The Sport Of Tomorrow

In the future there will be no war.
In the future there will be only Roller Derby.
Faster than frisbee disc golf.
Sexier than competitive eating.
More violent than dwarf-tossing.
Not as Flemish as vinkenzetting.
A kind of British Bulldog on wheels,
Roller Derby is a game of Blood-and-Thunder.
A game of Pluck-and-Fidelity.
A game of Style-over-Substance.
A game of Razz-and-Matazz.
6 Blockers 2 Pivots and a couple of Jammers in the rear.
Three periods of between eight and ten minutes in length.
Each period divided into a smörgåsbord of two-minute jams.
And inbetween? Plenty of good clean unsportsladylike conduct.
Ministry of Neo-Burlesque meets Queercore riot-grrrl.
Rockabilly meets NWOBHM meets Beastie-Girls meets Cybergoth.
Kiss-curls and Monroe piercings.
Polka dots and desert camouflage.
Coloured gumshields, fishnet burn and Betty Page tattoos.
Welcome to The Thunderdrome true believers.
Welcome to Do-It-Yourself Third Wave
Skate-Punk Feminism in all its glory.
Caution: Do not interfere with Rollergirls who skate out-of-bounds.
Remember: Getting a Rollergirl in your lap
is not a right
but a privilege.

London Rollergirls official website

Official list of Rollergirl names

Pease Porridge Thursday (Citation Required)

King Eric XIV of Sweden was
a warmongerer and a peasant-fucker.
Amongst many other things.
He was also certifiably insane,
which is why he was dethroned
and then imprisoned
before being murdered in 1577.
The murder weapon was a bowl
of peasoup, flavoured with arsenic,
and eaten with a silver spoon.
Ever since then, as a mark of respect
for this crazy-assed, bloodthirsty,
something-of-a-Renaissance-Man sonuvabitch,
it's become traditional for The Swedes
to eat peasoup each and every Thursday.
Not a cold Gazpacho or a spicy Menudo.
Not a Mulligatawny or a Cock-A-Leekie.
Thick, hearty, nutritious peasoup. With pork to taste.
Thou ancient, free and mountainous peasoup of The North.
From Norrbotten County to Gotland to the Öresund Strait.
Best served with a dollop of brown mustard.
Best followed by thin pancakes, lingonberry jam
and a cheeky snifter of hot sweet liqueur Punsch.

A traditional Swedish ärtsoppa recipe

AMERICAN IDOL PREGNANT WITH LOHAN'S CHILD!!!

A funny thing happened today.

It all started this morning shortly after 6 am, when I woke up to Rihanna singing "Please Don't Stop the Music". I danced around for about 1 minute and then realized I was still asleep.

As I lay there half-heartedly listening to the chitter-chatter of the CHOMians, I heard something that caught my ear.

"AKON IS GAY."














Apparently, the cover of this week's People magazine announces this. Apparently, Akon made the decision to come out in the public eye because he doesn't want to teach his baby son that living a lie is the way to be. So I'm not gonna lie...I didn't know he had a fresh baby son; but there a lot of things I don't know about; including politics and geography. The radio peeps were saying that it really doesn't have to be as big a deal as People is making it out to be. And I thought, "Wow. Well then...good for him, I guess!"










I went and enjoyed the fresh air on a lovely stroll to Stella Estrella and I tried to be friendly in French, when normally I am neither here nor there; I just try and spit it like it is. I said to the lass, "Je voudrait avoir votre meilleur croissant almande!" which I think is easy to understand even if it's not entirely correct. I spoke with zeal and what felt like a twinkle in my eye...and she was cordial and wished me a good day but she did not appear to think that I was cute and fun for specifying that I wanted the best almond croissant of all the almond croissants.














[This is not it, duhv course, but I bet it tastes halfway decent.]


Some other things happened afterwards, like drinking coffee while reading my old diaries, and consequently squirming up a storm.

















And then I went to school and the long and short of it is...

Here I am at Cafe Supreme on St. Laurent, where I remember hanging out doing homeworks a lot last fall. The mini-computer device I have does not appear to understand the French accent codes I have embedded in my brain, therefore sorry. They actually dropped the Supreme quite some time ago...maybe even two years ago! But without Supreme, we might never be able to call it Shitpreme (pronounced in French, bear with me) and that would be a travesty. Shit is cheapish and it tastes like shit and the music is generally shit that partly rhymes with Zack Morris' first name but you can stay and do your shit for 5 hours and no one will make you buy more than a can of root beer, so that's alright with me.




















About to embark on my first English essay of the year, I splurged and bought an orange juice for TWO DOLLARS AND SEVENTY FIVE CENTS and I guess things have changed because it struck me as a lot but I was sort of hungry but did not want to buy food because I think I have some at home so I settled for vitamins instead of my dear friend aspartame.
















Anyway, turns out I forgot all my notes I prepared yesterday (the day on which I actually embarked on my first English essay of the year, in terms of preparation) and so, I can't actually do any of it because I'm too busy thinking about how Akon is gay...
















Supposedly Beenie Man has lightened up and softened his stance on boys loving boys but I imagine he's moderately irritated with Akon right now.

If you're up on things, you already know why this whole Akon business is funny and you know that I am not knocking homosexuality by any means.





















As I sat here in Cafe Shitpreme about fifteen minutes ago, I remembered the Akon thing and decided to check out People magazine online and see what all the fuss was about.

It turns out, I was in the dark for close to seven hours because it's not Akon that is gay (for all I know), it is CLAY AIKEN that has proclaimed that he is gay for the sake of his son.














My only regret is that I didn't get to say to anyone, "So did you hear Akon is gay??" before I understood that it was all a big misunderstanding. They could have told their friends, who could have told THEIR friends and it would have been a moderately fun rumour, not that rumours are ever fun; even in moderation.

Considering that Wikipedia told me that Akon is alleged to have three wives, and that Akon told Blender he has five kids with three different women, it would have been more of a big deal for him to come out than the CHOM fam made it out to be this morning.

Besides, Akon's first name is...Aliaune. And that doesn't rhyme with anything gossip-worthy, now does it?

Soanyway...I mean not to say that if you have all the aforementioned (multiple babies/babymamas) and are gay, that you should keep it all inside. How difficult it must be to deny something you know to be true even as it crushes you inside . After a certain age, it must be at least one million times more difficult to come to terms with, especially if you've spent so much energy avoiding what a lot of people seemed to think was true. I could see how it could seem easier to just not bother. This could apply to a lot of things,not just being into someone with the same kind of fun parts as you.

The truth is...we live in a land of the over-stimulated and easily bored. PROFOUND! So, whatever you are, be it sexually aroused by My Little Ponies in drag or into threesomes that involve peanut butter and jam with a Sharon, Lois and Bram soundtrack or say you happen to be a fan of the Carpenters...well anyone who thinks you're lame and insane will think your supposed quirk is just totally boring in about 5 minutes.

For real. What fun is it to go on and on about the personal life of someone who was on American Idol, like five years ago?? Surely, we have more important things to do. Like crackdown on the new 90210 cast for being the Ally McBeal of the 21st century in terms of corrupting the minds of impressionable young ladies with unfortunate ideals.

I resist the urge to provide pictures of skinny young things because you'll see them at the grocery store anyways and it's the same reason I've never done a blog on best and worst beach bods. In counting the ribs of people we'd never heard of a month and a half ago, we let them know that cutting their BMIs in half DOES make them stars!! People will say they are too thin but they'll shoot back that no one knew them until they dropped 20 or 30 and were able to involve themselves in the shooting star tradition of before and after shots.


Besides, the biggest news of the day is not that Clay is gay, or that the kids over at 90210 love eating cigarettes for breakfast.

The big news is that Clay Aiken and Lindsay Lohan are the same person.





















































Yikes! Talk about a sandwich, am I right?! Take that and put it in your threesome with peanut butter and jam, no? Am I right??

Doing A 7th Earl Of Lucan

When Lucky Lord Lucan disappeared
into the ether back in November 1974,
his Ford Corsair was found abandoned
on a residential street in the coastal town of Newhaven.
The interior of the vehicle was stained with fresh blood.
In the boot, detectives discovered a length of lead piping.
No-one knows for certain what happened to Lord Lucan,
but there are many theories. Some more fanciful than others.
Today, we’re filming on Lawes Avenue;
a carbon-copy residential street
not 5 minutes from where that
Ford Corsair was left marooned.
As daylight slowly ebbs, so the locals begin
emerging from the pebbledashed brickwork.
Shuffling and groaning as they come.
Steadily growing in number.
Armed with their mobile phone 3G technology,
their Mackenzie sportswear
and their Staffies-on-a-string.
White Cracker fireflies, attracted
by the buzzing lights of the Kino Flo
and the smell of human flesh from the big city.
Like something out of ‘Night Of The Living Dead’.
Like something with ‘Duelling Banjos’ as a soundtrack.
No-one knows for certain what happened to Lord Lucan.
But there are many theories. Some more fanciful than others.
Perhaps he took a ferry to Dieppe and became a scallop fisherman.
Perhaps he was simply eaten alive by the good folk of Newhaven.
Face facts, stranger things have happened.

The Lord Lucan Mystery

Do YOU remember...

THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE.

On the last day of summer, I make a point of telling anyone who cares that if they are catching feelings, well let it show. This way, you can "say that you remember dancing in September" and it will actually be true.

So love it out this evening with someone you crush on and get ready to keep one another warm come colder days.



I summoned my steady to come enjoy the last moments of sunshine on his roof, imposing myself in the midst of his household when he was totally busy and I knew that before I got there.

I fakestubbed my toe and yelped and so he came up eventually and then I was like "I was biking home and feeling emotional listening to Wilco, watching squirrels running free and I just had to come and enjoy this time here and write in my journal..."

And he told me it was a "HALLMARK HOLIDAY" and has been ignoring me ever since, eventhough the end of summer is totally a semi-medium-sized deal to me because it means we've weathered 3 seasons together and my romantic alliances normally last about as long as a bolt of lightning.

Sometimes this seemed magical but in retrospect I was like "Oh, lame."

POSH SPICE SEASONED RISOTTO

The weekend when it would have been a year since I started this blog, I cleaned the fridge at my work. In my head I thought it would be great to write about. I say write, as opposed to blog, because eventhough I know this is in fact a blog, I am somewhat sentimental about the olden days before the internet ran the world.

You know, when children ran laughing through cornfields and monkeys chewed tobacco...





























Therefore a noun I did not comprehend a couple of years ago has no right to act like it deserves to be a verb when it was hard enough to understand in the first place.


















The point is, I cleaned the fridge and I don't mean that I got to take home lots of free cakes and pies and buckets of cream. If that were the case, I would have said CLEANED IT OUT. But you already knew that, didn't you...



















THE POINT IS, by the time I get around to hitting this hot black keyboard...the moment is sometimes lost.













So I will try not to tell you about the holes at the bottom of the fridge, below the drawers that people don't know are removable or something (not just people at Ben & Jerry's; people of the world at large.)

Well, there there are holes made from rotting milk and somewhere between the holes and the floor, there is a sweet little nook where the old milk hangs out and when trying to clean below the drawers (after removing them; hot tip), I discovered that if I try hard enough to clean what can never truly be clean, this forgotten but not gone milk spurts out like Kill Bill fight funny blood sprays everywhere when Uma takes it to the house.
























Or like when the Beverly Hillbillies struck oil.






















Wait, Grant Wood knew Jack Layton back when he was a hillbilly?? How is that even POSSIBLE...






















Not to name names, but don't you think Jack Layton has this totally sexy Burt Reynolds crossed with Paul Newman vibe??


































If Samantha Jones taught me anything, it was that admitting to basing your political leanings on the looks of candidates has no place in lunchtime conversation among intellectuals.

But we're not having lunch, now are we...

BACK TO THA FRIDGE!

This was the staff fridge though, so don't worry; it's not like there is anything wrong or dangerous with ice cream and dairy products actually sold to paying customers...except the fact that if you order a large [which is three scoops] and decide that you want a fourth scoop, you have to pay THREE DOLLARS AND SEVENTY-NINE CENTS for that extra scoop. WHICH IS TRULY ABSURD.


















In other news, apparently you have to be Totally Hair Ken 2.0 to work at Booster Juice on Sherbrooke by McGill. I saw them outside and they are an army of slick black-haired boys with semi-fauxhawk hairdos (I'll resist the urge to say hairdon't; no I won't) and that means that they are not fauxhawks and they are not mohawks. They are semi-real, I guess. Semi-real in the way that saline implants are more real than silicone ones...















Or semi-real in the way that J-LO was real when she was conning Ben Affleck

























































Back before blog had entered the modern lexicon and pre-teen sensations could just be pre-teen sensations that write each other notes in class...on paper.





















Instead of something from another planet.














So is it just me, or does Victoria Beckham remarkably resemble these painful excuses for pre-teen sensations??



















Ladies and germs, I think we've found ourselves a role model.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go name my unborn children after hip places in London, England.

And she will be called "Portabello"...and come in handy for omelettes and risotto dishes.

STRICTLY BIGGIE AND DOLLY PARTON.

OH NO! I got busy!

















Or maybe I've been enjoying the weather and ignoring the internet because it's warm most days so I get to wear all the cute outfits I didn't get to wear in August because I was temporarily an invalid who did not see the light of day.

If you're not knee-deep in a so-called INDIAN SUMMER then don't you fret because you can totally just buy this candle.
























At my steady's currently, mentally preparing for my 9 o'clock yoga class, I have noticed something new and exciting...











































He owns the former, not the latter but let's be honest, is one safer than the other?? Still, I'd give him snaps if he did own Clueless and double-snaps if he owned Buffy the Vampire Slayer, featuring Kristy Swanson and Luke Perry and introDUCING...Donald Sutherland!!!



















So Peewee Herman might be in it too, but like, what's the big whoop there, right??





















If it ain't Allan Cumming, then I'm not coming.





















CASE CLOSED.

Soanyway...














As I journey into my 5th year at Concordia, the only thing I am scared of is people born in the 1990s...NO DEFENSE.















I am happy I go to Concordia because on the 7th floor of the Hall Building, you can get a lot of free tampons and who knows when you might commence menarche??


















Yes boys, this is a reference to uterus lining and if you're afraid of it, your girlfriend will eventually dump you, and maybe even your boyfriend (if he's extrememly sensitive and on his rag.)

"If it's not fun, why do it?"

So goes the team motto of Ben & Jerry's, so the over-priced magnetized notepads tell me...

They are $3.99 but this here blast from the past is sort of priceless, no?

THISISME...THEN.






















WHO KNEW I WAS A TRANNY?!?!





















MY MOM AND DAD PROBABLY!!!

PEACE Y'ALL AND THANK FOR YOU ALLAN CUMMING.

Wild Radishes Are Falling On My Head

Batten down the hatches
and pack away the easels,
there’s a mistral wind
blowing in over The Bald Mountain.
It shakes the bell-tower of the old church
and rattles the grapes upon their vines.
The wind serves merely as a precursor.
An early warning system if you will.
It heralds the arrival of a storm on the horizon.
But don’t worry. There’s no need to panic.
For the dark bumpy clouds approaching
the Lubéron Massif are in no especial rush.
For Things happen a little slower around these parts.
This storm requires some time to brood a little.
Time to procrastinate. Time to shrug its shoulders.
If this were a game of pétanque,
we’d be bracing ourselves
for a thirteen-to-love whitewash.
If this were a game of pétanque,
we’d be about to be "Made Fanny" of.
Sheet lightning strafes the nearby Plateau d'Albion.
Thunderclaps echo out across the Golden Triangle.
Further up the garrigue a stray cat comes into season.
Further up the garrigue a hunting dog is ritually slaughtered.
And then, finally, a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
Starlings swarm for the safety of nesting spots.
Earthworms pour fourth from the rich red earth.
Geckos drop their tails. Fire ants self-replicate.
There’s a phrase in the local dialect for the kind
of unrelenting deluge of raindrops soon to betide us.
Literally translated, it means “wild radishes are falling”.
The hatches are all battened down.
The easels are all packed away.
The radishes start to fall upon noble Occitania.
They pommel the ochre deposits at Roussillon
They pound the hilltop enclave of Gourdes.
They pepper the melon fields of Cavaillon.
Wild radishes fall upon the tiled roof
of a converted Farmhouse
sheltering just behind
those tall cypress trees right here.
Further up the garrigue a hand chokes the engine of an old Motocross bike.
Further up the garrigue a voice on a car radio raps in Arabic and verlan.
The lights flicker once, twice, and then they go out.


The Cloud Appreciation Society

Oh Train Of Great Speed

I’ve seen enough French New Wave to know
that the roads to Provence are piled high
with the wreckage of burning bourgeois automobiles.
The TGV high-speed locomotive is the quicker option by far.
Faster even than Japan’s famed Shinkansen bullet network.
Sculpted long ago by slow-moving glaciers
the rich rural folds of this fertile landscape
now hurtling past my window at over 500km-an-hour.
Human hands planted the potpourri of lavender fields.
Assembled the sleepy village perches hewn from local stone.
Rustic panorama sung softly into existence by troubadours.
Agricultural patchwork painted into being by Cézanne’s brushstrokes.
A true sense of place for all the senses.
The high-speed TGV locomotive is also the safer option by far.
I mean, think about it for a second; when was
the last time you heard of a cross-channel train catching fire?