Monday, July 30, 2007
Did you know that there are two different dust jackets for the Harry Potter books? I realized this when I bought the book this weekend (for cheap at Costco, sorry independant booksellers who price it at $45.00 here in Canada, but there is just no way).
There's the regular "kids" dust jacket and the "adult" one that's dark coloured with some sort of symbol on the front.
How very bizarre. I suppose some adults don't want it to be too obvious that they're reading a children's book. That is so freaking ridiculous, do they really believe that no one will notice? Deal with it people, you're reading a kid's book. So what!
Besides, it's not like the title is all that discrete on the "adult" version. Harry Potter is written even bigger than on the kid's version.
People are idiots.
This morning in the car on the way to work a commecial on the radio: Come to Whatever Sports Store for your ski equipment. Huh? Excuse me? July. 30 degrees. Gimme a fuckin' break already! Winter will be here soon enough...
Television is the first truly democratic culture - the first culture available to everybody and entirely governed by what the people want. The most terrifying thing is what people do want. - Clive Barnes
I found this hysterically funny, which proves, I guess, that I have teenage boy genes rolling around my system somewhere...
Another cool drawing blog: Mattias Inks. This one from Sweden...
In the stupid words file: Oreiller (i.e. Pillow). I had a flash last night on my way to getting myself to sleep. Pillow, in French, has to be one of the most stupid words in the language. It comes from the word "Oreille" (ear). So basically in French you pillow is a place to lay your ears. Not your head, nope, your ears...
The mind boggles.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Great Escape
Heading for the great escape
Heading for the rave
Heading for the permanent holiday
Heading for the winter trip
Heading for the slide
Heading for the dignified walk away
Heading for the open road
Goodbye to all that
Heading for the automatic overload
Standing in the open boat
Standing in the swing
Waiting for the ringing and the bright light
Waiting to be recognised
Quiet applause will do
They shower you with flowers when they bury you
You're holding on, you're holding on ...
I . The last of you
Just when I thought I'd seen the last of you
You come here scratchin' at my door
Your pain and anger's in the howling dark
Of every corridor I walk
So tell me more about the love that you rejected
Tell me more about the trust you disrespected
I still don't know, why did you hurt the very one
Why did you hurt the very one
That you should have protected?
II. Falling from the Moon
Don't ask me why I'm doing this
You wouldn't understand
You're asking the wrong questions
You couldn't understand
A bridge is not a high place
The fifty-second floor
Icarus would know
A mountain isn't far to fall
When you've fallen
When you've fallen from the moon
There's murder on the street
I'm ashes on the water now, somewhere far away
I have fallen, fallen from the moon
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Imagine, if you will, a more innocent time. A time of new cottages by a tiny lake (pond?). A time of new friends; a time before septic tanks went wonky. (That's a pic of the lake from our balcony)
A sunny day. Jazz and Mr. J off to visit neighbours across the lake. As they walk along, they pass by another neighbor’s place. These friends told the Jazzers to feel free to borrow the pedal boat whenever they wanted.
Hmmm. Hot day, hot walk or hot day leisurely pedal across the lake? Not a terribly difficult choice when you come right down to it.
Once on the dock, a question is posed. Which pedal boat to choose? There are two. A flimsy looking yellow one and a far more substantial white one. Into the yellow we climb. As we start the great crossing it seems to me that the rudder doesn’t work too well and, being the great sailor that I am, I suggest changing to the more solid looking white pedal boat “because you know if we can’t steer this thing it might be hard to get anywhere. I don’t want to be stuck going in circles in the middle of the lake”.
Mr. Jazz, wanting to keep the Jazzer happy, acquiesces.
Into the white boat we climb. And we’re off. Pedal pedal pedal to the other side of the lake for a lovely lunch, where rosé was drunk and a good time was had by all.
Eventually though, as all good things must end, we were obliged to leave. So down to the dock we go to untie the pedal boat. And in we climb. And off we pedal. To the middle of the lake.
Mr. Jazz – Are you pedalling or what?
Jazz – Of course I am. I’m even pedalling quite hard.
And into the water we went. Because the pedal boat? It was, indeed, sinking. Thankfully the poor thing, in losing our combined weight was able to keep itself above water until we pushed it across the damn lake. To the other side. Where we tied it up to the dock. Ankle deep in lake sludge. Seriously, is there anything more repulsive than lake bottom sludge? A concoction of mud, dead plants, frog and fish poo with most probably some slimy dead animal mixed in for good measure. Ugh. Reason 203,478 why I prefer pools to lakes. But I digress, as usual.
Why did this happen? Could the disaster have been averted?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
1- The only sport I watch on TV, the only sport I love, is Soccer (Football for those of us in the know. And why the hell do they call American Football football? Seems like they spend most of their time running around with the ball in their arms.)
My football passion is pretty much retricted to the big tournaments we get on mainstream TV like the World Cup, the Euro, the Olympics and now the U-20. I can get quite emotional about it all. Like when France lost and I sat there crying in the bar where I watched it. It (I) was pathetic.
2 – I have no special bodily talents. I cannot roll my tongue, I can’t touch my nose with said appendage, I can’t wiggle my nose or ears. I can do nothing out of the ordinary with my body. The only thing it does is expand. And that’s not a talent, that’s nature and 40+ at work.
3 – I’m an Air Force brat. I think this might have contributed to my love of solitude, since, though we didn’t move around all that much, most of my friends disappeared regularly. I learned to count on myself for entertainment which led, I think, to my lifelong love of books as well as an overabundant imagination.
4 – At 46, I’m ashamed to admit I still sometimes count on my fingers. I have trouble calculating tips, I’m a total spaz at anything that has to do with numbers. Useless I am. I hate numbers and they hate me right back. On the other hand I have no problem picking up languages (or at least I didn’t used to – I haven’t tried to learn a new language in a while now).
5 – I don’t much like gold. I love silver jewelry, but gold has never really appealed to me. Plus it's just way to expensive for what it is, or even for what marketing expects us to believe it is.
6 – I’m very low maintenance. My hair stylist is always compltely discouraged with me, though he does an amazing job considering what he has to work with. I love makeup but rarely use much of it (a swipe of this and a touch of that), though I am getting better at it. However, I love lipstick and refuse to count the number of tubes I have because I’d feel very very guilty about it. I even stopped dyeing my hair because it took too much time when I remembered to do it and I always had the white skunk stripe look going on. At my age, even basic maintenance takes more and more time, so I’m slowly cutting down on what little I already was doing. Again, pathetic, but I simply can't be bothered.
7 – I love seeing movies, but most of the time I’m too cheap to go. When a promising movie comes out, I put it on THE LIST to be rented when it comes out on DVD. The list, unfortunately, is growing to humungous proportions as I keep adding films to see (both old and new) and I rarely get up the gumption to actually go rent something. Besides, I still have a whole season of the Simpsons and King of the Hill on DVD to watch. Plus a season of Numbers and three of Dead Like Me I borrowed from JazzSis and my niece respectively. THE LIST will keep on growing (insert ominous horror movie music here).
8 – I love driving alone and listening to loud music. And singing along. Which I only do alone since I refuse to impose this torture on anyone. My favourite ever CD for driving alone is Queen’s Night at the Opera.
I’m in loooooove with my caar.
Got a feel for my automobile…
– and –
Scaramouche scaramouche will you do the fandango.
Thunderbolts and lightening, verry very frightening...
I know Bohemian Rhapsody up and down inside and out... And love it dearly.
One day I'll tell you all about my abiding love for Genesis and Yes and all that old prog rock...
Actually, that was pretty hard. I guess the vacuum was emptier than even I thought. I’m not going to tag anyone, but if you want to do it, please feel free.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Yesterday sucked. There are days like that, waddaya gonna go.
Today however, life is sweet. The weather is horrendous, but that’s ok. Ways in which life doesn’t suck?
- Lots of people are out of the office today, so I can actually get some work done rather than babysitting. I often think I work with a bunch of lunatics.
- I’m going to the cottage after work for a weekend of “camping”, peeing in the great outdoors and bumming showers off friends.
- Vodka tonics
- Mr. Jazz is making salmon teriakyi on the BBQ for supper.
- Supper tomorrow with friends (and I’ll be able to bum a shower beforehand)
- Somerset Studio magazine to peruse…
- Sunday is the U-20 world cup soccer final. Czech Republic against Argentina*.
- I might be going back to 1001 Pots this weekend, just to soak in the loveliness of all that pottery.
* I’m guessing no one is following the U-20, right? Or even knows it’s being played? Or cares? Yesterday’s semi between Argentina and Chile was nasty. The ref had it in for Chile for some reason. Argentina would probably have won anyway, they were the stronger team, but damn, that ref needs to be shot.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
How much can they expect me to get done in the little time they allow me?
What exactly is the point to all this?
It seems like just so much wasted time when already half my life has fled and I have no idea where it went.
Usually I’m pretty placid. Usually, I’m ok with things as they are. After all, a job is for paying bills, if it doesn’t fill me with joy and contentment, well, whatever*, them’s the breaks. I don’t see very many people around me who are filled with joy at the idea of going to work. On the contrary. So basically, most of the time I feel lucky that the thought of going into work, although it doesn’t engender huge bursts of enthusiasm, song and dance, doesn’t give me the impression of going before a firing squad either.
But on some days - particularly today, starting at meh, about 11:30 - I just want to scream and tell them to leave me the fuck alone already. I want to shriek that what little is left of my life is worth more than this.
That this is not how I want to die.
Some days I’m afraid that I’ll never manage to retire and that this is what I have to look forward to until I whither away into a puff of dust under my desk.
Aw crap, this is bullshit. Do you want some cheese with that whine Jazz? Shut the fuck up and get back to work. It's prolly PMS.
* Which probably explains my lack of career mindedness. I want to be able to leave work at work and not live and breath the experience 24/7. If the bills are paid that's enough for me.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
We are in 21st century Montreal. All houses (especially in our part of town) have running water. Soap can be bought cheaply and pretty much everywhere. Deodorant is also a staple.
Two words: Use. Them.
Give the rest of us a break. That BO was not only pervasive, I'm sure it is quickly mutating into a whole new life form, one that could well soon decide to take over the universe. It's a scary thought.
Dear other lady on the bus,
Thanks for the look and the half smile. At least I know I'm not alone in my misery.
Dear man on the park bench,
Let me explain something to you...
Those benches are not made to fit only one person. When you insist on sitting in the middle of the bench you totally violate the unwritten rules of personal space. If you're in the middle of the bench I can't sit on the same bench to eat my lunch.
From now on, please choose one end or the other so that we might all have a relatively comfortable lunch hour.
Dear whoever you are at the cottage,
There really is no call for running a chainsaw at 8:00 am on a Saturday morning.
No valid reason exists, short of the fact that a tree is likely to fall onto your house in the next 15 minutes. Once, perhaps, but not every damn weekend, even in the rain.
Unlike you, I have a life. And this life dictates that I should be allowed to sleep in until at least 9:00 on a Saturday morning.
'Cause dude, I can always get out my own chainsaw, and it won't be to cut down trees. Have you ever seen the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies?
Think about it.
Dear Company Client,
When I answer the phone and say someone is not there, it is because he or she is not there. Or at any rate, not there for you.
No amount of acting like an asshole will get you anywhere closer to them than their voicemail.
Deal with it. I have been known to bite - both literally and metaphorically.
Plus, I know bigger words than you do, and unlike you, I know their meaning.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Ian at Or So I Thought (and I'm not linking him because a) I'm too lazy and b) I've linked him a million times and he's in my blog roll and if you still haven't found him, I give up - thinks I'm a blogger with the power to schmooze (I so love yiddish words, what a brilliant language).
"He's a schmoozer, I'm a schmoozer, don't you want to be a schmoozer too? Be a schmoozer, blog with the schmoozers, be a schmoozer, blog with the schmoozers"**
Have you ever noticed how strange certain words look or sound when you repeat them over and over?
Ok, um.. back to the subject. See? Winning this award has made me all giddy.
Of course, when you think of it, it's not that hard an award to get, mathematically speaking. If every person who gets it passes it on to five people, it's a matter of mere months before the whole blogosphere is the proud recipient of the coveted "Schmoozer award". But maybe that's the point seeing at it's a "blogging community involvement award".
Yet again I digress. Back to the subject Jazz.
Actually the whole blogging community involvement part is interesting. Many non-bloggers or non-forumers don't really understand how this can be a real community. Lots of people just don't get it.
Personally I love the interaction in my blog and those I visit. I love checking out the comments, responding to them, getting to know other bloggers through them. Many of my favourite blogs were found through the comments on others' blogs.
Again I've been told, "So its a sort of friendship without any investment" (spoken in a condescending tone). Perhaps it is, I don't know. But must all relationships involve tons of investment and committment? I think I have a lot less invested with several people I know in real life than I do with some of the bloggers I read.
The only problem I have with these things and memes (and it is a major problem) is that every time, I end up discovering a whole new passel of blogs I love. There are only so many hours in a day unfortunately. And I do have a real life...
You know what? This post is going absolutely nowhere at a dangerously high speed.
So lets's tag those five bloggers. I'll be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn't have this award at least once, if not more...
Gnightgirl because she is an awesome woman doing wonderful work that started out with sending a few beanie babies to her son in Iraq to distribute to the children. It has become a huge endeavour with people sending in thousands of beanie babies, soccer balls and such to Iraq. An award should be developed exclusively for her. All this because of her blog. If that isn't schmoozing, I don't know what is.
Jill because she's hilarious and she really needs to post something new blog - her last is over a week old. Besides, I have to butter her up, in case I go to Texas this fall and call to meet her. How can she say no if I've given her an award?
Toastie is one of those bloggers who became a friend (through a forum first). Besides she needs an award, she just got her driver's license. Perhaps all of England should now hide.
Ticknart because I just love the boy and because I will soon be shamelessly poach his 100 questions comments or observations post. This could save me from his wrath.
Evil Spock I know BB already gave it to him, but he does deserve it again, he is after all a schmoozer extraordinaire who is dead set on taking over the world, starting with the US presidency in 2012. The US needs him as president so numerous nominations for an award will look good on his resumé. Too bad it's not a humanitarian award, but we do what we can.
And for anyone else who is intersted, feel free to award it to yourself. That way everyone in the blogosphere will have one that much quicker. 'Cause we're all for inclusion and all.
* Poor Sally Field, will that comment ever disappear from our radars? Or is it only me who remembers the moment...
** Sung to the jingle of the Dr. Pepper commercials of old. Has the jingle changed? Probably. Does anyone know the song I'm talking about?
Monday, July 16, 2007
Mine (because who is more important here???) is a cup. The perfect mug for tea. It’s big, I can stick my whole hand into the handle, it’s perfectly balanced and just the right size to wrap my hands around. It is, without a doubt the best tea mug in the entire known universe. I must have tried every damn cup in the place and when I picked up that one, I knew. David Camirand had made it just for me (it’s the same design as the coffee bowl there, ‘cept it’s the ultimate tea mug). Just thinking of that cup up at the cottage waiting for my Saturday morning tea makes me happy. Especially since Mr. Jazz bought me a cast iron Japanese teapot for my birthday. This one actually (well, pretty much).
My life as a tea whore just keeps getting better and better. Why wasn’t tea in my vibrations? What was I thinking?!?!
We also bought a bottle to keep olive oil. Now, I might be the tea whore in our family, but Mr. Jazz loves his olive oil. Yes indeedy he does. Mr. Jazz? He has his everyday olive oil that we use for cooking and his serious ass foody olive oil for salads and dipping and such. One type of olive oil is simply not enough to cover our olivey needs. Because everyone knows a great olive oil seriously rocks.
As for his everyday oil, Mr. Jazz buys his Solon in three or four litre jugs (yep, we use that much; a jug at home and one at the cottage). However, seeing the size of our miniscule kitchen at the cottage, we can’t store the jug there so it stays downstairs. And Mr. Jazz, being the well organized cook that he is, has a bottle which he regularly fills from the jug.
The last, well, next to last – the penultimate (to show off my vocabulary) bottle was an empty bottle of Iceberg Vodka.
Aside, Digression and Product Placement: Iceberg Vodka (proudly made in Canada from iceberg water, which is pretty much the purest water you can get) rocks as much as premium olive oil, indeed it does. Its effects are somewhat more outstanding though, especially after three cosmos. Trust me on this.
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
We had friends coming over for dinner and had used the last of the olive oil. Mr. Jazz took an empty bottle of Iceberg he had on hand and filled it with oil. Put it in the cupboard. Pretty much forgot about it.
Couple of hours later, the guests arrive. We go greet them, they come upstairs and Alain asks, when he arrives at the top of the stairs. “How come you have water running out of your cupboard?”
“Water? That’s impossible!”
And it was impossible. The bottle, it had exploded. That wasn’t water but 750 ml of olive oil running out of the cupboard. And into the microwave, and the dishwasher and over the counter and the floor in an ever expanding puddle. Who knew 750 ml could spread out quite that much?
Have you ever tried to mop up almost a litre of olive oil? It’s actually quite funny really. Try standing barefoot in a puddle of olive oil (my feet were ultra soft for over a week). Squeegeeing oil off the counter, mopping it off the floor, slipping and sliding the whole time. Did you know there's a crack between wall and cupboard where olive oil can insinuate itself and thus drip down said wall for ages? Did you know that liquids can get into a microwave door? And that they’ll leak out for over a month afterwards. We now have the best lubed microwave evah!
Mr. Jazz then swore that Iceberg Vodka bottles would forevermore be thrown into the recycling bin when emptied. Thus spoke Mr. Jazz. Evermore.
And that he’d get a bottle especially for the olive oil.
Thus, yesterday's purchase. It was made by Melanie Renaud. A bottle which, we hope, will not have the blog-worthy idea of exploding in the cupboard.
Because, lets be honest here, wiping up errant olive oil for over a month is not the most intellectually stimulating of activities.
Friday, July 13, 2007
This meme entails that I tell you five ways in which I raise my vibrations.
Of course there’s the obvious, that vibrator that’s been living in the bedside table for years now, but I guess that’s not what we’re talking about here. (Hey, c’mon, this blog is rated R, I’m just too damn old to clean up my act). And that little paragraph was actually Google's fault all the images it pulled up for vibrations was either Beach Boys or sexual... go figure.
OK, so, five things.
1) First and foremost and forever (ain’t I just the bestest at alliteration?) – Mr. Jazz. He’s always there for me, he makes me laugh hysterically and my life is just so much better for having him in it. It’s been almost 20 years and I’ve never been bored. Our relationship has gone from butterflies in the belly and fireworks to something way less, well intense, perhaps for want of a better word, but way more comfortable and deep and loving, and even better I’d say. Besides I’m not sure I could have sustained the intensity of butterflies and fireworks for 20 years. After all these years I’m still discovering things about him. After all these years we have this telepathy thing going on where we know what the other is thinking. Plus, he knows why beds were invented and can get me vibrating in a flash…
2) Books – Always books. I am an avid reader. I have been ever since I was a child. Our house was full of books and none of them were off limits. I’ll read pretty much anything in French or English, and like Ian, I cannot conceive of a bathroom without reading material. I’m never bored with a book and it’s my great escape from life when things get to be too much. I’m very good at escaping into other worlds. I spend a lot of time there, much more than I should, perhaps.
I read all the time, on the bus, in lines, walking down the street (I have a radar I swear), and I’m incapable of leaving the house without a book. I. Can. Not. Do. It. Being caught without a book is my own little phobia.
3) Marillion – Nuff said, you all know my passion for Marillion (and it’s a plus that the name is from Tolkien – remember the Simarillion?) I’d put down Tokien as a vibration inducer, consider him part of item 2…I guess I could also include music generally under this heading. Chet Baker, Miles Davis, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart… Britney Spears. (Ha! Gotcha!)
4) Green – Live green stuff. Its smell, its colour. Thus, it follows, summer. I’m a summer whore. I love summer with a passion. Life, it seems, can’t be really really awful in summer. I come alive in summer. Surprisingly, despite my love of green, I’m extremely adept at killing plants. They usually don’t survive more than a few months with me. Except for lucky bamboo. The mutant bamboo (which is actually a variety of dracaena – trivia makes me vibrate too…) on my desk is still going strong. Frighteningly so. It has to be lucky to come into contact with me and survive.
5) Blogging – It pretty much started out as a joke which I figured would last a couple of months, six at most. After perusing a ton of blogs I figured, “Hey! I can do that.” And probably better than some of the things I read. Then I discovered just how much I liked doing it. And I found my groove, what type of blogging I wanted to do and that was that. I’ve never looked back. I think basically it’s the writing . I love to write, I’ve been keeping a journal since I was 12 and it has kept me sane and vibrating way more often than scribbling should. Blogging is different in that it’s not as personal, more of a commentary and, well, hell, I’m going around in circles here. I just like doing it, ok?
There are tons of other things of course: good friends, good food, good wine (un-good wine just makes me sick), the cottage when the toilet can be flushed and I can take a shower (so not so much these days), a hot cup of tea, making collages (to soothe my inner really really really bad artist, Bwahaha)…
And now I’m supposed to tag five people. I usually don't, but this time I will because I’m feeling evil today and enjoy putting people on the spot…Actually it’s hard keeping it to five, so anyone else who wants to can have a stab at it…
Big Brother – because he’ll find a way to make fun of me over this entry and that way I’ll be able to laugh at him too.
ChooChoo – Because I don’t want her to be dulled during her long long long summer vacation.
Paula – Because I’m very curious about this fellow Montrealer
Ticknart – Because he needs to think good thoughts right now I think
Geewits – Because as she's one of the newer people on my bloglist, I'm curious as to what she'll say...
And for good measure Jocelyn because 1) I try to not follow rules when I can get away with it - such a rebel I am and 2) I'm sure she'll have me in stiches with her answers...
Now, off y'all go and answer the meme...
Monday, July 09, 2007
Life at the cottage
Pee inside or out
Going to see friends
And using their shower
Blogger craps out again
I can't use the title line
At least it posts now.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
I want this car: The Air Car
I love this blog, being a word whore and all: Linguisitc Mystic
Seen on the way home from work yesterday. A sixtyish man sitting in his huge boat of a Lincoln Continental singing Satisfaction at the top of his lungs. I know he’s the right age and all, but it was bizarre seeing this overweight, bald 60-something in his granddaddy car singing to the Stones.
The mutant bamboo on my desk (which I spoke about quite a while back and am too lazy to link to) has been transplanted into a pot of earth. It seems to want to survive. I can’t believe I haven’t killed it yet.
The plant next to it seems to have decided to, as we say in French "Rendre l'âme" (i.e. give up its soul). May it rest in peace.
It's berry season. Strawberry, Cherry, Blueberry... Happy Jazz
God I’m bored.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Last night you see, I went to see a show. Remember Marillion? The show I saw in Paris that I raved about before even seeing it? Well, Steve Hogarth, the lead singer, was in Montreal doing a solo show. H alone on stage with a piano. Who knew he was such a great pianist. Singing his songs, singing other people’s songs, chatting with the audience.
It was brilliant. Granted, he didn’t have to work to win us over. It was his only show in North America and he played for a bunch of die hard fans, so he had everyone in his pocket from the get go. He could’ve come out done a little something and left. But no. He came out and played for over three hours. Three. Hours. Straight. How often have you seen that in a show? Played and chatted and took questions and requests from the audience.
Everyone was feeling the luuuuuurve. It was flowing, electrifying the room. In all my years of seeing shows, I’ve never seen anything like it. The closest I’ve ever come was at other Marillion shows and when I saw Pat Metheny on McGill College Avenue at the Jazz Fest many many years ago.
Hence the letdown. Neither Hogarth nor Marillion will be in Montreal again anytime soon. And the Jazzer? She wants more. I'm thinking she and Mr. Jazz will have to jump the pond for the next Marillion tour.
I find it sorta just a bit pathetic to be so hooked on a particular musician/band at my age…