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Showing posts from December, 2010

so long 2010; look me up if you need a reference

The cover I painted for my 2011 day-timer. * * * * * Well, that's it: another year on the path behind us. Or left wandering blind in the forest. Some quick and haphazard math tells me that I walked about 1600 kilometres this year. And who did I meet along the way? Well, some very interesting folks. headband guy O headband guy -- why are you fighting it? Don't you feel how cold it is? I've got the hood up on my parka and I still feel the wind. And why are you trying to save your hair? You're like, 45 or 50 years old. Nobody cares what we look like anymore. Nobody under the age of 30 even sees us. (And you can drop the all-black thing, too -- 1992 is nothing but bones now.) skeevy guy O skeevy guy -- I see you. It's obvious that you're not really walking anywhere because you don't have anywhere to go. You're just kind of twitching your way around the neighbourhood. Looking around. Looking for things to steal or places to break into. Or someone you kn

and goodbye to all that {again, again}

Someone was a *little* nervous leading up to Christmas ... which I would be, too, if I had certain issues with being rotten. Still, there's alway Grandma and Aunties with their parcels from out west to act as a sort of safety net for the troubled and naughty and little people who wreck all of daddy's things. Disturbingly, many of these parcels contain books, and *someone* likes to read -- a habit we're going to have to work hard to break. And so we settled in (yes, that's my foot) for a day of celebrating the birth of the world's most famous carpenter (?) and there was much talk of a floating fat man in red pajamas (?) and eating of Mandarin oranges (?) and later turkey (?) and kindness and goodwill and feeling grateful that we weren't trapped in some airport where Christmas, every year, is like some psychic Armageddon. And only one (well, maybe one and a half -- it was kind of a running battle) days of fighting this year! It's a Christmas miracle!

xmas cards not featuring scenes from wwII

Everyone says I'm such a curmudgeon. Fine . You say curmudgeon, I say devilishly handsome action figure who happens to hate xmas. It's pretty much the same thing. And yet every year I make our family xmas cards. And they never feature burning ships at sea or some frozen pile of elf skulls. The above image is for our main card. But I made the one below for those people (read: old people) who wouldn't know what hipsters (read: kids named Graeme and Hudson) were. And Merry Xmas!

more is never enough

This is a drawing from my nephew Shawn. He is four. The notations are done by his grandmother. She is considerably older. Apparently, the 'angels' in Shawn's universe are decidedly British: bad teeth, bad fashion, Dickensian socks with no toes (the haircut, too, is vaguely Malcolm McDowell). The multiple fingers are disturbing but he *seems* happy enough. And why does he live amongst snails and snakes? I thought his side won that war. * * * * * Did I tell you about my new gloves? I have new gloves. C was going out to the suburbs to spend a million dollars on tights and corkscrews, so I asked her to pick up a pair of gloves for me. Mine had rips in the fingers (it happens, from being outdoors so much, and throwing Oona's stroller into the storage bins like the bartender manhandling Mickey Rourke in Barfly ). Anyway, she got me new gloves. Good gloves. *Really* good gloves. In fact, if I ever mount an expedition to the Pole, or take up the handling of radioactive was

take me away with you, mister owl

Another painted journal, now out there in the world. Much time at home this weekend, sending hundreds of virgin kleenexes to their gruesome, gluey deaths. In crumpled heaps they died and still I reached for more. Some relief/success from apple cider vinegar. Will try a stronger concoction tonight. And finally we got a tree. C's life has new meaning.

x - x

x - x ; india ink on math paper. Well, all that positivity didn't last long.

échantillons positive

échantillons ; india ink on math paper. * * * * * Some people (I'm looking at you, Jeannette) have said, as of late, that I complain a lot, and that I'm overly negative. Surely this is a scorpion, it's-my-nature kind of thing. Still, as I was lying in bed last night, listening to one of the cats (the fat one) puke on the stairs, I had three thoughts: 1) I wish I was asleep right now. 2) Be careful of that puke when you get up in the morning. 3) I should try to be more positive. * * * * * I mean, nice things *do* happen, almost randomly. For example, Megan Power just wrote a very nice review of my book in Arts East , an arts and culture ezine (a sharp-looking pdf they mail to you upon request) from Atlantic Canada. She said Berger’s exceptional collection of strange, artful short stories offers the kind of instant gratification readers are hungry for in a time-starved world. Every school kid’s fantasy comes vividly true in ‘An Arsonist’s Guide to Physics’ - in a mi

it's such a long way home, it's how the story goes

Drove to Montreal to see my niece Stella this weekend. This is something that has to be done quarterly, at least, if only to remind Stella that I'm still here and that I want to be part of her life. That I care about what happens to her. Stella is seven. She's absent-mindedly addicted to something called Pet Shops . She also has a hamster named Oreo who is nocturnal and bites when forced to be un-nocturnal. Stella says teeth brushing is something that should only be done in the afternoon. But then sometimes you get busy and forget. Our own relationship might take some work. I've been sick off and on for about a month now (thankyou, Oona and various daycare minions) and who knows if it will ever end (honestly, I've almost given up) so I finally just had to say to hell with it and get in the car and go. Christmas, after all, is looming. * * * * * Saturday was mild and the highway was fine for driving -- until I hit Quebec. Then the highway turned to shit. Then the usu

waiter, my Dalmatian has spots on it

*Somebody* is getting a painted journal for xmas (and it's none of the usual suspects) ...

grumpy dads need a morning group, too

The thing with this parenting gig is that some days contain whole days even before breakfast; this morning, for example, I was up by 5:05 so I could shower and eat and make my lunch and generally be out of the way by the time C got up for her new morning Toastmaster's group (which has led me to wonder -- what kind of amateur psychotic gets up in the morning wanting to make a speech to a room full of strangers? pretend lawyers? aspiring dictators? ) and I could get Oona up and fed and en route to daycare in good time. The only plus in all this is that I have a chance to throw at least one cat (the fat one) outdoors for the day. C told me last night that, sooner or later, I'll have to drop the "grumpy dad" routine -- otherwise Oona will just look at me someday and make a stink face. I had three reactions: a) You don't think she's going to give us plenty of stink-face regardless of how we are? b) Yes, it's worked out so well for all those kids whose parents t

autoamerican, freestyle pursestyle

As a thank you to C for passing on some new clothes (a mail-order outfit sent the same order twice, and decided it would cost more to fix the mistake), our friend Leah gave her the present of a fabulous record purse, made by her own friend Sophie here in Kingston. Sophie's just started an Etsy shop here . The album sleeve for C's new purse is Blondie's Autoamerican , which is at least half right.

and then he unleashed his weather machine

Is it just me or is all this WikiLeaks business very confusing? Julian Assange is such a strange character; C says he looks like the weedy French villain in a Bond film. But the governments involved don't exactly look like white knights either -- why, for example, is it necessary to lie about the number of civilians who have died in Iraq? And why are they so shocked/appalled at their communications being leaked, when every government has to operate under the assumption that there are agents (Chinese, Russian, Bond villain or otherwise) that want to get their hands on it? What's amazing to me is that information still filters out at all, when the parties involved are so righteously paranoid, and spend so much treasure building their castles. And now, suddenly, the Swedes are after Mr. Assange for sex offences ... it's like Denmark announcing that they've just charged Michael Moore for money laundering. Curiouser and curiouser.

if she can't have it, no one can

Walked downtown to the post office at lunch, so I could mail a painting and some cigar-tin stories . It was the usual bullshit bingo: stooped Ukrainian women clutching parcels wrapped in butcher paper and string, middle-aged bearded guys in leather jackets trying to buy a single stamp, and herds of university girls wanting passport photos and the postal code for Vietnam. I ran into a guy who used to work in my department. His new outfit, apparently, is having their xmas banquet tonight. We had to cancel ours, I said. Why was that? he asked. Because the managers' head table was going to be bigger than all the others put together, I said {true story}. My old coworker then lamented that he might not enjoy his own dinner so much anyway, because his wife was out of town and he wouldn't be able to drink (and drive). Can't get another date? I asked. At which point the pint-sized old lady behind me piped right up. He better not! she croaked from behind her giant package. No fooling

finally a piece that speaks to me

More artwork from Oona; I believe this one's called Two Cats in a Hot Hot Oven . Let me just say that while she's brought home a lot of dubious work in the past, Oona has really redeemed herself with this one. I like it. A lot. I like artwork that tells me a story, that makes me ask questions. How hot is hot hot? 475 Fahrenheit? That'd be my pick. * * * * * The fucking cats: I don't know what offends me more: coming in with Oona from the wind and the rain and finding the fat one in the middle of a long, luxurious stretch inside a basket of fresh laundry (that C has specifically put out for her) or seeing the neurotic one frantically trying to find traction on the laminate floors as he races off to his hiding places on the air ducts in the basement. * * * * * They're inside pretty much all the time now (not that they were forced out much in summer either). The most fresh air they get is a few hours here and there when C is out at Toastmasters, and I'm in