SOAPBOX DIATRIBE

Dear Faithful Readers of Inarticulate Speech,

I would like to take this opportunity to climb on my soapbox and address an issue that’s been weighing heavily on my heart. It is an issue rarely talked about, for some it’s just too shameful a subject, for others the topic is too unpleasant for everyday conversation.

My bone of contention: CRACK.

Crack, it’s not only a crime it’s a disease. The effects of crack are felt on many levels: personal, cultural and social. The initial introduction of crack into a person’s life may initially produce feelings of euphoria and excitement, after all it’s a voyage into a forbidden place. It‘s a powerful force, the effects of the first encountered can be profoundly seductive. However, prolonged exposure to crack, causes restlessness, irritability, anxiety and paranoia.

Crack is a chronic illness and we must not be enablers to the addict’s abusive behavior!

Dealing with a loved one who is abusing crack can be overwhelming and painful. While crack addicts may be good people, their actions can hurt and cause shame to those who love them. We must not be enablers to the addicts abusive behaviour, we must stop the spread of this pandemic. The challenge is to stand steadfast in our conviction to assist abusers amidst the maelstrom of these dark and aggressive forces.

But before we can help others we must completely equip ourselves with the most prevalent information on crack. In order to get crack off the streets we must acquaint ourselves with the street names given to crack: hollow haunches, keister cavity, posterior pucker, the abyss, rump ridge, cranny, rear divide, butt channel, hill-billy heinie, half moon, ass flash, backside crevice, bottom gorge, bum split, (the proceeding synonyms created by writer of this blog, not real street names for crack...but they should be) anal cleft, butt cleavage, ass crack, coin slot, and the infamous plumber’s butt.

Do you remember when we used to ridicule and laugh relentlessly at the sight of anyone caught administering crack?

Now that's considered fashionable to be a crack fanatic. Everyone is getting cheeky. Not just the Hollywood starlets and the fashion devotees, but tradesmen with their ill fitting trousers, skater boys with their droopy bottoms, and sadly, the metrosexual male with his low slung slacks. Showing off the heinous HAIRY Hill-Billy heinie is pure blasphemy. (The least male addicts can do, if they are considering committing a crime of indecent exposure, is to schedule a crack-n-sack wax. If you are cringing at this notion, then please, do not even consider wearing an ass baring ensemble.)

Despite the hairy half moon, Fashion Editors are enabling the crack epidemic by making the global proclamation: “to have a little of your body falling out is extremely sexy”.

My response to this: a vehement “OH, HELL NO!” Are we going to allow these fashion junkies to dictate our style? Before you answer, let me remind you that these are the same fashion forward thinkers that gave the green light to a) homeless “boho” look, b) elephantine sunglasses and c) orange tans.

Never one for conformity, I am taking a stand against the keister cavity.

On a daily basis I have been witness to boorish benders who brazenly expose their nether regions, a locale that previously had been the sole domain of portly plumbers and tubby tradesmen. It is neither sexy nor classy to moon unsuspecting citizens! My eyes are sore from this constant exposure to the moon!

Deep Breath.

Surely, I am not the only individual, in a sea of millions, suffering from this grotesque glimpse of the hollow haunches. Don’t get me wrong; I love my low-rise jeans as much as the next fashionista and I can't guarantee you won't EVER see a little posterior pucker. However, I assure you, I go to great lengths to protect my butt cleavage from anyone’s direct sightline. How do I manage to stay so lady-like, yet so stylish in my low-risers? This is no easy feat. I have discovered various ways to sit, walk and squat. I have conditioned my body to contort into various angles to avoid ass flash.

In other words, we all need to take some responsibility! Check yourself when you sit or bend, do not promote the spread of crack. Please help me put an end to an addiction and trend that just screams: “blue collar betty/bob!”

SAY NO TO CRACK!

BONNE FETE PAPA

It's my father's birthday, without him I wouldn't be here!

I AM FROM...

I am from water gardens and wildflowers, from enchanting folklore and my father’s books.

I am from the patchwork of emerald rice fields, perfumed morning shadows and exotic customs.

I am from the shower of spring blossoms, the sweetly scented jasmines and the serpentine deltas.

I am from artist and educators, from storytellers and wordsmiths. From Tri, Thuong and Ba Noi. I stem from sturdy roots and ancestor’s war stories.

I am from my mother’s search for a better life and my father’s struggle to survive.

I am from my grandmother’s weathered hands and her generous spirit.

From unwritten rules and heartfelt laughter.

I am from a cross cultural odyssey, transcending nationality and language: an invasive species.

I'm from the tail of the dragon and the ash of the phoenix.

From the wooden fishing boats ravaged by angry waves, the mass exodus and the incredible yearning of ordinary people.

I am from a city lost in time, a country forever changed and a world condemned to repeat history.

ODE TO ALISON

I'd like to dedicate this post to my dear friend Alison.

My heart aches, there's a void and my day grows dreary
I look to "Skipping Stones" for my daily inspiration
But alas,Alison has taken a blogging hiatus and I am teary.
I can't believe she has not returned from her long vacation.

I send this Ode to her, you see
Not in some melodious plot
'Tis only a desperate,desperate plea
cuz' I miss her update a lot.

P.S. Where my comments at?

P.P.S. Forgive the primative nature of this poem, I had five minutes people.

NERD ALERT

At least once a month I force my young entrepreneurial brother to spend the day with me. As big sis, naturally I get to decide how we spend our time together. This fact is absolute and non-negotiable. It’s my inalienable right as first born to dictate the decisions of my siblings: Mike in the middle, Chris the youngest and participant of last Saturday’s Brother Sister Day. (Or as David refers to it: “BFF Day”- Yes, I’m a nerd and my brother is my BFF.)

Brother-Sister Day:

8:00 AM – Surfing the net, I’ve been up for at least half an hour. Internal clock won’t let me sleep past 7:30am.

8:30 AM – Surprised at Brother’s early arrival. Disappointed by his immediate detour to my occupied queen-size bed.

8:31 AM – He hops into bed next to a snoring David and proceeds to take a two-hour nap.

10:30AM – Tired of waiting I stomp up stairs, moaning about my hunger pains.

11:00AM – Party of three at the Sunset Grill.

12:00PM – David leaves for work. We leave for IKEA- Mecca for decorators on a budget. I want to play my iTune mix in the car, a soundtrack for our day, but… No CD player… Cassette only. GHETTO!

12:00PM – 12:10PM - I describe in detail, to an uninterested brother, my desire to build the perfect office, chosen destination: second floor, overlooking the green belt and communal pond, an ideal space to rediscover my inspiration to write and attempt to complete the stacks of unfinished scripts, the scripts that I have abandoned in lieu of blogging.

But I digress.

12:10PM – 3:10PM – three hours spent in the Ikea showroom. I have my perfect office mentally mapped out. We quickly bypass the marketplace, I can’t risk meandering through the consumer warehouse, this place has a way of successfully triggering my impulse buying button.

3:11PM – We make a bee-line for the Ikea hot dog stand. I love cheap food, well I love food in general, but when it’s edible and cheap, I love it even more.

3:20PM – We find ourselves in a familiar predicament: Who drives? Neither one of us ever wants to be the chauffeur. He says: I’m tired, I might fall asleep at the wheel. (LIE) I say: I have a headache, I’m feeling nauseous, and I have cramps (LIE). I WIN.

3:30PM – A Rogers movie rental for his Saturday night date and grocery shopping for our dinner.

4:00PM – Home and a quick nap before dinner.

7:00PM – Prepping for barbeque dinner. David joins us.

7:10PM - David and I get an impromptu serenade:

Yeah, I know, I know, I'm young....
I might be young, but I'm not too young to let you know how I feel.
I'm Joe, and I'm a Capricorn.
And if you can relate to that, then check this out.

I join in:

I wanna be loved, loved by you baby
I wanna be loved by you…

David, fearing the spread of the highly contagious NERD germs, slowly backs away, avoiding eye contact and any sudden moves.

This brings an end to BFF Day.

Note: David’s immune system is strong, but I assure you one day he too will be infected by our Nerd germs. One day he will succumb to the dark side.

P.S. Not going to divulge group or song name, for fear of greater embarrassment.

"This is not about politics, this is about people dying."

Driving by the Metro Convention Centre this week, my attention is drawn towards the throngs of people streaming out of the 2006 International AIDS Conference. I'm embarassed to admit that I have not armed my self with any information regarding news from the symposia.

However, on the topic of HIV/AIDS I would like to share Mary Fisher's 1992 Republication National Convention Address.

Less than three months ago at platform hearings in Salt Lake City, I asked the Republican Party to lift the shroud of silence which has been draped over the issue of HIV and AIDS. I have come tonight to bring our silence to an end. I bear a message of challenge, not self-congratulation. I want your attention, not your applause.

I would never have asked to be HIV positive, but I believe that in all things there is a purpose; and I stand before you and before the nation gladly. The reality of AIDS is brutally clear. Two hundred thousand Americans are dead or dying. A million more are infected. Worldwide, forty million, sixty million, or a hundred million infections will be counted in the coming few years. But despite science and research, White House meetings, and congressional hearings, despite good intentions and bold initiatives, campaign slogans, and hopeful promises, it is -- despite it all -- the epidemic which is
winning tonight.

In the context of an election year, I ask you, here in this great hall, or listening in the quiet of your home, to recognize that AIDS virus is not a political creature. It does not care whether you are Democrat or Republican; it does not ask whether you are black or white, male or female, gay or straight, young or old.

Tonight, I represent an AIDS community whose members have been reluctantly drafted from every segment of American society. Though I am white and a mother, I am one with a black infant struggling with tubes in a Philadelphia hospital. Though I am female and contracted this disease in marriage and enjoy the warm support of my family, I am one with the lonely gay man sheltering a flickering candle from the cold wind of his family’s rejection.

This is not a distant threat. It is a present danger. The rate of infection is increasing fastest among women and children. Largely unknown a decade ago, AIDS is the third leading killer of young adult Americans today. But it won’t be third for long, because unlike other diseases, this one travels. Adolescents don’t give each other cancer or heart disease because they believe they are in love, but HIV is different; and we have helped it along. We have killed each other with our ignorance, our prejudice, and our silence.

We may take refuge in our stereotypes, but we cannot hide there long, because HIV asks only one thing of those it attacks. Are you human? And this is the right question. Are you human? Because people with HIV have not entered some alien state of being. They are human. They have not earned cruelty, and they do not deserve meanness. They don’t benefit from being isolated or treated as outcasts. Each of them is exactly what God made: a person; not evil, deserving of our judgment; not victims, longing for our pity -- people, ready for support and worthy of compassion.

My call to you, my Party, is to take a public stand, no less compassionate than that of the President and Mrs. Bush. They have embraced me and my family in memorable ways. In the place of judgment, they have shown affection. In difficult moments, they have raised our spirits. In the darkest hours, I have seen them reaching not only to me, but also to my parents, armed with that stunning grief and special grace that comes only to parents who have themselves leaned too long over the bedside of a dying child.

With the President’s leadership, much good has been done. Much of the good has gone unheralded, and as the President has insisted, much remains to be done. But we do the President’s cause no good if we praise the American family but ignore a virus that destroys it.

We must be consistent if we are to be believed. We cannot love justice and ignore prejudice, love our children and fear to teach them. Whatever our role as parent or policymaker, we must act as eloquently as we speak -- else we have no integrity. My call to the nation is a plea for awareness. If you believe you are safe, you are in danger. Because I was not hemophiliac, I was not at risk. Because I was not gay, I was not at risk. Because I did not inject drugs, I was not at risk.

My father has devoted much of his lifetime guarding against another holocaust. He is part of the generation who heard Pastor Nemoellor come out of the Nazi death camps to say,

“They came after the Jews, and I was not a Jew, so, I did not protest. They came after the trade unionists, and I was not a trade unionist, so, I did not protest. Then they came after the Roman Catholics, and I was not a Roman Catholic, so, I did not protest. Then they came after me, and there was no one left to protest.”

The -- The lesson history teaches is this: If you believe you are safe, you are at risk. If you do not see this killer stalking your children, look again. There is no family or community, no race or religion, no place left in America that is safe. Until we genuinely embrace this message, we are a nation at risk.

Tonight, HIV marches resolutely toward AIDS in more than a million American homes, littering its pathway with the bodies of the young -- young men, young women, young parents, and young children. One of the families is mine. If it is true that HIV inevitably turns to AIDS, then my children will inevitably turn to orphans. My family has been a rock of support.

My 84-year-old father, who has pursued the healing of the nations, will not accept the premise that he cannot heal his daughter. My mother refuses to be broken. She still calls at midnight to tell wonderful jokes that make me laugh. Sisters and friends, and my brother Phillip, whose birthday is today, all have helped carry me over the hardest places. I am blessed, richly and deeply blessed, to have such a family.

But not all of you -- But not all of you have been so blessed. You are HIV positive, but dare not say it. You have lost loved ones, but you dare not whisper the word AIDS. You weep silently. You grieve alone. I have a message for you. It is not you who should feel shame. It is we -- we who tolerate ignorance and practice prejudice, we who have taught you to fear. We must lift our shroud of silence, making it safe for you to reach out for compassion. It is our task to seek safety for our children, not in quiet denial, but in effective action.

Someday our children will be grown. My son Max, now four, will take the measure of his mother. My son Zachary, now two, will sort through his memories. I may not be here to hear their judgments, but I know already what I hope they are. I want my children to know that their mother was not a victim. She was a messenger. I do not want them to think, as I once did, that courage is the absence of fear. I want them to know that courage is the strength to act wisely when most we are afraid. I want them to have the courage to step forward when called by their nation or their Party and give leadership, no matter what the personal cost.

I ask no more of you than I ask of myself or of my children. To the millions of you who are grieving, who are frightened, who have suffered the ravages of AIDS firsthand: Have courage, and you will find support. To the millions who are strong, I issue the plea: Set aside prejudice and politics to make room for compassion and sound policy.

To my children, I make this pledge: I will not give in, Zachary, because I draw my courage from you. Your silly giggle gives me hope; your gentle prayers give me strength; and you, my child, give me the reason to say to America, "You are at risk." And I will not rest, Max, until I have done all I can to make your world safe. I will seek a place where intimacy is not the prelude to suffering. I will not hurry to leave you, my children, but when I go, I pray that you will not suffer shame on my account.

To all within the sound of my voice, I appeal: Learn with me the lessons of history and of grace, so my children will not be afraid to say the word "AIDS" when I am gone. Then, their children and yours may not need to whisper it at all.

God bless the children, and God bless us all.

The Conference has me wondering: Have we made any progress with the global battle against HIV/AIDS more than a decade later?

CHAOS AND ORDER

"Without order nothing can exist – without chaos nothing can evolve."

David and I are in the process of cleaning, de-cluttering and reorganizing our home, with all this frenetic activity, I’m totally depleted of all creativity (hence the reduction of new entries). In all this chaos, I believe I may even have inadvertently pitched out my creativity somewhere among the seven large garbage bags filled with unwanted items.

How did we come to obtain so much rubbish? Four years worth, to be exact. Well, when David and I initially moved in together, we did not possess any items of value. Having both emigrated from our parents’ homes; we furnished our house with my bedroom set from youth and a hand-me-down sofa.

To make our house more “homey” we began to accept donated items. Initially we welcomed other people’s cast-offs, then we began allowing in second-hand goods based on sentimentality and eventually we consented to the unwanted items so as to not offend.

Now we are forced to draw the line. We have adopted a use-it-or-lose-it attitude. No more JUNK! It’s all going curbside!

It has been somewhat cathartic throwing away the useless things we have accumulated over the years. However, I must admit, I still have a hard time getting rid of the sentimental objects that clutter our lives, as every object has a story, they may not necessarily be my story, but someone’s story, and it’s sad to see them being discarded. What can I say? I’m a poetic person, I experience a complex array of powerful emotions toward my possessions. I can find a story in almost anything, thus making this purging process very painful.

While, I am aware of the of the benefits of de-cluttering and have knowledge of the motivational Feng Shui discourse declaring: “Letting go of the accumulated debris liberates mind and body, allowing creativity flow,” I still believe that one needs a certain amount of chaos to be creative.

I need to find that equilibrium between chaos and order. After all isn't balance the key to a joyful life?

CHUCK NORRIS, MY HERO

If there was any doubt as to why Mr. Chuck Norris deserves the hero worship that has been bestowed upon him, I offer you further evidence of his magnificence: The People's Choice.

ME GUSTA LUCHA LIBRE

Lucha Libre (free fighting) originates from Olympic wrestling. The sport, which began enchanting Mexican fans since the 1930s, has undergone a drastic transformation from its once structured Olympic origin. It is now, in essence, a down-n-out dirty dog fight and the rules (if any) are strange and difficult to understand. However, having educated myself via the film, “Nacho Libre”, I’m beginning to see the simplicity of it all: beat your opponent into submission.

The Luchadores (wrestlers) are mysterious warriors, concealing their true identities with multicolored masks. This is the appeal, the mystery and the excitement that has attracted legions of followers to the fantastical world of Lucha Libre.

Unbeknownst to me, until recently, a weekly Lucha Libre grudge match is being played out under my roof. Last Sunday, I had the privilege of witnessing the high-flying acrobatic moves of two novice Luchadores. (In order to protect the Luchadores’ identity I will refer to them only as: Mo-Dawg and Cuz the Fuz.) Wearing simple black and white furry masks, a departure from the tradition of a flashier concealer, these lightweight wrestlers prepared for a smack-down.

Here is the play-by-play:

Caged upon arrival, Mo-Dawg clawed at the bars ready for the attack. Cuz the Fuz anxiously paced the grounds preparing for Mo-Dawg’s eminent release. Upon the referee’s approval, Mo-Dawg sprang from her cage pouncing on Cuz the Fuz. Cuz the Fuz retaliates with a classic “rana” (a pinning position in which you hold the opponents shoulders on the mat using your legs, blocking his legs with your arms). Mo-Dawg uses agility to her advantage and turns the table on Cuz the Fuz; she squirms out of the pin, jumps on the sofa and comes at her opponent with a “plancha” (a dive move onto your opponent from above with your full body). Cuz breaks free and gives Mo a standard “tope” (head-butt). Angered, Mo emerges with an illegal move, “the Mike Tyson ear nibble”. Cuz, using her height advantage, dislodges from Mo’s menacing grip, then using her head, Cuz lifts Mo up and body slams her to the ground.

The audience is stunned. A series of “ooo’s” and “aww’s” and a couple “hey, stop’s” resonates from ring side. Alert to the crowd’s uneasiness, the two warriors withdraw to their individual niches.

Upon sensing the crowd’s relief over their retreat, the Luchadores stealthily wage an all out assault. A sequence of aerial moves, acrobatic maneuvers and intricate combinations of throws and holds commences in a rapid-fire succession. The action spills out of the ring and into the first row of the audience, at which point, the match was brought to an end for fear of audience’s safety.

No winner was declared that day, since both Lucadores were disqualified for administering illegal moves.

I am told that this battle is a regular Sunday occurrence. I have also been informed that these fine Lucadores (pictured below) outside the ring do not despise each other; in fact these warriors have a great admiration and mutual respect for one another.

VIVA LA PUCHA LIBRE!

Mo-Dawg(top) vs. Cuz the Fuz (bottom)

EXCUSES, EXCUSES

Originally, I had envisioned this blog to be a joint venture. A “she said/he said” narrative… except the “He” in this chronicle keeps coming up with some considerably lame excuses as to why he has yet to contribute to this blog:

Excuse # 1
Carpal tunnel syndrome.

Excuse # 2
Me no good, express thoughts like you.

Excuse # 3
I have a massive headache and typing just exacerbates it.

Excuse # 4
I couldn’t log into the blog.

Excuse # 5
I was kidnapped by anarchist and they only just let me go, so I didn't have time to do it.

Excuse # 6
I’m trying to conserve electricity.

Excuse # 7
The dog won’t let me near the computer, Chihuahuas are vicious.

Excuse # 8
The mob approached me and threatened to break my fingers if I wrote about what I knew.

Excuse # 9
I mistook it for an e-mail and sent it into the nether regions of the net.

Excuse #10
It’s there, you just can’t see it because I wrote it in an black font colour.

CINEMA IN THE PARK

Yesterday, David and I attended the summer long outdoor movie night in High Park (it’s on until August 28th, every Monday). There something very exciting about taking an indoor activity and transplanting it outdoors. The atmosphere was lively, as couples, friends and families reserved their portion of grass and snuggled into blankets and sweaters against the cool night air, preparing for the 90min movie. The conditions were so ideal that it didn’t matter whether the film was good or not. Both David and I had seen 50 First Dates previously in the theatres, but we enjoyed the film much more this time around.

I’m aware that our attitude adjustment towards this movie can be attributed to our new surroundings. It was so charming watching a film beneath a pine tree canopy under the beautiful moonlit sky. I think I would even have a new opinion of “Glitter” under these conditions … MAYBE.

Note: Next week's screening-The Poseidon Adventure (2006 remake)

EXPRESSION OF SELF

On Sunday I had the great fortune of running into my friend Joanne. Joanne and I were co-workers for two seasons on a television series, but she has since left our show to manage her own magnificent art gallery, the Thompson Landry Gallery.

As I enter the gallery, for the first time, I am initially captivated by the space. What is so provocative about the gallery's setting is that it’s located within the revitalized distillery district. The renovation of this dilapidated historical building into a contemporary art gallery is truly a work of art. (There is a picture of the interior before the renovation, which sit on the top tier of Joanne’s desk, this is a must see.) Joanne has labored to develop a highly adaptable space to showcase her artists’ work, while also dealing with the existing building’s structure, scale and character.


Continuing further into the gallery I have greater insight into Joanne’s passion for art and creativity and her desire to share this with others. I could spend hours strolling through this gallery admiring the artwork. It is an intoxicating experience. You feel re-vitalized and relax at the same time. There is such a creative energy circulating around this space.

Several pieces catch my eye and I am overwhelmed by the intensity of my emotions. I feel the exaltation and awe of being surrounded by these images of original artwork created by individuals with the ability to outwardly express their inner soul. I am a great lover of art, in all of its form, although recently I have been drawn towards abstract paintings. The reason I believe abstract art is so powerful is because it's completely non-objective and non-representational. I am not distracted by the meaning of the images, allowing my brain to bypass literal perception of objects thereby permitting entry into the realm of my unconscious psyche, evoking feelings of contentment and yearning, and a sense of balance and delight. Fortunately for me, Joanne’s gallery has a plethora of pieces to choose from.

Having since outgrowing my original Ikea prints, I endeavor to find that perfect art pieces to cover my barren walls. I have found those pieces at this gallery. One of the pieces in my desired collection sits right behind Joanne’s desk. It has such a harmonious arrangement of colour, evoking contrary feelings of tranquility and excitement. Another one of my favorites has me wanting to run my hand over the smooth and coarse lacquered texture of this subtle artwork, this painting reveals itself layer by layer the longer you stand in front of it. And finally, there a beautiful piece by A.Y. Jackson, of The Group of Seven.

However, owning these pieces would require a rapid increase in my annual salary, the price of the Jackson alone had me perspiring, but the idea of owing original art is exhilarating.

It’s a vastly different experience than appreciating art in a museum or gallery. An art piece hung in your home allows you to see it in the changing light of day adding to the intensity and meaning of the work. I believe the piece you choose to incorporate into your home is also an expression of the spirit of your character; it illustrates to others you, in a deeply personal way. It also makes home and life infinitely richer.

I want original art. Therefore, in order for me to acquire these paintings, the piggy bank must be feed and remain unopened for several years, or I must take my chances at the roulette tables at casino-rama. Either way these pieces will be mine, it's an investment I'm willing to make.

If there is anyone out there who scoffs at my desire to own these works of art, then I implore you to pay a visit to the Thompson Landry Gallery. Only after that will you understand the power of these paintings.

GET SET GO

Lately, David and I have been playing this band’s song, I HATE EVERYONE, on repeat. Although their lyrics are not profound or poetic, they are quirky and engaging, amusing and incisive. How can you go wrong with lyrics like these:

Some fucking asshole just cut me off
And gave me the finger when I fucking honked
Then he proceeded to put on the brakes
He slammed on the brakes, but I made a mistake
When I climbed out of my van he was waiting
But he was six three and two hundred pounds of Satan

In addition, a catchy mix of up-tempo beats accompanies the words. The irony of the lyrics and the melody are what makes this song most enjoyable.

Go on, give it a listen. Click on the title for their link.

AD AGE

One day, on a whim, my mother-in law tore out all the advertisements of her 192-page magazine, leaving her with 75 pages of content. Astonishing.

Living in North America, especially a huge metropolis like Toronto, we are all inundated with a myriad of ads. I’ve read a study (by Juniper Research) that states the average North American sees or hears about 3,000 advertising messages a day. 3000!!! Personally, with all this ad saturation I have become desensitized to most ad campaigns. Companies are fruitlessly spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on campaigns that are, in fact, ineffectual.

However, on the rare occasion, I have seen ads that have jolted me out of my advertising apathy. Cleverly, the marketers have crafted these ads to grab the attention of my discerning and "Ad cluttered" mind. Here are a few that I would like to share:

NIKE TAG


HUMAN TOUCH


CONDOM


LANGUAGE INSTITUTE


TRIGON



GERMAN COAST GUARD


Note to Ad agencies: More like these please.

TIARA DAY

When I rule the land I will decree a Tiara Day law, whereby once a month a woman dons a tiara and as a rule of conduct society must indulge her every whim.

Sadly, where I currently reside there exist no such ruling. Nevertheless, I persevere.

Although, I must report that on my monthly Tiara day, I have come across very little resistance. There appears to be a recognized yet, unwritten understanding of this law.

I believe, this can be explained one of two ways:

1. My Tiara Day Bill has successfully passed though all three reading in the House of Commons and is waiting to be given the Royal Assent. (What is Her Excellency the Right Honourable Michaëlle Jean, waiting for????)

OR

2. The public, in general, fears confrontations with crazy people!

Huh?

Okay, so on the off chance that this obedient behaviour is explained by the latter, then here is my question: When did the tiara became synonymous with crazy?

SIMPLE PLEASURES

After several days of this maddening heat, we FINALLY got a break. Two days of glorious summer rain. As I walked home last night in the midst of a torrential downpour (sans umbrella), I started to think about the simple pleasures in life. I enjoy the warm summer rain beating down on my bare skin, the night sky lit by lightening and the echo of rolling thunder.

Summer rain always brings back a flood of memories from my childhood. My mom would always encourage us to play out in rain, and my siblings and I would put on our special rain costume: underwear and rain boots. We'd look for the biggest rain puddle and slosh around in it until our fingers and toes shriveled like prunes.

Simple pleasures.