What does it mean that I’m a kind of candy you can’t get in my country? I’d rather be something nice and Canadian, like Maple Toffee or something.
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Season of the Witch
The firecrackers have started in Chinatown and the first of the Skytrain costume parties is over. The stores are decked in a crazy clashing kaliedoscope of pumpkin orange, black, red, and green as Christmas tries to force its way through the doors before all passengers have disembarked, the passenger in question being Halloween.
Here is something to make the moments go a little faster. The moments until you can declare all the candy in your house “leftovers” and gobble those little Snickers bars as fast as your paws can peel them.
The Club Mix of Season of the Witch, by Eartha Kitt.
Fabulous visuals by Queerty (via Defamer)
Can you name them all?
Neopagan flames in the comment section, please. But be warned: I’ve actually read Margaret Murray’s The Witch Cult in Western Europe. Bring your game, people!
Cat Found!
from Flickr via PostmodernGirl
What do you think? Should we tell them? I’m pretty sure this was a Looney Tunes episode many years back…
the (second) fight of my life
In retrospect I must say that I really couldn’t have picked a better fashion choice than Farmer Zombie for the street fight.
A little background, perhaps?
I live on the Downtown EastSide, an area where the average life expectancy has been estimated as low as 33 years, thanks to AIDS, Hep-A, Hep-B, Hep-C, tuburculosis, and a whole epidemiology text of diseases that were thought to belong to Victorian novels about impoverished chambermaids, not to mention the street fighting.
A 76-year-old man died last year when he was stabbed in an argument about a spot in line at the Food Bank a block from my house.
People on the things people are on down here are touchy.
But they are, as a rule, paranoid about people who look respectable. They know damn well you’ll call the cops on them and the cops will pay attention to you, so the violence is pretty much street-on-street, not street-on-norm, if you know what I mean, and if you don’t, perhaps I’ve lived down here too long.
But I was on the West Side. That’s the thing: the West Side is where we keep the Yuppies, the Preppies, and the Really Rich People From Hong Kong.
I’m never going west of Carrall Street again!
So, there I was on the West Side, minding, very much, my own business, as one does when one has a lot to think about at ten o’clock at night, Continue reading
what this world needs is more singing, dancing contraception
If they could somehow work jazz hands into this, it would be just about perfect.
NSFW if your boss is really, really uptight about cross-sectional illustrations of gay sex, or maybe also wooden dildos
Here, via The Manolo, is the singingest, dancingest Bollywood-fabulousest subtitlediest condom commercial you’ll ever lay eyes on. They’re like the Teletubbies of the prophylactic world!
It’s remarkable that somehow the Third World got the jump on us in this regard, but here is the proof. Surely, surely, if North Americans had condom commercials featuring Paula Abdul choreography and Celine Dion vocals, maybe throwing in some Sigfried and Roy or Zac Efron for the boys, we could eliminate unintended pregnancy overnight! Up With People and the whole celibacy movement just haven’t got the showbiz pizazz to pull it off. I mean, what can you do when Blair from Fats of Life is the best you’ve got? We need to ramp up the production values if this is ever going to work…as they said in Earth Girls are Easy, Southern California has the cosmetology equivalent of Stealth technology. The same can be said for its entertainment. What’s the first step?
First, we sign Bob Evans. Then, we wait, baby. Then we wait.
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raincoaster 