Next to this one.
According to Team America World Police's secret spycam footage, Kim Jong Il is a very ronrey boy. Heading a country of 22 million people, 21.999999 million of whom detest and fear one, must indeed greatly interfere with developing a well-rounded social life.
A commentor on Guido Fawkes' blog notes, however, that Kim's MySpace profile lists 1127 more friends than Dave Cameron's. Boris Johnson is doing rather better, with 533 friends, starting with Thatcher and including some surprising additions.
I note with a measure of patriotic pride that Pierre Trudeau has 1571 friends, beating them all into the dust, despite having been dead for several years. You never lose it, I guess.
"Reason over Passion" that's my motto — It carried me through 16 years as Prime Minister of Canada (from 1968 to 1979 and 1980 to 1984). My Prime Ministership saw Canada become a nation that upholds the values of multiculturalism and billingualism. I brought the constitution back to Canada (so we no longer had to go begging to Britain to amend it) and I brought the the Charter of Rights and Freedoms! What can I say, I was a great Prime Minister – too bad they didn't name the mountain after me but at least I have an airport! And what other Prime Minister chilled with Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono, dated Barbara Striesand, and was chased around by girls? I had Trudeaumania, slid down bannisters, pirouetted behind the Queen of England, and gave the finger to those who pissed me off! So if you like billingualism and multiculturalism and/or are a beautiful woman (especially a celebrity) say hello… but if you're Richard Nixon, Rene Levesque, an Alberta oil baron, or a Quebec seperatist then you'll just see "how far I'll go"
— "Just Watch Me!" —
Crypto-theocratic postmodernism about Greatest Living Canadian, the Shat.
Infamous episode #22 from the first season of the Mindwrecker tv show, seen every week on ch 29 in San Francisco.
This all-B&W show is a 1960s Shatner-wallow of favorite moments woven into a new pattern. It features an awesome Theme Song and original score.
From Gawker. Not-to-be-missed account of Long Island 
City's seediest strip club.
At that point I had tipped all (six) of the dancers at least $3 each. The Brazilian she-male had been particularly pushy. Finally, Marek returned. "We leave now," he said. "Goodbye!" And then he leaned in and kissed me on the spot on the cheek that one offers when one's suitor is clearly aiming for one's lips. The Northrup Strip to his Space Shuttle Columbia mouth, if you will. Then he and his thugs departed.
J and Lentz were horrified. "You let him kiss you!"
"He offered me several glasses of champipple," I replied feebly. "Moreover, I kept him and his henchmen from strangling all of us. Consider it the ultimate sacrifice."
Is there nothing this woman won't do for friends?
Saturday, September 07, 2002
Browsing through the archives today, from back when I actually got outside, got me thinking about the reactions people have when they see me running. Now, don't get the idea I am a magnificent gazelle when I run; I am more of a magnificent Thelwell pony. I've seen those gazelle-people and they are truly beautiful to watch; I even fell in love with a guy because of the way he looked while running. God knows it wasn't his personality. Anyway, I don't look like that. I lumber, I trot, I mosey, I toddle. So when I get a reaction it generally isn't inspired by the magnificence of my athleticism or any of that rot.
But I will always remember the reaction I got one afternoon down in South Van. By mischance and mischoice I'd decided that it would be nice to run along South-East Marine Drive, which it certainly was not. It was like chewing through truck exhaust under a sunlamp while someone poured over my head the nameless liquid in which weiners loll and bob at the 7-11.
As I toddle/waddled past the old Sikh temple a couple of Indian grannies and their granddaughters came out onto the dirt path, the sidewalk having vanished blocks ago. Both grannies were resplendant (and very few people can really resplend well) resplendant in sophisticated silks, brilliant monochromes of peacock and pink, with a subtle layering of textures between the sari, skirt, top, and headscarf. Really stunning; they were obviously SOMEbodies.
The granddaughters were both about three years old, and at that age the standard thing for doting parents to do is to ruffle them up to the gills; if they cannot put their arms down because of all the lace-trimmed petticoats you've stuffed them into, you've got the look about right. Then you put ribbons on top of that, and attach them with pink silk roses. They looked like those dolls that used to sit in the middle of your older sister's bed, the show dolls, the not-for-playing-with dolls.
As I trotted past them they laughed and broke into a jog, too. The grannies applauded heartily and cheered us on for the rest of the block.
Now THAT made the running worthwhile.
raincoaster 