FOR ACADEMIC USE ONLY...

In light of the fact that when I was a tween, there was no word to describe me as such, I have taken it upon myself to channel my inner tweendencies and take it to the house.





















This means, as everyone should know, getting in bitchy fights (3 on 3 shit), and admitting that the time is right for wearing sparkly silver eyeshadow/too much make-up altogether, in the quest to emulate RuPaul circa the most epic Viva Glam campaign ever.

















It doesn't matter that most (heterosexual) boys think it looks silly.

What matters is that when you pass another RuPauled-out honey in the stacks, she/he will know that you are one and the same; tweens united in the fight against looking their age (so that they can get into AA slasher flicks in the name of group dates and yawning one's arm around one's crush like it's no biggie).










































Plastic jewels and bright pink nailpolish is a must and luckily, I never gave that up like my girl Katie Hermon did when she became really weird at 15 and listened to The Beatles eight days a week and made out behind trees and/or at 'shortgrass' and wore turquoise on a Jade Jagger tip and granny sweaters like she knitted them herself (when she actually got them at Urban Outfitters in Montreal, and that's basically the reason she moved here 3 years later eventhough McGill is a pretty good school...)


















In relation, when asked what makes her want to take it off and get it on, Zooey Deschanel replied, "At the same time? A brand new wool sweater."
















And she claims that her greatest fear is "maple syrup on my arms",


















This really helps put things into perspective, as maple syrup on my arms is at least 14 times more petrifying than the prospect of a C- on a paper I initially suspected would rock the house.
















The only other thing that makes it okay that I have more in common with the CON-U library computers than the average Coda Special Club patron (as I too, am 'for academic use only') is the jingle of my mom's sassy silver charm bracelet, as it provides great entertainment on my breaks because it has fun stuff to open/close; like the hood of a Mary Poppins era car, the pumpkin-turned-carriage that brought Cinderella to the ball (read: Coda Special Club), and a treasure chest that foreshadows all the fun and pizazz that summer will inevitably bring, just you wait...





















And so, I leave you with the age-old question...

WHAT IS IT THAT EVERBODY HAS AND SOME PIRATES AND THIEVES TRY TO TAKE...??





















The answer is to be found somewhere between common ground and finding a way...

















AU-REVOIR/DON'T SLEEP/GET AN A+/LOVE LIFE



P.S. The truth is, that I actually think PRE-TEEN SENSATION is a way cooler word than TWEEN...aaaaaand, I think that tweens coming of age in this godforsaken facebook era are inherently doomed (bless their soulless hearts).













P.P.S. Because you definitely care, my scholastic endeavours currently involve writing about Alex Katz.

This is a self portrait of his.





















And these are some other pretty pictures he's done.

Jingling MAYBE...

So I'm generally doing the same things I was doing in 1998.

Listening to what is probably my least favourite A Tribe Called Quest album...




















Feeling overwhelmed by my learning disability...



















And wondering if it's a good time to start shaving my pits...??





















Hellooooo NASTY! (was a great time in 1998/still)














It was also the year I stopped eating meat (but didn't swear off sardines...)














In conCLUSION...

If wishes were fishes, my essays would magically write themselves and Victoria Beckham would not be all up in Marc Jacobs ads assaulting my intelligence (or lack thereof...of real Marc Jacobs handbags; not just Canal Street fakes...)

Victoria Beckham is the WORST.

Weird thing is, she doesn't even look that scary here...





















Weirder still, I have basically worn this outfit except that I don't have leather evening gloves (yet) only silk ones...and my version was cooler because I didn't/don't have implants and it also involved gold hip hop chains.

WHAT/WHAT/WHAT

GODSPEED.

More Tales Of The Alhambra

I don’t really know what to tell you
about Granada’s illustrious Alhambra Palace.
Washington Irving's had a chokehold on that since way back.
I mean, sure, at sundown, viewed from across the ravine,
She looks every inch the triumphal pearl
set amongst Nasrid diamonds.
But by daylight, She becomes
obscured by the rugby scrum.
And for me, there’s really only
so long you can stand
looking at ruins
whilst feigning a genuine interest
in Almohad sebkas or Almoravid palms.
Does that make me a Philistine?

O SISTER, WHERE ART THOU??

What's black and white and red all over??





















You deserve a visit from Mr. Goodbar.

















Mr. Goodbar, baby.

ALAS...














Please welcome...LETTING YOU DOWN.






















And HERE is something great to tide you over...


In other news, I'm writing an EPIC on GIRL POWER and the Coen bros have bought the film rights eventhough it's kind of in pre-pre-pre-production...

Good news regardless though, right??

GIRL POWER!!!

Once Upon A Time In Almeria

You don’t need me to tell you
how much Almeria’s Tabernas Desert
resembles the barren and gulch-ridden
lunar landscape of the American Southwest.
You’ll have seen it for yourself if you’ve ever
sat through a Sergio Leone spaghetti western.
Replace a ronin samurai with a lone gunslinger with no name.
Replace a Japanese village with a small New Mexican border town.
Give me a rolled cheroot in the corner of the mouth.
Give me a holstered Peacemaker with a silver rattlesnake grip.
Give me tanned boots, a thrift-store poncho and some 6-day stubble.
Give me those squinting operatic close-ups
and that whistle & whip-crackle soundtrack.
After shooting had wrapped, and the movie-makers had all gone home,
the enterprising local extras decided to buy-up
the film sets built by the Italian art department
and turn them into cotton-candy selling
Ye Olde Wild West theme parks.
There’s a trio of them in total. All within a mile of one other.
Seems that, for the moment at least, these lonely Badlands
are still just about big enough for the three of em!

Who Lives In A Cave Like This?

A decidedly ramshackle and dustblown kind of place,
the crumbling old Moorish settlement of Guadix
was once famed for its silver and its cutlery.
These days it’s better known for its unique approach to town planning.
For the good folk of Guadix have long preferred
simple limestone over simple bricks and simple mortar.
As the name might suggest, the Barrio Troglodyte
is more termite Hooverville than Barratt Home housing estate.
Upwards of half the population still live out here,
subterraneanly; in an extensive network of suburban caves.
Like Haywards Heath, but overrun with
Hobbit smials constructed from Barbapappa plastique.
The best burrows around boast running water,
central heating, en-suite bathrooms and satellite TV.
There are washing lines, pot plants and net curtains.
But for me, it all feels a little too much like sleeping in a catacomb.
A catacomb decorated by your least favourite auntie.

Chez Jean & Julia

Middle Earth Tours: Bag End

It's 'Barbapapa'

Captain Caveman Fansite

Mountain And Sea And Bed And Breakfast

Inger first came here from
her native Denmark 17 years ago.
It’s easy to see why she never went back.
Characterized by bric-a-brac
flat rooftops and
winding whitewash alleyways,
the higgeldy-piggeldy hamlet of Ferreirola
lies deep in the bosom of prime walker’s country.
Cherry and fig and prickly pear.
The tonk-a-tonk of the mountain goats.
Boy meets girl at the village fuente.
Inger first came here 17 years ago.
The same year, by my calculations,
as the nearby town of Huéscar finally
signed a peace agreement with her homeland;
thus bringing to an end (and not before time)
a curiously anachronistic ongoing anomalous
172 year declaration of hostilities between the 2 parties.
That’s right, from 1809 until 1981,
The Kingdom of Denmark
and the municipality of Huéscar
were “technically” at war with one other.
Something to do with Napoleon Bonaparte.
Something to do with King Fernando VII. Go figure!
Inger first arrived here from the Jutland Peninsula in 1981.
Mere happy coincidence? Somehow, I doubt it.
She swapped the smørrebrød for paella.
She traded Saint Lucia Day for Semana Santa.
She ditched the Jelling stones in favour of El Camino Real.
She fell in love. She ended the war.
She opened a bed and breakfast.


The Sierra Y Mar

Deep Song (For Federico García Lorca)

Come flow oh salty tears of ancient Andalucia.
Let bells toll. Let winds sing. Let castanets rattle-tattle.
They mourn for you still sweet gypsy poet.
And it is an epic grief. Shouldered by all.
Carried like a trembling melody along rolling red roads.
Winding. Rising. Twisting. Turning. Harmonizing.
Spirals of weeping that echo from snow-capped peak to snow-capped peak.
Preserved in the clear air like the finest cured hams.
Your blood still stains the carbonated mountain waters.
Gives it that medicinal metallic aftertaste.
You are the jasmine, the foxglove, the lemon thyme.
The evergreen myrtle. The swales of swaying broomstraw.
You are the nightingale. The turtle dove. The swifts on the wing.
You are the ruined cortijo. The broken hammam.
You are the ristras of sweet Pimiento
hanging like bell-chimes from the balconies.
See the old lady in the doorway dressed in black? She weeps for you still.
See the herdsman on horseback? See the virgin tossed in crinoline?
They mourn for you Federico García; their long lost lover.
Their father, their mother, their neighbour, their dead child.
I wonder, did perhaps the smell
of the lemon blossom fill your nostrils
that dark August evening in 1936,
when the militia-men dragged you to that lonely hilltop
and there, beneath the branches of the olive tree grove,
forced that bullet squarely through the back of your skull?
Breaking open your carefully pomaded hair?
Staining your handsome v-neck sweater so?
Your body thrown into an unmarked grave,
along with the school teacher and the toreadors
and the one, two, three, four, five thousand more that followed.
Ay yayayay! A cold dagger to the heart would’ve been kinder.

$.$ ka-ching $.$

ok when shopping for 2 days. monday Bukit Bintang, wednesday Mid Valley. but then overall im not the 1 shop the most, --> hammie <-- she did the most shopping. ok tis was her actual short list

1. heels
2. bag
3. shirt (maybe)
4. jeans (maybe)
5.YUI’s Can’t Buy My Love

after the 1st day shopping the list became.....

1. heels --> Nose
2. bag --> Elle
3. shirt (maybe) --> Roxy
4. jeans (maybe)
5. Stella McCartney Adidas Jacket --> rm700++
6. Roxy purse
8. Baby Adidas shoes --> for 2 person konon nyer
9. Quiksilver stuff her bro
10. necky --> Forever 21
11. YUI’s Can’t Buy My Love

so on the 2nd day in Mid Valley we 1st went for movie 10000 Bahasa.Cina. we tried the twin seat. soli la jakun sikit =p. we paid extra 2 bucks for them to remove the middle armrest. wat the heck! we went 2 Adidas outlets to reconfirm if the jacket is rm700++. too bad the jacket not available in Midvally nor Gardens. hammie needed like 30mins ++ to decide whether onot to buy the Elle bag. she "tiok" me for a Roxy lanyard >.< i spent 45 bucks not for shopping but donating. donno if i should tell my mom bout tis @.@

so we will be c-ing hammie wit new bag on monday! girl bag summore! lol

HELLO, 1-900-LL-COOL-J...

GET OUT YOUR CALCULATORS.






















Q: What has the ability to single-handedly improve one's day by nine-thousand times nine-thousand?






















Talk amongst yourselves.

What's that??

"A really next haircut with superblunt ends", you say??

For some perhaps, but not for me.

HERE'S A CLUE.


















Still bewildered??

A: Extensions!!!

They're great in regards to essays, not just Paris Hilton/Nicole Richie circa the INCREDIBLE FIRST SEASON (of The Simple Life, duh).



















Needless to say, I now have the ability to hit it out tha park, A+ style.


In addition, this miracle of miracles enables me to go home to Ottawa and eat great meals with my parents and hang with my steady like it's totally (totally) awesome.













In relation...SHALOM/SHALOM/SHALOM to my sister's steady, Russell Simco.

Which brings me to my next question...

Q: What would my ex-roommate Caroliner Murphy (with whom I remain the best of friends and maintain the utmost respect for) do if she were religiously destined to engage in Passover festivities?

This considering she is HELLA allergic to gluten (although certainly no stranger to the odd drunken cheeseburger/pizza/cupcake faux-pas).






















A: Follow the following, or rather, have her parents follow it while she channel surfs (much to Roger's On Demand's chagrin).

GLUTEN-FREE MATZAH CRACKERS!!!



















Makes approximately 16 2 to 2-1/2 inch (5-6 cm) round crackers.

4 oz. (125 g) potato flour [starch]
2 oz. (50 g) ground almonds
2 Tablespoons olive oil
4 Tablespoons water (keep 2 teaspoons water in reserve)
pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to gas no. 8 (450 F, 230 C).

Mix together the potato flour, ground almonds and salt.

Mix the olive oil and water (less the 2 teaspoons reserved water) in a bowl,
sprinkle on the dry ingredients, and use a fork to mix to a dough (if
dry-looking, add the reserved water).

Knead and form into a ball (if at all sticky, dust the board with a little
potato flour) and roll out slightly thicker than matzah.

Cut into 2-21/2 (5-6 cm) rounds. Prick all over with a fork and bake at gas no.
8 (450 F, 230 C) for 10 minutes or until light brown in colour.

OKAY!

So everybody enjoy the long weekend and love like you've never been hurt and ALWAYS remember to swallow or you look like kind of a wuss, straight up.















To everyone's babymama who still puts forth an effort in the name of EASTER EGG LOVERS INCORPORATED??

Big UP.
















My mom happens to be the MASTER.

She basically puts MINI EGGS in plain view on coffee tables, banisters, ottomans and wherever else happens to be within her reach when the clock is tick tick TICKING.




















And so, in honour of how my mom is the shit/never going to give me any more brothers and sisters (what's the big idea, right?!?!)...

LET THE HUNT BEGIN (future-tense).












Silly RABBIT...

THE EASTER EGG HUNT!!!!

STARS WITHOUT MAKEUP!!!

If you’re really up on American politics, you’ve probably been thinking about Christian Dior a lot lately.
















You’ve been considering how totally “all up in the clearance rack at Zellers” the French brand would be without Obama...because most people care about who be prez more than the results of the on-going Lohan vs. substance abuse race.





















You’ve been deep in thought over everything I said about Gwen Stefani and her obsession with Jamaica, which naturally brought you to look beyond her collab with lesportsac and back to that time John Galliano shamelessly dabbled in Rastafarianism.






















Of course, in light of the zipzapzoom of fashion seasons, Dior hasn’t jah blessed since the Stone Age (read: 2004).





















But hey, the only fridge I was hanging out with back then was the one that keeps things cold and is filled with 14 different kinds of cheese at all times, that being the new-age refrigerator at my parents house on Dorothea Drive…the fridge that’s on some next shit with the freezer on the BOTTOM and sour cream on top.


















I know, I know, in light of the zipzapzoom of kitchen design, ice cream sandwiches and microwave burritos have been partying near the floor since the Stone Age.

























You don’t know my parents though (or maybe you do), and for real, they are pretty ahead of the times when it comes to spicing up the interiors of 136 Dorothea.

For real, for real, we had ice cubes down under way before Friday came out, straight up!























They were on that shit since House Party was coming soon to a theatre near YOU!





















WHAT.

Alls I’m trying to say is forgive me for talking about fashion moments long passéeeeee but chances are you’re still totally obsessed with scoop-back American Apparel dresses and KEDS so you’d be wise to listen up or you’ll be doomed to back-of-the-Mirror fame for way longer than it takes Dov Charney to reach climax (rumoured to waver between 3 and 5 minutes depending on which dealer is on call that night).





















That said, totally can’t wait for spring so I can rock my Keds on the regular (I have like, 9 pairs).










Maybe I’ll be REALLY next and switch it up with something HIGH-WAISTED.



Or something else that is fresh like maybe some Ray Ban Wayfarers or a cool haircut that will have me regularly confused with the lead singer of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
















Or maybe I’ll just invest in some gold laméeee leggings that call it a day below belly- button, no biggie.
















They totally look great on all body types. Especially those recommended to avoid horizontal stripes by the knowing eye of Cosmopolitan magazine (the epitome of useful style tips, not to mention really innovative flirt tactics and sexual prowess. “Take an ice cube and put it in YOUR mouth. Then kiss your man and slip it into HIS mouth. He won’t be able to resist the heat and the ice cube will soon be history.”)





















I just want to big-up my boy John Galliano, that’s all. And take him away from toxic association with Gwen Stefani’s concept of Jamaica because yo, he really didn’t even mean it like that, okay? I know what you’re thinking…

“Makes sense that Galliano would travel in a fifty Bentleys in the West Indies direction, considering he’s no stranger to Pirates of the Carribean chic...”

















But you’ve got it ALL WRONG.

And yeah, maybe he designed Gwen Stefani's wedding dress but John Galliano is actually way more influenced by fast food than kinky reggae.





















You might not think to associate high fashion with fast food. You might think the fashion world in general is not particularly up on calorie-fests, except for Delta Burke which gratuitously endorses the practice in hopes of snagging Tyra Banks as a spokesperson to rival Delta Burke. But like, SO WHAT, right?


















Galliano’s chosen colour scheme back in the Stone Age actually has more do with an often-overlooked yet arctic feud between he and Karl “Sample size THIS” Lagerfeld.





















Not to make any generalizations, but anyone who has known and loved Cool Runnings (and is nonetheless blind to the teen heat of the Lagerfeld vs. Galliano war), will undoubtedly feel all “isn’t it ironic” about the JAMAICAN SNOWBOARD that sought to be all the rage that season.




HoweEVER, when he pulled that apt to be misinterpreted snowboard move...

















Galliano was just trying to say “Hey Karl! I know you’re HUNGRY..."





















"I know you WANT some a DIS!! Eat me."





















"Bite my dust as I French ALP your bitchy ass! WHAT.”





















Regardless, the REAL heat was between Gwen “Jamaica gotta bobsled team” Stefani and the house of Dior at large. I know you're confused because Gwen's wedding dress was Dior but that was in 2002. The real battle was over who decided the colour scheme was cool first and there was even an official referee and it was awesome.






















It was basically like when 50 Cent was all “Let’s battle.” in Kanye’s face and Kanye was like “Bitch, you serious?! Aiight…STEP.”





















We all know who won THAT battle (and no one was more suprised than the big man himself).

















In conclusion, I’m really lucky underneath it all.










Lucky that I come from a veritable fashion mecca like OTTAWA...

















Rather than ORANGE COUNTY.





















Tragic Kingdom inDEED.

WHAT.

Sayonara...

P.S. I was talking to a friend at CON-U who was telling me about sending his shit to this underground New York publishing house that published Viggo Mortensen and that he really hopes to get published and I was all “I know, that’s like, my goal too!” and then I asked him if he had read my blog lately and he said sometimes but it’s kind of all “celeb shit” and also that “everyone writes the same these days, it’s all stream-of-consciousness shit” (as though everyone has the same consciousness??) and it was like COOL THANKS and I thought back to the time I found a copy of US Weekly at the YMCA a few weeks ago and was reading it and noting all the stuff I didn’t even know about and it wasn’t until like 4 days ago that I noticed the magazine was from AUGUST. So it’s really funny that as much as some people think I must be obsessed with what’s going down in LA, I’m actually kind of out of date. At least I was until Thursday night when I hung out at my girl Stephanie Anne Gaty’s and flipped through the latest. I’ll probably write about Drew Barrymore and Justin Long like 4 years after the “ask my anything/let’s double with Cam” phase.

STEP.