I am in Macho-political Heaven.
http://rickmercer.blogspot.com/
is back for a new year. Only three posts and he's already making me feel utterly indignant about the Liberals, and they haven't even picked a fearless leader yet.
And, my fav cartoonist/writer/anti-feminist has a proxy blog at
http://davesim.blogspot.com
He's the only guy on the internet who totally isn't on the internet.
I like that about Dave.
The Mountains always seem to come to him
I love these guys.
They are such... yanno... guys.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
The Gang’s All Here…
Once again, it’s Pit Night at J.A.’s place. Despite the crowd I have to strain to find a familiar face. Dana is allegedly schmoozing in L.A., but I know that’s only a cover story. She bought a gently-used sword at a local pawn shop and is hot on the track of the scum that kidnapped her beloved silk plant, Leafy.
Finally, I spot Elizabeth K. and M.G. giggling in a corner with Barry and JA. JA is showing off his new marketing ploy - JAC Cosmetics. ‘Never tested on animals, not overly expensive, and, in fact, free when you buy all three Jack Daniels books’.
At least he’s not wearing a dress.
Angie smokes a wine-dipped cigar as she takes bets on the next PIT session. A tall, cool Pap Smear in hand, I watch Tod massage Lee’s shoulders and repeatedly mouth a word I think is “Custard”. Sandra coolly files the tips of her nails to sharp points then dips them in lemon juice.
Angie nudges me. “You in?”
I shake my head. “I saving my dough for the final match.”
The new guy, Corey, sucks back lime Vodka/Jello shots like a pro. He looks like a GQ model, but the Alfred Sung glasses scream “Librarian”. Bonnie and Lady M stare dreamily at him over their frothy drinks. I expect they are interested in learning the ‘Dewme Decimal System’.
I nudge Angie back. “I see Barry’s got competition.”
Angie snorts, her mouth full of bills as she notes down the new odds. Shiny red lip-prints compliment green as she deftly removes them from her yap and counts the wad. “Sure you’re not in on this?”
“Nah.” I drain my glass, set it on the bar with a solid thud and scan the crowd again.
Nearby, Miss Snark is perched calmly on a bar stool, a poodle curled serenely in her lap. A small plastic pipeline runs the length of the bar. It’s fitted with a tiny tap encrusted with faux diamonds. She fills a delicate custom-made pewter bucket with gin, gargles a mouthful (with a finesse only dames from New York can muster) swallows and flips open her cell. “George. I’m at JA’s. Get your gorgeous keister down here, right now. You don’t want mommy to get angry, do you?”
The scent of fresh mud and Fabreeze fills the bar as the cover is removed. Lee doffs his robe. He wears only a violent green Speedo with a SeaQuest logo. The males in the crowd groan and avert their eyes en masse. Sandra wears prescription goggles, a gray Oilers t-shirt and plain black shorts.
A wave of mud slurps over the edge of the Pit as Ruttan and Goldberg struggle. Her nails make short work of the Speedo, but he smears mud on her goggles, grasps her in a headlock and starts screaming slogans from the Tie-In Writers manifesto.
Bardawill watches the struggle in fascination. Unblinking, she goes to take a sip of her drink, but sends the straw up her nostril. The resulting nose-bleed requires a fistful of bar napkins to staunch. With little sympathy I notice the blood has ruined her authentic ‘Weird Al - Running With Scissors” concert tee.
I signal for a fresh drink from Bob, the insanely Scottish bartender. He’s one-handed due to some personal fracas and his plaid arm cast slows him down.
“Same again?”
I nod and he deftly cracks open a Dr. Pepper, dumps it into a glass, adds three cubes and tops it up with a generous portion of Canadian Club.
Grunts, gurgles and gnashing emit intermittently from the bottom of the Pit. I can no longer make out who is who. Corey nudges me and points to a salt and pepper haired man in the corner. Brian stretches his leg muscles, distracted by the anticipation of his own battle. His curly haired opponent stands serenely by, radiating confidence and blurbability like no one else I’ve ever seen.
Angie pokes my arm. “Next up is Horeck vs Atwood. You in?”
I nod. “Oh yeah. This time I’m in.”
Once again, it’s Pit Night at J.A.’s place. Despite the crowd I have to strain to find a familiar face. Dana is allegedly schmoozing in L.A., but I know that’s only a cover story. She bought a gently-used sword at a local pawn shop and is hot on the track of the scum that kidnapped her beloved silk plant, Leafy.
Finally, I spot Elizabeth K. and M.G. giggling in a corner with Barry and JA. JA is showing off his new marketing ploy - JAC Cosmetics. ‘Never tested on animals, not overly expensive, and, in fact, free when you buy all three Jack Daniels books’.
At least he’s not wearing a dress.
Angie smokes a wine-dipped cigar as she takes bets on the next PIT session. A tall, cool Pap Smear in hand, I watch Tod massage Lee’s shoulders and repeatedly mouth a word I think is “Custard”. Sandra coolly files the tips of her nails to sharp points then dips them in lemon juice.
Angie nudges me. “You in?”
I shake my head. “I saving my dough for the final match.”
The new guy, Corey, sucks back lime Vodka/Jello shots like a pro. He looks like a GQ model, but the Alfred Sung glasses scream “Librarian”. Bonnie and Lady M stare dreamily at him over their frothy drinks. I expect they are interested in learning the ‘Dewme Decimal System’.
I nudge Angie back. “I see Barry’s got competition.”
Angie snorts, her mouth full of bills as she notes down the new odds. Shiny red lip-prints compliment green as she deftly removes them from her yap and counts the wad. “Sure you’re not in on this?”
“Nah.” I drain my glass, set it on the bar with a solid thud and scan the crowd again.
Nearby, Miss Snark is perched calmly on a bar stool, a poodle curled serenely in her lap. A small plastic pipeline runs the length of the bar. It’s fitted with a tiny tap encrusted with faux diamonds. She fills a delicate custom-made pewter bucket with gin, gargles a mouthful (with a finesse only dames from New York can muster) swallows and flips open her cell. “George. I’m at JA’s. Get your gorgeous keister down here, right now. You don’t want mommy to get angry, do you?”
The scent of fresh mud and Fabreeze fills the bar as the cover is removed. Lee doffs his robe. He wears only a violent green Speedo with a SeaQuest logo. The males in the crowd groan and avert their eyes en masse. Sandra wears prescription goggles, a gray Oilers t-shirt and plain black shorts.
A wave of mud slurps over the edge of the Pit as Ruttan and Goldberg struggle. Her nails make short work of the Speedo, but he smears mud on her goggles, grasps her in a headlock and starts screaming slogans from the Tie-In Writers manifesto.
Bardawill watches the struggle in fascination. Unblinking, she goes to take a sip of her drink, but sends the straw up her nostril. The resulting nose-bleed requires a fistful of bar napkins to staunch. With little sympathy I notice the blood has ruined her authentic ‘Weird Al - Running With Scissors” concert tee.
I signal for a fresh drink from Bob, the insanely Scottish bartender. He’s one-handed due to some personal fracas and his plaid arm cast slows him down.
“Same again?”
I nod and he deftly cracks open a Dr. Pepper, dumps it into a glass, adds three cubes and tops it up with a generous portion of Canadian Club.
Grunts, gurgles and gnashing emit intermittently from the bottom of the Pit. I can no longer make out who is who. Corey nudges me and points to a salt and pepper haired man in the corner. Brian stretches his leg muscles, distracted by the anticipation of his own battle. His curly haired opponent stands serenely by, radiating confidence and blurbability like no one else I’ve ever seen.
Angie pokes my arm. “Next up is Horeck vs Atwood. You in?”
I nod. “Oh yeah. This time I’m in.”
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Name Dripping.
Due to the proximity of Dana/Mindy to L.A., they regal me with “I met/saw/dumped a cappuccino on” “Major celebrity/Minor celebrity/person of note” stories from time to time. And I, of course,knash my teeth from jealousy listen politely to these tales and wonder whether to mention the name of the somewhat famous actor who ran me over with a golf cart, or the very famous author who once lived beside my family whom my mother thought was a dreadful snob, or the regionally famous Canadian icon I once witnessed make a rather awkward pass at the wife of a friend.
But Idangle carrots digress.
But now I can play this game - thanks to the proximity of the Toronto Film Festival.
(DRUM ROLL)
Academy Award ™ winning screenwriter, Paul Haggis (Million Dollar Baby and Crash, and the upcoming Bond Movie Casino Royale) was in town yesterday to receive honours from his hometown of London, Ontario. Also home to such notable Hollywood types as David Shore, Victor Garber, and those two kids from the movie, The Notebook.
Young Paul, I gather, was not the best of students. But he won the Oscar ™, dammit, so they named aswamp park after him. Paul joked he was surprised they hadn’t named a juvenile detention center after him. A bit ill at ease with all the hometown attention, his self-depreciating humour was rather sweet.
It’s not everyday I get this sort of opportunity. Having the day off, I meandered down to City Hall, took some photos and even asked Mr. Haggis to sign my copy of Syd Field’s Screenplay, The Foundations of Screenwriting – a book he may never have read, or if he has, may not even like. But it made sense at the time. He did sign the book, very graciously, posed for more photos with fans, then took his park and left.
He is currently working on other TV and movie projects, like The Black Donnellys.
Being an aspiring screenwriter, situations like yesterdays give me a bit of fuel to pour on the embers of my smoldering dreams. Perhaps in twenty or thirty years, I will return to my hometown, a shiny gold statue of a buck naked man ™ under my arm. I will have a bridge, or a water treatment facility named after me. Kids will gush and ask me to sign copies of my work, which they will promptly sell on Ebay for tens of dollars.
Aaaahhhh…
It’ll be sweet
(And yes, Dana. I AM working on the damn outlines.)
Due to the proximity of Dana/Mindy to L.A., they regal me with “I met/saw/dumped a cappuccino on” “Major celebrity/Minor celebrity/person of note” stories from time to time. And I, of course,
But I
But now I can play this game - thanks to the proximity of the Toronto Film Festival.
(DRUM ROLL)
Academy Award ™ winning screenwriter, Paul Haggis (Million Dollar Baby and Crash, and the upcoming Bond Movie Casino Royale) was in town yesterday to receive honours from his hometown of London, Ontario. Also home to such notable Hollywood types as David Shore, Victor Garber, and those two kids from the movie, The Notebook.
Young Paul, I gather, was not the best of students. But he won the Oscar ™, dammit, so they named a
It’s not everyday I get this sort of opportunity. Having the day off, I meandered down to City Hall, took some photos and even asked Mr. Haggis to sign my copy of Syd Field’s Screenplay, The Foundations of Screenwriting – a book he may never have read, or if he has, may not even like. But it made sense at the time. He did sign the book, very graciously, posed for more photos with fans, then took his park and left.
He is currently working on other TV and movie projects, like The Black Donnellys.
Being an aspiring screenwriter, situations like yesterdays give me a bit of fuel to pour on the embers of my smoldering dreams. Perhaps in twenty or thirty years, I will return to my hometown, a shiny gold statue of a buck naked man ™ under my arm. I will have a bridge, or a water treatment facility named after me. Kids will gush and ask me to sign copies of my work, which they will promptly sell on Ebay for tens of dollars.
Aaaahhhh…
It’ll be sweet
(And yes, Dana. I AM working on the damn outlines.)
Sunday, September 10, 2006
I am a bad, bad blogger...
What with school starting, work/family issues and all, it's been a hectic couple of weeks, with the result I've have little time to write/blog, and when I did, not a whole lot to say.
It's been a good news/bad news sort of time for me. I shan't burden you all with the details.
It's September, the air is cooling - the faint scent of a recently held Crapometer and high school football tryouts lingers in the air. In a vain attempt to distract myself one evening, I went to the Bank of Canada website (Google it, if you are interested - I'm too damn lazy to post the link) and looked up lost bank accounts. These are bank accounts people have forgotten, or perhaps those of people who have passed away and the estate didn't know about.
A couple of years ago I found a couple of G's that belonged to my cousin. I sent her the link. She was over the moon. Her father (who passed away years before) had set up the account as a college fund for her son and as it happened I sent the link the month before the boy started college.
So, I'm searching out names of distant relations, etc, and once I ran out of names of family and friends, I plugged in celebrity names for fun. And didn't I get a hit or two...or three.
It appears ex-finance minister Paul Martin has forgotten about some bank accounts of his. Shame on you, sir! So has Elijah Harper. (No relation to Stephen)
This is too funny! Somewhere in BC, a Mr Harry Potter has over $12,000 in a forgotten account. That just had me in fits.
But the best one is this...
I think I found a forgotten account of a famous author and dashed off a letter with the details on how to claim the money, (adding a fangirly comment scrawled at the bottom).
I don't actually expect a reply, but if I receive one I'll let you all know.
What with school starting, work/family issues and all, it's been a hectic couple of weeks, with the result I've have little time to write/blog, and when I did, not a whole lot to say.
It's been a good news/bad news sort of time for me. I shan't burden you all with the details.
It's September, the air is cooling - the faint scent of a recently held Crapometer and high school football tryouts lingers in the air. In a vain attempt to distract myself one evening, I went to the Bank of Canada website (Google it, if you are interested - I'm too damn lazy to post the link) and looked up lost bank accounts. These are bank accounts people have forgotten, or perhaps those of people who have passed away and the estate didn't know about.
A couple of years ago I found a couple of G's that belonged to my cousin. I sent her the link. She was over the moon. Her father (who passed away years before) had set up the account as a college fund for her son and as it happened I sent the link the month before the boy started college.
So, I'm searching out names of distant relations, etc, and once I ran out of names of family and friends, I plugged in celebrity names for fun. And didn't I get a hit or two...or three.
It appears ex-finance minister Paul Martin has forgotten about some bank accounts of his. Shame on you, sir! So has Elijah Harper. (No relation to Stephen)
This is too funny! Somewhere in BC, a Mr Harry Potter has over $12,000 in a forgotten account. That just had me in fits.
But the best one is this...
I think I found a forgotten account of a famous author and dashed off a letter with the details on how to claim the money, (adding a fangirly comment scrawled at the bottom).
I don't actually expect a reply, but if I receive one I'll let you all know.
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