Sh*t My Husband Says

(spills food on his new Hanes undershirt) "Damn. And I was going to wear this to the prom."

Workin' for the Man every night and day

So here's a question that's been coming up a lot lately: How do you define personal success?
For most of my life I defined success only in terms of career. A high-paying job, and therefore money in the bank and the ability to buy stuff, meant one person was more successful than another. That's why I went back to school and got a degree: education was supposed to increase the odds of getting a high-paying job. That's how I was raised. My mom sacrificed a lot to pay the bills, and in exchange I learned that work, sometimes, is the most important thing in the world. Work is what pays the bills, after all. Who cares if you're happy? That's why it's called work. "Welcome to the real world," as my mom's husband used to say.
The other reason I went back to school: my boyfriend at the time was working on a master's in architecture. His best friends were all working on doctorates. Some of them were globally-renowned scholars. All of them were extremely bright, enterprising, and "successful." Then there was me, with my laser-printed film school diploma, working 50 hours a week for a wage that toed the poverty line. I told my boyfriend that I felt "beneath" him and his friends. I wasn't on their "level." He told me that was silly, education doesn't necessarily equal intelligence... but that's the kind of thing you can only truly say after you've been to school, know what I mean? So I went back to school, because I didn't want to be beneath them.
Then H. entered the picture, and his worldview is so different from mine. He doesn't care about money or status or being "equal" with anyone. He doesn't feel the need to put on a show, or pretend to be something he's not. I can't necessarily say he's happy all the time, but it feels like he knows who he is. The other day a friend of ours described him as "just a completely genuine person." They said it was so refreshing to be around someone who wasn't pompous or loud or arrogant, someone who wasn't putting on a show or trying to attract attention.
Maybe this is the lesson I need to learn. I mean, I know my outlook has to change. I've graduated into one of the worst economies in years. Despite what the government says, people are losing jobs left and right. Professionals are taking jobs they're seriously over-qualified for, at drastic pay cuts, just to keep working. I mean, when I apply for a job, I'm competing against people with 10 or sometimes even 20 years more experience than me. It makes sense that people rarely call me back. If I define my life according to my title, or my bank balance, I'm always going to be unsatisfied. And if I set off in blind pursuit of titles and bank balances, ignoring the other parts of life, I might get rich... but I'll also lose all the things that make life what it is.
So I'm redefining the word "success." I still want "a job, a good job, one that satisfies my artistic needs" as the drunk guy says in Sid & Nancy. But a job isn't a LIFE, you know?
If you knew when you were going to die, what would you have to achieve in order to honestly say you lived well?

And Another Thing...

My class gave a (sorta) public reading last night, but I was cut due to shyness and time constraints. I had friends there, waiting to hear me read, and I feel bad I didn't do it. So here's what I would've read if I had been 1) not shy, 2) not sick, 3) not an hour late to my own (group) readings, and 4) not distracted by the old man blowing bubbles on the street. Anyways, here it is. Actually, here's a bit more... it felt like everyone went over their allotted time, so you know what? I'm gonna do it too.

Oh wait. Okay. First I should explain who everyone is. Henrik is my husband. Pia is his mom, Goran is his dad, Daniel is his brother. No, I'm not married to a famous NHL player, just a regular Swede. "Farmor" means "father's mother" in Swedish: "Farfar" means "father's father." Likenes is a small town in Western Sweden.

This is from chapter 1 of that book I keep saying I'm working on. The chapter's called "Christmas Traditions."


Pia points to a yellow farmhouse.
“This house? My uncle used to live there. He hung himself in the attic. He thought he had cancer.”
Goran asks if they have yellow houses in Canada. I say I can’t remember.
Concrete blocks sprout like weeds along the side of the highway. Henrik says they’re remnants of World War 2, preparation against the Nazi tanks that moved through the Swedish countryside. Why didn’t they take them down after the war, I wonder. They look so out-of-place.
Henrik had told me his grandparents lived way up in the mountains. Nothing really there except trees and snow, and maybe some wolves. At night, he said, you could hear the wolves’ howls on the wind. You could hear the sun set, hear the snow fall. The closer we get to Likenes, the more I notice the rusted farming equipment, abandoned houses, and boarded-up shops on the side of the road. Decay with no renewal. Like the land wants to be forgotten. If I had been looking for Likenes on my own, I wouldn't have found it.
We turn left onto a dirt road. By this time it’s snowing, it had been snowing in the mountains for a long time, and the car jolts back and forth over the banks and dips in the road. We pull up in front of a tiny red cabin.
The cabin has a small porch at the front, and there are some decorations hidden under the snow: a metal globe with an arrow on top, some kind of sled, a stack of wood. A wheelchair ramp leads up to the front door. Behind the house is another red building, smaller than the first. Henrik tells me this is the “guest house.” Beside that, a large building that could only be a barn. I wonder if the grandparents ever had animals in the barn. Henrik tells me they used to, but not now, because they’re old and there are too many wolves around.
Farfar opens the front door before we have a chance to knock. He smiles and winks at me in that grandfatherly way, his thick slippers shuffling across the wood floor. He’s a tall man, taller than I expected him to be, and his hand is shaking when I take it in mine. His eyes light up when he sees Henrik. “Heyhey!” he says, and throws his arm around Henrik’s shoulder.
To the left is a tiny kitchen, and everyone in it is doing something: a white-haired man scoops coffee into a coffee maker, a short woman in jeans folds cold-cuts onto a plate. Pia gets to work peeling potatoes. Goran takes a seat at the kitchen table, and Henrik sits down beside him. Daniel and I stand in the doorway. Right in the middle of the room, the elderly Farmor holds court from her wheelchair. There’s barely room for all of us to stand in the kitchen, let alone sit and drink coffee and chat. But it is warm. So warm. And inviting. No-one wants to leave, but the kitchen is too small to hold us, so Henrik, Daniel and I are sent to the grocery store for a Christmas cake.

I’m sure I’ve had happy Christmases, but I can’t remember them anymore. My most vivid Christmas memories are the bad ones, like the time my stepfather almost knocked over the Christmas tree because mom couldn’t find the engagement ring he'd hidden in the branches. He proposed to her by saying “fuck, you’re useless. Do you get it? Do you understand what I’m asking you?”
Or the year I decided to learn how to cook. So instead of giving gifts, I bought a giant turkey and invited the family to mom’s house for dinner. My step-grandpa went on a tirade about the “Jew Conspiracy,” then turned to my grandpa Lyman and said “Lyman, that’s a Jew name, isn’t it?”
Or the year stepfather and his friend helped me move into a new apartment, then drove me home from college. The friend was drinking beer, driving too fast, throwing bottles at street signs. I asked him to slow down.
“Fuck,” he said, “you’re just like your mother.”
In his mind, this was the worst insult ever.

We had to drive to the next town over, Susslebeck, to find a grocery store. On the drive, I asked Henrik and Daniel about their grandparents.
“Have they always lived in Likenes?”
“I think so,” says Henrik, “they grew up across the street from each other.”
He points out the car window. “Right over there, that’s where grandma lived. And grandpa grew up across the street from her. And when they got married, they built their house… well, yeah, they’ve always been here.”
The Klarälven River winds parallel to the road, thick with ice, yellow and cracked and dangerous. It doesn’t look like ice at all. The road is muddy. In the distance I see plumes of smoke rising from chimneys.
“And up there is the ski resort,” Henrik says. “It’s, like, brand new. All the German tourists come here.” I look up, but the sky is cloudy, and I can’t see anything.
The grocery store is empty save for the cashier. Ours is the only car in the parking lot. We buy a marzipan cake with a picture of Santa on it, but it doesn’t really look like the Santa I know.
By the time we get back, dinner is almost ready. A smorgasbord has been set out with fish, meatballs, sausages, cheese, boiled potatoes, pickled beets, and more things that I can’t remember. No turkey except for some cold cuts. No gravy. A giant dining table has been set up in the living room. Henrik, Daniel and I (the “kids”, they said, though I was the youngest at 27) move all the chairs into the living room, leaving a path for grandma’s wheelchair to get to the head of the table. Then we take the fancy china from the cabinets, grab our plates, and get in line for food.
The pickled beets are surprisingly good. The homemade potato sausages take some getting used to. Farfar winks at me across the table as he eats. He does his best to communicate with me through smiles and hand gestures: a small bow of the hands for “thank you,” a tip of the wrist for “would you like a drink?” and so on.
Henrik’s family have so many questions about Canadian Christmas. Do we eat fish at the Christmas table? Do we drink julmust? Do we get a visit from Tomte, the Christmas elf? Do we exchange gifts? I do my best to answer each question as simply as possible, with “yes” or “no”, so Henrik doesn’t have to translate for me. Sometimes he still does, though, when they look at me with that blank gaze. I wonder if that’s how I look to them too.

There’s a photo of me at the house in Likenes. I don’t know where it came from, but when I see it, tears spring to my eyes. On the wall above it, there’s a family portrait from the last Christmas Henrik had been there.
“Every year we take a Christmas picture. It’s a silly tradition, but it’s kind of nice too,” Henrik said.
“Why didn’t they take one without you?”
“I don’t know. And they should have. That one, up there, was a really bad Christmas. No-one’s smiling in that picture.”
Pia is in the kitchen washing dishes. I want to be helpful, so I offer to dry. After drying, I hold up each dish so Pia can point to its home. Farmor occasionally says something from her corner of the room, an occasional mention of my name followed by extra syllables.
The woodstove is raging. We open the window to let out the heat, and I notice some blue birds frolicking in the snow. They are the bluest birds I’ve ever seen.
Once the dishes are put away, we take a new family portrait. We position ourselves around a small plaid couch. I sit on one of the arms. Pia and Goran sit next me on the couch. Henrik and Daniel stand behind us. I make sure to smile.
The five of us pile back in the car for the drive back to Hogboda. It starts snowing outside of Torsby, and we have to go very slow through the mountains. I fall asleep on Henrik’s shoulder, and he on mine. In the background, Goran quietly hums along with the radio.
When we get back to Hogboda, everyone changes into his or her pajamas. Pia makes a pot of coffee. Goran turns on the TV. The parents and their children gather to watch ski jumping, or a hockey game, or an Agatha Christie movie: I’m not sure which, because I’m upstairs, saying I need to sleep. But I don’t need to sleep. I just need to be alone, because I don’t want my new family to see me cry.

My mom used to tell me I pushed the wrong buttons. She worked fifty hours a week, commuted an hour and a half each way. She didn’t have the time or energy to argue with him every single night. She never said it, but it was implied: he’s wrong, but it doesn’t matter. Do what he says and don’t question it. Don’t make things harder on her than they already were.
Sometimes, no matter what I did, he yelled at me. Sometimes even when I agreed with him, he called me names. “Bitch” was a favorite: “Twin Peaks,” because of my large chest, a close second.
It’s strange to sleep in a house where you know you’re not wanted. It’s even worse to know you have nowhere else to go.
My mom used to tell me when I moved out of the house, everything would be better.
“We’ll all be happier when he has me to himself,” she’d say. “That’s what he wants. That’s how much he loves me.”

Blast From the Past, yo

I finished university yesterday. No, really, I did. The only thing left to do is put on the cap & gown, pick up my diploma, and maybe drink some champagne. So this morning I woke up full of energy. "I'm gonna find me a writin' job," I said. But you know? Writin' jobs are few and far between. And they all want "writing samples." What's up with that? Haha.
So I was going through my old files, seeing if there was anything I could punch up and use as a writing sample. I thought maybe a book or concert review, a press release, a formal report... you know. Whatever. Anyways, I'd forgotten about this, but the last time The Cure played in Vancouver, I wrote a review of it. And you know what? I like it. My workshop didn't seem too thrilled, but I think that's cuz they weren't really "The Cure's target market," if you know what I mean.
So I thought I'd post it here, for your reading enjoyment: here it is!

Amanda Thomson
May 30, 2008

The Cure, May 26th 2008, GM Place

You know you’re in the presence of a musical legend when the act of walking to stage left or stage right elicits shrieks of joy from five thousand people, young and old, male and female. You know you’re watching a legend when within the first five seconds of a song, the crowd is moving as one vibrating mass. You know you’re watching a legend when the mere raising and lowering of a hand can make people cry.

This was the scene at Vancouver’s GM Place this past Monday night, as Goth rockers The Cure took centre stage. The concert was the band’s first time playing in Vancouver since 1997, and even though the show (originally scheduled for October 2007) was delayed a few months, the crowd was more excited than ever. Take this piece of dialogue from the teenage girls behind me:

Oh my god, oh my god, if I see Robert Smith I’m going to scream and piss my pants.
Really?
Oh my god yes. And if they play The Walk, Fascination Street, From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea, A Forest… I’ll shit myself.
So basically if they play anything?
If they play any song, I’m going to faint. Oh my god. I’m fucking freaking out right now.

Over the course of a three and a half hour set, Robert Smith and crew DID play all those songs. Luckily, the girl behind me did not shit herself. She did scream a lot, I think… I can’t be too sure. I was screaming pretty loud too. With a set chock-full of hits like Friday I’m In Love, Lovesong, Just Like Heaven, and Let’s Go To Bed, how could any self-respecting person with dyed black hair NOT go a little nuts?

Bassist Simon Gallup and drummer Jason Cooper were low-key, leaving Smith and guitarist Porl Thompson to take over the stage. Thompson sauntered like an alien drag queen in full PVC, black makeup, and the biggest, reddest, glittery-est platform shoes I’d ever seen. Anyone who can walk in those shoes, let alone play a three and a half hour set without stumbling, has in my book earned the title of “guitar god”. But of course the real star of the show was Smith, who despite being a seasoned professional with almost 25 years of touring under his belt, was as shy and awkward (and endearing) as a three-year-old meeting one of mommy’s friends, clutching one of his many guitars as if it were the hem of her skirt. When he moved from centre stage to the left or right, the crowd erupted into screaming, arm-flailing animals. At one point he looked at me, and our eyes met, and… well, no. I’m sure he didn’t actually see me. But the collective consciousness in the stadium was such that we all knew Robert Smith was our best friend.

About half an hour in, I noticed that the songs sounded… different: more rock, less pop than the album versions. What was it? There were no keyboards; Smith played all the synthesizer lines on guitar. I have to say I liked it. One of my big complaints with The Cure’s older material is how the use of piano, saxophone, etc – staples of 80’s music – really date the sound for today’s ears. Replacing synthesizer with guitar made for a rougher, edgier, more contemporary sound.

It was a hard rocking, no-frills kind of set, with a minimum of video screens and on-stage banter. As the band moved into their encores (three in total), the transitions became faster and faster until the last set – a mix of early 80’s B-sides like Killing An Arab and 10:15 Saturday Night – flowed seamlessly from one song to the next. The band ended in true Cure form with a third and final encore of one song, (my all-time favorite) A Forest. Did Robert know it was my birthday? Did Robert know I was waiting for that one song? Of course he did. He is my best friend after all.

I

had the strangest dream: my childhood had been stolen, and was hanging on the wall of an art gallery. Photos, video clips, restaurant menus, gas cans, dead animals... everything I've ever discarded in my life, stapled to the wall of a small room.

I have nothing to declare

...except my genius.
...or maybe bankruptcy. No! Just kidding!

Feminism and Writing

Here's something that's been bugging me: on Monday I'm in writing class, and we're work shopping this essay about two girls: one's a stay-at-home hippie earth mother kind of chick, while the other works in a giant glass building in downtown Vancouver, and the point of the essay is (to me, anyways) that career does not necessarily equal happiness, but then again neither does family. The last line of that article was about how feminism is supposed to be about choices - but that was the first and only time the word was used.
One of the guys in the class said that using the word "feminism" is a bad move because the word has a lot of "negative connotations", meaning when they hear it they think of man-hating bull dykes (my words, not theirs). They suggested the author take the word out altogether.
I said "nuh-uh", it should be the other way around, the article is ABOUT feminism and the word should be explored on a deeper level: what does it actually mean in today's liberated society? Most of the girls in class agreed with me (or blushed and kept their mouths shut), and the prof said the intended audience of the piece was female, so it made sense.
Here's the part that bugs me though: I said the word "feminism" and the guy sitting next to me moved his chair away. He was joking, of course, and moved it right back, but... I didn't realize feminism was so dangerous to young men. Maybe I'm spoiled from living with H., who's possibly even more of a feminist than I am, but I was really shocked by that reaction. I don't think I'm a militant anything, and I wasn't trying to push any agendas on my classmates. All I said was that the article was about feminism. Then he moved his chair. Then I said "I think that proves the point: it's a dangerous word, obviously a misunderstood one, so it should be explored further. Feminism's not about man-hating chicks burning their bras anymore: it's about individual choice, and having the freedom to live life however you want to. In fact, in the context of this essay I'd argue that the stay-at-home mom is more of a feminist, because she's being who she is instead of doing what people expect her to do."
I said it again: "there's obviously a lot of controversy surrounding this word, and I think exploring the controversy is a lot more interesting to a reader, so I say run with it."
And the guy next to me was like "I say avoid it, because it's opening a can of worms."
....and the author said "I think I'll change the scope of the piece: originally it was aimed at a female audience, which is why I kept the word "feminism" in there, but after hearing what the guys have to say I think I'll aim the next draft at a general audience."
And I felt like I failed. Not that I was pushing an agenda, because I wasn't, I was arguing about the article itself. I thought it would have been much stronger if it explored the dangerousness of the word "feminism". Maybe I'm biased, but I think the piece would be much stronger (and interesting) that way, and also, I don't think the story will WORK as well for a general audience. I don't know. Mostly, I've been agitated about the guy moving his chair away, because I really like the guy and didn't expect him to do something like that (even as a joke).
I'm sorry to keep going on about it, but there's one more part to the story. So last week, I'm having trouble with my own article (which is about derby: I've told you about that) because I don't actually get to skate with the other girls until the 26th, but my workshop draft was due this past Monday. So I have a meeting with my prof, and he says "okay, what are your options?"
My options were:
1) submit an incomplete draft
2) write around the actual skating (which I didn't want to do, because it's the best part of the piece)
3) expand the focus so the article isn't just about roller derby: I suggested making it about derby and burlesque, how they relate to Third Wave feminism (which I didn't know much about: it's a phrase I came across in my derby research) because there are a lot of similarities between the two things.
4) write something completely different in the next few days: I had a good idea, but he said right away I should do #3.

I agreed: it was the most compelling of the four choices. But, I said to him, the word "feminism" is loaded, and I don't want to be seen as the crazy militant feminist chick: writing about feminism at all is likely to get me branded as a man-hating lesbian. It happened last year, I told him, when I wrote about my trip to Sweden and how Selma Lagerlof's writing appealed to me more than Hemingway's. A guy said THAT statement made me a "female chauvinist" and I was like "whaaaa?"
So I explained to my prof that I was worried using the word "feminism", let alone writing a whole article about it, was going to get me branded. He says "you know, there's always going to be people who get upset. It doesn't matter what you do. You should worry when people AREN'T upset by your writing, not when they are, because if no-one cares, you're doing something wrong."
The proper thing for a writing prof to say. But now, after Monday's class, I'm very worried about the male reaction to my article. It's not like I ever say "men are evil" or "men are keeping women down" or anything of the sort: most of the article, when it touches on feminism, is about the idea of "femininity," not misogyny. Men don't really come into play in the piece, except in one section where I talk about how back in the 70's the players didn't own their own teams - they were paid a small salary, and the promoters (all men, that's just the way it was) reaped the profits. But now most leagues promote themselves, and most teams are structured as non-profit organizations.
But that one section, I describe the average 70's roller derby promoter as a guy with "oiled hair and mutton chops, smoking a cigar and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leisure suit." Which is, you know, the sleazy 70's. But I'm sure someone will read into that, and once again I'll be branded a "female misogynist", and... why the hell do I let it bother me?
Because I feel like I have no friends. I talk to people in class, but I'm the oldest person in the class (minus the prof) by a good 4 or 5 years. Most of the time, I sit there quietly, reading a book, answering questions when called upon, but I don't speak up because a) I don't want to say something stupid, or b) I don't want to say something that comes across as unintentionally bitchy, misanthropic, or... worst of the worst... OLD. I just want to blend in, you know, make the class as painless on myself as possible. So rocking the boat by using the word "feminism" is a stupid thing for me to do. But at the same time, I want to write things that interest me, and derby is interesting, and in my research I found you can't bring up derby without talking about feminism. So basically I screwed myself, and we'll see what happens on Monday. Hopefully the critiques will be about my bad writing, not about my female chauvinism. But we'll see.
What do you think - is the word feminism loaded with connotations?

randoms

why do I only write when I've had some sips of alcohol?
And why, oh why, don't I write more?
I am writing, my friends. I am. Just not to you ;) Formal reports, school assignments, and pithy Facebook status updates are taking all of my time.
But soon! soon there will be a break in my studies. Soon my musical friends will have news. Soon there will be a new video. Soon I'll have time to start that new blog I've been talking about.
here's what I've been doing lately:
learning about roller derby - I have skates! I've used them once so far (got them on Tuesday), and fell on my ass. HARD. Multiple times. But, you know, the pain wasn't so bad. I mean, it hurt. But I got back up. And when the rain subsides, I'm excited to get back out there and skate again. And, in a few weeks, I'm trying out for a spot on a roller derby team. It's really awesome, and at the same time, really stupid. I shouldn't do contact sports at all, seeing as how I only have one kidney, and if anything happens to it I'm screwed. But... I WANT TO, you know? I want to be a tough bitch. I want to be part of a team of tough bitches. I can strap on a padded belt and be fine, right?
have you ever noticed that derby girls wear far less protective padding than hockey players?
copyediting. Not that you can tell from my blogging style... but I'm actually pretty good at it. I know my writing is horrible, but no-one's paying me to correct it, so I don't really care :)
drinking! I'm excellent at it. I'm drunk right now, can't you tell?

I'm thinking the new blog will be a videoblog, so it'll be pretty Youtube-dependent, but I think it will be good. I had a music video blog YEARS ago, A. and I shared one, we each wrote one review (mine was for a Theory of a Dead Man video, and I believe hers was for a Blur video...?) and then it died... but that was before Blogger, WordPress, and all these other great tools. You know, really, I've been blogging since the 90's... I made my first "personal web log" on Geocities back in 1998. 11 years of blogging, yo. Right here. It's amazing to see how far the internet has progressed in that time. It used to be, to even WRITE a page, you had to know HTML coding. How many bloggers these days even have to bother with the tags, hmmm? How many bloggers know the difference between
and

? I took a web design class last year, and the prof. didn't teach that in class. I felt so old. But then again, everything about university makes me feel old. I'm 10 years older than the average 1st-year student. I'm 11 years out of high school. Blah.
does anyone even use ICQ anymore? H. and I used it for a while, when we were on our "secret conversation" kick... we'd chat in MSN, and tell each other secrets in ICQ at the same time :) Very cute :) We're not that cute anymore. Tonight we forgot to make dinner, and ate chocolate almonds while watching hockey. I drank red wine and cut video...
If you could work for anyone, who would it be and why? I think I'd want to work for Tim Burton... I have no idea what he's like to work with, but his films are incredible, and I would love to say I helped create one of those visions, you know? It would be an amazing learning experience...

Google yourself.

i know, I'm lame, i don't write anymore. I will soon, promise. a real post. this one doesn't count, because I'm a bit drunk. I just had some thoughts I wanted to jot down while they're swimming around in my head:

1) I've noticed a lot of blog commenters using the word "trust" lately, like in late 80's rap songs, like "I'm gonna bake cupcakes tomorrow. Trust." Is this a new fad or an old fad or... where is this coming from?
2) Another one: people aren't saying "what the fuck" or even "wtf" anymore. Now it's "the fuck?"
3)...google yourself. Seriously. How depressing is it when you google yourself and someone else, with the same name, comes up first? I just googled myself and my imdb.com profile is #1 - no idea why, but hey, at least I'm at the top :) - but it's the ONLY mention of me in the search results. Strange.
Anyways, try it, let me know if you're #1. And do you share your name with any interesting people? I'm quite impressed with the selection I've found... although that's yet another reason to go by my married name... I take spots # 1,2,3,4 and 6 on Google for my married name, and there were only three people altogether, compared to an inifinite number with my maiden name :)

and so it goes

have you ever had one of those hindsight moments where you realize something really compelling has happened, and you wish you could capture it again, but know that you can't? I woke up this morning and felt that exact thing.

I'm gonna go to the Y and hang out with some seniors now. Do some elliptical training, maybe even some biking. Then I'm gonna come home and go back to sleep for a while before going to class. Yep. The life of a student.

so a few weeks ago I said I had some news

...and then never got around to saying what it was. It's really not that big of a deal. I'm starting a new blog, is all. Eventually. I think it'll be a music/video blog, and I think it'll be a collaborative effort (meaning I'll ask all my friends to write for it), and it will, most of all, be linked and marketed and updated on a regular basis and all those things a good professional blog should be. Not to say I'm shutting this blog down... I'll always need a place to write public journal entries. Just sayin' I'm trying to be organized, and I'm trying to write more, and I'm trying to make a name for myself.
On that note, Tribal Machine posted that video I made them a few months ago, and the response has been pretty good:
http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=29964127&blogId=512857256

and it sounds like I'll be making them another video. I can't say much about it, because they want the concept to remain secret. All I'll say is that it's for their new album.
What else what else... I'm in school, writing and copy editing, which will be helpful someday. I spent most of last week (and this weekend) freaking out about this paper due Monday morning. A first draft was due Monday morning. And yes, ohmygod, it was a FIRST draft. After handing it out to the entire class, I read it over, and WOW. There's a big gap between the story I want to tell and the story I told, know what I'm sayin'? But at least now I know what I need to do. There was one silver lining to that horrible horrible draft: the story is based on real events, so I thought it best to change people's names. I changed my auntie Holly's name, in the story, to Molly (not very original, I know, but none of the people reading the story will know it's a fake name anyways, so...). But I wrote the story using everyone's real names, then did Find / Replace at 10pm Sunday night, when I was dead tired. These are all details you need to understand the humor of this little story. The last thing you need to know is my description of a character, a guy, whose real name I won't reveal here, but whose name in the story is "Dylan". Here, a bulleted list to help you keep the details straight:

• Holly's name changed to Molly
• find / replace
• late Sunday night, very tired
  
• Guy who we'll call "Dylan"

with me so far? Okay. Here's the punchline. Dylan, in the pre-find/replace version, is wearing Buddy Holly glasses. In the version I turned in, he's wearing Buddy MOLLY glasses. harhar.
Also, spellcheck changed "Earl Grey tea" to "Early Gray tea". Which one sounds tastier to you? I can't decide :)

The other thing that happened yesterday... well, before I write it, I'll warn you that it involves World of Warcraft. And feminism.
I started an all-female guild. Oh yes I did. I can't take all the credit, the idea was actually Amber's. But I'd been wanting to start my own guild for a while, and was having trouble coming up with a name. Then Amber posted something about the Asgarda to her FB page, and commented that someone should make a female-only guild called the Asgarda, and... that was all I needed. I'm curious to see how the WoW community - which is mostly teenage boys - will respond to an all-female combat guild. Only time will tell, I guess. And if nothing else, I might get an interesting story out of it :)

And one more thing: I saw Whip It this weekend. Good movie, not mind-blowingly amazing or anything, but good. Strong female characters. And even the antagonists are good people, you know? Everyone, even the villains, are redeemed at the end. Oh, except the "boyfriend", but he's a douche :)
And one more thing: I'm writing an article about roller derby, which is why I was first in line to see the movie. As part of my research I've made a derby name for myself. That name, which I expect you all to use, is (dum da da DAAAAAH):
Dixie Riot
Please refer to me thusly. Such as.

Happy Hump Day!

It's Tuesday. Time To Party!

Me. This Morning.

Big announcement coming soon. Or... well... in a few weeks :)

In the meantime, here's a photoblog post of me trying to wake up this morning. I swear, if H. would've let me sleep for those extra 10 minutes, the day would've been so much better!

Today I'm working on a project for a local non-profit, then later tonight I'm going to make flash cards to study for Thursday's copy editing quiz. It feels like I have so much to do, and not enough time to do it!

Anyways... here I am, this morning, trying to wake up.

New Rammstein Video: Porn-tastic or CGI'ed?

Here's the new Rammstein video. Be warned, it's definitely not suitable for work.

H. woke me up this morning to explain the video to me. He said:

"they're, like, actually naked, and fucking these porn stars, and at the end they all come, and stuff shoots out, and..."

Granted, I was still asleep when he was telling me this, and shrugged it off. But when I got up, he'd left it open for me on the computer (thanks hun). So of course I watched it. And... wow. Okay. I can see the point making a video like this, especially if you're a metal band, because the target audience is teenage (and formerly teenage) boys. I've got no problems with that (well no, I DO, but I'll save those for another time). The issue for me is whether or not the band is actually having sex with these women, actually showing their dicks on camera. Because if they are, well, that's kinda gross. I can't believe that the band would be comfortable enough to actually have sex in a music video (how many people are? Oh, except this guy, I guess...), but more than that, I can't believe they think people want to WATCH that. Didn't we learn anything from the Gene Simmons sex tape, people?
So I'm of the belief they used prop dicks (and a couple of stunt men). And this is why:

1. The dicks look kinda... silicone-y.
   
2. The dicks were all proportioned. Come on people, we know that doesn't happen in real life.
   
3. None of them are wearing condoms. Irresponsible!
   

But what do you think? Is it real or fake?

This is the way fan videos should be done

Here's the video:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/mishmashed/animated-fan-video-two-weeks-by-grizzly-bear-pku

And here's what the filmmaker, Gabe Askew, had to say about it: (from VRay):

"...over the years the industry in America, especially lately, has largely succumbed to impossibly small budgets that simply don't allow for work that one can be proud of (....) This has really drained me creatively and so early in this year I told myself, I have got to do something that is purely my own and is up to my standards. I chose the song "Two Weeks" by my favorite band Grizzly Bear because it inspired me."

I totally agree. In the beginning, music videos were an art form. They were beautiful and innovative and exciting. Now, it feels like music videos are nothing but extended commercials. And some songs (I'm not pointing any fingers here...) are not much more than commercials either. So when a song inspires an artist to create something beautiful, it's a moment to remember.

This guy deserves all the kudos we can give him. He did a fantastic job.... and he did it because, as an artist, he felt like he HAD to. This video is an inspiration.

Weddings, weddings, and more weddings

...actually, there's only one wedding, but it feels like three :)
So I'm not the type to apologize for a long absence (just ask my family - I don't talk to anyone on a regular basis), but I feel like you're owed an explanation. I've been away, but I'm working on stuff. Here's a list of what I'm doing, so you don't feel like I'm snubbing you:

• Like I say, people are getting married on Saturday. I made one of those "baby picture" videos for the bride and groom, I'm giving a speech, and.. on top of all that... I made a dress. I MADE A DRESS. It kind of looks like this one, although not exactly,
• School started last week, so I'm back wandering the grey, badly-painted halls of academia. I'm taking copy editing (to get over my fear of "grammar"), non fiction workshop (to make my writing more "transcendent"), and something called "Overcoming the Past in German Film". Don't know if I'll be staying in the last one.
  
• I'm working with a local non-profit group. I'm doing a research project on blogging and social marketing. It's very interesting... but takes a lot of time.
  

Soon, my pretties, I'll be back to my blogging self. And soon, hopefully, I'll have a(nother) new blog up and ready for your comments. I'm thinking something... musical. But that's all I'm gonna say right now.

...except that moths are awesome. Soon I'm going to write a big post about moths.

I've been gone a while

...we had guests from Sweden! H's uncle and uncle's common-law wife. In Sweden, a common-law spouse is called a Sambo. Just for the record.
So we were quite busy entertaining and being touristy, driving cars and eating restaurant food and walking. Walking till our feet bled. I didn't really have time to write.
No, that's a lie. I had time. I was just too tired.
And now, NOW I'm working on a wedding video for my friends, who are getting married in less than 3 weeks. AND I start a new project on Tuesday. AND I start school on Wednesday. AND I'm still looking for a job. There, okay, you're caught up on my life now :)

Here are some pics from Uncle and uncle's girlfriend's visit:

This is I. (uncle's sambo) on their second night in Victoria. She's tired, and probably sad that the restaurant we're at only serves burgers. At least they had a veggie burger, right? And we don't go there for the food, we go for the view!






This is uncle B. We had this joke about how, in every picture, we should do the "two thumbs up." I saw this little Asian tourist girl doing it at the museum, and I thought it was cool :) This is the only photo of B. actually doing the "two thumbs up", though. He's at the last Victoria Seals (baseball) game of the season, and those sunglasses he's wearing? Free with admission. Oh yeah.



This here? The best advice ever given by a sign at a tourist attraction. I WILL stay on path, sign. Thank you.







These are just some pretty flowers.








This one is awesome: B. trying to take a picture of I., who's sitting inside a totem pole, while (out of frame) this little boy watches and laughs. See, B. and I. borrowed a digital camera for the trip, and the camera's directions were in English, and they were confused. At one point, they accidentally switched the camera to "video" mode, and took a bunch of 3 second videos, thinking they were pictures :) Good times :)


...and that's about it :) It was a good visit! It was nice spending time with H's family, because I don't know them very well, and I want to :) They're all such nice people, just like H. I don't know what made Swedes so nice, but I hope it rubs off on me :)

To: A. Subject: WoW Hunters

oh, I see H. sent you a message from my FB account :)

Here's how you can tell a message is from H. and not me:

1) It contains good and useful information about WoW. He's good for that. Me? Not so much. I do a quest and forget about it. I can't even remember what weapon I have equipped.

2) He never actually finishes a sentence... instead he puts three periods and starts a new one... like this... when we were getting to know each other I thought it was romantic... a sign of a wistful mind or something... maybe it still is, I'm not quite sure...

3) there's no cute little anecdotes about myself or someone else (see above)

4) He doesn't write something then delete because it sounds wrong. He doesn't have to. Everything he writes is pure and good. I can count on one hand the number of times he's accidentally offended me - the last time being last night, when he referred to a happy rotund person on TV as a "Jolly Giant."

5) Unless he was upset about something, he'd never write a message this long. He's a guy, after all.

New video!

This is the Skuld video I mentioned a few weeks ago. It's finally done! Enjoy!