The Tenants, January Blues, And Boobs

“Suicide in the Box” is an incredibly depressing look at the effects of solitary confinement on the mentally ill.

Due to my moth-to-the-flame-ishness when it comes to the grisly, the Pickton serial murder case fascinates me. The story is becoming more and more terrible as they uncover DNA from women who were not on their original list of the missing.

I recently finished reading Bernard Malamud’s The Tenants. I feel like I have had several hours of my life stolen from me. It was one of those books where you can see from the outset that you are going to have difficulties with the style, or the characters, or the storyline, but you feel that once you have gotten through the first fifty pages, come hell or high water, you must finish it. Thanks to the powers that be that it was only 212 pages long. The two main characters in the story are a Jewish man Harry Lesser and an African-American man named Willie Spearmint. They are both writers squatting in an old building and trying to finish their manuscripts. Malamud took great pains to make every point he had to make about the difficulty of race relations in the United States painfully obvious. The storyline references it without being too plain, then Lesser has a couple of pages to think about it, and then Lesser and Willie have a confrontation to really drive the point home. If after all that you have still missed it, the whole thing is re-enacted over and over in a rising crescendo of violence until the last page, which is nothing but line upon line of the word “mercy” repeated. Oh, but wait, it’s not just about repetition; it’s also about being racist. I called out regularly to the Fiery One in intellectual pain when Malamud would refer to Willie as “the black” for the thousandth time, or when Malamud would describe Willie as having attacked Lesser “savagely” and as having eyes that “popped” from his head. Ouch. So, in closing, I finished it, it was terrible despite the claim on the cover that it is “a remarkable work of art”, and you should avoid it. Save what time you have to live for better things.

Marriages performed civilly outside the church are a legal matter, not religious, so what is the big deal if homosexuals want to enter into the same kind of legally binding union that is afforded heteros? Congrats, Quebec, on joining in with Ontario and British Columbia to fight for our secular rights!

And while I am on the subject of accepting homosexuality culturally, here are the Canadian and world same-sex rights timelines.

That’s it, Mr. Bush. Antagonize a country that we know has nuclear weapons.

This winter weather is really starting to get to me. I lean heavily toward the Seasonal-Affective-Disorder type of depression, and -40 degrees Celsius, which keeps me caged in this little apartment, does not help the situation. With nothing much else to do but finish the evilness known as The Tenants and nurse frostbite, I started thinking about the hollow spot left by depression and the ways in which we all try to fill it up. I don’t always recognize the depression, but I recognize the urge to fill up the hole. I fill this hole with books, beer, a new hair colour, cigarettes, trips to my hometown, movies, blogging, planning new projects that will remain unfinished, eating too much, avoiding food, television, buying new sweaters. Nothing fills the fucking hole. The only thing that can fill the hole is what makes the hole, and that is the changing of the season. It will happen. I know it, you know, we all know it, but the ass end of January makes it feel like this is the only way things are ever going to be.
I just read over that last paragraph. That sounds ghastly. I would like to assure you all that I am less an unending-deep-pit-of-despair type and more a mood-swings-both-up-and-down type. My wrists are not being slit as we speak, I am all out of rope, and I have misplaced that old bottle of Xanax, so don’t worry about me. I have things to look forward to. I have pictures to take, I have to go see the movie “Sylvia” tonight and have a drink with friends whom I love but rarely see, I have to nag the Fiery One into installing Photoshop, I have to commune with the rabbit otherwise known as Gordon, I have to dye my hair to a rich shade of dark brown, and I have to rustle up some cold medication to beat back the snot that is settling inside my head. I know that some of those things are on my list of things I use to fill up the hole, but they are also great diversions from the ass-end-of-January blues. It’s the 31st of January anyway, so today it ends, and tomorrow February begins, which is also an evil month, but it is oh so much closer to March, which is not entirely without its humanity.

I have a couple of questions regarding this Libya thing: what does the United States do with the nuclear weapons materials that are handed over to them? and, do we really want a world in which it is okay only for the United States to have all the materials for making nuclear weapons and no one else?

A harsh play about honour killings in Turkey is helping to educate the public there and hopefully effect some change.

It’s January, so the annual Bloggies are in full swing.

Read this blog about the 2004 United States presidential campaign coverage from the Columbia Journalism Review. It's got what you're looking for.

Ever wanted to confess something but had no one you could confess it to? Do it at group hug.

This is too much fun. Go to this site, hit the "use it" button, and paste in whatever text you want. It will decode it to reveal hidden messages. The section about my one-on-one meeting from my last entry revealed this message: the plan is ready we can go.

Aw, a baby dragon. How cute!

Fat is (or is becoming was) where it’s at for women in Mauritania.

I am honestly fresh out of things to write about. I could go on with a “Facts and Links” section, but I don’t think I’m in the mood for that. Oh, wait, maybe I am. I have just hit on an idea. Now bear with me:

Non-pornographic Boobs Facts and Links (these links are in bad taste and may still be inappropriate for work):
* In the past at Give Boobs, you were given the opportunity to help a college girl get breast implants. She has since achieved her goal, but the site is still kind of fun (in that silly, people are sad kind of way).
* You have all probably seen this already, but it’s worth a revisit to see how well you can tell the difference between Moobs or Boobs. I’m terrible at it.
* This is not exactly serious, but check out the history of boobs.
* Whoose Boobs – “America’s Number One Quiz Show”. (Warning: this site has audio).
* This blog is dedicated to news and stories about breast implants.
* “Boobs: An Owner’s Manual".
* British model, Jordan, seems to be having a difficult time in the jungle with her boobs.
* The use of silicone implants dates back to 1963.
* For some good boob facts, go here.
* Google is trying very hard to get Booble.com to cease and desist.

High School Hell And Nerds

TheNew York Times Book Review has deemed fiction less worthy of its review.

Taken from New World Disorder, here are some awesome book covers. True crime books are my guiltiest pleasure (or at least in my top five).

If you still like colouring, click here to find "Law & Order: An Adventure to Color".

When I was in grade ten, I was this big nerd. I was small for my age (it took me another eleven years to reach my full height), my clothes always seemed to fit funny, and my social group was so off the social radar that we didn’t even have a label. There were preppies, jocks, skids, but we were a group of people who read books, did well in school, played instruments like the bagpipes, and wore second-hand clothing a lot. None of these things were cool at the time. I still believe, and I don’t think that I am being unduly hard on myself, that I was one of the top three biggest nerds in my social group. I read voraciously, so much so that most of my free time was consumed with literature, and when I wasn’t reading, I was writing really awful poetry, because I was a young high school girl who needed to express her deepest emotions. Yuck. It hurts to remember all that meaningful and passionate poetry writing now, but then, my poetry was a serious matter to me. I did not play a single sport, unless you count badminton in my friend Laurie’s back yard. I could play a mean set. I would take the side of the yard facing the sun to even things out, and I would still win. I also had braces, complete with a full head gear that I had to wear at home in the evenings. My head gear was the high pull cap model. It really went well with the Annie perm I often sported because I did not know the first thing about doing my hair.
All of these things about myself made me think that I would never find love, because when you are fourteen/fifteen, finding love is about the only thing worth achieving sometimes. On the one hand, my self-esteem dipped awfully low when no young male showed the least amount of interest in me (except for Cam, who would follow me around the halls reciting”the worms crawl in, and the worms crawl out” to me, which was mortifying). On the other hand, I was in the midst of a sexual crisis and wanted nothing more than to be left alone by the male half of the population. You see, I had developed this huge crush on a girl one grade up from me. There were about 1500 students at my high school, so I never did learn her name, but I learned her class schedule and followed at a distance as she moved from room to room. I had lived a fairly sheltered, Mennonite upbringing until that point, so the idea that there was a whole sexual world outside the arena of boy/girl relationships was new to me. I seriously thought I was probably sick. When I went to a guidance counsellor about it, she told me that it was likely a phase. I now know that that was not the most forward-thinking guidance counsellor.
Anyway, this all leads up to the period in grade ten when my lunch hours became intolerable. I had a friend, Maxine, who I wasn’t that crazy about, but she made a point of telling everyone that we were “best friends” and calling me all the time, so it was more convenience than anything that we hung out so often. She struck up a relationship with a guy named Dale Hagel, whom I began to refer to as Stale Bagel. Maxine insisted that I accompany them to his house over lunch. She said that she didn’t feel safe alone with him. So, I would walk behind them the several blocks to Stale Bagel’s house while they giggled and cavorted and completely ignored me. While at the Bagel’s, I would watch whatever happened to be on the television while they giggled and cavorted in another room and completely ignored me. After about two weeks of this, I had had enough. It was incredibly boring being ignored and left to sit in front of the tv, and those two were immature and annoying. Every few minutes, Maxine would be popping her head into the room, and the Bagel’s hands would creep out from around the corner and steal her back. So I made it clear that I would not be chaperoning anymore, and Maxine acted like this was the most unfair thing to ever have happened to her. I guess I didn’t realize that my noncompliance meant the end of her love affair with the Bagel. So be it. He tried his best to date her after that, but she wouldn’t be left alone with him, and I wouldn’t chaperone, so he eventually gave up. I, of course, was to blame for this disastrous end to her “good thing”, and our friendship cooled a bit after that. I didn’t mind, though, because I had not been all that crazy about her in the first place.
This Maxine/Bagel situation was a small hell for me at the time. I felt unattractive, I still looked like a little kid, I had never been kissed by a boy, I thought I would never be kissed by a boy, there was that wacked out girl-crush thing to contend with, and then I had to be confronted with this making-out, giggley, heterosexual couple who would completely ignore me for one whole hour five days a week. It was like some kind of prescribed torture especially designed for insecure fifteen-year-olds. Thank the powers that be for making the teenage years relatively short in measured time if not in the experience of them.

Here is a truly great site for truly amusing facts.

M. C. Escher’s drawings have been reproduced with origami. This is high craft.

Great retro and kitschy shopping can be had at Mable’s.

Nerds Links:
* Paul Graham remembers his nerdy highschool past in his essay “Why Nerds Are Unpopular”.
* Of course, there is a band called The Nerds in the United States, and in Italy, there is another band of the same name.
* Nerd porn! For real!
* This list would be incomplete if I did not link to the movie, “Revenge of the Nerds”.
* I would like to introduce you to a loveable nerd – Matthew “The_Nerd” Grossman.
* Check out the “Nerd/Misfit Resources” section of the Science Hobbyist.”
* Yeah, it’s the Star Wars Kid. I had to include him. Some of the enhanced versions are too funny despite my better taste.
* The word “nerd” was first used by Dr. Seuss in 1950. Wikipedia will tell you the rest.
* This is an excellent blog, because it offers such fantastic links. Please visit Herd of Nerds.
* Read the Wired News story, “Who’s Better: Geeks or Nerds?"
* Read these nerd classifications from someone who himself is undoubtedly a nerd.
* Visit Geek Culture for all your geeky shopping needs. Don’t miss their hi-tech porn (it's work-safe).
* Get your fill of nerd jokes at Mefco’s.
* Suckdot – serving nerds since 1995.

Our First Photographs, Me As Priest, And A Very Famous Soft Drink

The Shiahs are demanding to be allowed to hold their own Iraqi elections if they are to indeed be a democracy, which seems to make sense to me. On the other side, the United States, who has long made its disagreement with the United Nations known, is now asking for its help.

Kodak is getting out of the 35mm film business. But I just got my Canon Rebel 2000!

The Fiery One and I picked up the developed pictures from our first three rolls of film from my new camera last night. We took them to a local pub and pored over them for a couple of hours. They are fabulous. They are by no means good photographs, because we are both just starting to figure out that little machine, but they are ours. Of course, there is the mandatory picture of our feet, which all neophytes must supply, and there is a picture of our finch, Elliott, doing his best Winston Churchill impression. There are some Christmas photos of our families, and the rabbit, Gordon, looking particularly sneaky. What makes these photographs fabulous is that they create a visual record we can refer to. I used to always hate personal photographs. I was never to be photographed as a general rule, and I also regarded the keeping of pictures as a secret better kept, like masturbation during puberty. I hated personal nostalgia and wanted to avoid it at all costs. I thought it made one weak and ineffectual. My attitude began to change, though, shortly after the Fiery One and I got married. For the whole first year of our marriage, I think that there was a grand total of one photograph taken of us. It was taken at a party with one of those cameras that makes really tiny polaroids that are stickers. I started to think about how we were quickly moving into our thirties, and how we were eventually going to have (a) kid(s), and someday one of our pets was going to die, and we might move away somewhere. All of these things were going to happen in our lives, and we were going to have no record of what came before. I really wish that we had a picture of our old bird, George. He was ugly, he was always in poor health, his feathers fell out occasionally, he was mean, and he was one of the greatest pets I have ever had. Now he is dead, and I can’t show you what this nasty bird looked like. I knew our child(ren) were going to have this strange notion that we did not exist before them. I wanted them to know that we were once young, newly married, attractive, and individuals. I started to get those fine lines under my eyes that precede wrinkles, and I thought about how one day there would be no proof that I was not always old. So now we have photographs. Our lives are being recorded. I can feel happy in the knowledge that I can show myself and others that I was not always here.

Here is the official list of accidents involving nuclear weapons according to the UK Ministry of Defense. Yikes.

Regarding this study about high heels – my ass! I am willing to concede that maybe it can decrease the likelihood of osteoarthritis in the knees, but what about the shortening tendons in the calves and back pain that they cause during all the years leading up to this end benefit?!

Feel justified in your disgust at the sight of the sick and the wounded. Do, because new evidence supports you. (I am just kidding. Be nice to the sick and the wounded).

I was just thinking about how when I was a teenager I had this idea that things would get easier when I got older, but I am finding that they don’t. I stayed out later last night with a friend of mine after the Fiery One sensibly went home to get some sleep. My friend was in an emotional mood, because his day at work had been humbling, to say the least. He talked with me at length about his feelings of insecurity, his need to know that people thought he was a good person, his loneliness. I was impressed with how candid he could be, and also with the fact that a man in his forties would confess such things to me. When I was younger and I imagined being older, I never included all my insecurities and fears in the picture. I thought I would somehow be stronger, smarter, that I would have overcome my weaknesses and would be forging ahead into a clear future. Life would get easier. I have learned that it doesn’t get easier, and that when I overcome one fear, a new one seems to present itself, and that the future is not the clear vision I assumed it would become. It is an easy thing for me to become much too serious and forget that I actually like things. In listening to my friend’s naked confession, something in me started to feel a lot better about this whole business of living and how hard it can be.

This is just about the coolest thing I have found lately. The first mummified lion has been found with Tutankhamun’s wet nurse.

A popular beverage company, not surprisingly, has committed evil acts in India, but of course, they deny it.

If you value your freedom as a woman, or if you are a man who cares what happens to half the population, read about George W. Bush’s attacks against women. If you wonder why, as a Canadian, I care what Bush does, it is because a boot heel on the backs of American women could all too easily translate into a boot heel on mine.

Coca-Cola Facts and Links:
* Coca Cola was invented by Dr. John S. Pemberton in 1886, and it was originally formulated with extracts of coca leaves and kola nuts. It was originally marketed for its medicinal qualities.
* Here are the official Coca-Cola and Coca-Cola Enterprises websites.
* Coca-Cola’s attempt at creating an online music website fell flat.
* In 1893, Coca-Cola’s slogan was “the ideal brain tonic”.
* “Over the past 15 years, the Coca-Cola Scholars Foundation has helped make the hopes of hundreds of outstanding students a reality.”
* There is a place called World of Coca-Cola in Atlanta, Georgia, USA. It is a three-storey building that celebrates the long history of Coca-Cola that began in that city 110 years ago.
* Coca-Cola did not remove cocaine from its beverage until 1929. The coca leaves were still used for flavour, but the alkaloids were completely removed.
* Go here to watch highlights from fifty years of Coca-Cola advertising.
* Coke fucked up.
* It took until 1944, which is 58 years, to sell the first billion gallons of Coca-Cola syrup. Today, a billion gallons of syrup is sold every 7 ½ months.
* Check out the Coca-Cola Collectors Club. You can get in touch with other collectors and find markets for buying, selling, and trading.
* Coca-Cola Bottles of the World unite!
* In 1886, sales of Coca-Cola averaged only nine bottles a day.