My apologies in advance to Coolio. But, there ain't no party like a fascist party, 'cause a fascist party don't stop*

So it would seem that after a bit of gentle coaxing my good friend the manSage has launched his blog, tiny little fascist. Go and read it!

A background of sorts if you will.

If drac was to ever enter into a same-sex relationship with someone who lived on a different continent from him, manSage would be the one to do that with. Like mein own dear lover Sage he exhibits a few indispensable talents. Like the ability to do rudimentary mathematics.

Mostly, when it comes to taking care of bills and tips, the receipts are handed over thataway. Because. Um. Well. I can't do math. Once when we were at Global Towers he discovered that we had been billed for 70 Elephant House Ginger Beers. I like to knock the EGB back as much as the rest of them, but I probably would've paid the bill and left none the wiser if it wasn't for his Shylock-like bent. Let's not get into the time where he saved me a whole TWENTY-FIVE Rupees at Perera and Sons. I don't think the world is ready for that story yet.

So while my last two posts from Sri Lanka were totally emotastic, I must say that the newly minted tiny little fascist (aka the manSage) helped me keep my sanity as did my lover. But that's a given ;)

Real blog post coming up. And if you see "micro mini marcos" (as in Imelda Marcos) cropping up on tiny little fascist, don't be alarmed 'tis really me. Thought I'd go along with the theme of wee little leaders just for fun. Keep your eyes peeled for "itty bitty amin," I hear he's a real dick.

*For the uninitiated, it's from "Sumpin' New"

meh.

gah.

That seems to be all I can muster these days.

Heading back home to Toronto in a few days. I have said good-bye to Colombo so many times but I don’t think anything will compare to the one I’m prepping myself for. The complacency that I’ve found myself in has started to become a wee bit stifling, not just to a level of mild annoyance, but to the point where I’m actually a bit frightened.

Thorn and Alby are packing up to head off to London and Korea for an undisclosed period of time. That shit’s exciting yo.

Me? What am I up to? Pursuing an English degree that should’ve been my primary focus years ago and potentially coming back to Colombo in January.

OoOo Exciting. I hope you can sense the sarcasm reverberating through the internets kids. Because believe me, I can feel it.

I used to be the one who would dream up grand and elaborate schemes, relate them to you, have you blink back at me in wild bewilderment and then watch me in abject horror while I left, did and got everything I wanted.

But wtf has happened to me now?!

Aside from some humorous incidents, a few unfortunate mindf*cks, and engagement in a bit of suspect behavior, this time in Sri Lanka has been meh at best. The novelty has completely worn off, there is nothing new on offer in Colombo. You know things are bad when your boss tells you to get out while you still have your sanity.

Sometimes when I’m in the throes of depression and bitterly complaining due to the lack of interesting people my own age to hang out with and things to do you sadists will inform me of your summer happenings in sunny Toronto. (Seriously. You’ve got to stop doing that you bastards.) Before that was okay, I could handle it. While you were eating street meat and gearing up for concerts I’d be dodging dysentery and food poisoning, which was fun because it was so incredibly far removed from my own reality.

The thing is, I’m pretty fortunate. I often get told that my combination of degrees will make me one of the more well read and erudite Tim Horton’s employees, but truth be told I do believe that the field work I’ve done will lend itself to work elsewhere, not limited to Sri Lanka. And with that in mind along with everything else, I’m wondering if it’s worthwhile being friendless and miserable in Sri Lanka, or whether my angst is better spent being friendless and irritatingly excited in some other foreign shit hole.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

And we're back.

Hmm, self imposed hiatus much?

Work is hitting a fever pitch today, and as always when there are pressing and important things to be done the only likely thing to do is turn to le blog. Clearly I have priorities.

Closing in on 3 months in the motherland, must say it has by all accounts been a rather staid trip. If anything I feel like a Colombo-weary traveller the novelty of being here has definitely worn off. If it wasn't for the job I think I'd probably start setting my eyes on another destination.

Then there are those total WTF moments. Which I will briefly describe below.

1. The human rights monitoring mission.
I have bored most of you to tears already about my account, so I shan't go into details here, but be prepared, in just over a month most of you will be weeping for silence when I'm back in Toronto. Check flickr for the pictures, promise I won't make you look at them all :)

2. The celebrity spottings.
Must say, where were all these folks last year, my social schedule hasn't changed, I still frequent the same places and yet. There they are.

3. Getting Slothy smashed.
A smashed slothy is by far one of the most amusing things ever. Evidence may be found on flickr. It may be argued that his mother hates us. This is possible since he did leave his residence card back in Colombo when leaving for Cardiff.

4. Almost being abducted.
The key word there is *almost.* One of the worst practical jokes in the history of all time played on me by my cousin no less. For about 3 hours I really did think that Karuna was going to abduct me and then demand a huge ransom from me. After a few brief calculations on a previous occassion the Auditor concluded that I'd be worth about 4 used Toyota Starlets (which we don't get back at home, but is Sri Lanka's version of the old Corolla hatchback. I swear. Check wiki.)

5. Being outted by Sage.
Seriously. This has to stop. One glass of red wine and my lover backstabs me by outting me. She assures me that elric was probably a wee bit too "happy" to realise what was going on. I hope so.

6. Being spat on
This has never happened. It nearly happened at the Castor market in Senegal, but it didn't thankfully. Was walking down Bullers Road today and a guy hurled some filth at me, horked, and then launched a giant loogie at me which by some awful twist managed to hit me square in the ear. *shudder*

7. And now I'm too lazy to continue.

Suffice to say I miss you guys like crazy. The thought occured to me the other day that when I get back in August that'll be it. Sort of bittersweet really to know that it'll effectively be my last trip home for who knows how long. But, it's finally happening right? That whole I need to get out of here thing. Sometimes I feel like I'm taking the half assed route, coming back here instead of striking a path elsewhere. Colombo's the safe bet. Established work connections, social net. All that jazz. And now the excitement of being here, the novelty both are starting to wear off.

Meh, but who knows what'll happen between now and January.

Also.

Living with my grandparents sucks. I think three years is a good time frame. I'm on the look out for a pad of my own next year.

Oh my.

Well chickadees, it seems like that time of year is upon me again. I
finished off my last exam on Thursday (gah) and now it's off to the
motherland Monday night. Four months is starting to feel like an
awfully long time even though I haven't left yet, and truthfully it
hasn't even sunk in that I'm leaving. Perhaps I'm in denial since
the weather has been so G.D. beautiful.

So the regular stuff. I'll try to update as much as I can, which
really means at least once a month. Or heck even one post for the
entire time I'm there. Remember to check flickr often, but not right
away. No internets until about two weeks more time. Planning on not
getting a dial-up connection at the grandparents' place. Will have
to wait until i start working.

I'm going to miss you guys loads. Don't have too much fun this
summer without me :( Remember to send me an email with your address
on it if you want a postcard!

See you at the end of August!

The Douchebagel* Chronicles

Josh Hook, Dave Monks of Tokyo Police Club at last night's Mod Club show

The end is nigh children. Tomorrow is the last day of classes and then I spend the next week and a bit trying to read a year's worth of novels for Major British Writers. Someone remind me again why I thought it would be a good idea to pick up English? Gah.

It seems everything's starting to wrap up, last night I caught Tokyo Police Club with the lovely Marissa and Jenny (who Thorn so willingly pimped out to me for the incredible low, low price of a TPC button. Very reasonable). It's safe to say that it was the last show I'll be taking in before I leave. *sigh* After which I'll get to pleasure my ears with this and that saddens me greatly.


Great Lenin's Ghost

So the show? It was awesome. The two openers were so good! Great Lenin's Ghost did a kicking cover of Nelly Furtado's version of Maneater complete with butt wiggles and kitschy little outfits that reminded me of Crayola Crayons. We're Marching On were great as well, I'm really glad I picked up their CD, been listening to them non-stop today. Oh live shows and indie music how I will miss you for the next four months. I will have to quit cold turkey, and this does not bode well for me. We all know how I have zero resilience. Who knows, I just may come back a total B&S head. Gah.


Dave Monks of Tokyo Police Club joining We're Marching On for a bit of jamming. Or molestation of a snare drum. Whatevs.

Anywho along with the bleak prospect of having no ready access to good live music, Aiya's saying goodbye to the Beac, which means I get to say goodbye to my guest list privileges. He can no longer swap free meals for unlimited guest listing at the swank hotel he's heading too. Damn it. Speaking of guestlisting, seriously, how hard is it to screw up my white name? It's only 2 letters ffs.

Also. Sceevy hipsters? Will they not just chill the freak out? Seriously.

During TPC's set some douches decided it'd be cool to start MOSHING, because TPC is totally moshable and all right? Poor Jenny she kept getting whipped in the face by the business end of a moist jerry curl belonging to a fairly dirty guy rocking a played out bandana and unnecessary rotten onion stench. (Why hello there run-on sentence!) I could literally see the sweat (hair product?) flying off of the curl and polluting the air as it made contact with Jenny's face. And re-enacting that in my head just made me vomit a tiny bit in my mouth.

How about crowd surfing? A TPC concert is not a concert if there's no crowd surfing. And why yes. I did laugh my ass off when the idiot in the yellow shirt was dropped on his face after 20 seconds. I was fortunate, I didn't really get too caught up in the fray, I think Marissa had to deal with the brunt of the douchbagel shoving. But she's hardcore yo, she totally repped Malvern and shoved back. The feminist movement would've been proud.

They need to make more music though. The show was too short damnit.

(oo check out more pictures at le flick, I pretty much posted up everything I took. Yes. Repetition is good.)

Hmm, I should be writing an essay. Also, next Friday children! I expect to see you all at the most politically incorrect/insensitive/tasteless send-off ever. Remember to dress according to the theme, my ghetto pool table awaits you.

*copyright drackity.

Here comes Peter Cottontail...

Hopping down the bunny trail, hippity, hoppity, Easter's on its way.

Happy Easter kiddies.

Tid bits.

Of course originally found on I Can Has Cheezburger?
What a gorgeous day. Looks like winter has finally decided to shove off. I was making my way to Sid Smith for a Lit lecture in the afternoon and the ice cream truck was out! Pretty soon the dicky-dee guy will be tooling 'round 'bout the neighbourhood. (I think dicky-dee is just a Toronto thing innit?)

It's been warm enough that I've pulled my bike out of the garage and ridden it to school. And by "school" I mean the place I teach French. Before the snow came down and ruined my traction I used to wear a pair of pants under my skirt. Couldn't be arsed to pack more shit into my backpack than I needed to and because of the strict dresscode at the school, going in pants was out of the question. Fortunately it was so cold out that I avoided coming in looking like my boyfriend Jim that time he decided to take his bike into the office, ie sweating like a pig. The thing is last Friday was another great mild day albeit a bit muddy, so I thought I'd ditch the pants under the skirt because I didn't need the extra insulation.

I also forgot that Friday was garbage day. Fat girl in skirt + backpack + bike + garbagemen = more honking than I really deserved.

As of today I have exactly four more weeks to go until I head off to the motherland. There's a lot of hype surrounding this trip. Not only will this be the longest stretch of time I've ever spent in Sri Lanka but I've also got Dash coming with me for the four months! I'm beyond stoked about that. Also, there have been a lot of promises made and frankly, I don't know what to believe anymore.

Will I be getting packets of murukku? Or even peanuts for that matter?

Is it possible that Christo, Umi and the Auditor pull through for fantabulous weekend getaways?

Or will Dash and I be holed up at my grandparents' place watching Hindi DVDs on our laptops?

So many questions and clearly not enough answers.

Also, if you have noticed the influx of random photos on flickr, I make no apologies, the acquisition of a pro flickr account means that old skool pictures will be posted. And don't worry ladies, that elderly internet perv is a relatively harmless fellow.

And some quips. Because it's been awhile.

Aiya and I while watching the funeral scene in "The Departed" on dvd last night.

Me: Is that supposed to be a gun salute?
Aiya: Yeah, it's a 21 gun salute, because they fire 21 shots.
Me: No way Ms.Marple, you could've fooled me. Anywho, aren't there 21 guys standing there?
Aiya: Yeah that looks right.
Me: So are the 21 men going to shoot 21 times?
Aiya: No, I think it's just 21 bullets need to be wasted. You know, I don't think there's 21 guys there, it looks more like 10.
Me: Well, how is this going to work then?
Aiya: It's easy, maybe it's not 10, there's probably like 6 guys, so they'll shoot thrice.
Me: But that only equals like what? 18? It's not an 18 gun salute.
Aiya: Okay, then afterwards one guy fires off another 3 times.
Thathi: Or, 7 guys just fire thrice.
Aiya and Me: Ohh.
Aiya: Yeah, that could happen too.

Further proof that a calculator isn't a luxury item in our house.

Haterade.

My general hate for M.I.A. has been well documented. See exhibits A, B and C . Suffice it to say, M.I.A? No likey. It's not because I'm a music snob. (Because shh, I am.) I have readily (and publicly) admitted to having more than a few guilty pleasures ie Justin Timberlake (see flickr -- specifically the photoset from Wasaga). I like his album I will not lie, but I like it for its airheaded goodness.

As I remarked to Tool, as soon as I listen to his lyrics I feel guilty, because usually I tune out what he's actually saying "If I told you you were beautiful/ Would you date me on the regular?" Who talks like this? And for ffs am I 15?

But no. I will not hate on Justin because I take him for what he is a pop musician who knows he's a pop musician.

Enter M.I.A.

Perhaps if she or her label were not marketing her as the most innovative thing since a monkey picked up a set of cymbals and bashed them together, I may not hate her. Her production is slick. I like the beat, I like the sound of her voice, and yes, she has all the makings of falling into the guilty pleasure category right along with Justin. Her lyrics suck just as much as his do "don’t order me about/ I’m an outlaw from the badland." What a badass eh? Only a graduate of Central St.Martins could be so hardcore yo. She sort of reminds me of a UK version of, dare I say it, Avril Lavigne. But with just a smidge more street cred. (To give credit where it's due, M.I.A. is a great visual artist.)

If I found Avril's music infectious, I could add her to my list of guilty pleasures, but she sucketh. M.I.A. on the other hand has me torn. I really want to like her, because she's sort of like me, minus the LTTE father etc (why quibble). But more so because she's a product of the diaspora than anything else. If you watch the above video you can see the slickness of the production and the kids running around (I'm a fan of the little gyrating boy in the shorts). But wtf is up with the last frame? Yes can we please randomly throw in the LTTE symbol at the end of a video that has absolutely nothing to do with their cause? Thx.

M.I.A. you make pop music, which you call "dancehall" to a puritan it isn't even really that. (*cough* like how Avril Lavigne is not punk, or even "light" rock, she is pop.) Stop with the fake politics, it ain't going to sell records. If you didn't take yourself so seriously, I can guarantee you a top spot in my very large collection of guilty pleasures.

Moving along.

Now these are Sri Lankan musicians at their best. If we diasporic types were to put together an ensemble like this, I hands down could be the fat chick with the beads, slothy the fellow who tries to rap in English (since I hear he can't speak Sinhala), and drac as the Anarkali-a-like. I'm sure he can shake what his momma gave him after a few drinks, and by all accounts if he grew his hair again nothing would be amiss. He's got the slender girlish figure of an 18 year old already. Which leaves that guy with the curly-ish hair left. Aiya's too fat, so any other takers?

Thy Compassions they Fail Not*

Alby told me that Paulanne had cancer when we were grocery shopping at Loblaws. It was December I had handed in my last paper for the semester and was meeting her at Bayview Village. We were in the produce section and I was molesting a bell pepper (I can't seem to pick good fruit or vegetables without groping them.) I remember turning and looking at her saying "Oh shit." We both then fell into a passionate tirade about how she was much too young to have cancer, neither of us at that point realising that it was the terminal bone variety.

I didn't know Paulanne very well. I was the costume director for the musical "Annie" which she had a part in. Labro and I got to know her while freaking the shiz out backstage. She was an incredible human being, and I couldn't believe that she was Adam's older sister. She and Brittany (Alby's kid sister) were really good friends.

Even though Paulanne and I weren't close, I still went for her funeral on Saturday. It was a surreal experience to say the least.

I've never been to a funeral for someone so young before. I suddenly felt really old. Older than when Jambon looks up at me with her "wtf" face, when I screw up the name of Dora's friend Boots. It was a different kind of old.

While I was standing by the marble staircase at Bayview Glen waiting for tool to show, I saw so many people that I knew, who I used to see on a practically daily basis 5 years ago. Here they all were brought together because of Paulanne. It wasn't even just limited to people who we used to go to school with either, because there were familiar faces I spotted in the U of T Trinity choir, and even the Bach choir as well.

Bumping into old friends at funerals? That's the stuff that happens to people in our parents' generation. Not to us. We're young, we're in our 20s this stuff shouldn't happen to us now. We shouldn't be experiencing this. But I still do think that it was Paulanne's time to go, although it really doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. It was pretty clear to everyone who was close to her in the last few months of life that she was getting herself ready to go.

And in memory of Paulanne, someone who I'm 100% sure would've enjoyed the following. Here's a funeral edition of quips:

Seated at Second Cup killing time until Alby's soundcheck was over (Yes! She sang that Josh Groban song during the service)

Tool: Hey, are you going to the funeral?
Me: Yeah, I'm actually just around the corner from Bayview Glen, come early and hang with me!
Tool: What are you wearing?
Me: Erm...
Tool: Is it all black? Is there some sort of dress code? Do I have to wear all black?
Me: (stifling laughter) No you idiot, just wear whatever, no one's going to care.
Tool: What are you wearing?
Me: I'm wearing a pair of freaking jeans
Tool: Light ones?
Me: Nooo, dark washed ones,
Tool: OooOo what kind?
*and that's the point when the conversation disintegrated into fashion talk*

Just before the funeral service started

Me: Blah blah (talking about something totally inane)
Tool: OMG. SHUT UP (in response to my inane comments) *shifts eyes* Damn, we're talking really loudly.
Me: No we're not. Okay. Maybe you are. You never knew how to whisper
Tool: No, seriously, that guy keeps staring at me.
Me: (turns and looks) Oh Tool, he's just checking you out.
Tool: At a FUNERAL?
Me: Look at the girl he's with (point's to bleached blonde wearing stripper style platforms)
Tool: hmm, it makes sense now.

In the foyer while eating meatballs among other things.

Alby: Do you think anyone will notice that I don't have shoes on?
Me: Pfft, there's like a million people in here, no one's going to be looking at your feet
Tool: Uh, people will notice, I thought no one would notice my fugly shoes, but she did (points to me) within like the first 30 seconds.
Alby: Oh tool, but she notices everything.
Me: Yes. Yes tool. I notice everything.
Tool: Damn you. And that noticing everything thing.

Julie, the Bayview Glen caterer walking past holding a tray heaped with samosas

Alby: Oh man I'm starving (grabs a samosa)
Julie: Careful! They're spicy
Me: *snickering* (Grabs a samosa, and waits for the hilarity to ensue)
Tool: (grabs a samosa) Ooo. There's so much food here! It reminds me of Mandarin!
Me: Wth? really? Mandarin? The Chinese buffet?
Alby: Omg. What is in this thing?
Tool: Yeah wtf is this?
Me: It's a samosa! There's potato in it.
Tool: Yeah I know that, but what exactly is it?
Me: I don't know Tool. How do I explain this so you understand. I guess it's something ethnic?
Tool: Oh. Ethnic. (Says so with such conviction in her voice. As if it being labeled "ethnic" makes it more palatable)

- Paulanne Hoskins. February 14, 1985 - March 1, 2007.

*From Great is Thy Faithfulness, they sang it during the service. Which was awesome, since it is one of my favourite songs.

Also I can't get Casimir Pulaski Day out of my head. There's so much of a parallel with the lyrics and what happened with Paulanne. Especially the whole "First of March" deal. Bit eerie eh?

Esto Perpetua.

I'm pretty sure none of us were actually there in '88

"Blue, black and blue, dirty kangaroo..."

Aiya was never given to actually playing cricket, he was more prone to be seated under a shady tree eating a chinese roll from the school tuck shop. Regardless of his actual skill on the pitch the Roy-Tho was always a big deal for him. Thathi used to skip out of work to take him and his ankle biting friends. The festivities were sure to end with him having his flag stolen, cap flicked or other sundry article of school pride knicked.

I've never been to one of these "big matches," sadly the closest has probably been the annual Royal-Thomian that Thathi used to help organise back in the day, and the Metros, when the boys used to play basketball. When we all went to Sri Lanka for Punchy Mammah's wedding in 2000 I begged Rajiv to take me with him, but I was deemed too much of a "liability." I think his friends are clearly just pervy.

Usually large Sri Lankan gatherings make me suspicious, and other than the amusement to be had making fun of people, and watching them get sloshed I'm guessing that the novelty of the whole big match thing would wear off pretty quick.

In any case if I ever do find myself in the motherland during the fever you better believe that I will be begging forcing the auditor to take me.

Evolution by numbers.

Exhibit A

When we migrated to Canada Loku Mammah gave Thathi a pair of flannel pyjamas (which of course he refuses to get rid of and have now become a sort of family heirloom. Don't ask. Apparently this is how we honour the the memory of our loved ones, with flannel intimates). I've only ever seen him wear them once, and that was after major dental surgery. Not overly sure what dental surgery and pj's have in common, but whatevs. It was weird. Like bizzaro weird. Thathi quite simply should not wear pyjamas. Ever. It's wrong.

For as long as I could fit, I used to sit in the folds of his sarong like it was a swing, this was made easier due to the copious amount of time Thathi sat in front of the TV watching sports. I was like Roo and would quite happily while away my time pretending to understand what was going on on the TV or reading a Bernstein Bears book. Thathi's sarong and my childhood go hand in hand together.

Aiya never started wearing a sarong until he went back to Sri Lanka for the first time at 19, the heat was too much for him to handle. Now, like Thathi, in the dead of winter he still prefers a stripped cotton sarong to a pair of flannel pyjamas.

Of course the Sri Lankan sarong wearing male has had to undergo an evolution of sorts in order to survive Canada's harsh winters. They have learned to adapt.

1. The double chin
This extra layer of flub is important to maintain warmth, a type of insulation if you will. Thathi has had this along with the beard for as long as I've known him.

Aiya fortunately has always been a fat ass.

2. The '80s sweater
It is absolutely necessary that a sweater or sweatshirt from an incorrect era is worn in conjunction with the sarong. The more it clashes the better. Thathi gravitates towards off the rack Sears sweaters, but that's just a personal preference of his.

3. The remote control
When watching any type of sporting event at home, it is an abomination to do so in anything other than a sarong. Okay, maybe just at our house. But still.

4. The annoying family member
Nowadays Oliver is the only family member that can actually safely sit in the folds of Thathi's or Aiya's sarong. When Ollie was a puppy he used to flip over on his back and play with toys. Now he's an old lazy ass who just curls up and goes to sleeps in there.

5. The threadbare sarong
By all accounts a worn sarong is better than a new one. The crispness of the cotton makes it uncomfortable to sit in, and from what I've gathered it's no fun to wear either. However to achieve that worn feeling quickly, tossing said sarong into the dryer a few bajillion times would not hurt.

6. The white socks
The feet need to be insulated. 'Nuff said.

7. Gap of hilarity
This just may well be grasping, because I mean, this entire get-up is pretty absurd on its own. I feel like the sock gap between the bottom of the sarong and the top of the tube sock just pushes it over the edge though.

Happy Birthday Albehhhh!

Alby and Tool, bringing sexy back since the mid '80s

Aww. My little Alby is growing up so fast. Happy Birthday! I wish I could make it out to Molly's and watch you get hammered tonight. But alas, that's what happens when you decide to get your edumacation in the middle of a wheat field. Not my fault.

All the best babycakes, and remember, eventually a boy who can do math will come your way.

And just for you a special birthday edition of quips from lunch at Spring Rolls.

Tool: Should I tell him that he gave me incorrect change?

Me: Don't give him a good tip, he sucked.

Alby: I don't know Tool, that is a lot of cash he gave back to you.

Tool: Hang on, (counting furiously) I gave him 10 bucks and I've got like 12 bucks in change. WTF.

Me: Hot damn, clearly he now deserves a good tip.

Tool: No I feel bad, he's going to get into crap when they check the till.

Me: And that's a problem because?

Tool: Well. I know what it's like to screw up the change and stuff. (Calls waiter over.) Excuse me, but I think you gave me the wrong change back

Waiter: Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought you gave me a 20 instead of a 10. (Returns proper change)

Tool: Damn you concious. I mean conscience. It's conscience right?

Me: Oh, Tool.

A thought on the plague that is VD.

When terriers and lolipops are brought together

Ollie and I? We no likey.

In fact if any of you decide that it'd be nice to call me up in anticipation of your festivities, please spare me. And that includes your post game analysis too.

As it is I'm about to hurl.

Hope your Valentine's Day is actually full of VD.

What? Me bitter?

pfft.

Dear Whoren.

I told you that I'd make it my new desktop. And you're right, it is simultaneously the best and hottest ever.

Original photo by fanners.

Salaam Alaikum.

Coming to a jihad near you

Next month is Black History Month, which means the charming, well dressed African American men with educational pamphlets will soon be outside of St. George Station generally getting in the way and causing people to be late for class. About four years back I was rushing to a politics class at Sid Smith, rocking the same keffiyeh that Ollie's got on when one of the African American scholars turned to me and shouted "Salaam Alaikum, sister!" Under normal circumstances I would've lost my shit at him for condescending to call me "sister," but surprisingly in this instance I returned the greeting "Alaikum Salaam" and got a bit adventurous.

Yes.

I busted out my poor excuse for Wolof as I had a sneaking suspicion that this fellow just may be Sénégalaise, and it turned out he was. What followed was the rapid fire traditional "greeting" which is just one person interogating the other on a myriad of different topics ranging from family, health to business. He was surprised to say the least, when I brought up Daara J.

And that is why I love Toronto. I can get away with wearing a keffiyeh, prattling away in piss poor Wolof and relate this story to any one of you, and in turn none of you would even bat an eyelid. (Although Thorn's very verbose friend would counter that a keffiyeh is one of "the most offensive items of clothing that one could possibly wear. As this clearly and blatantly show support for the PLO and other such terrorist organisations." In all my many years of wearing one, I must say that was the first time anyone has pulled that out of their ass!)

Well, this is life in a robust multicultural city (and yes, my cheque from Ontario Tourism is in the mail, thank you for inquiring). The thing is, I think we Torontonians unlike most other cosmopolitan city dwellers have come to the understanding that, yeah, no shit Sherlock, culture is fluid, and as much as you'd like to box it in, you can't. I also think that I've read too many pages of The Ground Beneath Her Feet in a concentrated period of time, and may very well be spouting off too much Rushdie. (Great book by the way.)

Quebec? Yes, we get it, you speak French, you're a "distinct" society within a "unified Canada." But why harp on that? The polarising nature of the whole separatist debate stagnates Canadian politics to a certain degree. This debate, and "controversy" has been around since the Natives were given the boot. What about cultural inclusion? I'm not talking about coming to Canada and living in your own little enclaves trying to emulate life in the mother land to a T. But look at someone like Deepa Mehta.

Born in India, a naturalised Canadian citizen based in Toronto, makes a Hindi movie set in Varanasi. Which is actually shot in Sri Lanka with a lead actress who is Polish/Indian and was born and brought up in Missisauga. Water, which I've forced most of you to watch at least a part of is incredible, so it should come as no surprise that yesterday it was announced as being on the shortlist for best foreign language film at the Oscars. Canada's contribution I may add. Mehta's film follows in the footsteps of French-Canadian films like the Oscar winning Barbarian Invasions and nominated C.R.A.Z.Y.

I personally don't think there's anything more Canadian than that.

Which is why shows like Little Mosque on the Prairie, can air in Canada and not even raise an eyebrow of controversy in its home country. But have the US media up in arms. Our inbred cousins to the South have got their eye on us! I checked it out last Tuesday night after the Mercer Report like the good CBC supporter that I am.

I was pleasantly surprised but thought I'd wait until the second episode aired before I weighed in with an opinion. I like it. It's smart, funny and it doesn't just focus in on the Muslims in the small town cliche. It also examines the whole idea of Toronto being the centre of Canada, and well, other Canadians being more than a little irked by that. Although one quibble that I do have, I wish they had a "progressive" practising Muslim woman on the show who didn't wear a burqa.

OoOoOo.

That's right, it looks like the diatribe is back!

Bedazzled.

Taken on my camera phone. Because I'm sleuth like that.

So I was at WalMart the other day killing some time when I happened upon the above gem. Why are these things still on the market? I know it's not a real Bedazzler, but Cathy Mitchell? Really? Apparently the Ruskies likey.

The only other use for this would be perhaps alby and I purchasing it for Labro's wedding shower? Maybe I should go and pick one up before it flies off of the shelf.

Yeah. How pointless was this post.

Working for the man

It has been brought to my attention that I apparently post too many pictures of Oliver up here. To all the haters, you can suck it. This is him in one of Thathi's shirts, which happened to be in a pile of stuff headed to the dry cleaners

It's the New Year, blah, blah, fishcakes. I'm a student, and have been since I was four, talk to me in September, because that's really when the new year starts for me. What with the advent of a new academic year, and more importanty the new fall tv lineups, that's when I get all introspective and shiz.

Tuesday was my first day of teaching French to young impressionable Canadian minds. Wasn't too bad, although a child did vomit all over himself within the first fifteen minutes of my arrival. Perhaps he was just so overwhelmed at the prospect of learning French?

I feel like Michael Scott more often than not though, my stint as a teacher will end up making his attempts to be friends with everyone in the Office pale in comparison. Is it wrong that I want them to think that I'm the cool one? Probably haha. Thathi advised me to be strict with them, this coming from the man who used to get public beatings at school because he'd piss on other students' head a la that scene in The Power of One.

Since this is the first post of 2007, perhaps a few (none academic) things to look forward to?

1. Going to the motherland for four months. If I make it through all four months, it would have been the longest that I've ever spent there (since we migrated to Canada, when I was 4).

2. Getting my fat ass on a treadmill

3. Going to more live shows

4. Getting engaged. To George Clooney. (Or Colin Firth, I'm not too picky)

5. Finishing off this bloody graduated licensing bullshit and finally getting my good and proper piece of paper and plastic rectangle with requisite bad picture.

6. Working up the nerve to drop everything like it's hot, run away and never be seen in these parts again.

7. Hearing more schizophrenic things like the below on a crowded subway in the middle of morning rush hour, when I have a dull pounding headache. Having this original piece of music repeated for 40 minutes straight has given me a bitter hatred towards rye and coffee in general. Why you may ask? Because it was stuck in my head the entire day.

Some folks like their coffee black
Some folks like it white
I'll have mine with a shot of rye, if you're with me tonight

I probably should've been more annoyed, but the best part was when the singer congratulated himself and said the compostion definitely rivaled anything written by John Lennon

8. Going to the cottage with the ladies again. Three days was not enough!

And that's all I can think of for now.

I'm dreaming of a moist Christmas.

,*No evil terriers were harmed in the production of this holiday greeting.

Abysmal weather to be celebrating Christmas that's for sure. If I wanted sogginess I would've gone to Vancouver, or even England for that matter. Fog? On the 23rd? Maybe we'll get some snow our way between today and the 25th.

*shudder*

It just feels so weird.

Guess this is a little taste of what Christmas in Sri Lanka or Australia for that matter is like.

Anywho, Merry Christmas and all that jazz.

Hope you guys have been chowing down as much as I've been. Because that way I at least won't feel bad for packing on the holiday poundage.

For a good time call...

"Sup my bitchz?"
Ollie in his brand spanking new American Apparel wife beater. What's that? Yes. He is so scene.

Anyone but me. Seriously. I won't be able to give anyone a good time (get your mind out of the gutter) until Thursday (the earliest). You're better off trying to get together with Oliver. Although, he has become a rather arrogant SOB as of late due to the acquisition of new clothing (early Christmas present from Aiya.)

He's been creating waves over at the park. His homosexual lover, Meko (an obese, short legged Jack Russell who lives a few streets over from us) did not waste any time trying to score some action. Went straight for the goods, didn't even partake of the usual nether sniffing ritual.

Chikungunya strikes back
In other news, my grandmother has been stricken with that weirdly named Chikungunya thing that's been rearing its mosquito borne head in various parts of South Asia. I thought it was some made up thing until I wikied its ass. Turns out it's legit.

My grandfather is a stubborn mule. It's easy enough to gather within the first five minutes of being acquainted with him. I'm stubborn, we know that. But his stubborn? It's a firm and fruity sort of stubborn, a vintage stubborn if you will, cultivated lovingly through a combination of age, experience and hailing from a long line of stubborn jackasses. So when my grandmother blacked out (due to the Chikungunya), hitting the ground forehead first, bleeding all over the place, it's only natural that my grandfather switches into mule mode.

Ammi and Thathi hooked my grandparents up with MediCalls for situations such as the above. (MediCalls is like a "I've fallen and I can't get up" thing with a Sri Lankan twist.) They live by themselves in a Colombo suburb pretty far away from the rest of the family. As it happened that day neither of my uncles could rush off immediately to their place. Ravi Bappa was out of Colombo on business, Johnny Bappa was dealing with striking workers, and Lucky Bappa's in Hatton. You guys have seen pictures of my 84 year old grandfather, he's become this cute little frail thing with a wisp of silver hair (seriously though, don't let the cuteness throw you off), there's no way in hell would he have been able to pick up my blacked out and bloodied 84 year old grandmother off the floor.

Therefore instead of calling MediCalls he hollers for the neighbours (who he's been feuding with in one way or another for the last 25+) they rush over, clean up my grandmother and subsequently make the grave mistake of suggesting that they should call MediCalls to get her to the hospital for stitching up.

My severely diabetic, heart patient grandfather sees fit to call up the infamous Susantha (natch) and bundles my grandmother up in a freaking trishaw and takes her to some random clinic around the corner to get things looked after.

That's right. Instead of MediCalls, which would've sent an ambulance and a doctor straight to their doorstep.

Fortunately she's fine now, and had her five stitches removed on Friday. (All the excitement took place sometime last week, I don't know exactly when though.)

I pray to God I will not end up like my grandfather when I'm 84.

Also? I'm now beginning to think it just may be a wise thing to perhaps look around for a place to rent from May to August instead of shacking up with the patriarch of the family.

I need a haircut.

Any ideas?

I get bored at this time of year. The stress of exams coupled with the awful weather makes me feel like I'm stuck in a rut.

Usually this feeling comes on around mid-November and doesn't wane until about the end of February. This is the time of year when I usually go and chop off all my hair. Right now it's just at my waist, my bangs look horrid, they've grown down to my chin and I'm most definitely loosing the battle against split ends. I'll probably head on over to Pacific Mall and let aiya's hair stylist work his magic, the man's a genius.

Throughout the years I've employed various methods of pulling myself up out of the funk.

There was my bout of entrepreneurialism that resulted in me making close to a $1000.00 one Christmas on crocheted scarves. (What can I say, the waitresses that worked for aiya at the now defunct Red Drink Boutique weren't the sharpest tools in the shed.)

It was around this time of year that I first started tutoring high school brats in French. Stressful, and probably not really worth the pittance I used to charge for 45 minutes of my time.

I got my humanitarian on as well, one year I volunteered at a small but very well known NGO and ended up wanting to kill myself.

It was hard to juggle writing close to 1500 Christmas cards and then coming home and trying to study for university exams and doing assignments. Still high off the smell of black Sharpies all I could manage to muster was "Seasons greetings from all of us at The NGO. Hope your New Year is ____ ." (At this point I was allowed to fill in the blank with either "wonderful," "spectacular," "awesome," or "amazing" depending on who the donor was.)

Didn't really do much to help me out of my rut. However the experience came in handy much later on, because I decided that I never wanted to start at the bottom of the pile in a Canadian NGO ever. Yeah, sue me, somehow I think I'm a little above photocopying, getting coffee and writing Christmas cards. (My experiences in Sri Lanka were a million times better)

Interspersed between all of the above were random bouts of hair cutting disasters. Generally I go the haircutting route every 2 years, because it needs to grow back to butcher again. The last "haircut" I got was actually a trim, at the Cutting Station in Colombo (the only decent haircut I've ever had in that country), that was in mid-June. Time for a haircut. Stat.

What's in store for me this year? Turns out I've got a teaching gig.

That's right. You read that correctly.

I'm teaching French at an elementary school. To small children. In January. You guys know that I had a hard enough time dealing with two dogs a classrooom full of kids is just going to epitomise "fun."

Let me recap.

Before I went to Senegal I got the brilliant idea to do some work with inner city ghetto kids. My reasoning was, hey, I'm going to teach psychologically damaged street kids how to read and write in French, might as well get a head start with messed up kids in Toronto. (Incidentally this arrangement also took place at around this time of year.)

I didn't last very long. Why are kids so damn annoying? The kiddies I had in Senegal were angels compared to anything I've ever had to deal with here.

So yeah, I'm really hoping that Chinese guy will come through with the haircut. Otherwise I think I'm going to be totally SOL.

Yes. I am that shallow.