You're Killing Me

With Kitkat's internet prowess, Fauntleroy and I never long to be informed of the latest and greatest trends in all things pop-culture. And quite often beyond. Melancholia and one very odd zombie pilot aside, we have rarely been led astray.

He was bang on the money with AMC's The Killing. Based on a Danish series, it chronicles the murder of Rosie Larsen. The first season was suspenseful, stressful, action packed and really first rate. Well, with the exception of a completely irrelevant episode about Sarah Linden's (lead homicide detective) son Jack.

That's the first sign that a TV series is being drawn out rather than getting to the point. Think about the entire second season of LOST. For the most part, those back stories were pointless.

From the sounds of this, you might think I spend a lot, in fact too much time, watching TV. I can unequivocally say that I do not. I don't even have cable and get a whopping 3 channels. I did however have a nighttime soap addiction growing up, and I think The Killing needs to learn a couple things from some of it's more successful predecessors. 

They have clearly learned the art of the cliffhanger from Dallas. Spoiler alert! Darren Richmond getting shot was no "who shot JR?" as we saw who did it. Following that up with the picture from the bridge though, now that was good. 

However, the rate at which the show is making any and all characters the prime suspect seems to be putting them on a slippery slope to the 1985 - 1986 "dream" year of Dallas and we ALL know what happened after that. Or, as they call it in the business, The Killing is starting to jump sharks.

The other parallel I will draw is to the much hyped and fantastic first season of Twin Peaks. Piper Laurie and Sherilyn Fenn, enough said. The entire first season had everyone on the edge of their seats, coffee and cherry pie in hand, questioning "who killed Laura Palmer?"

By the end of the first season though, Joan Rivers correctly answered that question on her talk show with "who cares?"

Who killed Rosie Larsen? Let's just put us all out of our collective misery, copy Twin Peaks, and say it was her father. Done.

Kitkat, your my monkey and you'll dance when I tell you to dance, now dance! Or find me something else to watch on Thursdays.

Pseudo Jefferson

I'm not so much 'moving on up to the east side' as I'm 'moving on over to the east end.' That's right, this boy is pulling up stakes and moving to the Beach. Those in the know call it the "beach" and not the "beaches"; that label is used by those I now drolly call 'out of towers.'

My heart, and soul, will certainly miss my friends at the Dollhouse and of course Fauntleroy and Kitkat. But as I sit here listening to Victoria Day celebrations going on a little too long, and watch the neighbourhood hoodlums actually chase each other with fireworks alight in their hands, shooting them at each other, a certain part of me is not so sad to leave.

Don't get me wrong, at hoodlum age, running amuck with handheld explosives would have indeed seemed a fine idea. I'm sure, as was the natural course of events, Mr. Tufts would have called the police and we would have either hid on the school roof or under Mr. Spencer's hedge, adrenaline pumping and fits of giggles ensuing.

As I flutter about packing my good dishes, Royal Doulton's Alice pattern, I feel a little like Prissy in Gone With the Wind as she prepares for departure from Atlanta. Excuse the Martha Stewart reference in the clip, it's the only one I could find but you get the gist of the situation. I really could do without the stress. I've labeled my boxes of fragile items with "To be moved by Robert only" to save us all any added stress. If I move it an break it, I have no one to blame but myself.

If this had been my first year of seeing 30 or more of these hooded figures running about in the dark I would be more concerned. As it is year 5, it's par for the course and part of the "spice" of my little slice of New Toronto.

I doubt however that I shall miss it very much. I like fireworks as much as the next girl, but having them zing onto my wooden deck and zoom across my front porch (scorching my hydrangea) does not bode well for a good night's sleep.

As I prepare to nod off, I shall prepare a list of things I won't miss about the neighbourhood in the hopes of offsetting the loneliness that will surely come from moving away from such close friends:

1. Finding a pry bar in my front garden - about a week after my neighbour was broken into. Coincidence? 
2. Finding knives in the same front garden. That's correct, plural. Granted one was the previously blogged about gay blade, so at the very least a good story. The other one, a rather large kitchen knife. 
3. Pitbull attack. Thankfully NOT plural.
4. Having a large muddy boot print left on my front door. In the middle of the night. What? Forgot your pry bar a**hole? 
5. Carolling Carol. I have no idea what her real name is, perhaps I should have asked, but as she can't sing and I always feared she was casing my place (and not really raising money to buy Christmas 'gifts') I preferred the polite 'no thank you' path and a closing of the door as I pressed various buttons on my alarm system.

That averages to one not so delightful event a year (6 if you count each knife incident as a single, but why split hairs?) which in the grand scheme of things is not so bad. I only hope in my new home I don't get have my door kicked in by a knife wielding, pit bull owning, pry bar leveraging singer because that would just not be fair.

So Wrong. Again. X 2

You may well wonder why I was at the SilverCity in Newmarket. Why I would go north of the 401 really is just as much a mystery, but the answer is really quite simple - I am a good friend.

My friend Momo and I had planned, after far too long a gap, an outing where we could catch up and hang out. Her being in Barrie and my being in Toronto does not allow for "drive by / quick drop-in" visits. About 3 weeks ago we laid down the law, picked a "no one can back-out" date and that is how I ended up in Newmarket. Meeting half way is most civilized.

Circumstances beyond anyone's control resulted in her 3 kids joining us. I have to say that Boston Pizza must be the best friend of parents everywhere! For less than $7 they get a drink, a meal, dessert AND colouring books that keeps them entertained, and from what I could see, quite content. LSC had previously told me about her kids fondness for BP, but to see it in action was fascinating.

It helps that she has 3 well behaved kids to start with, but you put a mini pizza shaped chocolate in a mini pizza box and you have the holy grail of child control. Amazing.

So what then was 'so wrong?' The Pirates - Band of Misfits. That's what was so wrong. We paid more for the movie and snacks than we did for lunch, WITH mini pizza chocolate, and the dessert was more entertaining.

For the sake of the children, for I am always thinking of others, especially wee precious children for they are our greatest resource, I guffawed on cue in all the right places. Despite my efforts, Momo and I could only grant this slice of celluloid a 3 out of 10.

The other critics in our crew, were far more generous with scores of 6.5 - 8. No accounting for taste I suppose.

Speaking of taste, I experienced something even more disturbing than the movie, that validated my fear of the burbs and all things north of the 401. I deliberately didn't eat much at lunch knowing full well I wanted popcorn in the theatre.

Once the kids were parked in their seats, Momo took orders and we hit the snack bar. What could possibly go wrong leaving 3 youngsters in a theatre? Alone? Without parental supervision? Nothing apparently. They were all still there when we got back and none of them were bleeding or crying.

Loaded down with various sour candies, liquorice and water, I told you they were good kids, come on, water? At a movie? Really? we went back in just as the previews were starting. Perfect timing. Having ordered a large popcorn, we all started chowing down.

I only had a couple pieces and Momo said "is there butter on that?" I said I thought there was, for the record, NOT ordered, and headed back to the concession stand. Luckily there was no line and I got the girl I had ordered from.

Explaining I didn't want butter, she apologized and said she would replace it. What I didn't realize was that she meant 'replace' in the literal sense. She took the bag that had been pawed at by 3 sets of, what Fauntleroy would call "sticking jam hands," and put it back in the little warmer fridge thing where the pre-filled bags live and handed me another.

"ummmm, we've eaten out of the other one" I said. "Oh that's okay, I'll top it up for the next person that wants butter" was her chipper response. Her smile was so alarming I just backed away from her.

Don't get me wrong, I convinced myself that the second bag was nice and fresh and no one else had had it strapped to their face like a feedbag and ate more than my share. But I have to admit, I did let the kids eat the top third.