Nomadic Interior Designer

I'd never been a notable fan of Heather Gabel's work until very recently. It's not that it's bad, quite the opposite actually, it's just that most of her prints I'd seen to this point (which is all I'd really seen) never really grabbed me by the face, at least enough for me to part with my hard earned dollars. However, that changed this morning when I came across her site, admittedly prompted by this contest, and took a look at all of these plate pieces she's done. I'm almost certain I'm going to buy one to hang on my wall. I don't know what it is, but I find them all at once to be completely beautiful, and strikingly sad at the same time. Just something about the colors and the quality of the surface really, really gets me in a way I can't really explain. Check it.

Also, I'm considering ordering this shirt, if for no other reason than just to wear on Casual Friday;

Brilliant. 

Full disclosure, I only ever first heard about Miss Gabel because of her attachment to this Tom (judging from the tattoos I'm pretty sure that's him modeling in that photo.) I didn't even know she was from Windsor until today. I don't know why, but that makes me feel like a jerk, and that I should apologize for not checking out the rest of her work sooner. Maybe I'll write her an email. 

Internet Time
Heather Gabel 
Online Store 

Update on Saturday, May 2, 2009 at 12:51PM by Chris

Alright, I'm predictable. Upon further investigation, that 'Foxy Mom' t-shirt was only limited to 24, so I'm out of luck on that front.

This however, makes up for it; See where it says "sold out" on this page? That's my fault. I have never been so pumped for dishes. 

  

I've also discovered that apparently I have been a fan of her's for awhile-- close to eight years actually. It seems prior to changing her name to Gabel, the artist in question was known as Heather Hannoura. I'm pretty daft because I never got the connection, but she's done so much work for Alkaline Trio and AFI, I've inadvertently owned no less than six or seven of her designs in the past. T-shirts asides, I've got records she's done by the Trio, but also Fake Problems, The Falcon and Sundowner, as well as seen a billion more examples of her work. So it turns out that I'm not as much of a jerk as I thought, just an unobservant one that doesn't understand when people change their names. 

Hollywood Omgwtfbbq

I've got this idea for a movie alright. Ready, okay, shut up for a minute. So there's a guy and there's this girl, and they're on date and the guy is all “Oh yeah, I work for an accounting firm preparing documents and faxes and some dumb crap” and the girl is all like “Yeah I'm a receptionist or something” and they realize that they have tons in common and they get married. So like twenty years later when they're all married and have a bunch of kids, one of the kids comes to them and is like “ I want to be a dancer,” and the guy is all “That's awesome, that's pretty kickass man” and the mom is all “Hold up, there's something I need to tell you,” and the guy is all “Alright” and the girl is all “I've been living a lie,” and rips off her face and blood is like everywhere and all over the walls and there's a shot of it like hitting the curtain and the kid is like “Oh my god my Mom is totally an alien” and the audience will laugh cause the guy will be like screaming and stuff and the kid is not but that's the opposite of what you'd expect.

Then it turns out that the girl is actually not an alien, but a robot who was made by aliens, and then she opens up her head and there's a guy in there, like in Men in Black but it's different because they look like little kittens and they make their robots out of rocks because instead of electric energy they figured out how to turn sunlight into steam. Actually, that's their whole religion or something and there's all these robes. So the guy and the kid have to go and get the map, and once they have that they go to the ship and there's the girl but she's all human because the aliens had to like, base it on someone right, so they get married and all that again just like it never happened, and at the end the teacher is like “So what did you guys do on your summer vacation?” and it just has the kid looking at the camera and rolling her eyes and the audience loses it. Then an alien comes in and says “The galaxy is still in trouble, only this time it's bigger!” so it leaves it open if I can come up with an idea for the next one.

Yes.

Actually though, want to hear something? In all the years I've been using computers, until a few days ago, it had never once occurred to me to read the rules for Minesweeper. It turns out, I've never had any idea what I was doing when I was playing the game. It never occurred to me what those little numbers meant when you uncovered them, I just always assumed it was a 'grownup' game and boring, so never bothered to learn how to actually play it. The most ridiculous thing, is how often I win. There's also something right here which wasn't before. 

God Speaks To Me Through My Baritone Ukulele (And Does So In French)

Expect this to be one of the few posts for the next little while. I'm about the busiest person you know right now, so much so I haven't even written anything since Sunday on the train. I can't believe I can type on a train. Anyway. Soon. Back to normal soon. 

Everybody in a foreign city always seems so much more interesting. People are more fashionable. Women are more beautiful, men are more handsome, and everyone, even the servers and the doormen and the busdrivers seem to be genuinely better put together, on the ball people. When you're a tourist, nearly everyone in general is friendlier to you. Even the jerks don't seem sincere about it. It's amazing that living in a house five hours away somehow makes you inexplicably more interesting, despite the fact that there's so little fundamentally different. Even record store clerks seem motivated to get out from behind the desk and help you dig through the stacks for something. I don't hate Toronto by any stretch, but the differences between it and Montreal are clear, and are all graceful subtitles.

Toronto rocks, but Montreal rolls. Toronto speaks to you, and it tells you things and helps you understand what it is and what living in it means to you, and when it's good, it's so good you feel awash in a culture that is both common and entirely subjective to the individuals participating in it at that moment, at that time, often in a relationship that is so overwhelming and blinding it's difficult to enjoy because you experience it with the hollow sadness that comes with knowing that once it's gone, it'll be gone. Montreal, on the other hand, doesn't talk as much as it sings. The moment you enter into the city, it practically grabs you by the hand and pulls you down Parc Avenue, pointing at things in an adorable French accent. “Here! Zere!” It's so zealous in its immediate acceptance that it's almost annoying, but every time you think you're getting sick of it's enthusiasm, you see a seventy year old man playing a concertina and banging spoons on his legs, and Montreal says “It ees time!” and immediately drags you into a squaredance.

I can't help but thinking that I need that dichotomy. I could easily live in one or the other, and do so happily, but only knowing that the other was there. Sometimes I want to sit in my room and stare out the window, and other times I want to slide down a banister and hi-five strangers and gorge myself on something slathered in gravy/cheese/maple syrup/butter. Sometimes though, a place that's so accepting would grate on me, especially when I get in those weird moods where I want to hide under my bed and not talk to anyone at all. Knowing that we live in such goddamned ridiculous modern times that you can throw a handful of money at a booth and traverse that unholy passage between the two in under five hours is a dangerous knowledge. My spontaneous desires to jump up and flee probably shouldn't have such an accessible means of actualization.

I don't know what I'm going to do if the trains aren't kept up once the revolution comes.

Also, Years (By One Thousand Fingertips) is probably one of the best records that's going to come out this year. I don't want to like Attack in Black, but I do, and I like them a lot. Mostly I think that sentiment has to do with my lingering tendencies to go around upping the punx, which (borrowing heavily from scensterism bylaws) dictates that not only is nothing any good if other people like it, but a record is practically a lepper if the Edge likes it. I can't help but think the radio isn't going to try and sell this one as hard though. Plus I totally snagged one of the 1,000 vinyl copies. Jealous?

It seemed like for awhile anyone who became popular for “harder” music was temporarily going the acoustic / folky route, only to immediately jump back to the Marshall stacks. Not these guys. There's something quintessentially Canadian about this record—maybe it's that it reminds me of two lane highways and four hour drives and getting the sun in my eyes and maple trees. It's got this tender sort of elegance that's pervasive and so completely in tune with the mood it's trying to reflect and inspire. Sure, sometimes bringing a gun to a knifefight is a great way to get the point across, but sometimes it makes sense just to bring a knife you're really, really good at poking with. Somehow, this commentary on a low-fi contemporary Canadian folk record has once again turned into an analogy for stabbing people. I've really got to stop watching Scream so much.

A lot of my friends (and a lot of you who read this) don't dig this record at all, and I understand that even if I can't even fathom agreeing. It makes me want to drink coffee in a cable knit sweater and fall asleep outside by a campfire pondering my own mortality and thinking of how much better I've become since things went so wrong, so long ago. Alan Cross loves it too. And that guy knows everything.

Some Things That I Know For Sure

1) Everything is better in Montreal. At least it seems that way for the time being. Even the stoplights seem friendlier. It could be though, that I just can't understand when people are making fun of me.
2) "Can't Hardly Wait" is a very good song. The "Tim" version of "Can't Hardly Wait" is quite possibly the best song ever.
3) The internet on the train is a sure sign we will all soon be dead at the hands of robots.
4) Boustan potatoes are the the only thing keeping me going these days.
5) Tomorrow I am probably going to buy a synthesizer even though I can't afford one.

Zombies? Zombies!

Andrew and I were walking down the street. I'd just noticed a poster for a Graham Parsons tribute night, and missed the part that said “tribute.” My heart slithered into my throat with excitement until I realized Parsons was dead—really, really dead—and I became a little depressed.

We were talking about self defence. “All I'm saying, is if you punch someone with your keys, you could kill them if you hit them in the face,” Andrew said. I agreed, and discussed the possibilities of punching someone in the stomach, or perhaps through an especially fleecy jacket. After some time, we both agreed that there were times in a man's life in which he could justifiably use his keys as a weapon, but not in the face. The conversation turned to general head assaults. “There's a place in your head where four bones intersect,” he said, gesturing to a place on his skull I will not repeat, because I don't trust you with that knowledge. “Hit someone right there,” he nodded gravely, “And you'll kill them.” “I'll just avoid hitting people in the head,” I reasoned, and he agreed that was probably best.

We talked about prescription medication for a bit and Kafka and bacon, but I couldn't stop thinking of a passage in a Stephen King novel, Desperation I read when I was much younger. There's a scene in this book where a man is attacked by an eagle that claws into his face “like fresh dough,” and I couldn't shake the image, and I became legitimately as upset, perhaps more as I was when I first read it. I thought briefly about how bad I look in photographs, and thought about how everyone reacts when they see a bad photo of themselves. I wonder if we're disgusted by our potential.

“Holy balls,” said Andrew.

Protruding from a storm drain on the street were a set of fingers. We walked over, oblivious to the now obstructed traffic. There was a slight rise in temperature and the wind slowed just slightly, enough to stop us from looking cool. “Holy balls,” he said again, and stared at the digits probing blindly from the blackness. There were many questions at this point. They were never answered.

At once from the drain there came a horrible, grating, bristling sound, something not quite mechanical but almost. Imagine a guttural, injured wolf imitating a robot. It was upsetting.

“What is that?” he said, looking at me, not panicked, but certainly confused. I mulled it over briefly. “Are you okay?” he shouted at the grate. He received no response. I mulled further.

“Do you need help?” he asked, turning from right to left. Infuriated drivers had started honking their horns. “Shut up,” I yelled at them. “Shut up your cars. I can't think.” Again came the sound.

I decided I'd had enough of this. I was a man. Honestly, not much of one, but I was a man none the less, and a man does not sit idly by. What makes a man is action. Action is the currency in which men deal. I was convinced of this.

“I'm going to get you help,” said Andrew.

The moment he had finished speaking, I stomped on the fingers as hard as possible. Over, and over, and over, and over, without thinking or stopping.

Immediately, the fingers retreated. The noises ceased. Then they cried out, this time clearly in anger. Something had happened.

“Dude, I think that was a construction worker,” Andrew stammered, staring at my callous expression.
“That was not a construction worker,” I said, deliberately speaking my words slowly and dramatically for posterity. I could tell by the way his expression changed that he then understood. “Oh,” he said.

The ground shook.

“ If that was a construction worker, then I'm in serious trouble,” I smirked. “But I think I know what that was, and I think you know too.”

“Well,” Andrew said, looking at the crowd gathering around us. “Either way, we're gonna be famous.”