Breakfast: Yes or No?

This morning on my way to work they were handing out Coffeemate beverages outside the skytrain station. I believe the sign said: “Coffeemate: Try it once!” or something. There was a guy on those skates with bouncy soles, pogo-ing with extreme excitement. People tried to hand me things. And there was “Whoop whoop whoop!” music playing from a ghetto blaster (are they still called that?) Everyone was all bouncy with Coffeemate because it was 8 am and if someone’s handing you Coffeemate, odds are there’s coffee involved and YAY free coffee!

Marketing is simple, really, and I don’t just think that because I watch the Apprentice. Find out what people want and offer it to them. They will follow you. Well, except people like me. I think Coffeemate is disgusting and would prefer, mm, cottage cheese in my coffee. Obviously I am not their market.

Here’s the thing about Carole James. I really really hope the NDP wins the provincial election on May 17th. But they’re not going to. I get this twitchy feeling that Gordo is going to win despite my bird poop and condo-spit luck ** because he stands for something, even if it is heinous, mean and false. Carole is going to lose because she is leading a campaign against Gordo, not a campaign for herself.

I’m sure she has a powerful message, but someone seems to be advising her not to express it. Let it go, Carole! It’s not rocket science. Make promises with compelling language, make strong statements for yourself and your ability to lead, shake your fists with rage, campaign as though you had no giant bear standing over your shoulder licking his chops. The people of BC already know how to react to Gordo – they’ve had 4 years to practise. They don’t want to vote him in again but if they aren’t offered a better alternative, they will, if only to get the fucking “Golden Decade” song out of their heads.

(Yeah, you heard me. Do yourself a favour and DON’T seek it out. I just now got it out of my head with strenuous mixed CD therapy.)

Damn that NDP. They’re like abused puppies. You want to love them but it’s so much WORK.

** t’other night, walking up Pender at around 8:30, the now-familiar whizzzz of something hitting my hair. “Did another bird just poop on me?” I asked. “Er, no, not a bird…” said Saint Aardvark as he wiped my head with a tissue.
“Not a bird?”
“Not a bird.”
He waited until it was all out to tell me it was spittle. SPITTLE. What the fuck is wrong with people? Spitting out the windows of their Coal Harbour condos when they know full well there are people below? Yo, if you’re at home in your million dollar apartment, spit in the potted plants like a civilized monkey.