Bad Tempered Zombie

snapshots of Science Cafe

2012-01-27T08:27:00.002-07:00

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

2012-01-23T20:14:00.010-07:00

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

2012-01-21T13:28:00.002-07:00

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

2012-01-18T14:30:00.004-07:00

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

2012-01-15T12:12:00.004-07:00

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

2012-01-12T08:53:00.002-07:00

- 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

2012-01-09T19:34:00.004-07:00

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

2012-01-07T20:37:00.005-07:00

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

2012-01-04T16:34:00.007-07:00

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

2012-01-01T14:57:00.008-07:00

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

2011-12-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-12-27T09:31:00.002-07:00

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

2011-12-25T15:01:00.006-07:00

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

2011-12-23T19:28:00.006-07:00

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

2011-12-20T20:07:00.006-07:00

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

2011-12-17T22:15:00.006-07:00

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

2011-12-15T21:48:00.004-07:00

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

2011-12-12T11:44:00.009-07:00

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

2011-12-10T08:43:00.007-07:00

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

2011-12-08T16:13:00.006-07:00

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

2011-12-06T08:43:00.007-07:00

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

2011-12-03T16:21:00.005-07:00

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

2011-12-01T12:34:00.008-07:00

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!

a rooster, a bear, and a giraffe walk into a bar ...

2011-11-29T11:59:00.005-07:00

or maybe it's just Christmas in Inglewood...

This rivals the giant plastic Yuletide walrus as my favourite Christmas animal.

the sky filled with dust and silver

2011-11-27T19:36:00.006-07:00

It was probably somewhat of a blessing that we lost power for over three hours this afternoon, because we couldn't hear the emergency broadcasts that were being aired. The wind freaked me out enough already without hearing that a state of emergency had been declared for the city, and the entire downtown closed down due to windows blowing out of highrises this afternoon.

It's amazing that nobody was killed.

The scene from our backlane indicates that we escaped relatively unscathed. I wasn't able to make the planned chili for Grey Cup but at least I have a roof over my head.

from the dental chair

2011-11-25T18:42:00.006-07:00

It was while cooling my heels in the dentist's chair yesterday, waiting to have a chipped incisor patched up, that I realised I have not stopped to look at the world around me in some time. Oh sure, I look around me, especially since I am now taking photographs as part of my event covering duties. But I don't really look; I don't calm my pulse and just let the world unfold for me.

But yesterday, I had nearly an hour to watch the world unfold out the second floor window. The dental office is on a bit of a hill, with floor to ceiling windows facing west, so the panorama presented to me was reminiscent of those naive paintings you sometime see of village scenes that bustle with activity, a barn raising in one corner, a busy marketplace in another.

While the sun broke from the clouds and settled in the evening clearing of a chinook arch, I watched a row of school buses pull up to a distant middle school. I saw the ant-like figures that had been running up and down the yellow strip of playground suddenly turn and move en mass toward the waiting line of lego buses.

I was struck by the predominance of evergreens in the city, the number of brown roofs, how movement never stops, even in suburbia. I could have happily watched all day the life of the city unfold before me.

I am not complaining about being busy, don't get me wrong. I am so grateful that I now have as much work as I can handle. Work that I love.

But writing all day every day does tend to quell the urge to write in my spare time.

For instance, I really should have told you about Any Night, the play I saw this week at Sage Theatre. It was a real thriller, a rather Hitchcockian study of sleep disorders, privacy, and the true intent of the guy who lives in the apartment above you. I really should tell you more about it, but I did see it late in the run, so unless you really hustle to get tickets for the final night, you've missed it. Which is a shame, because it was well worth seeing.

Staying behind for the talkback session with the actors, who are also the playwright team behind Any Night, was particularly enlightening. I love having theatre students in the audience for talkback because they ask questions I would never be able to dream up, not in a million years. It's like listening to a conversation in a foreign language, but one that makes complete sense to you.

The next night, at PechaKucha, I learned some new words that I fell in love with immediately.

The first was Moh' kins stisis, which is the Blackfoot word for the territory encompassing the city of Calgary. The Blackfoot traditionally viewed the earth as a human body and would name geographical areas for the body parts that they resembled. So in the larger Blackfoot worldview, the direct translation of Moh' kins stisis is "elbow", which refers to the crook of land where the Bow and the Elbow river meet. The birthplace of Calgary.

The other term that struck me at PechaKucha was Genius Loci, spirit of place. It's a term that city planners use to pinpoint the defining characteristic of a city.

What is the genius loci of your place?
What's your new favourite word?

our world is going to change nothing

2011-11-23T17:39:00.004-07:00

Evidently my gibbled knee is not yet working at 100% even though I can now take the stairs like a normal person. But I realized this afternoon while dancing in the kitchen that I was channeling my inner Elaine Benes more than should ever be done in polite company.

Day two of crazy wind around these parts. The roof was blown off a school in Nanton today and there are sem-trailer trucks lying on their sides all over the highways. Sinuses are exploding all over the province.

Off to PechaKucha tonight at the Central Library. Reclaim is the theme tonight. I'll fill you in on that and on Any Night, the play I saw at Sage Theatre last night.

~ciao, bella~

inside these walls

2011-11-21T10:56:00.006-07:00

Room - Emma Donoghue

Jack is five. He and Ma live in Room. They read and play and learn and sometimes watch TV. Jack's best friend on TV is Dora the Explorer, but he knows that people on TV aren't real. They are just pretend and made of colour. Only Room is real.

Jack and Ma and Room are all there is. Except for Old Nick. Old Nick is from outside. Some nights he comes to Room after Jack is tucked inside Wardrobe. Old Nick brings groceries and clothes and disappears the trash. Ma doesn't want Old Nick to see Jack and she doesn't want Jack to see Old Nick, but sometimes Jack can see Old Nick through the slats of Wardrobe, even though he is supposed to be switched off until morning.

Ma is afraid of Old Nick.

This is an incredible book. Told from the perspective of a five-year-old boy, Room creates an intensely realized world that manages to seem at once comfortingly normal and terrifyingly claustrophobic. Emma Donoghue has masterfully depicted the world of this locked sound-proofed 11' x 11' room through the eyes of Jack, who was born in captivity to a woman abducted from a university campus seven years earlier.

The voice of Jack is near perfect, not only in the distinct language used by a five-year-old, but also in the unique perspective through which that child sees the world, in this case, a single room. She manages to convey all the fears, desperation and depression that Ma goes through, as seen through the imperfect filter of a child's understanding.

I was completely engulfed in the world of Room. During the initial section of the book, I felt all the claustrophobia that Ma hides from Jack, making it difficult at times to continue reading, frankly. But this phase is mercifully brief, as Jack gains awareness of the fact of a world outside of Room. At this point, the pace accelerates exponentially and the suspense becomes almost unbearable. I shocked myself by gasping aloud at one point, and I couldn't turn the pages fast enough.

In the latter half of Room, Ma and Jack make the complicated transition to life outside of Room, a transition that is fraught with the perils of the unknown as well as the joys of discovery.

Room is simultaneously joyous and terrifying, light-hearted and intense. It is without a doubt one of the finest books I have read this year, and one that I will not soon, if ever, forget.

You owe it to yourself to read Room.

linkalicious

2011-11-18T15:36:00.006-07:00

Long overdue, this post is. Sure I've been busy with new endeavours lately, but the fact remains that I have been falling behind lately on my mission to help emerging musicians to be heard. So in an attempt to keep an open heart and a critical ear, I plan to periodically offer a forum to those musicians who contact me, wanting to be heard.

Please check out these awesome musicians showcased in part one of my two-part Much Neglected Musicians Review. Show a buddy some love.

Drew Smith:
Check out his gorgeous song "Love Teeth" which has a stunning video with a great story behind it.

My first 'real' job was teaching English as a Second Language in Ontario. I kept in correspondence with many of my students, and was pleasantly surprised to find one of them, Sohee Jeon, had become an established animator in South Korea. She expressed how much she had been enjoying my music, and while I was working on my newest record The Secret Languages she generously offered up her services to make an animated video for my newest single “Love Teeth”.

You can watch the video and download the song for FREE here: http://drewsmith.ca/

-#-#-

Dr. Kenneth Love:
If you are in the mood for jazz (and really with the approach of cocktail party season, who isn't), you may want to check out Dr Kenneth Love's new release cAsE sEnSiTiVe. He's got a fine smooth groove going on, and you can check it out here:

http://www.kennylovejazz.com/cAsEsEnSiTiVe.html

-#-#-

Kirby:
Kirby tugged at my heartstrings recently by sending me the following note. And I have to admit, his music tugged at my earstrings. He's offering his whole album for free download, so check it out:

For the majority of the last two years I’ve toured Canada in my car, most recently by myself. After a bad gig, or an insanely long drive I’ve had to ask myself; “Why the hell am I doing this?”

Then I'd get to the next show, have an amazing night or festival and I'd completely forget those nagging little thoughts. The people, the sounds, the indelible rush from the stage, it all kept calling me back, and I can’t see that ever changing.

When I'd get home I would engulf myself in recording. Into The Dark, was the result. I’m incredibly proud of it and right now its FREE for the whole fall season!

I’m working on following the EP with tours to Europe, and America. But don’t worry I won’t forget Canada either.

If you like what you hear, share it, let your friends know. The more people who hear it the better.

Click here to check it out, FREE download. | http://kirby.bandcamp.com/

-#-#-
The Rest:
Adam from the Hamilton band, the Rest, told me the tale of every band's worst nightmare. I'm glad it had a happy ending, because I am really digging their gorgeous dark and soaring gaze sound. Don't miss the FREE download:

At the end of last winter, we (The Rest) thought we were a few weeks away from completing our latest album, SEESAW, until a hard drive “glitch” deleted every last piece of it.

After a few months of false starts and false hopes, SEESAW eventually found its way to the same company responsible for airplane black box recovery. Almost five months after the process began, we miraculously had our album back.

SEESAW will (we promise this time!) see the light of day in early 2012, but we've launched a double A-side ALWAYS ON MY MIND | THE LAST DAY (includes artwork of my grandfather in the 1940s) to tide everyone over.

It's available for FREE at bandcamp: http://therest.bandcamp.com/

-#-#-

Dave King:

Mr King's musical resume is really impressive:

This album was created in my own converted barn studio, named Barn Window. Under The Golden Sun is the product of over a years worth of recording and I was extremely fortunate to have some of my favourite musicians, who just happen to be some of my favourite people play on the record! Included in this cast are Pat Sansone (Wilco, The Autumn Defense), Paul Linklater and James Strachan. Their contributions to the record are immeasurable and having them on board was an absolute blast.

You can grab the 7'" single, featuring the tile track from “Under The Golden Sun” and "Rachel's Garden" for FREE: http://theheavydream.bandcamp.com/

-#-#-

The Infinite I:

No download post would be complete without a little proggy, semi-techno indefinable space music. I like what I hear, even though I'm not exactly sure what The Infinite I is, but here's how they define it:

Comprised of a total of 38 artists that combine to create, music, costumes, stories and artwork from southern Ontario, Canada.
Infinite I is a community for all types of art.
Infinite I is theatre.
Infinite I is music!

Hear and bring the digital single that is already popular in other dimensions of our universe to yours today with a FREE DOWNLOAD! infinitei.bandcamp.com

-#-#-

I'll be showcasing more new music, complete with linky download goodness in about a week, so be sure to check back. It's good musical karma.

show me where to sign on

2011-11-15T15:44:00.004-07:00

Perhaps not the world, perhaps not saving anything at all really, but a cape and tiara would go a long way toward outfitting me for my new gig. An event facilitator needs to demonstrate a certain style, don't you think?

But regardless of whether I end up wearing my ermine stole or my mom jeans to work, I am thrilled to be joining the Cantos Music Foundation.

How could I not be? I am in love with the vision. The vision of a National Music Centre, amplifying the love. The vision of magnificent architecture which will celebrate Canadian music, a convergence of the old home of the blues and the new buzz of the East Village.

I had my training yesterday, met many cheery like-minded folks, and got a glance at the incredible instrument collection. How I long to play that Theremin. Later this week, I will work my first shift. Still debating the cape and tiara.

In linkety-link news, I have some new posts floating around town:
- coverage of the King Eddy campaign launch (complete with photos) at Music Matters
- partial contribution to an article about the Telus Spark/Mayor's Urban Design Awards appearing on EV Experience. It's a marriage of my scribbling and my editor's sassy style. She has a knack for swooping in and making everything infinitely more awesome. Even if if does mean dropping my Uranus joke.

welcome, viral overlords

2011-11-13T08:09:00.003-07:00

The Hot Zone - Richard Preston

Surely I am not the only person who thinks that viruses are fascinating. The singularity with which viruses mobilize, replicate and attack is the stuff of horror novels. The strains of viruses responsible for such gruesome diseases as Ebola, Marburg and other hemorrhagic fevers are particularly fascinating.

The Hot Zone details accounts of outbreaks of these virulent diseases and science's attempts to identify the contagion and halt its spread. It makes for a ripping good yarn, made even more compelling by the fact none of it is fiction. Preston does rely on some speculation, out of necessity, about certain specific instances in which the viruses were able to crash into the human population, but generally his detective work is backed by documented facts. Scary, amazing stuff that will keep you reading late into the night.

I did have some issues with Preston's writing style. Perhaps because he is relentless about sticking to documented evidence, the nuances among statements are lost. He gives equal weight to documenting the specifics of a veterinary pathologist doing paperwork in their office at USAMRIID as he does to the gory timeline of an Ebola victim crashing and bleeding out. It did keep me on edge, but it was a little frustrating. Time and again I found myself waiting for the boogeyman to jump out of the closet, when in actuality Preston was merely going into great detail about non-events because that's the way he writes.

I was also puzzled by the existence of the final chapter, in which Preston recounts his own expedition into the cave in Kenya where Ebola is first thought to have jumped species to human hosts. It felt like an afterthought that diluted the impact of the rest of the book somewhat.

But these are minor quibbles. The Hot Zone is a riveting tale from the field of epidemiology that investigates some of the most terrifying and wonderful viruses in existence. Highly compelling reading.

we rule the school

2011-11-11T19:55:00.004-07:00

School zones are challenging on days like Remembrance Day, where some people get the day off and some people don't. The the post office is closed, but the garbage still gets picked up.

I didn't have a clue whether the school around the corner was open or not today. Why would I know this? So, not wanting to risk a speeding ticket or a run-over junior high kid, I drove standard school zone speed. Evidently all the other motorists had gotten the school closure memo though, because they all blew by me with disgusted looks on their faces.

We need to get schools to send out a bat signal or something when they are closed for an inconclusive holiday. That would be the neighbourly thing to do.

5th and 7th

2011-11-09T18:53:00.008-07:00

We pass each other twice, at almost the same spot. I'm walking to the river and then returning to my car, parked at the front of a row of cars driven in from the suburbs.

I don't know where you are headed or where you have been. You don't lift your eyes from the street. Lost inside your thoughts, held captive behind wounded eyes.

All around us, the sounds of industry terraform the neglect. To me, the vibrations from the diggers carry the buzz of possibility. I can't help but wonder what you hear, though, in those sounds carried on the winds of change.

the smiling is pushing it around

2011-11-07T11:13:00.004-07:00

I've been thinking about civic involvement.

Over the years I have crossed paths with people who have such an infectious sense of community that it's difficult not to get caught up in the rip tide of excitement that they generate. These civic boosters, these momentum builders, not only share my vision of what makes a great city, they are not afraid to take action to make that vision happen. Just being in their wake is invigorating.

I have witnessed a lot of changes in my city lately, and the pace of these changes seems to be accelerating. Starting with the groundswell of public engagement that led to the election of the most popular mayor ever, my city is becoming exponentially more inclusive. And you know what happens when a crowd starts to form - it attracts attention.

Recently His Purpleness, our mayor, launched a 3 Things for Calgary initiative, which I think is a great way to get people engaged in making their community better in some way. It's a simple concept: think of 3 things you can do to make your community better, do them, and then tell 3 people about what you did.

I'm still trying to decide on my 3 Things. I do quite a lot of volunteering already, so I don't think I want to necessarily go that route. Must get a bit more creative on my approach, I think.

What 3 Things would you do personally to improve your community?

While I have reservations as to whether or not it will actually improve the city, here's my first blog post with Getdown.ca, the Calgary Downtown Association blog.

Because a little shameless self-promotion is always in vogue.

destined for the junkheap

2011-11-05T09:33:00.005-07:00

The cogs are rusty and the bolts are falling out. And I am not at all sure how to fix the machine.

I'm not talking about our microwave that has finally been repaired after one month minus two days of non-waving, micro or otherwise. That was an easy fix. The impetus to this particular grumpy complainy rant is the slow erosion of the human machine, the one that has been hauling me around for several decades.

I'm feeling rather betrayed by this. Not that I was ever a Ferrari. More like a dump truck, really. But I always figured that chassis would continue to house my being for eternity, reliably and without complaint.

I'm starting to realize that isn't so.

I won't bore you with a litany of complaints (although I am tempted), but I will tell you that the aches and pains that began several months ago just keep spiraling into an ever-expanding circle of creakiness. The thigh bone, it would seem, really is connected to the knee bone.

When you can't move normally, you can't move normally, and fitness levels begin to plummet, making it harder to move normally.

I was complaining to the Spousal Unit this morning, as I hobbled down the stairs, that I wished I could just bisect myself at the waist and throw away the bottom half. He laughed and said he wished he could do that with his top half. Maybe we could just ditch the broken parts and fuse together a brilliant new machine with the bits that still work.

Dr. Frankenstein, do you make house calls?

How do you deal with your corporeal complaints?

nice day to pass under

2011-11-03T13:47:00.009-07:00

The Gods of Underpass Opening were smiling upon us that day.

With the pumpkins only slightly frosted under a clear November sky, it was the perfect afternoon to make the trek downtown to witness the cutting of the ribbon to the city's newest roadway.

The 4th Street underpass, already receiving accolades for shaving time and frustration from commutes, will be instrumental in linking the city's East Village - a previously isolated and ignored area- to the rest of downtown.

With the rebirth of East Village as Calgary newest, oldest, coolest, warmest neighbourhood, the 4th Street underpass makes for a stunning entrance.

It's going to be a great place to hang out this summer. You should come join me.

dead souls march on

2011-11-01T08:14:00.008-07:00

I was sorely disappointed to discover that the mini Coffee Crisps were stale. It did curtail my dipping into the trick or treat box for just one more, however. At least until I came to the realization that the mini Kit Kats, a suitable substitute for the annual Coffee Crisp annihilation, were just fine.

The sixty-some Raggedy Annes and Maru cats who showed up at the door saved me from myself. There were more candy-deprived zombies darkening our stoop this Hallowe'en than we have seen the past three ghoul nights all together.

I, for one, am glad to see the reversal of the trend in recent years to take the kids trick-or-treating at the local mall, instead of letting them experience the darkness of the streets. So what if some of them appeared to be bussed in from other areas? At least they weren't just scooping up candy from bowls set out in front of the sunglasses shop and the hair salon. Where's the fun in that? "Look at that scary monster, mommy!" "No honey, that's just the lady who runs the tanning shop."

What was your goblin number?
And more importantly, what are you doing with your leftover minis?

If you enjoy a good Psychic Vampire now and then (and really, who doesn't?), do check out my latest blog post on Cantos' Music Matters.

the historical conquests of Henry Bright

2011-10-30T14:31:00.005-07:00

Bright's Passage - Josh Ritter

"What was it like?" I asked the friend who passed along his copy of this book to me. "It was what I expected," was his reply. "Josh Ritter writes novels the same way he writes songs."

Knowing that we are both big fans of Josh Ritter's intelligent and narrative lyrics, I took that to be a complimentary review.

Bright's Passage, the debut novel by the gifted American songwriter does indeed read very lyrically. Sprinkled with moments of perfect poetry and seeped in mythology and magic realism, it does feel at times as though you are reading a signature Ritter ballad.

The tale of Henry Bright, who returns to West Virginia from the horrors of the trenches of World War I, is at times parable, at times historical fantasy. When he liberates an angel from a scene painted on the ceiling of a bombed out cathedral in France, Henry unknowingly transports the angel with him from the battlefields to his lonely home in Appalachia, where it is encapsulated in the body of his horse. The horse/angel instructs Henry to kidnap his childhood friend, and after she dies in childbirth, to burn down his home (igniting wild fires that spread across the state) and flee with his infant son from his vengeful father-in-law.

The tale of their flight is interspersed with flashbacks to the war in France. The flashbacks, filled with brutality and wonder, are particularly powerful, written with a real sense of humanity tempered by self-preservation in the face of insanity.

I had some issues with the voice of Henry Bright, especially when he converses with the angel/horse; at times his words felt contrived, did not ring particularly true. But I suppose if I were talking with a horse/angel, I might sound a little less than real too. Ritter's beautifully poetic sense of language, his lyrical sensibilities, his perfect feel for detail, more than negate these issues.

Bright's Passage is a compelling read, an impressive first novel by a gifted storyteller. Not all questions are answered by the novel's end, but whether this is a function of the often perplexing nature of a tale encompassing magic realism, or whether this indicates that there is another story yet to come about Henry Bright and his quest, is another question that also remains, for the time being at least, unanswered.

the waters around you have grown

2011-10-28T07:07:00.005-07:00

There are going to be some changes around here.

I'm going to be spending a lot more time downtown, if not physically, then certainly intellectually. Downtown YYC, these days, is where my creative bread is being buttered. I'm embarking on some new blogging gigs, about which I am utterly chuffed, and I will be posting links here as those posts go live. I would love to have you come visit me on these new sites.

Here are my new hoods:

Music Matters, where I will be volunteer blogging for Cantos Music/National Music Centre. My first post is about the Famous Five. Sort of.

East Village Experience, where I will be covering events and getting swept up in the growing excitement of the newly reborn East Village.

GETDOWN.ca, where I am the newly minted music contributor for the Calgary Downtown Association.

But fear not, faithful readers, badtemperedzombie.com remains. I will continue to obsess and ruminate here (or simply let loose my brain farts) for as long as I am annoyed, entertained, mesmerized, puzzled, and inspired by this great big crazy world. You can't get rid of this little zombie all that easily!

what they said: quips from Communique 2011

2011-10-26T14:38:00.003-07:00

You know what it's like. You get a bunch of friends in a room, add a couple of bottles of wine, and sooner or later somebody is going to say something weird. Sometimes you don't even need the room or the wine.

Continuing with the grand olde tradition established at last year's beta version of Communique, we made sure we had a note pad and pen prominently displayed at all our Communique gatherings this year. For note-keeping. Because sooner or later, somebody is going to unload.

Here are some quips that were quipped. See if you can guess who said some of them.

Whaaaaat??

So I'm sitting there, with this man between my legs...

I only do Indian if I'm outvoted.

He's some kind of tech god!

I'm Allyson ... with an "L".

You can't buy seeds in a nut store!

Communique is about meeting people you wish were your neighbours.

Personally, the first thing I do when I get home is take my bra off.

I'm not feeling very protesty today.

It's a bit like herding cats. Thank goodness you're not a cat. You're definitely a dog, and I mean that in the best possible way.

What is oyster gravy egg sauce?

I love theatre. I love how they fuck with me.

OMG that was the most boring thing I have ever seen!

Dear Jane Siberry...

people of Communique 2011

2011-10-24T13:32:00.025-07:00

A week ago, almost to the minute, I dragged that massive red suitcase through the front door, exhausted but filled with memories, missing my friends but cherishing the time spent in their company.

Tomorrow I will have some pithy quotations from Communique 2011 to share with you, but for now, I am just going to shut up and share these images.

something as simple as rock n roll, saving us all

2011-10-21T16:30:00.008-07:00

Frank Turner
- Republik, Oct 20/11

Frank Turner is one of the people.

Not content to be "one of five English guys with matching white shirts and bad teeth" entertaining the masses from the safety of the stage, he is a musician who tears down barriers and turns a concert into a bar room singalong. When Frank Turner insists that everyone join in (the hipsters up front, god love you, the curious who had nothing better to do tonight, the plus one's, the security guys, the bartender), he means everyone.

And when he promises that setting aside our cool to clap and sing will make magic, will produce something transcendent, he is right. A man after my own heart.

Frank Turner was high on my list of must-sees at the Calgary Folk Festival a couple of years ago, where he simultaneously thrilled and charmed the crowd with his all-too-brief appearance. Headlining at Republik meant that the faithful could see the English folk troubadour in his natural element, a resurrected punk bar that celebrates dancing with abandon and spilling drinks. Although judging from the barfing I heard in the bathroom during the first opener, perhaps drinks were not being spilled quite fast enough.

We lost the Spousal Unit early in the evening, due to ill health, leaving my concert date and I free to get hit upon by one of the many Frank Turner look-alikes in attendance. But it was all done with jovial camaraderie and mirrored the sentiment of the entire evening.

I wasn't terribly keen on the first opener, a bearded fellow with a guitar who goes by the name Into It. Over It. A bit too Barenaked Ladies for me. With more swearing.

The Andrew Jackson Jihad, on the other hand, who were the second openers, were far more fun. Something about them reminded me slightly of The Burning Hell, perhaps the big standup bass, but more likely the slightly subversive nature of their songs.

By the time Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls took the stage, the crowd was well lubricated and ready for a rollicking singalong. I have to say, Frank Turner doing a solo performance is amazing, but when you take that passion and energy and back it with a solid band like the Sleeping Souls, something sublime happens.

Frank Turner is rapidly establishing himself as the new Billy Bragg, an inspired and impassioned performer who is as thrilling to hear talk as he is to hear sing. Thursday night's show was an intoxicating mix of folk sentiment, punk sensibility, self-effacing humour, and cocky self-awareness. To end the main set with a Freddie Mercury classic was inspired. To save the signature song - the criminally catchy Photosynthesis - as the extended all-voices belting out, all-hearts soaring encore finale, was perfect.

Frank Turner knows how to work a crowd and make it feel like it was all our idea.

naam and the nyan nyan percent: Communique 2011 the last half

2011-10-19T15:24:00.009-07:00

You need four things for a successful scavenger hunt: good imagination, good weather, good shoes, and great companions. There was no shortage of any of these ingredients as we stood at the corner of Thurlow and Davie on Saturday afternoon, divided the gathering of Communiqueters into two groups, and set off in opposite directions.

Our resident museum curator had put together a deliciously curious list of clues, sufficiently challenging enough to have us exploring the greater downtown area, but with enough clues to keep us from throwing up our arms in frustration and ducking into the nearest pub. We were fortunate enough to have our scavenger hunt cross paths several times with the Occupy Vancouver camp, giving ample opportunity for self-expression for those of us who were feeling especially protesty that day.

As the demands of the weekend and the tendency of this herd of cats to migrate independently became more prevalent, the hunting began to flag, but as luck and excellent route planning would have it, the two parties ran into each other exactly halfway through the list, in front of the fabled Commodore Ballroom.

We all shook hands in a gentlemanly fashion and wandered back to the hotel together, to freshen up and imbibe in a much needed libation before heading to the home of one of our own who had graciously offered to feed and entertain the entire unruly bunch for the evening.

In a warm and welcoming home nestled deep in the trees overlooking a babbling creek, we feasted and feted, played DJ and dispensed door prizes. The entire evening was solid as a rock.

Sunday was intended to be a free day. But the problem with scheduling a free day for the final full day of Communique is that nobody wants to miss that last chance for belly laughs and bone-crushing hugs. Fortunately we all like breakfast, and even more fortunately we were all able to squeeze around tables pushed together at a Kitsilano all-day breakfast vegetarian restaurant, despite the fact that our group continued to pick up members as the weekend progressed.

But breakfast can only last so long. Eventually, members of Communique began to drift off in all directions, some to visit relatives, some to record stores, some to begin the journey back home. A few of us had a final chance that evening to linger over a meal of tapas, sharing stories, quirks, and life philosophies. There may have also been the odd belly laugh or two.

Monday morning came early to the last of the stragglers, as we said our farewells to Dave at the front desk, tetrised our luggage into the trunk of the rental car and headed to the airport. And I only got us lost once.

Still to come: photos and quotations. Because I can't let the weekend go just yet.

wandering cats and whistling birds: Communique 2011 the first half

2011-10-18T12:04:00.014-07:00

As Communiqueters began to trickle into the Zombie suite on Thursday from various points across the country, we threw open wide the balcony door and indulged in the sort of sunset you can only see over False Creek. Amidst the wine glasses and nosh platters at the reception were spontaneous and plentiful hugs, passed freely amongst much-missed old friends and well-met new ones alike.

It quickly became evident that the nature of this gathering had changed from the beta version one year earlier, the first indication of how the group had grown being the challenges of finding a place for dinner among the many (but tiny) restaurants along Davie Street.

The Banana Leaf turned out to be an inspired choice. Although a chain restaurant whose initial appeal was its ability to seat us, this Malaysian restaurant with the sassy saronged waiters was a treasure trove of leaf-wrapped goodies and suggestive drink names, all of which were shared with reckless and joyous abandon. To quote one particularly quotable Communique participant: If Jeff was going to get a disease, he would have picked it up when we all shared his woo-woo last night.

Despite the woo-woos, we were all fresh as daisies for Friday morning's foray to the final day of VIFF for the screening of Andrew Bird: Fever Year. Essentially a tour documentary, the film was a particularly inspiring and introspective look into the creative mind of this enigmatic musician.

For most of us anyway. One Communiqueter, who favours the metal sensibility, did not join in the collective murmurings of how we were inspired by the passion, obsession and intensity we had just witnessed. I guess you could probably call "OMG that was the most boring thing I have ever seen!" a dissenting opinion.

As the merry group of Communiqueters grew, we stopped to fortify ourselves with some rather sketchy sushi. We should have been suspicious of the quality of the offerings by the fact that it was an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant, but it did make for some interesting discussions around the table, as we tried to determine (a) what the hell is that dish, (b) did we really order that.

A brisk walk to Granville Island for some, an aqua bus trip there across a distance that I would normally swim for others, found us in that wonderfully mixed mecca of rampant commercialism and esoteric arts. There is one spot on Granville that I have always loved - a small corner just off the harbour, tucked in behind an artisan shop, cement truck grounds on one side, the vast span of the Granville Island bridge stretching overhead, dwarfing the weeping willow trees that surround the pond. I always have to stop to soak in the juxtaposition of industry, nature and commerce when I am there.

Despite losing people, we found the tasting room of the Granville Island brewery; in spite of missed communications, we discovered the perfect market delicacies for the evening's pot luck in the Zombie suite.

The potluck evening proved to be a wonderfully eclectic mix of personalities and professions. Happily, "tech god" seemed be the most prevalent profession of the gathering, because you can never have too many tech gods in a room, in my opinion. We didn't really need any ice-breaker games at this point, but there were door prizes to be awarded, so we played ice-breaker games by god.

It was the most egalitarian of evenings. And it set the stage for scavenger hunt day. Details most certainly will follow.

CommuniquEnd

2011-10-17T00:04:00.004-07:00

And it ends. Handing over the room keys and heading to the airport in the morning.

Days of discovery and rediscovery, stepping out of the comfort zone and finding refuge in the hugs of old friends, experiences to open the mind and heart.

Communique 2011 and all who partook, you were amazing.

Story at 11:00.

CommuniquEve

2011-10-12T21:20:00.004-07:00

I woke up to the happy news that the weather forecast for Communique had done a flipflop. Instead of cloud and rain, we are now anticipating nothing but sunshine. It's incredible what a little human sacrifice to the right gods will accomplish.

True to form, the day's rain fizzled out shortly after the plane touched down and by the time the OFKAR and I were tucking into our sushi lunch, the sun was peaking through.

Nor was the weather the only sweet part of the day. Unbeknownst to each other, the OFKAR and I had baked each other some sweet treats, my bourbon pecan pie brownies for her pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving dessert at last!

Sadly the OFKAR has a schedule filled with presentations, papers and midterms, so she will not likely be partaking in much of Communique. But as the rest of the conventioneers begin to trickle into the area tomorrow afternoon, I will have them on a pretty short leash for the entire weekend.

I will be gentle on them for the first day - a reception in the zombie suite and a wander down Davie Street in search of dinner and the sun setting over the ocean.

Be sure to stay tuned for updates and resulting gossip.

which echoes belong

2011-10-11T16:42:00.009-07:00

After having sat on the sidelines for decades while others merrily snapped photos, I slowly came to the realization that it was time to suck it up and get my own camera. No more family cameras that I use with great trepidation, and even greater suckage, every five months or so. I am tired of chanelling my mother-in-law, cutting off people's heads as they pose for exactly the same photo around the dining room table year after year after year.

So, with Communique 2011 right around the corner, just bursting with photographic possibilities and memories I am dying to capture, last week I broke down and bought my own designated camera.

These are some of the photos that I took while playing around with the settings as I familiarize myself with my Panasonic Lumix.

counting loonies, trying not to say

2011-10-08T08:13:00.005-07:00

Summer of My Amazing Luck

- Sage Theatre

I guess it really shouldn't have come as a great surprise that the audience was packed with Manitoban expats. I ran into three in the lobby alone.

When you stage Miriam Toews' well-loved first novel of luck (in all its forms), friendship, and finding community in a Winnipeg public housing project, people are going to come in droves. And when you are Sage Theatre, an institution with a reputation for producing thought-provoking and brave theatre, you will find yourself with sold-out houses, as has been the case with Summer of My Amazing Luck.

Part road trip, part buddy act, part vaudeville revivalist revue, Summer of My Amazing Luck is narrated by Lucy (Caley Suliak), a teenaged single mother who lives in the Have A Life housing project, where she and her best friend Lish (Myla Southward) struggle to find creative solutions to the boredom of poverty while dealing with a soul-destroying welfare system.

With only three actors and one musician (Chris Gamble), this play is a masterpiece of split-second timing. Particularly impressive is the chameleon-like ability of Graham Percy to portray a vast array of characters, carrying all the male roles and several female parts. The resourceful use of screens and lighting facilitates the often lightning-quick changing of roles, while also serving as Lucy's memory, where characters from her past reside.

The set for Summer of My Amazing Luck is simple, a table and chairs pressed into service as a bathtub, a bed, and famously, a rundown van with a toilet plunger as a stick shift. The ramshackle piles of kids' toys that line the entrance to the theatre and festoon the sides of the stage area serve as a reminder that this is a world peopled with women and young kids. Lots and lots of kids (many of them played with unsettling precision by the versatile Graham Percy). These toys also serve as some of the most creative stage props I have ever encountered.

Men in this world are peripheral - distant fathers, unknown lovers, hostile case workers - but those brave enough to hesitantly approach the borders of this female world often find themselves accepted with good humour. For, despite the truly poignant underpinnings of this story - moments of loss and isolation, of death and desperation - this is a story filled with humour; the sold out crowd laughed aloud throughout the two-hour play the night I attended.

Miriam Toews, of course, is dead funny, and much of the humour in this play can be attributed to her clever words. But much of it is also due to the sketch comedy nature and the rollicking pace of the production. I had concerns about how such a sprawling novel would translate into a stage production, but needn't have feared. Toews' words have not just been adapted to the stage through the gifted vision of playwright Chris Craddock (BASH'd!: a Gay Rock Opera), they have undergone metamorphosis. And in the capable hands of the talented young cast, under the direction of Kelly Reay, they have come to life.

Summer of My Amazing Luck ends its run at Sage Theatre with tonight's sold out performance. But if you run, you can still make this afternoon's matinee.

resting on our laurels otters

2011-10-07T15:13:00.005-07:00

Normally you'll find us sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, or eking out preferred real estate on the chesterfield, instead of perching side by side on a carved wooden otter. But after 23 years of wedded bliss, you've occasionally got to mix things up a bit.

Happy Anniversary, Spousal Unit! Let's see where the next 23 take us.

in love with your vision

2011-10-06T11:06:00.004-07:00

Unlike many of my techie friends, I have never spouted an iboner over the latest Apple announcement. In fact, the only igadget I possess is an ipod. And that was a gift.

But I am still saddened that the world has lost a visionary like Steve Jobs. Thirty years ago, when the idea was inconceivable and bordering on a Jetsons' stoner fantasy, he foretold precisely what our lives would be like today. Without his vision, I am not sure I would have the ability to sit at my dining room table (or back yard, if the spirit moves me) and carry out my work. Or communicate with friends around the world. Or listen to an endless playlist. Or research any subject I could possibly imagine. Or watch cats dive into boxes.

The word has become terribly cliched and overused, but it's one that truly describes the impact that Steve Jobs has had upon the world. He was a game-changer.

be the photograph

2011-10-04T14:41:00.001-07:00

Just Kids - Patti Smith

Anyone who has ever found themselves fascinated and awed by the creative process (as I frequently do) should read this book. As should music fans, art lovers, and those who study pop culture.

When Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe met in 1967, they were both young, poor, and adrift in New York City. The poet and the artist were drawn to one another by their mutual appreciation of personal talismans, by their drive for artistic expression. Lovers who transcended sexual drifting and artistic metamorphosis, they continued to support each other emotionally and creatively for twenty years. They remained one another's muse until Robert's death from AIDS in 1989.

Just Kids tells the story of the life that Patti Smith and Robert Mappelthorpe shared, but it is no mere autobiography. Rather, Just Kids is a deeply reverent gaze into the heart of the artist, a laying bare of the creative soul. I now understand why the friend who sent me his copy of Just Kids felt that it had impacted his life so greatly, had coloured the way in which he experienced the world.

This is not a book that I could read quickly, nor did I want to. I found myself stopped time and again, by a particular phrase, an observation, that struck me as so deeply truthful that I needed to process what I had just read before I could continue. Never before has anyone dissected the creative process in such a personal and profound manner as Patti Smith does in Just Kids. I was forced many times during the reading of this book to evaluate my own relationship with my creativity, such as it is. This is life-changing stuff.

Just Kids is a very simply written book. Using deceptively straightforward narrative, Smith relates her personal history as a given, tossing out names as she unravels the lives of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. Many times I was driven to again stop, to google a name so familiar yet so unknown, with whom she had encounters, by whom she had been influenced.

And through all this simplicity runs the perfect phrasing of a true poet. Therein lies the difference (or rather, one of many) between Patti Smith and a mere scribe like me; where I keep writing, adding layer upon layer of words on top of each other until I have said what I need to say, a poet like Patti Smith finds the one perfect word that says it all.

So I will keep it simple. Read this book.

don't listen to the evil guidance counselor

2011-10-03T15:18:00.005-07:00

If you could send a note back in time to your sixteen year old self, what would it say?

That was the question that Papermaps asked their fans recently. The resulting video for the song, Reunion, is a collaboration between band and fans, a montage of mostly fan-made clips answering that probing question. Irreverent, poignant, brave, and sweet, the answers do what every good party game should do - make you laugh and make you think.

Now it's your turn! What pearls of wisdom would you have for your sixteen year old self?

I have copies of Papermaps' new CD to give away to the first five people who leave a comment telling me what they would say in a note to their impressionable teenage being.

Who doesn't love getting shiny new music in the mail? (Actually even if you don't care to receive a copy, I'd still love to know what advice you would send back in time.)

city nights below ground

2011-10-01T11:55:00.003-07:00

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart w/ Big Troubles
Dicken's Pub
Sept 30/11

The Pains started at midnight. That's pretty late for an old zombie to be rocking out in a basement bar, but it turned out to be worth the wait.

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, despite being in contention for having the most ridiculous name in indie rock, succeeded in waking the audience that had gone mostly somnambulant during the hour-long break between bands.

Prior to the lengthy stage setup, in which we were treated to the sight of a roadie with the lowest dragging pants in history slowly ambling about on stage and leisurely unraveling cords, the crowd had actually been pretty fired up by the opener, Big Troubles.

And with good reason.

The four guys from New Jersey threatened to steal the night with their high energy assault of melodic blissful fuzz and low-key vocals. With three guitars and one very hard working drum, Big Troubles conjured up inevitable comparisons to the Jesus and Mary Chain with, according to one particularly astute member of our party, shades of the Lilies thrown in for good measure. We loved them.

We went to last night's concert at the suggestion of friends who have impeccable taste in music, which only solidifies my contention that you never turn down a chance at live music. Frankly I wasn't exactly sure what to expect from the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, having only a passing familiarity with their music, and prior to last night's trip to the merch table (where a Big Troubles member endeared himself to me by knocking over his beer during our conversation) a grand total of three Pains songs in my music collection.

But when they launched into a grand explosion of glorious noise pop, with beautifully fuzzy yet remarkably tight guitars, even the Spousal Unit, who was at this point several hours past his bedtime, sat up with rapt interest. Personally I was mesmerized by Peggy Wang, the keyboardist, who sported the most fascinating mane of shiny black hair that obscured her face for most of the set.

I may be a little bagged today, having not hit the pillow until 2:30, but a little bout of fatigue on a Saturday is a small price to pay for an amazing night of music.

hurry the fortnight

2011-09-28T13:39:00.005-07:00

I've begun the countdown.

In two weeks, I'll head to the coast to await
the arrival of fourteen brave souls.

Taking off on a tangent from last year's beta version, Communique 2011 promises days filled with treasure hunts and walking and film festivals and record stores, nights filled with food and music and laughter and perhaps just a snort or two of BC's finest libations.

You should think about joining us next year as we cement friendships while exploring yet another fascinating city.

final days of wonder

2011-09-25T15:35:00.003-07:00

Is it wrong to be in awe, to have a secret admiration for a microscopic being, so warlike, so bent on world domination?

Given the opportunity, I'm not so sure I wouldn't be jumping ship, as they jump species, pledging my allegiance to the conqueror. Not so much to save my own skin, but in true admiration of a superior entity.

Ebola. The thrill of fear is matched by fascination. Clever and relentless, a unified drive hiding within strands and loops. Microbreaks. Hot zones. Every opportunity will be snatched.

I wonder about the secret lives of lethal viruses. How do they imagine the world, once they have conquered every host?

where's waldo (zombie edition)

2011-09-23T19:14:00.007-07:00

The hunter becomes the hunted on the "caught reading" pages of the most recent issue of BC Musician Magazine.

Care to read my article? I sat down beside the banks of the Bow River this summer for a chat with Amber Webber and Joshua Wells of Lightning Dust / Black Mountain / Pink Mountaintops fame. We talked of many things, including how Buffy Sainte-Marie is a babe.

digital love

2011-09-21T21:30:00.004-07:00

I now have the computer I wanted. It's the same one I brought home a couple of weeks ago, but now it zips along like a hopped-up page-hopping roadrunner. There is just no comparison. All it took was the replacement of the wireless router, which in the scheme of things is a fairly nominal expense.

It took a bit of detective work to cypher that out, but I am enormously proud that I figured it out myself. Now I can start having fun. Oh yeah, and getting some work done.

Tomorrow will be music moving day. I can't wait for those sweet sounds to fill my life again without having to lug out the terabyte HD.

What do you love best about your computer?

because the cat says

2011-09-19T20:30:00.006-07:00

It certainly looked like a cat stand-off, but it may have just been the Slightly Retarded Kitty filling in Splotchy Cat on her recent adventures.

They trapped me in the truck and it started moving! And we kept going faster and faster. I didn't know what was happening, so I just kept telling them you better turn this thing around! We better stop right now and you better turn around right now! And you know what? They did.

Actually the real reason we aborted the trip to Manitoba today had more to do with the issues that the Spousal Unit has been having with vertigo lately. A mere 45 minutes into the trip, he pulled the truck over to the side of the road and admitted to feeling quite ill. Although I certainly could have driven the rest of the way, there is nothing fun about an 11 hour trip when you are feeling nauseous.

So we returned home, much to the kitty's satisfaction, who immediately headed out to brag about it all to the neighbour cat.

into the wild

2011-09-18T19:52:00.003-07:00

Pre-dawn will see us barrelling eastward along the Trans Canada. We've decided at the last moment to take the Slightly Retarded Kitty with us, and fully expect that she will settle down and stop howling after the first hour or so. And if not, it's only an 11 hour drive.

It will be great to connect with family again, and we no longer have to feel guilty about leaving the kitty without someone to snuggle with.

We have no internet at the lake (hell, we have no fridge, stove, running water, or indoor plumbing at the lake), so online time will be limited to a brief foray into the wheat city midweek.

See you next weekend. Be nice to each other.

animal magic

2011-09-16T07:51:00.004-07:00

The Study of Animal Magicality - My Boy Rascal

I saw My Boy Rascal perform at a coffee house recently, an overnight stop on a cross-Canada tour with road buddy, Folk Thief. The acoustics of the room, combined with the escalating background chatter of a bustling coffee house, did not really allow for ideal listening conditions. My impressions of a laid-back groove from an affable young guitarist were cemented, however, when Colby Ramsay (aka My Boy Rascal) made the rounds of the tables after his performance, stopping to shake hands and thank everyone personally for listening. That's the way to engage an audience, I thought. We talked at length, about family, growing up in BC, the challenges of the road.

But I really needed to listen to his debut album, The Study of Animal Magicality, to get a better feel for the musical range of this singer-songwriter. My initial impressions of a smooth and laid-back performer were confirmed by the first track, OK, a breezy number that conjures up images of life by the water. Turns out those initial impressions were merely surface reflections.

The Study of Animal Magicality quickly reveals more interesting depths of music with subsequent tracks, the sound fleshed out with backing orchestration, all the while showcasing the impressive finger-picking style of guitar playing that defines My Boy Rascal. The darkness of Coming Clean, the raw emotions of The Plea with its powerful guitar breaks, the surprising turn from piano-driven ballad to operatic overture showcasing an impressive vocal power on Lost, are all points of real musical suprise that keep surfacing. Family is particularly lovely, the power of backing drums and vocals adding real strength to the poignant lyrics.

The Study of Animal Magicality is an impressive debut album from an affable musician who is worth the listen.

myboyrascal.com

up for air

2011-09-13T18:31:00.003-07:00

The new laptop arrived yesterday, at exactly the same time that I started researching my next article. So I have been jostling my focus back and forth. Doing research feels like a familiar and comforting activity to balance the frustrations of new technology.

I am not in love with this new laptop, at least not yet. A lot of it is me, of course, as I struggle to install all the new software and transfer all that data. But the laptop is not completely blameless either. It has a truly annoying zoom feature located on the mouse pad, which zooms and shrinks the images and fonts on the desktop. It is far too sensitive and the page is forever jumping back and forth between sizes. I am constantly resetting it.

This computer is also considerably slower than I expected it to be. I expected web pages to open instantaneously, but I find I am waiting for quite a while, depending upon the page. Gmail takes ages, and don't even get me started on trying to install Skype. Okay, get me started. It took all afternoon, and six tries.

I finally plugged the laptop directly into the cable modem and the installation then took mere seconds. I'm not sure if the problem lies in the laptop's ethernet card or in the house's wireless modem.

I have a feeling I have some detective work in store for me.

Wasn't technology suppose to simplify our lives?

December boys

2011-09-10T19:38:00.003-07:00

It's a clash of seasons, backpacks dominating when swimsuits are clearly needed. I should feel sorry for the youth marching off to the vaults of learning, the heavy iron door clanging shut behind them as they gather around one grimy window in the corner of the room, watching ghosts of summer drift across the playground. I should feel sorry for them, but the sudden stillness is exquisite.

When the mercury flirts with 30 at this time of year, at this alignment of earth and sun, here in the high-plains desert, it does so for an hour, two hours, before scrambling back down to nighttime chill. The daily rise and fall of mercury is ... mercurial. I can happily accept two hours of +30 when I need a sweater each night.

Even the wasps who join us for our daily al fresco meal seem to be merely reminding us of their status. Their dives at the meat are cursory, lacking in intent and malice. We have a shaky truce with the striped hordes.

All too soon, the summer blossoms will shed their remaining bruised petals, the daily handfuls of ripe cherry tomatoes will be gone from the single triumphant plant that towers over the flower bed, the rain of yellow leaves will begin in earnest. But for now, I am grateful for the confusion of seasons.

flight 101

2011-09-07T16:00:00.007-07:00

There's something I like about online check-in. The combination of video game jitters and lottery crap shoot. Feeling like the world's biggest fan counting down to concert presale, I am mindful of the clock. No seat selection fee within 24 hours of the flight. Getting three seats together near the front, using two different reservations codes, elevates my game. Master player, I'm turned up all the way to 11.

Always book the middle seat last. Nobody is going to steal that from under your nose. The middle seat gets the arm rests. They don't mention that in the preflight safety talk, but they should.

A throwback to the early days of human flight, I insist that the airline people affix the baggage tag. I can pick the best seats, but can't deal with two feet of sticky paper spewing out the machine at me.

Always, as we begin our descent, the overwhelming desire to sleep. It makes no difference if we have been in the air for an hour or for four. The descent triggers an irresistible G force increase that pulls on my eyelids. We'll be on the ground in fifteen minutes, I remind myself, you've made it so far. And I fall into the most delicious sleep.

when I click my heels together

2011-09-04T09:02:00.006-07:00

There were two pairs of sneakers hanging from the arbutus bush outside the back door. I took this as a sign of welcome.

Yesterday we moved the RO into her new place - a townhouse residence she will be sharing with five flatmates, boys on the third floor, girls on the second, kitchen/living room/party central on the ground floor. Munchkin village, they call it, by virtue of the yellow brick road that winds through and connects the units. And there is something vaguely fairy tale-esque about it.

Perhaps it's the old growth forest (or what looks to be old growth forest to a kid from the prairies) that the townhouse backs onto. Just a city block's worth, but enough to remind you that you are in a part of the country bursting with life and natural beauty. It's the view that the RO will be seeing from her bedroom window this year, a far cry from the construction site that greeted her mornings last year.

And of course trips to the cafeteria will be replaced by tours of duty in the kitchen. It will be a good learning experience, I think. If all goes well, I may relinquish turkey roasting duties this Christmas, giving the Offspring a chance to demonstrate her newly acquired culinary skills. While that dream might be stretching things, I am convinced that this townhouse living is the ideal setup for a third year student - the convenience of campus living combined with the autonomy of cooking and cleaning for one's self.

If I had those types of options available a hundred years ago when I was in university, I may never have inhabited those basement suites and those ramshackle flats in sketchy parts of town. But those are stories for another day.

best/worst apartment you ever rented?

from ten floors up

2011-09-02T20:44:00.006-07:00

... you get a finer appreciation for the sheer power of the physical beauty of this place. When we arrived in Vancouver yesterday, we were upgraded to an executive suite high atop the Sunset Inn, a suite overlooking False Creek and English Bay and the bottle-green highrises of downtown.

The view is spectacular, and from this height you can discern all the geographic attributes that make this city so appealing. But we find we sometimes miss the drama inherent in having a suite overlooking the back lane and the judgmental possibilities behind watching people park in a tight lot.

Last night we wandered down to English Bay and walked along the seawall, following the setting sun until it dipped into the ocean. The walkways were teeming with humanity, toddlers to grandmothers, cyclists and joggers and walking sticks. With every strolling couple we passed, we overheard tantalizing snippets of conversation, every third one in a language other than English. The night was bursting with life.

Today we perused the thrift stores for kitchen supplies and tomorrow the ~~Resident Offspring~~ Offspring Formerly Known as Resident moves into her new digs, after having reconnected with her peeps, as they all start to wander back into town. We old folks will be reconnecting with our own peeps, away from the ivory towers, amongst the rainbow flags of the West End.

Life is good on the coast.

loosing the offspring back upon the world

2011-08-31T08:15:00.010-07:00

There's a stack of suitcases in the hall. These past few days the Resident Offspring has been steadily filling them and now they sit, a silent reminder that our days of being a three-person/one slightly retarded kitty household are once again drawing to a close. This has been the shortest four months in the history of time.

Tomorrow we haul these bags, containing the remnants of the summer, onto the plane and we head to the coast.

It's going to be harder than ever to say goodbye this fall, to lay the reminders of those long languid days between sheets of tissue paper and carefully press them into memory. It was a great summer. The Resident Offspring came home every night from her job at the thrift store with whimsical tales of bat-shit crazy customers and sassy coworkers. There were leisurely dinners on the patio, long evenings on the front porch, late nights on the chesterfield with laptops ablaze. There were coffee dates and shopping expeditions, farmers' markets and movie matinees, folk festivals and house concerts. Recipes were shared, as were opinions on the relative merits of being a kitty or an otter, and speculations as to which reality show celebrity would fare best in a slappy fight.

It will be fun to be back in Vancouver. It's always wonderful to spend time in the place I consider my second home, to reconnect with old friends over meals and wanderings. And of course I am highly curious to see the Offspring's new living arrangements. A townhouse on campus seems to offer the best possible combination of convenience and autonomy. I'm looking forward to stories of life with flatmates and cautionary tales involving meal preparations.

But of course the house will be ever so silent when the Spousal Unit and I drag our half-empty suitcases back home next week. The Slightly Retarded Kitty and the Skype machine will no doubt receive far more attention than either have anticipated.

why I review albums

2011-08-28T19:14:00.000-07:00

Because everybody needs to know that they are being heard.

Because if somebody is going to make the effort and incur the expense of sending me their CD, the least I can do is to listen with an open ear and an open mind, and then tell the world.

Because an album is a work of art that someone has poured their soul into, and you don't ignore the product of someone's soul.

Because reviewing gives me a platform to express my opinions, be they admiration, disdain, joy, horror, or surprise.

Because sometimes you get back a lot more than you give; sometimes you get expressions of gratitude for your effort.

Because reviewing someone's album is a gateway drug that can lead to personal encounters.

Case in point - a few days ago I met Folk Thief, a musician from Vancouver whose album I reviewed a few months earlier, and his touring partner, My Boy Rascal. It was a comfortable and laid-back show at a coffee house in Kensington, a few tables gathered around the stage area by the fireplace. My Boy Rascal started the evening with a heartfelt acoustic set and then proceeded to endear himself to us after his set by coming around from table to table, shaking hands and expressing thanks to everyone for coming to the show.

Folk Thief was equally charming. Delighting us with good-natured and self-deprecating banter between haunting songs of love, heartache and oblivion, he took us on a sonic road trip of evocative imagery. A particularly nice touch was the addition of covers of Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, and, of all things, Beastie Boys songs.

The beauty of a coffee house concert is the intimacy that it affords, not only during the performance itself, but after the music stops as well. We were able to chat at length with both musicians while they struck down the stage, and ultimately left the coffee house feeling that we had made human connections beyond the bond of music.

And that's why I review albums.

blood ties under the desert sun: True West

2011-08-26T08:47:00.008-07:00

True West

- Arrata Opera Centre

You don't often get to see a play during the height of a Calgary summer, so I was intrigued to discover recently that a handful of the city's theatrical alumni were launching a production of Sam Shepard's classic tale of sibling rivalry in the California desert. Directed by Sage Theatre's Kelly Reay, Pangloss Productions' staging of True West features Frank Zotter as Austin, a buttoned-down screenwriter currently house-sitting for his mother, and David Trimble as Lee, his older brother, a petty thief and a drifter.

The set of True West, a dated bungalow kitchen, is so intricately realized with its macrame owl hanging, gilded light switches and mounted spoon collection that I kept half-expecting my mother-in-law to wander onstage with a luke-warm cup of Nescafe instant coffee. It was only the Hank Williams and Patsy Cline soundtrack which greeted our entry into the theatre that kept her ghost off the stage.

The play opens with Austin struggling to put the final touches on a screenplay which he is preparing to pitch to a powerful Hollywood producer. His concentration and his patience is tested by the presence of Lee, newly arrived from a three-month sojourn in the desert, who swaggers about in ripped jeans and a dirty t-shirt, cracking open beer after beer. After Lee appropriates Austin's relationship with Saul, the Hollywood producer, and usurps his status as screenwriter, the brothers bluster and spar until they eventually assume each others personalities. The rivalry between the two brothers is so palpable and so rife, that it is no great surprise that the posturing evolves into intimidation and violence.

David Trimble and Frank Zotter are pitch perfect in their portrayals as the feuding brothers. We were rather taken aback by the sudden realization that they were almost identical in personality and vaguely similar in appearance to Frank and Dennis Reynolds from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Once seen, there was no unseeing the similarities. Strangely, this only added to the validity of the performances and to our enjoyment of the play. In all fairness, the Shepard play pre-dates the television show by decades.

Despite the brief appearances of the producer and the mother, True West is essentially a two-character play. Both the parts of producer and mother feel rather more like caricature rather than fully-fleshed characters, but I had the sense that this had more to do with the manner in which the characters were written than with their depiction.

There is a great deal of violence and humour (and humourous violence) in Pangloss Productions' presentation of True West. There is also a great deal of family conflict which rings all too true. We may not all have systematically smashed a typewriter with golf clubs or strangled a sibling with a telephone cord, but I am sure we have all wanted to.

True West plays until August 28/11 at the Arrata Opera Centre.

everything you ever wanted to know about pooping in space

2011-08-24T14:11:00.004-07:00

Packing for Mars - Mary Roach

She's done it again. Mary Roach, author of such delightfully compelling treatises as Bonk, Spook, and my all-time favourite science book, Stiff, has once again captured my imagination in her most recent book, Packing for Mars. As has become standard practice, Mary Roach manages to answer all my questions, including some I didn't even know I had, this time about life in zero gravity.

In Packing for Mars, Roach sits in on the grueling and often perplexing astronaut selection process at the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency, chronicles odd and little known aspects of the historical space race, and speculates on some challenges of life in space which had never previously occurred to me.

Oh sure, everybody has thought about pooping in space (even though the particular challenges of fecal popcorning, free-floating escapees, and fecal dust blowback are matters that have eluded even my 10-year-old boy imagination), but NASA has done more than just think about it and giggle. They actually employ engineers who study the degree of curl that occurs without gravity to pull the feces straight as it is being emitted. This is crucial information to have when designing aerospace waste collections systems, in order to prevent the curlage from blocking the top of the narrow evacuation tube. True story.

And if it were not for Mary Roach, I would never have known about this.

There is actually much more to Packing for Mars than poop stories. While researching this book, Roach traveled to Devon Island to participate in Mars simulation studies, took a parabolic flight on a Vomit Comet, visited bone-loss study volunteers lying prone for three months at a time, and kept filtered urine in her fridge for drinking purposes, much to the dismay of her long-suffering husband, Ed.

With fascinating topics such as the development of astronaut food, speculations about the challenges of sex and childbirth in zero gravity, and a compelling look at historical space hygiene (or lack thereof) studies, this book holds something captivating for everyone. You have to read Packing for Mars.

one week ago

2011-08-21T20:15:00.003-07:00

we were setting up inside

Olenka and the Autumn Lovers were setting up outside

(bonus points if you can find Evan's sock)

and then, ladies and gents, we had a concert

until it was time for the road warriors to get some shut-eye

life's a bowl

2011-08-20T07:59:00.003-07:00

I'm surrounded by cherries.

They really are the world's most elegant fruit, those perfect ripe orbs, each dangling from a slender stylish stem. And yet, like the Hollywood legend who arrives home from the red carpet, sheds her Vera Wang and pulls on her Dorrito-stained sweat pants, the cherry transitions easily from luscious perfection lowered sensuously to waiting lips into a red-stained pit spat triumphantly across the back yard in a few juicy chomps.

Cherry production is big business. Like BIG. The Spousal Unit likes to tell the story of a business trip he made to a cherry orchard in the Okanagan a couple of years ago. This was no ma and pa orchard with some stunted apple trees and a few rows of cherry trees, chickens meandering through the grounds, cats lazing on fences. This place had helicopters.

The Spousal Unit and his companions were scheduled to take a helicopter tour of the area on the day that they were there, but it had rained the night before. All the helicopters had therefore been commandeered to hover above the orchard, fanning the trees with their blades to dry off the cherries in order to prevent them from bursting. The warehouse only operated for a few weeks each year, employed dozens of people, and generated some serious income. The largest, most perfect cherries never even get sold in Canada. Cherries are way more profitable than drug running evidently.

With my family stemming from the Black Forest region of Germany, I admit to having some cherry juice running through my veins. Which is why I found myself lugging twenty pounds of Okanagan cherries home from the farmers' market a couple of days ago. I really didn't want to delve into the whole canning process - been there, done that. A little research convinced me that freezing batches of cherries was the simplest way to deal with this over-abundance of goodness, but I was a little terrified of the pitting process. I had visions of myself cowering in the corner of a juice-splattered kitchen, in a scene from a torture-porn movie, rocking back and forth cradling my red-dripping hands, now crippled and useless. Much as I dislike kitchen gadgets that serve only one purpose, I figured it was time to invest in a cherry pitter.

Cherry pitters are actually not very expensive. With the money in my pocket from taking the house concert empties to the bottle depot, I was able to buy a very nice one at a kitchen supply store and still have enough left over for a cheap bottle of wine.

I love my cherry pitter! Cherry pitting is actually fast and easy, and considerably less messy than I expected.

In addition to freezing pitted cherries, I decided to try macerating a few jars of them. I gathered up all the little sample booze bottles and fishing trip leftovers that had accumulated in the liquor cabinet, and poured them into jars packed with only perfect blemish-free cherries, pits and stems intact. They look gorgeous, although I am told that the alcohol will eventually leach the colour from the cherries, so we will need to eat them within a few weeks. Shouldn't be a problem.

I have about ten pounds of cherries left to pit today, and tomorrow I plan to bake some cherry muffins, putting a lie to my assertion that I only ever bake muffins when we have overnight guests. Unless you want to come for a visit...

What would you do with twenty pounds of cherries?

front row centre

2011-08-18T21:07:00.004-07:00

Just pretend that you were there with us, lounging in the back yard listening to Olenka and the Autumn Lovers work their sonic magic.

flags and ribbons, smiles and guns: Olenka and the Autumn Lovers house concert

2011-08-16T14:31:00.004-07:00

The smiles captured by my friend Jeff's camera sum up the evening perfectly. The return engagement of Olenka and the Autumn Lovers to casa del Zombie was an evening awash in laughter, a celebration of friendship and camaraderie.

It seems an odd juxtaposition, that there be so much mirth accompanying a band whose songs often detail the struggles of the politically oppressed, the downtrodden. Poignant songs of loss and revolution rang out into the calm of the evening, escaping the embrace of tiny spruce-enclosed yard, Olenka's heart-wrenching voice occasionally punctuated by an incoming 737. But somehow, the odd low-flying jet, the occasional bark of a neighbourhood dog, only served to make the music more powerful. To have the luxury to relax in a suburban backyard, surrounded by friends, neighbours and hardcore fans who would brave Calgary transit on a Sunday for a trip to the southeast, all the while being sonically transported to a Poland struggling under communism, really magnified how privileged we are to have these special moments.

When an abbreviated version of Olenka and the Autumn Lovers first graced our house last May, everyone in that living room was stunned by the power that could be transmitted by three women, a guitar, a cello and a violin. To experience the richness of the full band, six people with guitars, bass, drums, cello, violin, and the sweetest slide guitar you could hope to hear, outdoors on a beautiful summer evening, was really something quite sublime.

Olenka and the Autumn Lovers played two sets, allowing us all time to mingle and refill our plates and glasses between bookends of song. Despite the hostess with the big glass of wine (who obviously succumbed to the lure of the microphone) insisting upon delivering both introductions and denouements, the show was magical. With the power of bass and drums mimicking the raw power of Olenka Krakus' iconic voice, with the poignancy of her words reflected in the sweep of the violin and cello strings and in the cry of the lap slide guitar, we were all transported by the music of this incredible band.

Powerful musicians and performers they are, but also wonderfully warm and funny human beings. Mirth, merriment and bone-crushing hugs were rampant.

If you have never attended a back yard concert, I urge you to do so as quickly as humanly possible. The intimacy between performers and audience, when that invisible barrier breaks down and is eradicated forever, is a moment that I cherish most in a small setting. A small back yard, walled by trees and under a blue sky ceiling, is arguably the perfect setting in which to forge new friendships, bond over food and drink, and celebrate the love of live music.

Stay tuned for photos and videos.

soundtrack to a zompocalypse

2011-08-13T20:01:00.004-07:00

Bring on the zombie apocalypse. Not only has a recent facebook meme helped me comprise my zombie-slaying team - complete with sniper, heavy weapons and an idiot who survives - but I now have a soundtrack to my own personal zomcopalypse. Many props to the fabulous Bloody Awful Poetry for melding zombie-slaying with music.

You know how it works, put your itunes on shuffle and so on and so on.

First song: overall theme for the apocalypse

I'll Go Down - Brock Geiger

(hopefully not a premonition)

Second song: plays when you kill your first zombie

Lilac Breeze - Eels

(either an ironic choice or the name of the air freshener required to face that rotting corpse)

Third song: plays when you are being chased by a horde

Too Good for Reverb - Glowbug

(okay then, no reverb)

Fourth song: plays when you have to kill your loved one

Clumsy Seduction - Emma Hill

(yeah, likely the clumsiest seduction of all time)

Fifth song: plays when you find a group of survivors

Skeleton Jar - Youth Group

Sixth song: plays when you meet a new love interest

Standing in the Shower Thinking - Jane's Addiction

(definitely has possibilities)

Seventh song: plays when you have to make a final stand

On a Mission - Small Sins

Eighth song: plays when you think you've survived it all

The Brain of Purple Mountain - Leo Lotke

(time to get a little cocky)

Ninth song: plays when you discover a bite mark on you

Time to Get Ill - Beastie Boys

(drat, foiled!)

Tenth song: plays over the end credits

Kiss of Death - New Order

(perhaps this will not be a rom zom com after all)

Your turn!

new world order

2011-08-10T19:37:00.003-07:00

If you had to start the world from scratch:

- what sort of hierarchy would you establish?

- who would eat whom?

- would you invent a god?

- what would be the most valuable raw material?

- what would be the most prized characteristic?

- what role would otters play in the grand scheme of things?

creeping nostalgia

2011-08-07T07:48:00.006-07:00

The Resident Offspring gave her two weeks' notice yesterday, putting another piece of kindling on the smoldering mawkishness I have been feeling lately. Despite truly enjoying her summer job and her coworkers this year, she is itching to return to her real life at university, and that's the way it should be. But it does little to stop me from trying to grasp every last moment with her.

Skype is great, but can't compare to lounging together on the chesterfield watching reruns of Parks and Recreation.

Already dusk is coming on earlier in the evenings; the first yellow leaves are starting to drift down from the trees, where they lie as small tokens of inevitability on the grass. Perhaps it's a residual reaction to the long hard winter we suffered through this past year or the non-existent spring, but this summer seems to be passing before it really even gets started. I have always loved autumn, but I am not ready yet to entertain the thought of it, let alone the reality.

The only way to battle this premature nostalgia is to throw a party. A house concert party.

How timely then that Olenka and the Autumn Lovers will be playing at casa del Zombie next Sunday, the only house concert on their summer tour of the western half of the nation. With the full band representing and with an early evening backyard concert in the works, we're going to rock the hood.

I already have way too much food prepared. You should join us.

what: Olenka and the Autumn Lovers backyard concert

when: Sunday August 14, doors 5:30, music 6:30

where: my house (contact me for details)

cost: $10 suggested band donation

See you there?

Flash Fiction Friday: if cabin pressure should change

2011-08-04T19:27:00.011-07:00

How fitting that this week's Flash Fiction Friday prompt is to write a story detailing the consequences of being late. For I have not merely been late regarding the heralded FFF these past few weeks. No, far beyond mere tardiness, I have been missing in action. Buried in a muddy trench somewhere in the French countryside.

No more!

With that desperate declaration, here then is my re-entry into the Flash Fiction Friday brigade.

---

If Cabin Pressure Should Change

He didn't even know her name. Names had never been part of the arrangement, had never seemed necessary until now. A superfluous trapping of life beyond the Air Canada cabin, the telling of names would have burst the protective bubble that for the past half year had insulated their twice monthly encounters in seats 19E and 19F.

But even though he didn't know her name, didn't know much about her beyond the fact that twice a month she flew the red-eye from Montreal to Winnipeg, he recalled their first meeting with a sense of nostalgia. His pulse raced a little every time he remembered the first time he saw her, reclining in the window seat, book open but ignored, airline blanket draped across her lap. With her haughty air and the knowing glance with which she appraised him as he settled in the middle seat beside her, she looked more like she was ruling a small European principality than sitting in a cramped airplane on a cross country flight.

She turned a discerning eye to him, appraising what lay beneath his new white shirt, now wrinkled, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. With one shapely eyebrow raised, she tilted her head and addressed him, will you join me in a drink?

Four glasses of wine later, the aisle seat passenger snoring lustily beside them, the airline blanket found its way across both of their laps. As it had on the dozen subsequent flights they had since found each other on, both of them always conscientious about booking their seats early, she in 19F, he in 19E.

Lately, he found himself thinking about her all the time. Who was she really, how did she spend her days, what would it be like to see her on the ground? He envisioned meeting her in a cafe, dreamt of taking her to his apartment for the weekend, but she always refused his muted suggestions. No names, she insisted, you are 19E, I am 19F.

This flight, however, things were going to be different. His first thought, upon awakening early and luxuriating in the faint rays of the early dawn that crept across his bed, was that this time he would wear down her resistance.

The assured optimism of the dawn was now rapidly shriveling as he surveyed with dismay the endless rows of tail lights that inched along all eight lanes of the freeway. As the radio broke the news of the multi-vehicle collision and the resulting bridge closure 20 kilometres ahead, he feared the worst. When the deepening dusk on the horizon settled into impenetrable gloom, he realized that digital clock on the dashboard was moving more rapidly than the tires on the car.

There was no way he was going to make that flight.

---

Wally couldn't believe his luck, getting the final seat on the flight. He didn't hold out much hope when he had agreed to fly standby, so he was astounded when he was called to board moments before the flight was due to depart. He shuffled his way to the back of the full plane, knees bumping into his carry-on bag, until he reached the final empty seat on the plane.

He thought that the woman in the window seat looked oddly startled when he squeezed his way into the row. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her affixing him with a perplexed stare while he thrust his bag under the seat, so to set her at ease and to make up for taking the last bit of space on the cramped plane, he turned to her and smiled. Good evening, he nodded to her.

She looked him and up down slowly, raised one eyebrow and titled her head. Then, a slight smile began tugging slowly at the corners of her mouth and she asked, will you join me in a drink?

perhaps a multipurpose machine

2011-08-01T15:10:00.004-07:00

It's approaching a singularity of sorts, the technological void around these parts. The camera which was once dropped into a lake and whose battery compartment door is held closed with duct tape appears to have finally given up the ghost. It owes us nothing.

Meanwhile, it is proving increasingly harder to be the last remaining Luddite who refuses to carry a cellular phone. There have been too many instances lately where my inability (refusal?) to be reached instantaneously has caused no small measure of frustration for others and increased legwork for me.

But if I am going to succumb to societal pressure and carry around a blasted phone, I want it to be worth my while. Sure I could haul out one of the old clunkers that now reside in the junk drawer, but there's a good reason those are in the junk drawer. With not even so much as texting ability on those phones, I didn't see the point in paying a fee to make maybe two phone calls a month.

No, if I am going to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 90's, I want to do so with a piece of technology that will do it all. And since we rarely use our home phone except to receive automated messages about credit card offers, I am considering getting rid of the landline entirely. Plus I don't want to replace the camera, but use the phone exclusively for taking photos instead. But I am also cheap and I want to get the best value for my money.

I welcome any advice.

Do you have any recommendations for both a phone and

for a data pack that won't put me in the poor house?

fast talkin' melodies

2011-07-30T11:43:00.005-07:00

Acoustic - Taylor Cochrane

There's no question that Taylor Cochrane is a witty lyricist. The former lead vocalist of the Kronic Groove Band displays considerable wordsmithery on his debut solo album, Acoustic, on which he bursts forth with a collection of songs spanning the range from youthful cockiness to eccentric self-reflection.

Sonically and lyrically reminiscent of The Passionistas, Cochrane steers clear of standard melodic formulae, leaning instead toward a more free-form approach within each song. As a whole though, the album is consistent, as one might glean from the title, in its acoustic approach, with a mixed degree of success. I found myself wishing that certain tracks had been fleshed out beyond the singer and strumming guitar reality, imagining the impact that they would have had with a bit more substance from a backing band.

The tracks on Acoustic focus heavily on quirky matters, the unapologetic irreverence of a young man. From the name-checking on the opening track, Narcissism and Yellow Fever, to the references to song-writing that pop up throughout the album, self-awareness is the predominant focus of this collection of rather eccentric songs. In an curious shift from the standard practice, some of the more interesting tracks reside in the bottom half of the album. From the surprisingly irresistible singalong chorus about murder on I'd Hit That to the equally surprising self-reflection on Hypocrite, Acoustic turns an inward eye on the raw emotions that lie beneath a cocky persona.

Although lacking some of the musical sophistication of equally novel musicians like Flight of the Conchords, Taylor Cochrane shows promise. He certainly knows how to turn a clever lyric. Keep an eye out for him.

taylorcochrane on soundcloud

we'll sleep when we're dead: day four of Calgary Folk Fest 2011

2011-07-29T14:33:00.008-07:00

As a newly-minted coordinator in the Music and Merch tent, I knew that Sunday was going to be the day that for me involved more selling of than partaking in music. Naturally, it was also the day of my Lightning Dust interview. If you are going to be busy, you might as well be really busy.

Still I did manage a few minutes in a shady grove to catch my breath and catch up with the Spousal Unit for a bit of Jimmie Dale Gilmore magic.

With the sun and the climbing mercury came the crowds. Sales in the record tent were brisk, as supplies of CDs and albums by crowd favourites began drying up as rapidly as the previously swampy ground. We had a full roster for autograph sessions, some of the musicians like Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band coming back for multiple sittings. This was great news for some people, like my record tent buddy from two years previous, whom I encountered by chance earlier in the day. He confided to me that, this year, he was in love with the band's washboard player. We call her Babs, he told me, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face, short for Bad-Assed Bitch.

Joshua Wells and Amber Webber from Lightning Dust proved to be charming and scintillating interview subjects. You will need to read my article coming out in the September-October issue of BC Musician Magazine in order to learn what they divulged to me, but I will tell you that Amber called Buffy Sainte-Marie a babe. I will also tell you that some of the real reporters wandering the Calgary Folk Festival site were absolutely cut-throat characters who think nothing of stealing the chairs that somebody else assembled in a shady spot by the river for their own upcoming interview. Never trust a reporter.

Following the interview, I miraculously connected with both the Spousal Unit and the Resident Offspring at the most jam-packed stage I have ever attended. And by jam-packed I am referring to the audience numbers, although the stage was rather full to bursting as well, holding all the inhabitants of Mighty Popo and Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band, as well as Matt Anderson and Harrison Kennedy.

With a full evening of finalizing artists' contracts, counting and packing merchandise, and striking down the record tent ahead of me, my final show of the night occurred while broad daylight still graced the island. As the Resident Offspring, her buddy and I lounged back with our gelatos and watched the thousands of babies crawl around in the grass (including the toddlers from Thursday's toddler rollup whom we kept seeing everywhere all weekend), we bopped our heads to the groove beat laid down by Yohimbe Brothers, Inhabitants, Jim Moray, and MINOTAURS.

I regret having missed performances by Couer de Pirate (although I did catch a smidgeon of her and Chic Gamine at a workshop I paused for the day before), Blind Pilot, Ernest Ranglin, and Buffy Sainte-Marie. We did manage to hear Buffy Sainte-Marie from the record tent, and I will you that the degree with which she rocks absolutely belies her seventy years.

But there was part of one more performance and one more moment of magic for me before the final strains of music faded out over the river. That was the moment when all the coordinators and festival organizers were called to climb the boards of the main stage for the weekend finale. From inside the artists' lounge area, where we waited to take the stage, we watched Wayne Petti from Cuff the Duke perform the final show of the weekend with Blue Rodeo.

And then we all clamoured onto the stage - dirty, exhausted, but very satisfied - smiling and waving to the audience as they rolled up their tarps and folded up their chairs for the final time. Swaying from side to side, hugging and laughing and reveling in the koombawya of the moment, we promised to buy each other refreshments at the final after-party of the Calgary Folk Festival. But of course you know, what happens at after-party stays at after-party.