Bah.

Oh, wait, Christmas, right? Hold on, I got something here, just, y'know, gimme a minute...

So, um, yeah, everyone's busy. We all got stuff goin' on, and haven't had that much of a chance to get on here and say silly things about your Mom's drinking habits or ask if your brother's been in my garage sleeping off his latest meth binge, because if he is, it's cool, just ask him next time to leave my tools alone, okay? Thanks.

Anyway. Christmas.  So.

The Little Miss' mother and I sometimes disagree about things, and holidays sometimes fall into that conversation, but no matter how we feel about these things, we both tend to agree that the focus during these times is not supposed to be on the holiday, but the company we keep during the holiday. I mean, it's what MY parents tried to drum into my skull when I was a kid, although they had a much harder time with it, I'm sure, seeing as I was completely smitten with the idea of PRESENTS. (More specifically: you guys gave JEFF the G.I. Joe Tank? JEFF? The kid who kept eating the heads off of my Star Wars figures? Christmas sucks, FOREVER.)

Point being: we're not in too much of a rush to spoil Hazel and teach her that Christmas is day when you get stuff.

That being said, watching Hazel open her presents fills one with an almost indescribable joy. She's just, y'know, happy, and what's more, she seems to really enjoy sharing this happiness with everyone she's around, and that can't be a bad thing. To that end: lately, daily, even, I've been coming into Beano to find that someone or other has dropped off a gift for Hazel, and my first thought is always, 'hey, where's MINE?', because, y'know, I'm SELFISH, but it doesn't take long for me to dismiss that thought and just be really grateful. So, this is me saying to all of you: thank you. It's not the that the gifts help make my daughter a better person, it's that your generosity shows through, making this season a little more (dare I say it) magical.

No, really: thanks. To everyone.

Except for Kimmy.

Now I must go to work, but here are a few random links for y'all that might or might not have anything to do with Christmas:

1. PJ Harvey, 'The Last Living Rose': yes, please.

2. You might have seen this already, but it deserves repeating: Ricky Gervais on why he's an athiest.

3. I'm not sure if Eskmo's music is anything to crow about, but this video seems to calm me down.

4. Common sense in Missoula: a jury refuses to convict over a sixteenth of an ounce of marijuana.

5. Susannah Breslin on, simply put, why you shouldn't kill yourself.

6. Ohheyanewblog: co-worker/minion Tiffany and her friend Sarah showcase their mad skills daily.

7. Also: since someone seems to have killed The Straw, Josh decided to give us all a new venue through which we can vent our weird little thoughts. There hasn't been much activity lately, seeing how everyone's doing seasonal stuff, but it's still a lot of fun: The Actual Writer's Guild Of Canada.

Oh, man, I stink. Gotta shower and stuff. MERRY DAY OF EATING TURKEY AND WONDERING WHY YOU GOT ARGYLE SOCKS IN YOUR STOCKING!

Well, That Wasn't Creepy At ALL.

Okay, so, go to the site Dangerous Minds, and watch the video posted there. It's cool, I'll wait.

Back? Fucked up, no? Yeah. YEAH.

I mean, here's the thing: we all engage with pornography in some way or another. You can deny it all you want, I won't call you on it, because, hey, that's your deal, not mine, but I know where you're coming from, because I spent more than enough of my life thinking it was wrong, that I was somehow a pervert or worse, simply because I sometimes found it enjoyable to watch other people have sex. I don't feel that way any more, but, y'know, there's a time and a place, and OH MY GOD THAT PLACE IS NOT WITH YOUR CHILD.

Sorry. That one got outta me before I could stifle it. Anyway: there's part of me that starts to sympathize with this guy, because he's obviously gotta believe that what he's doing (making 'adult entertainment') is not only not a bad thing, but in fact is a good thing, so that he can wake up every day and go to the office and do it. Make the movies. Hire a cast and crew, find a location, shoot it, edit it, arrange for distribution, do PR and whatnot - I'm guessing here, because I haven't yet produced my own porn so I don't know exactly what goes into it, although it might make it's way onto my very own Bucket List, so yes, I'm accepting resumes...okay, enough. Point: he can't do all of these things if he thinks he's ruining lives and reinforcing negative stereotypes in regards to sexual dominance and gender politics (I don't know what any of those words mean, I just made them up).

He can't do all of these things if he thinks he's a monster. Which, y'know, he isn't. He might be deluded, misguided, completely inappropriate, hell, FUCKED-UP, but he's not the Most Evil Person In The World (that title belongs the guy who delivers my papers, a person who, despite my many requests to have the paper deposited in my mailbox, continues to pitch it into the deepest snowbank he can find). He's a guy who thinks he's found his calling, which is to provide the rest of us with the means to get off through the wonders of technology. Even if it means using his step-daughter in his movies.

Which is where my sympathy dries up. Because as much as I know that my own daughter will one day grow up and do...things which will no doubt make me uncomfortable were I to know of them, it will be none of my fucking business. My job isn't to dictate her sexuality, or to enforce certain gender roles upon her, or even to guide her towards what I think a safe or enjoyable lifestyle might be. My job is a) to make sure she knows that she is safe and loved, b) to make sure she knows she has the right to be happy and treated with respect, and c) to hopefully let her see that she has a responsibility to treat everyone else the same way. And, well, d) to make sure she knows damned well that Han fired first. 

That's it. Well, and the whole feeding and caring thing, and brushing her teeth and getting her to poop in the toilet and not on the sidewalk, but beyond that, I have no right getting involved. And I don't want to sit in judgement of anyone, because I've learned so many times from personal experience that it always comes back to bite you in the ass, so instead of saying that I consider this man's behaviour as reprehensible and as abusive as, say, outright beating your child, I'll say this: if any of you ever hear of me doing something as damaging as this to my own child, you have my permission to put two bullets in my head and dump me in the river.

Now I must go, because apparently we have to play a game where we shoot volcanoes out of one hand and numbers out of the other. It's like Cops & Robbers, but with SCIENCE.

Yeah, Um, No.

So, everyone's heard by now about all the examples of redonkulous abuse of (supposed) authority being committed by the TSA (or the Transportation Security Administration, for those who are confusing airport security with a group of middle-aged super-heroes), ranging from the mildly awkward to the downright humiliating to the fucking outrageous. I think it's safe to say that everyone's of the same opinion, that you won't catch terrorists by groping everybody's nether regions and making air travel as appealing as a visit to the gynecologist/proctologist.

How's YOUR colon, by the way?

(Of course, some might go so far as to say that these tactics have very little to do with 'catching terrorists' and more to do with conditioning a populace towards acceptance of an atmosphere where civil liberties are suspended at the mere mention of a 'foreign' name or a glimpse of slightly darker shade of skin, because, y'know, it might be said that it's easier to influence and/or control people when they're too afraid to think straight, right? But who would posit something like that? Certainly not me. Anyway:)

TSA regional security director James Marchand just took this stupidity one step further, by saying that you might want to tell your kids that they should pretend that these pat-downs are just a game, despite the fact that "...telling a child that they are engaging in a game is "one of the most common ways" that sexual predators use to convince children to engage in inappropriate contact."

Don't get me wrong: no one's saying that the people who do this undoubtedly reviled job are child molesters looking to cop a feel. Most of these people are just doing their jobs, and probably hating it, and wishing that they were anywhere else instead of knuckle-deep in your unmentionables. What I'm saying is this: 

You're not touching my kid. 

I don't care who you are, or what your justifications might be. You're not touching her. I realize that I'm being slightly paranoid; our flight next week is only domestic, and I haven't heard of any of these things happening here in Canada, so there's very little chance that the Little Miss and I will get caught up in any of this, but I must reiterate: I will find any alternate mode of transportation, even if I have to drive a goddamned horse and cart across the mountains in winter, before I let you grope my daughter.

Just sayin'.

Jerks.

Walking With Hazel: Grocery Girl

So, there were a lot of things that we did yesterday that were very cute and fun and worth mentioning, but they all pale in comparison to the moment when we got home with our groceries and put them away and then the Little Miss decided that she wanted to "dress up like a shopping bag."

Yes, she tried walking with that thing on her head.

Yes, she walked into a wall.

Yes, Dad laughed out loud.

But, to the Little Miss's credit, all she dead was say 'ow' really quietly and then ask for an apple. Then she decided to wear the bag like a cape, which meant that the strap went around her neck, which REALLY freaked Dad out, which she thought was hil-AR-ious, and so we spent about five minutes running around the house, she giggling like a crazy person and Dad tripping over lego blocks and duplo blocks and wooden pots and pans and matchbox cars until finally we were able to entice the Little Miss to sit still on the couch with a snack bar and repeated viewings of Monsters Inc., which led to us shouting out the name 'MIKE WAZOWSKI' out loud over and over again.

It's fun. You should try it.

Today we're going to the Science Centre with Bruce and Forrester. Because we rule. So there.

I Want To Title This "Oh See Can You See" But Also Think That It's A Dumb Title.

Oh, dear. 

So, there I am, having braved temperatures of minus bazillion, surrounded by all these people who might commonly be referred to as 'pals', were I someone who used the word 'pals', checking out the opening bands at the Republik and enjoying them (Occupied Europe have this Gord Downie-fronts-Joy Division thing going on, and Fist City are what you get when Hot Snakes grow up in Lethbridge), when The Oh Sees come on stage, and main Oh See dude John Dwyer swallows the microphone, and then, well, I'm sorry, no offense, but everything that I enjoyed beforehand got lost in this awesomeness of Pure Rock And Roll.

I don't have any words, really. So instead, I'll share this conversation I had with John at his merch table about an hour before he went onstage:

Me: "Do you guys have anything else besides records for sale?"

John: "No, sorry, we were limited with what customs would let us bring."

Me: "That's shitty. Sorry, I don't have a record player." (Yes, I know that this is technically a lie, as my record player is still in its box downstairs in the room we don't talk about, but I didn't particularly feel like carrying a record around in minus whatever weather, so shut it.)

John: "Nah, it's okay; all of our music is online, you can download it for free. I don't mind: I steal people's music every day!"

Me: "I'm really excited to see you guys play!"

John: "Thanks! I just hope we don't fuck up."

Me: "Even then, it'll still be a good show."

John: "Yeah, it'll make for a good story."

John Dwyer. Rock & Roll God, Nicest Man In The World. I TOLD you ya shoulda come.

I'm White; Am I Allowed To Listen To This Song?

Hey, this doesn't look like my blog, what the hell?

Yes. Changed the layout and stuff. Apparently, some of y'all (Shauna) have a hard time reading white text on black, so now it's black text on white. Is this racist? I dunno. Regardless, change is good, despite my general tendency to face change with crankiness. I'm old, get off my back.

To commemorate, here is Black Thought showing why he's one of best lyricists and vocalists in hip-hop:

Now I must go serve swill and look happy. I promise to make as many vulvas and penises as I can out of your latte foam.

Just Boring Stuff Except For One Really Awesome Thing At The End..

I am currently back to reading four or five books at once, which I know is ambitious and maybe even somewhat counter-productive, given that I have a tendency to forget which characters did what and in which stor, and before long Okonkwo from Things Fall Apart is joining the secret Anarchist Council in The Man Who Was Thursday, while Gabriel Syme is finding preparing illuminated manuscripts over in A Canticle For Leibowitz instead of Brother Gerard, who's instead been transported to the Beszel crime scene in The City & The City while Tyador Borlu is farming yams back in Things Fall Apart. 

It's confusing, sometimes, but I'm sure I'll work it out. The underlying message here, though, is: OHMIGOD I'M READING AGAIN. Which, y'know, is good, given that for a long time now, I've been spending that allocated reading time on the internet watching videos of naked Russian men beating up cars.

Also: I am more than hip-deep in being a Wasteland Cowboy in Fallout: New Vegas, fighting off gangs of Elvis look-a-likes and swarms of giant blood-sucking mosquitos while searching for The Hipster Who Shot Me In The Head aka Matthew Perry and discovering that post-apocalyptia turns most men into cannibals and most women into lesbians.

No, really. 

Before I get a slew of replies concerning video game sex and my lack of social skills (which will all be quite valid and humorous, lemme be the first to say...), I want to point out how refreshing it is, the lesbian thing: not that you have the option to hit on all these virtual characters, but the fact that there's a fair chance that they might just not be into you, solely because of your gender. It's not like the game is making great strides towards addressing LGBT-related disparity in the real world, given that the reaction from gamers towards the inclusion of gay and lesbian characters in F:NV has been, well, predictable ("DEY PUT GAYS IN MAH VIDEOR GAMEZ!"), but I still think it's kinda neat that in Fallout, just like in real life, most of the girls that I end up attracted to turn out to be gay.

And, no, I don't play Fallout in the hopes of having virtual irradiated sex with mutated warrior queens. That's what I have the internet for.

Oh, speaking of Internetz:

1. I can't do any better than this article's title: ALL LIFE ON EARTH COULD HAVE COME FROM ALIEN ZOMBIES.

2. Black Milk's Album Of The Year: what Kanye West would sound like if he stuck with making hip-hop, and wasn't concentrating on elaborate hip-hopera/emo concept rock albums. It's sick. Everyone should send Black Milk a dollar. Or something.

3. The Oh Sees are playing the Republik next Thursday. If you don't go to see them play their rock and/or roll music, well, I am assured that you will be experiencing something that's referred to as 'missing out'. Here is their song that is called 'Block Of Ice'; from all accounts, their live show is supposedly uncanny. Go see them. Go see them. Go see them.

Also: I'm pretty sure the bass-player is rockabilly Craig Evans. Just sayin'.

4. This is the only reason I decided to post anything today. I just can't decide if it's the BEST thing in the world, or the WORST thing in the world. Thank you, Jeffrey Storey, for giving me SCOTT STAPP SINGING A THEME SONG FOR THE FLORIDA MARLINS.

Now, just TRY to have a bad day after that.

Walking With Hazel: Driving Miss Hazel.

Yesterday was a big day, because Mom got herself a new car, and by new car we mean a used car, and it runs perfectly except for the fact that it seems to have no muffler, which is why the Little Miss refers to it as the 'Loudy Car', but it's still good, and it also means that Dad gets to drive the Volkswagon full-time, even though we've decided that Volkswagon translates from the German into "car-that-will-never-have-enough-leg-room-for-Dad".

Still. We are happy, because this means that we can go get burgers and fries and lego and ice cream whenever we want without having to wait 45 minutes for a bus that won't stop at any of our destinations anyway. So there. Suck it, Calgary Transit.

(We should be kind, though, as we discovered yesterday that Dad REALLY has to watch his language, as the Litte Miss promptly repeated every curse and swear that left his mouth, rapidly and with much enthusiasm, which caused Dad much chagrin and embarrasment, especially after Hazel decided that her favourite phrase for the next hour would be, "what the fuck?", which was repeated relentlessly over and over agin until Dad taught her a song about putting gas in the car, which pretty much went, "GAS GOES IN THE CAR IN THE MORNING" sung at the top of one's lungs.)

So we went and got some groceries, and Hazel picked out every vegetable (red peppers, green peppers, carrots, a cucumber and a big bag of mushrooms), and some snacks (fig bars and cranberry/strawberry granola bars) and then proceeded to lie down on the scale at the self-serve checkout so that Dad couldn't actually purchase anything for a few minutes, since she was registered as an 'unknown item in bagging area', although she got back up following the combined threat of tickles and promise of cookies.

We should also mention that Hazel spent a few minutes in the produce section holding two apples to her chest and proclaiming that she had 'big boobies'. Dad swears that he had nothing to do with that one.

Then we walked down the street to visit John at the Roasterie, who wins bonus points for playing The Cure's 'A Forest' the moment we walked in, and then pretended to be a monkey for the duration of our visit, which garnered him the nickname Uncle Monkey. Then we walked back to the car, although we had to play a game which consisted of Hazel trying to pull Dad down on to the sidewalk for the entire block. It was fun.

Then we went to Dad's work and got a cookie for the Little Miss, because Dad likes to keep his promises.

Then we went home, had dinner and then made some popcorn and watched the good parts of Spider-man 3, which we've come to finally accept as NOT VERY GOOD AT ALL. We like all the actors and the director and stuff, but we can't deny it anymore: that movie was a mess. Even WITH Topher Grace.

Then we went to bed. 

Today was kind of a slow day, but we did run some errands, most notably dropping some comics off for Amy & Chris to read, but they weren't home; their kids were home, though, and stared at us for a few minutes through the window before opening the door, and even then it was a few more minutes before they'd open the screen door, which might seem kinda strange and antisocial, but all it means to Dad is that they're very good babysitters and very cautious about who they open the door to and not very weird at all (don't hurt my comics, Amy.). Hazel didn't actually say anything to them, but instead giggled the entire time we were there.

Then we came home, and the Little Miss fell asleep in the car, so she's napping right now while Dad figures out what to make for dinner. We're thinking omelettes, but we might just settle for pizza.

This Is What Is Commonly Referred To As A 'One-Two Combo'.

One:


Two:

Walking With Hazel: We Have Been Very Quiet.

Yes, we have. It's only because we are plotting, you see. We are making plans and scheming, even though most of it resembles either dancing like ballerinas to The Sword, or banging pots and pans together to chase away the ghosts (true fact), or bringing all the sticks inside from the front yard so that they stay warm at night. Still, you'll thank us when the snow demons come and you have no sticks to fight them with. 

Anyway.

Yesterday, we started off by pretending we were a band. The Little Miss made sure that Dad was playing the cymbals while Mom was playing those wooden blocks that aren't really claves nor are they guiros but something in between, and then the Little Miss banged away on her little piano in the next room. We're thinking of calling ourselves either The Bruce Springsteens or Flaming Hellish Banshee Death Knell From Hell. We already have t-shirts, but they're secret. You have to know the password.

Then Mom had to go run some errands and stuff, so we started finger painting, which meant that we got a little bit of paint on the paper, and a lot of paint on the Little Miss's belly and face and hair, as well as the table and chair and the floor, so Dad ran a bath and left the Little Miss to play in the soap bubbles and cleaned up the paint that was on the floor and table and chair and hung the paintings to dry, and when he came back the Little Miss was drinking the bathwater because it "tastes like licorice and is good for my belly."

And who can argue with that logic?

Then, once we got all dried off and we managed to wrestle some clothes onto Hazel, we went for a drive to get groceries and stuff, which meant that at every stop sign or turning lane, Dad had a 50-50 chance of either stalling the car or giving it too much gas while in first gear so that he sounds like one of those jerks who wants to impress everyone by revving his engine all the time. Dad is pretty sure that while Hazel likes it when he revs the engine, eventually someone in charge of driving etiquette is gonna show up one day and demand Dad tear up his license and wear a sign around his neck that reads 'CANNOT CONQUER STICK-SHIFT'.

Dad's still relatively new at this,and he's getting better, so back off.

So we got groceries, and then we had fries, because fries are awesome, and then we went to visit John at the Roasterie, but John wasn't there, so we just got a coffee for Dad and a juice for Hazel, and then it was very important that we walk the entire length of the next block as though we were marching, which meant that only did we have to march but with every step we had to call out 'march!', just so that everyone knew we were marching. And now Dad is tired of typing the word 'march'.

Then we went home (no stalls this time!) and had dinner, and then sat down with some popcorn and another episode of Pushing Daisies, and then it was bedtime, so we went outside to make sure we could see where the moon was, but it wasn't out front OR out back, so we said goodnight to the buildings downtown because the Little Miss said that they were stars.

And then the Little Miss woke Dad up this morning by shoving a piece of watermelon in to his face, and it turns out that while he was sleeping, she woke up, placed a chair in front of the fridge, pulled out the container of watermelon we'd cut up the night before, and proceeded to eat the whole thing, but then decided that it'd be nice to share at least one piece with Dad, which you have to admit is kinda nice. 

Now we're shaking maracas on time with that song 'Little Green Bag', but only because it's playing on the radio, not because we'd endorse anything to do with Quentin Tarentino's movies anymore, and then we're gonna go get pumpkins to carve and maybe make some Halloween decorations. 

Be good. We have many sticks and we're not afraid to use them.

Barely Legal

So, yes, I am legally allowed to drive on the streets all by myself now, and I totally understand why the majority of you swear so much. This is not to say that I didn't possess the mouth of a sailor before this, but lately it's only compounded by the fact that YOU WON'T GET OFF MY ASS, MOTHERFUCKER. I'm already going 70 in a 60 zone, and I know that the only reason you're so far up my uterus is so that you can get home in time to masturbate while watching UFC, so do us all a favour and just chill. Cool?

Also: why am I not allowed to wear my glasses when you're taking my picture for my license? It's not like I've got some Clark Kent/Superman thing going on, where I can fool the entire universe by donning a pair of spectacles...although, ya gotta admit, it'd be a great way to get out of a speeding ticket...

Anyway: this is just me saying, if you happen to be stuck behind me in traffic, all I'm asking for is a little patience, because if you honk at me after I've gone and stalled my car in the turning lane for the seventh time, I'm probably just as frustrated as you are, and I've really got no compunction against getting out of car and making an even bigger scene by kicking out your headlights or maybe just squatting on your hood and leaving a big ol' steaming coiler for ya. Because I care.

 Just sayin'.

Sorry I Been Sleepin I Totally Forgot I Was Here.

Oh hey look I have one of these 'blog' things.

A few things:

1. I hate the Globe & Mail's new format. I don't care for anyone's opinions on how actual newsprint is a dead media, or how you can get all your news from the internet faster and probably cheaper and you don't have to wade through fifty pages of Holt Renfrew Ads to find out that an editor in Toronto thinks that climate change is bad; I don't care. I like newspapers. What's more, if the method by which I receive my news hasn't displaced at least fourteen different forest creatures, well, then, I can't really enjoy my morning cup of coffee, can I?

Anyway. Point is: I used to like reading the Globe & Mail. Now it looks like a tabloid. Some of you might say that it was always a tabloid, and I might be inclined to agree with you, but the fact remains that if I'm going to visit a whore, I'd prefer my whore to be pretty, not trashy. If  I wanted to sleep with a Forest Lawn street rat in a filthy hoodie and sweatpants with the word 'princess' stenciled across the ass, I'd read the Calgary Sun.

(My apologies to any friends who are from or currently live in Forest Lawn. You have a wonderful community. I think.)

(My apologies also to anyone who reads and enjoys the Calgary Sun. I'm sorry your newspaper sucks.)

2. If you call yourself a firefighter, and then proceed to do nothing but watch as another family's home burns to the ground simply because they didn't pay your annual fee, you might want to find another occupation, because your actions have just proved that you are NOT, as you a thought, an actual FIREFIGHTER, but instead a SPECTATOR, and that the only reason you got into the job was because you thought Denis Leary was cool when he pretended to be fucked up on vodka and talking to his dead friends. You suck. 

Also: if you're the fire chief who told his crew to let the house burn, I think it's only fair that someone who lived in said house gets to punch you in the face without any legal repercussion. You suck even more than than your pretend-firefighters.

3. I need a goddamned coffee.

Walking With Hazel: Dad, Get UPPP.

"Dad, it's five-sixty-ten; time for you to get me some yogurt."

This is how the Little Miss communicates.

Today began, well, early. We woke up and we got some breakfast, which consisted of just yogurt and oatmeal, because Dad realized that he'd gotten all the groceries EXCEPT for breakfast stuff, but we were okay. And then the Little Miss noticed a) the huge stacks of clothing that our friend Sherri had brought over for her (thank you!), and b) the tiny piano that Barsky had given her (also thank you!).

Which is why, at five-sixty-ten in the morning, the Little Miss was done up in a pink dress with polka dots underneath a cat costume while hammering down on a small toy piano.

This is to say nothing of how she reacted when she saw the Iggle-Piggle doll that Sherri had also donated. Let's just say that shrieking doesn't do justice to the sound that came out of her mouth.

Since then, it's been a matter of dressing up, sliding down the back of the couch, comparing our feets, playing songs on the piano while Dad sings along (you don't want to hear THAT, lemme tell you...), and, y'know, more yogurt.

Now it's noon, and we have plans, so we have to go. We'll be in touch.

Goddamn.

This is Jasmine.


Two weeks ago, Jasmine was in my daughter's bedroom, reading Hazel a story about cats playing hide & seek. She was eating food in my kitchen, and talking about New York and Colorado and Calgary, and about how much she was in love with her partner. She was here. Right fucking here.


Jasmine was killed in a car accident last night. A stupid, senseless, almost comical sequence of events ended her life.

Jasmine was more than a friend. I have a hard time describing what she was to me. What she still is to me. She's this shining thing in my head that I don't think will ever diminish. Don't get me wrong: she was also kind of a freak, I mean, she got Kathleen Hanna to sign her tattoo and then got Kathleen Hanna's signature tattooed in its place. But that's also what made her so fucking awesome. And it was always good to see her, to be around her.

It might be selfish, but I will not deny that I feel robbed. Cheated. I feel like I want to hold the entire fucking world accountable. I know I'm not the only one to feel this way, either. I don't wish to wrestle some moral or lesson out of her life or her passing, because her life was her own. Her story is her own, and not to be cheapened by having someone else place their own personal philosophy upon it. But if I'm left with anything, it's this: hold your loved ones close. Now, and always.

Today, we spent the day around friends; and while Dad may have gotten a little sad at the beginning, he still let the Little Miss put grass in his hair, and we bought a new winter hat for the Little Miss and tried to avoid all the politicians that were out in the street, and then we splashed around in puddles in the parking lot, and then we went home and played in the front yard, where we blew bubbles and Dad helped the Little Miss climb a tree except for when she felt she was too high up, and then we had dinner and saw some more friends and then we had popcorn and made a fort out of couch cushions and then went to bed. It was a good day as any could be.

And tomorrow, Dad's gonna go to work and try not to dwell on how much he misses his friend, but focus instead on just how much he loves her.

Walking With Hazel: Too Busy To Talk.

Yesterday kinda got away from us. We could sit here and tell you about how we saw a punk cutting the fingers off of his mittens with a Swiss Army Knife, and how Hazel proclaimed, "His fingers broken?!", or the amount of living room gymnastics that went on, or how, when dad's back was turned making both muffins AND cookies, the Little Miss downed 3/4 of a cup of chocolate chips.


We could. Go into detail, I mean. But we've got pancakes to make and living room camping to do, so we're just gonna keep yesterday for us and hope that the rest of you are finding something fun to do on this rainy miserable day.


Peace. We out, yo.

A Message For The Little Miss.

I completely respect your decision to NOT eat the raspberry muffins I just made. That's cool. Maybe they're not that good, or maybe they're just not to your liking. It happens, and I'm not offended. It's not like I'm a culinary genius - I'm knew to this, so not everything I make is gonna be perfect.

Still: I am curious as to why I'm not allowed to finish off the three muffins that you've taken single bites out of; because we both know that you're not gonna come back to them, and it just feels like we're wasting food. It kinda feels like you're just punishing me: "Because these muffins are so bad, I decree that NO ONE SHALL PARTAKE OF THEM." And, y'know, that just kinda hurts, so when you go to bed, I'm gonna eat 'em.

Also: this business of eating all the pasta noodles out of my dish while ignoring the ones in your own? Don't get it. Really, I'm stumped. Obviously, in your eyes, my plate imparts magical and divine qualities to any foodstuffs that might come in contact with it, but I'm here to tell ya: it ain't true. The ones in your dish taste just as good (or as bad) as the ones in mine.

Just sayin'.

Walking With Hazel: OhMyGoodnessSoManyThings.

Well, Saturday started off with the Little Miss being in a somewhat less-than-enthusiastic mood, and for the first little while all she wanted to do was lie down in her bed; then Dad asked if he could do anything to make it better, to which she replied by holding out her Spider-man pillow and asking Dad to give it a kiss.

So, of course, he did. And so we began this game of her picking out toys for Dad to kiss, and Dad kissing them, including Hazel's toy hammer, the xylophone, and a small piece of blue fabric.

Then we thought it'd be a good idea to turn everything in to a drum, so we spent a few minutes hitting her toys with other toys to see what kinds of noises they made. Then we looked at the xylophone, and Hazel pointed out that the string was really too short to allow her to wield its plastic mallet properly, and so we began to scheme.

Then we got Dad's screwdriver and began taking the xylophone apart (it's just a toy plastic one, so don't think we were messing around with some great architectural musical instrument or anything, jeez...), and Hazel got to turn the screwdriver quite a few times, too. Then we collected all the screws in a plastic cup so that we wouldn't lose them, and then took the top off of the xylophone, and then we undid the knot that held the string in place.

Then Dad found some cord to replace the string with, only it was too big to fit through the holes, so Dad asked Hazel to stand a safe distance away while he used his drill to widen the hole, and then we put the cord through and knotted the ends and put the screws back in and now the xylophone is all better. Because of TOOLS.

Then it was time for dancing with blindfolds on. We're sorry, we don't have any videos.

Then Hazel spent the next little while with our flashlight, chasing its beam of light across the room, leaving Dad to speculate once again that raising a child is not that dissimilar from keeping a pet, only you probably won't have to take your cat aside in a few years and explain to them why boys are evil.

Then we went to help Crystal move her washer and dryer, which meant that Hazel spent most of the next few hours in the company of wimminfolk, so Dad's not too sure exactly what Amy and Crystal were teaching the Little Miss, but he'd like to think that it had to do with, again, the fact that boys are evil. And creepy. And not fun.

After we were finished moving the washer and dryer, we played a game on the steps of Crystal's new house that consisted of Hazel telling Dad which steps he was allowed to sit on, and then handing him some small berries that weren't good for eating but were very good for throwing down the steps.

Then we went home, and Hazel napped while Dad tried to get ready for (wait for it):


JASMINE VALENTINA COMING OVER FOR A PICNIC.

Which actually took place inside our kitchen, because it was kinda chilly outside, but it was so awesome, because we haven't seen Jasmine since she left to go live in New York, and even though she's a high-&-mighty Big City Person now, she still came to hang out with us. What's more, after all was said and done, she even did our dishes.


Then we decided to go for a bike ride, because apparently they were showing 'E.T.' at the community centre down the street, and we thought it'd be fun to go check it out, but when we got there, it turned out the movie was starting later than we thought, and it was already quite late, so we gave Jasmine hugs and thanked her for coming over and then we went home and went to bed.

And that was Saturday.

So far this morning,well, we've had a lazy morning, consisting of eating our breakfast underneath the chairs in the kitchen, dancing to LCD Soundsystem and The Black Keys, and Hazel standing guard with the flashlight while Dad took a shower, making sure that no monsters bothered him.

We might go see Kathryn's show today, but it's kinda icky out, so we might not. We'll see.

It Comes Back, But It's Never The Same.

So, that was summer, huh? That's cool, I wasn't really planning on doing anything this summer anyway, y'know?

Anyway: here's one of those shameless self-promotion things where I talk about how we were putting together a zine for The Straw, and then we looked at what we'd put together and realized that we really didn't like the idea of putting out another collection of stapled copy paper that you'd eventually just use to clean your windows with anyway, and besides, we could do better, so, yes: we're kinda starting over, except it's not so much starting over as it's just giving it room to grow.

We want more submissions. We want a lot of submissions. I mean, we got a lot, but we want more; and not just from our little circle of artistic friends to whom we serve coffee every day. We want submissions from everyone. Seriously: even if you're only glancing at this blog because you think there might be a chance that I say something vulgar about someone you know, or you're waiting for me to put my foot in my mouth once again, or you just like it when I swear like a sailor getting rimmed in a whorehouse, we want something from you.

One page, 8&1/2 x11. You can even submit more than one page, if you want. We may have guidelines, but we're lazy, and if we like it, we'll pretend to forget our own rules. So: draw, paint, write, scribble, anything. Take photographs. Trace your hand on a piece of paper and turn it into a turkey. Do one of those bark rubbings. Type the letter 'e' over and over again on one page. Get arrested and send us a copy of your fingerprints. Hell, if you have kids, get them to draw something. Or write something. God knows I've pimped out my own kid (and a couple of yours, too, I think) for our cause in the past. Get it in to us. We'll look at it and say 'yea' or 'nay', but chances are we'll say 'yea'.

Because we were never about being exclusive. We were always simply about speaking up. And we're pretty sure that a lot of you have something to say.

(I should clarify: when I said 'we could do better', I was in no way referring to the quality of the work submitted. That stuff's amazing. I actually meant WE could do better, as in those of us who were assembling the stupid thing. Sorry if there was any confusion. I say stupid things sometimes.)

Now here is a song about Drunk Girls.

Walking With Hazel: Dad Still Has A Head Cold

So, how did yesterday go?

Oh, right. We went out front so that Hazel could see the new birdhouse, and she found a bunch of large branches that'd broken off, and after yelling "ROBOT FIGHTING!", attacked Dad, who had to fend her off with a large branch of his own, wondering where this giggling assassin had learned such skills. Not that he was mad, mind you, just curious. And a little proud.

Just don't tell her mother.

After that, we went back inside and played with her brand new skateboard, which Dad has to strip and sand so that the Little Miss can paint her own design onto it, as the current graphic is just lame: Then we decided it would be best if we coloured our feet with markers:

Then we went to meet Christina and her little monkey that she calls a child, and Hazel fell asleep in the stroller, so we decided to hang out at the Roasterie, surrounded by 40-year-old goths in top hats and eyeliner, yuppies dragging small wannabe puppies around as accessories, and hipsters on their way to Market Collective. And John, who is always fun to hang out with.

Then when Hazel woke up, we checked out Market Collective, where we encountered a DJ who was playing (I shit you not) Thompson Twins, to which I have to once again say: people. I was actually conscious during the 80's. I remember hearing this shit on the radio. It wasn't good then, and it isn't good now. So stop it.

Market Collective was kinda rad, and we picked up a couple of pictures for Hazel's room, and we saw some friends, and we watched Jeffrey Storey play chess while Hazel tried to smother Eislynn with hugs, and we played in the sandbox that they'd set up in the middle of the market (awesome idea, by the way; no, really, I'm not being sarcastic, it was great fun).

Then we got claustrophobic and decided to go hang out in Riley Park, where Hazel tried to feed Eislynn all the rocks in the world, and we got to listen to lots of parents try and control their children by yelling their respective names over and over across the playground.


Then we went home, and hung Hazel's new pictures up in her bedroom, and had some popcorn, and then it was bedtime.

Now we're going to see Kiarra's show at the Straw Gallery, and maybe check out that Hippyfest/Water Worshipping thing going on at the Bow River. If, y'know, winter doesn't rear it's ugly head today.

Guh.

Walking With Hazel has been postponed due to Dad having a cold and feeling generally awful. Still, any day that starts off with the Little Miss attacking me with a stick while yelling "ROBOT FIGHTING!" can't be a bad one.

Going to bed. As my daughter would say: Leave. Me. Alone. Unless you have cake.

This One Has Lots Of Crude Imagery. Don't Read If You Get Offended Easily. Just Sayin'.

So, it's kinda like each member of Boris had created a sonic penis, and the drummer had created about four of them by himself, and you kinda have to imagine that my ears were vaginas, and that they all took turns having their way with my ear-vaginas, sometimes even having their way with me all at the same time, and sure there were times that it was soft and gentle and lovely, but there were so many other times that it was that hard, fast, rough stuff that could only be described as 'fucking', and really, I think I aurally came for about two solid hours, which is roughly the entire length of their set, and I think I have no qualms about saying that Boris gangbanged me for a couple of hours and holy GOD it was good.

Also: Red Sparrowes were pretty good, but they did not have sonic genitalia, so, y'know, there ya go.

Now I must go limp off to bed. I don't think I'll be able to hear properly for at least a week. Here is a sampling of how Boris conquers all. You'll thank me.

Yr Bones Got A Little Machine

This was originally gonna be another post about Hazel, but we had another kinda lazy day, the most memorable moments being when we stood underneath the 8th St underpass and barked at the cars passing by for a couple of minutes, and the full two blocks we travelled in the stroller, yelling, "Here we go!" to each other the entire time.

Right now, we're watching a couple of kids who can't be more than seven years of age practice ollies onto our sidewalk, and Hazel's really excited about it, and I'm wondering if it's too early to get her her own deck. I mean, I guess it'd mean that I'd finally have to get off my ass and quit using my age as an excuse and actually learn how to skate, because, well, why not, right? So what if my bones break a little more easily? Chicks dig scars, and casts are cool, and they hurt like a motherfucker when you hit someone with 'em. I think it'd be worth it to be able to teach my daughter how to balance on a skateboard, even though right now she'd probably just want to sit down and have Dad push her forward on it, like everything else she owns. We'll see.

All I wanted to say with this was: if you're one of those guys who are building a mosque at Ground Zero, and you're tired of everyone telling you that it's disrespectful and perverted and whatnot, despite the fact that y'all apparently live in a country that's s'posed to celebrate freedom of religion, well, you can build one in my backyard, if you want. I got space and I don't care who you pray to, just as long as you don't trample the raspberries.

Also: go see Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World. It is seriously the best movie ever.

Also also: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!?!?!?

That is all. Despite the usual crap, it's actually been a good weekend. Here's hoping you had a good one, too.

Walking WIth Hazel: We Are SOOOO Lazy Today.

We started off with sort of a lazy morning, which involved periodic viewings of Astroboy in between sessions of chasing the beam from the flashlight, showing Dad how to walk backwards in a circle, and drawing many pictures of butterflies. Then she showed me where it hurt on her big toe, and after a lengthy consultation, it was decided that it would be best if we used a Spider-man band-aid on it.

Oh, yes, and we apparently now have a song in our repertoire that only consists of the lyrics, "Sticky sticky bubblegum".

Then we said bye to Mom as she left for her camping trip, and we went to see if we could find anything in the garden. We picked peas, (which Hazel ate) and raspberries (which Hazel ate) and chard (which she ate and then spit out). To be fair, Hazel was very polite, and always said thank you when she was stealing raspberries from Dad's bucket.

Later on our friend Geoff came over, and while he and Dad talked about stuff and stuff and stuff, Hazel also managed to get both of them to draw various turtles on her colouring pages, and everyone agreed they looked pretty rad, indeed. Then Hazel drew some leaves on Geoff's arm, and Geoff liked them, and said they looked like a pretty awesome tattoo, so Hazel drew some more leaves on the floor.

Then we went to the park, where we played a game that Hazel calls 'Burgers & Fries', where Hazel stands at one of the plastic 'windows' beneath the playground structure and pretends it's a drive-thru window, handing out various pebbles as though they were fast food.

(Mom & Dad both swear that Hazel came up with this game on her own. Honest.)

Then we went home, and Geoff said goodnight and went home, and we had dinner and then some popcorn and some sleepytime tea, and now it's bedtime. So, goodnight.

Drivin' and Drinkin', Especially In That Order.

Mmm. Wow. That beverage right there? That's got a lot of gin in it.

So, yes. Today, yours truly was actually driving, as in, continuing the driving lessons that he dropped a solid grand for about a year and a half ago before succumbing to the flu and cancelling a session and then it was Hazel's first birthday and then a couple weeks later was that whole wedding thing and then there were the Beano renovations and then that quick trip out to visit the folks and then another birthday and then a Christmas vacation and then OHMYGOD HAS IT ACTUALLY BEEN OVER A YEAR SINCE MY LAST LESSON? WHAT. THE FUCK. IS WRONG WITH ME?

To be fair: when one attaches one's self in a matrimonial way to the human equivalent of a whirlwind, one should probably expect one's life to take on various whirlwind-esque qualities, and just learn to shut up and keep up and quit one's bitchin'. Just sayin'.

Also in fairness: the only instructor in Calgary who teaches how to drive manual, according to the CAA/AMA/WTF, is an older man named Werner who is possessed of the thickest accent that lies somewhere between Austria and Germany, not sure exactly where, but every lesson sounds like one is driving with Arnold Schwartzenegger pretending to be a motivational speaker at a concentration camp. You might understand my hesitation at getting back in the car with this man.

But, I did. And it seemed to go well, tonight. Except for that moment on Shagganappi when he decided to test me out by pretending that there were objects on the road that I was about to hit that I couldn't see and then started barking directions in that thick accent - "CLUTCH, IN! SHIFT TO SECOND! FRICTION POINT! ACCELERATE! BLIND SPOT! LOOK BEHIND YOU! SIGNAL! BLIND SPOT! COVER BRAKE!" - at which point, after checking my mirrors like a good student driver, I may not have slammed on the brakes but I DID stop suddenly, and turned to this man to say: "Dude. You have REALLY got to stop yelling at me."

To which he replied, after tsking a few times, "Oh, Chris. Is too much, yes? Too much."

And that's when I drove us to a gas station and bought us some coffee and doughnuts, and then he proceeded to tell me about his wife's constant depression and recent committal to a hospital. I swear to god. The fucking people you meet, and the places you fucking meet them. It makes my head spin and my heart hurt, but I guess that's how it's supposed to be.

So, my next lesson's tomorrow night. Apparently he's got something special planned for me. I shudder to think.

Here are some things that seem designed to freak me right out:

1. OHMIGOD FLYING SQUID WHAT THE FUCK.

2. OHMIGOD MONSTER PHONES WHAT THE HELL.

3. OHMIGOD REPUBLICANS SHOOT ME NOW.

Okay that was just silly. Sorry. I will go drink more gin now, and think about what I've done. In the meantime: Josh thinks this is the best song on the new Arcade Fire album. I think the album's got quite a few forgettable moments and is trying really hard to be the soundtrack to some new John Hughes movie, but this song ain't bad.

Also: Please Don't Let The Children Drink From Your 'Special' Juice.

Little Miss, you just spent fifteen minutes on the toilet, singing a song about peeing and shooing Dad away every time he came by to see if you were done. You were very adamant about dismounting by yourself, and cleaning your hands by yourself, and even trying to put your clothes on by yourself. Are you telling me you did this all just so that you could go sit on thecouch and deposit another gallon of urine into it's cushions?

This is why Daddy drinks.

Kidding.

Anyway: I am on a mission. Sorta.

This is Miss Amy. Well, not really, but Amy's pretty much as awesome as a website devoted to sharks and profanity, and she needs a bit of help. She's organizing a carnival for the APRH Community Assoc. on August 14th, 2010, and despite her amazing powers of radness, she seems to be having a bit of trouble drumming up volunteers. Which is where all of you come in.

I know y'all like to spend your Saturdays waking up in a beer-haze, wondering what fresh hell you've put your body through during the previous couple of days, and usually wind up at some patio somewhere prepared to commit more alcoholic atrocities against your liver. I know y'all do this, and I know y'all think you don't have a choice in the matter.

Well, I am here to emancipate you, ladies and sirs; for what better purpose could we dedicate a lovely Saturday morning than to running Bean Bag Tosses or Potato Sack Races, or serving strange concession items to urchins and orphans alike, or roving about the grounds in order to keep the general peace and rescue ragamuffins from getting caught in gopher holes and the like? Do you really think your day would be better if you'd spent it floating down the Bow River in a leaky innertube, most of your metal faculties being spent trying to balance a can of beer on your belly? Of course not.

In all seriousness: Amy needs a bit of help, and y'all know you'd have fun. So if you're free from 10:00-4:00 that day, and you want to do something nice for someone who does nice things for, well, EVERYONE, then get in touch with Amy, or get in touch with me and I'll send you her way. There might even be a promise of beer for you afterwards. But don't count on it, because I'm cheap. Also: even if you're not the helping type, it wouldn't kill you to drag yourself down and check the carnival out, because Amy always puts a lot of work into these things, and everyone usually has a good time, except for that one time a couple of years ago, but we don't talk about that, and besides, everyone knows that kid was asking for it.

Also: no creeps. Honestly.

Myself, I'd gladly help out, but I've already busy that day teaching my daughter to sneak through barbed wire with a combat knife between her teeth. We gots PLANS, yo.

OHMYGODPUTDOWNTHATICECREAMBAR.

So, Bruce & Robin and their magical little gnome known as Forrester joined the Little Miss and I at the zoo today, where we saw lots of animals and stuff and took lots of pictures and had a great time, but if I came away with one impression, it was this:

Calgary, your children are fat.

My own kid has been known to sometimes display rolls, and I often bug Bruce that he's gonna have to knock down a wall in his kid's bedroom in order to airlift the giant tyke outta there, but, really, Calgary: yer kids are fat. It's kinda scary.

That is all. Here is a Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth song that makes everything in the world okay.

Walking With Hazel: A TENTS Situation HAHAHA

This is just gonna be a quick one, as we only did a little bit of stuff this evening.

First, we started drawing pictures with markers, but then Hazel thought it'd be much better if we drew bunnies on her feet. Which we did. Then we drew turtles on the paper, and then we drew monsters, and then we drew eyeballs. They might have all looked like scribbled circles, but that's what she called them, so that's what we are.

Oh, and we drew Spider-man's face, but then she thought it was too scary, so we just coloured over it.

Then we decided that we were going to camp out in the backyard this weekend, so we set up the tent, and rolled out our sleeping bags, and then chased all the bugs out because we have a lot of bugs in the backyard.

Then we went to get groceries, and while we were locking up our bike, there was a lady next to us who was kind of crying, and Hazel actually made her feel better by pointing at her tattoos and calling them lovely.

Then we bought watermelon. We bought other stuff, too, but that was the important thing.

Then we rode over to Crystal's house and picked up our backpack, and Hazel kept it with her for the rest of the way home, but then kinda sorta had one of those accidents that kids have when they're not wearing a diaper. So when we got home, Dad helped Hazel out of her wet clothes, and set her up in the bathroom, and then went to put the bike away, and was only gone for a moment, but then he heard the doorbell ringing, and it turned out that Hazel decided to go outside completely naked and ring the doorbell (her latest toy). When she saw Dad, she thought it'd be funny to run into the street. Completely naked. Making Dad chase her down and carry her back inside and shake his head and sometimes wonder why he didn't drink more.

Now we're having popcorn, and when we're done, we're gonna grab our pillows, and our water bottles, and a flashlight, and then we're gonna go sleep in the tent for the first time ever.

Unless it rains, because then we'll just come back inside.