So we meet again.
I’ll get you next time gadget!
Erm, I mean, happy Friday folks!
First I would like to send a giant hug to all of you who live on the east coast.
I hope you are all safe and sound and have escaped Sandy’s clutches with minimal damage.
Mother Nature’s wrath is most muted here out west; although the weather is absolute rubbish, we are lucky enough to be dealing with nothing more than a tepid drizzle (so constant you’d think that our city was built smack dab in the middle of the world’s most anemic waterfall.)
But really, ho-hum, pigs bum, it’s all one.
So this Fry-Up is dedicated to all you who call the sweet sights of the Atlantic Ocean home (especially my beautiful big sister who rode out the storm in her Brooklyn flat. Love you sweet K with all my heart!)
Sometimes I wear an outfit that is made up of so many colours that it looks as though Picasso painted me.
I always become so much more aware of my multi-hued clothing as we enter the winter months, as it seems that all the other individuals who work downtown dress in progressively grayer and grayer tones.
This is not a good idea folks.
My rule of thumb is never dress the same colour as the weather. That’s just too depressing for your own good.
Today the women handing out the free newspapers at skytrain nearly flipped their wigs when I showed up in my poppy coat and fuchsia skirt.
“Oooooooeeeerrrr,” one exclaimed. “Look at all your colours!”
“That’s one way to keep your spirits bright!” The other laughed.
I cannot argue with this statement.
Plus, wearing an outfit that pretty much pulsates colour makes it incredibly difficult for cars to miss you when crossing the street.
Because it’s all well and good to look like the work of a Spanish cubist – but as my parent’s would always say: safety first kids!
So, on Monday night I ventured out for some fab pub trivia, with some equally rad folks.
(Spoiler alert: we won! Taking Care of Quizness – the team’s name – really was taking care of quizness. Also, I may or may not be a good luck charm, as every time I’ve gone the team has emerged triumphant, either richer – in both money and spirit – or stocked with free booze.)
Now, given that I live in New Westminster, and the trivia was in the very heart of Kitstilano (a very posh, very yuppie neighbourhood of Vancity – enter at your own risk, lest you succumb to the clutches of Starbucks, Lululemon, and overpriced baby paraphernalia) it’s pretty necessary for me to drive, unless for some strange reason I feel like subjecting myself to a good hour and half of late night bus riding, post-game.
(For what it’s worth, I haven’t yet had any desire to pursue this experience.)
Anywho, what I’m trying to say here is that I drove to the pub.
As I was motoring into the city, I took the opportunity to absolutely blast the kind of music I don’t normally listen to when other people are in the car with me (as it would seem as though my loved ones are much more discerning when it comes to their musical tastes.)
When I’m all alone, on my own?
I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: I blast the absolute crap out of the cheesiest, most inane pop you could ever think of.
For instance, I managed to listen to this song three times driving to and from the pub:
And as I was chair dancing like a chair dancing thing, I began to mull over why it is exactly that I love this stuff so much, and how is this representative of my life overall.
In both music and food I have a penchant for syrupy sweet junk.
As much as I love healthy food and good (or whatever my be the musical equivalent to “healthy”) music, I really, really like crap.
I mean, life is all about balance right? And as long as I remember this, I’ll probably be okay.
Plus, I probably couldn’t stop if I tried.
(And I probably won’t try.)
I’ve written a few times before on ye olde Rant and Roll about how I am a bit of an anglophile – ie. there are many, many things about British pop culture that I love.
For instance, almost every concert I have attended over the past ten years have been bands from the UK, most of my favourite TV shows originally aired on (or continue to air on) the BBC, and I’d wager a fair guess that the majority of the dudes I’ve gotten all shirty over for, oh, I don’t know, my entire life, were born “across the pond” (in the parlance of our times.)
M and I just started watching Life on Mars on Netflix. We’ve only seen a few episodes, but so far I’m really enjoying the series.
If you haven’t seen it, the premise is that Sam Tyler – a policeman working in Manchester – is hit by a car in 2006 and wakes up in 1973. We don’t know if he’s in a coma and is dreaming everything, or if he’s actually been transported back in time.
The show is funny and witty and infuriating and has some of the best tunes I’ve heard on a television program in a long time.
If you have a chance, check it out.
If anything, it will make you want to get a really sweet leather jacket.
So that’s all she wrote you beauty cats!
Enjoy the weekend, stay warm, dry, safe, and sound.
I wouldn’t wish it any other way.