Oh man, there is going to be a new AMERICAN GLADIATOR SERIES. Holy shit.

This is the exact reason I knew starting a blog would be a bad idea. Undeveloped posts with undertones that swoon for Nitro's bulging biceps.
Regardless, I hope this new round of gladiators can live up to the legacy. Next to Star Trek: The Next Generation, it was probably my favourite childhood TV show. Following the post about how terrible TV is, I know, I know, but come on- American Gladiators!

Finally, beefcake is coming back in style.

I have an accordion now and I named it Pearl. I understand that naming instruments is grossly cliche, but I guess that's just why I had to do it. Being genuine is sometimes hard; I cannot even tell anymore when I am being ironic, and isn't that just completely self-defeating? Oh shoot.

A Mouth Where Your Forehead Is.

These photos by Wolfram Hahn seem especially relevant now having just come home for Christmas break, and in being mildly exhausted and anticipating sickness, kind of just sit myself down in this ugly floral chair, drink rum 'n' colas, and watch a few episodes of Ellen DeGeneres or anything on the Food Network.
If anything, being submersed in that university/counter-culture bubble sans television or trips to the mall just makes me a little more surprised by mall culture. In Zellers I saw a Poo-lar Bear jellybean dispenser. Really? I know fart jokes have got a pretty good hold on the market, but I just couldn't really get behind things that dispensed candy as feces. Mum later told me she once bought a similar toy but sheep-shaped.
My sisters also insisted on keeping the TV ringing in the background while decorating the Christmas tree. A lot of tears from teenaged mothers and, "Oh ma Gawd"s from Dr. Phil will now join in the tradition of hanging the funky golden and teal boot ornaments on the tree. The television as a tool just has a way of cheapening every moment. Why are we afraid of ourselves? Blah blah blah, TV PARTY.

Otherwise, it looks like there might be a tiny emerging folk scene in the hometown which would be exciting, but before the night on which I could see that became too uncharacteristic a whole group of us drove down to a desolate park (and by park I mean snowbank) in the middle of nowhere to drink wine and smoke doobs. This following a solid five day recording session is insofar making Christmas break pretty tolerable, if not enjoyable.

... Just wish we had Scrabble in the house.

Songs about sleeping, dying, and loving (mostly)

I've been going through my old National Geographics a lot these days, mostly due to the fact that they're the last (pseudo)educational resource I should be reading. I think it's kind of neat how almost everybody's parents have a billion issues kicking around, like the final souvenir of a (pseudo)culturally aware popular culture. Just like your dad, my dad, the classic hoarder, finally tried to get rid of them until I, the classless hoarder, laid claim. So then, they sat in the garage for two years, and they sat in my new living room for two months, and now they're slowly finding their ways onto seats on my bookshelf. Slowly but surely. There are a lot of them.
Slowly.

They've been great for lending their pages to copies of nice photos onto craft paper, articles on Coca in Mexico in 1991, and all of that stuff on the deep sea and dinosaurs is pretty exhilarating. They also hold a lot of car advertisements (which may or may not be used in the interpretive performance of "Ridin' Dirty").
This all reminds me of when my Grandpa tried to pass off the official 1993 National Geographic Atlas, claiming, "If you ever need to find the population of a country, or its size, or its environment... It's all in here." I'll let that one slide because Grandpa's a nice guy, but, well, 1993 is 14 years ago now. A whole angry teenager ago. This happens frequently with my grandparents, and more often than not I am duped (read: led enthusiastically) into accepting these offers. Evidence? Peter von Thenen's Prismatic Design Colouring Book (one page coloured in pencil crayon by my dad circa 1978- he was 18), ill-fitting sweaters that smell like dill, and the book, "The Girl Who Bites Her Nails and the Man Who is Always Late" by Ann Gadd.

So, I guess the general theme here is that I come from a long line of hoarders. I wouldn't say collectors, per se, since I feel it assumes some kind of motif or value in whatever the person has an excess of. Those of us who take after George (I even have his nose, just a little bit) don't like to let things go.
Note, though, that recently I've become a lot better at purging. I think this is really one of many manifestations of my secret desire to live in a gypsy houseboat (see also: accordion, dirty hair).



It should also be noted that my actual writing in this blog more frequently than the "one complaint per month" model is only by inspiration from Lynn. What a great blogger. Hi Lynn, my blog universe. You are it.