The Gerry Butler Saga Continues

I've received some very interesting emails over the last couple of weeks, since having posted 'Gerry Butler's Secret'. I can't get into it at the moment, but I promise to come back and blog about it after Thursday evening (my paper's due then). You shall be fascinated. I promise!

The Feminist Movement & Eric Balfour's Hoo Hoo

I like Eric Balfour. There's a 'je ne sais quoi' about this guy that makes him look as though he belongs in Madonna's Vogue video. (It helps that he has some serious moves on a dance floor.)

All over NY were posters for the film 'Lie With Me'...I'd never heard of the film prior to, nor have I heard of it since.

Based on both the posters and this weird affinity I have for Balfour (and the like: Billy Zane), I picked up the movie. I love the fact that it was shot in Canada (yay Shopper's Drug Mart!) at large, Toronto specifically (yay Bloor!). What I couldn't decipher was that the packaging had NA BC on it.

While chatting with the staff, we finally determined that the NA BC meant the film was not available for distribution in British Columbia. I didn't understand why this was so until we watched this SOFT PORN FLICK. (Or is it 'soft core porn'? Am unfamiliar with the porn vernacular, sorry.)

We got so much more of Balfour than we had hoped or cared for. Although not an X-rated film, it had REAL oral sex in it. Through hysterical laughter, blushing, pausing, rewinding, standing closer to the television set and slo-mo'ing, we determined that it may have even been REAL sex.

Is Hollywood going in a new direction vis-a-vis sexual representation in 'non pornographic' films? Is this the next step in Hollywood? Because. I don't like it. And now I'll never look at Eric Balfour without seeing his hoo-hoo first. WHY ERIC? WHY?

Why isn't it our inclination to enjoy the mystery of sexuality? When out there for all to see (much like Eric's hoo-hoo), the magic's gone. The innuendo's gone. That innuendo, the subtlety of it can be intoxicating; like catching a man watching you in a room filled with people...a man who has enough courage to meet your eyes and hold them.

Were Eric Balfour to be the man in my innuendo game, he'd probably moon me.

And worse still was the female in this movie. She was supposed to be a strong sexual presence; dominant of, driven by and in control of her sex drive. She comes off as nothing short of a ditz, a flake, a slut in a freak show. To those who know me, they understand it would take a lot for me to use the 's' label. But in the way this film portrays this female, that's the only word to use. There's this weird thing about the feminist movement, this belief that if a woman can f&*k like a man, then she must be equal to him. This is a school of thought to which I will never subscribe. And I've always found it comical and most definitely an unsophisticated argument that so much stress has been placed on this portion of the feminist movement, a portion which essentially and most definitely works to favor men. Last I noticed there weren't many men complaining that they could get laid a lot easier in this day and age.

I have no problem with or argument against women having sex at any frequency and with as many men as they may choose. The bottom line is, if a woman wants to have sex with a different man every night for the rest of her life, that's completely her business (& for this, there is the feminist movement to thank). But whatever you do, don't possess enough stupidity to insult the likes of me by telling us that particular action makes us equal to men. Our equality comes from the quality of work that we do, the level of education that we have, and the influence in both politics and society that we may strive for, not from the number of men we have sex with.

I can't make this up

Late last night someone tried to break into my blogger account.

Head's up: I've contacted blogger & sent them your IP address.

M.E.D.I.C.A.T.I.O.N.

Gerry Butler's Secret

Since posting Gerry Butler vs Bob there's been an interesting influx of emails to my .Mac account. I never responded and didn't think much of them, until this morning.

I woke to find 32 emails, all of which were from the same person and had the same text. There was no Subject and the query (if I can call it that) reads: "WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME ABOUT WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO MEET GERRY BUTLER? WHAT ARE YOU HIDING? DID SOMETHING HAPPEN BETWEEN YOU TWO??????"

I started writing an email, and then decided that I would rather respond to this on my blog and put it out in the open. If any of you are interested in adding your two cents, please feel free to do so.

Usually, I am very diplomatic and gracious to anyone who sends me anything pertaining to my blog, because I greatly appreciate that someone, anyone, would take the time to read anything I have to write. If today I falter and am rude, forgive me.

The assumptions in this email are numbered 1-3 and my responses lettered A-C:
.1. That because I'm not sharing, it inherently means that I'm hiding something.
.A. I'm not sharing anything because there's nothing to share, and not because there's something to hide. Meeting Gerry Butler at the Toronto International Film Festival was uneventful. (Sorry!)

.2. Whatever I'm hiding is either 'gossipy' or relatively illicit.
.B. Since I'm not hiding anything, there's nothing illicit or 'gossipy' to share. Nothing happened between us outside of a normal interaction that went a little like:

Gerry Butler: Hi.
Maha: Hey.

Maha: You're tall.
Gerry Butler: Thank you. I also have nice hair. MY GOD, just LOOK AT IT!

Gerry Butler: You have a weird name.
Maha: I do. Why didn't your mother name you Gerald? It's what everyone calls you, anyway, Gary.

Gerry Butler: MY GOD, have you NOTICED my hair?
Maha: You're tall.

Maha: Wait a second. I LIKE my name!
Gerry Butler: It's weird. Your mother should've named you 'Maria'. God DAMN IT, I'm sexy.

Maha: Your friend's cute. I'm sexy, too.
Gerry Butler: His hair's not as nice as mine. Besides, I have a secret.

Maha: Is your secret's name 'Maria'?
Gerry Butler: Oh my GOD. I can't STAND how smokin' I am! Whose Maria?
Maha: Your secret?
Gerry Butler: No, she's not my secret. But I do like her name. But not as much as my hair. MY GOD I have great hair.
Maha: Tell me your secret, please.
Gerry Butler: Promise not to tell anyone? But you can tell them I'm FOXY.
Maha: I may blog about it.
Gerry Butler: What's a blawgh?
Maha: It's something akin to smoke signals.
Gerry Butler: Did you say SMOKIN'? Like ME?
Maha: No.
Gerry: HA HA. Just KIDDING. Go ahead and blagh it.
Maha: Good. So, then, what's your secret?

Gerry Butler leans in to me and whispers: I'm wearing a wig.

.3. A sense of entitlement to information about 'celebrity' that overrides my 'normal' preference for privacy.
.C. You need both medication and therapy. That therapy should have at its epicenter your fucked up sense of entitlement to the life of any 'celebrity' at large, Gerry Butler specifically.

Good Luck & thanks for your email!

xo
Maha

Problems encountered...

...while speaking:
- For an approximate minute and a half during a meeting, I couldn’t pronounce ‘loose’. I kept saying it ‘lieu-se’ as in ‘in lieu of’. When I concentrated for a moment, I finally managed it. Hurrah!

Mum thinks this is a disease. But she’s not a hypochondriac.

- I didn’t understand why they were laughing when I was talking about the ‘ear piss’ I used while driving so that I could keep both hands on the wheel as I spoke into my mobile. There’s nothing funny about safety.

And as an aside, a little note to all who use "I think not" while speaking / writing as a sentence unto itself. Just shut up, already. Thanks, you're awesome!

...while miming:
- Attempting to explain that my colleague was busy at her desk ‘thinking’, I chose to make swirls by my temple (denoting ‘crazy’) instead of tapping my temple (denoting ‘thinking’).

Tap. Tap.

I was arrogant last week. I was arrogant enough to believe I possessed the proper motor skills to open a door.

So confident was I in this capacity, that I placed all of my weight on my toes and leaned in to the garage door I was trying to open.

And so when my hand slipped and I fell forward, my head made this soft unpredictable and unassuming noise as it collided with the door that remained closed: Tap. Tap.

Twice, because my forehead ricocheted ever so slightly backwards before it moved forward a second time.

Crack

In Gerry Butler Would Have Done Well to Carry Elastoplast(s) In His Purse, I made mention of how I recently purchased three pairs of shoes simultaneously. I promised to post the photos and so here they are. Shoes to me are like crack to Whitney Houston. I hope your high is equivalent to my own.

Crack hit no 1: The Glitter Flat Crack
LOOK AT HOW THEY GLITTER! I can't stop staring at my feet when I'm in these shoes. I keep swirling and twirling my feet around because the glitter catches the light and GLITTERS EVEN HARDER. It's exciting, a little nauseating and may be cause for seizures, but unshaken, I continue to force others to stare at my shoes and "see how they glitter".





A bigger hit of Glitter Crack can be found here.

Crack hit no 2: Stiletto Crack Cocaine
They're nearly 5" high. I don't think I need to say anything else. Arguably, in these babies, I don't think I need to wear much of anything else, either.







Crack cocaine to fill your screen.

Crack hit no 3: Not Really a Wedge Heel Crack Wedge
I've been known to have violent reactions to the wedge heel. The gem of a crack hit pictured below is clever because the wedge heel is so thin, I can deny that it's a wedge heel. Not really, but this is my blog and I can be as ignorant creative as I want.







Up close and personal with Not Really a Wedge.

Hawksley Workman

Last I saw Hawksley Workman perform was on a hot summer night two years back.

Earlier this evening, I watched him perform in The Bronson Centre (a high school auditorium which became home to myself and 799 others).

I would avoid discussing this if I could, but I can't: He opened the show with three slow songs (one he appropriately referenced as being "for the birds"), pulled out a bullhorn and even tapped on a xylophone. I almost bit clear through my fist trying not to laugh out loud.

I won’t even get into the visual trauma inflicted by the BANDANA HE WORE BENEATH HIS FEDORA. Scandalous this, Hawksley.

Fortunately, song no. 4 brought Hawksley back to his audience and allowed me to forgive both his choice of opening songs and BANDANA. He is, after all, part Vaudeville show and part Opera singer and so severely melodramatic.

Listening to him perform live is like being slowly covered by drips of something hot, heavy and filmy. You will never want to take a shower again. Sexy this, Hawksley.

In this order, download:
Tarantulove
Smoke Baby
Anger As Beauty
Striptease
Jealous of Your Cigarette
No Sissies
We Will Still Need A Song

Good night, kittens.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be

An architect.
A novelist.
A princess living on a boat.
A war-time journalist.
A philosopher.
A helicopter pilot.
Owner of many shoes.
On a weighty political panel.
A professor at university.
An ex-pat living in France (who shops with Coquette).
An economic/international politics theoretician.
A fashion designer.
A field worker for the UN.

So I’m going back to school in order to decide what in the hell I want to do. Another Masters, another degree or a PhD?

I’ve had this snippet of ::get a 5 year plan:: rolling around in my little head for some time now. There’s not much else going on in there, anyway (except recently when I purchased three pairs of shoes, two pairs of pants, two tank tops and a shirt in the course of two hours from five different stores), and so I figured I would get started on something. That ‘something’ turned out to be school.

I love “Campus” in its great Platonic essence. It makes me comfortable and it excites me and challenges me and makes me walk faster and smile to myself and wave at random strangers while I trip because that’s just inevitable. Tonight ON CAMPUS, I start my first class in which we discuss:

Globalization in its political, economic, social and cultural dimensions. The relationships between globalization and politics; new roles of the Nation-state, international organizations & social movements.

I bought a shiny new book to write in and even a new pen. I also bought the two books for our assigned readings, and I’ve already read them because I’m weird that way. It took everything out of me not to buy sweat pants and a t-shirt, a hoodie and a matching baseball cap that were covered with "University of Ottawa" emblems. I’m not even really certain why I was so drawn to these items, or giggling like a psycho while I ran my hands over the ‘U’ and the ‘O’, but I was. And there were cameras, I’m certain. I’m sure I was talking to myself too.

I’ve decided that I will simply paint a large U on my right cheek and a big O on my left cheek. I’m sure this will help me make friends ON CAMPUS. I’m also going to start wearing a lot of huge sweaters as a shout out to Felicity and in an attempt to find my own personal Ben Whispers Covington.

I CAN’T WAIT TO HANG OUT IN THE LIBRARY ON CAMPUS!