And I thought I had problems.

You're walking down the street to work. En route, you spy a picture of *insert the man/woman of your dreams here* and think to yourself "dammmmn!" And then, out of nowhere, you let out a moan, begin to convulse violently, and when you, er.., come to, you finally realize you've been hit with a tremor of pleasure, provoked by a photo. It's like a wet dream, save for the sleeping part.

Sounds pretty exciting, right? Apparently, it's a bit of a moaner groaner when it happens 200 TIMES A DAY.

The world's fascination with freaks will never end―and of course, neither will mine. For a good ol'-fashioned study break, take a trip to the virtual circus with these weirdos. If I could have any one of the listed superpowers, I'd have to choose #3. Why? Blame Canada.

The Inliers.

*Disclaimer: This post is not meant to be a racist tirade, but simply a cultural observation I've recently made which has allowed me to come to terms with some failures of the past. Don't hate.

I remember piano concerts as a kid. I remember throwing rampant tantrums in the car every time before I was to play in that concert I so loathed. It wasn't that I hated playing piano. It wasn't that I had stage fright, or even remotely disliked being the center of attention. All I ever hated was not being the best.

Every spring and every fall, I'd cram-practice for a week, playing the piano for an hour a day rather than an hour a week in preparation for Ms. Dorothy Weiss's seasonal recital. Two hours before show time, my little sister and I would dress in our Sunday best, hoping to impress all the well-to-do parents with our class, if not our classical piano. I'd bring the sheet music in the car, trying to commit each grace note to graphic memory, to nail each bar deeply in my brain.

And then we'd walk into the concert hall, late of course.

Scene: rows of piano students younger than I, all seated politely, with legs crossed at the ankle. Pretty skirts and perfectly-polished shoes, glasses, and of course, smug smiles. Beautiful little Asian girls and boys who were perfect, and perfectly better than I at anything I could do on that grand instrument. No matter their age or difficulty, they'd walk properly onstage, play their little hearts out without missing a trill, or an accent, or a crescendo. Perfect posture, perfect and proper. At the end, they'd turn and face the audience, bowing with a prideful, yet unconceited grin.

Then I, a foot taller and five shoe sizes bigger than most, would stumble onstage in a daze, sit down, and think of all ways could go wrong. And many of them, I did―my lithe fingers tangled, my crescendos started loud and ended soft, and many of my last notes were resemblent of that Arthur episode where he fails on the last note of Fur Elise (don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about). I'd bow, embarassed, thinking how I should, instead, be bowing down to all the future Yannis and Yokos in the room. I was green-eyed and confused about why the Asians were just so damn perfect, and wondered what in the miso soup was making them so much better than I.

Well, I spent yesterday at the U of T Robarts library. Unfortunately, I also spent most of the night. Throughout the day, everyone of every race seemed to be there, navigating the stacks in a less confused fashion than myself. But when I finally got on that elevator at 9:55 p.m., I stepped into a box that may have fit better on a different continent... and that's when it all made sense.

Just like The Outliers said, success doesn't happen by chance. It happens with a specific set of circumstances, a certain environment, a combination of drive and work ethic. And that's exactly what I was surrounded by in that elevator last night―people who'd been raised to understand the long hours proper study requires, and those dilligent enough to stick it out, because it's engrained in their culture. No wonder everyone thinks of the west as fat, lazy Americans―by comparison, we are.

So maybe it's time I took a lesson from overseas experts and came to expect that good marks only come from long, hard hours. And that magical pianist's touch comes from days and days of hours and hours of gruelling practice. After all, the rigorous work always means a better reward.

(Make)Over it.

Hottie or nottie?

Truth is, none of these women exist. Not online, not in the real world. They are our (or white America's) standards of good looks, the difference between the babe-alicious and the "I wouldn't touch her with a 10-foot poles".

Each of these pictures is a composite of about 30 photos from a certain ranking range at HotorNot.com, making up the ho-hum "6", or the hoOOoo baby "10". Gentlemen, you now have a gauge to base your shallow appearance-based judgments for any hun that walks her hot (or not) buns past. And, according to PSY124, you're more likely to help the "7" than the "6" if she trips and falls. Why? Even babies know it, and show it―they prefer pretty faces from the moment their squinty little eyes slide open―good-looking people get further in life (at least, according to social psych―don't quote―or kill me).

But what is this good-looking anyways? The difference between the "9.0-9.5"ers and the top of the heap is merely make-up, or more likely, some conniving chicks white-washing clean their blemishes with the not-so-secret brightness/contrast tool. Photoshop is a beautiful thing. How else do you think Brit Brit made her comeback so fresh-faced? Further, may I stress: EYELINER. Lots of it, and only in midnight shades. Lip plumper. Or, as it appears, that icy-purplish shade known as acceptable only in select seventh-grade myspace circles, yet seen as offensive and utterly embarassing anywhere else.

While I've considered it in the (distant) past, I've never allowed myself entry onto the vicious world that is hotornot.com. And in retrospect, I'm glad. Cause even if I'd earn the unattainable perfect 1-0,  I wouldn't―I couldn't be satisfied. The miss perfect ten of hotornot is a photoshopped, Maybellined falsehood. Maybe its subconscious jealousy speaking, but imo, the only way to find girls who actually look like this on the net is by visiting your favorite friendly porn site.

Dear "gentle"men at the library...

Go home. I don't care if you're commuters, this place is meant for the mute. I don't want to hear three phone calls about your trip to Holt Renfrew tomorrow and the size of your deep-v, because it probably won't look good when you wear it with your douchey sideways cap. And you won't be picking up any chicks with the amount of gas you pass. Rolling on the ground laughing at bodily functions is reserved for the toddlers on playgrounds, and crackheads in my backyard, but loudly, purposefully, at the library? Not my idea of a rootin', tootin' good time. 

"Settle down, boys," I say, and flash the international symbol for "shh." They drop the level down a few decibels, belch a few more times, and spend twenty minutes talking about fat chicks on Facebook.... and then another twenty about how they should get going. I turn to agree, but they are leaving. The pretty-boy in the Hollister shirt apologizes for his pal's rudeness, rather than saying sorry for his own like a man, and I lie, roll my eyes and say it's ok.

Finally, at 10 p.m., it's quiet. I reorganize my books, uncap a fresh highlighter, and get ready to get down to business. But then I hear that familiar rustling... and a soft "hey" from my left. It's pretty-boy, back in blue, and wanting to make ammends. "I'm so sorry, I really want to make it up to you. Can I take you to lunch?"

I look up, squander a snicker, stare deeply into his eyes... and say "no," and nothing else.

"Well, can I at least have your number?"

Sorry, I only date boys who are out of diapers. Go back to the 905.

oh dear god.

Froshies are trodding on my territory.

Scads of Abercrombie-clad clones are trampling all over my home stomping ground..

My backyard is backed-up with over-eager freshmen and all of the o-week, type-a's, busy pumping up newbie spirits and putting a damper on mine.

When I walk, I want to walk fast, mission-walk, through clear streets. I've got a lot of limb from the waist down and don't want to put it to waste. Call me a claustrophobe, or a country folk, but I just need some room to stretch out on my home street.

jagerbombs, anyone?

Accoring to the Star, this is douchebag.

According to a certain communist's favorite blog, this is douchebag.

As for me... this is douchebag.

Now, compadres, I must ask you to act as intellectuals. Redefine Webster's. In an age where the term is entirely relevant, and widely-used, but rarely, if ever defined, I ask: what, loyal readers, does being a douchebag mean to you?

Feel free to point fingers.

Bore-book

On a vacation once upon a time, a friend set me straight while I was greedily snapping photos of all my surrounding scenery―"Pictures look better with people," she instructed. When I got my photos back from the trip, the first forty or so were fast-flips, "nice" but nothing more, but the rest, after receiving her wise words of wisdom, were pictures worth a thousand words, or at least a second glance. Lesson learnt, I'm not saying that you need to cover the Eiffel Tower with a close-up of your giddy face for it to be picturesque, or even that every last picture must contain signs of human life. No, not at all.

BUT, when I see entire Facebook albums (frequently under the titles of: "Random, [insert name here]'s Random Pics, or RANDOM NITES OUT!!!) which consist of the following (and include captions like "BONNYVILLE!!!; the beautiful scenery [thanks, tips], and, my personal faaav, ... the lack thereof. Yep, the picture's boring enough that there's no possible description)... it makes me squeamish (part because I'm guilty of wasting my own time browsing, and partly because it's just morally wrong). But don't let me do all the talking... see the horror for yourself:

Now, by NO MEANS am I suggesting that it's even acceptable to post four, or even TWO albums of one night at the bar with you and every party pal from frosh week smiling with your eyes shut and a Smirnoff Ice in hand, because really, a) you're trashed and probably don't look that good, b) the photos all look the exact same except for stage of your drunken eyes and the fullness of your drink, and c) it invades my news feed religiously, ever Sunday morning. Drinking doesn't have to be in moderation, but pictures do, for Chrissakes!

The moral of the story?

Stop wasting precious Facebook bandwidth and go back to Photobucket where no one cares. Or, at least, where no one with unimaginable amounts of spare time and a high fever will have to see them.

Lester B. Pearson International Airport, 2 p.m.

Every road-trip to the air-port turns the little cogs in my (way hungover) head more than the the last.
Today, I sit in my uniform green vinyl seat, carefully positioned around the perimeter of the gate (to which I always arrive either obnoxiously early or last-minute late) sip my Starbucks and cast my judgments upon all my fellow passengers.

First off, I try and figure out why in god's name anyone who doesn't live on a farm, or have some billionaire business job, is flying to Edmonton. When I realize everyone is either taking care of business or visiting family, I find reasons to poke fun.

*Disclaimer: This experiment is for observational purposes only, no feelings are meant to be hurt in its publication.
Up on the docket today:
A grim foreshadowing of what I hope not to be fifty years from now.
Old country bumpkins, dressed in plaid and army-print ballcaps.
A cute old couple sits, clothes and faces wrinkled on the edge, slouched into their seats with their flood pants and long socks, and extra-support shoes. Everything about their mannerisms mimics each other-legs crossed left over right, glasses, hands folded neatly on laps, short but neatly kept hair cuts-they must be so (many years) in love.
Everyone looks old and out-of-touch, old faded jeans not worn ironically, ballcaps ballcaps everywhere, army print on exactly 6 passengers of the 26 in my line of sight. Oops, make that seven. Last time I checked, that trend died with the German army in 1945.

A four person family- what are they doing in Toronto? Perhaps a connecting flight from a rural area?
Dad's wearing a Disneyland tee-shirt, track pants and runners, mom's got matching reflective (ugh) track pants, runners, and a strange baseball t-shirt that says "Dry is not an option"- oh god, I think it's a Disneyworld shirt too. Yep, definitely heading home from Florida. The older of the two mussy-curled gurls has green army pants (!), brown shirt, and skate shoes. She's gonna be a little basketball player with attitude, the way she rolls her eyes and slouches. Her little sister's the princess, in a pink shirt and matching pink army pants, and Kim Possible (more Disney) kicks.
Typically Canadian, mom's passing out Timmie's from a bulk bag..WEST JET FLIGHT 197 GOING TO EDMONTON WITH CONNECTIONS TO KELOWNA AND VICTORIA, READY TO BOARD IN TEN MINUTES. PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU HAVE YOUR ID AND BOARDING PASS READY FOR PRESENTATION. Hoochie mama just took a seat across from the old farts, tiiite dark jeans (apple bottoms maybe), a tighter, too-short t-shirt, metallic blingin' rings, bracelets, and earrings that would surely stretch out any normal lobe. She's got a bikini top under her shirt (uh, wrong flight, hun?). Her braided ponytail isn't really a 'tail' per se, rather its like a pineapple sprouting out the top of her head-higher than cheerleader-high.

A couple sports fans decked out in blue jays polos and MORE BALLCAPS, carrying backpacks and cellphones on belts. Beer bellies and crossed arms, these are THOSE GUYS, the annoying ones who hang out at sports bars, drink bud light, and eat mild wings. They probably just came for the big game. Too bad they wasted their time on the Jays.

A potentially gay business man has just seated himself straight across from me. Khakis and a white, long-sleeved dress shirt, but the heads-up? Perfectly bald head and a white sweater draped over his shoulders, and tied model-perfect in that Ralph Lauren prep-esque manner. He smiles, almost too politely when he notices my subtle upward glances are directed at him (oops). ANYONE WITH SMALL CHILDREN, PETS, OR SEATED IN EXIT ROW, WHICH IS ROW TEN FOR THIS FLIGHT, PLEASE PRESENT YOUR ID AND BOARDING PASS AT THE GATE. GENERAL BOARDING WILL COMMENCE SHORTLY. The old couple are clutching each other tight, the young pink army girl is whining to her mom, and I'm sitting, waiti....LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE, WE INVITE ALL GUESTS IN ALL ROWS. PLEASE HAVE YOUR BOARDING PASS READY FOR PRESENTATION, AS WELL AS YOUR GOVERNMENT-ISSUED PIECE OF PHOTO IDENTIFICATION. THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING WEST JET IN YOUR TRAVEL PLANS TODAY.

Ah, and all the keeners line up. Hoochie mama's looking peeved in line, tugging at her jeans and pushing out her fat lower lip. I must be 30, give or take a couple years younger than the caucus of this flight. Passengers are clutching their Tim Horton's for dear Canuck life.
Alas, the line is shortening, my time has come to join the masses. But now you know next time to hit Terminal Three, watch your back, cause I just might be watching it too...