PipesDreams

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t actually think that there are any men of my acquaintance who give a rat’s ass about football or the Superbowl. Gentlemen, am I right? (?) However, I do know two ladies who share a burning passion for all things involving pigskin and greasepaint: and keep me as informed as I need to be on football happenings, mostly involving the state of Peyton Manning’s buttocks and how the Fighting Irish are frustrating yet lovable. So I felt no obligation to watch TV yesterday. None whatsoever.

Instead, I spent the weekend reading. I finished ‘Persepolis: the Story of a Childhood’, which was one of the best comics I’ve ever read. Totally amazing art, incredible story. I’ve been interested in Iranian women artists ever since I wrote a paper on Shirin Neshat, so Marjane Satrapi was a logical choice, with her tale of a childhood spent before and after the Islamic Revolution, with privileged yet protesting parents and a grandfather who went from Prince to Prime Minister to Political Prisoner, thanks to the fickle nature of the Shah. Her hatred of the veil, her love of denim and Michael Jackson, her obsession with heroes and martyrdom and her complex relationship with God are so compelling and it humanizes the whole issue of the war between Iran and Iraq. So good.

That book reminds me that I was going to recommend another excellent graphic novel, to anyone whose pulse beat a little faster at the thought of the new movie on the life of Beatrix Potter. Sadly, ‘Miss. Potter’ (starring Renée Zellweger and Ewan McGregor) was critically panned and tanked at the box office due to its weak script, but if you want to read the story they *should* have filmed, then go take a look at Bryan Talbot’s ‘The Tale of One Bad Rat’. This is the story of Helen Potter, a young woman who has suffered from sexual abuse and who is on the run from her family, living on the streets of London in the 1990s with her pet rat as companion. She is obsessed with the life of Beatrix Potter, and her journey takes her through Potter’s home territory in the English Lake District. Helen is constantly drawing animals in Beatrix’s style. This is a story of survival and inner struggle and while it is beautifully drawn, the plot does not soften the edges of the core messages about the challenges of recovery from homelessness and abuse. Read it.

Sunday I went for an extra long run, visited my Dad for lunch, and then hopped on a train downtown to visit , and . Since it was -30 outside and C. was feeling a little under the weather, there followed a quiet indoorsy evening of chatter and couch-dancing, instead of our original plan of going streaking and toilet-papering the legislature. I drank a strawberry yogurt beverage in honour of our absentee friend and his long-abandoned tribute website, ‘Students Against the Under Consumption of Yop’ (or S.A.U.C.Y.). Slainte, Dave!

IN PHOTO NEWS:
My friend (who took the Evil Queen photos of me with the knitted gloves and syringe back in August 2006) *finally* posted something new on his photoblog. We’d been talking about the photos I took on my snow hike of the beaver-chewed trees, so he took a nice black & white of the destruction wrought by our national rodent behind his parent’s place. I like it. It’s got a cool Ansel Adams sort of feeling, with little splintery stalactites and stalagmites. Go see.

Today, for the first time in three years, I went to see a film at the Bloor Cinema. It was just as I remembered it from the days of ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’ screenings when I went festooned in pleather and tutus, bearing rolls of toilet paper, pockets of rice and a high-powered water pistol. The popcorn still smelled delicious, the crowd was still the right balance of rowdy and respectful, and the seats still had just enough leg and elbow room.

Brett and I met up for an edamame and sashimi feast after I got off work (yes, yes, I acknowledge my severe Japanese food addiction, and will be seeking counselling shortly). We cut it pretty fine – the last piece of maguro passed my lips at 6:58pm and the movie started 7pm – but we dashed down the street, bought our tickets and got decent seats before the curtain had lifted. We saw ‘The Prestige’, which I knew I would enjoy because hello? Magicians! Victorians! David Bowie! Michael Caine! Batman! Wolverine! It had some pretty gruesome moments, but I loved the sets and costumes and I thought the plot was very well paced. It drew me in completely.

As I was leaving the theatre, I kept an eye out for , since the next show after ours was Alejandro Jodorowsky’s ‘The Holy Mountain’ and I know she was planning on seeing it this weekend. If you were there, sorry I missed you! I was the girl wearing the intensely turquoise jacket with the noir-villaness-style vintage mink collar and red gloves. I might want to see ‘The Holy Mountain’ myself… a Spanish film about a messiah journeying to unravel the secret to immortality sounds interesting.

En route to the subway, Brett gave me the dramatic raised eyebrow and oh-so-casually suggested we “stop in briefly” at the new BMV books. Oh ho! Briefly, eh? An hour later, I’d pressed him into finally acquiring Frank Herbert’s ‘Dune’, which is essential reading for my family, and I walked out with what is now my fourth(!) copy of Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ (it had prints of the Gustave Dore illustrations – I NEEDED IT), the Chip Kidd illustrated history of Diana Prince aka Wonder Woman (I NEEDED THAT TOO, STOP JUDGING ME) and a book of poems. , you were so right, the Annex BMV is to die for!

I knew Brett probably didn’t want to talk much about work, given the not-so-hot reviews ‘Faust’ received from the Star and the Globe based on Thursday’s opening night, but at least both reviews mention him by name as the one good thing about the show.

“The music and story are pure melodrama and require strong voices as well as tremendous energy from the soloists. In this largely Canadian cast, only baritone Brett Polegato achieved that mix of vocal power and passion in the role of Valentin, Marguerite’s brother.”
I’ll be seeing the opera on February 14th, when I get to watch B. push my friend Pete around the stage as a corpse in a wheelbarrow. Then, there will be a trip to the bar and much drinking and not thinking about the fact that Valentine’s Day has for me the extra bullshit of being my anniversary with my ex. Good times.

The GOTrain home was total hell. I missed the 10:43 by two minutes, and had to wait for an hour in Union for the 11:43 while about a thousand drunk, stoned, belligerent 16-year-olds milled about, swearing and yelling in the aftermath of a Billy Talent concert.

I don’t know who the fuck Billy Talent is (are?) but his/her/their fans suck donkey balls. If I never hear the phrases “oh dude, I totally wish I was back in the mosh pit!” or “don’t touch my piercing you cunt, or I’ll give you a new hole of your own to play with!” ever ever again as long as I live, it will still be too soon. I know I was that age once, and I moshed and got holes punched in odd parts of my body, but now I’m that peevish, annoyed adult, eyes slitted with disapproval, who mutters at “those damn kids and that noise they call music”. I declare myself officially old.

In the spirit of being “less old” and more hip to the jive of the younger generation, I got myself one of them there MySpace account thingamajiggers. Come on by and “friend” me (because yes, , ‘to friend’ is a verb now) if you have also jumped on the bandwagon of the shittiest online networking site ever created. Plus, you can groove out to the Shaft theme song while reading the boring details about what I listen to on my iPod.

ps – In case you haven’t guessed, I have CRAZY INSOMNIA tonight. No idea why.