An excuse/warning...

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!

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.)

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Zoom. Zoom.

"So what do I have to do again?" asks Candace over the phone.
"Just act like you're interested in buying a car" I say.

I have to test drive a car for a school assignment, and as I don't drive myself, I've nominated my friend Candace to help me out. I've committed to the process of getting her to lie for my sake for the past couple weeks and for a girl who used to sneak out of her house so her mom wouldn't see what she was wearing, she's fairly resistant to the whole idea.

To be quite fair, Candace isn't the only one who is worried about a little lying. When I open the door to the Mazda Dealership my heart starts to beat in tight little bursts and I half expect the words "it's a school project" to race from my mouth as we greet Denis, our sales associate. But Candace speaks up, stepping quickly into the role of twenty-something looking for a sporty new ride.

"I want to test drive a Mazda Proteger 5" she says, completely skipping over what I assume would be the traditional meander and a little him-hawing.
"Used, you mean?" replies Denis. "Because they don't make 'em anymore"
"Err... yes. Used. I knew that." Candace and I try to move right through this crack in our first attempt at lying, and I start to wonder if the whole lying thing might not be so easy. Maybe we should have gone over our stories Ocean's Eleven style.

Denis, however, doesn't seemed fazed and we follow him outside. He's wearing beige dockers, and a well worn green golf shirt - what I assume to be a fairly standard outfit in car sales. His dark gray hair is streaked with white making him look genuine and, therefore, trustworthy. Probably a helpful trait to have in sales. We stop at a silver hatchback. Candace and I circle around it, investigating, while Denis tells us the details.

"You drive the Honda?" he asks. Candace's car is a 2003. The same year as the car we're looking at. I quickly realize we've stumbled onto another flaw in our poorly laid plan. If Candace owns a 2003, why would she be looking to buy a 2003?
"Ya. I like to change every couple years. I get bored" she offers as explanation and Denis seems to except the idea.
"You just get gas?" he asks. Now my heart is speeding up the tight little bursts. Why is he asking so many questions? Why does it matter if we just got gas or not? "Cause your tank is open." Oh.

We get into the car. It's all black, shiny and sleek. Since it's used, the new car smell is gone and replaced by what seems to be a complete absence of smell. As Candace pulls away she notices the warm hum of the engine and nothing else. Another absence cars makers seem to be capable of.

"Zoom. It's the only word for it" Denis slouches in the back sit, confident in his product and confident he has correctly pegged Candace as the 'Zoom Zoom' type. He's right. She taps the breaks when she notices the speedometer, but her zip over the speed limit is acknowledged with a mischievous grin. As we reach a corner she slows down even more.

"No. This car's made to step into corners" says Denis. With Denis' encouragement she 'steps into' the corner. The car sticks to the road like superglue and inside it feels like another bit of engineered nothingness. Candace's smile turns to a grin. Denis slouches further into his seat.

She plays with the pick-up as we return to the dealership, tickled at how quickly it will jump forward on her command. I open and close compartments and fiddle with knobs trying to seem critical.

"I think I'd get a lot of speeding tickets."
"You get used to it after a couple hours on the road."

I ask Denis if he ever gets nervous during test-drives. The answer is an assured no. He's done it so many times. We are clearly just another time.

After we get back to the dealership it's all thank yous and the exchanging of the business card. Candace and I hop back into the Honda (after she shuts the open gas tank.)

"I really like that car" says Candace.

We, clearly, didn't get away scot free. Our little white lie might end up costing Candace $15,000. Not to mention a couple speeding tickets.

Falling Over the Line... Ass First!

It has come to my attention, thought a recent discussion with my mother, that I collect four things: CDs, band t-shirts, ticket stubs and underwear. Admittedly, one of these things is not like the others, but lets set aside the undies for, perhaps, a later blog. The three that remain, when added together, would suggest that I am infatuated with live music.
All my recreational funds, or ‘beer money’ as my dad likes to call it, goes towards consuming music at its various points of purchase. My friends often question how I can afford it, to which I reply that my clothing style – faded, holey jeans and band t-shirts – is less emblematic of wanting to seem ‘rock n’ roll’ and more symptomatic of the rock and roll lifestyle itself.
I’ll see anything or anyone if there is cash in my pocket to pay for the ticket (except Gwar and the like – I prefer not to be splattered in faux-blood and spit upon.) From Bon Jovi to Bad Religion, from Snow Patrol to the Arctic Monkeys, from Willie Nelson to Christina Aguilera and back again, I have seen a wallet-seizing amount of shows. But I have never, ever crossed the line from enthusiastic audience member to groupie – until two weeks ago Thursday:

September 13th, 2007 -- Mute Math @ the Dinwoodie Lounge

I, ever so uncharacteristically, forgot to pick up the tickets. I panicked, but the day, at least so far, had a sense of destiny to it, a quality that can only be described as providential. As fate would have it, upon our arrival at the Dinwoodie Lounge there was a will call list at the door - so I, along with my two companions, Candace and Michelle, rocked on!
Inside the place was packed. Lights, set deep into the ceiling, gave the Lounge a tiny twinkle. I surveyed the scene, checking for the beer gardens, the merch desk and stage visibility. For my 5’6” stature, the majority of my follow fans seemed to be prohibitively tall guys, which I think you can explain by the fact that Mute Math's song 'Typical' was stolen for use as the Transformers’ theme song. Boys with toys, eh? But such things as actually being able to see the performance were to be handled later – first we drink!

Less dedicated fans milled about the jardin. I got in line to get a bevy and was greeted by a bright eyed bartender. I smiled.
“Rye and coke, please” I said.
She smiled. Then she picked up a clear bottle with a clear liquid inside. I stopped her.
“Oh. I said rye and coke.”
“You want dark rye?” she asked. Another smile. I thought about how to respond. Her big blue eyes were clearly far too innocent to know the difference between rye and rum.
“Yes. The dark rye. Please.”
She looked at the labels of a couple bottles, finally finding ‘the dark rye’ and I got my drink.

Again I say fortune was on our side, as we found a spot within the confines of the beer gardens, right at the side of the stage.
From our position we saw the stage in its entirety, albeit sideways. A standing bass lay down near the rear. Bass drums were cradled above the ground in stands with mallets placed near by, waiting. The drummer’s kit was, a-traditionally, placed to the side on the stage, instead of near the back. Curious as to how they were going to navigate the organized chaos that was their set-up, we watched most intently.

To be continued...

Top Three Audiences!!

Artists, writers, musicians, actors etc. are all open targets for scrutiny. The logic being that if you want to present your wares to the public, you also sign some invisible contract saying you are willing to be lambasted by anyone with an internet connection and is cocky enough to think they're opinion carries some sort of weight.

Now critics can be helpful. If they're good at what they do, they point us all in the right direction, leading us towards a good play or a good book--making sure your money is well spent. Or, alternatively, they help us avoid duds.

But our moods and how we allow ourselves to respond to the artistic material we are presented with can effect our opinions. ie. a headache, or a series of unfortunate events, can leave a CD smashed into a thousands little pieces against our steering wheel.

This is especially true in the context of a live concert. Musicians have noted time and time again that they 'feed off the audience,' and so if the audience has a collective headache, the band can only do so much. So with this in mind, and the desire to give all those hard working, hyper-sensitive (and that's why we love 'em) musicians a break I present to you my top three audiences. Time to turn the tables:

The Forty-Year-Old Women Audience:

They are the best. They haven't been out in far to long and considering the various responsibilities you collect every time you reach another decade, they won't be out again anytime soon. It took many a phone call to find a babysitter, and they're always twenty minutes late because they couldn't get away from work on time. Not to mention rush hour.

While you may find one or two hardcores at random shows about town, this audience will consolidate at arena extravaganzas put on by their favourite band from their twenties. Try Bryan Adams or Bon Jovi.

Having long since left high school, they don't care what anybody thinks. They are fully aware that they are here for a good time and not a long time. They are loud, cause they haven't been loud in years, but respectful, cause they are adults after all. And if you're lucky you can come along for the ride.

Punks:

This seems counter-intuitive. Punks are badasses right? Well yes, but they are also the most aware of just how much damage a good show can do. They've all lost shoes, broken glasses, sprained ankles or rearranged their facial structure on someone else's shoulder, so they are extra sensitive to their surroundings.

The point is to have fun and let a little anger out at the concert so it doesn't spew itself all over their boss, their significant other or any other random human being they encounter. Really it's therapy - like Oprah, only black is always the new black.

It all equals that, in general, when you attend your local punk show, you are far more likely to be treated with respect (then say at the nearest hair-pulling, nail gashing, teen-queen concert), that is, if you treat those around you with respect. As the punk adage goes "If someone falls down, you pick 'em back up!"

The All Ages Rock Concert:

If you can get over the fact you can't carry your bevy just anywhere, there are plenty-o-advantage at the all ages show.

First, avoidance. You don't have to deal with the guy who is just there to drink with his buddies. That guy doesn't even know the name of the band he paid thirty bucks to see, that guy won't even be paying attention 2/3 of the time and that guy is only looking for a 'socially excepted' excuse to act like a jackass. And that guy isn't coming if he can't get shit faced.

Second, height. Kids are short. You can see over top of their tiny little bodies. Enough said.

Third, joy. The more you attend concerts the more jaded you get. The next show you see has to be even bigger and better then the last or else you walk away disappointed. But to young'uns this is all new, exciting and spectacular. No parents, it's dark, lots of people everywhere - it's enough to send them into a tizzy even before the band takes the strange. And excitement is infectious. If the kids around you are having a blast, you are far more likely to drop the blah-attitude you adopted somewhere in between show number 47 and 48, and join in. Plus they are loud enough for both of you, so while they're ripping at their vocal cords trying to show their appreciation, you can slip back into the beer gardens and the band won't be the wiser.

That's it. The audiences that make a concert ticket worth paying for. So next time you go to a show and it seems like your favourite musicians are struggling, take a look around. It could be you've stumbled onto a lame crowd, not a lame band.

Coming Soon... Top Three Worst Audiences!

On How I'm Planning on Meeting Al Gore...

I am sorry to say the 'Test Driving A Car Experiment' will be delayed. My driver called in sick. Remember me... I'm the one who hates driving.

On that note, I'd like to say there is nothing quite like publicly admitting your odd, socially stunting fears to a group of strangers within hours of meeting them. I think I'm going to start telling people I'm morally against cars - that it's against my enviroligion. Not only will people stop looking at me funny, it would be very au courant of me. Like wearing one of those little rubber bracelets. Maybe I should go test drive a bike? Maybe if I'm good I'll meet Al Gore?

Speaking of my new buddy Al, did anyone else notice that the bands at Live Earth were drinking out of plastic water bottles? Even if, as they said, they were the super biodegradable kind, wouldn't it have still been better to drink out of a Nalgene bottle or something similar? That's something I'd like to see - beat up, worn out Nalgene bottles with 'Dave Grohl' and 'Madonna' written across them in black Sharpie, complete with decorative Nirvana stickers on the side.

Just a thought.

Anyhoo... I'll be back with the 'earth murdering experiment' later.

On Stupidity and Ugly Honesty...

In the spirit of academic honesty I should probably introduce this blog by explaining it's title:

I stole it. I like to think I salvaged it - a kind of literary dumpster diving. It was stuck between the word 'need' and a period, nearly hidden, in an article on The National in Rolling Stone Magazine. The National's singer was describing his lyrical style:

The regrets and embarrassments are more interesting than running through fields holding hands. I need stupidity and ugly honesty. Otherwise it doesn't seem real.

I mentally plucked the phrase from it's place on the glossy white pages of Rolling Stone, with the intention of shining it up and finding a more prominent home for it someday. I always thought it would have been a great name for an album, but seeing as I won't be releasing an LP anytime soon, my blog will have to suffice.

I am, in fact, always collecting 'CD titles.' If you've known me long enough, you've probably contributed in someway; unwittingly removed of your words. I grab at sound waves (conversations, passing remarks, thoughtless sentences strewn away) and scribble them on post its, receipts, corners of notebooks - anything available before they bounce off into nothingness. Some of my favorites include:

My Mom Burnt My Toast and My Socks Are To Tight (clearly an album title patiently waiting for post-emo to be invented.)
It's Warm Cause it's Human (for a quirky singer-song writer.)
Abandoned in Panic (a socially aware, yet self-conscious punk band, mayhaps?)

There is a part of me that feels a little guilty about my thieving ways. (It should be noted that all contributors are aware of their, hmm... donations. Except The National.) But if taken in a larger context all the words I've ever written are stolen - from the way an aging man lurches a tired heart down the street. The way one of my film studies classmates uses his hands to physically push his point on to the class, only to turn his fingers in, adding a subtle caveat. The way my friend Saleena never misses a chance to laugh, always pointing out when my own words can be misconstrued and alternatively used. 'Squirreling' then, at least in my experience, is a necessary skill for a writer. Perhaps the only skill. Hopefully a forgivable kind of thieving.

Hey, Rolling Stone stole its name from Muddy Waters - kinda.

It should be noted that my friend Saleena wants to be a pirate when she grows up. Maybe she should give some thought to writing?