Negativesmart

Run, Blago, Run! Kickstarter from rebexa on Vimeo.

Mr. CRO has a new project in the works on Kickstarter.com - a new online funding platform for artists, designers, filmmakers, musicians, journalists, inventors, etc. He’s attempting to raise funds to host a 3-day Run, Blago, Run Pop-up Art Show! in Chicago in July. Based on the mysterious stencils of the disgraced former governor jogging in a track suit and looking over his shoulder which are finding their way onto buildings and alleys around the city. Pledge as little as $1 in the show to make sure it happens and get fresh incentives in return. In addition there will be an open-call for artists to interpret the jogging pose juried by actress Joan Cusack & legendary house dj/producer Derrick Carter. 10% of sales from the show will be donated to Street Level Youth Media street-level.org

Visit: kickstarter.com/projects/Mr-CRO/run-blago-run-show

“This project will only be funded if at least $3,500 is pledged by Jul 01, 12:00am.” Which is soon. Give ‘em a few bucks, I’m really interested in seeing this happen.

It has come to my attention that I may have a bit of pedestrian rage.

Observe:

• Stuff Your “Happy Friday” up Your Cunt
• Most Retarded Bus Stop Ever
• Why did Candice Cross the Road?
• Everything Beyond My Door Annoys Me

There are probably others. I only searched my archives for the word “pedestrian”.

It’s not just drivers who fucking hate the fuck out of you.

From the Chicago Critical Mass site:

Warning from the Chicago Police Department: We’ll let you break the law, including running red lights, as long as you don’t do it while drunk, or get into any fights, because we’re fucking pussies.

And from their FAQ:

I’ve heard that bike riders sometimes run red lights. Is this true?

The strength of the Mass is in it’s close-knit unity as an organic body. It is sometimes necessary to ride through lights in order to maintain this unity. It is actually safer. Otherwise, car traffic is tempted to weave in and out among small groups of riders.

From the Austin Critical Mass site:

Do you break traffic laws?

Most riders run stop signs and red lights on the ride (after making sure that it’s safe to do so). Some riders obey all the rules, all the time. Many of us feel that the road rules were written with cars in mind and make little sense when applied to bicycles, especially 100 bicycles. (Try staying in one lane on a ride that large.) Requiring a bicycle to behave like a car is much like requiring a fish to behave like an accountant — they’re two totally different things. Other more enlightened parts of the world (including one state in the U.S.) allow cyclists to treat stop signs as yield signs.

Many of us also have contempt for the law because it’s applied unevenly to bicyclists and motorists. When Austin had a helmet law, bicyclists were thrown in jail left and right for not wearing helmets, while we’ve never heard of a motorist going to jail for not wearing a seatbelt. And while cyclists can easily get tickets for something as mundane as riding on the sidewalk, motorists who hit and kill or severely injure cyclists often get off scott-free. The law also provides extra rights for motorists at our expense, such as the right for cars to park in our bike lanes. With all this in mind, it’s no wonder that many cyclists have little regard for a law that requires them to stop at a stop sign when there’s no danger in their simply slowing down instead.

Give

Me

A

Fucking

Break

Hello? The law requiring people, whether they are in a car, on a bike, or on foot serves more than one purpose. Yes, safety is a big one. The other one is to allow smooth flow of traffic. For cars, bikes, and pedestrians. It may be safe to run red lights during critical mass, but it’s fucking annoying. Not just to cars, but to those of us who are on foot. San Francisco has a better idea for you douchebags: Critical Manners. You’ve got all the right to be on the road that you like (because despite what the law says, bicycles are vehicles). You’re a twat if you’re riding on the sidewalk (because despite what the law says, bicycles are vehicles — and in any case, Chicago law makes this exception for your “non-vehicles”). And you’re a mega-super-asshat-fuckwit-trashcunt if you’re blocking pedestrians, cars, or Bob forbid… other bicycles from crossing an intersection.

I know that pedestrians jaywalk all the damned time, eh, whatever. I don’t really have a problem with people / bicycles / cars crossing intersections against the light if it’s safe to do so (better be double-sure of that, kids) and also not rude as fuck to do so. Right-of-way, motherfucker, do you speak it? Hells, I don’t have much respect for the law in general. Everyone breaks at least 87 of those a year. But at least I have respect for people.

Keep being dicks, and I’m going to have to organize some sort of militant pedestrianism / broomstick-at-spokes tossing event up in this bitch.

Also, your hipster fixed-gear, one-speed, brakeless bikes are dumb as hell. And the $8000-worth of accessories tacked onto it are even dumber. Before I was forcibly transformed into a dedicated pedestrian, my car cost less than your BS Laufmaschine (I’ve gotta figure that removing the pedals and gears completely is going to be the next hip trend… Fucking dandies!)

I have spoken.

I’m obviously too white to leave my apartment alone in this neighbourhood. Not because I’m afraid of getting shot, or mugged, or raped, or yadda yadda. No. Just because it’s socially awkward. Why is that my main concern? I told you. I’m white. Very, very white (scroll dowwwwwwwn).

I have no idea how to respond to any sentence beginning “girl, you…” or “damn [anything]“. I don’t know where I’m going with “all that”. No, I don’t feel the need to “slow it down”. So, guy in the pimp hat, and guy with the too-big pants that could clothe an entire nation… I’m not trying to be rude, but you see, this is not a skill I learned in Canada. The only phrases I was taught for use in public places are “excuse me” and “I’m sorry”. I could maybe work out a response to “nice day, isn’t it?” (yes, it is), “you goin’ to the Cubs game?” (no, I live near here), or “[tension breaking joke about some weirdo on the train or the fact that the train is awfully crowded, and oops, I accidentally touched you]” (yeah, don’t you love the CTA [tentative laugh]?). But beyond that, I’m afraid I’m lost.

Is there a class I can take somewhere?

I didn’t take Monday off of work so that I could stay in Toronto a) because I wanted to see Metric on Sunday, and b) because I’d be fucking myself over come Tuesday, ’cause ain’t no one else gonna do my work for me…

So, what happens on Monday? Migraine from hell. Spent the entire day in bed. I blame United Airlines for cancelling my flight and messing up my carefully scheduled lack-of-sleep plan. And now, I’m fucked. I’ve gotta stay here until I finish all of yesterday’s work, and today’s work, too. Every second I waste (uh, just like I’m wasting ‘em now) is another second I have to stay in this cubicle.

Should have just stayed in Toronto, gone shopping, gone to see Cyanotic in Burlington (which I hear somehow wasn’t awful? WTF? I guess there’s just nothing else to do in Burlington?), and blah blah blah.

I slept for at least 20 hours yesterday, but I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks. Either I have multiple personalities that take over when the one named “Candice” is unconscious, or I should probably see a sleep specialist.

SDC10067, originally uploaded by raymilauren.

Carrying on… my sister Laurel and I were rescued from the fate of spending money we don’t have on Queen St. by a trip to The Issssssssland with Raymi, Phil, Casie and Dave.

Poor Laurel and I aren’t used to this thing you mortals call “the sun”, so excuse us if we were out of sorts (or just altogether too drunk!). Personally, I call that orb in the sky the Day Star, and it burrrrrns us! Look how “pale” Raymi (middle) is (sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm). I thought I had only managed to burn my shoulders and freckleize my face, but I noticed a tan line (what?) on my ass (not pictured) earlier today. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I’m also not sure how I didn’t burst into flames. So, anyone who sees me in the near future… this is me with a tan. Pity me, pity me, pity me.

Oh, by the way… I changed my hair again, or rather, removed most of it. I was informed that I look very much different from photos of myself online, but there’s a mathematical law (related to the study of Bistromathics) that states that my appearance in any photograph is necessarily completely unrelated to my appearance in person. I can’t be bothered to keep my avatars and such up to date. By the time I change the darn things everywhere, I’ll look completely different, anyway. Some people are convinced I’m a chameleon.

Babbling re-commences next time I can convince my lily-beige ass to stay in one place for five minutes. We’re having a restless day today.

When I got on the CTA blue line after work to head to the airport, and ultimately to Toronto, I started reading “The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul” by Douglas Adams. I’ve read it several times before, but not for ages. So I didn’t remember how it started out. Here are the first few paragraphs, which I should have taken as a warning:

It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on Earth
has ever produced the expression “as pretty as an airport”.

Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly. Some attain a
degree of ugliness that can only be the result of a special
effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of
people who are tired, cross, and have just discovered that
their luggage has landed in Murmansk (Murmansk airport is the
only known exception to this otherwise infallible rule), and
architects have on the whole tried to reflect this in their
designs.

They have sought to highlight the tiredness and crossness
motif with brutal shapes and nerve jangling colours, to make
effortless the business of separating the traveller for ever
from his or her luggage or loved ones, to confuse the traveller
with arrows that appear to point at the windows, distant tie
racks, or the current position of Ursa Minor in the night sky,
and wherever possible to expose the plumbing on the grounds
that it is functional, and conceal the location of the
departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not.

Airports can go to hell. No, airports are hell. Hell is one gigantic fucking airport, and every flight out of it is cancelled.

I eventually got to Toronto, though. Saturday morning. Early. And since I can’t really say I would have ended up doing much Friday night at midnight, when I was supposed to get there, I guess it’s not that big of a deal. Except that I was ideally planning to sleep on Friday night, at some point. Instead, I spent what was left of the night (not much) at the O’Hare Hilton. I hadn’t had a chance to eat anything since before my cancelled flight was supposed to depart, so I ate a $5 package of peanut M&Ms from the mini-bar and watched “Twilight”, which was every bit as horrible as I could have wished it to be. Lovely night. If you’re into hiking around an airport lost for five hours, being led around on a wild goose chase by contradictory arrows, and then not sleeping. Which I totally am.

(For what it’s worth, yes, I suppose it’s possible to get to the east by going far enough to the west. But I don’t think, if I was in charge of putting up the signs, that I’d try to pass that off as a viable option. Then again, I’m pretty sure that whomever put up the arrows at O’Hare was on crack. Here’s how you get to the Hilton check-in (not labelled on any map I checked, BTW): go up an escalator, go down another escalator, walk in a complete circle around terminal 2, go up OR down an elevator (your choice — they both lead nowhere), go outside and walk around the outside of the entire airport, go up an escalator, go down an escalator, go up an escalator, go all the way to terminal 5 for no particular reason, and then finally determine that the signs are full of shit, do the exact opposite of what they say, and find the damned thing by accident. Gee, why are all the people standing here waiting to check in drinking? And where’s my drink, dammit?)

I find that I need to take a break to bash my head into a wall for a while before continuing, so… hang on there.

I think the last time I got a full night’s sleep was… uh… I can’t remember.

I just got back from Toronto. This time, the train ride back home was TWICE as long as my flight. I’d take a nap, but as my sister discovered this weekend, it is not even close to possible to wake me up once I’m unconscious. Setting my alarm would have no effect, and besides, doors at Metro for Metric open in half an hour. I’ve got to change! And put some Noxzema on this sunburn! Sol:1, Candice:0. No tan whatsoever. Just some painfully red shoulders, and a 100% increase in freckles. Was spared my sister’s fate of a red sniffer only because my foundation is SPF 15.

Ramble pointlessly some more, but I have to go destench myself and then leave again. No rest for Candices.

Every car on the red line has either one or two single seats in the back. All of the other seats are paired. I don’t know why the singles are never among the first to be taken. I’m glad, though, because those seats are MINE, dammit. Sittin in one now.

Maybe people don’t like them because they’re sideways. I agree, getting thrown left and right instead of forward and back is definitely annoying. But not as annoying as having some fatass take up half of you seat along with theirs, or smelling someone’s awful breath (or even just the smell of their gum, knowing that that air was just in THEM — eughhh), or having someone talk loudly on their phone next to you, or block you in when you’re trying to get out (maybe, just MAYBE they do a half swivel, assholes), or fucking… fall asleep on you. Helllls no. I needs my personal space.

Besides… unless there are two single seats (there usually aren’t), you’re not facing anyone. It’s so much easier to avoid eye contact that way. And there’s no one to read over your shoulder (some people, like me, are paranoid about that kind of thing) (or just everything).

Not that I don’t stare at people on the train. I just do it the sneaky way: by pretending to look out the window while I’m actually checking out people’s reflctions in the glass. When there’s anyone interesting to look at, I mean. I usually ride at rush hour. Clones clones clones clones clones. Clones in the morning get of at Lake. Clones in the evening get off… uh… well, lots of ‘em get off at my stop. But I ain’t one of ‘em, I swears! I’m not wearing flip-flops nor anything by North Face, I don’t have highlighted hair that’s slightly past my shoulders, and my handbag doesn’t have a single bloody logo on it. I’m not reading “Eat, Pray, Live”, or anything on Oprah’s list. I am, however, fiddling with my phone. But I’m not checking my work e-mail, because then I’d have to kill myself.

Fuck all that. I’m not getting off at that stop today. I’ll get off at Wilson. Shorter walk. Slightly greater chance of getting mugged. “Doors open on the left at Wilson.” “Minorities other than Asians get off the train at Wilson.”

Matsuflex reflects upon his life:

Guess what I already went to the beach so I tanned I already ate now going to the gym then club…wow I guess I really don’t do anything else! Not true

[continues]

..I also sell TeamMatsuflex T-shirts whoot whoot join the Revolution baby!

At least he’s reasonably self-aware?

I wish I didn’t have anything to do other than to go to the beach, tan, work out, go to the club… Yes, that’s probably my greatest ambition in life. How do I accomplish this? I have always pointed out that doin’ shit is overrated. Slack is the way to go.

And here’s Sean and Matsuflex for no other reason than I still can’t stop laughing about it. It’s not that funny, is it. Guess what, I don’t care!

I went to bed at 7pm yesterday. Slept for maybe 6 or 7 hours. Quickly losing all capacity for logical thought. Tried to get through the subway turnstile without swiping my card. Seriously didn’t know what I was doing wrong for a second. Feh! At least there’s not a Cubs game that people are trying to get to. If I had to stand up, well… I’d probably fall down.

Reminds me of the one morning I got on the bus to go to work without realizing I had a fever and was rapidly becoming ill. I had to stand, of course. Those were the days when, like an idiot, I worked at 9:00am, so I always had to stand. I mean, I live at what, the third stop on the route? So, obviously. Anyway, I started feeling lightheaded, and wound up on the floor of that bus with my head between my knees, trying to stay conscious. Guess how many people asked me if I was okay or offered me a seat.

Yeah, whatevs. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, rambling in some sort of inane manner, I think. Got mistaken for an art student again today. But see, I only went to art school long enough to fake being arty before I dropped out. Which is really all you need, because art is bullshit, and bullshitting is an art. The only art, if you ask me (which you didn’t, but fuck you).

I got my passport stamped with temporary proof of permanent residency status today. Once again, I am a number! That kinda stinks, but it’s a step up from being nothing at all, like I was yesterday.

I think my A-number is the only number that identifies me without every second digit being a 7. Okay, and my phone number. There’s no pattern. A few of them are just similar, and I’m probably mildly dyslexic (or retarded).

I don’t want to go home, because there are responsibilities there. But I don’t have any money, so I can’t avoid it buying shoes. I’ve bought a lot of shoes lately.

This is the point of my train ride where I usually check whether there will be a northbound bus at the station south of my apartment, or a southbound bus at the station north of my apartment.

I’m too busy writing this right now to do that. So I figure I’ll take the option that involves encountering less hobos, and maybe I’ll get lucky.

Unfortunately, the non-hobo station is populated by frat boys. There’s no winning. The station before that…. tourists and cubs fans. Before that, hipsters. I like to guess where people are going to get off.

I’m pretty sure I look like I should have gotten off two stops ago, coming home from art school.

Okay, I’m at the station.

How strange. There’s nobody on my home computer! Cyanotic is playing shows in Canada for a week, so Sean isn’t here to monopolize the machine. I hardly remember this “Internet” thing, except for the code I unleash upon it from work.

So, what have I been doing with myself… Not a whole lot. We are so incredibly broke. I go to work, I come home, and we gather around the TV’s warm glowing warming glow. Thinking is overrated, so we mainly stick to trashy reality shows. Lately we’ve been murdering our braincells with the train-wreck that is “Daisy of Love”. That is, indeed, the proper name for the show. Daisy has had to correct us several times. It turns out that neither “Daisy of Kill” nor “I Love Liquor” are official titles for the program. (I, for one, would definitely tune in to a show called “I Love Liquor”. Then again, that’s every reality show, isn’t it.) “Daisy of Love” features a house full of dumb-as-bricks men vying for the attention of a plastic leprechaun who was discarded from “Rock of Love”. You have to be in a certain mindset to convince yourself to even press play on the DVR to start this show…

“Daisy of Love”, however, is but a poor replacement for our old standby, “Tool Academy”. If you haven’t seen it, this clip will tell you everything you need to know:

The rest of the show mainly consists of these douchebags saying “dude”, “fuck” and “bro” and flexing. Speaking of which, meet Matsuflex:

We were “lucky” enough to be in the same place at the same time as him the other day. Look at this shit:

That was a memorable evening. If only I could remember it… I still can’t stop laughing. [Correction: I can remember Sean yelling "Man Panties" at him repeatedly...] You should follow Matsuflex on Twitter. Trust me, he has only the most profound things to say. I know I couldn’t live my life without knowing if he was presently at the beach, at the gym, getting a tan, eating, or getting paid to make an appearance at a club (as far as I can tell, he doesn’t ever do anything else).

And that’s essentially my life lately. Here’s what I do to cope with its crapitude. Mmmmm, breakfast:

(10 points for each one of those pills you can identify)

It’s about that time now, actually. I suppose I should go and put on pants, or something. Stupid USCIS! Stupid work!

But I’m meeting up with Sean and the band for their Toronto on Saturday. That’ll be fun. That is, if I manage to get out of the house on time to make my USCIS appointment in two hours, and they don’t hassle me about rubber-stamping my passport. I can easily leave the country, but getting back in is more of a problem… (Or, um… inconvenience? I wouldn’t necessarily call it a “problem”. As in, who the hell would ever say “oh no, they won’t let me into the United States”. Well, who from Canada, anyway.)

So four days until Toronto, Ontari-ari-ari-o. Haven’t been there for quite a while, so I’m not sure what I’m gonna do. Ideally, I would hit Queen street with my mighty, powerful American dollars, but it seems that I don’t have a terrible lot of those…

La la la. I’m mainly writing this because I have the chance for once. Maybe I’ll come up with some non-retardedness later in the week.

I was lucky enough to attend an early screening of “Terminator Salvation” last night, courtesy of the Chicago Nerd Social Club and my husband’s ridiculous body of movie trivia knowledge (especially when it comes to Terminator), which was the means by which we wound up winning six passes.

Due to a parking mishap (trying to park in downtown Chicago is generally a mishap to begin with), we wound up near the end of the line and nearly didn’t make it into the theatre. Somebody announced to the line that the screening was at capacity, and that no one else would be let in (the tickets stated that they overbook these events to ensure a full theatre, just like those bastard airlines do). People at the front of the line, however, were not budging, for whatever reason, so we stuck around (while many others left, unfortunately including, I believe, a couple others from the CNSC who would ultimately have been let in) figuring there must be some conflicting information passing around. Turns out that despite all the nasty fine print on our tickets, we had seats reserved for us, and were ushered past all the other poor saps who had obviously also spent too much time looking for parking. Damn fine seats they were, too. Richard Roeper wound up sitting directly behind us, because although we had those two empty seats left in our row, he didn’t want to bother us to move over.

(There were, by the way, a bunch of empty seats left in the theatre during the movie. In the very front, but hey. I know they would have been gladly occupied. Very organized system you’ve got going there, AMC!)

So anyway. Zee movie. I must point out that although I very much liked and have seen the first three movies at least a zillion times, and every episode of the television series, I am not a qualified fanatic. My husband can claim that status, and as far as I know, he is still processing what he’s seen, and hasn’t come to a final determination as to his opinion. He’ll be seeing the movie at least two more times, he expects. To me, this indicates that he didn’t think the movie was bad (he stated that it didn’t “burn his retinas like ‘Alien vs. Predator’”, or something along those lines), but that he was expecting more out of it (perhaps unrealistically, with a little bit of wishful thinking, too much build-up during the wait for the release, and a veil of nostalgia which no doubt makes the first two films seem better today than if he hadn’t seen them as a child — what can ever hope compare to fond memories from our childhood?)

So this is coming from someone who basically watched “Terminator Salvation” as just another action movie, albeit one with a series of predecessors that do rank high on my list (minus some lines that they definitely could have left out of T3).

First of all, even I found myself losing my suspension of disbelief a number of times about nitpicky details and plot points, so I’m sure hardcore fans will have a lot more of that sort of thing to complain about. But I’m perhaps more prone to that sort of thing than the average person to begin with, since I’m logically-minded and have grown up consuming a lot of hard (read: sciencey) sci-fi. Everyone in my family was a Star Trek fan, and some of that nitpickiness certainly wore off on me, too. Considering these facts, most of those sorts of issues that I have can probably be written off…

I had two more reasonable problems with the movie, and they’re 1000% related. The writing and direction assume, as do most media these days, that the audience has no attention span whatsoever. The intervals between the countless firey, orange explosions were very short indeed. The constant action came at the expense of adequate plot and character development. I wouldn’t have expected the plot to be terribly complex given the nature of the movie, but I thought that characterization was brushed over detrimentally.

I realize that many of the characters were already known to us from the earlier films, so they should be somewhat familiar to us. However, we’re winessing them in a different time period, in situations that couldn’t possibly be more far removed from those we saw them in pre-Judgement Day, and they’re at different stages of their life (i.e. Kyle Reese is still a teenager in the movie, which is set in 2018). The characters and situation the movie throws at us deserved more back-story. I felt like I wanted more explanation as to what happened after Judgement Day, and how the characters wound up where they were, than the few brief lines of text that scrolled by forming the transition from 2003 to 2018.

There were also, of course, many smaller parts in the film to provide characters as obstacles or Terminator-bait. Some of these characters appeared prominently enough that I wanted to know more about them, but none of their stories were fleshed out, and their scenes seemed incomplete or uneccessary. Either don’t focus on them at all, or do something interesting with them!

But besides alllllll of that whining, I came out of the movie feeling good about it, so I don’t mean any of the above terribly harshly. Their attempt to hold the viewers’ suffering attention spans was successful, and I didn’t notice myself becoming bored at any point. The movie felt shorter than it actually was, which generally means I at least had fun watching it. The acting was satisfactory enough, during the moments the focus moved away from simply blowing shit up (I mean, I don’t think anyone really had to challenge themselves much in that respect). Christian Bale is still freakin’ hot, so win. And we all got a kick out of digital Arnold’s cameo, and his marvelous 1984-hairdo…

Reduce, re-use, and recycle. But watch out when it comes to reusing shopping bags to carry your pumps while you commute to work in your New Balance sneakers. It’s important to coordinate. Not every bag goes well with your North Face jacket. Here are a few different sorts of bags, listed from lowest to highest level of yuppie acceptability:

Wal-Mart: Never acceptable. Why were you shopping at Wal-Mart to begin with? Why were you even in that part of town? I would put Sears in this category as well, if only because their bags are butt-ugly. Black bags from the liquor store and take-out bags with smiley faces should also never be reused.

Jewel/other thin grocery style bag: Only as a last resort. Trashy, and shows you don’t give a shit about the environment, because you clearly forgot your canvas bags at home last shopping trip.

Aldi: Still pretty trashy, but not as much, ’cause these are thick and durable. Shows that you’re cheap, since you shop at Aldi, but that’s kinda in fashion, so it’s passable.

Target: Your bag must at least meet the Target standard in in order to avoid cut eye.

Mall store: The more expensive the store, the more reusable the bag, except that paper beats plastic almost every time (fancy plastic shit like you’d get at Urban Outfitters can occasionally beat paper).

Major department store: Unless it’s from Macy’s, you’re all good. If it’s from Macy’s, you will lose points from the sort of dipshits that whine about the loss of Marshall Field’s, so carry with caution.

Trader Joe’s/Whole Foods: Hipster status symbol. Most rush-hour commuters will approve muchly. You may not care about the environment, but you care about looking like you do, and that’s good enough for credit.

Designer boutique: Clearly, you have a lot of money. Use this bag until it falls apart.

I would have stuck this hooha on MySpace or Facebook, except Raymi said no, so here you go (also I updated her link — bossy bossy!):

There’s an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are; You’ve left your coat on some pile, and knew it wouldn’t get stolen.
This is one of the many things I learned was a bad idea as soon as I moved to the US — even if you’re somewhere where there are ABSOLUTELY NO STRANGERS.

You’ve never made a move on your buddies girlfriend.
Buddies plural? Probably still yes…

You know that on a road trip the strongest bladder determines the pit stops.
Shit yeah. Usually not me by a longshot, but I ain’t complainin’

You’ve kept all your hockey trophies.
I suck donkey balls at hockey, but I have all my track & field and soccer shite.

You’ve replaced someones pint if you’ve knocked theirs over.
I don’t know if that’s ever happened, but I’m sure I would, unless I was totally gone.

If your buddy’s in trouble, you’ve got his back.
Well, only at a certain point do I become strong/stupid enough to fight somebody, but damn straight… I’ll bitch ‘em out anytime.

You’ve clapped for a dancer even though she shouldn’t be a dancer.
Yes, I do have the excessive politness gene.

You’ve used a blow torch to curve your stick.
No, but I’ve seen it happen plenty of times.

You’ve used your arm as an ice-scraper
Isn’t that what it’s there for?

and, you’ve grown a beard in the post season
Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough, but I never seem able to accomplish this.

This is our beer, Molson Canadian.
Well, if you’re going cheap, it’s better than any of the American swill there is to choose from.

There’s an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are;You have a hockey scar somewhere.
Soccer scar, perhaps. Boo hockey.

You’ve gone on a road trip with a car that had no business going on a road trip.
Road trip, not so much. Band tour, repeatedly.

You’re proud to know a girl who got jiggy with a pro hockey player.
I don’t know that sort of girl. The ones I know just get jiggy with musicians…

You feel kinda bad reclining your seat in an airplane.
I only do it when they get up, so they don’t notice as much… ’cause yeah, I feel kinda bad.

You’ve used a cheesy pick-up line because your buddy dared you.
I have never used a pick-up line — EVER.

You fill your friends pint before your own.
Obviously.

You think hockey tape can fix anything.
I’m sure that it can, but I’d go in this order: duct tape > electrical tape > hockey tape.

You’ve gotten kicked out of somewhere,
Oh, hell yes. And into somewhere else, even.

and, you’ve turned down a booty call in the post-season.
Since when do I even answer my phone?

This is our beer, Molson Canadian.
I still don’t have my American citizenship, so “our” can still apply to me, right? I prefer vodka…

There’s an unwritten code in Canada. If you live by it, chances are; You’ve driven an hour for 19 minutes of ice time.
I should think not.

You’ve been to a bar that starts with Mc or ends in Annigan’s.
This applies equally well to Chicago.

You appreciate a woman who’s into sports.
I would appreciate it more if they wouldn’t appreciate it anywhere near me.

You’ll call anyone with goalie equipment a friend.
I won’t call them at all.

You know what a J-stroke is.
I’m on the internet, so I do now.

And sometimes, figure skating is worth watching.
It’s hypnotic. If you need to stop thinking about shit for a while, put that on the box.

You know the sippy cup lid isn’t as dumb as it sounds.
Sippy cup > all.

You’ve worn a canoe as a hat.
Myep…

You’ve assembled a barbeque,
I’m a girl, therefore no. Of course, this excuse only applies when I don’t want to do something. In any other situation “you’re a girl” gets you a slap in the face.

and, they’re not dents, they’re goals.
Hockey. Pfeh!

This is our beer, Molson Canadian.
I wonder if there’s any beer left in the fridge here at work…

Beauty Tubes, originally uploaded by Lintilla.

I left this mascara on our bedside table the other day. Sean thought it was a pocket rocket.

Maybe he has a point:

Now, I’m off to climb Mount Satchel (what we’ve named my ever growing heap of purses and bags in the living room), in seek of my elusive foundation.

Charities send you mailing labels so that you are more likely to reciprocate by giving them a gift in return. One that’s obviously more valuable than mailing labels, lest you seem cheap. Well, pfft! I use the labels (though I’ll only use the PETA ones to send my rent cheque — don’t want anyone I give a shit about thinking I support PETA), but I send the same amount of money to the same charities anyway. Candice doesn’t fall for any of this psychological manipulatory crapitude.

Beggars and Streetwise pushers use the same trick all the time. Opening doors for you to create cognitive dissonance. They did something for you, and now you owe them. Well fuck off. I didn’t ask you to open the door. I resent you for imposing an unecessary social situation on me, and for being asshatty enough to think I’ll get some sort of feeling of obligation out of it.

“Not even a smile?” No. You didn’t earn it. Quite the opposite. “Helpful” beggars are much more annoying than the regular sort.

The only thing I can think of that’s more irritating is someone employed to be a beggar. No, I don’t want to save the children, whales, or America. It’s almost charity harrassment season. You pricks: you are the reason a normal person looking for directions can’t get anyone to pay attention to them. Legitimate questions are much rarer than bullshit and invitations to try a new salon for free (BTW how insulting is that one — is my hair really that bad?), so it’s become instinctual to look away from anyone in the street who looks like they want to chat.

And the next one who asks me “are you always so antisocial” or otherwise insults me for not taking a flyer or saving polar bears is getting an earful, I promise. Same goes for you, door-holding asswipe.

I’m #9! I’m #9!, originally uploaded by Lintilla.

This is probably the most I’ll accomplish all weekend.

bus, originally uploaded by Lintilla.

Going back to bed.

Improve upon my pathetic lack of effort here.

I’m hungover, shut up.

I don’t give a shit about the game. But I do give a shit that the short version of the game’s trailer features part of the track “Insurgence” by Cyanotic. You know… that band with that guy Sean Payne in it. Pretty good song. I wonder if he’s single? Oh, wait. Says there on that Wikipedia page that he’s married to some chick named Candice. Shucks. In any case, here’s this:

(They also used his music in some episode of “Real Sex”, but we’re not entirely sure which one — so guess what we’ve been watching a lot of lately? Also check him out in MTV’s “Parental Control”, specials for “Dead Space” and “Gears of War 2″ on Sci-Fi Channel, and probably a bunch of other MTV reality nonsense that we’re not aware of yet.)

This is not a retarded bus stop. This is a perfectly normal bus stop. The 135, 145 or 148 let me off here on the SE corner of N Clarendon Ave and W Montrose Ave (circled — don’t know why Google didn’t add an icon there…):

Compare that to this bus stop (circled):

That’s at the intersection of N Marine Dr, N Lakeshore Dr, and W Montrose Ave. Routes 136, 144 and 146 stop here. In case you can’t tell, the ones labelled N Marine Dr and W Montrose Ave are N Marine Dr and W Montrose Ave, which are both two-way streets. The thin yellow line is the Montrose exit to the southbound lanes of N Lakeshore Drive (cars on the road head only south (that’s down, for those of you who aren’t used to our Northern Hemispherically Biased mapping system)). If you’re not figuring this out for yourself, that circle is a median in the middle of a busy intersection where cars can be heading in any one of 20-something different directions (I’m not sure which turns are forbidden here, not having a car and all).

This is a picture of a bastard NB 146 CTA bus stopping to let people on and off to or from a median into the middle of what (’s not seen here, but often is) heavy traffic:

And here’s a nice shot of the bus stop itself:

This is the SW corner of N Marine Dr and W Montrose Ave:

You should notice that there is a fence curving all the way around that corner, so that you can’t get to the sidewalk if you are walking towards it from the east. Not unless you walk around the fence to the left (and climb up fairly steep, frequently muddy, presently snowbank-covered hill) or to the right, on the busy street.

Couldn’t the bus just stop at the NE SE corner of N Marine Dr and W Montrose Ave instead? Where there’s a sidewalk and a crosswalk? Would that muck up traffic too much? Because we all know that not mucking up traffic is far more important than the potentiality of having me, myself or I (or any other passengers of CTA bus routes 136, 144 and 146 who happen to live near this intersection) maimed and/or killed by large, fast-moving objects.

Pfft.

Sick of having my feet get wet in the snow every time the first bus that happens along is one that stops here.

Runtime Error!

Originally uploaded by Lintilla

I’ve seen this eleventy times on Chase ATMs. When it happens, you can actually get into the Windows Start Menu, despite the limited interface. Didn’t try it this time, but I opened Notepad on one once. It was a drive-through (I refuse to type drive-thru except to point out that I refuse to type it) ATM that I’d walked up to at about 3am, so no one was anywhere around. I managed to “type” something by cutting and pasting letters. I wish I remember what it was, but I’m sure it was something that made the next user have complete faith in the security of Chase’s system. I know that I definitely trust these things…

What the shitting fuck?, originally uploaded by Lintilla.

This was in the soup I was just eating. The vegetable soup I was eating. It went in my mouth. I did not finish that soup. That vegetable soup. Campbell’s Soup Company, could you please explain to me which part of what sort of vegetable this is? Because to me, it sort of looks, I dunno… A little more like one of these:

I should have thought to stick this next to a dime, but I was too busy being disgusted. But. You would have seen that it is the same length. As a dime. And. I am never. Eating. Again.

Maybe I’ll mail this to them, and see what kind of freebies I can get. And not fucking eat after I get them. Because…

Yeah, I’m going to go wash my mouth out with bleach now.

In conclusion, no:

See ya.

081 Candice 1982, originally uploaded by Allan_Green.

Have a cookie. Yeah, that’s me. 1982 yo. OK. Hibernation time. 8-10 inches of snow? Coldest weather in 15 years coming? GOODNIGHT!