Conversations with Christoffel

ThinkThought # 27: Survivor: One World (My World)

2012-02-15T13:42:00.000-08:00

I am actively anticipating eight hours from now, when I can cozy up on my futon, majestic wolf snuggie wrapped around my body, box of kleenex in my hand, and eyes glued to the screen. No, I will not be watching a re-run of the Barbara Walter's Most Fascinating People T.V. Special. No, I will not be watching CNN running a story on the rumours that his holiness, Saint Justin Bieber of Stratford has early onset Alopecia. Instead, I'll be watching the season premiere of One World. Survivor: One World. Survivor, Season 24: One World. I don't know how well you know me, but if you have ever lived with me, or spent any significant amount of time with me, specifically on Wednesday evenings, you'll know how much Survivor, as a franchise, means to me.

Every body has a vice. For some people, it's food. Others, it's drugs. And even others, it's wearing tacky clothes in public, acting as if they have no idea that it is no longer 2003. In fact, it happens to be 2012, and perhaps you missed the memo, but Fox Head and Zoo York are no longer "hip". My vice just happens to be watching marginally attractive people with even more attractive bodies backstab, lie, and cheat while living on a beach for 39 days and, in the process of doing so, emaciating themselves beyond recognition (that's my favourite part).

And so in honour of this sacred holiday, I have decided to pick out my three favourite contestants. I am not ensuring that one of these three will win it all... as any true Survivor fan knows, it is nearly impossible to predict from the very beginning who is really going to be in that final tribal council to win the $1 million (Natalie White from Samoa, anyone? AMIRIGHT?). But if I do happen to pick the winner out of my lucky three, let's just say I wouldn't be surprised. After twelve years, 24 seasons, 355 episodes, equalling nearly 250 hours of episode time*, I should hope that I've gained some sort of knowledge on how this all works. If not, the week and a half straight I have spent watching Survivor throughout my life may have all been for naught.

1.

Chelsea Meissner

She's sexy, a complete outdoorsy badass, she goes spear fish hunting every year, she's ripped, she seems nice, guys will keep her around, and if she get's a few young girls with her at the beginning, she'll be in it. For good. FOR GOOD. But she's got an ugly bra/bikini on. And those boots? Is she expecting to fly fish out here? SO CLOSE TO PERFECT. But not quite.

2. Leif Manson

He's a little person, so he's different, but not in a way that should be detrimental. Different can be perfect on a show like this (aka. Rupert Boneham). He's athletic enough to help his team until the merge, and if he plays a good game post merge by getting into a good alliance, who isn't going to want to give him a million dollars? I mean, really, who is going to be the dick that didn't give the little person a million dollars in the finale? Unless he takes after his namesake, and just rapes and pillages everyone on the island. That might not go over well.

3. Jay Byars

Just google image him. There's no way he can't be in the finals.

*And that's not including commercials. And I dare say I've watched a fair fucking few commercials in the past twelve years during Survivor.

Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T12:54:00.000-08:00

A Valentine's day poem I wrote for all you love birds out there. I hope you enjoy.

Valentines day.
It’s the worst day of all.
There are people in love
giving chocolates so small.

They’ll be wrapped up in red
with a big fancy bow,
and be sitting in your mailbox
with a cute little note.

And all of the while,
as you kiss and you smile,
I’ll be locked in my room
without regard or beguile.

Schindlers List will be on,
Bon Iver in the air,
Ben and Jerrys “half baked”,
crying “life isn’t fair”.

I’ll be tossing and turning
and screaming with fright,
that I’ll never find love
which I hate, with much spite.

I’ll tear down all my posters
that talk about love.
And why not, screw all hope,
down come olive, down come dove.

And I’ll write a PostSecret
in my own scrawling blood,
Reading, “No one ever loves me!
No one ever does!”.

And I’ll cross my t’s,
and I'll dot my i’s,
and finish it with a heart
that has two X’s for eyes.

And after I’m finished,
after all this is done,
I’ll be dripping with sweat
and realize, “Love Actually's on!”

So I’ll curl on my couch,
filled with joy and delight,
and prepare myself
for a long happy night.

And as the credits roll,
with a smile on my face,
I'll think of Hugh Grant or Colin Firth
and what they’d do in my place.

I'll get up off the couch,
put all my things away.
And I'll think happily to myself
“I can’t wait for next Valentine’s Day!”.

Andrew Christoffel

ThinkThought #26 : Tis The Season

2011-12-27T14:04:00.000-08:00

I've just finished a bag of milk chocolate M&Ms while watching the last episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, after a two week, six season, Armenian glamour binge. I'm not going to say I cried, but knowing Kim Kardashian will end up unhappy and divorced and $17.9 million richer in 72 days is absolutely heartbreaking. No one loves the Kardashian Klan like I do. Other than the Kardashians themselves, perhaps.

I've got four jumbo croissants baking in the oven (cheese stuffed, of course), and a full glass of eggnog sitting festively beside my Macbook Pro. Tommylife's Accordion Boy is playing in the background... I think I left it on repeat in the other room. I'm trying not to stare at the bag of candy my friend bought at Bulk Barn and so carelessly left strewn across my dining room table. It's as if they want me to swallow their chewy, tender curves, their sugary sweetness beckoning my mouth, calling out my name. I'm not calling them easy... but they want it.

I'm not positive, but I think I just heard a squirrel in the roof. Maybe two. And they could very well be in the throws of passion (nuts can only do so much for tree dwelling rodents).

Tis the season... amiright?

Being home in Regina, I've found myself overindulging in everything from trashy reality television, to temptuous treats, both sweet and savoury, and even the prolonged, and incredibly convivial company of the Christoffel Clan. And I have loved each and every moment of it. While I'm certain my love handles have plumped like a succulent spring chicken, and I've likely forgotten the meaning of reality (KARDASHIANS4LYFE), I can honestly say that, despite the bloated bellies, back-aches, and blatantly unabashed abuse of the bible's excuse to give and receive presents, this has been a fantastic and unforgettable first two weeks back in the Queen City.

Now we just have to see if my liver and stomach can handle another week.

And for an extra treat, please watch this gem. Once you start, you'll never stop.

I WANT TO HEAR YOUR ACCORDION!!! SOLOOO

Have You Seen Them

2011-10-24T22:42:00.001-07:00

ThinkThought #25 : UBCimprov Shuts Your Dick

2011-10-24T20:43:00.000-07:00

Have you ever found yourself in a groove; one that may be tolerable, yes, but incessantly monotonous and menial. It's the same ol' same ol', and while the same ol' gets you through each day with some sort of sense of subdued satisfaction, it doesn't necessarily put that bounce in your step or that pound in your proverbial pump.

And then, when you think that you have finally entered the "real world", resolved to the notion of a tedious existence for the next sixty to seventy years (toes crossed), you get reminded that there are more people and more experiences out there for you to encounter, and that it's not yet time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. In fact, the previews haven't even started. Instead, Marc "Technology Douche" Saltzman is still trying to convince everyone in the theatre to pick up the latest digital picture frame that can also play MPEG-4 video AND has a nightlight attached to it for improved convenience (customize it with a stylish skincase!). You're a dumbass, Marc Saltzman, and no one is going to buy your digital picture frame. Not even if you can customize it with a Hello Kitty skincase.

This past weekend, I found myself crossing the expanse of lapping salty blue delight towards Gambier Island, home to the (New!) Camp Fircom, ecological ideals, and the attractive and yet entirely unattainable camp director. With me were thirty odd UBCimprovisers, each bringing with them a backpack full of clothes, food, enough alcohol to drown a pygmy, and a boiling sense of excited anticipation. And while most of what happens at the #UBCiretreat stays at the #UBCiretreat (that's called mixing social media)(and trust me, you don't need to know the extent of the expletives explored ["ROY G BIV! You f*cking rainbow..."]), as a whole, it was this weekend, as I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning with a few dozen people, some I knew, but most I was meeting for the first time, that I realized there is much, much more to life than an eight hour shift at a corporate drugstore, or learning about the theory of post-modernism as it applies to ancient gender roles in Anthropology (who knew?). The things that matter more are the conversations you share with the people you have so much in common with, and the humor that evolves from this. Where else would I have seen a pod of orcas swim past the point, the saddest on-stage hand job in the world, had the longest and most intense game of taboo ever (FIELD BUTT SEX!), and enjoyed an entire 48 hours with over 30 like minded people and shared countless moments of delight. If you ever get the chance, I would urge you to do the same, because you'll realize the best your life is can always be better. And way, way funnier.

Thank's UBCimprov. Y'all are classy as shit.

And barring substantial extenuating circumstances, you should come to our first shows of the year! Tuesday, October 25th and Thursday, October 27th at Scarfe 100... only $3! That's way cheaper than paying for sex, and you'll probably have a way better time. Plus there won't be as much crying at the end.

ThinkThought #24 : Haughty Indifference

2011-05-30T14:41:00.000-07:00

Have you ever realized that there are some things out there that frustrate you more than anything else in the world, and you just simply can't explain why? Often they are insignificant isms that shouldn't affect your daily life whatsoever, but they do. Whenever I see a man completely shave off his sideburns, I find myself obsessing over how utterly nonsensical he must be to shed his ear turtlenecks, and I automatically assume that I would never speak to him, as I never speak with sideburnless freaks like that. Assimilate? No thank you. Let us be rid of them.

It's the same every time I watch an awards show and the winner, as they stand triumphantly in front of a crowd of adoring fans and malevolent peers, thanks God for their win. God has nothing to do with you winning the Teen Choice Hot Summer Crush award, Justin Bieber. If God is a considerate and rational being, then I am certain, in fact, that he has had nothing to do whatsoever with any of your fame or success, Justin. Now go back and coddle your $53 million while I hold my empty piggy bank and gently weep.

What I have recently discovered is that not only do I hate overzealous trimmers and god-fearing celebrities, but more importantly, customers who seem to find it entirely necessary to over-share. Working at Shoppers, I encounter my fair share of people hoping to discuss their classes, grand-children, or drunken binges, all of which I have no interest in, but am always able to feign a smile and force out monosyllabic responses, just enough for them to feel worthwhile. One such recent occurrence, however, changed all of that.

A certain man who was, how shall we say, unafraid to eat more than his share, came to the counter. Conversation ensued as per the usual.

"Man I was so wrecked last night, went to such a rager, it was absolutely insane!"

"Ah,"

"Yeah man. One of my buds was like God, you must have been living the dream, and I was like yeah man, now I'm living the nightmare."

"Wow..."

At this point in time I look down at what he's placed on the counter. A bottle of Pepto Bismol. Makes sense. For the first time, I try to shrug off my sometimes haughty indifference and engage in verbal communication with another human being that I may not know, but still could very well deserve my respect.

"So you feeling pretty hungover then from last night? That's why you're getting Pepto?"

"Naw man. Ate some bad curry last night, and it's coming back out the other end pretty bad."

I have decided to stick with haughty indifference.

ThinkThought #23 : The Science of Sun

2011-05-29T12:49:00.000-07:00

Starting today, I have decided to give up on modern science. While it may be true that I was never truly in touch with the Einsteinian methods and practices regarding the workings of our world, seeing as how the extent of my knowledge regarding the "science of life" is restricted to watering bean plants with coffee and calling it a science fair (I got an A+), I still feel as though this is a major step that I have decided to take. You may ask why it is that I would decide to take this proverbial leap of faith into the unknown, and I would like to tell you that it has come from hours of thought and meditation within some sort of spiritual enlightened state, however, in reality, the sole reason is that it is May 29 and I'm still as pasty as Macaulay Culkin's agoraphobic red-headed half brother.

Tell me how we are on the brink of summer (I can almost smell the sweat dripping out from under a Wreck beach nudist's sarong), but I have yet to have a single opportunity to baste in my own perspiration until I'm golden brown and pretend I'm loving every minute of it. No child has kicked sand in my face, all the while screaming "BEACH MONSTER" as his nanny chases him past a throng of marginally affected, but seemingly entirely perturbed, bikini-clad Earls hostesses (you know exactly who I'm talking about). I have not smelled the delicate waft of BC bud coming from a group of insubordinate teenagers wearing Iron Maiden t-shirts and ripped jeans, rolled up just past the ankle (like they want to ruin the creamy complexion that they've worked so hard to upkeep whilst brooding in their parent's basements), who are rebelling against not only their parents but SOCIETY TOO MAN by sharing a joint on the beach. And, perhaps most importantly, I have not seen what appears to be a small leather pouch containing a single golf ball swinging in the breeze, although on second glance, realizing its simply an elderly testicle attempting to emigrate from the ill-fitting Speedo that it has so begrudgingly called it's moist home.

Instead, I've been privy to countless days of rain and squalor, grey skies, a brisk wind, and just a handful of days that can only be described by your mother, who somehow finds the silver lining in every overcast Vancouver cloud ("Well at least we can be grateful it's not raining!"), at which point you would toss her a "Pessimism rules my life" side eye before dragging your feet to your room and listening to Band of Horses while contemplating how much Vancouver sucks, save for the Canucks being in the playoffs (you only watch the games because you want to get drunk).

It's been that kind of summer.

For some reason, I feel that by abandoning all good judgement, and telling Science that I cheated on it and had a lovechild with a 40 something sexy-pirate latina housekeeper named Mildred, and that our relationship was simply based on true lies, thus the reason for terminating it (well if that wasn't the most unoriginal, embarrassing sentence I've ever written), I will not only be validated, but there also won't be weather forecasters telling me that "Summer is almost here!" before projecting seven days of light showers and below-average temperatures. The weather will have no choice but to cheer up! In the most round about way, I am quite certain that that makes sense.

On second thought, I don't even think the weather (wo)man on the television is even a scientist. They might just be failed actors with a keen eye for green screen graphics and President's Choice-grade haircuts. I feel cheated.

So I'm sorry Mr. Brooks. Despite your best attempts at convincing me of the valours of science in Grade 11 Biology, it's time I ended this relationship once and for all. Now will you please excuse me while I go melanomize myself.

ThinkThought #22 : Election Fever

2011-04-06T16:33:00.000-07:00

Elections are upon us, which means only one thing: my Facebook feed has been overrun with posts, articles, and status' from my 818 closest friends regarding their definite, defiant, and sometimes erroneous views (yes, I'm calling some of your views erroneous... I'm talking to you, advocates of the Rhinoceros Party) on the political climate that is shaping Canada. The constantly-shifting topography of a continent-wide landscape we call the political spectrum within Canada is too often considered by many to be a vast pool of stagnant lake water, unchanging and filled with car tires and used condoms. Don't understand my metaphor? Let me explain.

One of my major issues, if I can so use the word, with the entire Election campaign system, is all of the various parties use of misconstrued views and stances, as well as outlandish claims, with respect to the leaders and MLA's. Cue Attack ads.

First of all, no one looks good when it looks like they've stepped out of the White Stripes "Seven Nation Army" Music video (including you, Meg and Jack). I wouldn't be surprised if Michael Ignatieff suddenly claimed that his wife was actually his daughter, and then gave an impromptu rock show at a bowling alley, before ultimately dropping out of the election. Shame on you Harper. You should know better.

And as for the Liberals, circling the word NOT in handwritten ink does not suddenly solidify your point (but we all know using constructed newspaper articles does). All it does it remind me that you have the budget to buy black AND red pens (you dogs, you). I wonder what they were thinking when they sat around their conference table discussing their attack ads...

"Let's use a woman's voice, it sounds more trusting."

Scuse me? Have you read Genesis? Remember Eve? You know she's the reason for painful births and hemorrhoids.

And thank god people don't believe everything I said 5 or more years ago, as they seem to focus on SO much in political campaigns. My favourite thing to do would still be collecting doilies, and I'd be telling you that I had a crush on some girl.

What I really want to see is Elizabeth May put out an attack ad.

"For too long we have stood by and watched my family's dams be destroyed by the Conservative and Liberal agendas."

Awe, its not her fault she looks like Canada's national treasure.

And just to keep things equal, Jack Layton was once on my plan to Vancouver, and he acted like a self-righteous ass hole the entire time. And did not shut up. Literally. That man's obnoxious laugh and cowboy hat will haunt me for the rest of my days.

And Gilles Duceppe looks like an older Martin Short in Simple Wish.

Oh, did I mention I'm super excited to vote for the first time?

Preview: Maude and Ruby!

2011-03-13T06:29:00.001-07:00

The latest in the bank of awkward videos.... coming soon!

Japan Earthquake, and the racist newsmakers.

2011-03-11T02:07:00.001-08:00

Both this earthquake in Japan, on March 11, 2011, and CBC, is racist.

That is all.

Ghosts in Your Head

2011-03-06T19:37:00.000-08:00

My new creepy ass song. Hope you enjoy. Lyrics below.

His Daddy couldn’t hear him crying
He was left in bed so cold
Monsters crawled across the ceiling
Come to eat his very soul

Demons in the other room were
Calling out his name so soft
Was that Satan in his head warning him
“Don’t get lost”

Oh, Is it terrible to say
You were meant to feel this way
It seems that evil’s out to play
You’ll be orphaned every day
That’s just how it’s got to be

Every child must feel alone
When those dreams become their own
As the fever’s only grown
This is no longer your home
But instead your final tomb

Oh’s (repeated)

You don’t know why you are dying
It’s a shame that God was lying
Family’s gone they left you crying
Consumed by the devils and the demons
and the ghosts that are in your head

The ghosts that are in your head (continually repeated)

His Daddy couldn’t hear him crying
He was left in bed so cold
Monsters crawled across the ceiling
Come to eat his very soul

Demons in the other room were
Calling out his name so soft
Was that Satan in his head warning him
“Don’t get lost”

ThinkThought #21 : The Flag Dancers

2011-02-10T03:38:00.000-08:00

Let me know why flag bearers have to be in clubs. At the bar tonight, there was literally table clothes destroying the dance floor. This I don't understand. I get that you want to make some sort of "statement", but is it necessary to do it in the middle of a respectable bar on a week day? I think not.

I walked into The Junction tonight, hoping to having a regular night with just a drink or two, until I realize there is a group of 4 individuals opening up their bags, revealing pounds and pounds of fabric. It started off as simple coloured fabrics, but soon escalated into full out table clothes being thrown about wildly upon the dance floor like it was some sort of modern Maypole dance celebrating the spring nature birth of some wood goddess. For some reason, I feel like this is not appropriate for a bar. One of the mentioned flag bearers was wearing a full-out Sunday skirt. I have no problem with men wearing what they want. Go for it. But this guy was literally spinning on the floor like it was So You Think You Can Dance Romania, throwing up Gypsy signs like they were searching for stolen babies. Let me tell you, this was something I've never experienced.

I love seeing people enjoying themselves out, and experiencing new things, but they literally took up the entire dance floor, as if it was a Festival of Celebration for Coloured Fabrics. I have never seen so many swaying fabrics. It reminded me of being trapped in some sort of Moulin Rouge/Art house/Fanny's Fabric artistic demonstration, and afterwards, I was ready to start quilting. If this was their goal, then kudos to them, because I was ready to take out my needles and start working like a Ukrainian Babooshka. All I needed was some glass beads and a sense of regret and self-deprecation.

Maybe I should take a page out of their books and learn to embrace the art of flag-dancing.

No, you are right. We should just remark and keep afar.

ThinkThought #20 : The Punxsutawney Predicament

2011-02-02T16:17:00.000-08:00

Oh, the hallowed day of February 2nd. For as long as I can remember, I have greeted this day with a tense admiration, quietly awaiting the news of how it is I shall be spending my next six weeks, whether it be with a joyful and revitalizing vigor, or a miserable, cold depression. And it all boils down to Punxsutawney Phil (Who in God's green earth names a city Punxsutawney? It sounds like an incredibly painful STD that emits a grievous discharge. Either that, or some ghetto ass girl with a pink weave, likely a carrier of said STD.). My mental state depends entirely on whether or not what is in essence the bastard child of a beaver that can't swim and a squirrel that can't climb trees see it's shadow or not. Folklore goes that if Punxsutawney Phil comes out of his hole and he sees his shadow, effectively a result of there being beautiful sunshine, then he will crawl back into the ground and we as an entire continent can expect six more weeks of winter. If, however, it is a shit day, with shit clouds, likely a shit breeze, and perhaps even some shit rain, then that Squeaver will run off and galavant his way to his weekly Pointless Animals Anonymous meeting, signalling that spring is upon us!

Well if that isn't some juxtaposed nonsense.

So, if on February 2nd the sun is shining, the birds are singing, you are wearing your Sunday best while discussing Maeve Binchy and Art House films over a refreshing glass of raspberry cordial with your closest friends, then look out because you'll wake up the next day depressed, cold, likely wet, and homeless. And Maeve Binchy will be nowhere in sight (why does Maeve always disappear when you need her? Or Bill Murray, for that matter).

Just to add to the fluckery of this entire day, in Punxsutawney, if you are caught speaking English on this fateful day, you have to pay a fine of a nickel for every word you so callously uttered. Because, in case you were not aware, at the event of the unveiling of Punxsutawney Phil, you are only allowed to speak the Pennsylvanian German dialect.

Now what kind of dumb ass, nonsensical, preposterous foolery is the Pennsylvanian German dialect?

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

If there is anything redeeming about any of this, it can only be these adorable Squeaver pictures. Who doesn't like a groundhog smelling flowers?

FameTip #18 : All Good Things... End in Crossdressing

2011-01-18T15:27:00.000-08:00

It seems as of late that I have been on a fairly substantial movie binge, watching as many films as I have time for in my day... at least when I am not going to sex conventions or eating entire stuffed crust pizzas... or perhaps eating entire stuffed crust pizzas while at sex conventions. The most recent of these films which I found particularly inspiring, if I could use such a word, is a fairly recent Ryan Gosling number named "All Good Things", costarring the incessantly inebriated Kirsten Dunst, and the ambiguously European Frank Langella. At first glance, this film seems to document the struggles of a pubescent marriage; the problems that no doubt arise in all recent nuptials that include an heir to a multi-millionaire dollar fortune partnered with an incredibly free spirit, heir to the stresses and fragmented poverty of a blue-collar life. I would like to say that I was sorely wrong.

I don't know what it is about my choices as of late, but I seem to be constantly thrown for a loop as to my perceived viewing experience when it has come to the films within the past week that I have seen. After watching All Good Things, I can honestly say that halfway through, when I thought the movie was about to end, I suddenly was graced with this:

Yes, that is Ryan Gosling. Yes, he is in a dress, wig, glasses, and makeup. Yes, he looks like a cross between Mrs. Doubtfire and old Briony from Atonement. And yes, this is based on a true story. When I look at the picture of him, I imagine him smelling like Polident and potpourri. And owning an entire chest full of costume jewelry and shawls. He seems like he would be fun... that is until you watch the movie. And then you realized how absolutely terrifying Ryan Gosling is as David Marks and/or Davita (?) Marks. If I ever came across this gentlelady in an alley, I would hope to heavens that I had my running shoes on, because if not, he'd be after me with a paring knife and hacksaw. Is it odd, though, that despite how terrifying he is, I still find him comforting in a pleasant-old-grannie/unconvicted-murderer sort of way?

I don't want to tell you what happens in this movie. Just know that it is incredibly disturbing (and not only because I'm sure you are wondering what kind of paaaanties Ryan Gosling is wearing), and that I now suspect all Real Estate owners to be murderers. Every last one of them. I also suspect all of them to to wear floral-print blouses and blue eye shadow when they are home alone. And own hacksaws. All while high.

Perhaps even more disturbing to me was the reuniting of Meg and Amy March (aka. Kirsten Drunkst and Trini(dad) Alvarado) in this bizarre, pseudo Little-women world where the biggest problem isn't who is kissing Teddy and the death of Pig Face Danes, but it's TRYING TO FINDA A GOD DAMN MURDERER DRESSED AS A MO EFFIN WOMAN. Marmie would clearly have no effing idea how to deal with that. Writing a strongly worded letter isn't going to stop someone from chopping a lady up in bits, Marmie. Giving someone an orange and butter isn't going to bring them back from the dead, Marmie. If Marmie wants to do anything to help, she's gotta take off that costume and Susan Sarandon that beetch up.

In all honesty, this is an incredible movie. I was shocked the Ms. Drunkst could hold a scene without throwing up somewhere or taking a shot of Jack, and Ryan Gosling will truly haunt you in his satin smock. Just be prepared to watch in horror as Ryan Gosling looks hotter than you ever could in drag. I guess that's what I need to do... granted only by the time I turn 50. Dress in drag, pretend I'm a mute, and spritz myself with eau de potpourri. That and become extremely proficient with a hacksaw.

ThinkThought #19 : The Most Depressing Day

2011-01-17T13:33:00.000-08:00

Today is a special day. To me, it's a holiday. It's time to take out your Prozac and put on your Elliott Smith album. Turn the lights off in your room, shut the curtains, and lay in bed. Take out a pen and paper and starting writing poetry relating the struggles that you face in life, that no one else could ever understand. Eat an entire pizza, drink a 2.6 of Whiskey, and turn on Schindler's List. Go on facebook and stare at each and every single profile picture of the one that got away. And now? Cry.

According to a study by some British hooligans here, the third monday of January is, statistically, the most depressing day of the year. Their logic is that the Holiday cheer of New years has dissipated into finely decomposed manure, as well that the reality of Holiday debt finally comes creeping back into one's brain after a long hiatus of merriment and failed New Years resolutions. That, and summer feels as though it shan't never arrive. Although, I don't suppose the Brits aren't simply saying this because they're finally sober enough after the Holidays to remember the wretched state of their teeth, and they can't seem to fins any heaters in their crumbly old castles. This, to me, seems more likely.

If it is true that today is the most depressing day of the year, I thought I should think of everything that I currently find depressing and make a top-ten list of it. This is what I came up with:

1. Sure it's sunny out and 8°C in Vancouver today, but it's WINDY... could things get any worse?
2. I have so many clothes that I just can't find any place for them in my room. Since my dresser and closet are full, I've resorted to leaving my name brand threads on my floor. Disgusting, I know.
3. I have a 500 word assignment due tomorrow. In the University class I'm taking. At one of the best Universities in Canada. Kill me now, amiright?
4. I have so many groceries in my electricity-powered refrigerator that I can't seem to choose what I want to eat for my three square meals today. Ugh, why do there have to be so many choices?
5. The glass of water I just drank from my tap was too cold. Don't they realize my recent dental appointment has left my orthodontically corrected teeth sensitive?
6. I only got two pieces of mail today. One from my mother, who lives two provinces away, including with it pictures of my family, as well as a bill for my cable television and super-highspeed internet. Gosh, doesn't anyone care about me?
7. I don't have any school or work today. So I literally have nothing to do at all. I have not one single responsibility in the world today. Nothing. God, isn't life boring?
8. I've been working on a song, recording from my state-of-the-art keyboard into my Macbook, on the new and improved Garageband '11, but I just can't seem to make the second verse work. Aren't I worthless?
9. The air in this house is too moist, and I think the new de-humidifier my roommate bought is on the fritz. It feels like I'm breathing in cool, moisture-rich air. And I can't get the perfect balance of temperature with the thermostat. The furnace that I have in my house always gets too hot. Uggggh I live in the worst conditions EVER.

And finally,

10. I can't find the earbuds to my new Ipod nano.

I really think I might as well crawl into the closet and die. Today is literally, the most depressing day of the year.

FameTip #17 : TRUE GRIT!!!

2011-01-16T10:04:00.000-08:00

Have you ever gone to a movie, assuming that it will take one specific direction, and come out having experienced something completely different? Take for example True Grit. Yes, it was purely Coen at it's core. Eccentric, brutally violent, ironic, and humorous. It was, however, the humor that left me in shock. I literally think that this was one of the funniest, LOLing movies I have seen in the past few years. I would not be surprised if, after having left the theatre, there was need for clean up in the Panty Aisle by more than one patron. And, as far as I'm concerned, it wasn't marketed as such. It literally blew past Burn After Reading, The Ladykillers, and O Brother Whereart Thou with one quick, fevered push of hilarious momentum, capitalizing on the resources it had. Jeff Bridges as the incessantly drunk, rambling Rooster Cogburn nearly killed me. Literally. I couldn't understand half the words he said, yet somehow everything that came out of his mouth was pure genius, delivered with such precise comedic timing, it could have been a positive teenage pregnancy test nine months before Prom. Case in point: Rooster drunkenly falling of his horse and proceeding to shoot cornbread out of the sky. Comedy Gold.

Matt Damon was impressive, but without the same power as Jeff Bridges. In fact, all I seem to remember him saying throughout the movie was "I'm a Texas Ranger", which in turn reminded me of Chuck Norris. I then proceeded to imagine Chuck Norris playing Matt Damon's character and having awkward sexual tension with the 14 year old female lead. Which now makes me feel uncomfortable.

Josh Brolin was on the movie poster advertising the film, yet as far as I'm concerned, he was barely relevant. Yes, the entire movie focused on the search for his character, but he was only on screen for approximately 5 minutes, and I couldn't understand a word he said. And not in a humorous way. Just in a "Damnit I have no idea what you're saying and now I feel awkward sexual tension between you and the 14 year old female lead. This is uncomfortable" sort of way. Now that I think about it, Hailee Steinfeld had a lot of sexual tension with actors that could be her fathers age. And who were missing teeth. This movie just got exponentially more awkward.

Best part of the movie, however remains to be, without any question in my mind, the appearance of the seemingly unnecessary and unrelated, yet entirely hilarious, Bear Man. At 6' 5" and 270 lbs, the Bear Man strolls onto screen, dressed entirely in the skin of a bear, relaying such memorable lines as "I took all his teeth!", in reference to a dead man draped over a second horse like a packing bag. There was something strangely perfect about this scene, that only lasted a few minutes, not to be mentioned again throughout the movie. Definitely garnering the loudest bellowing laugh from the crowd for these few minutes, something in me could not shake the idea of this massive man, dressed as a bear, riding a horse, likely high as a kite, and taking dead men's teeth, all the while simply plodding throughout the Arkansas plains. You can't just write that. That my friend's, is perfection.

If I want do this whole fame thing, I really think I'm going to need to get in with the Coen brothers. Sure, I might have to convert to Judaism, but if that's what it takes... Either that or else I'll have to be be really convincing at playing a drunk. That I can do.

ThinkThought #18 : Twonie Tuesday

2011-01-12T12:34:00.000-08:00

Being a student at the University of British Columbia, I have found myself one of the very few, lucky 50,000 to be graced with the opportunity to visit the respected and elegant campus drinking establishments, known to us as The Gallery and the Pit. The experiences I have had there have always been ones of cultured poise, and have left engrained in my mind memories that no doubt should be written about in a leather bound, papyrus notebook with scrawling blank ink. Either that, or written in urine on the side of the street in a pile of snow.

Last night was no different.

I present to you Twonie Tuesdays. First of all, if you are going to advertise the evening as "Twonie Tuesday", I should hope that drinks are only $2.00. This, however, was not the case. Not only were drinks more expensive, but lines were longer than The King's Speech, there was no seating available, forcing us to sit on the floor like children at a Bible camp (albeit a Bible camp where people get wasted), and drinks were poured with more head than "A Night In Paris".

Perhaps most problematic, however, was the amount of "Bros" that were present. Popped collars, gelled hair, white belts, and poor pick-up lines became the norm as I stared about the crowd of fellow students. One such pair of gentleman joined our table, as they began to play the game "Guess My Ethnicity" with my female counterparts. Apparently an attempt to pick-up (one that resulted in failure), they would get my friends to guess what ethnicities they were, with each incorrect response garnering a drink. As they were ambiguously ethnic, the result was an exponential increase in alcohol consumption (tell me, who is half Italian, half Latvian?). I'm sure this technique has often rewarded these gentlemans on more than one occasions with a grenade or landmine, but my roommates had enough sass to let them know that they were no such weapons of mass destruction.

Ending the night, a certain delicate species of "Bro" spoke to a friend and me in such refined prose, explaining to us between slurs and expletives that "Bro, I'm like basically married to my girlfriend, but you two can totally go out and get tail. As much as you want. The best time of the night is the end when girls are drunk enough! Good luck, guy!"

I would like to thank you greatly, for imparting on me such wisdom. You, sir, are a cultured gentleman.

I would like to suggest to UBC that next time you hold Twonie Tuesday, you do so by actually holding a Twonie Tuesday, and I would pray that somehow, you would keep the Bros at bay.

FameTip #16 : The King's Unnecessary Stammer

2011-01-11T13:32:00.000-08:00

I wish we lived in the golden years of cinema, back when the Oscars were still a delicate bulb waiting to break free from it's earthen cocoon into the bright world above. Back when the Best Actress award was based off of who had the softest lighting and the most unscrupulous pseudo-British/American accent (why don't they just speak like us?). Back when the Best Actor Award was given out to the tallest, handsomest, in-the-closet actor that always knew how to kiss a woman in the most incredibly awkward and pursed manner (Rock Hudson anyone?). Now that I think about it, I don't think the requirements for Best Actor have changed... But that is neither here nor there.

These days, apparently one has to have something called "talent". No longer is it simply the charming leading man who wins, but it's the Country singer, the African dictator, the Gay Political Activist, The Holocaust victim, or whomever the scary character was the Denzel Washington played in Training day... Apparently, they've got to have substance.

Cue the Stammerer turned King.

I recently watched The King's Speech, starring Colin Firth, and while I wasn't expecting to be engrossed in an exciting thrill ride (let us remember, this entire movie is about a speech...), I was absolutely shocked at how little of anything occurred. First of all, I'd just like to point out that if Colin Firth didn't stammer so much throughout this bloody movie, it wouldn't have felt like I was watching a documentary on speech pathology for an entire day straight. I'm sure without all the pauses he takes attempting to spit something out, the movie could have been condensed into an hour PBS special.

Second of all, maybe it's just me, but I had no idea who I was watching (that's your fault, Canadian schooling system!). First theres an old King George, and Colin Firth is his son named Prince Albert, but his daughter is Elizabeth, whom I had always imagined being King George's daughter, but when King George dies, Prince David becomes king, but he's suddenly King Edward now, because apparently David is a silly name, but he wants to marry Ms. Wallace Simpson of Baltimore (what mother in her right mind names her daughter Wallace?), so he has to abdicate, so now it looks like Prince Albert is going to be King (imagine being the namesake of a genital piercing), but then he's suddenly King George, because apparently he doesn't want to be named after a penis ring...

And then I pass out from exhaustion trying to even understand who anyone is in this movie.

This is only further confused by the fact that there are WAY too many people from Harry potter in this movie. Last time I checked, Dumbledore, Peter Pettigrew, and Bellatrix Lestrange are not members of the Royal Family and/or governing officials. They are mystical, wand wielding, witches and wizards who I'm sure could have just cast a spell and stopped Colin Firth from stammering, saving us from having to watch this movie. Plus, there was something incredibly disconcerting seeing Wormtail as Winston Churchill.

At the very least, I was glad to see Geoffrey Rush in it. Pretty much everything he did made me laugh throughout, mostly because I simply imagined Captain Barbosa doing his side job of speech pathology.

So, it looks like all I have to do to be famous is develop a speech impediment, and/or star in a movie made about it.

Just wait. I bet next year's Best Actor will be Tom Hanks, starring in Robert Rocky, the story of the African-American gay country singer who finds himself in a concentration camp in the 1940s, and has a debilitating addiction to chewing his nails.

ThinkThought #17 : Mexicanos

2011-01-10T16:49:00.000-08:00

First of all, yes I'm alive. No, I'm not hooking on Hastings (though it might be more exciting than taking theory of anthropology classes). And yes, this blog still exists (or does it? .... INCEPTION). It is not my fault that I'm lazy, it's just the way I was brought up (Kidding Petrina and Ken). No, no, no. I'm sure it's just a result of too much Bacardi and a lack of drive and motivation. Is there something that is the opposite of a motivational speaker? That's what I should do. Enough of this Mesoamerican archaeology nonsense.

In actuality, I've turned into a Mexican. Not literally of course (we wouldn't want that), but I do find myself sitting in my bed, wearing a Baja sweater, with my head resting upon an Alpaca wool pillow, Alpaca socks adorning my feet, staring at the Mexican blanket on my wall whilst eating fried beans. I wish I was jesting you, but unfortunately its true. Or fortunately, if I were a drug cartel, in which case, I hardly think I would be laying in my bed blogging. I'd probably be lying on a pile of naked women, rubbing myself with Benjamins whilst snorting cocaine off a glock clip. That is what drug cartels do, isn't it?

At this point in time I would like you to play the following youtube video while imagining me laying on a pile of naked women, rubbing myself with Benjamins whilst snorting cocaine off a glock clip.

Nothing better than a good ol' Mariachi band. And a pile of naked women? Oh well, when in Mexico...

I leave you with a lovely portrait of my sister and I in Mexico, taking a picture with the national hero, Mexican Spiderman! To quote from Mexico Spiderman, in a depressed and fatigued drawl:

"Maybe if I stay in this costume long enough, I'll make enough money for my family!"

See, even Mexican Spiderman has fallen on hard times. Let this be a reminder that no one can escape the Economic Crisis.

Viva México!

Improv! Yay!

2011-01-10T00:50:00.000-08:00

So we were performing for the LEADERS OF TOMORROW!!! , and received the suggestion of Alien. This is what happened.... I truly think Ke$ha would be proud.

Goodbye

2010-10-23T20:54:00.000-07:00

A song I made. When I was bored all day.

He Whips His Hair Back and Forth

2010-10-13T16:18:00.000-07:00

Damn Boy. He whips his hair back and forth.

Johnson's Baby Douches

2010-08-18T02:01:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, a regular douche just isn't enough. Or sometimes, it's just too much! That's why there's new Johnson's Baby Douche! For all your douching needs. There's nothing better than a Baby Douche! How could you ask for anything else? Just read what our users have to say!

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- Lindsay Lohan

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- Oprah Winfrey

Johnson's Baby Douche, the only Douche for you!

I Love You More Than...

2010-07-24T23:17:00.000-07:00

WARNING: If you are easily offended by offensive jokes, do not read ahead.

A Poem for Valentines Day
Dedicated to Jackie Sanger.

I love you more than rainbows.
I love you more than pussybows.
I love you more than sunshine.
I love you more than cumshine.
I love you more than puppies.
I love you more than roofies.
I love you more than Jordan.
I love you more than transsexual porn.
I love you more than cumshots.
I love you more than racial inequality.
I love you more than Hitler hated Jews.
I love you more than Hellen Keller was useless.
I love you more than sex with Anne Frank.
I love you more than sex with Jesus post-crucifixion.
I love you more than nuclear weapons.
I love you more than mustard gas in aids orphanages.
I love you more than Bush loves Capital Punishment.
I love you more than Bush loves Coke.
I love you more than Dumbledore loved Harry.
I love you more than Dumbledore liked to dream of fisting Harry.
I love you more than Tom Hanks loves the Holy Grail.
I love you more than Monty Python loves the Holy Grail.
I love you more than guidos love gym, tanning, and laundry.
I love you more than women love laundry. Just laundry.
I love you more than feminists love voting.
I love you more than feminists love hairy bushes.
I love you more than pedophiles love myspace.
I love you more than pedophiles love babydick.
I love you more than you love plaid.
And I, I just love you.

1, 150, 1000 : Day 4

2010-04-26T21:12:00.000-07:00