Fire All Your Guns at Once

Freedom

2010-08-16T21:58:00.002-06:00

Tonight I waited until the baby had gone to sleep, or was almost there, made an excuse and took off in the car. Seems like the kind of thing I should have done hundreds of times by now, but I haven't.

But tonight I did, and I think I am supposed to have a wild tale of freedom on the open roads to tell. Instead, I vacuumed the truck. There's really no excuse for this level of lameness and, even worse, I'm not particularly ashamed. Hearing the rattle of cheerios as they got sucked down the tube and out of my life was beautiful. Be gone, toddler catastrophe ! Oh, getting them out of the openings around the straps was heavenly. I'm not being even slightly sarcastic here.

It wasn't entirely pathetic. It was dark when I got home. That's pretty grown up, right? I saw the perfect half moon, pink and clear. I saw the street lights flick on, which always sends a shiver of small child excitement through me, at the very same time as it makes me long for something I can never name.

I might have an idea about sneaking out later and staying out and going far far far. Seeing how far I can go before I change my mind and come rattling back like the spool of a tape measure.

Pounds and Inches

2010-04-05T13:11:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I started the normally drama-free process of choosing a new car seat for the kid, since he is just about to outgrow his infant seat. I didn't get far before I started feeling sad, then suddenly broke down sobbing. The problem? I suddenly remembered bringing the little guy home from the hospital in his car seat and how you could barely see his teeny feet over the edge. We had to use all the available padding, and he only barely fit, being just a few ounces over the minimum weight. The car seat was just another thing I used to measure his progress - watching as his weight went up ounce by ounce and then pound by pound, seeing his pants suddenly become too short as he sprouted another few inches, taking out the padding and letting out the straps of the seat as he got bigger.

Nostalgia for the earliest days and weeks of infancy is so easy to fall into. Nobody really wants their baby to stay teeny forever. They're helpless, flailing, crying in fear of all these new sensations. But as soon as they gain the tiniest measure of independence and capableness, you start feeling a twinge remembering when they clung to you in blind dependence.

And, really, I love the stage he's at now. Bright eyes and ten months old, babbling and jabbering all day long. He's scooting around and doing something new constantly. Everyday I see the pieces fall into place and he understands and communicates. Why would I wish for the days when I was desperately trying to interpret his cries? But I do, just a little.

Yesterday, I thought, out of nowhere, that this last year was the only year of my life that I would willingly live over, changing nothing. Even at the best of times I would never have said that. And it's been hard, very hard, but still I would do every second over again.

Reality

2010-02-04T20:29:00.002-07:00

I must accept the fact that my refrigerator is where yoghurt goes to die. Even if it's the fancy, organic, aspartame-free kind. The fact that I continue to buy just proves the amateur theorizing of a thousand No Logo readers. Yes, I am attempting to buy a lifestyle - I want to be the person that eats organic yoghurt for breakfast, dammit. I have bought and discarded many, many buckets of yoghurt in pursuit of this goal. Today, I stopped myself before tossing another into my basket. I consider it an act of mercy.

Decade

2009-12-31T22:11:00.005-07:00

I didn't intend for this to be so long or so terribly boring for anyone that is not me. But it's not really intended for anyone but me, so don't waste your time!

I love year ends, five-year anniversaries, the turn of a new decade. Any excuse to think back and take stock and all that. The real eras and epoch of our own lives and of the world don't fit into these packages, I know, but they do give me a couple landmarks to help orient myself. The last few weeks I've been obsessing about what happened when...trying to remember what it is I've been up to. And so I need to write it down.

2000 - I spent New Year's Eve at the Night Gallery, impossibly drunk and hyper. I was eager to get rid of 1999, which had gone from string of bad luck to disaster to worse. I was happy to see the whole decade gone along with it. It was my first year at UBC, so I must have headed back and hoped things would get better. And luckily, they did. I remember feeling so hopeful that spring as the cherry blossoms came out and the sun came back. I went back to Calgary that summer and worked in the City archives, still one of my favorite jobs. And I finally found a decent apartment, moving into East Vancouver. I loved that place, even though I had my first, and so far only, break in just after moving in. For the rest of the time I lived in that apartment I paused when I came in the door and scanned to see if the place had been ransacked, it felt like if I could give myself a bit of mental preparation, it wouldn't be so much of a shock when it happened.

2001 - I worked in the Museum of Anthropology for the 2000/2001 school year, and for the first part of 2001 my entire life revolved around the museum. That was the semester I had the exhibition project class. That project was one of the best things I've ever done - the most challenging work that I was the most proud of. But what a freaking mess. My group ended up as petulant, whiny, angry and underhanded. All in a day's work I guess. That summer I worked at the AeroSpace Museum, reading about airplanes in the office in the converted attic, nearly passing out from the heat of the old, unventilated building. I remember leaning my head against the metal of a small jet because it was the only cool thing in the building, leaving a sweaty forehead print that I guiltily rubbed off with my t-shirt. Heading back to school didn't seem as harsh that year, it almost seemed like me and Shawn had gotten into the rhythm of apart and together, and I was enjoying living out in Vancouver. I also went to New York for the first time in 2001, beginning my continuing obsession with that city. Having been there for a few days, I felt slightly more entitled to feel shock and sadness when the city was hit in September.

2002 - I worked at a campus gallery this year, organizing piles of material for a show on Chinese Communist propaganda - Art of the Cultural Revolution. I spent so many hours making notes in a workroom, describing various posters of Chairman Mao, watching him evolve from serious young man armed with scrolls to a benevolent laughing grandpa. I don't know if it was as magical at the time as it seems now. This was my last year at UBC, and the only summer I stayed in Vancouver. I got an internship at the Vancouver Art Gallery, and I'm still proud of how many people I beat out for that (yeah, I'm kind of lame). I remember taking the Skytrain to work, imagining that this could be my everyday life. Walking down Robson after work, hanging out on Commercial Drive, going to shows. It didn't end up being my life for more than that summer, but I was pretty happy. I was also excited to be moving back to Shawn, to a new apartment on top of Crescent hill. At first it wasn't good, though, I had no job, I wasn't used to living with Shawn, and he quit smoking, guaranteeing endless tension. It wasn't a good time.

2003 - wait, now I'm confused. My timeline seems to be off. I must have started working at Weigl Publishing at the end of 2002, and been there for six months before I was laid off. For some reason I thought I had only been there for three months, but I guess it would be hard to compress that much misery into only three months. That was easily the worst job I have ever had. I've actually lost the ability to describe the constant horribleness of it all, but there was just a constant feeling of fear and trepidation, because you never knew when you could be humiliated in front of everyone. It brought out the worst in people, they backstabbed each other to avoid being the one who had to take the brunt of the anger...ugh, whatever, it was terrible. Getting 'laid off' was the best thing that could have happened. And it happened at just the right time for me to get a job at Hockey Canada, which was pretty much the exact opposite. This was the year Shawn started at the City - we spent so much time on his resume and prepping for his interview that I felt rejected myself when he didn't make it on the first round. But luckily there was another opening and he got it just a month later. Oh, I guess this was the year I lost a lot of weight and started running. I reached a point where I couldn't handle it anymore and went to Weight Watchers. As a first time dieter I was pretty good and lost almost 40 pounds. Hmm, I need to recapture that somehow....

2004 - My three month job at Hockey Canada kept getting extended until I was working into the next year. It was fun, I liked that everyone thought I had a cool job - this does not happen often when you specialize in information management. But I'm not good at insecurity and wanted to find a permanent job. First I tried the CBC, which landed me a week of training in the production room, enough to teach me that I was terrible assistant director, but that I liked the nonstop sarcasm and gallows humor that went on there. Shawn heard about a possible job through his mentor, and I ended up applying to be a keyworder, a job I didn't even fully understand the existence of. But I must have sounded convincing in my interview because I got the slightly mysterious job and ended up at Veer in September. All the designers at Hockey Canada were impressed with my new position and gave me their numbers in case I 'heard about anything opening up.' I felt like hot shit. Oh, me and Shawn got engaged in December, in Banff at the Banff Springs Hotel. It was a pretty good year. Oh, and I guess I must have started attending the Unitarian church this summer, the details are a little murky in my mind. Maybe I'm trying to forget that Unitarianism was suggested by an online religion quiz - apparently I was a good match for the Unitarians, and a very bad one for the Catholics.

2005 - The Wedding. gah. set for September 17th, so I had a full nine months of planning and obsessing and feeling like I was disappointing my mother. Actually, that was the worst part, the constant feeling that I was somehow doing something wrong, but I just didn't know how or why or what I could possibly do. I guess you could say this is a lingering issue with me. Anyway. Crazy obsessive year of planning and details and invites and menus. In the end it was a beautiful day and I'm still happy when I think about it. So, fuck you to everything that I worried about along the way. We had a great time on out honeymoon out on the west coast, going to Hornby Island, Victoria and Sooke just after the end of the tourist season. This could have been a disaster, since the islands pretty much shut down for tourists after Labour Day, but it was awesome. We had all of Hornby Island to ourselves, China Beach was empty, but we still couldn't get a last-minute reservation at Sooke Harbour House. I guess those just don't happen. And for some reason I thought this was in 2006, but I'm just realizing now that it must have been late 2005, but this was when I applied for a copywriting position at my work. It doesn't seem like something that should have been so very important, but I would honestly pick it out as one of the most significant things that happened in the entire decade. That was a tortured sentence, especially when I'm trying to express that writing, and sticking my neck out and allowing someone to read it, was a massive leap.

2006 - At first I couldn't remember what happened this year, and thought that it might have even been somewhat uneventful. So wrong. I guess the first thing that I thought of was the cruise we went on with Shawn's parents. Which I have been referring to as The Cruise ever since. I never thought I would like cruises, and I didn't, but the whole experience was just so overwhelmingly bizarre that it created indelible memories of the smallest details. And I had my picture taken with a donkey wearing coveralls. Perhaps this not something to be proud of, but I've decided it was one of the best moments of the decade. That donkey was freaking cute. That summer at work was a crazy whirlwind - new people starting just about every day, the new space getting overcrowded before they were even finished building it. It seemed like we were the centre of the universe, I guess a lot of businesses felt like that during that time - the economy was indestructible, right? Actually everything felt indestructible, until it wasn't. This was also the summer that Wade died, which was really crushing, even if we were just coworkers. Even now, it seems so wrong that someone who was such a force of nature could just be gone...sorry, I guess I don't have anything terribly original to say on the matters of life and death.

2007 - was pretty damn crazy. We went to New York in March, Seattle in June, Toronto in September, New York again in October and Los Angeles in November. I loved loved loved our trips to New York and I can't believe I've gone this long without going back. This was the year that the Canadian dollar was actually stronger than the US, so with the combination of the US list price and the exchange rate, it felt like they were giving away books. I shopped accordingly. Back home, life was any calmer. Our building manager, Don, died suddenly and the owner asked us to take on the general management of the apartment. I swore I would never manage a building again, but 2007 was the height of the rental crunch in Calgary and I was afraid of losing our place to a condo conversion. And so we were resident managers again. And it was hell.

Six months!

2009-12-01T20:40:00.003-07:00

Having a baby born on the first of the month is a definite advantage when it comes to celebrating every tiny milestone. The start of every new month is a new mini-birthday, and it's easy to calculate the halves, three-quarters and almost-months. I try not to reveal how closely I have his growth tracked, just saying that he's four months, five months, and now six months. Nobody needs to know that he's five months, three weeks and four days.

But! today is different! Today he is exactly six months old. I didn't think anything of his upcoming half year until he woke up this morning and I thought about how long ago June 1st seems now. All day I've been a little teary and perhaps just a bit excessively huggy. I can't stop though, every time I look at him I just think "six months. six months!" From a shrunken old-man doll to a pink giggly sweetie in just a few short months. Sometimes I look at him and wonder where that serious, watchful little creature went, that teeny preemie that never made a sound when he stared at me with wide eyes, and whether he might emerge again at some later date. Maybe as a solemn 11 year old, or sighing teenager?

And I wonder what little boy I will have six months from now. Will he still have the big blue eyes that beguile strangers? Will he stay all pink and shiny and brand-new looking? gah, I'm such a suck today, I can't even write anymore for thinking about his little cheeks and how it's been too long since I gave a kiss to my little half-year old.

On the walk between the bus stop and home

2007-04-09T20:25:00.000-06:00

you can listen to Holding Back the Year by Lou Barlow three and a half times. I tested this every week for two months, scurrying back from my night class. I suppose if it had been summer and not so dark I could have slowed down and stretched it out to four complete recitations. But it's more of a scurrying kind of song, it feels right to be hunched over while you're listening to it, in a combat sort of posture, ready to defend yourself against something, even if it's just the cold. And, for a few weeks, it was the only song I wanted to hear. I would listen to it on repeat for half an hour at work before sheepishly turning it off, just in case someone could hear the same notes leaking from my headphones again and again and think I was insane. More insane.

Rolling from your brat sarcastic eye
A California tear, a drop of gold
Maybe you were cold, yeah, so was I
Holding back
Holding back the year

I thought it was bright sarcastic eyes, and at first I was disappointed. But now I like to hear him spit out brat in defiance of anyone who wants the song to be prettier.

The year before the poison took its toll
Made you paper thin, me- wrinkled, old
Eventually, yeah, finally it caught up
I held you back, grabbed you by the arm
I played upon your fear

Perhaps I identify too much with feeling paper thin and worn out. Let's move on.

Rollin' down the window won't I
Order up some breakfast if I can
Hold me back
Hold me by the arm
Wipe away my tear

Wipe away my tear

And then, out of nowhere, he's getting some breakfast at the drive-thru. But I suppose you have to eat, no matter what's going on inside your head.

The story ends with friends and early nights
A kitten grown to cat and no more fights
This is how we stay together, love

And then things change as they inevitably do. I love the image of a kitten growing up as a symbol of life going on. And that an old, bitter punk rocker is singing about cats and early nights as representing the good, calm side of life.

Holding back
Holding back the year
Hold me back
Grab me by the arm
Whisper in my ear

Holding back the year
Holding back the year

What more do you need?

The Hard Truths

2007-04-03T20:44:00.000-06:00

1) Sometimes shit just doesn't work out the way you want it to

2) Gatorade is really just kool-aid with salt

And these truths are remarkably similar in that:

1) It's just common sense and common knowledge

2) yet somehow we refuse to believe it

3) and every time it's re-proven to us, we find it just as shocking as the first time

I cannot get enough of this

2006-11-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

You don't have to be American to hate Rick Santorum. And you don't have to be evil to enjoy watching his creepy children cry. Well, maybe just a little bit, but I'm having too much fun to care.

I highly suggest watching the footage of his concession speech on YouTube. And maybe hunting down a couple Daily Show clips, just to hear the audience cheer when his defeat is announced. The pure joy and exuberance is really quite touching - warms my cold, cold heart.

yikes

2006-11-08T08:59:00.000-07:00

Actual quote from last night's story meeting:

"He's been around forever - he was part of the hardcore scene before there was a hardcore scene. I think he's like 25 or something crazy like that."

Just fucking kill me.

The most disturbing thing I have ever seen

2006-10-23T09:53:00.000-06:00

Earlier this year I visited a string of sex shops as part of my research for an artice (and no, research should not be in quotes. I was writing about women-friendly sex shops thankyouverymuch) Anyway, at one shop I visited, the staff got a bit over-excited and started to pull out bizarre merchandise in an effort to shock me. But hey, I've read the Encyclopedia of Unusual Sexual Practices and Bob Flanagan: Supermasochist so I took the three-pound cockring attachment weights in stride (But really? ouch)Unfortunately, pretending to be Ms. Worldy and Unflappable backfired on me, as it just inspired them to bring out the big, uh, guns.

What you see in the picture is euphemistically referred to as an 'anal toy.' It's ten pounds of black rubber, shaped like a woman's calf and foot, and very close to actual size. A heavy gauge chains is attached to the end, I imagine to aid in retrieval. Incredibly, that's not the best part. What made this object so extraordinary was the staff's nickname for it....

(wait for it, this is good)

...The Heather McCartney

The Path to Enlightenment

2006-10-20T22:40:00.000-06:00

I've started a new obsession: relaxation. Although I hear the whole point of it is to not be obsessive. Baby steps.

Eh, I suppose I shouldn't really joke, or pretend it's just a silly idea. Really, it's more of a last-ditch effort to haul myself out of an all-encompassing depression, which has been creeping up on me for months. For awhile I didn't really acknowledge it, but just started dropping all the parts of my life that just seemed too overwhelming to deal with. Which, after a few months, was bascially everyone and everything. Eh, even that's not entirely true - I kept going as much as I could, but everything has just seemed so much harder.

But, that wasn't what I meant to talk about. Relaxation. I meant to talk about relaxation.

Today's lesson was skipping work and spending the day at a ridiculously overblown spa. I went to Oasis down on 17th Avenue, mainly because it was the only one I could think of. I can't compare it to anything (except for an extremely unrelaxing trip to a Hungarian bathhouse many years ago), but I think it was a good choice. There's a tone of hushed reverence that permeates everything, infusing the massages and pedicure with a near-religious sense of ritual. I liked the feeling that all this drinking fresh lemon water and padding around in slippers was, in fact, terribly serious business.

First, I had cranio-sacral treatment which aimed to get the energy moving along my spine and through my chakras. I'll admit that I believe in the basic idea of energy in the body, but I've never given much thought to the nature of it, or whether chakras are a legitimate concepts. I couldn't really say what she did, just a series of light touches. But I did feel better during and after. Apparently my root chakra and third chakra are seriously blocked. And I analyze too much (because I don't know what my gut feelings are, because my third chakra is so blocked). Yeah. The easiest thing for me would be to blow it all off as garbage. And maybe it is, but I've reached the point where I almost don't care. It made me feel better, and that's all I care about this point.

The second treatment, a hot stone massage, was also all about the chakras. Who knew? I'm pretty sure everything she said about hot stone being adapted from Buddhist traditions was crap, but it sounded nice. And lying down while someone places warm, smooth stones down your back definitely feels nice, so I won't argue.

I was taking this all so seriously that it almost shocked me to see other patrons act a bit blase towards it. I saw two women dash to the locker room between treatments to check messages on their cells. I don't know, maybe they do this kind of thing a whole lot more often than I do, But I can't imagine caring. I tried as hard as I could to banish every work-related thought that drifted into my brain. Aliens could have taken over the earth and I wouldn't have cared as long as it didn't upset my carefully arranged massage stones.

So, step one in my sanity plan is complete and was successful. Next up, learning how to cope without burying myself in fluffy robes and essential oils...

Denial of Service

2006-10-18T22:46:00.000-06:00

Fuck, I've been locked out of here for over a month while beta works itself out. I know it's free and all, but it's been really, really annoying. I tried to go through all the steps and politely follow all the suggestions about resetting my password and checking my spelling, but I quickly realized that I was running around in fucked-up circles...

Can I just swear a few more times? Please?

"None of you understand...

2006-09-09T19:46:00.000-06:00

this is a song about life"

songmeanings.net is filled with cringe-worthy adolescent inanity, and that's precisely why I love it. I'm pretty sure it's the kind of place I would have spent many, many hours as a teenager. Back when I was in high school, the interweb this mysterious than people who never left their homes used to talk to each other about Dungeons and Dragons. Or something like that. Anyway, I feel like I was born just a few years too early to live my true calling as highly opinionated, pain in the ass internet teen. I would be on songmeanings every single day, letting everyone know that they're just wrong about Every Day is Like Sunday because the song is about me, like, it's totally my life, and nobody else understands.

Instead I just had to have these kinds of pathetic discussions with my friends. Also, being far too early for Myspace, I was forced to express myself through the traditional teenage venue: the bedroom. Even with the current hysteria around internet predators, I'm sure my parents would have greatly preferred me to have a webpage filled with bad poetry and tributes to bands than a bedroom painted black and filled with candles. (Fire hazard! bad for studying!)

Which, most unfortunately, reminds me of another aspect of my teenage obsession with song lyrics. At one point, I started writing particularly meaningful bits of lyrics on large pieces of art paper and posting them on my walls. For a good part of my senior year of high school, lines from How Soon is Now? were posted above my bed.

So you say its going to happen now
But when exactly do you mean?
Because I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone...

To me, it was a motivational quote. My own version of those Strength posters. Strangely, I still get that sense...

Okay, that's enough free-association for tonight. I don't want any more accidental confessions to come out...

2-second rule

2006-08-22T20:36:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I was stopped at a light when the man crossing the street in front of us suddenly stopped, picked something up off of the road and then popped it in his mouth. No, I don't think you understand, HE PICKED SOMETHING UP OFF THE GROUND AND ATE IT. And he was just a normal looking guy. Calgary has hundreds of wacked-out guys walking around talking to their hands, but I've never seen any of them eat random crap off the pavement.

Seriously, the best possible explanation is that it was a rock. I really, really hope that it was a rock.

The Roches at the Calgary Folk Music Festival

2006-08-02T16:15:00.000-06:00

Oh, sorry. This is actually a picture of me running the hell away from the Roches at the Calgary Folk Music Festival. Seriously, this was the most annoying thing I've ever heard. I couldn't get away fast enough and I still have some of the screeching stuck in my head. And the lyrics....don't remind me of the lyrics...

Macy Gray at the Calgary Folk Festival

2006-08-02T15:58:00.000-06:00

Or, actually, one of Macy Gray's back-up singers. Macy Gray was harder to draw. She is gigantic, and may have been very drunk. But then again, I can imagine that she's like that all the time. Her band was amazing and the show was a weird mixture of a super-tight choreographed extravanga and a sprawling, shambolic mess. Unfortunately, the only thing anyone is going to remember about her is the 10-minute fiesta of profanity she went on halfway through. Never before has the word 'fuck' be uttered so many times from the folk fest stage, in so many different and interesting ways.

Well, I'll also remember that she had a special glittery mic stand and a cool drummer, but that's just me.

Broken Social Scene

2006-08-02T15:48:00.000-06:00

playing on the main stage as the headlining act for Thursday night. There were a whole lot of people on stage. When they all filed out at the start of the set, our friend Brian said "hey look! it's Lighthouse!" Which may have been a bit obscure for the young girls screaming for Feist, but did earn points for referencing obscure Canadiana.

Thankfully, they skipped most of their experimental jazz, played a full set of actual songs and were all-around awesome.

Also: drop that phone park that car sleep on the floor dream about me drop that phone park that car sleep on the floor dream about me drop that phone park that car sleep on the floor dream about me drop that phone park that car sleep on the floor dream about me....

...sorry, sometimes I fall into a bit a trance with that song

21.1

2006-07-26T21:46:00.000-06:00

So, July is almost over and I haven't mentioned the central event - the freaking half marathon I started training for back in March. I've done so many 10Ks that I felt like I had to make the jump, but man, was I ever in bad shape when I started. Hauling my ass for just a couple kilometres was really hard. And from those first couple kilometres, the distances only went up. I started doing the Sunday morning runs when they reached 8K, which is generally the farthest I ever run if I don't have a number pinned on me. But then it was 10, 12, 14, 16...

I think my best ever run was 14K, down to Edworthy Park and back in the rain. Or the 18K run where I did the last 8K alone because I took a detour to the Inglewood Bird Sanctuary to use the bathroom, and never bothered to catch up. I knew the way back, and it was nice to finish up along, under my own power. Unfortunately, that one cemented my reputation as the Bathroom Girl, the one that always had to head off after an hour in search of facilities. In the back of my head I was constantly calculating distances and times to the nearest outhouse, gas station or wooded area. For this, I keep a mental map of every possible facility.

The last few training runs were pretty harsh - it was hot and I hadn't learnt the difference between the normal exhaustion that comes with running too damn far, and bad, dangerous, overheated and getting spaced-out exhaustion. Once I decided to stop running and lie down on the grass because it looked so cool and soft. Luckily, I snapped out of it before I passed out cold. Another run I started to feel weak and sat down and my whole body tingled while I saw starbursts. It passed, but I had to walk a mile before I could run again.

It was only during the race that I learned to tell the difference and was able to avoid the bad, throw-uppy type of exhaustion. I kept up with my pace group for the first 8K but then I had to fall behind. By the halfway mark I officially gave up any semblance of a time goal and decided that all I wanted to do was haul my ass over the finish line. Which I did, but it took a looong time. Two hours and forty minutes, actually. Which leaves with a pretty easy goal for the next one - come in under 2:30, and, if possible, ahead of the sweeper.

I can't really remember what I thought about for all that time. I tried not to think about time or distance, but it was hard to shut off the mental calculations. I tried to see it as a walking tour of the city, just speeded up. Which is a fun way of looking at it - we got to go through the Stampede ground before they opened, past the dormant corn dog vendors. Through the edges of downtown, into the Zoo, through Bridgeland, all the way down the river to Crowchild and back up to downtown. I remember how quiet it seemed when I became a straggler. I remember the buzz of excitement when the marathon winner passed me - around the 19th K for me, and the 40th for him. I know that must have dumped at least ten little cups of water over me at the last couple aid stations when it started to get really hot. Being cool for a second outweighed the embarassment of running around soaking wet.

So, I actually finished. Now I just have to make sure that this was just my first half marathon.

Richard Thompson

2006-07-07T13:14:00.000-06:00

A tribute in MS Paint, because I'm a geek.
Saw him at Know United Church last night. Right in the first row (or pew, as it were), sweltering hot and sticky all night. Surrounded by awestruck guitar geeks. One of the best shows I've ever seen.

Fiscal responsibility vs. The allure of a new bike

2006-07-03T22:15:00.000-06:00

or,

The satisfaction that comes with saving up for something you want Vs. Getting a new bike right now

or,

Being able to maintain my facade of responsible grown-upness Vs. Being able to ride a shiny new bike, right now, dammit!

Uh, the bike won. Obviously.

Squeee! It's a road bike from Giant, which set me back $1100 (which I didn't really have) But it has carbon forks and modern gearing and it's shiny.

It was the test ride that did me in. This bike rides so much smoother than my old Miyata. Gliding over pavement, it felt like riding a bike as a kid - big fat tires and banana seats, circling the same section of new asphalt again and again because it was so smooth and so much fun to ride on.

Guess I was having a 'life's too short' kind of moment. Which it is. So I'm going to spend more of it with a cool bike.

end of the tunnel

2006-06-30T11:26:00.000-06:00

end of the tunnel
Originally uploaded by uberllama.

2006-06-30T11:20:00.000-06:00

Wade.
Originally uploaded by Slowtron.

A picture of Wade from last summer.

The Longest Day of the Year

2006-06-30T09:45:00.000-06:00

June 21st, the first day of summer. On June 20th, a coworker, Wade, died in a motorcycle accident. I found out the next day, along with everyone else. We were all crowded into a meeting area, trying to guess why we'd been called to meet so suddenly, and why the tone was so somber.

Personally, I assumed the company had gone bankrupt and wondered how it had happened so fast. Funny that, in casting my mind around for ideas of what bad things could have happened, I couldn't really come up with anything. Or not really funny, maybe lucky is a better word.

Wade was already with Veer when I started two years. Even with the crowd of nutcases that made up Veer at that time, he still managed to stick out as a unique personality. And a loud one - never much for quiet diplomacy. In some ways, he fit the stereotype of the IT Guy. He didn't hesitate to let me know when I did something stupid. Which was pretty often.

I didn't understand all of what he did, but the people who did were frequently in awe. There were a couple emergency all-nighters, saving the servers from melty oblivion.

I never really thought about it before, but Wade was a big part of my image of Veer, and one of the people that made me believe things would never go too far off track. There are a few - people in whose integrity and intelligence I trust and use as my barometers. If they're unhappy, I'm worried, but as long as they stick around I figure everything is okay. It's hard to lose a person like that.

Wade also became one of my favourite people at Veer by inadvertently reminding me of my husband. Both of them are always right. Both of them are always right even when they have no idea what the hell they're talking about. Both of them actually are right so often that you can't really even make fun of them for thinking they're always right.

And, like my husband, Wade was a great afficinado of arguing. An orator, really. If you weren't rock solid in your position, you were just asking to get creamed. Thing is, once you came around to his way of thinking, he could switch from angry to laidback and friendly in a second. For a grudge-holder like me, it was an amazing thing to behold.

But that was just work. He was also a hardcore mountain biker, hauling himself up mountains just to throw himself down the side at top speed. Motorcyclist. Got married on the beach in Mexico. And these were just the things I know...

I miss him and will miss him, and feel for all his friends and family that knew him so much more...there's nothing I could say that would ever be adequate

World of Wonders

2006-06-14T13:48:00.000-06:00

Now this, in case you didn't know, is a snood. Don't worry, I myself was ignorant of the existance of the dog snood until just a few days ago. They're basically a scarf, earmuffs and a fashionable dog accessory, all rolled into one ridiculous-looking package. poor doggie.

I saw one for the first time during Sunday's long run. It was cold and rainy, so everyone we ran past was bundled up for their morning walk. One woman decided to take it a bit further and outfit her basset hound for the chill. We came across them as we ran through the woods next to the river. When you run in a big group like I do for my training runs, it's hard to see more than the person in front of you, so obstacles can seem to pop up out of nowhere. To prevent someone running into a pole or slipping on some mud, runners at the front have to call out obstacles. People in the middle pick it up and call it back. It feels like a preschool game, but it's effective enough (although "hOle!" and "pOle!" get mixed up frequently). Once when we running past the zoo, I called out "BuffalOO," but nobody else thought it was funny. Might have had something to do with being 12K into a 14K run.

Anyway, on Sunday as we ran past the woman and her be-snooded dog, the dog decided we were beyond fascinating. He waddled right in front of the pack and sat down to check us out. The front of the pack split to run around him and called out "DoOog!" And soon everyone picked it up, calling out "DoOog!" as we passed, before cracking up at the sight of his bizarre outfit. The basset hound, meanwhile, looked up at us and wagged his tail, happy to be reassured that the world did, in fact, revolve around him.

"Everyone is a house with four rooms...

2006-06-09T10:44:00.000-06:00

...a physical, and emotional, a mental and a spiritual. Most of tend to live in one room most of the time, but unless we go into every room, every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person."

-Rumer Godden

An interesting idea from an interesting woman. I read one of her young adult books, Thursday's Children, in junior high school and became deeply obsessed with it. I can't really explain why, a story about kids trying to become professional ballet dancers had less than nothing to do with me. Maybe it just played to my fantasies of being deeply talented but unappreciated and misunderstood - you know, just like every other 13-year-old. I found the book again recently and googled the author, and found this quote. Again, it is strangely, perfectly relevant for me, and yet, completely not. Somehow, I feel like all of my rooms are packed to the rafters with old newspapers and that a hoard of stray cats has moved in and made the house their own...

More driving lessons

2006-06-06T14:58:00.000-06:00

I don't care how many freaking driving lessons I have to take, someday this will be me, dammit! All of it, including the blond hair, the convertible and perky little straw hat.

All that's stopping me from living my own stock photography road trip fantasy is the lack of driver's license. Did I mention I'm 31? Yeah, it's sad, but so far the inconvenience of living without a license has been completely dwarfed by expense and SHEER TERROR AND HORROR of learning to drive. Driving is hard. There's, like, eight million things happening at once and if you screw up, very bad things can happen. I don't understand. I know for a fact that there are a lot of stupid people out there. Anyone who's worked retail for five minutes knows that. Yet all these people can drive, while I'm still trying to master the right turn.

Apparently there is a happy medium between turning out into the oncoming lane and riding the curb. Or so they say. I have my doubts.

Sigh. Two more lessons over the next two weeks, combined with a bunch last year. And some when I was 20. Eventually I'll figure it out. I can't not. Not because I need to drive -I walk to work, live near downtown, carry my groceries home from the story- but because I'm just too embarrassed to keep up this learning-to-drive shoit.

Too Much Fun

2006-06-03T15:54:00.000-06:00

One of Calgary's favourite bits of self-promotion is talking up the pathway system. Using what I suspect is some creative math, Calgarians will proudly tell you that we have the most extensive bike-and-foot pathway system of any city in North America. And, in some ways, it is pretty impressive. Some sections are extremely busy commuter corridors, while others are so quiet you hardly feel like you're still in the city. I'm lucky to live close to the downtown section of pathway, and I go running on it practically everyday.

However, flaws in this glorious system become apparent when you attempt any kind of long-distance route. Today, my goal was to run from Centre Street and follow the path down to Glenmore Landing - total distance, about 10 miles. I was a bit nervous since this would be my longest-ever run, but I armed myself with provisions: water bottle, energy gel mini-bottle, my inhaler, a credit card and, just in case, a map of the section of path I would be following. Now, I studied this map beforehand and tried to remember the various bridge crossings, on-street sections and dead-ends to avoid. But, in the back of my mind, I was still thinking, really, how hard can it be?. As it turns out, really fucking hard.

The first mile to Fort Calgary I've run a hundred times. Simple enough, although it's getting more, uh, interesting by the day. The path runs right past the massive new homeless shelter, and, as the weather gets warmer, more people are choosing to sleep rough along the river and in the fields. No rules and no curfews, I guess. It's never been a problem in previous years, I just ended up saying good morning to a lot of bleary-eyed guys as they stumbled out of the bush. This year, the number of people has exploded and there are whole fields that are totally trashed. It reminds me more and more of the total despair of the downtown eastside in Vancouver. And I feel like a monster jogging past passed-out bodies, but I'm also getting too nervous to stop...

Anyway, down past Fort Calgary - skipping the bridge that would normally bring me into Inglewood, and turning onto the Elbow River pathway. And here my troubles began. (Note: please read that last sentence in Grandpa Simpson voice. Thanks for your cooperation.) Right away I came across a bridge under construction (wrapped in white plastic, actually, which was an odd sight). There was a detour sign, but it pointed nowhere. The people in front of me decided to take the bridge anyway, and connect with the path on the other side. This worked until I reached the Stampede grounds, where the pathway closed again. Gee, I'm really glad this was all noted on the official map I downloaded two days ago. Anyway, another closure, another mysterious detour that lead me nowhere. I ended up in parking lot, surrounded by horse trailers, trying to guess where to go. I followed the lot along the river before being turned around by two attendants, who said they'd been redirecting people since last year's flood, which caused all the detours. Even though it's been a year, nobody has put up any signs and both guys looked like they were sick to death of dealing with wayward runners and cyclists. So I doubled back and ran around the track and corral, passing by a 4H convention. Some of the kids were already dressed for the horse show - that's a lot of tassels and rhinestones for so early in the morning, but what do I know?

So, through the Stampede grounds and out into Victoria park. Across a bridge and I found the path again. Running along into Lindsay Park path is like a rollercoaster, ducking under three old bridges in a row, my head barely clearing the deck. Everything seems to be back on track until I reached a fourth bridge and decided it was the one indicated on the map as a cross point. Instead I ended up running through Mission, past the old hospital, trying to find a way back to the river. I ended up reconnecting fairly quickly, but I had to stop yet again to check the map, which was turning into a pain in the ass. Back on the path I ran past families of geese, the mothers hissing at me to keep my distance.

At this point the path crossed 4th Street and led me on my strangest detour. I crossed the bridge over the Elbow and saw a sign for the Elbow Island pathway and turned down some stairs to follow it. The stairs dropped me onto a small dirt path which continued into thick bush. This is can't be right - but I followed it anyway. For a minute, things looked good so I kept following, then the path became so overgrown I could barely continue. I dodged branches, got scraped by brambles and ended up coated with spider webs. I ended up on the edge of the river, next to the huge homes that front this section of the Elbow. On the opposite bank, people were walking along a real path, but I couldn't get there. I had no choice but to head back the way I came, back through the bush. This time I came across a homeless guy, bathing in his underwear. We nodded at each other and I kept going. At this point I began to suspect I wasn't going to make my pick up time...

Back up the stairs and a bit farther I found the path again. Seriously, if there had been even a single freaking directional sign to guide me, I wouldn't have had any problem. At best there were a couple street detour signs that were essentially useless because they made you follow them on faith alone, there was no way of knowing where you were going or how far the street detour was. And the map is worthless ass. None of the closed sectioned were noted, and none of the complicated path-street-bridge-street-path detours were shown in enough detail to be understandable.

At this point I was on one of the nicest sections of the entire system, when the path passes through the Rideau neighborhood and Stanley Park. But I was so pissed off and behind schedule that I could barely relax and enjoy running through it. Constantly stopping to check the map had thrown me completely off any rhythm and I couldn't get back on pace. I kept going, hoping that it would get easier once I had passed through Sandy Beach and started the south leg of the trip. But a few more unmarked, inexplicable detours and an official sign that seemed to point me down an alley and I gave up. The frustration that had been bubbling under since I started down the Elbow finally boiled over into an angry tantrum. I wished I had my iPod just so I could throw it as hard as I could and maybe stomp on it a few times. Honestly, I was ready to tear bark off a tree - I really just wanted to break something I was so pissed off. Instead I took a deep breath and tried to appear sane long enough to borrow a cell phone to call home and change my pick up spot. I had only run about 9K, but all the stopping, backtracking, map checking, and inadvertant urban exploration had added up to over 80 minutes. More importantly, I was irritated at everything I couldn't talk myself out of it and couldn't get psyched up to face whatever the rest of the route might throw at me.

So, I didn't make it. Nor did I get anywhere near my 10-mile goal. I'm still pretty pissed off, and now I'm convinced that if I had just tried one more detour I would have gotten back on track. I think I'm going to try the distance again on Monday, but this time, I think I'm going to stick to my regular 8K route and just do it twice. Desperately boring, but I don't think I need any more 'fun' right now.

The most disappointing thing I've seen in years?

2006-05-28T19:04:00.000-06:00

Getting the newsletter for the Calgary Half Marathon and seeing that this year's 10K race is being sponsored by -wait for it!- LA Weight Loss. Sorry, make that LA fucking Weight Loss.

Isn't there a rule against this kind of shit? Some ethical guideline that prevents race organizers from accepting a title sponsorship from a bullshit diet company? I guess I feel slightly protective of this particular 10K , since it's the first one I ever did, but I'd be appalled to see any event advertising the name of a commercial diet company. Especially one with ads like LA's - "Hey! I lost XX pounds in X weeks! A doctor might say that's unsafe and unsustainable, but that's because they don't know the LA secret!"

Okay, I made that last bit up. But you get the idea. A real athletic event being sponsored by a diet company? should. not. happen.

I even went to LA site, just in case they had a legitimately healthy plan. Here's what I found:

1. Does L A Weight Loss really work?
Absolutely and you'll love the results. As a matter of fact, internal studies have shown that L A clients lose two- to three-times more weight than those on other programs. We're so sure we can help you reach your weight loss goal, that L A Weight Loss will guarantee your weight loss on our program in writing.

Hee. An internal study says they're the greatest! Holy Crap! But wait, it gets better:

3. Do I need to be a client to use L A Weight Loss products?
L A features an exclusive line of supplements and weight loss enhancers that are only available to L A clients. These products were specifically designed to work in conjunction with our program and will help maximize weight loss.

Yes, that's right. Only people that have paid their initiation fee get the privilege (yes, the privilege. Wipe that disbelieving smirk off your face) of buying LA products.

Gah. I'm glad I'm doing the half marathon this year, because there's no way I could tolerate supporting the 10K. I supposed I should do the responsible thing and write a letter instead of ranting. But I can't face the idea of a form letter response, or worse - a response defending it. I'm sure there's a twisted justification, but I don't want to know it.

Why yes, I did watch the entire two-hour American Idol finale...

2006-05-27T20:01:00.000-06:00

Not only that, but I've been haunting Youtube and Rickey.org, rewatching the best parts over and over again. Like when the guy in the picture sees Clay Aiken and completely loses his shit, which is seriously one of the best things ever. I'd link to a video if I could, but they keep disappearing soon after I find them. Never fear, because as fast as Youtube can remove the videos, crazed fans are putting them back up. If you were too cool to watch, go there now and get caught up. Some things to warch out for in the Clay/Clay fan sequence:

1) When Clay Aiken magically appears on stage, unbeknownst to fake Clay, who is still pouring his heart into an earnest impersonation. The poor guy can't figure why everyone is cheering, and starts to falter in the song, clearly terrified that his fly is open or something

2) The kid's reaction when he realizes his hero is right there. It's a beautiful thing. Seriously, when was the last time you saw such pure joy and excitement? New mothers seeing their babies for the first time aren't that excited...

3) The fact that he keeps right on singing - I think the plan was to usher him off the stage and just have Clay Aiken sing alone, but he wasn't going to let go of the glory that easy.

And the rest was almost as brilliant. Medieval coronations probably had less pomp and arcane ritual than the American Idol finale. I honestly think that it might have been even better than the World Idol show a couple years ago. And I don't say that lightly, since I thought that World Idol was the single greatest televised event in the history of overblown televised events! But this time American idol had Mary J. Blige in huge sunglasses, Prince being Prince, and David Hasselhoff weeping from the sheer joy of seeing the annoying chick lose...

Damn it.

2006-05-14T21:23:00.000-06:00

Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap. Crap.

I ran the Mother's Day 10K today, but forgot to wear my timing chip, so I won't be showing up in the official results. The glory of having my name in the paper in 6-point type will not be mine ths year. My time was firmly back-of-the-pack, but it's still nice to be able to prove that I did it.

This year I finished in 67 minutes, which was around what I was aiming for. Two years ago I finished in 63 - it would have been nice to match that, but it hardly matters. To be honest, every single time I finish a run I'm amazed. Battling against the cheeto-eating, American Idol-watching side of myself is hard enough, I don't need to set time goals on top of that.

Actually, it's Coronation Street's fault that I forgot my time chip. I had just finished getting my race numbere on when they pulled this big fake-out, pretending Rita was dead. Turns out she was just sleeping. Wow, does that ever sound pathetic, especially since I was so mesmerized that I forgot to finish getting ready.

The race itself was...a really big race. Something like twelve thousand people this year, at least half of which are totally unable to grasp the concept of seeding. I suppose it would be considered unsporting to punch somebody in the head as you're running past them, but sometimes it's so very tempting. Seriously, walking six abreast and pushing SUV strollers while several thousand runners struggle to get around you? Are you trying to make my head explode?

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful

2006-05-11T21:32:00.000-06:00

Getting your nails done is supposed to be one of those girly indulgences that all women look forward to. I can't understand why. It's actually kinda painful and toxic, and, to top it off, temporary. You can't just go once, you have to buy in for the long haul. So why do I even bother? Doctor's orders. No, really.

It's the latest chapter in my trich chronicles. Let's see, there's been stress journals , notebooks where I had to keep track of every urge to pull my hair, the baggie(oh, this one was extra-special) that I had to carry around with me at all times, to save any hair I did end up pulling... And now fake nails. The theory being that I can't pick at my eyelashes with big long nails gettng in the way. And I guess I have to admit that it's effective - it's impossible to pull unconsciously, what with almost poking my eyes out, and all. Actually, you know what might be even better? Nail Art. Extra-long nails with rhinestones, glitter... themes. That would certainly be a deterrent - three strikes you're blind.

The problem is, it's hard to do anything at all when I've got the nails on. Nothing comes naturally anymore and I feel like a mutant. Tying my shoelaces? requires utmost concentration and dedication. Is having eyebrows again worth not being able to dial the freaking phone? sigh...I guess it is. But it still sucks.

Zakir Hussain and the Masters of Percussion

2006-05-08T16:55:00.000-06:00

Truly awesome show last night at the Jack Singer. It was part of the World Music Series, which can be pretty hit or miss (especially when you suddenly remember oh yeah, I hate flamenco 30 seconds into a full flamenco extravaganza.) But I love tabla and these were some of the most amazing musicians out there.

A tribute in MS Paint:

The mess around the hands represents how fast they were moving. like hummingbirds.

FRUUUUUUUUUITBOOOOOOOTERS!

2006-05-08T14:05:00.000-06:00

It's spring and they're out again. Clogging the sidewalks. Swooshing their asses down the pathways. Careening wildly down Centre Street and Crescent Hill.

hate. hate. hate. Get out of my way.

And one more thing, Mr. SuperSkater: Although your torso may be on the right side of the path, when you push off your left leg swings out-way, way out-into the left side and within inches of my tire. Do you want to get your leg tangled up in my spokes? No? Well, THAT'S WHY I'M RINGING MY BELL! So wipe that snotty look off your face. And, for the love of god, put a shirt on.

You're more than just a rhyme to us...

2006-04-29T20:19:00.000-06:00

Death Cab and Franz Ferdinand Concert
Originally uploaded by Gravity Bun.

Wednesday night was the long-awaited Death Cab for Cutie/Franz Ferdinand show. Well, long-awaited and slightly dreaded, ever since Mike laughed when I told him I was going, and told me prepare to feel really, really old.

And at first I did. Because all the girls were dressed like Pat Benatar, but I'm pretty sure that none of them were even born when I was rushing home after school to catch Love is a Battlefield on VideoHits. But, like I've said before, today's ridiculous teenage fads are way cooler than the ones I chased. I mean, plastic jewelry and eyeshadow vs flannel shirts and sighing? There's just no contest.

Anyway, I've never been a huge fan, but I was still excited to see Death Cab. I willfully ignored them for years because I hated their name. I'm kind of unforgiving that way. I only relented and started to listen a couple of years ago, but I'm not really familiar with a lot of their stuff. Which definitely put me the minority - every time they started a song, a huge cheer went up from the audience before the first notes had finished. The first thing that struck me was the voice - Ben Gibbard sounded exactly the same as he does on record. I've never heard a singer sound so true to a recording. He wasn't the least bit ragged or hoarse from touring. It was almost disconcerting and actually made the performance feel strangely remote, like I was listening to it on headphones. I was also taken aback by their stage presence. I expected a bunch of wan guys shuffling their feet and looking embarrassed. Instead, I got rock stars. Howya guys doing out there? uh, good, I guess.

But once I got over my surprise, I was mesmerized. Death Cab for Cutie are amazing. I wished I'd memorized their albums like everyone else had. When they played Different Names for the Same Thing, the stands lit up with cell phones held high. I haven't been to a stadium show in ages, so this was all new to me...a few purists went for their lighters, but they were just small flickers in the greenish glow.

And if I had memorized their albums, I wouldn't have been so surprised at the reaction to I Will Follow You Into the Dark. I can't think of the last time I've heard a crowd sing along like that, as uninhibited as children. Midway through the song, the singing turned into shouting and one of the lines became a roar, followed by a huge cheer. I had no idea what had just happened, or what on earth everyone was cheering about. It wasn't until the next day that I realized the line was: we've seen everything there is to see/from Bangkok to Calgary. Which explains Ben Gibbard's introduction:

"You're more than just a rhyme to us"

And after Death Cab, Franz Ferdinand played. But it hardly mattered.

Health Overdose

2006-04-27T09:19:00.000-06:00

Having heard that it would cure every possible ailment, I picked up a bottle of flax oil the other day. I think I read something it being good for trich symptoms, although I'm a little unclear on how (but I can't resist miracle cure bullshit.) The bottle didn't give any instructions on how much to take, and, rather than taking two freaking seconds to look it up on google, I somehow decided that a shot glass was proper dosage. What does it say about me that I immediately thought of a shot glass rather than a spoon?

Anyway, first night I got highly queasy. Still, I tried again last night, right before bed. Shawn walked in right after I had downed the shot and was gagging, my throat coated in oil. He saw the shot glass and asked if maybe, possibly, I should try taking a little less. It honestly never occurred to me before he said it. So suddenly I realized that I had taken a massively excessive dosage of flax oil. twice.

Why is it that even my best intentions end up as small disasters? Who else could managed to overdose on flax oil? I better get some damn shiny hair out of this...

Family Fun

2006-04-26T13:55:00.000-06:00

My mother and my sister. My sister and my mother. Why can't they be sane? Why is my sister so intent on a complete personal implosion? Why does my mother worry about it so much, yet continue to fund it?

Why are me and both my siblings such hopelessly immature, dependant sponges?

Family counselling isn't enough. I honestly think we need a higher power, like SuperNanny. Lately I've started to daydream about her showing up on my mother's doorstep and taking charge. Calling us all over to lecture, "ess nah asseptable!"

God that would be sweet.

Actually, with all the attention lately on useless adult children, I can totally see that working as a spinoff. SuperNanny making a big activities chart that forces the 29-year-old to get out of bed at 8 and look for a job between 10 and 2. At 2:30, he gets a snack.

This honestly might be the best idea I've ever had.

(trademarktrademarktrademarktrademarktrademarktrademark)

The Birthday Curse, pt II

2006-04-23T17:38:00.000-06:00

Continued, because this is turning into a very long post...

21 - Ah, my 21st birthday was extra special. First I worked a shift at Safeway (cashier was my replacement crappy job after I fled A&W). I suppose being a cashier isn't so bad if you've got the personality for it, but I really, really didn't. I can't even begin to list all the reasons I was badly suited for the job, but foremost among them were my chronic shyness and my habit of taking it personally when people scream at me. During my tenure, I spent a good portion every single shift humming Lost in the Supermarket under my breath. While I still love that song, I've barely been able to listen to it since. Anyway, after a glassy-eyed day of scanning and making change, I went home to my family's birthday party. These are very small affairs, consisting entirely of serving a cake and singing a horribly off-key version of Happy Birthday (my father was almost entirely deaf, so his musical stylings were particularly amusing). At the time, my sister was enrolled in a journalism program, and decided to use my birthday as the subject for her photo series assignment. Unfortunately, her first round of 'blowing out the candles' photos didn't quite work, so we re-lit them and did it all again. And again. After I was finally allowed to leave the candles extinguished and eat some cake, I slunk on down to the computer in the basement to work on a term paper. The subject? history of western culture. All of it. It was due the next day, so I stayed down there, typing away for the next twelve hours.

22 - I have no idea.

23 - On my 23rd birthday I got letter from a friend, telling me that a mutual friend had drowned in an accident. There's really nothing funny about this.

24 - I can't even remember what the problem was, but I was going through some job drama at this time and was mainly unemployed. I finally ran out of money and decided I needed to appply for Unemployment (or, as it was euphemistically renamed, Employment Insurance). Not entirely why I decided to do this on my birthday. Anyway, I started filling out the form on a computer at the office and soon got to the date of birth information. As a check against typos and mistakes, the computer would pop up with a confirmation message after every entry. Thus, when I typed in my date of birth, a dialogue box popped up, informing me that "YOU ARE 24 YEARS OLD." Yeah, well happy birthday to you, too, asshole.

to be continued again...

The Birthday Curse

2006-04-23T17:35:00.000-06:00

Several years ago, after a string of crappy and/or thwarted observances, I decided that my birthday was cursed. This isn't surprising - I naturally tend towards paranoia and self-pity, so believing in the odd personal curse is to be expected. Don't even get me started on my red wine curse. Anyway, the birthday curse is fairly well delineated: it began on my eighteenth birthday and can only be avoided by ignoring the event completely. Proof? Oh, I got proof...

18 - Ah yes, the intro to adulthood. My older sister decided to help me celebrate by letting me tag along on her usual rounds. She's always been much more of a social butterfly, thus a regular night out required us to hit about five bars and meet up with a dozen people. The evening culminated at the Ship and Anchor, where she introduced me to a table of people and then left me there while she went to another bar. I spent a good couple hours waiting for her to come back, listening to random guys talk about guitar string and drinking way too much beer in an effort to keep up. Numerous girl drinks + several pints of Warthog = bad news for the barely legal. I celebrated my entry into adulthood by throwing up in the bathroom of the 17th avenue Boston Pizza...

19 - Admittedly, I don't really remember. My guess would be something involving the Republik and beer, which was already starting to lost its allure...

20 - I had been working at A&W for about six months when my 20th birthday rolled around. It was hellish even by the standards of teenage fast food jobs, mainly because of a amusingly demented boss who had obviously gotten into 'the food service industry' because it offered her almost unlimited bullying opportunities. Such was the economy at the time that nobody could risk quitting or getting fired - it could take months to find another crappy job (it makes me jealous now, to see how places go begging for workers - signing bonuses, wages way above the minimum, kids hired on the spot. When I was in high school, any job that did not involve fries could ask for a degree) Anyway, back to the curse: after a long morning filled with verbal abuse, I checked the upcoming schedule and saw that I was booked to work two full days the next week - my birthday and the day after. Suddenly, I knew I couldn't possibly do it. Fries and misery was okay while I was still a teenager, but as soon I turned 20 it would make me feel like a hopeless loser. In one moment I realized it, and it couldn't be undone - today was my last day.

Of course, my manager lost it, my mother was livid, my father disappointed, even my friends and boyfriend were concerned. Which made it a fairly crappy birthday, with everyone shaking their heads because I was 20 now, and should be more responsible. (on the upside, the rest of my last day was awesome. You have no idea how funny a screaming fastfood manager is when you don't care anymore. Comic gold, people)

Eagle eyes

2006-04-23T16:58:00.000-06:00

The shame of getting sucked in by that Mark Ecko video has not been helped by Shawn's constant mocking. He never fell for it - after I found out it was a fake I showed it to him and he just sneered: "just look at the lettering on the plane! It's too clear. The video is bitmapping, but the font is a vector graphic? I don't think so."

Uh, yeah, Don't know how I missed that.

The Greatest of All Time?

2006-04-18T16:31:00.000-06:00

I can only hope the video is real, because tagging Air Force One should get you some kind of medal.

ETA: Not real. Duh. But dammit, I wanted to believe!

The legal disclaimer is actually pretty funny, once I took the time to actually explore and read it:

"You, the viewer of the preceeding are hereby advised that the video does not depict a real event. It is intended for the sole, limited and express purpose of entertainment and to induce you, the viewer of the video, to think critically about freedom of expression and speech and the government's responses to the same. Therefore, and by reason of the foregoing, the producers, creators and distributors of this video hereby verily certify that the foregoing fictionalization and dramatization was not real."

But the Wooster Collective hurt my feelings when they said "We didn't post that it was a fake because we has [sic] no idea that anyone would think that it was real." Guess I'm just an idiot (but getting insert that [sic] makes me a bit happier.)

Mileage

2006-04-16T20:28:00.000-06:00

I've decided this running crap is actually a really bad idea. I know that it must have seemed like something I had to do, signing up for a half marathon, but I really can't remember why.

Oh, who am I trying to fool? I want to run a half marathon, but I have a hard time believing I can do it. Today's run was 9K and I was exhausted at the end. The farthest I've run in the past couple years is 10K...yet somehow I'm going to be covering twice that distance? 20 kilometres and then another 1.1 - just for fun. In six weeks, we'll be up to 10 miles. I've only run 10 miles once in my life and it took a really, really long time.

What I really want to do isn't the half, there are two 10-mile trail runs. One runs from Canmore to Banff, between the mountains. The other is Moose Mountain - five miles up the mountain and then five more back down again. Why does that appeal to me?

Desk Job

2006-04-05T20:40:00.000-06:00

"I found myself wondering - what will the Richard Scarry book of the future look like? based on my experience, I think it's going to be about eighty lavishly illustrated pages of a cartoon mouse sitting at a desk, typing, with headphones on"

The most brilliant thing I've heard this week. (from the 43 folders podcast The Richard Scarry Book of the Future)

Pretty much describes me and everyone within a twenty foot radius of me.

This Just In...

2006-04-05T09:30:00.001-06:00

Metric @ Neumos - Seattle, Wa
Originally uploaded by Crickontour.

Metric is big with the kids. I had no idea how popular they were until I saw the insane line-up for their show at Mac Hall last night.

Also popular: mini mini-skirts and footless tights.

Last night around 6:30, I stopped by the student centre to grab a coffee before my writing class. Apparently the doors to the hall didn't even open until 7, but there were already hundreds of all-ages kids crowded on the stairs, and spilling out down the entire length of the food court. Every time a sound came from the hall, the line buzzed with excitement, imagining their heroes inside-so close!

Lining up an hour before the doors even open? I can't remember the last time I was so excited about a show. Christ, I can't remember the last time I was so excited about anything.

happy birthday to me

2006-03-31T13:23:00.000-07:00

happy birthday to me
happy birthday dear meee-eeee
happy birthday to me.

My friend Sean at work brought me cupcakes.

Just wanted to share the joy.

House of Ill-Repute

2006-03-30T20:29:00.000-07:00

My friend Chanelle manages the ultra-fabulous Good For Her in Toronto. Right now she's organizing an event called Vixens and Visionaries, celebrating women who are revolutionizing and creating feminist porn. Among many others, the event will feature Tristan Taormino, who will be promoting her new video, House of Ass. Which is easily the best title ever. In fact, this entire post is merely an excuse to type House of Ass. House of Ass. HOUSE OF ASS. heh.

Which, of course, leads me to wonder - what is the proper typographical treatment of this brilliant title?

I think a western theme could work, bringing up all sorts of wild west connotations (and bonus Brokeback tie-in!)

Or a classy retro feel, like a hair salon from the 60s where all the stylists wore gogo boots. But instead of the House of Beauty it's the

Or something a bit more reserved and proper, all the better to cause a nice bit of cognitive dissonance

Hee. Man, I could this all night. No, really, this is prime humor to me.

Okay, I'll stop.

Sing it!

2006-03-26T17:43:00.000-07:00

I've always insisted that no amount of alcohol could make me sing karaoke, and over the years I've held firm to this belief. I am a non-karaoker. In fact, I think these things might be decided on the genetic level. How, then, to explain last night's stirring rendition of The Final Countdown?

Obviously, Lisa is to blame. Rather than merely tolerating the odd karaoke outing, my dear friend Lisa lives for them. So when her husband planned a surprise birthday party for her, there was no question of the theme. He booked a private room at a club on the edge of downtown, where all she and all her friends could wail away to our heart's content.

At first, just about everyone claimed to be an avowed non-singer. Luckily, one of Dan's friends was willing to take one for the team and climbed up on a table to perform Sweet Caroline. (Sometimes I think the sole reason karaoke even exists is to allow people to sing along with the horns on Sweet Caroline's chorus - Bom-Bom-BOM. It's impossible to resist. Just try it some time.) Anyway, soon guests who had been karaoke virgins were collaborating on heart-wrenching renditions of MacArthur Park.

I guess it was a desire not to yet again be the boring, non-singing one that led me to try the Final Countdown. It didn't turn out so well. Apparently there's more to that song than periodically shouting out THE FINAL COUNTDOWN! Who knew? I did much better with my performance of Paranoid, although it drew some shockingly blank looks. How can there be people that don't know that song inside and out? Yanni-listening commie bastards.

A bizarre moment came when Dan decided to sing Living Next Door to Alice - a deservedly obscure semi-hit from the 70s. Apparently it's gained cult status as a big sing-along song in bars. Specifically, after the line Now I've got to get used to not living next door to Alice... everyone is supposed to chant ALICE! ALICE! WHO THE FUCK IS ALICE! I had no idea. But everyone but me knew it, so I guess I've been missing out all these years. Anyway, after a few rousing repetitions of ALICE! ALICE! etc., one of the waiters came to the door and asked if we could keep it down, as there was a children's party outside. We were embarrassed, but also suspicious. There couldn't really be kids in a bar, could there? Dan went out to investigate and turns out there was a whole table full of children just around the corner. So... a children's party, in a downtown asian bar, at 10 pm on a Saturday night. I have no explanation for this.

So, I think I've made great progress on the karaoke front. I can now say that I'm not always the designated pain-in-the-ass who refuses to sing. However, I feel perfectly content to rest on my laurels and go back to being a non-karaoker. Trust me, it's better for everyone that way...

LACMA Parking Garage

2006-03-23T22:11:00.000-07:00

LACMA Parking Garage
Originally uploaded by sketchypad.annex.

Today on Flickr I came across a really amazing series of photographs of the LACMA parking garage. I had never heard of it before, but apparently in 2000, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art commissioned Margaret Kilgallen and Barry McGee to decorate their parkade in conjunction with an exhibit.

The space is fascinating, it looks like you could wander around there for days, viewing the paintings from new perspectives and finding new pieces hidden in corners. Even better, their pieces brought in more artists that added more work, so the whole thing was covered with paintings and paste-ups and tags.

The crazy part is...it's gone. The entire parkade was demolished a few months ago to make way for a new museum wing. Almost none of the artwork was saved. I can't really wrap my head around that. Every gallery and museum I've ever worked at always had an impossible reverence for everything in it's collection. No matter how insignificant an object seemed, I always had to handle it with the same care as one that famous or precious. LACMA had some strange reasoning, that street art is meant to be ephemeral and thus shouldn't be saved from the demolition. Which is true, but also totally ridiculous when you look at how valuable and collectable this stuff has become. It's long since transcended throw-away status and become a respected art form (and whether this is good or bad could be debated forever)

So, does that mean that LACMA thought of the whole thing as decorative rather than legitimately artistic? As in, rather than commissioning artists to create a site-specific work, they had simply hired a couple people to brighten the place up? Like when banks hire someone to paint their windows for major holidays. Holiday ends, paint gets scraped off, nobody thinks twice. I guess if that was their opinion, then they really wouldn't have seen the point of spending thousands of dollars to slice the concrete and transport the painted slabs. To me it looks like the inexplicable destruction of irreplacable art which reflected a specific time, place and culture...

But hey, what do I know? It's too late now.

Sugar Rush

2006-03-20T17:05:00.000-07:00

I tend to spend the year careening from one candy-related holiday to another. Christmas is always nice, since gorging becomes not just acceptable, but practically mandatory. Halloween is good for sheer quantity, and the built-in excuse of "leftovers." For the past ten years I've lived either in apartment buildings or in houses that were so rundown and unsavory-looking that kids wouldn't come near them, but I've still bought halloween candy anyway. What can I say? If kids are going to be all wimpy about rotting steps, then they don't deserve candy.

But Easter is definitely the worst. It's ground zero for the all godawful sugar-and-food colouring garbage I crave. I mean, you can get jellybeans year round, but only around Easter can you get the pastel 'spring' jellybeans that seem to be twice as sweet the regular kind. You know, the good kind. But of the full array of sugary junk, marshmallow eggs are definitely my favourite. It must be a genetic abnormality - the only other person I've ever met who can even tolerate them is my sister. Every Easter, after we had finished our own allotment of marshmallow eggs, we would raid our younger brother's basket for more. The sugar gene must have skipped him, since he can't stand them.

I've noticed that every year it gets harder and harder to find the right kind of marshmallow eggs. Gummy-type eggs aren't acceptable. Neither are the soft, puffy marshmallow candies shaped like distorted bunnies. It has to be the kind with a stiff (but not crunchy) outer shell, brightly coloured with artificial sheen. The inside is soft but slightly granular, like there's too much sugar in the recipe for it all to properly dissolve. The outer shell is essential, since the proper method for eating marshmallow eggs involves putting one on your tongue and letting the outer layer of sugar and color melt off. After this, the surface will be rough and granular, but still solid. Only once the shell has melted sufficiently and started to collapse are you allowed to actually bite. The inexperienced should be prepared for a coma-inducing wave of sugar and maybe even a bit of subsequent nausea.

Those lucky enough to possess the marshmallow egg gene, however, can start in on the rest of the bag and relax knowing that the happiest time of the year has finally arrived.

Dread

2006-03-20T11:48:00.000-07:00

I just read that Xavier Rudd is playing here in May, and bought some tickets right away. I saw him at the folk festival last summer and loved his set. I'll admit that it sounds bad - an Australian surfer dude who plays didgeridoo, but I swear, he's actually really good.

Oh crap, I just realized - this show is going to be totally overrun with hippies. Crap! I hope security will be confiscating bongos at the door. I'm willing to indulge what little inner-hippie I have by going to this show, but I draw the line at indoor drum circles...

Combat Shopping

2006-03-19T21:24:00.000-07:00

Shawn dragged me along on his quest for new shirts today. He got one that he liked at the Winners downtown, and wanted to look for more at another location. Learn from our mistake. Do not go discount shopping on a Sunday. You have to be both infinitely patient and quick with the elbows whenever necessary. I'm neither, so I usually give up before I finish a single aisle. Also, it gives me terrible flashbacks to the brief period when I worked as a cashier at Winners. The only thing I really remember is the vast hordes of office workers that descended during their lunch hour and cleaned the place out. It's amazing how irresistable orphaned, slightly irregular clothing becomes when someone knocks 20% off the price...

Hoarfrost

2006-03-16T18:23:00.000-07:00

I guess that's what I was talking about. Except that it wasn't really hoarfrost because it wasn't cold enough. So, faux-frost?

Sorry for the amateur poetics below and any inconvenience it may have caused. Sometimes these things can't be avoided.

White on White

2006-03-16T09:56:00.000-07:00

When I stepped out this morning, the whole world had become blindingly white. The layer of snow was thin, but it seemed to cover every possible surface and detail. Maybe it was the thick fog, I can imagine it turning from mist to frozen crystal sometime during the night, then coating everything with a thin layer of ice and snow. The most amazing part was the trees. Every twig was sparkling, making each tree into an intricate pattern and a lacy fringe. Even the evergreens had turned white. It made me feel like I was walking through a black-and-white photograph, maybe one that had been overexposed, leaving the entire picture white on white on white.

This isn't that unusual, it happens to the trees by the river every time the weather turns shockingly cold. Days like this. What made it strange was the spring-like feeling of the air. I was too warm in my long winter coat. I couldn't decide if it was me or the trees that had not dressed for the weather.

The Trapeze Swinger

2006-03-13T16:18:00.000-07:00

They went on to say
that the pearly gates had some eloquent graffiti
like We'll meet again and Fuck The Man and
Tell my mother not to worry

from The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine. Easily the most beautiful song I've heard in ages. Sometimes I'll hear words spoken or sung and feel absolutely compelled to write them down, to see if they retain their magic even after they've been pinned down. Most of the time they can't - stripped of voice and music and time, they're just...words. Not meant to be sitting on a page or a screen. Still, I'm somehow convinced that if I can look at the words that they will reveal their secrets and intrinsic grace and I'll be able to figure out why they capture me. It never works.

Bonus Frequencies

2006-03-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

Last night we went to yet another show. I'm really happy that there's nothing I want to see for at least a few more weeks 'cause I'm way way too old for this kind of thing. I think that was four shows in five nights. On the one night we didn't go out I was tired enough that I actually watched the Oscars in their wretched entirety. (The best part definitely the pimps-n-hos interpretive dance - now with added hotpants!)

I've seen Bob Wiseman at least twenty times over the past ten years, and I still go almost every time he's in town. Which means that every once in a while I find myself at a club, hanging out with a couple dozen other true believers, watching this demented guy jam out and get all experimental with the accordion. The last few shows he's brought along a stack of his strange short films and played his music over top of them.

Y'know, there are very people I would tolerate this behavior from. Accordions, short films, the occasional plaid outfit... normally that would be enough to make me flee. But then in the middle of his art school freak out he'll pull out something amazing and heartfelt and even more unexpected than an accordion freak-out. Like a cover of Unchained Melody. Go to his site and watch the video for the Real Thing, it might help explain things...

(Oh, bonus frequencies was a joke from one of his films, which advertised his imaginary upcoming album, which will feature more 100 instruments and, as a bonus, frequencies too low for human perception)

We are Creepy Skulls

2006-03-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

We went out to the HiFi Club on Saturday night to see We Are Wolves. I saw them a few months ago when they opened up the International Pop Conspiracy and Trail of Dead (and they were better than either of them). This time they weren't so great, but it was worth it just to see them wearing their skull outfits. Photo by Shawn.

Also, I hereby take back every bad thing I said about You Say Party! We Say Die! They may be demented amateurs, but they were fascinating to watch. Can't say the same about the Daggers. They opened for We Are Wolves and were coma-inducing dull, like an unbearably loud radio I couldn't turn off. By the second song I was desperate for some handclaps and glitter...

Right between two states of mind

2006-03-04T19:00:00.000-07:00

I went out again last night, this time to the old Mac Hall Ballroom to see Bob Mould. Middle age and grey hair obviously mean nothing to this man, because it was an amazing show. He still has that voice, that shout with the ragged tear in it that makes everything he sings sound like it's coming from inside my head.

I was little hesitant to go, afraid he would be reduced to a nostalgic novelty act. It seems like so many bands from the eighties and early nineties are dusting themselves off, grabbing a few replacement members and hitting the road in search of a bit of cash. Growing up in Calgary, I never really got to see most of the bands I liked, at least not when they most relevant or popular. So I'm pretty susceptible to the lure of these reformed bands... Even though I know that seeing Camper Van Beethoven in 2004 is much, much different than in 1984, I still fall victim to the collector mentality - well, at least I'll be able to say that I saw them. (Actually, I resisted on that show, and heard that it was painful to watch...)

It was funny, too, because unlike the super-young and ultra cool crowd at the Warehouse on Thursday, I actually recognized people at this show. Lots and lots of guys with less hair than I remember, and wives instead of girlfriends. I actually saw someone walking around in a Soul Asylum shirt, which must be as thin as a tissue by now. We must have been at the same show: Soul Asylum at the Ballroom, 1994. they sucked. It was making me feel very old and pathetically nostalgic for the crappy gigs of my youth

But Bob Mould was having none of that crap. He played solo, with just his electric guitar, although he turned the distortion and feedback up to 11 in order to replicate some of the racket of Husker Du. He's actually looking pretty good these days. I guess that's fringe benefit of looking middle-aged at 20 like Bob Mould did - things can only get better as you age.

Exclamation!!!

2006-03-04T00:13:00.000-07:00

Went out last night to see controller.controller at the Warehouse. I saw them last year, opening for Death From Above 1979, and wasn't too into them, but Shawn wanted to check it out. First we saw You Say Party! We Say Die! who were absolutely terrible, although sort of fascinating in their awfulness.

They do a demented type of new wave dance with chanty lyrics and lots of hand claps. They're still learning their instruments and figuring out how to play as a band and if it wasn't the in-unison singing, you'd swear they were all playing different songs. It's been a while since I've seen a band this young and bad and it was kinda fun. Actually, it made me wish I could be an all-ages kid today instead of the early 90s. Crappy new wave punk dance looks way more exciting and fun to watch than crappy angsty grunge and earnest punk. And there was no flannel to be seen.

The first time I saw controller.controller they reminded me of Rough Trade.
Which, well, how scary is that? And I had High School Confidential stuck in my head for days. This time they didn't bring up scary, long-buried Carole Pope memories, but I still wasn't really into them. The lead singer is pretty sexy, but other than that I was more interested in the crowd. I love all the mini Pat Benatars wandering around these days...

Vengeance

2006-03-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

Apparently I just wasn't feeling misanthropic and ranty enough yesterday, because the television elves decided it was a good time to mess with me. Last night I tried to watch Lost and found that it had been pre-empted in favour of the Family Guy. oh, the horror.

I can't express how much I hate the Family Guy. It's like the only reason they bother to produce the show is to annoy me personally. And I can't seem to escape it. As soon as someone finally cancelled it, a cult following rose up and flooded the world with t-shirts and posters and DVDs. Enough of this crap sells that the show gets resurrected and ends up on TV again. Now we've reached the point were NO ONE IS SAFE. Apparently, someone has decided to just ditch the whole schedule and just show the Family Guy all the time.

The whole scenario reeks of some kind of elaborate conspiracy.

I need a nap

shake your head it's empty

2006-03-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

Christ, today it seems like everything is just grating on my nerves. I put on my headphones to block out noise, only to realize I hate all the music on my itunes, and on everybody else's, too. I swear the goddamn shuffle is trying to push me over the edge. Why does it persist in feeding all the useless hipster crap I've ever bought? As if Broken Social Scene isn't the most godawful waste of time I've ever heard. And Nick Lowe really needs a smack to knock all that freaking cleverness out of him, but not as badly as Magnetic Fields does. And wow do I ever hate that chick from Metric. Why is she trying to kill me? Buy a car to drive to work, go to work to pay for this car. I'm so glad she decided to share her high school poetry with me. It's amazing how it gets more and more meaningful ever time she chants it. And who doesn't enjoy a good chant now and again? Okay, it's time to take off the headphones before I get one of those forehead veins.

Late Bloomer

2006-02-23T20:57:00.000-07:00

Some things I've only gotten into in the last few weeks:

Arrested Development - best show on TV, brilliant writing, why isn't it more blah blah blah. Eh, I just never bothered with this show. By the time the hype got so insistent and unavoidable that I felt obligated to watch it, there was too much backstory and I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. Now that I've seen the first season on DVD, I finally get it. Unfortunately, I'm two years too late to discuss the intrinsic brilliance of Gob's magic show. And the dead dove in a bag in the fridge. C'mon, remember the dove?
The Office - the UK version. I guess if I was into the American version I wouldn't be too (too) far behind, but no, I'm just getting around to watching the original. It's going to take me a long time to see the whole thing, too, because I can hardly stand to watch an entire episode. I have a low tolerance for humiliation comedy, so it verges on physically painful for me to watch scenes limp towards their excrucriatingly embarrassing conclusions. I also have a crush on Tim and alternate between wanting to smack him and wishing he was real so I could rescue him from his life of drudgery and sarcasm. Watching him limp off after quiz night, searching for his other shoe? tragic.
Sufjan Stevens - All that crap about him making an album for each of the 50 states was really annoying. And really unavoidable for pretty much all of 2005 - just when it was dying down, it all got regurgitated for the year-end lists. The only thing I had ever heard from him was a song off an O.C. soundtrack. It's a good song, but who wants to admit they've been listening to O.C. mixes? I guess I just did. Anyway. Hearing him quaver oh my god as he sings about John Wayne Gacy made me forget about a year of annoying hype. He had a kind of honesty that makes me listen to every nuance, trying to catch his meaning. Ordinarily I'd just assume that a song about a serial killer must be bullshit. I mean, the world has already had all the ANSWER Me! it ever needed. But, somehow, by the end of the song, it's like he's erased the entire serial killer fetish that permeated 90s culture.

Pride

2006-02-18T17:59:00.000-07:00

According to Shawn's father Clyde, the Carnival Pride is considerably tackier than the average cruise ship. I've never been another ship, so I can only hope he's right. If you're looking for taste and subtlety, then the Pride is a true floating monstrosity. But if you're open to nine-story reproductions of Renaissance paintings and glittering plastic mosaics, then the Pride is actually quite fun. I liked how the decor cheerfully strode over the line from gaudy into bizarre without a second thought. Poorly-rendered reproduction of the David overlooking the dining room? check. A repeating pattern of mermaid sculptures swimming overhead in the cafeteria? of course. A series of unfortunately suggestive images of a boy riding a dolphin with, uh, no hands? sure, why not? Plastic Rococco Renaissance Vegas doesn't quite cover it, but it's a good start.

One of the highlights is the aforemetioned nine-story reproduction of Galatea which you can gaze upon as you take the glass elevators. Apparently this blatant display of boobs garners endless complaints from the easily offended, who swear to never set foot on a Carnival ship again. If only the endless parade of Renaissance flesh could convince them to never leave home again.

Luckily the excess doesn't extend to the cabins, which were simple and almost scientifically streamlined. I thought it was cool the way everything in the bathroom was oddly angled, yet perfectly ergonomic - fooling you into thinking it was much bigger than it really was. I need that designer to work on my apartment.

After a few days, it got so I hardly noticed it all. Checking out the massive murals was just something to while I waited for the elevator. But there were always more details waiting to jump out - wait, is that mermaid pattern woven into the carpet? What the hell were they thinking with that massive plastic molding over the stairs? In comparison, the rest of the world looks rather boring and excessively restrained. I think my office would be much improved if we could just install a 10-foot-tall David next to the printer. And now that I think about it, my living room would be much improved with the addition of a sparkly red velvet curtain...

Viva Mexico

2006-02-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

I used to have a tenuous claim to travel snobbery. While I've never spent years travelling the world on $5 a day, or devoted months to rebuilding war-torn villages, I felt like I had amassed a small amount of credibility. Backpacked Europe alone, ridden rickety buses around Central America, hitchhiked through the Gulf Islands. Enough that I could claim a modicum of knowledge and respectability. Well that's gone now.

And even if I had done all that trekking-solo-through-the-Himalayas stuff, I'm pretty sure that it would still be cancelled out. Posing for a photo in Puerto Vallarta whilst holding a donkey and wearing a Viva Mexico sombrero can do that. And that's not even mentioning the blanket draped over my shoulder, nor the fact that the donkey was wearing some sort of denim overall.

Really, we only wanted to take a photo of the donkey. Shawn saw him running around the port area, handler in pursuit, and had to take a picture. But, no sooner had we walked up than I had a sombrero slapped on my head and the donkey dropped in my arms. Shawn was fiddling with the focus and by the time he looked up, there I was - ready for my authentic Mexican photo opportunity.

I have to say, that was one damn cute donkey. I pet his head and he was as soft as a cat.

The tourist photo people have got a great set-up. I watched them hanging out around the port. Real live Indians in flamboyant costumes, chatting and smoking as they waited for the cruise ships to disgorge. Cute girls with handfuls of flyers for local bars, ready to pose in their bikinis with an endless stream of men. Some guy with an iguana. They positioned themselves at the end of the gangways so the tourists walk straight into the trap. As we left the ship, we bobbed and weaved our way around at least three separate photo ops before falling victim to the awwww factor of the donkey.

For the rest of the day in Puerto Vallarto, we kept thinking about the photo op donkey. Shawn thought that this donkey probably only had another month to go before being replaced by a new baby donkey. What becomes of a tourist donkey when it's no longer small and cute and malleable enough to serve as prop? It can't be good. I decided that we would save this donkey from his fate and bring him back to Canada with us. He would stay in our cabin for the rest of the cruise, and on the flight home I would stow him safely under the seat in front of me. Neither of us speak Spanish, so we struggled to string together an offer to purchase the animal. Had babelfish been available, I might have tried Hola, quisiera comprar su burro. But the best we could come up with was "Hey man, cuánto donkey?"

Unfortunately the little donkey, along with all the entire photo op brigade, was gone by the time we got back to the ship. So here's an insider tip for any hardcore travel snobs going to Puerto Vallarta: grab the donkey when you have the chance. She who hesitates will be left with nothing but a silly picture.

The West is in

2006-01-24T09:39:00.000-07:00

...is the headline on the Calgary Herald today. They might as well have followed it with "So suck it up, bitches!" - that's so clearly the message. The Sun has "VicTORY!" splashed across their front page in 300-point. Nothing like tossing away that facade of journalistic neutrality the second the wind starts blowing your way. It almost makes me wish I could be more of an oil-obsessed, Ontario-hating redneck. Because I bet that today is a very happy one for most people in the oil industry and all the endless related industries. I have a mental image of businessmen pouring out of their downtown skyscrapers, running around, hollering and throwing snowballs, celebrating their tremendous luck with the fervour of children let loose for recess.

Then again, maybe they're all disappointed. Just last week a Conservative majority looked inevitable. So while I'm breathing a sigh of relief over a Conservative minority ('it could be worse' is my new mantra) the rest of Calgary could be pouting about being denied the opportunity to play with the big-kid toys.

Also:

One is a creepy-eyed horror movie villian. One is my new leader.

I'm just saying.

Vernacular

2006-01-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

I had a problem come up at work recently, caused by everybody's favourite bit of English slang - "chav"

The exact definition is hard to pin down, although Wikipedia makes an earnest attempt. Apparently something about being poor, loud and partial to Burberry knock-offs. Any way you define it, the stereotype has taken hold in Britain to the point that it has started to show up in British stock photos. We got a small batch of these images and had to figure out how to keyword them for the North American market.

It didn't make sense to add the word to our keyword list, since it's unlikely that anyone in the US or Canada would ever actually use it as a search word. The next step was to find a word that meant basically the same thing as 'chav' but was more familiar to North Americans. Problem is, there are none. Chav is an entirely British creation - all its signifiers and details mean nothing outside of England. Supposedly
these are chavs. To me, they just look like your average hiphop-obsessed teenagers hanging out after school.

Another idea was to map the word chav to a term describing a North American stereotype, like white trash or trailer trash or something like that. That's when things got icky. Because nobody really wants those words on the keyword list anyway. I mean, it might be okay for campy, Diesel-style images, but what about documentary-style, slice-of-life photos? Will everyone who looks at all poor or uneducated end up labelled white trash?

So I fell back on my standard decision-making technique: checking out what everyone else is doing. None of the major stock sites use White Trash as a search term, which can only be seen as a good thing. As for Trailer Trash, only Getty uses it, and they have it mapped as a synonym for 'hillbillies.' Unfortunately, their results just prove my point about it being dangerous to even allow the possibility of labelling photos with a perjorative search term. One of the trailer trash photos is actually a historical image of a rural family playing music in their house. Even better, one of the people is Augusta I. C. Metcalfe, a fairly well-known American painter. I'm sure everyone at the Metcalfe Museum would be thrilled to see her labelled trailer trash.

So, I've managed to work my way from chavs all the way to pioneer artists in just one post. I guess my point is... keywording is hard. Nobody really gets it, everyone complains about it, and even the simplest problems can lead you down some very strange paths.

New Obsession

2006-01-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

So it looks like a fifteen-year-old podcaster is way cooler than I'll ever be. I love Zoe's radio show/podcast. I guess I'm way behind on this one, since I found her today via a mention on adpulp, which referred to her as a "podcasting phenom." She manages to play tons of different music without ever seeming to try too hard. (for me, self-conscious eclecticism is the bane of college radio: "that was the Rachels, followed by Isis, and coming up I'm going lay down some Brahms and maybe a little Public Enemy" yeah. rock on, dude. ironically, of course) And I love her teen girl, skip-to-the-hits approach - everything she plays is damn catchy, which is usually NOT the case with the Pitchfork set. I grabbed a bunch of shows off of yahoo, so I'll be spending the next couple days catching up.

Simple Pleasures

2006-01-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm a bit evil, but I can't even describe the PURE FREAKING JOY this little incident brought me:

Everyday my walk to work takes me across Centre Street, just before the bridge into downtown. (Close to here) There's no traffic lights nearby, so everyday, twice a day, I have to rely on the attentiveness and better nature of commuters to stop and let me cross unscathed. Well, it's also THE LAW, but you wouldn't know it from how hard it is get four lanes of SUVs to stop.

As some extra background, I should mention that Calgary pedestrians tend to be a meek and downtrodden lot. I was once one of these invisible, endangered wretches, but a few years of living in Vancouver turned me into Calgary's own Pedestrian Avenger. The attitude of pedestrians in Vancouver in one of constant moral outrage. In the more genteel sections, getting cut off at a crosswalk will elicit a disgusted sigh, dirty look and maybe a few gestures of annoyance. In my East Van neighborhood, failure to yield to even the most egregious of jaywalkers would earn your car a swift kick, and cause all sorts of shouting, swearing and even spitting. I've adopted the middle approach - lots of hands thrown in the air and murderous looks. It's nothing out of the ordinary in Vancouver, but it seems to shock the hell out of drivers here in Cowtown.

Anyway, last night I was standing in my usual spot, venturing out inch by inch, trying to get at least one lane to slow down and notice me. I hadn't noticed it, but on the cross street next to me was a police car waiting to turn left onto Centre.

One lane clear, I walk out and try to stop the second. A few cars blow past me. I lock the next oncoming driver into a stare and he grudgingly stops. Step in front and wait for the third lane, filled with drivers that apparently assume that the guy in the second lane has stopped just for fun. The cars keep coming, I'm starting to use my oh, come on gestures. but then there's a small gap - the next guy has to stop. He slows down, I start to take a step, but then he CHANGES HIS MIND, speeds up and nearly runs me down. I explode in a flurry of arm-waving and eye-cursing. But it's all in vain, because this happens every. single. day.

But then the miracle happens. The unnoticed police car next to me springs to life, turning on it's sirens and lights. It pulls out onto Centre and waves down the offending car. This never happens. People get busted for speeding on this street all the time, but mowing down pedestrians hardly raises an eyebrow. Failure to yield to a pedestrian in crosswalk? Stupid. Failure to yield to a bitchy, gesticulating pedestrian when a police car is right there? $575 worth of stupid, sucka.

Cruisin'

2006-01-09T19:53:00.000-07:00

I just received the document package for the trip I'm going on at the end of the month. I'm not sure which is statement I found most disturbing:

From the ticket and boarding pass section:

"Our records indicate that you have not provided us with all the information that is required by the Department of Homeland Security"

or this one, from the glossy cruise brochure"

"You won't encounter any language problems. Almost everyone speaks English, even if it is with a slightly different accent."

I guess the first one is just standard legalese, but, being Canadian, I don't really like having 'the Department of Homeland Security' and 'you' together in any sentence that refers to me. The second one is just annoying because it leads people to expect perfect English everywhere, and lets them feel justified in expecting it. And it's kinda sad, because it's probably a true statement for all the places I'll be seeing.

Achievement. Integrity. Teamwork.

2006-01-06T08:36:00.000-07:00

Despite being the most brilliant thing I've come across in ages, I really wish I had never seen NWYH Business Stock. It's a note-perfect parody of standard business imagery and the stock companies that peddle it. The problem is, stock photography is my freaking life. I spend most of my working hours describing, cataloguing, sorting or just staring at commercial imagery.

And I know that I wouldn't have thought twice about a fair chunk of these 'parody' images. Hopefully I would have noticed they were crap, or at least rolled my eyes at the hackneyed scenarios and stiff modelling. Or at least wondered what the hell was up with the neck brace. Unfortunately, I've just started work on a series of photographs that are only slightly better than those at Now Wash Your Hands. It pains me to contemplate whether that expression is meant to convey "I am stressed by deadlines" or "I really have to pee." Actually, it pains me to look at them at all. If I burn out by the end of next week, it will be entirely due to Now Wash Your Hands.

Discovery

2006-01-05T21:46:00.000-07:00

I went to Corbis' site today to check out their new Hotline Calendar which is actually pretty damn nifty. It's a great idea - fill up a calendar with all sorts of trivial anniversaries and commemorations, and then provide links to pictures to illustrate the lame articles that will inevitably accompany the events. Step 3: profit.

But one entry caught my eye as being particularly ham-fisted. Did you know that on March 1st 1606, Willem Jansz discovered Australia? I'm sure all the people already living there we were also surprised. I don't know, but didn't the whole 'man discovers new land' version of history fall out of fashion about 30 years ago? But what elevates this entry from the realm of merely stupid to that of the absurd, is that they illustrated it with a photo of aborginal artwork. Wait - so there were people there when it was discovered? And they painted pretty pictures?

It's pretty sad that nobody thought twice before posting it. I actually send them a note about it. I got a auto response telling me my concern is being forwarded to the appropriate person, which I imagine is the big trash bin in the sky. I am kinda looking forward to an explanation though. Someone's going to have to tie themselves into semantic knots over this one.

Resolution Run

2006-01-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

also known as running around in the dark with a bunch of dorks. Yep, that was my New Year's Eve. The Resolution Run is a 'fun run' in that there is no official timing, no chips and fewer of those hyper-focused types doing warm-up laps around the start area. And being a fun run, it also brought out people wearing 'fun' outfits. That means glow sticks, santa hats, horrific gear (note to man wearing the neon green tights with white polka dots on one leg and black polka dots on the other: no. just, no.)

Anyway, the run was an 8K, running east from Eau Claire down the river path to the Crowchild bridge and then back along the river with a detour through Prince's Island before ended up back at the Market. I finished in 56 minutes, which is pretty damn slow. I could blame part of that on the crowd and narrow pathway, but I think it has a bit more to do with the weight I've gained this year. Actually, compared to my previous times, it appears that 1 pound = 1 minute.

Sigh. Guess it's time to make an additional resolution.

and, of course, the resolutions

2005-12-31T20:46:00.000-07:00

I had a long list of activities, projects, issues, self-improvements and miscellaneous to-dos. Then I realized that it could all be summarized into two goals:

1) Be less lazy
2) Be less afraid

The only thing I can add to that is the 2005 leftover:

3) learn to drive. seriously.

Wish me luck.

Terrible things I've done this year: Work Edition

2005-12-31T20:42:00.000-07:00

Name of Coworker / Description of Offense

Mark - drew devil's horns on his picture and then made said picture my desktop
Yuval - took his joke about wearing assless chaps and forwarded it to the entire department
Beau - pestered him to let me borrow his (professional, expensive) camera to take pictures of silly stuff
Jens - that whole thing with the goose
Berenice - implied she was a pervert in a departmental e-mail (several times, actually)
Jon - stated he was an even bigger pervert than Berenice, also in a departmental e-mail (but only once)
Grant - called him a geek in the comments sections of his own blog
Mike - abused his easygoing nature and connection to the colour printer
Bryce - threatened him with bodily harm because he forgot about a meeting
Brock - accidentally sent him the threatening e-mail intended for Bryce, because I still mix these two up
Jonathon - kept calling him Chris
Chris - kept calling him Jonathan
Issa - implied he looked like a crazed suicide bomber in one of his flickr photos
Christine - negatively impacted her productivity by sending her pictures of cute baby animals
Rupa - mocked his suggestion in the name-this-junkfood contest
Jay W. - told people about the time he wore a dress to work ten years ago at another job
Jay B. - sent him a mean drawing in response to a technical question
Bassim - tried to pass problems off to him as often as possible (not that bad, since he passed them right back)

It's List Season. Bear With Me.

2005-12-31T20:17:00.000-07:00

2005. To summarize:

Good Things
-got married
-had a very lovely honeymoon in BC, going to Hornby Island, Victoria, Sooke and Vancouver
-actually liked my job. And I didn't have to spend half my time dreading the end of my contract, because, finally, it's a permanent gig
-went on a cool 2-day bike tour with the MS Society
-came in last in a 10k trail run and didn't care at all
-turned 30
-started writing again

Bad Things
-endless wedding planning arguments with my mother. It may be a genetic inevitablility-all mothers seem to lose it when weddings are involved. But that didn't make bickering about silverware any easier.
-not only did I fail to get my driver's license before I turned 30, I didn't get it at all.
-spent the last couple months of the year in a depressed rut
-applied for a job, concocted a complete alternate reality based around said job and then didn't get it. I've really got to stop doing that

Template Envy

2005-12-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

I think this the fourth time I've changed my template. I'm satisified with one for about a week and then I have to try out something else. I haven't really learned how to adjust the details, so instead I just scrap the whole thing and choose another.

It reminds me learning MS Word circa 1997. I tried out every single bit of word art and clip art and every stupid template. What can I say? I was a secretary. Knowing how to insert a wacky graphic into a memo was actually a marketable skill at the time.

2005 - Let the Lists Begin!

2005-12-28T11:58:00.000-07:00

Books I Read in 2005 That Actually Came Out in 2005
What can I say? I'm still trying to catch up on last year...

Blink by Malcolm Gladwell
Gladwell's previous book, The Tipping Point, had one major advantage over Blink: when I read it I was still blissfully unaware of the sheer obnoxiousness of Gladwell's hair. With Blink, I had to approach everything he said knowing that it was coming from a guy who decided that '"hey everyone! look at my rebellious head!" should be the central aspect of his public persona. And while I tried not to let the hair ruin my perception of the book, it was difficult. Because Blink is dull. I hate to say it because I loved the Tipping Point, and Blink could have been an even better book. It just seemed to get bogged down in providing endless examples of people making brilliant snap judgements. Also, isn't the idea that experts with experience and knowledge will usually make better decisions than the uninformed, kind of, I don't know... obvious?

I'm Not the New Me by Wendy McClure
Wendy McClure is the woman behind the wonderful blog at Poundy.com. Her writing there was awesome enough to make me want to buy the book. It's hard to explain how out of character this is for me, considering that the main focus of her blog is weight loss, and more specifically, Weight Watchers. The only reason that I'm not running away screaming is that McClure finds writing about dieting to be just as repulsive as I do. It's hard to describe this book, because it covers a lot of the same territory as women's magazines, yet not for a second does it remind me of any of the crap I've read before. There are no tips. I did not learn to love myself. I like that we had the same approach to Weight Watchers: hold your nose and dive in. But I swear, I like it because it's a funny, mean and honest book. Point-counting experience is not required to enjoy it.

Under the Bridge by Rebecca Godfrey
Everyone in Canada knows about the murder of Reena Virk. She was only 14, and her attackers all around the same age. I was barely in my 20s when it happened, but already I couldn't understand. Like everyone else, I wondering what was wrong with kids today. Teenage life is based on subtle signs and differences - the ability to recognize them and to send back the right messages. It seems like we lose that ability as soon as we leave that stage in our lives. We forget the feelings and suddenly we can't speak the language and we get shut out. Rebecca Godfrey never forgot. She is the only writer I know of that truly understands teenagers. She's like an articulate and convincing interpretor, making the secret language comprehensible again. To me, the most amazing part of the book was that she made me remember how important and real everything is when you're young. Like the whole idea of gangs in small Canadian cities. I mean, it's insane. These little 13-year-olds can't really think baggy pants and the right color baseball cap makes them gangsters, can they? Or that rap lyrics are talking to them? But they do, and, in a way, they are. It might be too limiting to say that Rebecca Godfrey understands teenagers, because she seems to understand everyone. Every person in this book is a believable character, and no one is painted as entirely sympathetic or not. I hope this book doesn't end up in the true crime section in the States, because it is much more than that.

My Faith So Far by Patton Dodd
Okay, I'm cheating with this one. It actually came out in late 2004, but I read in it early 2005, so I figure it's close enough. This is another out-of-character one for me. It's an autobiography of a man who changed from a borderline, disinterested, sort of Christian and became an evangelical Christian in his late teens. He was so determined to fulfill the role of a committed evangelicist that he enrolled at Oral Roberts University and spent a year studying there. This book is so much more interesting than the typical 'undercover reporter goes to religious school to look for nutcases' story I've read a dozen times. Because, rather than looking for things to point and laugh at, Dodd really meant it. He wanted to believe and he wanted to learn how to be a good Christian. I have to admit that suspicion towards Christians is a long-standing prejudice of mine. And really, it's one of the few prejudices that it is totally okay to admit to. Bunch of freaking fundies and their freaking family values. So, and I was kind of sad to realize this, I was really, really shocked to realize you could be a hard-core Christian and still have a brain. No, seriously, it never occurred to me before. Not only that, but be a full person, with doubts and anger and all that other stuff. I identified with his desire to find something spiritual in his life and his belief that faith could make him complete. I never felt driven to chase faith like he did, but it was amazing to watch.

Commentary

2005-12-28T10:32:00.000-07:00

I'm so ashamed. Yeah, that's me, second from the left. (btw, what's going on with my jacket? Did I walk around all day with the collar twisted up like that? Probably.)

I was waiting outside the Coup when a writer from Dose asked to interview me about violence and the Boxing Day shootings in Toronto. I should have said no. Please see my entry about street evangelists for other examples of being far too nice to random people on the street.

She asked me a few questions about violence in Calgary and whether I felt safe living here. My answers were basically: yes I feel safe, no I don't think the city is getting more violent, no I'm not worried about random shootings, yes random shootings are sad.

I'm surprised they managed to find anything usable in that milquetoast, but I guess they were desperate for 'commentary.'

I'm embarrassed because I now have printed proof that I'm just as full of shit as everyone else. What do I know about poverty and urban violence? Nothing. But that doesn't mean I won't talk about it into your tape recorder. And hey, would you like to know my feelings on Bush's exit strategy for Iraq? Because I'm ill-informed on that, too!

Oh, if you were wondering, some people were shot in Toronto on Boxing Day. The police think they were all bystanders - just people out shopping. Since this is Canada, this is national news. Which is kind of comforting, really. Or, as comforting as a story about random sidewalk shootings can be.

Boxing Day

2005-12-26T22:33:00.000-07:00

Another great Christmas tradition. Heading out to do some frenzied shopping the day after receiving a pile of gifts—why not? The whole idea might cast a bad light on the Canadian national character, except that we can blame it on the British. They started it, we're just here for the sales.

I haven't actually gone shopping on Boxing Day for almost ten years. Combat shopping and a history of retail-induced panic attacks do not mix. I decided it might be safe to try the Bay. At the very least, I wouldn't be bothered by any excessively cheerful sales staff. I think it's actually a policy for Bay staff to ignore shoppers unless you are waving cash in their face, begging to pay so you can get the hell out of there. They may also acknowledge you if you set yourself on fire, but don't count on it.

The whole store had a cheerfully apocalyptic feel, with women fighting over denim and tottering piles of cashmere blend. A little bit of elbow work and I came away with a pretty nice sweater. Embolded, I decided to venture out to the mall, where the real carnage happens. I tried to look around a couple of the trendier shops, but I was scared away by the line-ups for the change rooms and the steely-eyed determination of the other shoppers. They knew I was an amateur and ignored me as such. Sparkly shirts were snatched out of my hands before I could even talk myself into such a useless purchase.

I decided to flee pretty quickly. My last stop was the lucky one, though. I found some half-price books and grabbed a couple huge Taschen art guides. If I start reading now, I'll be hip by this time next week.

So I guess it was worth it, despite leaving me with a bad taste (what with it being an 'orgy of consumerism' and all). I think I'll stay away for a few more years, unless I hear rumours of cheap books. Then it's every man for himself.

Tradition

2005-12-26T21:52:00.000-07:00

Christmas this year felt more like an ordeal and an obligation than anything celebratory. Usually I enjoy having a reason to get people gifts and to indulge my obsession for toys and books. This time, I just sort of forgot.

Not that anyone can really forget about Christmas. Six weeks of decorations and terrible music will ensure that anyone leaving their home knows it's magic time once again. I guess I forgot that it actually applied to me. That being stressed and distracted was no excuse for not feeling the joy.

I started to pull it together a week ago, giving myself just enough to get a few gifts and the odd festive bow. And since I didn't nag him, Shawn also forgot. Until Thursday he was under the impression that Christmas Day was sometime next week. I didn't really feel bad about this until everyone started to congratulate us on our first Christmas as a married couple. Isn't it just the most exciting thing ever? And aren't we going to have so many special memories? Uh, definitely.

The worst part was on Christmas Eve, when we ran out of time doing our last-minute stuff and ended up eating dinner at McDonald's. So much for special memories. But then I remembered that I actually had a precedent. When I was young, my parents had lobster for dinner every Christmas Eve. Since we were too young and picky to waste good lobster on, Dad would buy McDonald's for the kids. We rarely had fast food, so it was a huge treat for us, much preferable to the lobster our parents were stuck with. So really, scarfing down fries on Christmas Eve is actually a cherished family tradition.

Okay, that might be pushing it, but at least it made me laugh. But it made hanging out at McDonalds on Christmas Eve feel a little less pathetic.

Smoke

2005-12-21T21:46:00.000-07:00

Last night we went out to see a show at Broken City. Chris Vail, Chad Van Gaalen and Kara Keith were playing a Christmas benefit show. It looked like it was going to be a good night, but we ended up having to leave before we saw any of them play.

Shawn quit smoking three years ago, but he was a heavy smoker for ten years before that. Being in a smoky room doesn't always bother him, but when it does, it's practically unbearable. Within minutes of arriving, I could tell this was going to be one of the bad nights. Shawn immediately got a glazed-over look, signifying a deep longing for nicotine. Soon he looked ready to beat down some random indie kid and steal their cigarettes. This particular look is the signal that it is now time to go.

I kinda miss Vancouver for this reason alone. The blanket ban on smoking in public spaces seemed excessive when it was first passed, but within weeks I loved it. Going out at night and not coming home drenched in the stench of stale smoke was amazing. In Calgary you can't even have a quick drink without carrying the lingering scent of the bar with you for the rest of the day.

I remember that not everyone in Vancouver was so happy with the smoking ban, and a few bars risked the fines and opened themselves up to the displaced smoking masses. I went to one of these modern-day leper colonies a few times. It was a small, featureless dump on the edge of Chinatown. The tables were filled with grumbling hipsters smoking their evil cigarettes and drinking -wait for it- echinacea infused beer. And trust me, discussion of the irony was not appreciated.

It's going to take a couple years for the smoking ban trend to finally reach Calgary. Until then, I guess I'll just wait and complain. And keep a close eye on Shawn whenever some skinny indie kid lights up too close to him.

True Believer

2005-12-19T09:19:00.000-07:00

Dodging steet evangelists is an essential urban skill. They're easy enough to spot. Avoidance techniques aren't sophisticated - don't answer, don't make eye contact, and, most importantly, never slow down. Everybody knows this. So what's wrong with me?

Lately, I can't seem to do it. At least once a week I find myself standing on the street corner, clutching handfuls of pamphlets and nodding politely. Yesterday I went so far as to accept a Mormon bible. Written on the inside cover were several verses the young missionary though I would find beneficial. I don't know what I'm going to do with it. I can't just throw it away. I mean, it's somebody's bible. Just the thought of tossing it in the trash makes me feel like an infidel.

It's the eyes that get me. And the pink cheeks. They all look so fervent and committed. Not even a hint of doubt flickers over their shining faces. That kind of conviction is rare, and quite lovely. As I stumble through my theology workbooks, trying to build a coherent set of ideas, the missionaries' conviction becomes more fantastical and alluring. I mean, wouldn't it be great to already know everything? Past, present and future all laid out. I think it might be like having a cheat sheet for the universe. You'd never need the The Ethicist again.

That's not to say they'll never have doubts. But right now, out there walking around in matching sets, they know. And they want me to know, too. Which is nice of them, really. To care like that.

I know I can't keep doing this. Okay, next time, I'm not going even look. I'll keep my head down, speed up, and run them down if necessary. They'll forgive me, I know it.

Wisdom

2005-12-18T12:17:00.000-07:00

Early last week I read a very bizarre piece of advice:

"If you have to eat shit, don't nibble."

Disgusting. And, at the time, it didn't even make sense to me. Ah, blessed innocence. Days later I came to appreciate the wisdom of this statement. Don't you hate it when life turns into a hackneyed screenplay, complete with foreshadowing and unheeded warnings?

Never happened to you? Piss off, then.

I know I don't have any options other than swallowing it and moving on. And I know it's better than simmering with bitterness and resentment. But still, part of me wants to throw a tantrum and refuse to do what's best. But the satisfaction of making people squirm will be fleeting compared to the pain of dealing with an enduring reputation as a nutbar.

Guess I'll just have too dig in. And remember to smile while I'm doing it.

Sabotage in the American Workplace

2005-12-17T17:57:00.000-07:00

(part deux of The Canon, also known as sorting through my old books as I get them ready for storage...)

Got a really crappy job working in the mailroom of a right wing 'family values' organization? Quitting or going postal are the obvious choices. But thwarting your employer's fundraising drive by rerouting cheques straight to the shredder? So much more satisfying.

An entire book celebrating the disgruntled employee and raising their antics to the level of myth. It was published by AK Press in 1992 and I found it at Sloth Records in 1996. I was floating from one crappy job to another and instantly seized upon this as a book filled with great wisdom. I was never so disaffected that I would have actually held 'free days' and refused to let customers pay for anything. Nor could I se myself smashing Christmas ornaments before wrapping them up and mailing them like nothing was wrong. But I had my share of crappy days and it made me immensely happy to know that somebody out there was getting revenge.

I hadn't looked at it for years, but I just pulled it out recently and was filled with the same evil glee. The book is organized by industry, so no matter where you are on the career spectrum, there's someone stuck in the same mess you are. This time, I came across a story about librarians creating catalogue entries for non-existant books. It's a slowburn kind of joke - it might be years before someone realizes that Roman Orgies:Then and Now just doesn't sound right. It reminds me of the all the obscure jokes I've inserted into the use/definition field of the keywording application at work. Not exactly sabotage, but a way to keep myself entertained during the more boring patches. Nobody's said anything yet, but I know it doesn't fit with the intense precision with which other employees approach the job. But hey, whatever keeps me sane

More Than a Feeling

2005-12-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

"I've often thought that the entire point of computer programs like Illustrator and Photoshop, based on the way they are advertised, is to enable anyone to create their own Boston cover "

I've only just started reading Paula Scher's Make it Bigger. The rest of the book could be blank pages and it would be worth it for that quote alone.

Never Mind the Revolution

2005-12-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

I'm totally enthralled by the trailer for Sofia Coppola's upcoming Marie Antoinette. Who would guess that New Order was the perfect soundtrack for what appears to be a straightforward period costume drama? who would even think of that combination? But for some reason it works - Age of Consent sounds fresher than anything and it adds a real sense that this film has vision and a sly approach interpretation. However, I'm started to feel like one of those crazed true believers because nobody else likes it - at best they think it's silly but somewhat amusing. At worst, "John Hughes with wigs."

I haven't learned the nice way of doing links, so I'll just have to leave it like this:

http://movies.aol.com/movie_exclusive_marie_antoinette_trailer

Spoiling it for Everyone

2005-12-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at work I told one of the art directors/photographers about my job making Shawn look nice and non-threatening to parents.

She said "Yes, that's the one advantage women photographers have. They can take pictures of people without anyone wondering about their motives. It can be hard for male photographers. When men try to shoot candids of children or women, everyone assumes they're a pervert...

...But what are you going to do? They brought it on themselves."

Perfectly Harmless

2005-12-14T12:58:00.000-07:00

Last night I went down to the local skating arena with Shawn. He needed to take shots of kids wearing helmets to use in the City recreation guide. Apparently, all the old skating shots are unusuable now that helmets are the rule. The powers that be cannot be seen as encouraging children to risk knocking their tender, unprotected skulls on the cold, merciless ice.

My main role was to stand next to Shawn, proving to wary parents that he was not a pervert. It's good that I went, too. Shawn hasn't had a haircut in ages and his wildman afro is at odds with the friendly photographer/civil servant personae he was trying to convey. However, my presence, along with my silly and supremely non-threatening striped toque, seemed to reassure everyone and he got lots of great shots.

My second role was to keep an eye out for any non-white kid. It's too easy to end up with photos that are all Aryan, all the time. So I scanned the ice, occassionally nudging Shawn, "pssst - cute little Asian kids wearing helmets, five o'clock!"

All of the parents were easygoing and happy to lend us their children for a few shots. The kids were all hams and I'm sure they'll be smiling out from the cover of every winter activity guide for years to come

8K

2005-12-11T10:03:00.000-07:00

I finally gave up on the local community centre and it's teeny room filled with aged equipment and line-ups. I've been checking out other gyms looking for a replacement. I've been going to downtown Y across from the Cecil Hotel for years, but had to cross it off the list. The first time I brought Shawn with me, someone busted open his locker and stole his wallet. The response from the front desk? "yeah, that happens a lot"

Yesterday I went down to SAIT to try out their fitness centre. It's pretty damn swanky compared to the low-ceiling city facility I'm used to. Every piece of cardio equipment has a television screen. I know I'm hopelessly behind the times because this is first time I've seen that. It seems kind of strange for a college gym though - usually they have book rests so freaked-out students can study while they sweat.

I did a quick tour of the weights and then ended up on the treadmill, trying to haul my ass through an 8K run. I haven't run more than 5 in months, so it was pretty freaking painful. I need to get ready for the Resolution Run on the 31st, leaving me exactly 20 days to get into shape. Running around after dark on New Year's Eve can get pretty damn cold so I don't want to walk any of it. I missed it last year because I was sick, and I've superstitiously drawn a direct correlation between that and the fairly crappy year I've had, health-wise. So this year I plan to be out there with the rest of the freaks, running around downtown dressed in multiple layers.

What ever happened to getting hopelessly drunk on New Year's Eve and looking for some random guy to make out with? Oh, I remember, that sucked, too.

Meh

2005-12-10T11:01:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to the opening of Painting Under Pressure, the new graffiti show at the Art Gallery of Calgary. I'm trying to think of something positive to say so I don't sound like a complete bitch. So far, all I've come up with is: it was free.

I think the main problem for me was the disconnect between the show and the venue. The show is based on the question: Is Graffiti Art? I can almost see this working in a larger, more traditional institution. But AGC is a contemporary gallery, so I'd assumed they would have chosen the 'yes' side about 20 years ago. Seriously, I didn't think you could still base a show on something so broad and obvious. Which leads me to the second problem - when they say graffiti, they mean graffiti. All of it. No subfocus, no era or style or approach or artist. Just graffiti. That's like doing a show on painting. What about painting? Oh, nothing in particular, just painting. We're even going to have real paintings there to look at!

Anyway.

Most of the work was dull. Big multicoloured murals. Lettering style that was big 15 years ago. There was a really cool installation in the lower gallery. I think the artist was Evoke, but it might have been a collaboration between two artists. It was kinda hard to read the labels because the place was PACKED. There was a wall with stream-of-consciousness text, which I'm always a sucker for, and some bits painted in that flat, children's fairy tale style that's everywhere now. But there was a piece where the the paintings on two walls were connected by hundreds of threads. It was neat, but it had nothing to do with street art. You could never create something like that on a wall, not least because it would take endless hours of standing there tying pieces of thread. It wouldn't have seemed too out of place if the rest of the show hadn't been explicitly focused on illegal outdoor graffiti.

The feedback area upstairs was straight out of museum studies 101. Maybe it will get some interesting responses if school groups visit, because that's who the show seems to be aimed at. But the only people there last night were the art school allstars. Thus, the comment area was filled with smart-assed remarks and silly doodles.

But I can't really complain. It was free.

Oh! I do have something positive to say. Two thumbs up to the latest hipsterboy look! I saw a handful of guys working the Jonathon Richmond/early 80s sensitive boy look. Skinny jeans, short hair with a longer section in front, falling carelessly over one eye. Looking a bit malnourished and angsty, but careful not to overdo it. Sadly, I'm probably 10 years older than any of them and it kind of made me feel like a pervert to size them up.

The Canon, pt 1

2005-12-08T21:29:00.000-07:00

In which I talk about books I'm obsessed with

Inconspicious Consumption by Paul Lukas has been one of my favourite books for years. It confirms to me that a rampant fascination with random stuff is an asset rather than an affliction.

The book is a collection of essays on aspects of our material culture (trans. he talks about stuff). The subtitle is "An Obsessive Look at the Stuff We Take for Granted, from the Everyday to the Obscure." And Paul Lukas makes a good run at covering it all: crayons, obscure lifesaver flavours, corned mutton. He has a great eye for design and advertising and can really break down the all messages conveyed through packaging, industrial design and even the initial concept for a product. He can evoke nostalgia for thing that were never even part of my experience. Do I miss the uniformity and solidity of old pole-mounted USPS mailboxes? No, but he makes them sound really cool.

I love his total glee at finding both absurbity and beauty everywhere. What's strange about reading this book now is that it doesn't seem anywhere near as original and brilliant as it did when I first discovered Beer Frame (the zine upon which the book is based). I think this is because I've absorbed his viewpoint so totally into my own that it just seems normal. Does a cereal box warrant hours of careful analysis? Of course. Isn't everyone mesmerized by the sheer awfulness and absurdity of the products aimed at us? If not, why not?

Every once in a while I check around to see what Paul Lukas is up to now. He wrote a column for Core77, which they still advertise even though the last one was ages ago. He's also got some stuff on business sites, usually ripping apart yet another hopeless marketing decision. Just recently I found him on ESPN, writing a column about team uniforms. It's cool to see that he's parlayed his natural obsessiveness into a hugely successful career. Gives me hope.

analysis vs inertia

2005-11-20T21:17:00.000-07:00

I've had this conversation at least a dozen times:

Me: Have you ever noticed the way CSI totally fetishizes dead bodies? The way they start every show with a slow, sexy pan over naked limbs, before finally revealing they belong to a dead chick?

Long-Suffering Husband: Only because you mention it every time the show is on

Me: That's because they do it every single time

LSH: So why do you continue to watch it if offends you so much?

Me: because it's on...