linkaroni

I really liked this article written by Emily Gould of Gawker. Although I never read sites like Gawker, her insights about being a blogger and writer and exposing yourself are good. Take a look also at her being slammed by Jimmy Kimmel here.

I’ve also been wanting to post about some Beyond Robson drama that happened a while ago which I found curious.
Jeffery Simpson of Vancouver Metblogs, responding to this post, makes an accusation of racism and xenophobia against Sean Orr, the author. You seriously cannot be too careful these days, which is kind of weird. I am much more cautious about how I word things on BR as opposed to here, which may seem silly, but whatever. If you’ve read the comments following my review of Italian Kitchen, you’ll know that I’ve already been called lame for drinking water with lemon.
What do *you* think about Jeffery’s reaction to Sean’s post?
btw… what is the deal with needing to be a member to comment on Metblogs? lame.

An interesting article about China’s sexual revolution. I’m sure the boys I went to China with would be apt to comment. (sorry! only a link to one of the boys. Can’t find Joe’s page at the moment)

Hey look! Somebody likes Vancouver, and they gloss over their favorite parts with such gusto that it makes me cringe a little. URBAN FARE MADE THEIR LIST OF FAVORITE THINGS IN VANCOUVER. NEXT TIME I FEEL LIKE SPENDING 10 TIMES AS MUCH ON THE SAME PRODUCE THAT GOES TO SAVE-ON, I’LL BE SURE TO CHECK IT OUT. YOU’RE RIGHT, VANCOUVER IS COOL.

perhaps you’ll enjoy wasting time on timejoy instead?

And… a poem that I stole from this post of Fiona’s, which echoes the three minutes of silence held in China for the victims of the recent earthquake in Sichuan:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
–W.H. Auden