tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-127473272012-02-16T03:51:04.368-07:00Orlandonoreply@blogger.comBlogger1781100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-29576541073004481812008-09-29T17:51:00.001-06:002008-09-29T17:53:01.485-06:00

Lucy wears a crisp clean perfume called M#2 Black March. Twigs and new leaves on a path through a birch forest, cold windy weather, the sound of someone friendly in a white clapboard house and dark trees rising beyond a deep green hillside. She gets these bottled aromatic dioramas from a little boutique off Whyte Ave, one of those shops with deep-set creamy doorways ribbed with crown moulding

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-31070372528463902152008-08-27T15:33:00.002-06:002008-08-27T15:36:21.251-06:00

I have a new blog. Very simple.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-37613917746539468412008-05-29T16:00:00.001-06:002008-05-29T16:00:51.088-06:00

Is for chumps who think they can use Adobe Dreamweaver CS3 to get ahead in life—or at least come up with a not-the-worst blog.More, later.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-6045428172532235162008-03-18T18:58:00.006-06:002008-03-18T20:26:17.572-06:00

This is the new look for this blog—sweet Jesu save me—until I can figure things out. Proper code in proper places. Grafting in the new template still saved the archives—though comments are killed—which is important-ish to me. Although, let's face it, archives are for personal reference, something the writer can point to and say, "See, I said that!"See, I just said that.Expect fairly constant

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-64736932962621836342007-09-26T14:46:00.001-06:002007-09-26T14:47:01.511-06:00

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-43110285790504714782007-09-12T14:49:00.000-06:002007-09-21T20:15:03.517-06:00

The man is saying that he does not believe in God, that he believes in the usual omelette of evolution theory and The Big Bang, and he says, therefore, that he believes in other galaxies, forms of sentience, an infinite evolution of universes. "Infinite universes?" I say. Exactly. "Don't be foolish," I say. "If the universe is infinite, does it hold infinite possibilities? Are there possible

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-4942213834535926202007-09-04T22:42:00.000-06:002007-09-14T20:44:38.096-06:00

That thick mincing pony of a woman returned to her table in the corner of the bistro, twisting the coarse strands of her rusty mane around her fingers as she trotted back. Her nails were painted a gleaming bright blue—Nicole OPI "Blue Lace"—and when her phone buzzed on the glass table, she had trouble picking it up, her blunt nails chattering against the slick plastic flip. She swore and dropped

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-82229318168292561352007-08-15T20:33:00.001-06:002007-08-17T18:03:02.447-06:00

You are calling my phone again, but you never call twice, and I miss your call. I always seem to miss your call, and when you do not call me, I miss you calling me. The cellphone is flashing again, on the corner of the pale ceramic counter which floats in the shadows on either side of the sink, and I reach for the phone, but I have missed your call again. Call me again. I am standing in line with

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-2065030626157930912007-08-09T14:24:00.000-06:002007-08-21T16:17:43.194-06:00

(a) Three hundred years of books and the English language has produced only two perfect novels—Wuthering Heights, yes, and The Good Soldier. I'd like to read something a little more modern, plz.(b) Baseball was put on television so that people would have a reason to get off the couch and go to work and never complain about anything ever again. Ever.(c) Nicholas Angel is the best dressed

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-83502078114852752872007-07-31T15:54:00.001-06:002007-08-16T23:42:38.894-06:00

My girlfriend has been making three of my four room-mates uncomfortable. On her lunch hour, twice a week, tops, she comes over to The House when she knows I am not at home and flips through the channels or pets my cat. The three room-mates all have the same complaint—"I'm sitting here, she comes over, starts watching Family Channel." They don't want her in the house when I'm not there. A valid

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-46582108085882374872007-04-18T23:52:00.000-06:002007-04-19T00:13:48.504-06:00

Some things are not other things. Red, for instance, is not white. Red, however, is definitely pink. Bicycles are not wheels, money is not evil, sin is a joke, but for me its divine, which is a lyric from a song about Crime And Punishment, which is a book, which is a means of travelling, which is bicycles. Although some things are not other things, everything is everything. Which is a song by

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-84367517750081883682007-04-11T21:22:00.000-06:002007-04-11T16:07:02.594-06:00

Loving the wind and weather of it, the stubborn death-by-a-thousand-cuts of it, the (why not?) cock-sure nickel-plated refusal of the damn beast. No, I am not loving it. Spring will not leave. Winter and the wolf at the door? Never mind, we have a harlequin spring shuddering on the front steps, hot air and cold air blowing from the same bent-toothed smile every week, I swear. Stop it, spring.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-11213138637281477342007-03-02T08:36:00.000-07:002007-03-07T20:49:50.958-07:00

This little kitten makes three! No, not that, please. No baby kittens. I have a little kitten, she is eight months old, white stripes around her eyes, Church-Yard is her name. I love the little beast. What a purr! Disturbingly, about a week before the appointment at the vet, she made serious eye-contact with me, burst into a luscious cackle and purr, and raised her ass as high as it would go. The

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-72530530895844160352007-01-22T12:29:00.000-07:002007-01-22T14:38:02.739-07:00

Slowbear The Great + "Banquet" What a beautiful song. The sincere and somewhat-desperate heart, stripped-down word after stripped-down word, has been cleanly filleted from the larger beast. The original gills and silky-sided stutter are gone. That song was diamond, but this song is also diamond. Merely more like your mother's tear-dropleted bracelet from grey-castled Glesca, than like those

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1168312992778174312007-01-08T20:14:00.000-07:002007-01-15T15:07:09.260-07:00

New Year business still going on—which means that there are three more examples of unexpectedness yet to provide, aren't there? Based, of course, on the tenous image—not metaphor—I used last year, that there would be towers of unknowing in 2006, places (hopefully) of unpredictability. By which I mean not only unpredictable, but unpredictably unpredictable, a Rumsfeldian not-known unknown. The bit

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1167371203597195022007-01-02T14:24:00.000-07:002007-01-15T14:32:56.330-07:00

Happy New Year, internet. What did you get for Christmas? Nice. What? Oh, a bookshelf, you know, IKEA. Arrested Development and A CAMERA! One of those small silver Elphs, I love it so much. And mince-meat tarts, and so much more, most of it, the best of it, making me smile even now. Now, last year, I wrote that this year would have better things to report. Now, 2005 was all autumn to me, or a

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1166740448731237282006-12-21T15:24:00.000-07:002006-12-21T15:50:26.166-07:00

To the readers who didn't stop checking back, thank-you. Specially to that large block from the Indonesia-ish area, and all les habitants from New England. Anonymous to anonymous, thank-you. It has been a long hiatus here in internet-land, but, as you know, or perhaps don't, I have no regular access to a computer. Not for foolishness like a blog, at least. Well, that situation should be fixed

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1164660607788599562006-11-27T13:35:00.000-07:002006-11-28T16:24:18.613-07:00

My star-pound-number-sign Galaxie 500 died about an hour's drive from home last night, and therefore I did not update the previous post within the time limit I had promised I would. I love that car, but she has caused me nothing but grief this autumn, and, basically, anyone who offers me a foolish enough amount of money can have her. And by foolish, I mean something approaching ten thousand. Not

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1163827936580846512006-11-26T18:20:00.000-07:002006-11-26T18:26:35.120-07:00

You know what makes me the same as everyone else? I think I'm special. What, you do, too? Well, I'm not, I know I'm not, but, regardless, I keep on believing that I'm exceptional, and that belief makes me normal, regular, pedestrian, banal, evil. Well, maybe not evil—sorry, I guess that was just the Hannah Arendt leaking out of me. Or do I mean the pretentious?Also, am I the ONLY chump out there

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1163017637728455452006-11-08T23:02:00.000-07:002006-11-17T19:01:39.706-07:00

All my room-mates—but especially the flaxen-haired Viking—are in love with the new addition to the household. That would be Church, as in Church-Yard, as in Elegy Written In A Country Church-Yard, the kitten on the right. Gorgeous. She's got all our hearts, and the crush crush crush is so comforting, now. Who doesn't love a kitten? Yeah, Satan, sure, but that particular entity is a Tin Man, oh my

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1161832345193524462006-10-24T17:04:00.000-06:002006-10-30T22:22:17.500-07:00

Light is like a wedding ring right now. Gold and harmony, and Henry Purcell ("Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me"). My brother was in the city—class at university—and we went for a walk around the block, coffee cups in hand. T-shirt weather, don't you know? Trees standing about like brassy backlit giants, black arms shining in the bright light. People talk about seizing the day, but

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1160680613294071922006-10-12T13:04:00.000-06:002006-10-12T13:54:59.676-06:00

If, for reasons parlous or unknown, you've been wondering whether your favourite black-and-white page (the one with the often-nonsense headlines and randomly posted pix) would EVER be updated or not, wonder no longer. Well, but it has been forever, I know. My visitor count is way down, even among the new faces, other minds. I can only assume that most people expect poison from standing water. My

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1158597709503873042006-09-19T10:38:00.000-06:002006-09-19T13:18:50.986-06:00

Scritti Politti + "After Six" The Scritti Politti track which Fluxblog posted today is too good not to share. And, despite the fact that Matthew Perpetua gets 3000+ visitors a day and I average 150, and despite the nameless numberless scribblers who have also shared la musique de SP, I feel compelled to share this exact song—and for the following reasons. 1) Gold is useless, you know ("A piece of

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1156830611864279732006-09-14T21:00:00.000-06:002006-09-14T21:09:11.613-06:00

There's your picture. She's shy and doesn't play. Afraid of hurting her paws, likely. Hisses at strangers. Accepting applications for new best friend ever since I left town. Whatever. What's that? No, not much. My time has been pretty evenly divided between Morinville, St. Albert and Edmonton. Not by choice, though. Listen, the mechanic called me up! Yes. Of COURSE about the car. No, this morning

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1157522383338026912006-09-05T23:58:00.000-06:002006-09-06T00:00:19.416-06:00

*No post this week.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1156490033874630352006-08-25T04:42:00.000-06:002006-10-05T13:24:11.180-06:00

The lawnmower dies as I ease off the throttle. The last of the grass is finally cut. Eleven o'clock in the morning, the good summer sun sinking heavily into the trees. My brother picks me up on the avenue, and we load the lawnmower into the trunk of the Hyundai. Large patches of damp grass slip from the bottom of the machine onto the floor of the trunk. "Why didn't you clean it off?" my brother

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1155852409586698132006-08-17T15:40:00.000-06:002006-08-18T08:15:30.590-06:00

The Wolf Parade show was a bust. Do you think that "bust" is a positive? Let's ignore the obvious one there, please. I'm thinking of To The Moon Or. And Monday night's show at The Starlite didn't go near the White Lady. In fact, you would have thought there was a lunar eclipse. Listen, it was a great set, the sound was good, all the right notes, chords, strings, golden striking of golden guitars.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1154767894996832652006-08-05T02:48:00.000-06:002006-08-12T03:25:04.540-06:00

"I'm leaving while you turn away / In the basement is where I'm gonna stay". It's over. Heartbreaking.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1153867729478300902006-07-29T06:32:00.000-06:002006-07-29T05:08:09.493-06:00

Mexico has unofficially declared war on the United States of America. Father Jose Ramalla and several other prominent priests and leaders of The Holy Latin Resistance For God released a media-statement soliciting support from religious citizens of every nation: "Oh, Catholics everywhere, I call on you to fight and become martyrs." Several large paramilitary groups fired rockets across Texas

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1153379214519838892006-07-24T12:44:00.000-06:002006-07-25T13:39:13.096-06:00

I have TOO MANY little projects on the go at one time. I'm still messing about with the car, the desk is STILL not done, I have yet to build a stand for the unicorn, and then there is that screen made out of wallpaper samples and trim, which sounds terrible, I know, but trust me, when it's done, it will seem like a piece of classic Augustan furnishing. Then there is the house on 78 Ave, which is

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1152674588975828392006-07-11T20:54:00.000-06:002006-07-29T04:55:09.210-06:00

I'm disappointed, too. Little things, you know? They always disappoint you the most. Well, thankfully. I'd hate for the big things to start Hindenburging down on me. For example (little-things-wise, that is): I have been QUITE excited about the Edgar Rice Burroughs film coming out in the near future. I am, as many previous posts on this blog can testify, a very large Burroughs fan. By Issus! Not

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1152221015472475772006-07-06T14:19:00.000-06:002006-07-07T14:54:02.576-06:00

I've looked at three thousand plus fonts over the past three days. And the best lettering of them all, as far as I can make out—the cleanest, the kindest, the most careful for clarity, the most stand-tall, most Aslan of them all—was cut by the Romans into their plaques and monuments around two thousand years ago. Arial is a serviceable font and Courier is like mercury, quick and silver, of course

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1149295150445479522006-06-02T18:38:00.000-06:002006-06-02T18:40:45.736-06:00

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1148625020494196402006-05-26T10:35:00.000-06:002006-07-29T05:04:54.436-06:00

No good, I guess, but the team was due for a loss. How many wins in a row was that? Time to sit back a little, then. Selanne and Niedermayer just made it easier to excuse, is all. Did you see N stopping that third-period try? Man is brilliant, a contender. And nobody can stop desperation, so of course the Ducks were going to win. The Oilers go back to The Pond, then, and they'll V For Victory

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1148018775283263272006-05-18T23:38:00.000-06:002006-05-19T11:40:21.553-06:00

So, the Oilers won on Wednesday, of course, and that is the hugeness. What's Whyte Ave going to be like if they make it to the finals, I ask? Twenty-thousand people Wednesday on Whyte, some say more. Insanity. This city will tear itself apart if the team hits the finals. I'm a Leafs fan (that's thirty-nine years without a cup, by the way) and not an Oilers hick, but I'm bandwagoning Smitty and

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1147403535010365472006-05-11T20:48:00.000-06:002006-05-11T21:32:32.636-06:00

I am BACK, people. I'm so back, I make the rest of them look spineless. I'm so back, baby doesn't got any. I'm so back, I'm practically front. I'm back like nobody knows and what nobody knows is that I'm back.First! With a shouty voice! Details! This tri-weekly business I was all about before is right OUT! I'll post once a week, just like taking out the coffee grounds and empty bottles. Anything

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1146089930381503152006-04-26T16:18:00.000-06:002006-04-26T16:18:50.393-06:00

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1145869247944323632006-04-24T21:15:00.000-06:002006-04-25T00:46:30.020-06:00

I remember my dad took us down the hill to Centennial Park on the bay. Every year, toward the end of July, the carnival would set up on the withered yellow grass beside the marina. There was cotton candy, and a virtual space shuttle, and a long slide which you rode a burlap sack down, and fake tattoos, and enormous badly-sewn teddy-bears and, most importantly, even bigger than the ferris wheel,

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1145599902392258932006-04-21T02:32:00.000-06:002006-04-21T02:55:12.613-06:00

There was a time when giants ruled the earth. Not men, not large men with six fingers on each hand, not the sons of angels or the snake-headed men in Egypt who tried to sabotage the unity of the pyramids from a secret lair in the heart of Crocodilopolis, and not, most especially, the large thievish clan called Doone which terrorized parts of Cornwall and Kent, no, not any of these, none of these

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1145397549288087872006-04-18T14:21:00.000-06:002006-04-20T23:53:29.850-06:00

I like cigars. I like the slim cigarillos Clint deals like aces in his films, and I like the big fat Cubans the mafia-types always seem to be fishing out of their pockets. And to the drunk who asked me about my sexual preferences, I am an English major, sir, and therefore nearly androgynous. And, yes, being an English major, I am strongly aware of a great deal of pop-Freudian theory. Freud, don't

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1144726075503088572006-04-12T10:10:00.000-06:002006-04-12T22:34:11.323-06:00

Had I but world enough and time, dear ones, oh, I should post every day. I would probably eat a Bartlett pear every day if I could, too, or one of those russet apples, but it's just not going to happen for me. Life is grim and full of Thomas Hardy, and, the fact is, I don't have enough time or even nearly enough world to post three times a week, never mind every rotation of the earth around that

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1144136670789262342006-04-04T10:04:00.000-06:002006-04-04T10:12:26.690-06:00

Friday was by far the busiest day. 1) There was school. 2) There was work. 3) There was the theatre—I am happy to report that She's The Man is stupid and hilarious. 4) There was some guy attacking me at the Strat—"For five years, I thought you were the coolest guy and now I want to kill you"—honestly, I have no idea who he was. 5) There was International Airport at three in morning. 6) But, best

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1143738402094716832006-03-30T10:00:00.000-07:002006-03-30T10:06:42.133-07:00

Moo! I am having problems uploading pix and links to this blog. Just as frustrating, Error 403 (Forbidden) shows up about half the time I try to access this page. Other stuff, server-related, is happening, too. Perhaps the net is about to implode? I'll keep trying if you keep checking back.Dammit, maybe I'll just go listen to some Ghostface and read Treasure Island.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1143087941105138142006-03-27T07:22:00.000-07:002006-03-27T11:05:52.056-07:00

I ran two photos of myself through the works, doing that Find The Celebrity In You thing over at MyHeritage and these are the names, in order, of the great ones I am supposed to resemble: Oscar Wilde, Alexandre Dumas, Henry Mancini, George Harrison, Brigham Young, Felix Mendelsohn, Annette Bening, Guillermo Coria, Maurice Maeterlinck, Paul Klee, J. M. Coetzee, Andie MacDowell, Gabriel Byrne, Mel

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1143088264593240882006-03-24T10:25:00.000-07:002006-03-24T23:03:31.640-07:00

What is best in life? To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women? Right, maybe not. But it would be something, at least. There are no shows coming up that I want to see. Movies? Please. Listen, my one shoe just finished tearing down the instep. That pair of black trousers has gone missing. My second job wants me to increase my availability

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1143005790634613542006-03-22T10:51:00.000-07:002006-03-22T23:14:11.933-07:00

We're in her car—these things are ALWAYS in her car—and my girlfriend abruptly chants, with enthusiasm, "ZOO-dle DOO-dle COO-dle!""It's probably Tourettes'," I say. "Let's look into that.""FOO-dle!"That one made me laugh.Sometimes you've just got to go with it and enjoy. Blazing—blazing?—noodling away at my next soon-to-be-unfinished novel, I'm going to write in a character called Brigadier James

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1142835827543114362006-03-20T10:00:00.000-07:002006-03-21T20:57:32.270-07:00

I know it's the same subject twice, now, but I can't help it, people, not posting this pic would have been daggers in my heart.Listen, V For Vendetta, the film, erases the ONLY complaint I had about V For Vendetta, the (thank-you, AK) trade paperback. Which was the garbage drawing in most of the panels. Which I am entirely willing to blame on the printers. Judging from some of the art-work

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1142615578950360812006-03-17T09:50:00.000-07:002006-03-17T10:50:23.726-07:00

This no-posting is out of control. But I've been surfing the cold green sea on the back of a trusty dolphin and—no, there's no imaginary excuse good enough for a week without posting. My apologies. Happy St. Patrick's Day, by the way. And, also, this is the day that C and I have been together for two years, I can hardly believe it! There aren't words.Back to business on Monday, okay? I watched V

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1142013249382805322006-03-10T10:02:00.000-07:002006-03-10T11:07:05.936-07:00

No content need apply. Lately—like, the past six months, my desperadoes—I have been really interested in les photoblogs. We've all got favourites, of course, and I'm going to list a few of mine. 1) daily dose of imagery has been huge ever since getting a picture printed in the National Post (but even before). I love the combination of absolute professionalism and candid imagery in Toronto-based

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1141839793742146942006-03-08T10:32:00.000-07:002006-03-08T11:01:20.396-07:00

"Je Suis Saves", the name, is over, just words on a t-shirt, now. The name was never mine, I can't take credit for it. I read the name on a Singaporean blog a little more than a year ago. A certain commenter had wanted to start a band and call it, I believe, Je Suis Rock Band. The band's first album would be titled Je Suis Saves. I read that pun and instantly fell in love with it. I still love it

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1141624792651419432006-03-06T10:52:00.000-07:002006-03-08T10:29:43.886-07:00

I've got my own trophies, I don't need any Jon Stewart-based ceremonies to get me through the night. He was great, though—the man was good, too good. I rate his chances of being invited back to the Oscars about on par with Arrested Development actually making it on air again. You keep hoping, but you don't talk about it a lot, that might jinx things. And, speaking of last night, Three 6 Mafia?

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1141374673958995492006-03-03T11:55:00.000-07:002006-03-05T00:41:16.026-07:00

I saw the prettiest girl in the world today and I wanted to hit her. She's not anyone I know or have ever seen before, just a person I saw on the bus, dark hair, red lips, good style. As the driver lurched away from the curb, another girl, stumbling down the bus, fell gratefully into the empty seat beside the girl I now loathe. If you could have seen the look which the first girl gave to the

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1141200117078782522006-03-01T01:03:00.000-07:002006-03-01T16:48:47.516-07:00

Hipsters are going to be saying that The Yeah Yeah Yeahs have lost their edge, thus demonstrating classic hipster-ignorance of good music in favour of classic hipster-insecurity. "Image compromise alert!" their tiny cortexes will bleat, as they fear losing their piecemeal identities to newly-popular culture. There will be only one response when someone sneers that Karen O has bailed out on her

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1141030342188914082006-02-27T06:18:00.000-07:002006-03-01T00:31:03.916-07:00

The week-end was mostly garbage, mostly because of about fourteen hours where the side of my head felt like a large damp fireball. Does that make sense? Hurtingness and swellingness and not-nice-ness. All gone, now, though! Just in time for the grind to begin again, which is not school, but work. This morning sees me up at five-thirty because I'm working in St.Albert at seven. Then jet off, or

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1140770169414996282006-02-24T01:37:00.000-07:002006-02-27T01:53:25.283-07:00

Next time I order a Danish, I'm not going to order a Danish—not, that is, if I'm in Iran. Which reminds me, isn't a Danish a strange thing to have in a not-very-cold country like Iran? Heavy pastries, hot climate, yes! The Arabs may defeat our ideology, culture, technology, even, but as long as they insist on devouring fat-saturated sweetmeats with icing and jelly filling, listen, we've got them

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1140590227988339912006-02-22T06:33:00.000-07:002006-02-24T01:13:03.816-07:00

Global warming, people? So inconsistent, isn't it? Anyways, the snow last night means my brother called me to say he couldn't get home from Banff. In fact, he'd already wheeled off the road, so he's staying overnight in some random hotel. And the evening before last, my other brother bashed the Honda against a curb slo-mo because the ice meant his wheels couldn't grip it or rip it. What can be

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1140423319325064282006-02-20T21:04:00.000-07:002006-02-21T22:05:59.010-07:00

Today, outside of the wide windows at work, a little girl in a fuschia-coloured parker and matching track pants showed off her excellent hip-hop moves to her slightly older brother. This girl was maybe seven years old. It was a very grey day, today—later, the sunlight came out very strong—and all the signs for all the stores glowed that much brighter in the plaza, and the little girl swung her

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1140161000333524602006-02-17T10:46:00.000-07:002006-02-17T16:07:23.336-07:00

Today, sitting down at the computer table, I knocked my leg so painfully against the table-leg that I felt sick to my stomach. Incredible. But all gone away, now. What is it about painful things that I can't ever remember them as they truly were? And not just physical pain, either, but doing really embarrassing things over and over again, like, oh, for instance, skipping so many classes that

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1139849948943062522006-02-13T09:55:00.000-07:002006-02-16T23:19:56.926-07:00

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Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1139543063293609182006-02-10T10:24:00.000-07:002006-02-21T23:40:13.380-07:00

alpha: Like, I so much HATE when I phone someone, but their cement walls keep smothering the conversation with damn static, so I switch to text messaging, but their incoming text message cuts mine off, so I phone them again, but their damn land line interrupts my call and IT MAKES ME INSANE JUST CUT MY ARMS OFF CUT THEM.beta: The bus is not a pleasant place. I prefer my car. My car, however,

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1139386550979200112006-02-08T00:33:00.000-07:002006-02-09T12:21:26.626-07:00

#1) And, of course, Gogol Bordello was a huge show on Monday, wasn't it? According to E, Eugene Hutz was screaming into a mike while stomping all over E's table. M said it was the benchmark for all time. NOT FOR ME, IT WASN'T! I spent Monday either at other people's houses or homework, I honestly can't remember. And it better have been homework, I'll tell you that. Wasting my time with people and

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1139217465058879062006-02-06T10:34:00.000-07:002006-02-06T12:48:28.010-07:00

When Younous Kathrada, an imam who preaches at the Dar Al-Madinah Islamic Centre in Vancouver, British Columbia, called the Jews "the brothers of the monkey and swine", well, I had no real problems with that. Yes, I'm sure he would be relieved to hear this, right? I don't agree with the man, by the way, but I like living in a society which lives, ideally, by a certain standard. Free speech? Then

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1138951613925763172006-02-03T11:00:00.000-07:002006-02-05T23:54:15.803-07:00

One language is not enough, of course. There must be more. There must be Greek and German and Danish and Afrikaans. These languages, also, are not enough. Turkish, Belgian, Spanish (even the stuff they speak in Belize). Throw Esperanto, Popido, Klingon into the mix. Gather up the dead languages, also, the black-letter Gothic, and Etruscan, and Hittite, and Miqmaq. There are not enough words, I

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1138247166554576432006-02-01T10:00:00.000-07:002006-02-10T01:13:56.273-07:00

[The picture has been changed. This photograph just made more sense. This alarm is buried in Rutherford South, first floor, beside those strange Alice In Wonderland chairs. See subject of this post AND the beginning of the previous post for greater clarity and understanding.]I totally lifted this post from my Myspace blog, because, don't you know, I accidentally deleted my original post for THIS

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137902884934856082006-01-30T12:04:00.000-07:002006-02-07T02:48:33.826-07:00

#1) Primate photography continues apace—five posts in a row, by my count—and somebody should pull the alarm, make it stop. Okay, what does that even mean? Sometimes my own nonsense shakes me up slightly.#2) "Things I learned this weekend." Apparently, wasabi is absolutely harmless, judging by how J wolfed it down. He did, briefly, turn into the Tasmanian Devil, but you had to look really closely

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1138382759997400962006-01-27T10:17:00.000-07:002006-02-07T02:50:50.386-07:00

Life, as I understand, is a semi-violent but always banal farce, where nothing that happens matters to anyone except the victims. Actually, that is a total lie, I don't believe that at all, but, sometimes, the circumstantial evidence can be fairly strong. Like the time I asked the operator, at one in the morning, for the number of a certain taxi company. And then I blow my one call on that number

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137902555291085122006-01-25T08:54:00.000-07:002006-02-07T02:51:59.066-07:00

This article in the NY Times has me ripped to go see the Tristram Shandy movie, which I hope will be brilliant. However, if the film is not brilliant, if it is unbrilliant, I am not going to cry or perform any drastic action, like jump into the water by the plastic pirate ship moored in the West Edmonton Mall (an action, which, as far as harm goes, would probably do little more than severely

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137649133617376452006-01-23T10:09:00.000-07:002006-01-30T20:57:34.053-07:00

The voting stations were down at the Legion this morning and I went behind the cheap cardboard box and checked my vote. Not that I believe my vote actually matters in my strongly Conservative riding, but it gives me the right to complain until the next federal election, right? You know what? Most people are surprised to learn that I vote conservative along with the county. I am not for the

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137743178956009062006-01-20T10:16:00.000-07:002006-01-29T19:25:46.200-07:00

Last night, Roxy Epoxy and her oddly named band-mates rolled into town for a show at The Victory Lounge New City. My profane friend J attended, apparently bringing with him something less than Mary-Poppins-benevolence. With drum rolls, then, here is his somewhat-censored take on The Epoxies w/ the Frosted Tipz:"F**k that s**t. F**k that b**ch. We're not going back to Detroit, that's for damn sure

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137480931489454352006-01-17T22:45:00.000-07:002006-01-29T19:26:59.990-07:00

We were sitting in HUB and A says to me, "The new word is fellationship." Which word makes the other two people we were sitting with stop talking immediately, the girl actually snorting. "As in," I say, "we're really committed to this fellationship, or, this fellationship is never going to work." "Exactly," grins A.Which leads me to speculate, so bear with me. I keep hearing this persistent

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137397007023892632006-01-16T11:00:00.000-07:002006-01-29T19:24:26.556-07:00

Sir Thomas Browne wrote a very wise thing, once. Actually, he wrote many wise things and more than once, and also some very silly things. He wrote about his own writing, for instance, saying, "It was set down many years past, and was the sense of my conceptions at that time, not an immutable Law unto my advancing judgement at all times; and therefore there might be many things therein plausible

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137181185587003742006-01-13T12:27:00.000-07:002006-01-15T01:00:28.846-07:00

I very badly want to be strolling down a London sidewalk and to perhaps turn in at 14 St. James Square, which is the address of the London Library. I would sit in Sir Thomas Carlyle's sofa (or perhaps it is his wife's sofa) and I would think about the English language, how wildly romantic words are. Afterwords, I would have a plain cup of tea in a sidewalk cafe. I would talk to no one and it

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1137077083270933042006-01-12T07:37:00.000-07:002006-01-13T12:02:25.780-07:00

I wrote one hundred posts last year. There will be no top ten highlights. I do not believe in Top Ten, or Holy Hundred, or Excellent Eleventeen. It's like saying so-and-so is the fastest sprinter in the world. No, he's not. He's really not. He's just the fastest competitor in the race or the round-robin or whatever. There's for sure some Ugandan dirt-farmer could absolutely kill Donovan Bailey or

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1136801571379782052006-01-09T07:05:00.000-07:002006-01-09T11:06:54.216-07:00

In the middle of the crystal desert, in the middle of the lake in the middle of that desert, I put down the delicate oars of my narrow boat and picked up the untitled book which came floating by me on the water. A lion, a leopard and a female wolf regarded me from the icy beach. And in that untitled book, I read of the year and where it had been and what it had seen and what it had heard. Good

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1134977216139915052005-12-24T07:46:00.000-07:002005-12-24T16:41:47.593-07:00

Angels we have heard on high—Merry Christmas, C. Merry Christmas, J. Merry Christmas, b. Merry Christmas, S, GH, K. Merry Christmas, M, K, E. Merry Christmas, Mom + Dad. Merry Christmas to the cats, too, Merry Christmas to all and to each and to every breathing living loving thing on this planet. Cranberries, sparkly paper, red wine, turkey dressing, ugly sweaters, "What movie should we rent?",

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1135229990755267672005-12-22T11:09:00.000-07:002006-01-03T21:31:30.123-07:00

Sometimes life surprises. Because sometimes you get blue potatoes—deep indigo blue potatoes—for dinner. Hey, I went Christmas shopping today and found the perfect present for my brother. It's beautiful, shiny, red, and fits in the palm of your hand. It does not play music, it does not feed the cat, it does not accept a cheque in lieu of cash. "Let the circle be unbroken"—that's my only clue. It's

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1135106625644372392005-12-20T12:16:00.000-07:002005-12-20T12:53:49.776-07:00

Keep checking back. With a little luck, this post will be replaced with something better later today, say erotic Battleship or the number 9 ("smell the colour nine") or even live animals!—or not live.This Narnia business is *B*R*I*L*L*I*A*N*T (via PolloxNiner).

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1135029030983524642005-12-19T14:40:00.000-07:002005-12-21T01:43:33.676-07:00

Just came out of a final, another final tomorrow. Can't seem to pass the Monday post without tripping, you know? I might read a half-hour or so of The Small Boat Of Great Sorrows tonight. No, I won't. I work until ten, I won't be home till past eleven. I have a hard time getting around, sometimes. Then there's studying. I'm getting Arrested Development taped this evening. I'll watch it Wednesday

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1134725978289661332005-12-16T13:58:00.000-07:002005-12-25T02:48:27.006-07:00

Newton's Law #9 (previously unknown): the frequency of posting on one's blog is directly linked to the frequency of shifts one works, which is to say, more work equals less blog. Who knew? Also, unrelated, last year's best commercial pop song, Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone", is also this year's best commercial pop song. New Year's will probably be at The Starlite for Shout Out Out Out Out

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1134068721643939692005-12-13T23:56:00.000-07:002005-12-21T01:39:28.946-07:00

Saturday night, I remember calling G a muffinhead. I do remember that. Also, bumming smokes off a stranger. Also, grabbing my boss' boss' boss and whispering in his ear for five minutes. Also, the shut-up game, where anyone who said anything to me received a "shut-up". Poor anyone. Also, I have this habit, on certain occasions, of grabbing the random people within arms' length and addressing not

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1134411372846424012005-12-12T10:58:00.000-07:002005-12-12T12:05:06.050-07:00

I've been trying to build one house per week, 2700 sq ft, wiring, flooring, all of it. I've succeeded. To date, thirty-four houses. I've been trying to write a novel per month. So far, nine novels. I've looked into world peace, too. Expect to hear much celebration by about Wednesday next. But I just can't seem to stick to a regular blog schedule. Monday's post will be tomorrow, Tuesday. The usual

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1133945748605120052005-12-07T00:19:00.000-07:002005-12-21T01:40:24.506-07:00

The thing about crap jobs is that they're crap. You'd think that would be obvious going in, but not so. Whatevs. Plus, I left my cell at work. I HATE that. That's like leaving your best sweater at your friend's before a first-date night x 10! Right now, I'm so tired, I'm not even going to finish this post until tomorrow morning (today, to you, I suppose). I'm taking my black oxfords off, I'm

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1133734450066290302005-12-05T10:00:00.000-07:002005-12-21T01:41:09.796-07:00

1) I watched Sky High (thank-you, C) and it was excellent—also, it was excellent because Bruce Campbell is in it. Bruce Campbell is a lousy actor but everyone in the audience (nearly everyone) is a happier person after watching him shout and act stern. It wasn't the trilogy that first made me his fan, though, it was that television series, Brisco County Jr. About other films which are not Bruce

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1133510003672866902005-12-02T10:58:00.000-07:002005-12-21T01:41:54.550-07:00

Well, I don't know anymore, I was going to hang out by the big giant disembodied dinosaur head, but all the tourists beat me to it. So now he's got a new bunch of friends. Is this good? Looks like the bodiless reptile exhibit is the coolest kid in class now, which means we never talk anymore because now he doesn't know me. Alright, whatever. The West Edmonton Mall is insane. What happened, WEM?

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1133324946334497612005-11-30T09:56:00.000-07:002005-11-30T10:44:10.533-07:00

Where I live, the little bits and pieces aren't all bad. Daytripper to university, takes classes in the heart of a million people. And nights, back at home, I watch the old grain elevator shuffling a country-polka across the railway tracks a block from my house. Side of your eye when you look at her, though. Full-on stare and she'll freeze, like a scarlet-horned deer pale in the headlights. The

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1133217709313688172005-11-28T22:31:00.000-07:002005-11-28T23:59:48.573-07:00

From the G Mac campus to the Corona LRT is about four city blocks, I believe, and I walked them in minus ten this morning. Cellphone weather, not at all. Two birds were huddled in a fake tree outside the coffee shop. My hand got so cold. Anyways, snow and all, shiny flakes crystallizing very high above the tall buildings and blowing down the sunny street, and I could hardly see for the brightness

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1132906185110079542005-11-25T11:11:00.000-07:002005-11-30T22:31:30.003-07:00

I'm from southern and northern Ontario, you know. There are a lot of dark forests and long roads in that province, many wonderful parts, and good cities, but big skies—well, big skies are a prairie particular, where, some evenings, the land is lit up like a warm city night and nobody's home because they're all out singing, like the field-workers with Handel's choruses in seventeen hundred and

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1132774342661278412005-11-23T12:02:00.000-07:002005-11-23T17:39:55.716-07:00

Waiting at City Centre yesterday, escalators and stairs criss-crossing each other like whitest contrails, and this woman walks up to me. She's about fifteen years older than sincerely yours, crinkled hair, dark skin, and says, "Do I know you? Did we meet at the bar a few days ago?"A blonde in a diamond-patterned sweater steps off the nearest escalator, a man is talking loudly on his cellphone

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1132544251152302772005-11-21T12:54:00.000-07:002005-12-06T00:16:09.916-07:00

First. I now vicariously know how the cat feels around my feet. Like I feel around The Colossi, that's how. This game (check out the footage) is all killer, a true destroyer. Like Conan The Barbarian crossed with the ferry scene in The Ring. Brilliant. We got half-way through. R1 for ever. Second. How about them Leafs, unfans? Better than the Gorillaz, is what they are. But music vs hockey isn't

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1132117924052676582005-11-17T12:18:00.000-07:002005-11-17T23:07:23.526-07:00

DFA 79 opened at Rexall Place last night. In the basement, that's where I'm gonna stay. Somebody, anybody, talk to me. I've got the merch, the music, the mixes (HMV approved, you know—three little-girl staffers at the WEM location told me the mix was "their" music), and I've even punched Sebastien Grainger in the foot. Can you remember when this city was a nice place for waterwings and

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1132038053969183602005-11-15T09:50:00.000-07:002005-11-17T21:00:32.466-07:00

When I was but the littlest-wee of wee lads, I would often wield a bloody double-sided battle-axe in triumphant murder-marches against the neighbouring castles of my mountainous and gory homeland. Okay, that's completely untrue. What I really mean is, because I was a kid, my mom would take me with her when she went shopping. She didn't want me watching the MTV, you know. Electric Circus! Anyway,

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131955428706007092005-11-14T01:13:00.000-07:002005-11-14T02:25:22.000-07:00

[Edit: I was wandering through some old-growth files and stumbled across this reminder written about fifteen months ago and filed neatly under "Don't Forget". I'm so precocious, my teeth hurt. Alternately, I may be insane. Anyway, I subbed in the proper links, html'd away and posted it. And, yes, I really do write like this. Later, dudes. I'm going to listen to some Agent Orange.]These are the

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131694922408431202005-11-11T00:12:00.000-07:002005-11-11T00:45:34.563-07:00

World War I (1914-1918), over fifteen million people died worldwide, more than sixty-five thousand Canadians among them, a further one-hundred and seventy thousand-plus Canadians wounded. World War II (1937-1945), over fifty million people died worldwide, forty-five thousand (and more) Canadians among them, a further fifty thousand (and more) Canadians wounded. The lesser number of Canadians who

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131608458704889232005-11-10T23:11:00.000-07:002005-11-11T00:19:27.660-07:00

You go out in the morning, and right in the middle of the city, you find the most beautiful spot in the world, and you think, "I wish I had a camera." Never the time and place, and the camera, all together. Sometimes things change, though, and an accident can become enchantment. And I know that's very new age of me, I know, but I'm a slug-abed, and rarely see anything decent in the morning,

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131515038332247162005-11-09T10:58:00.000-07:002005-11-09T11:25:02.273-07:00

I am the only person in the world who didn't know that my main man Peter Gallagher sang a bunch of songs on The O.C. Apparently, he's a singer slash actor and not the other way around, which is really important. Is there anything Peter Gallagher can't do? He even played a guy in a coma once! Or is that every role? Until about six months ago, the only song I had heard off of Green Day's Dookie was

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131346678546168122005-11-07T12:01:00.000-07:002005-11-07T11:55:05.350-07:00

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131330661455459312005-11-06T22:25:00.000-07:002005-11-08T10:12:59.630-07:00

There was good music last night, but I don't really want to talk about that, although Luke Doucet's "Broken One" was a hearts-and-knives burner, him thrashing on stage with a Johnny-Cash-on-a-bender look and a big white guitar. Brilliant. Also, Whitey Houston, who I don't like (their sound, I mean) got me going with a new one called "Nineteenth Century Breakdown", which punched them through the

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1131092679369516122005-11-04T00:45:00.000-07:002005-11-05T00:49:27.036-07:00

All the leaves are brown—and the sky is gray. I built a model ship and called it Jonas-In-The-Whale. It floats in the reservoir down by the train tracks. You know, I never understood why the preacher liked the cold. My fingers freeze in the wind, and the water's whiter than chalk. I must think of compelling conversation for my novel-in-writing. I think quite hard about the details of the plot. I

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1130954148922744492005-11-02T10:37:00.000-07:002005-11-04T11:13:55.850-07:00

This going to be one cheap-out post. Firstly, I'm just about zombified from all the writing I've been doing. The trouble comes from Writing vs Real Life. It's a tough battle, and not at all like the opening seconds of The Sound Of Music. A reliable source of mine—he's a Mill Woods Vice Lord named Kyle ("I knew this guy at camp. He was maybe 13. He got two girls pregnant, man. Two girls pregnant.

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12747327.post-1130738066443887392005-10-31T10:03:00.000-07:002005-10-31T11:47:46.543-07:00

This National Novel Writing business is going to kill my time. Well, well, whatevs. Linkage? Ran into a trophy mp3 blog out there. Nearly had it shot and stuffed and sent back to my jungle-ranch, but cameras are the new guns, right? So, instead, I took a picture, and you might like to, too. PolloxNiner has some great stuff, including a more-than-sideways glance at an amazing Jens Lekman song. PN

Orlandonoreply@blogger.com0