Assy: About three years ago, I was trying to convince my boss at the feature film production company to option my favourite childhood novel. The rights were just about to lapse and he hemmed and hawed and decided against it, and now look at what the House of Mouse has been up to.
I’m home writing today, or at least under the pretenses of writing. But there’s sun damage to my Strange Advance album so "World’s Away" is all warped and the giant funk began long before this. Thing is, there’s no reason for any sort of giant funk. Think about it. One script made it through the intimidating first round of notes with a nod, another is germinating on the laptop at the moment.
It’s impossible not to look at other lives and draw comparisons. The hippies who seasonally inhabit the stretches of Wreck Beach have little; yet, by having little, do they have more? And though I'm mostly fine with not being married, sometimes when I meet 27-year-old newly-weds, I want to punch them in the mouth. Really, I could say that my apartment has kept me in Vancouver, or my job, or my dog, but what’s really kept me here have been my excuses and my complacency. Is that so wrong? I’m not that unimpressed with the city anymore, to the extent that I'll actually read the real estate section of the paper. From time to time, I wish for the cocoon, the joint bank account, the second set of hands; other times I’m happy I can lock myself away from everyone for the entire weekend.
Mostly I fear that I would carry this attitude with me to greater places. Imagine living in New York or Prague, waking up one morning and shrugging, "yeah, it’s okay here, I guess, but only just okay." That would kill me, and yet the probability is entirely possible.
Later: I've had some grapes, cleaned the yard, shaken off this flu. It's not fair of me to rail against my friends when it's me I'm railing against, so the paragraph that used to exist here is now gone. I'm all for another Wreck Beach excursion though, and the four elements of such a journey: earth, fire, water and E.
Leave it to FOX to come up with the assiest, most irresponsible news magazine show yet -- The Pulse. I caught a moment of this last night while taking a writing break as Bill O’Reilly took all of Germany, through the embodiment of public radio host Martin Wagner, to task for not backing the US in their attempts to oust Saddam Hussein. In a segment straight out of Jerry Springer, O’Reilly, like a jaded housewife, pulled up the stinking past and served it up to Wagner like so many overcooked potroasts gone to ruin. Yes, Germany realizes that the States bailed them out after WWII, replacing their all-brick-based diet with hearty and wholesome bread. Yes, Germany realizes that America forgave them for the travesty of Rob and Fab. But come on, to call Chancellor Schroeder "sleazy" because he’s trying to protect his interests during an election year is just hypocritical, as though an American politician wouldn’t do/hasn’t done the same. Check out O’Reilly’s inability to even grasp how much time has passed since WWII. He’s flailing about with his "you should back us irregardless of" stance, all the while tossing WWII in the face of Germany, and at the same time failing to remember at which point the US joined WWII. There’s some journalism for ya!
Further to the point: 40 years ago today, my parents were married. They're going out for dinner tonight to celebrate. What makes this especially cool is that they've been divorced since 1978.
I started at a new school in a new city that September, and I'm pretty sure I was the only kid in my class with divorced parents. It didn't make me feel awkward or deprived, not in the least. Even at that tender age, I knew this was a sign of things to come. Now, I'm surprised when I meet people my age whose parents are still together -- they're either incredibly functional or dysfunctional, and I'm sure that if I too had been married in my twenties, I'd be divorced in my thirties. Somehow, my two brothers have been able to pull off the marriage thing quite well, and I have the highest respect for that.
So a toast then to my folks, who are out celebrating 40 years of good times, bad times, forgiveness, and living without regret.
I am surrounded by people who should not be single but are. In one case, it’s been a complete chin-scratcher – why is this person single? She’s the perfect catch in every possible way. So then, why hasn’t some fellow recognized this and stepped up to the plate? There’s nothing to lose, everything to gain. It’s a no-brainer, right? I mean, I can’t champion her enough, not that I should have to champion her in the first place. She just downrightedly rules.
Schadenfreude: my bitchy ex-boss’ new house is infested with rats.
1. Herbie Hancock - Rockit. I put this on first when I got home. It’s still good after all these years.
2. Roxy Music - The High Road - includes my all time favourite RM song, a remake of John Lennon's Jealous Guy. Mark says "Brian Ferry gets all swanky on that one."
3. Yaz - Upstairs at Eric's. "Do I dress for every situation?"
4. UB40 - Labour of Love. I wore out my tape of this when I owned this as a kid.
5. Grand Funk Railroad - Survival. They're wearing caveman suits on the cover!
6. Air Supply - Lost in Love. Guilty pleasure. Includes the hits All out of Love and Every Woman in the World. I saw Air Supply in concert when I was in grade six – even at that age, liking this band was a guilty pleasure.
7. Foreigner - 4. Urgent. Waiting for a Girl like You. Jukebox Hero. Does not include my favourite Foreigner song Cold as Ice. After listening to this last night, Urgent has replaced Crimson and Clover as the song I’m most likely to do next time I’m drunk and in the karaoke side of The Dufferin (read: rare occasion).
8. Barry White - Greatest Hits. Can't get enough of your love babe. Whatever, all the songs sound the same to me but it's all relative because they all sound great.
9. Neil Young - After the Gold Rush. Yes, only love can break your heart.
Today
I went back because I didn’t grab The Pretenders yesterday, but then it turned out to be a one-hit album ("Don’t Get Me Wrong"), so I grabbed these instead:
1. Elton John – Goodbye Yellow Brick Road – How did I miss this yesterday?!? It’s in mint condition, both albums are pristinely sealed in plastic liners. I’d completely forgotten about the warped album art as well. Ah, the memories…
2. Bruce Springsteen – Darkenss on the Edge of Town. This one got my boss (no pun intended) all excited.
3. David Bowie – Let’s Dance. Okay, not a particularly GREAT choice, but baby, just you shut your mouth. It has the Cat People song on it, alright.
When I knew this was going to be an above-average (for me) cash year, I set out to spend some dough, yes, but I think my dough spending has reached a stupid limit. Let me preface this by saying that I’m not cheap, I’m frugal, and I’m really not used to having surplus cash. Last month, there was the $170 haircut and the much-too-much spent on 4 items of make-up at Holts. Okay, fine. The Holts thing was one of those "because I can" episodes and I thought that’d be it. There was the trip to New York (absolutely necessary), and the tshirt bought on the internet yesterday (a paltry US$16, but it was so damn easy to buy that it threatens to spark an entire online purchasing spree).
For the last five years, my mom has been giving me a hard time about my hairbrush, a red plastic number that I’ve had since, well, I’m pretty sure this one’s been with me since high school. It gets cleaned, all the plastic bristles are still in place, but still, every morning I get up and brush my hair and realize that this and less-than-perfect skin are the last vestiges from that era which remain with me. Okay, and an appreciation for Joy Division and U2’s Boy.
So today, while on the hunt for one of those Levi’s jean jackets with the sherpa collar (which apparently went out of production in Canada six years ago), I remembered the brush situation. Now, though you may not know it, I read a lot of fashion magazines. Not a lot, but I read three favourites every month. "Read"…ha! But you know what I mean. I’m not going to bother mentioning which ones because they’re so all over the board, suffice it to say one is the uber-pander to celebrity, one keeps the kohl industry alive, and the third is basically Sassy for sort-of-grown-ups and much too young for me to be reading but now that one of my CD exchange cohorts is the assistant art director there, I feel more justified in reading this one.
All magazines point to one hairbrush – The Mason Pearson. The last brush you’ll ever buy. Apparently, I don’t need to worry about my brush situation for the rest of my life now. I can transfer that worry onto my sorely depleted bank account and stop this consumerism lest I end up in a situation like this.
There’s a phase that every new dog owner must go through – getting comfortable with your dog’s ass. And no, I’m not talking bestiality, I’m talking about the fact that dogs are exceptionally ass-centric, and humans (er, most humans) are not, and so the ass thing usually comes as a startling realization to new dog owners. Like the Kubler-Ross stages of loss, new dog owners go through a similar course of emotion:
Denial – You get over this one pretty quickly because there’s just no mistaking the fact that your dog’s snout is up another dog’s ass. Also, if you live in a city, you are morally and legally required to pick up shit. I have a plastic bag in my pocket even when I’m out without my dog, and have been known at times to commit random acts of shit-up-picking kindness.
Embarrassment thinly veiled by weak humour – Witness the man in the dog park yesterday who spoke the common phrase of new dog owners as my dog basically pushed his dog around the park with his nose – "I much prefer a simple hello." He then decided to let me in on the fact that his dog had the runs, which prompted me to put a cease and desist order on all ass-sniffing. He countered, "Well, if your dog’s already five years old, there’s little you can do to stop him smelling butt." (A) my dog does not normally obsessively sniff ass and (b) I’m trying to keep him from picking up your dog’s dysentery, idiot.
Bargaining -- Thankfully, as mentioned, my dog is not obsessive about it so I’ve been able to skip this stage altogether. But I overhear offers of biscuits, Fendi collars and the "put down" to dogs who are all about ass.
Anger & Despair all wrapped up in one – This is not so much about the sniffing as it is about the bomb dropping. Like a well-planned blitzkrieg, my dog has been known to hold half of his colonic contents until I’ve found a trash bin and have tossed the last plastic bag within a fifteen mile radius. He’ll then drop the remainder, leaving me to either (a) guiltily side-step away from the scene of the crime, realizing the crap-karmic damage I’ve done or (b) use any combination of bus schedule, bank machine receipt, shirt sleeve, coffee cup, and/or sharp stick to convoy the offending feces to a garbage can. Bastard.
Acceptance – Like gin’n’tonic mothers, you’ll turn a blind eye to your dog as he races for asshole after asshole and will, without the slightest hint of emotion, bend to scoop the nastiest of #2s. You’ve arrived.
On a completely different note, I made an internet purchase yesterday. This fancy little t-shirt There was a 15 minute lull in the working day yesterday, which accounted for this rash shopping spree.
1. "I am pleased with that car, and mostly I thank God for the leather seats. Every day I praise Jesus for the leather seats."
2. Do not, under any circumstances, allow your children to think it’s okay to break out a WagonWheel™ while graveside.
3. I’ll never understand why people would want to take photos at a funeral. It’s not as though any of us are ever going to forget the moment.
Afterwards, we retired to my uncle’s house and my dad and I climbed the steep staircase to my cousins’ bedroom. He’d used the ceiling in his tiny room to clean his damp paint brushes so the whole overhead was washed in shades of pink and blue. Stacked against the wall were his paintings – 40 or so matte boards of the exact same scene – ducks in flight over a prairie marsh. Sometimes the sky was a bell-ringing blue; sometimes, a violent storm of purple. But always, the ducks held their V-formation, having just ascended from the pond, heading to some unknown destination off the far edge of the frame.
There was a 15 minute lull in the working day yesterday, which accounted for this rash shopping spree.
