K I T S C H — Cate's Blog

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Omigawd, it's him! It's really him! Laaaaaance!

Remember a simpler time? When he was dating Lucy on 7th Heaven?

Yeah, me too.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Flightless birds

It's amazing that no one died in this plane crash. What's not so remarkable, I suppose, were the number of jerkwads who stopped their cars on the highway next to the airport and got out to watch the plane burning. Seriously, who does shit like that? And on a major highway during rush hour? Wouldn't you be embarrassed if people you knew recognized you and your car in news footage being broadcast around the world?

We're at least five miles away from the crash, but when I stepped out into the white smog haze on my balcony a few minutes ago, I just about passed out from the smell of burning airplane. Not surprisingly, it's a really eerie smell -- not like anything I've ever encountered before, thank God. I sure hope none of those useless gapers on the highway needed treatment for smoke inhalation.

Over the past few weeks, we've come across two birds that needed rescuing. The first one was a seagull in the park. It was caught by the end of its wing on a fishing hook someone had left dangling off a branch over Etobicoke Creek: the same creek that burning plane is sitting next to right now. The seagull was too far over the water for us to reach it, although, to be honest, I can't say I'd be brave enough to perform a rescue attempt on a thrashing, terrified bird with a wingspan of three feet or so.

Because we're the last cellphoneless losers in Toronto, we drove to a nearby payphone. By the time we'd navigated through the byzantine automated phone system of Parks and Recreation late on a Friday afternoon and actually reached a live person who promised to send someone out, the seagull had worked itself free and flown off. The Parks and Rec guy who came out managed to knock the hook off the line by throwing branches at it. He said birds get caught on hooks like that surprisingly often. Something else that was surprising to me was that we were the only ones who had tried to call someone out. Seriously, what is wrong with people?

This past weekend we were with some friends at a park zoo in Waterloo. Have you ever seen a white peacock? I hadn't until Sunday. That is one pretty bird. And with its tail feathers spread out, its ass looks like a beautiful, fancy, feathery chair. But I digress.

There was a family of pheasanty-looking young birds with their mother in an enclosure, except one of the chicks had found its way outside through a gap between the fence and the gate. Instead of trying to get back in, it stuck as close as it could to its mother, who had moved twenty feet away from the gate. This baby bird's brain was about the size of a peanut, so it's really not so strange that it would be flummoxed by the physics knowledge required to navigate its way back inside.

I figured I could take this bird on, seeing as how it was less than a foot tall, so I started walking it back to the gate in the hope that it could make the connection and find its way back in. There were a few times I thought it might start pecking me, but luckily I managed to scare it into moving on by shaking the container of almonds we keep in the trunk for emergency squirrel feeding. The almonds are a little old since they're left over from Sir Pet-A-Lot, but have you seen some of the stuff squirrels eat? They even enjoy SweetTarts. Um, not that I should tell you how I know this fact.

So, the baby pheasant is making these pathetic little chirping sounds, obviously afraid that I'm a very slow-moving hunter intent on turning it into a delicious dinner by braining it with a Tupperware container full of nuts. I had a few fearful moments myself as I wondered if I'd be able to get this bird back into its home before the arrival of the nasty family we'd seen by the bunny enclosure earlier -- the parents who smiled proudly as their two dreadful children tried to wallop the rabbits through the fence with sticks while screaming at the top of their lungs. I know that if I had children, the first thing I'd want to teach them is how to frighten creatures who are much smaller and more helpless than they are. That sure is a valuable life lesson.

God, I'm so self-righteous today. But seriously, what is wrong with people?

The pheasant managed to squeeze under a gap in the fence before the children could turn it into a pinata. I really like to think that spoiled the little demon urchins' day.

I also like to think that God rewarded me by making the fuckwits down at Canada Post finally locate the shiny new modem I'm using to upload this entry -- the same modem they've been sitting on for almost three weeks now. Their inability to send out even one of the two postcards they're supposed to deliver so I can pick up my package makes me think that in a chess match against a baby pheasant, they might not fare so well.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Petty frustrations

This morning I was berated for not ordering my bagel with "Fresh Bacon Bits," like the sign said, and calling it "bacon cream cheese" like the rest of the world would. By the time that bitch was done pointing to the little sign and saying, "See? That's what it's called," I just said "Never mind," and left. I can live without their mediocre bagels and stupid attitude for the rest of my life, thanks.

I do think it would be fun to make little signs for what I think the various types of cream cheese should be called and then surreptitiously post them on the glass for others to enjoy. Or more likely for someone to be savaged by the staff when he or she tries to order the "Roasted Vegetable with Champagne and Crystal Meth."

But mostly I'm peeved because I have no internet access at home until my ISP mails me a new modem that's faster than 3 bits per hour. Evidently, my modem is from the Paleozoic era, and there are only, like, three of them still in existence, and the Smithsonian wants to bronze mine.

I'm going to miss having it fill up the entire guest room when it's gone. But that doesn't mean it wasn't kind of shitty of my ISP to keep charging me premium prices while waiting for me to go to them and ask for a post-1849 modem.

Hey, I told you these were petty frustrations.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Supernatural

What have I been up to lately? Really not that much. I work a lot. I killed a couple of Armageddon-type shows over at TWoP back in the spring. I quit drinking. Well, mostly. These days I'm tipsy after one drink and totally trashed by three or four. That part's cool, but I'd kind of forgotten what hangovers are like, and Saturday morning I just wanted to die. Being a boozehound is hard work!

So, we were planning to check out a street sale in my friend Dan's neighborhood. Dan has impeccable taste in trash cult and owns more cool stuff than anyone else I know. He also feeds my addictions to '60s erotica with bad production values and ridiculous cookbooks in which the author wants you to cook with dealcoholized Merlot (ew!) or serve your friends a big helping of pan-fried brains and then smile and not say anything when they ask what they're eating. (Wait! Come back! What do you mean, never speak to you again? You haven't even tried the turducken or the Iceberg Ring yet!)

Well, now I know that Dan is also the best host ever. We got to his place, and he wasted no time ministering to my hangover with Mr. Mouth's Miracle Hangover Remedy. It worked remarkably well, and fortunately I made it down the wacky funhouse staircase without doing a face plant or stepping on Van Gogh, the one-eared cat.

We lucked out right away at the first sale, where I found this killer book on body language. Except mine is from 1971 so the cover's super-dated and awesome. Now I know that European men cross their legs differently than North American men. Thanks, book. And I do mean that with all sincerity. This is just the sort of utterly useless information I find most fascinating.

Because it was at least 120 degrees Celsius outside, I wasn't in a real buying mood so I mostly looked over Dan's shoulder while he went through all the record bins. I saw a lovely album called Valley of the Dolls "Featuring The Young Lovers." Evidently, they're some lounge act from the late '60s. I wanted it for the cheesy cover art of the trying-to-be-tasteful half-clad couple juxtaposed with a closeup of a big whack of pills, but I ended up enjoying the music anyway. I had to turn it off, though, when the bunny started becoming progressively more agitated. I don't know if this album has anything at all to do with the movie version of the finest book ever written, but I'm guessing no.

Next we took a trip to the best Goodwill in, well, anywhere. Peeter found a couple of disco Christmas albums; Dan found some more records, including a few with covers of semi-naked women for his bathroom wall collection; and I almost bought a bridesmaid's dress that Peeter found for me, but I changed my mind at the last minute, on account of the fact that this dress was held up by two teal bath sponges and ornamented with a nasty, glittery fake flower in the cleavage area. When I managed to hold it up in front of me with a straight face to ask Dan's opinion, I believe that for a split second I could actually see him thinking, Must humor the crazy girl. It would be mean to laugh at the crazy girl.

Dan invited us back for beers and some more of the Reverend Mouth's Hangover Miwacle. And we got to listen to a few of the records he bought, including songs from this puppet with a face sculpted by Satan. It was strangely compelling after a while, although it never really topped the 78 RPM canary-training record played at 45 RPM. Trust me on that.

Tomorrow: Houston. I can't even fucking wait.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Screw you, Planet Earth

Finally, finally, we have air conditioning.

And now that we have it, we're going to run it approximately 365 hours per day for the rest of the whole damn summer.

That is all, really.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

George Bush is so dreamy!

Man, that was a weird dream I just had. For some reason, I was part of a festival involving both George Bushes. Yeah, I don't get that either, but let's just gloss for now.

So I was in charge of keeping people out of George Sr.'s house. Frankly, I don't know why anyone would have wanted to come into this house anyway, as it was a falling-down slum. But whatever. Anyway, I had no Secret Service backup, and the two phone numbers I'd been given to use if I had any concerns were not working. In fact, one of them ended up disconnected by the end of the afternoon.

I don't exactly need a course on dream interpretation to figure out this one so far, seeing as I and so many others have so very much faith in the Bush administration. What comes later in the dream I'm not so sure about. I suspect it was just my subconscious trying to make me laugh after a difficult week, though.

At first I tried to keep people out of the house, but since there were no locks on any of the doors, that proved rather a challenge. Then I made half-hearted efforts to keep people from vandalizing a portrait of Barbara Bush.

"Hey, you! Quit drawing that moustache on-- Heh. Okay, carry on."

By the end, I was encouraging people to grab tchotchkes to keep as souvenirs on their way out.

Friday, December 17, 2004

Should I worry?

The bunny has a piece of wood she likes to chew on. Lately it's been looking more and more like a spear with a really, really sharp point.

Seriously. Should I be worrying?