Sara asked me to be her Friendster. I decided to first try and hunt her down through my network of 137,886 friends – maybe she is already my friend? With about 200 Saras in my personal network I gave up five Saras into my search. It seems that there are another 400 called Sarah.
Last night Sabine and I discussed six degrees of separation and she told me about a German TV show that picked a random taxi driver in Berlin and linked him to Russell Crowe. Every week there would be a new episode with a new person in the chain towards Crowe.
Hollywood stars are boring. I would like to see if I have any connections to Islom Karimov (warp him here) or even more difficult: some sinister African personality like Mugabe (I don’t know if you can warp him).
Last week I got a response to this blog for the first time. From some guy asking me to link up to his patriotic (American) gun website. Sorry, fellow, I don’t like things that can hurt me or any other living thing. I don’t care if you’re only shooting targets – you might miss and kill some endangered Peruvian buffalo.
Perhaps I spend too much time in circles of people who quote “Bowling for Columbine” once every day, but I was astonished that here was someone who obviously did not watch it and possibly might approach that movie from a Charlton Heston stance.
And again from the Morbid Read Du Jour is a homosexual duck raping a dead compatriot.
It is taking a while for my computer to get to the picture. I feel like a little kid who can’t wait for Christmas morning to come already.
The Morbid Read Du Jour relates that three people were mangled in Rome on Tuesday by an escalator, with one woman dying.
Keep far, far away from those stairways of death. If you need more convincing ask me about the girl whose face got torn apart by one of those killers.
Maktaaq is in a jolly mood tonight!
Tomorrow is Halloween: it’s supposed to be a good time for divining identities of future lovers and I am looking up all manner of superstitions in this regard. First, I must verify as to whether or not I will encounter any bonfires tomorrow, before I snip off any more locks of hair. Next I must find my way to a grove of cabbage and uproot one – dirty roots signify a rich husband, which would be a bonus. (After I eat said cabbage I’ll know if future husband will be sweet or bitter. Cross your fingers so I’ll get a nice cabbage/husband.)
I had no idea what drove me to buy an apple last night but it will come in handy for tomorrow night’s husband-predicting again. I must peel the apple in one go. I like challenges. That’ll test my mettle. If I succeed, I drop the peel on the ground and see by what initial my future husband’s name begins. There’s also an Irish something called the Barnbrack Cake, but since I have no access to fruitcakes with coins, rings, and rags imbedded within, I won’t be able to know my financial status.
I have ivy in my backyard and one leaf alone can predict my health over the next year. Divination sure is fun!
That’s the problem with articles about suicide. They include the gory forensic details that makes the idea of suicide unpalatable. Marissa Imrie probably looked at the same website I did and, for some reason, the autopsy photos didn’t deter her. I was mostly worried about staining the living room carpet or leaving a permanent stench or the look of horror on whoever stumbles across me. My method is still to disappear into the tundra one winter. Wild animals will eat my corpse and my parents will be spared a visit to the morgue.
Note 1: “[Roger Grimes] gave up [trying to get a suicide barrier installed on the Golden Gate Bridge] a few years ago, stunned that in an area as famously liberal as San Francisco, where you can always find a constituency for the view that pets should be citizens or that poison oak has a right to exist, there was so little empathy for the depressed.” The most interesting parts of this article was Kevin Hines, who spent a tearful half hour on the bridge and no one intervened, or the guy who wrote that if one person smiled at him that day he wouldn’t jump.
Last September, one month into unemployment, I saw a Native woman standing at Burrard and Georgia crying, with a baseball cap held out to the passing office workers streaming out from the surrounding office high rises. At her feet was a black duffel bag and a green backpack.
Just arrived to Vancouver and no one to meet her, I thought.
My personal superstition is that giving money to a busker is good luck. I never pass one without a donation. While I support all street musicians, I never loosen purse strings for common beggars.
But this woman on the corner of Burrard and Georgia – I thought of Pasolini’s story of how a pimp lured the young widow into prostitution. While reading the story, the widow’s entrapment takes up many pages, I kept thinking, “No! There’s still time to save yourself!”
Already I crossed the street. There are so many people in the Downtown Eastside and they perhaps once started out like this woman.
I don’t think my five dollar donation was enough.
Note 2: crabs eat corpse eyeballs and cheeks. Down with crabs!
“Friends are better than therapists.”
A few years ago at a folk concert, these three Aboriginal women on stage talked about depression in native homes in Australia and how suicide was as common there as it is in our First Nations communities. This talk led to an introduction to their next song, about how people used to drop in their neighbours’ houses and chat, and how this is a better remedy for depression than just getting drugged up.
A few days ago my uncle remarked how doctors are happy prescribing medicine to keep patients returning to refill prescriptions. So the cause for our societal ills would be economic.
Not enough restaurants are picking up on the communal table idea. But soon I will change all that.
However, reading this article really depressed me. I feel sorry for all these lonely people.
Hell! Screw them! North Americans are cold fish. They like being alone. What about me? I am Latin and hot-blooded – the ways of the hermit are not for me; I need consistent human interaction.
My back-up plan: as soon as I have enough cash (spring 2005) I am heading off to Europe again and I’ll meet my husband in Croatia or Romania, unless some nice Milanese fellow steps in to save me. I would have liked to share a common language with my husband but the proverb “beggars can’t be choosers” haunts me. A pretty face looking for a sugar mama is good enough for me.
The exact methods I will go about meeting him trouble me somewhat. I am not a bar person and, furthermore, I don’t want to meet a drunk ï¿½ oh! alcoholism, the scourge of Eastern Europe! I never meet people in bookstores or supermarkets, like someone in my condition should be doing, so I scratched that method off my list long ago.
I know no one in Croatia. I just hear that there are enough handsome fellows for everyone there. It’ll be like Helsinki; I step off the plane and the guy at customs will have me swooning. I imagine employing a Viking looting tactic; throwing the first fellow I see over my shoulder and re-embarking the plane with my new husband. I will have enough time to think it over on the plane ride to Zagreb so I can put that off for a while.
(The Czech Republic apparently is just as good as Croatia. However, it is over saturated with North American women, making it unlikely I will be able to find a fellow. After all these guys will be used to the presence of my kind and might even know that my flashing dollars are but a camouflage for poverty awaiting in Canada. I am looking for virgin territory, where they still think every Canadian has diamonds in their coffers.)
I don’t really know too many people in Romania…that would adjust to Canadian life. A Romanian thief, like my back-up marriage guy, would make problems for me here. I am honourably poor, after all. I am not the nasty version of poverty that Hogarth described: I donï¿½t sup on gin and drop babies. My reputation would be ruined. A transplanted Romanian pimp, likewise, might infringe on Canadian pimpsï¿½ prerogatives.
I had no idea what this thing called the right-hand ring is. I saw it last night in an ad in the latest issue of Oprah magazine. I read and reread the article trying to figure it out. Apparently it is the ring a woman gives herself when there is no one else to give it to her.
Having looked at lawsuit photos of what happens when diamond rings rip off fingers, I have decided that rings arenï¿½t for me. That is one thing I can be thankful for when I am an old spinster. At least I will die intact, all fingers in place.
Karen sent me a recipe:
A Bag of Sugar (have about 3 cups on hand)
1 to 1.5 cups Water
A good sized Pot
Boil 1 cup water. (Use slightly more if you have a very large lemon ï¿½ water cuts down the acidity)
Chop up the Lemon & Orange into little bits with peel & seeds.
Add the fruit bits & peel to the boiling water for about 20 minutes & boil until the rind is soft.
Now, you can take it off the heat and strain the solids if you like a clear jelly, or keep them in the mix for a chunky marmalade.
Measure in a measuring cup how much volume of liquid or liquid/fruit mix you have. Put it all back in the pot, and then add an equal amount of sugar and stir it to dissolve.
Turn the stove back on high, and boil this mixture for another 12-15 minutes. Watch, as it will rise once it gets going! Turn down the heat to keep it from boiling over and stir to keep from burning. The mix will get quite thick.
Now, turn the heat off and let it cool for about 10 min. Taste a little to see if you need to add more sugar. When it is still hot but not too hot to touch, you can pour the mix into a jar or other container, and let it sit to cool down. When itï¿½s relatively cool, put the lid on the jar & put the whole thing in the fridge. Next day, enjoy your Marmalade with your favorite bread! Also try adding a large spoonful to some hot water for a lovely marmalade tea.
What’s Your Animal Magnetism?
“Maktaaq, you’re a Tiger in the wild world of love.
Grrrr. Go get ‘em, Tiger! You know what you want and how to get it. And with your powerful stealth and impressive attitude ï¿½ who are we to tell you otherwise? You’re a natural predator in the lush jungle of love. With plenty of poise, power, and perfect timing, you’ll charm the pants off any target you set your sights on. You’ve got beauty and grace that’s irresistible to most who cross your path. Your territory is so well marked, it’s not surprising that you sometimes can be a bit of a loner instead of hanging with the pack.
Sophisticated and discriminating, you set your standards high when out hunting for love. Trendy new hot spots are probably your typical habitat ï¿½ though any place you can find sleek, beautiful mates is good in your book. Your confidence and charm will certainly get your partner purring. And whether it’s your bold patterns or the stealthy way you pounce, there’s just something people can’t resist about you.”
Trendy new hot spots? Poise? Dat don’t sound right, but I’ll take it.