eat, just generally funny (or not) stories about being fat (I think they are both morbidly obese, greatly over 200 lbs and over 5'). It's not really a fat-positive place but it is at times a hilarious read. It is NOT about feeling proud about being fat.
Recently the girls talked about a reality show they watched where several fat Brits were brought to a Mayan Riviera resort (for fatties) and then exposed to this appalling-sounding American woman (also fat) who was supposed to coach them or build them up or shame them or some damn thing. The entry prompted some readers to get into the American vs. English stereotypes in the comments section (people, you can never win when you make generalization...).
One of the comments I liked the best was the one that seemed to provoke the most ire:
"stiffupperlip said...
I saw this ages ago when it was on British TV. The trouble was the woman was american. Very american. In fact, she embodied everything about americans that the rest of the world hates. She was loud, stupid, massively fat, obnoxious, idiotic, garishly dressed, overly emotional, arrogant, and infuriatingly annoying. So putting europeans, or anyone who isn't used to the spectacularly crass nature of americnas, was bound to be a damp squib. They should have found some similarly vast, stupid Californians and put them on the show if they wanted everyone to get along. But the real point of the programme wasn't this at all. It was intended to amuse British viewers by showing us that whereas in the UK people are rightly ashamed to be walking planetoids, in America there are people crazy enough to believe that morbid obesity is really just another form of empowerment, and good self-esteem is more important than having a fully functional heart. We don't have idiotic feel-good emotional crap for television in Britain; the idea behind the show was to have a laugh at the delusional and self-indulgent "philosophy" that has taken root with some americans."
I didn't see the show so I don't know the point of the show. And "stiffupperlip" makes tonnes of generalizations here... and yet the end of this comment makes so much sense to me. You should be at least a little ashamed to be so fat. The American woman on the show is wrongly walking around believing that being all "Yea fat!" is some sort of right-thinking empowerment thing and that you should put your emotional well-being before your physical health. The philosophy of being accepting of fat is self-indulgent.
Me, I want to love and accept the morbidly obese people in my life and NOT judge them, but why don't they do something? I don't know anyone who's morbidly obese who really WANTS to be that way.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Kitty Cat Tails
Several weeks ago I spent a long Saturday night in animal casualty with Jazz, our aged Siamese grump. What happened was our possibly secretly alcoholic friend was bunking with us on the Friday night. Nick and I were out for several hours that evening. When we came home our friend was asleep upstairs and Jazz was sitting outside the back door in the pouring rain. When Nick let her in she sped for a closet and remained hidden until the next day. Normally our cats are inside all the time. We don't know how Jazz got out - it's a mystery. The next day our friend said he didn't know anything about it. However, later that week we found some empty liquor bottles he stashed, so who the hell knows. If he let her out it was likely accidental.
On Saturday I found Jazz and noticed that her rear end looked all beat up and her whole back half was very sore (I deduced that from her crankiness). Her tail actually looked broken and her ass was bloody. Poor old girl! I took her to the emerg vet at Davenport and Bloor. It's like a real emergency room with triage and pathetic people and the animals are all in really sad shape. End to end it was probably a 4-hour ordeal.
It turns out Jazz was probably in one hell of a fight and got severely bitten in her ass / tail region. I got antibiotics for her. That whole schmozzle cost $200+. The lesion around her bumby is healed but the top of her tail, oy vey. It is nasty! The big scab just came off last night (I have yet to find it; maybe Jazz ate it). The wound is about the size of a toonie. It looks very raw but apparently isn't too painful as we can now touch all around it. Poor old phuddle tats. Despite all this ordeal Jazz is more or less back to her old crabbified self.
Several weeks ago I spent a long Saturday night in animal casualty with Jazz, our aged Siamese grump. What happened was our possibly secretly alcoholic friend was bunking with us on the Friday night. Nick and I were out for several hours that evening. When we came home our friend was asleep upstairs and Jazz was sitting outside the back door in the pouring rain. When Nick let her in she sped for a closet and remained hidden until the next day. Normally our cats are inside all the time. We don't know how Jazz got out - it's a mystery. The next day our friend said he didn't know anything about it. However, later that week we found some empty liquor bottles he stashed, so who the hell knows. If he let her out it was likely accidental.
On Saturday I found Jazz and noticed that her rear end looked all beat up and her whole back half was very sore (I deduced that from her crankiness). Her tail actually looked broken and her ass was bloody. Poor old girl! I took her to the emerg vet at Davenport and Bloor. It's like a real emergency room with triage and pathetic people and the animals are all in really sad shape. End to end it was probably a 4-hour ordeal.
It turns out Jazz was probably in one hell of a fight and got severely bitten in her ass / tail region. I got antibiotics for her. That whole schmozzle cost $200+. The lesion around her bumby is healed but the top of her tail, oy vey. It is nasty! The big scab just came off last night (I have yet to find it; maybe Jazz ate it). The wound is about the size of a toonie. It looks very raw but apparently isn't too painful as we can now touch all around it. Poor old phuddle tats. Despite all this ordeal Jazz is more or less back to her old crabbified self.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Feel Free To Leave A Comment
The purpose of this blog is not to drive traffic. I don't need readers. This blog is not a bulletin board for your feedback. In fact, I don't really care what you're thinking.
I have the comment approval thingy turned on. I don't publish all the comments I get. I rarely publish comments left by strangers, anonymous people or weirdos.
If I know you, generally I publish your comment whether it's good, bad or indifferent. Whether you like me or not. Whether you like what I wrote or not. Whether you agree with me or not.
If I didn't publish your comment, move on. Or not. Blogger isn't a democracy. You don't have the "right" to leave a comment every bleeding place you visit. You choose to try to leave a comment on something I published. I choose not to publish it. The comments moderation is a feature of blogger. I did not invent it. I choose to use it. Don't hate the playa, HATE THE GAME! If you must, then start your own blog. Then, you can comment on my posts all you like. Track back! Syndicate!
The people who come thru my tilt probably get here by following through on my profile from a comment I left on another blog. There's a lot of crazy shit out there and I love to read some of it. Usually I self-identify. Sometimes I don't. But hell, in general terms I don't leave a lot of comments. But when I do, sometimes people get curious about me, and they come through. Whatever. I could give a rat's ass if you visit me or not. I owe you nothing. I don't care if you "showed me love". I don't have to publish your comments. I may or may not even open the email notifications about the comment. Sometimes I just delete them cuz my inbox gets too full.
The purpose of this blog is not to drive traffic. I don't need readers. This blog is not a bulletin board for your feedback. In fact, I don't really care what you're thinking.
The purpose of this blog is not to drive traffic. I don't need readers. This blog is not a bulletin board for your feedback. In fact, I don't really care what you're thinking.
I have the comment approval thingy turned on. I don't publish all the comments I get. I rarely publish comments left by strangers, anonymous people or weirdos.
If I know you, generally I publish your comment whether it's good, bad or indifferent. Whether you like me or not. Whether you like what I wrote or not. Whether you agree with me or not.
If I didn't publish your comment, move on. Or not. Blogger isn't a democracy. You don't have the "right" to leave a comment every bleeding place you visit. You choose to try to leave a comment on something I published. I choose not to publish it. The comments moderation is a feature of blogger. I did not invent it. I choose to use it. Don't hate the playa, HATE THE GAME! If you must, then start your own blog. Then, you can comment on my posts all you like. Track back! Syndicate!
The people who come thru my tilt probably get here by following through on my profile from a comment I left on another blog. There's a lot of crazy shit out there and I love to read some of it. Usually I self-identify. Sometimes I don't. But hell, in general terms I don't leave a lot of comments. But when I do, sometimes people get curious about me, and they come through. Whatever. I could give a rat's ass if you visit me or not. I owe you nothing. I don't care if you "showed me love". I don't have to publish your comments. I may or may not even open the email notifications about the comment. Sometimes I just delete them cuz my inbox gets too full.
The purpose of this blog is not to drive traffic. I don't need readers. This blog is not a bulletin board for your feedback. In fact, I don't really care what you're thinking.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Such a CDN Gawker Stalker
I was shopping last weekend with a friend from out of town. Whilst in David looking at $700 shoes I saw Camilla Gibb looking all embarrassed to ask to see something in a size 10. I tried not to gawk but could've easily said something to her since we were mildly chummy in high school. She's so beautiful and statuesque, I felt like a toad in her comely shadow. Also, I too have size 10 honey, at least your height warrants it! Oh boo. I didn't say anything and left her to shoe shop in peace. Aside - found it funny for her to be potentially spending money in arguably the most expensive shoe place in town, and yet can only ever remember her achingly weird tale (CBC Toronto Metro Morning? Andy Barry?) of having an olde timey benefactor give her the bucks to write her first book. Oh whatever. I've done nothing of any consequence in my profession and make unimportant money and yet happen to be very finely shod myself, so who is to say.
I was shopping last weekend with a friend from out of town. Whilst in David looking at $700 shoes I saw Camilla Gibb looking all embarrassed to ask to see something in a size 10. I tried not to gawk but could've easily said something to her since we were mildly chummy in high school. She's so beautiful and statuesque, I felt like a toad in her comely shadow. Also, I too have size 10 honey, at least your height warrants it! Oh boo. I didn't say anything and left her to shoe shop in peace. Aside - found it funny for her to be potentially spending money in arguably the most expensive shoe place in town, and yet can only ever remember her achingly weird tale (CBC Toronto Metro Morning? Andy Barry?) of having an olde timey benefactor give her the bucks to write her first book. Oh whatever. I've done nothing of any consequence in my profession and make unimportant money and yet happen to be very finely shod myself, so who is to say.
When I Communicate Into A Black Hole
Recently I wrote two notes that would qualify as something you communicate to the "customer service" channel of a business. God only knows what happens to your letter and if anybody actually reads it or does anything about it.
To Starbucks via their website:
Hi, I was in the store in the Indigo bookstore at Manulife Centre. I visit every weekday basically. Saw Molly Ringwald there once... Anyhoo... I was wanting to try some cookies so bought the "Starbucks Lime Flavored Cookies". 3 stale as hell cookies for $5.95 CDN, what the heck is that? SKU 195518. Produced April 19 2006, best before October 19 2006. Baked by the "Dancing Deer Baking Company". You should really have a word with them. It was wrong on so many levels. Best wishes, Mary Beth. P.S. I don't expect anything back cuz I actually ate the cookies (*feels ashamed*). Just thought you should know, they were nasty. But then, so am I. Cheers!
To Barrie Public Health - Full Service Restaurants Re: Furusato Sushi:
Hello,
I would like to bring your attention to Furusato Japan Restaurant (Essa Road exit off the 400 Hwy). A friend and I were at Furusato on Sunday June 18th at approximately 7:30pm. This is our third or fourth visit to this restaurant in the last two years. The food is fine but the premises are very dirty.
The women's bathroom is in bad shape. It smells and is visibly dirty around the sink and toilet. It’s obvious that regular cleaning is not happening
The floor throughout the restaurant is nothing short of disgusting. This includes the food preparation areas at the sushi bar which are visible to the public; there is food, garbage and dirt everywhere
The booth we sat in had food spatter all over the walls and the benches are filled with grit and crumbs
We like this place and would like to return but it’s getting kind of scary.
Sincerely...
Recently I wrote two notes that would qualify as something you communicate to the "customer service" channel of a business. God only knows what happens to your letter and if anybody actually reads it or does anything about it.
To Starbucks via their website:
Hi, I was in the store in the Indigo bookstore at Manulife Centre. I visit every weekday basically. Saw Molly Ringwald there once... Anyhoo... I was wanting to try some cookies so bought the "Starbucks Lime Flavored Cookies". 3 stale as hell cookies for $5.95 CDN, what the heck is that? SKU 195518. Produced April 19 2006, best before October 19 2006. Baked by the "Dancing Deer Baking Company". You should really have a word with them. It was wrong on so many levels. Best wishes, Mary Beth. P.S. I don't expect anything back cuz I actually ate the cookies (*feels ashamed*). Just thought you should know, they were nasty. But then, so am I. Cheers!
To Barrie Public Health - Full Service Restaurants Re: Furusato Sushi:
Hello,
I would like to bring your attention to Furusato Japan Restaurant (Essa Road exit off the 400 Hwy). A friend and I were at Furusato on Sunday June 18th at approximately 7:30pm. This is our third or fourth visit to this restaurant in the last two years. The food is fine but the premises are very dirty.
The women's bathroom is in bad shape. It smells and is visibly dirty around the sink and toilet. It’s obvious that regular cleaning is not happening
The floor throughout the restaurant is nothing short of disgusting. This includes the food preparation areas at the sushi bar which are visible to the public; there is food, garbage and dirt everywhere
The booth we sat in had food spatter all over the walls and the benches are filled with grit and crumbs
We like this place and would like to return but it’s getting kind of scary.
Sincerely...
Monday, June 12, 2006
God's [sic] Of Flesh
So, the place where I went... was not the classiest joint. In the past, the other tattoo places I've visited for a tat or piercing were very clean - almost clinical - and not at all rough around the edges.
The place I went to on Saturday night was convenient - just around the corner from me. There was speed-death-metal pounding out of the computer speakers. There were two guys working there. One guy did tats, one guy did piercings. At first the tat guy wanted me to come back on Tuesday to meet his "brother" (not really his brother, but a friend who is like a brother), who does more realistic-looking custom work (rather than cartoonish looking / stencil work). But after over an hour of back and forth, looking around on the computer, drawing, thinking, chatting, trying stuff out, dude decided that he was up for it and together we came up with something.
God's of Flesh was not clean. My tat guy, while very sweet, was on methadone to get off an oxycontin habit which he formed after having back surgery. Homeless people kept pounding on the door wanting to come in to use the phone or the toilet. The washroom was located off the one back room where they applied tats and piercings. So, I was lying there on a decrepit treatment table, jeans off, purse open, knickers pulled down around hips, crack showing and homeless dudes kept tramping through to pee. It would be rather hilarious if it wasn't so scary.
But yes, the surfaces were all disinfected in front of me, a new needle was used and then disposed of in front of me in the bio-hazard waste bin thingy, and the dude was professional and careful. So all is well.
But another thing was that the store dudes' friends constantly came by to look at creepy stuff on the Internet at Rotten. DO NOT GO to this site. It will make you weep for humanity. It's basically a sad place devoted to death, war-ish snuff films, people killing themselves or getting killed. My new friends check it everyday for newly footage. Ugh...
And my god, the tat HURT. I don't remember my others being so painful. Yes, the outline stings but mother of god, the needle around the hip bone is just downright unpleasant. $160 and a good story and hopefully no communicable diseases or infections.
So, the place where I went... was not the classiest joint. In the past, the other tattoo places I've visited for a tat or piercing were very clean - almost clinical - and not at all rough around the edges.
The place I went to on Saturday night was convenient - just around the corner from me. There was speed-death-metal pounding out of the computer speakers. There were two guys working there. One guy did tats, one guy did piercings. At first the tat guy wanted me to come back on Tuesday to meet his "brother" (not really his brother, but a friend who is like a brother), who does more realistic-looking custom work (rather than cartoonish looking / stencil work). But after over an hour of back and forth, looking around on the computer, drawing, thinking, chatting, trying stuff out, dude decided that he was up for it and together we came up with something.
God's of Flesh was not clean. My tat guy, while very sweet, was on methadone to get off an oxycontin habit which he formed after having back surgery. Homeless people kept pounding on the door wanting to come in to use the phone or the toilet. The washroom was located off the one back room where they applied tats and piercings. So, I was lying there on a decrepit treatment table, jeans off, purse open, knickers pulled down around hips, crack showing and homeless dudes kept tramping through to pee. It would be rather hilarious if it wasn't so scary.
But yes, the surfaces were all disinfected in front of me, a new needle was used and then disposed of in front of me in the bio-hazard waste bin thingy, and the dude was professional and careful. So all is well.
But another thing was that the store dudes' friends constantly came by to look at creepy stuff on the Internet at Rotten. DO NOT GO to this site. It will make you weep for humanity. It's basically a sad place devoted to death, war-ish snuff films, people killing themselves or getting killed. My new friends check it everyday for newly footage. Ugh...
And my god, the tat HURT. I don't remember my others being so painful. Yes, the outline stings but mother of god, the needle around the hip bone is just downright unpleasant. $160 and a good story and hopefully no communicable diseases or infections.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
I've gone 5000 miles missing her... 
Return To Me
You know the thing about tattoos. You get one and then you just want another. My first one was when I was about 19. Feeling all patriotic and shit about the aftermath of Meech Lake. I got it at some joint out on Queen West from a woman named Toby. I think it cost $25.
Next up was when I did time in Ottawa. I was working all sorts of strange hours and feeling terrible about losing my mom and losing myself at the same time. Where did I go? I wanted to get back to Betty, so I got my own name put on my arm. A little unusual I know, but not as many people called me that back then. It was special when a friend would call me by that name. Like that friend knew about me in a certain way, a way that I liked. So this was my way of getting back to be that person I liked. This was about in 1997 (I would've been 28-ish).
So I guess I do this about every 10 years.
I've been wanting to commemorate my mom in some way. My thing with her is... I'll never get over it but this wound makes me strong. My strength allows me to be a rock for other people. But my loss is my pain. My recurring dream is that we're in our house on Chatsworth and we're together, doing something like folding laundry or baking. There is no feeling like this in the world - the feeling of complete security and happiness. And then the dreamer knows she's dreaming and to wake up is like she's gone all over again. But even though my religious days are pretty much over, I think we'll be together again.
So here's my bloody bandage which shows the mirror of my memory and pain.
You know the thing about tattoos. You get one and then you just want another. My first one was when I was about 19. Feeling all patriotic and shit about the aftermath of Meech Lake. I got it at some joint out on Queen West from a woman named Toby. I think it cost $25.
Next up was when I did time in Ottawa. I was working all sorts of strange hours and feeling terrible about losing my mom and losing myself at the same time. Where did I go? I wanted to get back to Betty, so I got my own name put on my arm. A little unusual I know, but not as many people called me that back then. It was special when a friend would call me by that name. Like that friend knew about me in a certain way, a way that I liked. So this was my way of getting back to be that person I liked. This was about in 1997 (I would've been 28-ish).So I guess I do this about every 10 years.
I've been wanting to commemorate my mom in some way. My thing with her is... I'll never get over it but this wound makes me strong. My strength allows me to be a rock for other people. But my loss is my pain. My recurring dream is that we're in our house on Chatsworth and we're together, doing something like folding laundry or baking. There is no feeling like this in the world - the feeling of complete security and happiness. And then the dreamer knows she's dreaming and to wake up is like she's gone all over again. But even though my religious days are pretty much over, I think we'll be together again.
So here's my bloody bandage which shows the mirror of my memory and pain.
And there's my new ink above: colourful and wistful.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Live Long and Fuck Hard
You know where this one's going. I was breezing into work this morning around 7:30am and I stopped on Richmond for coffee at Tim Horton's. As I was coming out of the store a smelly old homeless dude with big rastas begged me for some coffee money. I smiled and said no. He smiled and said "OK Miss! Then live long and fuck hard!" Best salutation ever. I must remember to use this modern take on Spock's greeting.
You know where this one's going. I was breezing into work this morning around 7:30am and I stopped on Richmond for coffee at Tim Horton's. As I was coming out of the store a smelly old homeless dude with big rastas begged me for some coffee money. I smiled and said no. He smiled and said "OK Miss! Then live long and fuck hard!" Best salutation ever. I must remember to use this modern take on Spock's greeting.
Masood Watch 2006
Masood Watch 2006 is over. We had this intern working for us for about the last 6 weeks. His name is Masood! Ah.... Masood. When I interviewed him I was overpowered by his cologne. I think that's why I chose him, actually. Well anyway, Masood wasn't that great at coming into work. He'd come in at 9:30, then 10, then 11... He also liked to leave work early. One day he sent me this email saying he wasn't feeling well and that he was taking off. Since he literally sat 10 feet behind me, I turned around to tell him that was ok. Except he was already gone! What a sneak on little cat feet! Well last week Masood didn't come in on Monday / didn't call. That's not too unusual because there was a wildcat transit strike. On Tuesday, no Masood. That was Masood Watch Day 2. On Wednesday his residence was called and his mother, coincidentally, did not know where he was either. Then on Thursday the other intern in the department apparently got an email from Masood. It turns out he was "stuck in New York City" and trying to make travel arrangements to get home. Friday rolled around (Day 5!) and still no Masood. This week (on Tuesday I believe) he emailed our resource manager to resign... by email. Nice one! A few of us have been pretending to have Masood sightings anyway, just to keep his spirit alive.
Masood Watch 2006 is over. We had this intern working for us for about the last 6 weeks. His name is Masood! Ah.... Masood. When I interviewed him I was overpowered by his cologne. I think that's why I chose him, actually. Well anyway, Masood wasn't that great at coming into work. He'd come in at 9:30, then 10, then 11... He also liked to leave work early. One day he sent me this email saying he wasn't feeling well and that he was taking off. Since he literally sat 10 feet behind me, I turned around to tell him that was ok. Except he was already gone! What a sneak on little cat feet! Well last week Masood didn't come in on Monday / didn't call. That's not too unusual because there was a wildcat transit strike. On Tuesday, no Masood. That was Masood Watch Day 2. On Wednesday his residence was called and his mother, coincidentally, did not know where he was either. Then on Thursday the other intern in the department apparently got an email from Masood. It turns out he was "stuck in New York City" and trying to make travel arrangements to get home. Friday rolled around (Day 5!) and still no Masood. This week (on Tuesday I believe) he emailed our resource manager to resign... by email. Nice one! A few of us have been pretending to have Masood sightings anyway, just to keep his spirit alive.
Friday, June 02, 2006
The Da Vinci Code Movie Kurfuffle
What on earth? Banned and reviled in parts of the world, shaking the foundations of the Roman Catholic Church, The Da Vinci Code continues to make people crazy and author Dan Brown rich.
I have no idea why this book (let alone the movie!) is so scary and distasteful to so many. I've read more compelling books by Sydney Sheldon for god's sake. How about Princess Daisy by Judith Krantz? And who could forget Lace by Shirley Conran? These were the controversial books I hid from my mom, which probably should've been banned for making people like me oversexed and negligent of homework in my youth.
I happened to see the movie yesterday. Of all the ridiculous things to ban! Poor Audrey Tautou has to play opposite a bloated comatose American dude whom they should've left on that island. Tom Hanks is sleep walking through Europe, people. Somebody wake up Tom! We're rolling!
What on earth? Banned and reviled in parts of the world, shaking the foundations of the Roman Catholic Church, The Da Vinci Code continues to make people crazy and author Dan Brown rich.
I have no idea why this book (let alone the movie!) is so scary and distasteful to so many. I've read more compelling books by Sydney Sheldon for god's sake. How about Princess Daisy by Judith Krantz? And who could forget Lace by Shirley Conran? These were the controversial books I hid from my mom, which probably should've been banned for making people like me oversexed and negligent of homework in my youth.
I happened to see the movie yesterday. Of all the ridiculous things to ban! Poor Audrey Tautou has to play opposite a bloated comatose American dude whom they should've left on that island. Tom Hanks is sleep walking through Europe, people. Somebody wake up Tom! We're rolling!
Prisoners Of Gravity In Florida
I wrote this comment this morning on someone else's blog and I liked it so much I'm reprinting it here.
I do this all the time in Florida.
I sit on the beach with my friend all day and watch the elderly perambulate. We see leathery 65+ women strolling along and we KNOW which bodies we'll have when we're their age.
For instance my friend will be the "barrel" - the old lady with the nice legs but total barrel shape from the gunt up (cuz she's got a total swimmer's body - inverted triangle). Tits indistinguishable from ass indistinguishable from gut.
I will be the "all over largesse" - big and tall everywhere. Big face. Sequoia legs. Giant hands and feet. Humongo ass. Saggy tits out to here.
But we'll both be resplendent widows in pricey Israeli swinsuits with matching wraps, designer flip flops, frosty blonde astronaut-wife hair impervious to the wind, perfectly long / hard / shiny mani-pedi in shocking colours, facelifts courtesy of plastic surgeons who do "good work", dripping with diamonds, and bronzed, BRONZED. Oh yes, it's all about the tan a la "Magda" in There's Something About Mary.
But there'll we'll be, prisoners of gravity, stuck with our bodies, and we'll have packed on the age-weight like our moms did. But we'll be workin that beach, oh yes. Viva la Floride!
I wrote this comment this morning on someone else's blog and I liked it so much I'm reprinting it here.
I do this all the time in Florida.
I sit on the beach with my friend all day and watch the elderly perambulate. We see leathery 65+ women strolling along and we KNOW which bodies we'll have when we're their age.
For instance my friend will be the "barrel" - the old lady with the nice legs but total barrel shape from the gunt up (cuz she's got a total swimmer's body - inverted triangle). Tits indistinguishable from ass indistinguishable from gut.
I will be the "all over largesse" - big and tall everywhere. Big face. Sequoia legs. Giant hands and feet. Humongo ass. Saggy tits out to here.
But we'll both be resplendent widows in pricey Israeli swinsuits with matching wraps, designer flip flops, frosty blonde astronaut-wife hair impervious to the wind, perfectly long / hard / shiny mani-pedi in shocking colours, facelifts courtesy of plastic surgeons who do "good work", dripping with diamonds, and bronzed, BRONZED. Oh yes, it's all about the tan a la "Magda" in There's Something About Mary.
But there'll we'll be, prisoners of gravity, stuck with our bodies, and we'll have packed on the age-weight like our moms did. But we'll be workin that beach, oh yes. Viva la Floride!
