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This smells like trouble

exso (as in “ex-significant-other”) is a site where you can rate and review ratings for ex-boyfriends or -girlfriends. Once you get past the disclaimer page that automatically appears when you visit the site, the main page shows three featured exes in a format not unlike product reviews in epinions. Each ex’s picture appears, followed by ratings of their looks, intelligence and bedroom skills on a scale of 1 to 10. These numerical ratings are followed by “pros and cons”, which are qualitative capsule reviews.

If the quick overviews aren’t cringeworthy enough for you, you can always read the detailed review, which gives you more biographical information (age, hometown, school, pet’s name and so on) as well as summaries by individual reviewers. A quick summary provides details such as how long the relationship lasted, who ended the relationship, whether the reviewer keeps contact with the ex, whteher they’re still friends and if there could be a reconcilation in the future. There’s also commentary, which seems to end up saying more about the reviewer than the ex being reviewed:

[Name deleted] is the perfect example of meeting someone at the wrong time and place. When we first met, in a bar, I told [she] some fabrications that would I later regret. After dating for a couple months I felt compelled to break up with her rather than own up to the truth. To this day I’m fairly certain that [she] is the sweetest woman alive. In the long run it would have never worked out because of our life paths. But things ended far too soon. Thanks for the smiles.

After reading a few reviews, you might want to check to see if you’ve been reviewed. Luckily, the main page has a handy search feature for just this purpose.

(I checked, and no, I’m not in the database. However, my track record — with the exception of that time where I dated these sisters simultaneously — is spotless. Hey, I was 19, and you’d have done it too. If you had any balls, that is.)

Sooner or later, someone who’s been reviewed in exso isn’t going to like what’s been written about them. exso allows an ex to protest a review. In order to assure you that this is a Very Serious Thing, the section of the site pertaining to these matters is called Arbitration, and each protest is given a case number. This must be serious — Judge Judy uses case numbers!

Let’s suppose I wrote a review of my worst ex ever, about whom I can truthfully say:

If there were a Million Bitch March, she could be counted as five people.

Naturally, since being a total bitch is like breathing to her, she is oblivious to her own bitchtasticosity and would file a protest. I would have five calendar days to respond to this challenge, and the possible outcomes are:

  • I could not respond at all. My review would be deleted.
  • I could respond and agree with her. “My dear sweet [bitch’s name deleted], your impassioned plea of ‘I am not a bitch’ has melted my heart and I do agree that you are not a bitch in the slightest.” Actually, the more likely scenario is “Hey, [bitch’s name deleted], I got the letter from your lawyer and feel that agreeing to withdraw my review is so much better than a costly and embarrassing lawsuit. Remind me to send you a card on Hitler’s birthday.” In either case, the review is deleted.
  • I could respond and stand by my review. “She is too a bitch!” The simple act of standing by my review sends a message to exso that gee, I’m so steadfast that I must be right, which means that the review remains.

It’s not so much arbitration as it is a test to see how stubborn you are.

For those who don’t feel like submitting a review, exso also has an electronic greeting card service. The greeting cards fall under two categories. There are cards for exes you miss, with messages like “my heart still glows for you”, “I still reach out for thoughts of you” and for maximum grovelling (or stalking), “the voices can go their separate ways, but the souls will always touch”. If you’d rather be petty than pathetic, the other series of cards is for you; they have messages like “BITCH (you don’t deserve any more words)”, “You told me you were giving me the key to your heart. But I had no idea you had so many copies” and “…your personality is not the only thing that can make me vomit. But it’s the first”. This service is free for a limited time, after which it’ll cost you $2.75 to waste your time and bandwidth.

exso knows the mind of the online American — privacy-conscious enough to enter their credit card number only on secure Web pages, yet ready to dish the dirt on their past relationships. The only good I can see coming from this service is that a good Law and Order or Sex and the City episode might get written around it.

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Welcome, Zooko, Amber, Irby and Jill!

This weekend, friends of mine from the peer-to-peer programming world are in town.

Bryce (a.k.a. “Zooko“), Amber and their charming little boy Irby are in town to check out the University of Toronto, one of the places where Amber’s been accepted for grad studies. Bryce was one of the programmers behind Mojo Nation, one of the cooler peer-to-peer applications that emerged during the salad days of P2P. He’s currently working on MNet, a project that utilizes the collective drive space of a network of computers to create a large secure file store. I think it’d be pretty cool if they chose to move here…here’s hoping!

Jill (a.k.a. “Jillium”, “Jillzilla”) is here to visit and participate in a Joey-style debauched weekend. Like Bryce, she also worked at Mojo Nation. Now, she runs the “crawl” at Google — the process where Google computers hoover Web content for indexing. Suffice to say, without Jill, Google doesn’t work. So if you run into us this weekend, get down on your knees and supplicate yourself before her in an appropriate fashion.

Jill arrives in the mid-afternoon today. I’ll hang out with her for a couple of hours, and then run off to Pickering for a rehearsal, then back into town to show Jill around and hang out, as we did in Mountain View and San Francisco back in February. I haven’t decided where we’ll go yet — perhaps the Queen Street West strip, just to show her where a lot of these blog stories take place (NASA, Velvet Underground, Zen Lounge, The Paddock, Bovine Sex Club), or perhaps Toronto’s best ambisexual dance night, Tallulah’s Cabaret at the Buddies in Bad Times theatre.

(I haven’t been to Buddies in a while; I stopped going when a large number of my outing there ended in annoyance or social disaster. It’s the only place where I’ve ever started a fight. In retrospect, the story’s kind of funny…)

Tomorrow night, I’m performing at C’est What with Lindi. We’ll be a stripped down band tomorrow — I mean we’ll be clothed (well, drummer Devin and I will be; Lindi’s outfits get skimpier with each gig), but it’ll just be Lindi, Devin and me. We’ll be doing the show with Lindy, the really tall, really sweet Icelandic folk-rocker. After the gig, we’re going to go to…

…The Matador!

Infamous Toronto “after-hours establishment” (I’ll leave it to you to decipher that), place where Harrison Ford likes to hang out when he’s in town and site of a few accordion-related hijinks.

Anyone who wants to join me as I show Jill around is welcome to come — drop me a line, or show up for the Lindi/Lindy gig at C’est What on Saturday night.

Mischief is expected.

Jesus and the accordion player, remixed

Lindi took the “Jesus/accordion player” image from a couple of days ago and made it a little more pencil-sketch-like. Here it is:

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French 101

In case you were wondering, “fuck you” in French is “baise-toi”, pronounced “bez twah”.

(If you don’t know what this is all about, read this story).

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“We be flyin’ all over this bitch!”

John London’s classic Ebonics-ized Delta Airline ad parody is available as an MP3 or a Flash animation.

Peep it, homes.

Flip Daddy, the Thrilla from Manila, out. Word.

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Let my footage go

Slightly updated to be even funnier at 1:50 p.m. EST.

Bill Barol’s not a big fan of Cecil B. DeMille’s epic, The Ten Commandments, as he writes in this blog entry:

Watching the annual broadcast of “The Ten Commandments,” I was struck once again by the mind-altering terribleness of it. I mean, I don’t think it makes me irreligious to say that this is one very large stinker of a Bible picture. And this year, as my mind was wandering, I found myself wondering about lines that had been cut from the original release. There must have been some, despite its three-day running time. For example: In the Passover scene, after Eliazar asks why the Israelites eat bitter herbs and Moses answers that it’s to remind them of the bitterness of their slavery, it seems plausible that the screenwriters had Eliazar answer: “But uncle, I work sixteen hours a day in mud over my head, I need no reminders. What am I, stupid?” That line? Cut.

Here’s what I think ended up on the cutting room floor…

DELETED SCENE ONE

The scene: At the coast of the Red Sea, which Moses has parted. In the distance, you can see Moses leading the Israelites across the narrow strip of dry sea bed. In the foreground is the Pharoah’s army’s captain and his lieutenant, debating their next move. The captain points at the firestorm that Moses has cast behind the Israelites in order to slow the army down.

Captain: Look! The fire dies! This is our chance! All right, men, let’s go after —

Lieutenant: Begging your pardon, sir, I don’t want to seem to be advocating cowardice, but…

Captain: But what?

Lieutenant: Well, sir, I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s just better to…uh…let them go.

Captain: Let them go? At the brink of our victory? Have you gone mad?

Lieutenant: Think about it. Their god’s been wiping the walls with us, right? The plagues — the frogs, the locusts, the dust turning into gnats, everyone running out of toilet paper and Kleenex at the same time… And what about that thing with the water? He turned the Nile into blood…and on my laundry day! Do you know what it takes to get blood out of togas? Then that angel of death guy ices all our firstborn sons, mine included! I had everything riding on little Johnny, and now I’ve got to bequeath all my chattels to my younger son Lance, who’s…well, he’s turning out a little…well…fruity. And now that we’ve chased Moses and the Israelites to the sea and think we’ve got him cornered, poof — he cuts a path across the water and blocks us with a giant firestorm.

Captain: Your point being?

Lieutenant: This hardcore god of theirs clearly gets results. Don’t you think it’s a little odd that now, of all times, one of this god’s tricks has just fizzled out? Call me paranoid, but I smell a trap. And besides, our failure to stop their attacks in spite of our wizards, superior numbers and weapons should clearly indicate flaws in our mideast polic–

The captain pulls out his sword and lops off the lieutenant’s head with a single stroke.

Captain: (muttering to himself) Damned liberals and their “blame Egypt first” rhetoric… (To his men) All right, men…let’s roll!

DELETED SCENE TWO

The scene: Moses returns from the mountain with the two stone tablets, only to find that the Israelites are now worshipping a golden calf.

Aaron: Hail the cow. Amooooo.

Moses: What the…? I leave you idiots alone for a couple of days and you go all pagan on me. Don’t you remember all that God did for us? The plagues? The Nile turning into blood? The thing where I turned my nunchucks into deadly snakes? With His help, we got Mesopotamian on their ass!

Aaron: Um…yeah, but…we thought about it and decided that this God person is a little too right-wing. And He’s way too much into gross-outs for our liking. I mean, the frogs, locusts and gnats? Icky. I mean, couldn’t he have come up with, I dunno, a plague of puppies? And the bit where He gave all the Egyptians boils? Ewwww! Half of Cairo was still inch-deep in pus when we left. And as for killing all their firstborn sons, well, isn’t that a little…well, sexist? We’ve been thinking that if He has to resort to fascist tactics like that, the Egyptians have already won.

Moses (screaming): And so you switched gods? You worship this (Points to golden calf) now? You worship something we make freakin’ brisket out of? If you’re going to worship stuff you can find at the deli, why didn’t you save yourself a lot of sculpting work and make a golden…matzoh?

Aaron: I’m sensing a lot of hostility here…

Moses contemplates breaking the tablet with commandments one through five over Aaron’s head, but decides not to. He looks at the cow and realizes something.

Moses: Hmmm…it just occurred to me…we were slaves. Unpaid labour. No pyramid builder’s union. We were dirt poor with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Where did you get enough gold to make this false god?

Aaron (nervously): Uh….we found it. Yeah, we found it. You know, near that place beside the thing…you know…

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Special memo to my sister and brother-in-law

Dear Eileen and Richard,

I know it’s a little soon, what with you guys having gotten married only two and a half years ago, but I think now would be a good time for you guys to renew your wedding vows. Why?

Because you can now get wedding cakes made out of Krispy Kreme donuts!

Love,

Joey

(I found the story at Bill Barol’s blog.)

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It Happened to Me

Quotes, Part 1

Here are some of the more interesting quotes I’ve heard in the past fortnight, and the stories behind them.

“You’re the happiest unemployed person I know”

Friday, March 22nd: Walking into salsa night at the Courthouse is like walking into a movie.

The Courthouse — so named because it actually was a courthouse built in the 1800’s — has a gorgeous 19th-century ballroom with high ceilings and a balcony, lit only by chandeliers, a couple of fireplaces and dozens of candles. The floor is packed with well-dressed dancing couples and spectators lounge in large and comfy couches by the fireplaces at either side of the room. The musical selection is mostly salsa, with a little cha-cha and merengue thrown in now and again. Unlike most dance clubs, this is one place where strangers walk up to you and ask you to dance.

We were invited there by our friend Sue, whom we’d met at one of the “Singleton” parties organized by our friend Marichka. (The Singleton gatherings are rather yuppified affairs held at a chi-chi resto-bar called Fat Cat, where twenty-, thirty- and forty-something professionals — mostly journos, from the look of it — gather to meet others of their ilk.) It was a little send-off for Sue; she was due to move to San Diego to start a new job in a week.

Paul and I have been to a couple of salsa nights. Paul has ballroom danced for years; he’s even been in competitions and won. He tends to seek out the women who know how to salsa, take them to the floor and then transform himself from dairy country rube to dancing machine. Paul takes dancing seriously and complains that he keeps forgetting all his steps, but as far as my uneducated eyes can tell, he does just fine.

I, on the other hand, can barely waltz. I tend to ask the wallflowers staring longinly at the dancefloor:

“Would you like to dance?”

“I’d like to, but I really don’t know how.”

“Neither do I,” I’d say and then dancing — or a cartoonish approximation thereof — would ensue. There’s a lot of “so what do we do next?” throughout the dance, I tend to turn my partner more times than the legal limit and I’m sure Arthur Murray spins in his grave every time I take to the floor. The “I don’t know what I’m doing but I don’t care” approach to ballroom dancing is cheesy John Hughes movie behaviour, but so is carrying an accordion everywhere, and that’s done me nothing but good.

After watching me, our friend Valerie told me as we watched Paul the Midwestern Mambo Machine, “You’re the happiest unemployed person I know.”

“My brothers would kick your ass”

Saturday, March 23rd: It was like Coyote Ugly, except with better dialogue and an accordion player.

I thought I was going to have a relatively quiet Saturday night — a little coding work until midnight, and then down to Velvet Underground, the alt-rock dance place down the street. Instead, I got a phone call from my friend Anne, who invited me to join her and her cute friends from her PR class at a resto-bar called Seven Numbers. She also mentioned that there was someone she wanted to introduce me to.

(Having your ex try to set you up with someone is similar to getting a letter of recommendation from an employer who fired you. Both will recommend you to others, the fact that you were let go makes the recommendations seem a little odd, you think that your being let go was a colossally gross error in judgement, the severance pay/nookie is never enough and you gracefully accept the recommendation anyway because it’s the polite thing to do and hey, you never know where it’ll lead.)

I arrived at Seven Numbers and met a table of several women and one guy. I’d met Anne’s equally hyperkinetic friend Tanya before, but the rest of them were new to me. She introduced me to her friends as “the infamous Accordion Guy”. I’ve been getting introduced to people that way, complete with “the infamous” or “the notorious”. Most people would probably be embarrassed, but I feed off that kind of thing. It’s called rock and roll, kids.

The restaurant was more like a movie restaurant than a real-world one: the waiters constantly flirted with the girls (when the girls first entered the restaurant, one of them carried Anne to the table); people were doing body shots — drinking sambuca out of each other’s navels — on the bar, and when the music came on, I played along on the accordion and we all climbed up on the bar to dance.

I phoned Paul, who’d stayed home that night. “It’s like Coyote Ugly here,” I told him, “and you’d never forgive me if I didn’t call you.” He arrived about a half-hour later.

A couple of pretty women bought me a drink and asked all kinds of questions about me and my accordion. Have I mentioned how much I love this instrument? (It was a good thing that one of them mentioned that they’d put their kids and husbands to bed before going out. I really need to remember to check for wedding rings.) An older Italian woman walked up to me and pinched my cheeks, saying “It’s-a so nice that a young guy like-a you still plays the accordion.” Grazie, ma’am.

Drew, a friend of the girls, arrived around last call and invited us back to his apartment for more drinks. Drew lived in Yorkville, a boutique-y part of town filled with pricey restaurants, small art galleries and overpriced designer clothing stores. He had an apartment above Gabbana and beside a dance club that had a gaggle of Mexican guys outside, staring each other down with what Laura, one of the girls, called “the look of death.” (Later that night, a fight would break out, there would be lots of screaming in Spanish, an old man would get knocked onto his ass, followed by screams of “El Viejo!“. We’d watch the conflagration from the balcony above.)

I had a feeling of deja vu as I walked into the apartment. Paul Oakenfold playing on the stereo — the same track that the fratboys in San Francisco played at their apartment, where just like now, we’d left a bar and gone back to some guy’s place for more drinks. To my relief, the guys weren’t obnoxious at all, and I didn’t hear the word “dude” all night.

Tanya told us how she’d been kicked out of a bar the week before. Apparently she’d been talking to some guy who called her a “whore from Halifax”. Tanya decked him and was promptly ejected from the bar.

Drew told us about his trip to Mexico and showed us some badly-painted Mexican wrestler dolls he’d bought at the airport. I’ve seen shoddy Third World workmanship before, but who ever painted these wasn’t even trying. They wouldn’t even pass muster in the Land of Misfit Toys.

Somehow the topic drifted to Judy Blume books, and being the pop culture aficionado I am, I mentioned how her books used to be more relevant to school kids and how she went down the slippery slope and ended up writing incredibly cheesy soft-core porn. Stephanie was quite appalled that a guy would know shit from shinola about Judy Blume.

“My brothers would kick your ass,” she said.

“They’re welcome to try,” I replied, “but I’d make sure they limped back to their trailer.”

She either didn’t get my quip or took it extremely well.