November 30, 2003

more 48 hours

I don't know if adulthood is a line that's crossed as much as it is a path: sometimes a frolic through meadow glades, other times a heavy-hearted trudge through hell and high water.
Even then, getting there is half the fun.
I don't think I've made it to the end, but I can recount a few of the bigger steps I've taken along the way:
Making the decision to skip a grade.
The entrance test for my high school.
The first bus ride to, and first day of high school.
The first month spent sleeping on the couch when I refused to share a room with my sister.
The school trip to Oregon; planning and cooking meals, seeing plays twenty times older than I was, the now-infamous Honk If You Want More Skin bus ride back.
School-based work experience; stabbing myself with a razor - barely missing a vein and a nerve, requiring three stitches, responsible for the scar at the base of my left hand. More work experience; the slow horror of an office job and the agony of being stuck at a desk all day.
Being put in charge of the yearbook: 6 people to work with, 1400 people to satisfy, 5 administrators with whom to fight for the privilege of mercilessly crushing fragile high school egos with a mere caption, carefully placed photo, or misquote.
First actual job.
First beer/joint/smoke ring.
First kiss.
First day at UBC, abandoned in a sea of people.
Finding the AUS; the value of teamwork.
Vomiting profusely at Whistler; the value of finding and respecting limits.
Judging people with Spencer; the value of nonsense and friendship.
Making billboards with Graham; the value of perseverance.
Long talks with Vanessa; realizing that I was an excellent judge of character.
Phone calls to Paige; the value of hope and the element of surprise.
Working at the PNE; knowing that this was something I couldn't do for the rest of my life.
Every minute I spent working on ACF, honing skills I never knew I had, becoming an instant expert on putting up walls whose only purpose was to get vandalised, dealing with angry tour managers (knowing when to call for help), mini donuts and topless bullriders spotted over the shoulder of my mother.
18th birthday and all that came with it.

I still call for my dad if there's a spider larger than a loonie.
My Etch-A-Sketch sees regular use.
I don't know what I want to do with my life.

I'm no adult. There will be a day when I pause and realize that I am (probably while shaving, knowing myself), but until then, I'm happy to remain a traveller.


November 29, 2003

party was awesome.

well worth getting the phone confiscated for. (if you want me, leave a message - I check it every half hour or so.)

the ride home was something different altogether; my dad told me not to speak, and then spent the entire car ride bitching about the sacrifices he had to make for me.

I said nothing; am amazed at the self control I am able to summon (even after 4 Gerald Specials, a glass of wine and a rum and coke that was more rum than coke)

looking forward to IKEA tomorrow, phone or no phone.

before the rumour mill starts up: I kissed Dingwall. On the cheek. At the behest of Ian Strand. For a photo. (more of a comic-strip thing, really)


November 26, 2003

remember this?

more specifically:

(during 2+2=5)
[GERALD turns around, sees GRAHAM and VANESSA]
[VANESSA grins]
GRAHAM: you're hovering [grins like small child at Christmas]
(beat drops)

on the bootleg I've got (and that is spreading about the internet, it seems), Graham is heard quite clearly.

of course, this matters to nobody but me...


November 23, 2003

48 hours crosspost

moving from one place to another, watching endless tableaux swish by in a soundless blur, rendered mute and awed by the bustle that is other people.
in my daily commute, I pass through 4 cities/corporations/whatever, countless neighbourhoods (including my old one), over one river, past four car dealerships, the second largest mall in Canada, by two Telus buildings (separated by four stations), a train depot, and a toilet paper factory.
For what felt like an eternity, I couldn't handle the ride. To simply step through and over, like a pair of 20,000 league boots, making little if any impressions as I stood still and tried not to let the heartbreak show. Eventually, I would suit up like a deep-sea diver: headphones on, something english with guitars going loudly, eyes and mind buried deep in a graphic novel, I simply ignored the world. I still do, when I'm nervous about something. (witness Owen and Paige yesterday, standing behind me at Broadway Station, Owen miming pinching my posterior, while I listen to Thom Yorke wailing about chickens in his head and yuppies networking, and ponder what the interviewer's going to ask me, not noticing that they're there until Paige giggles loudly enough during a lull for me to turn around.)

but I digress. it's travel that does me in; looking down on people and the world they inhabit as you go right by, bouncing like a straight line off a circle (go tangents!), ignorant of their stories and experiences and laughter and sadness; to know that every person you go by has a story that you're missing, a talent that you'll never see, a recipe you'll never taste, a joy you'll never share.

it makes me feel tiny.


- I was in one of Paige's dreams; Owen had a Radiohead cover band and I had a crush on him.

- interview went *really* well; now it's a question of my somewhat spotty availability. and I've been invited back for summer, and also to work in their HR department when I'm done my degree.

- ghirardelli does ridiculous hazelnut hot chocolate. (I stopped at Death by Chocolate on my way back to the bus stop)

- ran into someone two grades younger from my high school that knew me (go tiny public school!), who greeted me with "dude, you were about the last person who I'd figure to become a yuppie." (I was wearing a maroon shirt, shades-of-metallic-gray striped tie, gray pants and the black shoes, while holding a paper cup with a java jacket on it ( which contained said hot chocolate))

- I coordinated lumberjack socks with my tie. And it worked.

- butter chicken went over well; I also think I managed to sate Spencer's desire to cut flesh (temporarily, I assume; permanently, I hope.)

- it's also great to cook with people who don't look over your shoulder the whole damn time and spice when you're not looking.

- la fin du monde is wonderful.


November 22, 2003

I love being home alone, cranking the PC speakers, and singing along to whatever comes up as I go about various chores.

ironing + RCHP
finding spices in various cupboards + Wilco
dishes + Radiohead


November 20, 2003

watching spencer mime things to the Kill Bill soundtrack is like a train wreck: you really shouldn't watch, but it's just captivating.


November 19, 2003

more for my benefit than yours.



don't wallow.

out of here soon enough.


November 16, 2003

more 48 Hours crossposting

scent is the key to memory for some.
for others, it's all about the mnemonics.
for me, it's music.

so, pick a memory: it's the only one you get.

do I go with Rubix Cube, to remind me of the time I politely refused Kazzer's tour manager?
or should I pick the orchestral theme to Super Mario Bros, which was playing when I was told that I would be Upper Plaza Guy?
OK Computer, for the moments in the graphics room in my highschool, designing layouts and forging bonds with equally geeky friends?
Sulk, for those grey, rainy days whiled away playing videogames when I should've been studying?

let's go the other way:
random happy hardcore, to relive the panic that resulted from my losing an act at ACF 12?
Kylie's Fever, for when I saw that I'd failed my first university course?
U2's Beautiful Day, so I can be graduating again, walking across the stage, shaking the principal's hand, and being asked where my mother is?
Andrew WK live, to remember the pain of moving out of Vancouver?

there's a thousand thousand other moments, other notes and words that open doors in my head.
I can't choose.
no. I won't choose.


November 14, 2003

this is one of those weeks where I don't want to be at home. at all.

also, lots of weird dreams.

I wonder if they're related.


November 11, 2003

Delicious Schadenfreude
I think we all know who this is.


November 10, 2003

[for 48 hours]

I had an awful summer.
It started out looking great; 18 years old, job applications out all over the place, finally had my own room, prime spot in east van (far enough that I could use it as an excuse, close enough that it really wasn't.), and it looked like the world was my oyster.

four months later, I had no job (aside from the PNE, which was more being paid to tan than actual work), I'd moved to Delta(it's exactly like Surrey. no matter what anyone says, it's all the same), and my room was pink. with jungle animals on the wall. the sense of isolation was overwhelming, and the commute to my summer class was crushing; watching endless city landscapes slide by was like getting my heart torn out - I still don't know why.

granted, there were random bursts of joy; outings with friends, for normal things like turntables in the states, or ridiculous ones like slurpees in squamish, but they only served to outline the despair that had suddenly entered stage left.

I spent my the last seventy dollars in my chequing account on my radiohead ticket, and I would sit and stare at it, hoping to extract some of what I knew was coming. It didn't work.

but the day came (and paige had come back shortly before, which made it even awesomer), and I headed down to the stadium, ticket in hand. lost paige shortly thereafter, when I had to break off into the elitist wristband section (where my extra $10 went) and head in alone, guided only by a text message to meet graham stage left. (we found paige later, and another friend of ours outfitted her with a wristband.)

long story short, I had an embarassingly good time. knew the words to every song, called out titles after maybe four bars, usually more, watched, absorbed and generally enjoyed the experience of being immersed in music I loved, surrounded by unequal parts strangers and people I loved, and knowing that I was free.

that night, I had one of the most enjoyable bus rides I've ever taken. and this is my 7th year of taking the bus.

two days later, I received an all-access pass to the show, from a friend who was working backstage.

whenever I felt dislocated, or alone, or angry, or whenever I heard an argument through the walls, I would look at my pass, remember the bass of the gloaming passing through me, or phil dancing during backdrifts, or ed's improvisation at the end of just, or jonny rocking out during go to sleep, or any one of countless moments from the concert, and be back on the field at t-bird, free again.

it's a rectangular piece of cloth, somewhere between gaffer tape and denim, yellow bordered with a black and white rendition of the Hail to the Thief artwork on the cover, stamped with VANCOUVER, 8-30-03 in black.

and it's everything that's right with the world.


November 06, 2003

you can't feel cheated forever.

things make more sense now.

this doesn't change that I need to get out.
this doesn't change that I need a computer before I do so.
this doesn't change that I have wonderful friends that I love (and who love me in return)
this doesn't change that I have a self-appointed mentor who started as a running gag, and is slowly becoming sort of serious (and who I am not, under any circumstances, turning into.)
this does change how I look at things; how I react to things; how I do things.

thanks, gang.


November 04, 2003

what do you do when you're told that everything you know about the people who populate your world is wrong, and that the people who are your closest friends are, in fact, bad for you?

psychic my ass.


November 02, 2003

what the heck is vicodin, and why does the internet want me to believe that I need it?


48 hours cross-post.

for those that don't know, I signed up for Another 48 Hours 2, in which a group of bloggers is given a subject to write about, and 48 hours to write it in. there's a link on the sidebar, and here's my entry for this week:

winter light streams through useless blinds, filling a pink room with grey, and irritating the sleeper within.
roll. shuffle. wake. grasp uselessly at the trailing edge of a pleasant dream (all surrey bridges wash out; I am free of suburbia forever.) release the last trailing tendrils, and submit myself to the waking world, one sense at a time:
ears first; close by is the ticking of my wristwatch, parked on the nightstand. no schoolchildren outside, no cars on the road, no footsteps upstairs. Strain to make out a vague sound, wait, wait... it's just Dad snoring.
nose is clogged. fuck. no smells.
mouth. I don't want mine right now - last night's beer and morning breath form a film on the inside. dry tongue meets hard palate, and it feels like an alien world inside my head.
skin: I am alone, but warm, encapsulated in leopard-print.
lastly, eyes: pink room. jungle creatures on the wall. stupid hand-me-down furniture. home.

roll again, to check the time (6:40am).
shift, and return to slumber.