Since I took the time to do an in-depth examination of a woman’s butt yesterday, I thought I’d turn the tables and examine a questionable trait among men: the comb-over.

For a while there I thought I might be losing my hair too (it ended up just needing a good wash). I swore to myself that if my hair ever did start to thin I would lop off my golden mane in a heartbeat. Dicking around with hair to make a single strand look like a whole head-full is just bad. Nothing else. Just bad.

With any sort of head movement, that reverse ponytail slips off its intended resting place to produce…well, let’s call it like we see it; it looks dumb. Partial coverage is just as bad as soon as that head is below eye-level, as was aptly demonstrated by one gentleman’s noggin on the subway, the full sphere of the lie is revealed.

Yeah, it is a lie. You’re looking at the guy standing and everything seems okay. Despite the strangely elevated curve of  hair above the scalp, it looks plausible. You’re led to believe that this man still has a head full of hair. But then he drops a pencil.

Situations like that can be controlled; bend from the knees while maintaining eye contact, or get an underling to retrieve the pencil for you. But when you’re on a windy street you either have to wear a snug hat or risk having your hair salute passerbys on your behalf.

Please allow me to illustrate.

No more than five minutes after the first gentleman I mentioned, I spotted this next example. There, I really didn’t know what was going on.

His hair waved upward from the spot on his forehead where a horn would grow if he were a unicorn. It stood up in the breeze much in the same way as a unicorn’s horn might. That tuft of hair waved about in the breeze as though it were celebrating its emancipation from the rest of the hairline, a sole island of erect hair that I just couldn’t picture being molded into anything believable.

You try and try not to laugh but, DAMN IT! Coffee, through nose, onto lap.

Man. I wouldn’t want to be blog fodder for some jerk in the future; get laughs for the urine stain on my pants, sure, but not a drafty hair tower. That’s not cool.

By the time I had thought to look up, it was already too late. My face stopped just shy of the wall of denim that now entirely blocked out everything else.

It took me a moment to realize where I was; having your senses deprived like that tends to disorient you. I pulled my head back a bit to get a better view of the full picture.

The ass that stared back was simply thunderous.

The domes were a foot if they was a mile, I tells ya!

I want to be clear here, I’m not talking a bit of chub in the hub. This thing was the prototype for yo momma so fat jokes. I sit on one end, you sit on the other; plenty of room for Gary in the middle – that kinda big. No one was getting in or out of the subway until the the caboose left the station.

I was now stuck between a rear and a crowd and the only thing to do was wait and ponder the ponderous. As I stood there on the steps, straining to twist my head around to focus on something else, I wondered why I had never noticed this before. I mean, surely I would’ve noticed such a beast before if for no other reason than the traffic jam it would’ve caused.

In fact, most of the people in the crowd I spotted around me were pretty normal-sized. Not too many extremes in either direction.I fit into that  generic mid-ground too, though I used to carry a few more pounds  Recently I had noticed that my clothes were a bit baggier and I was using a new hole on my belt. Not much, but I did notice.

The funny thing is, my diet hasn’t improved much since I started living in the city (it arguably got worse), so how to account for this?

When I lived in the sticks, I was driving just about everywhere. Now I walk.

The nearest store was a ten-minute drive. Now, it’s a ten-minute walk. It used to take me an hour and a half to drive to work. Now it’s a fifteen minute stroll to the streetcar. It used to take me another hour and a half to get back home. Now it’s an hour-long walk. Sometimes. When I feel like it. On the weekends I hop over to Chew Chew’s. Groceries; thirty-minutes south at a relaxed pace. If I get the munchies, you guessed it, doin’ a snack run on foot.

It’s really not much, but I guess it must add up. With a full Brazilian I still wouldn’t be ready for bikini season, but it’s nice to see that urban life has advantages other than convenience. Well, that and a few other things.

Toronto missed the fattest cities list a while back so it can’t be doing that bad. It’s not that people here are any less able to put on weight, it’s just that they’re missing the one ingredient that weightier suburbs have: the car. I know, lots of people here own them, but it’s such a pain in the ass to get the car out of that narrow little lane behind the house when you could just walk to wherever you need.

Plus, it’s a lot more interesting. Half of this blog wouldn’t exist without me tripping over unusual people on the street. But really, they don’t need to be that big, I can see just fine.

Here’s the problem with the CRTC’s Do-Not-Call list: $55 for an area code, $1,125 for the whole show. That’s how much it costs to get a one-month subscription to a list of all the people registered for the program.

Now, can you believe there’s such a thing as a dishonest telemarketer? Maybe not in Canada, heavens no. But maybe elsewhere. I don’t suppose the Nigerian barrister entrusted with distributing the late Mr.Whatever’s millions is too worried about complying with Canadian law. I bet he clicks on all those “I Accept” checkboxes without a care in the world. I bet his tea tastes just fine in the morning.

And why not? All you need is a credit card. The sign-up system for telemarketers doesn’t even verify the email address you enter. By the time someone in the government server room realizes that the information is in the hands of someone who shouldn’t have it, the barrister will be safe and sound on his chair in front of his computer; about two minutes later; same place he was when he started.

Even if we assume that every telemarketer in Canada is honest [insert knowing head-nod here], there are plenty of places for our phone numbers to make unsavoury friends. Basically, I say avoid that no-call list like it’s a pussing, Gonorrhea-infected sore.

I accidentally discovered the solution to telemarketers when I decided to actually do a phone questionnaire one night. I was in a good mood.

The first question was, “Do you or someone you know work for a marketing, media, or telemarketing firm?”  I said that yes, I did, because at the time I was working for CTV.

The phone call was over; I didn’t qualify and thanks for my time.

Huh.

The next time I got a call, I curtly cut into the introduction with, ”I work for your telemarketing firm”, and laughed.

The woman on the other end of the line sounded like she had just farted on her dear mother’s grave. She was so, so, so sorry and…how could this have happened? No, this is not right! So sorry, sir. Your name will be taken of the list right away. This has never happened before; so unusual. So sorry.

Huh.

It’s something to try.

If you don’t want to go the full distance and lie about working at their company, pick one at random in or near the field [of evil!] and make yourself an honorary employee. Don’t get the government to lie for you, they suck at it.

Even on a day when the temperature eventually touches the nicer end of twenty degrees Celsius (sixty-eight  Fahrenheit), it’s still possible to dress inappropriately. For example, dressing in nothing more than green-white-yellow boxers (don’t care what you say, those are not shorts), and miniscule t-shirt turned out to be a poor decision by the young man shivering on the subway.

There was a wee nip in the morning and, without exception, everyone else was dressed so as to retain some body heat. He was, as I could gather from the small logo on the sleeve of his t-shirt, a cadet of some sort. Sure, you gotta be a bit tougher for that kind of thing, but I hope that some wisdom intercedes before he’s given a firearm. He looked absolutely frigid, huddled in a small, pale mass on the subway bench next to a svelte woman twice his size.

He was, basically, really tiny and really cold.

The only other reason I could see for someone being so wholly under-dressed would be if they had just returned from vacation. You’ve seen them: doe-eyed sadness, brown and suddenly stripped of the sun by a bitter northerly wind raking their naked skin as they step through the terminal exit. Genuinely amusing; but I can appreciate the more relaxed attitude. Unless they were returning from one of those Conquest vacations. In that case, the blazing inferno of their concentrated displeasure would probably sear a hole in the side of the plane.

Imagine going south with your family after pinching pennies for a year only to discover that the company you had booked with went tits-up while you were sipping Pina Coladas. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t be the real pisser though. What would light your fire would be the fact that you might have had to pay for the remainder of your vacation, and your trip home, out of pocket. Or else.

So, where did the money go? I mean, last time I booked a vacation I had to pay for the full thing before I was given the flight tickets, and it sure as hell wasn’t cheap. In other words, I had already paid for my vacation. So imagine my surprise if I ended up in Cancun only to find out that, in fact, no I hadn’t. Except I had. Meaning, somebody stole my money. If it was a matter of bad credit between businesses then trying to shake down the customers to try to get it back is a theft on both fronts. Is it any more complicated than that?

The moment my feet hit Canadian soil, I would be exceedingly and most exceptionally pissed. Until then, I’d be high-tailin’ it through the jungle like a greased monkey. I’d probably discover later that I’d hurt myself real bad during my coca-fueled flight, but I would make it to a road. There I would swap English lessons and charm for rides, putting increasingly happy miles between the hotel and me. Thus, riding a crest of elation, I would find myself not north as I had expected, but south — in Brazil. Fiery Brazil.

So…I hope that the tourists who got the royal shaft from Conquest will be doing that when they get home because, frankly, I haven’t heard a single critical note on Conquest pipe put of any of the local media. Where are the kick-ass take-downs? Where are the public photos of Conquest execs hanging their heads in shame for absconding with their customers’ money?

That’s right, I’m asking for poo to be flung.

“Customers who have booked a Conquest vacation will likely get the money back.” – *sob*

“Oasis [resort] staff told the 200-odd guests who booked through Conquest they must pay the $1,078-per-person bill – or police would come to the airport the day of their scheduled departure and force them to clear their tab.” – Ouch.

“Conquest Vacations regrets the inconvenience caused to the passengers due to cessation of its operations” – !

“Canadians clashed with Mexican hotel security guards Thursday when a group of 28 people staying at the Golden Parnassus resort tried to leave the premises after disputing their bill, according to one of the travellers.” – Image, gone.

“At home, Conquest’s sudden demise is raising questions about the travel-industry watchdog’s role in preventing such inconveniences.” – You know, that is inconvenient.

“As a gesture of goodwill, we are offering travellers who are rebooking their vacations with Sunquest over the next 10 days $100 off the lowest current Sunquest rates — with proof of their Conquest Vacations purchase” – Turning frowns upside-down.

“In business since 1972, Conquest served destinations in Canada, the United States, the Caribbean, Mexico and Europe.” – Good to know. Good to know.

“Beaver had recently planned a trip to the Dominican with her boyfriend.” – I’m so so sorry. I just couldn’t stop myself. It was automatic – like clicking in a dream.

The streets are a wonderful place for spotting memorable people.

The guy across from me on the streetcar this morning had the face, bristle, and thick-rimmed glasses of Elvis Costello, the fashion sense of Paul Giamatti, and the hair of Sideshow Bob. I walked through the entrance to my building with the spitting image of a female manservant Hecubus. We both passed the building’s property manager who bears more than passing resemblance to Dr. Evil.

Shouldn’t people like this be on camera? Some people don’t think so.

In an article today, The Star published a publicity piece for a group (led by Ryan Ringer) calling themselves Methinks Presents, which if you ask me, is a total misnomer.

What they intend to do is to swarm the Google Street View car that has recently been making the rounds in Toronto in order to bring attention to the “creepy nature” of Google’s project. As part of the event, they’ll probably be taking pictures in a public location.  In the process, they’ll probably be capturing the numerous random faces of people who just happen to be passing by and won’t have any say in  (or even knowledge of), being photographed. Not to mention the number of random webcams, camera phones,  and “security” and traffic cameras that cling to every available nook and cranny downtown. It’s a safe bet that everything will find its way onto Flickr, YouTube, blogs, etc.

To argue that Google is invading our privacy from the inside of a car, from a public road, means that it shouldn’t be legal for anyone to take photographs from anywhere, of anything, for any reason. Or is it just Google because they’re “evil”? Maybe Methink’s protest is intended to be somehow artistically ironic? Somehow, methinks not.

My shitter being equated to the middle of my street throws the notion of “reasonable expectation of privacy” out the window. Everything would be considered private (if the street would, what wouldn’t be?). Recorded images of any kind would have to be illegal, probably forcing the government to ban the use of cameras. While at it, why not extend the same courtesy to audio recordings? That would really suck for quite a few people.

I suppose one alternative would be to ask permission whenever you took a picture; permission of anyone in the shot (or blur them out); permission from the owners of any properties in the frame (or blur them out); permission from owners whose pets appear in photographs (or blur them out). God help you if an identifiable airplane or bus happens to pass into your shot.

Sounds silly, doesn’t it?

Not only does Methink’s plan sound horribly illegal (“hey, let’s go swarm a car because we don’t like what it’s doing”), but they’re pushing an idea that is contrary to the public good. Mine especially. I bought a brand-spanking new camera not too long ago and I don’t want to be  ambushed by Methink’s grouptards for taking a picture of the Eaton Centre.

I don’t think most people would be bothered  if they saw themselves walking down the street in a Street View scene, unless maybe they were caught doing something questionable. In that case, may I suggest maybe not doing that in public?

Oh, and when the Google car does approach, I think there’s a much better way to deal with one’s public image. Do a quick straighten-up, put on a giant shit-eatin’ grin, and give a crazy big thumbs-up as the car passes. The virtual tourist will find Toronto to have very inetersting people. Isn’t that much more productive?

Are you reading this with coffee? No? Well, do you wanna get one? I can wait…

I think it’s good to immerse yourself in a subject much, as it happens, like good coffee in hot water. It provides a much richer froth of experience and warm sensory delectation. Mmmm, I know you can taste it.

Now let me tell you why Second Cup is UH-SO-MUCH (said with gusto!), better than Starbucks. First, let’s take a detour to the basics: the bean. It starts as the green seed of a red cherry. The cherry part is stripped or sometimes left to dry off, the husk around the two beans in the center (sometimes one) is dried off along with the beans themselves, then they’re bagged, stored, and shipped. Basically: strip, dry, husk, bag, and deliver.

Up until this point, with the exception of coming from different equatorial regions around the world, most beans are pretty much the same. Green, there’s not much flavour. When slow roasted, though, some kinda magical alchemical reaction takes place in the bean and it starts to slowly release all sorts of flavourful oils onto its surface as it browns.

The lightest roast is green-brown. You probably wouldn’t want to drink it; probably something like boiled cabbage and two-day-old underwear. When brown, the next step up, the bean is nicely toasted throughout, but there’s no oil on the surface. The next roast up is medium. Here you can easily see oily spotting on the bean. Finally, with a dark roast, the bean is visibly blackened and very oily all over. If you’ve ever bought a French or Italian roast, that’s the guy.

So, the next time you step into a Starbucks, don’t forget that you’ve just wasted however long it took you to read that. If you skipped it, good for you. It’s pretty much irrelevant because everything at Starbucks is cinder. That’s the American style of producing “strong” coffee; burn the bean to hell and back and throw in milk and sugar like it went out of style two seasons ago.

But I don’t want to be too critical. Good blackened beans are good for a proper frothy espresso or espresso-based drinks.
Which I barely ever have.
End of story.

Second Cup, on the other hand, runs the whole gamut of browns. If you visit their bean counter, they usually have a display mounted front and center where they show off what I described above. There’s usually not much guess work between a light roast and a medium roast; just look at the differences in oil on the surface. I’ve been told their default dark roast is a bit sub-par but, at more than one location, they’ve made special cups from freshly ground bagged beans from the bean counter. Never hurts to ask because that’s how you might hit on that one awesome bean.

Not only that but the majority of their stuff is excellent; fair-trade-before-fair-trade ones like my fave of faves, La Minita Tarrazu, a coffee that has never disappointed. Mellow and just so laid back. That coffee doesn’t have a care in the world.

Summatran/Indonesian blends are also very accessible; their sun curing process creates a coffee that in some seasons tastes like cocoa. When done in a french press, it creates a really rich brew with some of the very fine particles of coffee suspended in the liquid. This thick hot suspension and it’s aroma of nuts and chocolate all get plunged into a sweetened steamed-milk bath. Like I said, accessible.

At Starbucks, the choices are basically: black, pitch, inner-anus, and very very dark. Even with caramel, I don’t like them odds.

Buy proud Canadian coffee instead! Raise that morning cup ‘o northen glory high and pronounce with pride:

It’s a little shameful to admit, but when I first heard of “bum fights”, my mind immediately sprung to a well-lit bedroom, two attractive young ladies looking at each other over their shoulders with lustful disdain, ready to have at each other with their voluptuous heinies. It sounded absolutely delightful.

It may have been the general aversion to such a word as “bum” by the company I kept during my formative years, but other than being used to describe:

 
…well, you’re not supposed to call people of no fixed address that. That is the only foul version of that word.

Panhandling is done for many different reasons so I try to judge each book by it’s cover. If the person looks really destitute, I won’t miss a quarter. But there are others who make it a bit harder to part with my nickels.

This morning, for example, I passed a fellow under the subway tracks who I recognized as an area local. Aside from not being able to figure out if people were dropping imaginary money into his cup, or if he was taking sips of imaginary coffee, or if both were real and he was just drinking change, I couldn’t help but notice his clothes.

His shoes were sparklingly new, as were his bright white slacks and a gorgeous scarf tossed carelessly around his neck. Yes, he had an ensemble. Meanwhile, I was walking by in deep need of new shoes and a winter jacket that finally allows me to use the word threadbare. It’s a good word. Lotsa uses.

No, my money wasn’t going into that coffee.

As I stepped on the escalator to the platform, the word “bum” floated through my consciousness and I caught myself feeling a bit embarrassed. But then, with majestic bravado, the manly part of my brain walked on over, swooped that little lady off her feet and told her everything would be alright. After all, he really was trying to “bum” money off me. If the need were great, it would be “begging”, “panhandling”, or “soliciting”. If the need doesn’t seem that great, it’s “bumming”, and the person performing that action is a “bum”.

If we take some of the generalized pejorative connotations out of the word, it sounds a bit more reasonable. In fact, I’m in favour of adding a little weight on the cheeky side of the definition because I believe those kinds of “bum fights” would make the world a better place.

Though down, be not thee out.

I know that I run the risk of being accused of being one of those celebrities who don’t stand behind a cause unless it affects them personally. The general line of questioning goes: Would Reagan have stood so vehemently behind Alzheimer’s research if he wasn’t starting to get a bit sketchy himself? Would Chris Reeve have been so supportive of stem cell research if it hadn’t been for his own accident? Doesn’t this mean they’re just self-serving pricks who don’t really care about moving the cause forward except when it comes to them?

I say “hell no!”  on their behalf, and and also for me by way of corollary (pure logic, baby). There’s a million and one things to get behind, from diseases, to famine, to war. Expecting anyone to get behind them all of them really just mirrors the decrier’s own lack of sanity. It’d be easy enough to clam up anyone who decides to go down that path by scaling the question  down to pleb level and asking which local charities they themselves haven’t contributed to. The only correct follow-up to their answer is, “well why not, jerk face?”  — that usually pacifies everyone.

Oh, and also, I’m not a celebrity. So with righteous aplomb, I continue.

I have the flu. If it isn’t the flu, some bacterium is a master of disguise. I have all the classic symptoms; chills, intermittent fever, headache, sneezing, snotting, and otherwise expelling pus. I’m writing this from my convalescence couch (eh, who am I kidding, by convalescence I mean just regular ole’ life. I just like alliterations).

“Oh, big whoop,” I hear you say, “everyone’s had the flu. My four-year-old niece doesn’t blog about it when she’s sick; what’s so special about you?”

What a loaded question, dear  imaginary interlocutor. Let me start by casting doubt on your niece’s ability to write a multi-paragraph expository work of any kind. That is all. I guess I shouldn’t have started that without a second point. Oh well.

My aim wasn’t to heap aspersions on your nieces or nephews anyway,  but rather to draw attention to the fact that Influenza is probably the world’s deadliest communicable disease and, since it’s affecting me, to try to encourage you to do something about it.

The statistics are a bit fuzzy at the upper end of the scale because Influenza is lumped into the “Lower respiratory infections” group (basically lung problems). A bit of reading reveals that yes, the flu can cause this type of complication, but not always. Usually this happens in the elderly or infirm, but there’s always one variant or another that has the ability to be more profoundly harmful to everyone.

On top of all this, apparently the influenza group hasn’t budged from its number one spot in the charts for decades. H5N1, the bird flu; that scared quite a few people because of the possibility of another pandemic, but once all the birds were dead, people pretty much forgot about it. Getting all lathered up does nobody any good, but there should be a level and ongoing discussion on the topic of Influenza in general (including all its variants, not just the few in the spotlight).

The government is quick to point out that flu vaccines are not entirely effective (roughly 80%), in staving off infections. This stems from the virus’ ability to evolve and change outfits before going out on the town.

The virus essentially wears a chemical mask which it uses to sneak by our body’s bouncers and get in. By the time the bouncers realize what’s happened, the virus has already taken control of the bar.

Vaccines work by providing the door security with photos of the virus’ newest disguises, but that 20% miss rate indicates that two in ten virii still manage to sneak by undetected. The other problem is that, in a typical season, we provide the bouncer with snapshots of only three of the most common viral disguises (which are many and growing each year). If any one of those variants decided to bring a weapon, that would really suck.

In other words, flu vaccines are a stopgap solution to a potentially deadly and widespread problem.

Academia and government are definitely concerned over this, but I don’t remember the last time someone marched up Yonge street waving a “United against the flu” placard. Don’t remember the last time I saw that for HIV/AIDS neither, come to think of it.

We need to get out there and rally against this horrible, horrible disease. It’s making me not enjoy Ren & Stimpy and I can’t taste hot dogs. I can’t imagine how it could get worse, but apparently it can. The flu must be stopped now.

Please, for my sake.

A few days ago I received a heartwarming email correspondence from a guy I’d never heard of. It brought unintentionally good tidings regarding employment in Toronto (at least in my field of work), as well as reaffirming my disdain for that barnacle of the professional world, the head hunter.

First the employment.

I don’t want to paint an unnecessarily rosy picture; there are certain sectors out there that are getting beat up left right and center. These seem to be mostly in old, established manufacturing jobs with most of them tied to car makers. However, many emerging and newer fields are on a broad upswing. Consider the letter I mentioned above. What makes that email uplifting is that it’s for the job in which I’m currently employed; I know because I helped to write the job description. We could chalk this mistake up to ignorance (more on that later), but le’s say for a moment that this was for a job that I wasn’t already in; what does the email say about the job market in my field (Flash developer, if you didn’t bother)?

First of all, the employment agency went to the trouble of describing my employer as a “Medium Sized Trendy Company”. In a brief discussion about this, my fellow developer and I came to the conclusion that we most certainly are the heppest things since hep became a word.

Going to the bother of adding trendy words indicates that a little bit of extra oomph is needed to attract candidates, something to which I can definitely attest. We’ve been trying to fill this position for about a year now. There have been a lot of dismal, head-shake-inducing entries and unfortunately, those that have been good were poached by competitors.

I don’t think that this job situation requires any heavy analysis (like this helped any “experts” forecasting our current monetary troubles); it’s a simple matter of supply and demand. Most high-tech skills, especially really nerdy ones like programming have large gaps between what employers need and what they can get. Sure, the learning curve is pretty steep but I think that an intensive six month course in your technology of choice should be enough to get you in on the $60K/year gigs. More often than not, there will be good room for negotiation.

Most developers I know are aware of the current global economic fiasco by name only. If you’re looking for a job, Toronto is probably faring a bit better than most places, but it’s hurting just as bad in those areas where people are getting axed globally. Despite this, it seems to be smooth sailing for all the fields that are opening up either because of changes in technology, ageing of the population, or recognition of global problems like the environment. By new, I mean somewhere in the neighbourhood of five to six years. I’m considered senior for God’s sake!

Don’t poopoo jobs because they’re different. Work environments are bound to change; if you’re freelancing now you probably have a better idea of what the workplace of tomorrow will look like than the standard nine-to-five guy. Keep your mind open when looking for a new job; the opportunity may seem unlike anything you’ve ever tried, and that’s usually what makes it the one to go for. There is an element of uncertainty, but as a general risk-averting pussy, I can honestly say that it’s a lot smaller than you think (mostly just an excuse).

In closing, I wanted to just touch on head hunters in the employment maelstrom. You can do without them! After all, their modus operendi is to make money off of you in exchange for providing a job seeking service as well as backing you up when you’re on the clock.

At least, that’s the theory.

In my experience with about seven different agencies, most fucked off after my first day on the job. In most cases I had to hunt down my rep who, more often than not, would be generally unavailable because of “meetings”, and that didn’t go down well on payday when the cheque didn’t show up. For the forty-odd bucks they were charging on top of my hourly, you’d think they’d be able to actually do what they say they’d do. Besides this, I had better luck finding good jobs myself ; they exist and agencies usually don’t have exclusive dibs. My delicate feet never hit pavement either.

And do keep in mind the level of competence exemplified by some of these chuckleheads; like the one who sent me a job offer for my own job. I wonder if he has opposable thumbs.

Just kidding. Yup, apparently that’s a bonafide legal defence these days.

In case your cave doesn’t get cable yet, the story is one of your basic teenage withholding-sex-for-murder deals. Right now the jury’s still out on whether or not the female half of the duo is culpable, but the precendent that appears to have been set has already been decided.

After all, if you can say “I didn’t really mean it” when on trial for first-degree murder (meaning it was planned), you should certainly be able to use it in almost any other criminal and civil defence.  Consider this courtroom evidence, a few excerpts from instant messages between the two:

“I want her dead … if it takes more than a week, then we’re just gonna be friends”
“ur getting blocked until u kill her”

The mother of the accused girl suggests that “they were trying to make each other jealous”. Her lawyer says that “things don’t necessarily mean what they appear to mean”*. Presumably Judge Nordheimer weighs each defence before allowing anything under the sun into his courtroom, so in this instance it must have been deemed a-okay.

I’m not suggesting that the defence will fly with the jury. Arguing that the words “dead” and “kill” in instant messages (where brevity usually prevails) mean to disassociate or block, especially when the longer word  “blocked” is used to mean just this, is a huge stretch. Even punctuation seems to be well thought out, and the diminutive “ur” and”u”, and a captilized “I” suggest a domninant attitude in the relationship.

Whatever; the point is that whichever angle you approach this from, it’s been allowed to be a part of the defence, including the bit where it wasn’t really serious. I really hope that when the full transcripts are released, these few details will somehow make sense. Right now, I get the impression that I should be able to make death threats of all sorts as long as I laugh about it afterwards.