Boo.

Of my lady friends who dressed up for Halloween, these were costumed thusly:

- One slutty wench
- Two slutty prostitutes (redundant, perhaps)
- One Little Red Riding Hood (... slutty)

The friend/wench exclaimed over how swiftly I had identified her dress; everyone she met, upon seeing her pink-red bodice and mini-shift, thought she was Snow White (???). Hey, what can I say. I've been to a ren faire or two in my lifetime.

Me? 1950s aviator -- leather jacket, baggy trousers tucked into boots, scarf, rabbit fur hat, and kickass goggles, real artefacts from mid-century Russia.

Slutty? Sadly, not really (not until I had a few drinks, at least).

Warm? Definitely.

--

[11:54] Halcyon: when little red riding hood dresses sexy, is it for the woodcutter, or the wolf?
[11:55] G.: or her grandma?
[11:55] G.: she's going to visit her, after all
[11:55] Halcyon: good point
[11:55] G.: the wolf and woodcutter are incidentals
[11:55] Halcyon: maybe they have a very close family

So many questions.

Why are bloggers the first to denigrate themselves -- "relax, it's just a blog post" -- and then are the first to get all up in arms when they realize nobody takes them seriously? Do you want people to listen to what you have to say and respond earnestly, or do you want people to think of your writing as second-class, by definition of its medium? (Why would any writers want to wish such a horror upon themselves?) How are bloggers "just" so as opposed to writers?

"Just a blog post" ... so strange.

It struck me today what a curious phrase "the Midas' touch" is. It means a natural (or preternatural) "ability to turn any business venture one is associated with into an extremely profitable one." (dictionary.com) It is interesting that the term is invariably meant to be positive; that is, to possess the Midas touch is seen as a valued gift or stroke of good fortune.

This usage forgets that in the original tale of King Midas, Midas ends up cursing his power and beseeching the gods for delivery. Initially ecstatic that his wealth can now be limitless, he finds he cannot eat or drink, for everything he touches -- even food and water -- is turned to gold. (In a 19th century retelling, his horror is deepened with the transformation of his daughter to solid metal.) Sick with hunger and thirst, he begs the god Bacchus to take back his "gift."

The tale closes with Midas hating wealth, abandoning his kingship to live in the wild woods. Although the moral heart of the story is a lesson against foolhardiness (and maybe a touch of hubris, for good measure), that Midas is now a byword for financial success is, I think, a little ironic. 

I have an impersonator! How thrilling.

If your biggest beef with feminism is that that men, unlike women, can't go from professional career woman to "sexy seductress at night" -- notwithstanding the fact that businessmen don't *need* that to make that transition -- and you genuinely believe that sharing this with millions of internet-goers will not reflect poorly on you ... dude, sit down, and realize you have problems. (Bigger problems that not being able to "feel sexy and show off your body" in spandex pants.)

[Engadget]

This past Easter, I accompanied Wesley to the Ontario Science Centre (we could say that I took him, but we all know that he really took me). We wandered down to the lowest level to the building, where some of the older exhibits had been stored. Some of them had the orange and brown panelling that betrayed a heritage older than my own.

Their age didn't mean, however, that they were any less fun. One bank of consoles, looking like relics from the mid-90s, tested your reaction time; you sat in front of a steering wheel and you watched the computer accelerate until a STOP sign flashed, and you hit the brake (which you weren't supposed to hover above with your foot ... but I don't think that stopped many people). A line of LEDs showed how you did; if you stayed in the first few green lights, you were excellent; if you strayed into yellow, average; red, deadly.

Lots of people stopped by to try it, and grown-up, even more than kids, were engrossed in getting the best time they could. It was interesting to see how people could driven to new degrees of competition against themselves, egged on only by a machine.

One of my favourite moments during this visit was the sight of an enormous Ultra-Orthodox family walking through. The patriarch of the clan sat himself in front of one of those driving consoles, and proceeded to spend several moments staring at the lights and every so often, banging down on the brake with his polished shoe. His sombre suit and formal hat, which had separated him from many of the other visitors, seemed to be heightened as he set himself to a simple challenge.

A little girl, presumably one of his own, sat on his knee, held in place with the crook of his arm. As her father played Red Light/Green Light with the determination of a much younger man, even a boy, she spent her time alternatively fiddling with her curls and examining her fingers with a thoroughness that could only be described as scientific.

Something to remember: I have written an academic paper not only on sex, on girls, or on rock 'n roll, but rock 'n roll about sex with girls in cars.

Since Sunday, there have been hundreds to thousands of demonstrators gathered each day outside the office where I work. While it doesn't happen all the time, we do get a disproportionate number of rallies and protests, as a government agency and probably more relevantly, as a neighbour to the American Consulate-General.

This occasion has been special because of the rally's massive size -- enough to close a major downtown artery  -- and longevity, with people actually camping out on the road overnight. This has meant a serious police presence, with dozens if not a almost a hundred officers, including riot personnel.

For the last week, they have been swarming our lobby, standing around idly and looking bored, chowing down pizza, or downing an obscene amount of chocolate milk, and generally causing my co-workers ladies to swoon with lusty passion. (I told Lee, "Nothing like a man in riot gear to start a riot ... in a lady's pants!" He told me I needed to die.)

There was also the donuts-and-coffee stereotype; as I left the lobby deli, two officers were coming towards me. Eyes lighting up, one rushed forward happily, saying, "Oooh, a Druxy's!"

Then, out on the street, Torontonians were treated to the rare sight of the riot horse. (If you're wondering, a riot horse is equipped with special blinders and, amusingly, special horse knee pads.)

Their presence has been somewhat intimidating; it's not every day you see the police decked out in armour and helmets and toting shields, and it's very weird to have the eyes of riot officers on you as you leave for a coffee break.

Finally, walking out into the lobby at the end of the workday yesterday, I noticed an officer who had apparently nodded off in a chair (a monstrous thing that has Modernist pretensions but is covered in orange vinyl). He was quite still, but seated perfectly upright with his eyes closed. In his lap was a tear-gas launcher. It was ridiculously sized -- like a Thompson gun overdosed on 'roids and a little bit Doom-esque.

As I was gawking, his eyes flicked open and he was staring right at me staring at him.

Uh oh. I streaked out.