I was asked today to have my picture published, along with my answer to a survey question, in the Metro paper, and spontaneously answered “No way, too shy, sorry”. As I walked away I remembered that I was on the improv team in high school, jello wrestled in Cegep and have a cartoon of myself in a purple latex bustier on this site, for the universe to see.

Getting wise old, Jo?

New study shows Videogamers are normal.

(via Jason)

We’re expanding. If you know any experienced videogame programmers or artists (especially console-experienced) looking for new challenges, drop a comment here.

Warning, I’m about to totally geek out here.

I love the Daredevil comics. In high school, the tragic story of Daredevil and Elektra was my first taste of how great comics could be. Elektra’s life is a series of horrendous events that eventually drive her to becoming a savage ninja assassin, and the enemy of her love, Daredevil. I always imagined the two would reunite, but instead, she ultimately gets fatally stabbed, only to drag herself to his place and die in his arms. It’s absolute fromaaaahge, but to a teenage girl, it was as powerful as a story about superheroes could be.

Daredevil, the movie that came out two years ago, was craptacular, everyone knows that. The filmmakers could have made LOTR and they still wouldn’t be breaking even karmatically as far as I’m concerned. There was nothing dark, tormented or tragic about Elektra, and she was completely miscast. Jennifer Garner was cute (and this is not a good thing here), and had none of the sheer “kickassabilty” of Elektra.

So for the longest time I’ve only been vaguely aware that there’s a movie coming out about my favorite comic “villainness”, but recently pictures of Garner as the new Elektra have started popping up all over. And I have to say, something about the way they got her to look, just like in the comics, has tapped into some buried part of my 80s psyche, and I find myself guiltily looking forward to the piece of putrid crap this movie is sure to be. I’ll probably go by myself wearing shades and a scarf over my head. And I’ll do penance and cleanse my soul by seeing Hotel Rwanda right after.

Well, you know, so far.

- Kickass blogger outings: As if the first Yulblog meeting of the year wasn’t fantastic enough, many of my favorite Montreal bloggers, old and new, went out for some winter fun on Saturday night. Screaming at the top of our lungs, frozen cheeks, stargazing, Martine screaming with laughter like a little girl, her face covered in tears. Having the whole group holding on to each other for a perfect all-together run, and noticing at the end that Nika’s been dragging behind on her stomach, desperately hanging on at arm’s length while the whole mountain’s snow has stuffed her face’s every orifice. Then reclining cozily by fireside in a happy pile of bodies, high on Chartreuse and hot chocolate. Yummm. Anétime guys!

- Develop a positive addiction, or Pooch n’ Boots: Discovered the sheer, undiluted pleasure of running on Mount Royal on the weekends. Comet, with her frozen paws, begged to differ on Saturday, but I bought her shoes on Sunday morning and that day’s run was rapture for us both. Yes, I’m now that person who buys her dog shoes. But dammit, it helped! And while I’m at it, I’m now also that person who adds a turtleneck to the sweater she knitted her dog this fall. There, I said it. What’s that? Oh, look, I’ve got something in my pocket for you…

- The single life: Is treating me well. I see more people, have way more time to myself. Smell the roses all the more. I’m surprised to be enjoying my own company. It seems to be treating him well too. Well, nothing wrong with that.

- Putting on my game face: Six perfectly productive, happy days at work (and counting), interspersed with just the healthy amount of on-the-job vegging and chatting.

And how’s it been with you, dear readership?

This morning when I got to my car, I found it had been trapped in several feet of hard snow boulders by the city plow. Not exactly an unusual sight, and with a resigned sigh, I got to work shovelling it out.

But I had to get to work quickly, having many things to do today. Also, there was a lot of snow around the car, and my shovel was crap. So for the first time in several winters, I was almost decided to leave the car where it was and cab it to work.

And that’s when it happened. Three fifty-something Frenchmen came out of the restaurant on the other side of the street and caught sight of me with my crappy little plastic shovel, slowly working away at the mountain of ice.

“What are you doing?” one asked in a Marseilles accent. “You’ll never get out of there!”

I shot them the meanest possible look I could muster. On a morning where I need a shovel to go to work, that can get quite evil. I’m sure local TV sets registered a bit of static right at that moment.

I got back into the car and tried again to get out. No dice. I grimly resumed shovelling.

Another Marseilles man joined them from the restaurant. “Look at the crazy woman”, they said to him. “It’s hilarious. She thinks she’s going to get out of there!”

Now, you understand the taxi was no longer an option. This was a matter of national pride. There was more winter-busting fight in this Canadian chick than in all those fat, sun-kissed idiots combined. Did these golden Riviera-dwellers really think they knew more about winter than me? Oh no, the gloves were off. (And, as I became increasingly warmed up by the workout, the scarf and hat too).

I went through several cycles of shovelling then spinning the wheels, and the Frenchmen, whose numbers had now grown to around seven, went through several cycles of taunting and chuckling. With each cycle, I knew I inched closer to freedom, and they thought I inched closer to defeat.

When I was done shovelling, two Québécois guys walked by, witnessed the situation and immediately got to pushing, without even asking. I breezed out of the now-cleared snow. I was soaked in sweat, about 40 minutes late, completely dishevelled but God damn it, my country’s honor was safe.

Je vous aime. Entre les moments occupés aujourd’hui, je me surprends à rire sans trop savoir pourquoi. Je pense à l’une ou l’autre de nos nombreuses conneries (énumérées en partie chez M. Hippo) et je m’étouffe sur mon café.

Merci à vous tous d’exister.

(Un merci spécial à mes amis d’ailleurs qui ont fait l’effort spécial de se pointer. J’espère que vous vous êtes amusés!)

Lately, I haven’t been turning on the TV at all unless I have a really good reason to do so. One of the reasons why this is a little easier than usual is the absence of hockey. I love the game, but I’m proudly doing quite well without it, thank you very much.

Someone told me yesterday that the deadline for resolving the conflict is January 18th. I don’t know if that’s true, but in any case, why that day? Because if it resumed any later, they couldn’t fit the season into the remaining time?

Well, I think someone’s just not thinking outside the box.

They could have the hockey season in the summertime, couldn’t they? Imagine watching the playoffs with sangria in hand, fresh from a Jazz fest concert. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’d follow because I care about the game or anything. But I might watch… You know, just to see millionnaires having to work during the fair season.

And even if we absolutely needed to keep the serious business of our national game separate from our fluffy summer entertainment, there are alternatives to scrapping the season. Maybe we could just have the playoffs? Boil the season down to one big-ass round-robin. That would still take too much time? Get rid of that pesky 5-in-7 business. One loss and you’re out. Or maybe they could reduce the games to one period. Something! You know, for those people who care about that sort of stuff. Still not enough time for playoffs? I know! Have just one big shootout. Wouldn’t that be cool!? You know, for the children. I’m thinking of those poor children.

It’s not like I’m in withdrawal or anything. But maybe a yearly season of hockey Tourette’s is part of what keeps me sorta sane.

It’s a gorgeous day, and tonight is the night when bloggers meet. I couldn’t ask for much more.

When you leave the TV off all evening.

You cook your meals for the whole week, from three different world cuisines.
You take the dog for a run.
You do the groceries and cleaning.
You play the guitar.
You read.
You catch up with non-blogger friends.
You get to bed at a reasonable hour.

An afterthought: I know I should never feed her human food, but if I reward myself for the run with a little Cherry Garcia, shouldn’t Comet, for whom the run was probably four times as long, get some too?