Die Prinzessin

The Big Reveal

2005-08-19T01:00:00.000-04:00

You can all exhale now.

The new blog is up, running, and waiting for you to visit. Here's the address:

http://prinzessin.blogs.com

Update your links, bookmarks, and blogrolls, please. I'll obviously leave this page up as long as I can, but no guarantees.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you on the flip side.

PSA

2005-08-18T08:11:00.000-04:00

I'm moving!

Well, not really. My blog is moving. But still, that's pretty exciting, right? No? Who asked you, anyway?

So if you're wondering why the formatting around here is weird and/or non-existent, it's because I had to export all these posts to a new (still undisclosed) location. It's a bit of a hassle, but it's going to be worth it. I hope.

I'm going to be busy setting up the new blog (I hate that word. Can't anyone think of a nicer one?) but feel free to send me suggestions. It should be all prettied up by tomorrow. Until then, try to contain your euphoria.

Love, Sarah

There are two questions I hate answering.

2005-08-17T01:20:00.000-04:00

One is "What are you going to do with a history degree?", because honestly, I don't really know. Journalism? Law? Both are possibilities, and interesting ones, sure. More importantly, though, stating these options satisfies your curiousity and makes me feel like I'm going somewhere, even though I'll probably still end up in a cubicle. I mean, if I'm lucky.

The other one is "Have you read the Da Vinci Code?", because (brace yourself) no, I haven't. And every time I concede my ignorance of this great treasure of a novel, I'm greeted with reactions ranging from incredulity to outrage.

"Are you serious? You haven't read the Da Vinci Code? But it's so good!" I'll say it again. No, I haven't read the fucking Da Vinci Code. But I have an excuse, weak as it may be. I've been busy reading other books (yes, they do exist). Books like Fahrenheit 451. Books that matter.

"Oh my god, you have to read it! It's incredible!" Yeah, I'm sure it's a real pageturner. But do I really have to read it? I mean, in twenty years, are my kids going to be coming home asking me for help with a book report on the Da Vinci Code? I don't think so. Are they going to be researching Dan Brown for their project on the greatest American writers of the last century? I hope not, because then I've wasted a lot of time reading Faulkner and Hemingway and Twain.

"You're the only person I know who hasn't read that book! What's wrong with you?" Well, I don't exactly know. Maybe my literary tastes have yet to reach the level of refinement necessary to appreciate such an insightful work of literature. Or maybe you should shut the fuck up, trend slut. Just a thought.

Nick thinks I'm crazy (well, part crazy) and doesn't understand why I wouldn't want to read the book everyone's talking about. I guess it's the same reason I never went on the Atkins diet or watched a season of American Idol. I don't actually care if it's on the bestseller list, Oprah, or your piece of shit blog. I'm not going to give up bread, I'm not going to suffer through bad music, and I'm not going to read a book about something I'm not even faintly interested in.

Besides, half the reason "everyone" talks about the damn novel is the controversial subject matter. Apparently there's a big religious conspiracy, and some uptight Catholics don't appreciate Mr. Brown's take on it. I have news for these people. The whole religion's a fucking conspiracy. Move on. Go read some Graham Greene.

Look kids, the Da Vinci Code probably isn't a terrible book. But I'm really not interested in reading it. Ever. That means I'm going to live the rest of my life not having read the Da Vinci Code, and you know what? I think I still have a shot at fulfillment.

What Sarah Said

2005-08-15T05:28:00.000-04:00

That old black magic has me in its spell

2005-08-14T14:22:00.000-04:00

I went to see Skeleton Key too late last night, and it gave me hoodoo nightmares. I'm easily affected by scary movies, which is why I usually avoid them like the clap, but once in a while I love a good suspense/thriller/mystery/anything that manages to be frightening without also being sickeningly gory. SK fit the bill perfectly, and delivered with surprising style.

Okay, before I go further, I should warn you that this review will be biased. I was prepared to like Skeleton Key, even if it ended up being as dumb as those TV previews suggested, because

a) It's not a remake, or a - what's the term these Hollywood types are using to hide the fact that they're completely out of ideas and creativity? - reimagining.
b) It doesn't star Jessica Simpson. Whoever told that girl she could act should be tied up and forced to listen to "Irresistible" playing on repeat for a week. (Actually, her dad would probably like that.)
c) It does star Kate Hudson, who is adorable and talented.

However, those factors aside, it was still worth paying to go see, and because I have nothing better to do at the moment, I'll tell you why.

Firstly, I'm a very visual person, and I tend to enjoy any movie that's well-styled and well-filmed. Skeleton Key oozes with creepy atmospheric suspense -- blank-eyed dolls in dusty corners, empty chairs rocking in the breeze, Spanish moss dripping from every branch. Almost everything in the film is highly unusual, yet nothing really seems out of place. What I loved most was the dim, pervasive mood of fear enshrouding every scene. Watching it feels like stumbling through a cold, damp fog, the kind that slowly settles into your bones.

Secondly, SK is as easy to like as it is hard to swallow. It's a Deep Southern concoction of ghost stories, oddball characters, dark history, Gothic conventions, and folk magic. The premise - "it's not real unless you believe it" - is thought-provoking at times and simply confusing at others. The plot is pretty twisted, but essentially, a young hospice worker (Hudson) from New Jersey moves into an old mansion in the backwaters of Louisiana to help an elderly woman care for her paralyzed husband. That the house has a secret comes as no surprise, but the full nature of it certainly does. The mystery unfolds at a frenzied pace in the last twenty minutes, resulting in a breathless double take of a conclusion.

The best surprises in this movie, though, were the skillful acting and character development. Kate Hudson doesn't shine, and that's her biggest triumph, because she would have ruined the movie with her natural radiance. Instead, she manages to be both subdued and intensely focused as she moves, slowly and convincingly, from cynical outsider to terrified victim. Hudson is supported by a number of highly talented actors, including Gena Rowlands as the sweet-voiced, secretive Mrs. Devereaux, Peter Sarsgaard as the estate lawyer and almost-perfect gentleman, and Joy Bry...uh...never mind.

Still, my guess is you'd be hard pressed to find a glowing review of Skeleton Key. The first three quarters are unnecessarily bogged down in exposition, and even the dialogue is slow and heavy at times. The story - while creative, interesting, and even, at times, completely unpredictable - is marred by a surplus of Southern tropes and zany superstitions.* Mostly, however, it falls into a kind of no man's land between campy horror and provocative mystery; it's too intricate for most scary movie lovers and too exaggerated for most film critics.

*Personally, I enjoyed the fussy, theatrical contrivances, and felt they deepened the creepy atmosphere. (Well, the horrific black-and-white flashback to the double lynching, that I didn't enjoy so much. Sorry for the spoiler, but I feel you should be warned if you're going to see it, which I think you should anyway. Just cover your eyes when you see the ropes go up. Oh god, that sounds flippant and callous. I'm sorry. It was really, really upsetting, and we all know how I like to joke about things that upset me.)

Bottom line? Go see it, if only for the spectular, genre-defying twist of an ending.

You just laughed it off, it was all okay (click to hear a really good cover by Ben Lee)

2005-08-12T16:45:00.000-04:00

I spent Tuesday night with my two favourite girls from high school, Heather and Kaylie (who isn't in any of these pictures, because she's scared of the internet. Or something cute and Kaylie-esque like that.)

We ate at the two unhealthiest fast food places we could think of, Taco Bell and Dairy Queen, which happen to be conveniently located right next to each other on Wharncliffe Road, also known as the express route to heart disease.

One of the many things I love about spending time with these girls is how comfortable and easy it always is. They've watched me go through phases and changes and hard times, and they understand why I am the way I am. They knew me when I was shy and awkward and wore this godawful yellow-and-pumpkin-orange coat because I couldn't tell my mom I didn't like it. ("It's Columbia. That's cool, right? That's what the kids are wearing?" Yes, but they're wearing it in colours that don't resemble Thanksgiving décor.) Basically, I can do anything I want around them and know they won't even blink, because I've already done something sillier, geekier, or just plain dumber.

On a childish whim, we drove through the quiet streets of my old neighbourhood looking for somewhere to play. Heather parked her car in a pool of yellow light on Victor St, in front of Alayna's house, where I used to go every morning before we walked to school together. We called her cell phone but there was no answer, so the three of us got out and walked into an empty, unlit playground surrounded by grass and trees. Belvedere Park, it's called, and when I lived around the corner I used to go there all the time with my little brothers and sisters and play tag or hide and seek or race to the "good swings" in the corner. They're not there any more, sadly, but there is a shiny new jungle gym. We played and climbed and swung and slid and laughed at each other and ourselves and the sheer randomness of being together, the three of us, for the first time in six weeks, in a playground well after dark.

On the drive home I tuned the radio to the only station I can even tolerate. A sweet song came on just as Heather was dropping me off, and I said "Listen to this, it's really good." I opened the passenger door and slid out, a little clumsily with my huge bag. "I know a place where no cars go." She probably didn't know what I was talking about, but she laughed anyway because she's used to me not making sense. I love that.

small words

2005-08-11T13:04:00.000-04:00

Yesterday someone asked me, "What's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to you?"

I was surprised by the first memory to surface. It wasn't even a compliment, really. It had nothing to do with my intelligence or talent or anything I had done to merit praise.

"You feel like you were made to be held."

Instead, it had everything to do with love, and belonging, and all the things I didn't know how badly I needed until then.

I hesitated to even write about this, mostly because I knew I couldn't convey the overwhelming "rightness" of that moment. Typed out on a screen, words lose their fresh sincerity and gain the aspect of a script. Still, I wanted to prove a point, no matter how overly sentimental it sounds.

At the end of my life, I feel that the "big things" will shrink into the recesses of my fading memory. The dreams and the achievements, the comebacks and triumphs, none will keep me warm in that grey twilight. My last thoughts will be of small words, whispered by people who loved me.

If you want me, won't you take me home? I'm lost in the cracks between the paving stones

2005-08-09T18:53:00.000-04:00

Death Cab for Cutie lovers, restrain yourselves. The new album, Plans, has been leaked to the Internet, and you can now download standout tracks like "Crooked Teeth" anywhere.

I got this news from Stereogum, and while I was there, I couldn't resist checking out the comment section. As usual, it was full of whiny hipsters jacking off about how much DCFC sucks now that they're popular. This kind of thing pisses me off more than you can imagine, so of course I wrote a comment of my own. And of course, some pretentious ass decided to respond. Here's our friendly little exchange.

See, this is just what I love about indie kids. They will sell what's left of their souls for a shitty basement recording of a band's first EP, but god forbid they should enjoy the same band's expertly mixed and produced major-label studio album. Because clearly, major label = bad and increasing popularity = worse. Never mind that DCFC has always been a pop band, even before they were popular, and that they have not changed their attitude or approach to music since they started - the only thing they've ever cared about is making the best songs possible. Ignore the odds of a group like this getting "less interesting" as they mature and develop their sound. Completely dismiss the fact that if some "buzzworthy" new Pitchfork darling of a band came out with THIS EXACT RECORD you would be all over it like Kevin Federline on a bag of Cheetos. No, you just keep spouting your ignorant, indie-snobby opinions about how the quality of a band's output is inversely proportional to the number of other people who listen to that band. Then go listen to your secret copy of "Futures" (ironically, of course).
Posted by: Sarah at August 9, 2005 12:12 PM

Oh, Sarah, I know you've got it bad for Mr. Gibbard and all, but it doesn't make the music any better. Have you heard anything from Death Cab's rock & roll era? Were you listening to them then? Perhaps you came late to them thanks to an appearance on the O.C. or maybe a shining recommend in "Allure." In any case, they were a great band once and you should really check out their early stuff so you have something next to which to compare the fluff they're making now. It's as if they've said, "We want to pinpoint and corner the 14-19 year-old female market, "and ran with it. This is maturation?
Posted by: narcpress at August 9, 2005 12:48 PM

I've been listening to Death Cab since high school, and I probably have every song they've ever recorded. But, you know, don't let that stop you from making condescending assumptions about me.
Posted by: Sarah at August 9, 2005 02:23 PM

Score: Me, 1. Anonymous fucktard, 0.

In other music news, I'm currently loving Fluxblog. I found this great song there - "Sodium Light" by David Wrench - and it's so eighties fab. That's where the title lyric comes from, if you care.

sand and grass

2005-08-08T22:26:00.000-04:00

On Saturday my boyfriend and a bunch of his friends went camping, and on a whim I decided to go too, girly clothes and all. Billy and I drove up to meet them, picking up Dan on the way. We got to the campsite just after the entrance closed, and when we tried to sneak in by lifting the gate we were promptly accosted by a man so bitter and uptight, the guys nicknamed him "Sargeant Fuckwad". I think he owned the place, which partially explained his attitude. I mean, if you lived in a campground/trailer park all year, you might be full of rage too. You might take every chance you get to go on a long power trip. You might get off on threatening college kids with tough-guy lines like "If you can't follow my rules, then get the fuck out of my park." (Note: the rule we broke was driving faster than 15 km/hr.) You might also say things like: "Do you want to drive back to London? No? Then follow me, and GODDAMMIT, DRIVE SLOW THIS TIME." (He was so dead serious when he said this that I cracked up laughing in the backseat. Luckily he didn't hear me, or we might have had to get the fuck out of his park.) You might also drive a golf cart like it was a hummer (i.e. with a lot of machismo) except instead of actually driving it, you might coast on fumes just to piss off the college kids who are trying to drive in an actual car behind you. Then again, you might be a decent human being.

When we finally caught up to our friends on the beach, it was like stumbling into a scene from a summer movie. They were all drinking around a campfire, along with a few strangers they had met who looked like they were straight out of That Seventies Show. The guitarist's name was Marty, I think, and he was hilariously drunk, yet still managed to play the hell out of an acoustic. His hippie friends played the bongos. There was also a girl wearing clothes that looked homemade and probably smelled of patchouli. The whole thing was a lot of fun and a little surreal. I wish they had stayed longer, but not long after we got there they disappeared into the pitch black. I almost think they were wandering ghosts, or time travellers.

It was a perfect night, just cool enough to draw everyone in around the campfire. We drank and talked and laughed and drank more. I swilled white zinfandel straight from the bottle, but I almost didn't need it. The lake air was intoxicating, clear and tangy. I felt more alive than I have in a long time.

Then I got smashed. And smoked a little pot, which normally I would never do because the smell makes me sick and it's not really my thing anyway, but I was drunk on a beach with my friends and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I can't really explain my progression from sober to ridiculous, so here's a little photo sequence.

This is me making love to the bottle. David says I have a funny way of drinking; is he right?

As you can see, I've only had about half a bottle, maybe less, at this point, so I'm happy and fine and making perfect sense as I talk to Billy. I don't remember why he was pointing at me like that, though.

This is after Billy convinced me to "do weed" (sorry, inside joke, sort of). Everything became brighter and funnier and crazier. At this point, I think I was rambling on about a search light, which was really just the camera flash.

I was drunk, okay? And high, don't forget that either.

Awww, look, my boyfriend's helping me up. Don't be fooled by the shining display of chivalry, though. He was the one who took all the previous pictures, while I was begging him to stop. And those are some pretty embarrassing pictures, too.

Oh, and while we're on the subject of embarrassment, here are some nonsensical things I apparently said while in my semi-delirious state:

- "I'm hungry. Can we go to the pizza place down the road?" (We were on a beach. In a campground. In the middle of nowhere. I don't know what I was thinking.)
- "My feet are bleeding, and the sharks in the water are going to smell the blood and come after me." (I was barefoot and walking on sharp rocks, but they weren't actually bleeding. Also, there obviously weren't any sharks in the lake.)
- "Home is a place where you keep your memories in boxes. What do you do if you move?" (Okay, I have a lot of issues when it comes to "home" and "family" and the like, because I moved out under very difficult circumstances. Now that you know that, can you make any sense of those two sentences? If so, leave a comment, because I'm completely confused by my own subconscious.)

I don't know how well I've expressed this, but it was a crazy, magical, once-in-a-lifetime kind of night, and I don't regret any of it. In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."

So, where were you while we were getting high?

Let's Spend The Night Together

2005-08-07T17:03:00.000-04:00

I have sand in my hair, smoke in my clothes and the Rolling Stones in my head.

Last night I went on a spontaneous camping trip, unprepared and unsuitably dressed. It was magic. As soon as I fully recover, I'll post pictures and (mostly embarassing) stories. Until then, don't drink and comment. It's a new rule around here.

Sincere Apologies

2005-08-05T15:02:00.000-04:00

I'm really sorry if I offended anyone with my last post. It was part of a deal I made with Clupbert to see who would get more hate comments if we blogged about hating women. Even though most of what I said was more or less true, if massively generalized, I didn't mean to hurt anyone's feelings or feminist sensibilities.

Um, can you guys hold on a second? I have to get the phone.

Holy shit! That was GOD. He said "Stop lying to your blog readers". To which I replied, "Stop lying to the entire world. You're not even real."

However, the Big Man has a point. I'm not really sorry. This is my blog, and if I want to make half-joking observations about MY OWN GENDER, I should be able to do that without anyone taking me too seriously and making judgmental comments.

So. We clear? Is everyone okay with this? Because I'd be kind of upset if any of you are sitting there silently fuming at me for being such an insensitive bitch. I'm really not.

Damnit, my phone's ringing again.

Written from a safe vantage point in my lovely glass house

2005-08-04T22:02:00.000-04:00

Before you read this, read this.

Five Things I Hate About Women:

1. We're catty. All of us, no exceptions. No matter how nice and sweet and cute we are on the surface, underneath there is a raging bitch just waiting for you to turn your back so she can tear you apart with her razor claws.

2. We're ridiculously jealous. Don't believe me? Go outside. For every pretty woman you see walking down the street, there are three petty ones shooting death rays in her direction.

3. We're manipulative. David says I always get my way with these sneaky little tricks, like changing our plans five minutes in advance so he doesn't have time to argue, or guilt-tripping him into doing things for me. I just make eyes at him and say "but honey..." and he's done.

4. We never stop talking. Apparently it gets annoying. I don't see it.

5. I wanted there to be five points, but I couldn't think of the fifth, so I asked David for help. He said girls are stubborn, and I said "I'm not!", and he said "See, you're too stubborn to admit you're stubborn." And really, I'm too tired to argue with that logic.

Frankie Says Relax

2005-08-03T12:26:00.000-04:00

There is nothing more perfect than a clear blue pool on a sunny afternoon. Between the cool water and the hot sun, it's a rare state of bliss. Moments like this allow you to breathe deeply and reflect on the good things in life. [Warning: Awkward segue to follow.]

Good things, like having a best friend who is not only sweet and wonderful, but also works at a day spa. Thanks to her job perks and generosity, my previously hideous feet are now freshly pedicured, and I can't stop looking at them.

My toenails are so shiny! My heels are so soft! Seriously, I forgot I even had heels under all those flip-flop-induced callouses. (Foot fetishists can click to enlarge - and drool over - this picture. I don't mind.)

Someday I want to be rich enough to have my own swimming pool and get pedicures every week. I just hope that if I get that lucky, I'll still gasp over my soft heels and luxuriate in moments of bliss.

The Weekend, Part III: "Don't worry, I only know, like, eight people who have died on this thing."

2005-08-02T16:00:00.000-04:00

Things I love about Canada's Wonderland:

The rollercoasters, obviously. All of them. I love the split-second of panic right before you plunge into a breathtaking drop and the pure thrill of hurtling around curves at ninety kilometres per hour. I love the head rush you feel when it's all over too fast and the loops and twists have left you dizzy.
Hearing my roommate Carissa swear like a black comedian on every one of those rollercoasters, because she's scared out of her mind.
Funnel cakes (see also "instant coronary"). Crispy-sweet spirals of deep-fried batter, dusted with icing sugar and piled with soft ice cream and strawberries... they're absolute heaven.
Those trick divers who somersault into the water from insane heights. They do it ten times a day, every day, yet they always look like they're having so much fun.
The whole gloriously tacky, too-bright feeling of it all. An amusement park is the ultimate escape, because nothing there is real. It's just one big cartoon adventure, and it makes you feel like a kid again. The only thing you have to think about is what you want to do next, and I love that. For a day, at least.

Things I don't love quite as much:

Lineups. Waiting forty minutes to go on a four-minute ride is a huge test of my patience, which is limited at best.
Being able to deep-fry ice cream in my cleavage sweat because it's so damn hot out.
Meals that cost more than a small third-world country. Yes, the whole country.
People who somehow fail to realize that even though it's fun and casual, and no one's there to see next season's hot fashion trends, an amusement park is still a public place. Meaning there are other people there, people who do not want to look at the fugliest, white-trashiest "outfits" this side of Britney Spears-Federline's closet. For example: we were standing in line directly behind a woman who must have gotten up that morning thinking, "What can I wear that's comfortable, easy to put on, and shows off my impressive stomach rolls?" That's the only explanation for what she was wearing, because God knows it's like nothing I've seen before or (knock on wood) will ever see again. It was essentially a giant tie-dyed t-shirt, cut and sewn into a one-piece shorts-jumper, with a drooping neckline and massive armholes that revealed her black bra (which, I might add, was doing a very poor job of keeping her breasts from flapping against her belly). The overall effect was more nauseating than the flippiest, spinniest, upside-down-iest ride in the park. Seriously, I wish I could show you guys a picture, and then see your faces. It was so funny watching others' expressions as they looked over at her. Shock. Horror. Disgust. Every time I could stand to look at her myself I would think, is she embarrassed? Is she oblivious? Or, since she was deluded enough to wear this thing in the first place, is she thinking "Wow, I'm too hot for all y'all to handle"? No, lady. And don't even think the word "handle", because that reminds me of your massive love handles. Gross. You need to cover that shit up before my retinas start bleeding.
Screamy little brats who make you reconsider the whole beating-children-is-bad thing.

As you can see, the things I love outweigh the things I don't, and all in all I had an absolutely fantabulous day (thanks girls!)

The Weekend, Part II: Hot Child in the City

2005-08-01T10:31:00.000-04:00

Cities are like lovers. Over time, you build relationships with the places you live in or visit; you get to know and love them in different ways. London (Ontario) is the marrying kind, safe and pretty and pleasant. Jennifer Aniston, if you will. Toronto is the high-maintenance mistress with a kinky side. Angelina Jolie. Walking down Queen St. West, I decided to revel in my weekend fling, saturate my senses in the vibrant nightlife. A bright cacophony of car horns and drunken shouts and bass beats pumping out of every club entrance... the savoury aroma of street meat mingling with a trendy redhead's perfume... illuminated signs glowing everywhere, reflected in hundreds of windows and glassy eyes. I thought of home, the medium-sized, mostly suburban city where all the bars are scattered along one tree-lined street, and it seemed so dull and lifeless. Immediately, like a cheating partner, I felt the sting of my conscience. How could you? I ordered a Corona to wash down the guilt.

The Bad Call played at The Rivoli, a pool hall slash patio bar with a dark little concert venue at the back. Someone told Kyle there was a blonde girl from his school waiting for him, and though I'm far from blonde he knew it was me. We exchanged hugs and "good to see you"s, then talked about things none of you have any interest in hearing. What you should know is that the concert rocked, and that Kyle is immensely talented, and that if there is any justice at all he will make it in music and you'll be listening to TBC while you drink with your friends or make out with strangers. And then I want you to remember that you heard it here first.

The way I rave about Kyle and his band, you probably all think he's paying me or something. But I swear - on my entire shoe collection - he's really not. It would be a total waste of his money anyway, because no matter how much I like to flatter myself, I know nobody's going to track down The Bad Call or buy a CD just because I say it's great.

I'm going to do Part III later. I barely slept last night and right now I'm so tired, the letters are turning into a series of blurs as I type, and it's not even 'cause I have lightning fingers. (But I do, I really do. If I were a comic book heroine, that would be my superpower, and my costume would have a silver lightning bolt on the front.)

The Weekend, Part I: "Yeah, we're related. Don't ask how."

2005-07-31T22:14:00.001-04:00

Christina and I sat in her lovely backyard on Friday afternoon and tried to figure out our family tree. It's complicated, but we're pretty sure we're second cousins. Not a close connection, especially since we grew up in different cities and only saw each other at family reunions every two or three years. Still, there are strong similarities. We're both history majors with lefty poli sci boyfriends, we're both "allergic" to weed, we both love old Oasis and hate Lindsay Lohan.

With so much to catch up on we didn't need to really do anything. So we sat on her friend John's balcony and laughed at stupid guys and listened to rain pounding the striped awning over our heads. We watched TV and ate half-chicken dinners from Swiss Chalet, ordered in because we were as lazy as we were starved. Her boyfriend came over and we disagreed with him about the French Revolution until her little sister Nicole (who's super nice, by the way) told us to stop being such history nerds.

Then they drove me downtown to see Kyle's band, and I'll write about that soon. Until then, you can see more pictures here.

Three Kinds of Drunk

2005-07-28T22:58:00.000-04:00

Ashlyn said my last post was too long and difficult, so this one will be short and easy to read. Point form always helps.

- The dreaded LCBO* strike was averted yesterday. I'd talk about it more, but I promised to make this brief, and there is no brief way of explaining how much I despise silly unions.

* Liquor Control Board of Ontario, for those of you who live in, oh, any other country, and can therefore buy alcohol in a variety of non-government-owned places.

- Apparently I can type 93 wpm. I feel this is half skill, and half WAY too much practice.

- Tomorrow I'm taking the eight a.m. train to Toronto to visit my cousin Christina and see Kyle's band play. Saturday the roomies & I are going to Canada's Wonderland (I love rollercoasters). Hope you all have equally fantastic weekends.

The Absence of Answers

2005-07-27T23:54:00.000-04:00

This picture has nothing to do with anything, but who doesn't think one of these two people is hot? Kaylie and I (finally) went to see Mr. & Mrs. Smith last night, and it was extremely sexy and fun. Unlike the post to follow, which is about as serious as I can get on something called a "blog".

***

Today my aunt (who is a kind, lovely woman, and therefore none of the vitriol to follow is directed at her in any way) sent me yet another in a never ending, always irritating series of "inspirational" email forwards. This particular email contained a story that goes like this: a professor says that if God created everything that exists, he also created evil, thus making him the biggest hypocrite ever to fool millions of people into following a made-up set of stories and rules. (Guess which part of that sentence wasn't in the email?) Some smart-ass gets up and schools the professor, using everything he learned in Grade 9 Science. He argues that cold doesn't really exist - it's the absence of heat, and darkness doesn't exist- it's the absence of light, and likewise, evil doesn't exist - it's the absence of God. Thus, God didn't create cold, darkness, or evil. Nope! God only makes good things! He's just like Mr. Christie, except better, 'cause he's REAL, everybody! Take that, Professor! Thinking you're so smart with your PhD and your fancy-pants atheism. I sure showed you! Also, my name is THOMAS EDISON and someday I AM GOING TO INVENT THE LIGHT BULB AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR RECTUM!

Except, not really. I looked this up on TruthorFiction.com and just as I suspected, it's total bullshit. That's right kids. No such discussion took place, and if it did, Edison wasn't involved. Which is good, 'cause I'd hate to lose all my respect for the man over a really stupid argument he made once.

Yes, if you didn't notice, it's a really fucking stupid argument. If you're going to say that evil is the absence of good, you can just as easily counter that good is the absence of evil, which would mean - following the logic used by this student - good does not exist. The fact is that neither good nor evil exist. These are moral extremities, two ends of a scale created by society to measure out actions and consequences. There's nothing remotely scientific about the concept of evil, so to compare it to cold and darkness using scientific principles is asinine.

In the same way that "good" and "evil" are invented to define what is ultimately indefinable - the human soul - so the concept of God is invented to give meaning to a world that is ultimately meaningless. Nobody wants to live in such a world - if life is meaningless, they say, why live at all? There must be more, they say, there must be purpose and direction. Self-motivation is not enough. "I was put on this earth for a reason". Somehow the people who say this fail to realize how arrogant they sound. Whether you believe it or not, you came from an egg, and if you go back far enough, from an amoeba. Get the fuck over yourself.

Christians are happy in their arrogance, because they have found something to believe, to hold on to, to live for. They don't have to figure out the meaning of life, or realize with a bitter smile that there is no inherent meaning, because it's all in the Bible. They don't have to face the thought of death, or even their own mortality, because there's always heaven. For every question, every doubt, every existential moment of doubt, there's an answer. Not always an easy one - Christianity is full of hard work and challenges and suffering - but always a rewarding, satisfying one. Always something to conveniently fill the void.

Please, if you're religious or spiritual in any way, don't take offense (it's not worth it, seriously) and don't misunderstand me here. I'm not trying to be condescending. I'm not trying to say that if you believe in God, you're a self-delusional retard. Chances are you've thought it through just as much as I have, but somehow you've come to a different conclusion. That's more than fine, and if you're not too pissed off at me at this point, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Really, I would. I don't hate you, or anybody else, for being religious. I don't even hate religion itself, because the truth is, it does lend purpose and direction and even happiness to millions of lives. I simply feel that all religions are elaborate myths, created to satisfy human curiousity and the need for meaning, and I have numerous reasons for feeling that way. But, to paraphrase Vonnegut's narrator in Cat's Cradle, anyone who cannot understand that a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand my reasons either.

I went to church for eighteen years of my life, and not just any church, a hardcore, way-too-many-services-per-week kind of church. The kind that manages to be both non-traditional and fundamentalist. The kind where everything in the Bible is absolutely, unequivocally true, and if you don't believe it you're not a real Christian. For sixteen, maybe seventeen of those eighteen years I did believe it - all of it, even the things I secretly disagreed with, I believed them all - but I never felt it. The place in my heart where I was supposed to feel God was full of nothing but questions, and every now and then a sinking feeling that there were no real answers. And after time, after a lot of learning and discovering and thinking, the sinking feeling was replaced by a buoyant sense of freedom. Suddenly, I didn't need answers. I didn't need inherent meaning. I didn't need anything to live for except the beauty and the agony, the small pleasures and the struggle to be loved. I didn't want to live forever.

So I, the perfect little church girl, became a devout atheist. My parents couldn't accept the fact that I simply didn't believe, so they said it was because I wanted to do things that Christians weren't supposed to do. They were wrong. If I could pray and feel like someone was listening, I don't think I'd have a problem doing what that someone told me to do. But I couldn't. So they're convinced I am going to hell. And I want to say they're wrong about that too, but I suppose no one ever knows for sure. Still, I feel like I know. I'm more sure of my non-belief than I ever was of my faith in God.

One last thing: I remember the day I finally came to terms with this "non-belief" of mine. I was listening to "A Scale, A Mirror, and Those Indifferent Clocks" for about the twentieth time, and suddenly it all made sense.

Here is a scale, weigh it out, and you'll find easily
More than sufficient doubt that these colours you see
Were picked in advance by some careful hand
With an absolute concept of beauty
They are smeared and these blurs come in random order
And they colour the eyes of your former lovers
Hers were green like July
Except when she cried they were red
And I know a disease that these doctors can't treat
You contract on the day you accept all you see
Is a mirror, and a mirror is all it can be
A reflection of something we're missing
And language just happened, it was never planned
And it's inadequate to describe where I am
In the room of my house, where the light has never been
Waiting for this day to end
And the clocks keep on winding and completely ignore
Everything that we hate or adore
Once the page of a calendar has turned, it's no more
So tell me then, what was it for?
Oh tell me, what was it for?

To this day, I can type those lyrics from memory (hopefully they're right, or I'm going to look pretty dumb). That's how much I listened to that song, crying and thinking and slowly getting over God.

Rainy Day Links

2005-07-26T12:26:00.000-04:00

Kyle: Because I'm going to see his band, The Bad Call, on Friday night. It's at the Rivoli in downtown Toronto: if any of you live around there, you should go. GO, I tell you. I have a feeling it's going to be spectacular. Email me for details, or if you want to meet up that's cool, I'll buy you a drink.

Sigur Ros: Because David and I are going to see them on September 19th, just before my birthday. He bought the tickets last night and I'm excited already. This is going to be the best birthday present ever.

Pretty Empty: Paintings, drawings, and photos by Kyle's girlfriend Steph. I have yet to meet her, but now that I've seen her art I think she's talented and clever, and probably fun to hang out with.

Radio Indie Pop: Some guy from this site sent me a promotional email, so I went and listened to some good tunes. I definitely recommend trying it out, if only because these kind of projects are pretty cool and need lots of encouragement. I also think they need constructive criticism, so Mr. Email Guy, if you're listening, your site design is ugly. I don't like ugly things. And you can call me superficial, and you'd be right, but you'd also be wasting your time because there are literally millions of people who are just as superficial as me - maybe even MORE! Shocking, yes, but you'll be all right. Here, drink this. What do you mean, it tastes like vodka? It's just orange juice. I drink it every morning, and look how happy and calmly-accepting-of-universal-superficiality I am.

There. Now that you're sufficiently ~~passed out~~ calm, let me add that the songs tend to skip a lot, but that could just be my lazy-ass internet connection.

Boredom Relief: This story makes me laugh. Also, everyone's talking about Wedding Crashers, and I still haven't seen it. Maybe tonight.

Camera Happy

2005-07-25T15:59:00.000-04:00

Guess what? This is your lucky day, because I finally got around to setting up a Flickr page. Now you can see pictures of me, my friends, and my family, all in one place. Although maybe I should scratch the family part; I fear the wrath of my parents if they find out I'm plastering images of their more innocent children all over the evil Internet.

Anyway, here's the URL so you can add it to your favourites - and don't pretend you won't - http://flickr.com/photos/sarah-nicole.

You know what's going to be really fun? Making up clever/silly captions to go along with my pictures. Like this one: "I Turn My Camera On" (it's a Spoon song, in case I haven't already mentioned it on this blog, but I think I have because I love it so much.)

Also, there's a flashy little montage thing on my sidebar. I could sit and watch it for hours, because I'm easily amused like that.

Pull on your face, pull on your feet...

2005-07-23T14:21:00.000-04:00

and let's hit opening time down on Fascination Street.

My house is perfect for model-walking. The main floor is very open concept, so I can walk in a straight line from the front door all the way to the bathroom at the back. Then, because my bedroom is right next to said bathroom, I can play eighties dance and new wave really loud when no one else is home. And I can walk out of my bedroom in my favourite clothes (or lack thereof) and shake it all the way down my pretend runway.

Now, pay careful attention to my hypothetical tone here. I said I can do all of these things, but of course that doesn't mean I actually do. It certainly does not mean that since I had the house to myself today, I cranked my favourite songs and worked it like Carmen Kass. No, it just means that if I wanted to - which, obviously, I don't, because it's just too silly and self-indulgent - I could play model. Not that I'd be any good at it or anything.

Oh, who am I kidding? I am the best damn model this living room has ever seen. My signature strut is almost perfect now (and let me tell you, it's not easy to model-walk in stilettos on an uneven carpeted floor). I even have a designated runway mix on my iTunes: "Fascination Street" by The Cure, "Blue Monday" by New Order, "Lips Like Sugar" by Echo & the Bunnymen, "Sweet Dreams" by the Eurythmics, and "Fame" by David Bowie.

Hey, I just realized that my pictures look like those skanky American Apparel ads. Sweet! (I can't decide whether I'm being sarcastic or not.)

Hey look, it's my name in Coldplay code!

2005-07-22T19:00:00.000-04:00

Is it okay that this is the most fun I've had all day?

Sorry. I promise I'll post for real next time.

I don't know what possessed me to share this.

2005-07-20T23:29:00.000-04:00

David: "So, um, when you did that audio thing on your blog, were you reading?"
Me: "Reading? No, I was speaking carefully in measured tones because you know how I have a tendency to talk way too quickly and then ramble on and such."
David: "Yeah... it just kind of sounded like you were reading from a script."
Me: "Great. So now everyone is going to think I'm an idiot who needs to write things down before I says them."
David: "SAYS them?"

Little Thoughts

2005-07-19T17:15:00.000-04:00

First, let me thank Laura and Sweta for linking me. I've returned the favour, as you can see on my blogroll. In the future, if anyone links here please email me or something, because I don't check Technorati often enough (and when I do, it doesn't show all the referral links for some reason.)

Also, I know I'm late to the Gmail party... but I have fifty invites to give away, so if anyone wants in, let me know (prinzessin.sarah@gmail.com). It's the best free email program around.

Now, fun in point form! With links! Just like a real blog! Watch out Defamer! Just kidding! It's only for today! HELP! I can't stop using exclamation points! It's like I'm trapped in Hilary Duff's body! Whoa! I have giant teeth!

- "A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere"... Ben Gibbard describes his own song - in that song's lyrics - so I don't have to. (Thanks babe. Are we still on for sushi tonight?) Listen to "Soul Meets Body" (via Steve ) and prepare to be shocked and awed by their totally new dreamy, indie-poppy sound, not to mention the unprecedented use of "ba da ba ba, ba da da ba". I'm being sarcastic, of course. It's predictably pretty, but that doesn't make it any less lovable. Besides, it's not Ben's fault he can't write anything but pretty songs... is it honey?

- William Faulkner's Nobel acceptance speech is the most convincing case for literature and humanity you will ever hear (I found it on goldenfiddle, who found it on buffoonery). I read the speech in high school and never forgot it.

- I like The Smiths. I like musicals. Yet somehow, I can't see this being a good thing. (via Aquarium Drunkard).

- Lately I've been reading: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut, Glamour, the Nicole Kidman issue , Heart of the Matter by Graham Greene. All highly recommended. Wait a second... Glamour? How did that get in there? I don't read girly trash, I swear.

- I can't believe Jude Law cheated with his nanny. Not that I care about Sienna Miller at all - in fact, I almost think she deserves this for parading around wearing floppy hats (with everything!) and really ugly boots and cut-up hobo clothes. But no woman deserves this, not even a no-talent, bargain-basement Kate Moss. Jude Law, I think you should know how crushed I am by this news. I used to be one of your biggest fans. I was obsessed. Hell, I even rented Alfie and pretended to like it even though I knew it was just another shitty "re-imagining". So you can understand my bitter disappointment, my aching sense of betrayal. And if you're reading this, I hope you feel shame. I hope you cringe with guilt. I hope you call me ASAP to apologize, and also to get an interview, because you must be looking for a new nanny, right?

Did I say that out loud? Damn, I'm completely out of control today.

I tried my best to leave this all on your machine, but the persistent beat it sounded thin upon listening

2005-07-18T11:21:00.000-04:00

Drink up! It's your monthly dose of sap.

2005-07-15T15:27:00.000-04:00

Come on, oh my star is fading, and I swerve out of control.

When life is difficult I crave simple things: grapefruit lip gloss, InStyle, flip flops. Nice comments and emails (thanks everyone). Orange sherbet straight out of the container. Clean laundry. I wear David's shirts home sometimes, stealing his smell. Today I washed two of them, both of which he bought in Amsterdam last summer, and I remember when he called to tell me he was safe, missing me, and not even looking at hookers (shut up guys, that's what I want to believe). Simple words, and they stay in my head after all our complicated arguments have slipped out of memory.

Stood on the edge, tied to a noose, you came along and you cut me loose.

An Interview Post: In Which You Learn More Than You Ever Wanted To Know About Me, My Crazy Readers, and Back Hair

2005-07-13T22:58:00.000-04:00

Over the past couple of days, in response to my open call for interview questions, I've received several comments and emails - mostly emails, I suppose for anonymity's sake, and I think when you keep reading you'll know why. These questions, for the most part, aren't what I was expecting, but I did ask for it. So here are the answers to all your questions, in the order I received them (it would be way too hard to put them in order of, say, craziness.)

The Back Hair Question: You're too funny. I don't know if you wanted a serious answer, but here it is.

The best short-term solution is waxing. I know most guys visibly recoil at the thought of ripping out body hair with hot strips of wax - and yeah, when I put it that way, it does sound pretty painful. And at first it is, but you get used to it quickly. You can get professionally de-fuzzed at a salon, or enlist the help of your ladyfriend - she probably knows how to do it just as well, and you can avoid embarassment by getting her to pick up a Neet kit for you. After waxing, you should be hair-free for about a month, maybe up to six weeks.

If you really feel that you'd rather suffer through an entire season of Sex and the City than thirty minutes of minor pain, you can try a depilatory cream like Nair. However, the results won't be as smooth, and generally don't last quite as long. Also, the cream smells terrible, makes your skin hot and dry, and can cause a chemical burn if you leave it on too long. Lovely, eh?

One last thing: Under no circumstances should you shave. Ever. You'll have thick stubble in two days, and no girl will want to rub your back.

What's your bra size? Are you kidding me? What's your penis size? Oh, wait. If you don't have the balls to identify yourself when you send inappropriate emails, you probably don't have a penis either. NEXT.

Can we play free association? Oh, we sure can. Even though your list is very long and totally random, and I'm pretty sure you're expecting much dirtier associations than I'm going to make. Sorry.

blog bitch
lava lamp weed
Ashton Kutcher Punk'd
painting Monet
lamb soft
Yoda annoying
money work
Bush Texas
drugs or me
clean laundry
hair dryer mirror
sunglasses at night
bed sheets
fun summer
Porsche my German grandpa
Scotch my English grandpa
magazine fashion
theatre red curtains
float on
moss Kate
flexible compromise
mask Zorro
Cruise whackjob
tragedy catharsis
prank call
time sand
pleasure touch
ice cocktails
spy Harriet
love unconditional
peaches Niagara

That was pretty fun. Now who wants to psycho-analyze me?

I have a secret crush on this girl. She's hot and she likes the same things as me, like the Libertines and Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Chuck Taylors. Basically she's perfect but I don't think she even knows I'm alive. Plus I think she has a boyfriend. Is that a problem? What should I do? (Note: This was actually posted in the comments section by an anonymous "secret admirer". I fixed spelling and capitalization because I'm a language nazi.)

Clearly, the only thing to do in this situation is buy your crush a present to show her how you feel. She sounds like she has fabulous taste, and would probably LOVE this jacket in light green.

If she does have a boyfriend, there's probably no way she'll leave him for you, but don't worry: I bet she'll still be happy to get a present, and will write you a sweet thank you note that you can cherish forever or whatever it is secret admirers do.

One more tip: don't complain about her "not knowing you're alive" when you comment anonymously.

What happens when two snakes kiss?? Seems like an eternal tragedy for romance!! Why? Why?

First of all, calm down. Tragedy or no tragedy (I'm going with the latter, by the way) there is no excuse for excessive punctuation.

Second, this question made me laugh out loud and call my boyfriend over to look at the email. He said snakes can't kiss because they don't have lips. I replied that they have tongues, so they can french kiss, sort of. I guess if one or both happen to be poisonous, it is a bit of a Romeo and Juliet ending. Unless they're immune to snake venom, which would kind of make sense being that they're snakes and if they died from stuff they produced themselves they would be extinct. And that I would not mind one bit, because snakes are slithery and evil-looking. Personally I don't think they're capable of romance, but then - sit down, this might be a shock to you - I'm no snake expert.

And finally, the rest of these questions all came from the same person, who I don't know but do appreciate for asking easy-to-answer questions.

What's your middle name? Nicole. I would actually prefer it to be my first name, but even if I changed it everyone would still call me Sarah.

Have you always lived in Canada? Do you like it? Yes, and yes, usually. Canada is a great, beautiful country. I love the changing seasons, I love music from Montreal, I love our spelling. And even though Canadian history is the worst class ever, I love our stories and myths and legends. But there are a lot of things I don't love, mainly political things. I'm frustrated with the government right now, and I'm even more frustrated with citizens who either don't vote or do so blindly and out of habit. I have a lot of left-wing friends - my boyfriend is practically a socialist, and he's still my favourite person in the world - but they don't understand things like, oh I don't know, ECONOMICS. Or individual responsibility and why unions do more harm than good. Things that I promised myself I wouldn't talk about on this blog because I want it to be fun, damn it.

But while we're on the subject, sort of: I am all for gay marriage, and though I don't usually agree with government involvement in social or moral issues, I'm glad we're one of the first countries to move forward on this one.

What do you want to be when you grow up? A writer. A journalist or a fashion editor or a music columnist. A lawyer, if I can find a field of law to be passionate about. I don't want to settle divorces or petty lawsuits. I want to be a good wife and a mother my children will be proud of. I want to be well-read and well-travelled, to be loved and to have inspired those who love me. I don't want to die unsatisfied or alone.

How tall are you? Ha, that's so random. I think I'm 5'8". My driver's license says 172 cm, for anyone who actually thinks in centimetres.

I see you like the movie Garden State. I do. You know how Natalie Portman says "The Shins will change your life"? Yes, I remember something like that. What music, if any, has changed your life? Well, I don't know if music can really change your life to any significant degree. And if it could, it wouldn't be anything by the Shins, as much as I like "Caring is Creepy". However, certain songs have inspired me, helped me breathe easier, reaffirmed my belief in humanity, made me cry when I needed to and didn't know it, or worked their way into my soul. A partial list: "The Scientist", "Don't Panic", "Fix You" and other songs by my beloved Coldplay; "Do You Realize??" by The Flaming Lips; "Wonderwall" - the Ryan Adams cover that David put on a CD for me once; Radiohead's beautiful "Street Spirit"; "It Had to Be You" because, well, it did; "If You Leave" - the Nada Surf cover; U2's "Stuck in a Moment"; "A Scale, A Mirror, and Those Indifferent Clocks" - from Bright Eyes' pre-poster-boy era; "Float On" by Modest Mouse; "The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most" because everyone has their 'special' Dashboard song; "Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service; the Yeah Yeah Yeah's best song ever, "Maps"; "Superstitions in Travel" by Elliott; "Ceremony" - the New Order version; "Colourblind" by the Counting Crows; "Lucky Denver Mint" and "For Me This is Heaven" by Jimmy Eat World; "A Lull in Traffic" by The Gloria Record; the Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony" (of course); "Run" by Snow Patrol; Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah". Okay, I'm not finished, but I have to stop.

---

I took a break, came back to wrap this up, and realized that last question was pretty well timed. I haven't been dealing well with life lately, to say the least, and everything seems dark and mixed up and generally hopeless. Maybe a song will change my view. Maybe a psychiatrist will help, Tom Cruise be damned. Or maybe I just need to find what's worth fighting for, and then really, really fight.

Until I get myself sorted out I may not be posting as much. I don't know yet. On one hand, this blog seems so trivial and fake next to the self-conducted trainwreck that is my life. On the other, writing keeps me sane and focused when otherwise I'd be shaky and falling apart. It's my escape. No matter how dark my moods are, or how mixed up my brain is, when I sit and write everything is clear and coherent again. And maybe that's not fake. Maybe this is as real as it gets. This lighthearted, self-involved, fashion-loving, sarcastic, rock-snobby princess you read about here might be the "realest" part of me, the part I should be fighting for. I don't know. I just don't know.

But hey, thanks for listening.

Every second, every moment, we've got to make it last

2005-07-11T09:34:00.000-04:00

I've said it before but it's still true: I love lazy Sundays. Yesterday at David's we watched John Hughes movies on Bravo: Pretty in Pink, which features the sweet song "If You Leave" by OMD (but download the Nada Surf cover, it's much better)

I touch you once, I touch you twice
I won't let go at any price
I need you now like I needed you then
You always said we'd still be friends someday

and Ferris Bueller's Day Off, which is one of my favourite movies ever. Every time it's on TV I have to sit down and watch it, even though I have it on DVD and I've already seen it twenty times. There are so many memorable characters, brilliant lines and subtly hilarious moments. It just never gets old.

Sloane: The city looks so peaceful from up here.
Ferris: Anything looks peaceful from one thousand, three hundred and fifty-three feet.
Cameron: I think I see my dad.

Okay, so it's not so funny in print, but that scene cracks me up every time.

I also designed my own Chucks at Converse One (you like?).

And because I really should be reading more books than blogs, I started a novel I've heard many good things about: Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson. So far, so good.

I went to bed early (and by early, I mean before two a.m.) but spent most of the night tossing and turning and thinking maybe I shouldn't have put so much Kahlua in my hot chocolate. Maybe then I wouldn't have this raging headache, which I am probably not helping by staring at this computer screen. But it's only nine a.m. and I have time to kill.

I was thinking about doing the requisite "100 Things" list, but I don't know, it just seems too contrived. I always read other bloggers' lists, but then I get to #17 and it says "In high school I was voted (Most Popular/Most Likely to Succeed/Best Hair)" or #38 and it's the twelfth self-deprecating, "please don't think I'm full of myself just because I'm listing 100 things all about ME and I was my high school prom queen" joke or #61, if I even get that far I shouldn't be punished with the details of your daily Starbucks order because a) I really don't fucking care how cool you think your venti chai latte with skim milk and cinnamon makes you and b) you're a self-involved douchebag.

Now I realize there are exceptions, and if you're one of those few with a genuinely interesting list, I'm not talking about you. Drink your Starbucks and settle the fuck down.

Anyway. Instead of wasting three hours on a hundred useless things, I'm going to tell you things you actually want to know about me. And guess what that means? Interview time! Ask me anything, I promise I'll answer it as long as it's not too personal. Or you can ask me for advice, because I love telling people what to do (when I was younger, some of my friends called me Dr. Sarah). Leave your questions in the comments section, or email them to me at prinzessin.sarah@gmail.com. But don't waste your time telling me that I'm just as self-involved as the people I make fun of, because I'm well aware, thank you, and also I don't care.

Have a great day, everyone! I'm looking forward to all your questions, really I am.

The Likely Lads

2005-07-09T20:49:00.000-04:00

I think every (straight) guy I know loves girl-on-girl action. Well, I shouldn't say every guy. My boyfriend, for example, is all "lesbians? eh, whatever". But then, he's the kind of sweetie who will not only sit patiently with me as I flip through endless fashion magazines, but also try to reassure me that all those gorgeous female celebrities aren't really all that gorgeous. For example:

Me: "What do you mean, you don't think Jessica Alba's hot? EVERYONE thinks she's hot."
David: "Um, she's okay."
Me: "You're allowed to be attracted to other girls, you know."
David: "But I don't think she's that attractive."
Me: "Seriously? If you don't think she's hot, I don't even want to know what you think about me."
David: "Damn women. I just can't say anything right."

Anyway, most guys will sit through all of Cruel Intentions with you just to see Sarah Michelle Gellar "educate" Selma Blair. They fantasize about all-girl sleepovers and naked pillow fights. When they ask if "you think she's pretty", what they really mean is, "will you make out with her if I buy you a drink?" (The answer, of course, is... totally dependent on the drink. Sex on the Beach: Do I look like that kind of girl? Amaretto Sour: now we're talking.)

But these same guys find it ridiculously hard to explain what makes hot girly action so hot. I've asked many of my male friends, and I always get the same stupid answer: "Two hot girls are better than one." Thus, I never understood the appeal.

Never, that is, until now.

Ladies and (gay) gentlemen, I present to you THE SEXIEST PICTURE IN THE WORLD.

There are so many levels of hotness in this picture, I don't even know where to start. Pete Doherty is hot. The Libertines are (well, were, but I'd rather not talk about that) hot. Being British is hot. Ties are hot. Almost kissing is definitely hot. Stage sweat is hot. Shirtless boys are hot.

And two hot boys are better than one.

I think I finally get it.

Back home the buses went up in flashes

2005-07-08T00:50:00.000-04:00

In the summer rain comes without warning like an old friend calling between the liquor store and your house. I heard the first crash of thunder at the exact moment David rang, and when I told him he said it should always be his entrance cue. Ten minutes later I hung up and glanced outside; the sky was gray yet clear. Ten seconds and the rain came, not one or two drops to test the ground but all at once, falling heavily and flashing in the half-light. A real, satisfying rain, the kind that years ago would entice me to dash outside before my mother could catch me and return soaked and shaking with laughter. But now I'm older, and I have neighbours and a cold, so I stood in the doorway and watched raindrops dancing over car roofs and landing on pavement like a million shiny quarters. I felt a little like dancing myself. I felt lucky.

To those who heard the crash of bombs in the London Underground this morning, or lost family and friends without warning: my sincerest condolences. We are all connected, and the world feels the weight of this tragedy. Our thoughts are with you.

The Random Shit Post, Or, Because It's Way Too Hot To Sleep, Or, I Really Wish I Had Some Lemonade Right Now, Or, "Please Still Love Me, Bitches."

2005-07-07T02:22:00.000-04:00

It's 2:22. Make a wish, bitches.

Did you wish for a nice, meaningful, or even coherent post? WISH AGAIN, BITCHES.

After months of hearing about Gmail not only kicks Hotmail's ass, but cuts off its stupid butterfly wings and eats them with beans and a nice Chianti... I finally decided to check it out. (Thanks Heather!) Here's my shiny new Gmail address: prinzessin.sarah@gmail.com. (And yes, that's really just a fancy German way of saying my name twice.) Feel free to email me, bitches, and tell me either how amazing I am, or how I should never again write a post after two a.m.

Best. Song Title. Ever. From the kinda-new Sufjan Stevens album Illinoise, and I swear I'm not making this up: "The Black Hawk War, Or, How To Demolish An Entire Civilization And Still Feel Good About Yourself In The Morning, Or, We Apologize For The Inconvenience But You're Going To Have To Leave Now, Or, 'I Have Fought The Big Knives And Will Continue To Fight Them Until They Are Off Our Lands!'". (Ohhhh, now you get the title of this post. Yeah, I'm a clever one.) Read the rest here... bitches.

Apparently, adding "bitches" to the end of every sentence gets old after a while. Who knew? Same goes for making fun of a movie that everyone else is trying to watch, and whispering "shit, I forgot my line" when an actor pauses too long.

Well, you learn something new every day.

What did you all learn today, kids?

Kidding. I'm way too tired to care. Have a good night, though...

[Long pause.]

Bitches.

Warning: Contains high doses of girliness. Side effects may include nausea, headaches, and the sudden development of ovaries.

2005-07-05T11:38:00.000-04:00

Today sucks. I have a headache, bad hair, and - suddenly and out of nowhere - allergies. To what? Well, kids, that's a good question. And if I knew the answer, I probably wouldn't be sitting here sneezing constantly and squinting through red, puffy, watery eyes. I've never had allergic reactions to anything before now, but apparently you can develop them and that seems the only logical explanation for my current state of misery. Which is not an exaggeration: I am in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mood.

Unfortunately, I don't have any vodka and kool-aid handy (kidding! well, mostly) so there's only one thing that can cheer me up: shopping. More specifically, online shopping, modern society's miracle cure for bad moods. I don't have to go outside, fix my hair, or smile at snotty salesbitches. Beautiful clothes from all over the world are at my fingertips.

So, I'm blissfully clicking through the Anthropologie catalogue when I find something that takes my breath away. An absolute dream of a dress, in my favourite colour, with embroidered flowers. Behold, perfection:

If anyone feels like buying me a get-well-soon present, I wear a size six and I write lovely thank you notes.

P.S. To all my American friends and readers: Hope you had a fantastic weekend, and here's a little something just for you.

"UN, you have a problem with that? You know what you should do? You should sanction me. Sanction me with your army. OH! Wait! You don't HAVE an army! I guess that means you need to SHUT THE FUCK UP! That's what I'd do if I didn't have no army. I would shut the fuck up! SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP."

Anyone know what that's from?

Live 8: "It's about the message, not the music." Thank God.

2005-07-02T19:53:00.000-04:00

LIVE 8 PERFORMANCES I SAW:

Our Lady Peace. I tuned in just in time to catch "Innocent", which was nice, brought back memories of when I loved this band. Apparently they're coming out with a new album. Maybe it will rekindle my feelings. I don't know though, I feel like I've outgrown my radio-friendly-alt-rock phase.

What's that you say? Coldplay? That's different. No really, it is. They're in a class of their own. No really, shut the fuck up.

Mariah Carey. She's an amazing singer, but somehow all her new songs suck. Maybe it's cause I hate girly pop a lot more than I used to. But I remember the days when songs like "Always Be My Baby" really meant something to me (don't laugh!) and I don't think I'm the only one who's changed here.

Also? Her thighs were totally busting out of that minidress. Girl needs to wear clothes that flatter/fit/don't make her look like a cow.

Jet. At this point I was talking to my little brother on MSN, and this is how we feel about Jet.

stephen: they just introduced jet
stephen: nice!
stephen: i just got really excited
stephen: i forgot that jet sucks
stephen: i really only like one song

me: haha yeah they do suck, i like two songs (move on and look...)
me: they're just randomly jamming right now
me: looking all aussie-cool

stephen: man he's wearing a black jacket
stephen: how hot would that be!

me: not as hot as he thinks it is

stephen: haha yeah

Luckily Jet played the song we both love, "Look What You've Done", and they played it almost as well as they thought they did.

Robbie Williams. I'm not sure what you were thinking with your ripped-off and pieced-together "medley", but let me tell you something. Covering awesome bands (Queen, The Killers) only draws attention to your complete lack of awesomeness, talentless and unoriginal performance, and general douchebaggery. You want to help Africa? Stay home. I'll tell you how it will help later.

Jann Arden. Needs to stop wearing long black jackets under the false impression that they are slimming, and start actually dieting.

Pet Shop Boys. Playing, inexplicably, in Moscow's Red Square, they were as glitteringly, nonchalantly cool as any secret lover of eighties pop (a.k.a. me) (okay, not so secret) could hope. I kind of wish they had done something less predictable than "West End Girls", but whatevs.

Motley Ewwww.

Pink Floyd. Okay. I have to approach this one carefully. Small steps.

a) I realize that this is an extremely talented band, unfathomable musical impact, probably the reason many of my favourite bands exist, blah blah blah.

b) I also understand that this reunion is a big fucking deal.

c) But if I don't sound reeaally excited, it's cause I wasn't. Now I will be the first to admit that I don't know enough about classic rock, and probably don't appreciate bands like this as much as I should. So. I don't see the big fucking deal (yeah, I was kind of lying before).

d) Watching them play, I was really, really impressed by their individual musicianship. Clearly these guys have loads of talent.

e) However - deep breath - the performance as a whole was kind of underwhelming. I just - I know, I know, but this is my opinion, okay? - I just felt it was so obviously a concerted effort, so overly stylized, that it really lacked any kind of emotional punch. For me, I mean. Me, just a nineteen year old girl who didn't grow up listening to this stuff, so please stop yelling now.

f) Cough-IreallywouldratherhaveseenColdplay-cough.

g) That? Oh that was nothing. I just had something, you know, caught in my throat.

h) Please, I'm begging all you rock snobs, before you flood my inbox with hate mail and penile implant spam, remember I was born after The Wall. Cut me some slack.

The Tragically Hip. Yaaaawn.

Wow, I bet I'm making a lot of enemies here.

I should probably say something really nice about Paul McCartney.

Paul McCartney. My favourite of the performances I saw. His "Drive My Car" duet with George Michael was awesome, and the "na na na na" finale with all the performers was truly unforgettable.

LIVE 8 PERFORMANCES I DIDN'T SEE

Way too fucking many. London had a sweet, sweet lineup and I missed most of it. So please, if you watched all my favourite Brit bands, I really don't want to hear how good they were. I am Keane-ly aware.

Oh God. I'm sorry, really I am. Missing good music is no excuse for bad puns. Please forget I ever said that (and also, everything about Pink Floyd. Thank you.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to look for Coldplay footage online.

That is the sweet sound of my fleeting ghost

2005-07-02T17:46:00.000-04:00

So my friend Kyle is a very cool kid with a very cool rock band and you're all going to go listen to their very cool songs. My favourites are "Peasant Song" because the rhythm is kickin' and "Be Somewhere" 'cause it's so Dave Matthews and "Some More Than I" but I can't tell you exactly why.

I'm going to go make popsicles. As Kyle would say, peace.

Happy Fireworks Day

2005-07-01T15:22:00.000-04:00

In honour of the one day a year I feel patriotic, here's a (definitely not comprehensive, or by any means ordered) list of my favourite famous Canadians.

Kelly Rowan. First of all, she's one of the best actors on The O.C. (Not a huge compliment? Shut up, I love that show.) Second, she went to my school, the University of Western Ontario (which, by the way, kicks every other university's ass). Third, she's very pretty (in that Heather Locklear-esque freakishly-non-aging kind of way).

Matthew Good. Simply a brilliant musician. I fell in love with him because of "Apparitions", which is still probably one of my fifty favourite songs of all time. I'm not such a fan of his political opinions (really, I'm not a fan of anyone who talks about "the ravages of American neo-colonialism"). But he writes well, and makes some interesting (and some very typical) points about Canada, which you can read here.

Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams. Both these actors were born in (or near) my city, both are talented and pretty, and both starred in The Notebook (which, by the way, is one of those movies that will make you cry buckets and not feel embarrassed about it later because it's actually good.)

Michael Ondaatje*. I've read The English Patient three times, twice in high school and once because I couldn't sleep, and each time I've been stunned by the force of his sensual prose. "Some people you just had to embrace, in some way or another, had to bite into the muscle to remain sane in their company. You needed to grab their hair, and clutch it like a drowner so they would pull you into their midst." These are words like small bombs, exploding with subtleties. This book is heart-shattering. Everyone should read it. (Yes, that means you.)
*born somewhere else, Ceylon I think, but lives here now.

Emily Haines. Well, who doesn't love the goddess of Canadian indie rock? For those not in the loop, Haines is the lead singer of Metric, an irresistibly sexy, dance-y, new-wave-y band that I just can't get enough of. She's also part of the experimental phenomenon known as Broken Social Scene. Her voice is even prettier than her face (and her face is quite pretty, although you probably can't tell in this picture).

So there you have it, six very cool Canadians. Seven, if you count me (and you obviously should).

Has anyone noticed my constant (and sometimes unnecessary) use of brackets?

Right now, if you told me to chill I would probably slit your throat

2005-06-29T22:50:00.000-04:00

It's after 10 at night, and thirty celsius outside. I don't know what temperature it is in here, mostly because my thermostat doesn't even register that high. No, we don't have air conditioning, unless you count the giant fan parked three inches from my chair. It helps a little, but I'm still melting like a witch in water.

Normally, I don't like it when people complain about heat because those same people complain about the cold all winter and the rain all spring and christ can you shut the hell up already? And really I should just be grateful that I can walk to the store to get freezies wearing a bikini top and shorts and when I get back, I don't have to clear away the massive pile of snow that accumulated on my doorstep during the fifteen minutes I was gone. (No, you crazy Americans, our winters aren't that bad, I'm just dramatic.)

But this? Is beyond hot. It's criminally insane. I should be out enjoying my summer. Instead I'm sitting here stripped down to my underwear, skin glistening with sweat, sucking on ice cubes and listening to Sigur Ros. And no, that's not sexy (well, the Sigur Ros part is.)

If the whole atheism thing doesn't work out and there is a hell after all, at least I'll be prepared.

Do you, do you, do you, do you wanna dance?

2005-06-27T10:22:00.000-04:00

Everyone say Happy Birthday Carissa! because she's officially 21, and cute as ever. Here's picture proof (you can click any of these to enlarge).

Why I love this girl:

She has a zillion-watt smile that makes everyone feel happier.
She never complains about my stupid, scatterbrained mistakes. Even though it really freaks her out when I leave the clothes iron on for five days straight, making it totally possible for the house to burn to the ground, or forget my house keys and bang on her window at eight o'clock in the morning.
She always has room for more ice cream.
She's a total lightweight, which means she's drunk enough to dance after one beer and half a cooler. That's awesome.
She's just one of those people you can talk to about anything without feeling uncomfortable. Everyone needs a friend like that.

What are we doing in this picture? Licking icing off candles... obviously. Isn't that standard birthday procedure?

Kaylie's hiding in the background, which is just as well because she hates photos of herself, plus she told me she doesn't want them on this blog because weird people might see it. Don't worry, she doesn't mean you.

Zahida, Carissa, Ashlyn and I strike sexy poses. And by sexy, I mean what the hell? Seriously, what were we doing? How is Carissa the only one who looks normal? Whatevs - it's still cute in that semi-retarded way.

David's sneaky face is hilarious. He's all "I bet my girlfriend won't notice that I'm totally grabbing her breast! In a picture!"

"Hike up your skirt a little more, you show the world to me..." I think that's how the song goes.

I had to include this picture, because Ashlyn looks like a pimp enthusiastically showing off her girls. (How much? If you have to ask, you can't afford it.)

I love birthdays, because you can take ridiculous pictures like this and you can eat all you want and you can turn the volume waaaay up and dance in your livingroom with the door open because hi, my friend's 21 today and look how cute she is.

Weekend stories, as promised. Luckily I never promised they would be interesting or exciting.

2005-06-22T03:01:00.000-04:00

I know I said I would write about my weekend by Tuesday, but oops! it's technically Wednesday now. I'm not going to apologize. I'm always late. Get used to it.

So, Ashlyn and I went to Newmarket to visit our roommate Rebecca. Naturally, the first thing on our weekend agenda was shopping. There's a big shiny new mall in Vaughan, creatively named Vaughan Mills, which was essentially built for all the tourists who get bored of Canada's Wonderland. In the food court, there are dozens of signs depicting other "fun" attractions for gullible Americans to visit. For example: the signs for Windsor have big red-brick hotels with fancy names. Which is nice, except my roommate Ashlyn has lived in Windsor her entire life and has never even heard of those hotels. Also? They had signs for Sault Ste. Marie. SAULT STE. MARIE! I know that doesn't mean anything to anyone outside Ontario, so let me explain. My roommate Carissa is from the Sault, and she is a smart girl, and that is why she is staying in London instead of going back there this summer. Sault Ste. Marie doesn't have a Gap store. And honestly, I feel it should be a criminal offence to send any tourist to a town without The Gap.

Actually, Vaughan Mills didn't have The Gap either. That's okay though, because it did have H & M, and that store is the best thing that could ever happen to a mall. Seriously. It has clothes in every conceivable size, shape, colour, and blink-and-you'll-miss-it trend, and when I go there I feel like a very small kid in a very big candy store.

There was also a La Paloma gelateria, which was fabulous because I'd heard they had the best gelati around and wanted to try it. If anyone's interested, I had the limoncello and the frutti di bosco (forest berries), and both were incredibly delicious.

After the mall, we went back to Rebecca's, and then to a little place called Wild Wings for dinner. They had 52 flavours of wings, and we still ordered mild.

Are you bored yet?

The next day we went to Ikea, and I was way excited because I'd never been before (we don't have one in London, and don't even get me started on how unfair that is.) I was still pretty excited after the first half hour, because it's full of bright colours and clever gadgets and oh my god, the mini homes where they cram all the essentials into thirty square metres! I was still mildly happy after the first full hour, because hey, the mattresses are comfortable. But after an hour and a half, I had a killer headache from the non-stop walking and the florescent lights and the lack of food, and suddenly the colours were too bright and the gadgets not clever enough. That store is just way too big. The only thing that kept me on my feet was knowing that, eventually, I would get to the checkout where I could buy my super-cool popsicle molds. (If you had any semblance of a proper childhood, you remember your mom making orange juice popsicles in the summer.)

When we finally left Ikea, we were all more or less famished, so we decided to go to Wimpy's Diner in Thornhill. I ordered their Famous Hamburger, which is actually the size of a steak, and I ate the whole thing! I was so proud of myself (and I didn't even get sick!)

Looking back, I think eating a hamburger the size of your face is kind of insane. But it was delicious at the time.

I should also note that I accidentally put sugar on my french fries. I wanted salt, and didn't see the shaker, and there was this big container full of white grains, and I am a total idiot, so I put sugar on my fries. And for the rest of the weekend, I had to put up with comments like, "Hey Sarah, want some sugar for your nachos?" and other brilliant witticisms.

That afternoon we went to the Markham Village Music Festival to see Rebecca's boyfriend's band play. They're called the Jim Smith Band, and they're very talented and unique. Aside from the chilly weather, the whole experience was enjoyable. Markham Village is quaint on its own, with loads of cafes and shoppes and the like, and the ice cream and jewellery tents lining Main St. made it even more so. I bought homemade Oreo fudge, which tasted so good, just like the icing in the middle, and a hand-embossed leather bracelet for my little sister.

Roommate love: Rebecca, me, Ashlyn, and a sexy plaid blanket.

After the show, about a dozen of us (band members, Rebecca's friends, etc.) went out for dinner. Originally, we wanted to go to the Mongolian Grill at Pacific Mall, but when we got there it was all booked. Still, it was worth it just to laugh at all the bad Chinese drivers (I'm sorry, I know that sounds awful, but seriously they were everywhere, and they really can't drive - it's not just a stereotype.) Rebecca asked us to remember where she parked and I said, "You're between a Toyota and a Honda... does that help?" It was funny, in that you-had-to-be-there kind of way.

Anyway, we ended up eating at Montana's, which was fun but not nearly as interesting as the Mongolian would have been. It got significantly more interesting after I had two giant margaritas, though.

Here, Ashlyn and I are pretending to be bandits. I don't remember why.

And then we were going to a bar in downtown Toronto, but ditched that plan in favour of something infinitely better... minigolfing! At Putting Edge! Where EVERYTHING IS GLOW-IN-THE-DARK! Seriously, no amount of capitals can express how happy this made me. It was so much crazy trippy fun. I know, I know, it's like I'm six years old, but I don't care. It was the highlight of my weekend. Even though I finished dead-last, and my aim was so bad, I couldn't even blame it on the margarita-induced tipsiness.

Okay, one last thing: Rebecca's mom is the nicest ever. She made us a yummy farewell breakfast of pancakes and home fries, and it was the perfect way to end our weekend. Great memories, girls.

In an interstellar burst, I am back to save the universe

2005-06-17T11:18:00.000-04:00

Last night I went to see Batman Begins with my boyfriend & his friends, and I loved it. Everyone should watch it, if not for the interesting story, at least for the stunning cinematography (is that the right term?). The whole movie has a dark, mysterious feel, with loads of fascinating symbolism. There are the most eerily gorgeous shots of the bats swirling around caves and rooms, all fluttery and silvery-black. I would post a still shot, but it wouldn't do those scenes justice, so you'll just have to go see for yourself.

Also, Christian Bale and Katie Holmes are two of the best young actors in Hollywood, and they both did a fantastic job. Morgan Freeman still stole every scene he was in, though, in that quietly hilarious way of his. My only problem with the movie was that the some of the lines were cliched or simply not funny - e.g. "Excuse me, I have a city to destroy" - but on the whole it was well-written, well-acted, and well-directed. (In my opinion, anyway, but then I'm hardly an expert film critic.)

I'm away for the weekend - my roommate Ashlyn and I are going to visit one of our other roommates, Rebecca, in Newmarket - but I'll be back Monday with pictures and stories. Have a fantastic weekend everyone! And seriously, go see Batman.

P.S. Anyone recognize the title of this post?

Special Non-Coldplay Music Edition

2005-06-16T10:06:00.000-04:00

Because I do listen to other bands, y'know. Here are some of my current favourites:

Spoon. Go watch the new video for I Turn My Camera On. (I guess Rolling Stone is good for something after all.) It's clever and slick, just like the song, and the models are wearing fabulous shoes.
Youth Group. Chris Walla (you know, the Death Cab for Cutie guitarist and producer) gave this band a glowing endorsement. I think he said, if you don't like it, you don't have a heart. So have a heart, kids. Go steal one of their songs from the internet. I recommend "Skeleton Jar" - it's haunting and gorgeous and I've been listening to it all day.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Ignore the terrible band name, because these guys are pretty good. They're actually unsigned, but not for long, not with a sound like this. Home On Ice is fantastic, Wilco-esque for lack of a better adjective.
Mercury Rev. Their newest album, The Secret Migration, is essentially one of those long, trippy dreams everyone has now and then. There are a few bright, oddly lucid moments - like the upbeat lovey track "Across Yer Ocean" - among a series of dark, strange, jumbled images. Listen to samples of their songs, and buy them if you like.
Bloc Party. Did anyone else see them on Conan O'Brien last night? I love Conan. He's absolutely the funniest guy on late-night TV (well, other than Jon Stewart) and he always has the best bands. Anyway, BP rocked. I was surprised to see that the lead singer is black - he sounds so white! His voice is amazing, even live. If you missed it, don't worry: you can hear them live in concert on NPR tonight.

You're welcome.

Guess how much I love you all?

2005-06-13T11:12:00.000-04:00

So much, that I took the time to upload this sweet acoustic version of The Scientist so you can enjoy it too. You have to click that link, then a button that says download, and then a link that says download file, and it might take a few seconds but it is so worth it. And I'm not just saying that because it's my little brother and I love him to death. Okay, maybe that does have something to do with it. But I honestly wouldn't be surprised if, six years from now, he's being hailed as the new Conor Oberst or something like that. He's only seventeen right now, and he learns everything on his own (acoustic guitar, drums, a little piano and bass). I'm so ridiculously proud of him. Aaaaanyway, listen to the song and tell me if you like it (if you don't, I don't want to hear it. In fact, get the hell out of here, and never come back again.)

UPDATE: Yes, that is actually my younger brother Stephen. One of my friends was confused about this, so I thought I'd clarify for everyone. Here is a picture of him:

Remember the kid who wore the "vintage" seventies suit to grad just to be funny/different/ironic? That's my brother.

Absolut Hangover

2005-06-11T04:56:00.000-04:00

Thursday night at my friend Rommel's house, I decided it would be a good idea to drink vodka and koolaid. Which sounds like a normal girl drink, right? Except there was no water. Just vodka, koolaid powder, and sugar. Yeah, gross. I'm not talking shots either, I had two martini glasses full before I passed out on the couch.

Friday morning, I woke up in my friend's guest bed, dehydrated and half-delirious. I stumbled to the bathroom and stared at the mirror in disbelief. My hair was in tangles and my face was covered in dirt. (Apparently, when I started unconsciously vomiting, they carried me out to the back lawn.)

I spent most of the day in bed with a fan and a glass of water. I also talked to Rommel on msn, and he said, "you were so mangled, it was like someone had taken a wooden leg to the side of your head." Which I thought was hilarious.

I am never drinking again.

No, seriously.

Fix You

2005-06-09T23:25:00.000-04:00

There are so many thoughts in my head that I can't put into words of my own, and even if I could I wouldn't write them here. So, because Chris Martin says it better anyway...

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

High up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try then you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights...

Tears stream down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face and I

Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face and I

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

I hope you understand.

Dear Rolling Stone,

2005-06-08T21:10:00.000-04:00

I'm guessing you've heard this before, but it's fun to say: I HATE YOUR FUCKING ASSRAG OF A MAGAZINE. I hate your patronizing reviews, I hate your snide gossip, I hate your trendy political opinion pieces. And I especially hate whoever wrote that godawful review of Coldplay's new album, X & Y.

Now, I know it must be hard to write reviews with your pen wedged up your ass, but seriously, three stars? Out of five?

Allow me to quote your bullshit: "It's the sound of a blown-up band trying not to deflate." First of all, "blown-up"? If you're referring to all the hype surrounding Coldplay and X & Y, well, yeah. They do have millions of adoring fans, myself included. But all the fame is clearly well deserved, because the band is nothing short of brilliant. Their music is real and gorgeous and if you can't relate to it you are probably fascist. And second, "trying not to deflate"? Everyone knows Chris Martin is the humblest, nicest guy in rock, and has no ego to speak of. All he's trying to do is make good music and he is far exceeding his own expectations. Hell, he doesn't even need to try. Chris Martin could wake up one morning with bronchitis and still sing Jack White under the table. (I say that because you guys gave the White Stripes four and half stars, and what the fuck?)

Maybe you feel like it's your personal mission to deflate the most deservedly successful band of of our time. And maybe I feel like it's my personal mission to hunt you down and destroy everything you hold dear.

I just thought you should know.

Sincerely,

Sarah

Even if things get heavy, we'll all float on

2005-06-06T08:43:00.000-04:00

First of all, sorry about the lack of recent posting. This past week has been chaotic, what with the long work hours and the not sleeping in my own bed and all. I saw my roommate like, twice, which is ridiculous because I love that girl and I was looking forward to living with her this summer and, you know, actually hanging out with her. Oh well. Hopefully everything will settle into a routine and I'll be able to update more frequently for those of you who haven't gotten over your strange obsession with me yet.

Guess what? It's officially summer on the Sarah calendar, because yesterday I went swimming and drank iced tea and tanned my back. And so, in honour of the first real summer weekend, we are going to play a fun little game of Summer Soundtrack. Basically, I just picked my favourite hit songs to dance to in my bikini. (In my living room.)

1. Beverly Hills by Weezer. I don't know about you, but I enjoy this band so much more when they're not trying to be serious. This song is all kinds of fun.

2. Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani. Shut up, okay? I know La Stefani is crazy and can't actually sing or write lyrics that make any kind of sense, but this song is bright and catchy and DAMN IT why should I have to make excuses? The shit is BANANAS.

3. Lyla by Oasis. I love Oasis, so I'm going to overlook the totally unoriginal title (seriously, why would you give your new single a name that is one letter away from being a classic Eric Clapton hit that everyone on the planet has heard?) I also love singing this song at the top of my lungs whenever I hear it anywhere.

4. Don't Phunk With My Heart by The Black Eyed Peas. Forget underground hip-hop or whatever these people did before... this song is pure pop and I love it. Even though Fergie is a total skank with no fashion sense and her face is made of orange plasticene.

5. Float On by Modest Mouse. Obviously.

I know, five songs is hardly a soundtrack, but I'm out of time. Plus, that makes it a lot easier for all you people to do the same thing: just post your top five summer songs in the comments section, please. And if I haven't already heard of them, I promise I will download them. I'm really looking forward to some good playlists here, so don't let me down.

Kisses!

I enjoy being a girl

2005-05-29T23:06:00.000-04:00

Today I went shopping with Kaylie for the first time in... well, if I have to think about it, it's been way too long. I had almost forgotten how much fun the mall could be, and seriously kids, it can be pretty fun. We spent about half an hour finding a birthday present for our friend, and the other hour and a half making catty comments about bad clothes while in earshot of the people who sell them.

Kaylie: Oooh, I like this skirt.
Me: It looks like it was made by an upholsterer.
Kaylie: That's just cause it's brocade, and I think it's pretty.
Me: Sure, but it still looks like a sofa.
Kaylie: Sssh... people can hear you!
(Five minutes later)
Kaylie: Ew, these earrings are so eighties soap opera!

Also, we went to a card store, and the salesgirls there probably thought we were crazier than Courtney Love. Mostly because Kaylie was actually talking, out loud, to the little cartoon animals on tacky birthday cards. (I was covering my face so that when they called the men in white they wouldn't be able to give an accurate description.)

Then we ate Cinnabons and instantly gained ten pounds each. Other than that, good times.

Kaylie, you're the Betty to my Veronica... and everyone else, thanks for reading.

Love, Sarah

P.S. I should also mention that the London Knights won the Memorial Cup today, 4-0. That might not mean anything to you, but basically, we have the best junior hockey team in the country. And that makes me happy. So what if I didn't watch a single minute of the series? Hometown pride, people.

Love will tear us apart

2005-05-28T03:35:00.000-04:00

Tonight I was too tired to go out, but not tired enough to go to bed, so I decided to watch a movie. By myself, since my roommate is with her boyfriend and my boyfriend is in Guelph. And as if that isn't depressing enough, guess what movie I decided to watch? Closer.

If you haven't seen it... well, imagine that all your treasured romantic ideals are made of glass. Then picture someone walking in with a giant hammer and systematically smashing each one, until the floor is covered in tiny, sharp fragments that make your feet bleed. That's Closer. Yet it's a fantastic film, because each blow is so precise, so accurate, that you feel it even when you can't understand it. (Extended metaphors always make so much more sense in my head.)

So I watched Closer, and thought about the beautiful, fascinating characters and their twisted stories. I've often wondered why we always hurt the ones we love. Maybe it's just because we can.

Damn, I'm in a dark mood. I suppose that's what happens when you stay up too late listening to Joy Division and contemplating the bitter side of love.

On a lighter note? Natalie Portman + Jude Law = sexiest movie couple ever.

The "No Crying" Cab

2005-05-21T03:03:00.000-04:00

Friday night, I left the bar early and in a terrible mood. Normally I would have walked home - it wasn't too cold out, and the walk home wasn't too long - but I was tired and upset. I slid into the backseat of a waiting cab and gave the driver my address. He asked me how I was, and how my night and been; I numbly replied 'fine' and 'good'. Turning his head to look at me, he said "I don't believe you", and then he must have seen me tearing up, because he added, mock-sternly, "this is a no crying cab."

He told me a story, something along these lines: "When I was young, like you, I was in love with a girl. And this girl - she make me feel like to cry. And I did. But no one see me, because" - and here he deepened his voice dramatically - "I am a man."

"But now, I think back and I smile, because those were happy days." And he said something else here, which I can't remember exactly, but I think what he meant is that he was lucky to only have girl troubles back then.

"Someday, you will think back about this night and how you were sad and how a taxi driver told you a story. And you will smile. But, you might as well start smiling now, because life is beautiful." And he said that so genuinely, so unaware that it was like something out of a feel-good romantic comedy, that I almost started crying again. (It had been a long day, okay?)

He pulled up in front of my place, and as I pulled out my wallet, he offered me a cigarette. I said "Thank you, but I don't smoke" and he said, "Good girl."

Then he waited in the parking lot until I was safely inside my house, which is something cab drivers almost never do, and was really sweet. I think there should be awards for taxi drivers like this. The Cabbies, anyone?

Spin me round again, and rub my eyes, this can't be happening

2005-05-19T22:47:00.000-04:00

Obviously, I watched the OC season finale tonight, and it was amazing. Everyone I talked to agreed it was the best episode this year. I won't give anything away, in case you haven't seen it yet (and you should, you definitely should). The ending left me speechless. And that's really saying something.

I'm tired, too tired to write anything that matters, and I would go to bed if I knew I could sleep. I'm possessed by a strange ennui tonight: I want to go out, explore, walk down random dark streets and pretend to be dangerous, but my limbs are so heavy. Do you know the feeling?

Actually, this matters: Coldplay on SNL this week... don't miss it. I should warn you that Lindsay Lohan is the host, so prepare to be disgusted by her fake blonde hair, fake tan, and ridiculously irritating fake laugh. (The anorexia is, like, totally real though!) Rest assured, however, Coldplay will more than make up for all of that.

And I'll make up for this weak excuse of a post tomorrow.

Suddenly, I'm kind of glad I don't have time to be bored this summer.

2005-05-17T08:52:00.000-04:00

This is the actual, official, I-swear-to-God-I'm-not-kidding NBC summer reality TV lineup. You probably won't believe me, but people: I could not make this stuff up.

Hit Me Baby One More Time - Former "hitmakers" (no names are given, but I am soooo crossing my fingers for Paula Abdul) are selected (read: sleep with the producer) to perform their old hits and new songs for a "second chance in the limelight". This show is going to be - and I never, ever thought I would say this - worse than American Idol.

I Want To Be A Hilton - No, really. Kathy Hilton hosts the series, which features fourteen young contestants competing for the chance to "live the glamourous lifestyle of high society". I can already see the challenges... Week One: table-dancing. Week Two: who gets the most table-dancing pictures printed in tabloids? And so on. The winner gets a $200, 000 trust fund. Or, full rights to their very own home sex video. (You had to see that one coming.)

Tommy Lee Goes to College - I just have a couple questions about this. First of all, aren't there seventeen-year-old girls in first year at American colleges? Have their parents been informed of this? Because I sure as hell would not let my innocent young daughter go to school with the dirtiest pseudo-rocker alive. And second, Tommy Lee just learned to spell his name last year. Aren't we pushing things a little?

Next summer: Who Can Make Up a Stupid Reality TV Show in Fifteen Minutes and Convince the American Public to Waste Fifteen Hours Watching it?

Hello again

2005-05-15T19:08:00.000-04:00

...it seems like forever between now and then.
You look the same, I mean you look different but you haven't changed.
Funny to think how the time gets away.
Funny how you take me right back again.
Stole me away.
The first time I saw you, you did me that way.
What should I say?
I saw you laughing, but I was afraid I might get in the way.
I did not think I would see you again, so how have you been?
Do you remember, I meant everything?

- "Stolen Away on 55th and Third", from the new Dave Matthews album (my brother and Kyle both told me to download this song, and who am I to argue with the two most talented musicians I know?)

I love:

lazy Sundays
my adorable boyfriend
Desperate Housewives (tonight at 9!)
my roommate Ashlyn, who came up to visit this weekend with her boyfriend
red toenails
catching up with old friends
Kaylie, even though she'll be here half an hour late
Spoon

That pretty much sums up my day: lovely.

If useless knowledge is the new black, all you Interpol-loving hipsters should bookmark this page

2005-05-13T00:39:00.000-04:00

Word of the day: paraskevidekatriaphobia. I think it would be fun to have people guess what that means, but you probably think I have a strange concept of fun. And since you're right, I'll just tell you. It's an irrational fear of Friday the thirteenth, which, not-so-coincidentally, is today. You can click on the link to read all about it.

I think that instead of worrying about bad luck, we should all celebrate by watching cheesy horror movies. I, for one, am going to see Monster-in-Law with Jennifer Lopez and Jane Fonda. (What do you mean, not scary? I think that's freakier than Freddy and Jason.)

Sorry this isn't interesting. I'm insanely exhausted.

Good night,

Sarah

P.S. Did anyone watch The OC tonight? Because I missed it, and I really want to know what happened. Leave a comment. Or I won't invite you to my birthday party.

P.P.S. Just kidding. I'll totally forget by then. Besides, I never completely mean what I say.

Picture me, and then you start watching...

2005-05-11T03:31:00.000-04:00

First of all, it's German for princess. Yes, I'm half German, and I can speak the language, and I kind of like it. I think it's less tacky-sounding than "the princess". Maybe you think it's still tacky, but you can keep that to yourself. Besides, my name actually means princess, so it's a logical choice. And don't I kind of look like a princess? In a good way? I think so.

This is me, showing off my swingy skirt on a random lawn in Cambridge the other night (and looking about as natural as a 1950's clothing advertisement, but hey, those are kind of cute). My summer job involves going out of town a lot, to register people for fixed price programs on their natural gas. It sounds tough and boring, but so far it's been pretty easy and surprisingly fun (for the most part.) I like a lot of the people I work with - mostly other students - especially Trang. Here we are, being all smiley with her camera...

... and hamming it up in full-on movie spy mode ....

Oh come on. You know you love it.

Today we got back from Cambridge just after 10:30 p.m. I decided to walk home, because it wasn't cold at all, and I needed the time to think and be alone. Besides, I'd rather walk pretty much anywhere than wait half an hour for the bus with a bunch of sketchy people. I know you think I'm being snobby, and usually I'd say you're right, but trust me on this one: sketchy is a generous understatement. On any given night walking past Dundas and Richmond, you are guaranteed to see at least two of the following: a balding, beer-bellied man who hasn't seen a shower since the last time it rained; a fat girl with just enough misguided self-esteem to dress like a stripper on acid; an overly-tattooed teenager blasting overly-heavy metal from overly-gigantic headphones; a strung-out woman in worn-out jeans, with skin ten years older than her face; and my personal favourite, a wannabe thug in a pastel blue sweatsuit and fake bling, chillin' with his dawgs and checkin' out the hos. So yeah, I decided to walk.

At quarter to eleven, I was strolling down the bridge over Thames River, through the city I love. It was still mild, with a slight breeze, and beautifully calm. The only other people around were a pair of lovers stargazing on the bank below. I thought about David, and our future together, or lack thereof. I thought about how quickly things change, and how irreversibly. I thought about a lot of things, all at once, but mostly I thought about wanting to clear my head. And then I saw a frog hopping across the cement, and he saw me too, and froze. I stopped walking and crept up behind him, closer and closer, and he still didn't move. (I'm assuming it was a he. I have no idea.) Finally, I worked up the courage to touch him, and the skin was bumpy, yet smooth, and suprisingly cool. And I know you're all wondering why the hell I'm writing about a frog's back, so I'll tell you. It was a perfect moment. For however many seconds, I wasn't thinking about anything in the past or the future. My mind was pure, focused only on a singular sensation, without meaning or relation, complete in and of itself. It was totally immediate. I can't fully explain it, but I hope you understand, at least partly. We need more perfect moments.

At five to eleven, I was standing on Oxford Street, in the city I hate. Neon signs glared at me, and a car full of drunk boys screamed past. Suddenly, I felt very tired. I wanted nothing more than to go home... except, perhaps, to finally decide where home is.

This is why events unnerve me
They find it all a different story
Notice whom for wheels are turning
Turn again and turn towards this time
All she asks is strength to hold me
Then again the same old story
World will travel, oh so quickly
Travel first and lean towards this time.

Oh I'll break them all, no mercy shown
Heaven knows it's got to be this time
Watching her, these things she said
The times she cried, too frail to wake this time.

Oh I'll break them down, no mercy shown
Heaven knows it's got to be this time
Avenues all lined with trees
Picture me and then you start watching
Watching forever, forever
Watching love grow, forever...

-- "Ceremony", by New Order (a fantastic song that you should all download this second)

I have five hours of sleep and a long day of work ahead of me, so good night.

Love, Sarah