who dat? contest.

(yo stee. i know
who dat?)

last game:

the eye of al pacino. we share a birthday.

we don't, however, share the hoo-wah factor.

(many people guessed david byrne, bob dole, and martin scorcese. all of which i can totally see. that was fun. i might do the cropping thing again sometime. if you bitches are lucky.)

first correct answer:

liz butler

left column show you his lower 48, pretty ladies.

d'oh canada

So someone sent me this Molson beer ad:

"Hey. I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader... and I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled... and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I'm certain they're really, really nice. I have a Prime Minister, not a President. I speak english and french, NOT american. and I pronouce it 'ABOUT', NOT 'A BOOT'. I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack. I believe in peace keeping, NOT policing. DIVERSITY, NOT assimilation, AND THAT THE BEAVER IS A TRULY PROUD AND NOBLE ANIMAL. A TOQUE IS A HAT, A CHESTERFIELD IS A COUCH, AND IT IS PRONOUCED 'ZED' NOT 'ZEE', 'ZED'!!! CANADA IS THE SECOND LARGEST LANDMASS! THE FIRST NATION OF HOCKEY! AND THE BEST PART OF NORTH AMERICA! MY NAME IS JOE!! AND I AM CANADIAN!!!!!!!!"

And then these people emailing this to one another sign a list:

1. Megan Matthews, Ottawa ON
2. Brione Bruce, Ottawa ON and Vancouver, BC
3. Paul Valdmanis, Ottawa ON, Toronto ON (go leafs)
4. Nancy Kenny, Ottawa ON, Bathurst NB
5. Sandra Marques, Ottawa ON, Bradford ON
6. Andrea Malaka, Toronto ON, Bradford, ON :) GO LEAFS GO!...

Funny, yes?

No. Not at all.

You may laugh at the above "witty" copy, but I find it kinda sad. Think about it, Canada is a country living in a state of constant obsession. What is that obsession?
"We're Not American."

They see themselves only in relation to. They are obsessed with that notion. What it means to them. What they're missing. What makes Canada great. What America is going to do next. How hockey is so much purer up there. How many comedians that are popular in America are Canadian. "Didja know that, eh? Didja? Oh yah, he's Canadian, you know." "Uh, no. I didn't." "Well, he is, eh? He's from up Toronto." "Hm. Great. Listen I gotta go. See ya." They are more interested in finding out what Americans are thinking while watching Robin Williams sing, "Blame Canada" at the Oscars, than they are in watching it themselves.

This is the funny part. Candians are obsessed with this question: "What do you guys think of us? Seriously. You can tell us."

Answer: "Um, we don't really."

I like Canada. I do. What I've seen, I've loved. B.C. has great camping. The money is cute. A lot of great comedians do come from there. Uh, I like Cirque Du Soleil. "Oh Canada" is a pretty song. I loved Michael J. Fox on Family Ties. Wing lives up there.

The relationship between the two countries is almost like that between George Michael and Andrew Ridgley. Or Daryl Hall and John Oates. It's like, I'm sure Andrew Ridgley contributed a whole lot to Wham! behind the scenes, but... uh... so? Same with John Oates. He was just the little gay one with the mustache. Daryl Hall was the one out in the front, with the cool blonde mullet and dancing around spelling M-E-T-H-O-D-O-F-L-O-V-E. John wasn't spelling shit. John was in the back trying not to look bitter, desperately searching for an inconspicuous stair or rock to stand on.

Canadians are just kinda, well, off. Like my 4th grade teacher, Ms. Levy. She was the first Canadian I really ever met, and I noticed how she had this weird Scientology glint in her eye that even then I knew something was off about her. The vehemence with which she made us learn all the Provinces. The fiercness with which she carried her sexuality on her sleeve, as if to say, "Yeah, American women. Look at my big ol' Canadian titties, eh!"

That "otherness" is hard to hide. It reminds me of the time, (I might have mentioned this already but it bears repeating if I did) when M. and I were talking about someone, and I said, "Is he gay?"

And she said, "No, he's Canadian."


Obviously I'm not Canadian. If you're Canadian write me if you have any great solution to the problem of the Canadian "Jan Brady" syndrome. I'd be interested to hear. And if something's workable, I'll print it and just maybe we can fix this thing cuz, man, it's kinda bumming me out.

By the way, yesterday's box score:

FINAL          R H E
Toronto at      2  4 0
Oakland      11 12 0



Thanks for the birthday wishes everyone. And the horrible email cards. And the gifts. And the haiku. Here's a sampling:

Stee turns twenty-eight
A bull born year of the rat
Actor, writer, friend

Man's got skin like milk
Digs that crazy gangsta rap
sweetheart in leather

I know why the plants
outside his door are all dead
all starving for Stee

Thanks y'all.


Ha ha ha. Oh man, is this thing ever true.

ONE YEAR AGO TODAY: You had to stop at an ATM for cash since you might have had a chance to go out for lunch with that hottie from accounting, but then you couldn't remember your pin number and when you called the help line, the woman was very rude, which depressed you to the point where you hung up and went to work, eating only the two fig newtons you had stashed in your drawer for lunch, and watching the hottie from accounting head to the elevators with your boss. You then cranked up the Manheim Steamroller CD but it started skipping around track 7, your favorite, and you ran to the bathroom to cry but, then, really what's the point, you know?

The Corin "Corky" Nemec Happy Song Corner

Its just one of those days, when you don't wanna wake up. Everything is fucked. Everybody sucks. You don't really know why but you wanna justify, rippin' someone's head off. No human contact. And if you interact, your life is on contract. Your best bet is to stay away motherfucker, it's just one of those days. It's all about the he says she says bullshit. I think you better quit lettin' shit slip. Or you'll be leavin with a fat lip. It's all about the he says she says bullshit. I think you better quit talkin that shit. ... speaking of which. It's just one of those days, when you wake up and turn on the TV and there is that fucker Will Wheaton with whom you recently did a movie and he's on Regis and Kathie Lee and you're sitting in your one-bedroom in East Hollywood with that girl you met at the Starlight Room snoring next to you and a pint of Bass on the nightstand next to you, warm, and Wheaton is chatting it up and you can't even reach your smokes because what'shername is on your arm and you really don't want to wake her up to see you weeping.
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