The Ultimate Karaoke Song

WE SURVIVED THE ROSE 2006
Craig gets cozy with the karaoke machine

Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance. It's the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance. It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give, and the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely and the road has been to long, and you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong, just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows, lies the seed that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose.

Carly turns it up a notch.
And now, I'm gonna slow it down for everyone...
Karaoke can totally have back-up dancers.
Just call me angel, in the morning...angel...just touch my cheek before you leave...

(We would like to issue a formal apology to any of Tyler's neighbours who may have overheard, and thus suffered through, SEVEN heartbreaking renditions of Bette Midler's The Rose.)

Winter Holiday Festival for Everyone

All nations can benefit from the joy of the pagan winter solstice festival with ritual turkey sacrifice.

Eulogy for My Sexy Boots

Oh, my sexy boots.
I remember when I first saw you. On sale, in a busy mall. I impulsively grabbed a salesgirl to bring you to me. I’d barely slipped you on when I’d already decided you were going to be mine.
How I loved the sharpness of your lines. The wicked point of your toes. The height of your heels just perfectly dangerous. I loved the way you clung to my calves, coating every curve in shiny black.
You went with everything. I could even trendily slouch your fabric, satisfying multiple fashion needs in one pair of boots. Peeking out from under the hem of pants, you suggested the mystery of more to come. Accenting skirts, you brought every ensemble up one notch of fabulousness.
The first time you let me down – or was it I who let you down? – was at a concert. I rocked back on a heel and then the whole world shifted. There was a sickening snap. When I reached down to try to right the wrongly bent heel, it came off in my hand. I spent the rest of the evening unhappily sitting and mourning at the back of the venue.
But I did not lose hope. I made a special trip and took you, my beloved sexy boots, to the very best shoe repair I knew. They’d worked miracles one summer day on my sister’s Camper sandals, and I figured if anyone could save you, they could. The prognosis was skeptical, but they agreed to try, and a few days later I had you back, almost good as new.
Then came my bachelorette party. Damn, you looked good with my little-boy britches and fishnet stockings. You lasted with me all night – club after club, dancefloor after dancefloor. Then, late, late in the night… The dancefloor of the Matador was empty. I was drunk. A raucous song came on. And you couldn’t take it any more. One boisterous stomp was all that separated me from continued happiness with my sexy boots.
Luckily, I had a pair of sneakers in my overnight bag, and didn’t have to spend another night with wounded, broken boots bringing me down.
This time I knew there was no fixing you. You sat, useless and sad, at the back of my closet for months. I couldn’t bear to throw you away.
Now I send you down the garbage chute. Thank you for being a great pair of boots. It is with regret that I let you go.

The sexy boots are dead!
Long live the sexy boots!

Steps for buying a Xmas tree

1. Figure out who has the hangover.


2. Find a tree that is tall enough for this ride.



















3. Make sure the tree is cuddly. Give it a hug.




4. Make sure the tree is yummy. Have a Tim Horton's. Wedge into car and take it home.

Things that are bugging me these days.

1. Women in the gym changeroom who do everything, from slathering on their body lotion to putting on their coat, in front of the mirror. Do you really need to know what you look like as you put on your socks? I sure don't. While this makes me feel a bit better about my comparative level of vanity, I can't help but get impatient as I wait to put on my mascara. I really actually do need a mirror for that.

2. A Perfect Circle's cover of John Lennon's Imagine. Possibly the worst song I've ever heard. They managed to take a hopeful hippie anthem and turn it into a suicide dirge. I'm not big on Beatles (and by extension, John Lennon's solo) covers by anyone, except street buskers or in live performance, anyway. I mean, the nerve! Do they think they can re-record perfection? And Michael Buble, did you think it was a good idea to completely castrate the Fab Four? You better hope you can buy love, 'cause no one is throwing their panties at you after your rendition.

3. People who cut in front of me while walking, but walk slower than I do. So...You want to get there before me, but not sooner? Yes, I get pedestrian rage. Sign me up to be the new Crazy Lady.

4. The fact that the homeless dude on the corner is a racist. He's our "regular" homeless guy - we see him enough that we say "hi" often. We've given him cash, free-sandwich coupons, and smiles. We even thought that my father-in-law had given him his old winter coat, but that turned out to be the other homeless dude that shares the corner (I think they take shifts). But today I heard him ranting about Chinese people. He used a racial epithet that I'd never heard before and now I'm upset that I know a new derogatory word. Also upset at him. Sure, he's not mentally stable, but that's no excuse for bigotry. (That's right, Granny, that applies to you, too.)

5. That my office building is located in a suburban wasteland. It's a ten-minute walk to the nearest strip-mall. I am trapped in my cubicle and I still haven't brought in any "personality items", other than BDSM Lambie.

6. No one at work has seen BDSM Lambie, and the thrill of it being funny is wearing off. When a co-worker does finally notice the little stuffed lamb wearing a leather face mask and chaps, I'll be so bored of the whole idea of having such a silly thing on my desk that I won't even react. Although, nonchalance is pretty funny, where deviant sex in the work environment is concerned.

7. Just when you thought you were out... I finally sent my union a letter asking to withdraw my membership. Seeing as how I now have a regular, 9-to-5, biweekly paycheck, desk job. In response, I got a voicemail from the admin lady -- who always sounds like she's maybe about to cry, as opposed to the member services lady, who always sounds as though something terrible has happened and if you don't return her call right away the world might end -- apparently in order to "honourably withdraw" I have to pay up my union dues in full. So, I haven't worked a union gig in a full year, and now I cannot afford to quit. My options: Pay exorbitant dues in exchange for no work and no benefits, in order to stay in good standing with a union I will likely never be involved with again, or be "dishonourably discharged" from the International Cinematographers Guild. Why won't they just let me go? Why does it have to be hard? I'm considering treating them like a playground bully -- ignore them and maybe they'll just go away.

8. I'm too picky about baking. I was looking forward to this week's office bake sale, one of many this holiday season. I take my change, head down to the assigned boardroom, and load up a paper plate with ostensibly delicious homebaked goodies. And I am inevitably disappointed. No one's blondies are as good as mine, and I can't believe I even bothered with someone else's ginger crinkle cookies. Now I've got all this sugary temptation that I can't even be bothered to eat. I suppose that's progress, in a way, in light of my newly-admitted-to sugar addiction. Nevertheless, it just takes the joy right out of holiday bingeing.

Eight things is probably enough negative energy for one post. To restore positive energy, take a deep breath, chant an "Ohm" and take a nice full-body stretch. Or binge. Whatever blows your skirt up.

Crazy Lady Has Left the Building

http://mmallinson.blogspot.com/2006/10/my-new-favourite-crazy-person.html

My favourite crazy person no longer works in my building. I overheard her the other day telling a colleague that it was her second-last day and that she was going to "blow this pop stand." I thought about being worried for a moment, but I'm certain that she saves her aggression for fellow TTC riders, and that our "pop stand" is safe from explosives.
Before she left, though, she provided me and a girl I work with (dare I say, work friend?) with the best episode yet. This so-called work friend knew exactly who I was talking about when I said, "You know that crazy lady that's always on the bus?" ("The one with the bleached-blond hair and the red lipstick and the cigarettes?" she replied. Of course!) We've shared a few amused glances and raised eyebrows on the subject since, whenever we see Crazy Lady forcing her way to the front of a line, pushing past people on the escalator, or aggressively taking her seat on the bus. Once, she spoke to my work friend, causing her to be very frightened, but then pleased to have a story to relate. And once we saw her coaching a colleague of hers on the best way to get a seat on the bus (push past everyone in line on the platform and board before the bus is even empty).
But the other day...
We were all crammed into the elevator. Crazy Lady works on floor 2, which makes her not only crazy but irritating. Second floor? Walk! But on this particular day, the elevator goes "ding!" for the first time and when I look at the display it reads "4". Doors open. Crazy lady forcefully walks out and -- realizes it's not her floor. She pauses. "What the fuck?" Oh my god, I'm thinking. She forgot to push her button! She's going to freak out! {And more, do not look up at work friend. Eyecontact will cause giggling.} Crazy Lady strides back into the elevator. Looks at floor display. "Fuck." Pauses. {Do not giggle.} Is she going to ride the elevator all the way up to 9, and then back down again? {Do not look up. Do not giggle}. "Fucking..." Mutters string of expletives as she strides out of the elevator. Doors close. Giggles errupt. Other people in elevator clearly see the humour, but don't quite understand why we are hysterical.

Crazy Lady, you will be missed. Sort of.

In other news, I've discovered that the Crazy Lady lives in my neighbourhood! I almost dropped my grocery bags when I saw her sitting and smoking (still seeming aggressive, somehow) outside a coffee shop. I'll keep an eye out.