April 2011
21 posts
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Defence, defence, defence
As my interest in the Stanley Cup Playoffs ended last night with my beloved Blackhawks of Chicago (who lost to my ‘home’ team of Vancouver) and I catch my tears in my custom Blackhawks organic cotton hankerchiefs (these are made up and not real, although I would appreciate it if someone would make such a thing) I am forced to think about sports metaphors instead of about actual...
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Bad bromance
Their pained expressions. The strained emotions in their vocals. Their sweat-soaked, desert-worn faces. Judas and Jesus in musical form are a magically complicated pair who communicate in sweet tenors and gruff falsettos. Has there ever been a better bromance?
After he created the masterpiece of hippy-dippy funk, Jesus Christ Superstar, Andrew Lloyd Weber really took a turn for the suck....
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JCO, professional bad ass
Last night I saw the amazing Joyce Carol Oates read, talk, kick ass and take names. I love this woman so much it stings. And she did that quintessential old lady thing and took her purse with her up to the podium and held it while she read because as a good, decent older woman she had to keep her handbag nearby at all times. It was briefly distracting, as I wondered what kind of eccentric older...
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It's been a while since I fell in love
Big statement ahead: I have not lusted over a piece of clothing in a long while. Truly, even dresses have been almost as unappealing as a swift kick to the vag bone. And then. And then. Club Monaco unleashes the ‘Mara Dress’ on my ass and I’m smitten, swooning, clawin’ at my pillow in the night with feverish dreams and stumbling through the street with an ache in my chest...
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Doggone jerks
Don’t be fooled by their stupid faces, that vacant stare. These are soulless killing machines. Otterhounds. Bred and trained for years to hunt and kill adorable and (way cooler than dogs) otters.
Dog 1: Hey, let’s convince humans that we’re cute and dumb and get them to hang out with us all the time.
Dog 2: Yeah. And we’ll get them to pick up our shit with nothing but a...
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House fail
Things were getting a bit too lovely-dovey with all my Little House love and general feelings of affection for stories which harken back to a ‘simpler’ time, so I just want to express my extreme hatred of that suck-ass television phenomenon known as Little House on the Prairie. Sure, I read all the books one lonely, elementary school spring break, but I had already gone through half...
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Two ladies, one house
Virginia Lee Burton was a bad ass softie, the best kind. The Little House (1942) She could illustrate the shit out of inanimate objects, give them life and make hard hearts care about the fate of a little house, worn and neglected in urban sprawl. Though I love the city (not urban sprawl though, c’mon I’m not a monster), I still feel sorrow for the plight of that sweet house,...
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