Bleh.

I just feel so bloody UGH right now.

Not sure if it's due to money issues, the Winter That Lasts Forever (seriously, it's still dumping snow and pretending that we're stuck in an eternal January) or the fact that there's no bright spots in sight...

I feel trapped and irritated.
I would give almost anything to get the hell out of this country right now. If there was room on my credit card, I'd be signing up for one of those last-minute deals and bumming around on some warm, sandy beach -- with my whiteness ablaze.

I'm not the only one -- seems every I speak to is in the same boat.
Small comfort.

Where are those generous philanthropists when you need them?

At the Oscars: Orlando is still great...

After watching the Oscars (yet another dirty indulgence), I am still firmly convinced that Tilda Swinton is a million different kinds of awesome. On stage, on the red carpet (mud wrestling!), on film... Can she do wrong? I would argue not.

Also confirmed greatness in Jon Stewart, Helen Mirren, people who worked on Juno and Gary Busy -- who isn't so much great as he is incredibly unpredictable in a very scary way. Poor Jennifer Garner.

This evening's Lunar Eclipse

Amateurish photos courtesy of me.

On the Queen Street Blaze

Those familiar with the streets of Toronto have likely frequented Queen Street West on a regular basis. And those same people were likely stunned to awaken this morning with the news that a particularly beloved stretch -- about a block between Portland and Bathurst that hadn't succumbed to massive retail chains -- was destroyed by a six-alarm fire.

As of right now, the fire is under control, but I can't help but feel a little saddened.

There are a couple of iconic stores on that stretch -- and they're simply destroyed. Goodbye, Suspect Video.

I'm trying to not feel horribly suspicious about the fact that fire tends to take care of historical buildings that otherwise stand in the way of future condominium sites. And, in this case, a hideous Home Depot/condo plan.

This city hates old structures. Eventually, they are all consumed -- by commerce, condos or flames.

The Star's online coverage of the Queen Street fire.

Ode to things that bring me joy...

I've been having a sucky time of it, and this poor little blog has suffered. Such endless whinging and sulking and hoping and... well, ultimately being crushed. But no longer, my friends.

I'm on the sunny side of the street, as The Pogues used to sing. Well, not really. But for today, I'm doing a humble and short homage to the things that bring me joy...


1) My humidifier.
Sure, going to warm and humid locations gives me glorious hair and skin. But when you are broke and pathetic, a humidifier (a hot water one, thank you) brings you the same glories. Well, skin-wise, anyway.

2) Chocolate.
Specifically, dark chocolate. For bonus points, it should be in good quality truffle form with a touch of cinnamon. Mmmm. Chocolate me likey.

3) Peller Estate Ice Cuvee champagne.
Oh yes. This fine little bevvie has a hint of ice wine in it, making it too-too delicious and irrestible even after New Year's has long since rung out...

4) Dark red.
The colour. It brings me joy. If it ever brings me heaps of money, I shall declare my undying love for it. We will marry. And we will have pink babies -- since I am alarmingly pasty.

5) Hope for spring and summer.
Yes, it is truly the suck outside. But February can only last so long.

6) A stack of brand-new, unread books.
They sit there and smile from the shelf. They beckon ever so slightly, humming strange little tunes that promise adventure, entertainment and humour. (It's tardy of me, but I'm currently infatuated with Gabriel Garcia Marquez and E.M. Forster.)

7) The knowledge that the world awaits.
A visit to China may or may not happen... but I'm strangely comforted by the knowledge that it will still be waiting for me if the plans head south -- in the bad way. South America and Africa have started calling for me as well. A dangerous sign...

8) Slipper socks.
They keep your feet warm. And better yet, they don't try and kill me on the stairs like my fuzzy ones. Non-homicidal feet-warmers are nice indeed.

9) The sun.
I saw it today. It still exists. Soon it will bring me warmth and I can't help but approve of that.

10) My chums.
An odder assortment of people you're not likely to meet. But I'll keep them. They will be granted shout-outs and extra love if they give money. Hint. Hint. And if you are a philanthropist looking to sponsor a needy writer, a sum of money will garner you honourary friendship. It's not quite on the same par, but satisfying nonetheless...

11) Me.
Self-loathing and all. I think because I like being alive. It's not exactly on my terms right now, but I'll take it -- and hope for improvement.

Rollercoasters

I should have expected it.

After a pretty cruddy week (the worse it is, the less likely I am to post any sort of blog), the gods briefly smiled upon me on Monday.

They were small gestures, but really, you'd need to be a pretty self-involved asshole to not take the good things when she show up on your doorstep:

1) A gift of dark chocolate
2) The appearance of Vitamin Water in the Beaches' IGA (I completely sucked back this stuff last time I was in California -- especially the green tea and dragonfruit ones)
3) A reduced price hot beverage (normally rather pricey) at a coffee shop courtesy of a nice employee, who gave me a free refill to boot
4) And most importantly, a mess of back cover copy to write -- 16 books over the next year. Essentially, nearly three months worth of salary (my salary, that is -- not not a normie salary)

I thought the gods were showering me with small blessings given my sucky week.
I should have known better.

The were gearing up to punch me in the belly with a rejection letter -- the only place where I had the tiniest bit of hope about getting published. Sure, the letter was nice and complimentary. But what it should have said was:

"Dear Ms. Guy,

Your writing is moderately decent, but you should have known better to nurture that tiny ball of hope. We're uninterested in publishing your work. Ever.

We'd be happy to attend the funeral for your newly deceased hope. Enjoy yet another reminder of why you're a complete professional failure. Ta!

Love,

Mr./Ms. Publisher"


I know this isn't supposed to be easy. I GET IT.
But god, sometimes I wish the universe could toss be a bone or two at my rapidly shrinking little dream.

Thwarted again...

Ah, how the universe does love to taunt me.
My tiny crack has disappeared.

Yet today was a good day. It was fun -- filled with friends, foods, drinks and good times.

Although I think I ate too much at the tasty restaurant.
There's a Food Baby in my belly. Ugh.

A little begging never hurt anyone...

Oh please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please.

A tiny crack in the door... if I can just get through.
I need this. I do.

And more snow...

So some silly twit in the weather department decided to order more snow for our fair province. Two large snowstorms in less than six days. Amusingly, they were interjected by a too-brief thaw.

And all around the city, people simply shake their heads and sigh.

It feels like Sunday today. Chris stayed from work, and there was tidying and laundry. With huge amounts of white stuff outside, house-shaking winds and even a bout of earlier thunder and lightning (an odd experience) -- well, let's say I'm not too inclined to totter anywhere this evening.

I didn't get immediately shut down by an agent today. It was a nice experience. If I can keep him interested in my work, we'll be meeting in a couple of weeks to discuss the possibility of representation. Cross your fingers for me.

Tomorrow am spending the afternoon working on a screenplay with a chum... and then skulking about downtown for several hours until it's time for fancy eatings at Winterlicious.

I do love fancy eatings.

There's time for simple fare... and then there's time for things with absurd amounts of fat and carbs and alcohol. And since winter has already turned me squishy, I feel I might as well enjoy it.

My Secret Confession...

Here we go.

I am ambitious. I want to be successful. I really, really want this writing thing to work out for me.

But the thought of success scares the piss outs of me -- even more so than the idea of failure.

I'm what happens when the underachiever grows up. It's terrifying and not a little insane. And that's my quiet little bit of truth for a snowy February night...

It's definitely over...

You know, you write a little break-up letter and the recipient goes batshit.

Winter decided to flex its proverbial icy muscles today but dumping a crapload of snow on our fair polluted city.

However, the joke is on winter, because everyone thought, "Screw this. I'm staying home today." Digging the car out from under the snow is never particularly amusing -- but was greatly entertained by some just-pubescent lads whipping snowballs at the house across the street.

"Huh," I thought to myself. "The folks who live there must've done something dumb."

As the little buggers hauled ass before crouching behind a car, the owner stepped out. "Did you see who that was?"

"Yup," I said cheerfully, "there they go!"

And sure enough, those gawky boys were scrambling down the street.

"I caught them playing on my front lawn, and told them it was private property [note: the front lawns in our neighbourhood aren't more than a couple of metres across]. If they come back, tell them I've called the cops," snapped the resident (who, incidentally, looks to be around my age).

"Fat chance, you uptight prick," I thought.

An hour later, Chris and I watched from our windows as the little buggers armed themselves for a second pass.

We cheered them on.