September 12, 2004

Sometimes capitalism doesn't suck

There's an odd moment, just once in a while, when marketing doesn't inspire the gag reflex. Case in point, the very clever Penguin UK site, Good Booking.

Spoofing the always awkward animal, the men's magazine, Good Bookng offers blokes a thousand pounds if the site's gorgeous blonde -- shown on the site, of course, covered in photography-friendly sweat from a makeup artist's mister -- spots the lucky prizewinner reading the right book in a public place.

Clever use of an awful genre to promote something worthwhile.

Speaking of books, has anyone read Art Spiegelman's ode to 9/11, In The Shadow of No Towers, yet?

September 11, 2004

The Wet Spots

Hit the Fringe last night with some friends -- specifically, saw The Wet Spots, a vaudeville-style duo who sing mostly about sexually oriented topics.


A workout show focusing on Kegels: "we support any exercise you can do while drinking a beer and having a smoke in your local neighbourhood pub!"

Lyrics that are strong throughout the show. Case in point, the ever-popular courtship song, "Do You Take It In The Ass?"

Admittedly, the finale needs a little work -- as a longtime guitar player, John is best-suited to the musical end of things, while Cass' strong vocals are helped by her history in performance poetry, giving her more polish on the acting side -- but it is hard to argue with androgynous blonde afros, bare buttocks and obscene singalongs.

At no time in the years since I met John did I think, "I predict Woodsy will wear a silver thong and tassle pasties, and I will applaud wildly." I was happily not weirded out by the experience.

A good show, check out the website to find a show near you -- they're touring as we speak.

September 3, 2004


The following is inspired by the standard holy trinity of any hobby writer:
Random pop culture moment: for me, today, Garden State, a not-so-little film in little film packaging.
Significant life event: Nadia and I just moved to Yaletown (yes, THAT Yaletown).
Last but not even close to least, insomnia.


a lamp you don't remember buying, but you can't imagine life without.

I cuddle up, arms and legs entangled, and I wish we could stay like this forever
almost embarrassing, but satisfying to my core, this sweaty, trashy menage a trois.
It's a scandalous public display -- what would my mother think?
Me, this armchair and a paperback book I only met this afternoon.
The page turned, noon became nine, and I closed my eyes in orgiastic bliss
until the security guard warned me.
The store closes in 10 minutes, sir.

Just like that
I wandered
and the suddenness of night chills my marrow.

The streets are like an old friend
seen for the first time in a while
familiar but different
changed, in the same old way.
I walked for hours tonight, catching up but keeping distant
not wanting to broach anything too uncomfortable,
the off-chance of renewed friendship too precious to endanger.
Still moist from my previous sin
damp with danger
that book was still in my pocket.

She catches my eye, her intangible glow
stolen from inspiration itself.
Please please please give me a piece of that smile
Bask me, treat me, broil me, goddess of the brown bean.
Girlfriend at the new apartment, still moist from my previous sin
the question in my eyes, not my words.
Would you roast me, coddle me, buy and sell my very soul?
I'm sorry, just what you see on the menu, sir.

Just like that
I wonder
Can she read the double entendre in my chai tea latte?
The suddenness of espresso lights my eyes
like an old hit song




Where the hell did we get that lamp?
I still can't find the light switches in the new apartment.

But God, it's good to be home.