I'm doing better than I was yesterday. Time helps. Also, my extensive goth training has prepared me for such psychological buffets; I'm predisposed to hate the world and be bitterly disappointed when my peers and bosses fail to understand me. As such, a Saturday spent cleaning out a dusty storage locker, followed by a sumptuous hakka lunch and an afternoon of napping, knitting and the Smiths' first album, has restored me. Or at least, it has restored me to previous, functional levels of bitterness. We can all breathe a sigh of relief (or one of ennui) at that.

Of course, last night helped, too. Last night I was privileged to witness the first Friendly Rich concert in a long while, and while it lacked the edgy chaos of a full-on FR Show, it was more than enough to make me happy.

It started late, as Mason went to bed right after school and I was tied up in getting Blake out the door. We didn't leave the house until 6:45, shockingly late by current standards. Since this was a new venue for us, we decided to find the place before we foraged for dinner. We parked on Dundas, in the approximate area we were going, and were stuck for ideas. I spotted a gallery I had wandered through last summer with Scherezade. Although it was late, there was an opening and the place was starting to fill up. "Let’s go in there and ask directions," I suggested. "Did you remember your monocle? We want to fit in."

Wow. The last time I was in that gallery, it was split between a pop-artish show and a graffiti show, both of which I found fairly boring. This show by Tessar Lo was called "Everything we wanted, in our nostalgic future" and it was about a dreamy childhood state that made me intensely happy. Large canvasses with dayglo sketches coming into or out of being, the figure of a small child sleeping or watching beautiful things or flying. All the colours were hot and seemed to be on the edge of disappearing. A shark collided with an airplane with a spray of sparks, while a small boy watched below. A plane sculpture emerged from the wall, with the head of a bespectacled boy leading the way. There was a bed installation with art pinned up around it, little figures hanging from the canopy with strings, and the kind of epigrammatic short sentences that are very nearly clues. On top of that installation was a large diorama, featuring wee representations of the things found in the canvasses (elephants! Frogs! Mountain with glasses!!).

I wanted to play with it all. I wanted to go to Casa Nova, drag Blake out of bed, and take him to this exhibit. I wanted to pull out my cheque book and blow three-months' mortgage on a small boy sleeping in the midst of leaping yellow frogs. (I didn't.) Mason and I were enthralled. We did the circuit a few times before leaving to find the venue and have dinner, then we came back between dinner and the show. By the time FR was done, we expected the gallery to be closed. "Hey! It's still open!" we yelled gleefully, and plunged back into the opening night crowd for a final circuit.

The crowd had thinned, and we were able to find the artist and congratulate him. "This is amazing!" we crowed. "We've been back three times!" And then we bought a small print and disappeared back into the night, much happier.

"collision course," our favourite.

As for our main activity of the night, Rich did not disappoint. He recognized me (or seemed to recognize me), which impressed Mason. Despite my tragic failure to bring my g.d. camera, I probably wouldn't have needed it. Unlike all of my previous FR Shows, there was more room for standing than sitting. Dancing to "Gentleman's Club" instead of waiting to be menaced with a blow-up doll by Soot? Okay, I guess. It was a smaller collection of musicians, but no less impressive for that. As long as I get the snarling, howling, belly-slapping dead-on precision of Friendly Rich himself, it's more than worth it. I got to buy a CD, Mason got a t-shirt and button, which seems more of a privilege than opportunity. Rich ignoring a persistent high-fiver and cursing out a newbie were just bonuses.

Labels: art, music, outings

I interviewed (again) for a position of responsibility yesterday. I find out today if I got it, or if I have to interview (again) for the new school (sigh). The build-up this week has been very positive, and I'm glad of the opportunity for personal growth, but knowing that the news is coming makes me about as nervous as I can be without screaming and fleeing the building. And I still have one more class to teach. Joy.

In preparing for this interview, I made a list of personal qualities that I feel bear upon the job at stake. It made me realize that I have been genuinely experiencing a period of explosive personal growth. Just about every area of my life has been expanded and improved. Like that gross character Jack Nicholson plays in "The Witches of Eastwick" says, it's likely the result of the triple D: death, divorce or desertion. I also wonder if it's simply the extra energy I might have given to a second child, had there been a Burt for me.

Last weekend I escorted Blake to Beaver! Camp! in Hawkley Valley. We are extremely new Beavers - we joined this calendar year and Blake isn't even invested yet - but I knew that this was going to be our camp as soon as we heard about it. I think I may have loved it more than he did, and he really loved it. Constant food, bunk beds, snow and fires. Hiking, tobagganing, playing inside, reading quietly. He loved having people around him at all times, and he loved how late it all got before lights out (midnight! my stars!) I did a lot of knitting, and talked to the section leaders, and bossed other kids around. It was heaven. Intense, tiring and wet, and Monday had to be an isolated day at work just to decompress, but it was wonderful.

When we got back from camp! I took a short but angrifying nap (naps don't make me happy) and got ready for my theatre date. Mom bought me tickets to "Little House on the Prairie: the musical!" to honour my deep love of the books, but her neck was acting up and so Mason went with me instead. This meant that we had a chance to go Winterliciousing at the Biergarden, which is serving a trout and lentil main that is worth writing a valentine to. We were in excellent moods when we arrived to the theatre, but all was ruined when the play started.

It's not that I don't like a good, cheese-filled oat opera. (Mmmm...cheasy oats...) I like "Oklahoma." But this was so painfully written that I had to start taking notes during the first half, just so that involuntary snorts of disgust and loud bursts of inappropriately-time laughter were somewhat restrained. From the notes:

• first 15 minutes incomprehensible but not their fault; I couldn't stop rolling my eyes long enough to concentrate on the story
• good score; wretched book
• wow, these lyrics make "gonna paint a wagon / gonna paint it fine" look deep.
• Riley as cowboy: "I'm looking for a man. A Sales Man."
• definite Nathan Fillion vibe to Pa
• just starting to wonder if all those insane chances Pa took in the books were a result of a death wish
• Ma, square dancing with her skirt above mid-thigh?? I'm pretty sure the girls only saw their mother's knees when they emerged, squalling and bloody, from between them.
• Melissa Gilbert can't sing, which is not her fault. So why didn't they cast appropriately? Not fair to make her the cash draw and then surround her with 10 year olds with stronger voices.
• um, is Nellie supposed to be a direct steal of Galinda in "Wicked"?
• has anyone on script duty ever been bullied by an actual girl? Ever?
• this is simplified to the point of idiocy. I'm going to start drooling in self-defense.
• bothering my neighbours by laughing loudly at sincere lines
• it's like they through all the dramatic highpoints into a blender, with a scoop of ultrasincerity that reads as gay camp
• it's like they fed all the books to a dog and then used whatever it barfed up the next day.
• um, girls betting on ponies? Without their mother disowning them forever? Since when did they move to Gomorrah (or worse, Kansas City)?
• um, where did the sudden post-colonial self-consciousness emerge from? I don't remember Pa waiting for the government's permission to start stealing Indian land. Did they need something to fill time instead of using the actual story?
• blind sister taken out in public, encouraged to gamble instead of buy candy, then left to fend for herself during a wheat fire? Does that make sense to anyone?

We left at intermission, which must have been a tremendous relief for the people around us. I've read "The Ghost in the Little House," and I'm perfectly aware of how a bare-bones life story was used as part of a right-wing polemic to justify extreme self-sufficiency. Ultimately, there's no point in complaining that the story was changed to suit modern sensibilities; this story was never published in its original form and became popular because it comforted a society ripped up by the World Wars and hungry for a time of strict Puritan rules, the possibility of living outside them on border societies, and the promise of prosperity from a continent that already seemed played out by the time Rose ran her mother's manuscripts through her typewriter.

Yes, I suppose I do spend a lot of time thinking about this stuff. At least I gave everyone a break and left early.

Labels: books, camp, outings, snark, theatre

What the fuck is your problem? How on earth do you think you can get away with cat-calling women at the next table as they sit down? Let alone, loudly announcing that one or more isn't as attractive as the others? You are not on a construction site; we are not passing through; we are SITTING AT THE NEXT TABLE. Do you think it's cute? Do you think it's sexy? Do you think at all? As Elizabeth so rightly responded: Fuck Off.

What the fuck is your problem? Why would you and you oafish friends (one of whom belongs on MenWhoLookLikeKennyRogers.com, which is funny but irrelevant) loudly brag about sex acts you seem to have only a passing familiarity with? Do you think you sound worldly? Because I've often heard groups of teenagers who sound more experienced than you which forces me to conclude that you and your tablemates are as full of shit as my students. Also? Your female friend needs to stop bragging about sucking dick before I find one to stuff down her throat and thus SHUT HER UP.

What the fuck is your problem? Why, after several hours of loud, stupid, oafish behavior would you then turn to the only male in the group and ask him if he "likes how that feels"? Does that question make sense to you in your drunken piggish mind? It doesn't to anyone else.

What the fuck is your problem? Do you genuinely think you could follow up with that nonsensical inquiry with a loudly muttered, "ya faggot"? Where the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Did you expect Mason to just cringe and take it, while the rest of us ignored you? Did you think that you were proving a point or uncovering some mystery for the rest of us? Did you think that two dozen people with sharp needles were going to let that pass after an evening of listening to your horseshit?

As I said last night (or rather, yelled repeatedly): Go Fuck Yourself. If I ever see you in that pub again I'm not going to stop until I have you kicked out. And the next time you call any of us a nasty name, I'm not going to even try to stop Mason from "fucking you up," like I did last night. You may think you can fuck with knitters, or guys in bars who do things you don't like, but I will end you. Believe it.

Yours in Christ,

Rocktbride

P.S. Just a final heads-up: What the fuck were you thinking? You're fat, stupid and ugly. You really shouldn't be throwing stones at the people you see, who quickly realize that those things on this outside are less important than the fact that on the inside you are nothing but a turd.

Despite leaving the bar shaking with unused adrenaline, I had a good time last night. Mason and I preceded knit night with a date at an excellent Irish pub, where the food was just a smidge better than the atmosphere, which was sublime. Today we got up unconscionably early so that I could do a free dance demo with Valizan, and we had a chance to explore the almost-revoltingly cute downtown area of Bronte. Then! Korean bbq for lunch, new work clothes for us both, and an hour at the gym with my brother. I always feel guilty about this, but I have to be honest: a child-free weekend is awesome when you do it right. This Saturday couldn't be any righter and still take place in public.

Labels: dancing, drunken knitters, humanity on parade, outings

I have the afternoon off while Blake is decorating my parents' tree, which allows me to get caught up on my digital tomfoolery. I'm glad he's doing it for his own sake; I thought that boy would explode with the need to decorate. We bought our tree on Thursday, which meant that it needed at least a night to relax. His first question when he woke up on Friday: "can we decorate the tree?" No, son. I'd love to know the code for calling in Festive, but it's a closely guarded secret. So yesterday, despite spending most of the day booting around downtown until Mason & I were thoroughly wrung out, we got out the precious red tote and started the tinselling.

Why were Mason & I so spent? It might have something to do with the fact that we were in pubs from school's end to well past midnight. It was a perfect storm of bar-crawling, starting with a staff function, sailing on through Brampton Drunken Knitting (with a brief dinner visit by Blake & my dad before they went off to see the Olympic torch in a nearby park), and finishing off at the Artful Dodger for a res reunion. It would have been even more difficult to get out of bed on Saturday if I had been able to put down the car keys at any point, but that's the problem with an inter-city booze expedition: there really can't be all that much booze if I don't want to have my car towed to some nearby, put-upon friend. So I watched the old crowd get loaded instead of participating.

(I'm really not sure that I could have stood back from this 12 years ago, put-upon friends or none. I suppose that means that I'm growing up. Or? Really tired.)

Everyone was feeling cozy and sentimental, and my ancient velour Christmas dress went over well, as the later it got no-one could stop petting my arms. (People love that dress. It is by far the most popular thing I've ever worn. Maggie M in particular thought it was worth building a time machine so that she could do as my mother had, and order it from the Sears catalogue in the early 90's.) I spent time catching up with Pete, Cranly, Steven, Seth & Kat, without wondering too much about when I would see anyone again. That may be the other thing about not drinking: I was able to appreciate seeing everyone without getting anxious about the fact that we never ever see each other any more.

I also found it interesting how easy it was to talk to Cranly, as I had to literally corner him to talk to him 6 ½ years ago, and I haven't been able to keep in touch since. Now he frequents the Dakota (for bluegrass), nearly joined the Peace Corps and has had a parallel experience with being seduced by bands in the BSS family. When I was younger I used to think that my friends then would like the same things as I did pretty much forever; now that I'm older my biggest surprise is that sometimes, they do.

No pictures, because I never went home for my camera. And also, I was talking too much. But to know what it looked like, you just have to picture everyone in my photos from the first days of the journal, only with beards. Yes, even the ladies.

Especially the ladies.

Labels: blake, christmas, friends, nostalgia, outfits, outings, res

Still incredibly busy, although on Tuesday, when midterm reports go in, I should be able to breathe a little easier. Tonight I gave up Friendly Rich to spend the night marking Nineteen Eighty-Four essays; I appear to be breaking out in a rash of responsibility. I was in the process of packing Blake off to Camp Grandparents when it hit me: I could spend my time marking instead of having fun! So I did. It sucks but at least I won’t be as anxious as I’ve been.

Why all the anxiety? Throughout most of the fall season I’ve been struggling with a cold that lingered improbably long. This has put a serious dent in the amount of marking I’ve been able to complete at work, as most of my “free” time is spent preparing for lessons I might otherwise have faked my way through were I feeling shipshape. Also, I can’t pretend that I haven’t been dragging myself to extracurricular activities in addition to the Amy Millan concert: I had two dance recitals in the week leading up to Hallowe’en, I lurched through my second Toronto Zombie Walk, I dressed up for work, and I sewed my best costume yet (about which more later). The arrival of Hallowe’en was a desperate relief: for the first time in days, I only had to worry about Blake’s costume and not my own. Sweet.

The crowning touch was that two days before Hallowe’en, Mason’s car died and I had to scramble to buy a new car. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were a nightmare, but now I have a car. It’s black, as Henry Ford would have wanted, and it smells good and it’s mine. It’s the first car I’ve owned since the ill-fated Mustang Scotty. I'm very proud.

This coming week will be all about insulating my bathroom so that my upstairs bathroom doesn't grow any more mold, sewing a purple outfit for my NEXT dance recital, and perhaps attending to the dishes more than once a week. I'm excited.

And, without further ado, Hallowe'en!

I'm pretty sure that the weeks of stress leading up to this night were more than worth it.

Labels: blake, car, outfits, outings, photos

Things I learned at Hillside Festival yesterday, in reverse chronological order:

1. You can get your car out of a swamp if you have 6 strangers to help you push. Also, someone needs to have figured out a route before you gun it out of the muddy parking lot. Thank heaven we received all of those particular blessings.
2. It's important to remember where you park. Or you'll end up taking the shuttle bus to the farthest overflow of overflow parking, ask kind strangers to drive you around, and then have to walk back to the other parking lots in the pitch dark, holding hands with your sweetie. At least we kept moving and our soaked cotton clothes were warm with body heat. We then hitched a ride in the back of a cop car, talked to the parking supervisor, walked around another parking lot, watched other people try to get their cars out of the mud, thought about going to Guelph for the night and coming back in the morning, and finally took the advice of a stranger to look in the next parking lot. There was the car, remarkably dry, looking like an oasis of sanity. Then, of course, we got stuck in the mud.
3. Owen Pallett is the bravest man in Canadian music. Those stupid lionizing house ads for Kim Mitchell on Q107 can just shut the fuck up, 'cause I saw the coolest, ballsiest guy last night in the middle of a truly frightening rainstorm. Forget the soi-dit "rock gods"; I saw skinny little Owen play down a thunderstorm, begging the sound crew for another minute to finish the song. The lightning crashed and he played louder. It rained harder and he went faster. All you could do was whoop and laugh and clap along as he raced against a short in the sound equipment. As soon as the song was over, the stage went dark and everyone in the audience started chanting his name and shaking their umbrellas in the air in celebration. It was the most awe-inspiring thing I've ever seen. There's a video of it here and despite the sketchy sound quality, hearing it again gives me full-body goosebumps; we were all the way across the field and it was just as electrifying as if we were in front of the stage. The title of this entry is the chorus of that song, a glorious sung defiance against the elements.
4. Patrick Watson is very cool, and I wish we had made it into his record release this year. (We were just going to see Laura Barrett open for him, and naively thought we could get a ticket at the door. Ha!) His band played the clouds away, which Final Fantasy called back immediately (see above).
5. Great Lake Swimmers are dull, and their shortlisting for this year's Polaris (ahead of Timber Timbre and Charles Spearin, I might add) is a crime against good sense. This follow up to Issa (see below) bored me to the point of crankiness and made me want to go home.
6. Jane Siberry appears to have completely lost her mind. Issa-what? Don't clap (or "let it leak") and I won't have to take a vitamin tomorrow? Not to worry; I wasn't planning to clap anyway.
7. Every time you see Gentleman Reg, you'll like the band more. Even if it's the third time in a week and a half (and the second time that weekend. Lately I see Reg more often than I see my parents). Also, you will have an awesome time singing, dancing and clapping along to "The Boyfriend Song" next to your boyfriend, who is doing the same thing, even more enthusiastically. When we put the album on this morning, we clapped along through sheer habit.
8. Watching a David Francey show is even better when you're huddled under the stage roof to get away from the rain and you find yourself beside his wife, who asks you to help her read the symbols on her camera. And it's pretty good to begin with.
9. Don't underestimate how much rain you'll get based on the festival's location. I've always thought that nothing could be as wet as StanFest, which joins other such famous generalizations as "it couldn't possibly be sunny enough at StanFest to need sunblock" but fortunately was not followed by a second degree sunburn. And I was trying, a bit. In deference to the previous day's wetting I wore a black hoodie, blue jeans, lace-up leather boots & a Tilley instead of a fancy jean jacket, black dress, thigh-high stockings & vespa boots. But that shit does not cut it in a torrential, all-day soaking. In fact, I probably made it worse for myself as my jeans and hoodie got sopping wet within an hour and never dried, meaning that I was uncomfortably cold and wet for most of the afternoon. At least my stupid impractical stockings are nylon and dry in a snap. The all-day wetness let to a sub-realization, which is always pre-wash your clothes before wearing them in the rain, as my new Amy Millan hoodie leaked black fuzz over my arms and black dye onto my pretty orange tank top, giving me the unlaundered gorilla look I so crave.

   

10. Do not become so excited by the lightning show that you stop caring how wet you're getting. If you do not have a change of clothes, you will be cold and wet all day. Stupid me wore all cotton, despite knowing the value of a good wool garment in a soak. I was worried about the camera; I should have been worried about the loss of body heat and the state of the knitting book I dragged through two days of rain. Knitting Vintage Baby Clothes will never be the same.
11. If you're knitting, you'll meet knitters. I didn't exactly learn this at Hillside, but it was proven there once again. My in-progress beret inspired the girl behind us to pull out her sock. We even met people who used to run an online knitting magazine called Spun. Of course, we were mostly chatting about going to festivals with young kids, and taking breaks from the conversation to dance to Gentleman Reg, but there was some yarn talk in there.
12. Drummers get everywhere. The Afrobeat session on the main stage included the drummer from The Happiness Project, who is also the leader of Samba Punk Sound System, the drumming ensemble at the Brampton Indie Arts Festival with whom I danced out my lungs last year.
13. Toting in a bottle of wine with the makings of a charcuterie & fromagerie plate is completely unnecessary. Delicious, but unnecessary. Apparently, they sell food at folk festivals now. It is, however, both important and fun to get your Hillside beer mugs & wine glasses as early as possible so that you're set for the rest of the day. Draft beer in the mud! I love it! Also, the ice cream there is better than most restaurants, and needs to be carefully planned to maximize the number of cones eaten in a day.
14. Listen to CBC on the way in to get amped about the place you're going. Stuart McLean has many interesting things to say about Hillside, including the fact that Jason Collett can fit into a tent. Diagonally, one assumes.

Labels: festivals, food, music, outfits, outings

Taking advantage of a short breather to write. I am insanely busy for someone who's not supposed to be working. Although I can't afford to pay my brother for daily workouts, I'm still seeing him about once a week and I'm starting to use my new gym membership. Mason & I have developed a passionate dislike of one of the fitness teachers, which always adds interest and excitement. I need that; working out with my brother is not only good for me, it's so much fun. He pushes me like crazy, and he makes me laugh while I'm trying to do one of his insane sets. He brought my plank up to a full minute in a week, which is just ridiculous. And he doesn't smell as much as his room would suggest. I highly recommend his services.

Wednesday was particularly busy. In the morning we joined a fitness class (see above, re: dislike) and in the evening I went to my first troupe practice in months. Since it was just Jessamyn & myself, we did a couple verses, ate dinner & then I took a bunch of pictures of the jewelry she's selling on Saturday. This would have been enough for me on a normal day, but since I've been full of summery ants in my pants, Mason & I decided to go out to see the Zeus show. I took my camera this time, and I have many lovely shots in that buttery Dakota light that makes everything look both cozy & epic at the same time. We had to leave early, which is probably just as well, since I managed to avoid the tinnitus this week.

write this down: z.e.u.s. zeus, bitches.

Yesterday I worked on recovering from the stupid exercise class of Wednesday and assembling my submission package for the Sock Museum. It's a little obsessive; I included 28 pictures, and that's after culling. Amy promised to take them with her to the Summit, so I said I'd meet her at the Purple Purl for what I thought was knit night. Well. Need I say that Mason & I stumbled into a yarn tasting? There were last minute cancellations, so we were able to stay the night. It was Mason's first tasting, and the lucky guy walked away with a skein of handpainted 80/20 baby suri alpaca/silk. I was no less blessed, as I managed to win a skein of new sock yarn that will be perfect for at least one of the baby berets I need to make this summer.

Honestly. I went there so that a knitting teacher could do me a big favour and deliver my socks personally, and I planned to buy the yarn for at least three projects. I walked into a sampling night with complimentary shortbread and a lovely discount for participants, during which I won yarn. Have I mentioned that the socks I delivered were knit from a donated pattern, from top-shelf yarn at a deep discount? My knitting life is so extraordinarily blessed that I can barely believe it. It's so very past time for a karma-balancing donation to KWB.

I spent almost three hours sorting through picture files this morning, and I'm still not anywhere close to completed. Here are some photos of the summer so far:

Labels: health, knit, music, outings, photos

Can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but Mason found a cool little brew pub in the tiny downtown where I live. It used to be a knitting factory, and they have spindles and sock forms up on the walls. This immediately made me hot to organize a local Drunken Knitters. The first one will be Friday, and now I'm just trying to get the wording right for the flyers, so I can post 'em on library billboards, which are notorious bastions of sobriety and hard work. (I'm not even trying the community centres, who need the flyers approved by the Mayor's office a month in advance. I'm not Friendly Rich; I don't have an in with Susan. So I'll just skip that idea.)

If you're a local knitbuddy who wants to come out and you haven't seen the postings, please contact me. The more people, the more validated I'll feel.

I found out about the need for mayoral approval this afternoon, when Mason & I bought new gym memberships. I was trying to give Jessamyn's gym a chance, but when I called to use the "free" 3 day passes, they insisted on administering a fit test and then tried to charge us $35 when we couldn't make it on time. I balked at the fit test to begin with; Nic refers to it as "some energetic asshole like me telling you you're unfit and trying to sell you personal training." I still remember how crushing it was five years ago when they changed my assessment from "healthy" to "unhealthy" with the stroke of a pen.

So we're hooked up with the community gyms, which are good for a number of reasons and attract far fewer asshats ramming around the parking lot in a dangerous cloud of impatience and testosterone. This afternoon we did our first session, which was productive but boring. I have to drop by Bat Masterson sometime soon so I can pick up my Walkman; perhaps listening to tapes made seven or more years ago will take the edge off continuous golf coverage on the monitors. Apparently? Older white men can still accomplish things. Who knew?

On Friday night Mason & I attended our third Arts & Crafts concert of the week: Timber Timbre. (I introduced myself to Stephan the merch guy, figuring that I now see him more frequently than I see my parents.) Timber Timbre is a skinny guy with a dog who plays stripped down gothic folk, or death blues as it is sometimes described. He and his live band – a guitar, a bass drum, a pedal steel, a sax & a violin – put on the scariest show I've ever been to. It took place in a pitch dark Anglican church, lit only by dozens of votive candles and the arc-sodium lights outside shining through the stained glass and turning Christ orange. Mason & I were in the second row of pews, right next to the sound board, and I could barely see my hand in front of my face.

It was an album re-release party, to celebrate a new signing with A&C. They played through the 8 songs with hardly a pause between them. I have to imagine that few people knew the album, as the merch table was mobbed at the end and Mason & I seemed to be the only ones who knew the words. Then again, I couldn’t see anyone so maybe they were all lip-synching along. During the first three songs, there wasn't a single bit of sound from the audience, and I was the first to shatter the reverent silence by whooping applause at the end of the third. People joined in, relieved to be able to make noise, I suppose.

Then again, people may not have been ignorant of the material so much as terrified by it. Again: it was the spookiest show I have ever been to, and I felt at several points that I had died and gone to hell, where my fears were being drawn out of me through purest art. The silences between notes were terrifying, and the melodies themselves almost crushed us with awe. It was a terrible beauty. I was glad that we had gone. But I was a little relieved when it was over, and I could take a break from fear and reverence.

Labels: drunken knitters, health, music, outings

One of the best – and most ironic – gifts this new training has given me is my reduced need for sleep. Summers are the time for me to really clock those bed hours, especially when Blake is somewhere else. Yesterday I got up after seven hours, because my feet hurt too much to sleep (more on that later). I expected to zombie through the day, but I did much better than normal, and although I went to bed early, I wasn't exhausted, just done. Cut to this morning, when I opened my eyes at 5:15, unable to get back to sleep.

When I was working, it was a constant trial to get up before 6:30. Granted, I always sleep less when the days are longer, and the constant dusk-till-dawn squirrel fights are incredibly noisy. (They're my most obnoxious neighbours, and I often find myself screaming at them to shut up.) And I did manage to fall asleep for a few more hours, after much tossing and turning.

If I can keep this up in some form during the school year, I'm going to be unstoppable.

So, why did my feet hurt so much on Wednesday night? It was a combination of sudden inexplicable muscle twinge and too much walking during the day. I got up early to get Blake out the door with his annoying, annoying father, and right away, I felt sore deep in my heel. So, although I was going to a funeral in the morning and shopping all day, I skipped the cute wedge sandals and opted for a pair of Fluevog boots that have never given me any trouble. Except, I guess that if you walk for 6 hours, you're going to get a different kind of trouble. In this case, I took off my socks at the end of the night and a layer of skin went with them. Ouch.

I was shopping with Scherezade & her friend Leah. It was a dumb route, all things considered: I had promised to meet Mason in Kensington at 6, after which we would have dinner, knit and proceed to the Dakota for a show. So, in the spirit of redundancy, I shopped at Kensington for 3 hours, then we went to Ossington for another 2, before I went back to the Market to start the whole thing over. I even went to Lettuce Knit twice, as I have the habit of using their bathroom whenever I'm in the Market. Redundant. And skin-peeling, apparently.

I did find some cute things at Good Egg, a store that is almost never open when I'm in the neighbourhood. In addition to a cool insulated lunchbag (I threw away my old blue one during camp week after it developed holes), I splurged on Kafka's Soup: A history of literature in 14 recipes & an eraser shaped like a peanut. The clerk even threw in a cool apple-spinner, which made me laugh because usually I don't get free things unless Blake is there charming the pants off everyone. We also visited Kid Icarus, where there is a pillowcase screen printed with a BSS logo that I visit from time to time. (For the rest of the day, I was heard to say, "that seems a lot of money for something that doesn't have 'Broken Social Scene' on it and come with a pillow.")

My lowest point came during an extended visit to Monkey's Paw, a bookstore on Dundas that I surely would have appreciated under different circumstances, but. My feet hurt, my stomach hurt, and the piles of carefully bagged literary detritus reminded me too strongly of the things we had only just recently liberated out of my late grandmother's closet. She would have hated that bookstore. Dirk, if he hasn't already been, would have loved it.

Soon after this, I backtracked to the Market for supper. Mason and I spend so much time together that 9 hours apart seems like a lot, and we were happy to be eating burritos together again. We ended up at the Dakota far too early, although we did have our pick of seats and were able to spend the next two and a half hours comfortably ensconced in barchairs, knitting and sipping on draft beer. We were so early that we were able to watch the headliners interviewed by some media organization. We were so early that we were just ahead of a loud, obnoxious quartet who refused to pay the cover and refused to leave. We were so early that the arrival of Stuart McLean went largely unnoticed (although it did make us wonder if we should recruit him to help us kick out those four louts. I was still seething from my conversation with the Boy that morning, and in the mood to take it out on some big loud jerks. We figured that if Stuart called down Rex Murphy, we'd be an unstoppable juggernaut, plus we'd end up in a heavily-disguised anecdote on the Vinyl Café. Sweet.)

Now that we're going to clubs to see the young kids play, we're running into some weird things. Our big puzzlement on Wednesday was seeing Labatt 50 fly off the shelves. Apparently shitty dad beer is a hipster thing? I don't know. Maybe it's a price thing. Maybe they really don't drink beer for the taste. Maybe they're reacting against the implied pretentiousness of local craft beer – delicious, delicious local craft beer I love you so much. My thought is, I own a house in a subdivision with a backyard and a young child. I don't need to pretend that I'm my parents; I pretty much am my parents.

Your thoughts on the 50 thing? It's making Mason nutty.

Despite our perhaps curmudgeonly focus on the beer-drinking habits of our fellow patrons, we did enjoy the music. For seven bucks we got to dance right in front of Gentleman Reg in his black "onesie", then get blasted out by Zeus. For the record, Gentleman Reg truly is a gentleman, as he caught my eye while packing up his gear, and thanked me for dancing. Aww. Both acts were pretty awesome, but 1 a.m. is late to be standing in the front row of a balls-out rock show, and I had tinnitus for hours. (During the encore I tried to wuss out. "I can't take it anymore," I whimpered. "Yeah, you can!" Mason grinned.) Ultimately, I think I enjoyed Reg more. But I'm just contrary lately. Don't mind me.

Labels: friends, music, outings

Saturday's free Broken Social Scene concert was probably the best concert of my life. I say "probably" because it was operating on an extreme handicap: Mason & I had a dumb fight on the way in, and when I stalked off in a huff, the crowds of people guaranteed that I lost him for the night. I was sorry about 10 seconds later, but by then it was too late. Shit. So I spent a good deal of the next four and a half hours wondering how I was going to find him, and what I would do if I couldn't.

BSS concerts are supposed to be about Mason & I being with people who like what we like, not to mention surreptitiously stalking band members* while remaining too terrified to get close enough to wave. They're supposed to be about screaming and dancing and getting chills of beauty and howling lyrics to "Major Label Debut" in each other's faces. They are not supposed to be about stupid half-second decisions that make it impossible to concentrate on any of the good things. So this concert was under a cloud. The worst event is still a good one with Mason at my side; that this one managed to edge into the top spot is a testament to how many delights were on offer.

And there were a mind-blowing array of delights. This concert was very much a valentine to the fans, with each surprise wonderful on its own; overwhelming in the aggregate. The first thing that was awesome was that they were all there, with very few exceptions (Bill Priddle, Ohad, Leon & Torq were all I could think of). The core was there, of course: Kevin, Brendan, Charles, Justin, Andrew & Sam. And I've seen them with guests before. But this was the first night I've ever seen when nobody seemed able to leave the stage. Evan and Jimmy were there for the whole night, rotating between guitars, brass and percussion whenever possible (they always make me smile). Julie Penner stayed onstage after her violin parts were done, and rocked the percussion with a big grin on her face. Jason Collett was there, freakishly tall as always. All of the original three ladies--Feist, Emily & Amy--were there, plus Lisa Lobsinger who has her own songs at this point and more than held her own. There were also people I'd never seen up there, like "founding non-member" John Crossingham who was there playing percussion for "Fire Eye'd Boy," just like their Letterman appearance. I kept a running count, and by the time they played "Major Label Debut" for the third encore, there were 19 people on stage. It was unbelievable.

What made it more exciting than just the sheer numbers was the obvious way that they structured each appearance for maximum impact. First Kevin brought out Feist, who (with the exception of the NXNE gig) hasn't performed with them since '06, and who is on record as saying she might never play with them again. Then Amy, who performed a solo song with Evan doing the hiphop drums behind her. The two ladies traded off vocals on "Shoreline," a song I never thought I'd see with Feist at the mic. (She couldn't get it loud enough to suit, so she ripped off the cover early on. Still wasn't loud enough.) All of the girls backed Emily in "Anthems," a song so beautiful that it sends shivers down my legs.

The best part was that it wasn't just about Broken Social Scene songs. I could have gone home happy with a pure BSS concert, but clearly the idea was to give us a revue-style performance with each solo project getting their own moment of glory. This was first obvious when Kevin & Feist quieted it down, trading verses of "Past in Present" "Safety Bricks" & "I Feel It All" in beautiful, stripped down harmony. Then Emily, "the ninja" came out to sing a gently rocking acoustic "Gimme Sympathy," led by Jimmy and backed by the entire band. (Feist singing along with the rest of us, completely away from the mic and for the pure joy of it, made me love her even more. Amy's still my favourite, but Feist in front of BSS, wearing a skirt with pockets that she stuck her hands in from time to time when she danced like a five-year-old, was magic.) Collett came out and sang "I'll Bring the Sun," which is the loudest song I've ever heard from him and inspired some deep back bending that I haven't seen since the Heads' Tina Weymouth. Andrew and Lisa blasted us out with "Soul Unwind," which I last heard in a stripped down, essential oil version at the album release and which was a thousand times better with a gang behind it. Brendan and Lisa sang "Chameleon," chilling us all out.

It was like a dream of a concert, a show that had could go in every direction and might very well never end. I know that I didn't want it to end, and it was pretty obvious that no one on stage wanted it to end, either. The encores went on forever, full of Brendan's scissor kicks and the crowd screaming for more. Kevin kept trying to go home, but he was continuously overruled. Right before the third encore, he attempted to say goodbye.

"Who wants to hear KC Accidental?" Brendan yelled, cutting through Kevin's farewell.

"Okay," Kevin sighed. "But I'm going into the crowd for this one. I'll come up and sing, but I'm going into the crowd now." He did, and the band played through the fanfares without him.

It was overwhelming. It was a hundred plates of food from the best buffet in town. I was feeding song titles to a sweet group of kids on my left, one of whom had only heard BSS the day before, and trying not to dance-collide with the couple on my left, whom I later found out, met at a concert at the Drake in 2003. Free concert audiences are full of weird people, and I saw my share (like a woman who pestered for a close-up seat and sat, head down, the entire performance), but there was a lot of positive energy all around me and it elevated the night.

I needed that, worried as I was that I would miss Mason entirely. When Kevin led us in screaming apologies, and assuring everyone that "[we] still fucking love you," I choked. So, despite the parade of hometown heroes and despite the beautiful moments that threatened to crowd each other out, my best time was walking to the car in the dark, and seeing Mason walking toward me.

At the very first part of the show, Bruce Macdonald was there, to announce that he was filming the concert for an upcoming documentary. They want fans to submit footage from the summer, to piece out the story, and I wish I could recreate that reunion, to put it alongside the glory that was that show. I have the feeling that even if I figure out a way to do it, it won't get into the movie. That's okay. At the very least, I can buy the DVD and watch the whole thing over again. It's only been two days, but I can't wait.

* (And, just for the record, I managed to overcome my feelings for a spot of shy stalking when I looked around for Mason and found the Spearin family getting food. "It's Ondine!" I thought, and then I saw Lisanne, an original member of my prenatal group. By the time we were done chatting, I lost the target. I also approached Kevin's mom & dad after the show, as it seems I'm only shy normally. After a concert I appear to be flooded with endorphins and will ask anyone anything. It's probably a good thing for the Spearins that they didn't have to deal with two small children plus an insane fan while balancing plates of food.)

Labels: angst, mason, music, outings, triumph

or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Label

My fandom for the BSS family/Arts & Crafts stable is becoming something of an in-joke among my non-afflicted friends. They no longer comment on how many times Mason or I will wear a band shirt instead of a real shirt, or that my living room art is band posters (which will change soon thanks to a wicked linen Book of Kells dishtowel I picked up last Saturday at the Brickworks. Looks so good with my old, clunky, dark, hand-me-down 70's furniture! But I digress.), or that I have a calendar in my study that I made for Mason's Christmas present that features band pictures for each month (June is K Drew). Although the "golden age" of the scene has long-since passed, this is still a good time to be a fan. Fandom has encouraged us to sample solo projects and enjoy a wide range of musical offerings from related bands like the Happiness Project or Apostle of Hustle. It's like going to a year-long music festival where every act is different and good but I get to use my own toilet.

Being older fans (as these things go) we also tend to take some things for granted. We're used to showing up at these things and being blessed beyond measure: not only really liking the performance but taking home a balloon or dancing with the band. So when we bought 5-day passes for NXNE to get into the launch party for This Book Is Broken, we expected to get into the launch party. We also expected all kinds of little bonuses. After all, we are the ones who show up to knit night at Lettuce and walk into book launches a half-dozen times a year. We come to craft and get free cupcakes and wine, or sushi and beer, or yarn door-prizes and lemon squares.

This is not the world in which I toiled when I was a teenager: bands were remote and suicidal, not mixing in the crowd. Authors sat in state at the end of 2-3 hour line-ups; you skipped school to spend the day at the World's Biggest Bookstore, dodged your grandparents who were there to get you a birthday present, and the author would graciously spend almost 4 words on your overwhelmed carcass. Free cupcakes were exclusively the province of birthday parties for younger siblings. Wine was gross. Free yarn was useless.

Like I said, Mason and I have been extraordinarily blessed, first to have so much access to art and then to have all of the unexpected access to the artists. It's a lovely thing to have given up on new music for almost 10 years, only to be so undeservedly rewarded when we plunged back into the fray. And we fully expected that when we pulled into Terroni's at 6:30 for a much-needed dinner after two-hours of terrible rainy driving, and saw at least four members of BSS at the front table, that we would be seeing them later that night. We had to give up on the free Apostle of Hustle show at MTV, due to a late doctor's appointment and the rain that made all the drivers angry and slow. But we were psyched to see everyone that night. It was going to be like the old days, the early days when all the family played together, one band bleeding into another.

Need I tell you that it didn't happen? That by the time we got out of the restaurant, the people in charge were no longer letting in 5-day pass holders?

Well. It didn't. We were left standing in the drizzle, our hopes of seeing the bands evaporating like our body heat. To make it even better, the woman in charge of telling us to go away whispered that the special secret guest was, in fact, Broken Social Scene. Mason was livid; so angry he couldn't talk. I felt like I had been punched. It had been so cold and rainy and such a crappy night to come down. My dinner had been expensive and disappointing. We had bought the 5-day passes just to see the acts that night. It was overwhelmingly disappointing. We went home and I spent the night in a freaked out state of anxiety; every time I woke up (which was every hour) I looked at the clock and told myself which band I was missing. I couldn't stop the Apostle song playing on an infinite loop in my head, gnawing at me when I tried to relax. I was certain that we were missing the best night ever, an unexpected return to an earlier time when everybody played all night and the final set blew everyone away.

We over-reacted. I see that now.

The next day, my disappointment had translated into anger. I got onto the message boards and vented. I made liberal use of swears. Then I tried to mark exams. The day passed: I would mark for an hour, then get up and checked the boards. If I'd had any sense, I would have avoided the new information and tried to calm down. But I didn't. I found out that not only had the special secret guest been BSS, but Feist had come out to play as well. Beautiful. I went back to marking. I listened to a band that wasn't in the family. I marked. And I made plans to show up again for the second night.

I decided that we had over-reacted, and that our disappointment was way, way out of proportion. I decided to redeem the purchase of a festival pass by seeing the new bands. Maybe I'd have a good time. I'd be going alone, as Mason had cut off his band the night before (at the same time as declaring his fervent desire to avoid BSS, Arts & Crafts or indeed, music itself, forever). That didn't necessarily bother me; I could knit through the boring and go home when I got tired. Being alone doesn't faze me, although this would be the first time I had been alone at a concert. Besides, maybe the other secret special guest would be cool. There were a lot of bands I liked on the label who didn't show up on Wednesday. Maybe I'd see one.

Mason came home, and though not happy, he didn't have much to say about me going out without him. He had, after all, decided never to like music ever again. I continued to putter around until I got an email from Remedios, the head of the record label. He had seen my vitriolic posts and offered to put me on the guest list with a +1, an overwhelmingly generous offer. I was both ashamed of my anger and sort of glad that I had complained so brattily. The entitlement train continues to roll, and I'm not 100% sure if that's a good thing. But it was enough to get Mason reconciled to the previous night's disappointment, and it was enough to return our band/label crush to previous levels. It was another unexpected blessing, another undeserved moment of grace. I just wish I didn't feel that our temper tantrums sullied the whole exercise. It's embarrassing to be shown up as less deserving, less faithful than we'd always assumed we were.

We went for a cheap, satisfying dinner at Burrito Boys, and then to C'est What for a beer so that Mason could wait for the line to build up. Someone was excited about front of line privileges. Turns out that there was no line. We were happy anyway. We bought some hard-to-find BSS vinyl and stowed it until later, then walked in and listened to Zeus. The Courthouse is a tiny, tiny venue and I can see why it filled up so fast the night before. The place was about half-full and we could still barely see Zeus through the press of bodies. We could see their mustaches, however. And we could hear, "That's All," their swampy, dirty Genesis cover, which turned a guilty pleasure into something one could blast from the car with pride. As they played, K Drew came in and greeted the people next to us. I tried to be cool and not eavesdrop. Stupid band crush! I'm too old for this crap!

Timber Timbre is a quiet, experimental act that was hard to hear over the chattery venue. It was a no-win situation for us: if we were close enough to hear, we would be jammed in with a hundred strangers and still unable to see the band because they were all sitting down; if we stayed in the back, we couldn't hear anything over people talking loudly to their neighbours. Eventually, Kevin came down to shush the crowd. They looked at him bovinely, then swung around and resumed talking at high volume. I felt my dormant work skills twitch, so I went over and offered to help. "I'm a highschool teacher. I can get them to be quiet."

He grinned. "No. They'll hate you. They already hate me."

"I'm a highschool teacher," I repeated. "I'm used to being hated."

I walked back to Mason. "What were you guys talking about?"

"I offered my skills to shut these guys up, but it didn't work out. And he gave my arm a scrunchy pat."

"Really?!"

Band crush, you run my life. So much for never listening to music ever again.

Kevin made a reappearance to introduce Still Life Still, the buzz band of the scene, and to chuck cameras at us so we could record it all. I got hit in the arm while shielding my (better) camera and didn't care. It was an indie rock wedding, and we were all invited to send them off. And, despite the fact that the band could have been writing exams for me this week and their fans were even younger, it was the most fun I've had in weeks. Bouncy, loud, fun rock, from kids who weren't all old enough to drink at the bar. We felt both ancient and elated.

We left after this, stopping outside to buttonhole Remedios and thank him for the passes. He was devilishly charming, and I felt even more remorseful for our ranting of the night before. He renewed our faith in the label, in the system, in the whole concert-going exercise. It was undeserved, but then all of our blessings are equally so.

"I was with a radio guy from Calgary, and I guess you're supposed to suck up to them? But I had to say, 'dude! Shut the fuck up! They're playing!'"
- remedios commiserating on the difficulties of hearing timber timbre.

Labels: mason, music, outings

This hasn't been a good week, and I'd like to write it off and try again. Can't, though. It started going downhill on Tuesday and hasn't really recovered. Or maybe it has, and I'm just sulking.

But! Saturday was awesome. Some months ago Souzan told me about a medieval fair to which she brought her K8 every year. Blake's obsessions include, in no particular order: knights, lego, dinosaurs, Rubbadubbers, the Tick, Batman, Spiderman, small animals, cooking, crafts and the jokes on the back of Chirp Magazine. Since his father had already taken him to Medieval Times, I figured this was my best chance to enjoy his hobby with him (bonus: I don't have to go to Medieval Times). So we went. And it was awesome. The drive was really long and we started quite late, but we made it by lunch time and were sufficiently distracted by the various goings-on that we didn't even stop for lunch for a solid hour. Sage was in an excellent mood, and Blake bounced from distraction to distraction with hardly any pause. It was an excellent way to spend a Saturday, and I didn't even think about the TTC Knitalong. Not having pegged myself as the renfaire type, this is high praise.

only those of honour bright shall click through for more...

On Monday I benefited from Stacy's amazing foresight with the chance to attend a Neil Gaiman reading at Luminato. When she asked a few months ago, I was typically vague, as my ability to make future plans is usually undercut by parenting or work (in that order). She went ahead and got a ticket anyway, which I was grateful for at the time but much more so when we were told in the introduction that the event had sold out in 3 minutes. I've heard Neil read before and I've stood in a signing line before, but never have I had such an intimate experience as this reading. Five hundred of the faithful filled the theatre and you could hear a pin drop (as evidenced by Stacy asking me to stop knitting because the clicking of my needles was disproportionately loud). I was glad that I'd finished my beer before the reading began. (Also: beer in a theatre? Where was the hotdog cannon? The Morpheus-themed plush mascot to get the crowd going? The scorecard? And most importantly, the collectible bubblegum cards? There is some money being left on the table here.)

It was probably good that the theatre was so focused, as nobody noticed me grey out when he announced that he and Amanda Palmer were dating, had, in fact, been dating for almost a year. Since I don't regularly read his blog, excellent though it is, I assumed that everyone else knew. Turns out that this only broke in a national way on Saturday, so I'm still on some part of the curve and not behind it yet. I don't have an opinion of the Dresden Dolls, really, but it's probably not fair that my first impression of Amanda is "try not to hate her because she is a) dating the hottest author ever and b) the innocent beneficiary of a breakdown of a marriage in whose solidity I had taken an apparently fatuous solace." That can't bode well for an unbiased listening, although she gets points for writing an upbeat song about abortion.

The signing afterward was long, but nothing close to what you can reasonably expect at another Gaiman gig. I'll have to look this up, but the first time I waitied in line I was seven months pregnant and it took the better part of the afternoon. The second time, the Boy & I went home when it became obvious that we were never going to see the front of the line before the two of us crashed (that night's signing is reported to have lasted until 2:30am). This past experience makes it seem that 1 1/2 hours in line is a positive treat, a zip through the signing autobahn. It was so comfortable that I didn't even get nervous when I got up there, and was able to tell the story of Blake demanding a personalized book without stuttering or getting weird. (We have a copy of "Wolves in the Walls" that is signed to "Sprout." Blake takes exception to this, as he denies ever having been a Sprout. "You should get it signed 'to Blake,'" he insists, and last night I got a copy of "The Graveyard Book" inscribed to appease him.)

The other neat thing about the book line was bellowing a conversation across the loop to Amy, who was patiently waiting for her first encounter with The Neil. I spent a good deal of my stay in line making up for lost auditorium time by knitting my February Lady sweater, which is huge and unweildy and if I want to knit it standing up I have to wad up the sleeves and yoke and keep it in my armpit while I work the bottom section. A few knitters in the crowd asked me about the pattern and the yarn, then showed me their own knitting projects which were all small and discrete. By the time Amy and I were within shouting distance, I had worked up a good head of steam and was more than ready to talk and knit and stand and wait at the same time.

Now. Amy has...this item. It is a rare and beautiful item that was a generous gift from some wise marketers who clearly know the value of viral, grassroots marketing. Amy is a wonderful person, a fabulous knitter, a fun lady, a smart cookie, and more than generous in her own right. But when I found out, via her blog, that she had received a box of antique doll-making props used by the Other Mother in Coraline...well, I had to iris-shut my heart like an airlock. I refuse to covet what is my sister's. I refuse to curse the fate that made her the receiver of such a present. I turn my back on generations of my relatives who would, at the very least, gossip about her shoe choices (impeccable, by the way). I was so sure that I had this under control that I was even willing to let myself ask to see it, to open such a fetishistic delight and gently touch the scissors, sure that I wasn't going to burst into tears or snatch it and run away to start a new life in Venezuela. I had not thought about what it would mean to uncover such a thing in the middle of people who have been waiting for going on two hours to see the author that invented Coraline. People who had run out of things to say to their companions. People who were trying not to think about how late it all was. Bored, focused people.

There was a tiny little riot.

I shooed them away by hurriedly closing up the box, my pleasure evaporated in a mist of "oh God I promised her I wouldn't hurt it what if they break the box??". Photographers sighed, frustrated. People began to question Amy, and a knitter came out of the woodwork and started a conversation about Fetching. I was suddenly relieved that I was not in charge of The Box. Too much responsibility for a girl of my temperament.

Labels: angst, blake, books, friends, outings

I've been - uncharacteristically - working my ass off this week, which slows down the usual sporadic journal entries. As of today I have 7 days of school left, and my perpetual goal is to have all the term work marked before exams, so I can 1) give the kids an honest term mark 2) not feel like a complete failure as a teacher and 3) have nothing to do but knit while supervising an exam. I'm currently 10 essays + two class sets away from this goal, which is a good place. If I mark on my lunch hour, I'll only have to stay inside on Sunday afternoon and not my entire weekend! Shiny!

This extra ass-working is important, for I have been breaking my usual default rules for June and enjoying myself on weekends. Last weekend (which was technically May, I know) was busy and fun and not very responsible. This weekend is the TTC Knitalong, but I'm ditching to go to a renfaire. Yeah. I'm not sure if I'm making this decision because I want to give Blake a wonderful day with one of his hobbies, or because I've never been to something like this and want to play with my camera, or because I'll be weekend mommying Mason's kid as well and if I go knit, I'll be ditching three boys rather than just sending Blake to Camp Grampa for the afternoon. That, and it's always hard to make decisions that are purely about my pleasure when there's a wholesome, educational (cheap) family alternative. Oh, and I shouldn't neglect the possibility that I'm trying to out-fun the Boy, who took Blake to "Up" last weekend and apparently has also treated Blake to Medieval Times sometime in the past year. I'm in a parental affection arms race here, and a trip to a renfaire should balance out all of the time I'm a hardass and make Blake sit at the table until he finishes his vegetables. (There's an hour on Tuesday I'm never getting back.)

Last weekend was a kid-free weekend, which should have meant marking but didn't. Instead I went to an Apostle of Hustle concert on Friday, gardened on Saturday and went to the zoo on Sunday. The concert was terrific: another gig in the Music Gallery, which is rapidly replacing the Tranzac as my favourite Toronto venue. Wayne Petti (the opening act) joked that he loved playing in a church because he's uncomfortable and so is his audience. Little does he know that I habitually spend chunks of time in church, and I'm not at all shy about acting out when I'm in one. It's part of that lovable irreverence that will one day get me excommunicated, I'm sure (although, not being Catholic or even a head of state in the Renaissance, I don't worry about excommunication all that much).

The Apostle show was excellent, which was somewhat surprising. I like "National Anthem of Nowhere" but I'm more into Whitey as a BSS'r than as the Apostle; Mason bought the tickets and I was along for the ride. I hadn't counted on the impressive musicianship, or the effect of all the ass-shaking music in a sweaty, crowded venue. Sure, Mason & I were the only ones dancing (considerately off to one side, we're Canadian), but I could tell that other people wanted to. I just wish that the kind of wild whirling energy of the last Geoff Berner show had been there in the Apostle crowd, and then there would have been a conga line snaking through the pews. (As there was the night before, at the school dance. I have conga lines on the brain, apparently.)

"You'll have to talk longer; I just rocked the fuck out of that last song." Julian Brown changes a string.

On Sunday we went to the annual cystic fibrosis walk at the zoo. Blake & I were invited by one of the original six Baby Clubbers, and we've been doing this since his first year. Last year was a fucking disaster, and it took some faith to muster the courage for this year. I'm glad I did, though, because it was pretty wonderful. Blake loves it more every year, and the weather was perfect: cool & windy & sunny. We walked for six hours before calling it quits - a personal best. As much as I want another baby, I have to admit that if I was like everyone else in Baby Club and in charge of one or more younger sibs, I wouldn't have been able to go as long or see as much as we did. Plus, I wouldn't have been able to sit on the couch afterwards, reading a book to myself while Blake read himself drowsy with a picture book. The life with a literate tot, she can be sweet.

(As always, click through for more.)

Labels: blake, music, outings

I'm all stuffed up today. I had a lot of marking to do this weekend, but when I got tired last night at 7:30, I decided to put it off until this morning. Gah. I am not suited to waking up at 5, no matter what the motivation. I've been sniffly and sneezy all day, which I hope will be cured when I go to bed early tonight. My biggest problem is that I already go to bed at nine; if I want to push my bedtime back, eventually I'm going to have to start taking my pj's to work.

The reason I was so tired was because I planned too much this weekend, which isn't at all typical of me except on days that start with S. During the week I'm as slack as a sack; it's only on weekends that I try to transform into a superachieving hero. This was the first weekend of the Brickworks, so we planned to start the vegetable garden on Saturday with all of our new seedlings. But after the glorious return to the market, a quick trip to the Distillery District, and a few stops on Queen West, we were all burnt out. Instead of planting, we spent Saturday afternoon recovering...which is sort of ironic, when you consider that this set us up for a Sunday of extrabusyness.

It was a good morning, though. There is actual food at the market, which is a wondrous change from a long winter of dwindling root vegetable supplies and various preserves. In addition to a bunch of seedlings, we got lettuce, buns and wild leeks for a glorious burger barbeque. Blake made friends with every dog he saw, and he was overjoyed to see the Cloud 9 soap lady again (we've been counting the baths until he gets to buy his favourite soap.) She was so impressed with his enthusiasm that she gave him a free bath bomb with his honey ginger soap; a lovely transaction and I was proud of him. I didn't really mean for him to spend his treat money on soap when I would have bought it for him, but they were both so pleased with themselves that I thought it churlish to interfere.

Also notable: Blake discovered that he likes empanadas. This was supposed to be a depth of field shot, but while I was taking it he went after the empanada like a land shark.

There was also a book table, which greatly simplified my birthday party shopping for the weekend. (Hey, I'm a nerd. I give nerd gifts so as to propagate my species.) As much as it could be simplified, I mean: our first party was for a girl I didn't know, and when asked, Blake told me she wanted a donkey toy. What? No further sense could be extracted from Blake. Imagine my surprise when the book table included cute wooden animal toys. We got our donkey, Blake got a new kids' cookbook with illustrations by Jay Stephens, and our birthday girls got beautifully illustrated books on seeds. Blake took his book to a table to read, meanwhile, Mason & I spent many happy minutes seriously considering which seedlings to buy. We left loaded up, just as the place started to get uncomfortably crowded.

We stopped by the Distillery so that Mason could give a bartender friend of his some of the beer we'd bought in Watertown. As the Distillery was in the middle of a craft fair, this turned into a longer visit than we'd expected. Blake made friends with a crafter who admired his knit Tick; he then thought it was hilarious to run away and go talk to her while Mason & I fanned out and tried not to panic. I suppose since her business card is pinned on his bulletin board, this counts as his first pick-up.

After this, the day got progressively less fun by degrees. We went to Fresh Collective for a new shrug; while I sorted through the various offerings, Blake (emboldened by his romantic success) dived under the sewing table in the back and flirted shamelessly while Mason tried to keep him from making a mess. Next was a disappointing trip to Rotate This for the new Apostle of Hustle & Years albums, which meant a detour to Soundscapes (buying music has become more complicated since we decided we preferred vinyl.) And then one more stop for yarn to fix the sweater Blake ripped last week, and we were on our way home. Once there, we discovered that the shed key was missing, meaning our plants would be staying in flats for at least a night.

I think we gave up then. Dinner was lovely, but tired. I decided to plant in the morning, before the first of the two parties. It didn't seem likely, but it was worth a shot.

Imagine my surprise when I was up at 7:30 the next morning, and ready to plant by 8. We got all the seedlings in the ground and started a few of the seed packets (there are still about a half dozen packs to be planted). Blake helped as best he could (i.e. when he remembered what he was doing) and my dad was there to drill holes in my stump. I've got this stump in my front yard, and this year I got the crazy idea that I would make it into a rock garden. The only thing was, the wood wasn't co-operating. I had envisioned a rough, pocketed surface, but my dad kept bringing in power tools that weren't very precise, and he kept forgetting that I didn't want the whole centre removed. Tempers frayed. I can't remember whose idea it was to bring rocks from the back and pile them on the stump, but it was brilliant. I added compost and my sad, dried out little rock garden plants. Voila! Instant rock garden. I just wish I'd thought of it before all the chipping and sawing and yelling.

I cleaned up and changed myself and Blake, and we were on our way to party #1. It was a small party, just a half dozen kids and that many adults. I'm pretty shy, so I hadn't expected to talk to anyone but Mason, but I surprised myself by being really outgoing and having a blast. Blake also had a blast, running around, playing with his new car toy (a bingo prize) and telling secrets.

Blake: "Daddy moved out because Mommy was mad at him all the time."
Me: "Hey! You don't have to tell everyone that. Just say that he moved out because he hated birthday parties."

Everything moved along quickly and soon it was time to go to party #2. We thanked our hosts profusely and walked back through to the park on the way home. Our second party was in the city, so after grabbing the second present, we were off to see Gamers, Former Gamers and Gamers v2.0. Sometimes I wish I didn't only see this crowd at birthday parties, but I suppose I should be grateful that I see anyone at all, stuck in the suburbs as I am.

Eaten: two hotdogs, two burgers, three allergy pills, three Diet Cokes, two pieces of birthday cake, various chips and snacks. Will my stomach ever recover? Maybe…but today I have a craving for pink streamers and pointy hats that mere food won't satisfy.

(As always, click through the pictures for more.)

Labels: blake, friends, garden, health, outings

Last night I went to see the Happiness Project at the Music Gallery (which is a fancy Anglican church on weekends). We were lured by the brief snippets played at BSS shows, and the fact that Laura Barrett was the opening act (!) So for over an hour, we watched experimental dialogue-songs played by some of the finest musicians I've seen in months. Seeing the Happiness Project left me oddly deflated, as I sometimes feel after a Friendly Rich show: worn out with wonder and dragging to return to a world of sub-trained players making noise masquerading as music.

I think my favourite part of the night (other than my front-row vantage and yet another opportunity to catch backstage glimpses of musicians) was seeing how many neighbourhood people made it out to the show. The album is built around the voices of the people in his neighbourhood, and a good many star voices were there to hear themselves transformed in public. Mrs. Morris, a voice that's lived in my head since August, was sitting two rows behind us. Vittoria was blushing directly behind us. And when the show was done, no hipster shuffle to the front; instead a mob of neighbours rushed up to hug Charles and congratulate him. It was grassroots in the best possible way: an elevation of the normal into the sublime and a beautiful gathering of music fans, Toronto scenesters and people who like to hang out on their porches. I felt happy & privileged to be there, watching it all with a huge grin on my face.

Laura also blew everything away, but I've come to expect that from her. If you don't like Laura Barrett then I'm not sure how I can relate to you. She's so innocent and sweet and winsome that I fell in love all over again, and the best thing was that Mason was right next to me, loving her just as much.

In less transcendent news, two of my students from last semester just got charged with over 200 crimes in connection with a crime spree. A crime SPREE! You'd think I'd have noticed something at the exam.

Labels: music, outings

Context is everything. I have been feeling low, sad, sunk, blue and every other word you can think of that describes "wanting to crawl inside a hole and sleep until everything is better." Today, with the weather up at a fabulous 2 degrees that includes melting snow, bright skies, and hopefully cheeping birds, I feel like I not only have to take on the world, but I want to. Two little degrees above zero. If the temperature crashed to two degrees in August, I'd be freaking out. But as my opener suggests, context really is everything.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that I've been having a simply fabulous weekend. I really need to shift practices to Sunday if possible, because going without Saturday afternoon troupe practice frees up a whole long stretch of awesome from Friday to Sunday morning. I love dancing, don't get me wrong, but this schedule makes such a difference that I'm having trouble believing it.

On Friday I took Mason to his first Geoff Berner concert. He's been taking care of Ear Infection Sage (now with less predictable naps!) all week, so he was pretty run down as of Friday afternoon, and there was a lot of talk about just staying home. However, there's just something about Geoff Berner that makes me less willing to give it up: last winter I took my brother, after all, and I was ready to go alone if need be. But Mason rallied at the last minute, and after an hour on the couch with our knitting, we rolled into the Annex for Chippy's and music.

We got there just after the doors opened, and ended up dragging some chairs into the light so that we could a) stay awake and b) see what we were knitting. Good thing we brought something to do; the first act, The Forest City Lovers didn't go on until near 10, which is late when you're old and run-down. The FCL were a slow-burn band, sort of boring at first but growing on us to the point that by the end of the set, we were clapping along, finding nicknames for the drummer based on his 30's style bohemian hair (George Orwell was the favourite) and trying to estimate how long it would be before the singer and the drummer were recruited into BSS. (Get on that, K Drew; they're awesome.)

I had brought along my camera with my knitting, figuring that I could finally get some shots of Geoff. I didn't count on the idea that he would have his entire klezmer trilogy together, and the resulting show would be far too exciting to think about pictures. For three people, they make a huge sound. When I wasn't singing and clapping, I was dancing. When I wasn't doing either of those, I was snuggling under Mason's arm, singing lyrics both horrendously callous and funny along with the band.

Oh, and there was the conga line during "King of the Gangsters" that had us hopping through the club in a mass-abandonment of Toronto tight-assery. (He basically dared us, and although I would do almost anything he asked, I'm certainly not going to refuse a dance bet. Does that sound like me??)

It was one of those concerts when you don't notice the passing of time, when you dimly realize once the music stops that it must be gone one, but you would listen to another full set if that were in the cards. This is the fifth GB concert I've gone to (if you count all of Stanfest as one) and this was, by far, the best. I can't believe there's room for him to get better, and then he goes and does.

After the show, I walked up to him to tell an abbreviated version of my accordion woes.

I don't know if you remember me: I'm the World's Worst Teacher. ["From Hugh's Room?" he confirmed.] My husband and I were so influenced by you that we bought an accordion. Actually, [Mason] was with me when I bought it. My husband learned how to play it, and it was so cool. In the mornings I would have to yell down the stairs, 'quit playing that accordion! It's time to go to work!' Anyway, when he left me about a year ago, he took the accordion with him. [Geoff grips my arm, his eyes wide.] But my boyfriend bought me a new one. He even bought a little one for my son, too. So we're all stocked up again.

I thought it was a nice counter to the classic joke about the B&E with the accordion. Geoff seemed to appreciate it. I'm glad I got to tell him how much accordion geekery he's brought to our lives.

On Saturday, we woke up late-ish and hurried to the Wychwood Market for the end of the selling day. Although they'd run out of empanadas and the place was claustrophobically packed, we also ran into Cheryl's family and then, to top off the weird, Seth with his wife and cousin. (Brief aside: my friendship with Seth dates back to the earliest days of university; on a par with Palaver & Preacher. Here's how long ago this was: he knew me when I was dating Alexi.) Despite the fact that we maybe see each other once a year, he still remembers what I do, what my kid's name is, and where I live. Amazing. I didn't even know that he was married, and they're already expecting their first child in the spring. Again, amazing.

Not having met his wife before, we were introduced, and before I could check myself, I had said one of those unconscionable things for which I am notorious. It was during the round of names, when immediately after absorbing that Seth was now married, I introduced Mason as "my post-husband boyfriend." The problem is, I think I'm funny. And many people, Seth's wife included, are too clever to be phased by my social inappropriateness. For that reason alone, I think he married well.

The funny part is that I was just whinging to Mason that all my old university friends have gone away in the last few years, with some few exceptions. Within hours of this bitch, I was served. And also told that Seth was joining several other res friends that very afternoon. It was like 1996 all over again, except for the white hair (him) and stretch marks (me).

After the market, we dropped by Knit-o-matic to make impulse yarn purchases, and then back to Mason's neighbourhood for lunch. Mason's local doesn't make a lot of food that I like, so I snuck in a bakery sandwich of turkey, stuffing & cranberry sauce from up the street. Fortunately, Mason's rep is so established there, that we were not scolded but given plates.

When we got back to my town, we rushed into an afternoon showing of Coraline. It was one of the most amazing children films I've ever seen, and the 3-D effects had me cooing and gasping with pleasure. It's one of those movies that I'm going to see no matter how it turns out; it was a lovely bonus to see how perfectly it was realized. And stickler as I am, I didn't even mind the changes. Awesome stuff. And then home in the dark for perogies, olives, beer & Buffy. Is it any wonder my weekend has been so great?

Today I slept as late as I could without missing Blake's drop-off at church, then hurried out in a skirt for the first time in forever. Blake was unusually well-behaved the whole morning, and I was unusually patient with him. This probably correlates, now that I think about it. My favourite moment was when we were quietly reading books in the nursery, and he showed me the Barney book. I made a raspberry noise, to which he replied, outraged: "don't spit on him! He loves you!"

Barney as Messiah. What a terrible comparison to make.

Mason slept through church (this was his long-delayed rest period, after all) and I came home full of energy and ready to go out. When he was ready we got lunch, then headed out to the Old Schoolhouse for their Valentine's Day open house. I had seen this announced in the inter-board page, that they would be doing Valentine crafts but also bringing in a spinner to demonstrate drop-spindles and show her spinning wheel. So Mason & I went for a free spinning lesson.

I've been avoiding spinning because I don't like to have too many hobbies; it makes me feel guilty. All of the knitters I know who've tried spinning end up with thousand dollar wheels and fibre stashes, so I've been keeping my distance from the craft. But ever since Sayward gave me a drop-spindle for Decemberween, I've been curious. Turns out that I love spinning. The demonstratrix even offered me the use of her spinning wheel, so I got a taste of that particular drug too.

Now I have a tiny little ball of yarn I made myself. But only the first taste is free…

Labels: blake, church, crafty, movies, music, outings

So, I've been putting off marking ever since I returned to work, as I binged on marking in the days leading up to my return. The problem with my self-voted vacation is that I had even more marking to finish that was sidelined by a combination of procrastination and my grandmother's stroke. My classes want mark updates and I have none to give. Today I decided that I had to apply the Pavlovian screws, and deny myself social knitting tonight if I couldn't mark at least one set of essays. Earnestly, I opened my folder. Frustratedly I realized that I had no marking sheets. The relevant file is at home. I can't mark. Darn.

I'm stuck with rifling through Ravelry for a carrier bag for my new SIGG bottle and a suitable present for Hestia's upcoming birthday. I'm thinking that 4 should be the year of GIR.

Speaking of goth geekiness, I suppose I must at some point face the last night of Savage Garden. For some prosaic reason, Pale is closing the club. (I choose to believe that they're trying to hush up a new virulent social disease that somehow mutated in the toilets, or that Pale has to return to England to apprentice to the last Master Cooper before he dies.) I tried to make it out to the last retro night, as I'm not keen on the industrial vs. really industrial playlist in Revolution vs. Machine on Saturday nights. (Or as Zub put it, the really industrial room sucks but in a more pretentious way - a cybersuck.) Unfortunately, that weekend the heavens dumped a tonne of snow between me and Retro Night, and I was forced to curse my luck loudly and often. Stacy, who made it out that night, tells me that Pale finally achieved his dream of the post-apocalyptic nightclub, as the Garden was the only thing open and thus the only thing packed with people in the still, snowy streets.

I met up with Zub & Stacy at their house and had a lovely late dinner before we began primping. I was in my Classic Gothgirl Clothes i.e. the Dress I bought when I turned 21, the Fishnets my grandmother gave me when I was 20 and going to the Rocky Horror for the first time, and the Fluevog 8-holes Mason gave me last Mother's Day. Stacy, in her rush to get out, forgot the first rule of dressing: boots, then corset. Zub worried that he had a spiked pompadour, but I assured him that he just looked like his DNA had been crossed with a pufferfish. Very cyber. As Stacy made herself beautiful, I knit and Zub distracted me with an audio tour of his cracking joints. This pretty much set the tone for the evening.

We got to the club shortly after 10 and were confronted by the First and Last Line Up to the Garden I Have Ever and Will Ever Stand In. Twenty minutes of sub-zero temperatures, speculating on the luck of those who intended to "drop by" later and watching the cyber bikini bints was enough to dampen our spirits, and we slithered up the stairs subdued (if you can call such a motley assemblage of elders "subdued"). Lotwyr, Monstre & Dav were already there, which was good because we saw very few familiar faces until we'd cleared the door. Once inside, I felt like I was in the middle of an old-fashioned anatomy textbook with layers of clear overlays to show the blood, the musculature, the bones. Instead of tissues, I saw all the modifications of the past 11 years jostling uneasily with the doomed reality. The DJ platform was the raised place where Dav, Anne, Sheila & I had eaten candy for hours. And farther back toward the bathrooms was where we'd sat the night Dirk wore his 3-piece seersucker. The cage was tiny, half the size of the place where a variety of amateurs would try their luck in spooky cage dancing. The paintings on the walls were different from the concentration camp silhouettes that seemed to move when it was late and you'd been dancing in the strobes for hours without a break. The front section, in its majestic cybersuckage, was just wrong. No pool tables with players to annoy the hell out of everyone not playing. The autopsy table that replaced our own personal coatcheck in 2001 was the dj booth. The booths where I'd met so many people were full of strangers and off-limits. The view from the front window burned down last summer. Most of my friends have moved on or couldn't get in. The place was too full to navigate and I didn't know enough of the bodies I rubbed against.

It was something less than tragic, something more than portentous. It made me cranky. Dav, too.

And I was weighted with the unacknowledged guilt of my grandmother's stroke, compelled to share, quick to deny feeling and yet anxious about something I couldn't get a grip on. I cried in frustration. I became disconsolate and tried to find a hug. My claustrophobia kicked in (or as I think of it, agoraphobia because agora means market and this was panic in the midst of a meat market). Loftwyr and Josh found me a wall to lean against, and that helped. Josh also helped by starting a conversation about Mason, and if that weren't enough, helped me to jump the girls' bathroom line by using his bouncer skills to wave me into the men's when it was clear. I hadn't realized that a men's bathroom could be that bad without being attached to a gas station. In any case, I was glad for the help, as I always love to feel like I'm part of some secret elite.

Which is, I suppose, what we were all mourning in our imperfect ways that night: we were saying goodbye to membership in a tiny, hidden circle of those in the know. Those who knew how to get Pale to play a request and not laugh in one's face (and those who can take the second in good humour.) Those who know how much to tip the bartenders, and how to get out of Doug's way without being obvious. Those with the manners to greet Pale & Brenda on every visit, if only with a wave, because that's what you do when you visit someone's place.

And despite the lows I felt that night, I'm still happy that they let us come over so many times, for so many years.

Labels: angst, bat masterson, dancing, friends, outfits, outings