Please excuse me but I got to ask...

Are you only being nice
Because you want something*

What follows is a really lame ass attempt at a real post. This one's for you my 4 loyal readers. I know it's been awhile so enjoy the esotericism while you can, because it's just a matter of time before I become facetious again.

Remember William Sampson? And Maher Arar? Sampson proved to me that soft power diplomacy in the Canadian context is a bunch of bullshit, because uh, we kind of have no power, soft or hard. I came to the painful realisation that if one day I found myself in a similar bind, my country would most likely fail me. Arar's issue is just frightening on so many different levels. I mean seriously. All you can do is look at what happened to him and say wtf? The whole idea of dual citizenship now makes me queasy. It's so evident that if your "other" citizenship happens to be in the wrong country, you're pretty fubared.

Are your spider senses tingling? Could this be a rant about the government's responsibility to uphold my Charter Rights? So close, yet so far. (Remember that earlier bit about this being lame ass? This is where it comes in.) See I was reading the newspaper and came across these two great articles about what it means to be a Canadian in light of what's been going down in Lebanon.

Canadian woman taking the piss out of a Lebanese soldier. For more heart warming pictures go here.

Given my predilection for wanting to get the hell out of Toronto as soon as possible - I love you t-dot, but even those in the most stable relationships need space - you can imagine that this would be a matter of concern for me. I sympathise with everyone who had to be evacuated, I'm sure that Lebanon must be a real hell hole right now. But what gets my quince is that a vast majority of those evacuees were permanent residents of Lebanon. Who were (sometimes ungratefully) airlifted out at the expense of the Canadian tax payer. There were reports that dual Lebanese-Canadian passport holders who hadn't lived in Canada for decades were given preference over Canadian permanent residents! Something just doesn't equate. You decide to leave Canada, settle down in Beirut, run your business raise your kids and be active members of life in Lebanon and then when shit happens you turn to Canada to bail you out?

Now fast forward to when I have given into my predilection. Myself and my (drop dead gorgeous husband) François have been settled down in Côte d'Ivoire for a couple of years and our kids attend a tony private school in Abidjan. Some sort of serious destabilisation within the country happens, and all foreign nationals need to leave as soon as possible. Hubby is a French passport holder and can easily leave but he works for an IGO and is obligated to stay as he is "essential" staff. I still travel on my Canadian passport, and my brats are dual nationals of both France and Canada. Here's the issue, they're both under the age of 8 and they've never lived in either country because François and I have been globe trotting for the last 13 years. We have neither contributed to society in Canada or France we do however work in the development sector and as such it would be "ethically" okay for me and the brats to be evacuated by the Canadian military.

I guess what this poorly executed post is actually trying to get at is this. What difference does it make if I've lived in Abidjan for 13 years as the wife of the CFO of Nestles West Africa (because, come on guys, you so know that François could handle that shit) or in the capacity of a bleeding heart aid worker. Both circumstances in my opinion are no different from the other, but it's all about perception right? As I've mentioned before, (and also annoyed most of you in person by voicing,) they're both inherently selfish. At the end of the day both a Canadian and a Frenchman have willingly left their countries of origins to make a life for themselves elsewhere. Do both scenarios deserve the same kind of attention in such a situation? The taxpaying public of Canada is definitely going to be much more sympathetic to the bleeding heart than they are to CFO. But is it fair?

So? This conundrum is now another one of those "factors" I'd have to think about before hightailing it out of here. Dual citizenship has been off the list for awhile now, as has the Middle East. Fortunately though François is brainier than a brain pudding and he'll be able to figure something out eventually.

*The Eraser. Sorry, I just can't stop listening to it!

Quips: Back by popular demand

It's been awhile since I've dug out some of the gems I've been privy to.

Words of wisdom from Aiya
Sucks that Aiya's moved out. But he does come home on Sunday mornings, and kinda hangs out until Monday. You guys know how he is. There's just too much goodness.

In the car, on the way for Sunday dinner
Me: I was on the internet, and i found this woman who breeds...
Aiya: Leprechauns?
Me: No you idiot...
Aiya: Lesbian Leprechauns?

After discovering a stash of phone cards, ammi deemed it appropriate to call all of our relatives.
Ammi: Here's a phone card, go and call your grandparents...
Aiya: Gah...
Ammi: You'll regret it when they get alzheimers
Aiya: No. If they had alzheimers and complained I never called, I'd tell them that I called them yesterday. And they wouldn't know.
*15 Seconds later*
Ammi: Did you call them??
Aiya: Ya. I did. The line was engaged
Ammi: This phone card? It hasn't even been scratched.

Random after dinner conversation
Me: Who's that on the front porch?
Vindhiya: Starts with an "E" and ends in a "K"
Aiya: Uh. Would that be "Eksathk"?
Me: No, I think the "K" is pronounced as an "H"
Aiya: Okay, well I think you're being something that starts with a "B" and ends in a "K"
Me: Hilarious. You should seriously look into stand up.
Aiya: That's right. A bitck. But remember, the "K" is pronounced "H"

On Food
We are a family of eaters. There's really not much more to it, as a result we spend a large portion of the day not only eating, but also talking about food.

At the local Sri Lankan take-out joint on a day when everyone was way too lazy to cook
Aiya: I want "cuttlefish"*
Me: Ya, I'm in the mood for calamari too.
Ammi: Well kids, I'm sorry. They don't have either of those. There's only squid on the menu.
* the posh way of saying "squid" in Sri Lanka. Although, as far as I know, they're two different species. But for the sake of this quip, let's just say they're one and the same.

Whilst watching a terribly written (what else is new?) Hindi movie
Me: You know what, the cinematography in this movie, it's so good. I'm speechless because I'm so surprised.
Aiya: I know, it's pretty impressive.
Me: It's all very Citizen Kane, with the camera angles and stuff...
Aiya: You mean, Citizen Jalebi.
Me: Ummkay.
Aiya: Or Citizen Gulab Jamun. Mmm. Citizen Ras Malai. Now that's something I haven't eaten in awhile. Ras Malai is so effing good.

After lunch at Punchi's place. Struggling against a sever case of 'itis
Punchi: Do you want some ice cream?
Me: Hmm...depends on what kind you have.
Vindhiya: We have a load. OoOoO There's Napoleon. You like that right?
Me: Napoleon?
Vindhiya: Ya Napoleon. You know, with the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry stripes?
Me: Napoleon? I think you mean Neapolitan? Have you been referring to it as Napoleon for the last 19 years?
Vindhiya: Maybe.

Surprisingly I haven't been pushed into anorexia. Yet.
Alby and I could never have an eating disorder. Not because we're totally happy with our love handles (among other things), but it's just because neither of us has the self will or determination to carry out an eating disorder. Keeping this in mind and viewing the below will give you ample evidence that there's enough psychological pressure to push me over the edge.

So terrible, that he will not even be named! But babe, you know who you are.
Me: I'm thinking about getting my belly button pierced.
Him: Really?
Me: Ya. Feeling a bit bleh these days and want to *do* something that doesn't involve getting drunk and making out with random guys.
Him: Well, ya that makes sense. But there's just one problem.
Me: What? That it'll be painful and I'll pass out?
Him: No. You have a gut. And no one will see the piercing, because it'll be completely obscured in its environment.
Me: It's a wonder that I don't have an eating disorder yet you know that?
Him: Loose the gut, and then get the piercing. That's my advice to you. It's foolproof.

While taking pictures after an overly large lunch when alby was able to break free from the holds of her Jewish over night camp and escape from Bracebridge for the day. Or wherever the hell that place is located
Alby: It looks like shit.
Me: Ya. We can't, we've spent like the last decade trying but we just can't.
Alby: Labro, just take the picture again, we both look like ass.
Labro: Is there anything that I can do...?
Me: Emergency face transplants perhaps?
Labro: I meant in terms of camera angles...

One of those occasions where were all just sitting around shooting the shit
Labro: (Looking at Copto) You know, loosing weight wasn't that hard. It's all about quantities...
Copto: Erm...
Me: Labro. Look how much weight he's lost. He's so thin now. I don't really think he needs any tips
Whoren: Ya, maybe you should be directing it this way. (Looks my way)
Me: Ya, I'm the one who needs it.
Copto: Ya, your words are wasted on me, she's the one who really needs the advice. (Turns my way)

Random Thoughts
I couldn't figure out where to stick these.

Whoren: So does he have a moustache?
Me: Whoren. What the hell?
Whoren: No seriously. Does he?
Me: Why would you even ask that?
Whoren: Well, you said he was Sri Lankan. Does he wear army fatigues too?
Me: You geek, he's not a Tamil Tiger.
Whoren: Ya but he should have a moustache. Otherwise it's just not right. Do you have a picture?
Me: Just this grainy one on my phone. He's the brown smudge on my right in blue.
Whoren: Whoa. He looks like he's 8 feet tall. That's a really tall guy. Does he play ball?
Copto: If he played ball, I could kill him. Guy we could kick his ass.
Me: (To Whoren) He's tall. But not as tall as that loser. (Glares at Copto.)
(Back to Whoren) As far as he's mentioned he only plays cricket in a hardcore manner.
Whoren: At least he's athletic. But really, it's a shame about that moustache

Aiya: Guess who I'm going to see August 27th?
Me: Um. I heard Ice Cube is coming?
Aiya: No. Listen to this.
Me: What is it?
Aiya: Just shut up and listen to it. It was like your summer theme song.
Me: Hmm, wasn't aware that I had one.
"Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira starts to play.*
Me: First of all you're an ass. Secondly, I didn't know Wyclef was coming, and why aren't you taking me?!
Aiya: Um. I'm going to see Shakira.
Me: Shut. The. Mom. Up.
*Long pause*
Me: I just don't know what to say. I'm so shocked.
*In my (albeit flimsy) defence, one could hardly call it a theme song. I just happened to be at this place called the Onyx one evening with some friends, and got asked to dance by 4 guys. At the same time. What can I say? Sri Lankans like Shaki.

Summah

As I've mentioned a few times already, I love Toronto, unashamedly and unabashedly. Although I'm not a huge fan of the sweltering, flesh cooking heat that we've been experiencing as of late, I still believe that summer time in this city is the best. You're not dealing with slush, salt, boots, and my personal favourite: wet cuffs on your pants.

Anywhere I've been, no matter what the length of time has been, I'm always struck by how kicking this city is. However, after my stint in Sri Lanka this year I've come home a touch confused. Is it just me or have Torontonians become more desperate? Or perhaps it might just be people who make the mistake of taking summer school? It doesn't matter what Canadian city you live in, as soon as the weather hits 14+ people (namely boys) will bust out the shorts and birkis assaulting as all with their iridescent white legs. It's not pretty, but it goes to show the love affair that this country has with the summer. This love methinks translates into the need to hook-up. Granted this issue is probably foremost on most single people's minds during the cold season as well, but it just hits a fever pitch when it's warm. Perhaps it's because hotpants have made a comeback? But really I don't know.

Here is a bit of an anomaly. The last time I checked, I was festively plump. Added to the plumpness I have a terrible farmer's tan from two months in motherland and yellow legs. The brown person's answer to pasty whiteness. Now friends, these are the facts. What I don't understand is the increase in drink offers since coming home. Can someone explain? Do I suddenly look like an alcoholic? Or perhaps it's because as I hinted above, I'm dealing with a new type of desperate? I mean, as Whoren has so kindly pointed out on numerous occasions, only really geeky people do summer school. And I agree. So maybe these summer school geeks are just more desperate than normal geeks in the summer?

Does anyone have answers to these burning questions of mine?

And so, here are a few random observations.

Toronto the Good

Regularly working A/C on the TTC. Dude. If you've ever travelled in one of the faulty cars, you know.

Saigon subs!

The dumpy fellow in the faded black t-shirt who offered to hold my books while I launched World War III against my umbrella, who during that particular torrential downpour deemed it appropriate to flip inside out. Multiple times.

The graffitti on the door of the last stall in the lady's washroom at Pratt. "Don't be pretentious on a bathroom stall." Love it! Mostly because it's only pretentious bastards who use Pratt ever. Damn artsies.

Toronto the Bad

Buying an ice cream cone, and then having the ice cream man try to bum smokes off of me.

The cute hipster watching the World Cup final behind me at the Beac who was about 6'2 and had a waistline I would die for.

Not being able to meet up with the core four more often.

Having to stoop and scoop.

Aiya moving out.

Late Breaking News

So. Um. I'm back?

Two months in Sri Lanka.

Worked once again with the most brilliant people I've ever met, and most probably that I'll ever meet period.

Met a really dodgy Auditor. (A Clyde to my Bonnie if you will. Or is it a Bonnie to my Clyde? Maybe even a Butch Cassidy to my Sundance Kid? A Thelma to my Louise? And now? All this outlaw talk? It's just left me confused.)

Discovered I have an Alcoholic Cousin Who Has An Affinity For Vodka. (Here after ACWHAAFV). Confirmed the general suspicion that it is indeed the Tamil side of the family who knows how to party.

Watched another (more sane) cousin walk down the aisle and felt a bit queasy because, my God. We're getting old! Time's not waiting up for me and I still feel like I'm 15.

Met a friend from Toronto in Colombo and was told that I had acquired a slight Sri Lankan accent. Nearly died. My worst fear realised. Full blame rests on the shoulders of the Auditor and the ACWHAAFV. Have attempted to drop said accent but it creeps up ever so often, especially when accidentally blurting out "yeah men."

Conned an entire city into believing that I am indeed a good person with morals and a level head on my shoulder. (Yeah, is your stomach cramping from laughter too?). The farce my friends is now officially international.

Engaged in some suspect behaviour that made me feel like a bonafide Sri Lankan (and not a hyphenated one) for the first time in my entire life.

Came home 3 weeks ago. Incidentally on Canada Day, couldn't have orchestrated a better day to land.

So, that kind of sums up all the main points of the last two months pretty well I think? Suprisingly succinct isn't it? Have no fear though, I'm still long winded and verbose. Just really lazy today that's all.

This Just In
Very little time these days for leisure writing children. This naturally can be a problem when one does not have any leisure to speak of. I'm in the thick of summer school. And yeah, I ask myself every day wtf I was thinking when I decided to sign up for not one but TWO courses. As a result there are a limited amount of subjects I can blog about coherently. (But wait, when was I ever coherent?)


- Yet another grainey photo that proves I'd be an amazing spy!But this is in the name of fashion, Robert Best from Project Runway

My spare time has been spent on the following: Enlightenment philosophy and its role in political theory and the concept of lost love in the collected works of Anton Chekhov. Why such light hearted and fun subjects you ask? Papers my friend. Papers. That's all I have time for. Well. And reality TV of course. I outed my dirty TV habits awhile ago and you're already well aware of my penchant for Bollywood and collegiate humour (more specifically anything with a Wilson, Stiller or Ferrell). And now with the new season of Project Runway airing a bit earlier than usual, do you understand why I haven't been blogging? I mean, that's all the justification you need. (That and the fact that Zizou took up most of my time when I came home. But we won't talk about that just yet.) I'm behind Robert, because, um how freaking cute is he? The little pot belly and tank-top combo? Loving it! And, I'm waiting like everyone else for Vincent to have Woody Allen-esque breakdown on national television.

Well my pets, hopefully my updates will be more frequent, but I wouldn't count on it (due to the aforementioned laziness.) First let's see if I even survive this coming week. That's right! Ammi's at home and Hezbollah's got nothing on her.

A Diabetic coma awaits me.

So, leaving for the motherland today at 7:00pm and as usual it hasn't sunk in yet. Looks like the next two months will be full of eating, eating, and more eating which will entail copious amounts of deep fried things, things soaked in sugar, and enough carbs to make me the fourth tenor.

Still haven't found my camera. I have a sinking suspicion it was stolen, although I'd like to think otherwise. We had some real random people through the house these last few weeks, and given my inability to be "careful" with my things I guess it was inevitable that eventually one day, someone would walk away with something of mine. But why did it have to be so close to a vacation?! Well, to the bastard who took it, I hope you're enjoying all those blurry Coldplay pictures and shots of Oliver frolicking at various different times.

Anywho, as there will be no photo updates unless I find my camera within the next 6.5 hours (which if that were to happen. OMG,) I shall point you in the direction of the travelogue. Remember to bookmark! And see you all in 2 months.

Catch me HERE for the next two months. Updates are forthcoming.

Just one more 24 hour period...that's all I'm asking for.

Every year as part of their United Way fundraising campaign, Ammi's office has this great option of letting their employees "buy" a day off of work for 20 bucks with all proceeds going to the charity. Not only is it an excellent way to get practically everyone in the office to give money to a very worthy cause it also leaves folks with one less day working for the man. Everyone wins. Now only if the United Way had some sort of great mystical power to actually add an extra 24 hours to the week, making it 8 days instead of 7. (I think the Beatles were really on to something with that. Always ahead of their time those bastards.)

Anyways, why the pressing need for the 8th day? Well. I like many others in this world suffer from debilitating procrastination. As a result of this unhappy trait I often find myself working feverishly at the 11th hour on any given thing. Time management? Uh. Not really one of my strong points. However if wasting time on the internet was a major league sport, I could lead my team on to the championships undefeated and then go on to defend the title comfortably for 2 decades.

I have one last exam left on Thursday and I've had a three week study break (along with one other exam). It has been a great success pissing away all those free days which could have been spent on something more constructive than eating cookies. (mMm. Cookies.) Currently I am attempting to read 2 semesters worth of pointless drivel on the history of Canadian Foreign Relations. Exciting stuff let me assure your. I'm leaving to Colombo on Friday and normally wouldn't think of packing or even doing my laundry until Thursday night, making it a point to never sleep before flying and staying up for at least 24 hours before super long distance flights. It's the only way that I can actually sleep restfully on a plane. Unfortunately it seems like my plan for procrastinated packing has been thwarted. I have lost my digital camera.

Most of you might be able to go back in your collective memories to remember the state of my locker in highschool. It wasn't pretty. By every definition I seem to be a lot like "Monica," a neat freak at heart but also very capable of possessing one area that's a complete disaster, for her it was a closet, and for me it's my bedroom. If you take a look at my near non-existent lecture and reading notes they're organised to the point of having colour coordinated post-its and matching hi-liters along with copiously written notations in the margins, also done in colour coordinated pen. My room on the other hand is probably harbouring Osama Bin Laden unbeknownst to me. I was hoping that by attacking my room in a manner reminiscent to a US shock and awe campaign I'd be able to unearth the elusive digital camera. It hasn't been that easy friends, the camera is proving to be as wily as the Scarlet Pimpernel; my vain attempts to outsmart it through covert operations are no match for its superiour wit and I am now rather despondent.

It is with this poignant tale of heartbreaking grief that I plead for another 24 hours, to not only find my camera but also to finish my readings.

*sigh*

Broken Social Scene
So.

This is my last week of classes before finals, which means that 3 week study break I'm getting will be spent trying to get my shit together for 2 months in Sri Lanka. Right now I'm not overly excited about that prospect mainly because I will not be in Toronto on June 24th, and I really wish I was. When you lead an existence as shallow as mine the thought of dying of heatstroke in Colombo loses its appeal really fast when you realise that you could die of heatstroke at Centre Island. Yeah, once again, another summer of missing the Broken Social Scene Olympic Island concert which is one of the kickingest concerts of the year. The preliminary lineup this year seems pretty good, Feist, Bloc Party and who knows who else will be added. You know what adds insult to injury?

1. I could have gotten cheaper presale tickets earlier on this week because I'm an Inside Edge Member.
2. One of Aiya's part-time waiters is freaking IN Broken Social Scene. Which obviously translates into FREE tickets.
3. Rotate This and the usual haunts are also selling tickets, which means exploitation via ticketmaster (today at 10am if you want tickets!) wouldn't have been a necessary evil.
4. I'm already missing the Toronto Jazz Festival, which is also pretty kicking.

Instead I get to look forward to a summer spent in a capital city where "entertainment" means:
A) Going and watching painful and poorly made theatre. I've seen highschool plays better acted and written than the stuff I've slept through at the Wendt.
B) Getting drunk off your face, then proceeding to operate a motor vehicle whilst inebriated and bragging about it the next afternoon to your equally stupid friends.
C) Going to clubs where they play realllllly bad music, so bad that you just feel sorry.

Added to the above is the lack of good live music. It's either all covers (of bad music) or weird Sri Lankan metal bands (I.Know.) To put things into perspective, this is the country that professional musicians go to because their careers in the west are already dead. i.e. Peter Andre, Shaggy, Bryan Adams, Kool and the Gang and Engelbert Humperdinck are the ones I can name off the top of my head.

(What I think is the saddest thing is that people will actually drop a load of cash to go and see the above washouts. When I was there last year Engelbert was about to grace Colombo with his presence, tickets were going for 10,000 Rs, which give or take is about $100.00).

There are a lot more things to complain about, but I'll refrain from doing so right now.

What?

I'm not bitter.

OK. So I might be a little.

Damn you Broke Social Scene, couldn't you have done this concert in say, August?

*sigh*

The Lord can take me now, for I have seen Coldplay in the flesh.

A really poor example of how awesome the concert was last night. Taken in the nosebleeds by my crappy digital camera

I can't even start to babble incoherently about last night's concert, because I'm still in a state of absolute shock. Alby and I have been hyperventilating about seeing Coldplay for months now. It was every bit as awesome as we expected it to be and then some. A few random musings, as you can read loads of reviews by professionals here and for the previous night's show here.

1. I am very glad that I trusted my better judgment and took my binoculars despite the jeering.
People weren't laughing when the show started though. We had crap seats, and that mofo was powerful enough that I could see the rings on Chris Martin's hands and Richard Ashcroft's pasty white feet and funny looking toes.

2. Richard Ashcroft is a badass.
I could have seen controller.controller eight times with the amount of money I spent on my Coldplay ticket. If the opening act was crappy, this would have made me question the value of my investment. However I didn't find myself in that situation, because Richard Ashcroft brought the house down. Even though he is ridiculously gangly and all sorts of fug, I wish he had taken his aviator glasses off. I thought my head was going to explode when he ended his set off with Bittersweet Symphony. I have loved The Verve since I was a brat in the 90s, they were an absolutely essential part of my BritPop experience. I totally agree with the writer of this article, if circumstances had been different and members of the band had been able to get their shit together, it could have EASILY been The Verve headlining at the ACC last night.

3. I enjoyed the show in all of its sell-outy goodness.
When you're an indie snob, it's a given that you a) never EVER admit to enjoying mainstream bands and b) never go and see said band in an stadium for a concert. I saw screw that. Seeing as how I had never been to a mother concert that had 17,000 people in attendance and all the requisite pyrotechnics, I was utterly floored by the whole experience. I'll definitely be buying the DVD when it comes out.

4. Chris Martin made me feel like a lard
I think it's wrong that a 29 year old man should be so thin and rubber-like. But perhaps that's jealousy on my part, I can't imagine being able to do all the running, leaping and jumping he did over the course of the evening let alone two nights in a row for the entire tour. Must be all the yoga he does with the wifey.

5. Alby did not provide me with waterworks or any other form of hysterics, and for that I was disappointed.
When we got past the hissing scalpers and managed to get inside of the ACC we were greeted by loudspeakers piping out The Scientist which is our favourite Coldplay song of all time. Alby started to get teary eyed, and I looked on with glee thinking that the evening's waterworks were getting underway a littele earlier than anticipated. She totally psyched me out, I don't know what's going on, but Alby's becoming a hard ass. She didn't weep, pass out, or do anything remotely Albyish. Although I'm hoping it's because she was inhaling drugs during Richard Ashcroft's set.

6. Played the best game of 'spot the brown' ever.
As you know, a favourite leisure activity of ours was to play a little game called 'spot the brown' where you'd count the amount of brown people in a specific locale. Most times, I would be the only one. Coldplay was a sea of white, I don't think I saw a single black person in there, unless they were the big burly security guys forcing people to throw out their potentially lethal bottled water. However there was a smattering of brown, we had three guys sitting in the row ahead of us, the horribly stereotypical type. You know wearing pressed severely pleated khakis and dress shirts in some variation of indigo blue. They were also responsible for getting two rows in our section baked. That's right, they were smoking up at a Coldplay concert.

7. I don't know how to WOOOO properly
I can't sing. Therefore it should come as no surprise that I can't even do a fangirl scream properly. I either yell in my normal voice range, or one that is so high it can shatter glass. Since Alby was sick last night and wasn't deafening me with her screams, she was able to hear the horror which I inflicted on the greater Coldplay audience.

8. Stop with the PDA.
I don't care if you're TomKat or another dog sniffing Ollie's nether regions, PDA is i) so trashy and b) so unwanted. If I wanted to watch someone being groped in public I'd go to a club in Woodbridge.

Quips
A special Coldplay version of quips. (I know, I haven't done this in a long while)

Richard Ashcroft: Everything is about branding, I used to be McVerve, but now I'm known as Cocashcroft

Alby and I simultaneously: Oh gosh, who ever knew he had a son let alone a wife! (upon hearing that it was Richard Ashcroft's son Sonny's 6th birthday yesterday. For those of you who care, they were at the zoo yesterday and they saw porcupines and what Ashie thought was a chimpanzee, but turned out to be an orangutan. He dedicated a song to both his son and wife Kate)

Chris Martin: (During God Put a Smile Upon Your Face) God gave you style and gave you the Arcade Fire (!!!!)

Chris Martin: Playing with Richard Ashcroft is like if the Beatles played with Michael Bolton. That's how huge this is.

Chris Martin: Good-bye Toronto, see you in a few years.
Alby and I: BOO.

Tool: (In a post-show convo) Who the hell is Richard Ashcroft?! I've never even heard of him.

And this was supposed to be a short post. If you've stuck this far you must be a real Coldplay fan. Click here to see the rest of my (crappy) clips from the concert, and here to see someone else's amazing photos from the show on the 22nd. I've posted some pictures as well, but you all know where to look for those.

*ouch*

I'm starting my Oscar Party a bit early this year.

*groan* I got my wisdom teeth taken out yesterday. It wasn't as nightmarish as I thought it would be. Since I had already braced myself for the worst before getting to the dentist's office I was in a significant state of neurosis by the time they were prepping me for surgery. The most paramount fear that was dancing through my head was the thought of loosing my sense of taste. For. Ever. You don't joke around about that stuff with a glut. It's just not cool.

It's a shame that I don't drink. My super cool oral surgeon (hi Dr. Baron!) told me that for a person of my size I'd have a really high tolerance level. They were unable to sedate me! The laughing gas didn't work so I got IV-ed instead. It wore off before the surgery was over, I remember waking up and demanding for a blanket because I was cold. I'm always cold.

A few other random things. The heart monitor freaked me out, and the blood pressure machine squeezed the shit out of my arm. Who knew that my veins were so small AND traveled? Apparently they too have no sense of direction, it took so long to get the needle in my arm. Ranjan Bappa's leaving to Sri Lanka this afternoon, so we went over to punchy's place last night, I was still all frozen so I was okay to go. What I was not okay to do was sit there and watch while everyone was eating punchy's cooking. I was stuck drinking some bland ass Campbell's Gardenay.

So. What are in the cards for me today? Other than stuffing my face with Jello cherry cheesecake (thathi picked some up for me, they're awesome) and letting out the odd groan, I'm going have an Oscar party for two and try to watch as many Oscar nominated movies as I can. Ollie gets the George Clooney mask, and I'm going to wear the Keira Knightley one, my jaw is so swollen and mannish that I can totally play the part.

On the list for today, Capote, Tsotsi, and Walk the Line. Throw in a few episodes of My Name is Earl, The Office and of course Project Runway and you've got yourself a really happy, sedated and swollen camper.

Hmm, now the only thing I need to do is find some J-list Hollywood star to sell my oxycoden to so that I can call it a day well spent.

Happy Birthday Alby!

Don't you think all those 'Hungry Man' commercials are a bit discriminatory? Just the whole 'Hungry Man' brand smacks of male chauvanism. So on this auspicious occassion of Alby's birthday, I nominate her to be the new spokeswoman for the soon to be unveiled line of 'Hungry Woman' entres. Slogan suggestions are welcome.

Happy Birthday Alby! And I know you can out eat any 'Hungry Man.'

And that marks the end of the Febubabies for this year.

Happy Birthday Tool!

Tool at Centre Island, the day we were supposed to go to the Ex, but box forgot the tickets.

Gosh. I can't believe that Tool is older than me. Happy Birthday my little porkchop!

The above photo, is the most viewed picture in my flickr album. Pathetic considering it's my album, and everyone always flocks to that picture first and asks 'who's the hot girl on the swing?'

To which I answer, It's not all hottness my friend.


Alby and Tool in Alby's Waterloo room last fall.

This is what we like to call morning Tool. Watch out boys, this is what you'll have to wake up next to.

Tool. Don't kill me. I love you!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

I think I need some Drake Juice

Photo: Torontoist

Saw this on Torontoist today. Usually, I don't find parody videos funny or ironic, just cheesey. And while this one meets all of the above categories, its cheese factor is far outweighed by the fact that I think I know at minimum about 35 people who are just like Queen St. Man and/or trying desperately to be him.

As Torontoist points out, he visits the regular hipster haunts like Rotate This and the Drake with equal aplomb. All the more reason to watch it methinks. But the deal sealer is when he drops his bike and runs away from the Dundas St. W. sign. You've gotta watch out for those porkchops!

Go and clicky!
QUEEN ST.MAN

A Realisation

Ralph Fiennes wearing a sarong in The Constant Gardener

The politics department was having a 'finding your career' thing which I popped into the other day. Most of it was useless, but I found out that yours truly is a prime candidate to become a spy! Although that doesn't say a lot, because this is Canada. As you can see from the above poorly taken photo, reconnaissance would obviously not be my area of expertise. Come to think of it, I don't know what my area of expertise would be. My French is mediocre at best and insulting at worst. I think I'd be a liability more than anything else.

Anywho, by this point my loyal reader, you're probably wondering what Ralph Fiennes has to do with any of this. Well. Simple. He's won me over, and just by wearing a sarong. Ralph is an amazing actor, and we've been best friends since I had to watch Schindler's List a million times in order to 'prepare' for a role in grade 10 drama. (I use the term 'prepare' and 'role' really loosely in this context.) His portrayal of Amon Goeth was so spot on, he's creepED me out ever since, until he went native and wore a sarong.

Although I wasn't really feeling the whole shpiel on the big pharmaceuticals the 'Constant Gardener' was an excellent movie and waaay better than Beyond Borders. My BFF was understated and brilliant as usual. Rachel Weisz's character Tessa? To say she irritated me would be an understatement. She totally got under my skin for a myriad of different reasons.

You know how they say that the things that bug you about other people, are the same things you hate about yourself? Well. 'They' are pretty right. Tessa bugged me a lot because I saw flashes of myself in her. I am the idiot who goes and makes impassioned (read: psycho) speeches regardless of if my audience cares or not. It isn't unusual for me to adopt a patronising tone of voice and demeanor when it becomes obvious that you don't know jack about politics, yet still want to talk shop. The list is endless. She and I most importantly, share the same kind of selfishness that is always mistaken for 'goodness.'

People automatically assume that just because someone wants to dedicate their life to eradicating poverty in the third world, it makes them 'good' and 'kind.' God forbid that I'd want to go somewhere that's politically unstable because that would cause me to become 'noble' or 'selfless' which is just laughable. I don't by any means speak for the majority of people in my field of study, but I'd hazard to guess that a lot of people are in it for the same reason I am. Unending guilt.

I have a guilt complex that's so big, I might as well be Jewish. Remember, I'm the eternal pessimist, you come to me for your daily dose of cynicism and bitterness, thus far I've delivered. I know I'm not making any sort of difference in the world through my actions. In order for me to think like that I'd have to be an idealist. In actuality I'm just a person driven by guilt. You see I feel guilty that I have a life in the 'first world' when I could've easily been born into poverty. Life is funny like that, I know I don't deserve my silverspoon. As a result I can't live with the guilt of knowing that human suffering is going on while I stuff my face with cake. To alleviate that feeling, I've got to do something about it. I don't do this because I want to, it's because I have to. The feeling of being less guilty is great, almost like a natural high. We 'do gooders' are no better than junkies, we're just chasing the good feeling.

Kids, I'm shallow. My passion doesn't lay in helping other people, I'm about good music and clothes, but I hope that I'd be able to recognise genuine passion when I see it. Today I saw a particularly candid and brutal documentary on the genocide in Rwanda. As is often her wont, Professor Handley, who happens to be a white South African, stood up to wrap the class up after the video. While she was talking about the utter failure of humanity in Rwanda (which we all are well aware of,) she began to choke up and fight back her tears. Of course she tried to play it off by rustling some papers. The injustice was so palpable to her.

That's passion. It's passion like that which I wish I had. I guess I'll have to make do with alleviating my Jewish guilt instead.

And this post doesn't really make a lot of sense. Thank you if you've stuck this far ;)

Because I don't post enough pointless pictures as it is.

Oliver - in a fit of uncharacteristic generosity - decides that he'll help Ammi with some of the work she brought home. 3 hours spent on the internet, and absolutely nothing was done. I think he was downloading torrents and chatting on MSN all evening. What can I say, he learned from the best.

Oh. By the way, did I mention?

I have a paper due tomorrow.

*sigh* Kids. There really is no end in sight. I think there will be pure swampage from now until finals. (In terms of school work, not uh, sewage.) Even though it's not that far away, and I'm looking forward to burning er, re-selling my textbooks, I still feel woefully unprepared. Well here's to diversions (read: distractions) such as poorly behaved animal friends, shopping and tickets to the Arctic Monkeys' show (yes I broke down and bought them!) to take our minds off of the inevitable.

Hope all of you are keeping afloat. Remember, reading week is just a month away! *woot*

Exploitation via Ticketmaster

Cover of 'Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not'

So I crawled out from under my rock just in time to realise that the Arctic Monkeys tickets for March have already gone on sale. As expected Rotate This was already sold out so I set my sights on Ticketmaster. I'm still debating whether or not to take the plunge and get them though...that $6.00 surcharge is killing my inner Shylock. (I guess it serves me right for not being on top of things). Also, I think that I will implode that week in March. Imagine? Arctic Monkeys, and then Coldplay? All in the same week? Too much good British music squeezed into a very limited timeframe? Should I just start getting my immigration papers to the UK ready now? Shall stop using question marks?

Well. If anyone has an extra ticket, you know who to call.

For the record, I don't really consider this grovelling. It's more like an appeal on your kindness and greater sense of humanity. You could be like a UN Goodwill Ambassador of music, like Angelina Jolie in the third world. It'll make you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside, but in the long run, it really does nothing.

If that's not convincing, then really I don't know what is.

Bunny Debauchery

Bunny doing lines

Do you remember the rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail? My cousin has a puppet from back in the day that looks eerily like it. We got bored. I have an assignment that I should be working on. I present to you now:

BUNNY DEBAUCHERY

*Eep*

First real un-half assed post of the new year. All it took was 13 days and a head cold. Oh yeah, and also reverting back to the pre-Christmas lifestyle, aka having no social life. Alas it's true, with the festivities over, you have all left for colder more inhospitable regions to continue on with your educations.

So. Here are a few random things that I'm stoked about for 2006 in no particular order:

Watching Santino subsequently getting his ass handed back to him on a platter.

The quadruple whammy birthday bash in February for me, tool, Alby and Rachem.

Going to the Coldplay concert in March with Alby. And watching her faint as soon as she sees Chris Martin's foot hit the stage. On the Jumbotron of course, because we have really shitty tickets. Then watching as the EMT whisks her away. The sweetest part will be when 15 years from now I'll be able to explain to her kids why Mommy has a giant scar on her forehead. "Yeah kids, she hit that guardrail like a vegan who had finally come to their senses and had a rib dangling in front of their face."

Visiting the grandparents in the motherland this summer, hopefully shedding some of this awful winter weight in the heat. Of course making time to buy an entire new wardrobe, while getting lastnode to teach me a few inappropriate phrases in Sinhala which I can use to horrify the above mentioned patrician grandparents.

Finally getting insurance and being able to drive. Not that Ammi will ever let me drive her car. And let's not start with Thathi. But it's best to be optimistic in these situations

Getting Oliver unspoiled enough so that he doesn't act as if he's bipolar, manic depressive or otherwise chemically imbalanced when taken out in public.

Stop missing my subway stop because I've gotten so engrossed watching something stupid (i.e. Coupling, Extras, and of course lamenting the demise of Arrested Development) on my ipod. Not overly optimistic that this will happen though.

Actually getting to see Thorn. Because really there's no way that we're both too busy to go on a wild shopping spree with money that neither of us has.

Taking advantage of my new lighter schedule and start reading for pleasure more. Not just the dull political science tomes which I fake enjoying.

Actually finish sewing tool's Christmas present.

Taking advantage of Aiya's job's close proximity to the Drake and (ab)using him for concert tickets. (Wow, that sentence probably had some of you grammarians gagging in a corner. I apologise.)

Um. This is getting long. I'm going to stop now.

In lieu of a real post.

Slobo's cat Hoochie. In a bag.

It was nice having a social life again, although it was to be the fleeting sort. *sigh*

Well, here's what you've all been waiting for PICTURES. Let me know if you want me to e-mail any of them to you, or if you want something I haven't put up. Slobo, I know it's been more than three days. But. Please. Don't hurt my family.

A Photo Essay: Festivus! For the rest of us.

For those of you who know him, it's no big surprise that we own what is perhaps the most dramatic Jack Russell known to man. Even more so than 'Eddie' from Frasier (just because he's obedient and can do a few tricks doesn't mean he's an actor). Oliver shows off his flair for the boards every single day with a tenacity that's only befitting to a terrorist...urm, terrier. So without further ado I present to you:
Festivus! For the rest of us, as enacted by Oliver J.

Muzak

Why are we such slaves to our emotions? Even the most stalwart amongst us falls prey to 'feelings' whether they be good or bad, it's one of those things that seem to always have a tenuous grip never willing to let go. Often when one's emotions club them in the back of the head leaving them an immobile pile on the floor they tend to turn towards music.

Bit silly innit? Whether it be a euphoric high or an epic low point there's always something that fits neatly into the 'soundtrack of our cutting edge lives.'* What ticks within us that finds the need to express ourselves through tightly written verses accompanied by some sort of instrument? When you think about it sounds absolutely absurd. Whilst going through the aforementioned highs and lows it's almost impossible to think coherently enough to be intelligible let alone eloquent. Perhaps it's because I strive to live my life as an emotionless android like Data that I generally view the whole process of song writing as suspect.

Come on, it doesn't really take much sleuthing to find terrible music written by people in the throes of some sort of emotional flux. Just scroll through a few random blogs and I'm sure you'll find some really poor emo which will make you want to gag. Leave the song writing to the professionals okay kids? Although it's innately within us, sometimes expressing it is best left to the professionals. Or those select few individuals out there who actually have talent.

I'm not a hater, because as I sit here and write I've got my headphones on and am listening to some music at a dangerously high volume. Fighting the urge to retreat with my baggage full of feelings and get lost in the sounds and words which I have no right over, but which have a hold over me. It's a bit strange that someone else's words and feelings can have so much resonance with another person, regardless of if they've ever met each other before or not.

I always want to jump in a car and start driving with a car full of people when I listen to Franz Ferdinand. Unfortunately there are a few things which are standing in the way of my doing that right now, lack of insurance, a car and a bunch of people.

*Care of edge102

More Randomness from the Hustings

Did any of you get a chance to see the creepy Paul Martin gingerbreadman picture in yesterday's Metro?

*shudder* It's put me off of ginger and any variation thereof for life.

I know. What the hell is going on, 2 posts in one day. The only explanation I have is that it's exam time, and I'm procrastinating.

Mike 4 Prez

I really like my Canadian history course. Because unlike Canadian politics, it doesn't focus on *yawn* federalism. Yesterday while sitting in the George Ignatieff theatre gearing myself up for another great lecture (my professor is amazing). I again realised that politics is much like high school. Sometimes humoursly so. My prof is an older man, who bears a striking resemblance to one of ammi's more affable uncles. So when he likened Michael Ignatieff to a media whore like former PM John Diefenbaker, I laughed. Laughed more than is appropriate for Canadian history, because its very nature is to bring people to tears.

Being a 'founding' member of the United Nations, you better believe that Canada was present, but completely invisible at the April 1945 UN conference in San Fran. We represented yo. Dief, who was a member of the Conservative party tried to poke himself into the negotiations which were being handled by Mackenzie King's Liberals. Long story short, Dief decided that it would be beneficial towards his cause to get into negotiations by having his face snapped up by the attending photogs. As my prof put it 'Much like my esteemed colleague from the depatment of Political Science is doing right now, using his face to further his cause.' I think Prof. Bothwell is perhaps a wee bit jealous? I've never heard anyone call him a cerebral sex symbol.

Then again, he is bald.

Possibly the hottest thing ever...

...to have come out of Sri Lanka, seconded only by my grandmother's chicken curry.*

Nigel Barker

My jaw has never literally 'dropped.' I don't get shocked easily and never when I'm watching television. Least of all America's Next Top Model. Last night when I got home from my night class I turned on the tube while eating dinner. (I know! What class. But that's what I'm all about.) Lo and behold I managed to catch America's Next Top Model on CityTV Vancouver (3 hours behind us). Long story short, this week's challenge was a 'Bollywood' inspired one, with Nigel doing the photography. Turns out that good ol' Nige is half Sri Lankan! My jaw literally fell open in shock. That's never happened before, nor do I ever want to repeat that performance.

And I think I have just officially outed myself for having some really dirty television watching habits. The horror.

*Seriously, the picture does him no justice...

*yay* Time to hit the hustings!

Jerry: Why are you calling my parents?
Kramer: Well, maybe if you called more often, I wouldn't have to. Listen, is it all right if I watch a tape in here?
Jerry: Why here?
Kramer: Well, I'm taping Canadian Parliament, you know on C-Span.
Jerry: Ok...
Kramer: Is it all right if I watch it in your bedroom, cause your bed is really nice?
Jerry: Fine...
Kramer: Ok!
[Newman runs in with two boxes of popcorn.]
Seinfeld - The Blood

Usually there's not much happening in the winter to get me excited. However early 2006 is panning out to be incredible, my inner nerd is beside herself. By now it's old news about what happened in Parliament last night. Interestingly enough, they did show the no confidence vote live on C-SPAN in the states, so I really hope my American friends got a chance to see it happen. I for one was glued to the CBC as is my wont. Unfortunately it wasn't as exciting as the one in May, when Belinda Stronach crossed the floor, ripping out Peter MacKay's heart in the process. The most tragic thing of all was that I was in Sri Lanka when it happened, and never got a chance to revel in any of it, reading a newspaper online really doesn't cut it for a politics junkie. Had I been at home, you so know I would've been all over that like a dirty shirt.

Well, with all that said I shall watch with rabid interest what happens to Michael Ignatieff. Am I allowed to say a big fat I told you so? Not that it really matters, because I know no one really cares about Canadian politics. Let the record state, as soon as I heard his speech at the Liberal convention in March (and really, Bono, you totally stole his thunder) I (and some others) knew the man was going into 'real' politics, instead of just blathering on about it like the rest of us. I'm hoping he'll win a leadership bid, just because I think it'd be really interesting to see how he'd attempt to inject some life into fuddy duddy Ottawa. Although our Parliament isn't half as interesting as Taiwan's I'm pretty sure the MPs will have a swell time mud slinging. He may ooze sophistication and brains, but boyfriend does have a bit of a sketchy past. There is a fear that if he does ever become the PM Canada's international standing might increase because of his 'celebrity' (read: only political science students like myself see him as a celebrity). At the same time, (and not unfounded either) folks are a bit apprehensive of us becoming tools of the United States, given his stance on the whole Iraq thing. And to you conspiracy theorists out there, nobody cares about Canada. So it's not going to be too much of an issue.

There shall be campaigning during the Christmas season. What do I expect? Stephen Harper dressed as Santa ringing a bell, standing in front of a red kettle and collecting money for the Salvation Army. Paul Martin handing out soup to the homeless. Gilles Duceppe trimming a Christmas tree in a hospital with a bunch of young cancer survivors. And last but definitely not least, Jack Layton and Olivia Chow singing inter-faith Xmas carrols for the ice skating crowd at Nathan Phillips Square.

It all really does warm the cockles of my empty, empty heart.

*SQUEEEEE*

Um.

Guess who scored tickets to the Coldplay concert in March?

ME!

And I only have one extra ticket. So I'm taking Alby with me :D

Perhaps I'll post later about the obsessive compulsive manner in which I obtained these precious tickets. The stress, trauma and drama of the whole ordeal.

Or not.

Poppy-quette

I have a tough time not losing my poppy. Usually in the course of a day I've lost it at least twice, only to find it attached to some random piece of clothing. Considering the important symbolic context of the poppy, you'd think that in general one would be able to fasten it to one's self with something a bit more sturdy than a pin. A safety pin would definitely be a step up from a regular pin. I mean come on.

A few things get my quince around Rememberance Day, and simply put I guess it revolves around poppy etiquette.

1. Wear it on the left side. Not on the right. On a bag. On a hat. Or with green eggs and ham. There's a reason why we wear things on the left (like a wedding ring, or one of those shmancy engineering rings) it's because it's close to your heart.

2. Don't stick some random thing in the middle of your poppy. It has that green thing in there for a reason, not for you to stick some gawdawful Canada pin in the middle.

3. Technically you're not supposed to wear it after the 11 November. It's just not classy.

4. Although immensely fun, don't pull out the pin, fold the red felt in half, and stick it in your mouth to create fuzzy red lips. Uh. Not that I've ever done that.

We had to memorise this when I was in elementary school.

I'll wear a little poppy,

As red as red can be,

To show that I remember

Those who fought for me.

I predict a riot.

Watching the people get lairy
Is not very pretty I tell thee
Walking through town is quite scary
And not very sensible either
A friend of a friend he got beaten
He looked the wrong way at a policeman
- The Kaiser Chiefs

Shut up. I know. This song is about Leeds. I'm not the only music snob. But I'm still going to talk about France because I think the lyrics are pretty apropos. In reality, I don't have that much to say that hasn't already been said before. North African immigrants reacting to racism. Pretty straight forward to me.

Marietta was one of my English students during my three months in Senegal. She was a little bit older than I was and had a 2 year old son, I never met him, he lived in the village with her mother. She didn't get a chance to see him all that much, she worked 7 days a week and used to come for help with her English homework after she was finished her day job. Marietta was a housemaid, and on the side she used to sell beaded necklaces which the expat community would snap up readily and greedily.

One thing that I particularly liked about Marietta other than her friendliness was that she spoke French with a perfect Parisian accent. Something that was really uncommon to find amongst the native Senegalaise. She was always a really welcome sight to me during my first few weeks in Dakar especially on Sundays at church where the usual suspects were a touch too snooty to speak to me. It took me awhile to get used to the Wolof accent which was inflected on the every day common French. In the beginning I wasn't all that curious as to why the Bowlers' house maid had such an impeccable Parisian accent.

Her father had a few wives, polygamy just like in Utah, is still practiced in many parts of North Africa. Marietta's dad left her along with her mother and took off for France with his latest wife. Some how or another she ended up joining her father in a suburb of Paris. She was about 13 and her new life in France consisted of 5 years of horrible physical abuse at the hands of her father and stepmother.

In the hot dusty afternoons, we used to sit outside to do our English classes. I'd lug out the massive copy of LaRousse which Mrs. Penney used when she was doing her MA in Quebec, and while trying to translate my lesson for her Marietta used to tell me bits and pieces about her life. She credits her social worker in France with saving her. When I met her she had been back in Senegal for just over 2 years (slightly enough time to get knocked up and have a kid). It was her social worker who suggested that she return to Dakar, realising that if she stayed on in France she'd most likely get beaten to death. Instead of just bundling her off on a Dakar bound plane she really went beyond her call of duty. She provided Marietta with all of the necessary correspondence booklets to finish off her French high school education. The social worker paid for it all out of her own pocket. (I was only useful for her English lessons, Mrs. Penney used to help her out with everything else, because I was hopeless and still am.) Marietta has the option of returning to France after she graduates from high school and no longer is a dependent on her father.

Mehdi was a first generation Frenchmen, his family was originally from Morocco. It's because of him that I'm dying to see Marrakesh with my own eyes. He only arrived towards the latter half of my stay, and we had to collaborate on a bunch of projects together. Although I found him mildly irritating we did have some really eye opening conversations. Mehdi was unwilling to pay any attention at all to his Moroccan heritage. Granted this is not uncommon, I know a bunch of Sri Lankans who'd sooner than later forget that they come for a hot, tropical, third world country and not the snowy wilderness of Ontario. But the way he used to vehemently deny that he was Moroccan, it smacked of 'the lady doth protest too much.'

What does this all mean? I'm not really sure and I don't think I'm some sort of a cultural authority on Franco-North African relations just because I spent a fair chunk of time in Senegal and am studying post-colonial history. (If I lived in America, I think I'd have enough credentials and bull shit in me to be a pundit on Fox News though.) It's much more complicated than that, and as the recent events in various different suburbs in Paris proves, it's also very unpredictable.

I wonder though, could what the civil rights movement of the 50s and 60s did for America be likened to the riots that are currently rocking France?

Dear (4) loyal readers, if you're not related by blood...you might want to skip.

Thathi, Aiya and Loku Mammah

Good friends we have
Oh good friends we've lost
Along the way.
In this great future you can'’t forget your past
So dry your tears, I say
- Bob Marley, No Woman, No Cry

I can't hear any song by Bob Marley without thinking about Loku Mammah. Aiya and I burst into an impromptuou rendition of "I Shot the Sheriff" in the kitchen a few weeks back. This usually pushes Ammi into a homicidal rage. We sang with our usual amount of gusto and after inhumanely butchering a few stanzas we stopped. Slightly out of breath (because we are both slightly out of shape) we fell silent. Initially I thought it was due to the Sunday afternoon 'itis which can stealthily incapacitate those who are much stronger than us. But Aiya quietly confessed that he is unable to hear Bob Marley without thinking about Loku Mammah. What ensued was a brief conversation between the three of us (Ammi having put down the meat cleaver) about what a generally hip guy he was.

The truth is I don't remember a whole lot about Loku Mammah, just a few personal memories of him interspersed with everyone else's. When I think of him I'm whisked back to being 4, that's the last time I saw him.

I remember a lap as big as Thathi's to sit in, it could accommodatete Aiya, myself and Rajiv in it all at once. I don't ever remember it being too crowded. Although I'm told that the three of us weren't averse to reverting to fisticuffs if someone was hogging. We were a violent bunch even then.

We had cricket and rugby players coming in and out of our little home, Thathi had some really big friends. But Loku Mammah filled the entire place up, not just because to a 4 year old he was a giant of a man. He was over 6 feet and commanded a lot of respect and had a no nonsense air of authority about him. However there was still something that made people want to be around him. He was incredibly approachable, I tasted this first hand. Being a non-stop talker even then he'd always humour me even though I spoke a parcel of utter rubbish, a mile-a-minute to boot. (Granted in retrospect, I think I made much more sense back in those days.)

He sent me a Barbara Sansoni doll. I don't remember exactly when I got it or who he sent it through. But it made me happy to know that he still remembered me, even though we were in Toronto and our family was so far away. I never played with it. True. I was not much into dolls. But in my defence I never tried to decapitate it or cut its hair off. Through the years most of my stuffed toys found their way into storage. I just never had the heart to put that unplayed doll in with the rest (she's still in my room). Not because I particularly liked her, but because Loku Mammah gave her to me. So Raggedy Anne and Andy, Charlie, and a slew of other much loved toys were put away, never to see the light of day again. A racoon made a nest in my box of toys. I'm glad I wasn't there when Thathi and Punchy cleared out the storage last May when we moved.

31 October 1991.
I was supposed to go out as a bumble bee that year for Halloween. We always had an in class Halloween party where everyone would dress up in their costumes and contribute some cavity giving item to the festivities. It was one of the highlights of the year. We had gone to the pumpkin patch the week before to pick out the perfect gourd to carve into a Jack O'Lantern. The build up was ridiculous, especially to a bunch of kids in grade 2.

My memories of that morning are a bit hazy. Someone had woken Ammi and Thathi up with a phone call and the house was in a state of surreal chaos. But there was a bone chilling hush in the air. No one wanted to tell Amammah. Thathi couldn't, Ammi couldn't, Punchy couldn't, Punchy mammah couldn't.

Loku Mammah had died of a heart attack while swimming with Rajiv.

Piyo (my nanny) is the one who had to do it. I don't remember Amammah's initial reaction. My first encounter with death left me angry in my childish stupidness. I knew how I was supposed to act, but I was really pissed off that I couldn't wear my bumble bee costume to school. No one had the heart to dress me. Ammi tried to placate me by reminding me that I already had a chance to wear my costume to my Girl Guide troop's Halloween party a few days before. This type of reasoning did not work. I huffed of to school with my trademarked sour face of anger, tears burning my eyes not for my dead uncle but for my ruined Halloween.

Mr. Christie was right out of teacher's college, we were his first class. A grade 1-2 split. I was his pet. He famously told my parents during a parent teacher interview that they should give me everything I asked for. (Which thus far has been a rousing success.) He noticed that I was upset, and wasn't dressed up. Stupidly asking, in the way only a caring teacher can, if everything was all right. I told him that my mother's eldest brother had died. I channeled the anger of the lost bumble bee costume and forced a few tears out. Mr. Christie was a sucker, and I had secured a morning free of reading comprehension, cursive writing and decimal places.

I was allowed to choose one friend to make a Halloween poster with me. Brandon was my partner for folk dancing, my gay best friend in elementary school. He was good at art so I picked him. Neither one of us knew much about death, and although we were having a lot of fun making the poster we pretended we didn't. Because when someone dies you're not supposed to be happy. Mr. Christie heaped praise on our hideous poster and hung it up in a place of prominence, right on the door into our classroom. It almost made my lack of a costume worth it.

I begged Aiya to take me out trick or treating that evening. Ammi announced that we would never celebrate Halloween ever again, no more costumes or candy. I thought she was heartless. It was surprisingly easy to get Aiya to agree, I don't really remember how he handled his grief, but he had a sweet tooth, so off we went, Vindhiya, myself and Paul. We didn't make it that far down the street, Paul wet his pants and we had to come home. (This is just one of the reasons why I hated my cousins when I was a kid)

I wasn't forced to brush my teeth before bed that evening; the adults had their mind on other things than my dental hygiene. So with traces of chocolate in my mouth I said my prayers like the pious little Anglican I was.

"Lord, be with me as I go to sleep. Don't let me die. Make sure the house doesn't burn down with all of us in it. Please don't let robbers come in and murder us and then take all of our things..." The general theme of these night time prayers was me appealing to God not to smite me down in some horrible and unusual way. What? I was an Anglican. That's what Anglican's do. (Have you not seen Monty Python's The Meaning of Life?)

After I amened I went over everything that happened that day. I mentally tried to process and analyse the important bits. (It's something I still do today, and is probably the #1 contributor to my insomnia and the root of my narcolepsy.) That's when I thought about Rajiv. Rajiv who was just 9 months older than me. Rajiv who didn't have Thathi anymore. I became very sad for him, I couldn't fathom his loss then, and can't fathom it now either.

Trick or treat.

Horror Stories from the Ivory Towers

Safe to say that I'm not the only one who's drowning in a ridiculous amount of work for Uni? What is up with the mass conspiracy to murder your students in the middle two weeks of October you tenured professors? Jebus.

One of the ways I cope with stress is to get annoyed. Annoyed easily at really small mundane things. Because I'm petty like that.

Bananas
I'm not a huge fan of bananas. Caribbean plantain as a side to oxtail stew and peas? I'm so there. Bananas by themselves straight out of the peel? Not so much. And it's not because of this general dislike for bananas that I believe that eating them in public should be banned. But have you noticed that people tend to over chew bananas? There really is a reason why this is one of the first foods moms give their babies. You don't need teeth to eat them. Which means you don't need to chew them, they're mush for Pete's sake. The sound of an over chewed banana drives me to a homicidal rage. Especially in an area that is full of silence, or where the drone of one solitary voice is gently putting me to sleep, i.e. a lecture. Stop. Before I kill.

Well Groomed People
Seriously? Where do you guys get the time? And more specifically how come I don't have the same leisure? My hair is now entering into its umpteenth day of general grossness; when pulled back into a ponytail it looks more like a squirrel's tail. And you guys know how much I hate squirrels, so this is distressing to me. The other day when I was at the Dollar Store picking some randomness up, someone asked me if I worked there. That. Never. Happens. I felt like sitting down and crying in the middle of the aisle because my worst fear has become realised. I look like I belong in Scarborough. All my life I've been trying to run away from that reality. But I guess now is as good a time as ever to embrace the ghetto fabulousness that surrounds me.

Umesh
Yeah. He still bugs me. I have the pleasure of being in a class again with him this year.
Me: So how was your Thanksgiving?
Him: Oh, I don't celebrate Thanksgiving
Me: *pretending to be uninterested b/c I so already regret asking him anything* I was thankful for the day off
Him: I think the whole concept of Thanksgiving is stupid, because we're effectively celebrating the genocide of an entire population, because that's what happened when the pioneers came to Canada...
Me: Yeah I don't really like turkey all that much either...

I don't even want to know what his thoughts on Christmas are. All I know is that he needs to extricate that pickle that seems to be permanently lodged in his nether regions soon. Otherwise it could become very septic. (<-- I just finished watching an episode of House. In retrospect I guess I could've used that time to groom myself. Damn you hindsight.)

A Round-up

This has nothing to do with my post. I just thought it was pretty cool. Read about it this morning, here's the article on the Beeb.

Umm. So my life generally is wholly uninteresting. I'm painfully aware of this fact already. The only thing that I really can do is bemoan this fact to everyone and anyone. It truly is cathartic. Sometimes even my life spirals into even more uninterestingness than it normally is prone to.

Case in point. The last two weeks the film festival was going on. Aside from the obligatory celebrity sightings I had to deal with the pointless entourages. I find that the bigger the star, the smaller the entourage. At least in Toronto. The most random people have entourages. And more power to you if you want a bunch of freeloaders strapped to your backside. To each one his own. I go to U of T, and even the most suburbian amongst us know that this campus is smack dab in the middle of the film festival, and all the swanky hotels/restaurants to boot. Which means I had to fight my way through entourages to get to my classes on time. Dude? So. Not. Cool.

My beloved Mac has packed up. I'm just praying that it's not the cursed ibook lcd screen malfunction. Because if it is, I think I'll cry. Fortunately I just lost my first week of notes for class. I would've committed suicide by now if it was December and right before mid-terms. Unfortunately I've lost a lot of other more important things. Such as reports for work. Which now need to be redone. Yay for punitive justice. Because I believe that's what's being waged against me.

Oliver tried to eat a wasp. In the process he got severely stung. I never said he was smart. After a trip to the vet we have discovered that someone is having a 'type 2' reaction and therefore has to take prednisone. A tablet which we need to creatively hid in foodstuffs, otherwise it runs the risk of being spat up on the kitchen floor. I never said he was smart.

While being recruited for the Tamil Student's Association, I wasn't hit on this year. Thank the Lord. Perhaps it's too early to celebrate, because I'm yet to be approached by the South Asian Student's Association. You know I think I wouldn't mind the unwarranted attention as much if it wasn't for the fact that I am a fob magnet. Children? Speaking fluent English is always a prerequisite.

I'm still in my PJs and have bed head. Time to go and administer a prednisone laced carrot.

Her Majesty the Queen vs. Oliver J*

Exhibit A: Oliver modeling his new fall argyle sweater

There are a few things that I mentally decided I would never do if I ever became a dog owner. In no particular order

1. Never dressing it up, regardless of what gender

2. No baby talk by anyone, least of all myself

3. It will be treated like a dog, never like a human

4. Will only consume dog food

The list is endless. But suffice it to say that article A is proof enough that none of these regulations were taken seriously.

Personally I think he deserves this humiliation. Sure I love him to bits. It's impossible even for someone who possesses a heart that is equivalent to a lump of coal not to. But the fact remains is that he is sometimes a little demon in disguise. I now present to you exhibit B. This photo was taken moments before I was brutally attacked.

Exhibit B: Oliver weeping for justice, and baring his fangs at the same time. Or yawning. Depending on how you wish to view it.

I rest my case.

*We're Canadian. We don't do that garbage 'People versus...' stuff. Go and review your grade 10 Social Studies textbook please.

Summer? Please don't leave.

The foot of St. Andrews Rd (my street) in happier, sunnier more summery times.

In lieu of a real post.

Excuse the laziness, there are no captions, no funny stories. Nothing really. Just a bunch of pictures, and the real Gerber Baby. Now that's incentive enough to go and take a look imho.

A Really Late Afterthought Part 1: Politics

Quit bending all my fingo
Quit beating me like you're Ringo
You wanna go?
You wanna win a war?
Like P.L.O don't surrendo
- M.I.A. Sunflowers

So if my grade 10 level math serves me correctly it has been two months since I came home from what could be considered the best trip to Sri Lanka ever. It has also taken me just as long to fully process two months spent in the motherland. Maybe it's because I've been spending a little too much one-on-one time with some politically charged press releases and reports I'm editing for work, but I think it's time to wade into Sri Lankan politics. As you can see this is 'part 1' of what will eventually be a really poorly thought out and sporadic series. I guess I'll be lucky if it doesn't peter out and die by the end of this post. But here goes...

*Warning: To my four loyal readers* This is pretty much a rehash of my last post. But it's my blog, and I can do what I want.

I wanted to blog about M.I.A. since February when she played the Drake, mostly because she irritated me. I did feel a bit of affliation with her because she grew up in England and has the whole indie thing down. And she has a killer style (or incredible stylist, but it might be too soon for that). I personally don't think her music is anything to call home about, her artwork however is really good. I think she should stick to designing CD covers. But the scenesters love her, and that's why I think in a weirdly subversive way, she's important to this post. You see they play 'Sunflowers' in American Eagle, Aiya got me a sampler CD from the Urban Outfitter's in Montreal and 'Galang' was on it. What's the big deal? Well her debut album Arular is named after her father who happens to be a member of the LTTE. He trained with the PLO . M.I.A. doesn't shy away from politics regardless of what she may say in the media, just look at her website, look at what her artwork is depicting?

I know I might be over hyping on her politics/political affliation but still. Do you think if folks out here truly understood the level of the conflict in Sri Lanka she'd be such hot indie property? Probably not, it's not like someone with Al Qaeda affliation is going to have a huge cult following when they launch a crappy dancehall album either. But she has a right to speak her mind about the politics of the war, after all she has been totally affected by it, just like many other Tamil immigrants in other parts of the world. What freaks me out though is that through her popularity she might be romanticizing the LTTE. Granted I think the Tamil people of Sri Lanka have a reason to be pissed off, but that doesn't legitimize the actions of the LTTE. 'Freedom Fighter' has a certain ring to it, a Che Guevera kind of thing that poorly groomed hipsters LOVE. A frightening result of that misguided love would be a romanticization of the Tiger movement.

Recently there have been a few 'skirmishes' on some Sri Lankan blogs I frequent about the role of non-resident Sri Lankans putting their two cents into political commentary. I'm of the opinion that just because I grew up in Canada doesn't mean that negates me from having a viable and legitimate opinion on things. Whether it be the recent assassination or the on going 'armed conflict.' It's unfortunate that there are people in Colombo who believe that since we grow up in the relative shelter of the west we have no understanding/haven't been touched by what's going on in Sri Lanka.

Even if I didn't have the chance to go back and visit as often as I do it is because of the events that have taken place in Sri Lanka that I'm here, in Toronto. If the 83 riots never happened, we would never have left. I have had classmates in elementary and junior high school whose lives have been absolutely ravaged because of the situation in Sri Lanka. The internal politics and issues have effected them far more than my cousins who are Sinhalese and live in Colombo far removed from any conflict could feel. Yet there are some in Sri Lanka who would rather listen to my Colombo cousins' take on things. Even though they go to posh schools, and live in what seems to be the lap of luxury.

To tell you the truth though, even after working at an NGO in Colombo which was dealing very specifically with government corruption, I still don't understand a whole lot about Sri Lankan politics. Just when I thought I had wrapped my brains around the method to the madness, it would elude me completely like the Scarlet Pimpernel. At least I have a bit of a better grasp on it, albeit a rather tenuous one.