the air up there

Not much time to breathe lately. I have as much work as I can handle right now. And that's good.

I worked several high energy evenings at Cantos last week, one of which was an all-ages blues jam session. I have a massive bruise on my chin from where it hit the floor when I heard a brother and sister, just barely into their teens, belt out some really nasty-awesome blues standards, while laying down some smoking guitar licks. Definitely the highlight of my week, hearing those two.

In my other work, I have been making my way around East Village, meeting all the neighbours, talking about the future. Everybody has a story. I'm gathering them.

And in my other other work, the latest issue of BC Musician Magazine, the venue issue, has hit the streets. My contribution, Jamming with Ghosts, brings it all full circle.

What are you up to?

she's your man

We have a winner!

Hats off to Mrs Ritchie, the enigmatic former brooding teenager, who sent in this suitably Cohenesque free verse composition rife with post-post-coital anxiety and bearing the scars of Grace Slick channelling the metaphysics of Alice.

Wonderland

My lover has left me

In shadows, alone

The sky above is gray but salvation lies before me

I swallow it down, down, down falling through the rabbit hole

I see him, just a glimpse

wait, my love,

please

wait...

Take a bow, Mrs Ritchie! Your teenaged angst served you well, after all. Our friends at With a Bullet will be sending you a fresh new copy of Old Ideas. Embrace the darkness.

new words for Old Ideas

tell me again the words that burn your soul

show me the place where your songs live

go down to the pit where poetry lives, where the angels scratch for light

bring me platters of redemption, the mercy of the road
this is where your slave lies bleeding

Or something like that.

Can you be my Leonard Cohen? Would you like to win a copy of Leonard's new album, Old Ideas?

Our friends at With a Bullet would like to send you the latest CD from the bard of darkness and all you have to do is write me a poem. Pour your soul out in the comments or send me a tortured email, just make sure that you channel your best inner Cohen, and that you send it before Thursday, Feb 2 at midnight MT.

The winner of the most Cohenesque entry will be chosen by a panel, and will have my eternal admiration. In addition to your shiny new copy of Old Ideas, of course.

Need a little inspiration? You can stream Leonard Cohen's Old Ideas below.



Now go forth and bleed, my precious.

wrapped up in (British) books

Quite unintentionally, the last two books I finished were both novels by British authors, whose books I have always enjoyed. Could they keep the streak going with these two books? All will soon be revealed.

Tigerlily's Orchids - Ruth Rendell

When Stuart, a vacant and rather vain boy-toy, decides to throw himself a flat-warming party, he invites all the residents of his small London apartment house in the outer suburbs. He is loathe, however, to invite his needy and expensive lady friend, as that would entail also inviting her husband. The party sets off a chain of events that forever impacts the lives of everyone who attends.

Rendell, always a keen observer of human nature, has created in Tigerlily's Orchids a richly-drawn cast of characters. I was taken with how well-rounded these people were, with all the foibles and redeeming qualities of people you would find in any neighbourhood.

Tigerlily's Orchids doesn't follow a standard murder mystery format, in that the murder (and I am not spoiling anything here) happens quite late in the novel. By this point, the series of intertwined sub-plots had branched into twisted threads.

I did feel that the book sort of fell apart briefly toward the end, but the scatteredness was short-lived and the novel concluded most satisfactorily. A fun read, with characters who remain vivid and memorable long after the last page is turned.


Juliet, Naked - Nick Hornby

Duncan is the self-proclaimed world expert on the life and music of Tucker Crowe, an American musician who suddenly and mysteriously disappeared into a reclusive life shortly after releasing his magnum opus. Annie is his long-time girlfriend who tolerates his obsession, until the release of Juliet, Naked, Tucker Crowe's first new release in over twenty years, causes a rift between the two.

Like all of Hornby's books, Juliet, Naked is a fast and fun read. Although I have never personally broken into somebody's house to use the toilet, while stalking the occupant, some of Duncan's musical obsessions did hit rather close to home. Hornby knows his music nerds.

Lovely touches of irreverent humour, an odd cast of characters, and a realistically ambiguous ending makes Juliet, Naked a good mid-winter novel.

snapshots of Science Cafe

It's a good thing we showed up early. There were only a handful of seats left at the Ironwood Stage and Grill, when we made our way down for a star-studded evening of Science Cafe.

This wasn't entirely unexpected. Jay Ingram is, after all, pretty much a rock star in the science media. His discussion with Valerie Sim, a neurologist specializing in prion research, about the pitfalls of reporting science data in the popular media, promised to be riveting.

And riveting it was:

- only 15% of a science show like Daily Planet is actually science

- "people make up their minds about controversial science, not based on data, but on social and cultural beliefs of groups to which they already belong" - Jay Ingram

- in a five minute story on a science show like Daily Planet, two of those five minutes are spent setting the context

- "when you have been a host as long as I have, you keep forgetting that this isn't your show" - Jay Ingram, on muscling in on hosting duties

- "I just wear layers" - Valerie Sim, on climate change

- "I think we're in this situation: in the past, policy was shaped by science, now science is shaped by policy" - Jay Ingram

- "every time you put a filter between you and the audience, you diminish the impact." - Jay Ingram

- "when you first start to interview you learn not to ask two questions at once, because the interviewee gets to choose which one to answer. Which I am going to do right now." - Jay Ingram

housebound kitty ventures forth

After a brutally cold week, nobody was happier about the arrival of
the chinook than the Slightly Retarded Kitty.

There was so much work to do:
- checking to see how the decorations fared through the cold snap

- doing a little porch sliding

- making sure the boundaries were secure

- spinning a few doughnuts

- checking to make sure mom is watching

Okay, I'm ready to come in now! Mom!

run for the shadows

How old are you?

Or rather, how old do you feel?

I have always felt a couple of decades younger than my biological age, until sometime in the past year. The switch was gradual, but undeniable. Activities that I had always taken for granted started getting increasingly difficult and painful. Suddenly words like I ache in the places that I used to play made perfect sense to me.

But my medical parameters of health have always been solid. Those annual tests were a mere formality. I may have been getting creaky, but I was damned healthy.

And then last week I failed my first ever bone density exam. I knew I should have studied; I could have at least faked my way through the essay question.

It came as a bit of a shock, and suddenly I felt every single one of my misspent years. With this coming on the heels of the Spousal Unit's current health issues, I felt a little betrayed by the body I always considered, if not incorruptible, then certainly robust for the foreseeable future. And I'm not the only one. I've noticed that when I talk to my siblings on the phone lately, one of the first things we discuss is our latest health betrayal.

I did eventually snap out of the bout of self-pity enough to realize that it was up to me to adjust to the new reality of life inside this shell and to work even harder to make it as strong as possible. This was no time to lie down and give in to the ravages of cell biology.

But sitting down and calculating my calcium and vitamin D intake made me realize something about the elderly, about why they are so obsessed with their aches and pains. The reason that failing health is by far the most popular topic of conversation amongst the geriatric set is because nobody expects it to happen to them, and nobody expects it to take up so much time and attention. I have two degrees in physiology and it was still challenging to come up with an exercise and supplement plan to combat this bone mass loss.

I can only imagine how confusing and frustrating all this aging is to someone without a science background.

do right album

Get Out of Sin City - Boca Chica

If good things really do come in threes, then Get Out of Sin City, Boca Chica's third full-length album, is the best of the good things. This is definitely my favourite Boca Chica album (so far).

This album has everything I love in indie Americana music - gorgeous steel pedal that makes my heart swell while it makes me want to weep, boy-girl choruses, handclaps, a little twang, a lotta sass. And the band does it all so perfectly. This is a beautifully mature album that has me excited for the next one.

Get Out of Sin City has a slightly laconic sashay to it, a hip-swaying strut down Main Street, cigarette and a bottle in hand. You know you're heading for trouble, but the sun's setting over the hotel bar and you're too invested in this drink to go home.

Frontwoman and songwriter, Hallie Pritts has an utterly distinct voice that, frankly, I was never before completely comfortable with. But the songs and the arrangements on this album are perfectly suited to her unique vocals. In Pritts' hands, these songs take on the breeziness of cool indie dream pop, mixed with touches of dark folk rock, and leaning heavily on their classic country pedigree.

Get Out of Sin City is a damned fine album, which I cannot wait to take out on a road trip. Windows rolled down, hair whipping in the wind, stereo blasting, following the yellow highway lines to Vegas.

http://bocachicamusic.com/

humanity on the battleground

Another Day in America
- Laurie Anderson

Theatre Junction Grand
January 12, 2012

Onto a darkened stage that is a veritable minefield of lighted candles, Laurie Anderson, understated in cropped black pants and a simple white shirt with a black tie, steps up to the microphone and begins to speak. Her words, measured and chosen with the care of a poet, are at once personal and profound. She has a voice that commands - commands attention, commands belief, commands imagination, commands compassion. It's another day in America.

So begins the premiere of Anderson's latest creation, a work-in-progress that meshes soundscapes and home movies, anecdotes and big questions, music, ideas and memories. It's an evening that those in attendance won't soon forget.

The audience on this particular evening was definitely skewed toward the slightly older, well-heeled crowd, which was not especially surprising given the $50 per ticket price tag. Not a particularly exorbitant fee, but not chump change either. Given the expectant hush that fell over the crowd as Anderson took the stage and the rapt attention with which all hung onto her words, I doubt that anyone regretted forking out the money. As if you could put a price tag on the chance to spend the evening in the presence of a contemporary visionary.

During the ninety minute show, Anderson led us through series of anecdotes that were simultaneously quirky, profound, and humourous. In her bemused, measured voice, she told stories of visits to tent cities, where the inhabitants maintain a tenuous thread to their former lives through the last vestiges of politeness. She related Darwin's thorny problem with peacocks, how to explain the existence of their tail display in the context of survival of the fittest. In a dreamlike monologue, she reflected on the recent signing of the American National Defense Authorization Act, which transforms American soil into a de facto battleground. These big questions were punctuated with haunting violin solos, allowing time for absorption and reflection.

And, of course, the Voice of Authority made an appearance. As I listened to the deep-voiced male character that Anderson creates using a voice filter, I was immediately struck with the realization that this must be who The Voice from the CBC's The Current models himself after. It explains so much, and only cements the impact that Laurie Anderson has had upon pop culture.

These moments of observation and pondering took an intimate turn when Anderson left the podium and waded through the sea of candles to an armchair, flanked by a screen. Along the short journey, Anderson shed her poet-seer persona and, as she lowered herself into the chair for a good chat, began to share tales (and video clips) of the life and death of her blind piano-playing rat terrier, Lolabelle.

But of course, even while sharing these stories of her personal home life, Anderson did not shy away from bigger picture. Perhaps not surprisingly for an artist in her sixties, she used the experience to look for ways to embrace the inevitable approach of death.

And then she stuck a pillow speaker into her mouth and played a song on it that was an eerie combination of ethereal throat singing and robotic instrumentation. Of course this made me wish that I was able to see Laurie Anderson as she is let loose among the instrument collection at Cantos Music Foundation/National Music Centre later this afternoon, if only to see what she puts in her mouth.

Despite the length of this review, it's very difficult to actually characterize the experience of seeing Laurie Anderson perform Another Day in America. It felt like a rare opportunity to see a contemporary visionary at work. At the same time, it was deeply personal. I will be thinking of this evening for a long time.

For background information on Laurie Anderson's amazing life, so far, please check out the primer I have put together.

I am

- convinced that She and Him is the worst name in indie music today. I also can only handle Zooey Deschanel's singing voice for short periods of time.

- aware of the irony that we are no longer going to St. Lucia next week, as originally planned. A week that is forecast to be the first extended period of deep freeze in an unseasonably warm winter.

- happy that the sensation that somebody dumped a box of salt on my tongue, which has been driving me crazy for the past week, is starting to subside. You know it's nasty when water tastes salty. On the plus side, I think I have been cured of salt cravings for life.

- excited to see Laurie Anderson perform Another Day in America tonight! The world premiere! I don't even mind that I am going alone.

What's going on in your life?

clung on tightly, like parenthesis

I got a free oil change, so there's that.

It's been so unseasonably warm and dry here, albeit with insane winds, that I decided to walk home through the creek valley after dropping off the urban assault vehicle for servicing. Not something I would normally do in January. Particularly since I am becoming increasingly terrified of ice patches.

But although any snow that remains has long been transformed into wind-polished snirt, enough of it has disappeared that I figured I could skirt my way around the slick spots.

This walk home was also to be a test of my knee. I have been gradually increasing the length of my elliptical workouts, but I am still a slower walker than I once was, and walking on uneven ground could prove tricky.

And then there was the matter of that killer hill that you have to climb to get out of the park.

I'm glad I did it. I needed a change of scenery, a touch of nature. There certainly was a lot of nature down in the park. Piles of it. I don't know what those coyotes have been eating, but it goes through them like shit through a goose. Or through a coyote, I guess.

I didn't encounter any coyotes this time, although I stopped on the little bridge just before killer hill to watch some ducks bob about in the water, in amongst the ice floes. I lingered there on the bridge for longer than I had intended, to allow two women with westie terriers to overtake me. I didn't want anyone to witness me labouring up that hill.

The hill wasn't as hard on my knee as I expected. I did take my time, and it took 185 steps instead of my usual 150. Yes, I count steps going up hills, what of it? It felt good to be a little winded again, something I have really missed with my slower workouts.

My knee is a little swollen tonight and I can feel the bits moving around and rubbing against each other, but the outing was all worth it. Especially for a January day.

Where is your favourite place for a winter walk?

check, mate

Final Parcheesi game of the holidays came down to the wire.
First one to roll a one takes it all.
I'm green, the OFKAR is blue.

Dang!

I still love Parcheesi though.

What's your favourite board game?

in the suburbs young protesters write

Evidently, here in my neighbourhood, we are slow learners.

This is the sign that was erected a few weeks ago outside the gates to the community lake - a seasonally upgraded version of the same sign that informed us a few months ago that the area was also not a leaf and pumpkin recycling depot.

For a few years, this entrance to the neighbourhood lake was the site of a temporary leaf and pumpkin depot. Clearly people liked hauling their autumn yard waste to this site, because even after the depot was discontinued, bags upon bags of leaves continued to appear in the dead of night, along with numerous collapsing jack-'o-lanterns. For years.

The community association tried putting up signs to dissuade the nocturnal leaf dumpers, but finally the City had to step in with something more official-looking.

So far the Christmas tree non-dumping sign seems to be more effective than the leaf and pumpkin one, but it's still early in the tree-turfing season, so I'm not holding my breath. The Fire Hall, a few blocks away, was a Christmas tree recycling depot for a few years, and people are still surreptitiously dumping their bedraggled trees there, years after it was moved to another location. Even though the City now picks up your Christmas tree directly from your back lane as part of the municipal recycling program. The firemen are getting mighty pissed.

The OFKAR and I lamented to each other many times, as we drove past that sign this holiday, that I hadn't thought to save at least one half-rotted pumpkin from Hallowe'en. For old time's sake.

the year in my ears

I missed some big albums this year, as I do every year. It's become my thing. So you won't find any Tom Waits or PJ Harvey or Bjork on my annual recap of favourite albums.

I'm also missing some albums that I suspect would be strong contenders for favourites - the new Elliott Brood, the new Dan Mangan, and the new Rural Alberta Advantage spring to mind - as it's becoming increasingly difficult to find music in stores around here. So while I sit by the mailbox, waiting for my orders to arrive allow me to tell you about my choices for:

Favourite 11 of 11

1. The Decemberists - The King is Dead

- I never get tired of this album. Listen after repeat listen, I become completely engrossed in the achingly lovely ballads and the insanely catchy guitar-driven rock.







2. Frank Turner - England Keep My Bones

- I waffled for a long time before finally deciding that this would be my second choice. A very close second it is. This album is a rollicking, passionate feel-good blast of singalong goodness.







3. The Head and the Heart - The Head and the Heart

- boy-girl harmonies, exuberance, sweet melodies, all good.







4. Radical Face - The Family Tree: the Roots
- Even those songs that start out restrained end up in handclaps eventually. Awesome.

5. Beirut - the Rip Tide
- The gorgeous sweeping drama that you expect from Beirut, with accessible and catchy melodies.

6. Whitehorse - Whitehorse
- The husband and wife team of Luke Doucet and Melissa McClelland have gone in a surprisingly inventive direction, with lots of traditional touches.

7. Wilco - The Whole Love
- Classic Wilco, nuff said.

8. Wild Flag - Wild Flag
- The girls can rock, and I love the touches of rockabilly that keep this album surprising.

9. Radiohead - King of Limbs
- Not the best Radiohead album by any stretch of the imagination, but it has some touches of brilliance that save it from obscurity.

10. Austra - Feel It Break
- Wonderfully inventive looping sonic invasion.

11. Anna Calvi - Anna Calvi
- Calvi's big voice, paired with cinematically retro arrangements, make this album feel like living inside a James Bond movie. Dramatic stuff.

Let's see what musical goodness 2012 holds, shall we?

arctic radio

Late Nights on Air - Elizabeth Hay

Having never lived in the far north, nor even visited there, I can't attest to the accuracy of life north of 60, as depicted in Late Nights on Air. Hay's portrayal of 1970's Yellowknife, an isolated northern community to which only oddball or adventure-seeking southerners ever venture, does feel well realized, even though some depictions of native characters feel stereotyped and social issues feel cliched.

Late Nights on Air tells the story of a small northern radio station, peopled by an odd mix of characters who have been thrown together through the vagaries of fate. Harry, the curmudgeonly station boss, is escaping his demons and his fall from grace in southern Canada. Gwen, fascinated by stories of northern exploration she read as a child, longs to retrace the trails of doomed explorers through radio documentary. Dido, an exotic and polarizing possessor of a perfect radio voice, plays people against each other with dark sensuality. Thrown into the mix are the volatile and dangerous Eddy, the lovable romantic Ralph, the spiritually-awakened Eleanor, and the wise and pragmatic Theresa.

Against the backdrop of the Mackenzie Valley pipeline inquiries, issues of racism and violence, and the threat of a newly-planned television station displacing the importance of the small northern radio station, four of the characters - Harry, Gwen, Ralph, and Eleanor - set out on a lengthy canoe trip. This fateful canoe journey is the strongest part of the book, and Hay's depiction of the astonishing landscape of the Barrens makes me realize that I know nothing of the mysterious far north.

I enjoyed this book, but it didn't particularly move me. It unfolds rather slowly, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but I did have an issue with Hay's overuse of foreshadowing of a particular tragedy. Hay warns of the upcoming event for so many chapters before it actually happens, that I stopped paying attention.

Late Nights on Air is an enjoyable read, and I learned something about early arctic exploration, and about the geography of the far north. Ultimately, though, I didn't care enough about the characters to revisit them after I closed the covers.

grand pianos crash together

You would think that a creature who stomps around as much as she does would be more tolerant of a little slipper noise. But apparently the sound of the Spousal Unit walking about in his new Christmas slippers is the most terrifying thing that the Slightly Retarded Kitty has ever encountered.

When he walks across the kitchen floor in his plain brown old man slippers, the SRK skitters out of the way as though she was being pursued by the devil himself, dekes into a safe spot, and then stares at him, horrified, searching his face for signs of the familiar dad within this scary monster.

Cats are weird.

somebody shot her eye out

This year's Christmas mystery parcel did indeed turn out to be of the Nine Ladies Dancing persuasion. Sort of.

It was actually two half-ladies dancing, inside a vase. Evidently some sort of postal mishap bisected the ballerina. I'm a little concerned, because the glass vase is labelled Nine Ladies Dancing. I just hope this doesn't mean that another sixteen dancing half-ladies will eventually show up on our doorstep.

We are generally rather low-key in the gift department, and this year's bounty of gifts were right in keeping with my pragmatism. In fact, they were exactly what I had wished for.

I am particularly excited for the gift that will this year replace the annual board game. A while ago, I came across a slide projector in the basement, along with three carousels of slides from when the Offspring was a wee one. I'm looking forward to a slide viewing evening, perhaps as a precursor to the annual board game fest. I just need to find my elbow pads before the Crokinole championship begins.

The turkey has now been in the oven sufficiently long to fill the house with crazy-making aromas. 7.5 kg should be sufficient for three people and one Slightly Retarded Kitty, shouldn't it?

The SRK was very concerned about being dragged out of bed to open her present and was very skittish of all that ripping paper and of the box that we then expected her to peer inside. Judging from the curious, yet polite, tapping she has given her gift, though,I think it was a success. She still prefers to have someone come outside to give her belly rubs over any store-bought gift, however.

Time for a glass of Prosecco, and to baste that turkey again.

Enjoy your Christmas, my pretties.

the world in shortbread

TV celebrities figured largely in this year's subversive shortbread bake-off.

Billy the Exterminator left the swamps long enough for an impromptu visit. He really should have trimmed that soul patch a bit though. It's important to look nice at Christmas.

Lady Gaga wore her meat dress. Of course.

Liz Lemon's glasses did not stand up to the heat of the oven.

Leslie Knope was full of sunshine and organizational skills.

Jim Reid reminded us that it's just not Christmas without a little Jesus and Mary Chain.

And then there was the guy who was just a nobody until he rear-ended a lumber truck. A log through the forehead is very celebratory way to check out.

nein, nein, nein, 99

It's arrived.

Postmarked Anaheim, CA, with a return address of The Elves, Disneyland, the annual mysterious parcel was delivered via Canada Post. A truck, in fact. There is a import declaration on one side, signed with an unfamiliar name.

It was eight maids a-milking who arrived last year, but I can't for the life of me remember what comes after eight. Nine, obviously, but nine what?

I'm hoping it's cupcakes.

The mystery continues.

you'll shoot your eye out, kid

There are Christmas Markets and then there are Christmas Markets with robots. After all, nothing says Christmas quite like an eggbot.

I had a grand time at the Elves in the Village Christmas Market today. The old Simmons mattress factory is a beautiful location for a market, exposed brick and warm wood. It's the sort of place where you feel instantly at home. With the Cantos house band belting out soul numbers in one corner, and friendly folks taking in food bank donations and offering really scrumptious cookies in another corner, it wasn't the easiest place to drag myself away from. Especially when I had friends and coworkers there who needed chatting to.

Good thing there was no shortage of friendly chatty folks outside along the RiverWalk. Inventor-types, food truck guys, and fellows with big cameras, all more than willing to answer my inane questions. And the calzones that I brought home for supper from Pimento's food truck were top-notch. Thanks, Mario and Giovanni.

Have you been to any Christmas Markets this year?
What about food trucks? What's your favourite food truck fare?

judgmental cat knows where you hid the presents

Yeah maybe, but she doesn't know everything. She doesn't know what's in that big box that's already under the tree, does she?


So don't tell her.

don't fear the reindeer

We are a winter nation.

Nights like these, when the neighbours' lights shine through the spruce bows, pinpoints of warmth in the snow, home means shelter. Nights like these, when the Slightly Retarded Kitty finds a new favourite hangout, fragrant and soft, under the lighted tree, home means comfort.

The old oven that has been faithfully roasting the noble bird Christmas after Christmas just been given new life, a new element ensuring that the feasting tradition carries on. A pleasant chat with the repair man, newly arrived from New Brunswick, reminds us that we don't really have all that much snow to deal with after all.

Still, with a batch of subversive shortbread to bake when the OKFAR arrives home and a plentiful supply of mamma's little helper on ice, why venture anywhere?

Happy Birthday, young feller

As you take that next step toward the Early Bird Seniors' Special at the Country Kitchen restaurant, be comforted by the fact that I will already have had have lots of practice demanding my discount. You'll always be a youngster to me.

There's nothing wrong with dinner at 4:30 anyway.

Happy Birthday, Spousal Unit! Bring on the iceberg lettuce and the Wonder Bread!

basterd anatomy

Well that was pathetic. There I was, on the elliptical for the first time in six weeks, trying to channel my inner Bridget von Hammersmark, and I lasted for five minutes. But it's a start.

Ever since I injured my knee shortly before Hallowe'en, I've been hobbling about, grunting and groaning going up and down stairs, and spending half the night tossing around in bed trying to find comfortable position for my knee. I had already attempted the bike, but there was just too much knee action involved, so I had been concentrating my (admittedly infrequent) workouts on upper body strength training. I could feel my tentative grasp on fitness slipping through my pudgy fingers. It's anybody's guess how flabby my heart is getting.

I was actually quite thrilled to discover that, if I turned the resistance to the lowest level and moved slowly and carefully, hanging onto the hand rails, I could manage an elliptical workout. Okay, five minutes isn't a workout, but you know what I mean. The knee bone is connected to the heart bone.

Today, the day after my Olympic performance, I can feel the muscles surrounding my knee instead of the knee itself. This is progress. I am going to keep at this, adding three minutes every time and giving myself a day to heal in between. At that rate, I will be back to my normal workout by 2014, according to my calculations. Bathing suit shopping may have to wait another few years.

if I'm not here, I'm there

I'm having a bit of a breather this week, using the time away from deadlines to finally finish those Christmas cards that have been staring at me reproachfully. The Slightly Retarded Kitty enjoys knocking over the card boxes that are piled on the dining room table, but it's time to reclaim the space. I'll buy her some new catnip instead.

I worked my first unsupervised shift at Cantos on Sunday evening. All the locks and lights and alarm system procedures are not nearly as daunting when you actually start to use them. I didn't even burn the building down or anything.

I've got a few more shifts to work before Christmas, as well as a slew of appointments next week, before I start to power down for the holidays. The OFKAR comes home in less than two weeks and I am already anticipating days spent lounging on the chesterfield or gathered around the battlefield that the Christmas board game ritual always devolves into. That and a new pair of slippers will make the holidays perfect. And reading all the best of lists, of course!

Here's some stuff I've written lately, for your reading pleasure:

BC Musician Magazine - Early Starters, Late Bloomers

Getdown.ca - CORE concerts strike the right note

EV Experience - various blog posts

What's been keeping you busy?

What they're playing in Whoville

Prime - LeeSun

I don't think there is anything contradictory about the fact that LeeSun's bright and summery debut album reminds me of Christmas. This is, after all, the cocktail party season, and cocktail parties call for touch of cool and breezy music with prominent jazz overtones. Prime makes me want to throw a really hip holiday soiree just so I have an excuse to spin it on my turntable.

Prime makes a strong beginning with Mickey Mouse, a vibrant number that has the kind of jazz beat that makes your head bop in one direction, while your shoulders sway in another, and your hips do something different altogether. When the jaunty horns kick in on Love Me or Leave Me, I defy you to resist finding yourself transported directly to Whoville. Mountain Song, meanwhile, has a playful time signature that belies the gravity of the lyrics.

LeeSun has a wonderfully clear and playful voice. There's a sprightliness to her vocals that make her poppy songs bright and crisp and her more wistful songs a study in muted clarity. The beautiful weeping instrumentals of Humming Tune, for instance, speak to a wistful longing, while Ahavi's Song is deeply dreamy with lovely touches of glockenspiel.

If the name LeeSun sounds familiar, perhaps you recall the delightful video interview she did for us recently. In the video she explains the album's connection to Calgary, in particular the Cantos Music Foundation. And she does a pretty mean Blue Steel.

Do watch the video to get a feel for the slightly kooky personality behind the classically-trained musician with the maths degree. At the very least, take a listen to the sonic explosion of Prime. The eclectic album is being released in the UK this month, and hopefully will be gracing turntables at hip cocktail parties on this side of the pond very soon afterward.

I eated ALL the food

It's a blessing that the escalators chose last night to channel their inner stairs, because I am pretty certain I left no sample untasted at the CORE after-hours shopping event last night.

Sure I got the vapours a couple of times after getting caught in a crush of slow moving fashionistas. And I might have been one of the only people there sporting hiking boots instead of sparkly stilettos. But the event was for a good cause (half of the money raised went to the National Music Centre). And oh, the food!