The Cheeseblog

I wondered why the CBC page that reported the new (improved! sucking up! not gonna help!) Liberal Budget included a picture of the Finance Minister holding some running shoes.

Perhaps he is being chased out of town? I hoped. But no. My invaluable resource, Co-worker A, told me it’s a tradition that the finance minister wears new shoes on budget day. And I said, “YOU LIE!” but he said no and I went to the internet and it’s true!

So now I know what to be when I grow up: A Finance Minister! New shoes every year! Maybe I need to be several Finance Ministers.

I am sorry because I can already see your faces, before I type what I am going to type.

But work with me: it’s Valentine’s Day and also, it’s V-Day, which leads me to Eve Ensler, which naturally puts me in mind of vaginas and then this morning I realized that if one were to re-write the words for “Lady Madonna” to “Hairy Vagina” it would be a great protest song (Hairy Vagina, children at your feet…) and since then I haven’t been able to get the tune out of my head, which is fine, but I just realized that one could also sing “Sweet Hairy Vagina” to the tune of “Sweet Home Alabama” (Well, I hope Neil Young will remember; southern man don’t need you around, anyhow) and now I realize I may have gone too far and even farther by posting it here on the internet for all to see, so to all those readers who may now be too squeamish to come back, I’ll miss you and to all the others, including those with hairy vaginas, raise your glasses in glee and sing along:

Sweet Hairy Vagina,
Curly hair flying free,
Sweet hairy vagina,
You belong to only me.
Hee
Hee
Hee.

I cannot look away from the 47th annual Grammy Awards. So much to learn. Apparently it is the 50th anniversary of Rock and Roll, Jimmy Page is disguised as a Asian? man, Los Lonely Boys (who?) just won an award for the aforementioned song about Heaven and later, Lynyrd Skynyrd is going to play.

My only concern is that I might not have enough wine.

Queen Latifah looks beautiful.

I heard somewhere today that this year’s awards weren’t going to have any nakedness. But I’m pretty sure I saw the pooty of Gwen Stefani. Naked hotty pooty.

And! I saw the tonsil of Alicia Keys. She’s really singing AND she sounds good, unlike the Black Eyed Peas and Maroon 5.

Listening to Alicia Keys and Jamie Foxx sing Georgia on My Mind made me google it. And that’s when I found 50 States dot Com, where each state has its own entry and you can look up all the state songs. Check out the state song of New Hampshire (the Granite State):

With a skill that knows no measure,
From the golden store of Fate
God, in His great love and wisdom,
Made the rugged Granite State;
Made the lakes, the fields, the forests;
Made the Rivers and the rills;
Made the bubbling, crystal fountains
Of New Hampshire’s Granite Hills.

Old New Hampshire, Old New Hampshire
Old New Hampshire Grand and Great
We will sing of Old New Hampshire,
Of the dear old Granite State

I’d listen to the MIDI but Bono is on about something. Didn’t U2’s drummer used to be really sexy? Do they have a replacement drummer?

What. Is. J-Lo. Wearing.

And why is there no subtitling in this duet between Jennifer and her “partner in song and in life” Marc Anthony? They are singing in Spanish. They could be relaying their favourite recipes for cheesecake and I wouldn’t know. Escapemano? Wha?

I wonder if the guy from Green Day will ever get an eyeliner endorsement deal. He deserves one.

Billie Joe Armstrong is Love God

Here is everything you need to know about “Sweet Home Alabama.” Apparently there are people who prefer “Free Bird.” I prefer Aimee Mann singing “Sweet Home Alabama” like she did in Vancouver a couple of years ago, but I suspect it will be a very chilly day in hell when she next appears at a Grammy show.

The official state song of Alabama contains this verse:

Where the perfumed south-wind whispers,
Thy magnolia groves among,
Softer than a mother’s kisses,
Sweeter than a mother’s song,
Where the golden jasmine trailing,
Woos the treasure-laden bee,
Alabama, Alabama, we will aye be true to thee!

Queen Latifah sings like a treasure-laden bee. Queen Latifah wins this whole night. The End.

PS: Ricky Martin: “It took me 15 years to become an overnight sensation. But it’s OK. It’s not about my sensations, it’s about the sensations of other people.”

PPS: and plus, Alicia Keys won an award and she’s wearing a dress like the one J-Lo was wearing…all low cut and pretty on the top and then a big wide sash around the waist & hips, and enough material flowing to the ground so’s it’s like curtains.

PPPS: Coming up? A Janis Joplin tribute and a Tsunami Aid sing-a-long.

Someone recently told me my blog wasn’t as cool as some other blog because I had fewer pictures. When the last tissue had soaked up the last of my tears I frantically sorted through my many folders of photos. Here are some. Am I cool now? Is my blog cool now?

The Guy Across the Street is in his kitchen, looking out at traffic. His giant penis – sorry, TV – is broadcasting golf. The way the daylight is shining, the talking heads on the TV look like life-size people in his apartment. Maybe he did the math and realized it would be cheaper to buy a big TV and have life-size people talking to him than it would be to go out and actually meet real live people who might want to talk to him. Or maybe he likes having the option of turning them off. Sometimes I wish I had that option on my People Remote Control.

I can’t belch. Never have been able to. My cousin once belched the alphabet and I was very jealous. My dad can belch but he never taught me how. And now I fear it is too late to learn.
The catt hid under the coffee table last night, scared of all the party voices but not scared enough to go to another room. People enticed him from beneath the table using kibbley kitty treats and fingers smeared with hummus. Today, the catt is five pounds heavier and he has no problem belching.

Sometimes you don’t know how much you want something until it’s on your finger, speaking to you in a gravelly voice, telling you to shape up, be nice, wear clean socks and give away your excess possessions. I am ever so glad it’s saturday because the voice is really scaring me.

So I watched The Making of America’s Next Top Business Shark this morning while I ate my breakfast cupcakes. Not sure if the Shocker everyone was referring to in this episode was the unleashing of the rabid homophobe or the equally pathetic performances on the task. Either way, the guy with the body wash on his face totally belongs in the Archive of Inadvertant Bukkake.

I don’t advise eating at Rooster’s Quarters on Denman St. in Vancouver. Unless “Montreal Style Rotisserie Chicken” means chicken with skin the texture of a stale cracker and flavour that is made good by the Tabasco in the gravy, I don’t think the experience was authentic. Plus, my whole life I’ve been hearing about poutine and the glory that lies therein? We paid extra for the poutine instead of regular fries and all it was was fries with more Tabasco gravy and five cheese curds tossed in for colour. Saint Aardvark enjoyed his pot pie but he enjoys anything in pie form so take that endorsement with a grain of pie.

Pie!

It is the year of the rooster, so maybe it’s a bad time to eat them.

I found out today that Rick Cluff is a Tiger, as am I, which explains our many combative interactions. Oh, I am not imagining these interactions. I really do shout and growl at the radio in the morning. Don’t you want to come over to my house?

Well, if you do and you live in the 604, give me a dingle, by which I mean email, or perhaps leave a comment, as we’re having a birthday housewarming rooster wine and probably cake party on Friday the 11th.