Weekend Update

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It's been a pretty interesting weekend so far. It would probably take a long time to flesh out the whole weekend, even if I left all the interesting tid-bits in, so I'll try to do it in bullet form:

• Friday: left with Larry and Ryan for a day of gear shopping, margaritas and music.
• Arrived Chez-Bob's Studio and hung out for a while there. Played a guitar once owned by Lyle Workman, guitarist extraordinaire, and one of two players on the Spilt Milk album (one of my favourite albums of all time). In fact, this guitar was probably used on the actual Spilt Milk album. So I played it. And spilt my milk.
• When in town you have to make a trip to Mercedes Grill. Mercede makes good food, and good martaritas. Just smell that salty sea air. Life is good.
  
• Proceeded to TrueTone music, where we spent hours trying out gear. I've been conditioned to not spend too much time in a music store, so it took some adjustment, but I got there. Bob considered a late 60s Strat, Lar considered and purchased a '78 Les Paul Custom.
• Discussed the relative merits of high-cut vs. low-cut shoes in a boutique shoe store. Bob pulled the trigger on some fine high-tops (way to go, Bob!) The shoe salesperson was quirky, but cute.
• Had a few pints with Ryan, Bob, Lar and Glenn Pierce. I've followed Glenn's music career for some time, so it was interesting to catch tid-bits and stories from him.
• Popped into the House of Blues Foundation Room. People may have described this room to you, as I had it described to me. These people probably used a lot of adjectives and perhaps some hyperbole ("it was a trip! It was the craziest place in the world! I'm gay!"), but these descriptions are often flaccid. So, too, will my descriptions seem, because the House of Blues Foundation room, circa October 27, 2006, was pretty awesome. We were standing beside Tom Green for a while, which made me feel closer to both Canada and craziness... sniff. We watched a band called AM/FM rock the radio dial, circa 1970-1979, with great hits from Queen, Aerosmith, Manfred Mann's Earth Band, and so on. They did a respectable job on hits like "Bohemian Rhapsody," and a great job on Boston, Manfred Mann, and many others. Ballsy, great players and a great taste in music. I highly recommend AM/FM. We also ate from an acclaimed restaurant (whose menu was reportedly assembled from a world-famous chef). I had the hanger steak, and I think I left my heart in that dining room. I fell in love with my steak. I had immoral thoughts about my steak. I... I should probably stop there. But the food was great. Then we hung out in a trippy room full of Hindu statues (Ganesh was prevalent). We were discussing the room when a younger version of Hugh Hefner walked in with two beautiful women on his arms. He was informing us about the room, and specifically the statues. He explained that he knew so much about the room because he designed it. By "it" he meant the whole damn place. And every House of Blues except the most recent two. His name is Nigel, but the man who designed HoB is named James Cafarelli, so I'm a bit confused there. But Nigel knew all about the place, the origins of the wood panels, the roof, the statues, every stitch of fabric... it was pretty cool. We stayed in the house-o-ganesh until closing and drove home at a very late 4:00 bed time.
• On Saturday, slept in, did some errands, then went out to a movie with Laird and Harrison. We were supposed to do a winery, but that required an early wake-up time, and I'm glad we didn't.
• The movie we saw was "Running with Scissors," a surreal biopic based on the memoirs of Augusten Burroughs, who was given away by his mother to her eccentric pychiatrist. He lives in squalor with the rest of Dr. Finch (played by the wonderful Brian Cox)'s family. Home becomes a giant, pink shanty/mansion which is in total dissaray. Entertainment is provided via an electro-shock therapy machine; Valium comes in a pez dispenser, and the rules have been forgotten along with the christmas tree which sits in a lonely corner. It's a bizarre movie which follows Augusten in his futile attempts to win the love of his mother, who is so busy pursuing her poetry career and valium addiction (not to mention her descent into madness) that her son becomes a footnote in one of her obscure poetry books. Although this is based on reality, a discussion forms in perforations along the edge of the film, and we begin to cut out a theme. The movie connects narcissism and therapy, ambition, family, love and the pity of unrequited love- how deseperate we become, and the many sins we are willing to overlook when we are still optimistic for love. The canvass was 1970s America, the soundtrack was summed up the day earlier at the AM/FM show, which means great 70s music. An interesting movie, but I wouldn't recommend it to everyone.
• Sunday means getting up early (forgetting about the time change), and driving Schmaty to the vet to have her innerds, and front digits removed. As sad as that makes me, I'm excited that she's coming back to be our cat. I'm not really a cat guy, but Dara and I have both fallen for this little pumpkin-coloured furball. So she's gone for two days and I already miss her. Now Dara's sleeping and I'm blogging. Not a bad weekend at all.
  

He was moving all around and shaking … and it's purely an act.

I’m not normally one to wish harm on another human being, but I’ll make an exception in making this wish: I hope Rush Limbaugh gets Parkinson’s disease. While the fact that Rush is barely a human being partly disqualifies him from my normal live-and-let-live stance, it’s his insensitivity that earns him a spot on this bench. Besides, Rush, what is Parkinson’s but an act? You can just medicate that problem away, right? (You know a thing or two about that, don’t you Rush?)

If Rush were a liberal (after hell had comfortably frozen over), I would not stand behind him on this, or many other issues. I hope his conservative brethren leave him out in the cold on this one, which is exactly where he deserves to be.

Stupid days

Ever have one of those days where you're just "on"? You say the right things at the right times, you do the right things, you wear the right clothes.... On those days, you're brimming with confidence; the bell of the ball; and the whitty person at the party. Today was not one of those days.

Today was a stupid day. A stupid day (d'uh) is just the opposite of what is described above. Every joke falls flat, and tufts of tumbleweed drift through the room, cutting through the awkward silence. Every lightbulb over your head pops up already burnt-out. On stupid days, you're best to keep your brilliant ideas to yourself. This post is in honour of everyone who's ever had a stupid day. Everywhere, everybuddy.

Would you abandon this little guy (which is actually a girl)?

Our neighbours, whom we affectionately refer to as the Spice Girls, moved out last week. We were pretty happy about that, until we noticed that they left their adorable little kitten behind. Over the past few weeks, we noticed a little kitten left outside on the balcony, always meowing for attention; desperate for love. I have to admit, there were a couple of instances when Dara and I thought about kidnapping the cat to rescue her, but our ethics prevented that. Apparently, the Spice Girls don't go by the same ethical code because, on moving day, the kitten was left to fend for herself.

I call her Borat, Dara calls her Schmaty. Whatever her name, she's cute, she's homeless, and she deserves better. So if anyone knows of a good home for Borat/Schmaty, drop me a line.

Berry Scary

Last night, Dara and I went to Knott's Scary Farm with two of her coworkers, Chris and Jen. For those of you not familiar with this annual event, Knott's Berry Farm (a local theme park owned by the makers of fine jams) converts several of their attractions into Halloween-themed mazes and haunted houses. Dara got the tickets from work, and we spent Friday night laughing at goblins, zombies and ghosts (and Jen whose reactions were the funniest thing of all). We waited for almost two hours for one roller coaster (called the "Boomerang" which is the same design as Toronto's "The Bat," roller coaster). It was a fun ride, but we spent most of the night doing mazes and haunted houses. Preceding the event was a quick meal to TGI Fridays. Afterwards, we dragged our tired butts home for some sleep. All in all, a good night. Next up: dinner at Mercedes Grill with Dara's Georgia friend (see you soon, Jodi).

Movie Clichés

I love movies, and the more I watch them, the more I start to understand and recognize the archetypes therein. But along with the archetypes are the clichés that plague the movies. Sometimes they’re funny, and sometimes you just see them and shake your head. Although there are many famous examples of movie clichés (groups of doe-eyed teenagers will always break apart to look for the killer in the house; all phone numbers start with 555, etc…) There are a few with seem to creep into every movie, but escape the attention of the movie critics. Namely,


-Microphone feedback. No matter how professional the production company, whenever the hero wants to make a speech or sing a song, the microphone invariably feeds back.

-The slow clap. The awkward silence after said song/speech is followed by a single person hesitantly clapping. Insert wild applause.

-Anyone eating Chinese food always eats it out of the box.

-Blood dripping out of the corner of a mouth. Whenever someone dies, the audience has confirmation of the death by a small stream of blood trickling out of the mouth.

-Whenever a character in a movie needs medical attention, people tend to rip the bandage they’re about to use, rather than just using the size of the bandage available. Also, people often call for boiled water. What’s that all about?

-Whenever there’s a gun battle in a car between two passengers, the driver always gets shot. This is as predictable as the Star Trek ensign who goes on the away mission, because we know that ensign is going to die.

-Bed sheets always miraculously come up to a woman’s armpits, but to a man’s waist

-The Eiffel tower can be seen outside any window in Paris

-Any person waking from a nightmare will sit upright and pant. The worst example I can think of is Star Wars Episode II when Anakin bolts up sweating, and panting. Tsk, tsk.

-At the death of a friend/lover, a character (usually a protagonist) will shake his fists in the air and yell, “noooooooo,” usually during a crane shot upwards. The single worst example (or best?) I know of in this category occurred in Star Wars Episode III, when Darth Vader shakes his hands in the air at the death of Padme. Tsk, tsk, tsk….

For October 6 - 8, Las Vegas means:

-stop-and-go-traffic
-exploring the giant house
-delicious lasagna (yum)
-drinking 10 bottles of water, using lots of chapstick, peeing a lot
-sleeping in
-driving with new friends Matt and Kate to the strip. Laughing at Matt when he gets baby poop on his fingers (there are better ways to test the diaper, as he now knows).
-waiting far too long to eat delicious lamb (angered yum)
-walking around the strip
-calling my family to wish them a happy Canadian Thanksgiving (my first ever without them)
-trying to find a cab driver who knew how to take us back to our house
-paying said taxi driver about 7,000,000,000 Yen to get us back to our house.
-driving to get Starbucks. Starbucks is closed.
-playing “encore” and watching Dara’s rapcore side come out
-drinking 10 bottles of water, using lots of chapstick, peeing a lot
-sleeping in
-swimming in the pool
-playing chicken fight with Matt, Christian, Hannah, Caley and Cherie. Having my neck squeezed like a rip pimple.
-watching “The Pacifier.” Critiquing Vin Diesel’s performance as a postmodern misinterpretation of modern man after the fall of Soviet Communism, and also a blatant rip-off of Schwarzenegger’s “Kindergarten Cop.”
-packing up
-blogging about what Las Vegas means as of October 6 - 8th.
-(hopefully not) stop-and-go-traffic