Whole sort of general mish mash

Goodbye, Wednesday

Posted on 6/10/2009 by Candice

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.”

It’s obviously past my bedtime

Posted on 6/9/2009 by Candice

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.

Poorly-written Terminator Salvation review: I saw it last night because I (well, my husband, actually :) is awesome

Posted on 5/19/2009 by Candice

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…

Shopping bag reusability hierarchy

Posted on 4/6/2009 by Candice

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.

Patriotic Canadian beer commercial meme

Posted on 3/9/2009 by Candice

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…

Imposition is Impolite

Posted on 2/19/2009 by Candice

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.

Chronicles of Riddick: Assault on Dark Athena

Posted on 1/26/2009 by Candice

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.)

I’m hungover.

Posted on 1/10/2009 by Candice

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!

2009, eh?

Posted on 1/1/2009 by Candice

It’s 3pm. Good morning, everybody. How hungover are you? I made it out okay, I think. Drinking water through the night, that’s the secret. The secret that everybody knows. The secret that nobody bothers with. Apparently it works, though. Who knew.

I’m the only one awake. Me and the cat. I have to work tomorrow, way to waste my day off, everybody. How am I supposed to vegetate on my couch with all the $4 DVDs I bought in Canada with 17 people sleeping on it? Hm?

So anyway. 2008. Let’s forget it, it was garbage. Step number one: wash off the eye makeup that I’m still wearing from last year.

Sucked it up and got me a head shrinker, maybe I’ll be less loony in 2009. Resolutions… poo. Write the Great American Novel. Win Nobel Prize. Become rockstar. Lose 125 pounds. Start smoking, then quit. Start flossing?

I think this is where I traditionally point out that the fact that our year just so happens to be so many days long because our planet orbits the sun more or less one time or so in that period is pretty terribly unimportant to me. And the fact that we’ve chosen this particular day as a marker, big whoop. Good excuse to get drunk, whatever. Who needs one? Birthday in about two weeks. Don’t give much of a shit about that, either. I was trying to figure out how old I would be on various other planets last night, and on which one I would weigh the least, but, you know… vodka happened.

Ciao.

I dunno what the fuck this is. Purplemonkeydishwasher.

Posted on 12/27/2008 by Candice

So, it’s 16 Celsius in Chicago right now. I would have enjoyed being able to go outside this weekend and like, do some shit other than sit on my ass in frozen-ass boring blah Calgary where it’s also far toastier than usual at 1 fucking degree Celsius. Whoop dee fuck. Nothing to do here but watch an entire decade’s worth of action movies and get drunk and drunker and drunkest. Which I would probably be doing at home (or some equivalent thereof), but I’d be doing it by choice, not because there’s no place to go and no thing to do and no anything to whateverthefuck.

Whatever. I think we’re going to go to a mall in a bit, and spend our incredibly valuable magical American dollars on doodads and watchamacallits and whatever else is leftover from after the Christmas retail rape. DVDs with French clogging up the artwork. And haircuts or something. Geezum H Christmas, a mall, that’s exotic. To some Chicagoery types, anyways, yeah. Oh Bob, Bob I am bored. Shit closes here at six on a Saturday? What’s that moronicallism? Waking up before noon to go to a mall, that’s some of the dumbest dumbshittery ever. Oh yeah there’s like some Le Chateau outlet store. Let’s go buy some irregulars, yee helling haw. I heard that place is crapitude these days now. Thanks, Canada. Only place I can ever find pants that fit on this continent. Way to ruin me.

Okay, what, nevermind. It’s flooding back home in Chicago, so floodpants will be appropriate anyway. So good. GOOD!

Oh I am sooooo getting tipsier than tippily-toededly possible on the flight back to Chicago, mother fluffers.

Wonko. I’m out of sorts, methinks. Bye, Internettertypes.