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Showing posts from July, 2012

dumber summer

Tried to explain to C the other night why summer's not my scene . And really it's not even about summer, exactly, but more about extremes, when a season goes straight to bottom and flattens out, just all heat or cold, because I fucking hate winter, too. But fall and spring -- yeah, they're all right. They have shades and gradations and expectations built in. Fall is serious both with starting and ending, and people do things in the fall, and dress appropriately, like adults. Contrast that with summer, where everyone dresses in shorts and sandals and ridiculous hats (all hats are ridiculous, on principle), wandering around all stick legs and arm fat and thinking about ice cream. Like overgrown toddlers. The retarded ones just forego shirts altogether. And you can't cook, and you spend all this time driving to crowded beaches and smaller versions of your own home, and the night is ruled by bugs. And I know spring is just a preview to all that, but at least it has that m

don't look up

cigar-tin story #133 * * * * * Summer cold. Summer colds are different than winter colds -- they don't have the same depth, that same within-you grimness. Summer colds are less death and more drooping, less black and more brown, less glue and more honey, only a honey gone off, and thick in your veins. There is no feeling like trudging along with the sun and its heat in your face while that awful lump sticks in your throat, and you can't wait to get to where you're going so you can at least blow your nose. * * * * * A delightful shaved-head type fellow in the middle of the street this morning, with his shirt pulled up, trying to fix something on his belt. The tattoo across his belly said something, in gothic script, about life. You don't cross the street for guys like this but you do swing out a good four or five feet. Got a light? he looked up and asked me, but instead of answering I just held up my hand, as in stop . When I looked back he had

they shoot cowboys, don't they?

At least Johnny Cash sang some fucking songs. * * * * * So I turn on the television Saturday night and what do I find on CBC but Ron Maclean in a cowboy hat for the fucking chuck wagon races at the Calgary Stampede , Jesus fucking Christ that's a heartbeat away from covering a monster truck rally, from ooh-ing and aw-ing over trucks with tractor wheels crushing piles of old cars, at least with that you'd get seat belts and helmets and somebody playing the Scorpions really, really loud. Jesus! It's 2012 for Christ's sake! And to make it worse they've got 'reporters' talking about track conditions and weather conditions and I'm sitting there wondering what it must feel like for a grown man to dress up like a cowboy, all these yahoos in the stands who have had about as much to do with cowboy-ing as I've had with the Soviet space program, does the snap of those little metal buttons on your plaid shirt feel like little bits of your soul snapp

painting shirts

So I've been painting shirts lately. It's at least a two-step process, where you paint/decorate the shirt and then wash it to set the colours. And then touch things up. The pictures above are examples of ones I've done for family and friends, and these have more of a graffiti style. * * * * * Ones I've done for my shop are still loose but more carefully composed, as I think people want to be noticed not only for how unique their shirt is (the reaction I most often get is, hey that's cool ) but what a nice design it has. Anyway, today I've put these two in my shop .

you don't know me

Standing on the back deck last night, in that deep humidity, listening to some couple, somewhere in the dark, mostly her voice coming through, through some window from which house or apartment I could not tell, her saying You don't know me, you don't know me , over and over again, making me wince, but then I thought why not, it was as good a thing to say or yell as anything, and despite being a cliché it was even mostly true, no one really knowing anything about anyone else, all of us constantly being amazed at how clever, stupid, deep, shallow, capricious and caring people are, and how easily they can be subverted, and made to make mistakes, just rush them or stand over them or criticize them or distract them, or even better pretend to know them, and get a good fight going, and then stick the knife right in. I'd really like it to rain today.

see my path but not the road

On the Monday holiday we went to Grass Creek Park . Early. The first ones there. A big crowd on hand the day before, for Canada Day, and over the garbage bags and red parking tape the seagulls circled and swooped obligingly. Still, it wasn't bad at all, mostly just things left behind. And people began arriving soon enough, in their standard sets, moms in wraps or self-conscious cargo pants, and dads with their bellies and bad tattoos, letting it all hang out, and kids in pink racing packs, these little stick girls who somehow manage to run full tilt and scream at the same time. Oona's going through something weird with the water, so she mostly just went around destroying other people's sand castles. * * * * * And despite the sun and wind and all sorts of snacks, including a Happy Meal on the way home, Oona decided to skip her afternoon nap. Part and parcel of some larger issues about control (or, in my mind, CONTROL ). C always reminds me that this (her