blogchive 2004

Live? Not Quite! From the Heart of Downtown T.O.


12/25/04

~From The Desk of S. Claus~


Dear _________,

Santa here. Thank you so much for the milk and cookies you left. I demolished them in short order, with gusto (belch). I also note that the strawberries, with their seasonal red fruit and green stem, were a lovely touch. Ho, ho, ho!

Sweetie, I've checked with my elves and truthfully, we're not altogether sure whether you've been a good girl or a bad girl this year. Undeniably, you have ... er ... stirred the pot, shall we say, in the lives of your loved ones. They uniformly report (in their own words) "one heck of a ride" in 2004. Yet, they also plainly tell us that despite your keen sense of mischief, your heart is pure, your love is true, and your motive is always the highest and greatest good of all sentient beings. Their continued growth toward the light, they say, is your ultimate concern.

In light of all this, sunshine, the elves and I have decided that we have no choice but to declare you a girl beyond good. This is an entirely new category that we've had to create in order to accommodate your wondrous works. I can already hear the wheels spinning with delight in your brainy, philosophical mind as you realize that this is our first non-dualistic category. Very good! How exceedingly "Zen" of you. Now, tell me: what is the sound of one hand clapping? Ho, ho, ho!

So, princess, I can only offer my awe, my deepest congratulations, and these few precious gifts for you. Though they barely befit a stellar, goddess-like being such as yourself, we do hope you will accept them with gratitude, in the spirit through which they are indeed offered.

Yours in solidarity,

S. Claus, Esq.


P.S.: Do tell Vern not to worry; he's obviously in good hands. Many thanks.

12/18/04

Financial (and other) circumstances have changed drastically since July, so I decided to cancel the trip to Chicago and sell my GbV ticket on eBay. I threw in The Rough Guide to Chicago as well. My first eBay auction was a wild ride, but it was ultimately successful for both buyer and seller. A happy camper from Burlington was the lucky winner, and I quite unexpectedly made a bit of money from the deal. I imagine that some people sell stuff, scrupulously or otherwise, on eBay as a full-time vocation. My hat's off to them, because selling one item once was plenty stressful for me. Oh, it really wasn't that bad. I may do it again sometime, but I'm in no rush. Part of the trick, I think, is to happen to possess stuff that you no longer want but others really want. I can't be bothered doing a systematic inventory of all I own, but I suspect that not much would fall into that category.

Concurrent with this, I've been "sick." I put the word in quotes because whatever this is, it's been a most unusual and, dare I say, auspicious illness. Through an aborning sixth sense, I am convinced that this "illness" prepared me for what I can only describe as a kensho experience, which happened yesterday. My rational mind has not taken leave, but it now happily co-exists with a raving, laughing, joyously weeping, yea-saying, madly scrawling mystic, smashing through duality with/as his Higher Power.

Shit: my clever, writerly words don't even touch it. I've been wondering how to share this with anyone. As always, she knows. So: here is an excerpt from yesterday's raving madman's handwritten journal. This is not a complete, unabridged chronicle of the entire experience, but that's okay. No matter how you or infinite possible readers might interpret this, my Higher Power tells me that it's all good. (The blank is where her name appears. Some things must stay private.) Here we go:
The pendulum has SWUNG. My will is now _______'s will and I'm living it! Feeling joyous, ecstatic, expansive, visionary, bouncing off the walls even though I'm sick. I=YOU=I ... YES! ANYTHING is possible. I am totally indifferent/open to what she wants. I am a blank slate as of RIGHT NOW. She is the artist—beautiful, brilliant, brainy, divinely inspired. Whatever she paints through me is wonderful. WONDER-FULL! Amazing expansive anything is possible insanely fluid behaviour patterns malleable moods thoughts emotions inspirational bolts from the blue vibration rising—to meet hers! YES! Everything is beautiful, shining, jewel-like, exactly as it is—even me and my defects and fumbling imperfections. This pen is a manifestation of God so is the bed the air the light the curtains my ashtray my radio my heavy breathing—EVERYTHING IS! (not "is one," dummy ... just is!) I am so—I am! I am! Gratitude is! I'm trying to say "I am grateful" but that sounds so pedestrian, so laughably limiting. OPEN OPEN THE OPEN IS NOW DOOR WE ARE NOW!
Here's a second excerpt (this one from today):
Walked slowly in neighbourhood grinning sending energy to all beings encountered. Pace of walking felt so perfect, a joy to walk. Went to Riverdale Farm to spread IT to the lovely animals—God's little angel children—sheep baaed at me. One horse got it and started to snort and howl! (We Howl!).

_______ = Jesus Buddha God Marilyn Monroe Mother Teresa Albert Einstein and everything in between above below around beyond! And because I am now a vessel for her? MY GOD—I am all of what she is—the power the glory the strength the beauty the sexual charisma the quiet confidence the blazing intellect and artistry the creator the brain the brawn the body the base instinct the shining loving all-seeing one-eye the nothing the everything _______!

After I went to bed last night, I thanked / sent this suchness, this joyous oneness / made amends to every being I could name that I've met / known / known of etc. I got to thanking / sending joy / making amends to entertainers from my parents' era (had long since thanked my faves and inspirations). I made it all the way back to Sir Harry Lauder: we're talking my great-grandfather's era now. Laughing crying joy simultaneously, I broke into "End of the Road" and sang as much of it as I knew, in a suitably bad Scottish accent. When I reached the end, I suddenly felt it: ALL the grief loss sadness love yearning for my parents—first authentic emotion for them since their deaths. It came pouring out. Cried like a baby, reached out to them, wailed to _______, "They were such good people." Really felt it (primal). It was brief but complete.
There is more—much, much more. She gave me my soul for Christmas, and I could spend a full year writing about what's happened to me in the past day and a half. More will be revealed as she feels it ought to be. God bless us, everyone!

12/11/04

Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.

It's time for me to check in and let you know how my step study is going. The notetaking debacle of a few weeks ago plopped me square into the heart of Step 3, and so far, my process has been one of cathartic, cataclysmic release. I'm dropping burdens as though they were hot coals; in 12-step parlance, I'm "turning it over."

For me, this step has culminated in a stunning and powerful admission: I don't know what I'm doing, and despite my best efforts, I have consistently failed to create the life I want for myself. The evidence speaks for itself. I have come to see surrender as the only way forward. In tears, I told my Higher Power, "I can't get what I want. Let's see if you can get what you want. From here on in, I am the vessel for your wishes, your plan and your will for me."

You know, for all that I think I lack, I have drawn a joyous, loving, and deeply personal Higher Power card: the Ace of Hearts of all possible gods or goddesses I could have attracted into my life. I had a premonition of this moment many years ago, in a dream that was elegant in its simplicity. We were in a vehicle together. She was in the front seat, driving, smiling, and occasionally chatting with me. I sat in the back, reading a map. That was it.

Twenty years later, she now drives the bus. I don't need to know where the bus is going or how long it will take to get there. Out of grandmotherly kindness, she has given me a roadmap to keep me informed and keep me out of trouble. That's much appreciated, but I must now acknowledge that the roadmap and I are the least essential parts of the equation. It's far more crucial that we have an excellent driver at the helm, one who knows where we should be going and how to get there.

Forgive me for using evangelistic terminology here, but I think it well expresses the heart of the matter: my soul was saved when she opened the door and I hopped on the bus. That's all I needed to do. In the words of the 13th-century Zen master Wu-men:
Without raising a foot we are there already;
The tongue has not moved, but the teaching has finished.

Amen, brother. With the help of my Higher Power's blazing intellect and insight, I have come to realize that the plan is as fluid as life itself. Core aspects may be etched in stone, but the overall fluidity suggests that the correct question—always—is "What do I need to do right now?" Straight away, this philosophical cornerstone underscores the fact that I have a crucial role to play in discerning her will (where appropriate; sometimes it's best that I don't know) and carrying it out. Hmm. Maybe that roadmap has a purpose greater than my idle amusement after all. Yeah, as long as I always remember that I am the vessel for her plan, not the other way around. You know what they say about backseat drivers.

Having said that, she has gently enjoined me to avoid getting caught up in the dualistic trap of distinguishing her will from mine. She has emphasized that we are co-creators in wonderful, loving partnership, working toward the mutual fulfillment of our potential. As the poet once said, "You are the flower, I am the bee." Or was that the other way around?

12/09/04

In the continual quest to discover my career path by eliminating that which it is not, I had an amazing, unexpected insight today. I was walking by the university, and I happened to glance through the window of a lovely old building. On the other side of the window, I saw a handful of stuffy-looking academics in tweed jackets, grey hair, and goatees seating themselves around a table. I assumed they were sitting down to a meeting of some sort. They looked sombre, serious and, without exception, like they would rather be anywhere else.

We all know that meetings are a necessary evil in many sectors of the work world; they're not unique to academia. However, seeing this scene crystallized a burgeoning conviction that I don't belong in the academy. I am a free-spirited, maverick visionary at heart, and the university is an institution that—for all its free-thinking rhetoric—is bound by tradition, policy, and procedure. For all the lip service paid to the thirst for knowledge, truth, and lofty idea(l)s, the university qua institution is no more interested in subverting the social order than any blue-chip corporation. (Hey, I was a sociology major. I know these things. I also did some serious time in the clerical rung of university administration. In that capacity, I must have picked up a few things that neither the classroom nor the knowledge-is-power ideology intended to teach me.)

Once upon a time, excelling in academics was just about the only thing I was good it. To me, the logical outcome of such a path was a career as a university professor. At the time, life had other plans for me, and I was rather suddenly derailed in my quest. I've had thoughts of "what if" tumbling around in my mind for years, but no more: in the space of 10 seconds, any lingering regrets about my failed pursuit of tenured professorship were put straight to bed. Funny, the things that can happen on an innocent little exercise walk.

11/27/04

So, what does our hero promptly do? Rationalizing the escapade as "an experiment," he metaphorically strikes a match and sets his nose on fire, just to see if it still hurts. The predictable conclusion: yeah, it does. I attempted a return to notetaking this week. The reward for my impulsive stupidity was an eight-hour panic attack and sore wrists. I don't know where my career is headed, but I ought to know by now that I can only go forward. Going backward is not an option.

I'm doing some musical composting at the moment, going through old tapes of one of my very first bands. Much of the material contained therein is typical my-first-band fare: three angry young assholes armed with a rec room, amps that go up to 11, a shitty PA system, and an array of effects pedals set to maximum stun. Of course, we knew we were God's gift to rock 'n' roll. What we didn't know is that we couldn't write a song to save our lives. Oh, there are aimless, meandering jams and flashy, hot licks aplenty (often in 5/4, 9/4, and other my-aren't-we-clever time signatures), but it's all quite vacuous and shamelessly derivative. Good God, were we ever loud and obnoxious. I'm reminded of that line in "Joe's Garage," the Frank Zappa classic, where a generic middle-aged mom screeches, "Don't you boys know any nice songs?" No, Mom, we don't do nice songs.

We were as annoying as humanly possible. How my parents put up with us, I'll never know. They actually liked it, or were polite enough to say that they did. Having said all that, there are certainly far more destructive ways to channel teenage angst. Mercifully, I was not drawn to any of them. Wanking away at the bass, yelping off-key, turning up to 11 and writing lousy, spite-filled songs gave me the only source of joy and purpose I had. Go figure. It happens when you're 21 and haven't a clue.

You may wonder why I am listening to these gems. The motive is neither nostalgia, masochism, nor idle amusement, and I'm not clawing my way through the goldmine because I'm bereft of new ideas. Oddly enough, I think this warped trip down memory lane is an unexpected result of my step study work. Jonathan Cainer's Libra horoscope for this weekend provides a hint:
"The planetary pentagram suggests reconciliation between people who have been in dispute. It's a bright omen for the future of the world. And it is particularly encouraging for you. Not only can you now resolve an outstanding issue with an old adversary, you can achieve something much more desirable, yet much more difficult. You can make peace with your past. You have long felt uncomfortable about something that happened some while ago. It can't be changed, but you can alter the way you feel about it. That will make a big difference."
I had no idea what this was about when I first read it. But just before sleep, one of those hideous old songs inexplicably began running through my head. I laughed and thought nothing of it; then the light came on. Recalling the horoscope, I put two and two together and realized what was happening. Allow me to explain.

Now, my Higher Power and I are hardly "in dispute" at the moment. In fact, we're getting along very well these days. But many years ago, we had what I will charitably call a rough and rocky start to our relationship. To make a long story short, I loved and needed her passionately and desperately. I intuitively knew that she was nothing less than my salvation. Turns out I was right about that, but I didn't know that I was neither ready nor worthy to receive her then. Brilliant and perceptive young lady that she was, she certainly knew it, and she gently but firmly turned down my advances. I was devastated, deeply hurt, angry, and ... well, what better way to express the venom than in song? Cue our aforementioned band of angry young assholes. At least two of the unspeakable ditties on that tape are mine, and they've been thorns in my side for years. They're essentially me screaming my pain and rage at her. Have I mentioned angry young assholes yet? Ah, I thought so.

Yeah, I know: I could simply erase the tape, but something tells me that an amend needs to be made. Though it will require major songwriting surgery, I aim to rewrite these two songs. The titles are blessedly neutral, so I'll keep them. If any of the original lyrics hold up to scrutiny, I may recast them and turn them right on their heads. I do this not to punish myself, but to right a wrong and heal the last bit of discord between us from the distant past. Through the magic and alchemy of mutual forgiveness, I may well end up with a gift or two: a couple more songs for the next BITW album.

You really ought to read Mr. Cainer's horoscopes. When he's on, he takes a cosmic can opener to your soul, peers inside, illuminates the contents, and uses the insights to help you grow. Amazing.

11/22/04

Congratulations to the 2004 Grey Cup Champion Toronto Argonauts. Yeah, I was there, and it was sweet to see them win, but I didn't enjoy it as much as I had hoped to. As much as I love Canadian football, I felt lonely and acutely autistic in a crowd of drunken revellers, all of whom came with either their buddies or their sweeties. At least the game was good. The guys sitting beside me were Argo fans; that was the good news. The bad news came when they welcomed me to my seat. "Heyyy! What's your name? Vern? Vernie? Bernie? Bernie KOZAR? BER-NIE! BER-NIE! BER-NIE! Bernie, you're gonna get NAKED by the time this night is done!" Their flasks must have been laced with valium, because they settled down in the second half and barely took notice of the weird guy beside them tuning in the radio broadcast and tuning out the fans. Ber-nie. Ber-nie. Ber-nie.

11/14/04

Stroke of luck: I bought a ticket for next weekend's Grey Cup in Ottawa way back in the spring, and as fate would have it, my team will be there! After coming up empty in the 2002 and 2003 Eastern Finals, the Argos upset Montreal 26-18 in front of 50,000 stunned Alouette fans at Olympic Stadium. Ironically, they'll face my favourite western team, the B.C. Lions, who won an overtime thriller at home against Saskatchewan earlier today. In a way, I won't be unhappy no matter who wins, though of course I'll be cheering for the Boatmen all the way. Sweet! Are the Toronto Argonauts destined to be Canada's answer to the Boston Red Sox? Stay tuned.

This spring, in yet another effort to kick-start a life-changing revolution, I came up with the wacky idea of relocating to London (the big one across the pond, folks, not the one down the 401). Wacky Idea 2 then compelled me to book an impulsive, week-long visit. I can only partially fault my wonderful therapist for Wacky Idea 3, since I agreed it was splendid: I stuffed my backpack with resumes and conducted information interviews at various universities and media outlets. Though I fell in love with the city, the mere act of carrying out W.I. 3 made the trip unbearably stressful. By mid-week, I realized that I no longer wanted to do the kind of work I'd done in the past, be it in London, Toronto, or Timbuktu. My heart wasn't in it. I felt like an imposter. You know that feeling you get when all you can hear is the voice inside screaming, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, IDIOT?" The whole week was like that.

When I hear that voice, I know that I'm contemplating an action akin to striking a match and setting my nose on fire. Once I got the message, the Wacky Ideas and accompanying schemes collapsed. I returned home, tail between legs, thoroughly confused.

The passing of a few months has enabled me to gain perspective, which—typically—has led straight to Wacky Ideas 4 and 5. (I'm stubborn if nothing else; either that, or a very slow learner.) W.I. 4: I really do want to live there, but as a writer, not a notetaker, closed-caption editor, janitor, or what-have-you. W.I. 5: I want to visit again, this time to scope out potential neighbourhoods. Wacky Idea 6 is the latest to make itself known, and don't look now, but this may be the sanest of the lot. W.I. 6 tells me that it's wonderful to allow myself to have dreams big, bold, and wild. However, its corollary (W.I. 6a) cautions me not to be too attached to (a) how they'll come true; (b) when they'll come true; (c) if they'll come true; (d) if they should come true.

(These Wacky Idea initialisms are eerily similar to London postcodes, are they not? What do you think? Send your answers to Boys In The Wood, Hampstead, London WI4 WI6.)

You know what's really sucking me into London's vortex, don't you? Yeah, it's the Underground. Look at all those tube lines! And don't get me started on the glory, the elegance, and the triumph of function and design that is the world-famous Tube map. While I'm am at it, your life will not be complete until you discover the history behind the map and the genius of its creator, Harry Beck.

There. I will stop salivating now.

11/13/04

I'm noting with great irony the sudden proliferation of web sites beckoning progressive Americans to come hither in the wake of Dubya's victory. Already, I've checked out the quite sober and serious Canadian Alternative and the more whimsical Marry An American. For all I know, there may be more. Apparently, the pitch is working: Canada's immigration web site received record numbers of visits from our stateside friends the week after the election. Anyway, it raises some wistful, sad feelings for a Canadian guy with an American ex-girlfriend with whom he's no longer on speaking terms. I wonder what L would think of this? We discussed the possibility of her moving here once or twice, I recall, but only casually. I can only assume that she is where she wants to be and where she belongs. I hope she's happy.

In other news: skyscraper fans, autistics, and other such purveyors of urban geekery have, I'm sure, noticed the recent makeover that has been foisted upon First Canadian Place. That stylized, blazing blue M has given way to a bland corporate logo. For your amusement (or consternation), here's the bland corporate press release that crows about the glorious achievement. Bah. Of course, they don't show you pictures of the old, groovy logo, as that wouldn't be good for branding. Our intrepid team of net sleuths hereby rectify this egregious slight and point you to a dazzling night shot of First Canadian Place as it once was. Enjoy.

Sigh. It's further evidence that the Dark Ages are upon us. It's out with the flowing, modernist, abstract '70s, and in with the dull, rigid, let's-run-it-by-marketing-first look of the millennium. Is aesthetics not worthy of some consideration when you've been given the gift of free advertising from 72 storeys? I guess not.

11/05/04

Finished my Christmas shopping today. I enjoy gift-giving, but not shopping, especially in December when the stores are crowded. I like to get it out of the way early and forget about it until the day arrives. I endure the season more than enjoy it, but it has nothing to do with Christmas per se: I feel this way about all "special" occasions. Took great pains this year to avoid Halloween, for example; I still can't deal with it at all. I'm not really sure why. It's probably the forced sociality—with children in costume, no less—that I find so hard to deal with.

I suppose my Halloween complex is in some way related to an over-developed need for privacy. These days, I bristle at the sound of the doorbell. Around 98% of the time, it's someone I don't know (and am not sure I can trust) asking for something. I have a similar distaste for the phone. Since I can't afford call display, I screen calls by turning the ringer off and leaving the answering machine on, volume set to zero. As with the door, the overwhelming majority of the phone calls I receive are unsolicited and unwanted.

Other "hot" issues of late:
 On an unrelated note, the Argos and Ticats are meeting in the playoffs for the first time since 1999, and I can't go. Grrr! The game falls on the night of my step study, but that wasn't the CFL's original plan. The playoffs are always on Sundays, but our fine friends at the SkyDome decided to book some Aussie children's group called The Wiggles for this weekend, thus bumping the Boatmen to Friday. The Argonauts have known for quite some time that they are personae non gratae as far as the SkyDome's event scheduling goes, which is why we desperately need a new stadium. Too bad the new venue will be in the bloody sticks (at York University), but that's another rant for another day.

Brief comment on the U.S. election: I am so glad I don't live there. Of course, one could argue that with the emergence of the United States as the world's only superpower, we all "live there," like it or not. The current administration is already scary, and now that they perceive themselves to have a mandate based on moral issues, they're going to get even scarier. There is no leftist political party in America, and when even a centrist-but-lurching-as-right-as-we-can party (i.e., the Democrats) can't get elected, there's no hope for the place. All rise for the flag salute.

10/28/04

Curse reversed! Boston swept the World Series with a 3-0 win in St. Louis tonight. This is the first championship for the Red Sox since 1918. They were three outs away from being swept by the Yankees in the League Championship Series, and came roaring back, winning their next eight in a row. That's never been done in the playoffs until now. Wow. I'd like to reflect a little further on the possible metaphysical significance of this event for underdogs everywhere by noting that they clinched on the night of a full lunar eclipse and an extremely rare Grand Quintile Alignment of the planets. I want to believe all this means something and, just maybe, it does if I want it to. Just heard a guy on a phone-in show say, "Baseball is a mirror for life itself." Amen. Oh, and may the fans of New England survive the celebration!

10/25/04

Here's a brief dispatch from our sports-as-metaphor-for-life department. With Boston now up 2-0 in the World Series, it is my civic duty to inform you that earlier this year (March 7, to be exact), I dreamt that the Red Sox would win the Fall Classic. Such an event would indeed be a modern-day miracle, as all baseball fans know. Those of you who haven't a clue what I'm talking about are hereby advised to read the Wikipedia entry for Curse of The Bambino. I bring this up somewhat facetiously, of course, but I'm one of these weirdos who would be tempted to interpret a Red Sox victory as a sign that the cosmic rules have changed, and the universe now favours the perennial underdog. We all want to believe that, don't we? Imagine: a kinder, gentler world ushered in by the Boston Red Sox. Reverse the curse!

10/23/04

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. - Anais Nin

Thought I'd lead off with that little tidbit today, as I am just coming out the other side of a difficult "shrinking" period. My therapist, whom I consider quite a wise woman, tells me that ebbs and flows are the natural order of things, and that I need to learn how to get through my ebbs without crashing. I'm still working on that one. I must confess that I prefer the expansive periods (surprise, surprise).

Happily, I think I'm getting ready to expand again. My horoscope tells me that, for the coming week at least, "... exceptional opportunities exist and could present themselves at any point." Hey, bring it on! (Brief digression: those of you who are sceptical about astrology really ought to try Jonathan Cainer's daily horoscopes. The link above will take you there if you're so inclined. Of course, if you're perfectly content with your life and feel no need whatsoever to consult with the stars, more power to you. I hope to have a life just like yours someday.)

In contemplating my next move, several scenarios have presented themselves. It's hard to tell fact from fiction when projecting too far into the future, don't you find? I begin to spiral out of control when I lose sight of the present moment and fail to take notice of that great big N-O-W on my wall. What I'm attempting to pull off is a stretch, for sure, and at times I bite off more than I can chew. I often come to regret it—usually, sooner rather than later. Anyway: from where I stand, uh, NOW, I'm wondering if I should completely divorce the writing of this book from all career plans, worries, or aspirations. Maybe I ought to use this time I've been given to do what I do best—create—and worry about making a living, with or without a job (to paraphrase the Barbara Winter book I've been reading) later on. As of late, excessive fretting about jobs, careers, and finances has ground my creativity to a halt. That's not good no matter which way you slice it.

Meanwhile, in other exciting news: the 12-step group that I've been part of since July has embarked upon a 30-week step study. We began last week. The step study is an intensive, structured, small group process designed to facilitate recovery. I'm more than a little terrified at the prospect of fully exposing and revealing myself in such an intimate setting; yet, from all accounts, the rewards for such bravery can be great. If I may use a piece of 12-step lingo, my Higher Power has encouraged me to give it a try, and I have agreed to take the plunge. (Doing this while I write the book, which is how it'll go down if I stick to my current timetable, may produce some fascinating results.) Needless to say, I won't be sharing any of the particulars of the step study on these pages—what goes on in the group is confidential—but I may offer some general comments about my individual process from time to time. It should make for one of heck of a ride from now till the end of May. And you know, if courage really is the catalyst for change, I suspect that there's nothing like a step study to invoke that very quality in spades.

10/10/04

I quite unexpectedly wrote and recorded a new song a few days ago, and the process by which it came about was rather bizarre. I was going through my "bits" tapes. Every musician has these: they're little snippets of undeveloped ideas, some only a few seconds long. The idea was to find pieces that could be developed further. Anyway, I came upon one tape that was a 4-track cassette master. Problem is, I no longer have the machine I recorded it on. So, when you play it on a standard cassette deck, you get tracks 1 and 2 on Side A at half-speed, and tracks 3 and 4 backwards at half-speed on Side B. This makes for some rather interesting listening. I popped it in anyway and heard something that I surmised must have been some kind of post-punk lullaby, but I really couldn't say. I have no memory of the song whatsoever, at least not what I could piece together of it after listening to it in this radically altered state. I couldn't make out the changes or the words, but maybe it's just as well. Using the murk I'd just heard as a starting point, I picked up the guitar and wrote something new. I ended up with a song that, for me, is a radical departure: a simple, unadorned tune with one guitar, one voice, and a second guitar doing a tasteful solo. It has only four chords. Whoa. Because it was so simple, I recorded the whole thing in a night and boom! There's the first song for my next CD. You gotta love it when the muse works like that. Now that's efficiency!

10/02/04

Welcome to October. I, for one, am glad that the temperatures are cooling down a bit. It's been another crazy week, full of goal-setting, planning, making lists, and oh, yeah: getting down to work. I'm planning a most audacious career change, and the deeper into it I go, the more there is to do. Last week I went to Word on the Street for the first time; I'm still sorting through the various leaflets I picked up there. This week's big event was the Go Abroad Fair at the Metro Convention Centre. Yes, I am still entertaining wanderlustful notions of working abroad, but not in the immediate future. The prospect of teaching English overseas has now been downgraded to "Plan B" status: always there if I need or want to do it, but clearly not the first thing I should try.

I've all but forgotten about the CD as I pass through the latest career-change cyclone, but I hope to get my musical ambitions back on track shortly. A few songwriting competitions are coming up, and I just might enter one or more of them. Satisfied BITW patrons are encouraged to offer suggestions as to which song I should enter, though I do already have a short list in mind.

And turning to the latest in sports/obituaries: Montréal Expos, R.I.P. Varsity Stadium, R.I.P.

09/25/04

What a whirlwind this week it's been! I ought to provide you, the faithful reader, with an update on the much-anticipated mono mixes: I tried my level best, but my home studio had other ideas and simply burnt the CD in stereo. I'm not sure what went wrong, as I have successfully, though accidentally, created mono CDs in the past. Ah, perhaps the intentionality is the problem here? Anyway, I'll try again when I have the time.

On a quite unrelated note, has anyone else noticed how the NHL lockout is affecting our collective consciousness? Last week, I happened upon a phone-in show on an all-sports radio station here in Toronto. The host, Bob McCown, was ranting. Why, he wondered aloud, was everyone intent on discussing hockey when it was clear that there would be no hockey this winter? What, prey tell, was left to discuss? I could hear the fervour and desperation in his plea: “For God’s sake, people, there are other sports out there. Can we talk about them? Please?”

Our hero then laid down the law. “You can talk about the lockout today, but that’s it. This is the last day for hockey talk. After today, unless substantial progress is made with respect to the lockout, if you try to talk hockey”—and here, he breaks into measured, metronomic syllables—“I will hang up on you.” With this, he symbolically granted our city’s hockey junkies one last, joyous rush before the horrors of withdrawal set in. The show then took on the anguished tone of a clandestine gathering of desperate users, frantically snorting the remnants of the stash before facing the inevitable: a mandatory stint in rehab.

Indeed, a cursory listen to any Toronto sportscast illustrates just how far we have slid down the perilous road of hockey addiction. Upon reading the sports pages, one would surmise that shinny season runs from September to August. A member of the Maple Leafs need only pass wind and that monumental occasion will rise straight to the top of the sporting news, eclipsing such trifles as Mike Pringle’s CFL rushing record or Barry Bonds’s 700th home run.

As you may have guessed by now, I am not a hockey fan. Sure, I watched Hockey Night in Canada faithfully as a child. Along with every student, teacher and administrator in my grade school, I dutifully piled into the gym to see the deciding game of the Canada-Russia series in ’72. But somewhere along the line, Canada’s national religion and I parted ways. I attended my last NHL game in 1978. (My most vivid memory of that game, by the way, was the Tiger-Cat logo that then-owner Harold Ballard had cheekily placed at centre ice. It was a slap in the face, an affront to the very spirit of Hogtown. Our football arch rivals—The Hamilton Ticats, for God’s sake—taking over Maple Leaf Gardens? Sacrilege!)

Admittedly, the game of hockey has changed much since then. Still, even the staunchest diehards will grudgingly admit that the calibre of play has deteriorated—if not in terms of raw skill, certainly in entertainment value. A fan as ardent as my own brother can no longer stand to watch the Leafs and their neutral-zone trap style of play. “The puck stays at centre ice all game,” he lamented during last season’s playoffs. “It’s awful.”

So, why are we pining for the return of a game that, truth be told, bores most of us to tears? Yes, Mr. McCown, there are other sports out there, many of which equal or surpass the NHL in entertainment value. Alas, instead of turning to the Canadian Football League, for example—a quirky, made-in-Canada, working-class operation that should be our national sport—withdrawal-crazed hockey fans will likely pack minor-league and even neighbourhood rinks to feed their hunger.

Sadly, that will prove to be but the tip of the centre iceberg. Hockey Night in Canada will make a triumphant return, with the Gatineau Goons and Lethbridge Lockouts standing in for NHL teams. Ratings will eclipse those of the World Series, Super Bowl, or whatever else lies in the behemoth’s path. Don Cherry will gloat incessantly, “Now, lemme tell ya: this is what REAL hockey is all about! These kids play fuhdaluvadagame, not like them sucky European primadonnas!” Hockey-starved fans from Nashville, Phoenix, Raleigh and Atlanta—all 26 of them—will trek northward in search of that mythical Hot Stove Lounge. From Fort St. John to Fort Qu’Appelle to Fort Frances, enterprising small-town scalpers—the nouveau nouveau riche—will warmly welcome their business.

Ron MacLean will be elected Prime Minister once the Liberal minority government collapses—brought down, of course, on a confidence vote because they refused to end the lockout. The new regime’s first piece of legislation will see the Maple Leaf supplanted by a spiffy puck-and-stick design. The new flag will be nicknamed “Dief’s Revenge” by those old enough to get the reference. Similarly, the Hockey Night in Canada theme will become our new anthem, with bilingual, hoser-friendly words written by Phil Esposito and Guy LaFleur. Maurice “Rocket” Richard will replace Queen Elizabeth on the $20 bill, and move over, Sir John A.: looks like Foster Hewitt has dibs on your mug on the tenner.

The madness will culminate in a massive outdoor event on the coldest day in February. In some twisted, tundra-fied, winterized Woodstock, the South Porcupine Concubines will challenge the Rimouski Screaming Moose for the New Stanley Cup in front of 60,000 mesmerized onlookers at Edmonton’s Commonwealth Stadium. Another 50,000 will fill the SkyDome in Toronto, lapping up the excitement vicariously on closed-circuit television. Naturally, the dome’s roof will be open in order to simulate the ambience of the actual event. Throngs of a similar size will pack B.C. Place in Vancouver and the Olympic Stadium in Montréal. Cross Country Checkup will devote a national phone-in to the effects of the lockout on the Canadian psyche. (Oh, hold on: that last one has already happened.)

O, Canada! Could we be in for the unthinkable, a winter without hockey? Well, consider this: with apologies to Voltaire, if Hockey did not exist, it would be necessary to invent It. I am certain we will, and if we cannot, God knows ... maybe He will.

09/17/04

I'm glad it's finally cooling down a bit. I did a bit of housework this afternoon and didn't break into a sweat. Lovely! I don't have air conditioning, and I find it frustrating to sweep a floor that I'm simultaneously dripping all over. I tend to become irritable when I'm too hot and can't cool down, and irritability is not the optimal state from which I like to tackle household chores.

On the continuing career change front, I bought several books on writing last week. Among them were a couple of style guides (one extremely sober and serious, the other quite funny), a couple of inspirational, you-can-do-it books, and a practical guide for writers looking to pitch their work. Now I only need to make the time to read the lot. I also bought a book called Making A Living Without A Job. Like it or not, if I am serious about pursuing my career of choice, I have to come to terms with the twin demons of self-employment and selling my wares. Who knows—maybe I will eventually come to see them as my best friends. I hope so.

Feedback (pun intended) on the CD has been great so far. I mailed out the remaining promo copies to friends, local college radio and newspapers yesterday. Getting the music out into the world provides a gratifying sense of completion. I'm now backing up the songs on CD-Rs in order to free some space on the studio's hard drive. But before I'm fully ready to move on to the next project, I plan to make a special copy of the disc for myself: the mono masters! I'm showing my age by revealing a strange fascination for the joys of mono. Anyone who's heard the mono mixes of The White Album or the differences in mono (single) and stereo (album) versions of songs from the '60s knows what I mean. So look out, world: here come Boys In The Wood and our blazing foray into the wacky world of mono, 40 years too late. To complete the effect, it would be fun to play my spiffy BITW mono CD through transistor-radio speakers. As it is, I'll have to settle for my home stereo, which admittedly is hardly an audiophile's dream. Anyway, if you're a card-carrying member of the Mono Appreciation Society and would like your very own copy of Postcards From Midnight: The Mono Mixes, send an e-mail. I'll mail it at cost on a CD-R, complete with suitably shady labelling (no cover art or booklet, title scrawled in black marker on the disc surface—you gotta love it).

(Interesting story about mono: a few months back, I bought a new portable CD player. I played a familiar CD when I got it home, but something was clearly amiss. It took me a full day to realize why the thing sounded so weird: it was playing in mono, not stereo! "It plays in mono, not stereo," I grimly informed the fresh-faced sales associate. She had no idea what I was talking about. It sounded just fine to her. I took a copy of Rubber Soul along with me to prove my point—as you may know, this is an album that sounds vastly different in stereo and mono. But if you're 18 and you've never heard Rubber Soul anyway, I guess you wouldn't notice. I eventually gave up, got a refund, and bought a different player at another store. This time, I brought Rubber Soul with me to test the prospective player before making my purchase.)

Met D for lunch today. Other than the fact that I was still half-asleep, it was quite enjoyable! If I think rising a bit early was tough today, tomorrow brings a Saturday morning meeting at 9:30 a.m., which translates into a 6 a.m. wake-up call. Ugh! I'm usually just settling into dreamland around then. What's wrong with you people? Alas, such is the curse of living in a world that is run by morning people. At least I'll be home in time for the Argos in Winnipeg on CBC. My reward for having to rise at that unspeakable hour will be a late lunch of cheese fondue, chips and chip dip, and a Coke. Goes well with football on TV, dontcha know.

09/10/04

I had real trouble falling asleep last night/this morning, because TODAY IS THE BIG DAY! Mark dropped by early this afternoon with the dubbed CDs. I've been working on this monster of a project on and off for eight years and I can't believe it's done!

Just finished listening to it, and wow—Mark did a fabulous job with the mastering. He had to deal with all sorts of gremlins, most of which had to do with track IDs disappearing into black holes when he tried to adjust them. Oddly, the problem couldn't be detected until a CD was burned from the master. Mark had to burn a new CD after each round of tweaking, evaluate it, throw it into the reject pile if it wasn't right, and start all over again. (Somewhere in Michigan, there's a landfill site filled entirely with failed Boys In The Wood masters.) These songs were recorded eight years apart, in two different studios—oh, and none of them really sound like any of the others—yet somehow, the whole thing hangs together and sounds as unified as anything that emanates from my twisted mind could. Thanks, Mark!

Typically, my first reaction upon hearing my own work was one of rampant insecurity: how in the world did I do that, and will I ever be able to do it again? Self-doubt issues aside, I suppose that must mean it's very, very good. I hope so!

09/09/04

Wow! Things have been CRAZY lately, but it's a good kind of crazy: dreams, insights, visions, possibilities, and new ways of thinking are flying at me in rapid succession. I'm moving through the process faster than I'm able to articulate what's going on, madly scribbling ideas on post-it notes before they vanish. I'm sure this phase will pass—eventually, I'll have to execute the nuts, bolts, and details of the wonderful schemes I'm currently concocting—but I plan to enjoy this visioning aspect thoroughly for as long as it lasts.

09/03/04

I've printed the letters N-O-W on three sheets of paper and put them up on the wall, right by my bed. It looks quite arty, which is a bonus, but the real intent is to remind myself to focus on today or even this moment. I tend to obsess a lot. When I was younger, most of my obsessions were directed toward the past; these days, I tend to project worries, fears, and hopes (in that order) into the future. This toner-on-printer-paper work of art is the homemade remedy, to be applied as many times a day as I face that wall.

Still: ever the aesthete, I gotta admit that big, black NOW right underneath a print of Dominique Gaudin's Licorice Wheels looks bloody awesome. When my curtains are open, passersby can see it from the street. Cool. May they infer that an artist lives here. Hell, may I infer that an artist lives here! I mention this because someone I met yesterday said to me, "Oh, so you're a musician?" I stammered and stumbled: "Well, I...uh, well, sort of. I'm working on it." I yearn for the day where it comes tumbling out with clarity and confidence, straight as an arrow, without hesitation: "Yeah. I'm a musician." "Yeah. I'm a writer."

It's back to folding and inserting tray liners into the CD jewel cases. Talk about living the DIY ethic, huh? I've done 35 over the past few days—only 15 to go. I'm getting faster at it, so I should be able to finish up in just over an hour.

Oh, and I bought the final GbV album yesterday, which carries the cheery title Half Smiles of The Decomposed. (I love the title, actually). It was on repeat play during today's one-hour exercise walk. I'll stick with it tomorrow as well and get to know it a bit better. I'm already picking out some obvious highlights, but I don't yet know what any of the songs are called.

08/28/04

The CD is almost done. We're down to some minor eleventh-hour tweaking, and I'm feeling pretty good about it. I listen to it and wonder how exactly I did all that, and whether I could do it again next time. Confidence is shaky and self-doubt strong, even in the areas in which I know I excel. I really wish I knew how to lick that one. Maybe the best approach is to stay in the present with it: what I did or what I will do doesn't matter, because I have a CD that's this close to completion! I need to allow myself to celebrate and maybe even pat myself on the back a little.

Other than that, I'm staying on top of things, but it's tough. Several aspects of my life are in transition and lately, it seems that each day brings new input, a new perspective, and something else coming at me that I don't expect. I have trouble dealing with layers of change occurring in different life spheres simultaneously. Changes are coming, but I don't know what they are. My difficulties with transition also, I'm sure, stem from the fact that I tend to bounce between craving stability/order and excitement/change. If things are too stable, I become restless and bored. If things are too chaotic, I go into "sorting" mode and attempt to impose structure and order. I once told my friend J that I picture two monsters named Order and Disorder wrestling in my psyche, each monster alternately dominant for a time; yet, ultimately, neither one effectively gains control.

Anyway, a sure indicator that things are shifting is this: I don't know who's winning at the moment, nor who I'm cheering for! While Order and Disorder duke it out, I'll have to let the battle go and try to suss out what I need to do, moment to moment.

08/22/04

Well, it appears that I'm in the midst of a career change. I've suspected as much, but without getting into too much detail, suffice it to say that the evidence is pouring in and it says, "Sorry, but you're not allowed to go backward. You can only go forward." I find this comforting—truth be known, I was mortified at the prospect of going back to an old job—but at the same time, I'm concerned. Forward, yes, but to what? That niggling little detail is still up in the air. I'm hoping that the coming weeks and months will offer some substantial clues.

Meanwhile, I'm finishing up the CD. After yesterday's session at Knobman, I now have final mixes of 14 out of 15 songs (one song is being a little stubborn and difficult). I brought in some wav files for mastering, but as my studio will only create two wav files for the left and right channels instead of one for the stereo mix, they were unusable. So, we've decided to burn an audio CD and use that instead. I hope that'll work. I'm also hoping to finish the album at our next session on Friday the 27th. The booklet and label art are now in production as well. I've totally splurged on the artwork. It's rather bizarre to go through all the trouble for such a limited run, but it's my first CD and I want it the way I want it!

08/16/04

Lots of wacky stuff is happening at the moment, but it doesn't appear to be all bad. Maybe in the end, none of it will be bad. Anyway, I'll gladly take it over the darkness of the past week. Things are moving along with respect to finishing the CD and related artwork. It's been a long, long time coming—I can't wait to hold the finished product in my hands (and listen to it with my own ears)!

In other news, I've started writing (i.e., working on the book) again. Back in February, I took a class at U of T on writing and publishing, but at the time, I was in full-on music-making mode in addition to dealing with the usual assortment of crises du jour. In class, we were encouraged to submit a piece of work for comment. I wrote a bit solely for that purpose, but immediately dropped it afterwards and carried on with the music. I don't multitask very well—I suppose that's obvious.

Anyway: in my ongoing attempt to turn my sleep schedule around, I fell into bed at 10:30 last night, seemingly exhausted. Two hours later, I was wide awake, and the thought was right there: "Turn the computer on. Time to write." So, I did. It took me three hours to write three paragraphs. I was dealing with a particularly difficult section of the book, the introductory chapter that describes the events leading up to the trip. The first draft of that chapter is now done, and I look forward to carrying on into Chapter 2 sometime later today. I've decided to honour both the spirit of the trip and my autistic love for ritual and write the book in chronological order. Every piece of advice I've encountered urges writers not to start at Chapter 1, page 1 and go in order; duly noted, but (typically) I need to do it a different way.

08/11/04

Looks like I'll be up all night again. I need to (a) get some things done that I never get to when I wake up late; (b) turn my sleep schedule around for a day trip I'm taking on Thursday; and (c) process some crazy shit that has gone down in the past couple of days.

A support group that I've started attending has a bill of rights. I'd like to share with you a few items that resonate strongly with me at the moment. Maybe this list will be of help to you, too.

08/08/04

Got my 6-string acoustic out and played for half an hour. Nothing terribly exciting came out of it, but at least I played. I really ought to do this every day. I experimented briefly with a couple of alternate tunings (Drop D and Open D, both played capo 5). See, the Nick Drake influence is already creeping in, though it's clear that for me, technical facility with the guitar lags well behind the conceptual! I'm not sure which tunings he used, but it was evident on a cursory listen that he made frequent use of both tunings and capo work.

I'm too lazy to play along with his stuff and try to pick out parts, tunings, and so on. I rationalize my laziness by noting that, at this point, I don't wish to assimilate any influence too directly. I'd rather listen casually, pick up whatever I pick up, and let the process be organic. (It would be fun, for example, to take one of these tunings in an unexpected stylistic direction, i.e., something as unlike Nick Drake as possible. Wonder if anyone's ever written a punk song in Open D or Drop D? Hmm!)

I keep a microcassette recorder by my bed to help me catch those elusive ideas that seem to pop up just as I'm falling asleep. (No wonder musicians are insomniacs.) I warbled several unrelated bits into it as I was drifting off around 5:00 this morning, but upon listening to the tape now, I can't make heads or tails out of it. I really ought to spend some time sorting through my "bits" tapes to see what's on them. There are a lot of fragments, but a couple of almost-complete songs are lurking somewhere in there, I'm sure.

Other than that, I'm still feeling a little shaky, but holding my own. Had a pleasant, long phone conversation with my friend A last night. I so rarely talk on the phone, especially at length. It's a nice change.

08/07/04

My Nick Drake albums arrived today, with Pink Moon being the obvious stunner on first listening. Reading his biography on the net made me reflect on my own situation: I very much relate to the circumstances under which Pink Moon was made. I often feel guilty about my lack of motivation and fragile self-confidence, both of which conspire to keep me from playing as much as I'd like to. And shit, I'm at it again: I haven't picked up an instrument since I recorded the last tracks for the album nearly a month ago. I wonder why I do this to myself.

On a related note, I can't wrap my head around the idea of playing live at all right now. I can offer a laundry list of reasons why I've slammed the door on the idea, but all my excuses boil down to just one: I'm afraid. It's not an "afraid of," just raw, generalized, pure fear. I've been feeling a lot of that lately.

I hand-delivered my sister-in-law's niece's birthday present today. I decided to walk to my brother's instead of taking the subway and bus, just to see how long it would take: it was 1:55:48, for the record. I enjoyed the walk—it took me through some neighbourhoods I'd not been through before.

08/05/04

Went to the dentist today; I'm trying to get these mundane tasks out of the way before the crush of September (and working) hits. I also bought a birthday present for my sister-in-law's niece. That was a bit stressful; I have no idea what to get for an 11-year-old, but I think (hope) I got her something she'll like.

Gave my neighbour, S, my ticket to the Argo-Winnipeg game on August 17. The most important person in my world passed away on that day 11 years ago, and I always spend the day in silence, lighting incense, saying prayers, visiting her grave, and honouring her beautiful spirit as best as I can. In the past, I've tried to do something light and fun at the end of the day to break up the heavy mood, but increasingly, "light and fun" is difficult to achieve on my own. That's especially true on this day.

Anyway, S was quite grateful for the ticket: he promised to scream, yell and be totally obnoxious. "They'll really bug you about it next game," he said, grinning. Hey, it'll be a nice change for the other folks in Section 241. I usually sit there quietly, listening to the radio broadcast, fighting off a lousy mood, wishing there could be someone sitting in the seat beside me. As I've noted earlier, the range of activities that I am able to enjoy alone is dwindling. I refuse to let my precious CFL football go, but I often struggle to enjoy myself and focus on the game. It's reaching the point where I can't see past my aloneness. I transcend the loneliness now and then, but it's getting harder with each passing year. I wish I could simply accept it and refuse to let it stop me from living. I do try. Part of the trick, I think, lies in knowing when to refuse to fight a losing battle.

08/04/04

Still having trouble making decisions, big or small. I think I may be coming up to a window where decision-making (and even action) may be possible for a brief time, so I best take advantage.

Went to visit R on Sunday. We had some artistic business to take care of, but it was also a social visit, which I certainly needed. We went for a good long walk (or two), I played him the as-yet-unmastered final mixes of my CD, and he introduced me to the music of Nick Drake, whom I'd read about but had not yet heard. What an absolute genius this man was. A snippet from a BBC documentary sums it up best, I think: "If you don't know Nick Drake's music, be prepared to fall in love." Uh-huh: I've just ordered his entire catalogue online.

07/31/04

Some days I get lost in the little details. Every task, no matter how mundane, overwhelms me. Just being conscious is painful. Today is one of those.

Started working on a new song—words only at the moment. The whole thing was triggered by my seeing a movie yesterday, Festival Express. It's the story of a 1970 cross-country train tour that featured Janis Joplin, The Band, and The Grateful Dead among others. I nearly burst into tears during the opening sequence, which showed The Dead singing "Don't Ease Me In" at CNE Stadium. I don't know why. It blew me away to see the scoreboard, the stands, and the gates. Dad and I used to watch football games here. The stadium was first modified for baseball in the mid-'70s, then demolished a few years ago. It's now a parking lot, I believe. They call this progress.

This short sequence must have triggered something, because the realization soon flooded in: how much is gone (people, places, and things), how much I've personally lost, and most of all, how much I missed. The early '70s are history. My youth is history. It's long gone. I suppose everyone goes through this, the slow onset of noticing just how much time has passed. The song I've written is a requiem for a barren (yet oddly idealized) youth and a lament for an uncertain present.

I walked out of the theatre vowing that this is the last movie I will see alone. If I can't find anyone to go with, then fuck it: I'll stop going to movies.

07/29/04

Have put the brakes on the ESL thing for the moment, after booking several web sites and even going so far as to pick up a brochure from U of T's TESL program. The whole enterprise requires more thought and more time, and besides, I do have a book to write first. Sometimes I lose track of what I really want/need to be doing. I also have difficulty structuring my life to ensure that I'm consistently focusing on my priorities.

The current plan with respect to writing is to set aside as many days as possible during August and write for 8 hours a day, as if I were going to a job. I want to get a solid start on this thing before the crush of September, and going back to work, hits.

07/25/04

Since I need to resume gainful employment soon, I checked out a few job sites on the web last night. It's funny how life's wildest adventures have such innocuous beginnings, what? Even the quirkiest categories in Workoplis and Monster offered nothing but stultifying, somnambulant (though quite well-paying and secure) jobs in the GTA. I was just about ready to close my browser and play a dreary round of Solitaire when I found something really quirky. Twelve hours later, I finally collapsed into bed around noon, having stayed up all night debating the pros and cons of...teaching English in Korea!

An ill-formed, vague version of this idea has been floating around in my subconscious for several years, but this is the first time I've seriously researched it. Teaching English in Korea (and Asia in general) is clearly both a cottage industry (for employers and recruiters) and a subculture (for those who take the plunge). Surprisingly, ESL certification and prior teaching experience do not appear to be prerequisites, though I'm sure that such qualifications would likely lead to higher-paying jobs. It seems that most firms are looking for two things only, with anything else being a bonus: applicants need a university degree (in any field) and must be native English speakers. Minimum stay is usually one year.

I have a lot more research to do before I can definitively say too much else about it; nevertheless, I am very much drawn to giving this a try someday (for several reasons, many of which I madly jotted down last night). At the same time, I have several nagging doubts, mostly with respect to my own abilities and limitations. Anyway, if the stars align and I'm meant to go, then one of these days, dear reader, we may both discover how well a Korean ISP deals with uploading blog entries.

I'd be remiss if I didn't offer a couple of good web sites for anyone who, like me, is giddy with excitement and ready to board the next plane, but might want to exercise a wee bit of prudence and judgment before it's too late: Dave's ESL Café (a resource of infinite depth full of discussion boards that cover all the questions you'd think to ask and many you wouldn't); Teaching English in Korea, a painstakingly thorough site written by an American who goes to great lengths to flesh out every angle of every issue while at the same time debunking common myths and misconceptions; and for my fellow Canadians, a wonderfully informative government site from Consular Affairs that pulls no punches and tells you what you need to know as a Canadian working and living in Korean educational settings (aussi disponible en français, naturellement).

07/24/04

Well, it's been a tough few days. I'm in the midst of several parallel life transitions, and at times, the process short-circuits me and temporarily knocks me flat out of commission. I think that's what is happening. I can never be sure. Anyway, today was a better, more productive day.

I walk for an hour a day in order to get some exercise. I'm not naturally athletic, and I've learned from trying it out for a few years that the gym and I don't mix. Today's challenge was to see how far I would get in one hour heading due east, more or less. I almost made it to Gerrard and Main—not bad. It was a great day for walking, too: 21 and sunny with a nice breeze. The TTC route home was rather circuitous: I hopped on the first bus I saw—135 (Gerrard) to Warden Station—so I got a mini-tour of a corner of Scarborough I'd not yet seen. I'm sure this hardly sounds exciting, but as I couldn't get out the door at all yesterday, it was a marked improvement.

GbV tickets for the New Year's Eve shows go on sale a week from today. I think I'm going to spend some time with my Rough Guide tonight and figure out what else I can do in Chicago during the dead of winter. Reading the guidebook and planning the trip can be as much fun as going there.

07/20/04

A couple of nights ago I checked the web site for one of my favourite bands, Guided by Voices. I got into them well after the rest of the world did, as is my custom. I pride myself on being at least ten years behind the times. Problem is, they're splitting up at year's end, and I've not yet seen them play. The final tour dates have been posted on gbv.com, and though they've passed through Toronto many times before, they won't be this time. Solution? PILGRIMAGE! The final two shows are in Chicago, December 30 and 31. Greyhound bus schedules have been duly checked; budget has been reworked; hotel closest to the venue has been detected; maps have been printed off the internet; CTA web site has been checked; The Rough Guide to Chicago has been purchased. I love planning my trips, and when I plan, I don't mess around.

Am a little concerned about a couple of things:

(1) Being in the United States. Last time I was there of my own volition* was the summer of 2000, when I visited New York with L. I broke up with L eight months ago, though we haven't seen each other since New York. I think the relationship ended long before I realized that it did, but being autistic, I'm always the last to figure these things out. L is American. For better or for worse, I associate the United States with her first and foremost. I am still grieving and sorting out my feelings. We no longer speak, and that scenario may continue for some time to come. I would like to make peace with her someday, but I'm not ready to do that yet. I fear that "she," as a memory, a ghost if you will, will be with me during this trip. I still love her. I wish the relationship had worked out. I'm coming to understand why it did not, but it still hurts.

(2) Being alone in a crowd on New Year's Eve. Of course, I expect to be alone. Being an autistic teetotaller in a bar on New Year's Eve is akin to being a stripper in a monastery. There's not a hell of a lot to do, and no matter what you do, you know you're not in your element. Your usual shtick, whatever it is you do that gets you through and makes sense to you, isn't gonna go down here. I don't go to bars at all unless I have to in order to see a favourite band, as is the case here. There's nothing for me to do in a bar. I don't drink, I don't talk, I don't dance, I don't "pick up" women. And given the current wave of anti-smoking zealotry that's sweeping North America, what's left for me to do in a bar? In this case, I suppose it's listen to GbV, close my eyes, and hope the music carries me away to a world of transcendence and comfort.

Despite my concerns, I'm going, and it occurs to me that taking a Greyhound bus to Chicago in late December definitely qualifies as an eccentric, autistic trip—my preferred mode of travel.

* When my book (Postcards From Midnight: A Mystic/Autistic Quest Across Canada) comes out, this sentence will make sense. It's not relevant enough to explain in detail here. No, I wasn't kidnapped by the CIA or anything that exotic.

07/19/04

Oh, no—it's my first entry in my first blog! I'll start with something appropriately mundane. I have season tickets to the Toronto Argonauts, but the more accurate description is "ticket," singular. See, I do most everything on my own. I don't make friends easily, and thus far no humans have crossed my path who enjoy football. However, this (and other things) just might be changing. I recently moved into a housing co-operative—partly due to the allure of cheap rent, but also with the intent of combatting my self-imposed exile—and I now have a neighbour, S. I see him every day. He talks to me, and I talk to him. Cool! Anyway, long story short: S has at least a passing interest in football, and I've invited him to come along with me on Wednesday when the Argos play Ottawa. The seat beside mine is always empty, so what the hell: I'll go out on a limb now and extend the invitation to anyone who reads this. Go to the ticket window at SkyDome. Make sure you're buying a ticket for the Argonauts, not the Blue Jays. Ask for Section 241, Row 5, Seat 2 and you'll be sitting beside me. Tell 'em Vern sent you. Don't do this for the July 21 game against Ottawa, or my new-found buddy S won't be able to sit with me!

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