Sauron = Rasta? Voldemort = Republican!

Today’s amusing webcomic: GOATS!

So I’ve spent the past few days in obsessive-compulsive bliss. Wading through the bottomless pile of comics I bought at the convention. Eating whatever delicious meals my live-in chef, Ed, decides to entice me with. And cleaning. So. Much. Cleaning. Cleaning in anticipation of my roommate coming home from Cancun, my other roommate revamping the kitchen, and the arrival of a sick foster cat from the Humane Society.

At first it was just sweeping the steps. Then mopping seemed like a good idea. A few hours later, Ed strolled by, cocked his head over the railing and almost passed out from the fumes. I’d cracked open a can of Circa 1880, grabbed a bag of steel wool and a power sander, and started to have a go at stripping the nine layers of cracked oil paint befouling my stairwell. I don’t know what came over me, but I think I’d like to place some of the blame on Bob Vila, Debbie Travis, and my mother’s addiction to HGTV.

The new cat, Wesley, is terribly, terribly skinny. I didn’t want to be picky, so I just asked them to give me the animal most immediately in need of a foster home. They gave me a young female, post-surgery, who has clearly been on the street, making a living as a punching bag for other cats. Her tail’s been broken in at least four places and she’s got a really bad-ass necklace of scars and lacerations behind her ears. Unfortunately, I’ve started sneezing a lot lately, and I think Wes may be the culprit. Also, she shows her love by sleeping on my head. Harrumph.

Speaking of skinny creatures: during a slothful Monday viewing of the Two Towers, my friends and I indulged in some casual running commentary about Gollum being recruited as a poster-child for why the Atkins diet is just so damn effective. This has resulted in me giving some serious consideration to reducing my protein intake. We then segued into a really bizarre speculation about whether or not Sauron is a chronic pot smoker. Some good arguments were made on the evidence of his seriously bloodshot eye, unfortunate paranoia, and clear case of the munchies, but personally I think he’d be a lot more laid back about trying to conquer Middle Earth if he were sweet on the mary jane. Yeah, yeah, I know. Mystery Science Theatre, we ain’t.

As a completely unrelated aside, I must once again express my intense dislike of Rebecca Eckler and her woefully ignorant, badly written, sorry-assed columns. Yesterday, she waxed not at all poetically about the Toronto Science Fiction Convention. Why her editor thought to give her this assignment, I can’t fathom. Her vapid, too-cool-for-school nature aside, she has no knowledge whatsoever of science fiction culture, and no desire to learn. She can’t even mock them in a biting, caustic fashion. Given my own personal celebrity wrestling match, she would be top of my dream opponent list. Maybe not while pregnant, since she’d have a weight advantage, and I’d have to pull my punches on account of baby, but post-partum – it’s on like Donkey Kong, beotch.

FYI, for those of you that are fence sitting about going to see “American Wedding,” take the plunge. I went this weekend with Darren and almost ruptured something during Stiffler’s gay bar dance-off scene – Seann William Scott is worth the price of admission.

Gambling Man

I just went to the Carleton to see the true-life story of a compulsive gambler turned bank thief in the movie “Owning Mahowny”. It was like watching a train wreck on ultra-slow-motion replay.

I spent the first few minutes feeling awful that I had dragged Ed along with me on the grounds that at least we could enjoy the air conditioning for a few hours, knowing full well that he hates Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Then I spent another half hour feeling sorry for yet empathizing with and also being disgusted at Minnie Driver’s character for putting up with her boyfriend’s insane gambling addiction. Unable to restrain myself when she offers to sell her RRSPs to pay off his debts, I turned to Darren and whispered angrily “my gender is a doormat!” It didn’t make sense, grammatically or intellectually, but I felt better for having said something to express my disgust. She didn’t even have the consolation that the women in ‘Catch Me If You Can’ had, where at least their con man had personality, good looks and youthful vigor going for him.

Women were not given a very positive portrayal or a large role in the movie, and I wasn’t sure whether to feel good or bad about that. Even knowing that they were trying to achieve a retro mood for the oh-so-unenlightened early eighties, the female element was rather limited. All of the women were just props for the male lead: understanding lover, seductive whore, curious casino girl. Drives me batty. I am not a prop.

I spent the rest of the movie just feeling queasy. Many of my negative feelings spring from the fact that I watched a much, much, much better film about gambling last week with Alastair, called “Intacto.” It’s about people who beat the odds of life and can steal other people’s luck by touch. There is a whole underground gambling circuit, a cut above the average casino, in which these chosen few participate, competing in high-stakes games of pure, undiluted chance. Great film, if you can handle the occasional subtitle.

Also, my father was a gambler in his heyday. Many of my favorite childhood memories with him involve the soft vocal stylings of Kenny Rogers. I used to ride on his shoulders, while he held up the binoculars for me so that I could see the horses circle the paddock at the track. He taught me how to read the racing form and place bets, and I would touch every bill before he pushed it over the counter for luck.

My grandfathers on both sides liked to wager, too. I have few memories of my mother’s father, but the ones I do all feature the smoke-dulled clink clink of dominoes being shuffled and drawn and pint glasses raised and lowered to the table.

My other Grandad liked to watch and bet on boxing matches, having been a man of the ring once himself. He taught me how to play cards, and by catching him at it, I learned how to cheat. Cribbage, poker, blackjack. We’d bet with anything — pennies, gumballs, carrot slices, band aids. When his vision started to go, I bought him oversized cards and we would play child’s games like fish and hearts.

I never understood the urge to gamble, myself. Every week my grandparents bought lottery tickets, hoping to win big and achieve all of their frivolous dreams of buying fast cars and echoing empty houses and racehorses. But how can that be a compelling reason? The entire point of gambling is that you never win. My mother sometimes says she spends the money as an investment in dreaming. ‘Just imagine’ has been the motto of Lotto 6-49 ever since I can recall. And that’s the point, I guess.

The odds speak for themselves. But I suppose it’s ingrained in us. I found it interesting that one of the quirks they played up in the lead character was that he never cheated on his girlfriend, never shopped for new clothes, never traded in his car for a newer model. He wasn’t a gambler in any other sense than the purest. Never acting on his impulse to see if the grass was greener on the other side, just perpetually needing the strain of striving to get there.

I prefer, in the words of Tom Green, to use my OWN brains, and my OWN imagination. I don’t need a lottery ticket in my pocket to grease the wheels of fancy. I’ve never liked speculating what I would do differently with one million dollars. Rather, it’s easier to change my way of thinking to embrace happiness with what I have right now. Doesn’t this make sense to anyone?