Come and keep your comrade warm...

For my inaugural blood donation today, I was joined by George, John and Paul (and not Ringo, because he walked out on the recording of that tune) to I lay horizontal for my momentous 11:29 of blood pumping vigor. But that was not all. I also eavesdropped on a girl discussing with some fellow comrade in the blood line about how she is currently sponsoring not one, but two foster children in Africa. She seemed to get a kick out of saying, "yeah... so I have two kids and I'm only 23," which was then followed by her Angelina Jolie-esque "I'd someday like to have one on every continent". How romantic.

*Insert future blog topic, that my roommate and I have discussed many times: Why only the real thing will do...*

This is puzzling to me. Do I criticize her because she's a do-gooder with two children, whom she's probably saved from the drug and/or prostitution trade(s), or am I just jealous that at this current moment I may feel sorry for those poor bastards on the infomercials but am in no way, shape or form willing to support one? Is it wrong to question why a person might feel compelled to give overseas and not at home? Has she cruised by the Drop-In Centre lately? Better yet, does she live at home with the rents' or is she working-for-the-weekend every single weekend to pay for the dump she curses herself for living in? Once again, the inevitable comparison takes place and suddenly the good karma I've wracked up for giving blood is side-swiped by two foster kids.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Looks like I'll just have to do more good-doing, which I had not planned in my schedule.

Further curious ramblings will discuss the long awaited fall of an empire of drones and automatons somewhere under the University of Calgary umbrella-services. Stay tuned.

PS. Who knew that the Beatles would also be good for listening to when having massive quantities of blood extracted? John probably did. It figures.

A Case of You...

This is just a teaser, and since I'm now addicted to blogging and Megan encourages multiple posts, I will indulge. That tune, A Case of You by the glorious Joni Mitchell, brings tears to my eyes and in imagining who I could drink a case of, I get the shivers.

There's a few works out there that will never be matched. Things that are so perfect, so unique, so transcendent that words don't really do them justice. They are the works of genius that make everyone else's attempts feel mediocre and impotent, fallow and desolate, utterly, desperately futile. That song is one of them. There's just nothing that we would change.

It is a challenge that lies sleepily in us all, to create one of these works, inspite of the bullocks we do in the meantime. Let me just say, I am well aware that this blog is not one of those things.

Molly Ringwald or Ally Sheedy?

I really can't believe that I'm starting a blog. It's pretty much like Facebook, I swore I'd never join the ranks and here I am. Guilty as charged. But let us go there, you and I:

Twice this week I've come across one of my all time favourite movies, the Breakfast Club, on channel 34. I don't know what possesses them to keep playing it. Actually I do know: Because it's the movie my generation grew up on, grows up on, fails to grow up on. I came home today and the scene where they had smoked pot and were dancing on the rafters was playing and I just felt at home. Not only the soundtrack, but the familiar faces, the games we play, all those things come flooding back and I'm left with a compulsion to watch it again from start to finish. Which I can, because I own in on cassette. Yeah, you heard it: cassette.

But what we here in blog land are left with is this: are you a Molly Ringwald or an Ally Sheedy? Or an Emilio or a Judd or even an Anthony Michael Hall? And let me ruin this surprise for you, after the movie Molly Ringwald and Anthony Michael Hall dated, le gross.

Welcome to Blogland... Which sounds like Bogland. Here's to an inaugural blogural???