Loving Where You Live.

I only have 36 days left on the wonderful yellow houseboat in Coal Harbour. My heart bleeds at the thought of leaving, truely. I have begun dreaming of where I'm going next...and I'm also doing my best to enjoy each day I have left aboard. Does your morning walk look like this? Well, mine has and does for the last 5 months. How spoiled we've been, Miss Sari and I. They warned us we wouldn't want to leave, those landlords....prophetic words indeed.

In less wholesome (and more typical) news, two people went into the drink on Saturday in the wee hours. Coincidentally, 4, FOUR phone calls were made to Midnight Express that same evening. It's called Science, friends. Look it up.

To All The Twi-Fanatics

Vancouver has recently turned into Mecca for all the Twilight freaks. Yup, they've begun filming the saga's second installment, New Moon, here in the Lower Mainland. Every major paparazzi agency has dispatched extra coverage to our fair city. Soccer moms are barraging news outlets for any, ANY information about where filming might be taking place so they can win over the hearts of their fickle, hormone-riddled 10 year olds (hey Sally, put down the milk jug - that training bra can't take the heat).

In short, it's creeper central up in here.

Two things of note.

1. Why is this Twilight/Edward shit a phenomenon? Okay, I get it. He's brooding, and "perfect-looking," (*Editor's Note: I saw Robert Pattinson yesterday downtown....the results were underwhelming) and he likes the weird girl. And he's safe-kinky, because he's a vampire, but a good vampire.

**Editor's Response to Editor's Note: Save the requests for the location of where I saw him. If you aren't a f$%king moron, which you probably are if you are looking for this dude during business hours, you'd have found the set already.

Booorrring.

If you're going to go blood-thirsty, why not go Anne Rice? At least she doesn't tease. You know she's bringin' the sexy time two-thirds of the way through. Now, Anne Rice may not be appropriate for the horny Harry Potter set. But to all my friends who read Twilight, and you know who you are: do you like second base? Because what you're saying by reading Twilight is that you are a committed second base girl. Coincidentally, the majority of my friends reading this drivel are the friends closest to starting families. Well guess what girls - you aren't going to make babies by dryhumping. So I suggest a change in literature to start with.

2. While we're on the subject of blood-thirsty adults - according to Census Canada, 52% of us will need blood in our lifetime, and yet only 9% of us donate. Those numbers don't add up at all kids.

So log out, type http://www.bloodservices.ca/ into the address bar, and find out how to get your vampire-victim on - in a good way. Hell, if you have to envision Edward's face as they suck the blood via syringe from your arm, go ahead. Just do it.

And after your finished, go to Schlockbuster Video (http://www.schlockbuster.com/store.htm) - hands down the best place for Vampire Porn in the city. Don't say I didn't warn you.

No Beef Or Poultry In The Champagne Room

I am officially at Day 12 of zero red meat, pork or poultry. Do I feel better physically? Sure. Do I feel good knowing that the welfare of animals has improved as a result? Not really, because I also know that A) I will still wear bad-ass leather apparel like fingerless gloves and ass-less chaps from time to time and B) because I am morally-challenged in so many other ways that this small gesture isn't going to help any.

No, this is a self-centered experiment. So far I have drawn three conclusions. One: My intake of Cheese Strings has dramatically increased. Two: Eating all organic and shit 24/7 is expensive. Three: The Bronson Pinchot-lookalike working at the coffee stand in the local Capers thinks I have a crush on him since I've been there 3 times already this week. Suh-weet.

In Response To The Previous Post...What Goes Around, Comes Around

In response to my mother's suggestions of a possible pathology in my childhood psyche...I wasn't alone, Mummy. Look at this divine coat!

I think it's time to get outside and interact with other humans...I'm starting to get a Big/Little Edie vibe up in here. Happy Wednesday.

Regressing With Mummy

Yesterday was my day off and so I made my way to my familial home to spend some time with my mother. It was quite lovely - a little tea time, some reading in the sun etc. My mother then asked me if I would care to run some errands with her - she was was in the market for a new barbie.

I looked up from my book and inquired, "But didn't you and Dad just buy a new barbeque last year?"

Mummy's excited response: "No dear, not a barbeque.....a BARBIE. A Barbie Doll! It's the 50th anniversary and I'm going to get the original!"

After a 5 minute silence from which I barely recovered, I took to my computer to look up this Barbie phenomenon. Apparently Mumsy isn't alone in this quest for doll nostalgia. Mattel, the company responsible for the production of this iconic plastic lady, bases their quarterly earnings around the releases of this broad!

I made a few (in my mind) hilarious comments/puns about this doll fixation in my Mum's direction, only to be informed with a sideways glance that "You wouldn't understand, because you were never really a Barbie girl anyhow," "Your sister totally gets it," and "We gave you Fraggle Rock dolls instead, and you cut all the hair off" as if I was as devious as The Beltway Sniper during childhood. My mother really is good at the casual yet measured burn. Must. Take. Notes.

She also reminded me of the fact that I received Ken and my twin sister received Barbie three Christmases in a row. She informed me that this was done because I really liked watching hockey with my Dad and because I played with all the boys. Right. It's a testament to the power of evolution that I don't live in a one bedroom off 47th and Fraser listening to Ani DFranco records and cruising for lipsticks on craigslist.

So back to Barbie. She is f$%king 50....shouldn't she want to be called Barbara, or even Barb by now? I asked my mother if there was such a thing as "Cougar" Barbie and was met with a look I can only describe as "You're No Longer Welcome For Dinner."

Listen, someone - Skipper, maybe Midge etc. - should really tell Barbie that Ken is gay. His Rock Hudson schtick isn't fooling anyone.

For The Three Of You Paying Attention.

So yes, I fired up my good old blog only to not post for a pile of days. I know, I know. Pathetic. But hey - I'm nothing if not consistent. Placate yourselves with that.

Until I have time to further adjudicate something meaningless, take a gander at this:

www.garfieldminusgarfield.net

Holl-er.

Until then (and that "then" is very subjective),

Lex

Long Live The Queen!

Mad ups to my pal Spencer for this clip!

http://www.publiceyeonline.com/archives/003612.html#more

That gayelle on the right is sexual chocolate. Oh yes.

Ponzi Schemes and Sex Toy Parties - Everybody's Getting F$#ked!

Unless you've been living under a rock (and hey, if positioned in just the right way, you technically could slowly asphyxiate to death, thus getting off - so hey, maybe this "living under a rock" thing ain't so bad) you've heard of the recent events surrounding one Bernie Madoff.

Madoff was the president of NASDAQ, which, for our good friends getting their nirvana on underneath aforementioned rock, is " the largest electronic screen-based equity securities trading market in the United States" according to wikipedia.org. Madoff was a hugely powerful man on Wall Street and beyond, and his meteoric rise spoke of the American Dream: growing up working class in Queens, Madoff went to college, took his first few thousands and played the penny stocks, ending up a bajillionaire. Let's put it this way: in the Forbes 500 social scene, dudes wanted to yacht with him and women followed him into the bathroom. Life was good for our pal Bernie!

Unfortunately for our protagonist, all things would come to an end when his snitches, er, sons, ratted his rich ass out to New York state authorities in late 2008. Things weren't looking so good for the Bernmeister already; that hooker lovin' puritan, former Wall Street wazoo and Governor Eliot Spitzer, had already been on his ass for awhile. God Eliot - give the guy a break! He's just trying to steal the most money in the history of time! Sheesh.

Anyhow, Madoff confessed that he had been running a Ponzi scheme for some time. Named after Charles Ponzi, this sort of fraud involves doing cool stuff like this: http://www.investopedia.com/terms/p/ponzischeme.asp. He ripped off alot of cool people, like Kevin Bacon, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Jeffrey Katzenberg, and that hot piece of meat Larry King (when I heard the last name, it got my blood boiling. Nobody fucks with my Larry!). He also fucked over a number of charities - which for some reason really pissed a ton of people off.

But I digress. This all relates to my next point: F%&kerware parties.

In the 70's and 80's, our mothers had to deal with the onslaught of the modern day pyramid scheme and all the awkwardness that came with having your friends trying to hock you shit. Our generation, however, had been spared up until recently. Why? There are a multitude of justifiable reasons to say no to said gatherings. One: the hors d'ouerves typically served - Costco cocktail ring, anyone? - suck balls. Two: people don't need low-budget organic skincare (http://www.watkinsonline.com), Rubbermaid-type containers (www.tupperware.ca), or crappy cosmetics (http://www.marykay.ca/). Three: the pressure to purchase is notoriously bunk.

So as a result, all this good, clean manipulative nonsense was slowing down, and the housewife-styled pyramid scheme as Earth knew it was approaching extinction. However, like any good parasite, the pyramid scheme adapted. And sneaky bastard that it is, Mr. Pyramid found its means of resurrection through a sure-fire method: sex. That's right kids: pink dildos and pineapple lube are the tools of Beelzebub himself!

It's easy these days to say no to a Tupperware party. But a sex party with "the girls"? You say no to one of these things and you're looked at with the Phylicia Rashad Momma-Cosby death stare. (You know the one - when Mrs. Cosby would look at Mr. Cosby from the side of her eyeballs when she'd catch him eating a hoagie? That one. Scary stuff!)

For those of you who have been lucky enough to have been spared an invite to one of these events, it goes a little something like this. A money-grubbing acquaintance who wants to get rich quick without working hard invites you over to their home for a "Sex-Toy Party", "Girl's Night - No Boys Aloud!," or the absolute worst, a "F@*kerware Party." And since the advent of Facebook, it has only gotten ten times worse. Hide your razors pals. This stuff is grim.

*Editors Note - I don't hate sex toys - far from it, in fact. One time a few years back I didn't leave my apartment for 96 hours and all I had at my disposal was a Rabbit and some microwavable popcorn for sustenance. What I DO hate, however, is some 35-year-old patchouli scented "Sensuality Consultant" telling me how to best get my rocks off while I'm eating a luke-warm sausage roll, catching up with some girl from high school who I haven't seen for three years. While we're at it, would someone refill my plastic cup of Arbor Mist? Thank you.

Maybe I'm much more private than I perceive myself to be, but I find it hard to conjure up legitimately organic, sexual thoughts when conversations like this are taking place:

Sensuality Consultant: "Now here, girls, is the next big thing. You loved The Thunder Vibe. You
made him jealous with The Shockwave. Well girls, one false move and he's out - because once you go Cowboy Up, being single won't even f$%king matter - because this dildo is absolutely amazing! It's been designed by a former NASA scientist!"

(Sensuality Consultant then flashes a knowing look to all involved, intimating that she herself has taken the Cowboy Up dildo for a test drive and it meets her undoubtably insatiable sexual desires).

Host of Party: "Oh. My. GOD. You guys.....this sounds so good. I think I saw Shane use
it on the "L" Word."

(Scattered glances are traded amongst the guests, with the knowledge that if this dildo is good enough for the de facto hottest primetime lesbo it absolutely would work for anyone, and thus, them - and that speaking against said dildo would impart that one didn't find Shane hot, which in turn means you are against the current sexual rage, bi-curiousity, which in turn means you are a homely school marm).

Cuckolded Guests: "I'll take two."


And so the pyramid scheme has triumphantly been able to grab ahold of our current obsession with sexuality, or rather, how sexually we are perceived, and has wrapped its malleable little noose around us once more. I ain't buyin' - not one amber-scented massage oil. Join me in the revolution, my friends, and march on down to your good old fashioned Mom and Pop (or Mom/Mom, Mom/Mom/Dad, or Dad/Dad etc.) sex store to get your goods.

Now the motivation for hosting these events, aside from the amaaazzing products to be had and the good times that are shared, is money. And one thing celebrities like Zsa Zsa Gabor and Kevin "I Showed My Wang At The End Of Wild Things - Surprise!" Bacon have, er, had, is cash. So while they probably didn't have to deal with the turmoil of pressing the "Not Attending" button to a shite Facebook event invite before, they may be dealing with this sort of nonsense soon. (Sidebar - does Zsa Zsa Gabor have Facebook? That would be really hot if she did. Puurrrr).

After examining these modern day jackals, I've come to one conclusion I know to be sound - Ponzi or pyramid, at least these fraudulent strains are screwing us over equally, regardless of caste or fiscal state. And in this world, where the middle class is disappearing at an alarming rate, leaving us with the uber-rich and destitute, it's nice to know that we all can still get f#$cked in a multitude of different ways and positions, both physically, financially, and moronically. So really - thank you, Mr. Bernard Madoff, for re-asserting the notion that getting f#$ked can happen at every station. At least you can argue that you're an equal opportunity employer next Monday when you get your ass handed to you in court.