CONCERT SNAG ALREADY!!!!
BNL in Amherst on Valentine's Day, Blue Rodeo and Friends in Toronto, at least a rumor, day before Valentine's Day. I would like nothing more than to go to Toronto over President's Day weekend and was "planning it" months ago, birthday present anyone? I miss the Courtyard by Marriott on Yonge and College (though I miss the Marriott at the Eaton Centre even more). Screw naked ladies ;) It wouldn't count as specifically a musical trip because I'd want to fly in Friday morning and return Monday. I'd shop like mad on Saturday and Sunday, and buy all that stuff I posted about below. I know that city like the back of my hand, as it was the first place I was allowed to walk around unsupervised, so it's all good.
Hmm, I wonder what the customs people would say if I brought home hockey skates -- would I be allowed to slip 'em in a carry-on bag? I keep telling myself to find a pair of used size five hockey skates, and never do. I suppose the TSA'd be madder, though, if I brought home a hockey player...and speaking of Blue Rodeo, I'm addicted to "Dragging On" off "Tremolo," and it's already skipping even though I've owned the CD for two weeks. *sings* "It's cold out /nobody wants to be the one /who gets thrown out /left in the rain like a lonely one..." So I'm not Jim Cuddy, sue me. He'd also know the proper punctuation of those lines better than I, but it's not like I can ask, heh. I think lyrics are the only words I will allow myself to improperly punctuate and not care. I'm usually editor extraordinaire except that I can't seem to figure out where the keys are on the keyboard at present.
On the subject of hotels, I had even more weird dreams. In the first dream, my immediate family and I were in what passed for the Copley Marriott. My sister and father were near the bathroom, and robbers ran through the hotel. I ran towards a corner and waited. In the dream, they managed to shoot out a huge portion of the windows of the hotel. Holy shit. I ended up staying in another hotel room with what seemed to be my online friends, and my father wouldn't let us switch hotels, even though part of ours no longer existed. We walked somewhere else, which seemed to be near the BU Bridge, and then I got a phone call and woke up. Of course, I realized, the Copley Marriott is made of something other than glass windows. It's this ugly brown standard Marriott color.
After I went back to sleep, I had a dream involving another hotel and my immediate family. We were at a suite hotel of sorts, and my mother was freaking out about entering. When we got in, we found out that the hotel was being renovated, and not only that, but members of the hotel staff were apt to pull pranks, and it was condoned by the hotel chain. I think this dream had something to do with my walking through Mass Eye and Ear yesterday and seeing the fire alarm strobe lights flashing due to an unannounced test. it was all rather trippy. I guess I associate fire alarms with pranks still because so many fire alarms I had to deal with were weird and prankish. Others were smoking kids in my dorm at Hamilton. Ick.
I thought my weird dreams would end when I stopped reading Barney's Version by Mordecai Richler, the most self-serving, self-indulgent, pseudomasturbatory book I've ever forced myself to read. Yesterday I sped through Silent to the Bone by E.L. Konigsburg, which was damn powerful for a children's book, and Homesick by Guy Vanderhaeghe, which was stark and beautiful at the same time. The end of it just killed me, with one of the main characters repeating the word "cold." After I finished those, I hit The Beothuk Saga by Bernard Assiniwi, translated into English by Wayne Grady. And to un-CanLit myself, I'm still occasionally flipping through A March to Madness by John Feinstein. I love books about sports that mention my favorite athletes but aren't necessarily about the sports. If I want to hear about the sports, I hopefully have the games on tape. Damn, now I want to watch BC-Carolina and I have no idea where the heck it is.
I own precisely two books now that I haven't finished: Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden (Josh Hartnett can't get me to finish it, it's just way technical and isn't a Clancy) and Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes. I don't particularly feel like finishing either one of 'em. I think I'm going to have to move into the BPL. I remembered after I returned yesterday that I forgot to take out The Navigator of New York by Wayne Johnston, which I wanted to read because The Colony of Unrequited Dreams was so totally amazing.
Oh yeah, I typed all this shit, and I shouldn't even be on the computer at all. My arm hurts. The only musical thing I can play right now is the CD player, or the crappy wooden flute I got from Ten Thousand Villages. No violin, guitar or mandolin. I think the mandolin actually hurts the most. That's okay, though, because I can't remember how to tune anything anymore. I've somewhat lost my permanent A. Now it's a semi-permanent A? I think the intervals of guitar strings have fucked me up to hell in terms of tuning anything else.
All right, off to go balance my checkbook, because I don't need to use my computer to do that. And then, I have to get my ass a job to justify going to Toronto, or at least Amherst.
BNL in Amherst on Valentine's Day, Blue Rodeo and Friends in Toronto, at least a rumor, day before Valentine's Day. I would like nothing more than to go to Toronto over President's Day weekend and was "planning it" months ago, birthday present anyone? I miss the Courtyard by Marriott on Yonge and College (though I miss the Marriott at the Eaton Centre even more). Screw naked ladies ;) It wouldn't count as specifically a musical trip because I'd want to fly in Friday morning and return Monday. I'd shop like mad on Saturday and Sunday, and buy all that stuff I posted about below. I know that city like the back of my hand, as it was the first place I was allowed to walk around unsupervised, so it's all good.
Hmm, I wonder what the customs people would say if I brought home hockey skates -- would I be allowed to slip 'em in a carry-on bag? I keep telling myself to find a pair of used size five hockey skates, and never do. I suppose the TSA'd be madder, though, if I brought home a hockey player...and speaking of Blue Rodeo, I'm addicted to "Dragging On" off "Tremolo," and it's already skipping even though I've owned the CD for two weeks. *sings* "It's cold out /nobody wants to be the one /who gets thrown out /left in the rain like a lonely one..." So I'm not Jim Cuddy, sue me. He'd also know the proper punctuation of those lines better than I, but it's not like I can ask, heh. I think lyrics are the only words I will allow myself to improperly punctuate and not care. I'm usually editor extraordinaire except that I can't seem to figure out where the keys are on the keyboard at present.
On the subject of hotels, I had even more weird dreams. In the first dream, my immediate family and I were in what passed for the Copley Marriott. My sister and father were near the bathroom, and robbers ran through the hotel. I ran towards a corner and waited. In the dream, they managed to shoot out a huge portion of the windows of the hotel. Holy shit. I ended up staying in another hotel room with what seemed to be my online friends, and my father wouldn't let us switch hotels, even though part of ours no longer existed. We walked somewhere else, which seemed to be near the BU Bridge, and then I got a phone call and woke up. Of course, I realized, the Copley Marriott is made of something other than glass windows. It's this ugly brown standard Marriott color.
After I went back to sleep, I had a dream involving another hotel and my immediate family. We were at a suite hotel of sorts, and my mother was freaking out about entering. When we got in, we found out that the hotel was being renovated, and not only that, but members of the hotel staff were apt to pull pranks, and it was condoned by the hotel chain. I think this dream had something to do with my walking through Mass Eye and Ear yesterday and seeing the fire alarm strobe lights flashing due to an unannounced test. it was all rather trippy. I guess I associate fire alarms with pranks still because so many fire alarms I had to deal with were weird and prankish. Others were smoking kids in my dorm at Hamilton. Ick.
I thought my weird dreams would end when I stopped reading Barney's Version by Mordecai Richler, the most self-serving, self-indulgent, pseudomasturbatory book I've ever forced myself to read. Yesterday I sped through Silent to the Bone by E.L. Konigsburg, which was damn powerful for a children's book, and Homesick by Guy Vanderhaeghe, which was stark and beautiful at the same time. The end of it just killed me, with one of the main characters repeating the word "cold." After I finished those, I hit The Beothuk Saga by Bernard Assiniwi, translated into English by Wayne Grady. And to un-CanLit myself, I'm still occasionally flipping through A March to Madness by John Feinstein. I love books about sports that mention my favorite athletes but aren't necessarily about the sports. If I want to hear about the sports, I hopefully have the games on tape. Damn, now I want to watch BC-Carolina and I have no idea where the heck it is.
I own precisely two books now that I haven't finished: Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden (Josh Hartnett can't get me to finish it, it's just way technical and isn't a Clancy) and Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes. I don't particularly feel like finishing either one of 'em. I think I'm going to have to move into the BPL. I remembered after I returned yesterday that I forgot to take out The Navigator of New York by Wayne Johnston, which I wanted to read because The Colony of Unrequited Dreams was so totally amazing.
Oh yeah, I typed all this shit, and I shouldn't even be on the computer at all. My arm hurts. The only musical thing I can play right now is the CD player, or the crappy wooden flute I got from Ten Thousand Villages. No violin, guitar or mandolin. I think the mandolin actually hurts the most. That's okay, though, because I can't remember how to tune anything anymore. I've somewhat lost my permanent A. Now it's a semi-permanent A? I think the intervals of guitar strings have fucked me up to hell in terms of tuning anything else.
All right, off to go balance my checkbook, because I don't need to use my computer to do that. And then, I have to get my ass a job to justify going to Toronto, or at least Amherst.
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