feed a fever?

I just read about a movie called "House Bunny." It's about a Playboy Bunny who runs away from Hef's mansion and takes shelter in a ... sorority.

It started me thinking up ideas for surefire Hollywood Blockbusters. (You will note it did NOT start me thinking I could get into Hef's mansion OR join a sorority. It's true, I'm suffering from a mild case of cat scratch fever - thanks to a house cat who shall remain nameless except that his name SOUNDS like "nameless" and it wasn't Francois - but it hasn't made me completely batshit.)

So, how about a movie about...a sorority sister who runs away from her sorority (Phi Kappa Boob) and takes shelter in a...BROTHEL? We could call it...BROTHEL SISTER!

Or no, wait, I've got it. How about a HOOKER who runs away from a brothel and takes shelter in the PLAYBOY MANSION? We could call it...MANSION HOOKER.

Or how about a movie about PLAYBOY BUNNY who runs away from the brothel where she took shelter in Part I, and takes shelter in a HOT TUB?! TUB BUNNY.

Wait, maybe I AM batshit...

And another thing: can you really use the same word - "movie" - to describe "The Sorrow and the Pity," "Citizen Kane," "Anything with Meryl Streep in it Except 'Mamma Mia''" and "House Bunny?" Should people (and by people, I mean other people) be required to make a distinction between "movies" and "films?" It seems that perhaps they should be, just out of respect for real cinema, but how can I MAKE them?

How about a movie where a CAT scratches a PLAYBOY BUNNY and gives her cat scratch fever so bad that when she runs away to look for shelter she ends up with the AMISH and she LIKES IT? We could call it "AMISH BUNNY," or "WITNESS."

Are the Amish even allowed to watch movies? I mean, regularly, not during their "batshit year" where they can do anything and probably wouldn't waste it just watching a movie unless they were mainlining heroin and sporting a coat with 18 zippers at the same time. (Somehow, I've always been fascinated with the idea that they're not allowed to use zippers - it's all toggle, all the time with those people. Imagine.)

I think it's time to reapply my topical antibiotic cream.

It's been nice talking to you all.

[Pictured Above: A scene from the Hollywood Blockbuster "AMISH BUNNY," coming soon to a theater near you, unless you actually are Amish.]

go canada

Sometimes it's not easy being Canadian.

It's not easy being Canadian when you hear Terry Jacks singing, "Seasons in the Sun," for example.

I know it couldn't have been easy being Canadian when beaver hats fell out of fashion and our only national industry died.

And it sure must have been hard to be Canadian before there actually was a Canada, and the best you could be was "British North American" which must have sounded gay even then.

But the hardest time to be Canadian has got to be during the Summer Olympics.

I went to the paper today, hoping SOMEONE had won a medal of SOME color (yes, I know, "colour" in Canadian, but WIN A FRICKIN' MEDAL CANADA, AND THEN WE'LL TALK). What I discovered, under the headline, "What Canada did Tuesday," was that Christine Girard who finished "four kgs out of the bronze medal" in the Women's 63 kg was a STAR.

She'll be able to go back to the village and lord it all over the FIFTH-place men's slalom kayak dude, the SEVENTH-placed synchronized diving duo from Montreal, and the NINTH-placed 'eventing' team. I don't even know what 'eventing' is and I'm pissed.

But even these guys can feel superior to the one-person dinghy man, who is currently sitting pretty at 16th overall after the second of 10 races; the one-person dinghy woman, who is currently 24th, and the two-person dinghy team who have had four races and are now - be still my proud Canadian heart - TWENTY-EIGHTH.

I would like to go and give the whole team a pep talk. "DUDES!" I'd begin, "The ITALIANS have NINE MEDALS."

And that's where I'd end.

I did a little research (I googled "Canada Olympics Suck") and it seems Canada has a Summer Olympics STRATEGY. It's called the "Road to Excellence" campaign and it's the summer equivalent of the winter "Own the Podium" program (my prediction? the only way Canada is going to OWN a podium is if it buys one at IKEA).

The catch, however, is that the "Road to Excellence" heads directly to London, 2012, bypassing Beijing 2008 completely.

gay paree

I read articles about home renovations. They've sort of replaced the "Vows" section of the New York Times as my guilty pleasure. I sit in all my renter's glory and read about people who think nothing of buying two Manhattan apartments and converting them into one (the NYT doesn't tend to profile the people who buy one Manhattan apartment and convert it into two then rent one out to a Korean family looking to open a sawmill but I'd read that article if it existed - I'm no snob).

Anyway, yesterday, having been directed to the Toronto Globe and Mail by at least FOUR people who were kind enough to send me links to the story of the Greyhound bus beheading, I got to scanning the rest of the front page and found a home renovation story. This is the home:


It was built in 1842 for Charles Whitelaw, the first mayor of Paris, Ontario (just like the original Paris, except that it's totally not). Alexander Graham Bell used to visit. I like to imagine his reaction, were he to return to visit his dear friend Charles today, and get a gander at the front hallway:


I mean, it's possible that IS Alexander Graham Bell in the ladder painting although I seem to recall him having a beard, and I doubt the man with him his Paris' first mayor, but I can't swear to that either.

It turns out the present owner of the house is a gay icon in Toronto. Perhaps had there been some mention of this SOMEWHERE in the accompanying article, the photos would have been less jarring. But even knowing this, as I now do, the decor still gets me:



I mean, does he have to remind himself he's gay? I picture him wandering into the "lounge" thinking, "Man, I got me a six-pack of Molson and the game's on tonight and... DAMN! That's right! I'm GAY."


The same might happen at dinner (that's the dining room above). Maybe he gets a little too wrapped up in talk of small engine repair or boobs (or whatever straight guys talk about at dinner), then he looks to his left and sees the white guy getting it on with the purple guy while the weird, bearded man-monkey holds an umbrella over them and he thinks, "RIGHT! I'm GAY! Gay gay gay gay gay. God. You'd think I'd know that by now." Then he chuckles self-deprecatingly and changes the subject to waxing or Mamma Mia! or whatever gay people talk about at dinner.

I can only tell you for certain what I'll be talking about at dinner for the next few weeks - the Greyhound bus beheading. Be warned.