in which I spoil Star Wars (so don't read if you've been living under a rock), and show how nerdy I am

One of my favourite luxuries is falling asleep to a movie I've seen approximately a million times before. There's something about listening to dialogue and sound effects that lulls me more than having music on (I have trouble sleeping without background noise). And since I've seen the movie so many times, I don't have to even watch it; I know what's going to happen, and I can pretty much picture it in my head. I can even stretch one movie out for a couple nights; each night I just start the DVD at the last point I distinctly remember before dropping off.

Of course, at some point I wake up when I hear the DVD menu's soundtrack looping incessantly, and I have to crawl to the foot of my bed and turn off the player, but usually that doesn't wake me up enough to make it hard for me to fall back asleep immediately.

Anyway, last night it was Return of the Jedi. The very beginning (in which Darth Vader arrives at the shell of the new Death Star), made me think of what a horrible mess George Lucas made of everything. That start, with the Nazi-esque ranks of Imperial officers, and Vader's ominous line, "The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am," has SO MUCH PROMISE. And, compared to the prequels, the rest of the movie isn't that bad (although I think it could have lived up to that fantastic beginning much better). While I'm on the topic, the line, "Inform the commander that Lord Vader's shuttle has arrived," is also somehow awesome.

Anyway, in Timothy Zahn's simply amazing trilogy of books (I feel like the world would be a better place if he'd written the plot outlines for the prequels), he distinctly points out the fact that the Empire's officers were all human males. EVIL. And I read somewhere that in early drafts of The Phantom Menace, Queen Amidala was going to be overtly racist towards the Gungans. How much more interesting would that have been? And since Palpatine was also from Naboo, it would totally give us a clear base for his suppression of non-humans as the Emperor.

Speaking of Amidala/Padme (and Padme is a goddamn stupid name), I think we could have left a little something up to the imagination with the birth of the twins. Leia (in Return of the Jedi) claims to remember her; we couldn't have her abscond with Leia to Alderaan, and die sometime in the interim before A New Hope? The naming scene and the whole "no will to live" scene really just killed Revenge of the Sith for me. Also the "NOOOOoooooOOOOOOOOO," although I've gotten a lot of mileage out of doing that whenever something slightly bad happens.

Alright, I really ought to go for my run right now, so I'll just list off a couple other things I'd change: ditch Shmi and Jar Jar altogether, make the disappearing dead Jedi thing standard, amp up the love triangle (I'd be okay with there being doubt over who was Luke and Leia's ACTUAL father), definitely not bring Boba Fett or even Jabba up at all, can the cutesy shit with kiddie Anakin and his pals, and make the Clone Wars more interesting and more... better.

is this... good? you know, comparatively?

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uhh... for serious?

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This is based, apparently, on my recent usage of the words "skank," "abortion," and "sex." Proof positive that movie ratings are fucked.

don't provide service that fizzles, provide service that SIZZLES!

As part of my on-going indoctrination into the customs and rules of my new workplace, I was forced to haul my ass out of bed early this morning and watch a video telling me how to provide "Now, that's service!" service. Also known as "Service that Sizzles!"

This one had slightly higher production values than many of the other videos/presentations I've been forced to sit through. There was some cutting to black and white shots from the point of view of a guest looking up at a server, and a waaaaay over-used flame graphic whenever the word "sizzle" came up on screen. Which it frequently did. I think I'll steal the DVD and see how drunk I get if I take a shot every time it comes up. The speaker had an unnatural hatred for the word "dude," and he had distractingly odd hair. A chunk of the video was taped while he motivated a group of restaurant managers at some kind of convention, which was fantastic because of how bored some of them looked.

The thing about these little sessions is that sometimes they tell you something that isn't insultingly self-evident or common sensical. I've been at this for awhile now, so I don't think I gleaned too much from this one. I still have a manual to weed through and complete a worksheet on (oh, how I wish I were joking). But as far as service seminars go, this was hardly the silliest. I don't know if I'll tell my new coworkers about the menu tours that were mandatory at TJ's, for fear that a manager will overhear me and decide it's a great idea.

in which I tell you stories about me being a skank

I jest. I may, perhaps, in the future, tell you of some of the skanky things I have done, but for the most part, this post will be skankage-free. The more you look at the word skank, the funnier it is. I merely mention skanks for those of you visiting from here, in case you were looking for some dirt.

So, I promised you the tale of my failed detoxification. It happened like this:

On Friday, I was hanging around and applying for jobs online (for those of you out of the loop, I am technically employed by a restaurant that has yet to finish its renovations, so I've been waiting around for three months. I am heartily sick of it, so I chose to start the job hunt process again). No more than an hour after I'd sent off a resume to an Irish pub downtown, I got a call for an interview. I go in for a Saturday noon meeting, and hey, presto! I have a job and start on Tuesday. MORNING. So I sez to myself, I sez, Susan, you're going to need a coffee to do that. But I could just add caffeine in, and continue feasting on brown rice and veggies, even though I was sorely tempted to just ditch the detox altogether.

However, it was not to be. We were going out to a martini bar to celebrate Tara's birthday, and, swept away by my celebratory mood and the tantalizing taste possibilities promised by a martini called a "Jazzmatazz," I got COMPLETELY drunk. I would say AMAZINGLY drunk, in fact. I had a hot dog, which is nowhere on my list of approved foods. (I don't know if this counts as skanky, but it was Taste of Italy where we were, so there were throngs of people everywhere, and I drunkenly critiqued their clothing choices and possibly hit on a few guys confrontationally. You'll have to ask Jo to be sure; that part of the night is a blur.) And then, when Jo and I got back to my apartment, we ordered wings and a meat lover pizza.

And then the next day was Father's day, and it takes a stronger-willed person than I to maintain a detox in my parents' house, especially when there's steak for dinner. And in case I had any illusions about going back on the diet, they were demolished by the fact that trainees eat for free at work. I had Guinness steak and mushroom pie and sweet potato fries for lunch today. It was glorious.

Less glorious is the fact that I have to wear a kilt and knee socks at work. This means shaving my knees every day and not sprawling around, limbs akimbo. But I'll tell you more about work later. I have a rant that's storing up about these servers having it ridiculously easy, but I'm going to wait until I've had some tables on my own, so that my pride isn't wounded when karma comes around and bites me in the ass.

I guess I'd better learn an Irish jig

I'm going to eventually write a post detailing how I catapulted off the wagon of my detox diet, and some philosophical musings on serving, now that I'm working again, but right now I am le tired. So I'll just tell you that I want this.

this made me go, "Awwwwwww...."

CLLEEEEEEOOOOOOOOO!

I caught a re-run of the Friends finale today, and I have a burning question: when you get off a plane at the last minute, what happens to your luggage? Is it a write-off? Do you have to call the airport in Paris (it's always Paris in these situations, isn't it?) and browbeat them into finding it and sending it back? Because they're really not going to delay the plane and search for your luggage and then haul it out. So what gives? I'd be pretty concerned about my clothes going across the globe, I don't care how romantic the gesture. And blowing all that money on a plane ticket... well, you can always come BACK from Paris. I think I'd be more like, "Well, I love you too, but I'm just gonna go... check out the sights, buy some souvenirs, you know. I mean, I have this ticket and I'm all packed. So, hold that thought, and I'll come back in a week or two. Unless I meet a charming mime. See ya!"

I see your schwartz is as big as mine!

I went to a few Luminato exhibits on Friday with the dear old sis. I mention it because the robot chair was nowhere near as exciting as it sounds; the artist had it billed as a "metaphor for life," so apparently life metaphorically involves a lot of whirring, long pauses, and a tech cheating a little to help the chair reconstruct itself. I was unimpressed. I prefer my metaphors to be much more abstract, high falutin', and exciting.

We also went down to the Harbourfront to check out the pulse light thingy. There are searchlights rigged up all around, and you can go up to them and hold onto some bars, and then your pulse is flashed across the sky in light form. It was definitely cool--so cool, in fact, that I forgot to say the hilarious thing I'd come up with for once I grabbed the bars (see the title of the post. I try not to miss opportunities for quoting Spaceballs). My pulse seems disappointingly weak when beamed out into the Toronto sky, I have to say.

Last night I went to a club for an old friend's birthday. Definitely not my scene; when faced with places where I hate the music and am uncomfortable with the people, I tend to get drunk in self-defence. Unfortunately, the drinks were six bucks a pop. Luckily, vodka and water isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, so besides a random shot of passion fruit liqueur, I managed to stay somewhat within the bounds of my detox. I mean, I'm not technically supposed to have any alcohol at all, but apparently vodka, gin and tequila are passable because they're low on sugars and distilled, or something.

Anyway, I managed not to fall over, despite wearing the infamous yellow shoes.

I miss my caffeine monkey

I think we can safely add gluten-free porridge, honey, and hot brown basmati rice (I actually didn't mind it when it got cold, but eating it fresh was rough) to the list of things I don't like. I already knew about the honey thing, but here I am, giving it a go anyway. It really does taste like bee puke (tm Jo).

The headaches from my caffeine withdrawl have subsided. That was a rough few days, I'm not going to lie. If I weren't determined to see if this diet thing will actually really do all the stuff it says it will, I'd have just added coffee in, and done everything else. As it is, I'm scoffing at the success stories from people who claim they stayed off the sauce when they finished the three weeks. I LIKE being addicted to coffee. I'm not angry that I'm a slave to my caffeine habit; it's my vice, my hipster affectation, my security blanket. There are plenty of worse things I could be addicted to. And life without some kind of sugary treat, a cup of hot black coffee and a book? NOT WORTH LIVING.

Well, two and a half more weeks to go. It's becoming an exercise in will power; if I can make it, I'll have practiced enough self-denial to know that I can do it at any time, and will thus relish the good things in life all the more. Or so I hope. In the meantime, it's certainly forcing me to eat a lot more green vegetables.

And now for something completely different: this article in The Star caught my eye. It's kind of weird that there are all these controversies swirling around Knocked Up. I really liked the movie; I didn't see it as having a hugely conservative message, nor did I find the pairing of Heigl and Rogen out of the ordinary. Howell even says (in the above article) "What would be far more unbelievable onscreen, frankly, would be a situation where a good-looking guy gets a homely girl pregnant and then decides to stay with her." I don't find Rogen unattractive; my taste runs towards the "Brittanical," as some have pointed out, but he's no monster. Also, he's funny and sweet, and that's something that most women look for. I thought it was pretty realistic that Alison gradually fell for Ben as she spent more time with him, and that they both fumbled the ball while trying to figure out and supply what the other wanted.

As for the abortion thing, well, some women decide to keep the baby. I probably wouldn't have, in that situation--and to be honest, I think Apatow could have avoided some of the believability issues by giving Alison a different job. An ambitious woman who just got a promotion to being an on-air personality probably wouldn't jeopardize that with an unplanned pregnancy. And besides providing a few laughs, Alison's job isn't really that important to the plot. It also would have been nice to see some of her reasoning behind keeping it; she lives in a guest house at her sister's place, she barely knows the father, and her bosses already told her to lose weight. But having an abortion is not a decision to take lightly, and Apatow does make it clear that she puts thought into it and struggles. I liked that Ben just stepped back and let her decide; few things make me angrier than a man trying to impose any decision about pregnancy on a woman. Basically, my body, my rules, screw you.

Well, I have to choke down more porridge now, and tidy my apartment. I know, you're thrilled.

breaking news: I hate soya milk

I had corn chips for breakfast. Oh, Susan, you say, shaking your head in unsurprised dismay, how is that any different from the days you're NOT on a diet? Well, dear readers, to you I say FIE. They're organic blue corn chips! And I'm allowed.

True, it was a little poorly planned to be eating them right off the bat, but here's my explanation: I was hungry and in a hurry. See, last night I read through the book and made a grocery list; also, there was some kind of exciting arrest made in front of the fire hall next door! There were like, six squad cars, and someone yelling for someone else to get down and keep his hands where they could be seen. This has nothing to do with my diet. It's just interesting. RIGHT. Now, the another reason I chose to go on this diet was that I pretty much ran out of food chez moi. I was going to have to go grocery shopping anyway, so why not restock with healthy and organic stuff, and see how far it got me?

Unfortunately, the No Frills in St. James Town is not noted for catering to the hippy element. So, when I finally hauled my ass out of bed this morning, I had to stumble down to the 24h Dominion's at Ryerson University. It is incredibly difficult to read labels and negotiate a shopping cart down aisles when you're sleep-deprived, craving caffeine, and suffering from a slight case of vertigo caused by the previous two things. Oh, and also an empty stomach. Besides coffee, I'm not yet suffering any extreme cravings for any one thing; rather, everytime I see something I'm not allowed to eat for the next three weeks, I suffer minor pangs that go away the instant my attention is drawn by another thing I'm not allowed.

The whole ordeal (and I do not use that term lightly) took longer than anticipated. You'll recall that I mentioned a job interview; the damn place was up at York U. I booted it home on the subway, showered, and crammed a job lot of chips down my throat as I dressed. Classy, yes. Then back on the subway, and then on a bus. It actually took me a lot less time to get there than I thought it would; I made up for it, however, by missing my stop. By a lot.

I'd decided, by the sounds and location of it, that it was a seedy pool hall for the locals. My suspicions seemed confirmed when I saw the outside; however, it was actually not that bad inside. And the owner turned out to be a nice little Chinese man who reminded me irresistably of semi-relatives on my Dad's side. In other words, if I lived closer, I'd totally work there. Which would probably be a huge mistake, but I'm honestly a sucker for older Chinese people.

black coffee... since the blues caught my eye

Attention, everyone: I am going off the sauce.

No, I don't mean alcohol. Well, I do, kind of, because I'm not allowed to have that either, but what I'm really referring to is coffee. I woke up today in a total funk. I've been getting a string of crappy news lately, and I'm sick of feeling lousy and logey. So naturally, I'm going to cut out one of my few real pleasures: my daily black ambrosia. Not only that, but I'm also off of chocolate, dairy, processed foods... yes, that's right, I'm detoxing. Three weeks of me being crazy and caffeine-deprived. Should be fantastic.

Actually, after a week my cravings and the assorted withdrawl symptoms should be gone, or so I'm told. I don't want this to become one of those diet blogs, but according to this book, in two weeks I should be looking and feeling fantastic. So I'll be keeping you posted on whether or not it's full of shit. I won't be, because I should be getting plenty of fibre. I admit to being pretty enamoured with the healthy vision it's promising: glowing complexion, clear mind, better sleep, more energy, fewer mood swings.... Come to think of it, if I have a clear mind and fewer mood swings, I might have to shut down this blog altogether. What am I gonna write about? How fantastic my life is? Pfft.

I also have a job interview across the city somewhere tomorrow. It's a good thing I've decided I don't really want this job; I have a very small chance of getting it without coffee.

you can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her read

In a fit of whimsy, I decided to wander down to the ROM this afternoon and see if they had any tickets left for their all-night extravaganza. By the time I got there, I was pretty grumpy; it was hot out, I'd forgotten my sunglasses, I hadn't showered yet, and there was a long line up. Plus, my iPod went on the fritz right before I left my apartment, so I was listening to my old mini-disc player, which pales in comparison to the smooth efficiency of my baby. But hey: something like this only happens so often. So I stood in line, and didn't kill the kids behind me, even though they had a hazy at best understanding of personal space. I can't stand being touched when I'm grouchy or stressed.

I ended up with tickets for three am. I get to roam the ROM in the middle of the night. Should be fabulous. I wandered over at around quarter to ten to check out the opening ceremonies. I'm a fan of both Sean Cullen and Paul Gross, but whoever wrote their banter should be shot. You'd think, with all those millions of dollars, that a few more could be scraped together to find a better writer. It's possible that I missed some underlying nuance, because I didn't hear the beginning, but honestly, what the hell was that? I milled around a little, but got annoyed and took off.

you'd think that I could muster up a little softshoe gentle sway

I had a pretty random day yesterday. I had an audition for something slightly hilarious; I'll tell you about if I get it--the wisest thing to do, post-audition, is to forget about it entirely, so as not to obsess. Easier said than done. Anyway, soon after I was back from that, my brother called. He had some time to kill downtown, and wanted to meet for sushi. So back on the subway it was. Over dinner, he asked if I wanted to come with him to his salsa lesson. I had plans to see Pirates III, but not until ten. So off to salsa it was! I'm not sure if it was actually billed as a class for gay men, but that's how it shook out. And of course, everyone had been there in previous weeks, so not only did I stick out as the straight female (there was a lesbian couple, and what I think was a straight woman with a gay man, but I'm not sure), I was the newbie. And I wasn't wearing shoes built for swirling around. But other than that, it was pretty fun. I've always wanted to try salsa. We did a lot of partner rotation, and everyone took it upon themselves to help me out. I don't think the leader in the lesbian twosome liked me very much, but she didn't seem that thrilled with anyone. Oh well. She's not my demographic.

The fact that I'd taken some social dancing before really helped me out. You don't know when community centre lessons taken with a wannabe pirate will come in handy, but then suddenly you're standing in a tiny studio on King Street West, trying to impress a handful of salsa-ing homosexuals who know your brother.

Anyway, after that I rushed home to tidy up after my exertions, and then took off for the bright lights of the Yonge and Eglinton centre. I had to give the Coles notes of Dead Man's Chest to Taylor, but I kept losing my train of thought, partially because Linds kept asking whether or not the barnacle-y guys were going to be back. Taylor had to lean over and poke me when the chest actually shows up in the sequel, because I'd completely forgotten to explain its significance. It occurs to me that I make very indifferent amounts of sense when I talk. I'm very easily distracted.

The movie was excessively long. I enjoyed parts of it, but overall it was just exhausting. Keira Knightley gets to kiss pretty much everyone. I admit to still getting a kick out of Jack Sparrow's swishy run; but this installment just wasn't fun.

Just a note to guilt-trip Toni: I had planned on seeing Knocked Up last night, but SOMEONE has made EVERYONE I KNOW* promise to wait and see it with HER. A fate, I might add, which I planned on avoiding by not talking to her until after I'd seen it. What? I'm only half-kidding. Call me if you assholes are seeing it in the T.dot on Sunday!

*Possibly a slight exaggeration.