bye-bye-blogger.

... but I'm only saying goodbye to "Blogger" with a capital "B."

I've moved.

See you on the other side!

(in the meantime)

take in some late-night wars with me (the Coco kind, not the inner battles of nocturnal nature versus 9-5s)?

interior (re)design show, online version

helllllo loyal readers,

After months of lacklustre, uninspired blogging, I've desired to start this blog on a little process I like to call metamorphosis. The current plan is to make it more portfolio-ish as a prelude to my upcoming entry into RL (see: REAL WORLD), a hub of sorts to bring together my plethora of social media sources, media in the traditional sense, as well as some more career-minded data. I may switch platforms altogether, but as of now I'm currently toying with a few different formats and designs, so please bear with me during this awkward growth phase (think of it like growing out bangs - worse than before at first, but by the end the result is much more functional AND aesthetically pleasing!). Essentially this blog shall transform from a soapbox for personal rants to, well, something much greater. All I can say about this great transfiguration is this: don't switch that dial, stay tuned folks.

kass

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/)

I'll have two double flu shots, on the rocks, please.

Thought swine-flu fighting suits were too much?

Now, even a screwdriver's dose of Vitamin C's not enough to wash down the guilt of not drinking one of these "proactive" concoctions:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/22/fashion/22shake.html?_r=2

Superpower, anti-H1N1 cocktails!

Perhaps my smartserve certificate can suffice as a PhD. Bartenders, usually the purpotrators, the aggravators of caused illness - now the medicine men and women.

Take one, two, or twenty, and call me in the morning. Or better yet, call me when you're about to pop the first potable placebo, because my social life could use a good fixxer-upper.

twi-hardly

Just in case you needed any further confirmation that Twilight's a waste of your time at dusk, dawn, whatever...

NORTON SHORES, Mich. (WZZM) - A teenager watching the vampire movie "The Twlight Saga: New Moon" at a Norton Shores theater was bitten on the neck by another movie-goer. Erin Westrate says the 30 or 40-year-old man sitting in front of her at the 5:00pm showing of New Moon on Friday. She says he was acting creepy from the movies' opening scene.
"Every so often if I said something or my friend said something he would
lean back and make a sexual comment that was very unnecessary and not needed,"
says Erin. Once the movie was over she tried to leave the theater but the line
to leave was slow. Erin then says he grabbed her by the back of the hair and
pulled her down and bit her on the neck. The bite did not break the girl's skin.
http://www.wzzm13.com/news/news_story.aspx?storyid=116041&catid=14

Maybe my thoughts are a tad sadistic, but after relentless media and general conversation saturation, sometimes, obssessives - you get just as much reality as you deserve.

TERROR IN AMERICA!!! (and a few thoughts of my own..)

Well, I've finally solved the mystery.

Wondering why I was never blogging, nor really had anything to put once I'd forced myself to stare at the blank text box, I've cracked this elusive case.Twitter and Facebook are eating all my stories.The birth and growth of social media is the undoing, the death of Blogger, at least, it has been for me.If I were better at this, I'd save the goodies, the things I'd debate over, excusively for the blog. Unfortunately I'm owned by impatience, and the tendency to devote my attention to all things immediate and convenient.

But here, I sit at my desk and stare at this lonely, neglected blog. With eight hours a day at a desk, and embarassing ratios of work:play, I can no longer pull the "but I just don't have time!"

Thus, I present you:

FEAR.
PARANOIA.
CONSPIRACY!

I just pitched this story to our Cross-Platform Contributor here at Connect with Mark Kelley, but I'm going to be all selfish and post it here first:

http://911.wikileaks.org/

"From 3AM on Wednesday November 25, 2009, until 3AM the following day (US east coast time), WikiLeaks is releasing over half a million US national text pager
intercepts. The intercepts cover a 24 hour period surrounding the September 11,
2001 attacks in New York and Washington."

This is great. It's insight into unabashed human reaction and interaction in face
of disaster. Phone companies can, hopefully, glean some valuable data to work
with when it comes to heavy wireless traffic. Maybe, just maybe, we can dig for
some evidence on the biggest question of all - whodunit?

But that's just what's wrong. When I say whodunit?, do you think terrible, beard-swathed
terrorists with turbans, or, more daunting: the white collar company recording -
and potentially releasing - every text message, email, and call you receive?

how to (almost) die: dummies edition

On a rainy, rushed-hour-night, ride, ride, race your bike quickly through red lights. No light on your bike, no laws paid regard. Cagers careen out from their starting block, heads down. Brakes and bell, broken. Bones, somehow, not.

Bike stays on the balcony, until brake pads and brain are fixed.

something's whacky with the weather, and it's not El Nino

Some say playing the weatherman/woman (meteorologist, whatever) can help get you a seat in the newsroom. But for some, it's more likely to get you onstage... most likely in a circus.

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

Tweedle-drums and Tweed-l-dy

How can you doubt he's the hippest president to roam planet Earth?

No matter how it's said over the years, the meaning's the same:

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
If your weekend (or whatever) didn't appear on Facebook, did it really happen?

Tonight, I went to see one of the world's greatest bands play at Toronto's greatest venue. This statement is unarguable.

I went alone, finding a cheap deal on floor seats way past the sell-out date. Alone doesn't scare me - I'm a rare, semi-reclusive Gemini who enjoys being surrounded by people as much as I do being surrounded by emptiness - not that tonight was empty, Wilco's Jeff Tweedy and his band of brothers filled every inch of the room with something that sounded better than any record of theirs, a full spectrum of sound that was full of breaking intensity and steady serenity at the same time.

After nearly two hours of bliss, I left alone, the way I came, wanting to gush about the show's greatness and why it was so. Times like these, I think, I wish I could learn to like nicotine, to stand around and make talk with other social smokers. But a smoker I will never be, and as I walked away from Massey in my hazey daze, I tried to find another way to start a chat with another fan, to recollect the show - it's what I like to do to better engrave the show in my mind, to make it a more permanent memory in my scatterbrain. But no, why loiter, why intrude on a group chat, I thought. I came home to spill my last two hours in speedspeak to my roommate, only to find her fast asleep. Not knowing what to do, I poured myself one last drink and went on the patio - being across the street from the Hall has its benefits - and played voyeur to those leaving. I tried to eavesdrop from ten floors up, imaginary including myself in their post-concert convos. Here, now, I'm youtubing everything Wilco to assure myself, they were indeed as grand as I'd percieved. And I'm blogging, waiting for the first eager commenter to tell me yes, they enjoyed the show too and also thought the lead guitarist was strung out, Tweedy's honesty was adorable, the ticket was more than worth it. But I'm still not sure.

Yes, I fell in love again with Wilco. What I still can't figure out, though, is why I need someone to tell me that I should.

zzzzzzzz.....

I've peaked at twenty-one.

In the olden days, or rather, four mere years ago, I would spend three or four days on end playing volleyball games all day long, surviving on little sleep and staving off sickness with a healthy, balanced diet of mini eggs and fruit leather. Today, it's eleven-thirty, I've eaten my mix of complex and simple carbs, proper protein and fats ratios. I've exercised for four months leading up to this day. Today, I've played two games, and I'm tired, weary, and whiny, and I've bailed out on night-time hangouts for a second night in the row. Sad as it is, I don't have enough left in me to give this blog entry some dignity by drawing it out, instead, I'm choosing to drift off, securing the double digits of sleep I need for sustenance.

I hope it's not downhill from here.

final destination

(this piece was originally published on Torontoist.)

"When you see eight large columns and three heads of Zeus, you will know you have arrived in the correct spot."

Not an excerpt from your typical Saturday night show stub. And unless you've recently taken some wedding photos, not a place where you'd typically head from downtown (because we folks at Torontoist ah-hem, never leave the city's core). But this Saturday evening, the downtown kids "who know" willingly made their way east to the borough for some artsy-fartsy fun.

It was Stillepost that tipped us off about Bite Your Tongue, a mini music festival featuring Final Fantasy and friends. Presented by the Toronto Arts Council and Theatre Centre, the show included six artists in four hours for ten dollars, a bargain by any means. But with a bargain always comes a catch, one we picked up on when we picked up the ticket. To find out the hidden location, concertgoers were told they must return to the location of ticket pickup, given nothing more than assurance that the secret spot's "majesty" would more than justify the trek. We were instantly enticed—mystery, adventure, and music, oh boy!

Come Saturday evening, we exchanged our tickets for a program of artist bios and some basic directions. A long, lonely subway ride to Kennedy and a bus through residential areas made us wonder if we'd missed our stop, but a friendly bus driver informed us we were drawing near to a lesser-known city landmark. Off the bus and now walking through the parking lot, we passed by Guild Inn itself. (Later, the locals—who got in free, unaware of the event—would tell us the inn was previously an artists' colony. Owned at the time by a couple who spent a good part of the mid-twentieth century collecting pieces of art and pieces of demolished buildings, it stands today as a publicly owned property and historical site filled with gardens and fragments of the city's history—like this piece from the not-so-permanent Canada Permanent Trust Company.) Across the field and atop the Scarborough Bluffs, we were greeted with a birds-eye view of water as far as the eye can see, and sky and clouds delightfully unobscured by the CN Tower. And yeah, we'll admit: at the beginning, the scenery was far better than the sound.

Like many avid concert-goers, we expected the music to start late, and missed more of the show than we saw. Gowns, fronted by a grungy female with an immaculate blonde bowl-shaped haircut, played a heavily distorted guitar and keyboard set contrasted with whispery, wallowy vocals. The crowd didn't seem to care, however, until Owen Pallett strolled onstage, violin and MacBook in tow. Smooth, soft falsetto with sudden punches of sound and a modern take on the violin made Pallett's sound the model for baroque pop. He riffed through his newer repertoire, scoffing when the audience requested 2005's "The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead." And during the set, it was a pleasant surprise to see the perfectly disciplined performer stop abruptly mid-song to flick a spider from his ear, showing us that Owen Pallett is, in fact, human (at least to all but Polaris Prize judges). His set, unfortunately cut short by the park's 11 p.m. noise restrictions and longer-than-planned opening acts, was intimate and interactive, short and sweet. The later police presence remained a friendly reminder that while events like this are cool once in a while, they can't always cater to the crowd who wants an encore and another round. So while the ride was, for some, longer than the event itself, it was certainly more about the art of getting there, of urban discovery and experiment. And now that we've been, we'd say it's worth going back.

INSOMNIAAA

leaving the bar early, cold sober, coming home "to sleep" but really just to watch PBS 'till 5 a.m. (or later).

Here I go again (on my own...)

Sigh.

Looking at the date for the first time in what seems like months (and which is probably close to the truth), I know it's time. School was out for summer, and now it's nearly back in session, and with an intimidating Masthead class and a far more daunting internship approaching, this can only mean one thing: It's time I re-learn how to write.

In the last two months, the longest (and most clever) passage I've written lies in a Facebook message, and nothing more. I chose to take a leave from Torontoist with travel plans in mind, and then with them botched I took the break as a vacation from writing, being far away from the goings-on of the city I was to be in the know about, and knowing I'd have plenty of the writing to do come fall. And what started as Torontoist hiatus turned into a full-fledged internet hate-on, something appropriate for a summer outside and away from the screen, but also one that left my blog blank. Many a time I've been in this same position, hit with personal guilt when I open 'my diary' to see the last entry two weeks, four months, one year ago. And it's not like I'm letting any readers down (right?). But now, it's not just personal, it's... professional. Well, semi-professional, at least.

Practice makes perfect, and though this blog isn't written for broadcast, it's a turn in the right direction. Turn-in/in-tern heading in the right direction. Right.....

Immeubles

Sometimes, staying in one city too long feels like house arrest. The bigger the city, it seems, the longer you last. But when you're surrounded by everything the same, the same now as it was so many years ago, the expiry date draws nigh. It's like itching powder sifted down my shirt, upping the dose every day, making me move, or at least want to. The irony is, the ones who pour the powder are the same who are pulling back, saying no, no, no.

Back to the Future's

*Note: This is a piece (my last, at least for awhile) I originally published on Torontoist.com.

Yup, it's that time again. With sun umbrellas spread wide open, customers in shorts and shades, and pitchers of the finest local brews waiting to be poured, Toronto's patio season is back in full swing―at least for most bars. But unfortunately for a few, and a few very near and dear to our hearts (and livers), some outdoor havens are left stuck in limbo.

It's been far too long since we've heard about the official rulings for Future Bakery and the Labyrinth (nothing since some speculation from when the heat lamps were still on in January and February). We didn't really know what to expect until we saw those glorious doors open, bringing on all we'd hoped for―visions of Oreo cheesecake and Creemore Springs dancing in our heads―that was, until 11 p.m., when the doors closed prematurely, and the patio shut down to our utter dismay. And worse yet, the doors next door failed to open altogether. Skimming the web, we found no recent word from local news outlets, nothing beyond vicious commentary on the blogosphere. It took a few phone calls to find out just what is happening to our beloved Bloor West bakery and its newer neighbour.
Both Future's and The Labyrinth were bought out by Sumit Kapur early last year. And in Toronto, when a bar takes on new ownership, the owner must reapply for two new permits―one from the AGCO and a City of Toronto patio permit for use of a public sidewalk, one that cannot be obtained without the agreement of the community surrounding the patio. Since the sidewalk, as a rule, belongs to the city and its citizens, it is the latter license that came under contention when the transfer of ownership gave neighbours a chance to state their case about the state of the two patios.

Kapur has thus far had two meetings with the Harbord Village Residents' Association (representative of the area of Spadina to Bathurst between College and Bloor and not a part of the Annex as the common reference would entail), the first on January 26, co-chaired by Councillor Adam Vaughan and the residents' association Chair Gus Sinclair, and the second on April 3 with Vaughan and his constituency assistant Dale Duncan. Duncan told us that the first meeting set out to discuss concerns and the second to solidify details―which patios will be open and at what times. Although both patios, under new ownership, inherited a 2 a.m. closing time, some residents with the HVRA requested an earlier closing for The Labyrinth at the second meeting. They complained not of overserved liquor, but of lack of control―no one on the patio to control a few belligerent smokers making early mornings miserable for locals. They say the intention was never to close The Lab's patio altogether, but rather, to start off with a more reasonable time for the more rambunctious patio of the two, with the premise of a later closing time in the future should it prove permissible.

Kapur, however, wanted full-fledged operating hours―when we talked to Vaughan, he told us that Kapur "wouldn't take yes for an answer" when offered a compromise. Kapur rejected the notion to give the patio an early bedtime altogether, refusing to bargain with the residents and agitating an already fragile relationship. It was at this meeting that Vaughan gave what the HRVA refers to as the "garbage-dump analogy," asking Kapur if he then should be allowed put a garbage transfer station in a lot on Brunswick Street that works at all hours of the night and is both smelly and noisy, to which Kapur nodded his head. Strike two. After being denied their request, the residents decided to withdraw their initial offer, leaving Kapur and the patios with the hours under which it currently operates―Future's till 11 p.m. and The Lab, zilch, nada, zip.

Next came a slew of letters. Letters of anger, of annotation, and of apology. The HRVA and Vaughan both received a round of memos, some simply unhappy and some furious, both anonymously and from residents, but all blaming them for the patio's closure. Vaughan sent a letter to the editor at NOW, sending well-wishes for the "return of the Annex landmark." The blogosphere dumped a large share of the blame solely on Vaughan, a man who has served as an advocate for Future's patio―fully in its support―and also a mediator between the owner and the neighbours. And finally, in a letter to Vaughan (potentially spurred by the HRVA in order to encourage cooperation with residents) posted in the comments of a more recent and somewhat unrelated NOW article, Kapur apologized to Vaughan for misinterpreting "his assistance as a hindrance," something for which he was "completely embarrassed":

Perhaps it was the worry over keeping my business a going concern in more uncertain times; worry over keeping my employees happy and with a place to work; worry for my livelihood.....all of these things occupy my attention on a daily basis. Where I went off the rails was in thinking that my business concerns trumped the concerns of the neighbourhood in which I operate, let me tell you: I have finally received the message.
Kapur ended the letter with what he told us was a request to "sort out the patio situation" before the summer's end, noting that he will have to prove himself first with a respectable patio crowd under the current hours at Future's. And in the future, it looks like that is what may be in store. To officially change the hours, the Toronto and East York Community Council must approve the motion at City Hall during their next meeting on June 23. And from the sounds of it, most are in favour of extending patio hours at friendly neighbourhood stand-by Future's (most likely to 1 a.m. for Friday and Saturday nights). Both Vaughan and the HRVA told us they plan to go ahead and extend Future's patio's hours.

The Labyrinth, however, may first have to navigate a messy maze, with its closer proximity to houses and slightly blemished reputation. Vaughan says he thinks that "if [The Lab] can show it is a legitimate and proper business, the community will be open-minded" when it comes to open doors. This current interim period, however, is a chance for Kapur to build a good track record, a temporary "leash" for operation until The Lab proves a good neighbour―and once it does so, Vaughan welcomes The Lab to reapply for its prized patio position. But until then, Vaughan says, "the burden is on [Kapur]."

So that's how the story goes. Prepare for longer hours in the later summer at Future's and keep your fingers crossed for its patio next door, at least for now. But if we may ourselves put in a good word for Kapur and for both businesses in question―so long as the douchebaggery of The Brunswick House is allowed to be in operation, we say both Future's and The Lab are certainly fair game.

Talkin' shit about a pretty sunset

Everybody loves sunsets.

This is, in fact, true. Never will you find a nay-sayer―between sunsets on beaches, sunsets over snow, and sunsets even from a cramped car, they're a universally-percieved sight of natural beauty. Sunsets are for first kisses, capping off a long, fulfilling day, or kicking off a night of things that can only really happen in the dark. If you ask a person if they would like to go watch the sun set from some comfortable location, they will almost always oblige. Bunnies, rainbows, sunsets, and love.

But what goes up must come down, which means the day is dawning on another realm, all of it a part of the beautiful balance that is nature. See, sunsets are nice. But it's predecessor, in my opinion, really holds the power.

Sunrises are saved for the more grandoise. I've seen a lot of sunsets, and they've all been nice and lovey-dovey and pretty, and I can't take away from that. But every sunrise I've watched (and I'm certain I can recall them all) has been symbolic of something ending, something beginning, something special. I don't mean just waiting at the bus stop on a goddamn early school day, no, that's just the opposite, it's the norm, it's godawful. But when you really sit and watch the sun rear its perfectly-spherical, luminous head, it sinks in.

Perhaps its this time of year, and being home that's giving me a bad case of nostalgia. I vividly remember the night of my grad―three years ago next week. I'll refuse to gloss over and say that a perfect night was had by all, because that was far from the fact. I divided my night jigging to Cyndi Lauper, and later, singing love songs to a toilet bowl at the Agricom. We couldn't decided on the after-grad destination, and spent the latter part of the eve peeing in Boston Pizza's, and miscommunicating with a limo driver. When we finally returned home, we rolled down the tinted windows and stepped out with bloody, blistered feet and bam!, there was the sun, saying hello, last night is over, you are done. I remember looking around at my friends and playing some reality-t.v. like game show―who, in one year, five years, will make the cut of the Real World, which friends will really "keep in touch" like they say they will (for the record, from that car ride, three). I remember watching the sun rise from an untouched acerage, and thinking of beginnings, and endings, and not much else. A Night to Remember, but that was just the grad's theme. A whole different world to wake up to, that's what it really meant to me on that late-late-night, that too-early-morning.

Then, another time. 

Last year in the gorgeous Gorge in Washington State, with two of my best friends from home, and one new friend, watched the sun rise as we packed up our campsite after a long, aptly-titled Memorial Day weekend. A weekend ending with goodbyes to places, to our campsite and our tent that we didn't once sleep in, to all the music played on a stage framed by nothing but blown-wide-open skies. We'd soon head in the car home together, and then I would solitarily head away by myself to my new home, my first summer away. I wondered what it would be like to spend it without the friends I'd had forever.

Last night, well, by now, two nights ago, I drove an old friend with a past home after a long night out. We reminisced, and as that familiar luminous body rose, I remembered the last time we'd driven this road. The last time, it was when two people became something more than friends. We'd climbed a bridge and conquered it, singing from the top to no one who'd hear that it was ours, that we were a "we." The other night seemed the same. We drove around familiar circles, and when dawn struck we were left to wonder if that was all really in the past, or if the past was playing into the present―into the now, into the new. It all seemed too recent, too real. As the car door shut and I was left alone in what was by now near to broad daylight, I drove home in dead silence, music not too crowd my wandering mind. 

What has happenned, what is to come... real sunrises mean beginnings, endings, but nothing in between. 

unnecessary news: news that's totally unessential, but perfect for those awkward parties and first dates

DegrasRiRi?

Oh Canada, get ready, because you just might make the spotlight on Perez for the next fifteen minutes.

Apparently Chris Brown's ex-pillow-cushion has been canoodling with a Canadian who plays someone with a visible physical impairment. Via People via Eye, may I present to you: Rihanna and Jimmy Brooks Aubrey Graham.

"The two of them were stealing kisses here and there the whole night," says the source. 

The singer's group danced until midnight, when the new pair left together. "They were very cute. Both of them were in really good spirits..."

This marks the first time Canadians and the Carribean have been associated since Cool Runnings. Next week: Chris Brown releases old photos of Rihanna making fun of people in wheelchairs.

Let's All Hate Coldplay (but please, please don't)

Just like that pussy kid who always turned the other cheek, Gwyneth Paltrow's bleary-eyed activist husband renags: "SUE ME MORE!!!". Via Twitter via Pitchfork via Coldplay's website via NME (next project: link trees?):

"Some people are suing us at the moment, and although it was initially a bit depressing, now it's become really inspiring. You think, 'Right, if everyone's trying to take away our best song, then we'd better write 25 better ones.' And so just at the point where I was thinking about getting fat and becoming complacent, I've been finding more inspiration. Now we've got more to prove than ever before."

So that's it. Coldplay sorta rips off someone's stuff, which is legit (all music takes its "inspiration" from something else, it's just a matter of making sure it's an expansive idea instead of some obvious carbon copy). Someone else gets pissed because Coldplay will always be more succesful at ripping off their shit (and probably because their girlfriend gets all sappy about that bloke Chris Martin) than they ever were at making it in the first place. That someone sues Coldplay. Chris Martin and those other three guys miraculously don't have the ability to get angry, instead, they turn it into some wonderfully charming observation about the colours of stars. Coldplay makes eight billion dollars. Your girlfriend leaves you for a singer-songwriter who plays open mic nights and probably has a shitty construction job but is full of emotion and other effeminate qualities. "Someone" out there is now broke, single, and worst of all, p3wned by Chris Martin.

The Globe and Mail Online Gets a Makeover

They make a video. Nobody cares, except for whiny commenters who express their complaints, because everybody knows that change is bad.

Good morning, good morning!

Unemployed? No more health benefits?

Ease up. Pfizer wants to help you.

They won't give you a job, nor pay off a year's rent, but they're willing to help out with another bare necessity―with free one-year subscriptions to, among others, everyone's favorite peppy little pill―Viagra.

It's funny, but it's also feasible. Ya dee ya da, recession, reschmession―sex always sells. You can't stop people from having sex when they can't afford theatre at night (in fact, they'll probably spend more on birth control out of fear of bringing a little bundle of financial burden into the world). Sex shops are selling out―not selling out like arena artists begrudged by those who read Pitchfork, the other kind―and getting their best business from all those who're getting some. (In March, I did a story for broadcast on Queen West's Condom Shack's resexssion successes―they said this years been their best by far. This means we, as a society, are either getting sluttier, or cheaper. Or both.). But it all kinda makes sense. It's cheap, easy entertainment. Well, just not easy for all... hence the help of Viagra―friskiness that's fun and frugal!