Other Voices, Other Rooms

In the past couple of weeks I started doing some internet research on the artwork of northwest native Canadian culture. I don't really remember what started it. Oh, I guess it was a section in The Gift about the potlatch ceremony in Haida tradition and the copper engravings they would make and trade as gifts. (The book, by the way, is a fascinating piece of prescriptive sociology wherein the author compares systems of gift exchange with those of commercial exchange and then goes on to show how useful it would be, for both artists and their audiences, to think of artworks as gifts rather than commodities. Check it out if you have any interest in art or economics or anthropology.) The engravings reminded me about those interesting repeated shapes in totem poles and other artifacts of the Pacific coast, how they fit together like psychedelic poster artwork of the 1960s, and how they often depict mystical animals inside of or attached to other animals.

So that got me all excited for awhile, and then while I was looking at some mind-altering Haida comics online (who knew such a thing existed? The Japanese, apparently.), I remembered a really great Dover colouring book I had as a kid, of North American Indian art. And then I recalled also having a calendar of black and white Inuit art prints. I hadn't thought about it in a long time, and the pieces I could picture from it struck me as weird and magical.

So, soon I was at the library, borrowing a book called Dorset 75, a 1975 annual collection of graphics from Cape Dorset in what is now Nunavut, and it was just the stuff I was looking for. I didn't know it before, but the Inuit began printmaking only in the late '50s after being shown how by a guy named James Houston who was trained in the Japanese style. That partially explains the look of a lot of this stuff, but the Inuit also have this inimitably naïve style that is elegant, childlike, and otherworldly all at once. I soon fell in love with the work of Pudlo Pudlat and Peter Pitseolak. I also have to show you this piece, because it just happens to be titled "Our Igloo"!


And then I discovered that the National Gallery of Canada's website has tons of fantastic prints you can look at online, with plenty from the golden age of the 60s and 70s. I've made a little video here of my favourite stuff from the two sources. There are a couple of black and white pieces whose look I'm hoping to somehow adapt for my alleged comic-in-progress. Also see if you can pick out "Thoughts of the Walrus" by Pudlo Pudlat, "The People Within" by Jessie Oonark, "The Woman Who Lives in the Sun" by Kenojuak Ashevak, and "Joyfully I See Ten Caribou" by Pootoogook.



Last weekend Alison and I travelled to Fredericton to attend, with my family, a memorial for my aunt Chooch. I told you about her in November. We were kindly driven there and back by my dad's cousin and her family. The memorial was held in the Charlotte Street Arts Centre, a large school that has been converted into studio and gallery spaces, largely thanks to Chooch's long and relentless pushing for it. I'm not sure how many people were there, but it must have been over 500. It was quite inspiring to see the great effect she had had on the entire arts community there. Many many people had thanks to give and stories to tell, including the local MP and New Brunswick's lieutenant governor. My dad also did a great job with the closing words. Ali and I returned home determined to get our asses in gear and consciously connect with our own community, rather than just enjoying our lovable but insular igloo.

The Shape of Your Absence

Bring me the bitter and frightened tears
of those who loved you best;
replace my own, too subtle in their flavour
ever to toast you fittingly,
full as they are of opportunity
lost and memories of your dog.

Even the friends and artisans
whose works and lives you still inspire
with an honesty and love that already survive you
(and, yes, the voice I suddenly remember)
can't parallel their view with them
who now must look ahead
into a brutal world more sad and alien
than anyone's mother should contemplate
or any husband dare consider.

Let me just observe them in a spoon
if I might not taste their salt,
that sympathy may train my palate's grief
and pain expose my heart —
I will not shrink from the gift
of their pure sorrow.

- Andrew

The Life of a Consumer

Listen, I'm sorry to keep writing about pop cultural stuff, rather than more important things like what's actually going on in my life. I can see that it's not winning me any admirers. But I have a bit of a dilemma in that I'd like everyone to be kept regularly abreast of the fact that I continue to exist, while at the same time there is really nothing going on here worth telling about. Seriously. Alison and I are watching a lot of movies, listening to a lot of records, and reading a lot of books. Besides working at our jobs, that is, where you'll have to take my word that even more nothing is going on. It's winter; what do you want?

Last weekend, for instance, I spent a perfect Sunday with Ali which consisted of reading in bed with coffee for a couple of hours, getting up to do some yoga, having breakfast made for us by Krista upstairs and eating it with her while watching some weird and/or hilarious short films collected on the second issue of Wholphin ("Sour Death Balls" = genius), going out for a walk in the sun which led to a secondhand record store downtown where we purchased an armload of stuff including two Eno records I was missing and Closer by Joy Division, coming home to watch a documentary with Meg about a profoundly deaf female percussionist who "hears" with her whole body (and by whom Alison's parents saw an apparently astounding performance in Toronto), eating some of Ali's famous potato and carrot gumbo, and finally heading out for a band practice wherein we completely nailed two of the songs we've been working on. Boring to tell, maybe, but the actual living makes up for it tenfold.

So now I'll tell you that I'm in the middle of:

• Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman,
• The Gift by Lewis Hyde,
• Making Comics by Scott McCloud,
• the latest (50th!) issue of The Believer,
• Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (only a regular-sized novel's worth left to go!),
• Time and Again by Jack Finney,
• Ruling Your World by Sakyong Mipham, Rinpoche, and
• Writing in General and the Short Story in Particular by Rust Hills,

and loving it all. I'll leave it to your imagination what that's like.

OK, OK, and I'm getting a haircut tonight. There.

- Andrew

Sorry, Jack & Meg.

In response to the overwhelming number of demands to know how The White Stripes' Icky Thump could possibly have been left off my list of 2007's best albums, let me just say that it is, in fact, a pretty good record. Right up there with their best work, in fact. Unfortunately, they chose to make the second track a complete and obvious ripoff of my own jingle for a car dealership, and are therefore automatically disqualified from the race. Better luck next time, Stripes!

- Andrew

Quick Inventory of Brain Contents

So far this year I'm tired and don't really feel like doing anything. Does anyone else feel this way? I'm hoping it's not from the furnace fumes coming out of the incongruous box that rises from the floor in our living room.

Lowlands are gearing up to play a show soon. We've been putting this thing together for over a year now. Stay tuned for details. I'm still not sold on the name, but am glad that the ten or eleven songs we've been working on are pretty much ready.

I didn't mention before that we saw Juno over the holidays. It was pretty good, but not great. The director relied a little too heavily on his indie rock soundtrack and hip pop-culture touchstones. And there wasn't enough of the hilarious Michael Cera. But Ellen Page, who's from Halifax, was really great. Very believable as an intelligent but self-absorbed and not entirely likeable teenager. We saw her dancing at the New Year's Eve show, by the way. She is tiny.

Because it was due back at the library, I quickly finished a book of Krishnamurti writings I'd been reading last week. I find him incredibly inspirational, but I guess not very uplifting. He was appointed head of some religious organization in India as a young child, supposedly the reincarnation of some great teacher or other, and went through all sorts of crazy spiritual training and saw weird visions and generally became highly enlightened, but then later renounced his position, as he came to realize that all organized religion is a waste of time, based as it is on tradition, which is the past, and therefore incapable of seeing the present in all its newness, which is what spirituality should be all about. Most of his teachings are about what NOT to think or do, i.e. follow any method or technique for self-awareness; believe in time; believe in yourself as an independent being; have any beliefs at all, really. Of course he has no advice for how to achieve this non-achievement, other than a Nikean "just do it," but still I think he has a lot of important things to tell the world about living in modern human society as a socially and emotionally adult being. His "teachings" mesh pretty well with both Eckhart Tolle and Alan Watts.

Now I've got the latest issue of McSweeney's (as mentioned in Juno) out of the library. It's a very happy surprise to me to find that they carry it, as I've missed every issue since the comics one, however long ago that was (a couple of years, I think), and they're pretty expensive. But they're also always full of great contemporary fiction, so I'm going to have a fun time catching up. Plus, we rented an issue of Wholphin, the filmic arm of the ever-growing McSweeney's literary hodgepodge, and it's been just as enjoyable as their other stuff.

- Andrew

So Long, Oh Seven.

Hope everybody had a New Year's Eve as fun- and friend-filled as ours was. I played a show with Al Tuck at the Bus Stop Theatre on Gottingen, opening for the Zumbini Circus. Our part of the show was frankly awful, what with nightmarish sound problems, no set list, and some very non-standard tunings, but luckily they cut us short after about five songs so that the great Zumbinis could make their spectacular appearance. They're a fairly large band who play Brazilian and afrobeat music, and they started their set by marching out through the audience thumping and shaking various percussion instruments. By the time they got onto the stage and really got down to it, the whole crowd was on their feet dancing. And they kept it up until the show was over at around 2:00 or so. Actually, I think there was even another small set after that, but Alison and I went home at around 2:30, getting to sleep by probably about four.







I'd like to offer some kind of 2007 retrospective roundup of personal themes and experiences, but all I seem to have come up with is my top ten music albums of the year. Very nerdy, I know. But anyway, you already know what happened to me all year, so why not find out what was playing in my head while it was going on? Here's my favourites, in no particular order.

The Shins - Wincing the Night Away
This band can do no wrong.

Radiohead - In Rainbows
Nor this one. For some reason, I put off buying this album over the internet, paying whatever I felt like paying, and when I finally got around to it a couple of weeks ago it was no longer available. I had to procure it by other, less ethical means, which was kind of ridiculous since I could have gotten it for free to begin with. Once I had it, I loaded it on the old iPod and Alison and I walked to our friends Charles and Kelly's house in the deep north end while listening to it in its entirety. A fantastic soundtrack to melting icicles in the late afternoon sunlight.

Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
Impossibly, even better than Funeral. More coherent, I guess.

Caribou - Andorra
He sings on pretty much every track, and it's weirdly pretty. Sometimes he sounds a lot like that guy in the Silver Apples.

Deerhoof - Friend Opportunity
Quirky and frantic and constantly changing, but somehow really catchy. Like it makes you mad that there's no way you'll ever be able to sing along to a whole song, no matter how hard you try. It must be terribly difficult to make a record that gets more enjoyable every time you listen to it, even after twenty or so times. And my friend Ron tells me they record all their albums using the free version of ProTools that you can download but you have to switch your computer over to an older version of the operating system and there are no plugins available and only eight possible tracks. Just like me! Choo choo choo choo, beep beep!

Interpol - Our Love to Admire
OK, even though these are not supposed to be ordered, this one's my number one favourite from the year. Critics didn't like it as much as their last one, but I think it's better because they've gone back to the dark Joy Division-derived sound that made the first album so great. I wish I could write basslines like Carlos Dengler.

Iron & Wine - The Shepherd's Dog
Call me an impurist, but I like some orchestration with my wimpy folk.

Neil Young - Live at Massey Hall 1971
I don't know whether this should actually count as a 2007 album, but that's when it came out and I'll be damned if it's not making it onto this list. It's just too good. Neil explains to the audience what "Old Man" is about, because they've never heard that song before! A fantastic solo acoustic show from the top of his game.

Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings - 100 Days, 100 Nights
Just really, really fun. No one makes soul music like this anymore. Well, maybe Amy Winehouse, but Sharon's the real deal.

Blonde Redhead - 23
I missed seeing Blonde Redhead when I was on tour in Europe with Buck 65, because I'd slept through the alarm that morning and been rushed onto the bus in a groggy and foul mood, and we'd seen a ridiculous number of rock shows over the past few days and I just wanted some time alone. Everyone thought I was crazy going off into the woods surrounding the festival location somewhere in France while they all checked out these incredible Italian twins with a Japanese woman for a singer, and maybe I was in retrospect. But I could hear the music drifting toward me while I sat quietly under a tree, and I don't know if seeing them onstage could possibly have made me feel any better than that did. They've held a special place in my eardrums ever since.

Back to work tomorrow, and a regular schedule. I think I kind of need it. I'll be doing some recording with Skratch Bastid in a couple of days, and then my big resolution is to get Lowlands playing some shows. We've been working on this for a year now — time to spit or get off the cuspidor. Also, I'm going to more regularly do the things that are supposed to be done regularly, such as exercise and blogging, try to have fun doing the things I don't like doing, and eliminate distractions as much as possible. Ali says she's going to get her driver's license before the summer so we can go on a road trip. How about all a' y'all?

- Andrew

Ali in Her Kerchief and I in My Cap

... are just about to settle our brains for a long and well-deserved winter's nap. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse, 'cause everyone else has vacated the house, and the moon on the puddles of rain everywhere is producing what I would describe as a glare. Our Christmas tree's looming all sprucey and huge, and we seem to be too tired to even watch Scrooge, but we wanted to say, ere we turn out the light, happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!



- Andrew

Christmas Shenanigan

This is good for a yuk or two, I hope. Sorry.

- Andrew

Self Portrait, ca. 1973

I took an art class when I was seven or eight years old. I'd mostly forgotten about it but my parents brought me my old sketch pad on their recent visit. This is me in my Cub uniform. I wish I could still draw like this.

Also, Uncle Scrooge.


- Andrew

First Big Blizzard

Crossing the frozen baseball diamond
Against the blowing snow, our eyes
Were drawn down
Out of the white that vanishes context,
Massacres colour and shape in an ever-changing blur,
And into the revealing white
Of pure, bright reflection.
It was strange to be so blind, lost.
We felt a little frightened,
I think,
And pictured ourselves on rubber yoga mats
Or home in bed,
Lying awake with closed eyes,
Dreaming ourselves here,
Showing up at your Christmas party
Already half drunk.

- Andrew

Been a Long Time, Been a Long Time

Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time! Has anybody heard this guy's recent album of duets with newgrass starlet, Alison Krauss? I imagine it would sound like, "Rollin' rollin' rollin' rollin'! Aieeeeeee keep on rollin'! Oh my Jesus! Rollin' in mah sweet bay-EE-ay-EE-ay-EE! Ay-EE-ay-EE-aaaaaay-by's.... ... .... AAAAAAHHHRRRRRMMMS!" But from all accounts it's actually quite good.

Anyways, what's mostly been up with me is that I had a birthday last weekend. It was my fortieth, so kind of weird, but mostly really fun. The big surprise was that my parents flew in from Toronto on Thursday night and were already in the restaurant where Ali and I were going when we got there. Poor Alison was unsure how I'd take it, as I normally am against surprise parties, but this was not a party, just a surprise, and a really nice one, at that. We had a great dinner with them, then they came bowling with us and a bunch of friends the next night, and on Saturday we accompanied them to the Farmers' Market and wandered around downtown. I don't generally get to spend much time alone with my folks, and especially not on my own turf, so it was really sweet of them to do that. About the best birthday present I could get.






Cliff came out and bowled left-handed, on account of his broken collarbone. Didn't seem to prevent his team from kicking the other team's pants.




As usual, Ali's not in any of the bowling pictures 'cause she took them all.

So, other than that weekend of shenanigans there hasn't been a whole lot worth telling about. A rather disgusting amount of my time has been devoted to getting my computer working with the fancy new iPod Alison gave me. I had to get a new operating system (thanks, Apple) but the latest one won't work on my dinosaur of a three-year-old Mac, and then I didn't have a DVD drive,... Ugh, you really don't want to know, I'm tellin' ya. Plus, there've been shows and work and chores keeping us plenty busy, so I don't even have any great new music or movies to recommend to you. I did get an anthology of the year's best comics from Krista for my b-day and discovered plenty of mind-blowing stuff in there. It was curated by Chris Ware, creator of the Acme Novelty Library, so pretty much everything in there was fantastic. It got me all excited about comics again, and I've decided to try doing a comic story. When I was a kid I thought I'd end up drawing cartoons as a career. Right now I'm a graphic designer, which is not far off, when you think about it. It's all about a fascination with the communicative possibilities of words and pictures. Now if only I could actually draw...

And, oh yeah, speaking of comics, I received my first issue of The Shambhala Sun, Halifax's own internationally acclaimed Buddhist magazine, in the mail on my birthday, and whose illustration should grace the table of contents but Mark Alan Stamaty's? It's a very large piece that spans two pages in a fascinating article on the "new atheists" (Dennett, Dawkins, Hitchens, et al.) and how those interested in more contemplative, less dogmatic religious experiences might respond to their science-is-all-we-need attitudes. Just the kind of stuff I've been wanting to read, and as a bonus I learn that Stamaty's alive and well and still producing high quality work (though I thought the illustration could have used a few tiny little guys with fish coming out of their pipes).

As for Alison, she's been busy getting ready for her friend Alicia's wedding. It's next weekend and Ali's the maid/matron of honour. She's working like a maniac on this toast she'll have to make, and in fact I have to print out what she's got so far so we can go over it together and squeeze the maximum entertainment value out of it.

But let me just say before I excuse myself (Coming, Ali!) that we might get a second-hand piano. Very exciting. I'll tell ya more next time. Gotta run now!

- Andrew

P.S. Oh, now I'm really in trouble, but I forgot to ask whether anyone had heard that the real reason Celine Dion cancelled her show in Halifax was that her husband read some negative press about it in the Daily News and the two of them became very upset. They've decided that Halifax is not a "hip" (read "cornball") enough place for them, and the city has actually been taking some blows from entertainment media rushing to La Voix Abominable's defense. It's really just too funny. I can't understand how she could have gone this long without realizing that there are many, many people out there who think she stinks. No one could possibly be that sheltered, could they?

We're Here, We're Queer, We Still Don't Drink Beer

Well, Ali does occasionally. And queer in the broader, less euphemistic sense, it goes without saying. NTTAWWT. So many things to tell you about because it's been awhile because there are so many things to tell you about. But not yet. Soon. I promise.

- Andrew

Marvel's Newest Supervillain

In all my wise-assery, I forgot to mention that Ali got laser surgery done on her eyes yesterday! She won't have to wear glasses anymore. Pretty miraculous. But right now, she's supposed to use her eyes as little as possible, so the curtains are all closed and she's sitting around listening to music in sunglasses.

- Andrew

Marvel's Newest Introspective Superhero

Let's Hope It's Kenny G.

Celine Dion has decided not to come to Halifax after all. She was recently booked to play an outdoor concert on the Commons next summer, à la (aux?) The Rolling Stones. At first the powers that be just told us that some big act was going to be coming, causing massive-scale rumours and speculation about AC/DC, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and just about any other exciting musical entertainers of whom you can think. Then they announced that it was in fact the big C, and the entire city fell into a cyclically tripolar mood of depression, hilarity, and anger. I had a fun preoccupation for a few days trying hard, with next to no success (except see post title), to think of an act I'd less like to see than The Francowhippet.

But now the fun's over. Her people say that the Commons, as a venue, cannot handle her "elaborate production needs" (e.g. a non-ironically interested audience). "'It's like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown,' said Mr. Adams, the councillor [and self-admitted non-fan] for Spryfield-Herring Cove." I.e. we are Charlie Brown and Celine is the football we can no longer hope to kick squarely and with all our might. Our reverse snobbism thus thwarted, there's nothing left for Halifax to do now but hang our heads and grumble about grapes whose sourness we never even got a proper chance to complain about before the point became moot. Except I guess we are still promised some large and popular act in The Smirk's stead. How camp will it be? How embarassingly melodramatic? How overall cringeworthy? These are burning questions only time can answer.

- Andrew

A Fantasy Story

One day, in a weird land beyond imagination, it was and will forever be snowing. But it was also not snowing. The great wizard, Falafla-Flarngio, unscrewed a lightbulb, and this was a sign that there were ghosts in his liver. It was just as the old woman had predicted.

- Andrew

It Is a Sad and Beautiful World II

A couple of weeks ago, my dad's sister died of cancer, which she'd had for a year. I haven't really known what to say about it, partly because I feel like I never knew her very well. Maybe that's just how you feel when someone dies and the chance to know them better is gone. But it's not entirely gone, because then all these people you've never met come out of the woodwork and tell you all these things you didn't know about the person, and it's kind of nice. Sad but nice that you learn how great someone was after their life is over.

Not that I didn't know my aunt Chooch was great. We all did, and were maybe a little intimidated by her greatness. We needn't have been, as she was a very warm and genuine person. But she was also a fiercely unique artist and a passionate advocate for the arts, with no time for foolishness while she accomplished wonderful things with her conviction and determination. Nothing done in any kind of half-hearted way — that sort of person. Very inspirational to me. I was inspired by the way she lived and by her art, but more specifically by the great birthday and Christmas presents she gave me. Books, mostly. I can probably ascribe a pretty large portion of my interests in nature, science, philosophy, and of course art to the just-challenging-enough-to-be-forever-fascinating books I got from her over the years.

There was a funeral for her in New Brunswick last Wednesday, which I didn't attend. I'll be going to a larger memorial service, probably in the new year. My dad has posted a bunch of links to articles about Chooch on his blog.

I was thinking about my aunt and life and death when we went to see The Darjeeling Limited, Wes Anderson's latest film. His movies always make me sort of sad in a pleasant, humanity-loving way, and this one was no different. It's about three American brothers who meet up in India to rebond by going on a vaguely spiritual journey by train. It's really good. Less far-fetched, plot-wise, than most of his films, but just as quirky and gorgeous and warm. Owen Wilson is great, as usual. I think the knowledge that he recently attempted suicide, coupled with my aunt's passing, left me a little sadder than usual. Greatness in our species is much rarer than we like to tell ourselves.

But here's some. I don't know if you remember, but a few posts ago I put up a scan of Mark Alan Stamaty's classic Village Voice comic strip, MacDoodle Street. Well, the other day in a comic store, Alison noticed a children's book called Who Needs Donuts? by Mr. Stamaty, and we immediately bought it. The pictures, being on large pages, are even more detailed than those in MacD St. I haven't even gotten halfway through it yet, because I'm savouring it, but so far it's just incredible. The more you look at it, the weirder it gets. I hope these scans give you some idea. Of course, you'll want to click on them for larger versions.




I recently discovered a Blogger blog that is nothing but scans of book illustrations, found elsewhere on the internet. It's fantastic. You could spend days just randomly poking around on this thing. There's really no rhyme or reason to it — just exquisite and/or fascinating pictures, mostly quite old. It's definitely going on the old links list.

Here's a slightly less exquisite illustration, featured on one of the more cynical billboards I have ever seen. There are at least eight of them around the city, and this one is just around the corner from our house. Many people have died in wars throughout Canada's national evolution, so think about it while you drink some vodka. Hmm? Connection? No, no, we're not honouring anyone monetarily or in any specific way like that, but we just thought it was our responsibility as a vodka company to remind people about the sacrifices that have been made for us all. And also parenthetically about drinking vodka, of course. Oh yeah, and John A. MacDonald was a Canadian hero too.

And finally, bowling. We did some. It was lots of fun. Went for the candlepin this time, which for any non-maritime readers means you roll five-pin-sized balls at ten pins that are close to cylindrical in shape so that there's lots of room for the ball and/or flying pins not to hit non-flying pins. For this reason, you get three balls to knock down the pins, instead of only two. Scoring is the same as ten-pin, only it's possible to get ten in a frame without getting either a strike or a spare.


There was plenty of victorious gloating...


... and defeated head-bowing.



And then Charlie's Angels showed up just in time for the Moonlight Bowling (lights out except for some blacklights and a disco ball).


Looking fine, ladies!

- Andrew

Happy Hallowe'en!

We had the annual pumpkin-carving contest at work again yesterday. This year each team was to come up with something related to the theme of witchcraft. Here were the results.


Far left was Dorothy's house landing on the Wicked Witch of the West, whose legs you can see sticking out beside the Yellow Brick Road. I guess the sparkler was just for added visual punch. The next one in was a very clever diorama of a woman being burned at the stake, with little sculpted pumpkin-flesh logs in a pyre shape over an LED candle simulator. My team did a Frank Sinatra pumpkin, complete with a recording of "Witchcraft" playing from within. And the winner on the right was a cauldron that didn't require any extra props and utilized all parts of the pumpkin in very clever ways, including the guts as ooze boiling over the side. A very successful contest, over all.

After work, Ali and I went out for Thai food and a movie, in celebration of our anniversary. Mystery Train was playing for free at the Dalhousie Art Gallery, as part of an ongoing Jim Jarmusch film festival every Wednesday night. It was as good as I remembered it, but unfortunately someone neglected to turn on the English subtitles which are meant to accompany the storyline of two Japanese teenagers who visit Memphis, comprising the first third of the movie. As a result, sometimes you could tell what they were talking about, but other times there were long soliloquies where you could make up just about anything. I asked esteemed Halifax critic, Ron Foley MacDonald, the man in charge of the event, about the subtitles afterward, and he claimed there are none, and, more ridiculously, that Jim Jarmusch never puts subtitles in his films and that's half the fun of them. Remembering parts of some of the more soliliquizational bits from when I first saw the movie in the theatre some twenty years ago, I called his bluff and had him check the subtitles menu of the DVD we had just watched, only to see the options: 1. Italian, 2. French, and 3. None. I still haven't figured out what the heck happened, but I hope the problem is solved before they show Night on Earth next week! (Explanation for non-nerds: Night on Earth takes place in five different cities and contains dialogue in French, Italian, German, and Finnish.
WUNH-waaahh!)

- Andrew

Right Back Atcha, Sweet Feet!

Happy thirteen and all those in between! Many more to come for Beauty and the Bum.

- Andrew

Happy Anniversary, HB!

I'm a lucky girl to have you by my side.
You're my favourite kook!

-Ali

Happy Birthday, Jason!