So, um, we went ahead and did Christmas without y'all this year. Sorry; we just got tired of waiting, and, honestly, it's not like we've really talked in the last couple of months, I mean REALLY talked, y'know? So, why put this hypocritical burden on ourselves of pretending that we spent all this time searching for the perfect gifts for each other when really we were just scrambling about in a blind panic and that's why you got a novelty bar of soap for Christmas this year.
So, we're cool, right?
Kidding: I still love you all the same as the day I scraped you off the underside of the table and gave you names and pretended that I had real friends.
Although we DID go ahead and had Christmas last weekend; it's just that we're going away to the magical kingdom of Vancouverland to visit the grandparents this week, so we figgered it'd be easier to give the Little Miss a day of insanity here, as opposed to hauling all of her junk there and back again. Sorry if you didn't get the invite, but it was kind of a family affair, if you consider the guy living in your basement to be family.
(Which we do, because it's Bryn, and, well, Bryn is all kinds of awesome, even if he does walk around in his sweatpants all the time, carrying a knotted pair of jockey shorts in his hands while trying to teach my daughter how to talk like an Ewok. I swear to god, Bryn, the moment she utters the phrase 'Jub-jub' is the moment you find her soiled diapers inside of your pillow case.)
So, yes, Saturday morning we all gathered around our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree and watched while Hazel consumed her own body weight in sugar before stuffing herself into the toy oven that the Ladyfriend had spent all night previous constructing for her so that the Little Miss would have somewhere to put all the toy sushi that she recieved as a Chrsitmas gift, although now that I think about it, sushi's supposed to be raw so why would she need an oven to cook it in and now I should shut up because the Ladyfriend staying up until 2:00 in the goddamned morning building a kitchen out of cardboard for our daughter to play with is also seven shades of awesome and now here is where I breathe.
(whew.)
She also spent the previous two evenings making a fireplace out of construction paper so that we could have somewhere to hang our stockings.
Because I have apparently married Supermom. I am actually agog when I think about how much work the Ladyfriend put in to making Christmas special, not only for our daughter, but for everyone at the house. You rule, Supermom.
(This is not to say that my own mother is not Supermom as well, because she is, seeing as she had to not only raise me but also my brother (who is smelly) and my two sisters (who are not as smelly as they once were but when they were, whoooo boy!) as well as put up with my Dad, who I'm sure is where we all got our smelliness from - but for now, The Ladyfriend gets the title of Supermom, because she rocks harder than Dokken.)
(Who, when you really think about it, don't rock that hard at all, but whatever.)
So this is me saying, sorry if you missed it, but we had fun, and now we're going, and we won't be back until the new year, so stay outta my stuff. I've laid traps, so I'll know, so be good.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Things, or How I Spent The Last Six Months & Stuff
Right now, the Little Miss is distracted, as she is trying to stuff as many Christmas ornaments as possible into as many of her boots as possible, so I have a few moments to say: yes, I've been absent from my role of INTERNET WISDOM DISPENSER for some time now. I apologize. I am a Bad Internetter.
Still, there are reasons.
1. We gots married. Although I think I told y'all that one already. Only now it's offishul as we have Super Power Action Rings that were made out of alien bonedust and strange metals from radioactive meteors, granting us the ability to change our respective shapes into whichever form might best be required for our action-packed peril-fraught lives: "Form of: a diaper! Shape of: a wet wipe! Look out, Naked Baby, here we come!"
Rings are fun.
2. Beano got a facelift. Basically what happened was that we packed all of our cafe into a space that was about four feet by four feet, then served coffee out of it while crackheads dismantled the rest of the cafe with hammers and wheelbarrows and pneumatic drills. This lasted for about three weeks, which caused no small amount of dementia on our part, having to fit into the tiny space and serve people who'd look around and ask where the bathrooms were and why we weren't serving food - and I'm not lying about the crackheads, although they seemed to do more damage to themselves than they did to us. Also the fire department was called out at one point due to a cheesy smell eminating from the storm drain outside, where we may or may not have been dumping all of our excess water and gross milk during the warmest part of the summer. I admit nothing.
3. InFamous: okay, so you're stuck in the downtown core of The City, which has been quarantined by The Government due to some strange 'plague' that the TV's keep talking about, so it's pretty much a no-man's-land of ganags and violence and such, except you've also suffered a weird accident that's granted you the power to channel electricity and shock people and make lightning come out of your hands so you can decide whether or not it's best to save a bunch of people from the evil gangs that control the city or maybe it's best to just electrocute EVERYONE so that you can keep all the emergency supply drops for yourself and it's like being a superhero in Grand Theft Auto.
GAWD, this game is so fun.
4. Batman: Arkham Asylum: okay, basically you get to be Batman, so as cool as InFamous might be, THIS IS A GAME WHERE YOU ACTUALLY GET TO BE BATMAN.
So, y'know, you decide.
5. Fallout 3: Game Of The Year Edition: yes, I know I've already played the original version of this game, which essentially takes about six months for you to choose a name for your character, and really takes your entire lifetime in order for you to finish the storyline. This version, though, has aliens and radioactive hillbillies. I had no choice.
6. We went to Vancouver for about a week and I got to introduce my wife to the giant wall known as The Janzens. Or The Havilands. Or The Janzen/Havilands. Either way: I am probably the shortest of all the Janzen/Haviland males, so you can imagine how intimidating a Thanksgiving dinner with the majority of my uncles and cousins might seem.
To her credit, my wife showed no fear. To their credit, my uncles did not eat her (because, y'know, that's what giants do, right?)
7. Here is the big one: I am actually writing a book.
Not just pithy internet musings, or bitter rants about general assholishness of the world, but an honest-to-goodness, Real Life Novel. Josh Barsky (he of The Straw fame and other such literary affectations) has been standing over me with a lead pipe, beating me senseless every time he sees me without a pen in my hand scribbling furiosly into a notebook, and he's giving me a deadline, which I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be late for (March 1st, 2010), but the fact of the matter is that it's actually happening and I am being a Writer and ohmigod this is equal parts fun and exhausting.
Before any of you ask: it's about earthquakes and superviruses and nuclear war and massive floods, and, yes, it's about zombies, but it's also about trying to open a can of beans without using a can opener. So there. Hopefully this doesn't bomb.
Now I must go and fish tiny glass ornaments out of my daughter's nose, as apparently she feels that they fit better in there than in her boots. God forbid we actually hang them up on a tree or something. Merry something-or-other and a Happy mumble-mumble-mumble.
Still, there are reasons.
1. We gots married. Although I think I told y'all that one already. Only now it's offishul as we have Super Power Action Rings that were made out of alien bonedust and strange metals from radioactive meteors, granting us the ability to change our respective shapes into whichever form might best be required for our action-packed peril-fraught lives: "Form of: a diaper! Shape of: a wet wipe! Look out, Naked Baby, here we come!"
Rings are fun.
2. Beano got a facelift. Basically what happened was that we packed all of our cafe into a space that was about four feet by four feet, then served coffee out of it while crackheads dismantled the rest of the cafe with hammers and wheelbarrows and pneumatic drills. This lasted for about three weeks, which caused no small amount of dementia on our part, having to fit into the tiny space and serve people who'd look around and ask where the bathrooms were and why we weren't serving food - and I'm not lying about the crackheads, although they seemed to do more damage to themselves than they did to us. Also the fire department was called out at one point due to a cheesy smell eminating from the storm drain outside, where we may or may not have been dumping all of our excess water and gross milk during the warmest part of the summer. I admit nothing.
3. InFamous: okay, so you're stuck in the downtown core of The City, which has been quarantined by The Government due to some strange 'plague' that the TV's keep talking about, so it's pretty much a no-man's-land of ganags and violence and such, except you've also suffered a weird accident that's granted you the power to channel electricity and shock people and make lightning come out of your hands so you can decide whether or not it's best to save a bunch of people from the evil gangs that control the city or maybe it's best to just electrocute EVERYONE so that you can keep all the emergency supply drops for yourself and it's like being a superhero in Grand Theft Auto.
GAWD, this game is so fun.
4. Batman: Arkham Asylum: okay, basically you get to be Batman, so as cool as InFamous might be, THIS IS A GAME WHERE YOU ACTUALLY GET TO BE BATMAN.
So, y'know, you decide.
5. Fallout 3: Game Of The Year Edition: yes, I know I've already played the original version of this game, which essentially takes about six months for you to choose a name for your character, and really takes your entire lifetime in order for you to finish the storyline. This version, though, has aliens and radioactive hillbillies. I had no choice.
6. We went to Vancouver for about a week and I got to introduce my wife to the giant wall known as The Janzens. Or The Havilands. Or The Janzen/Havilands. Either way: I am probably the shortest of all the Janzen/Haviland males, so you can imagine how intimidating a Thanksgiving dinner with the majority of my uncles and cousins might seem.
To her credit, my wife showed no fear. To their credit, my uncles did not eat her (because, y'know, that's what giants do, right?)
7. Here is the big one: I am actually writing a book.
Not just pithy internet musings, or bitter rants about general assholishness of the world, but an honest-to-goodness, Real Life Novel. Josh Barsky (he of The Straw fame and other such literary affectations) has been standing over me with a lead pipe, beating me senseless every time he sees me without a pen in my hand scribbling furiosly into a notebook, and he's giving me a deadline, which I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be late for (March 1st, 2010), but the fact of the matter is that it's actually happening and I am being a Writer and ohmigod this is equal parts fun and exhausting.
Before any of you ask: it's about earthquakes and superviruses and nuclear war and massive floods, and, yes, it's about zombies, but it's also about trying to open a can of beans without using a can opener. So there. Hopefully this doesn't bomb.
Now I must go and fish tiny glass ornaments out of my daughter's nose, as apparently she feels that they fit better in there than in her boots. God forbid we actually hang them up on a tree or something. Merry something-or-other and a Happy mumble-mumble-mumble.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Hello again, Internet.
So, it's six in the morning on a friggin' SUNDAY of all things and the Little Miss, who is no longer a baby but is instead now a Toddler because if you saw her walk you'd understand and also shut up Dad I have a personality now and I do what I want, decides that she needs to transfer all of her crayons from the large metal Coca-Cola bucket into the smaller Jungle Book tin which amounts to a whole lot of banging, crashing and frustration, and I start to notice that the colours have ceased to have ordinary names like 'red' or 'blue' and are now refered to as 'tumbleweed' and 'mauvalous' and 'bittersweet' and (I shit you not) 'purple mountain's majesty', and before I can start to rant about how in MY day we only had black and white because THAT'S THE WAY THE WORLD WAS, I see that there's actually one called 'Indian Red', which leads me to ask which 'Indians' are they talking about, because if it's the actual Indians that's okay except that they're probably more brown than red, so are we talking those guys who we used to call Indians, in which case are they allowed to call it Indian Red, which only leads me to believe that it's too early to be thinking about these things but it's never to early for a gin & tonic.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
My daughter has inherited my sense of rhythm.
My daughter is dancing to Barack Obama.
I kid you not; currently Obama is on television, saying something vaguely important about health care. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and he's wearing that incredulous look on his face that seems to ask why he has to explain the reasoning behind trying to make sure that everyone in his country is allowed to, y'know, not die. (Note to Obama detractors, especially that one lady last night who was famously screaming, "get outta my health care!": YOU DON'T HAVE HEALTH CARE. THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT.) He looks wearily paternal, like he just finished a twelve-hour shift at the factory and has now come home to find his children asking for piggyback rides and bedtime stories. Despite that apparent fatigue, his words are calm, measured, and straightforward.
And my daughter is dancing to him.
I mean, my daughter dances to a lot of things; it doesn't matter what we put on the stereo, whether it be metal, hip-hop, rock, punk, r&b - once it starts, so do her kneebends, and then her hands go up in the air and her head does that sort of half-nodding thing that means she wants to bounce to the beat but her co-ordination's not quite there yet, and then we all laugh because, y'know, we're white and we're dancing, but it's fun, right? And now she's dancing to a press conference.
I don't get it. Then again, she's lately taken to spinning around and around and around and around until she's so dizzy she keels over and smacks her head on the coffee table, but just comes up laughing, and I didn't think that kind of self-destructive behaviour started until they reached puberty and started listening to My Chemical Romance. I guess it's true: they grow up so quickly...
...any one else notice how badass Obama seems these days? I mean, this is a guy who was once considered the whitest black man in America, and this was before Michael Jackson passed away (Too soon? Naw...); now, every picture you see of him is like a cross between George Clooney and Shaft, and every news clip seems empty if you're not playing some James Brown in the background.
I'm just sayin' is all: brotha's got it goin on.
OHMIGOD NEW MUSIC Y'ALL SHOULD LISTEN TO:
1. I had a disagreement with Big Clint a few years back over The Roots, wherein the big galoot actually uttered the phrase, "...The Roots play hip-hop that only white people listen to...", a statement so jaw-droppingly inane that it's taken me a few years to respond: Yeah, like black people are actually gonna tell us what they listen to; every time they do, we steal it from them.
This is their new single; listen to it and tell me that they haven't inherited James Brown's title of the Hardest Working (Band) In Show Business.
2. One Be Lo has a new track out, one that didn't make the cut for his upcoming album, B.A.B.Y.; if you haven't heard S.O.N.O.G.R.A.M., or any of his work as One Man Army, then you're missing out on some of the best hip-hop you'll ever hear - and while I'm white enough to cringe every time someone refers to the cops as 'pigs' (due to the fact that most of the people who I've heard use the term are as white as me, and their definition of harassment amounts to mere inconvenience...), I'm also white enough to understand that I've had a pretty lucky upbringing, given that I was never judged because of the colour of my skin, nor discriminated against because of it, nor outright beaten or arrested because of it, so I can pretty much just shut up and let One Be Lo have his say.
Now I must go rake leaves and then burn them in an offering to Ye Gods Of Winter, so that they don't send snow demons and ice witches to plague our house this season. I'll put in a good word for y'all, but it'll cost ya.
I kid you not; currently Obama is on television, saying something vaguely important about health care. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and he's wearing that incredulous look on his face that seems to ask why he has to explain the reasoning behind trying to make sure that everyone in his country is allowed to, y'know, not die. (Note to Obama detractors, especially that one lady last night who was famously screaming, "get outta my health care!": YOU DON'T HAVE HEALTH CARE. THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT.) He looks wearily paternal, like he just finished a twelve-hour shift at the factory and has now come home to find his children asking for piggyback rides and bedtime stories. Despite that apparent fatigue, his words are calm, measured, and straightforward.
And my daughter is dancing to him.
I mean, my daughter dances to a lot of things; it doesn't matter what we put on the stereo, whether it be metal, hip-hop, rock, punk, r&b - once it starts, so do her kneebends, and then her hands go up in the air and her head does that sort of half-nodding thing that means she wants to bounce to the beat but her co-ordination's not quite there yet, and then we all laugh because, y'know, we're white and we're dancing, but it's fun, right? And now she's dancing to a press conference.
I don't get it. Then again, she's lately taken to spinning around and around and around and around until she's so dizzy she keels over and smacks her head on the coffee table, but just comes up laughing, and I didn't think that kind of self-destructive behaviour started until they reached puberty and started listening to My Chemical Romance. I guess it's true: they grow up so quickly...
...any one else notice how badass Obama seems these days? I mean, this is a guy who was once considered the whitest black man in America, and this was before Michael Jackson passed away (Too soon? Naw...); now, every picture you see of him is like a cross between George Clooney and Shaft, and every news clip seems empty if you're not playing some James Brown in the background.
I'm just sayin' is all: brotha's got it goin on.
OHMIGOD NEW MUSIC Y'ALL SHOULD LISTEN TO:
1. I had a disagreement with Big Clint a few years back over The Roots, wherein the big galoot actually uttered the phrase, "...The Roots play hip-hop that only white people listen to...", a statement so jaw-droppingly inane that it's taken me a few years to respond: Yeah, like black people are actually gonna tell us what they listen to; every time they do, we steal it from them.
This is their new single; listen to it and tell me that they haven't inherited James Brown's title of the Hardest Working (Band) In Show Business.
2. One Be Lo has a new track out, one that didn't make the cut for his upcoming album, B.A.B.Y.; if you haven't heard S.O.N.O.G.R.A.M., or any of his work as One Man Army, then you're missing out on some of the best hip-hop you'll ever hear - and while I'm white enough to cringe every time someone refers to the cops as 'pigs' (due to the fact that most of the people who I've heard use the term are as white as me, and their definition of harassment amounts to mere inconvenience...), I'm also white enough to understand that I've had a pretty lucky upbringing, given that I was never judged because of the colour of my skin, nor discriminated against because of it, nor outright beaten or arrested because of it, so I can pretty much just shut up and let One Be Lo have his say.
Now I must go rake leaves and then burn them in an offering to Ye Gods Of Winter, so that they don't send snow demons and ice witches to plague our house this season. I'll put in a good word for y'all, but it'll cost ya.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Just stuff.
So. Rachel received her MEGA-EXCALIBUR ACTION FORCE 3000 KUNG-FU POWERED DEHYDRATOR over the weekend, a box of plastic 2 ft x 2 ft x 2ft, that, when activated, slowly drains all the life force from whatever animal, vegetable or mineral you've happened to have boiled, skinned and laid out in small strips as an offering to it's cavernous maw, as though it were some pagan Old Testament god. The process takes anywhere from 8 to 48 hours, depending on what unlucky specimen is being tortured, and for some reason the noise it makes seems to have an exhausting psychological effect on my brain, similar to what happens to Gitmo detainees after they've been subjected to 72 hours of Poison's "Unskinny Bop".
I kid; it's actually only called the Excalibur. It does seem to drive a spike into my brain, for reasons I can only guess at (aural critical mass and the creeping slow-death anesthetic of suburban malaise, or something as such, which in it's entirety is my new math-rock band name...), so we're keeping it in the basement where it can drive the rodents crazy and leave ectoplasmic scorch marks on the walls a la the Ark of the Covenant. It also provides DELICIOUS dried fruits and stuff, for which I am extremely stoked. So far we've done nectarines, peaches, pears, plums and cherries, and in about half an hour I have to go check on the bananas and crabapples, because this is Science, which requires Diligence and Attention and a fair bit of Luck. I say 'we', when what I really mean is 'Rachel did everything while Hazel and I watched and then partook of the literal fruits of her labour', as is usually the case; Hazel enjoys the dried fruit to no end, and has taken to stuffing her cheeks as full as possible, which makes her look like a midget prizefighter after a couple of rounds, although this also leads to our discovery of half-mulched lumps of fruit paste all over the house, which is, well, gross; then again, so are babies.
Hazel has also taken to performing an action that I like to call 'The Flop' anytime that she's prevented from exhibiting adverse behaviour, such as eating the compost, choking herself with her strings of beads (thanks for those, Auntie Mo!) or shoving her doll's head into the toilet like it was a high school initiation; she emits a noise that's half-grunt, half-shriek and then either collapses onto the floor (if she's standing on her own) or arches her back and throws her head back, forcing you to try to catch her and keep her from smacking her head on whatever solid object she's aiming for, despite the fact that she's already in your grasp.
Yay, independence.
She is currently taking her frustrations out on her socks by stretching them around her head; she is doing this because I've steered her away from our new Big Screen Television, a great beast of a machine that Barsky forced upon us (oh, we're victims, it's true...); it's the size of a small horse, which means that it's bigger than any piece of furniture we might want to rest it upon, so now it just sits against the wall, emitting it's hypnotic Orwellian gaze upon all who chance by. This thing is scary. It's hard to watch anything on it without falling into a sort of trance, and I find that if I watch it for too long, I find myself waking up hours later wondering why I'm naked and clutching the remains of a dead cat.
Which happens more often than you'd think.
I could show you pictures of all of these things, except that our camera has a bad habit of staying over at other people's houses; it's currently hiding over at Lindsay & Justan's house (according to the Ladyfriend), which I suppose is okay, because it used to spend all of it's time over at Miss Amy's house, and we'd end up with hundreds of pictures of her nudist Road Warrior child. Which isn't really a bad thing, just a little disturbing.
Now I must go fold diapers. Be good, or I'll make you sit in the basement with the dehydrator.
I kid; it's actually only called the Excalibur. It does seem to drive a spike into my brain, for reasons I can only guess at (aural critical mass and the creeping slow-death anesthetic of suburban malaise, or something as such, which in it's entirety is my new math-rock band name...), so we're keeping it in the basement where it can drive the rodents crazy and leave ectoplasmic scorch marks on the walls a la the Ark of the Covenant. It also provides DELICIOUS dried fruits and stuff, for which I am extremely stoked. So far we've done nectarines, peaches, pears, plums and cherries, and in about half an hour I have to go check on the bananas and crabapples, because this is Science, which requires Diligence and Attention and a fair bit of Luck. I say 'we', when what I really mean is 'Rachel did everything while Hazel and I watched and then partook of the literal fruits of her labour', as is usually the case; Hazel enjoys the dried fruit to no end, and has taken to stuffing her cheeks as full as possible, which makes her look like a midget prizefighter after a couple of rounds, although this also leads to our discovery of half-mulched lumps of fruit paste all over the house, which is, well, gross; then again, so are babies.
Hazel has also taken to performing an action that I like to call 'The Flop' anytime that she's prevented from exhibiting adverse behaviour, such as eating the compost, choking herself with her strings of beads (thanks for those, Auntie Mo!) or shoving her doll's head into the toilet like it was a high school initiation; she emits a noise that's half-grunt, half-shriek and then either collapses onto the floor (if she's standing on her own) or arches her back and throws her head back, forcing you to try to catch her and keep her from smacking her head on whatever solid object she's aiming for, despite the fact that she's already in your grasp.
Yay, independence.
She is currently taking her frustrations out on her socks by stretching them around her head; she is doing this because I've steered her away from our new Big Screen Television, a great beast of a machine that Barsky forced upon us (oh, we're victims, it's true...); it's the size of a small horse, which means that it's bigger than any piece of furniture we might want to rest it upon, so now it just sits against the wall, emitting it's hypnotic Orwellian gaze upon all who chance by. This thing is scary. It's hard to watch anything on it without falling into a sort of trance, and I find that if I watch it for too long, I find myself waking up hours later wondering why I'm naked and clutching the remains of a dead cat.
Which happens more often than you'd think.
I could show you pictures of all of these things, except that our camera has a bad habit of staying over at other people's houses; it's currently hiding over at Lindsay & Justan's house (according to the Ladyfriend), which I suppose is okay, because it used to spend all of it's time over at Miss Amy's house, and we'd end up with hundreds of pictures of her nudist Road Warrior child. Which isn't really a bad thing, just a little disturbing.
Now I must go fold diapers. Be good, or I'll make you sit in the basement with the dehydrator.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
It's Not Like Anyone Saw Anything.
See, it all began with Charles (Beano's resident drag queen) making some sort of suggestive comment concerning my 'ginger bush', and while I knew he was just doing it because, y'know, queens gotta be fierce, I figured I'd one-up him by unbuckling my belt as if I was about to produce said 'ginger bush', but not really, because I was at work, and that's when a customer walked in, so I ended up trapped at the till as a line-up grew, and that's why, for about twenty to thirty minutes last night, I was serving customers with my pants around my ankles.
Don't even. You can't touch this one. It is both awesome and shameful.
But not as awe-inspiring/shame-inducing as watching this:
I swear to god I have no idea where it came from; all I know is that if I had to watch it, then so did you.
(Have you submitted a sentence to The Straw yet? Why not? Do you hate Josh are something? Do you wanna be known as the only internetter who's anti-semite? Don't tempt us, we'll go there!)
I have had too much to drink. Good night.
Don't even. You can't touch this one. It is both awesome and shameful.
But not as awe-inspiring/shame-inducing as watching this:
I swear to god I have no idea where it came from; all I know is that if I had to watch it, then so did you.
(Have you submitted a sentence to The Straw yet? Why not? Do you hate Josh are something? Do you wanna be known as the only internetter who's anti-semite? Don't tempt us, we'll go there!)
I have had too much to drink. Good night.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wherein Christopher uses the C-word.
A bit of advice to anyone who might be contemplating canning a whole buncha tomaters to keep for the winter:
Don't.
No, really. Don't. The Ladyfriend and the Mom Pack decided to get together this weekend and mug a farmer for his entire tomato crop, split their loot between three different safehouses, then spend close to 72 hours watching tomatoes boil in large vats. I think I was lucky: I was only present for about eight hours of this, during which time I was repeatedly assaulted by a gang of pre-school thugs who all thought it was funny to hit me in the head with wooden toys whilst choking me under the pretext of demanding piggyback rides and telling me that they 'wuvved' me. The end result: 30 jars of salsa, numerous cases of heat exhaustion, heartbreak, depression and disappointment, and a stove that literally cracked in half. I think we lost a few kids somewhere along the line as well, but they were probably deadweight anyway. More than a few of the Mom Pack have foresworn this activity in the future, which is okay with me, as we all know that my preparation for the apocalypse is piles and piles of Hostess food products and a water tower full o' gin.
Still, it was fun. Kinda.
...as opposed to yesterday, when it seemed as though the entire membership of the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club descended on Beano, punctuated here and there by high school kids buying milkshakes and bagels with their parents' credit card - oh, and the guys laying tile in our new bathroom turned out to be crackheads. Fun City, lemme tell ya. An honorable mention goes to the lady who came in and demanded something called (I shit you not) a 'Baby-chino', sighed with exasperation when I asked what exactly the fuck she was talking about, painstakingly and condescendingly described it as basically steamed milk, rolled her eyes when I explained that we refer to steamed milk as 'steamed milk', and then complained about the price with everyone's favourite line, "...it's not how they do it at Starbucks."
Lady: you're a cunt, and there's probably a good reason why your daughter needs to wear a helmet in public.
Oh, and to those guys who wear buttoned shirts with the top button undone, exposing that triangle of orange fake-tanned hairless skin: y'all look like douchebags. Seriously, all I'm seeing there is another vulva, guys, which I'm quite certain flies in the face of your rampant masculinity - although the popped collar and frosted tips makes me think that you might be grazing in different pastures, which is cool, but most homosexuals have better fashion sense than you. All I'm asking is that you do up that button or wear an undershirt; either that, or I start flicking you in the chest to see if a clitoris pops up.
Hey, y'know what doesn't suck? My daughter, who is currently asleep in the classic 'Face Down, Butt In The Air' position, and has recently taken to making a noise when she's upset that's somewhere between a velociraptor and a starving Nosferatu. It's endearing. Really.
(That's all. I just like talkin' about her, cuz she's awesome, so shut it.)
Something else that doesn't suck: one of our co-workers, Graeme, has a made a short film! (Graeme's the one at Beano that kinda sorta looks like that guy who plays Captian Kirk in the new Star Trek, only without all the punches to the face.) His film is called Actor, and you should watch it, if only to watch the protaginist mimic Christian Bale's Batman voice in his audition.
Also: Josh is still accepting single-sentence submissions. We're thinking that once we get enough sentences, we'll either publish them as one nonsensical story, or else put 'em all in a coffee can and bury 'em outside the cemetery in order to ward off the undead.
Now I sleep, and if anyone has anything else to say about tomatoes, just keep it to yerself, punk.
Don't.
No, really. Don't. The Ladyfriend and the Mom Pack decided to get together this weekend and mug a farmer for his entire tomato crop, split their loot between three different safehouses, then spend close to 72 hours watching tomatoes boil in large vats. I think I was lucky: I was only present for about eight hours of this, during which time I was repeatedly assaulted by a gang of pre-school thugs who all thought it was funny to hit me in the head with wooden toys whilst choking me under the pretext of demanding piggyback rides and telling me that they 'wuvved' me. The end result: 30 jars of salsa, numerous cases of heat exhaustion, heartbreak, depression and disappointment, and a stove that literally cracked in half. I think we lost a few kids somewhere along the line as well, but they were probably deadweight anyway. More than a few of the Mom Pack have foresworn this activity in the future, which is okay with me, as we all know that my preparation for the apocalypse is piles and piles of Hostess food products and a water tower full o' gin.
Still, it was fun. Kinda.
...as opposed to yesterday, when it seemed as though the entire membership of the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club descended on Beano, punctuated here and there by high school kids buying milkshakes and bagels with their parents' credit card - oh, and the guys laying tile in our new bathroom turned out to be crackheads. Fun City, lemme tell ya. An honorable mention goes to the lady who came in and demanded something called (I shit you not) a 'Baby-chino', sighed with exasperation when I asked what exactly the fuck she was talking about, painstakingly and condescendingly described it as basically steamed milk, rolled her eyes when I explained that we refer to steamed milk as 'steamed milk', and then complained about the price with everyone's favourite line, "...it's not how they do it at Starbucks."
Lady: you're a cunt, and there's probably a good reason why your daughter needs to wear a helmet in public.
Oh, and to those guys who wear buttoned shirts with the top button undone, exposing that triangle of orange fake-tanned hairless skin: y'all look like douchebags. Seriously, all I'm seeing there is another vulva, guys, which I'm quite certain flies in the face of your rampant masculinity - although the popped collar and frosted tips makes me think that you might be grazing in different pastures, which is cool, but most homosexuals have better fashion sense than you. All I'm asking is that you do up that button or wear an undershirt; either that, or I start flicking you in the chest to see if a clitoris pops up.
Hey, y'know what doesn't suck? My daughter, who is currently asleep in the classic 'Face Down, Butt In The Air' position, and has recently taken to making a noise when she's upset that's somewhere between a velociraptor and a starving Nosferatu. It's endearing. Really.
(That's all. I just like talkin' about her, cuz she's awesome, so shut it.)
Something else that doesn't suck: one of our co-workers, Graeme, has a made a short film! (Graeme's the one at Beano that kinda sorta looks like that guy who plays Captian Kirk in the new Star Trek, only without all the punches to the face.) His film is called Actor, and you should watch it, if only to watch the protaginist mimic Christian Bale's Batman voice in his audition.
Also: Josh is still accepting single-sentence submissions. We're thinking that once we get enough sentences, we'll either publish them as one nonsensical story, or else put 'em all in a coffee can and bury 'em outside the cemetery in order to ward off the undead.
Now I sleep, and if anyone has anything else to say about tomatoes, just keep it to yerself, punk.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Know Yr Enemy, Pt. 2
Because someone had to do it. Someone had to bite the bullet and venture where no sane person had any business being, artist Derek Erdman documented his trip to the 2009 Gathering of The Juggalos. There are pictures, and a video, and ohmigod that Faygo drink they're always carrying around is made from a recipe for cake frosting.
Strange, that the Faygo thing is what surprises me the most. It explains so much, though!
I have no words.
Except also: Men At Their Most Masculine.
Obviously I am not included, as I was freaked out earlier by a vibrating zucchini, but I gotta wonder, what the hell is up with the duct tape mask?
Strange, that the Faygo thing is what surprises me the most. It explains so much, though!
I have no words.
Except also: Men At Their Most Masculine.
Obviously I am not included, as I was freaked out earlier by a vibrating zucchini, but I gotta wonder, what the hell is up with the duct tape mask?
What all the cock talk was about.
It seems I am a Writer again:
Mecha-Godzilla vs. Fascism.
Dear Katie.
Also: Josh is tired of alla y'all lazy layabouts just checkin' out the site and not pullin' yer own weight, so he's put a call out for submissions - but there's a catch: every submission must be one sentence and one sentence only, or as he puts it, "the rules are as follows: the sentence can only have one period. and it can be about anything that you want."
Please note that Josh has used two periods in that sentence.
So, if you fancy yerself a fashioner of words or whatnot, whether yer a pockmarked teenager with bad emo hair and one pair of skinny black jeans, or senile old fart like myself who enjoys ranting about the government playing road hockey on his lawn, send your one-sentence masterpiece to: thestrawbooks@gmail.com
The first twent-five submissions will get a small bucket of raspberries from my own private stash in my backyard, just don't tell Rachel, plus you have to help me fight off the wasps. See? I just made that whole sentence up on the spot! It's easy! Everyone's gotta have at least one sentence in 'em, right? Right.
So, get to it. I'm tired o' seein' yer lazy good-fer-nuthin' butts just sittin' on the couch watchin' cartoons.
Mecha-Godzilla vs. Fascism.
Dear Katie.
Also: Josh is tired of alla y'all lazy layabouts just checkin' out the site and not pullin' yer own weight, so he's put a call out for submissions - but there's a catch: every submission must be one sentence and one sentence only, or as he puts it, "the rules are as follows: the sentence can only have one period. and it can be about anything that you want."
Please note that Josh has used two periods in that sentence.
So, if you fancy yerself a fashioner of words or whatnot, whether yer a pockmarked teenager with bad emo hair and one pair of skinny black jeans, or senile old fart like myself who enjoys ranting about the government playing road hockey on his lawn, send your one-sentence masterpiece to: thestrawbooks@gmail.com
The first twent-five submissions will get a small bucket of raspberries from my own private stash in my backyard, just don't tell Rachel, plus you have to help me fight off the wasps. See? I just made that whole sentence up on the spot! It's easy! Everyone's gotta have at least one sentence in 'em, right? Right.
So, get to it. I'm tired o' seein' yer lazy good-fer-nuthin' butts just sittin' on the couch watchin' cartoons.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Reading In Public Is Thirsty Work.
So. Josh's book launch. We came, we read pretty words from crumpled up pieces of paper, some us played holy-crap-amazing music, Josh sold some books. A time was had. Or something.
You'll have to excuse me; I've had four beers, which at my age means that I should be put in restraints before I do something silly like mow the lawn at one in the morning wearing only my socks. Because Hazel needs more embarrassing pictures of me on the internet.
Anyway: going to bed, because work is only eight hours away, and I need my beauty sleep if I'm to deal with the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club for another week, so here's a six-minute long commercial for Johnnie Walker whiskey, narrated by Robert Carlyle; no, dude, really. It's worth it:
You'll have to excuse me; I've had four beers, which at my age means that I should be put in restraints before I do something silly like mow the lawn at one in the morning wearing only my socks. Because Hazel needs more embarrassing pictures of me on the internet.
Anyway: going to bed, because work is only eight hours away, and I need my beauty sleep if I'm to deal with the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club for another week, so here's a six-minute long commercial for Johnnie Walker whiskey, narrated by Robert Carlyle; no, dude, really. It's worth it:
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Free Nude Celebs
So, apparently some of y'all took me seriously when I talked about having another party this weekend, as last night the Mom Pack descended onto our house with the intention of drinking all of our leftover alcohol and exchanging racy secrets concerning their man-friends - or at least that's what I gathered, as I wasn't really paying attention, as large groups of giggling females make me nervous, as they tend to be giggling about something I've done or said or maybe it's just my Aquaman t-shirt but anyway...plus I had special important INTERNETTING work to do, so I'd sequestered myself away in this corner with a couple of glasses of gin & tonic and the headphones playing the sultry strains of Assjack (which, y'know, is awesome, but y'all know that, right? Right. Good.), so my attention was a little diverted, to say the least, until of course I ran out of gin, which mean I had to cross the open space known as the Kitchen, and then it turned out that the bottle of tonic water had somehow been shaken up so it exploded all over me when I opened it, and that's when I heard somebody say, "...weren't we just talking about blowjobs?".
Which, ya gotta admit, is kinda funny.
And is also the reason why large packs of giggling, slightly inebriated women should be avoided at all costs. Wimmins is crazy.
Anyways: the reason I'm diverting precious non-baby time from my usual agenda of productivity (read: video games and comics and silly Facebook applications) is to tell you about how the one and only Joshua Barsky, barista excellente and all-around sharp-dressed man, has published his first book, and that we're holding a launch for it at Tubby Dog tomorrow night at around 7:oo. Josh will be there, signing autographs and kissing babies, and apparently there'll be readings by Mr. Barsky himself, the illustrious Micah Stone, and, well, Someone Else, as well as performances by Siezure Salad, Indiensoci (please don't ask me how to pronounce that) and Free Nude Celebs. The book is called 'C', and I'm about forty pages into it so far, and while I have no idea what it's about, I'm certainly enjoying it; so come on by, drop $20 on his book instead of whatever Dan Brown cumstain you'd originally planned on picking up, have a beer and punch someone. That's an order.
Oh, and check out Assjack. It's Hank Williams III doing good ol' fashioned Texas punch-in-the-face rock'n'roll/metal/skullfuckery. Plus it's pretty on the ears, so there ya go.
Which, ya gotta admit, is kinda funny.
And is also the reason why large packs of giggling, slightly inebriated women should be avoided at all costs. Wimmins is crazy.
Anyways: the reason I'm diverting precious non-baby time from my usual agenda of productivity (read: video games and comics and silly Facebook applications) is to tell you about how the one and only Joshua Barsky, barista excellente and all-around sharp-dressed man, has published his first book, and that we're holding a launch for it at Tubby Dog tomorrow night at around 7:oo. Josh will be there, signing autographs and kissing babies, and apparently there'll be readings by Mr. Barsky himself, the illustrious Micah Stone, and, well, Someone Else, as well as performances by Siezure Salad, Indiensoci (please don't ask me how to pronounce that) and Free Nude Celebs. The book is called 'C', and I'm about forty pages into it so far, and while I have no idea what it's about, I'm certainly enjoying it; so come on by, drop $20 on his book instead of whatever Dan Brown cumstain you'd originally planned on picking up, have a beer and punch someone. That's an order.
Oh, and check out Assjack. It's Hank Williams III doing good ol' fashioned Texas punch-in-the-face rock'n'roll/metal/skullfuckery. Plus it's pretty on the ears, so there ya go.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Breakfast With The HILJ
Okay, so, I want eggs for breakfast, but I don't like them hard-boiled anymore, now I want them scrambled, but they're a bit too hot so while they cool down you better give me some kiwi, but since it takes you at least a minute to peel and cut up the kiwifruit, you better give me some cereal just to tide me over until the fruit and the eggs are done, but now I see that Mom's eating some other kind of cereal so I want that instead, and oh! Look! Blueberries! I want them ALL, but it doesn't matter what you feed me, it all gets shoved down underneath my butt in the high-chair, but it's okay since you won't really notice it for a few hours yet until it turns into this hardened paste that you have to scrape out of the seat using a spatula and in the mean time I'm still hungry but I don't want to sit in my highchair so I'll just scavenge whatever scraps I find on the floor and that's why I threw them onto the floor in the first place and if you alter my itinerary in any way I'll make this noise that resembles the sound of a dying chihuahua and WHERE ARE MY BLUEBERRIES I MUST EAT ALL OF THEM.
I swear to god: I'm gonna stick a feedbag on her and set her loose in the back alley, where she can frighten the neighbours and keep the hobos out of the recycling.
Currently she is sitting on top of her drum. This is one of her favourite activities of late, this Sitting on Things, especially things one normally does not really choose to sit upon, such as musical instruments, matchbox cars and other children. I'm not too concerned about it, as there a number of occupations out there where sitting is considered a skill. It's just that sometimes I feel like I'm babysitting one of Rachel's clients, y'know?
Yes, I did just compare my daughter to an adult with developmental problems. What?
So, you might not have heard, but we had a wedding reception at our house last Friday. I find it hard to believe that anyone didn't know about it, as it seemed as though everyone in the world and their 3.5 children turned up to bring us food and alcohol and make us dress up in tiaras (true story; I have pictures. They're not pretty.). We expected about thirty people, and ended up with about three times that number (although I may have counted some of the children two or three times, as they all look the same when you're yelling at them to stay out of your gin...), including a few witches and the odd transvestite, and the best part is: they all cleaned up after themselves, which meant that the Ladyfriend and I were able to consume more alcohols and smush cake into each other's face. Which, apparently, is entertaining to everyone except for our daughter, who thought she was on Intervention: Domestic Violence Patrol.
(Now she is wearing three shirts, a diaper and one shoe, lying face down on the kitchen floor and singing softly to whatever lives beneath the floorboards. Normally, I'd say she was singing to Bryn, as he is the Creature That Lurks Down There, but he's at an actual JOB, so I can't even guess at what she's doing.
Let's just say that our child has a Rich Inner Life.)
I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all, as no one complained (except for some of the kids, but really, who listens to their children these days anyway - and we still have ample amounts of alcohol, so we're thinking of getting married again this weekend, just to see of people come by one more time with more presents for us. Oh, and if you didn't get the invite or didn't know the party was going on: not my fault. This thing was planned by some very evil individuals who took our house hostage for a night, so blame them.
Must go; Hazel thinks the garbage can is her new friend. This does not bode well.
I swear to god: I'm gonna stick a feedbag on her and set her loose in the back alley, where she can frighten the neighbours and keep the hobos out of the recycling.
Currently she is sitting on top of her drum. This is one of her favourite activities of late, this Sitting on Things, especially things one normally does not really choose to sit upon, such as musical instruments, matchbox cars and other children. I'm not too concerned about it, as there a number of occupations out there where sitting is considered a skill. It's just that sometimes I feel like I'm babysitting one of Rachel's clients, y'know?
Yes, I did just compare my daughter to an adult with developmental problems. What?
So, you might not have heard, but we had a wedding reception at our house last Friday. I find it hard to believe that anyone didn't know about it, as it seemed as though everyone in the world and their 3.5 children turned up to bring us food and alcohol and make us dress up in tiaras (true story; I have pictures. They're not pretty.). We expected about thirty people, and ended up with about three times that number (although I may have counted some of the children two or three times, as they all look the same when you're yelling at them to stay out of your gin...), including a few witches and the odd transvestite, and the best part is: they all cleaned up after themselves, which meant that the Ladyfriend and I were able to consume more alcohols and smush cake into each other's face. Which, apparently, is entertaining to everyone except for our daughter, who thought she was on Intervention: Domestic Violence Patrol.
(Now she is wearing three shirts, a diaper and one shoe, lying face down on the kitchen floor and singing softly to whatever lives beneath the floorboards. Normally, I'd say she was singing to Bryn, as he is the Creature That Lurks Down There, but he's at an actual JOB, so I can't even guess at what she's doing.
Let's just say that our child has a Rich Inner Life.)
I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all, as no one complained (except for some of the kids, but really, who listens to their children these days anyway - and we still have ample amounts of alcohol, so we're thinking of getting married again this weekend, just to see of people come by one more time with more presents for us. Oh, and if you didn't get the invite or didn't know the party was going on: not my fault. This thing was planned by some very evil individuals who took our house hostage for a night, so blame them.
Must go; Hazel thinks the garbage can is her new friend. This does not bode well.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
So, Um, Yes.
This 'marriage' thing.
Some of you might've heard a little rumour that's been circulating here on the Internet, popping up between sessions of Mafia Wars and checking to see if the Jonas Brothers have updated their Twitter feed ("Last night Kevin said the F-word! Prayer circle!"), so lemme clear everything up by saying: yes, it's true.
Last night, the Ladyfriend made an honest woman out of me.
It's not as sudden as y'all might think; we've been discussing this on and off for about a year and a half now, and while I'm aware that most people set a date and plan a big event and hire clowns and whatnot, once we'd decided that we were gonna do this, there just didn't seem to be any point in waiting.
Which is why yesterday a sombre man in a very smart suit came to our house, sat down amidst a doll house and stuffed toys and creepy electronic singalong devices, explained the process to us, performed the ceremony in our kitchen in front of Miss Amy and Bryn and Gobbler (then once again when Jen and Chris and Marley showed up afterwards; our fault, that - we kinda jumped the gun and got hitched before everyone we'd invited showed up, because we are Bad People...), and then put on his shoes, went out back and inspected our raspberry bushes.
I kid you not. Dude was excited about those bushes.
Here's the thing: we'd already made this commitment to each other when we decided to have Hazel. It was never solely about providing for our daughter; it was all about seeing this through as a family, making sure that our compromises and sacrifices were for the betterment of each other as well as Hazel. As far as I'm concerned, the ceremony is for the spectators; not that it lessens the implications of the vows spoken in any way, nor the impact such a ceremony has on those involved as well as those witnessing - but I could care less about who's watching me get married, whether it's a church full of extended family and friends, or a living room packed with a menagerie of toddlers all fighting over same broken Tonka truck; it seems simply a formality, a necessary step to take so that Rachel and I can get on with our lives together, as we watch Hazel systematically destroy everything we own by coating it with saliva, testing her new teeth on it and then flushing it down the toilet.
I don't think this will be easy by any means, but I think we've both been ready for each other for a while now, whether we were aware of each other or not; I think we recognize a strength in each other that we can rely on, if need be, as well as a complete and willing openness with one another, one that's refreshing and, quite frankly, a little scary. I know I've found a partner who's not afraid to push me when I need it, who's able to back off when I need to be headstrong, who's smart when I'm dumb and vice versa, and who's been willing to accept the worst parts of me from the very beginning.
Plus, I kinda like her, 'cuz she's really, really cute. Like, HOLY CRAP cute, y'know?
So, um, yeah. There you have it. We is hitched all proper-like now. We is The Janzens.
...that sounds SO friggin' weird.
On that note: apparently the creature who lives in our basement (Bryn) and the inimitable Lindsay Bysterveld Ross (holy heck that's a mouthful) have planned a potluck/reception for us on Friday night. We have been told soundly that we have no choice in the matter, so at the risk of having hundreds of people show up and trample Rachel's zucchini plants: this is me inviting you. If you wanna stop by, feel free to do so, and I promise I'll only flinch once when you say congratulations, and only then because it's all SO WEIRD.
Some of you might've heard a little rumour that's been circulating here on the Internet, popping up between sessions of Mafia Wars and checking to see if the Jonas Brothers have updated their Twitter feed ("Last night Kevin said the F-word! Prayer circle!"), so lemme clear everything up by saying: yes, it's true.
Last night, the Ladyfriend made an honest woman out of me.
It's not as sudden as y'all might think; we've been discussing this on and off for about a year and a half now, and while I'm aware that most people set a date and plan a big event and hire clowns and whatnot, once we'd decided that we were gonna do this, there just didn't seem to be any point in waiting.
Which is why yesterday a sombre man in a very smart suit came to our house, sat down amidst a doll house and stuffed toys and creepy electronic singalong devices, explained the process to us, performed the ceremony in our kitchen in front of Miss Amy and Bryn and Gobbler (then once again when Jen and Chris and Marley showed up afterwards; our fault, that - we kinda jumped the gun and got hitched before everyone we'd invited showed up, because we are Bad People...), and then put on his shoes, went out back and inspected our raspberry bushes.
I kid you not. Dude was excited about those bushes.
Here's the thing: we'd already made this commitment to each other when we decided to have Hazel. It was never solely about providing for our daughter; it was all about seeing this through as a family, making sure that our compromises and sacrifices were for the betterment of each other as well as Hazel. As far as I'm concerned, the ceremony is for the spectators; not that it lessens the implications of the vows spoken in any way, nor the impact such a ceremony has on those involved as well as those witnessing - but I could care less about who's watching me get married, whether it's a church full of extended family and friends, or a living room packed with a menagerie of toddlers all fighting over same broken Tonka truck; it seems simply a formality, a necessary step to take so that Rachel and I can get on with our lives together, as we watch Hazel systematically destroy everything we own by coating it with saliva, testing her new teeth on it and then flushing it down the toilet.
I don't think this will be easy by any means, but I think we've both been ready for each other for a while now, whether we were aware of each other or not; I think we recognize a strength in each other that we can rely on, if need be, as well as a complete and willing openness with one another, one that's refreshing and, quite frankly, a little scary. I know I've found a partner who's not afraid to push me when I need it, who's able to back off when I need to be headstrong, who's smart when I'm dumb and vice versa, and who's been willing to accept the worst parts of me from the very beginning.
Plus, I kinda like her, 'cuz she's really, really cute. Like, HOLY CRAP cute, y'know?
So, um, yeah. There you have it. We is hitched all proper-like now. We is The Janzens.
...that sounds SO friggin' weird.
On that note: apparently the creature who lives in our basement (Bryn) and the inimitable Lindsay Bysterveld Ross (holy heck that's a mouthful) have planned a potluck/reception for us on Friday night. We have been told soundly that we have no choice in the matter, so at the risk of having hundreds of people show up and trample Rachel's zucchini plants: this is me inviting you. If you wanna stop by, feel free to do so, and I promise I'll only flinch once when you say congratulations, and only then because it's all SO WEIRD.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sunday Morning Comedown, Yo.
There is a Gjerdrum and a Popiel in our house. This is not really a bad thing at all, but I just feel as though it's the neighbourly thing to do to let y'all know that Those People From Victoria have arrived. They've also brought that kid whut they made, which is awesome, as it gives Hazel something else to abuse.
Apparently there was a gaggle of Womenfolk at the house last night (that word comes from the German 'vimmenvolk', a term used in the 15th century to describe groups of women that would disappear into the woods to dance nekkid and bake pies with evil spells in them. It's true, I looked it up and everything.) who were all drinking various fruity alcohol beverages, so I half-expected the house to be covered in unfinished crochet projects and pictures of naked men when I got home; as it happened, all I found when I got home was my daughter.
Awake.
At 1:00 a.m.
Staring at me. In that way, y'know? That way that asks, who are you and what are you doing in my house and where is my shotgun?
Anyway: today is that Rock The Bells show, featuring almost EVERY HIP-HOP ARTISTS EVER. The funny thing is that everyone I know who's going is planning on taking their kids; I can only imagine what RZA or Nas or Cypress Hill will think to look out over the audience and see nothing but an ocean of strollers and diaper bags.
Breakfast awaits. Breakfast, and NAPS.
Apparently there was a gaggle of Womenfolk at the house last night (that word comes from the German 'vimmenvolk', a term used in the 15th century to describe groups of women that would disappear into the woods to dance nekkid and bake pies with evil spells in them. It's true, I looked it up and everything.) who were all drinking various fruity alcohol beverages, so I half-expected the house to be covered in unfinished crochet projects and pictures of naked men when I got home; as it happened, all I found when I got home was my daughter.
Awake.
At 1:00 a.m.
Staring at me. In that way, y'know? That way that asks, who are you and what are you doing in my house and where is my shotgun?
Anyway: today is that Rock The Bells show, featuring almost EVERY HIP-HOP ARTISTS EVER. The funny thing is that everyone I know who's going is planning on taking their kids; I can only imagine what RZA or Nas or Cypress Hill will think to look out over the audience and see nothing but an ocean of strollers and diaper bags.
Breakfast awaits. Breakfast, and NAPS.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Kimmy did NOT name her kid after a 90's stoner-rock band.
We are currently awaiting the arrival of a Hiplet and her brood.
(FYI: a Hiplet is like a hippy, only shorter; thank you Jay Wilson.)
Yes, Kimmy Gjerdrum and family are coming to stay with us this weekend; some of you might remember Kimmy as the one I used to fight with behind the counter at Beano, going so far as to actually put a crack in one of the walls while having her in a headlock (we're kinda proud of that one...); since her auspicious Beano days, Kimmy's moved to Victoria with her fella, dropped a turtle-shaped kid and pretty much became The Reason Why The West Coast Is Evil. It's true; check Wikipedia.
Once they get here, we plan on tying pillows to our kids, handing them sticks wrapped in barbed wire, and just letting them go at it in the back yard. Also: I plan on making good on the threat of shaving Kimmy's head in her sleep, so I'll soon have single-use authentic dreadlocks for sale for those of you wishing to rid your house of evil spirits, bad smells and unwanted hobos.
Stuffs:
1. I feel that I must share this picture with y'all. I don't know why, I just feel compelled.
2. Tiny skyscrapers made of staples. Which is probably the name of a new Modest Mouse song.
3. OHMIGOD WARREN SPECTOR VIDEO GAME GENIUS IS WORKING ON A NEW GAME! Dystopian steampunk version of Disney's magical kingdom? Yes, please.
Now I must go shower, for I have slept all day in a hot room, and there are no geisha girls to bathe me. I asked Rachel to pretend fo a day, but she just laughed at me.
(FYI: a Hiplet is like a hippy, only shorter; thank you Jay Wilson.)
Yes, Kimmy Gjerdrum and family are coming to stay with us this weekend; some of you might remember Kimmy as the one I used to fight with behind the counter at Beano, going so far as to actually put a crack in one of the walls while having her in a headlock (we're kinda proud of that one...); since her auspicious Beano days, Kimmy's moved to Victoria with her fella, dropped a turtle-shaped kid and pretty much became The Reason Why The West Coast Is Evil. It's true; check Wikipedia.
Once they get here, we plan on tying pillows to our kids, handing them sticks wrapped in barbed wire, and just letting them go at it in the back yard. Also: I plan on making good on the threat of shaving Kimmy's head in her sleep, so I'll soon have single-use authentic dreadlocks for sale for those of you wishing to rid your house of evil spirits, bad smells and unwanted hobos.
Stuffs:
1. I feel that I must share this picture with y'all. I don't know why, I just feel compelled.
2. Tiny skyscrapers made of staples. Which is probably the name of a new Modest Mouse song.
3. OHMIGOD WARREN SPECTOR VIDEO GAME GENIUS IS WORKING ON A NEW GAME! Dystopian steampunk version of Disney's magical kingdom? Yes, please.
Now I must go shower, for I have slept all day in a hot room, and there are no geisha girls to bathe me. I asked Rachel to pretend fo a day, but she just laughed at me.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Chores Chores Chores Chores Chores.
The Ladies return today. (No, I'm no talking about Rob Crow's side-project with super-ritalin kid Zack Hill, I mean MY Ladies, the one who lets me kiss her sometimes and the other one what was made by all the kissin'. Sheesh.)
I still have pigs to shave, cows to slop, lawns to milk, hobos to chase and bodies to dispense of; the poker game in the basement's just about wrapped up, which is alright, but the group of old Chinese guys playing mah-jong in the garage just ignore my frantic knocks at the door (and that's where I keep the weed-whacker, which is what I need to fend off the wasps!), and those hookers gotta go, I don't care where, they just gotta GO.
Also: must find a way to trick Bryn into falling down the well. He's gettin' a mite uppitty, and I figger a couple days in the 'Glory Hole' might do him some good.
Anyway: busy day. Might talk later.
(This is all just my way of disguising the fact that I spent the entire weekend watching movies and playing Prince of Persia on the PS3.)
I still have pigs to shave, cows to slop, lawns to milk, hobos to chase and bodies to dispense of; the poker game in the basement's just about wrapped up, which is alright, but the group of old Chinese guys playing mah-jong in the garage just ignore my frantic knocks at the door (and that's where I keep the weed-whacker, which is what I need to fend off the wasps!), and those hookers gotta go, I don't care where, they just gotta GO.
Also: must find a way to trick Bryn into falling down the well. He's gettin' a mite uppitty, and I figger a couple days in the 'Glory Hole' might do him some good.
Anyway: busy day. Might talk later.
(This is all just my way of disguising the fact that I spent the entire weekend watching movies and playing Prince of Persia on the PS3.)
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Correction:
We are Men of Cowardly Action.
It's true; due to the fact the we are both averse to the slightest amount of pain (and that dealing with insects in any way is just icky), yesterday's battle plan was quickly abandoned; the territory known as 'the Backyard' has been ceded to the enemy, which is just peachy, as we are quite safe indoors, and we've decided that we're both okay using the front door only from now on.
Stuff:
1. Freakout Boy's brother asks him why he shoved a remote up his butt.
2. Okay, I give in: Lily Allen's as catchy as hell, and it really doesn't hurt that she's cute.
3. Man removes cherry pits from his anus with hammers. I shit you not.
Hey, wait, that was kind of a pun!
Now I must go water the tomatoes from a very safe distance, and then reward myself with celebratory chocolate.
It's true; due to the fact the we are both averse to the slightest amount of pain (and that dealing with insects in any way is just icky), yesterday's battle plan was quickly abandoned; the territory known as 'the Backyard' has been ceded to the enemy, which is just peachy, as we are quite safe indoors, and we've decided that we're both okay using the front door only from now on.
Stuff:
1. Freakout Boy's brother asks him why he shoved a remote up his butt.
2. Okay, I give in: Lily Allen's as catchy as hell, and it really doesn't hurt that she's cute.
3. Man removes cherry pits from his anus with hammers. I shit you not.
Hey, wait, that was kind of a pun!
Now I must go water the tomatoes from a very safe distance, and then reward myself with celebratory chocolate.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Know Yr Enemy
As we speak, we are going to war with the wasp nest.
Rachel pointed it out a few days ago, hanging underneath the garage's eave, about the size of a small cantaloupe. She had a plan involving waiting until the wasps left and then replacing the nest with a paper bag in order to convince the wasps that they didn't live there anymore.
Rachel, however, is not here, and we are Men of Action.
Bryn is wearing a football helmet and has a baseball bat and the garden hose in his hands. I am wearing a catcher's mask and chest protector, armed with a can of hairspray and a lighter. We have escape plans and defenses set up, and we expect nothing short of Total Victory.
This is what happens when you leave us alone for the weekend.
Speaking of infestations that need to be eradicated: apparently we're coming up on the 10th Annual Gathering of The Juggalos. Helicopter Rides! People On Stilts! Cheeseburgers and gangrape in the woods!
I ask you: where's the government with their smallpox blankets when you really need 'em?
Rachel pointed it out a few days ago, hanging underneath the garage's eave, about the size of a small cantaloupe. She had a plan involving waiting until the wasps left and then replacing the nest with a paper bag in order to convince the wasps that they didn't live there anymore.
Rachel, however, is not here, and we are Men of Action.
Bryn is wearing a football helmet and has a baseball bat and the garden hose in his hands. I am wearing a catcher's mask and chest protector, armed with a can of hairspray and a lighter. We have escape plans and defenses set up, and we expect nothing short of Total Victory.
This is what happens when you leave us alone for the weekend.
Speaking of infestations that need to be eradicated: apparently we're coming up on the 10th Annual Gathering of The Juggalos. Helicopter Rides! People On Stilts! Cheeseburgers and gangrape in the woods!
I ask you: where's the government with their smallpox blankets when you really need 'em?
Bryn is currently playing with his belly button.
So, my daughter and I have this game we play, where she'll find a small toy (usually it's this tiny fluffy sparkly ball of I-don't-know-what) and bring it to me so that I can toss it across the room; she then chases after it in her toddling way, her chubby little legs threatening to trip up and send her careening to the floor, and then she'll pick it up and bring it back to me, so that I can just up and toss it across the room again.
That's right: I've taught my daughter how to play Fetch. Don't judge me.
After five or six cycles of this, she eventually gets tired of the game, taking the ball of fluff and retiring to the extra carseat we have by the front closet, where she just sits and enjoys the view of the neighbourhood through the screen door, every now and then shoving something foreign and probably toxic into her mouth because in her world EVERYTHING GOES IN HER MOUTH; it's funny, because this is exactly what our dog Chewie would do whenever I tried to play Fetch with him: go through the motions a few times, and then run off to the far corner of the yard where he'd proceed to chew up whatever item we'd been playing with, which is why our back yard was strewn with the deflated corpses of basketballs and soccer balls, as well as tiny leather scraps of baseballs and tennis balls.
I am in NO WAY saying that playing with my daughter is like owning a puppy. That would be wrong and irresponsible of me. It would make me a Bad Parent, and I am a Damned Fine Parent, and anyone who tells you different is a liar and probably a communist.
Anyway: I won't be playing this game this weekend, as the Ladyfriend has taken the Little Miss with her to Saskatoon, joining Miss Amy and her brood of feral children as they go all Thelma & Louise on the Canadian Prairies. Honestly, I expect to that the next time I see my family unit will be on the news, surrounded by police cars as they hole themselves up in some roadside gas station they've decided to 'knock over'. That Miss Amy's a baaaaaaad influence...
...of course, what this all means is that I am all by my lonesome this weekend (except for Bryn, but he doesn't count, as he spends the majority of his time lurking in the basement, ascending the stairs only at night to hunt the alleyways for stray cats and wayward hobo-flesh); I expect that this will result in a brief return to the days of my bachelorhood, when I would play video games until the sun came up, sleep for about four hours, waking only to dine on chocolate bars and ginger ale and the odd slab of meat.
It's true: I am what is commonly referred to as a Sad Individual.
At least I have fun doin' it.
Oh! Congratulations are in order to the handsome Bruce Anderson and his lovely lady Robin Pritchard, as they gave birth to an even handsomer baby boy last Sunday! Forrester Kaden Anderson-Pritchard weighed in at 8 lbs 1 oz, and already sports a fine head of hair. Good luck, you two! I will NOT babysit for you, as I spend all my time teaching my daughter to NOT put the dryer lint in her mouth, but I wish all three of you the best.
Now I must go do nerdy things. Be good. Or else.
That's right: I've taught my daughter how to play Fetch. Don't judge me.
After five or six cycles of this, she eventually gets tired of the game, taking the ball of fluff and retiring to the extra carseat we have by the front closet, where she just sits and enjoys the view of the neighbourhood through the screen door, every now and then shoving something foreign and probably toxic into her mouth because in her world EVERYTHING GOES IN HER MOUTH; it's funny, because this is exactly what our dog Chewie would do whenever I tried to play Fetch with him: go through the motions a few times, and then run off to the far corner of the yard where he'd proceed to chew up whatever item we'd been playing with, which is why our back yard was strewn with the deflated corpses of basketballs and soccer balls, as well as tiny leather scraps of baseballs and tennis balls.
I am in NO WAY saying that playing with my daughter is like owning a puppy. That would be wrong and irresponsible of me. It would make me a Bad Parent, and I am a Damned Fine Parent, and anyone who tells you different is a liar and probably a communist.
Anyway: I won't be playing this game this weekend, as the Ladyfriend has taken the Little Miss with her to Saskatoon, joining Miss Amy and her brood of feral children as they go all Thelma & Louise on the Canadian Prairies. Honestly, I expect to that the next time I see my family unit will be on the news, surrounded by police cars as they hole themselves up in some roadside gas station they've decided to 'knock over'. That Miss Amy's a baaaaaaad influence...
...of course, what this all means is that I am all by my lonesome this weekend (except for Bryn, but he doesn't count, as he spends the majority of his time lurking in the basement, ascending the stairs only at night to hunt the alleyways for stray cats and wayward hobo-flesh); I expect that this will result in a brief return to the days of my bachelorhood, when I would play video games until the sun came up, sleep for about four hours, waking only to dine on chocolate bars and ginger ale and the odd slab of meat.
It's true: I am what is commonly referred to as a Sad Individual.
At least I have fun doin' it.
Oh! Congratulations are in order to the handsome Bruce Anderson and his lovely lady Robin Pritchard, as they gave birth to an even handsomer baby boy last Sunday! Forrester Kaden Anderson-Pritchard weighed in at 8 lbs 1 oz, and already sports a fine head of hair. Good luck, you two! I will NOT babysit for you, as I spend all my time teaching my daughter to NOT put the dryer lint in her mouth, but I wish all three of you the best.
Now I must go do nerdy things. Be good. Or else.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tim & Eric Swap Underwear & Everyone Applauds.
Bryn just tried to trick me into watching a new episode of Tim & Eric Circlejerk On Camera & Everyone Calls It Art.
This is why I put Hazel's used diapers in his pillowcase: because he is evil. A necessary evil, to be sure, as this house don't come cheap, but evil nonetheless. I am also considering feeding him roofies and then nailing his bedroom door shut while he's passed out inside; I will then construct a small chute that connects the kitchen with his bedroom, through which I shall funnel all of our compost, as well as large furry spiders and the odd stray cat, and then I shall hold my belly and laugh and laugh and laugh. Then my daughter and I will go get ice cream, while Bryn cries himself to sleep in his fetid new surroundings.
And this is why Bryn always threatens to burn the house down.
Stuff:
1. Winnebago Man! How could I forget to show you guys this? Watch a grown man melt down as he tries to shoot commercials for his RV business. It's fun, really.
2. Scenic Swedish Postcards Invaded By Science Fiction!
3. So, it turns out that the video I linked to about that kid freaking out (and jamming a remote up his ass) was fake. Which, y'know, blows. And is also kinda strange, because the last thing I'd do if I knew a camera was on me would be to shove a piece of electronics up my butt. Anyway: the good people at Videogum are hosting a Greatest Freakout Ever Contest, which should prove at the very least to be entertaining.
4. Clint Anderson: was this you ten years ago? Don't lie. (As adorable as he is, I think this guy comes into my shop and sits quietly in the corner while blacking out the eyes of any pictures of women he might find in the paper.)
That's it for now. I need to go lie down and let my daughter kick me in the head for the next eight hours.
This is why I put Hazel's used diapers in his pillowcase: because he is evil. A necessary evil, to be sure, as this house don't come cheap, but evil nonetheless. I am also considering feeding him roofies and then nailing his bedroom door shut while he's passed out inside; I will then construct a small chute that connects the kitchen with his bedroom, through which I shall funnel all of our compost, as well as large furry spiders and the odd stray cat, and then I shall hold my belly and laugh and laugh and laugh. Then my daughter and I will go get ice cream, while Bryn cries himself to sleep in his fetid new surroundings.
And this is why Bryn always threatens to burn the house down.
Stuff:
1. Winnebago Man! How could I forget to show you guys this? Watch a grown man melt down as he tries to shoot commercials for his RV business. It's fun, really.
2. Scenic Swedish Postcards Invaded By Science Fiction!
3. So, it turns out that the video I linked to about that kid freaking out (and jamming a remote up his ass) was fake. Which, y'know, blows. And is also kinda strange, because the last thing I'd do if I knew a camera was on me would be to shove a piece of electronics up my butt. Anyway: the good people at Videogum are hosting a Greatest Freakout Ever Contest, which should prove at the very least to be entertaining.
4. Clint Anderson: was this you ten years ago? Don't lie. (As adorable as he is, I think this guy comes into my shop and sits quietly in the corner while blacking out the eyes of any pictures of women he might find in the paper.)
That's it for now. I need to go lie down and let my daughter kick me in the head for the next eight hours.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Insert Clever Title Here.
Well, that’s a great start, huh? Two entries and then nuthin’. I RULE.
My apologies for the absence of internettery this past week; I nearly perished from Asian Swine Bird Flu. Again. I swear, it’s like I traded in my immune system for a big vat of Phlegmy Sickness the moment my daughter arrived…
…I’m feeling much better now, thank you.
Anyway: stuff:
1. Remember Ducktales? Not like this, you don’t.
2. Sean MacAlister reviews stuff in Halifax, just not the stuff you thought he’d review.
3. More Baman/Piderman brilliance.
4. Andrew W.K. on morality.
Oh, also: I finished The Milk Chicken Bomb, by local sweetheart and artisan Andrew Wedderburn! Even though I was really only able to read it while I was on the toilet (Hey, you grab yer chances when they pop up, y’know?), I gotta say, well done, sir. Think Fight Club as written for small children by Cormac McCarthy. If that helps.
Gotta go. Comics to read, video games to stare at, sleep to avoid. It’s fun, you should try it.
My apologies for the absence of internettery this past week; I nearly perished from Asian Swine Bird Flu. Again. I swear, it’s like I traded in my immune system for a big vat of Phlegmy Sickness the moment my daughter arrived…
…I’m feeling much better now, thank you.
Anyway: stuff:
1. Remember Ducktales? Not like this, you don’t.
2. Sean MacAlister reviews stuff in Halifax, just not the stuff you thought he’d review.
3. More Baman/Piderman brilliance.
4. Andrew W.K. on morality.
Oh, also: I finished The Milk Chicken Bomb, by local sweetheart and artisan Andrew Wedderburn! Even though I was really only able to read it while I was on the toilet (Hey, you grab yer chances when they pop up, y’know?), I gotta say, well done, sir. Think Fight Club as written for small children by Cormac McCarthy. If that helps.
Gotta go. Comics to read, video games to stare at, sleep to avoid. It’s fun, you should try it.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Straw That Broke The Camel In The Eye Of The Needle In The Haystack (Three Times Backwards In Front Of The Mirror)
I should take this moment to point out this new-fangled link I gots me on the sidebar over there; if you click it, Special Internet Magics happen, and you'll find yourself at The Straw, home of such ragged Calgarian luminaries as Barsky (of whom I've spoken before), as well as Mr. Jared Larsen (photographer extraordinaire and flaxen-haired socialite) and Sir Sean MacAlister (multimedia savant and all-around nice guy). The Straw is basically a creative outlet for these three gentlemen (there was a fourth involved in The Straw's creation, although he's seen fit to withdraw from their quorum, so while I'll respect his wishes for anonymity, I can't help but see him as The Straw's Fifth Beatle, so to speak. Even though there's only three of them, as opposed to the Beatles' four, er, wait. Five? I'm confused now. Shit...).
Where was I? Oh, yes: these fine young men have allowed me to showcase some of my own rabid scratchings on their site, which allows me to say that, yes, I suppose I can consider myself a Writer Of Things, a title which I'll be adding to my already impressive resume, a document that boasts such career highlights as Curmudgeonly Internetter, Server of Swill, Fancypants Light Bulb Changer For Holt Renfrew and Purveyor Of Second-Hand Porn.
These men have PLANS. They have SCHEMES, and the WILLPOWER to see them through. Go check it out.
Where was I? Oh, yes: these fine young men have allowed me to showcase some of my own rabid scratchings on their site, which allows me to say that, yes, I suppose I can consider myself a Writer Of Things, a title which I'll be adding to my already impressive resume, a document that boasts such career highlights as Curmudgeonly Internetter, Server of Swill, Fancypants Light Bulb Changer For Holt Renfrew and Purveyor Of Second-Hand Porn.
These men have PLANS. They have SCHEMES, and the WILLPOWER to see them through. Go check it out.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Um, What?
So, um, we're gonna try this again: welcome to the new home of Christopher Drew's Internet Wisdom and Random Venting Regarding Everything I Hate Including You.
Why? Because blogs r fun. And: I get bored waiting for my energy to refill while playing Mafia Wars on Facebook (shut up you WISH your life was as exciting as mine), so I figured I might as well do something constructive with that time, like rant online about how popstars all look like thoroughbred horses these days, or why simply contemplating the mere idea of Male Bangs constitutes a Crime Against Decency that is punishable by repeated blows to the back of the head with a brickbat.
(Seriously, guys: cut yr friggin' hair, already.)
So without any further ado, I hereby declare this blog to be in full swing, and promise to update it any time I am not busy keeping my child from putting poisonous things in her mouth whilst showing off her privates to the nieghbours. Which is all the time, but there ya go. To commemorate, here's a video that's sure to produce countless hours of therapy for its protaganist in the years to come:
Don't say I don't love you.
Why? Because blogs r fun. And: I get bored waiting for my energy to refill while playing Mafia Wars on Facebook (shut up you WISH your life was as exciting as mine), so I figured I might as well do something constructive with that time, like rant online about how popstars all look like thoroughbred horses these days, or why simply contemplating the mere idea of Male Bangs constitutes a Crime Against Decency that is punishable by repeated blows to the back of the head with a brickbat.
(Seriously, guys: cut yr friggin' hair, already.)
So without any further ado, I hereby declare this blog to be in full swing, and promise to update it any time I am not busy keeping my child from putting poisonous things in her mouth whilst showing off her privates to the nieghbours. Which is all the time, but there ya go. To commemorate, here's a video that's sure to produce countless hours of therapy for its protaganist in the years to come:
Don't say I don't love you.
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