it's not farewell, it's just "for now".

League's on. I'm (temporarily, I hope) waving bye-bye to blogosphere and welcoming the world of volleyball. I can blog the rest of my life, but now's prime time for play.

If you really want to see me, come to a game. Bring a sign that says my name in obnoiously huge letters. Bring noisemakers, and if you choose, a brew or two... I'll never tell....

Found, kitchen counter, 8 p.m.

Dear Kass,

I took a coule shots of your vodka [of the nine-dollar-per-litre bottle from New York] one night after the LCBO closed. Here is some Grey Goose.

(heart) Russ

When I walked in the door four hours ago, fresh off my four-hour flight, my roommate skipped over to say hi with the glee of a six-year old on Christmas morning. He'd painted blank canvases for the bare walls on the weekend―the decoration we've dreamed up for months, yet never put art into action. For once, the place looks lived in... new DVDs and a TV to watch them on. Mood lighting for the rooms. And even, if the kitchen sink isn't always clean as per my nazi-style inspection, I can't get mad―because who am I kidding; I had to steal his camera just to write this post. 

Russ―1, Kass―0.

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.

overheard at the polls...

"Sorry, you need something to prove your address before you can vote."

"Uh, nobody said that..."

"Well, then we can't let you vote today, sorry miss."

Rifling through wallet "Library card? No. Letter from a curator? No. Fishing license? Hell no!"

"Do you live close?"

"Um, kinda, but ... don't ... have... time.. can you please... just..."

The pollsters mumble amongst themselves. "Okay, miss, whats your address?"

I read my address off the card I just handed her (duh!).

"Well miss, let's, er, just say that your provided us with proper I.D. Here's your ballot."

Ah, the convenience of corruption.... Canadian politics, whatta joke. 

When you hear ringing and your phone's unplugged....

... you probably need to invest in a pair of ear plugs.

Ratatat and Tiger, Beck's and Beck. My white weekend's been full of bevvies fit to the tune of the music.  But because I need to revel in a few minutes of shut eye, stat, I'm giving the quick run-down...

Ratatat was wild(cat), perfect music for gamers who also enjoy sailing. A brilliant hybrid of natural outdoorsiness, with jungle and ocean themes, mixed with the sounds of Sega Genesis and euro beats, and topped off with a majestic light and dry-ice show. My only issue? I fear for a case of whiplash for the keyboardist. Happy t(r)ails to you, Ratatat!

MGMT, this time around appeared, as my pal so eloquently put it, "a cross between Prince and Axl Rose." With mullets and handkerchiefs, the dirty New Yorkers did recall a certain Welcome to the Jungle, but with less badassery and more inter-ga-lac-tic plan-e-tar-y. My, how their hair has grown. 

Beck, oh Beck. Are you crazy because you are on drugs or on drugs to help you live through your artistic(?) craziness? Beck's popularity would be shot without his rock anthem choruses and catchy slacker anthem riffs. It's like Cobain passed the early 90s alternative torch, er guitar, directly to Beck for the rest of the decade. Sure, you may be able to shout along to soy un perdedor, but what comes after "why don't you kill me?" Obscure, muttered beat poetry dots the funky, bass-heavy beats all throughout Beck's varied repertoire. Well, except for his latest. Beck's certainly feeling guilty about something lately, as his latest release does sound a whole lot depressed. I guess even rock stars go through mid-life crises... 

Bad karma from above.

This is what happens to bad journalists....
Bloggers beware.