Air Canada has selected 100 employees to give a bonus to this year, which is a coupon for a Harvey’s hamburger. Expires in a month.
Please sir, may I have another?
Listening to Leonard Nimoy’s rendition of The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins on Netscape Radio.
I want whatever he’s having.
Having reviewed movies for more than three years, I try to stay away from giving my opinion on flicks now. However, yesterday, the milliner and I went to Elf and, let me tell you, it was great.
So, without further ado, here’s the review. Jon Favreau directed, the same guy behind “Made” and “Swinger.” He was the right choice. Will Ferrell is incredibly well cast as a man boy; he’s able to convey his wonderment, while just barely hiding an underlying righteous-indignation tendency that scratches at the surface.
Unlike, apparently, Cat in the Hat, product placements are rarely apparent, making their appearance so rarely that they can easily pass you by. Special effects are kept to a minimum. For the kids, Elf highlights and reinforces the magic that is Christmas, while at the same time giving a nod to the older movie-goers, giving precedence to toys that many of us enjoyed when we younger: Britelites, Etch-a-sketch, etc. There is a love interest going up, but it doesn’t feel forced. More the wonder that a man boy would feel in his loins when meeting a girl for the first time. Bob Newhart – Bob Newhart! – narrates wonderfully in his halting way.
So, it’s a story of redemption, of magic, of nostalgia. I really didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did.
Finished off the day by heading over to Ogilvy’s to check out their window display, and then I prepared for us a lovely, although cholesterol- and fat-laden meal of mushroom crêpes with hollandaise sauce and gruyère.
Now in the fourth day of the maintenance slowdown at the transit and, for the second time in two days, another person has decided to take the everlasting plunge in front of a subway car. Well, perhaps. There was definitely a jumper on Tuesday; I don’t know about this morning. The metros are overcrowded, tempers are raw, the air is thin, the “victim” could easily have collapsed.
I feel like a frosted wheatie on this issue; one the one side the socialist in me believes that you have a right to ensure your future and your pension, on the other side, WTF? I’m sure these folks are making oodles for whatever abilities they have, the transit corporation has no money and, to top it off, they’re out of the line of fire. The folks who are suffering the ire of paying passengers are the drivers and ticket-takers whose pressure tactics were simply to wear T-shirts.
Oh, and to the prospective jumpers? Could you wait until after the strike is over? Barring that, there are so really nice, really high bridges connecting the island to the mainland. I hear the Jacques-Cartier bridge is a personal favourite.
“Hey, Pa! Brutus here don’t warna fight no more. Whatta we gonesa do?”
“Well, boy, let’s drown the mutt. What’s the worse can happen?”
Hee, the dog survived.
So, being the hardworking, slaves to labour that we are, the milliner and I decided to order in some Chinese last night. Okay, we’re both basically lazy, and didn’t feel like cooking. Just a bit of fast food while watching Survivor and CSI would do nicely. Oh, and why the fuck did CTV pre-empt CBS? That’s not right. We missed 30 minutes of Las Vegas murder to watch Chrétien’s retirement party?
Anyhow, we decided to take a break from our gourmand lifestyles (bwahaha) and called for some good old Chinese. Now’s here’s the problem with living in a hap-hip-hap-happening town: it’s damned near impossible to find North American Chinese food. You know the kind; heavily battered chicken-meal balls, dried-out soy-sauced fried rice, overly sweet spare ribs, the kind of ribs that leave you wondering exactly what kind of road-kill animal gave up its life to feed us. Now, if I want the latest in chichi sushi, terrific thai, royal rolls, well, I’ve got choices coming out of the wazoo. Occasionally, I just want simple pseudo-Chinese, particularly if it’s delivered in round carton containers by someone fresh off the boat who’s ecstatic about the shiny quarter that I deem to give him.
Honest, I’m looking for suggestions here.
“Oh whatever, I guess it doesn’t matter what it sounds like anyway… it’s what clothes we wear in the video that really counts.” Brilliant interview with a member of the Strokes to promote their new album.
Free. Non-mischevious. May be picked up here.
Seems everyone is having great dreams these days, and last night was my lucky day. For some reason, I’m heading quickly downhill, when I realise that I’m freeheeling. Heading straight for some trees, bend my back leg, curve the back, and flow into a turn. Oh, such sweet feeling. Ensconced in warm clothes, the cold mountain air trying to pry its way in, enveloped in a sheath of body heat, the thighs screaming in agony with the lactic acid build-up.
Can’t wait for the snow to fall.
Ever noticed, when you bring your lunch to work and place it in the office’s fridge, how many people use SAQ bags to carry their food? Granted, it’s better than an ex-coworker of mine, who insisted on using the same BCBG bag over and over again, just to let everyone know that she shopped at Max Azria’s.