Candace and I got separated from our friends somewhere around the merchandise booth. You don’t want to get in the way of a hipster and their sweatshop-free band branding—literally their ability to wear their essence on their sleeve.
We had snagged some bitchin’ spots right near the front of the stage—just a touch to the right—after weaving through the throngs of beautiful people in skinny jeans and dark hoodies. We didn’t want to give up our direct line of sight, so we settled in, hoping the friends we abandoned in the fry for posters and tiny buttons would find us.
I hadn’t seen Candace in a few weeks, so while the roadies filled the stage with instruments, I filled Candace in on my life. This ended in a small case of sexual harassment.
But I swear to good, he was asking for it.
If you stand in close quarters, leaning over the stage railing with your bum sticking out it’s going to get hit. And since I was telling a really exciting story, my hands started to gesture and ended up grazing his rear more than once.
And it wasn’t just me… skate jacket dude was also forced to get uncomfortably close to the Leaner. Skate Dude was trying to get next to Skate Gal. With a tap on the shoulder and a polite “‘scuse me” he gestured towards his intended destination. Candace and I waddled backwards like penguins, trying to make a path for him to squeeze through. Hesitating, he looked at us, the space we had made and Leaner’s butt—still sticking right out.
“Sorry. Not a lot of space with his butt sticking out is there?” said Skate Dude as he stepped into a sideways shuffle.
“No. We’ve already sexually harassed him a number of times” I said.
“Well if you’re going to stick it out like that… what are you gonna do?” he finished with a shrug.
Half way through the show Leaner left. Taking his girl with him. We moved up and got to stand ‘front row’ the rest of the show. And while he could have departed due to the sexual harassment I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. Sorry ‘Leaning’ dude, but you were taking up way more then your fair share of space for a sold out concert.
So Leaner, if you want to stay for the whole concert, stand up and keep your ass to yourself, so I can keep my hands to myself!
Friday, November 30, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
On Late November...
The difficult part about maintaining a blog throughout the November lull is... well, the lull. Nothing happens in November for students--unless you count the annual breakout of the study sweatpants. There is, of course, an increase in coffee consumption and repetitive stress injuries due to essay writing. My personal favourite is what I like to call writer's elbow--something to do with typing for hours on end. Others include the nasty headache students get from repeatedly hitting their heads against the desk (often around four in the morning) and paper cuts--fucking research papers.
Since nothing is happening of any interest (I'm not writing about the writing I'm doing for my other classes) I will write about nothing in particular.
I think the November issue of Spin Magazine is particularly good. Excellent article on the Foo Fighters. The Spin 20 is especially funny considering I normally laugh at exactly none of them and this time I lol-ed at 3. My fave, and I quote, is: "Diplo remixes The Decemberists Nothing gets the club bangin' like a kickass wheel-fiddle solo" Anyhoo.. go pick it up on your next run out to the corner Starbucks. You can read it during your fifteen minute breaks from reading.
It's disconcerting that it hasn't snowed yet. I don't want another brown Christmas. It has been pointed out to me that Eggnog is back on the shelves. This is good. I noticed the Christmas tree 'stores' are setting up shop. This is also good. My newspaper is significantly denser due to all the Christmas flyers that are shoved in the middle fold. This is not so good. (Clearly trees are the big losers around Christmas time.) The point is Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!!
I was talking to one of my youth at the YC about their English class. The whole class had to do a research project on a famous Prairie author. I noted that the choices must have been limited. She said that there were lots. I asked her for her definition of famous. She said published. I'm a famous prairie author.
I haven't bought a new CD in awhile. I should do that. Musicworld closed, in yet another blow to the music industry. And Wal-Mart is reducing its floor space dedicated to CD sales, which, of course, has the labels shouting 'apocalypse now!' Which raises the question: What's the plural of apocalypse? (I stole that from a Buffy episode--since this is for school I feel like I should cite it, though I'd normally let you 'get the reference.')
I find this amusing. It's like in scary movies when the Big Bad Guy twists the head off one of his minions and everybody is all shocked because that minion had done such good work in the past for the Big Bad Guy. The moral here is that if you chose the wrong side, at some point during the movie your head is going to end up on the floor rolling away from your body. (And people say Film Studies has no useful purpose!)
I, personally, can't get on the online buying boat. I get that you're paying for the artist's hard work and dedication but my materialness feels like it's paying of nothing. Plus I like cover art. Here's hoping there is always some kind of concrete format.
Anyway, someone can tell the Foo Fighters and Raine Maida that they get my money next--just as soon as I make some.
Cold air is leaking through my window. I need to get that fixed. I can feel it fall down on me as I sit at my computer.
I'm seeing Stars tonight so I better go get my hipster on. Enjoy the study coma--it only happens twice a year (three times if you take summer session.)
Since nothing is happening of any interest (I'm not writing about the writing I'm doing for my other classes) I will write about nothing in particular.
I think the November issue of Spin Magazine is particularly good. Excellent article on the Foo Fighters. The Spin 20 is especially funny considering I normally laugh at exactly none of them and this time I lol-ed at 3. My fave, and I quote, is: "Diplo remixes The Decemberists Nothing gets the club bangin' like a kickass wheel-fiddle solo" Anyhoo.. go pick it up on your next run out to the corner Starbucks. You can read it during your fifteen minute breaks from reading.
It's disconcerting that it hasn't snowed yet. I don't want another brown Christmas. It has been pointed out to me that Eggnog is back on the shelves. This is good. I noticed the Christmas tree 'stores' are setting up shop. This is also good. My newspaper is significantly denser due to all the Christmas flyers that are shoved in the middle fold. This is not so good. (Clearly trees are the big losers around Christmas time.) The point is Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!!
I was talking to one of my youth at the YC about their English class. The whole class had to do a research project on a famous Prairie author. I noted that the choices must have been limited. She said that there were lots. I asked her for her definition of famous. She said published. I'm a famous prairie author.
I haven't bought a new CD in awhile. I should do that. Musicworld closed, in yet another blow to the music industry. And Wal-Mart is reducing its floor space dedicated to CD sales, which, of course, has the labels shouting 'apocalypse now!' Which raises the question: What's the plural of apocalypse? (I stole that from a Buffy episode--since this is for school I feel like I should cite it, though I'd normally let you 'get the reference.')
I find this amusing. It's like in scary movies when the Big Bad Guy twists the head off one of his minions and everybody is all shocked because that minion had done such good work in the past for the Big Bad Guy. The moral here is that if you chose the wrong side, at some point during the movie your head is going to end up on the floor rolling away from your body. (And people say Film Studies has no useful purpose!)
I, personally, can't get on the online buying boat. I get that you're paying for the artist's hard work and dedication but my materialness feels like it's paying of nothing. Plus I like cover art. Here's hoping there is always some kind of concrete format.
Anyway, someone can tell the Foo Fighters and Raine Maida that they get my money next--just as soon as I make some.
Cold air is leaking through my window. I need to get that fixed. I can feel it fall down on me as I sit at my computer.
I'm seeing Stars tonight so I better go get my hipster on. Enjoy the study coma--it only happens twice a year (three times if you take summer session.)
Sunday, November 11, 2007
On Remembrance...
"No talking. No talking. No talking." A little girl repeats her mother's request over top of our two minutes of silence. See places her red mitten over her mom's mouth, a gag-order enforced by a three year-old.
"No talking. No talking. No talking."
When I was that age at Remembrance Day ceremonies, I used to play in the snow at my mother's feet. Quietly, building little snowmen and hilly villages. When I had reached an age where crawling around in the snow during 'God Save the Queen' would have been frowned upon, I made snowflakes in the snow with the tread of my boot--shifting back in forth in my shlobby Sorrels to keep my toes warm.
But there was no snow this November. In fact the little girl didn't even have her coat on it was so warm. Unheard of. I would have been barely able to move underneath my four layers of clothing and my puffy snowsuit. I walked like a cowboy fresh from a days ride--only I wore neon pink.
"No talking. No talking. No talking." No silence. An unforeseen effect of global warming.
Then a cadet faints. Dead away. A first-aider who was pacing by the ranks, looking for signs one of them would topple over missed this one. She rushes over. After they had lost one a flurry of action ensues. Their commanders quickly spread the message: bend at the knees, wiggle your toes, don't let the blood pool. Parents break rank with the rest of the crowd to reinforce the importance of toe wiggling.
I had never noticed this happening before. If it had, the snow in past years would have cushioned the fall, at the very least.
Despite the losses we push forward in our act of remembrance. The bugler plays, or squeaks through, Revielle, we go over the wars by number mostly, the wreaths are placed on the epitaph.
As the soldiers march away, the muted sound of gloved clapping raises and falls through the crowd. This is normally reserved for the veterans but it's not that easy to tell who the vets are anymore. You can't just expect them to be the old timers --Afghanistan has changed that. I stop clapping when I see zits. The cadets had risked fainting but if applause is all we have to offer those who fought/fight for our country I wasn't just going to give it away. Some people continue--probably the moms who are glad their children survived.
Today's ceremony seemed to go by faster then normal. My dad say he thinks it was because it was well run. I say it was because it was boarding on warm out. I tend to think freezing is the most important part of Remembrance Day, token suffering for half an hour. When you can't feel your toes it makes you appreciate having them, versus those who lost them to trench foot.
Finally, it's time for hot chocolate. Only I'm not that cold, so I don't really need it.
"No talking. No talking. No talking."
When I was that age at Remembrance Day ceremonies, I used to play in the snow at my mother's feet. Quietly, building little snowmen and hilly villages. When I had reached an age where crawling around in the snow during 'God Save the Queen' would have been frowned upon, I made snowflakes in the snow with the tread of my boot--shifting back in forth in my shlobby Sorrels to keep my toes warm.
But there was no snow this November. In fact the little girl didn't even have her coat on it was so warm. Unheard of. I would have been barely able to move underneath my four layers of clothing and my puffy snowsuit. I walked like a cowboy fresh from a days ride--only I wore neon pink.
"No talking. No talking. No talking." No silence. An unforeseen effect of global warming.
Then a cadet faints. Dead away. A first-aider who was pacing by the ranks, looking for signs one of them would topple over missed this one. She rushes over. After they had lost one a flurry of action ensues. Their commanders quickly spread the message: bend at the knees, wiggle your toes, don't let the blood pool. Parents break rank with the rest of the crowd to reinforce the importance of toe wiggling.
I had never noticed this happening before. If it had, the snow in past years would have cushioned the fall, at the very least.
Despite the losses we push forward in our act of remembrance. The bugler plays, or squeaks through, Revielle, we go over the wars by number mostly, the wreaths are placed on the epitaph.
As the soldiers march away, the muted sound of gloved clapping raises and falls through the crowd. This is normally reserved for the veterans but it's not that easy to tell who the vets are anymore. You can't just expect them to be the old timers --Afghanistan has changed that. I stop clapping when I see zits. The cadets had risked fainting but if applause is all we have to offer those who fought/fight for our country I wasn't just going to give it away. Some people continue--probably the moms who are glad their children survived.
Today's ceremony seemed to go by faster then normal. My dad say he thinks it was because it was well run. I say it was because it was boarding on warm out. I tend to think freezing is the most important part of Remembrance Day, token suffering for half an hour. When you can't feel your toes it makes you appreciate having them, versus those who lost them to trench foot.
Finally, it's time for hot chocolate. Only I'm not that cold, so I don't really need it.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Snowglobe...
I say everyone is unique like a falling snowflake,
but all you see is a storm,
in the hands,
of the broken globe you shake.
but all you see is a storm,
in the hands,
of the broken globe you shake.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
On Poetry...
Poetry is supposed to be cathartic. You always here poets and lyricists say something along the lines of 'it had to be written and then I felt better'. Personally, I've always admired how much a good poem can say with so few words. I always write to much. One sentence, one word too many. Much to my dismay, I have to describe my writing as sprawling, rather than concise. So in an attempt to be more concise and with the aforementioned promise of catharsis I engage I haven't really done since I was fifteen. The dairy-esque poem (don't laugh):
Empty boxes, wrapped in broken bows
but misplaced blame proves how low you'll go.
And ever since I met you, all I want to be
is a girl who shows less sympathy.
When I open my mouth to speak
your empty boxes make me meek.
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple.
I watch you, you paint everything green.
Gifts, and girls, and every smile you've seen.
It's not about love, but if they love you more.
It's not a game, but you still keep score.
I choke on all your smoke, I know. It's green.
You keep fuming. It's your nicotine.
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple
You've somehow built your existence on jealousy
but that's an excuse, not an apology.
And you devour everything you can get from me
so how can you be jealous of someone who's so empty?
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple
Empty boxes, wrapped in broken bows
but misplaced blame proves how low you'll go.
And ever since I met you, all I want to be
is a girl who shows less sympathy.
When I open my mouth to speak
your empty boxes make me meek.
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple.
I watch you, you paint everything green.
Gifts, and girls, and every smile you've seen.
It's not about love, but if they love you more.
It's not a game, but you still keep score.
I choke on all your smoke, I know. It's green.
You keep fuming. It's your nicotine.
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple
You've somehow built your existence on jealousy
but that's an excuse, not an apology.
And you devour everything you can get from me
so how can you be jealous of someone who's so empty?
All I want to say is something simple
but I'll lay down, which makes it simple
Monday, October 29, 2007
On Death...
In Vancouver I watched children watch a dead pigeon. Child's-first-fatality.
It was lying there, on Grandville Island's pier. Beak to pavement, and you could almost see the little x's over it's eyes. While the other pigeons spread bird flu by swooping over head, this one was still.
Children started to gather, dropping the bread crumbs they were holding out in their palms. They stood over the pigeon, observing, but keeping a safe distance. One of the cleaning staff noticed the circle and intersected. She kicked at the pigeon to make sure it was dead. The kids gasped and closed their eyes.
Satisfied the bird was dead, the woman took a broom and dust pan from her trolley. Trying not to actually touch the bird she swept it up, and looked around for the nearest garbage.
She found one of those garbages with the spring loaded opening. As the woman shoved the dust pan against the door the bird started to slip into the garbage can. She quickly retracted her hand. The door snapped shut on it's legs. And that's how it was left--dead little legs sticking out of the trash can.
The children had stood watching the whole funeral and continued to watch until the were swept away by their parents. Given more bread crumbs.
It was lying there, on Grandville Island's pier. Beak to pavement, and you could almost see the little x's over it's eyes. While the other pigeons spread bird flu by swooping over head, this one was still.
Children started to gather, dropping the bread crumbs they were holding out in their palms. They stood over the pigeon, observing, but keeping a safe distance. One of the cleaning staff noticed the circle and intersected. She kicked at the pigeon to make sure it was dead. The kids gasped and closed their eyes.
Satisfied the bird was dead, the woman took a broom and dust pan from her trolley. Trying not to actually touch the bird she swept it up, and looked around for the nearest garbage.
She found one of those garbages with the spring loaded opening. As the woman shoved the dust pan against the door the bird started to slip into the garbage can. She quickly retracted her hand. The door snapped shut on it's legs. And that's how it was left--dead little legs sticking out of the trash can.
The children had stood watching the whole funeral and continued to watch until the were swept away by their parents. Given more bread crumbs.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Falling over the line… The Story Continues
The drummer tapes his headphones to his head with duct tape. Apparently it’s a good luck charm, but after the show was over, it's tempting to say the tape was for practical reasons as well.
The stage, to Mute Math, was not a slightly elevated platform on which they could present their wares, but an added member of the performance. Not an entity to be traversed, but one to be included. While their instruments seemed to be randomly tossed about the stage, that sense of confusion was embraced by the band creating a show that danced around the edge of insanity.
The singer would do handstands on his keyboard. The basses would abandon his bass to join the drummer—helping to beat out almost tribal rhythms. Eventually, the drummer dismantled his kit all together, grabbing the bass drum and bringing it with him as he climbed atop the keyboard for a bass drum solo.
It was all over by 10:30. Encore included. Too early by everyone’s standards.
Michelle, inspired by their greatest, required a souvenir. She asked the sound-guy for the set list. Candace and I also needed a little something to take home with us, so e headed for the merch booth.
Long line-ups. Sure sign of a good show. We waited--heck, it was only 10:30! Behind us the venue slowly cleared out. By the time we got the goods the place was nearly empty, and, much to our delight, the guitarist and bassist had come out to greet the hardcores. Michelle asked for their autographs.
So we had merch, the set list, and autographs. Bully for us. After all that, it was pretty much time to peace out. On our way, we stopped to high five the announcer DJ from Sonic, when he says: "Did you talk to the drummer? He's around the corner."
We turn our cute little asses (which will be vital in mere minutes) around with intentions of chatting up the drummer... until we get around the corner, that is.
At this point the real Kathleen shows back up and is all "What the hell am I doing trying to talk to the drummer from Mute Math? Run away!" But no. This was the perfect opportunity to get a well deserved autograph for one little miss Allyson (a youth I work with at my job.) Not only is he a drummer (Allyson is a drummer too,) he is a amazing, experimental and creative one. Candace and Michelle are all 'this ones yours Kathleen. Step up for Allyson.'
The couple he was chatting with says their goodbyes and moves off. He turns to another set of fans patiently waiting for their turn to tell him how fabulous he is. I move in to the vacant spot left by the couple and wait - Tim Hortons line-up style. But the waiting is leaving me thinking time, and nervousness time and freak out time. My face must have shown it because Candace and Michelle start whispering words of confidence, like 'you're a drummer too remember!'
Then, in what Candace later reveals to be the best way she could think of to support me, she takes of picture of my butt. But Candace had accidentally put her camera on timer. So I'm in front of this amazing talent, 'bum posing,' with a little blinking light flashing in the direction of my ass.
Between, the 'whispering,' the blinking light, and my stupid posture, the drummer (Darren from now on) is totally distracted. He turns:
"Sorry. Is she taking a picture of your butt?" he asks.
"Yes." I mumble.
"Why?"
"She does that sometimes." I confess ever so sheepishly.
"Can I get in the picture?"
"Yes!" That, of course, came from Candace.
So now I 'bum posing' with the Darren from Mute Math. Of course, Candace forgets to take off the timer, so their is me, Darren, and the blinking camera.
"This might take awhile" I say
.
"I don't mind."
After 10 seconds of my bum being right next to Darren's bum, we get the shot.
"That will end up on facebook you realize?"
"I know." He smiles.
I warned him it would make its way to the internet. And so I present to you the evidence: The first time I went from simply attending a concert to groupie--okay. So not groupie as in Anita Pallenburg. But my ass did spend time next to his, and I have the picture to prove it.
The stage, to Mute Math, was not a slightly elevated platform on which they could present their wares, but an added member of the performance. Not an entity to be traversed, but one to be included. While their instruments seemed to be randomly tossed about the stage, that sense of confusion was embraced by the band creating a show that danced around the edge of insanity.
The singer would do handstands on his keyboard. The basses would abandon his bass to join the drummer—helping to beat out almost tribal rhythms. Eventually, the drummer dismantled his kit all together, grabbing the bass drum and bringing it with him as he climbed atop the keyboard for a bass drum solo.
It was all over by 10:30. Encore included. Too early by everyone’s standards.
Michelle, inspired by their greatest, required a souvenir. She asked the sound-guy for the set list. Candace and I also needed a little something to take home with us, so e headed for the merch booth.
Long line-ups. Sure sign of a good show. We waited--heck, it was only 10:30! Behind us the venue slowly cleared out. By the time we got the goods the place was nearly empty, and, much to our delight, the guitarist and bassist had come out to greet the hardcores. Michelle asked for their autographs.
So we had merch, the set list, and autographs. Bully for us. After all that, it was pretty much time to peace out. On our way, we stopped to high five the announcer DJ from Sonic, when he says: "Did you talk to the drummer? He's around the corner."
We turn our cute little asses (which will be vital in mere minutes) around with intentions of chatting up the drummer... until we get around the corner, that is.
At this point the real Kathleen shows back up and is all "What the hell am I doing trying to talk to the drummer from Mute Math? Run away!" But no. This was the perfect opportunity to get a well deserved autograph for one little miss Allyson (a youth I work with at my job.) Not only is he a drummer (Allyson is a drummer too,) he is a amazing, experimental and creative one. Candace and Michelle are all 'this ones yours Kathleen. Step up for Allyson.'
The couple he was chatting with says their goodbyes and moves off. He turns to another set of fans patiently waiting for their turn to tell him how fabulous he is. I move in to the vacant spot left by the couple and wait - Tim Hortons line-up style. But the waiting is leaving me thinking time, and nervousness time and freak out time. My face must have shown it because Candace and Michelle start whispering words of confidence, like 'you're a drummer too remember!'
Then, in what Candace later reveals to be the best way she could think of to support me, she takes of picture of my butt. But Candace had accidentally put her camera on timer. So I'm in front of this amazing talent, 'bum posing,' with a little blinking light flashing in the direction of my ass.
Between, the 'whispering,' the blinking light, and my stupid posture, the drummer (Darren from now on) is totally distracted. He turns:
"Sorry. Is she taking a picture of your butt?" he asks.
"Yes." I mumble.
"Why?"
"She does that sometimes." I confess ever so sheepishly.
"Can I get in the picture?"
"Yes!" That, of course, came from Candace.
So now I 'bum posing' with the Darren from Mute Math. Of course, Candace forgets to take off the timer, so their is me, Darren, and the blinking camera.
"This might take awhile" I say
.
"I don't mind."
After 10 seconds of my bum being right next to Darren's bum, we get the shot.
"That will end up on facebook you realize?"
"I know." He smiles.
I warned him it would make its way to the internet. And so I present to you the evidence: The first time I went from simply attending a concert to groupie--okay. So not groupie as in Anita Pallenburg. But my ass did spend time next to his, and I have the picture to prove it.
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