Hello Pot -- Let Me Introduce You to Kettle.

Now, I should probably never start a post involving Ricky Williams with the word "pot". You know, temptation and such. He might just grow his dreadlocks back. Among other things. But really, I marvelled at the NFL's hypocrisy when I heard today that Justin Gatlin had been granted a try-out with one of the league's teams. Justin Gatlin: former "World's Fastest Man". Justin Gatlin: former Olympic Gold Medalist. Why "former"? Justin Gatlin: banned for eight years by the international track and field association for use of banned substances. Read: too much testosterone. And not because he's a 'lady's man'. Somehow, I wasn't raised to mess with my blood so I could run faster. Shame on me.

So, what's the big deal, right? We already know many NFL players could never have become as freakishly large as they have without some sort of assistance. And I'm not talking about heavy weights. Nor about truckloads of Big Macs. It's as clear as the substance Barry Bonds used to make his melon swell four sizes when he was already well into his thirties. The league's substance abuse policy is enough of a farce as it is when you only consider those who haven't yet tested positive. It hardly needs convicted offenders. Someone who has decided to play Judas with his hemoglobin. A cheater. Oh well -- redemption, American-style. Dopes.

But, what really grinds my gears is the hypocrisy shown by the NFL. This is a league that got in a snit earlier this year when the Canadian Football League welcomed Ricky Williams onto its wider fields during his one-year suspension from the league south of the border. His offense? Marijuana. The result: now there's the so-called "Ricky Williams Rule", which prevents the cross-border exchange of suspended players. While I'm all over both guys being suspended according to their sports' regulations, I can't fathom how the NFL can take a gander at a disgraced, banned track star after having complained about the CFL's having ignored their suspensions.

Further proof that you can always outrun your previous indiscretions if you've got quick enough feet. Which looks oddly appropriate.

As an aside, it was strangely ironic when, after having spent a childhood sending letters to Sports Illustrated, the one I finally had published was about Ricky Williams. I know very little about football.

Why Would You Make a Monkey Swim?

Okay, yes these pages have lain rather fallow over the past week as I brace myself to spend 20 hours on the plane this weekend while heading to Malaysia.

But, swimming monkeys! SWIMMING MONKEYS! (said with wide eyes and a slight dance). No, really -- Swimming-freakin' monkeys! Looking at one of the places we're looking to go in Langkawi, where the Asian jungle reaches out like fingertips tapping on the beach, it seems there are macaque monkeys who like to partake in the ocean. And flying squirrels ("Bullwinkle, Bullwinkle!") Oh, and metre-and-a-half long monitor lizards. So excited. I've swum with dolphins, but monkeys? Awesome.

The Way the Ball Bounces.

No, not some conspiracy, nor another scientific study about the way the new NBA ball bounces, sticks, skips or just plain doesn't go in the basket. Well, maybe just the latter. Except only with the traditional-style ball.

So frustrating. There are games you play well and it doesn't show up on the scoresheet. You know: hustle plays, deflections and floor burns. Your feet move well and you feel in rhythm (though as in White Men Can't Jump, you still can't "Feel Jimmy").

Then there are the games like tonight where nothing feels right except the energy you provide and you end up with career highs. 14 points and 20 rebounds for those of you tallying at home. Oh wait, that's just me. Yes, still a stat geek. And yet, the missed opportunities linger. Blown lay-ups. Turnovers. Ticky-tack fouls. So frustrating. No excuse for blown, point-blank put-backs. Not with this much experience at the game. Springs, rusted. And a mind that sometimes forgets that fact in its moments of creative flourish. No excuse.

Except that I was anticipating getting raked across the arms every time. Or the face. You know, the way these games generally go. But no, tonight's foil? An inexperienced team we blew out with ease which generally refrained from playing post defense. Fake. Spin. Drop step. Compensate for the foul and go strong for the hoop and harm. Except the fouls didn't come. Awkwardness. Hands, puzzled. Promising bruises left unfulfilled. The ball skidding off the rim like a marble down a slide. So frustrating. 7/13 from the field, which doesn't look bad. But still, the laughs from the bench over squandered opportunities bounce around in my head. And often, the stat sheet lies.

Technorati.

Alright, I'll admit it: sometimes the inner-geek in me screams to get out. But in a manly voice. When it comes to this blog, I can try to justify it by saying that one of my initial reasons for having started it in the first place was to teach myself a bit more about blogging and other tools available on the Internet. Ah, media literacy. Oh, and to have another creative outlet. Not to mention an odd feeling of exhibitionism, paradoxically clad in a suit of letters.

Having been made aware of Technorati a while back, I started checking it out and decided I wanted to break the top million. Ooh, such a lofty goal. Why? A triviality for most normal people, but I also have a minor obsession with statistics. Nice round numbers. I've kept flirting with it, but then found myself dropping ten to twenty thousand spots in a day before rebounding. Like a really, really long yo-yo.

In the next step of my blogging self-apprenticeship, I actually created a Technorati account last night to be able to integrate some of the widgets into my blog. I look forward to soon adding the feature which lists recent posts from my favourite blogs, but a number of their pages have been down since last night. Which takes me to this:



I logged in to Technorati this morning and found myself listed as one of the featured bloggers (my icon is the last one in the first row). Sure, it's no big deal -- it just means that I've recently claimed my blog, but I still got an odd kick out of it. Yes, trivialities again.

Happy Birthday, SCS.

Sheaves of Paper, Falling Like Autumn Leaves.

I have a thing about old books, particularly old school texts and readers. Their musty pages telling stories of yore (yore, such a charming time, wasn't it?). I can spend hours thumbing through a used book store, unwrapping each page like a tissue paper-wrapped present. And sometimes I'll even find an added bonus, hastily stashed between the pages. A newspaper clipping. A photograph. A purloined letter. Not to mention random scribblings etched between the type-set. I wonder if Edna still loves Bartholomew? Was it love forever? I see she didn't like that teacher, Mrs. Hastings.

I'm not a purist -- I don't need the first editions, wrapped in Mylar. No, for me, the first-person history only adds to the experience. A social history of sorts. Which is oddly dichotomous of me, considering I have long been loathe to bend a corner on my books, let alone write in them. Sacrilege! No, they always get clad in plastic bags for travel. And I always properly open a new book as to not break its spine. A colleague once brought me back a Spelling Bee book from the 1800s from his trip to England. Really cool. One of the most thoughtful gifts I've received. Better than something about Knitting Bees, that's for sure.

Having studied automotive history as a part of my degree, I was excited to find the book pictured to the right today: a complete reference book for the Ford Model T and Fordson Farm Tractor from 1920. Considering Ford's first car -- the Model A -- debuted in 1903 and the first Model T rolled off the line in 1908, this was still pretty early into the company's history. Mechanics today would likely laugh at the simplicity of the schemata (like the fold-out, detailed above), however complete they are. I like the "Slow Speed Band" (Coldplay anyone?) and the "Clutch Fingers" (which I did last night, nearly slicing off the tip of my index finger). The author, noting that there "is only one make of motor vehicle in the world that is sold in large enough quantities to warrant the publication of a special treatise on its repair and maintenance and that is the Ford Model T," points to how there were already more than 3,000,000 Ford cars of all types in use. My, how the world has changed. Too bad Ford's cars drive like it's still the 20s.

Spying on the World.

The original plan, quite frankly (or Hilda-ly?), had been to leave a comment on my buddy Shawn's comical (and so, so true) blog post today about chain emails, found here. But then my comment started to grow in a way most Hollywood actors never do. (Really, is being short that much of a prerequisite for stardom? My dream is in trouble.) And so, I feel compelled to pay homage to Shawn's commentary with digital scribbles of my own. Chicken scratches on pixelated paper. And perhaps, at my eyes.

The long-and-short of the post if you didn't click above (though you really should -- for me, Shawn's sense of humour is akin to a Ferris wheel, alight, set against the darkness of a cool fall fair evening) is a comment about the ridiculous nature of some chain emails, specifically ones hearkening back to a supposedly superior time. You know, back in the day. When you trudged 20 miles to school. In the snow. With only one boot because your parents were too poor to afford the full pair. And layaway didn't exist yet. Only to find that the school had burned down. And the subsequent frostbite from having to walk back home disqualified you from fighting for your country. Or from your NHL dream.

So, according to the email, you're pretty special if you survived any decade from the 30's to the 70's? I'm thinking 50 years is a pretty substantial sample pool. Particularly considering that most people born prior are likely no longer with us and that those born after may not yet have had the opportunity to make their mark on the world (I do, for the record, fall within that transcendental, so-called golden age). We survived all of these bad things, like our mothers smoking and drinking while pregnant? Well, we may have, but I'm thinking many didn't, which is likely how we ended up identifying these things as less than ideal activities to pursue. Logic, people. In 50 years, we may very well be saying that we survived using microwaves, too. Or not.

It seems to me that these generations saw fit to discriminate against people unlike themselves, notably in the form of segregation in the U.S., Japanese internment in Canada and, oh wait, something called the Holocaust. I guess, in some ways, depending on what side of the barriers you found yourself, if you did survive that, you do indeed deserve some kudos.

The early generations also sent their children into wars like WWII, Vietnam and Korea. Surely, wisdom must have flowed freely from the hose water. The atomic bomb? 1945. The Great Depression? 1939. Watergate, the FLQ crisis, Kent State, Disco? How about pushing us toward the consumerist society we are today? I'm not sure how you can give exclusive credit to the risk takers and innovators of those generations -- the explosion of technology in the past couple of decades is unparalleled. For better or for worse. The world's a different animal now. And we must continue to adapt: social Darwinism continues.

Those born in the 80's, 90's and after have more time left to make their mark on the world than I. They are a part of our future. A big part. And I hope they continue to make the world a better place. Cure AIDS or cancer? Help people live longer, or in less pain? Reduce social injustice? I'm thankful to have been born when I was; otherwise I wouldn't be me. Think about it: a fraction of a second different and you wouldn't have been born, edged out by another little swimmer (in the words of Homer -- and not he of Iliad fame -- "Woo hoo"). And I wouldn't have developed according to the constructs of my generation. Life's short, so let's share a pop. I think we'll be fine. As long as you haven't been making out with an avian-bird flu-infected chicken. No?

Where's Sandy Claus?

A little early -- perhaps yes. But seeing as I will not be around for the first bit of December, I thought I'd try to counterbalance the grey wetness of the past couple of weeks by putting my Christmas tree up tonight. Yeah, it's about as real as Michael Jackson's nose. And, mon petit arbre de noël dénudée is, quite frankly, even put to shame by Charlie Brown's. Not, of course, to be confused with Charlie, le chat-chose. And yet, visions of sugarplums still dance in my head, lights-a-twinkling and wondering where the egg nog is.

(Don't) Take a Number.

Need a passport and aren't overly fond of being herded like cattle, or of having to pull tiny tissue paper numbers like the ones you used to find at the deli counter? Try filling out the online version of your application before heading to the passport office. It gets assigned a bar code (no, not for entrance to a secret watering hole), which gives you preference when you have to set foot into those sterile government offices. And spares your back from those rickety wooden chairs. Bureaucrats that they are, it still cannot save you from the rickety, wooden passport agents. It's half the battle nonetheless -- a sort of 'Get out of jail free' card. You know, without the jail. Ironic, considering that bar codes tend to look like cells.

Actually, the online version is relatively painless, you don't have to worry about whether or not you used the right colour of ink and it's legible. The bar code, though, is the golden goose. Person after person came in at the same time as I today, having diligently inked their responses like a bad prison tattoo, and were told they'd have a couple hour wait. Bar code in hand, I waited about five minutes. It wasn't quite a golden aura that ushered me to the next agent, but getting out of a government office in less than a half-hour? It might as well have been. Folks looked at me askance as they were forced to trudge -- all the while, muttering like people who push their cats around town in a grocery cart -- over to the corral. Somehow, saying that I was 'with the band' didn't quite fit. This time.

Unfortunately, the bar code doesn't help with the price. Or with the passport photos, about which they have become increasingly picky. And yes, I had to have my nose powdered when I had mine taken because it was otherwise "too shiny". At least I'm secure. With the rush (no, not Limbaugh) to have passports in order to enter the land of Bush as of January 2007, passport offices will no doubt continue to get busier. Go ahead: turn your life into a series of vertical lines of varying lengths. It'll save you time. And back ache. The bars will make you free.

Devo-tee.

Well, maybe not a Devo tee ("Crack that whip, Give the past the slip...When a problem comes along, You must whip it..."), but a devotee of using the 'T' as a form of communication? Works better than other letters, particularly if you plan on wearing it. Hmm, the 'X' might work somewhat as well, but no, today's letter of the day is indeed 'T' (with the 'X', all I can think of is little Maggie Simpson in her star-shaped snow suit).

Forget Rick Mercer as Canada's next Prime Minister (though I'm sure he'd have a tonne of fun lampooning whichever party he ran for). Not Canada's Next Top Model, either. Nope, I just got my Stewart/Colbert in 2008 t-shirt. Some are touting this as the 'intelligent choice' for President/Vice-President and a couple of students at the university are using the shirts to make a statement about the current state of American politics. A revolution, swathed in 100% cotton. (And made in Haiti?) Clever. And it keeps me warm. Above the elbows, anyway. For more, check out their web site.

Which of course takes us back to the opening lyrics: "When a problem comes along, you must whip it." Dubya is a problem and he must be whipped -- in the polls. It won't likely be by a comic (though the U.S. has had an action star and a former pop icon as Governors, and a B-movie actor as President...) or political commentator. That doesn't mean we, in the frigid land to the north, cannot rise up on our igloos, bear our hockey sticks and help knock-out the right winger. We feel your pain, America. No, go ahead and vote your displeasure: wear the 'T' and revel in your freedom to bare arms. And hopefully, voters will elect a new votee.

Mon-Train-All. Day Four.

Oranges. Yes, oranges. And lots of 'em, too. Of course, we could have used the vitamin C to help make us feel better this weekend. This morning, my face felt like an acupuncture session gone awry, my sinuses like the crumbling ruins of Rome.

Sniffling away is not the most pleasant manner in which to spend eight hours on a train, which we did last night, getting back just before two in the morning. While the rain had mostly let up, it was still a grey day in la belle province. We did a lot of walking again, making it up to the Jean Talon Market, apparently the largest of its kind in North America ("Aha," he says to himself: "I knew there had to be another reason for so many pictures of fruit. That segue wasn't quite complete!")

Actually, I found the market to be patently underwhelming. Sure, there were many stalls of fruit, some particularly rancid cheese shops and the meat available at the charchuteries was no doubt top-notch. Nonetheless, there weren't really any bakeries (no Montréal-style bagels?) and frankly, no restaurants. No artisans, either. Those are just things I've come to expect from an excursion to the market. It was, however, a veritable cornucopia of colour and the produce looked great (which really is the point, isn't it?), but from a tourist's perspective, once you've seen one pile of oranges, you've seen enough. Except in this case, I guess -- I liked how differently the merchants displayed their produce. In the end, the walk was salvaged by a couple of pains au chocolat and a panini avec porc et brie. Really, it all comes down to the food, doesn't it? Speaking of which...

Mon-Très-All. Day Three.

Très all, yes. Everything. Yes, that's it -- I think Montréal has a little bit of everything. Except these days -- apparently -- sunshine. That's right, it was still wet and cold this morning. And grey. SCS's sinuses continued to stage a revolt most of the day and my back continued to do its best bed-of-nails impression.

I'd have to say that one of the funniest parts of the today's adventures, though, came tonight when we went into Chu-Chai, a high-end vegetarian restaurant. And I, of course, was carrying some greasy smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's. I tried to explain it away by saying that it was only smoked tofu, but the hippies weren't buying it. So we agreed I'd buy them all a round of green tea and a side of granola, and call it a day.

So, yes, I did make it to the world-famous Schwartz's tonight for some smoked meat. My arteries aren't thanking me for it, but my stomach is. We waited in the line-up for a bit (which is apparently always there, regardless of the time of day) and felt kind of foolish when we figured out that we didn't need to wait for take-out. Two smoked meat for me; a turkey for SCS and an order of fries to share. Mmm, greasy goodness.

The meat didn't quite melt in my mouth like yesterday's at Dunn's, and it was quite a bit fattier. But mighty tasty. Home cut fries. Yum. And only $4.95 for a sandwich. I've been telling my arteries that they should just suck it up and experience the local gastronomical delights. Food, it just seems to be the focus of this blog every once in a while.

It was a day of a lot of walking, and we made it down to Vieux Montréal, where I finally had my first chocolate croissant of the trip. Shocking. Considering I pretty much lived off the things when in France a half-lifetime ago. Actually, this was a croissant filled with almond paste and covered in chocolate. Yes, it was just as horrible as it sounds. The architecture was incredible and SCS and I were particularly amazed when we thought back to just how old some of these buildings are. We also passed Notre Dame, where Céline Dion got married. Thankfully, our ears have been spared. One more day to go.

Mont-rain-al. Day Two.

Okay, to this point anyway, that might be a bit of a stretch. It's wet, it's cold and it's grey. Add to that the fact that SCS and I are both sick (her moreso than I) and that the vertebrae in my back have decided to go all Ralph Macchio on each other, and the first whole day in Montréal hasn't been all sunshine. Did I mention that it's wet?

Actually, it looks like a pretty cool city, and that's not just because I'm seeing most of it refracted several times over in the raindrops plummeting earthward. The spirit of John Bonham using my noggin as a bongo drum.

SCS had her presentation today, so I had a couple of hours to swim through the streets and take in some of the sights for myself. Being that fatty meat products don't do for her what they do for me, it also gave me the chance to gleefully gorge on some Montréal smoked meat at Dunn's. My goal is to make it to Schwartz's -- widely regarded as the best smoked meat in Montréal, if not anywhere outside the Big Apple -- but the hike would have been redundant today considering it's up near where we're staying (and not right downtown, where we were). Still, artery-clogging goodness. Such a boy. Melt-in-your-mouth like chocolate. Okay, not like chocolate, but melt-in-your-mouth, nonetheless. The waitress asked if I wanted the lean meat. Such audacity. Are you kidding? Fries, sure! Swiss cheese? Um, yeah. Coleslaw and a pickle? Is there any other way? (I do need my healthy option, too, you know -- duh!)

Lunch for me was late, and dinner, early, so I wasn't overly hungry when it came time to have a chicken breast, roasted red pepper and brie sandwich on a ciabatta bun at Boccacinos. And yes, more fries. All this after a great breakfast this morning at the B&B, which was comprised of little soufflés, toast with homemade peach preserves and chocolate banana bread. Yeah, it's been a tough day for that stomach of mine.

With the aching back, I had thought a massage might provide some nice relief. I think it was the "body-to-body" part advertised at the place to the right that I thought might get me into a bit of a trouble. Thought the loophole of filling out a job application might help me get away with it, but, well, um, no, apparently not.

The French? Well, it has come back just nicely, thanks. Neat how the human mind works sometimes.

Montreal, Je T'aime. Night One.

So, after having spent eight hours painted into a train seat to get here, I finally got my first taste of Montréal tonight. Well, not really a first taste because we had such difficulty deciding where to eat. Not that there weren't plenty of options. No, and they were all full, with line-ups queuing down the street, even at 10:30. It was particularly funny to see people on every corner though, carrying bottles of wine sporting brown paper bag sport coats. In Montréal, you can take your own wine into the restaurants. On our entrée into the city (mmm, entrées), we did see a place called a "Hotdogeria". I'm not kidding. A veritable cornucopia of mystery meats, I am sure. Needless to say, we didn't head there. Also saw a mannequin sporting a sweater with a bump. Had never seen a pregnant mannequin before.

For whatever the reason, I was still surprised to hear just how many people actually converse in French here. With how bilingual the city is, I had somehow expected that there would have been a greater split. Thankfully, mon francais est retournée en force.

Above: If the fact that you sterilize your glasses is your selling point, I think I might just not be visiting your establishment.

Below: However, if you present chocolate you have for sale like this, je retournera d'es que possible.

The buildings here are magnifique. We have a great little B&B and have remarked how neat the architecture of the apartments is around here. Somehow, the facades of each place seems a little different from the one beside, despite them all being attached. Stained glass here, a round porch there. Or a turret. I look forward to getting out to soak in some more of it tomorrow.

They're Watching.

...wearing a suit of eyes, I
am uncovering the lies
stitched inside...

Wandering through campus today, I found this paranoid delusional rambling scrawled on the wall. Or was it? Ushered away by men in dark suits and earpieces, speaking in muffled tones, I could not really be sure. Lots of people named Roger. Something about the uniformity of their hair cuts disturbed me. The undercover cut, a beacon of conformity.

Written below a grate, the location (location, location, location!) was great (ha ha). But being in a secluded, seldom-used alley, perhaps not so. I cannot imagine CSIS would have much interest in the majority of conversations taking place on campus. Then again, if they could invent a filter that eliminates the phrase: "Like, omigod, I got -- you know -- soo hammered and stuff last night that I threw up all over my Uggs," there would be precious little else they'd need to transcribe. And national security would be, like omigod, so much, you know, higher and stuff. I'm just saying...

M&Ms

Well, once a boy met a girl. Or perhaps they were only mice. Either way, I'm not really talking about Mickey and Minnie being the M&Ms. Nor, surprisingly, am I referring to the hard-coated confection, much as I love them (Mmm, peanutty).

No, tonight I'm pretty geeked and psyched (not to be confused with being a geek -- which I may on occasion be, notably Tuesdays -- nor with being a psycho -- which I am not). Instead, the M&Ms instead are about my next two travel destinations: Montréal and Malaysia.

This week will be about folding myself into a VIA train seat for eight hours in order to make tracks to Montréal. With all of the places I have been in North America, notably across this country, I'm astounded that I've never been to Montreal. Apart from being forced down into the city for a brief second by a crazy french driver while on a road trip to Halifax. French drivers -- hence the train this time. An incredible city right up my alley by all accounts, so I'm excited. But then again, I'd be excited to head to Thunder Bay. Or Petrolia.

Though everyone speaks English, I imagine I might try to slip in some French practice. I'm reminded of the time a number of years back when I was interviewing for a job working in French and it had been five years since I had even uttered a word in the language. Inexplicably, I started to explain, "j'ai un peu de rouille sur mon francais verbal". Let's just say that, given the opportunity to answer that question question again, I would better realize that expressions like "my spoken French is a little rusty" might not exactly translate well. Particularly verbatim. I think the hiring manager laughed hard enough at my attempt, she felt the need to give me the job. That and French was her third -- and far from strongest -- language, too.

Anyway, Malaysia: December. Details are thus far sketchy as this has just come together in a whirlwind. The best kind of wind. Folding myself into airplane seats for even longer than the trip to Montreal. Sweet. Another world and another culture. New experiences, new people, new smells. My senses anticipate this trip tremendously. I can imagine I will be so completely out of my element that I will glean tremendous experiences from this trip. More to follow as the time nears. La belle province first. Well, one thing was right: a boy once did meet a girl. And he's glad he did.

You Can't Break That Which Isn't Yours.

Time, like a bright bolt of lightning flashes;
violent, like volleys of thunderous crashes
flashing but once so brilliantly
and vanishing just as quickly,
leaving distant memories locked in caches.
1996.02.20

Wanna box?

Yes, it seems clichéd to say that time passes quickly, particularly as we age, but I cannot argue with its veracity. It was one year ago today that the then-picture of my life was disassembled into tiny puzzle pieces strewn about the shag carpeting. An image, incomplete. But a year later of working diligently from the corners and I, remarkably, have a clearer picture of what's ahead. And newfound strength. The winds that blow through one's life can sometimes be remarkably august.

I owe great thanks to many people for lending me their strength when I needed it. Words will never be enough, but thank you.

I realized just how oblivious I had been while re-reading the texts of my life: my writings. Written words guide me through much, are often what keep me going, and what inspire me. It doesn't always matter what kind of writing – in fact, diversity is often key – but words are one of the elixirs that soothe my soul. I can feel emotion flow through my fingertips and into the pen. Or the keys.

Which is why it was particularly difficult to read something I wrote more than a year before the end and realize just how oblivious I was.

Sheets lie uncreased
as we stand before them
in our civilian clothes,
each breath getting shallower
as the past is exhaled
through the screen.

We stand, not speaking
of the inevitable
we are too strong to
accept for future breaths,
hoping some memory of
what was
remains to
fog the glass.
2004.04.26

I am astounded that the possibility exists to have emotion seep from your fingertips and still not have it flow north to your consciousness. Left brain and right brain having their own civil war. Others: "Each time you lie to me, you glue another piece of shell to me. My smile hides teeth" (2004.04.27) and "As we look to write our denouement, I'm amazed to think that no-one will remember the brilliance of our beginning, or perhaps the pages in between – only the end...the ink runs on pages past, leaving but a blur of the last years, curiously dark..." (2005.08.29).

We change, we discover strength and we grow. Just not necessarily together. And in this case, anyway, it seems that was a good thing.

Some appropriately titled music for the occasion:

Wolf Parade, Grounds for Divorce (Apologies for the Queen Mary)
Regina Spektor, Ode to Divorce (Soviet Kitsch)
Liz Phair, Divorce Song (Girlysound Demos Version)
The Hidden Cameras, Ban Marriage (The Smell of Our Own)
Regina Spektor, Apres Moi (Begin to Hope)

And for Dom: the devouring of a male Praying Mantis. By a female Praying Mantis. Fitting.

Doesn't that just say it all?

Shoe're thing! Nice to see such bold proclamations in advertising, even in the face of socially-progressive times like these. Wives, under foot everywhere! (Tongue firmly planted in cheek -- and under the laces). Like any good advertising, I both noticed and remembered it. It didn't hurt that I laughed in the process (wasn't quite in stitches, but perhaps in laces?).

N.B. Word of the day: "Retifism", named after Nicolas-Edme Rétif, involves one's fixation with shoes or other footwear. Okay, so I left out the rest of the sentence, which tied that bit to sexual expression. I think it's only because my research into the etymology of the word led to an article called, "The Erotic Shoe". Um, no. Thanks, though. To only have the power to heel. Er, heal.