Tweedle-drums and Tweed-l-dy

How can you doubt he's the hippest president to roam planet Earth?

No matter how it's said over the years, the meaning's the same:

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
If your weekend (or whatever) didn't appear on Facebook, did it really happen?

Tonight, I went to see one of the world's greatest bands play at Toronto's greatest venue. This statement is unarguable.

I went alone, finding a cheap deal on floor seats way past the sell-out date. Alone doesn't scare me - I'm a rare, semi-reclusive Gemini who enjoys being surrounded by people as much as I do being surrounded by emptiness - not that tonight was empty, Wilco's Jeff Tweedy and his band of brothers filled every inch of the room with something that sounded better than any record of theirs, a full spectrum of sound that was full of breaking intensity and steady serenity at the same time.

After nearly two hours of bliss, I left alone, the way I came, wanting to gush about the show's greatness and why it was so. Times like these, I think, I wish I could learn to like nicotine, to stand around and make talk with other social smokers. But a smoker I will never be, and as I walked away from Massey in my hazey daze, I tried to find another way to start a chat with another fan, to recollect the show - it's what I like to do to better engrave the show in my mind, to make it a more permanent memory in my scatterbrain. But no, why loiter, why intrude on a group chat, I thought. I came home to spill my last two hours in speedspeak to my roommate, only to find her fast asleep. Not knowing what to do, I poured myself one last drink and went on the patio - being across the street from the Hall has its benefits - and played voyeur to those leaving. I tried to eavesdrop from ten floors up, imaginary including myself in their post-concert convos. Here, now, I'm youtubing everything Wilco to assure myself, they were indeed as grand as I'd percieved. And I'm blogging, waiting for the first eager commenter to tell me yes, they enjoyed the show too and also thought the lead guitarist was strung out, Tweedy's honesty was adorable, the ticket was more than worth it. But I'm still not sure.

Yes, I fell in love again with Wilco. What I still can't figure out, though, is why I need someone to tell me that I should.

final destination

(this piece was originally published on Torontoist.)

"When you see eight large columns and three heads of Zeus, you will know you have arrived in the correct spot."

Not an excerpt from your typical Saturday night show stub. And unless you've recently taken some wedding photos, not a place where you'd typically head from downtown (because we folks at Torontoist ah-hem, never leave the city's core). But this Saturday evening, the downtown kids "who know" willingly made their way east to the borough for some artsy-fartsy fun.

It was Stillepost that tipped us off about Bite Your Tongue, a mini music festival featuring Final Fantasy and friends. Presented by the Toronto Arts Council and Theatre Centre, the show included six artists in four hours for ten dollars, a bargain by any means. But with a bargain always comes a catch, one we picked up on when we picked up the ticket. To find out the hidden location, concertgoers were told they must return to the location of ticket pickup, given nothing more than assurance that the secret spot's "majesty" would more than justify the trek. We were instantly enticed—mystery, adventure, and music, oh boy!

Come Saturday evening, we exchanged our tickets for a program of artist bios and some basic directions. A long, lonely subway ride to Kennedy and a bus through residential areas made us wonder if we'd missed our stop, but a friendly bus driver informed us we were drawing near to a lesser-known city landmark. Off the bus and now walking through the parking lot, we passed by Guild Inn itself. (Later, the locals—who got in free, unaware of the event—would tell us the inn was previously an artists' colony. Owned at the time by a couple who spent a good part of the mid-twentieth century collecting pieces of art and pieces of demolished buildings, it stands today as a publicly owned property and historical site filled with gardens and fragments of the city's history—like this piece from the not-so-permanent Canada Permanent Trust Company.) Across the field and atop the Scarborough Bluffs, we were greeted with a birds-eye view of water as far as the eye can see, and sky and clouds delightfully unobscured by the CN Tower. And yeah, we'll admit: at the beginning, the scenery was far better than the sound.

Like many avid concert-goers, we expected the music to start late, and missed more of the show than we saw. Gowns, fronted by a grungy female with an immaculate blonde bowl-shaped haircut, played a heavily distorted guitar and keyboard set contrasted with whispery, wallowy vocals. The crowd didn't seem to care, however, until Owen Pallett strolled onstage, violin and MacBook in tow. Smooth, soft falsetto with sudden punches of sound and a modern take on the violin made Pallett's sound the model for baroque pop. He riffed through his newer repertoire, scoffing when the audience requested 2005's "The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead." And during the set, it was a pleasant surprise to see the perfectly disciplined performer stop abruptly mid-song to flick a spider from his ear, showing us that Owen Pallett is, in fact, human (at least to all but Polaris Prize judges). His set, unfortunately cut short by the park's 11 p.m. noise restrictions and longer-than-planned opening acts, was intimate and interactive, short and sweet. The later police presence remained a friendly reminder that while events like this are cool once in a while, they can't always cater to the crowd who wants an encore and another round. So while the ride was, for some, longer than the event itself, it was certainly more about the art of getting there, of urban discovery and experiment. And now that we've been, we'd say it's worth going back.

Talkin' shit about a pretty sunset

Everybody loves sunsets.

This is, in fact, true. Never will you find a nay-sayer―between sunsets on beaches, sunsets over snow, and sunsets even from a cramped car, they're a universally-percieved sight of natural beauty. Sunsets are for first kisses, capping off a long, fulfilling day, or kicking off a night of things that can only really happen in the dark. If you ask a person if they would like to go watch the sun set from some comfortable location, they will almost always oblige. Bunnies, rainbows, sunsets, and love.

But what goes up must come down, which means the day is dawning on another realm, all of it a part of the beautiful balance that is nature. See, sunsets are nice. But it's predecessor, in my opinion, really holds the power.

Sunrises are saved for the more grandoise. I've seen a lot of sunsets, and they've all been nice and lovey-dovey and pretty, and I can't take away from that. But every sunrise I've watched (and I'm certain I can recall them all) has been symbolic of something ending, something beginning, something special. I don't mean just waiting at the bus stop on a goddamn early school day, no, that's just the opposite, it's the norm, it's godawful. But when you really sit and watch the sun rear its perfectly-spherical, luminous head, it sinks in.

Perhaps its this time of year, and being home that's giving me a bad case of nostalgia. I vividly remember the night of my grad―three years ago next week. I'll refuse to gloss over and say that a perfect night was had by all, because that was far from the fact. I divided my night jigging to Cyndi Lauper, and later, singing love songs to a toilet bowl at the Agricom. We couldn't decided on the after-grad destination, and spent the latter part of the eve peeing in Boston Pizza's, and miscommunicating with a limo driver. When we finally returned home, we rolled down the tinted windows and stepped out with bloody, blistered feet and bam!, there was the sun, saying hello, last night is over, you are done. I remember looking around at my friends and playing some reality-t.v. like game show―who, in one year, five years, will make the cut of the Real World, which friends will really "keep in touch" like they say they will (for the record, from that car ride, three). I remember watching the sun rise from an untouched acerage, and thinking of beginnings, and endings, and not much else. A Night to Remember, but that was just the grad's theme. A whole different world to wake up to, that's what it really meant to me on that late-late-night, that too-early-morning.

Then, another time. 

Last year in the gorgeous Gorge in Washington State, with two of my best friends from home, and one new friend, watched the sun rise as we packed up our campsite after a long, aptly-titled Memorial Day weekend. A weekend ending with goodbyes to places, to our campsite and our tent that we didn't once sleep in, to all the music played on a stage framed by nothing but blown-wide-open skies. We'd soon head in the car home together, and then I would solitarily head away by myself to my new home, my first summer away. I wondered what it would be like to spend it without the friends I'd had forever.

Last night, well, by now, two nights ago, I drove an old friend with a past home after a long night out. We reminisced, and as that familiar luminous body rose, I remembered the last time we'd driven this road. The last time, it was when two people became something more than friends. We'd climbed a bridge and conquered it, singing from the top to no one who'd hear that it was ours, that we were a "we." The other night seemed the same. We drove around familiar circles, and when dawn struck we were left to wonder if that was all really in the past, or if the past was playing into the present―into the now, into the new. It all seemed too recent, too real. As the car door shut and I was left alone in what was by now near to broad daylight, I drove home in dead silence, music not too crowd my wandering mind. 

What has happenned, what is to come... real sunrises mean beginnings, endings, but nothing in between. 

SUM 301: Supplementary readings list

in my summer, every day is a (lazy) sunday.

Eggs benny on a thursday at noon, books without deadlines, decaffienated tea because I only realy have to be half-awake anyways. I sit on soft surfaces, only beds, couches, pillows, and carpets. It's all soft, no reads harder than hard news.

My routine is thus, I sleep, I eat, I run, I read, I do yoga, in whatever order I please. I work, but really that's just hanging out with a drink my hand in a wunder-ful place. 

See, the pace is slower here, and the only place I really need to go is upstairs. Outside's still too cold today, but when it warms I can simply take my routine outside and let the sun work its ways on my skin, my hair, my insides, too.

And I thought I had problems.

You're walking down the street to work. En route, you spy a picture of *insert the man/woman of your dreams here* and think to yourself "dammmmn!" And then, out of nowhere, you let out a moan, begin to convulse violently, and when you, er.., come to, you finally realize you've been hit with a tremor of pleasure, provoked by a photo. It's like a wet dream, save for the sleeping part.

Sounds pretty exciting, right? Apparently, it's a bit of a moaner groaner when it happens 200 TIMES A DAY.

The world's fascination with freaks will never end―and of course, neither will mine. For a good ol'-fashioned study break, take a trip to the virtual circus with these weirdos. If I could have any one of the listed superpowers, I'd have to choose #3. Why? Blame Canada.

mamakasss

is wishing all of her blogs were just 140 characters, so she could blog more.

If you like BJs,

then you should read this.

(Make)Over it.

Hottie or nottie?

Truth is, none of these women exist. Not online, not in the real world. They are our (or white America's) standards of good looks, the difference between the babe-alicious and the "I wouldn't touch her with a 10-foot poles".

Each of these pictures is a composite of about 30 photos from a certain ranking range at HotorNot.com, making up the ho-hum "6", or the hoOOoo baby "10". Gentlemen, you now have a gauge to base your shallow appearance-based judgments for any hun that walks her hot (or not) buns past. And, according to PSY124, you're more likely to help the "7" than the "6" if she trips and falls. Why? Even babies know it, and show it―they prefer pretty faces from the moment their squinty little eyes slide open―good-looking people get further in life (at least, according to social psych―don't quote―or kill me).

But what is this good-looking anyways? The difference between the "9.0-9.5"ers and the top of the heap is merely make-up, or more likely, some conniving chicks white-washing clean their blemishes with the not-so-secret brightness/contrast tool. Photoshop is a beautiful thing. How else do you think Brit Brit made her comeback so fresh-faced? Further, may I stress: EYELINER. Lots of it, and only in midnight shades. Lip plumper. Or, as it appears, that icy-purplish shade known as acceptable only in select seventh-grade myspace circles, yet seen as offensive and utterly embarassing anywhere else.

While I've considered it in the (distant) past, I've never allowed myself entry onto the vicious world that is hotornot.com. And in retrospect, I'm glad. Cause even if I'd earn the unattainable perfect 1-0,  I wouldn't―I couldn't be satisfied. The miss perfect ten of hotornot is a photoshopped, Maybellined falsehood. Maybe its subconscious jealousy speaking, but imo, the only way to find girls who actually look like this on the net is by visiting your favorite friendly porn site.

Polly put the kettle on...

all I ever do when I go home, is go for coffee.... catching up on growing up and all the goods and bads that go along with it (in fact, it's gotten so bad that I have to rotate coffee shops so the baristas don't think I'm a caffeine addict... and I'm not, I swear).

... but somtimes, nothing warms the hands (and, *tear*, heart) like a good ol' friend and a good cup o' joe.

on procrastination.

sometimes, the dread is far more miserable than the deed itself.

the riddler

We've heard the riddle. It's about as puzzling as the case of the chicken or the egg, and just as persistent.... If a tree falls in the middle of nowhere in the woods, and there's not a lumberjack in earshot to hear it, does it really make a sound?

But with lumberjacks replaced by tractors, and fewer handsome woodsmen to saw away at the pines, we're left with the need for a new update on the age-old riddle. And when you're working your weekends away, you do a lot of thinking, and not a lot of colourful story-telling―no catching up over coffees, no stories over Starbucks nor Strongbows, no face-to-face heart-to-hearts. So, Riddle me this: If some story-worthy, unbelievably exciting thing happens to you, and you have no one to tell it to (at least by the time it slips your mind), is it really that great after all?

You tell me.

the best nights are...

the kind when you need a shower before you go to bed.

but we're doing it so well

Tomorrow, I'm going to get a fake i.d.

Sure, after many turnaways at Picadilly's, and turn-arounds at the LCBO, it feels legit to be legal here, but it's time I upped the ante a bit. 19? Pff... 21? It's not Vegas, but it'll do. I'll take a gamble with my pride if it means getting into any NYC hotspot or cool dig that I/we choose.

The four of us get in far, far too early on Thursday. We'll probably be groggy like pre-6 a.m. coffee, but unwilling to sleep. Me, I'm unwilling to unpack. It'll be my third ride on the Greyhound in less that a week. I'm not really living at my place, I'm not really living away from home, but for once, I'm really living. I'm not working, nor worrying, I'm just doing it all, and doing it now, as I please.

And as unproductive (and unfamiliar) as this slacker lifestyle may sound, I feel like, for once, I'm getting the most out of summer months.

Whine-ery

Today, I couldn't sleep past 10.

I leaped out of bed, laced up my runners, got on my (dad's) bike. I went uphill, then downhill for an hour, and came back inside only to go back outside, out on the water. We went tubing to tunes, and as Mick Jagger crooned, "am I rough enough?"... I slid off the inner tube in sync with his "ooh," and with the aid of my lifejacket, popped my now-throbbing head above water. I came back inside again, and left within ten minutes, with dripping-wet hair only to drive, to sip and sample wine at one of the World's Top 5 Vineyards (at least according to Travel & Leisure), which in reality, made my head pound a little worse. Mission Hill Winery offered "gorgeous, breath-taking views" of the Okanagan Lake, and rows and rows of grape-vines made me want to lay down and nap. Which I, and my little sister did. We lied on the grass and stared at the sky. Got up and ate and ate again, playing dumb to the fact that we'd have to wear our barely-there bathing suits, baring our near-bulging bellies in a few hours. We shopped and strolled the town. We'd scarcely stopped all day in the plus-35, dry heat. And when we came back to our beach home, I caught myself complaining to my dad, like I have (too) many a time.

"I'm bored," I whined, slouching, sinking into the corner of the elevator.
"But you haven't stopped all day," he says, rolling his eyes.
"I know, but...."and I gave up on my defense. All around me is green, lush, summery, just as I've been yearning for... but where is the flashing, scuzzy "Zanzibar" sign. No angry, road-raged, sun-scorched drivers. No 10-dollar pitchers of headless beer. No homeless men to dance with on the streets at night(!).

Parents.... they just don't understand.

Vicious Cycle

Last summer and this one as well, I've been considered a "server", dropping, cheap eggs and otherwise mediocre eats. Last week, I vetoed the online shortcut and opted in favour of the full-fledged, 3-hour Smart Serve licensing class. 'Smartly', I biked sans helmet, in a dress too short for walking, showed up sweaty and inevitably tardy, only  to be told things I already know, and have practiced (however illegally) from the comfort of my very own neighborhood restaurant. Someone copied answers from my government-issued exam, and I left my workbook behind at the practice bar in favor of the faster ride to the real thing. I left the TIB and biked Bathurst to Bistro as per usual, where an spiked Iced Tea would sit, ready to refresh me. I learned just a half hour ago how the 4 shots in one drink would put me and my BAC (which is blood alcohol concentration, not consumption by the way) at precisely double the legal limit.... and I saw that drink sitting there in all it's glory, completely disregarding that my chugging would make me an unlawful, illegal cyclist. Not that's thats ever mattered (read: riding through gardens and throwing bikes over suburban fences in the home-town). 8 ounces and 2 hours later means either a) I'm a standard college student, or b) I'm borderline bar ejection. Who knew it was legal to have intoxicated individuals in the bar? Uh, is there any other point?

 Last time I sat my booty (shorts) at Bistro, I was booted.

 This time, the laconic 'tender gave a wink as he called my posse 'smart girls' for cutting off soon after that last pitcher. True, it's tough to make the call when four shots costs a dozen dollars, but with work and working out and never sleeping in? The sky started spitting the second we stood from our chairs, and I hopped on my bike and headed east. The rain picked up quicker than my speed, and I booted it back, catching drops in my bangs and on my legs as they pedaled with a strange drunken confidence down College. Sure, I took a few confused, nay, misjudged turns, but the ending result was undeniable. Biking through the lit-up quad, surrounded by flowers and that fresh, summer rain smell, I felt no guilt, no remorse, just pleasure. I forgot my iPod and instead, sang on the bike ride home. A little solo karaoke never hurt anyone.

back in T.O.wn.

I was web-surfing the other evening, and mysteriously came across a family childhood photo on someone else's website. It looks as if my little brother just peed the pool and grandpa's taking him out while I pout (yet foolishly forget to flee!) Otherwise... uninspired tonight.
I feel under-rug-swept and underwhelmed 'cause I've got nothing cooking on the back burner, with no homework and looming deadlines boiling over I'm cooling off... just like the frigin' weather.
I'm caught up on Gossip Girl (which you can, of course, still watch online) and Rolling Stone (but seriously, Heidi Montag on the cover?! mon-tagonizingly disappointing).
In the last few weeks, I've devoured I'm With the Band, and a couple of books from a couple famous Chucks. My pages are all water-logged from the countless hours I've logged reading in the bathtub (and, admittedly, sweating on them on the stationery bike).

Ah, yes, but one lone discovery as of late: city biking!
Far more interesting (and stunningly dangerous) than biking in suburbia, biking to work is faster than walking, eco-friendly, and just looks damn cool. 'Specially if your bike looks like the one I've got my sights set on. But, lessons learnt: when borrowing a bike from someone less vertically inclined than yourself, ask first if you can raise the seat. Not only do you avoid looking like a clown riding downtown, but your ass will be suitable to be seated within the next few hours (ouch). Bike lanes are o.k. but bike paths are twice as nice! Bike rides to che(er)ry blossoms in high park and new ideas and summertime feelings blooming.
First, however I must conquer getting out of bed.

Lester B. Pearson International Airport, 2 p.m.

Every road-trip to the air-port turns the little cogs in my (way hungover) head more than the the last.
Today, I sit in my uniform green vinyl seat, carefully positioned around the perimeter of the gate (to which I always arrive either obnoxiously early or last-minute late) sip my Starbucks and cast my judgments upon all my fellow passengers.

First off, I try and figure out why in god's name anyone who doesn't live on a farm, or have some billionaire business job, is flying to Edmonton. When I realize everyone is either taking care of business or visiting family, I find reasons to poke fun.

*Disclaimer: This experiment is for observational purposes only, no feelings are meant to be hurt in its publication.
Up on the docket today:
A grim foreshadowing of what I hope not to be fifty years from now.
Old country bumpkins, dressed in plaid and army-print ballcaps.
A cute old couple sits, clothes and faces wrinkled on the edge, slouched into their seats with their flood pants and long socks, and extra-support shoes. Everything about their mannerisms mimics each other-legs crossed left over right, glasses, hands folded neatly on laps, short but neatly kept hair cuts-they must be so (many years) in love.
Everyone looks old and out-of-touch, old faded jeans not worn ironically, ballcaps ballcaps everywhere, army print on exactly 6 passengers of the 26 in my line of sight. Oops, make that seven. Last time I checked, that trend died with the German army in 1945.

A four person family- what are they doing in Toronto? Perhaps a connecting flight from a rural area?
Dad's wearing a Disneyland tee-shirt, track pants and runners, mom's got matching reflective (ugh) track pants, runners, and a strange baseball t-shirt that says "Dry is not an option"- oh god, I think it's a Disneyworld shirt too. Yep, definitely heading home from Florida. The older of the two mussy-curled gurls has green army pants (!), brown shirt, and skate shoes. She's gonna be a little basketball player with attitude, the way she rolls her eyes and slouches. Her little sister's the princess, in a pink shirt and matching pink army pants, and Kim Possible (more Disney) kicks.
Typically Canadian, mom's passing out Timmie's from a bulk bag..WEST JET FLIGHT 197 GOING TO EDMONTON WITH CONNECTIONS TO KELOWNA AND VICTORIA, READY TO BOARD IN TEN MINUTES. PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU HAVE YOUR ID AND BOARDING PASS READY FOR PRESENTATION. Hoochie mama just took a seat across from the old farts, tiiite dark jeans (apple bottoms maybe), a tighter, too-short t-shirt, metallic blingin' rings, bracelets, and earrings that would surely stretch out any normal lobe. She's got a bikini top under her shirt (uh, wrong flight, hun?). Her braided ponytail isn't really a 'tail' per se, rather its like a pineapple sprouting out the top of her head-higher than cheerleader-high.

A couple sports fans decked out in blue jays polos and MORE BALLCAPS, carrying backpacks and cellphones on belts. Beer bellies and crossed arms, these are THOSE GUYS, the annoying ones who hang out at sports bars, drink bud light, and eat mild wings. They probably just came for the big game. Too bad they wasted their time on the Jays.

A potentially gay business man has just seated himself straight across from me. Khakis and a white, long-sleeved dress shirt, but the heads-up? Perfectly bald head and a white sweater draped over his shoulders, and tied model-perfect in that Ralph Lauren prep-esque manner. He smiles, almost too politely when he notices my subtle upward glances are directed at him (oops). ANYONE WITH SMALL CHILDREN, PETS, OR SEATED IN EXIT ROW, WHICH IS ROW TEN FOR THIS FLIGHT, PLEASE PRESENT YOUR ID AND BOARDING PASS AT THE GATE. GENERAL BOARDING WILL COMMENCE SHORTLY. The old couple are clutching each other tight, the young pink army girl is whining to her mom, and I'm sitting, waiti....LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE, WE INVITE ALL GUESTS IN ALL ROWS. PLEASE HAVE YOUR BOARDING PASS READY FOR PRESENTATION, AS WELL AS YOUR GOVERNMENT-ISSUED PIECE OF PHOTO IDENTIFICATION. THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING WEST JET IN YOUR TRAVEL PLANS TODAY.

Ah, and all the keeners line up. Hoochie mama's looking peeved in line, tugging at her jeans and pushing out her fat lower lip. I must be 30, give or take a couple years younger than the caucus of this flight. Passengers are clutching their Tim Horton's for dear Canuck life.
Alas, the line is shortening, my time has come to join the masses. But now you know next time to hit Terminal Three, watch your back, cause I just might be watching it too...