In keeping with interesting CounterStrike mods, here’s one that will make SharkBoy squeal with glee at the sheer detail of work.
And how odd is it to see “yourself” run through an American landmark attraction bearing a huge knife?
(Via boingboing)
Category Archives: General
Dressing Alike Agoof
SharkBoy and I are walking to work when I spy coming towards us a couple wearing matching Aeropostale over-stitched lettering hoodys, Tim Horton’s in their hand and baseball caps. They might have pulled it off (exactly what were they trying to pull off?) had one not been slightly too old and too tall for Aeropostale…
I snort and say: “Oh god, look at these two–”
I stop suddenly when I realize that SharkBoy and I are wearing near identical used motorcycle cop jackets, black baseball caps and jeans.
Halloween 2008
Jedis By RodTO
Halloween on Church Street. You will never find a more retched hive of scum and villainy.
The evening started out good with a group of us getting together at Casa RoboShark, slapping on layers of makeup while we sucked back beers during rounds of Guitar Hero and Mario Kart Wii. It sounds very involved but it was pretty relaxed. I wound up doing Dollar Store cuts on a few guys but the wax wounds didn’t last too long after leaving the apartment… I blame sweat and not having a proper sealant to make it stick. That and they wrinkled their faces too much. NO LAUGHING!
Here’s where I apologize for not taking any pictures this year. My lightsabre for my Jedi costume was a two hander. RodTO (Photog 2) took some amazing shots, as usual. Go see them and praise him highly.
We left the house at 9 and got to the street in full swing. It was busy as usual. SharkBoy felt there were too many drunk Ryerson students, but I thought it was a typical Halloween night: packed, pictures everywhere. Our outfits weren’t as attention grabbing as last year’s Luchadores, but with the Force FX sabres, we were well lit and did get into some photos. Here’s where I mention that lucha masks were out in force this year. We’re trendsetters.
We met up with Da, the Xbox Boys, FrankenSteve (nice fairies!) and got to do one circuit of up and down the strip before going home. Some of the costumes were amazing, some were the usual “Throw on a boa and I’m done” kind of WTF kind of effort. In all, I would say that a lot more people are getting into the spirit of dressing up, even if it’s just a dollar store jumpsuit with a cheap plastic lead-based mask. I say “bravo” for trying!
The thing that did mar the evening for me: I verbally abused a drunk asshole in a rather (un)Jedi like manner. We were walking in the crowd and came upon a small pocket, empty of people and I had stopped to wait for the other guys to catch up. As I did, a drunk guy came pushing out of the crowd, past me, screaming like a 9 year old child. “No! NO!” he was hollering. Chasing him was another drunk partyer who was making noises like he was going to catch him. Upon seeing my lightsabre, he lunged at me and yelled he needed it to “get that faggot.”
“Uh no,” I said and turned slightly from him.
He drunkenly clawed at the toy. (okay, the $130 toy, none the less)
“Fuck off!” I said. I was shocked: I don’t say this lightly in public, to strangers. But his total disregard for my personal space and property was appalling.
“Oh chill,” he said and tried to go for it again.
“Fuck. Off.” I said, stronger. And the surreal part was that I had my hand out, pointing a finger at his face. Like the Force was going to save me.
Exit drunk queen, muttering something, trying to catch up to “that faggot”.
Gay Jedi
There were other extremely drunken exchanges that bewildered me, like the 60-some year old woman wordlessly trying to grab SharkBoy’s lightsabre by the tube and me yelling “Lady! YOU DON’T TOUCH A JEDI’S STICK!” (yeah I said “stick” but she muttered “dick” back). Or the three Ryerson tarts wanting to play with the sabres for themselves and when we refused, asked for a kiss. Wha?
I love Halloween, but I was kind of cheesed off by the overly rowdy drunks. We were out pretty late and the worst of it did happen well after 11pm so I shouldn’t be surprised, really.
Next year, more thoughtful planning, I should think. Something not so attention grabbing, yet attention grabbing.
A Night of Art-ness Pt 2
Last night Sharkboy, Mom and a couple of her friends were treated to A Chorus Line by my brother Michael, who I thank with all my cultured heart.
Mike had “arranged them”. So I had to get them from the press desk at the theatre, which resulted in this conversation with the two most bitterest press desk employees ever:
Me: “I’m here to pick up tickets”
PD1: “Name?”
Me: “They’re under Michael Healey.”
PD1: “You’re not Michael Healey!”
Me: “I’m his brothe–”
PD2: (finding the tickets during all this and thrusting them at me) “CONGRATULATIONS. NEXT!”
Me: “…And his mother is coming too, you really don’t want to cross her.”
Bitter cow. Not even giving me the satisfaction to gloat over my brother’s success.
Every ten minutes after the show, Mom would turn to me and ask who paid for the tickets.
“Mirvishes,” I would say, which wasn’t far from the truth.
At this point, I would like to state that since I got the last two days of theatre tickets for free, my brother and I are now even for all those times I had to get up at 2am to go get his asthma medicine in the 70s. I absolve you of this debt.
Prior to the show, Sharkboy and I split up to try to intercept Mom as she arrived at The Canon Theatre. Who makes two entrances to a popular theatre on two different city blocks? I am sure many of dates are destroyed because the simple statement “I’ll meet you there” turns connecting outside the theatre a mood killing process. Anyway, Sharkboy took the Victoria Street entrance in case her cabbie took her to the “box office” while I stayed on Yonge at the “Main entrance”.
I see my Mom and her friends after a while and we greet each other with hugs. As this is going on, none of us notice the huge black SUV pull up to the curb beside us. I tell Mom to go to her seats while I go collect Sharkboy from the other entrance and we’ll be together soon. I turn to head around the block.
Wham. My nose makes contact with a solid wall of suit covered beef.
I hit a body guard.
One of David Mirvishes‘ body guards.
“Excuse me!” we respond simultaneously, politely.
I’m spinning around to see David Mirvish again but they’re swept into the theatre. I wanted to thank him for the tickets and insist that he continue to commission work from my brother.
By the way, I loved A Chorus Line. It was schmaltzy, self centred, self deprecating, navel gazing musical theatre that had me humming it’s tunes even as I type this.
Public Pyjamas
1:14am and I’ve switched out the pink “bears in space suits” pyjama bottoms for the plaid “movie set” ones to garnish a little more respectability. I never understood why in movies (tv or otherwise) the lead hunk would wear these kind of flannel pants into bed. Especially when, caught in or after the act, they have to jump out of bed, after having sex. Thankfully I’ve never encountered a sex partner who insisted on layering up just after sex. If I had, I doubt they’d be in my life long enough to ask why they felt the need to cover up.
The pounding music coming from the other side of the door I’m standing in front of at 1:14am isn’t really that loud, it’s just at that borderline level that will keep you awake. That muh muh muh of 110 beats per minute has been leaking down into our bedroom for the last three hours since we got into bed. The apartment I live in is old with quaint hardwood floors of long wooden slats that squeak reassuringly as you walk down the halls. Unfortunately they’re also shit for masking noise, and I think the new roommate of the tennant upstairs doesn’t know this. Yet. He doesn’t know that his off-beat tapping with the music is like a drum just above our heads. He’s not hammering his foot down, like the music, it’s just loud enough to register, but it’s inconsistent. 3 taps here. 4 tap stanza there. It’s like shitting beside a Republican.
About 20 years ago I was standing in front of a door about to ask of the occupant to reduce the noise from their stereo, much like I was going to do just then. Thing was, I was a tennant in this person’s house and I was suitably nervous about deconstructing our tennat/owner relationship. Actually it was the son of the people I was living with while I was going to art college, so I wasn’t worried about an upsetting a neighbour, moreso than the son punching the “art fag” in the face. He was blaring U2’s Joshua Tree at house shuddering levels while the parents were away for the weekend, Bono screaming about independence and liberty and freedom. The son’s contempt for me was pretty obvious when after knocking during the pauses in the songs, he wouldn’t open his door. His motivations for the volume level were never revealed to me and I assumed than he was a pissed off teen. Or he was passed out from huffing glue. I never found out. To this date, any U2 song fills me with dread.
I knock on the door. Pause. Again. I hear a chair being pushed back and the door flies open. Not having seen the new roommate, I was expecting a young, lanky university student but was faced with a man in his mid-twenties, dressed like he was the frontman for Hedley: tight low slung jeans that made his upper thighs look uncomfortably sausage-stuffed while the calves looked twiggy (how is this sexy on a guy?), distressed crazy graphic tee, hair like he ripped Ms Liza’s wig off in a back alley fight.
“Hi -”
“The music, right?”
My palms go out and up, shoulders into my ears. A “you got me!” stance. Why the hell did I do that? Am I that much of a pussy that I can’t say “No shit, you insensitive buffoon!”
“It’s off now!” And with that, he’s justified and apologized for the last three hours. The door starts to close.
“It’s also the foot tapping…” I offer.
“Foot tapping?”
“Tapping. Yeah.”
“Well the music is off.”
“Okay. Good night.”
I lay awake for a few hours after that, trying to come down from my jacked up state of confrontation. The music is definitely off, the foot is still, but the floor continues to creak with his every move. 2 out of 3 distractions is good enough to get at least 4 hours of sleep.
Death TIFF
Lookit me! My first TIFF movie (Every Little Step) on the last day of the festival. Who does movies at 9am? On a Saturday?
8:48 am- Survived the scrum to the seats. Lady, your cutting in front of me and your excuse of being late for the same movie I’m seeing floats like a beef laiden turd.
8:52am – Tale your seats people. I. Said. Take. Your. Fucking. Seats.
8:58am – The woman two seats over just opened a thermous of soup. The woman behind has a Barbie doll voice.
Blog of Revelations As Told By The Globe
Some thoughts on today’s issue of The Globe and Mail:
Is anyone surprised that The Fly, turned into an opera, tanked?
Realize that when someone starts to point out insecurities in others, it can be perceived as cries of insecurity and fear in the name-caller? But, we’re pretty much stuck with these attack ads.
Sometimes people don’t finish what they started.
Anticipation can sometimes backfire on your product if you hype it too much or leave it too long. However, I do have Spore: Origins for the iPhone and I am enjoying it. $10? A bit steep, but we’ll see how long it lasts.
Weather Meme
From Electronic Replicant, who says I can remix at will:
How do you cope with hot weather?
Suck it up. Sweat it out!
When does the heat make you most crazy?
When people forget themselves and impose their sweaty meat space presence on public transit.
Where do you go to get air conditioning?
Movie theatres, gym, work, my dad’s (but he likes it 2C warmer than tepid.
Your favorite place to sleep in hot weather?
An open tent with a breeze flowing through. Have not been camping once this summer. Soon, we’ll be in Saugatuck MI, though!
Your favorite hot weather food?
Cold fruit. Any kind that has been in the fridge a long time.
Your favorite people to visit in the hot weather?
We’re getting into having ice cream in the gay village at the end of the day and inviting friends or my Dad along. Turns into a “Oh. My. God. Look at HER” bitch session.
Your favorite way to wear your hair in the hot weather?
Uh. Off?
Usual clothing during hot weather?
Work still wants us in casual dress pants, which I think is 100% sexist, because women are allowed to wear skirts. So I’m usually with pants and an untucked short sleeved dress shirt. When I get home: undies. That’s it.
Your favorite hot weather drink?
I still drink tea every morning. I prefer a glass of anything with the glass 100% full of ice.
Is hot weather good for anything?
It reminds us that winter is just as bad/good.
Burst
Yesterday I lost a contact up in “behind” my eye for about 20 minutes (right when I was trying to leave the apartment and was late for work, naturally). SharkBoy and I fished around for that damned piece of plastic like squeamish teens at their first frog dissection. Eventually the lens made it’s way off the inside of my upper eyelid and I got it out.
The result was a burst blood vessel.
It started out as a perfect dot. As the day progressed, the dot became larger and more noticeable. This morning it’s spread out into this.
Connectivity (I’m)
