Archive for the 'Brenkin' Category

what kind of fuckery is this

Oh, so I’ve found myself wanting to make brief snarky comments about links and stuff a lot lately. So I got a tumblr.

I mostly was just curious to try it out, because I read like 80 things about tumbleblogs. I’m not sure, we’ll see it how goes. It might be easier to keep up while I’m writing my thesis.

Oh and my new glasses came:

They are a little bigger than my old frames and more square and also more jade green. I’m pretty sure they’re actually men’s frames, but that’s okay, they fit my giant head really well.

The sad thing is that this means Alex and I both have Brooks Brothers frames now. I guess we’re at that point where couples start to look alike?

Standing in the snow


Hurray, it’s snowing in Vancouver!
Originally uploaded by mootpoint

It’s those big fluffy snowflakes, which we don’t often get.

People who know me in real life will note that I am not wearing my glasses in this photo. That is because they broke, and walking around and having everything be blurry is actually more appealing to me than walking around with glasses that are being (barely) held together with Scotch tape. I’m excited about my new glasses, but sad that I can’t actually see very well until they come.

“The spice! The worms! There must be a connection…”

An incredibly revealing fact about my relationship is that we spent our Saturday night drinking chocolate stout and watching Dune.

Blue Skies

Discovery: Vancouver in the summer is awesome, yo. Unlike in Toronto, where summer means like “extreme heat warnings” and “going to the mall every weekend because at least it’s air conditioned,” Vancouver in the summer is a great place to be. It is warm, sure, but it is in the mid-20s, so you can comfortably wear a sundress, but you won’t spend the whole day feeling as though you are about to melt. You even need to bring a sweater if you’re going out at night

Vancouver has many many many flaws, but the availability of delicious food at reasonable prices is not one of them. The photo above shows where Alex and I enjoyed the most ridiculously good lunch ever. There is this place, called Go Fish, that is located on the actual fisherman’s wharf, and you go down, and they serve you amazingly fresh fish, all tender and delicious and in various formats (sandwich, taco, battered and fried) which you can then eat while looking at boats and the blue glass condo towers across False Creek.

View

Anyway, I am trying to enjoy summertime idling as much as I can, drinking various minty cocktails and trying to work through some Kant. I fear I will run out of money if I don’t find some kind of paying work soon. This would help pay off my summer tuition and help me not starve while I’m hoping student loans will come through. In other news, Alex moved way up the waitlist, so I may not be lonely and miserable and have to move this fall. Hurray!

The downside of Vancouver summer is the incredibly large concentration of tourists. Unlike my old place in Toronto (Bloor and Ossington not being a tourism hot spot), I live in an area where tourists seem to turn up (ie. there is a large hotel 4 blocks away from my house). Last night, Alex and I were waiting for the bus home across the Cambie Bridge. A couple of (I’m guessing) affluent middle-aged Americans walked up to the other guy at the stop and asked him a couple of questions. The woman then walked over to us on the bench and pointed across the bridge, saying “TWELTH AVENUE?” in the over-enunciated loud way people talk to those for whom English is not a first language. Alex and I were like, “Yeah, Twelfth is that way.”

So weird.

Thumbs Down

So tired. Spent most of last night in ER waiting room being supportive for Alex (this was after upgrading Wordpress and getting a new template, not like I was just chilling out and making my blog pretty while Alex was spurting blood all over the place), who cut open the back of his thumb on a broken Ikea dinner plate and has mild nerve damage — on the back of his thumb — and a partially cut tendon. On his right hand! The one he uses for typing! And writing! At his job! I am not good with blood. Lots of blood. The doctor had to use a metal thing to spread open his wound, then he got stiches. Then the ER doc sent us home and told us to come back to some nebulous hand repair team in the real morning, which we couldn’t find, but we found a doctor who fixes hands, so it’s all good. He needs a splint. He will be okay though. Did you know the VGH has a hand clinic? Just for hands.

Good ol’ building and loan pal

“We should go to the good bookstore. They’re having a sale. 30% off film books!”

Alex is trying to cheer me up, because I lost $20 and I am sad. It’s really not the end of the world, but I hate feeling irresponsible.

As I walk to the (typically) tiny film section, the first thing I see is this:

Uh

My day is saved! Then I open it up to see how much it costs, and I see this:

!

!!!* Continue Reading »

Occupation: Magicienne

So I was uh, getting ready to go to the library (and mourning a certain TV death1) when I came upon Pajiba’s “Guide to Third Date Flicks”, the premise being that on the third date, you bare your cinematic soul to your prospective mate or whatever. I usually don’t enjoy this kind of humour because of the high “men are like this, but women are like that” quotient, but then I also enjoy judging people based on what stuff they like2, so I’m not sure whether to endorse the article. Maybe because it hit so awfully close to home:

If either partner sticks in Truffaut, David Lynch, Von Trier, Bertolucci, Malick or anyone else of their ilk, someone is already trying too hard to impress — if he/she is actually an intellectual heavyweight, there is no need to bother with Le Crime de Monsieur Lange unless he/she is out to prove something or he/she is an asshole movie critic (or film student) and, trust me, you don’t want to go there. Roman Polanski, Jean-Luc Godard, foreign films, and documentaries might suggest a high level of intelligence, but they’re not good third-date choices unless you’re trying to scare away your Ashton Kutcher types or sleep with one of your grad students, who feign interest to procure an A in your class. Don’t get me wrong: There is something to be said for a cerebral mate, but anyone who discusses auteur theories on a third date probably doesn’t wash his or her hair very often and will likely end up trying to talk you into an “open relationship” at some point.

Which is funny because Alex and I actually watched Alphaville on our third date. (Furthermore, dear Pajiba: film students are capable of love too. Also, hygiene.)

Funnier still:

She’s Either a Complete Wack Job or The Woman of Your Dreams: Annie Hall.

Or both! I am pretty sure I made Alex watch Annie Hall on our next date.

Pajiba ends by recommending Almost Famous as the ultimate Third Date movie, and are also favourable to the better Jon Cusacks. Now, the thing is, and maybe boys don’t know this, but there are two kinds of girls: the kind that love the Cusack and think that tape deck thing is the Most. Romantic. Ever. and the kind who thinks that any guy who’s that into kickboxing is an automatic write-off and find the whole thing kind of creepy.

Celine and Julie Go Boating

I don’t really have a point for all this, except to say that on St. Patrick’s day, instead of spending the day getting drunk, like a good Irishman (which I partially am), I went to check out the new Urban Outfitters (Vancouver finally can buy overpriced t-shirts!), which was the usual mix of really cute, too expensive, and “so ridiculous I feel vaguely embarrassed to be shopping here.” Then I bought some pants on sale at Banana Republic and we ambled over to the Cinematheque to see my new favourite movie, Rivette’s classic Celine and Julie Go Boating. (Dudes, it is like someone took all the angst out of Being John Malkovich, by which I mean Charlie Kaufman must have seen this movie 100 times, and added some pyscho-drama angst, to get treated as the most original screenwriter evar.)

So to review, Alex and I spent St. Paddy’s seeing a three-hour French movie.

Tonight we are catching the one Rivette made with lady pirates. I don’t think there is any movie I could want to see more. (Edit: We are not doing that! Because it is on Thursday! When we will in fact go. I am dumb.)

1 You know which one. I was totally spoiled by the time I saw it like two weeks ago, but I am still not over it. I am so invested in this show, I can’t even talk about it.
2 Not you! It never works for people I already like. It only works for strangers on whom I can make snap judgements. (They are probably actually nice people, but I am High Fidelity in gender reverse, with movies, so there.)

Just browsing

So this weekend Alex and I were pretty rugged and Vancouver-y. We went on a walk through the storm-ravaged Stanley park, and then decided, basically on a lark, to walk across the Lion’s Gate Bridge. It was a warm, clear day, and we were right when we thought we’d be able to see everything from up there. But it was totally scary, because it’s really high up and you can feel all the cars driving by, and furthermore because it is basically flat, and there is totally a gap your foot could fall through between the surface of the bridge and the railing. Technically, I knew that like, hundreds (thousands?) of cars go over that thing every day, and I wasn’t actually in any danger of injury, but I couldn’t help being all fluttery and nervous.

Once across and in North Van, we basically had nothing to do but go to the sprawling North Van mall which we knew to contain a Whole Foods. And. I hit my knee on a display shelf thing holding some cute sweaters at Banana Republic. Like, really hard. There’s a lump just under my right kneecap and it still hurts to put weight on my leg when it’s bent (aka sitting down, standing up, going up and down stairs). I got fucking injured at Banana fucking Republic. It’s like, the upper-class yuppie milieu to which I occasionally aspire is actually attacking me.

Old Lang Syne

“I feel old,” I said as we left the subway and got away from the crowd of teens, carrying bottles of booze in Old Navy bags.

“No more water bottles full of vodka and Crystal Lite for you,” Alex said, as we walked down Queen Street to go to the movies. (Yes, we went to the movies on New Year’s Eve; we went in to Dreamgirls in 2006 and came out in 2007.)

(The movie was all right. Like, it was well-directed, Beyonce is much better than I expected, and Eddie Murphy is killer in it; but it’s weird to retell the story of Motown as about black people needing to feel guilty for their success. Like, yeah, some musicians had to “tone down” their music for a white audience, but Motown took more commercial risks; it rings really false when Jamie Foxx buries the “message song” that Eddie Murphy records in his Marvin Gaye hat, because Motown really did release “What’s Goin’ On” and “Ball of Confusion” and “War” and stuff.)

After we walked through the club district to get to the subway at one AM, this drunk kid exhorts Alex to have a happy new year and get really drunk and smoke a big j or something, and then he’s like “You too, ma’am.” Ma’am.

Happy New Year.

Pleasing people is so predictible

Yesterday I didn’t go outside until after Alex got home from work at like, 5 PM. I was trying to write up this presentation I did ages ago, so that I’d have one less thing to worry about, but it was going incredibly slowly. “Let’s go somewhere,” I said.

We wound up at Capers. We didn’t need any food besides bread, but that’s never stopped us. We came out with bread, two kinds of olives (oh, it’s suddenly olives for me; I still hate green olives, but it turns out that actual good black olives are magically delicious), baba ganoush, Island Farms eggnog, Bitch magazine, and some Kettle Chips. Also, I was looking at tea, pondering my options for essay writing aids, when this lovely Capers employee started talking about how much she liked Four O’Clock teas, did I like rooibos? They have a rooibos chai, it’s really great, she has some sample packets she can give me? Do I like green tea? Does my boyfriend? She’ll give us a few of each so we can try them out and see if we like them.

She must have sensed that I’m stressed out about writing papers; free tea has been one of the main comforts throughout my university career, though it used to be bringing bags home from the meal hall. (I kind of miss Burwash at times like this. The food was just okay at the best of times, but there’s something that no amount of fancy food stores can replace in the ability to roll out of bed at 9, walk down the hall in pajamas (and maybe a sweatshirt) and enjoy some average breakfast, juice from a machine, marginally-acceptable coffee and a bowl of pineapple, melon and grape fruit salad). Those were the days.

Oh, and shut up, Richard Dawkins.

Do you consider parents forcing children to accept their religion a form of child abuse? JAMES MACDONALD, Bronte, New South Wales Yes. What would you think of parents who forced their children to accept their politics, or their taste in architecture? Have you ever heard anyone speak of a “Leninist child” or a “Postmodernist child”? Of course not. Why, then, do we all go along with “Christian child” and “Muslim child”? Such labelling of children with their parents’ religion is child abuse.

What? I mean, for one, he’s conflating teaching your children beliefs that you strongly hold, and socially labelling children as such. For another, how is calling a child “Leninist” abuse in any real sense of the word? Way to belittle the sufferings of actual victims of child abuse to come up with the most shocking way of saying that you, an atheist, don’t think kids should be taught religion.

How did a science geek like you get such an attractive wife? GARY HAMMOND, London I suggest you go to ” The Sexiest Man Living” at salon.com and eat your words. But seriously (of course you knew there had to be a “but seriously”), science has an image problem with young people, and phrases like ” science geek” don’t help. Isn’t it a bit like “kraut” or ” dago”?

No, “kraut” and “dago” are ethnic slurs. “Science geek” is…not.

I realize he basically says shit like this because it makes people mad and then they write blog entries about him. He’s like the Paris Hilton of Darwinism.

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