Cinematic Achievement.

The Science of Sleep.

I MUST see this movie. I have a massive girl boner for the lead dude, Gael Garcia Bernal. He's short, but ridiculously beautiful. AND I have a massive girl boner for the guy who directed and wrote the film, Michel Gondry. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind touched me. You know, in my girl parts.

Hell, the TRAILER was better than both Pirates of the Carribean movies put together.

Now that I think about it, I need to see Dave Chappelle's Block Party, also directed by Michel Gondry. Also need to go to a block party.

I'm really quite busy.

Camping in Four Movements.

Intrepid Adventurer

Well, like the outdoorswoman I am, I'm off camping this weekend. Deanna and I are hitting the not-town with an old friend of mine and her family. Thinking back, it occurs to me that I've never been camping.

Well, I went once with Girl Guides, but we slept inside a big hall. I got stuck near the bathroom door. I've never been the most popular kid in the bunch. Stuck beside the bathroom door and the kid that smelled. She was my friend but man, was she a smelly!

Now, I'm camping about half an hour away from my house, tops, so it doesn't really qualify as roughing it. But if anyone's going to run into a bear or get killed by the local crazy man living in the wild, it's going to be me. To that end, I'm going to avoid honey at all costs as well as wild men with extra scraggly beards.

Don't worry though, I've seen Brokeback Mountain. I know what camping's like. I imagine my weekend will be much the same only without the sheep and horses and mountain. Presumably I won't be having sex with Heath Ledger and/or Jake Gyllenhall in a tent that I'll be sharing with my sister and friend. So really, not a lot like Brokeback Mountain. I imagine that there will be trees though. Possibly even some beans.

Deanna informs me that the place she goes camping every year has shower facilities. What? Showers? Outrage! What happened to the good old days where you heated up your water in a kettle over the fire and poured it over yourself with a tin cup?

Expect an unhealthy number of pictures.

Where the hell is Matt?

Where the hell is Matt indeed. In my pants, that's where! Or he should be anyway. He's danced all over the world! I want to go places. Like, now.

What's the plural of apocalypse?

I got caught in a mini apocalypse today. When I got off the bus after my job interview, it was pouring. I've been known to go outside and get soaked during a storm on purpose, so I took it in stride.

Even when I'd walk a ways and was completely soaked, I didn't really care. Sure, I was a little afraid of getting hit by the all-too-near lightening but it was a short walk, with the imagined invulnerability of youth, I thought I'd be fine.

What I thought had been severe weather was nothing compared to the wall of water I soon found myself under.

But I'm plucky. I kept at it. Then the pea sized hail was joined by it's rather larger friend, grape size hail. I was about four minutes from my house at this point but there was really no way, in my flimsy tank top and jeans that now weighed in at over a gagillion pounds, that I was going to continue walking with the giant (slight exaggeration, poetic license and all that) hail.

Took cover underneath a car port. Perhaps not the smartest idea, but I was really trying to avoid a good tenderizing at that point. My bits are mushy enough. Sat in someone's wet chair (hardly mattered to me at that point) and waited for the hailing to pass. I knew from my Natural Hazards class last semester that that sort of volatile weather is inherently unsustainable. So I sat, shivering and hoping that I wasn't going to get a branch to the face in the next few minutes.

The rest of the walk home was characterized by a fight with gravity to keep my sodden shirt decently covering my bits, as the spaghetti straps of my top were hardly up to the task at that point, and trying to keep my shoes on as I trudged through deep puddles. Also I was desperately worried that I'd ruined my cell phone and passport forever as I'd taken my giant, open top, unwaterproof purse to the interview.

All in all, it's remarkable that I'm in such good spirits right now.

Embers.

I really did have a lot of fun taking pictures of the fire. The second one is probably my favourite but I have no idea why they look vaguely purple.

I really really wanted to go hyper-artiste and write something about raging against the dying of the light. Fortunately, I reminded myself that I'm not a pretentious wad (most of the time) so we'll just leave that to Dylan Thomas and call it a day.

You're waving that stick around like it's not on fire!

If you know Barb, you know that he is the epitome of a manly outdoorsman. He spits on modern technology like computers and video games and flushable toilets and frozen pizzas. Hardly surprising then that, while I was staying at his house, Barb promised me the manliest of fires.

I demanded smores.

Luckily we were joined by the sexiest of companions, 'Manda and Jowie.

The following is a step by step guide to the building and enjoyment of campfires and their by-products. Produced by the same people that brought you A Step by Step Guide to Building Forts.

Step 1: Get Magic Sombrero. Pass around. Practice different emotions. See previous post.

Step 2: Find a cereal box, Life works best, and some piles of wood. Pile. Light.

Step 3:Fan fire with your Magic Sombrero. Spread smoke liberally.

Step 4: Watch your fire. Shoot the shit. Poke at it like you know what you're doing. This is also an opportunity for you to sing Disney songs 'round the fire. We chose Colours of the Wind from Pocahontas.

Step 5: Nourishment. You've been working hard. Time to relax. If you're lucky your marshmallows will not be one solid mass. We were not lucky.

But we persevered.

Step 6: Make sure you get marshmallow goo everywhere. Even on your digital camera. Don't worry, your fingers won't look like they're covered in extra sticky semen at first glance.

Eventually you should probably put out the fire. Unless you prefer your neighbours crispy.

Repeat as necessary.

Don't you love hats?

Barb's new house came with a sombrero. Aren't we lucky? Now, if you've ever read this blog, you know that me and my homies are a reserved bunch. Quiet, non-jerks out in public. Scared to express emotion. Luckily Barb's Magic Sombrero released us from our emotional bondage.

Concerned that someone put guacamole in her burrito.

Mischievous and adorable. Put guacamole on Jowie's burrito.

Coy? Skeptical? Do I really have to eat that burrito?

Sex machine. Coming for you. In a pile of burritos.

Going to Guelph! or A Superfluous Tribute to 10 Stanley.

Well, 10 Stanley has been sold. I can't ever go back there. But I'm going to Guelph this weekend nonetheless. Going to hang out with Mel, going to hang out with Barb, going to hang out with any damn person I see and enjoy in Guelph.

Thought I'd post a short pictorial tribute to 10 Stanley. Maybe you're tired of them, but I'm mildly depressed, so you can just eat it. Also, you should probably imagine Dust in the Wind by Kansas playing or, if you're really cool, just play the song 'cause you downloaded it a long time ago.

Save me from myself.

My grandpa told me that I looked like Veronica Lake yesterday. Considering the fact that I'm not a) blonde or b) sultry or c) a film star from days gone by, I have to assume it had to do with the part of my hair.

If my part is ever this extreme you really must point it out! Because there's a point, as Linds' has mentioned in the past, where it's no longer a part and has entered combover territory.

Overnight Cubicle.

So I was watching something on the discovery channel last night, some homage to the efficiency of Tokyo. As it happens, I want to go to Japan someday. The thing about Japanese efficiency that struck me the most? The "capsule hotel." Now, maybe you're all much more worldy than I am and already knew about these hotels with the ultra tiny rooms. But I certainly didn't. Now I'm going to have to make a point of staying in one. Even if I am a little bit worried that it'll feel like a plastic coffin with a TV in it.




I'm theorizing that the room above must double as some sort of shower. Why else would the entire room be plastic? Also there are mysterious nozzle-esque things at the back.

Conversations with an 11 year old.

Deanna: So, does Israel even know what they're fighting about?

She'd just finished telling me the story of her harrowing day, which involved NOT swimming at the local pool and that her aunt's cat has fleas and has pulled out most of its own fur and that she dropped a popiscle down her shorts today. So you'll understand that the Israel question caught me off guard.

Thinking that she was asking an insightful question because she had serious concerns, I launched into what I thought was a kid-friendly explanation of the whole Hezbollah-Israeli soldiers quagmire and her eyes glazed over. So I stopped. I assumed that she'd heard adults talking about the conflict.

Deanna: No, I was just watching the news this morning, but I sure asked a lot of people and no one would tell me the answer.

Beat of silence.

Deanna: But they were all my age.

Then she giggled.

Wow, the bananaheads you hang around with and call cousins didn't know the answer to that question? It's just funny, because I got into a tiny discussion with my grandfather about the relative moral standpoints of Israel and Palestine today. Yeah, we got a little sidetracked from the Israel-Lebanon thing. His argument tends to be that Palestine needs to accept their lot and shut up about it. I tend to think of the situation as a bit more complex. A moral quagmire if you will. Quagmire is my word of the day. So talking to Deanna about why this conflict arose really seemed like a futile exercise as Israel and Lebanon are embroiled in another moral quagmire.

I was really struck by the absurdity of my life today. Conversations with Deanna lasting more than 10 minutes and spending time with my grandparents seems to do that to me.

The picture is of a Palestinian man and an Israeli soldier that I saved to my computer a gagillion years ago, by the by.

The Best Competition in the History of Competing for Stuff.

Your long search is over. I've discovered the only competition worth taking part of in the whole world. They're called the Chap Olympics. This even is held annually by Chaps Magazine - the bible for traditional gentlemen who are against the "vulgarity of modern culture."
Atheletic gear is expressly forbidden.

The event pictured here is a dry martini making competition. I think the guy with the magical facial hair in the above pictures is confident in the excellence of his martini. Another event? Passing the pipe 100 M. Bet you didn't know we'd taken part in the Chap Olympics eh 10 Stanley?

"These Olympics are for the immaculate of trouser, the frail of form and the fearful of sport."

I suspect that these Olympics don't involve much sweating or sportsmanship. Sounds like my kind of event. If you want to sponsor me for next year's games, just put your money in a brown sack with a big dollar sign and Toni Bank written on it. Alternatively, you can buy me some of the gear I'll need to compete. I'm going to need one of the above funny hats, some pants that tuck into my tall black leather boots and probably a pipe. Also, someone's going to need to teach me to make a dry martini.

Brought to you by Britain: The Country with the Most Crazy People per Square Kilometre. God love 'em!

Oh BBC, you're the gift that just keeps on giving!

More Adventures in Late Night Television.

So I was watching TV again last night. Having discovered torrents and the downloading of full seasons of television sans commercials I really don't watch a lot of regular tv but when I do it's inevitably when I drag my carcass into bed (which is sadly earlier and earlier nowadays).

During my late night channel surfing I came across a Christian rock music commercial and was rather impressed by the enthusiasm of everyone involved. You should have seen the audience; although they were my age had they been fourteen they would not have looked out of place at a Backstreet Boys concert. Not that I have any personal experience with that.

There were a lot of helpful slogans. First of all they told me that the music and concert footage could be purchased on a "Cutting edge CD and DVD." No cassettes for these cool cats. Also, I was told it was an "extraordinary worship experience." In an interview, the lead singer of the band (who was rather good looking, his hair probably got that pretty because he loves Jesus so much) said "It's pure worship" AND, I swear I'm not making this up, he yelled at the crowd, in the manner of a band trying to hype up the crowd, "Do you want to worship God tonight?"

They played one full song for the commercial which, like any good pop song was highly repetitive. The lyric that really stuck in my head was "You are the one my heart beats for." I'm fairly certain that I've heard that lyric in at least 4 billion other songs. In fact, I wasn't sure at first who their heart was beating for at all. It should have been, "You are the one my heart beats for Jesus" or "Yahweh you are the one my heart beats for."

Also? There were about ten million of them onstage. I think they were trying to trick me into thinking that they weren't a choir with their jeans and non-threatening corduroy blazers. They forgot that you have to get up pretty early to fool Toni F. Bank. Or, at least sometime before 11 am.

Extraordinary Live Worship.

The Best Website Ever.

Are you a sad loser? Are you a sad loser that doesn't have any friends? Do you have a picture of yourself? Do you like celebrities? Do you want to prove that you're not a sad loser?

I have the perfect website for you.

1. Find the picture you want.
2. Send your photo. They replace the face.
3. Now you're in the picture.

I'm going to send in this photo of me to replace Thierry Henry in this picture of him with Zidane. The answer to your question is no, I cannot make kissy face without looking like a complete boob. That's why potential paramours keep their distance, I suspect.



I will be a footie champion just like my best pal and lover Zidane!

How meta!

Jo does amazing things with her camera. Check out a particular favourite of mine here.

Sometimes I take pictures of Jo doing amazing things with her camera. Actually I was trying to catch the awesome reflection of a house across the street from Jo's on her wall. Jo in the mirror was just a happy coincidence.

My digital camera makes me happy.

The Zizou Bleus.

It's raining again. There was a tornado watch for my area earlier today. Went outside and got soaked, until my pants weighed about a hundred pounds and just let loose with a scream. I just got back last night and within an hour I wished I'd stayed away.

To think that I was really concerned that I'd be stuck in this place forever is ludicrous. I hate it here and apparently people here hate me. So I'm going to make some money. Eventually. Somehow. And then I'm leaving. Yeah, that's only the thousandth time I've said that, just in case you're keeping score.

I just want to sit outside in the rain until I shiver. And I don't want anyone to look at me funny. If they all left me alone, that'd be fine.

Yeah, France lost. Zidane was sent off after head-butting a guy in the chest, as if you all didn't know. Jowie and I were disappointed, heartily disappointed, all around. I've included in this nonsensical blog entry a pictoral representation of our pain.

The Peculiar Quality of Light.

I love summer storms. Took some pictures and danced in the rain with Deanna.

Some manly sports talk.

I love it when grown men cry. For serious. Nick Stokes on CSI crying manfully at gunpoint? Hot! I think you'll find that Susan and Jowie can back me up here. I also love it when men are comfortable expressing physical affection to each other. That's one of the reasons I love the World Cup so much. They're always hugging and crying.

I guess I enjoy the game too; warriors battling with a black and white ball on a green pitch, drama queens rolling around grimacing and hoping for a penalty. It's all very good.

I've included a couple of pictoral examples because that's what I do. John Terry crying after England's defeat at the hands of evil!Portugal and Zindane and Henry after the French beat Brazil. Now there's a sandwich I wouldn't mind being part of.

I heard it through the grapevine.

Picture of Linds' grapevines at her pad in TO. I imagine that these grapes will be stomped and bottled for Linds' future drunken adventures. Godspeed little grapelings.

I can't remember the last time I was as tired as I was today. Two and a half hours of sleep tops coupled with a VERY nerve wracking two hours spent watching the England v. Portugal game in a pub and THEN a long train/bus ride back home = Dead Toni. I curled up in a little ball at my grandparents, let them (demanded that they) feed me dinner and then promptly fell asleep for a couple of hours on the couch at home.

It was the most satisfying nap I've had in a long time.

I really hate my blog right now. I can't churn out anything good to put up here, because my brain has been replaced by a cool, wet sack. I'm directionless and I don't feel funny or interesting. I'm taunted by old entries that still make me laugh, like the one about Margaret Thatcher or random roommate hilarity. I'm going to keep plugging away though, whether you like it or not, in the hopes that something good comes out of my brain sometime soon.