Our Old Fashioned Adventure

So, Montreal was a great time. On the train there we were bumped up to a nicer roomette, the best one you can get. It was very old and comfortable and art deco. I think the car was probably built in the forties. Apparently the Queen stayed in one of these rooms. Everything metamorphosed and unfolded in ingenious ways, like a Transformer. The couch was a bed and one wall was a bed and another wall was a table and the ceiling was another bed. There was a nice old fan in the corner. The miniature soaps fit exactly into the rectangular indents on the stainless steel sink.

We had brought about a million books and enough groceries to last us a week, thinking it would be a long, boring ride, but we spent the whole time looking out the window and it was over before we were ready. After a shower (!) and a breakfast of hummus and bananas, we pulled into the Montreal station, where we were welcomed by my old buddy, Stu. He took us back to his new condo in Petit Bourgignon. We dropped off our stuff and went out to a favourite old diner in St. Henri, The Greenspot, for a more breakfasty breakfast and to talk about what our families and old friends were up to these days.

Then there was the birthday party for my grandfather, Papa, attended by most of my family. It was his ninety-third. We decorated the "tea room" where he lives with balloons and streamers and had a real pleasant little get-together. Well, I guess most of the decorating was done by my niece, Hannah. He got some very thoughtful gifts, had some snacks and cake, and then we saw him back to his suite. Alison and I stayed at my grandmother's condo that night and stayed up late catching up with my sister, Dana.

The rest of the family went home the next day, but we stuck around all week, getting plenty of visits in with both grandparents. Granny Gwen took us out one night to a fancy French restaurant, where we had a long and many-coursed meal of the gourmet variety. We went back to her place again that night. The full lunar eclipse was spectacular from her balcony overlooking the snow-covered park. It was nice to chat with her about life and art over her famous big breakfasts.

A lot of the times with Papa were spent playing Scrabble. I ended up winning all three games we played, but the last one was very close, and would have gone to him if 'qi,' which is definitely a word, had been in his outdated Scrabble Dictionary, thereby allowing him to get rid of that lousy 'Q' at the very end of the game. We were also able to run some errands for him and help clean up a little, plus hear about various distant family members and the good olde dayes. I finally found out that Papa's mild oath, "shaw," which he's been saying all his life, is actually "pshaw," with a silent 'p'. How did I never realize that before?

The remainder of the week was either walking around freezing cold Montreal looking for old haunts and/or photo ops, or spending time with Stu and sometimes Cliff, my other old Montreal buddy. We stayed at Stu's place most of the time. He was working a lot at his new software engineering gig, but we were able to spend most evenings with him. I really haven't been in touch with him much over the past decade or so, so it was quite funny and exciting to find that we're still very similar. His bitter hatred of Stuart McLean had me smiling with recognition. Then when he related a lengthy explanation he'd recently given a woman why his feelings about musician Leslie Feist are lukewarm at best, when it was obvious that the response the poor woman had been expecting and probably deserved was more along the lines of, "Like her? I can honestly say without exaggeration that she is the most creative artist living today and I worship her every excretion," well, I just about killed myself laughing.

There was a dinner with Cliff at the Star of India, an old standby that is still exactly the same down to the exotically dressed Caucasian mannequin who watches you eat from her perch over the front door. Another night Stu took us out to a vegetarian restaurant whose delicious Bocaburger comes with an "avalanche" of salsa and which is in such a terrible location its doubtful it'll be anywhere near as successful as it should be. We also went to see the latest Michel Gondry movie, Be Kind, Rewind. Jack Black was very funny in it as the guy whose magnetized brain accidentally erases all the VHS tapes in a terrible old video store in New Jersey. Alison and I really liked it and Stu tolerated it. Finally, we went for one last breakfast at the Greenspot, meeting up with Cliff who this time brought along his wife, Vitska, and 2-year-old son, Elan. They're a really sweet family and we were glad they were headed toward the Atwater Market too when we went there afterward for some last-minute train snacks and souvenirs.

The ride out of Montreal was not as nice as the one there, but still pretty great. This time our roomette was only half the size, and the cars were all super-modern. You would think that a modern train car would be better than one built in the forties, but actually most of the design decisions they seem to have made in the interim are poor. No fan, for instance, and no sink indents into which the soaps could fit. Plus the ladder up to the upper bunk squeaks all night long. But Ali fixed that problem with a pair of well-placed socks and we enjoyed the views just as much as the first time around. Baie de Chaleur first thing in the morning was particularly spectacular. Especially as Joey, our porter, brought us fresh coffees on waking us up. Before we knew it we were home in the land of ugly architecture and scarce taxicabs and mild temperatures and lovable kittycats.

- Andrew

Hey, Everybody!

We're back. Montreal was a real good time, as were the train rides to and fro. Fro maybe a little less so than to. But we're home now and ready to jump back on that treadmill called daily life. I've got a band practice to get ready for right now, but pictures and stories will follow soon.

- Andrew

Last Post for Awhile?

Not that I have been anyway, but I might not be able to blog in awhile, as we'll be on that train to Montreal in a couple of days, and gone for over a week. We're both really looking forward to the trip. My grandfather's not feeling so great and in the hospital right now, so our visit should be a nice cheer-up for him.

Things are moving along nicely with Alison's photo-superstar plans. All of a sudden there are numerous people presenting her with business opportunities, so she's got some deciding to do. Meanwhile, her boss/guardian angel has lots of good ideas for how best to shove her into the photographic limelight. She just got back last night from a shoot in Newfoundland with him, which I guess went off without a hitch, but then they paid for it on the trip back.

The weather here was wet and slippery, so their plane was diverted to Moncton for six hours. When they arrived back the driver of the shuttlebus that now takes you to the new airport parking lot flipped out because they didn't know where their car was parked. Never mind that a ticket had been given to them indicating exactly where it was, which ticket they had dutifully handed over to the driver as instructed when they got on the shuttle. Never mind that the driver no longer remembered which, if any, of the for some reason three tickets left in his hand even though they were the last party on the shuttle, was the one they had handed him. No, it was definitely their fault that they had no idea where their vehicle was in the pitch black of the brand new, featureless parking lot, and there was nothing else he could do but flip out and tell them to get off the bus or he would call the cops. Seriously. They refused to get off, as it was pouring rain and they had almost literally tons of camera equipment with them. So he stopped the bus and called "the constable," who eventually showed up and turned out to be a nice guy, offering to help them find their car in his car. But then as they started loading some of the aforementioned equipment out of the back of the bus and into this new, nicer guy's car, they turned around to see the bus racing off, the remainder of the equipment having been unceremoniously dumped into a puddle. When the photographer called the maniac's supervisor to complain, the supervisor said he hadn't heard the other side of the story yet, so he couldn't really do anything, but feel free to fill out a comment card. I'm not sure whether "I'm suing you," technically counts as a comment...

When they finally got back to the photographer's studio late at night, his steep driveway was so covered in rain-soaked ice that it was impossible to drive up, and they had to walk all the heavy gear up said driveway. By this time there was nothing left to do but laugh at their ridiculously bad luck, so that's what they did.

I, meanwhile, continue to slave over a hot computer, making black and white photos of cars sporting cartoon explosions full of phrases that end with exclamation points look pretty, and writing really stupid jokes to direct people's distraction and avarice toward the client-chosen objects of desire. Except that lately the jokes get so manhandled and reconfigured along the way that by the time they make it to print there is nothing recognizably humourous left in them. In order to bolster my comic abilities, I'm thinking of signing up for this class I noticed at the local comedy school:

HUMO-2046 The Knock-knock Joke

Students will be subjected to many examples of this timeless classic, becoming familiar with its history from the invention of the wooden door through today's post-modern variations. Creative discussion will be encouraged, and an original KKJ will be written by the student for the final class/critique.

Class topics will include:
Early precursors — mock-Greek names and the knock joke.
Who's there, indeed?
Suspense v. irritation in the participatory nature of the classic KKJ.
Character is punchline.
Suspense v. irritation II — banana banana.
Bing-bong, you go first, and other contemporary subversions.

Additional seminars will be available for those who "don't get it", and tutors Dwayne and Tyrone have volunteered to make housecalls as required.

See you in the funny papers!

- Andrew

P.S. Happy Valentine's Day.

It's true, I have exciting news!

Hey all!

My big news is that I finally showed my boss James some of my work and he was very impressed. He strongly believes I should become a fine art photographer, and he's interested in investing in me! I'm not exactly sure what this means, but he did say he could provide start-up money for gear, printing, and other things. I think he's going to help me figure out how to become a successful working artist.

James never knew this was my dream to begin with since I never showed him any of my stuff or really talked about it either. I think we took each other by surprise! Anyway, I'm still kind of reeling from his reaction.

So now I'm working on putting together a book and also an art show — I have quite a collection of images that I need to sort through and organize! Wish me luck! Any advice would be welcome and appreciated. xo

-Ali

Some Random News

Ali and I are going to Montreal in a couple of weeks for my grandfather's 93rd birthday. We'll take the train up, stay for a week, and take it back again. We're in a compartment with beds and a bathroom, which I've never had before and am quite psyched about. Just like The Darjeeling Limited. It'll also give us a chance to catch up with my old friend and roommate, Stu, with whom I haven't been in touch for over a year.

Last week I had a performance review at my job. I guess I was dreading it a little bit, but they didn't really have anything bad to say and I got a raise.

On Saturday night we went to a Brazilian festival called Carnaval. The Zumbini Circus played, same band we danced to on New Year's Eve, and they were just as good this time. There were also a few different demonstrations of capoeira, an Afro-Brazillian martial art/dance/social game. Kind of like highly acrobatic and fluid break-dancing, but with machetes and sticks sometimes. Very cool. Alison took some pictures, but they all just look like red faceless people on fire. It was pretty dark in there.

Check out the HBO comedy series Flight of the Conchords, about a fictional two-piece band from New Zealand trying to make it in New York. It's now rentable on DVD. There are twelve episodes, but I defy you to stretch it out over more than two days of watching.

Finally, Ali's got a bit of news about her photography that's really exciting, but I think I should let her tell you about it.

- Andrew

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