to desire the replica

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 27th, 2010

So I was scanning the paper this morning and stumbled upon this little gem…..

“Britain sets limit of 225 nuclear warheads”

Correct me if I’m wrong here, but couldn’t you nuke the ENTIRE FUCKING PLANET with about half a dozen? Of course if that number seems ludicrous, let’s just remember that the US has something like 5000 of the suckers.

No……. I wouldn’t call that overkill at all.

In other news, the very next page and therefore almost as important, is a substantially longer story detailing the new music label that Ellen Degeneres is starting.

Some days I genuinely feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 23rd, 2010

So Nigel has a new home in the country as of Friday and I am not ashamed to say that I cried. I also spent the rest of the evening sending her text messages containing vital information such as how much water he likes to drink, when he last ate, and when she can expect him to poo next.

Yes. I am that person.

Also, this is what has become of my long weekend lounging on the beach in the hot sun.

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 21st, 2010

It’s Friday of the May long weekend.

Hallafuckingluya.

Oh, and I have left over Chinese take out for lunch today.

Does it get better than that? Really, Does it? I don’t think so, amigo.

It’s going to be hot here and I intend to spend a large portion of the weekend laying prone on a quite strip of beach while the dogs roll in the sand and goose shit. Despite my best efforts to towel them off upon return home they will manage to keep a nice slimy wad of goose crap hidden from me and will merrily  wipe some of it on the couch and throw rugs. Afterwords they will look proud of their offerings. I get why dogs do this and I get why cats drag in dead mice and birds- really, I get it- it’s a gift. Can’t we somehow teach these little fuckers to colour or make clay ashtrays? Why do their prezzies always have to smell like death and lumpy yogurt? Or like the one time that Maggi rolled in a giant pile of vomit in the park. Human vomit. With carrots and what looked like maybe enchiladas? Yeah, that was nice.

We still have our little homeless old man Nigel. It will be a week tomorrow and not one single personal has called me, the spca, or the pound. No one is looking for him. I hate the owners of this little dog with the fire of a thousand suns. Unless it’s an old person who had a medical emergency and he escaped during the ambulance chaos. Then I don’t hate them with any suns. In fact, I kind of have to assume they’re dead. RIP former owners of the dog now called Nigel, I will make sure he is safe & loved.

I have to go eat the left over Chinese in my lunch now. Never mind that it’s 9:21am. When spicy Mongolian beef calls your name, you answer motherfucker!

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 16th, 2010

I know that when I woke up yesterday we only had 2 dogs. Yet somehow as of yesterday afternoon, we have 3.

Mini black schnauzers aren’t all that common and everyone in my hood knows we have one due to our multiple daily walks and the fact that Maggi strolls without a leash, knows the “wait” command at street crossings and is just all around fucking adorable. So someone found one a few blocks away and assumed it was ours- given that we weren’t home, my neighbor 2 doors down took it until we got back. Needless to say- it wasn’t Maggi. He’s ancient, very wobbly in the back legs and hips, has obvious cataracts, needs to be carried up and down the stairs but is sweet and friendly and loves a good scratch under the chin. He’s beautifully groomed so I have to assume that he is lost rather than abandoned- despite his obvious medical problems, people who have their dogs professionally groomed don’t strike me as the type to abandon them. I’ve posted fliers everywhere and both Maggi & Lucy are putting up with their new guest quite well but he spends most of the day looking hopefully out the front screen. He clearly just wants to go home. We’ve named him Nigel.

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 13th, 2010

Great rivers of oil are gushing into the water at an astonishing rate and BP still can’t stop the flow. They have fucked up royally and we all know it. They know we know it. They hold press conference after press conference about their greatest new idea to save the day and the tone isn’t one of shame or horror, it’s more like “Rally the troops! Let’s figure it out gang!” It’s almost as though he hopes to have us all get behind their valiant effort while attempting to administer a verbal lobotomy on us with his soothing “There’s no I in team, folks!” bullshit.

What I find interesting about this whole shit show is how people are reacting to it. Yes, everyone cried foul after Exxon when down and emptied it’s belly in the water, but then it was over and the clean up began and it slowly drifted off of the front page. Eventually people forgot. Ok, maybe not David Suzuki, but it did lose it’s shock & horror value once we stopped seeing the dead oil covered animals on the news every night. Let’s face it people, we forget. Not everyone obviously, but “Middle America” has a history of forgetting rather quickly. (I do mean us Canadians as well but “Middle Canada”  doesn’t have the same ring- makes us sound like a weird tribe of hobbits from a Tolkien novel- and we all know that can’t be true since hobbits don’t live in igloos.)

So- yes, we forget. However…. I think this one might be different. As the BP spill is lacking the normal “Spill, cry, clean up, and move on” formula, we stand far less of a chance of forgetting. It’s still fucking gushing and growing and killing and destroying.

And it might take months to stop it.

We’ll be watching this for months- watching the oil take over the water- and watching BP try to blame others even though something as stupid as a $500,000.00 acoustic switch which they said was “too expensive” to install could have prevented this, and even though just last year BP lobbied hard against tighter safety regulations for the industry. (Roy has an excellent post over at Matt’s all about this greed fuckery)

Will a man made disaster of this magnitude be enough to force politicians out of bed with the oil the companies and make it easier for them to side with the environment rather than the stack of dollar bills? As we watch oil pour into the sea month after month while BP fumbles around, will it enrage us enough to really give a shit and demand change? And I mean demand it until it happens, not just demand it until it’s time to go pick the kids up from school or time to go back to work and “here- can you hold this rally sign for me, I gotta drive to starbucks for a latte.” Because make no mistake kiddies- politicians loooove waiting us out because we stamp and scream and holler until it’s time to go on that golf trip or weekend drive up to the wine country. “I know there’s a boycott, but this shit was already planned!”

We always cave and they know it.

Maybe BP fucked up so big and so bad that we won’t cave this time. Maybe we’ll just keep stamping and screaming and hollering until they cave.

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 7th, 2010

**After finishing a fantastic dinner of pepper & espresso crusted steak & smoked paprika potato salad**

Me- “Baby, wouldn’t you hate living with someone who didn’t love to cook?”

Steve- “Yeah.”

Me -“You’d live on chef boyardi, pizza, and anything frozen or out of a can that could be a complete dinner in 5 minutes.”

Steve- “She’d have to be over-the-top miraculously hot.”

posted by: Kim
posted on: May 5th, 2010

So I swing by London Drugs this morning and as I’m standing in line with my holy shit I can’t wait to eat you Hardbite Himalayan salt chips, I can’t help but notice the guy at the checkout ahead of me. It wasn’t the flashy black suit jacket paired with the faded black jeans or the shiny black loafers made out of buttery soft looking leather. No, it was none of those things. It was the $487.00 worth of Claritin that he was buying. A stack of little blue boxes piled up so high that oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling, least we all fall ill with altitude sickness.

He wasn’t standing there twitching or picking at gaping sores on his face or the imaginary bugs crawling up his arms, but he may as well have been. His unassuming well dressed self was still betrayed by the giant fucking wall of Claritin boxes between him and the checkout lady, so really, even having METH LABS INC. tattooed across his forehead couldn’t have made it any more obvious than it already was.

My deadpan “Real bad allergies, huh?” was followed by him staring at me like you would a basket of kittens. I mean, if the kittens had been put through a sausage grinder then fried up on a George Foreman grill and served with a little lye sauce for dipping.

I guess it’s not totally surprising that no one else seemed to notice or care being that we were in London Drugs at 9:45am therefore me & Mr. McMeth were probably the only ones in the store that didn’t watch the moon landing live on the telly box. I’m sure that more than one of those motorized scooter driving, polyester slack wearing centurions were thinking;

“Oh dear, look at that poor boy.  Sure is a sickly little fellow.”

I’d even bet that a few of them are at home right now wishing they knew where he lived so they could bring him over a nice bowl of borscht. How the fuck he’d eat it in a full face mask though I have no idea.