WIRED

I feel like a lab project. For the next 48 hours I host five live wires which are stuck on my chest. They eventually join up and plug into a little recording box which I must carry around and not throw at the wall when I wake up in the middle of the night completely annoyed at whatever that thing jabbing me in the breast is. I am not a secret agent or anything so cool at all. It's a Holter. Trendy, I know. My stepfather even wore one. It's like a travelling ECG.

Forty eight hours with dumbleddy pokitty wires stuck onto me and taped over my skin. This is to see what my heart is doing at all times, as I am prone to some chest weirdness which no one has figured out. Well, except for me. My theory is that my problem stems from sleeping on my side. I lean on a pillow, my shoulders rounded. This has placed strain upon my chest joints, eventually making my chest feel awful. Or, you know, there's something wierd going on with my heart.

I got to the lab wearing a button down shirt as recommended. I left looking sexy with tape blaring across my collarbone. I didn't realize I should have brought a shirt which button into a bloody turtleneck. People noticed. Yes, yes this is tape sticking out of my shirt. Stop staring at me, I feel exceptionally drained in the 'people invading my personal vibe' area already today , thank you.

I have to write most everything I do down.
EXAMPLE
2:00 pm: Knitting whilst watching a movie
2:43 pm: I took a pee (hee hee)
3:25 pm: Dropped Holster while staring in the mirror at my taped up self (~Wow! I have electrodes on my chest! Call Dr. Xavier!~). I hope I didn't break it.
3: 27 pm: Finally managed to stick electrode back into my chest. I hope it didn't break.

My holster case tells me it's " Y2K OK." So I'm guessing it is built to last. Cough, cough.

MY REAL BOYFRIEND

Who this "PACO" I refer to in my writings? He is my boyfriend, although his name is not actually Paco. That's just a silly name I made up to protect him from all of the publicity. His real name is Christian, Christian Bale. He's a nice Welsh boy who likes to eat chives.

SHANA TOVA

...Said the shiksa. Today is the first day of Rosh Hashana, which is the Jewish New Year. Having dated a few nice Jewish boys in my time I can confidently say that WASPy occasions are nearly without custom or tradition when compared to Judaism. They get the Oscars, we get the Gemini's.

Many folks in North America that have not experienced organized religion don't know bugger about many of the holidays (read 'days off') here in this fine land. I'm not a religious person per se. I practice 'Christ Consciousness' in terms of "do unto others"...etc. I am educated in many forms of religion. I grew up Presbyterian (those crazy Welsh ancestors). I find Bible stories interesting, not thinking for a moment whether they are 'true' or not. Western civilization is based on the Bible. Ballyhoo or not, it is where we come from (I thank Jesus' skinny little not-really-lily-white ass for allowing me to live in this multi cultural society where the Buddha, Allah and assorted other deities can help us learn to be excellent to each other without threat).

That's all fine and dandy. In terms of Western tradition, culture and ritual the Jews got us beat. A history and culture based upon their religion, the Jews have endured persecution (do I have to tell you how much?) and have held onto their beliefs.

I went to my first Jewish holiday family gathering, expecting it to be a lot like, say, a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by my family. Mom cooks a nice ham, something with squash, we all eat a ton, don't pray and can't finish our wine after the meal. I was wrong. There was prayer. There was ritual. Even the food had traditional meaning. The family recited and reflected. We all took stock. Most occasions seemed to involve personal work on the individual's part as well.

These were religious occasions, not simply tradition upheld due to it being a long weekend. The group of people at my first seder created an intense vibration that moved me. This is something that rarely happens while reading a Bible story or by eating a turkey dinner. I'm not saying that every Jewish family gets all traditional together on every occasion possible. Perhaps I am saying that they have ritual, history and belief, and there is magic in that.

I believe in belief. I am into the concept of releasing intention into the universe. There are aspects of organized religion that fascinate me, there are also aspects which disgust and offend me. It is about intention. Screw the dogma. Happy New Year.

FEELING BETTER

Well Dear Little Lamb Chops of my Evil Little Universe, I am feeling better. It's back to being good ole lippy Joan.

My medical tests reveal that I am enviably healthy on paper barring a slightly low iron count and slow heartbeat (which is actually good - thank you healthy race training heart). Can I tell you that I am so very relieved and thankful to not have any big nastiness happening, not even the suspected rotted gallbladder? My doctor is convinced that I have been bitten by some kind of nasty virus which I may or may not have picked up whilst shagging in Lake Erie. Just kidding. I seem to have some kind of funky virus which ended up taking residence in my left temple resulting in much migraine pain. Painkillers are helping. A headache for a week sucks, but it is better than surgery.

No more smoking. Ever.

STRIP IT GOOD

When Crest came out with their fancy schmancy White strips I was up in arms. Well, not really. I was thinking something like this, you mean I can smoke, suck dark caffeinated beverages through my teeth and swish 'em around night and day, and practice poor oral hygiene to come to discover that there is a cheap easy little quick fix that will rid me of all my well-deserved skanky oral dingeness? Well I thought that was crap. I did. I though that was just another get-off easy offer for my/this culture of consequentially careless fartwits. Everything is disposable. All answers are easy.

I lightened up (pardon my pun). I thought it nice that people can gain self-esteem form something so simple. Crest aren't killing baby seals, are they? Are they enslaving four year old Persian ratdog's to stir their nasty vats of toxic sticky whitening serum? Well it's Crest, Proctor and Gamble, who may be killing, poisoning or maiming, many things right now with many of the different things they own or manufacture. I merely ponder. Having no conclusive evidence.
Buyer beware.

One day while I was sitting at work (which was another lifetime ago) trying to not strangle my vacuous boss (who would often say things like, "The thing with fat women is, they're always bitchy because they are fat"), I got a pretty package with a card. Treeeee-eats! I love treats. I opened the box. Whitestrips. I opened the card. A brochure for Whitestrips. Cool. Free expensive stuff. Since I was a talent agent, I thought it was clever for a savvy marketing team to send me Whitestrips. I was rapidly changing my mind about the whole Whitestrips ripoff stupid lazy thing. I noticed that no one else in the office received any. They were all model agents. You'd think models would need them more than actors even, since the whole focus with skin puppets is looks (as opposed to acting where it is justmostly looks...titter).

They make you drool, they do. Those Whitestrips. They taste awful. That's ok. I've tasted worse (Wormwood oil anyone?). I have great physical control which helps to limit the amount of drool generated by these things. Paco lasted a few moments. On top of being thoroughly disgusted by the taste of these things, Paco was drooling like a stoned beagle chasing a sausage filled danish. He looked at me with eyes full of fear. Talking could only make it worse. He took them out. He was fully disgusted for quite some time afterward. The taste lingered in his mouth. I'm not sure he will ever recover.

A marketing gal calls me up a few days after the delivery of the Whitestrips. She is nice. I'm imagining a less pointy Reese Witherspoon on the other end of the phone. She's asking if I'm using said product. I said yes.

RW: Aren't they great?

ME: Um, I dunno yet.

RW: Have you been using them twice a day?

ME: That's an hour out of my life per day.

RW: Well, you can wear them while you watch tv or on the way to work. I wore mine in a meeting this morning.

ME: I don't watch tv. I take public transit for over an hour each way every day, I am not drooling that stuff all over the TTC. You didn't wear those to a meeting this morning and actually talk to anyone did you?

RW: You don't watch tv?

Conversation over. As one of my favourite sayings goes.. You can't make brains.

My friend Jenny has noticeably white teeth. They are beautiful. People ask her about her teeth all the time. She smokes and does not use whitening products. Her secret is silly. She drinks her coffee and tea through a straw.

EVIL DEAD 1&2 THE MUSICAL IS COMING BACK

The play written by George Reinblatt will return just in time for Halloween, or Samhain.

October 16-18, October 21-25, October 29 – November 1. Yes, they got a three week run.
The shows start at 8:00 pm with added 11:00 pm late shows on all Saturdays - and Halloween Friday
The Transac Theatre, 292 Brunswick Ave. (at Bloor)

Official Website for the musical.

Globe & Mail Review, Eye Magazine Review

Call (416) 723-EVIL for reservations. $20.00. Cash only.

I heard that hundreds of people were turned away at the doors during the last run, so order your tickets now.

ROCK BOTTOM

Someone found my site by googling "stirrup pants."

No!!!!!

THE GAUL (curse of my French gallbladder)

The swallowing barium x-ray ended up being interesting if not fun. I got to see my own innards. I love that.

A technician once showed me my appendix on x-ray. She told me that it was the healthiest she'd ever seen. Can tell how healthy something is just from an x-ray?

Today I saw my esophagus and my stomach. My stomach was smaller and higher than I'd imagined. The zipper of my skirt was a rather prominent feature on my x-ray, adding a certain amount of personal style to an otherwise boring old x-ray.

Chakking barium all over the pillow I had to use was interesting. It seems the lab expects people to chakk barium all over the place. I am convinced that the pillow I used was composed entirely of paper towel.

It's probably my gallbladder acting up. It runs in the family. No worries.

ADMISSION

I got massively sick this weekend whilst we were camping.
I didn't get sick until late Saturday night, so I did enjoy the most of the weekend in splendid fashion.
I have been feeling rather horrid.
And...Horridly boringly lumpy. Not clever or witty or even naughty.

My doctor looks like a hobbit, which is fun. She was halfling-like and cute telling me of the battery of nasty tests to be done on me. I was promised that I would not have to experience this test, the Tricksey Hobbit has ordered one of these tests instead. Admittedly, I'm excited to see fancy x-ray images like this of my very own innards. I am also excited to be drinking barium instead of having to do it another way, or maybe I'm not...Barium tastes very nasty.

Today was blood tests and ECG. The technician (who was also Hobbity) had trouble getting the needle in my arm properly. It was quite weird, she was poking that thing all over the place. Ugh. I've never experienced that before. Now I know how all of those needle haters must feel. It didn't hurt at the time, smarts like a bugger now.

Tricksey Hobbitses.

LOVE

My nieces are horribly, disgustingly, adorable.

VERRRY YUMMY COOKIES

I am sharing this recipe. These cookies are too perfect not to.

1 cup soft butter (that's proper butter, none of that margarine crap)
1 cup packed brown sugar (tip: store a piece of bread in the package to keep the brown sugar soft)
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla (if you can find the kind that is not artificial, it's worth it)
2 eggs
2 1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup nuts or oats

Beat butter, sugars, vanilla and eggs until light and fluffy. Mix the flour, baking soda and salt together, then add to wet ingredients by hand. Try to fold (stirring from under, bringing the bottom up gently) the mixture in slowly, being careful not to overmix. Then stir in the chocolate chips and nuts or oats.

I've learned that if you keep the cookie portions small by using a teaspoon, the cookies turn out better. Makes about five dozen.


Bake at 375 for ten to twelve minutes. I find that 165 on my sassy hot gas stove for ten minutes is perfect. You may have to adjust for your own oven's heat.

PACO SAYS...

"I'm not wierd they just draw me that way."

OHHHHH

I so enjoy it when DeVilla lambastes somebody. This time it's Russell Smith. I met Russell. He had just published his first book and seemed to be trying to suck up some fame while tarting around for more material on College Street. We were introduced. He gave me a crass once over and did not look at me again. I think it was my height, or maybe my small boobs. Ugh. As soon as he found out that I was close with a good friend of his, he suddenly wanted to talk to me. I was not interested, I politely excused myself and pointedly asked him to forgive me my bad manners. Schmarmy little prat.

I waited on him several times. He and his friends always looked bored and never seemed to be having any actual fun. Posers.

Smith is not a hipster (as so many reviewers make him out to be), he's a dork. If he'd admit to that in stead being such a poser, I'd be a bigger fan.

RUNNERS

Some little dude from St. Mike's (fancy boys school, legendary for Catholicism, Casholicism and Athleticism) hi-fived me when I was running the Cedarvale trail last week.

It gave me some extra juice to get up that hill. It also made me laugh out loud.

I passed a passle ( not of pickled peppers, that's "picked a peckle"- I think) of boys with their running coach. I wanted to get his name for the casting directors. The man was so stereotypically coach looking. "Boys! Heads Up! Keep Right! Keep Right!" That was his way of telling them not to trample the nice lady they didn't see coming up in front of them. Some kid almost plowed me over. I said "Heads Up" just in time and jumped into the rhubarb in a highly trained martial arts professional kind of way. He was horrified at his own actions. He friends laughed at him. The Coach bellowed again and they were off. The horrified boy and I waved when I passed them on the way back. Most of them nodded or said "hey" as I passed them.

Runners are friendly to one another. That's not a bad club to belong to. The solidarity in pain and mental problems thing seems to bond them closely to one another.

HARVEST

The fresh pears right off the tree in my backyard are quite tasty, thanks.
The grapes are also very sweet and the seeds were hand picked and dried, and brought to Toronto from Italy over forty years by my landlady's father who is no-longer-with-us. They are almost black and taste nearly as decadent as port. Sexy.

THE WHAT MAN OF ALCATRAZ?

I just found Cartman's Boombox.

CROSSING THE DISTANCE

Orlando Bloom is a very handsome lad, yes.

I've embarrassingly noted his similarity to Canadian media personality and author Evan Solomon.

Sometime in the mid-nineties Solomon and some friends caroused politely and intellectually at The College Street Bar. I was their waitress. I knew Solomon had studied religion at McGill and had co-founded Shift magazine (which I read, along with fifteen other people at the time). I was immediately conscious of waiting on a table of Canadian up and comers. I was wary (yet humbly polite as always). I envied their 'I'm-from-money' manners, expensive and paid for educations, the choosing of tasteful dark clothes that could have come from thrift shops but really didn't. I disliked the way a few of them were so polite to me at times that they came across as offensive. "Why are you over-pronouncing the names of the Italian dishes I serve every day? I un-der-stand." I still envied them - pretended not to. PC, smart, and from good families, I did my best to ensure their dining pleasure.

Evan forgot his hat. I picked it up off of the floor, wiped the dried slushdirt (slirt) off. I did not smell it or caress it (as you may expect from a girl considering developing a small crush on a boy from another planet). I was thinking about weather I would keep the hat and later wear it triumphantly, the punk rock chorus from my life soundtrack blasting through my little head. I thought it funny that Relic hats were becoming visibly fashionable. I placed the hat under the bar top, out of view.

He returned. I found it distracting and endearing that he left a bar to come back for his non-valuable hat. He was polite, kind of drunk, and refreshingly humble as he asked if we'd seen it. He looked me in the eye. I looked away. I had become too nervous to give him my "Shy, but dreamily deep and intelligent" look. I didn't say a word. He continued to be endearing and polite for a moment, then left the bar. I felt the crimson shame of a crush on a cute, smart boy.

When asked why I didn't make conversation with him I said, "Why ruin it with words?"

I had forgotten about my pretend crush until after seeing Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean. I've decided to stop ignoring Solomon as a Canadian figureshaker just because I'm protecting an old Boy Scout image. He could be a complete wanker. I don't know.

As for Bloom being very handsome. All of the squealing and giggling over him seems to be an indication of a high Adonis factor. Being so swooned over is not the Curse of the Black Pearl or anything, yet I can't imagine it being a fun life.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT

Douglas Coupland is interviewed by Robert Birnbaum here.

I disliked being lumped into Generation X. I wow myself with realization. I have avoided Coupland for the past decade or more due to a loathing for the types of folks who walked around talking about how fantastic his stuff is. A librarian's daughter who knew her literature would, by no means, read an author that twenty year olds took seriously as a literary figure.

Sometimes you shoot the messenger, sometimes you shoot yourself.

I spent my twenties reading important works by important authors, with some Alice Munro and Tom Robbins splashed here and there for decoration. I have since given in to my love of Science Fiction and the decadence of not having to learn another language or find spiritual enlightenment in order to understand a novel.

OVERHEARD AT BRUNCH YESTERDAY

Anti-hipster (which made him look more like an artsy wannabe hipster) type mid thirties dude talks about this guy trying to impress his Liz Phair meets Patti Smith non-date friend who could have been wearing polyester and was also possibly too hungover to speak coherently:

"Well, he writes comic books. But he's very intelligent."

I waited for her to react. Even a literary snob knows of the intellectual "exceptions" in the comic genre, don't they? I guess not. She smiled with eyes glowing, seemingly intrigued by Mr. (I'm-so-Smart) Snore. I wanted to ask them if they had actually read any comic books, but did not. I was bordering on rudeness already as I snickered in disbelief, pretending I was just reading something very interesting in the newspaper.

TIME

The clock says I must leave soon for my job interview.

Last night I met a girl who couldn't believe I was 33. "My sister is 36 and you look ten years younger than her." She meant well. I could have said something like, "Well my secret is sort of strange, ever hear of Elizabeth Bathory?" I was polite. I simply said that maybe this is what 33 looks like these days. I do think it's fun when people think I'm a lot younger looking than I am, it's when they freak out about it that bothers me. Oh-my-god, I so thought you were like, 22...but you're like, old.

Time has been good to me, I have become less patient.

I'M ROTTEN

What's black and white and red all over and can't turn around in hallways?

A nun with a spear through her head.

MY FIRST RUN EVER

Technical difficulties kept me away from what was to be my first 5 k run a few weeks ago. Today I attended my first proper race, the United Way walk/run.

When I began training, crossing the Finish Line (it is important and gets capitals) was the perfect goal. As I continued to train, I started to feel confident about finishing the race in 36 minutes. I'm a person who is rather laid back, but will go berserk if I must. I have a lot of energy. It appears I still have the berserker drive with athletics. Cool.

Homebase for the race was Nathan Phillips Square. Paco and I had our own change room, as his office is in City Hall. It was weird going into City Hall and chatting with Mel. I dunno, he was just there when we walked in. We said Hi. Then he got all chatty. I asked if he was going to run with us. Paco was surprised that after three years working at City Hall, the mayor finally said Hi to him. Then we suspected that Mel didn't likely recognize Paco at all, more likely thought we were some of the 'common people' that he represents here in Toronto. I'm not going to say anything else about the mayor.

I met a nice lady who offered to run with me. I was happy to take her up on this as I really had no idea how I'd end up pacing myself. Susan was cool and an experienced runner. We ran half of the race together, then she told me to go on ahead. She basically kicked my bewildered ass into gear for me.

That was all that I needed to hear. I started to push. I was passing people. I was feeling good. A little hot, but good. I poured water over my head, felt it ride down my spine and legs. I knew I must be near the end of the race, but could see no Finish Line. I kept "givin'er." Then I was fading. I didn't want to slow down or stop for a minute at the end of a race, that seemed silly. Paco appeared at my side. He fell in, cheering me. His presence certainly helped. I did stop for about 30 seconds, then put on the steam. The last twenty yards were were run like I was being chased by relgious fanatics. Crossing the Finish Line felt like nothing I've felt before. I was spent, proud, excited and happy.

My time was thirty four minutes and a little change. I spent the first half of the race going at an easy pace, I see thirty minutes as a modest goal for my next race. All runners had electronic timer chips on their ankles which showed distance and time. I am not certain of my exact race time as Paco and I had problems with registration. We seem to have gotten a recorded clock time, not a chip time. This is important as I did not go across the Start Line until about a minute after the race started.

As for Paco...His time was Twenty One minutes. Strangely, Paco raced with the lead runners who all took a wrong turn. They ended up running an extra .5 of a kilometer. Paco still came in 13th out of about 200 competitors.

We're off celebrate with some good friends and the Dandy Warhols at the Opera House.

OBSESSIVE?

I wash my feet before I run.
Water always makes me feel good. It's my favourite.
I believe that having fresh, clean feet helps me run better.

Clean feet is where it's at for me.
Unless I am standing in mud, or grass, or earth.
Those things make my feet really happy.

Mmmm

Charras Tostadas with Salsa Verde ( I use a different recipe with no avocado, but like the tomatillo photo).

Still addicted.

It could be worse. I could be hooked on chubbier things. My ass thanks me.

I'm losing weight from running. I'm not fat or overweight according to medical standards, yet I am excited about losing weight. I dreamt about it last night. My metabolism starting messing around on me after turning thirty, I need to excercise more now. I curse me from 14 to 30 years old for not strutting around saucy like the Goddess of Hot Tomales in the Garden of Eden. I realize how much time I wasted scrutinizing the size of my ass and somehow not feeling worthy for being 5'9" and over 130 pounds. Moron. Youth really is wasted on the young.

Layers peel away. I see that I let a few pounds on because I was angry at myself for selling out the imagery of our society. I am slightly afraid to become svelte again. I don't want people to think that's what I'm about. I'll get over it, find my balance on the way. I'm losing weight because I'm running, I'm not running just to lose weight.

When I look at myself by the standards I use for everyone else, I see a hottie. I must keep that in mind the next time I'm playing at being Spacial Kaye, the girl who knows she could take over the universe if only she could fit her ass into that kickass silver spacesuit she wore in Grade Eleven.

FLY AWAY


Boeing 737-700.

That is the type of jet plane that I did not scream, pee my pants or freak out (too badly) on last week.

We flew West Jet.

A LITTLE ABOUT THE TRIP

Edmonton is cool, and I'm not just talking about the weather. We stayed downtown (where no one seems to actually live) in a fairly swank hotel.

Folks were alarmingly friendly. One woman was so exceptionally friendly that it seemed she was trying to hook up a threesome with Paco and I. She was drunk as a goat, nice girl though.

We checked out The West Edmonton Mall. I got very lost and full of angst. It was fun. As it was the Stag and Doe day, our boys did the water park while the girls did lunch and shopping.

Stag and Doe night was nutty. A cool house party. The bride and groom were stunning in grass skirts and bright clothes. Sherri was made to wear a fetching shell bikini top.

Then off to the Billiard Club on groovy Whyte Avenue. It was big, a good vibe, and the pool tables were in good shape. Next was Urban Lounge. All of us Stag and Doe'ers we're feeling a little rowdy at this point. I quickly got happy as I asked the bartender what was on tap and he said "Shite. You want a bottle of beer,darlin'." Okey dokey then, fella. He was a good bartender.

Then there was the band. Mustard Smile. They played all of those nerfy, cutesy, angsty songs by boys like Green Day....And they ROCKED. We had way too much fun. Rowdies, all of us. It seemed our contagion hit the other customers. It was sweaty good. Exactly what we needed.

As Stag and Doe rules decreed, we moved on to the next bar as the band took a break. We ended up at some horrid bar by mistake and left very quickly. It was an Agli-Aira, Birtny, Tinderflake type place.

Last was Rosie's Bar & Grill Karaoke. From singing "Angel From Montgomery" in the parking lot to butchering "Roxanne," I loved Rosie's. Everyone else seemed to love it too. Edmontonians love their karaoke. I was shocked by how good most of the people sang. No one sang any Whitney or Celine, and for that alone, I love Edmonton.

If I had to move to Edmonton, I think I'd get by just fine.

I FORGOT TO TELL YOU

I saw Grandaddy with Earlimart last month at the Opera House. It was weird to see all of the clone types in the crowd in their Grandaddy style baseball caps and such. They played a lot of Bu-jork before the bands came on. I didn't see how that was a musical match.

Earlimart had an instant fan in me. What do the post-Pixie, post-punk, post alt-rock, post-pubescent kids like me do for music? I've become acquainted with bands like Earlimart.

I'm hooked on Grandaddy too. Not only do they dress like they come from my hometown, they have brains. Known as luddite dissenters, Grandaddy makes music which is melodic, quirky and full of stick-in-your-head goodness.

My friend Paulie talked with one of the Grandaddy members after the show. Showed the guy a painting he created whilst listening to a lot of Grandaddy. They guy was polite but tired. Understandable I guess, considering life on tour can be a drag. A good thing to know here is what a cool, unassuming dude Paulie is and what an artist he is. I imagine that most fans who try to approach band members want to party with them and be their new best friends. I would be pretty damn chuffed if someone told me that I inspired them artistically. Oh well. Here's to Granadaddy, I hope they like Paulie's painting.

I like this Grandaddy review.
"Are they America's bearded, chubby answer to Radiohead?"

THE GEEK IN ME SUFFERS

I missed TorCon whilst in Edmonton.
Yes I missed Neil Gaiman.
Yeah, he's been dying to meet me.

I'M BACK

I'm back and I'm proud.

The whole wedding thing was frabjous. I got to face the fear of flying and see many chortle in with joy over the very cute couple.

I wore orchids in my hair.

The last song the DJ played at the wedding was "(Take Another) Piece of My Heart" by Janis Joplin.

Scottish Angela and I were handed a microphone.

She wasn't sure of the words. I wasn't sure of my sobriety. It was fabulous.

Sleepy time....