Dr. Horrible on ITunes...Fillion, NPH...you know you want it

Here's the trailer...watch it and then download from ITunes. Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion star in a Joss Whedon production.


Teaser from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog on Vimeo.

Oh yea!

I know I'm the only one I know who still watches Grey's Anatomy, but I have to write about the return of one of my fave characters to the show...Denny...Denny Duquette! The deceased heart patient and fiance to Dr. Izzie Stephens returns as a vision to Izzie who will suffer from a brain aneurysm or something brain-ish. The rumours are rampant they're killing her off, which might entice a few people back to the show.

Regardless, he gives me happy, squishy feelings and I'll take him wherever I can get him.

Lost Piece

I had decided to move out of my mother's basement months ago. I'm 32, it's time. But I'd been procrastinating and had not taken the next step of actually looking for an apartment. One day walking with Brie and I caught sight of the bright red awning of the Granville Island Toy Store new Main Street location.

One word flashed in my brain: PUZZLES!

I walked into the store, pulling Brie behind me, and immediately spied a room-full of puzzles off to the left. This was the exact moment that I decided to seriously start looking for an apartment.

To celebrate my epiphany, I bought a Ravensburger 1000-piece mind-fucker depicting some medieval scene of a flaxen-haired maiden playing the harp amidst grey-green background and tiny little flowers. Hours and hours of solitary nerdiness awaited me.

Last weekend, I cracked that sucker open and set to work on it. Hours passed in what seemed like minutes. I managed to knock out the borders and started making piles differentiated by shades of yellow or green.

In the background, I had Supernatural: Season 2 playing for noise. I got up to change the disc and was momentarily distracted by my two favorite boys, Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles. I manipulated the menu to the "Play All" feature. Walking backwards, drooling, I sat down absentmindedly only to catch the corner of the box sending my puzzle-piece piles all over my green blanket. OHHHHHH SHHHHIIIIIIIIIT!

Momentarily paralyzed by the weight of what I'd just done...or undone, I stood mouth-agape and cursing. What can I do? How can I make sure to found all the pieces!? There are ONE THOUSAND of them, for chrissakes!

I took a deep breath and started to carefully picked up the pieces and place them back into the box. I shook out the blanket and felt confident I'd gotten them all. I began reassembling my piles and then I had to pee.

I went to the washroom, humming to myself, happy to have escaped a near-disaster. I finished my business and stood up to flush. As I pushed down the lever, I noticed something floating in the bowl. That's weird, I thought to myself. I didn't #2, nor do I #2 in square shapes.

Then as the water started to fill and swirl around the bowl I realized that it was once of my beloved puzzle pieces dancing playfully in the water below. It had somehow managed to find its way into my pants was now about to be lost to me forever. Dizzying thoughts raced through my mind: I would never ever be able to complete the picture. I would never gaze upon my finished masterpiece. I will live forever unsated.

Dread washed over me and I plunged my hand into the yellow whirlpool digging feverishly for the puzzle piece. It was like trying to fish an eggshell out of eggwhite. I wrapped my fingers around the corner of the piece only to have it slip through and disappear into the unknown.

I tried to comfort myself by thinking that it was lost once the first drop of pee trespassed the pourous cardboard. Having degraded it in such a way, it was unrecoverable even before I had realized it was missing.

I set about washing my hands OCD-style. Defeated, dejected and depressed, I wandered back to the table to look at the puzzle that would never be. Just fragments of coloured paper mocking me at every turn.

Today it sits, unfinished still. My desire to put it together waning. I look at it much like a disappointed parent perusing their child's D-laden report card. I won't be able to go back to it until the sting has subsided. For know it's serving as a coaster or a placemat...any number of things except that which it was born to be...the last milestone that would mark the end of my time in my mother's basement.

Next Christmas I'll ask Santa for a little tolerance

Today I went to my outdoor gym class. I call it gym class because calling it by its proper name, "Power Sculpt Outdoor Series," makes me sound like a douchebag. And there is enough douchebag behaviour in the class to go around.

The class is made up of 90% hard workers of varying levels of fitness and two cunts. I use the word cunt because it neatly defines the sum total of their existence. I won't lie and say that i'm working out to attain some altruistic sense of self. I want to look good! But during that hour of grunting and lifting and sweating and cursing, i'm trying to lift more, run faster and hold that plank a little longer. Nothing makes a person want to quit and nosedive into a vat of ice cream more than having to listen to two rocks-for-brains twits talk about meeting guys in A SUPER LOUD VOICE.

These two ladies come to class every week. One is a 6 foot waif and the other is her ugly friend. The first time the waif came to class, she wore stripped knee socks and a hunch back. They come and bitch about the exercises and then half-ass the routine while shouting shit like:

"Hey remember that guy that we met at the bar...he was really into me, right? He kept following me around and stuff."

Not to be outdone, the other responds , "Oh yea, fun night. My guy was really fun, but I totally forgot his number."

If by "really fun," she meant "slipped me a roofie" and by "forgot his number" she meant "woke up in a dumpster," then that I can understand. Just the use of the phrase 'my guy' is reason enough for a donkey punch.

You might be thinking, "Why eavesdrop on these Heathers?" Is it eavesdropping when you can hear them from 10 feet away on a windy morning? Is it eavesdropping when you exasperatedly exhale only to find the person next to you nodding in agreement?

Why is it that the dumber you are, the louder you speak in public?

It makes me want to jump in the time machine back to 1985 and find the two inbred retards who gave birth to these two, who were, no doubt, conceived in the back alley behind Luv Affair, and ask them for the sake of humanity in the new millenium, USE A CONDOM!

Supervising sucks balls

While I LOVE being the boss and organizing events, people and dvd collections, I've decided that I do NOT love supervising people.

Directions, comments, fuck even specific requests not to do something are somehow twisted into some dyslexic version of what was previously said.

I've supervised staff before with what I believe were successful results. I've managed large scale book sales with a number of staff having to keep them motivated to clean up after lazy, dirty people. So managing two people on a phone bank should be a breeze.

So when I say, "keep your calls to 5-7 mins max." I think those are pretty clear parameters within which a person should do their job. So when I get comments at the end of the night to say, "had an hour long conference call", I think to myself. Did I or did I not say 5-7 minutes you bald, retarded sloth???? I don't think I could have painted a clearer picture to illustrate that an hour long conference call would be outside the boundaries of WHAT I ASKED YOU TO DO!

You, numbskulls, are the reason alcoholism was invented. That and padded walls.

The Unisex Bathroom

I thought this had died in 2002 with the series finale of 'Ally McBeal'. I've heard of some workplaces instituting the unisex bathroom, for what purpose is beyond me. I enjoy being able to escape to the ladies room for a make up adjustment, or just to hide from jerks.

So last Saturday night I was at Chill Winston. A not-so-new eatery in Gastown. I was wearing bright red lipstick which requires constant upkeep. So I went in search of the ladies room. A frosted glass door with the words "RESTROOMS" told me I was headed in the right direction. So when I opened the door and saw a circular fountain-like sink with more doors beyond, I was a little confused. Each toilet is in it's own stall with a full door; three are designated MENS and three towards the back of the common area are labelled, WOMEN.

My problem is the entire common area is drenched in darkness...full length mirrors in the dark is *lightbulb* COMPLETELY FUCKIN' USELESS. I thought surely there must be a mirror in the stall. There was, but it was compact-sized and smaller than the palm of my hand, requiring contortionist skills I do not possess to see my entire face at one time.

Here were my options:

1. Use the small mirror to fix and reapply my lipstick in sections, hoping to complete my look.

2. Go stand in the darkened hallway in front of the full length mirror trying to 'guess' where my fuckin' lips are and walking back out looking like a tranny after a train-wreck.

3. Show the management my displeasure by dropping trow and pissing in their fountain sink.

I gave up, fixed myself as best I could and went to wash my hands at the conversation piece slash sink. Is this really where I want to make light chit chat with the opposite sex? What if they don't use soap? Isn't that something I'd like to find out later in the relationship? Does it encourage people to wash their hands more thoroughly if someone attractive is standing there waiting for the automatic foam to ooze out?

It must be really hard to meet people in this city if this is what it's come to.

Unproductivity and a new job title

If I could be any less productive than I am today, I would be passed out under my desk with broken fingers and toes and drunk. But as I am able to function properly with no injuries to speak of, I am just a lazy bastard.

I'm thinking I should change my job title from "Fundraiser" to "The taker of money from the elderly and/or crippled." Everyday an old person comes through the door, huffs and pants up the steep staircase to hand over their money. It's the main reason we have a waiting area. We are waiting for them to catch their breath after the death-defying journey from the street entrance. One guy sat in our lobby for about an hour trying to re-gain his composure.

I have to admit a slight fetish for old people. Not the ones with dementia or the ones that are hard of hearing, that's just frustrating for everyone involved. But the completely sane oldies that walk like penguins and talk about how much a nickel could buy in their day are my favorites. I sometimes feel like shoving my fingers into the deep crevasses of their wrinkly faces. I'd like to absent-mindedly play with the loose waddle of skin hanging from their necks or examine their hands for similarities to eagle claws.

But I can't. Touching the elderly/crippled donors is strictly forbidden.

I eat this shit up!!!

This four-minute love song to the CFL...is schmalzy, repetitive, overdone, overly-nostalgic and everything I want from a sports montage!