Wednesday is the new Tuesday

So because yesterday was supposed to be comic day, but I was busy writing a 12-page paper for Irish class, I had to postpone the posting till today and declare today officially Tuesday instead. So set your calendars accordingly.

I don’t understand this. If your phone rings while you’re in the bathroom, occupado shall we say, WHY on earth would you answer it?? (As a sidenote – my mum calls this “multitasking.” Hang up if she tells you she’s multitasking.)

Whenever I hear a phone ring in a public bathroom, and the person actually picks up, I always flush immediately. Because you are being weird and making me uncomfortable, and toilet-flushing is a risk you knew you were taking when you picked up that phone. DEAL WITH IT.

Whether Meat is Meet

Today I found out I’d rather eat dog than be a vegetarian.

This somewhat startling revelation came about as a result of my previously-mentioned English/food class at the U of Toronto, which has now been featured in an article on the UToronto Media site (,  and also in the Toronto Star (though I haven’t found the link to that yet). Today’s class was based on a radically vegetarian book, Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer. I have to say, I did not at all enjoy this book; I found several arguments based on erroneous data or invented facts, an extreme bias which led to instant dislike on my part, and an overall sense of extreme patronising coupled with the fact that the author has raised his son vegetarian – meaning his son did not get to make that choice himself. Indeed, much of the narrative reads as if Foer believes he is the all-knowing father to all of his readers, finding reasons (and sometimes making them up) to force us into vegetarianism.

That being said, the group that presented today (though mostly comprised of vegetarians) were not radical, were not pushy, were not patronising. They prepared us a delicious salad using more than just the customary iceburg and kale, and followed it with a tofu stir-fry on jasmine rice. Throughout the meal, however, diners were somewhat nervously aware of their meat selection – a styrofoam tray with nine Ikea-meatball-sized hors d’oeuvres, a pinky flesh tone with bits of white and black speckled throughout. This mysterious offering was simply labeled “Thing.” Diners were offered “Thing” as their meat serving (which, with the iron in spinach and the protein in tofu, was not technically needed). Being as hardheaded as I am, however, and as affrontedly opposed to the message being shoved into my eyeballs by Foer, I ate one. It wasn’t bad. I ate another. In fact, I ate two-thirds of the serving in front of my little group of horrified classmates.

Growing up with a Chinese side to my family, strange meats and unidentifiable foods are not out of the ordinary. My cousin loves fish cheeks and eyeballs. A walk down Spadina will bring you face to face with bright red marinating pigs, golden brown dripping fatty ducks, freshly plucked and seemingly shivering hanging chicken, and the ubiquitous neon orange cuttlefish. Seeing meat in its original form does not fase me. Seeing meat as curious globs also does not fase me. I’m still not sure what was in my yin-yin’s jook meatballs, but they were crunchy and delicious and – motto of my childhood – try one, you might like it.

That was the attitude with which I approached “Thing.” Try it, you might like it. That simple phrase has led me to my love of Brussels sprouts, artichoke, steamed pork buns, chili… the list goes on, because that phrase has not yet led me wrong. I tried “Thing.” I liked it.

The presenting group then took suggestions as to what “Thing” might be. Was it Spam? Pate de foie gras? Ground chicken liver? It was revealed to be dog, possibly Chow-chow, picked up off the black market by the presenter’s Korean friend. Instant disbelieving gasps shot through the assembled diners. Was it really? How could they have done that? My only thought was, I guess this makes my palate more diverse.

Once, when travelling in Vienna with my father, we were given the chance to eat horse at a Mongolian barbecue. (As a sidenote: I’m not really sure whether horse as a food is native to Austria or Mongolia.) I had to pass it up at the time, at the age of seventeen, because my palate was not quite in line with my psyche, and I couldn’t help but correlate the dark reddish-brown slices of meat to the horse-drawn taxi cabs waiting on the street below. Given the chance now I’d definitely take it.

Foer raises the issue in Eating Animals that thousands of dogs are euthanised in the US alone due to failure to spay and neuter, or pet negligence. His argument, supposedly towards vegetarianism, is as follows: Why not just eat all those leftover dogs? There’s tons of meat simply rotting due to societal ideas. I understand that his argument was intended to shock the audience into a repulsion towards dog meat, and meat itself in general. When I read that section I simply began to wonder what dog meat tasted like, and kept digging into my chicken salad.

As it turns out, “Thing” was canned corn beef (a food product that, incidentally, I find slightly more revolting than dog meat). Its alien appearance (as we are used to seeing cooked beef at a brown colour, not this sickly pink) and foreign smell was intended to throw the diners off the, ahem, scent. The presenters asked how we’d felt about “Thing” both before and after finding out it was “dog,” and again after we’d learned it was really cow. I explained that I followed my “try it, you’ll like it” upbringing, was proud of myself for stomaching, nay, enjoying an alien food source that not many North Americans have had the chance to try, and then disappointed when I found out it wasn’t as exotic as I’d thought. But I was surprised at my reaction to “finding out it was dog” – initially, my stomach dropped in disbelief, and then I came around and began to be quite at ease with the thought. After all, Chow-chow is a breed that originally was specifically bred to become food.

So that is the story of how I would rather eat dog than be a vegetarian. I figure it can’t be worse than anything found in modern-day street meat. (And a slight confession – though I definitely tried “Thing” in the hopes that I might like it, I also ate it slightly in spite of the vegetarians. Make meat as disgusting looking as you can, I will still eat it. That’s the evolutionary purpose of incisors – and who am I to spite evolution? It made me what I am today.)

Music to warm the heart

This one’s for my li’l brudder Mittens.


I went to check on my comments folder, which I have not done in awhile, and in the spam folder, nesting snugly against the random blurbs about plugins and me solving problems with my blog (apparently) was this little gem:

“A single variety of juice is certainly carrot apple spinach juice. Clearly from name itself me could well be capable to evaluate all the nutritional value affecting juice or even the things just about all that associated with. Right now me might begin by taking four for you to six carrots women cut off their particular ends. Also me need * great apples communicate two for you to great cups of the spinach. After you have the ingredients nearby this is certainly period for you to mix that everyone lady juice mixer woman function that in your your family members.”

Now, I me don’t have a very dirty mind*, but to me, this sounds a little kinkier than me like my vegetables. What are they saying here? What exactly is the aim of this spammer? Perhaps this is strange, but me have this conviction that all spammers are trying to achieve an end; whether to sell product, garner site traffic, or collect click statistics, spam serves a purpose to the person or spambot which generated it. This spam severely shakes that belief. (Just in case this specific spam WAS trying to garner site traffic, me’ve redacted the link. MUAHAHA)

This sounds a bit to me like Chef Brian of ctrl+alt+del fame.

Also: “period” + “lady juice” + “carrot apple spinach juice” (the singular kind) = horrifying nightmares about V8 for weeks.

*I totally do. This is still too weird for me.

I’m getting really bad at this

Keeping updated, I mean. Sheesh. I promise promise PROMISE I’ll update more after term essays are overwith… I have 2 due a week from now and 2 in three weeks. And in the meantime there’s plenty of Arrested Development to watch.

Erm, to keep you busy while you wait. Not to distract me. Nope. *cough*

And while I’m thinking of how horrible I’ve become at updating, here’s the TUESDAY WEDNESDAY MORNING COMIC:

freakin' cold
True story.

That’s me writing with an icicle, if you couldn’t tell. HOLY FRAPPE IT’S FREEZING. I suppose I should start wearing gloves with actual fingers in ’em while I’m biking. WHY AM I STILL BIKING.

Writer’s block


We’ll be back after a quick break.

Pedantic rantic

Today in my Shakespearean Sonnets class, a gentleman referred to Shakespeare’s language as “Old English.” In response, I attempted to make his brain asplode with my eyes. Thankfully my professor saw me glaring death-darts at the student, and helpfully stepped in with “Actually, Elizabethan English is quite modern. It might be a little beyond the grasp of our tongues, but it’s certainly not as old as English gets.”

And this the week after exploring agenbite of inwit, which isn’t even Old old English, but rather, Middle, and still about 300 years before Shakespeare’s time. If only people took more time to study the history of English


I remembered Tuesday again. This is getting to be a thing.

Who wears short pants?

It’s interesting… okay not THAT interesting but interesting enough… that I am a short person, and thus most pants are too long for my stumpy li’l legs, and yet I occasionally find that a certain pair of pants, when matched with a certain pair of shoes, will result in the above depicted scenario. Somehow, I sometimes end up with flood pants. Why, how, who knows? My pants do not adhere to the laws of physics.

Another poignant life vignette.

Tonight at work:

Coworker (gay): Wow, there sure are a lot of gay guys in here tonight. I wonder why?

Me: Maybe there’s something in the air…

Coworker: Pot pourri.

I am not a hipster.

Okay, so I’ve been accused by some of being a hipster (*cough*Alex*cough*) but that accusation is entirely erroneous. I, unlike hipsters, actually like it when people have heard of my weird, self-produced, little-known bands. I darn my socks instead of buying new ones because a) I am poor, and thread is cheaper than socks and b) I like my ugly sock collection, okay?! Stop making fun of them, meanies. And I knit because it is fun. And the only reason I want to start a sewing circle is because my friends are interested in learning how to sew… so maybe it’s my friends that are hipsters. Ever think of that, Alex?!

Anyway, I was sitting here eating dry ramen in bed when I realised that the main differentiating factor between me and hipsters (other than lack of false eyewear and flannel plaid) is that, while hipsters have weird taste in art and music, participate in old-fashioned pastimes, and use outdated technology, they do so ironically. There is nothing ironic about my Sony Discman. I cherish the crap out of that thing. My flip phone is awesome (other than the fact that the battery constantly loses contact; no matter, duct tape is the shizz). I do ride a bike around the city – but I do so carefully with actual respect for drivers, pedestrians, and other bikes. Plus my bike has ten speeds, ergo, NOT a hipster bike. (Side note – I named it Rusty, cratylically.)

So there you have it. Irrefutable proof that, while I enjoy obscure literature and straight-to-DVD movies, I actually get excited when others share my odd passions and therefore am not a hipster. Plus I have sworn to never go into an American Apparel in my life, so, there’s that.