31.7.09
30.7.09
wednesday night
I am sitting on my living room floor, wearing nothing but my booty yoga shorts, and a baggy T-shirt. My hair is piled on top of my head in some kind of bun so that it doesn’t stick to the back of my neck. My sliding door is open, and it is hot. It is 10:00pm and I’m willing to bet it is upwards of 28 degrees in my apartment.
Outside, a baby is crying, probably from heat exhaustion. I can’t imagine being a baby in this heat. Unable to express your discomfort. Forever at the mercy of your mother, or caregiver. Over heating is imminent.
I can hear the traffic on my street. A motorcycle rumbles by. The bus stops to let passengers on and off. The humidity behaves similar to Snow. Acting as a muffler to the city sounds. Especially at night.
Somebody yells. There is a reply. The rattling of (what I’m guessing is) a shopping cart goes past my window. The heat is making everyone angry and Vancouver’s countless homeless people are no exception. They are aggravated. Touchy. Perturbed. In the past week I’ve seen countless altercations between the less fortunate, mostly on Hastings Street. I’ve learned that while the cold makes people dormant, the heat flares tempers.
The buses and sky train both smell like a gym locker. The rest of the city smells like hot garbage. This gives a new meaning to the expression “stinking hot”. If I breathe through my nostrils, I feel as though the hairs might catch fire as opposed to when in extremely cold temperatures, they freeze.
Tonight I will sleep in my underwear, on top of my (unmade) bed, all my windows open, and a fan. My fan is non-oscillating and is only approximately 6” in diameter and so offers little solace but if I take a cold shower first, it seems to do the trick.
Tomorrow morning, I will go to work. This is the first time I think I’ve ever been glad to go to work. Glad to work inside a concrete building in my closet with no windows. Away from the heat. In my air conditioned sanctuary. This week, I definitely don’t envy labourers.
I check the five day weather report. The high for tomorrow, 39 inland.
We are in the midst of a heat wave and I just drank my last ice cold beer.
It’s too hot to stay awake.
Time for bed.
Outside, a baby is crying, probably from heat exhaustion. I can’t imagine being a baby in this heat. Unable to express your discomfort. Forever at the mercy of your mother, or caregiver. Over heating is imminent.
I can hear the traffic on my street. A motorcycle rumbles by. The bus stops to let passengers on and off. The humidity behaves similar to Snow. Acting as a muffler to the city sounds. Especially at night.
Somebody yells. There is a reply. The rattling of (what I’m guessing is) a shopping cart goes past my window. The heat is making everyone angry and Vancouver’s countless homeless people are no exception. They are aggravated. Touchy. Perturbed. In the past week I’ve seen countless altercations between the less fortunate, mostly on Hastings Street. I’ve learned that while the cold makes people dormant, the heat flares tempers.
The buses and sky train both smell like a gym locker. The rest of the city smells like hot garbage. This gives a new meaning to the expression “stinking hot”. If I breathe through my nostrils, I feel as though the hairs might catch fire as opposed to when in extremely cold temperatures, they freeze.
Tonight I will sleep in my underwear, on top of my (unmade) bed, all my windows open, and a fan. My fan is non-oscillating and is only approximately 6” in diameter and so offers little solace but if I take a cold shower first, it seems to do the trick.
Tomorrow morning, I will go to work. This is the first time I think I’ve ever been glad to go to work. Glad to work inside a concrete building in my closet with no windows. Away from the heat. In my air conditioned sanctuary. This week, I definitely don’t envy labourers.
I check the five day weather report. The high for tomorrow, 39 inland.
We are in the midst of a heat wave and I just drank my last ice cold beer.
It’s too hot to stay awake.
Time for bed.
29.7.09
Quote of the Week
Me: "I don't know what it is about guys and why their printing is (always) so messy?!?"
Jeff: "It's because men are thinking about more important things like... war...and accounting..."
Jeff: "It's because men are thinking about more important things like... war...and accounting..."
27.7.09
how hot is too hot?
These have got to be record breaking temperatures.
They just have to be.
It's been so hot that, on Saturday, there was the most spectacular thunder & lightening storm I've ever witnessed. The sky was the most brilliant colour of orange. The rain drops were enormous. The forks of lightening were phenomenal. It was incredible.
The HSBC celebration of light (formerly the Benson and Hedges Symphony of Fire) was on it's second night (Saturday) with South Africa up to bat. The fire works were impressive but not many people showed, I'm guessing, because they were so mesmerized by the show Mother Nature was putting on. (or else too scared to set foot out of their door as the lightening was right over head). I'm told that at one point (though I missed it) a fork of lightening and a firework actually met in the sky (or seemed to).
Mother Nature always has to one up us mortals.
This week, the temperatures are supposed to (and I'm pretty sure already have) reach(ed) the low to mid thirties. Yesterday I thought I was going to pass out on the bus. The air is heavy and humid.
It's hard to breath.
I'm not complaining.
What's the point in complaining about something you cannot change?
My advice?
Drink a beer.
Go for a swim.
Or however it is that you like to beat the heat.
And
Don't forget to slip (on a shirt), slap (on a hat) and Slop (on some sunscreen)
They just have to be.
It's been so hot that, on Saturday, there was the most spectacular thunder & lightening storm I've ever witnessed. The sky was the most brilliant colour of orange. The rain drops were enormous. The forks of lightening were phenomenal. It was incredible.
The HSBC celebration of light (formerly the Benson and Hedges Symphony of Fire) was on it's second night (Saturday) with South Africa up to bat. The fire works were impressive but not many people showed, I'm guessing, because they were so mesmerized by the show Mother Nature was putting on. (or else too scared to set foot out of their door as the lightening was right over head). I'm told that at one point (though I missed it) a fork of lightening and a firework actually met in the sky (or seemed to).
Mother Nature always has to one up us mortals.
This week, the temperatures are supposed to (and I'm pretty sure already have) reach(ed) the low to mid thirties. Yesterday I thought I was going to pass out on the bus. The air is heavy and humid.
It's hard to breath.
I'm not complaining.
What's the point in complaining about something you cannot change?
My advice?
Drink a beer.
Go for a swim.
Or however it is that you like to beat the heat.
And
Don't forget to slip (on a shirt), slap (on a hat) and Slop (on some sunscreen)
22.7.09
She's the one that I want
It’s about high time I made a new play list. For anybody has clicked on my link in the past two weeks, you will have noticed an unfinished play list that does not correspond with anything on my blog. I’m sorry. My life got hectic for a couple weeks. I got wrapped up in weddings, dying cats, and, well, summer.
Anyway, I was thinking about what my theme for my next play list should be and have decided that it is to be “women”. I know this is a pretty clichéd and over used theme, but there have been a lot of powerful, influential musical artist that have played a big part in my growing up and a lot of them happen to be grrrrrls with guitars (or dulcimers, harmonicas, pianos, a sick beat, or just a voice).
Whether it be rock & roll, rhythm & blues, jazz, folk, pop, soul, or hip hop, these women have all played a very large roll in not only my own life, but the development of the music industry today. Some have been with me for years, and others only just recently, but I love them all equally for being there for me.
They’re not all here of course, but a large majority are. The ladies I love.
ALL MY LADIES SAY AAAAAAYYYYYOOOOOOO!!!!
1). Chrissie Hynde (The Pretenders) - Talk of the town.
2). Joni Mitchell-California
3). Linda Ronstadt - You're No Good
4). Carly Simon and James Taylor - Mockingbird
5). Ann and Nancy Wilson (a.k.a. Heart) - Crazy On You
6). Deborah Harry (a.k.a. Blondie) - Heart Of Glass
7). Stevie Nicks (Fleetwood Mac) – Leather and Lace
8). Janis Joplin - Summertime
9). Joan Baez – The Partisan
10). Patsy Cline - I Fall To Pieces
11). Nina Simone - See-Line Woman
12). Odetta – Paths of Victory
13). Billie Holiday - Let's Call The Whole Thing Off
14). Karen Dalton - It Hurts Me Too
15). Ella Fitzgerald - Rockin' In Rhythm
16). Etta James - Seven Day Fool
17). Big Mama Thornton - Wade In The Water
18). Amy Winehouse - Stronger Than Me
19). Grace Slick (Jefferson Airplane) - White Rabbit
20). Tina Turner - Come Together
21). Rickie Lee Jones - Chuck Es in love
22). Suzanne Vega - Left Of Center
23). Bonnie Raitt - I Can't Make You Love Me
24). Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine
25). Björk Earth Intruders Edited
26). Grace Jones - My Jamaican Guy
27). Annie Lennox – Little Bird
28). Sade - Your love is king
29). Diana Ross - Upside down
30). Mary J. Blige - Stay Down
31). Beyoncé - If I Were A Boy (Lyrics)
32). Lauryn Hill - Everything is Everything
33). Erykah Badu - Certainly
34). Rhianna – Breakin Dishes
Anyway, I was thinking about what my theme for my next play list should be and have decided that it is to be “women”. I know this is a pretty clichéd and over used theme, but there have been a lot of powerful, influential musical artist that have played a big part in my growing up and a lot of them happen to be grrrrrls with guitars (or dulcimers, harmonicas, pianos, a sick beat, or just a voice).
Whether it be rock & roll, rhythm & blues, jazz, folk, pop, soul, or hip hop, these women have all played a very large roll in not only my own life, but the development of the music industry today. Some have been with me for years, and others only just recently, but I love them all equally for being there for me.
They’re not all here of course, but a large majority are. The ladies I love.
ALL MY LADIES SAY AAAAAAYYYYYOOOOOOO!!!!
1). Chrissie Hynde (The Pretenders) - Talk of the town.
2). Joni Mitchell-California
3). Linda Ronstadt - You're No Good
4). Carly Simon and James Taylor - Mockingbird
5). Ann and Nancy Wilson (a.k.a. Heart) - Crazy On You
6). Deborah Harry (a.k.a. Blondie) - Heart Of Glass
7). Stevie Nicks (Fleetwood Mac) – Leather and Lace
8). Janis Joplin - Summertime
9). Joan Baez – The Partisan
10). Patsy Cline - I Fall To Pieces
11). Nina Simone - See-Line Woman
12). Odetta – Paths of Victory
13). Billie Holiday - Let's Call The Whole Thing Off
14). Karen Dalton - It Hurts Me Too
15). Ella Fitzgerald - Rockin' In Rhythm
16). Etta James - Seven Day Fool
17). Big Mama Thornton - Wade In The Water
18). Amy Winehouse - Stronger Than Me
19). Grace Slick (Jefferson Airplane) - White Rabbit
20). Tina Turner - Come Together
21). Rickie Lee Jones - Chuck Es in love
22). Suzanne Vega - Left Of Center
23). Bonnie Raitt - I Can't Make You Love Me
24). Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine
25). Björk Earth Intruders Edited
26). Grace Jones - My Jamaican Guy
27). Annie Lennox – Little Bird
28). Sade - Your love is king
29). Diana Ross - Upside down
30). Mary J. Blige - Stay Down
31). Beyoncé - If I Were A Boy (Lyrics)
32). Lauryn Hill - Everything is Everything
33). Erykah Badu - Certainly
34). Rhianna – Breakin Dishes
20.7.09
oooooooooohhhhhh yaaaaaaaaa
(photo courtesy of Johanna Dalgleish)
I have been going to the Vancouver Folk Music Festival every year since I was 6 and it is the people I see every year that help make it special. This man, for example, I have seen every year for as long as I can remember. He is unfailingly ALWAYS dressed head to toe in purple. And he is an avid practicer of what I like to call the "willow dance". You know the one. All the old hippies do it. Maybe your parents do it. You know at least one person who does it. The "willow dance" requires whole body involvement. Lots of arms. Waving. Up. Down.
The more avid "willow dancer" may imagine that there is a hook at the back of the belly button. Pulling them backwards. But, the upper half of the body doesn't want to go. The arms are stretched out in front and slowly the hook takes over and the hands are pulled backwards palms outstretched as though trying to grasp at a flat slick surface. Walls maybe. Then there is an imaginary wind. You are a willow tree. Your arms are the branches. And you are being whipped every which way. But in one fluid motion.
It's a very metaphorical dance. Only the most imaginative can get away with it.
I've never had a conversation with "Mr. Purple" or "Koolaide" as I like to call him, though, yesterday, there was a knowing look.
"I've seen you every year since you were six"
"I see you as a tree"
I think he knows I look out for him every year.
The year I do not spot him, I will be concerned.
Koolaide, if you're reading this, keep being you. It's the old regulars like you that help keep the festival what it is.
Maybe next year we'll exchange hellos?
Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars
The most beautiful woman in Charleston - m4w
I saw you today standing on the corner of the same street I saw you on last time. It was def Logan. Like I already said, I saw you the other day through my Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars. Thanks to the long distance clarity of these amazing binoculars, which typically retail for $1,500, I was able see the green in your beautiful eyes and the white of your breathe-taking smile. Maybe one day I will have the courage to ask you out, but for now I am content just to watch. I am so grateful for my Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars. They have made our relationship possible. The Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars were developed as a compact roof prism military binoculars incorporating the newly developed SUMR targeting reticle system. Using entirely new optical system formulations, new fully multi-coated binocular optics and a completely new shockproof and waterproof housing, the Steiner Tactical R Compact Surveillance Binoculars 650 delivers a new standard of performance in a tactical Steiner binocular that includes a new Mil Reticle Targeting System allowing faster and more accurate communications between the spotter/observer and shooter or weapons delivery personnel. If anyone knows this woman's name, or is interested in buying my Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars, please reply at once. I am willing to sell these binoculars, which are used by SWAT, Army, and the Airforce, for $850. You just can't bet that deal. Jessica, if you read this, I still love you and miss you.
I saw you today standing on the corner of the same street I saw you on last time. It was def Logan. Like I already said, I saw you the other day through my Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars. Thanks to the long distance clarity of these amazing binoculars, which typically retail for $1,500, I was able see the green in your beautiful eyes and the white of your breathe-taking smile. Maybe one day I will have the courage to ask you out, but for now I am content just to watch. I am so grateful for my Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars. They have made our relationship possible. The Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars were developed as a compact roof prism military binoculars incorporating the newly developed SUMR targeting reticle system. Using entirely new optical system formulations, new fully multi-coated binocular optics and a completely new shockproof and waterproof housing, the Steiner Tactical R Compact Surveillance Binoculars 650 delivers a new standard of performance in a tactical Steiner binocular that includes a new Mil Reticle Targeting System allowing faster and more accurate communications between the spotter/observer and shooter or weapons delivery personnel. If anyone knows this woman's name, or is interested in buying my Steiner 10x42 Tactical Military R Compact Surveillance Binoculars, please reply at once. I am willing to sell these binoculars, which are used by SWAT, Army, and the Airforce, for $850. You just can't bet that deal. Jessica, if you read this, I still love you and miss you.
We will be listening to the Gypsy Kings
It's been a while since I perused through Craig's list for fun.
Last night, at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival (which I will write more about later), Bill Richardson (one of my favourite CBC radio personalities and also authors) was the emcee and he killed time while on stage by reading off some recently acquired ads found in the "Best Of" section.
(He also gave the crowd his work cell number, encouraging us to send him text messages with words for the 10'000 + observers. I promise, his phone will be going off for weeks).
Bill pulled out some gems for our listening pleasure. One searching a woman willing to sit in a bathtub of pasta and another searching for a "Taxidermist who watches a lot of kung fu".
Veda Hille (a well known singer/songwriter from Vancouver), then came out on stage with four other singers to perform a couple of numbers from her and Bill (Richardson)'s co written musical about Craig's list. (I hear they may be now working on an opera).
Pure Genius!
It encouraged me to, in my down time at the office today, hop on to Craig's list and read their most recently nominated 'best of' ads.
Woah! How could I ever have abandoned this hobby? These are pure comedy gold! Grade A reading material.
I've decided that every now and then, I will post my favourite listings.
Here is my number one of the day. No, I did not make this up:
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Grooming Circle - w4mm
I am a woman seeking a group of 4-6 men to brush my hair in what i like to refer to as my "grooming circle."
I have not cut my hair since age 14. I am 5'8" and my nut-brown locks fall well past the small of my back, terminating just below the buttocks. I am 32 years old but often get i.d.'d when i buy wine spritzer by the case. I work in elder-care, and several of my male charges have described me as both "comely" and a "handsome woman." I used to permit these fellows to brush my hair until i was reprimanded by my superiors.
This is how the "grooming circle" works. I will distribute to each man a numbered brush from my array of fine boar's head bristle brushes (2 have ivory handles, 4 have tortoise shell). Each man will gather around me and take hold of a lock of hair approx 1/4 inch in diameter. Each man will then spread out from me in what i refer to as the "maypole formation." I will let out a long sigh as a signal to commence brushing in tandem. I may need to periodically give notes, and will refer to each man by brush number.
No Tugging.
Please do not suggest music. We will be listening to the Gypsy Kings.
We will all be clothed. This is not overtly sexual in nature. You may take off your shoes but not your socks.
All I require is that you be of sound mind, have clean finger nails, no callouses, and a steady hand. A steady hand is essential to proper brushing rhythm.
For those first-timers who have never participated in a "grooming circle" before and are feeling nervous, I will offer you a ladyfinger soaked in peach schnapps to calm you. I also have wine spritzer if that is more to your taste. Again, there is nothing so off putting as an unsteady hand.
I will provide refreshments afterwords: ginger snaps, necco wafers, and fresca.
Do not bring in any outside brushes.
Please email me your responses and a photo of your hands.
--Lily
PS I have no grey hairs (at least not on my head).
Last night, at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival (which I will write more about later), Bill Richardson (one of my favourite CBC radio personalities and also authors) was the emcee and he killed time while on stage by reading off some recently acquired ads found in the "Best Of" section.
(He also gave the crowd his work cell number, encouraging us to send him text messages with words for the 10'000 + observers. I promise, his phone will be going off for weeks).
Bill pulled out some gems for our listening pleasure. One searching a woman willing to sit in a bathtub of pasta and another searching for a "Taxidermist who watches a lot of kung fu".
Veda Hille (a well known singer/songwriter from Vancouver), then came out on stage with four other singers to perform a couple of numbers from her and Bill (Richardson)'s co written musical about Craig's list. (I hear they may be now working on an opera).
Pure Genius!
It encouraged me to, in my down time at the office today, hop on to Craig's list and read their most recently nominated 'best of' ads.
Woah! How could I ever have abandoned this hobby? These are pure comedy gold! Grade A reading material.
I've decided that every now and then, I will post my favourite listings.
Here is my number one of the day. No, I did not make this up:
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Grooming Circle - w4mm
I am a woman seeking a group of 4-6 men to brush my hair in what i like to refer to as my "grooming circle."
I have not cut my hair since age 14. I am 5'8" and my nut-brown locks fall well past the small of my back, terminating just below the buttocks. I am 32 years old but often get i.d.'d when i buy wine spritzer by the case. I work in elder-care, and several of my male charges have described me as both "comely" and a "handsome woman." I used to permit these fellows to brush my hair until i was reprimanded by my superiors.
This is how the "grooming circle" works. I will distribute to each man a numbered brush from my array of fine boar's head bristle brushes (2 have ivory handles, 4 have tortoise shell). Each man will gather around me and take hold of a lock of hair approx 1/4 inch in diameter. Each man will then spread out from me in what i refer to as the "maypole formation." I will let out a long sigh as a signal to commence brushing in tandem. I may need to periodically give notes, and will refer to each man by brush number.
No Tugging.
Please do not suggest music. We will be listening to the Gypsy Kings.
We will all be clothed. This is not overtly sexual in nature. You may take off your shoes but not your socks.
All I require is that you be of sound mind, have clean finger nails, no callouses, and a steady hand. A steady hand is essential to proper brushing rhythm.
For those first-timers who have never participated in a "grooming circle" before and are feeling nervous, I will offer you a ladyfinger soaked in peach schnapps to calm you. I also have wine spritzer if that is more to your taste. Again, there is nothing so off putting as an unsteady hand.
I will provide refreshments afterwords: ginger snaps, necco wafers, and fresca.
Do not bring in any outside brushes.
Please email me your responses and a photo of your hands.
--Lily
PS I have no grey hairs (at least not on my head).
17.7.09
Dire Straits
Last year sometime, a friend of mine was trying to buy a bag of chips from a vending machine at school. She put her toony in the slot and punched in the coordinating numbers for the chips she was craving and through a glitch in the machine, along with getting her selected bag, she also was given back her two dollars.
Later that night, she relayed the exciting story to Tara. While other friends were immediately aghast that she hadn't used her resources and taken everything from the vending machine and stashed it in a secret hiding spot, Tara instead pondered the situation.
After about twenty seconds, Tara quipped,
"So...basically...what you're saying is...you got your money for nothing and your chips for free?"
ZING!
Later that night, she relayed the exciting story to Tara. While other friends were immediately aghast that she hadn't used her resources and taken everything from the vending machine and stashed it in a secret hiding spot, Tara instead pondered the situation.
After about twenty seconds, Tara quipped,
"So...basically...what you're saying is...you got your money for nothing and your chips for free?"
ZING!
16.7.09
Hugo
Lately, I've found myself making up stories about people I don't know.
Character profiles if you will.
As if you can base somebody's character solely on their appearance. Or in some cases, their name.
For example, there is a man who I walk passed every morning, without fail, while crossing the viaduct on my way to work. He is always wearing the same clothes. He wears a turquoise blue polo shirt with a breast pocket in which he keeps his glasses. This shirt is tucked into a pair of jeans, which are held up by a brown leather belt and he wears some kind of black leather loafer on his feet. I think they're orthopedic. He is bald and has a large, thick, white, nicotine stained mustache and he walks, very distinctly, with his chest puffed out. We have walked passed each other enough times now for us to glance an acknowledgement at each other, but not enough times to smile, or to utter a "hello", or "good morning".
I have decided that this man's name is Hugo.
(The only Hugo I've ever known was from my childhood. He lived next door to my mum's best friend, Bronia. My brother, Bronia's son, Daniel, and I would hide behind the gate at the end of their driveway and when Hugo would walk by, we would shout "Hugh goes there???" and run away with stitches in our side from laughing so hard. For some reason, though I can no longer recall Hugo's face, this man reminds me of him.)
Hugo walks because he received a DUI a few years ago. Although he is (and has been for quite some time) eligible to regain his driver's license, he has yet to do so. His '67 Chevy pick up is rusting and needs work and the walk is good for his heart. He is not the walking type however, but in recent years, his doctor, concerned with Hugo's cholesterol level, has been advising him to watch his nutritional intake, and increase his physical activity. Hugo has never been one to listen to persons of authority, but lately his only daughter, concerned for his well being, has been watching his every move and while he complains about her tight surveillance, he secretly appreciates this display of affection. He was not always the ever present father, and he marvels in the fact that she has managed to see past his sometimes neglectful parenting, and love him all the same. She doesn't get that from him.
Hugo, when he smokes cigarettes, roles his own, but he usually smokes a pipe. In his younger days, he used to be a drinker, but since his DUI, he has given up the bottle. He doesn't go to AA. He does it on his own. He is his own support system. His daughter also helps, but he won't admit to this.
Hugo is single. His wife ran away with their gardener years ago, taking their 6 year old sheep dog, Barney with her. Along with Hugo, she left behind their (then) fifteen year old daughter, and their life savings. She thought this was only right.
Over the first few years after her disappearance, they would receive the odd postcard. Each from a different exotic location. Tahiti. Hawaii. Bali. Tonga. Eventually they stopped coming and god only knows where she is now.
Hugo has managed to hold down the same job for the past eight years. He is the night janitor at a local strip joint. His shifts run from 2 to 7:30 am, after which, he sits down, enjoys a hand rolled cigarette (or pipe) and a diet Pepsi, and then walks home to his one floor heritage home in Strathcona, in which he has lived for the last thirty years. He and his wife bought the house together after they first wed. It has a basement suite which he has rented out to a couple of hipsters. Their cat, Magnus, comes and visits him daily, and sometimes his tenants do as well and they'll share a joint on his back porch.
The house needs work. The front gate is hanging on one hinge and the second porch stair needs replacing. He's not quite the handyman he once was, but he does what he can. It's hard working a night job and keeping a home. Maybe he'll move one day. Probably not though.
Hugo reads the paper everyday. He keeps up to date on current events, but not politics. He hates politicians. He doesn't listen to music. He eats homemade TV dinners prepared and frozen for him by his daughter. He doesn't recycle. He doesn't say much. He's an observer. His daughter comes and checks up on him twice a week and cleans his house on sundays. He sits on the front porch and grunts one word answers to his daughter's questions. "Dad, do you really need to keep this?". Sometimes she brings her dog. A black Lab named Roscoe. Roscoe and Magnus get along.
He doesn't do much and though he doesn't show it, he's happy with his mundane existence.
And this is Hugo.
After all this fake analyzing I have done over Hugo, I don't think I ever will move from a look of acknowledgment to a "Hello" or, "Good morning" because then I run the risk of having my character ruined. There is the potential for this 'gentleman' to be a completely different person than the one I have created. I don't think he is though.
Because I do have a pretty good judgement of character.
Character profiles if you will.
As if you can base somebody's character solely on their appearance. Or in some cases, their name.
For example, there is a man who I walk passed every morning, without fail, while crossing the viaduct on my way to work. He is always wearing the same clothes. He wears a turquoise blue polo shirt with a breast pocket in which he keeps his glasses. This shirt is tucked into a pair of jeans, which are held up by a brown leather belt and he wears some kind of black leather loafer on his feet. I think they're orthopedic. He is bald and has a large, thick, white, nicotine stained mustache and he walks, very distinctly, with his chest puffed out. We have walked passed each other enough times now for us to glance an acknowledgement at each other, but not enough times to smile, or to utter a "hello", or "good morning".
I have decided that this man's name is Hugo.
(The only Hugo I've ever known was from my childhood. He lived next door to my mum's best friend, Bronia. My brother, Bronia's son, Daniel, and I would hide behind the gate at the end of their driveway and when Hugo would walk by, we would shout "Hugh goes there???" and run away with stitches in our side from laughing so hard. For some reason, though I can no longer recall Hugo's face, this man reminds me of him.)
Hugo walks because he received a DUI a few years ago. Although he is (and has been for quite some time) eligible to regain his driver's license, he has yet to do so. His '67 Chevy pick up is rusting and needs work and the walk is good for his heart. He is not the walking type however, but in recent years, his doctor, concerned with Hugo's cholesterol level, has been advising him to watch his nutritional intake, and increase his physical activity. Hugo has never been one to listen to persons of authority, but lately his only daughter, concerned for his well being, has been watching his every move and while he complains about her tight surveillance, he secretly appreciates this display of affection. He was not always the ever present father, and he marvels in the fact that she has managed to see past his sometimes neglectful parenting, and love him all the same. She doesn't get that from him.
Hugo, when he smokes cigarettes, roles his own, but he usually smokes a pipe. In his younger days, he used to be a drinker, but since his DUI, he has given up the bottle. He doesn't go to AA. He does it on his own. He is his own support system. His daughter also helps, but he won't admit to this.
Hugo is single. His wife ran away with their gardener years ago, taking their 6 year old sheep dog, Barney with her. Along with Hugo, she left behind their (then) fifteen year old daughter, and their life savings. She thought this was only right.
Over the first few years after her disappearance, they would receive the odd postcard. Each from a different exotic location. Tahiti. Hawaii. Bali. Tonga. Eventually they stopped coming and god only knows where she is now.
Hugo has managed to hold down the same job for the past eight years. He is the night janitor at a local strip joint. His shifts run from 2 to 7:30 am, after which, he sits down, enjoys a hand rolled cigarette (or pipe) and a diet Pepsi, and then walks home to his one floor heritage home in Strathcona, in which he has lived for the last thirty years. He and his wife bought the house together after they first wed. It has a basement suite which he has rented out to a couple of hipsters. Their cat, Magnus, comes and visits him daily, and sometimes his tenants do as well and they'll share a joint on his back porch.
The house needs work. The front gate is hanging on one hinge and the second porch stair needs replacing. He's not quite the handyman he once was, but he does what he can. It's hard working a night job and keeping a home. Maybe he'll move one day. Probably not though.
Hugo reads the paper everyday. He keeps up to date on current events, but not politics. He hates politicians. He doesn't listen to music. He eats homemade TV dinners prepared and frozen for him by his daughter. He doesn't recycle. He doesn't say much. He's an observer. His daughter comes and checks up on him twice a week and cleans his house on sundays. He sits on the front porch and grunts one word answers to his daughter's questions. "Dad, do you really need to keep this?". Sometimes she brings her dog. A black Lab named Roscoe. Roscoe and Magnus get along.
He doesn't do much and though he doesn't show it, he's happy with his mundane existence.
And this is Hugo.
After all this fake analyzing I have done over Hugo, I don't think I ever will move from a look of acknowledgment to a "Hello" or, "Good morning" because then I run the risk of having my character ruined. There is the potential for this 'gentleman' to be a completely different person than the one I have created. I don't think he is though.
Because I do have a pretty good judgement of character.
15.7.09
12.7.09
dixie
I knew this day would come but I didn't realise it would be this hard.
Today is the day we put my cat down.
For all intensive purposes, she is already dead. We didn't think (and secretly hoped) that she would make it through the night, but there she is, wrapped up in a blanket, in a box, on my couch, with her eyes open, a little drop of spit at the corner of her mouth, her chest rising and falling rather quickly, with each shallow breath, and her little heart just won't stop beating. There is nothing there though. Her brain is gone. She didn't close her eyes all night. I don't think she can. She's gone, but her body just won't give up.
I can't stop crying.
We got Dixie when I was eight. My dad loaded my brother and I into the car to go to "GBS" (Gibsons Building Supplies), but that was just a cover up. He drove us up a little dirt road to a building I had never seen before.
"Where are we daddy?", we asked as he told us to get out of the car.
"Just go inside.", he replied and pushed us through the door.
Our jaws dropped as we walked into a room filled with cats. One of these was going to be ours! I walked right away to the kittens. One in particular who was black and white named Rascal. I thought it was adorable. Rascal. I wanted to take him home.
"Hold on Mikhaila. Lets look around a little bit first." Dad said, and that's when Dixie caught his eye. Or his sweater rather. She reached right out of her cage and latched her claws onto his arm. You could practically see the sparks.
She was a one year old tabby and from the moment we took her home, she was my dad's cat.
You couldn't have given my family a better cat. She never peed anywhere, never had a bad case of fleas, she rarely used her kitty litter instead prefering to use the outdoors. She never once left our property and spent all her years exploring on our land. We could leave her for weeks at a time, with a pile of food in the kitchen and her cat door unlocked, and she was fine. As she got a little older, she started puking occasionally. Usually on the stairs, or on the concrete basement floor. Once in my room. And she always has had runny eyes. But we still loved her. She never went senile. Up until friday night, she didn't even seem old. She was the perfect cat.
I've never had to do this before. She has been my one and only pet. Whenever I've had friends in this situation, I've never really had much sympathy, thinking to myself "it's just a cat.". But this is the saddest, hardest thing I've had to go through. Other than, of course, the loss of my grandmother. Although, my grandma died when I was 16, and we've had Dixie for just as long. She was almost more a part of my life than my Grandmother was. It's strange to think that an animal can become so much a part of your family.
One of the things I look forward to most about coming home, is walking up to my house from the bus, back pack in hand, and seeing Dixie rolling around on the sand path that leads to our basement door. She did this, I think, to scratch her back, and she loved it. She would see me coming up the drive, and run towards me, meow, and rub against my leg. I'm going to miss that. I always worried that she would forget me when I moved out. But she never did. Even when I didn't see her for almost a year.
And so, on this beautiful summer's day, July 12th, 2009, we say goodbye to a member of the Searle-Mounsey clan.
Dixie Cat.
Age 17.
We love you, and you will be sorely missed.
Bye baby.
Today is the day we put my cat down.
For all intensive purposes, she is already dead. We didn't think (and secretly hoped) that she would make it through the night, but there she is, wrapped up in a blanket, in a box, on my couch, with her eyes open, a little drop of spit at the corner of her mouth, her chest rising and falling rather quickly, with each shallow breath, and her little heart just won't stop beating. There is nothing there though. Her brain is gone. She didn't close her eyes all night. I don't think she can. She's gone, but her body just won't give up.
I can't stop crying.
We got Dixie when I was eight. My dad loaded my brother and I into the car to go to "GBS" (Gibsons Building Supplies), but that was just a cover up. He drove us up a little dirt road to a building I had never seen before.
"Where are we daddy?", we asked as he told us to get out of the car.
"Just go inside.", he replied and pushed us through the door.
Our jaws dropped as we walked into a room filled with cats. One of these was going to be ours! I walked right away to the kittens. One in particular who was black and white named Rascal. I thought it was adorable. Rascal. I wanted to take him home.
"Hold on Mikhaila. Lets look around a little bit first." Dad said, and that's when Dixie caught his eye. Or his sweater rather. She reached right out of her cage and latched her claws onto his arm. You could practically see the sparks.
She was a one year old tabby and from the moment we took her home, she was my dad's cat.
You couldn't have given my family a better cat. She never peed anywhere, never had a bad case of fleas, she rarely used her kitty litter instead prefering to use the outdoors. She never once left our property and spent all her years exploring on our land. We could leave her for weeks at a time, with a pile of food in the kitchen and her cat door unlocked, and she was fine. As she got a little older, she started puking occasionally. Usually on the stairs, or on the concrete basement floor. Once in my room. And she always has had runny eyes. But we still loved her. She never went senile. Up until friday night, she didn't even seem old. She was the perfect cat.
I've never had to do this before. She has been my one and only pet. Whenever I've had friends in this situation, I've never really had much sympathy, thinking to myself "it's just a cat.". But this is the saddest, hardest thing I've had to go through. Other than, of course, the loss of my grandmother. Although, my grandma died when I was 16, and we've had Dixie for just as long. She was almost more a part of my life than my Grandmother was. It's strange to think that an animal can become so much a part of your family.
One of the things I look forward to most about coming home, is walking up to my house from the bus, back pack in hand, and seeing Dixie rolling around on the sand path that leads to our basement door. She did this, I think, to scratch her back, and she loved it. She would see me coming up the drive, and run towards me, meow, and rub against my leg. I'm going to miss that. I always worried that she would forget me when I moved out. But she never did. Even when I didn't see her for almost a year.
And so, on this beautiful summer's day, July 12th, 2009, we say goodbye to a member of the Searle-Mounsey clan.
Dixie Cat.
Age 17.
We love you, and you will be sorely missed.
Bye baby.
10.7.09
8.7.09
sibs
What is it about a good door slamming that makes you feel better?
My brother came over for dinner tonight. We haven't hung out in a long time. We live on the same street, but still, I have probably only seen him half a dozen times this year. The last time I saw him was over a month ago.
I was already starting to cook up a feast when he called to see what I was doing this evening so I invited him over. It was only right. I was cooking the veggies, tofu, and quinoa. He would bring the salmon.
We ate dinner, listened to a little music, and he hadn't even been here for an hour when, while I was starting the dishes, we got in an argument. Some stupid fight about where the question mark was positioned on my out-of-the-ordinary keyboard ("Same place as every keyboard," I said, "the key just looks different." He was adamant it wasn't like that on his keyboard).
He freaked out.
Gave me attitude.
There was yelling.
I told him to "get the fuck out of my house".
He slammed the door to my apartment.
I chased after him, yelling at him to not slam the door and bring the 60 or so other people who live in my building into our dispute.
Mostly I think I was just jealous that he had got to slam something and I had nothing.
I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face.
The stomach.
Anywhere.
But I refrained.
And instead, somehow managing to cut my hand on something, ran back into my apartment, cradling my bleeding hand, bawling my eyes out.
It was all very dramatic.
I lasted for ten minutes without talking to him.
Then I called him, and between sobs (on both parts a little bit, I think), we apologised to each other, and he came over and we drank tea and played a game of scrabble (which, by the way, I won.).
It was all very dramatic.
We haven't fought like that since I was about 17 (he 14).
I've been feeling really irritable lately (Quinn too, admitted to feeling the same way), and have been wanting, more than anything, a reason to have a good cry. So maybe this was it?
I do feel a lot better.
Though, I'm still kind of pissed that I didn't get to slam a door.
My brother came over for dinner tonight. We haven't hung out in a long time. We live on the same street, but still, I have probably only seen him half a dozen times this year. The last time I saw him was over a month ago.
I was already starting to cook up a feast when he called to see what I was doing this evening so I invited him over. It was only right. I was cooking the veggies, tofu, and quinoa. He would bring the salmon.
We ate dinner, listened to a little music, and he hadn't even been here for an hour when, while I was starting the dishes, we got in an argument. Some stupid fight about where the question mark was positioned on my out-of-the-ordinary keyboard ("Same place as every keyboard," I said, "the key just looks different." He was adamant it wasn't like that on his keyboard).
He freaked out.
Gave me attitude.
There was yelling.
I told him to "get the fuck out of my house".
He slammed the door to my apartment.
I chased after him, yelling at him to not slam the door and bring the 60 or so other people who live in my building into our dispute.
Mostly I think I was just jealous that he had got to slam something and I had nothing.
I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face.
The stomach.
Anywhere.
But I refrained.
And instead, somehow managing to cut my hand on something, ran back into my apartment, cradling my bleeding hand, bawling my eyes out.
It was all very dramatic.
I lasted for ten minutes without talking to him.
Then I called him, and between sobs (on both parts a little bit, I think), we apologised to each other, and he came over and we drank tea and played a game of scrabble (which, by the way, I won.).
It was all very dramatic.
We haven't fought like that since I was about 17 (he 14).
I've been feeling really irritable lately (Quinn too, admitted to feeling the same way), and have been wanting, more than anything, a reason to have a good cry. So maybe this was it?
I do feel a lot better.
Though, I'm still kind of pissed that I didn't get to slam a door.
4.7.09
home sweet roberts creek
I am home for the third weekend in a row. My friend Shauna, who used to live in Vancouver, is here visiting from Edmonton, and in her time spent living on the west coast of British Columbia, she never had a chance to make it to the Sunshine Coast so, I thought I'd give her that opportunity. And so she is here. We are here.
I am currently sitting in my parents living room listening to Deadmau5 and eating my left over Thai noodle salad (which I ordered with smoked salmon, I suggest you try it) from our dinner last night at the Gumboot Restaurant. It is 9am on Saturday. I've been up since 8 o'clock, after being jolted awake from a series of pee dreams. You know the ones, where you're sitting on the toilet, urinating, and it feels so real that you, maybe, sometimes, might start to pee and you maybe, sometimes, might 'wet the bed'? I didn't wet the bed, but I did manage to wake up just in time to clench my bladder and run to the loo. I didn't, however, manage to stop myself before I started, and my pajama pants were a little wet. How humiliating. I haven't done that since I was a kid. (But I can't be that humiliated about it since I just told the entire cyber community. That's right, the everyone on the web reads my blog.) So, I hopped straight in the bath, and here we are.
Every time I come to Roberts creek, I feel like I'm coming here for the first time. Especially in summer. Last night, after we got off the ferry, Shauna and I walked down to the general store to buy a six pack and sit down at Roberts Creek beach.
"It's so beautiful, it's almost not real!" Shauna exclaimed as we walked down Lower Road.
"I know! Isn't it?" I responded.
I was totally and utterly enraptured in the creek's ethereal beauty.
Huge 'shit-eating-grin' on my face. And I wished I had introduced Shauna to the coast a year ago, before she made, what I thought, was a rather rash decision to move back Edmonton. I knew she'd love it here. Everyone does when they come here the first time.
"Yup, this is where I'm from." She must have thought I was nuts.
I'm fine with that.
Natural born creeker.
"I was born in that house there...that's the legion...my mum and her ex husband opened that restaurant thirty years ago...I worked there, there and there..."
Certified creek tour guide.
This is the real 'small town west coast, BC'.
It's not hard to see why my town attracts the kind of people it does. The free flowing lifestyle. The forest. The beach. The vegan friendly attitude. They're not really the kind of people I like. They've sort of claimed it as their own. Call themselves locals, and make me feel like an outcast. Trust fund 'hippies'. My friend calls them 'feather and bone fuckers'. I don't take to fondly to it and it's one of the reasons I chose to leave this paradise for 'the big shitty'. I have to say though, it took me traveling across the globe, and moving to Vancouver to truly appreciate where I'm from. Usually, when I come here, I can't wipe the grin off my face. And this weekend is no exception.
The last two Sundays, I've been fortunate enough to spend out on the water. Kayaking with Chanel one, and sailing the ocean blue with Max the other. Shauna, unfortunately, has to be back in the city Sunday afternoon, and my parents happen to be on their first sailing trip at the moment and won't be back until tonight (mum called to tell me, in case I need to call the coast guard) so it doesn't look like I will be lucky enough to make it three for three.
Paging Chanel?
Paging Max?
Oh well.
It doesn't matter.
Because I am here.
With Shauna
In the most beautiful place in the world.
Where I am so proud to be from.
Home sweet Roberts Creek.
I am currently sitting in my parents living room listening to Deadmau5 and eating my left over Thai noodle salad (which I ordered with smoked salmon, I suggest you try it) from our dinner last night at the Gumboot Restaurant. It is 9am on Saturday. I've been up since 8 o'clock, after being jolted awake from a series of pee dreams. You know the ones, where you're sitting on the toilet, urinating, and it feels so real that you, maybe, sometimes, might start to pee and you maybe, sometimes, might 'wet the bed'? I didn't wet the bed, but I did manage to wake up just in time to clench my bladder and run to the loo. I didn't, however, manage to stop myself before I started, and my pajama pants were a little wet. How humiliating. I haven't done that since I was a kid. (But I can't be that humiliated about it since I just told the entire cyber community. That's right, the everyone on the web reads my blog.) So, I hopped straight in the bath, and here we are.
Every time I come to Roberts creek, I feel like I'm coming here for the first time. Especially in summer. Last night, after we got off the ferry, Shauna and I walked down to the general store to buy a six pack and sit down at Roberts Creek beach.
"It's so beautiful, it's almost not real!" Shauna exclaimed as we walked down Lower Road.
"I know! Isn't it?" I responded.
I was totally and utterly enraptured in the creek's ethereal beauty.
Huge 'shit-eating-grin' on my face. And I wished I had introduced Shauna to the coast a year ago, before she made, what I thought, was a rather rash decision to move back Edmonton. I knew she'd love it here. Everyone does when they come here the first time.
"Yup, this is where I'm from." She must have thought I was nuts.
I'm fine with that.
Natural born creeker.
"I was born in that house there...that's the legion...my mum and her ex husband opened that restaurant thirty years ago...I worked there, there and there..."
Certified creek tour guide.
This is the real 'small town west coast, BC'.
It's not hard to see why my town attracts the kind of people it does. The free flowing lifestyle. The forest. The beach. The vegan friendly attitude. They're not really the kind of people I like. They've sort of claimed it as their own. Call themselves locals, and make me feel like an outcast. Trust fund 'hippies'. My friend calls them 'feather and bone fuckers'. I don't take to fondly to it and it's one of the reasons I chose to leave this paradise for 'the big shitty'. I have to say though, it took me traveling across the globe, and moving to Vancouver to truly appreciate where I'm from. Usually, when I come here, I can't wipe the grin off my face. And this weekend is no exception.
The last two Sundays, I've been fortunate enough to spend out on the water. Kayaking with Chanel one, and sailing the ocean blue with Max the other. Shauna, unfortunately, has to be back in the city Sunday afternoon, and my parents happen to be on their first sailing trip at the moment and won't be back until tonight (mum called to tell me, in case I need to call the coast guard) so it doesn't look like I will be lucky enough to make it three for three.
Paging Chanel?
Paging Max?
Oh well.
It doesn't matter.
Because I am here.
With Shauna
In the most beautiful place in the world.
Where I am so proud to be from.
Home sweet Roberts Creek.
1.7.09
Ka-Na-Da
Do you remember that "A Part of Our Heritage" video that was on TV a couple years ago? The one where the British Soldiers found the Indian village and asked what the land was called and through a loss of tanslation, they somehow confused the word, in that particular Native language, that meant village for the name of the country? All I remember is the Indian Chief sounding it out for the dumbfounded soldier, "Ka-Na-Da...".
And so our great nation was named.
Because of a stupid soldier.
I've got to say though, I quite like the name of our country.
And I'm pretty proud to be Canadian. For the most part anyway.
When I was nineteen, I was in Scotland and feeling more patriotic than usual, due to the ignorance of others and their telling me that Canada and America were the same and calling me American, I got a tattoo. A bad tattoo. A poorly executed maple leaf on my side. I loved it.
And so I made a playlist.
An all Canadian playlist. Better than a tattoo. Cause you can erase a playlist.
I know this is only some of the great music Canada has to offer. I missed a lot but I couldn't get everybody. And I know, Loudon Wainwright isn't Canadian, but his family is Canadian rock royalty and so I thought he deserved a spot. Boize Noize also aren't Canadian, but Feist is.
So I dedicate this to a dumb soldier, a bad tattoo and a nation I love.
Oh Canada.
1). Jason Collett & Feist - Hangover Days (Fine Line)
2). Rufus Wainwright - Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk
3). Martha Wainwright - Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole
4). Loudon Wainwright III - That's My Daughter in the Water
5). Kate&Anna McGarrigle - Be My Baby
6). Joni Mitchell - A Case Of You (live at Red Rocks 1983)
7). Allison Crowe - Skeletons and Spirits
8). Patrick Watson - The Storm
9). Ron Sexsmith - Tell Me Again
10). Neil Young - Old Man
11). The Tragically Hip - 38 Years Old
12). Metric - Love Is a Place
13). Leonard Cohen - Everybody Knows
14). Bruce Cockburn - If I had a Rocket Launcher
15). MSTRKRFT - Vuvuvu
16). Cadence Weapon - House Music (A1 Bassline Remix)
17). Thunderheist - Jerk It
18). Peaches - Fuck the Pain Away (Music Video)
19). Crystal Castles - Air War
20). Deadmau5 - Ghosts n Stuff
21). Feist - My Moon My Man (Boys Noise Remix)
22). K'Naan - America feat. Mos Def & Chali 2na
23). Kid Koala - Skanky Panky
24). k-os - Born to Run
26). Loco Locass - Groove Grave
27). Classified - Maritimes
28). Shad - The Old Prince Still Lives at Home
drunken heckling, here I come.
And so our great nation was named.
Because of a stupid soldier.
I've got to say though, I quite like the name of our country.
And I'm pretty proud to be Canadian. For the most part anyway.
When I was nineteen, I was in Scotland and feeling more patriotic than usual, due to the ignorance of others and their telling me that Canada and America were the same and calling me American, I got a tattoo. A bad tattoo. A poorly executed maple leaf on my side. I loved it.
And so I made a playlist.
An all Canadian playlist. Better than a tattoo. Cause you can erase a playlist.
I know this is only some of the great music Canada has to offer. I missed a lot but I couldn't get everybody. And I know, Loudon Wainwright isn't Canadian, but his family is Canadian rock royalty and so I thought he deserved a spot. Boize Noize also aren't Canadian, but Feist is.
So I dedicate this to a dumb soldier, a bad tattoo and a nation I love.
Oh Canada.
1). Jason Collett & Feist - Hangover Days (Fine Line)
2). Rufus Wainwright - Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk
3). Martha Wainwright - Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole
4). Loudon Wainwright III - That's My Daughter in the Water
5). Kate&Anna McGarrigle - Be My Baby
6). Joni Mitchell - A Case Of You (live at Red Rocks 1983)
7). Allison Crowe - Skeletons and Spirits
8). Patrick Watson - The Storm
9). Ron Sexsmith - Tell Me Again
10). Neil Young - Old Man
11). The Tragically Hip - 38 Years Old
12). Metric - Love Is a Place
13). Leonard Cohen - Everybody Knows
14). Bruce Cockburn - If I had a Rocket Launcher
15). MSTRKRFT - Vuvuvu
16). Cadence Weapon - House Music (A1 Bassline Remix)
17). Thunderheist - Jerk It
18). Peaches - Fuck the Pain Away (Music Video)
19). Crystal Castles - Air War
20). Deadmau5 - Ghosts n Stuff
21). Feist - My Moon My Man (Boys Noise Remix)
22). K'Naan - America feat. Mos Def & Chali 2na
23). Kid Koala - Skanky Panky
24). k-os - Born to Run
26). Loco Locass - Groove Grave
27). Classified - Maritimes
28). Shad - The Old Prince Still Lives at Home
drunken heckling, here I come.
An anthology of text messages between Anna and I:
A: "What r u and Allie up to Tuesday night for Canada day?"
M: "Well, we have so many plans, so little time, and so much patriotism in our hearts..."
M: "Aka, nothing planned, but I plan on flaunting a bad tattoo at some point..."
A: "Hahaha fuck off! I was thinking some beer and silly bars in your neck of the woods!"
M: "We is down."
M: "Actually, what are you doing Wednesday day? Lets get our day drunk on!"
A: "I'm down! I feel like sitting and yelling at people!"
M: "Alrght. Drunken heckling it is."
A: "What r u and Allie up to Tuesday night for Canada day?"
M: "Well, we have so many plans, so little time, and so much patriotism in our hearts..."
M: "Aka, nothing planned, but I plan on flaunting a bad tattoo at some point..."
A: "Hahaha fuck off! I was thinking some beer and silly bars in your neck of the woods!"
M: "We is down."
M: "Actually, what are you doing Wednesday day? Lets get our day drunk on!"
A: "I'm down! I feel like sitting and yelling at people!"
M: "Alrght. Drunken heckling it is."
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