(Hardly) Tragic Life Stories

This morning my brain woke up at 7:15AM, exactly 45 minutes before my body was ready. That was just enough time to lay there and start over-thinking things: Was the car going to get a ticket? Did I remember to lock the door? Am I catching cold? What’s wrong with me? Why does winter suck so hard? Etc, etc. In that time, my mind wandered, and got all self-critical of my 20’s. You know, the university years. The stuff of which nightmares are made. The conscious moments between longer periods of being drunk prior to graduation.

More specifically, I was feeling embarrassed to have spent several years as a creative writing major: all the poor things I not only wrote but shared with my classmates. I was writing from nowhere, from a life part-lived. Essentially I was making the shit up as I went along…which should be the goal of creative writing, otherwise they would call it plagaristic writing. I think art schools and especially the creative writing major should be abolished. What a way to commodify art…guised as education. Art should be workshopped, never graded.

The point: sometime in the late 90’s I took a class called Creative Writing: Memoir Fiction. Or something like that. I was so into it: what could be more awesome/easy than writing about my life? At the time, I thought I was amazing. I was invincible. I was 22. I was totally lost in life but having a great time. So I wrote a story about it. I seriously thought: “I – hands down – have the most interesting life out of everyone in this class and my story is going to BLOW THEM AWAY.” I was conceited. Did I mention that?

My only caveat was one particular classmate who was actually a good writer. She had had her work published and shit. We had mutual friends and at the time I thought it was likely that her life might be more interesting than mine. She was also a few years older. And this morning, in my momentary post-dawn panic, I realised it was the possibility of her opinion that embarrassed me. Like my “tell-it-like-it-is life story” about going to bars and having dinners at fancy restaurants was remotely intellectual and engaging. It totally was not. That story was a bona fide piece of garbage.

The largest tragedy here was that I ever thought the drivel I put out there was appropriate to share and discuss with others. Yikes, anyone?

A final thought: how depressing and morally crushing would it be, being a creative writing teacher? Not trying to be offensive to creative writing teachers out there, but the amount of pure rubbish you would have to process: read cricitally, comment on and grade. All the while, your internal dialogue being: “This is the future of English literature. Fucking hell. Can I murder myself now?” Thus, possibly, the genesis of a new genre.

‘Best Of’ Brings Out The Worst Of…Me

The end of the year, end of the decade, time to compile a list of highs and lows. In past years, I haven’t cared, haven’t really bothered: I’ve read the lists, enjoyed them, agreed and disagreed verbally to printed matter. I don’t know why, this time around, I am so not interested.

I was asked to contribute to a handful of lists this year, picking my top artists, bands, albums, shows, etc. And I had to decline. When the requests came in, I considered them, and realised that the past year has been, well, totally beige. Especially in Canada. With the exception of Metric’s Fansaties and a handful of great songs/ideas from others, what could I remember? What was timeless? I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of anything. Was that my fault? Maybe I was lazy this year. Did I not keep up? No: I’ve been worn down by repetition, the references to the references, the derivativity, the lack of soul, a saturated milieu, churning out music devoid of spirit and purpose.

For example, could someone please explain this to me? It 100% boggles my mind.

Times have changed, I suppose. I’ve changed. I’ve changed quite a bit, and philosophically look at music and the music industry in a hyper-evolved way. In four dimensions. And once you achieve that fourth dimension, everything changes. Perspective is paramount, and there’s no going back to the way things were before.

Or the Battlestar Galactica marathon I’m on has clouded my memory.

Memories of the Futurecast

I’m writing this on an aeroplane. We finally got out of Montreal, after two rounds of de-icing amid the city’s first insane snowstorm of the year. I also just discovered that I can use this WordPress app on my Blackberry, offline. This will seriously change travel blogging for me. Game changer for sure.

Murray is in the seat next to me, totally passed out, in a deep catch-up (and neck-breaking) slumber. He stayed up all night working on music. We’re en route to Los Angeles, for meetings, and to see Morrissey.

As I prepared for this trip, I anticipated delays, missed connections, weather problems, mechanical failure and, bottom line, lots of waiting. I loaded my iPod Nano (courtesy of Apple Canada) with suitably brain numbing material, including the latest Hype Machine podcast, the movie “Step Brothers” and a few episodes of Wil Wheaton’s “Memories of the Futurecast.”

I know, you’re like: “Who the H-E-double-hockey-sticks is Wil Wheaton?” He’s Wesley Crusher, from TV’s Star Trek: The Next Generation. I’ll admit this here and now (if I haven’t already): I was a huge TNG fan. I actually went to a Star Trek convention in Toronto with my dad when I was like 16. We had to drive to some once glorious hotel out by the airport; the whole experience was a little overwhelming, with full-makeup klingons and every second person in a Starfleet Academy uniform of some sort. An engineer by trade, my dad is big into sci-fi. As a kid, if I wanted to watch TV on our single TV in the evenings, I would have to submit to his choices which I remember as: Dr. Who, Star Trek (original series), Star Trek: TNG, X-Files, and that new Twilight Zone show.

I haven’t seen an episode of TNG in a while and when I do, it breaks with my romantic recollections of the show: there’s something a little cheap about TNG (maybe that was just the 90’s aesthetic), and definitely cheesy. Dare I say, schmultzy. Wil Wheaton’s character was probably my least favourite. Even though we were (and still are) around the same age, and he was set up to be a tween sci-fi heart throb, I thought of him as, well, sort of the Jar Jar Binks (sorry, Wil) of the show.

In Memories of the Futurecast, Wil basically talks about this: he speaks endearingly about his character, his experiences as a teenaged geek-turned-actor, and the total dramz of the show. It’s very casual and candid; the way I would talk like to about TNG among friends….if I had any friends that took the show that seriously. Murray’s an original series guy, and I don’t have any friends who I talk to on this kind of precise, nerdy-fan level (and its probably better that way). Anyhow, now I have Wil in my online life: my new, nerdy, arm’s length, digital friend. Friend may be too strong a word: maybe just a follower. Or fan? This all sounds creepy and a little sad. Thus is my life.

At any rate, while I’m enjoying it, be warned: Memories of the Futurecast is very, very geeky and for hardcores only. Find it on Wil Wheaton’s blog.

Pilgrimage Details Announced

This morning I’m making oatmeal for breakfast. I make it the old fashioned way, by boiling oats until they’re cooked. Not with the flavoured instant packets that I grew up on. I have to call it porridge for my daughter to eat it, because that’s what they’re serving up in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Everything has to be branded for kids these days.

And by “breakfast” I mean “first breakfast” because I’m about to go meet some friends for brunch/second breakfast. Then going to check out the Puces Pop Xmas Sale, where I’m hoping to find some kind of silkscreened 2010 calendar.

There’s been a lot of music floating around the house, and next week Murray and I are taking a trip to Los Angeles. Maybe you’ve noticed my “pilgrimage” twitter posts, well, that’s kind of a joke. Kind of. Part of the trip was timed with going to see Morrissey, which is actually happening, which I’m a little giddy about. Can you tell?

As you may know, I play in a band, so going to see other bands’ shows is kind of like work for me. The venue/club/bar environment is like an office party. Or like a really long coffee break. And the obligatory alcoholism, made mandatory by boredom, gets tired after 30. I’m actually turning into the old joke we made about The Dears being a bunch of brandy-sipping, philosophy-reading, candlelit-bathing snobs. That’s what parenthood does to a person. Bottom line is: you can’t make porridge and watch The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show if you’re hungover. Well, I guess you can…but according to my particular set of values, Hangover+Parenthood=Degenerate Street.

All guilt issues aside, I’m stoked about going to LA. Maybe we’ll go to The Grove and look for celebrities, go swimming in the freezing ocean while Americans correctly observe: “They must be Canadian,” and definitely hang out here.

Celebrity Bitchiness: Available Online

Ahh, the internet. Sometimes I love thee, other times, I loathe thee. Taking the general “wasting of time on the internet” down a notch is the task of reading the celebrity gossip blogs. It’s the equivalent of being at the airport, in the magazine store facing the dilemma: “Do I buy The Economist or Us Weekly?” And of course I almost always go for Us Weekly mainly because they have that fashion police section at the back.

Recently, while on the useless celebrity gossip tip, I was wowed by some really spicy meatballs like the embarrassment of Amy Winehouse’s boob implant leaking, the best Miley Cyrus diss ever, and a couple tour bus crashes ((1) and (2)) that always freak me out.

These are the PROS of celebrity gossip blogs. While the line between PROS and CONS is very fine, the CONS usually are the result of weak reporting or, dare I say, conjecture. Or taking a person’s words out of context. Since we are dealing with the scavengers and bottom-feeders of reportage (i.e. paparazzi), this shit happens all the time, and half the stories that are on the PROS list are probably sensationalized and/or falsified is some way. For example: why would they rent a bus to carry Britney’s equipment? That was most likely not a bus but a giant truck. But “bus” implies “passengers” and therefore the possibility of harm.

ANYWAY. The CONS: reading something stupid that someone said. And I’m not talking Courtney Love because that’s too easy. The other day I read this story about how Angelina Jolie apparently thinks President Barack Obama is all “smoke and mirrors” and I was like WTF is this? When was the last time anyone believed that a politician – especially an American president – was a straight up straight shooter? I’m sure these quotes made by Angelina are totally taken out of context and have a bit of broken telephone involved. But really, an ACTOR calling a POLITICIAN fake? They are practically in the same business: the suspension of disbelief.

Go Fuck Yourself…but I Love You!

Such a classic situation. No editorializing comments necessary.

MORRISSEY EJECTS HAMBURGER FROM GIG
Morrissey had a fan thrown out of a gig in Hamburg on Tuesday after
the audience member shouted an insult at him.

The incident happened after Morrissey suggested that people from
Hamburg should be called ‘Hamburgists’, rather than ‘Hamburgers’, so
to break their association with the popular meat delivery system the
fiercely vegetarian singer hates so much. Weak joke supplied, he then
played ‘I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris’.

After finishing the song, Moz announced to the audience: “So, somebody
shouted and told me to go and fuck myself”. He then identified the man
who had thrown the insult and asked him to explain himself. The man
managed to say: “You made a joke about us and I…” before the singer
launched into a tirade against him and had him thrown out by security.

As he was pulled out of the venue, the man shouted: “But I love
you…” to which Morrissey responded: “Well, love me outside”.

And because I love you, I have managed to piece the whole thing
together via the medium of YouTube. Happy Friday:

Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_bU4hJz_0I
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBXOc8LAMb0
Part 3: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrZyJfqLHzA

- courtesy of http://www.unlimitedmedia.co.uk

Math(s) Joke!

I made a math (or maths, for you English) joke today via email. My mom sent myself, my sister and uncle the following message

On 5-Nov-09, at 5:10 PM, Ursula Yanchak wrote:

cleaned out 1/2 of a file drawer. Threw out 98% of the STUFF in it

To which I replied:

On 5-Nov-09, at 5:16 PM, Natalia Yanchak wrote:

Great work! Only 94.12% of the filing cabinet to go!

I know, I know. This is barely funny. As a reply, it’s fairly snarky and irritating. My mom is obviously proud of getting through half a drawer, but I’m pretty sure the filing cabinet has three drawers equally full of out-of-date documents. Like phone bills from 1989. My parent’s house is packed tightly, albeit neatly, full of stuff. My mom has taken on the mammoth task of clearing this stuff out. I commend her enormously, and only wish we lived in the same city so I could come over and help her a little bit every day.

Anyway, I did the calculation…more precisely, I did a calculation, the result of which was the punchline to my joke.

I’m just stopping here. This whole thing is stupid. The funniest thing, is that the joke is on me because my math is probably totally wrong.

MATH(S) = FAIL
JOKE = FAIL

Post-Halloween Sugar Rush

Last night’s haul was pretty good, I’d say. For a 4-year-old, that bag full of candy must seem infinite. Thankfully, she agreed to bring half of it to a Day of the Dead dinner party, which alleviates the pressure to eat the junk for mom & dad.

So: the costume. I realise, looking back at my blog, that I kind of over hyped the whole Squidward costume thing. Here are a couple pics, just the costume (the mask is the saving grace), then one with the cousin, before hittin’ the streets.

I was kind of surprised that I didn’t take a proper photo of my daughter in the costume. I think Halloween is too stressful. It’s like a race against time to get ready and get out there at dusk, but before it’s too late. The last thing on my mind was: Daughter, please stand very still and pose for some photographs. Actually, I always found it stressful, and never really liked it as a holiday. Too much pressure. Some of my teenaged costumes included “rocket scientist for NASA/nerd” and “hardware store lady.” As a child I went trick or treating dressed as a bunch of grapes, with dozens of purple balloons attached to my body. I think that is the true meaning of Halloween: fun yet traumatizing. The candy is like a buffer, a self-medication to soften all that embarrassment and confused moments of: “Why did I dress up? What am I supposed to be?”

Much like life.

Philosophy of Hallow’een

The philosophy of Hallow’een frustrates me: it is a 100% #firstworldproblem. It is a consumer’s holiday, an event which promotes nothing but shopping. Even the notion of generosity is overlooked: we buy candy to give away to kids, but can you imagine how better spent that money could be? Say a normal family spends $20 on candy, $35 on a costume and another $20 on decorations. What if they instead gave $10 of that $95 to a charity? Like the Food Bank or Dans La Rue, to feed street kids real food? Maybe its because when I was growing up, I always wore those orange cardboard UNICEF collection boxes. That was a great idea, great marketing, but it disappeared.

Maybe I was set off by watching a show last night that took you inside people’s over-the-top Hallow’een homes. Or perhaps because I saw costumes at the big box store, and was grossed out by how cheaply they were made and by how flammable they looked: a fairy costume for kids ran $35 before tax. Don’t even get me started on adults who dress up. Mind: blown.

So I do appreciate the moms that recycle costumes, or DIY them (a friend is making a paper mach horse for her son’s cowboy costume). I’m into that: keeping it imaginative, fulfilling and fun. Not expensive and competitive, which I think some people get carried away by. It’s more fun to be ghetto that to be the best.

Speaking of which, I’ll post some progress pics of the Squidward costume tomorrow.

Squidward Costume Anxiety

For Halloween this year, my 4-year-old has told me she wants to dress up as Squidward Tentacles from Spongebob. I’ve been to the big box stores, and there are no Spongebob character costumes, which leaves me one option: DIY.

This is a fine line: I don’t want the costume to be unidentifiable, or ghetto, or not fun to wear. Also it’s getting cold outside so it also has to be toasty. This is not going to be easy. Maybe I can woo her with a frilly princess dress…

This mask would be a quick fix, only it is overpriced and probably adult-sized:

This looks uncomfortable. And too literal:

Quaint. Not my style:

The fun-ness would be in active legs: the extra pair of legs attached to her real legs so each pair of legs (one real, one fake) moved in tandem. Also was thinking of adding the Krabby Patty hat. Need to get to Value Village to source a white trucker’s hat.

OK. So today I have some work to do. I need to find:
1) Kids plain brown polo shirt.
2) Grey long-sleeved shirt + 2 pair matching leggings/pants.
3) 6 pairs grey sport socks to go over her hands & shoes. And stuffed one to be extra feet.
4) White trucker hat (possibly with blue bill).
5) Try to make a Squidward mask. Maybe some sort of mask/hood stuffed into the shape of his bulbous head and nose? And paint on a frown with makeup? I need grey face paint.

Seriously, I am into this costume over the standard fairy or princess. But it has to be fun. I’ll update developments as they come. You must be at the edge of your seat in anticipation!!!