blessed are the easily amused

Thursday, January 29, 2004

I think I may have dreamed that a miracle occurred and cbc changed their minds and gave me the VJ job after all. Jesus Christ, Lisa - will you get over this?

I've got a job. It's fine. However, I share a work environment with the grumpiest person in the world, and several of the runners-up. We'll call him Franz (because he'd hate that).

Franz basically resembles the little fisher price round-headed guy with the handlebar moustache. And that's no reason to hate him. But he trundles around sighing angrily, and when anyone asks him to do one of the tasks he gets paid handsomely to do, he gives this totally exaggerated eye roll. He scares the crap out of everyone. People are afraid of moustached angry guys, rightly or wrongly.

I often go for little rides in the van with Franz when we both have tasks to do. He straps his barrel chest in, strangles the ignition, sighs, and then snaps on the radio. What convinces me that Franz is more complex than anyone guesses is his music choice - always the wussiest crap on the dial. ABBA will do, maybe some Elton John - if anything good comes on, he'll angrily drag the bottom for some Phil Collins.

What makes Franz tick? No one cares, for Franz is a prick.

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

2 steps back

I needed a boost last night. Not like a pep talk or a boob job or a drink. Up here, 'boost' means it's too cold to live and not even a heavy duty car battery can hold life energy, and you have to stand outside in the filthy blizzard with your face freezing off and attach booster cables with skidoo-mittened hands. So I needed one.

So my dad says, "Isn't your car a standard? We can just give it a push start." My dad's easy breezy fix-it ideas always work, let's get that straight; but they're never easy or breezy. So I says, "Yes, sure." What follows:

He pulls his car up behind the honda, thinking to gently nudge it to life. But the bumpers don't really match, and he doesn't want to wreck the grill of his car, so he turns the car around backwards. BACKWARDS.

Then, on the coldest, shittiest night on record in the world, he proceeds to drive BACKWARDS into my car and push me BACKWARDS down a busy street. So people are freaking out, they don't know why he's in their lane; he can't see the traffic lights and keeps trying to push me through intersections to my death. And I can't get it started. We keep hopping out and conferring as to just how to pop it into gear once we're rolling and what to do with the clutch. And it's so cold we're actually hopping up and down and covering our faces with our hands and stuff.

But did it work? You bet your red long johns it did.

I'll really miss these shenanigans when I'm rich. Rich and warm and sitting by my stone fireplace and

Oh, bother.

Lucid dreams! Thanks, Mr. Green. I'm all over it.

So I guess step one is remembering your dreams. I'm on my way. Last night:

Canadian televangelist affecting a southern accent. And lost video tapes for a show in progress - taking work to bed with me. And it's lousy in bed.

I can't wait until I have the reins of my dreams in hand and am soaring through the universe of my imagination.

The stark emptiness and indescribable beauty of the prairies -yep. Minus 44 and a wind chill.

It's even colder in here. Sometimes the thought bubble above my head just keeps repeating "what's the point?" - the new thought maker is frozen solid, like everything else.

Sunday, January 25, 2004

I spent yesterday with the clutch cable of an '86 honda civic, cursing and bleeding and getting grease in my hair. Thanks to the patient skill of my father, the gears shift smoothly now; smoother than anything. I can't explain how gratifying that is.

I spent yester eve with Their Excellencies the Governor General and her consort, Booker Prize Winning Novelist and Very Spiritual Man Yann Martel and assorted other authors, and blobs of civic grease in my hair.

Honestly? The car fix was more satisfying.

I brought three batteries along, because it would have been a my-tee poor time to run out of power.

They all died. I ran out of power. So my conversation with B.P.W.N. and V.S.M. Yann Martel went something like this:

(He holds door for me as I trundle past with camera and tripod)

Me: Thanks. (tripod smacks his booker prize winning head) Oops, sorry. (tripod grazes his very cool girlfriend) Oh! Sorry about that.

Really, though, he kind of deserved it. I mean, jeez buddy, could you take yourself any more seriously? He said the stark emptiness of the prairies calls to one to fill it with creativity, and that it's indescribably beautiful.

Yeah, maybe.

Friday, January 23, 2004

Bad shopping goeth before a fall.

Last night I dreamed I was casually sauntering across a parking lot when what to my wondering eyes should appear but booker prize winning novelist Yann Martel behind the wheel of an orange VW van.

"Play it cool, self." I gave him the kind of wry smile that says, "Hello, I am a well read individual. Though I enjoy your work, I am far too cool to molest you with my words."

He drove past, oblivious under the jungle of his hair.

Then, the horror. Did I discover that I was wearing nothing but a pair of huggies? Oh, much worse. Booker Prize Winning Novelist and Very Spiritual Man Yann Martel had just seen me exiting Wal Mart.

And he'll see the guilt branded on my face, as clearly as the l'oreal liquid liner I will have artfully applied, as I stand in the throng of paparazzi tomorrow night. If he deigns to speak to me, what should I ask him?

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Lisa can't come to the blog - her wiring's been blown by too much therapy. Would you like to leave a message?

In the last two days, I've done it all in the name of local programming.

I've been hypnotized, magnetized, lasered and acupunctured. I have a needle in my ear, which I am supposed to press if I get any untoward urges. My chi is racing along its many meridians like a teenager on bloody 8th street.

Those of you tuning into Shaw TV wednesday and thursday will get to experience it all with me. Yes, Mom; that means you.

Friday, January 09, 2004

The Darkness on Letterman tonight. I've never seen them. And I don't have cable. Help!

Thursday, January 08, 2004

I really want someone to do this for me when I croak.

Or maybe sooner.

There are two song sources feeding my brain today. Selections from both cause me to smile; I suppress an urge to thrust a fist in the air.

The first is the Darkness. Sure, it's tongue in cheek. It's also goddamn genius.

The second is the music from the South Park movie. I don't know why I was surprised to find it well crafted, ridiculous and contagious. Blame Canada, indeed.

Shut your fucking face, uncle fucker.

Lost my production virginity last night. Yep, produced my first live show. Sure, it was just cable. But even on cable you can have what I believe gentlemen call a 'clusterfuck'. Consider:

Believing I have all the show elements in place I saunter into the building 75 minutes before the start of the show. I discover someone has given me more promos. Neme probleme, there's ample time! I set about changing the script to accomodate them and then go to cut them in. And discover they're the ones I already used. Can't use 'em. So I go change the script back and redistribute it to the all-new volunteer crew. 30 minutes left now. Whew! Now we're ready.

'Lisa, the script didn't get into the prompter, there's no fucking script for the host'. 'Lisa, what tape are the streeters on?' 20 minutes now. 'Lisa, what's the correct credit for Lorna whatsertoque, the blabla foundation, and the other thing?' 10 minutes now. 'Lisa, is this the right story cued up for this segment?' No it is not. 5 minutes. Now we're fine. Fine.

'Lisa, where's the CD with the theme music?'


I tear upstairs and start rifling through the CDs, followed closely by the 'executive producer' (the short, red-faced guy who runs the joint). He calmly reaches up to the highest shelf to pluck a disc and unleashes a torrent of media on our heads. For a blinding moment there's a hailstorm of jewelcases. 'Jesusfuckingarglebarglecrapfuck!' His head is actually bleeding. 2 minutes.

I realize that finding the right CD is no longer a possibility. Any CD will do. How about... this one? Nope, barking dogs. This one? Nope, insanely triumphant rock and roll guitar solo. OK, this one. One minute.

The music I have chosen will be used for everything in the show, including the 'never, ever shake a baby or it will die' bumper. It sounds like a muzak cover of a muzak cover of Peter, Paul and Mary.

All in all, I'd have to say it was a success. Stuff went to air and I'll get a few greasy loonies for it.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

really funny:

trevor's blog is the home of a scathing critique of popular rock and roll lyrics. (check it out at He doesn't just cast aspersions upon the culprits, he disembowels them and leaves them lying in a gelatinous heap on a cold cement floor in some dank warehouse. Don't ever piss Trevor off, his talent for vituperation is awesome.

today, trevor's blog is also the home of a banner ad boasting 'staind sheet music - It's Been Awhile and Break the Cycle on sale now!'

If trevor would ever update the damn thing I'm sure he'd be delighted to know his readership has easy access to the tools they need to recreate the 'fecal frolic down mediocre lane'.

Monday, January 05, 2004

twenty aught four. it don't feel so different (aside from the fact that it's about eleventy-seven below zero). readers, i've been thinking about something. maybe you can help me out.

my job is a) not a real job, because i'm freelance, and b) not too bad, all things considered. it offers the shimmering chance (or illusion thereof) of unbelievably cool contracts around the next bend. like working on a documentary in argentina, or proofreading stories the grandkids will never believe.

i could keep on staggering toward the oasis/mirage while my throat constricts and i consider drinking my own urine and visions appear of me as an old lady savouring the crusty dregs from a can of whiskas...

or i could attempt to get the real job that will give me twice my usual income, a crappy northern town, no creativity, no argentina, and will be a dimly remembered dream.

for god's sake, tell me what to do. i'm doing the chicken dance on the edge of a knife.