june 30, 2002.

I just figured out today that I lost the bulk of my Stanfest entry in the great laptop switch of '01. Shit. I had pages and pages of writing ready to be coded...the only that stood in my way was slack of the worst kind. It was really good, too...all about Luther Wright & the Wrongs and the beautiful stilt ladies and the Gorp disaster, not to mention sleeping in the van and dancing in place to the blizzard drums of Fubuki Daiko. And the way that time kept slipping away as soon as I stepped into Kris' van. You won't know about the moment when I realized that I had to keep dancing with my blanket around my shoulders or freeze. Or what it was like to wear the same pants for three days against my will.

Not to mention the moment when I realized that I was sitting next to the ocean, listening to a bluegrass band from Ontario play Pink Floyd's "Waiting for the Worms" while beautiful ladies in maggot costumes on stilts danced gracefully with a bunch of whirling barefoot hippies. And then, in rapid succession, the realization of my utter need to dance with them.

Sigh.

This morning was my last performance with the Wolfvegas choir. I feel really sad about it. Granted, I was never the most talented or dedicated choirgirl, but it was a pretty solid part of my routine every week. Knowing that I'm not going back to it in the weeks to come makes me feel icky.

All of this struck me this afternoon. I was reading an article by Peter Bagge called "In Defense of (and Praise for) Mike Love" that really illuminated quite a few elements of the Beach Boys' appeal to hipsters. The Boy was getting his lunch together for work and I was sitting in the hall, talking to him as he shuttled rapidly from one room to another. Suddenly I remembered that I had no classes to attend, no job to keep me busy and no elite choir seat to look forward to.

The next time the Boy walked by, he found me lying on my stomach in the hallway.

"I think I'm going to stay like this for awhile," I said quietly. "You know, just like Brian Wilson did last year."

The Boy smiled and left me some water when he left. He didn't try to budge me, agreeing, I suppose, to the unspoken idea that I needed to invest in some serious brooding time. Obviously, I got up after about an hour. I'm okay now.

The last few days have been quite the round of activities, which is something of a change from the previously established pattern of boring computer stuff with one or two chores thrown in for excitement. On Friday we got up early and roared into Halifax for a patented morning o' fun. We started out with an expensive trip to Strange Adventures, the store that seduces us with the merest flicker of effort. Then, to make our urban hipster trip complete, we ate a large amount of sushi. MMmmmm. (As the Boy likes to say, "I wish they all could be California Rolls.") We were almost clear of the city when I saw the HMV sign. This proved to be another expensive stop, but I am well pleased with my new Luther Wright & the Wrongs and Le Tigre albums. Not to put a fine point on it, they rawk!

Are there any deer in the theatre tonight? Put 'em up against the wall.
That one in my headlights, he don't look right at all, Put 'em up against the wall...

I got a gasoline gut and a vaseline mind...

Yesterday we took advantage of the Boy's "weekend on a weekend" day off and made the drive to Lunenburg. I have an ever-expanding list of places we need to visit in Nova before we leave for good, and Lunenburg is one of the few spots that doesn't require advance booking (unlike, say, whale watching). I wasn't exactly sure what we would do once we got to Lunenburg, but that's what I brought our trusty guidebook.

(Aside: all hail to my mother for buying us a guidebook when we moved here! Whenever we go anywhere in the province, the guidebook tells us where to eat, what to see & when to go. We have yet to be disappointed, as my copious margin glosses will attest!)

First on the agenda was lunch. According to our mechanic, Mustang Scotty has holes in the floor, thus facilitating a charming gas smell while the car is running. Almost 2 hours in a gas cloud is not conducive to activity, and as we climbed out of the car and headed onto the Lunenburg streets, I knew that I needed to eat something and breathe fresh air for a good hour before I could walk anywhere. We ended up at the Magnolia Grill (as recommended in the book, of course!) and feasted on Cajun peanut soup, crusty French bread, Magnolia Mussels, Greek salad and fish cakes. Yuuuuummmm. My first impulse was to make dinner reservations; my second was to scour my memory to find someone with whom to share this place. Neither really worked out, so I'll have to go again the next time we're in the area and pretend to have more people around.

The Boy, having eaten a big bowl of spicy soup and a full order of mussels, soon began to feel ill. By the time we reached the tourist info center, he needed to sit down. As I found a map of the town, he decided that he needed to lie down. So we lay in the grass of the war memorial and contemplated the cannon in the earth works. The sign said that the cannon was a reminder of the spirited defense offered by settlers against a) Native groups looking for payback b) British revolutionaries establishing America and c) Americans looking for territory. When the Boy was feeling well enough to sit upright and I had my lap back, I went to investigate. Climbing up was surprisingly easy, and I soon straddled it like the obvious phallic symbol it is. I have a new goal in life: to get made up in 40's gear, pose seductively on the canon, blow up the picture to poster size and write "Buy War Bonds" under the (ahem) shot.

And when all of this silliness was done and the mussels digested, we went to the museum. It turns out that the Marine Museum of the Atlantic is one of the places I remember from our family trip in '89. It's a blend of aquarium, museum, live display & tour, all of which combines a heck of a lot of seafaring knowledge into a small space. We got there at about 1:30 and stayed until they kicked us out at 5:30. Highlights: a large crab eating another species of crab while it struggled weakly; a hermit crab changing shells twice in front of the glass; helping to launch the scale model schooner for a crowd of videotaping tourists; and climbing up & around the three ships permanently anchored in the harbour. We went home tired, hungry & very satisfied with our Lunenburg experience. Check.

We took the church organist (hereafter known as Gabriel) home today. There was a sip n' talk after worship this morning, and he & the Boy quickly immersed themselves in another discussion of music & Toronto theatrical productions. Somehow we got onto the subject of corsets and after he told me about his, I offered to show him mine. This led neatly into lunch, CD show n' tell & various odd anecdotes that the strange, sensitive & misanthropic typically tell each other to make friends. It was a lot of fun - I think he's the first true Nova Scotian who's been open & trusting to us. Of course, time will tell on that. But he did out himself in one of the most understated fashions possible: in admiring our big Wilde poster, he expressed a desire to wear the pink suit in a Pride parade.

Conversation with Dirk

"How was Pride?"

"I didn't go."

"You should make a float for next year. You could march with other Men Who Like to Dress Up in Costumes and Are Widely Considered Gay (Although That Would be Okay if it Were True)."

"I'll submit that for next year."

...

"We had the church organist over for lunch today. You know, the one I had a two-day crush on? It was a lot of fun. He outed himself in this really subtle, oblique way."

"How?"

"Oh, he talked about wanting to wear the Oscar Wilde outfit in a Pride parade."

"Yeah, I guess that is conclusive."

"Unless he wants to ride on your float."

4 years ago today: ironically, this is the anniversary of the Boy taking me to see Wilde