Won't Shake To No Blues

Some More Things That Have Got Me Excited Lately 

1. "Mumblecore" Films: In particular, I saw LOL the other day while recovering from sickness, and it's fantastic. There are one or two instances that come across a little heavy handed plot wise, but that's sort of the point I suppose. Scenes featuring performances by Kevin Bewersdorf and Tipper Newton have flashes of total brilliance, and the music for this thing is just amazing. Catch this if you can, or borrow it from me. There're going to be a few more of these in my massive DVD collection soon, so there will be more to chose from.

2. One of my most venerated partners in crime Valerie has set up a blog here. Check it often, because she has dangerous levels of awesomeness, and is one of the finest writers I know. It's a testament to someone's ability when they can write an article about something I will never, ever have any practical use for in my entire life, but still want to read through and find completely interesting.

3. Pink Strat by Bahamas: I'm probably going to eat these words later, but this record hit me in the exact same way Bon Iver's first did, only happy, pleasant and relaxed. Not that Bon Iver is none of those things occasionally, but this record is a much more summery album and I intend to play it all day while drinking tequila in a pool. See also Reefer. This guy is probably going to pick up serious steam in the hype-sphere, but for the most part it's completely deserved. I've only had this record for two days, and according to iTunes I've already played it over fourteen times all the way through. I want to wrap myself up in this record like a comforter and roll around on the floor. I've also become obsessed with the idea of a pink telecaster. If you can make this happen, let me know.

4. Getting a new banjo: I've recently discovered that while my overall guitar prowess has been increasing (I've adopted a new strategy, whereas I used to learn by playing other people's songs over and over, I've taken to only learning new songs when people ask me to, and instead, just spending hours and hours alone with the thing, it seems to be paying off,) so has my ability to banjo. Christ I love the banjo. Banjoy. Anyway, if anyone sees a good deal, I need to replace my “starter” instrument (read: a 20 year old hubcap stapled to a broom handle), as it breaks all the time and won't stay in tune.

5. Natural Capitalism

6. Eggers, of course

And now for a bit of self indulgence. Despite being sick the last few days, I'm at an incredible place right now. For those of you who read this who I don't get to see in real life, I'm about to start a new program in few weeks where I will learn how to save polar bears and gain a career where I play with commercials and boss people around all day for a large sum of money that I can then give to charity and spend on personalized throwing knives and pink telecasters. Because I am clearly a capitalist. I also have a brand new, gorgeous subsidized apartment (thank you beautiful grad students program) I am in the process of filling with all sorts of art and used furniture. Pictures will follow, I keep forgetting my camera. Most importantly, I have the best and most perfect friends in the history of time.

Many times, people will express this sentiment, and you scoff at it, because “of course you think that, they're your friends,” but even understanding this, I'll say it anyway. Not only are these beautiful people in my life complimentary and wonderful and fit against me as if they were wrought from the very same mould, they're more than just corresponding puzzle pieces. On a daily basis they challenge me, to tolerate myself, to tolerate my own crap and in the wake of that, to bend and break myself into some shape that I can be happy with. It's one thing to enjoy passing time with people, and quite another to literally feel yourself becoming a better person, simply by being near them. I won't name names, but you clearly know who you are. Even if we haven't spoken recently, you know that I think of you often and everything you've ever done to make me better than I've ever been in my entire life.

I'm off to cure swine flu, depression, hesitancy and that thing little kids do when they feel the need to make noise.  

My Kingdom For A Southern Drawl Pt. 1

Go here for photos. 

“Can you imagine that,” Jim says. “When a moose walks out in front of you, it's all legs, right? So when you hit him, he falls right on your windshield.” I ask him how much a moose weighs, and say I've heard it's about 700 pounds. “800 my young man,” he laughs. “He's all legs. Anyway, this thing falls in through the windshield and buddy crashes into the ditch. He wakes up in there and the moose is still alive believe it or not.” I taste a shudder in the back of my throat, like licking a battery and shrug it off. “This thing starts thrashing,” he says. “Because obviously he's scared, and going like this [to illustrate, Jim weaves the wheel back and forth, sloshing us all over the wet pavement and upsetting oncoming traffic] trying to get out.”

I stare out the window at the hills I am reluctant to call mountains, only because I want to seem less like the softened city dandy I've let myself become. “Snapped his neck,” Jim says. “With the antlers. Never walked again.”

Newfoundland is exactly like everyone says it is. The houses are pastel multicoloured and pop off the hillside. Driving is a nightmare; streets intersect at bizarre angles and while everyone maintains that they're marked, I see no evidence to support this. The weather is perpetually a blue-grey cloud, constantly encircling the island that breaks only on special occasions and holidays. When the sun does appear, it's almost as if it's done so by accident. It tips its hat, and apologizes to the dampness like its just walked in on a party it wasn't invited to, and is gone within moments. At no point does there seem to be any sunrise or sunset, it's either a light grey a.m. or a black humid night. Unlike some places, you can't smell the water that surrounds you, even in the small fishing villages, hostile and doe eye'd.

Jim drives myself and my friend Alex around the various parts of the city, making sure we are able to take in a much of the place as possible before returning to Toronto. “George street would be a good place to go tonight,” he says. “Things pick up there around midnight. Last call is still 2 or so, but no one really pays attention to that. Most people will clear out around four or five.” We're told George street is where everyone goes. We're tired though, and have more modest goals than bar-hopping. “We'll get lunch in a minute,” says Jim, pointing off North. “First I'm going to take you boys to the iceberg.”

I'm remarkably quiet the whole trip. Usually, it's impossible to shut me up. I'm either making some stupid joke or listing off my to-do list to deal with when I get home. In Newfoundland though, I'm quiet. At Signal Hill, I send Blackberry messages and lean into the wind on the top of the tower. It holds me up, and this feels less remarkable than it does impossible, so I feel sick and stop. “Be careful up here,” the gift shop clerk warns. “People try to get a good view and fall down off the cliff onto the rocks.” I take note. Someone starts to tell me how the other day they saw a gull fly out of a pack and pick a starling off of a telephone wire, and how they had to run over and scream at it and kick at it to get it to let it go. Seagulls aren't supposed to eat starlings. I get the distinct feeling that I am going to die in this place myself, but everything looks so nice I decide that I'm comfortable.

At Cape Spear I wander through the gun batteries built in World War II and kick brittle hunks of rust. I step up on what appears to be a cross between a canon and a mortar but since I know nothing about weaponry I just assume that it's used to blast holes in things. No one is really sure whether or not it was ever fired. Moments later we're standing on the most easterly point of North America. “So,” Alex says casually. “This is the end of the world huh?” I laugh and get my picture taken next to a plaque making a stupid face and read more signs recommending I don't fall to my death on the rocks below. The wind here is even worse, and the raindrops dig into my pores. We enter a lighthouse. It has fantastic natural ambient light for photos and every tool looks like a prop from a horror movie. Despite this, a tour guide points out where people slept on bales of hay and makes jokes, likely the same jokes they make every single time a tour group comes through.

When we get to the iceberg, I want nothing more than to jump in the water and swim over to it. I know this is a bad idea, but I am so compelled to do so, I cannot speak until I'm ushered back into the car. Jim tells us a story about a man he knew who used to take pictures of icebergs, who fell over the edge of a cliff. They found his car on Monday, and his body on a Thursday. It seems, Newfoundland is a collection of beauty and casualties.  

Love Is Complicated

Janine is gone. She took my keys, my dog, and what was left of my dignity. When I think about the way things transpired, I really shouldn't be surprised.

They always say that fighting is inevitable in any relationship, and we always thought we were better than that. For years, we laughed and joked and told each other that we'd never make the same mistakes as all those others, that we'd never be that petty. We'd never even argued over what movie to watch. Then, one Christmas it just sort of started. It doesn't feel the way they tell you it feels. It's not always about making yourself feel better, or being bored, or resentment. Sometimes it's simple, but no less difficult. I woke up the Monday morning before and I realized I didn't love her anymore. The problem was, is that I was just too scared to tell her. Instead, I just got mean. I poked fun at her family, her sister who couldn't hold down a job, her Mom's refusal to tweeze her decidedly Texan eyebrows. When she worked all day on dinner, not letting me help and giggling about surprises, only to reveal a set of tree and Santa shaped cookies, I sighed a passive thank you and sarcastically called the idea “original.” She looked at me, and didn't say anything, but I could tell she knew something had switched inside of me.

It went on like this for months. She'd do nothing, and I'd pick at it. Nothing aggressive, just enough to be mean without it seeming intentional. I'd hoped she'd just start to fall out of love with me, that she'd find someone else who could make her happy. I stopped asking her why she'd come home late from working, begging for another man to enter the picture. I couldn't care about her anymore, but I couldn't see her cry. I often wondered if this was what all men felt like.

Thinking of this now makes me wonder what she looked like when she was sad.

I went to bed later and later every night. I told her I was watching HBO. What I was really doing, was staring at the wall behind the television at our wedding photo, trying to understand what it was back then, trying to fill up the space where I used to keep something for her alive. After awhile, I just stopped looking.

She started to fight back, to fight for me, but it was too late. She'd tell me that I wasn't the same, and ask what was wrong constantly. I couldn't even bring myself then to tell her what it was, even then with an opening, and I'd just leave the room silently so I wouldn't have to look her in the eye.

Eventually, she had enough. Last night, as I lay down pretending to sleep, I heard her come in. She'd been crying, but crawled into bed next to me anyway and whispered “I love you” dry and quiet, for the last time. I remained silent. I didn't even feel guilty.

And now she's gone, and I know, even if I changed my mind right now, I'll never see her again.

When I think back on it now, I probably wouldn't have been such a bastard if I knew she was going to bury me alive in a steamer trunk in the backyard.

Neck Crick Souvenir (Sweet Love For Planet Earth)

This is what lying on a hardwood floor feels like. 

Excuses?

Apparently I can't bring myself to post things on this website when there are other things (like cleaning and laundry, and all that) to be done. Honestly, I have like three posts written out on my laptop and can't find the time to read them over and put them up here.

Is there a techincal name for this affliction? Other than stupid?

Anyway, I'll sort it out soon.

If any of you reading this are still living in the U.S. and wouldn't mind me shipping a suit to you in order for you to then ship it to me, email me. I will compensate you with big sloppy man kisses and a variety of cakes.  
In the meantime, here is a photo I took at the end of the world. 

I liked it there a lot. I was going to stay, but I came back for you.