Pretty Voice

I finally got around to purchasing City Field's Authentic City last week. I wish I'd done it sooner.

I have a gigantic heart-on for Gregg Millman's vocals, especially on "Cleo". She sounds like equal parts Susanna Hoffs and Deborah Harry. Butterflies in Sofi's tummy? Oh, yes.

Matt Murphy is one lucky dude.

(Now playing: "Cleo", City Field)

Wham, Bam, Thank-You Love!

Last night, I attended my final Blow Up.



It's changed quite a bit from the night I loved so fervently a few years ago (i.e. the new venue is crap, the turn-out was meagre and the tunes were a far cry from purist British music - The Postal Service?! What the shit?), but I still had a good time and was surrounded by some of my very favourites.

I made sure to shake the hand of Mr. DJ Davey Love (He of Mammoth Silver Muttonchops) on my way out and sincerely thanked him for giving me a really great night to cut a rug every summer during my undergrad.

These days, mod nights seem to be a dime a dozen, but Blow Up was my first and will always have a special place in my heart.

(Now playing: "Wasting My Time", The Riots)

Teenland (or: High School Confidential)

On Sunday, Susan and I attended the Shameless launch party at the Gladstone Hotel. It was a mixture of business and pleasure, since I'm writing a feature on the magazine for school. What impressed me most about the afternoon (aside from the publication itself, which is pretty great) was talking to members of their teenaged editorial collective. These girls are activists, musicians, students, artists, feminists and are all of seventeen years old. It was incredible how remarkably self-assured and intelligent they all were. They totally blew me away.

I think once we leave our teens, we only remember the awkwardness of that stage in our lives. And I was an awkward teenager. I was a bookworm and spent more lunches in the library reading plays than I did socializing in the cafeteria. I wore too-big-for-my-face glasses and sweatshirts with dolphins on them or Nirvana t-shirts over coloured tights. I often paired such ensembles with purple headbands or dangly peace sign earrings. I had greasy hair. I played the piano and trombone and guitar and trumpet and went to band camp and loved it. I hid lipstick in my locker and put it on at school so my parents and grandparents wouldn't find out. I didn't have a boyfriend. I fell in love with teachers almost exclusively and I took my 15-year-old friend Doug to senior prom because no one asked me to go (we had a really lovely time, incidentally).

When I think back to my teen years, that's what I remember. But I'd forgotten until I talked to these girls that I was also remarkable in my own right. I cared enough about politics at 13 to be enraged by the fact that I couldn't vote, even though I was more informed about the issues and candidates than most of the adults I knew. I became the editor of my high school newspaper at 15 and won a city-wide poetry contest that same year. By 18, I had written my first play.

It's so easy to forget one's accomplishments as a youth when they're eclipsed by vaguely painful memories of social awkwardness.

After giving this a bit of thought, I can honestly say now that I'm pretty proud of who I was as a teenager and I hope that one day I'll have a brainy, awkward, creative, opinionated, short-sighted and greasy-haired teenaged daughter of my own.

(Now playing: "She's a Star", James)

William Joel Macdonald Plaskett, Words Fail Me

Fortunately, a picture is worth a thousand of them.


(Many thanks to C-Mac for allowing me to shamelessly "borrow" her MS Paint masterwork.)

(Now playing: "Natural Disaster", Joel Plaskett)

Fond But Not in Love

In honour of my first Valentine's Day as a Single Woman in a couple of years, I've decided to intentionally have the most pathetic day possible.

So far:

• put on pretty make-up for no one but myself
• moped
  
• watched a tape of last night's Desperate Housewives while eating Ruffles
• considered adopting a cat (even though I don't particularly like cats and am allergic)
  

Yet to come:

• drinking alone
• eating bon-bons, Peggy Bundy-style
  
• dinner consisting of Kraft Dinner and sliced up hotdogs
• binge drinking tequila with a group of lovelorn folk while playing board games

My valentines today (and the recipients of my misdirected spinsterly love) are Lukas and Indra for housing me in Kingston this April if I get the Whig-Standard internship. Rah rah!

(Now playing: "Oh Heart", Jill Barber)

Sing Me to Sleep

It's amazing what six solid hours of sleep can do for one's mental and emotional stability (i.e. I feel much better, thank you.) God bless warm milk and Patrick McGoohan.


I'm soothing, yet painfully arousing.

I'm not hating on the Toronto Fringe Festival anymore. I mean, I'm fairly certain they weren't conspiring against my happiness. Also, it's not as though the lottery were based on the artistic merit of the submitted plays. It was the luck of the damned draw, that's all. I need to learn to not take things so personally.

Anyway, the good news is I can now use the $600+ I would've spent on my play to buy myself super awesome shit! Like a digital camera! And knee-high bitch boots! Or food and shelter! Nee haw.

(Now playing: "Forget All About It", Nazz)

Addendum: I've recently installed a statistics counter on my blog so I can see who reads it and where they're from. What's interesting (aside from the international hits stemming from such google searches as "lesbian mothers nude photos" and "I'm so lonely, I have no money") is how many hits I've been getting from Toronto media. People from The Globe and Mail, The Toronto Star and City TV have been reading and re-reading the bee's knees (probably a bi-product of the Torontoist/Killers fiasco.) What I would like to say to you, Toronto media, is this: if you find me endlessly fascinating, hire me! I'm awesome and I'm qualified and I'm all yours, come this spring! You know how to get in touch...

I'm So Tired I Can't Sleep

I've had between 0 and 3 hours of sleep per night since Saturday.

Sunday night I literally did not sleep at all. It was one of those horrible checking-the-clock-every-half-hour nights where you just want to punch your pillow out of frustration and you beg your body to sleep. I eventually gave up, turning off my alarm clock 5 minutes before it was set to go off.

Right now, I'm so exhausted that my eyes are having trouble focussing on the words I am typing, I have a pounding headache, and my hands are quite literally shaking.

Why is this happening? I don't really know. It's likely one of the following reasons:

1) My bed has spontaneously decided to become extremely uncomfortable.
2) Genetics have caught up with me and I've finally reached the age when Papamarkos stop sleeping entirely (my dad and grandmother think 4 hours a night are sufficient).
3) I'm stressed about school (ah hahahaa!) or
4) I can't stop thinking about the Toronto Fringe Festival, and whether or not my play will be selected. I find out TODAY, so I keep hitting refresh on my email. Honestly, it's driving me batshit insane.

I'm going have some warm milk later this afternoon and try to take a nap. If that doesn't work, I don't think I can avoid the chemical route any longer. I need to get some decent rest soon, or I'll fucking snap.

(Now playing: "Johnny Thunder", The Kinks)

Update: The Toronto Fringe Festival can go to H-E-double-hockey-sticks. My application was not pulled in last night's lottery (where 100+ plays were selected). This is hilarious to me since my name was the SECOND drawn out of a pool of 300+ potential jurors when I went to the Toronto courthouse for jury selection last fall. In my life, I will never win the lottery...but I'll probably get struck by lightning a few times.

P.S. Please forgive incredible bitterness. I still have not slept.

Let's Get Physical

I've been going to the gym a lot lately ("a lot" for me = 3 times a week). I'm feeling pretty good. My legs and my arms have already gotten much stronger, and my overall sense of well-being has really improved. Right after a workout, my whole body is humming and happy and tells me, "Thank you for getting off your lazy ass and actually USING me! I really appreciate it. Here, have some endorphins!"

There's one problematic side effect to all of this physical activity, however. Immediately after a really good workout, I get rather...ermm....lusty.

I once heard that this has something to do with an increase in testosterone levels in women after being physically active. Chemically, we become more like men. And we want it.

Like, badly.

It hasn't even been that long since I last...got satisfaction. In fact, I suppose it was relatively recently (considering how chronically undersexed I usually am). But that lovely warm memory does very little to curb my desire to attack just about anything with stubble and an adam's apple, post-workout.

No freakin' wonder so many women meet their partners at the gym. It's you or the showerhead, baby.

(Now playing: "Moonshake", Can)

Hey, Torontoist! Here's a disparaging remark for you: you're stupid!

Not 24 hours after Torontoist runs an interview and photograph of my dear darling Matt, they go straight into my bad books. The reason? They slam opinions expressed by myself and Mr. Aaron Brophy in eye's 2004 Music Critics Poll.

My comments in the poll were as follows:

Far be it from me to disagree with David Bowie and 95% of the critics participating in this poll, but "Funeral" should not be the Album of the Year. Is it a strong record? Definitely. Is it exceptional? Not really. Are there are at least 30 other, better records that came out this year that I will listen for years to come while "Funeral" collects dust on my shelf? Absolutely. (Ashes to ashes.)

Joshua Errett of Torontoist blathers:

As Torontoist sits down to reflect upon last year's Arcade Fire album, we ask ourselves: "Is all we ever do is sit down to reflect upon last year's Arcade Fire album?" Watching the Win and Regine show last night on Conan O'Brien raised a completely separate issue though. That issue, briefly, is Chart Magazine. (Not a specific Chart issue, but the content of the publication in general.) This week's 2004 Eye Music Critic's Poll included two absurd statements from the silly Canadian music magazine (only available in print, fortunately). First, there's a disparaging slam directed toward our heroes the Arcade Fire by Chart writer Sofi Papamarko. Sofi, it should be noted, is a fan of the Killers. Then, Editor Aaron Brophy issues a vile and insulting reproach of the last Wilco album. Gross! What is going on over at those Chart offices? Listening to Hot Fuss a little too much? Perhaps? At any rate, Chart Magazine is completely out of their element.

What was that, Joshua? Disparaging? Care to look that word up in the dictionary? Oh, nevermind. I know how busy you all are at Torontoist. Here, let me do it for you:

dis·par·ag·ing
adjective
contemptuous or disapproving: showing or expressing contempt or disapproval

I don't disapprove of "Funeral", Joshua. I just don't think it's that fantastic, that's all. Neighbourhood # 3 (Power Out) manages to kick my ass every time. Crown of Love is dreamy and makes me want to cuddle pillows. The rest of the album? I could honestly take it or leave it. And I have a feeling I'm not alone in my thinking.

(Now playing: "Wrecking Now", Guided by Voices)