Well, That Wasn't Creepy At ALL.

Okay, so, go to the site Dangerous Minds, and watch the video posted there. It's cool, I'll wait.

Back? Fucked up, no? Yeah. YEAH.

I mean, here's the thing: we all engage with pornography in some way or another. You can deny it all you want, I won't call you on it, because, hey, that's your deal, not mine, but I know where you're coming from, because I spent more than enough of my life thinking it was wrong, that I was somehow a pervert or worse, simply because I sometimes found it enjoyable to watch other people have sex. I don't feel that way any more, but, y'know, there's a time and a place, and OH MY GOD THAT PLACE IS NOT WITH YOUR CHILD.

Sorry. That one got outta me before I could stifle it. Anyway: there's part of me that starts to sympathize with this guy, because he's obviously gotta believe that what he's doing (making 'adult entertainment') is not only not a bad thing, but in fact is a good thing, so that he can wake up every day and go to the office and do it. Make the movies. Hire a cast and crew, find a location, shoot it, edit it, arrange for distribution, do PR and whatnot - I'm guessing here, because I haven't yet produced my own porn so I don't know exactly what goes into it, although it might make it's way onto my very own Bucket List, so yes, I'm accepting resumes...okay, enough. Point: he can't do all of these things if he thinks he's ruining lives and reinforcing negative stereotypes in regards to sexual dominance and gender politics (I don't know what any of those words mean, I just made them up).

He can't do all of these things if he thinks he's a monster. Which, y'know, he isn't. He might be deluded, misguided, completely inappropriate, hell, FUCKED-UP, but he's not the Most Evil Person In The World (that title belongs the guy who delivers my papers, a person who, despite my many requests to have the paper deposited in my mailbox, continues to pitch it into the deepest snowbank he can find). He's a guy who thinks he's found his calling, which is to provide the rest of us with the means to get off through the wonders of technology. Even if it means using his step-daughter in his movies.

Which is where my sympathy dries up. Because as much as I know that my own daughter will one day grow up and do...things which will no doubt make me uncomfortable were I to know of them, it will be none of my fucking business. My job isn't to dictate her sexuality, or to enforce certain gender roles upon her, or even to guide her towards what I think a safe or enjoyable lifestyle might be. My job is a) to make sure she knows that she is safe and loved, b) to make sure she knows she has the right to be happy and treated with respect, and c) to hopefully let her see that she has a responsibility to treat everyone else the same way. And, well, d) to make sure she knows damned well that Han fired first. 

That's it. Well, and the whole feeding and caring thing, and brushing her teeth and getting her to poop in the toilet and not on the sidewalk, but beyond that, I have no right getting involved. And I don't want to sit in judgement of anyone, because I've learned so many times from personal experience that it always comes back to bite you in the ass, so instead of saying that I consider this man's behaviour as reprehensible and as abusive as, say, outright beating your child, I'll say this: if any of you ever hear of me doing something as damaging as this to my own child, you have my permission to put two bullets in my head and dump me in the river.

Now I must go, because apparently we have to play a game where we shoot volcanoes out of one hand and numbers out of the other. It's like Cops & Robbers, but with SCIENCE.

Yeah, Um, No.

So, everyone's heard by now about all the examples of redonkulous abuse of (supposed) authority being committed by the TSA (or the Transportation Security Administration, for those who are confusing airport security with a group of middle-aged super-heroes), ranging from the mildly awkward to the downright humiliating to the fucking outrageous. I think it's safe to say that everyone's of the same opinion, that you won't catch terrorists by groping everybody's nether regions and making air travel as appealing as a visit to the gynecologist/proctologist.

How's YOUR colon, by the way?

(Of course, some might go so far as to say that these tactics have very little to do with 'catching terrorists' and more to do with conditioning a populace towards acceptance of an atmosphere where civil liberties are suspended at the mere mention of a 'foreign' name or a glimpse of slightly darker shade of skin, because, y'know, it might be said that it's easier to influence and/or control people when they're too afraid to think straight, right? But who would posit something like that? Certainly not me. Anyway:)

TSA regional security director James Marchand just took this stupidity one step further, by saying that you might want to tell your kids that they should pretend that these pat-downs are just a game, despite the fact that "...telling a child that they are engaging in a game is "one of the most common ways" that sexual predators use to convince children to engage in inappropriate contact."

Don't get me wrong: no one's saying that the people who do this undoubtedly reviled job are child molesters looking to cop a feel. Most of these people are just doing their jobs, and probably hating it, and wishing that they were anywhere else instead of knuckle-deep in your unmentionables. What I'm saying is this: 

You're not touching my kid. 

I don't care who you are, or what your justifications might be. You're not touching her. I realize that I'm being slightly paranoid; our flight next week is only domestic, and I haven't heard of any of these things happening here in Canada, so there's very little chance that the Little Miss and I will get caught up in any of this, but I must reiterate: I will find any alternate mode of transportation, even if I have to drive a goddamned horse and cart across the mountains in winter, before I let you grope my daughter.

Just sayin'.

Jerks.

Walking With Hazel: Grocery Girl

So, there were a lot of things that we did yesterday that were very cute and fun and worth mentioning, but they all pale in comparison to the moment when we got home with our groceries and put them away and then the Little Miss decided that she wanted to "dress up like a shopping bag."

Yes, she tried walking with that thing on her head.

Yes, she walked into a wall.

Yes, Dad laughed out loud.

But, to the Little Miss's credit, all she dead was say 'ow' really quietly and then ask for an apple. Then she decided to wear the bag like a cape, which meant that the strap went around her neck, which REALLY freaked Dad out, which she thought was hil-AR-ious, and so we spent about five minutes running around the house, she giggling like a crazy person and Dad tripping over lego blocks and duplo blocks and wooden pots and pans and matchbox cars until finally we were able to entice the Little Miss to sit still on the couch with a snack bar and repeated viewings of Monsters Inc., which led to us shouting out the name 'MIKE WAZOWSKI' out loud over and over again.

It's fun. You should try it.

Today we're going to the Science Centre with Bruce and Forrester. Because we rule. So there.

I Want To Title This "Oh See Can You See" But Also Think That It's A Dumb Title.

Oh, dear. 

So, there I am, having braved temperatures of minus bazillion, surrounded by all these people who might commonly be referred to as 'pals', were I someone who used the word 'pals', checking out the opening bands at the Republik and enjoying them (Occupied Europe have this Gord Downie-fronts-Joy Division thing going on, and Fist City are what you get when Hot Snakes grow up in Lethbridge), when The Oh Sees come on stage, and main Oh See dude John Dwyer swallows the microphone, and then, well, I'm sorry, no offense, but everything that I enjoyed beforehand got lost in this awesomeness of Pure Rock And Roll.

I don't have any words, really. So instead, I'll share this conversation I had with John at his merch table about an hour before he went onstage:

Me: "Do you guys have anything else besides records for sale?"

John: "No, sorry, we were limited with what customs would let us bring."

Me: "That's shitty. Sorry, I don't have a record player." (Yes, I know that this is technically a lie, as my record player is still in its box downstairs in the room we don't talk about, but I didn't particularly feel like carrying a record around in minus whatever weather, so shut it.)

John: "Nah, it's okay; all of our music is online, you can download it for free. I don't mind: I steal people's music every day!"

Me: "I'm really excited to see you guys play!"

John: "Thanks! I just hope we don't fuck up."

Me: "Even then, it'll still be a good show."

John: "Yeah, it'll make for a good story."

John Dwyer. Rock & Roll God, Nicest Man In The World. I TOLD you ya shoulda come.

I'm White; Am I Allowed To Listen To This Song?

Hey, this doesn't look like my blog, what the hell?

Yes. Changed the layout and stuff. Apparently, some of y'all (Shauna) have a hard time reading white text on black, so now it's black text on white. Is this racist? I dunno. Regardless, change is good, despite my general tendency to face change with crankiness. I'm old, get off my back.

To commemorate, here is Black Thought showing why he's one of best lyricists and vocalists in hip-hop:

Now I must go serve swill and look happy. I promise to make as many vulvas and penises as I can out of your latte foam.

Just Boring Stuff Except For One Really Awesome Thing At The End..

I am currently back to reading four or five books at once, which I know is ambitious and maybe even somewhat counter-productive, given that I have a tendency to forget which characters did what and in which stor, and before long Okonkwo from Things Fall Apart is joining the secret Anarchist Council in The Man Who Was Thursday, while Gabriel Syme is finding preparing illuminated manuscripts over in A Canticle For Leibowitz instead of Brother Gerard, who's instead been transported to the Beszel crime scene in The City & The City while Tyador Borlu is farming yams back in Things Fall Apart. 

It's confusing, sometimes, but I'm sure I'll work it out. The underlying message here, though, is: OHMIGOD I'M READING AGAIN. Which, y'know, is good, given that for a long time now, I've been spending that allocated reading time on the internet watching videos of naked Russian men beating up cars.

Also: I am more than hip-deep in being a Wasteland Cowboy in Fallout: New Vegas, fighting off gangs of Elvis look-a-likes and swarms of giant blood-sucking mosquitos while searching for The Hipster Who Shot Me In The Head aka Matthew Perry and discovering that post-apocalyptia turns most men into cannibals and most women into lesbians.

No, really. 

Before I get a slew of replies concerning video game sex and my lack of social skills (which will all be quite valid and humorous, lemme be the first to say...), I want to point out how refreshing it is, the lesbian thing: not that you have the option to hit on all these virtual characters, but the fact that there's a fair chance that they might just not be into you, solely because of your gender. It's not like the game is making great strides towards addressing LGBT-related disparity in the real world, given that the reaction from gamers towards the inclusion of gay and lesbian characters in F:NV has been, well, predictable ("DEY PUT GAYS IN MAH VIDEOR GAMEZ!"), but I still think it's kinda neat that in Fallout, just like in real life, most of the girls that I end up attracted to turn out to be gay.

And, no, I don't play Fallout in the hopes of having virtual irradiated sex with mutated warrior queens. That's what I have the internet for.

Oh, speaking of Internetz:

1. I can't do any better than this article's title: ALL LIFE ON EARTH COULD HAVE COME FROM ALIEN ZOMBIES.

2. Black Milk's Album Of The Year: what Kanye West would sound like if he stuck with making hip-hop, and wasn't concentrating on elaborate hip-hopera/emo concept rock albums. It's sick. Everyone should send Black Milk a dollar. Or something.

3. The Oh Sees are playing the Republik next Thursday. If you don't go to see them play their rock and/or roll music, well, I am assured that you will be experiencing something that's referred to as 'missing out'. Here is their song that is called 'Block Of Ice'; from all accounts, their live show is supposedly uncanny. Go see them. Go see them. Go see them.

Also: I'm pretty sure the bass-player is rockabilly Craig Evans. Just sayin'.

4. This is the only reason I decided to post anything today. I just can't decide if it's the BEST thing in the world, or the WORST thing in the world. Thank you, Jeffrey Storey, for giving me SCOTT STAPP SINGING A THEME SONG FOR THE FLORIDA MARLINS.

Now, just TRY to have a bad day after that.

Walking With Hazel: Driving Miss Hazel.

Yesterday was a big day, because Mom got herself a new car, and by new car we mean a used car, and it runs perfectly except for the fact that it seems to have no muffler, which is why the Little Miss refers to it as the 'Loudy Car', but it's still good, and it also means that Dad gets to drive the Volkswagon full-time, even though we've decided that Volkswagon translates from the German into "car-that-will-never-have-enough-leg-room-for-Dad".

Still. We are happy, because this means that we can go get burgers and fries and lego and ice cream whenever we want without having to wait 45 minutes for a bus that won't stop at any of our destinations anyway. So there. Suck it, Calgary Transit.

(We should be kind, though, as we discovered yesterday that Dad REALLY has to watch his language, as the Litte Miss promptly repeated every curse and swear that left his mouth, rapidly and with much enthusiasm, which caused Dad much chagrin and embarrasment, especially after Hazel decided that her favourite phrase for the next hour would be, "what the fuck?", which was repeated relentlessly over and over agin until Dad taught her a song about putting gas in the car, which pretty much went, "GAS GOES IN THE CAR IN THE MORNING" sung at the top of one's lungs.)

So we went and got some groceries, and Hazel picked out every vegetable (red peppers, green peppers, carrots, a cucumber and a big bag of mushrooms), and some snacks (fig bars and cranberry/strawberry granola bars) and then proceeded to lie down on the scale at the self-serve checkout so that Dad couldn't actually purchase anything for a few minutes, since she was registered as an 'unknown item in bagging area', although she got back up following the combined threat of tickles and promise of cookies.

We should also mention that Hazel spent a few minutes in the produce section holding two apples to her chest and proclaiming that she had 'big boobies'. Dad swears that he had nothing to do with that one.

Then we walked down the street to visit John at the Roasterie, who wins bonus points for playing The Cure's 'A Forest' the moment we walked in, and then pretended to be a monkey for the duration of our visit, which garnered him the nickname Uncle Monkey. Then we walked back to the car, although we had to play a game which consisted of Hazel trying to pull Dad down on to the sidewalk for the entire block. It was fun.

Then we went to Dad's work and got a cookie for the Little Miss, because Dad likes to keep his promises.

Then we went home, had dinner and then made some popcorn and watched the good parts of Spider-man 3, which we've come to finally accept as NOT VERY GOOD AT ALL. We like all the actors and the director and stuff, but we can't deny it anymore: that movie was a mess. Even WITH Topher Grace.

Then we went to bed. 

Today was kind of a slow day, but we did run some errands, most notably dropping some comics off for Amy & Chris to read, but they weren't home; their kids were home, though, and stared at us for a few minutes through the window before opening the door, and even then it was a few more minutes before they'd open the screen door, which might seem kinda strange and antisocial, but all it means to Dad is that they're very good babysitters and very cautious about who they open the door to and not very weird at all (don't hurt my comics, Amy.). Hazel didn't actually say anything to them, but instead giggled the entire time we were there.

Then we came home, and the Little Miss fell asleep in the car, so she's napping right now while Dad figures out what to make for dinner. We're thinking omelettes, but we might just settle for pizza.