Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Fighting crazy with crazy

So there's this group called "Anonymous" and they're planning some kinda worldwide anti-Scientology rally on February 10th. I'm certainly not a fan of Scientology, but I'm not convinced it's a good idea to oppose crazy, hateful actions with an equally crazy and hateful reaction:

a few thoughts:

--I'm pretty sure that Stephen Hawking narrated this clip.

--"Anonymous" is a pretty boring name for a group of people who "must bring light to the darkness". How about something catchier, like "The Darkness Lighters"? Hiring a copywriter wouldn't hurt the Cause, you know. I happen to be available at present.

-- If you want people to join in your opposition to a big bunch of fucking creeps, maybe you shouldn't be such a big fucking creep about it.

-- The weather cinematography in this clip is really quite lovely, but it doesn't persuade. I would have preferred some highly stylized Thetan killin'. And maybe some 'splosions.

-- When they're done with the Scientologists, maybe Anonymous could put some of that youthful energy to work on American Idol or Rachel Ray? Because "the eyes of the public have slumbered far too long" with that shit, too.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Rocketradio: now with 60% more blogging!

Well, I have just embarked on my second job hiatus in 4 months. Apparently, I was not the droid they were looking for, so I was sent packing from my day job. That means Dr. Cliff Arnall was only off by one day when he said that Monday is the worst day of the year. Actually, Cliff - it was Tuesday, but close enough! I must concede your Crazy Math is quite solid after all.

So I'm back to designing websites and making low budget porn from Rocketstudio HQ. And not a minute too soon, friends! Oh, how I have missed the panic and frustration of not knowing how I was going to pay the bills! It keeps me so real.

But my devastating personal loss is your window to a world of fresh entertainment during a winter without writers! I've got 3 months of material saved up for just such an occasion, and since the majority of my regular readers:

a) have retired,
b) have been committed to a home,
c) "had to leave town real quick",
d) became too popular to be seen with the likes of me,
e) have minimal time available for reading stupid blogs,

... I felt the time was right for a makeover. Hope you like the fresh new 'do.


If you're in the Toronto area, you can catch The Scandelles in Who's Your Dada? at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre from Jan 24-Feb 9 (click on flyer for details) I took these pics from the preview show last night and it's a fucking awesome show.

I apologize to those of you who are reading this at work. Some of these are probably not safe if you're workin' for The Man.

Fight the Power! More blatant disregard for workplace internet safety on my Flickr page!

Monday, January 21, 2008

Blue Monday

According to British "psychologist" Cliff Arnall's calculations, January 21st is supposed to be "the saddest day of 2008". He even came up with a mathematical formula for the most depressing day of the year, which he calls the Blue Monday Formula:

1/8w + (D-d) 3/8 x TQM x NA

CBC news reports: "At the behest of the British travel industry, Arnall devised a Blue Monday formula that calculates factors such as weather, debt, time passed since Christmas, failed New Year's resolutions, low motivation and the need to take action."

Really, Cliff? People get all fucking depressed in January? And it's because they're all fat and broke and living in a Frozen Darkness that Knows No End? That IS a bombshell!

However, I heard that Americans have the day off today. I dunno, something to do with MiLK. I personally don't believe that any day off work can possibly be "the worst day" of any given year, but I guess that's just how I roll. Maybe if I was lactose intolerant, it really would be the worst day of 2008.

Anyways, while Cliff was making up Crazy Math on his fancy calculator in order to explain why people with so much wealth and privelege are complaining about their miserable little lives, I was leading the fight against the S.A.D. with a Special Formula of my own. Before today, I was calling it "vodka and cough syrup on the rocks with a Vicodin chaser", but I must admit, it really does sound a lot cooler when you name it after a New Order song, so now I'm calling my formula: "Bizarre Love Triangle".

happy January 21st!

Friday, January 18, 2008

Hilarious group action

I'm not usually into gang-blogs, but this one really made me laugh:

I peed a little... "we think this shit is funny"

hott Todd of Death Wore a Feathered Mullet,
8-word maestro Steve Caratzas,
the outrageous MsHellion,
and many more...

It's a perfect storm of comedy.


and speaking of comedy,...I'm going to a comedy club tonight with a group of friends. I hate these places, because they tend to remind me of Lucy the Unfunny Comedienne, but it sure beats running outta shit to talk about after 45 minutes. I'm pretty much expecting that everyone on stage will be a lot less funny than my daily dose of Grant Miller, Pistols, or Todd. Which begs the question: why the hell are you guys givin' it away for free?

My Sasquatch Friday

The Talented Mr. McCleary over at Top Superstar Studios has been a very busy doodler over the past few months, which means he's still alive, thank goodness. I get worried whenever I hear a wave of Sasquatch reports from the B.C. interior. It usually means Rob got out of the house. Again.

Anyways, I love his fabulous drawings and hopefully someday soon, you and your kids will love his first book.

Friday afternoon is the perfect time to hang out at the Starlight Dreamvision Academy...

Monday, January 14, 2008

Shocking revelations from a broad


In France, Pépé lePew is not French. He's Italian. He's called "Pépé le Putois" which means "Pepe the Polecat" and not "Pepe the Cunt", as I had originally hoped, because "putois" seemed like a cool word I might like to start calling people I don't like. As in: "suck on this, Poo-twah!" According to my sister-in-law, the French don't see themselves as being smelly, relentless pussy-chasers. That's Italian territory, merci beaucoup.


I bought a pack of strawberry flavoured chewing gum called "STYLE by Hollywood" because I loved the way it looked, and the name made me laugh. And sure enough, just like Style in Hollywood, the packaging was super cool -- it folded out like a cigarette case, with individually wrapped pieces the size and shape of Trident (old school, not the bubble pack tablet things) . And once again, just like Hollywood, I was enraptured by the initial Frankenberryesque flavour of the gum, only to spit it out in disgust 2 minutes later when it turned to tasteless rubber in my mouth.


<---- "putois"


And apparently to suggest such a thing in certain company is très gauche.

I would be quite flattered if someone thought my President could fly.

Vote Zod in '08!


His name is Christophe Willem and he sings like a girl.

I think he might have sold me a PS3 at Best Buy last year.

Hey, he's really going places...good for him!

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Mountain Moonshine dance party avec les Bouilleurs de cru

Two weeks ago, I spent the day skiing at Les Brasses, a small ski station in the French Alps, just south of Lake Geneva in Haute Savoie. My 4 year-old nephew learned to ski for the first time that day, and after 2 hours, he was already better than his tired old alcoholic Auntie Katrocket.

I really don't mind though, since the main reason I enjoy skiing is just for the "après-ski" : that magical time when strangers bond over cognacs while wearing the bottom half of a snowsuit, a shhexxy shhweater and goggles on their heads. There's no other place in the world where you can get away with THAT fashion statement. Ok, maybe Aspen. Hollywood wankers!

We broke for lunch around 1pm - a FABULOUS fondue hosted by my in-laws at their chalet about 10 minutes down the hill in the town of Bogève. After an hour of gooey cheese and great wine, my hostess suggested that I take a quick tour about 10 minutes down the road to visit les Bouilleurs de cru - loosely translated: "the boilers of raw (fruits)" - who had set up a portable still by the side of the road just outside their town. She warned that the Savoyards were surly men of questionable repute (my kinda people!), but I should take this rare opportunity to meet with them, because the very existence of roadside distillers was threatened by changing times.

Okay - some quick history first... unlicensed moonshining was tolerated in France up to the late 1950's : having an ancestor who fought in Napoleon's armies automatically gave a person the right to distillate a given quantity of alcohol (the equivalent of 10 liters of pure alcohol a year) for their own consumption. But since 1959, the laws were revoked and that right can no longer be transferred to the descendants, therefore only a few bouilleurs de cru are still exercising their rights nowadays. Owning a registered fruit orchard or a vineyard still gives you a right to have your production distillated, but it is no longer free, and you have to hire a licensed distillator to do so. So all the local orchard farmers take their mash (rotting fruit gathered from the ground, plus all their surplus produce from the harvest) to a travelling distiller, who drives a weekly route from town to town in rural farming areas. These farmers also bring the Bouilleur gifts of wine, cheese, bread, pastries, etc in exchange for their services. It's what Bartertown COULD have been!

So, with a wine buzz firmly entrenched, I headed east with my brother Mattrocket, dadRocket, the Corporal, and a bottle of Seagram's Crown Royal whisky that I brought over from Canada, and drove until we found this:

The party was already in full swing, with several locals unloading their barrels of mash, and lots of old guys wearing jaunty chapeaux telling stories and eating cheese. At first, they were a bit leary of les touristes stupides. I had my camera kit with me, and they were concerned that I was going to exploit them for profit, just as I have with the sex trade workers of Toronto.

See? I told you I was an internationally reknowned pornographer.

But just like back home, everyone totally relaxed as soon as I showed them my goods. The Crown Royal, that is! And then it was smiles and cigarettes for everyone! The Bouilleur was making a brandy from a mash of cherries, pears, and mirabelles (a variety of yellow plum). He was kind enough to explain how his still worked, and let us sample the end product, called "gnôle" (and sometimes "goutte"), still warm from the copper spigot. It tasted like gasoline, but I sucked it back like a pro, winning their hearts AND a severe case of heartburn.

Forty five minutes later, I was so fucking loopy that I found it difficult to stand without assistance. This, along with my hillbillyesque Québecois accent, made the Savoyards laugh and laugh and laugh at me until I thought I was going to be sick. Literally. I took a lot of pictures at that point, figuring it might be my last crack at photography before the blindness set in. We put a Rush CD in the ol' Puegeot 406 and cranked it loud. The Savoyards danced and made fun of my music. Yeah, that kinda made me miss Pistols for like, 2 minutes. But for a half an hour on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the hills were alive with the Sound of Rock-n-Roll Parking Lot. GIVE'R!

I left later that afternoon with a gifted bottle of gnôle, and a unique cultural experience that is in its final act in the Alps. I was all excited to bring the gnôle home to share with my friends, but the stuck-up bitches at Cointrin airport customs in Geneva got all pissy with me about "transporting illegal substances" and "exceeding the allowable limit of exporting alcoholic beverages by 14 liters" and blah blah blah. So I had to leave it with my brother, along with a bottle of Absinthe, and 6 more rare vintages that I can't get in Canada (and I'm still pissed off about it).

C'mon, don't these people know who I am ???

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Sit on my Facebook

I don't like Facebook.

Just like its evil twin, MySpace, it forced itself onto me using peer pressure:

"You're not on Facebook? OMG, are you sure you even exist?"

"You HAVE to get on Facebook. It's the only way to get invitations to my parties from now on."

"I posted some very incriminating photos of you at that party last night on Facebook, and the only way to remove them is by signing up for an account and deleting them yourself."

And also just like MySpace, the majority of its "friends" are 20 years younger than anyone I should be spending my time with. And when you design websites for a living, having a MySpace is like giving up your Blackberry in favour of Quantum Link. Yeah, that's C64 talk, kiddies - look it up.

So yeah, I've had a Facebook account for almost a year and I've weathered everything from Zombie bites to lame personality quizzes to nosy old high school folks who suddenly wanna be my friend - even though I wasn't cool enough to be their friend back in the 80s. Hey - in my defense, NO ONE was cool in the 80s. Except Patrick Swayze. I rest my case.

But then I would get sucked back in by the really sweet side of Facebook. Like all those times when I found lost friends that I actually DO like, and sharing in the lives of my loved ones who have moved across the globe. I'm rather grateful for those touching moments, so herein lies my dilemma:

For me personally, Facebook has turned into a terrible, dead-end relationship that I can't seem to leave, no matter how much of a fucking irritating bastard it has become. It's kinda like staying with an annoying boyfriend for one year too long because you really dig his friends and his family and his dog and his car. Just not him.

Oh, I won't deny it was fun and exciting at first. Invitations to great parties, hooking up with old flames, making fun of former prom queens who gained 100 lbs and 4 kids.... good times! But then the nagging messages started: "Add me!", "Remember me?!!!" , "What's your movie score?" "Do you like all the same things I like?" "Some person you barely know just bought you a Slippery Nipple!" ...and so on. And then my BFF, Mr. Spam Filter, almost choked on the massive amount of spammage that started to flow my way, thanks to all these nasty vermin-like "applications" that you get tricked into subscribing to. That's when I had to start thinking about a future without knowing everyone's "status".

So listen up, Facebook, you dirty social whore. I've talked to all my friends about you, and they all agree that I should just leave you - for good this time. You're good for nothing. You waste my valuable time. You haven't satisfied me in months, and you don't even have a fucking job. I don't need you, baby... in fact I never really did - I've got e-mail AND a phone. That's right, bitch - you heard me! A MOBILE PHONE that will tell me about all the fabulous parties WITHOUT 300 other people instantly knowing about it!

So goodbye and good riddance, Facebook.

Katrocket is..... leaving the building.

[clear status]

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Francey pants

Happy New Year everyone!

I'm back home in Toronto and kids, have I got some stories for you.

But I have a hundred things to do before returning to work tomorrow morning, including this totally brilliant website for a fabuleuse french artist (who happens to be my sister-in-law).

So in the meantime, here's a slideshow of some photos I took on my trip. It's fucking awesome and there's only 25 images, so please humour me and watch it. Mousing over the image will give you the photo caption.

I've missed you.