A contest of spooktacular booportions

As Kris announced earlier today, this week's contest was delayed due to my jet-set adventures in western Canada. I apologize for doing my homework, and I regret I have little to report.

It snowed a lot.

My mom fed me plenty of yummy homecooked meals.

I visited a few Halloween parties full of newspaper kids I didn't know. I felt as though I'd mysteriously transformed into blog pal and old-school Gatewayer, Neal Ozano. But Neal wouldn't have dressed up like Margot Tenenbaum. He would have just hung out at the bar and called everyone dum-dums and bore-o-saurs. Which is to say he's cooler than me.



All this leads me to announce this week's challenge: a costume contest.

Kris suggested it, leading me to believe he'd been spending all those months cooped up in Robards hand-stitching sequins under fluorescent light.

He'd proven himself a considerable opponent. Last year, he wowed the blog-o-sphere with his interpretation of Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. The competition seemed stiff. That is until this morning when I chatted with Christie, who informed me it was she who conceived the Rosemary costume.

And video evidence would seem to prove Kris is in fact completely helpless without a lady friend to help him navigate his closet--fashion missteps such as purses and red heels, aside.

The poor little fella seems to have wandered out of the apartment in his underpants out of frustration:



A cheap ploy. Your votes will only encourage him.

This one's for the hope chest

My eyes are pink with too much school reading this week. But still, I like to find time for a little recreational magazine skimming, as well.

So, mad props go out this week to blog pal, Tyson who sent me a copy of my new favourite Western Canadian publication: Alberta Husband & Wife.


This month's Sears portrait studio power couple: Rob "Power 92" Christie and Phyllis Diller.

I've been taking notes on the articles that I think I should share in case any of you are contemplating a stale marriage. Some romance tips from the editorial:

"...Wear flowing and sensuous fabrics. A wispy silk skirt or sari for the woman and an open necked silk shirt and tight jeans for the guy. ..."

"...Be playful. Just happen to have a basket of delicious red cherries dipped in chocolate hanging from a lattice or a tree. Hold them by the stem and dangle them for your partner to enjoy the luscious taste and pampering."

"What about the mosquitoes? Yes, they can ruin the moment. We are in Alberta, and we just can't ignore them. I could tell you to put on Deet, but how responsible is that? Kissing your parntner's soft skin and ending up with a toxic chemical in your mouth just takes away the romance. Beside [sic] it stinks and tastes horrible."

Col. Sanders is the dreamiest

In belated weekend news, I reviewed The Killers Friday night.



I mention this only so that I can post the following photo caption:


SOME BIRDIE TOLD ME

Puns!

How many people live in Tori Amos' head?

Always delightful blog pal Christie paid a visit this weekend.

Back when Christie was still acting den-mother of the Little Edmonton crew, she could always be counted on for her savoir faire. She always knew of the hipster-iest night spots, the cutting-edgiest boutiques, the lip-smacking-est cafes.

And though she's since taken up a country life on the Isle of Jersey, Christie's clearly still in-the-know. It seems all she needs to do is listen to the wind on the Jersey moors to pick up on the latest pop-culture zeitgeist. And that wind of hipness is Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights."

Here's what I'm talking about:


And here, here, here, here, here, here and especially here, and also here and here and here...are all the people who know what I'm talking about already.

To think that Saturday night after the Oilers game we were all so out of the loop. Thank goodness Christie was around to educate us Toronto simpletons:

Like a Badly Drawn Boy

Perhaps Madonna will take this as inspiration to swap the unitards for chunky knits.

Badly Drawn Boy at the Mod Club:


And the review: here

Given the subject, MS Paint might've been a more sensible medium than shaky digital video.

WW-RRJ-D?

A red-eye bus trip to Montreal, 30+ interviews, more skinny jeans than I've ever seen in one place, 4000 words (which I later nipped in half).

One online feature for the RRJ.

Humiliation: now in streaming video

By request, and never to be repeated again (if only because I don't want another pair of shoes to be mangled by Kris' man-feet):



Director's note: I think I'm going to start wearing heels at breakfast, too. As demonstrated by Kris before the camera rolled, they're excellent for reaching those out-of-reach shelves.

What'll it be, good sirs?

I don't beat Kris every week to validate my totally wicked-awesome self. No. I do it for you, the blog-o-sphere.

And today I feel like I ought to keep on giving, paying it forward with cruelty, as it were.

This week, you get to humiliate Kris. Or, the person with the best suggestion gets to.

Get commenting, pals. Democracy's a beautiful thing. Remember I have total access to our unwitting victim, and full video capabilities.

Your choice seen here, as of tomorrow.

Challenge No. 3: Video Evidence

Whatevs, Kris. The camera--and the noisemaker--don't lie. Don't you have some more reading to do?

Better than Thanksgiving

Forget Turkey. For the rest of my Toronto days, it looks as though a New Pornographers show is my favourite October tradition.

For those who find my wordy prose vaguely entertaining, and others who just read it to feel better about their careers, Chart should have the review up sooner or later.

Edit: Link finally relevant.

This just in: women aren't people

In our 'hood, crazy is included with the rent. But if you're a regular rider of the TTC, crazy will follow you to school/work. That's value.

Today, I was on the streetcar with a self-styled Peter Mansbridge.

This guy wasn't just ranting to himself, no, he was giving us "the news," as he'd frequently remind us.

Among today's headlines:

Poor people smarter than rich people and entire working class: crazy dude

Global warming melts children's ice rinks; hockey industry devastated

"Long-haireds" usurp television industry

Native man challenges entire Chinese army, wins

And my personal favourite, as directed to a woman exiting the streetcar:

Job action for would-be career gals: Women everywhere enlisted in army mission to recover missing children.

At least it's not purple.

I feel dumb. And it's not because Kris beat me at some blog-challenge. No, I doubt I'll be feeling that brand of humiliation ever (although he has challenged me to a 100-metre dash. It'll be wheezing, pot-bellied poetry in motion, folks. Mark your calendars).

No, I feel dumb because I dyed my hair today--and I can't really tell the difference.

I've never dyed my hair (outside of a few odd high-school flirtations with a friend's bottle of Alpine green La Riche Directions). At my last visit to a Toronto salon, though, the stylist, while hacking her way through my impenetrable locks, was convinced otherwise. "Bad dye job?" she asked, overly made-up face askew, while combing through red (natural) highlights. Nope, totally mine. She gave me a complimentary makeover later out of awkward guilt.

As for those "terrible" highlights, I can still see them through the black dye. Funny, considering I'd often indignantly point them out when people would describe my hair as black. "Fucking Helen Keller knows my hair isn't black!" I'd scream, "It's clearly chestnut brown with auburn highlights! And then I'd round-house kick them in the gut while tossing throwing stars made of colour-swatches at their eyes.

I'm tired of fighting, though. Next time, I'll go to a salon. I'm sure their dislike of my natural hair colour will yield favourable results.

Leah doesn't hate penguins

This Saturday I've done little more but stuff my gullett with store-bought pumpkin pie. But last Saturday, let me tell you. Sure there was plenty of over-eating, but the stuff worth stuffing was poutine, smoked meat. Yes, sirs, I was triapsing around Montreal.

I was there to do some reporting for an article coming soon to the online Ryerson Review of Journalism. But between red-eye bus trips I also took some time to sight-see...


(Celine Dion's wedding dress as preserved in the basement of CBC Montreal.)


(An astroturf car, outside the Berri-UQUAM Metro station.)


(Chilling proof that those east of Lloydminster believe lady-Albertans are actually grain elevators with fantastic taste in shoes.)

I also took in the BioDome with dad, who happened to be visiting the city on non-comic-book-related business. And really, there's not much more to say about that, than:

PENGUINS!!!


Or, as the French say, PINGOUINS!!!



Plus de PINGOUINS!!!



VIDEO-PINGOUINS!!!

Humiliation: Part Deux

As drawing was the challenge, it seemed only appropriate that Kris' humiliation should be similarly themed.

This little masterpiece is a Mike Winters sketch I only found today on the back of a crumpled issue of Frank magazine. I happened to be leafing through the magazine in preparation for a class exercise, and there it was. Truly, it was fate that Kris lose so sorely.

Also, considering the deep investigative reporting within Frank's pages, I have no reason to believe the cartoon's claim is anything but true.

So Kris, please, keep the whoring to a minimum. I know we all have rent to pay, but some of us don't like sharing our apartment with Bay Street stooges with a taste for the ladyboys.

CHALLENGE No. 2: Portrait of a Landlady (Leah edition)

VOTING CLOSED: LEAH WINS!
My prize: I think I'll begin by watching Top Model...



Throughout time, all artists have found inspiration from the female form. Leah and Kris are no exception. Their muse: the landlady.

The rules of this week's challenge: Equipped with Microsoft Paint and five minutes apiece, each roommate must create an accurate rendering of their landlady.

Please note the attention to detail, dialogue, safety pins and twistie ties.

Then, please vote for your favourite. The winner will rejoice, the loser will be taunted and booed--then blogged about in a humiliating fashion.

Commence!

Leah hates sleep

Notes from the Cansei de ser Sexy/Ladytron show last night:



Ladytron’s closing their Toronto encore. The menacing strains of “Destroy Everything You Touch” blare while singer Helen Marnie glowers from the edge of the stage. But her ice-queen veneer is melting. Like the rest of the band, she’s been rooted to her spot all night, blank-faced and untouchable – the perfect poster-girl for nouveau kraut rock. But suddenly she’s attempting movement (an overhead hand-clap here and there) and cracking a half-smile.

Even the crowd is warming up. Most of the hour they’ve been politely nodding along to the Liverpool group’s dark disco tracks (the set-list covers a little bit of everything, from 2001 club hit “Seventeen,” to samplings like “Sugar” from their latest record, The Witching Hour). But now, they’re frenzied: crowd surfers toss overhead, dancers rush the railing.

All the adoration isn’t for Ladytron, no matter how powerful the song is. Hands clamber towards a pair of legs. They’re wrapped in leopard-print and rainbow spandex and kick above the crowd. Lovefoxxx, lead singer for Cansei de ser Sexy, is in the house, and she’s bringing it down.



Straight out of Sao Paulo Brazil, Cansei de ser Sexy (English translation: Tired of Sexy, a name they attribute to a Beyonce quote) is easily the most fun you’ll have at a Ladytron show. The five ladies and one gentleman of CSS are as equally brash as they are cutesy-pie, and their music reflects it. On disc, the sound is garage-style electro-pop, with plenty of high-hats, disco guitar riffs and even some early-Blondie-style girl rapping. But on stage, their songs (which rip on Paris Hilton and art-school snobs and give props to Death From Above) go from neutered pop to electro-punk.

Shouting “CSS Suxxx” the band leapt on stage. In seconds, lead singer Lovefoxxx was channeling Jane Fonda, bouncing like a rock-and-roll jazzercise instructor to the beat, and stripping through sweatshirts down to a t-shirt and leopard tights. If the disco pop didn’t get you shaking, Lovefoxxx was dedicated to getting the party started any other way she could. There was go-go dancing on the speakers (after the rather petite singer cautiously gauged whether she could make the leap), and a stage dive during “Meeting Paris Hilton.” It was too early, though, to make a proper go of it. “Ok, that didn’t work,” she admitted, but she wasn’t going to give up on the party. High fives, for all, instead. And later, a duet or three with the hardcore pockets of fans, screaming lyrics and love into the mic.



Within three seconds of Ladytron’s taking the stage, fear set in: was the fun over? The sound of a Ladytron show is astonishing: being washed over by brooding synthesizers (no less than eight), with the added crunch of live bass and drums. But the performance is too austere to be entertaining, even for a group that’s built a reputation for its nouveau Kraftwerk persona.



There’s no talk and no movement (outside of a few batted eyelashes and shoulder shakes). Helen Marnie and Mira Aroyo perform like they’re robo-Abba, singing pretty (but dark) melodies side-by-side without movement or expression –that is, until somewhere near the end of the set between “Discotraxx” and “Playgirl.”

A pocket of dancing broke out during the middle of “Discotraxx,” eventually erupting into a mosh pit while Aroyo flatly speak-sang the song’s chilly Bulgarian monologue. Behind the writhing lunky guys in NIN tees were a few familiar faces—the ladies from CSS, laughing with beer bottles in hand. Mid-way through “Playgirl,” Marnie’s pulling a smile and staring into the crowd. It’s not hard to see why. Lovefoxxx is making her way to the front of the stage, lifted on the shoulders of a bandmate, pumping at the air and shouting until one of the security stooges gets her to simmer down.

She complies—for all of 30 seconds. Soon she’s rolling above the crowd, gaining a few surfing followers. Marnie’s performing harder, now, reaching out to the crowd from the edge of the stage. Eyes are on Lovefoxxx, though, who’s giggling as she’s passed throughout the Guvernment. The show was stolen, and she wasn’t even on stage. Clearly CSS makes electro-pop fun — even when it’s not their own.