SFO Road Trip In 2006?

Jack Kerouac's On the Road manuscript (part of it) will be on display at the Jewett Gallery of the San Francisco Public Library from Jan. 14 to March 19, 2006! (article here) This would be amazing to see, so if anyone's interested in sharing the cost of a road trip down, let me know. I figure it'd be better than bussing or flying, in honour of the work. When I went to see the Darwin Exhibit last week I got to see some of Darwin's original writing for his books. It was incredible to see his actual words, as well as letters written to him by friends and colleagues, in person. Or maybe that's just me. Oh well, if this is a no go, I may just go back to New York before the summer tour kicks off. Which probably will be just me.

Ominous Braemar

I just have to post this picture. I took it at the Vancouver Motorcycle Show at the beginning of the year. That's Wookiee on the bike, and Braemar in the corner. This shot freaks me out because absolutely everything in the frame is in motion, blurred, actioned. Except for Braemar, looking ominous.

Is This A Bad Idea?

I've been thinking about posting things I've written pen to paper in the past. I'm debating whether or not this is a good idea. Should I only post things that come to my mind now and in the future? Or are thoughts of days gone by allowed? Is that considered bad blogging etiquette? I think I need advice. I may not heed any of it.

Random Quote #1

A few years ago I spent a summer driving back and forth to Seattle, sometimes twice in a day. I had met some bohemian artists down there and was spending a lot of time in their circles, going to art walks, studio shows, poetry readings, underground shows. I stayed at their loft in Pioneer Square and while under their influence started to remember that I once had artistic tendencies. I started taking pictures again, we would collect objects off the street and make art out of them, sometimes we would go back to the street with what we made and staple them up to walls, we would have impromptu jam sessions with broken instruments, we wrote and wrote and wrote some more. Ruby Jets was a writer, he had several published books to his name, Joseph Jackson Wartes made a lot of found art (I have two of his works on my wall right now), Adrienne Moloff painted gorgeous colourful pieces that exploded with emotion (my favorites of hers were these paintings she did on giant windows that she hung against the brick wall of the loft), and Eric Anderson, well he was the quiet young one, he was a budding painter and writer. I gave him cigarettes on the first day I knew him, and in return he gave me one of his watercolour paintings. It was not a fair trade, I was no artist in comparison with this crew, I couldn't give him anything like that, I think I ended up providing him with lots of coffee and cigarettes, all I had to offer was spiritless money. Anyway, these guys were amazing, they welcomed me into their little circle and inspired me to remember a side of me that I had forgotten in recent years. I had endless amounts of fun with them all over the Seattle area, but the only thing I ever wrote down that any of them said was something Eric said out of the blue that I always felt was like his version of Confucius. He said, "Sometimes my piss smells like tuna even though I didn't eat tuna."

The painting Eric gave me.

One of Joseph's, it's little blurry, all of those white squiggles are words.

The other one of Joseph's I have, too long to shoot straight on.

The most recent picture I've taken in Seattle. (08.25.05)

Overheard In New York #2

Corner of Rivington & Orchard.

Girl #1: I can't believe she's going out with him. I could never go out with him, he's so conservative!

Girl #2: He's not conservative!

Girl #1: No, I guess he's not conservative. He's classy in a stylish way."

The City, My Quest, & Series One Pictures

Well what can I say, "New York City is the greatest damn city in the whole world" as Dave scats on Jimi at the Central Park Concert. I try not do deal in absolutes, but it just may be the greatest city I've ever been to. Not the most beautiful, not the biggest, interesting in it's own way, not the oldest, but it is pretty fucking great. I do hate leaving New York. I read on Doughty's blog about how when he goes places he loves he ends up obsessively trying to figure out how to move there and has to remind himself to enjoy the place right now, while he's there. I get that same problem, I start noticing "Apartment for Rent" signs and then start thinking about whether I'd like to live in that neighbourhood, where I would work, if I could get a working visa, how to get my finances in order, how much could I sell my bike for?, things like that. I've gone as far as actually viewing a place before. It's hard to remember that I have this real life I have to go back to. That hypnotic, depressing loop of boredom I've written about before. It's like I put myself in storage when I'm back at home because I don't want it to get damaged and eroded by the bullshit of everyday. But I digress, this is supposed to be about my latest journey to NYC. I've been to the city for all the seasons now I think, winter specific I've never done the xmas season, just the New Year's season, so it was quite the experience. I went to see the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall since I'd never been inside the building, it was indeed, well, spectacular. I did some skating on the rink at Rockefeller while it was snowing(!). And for good measure, I bought one Christmas present while in the city. Other than that, I enjoyed the gorgeously sunny days by mostly just wandering around the city taking pictures of street art, fire escapes, restaurants I ate at, and listening to the conversations of those around me. Oh, I did go to the Top of the Rock to take some 360 degree night shots of the city because I've never been up there before (it just recently opened after a 20 year hiatus). So now I've been to the top of Rockefeller, Empire, and the old World Trade tower. There are tons of highlights I could go over, because really, every second in New York is a highlight. I adore riding the subways, wandering the neighbourhoods, just hearing and seeing everything. I saw my first New York rats! Three of them on two different subway tracks, they're so damn cute! I shattered the record for number of time I was asked for directions this time too, it's a total boost to my ego when that happens, at least three times it was locals who asked me, I must be dressing and acting more like I belong! Guess I've spent enough time there to subconsciously blend in, and only twice I didn't have answers for the queries; Where Wollman's rink in Central Park was (as I was cutting across it to buy Black and White cookies), and if I knew where the Essex restaurant was (which I remembered reading about in my guidebook, but didn't want to pull out of my bag to find out for him!). The funniest thing is, when anyone (which is rare) ever asks me for directions while I'm in Vancouver, I never know the answer! I can only usually only help people in New York, Seattle, and San Francisco. I'm such a useless Canadian sometimes...although, I guess I can give directions in Toronto too, so I'm a bad British Columbian. Anyway, I was in New York to see concerts; Soulive, DMB, Doughty, and DMB again. Fucking amazing. I'd never been to Madison Square Garden before, and of course, my first time there, my seat is right under the banner for the Rangers' 1994 Stanley Cup win over the Canucks. Grr, such bullshit! The dudes I was sitting next to laughed and said that only a Canadian would notice that hockeyness. I rarely get to sit next to cool people at dmb shows anymore. Since the band expanded into the mainstream market the 'fans' such as they are, really aren't, they're mostly there to scream at inappropriate times, talk on their cell phones, or chat with whomever they came with - not to actually listen to the music. Not that everyone is like that of course, those are just the people I end up sitting near. The drunks are the worst. But these two (Ed & Dave) were actual fans, Ed has even seen shows way back to the Trax days. Soulive rocked as usual, I've seen them many times, once at the Vancouver Jazz Fest. Doughty's band, oh yeah! My third Doughty show of the year, awesome, they played a few things I didn't hear in Seattle, but that Seattle show was The One. Doughty's duet scat with Dave on Jimi was brilliant though. Night 2 was so fucking fun! I had a seat behind the stage, which just may be the closest seat to the stage I've ever gotten. Rashawn Ross played both nights, and not only did Doughty join up for the second night, but so did Robert Randolf! Brian was right, MSG shows are a guaranteed high. I just think that the band goes all out whenever they play that city at all. On top of all this musical mastery, before the night 2 show I hung around out front the band's hotel with some other fans and were treated to being able to see Stefan, Carter, and Dave being whisked into waiting vans. Let me explain why this is any different for me from seeing them in Hartford years ago. Back in 1998 when I was fully converted to a DMB maniac, I came across a postcard with the following quote on it; "Qui n'aime pas le vin, les filles et le chant reste un fou sa vie durant." by Martin Luther. (Translation: "Who loves not wine, women, and song will stay a fool his whole life long.") Right away I thought, this would be perfect for Dave Matthews, so I bought it in hopes of giving it to him one day. I carried this postcard with me in my moleskin journal everywhere I went from that day on. I never wanted to be without it, because I knew that if I didn't have it on my one day, that would be the day I would run into him in some unsuspecting place like a local bus stop or something crazy. Since that day I've travelled all over North America and seen 30 Dave shows, I talked to Butch once in Hartford, saw Dave, Carter, and LeRoi in the same city, but from a security guard safe distance and other than that, nothing. On the threshold of my 30th show, when Dave came out of the hotel in New York, I finally had my chance. He went over to the people on the other side of the entrance, I kept thinking, no no no, this has to be my chance, so I called out "Hey Dave! Can I just give you something please?" I had no interest in a picture, an autograph, some chicky declaration of love, no, I just wanted to give him the postcard. He came ambling over after I shouted out, and I gave it to him. My hand to his, and then he was ushered away by his handlers. I couldn't believe it, I just threw up both hands in glee. He took it! My seven year quest had come to an end, it was a strange feeling. I knew that patience would win out, this was only the second time I had ever waited outside a building to see if the band would come out. I almost had to leave before they came out too, because there was no way I was going to miss Doughty. That Doughty opening is what clinched the deal, I wavered on spending all that money to fly to the East Coast, until I saw who the opening acts were. So that was my major highlight, and that's only because of the damn postcard. I hope he liked it. The rest of the trip was beautiful, after all these times in the city, I finally got a chance to just wander about without rushing to fit in specific things. I just walked on random streets that were off the beaten track, I tried to only go places I had never been before. I'm not going to go into any more detail in this post, but there will likely be little tidbits from time to time (like the Overheard in New York post from the other day) and of course, pictures. Series One, here we go...

The back patio of the hostel decked out for the season.

The roof deck of 30 Rockefeller Plaza.

One of the views from that roof deck.

Skating at Rockefeller Center.

Looking down inside the Radio City Music Hall.

A covert subway shot taken from waist level so that the police wouldn't accost me.

The flags and lights at Rockefeller Center.

One of two Lepos' I found.



I have to go now, more to come!

Bright Lights, Empty Streets

A couple of years ago I spent a week in Vegas for the New Year. The city was packed with revellers in anticipation for the upcoming celebration. Then one night it started snowing. One of these days I need to scan some pictures from that night. I went outside and looked up in awe at the giant flakes appearing from the clouds. I soon noticed that there were only a handful of people around and they were quickly scurrying into random doors. A few minutes longer, and the strip was deserted. Completely empty, nary a car even passed me by. It was incredible. I ran and slid up and down sidewalks, dancing alone on the snowy strip. I made my way to the Bellagio's outdoor moving sidewalks that were slippery with snow and started skating them like a long track Olympian. I stopped inside the casino to see all the people I assumed were packed inside, but even within everything was subdued. Tones were hushed, I felt like I was intruding. So I went back outside and skated along some more before catching a bus back towards my hostel. I've never seen Vegas so empty and quiet, and it's never been more beautiful. A couple of nights later I was crammed onto the streets with thousands to watch the strip fireworks erupt at midnight. I slid through the crowd to find a single serving viewpoint of the strange contrast in population. The drunken mass was positively electrified, their excitement for the event that was about to occur was tangible to all six senses. I counted backwards with the crowd to the moment they were all waiting for. It was certainly fun, but the night I'll always remember, is the one that nobody cared about but me.

Sometimes It's Okay To Be Ignored

I spent 6 years playing clarinet in the Summer Pops Youth Orchestra (SPYO) before I fled East to attend University. Having played piano for as long as I can remember and being completely under the control of music, spending my summers in the orchestra was fucking brilliant. Every year newbie hopefuls would audition for the conductor and returning members re-auditioned for their position. By summer the selected would gather at a rehearsal hall and form a 100+ piece orchestra (in recent years the numbers have decreased dramatically). We weren't a strictly traditional orchestra (hence being called a pops orchestra) and we welcomed any kind of instrument. We would spend two intense weeks getting cohesive and learning pieces, we practiced together, in sectionals, and then as a group again every day. At lunch we would all troupe to the closest park and play 100 person soccer games with up to 5 soccer balls on a standard field. After these two weeks, we would play a couple of local concerts and then a selection of players are invited to go on tour. The only year I didn't get invited was my first, but I never missed one after that. Two busloads of kids would set out from Vancouver and travel around BC and Alberta playing 1-2 concerts a day. We all had assigned duties like Sound Crew, Set Up Crew, Luggage Crew etc., and the most prestigious, the Truck Crew of which I was a member. These summers were amazing, I honed my skills on my own instrument and learned how to play countless others. It was tradition for people to trade off instruments and teach each other how to play them. I often ended up playing bass clarinet, the full range of saxophones from soprano to baritone, trumpet, timpanis, etc., fucking fantastic. What's the point of all of this? Guess I just wanted to give a little background before getting to the point. I was of course, actually a clarinet player in the orchestra, and there were only ever a handful of us compared to the overwhelming numbers of say violins or trumpets. Our little row sat right in the middle of everything. We always felt ignored, we never got specific attention, help, compliments, or training. Nothing. It was like being a Westerner in Canada. At first we resented it, we felt like we were just as important as every other member of the orchestra. Soon I realized the benefits of flying under the radar. Besides the fact that we were rarely criticized for our playing (maybe because we were just that good!) the wisdom I passed on to each new member was the following: Every day of rehearsals, every concert, every day on tour, the conductor would select a group by instrument for clean up duty. Basically the chosen ones would sweep through any area we had been in and pick up garbage, you know, the whole leave-it-cleaner-than-when-we-got-there thing. In my six years with the orchestra the clarinet section never got picked, ever. Suckers.

The Legend of the Spagein Wagon: Part One

Recently, my beloved van succumbed to old age and was overtaken in a zealous attack mounted by the moistness of my West Coast environment. The van in question is a 1981 GMC VanDura who's odometer has clicked over to a neat line of zeros 4 times. This van has been in my life since the year of its birth (save the three years I lived in Ontario), which is coincidently the same year by younger brother was born. It's a glorious van of differing shades of blue and silver featuring wall to wall, up the walls, and across the ceiling blue carpeting. It houses four captain's seats in the front half of the space with two skylights for added illumination and atmospheric viewing. Behind these seats, where the roof is slightly higher than in the front allowing just enough room for me to stand up straight, there are two cupboards, a sink with a pump faucet, a fridge/ice box, and la pièce de résistance; a long three-person seat against the back wall of the van that unfolds into a double bed. I've had a long history with this van, from traveling back and forth across North America with my family as a child, to my inheritance of it at age 16, to the van-worthy adventures of my 20s. This behemoth, gas guzzler extreme on its third engine, has had many names over the years, but the last one, and the one I think it will be remembered by, is The Spagein Wagon. In honour of it's life, and it's impact/contribution to my life (it's practically another member of the family), and because of Wookiee's suggestion, I will be recounting a multi-volumed history of the van in all it's glory.



Earlier pictures will need to be scanned from the pre-digital era. This first picture is of the van parked in it's designated spot in my driveway as it appears today. Curtains drawn, doors unlocked, I said my final farewell.

Art, Truth & Politics

I just finished reading Harold Pinter's Nobel Prize in Literature acceptance speech from December 7th. I don't really want to intro this with my own muddled words because it's so captivatingly written. I assume this is why I do not have a Nobel Prize. You can read it here or visit the Nobel site and choose to read the speech in Swedish, French, and German or even watch the video. The quote under his profile on the site says "who in his plays uncovers the precipice under everyday prattle and forces entry into oppression's closed rooms". I'll leave you to it.

Overheard In New York #1

While waiting for the Galapagos film that introduces the Darwin Exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History I heard the following exchange between a family of four behind me:

Young Daughter to Mother: Who is Darwin?
Mother: He was this guy who had some kind of theory about evolution.
Younger Son to Father: Is he gay?
Father, matter-of-factly: Yep.

First of all, even here at home, I'm shocked by how many people don't know who Charles Darwin was (or King Tutankhamen for that matter). The mother, by the sounds of it, had no real clue about how to answer her daughter's question. Second, the father's obvious equation of Evolution=Gay=Against God=Wrong was shocking. And this is while at an exhibition specifically trying to educate the public of the opposite! I feel sorry for kids all the time when their education is retarded (in the true sense of the word) by the adults around them. Talk about holding back the next generation, I can only hope those kids learn somewhere to ask their own questions and seek out the answers beyond the scope of their parent's shortsightedness. Of course, while mostly unrelated to the above story, this only leads me to my disdain for the current state of the media and their failure to do exactly that. It really is their job to inform the public about things that they should know about, not just regurgitating press releases and being a puppet for those who have power. I simply don't have the time to unearth all of the truths that people should know, that's a full-time job and then some, which is exactly my point. It's a desperate plea I know, but how much more erosion of society and loss of awareness can we endure?

Catching A Falling Baby (not a metaphor)

Ever seen real footage of someone catching a baby dropped from a third floor window? It's blurry, but can be found here. A mother, trapped by fire and smoke in her apartment in the Bronx, cried out to the people below to save her baby and dropped him out the window. Felix Vasquez caught the baby and he's totally unhurt. Whew, catching a baby is a lot of pressure, I'm thoroughly impressed.

Still On The Go

I have pictures to post soon! I have been in New York for the past week and have been harried since. I had to speed directly from the airport to class to write an Archaeology final exam. Now I'm back at work and spending my nights cramming madly for my English final, which constitutes reading a whole lot of stories and imagining what kind of essay I might be asked to write. I can't wait for this last exam to be over so that I can spend one whole day just relaxing (and maybe even posting) before diving into preparations for my next trip in two weeks time. For now I'll leave you with an interesting article about some US scientists who say they have discovered the secret to the narwhal's tusk. It is one impressive multi-functional tooth!

Act II Scene IV

Do you ever get the feeling that nothing matters? Like you're just going through the motions of a routine and you do it out of habit. Waking up every morning to go to work and drone your day away in an office, then rushing through your nightly commitments before finally finding a moment for yourself, only to realize that you should have gone to bed already or you'll be tired the next morning when the loop of your life resets at the alarm buzzer. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a play, I smile and say good morning to my co-workers, make the obligatory sounds and faces when they're relaying information to me, be sure to be entertaining while maintaining an employee-of-the-month gusto for the work, react as is expected. And then I leave work and play other roles, suited to each individual I encounter. When I'm waiting in line at the cashier I watch how the person is working, what they're wearing, what they're saying, how they're saying it, their expressions, the sense I get from them, so that when it's my turn to interact with them I can make the transaction go smoothly, fall into their groove, then waft away. I connect briefly with the person, and as soon as I turn away I fall back into blankness, nothing is there. Make a phone call, play a part, hang up the phone, move on to the next task. What is the next emotion I am supposed to feel? What is the next thing I'm supposed to say? Who's joke do I have to laugh at? What lie to I have to tell? Everything I encounter gives me an answer. What is the result? I look at things for a long time, I stand innocently looking at food processors while listening to two middle aged women agonize over whether one of their husbands would approve if they bought a toaster instead of a toaster oven, I pause to take note of insignificant things. Like an observer who is so far removed that I'm examining people and things like they're false, like a reality that isn't mine. Want to know something funny? My boss was telling me about how smoothly I've integrated at my new job, she said that when she checked my references they all had great things to say but that the most consistent thing she heard was about how great I am with people. I thanked her of course, because that's what the situation called for, but all I could think was how easy it was to play the different roles required to make everyone feel like you're on their side. The irony my boss doesn't know, is that I actually hate people. Pretty much all people. Hate them. A few I loathe, but otherwise just run of the mill hate will do. It's a sad state of affairs when you find out that one of your most valuable qualities is nothing but a bit character in a script you read daily. Nobody sees anything real anymore, they only see what they want they see. I work on the top floor of my building and our offices have 15 foot high windows framing city views. Today, I was the only one who noticed it was snowing.

All Hail NyQuil

On Sunday I was feeling the beginnings of a cold, and by Monday it was starting to pummel me with its first waves of destruction. In retaliation I took a dose of NyQuil Monday night after class and when my alarm went of for work Tuesday morning I e-mailed work to say I was staying home and then took another dose of NyQuil. I woke again at around 1 p.m. and took another dose of NyQuil before waking up again at about 6:30 p.m. I spent a few hours eating and drinking to replenish my stores before taking yet another dose of NyQuil to enjoy my fourth consecutive regenerative coma. When I woke up on Wednesday I was remarkably better, and after two more doses of the Quil I was good for work the next day (today). That's all it took, two straight days of NyQuil diet and my body has gained the upper hand on the viral grossness that has infected me. How I got through illness before NyQuil I do not know. I am continually amazed by NyQuil's awesome power, and you get it all without the hassle of altars or sacrifices!