Thursday, July 30, 2009

I'm so excited (and I just can't hide it)

If you've been reading Rocketradio for a long time, you might already know that I am a die-hard Formula One enthusiast. I'm a Tifoso (Ferrari fan), and I've been getting up wicked early on Sundays for years to watch races all over the world. I spend more time on Planet F1 than I spend on planet Earth. If I thought it would interest anyone but me, I'd dedicate half the space on this blog to my obsession with racing, but no, I'm thinking of YOU, gorgeous friends. Because I don't read your boring posts about football and basketball, so I know how you would feel about that.

I'm making an exception on this day because there was a sensational development yesterday that ROCKED MY WORLD. I'll try to keep it brief, so please stick with me.


To put it in perspective for you, this is the equivalent of Wayne Gretzky coming out of retirement to play hockey, or Michael Jordan going back to the Bulls. You know, if they weren't all old and stuff.

Schumacher holds a record seven World Championship titles, won more races than ANY driver in all of motorsport, and was at one time the highest-paid athlete in the world. He retired from racing in 2006, and ever since then, F1 has been a real drag. Scuderia Ferrari are no longer the powerhouse team they once were, and the sport itself has been plagued by scandals and stupid politics for the past two years. Formula One was sucking hard, and I was losing interest.

But last weekend, during the Saturday qualifying session for the Hungarian Grand Prix, something terrible happened that changed the course of motorsport history: current Ferrari driver Felipe Massa was severely injured in a freak accident. He was hit in the head by some flying debris from Barrichello's Brawn GP car - a rare occurrence which resulted in a massive blow to his helmet, a skull fracture, and a critical injury to his right eye. Felipe underwent life-saving surgery hours later and he is expected to recover, although his future as an F1 driver is unknown. This left Ferrari scrambling for a replacement driver to finish out the remainder of the season.

Schumacher himself has said "no thanks, I'm done" a thousand times, but in the end, his loyalty to his former team, (and his friendship with Felipe Massa) brought about a huge change of heart. He will get behind the wheel of Massa's F60 for the European Grand Prix in Valencia, Spain on August 23rd!

If I believed in heaven, I would have died and gone there already.

I'm trying to keep my expectations in check, but it's soooo hard. After all, Schumi is the Real Stig:

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Skygarden: Part III

It's been a wet summer, but the Skygarden is taking it pretty well. And note the complete absence of raccoons... high-rise living has its benefits:

Not a bad place to enjoy a few cocktails.

What are you waiting for?

Good times are standing by....

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Secret Perils of Unitards

I've never had much interest in competitive swimming. Dead boring stuff.

But yesterday, at some big-deal swimming thingy in Rome.... what's this now?! Verrry dare-odynamic!

Apparently U.S. swimmer Ricky Berens tore out the ass of his swimtard during a pre-race stretch.

As if that swimsuit wasn't gay enough already.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009


Be sure to watch the whole clip before you sit there in judgment of me, pretending to be too cool to enjoy the living hell outta this:

Big thanks to the elusive Mr. Radloff for the link.

More ThriftShopXL mash-ups here! These dudes are fucking righteous.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

All-Nude Review!

Okay - not the kind of all-nude review you were hoping for, but it got you over here pretty fast I bet.

It's not a total lie. I wrote this entire review in the nude.

Raccoon Gang Warfare Continues: Spent last Saturday at the Beeverdeck again, fending off critter assaults from all sides. One particular mother raccoon and her family of four juvenile bandits kept insisting on joining us for dinner, but we were having none of it. Beever has made vast advances in the field of Critter Artillery with her patented "Busted Up Tiki Torch Pole". Please note: some raccoon gang members actually enjoy playing with the business end of a busted up tiki torch pole, and may invite more of their friends to come around for games night.

How I Met The Imaginary Reviewer: It's true, I finally got a peek behind the question mark sack! Mr. Imaginary Reviewer is not only devastatingly handsome and intellectually brilliant, but he's even funnier in real life. And he proved himself a local hero by joining the Beevers and myself on the front lines at the Battle of Beeverdeck. Armed only with a spear of asparagus and dry British humour, he put those raccoons back in their place: mocking us from the other side of the fence.

Transit Lessons Learned from the Homeless: Yesterday I was on the subway train to work and the car was really crowded - no seats to be had. That all changed when a homeless guy got on the train at Bloor station, muttering things to himself and then suddenly yelling loudly and taking a swipe at the invisible forces around him. Then like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd gently retreated further and further away from him, leaving their seats empty, and providing ample swiping room for his formidable presence. He got a seat (well, three seats actually) and nobody dared challenge him on it.

I've decided I'm totally going to try this someday.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Beever, 1; Raccoon, 0

Last weekend, I was minding my own business, enjoying a late afternoon cocktail at the Beeverdeck of Lesbieville, when I fell victim to an attempted robbery.

I had left my purse unattended next to my chair for less than a minute while I went back into the house to refresh my Rumonade (my fancy epicurist term for rum and lemonade). I didn't think it was a big deal, because the Beeverdeck has always been a secure and private fortress for drunk-minded individuals. One can only access its discreet rooftop location from the front door of the Beever Glitter Palace, which is heavily guarded by the smoking riff-raff hanging out in front of the landromat next door.

Then I heard Beever outside yelling at someone on the deck, making large noises and screaming "get outta here!" I went to see what the commotion was, and discovered that Beever had thwarted a robbery in progress! A renegade raccoon was digging through my purse and attempting to make off with my wallet, keys, and cell phone.

The rebel raccoon gangs of Lesbieville are well known to the locals for their sneaky, phone-snatching ways and their fierce courage in the shrieking face of humanity. They have always been cheeky little buggers, but their numbers have rapidly increased since the city workers went on strike three weeks ago and all garbage collection was ceased. The urban critters we have learned to co-exist with have broken an unwritten pact to carry out their home invasions after dark. Fortified by protein-rich garbage feasts, they've gotten all ballsy and taken back their land, along with many of the cherished human possessions that lie within it.

But not this little masked fucker. Little did he know of my strong alliance with the Beevers. They are the first line of Kat defense, and if you do somehow manage to get past them, you'll have the Dastardly Squirrel and his fearsome Squirrel Army to reckon with:

So let this be a lesson to all you daredevil ringtailed rat bandits out there: do not mess with the Beevers and Kats, or so help me god, we will blog the hell outta you.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

"You gotta work with me on this."

I wasn't sure if I should post this on Fire That Agency! or here on my own blog. I suppose I really should post something on FTA this year, but BeckEye and Skyler's Dad have been doing such an awesome job on that blog, that I've developed a little performance anxiety. So I decided to post it here because it actually goes well beyond the scope of advertising agencies.

This is a must-see clip for any of you out there who work your asses off in the creative services industries - especially my friends who are self-employed, freelancers, artists, photographers, printers, web or print designers, etc. Unfortunately for us, we deal with bullshit like this all the time from our clients:

Produced by Scofield Editorial, Inc.

post haste

Remember last week when I said I was going to set aside 45 minutes every morning to write a post for all you wonderful folks out there in Blogland?

Yeah, those were good times.

Friday, July 10, 2009

rock yer socks off

Thank you Lulu LaBonne.

Your new header image with the sexy sock guys makes my day every time I see it. The chap reclining down front reminds me of a young Tony Spunk. And the Bald Bearded Ginger? How the hell did he book that gig? Just look at his body language - seems he's wondering that himself.

I love all of your illustrations, but in my opinion, this is some of your finest work.

My friends, if you haven't tried Earwing Sandwich yet, it's a lot tastier than it sounds on the menu.

have a fabulous weekend... Rocketradio will be undergoing a series of makeovers during the next couple of days - just trying on some new outfits to see which ones make my ass look good.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

ask and ye shall receive

Can you believe this shit, people? FOUR posts in one week and it's only Thursday. That's gotta be a personal best of some kind. And who the hell puts the word "ye" in their post titles? Think of it as a small tribute to our dearly missed Pistols At Dawn.

Well, many of my readers (okay, 2 of you) have complained that I don't post often enough, so you asked for it: I'm setting aside 45 minutes every morning before work to dazzle you with mundane life experiences.

I experienced another money miracle yesterday! Some of you may recall the story I told back in April when spare change changed my life. Times are tough for all us, especially those of us who really suck at budgeting.

I was in a mad panic yesterday because I found myself unexpectedly dead broke again, thanks to a series of unfortunate incidents (massive rent increase, shocking dental bill, premium mascara purchase). Payday is six days away, and I might suck at math, but I'm smart enough to realize that $14.87 is not enough cash flow to survive in this city for a week.

I managed to borrow $25 from my generous BFF, who is also cash-strapped at the moment, but is the kind of awesome guy who would share his last fifty bucks with me, (which he did). I used to live off $35 a week back in college, so I was totally prepared to live out the next week like a resourceful college girl, minus the freaktastic casual sex and binge drinking. Or WITH the sex and drinking, if I could swing it.

Still, walking home 6 miles from my BFF's last night (because I couldn't afford the bus), my heart was heavy with worry, and I had resigned myself to a week of Kraft Dinner and self-imposed house arrest while I waited out the storm. I was on the edge of weepy, because I started thinking about my mom. When she was alive and I was just starting out in the world, she would quietly slip a few bucks into my hand just when I needed it most. Our little secret. No words were ever spoken, and I never told her how bad things were, she just always knew. She would wink and smile and recite our inside joke: "now go buy yourself a pretty frock", which was funny to us because I'm not exactly a frock buyin' gal.

That's when the song "Money" by The Flying Lizards shuffled up on my iPod, and I had to laugh because I had no idea that iPods could read your mind. I realized I was walking down my street and crying - that mixed-up laughing/crying that happens when you really miss your mom and you don't know what the fuck else to do.

That song was still playing when I went to my mailbox and found a major surprise: a $100 tax rebate cheque from the Government of Canada. I had no idea I was eligible for any tax rebate, and the timing absolutely blew me away. I know in my head that it was an amazing coincidence of epic proportions, but I still stared long and hard at that cheque and thanked my mom.

Monday, July 6, 2009

PMS confessions

-- I purchased some ice cream specifically for my visiting niece and nephew, ate it all myself before they could get through customs, then blamed Air France and British Airways for failing to provide speedy transAtlantic Concorde flights to sad little French children who were promised ice cream.

-- A young tourist couple stopped me and asked if I would take a photo of them with their own camera while they groped each other in front of our most famous landmark. I have always dreamed that this situation would some day present itself so I could bolt away with a fabulous new camera, but it was a shitty camera, so while they were grinning like idiots, I zoomed right in on the guy's crotch and snapped a pic of his cock.

-- Upon receiving extremely unsatisfactory customer service from a surly local shopkeepstress, I may have accidentally said to her "Thanks for nothing, you fucking cunt", when I really meant to say "Thanks for your time and have a nice day, you fucking cunt."