Frothy Rocket Crotch

You heard me.

My good friend Stef coined this little gem last night in reference to a redheaded male's un-manscaped crotch region and I have to say, there has never been one better. Can you not picture exactly, and I mean exactly, what she's talking about? I know. Me too. Pubes that look like the ethereal mist at the bottom of Niagra Falls.

Amazing. Stef says "you're welcome":

Promoted pussy

Cute or sad? You be the judge.

I know this is old news by now, but I need to talk a bit about Tama the Super Station Master Cat. Tama got a promotion from "station master" to "super station master" after ridership on the train at the station which she inhabits rose 10% in the last fiscal year, or an increase of 1.1 billion Yen. She is the "only female in a managerial postion" at the company and is the first cat to become an executive of a railroad corporation. No, I'm not making this up, and yes, this all happened in Japan (obv).

Tama is rewarded for her efforts (what efforts?) with a cape and a hat with a feather and free food from the railway company. She also lives in a rent-free converted ticket-booth equipped with a litter box and blankies. Shit, we should all be so lucky.

Did I mention she has two assistants, Chibi and Miiko? And that they are cats also?

Still don't believe me?



Let's consider the women who work at this company: They (probably) work twice as hard as all the men, only to see the only managerial postion in the ENTIRE company go to a CAT. Not only this, but this company choice is celebrated by the president of said company in a ceremony at which the MAYOR of the TOWN gives a speech. I can here their internal monologues of "WTF!!!!" from here.

Japan: 100%...... something. Dunno yet.

Happy Groundhog Day!

I love this day because the 112 year tradition devoted to it is 100% insane.

So, for those of us concerned with such matters, it seems that Punxsutawney Phil (groundhog) saw his shadow this morning in Gobbler's Knob, PA, which means there will be 6 more weeks of winter. Darn.

Video of Phil here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQ4aK9GIsTA

More information on this fucked-up subject here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Groundhog_Day

GOBBLER'S KNOB!!!!!!

Smoke, baby

Oh my fuck do I miss smoking.

Well, sort of. The truth is smoking kind of kept me from being who I wanted. I didn't want to be a person that smoked, I wanted to be a healthy, fit person. But such a lifestyle requires effort, and it's easier to have a cigarette than it is to work out. Plus, smoking acts directly on the pleasure centers of your brain, so if you are prone to anxiety or feeling blue, as I am, it's pretty tempting.

I don't remember how I started but it was later in life than any intelligent person would admit. And it was a means to an end for me: when I was feeling bad it was a distraction, and something to look forward to. That I suppose is how it happens for many people. But the nature of nicotine is such that it soon becomes daily and you are smoking to go with everything, driving, talking, breathing. You talk yourself into the idea that you deserve it, this break. It's so many things: It's a break, it's a relief from boredom, it's a way to feel rebellious, it's a way to feel fabulous, because why feel bad? You're smoking. Oh and it goes so well with drinking. How wonderful is it after soul-crushing week at work to recline, drink in hand, cigarette lit.

But it has a grimy side. There is nothing quite so bad as the taste of your own mouth after a night of heavy smoking, a combination of some kind of rotten tree sap and brown cotton balls. And you just know the rest of your body smells like that taste. Ashtrays are gross. Stale smoke is grosser. Somehow, no matter how careful you are, ash gets all over the house. And it always made me feel stupider than my non-smoking friends, who knew the secret to being successful human beings without gross addictions and premature ageing. So, when I'm not smoking, I feel like I'm a better person. I feel cleaner and brighter and like the kind of person I've grown to admire. That being said, when I want to relax, I feel the pull of it. It's a fear of mine that I can never be as relaxed as I am when I've smoked. I hope that isn't true, because I really want to quit this time.

That's right, I said this time. I've quit about 5 times and they've all been good efforts. The quitting periods have lasted years at a time. Actually it's really the smoking periods, because I've not smoked much longer than I have smoked. But because smoking feels like a failure, it's the times I'm not a failure that get recorded, and the times I am a smoker that feel more important and permanent. So, then my quitting times. I really do feel at heart like a non-smoker in a smokers body. The non-smoker is who I'm supposed to be, if I can just manage to be a little less lazy about it this time and not get tempted to start up again when something happens that I don't like (this is the tyranny of addiction - life events can be used as an excuse to indulge).

So, so far so good. But I feel like if I say it out loud it will stop me from doing it. I quit on December 27, had a few cigs on the weekend of January 16, but nothing since, not even on my birthday on the 30th. Not too shabby. I'll keep you posted.

Ukrainians do it better

Yeah we do. To wit:

This is Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper:

This is Ukrainian Prime Minister Yulia Tymoshenko:

HAWT. And a snappy dresser:

Holla.

Don't Do This: Civil War Reenactments

Welcome to the first edition of Don't Do This. Because sometimes we get things hilariously, utterly wrong (according to me, anyway). For example:

Don't do this.

I enjoy the history and battles of the civil war immensely and would never begrudge someone their fascination. However, taking it too far like the lovely couple pictured here just makes you look like an idiot. It's the hobby that screams "I have not had sex in a long, long time". If you must do something like this, keep it in the bedroom (or a room with a door), where it belongs.

(photo courtesy of Awkward Family Photos)

Vintage Vancouver: The Holly Lodge

I figured I would start this blog from home base, literally, and do the first Vintage Vancouver profile post on my home, the Holly Lodge. Now, I've done a lot of research on the Holly Lodge because about 5 years ago I thought I would write a play about one suite and all the people who lived in it from 1912 - present. Not a terrible idea, but the resulting first act was so utterly, ridiculously bad that I'm hanging my head in shame as I write this. But I kept the research in the hopes that one day I would put it to good use. So:

The Holly Lodge was built in 1912 by the architectural team Wright, Rushforth and Cahill, who were based in San Francisco and who also built the San Francisco City Hall, among other buildings up and down the West Coast. Here is the original proposal illustration:

Under construction in 1910:

Shortly after completion:

In 1915, starring in a postcard:

View from the rooftop in 1942:

And in 1975:
The Holly Lodge was built at the intersection of Davie and Jervis streets, which would have had an impressive view of English Bay and First Beach. It was the tallest building in the West End for decades, standing at 6 storeys when most apartment buildings stood at 3.

At this time the West End was the most fashionable neighbourhood in Vancouver and home to the very wealthy. The HoLo held court among some of the most sprawling, extravagant mansions on the West Coast, including Gabriola (also known as the B.T. Rogers sugar mansion for its owner) and Hendry House.

Its bachelor, 1 and 2 bedroom apartment had gas stoves, hot water radiators, coal burning fireplaces (in the larger 2 bedroom suites), high ceilings, bay windows, hardwood floors and dumbwaiters. The intended design and layout of the apartments have not changed since its completion.

At some point in its history (I don't know this for sure but I'm thinking somewhere around the 1960s) it fell to neglect, and as a result it's not in great shape today, being too large and too costly to fix completely. That is what I like about it. The great thing about historic houses and apartments that have not been renovated is that the guts are all original, nothing has been done other than what was originally intended. It's not falling down, but the floors are scarred and the walls are cracked - it needs a makeover. During wind storms, like the one last night, the unsealed windows in my my suite make a noise like a long, satisfying fart eased out by your Grandpa during Thanksgiving dinner.

It would be very hard for me to leave. It would have to be a seriously kick-ass house or apartment that could get me out of the HoLo. My friends are here, I can walk to work, and I love this neighbourhood, and while those are all great reasons in themselves, there is more to it than that.

I've tried to put my finger on what it is about antique homes and objects that has held a fascination for me for so long, and I think it has to do simply with access to a time that is not my own. It's not life as I have always known it. I'm allowed into a different world through studying how people used to live and what they chose to use and wear every day. These things bring me closer and I like being closer. There is an intimacy in walking in the same home and using the same china and rolling pins, jewelry and recipes. I have no idea how many people have lived in the Holly Lodge or in my suite and it's not for lack of trying. There has been so much turnover in 98 years that I suppose it's impossible to know. I love the specifics, but I also enjoy the unanswerables. For some reason I equate this to feeling at home.

Plus, my apartment, like, farts.

(photos courtesy of the City of Vancouver and Vancouver Public library archives)