happy december 1st.

*this post was inspired by miss Julie M.

It used to mean the first chunk of advent candy, the Santa-Claus-Countdown's commencement, sheets of fresh snow and the onset of panic at the mall. It'd be the day the decorations were deemed necessary, the kitchen reeked of sugary cinnamon buns, and the final bad preschool-crafted ornament was hung on our otherwise perfect tree.

Then, puberty struck.

Brothers, boyfriends, buddies who more resemble little boys all began the journey to grow some semblance of a facial forest for that long, hard month of Novemeber. Facial hair competitions no longer just reserved for playoff beards, testosterone-toting men took it to extremes (no names will be mentioned). Some, for an unselfish cause, but more, 'cause they could look like southern-state pedophiles and art-house whack jobs without man-to-man judgment. Nay, it's a chance for a man to give another a "dude, you look goooood" without getting a cut-eye in return. A pat on the back that says, "man, you are a man. I can see your testosterone growing out of your upper lip. Let's go life some weights, but only to get huge and ripped upper bodies while we still have stringy chicken legs." That was Movember 2009.

And now, on the first of the last month us of the (mostly) less hairy kind have a whole new reason to rejoice. Nothing to do with holiday happiness, only scruff-less gents and bare-chinned chums. A return to dating dashing young men and not bearded bums. In December, Santa Claus reserves his spot as the only man allowed to have a shrubbery shrouding his fine features.

And if he's not the only one, you might find me, running down the street with scissors.

There are, however—and let me stress—a select few Movemeber members who did it with good fashion, and for them, I offer up a humble tribute. But allow me to make my case clear—if your moustache doesn't reach these levels of majesty, save it 'till next year or face eleven months of severe ostracization by womankind.

(via http://www.alanpowdrill.com/)

showtime

For the last three years (and then some), this is what I've been fighting for.

Let me lay this down like mastercard:

Two gruelling hours each day honing my skills, perfecting every detail of every movement, not just my own, but also in synchronization with theirs - exponentially more difficult. Another chunk of hours devoted daily to manipulate my body, building the strength and endurance to the best of its ability. Countless days spent fighting with myself, with others, trying to diagnose what went wrong, did anything go right? No work, no money, no time. Weekends spent away, New Years spent sleeping, nights out, drinks denied and countless carbs consumed. Tears and blood, sacrfice and sweat, and every word of that is true.

Saturday, I woke up, far too early, and in a cold sweat. Within the hour I was practicing yogi breathing to calm mild hyperventilation, sweat beads dribbling down my back (not that I was hot). My hands trembled with the feeling only anxiety brings.

It shouldn't have been any different from the other hundreds of times I'd woken up these days, but it was. The day dragged and drew out till six p.m., I was doing anyting to take my mind off the thing.

And then it hapenned. It all just hapenned. Two hours and twenty minutes later, I was in shock. That didn't happen.. us? It couldn't. But it did. I ran, bolted out to meet the others, jumping and hugging and screaming and laughing like a fervent lottery winner. Except this, this was priceless. In hysterics, uncontrollable, delusional. This was it.

This was it. Or was it just the beginning?

http://firefly.ryerson.ca/sportsandrec/sports/varsity/index.cfm?team=131&page=press&article=1524

First-past-the-post.

Their music has always been manna for critics, and milk and honey for weird indie kids (the kind who actually like the wacked-out experimental sounds they're supposed to listen to). And to the average listener, it sounds like sugar-happy toddlers unleashed on a keyboard loaded with trippy samples, animal sounds, and wobbly vocal mods. 

Last year I winced and pulled my hood over my ears at their music sound "experimentation" onstage at Rogers picnic.

But this time around, everyone's getting merry about their new collection. Two weeks in and its already the best album of the year―and don't be surprised if it holds its ground for another eleven and a half months.

This time around the post, the crazed combines with the conventional to create a masterpiece accessible enough for the open-minded radio listener, clear and sunny enough for the well-weathered ear, and still innovative enough to make dryest critics drip with excitement.

As for the album, I grant you three guesses. (Clue: the hint's in the puns. You know me, you know my lust for the lowliest form of literary musing.)

1, 2,... 3.

Merriweather. Post. Pavillion.

I've always liked Animal Collective (their studio work at the least), but sometimes their sounds are too, er, animalistic for me to corral. I'd file them away in the "experimental" section of my iTunes and hope one day my music tastes matured enough to appreciate the layers and the levels. 

Now, I don't have to. Finally, the collective has reached the perfect balancing point, the place where experiment and audible melody work harmoniously together, where inventions come from actual intentions, and where their "music" (which I might have just named "noise" pre-M.P.P.) is truly good music. And that is why this album is, and probably still will be, to the critics and the common folk, the best album of 2008. Shit. 2009.*

*That is, unless any of the following bands reunite and/or release an album on or before December 31, 2009: TV on the Radio, Radiohead, Wilco, or the Beach Boys**.

**Seriously.

Scrumdiddilyumptious.

I love to eat.

I remember back in the beginning of high school (really not that long ago), the glare I received from my little sister's baby-sitter as I brought up an ravaged, empty, cheese-encrusted nacho plate from my room, only to snag a tub of cookies 'n cream ice cream from the freezer with one grubby hand, two slices of pizza in the other.

She stood with her hand on her hip as she told me, snarkily, "You know, Kasandra, if you keep eating like that, when you hit puberty, you're going to blow up."

I turned around, grabbing the Nesquik, and replied, "Well, 'till then, I'm gonna have to live it up."

Oh, and I did. And I have. I don't know when (or if) I ever really hit puberty, and while I can't claim to be as stringbean-y as I was in my hey day, I haven't hit the helium stages yet.

My tastes of course, have matured with my body. While I still have more sweet teeth than any other kind, I can always appreciate a good, delicious meal. And without my chef-in-residence brother around to cater to my stomach's every whim, nor a checkbook equipped with the means to cover nightly extravagant dinners out, I'm left with two hands, a fridge, an oven... and the internet. My mother kindly passed down the homemaker's tradition with a gifted Betty Crocker cookbook last year, and I kindly shoved it atop the fridge to gather dust alongside dishwasher warranties and vacuum manuals.

Instead, I've turned to a much more interactive, innovative, experimental (ok, and prettier) source―the food blog.

Tonight I dragged my favorite foodie friend out (or rather, in, as staying in is lately my favorite) to help indulge in some deep-dish apple pancakes a la mode. Mm, a veritable masterpiece, best when seconds (and, inevitably, thirds and fourths) are shared. Of course, I shovel much faster than I snap photos and could never manage to start a food blog of my own, but I'll happily turn a friend's hungry head in their direction.

And so, a few of my favorites:

Closet Cooking. Young guy from Toronto, often cooks for one. Perhaps we're soul (food) mates? Who else could make a 13-word recipe title sound so enticing? (Roasted Butternut Squash and Caramelized Onion Pizza with Gorgonzola and Crispy Fried Sage)

Love and Olive Oil. Misleading Italian name, not entirely devoted to C-A-R-B-S. Wondefully scrumptious cupcakes.

Think you know how to make nachos? It's not-so. Check out these fatties from a real Homesick Texan.

Pinch My Salt caught my attention with the cheeky name, and then further irked my inklings with a real recipe for sweet potato fries. Can't... resist....

Now, if you get caught up in the vicous cycle of food blogs, don't delusion yourself of your desires. Indulge, once, maybe twice. But a tip of advice from my personal pool? Don't get really 'heavy' into the desserts section a week before your bikini'd beach vacation. You'll pay for it at the gym, and in the pictures. Ok?

Blog appetit!

a postcard from Sweden.

Meet Gustav Ejstes.

He's the one-man musical mastermind behind Swedish folk-psych-fantasy rock outfit Dungen (DOON-gen). He records every aspect of entire albums by himself, and graciously allows a few good men to accompany him on tour, carrying instruments and standing on stage... it's like he's in a band or something. 

The mass of musical instruments he brings on tour probably outweigh his slight frame, yet cannot overpower his mastery over each object he plays. A man of the many talents, Gustav can play a magical flute while simultaneously smoking cheap cigarettes. He's a man with the midas touch, everything he touches turns to musical gold. He's the magnificent merchant of everything beautiful and Swedish (he even makes dirty captain mo's and ginger ale mix well). He likes rap as much as John Bauer.

And, more than anything else, this 28-year-old loves 6 a.m. lectures towards unassuming younger women on life accomplishments and success. Bless your sweet, sweet Swedish soul, Gustav.  Please come back to Canada.

Found, kitchen counter, 8 p.m.

Dear Kass,

I took a coule shots of your vodka [of the nine-dollar-per-litre bottle from New York] one night after the LCBO closed. Here is some Grey Goose.

(heart) Russ

When I walked in the door four hours ago, fresh off my four-hour flight, my roommate skipped over to say hi with the glee of a six-year old on Christmas morning. He'd painted blank canvases for the bare walls on the weekend―the decoration we've dreamed up for months, yet never put art into action. For once, the place looks lived in... new DVDs and a TV to watch them on. Mood lighting for the rooms. And even, if the kitchen sink isn't always clean as per my nazi-style inspection, I can't get mad―because who am I kidding; I had to steal his camera just to write this post. 

Russ―1, Kass―0.