They say that a truly great writer has the ability to adapt their tone and style to the publication and audience they’re writing for. I can write a sharp scathing business letter that reads like it has come from a lawyer’s office (much to the chagrin of my apartment building manager). I can write a soulful article about a food artisan and truly convey how much they love their work. I can write flowery essays so vivid that they utterly capture one brief moment in time.

Yet when I speak, I am prone to cursing, slang and most of all, the catchphrase.

Not clichéd phrases, but little sound bites culled from popular culture.

After seeing the award winning play I, Claudia twice, Greg and I now refer to almost everything as “HIGH-larious”, a phrase used regularly by the 12-year-old title character.

When cooking, or completing any task, really, I will loudly pronounce “Done!”, something I’ve picked up from Gordon Ramsay’s The F-Word show.

From The Simpson’s, we’ve collected 20 years of catch phrases and word play. I now regularly (and jokingly) refer to the book place as the “lie-berry”, call the elevator the “uppity box”, and have used the phrases, “donuts, is there anything they can’t do?” and “Haha! Your Dad’s not handy!” on more than one occasion.

The problem is, I’m 41.

I don’t know if this makes me hip or really lame.

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The problem with having so many forms of “social media” at our disposal is often a matter of choosing which one to use.

While I still hate it, I’ve managed to maintain a Twitter account without going on a killing spree, but I find it a very dissatisfying tool. Not because of having to edit my thoughts into a certain number of characters, but because Twitter doesn’t offer enough in the way of controls in terms of who can see and interact with my posts. Which means, if you want to use Twitter as a promotional tool, anything you write is out there for any yahoo to comment on. I’ve blocked more people on Twitter than I have on any other service, including back in the days of LiveJournal before they added all the privacy settings. I will like Twitter more when it allows me to easily filter dickwads and douchbags.

Facebook is a decent place for what I think of as “closer” communication. Because you have to approve “friends”, it mostly keeps the creeps at bay, and the larger status update space lets you get a full thought in without spending half an hour trying to figure out how to get it down to 140 characters. It’s also more visual, so you have a general idea of what you’re clicking on when you follow a link.

And then of course, there’s the old blog. Which is often ignored these days in favour of condensing a thought into an appropriate size for Facebook or Twitter.

I’ve found myself mulling over topics I’d like to write about and considering whether or not I can get enough out of the issue at hand to qualify for a full blog post. Often, especially if I’m busy, I’ll mention something on Facebook or Twitter because I don’t have time to really write and think about a topic.

And this kind of saddens me. I’ve seen many decent writers (especially food bloggers) abandon their blogs in favour of Twitter. And I’ve seen even more self-proclaimed “writers” (who could really use the practice and skill development that blogging affords them) not bother to write full articles anymore because they are much more invested in the instant gratification of Twitter.

This was all provoked by a perusal of some old LiveJournal writing that I saved when I shut that account down and created this blog. There’s some damned good stuff there – on a scale that I’m not living up to here – and it bothers me that I’m so distracted by other tools that I don’t have time to write like that anymore. I’ve always said that a good writer can make any topic interesting, and that skill and practice are what turn okay writing into beautiful writing. I think I’m a good writer, particularly in my chosen field of food writing. But when it comes to writing about anything else, I’ve taken the lazy man’s route of Facebook or Twitter updates instead of really *working* at the topic and making it beautiful.

Awareness is the first step, so hopefully that will change now that I’m conscious of it. Because the world needs more beautiful writing. And for my own sense of self, I need to be attempting more of it.

As most people know, my photography interests and skills lean more towards food than people, so my concert shots (when I bother) are not stellar. As demonstrated below, I took a pile of shots through the first few songs of DEVO’s set last night with the camera on the wrong setting.

But when you’ve been wanting to see a band live since you were 13, evidence that you were actually there (some 28 years after the fact) is probably in order.

Am a bit exhausted today, but the show was brilliant. The band was tight and really energetic, although Mark Mothersbaugh was obviously using a teleprompter of some sort to remind him of the words on the more obscure album tracks.

The show was shorter than we’d have liked – the point was to play Freedom of Choice in it’s entirety, but albums were short back in the days of vinyl.

Before the band came out, the crowd watched the videos for Girl U Want, Whip It and Freedom of Choice on a big video screen. This made some in the crowd cranky – perhaps because they thought the band wouldn’t do the same tracks live, but they did.

We were quite near the front for the first few tracks (the entrance at The Phoenix where the band played is to the right of the stage), but after manic pogoing to Whip It, I moved to the back because it was too packed.

Mothersbaugh tossed a half dozen energy domes into the crowd which people fought for like home run balls at a baseball game, given the hats were $30 at the merchandise table.

For an encore they first did Be Stiff and then Beautiful World. I wasn’t super happy with this rendition – BW is my favourite DEVO song and Motherbaugh did most of it as Booji Boy and went on a bizarre tangential story about Booji riding in a limo with Michael Jackson. It was supposed to be social commentary of a sort, which DEVO is, of course, known for, but not being able to hear half the story just made the whole thing kind of weird.

Some shows got an second encore of Secret Agent Man, but it was not to be, and after tripping and rolling across the floor on the hundreds of rubber balls Motherbaugh threw out into the crowd during Beautiful World, we headed home, exhausted but happy.

royal_geese

Every year we go to the Royal Winter Fair on the first day, and every year we go home disappointed. Not because the Royal isn’t awesome, it is! But because we always forget that the poultry competitions don’t take place until mid-week. This year, we held off and attended the fair on Wednesday, specifically to check out the hundred of truly gorgeous birds.

I should have been taking notes because I have only a vague recollection of the names of the breeds for most of these, but these were definitely the best of the best. Slightly disappointed to see so few really rare breeds – a few silkies and a frizzle, but not a crested Poland in sight. Still, these birds are all really beautiful, and it’s really interesting to see how much they vary in size and colouration.

The observant will note the absence of any male turkeys  -despite my best efforts the buggers would all turn and shake their tail feather at me, every single time I tried to take a shot.

Thirty or so photos to follow, probably not of much interest unless you’re a bird lover, but they are pretty darn cool.

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On the Dufferin bus last night – a mother and daughter get on to discover the girl’s teacher is on the bus, so they’re sitting together talking. The girl is bubbly and vivacious and the teacher shifts into teacher mode and interacts with the girl, encouraging her to  do some basic math in her head. The girl, who appears to be about 6 or so, starts quizzing the teacher instead, with little visual brain twisters. She poses the question, “what’s one plus one?” The answer – a window, as she references the lines made by the muntins in an old-style window, using her index fingers to form a cross.

Then, “what’s two plus two?” The teacher guesses a heart, presuming the game to be based on the shape of the written numbers.

The child hold up two fingers on each hand.

“W?” the teacher guesses.

“No!” the little girl says gleefully, as her mother laughs from her seat across the aisle.

Then, doing her best Uma Thurman impression, right down to the glowering eyes (do people let their 6-year-olds watch Pulp Fiction, do you think, or is the image just part of a more general pop culture?), she says, “2 plus 2 is disco dancing!”

I had an interesting conversation the other night with two different people involved with small independent bookstores. The conversation touched on how customers come into their respective stores and get upset when they don’t have something in stock. But as a small indie shop, they don’t have the space or budget to carry every single title in the genres in which they specialize. So they have to make a decision as to what makes the cut. And their customers mostly have to trust that judgment.

The art of curating (or editing) – it takes place all the time, in every industry, on every level. It’s somebody’s job to decide what products make it onto shelves and racks in various stores, what artwork is included in a show, what stories make it to the pages of magazines and book anthologies.

There’s a certain unfairness to it, of course – depending on the topic or product there might be 5 or 20 or 100 things that don’t make the cut for every 1 that does. This also comes with a lot of responsibility – woe be to the fashion buyer who chooses incorrectly and sticks her store with something that doesn’t sell – especially if it was ordered in the hundred – or thousands.

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fatladyI was at a media event a few weeks ago, talking with some folks about why I don’t do restaurant reviews for TasteTO myself. “I’m pretty unique looking, you know? If I’m out at something like this and meet a chef, they’re probably going to remember the fat girl with the red hair and sparkly glasses.”

Nervous laughter.

It’s either that or dead silence. Maybe someone will pipe up and say, “oh, you’re not fat” in a way that lets you know clearly that they think you are. But people seem to really not know how to deal with a fat girl referring to herself as fat.

But here’s the thing – I’m with myself every day – in the shower, in front of the mirror, getting dressed… buying new clothes. I know what the scale says, what the size tags say and what the measuring tape says. And they all say that I’m fat.

And I’m okay with that.

Really.

Personal history, genetics, and a job where I basically eat and then sit down and write about what I eat – all of that aside, I’m fat and I’m probably never going to be skinny. Technically I’ve been fat since I was 10. And I don’t really have an overwhelming desire to be thin, skinny or “average”.

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clooneyAnd with a sigh of relief – this year’s Toronto International Film Festival is over.

How I hate the damned thing.

It’s not that I don’t like the movies, or that I don’t appreciate what goes into them, but TIFF seems more and more about the “celebrities” each year than the actual films. Who’s wearing what, who ate where? One publication even had a bathroom broadcast, reporting on the washroom habits of visiting celebrities.

I find the obsession with the stars so very strange. Sure, when you’re a teenager, it’s natural to be obsessed with the cute rock star… but I always assumed being star-struck was something we grew out of as adults, secure in the knowledge that the stars are just like the rest of us, and would prefer to be treated as such.

I had the misfortune to find myself on a King streetcar on the evening that George Clooney’s new film was premiering at Roy Thompson Hall. There was a crowd outside as we rolled past and as everyone gawked to see who might be there, someone let out a scream. They had caught sight of George Clooney and within seconds there were people screeching, yelling things out the windows and generally making fools of themselves, unaware or unconcerned that he couldn’t actually hear them.

One might offer up the excuse that Clooney is handsome. Or talented. But so are many people with careers other than acting. We don’t screech like hyaenas at handsome waiters. We don’t wave our underwear at handsome accountants. We don’t chase down handsome garbage men to collect their autographs.

So what makes celebrities so special? Is it their talent at acting or singing – special skills that we don’t all possess? Is it their glamorous lifestyles (even though all the tabloids assure us that celebrities have cellulite, buy groceries and walk their dogs – just like the rest of us)?

And how does our collective behaviour make celebrities feel?

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comorant

Counting down the days, hours, minutes. Summer doesn’t officially end for a few weeks, but the psychological end of summer will happen tomorrow afternoon, when the CNE closes, when the last stupid air show plane buzzes the neighbourhood, and when kids head home to pack their pencils and books and return to school.

The leaves are already beginning to change on a few trees, and there’s a crispness to the air most mornings that wasn’t noticeable before I went to Halifax a few weeks ago.

Autumn is my favourite season; it’s not too hot or too cold; it’s sunny but you usually need a jacket (I like jackets); and the eating is especially good as the harvest reaches its peak. I don’t even mind winter especially – except maybe those days when there’s freezing rain, or where the sidewalks are slippery because people don’t shovel.

But I’m delighted to see the end of summer.

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nobikesEarlier this month, a Toronto woman was struck and killed by a 15-year-old riding a bicycle on the sidewalk. Accounts indicate that both parties saw one another and tried to swerve, and that the cyclist was going fairly slowly,  but the collision caused the woman to fall and hit her head and later die from head trauma.

The City of Toronto does a really pitiful job of enforcing the sidewalk cycling bylaws, to the point that most cyclists I’ve yelled at talked to don’t even know about them, and are prone to aggression, even violence, when an unsuspecting pedestrian points out the law.

Because the City of Toronto feels that they cannot successfully enforce an age restriction on sidewalk cyclists, they have chosen instead to enforce the law (“enforce” being the laughable part of that statement) based on wheel size. Cyclists with a wheel size of 61cm/24inches or less are legally permitted to ride on the sidewalk, everyone else is not (which doesn’t stop them, really…). This rule was created to ostensibly allow small children to safely ride their bikes without having to ride alongside automobile traffic, but innovations in bikes for adults have created a variety of bikes with smaller wheels – such as the one the boy in the above-noted accident was riding.

The sad part of this is that the whole issue could be rectified if we went back to licensing cyclists.

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