Social Graces

Let me start off this post by venting about this absolutely atrocious Scrabble hand I pulled. I mean, just look at it! Who on earth pulls five E's. Needless to say I lost the game but ONLY because of this severe handicap in the lady luck department.

The term paper/exam season madness is raging full boar on campus these days. I my diet has degraded to a constant intake of coffee, sugar-free energy drinks, diet colas and crunchy snack foods that I can stuff in my maw while also pounding away on my laptop keyboard. I haven't been to the gym since last week, the energy drinks have turned by piss a curious shade of nuclear yellow and for reasons I can't explain or justify I've been listening to Josh Groban songs on YouTube. All in all I feel slightly off kilter. Maybe this is a creeping kind of psychosis brought on by high levels of stress and a near lethal daily caffeine intake.

NO MATTER! Though if I have a heart attack the next time I drag my ass to the gym I wouldn't exactly be surprised.

But other more troubling (and certainly more important) thoughts have been crowding my mind of late.

Maybe someone out there in cyber space has an answer for this question that I have to admit has stumped me for quite some time.

I've been to several house parties in the past, complete with food, music, drink, company, that at first seemed entirely normal. After a few strong cocktails of course there comes the necessity to use the loo. Everything's going fine, the bathroom looks clean, as I sit and do my business I replay all the cool things I said to the hot actor fellow as we hovered near the spinach dip. Enjoying the memory I mindlessly reach to grab some TP and - GASP! - lo and behold, there's none there! Panties still in position around my ankles I search desperately for kleenex, towelettes, ANYTHING! that is within arm's reach. But of course there is nothing.

Quashing my irritation and with the determination that this sorry state of affairs is not going to ruin my night, I do the only thing a woman can do, shake dry. Not a perfect solution but it will do. Now I turn my attention to the sink. Probably best to wash my hands even if I didn't have the chance to wipe.

Getting the hands wet, checking make up in the mirror, inspecting teeth for embarrassing particles of food - okay, looking good!

And of course the soap tray is empty. Peeling back the shower curtain with my dripping paws I inspect the bathtub area for any sign of cleansing material, hell, even body wash would do. Nothing. Under the sink amidst the clutter of dusty cleaning products and disintegrating bath bombs ... still nothing.

Well, nothing to be done I suppose. I'll just have to dry my hands and hope my hypochondriac friend has some hand sanitizer in her purse.

The empty towel rack stares at me with cold mockery.

After a clumsy wiping on the unfriendly vinyl surface of the shower curtain or a series of dabs on the overly fuzzy toilet seat cover I return to the party feeling soiled, like the girl who steps out for a cigarette out back with that guy and then comes back brushing leaves off her knees.

The host swoops by riding a wave of social euphoria; "Heeeeyyyyy! Good to see you! Are you having a good time?" "Well actually--" "Good!!! Oh- Oh my God, I've got to talk to ______. So glad you could make it!!!"

And with that they've flitted away. I wince as I see them shake a newcomers hand in welcome. If only they knew!!!

So why do people do this? Throw a party ... with PEOPLE who are DRINKING and will eventually need to PISS!?! Is it a sadistic inside joke? Do they flounce around their party revelling in the fact that they know everyone's hands are coated in an imperceptible layer of shit particles? When the party wears on and the drunkards start molesting each other do they silently rejoice in the utter filthiness of it?

I know it's a little gross and I'm even reticent to mention this disturbing social phenomena but I've been present at parties like this several times. Anyone who knows me personally is aware that I'm not exactly a prude but there is something decidedly unwholesome about organizing a social gathering in your home and then not providing people with the means to be sanitary.

To finish I bring you the most hilarious realtor sign I've ever seen. It's been up for months along the route I walk to my cousin's house from the Yorkdale subway stop through Toronto's bastion of orthodox Jewishness. I don't know if it's the bad pun, the cheesy pot o' gold graphic or the hardcore beard action on the headshot, but the sum of the parts is beyond priceless.

"The Power of Christ Compels You!"

Today is a soggy, dreary day in Toronto.

You can feel that spring is just out of reach like when at the end of an action movie the hero tries to save the bad guy from falling into a crevasse/cauldron of boiling lava/bottomless mine shaft etc. and their hands almost, ALMOST grasp each other but at the last minute the ledge gives way and there's a lot of shouting "nooooooooooo!" with agonized expressions contorting in an extreme slow-mo close-ups.

The snow is still clinging to existence though only in sad little piles where once it was heaped into drifts. As the snow has receded the sins of litterbugs are gradually revealed. Errant dog owners who didn't clean up after Fido and allowed God's dandruff to bury their surrogate child's rectal excretions now litter the streets in various stages of decay. Toronto's healthy (and by that I mean large) population of smokers have been decorating the ground all winter with their discards and the pavement around the entrance to the local dive bar is especially carpeted with a plethora of butts (strangely enough so is the entrance to the Ryerson business school). The snow that remains is sad and filthy from being constantly bathed in car exhaust and it is clear that this year's winter is on its knees at last.

BUT! as I said today is gloomy and threatening to drag my mind, which is already fantasizing about weekends in cottage country and the season of constant sweating yet to come, back into the dark months that I'm already forgetting about.

So what better way to divert my mind (for some reason writing my poli-sci essay about Israel and Palestine isn't exactly "diverting") I decide, for no particular reason, to have an EXORCISM MOVIE-A-THON!!!

And I'm honestly shocked how many exorcism/possession themed movies there are out there. First I watched 'Case 39' a rather vapid Renee Zellweger vehicle that showcases her usual squinty-eyed, pouty mono-expression to fullest non-effect. Zellweger plays a social worker who winds up with the devil incarnate (in the form of a cute little brunette) living in her house.

Then 'The Last Exorcism' a mockumentary about a charlatan reverend who brings a camera crew out to duelling banjo country to show them that exorcism is nothing but a fancy parlour trick that only fools rubes and products of generational incest. Of course things don't go to plan! Dun-dun-daa!

And lastly 'The Exorcism of Emily Rose' which styles itself as a smart legal thriller with some B+ acting talent in the leading roles. A priest goes on trial after Emily dies from her unsuccessful exorcism and a sassy, power suit-wearing chick lawyer must defend the priest who performed said unsuccessful exorcism. She's tough, sexy and an agnostic ... but not for long!

All these movies were made within the last three years, another one with the eternally creepy Anthony Hopkins came out last year as well. And that is just what my lazy ass can think of off the top of my head. I'm sure a halfway diligent Google search would reveal that there have in fact been dozens of films in the exorcism/possession genre released in the recent past.

But what puzzles me is, why?

The only "possessed" people I've ever met were either born that way or were under the influence of a healthy dose of alcohol or narcotics. Who, in North America, that you know PERSONALLY, has every met a person possessed by the devil? I feel confident saying NO ONE!!!

So why this ridiculous fascination, why this elaborate mythology surrounding a practice that has absolutely no connection with our lives? Those of us who are of European decent, are we merely shedding the indoctrination of centuries past? The Inquisition, the accusations of witchcraft, the suspicion of things we cannot explain. Is this how we, as modern, logos-oriented beings reconcile the fact that a hundred and fifty years ago we were locking people up in sanitariums for being "hysterical?" We turn this coiled monster of superstition and mistrust that lies dormant within us into a quaint cinematic device with its own cheesy conventions. Conventions like the young girl in the tattered night dress, the shaking four-poster bed, the contortions and the requisite crucifix waving.

Clearly these stories still hold a fascination for us as a culture, we enjoy indulging in them even if on a surface level they are not part of the fabric of our beliefs. Maybe the child within us still wants to believe.

When you're a young child and have to get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night you do so with extreme trepidation. You know you shouldn't be scared but you still are, so you move quickly and quietly, like you're on a mission. Finally after you make those last quick strides and you jump back into the warmth and safety of bed and have the covers pulled tightly around you. You little chest and heart pump double-time with excitement because now co-mingled with that fear of darkness/boogeymen/creaky floorboards is the pleasure that comes from a rush of pure adrenaline.

It could be argued that superstition is the embodiment of this fear/pleasure complex. And since we're now adults and can't openly admit to such foolishness we pay an outrageous $13 to sit in a dark movie theatre and pretend we're kids again, hiding under the blankets.

Fast forward!!!

I wrote this blog entry over a week ago but for whatever reason I kept forgetting my camera at home and so had no photos to accompany the post. But today is St. Paddy's Day and I had a super sexy photo shoot with a pint of Guinness this evening. Black nectar to quench my black-Irish thirst. Erin go Braugh!