Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Facebook Sucks Face

I've been introduced to something called FACEBOOK.

As suggested, it's a social utility that connects you with people around the world over the internet.



I only joined because I wanted to see pictures of a friend's wedding, but what I didn't realize is that you also get connected to things called "applications" that are surveys, games, contests, quizzes, rating things, ie. How Much of A Bitch Are You or How Sexy is Your Name. You receive hundreds of notifications to read messages, of who sent what to whom and what, insignificant crap of nothings because whatever got sent to you, got sent to all those on your FRIEND'S LIST, and vice versa.

Me, I've got 7 friends, while my sister has 245 in five continents and they all want to send each other cocktails, or hugs, or karma, or rumble with their dragon slayers and vampire thingys and werewolves, and they've laid down some serious smack on me. What? In the meantime, my "real" email application is receiving notifications...you've got mail to read in Facebook. Ah, fuck! Not again.

It's too damned slow and once you find the notification of whomever sent you whatever, it's a POKE....poke me back! Ah, Fuck!






My Facebook profile is full of shit now, full of stuff I unknowingly signed up for, shit upon shit upon shit and now I've got people sending me emails because they want to be "my friend" so they can also receive shit.

Admittedly, I do enjoy the Blackjack game. Except I'm a sore loser and can't stand seeing "Dealer" receive five 21's in a row....the hard way, with hands like....2-4-3-1-1-5-3-2.....now, doesn't that seem like software programming to you? I have emailed Facebook and their "Report Abuse" line, but you only receive an automated response from Wendy Bean, stating,


"Sorry, we’re working hard to resolve this bug!! Pls reply to this message with a link to your profile - Log into FB, click on PROFILE, and copy the URL at top of pg., + include the number of pts lost. Tks, Wendy"



I also like to play the Scramble game, but there are a few assholes out there who use a software programme to decipher all the words in about 4 seconds flat.....you can actually see the points appear, as the rest of us are on our third or fourth word at 20 points, suddenly Leena Cabeena has reached 246 points....then she has the nerve to post in the Chat Box, One...I'm number 1.


About the only game I play on Facebook where I know there is no software tweeks or game cheaters is the Scrabble Game....but it takes a day or so before your opponent makes his/her move, making for a long, drawn out game.... especially for someone like me, who apparently is now addicted to Facebook, despite it's flaws.


Especially after this test I took, the "What type of DRINK are you" and my results: YOU ARE WATER.

Water is often described as dull and flavorless, and you might be, too. Your ideal night out is a night a in, and it should stay that way because you might not be able to handle yourself around a crowd of people having fun. Not that the library isn't fun. If you drink at all, you probably spend most nights as the designated driver, and most mornings cleaning the puke out of your passenger seat. However, you do have your life together, and a great career ahead of you. Wuss.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Survivorman and Surviving Christmas




The ink is still wet on a new deal Les has just signed with Discovery Channel US to host another special on sharks called Surviving Sharks and, as of the writing of this newsletter, he is down in the Bahamas swimming with lemon, bull, tiger and reef sharks and will be heading to South Africa to cage swim with great whites in the new year. Last year, Les’ show Feeding Frenzy was the top rated show of Shark Week and Les also hosted the entire Shark Week special, introducing all of the shows. He will also host a special for Alaska Week called Surviving Alaska.

Please, Les, paleeze don't die. I hate sharks, especially when my favorite Survivorman is doing the dirty ditty with 'em. It just brings back memories of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, when he was fatally pierced in the chest by a stingray spine whilst snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef.


Irwin decided to take the opportunity to film some shallow water shots for a segment in the television program his daughter Bindi was hosting, when, according to his friend and colleague, John Stainton, he swam too close to one of the stingrays. "He came on top of the stingray and the stingray's barb went up and into his chest and put a hole into his heart," said Stainton, who was on board Irwin's boat the Croc One.

These thrill hunters/seekers truly place themselves in dangerous situations and as we, the viewers, watch week after week their video memoirs of survival, we tend to forget something could go wrong. Personally, I don't want Les to die, I didn't want Steve Irwin to die, I don't want adventurers to die for my entertainment.

But I'm a phobic on dangerous situations anyway...like last week when we went shopping in Wal-Mart. We were all in the toy section and I called out for Brandon. No response. I called out louder, "Brandon", no response. Louder. Then screaming his name. No response. I had instant flashbacks of the Cold Case shows I watch, of little kids who disappeared only to be found in the woods or in some shallow grave, sexually assaulted, mutilated, dead.

I thought for sure Brandon was on his way to some horrible fate and my instincts could only yell out his name, knowing I wouldn't be able to rescue him, despite his cries for mommy. His dad also frantic, running up and down the aisles looking for his blonde-haired son, who thinks he can defend himself against stranger-danger because of kickboxing classes.

Little bugger was off riding the escalator. With one hand, I grabbed him by his coat and hoisted him up: DON'T YOU EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN. And then I started crying in the middle of goddamned Wal-Mart, the manager thinking I was reacting to their low prices!

I suppose we all live in danger, take risks just by leaving the safety net of our homes.

In the end, we are all swimming with the sharks.

I purchased a Survivorman tee-shirt and hat over the internet for hubby for Christmas and I know he'll absolutely love them, and I have complete faith that Canada Post will have them delivered here on time.....

....sometimes I think I understand everything - then I regain consciousness.

And now for something completely different, more pictures of Whistler and cousin Phil's snow.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Back to Higher Grounds

I didn't know he had brought a woman with them until I stepped out of the tent and into the morning breath of the lake. I heard a woman's voice, but I wasn't certain where it came from. It didn't project in a manner one is use to in hearing a woman's voice; crisp, feminine, clean. This voice was dirty and drunk, slurred.

Steven brought her to our camp site for the day, promising to take her boating, and knowing Steven, she probably anticipated a large yacht of endless drink. But at 9:30 in the morning, she had past the point when it didn't matter, sleepy-eyed with Bloody Mary stains already on the front of her green shirt. She couldn't keep her head held up, it bobbled sideways and forward and back and as she spoke, her face aged and limp, excess skin flapped where her cheeks should have been and her eyes drooped in and out of consciousness.

Steven is also drunk and can barely stand up without swaying to the beat of his heart, which amazingly still pumps despite the alcohol poisoning. He is skinner and we know this means he's drinking heavily again, not eating, not sleeping. He seeks out sex with whomever will have it with him, and it usually is the likes of this woman here now, pissing away my expensive suntan lotion over the boozy stink of her shoulders and arms, preparing for the sun in the whispers of insanity.

She has scabies or herpes or ringworm, something on her skin doesn't look right. I'm not certain which one it is. But I do know it's not normal to have sores on the skin, open wounds, which are now lathered in sunblock. Did she know what day it was. Did she even know it was morning. All I wanted to ask of her was how could you be so drunk already on this fine Saturday morning at the lake.

I don't know if Sabrina and Brandon understand what's happening, do they realize this woman is not normal, or that we've even got company. They are happily playing in the park nearby, swinging, diving down the slide, hidden from the realities of stretches of time and hurt and what it does to one's body. I don't want to be like that, ever. I wish, just a little, for a slide for the kids at home. You can't run away from time, but you can hide it's mistakes, sometimes even pretend they're miracles. Or blame it on the rain.

By the time we're in the middle of the lake she has already passed out. Her head is propped backwards, her hair is wallowing in the wind, curly like the wake of the boat, splashing and spurning white lather. It has only taken us mere seconds to reach the center of the lake, the motor has sung it's lullaby to her, and the kids are shouting for the wake board to sail them above the watery darkness. I turn the music up louder, surround sounds of heavy metal guitars and drums, all seven of us captured in the tiny frame of the speedboat, where there should only be four. Somehow the music made it better, made it safer.

She awakens to the pop of a cooler bottle, as I release one cap after the other, pop, pop, the fizz escaping like a genie, her eyes widen as she receives this offering from me, a perfect stranger. We have only just met, yet I know everything about her, everything I need to know. She is content with this boat trip and probably will have sex tonight with Steven, his reward for taking her to a place she has never gone before.

Deep in the bouncing flickers of light, like ghost flickers, guarding the mountains and cliffs bearing white crosses where divers have plunged to their deaths, she keeps her eyes open just long enough to witness their last moment.

Darren, the other hapless soul, decides to wear a lifejacket and mistakenly puts on Sabrina's spare. He doesn't realize it's too small, only being comforted by a floating device that's supposed to save his ass because he's convinced we're all going to drown. He frantically pulls the safety buckles together, yanking at them so that they connect, but they do not reach, his waist is much too large for this jacket. He finally resolves to death-gripping both sides, until I pass him a drink, the jacket suddenly flaps open in the wind's current and his mouth is now soothed by the bitters of the flavoured cider.

He is more normal than most drunks. He's a half drunk, knowing when to start and stop drinking, knowing where the money is that pays for the booze and the meals, and the girls. At this point I'm wondering about this woman, and where she came from and who she came with.

There are other boats on the lake and they have already stirred up a chop, small churnings of the water that can propel a high speedboat into a hammer. The backs of the my legs are bruised from the banging of the waves, as I crash in my seat, uncontrollably bouncing in the air, kept in the boat by the sheer grace of gravity. I turn back to make sure she' still there, alive. Occasionally, she will open her eyes and smile, holding tightly to her bottle, missing her mouth by inches, the cider flies out to the tow line that links Sabrina to me. This is all too much now. I can't have this. I can't have this person here, enjoying my day, enjoying my time. This was supposed to be about me.

Sabrina holds on and motions thumbs up and wants to go faster. But I can't watch her and drive and think and worry and ponder and be angry and give up all at the same time. I push the throttle forward, faster and faster until we are no longer boating. We are now flying. And Sabrina is smiling like an angel, like the God's have smiled down on her pretty face and said, "today, you will see what we see".

The boat begins to crackle on the waves and I'm aware I'm the only one not smiling, but I'm also the only one driving and can feel the uncertainty beneath the gears gripped by my hand. We are going too fast and I pull the throttle back down, hard, as we dead stop into a large wave approaching Sabrina's path.

She rips the goggles away from her face, furious we have stopped and yells we've just missed a good one. The wave passes us and she rocks up and down, as Daniel tows in the rope bringing her closer to mother's relief and buoyancy. He recognizes, as any good palm reader would, I am not enjoying this ride and proposes we all go back for more cider, and without even discussing it, Darren and the woman are abandoned on the lake shore.

Darren jumps off the boat, jeans and running shoes intact, while she flops into the floating tube, just barely, and spreads herself out for balance. She looks like starfish, pink arms and legs protruding overboard like dead weight. We can't bring the boat too close to shore because the rocks will damage the hull, so we slowly release the rope, allowing the tube and it's cargo to float to the sandy beach. Steven wants to stay on and go for another ride, a faster ride. He never used to be this brave.

We start the motors, one, then two, taking the boat out of neutral and within seconds we have once again escaped to the liquid sun, camouflaged by the reflection of ancient craters, monuments Steven will undoubtedly forget because I already hear pop, pop, pop.

The lake shore pushes away from us, until it curves and loses itself into hidden harbours and evergreen forests, until we are deep in the lake and horizon blue, with not a cloud in the sky, nor the woman.

Steven is so content to be with us, in this time and place, didn't matter where or how or when or what, he bursts into rants of yesteryears, releasing bits of contorted memories. He still thinks we're related by marriage, though it has long since entrenched itself up on the ridge wth the other dead divers. Daniel and I are merely acquaintances of someone else's vows, where he won't let go and won't let us forget.

As Sabrina carves into the water, slicing it into two, we are also content to have Steven with us right now, both who are infecting us with gallant laughter. Brandon doesn't want a turn. He's still afraid of letting go and being tossed amongst the fishes and seaweed and monsters, and as we steady ourselves to catch another breath, Steven requests that we take him back. Back to Darren and the woman, where he belongs.

And as he stumbles and trips over rocks, falling into the water, rushing, surging to the shore, I realize he has finally let go. Darren pulls him up and carries him out like he's a wounded soldier, battered by the realities of life and family, until they disappear into the trail ushering them back to their existences, back to higher grounds.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

Spice Girls Spicer Than Ever

More than 15,000 fans packed the General Motors Place in Vancouver for the opening performance of the Spice Girls' reunion tour, an appearance by all five Girl Power icons since "Ginger Spice" Geri Halliwell left in May 1998. Vancouver is usually....frequently....the launching stadium for concert tours.

My nieces Jennifer and Samantha were fortunate enough to get tickets, as well as scoring fantastic seats.




Yesterday's Boyfriends & Leather Coats

Last year I burned CDs for my daycare customers, selecting top hits and having their children crayon the CD jackets, which made for nice Christmas presents. This year's PLAYLIST is mostly of long forgotten songs, the songs we all know the words to, with a dash of today, as I attempt to mix history up a bit, because I like confusion.



My very first concert was Led Zeppelin.
Didn't know them, didn't know rock'n'roll other than the Partridge Family Christmas Album, yet they were the IN band and Carrie and I bought tickets to see them at Seattle's Kingdome...circa 75, 76...it was so long ago, but what an adventure, a trip arranged by a local radio station, the bus transport, tickets, immigration, everything. It was so easy back then.


We wanted to be like Annie Leibovitz, taking pictures with our Nikon cameras, stills of our favorite rockstars, behind the scenes, priviledged, backstage pass carrying groupies, which we had to fight and claw our way to the front of each stage, being crushed and trampled to capture every picture we took, every memory of our youth momentarily infused in song.


We had heads-up on an up and coming band Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, but we were too young at the time to enter into a drinking-licensed establishment such as the Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver, boosting a 1,000 person capacity.

We make-up'd our faces, dressed in high heels and wore halter-tops, thank God Carrie was almost 6 feet high, as we stood in the line to enter the Ballroom I'm feeling frantic, terrified of embarrassment in not having proper ID, being turned away into the belly of Granville Street. Lost. A Juvenille. I remember my dad saying 'where did my little girl go' as I dressed up to see Tom Petty and stood in front of my parent's dresser mirror, using my mom's makeup, and all I wanted to say was, it's pretend. I'm pretending.


Today, I can honestly boost I single-handedly, with another 999 people, bolstered Tom Petty's career, because if you can't make it in Vancouver, you can't make it anywhere.


We met Queen at the Bayshore Inn.


We booked a room in the tower where Howard Hughes stayed and because apparently it's the best portion of the hotel overlooking Vancouver Harbour
which didn't phase us one bit, when you're 17 and hunting down rockstars we just wanted to be where Queen existed.


Carrie loved Brian May and I loved Roger Taylor.
Linda loved the Bay City Rollers, my sister loved Elton John. And that was final...we lived and breathed these men, in fantasies, in hopes and dreams, in hotel lodgings and record purchases, as we strived to achieve closeness, much more than any other fan would ever take, as we pronounce ourselves "Number One Fans".


I sat in the Bayshore Inn Hotel, in an enclave removed from the main lobby, one that entered into the yacht club and marina, isolated in the late afternoon of sea. We all were anxiously awaiting the Queen concert, hoping to spy our lovers in the lobby, in the restaurant, anywhere.


Alone, waiting for the girls to join me, I saw him approach the elevator nearby. It's Roger. And it's not the first time we've met.....I've bothered him previously for a picture and an autograph, but this time I'm flabbergasted by his fur coat and fluffy blonde hair, his presence.


I rush and gush as any 'number one fan' would and ask for a picture. As the elevator door opens, he enters, then motions for me to enter with him.


I am so fucking scared I don't know what to do or think. It seems like an eternity before the elevator doors close, as I am frozen stiff in disbelief and inexperience and flashbacks of my dad wondering where his little girl went, and I'm not ready....despite the romance of it all, I'm not ready. I'm just a kid with a camera.


The door shuts and Roger shrugs his shoulders, okay.


I had a long leather coat, one I constantly wore, through high school, trips to Italy and England, concert mad-dashes to stage fronts, a garment that made me feel special, pretty, glamorous.
A few years back my niece was elected to be in an "all-girl" band, supposedly up and coming, so I gave her my coat for rockstar luck, this coat I had hidden in my closet, hiding yesterdays of Tom Petty and Roger of Queen, hoping it would regain purpose some day.


She became an actress instead. And I wish I had my coat back. I miss Roger.




Friday, December 07, 2007

How to Make Water, Survivorman Style





There's another survivor type show on television called MAN VS. WILD with Bear Grylls and it's similar to Survivor Man, Les Stroud, except Les doesn't have a camera crew following him like Bear does. It's still interesting to watch, but both tend to have varying methods as to how to survive.

For instance, drinking your own pee when you have no water. Les demonstrated how to use evaporation to purify urine using a 'solar still' type contraption he devised, using similar concepts as shown below. Les dug a hole and placed a container inside, peed in it, then covered it with a piece of plastic, created a down slope by placing a rock in the centre, then let the Kalahari sun do it's job.

The Man vs. Wild guy drank his pee straight up on the rocks, so to speak, which apparently is not good for you.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Five Easy Pieces

Who in their right mind would want to marry Billy Bob Thornton?

He's creepy and skinny and talks too slow, but I'm sure he's a nice man. He was in town early September and my sister went to see his band, The Boxmasters, at the Red Robinson Theatre/Boulevard Casino in Coquitlam.
http://www.blvdcasino.com/entertainment/theatre/

Here's a picture of Billy Bob taking a picture of my sister taking a picture of Billy Bob.

Geez, can't these movie stars figure out what they want to do in life instead of forcing the rest of us to listen to their spewing vocals...and same for those musicians who want to act, here's a clue, "it's not acting because you didn't wear makeup".

Angelina Jolie married Billy Bob. What an odd pair they were, both creepy, especially after her 'show of affection' for her brother, ewwww, that was bizarre, but since she's been promoting humanitarian causes throughout the world we can forgive a few trespasses, ewwwww.

Angelina's name is not a good song name....not like Rosanna. Billy Bob wrote a song for his beloved, it must have been really hard to rhyme g-e-l-i-n-a....cantina, patina.

"Ah, heck, what other wives can I sing about...I had five of 'em."



Here I am, with no points to play Facebook blackjack so I've decided to fluff up this post by adding the lyrics to "Angelina", mostly because I'm now curious how he did the g-e-l-i-n-a thing.

Goggle landed me upon the website of Jillian Mcdonald, who digitally manipulates romantic scenes from Hollywood films, amongst other things. But it is the following link:

http://meandbillybob.com/videolink.html

that had me intrigued. (it takes a few minutes to load) I actually like the song, mostly because of her add-on voice track and her imposed images, interacting with Billy Bob in several movie roles.

After that, check out her homepage,

http://www.jillianmcdonald.net/index.html

for more information and other unique artsy-fartsy stuff.
And, sadly, I've discovered Billy Bob used the old "put the name up front" trick.

ANGELINA

I walked into an elevator
And you walked into the wall
You said you wanted to be with me
I never dreamed id have it all
But something changed that day inside me
And I believe the change is inside you too.

Angelina can you feel it
Watching angels as their dancing up above
Angelina what’s come between us?
Could it be the magic and the mystery of love?

They all said we’d never make
Two crazy panthers on the prowl
They all said we would only fake it (for a while)
We just stared at them and growled
You were masked in tiny cuts and weary
But I said that ok you can be a girl.

Yeah Angelina can you feel it
Watching angels as their dancing up above
Oh Angelina what’s come between us
Could it be the magic and the mystery of love.

This aunt no chance were taking
It’s a real love that were making
Blindfolds off and their you see yeah we see

Yeah Angelina
Oh Angelina watching angels as their dancing up above
oh Angelina what’s come between us
could it be the magic and the mystery of love
could it be the magic and the mystery of ....
Angelina

And now for something completely different, Whistler's new snow, photo by Phil.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Exlax Need Not Apply







It may surprise some people when I say it doesn't snow that much in Western Canada...well, the lower mainland of British Columbia. Really, it's a bit of a shock for us to see the white stuff, since we are accustomed to all the frickin' rain. Yet occasionally, a cold front hits us and voila!...SNOW.

I miss snow. I remember growing up and having lots of it...up to my knees, but of course, I probably was 4 feet high so my memories are disproportional of actual snowfalls. Yet, in the olden days it snowed....each year in B.C. we see less of it...hoping it snows on Christmas Day...missing it. Sort of like when it's summer you wish for winter, and when it's winter you wish for summer.

We wish for seasons to pass to quickly, I think. How many more summers do I have? Winters without snow? Thus, we enjoy our treks to Whistler or Hemlock or Grouse Mountain or Seymour...and would never dream of flying to Mexico or Hawaii like so many of us do.

Why? They don't have snow.