I've just found out that I have one reader that isn't in my Neighborhood. In fact, she may be my one reader. Her name's Jen, and I probably bribed her to read this without my knowing it. Way to go, Jen!
Anyway, this short and particularly ridiculous entry that isn't really particularly giving mad props to anything is for her, since she specificially asked me to write something, as this is on her list of something to read every day. Poor Jen needs an update after saying that, n'est-ce pas?:
I'm not sure if anyone is acutely aware of this, but northern Indiana has a tendency towards the "freeze your balls off and let them roll under the sofa for safekeeping until the breath of spring" category of cold. (We also have a tendency towards rapid temperature changes within the span of two days, but I digress, as this is no discussion of temperature.) This particular morning was one of these; 8 am and it's respectably chilly, but I emerge from the cozy cocoon of the CFS building en route to the library and it is cold as fuck and I'm finding the back of my recently shorn head to be more than a mite bit chilly throughout the day. Which, I suppose, leads us to why I might be focusing on the almighty winter staple of Hats.
As I stepped off the bus after the library visit (public transportation, by the by, should be something that I could focus an entry on, but it'd mostly be YAY BUSES, THEY ARE RAD, and that is not for good reading), I saw a clusterfuck of unfortunate hat choices; a disparing trend considering what we have to offer this fine winter season. There are the beret, the cloche, even the beanie, and these girls happened to decide to still pick on the most revolting (and, if mesh-backed, entirely illogical) choice: the fucking trucker hat.
I was going to write a paragraph about this, but frankly? I think it speaks for itself.
At the risk of sounding like a big, fat drama queen, there has been absolutely nothing of exciting, stimulating import to report as of my last entry. General university shit (finding out program sucks, major changes, and generic big-ass homework load) means that I haven't had the opportunity to pursue finding the ultimate in exciting and awesome things to preview -- until now! So, as I write this, knowing that I should be studying for Statistics, I will instead revel in the fact that there's still some good shit out in the world to experience that isn't the iPhone or anything from Oprah's Book Club.
Said good piece of shit: Joost! Granted, Joost + my life isn't new; I initially signed up to be an early beta a few months before my Cottey graduation (probably courtesy of Cameron Moll) and only got an invitation just as I was about to leave the land of wireless to partake in the land of dial-up. Obviously, I wouldn't be partaking in any sort of video-oriented gadgetry for a few months, but I still downloaded the program and promptly forgot about it. Months upon months roll around, and after doing the time-honored college tradition of spending hours whittling away productivity courtesy of YouTube, and I remember Joost -- mainly because I just uninstalled it. Going back to the website, I find all sorts of new and exciting things and download the new version of the program. Now, weeks later, and I'm making all sorts of channels and finding television shows I thought time forgot -- but I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Joost is attempting to be YouTube's sophisticated, legal cousin by only offering television shows that they've bought the rights to show and packaging them in a shiny, graphical format. "Big deal," I can hear you all saying, "so it's still video, and it's not like I have to install anything to watch YouTube, so why bother?" What's so attractive with Joost (other than knowing that none of these videos will be randomly pulled at a moment's notice) is its channel format. I do know that many people do have a series of clips organized into channels on YouTube, but for the random browser such as myself, I usually only search and find a stream of clips in a haphazard order for me to peruse from. With Joost, the main way to search is through channels, which guarantees a set of ready-to-watch episodes back to back. It doesn't hurt that Joost has already categorized said channels into whatever might tickle your fancy. Cartoons? Check. Documentaries? Check, check. Need to watch a few cooking channels? Head over to "Lifestyle." If you don't like the current episode you're watching, you can pull up a list of the episodes on the channels and jump ahead. It's also possible to look for individual episodes, although judging by format, it's not something that Joost has intended. But, that's not Joost's angle -- being more and more like a literal "television" is, even down to the animated graphic that deploys on the "power down" mode.
Another pull? There are shows on this thing that I never thought I'd see again. The caption image to the left that shows Joost's controls (which, yes Virginia, allows you to fast forward, pause, and all that jazz) is a clip from The Red Green Show, a Canadian import to public television that's a combination between Home Improvement and ... well, really, I'm not sure what else. Long gone from my local PBS station, I did a search for Red on a whim and was surprised when I saw he was in Joost's database. Other surprises -- The Tick (hurrah!), and although I wasn't exactly growing up with this show, an Australian cooking show entitled Dining Downunder. They even have the British soap opera Hollyoaks available to take a gander at, although there's other less "exotic" fare, such as various sport channels, VH1, and even some CBS. It's a combination of the channels you could probably get if you wanted and some things you could never quite dream of having inhabit your television set; if I, for example, were to actually get the exciting world of high-speed internet at my "permanent" house of residence, I could employ Joost for the exciting trappings of cable television that most people have on a regular basis. As is, with my current access to cable, Joost still provides me with programming I couldn't get anywhere else, which makes it an exciting prospect. Will there be new, just-for-Joost television series coming soon? It would certainly be an exciting prospect -- what if, say, Firefly were able to come onto the computer screen? An interesting (and perhaps overly fantastic) thought to ponder.
But, of course, nothing's entirely golden: Joost, in order to pay copyright fees, has commercials ahoy. There's at least a small insert in front of every episode that has a simple screenshot reminding you to persue Orbitz at your local grocery store or to get a sample of Hugo perfume. If your show is a standard-length 30-minute episode, there's a peppering of the same commercial that was mentioned before the beginning of the show with the only variable being that of length. There's also a small pop-up at the beginning of every commercial that is in the right-hand corner that fades away after about 30 seconds, but it's clear that Joost is having no issue in paying for its current service. Also, for those who are not rolling in the memory, it is a bit of a hog, so if that is ever an issue with programs, beware! I've also had issues with being able to log into the website, but considering that I've had no issue with logging into Joost proper, that is of little consequense. I've probably forgotten a ton of things (such as Joost's widgets), but since I'm being a gigantic walking informercial, I'd rather wrap this up as quick as I can and insist you try for yourself. After all, one of the other draws Joost and its team is trying to play on is that it's an interactive way to watch television with your friends -- but as I don't know anyone on this program yet, this is the opportune time to ask techies around to look up outrageouslyso on Joost and chat about certain channels or the like.
It's just so... shiny!
As I must break from precedent and speak of myself, a) the dog went and b) I really told myself I would not blog tonight, what with just being back from a plane ride and all and should be sleeping, but rules are made for pissing on, really.
The aforementioned vacation is actually quite wise to mention, because it is a perfect transition into the reason that I was writing this little entry so soon after my uneventful return to Indiana. During my stay in Flagstaff, I brought two knitting projects. One was a rather so-so baby blanket (which is more so-so due to size and color than pattern, but I am not going any farther) and the other was a Christmas kit of yarn and Cheryl Oberle's Folk Vests from Interweave Press. Part of the reasoning for this was that said Christmas kit was from my vacation hosts, but another part is that the intended pattern, Dineh Blanket Vest, looked to be the perfect introduction to colorwork.
Indeed, it has been; in fact, within the span of four days, I am almost done with the first half of the vest, but I digress. Folk Vests is an excellent book, if not for the patterns alone, although some of the pseudo(?)-anthropological quotes in the beginning of the chapters are quaint. My current pattern is actually one of the easier of the lot, for although there are a fair amount of take-it-easy vests in the book, including a piece simply entitled Garter Stitch and a sakitori series that is quite attractive, there is just as many vests that are riddled with intarsia, Fair Isle, and steeking techniques. For those who are following along at home, I did not mistype -- yes, Virginia, there is some steeking involved, and it's not just for the Scandinavian chapter, either. For those who are uninformed, steeking is a knitting technique in which you sew extra parts in a knitting project whose sole purpose is to be cut out of the sweater/vest/garment to make way for collars/sleeves/whatever the hole is designated to be. (As for the Scandinavia reference, my child, you shall have to Google -- but if you get it, brownie points! Sorry, I do not have brownies stage left. You are denied.) Still, Oberle's patterns are as clear as a lagoon, so even the most intimidating pattern seems to be workable and entertaining. Also, for those who love charts, this book is rife with everyone's favorite grid system -- and if you don't but are still interested, the book certainly teaches you to master the special art that is figuring out what all those damn crosses per row mean.
And my vest? Its right breast is very close to completion, with brother to be paired to it in the near future. The four days of busy work (and this, mind you, in the middle of shopping and doing vacation-y thing), I think, speaks for itself -- and this is despite being bequeathed a single-ply linen-viscose yarn for this project that, although soft and cuddly, not only has a tendency to pill but also to tear unexpectedly mid-knit. I suppose this proves to everyone that one should not judge a yarn based on feel alone.
At any rate, I must stop myself; cannot stay coherent to save my life. Perhaps this is the end of late-night blogging for Summer 2007? Cannot tell. Next on my list of blogging topics (if I manage to stay on-topic, that is) will be a certain sock book that my mother purchased and my second foray into footwear. Well, either that, or 43things, since it is cute.
When I had decided to reorganize and clean out my Vox, I had made an internalized promise to not get terribly personal about such matters on here any more. However, in order to explain today's little raving of excellence means that I must say something about myself -- or rather, not myself so much as a new roommate and friend of mine as of Christmas who goes by the name of Lucy.
I could've said a cute, anthropomorphic quip about how Lucy is intelligent, hilarious, athletic, etcetera, but the simple matter of fact that the cute photograph to the right has clued you, dear reader, in to is that Lucy is a Boston Terrier. All of the things that I said are true, of course: she learns quickly, has a tendency to lick anyone within an inch of his or her life, is amazingly strong for her size (which is altogether tiny), and has a penchant for tearing the stuffing out of plush animals. Of course, these are superfluous factoids and, as such, I must cut to the chase. Lucy is also ten months old. This would be just as superfluous, save for the fact that my father is quite busy with various business obligations and, as such, she would probably be stuck in a crate for 90% of the two weeks that I would be sunning myself in glorious Flagstaff, Arizona. And really, is that any way for a ten-month-old puppy to live? My mother and I thought not, so she is going to be flying to Arizona this Saturday.
Naturally, the entire affair of arranging doggy flights is fraught with complications. We're flying American Airlines instead of our usual Southwest, which apparently was a blessing in disguise; Southwest doesn't allow pets either in the cabin or the cargo bay unless they are wee service dogs. When one takes into consideration Southwest's determination to keep their fares low, this makes sense once you read information about what one must do to clear your pup for takeoff. Only seven pets may be in the cabin on a flight at any time, so one must make reservations. Even checked animals have a limit (but they can be booked on at the last minute; so fancy!). You have to have a certain pet carrier -- if you're going to check the animal, it better be in a crate that he or she can walk around in, and soft-sided carriers with mesh sides are a must for the cabin. There's temperature limits (which, by the by, makes me worried; are these only for checked animals, or will my Lucy be banned?), age limits (which make total sense), paperwork, rules against sedatives, and inter-carrier regulations. All of this just to ensure that a puppy won't be a little lonely for two weeks, to make sure that she'll be fed on time, let out regularly for bathroom breaks, and properly played with. What we'll do for love, right? Of course!
Obviously, being the anxious puppy aunt that I am (for technically, my sister is considered the nurturing mom, but my disagreement on this is for an article that I refuse to write here), I have been searching across the Internet for the types of frivolous obstacles that Lucy might have to deal with during her first adventure outside of Indiana. There's been the considerations for what she'll encounter in Flagstaff and what Flagstaff will have to encounter: I've ordered Lucy on baby booty watch to save my ninety year old grandmother from hazardous lacerations on her body, bought her a new collar and lead to prepare her for potty walks around the neighborhood, and started training exercises in anticipation for the chaotic social situations that she'll be encountering within the next week. But there's also the entire traveling issue, which has brought me to all sorts of websites that talk about what to do (and what not to do) with my pet. In my brief immersion into the pet-friendly subculture of America, not only did I find out what I should pack for Lucy, but it also got me to thinking: what is Lucy going to do when she has to go potty? American makes owners sign paperwork that insures that the animal has been fed within four hours of departure, so it isn't as if Lucy will be flying the friendly skies on an empty stomach. Not only will she be sloshing about with some sort of nutrition in her belly, but we also have a layover at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, which only has the explanation that all animals should stay shut in their kennels or bags and That is That. Sky Harbor International, on the other hand, is far more accomodating: they have not one, but two dog parks for traveling animals to relieve and revive themselves after a long flight to the Valley. In a way, it makes sense to me that Sky Harbor would have such accomodations; not only is Phoenix a go-to destination for wintering geriatrics who have a love affair with Scottsdale's golf courses, but Sky Harbor is -- and really, there is no other way to go about saying this -- fucking loaded. Miniature art galleries pepper the concourses with displays of native and contemporary pieces in large glass columns. Their food court is glorious. Of course they would enjoy hosting puppies, right? Right.
This will prove to be one of those educational adventures that I occasionally have -- well, that's if Lucy is even allowed to board. I suppose we'll all know whether she did or not when, upon my return to the Internet, whether I refrain from a bitchy scream of "MY GOD MY DOG HAD TO BE ALONE" or not. Time will tell, but I am crossing my fingers with the hope that Lucy will be seeing saguaro cacti by noon Pacific time on Saturday afternoon.
Although I adore my Art Appreciation professor (and, actually, need to write her some correspondence), any of the video days in her course was a bit of a gamble. There were Wallace and Grommit video days, which were filled with hilarity and claymation happiness, as well as wariness of penguins of any shape or size. There was also the Art:21 days, which can make one itch for a studio and anticipate the next visit to the closest gallery or contemporary art exhibit. Then, of course, there were Diane Arbus: A Biography days, in which crazy Doon children look back at you with gigantic hair and coke-filled voices and you wonder where in the hell the film is going. On top of that, there's the Maya Lin PBS Special day, where there is less about the art and more about odd questions that Bill Moyers wants to know the answers. Of course, the pinnacle of miserably tortured and frightening video days was when she brought out this strange movie involving two performance artists painted as patina-encrusted statues did nothing but sing a bizarre, vaudeville song while dancing like robots.
PBS, in its brilliant blitz of summer programs, has its token art special for the Summer 2007 season lined up and ready to go. Last year's was How Art Made The World, which made me love the Venus of Willendorf even more among other things which would take up another entry about PBS's star art show for the summer of 2006.
As if competing with the paintings (and sculpture) featured, The Power of Art's filming and editing style is fabulously stunning. The Caravaggio episode is edgy and gritty, with an anachronistic but rather fitting rock music cuing up just as Caravaggio saunters to the local pub to paint some son-of-bitch card sharps. Van Gogh has lilting instrumentals and an equal mix of saturated and dull frames to mirror Vincent's vicious mood swings. Picasso's episode, devoted exclusively to Guernica, had shrieking sound bites and an almost monochromatic color palette to mirror the horror of Spanish violence and the iconic black, white, and gray-all-over nature of the mural. Of course, there is the iconic opener to speak of. I say "iconic," you see, because it seems to pop up in every single PBS advertisment, graphic illustration, etcetera, that might even mention The Power of Art. Granted, it is gorgeous: flowing maroon ink, synched to Beethoven's Midnight Piano Sonata, with an eventual fade-to-black of both ink and background, leaving the title lingering in glowing white around the murky ink clouds. As I said, quite striking, but hard to appreciate when overused.
At any rate, one can only hope that this will soon be circulating around all sorts of art history or appreciation courses in all sorts of classrooms -- maybe then art will be seen as less boring and just a bunch of pretty and more about what people are trying to say, do, and be. Or, you know, at least some students might be entertained while waiting for the class to end, for God knows that not every person sitting in an art class is actually a major or anything.
I've hesitated writing about the books I have read recently, mainly because I've respected but haven't loved them. Although I do intend to write a respect article in concern of a very important -- but, I must add, not quite unto my tastes -- book later, I cannot quite bring myself to doing so quite yet. It is not my time yet to write both praises and frankness, for my little celebration log is, in terms of entries, very young. Also, I fear sounding stupid, for I feel that although I write and read with great voraciousness, it hardly seems fit that I should do critique and, furthermore, that I should feel myself fit to try; there is reason, after all, that I was not an English major, and it is mainly because of the critique. However, the next volume is such a piece, so excellent and beautiful in its nature, that I cannot stay quiet.
It is lucky that I'm an artist, for it is the distinct binder of Between the Bridge and the River's dust cover that attracted me to the volume at the library*. You cannot tell due to this photograph, but the same hand and foot that is featured on the front is in series as hand and foot get larger; presumably (and by "presumably," I mean "this is what happens visually"), both hand and foot are growing closer to the viewer/photographer due to some unforeseen condition. What piqued my interest was the author's identity. For those who are not obviously as up late as I tend to be in the summer evenings, Craig Ferguson enjoys the job of hosting a 'late-night television show on CBS, which, predictably, owns the "Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson" moniker. It airs after David Letterman and during Conan O'Brian, which means that I frequently do not view his show. However, when I was innocent to the charms of his Irish-American counterpart and his show was literally a baby, I saw his premiere episode and he is quite funny. However, after reading the most intriguing beginning, in which five clauses are stated in a mysterious, out-of-context manner, the unassuming novel pitched its case to me and it found itself to my tote and on the way home.
After devoting a good, solid three hours to this in the middle of the night, under a single lamp, I must say that this is possibly duelling with Catch-22 for my favorite book spot. In fact, I may have to (oh damn!) read the good old classic again just to see who is going to win. To say that this book is capable of doing extraordinary things is one thing, but to say what these extraordinariy things could be is quite another, so I will try my hardest to place its virtues upon a plate without sounding like an absolute ass. This will be difficult.
Between the Bridge and the River is a smart book -- that should be acknowledged first and foremost. It is not a simpering first novel from Ferguson the Talk Show Host Who Presses Buttons So That Animal Noises Come Out Occasionally. It is partially about Hollywood and television and what fame can do and what it cannot do and even a bit about Scientology, although I am sure that Ferguson would not tell you that. Of course, Between the Bridge and the River is about a lot of things, as it is about Life, which explains why it is a smart book: smart books are hardly about things that are not Life. However, it should be noted that smart books are rarely joyful books or celebratory books or happy books or funny books, and that is where Ferguson's first novel becomes such a precious commodity, because it is all those things. It is all those things and more, perhaps, but I would like you all to take that decision upon yourselves to make. It is not ashamed to have happy endings (for there are many) to smooth out the bitterness of some of its endings of its tales.
It starts with the tandem tale of two groups of two boys. The first, Fraser and George, are Glaswegians who were childhood friends. The second, Leon and Saul, are half-brothers from Atlanta. There are other characters, of course, who are important for each person's storyline, and they interweave in a particularly fascinating way, but not in the way where you look at the end and go, "Oh, wasn't that tied up neatly! Everyone is here at the end and it is fine!" It fits together, yes, but not in ways where you think that Ferguson wrote the book from the end to the beginning, since as I said before, there are many endings in this book (at least two, if you are not looking with a critical eye). Naturally, as time is wont to do, no one stays a boy long. Fraser and George, after a particularly awkward moment shown in the very first chapter, soon split, but in the very slow way that childhood friends are wont to do, as they feel obligated by chronological contact to stay together until there is finally honest reason to leave each other. Leon and Saul's physical travel through maturity (for a part of the entire point of the book is a travel to a maturity of some sort) takes half of their part of the book, but that is mostly because one must understand exactly why Leon and Saul are the way they are. Fraser and George are easy to encapsulate as to why they became the men they became within a few chapters, but Leon and Saul are the strange twisted creatures (or rather, Leon is sweet and somewhat dim-witted and Saul is the strange twisted creature) who help us learn about said Hollywood and all of that garbage that comes along with it, so they deservedly gain an explanation. Yet, I digress.
Although Fraiser, George, Leon, and Saul star in this story, they are hardly what the story is about. It would hardly gain anything to say that it is about Life again, so I will merely tell you what parts of Life it is about and then sound about as cryptic as the first page that I read: teleevangelism, the Scottish public school system, family, Carl Jung, death, the soul, sex, women and sex, men and sex, Miami, tabloids, Frank Sinatra, serial killers, bumblebees, witches, storytellers, Les Deux Magots, philosophy, porridge atoms, love, Munchauser by proxy, Las Vegas, sanitation for your convenience, moonshine, snake cults, hand jobs, blow jobs, boob jobs, jobs, obligation, vagrancy, cancer, death, gay Watutsi warrior gangster converts to God, acceptance, bad acid, messages from beyond the grave, coincidences, fate, digestive biscuits, fame, power, greed, religion, and belief.
Among other things, but I couldn't possibly put what this book is to words, which I suppose is a very ironic statement.
*Hurrah, by the way, for the great library! After ten years of suffering a great, self-inflicted exile, I have come back to my homeland and it has been sweet. To think that I was fearing not being able to pay a fine that did not exist!
Anthropologie LIVING: As most people are wont to do on the Internet, I have been spinning webs of wishful thinking in concern of apartment decorating solely based on the sweet furnishings provided by style store superstar Anthropologie. I was introduced to the website through a former acquaintance's great appreciation of the store's gorgeous dresses (for which I have, and always will be, a total sucker for), and the Living section is just as filled to the brim with decadent and fantastic creations for everything from the bed to the kitchen. (The kitchen things, incidentally, were what kept me at this section for hours; as a result of my impending apartment-ship in August at nouveau alma-mater, I have been sniffing around for cute flatware sets and a frilly china set to match.)
Admittedly, the bathroom section is a bit lackluster/granny-esque: the $98 shower curtains are attractive but nothing to write back about, and the soap dishes are... well, there is a reason why "granny-esque"' is in the descriptors. Great finds there would include the bath rugs and the vanity effects (especially as, as I said, you are into granny chic, which I am not a personal fan of; also, I am not a fan of vanities and bottling suspicious and possibly asthmatic-inducing concoctions to spray into my face). Urban Outfitters, who are pretty fabulous in their own right, handle this stuff better -- and without spending into the three-digit range on shower curtains.
For those who are not as devoted to the culinary arts as I am (and, therefore, not entranced by tea sets and tablecloths), I would suggest going for their Decorating section alone. Highlights include the lighting section, which contains a loft lamp that reminds me eerily of Ikea offerings and a kaleidoscope of desk lamps that defy description. Also, chandeliers (are hilarious). The Window Treatment area is cheerful and cheering, for yes Virginia, curtains do not have to be something from Bed, Bath, and Beyond that looks vaguely as if a bolt of linen mated with my great-great-grandmother's parlor wallpaper. (I must interject, of course, and say that I do not hate Bed, Bath, and Beyond; to the contrary, as 98% of my bedroom furnishings are from such a place. However, I am not ready and willing to buy window treatments from such a place. However, pots and pans? Game.)
I suppose that, if I suddenly win the lottery and am able to pay off every single dime of my college debt and thus am able to use my paycheck solely for fancy interests, I would decorate my townhouse in a tidy, gentrified urban area with anything Anthropologie. If only idle dreams could pay a dollar towards Wells Fargo!
Also, as a last remark: hurrah for the "first" entry for the blog that is actually a blog! (Next might be an analysis on Holy Cow! or a James Bond book... or even The Book of Dave, but that won't be pretty.)
In other news, I've finally compiled my portfolio for the past three semesters -- which, honestly, is quite the feat. It's actually all in my dear grandmother's honor, as it is her ninetieth birthday present (which is sadly belated). It never occured to me that she's never seen my art, but considering that it is quite difficult to heave portfolios on cross-country trips, I simply haven't had anything on hand to show. I like the way that it's turned out, and I'll probably leave the format I have now to turn into other schools in case they're in need of it. I hope that the creative energy that I've had from being so productive flows into my independent study tomorrow, for I've been sorely lacking for inspiration since I stopped with my portfolio assemblage. The more and more I actually get closer to doing things like sketches of garments and possibly making something, the more I think that the clothing thing just isn't right. Good thing that I put down visual communications as my first choice at Purdue. (The real chore is to see if it's actually the right school.)
Apparently, I shall be en Paris in about seventeen or eighteen days. This has still not sunk in that I will be across an ocean. I feel strangely deadpan compared to my compatriots. As they say across the pond, c'est la vie.
ETA: I remember what the sudden spur was -- I heard Starlight on the radio! It was happy! :)
Portage, Indiana has a cuss jar whose proceeds give to charity. The reason I share the link is that I find it funny that the CBC decided to pick up the story in an "Oddities" section of their website. Places all around Mooresville do shit like this all the time, except the proceeds go to the Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis instead of the hospital up in Chicago. I guess we just like donating change an awful lot.
So, I guess Quebec is one step closer to separating from the Great White North. Even more interesting, it seems like a lot of people who frequent the CBC website think it's shite. Now, I'm not much of a Canadian political analyst, but I'm reading these comments and it sounds like there's going to be a lot of sour milk over this sort of action. There's people saying that the Quebequois should be ashamed for alienating other provinces that are "just as special," others saying that they don't even know what "nation" means in context of what people said of the vote, and the ever-popular, "Who the hell is even Quebequois in the first place?"
Although, I have to say that this quote in particular is probably one of the more ridiculous (and not at all representative of what most of the commentary is, might I add):
I congratulate the people of Quebec for their patience, decency, and civilized manner in which they achieved their long dream.
Quebec should be held up as a model to all the world.
Talking and negotiating is the most civilized way to achieve dreams rather than murder, meyhem and other buggery and blood-letting. I admire and love the French culture in Quebec.Now, how can we get Texas and the South out of the Union without another trajic war of independence.
Maybe the Zionists would be better off following Quebec's example rather than using their Babylonian Talmudic ways to create enemies.Thank You
Texas, were you wanting to secede from the Union again? I mean, I know that y'all are distinctly Texan and whatnot, but I had no clue you wanted to leave!
Anyway, this shit is weird.