Play List

Recently, a friend of mine issued a challenge to me and a few friends. Come up with a list of ten songs you consider essential. Ten songs you couldn't live without. He stressed that we were to put our favourites, not what we thought others would necessarily like. He gave us about three days to submit our lists.

Hardest thing I've done in a long time. I agonized. I lost sleep. I'm still questioning some of my choices. I've spent more time rehashing the list than I have some of my relationships.

My list (not, it should be said, in order of preference):

1) The Whole of the Moon ( The Waterboys)  - reminds me of when I first moved to Halifax, even though it was first released before that. Not sure why; I think my friends and I were in a Waterboys phase at the time. I think the lyrics are beautiful. "Brigadoon" just doesn't get enough shout outs in pop songs.

2) Where the Streets Have No Name ( U2) - it was hard to pick one U2 song. But I love jangly guitars. I love Bono. And the awesome video just makes me smile.

3) I’ll Be ( Edwin McCain) - I think this is one of the best love songs ever. None of that silly hearts and flowers and romantic treacle. It could also be that he had long hair in the video; lord knows I had a rather lengthy phase when it came to long-haired men.

4) Don't You...( Simple Minds) - this was my graduating year’s prom song. And it’s in the Breakfast Club. Enough said.

5) Tiny Dancer ( Elton John - though the Ben Folds version is very good) - I want to be a seamstress for the band. I took a bit of heat for this one; I think it might seem clichéd to some. But I don't care. It's featured in one of my favourite scenes in "Almost Famous", one of my favourite movies. Singing along to this when Elton played it at his concert a while back was pure joy. Except perhaps for the people around me.

6) Moon on the Rain ( Fairground Attraction)  - was there ever a better lyric than “I’ve got your photograph/ the one that you signed/ tucked in my pocket all tattered by time"?  Terrific song from a criminally underappreciated U.K. band. Eddi Reader's was one of the best voices of the late 80s. Likely still is.

7) Every Breath You Take ( The Police)  - seeing Sting sing this live in concert was one of those moments I almost couldn't believe I was having.  I loved the Police dearly when I was a teenager. I was reasonably certain at the time that I would marry Stewart Copeland. Rolling Stone said he was the fifth greatest drummer of all time. Not in my books, baby.

8) When Doves Cry (Prince) – my Mom wouldn’t let me go see “Purple Rain”. She thought he was a pervert. I remember dancing to this song at the Kingston arena, probably grade nine. I still love him; my mother will now concede "he's kind of weird, but I like him". About time, Mom. I think she warmed up to him when she realized they were starting to share a similar fashion sense.

9) Sex on Fire ( Kings of Leon) – Caleb Followill has one of the best voices in rock, and it's at its sexiest on this song. That catch in his voice, the yearning? C'mon - when he sings "the head while I'm driving", if you don't want to be in a car with him right then, you're dead inside.

10) By Your Side ( Sade) - Such a sexy song.She has the most elegant and timeless voice. Just hearing her makes me want a glass of red wine. Or Scotch, which is weird, because I can't stand Scotch.

I can't say these are my ten absolute favourite songs ever, but they always make me happy, and they always make me sing along. There were songs I love that didn't quite make the list: "Wonderwall" by Oasis, "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure, "Spirit of '76" by The Alarm, "Need You Tonight" by INXS, "Don't Go" by the wonderful Hothouse Flowers. And I feel bad about your exclusion, Crowded House. I really wanted to up my hip quotient by throwing in some more recent stuff, but I had to go for longevity. So did my friends, apparently - there were songs by REM, and the Hip, and Public Enemy, and Pearl Jam, and classics by Neil Young and The Beatles. Luckily, or perhaps sadly, no one had "I Wanna Sex You Up" by Color Me Badd on their list. 

It was a great exercise, and a great walk through the jukebox in my head. And if you're standing next to me the next time one of these songs comes on, let me apologize to your eardrums in advance.

Job skills?

The Sunshine Girl. Are you familiar? The Sun newspapers publish a daily photo of an undoubtedly pretty young woman who is usually giving sexy face to the camera, often while wearing something silky/skimpy/see-through. A friend emailed me last week about that day's picture, a bit miffed over just who thought having the girl pull her own hair would sex things up. Now this didn't bother me nearly as much as it did her. I assume these girls, most of whom are in their late teens/ very early 20s, want to break into modelling; hair-pulling is sort of in the starter kit. The Sun isn't exactly showing pictures of journalism majors and aspiring pediatricians. Now, I would hope people buy their morning paper for the headlines, and not for a little side boob and some lip licking to go along with their large black, two sugars. But pretty girls in very little clothing isn't new. I myself own a pair of vintage nude photos from the 20s (the 1920s, not my 20s), and I think those models were probably the Sunshine girls of their day, except with real breasts. My problem with the Sunshine bunch is this: when did young women go from aspiring to seeing their bylines to aspiring to seeing their boobs in the morning broadsheet? Has taking your clothes off become step one on the career path? I always thought it was lining up really good references.

I've said it before; I was a card-carrying, asymetrical haircut-wearing member of the John Hughes generation. I grew up with the Brat Pack as my celebrity role models. Molly Ringwald interviewed John Hughes for Seventeen magazine. These days, Lindsay Lohan is interviewed by the police for a hobby. Sure, the Pack misbehaved, even got arrested (though not my Molly), but it was neither a rite of passage nor a career booster. They got in trouble and suffered the consequences. Remember when Rob Lowe was caught on videotape having sex with two women, one of whom was only 16 to his 24? It was a huge scandal, and his career and reputation took a big hit. For the most part, there were people who took their clothes off, there were actual celebrities, and there were people who broke the law again and again. We called them criminals. The lines are pretty blurry nowadays, and I don't think it's my contacts. Now, an arrest for pretty much anything short of murder is merely an inconvenience, nude photos have replaced business cards, and a sex tape doesn't hurt a career, it begins one. Case in point: Kim Kardashian. Did anyone know who she was before the sex tape that she focus grouped vehemently opposed was released? Sometimes, it seems like the only celebrity whose career trajectory hasn't benefitted from a naughty tape is Betty White.

So when did this happen? When did being kinda slutty, and possibly felonious, become an internship on the way to success? What happened to actually doing something to earn the accolades, the perks, the fan base? Mug shots and NSFW screen captures have replaced the cover of People magazine. Sometimes they are the cover of People magazine.

I think it happened right around the time Paris Hilton figured out how to turn on a video camera. Which, let's be honest, she probably needed help with. Because of her night vision know-how, young women (and probably some men) realized they didn't actually need to accomplish anything to be on every entertainment show, every magazine, every gossip website, even much of the mainstream news media. No,they merely needed to have sex with some loser while the little red light blinked, act mortified when the loser sold the footage, hire a publicist and presto - instant fame. Or infamy. They're the same thing these days. And fyi, I don't think those are the type of job skills your guidance counsellor was talking about. Granted, Paris Hilton still has to live with the fact that she's Paris Hilton, but she did get her own perfume. Which I suspect smells of spermicide and spray tanner, with a hint of chihuahua, drying down to a finish that's equal parts entitlement and self-loathing.

Paris' pal Kim Kardashian must've been taking notes. She has changed the face (and ass) of celebrity, literally parlaying her sex tape into a multi-million dollar business empire. I've mentioned her before, because I'm fascinated by her career. And like it or not, she has as incredibly successful career. I don't understand how a young woman, even one as pretty as her (or as pretty as she was, before she started Madam-izing her face) is supposed to make me want to buy something simply because she's known for being nakedly photogenic. But she has television shows, a perfume (of course), a clothing line (including booty shorts that say "a** like damn"), calendars, an upcoming book, even a cupcake mix, so clearly someone, many someones in fact, are buying what she's selling, literally and figuratively. And let's back that ass like damn up a sec. She's primarily known for a sex tape and her remarkable posterior, yes? So I get the calendar. But what in the hell does that have to do with cupcakes? The Kim Kardashian Vanilla Cupcake mix, more accurately. $13(US) will get you enough batter for 18 cupcakes. I don't know about you, but given how her whole career started, I'm a little reluctant to read the ingredient list.

I suppose I should say good for her. She's clearly turned what could have been a life-long embarrassment ( I mean, seriously, Ray J? You couldn't make the tape with Reggie Bush?) into countless opportunities. But I kind of hate that she could, so easily, with seemingly no downside. Besides, does anyone think for a second the tape wasn't the first item on her world domination to-do list? If you don't get that, I'd suggest a reality pill. If you have a problem taking pills, have someone hide it in a Kim Kardasian Vanilla cupcake.

Don't get me wrong. Pictures of sexy young women are often quite lovely, and I think making a sex tape, under the right circumstances, could be a lot of fun. I just don't think either should serve as a resume. And I worry that many young women today are aiming low, replacing a cover letter with covering their nipples and smiling coyly for the camera, stars in their eyes and their very own perfume part of their five-year plan.

The most wonderful time of the year

For the next few weeks, I'll be spending my evenings looking for a new boyfriend. I'm going to try out several, give them an hour, maybe two, each, and see if there's a connection that'll last until spring. It could be a new guy, it may be a guy I've known for a while who's never really knocked my knees until now. Yes, for the next several days, I'm a new tv season whore.

I have a checkered history of television boyfriends, fictional characters who caught my eye and made me want to live my life in serialized chunks 22 weeks of the year, sometimes in towns I couldn't find on Google Earth. Sure, they may be only two dimensional, but when it comes to relationships, that's not exactly uncharted territory for me. Two dimensions might be an improvement. Here's a far from comprehensive list of my fictional beaux, men who had me at "a very special episode" and left me wanting more once May sweeps were over.

Nate Fisher - "Six Feet Under". He wasn't really my type: a bit too laid back, unfocused, no drive. And from the moment I met him, I knew his fucked-upness would come between us. Yet I couldn't help myself. He was incredibly hot, wore his stubble very well, and was willing to have sex in an airport, which earned him major points. He was sadly taken from me far too soon. Quite tragic - I heard it drove his brother to become a serial killer.

Ari Gold - "Entourage". I hate myself a little, and perhaps "boyfriend" might be a bit of a stretch, and I probably wouldn't tell my friends, but I so would. Ideally at the Beverly Hills Hotel, in a suite, under an assumed name, with room service champagne on speed dial. There's just something about a man in a $4000 suit spouting profanity that gets me hot. He swears really, really well. Plus, his assistant Lloyd and I could go have sushi and be total bitches on his expense account if he got caught up in a pitch meeting for Medellin II or something.

Dr. Doug Ross - "E.R.". So good-looking. So charming. His twinkly eyes and irresistible grin made Thursdays my favourite day of the week for five years. Sure, he had a problem with authority, but he specialized in pediatrics, so he liked kids. But under the charm lurked an unfaithful, emotionally withholding committment-phobe. Come to think of it, I think I did actually date him. He also looked really good wet. I briefly considered getting myself stuck in a storm drain with some kid just so he could rescue me, but with my luck it would be his ass of a colleague Dr. Benton on call.

Jack Bauer - "24". He has the hands down sexiest voice. He would unquestionably defend my honour in a bar fight, which is all kinds of hot, but I worry that instead of just punching the guy, his tendency would be to shoot him. He does that. He was away a lot, though (infiltrating a Mexican drug cartel, confined to a Chinese prison), and even though I like my alone time, those sorts of long distance relationships just don't work. Plus, style is important to me, and I got tired of him wearing the same damn thing all the time.

Luke Danes - "Gilmore Girls". It took me several years to meet him, even though my friend Julie swore we'd hit it off. Finally, I let her introduce us via box set. Such a meet cute. I'd never really been a fan of the backwards baseball cap, but his slight scruff and his way with a well-fitting pair of jeans quickly won me over. Plus, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, he owned his own restaurant, and he was perfectly capable of fixing stuff around the house, which at the time was very high on my criteria for suitable boyfriends, fictional or otherwise. And let's face it - any guy who has 24/7 access to homemade pie pretty much doesn't even need to walk me home.

Josh Lyman - "The West Wing". Ah, Josh. Joshua. Deputy White House Chief of Staff. The more I think about it, the more I think he might be my all-time, hall of fame, number one television boyfriend. His way with words, his wit, his cocky grin, and his brain, always his brain. And when was I ever going to get another crack at joining the mile-high club on Air Force One? I think his colleague C.J. Cregg and I would have become fast friends if he'd introduced us. I did spend the occasional evening worrying about him asking me to a State Dinner; I wouldn't have a thing to wear.

It's a little early in the new season to put all my affections in one basket. But there are some prospects: Steve McGarrett from the new Hawaii Five-O looks promising (Hawaii=swim trunks). And the male lead on the new show "Undercovers", which doesn't even air until later tonight, is a spy turned caterer turned spy again. He sounds like just my type. Plus - have you seen him in the promos? He's so hot he could be playing a cross-dressing tax accountant with mommy issues who dabbles in necrophilia and I'd at least let him get to second base on our first date.

So many men; so little space on the pvr. For this single girl, for the next week or so, the most important battery powered device in this house is my remote control.

Stop, my sides!

Okay, when did Cosmopolitan become a comedy magazine? I don't read it often, mostly because I'm not exactly their target demographic; the only "walks of shame" I do these days are the ones that involve spilling coffee on myself by 10:15am. But I decided to pick one up today, and I've been laughing my head off all afternoon. For those of you who don't want to spend the $5.49, a few gems I learned from Cosmo:

In the article "Would you do this to your vagina?", I'm informed that leaving some hair down there is the new thing. Isn't that kind of the old thing? I hit puberty on the cusp of the 80s. The 70s were pretty bushcentric, so I've actually never understood why women feel the need to go all Kojak. Granted, looking like you're smuggling a hamster in your underpants might be a bit too au naturel, but completely bare? Nope. But the best part of that article was this little revelation: there's a temporary dye women can get to pink up their pussies. Sort of a new kind of lip stain, I guess. Who in the hell is sitting there thinking "You know what? My vadge is looking a little pallid?" Jesus Christ - I'm 41, and I only got the courage to dye my hair at home 6 months ago. If you want to paint something, I suggest your toes.

Next. Apparently, studies have been done, and the colour green got a 96% on something they call the Colour Happiness Scale. I briefly rejoiced, since I just bought a lovely green top. Unfortunately, I then remembered something that might suggest a serious flaw in the research: Oscar the Grouch.

I kind of suspect a lot of the "Cosmo confessions" are made up, simply because I don't think it's mathematically possible for that many people to get caught having sex by their parents/roommates/cleaning lady/ a news crew. But a contributor named Matt Meltzer apparently rounded up some real live guys and asked them how they keep from finishing too soon. Bit personal there, Matt, but okay. My favourite, and the guy I want to buy a beer, is 25 year old Gus, who says he thinks about "dead animals on asphalt". Really, Gus? Maybe I'm old school, but I'm pretty sure, all things considered, I'd rather have sex with a guy who didn't last super long as opposed to a guy who was thinking about roadkill the entire time.

Sadly, the last thing I learned today at Cosmo U is not, in fact, a laughing matter. I have a well documented fear of overripe bananas. Imagine my horror when I read that putting a piece of well-ripened banana skin pulp-side down over a splinter, then covering it with a bandage, will help draw out the splinter. I would like to go on record as stating the following: I don't care if a well-ripened banana would help draw out a samurai sword on which I was impaled, I don't want the damn thing anywhere near me.

There were also 8 new sex positions with catchy names that made my knees hurt just looking at them, and an article entitled "OMG, I'm in Love With My Stepbrother", but the banana thing did me in. Thanks for the laughs, Cosmo. I didn't know you had it in you.

Faulkner weeps

Let me get this straight. So not only is Justin Bieber putting out his autobiography ("First Step 2 Forever: My Story"), but the Kardashian sisters are also releasing the spelling-challenged opus "Kardashian Konfidential".

A number of things trouble me. First of all, Biebs, only Prince can get away with using numbers as words. You are not Prince. And b) what exactly is left in the Kardashian family that's remotely "konfidential"? Between two reality shows, a sex tape, Kim's tit Tweets (google it) and serious oversharing in every celebrity magazine, I sadly know more about them than I do about members of my immediate family.

And not to be too elitist (which is me-speak for that's exactly what I'm about to be), but what the hell can those two books possibly have to say that is in any way relevant? Sure, if I want to hear about the first time a 16 year old millionaire saw a boobie, or know exactly what the trick is to boning a professional athlete, they'd be excellent source material. But let's assume I don't. Who in the hell is buying this crap?

Everyone, I bet. And that's the problem. Gone are the days when book deals were reserved for those who could actually, you know, write. Now, people like Lauren Conrad and Tori Spelling have chart-topping tomes. I have no hard data to back this up, but I am reasonably certain that neither Zadie Smith nor Geraldine Brooks have ever been involved in a televised cat fight. Dave Eggers, I'm not so sure.

I'm not saying you have to read fine literature all the time. I certainly don't. But would it kill people to pick up an actual novel? Or even a non-fiction book written by someone who's a) never had a show on MTV, or b) been a recipient of a Teen Choice award? This dumbing down of our culture doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and it makes me crazy. I don't want to flip to the New York Times best seller list a few months from now and see the top two spots occupied by a kid who may actually be younger than my stereo and a girl whose resume includes letting Moesha's little brother pee on her with a camera rolling. Given the option, I shall continue to prefer my authors of legal drinking age and un-urinated on. But keep that konfidential.

I've got a crush on who?

My first boyfriend was a lot older than me. Blonde hair, blue eyes, soft, almost feminine features. I was 8. He was in his 20s. His name was Shaun Cassidy, and the Hardy Boys rocked my world. When my parents got me his album "Born Late" for Christmas (he was a hyphenate before hyphenates were the standard), I swooned over the cover photo. And drove my parents crazy with the Do Ron Ron.

Then came Andy Gibb. Another pretty singer. Doomed. I don't like to talk about it. There were brief dalliances after that: Donny Osmond. Willie Aames from "Eight is Enough". The Six Million Dollar Man.

Then Rick Springfield entered my life. Another singer/actor. Even
then, I had a type. I faithfully watched Dr. Noah Drake on "General
Hospital" every afternoon. He was my idea of after school special. And
when he released "Working Class Dog", I kept wondering what Jesse's Girl had that I didn't. Well, okay, at that point, boobs.

1983. John Taylor. Now that, that was a love that lasted for years. I wanted to dye my bangs like him. Mom said no. I always felt a little bad for the girls who liked Nick Rhodes the best. It seemed rather pointless. I read Smash Hits, devouring every little morsel of info about JT. I can still remember his birthdate. I would tape Duran Duran videos off Much Music and watch them until the tape went all funny. To this day, I think I would probably throw up a little if I had the chance to meet him.

Why do we develop infatuations with celebrities? Is it because fame is so alluring, even to our 8 year-old selves? Or are the objects of our affections really that much more charming/good looking/fascinating? Really - if Colin Farrell worked at your local coffee shop, would he still be swoon material? Perhaps. Or would you just be miffed that the guy getting you your latte kept trying to look down your shirt? I can tell you, however, that if Taye Diggs was my dentist or worked at my bank, I'd be knocking my teeth out or losing my bank card just so I could go talk to him.

Even now, in my extremely late 30s (ahem), I still get celebrity crushes all the time. George Clooney is a Crush Emeritus. He's on my list. If you don't know what list I'm talking about, you clearly weren't a fan of Friends. Disturbingly, he's also on my Mom's list, or would be if she had a list. Someone call my therapist.

I also have temporary, intense, very of-the-moment crushes. Like Anderson Cooper. Several members of the World Cup champion Spanish soccer team. Scarlett Johansson. A few years back, it was the Today Show's Vatican analyst, Father Thomas someone. Yes, I had the decency to feel bad about that one. But in my defence, he's cute, smart, single, and lives in Italy.

My crushes, however, are not as unconditional, nor as pure, as they once were. Certain things will end a crush. Multiple arrests. Appearing on "Larry King". Being Larry King. I expect even my fake boyfriends to have standards. A while back, Jeffrey Dean Morgan (late of Grey's Anatomy) was tops in my books for a few months. Those eyes! That voice! Then, I saw a picture of him at a party, smoking. Deal breaker. I broke up with him. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. Now if I could just learn to apply those same exacting criteria to actual boyfriends, I might be getting somewhere.

Say cheese!

So there's this website that made the rounds a while back - you've probably been emailed the link. My Heritage.com. It purports to use a photo of you to tell you which famous people you resemble. Since I hate photos of myself, finding one where my face was front and centre was tough. But I was bored and I figured hey - it'll amuse the cats. Oh - and fyi, it doesn't work on pictures of cats.

I scanned three photos. Didn't get any repeat matches, despite the fact that the photos were taken within a 3 day time span. I guess I changed a lot.

The first pic in particular proved to be a winner - I look one percent more like renowned Russian wordsmith Leo Tolstoy than I do like renowned British poofster Cliff Richard.

Next photo. I was deemed 64% Michelle Rodriguez. I was torn; happy that I was a girl, but hated her on "Lost". I was also, horrifyingly, 59 % Paris Hilton. Which is ironic, since Paris Hilton is actually 59% semen. Emma Watson, Hermione from the Harry Potter films, came in at 55%. Encouraging -she's cute. Mary Kate Olsen (but not Ashley. Aren't they twins? Ergo...) and Christie Brinkley were also in the mix. Figures - good news, I'm 53% 70s supermodel; bad news, I once slept with Billy Joel. Oddly, the best results came from the photo in which I'd been downing wine since 11 am. Apparently, even websites find me more attractive when I'm drinking...

But the best, the absolute pinnacle, had to be the photo where not one woman showed up in the results. I was a man, baby. Or, more accurately, men. In addition to several Asian gentlemen (um, what?) I'd never heard of, I scored what might be either the funniest or the saddest result ever:

I'm 59% Rick James, bitch! Super freaky, indeed.