And, we're back with more television! Frankly, it seems that there's just no bottom to the barrel of hilarious televised moments popping up as of late. Last night's gem, is one of the funniest things the editors of OptimusCrime Halifax has seen in weeks. As a matter of fact, this is an Optimuscrime double-bill, with two offices jumping on this train almost.. 'in sync'.

To summarize: Ashlee Simpson makes an appearance on television's Saturday Night Live this weekend. She takes the stage with the rest of her band, and the music starts. The bass, guitar, and drummer all come in on cue, and then, to poor Ashlee's dismay, the pre-recorded vocal track starts up about 5 seconds too early. We're not talking about backup vocals here folks, we're talking about pre-recorded lead vocals, and a microphone that's not on: Full-out lip-syncing caught in the act. A prop microphone dangling at waist-level, a terrible distraction-style hoedown, and finally a look of pure red-faced chagrin as a bell rings and a pop star loses her wings.

Awesome.

Sure, it's only about a minute long, and sure most of the joke is over in about ten seconds. But just think about that national expose, that little peek through the keyhole in the pop music industry door. It was visually humble, but the breadth and scope of the hilarity was astounding. Poor Ashlee Simpson, dancing an embarrassing impromptu jig, with nothing to hold on to. Talk about a humbling experience. She's like 19 years old? That's got to be rough. Not rough in a "Oh, poor Ashlee, she worked so hard.." kind of way, but in a "Shit. You spend two years of your life, climbing the lucky ladder to fame, and suddenly, all those months of not learning how to sing a song in a live performance.. It's like it was all for nothing!"

My favourite part took place a couple seconds after Miss Simpson walked off the stage, and her 'too indy for indy, wicked-hip' backup band is left to continue actually playing their actual instruments, and they exchange these priceless looks of "Holy shit! Did that actually just happen? Awesome!" while trying to keep from outright grinning.

Simpson later blamed the band, and then the audio-techs for the mistake. She claimed that it was actually the backup tracks that we heard. But I think the Optimuscrime audience and editors know the difference between a backup vocal track, and a lead vocal track, thank you very much, Ashlee.

From a Lucky Magazine interview:

LM: What are your takes on lip-synching?

AS: I'm totally against it and offended by it. I'm going out to let my real talent show, not to just stand there and dance around. Personally, I'd never lip-synch. It's just not me.

Halifax, or rather, an unfortunately small percentage of Halifax was let in on a great little secret tonight: Portland Oregon's The Joggers are fucking awesome!

Although the show was in remarkably poor attendance, (a band that nobody's heard of, very little advertising, nine steep dollars.) the band crooned their way through a fantastic set, which I might describe as startlingly charming, or shockingly adorable. All that and they also rocked solid. They've been compared favourably to Weezer and Polvo. I'm not sure if I entirely agree, but those being two good bands, and the Joggers being a third, equally good band, I doubt anyone's feelings would get hurt.

I almost didn't go. Mike told me to go. He told me. And I'm glad I listened.

In other news: With the exception of the amazing set put on by those wonderful Joggists, the Joggers, tonight could be best described as nothing short of bizarre. Wait, not bizarre, stressful. Wait.. less like stressful, and more like the feeling of someone pulling on a single strand of your hair for three and a half hours, but it won't break, it just keeps pulling, and it's... Excruciating. Yeah, that's it. I think I need to learn the fine art of walking away from a person who's company you have no interest in. There's only so much Toronto scene-dropping that a man can take. But all was not entirely lost, I mean, I have a renewed appreciation/enthusiasm for people who are capable of talking to me from a regular distance, like, not directly into my eardrum. And, really, I would probably be disappointed if I were to die never once having had someone spill their beer all over me. At least that's taken care of now. Check. Off the list.

Hey, I can sympathize with being new, and with not having fun.
I can't sympathize with brattyness.

Todays link is a video clip that everyone should really see. A few days late, and just in case any of you missed this, Jon Stewart of the Daily Show made an appearance on CNN's Crossfire a few days ago, and the results were nothing less than explosive. Mr. Stewart called the two hosts to task, stopping just short of calling Carlson a big dick. No wait. He did call Carlson a dick. Awesome.

It was beautiful. He handled them with such ruthless grace. Starting the whole thing out by calling them "partisan, what do you call it... hacks." He kept his composure even among two baffoons, attempting to defend their 'political debate' program by comparing it to a comedy show.

CARLSON: Jon, Jon, Jon, I'm sorry. I think you're a good comedian. I think your lectures are boring.

You should all watch this. It's phenomenal. I was simultaneously shocked and ecstatic that Jon Stewart had the balls to do what he did. I mean, I know it's just television, but it would have been very easy for him, as a comedian, to go on that show and just be a comedian. He was funny, there's no denying that. But he was genuine too, and he brought them something that they didn't expect: Actual discourse.

Speaking of discourse, and speaking also of funny:

STEWART: You know, the interesting thing I have is, you have a responsibility to the public discourse, and you fail miserably.

CARLSON: You need to get a job at a journalism school, I think.

STEWART: You need to go to one.

I don't really know that there's too much that I can say about this very special link from metafilter.

Kids. Making claymation movies. Is. Awesome.

"I'ma find my own room on my own!"

God damn. Some things are just so fucking hard. Some things have the ability to break your heart into a hundred pieces, with just a quick glance. We met someone today who has that ability.

Michael, Francesca, Dave K. and I were on our way home from Dartmouth today, and as we slowly drove down Clifton Street, toward Willow, Michael looked out the window and exclaimed: "Hey, that cat's wearing a sweater!" With no traffic around, we backed up to have a look. There was this funny looking little cat, all by himself near the road, just hanging out. And wearing what appeared to be a blue sweater. We lingered for a while, admiring him.

And then he moved. And everyone stopped breathing.

In minutes we had him back at Willow Street, and were calling shelters, vets and anyone else we could think of to try and find a way to help this little guy. I don't even know if I can properly describe what this cat is living with. He doesn't particularly look as though he's in pain, but I think I can say safely that I've never in my life seen a more heartwrenching, sad little creature. His back left leg is broken and essentially useless. It actually bends backward as he walks, and it's so bad, that sometimes he trips on it. The 'sweater' he was wearing turned out to be a filthy wool sock, with holes cut into it stretched over him. The sock-toe functioned as a hood. He's so quiet, and so listless.

We named him Doctor Batman, and this being Sunday, and a holiday, there's nothing we can do for him until Tuesday. So Doctor Batman is taking up temporary residence with us on Willow Street. He's staying in Greg's room, and receiving regular visits for morale. Watching him walk actually makes me feel ill. Depending on what happens on Tuesday, Doctor Batman may stay on a more permanent basis, as whoever was formerly 'caring' for him, if anyone, clearly has no business with a cat. Hopefully Elliot won't mind some feline company.

Someone made that fucking sock-sweater for him. I don't know what breaks my heart more - imagining someone putting the sweater on him months ago, before he went missing, and life took a turn for the worse.. Or the possibility that he still has a 'home', and that someone put a sock-sweater on a crippled cat, and doesn't feed him enough.

Jesus.

Ever since I moved out of the house/province just over 4 years ago, my parents have had a lot of practice creating and sending 'care packages' through the mail. In the last two years, my loving father, Peter "No Left Turns" Hammond especially has honed this process to a veritable art. With such memorable pieces as "Three Cans of Soup, and a Computer Printout with Three Celebrity Photographs, No Return Address", my father has joined the ranks with the worlds most intriguing parent figures.

But don't think that my mother is any kind of slouch either. Together, those two have mastered the Holiday Package like no others, increasing the 'food' to 'other stuff' ratio far beyond what could fairly be described as normal. One might almost think that they had reached some sort of 'Awesome Package Plateau', shortly after they began to send Easter bundles with a chocolate rabbit, 2 kinder eggs and 3 cream eggs per HouseMember, (5) plus Simone.

And yet:

Enter Halloween Package 2004. Wrapped in brown paper, with my father's beautiful handwriting, it looked fairly unassuming. Knowing that Halloween (or more accurately, Hallowe'en) was just around the corner, I assumed candy would be involved.

I could have never guessed just how right I was.

Comprised mostly of sourkids, cherryblasters, gummiburgers and Pez, I have a feeling that this was supposed to be at least partially for giving to children on Halloween night. With Halloween over three weeks away, I don't see that happening. I don't think this goldmine will last the week. Although, for the sake of our teeth, I hope I'm wrong.

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Also: I thought about not including this, but you know what? Whatever, this made my effing day!

From metafilter, teens and "tweens" have a new and exciting door opening up for them: The ability to spend money that they may or may not have, using a piece of plastic. The Hello Kitty Debit Mastercard looks and feels just like a real mastercard, with only three truly important differences:
1. It's cuter, boasting one of two adorable pictures of Sanrio's lovable Hello Kitty.
2. There's no actual 'credit'. It functions more like an expensive debit card without a pin.
3. It's got fees higher than most other debit cards available.

Now, I realize that I have a reputation with some for flying off the handle, or displaying 'extreme' leftist (read: Mennonite) opinions when it comes to issues of capitol, but fucking come on! A credit card aimed at 10 - 14 year olds? (Hopefully even as young as 8, according to Bruce Giuliano of Sanrio Inc.) Corporations have been aggressively targeting the 'youth market' with brands aimed at the under-15 crowd for years. But developing a credit card for children, just seems.. somehow unconscionable. In a social-climate where credit cards, and debt-mongering is growing to epidemic proportions, I find it simultaneously unbelievable, and entirely expected that this would come next.

Before you get all 'blah blah blah' on me, I know the value of credit cards. Let me tell you that it's been a tough four years avoiding them at all costs, but I've done it. In many ways, I'd love a credit card. In many ways it would make my life easier. But at the same time, I just can't bring that on myself. Like I need more bills to pay. Like I need a license to spend money that I don't have. Jesus, I'm good enough at spending my own cash, think how fast I'd sink into debt if I were allowed to just spend fictitious money.

I mean, do we really need to be enouraging children to spend money like it was going out of style? Do we really want to condition them to paying with plastic (which is one of the easiest ways to part with money.) now, so that they can go at it with twice the gusto once they hit 18? I'm not convinced that teaching youth that money doesn't physically exist, and therefore has no real value is a good way to teach them to 'manage' finances. Look, if you were 10 years old, and were given a piece of plastic and told that it was the same as money, what would that say to you? Spend spend spend! Buy buy buy!

And at $1.50 per ATM transaction, on top of the ATM's fees, that's a pricey little lesson. It's being called a 'credit-card with training wheels.' Gross.

Finally, at the risk of appearing gender-paranoid, (I realise that feminism is fast going out of style - "I'm not a feminist, I'm an equalist" is a very ill-informed and slightly disturbing quip that I'm hearing a lot lately.) does it bother anyone else that these credit cards are being specifically marketed to young girls? Not surprising, in the wake of things like Playskool's Eazy Scan Supermarket, and Barbie's Shop With Me Cash Register, this is just another chance to perpetuate gender-roles, and beat the message into the minds of young girls all over North America:

You fucking love shopping.

Rachel: Has anyone ever "dined and dashed"? I want to know. (duh)

Simone and I pulled a dine-n-dash in Vancouver at Swiss Chalet two summers ago. We were broke, and I didn't want to go to Swiss Chalet at all, but Simone was really craving chicken at the time. We went in, and I ordered a salad. It was fairly disappointing, and Simone's chicken could really only be described as poor. We decided that there was no way we could with good conscious pay for this low-grade meal, so we concocted a plan: Well, it wasn't really a plan, so much as a simple set of actions. Simone got up to 'go to the bathroom', and after two minutes, I did the same. I walked out the door, and then ran. We ran for about two blocks. The thing was that our waiter had been really really nice, and that made me feel a little bad. So before I ran, I left a five dollar bill on the table, and on the bill, I wrote:

"Dear Jeff. We're sorry. It's not your fault - you were an excellent waiter. But we will not be paying for this meal. Please keep this five dollars as a tip for yourself. Paul and Simone."

Also, one time I was dragged to Smitty's for a going away breakfast for a former roommate named Kelly, who was leaving for Ottawa. It's not that I didn't want to go for breakfast with her, it's that I didn't want to go to Smitty's, but what could I do? (Incidentally, Simone flat out decided not to go, because it was at Smitty's.) I went, I ordered pancakes, and they were horrible. I've never tasted a dryer, more air-filled pancake. It was like eating a plate of fluffy flour, and so again, I could not allow myself to pay money for that 'breakfast'. There were so many people at our table, and we were all paying separately, that while everyone else paid at the front, I just kind of loitered.. Eventually, I moved outside with the last few cheque-payers, and nodded when asked "Is everyone all settled up?" I never told anyone from that breakfast table. I kind of liked it being a secret.