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.

"Come on Trinitians, be sporty!"*

*translation: Come on you guys who went to Trinity College, have some sportsmanship!

Well kiddos, as soon as I get the beloved Mac checked out and serviced I'll post pictures of what I've been up to. Trying to explain would be too painful for both you and I.

I went to the rugby sevens tournament this weekend with thathi. What a washout, we drove all the way to Brampton to stand in the rain and get wet socks. It was good times. In the past I've attempted to explain the nature of the 'Old Boys Association' which is just the Sri Lankan way of saying 'alumni association.' Thathi is an 'old boy' of St. Thomas' College (STC) and in the interest of hooking up with some old classmates off we went.

It's always fun watching the uncles get hammered on smuggled beer and start yelling indecipherable things at rivals. This year they had the most teams represented so there was plenty of trash talking. The above quote was a result of the perfect mix of booze and unbridled STC pride after a drunk Trinitian hurled insults at our coach. Fortunately a big burly Peterite (St.Peter's) was there to stop the sloshed uncle from rushing the field.

Incidentally this was the first exclusively Sri Lankan gathering that I've been to since coming home. (And no. Church doesn't count!) It was nice to hear people chatting away in Sinhala and it reminded me how the gap between my dual identities are beginning to fill in, the distance to bridge is getting smaller. While this process of reconciliation between the Sri Lankan and Canadian is great, in some ways it blows as much as being confused did.

Something that struck me while in Colombo was the general narrowmindedness of some folks back in Sri Lanka. Especially in relation to how 'Sri Lankan' I actually am, or more appropriately, not. I don't think that it's an issue that can be quantified but it's interesting to see how people attempt to do so.

My Canadian accent was accused of being fake by more than one person. Apparently it's unusual for someone who has lived in Toronto for 18 years to speak like me. Although my Sinhala was good enough to get by it's far from perfect but never once was I laughed at when I tried to speak with someone who had no knowledge of English. You can just imagine the reactions I got from the English speaking populace. Something along the lines of when Copto busts out his French immersion skills to me. What really gets my quince however is the constant need I felt in having to assert my 'Sri Lankaness.' At first I didn't mind, but then it became downright irritating.

Things aren't like that here for us. Come on, think about it. If you happen to be reading this then chances are I know you. If I know you then chances are you're either an immigrant like me or a second generation Canadian. And due to the wickedly mutlicultural nature of the society we've grown up in, for someone to be Indo-Canadian, Irish-Canadian or any other hyphenated variation thereof, it's not crazy for us to not only view them as true Canadians but also accept them as that. No questions asked. No skill testing question. No language based examination.

Wish I could say the same for the motherland.

Oh yeah. Trinity got their ass kicked in by St. Thomas' 29-0. And Thathi was thinking 'blue, black and blue forever.'