To the hustings!

I always love a good election and I was kind of glad that I'd be in Colombo during the lead up to Tuesday's vote. My parents weren't too enthused with my timing because they remembered election violence, assassinations and all sorts of other lovely things when they still lived and were able to vote. On the whole, aside from all the Mahinda love, things were pretty tame in my opinion.

There was that one evening though...

I was on my way home in a 588 cab, making a left turn onto the Galle Road, there was a pick up truck reversing erratically in our direction. The cabbie lent on the horn, but the pick up kept coming at us, the windows were darkly tinted and one slowly rolled down, a man with bloodshot eyes looked at my driver, waved a pistol at him, shook his head and the pick up continued erratically along. The cabbie and I just looked at each other dumbfounded and he told me that because of the elections exchanges like the one we just had were more common place.

Great! Nothing like pissing yourself at 3:20 in the morning to remind you how fantastic it is to live in a country where only 30% of the public gives a shit enough to vote and 'election violence' means a paper cut.

Over Indulged.

Growing up, Thathi very rarely ever said no to me. If I wanted something I would get it under the pretext of it being an "early birthday present" or one of those "you can pay me back later" type of deals. This would irritate Ammi to no end and Aiya was never afforded such preferential treatment. I like to think that I'm none the worse, my sense of entitlement only extends so far and in general most would agree that I am a grateful person? Who knows really.

Oliver totally benefits from Thathi's generosity and I think he is way more spoiled than I am because both Ammi and Thathi indulge the crap out of him. Below is a photograph I took earlier on this evening of him lounging in the midst of 7 of his 8 beds. And yes, you read that correctly. EIGHT BEDS.



Here is a clockwise break down starting from 7 o'clock.

The plaid one with the monkey in it sits in the living room in front of the window. He sleeps there in the afternoon sun.

Navajo print? Hideous I know, but it's the latest acquisition and has usurped the original favourite bed in my parents room for the night sleep.

That little sofa! It is the one that makes me go squee. That was his first Christmas present and it's a bit worse for wear these days, there's barely any padding in it so it's got another bed in it to soften things up a bit. This used to be his go to bed, it recently got booted from my parents' room into mine.

The barefoot pillowcase is covering the kitchen floor cushion. He perches on there while we're eating.

Winnie the Pooh's chillaxing on the bed that is permanently fixed in the study.

And finally, the derelict plaid cushion. His very first bed which gets afforded no respect these days. Anyone who's been over will verify this for you, but he literally just carries that around in his mouth from room to room.

Not pictured: the other barefoot floor cushion, it's his "outdoor" pillow and has been put away in storage until the warmer weather is back.

So in light of all these indulgences and what's been going on with the Toronto Humane Society we went by the Vet's office today to drop off some dog cookies for the animal shelter food drive that they're doing for Christmas. The deal was, bring in some dog food and have your pet's picture taken with Santa. Of course this would not do for us because our lovely pet would most likely shit on Santa out of excitement, urinate with no abandon or headbutt him. Oh, and natch, those poor needy shelter animals didn't get gourmet carob, yogurt, carrot and peanut cookies. Those plebes got Milk Bones.


If you only knew how many people have seen these in the cookie jar, stuck their hands in and tried to eat them thinking they were of the human variety. Aren't they cute though?

Every day in the morning I tell myself that I'm not going to read the latest on what's going on with the whole Humane Society debacle, but I do and my stomach churns. Oliver has been getting a lot of extra love these days as a result which I suppose isn't necessarily a bad thing? Anyways, if you get the chance I would recommend taking a stroll through here: http://www.thestar.com/topic/TorontoHumaneSociety


I daily resist the urge to take a bite out of this little face. Daily.

Let's go home!

I haven't written a "real" blog post in awhile. Just don't seem to have the time these days between summer school, work and all the seasonal social obligations. The only time I can actually punch something out is when I'm on the subway. I've been pecking away at this for the last little while and I have no idea if I'll ever get around to finishing it, but it's a partially written post that was thoughtlessly written with my two thumbs on the iphone. I haven't read it over so you're warned...

More often than not these days our conversations around the dinner table always lead to the same thing: Ammi and Thathi retiring to Sri Lanka. I can't say that I'm completely opposed to the idea. The properties that they've been looking at are infinitely more conveniently located than where my grandmother lives. Plus centralised a/c is always ftw in gawdawful Colombo. Generally speaking though when the old couple appeal to me on important issues like proximity to other family members, 'hot spots' and wtf to do with the dog, my wont is to stare back blankly and blink a few times. This has rankled the old man into fits and caused Ammi her fair share of consternation as well. In their minds it would seem that Aiya and I don't give a shit what happens to them so long as they don't move in with either of us during their Golden Years. If I have the good fortune to have Aiya around (which these days is not the case due to the acquisition of a new femme) we will roll our eyes, hold our tongues and display a level of restraint hitherto unknown.

That all changed recently though. I was catching up on my feeds in the kitchen. I happened to start reading a blogpost that someone had written about the scattered Sri Lankan diaspora returning home. It was so asinine, ill conceived and ludicrous I couldn't help but read out a few of the more 'passionate bits' out loud for public ridicule. Ammi and Thathi responded in typical fashion. Mostly because they are generally aware of the writer's status as being an unbearable tosser and also because they don't really view themselves as being your run of the mill conflict-fleeing-Sri Lankans.

I suppose this is something I've meant to write about for some time and nevar could really be arsed to do. Most of you know in bits and pieces what I think and how I feel about the circumstances surrounding our migration as a family. I've never really sat down and gone through the whole thing in any cohesive manner so I guess this is as much for me as it is for you? In light of all the political events that have been unfolding it's unsurprising that I my thoughts on the subject are courted more frequently than in the past.

So here goes?

I'll start from the point that most people find relevant and I feel the need to add the disclaimer that not only do I personally feel it is irrelevant I also don't give a shit. In short, Thathi is Sinhalese and Ammi is Tamil. I know right? It's horrifying.

We lost our home in '83 due to this disgusting twist of fate. They found out that Ammi was Tamil through the voters list and our neighbours torched the house. We knew it was coming and our immediate family left to Thathi's parents place in Ratmalana. Amamma and Ammi's younger siblings weren't so fortunate. Amamma was a well known doctor in the area, her house was razed. She and Punchi mammah ended up in a refugee camp. My aunt saw the worst of it. She was on her way in from the city, saw people being burned alive. I know she used to sometimes wake up screaming from nightmares well into the 1990s. Obviously this is what happened to countless other Tamils in Colombo in 83 so it's really not that special. Needless to say that was the last year any of my Tamil family members ever voted.

Ammi says that one of her earliest memories as a child were houses burning and being hidden in a cupboard. She was very young when the first race riots broke out in the 50s. This whole being Tamil/Sinhalese thing was never an issue within our family, even at the point when Sri Lanka gained independence. My maternal grandfather wouldn't let his children speak Tamil at home and neither would my paternal grandfather. Actually scratch that, speaking the vernacular in either home was forbidden by both families by my great grandparents. I come from a long line of brown sahibs. Don't get me wrong though, I think both the Tamil and sinhalese sides would die if they were termed imperialists. My family were long time LSSP supporters and believed in a free independent Sri Lanka for all Sri Lankans.

I suppose it sounds so cheesey to say this now, but the older generation believed this with great vehemence. The next generation didn't quite get it right. At least not the Sinhalese generation. I learned what marginalization was from them when I made my first visit to Sri Lanka as a teenager.

Ammi's entire family eventually migrated either to Canada, Australia or the UK. I have no male Tamil family left except for 2 who married well established sinhalese women. We were originally slated to go to Australia. Ammi was petrified that we'd get killed for being half Tamil, it didn't make much sense for us to go but they put in their paperwork and Canada was the first to get back to us. In the 1950s my paternal grandfather nearly came to Canada with his young family. I think this was always meant to be our home.

The immigration officer who interviewed us tried to dissuade them from leaving. He didn't think they'd last more than six months in Toronto. Granted looking back my parents haven't got the foggiest clue as to how we made it. He was so intrigued by our family that he actually made a concentrated effort to keep tabs on our progress for close to 15 years. I think that he eventually made it to Cyprus and found himself a wife. That's when we lost touch with him. He's now actually a director in in the refugee and immigration department in Ottawa. It's a shame that Ammi's not as much of a pack rat as Thathi & I because she actually tossed out his letters.

First belated obligatory post

So. I've impulsively gone and bought myself an iPhone with my first fat paycheque. Being a corporate whore is fantastic by the way. I can actually afford an insane data plan and still have enough leftover to make shoe purchases amongst a host of other things.

I'm going to attempt to afix a picture to this post but who knows.

Incidentally I've got a job interview tomorrow and am hoping to lean heavily on the built in gps to get me there on time. My stupendous lack of direction both in life and reality will no doubt find a way to circumvent technology.

Ignatieff's been made the leader of the Libs and although I totally love him but his acceptance speech? 'My determined determination' oh Michael!

Captain Cold Feet

I've had to put my sandals permanently away because sock weather is upon us kids and I can't deal. My head space has been a bit weirder than it normally is and despite having more things than usual to blog about I can barely muster two coherent sentences let alone a fluid post.

Spent the better part of the afternoon staring blankly at my computer screen trying to write a wee 300 word essay on why I'd be a suitable candidate to join the Canadian Foreign Service. Right now I'm slightly more interested in exploring why Cutty Ranks just never seems to gets old.

Dear David Emerson, (Minister of Foreign Affairs and International Trade)

Although I will never, ever vote for your party (in the current election and all subsequent ones to follow) I listen to good dancehall music. This should alleviate any concerns you should have about my levels of competency and ability to be a super secret spy.

Much love to the wife and kids!

Aiya and I beat a hasty retreat during a super horrifically awkward family dinner on Monday night and managed to catch another "Road Talk."


Mace from rasti on Vimeo.

Clearly the dancehall thing has been recurring all week. Also just to be clear, he doesn't wear fugly crocs. Aiya prefers these. Something about the breathable cork yadda comfortable yadda.

*woot*

There are very few things in this world that get me this excited about anything. Canadian Politics unfortunately happens to be one of those few things. Turns out we'll be having an election in October, the rumours were true!

I didn't know what I was going to do with myself after the Olympics were over, there was nothing to obssess over, nohting to fill that big dark empty void. Then the DNC and RNC came along and provided me and many others with hours of entertainment. Frankly it's a miracle that I came out of the RNC alive. Palin? She makes me want to do harmful things to myself and despite the haterade she did look fantastic on Wedensday night.

Now? Now I've got a Canadian election to look forward too as well! Although I'm a bit sad becaues Stephane Dion is stuch a flipping asshat. *sigh* I'm nostalgic for the time when I actually thought that Michael Ignatieff would be leading the Liberal party. Mofo should've made an appearance in Canada slightly earlier than the year of the leadership race.

Stay tuned my pretties, remember the last time when there was large scale Canadian politics a foot?

EEK.

Beverage Sensitivity Training

There's a new Loblaws that's opened up near the house, one of those giant "SuperStores." While I was meandering through the aisles I found the above gem. Were you aware that beverages could have ethnicity? Apparently they can be divided into cultural, linguistic, religious and geographic groups. Who knew? I wonder how their grand metanarratives are constructed. To think, all this time I always thought that soft drinks were either carbonated or flat.

My hat goes off to the corporate genius that figured mango and pineapple juice are too exotic to be contained in the same aisle as the Welches. These are the kinds of things that seriously have me questioning whether or not anyone pays attention to StatsCan's visible minority predictions for 2017. 9 years is not a long way off and we brown peeps are going to rule the GTA with an iron fist. So instead of using a term like "TROPICAL beverages" it's no surprise that Loblaws opts for the more ridiculous "ETHNIC" route.

Why can't juice just be effing juice?

"After a heated but civil debate, Canada's largest school board voted 11-9 last night to open an alternative Africentric school to help fight a 40 per cent dropout rate among Toronto's black teens." - GTA Board Okays Black-Focused School

So it's happened. The TDSB has voted in favour of the black-only schools. I'm absolutely stunned. (So stunned that I can't even figure out an appropriate title for this post.) A friend of ours from high school is teaching math and science in one of the original pilot classrooms, I bumped into a mutual friend of ours on the subway and she mentioned to me how horrific he thought the entire thing was. Yeah, he's black, but does it matter?

This whole thing smacks of racial segregation, it's the kind of insane thing you'd expect of US politicians. The ridiculous "no child left behind" kind of thing. It's a band-aid solution at best, at worst it's going to polarise an already vulnerable and at risk group of kids. I still can't fathom how this could have even been passed.

Apathy I suppose?

Even the best of us suffer from it.

High heels and more taggery by a consonant amongst others.

I'm glad that I didn't wear heels today. Corporate servitude often decrees some sort of shmancy and totally impractical footwear and I more often than not willingly acquiesce. We are a family of shoe whores all four of us actually. As Ammi pointed out once if I was forced to beg on the street my piece of soggy cardboard with black Sharpie scribbling on it would say "WILL WORK FOR SHOES."

Dropping a load of cash which I don't have on a pair of kicks is money well spent but as I hauled ass to the Women's College Bookstore after work, and got to the door wheezy, winded and five minutes after the official close a thought fleetingly struck me. I was glad I was wearing a pair of $20 white leather flats, at that moment I don't think I have ever received more bang for my buck.

It's been pointed out to me that as of late I have become more of a hermit than even I am wont.

Out loud I blame this on the work/school schedule. But deep down inside we all know the real reason is because I've busily been getting my geek on.

First off, the referendum cometh and so does the provincial elections. (Aside: you guys better be getting your vote on! October 10.)

World Cup Rugby! Like I've pointed out before buff boys+shorts=WIN! Next.

Fall sweeps. There is good TV on again. Friday night I caught up with everything I had missed during the week. Okay, when I say "week" I mainly mean Thursday.

Private Practice, America's Next Top Model (hi Nigel!), The Office, My Name is Earl, The Office, Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy.

*SWOON*

McSteamy is back in my life, I suddenly feel whole again.

How is it that I was unable to watch any TV on Thursday? I was at effing work until 10 PM that's why. Apparently this is the norm in the department I'm in. A few of you were concerned, and even horrified at these new extend-a-mix hours. "Yes, yes you're getting paid time and a half, but still!" "This is a dangerous precedent." "How do you expect to juggle your school work with hours like this?"

All valid points chickadees but here's the thing. TIME AND A HALF. Possibly one of the greatest creations of all times. Also, dayum. The corporate world sort of knows how to take care of yo'ass. Even if yo'ass is not that important in the larger hierarchy. I had forgotten what it felt like to give a 110% and not be completely taken for granted, to be *gasp* actually given a cab chit to go home and dinner (from some place decent).

Preaching to the choir etc, but now I'm starting to realise why you right wing capitalist shake your head in dismay when I start outlining what I'm going to do with my life. (Hi Roshan!)

I feel dirty.

Some Loose Ends

So many moons ago N tagged me and although I am tardy, I have not forgotten. So here are the five current discs that I'd take with me if I found myself stranded on some desert.... Wait a minute? I had all five of these on my ipod when I was in Sri Lanka. (See what I did there?) They're so self-explanatory that I'm not going to bother with any prose. In no particular order:

1. Pet Sounds - The Beach Boys
2.The Joshua Tree - U2
3. The Birth of the Cool - Miles Davis
4. Give Up - The Postal Service
5. X Amounts - controller.controller

*NOTE: the CD player which is used to play the above, by some scientific cunning is attached to George Clooney's six pack. No desert island is complete without him.

And in the spirit of being a half ass, I now tag the resident fascist.

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?

The end is nigh

Original article and photo

Iggy has once again rendered me speechless.

This in itself deserves a vote or two.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways

So was just watching tonight's episode of the Daily Show on CTV Atlantic, and as the credits were closing my eye caught a flash of saffron. More accurately, a saffron robe, a saffron robe which was being ripped off the back of a small brown bald headed man. Yes folks, my boyfriend Jon Stewart closed off with a clip of a Sri Lankan "Peace Rally."

Another reason why I love Jon Stewart.

I wonder if it was a repeat?

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!

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.

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 ;)

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.

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.

*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.

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.