The baaaaand!

So my new band, Young Doctors in Love, is really picking up lately! We have a gig at Rancho Relaxo on the 31st of July, a gig at the Handlebar on Aug 18th, and we’re starting our Southern Ontario tour this fall!

Look out for our CD release coming this fall, too. We’re doing a photoshoot in September and filming a music video pretty soon!

Life is looking good 🙂

The Boy

There comes a moment in every relationship, just before it starts, where the pending couple is essentially in limbo. They’ve established interest, sort of, and all their friends are now watching and playing “will-they-won’t-they” to see whether the relationship will develop. This is one of the sweetest moments of the relationship, filled with shy courting and covert glances, before it turns to the maudlin, mawkish mush that causes everyone in a fifty foot radius to avert their eyes lest they vomit from the atrocity. During this period, the female (if there is one) refers to her potential partner (if he’s male) as The Boy. This is because he can’t quite be referred to as “boyfriend” yet, and the female usually gets tired of constantly referring to him as “that guy, YOU know…” or “the guy I just met” or “that guy I’m always telling you about, really, you should just assume from now on that I’m talking about him because honestly I’m not thinking of much else right now.” It gets shortened to The Boy, as in, “The Boy walked me home the other day!” and coupled with inane squees from the female conversationalists.

Why am I explaining this?

I’ve found a Boy 🙂

The greatest dream

China, summertime. A large group of travellers and locals gather for a group photo near a local temple, including me and my newly met friends (whose names I forget but let’s be honest since it’s a dream they probably aren’t all that offended). After the photo, a party: people attempt to converse in their second languages, translators ease the conversation, all is well. Until the snacks are served.

For some reason, the Chinese locals are unfamiliar with the snacks – Smartfood – and a mass hysteria begins, wherein people ingesting the popcorn begin to believe they are spiders and begin to attack. My first instinct is to call in Batman, but then I realise since he is not actually a bat, he will not eat these spider-people. Since I hate Smartfood, I am immune, and though at first I genuinely believe that the food is turning people into seizing, demon hell-beast spiders, I soon realise (after reading a TIME magazine article about the abuse that the sufferers must endure once they are detained by the military) that these people have not been infected by some sort of cerebral virus – it’s simply mass hysteria, further encouraged by the media. After realising this, I and Philip Seymour Hoffman emerge from below the office desk where we were hiding, and set up a plan to capture a spider-man (heh) and study him to see why the hysteria has been so deeply effective.

We stretch packing tape against the nearest doorway and act as human bait to lure the zombie-like spider-people into our trap. We know they rove in packs of four so we have to be ready, once the first spider is caught, to stave off the other three. Surprisingly, our primitive trap ensnares all four, who rush blindly together in confusion and end up tied up on the floor like some kind of Scooby-Doo villains. At this point, before we can study them, soldiers burst through the doors and haul them away, and we are defeated in our quest to solve the puzzle that plagues the nation.

Sometime later, still during the outbreak of spiderdom, I am in a convenience store, merely browsing. A man comes in, distraught, and tries to shoplift some Play-Doh. The cashier notices, begins to yell at him, and threatens to expose him to the crowd of spider-men roving menacingly in the back alley. I quietly place some Play-Doh in my sweater – green, brown, white and black – and exit stage left. When the man is finally booted out of the store by the cashier, I hand him the swag and beat it back to base camp. The man follows me, explaining that his home had been broken into by the spider-people and subsequently looted, and there was nowhere for he and his young son to stay. I invite them both to come chill with me and Philip Seymour Hoffman. He agrees.

Back behind the office desk, the little boy is making caramel apples out of the Play-Doh I managed to purloin, while hallucinations take over and I am convinced the door is a portal to hell, with screaming spider-people whizzing past us to the outside world. (Important to take note that apparently an office desk will save you from all this.) Hoffman shakes me, tells me to get a hold of myself, and eats some Smartfood right in front of my face. I am horrified. I scream that he can’t do this to us, the resistance needs him… until he grins, and reminds me that this is all just mass hysteria. That was exactly the wake-up call I needed, and though I read in TIME magazine that one of my new friends is dead, I bravely step around the front of the office desk and call the rebels to action.

Philip Seymour Hoffman steps outside the pagoda wherein we were hiding, and bravely stands out on the stone platform surrounding the temple. Men and women are everywhere; being chased and beaten by the military, chasing and beating the military; general havoc abounds. Hoffman steps into the fracas and demands that everyone give him attention. They stop. He reaches deep into his bag of Smartfood and eats an entire fistful. He announces that there is nothing to be afraid of – it’s just food. Terrible, artificial-tasting food. People look around at each other. Some are embarrassed, some are weeping. The soldiers administer one final kick for good measure, and drive off in their Jeeps. There is silence.

The people near the temple all shuffle back to the risers where our initial photo was taken. There are fewer of us now, and I’m reunited with my surviving friends. The man and his son emerge and join us. Our photo is taken, we are survivors.

EPILOGUE

It is a year later, and I am back in the village which I visited on that fateful summer when so many lost their lives. A man is sitting in his window when a letter blows in – he opens it, but cannot understand it since it is in English and he only reads Mandarin. He hands it to me, smiling, and I see that it is covered in Zoidberg stickers – a little inside joke between me and Philip Seymour Hoffman. I smile. As I tuck the letter into my pocket and turn around, a familiar shout gets my attention, and the little boy comes running up to me, arms outstretched. I ruffle his hair – he’s grown a lot in a year! – and accept the Play-Doh caramel apple that he thrusts into my palm. I stand and smile at his father, who smiles back and takes his son’s hand as they turn back to the home they rebuilt.

Also throughout the whole thing I had this awesome British accent.

I’m picking out a Thermos for you

My brother, Mittens, and I recently watched Steve Martin’s The Jerk, a classic staple of comedic cinematography that our parents would not stop quoting, so we sat down to see why. Now we get it.

The scene that surprised Mittens the most was the romantic walk on the beach that Martin and Bernadette Peters’ characters share, because the song (Tonight You Belong to Me) was actually quite lovely, and went almost uninterrupted by something funny. I had heard the song before while working (briefly) at a bar called Insomnia (before I was fired for sleeping in… sigh) on a CD of ukulele songs, and had fallen quite in love with the vocal harmonies. So now that we’ve had proper inspiration, Mittens and I will join our sister‘s quest to learn to play the ukulele and form the world’s tinniest sounding band. What we really want is to add the almost-ten-year-old sister in on the upright bass to round out the sound.

Please welcome to the stage: Biggie and the Smalls!

Our first song would be Baba O’Riley, because we all agree that is the best song, and also it’s ironic because only one of us is currently a teenager. Also the beginning would sound hella awesome on ukuleles and the bass could possibly be played with a hammer.

EMI GET ON THIS THIS IS SOME GOOD STUFF

My little sister gave me a bear

Apparently the best thing for writer’s block is a little brown plastic bear with big eyes. This is according to my baby sister, anyway. I asked her what I should write and she exclaimed “this!” as she thrust the toy in front of me. And I thought, why not? After all, most of her philosophies hold water.

For example, she theorises that since her job isn’t math, she won’t do math. Makes sense. She also seems to think sideways shuffling is a more effective mode of transportation than the traditional “evolved bipedal forward motion,” and currently is exhibiting the benefits of inverse standing over the more common “standing on your feet.”

I think society as a whole needs to adopt an attitude like this. Draw things that don’t exist. Sing as you skip down the street. Make up words (and dance routines). Make room in your life for a little reckless abandon. Maybe if we all lighten up a bit and stop taking things (like math) so seriously,  we can all be as happy as this little pixie.

The Bestaurant

That was the basest pun I have ever written. You now as reader get to make the choice whether to be awed by its majesty or stop reading right now because I’m obviously the worst person ever.

Now that that’s overwith, I’d like to elaborate on my nomination for the Bestaurant. It’s the place I work now – a restaurant aptly named “93 Harbord” – and it is quite easily the best place I’ve ever worked. (Except for that one time I worked for the CBC, that job was cushy as hell. What other national broadcasting station will give a 15 year old her own office??)

Anyway, now that my days as Maeby Bluth Funke are over, I’m working off my little tootsies at a restaurant curiously no longer titled Cafe Metaforia. It’s a Middle Eastern/Moroccan restaurant owned by a jovial, charming man who likes to sit down with his guests over a plate of dessert that he made himself and has offered on the house to people he likes (and sometimes people he just likes the look of). I’m working right now as a hostess/bartender, as training to become a full-time server, and even so my tipout has often been higher than the tips I was making at my old bar. My boss is there every single day, in the kitchen and out on the floor, and it’s pretty much a guarantee that he will have a conversation with every single person in the restaurant by the time he leaves. His personality, his business acumen, and not to mention his delicious menu are the reason there are so many repeat customers – I’ve even seen return visitors in the two weeks I’ve worked.

But I have to say the number one reason why this is the best place ever is the free food that front of house staff are given at the end of the night – a night which, by the way, is over by midnight at the latest. Kitchen staff always prepare too much food when the restaurant opens, which means by close, the servers and I are treated to couscous, rice, or quinoa piled high with tagine, kebabs, biryani, or whatever melange the staff has simmering still by the time the guests have left. Sure beats half priced cheeseburger springrolls at Joe’s.

Two things.

First: THIS.

Second: Been drugged all day. I guess that’s what happens when you have 2 wisdom teeth removed – teeth that, for your whole life, you were told did not exist. Teeth that nobody believed you had, even when you were 22 and one started poking through the gums. Teeth that are not a bone spur or calcification, thank you Dr. MomGoogle.

Also 9 cavities filled and 21 more to go. I s#it you not.

And the goods have been delivered!

Yesterday my dad got the shirt that I mailed him. I know this because he woke me up at 10 a.m. with a phone call. When I answered said phone call, I got an earful of him singing. 

My siblings

We’ve bin talkin’ fe’ th’lass ‘alf houh wiv varyus kinds o’Bri-ish accens. Vissus wot we do when we get togevvah. Woi? Woi no’, s’wot I ahsk.

Tim has been humming “YYZ” for, like, an hour.

Quotes from Tim this evening:

My mouth is like a party. Where everyone’s knitting. It feels like a 60s rug.

Let’s be mature about things. Penis.

UUUUUUUUSER. That’s a big deal in Tron, asshole.

ZOMBEHS

I’m not sure if I know about bird sex.

Well, my pants are halfway down my ass right now…

I dreamed of smoking up with dad. Kind of awesome, but not really. It’s like, if I’m gonna smoke up, dad’s not gonna be my first choice.

What?! That’s worse than people I know who can’t beatbox and they say “boots in cats”!

Let’s count ass cheeks… One.

What the hell was that?? Oh… Charlotte’s money.

That’s so great, my ass cheeks just applauded.

I’m going to shut up now. I’m going to start throwing Santa at you. Where’s your diet coke?

I tried to say you’re welcome, but I couldn’t burp long enough.

I’ll sing to you about creepy shit.

And a bonus quote from Alex:

Is that a Diet Coke I see?
If it is I’m gonna be
HAP-PYYYY!!