OK. Here we go. London Ontario was super fun for me. Lets get Bruce McCulloch’s take on the lay of the land:
Who we are doesn’t come to us in a dream it is struggled for. Sometimes we look at our parents and wonder how things arrived. Trust who you are as you gaze up from your Mountain Dew or buttermilk and wonder how we got here. The only question we ever need to ask ourselves is, "how did we get here?". Love the world like it was a girl and we will all be fine....
There will be many more journal guest spots as the tour continues and this is but the first in my journey into laziness. I rely on the brilliance and charity of my comrades.
World's record latest/earliest journal entry. Its 5:30 in the morning and we just woke up in London Ontario. Syracuse was a much different show. The Kids were "on" and it went by really quickly. We changed the running order after the opening night and I thought the changes worked. As a new idea I opened the show with "Take a Hit Off This". I played to tracks but took away the backing vocals on Bruce McCulloch's suggestion. I think his instincts were right. It looks more like a lounge act if there are backing vocals without seeing the other people. We have these miniature headset mics that you can't really see so if any of you are wondering if I'm actually singing & playing...I'm actually singing & playing. In Buffalo I was just playing in the body of the show so the opening song was a new thing. I think it will stay.
When you come out the stage door with these guys after the show it feels like the Cannes film festival. There is a crowd behind barricades and they all scream. Hundreds of people yell the names of the different Kids in the Hall as they each appear and a fistful yell out, "Hey music guy...good job!". Perhaps I'll change my name to "music guy" after the tour to capitalize on what I've done here? I signed a few of my own cds last night so thanks to the good people of Syracuse who pitched in. Sarah's was the first of the tour...thanks Sarah.
Buffalo. Some of you were there so I can't make this up. I had a blast on opening night. Beautiful venue. So much work went into that 1:56 minutes that I couldn't take it all in until the final sketch. You know...keeping my head in the game. I didn't want to come out of my body to look down on what was going on because my guitar would be too far away to play. The last thing you want to do is have an out of body experience while the show is actually on. I like to save those for the bus ride afterward. I was quite surprised when I snuck out onstage to set up for the first scene and my new friends from Rochester said "hi Craig" from the front row. I thought, firstly, that I was being pretty inconspicuous and secondly that I was not going to be recognized.
Syracuse looks sunny and quiet out my hotel window as I dive in to recut a bunch of sequences. There will be a few changes for tonight's show. Some patrons had complained about the goats blood getting on their clothing so we have to cut out the whole Carrie sequence. Everybody loved the flamethrower though.
Keeping my head in the game. Keeping my head in the game. Did I say I was keeping my head in the game? OK...I must have my head in the game then. Dress rehearsal was a blast yesterday. The busses are pulling out. Behind the stacks you glimpse an axe. Tension mounts you score an ounce. There's a comedy show at the Concertgebow. My parents went to Europe once in the late 70's. It was a big deal for the family because we had to be farmed out until they got back and it was a little unsettling...as I remember. When they got back they regaled us with pictures and tales. They were particularly pumped by the concert they got to see at the Concertgebow. They pronounced it "con_cheeairt_ge_baow". I didn't figure out it was the same place as in the Wings song 'til way later. Then I wondered why Paul could have bungled the pronunciation so badly. I vowed to pronouce things better if I was ever given the chance to be a famous pronouncer.
Back in my hotel room wondering where I will find the time to learn all the things I want to be good at. How will I learn them before I have to be out in public demonstrating them. My mother used to say, “don’t worry about it Craig. You can only be as good as you are right now. You can’t be any better”. I know it was true but somehow it didn’t inspire confidence. If I already thought I was in trouble then this just confirmed it. I suppose it was meant to make me feel a sense of calm resignation. I always ended up barfing before the violin recitals. My nervousness worked to my advantage, however, as I was awarded a milkshake after these performances. Sometimes I trembled so much that I couldn’t even finish the piece. One big gaff and I’d try to start again. Quickly I would stumble again and then bail out.
In my adult life I chose boozy and raucous music perhaps as a tool of survival. It would make sense that I could have a few drinks before the performance. The other guys in the Odds cured me of this habit by making me play a gig every night with the Dawn Patrol until going on stage was as nerve-wracking as eating oatmeal. Soon I used the sedatives to ease the boredom on that gig. So did the other guys. Now I’m in a situation that’s completely new and I need all my wits about me. I also want to be able to play everything as well as Stevie Wonder might on any given night. I’m feeling quite exposed. At this stage of a veteran’s career it should just add a buzz of excitement. I guess week two will be the “buzz of excitement” week. I better call my mom and see if she has anything better to say.
Preying on the desperate. Hotels are the worst for this. They know the kind of life you’re leading if it means you actually have to stay in a hotel. Unless you’re a veteran you get stung. You know what I mean...yes...the minibar...the snack basket...the telephone. In my hotel a miniature bottle of cognac is $9.25. A chocolate bar is $2.35. Jelly beans are $6.20. Just double the prices on what this stuff costs around the corner at the store. Why? Because you’re going to roll in late. You’ll be tired, hungry and maybe tipsy. Nothing will be open at that late hour. You will lose your battle with common sense because of these factors and you will tuck in. The next evening you will return to find all the items have been magically put back by elves and it will seem like you got away with something. When you check out you will discover that you were being watched the whole time and you must now be humiliated. Sure the newspaper and the microwave popcorn were free. What does microwave popcorn do? YES...run for the key to the mini bar. A comrade of mine used to call them on this evil. He would call down to the front desk as soon as we got in the room and have someone come up to get the snack basket and take it away. The befuddled porter would leave still not truly understanding the lecture he was given on why he should stop preying on the weaknesses of the paying guests. It was never the porter’s fault but I can see the intention.
Off to rehearsal. Got through it all yesterday and its really shaping up. The films are really good this time and they’re well integrated into the live action. I have so many transmitters and receivers on me I’m starting to worry about either developing tumors or looking like Peter Gabriel in 1987. Its OK...they will be well hidden by my prosthetic fat suit and pantomime horse costume.
I’m in a hotel bathrobe. Its 9:20pm. Just got in from rehearsal and I’m turning my brain to liquid with the Oscars. Freakish egomaniacs on parade. Interesting. Better write quickly before I fall fast asleep.
The Kids in the Hall show is coming together and I’m feeling like I’m getting a grasp on how it might be when its really clicking. My hat is always off to the crew who work so bloody hard. Jim Millan, the director, has the patience of a stenographer at a rapper’s convention.
I’m starting to lose touch with the real world at home and fall into that state of suspended animation that comes with being whisked away both physically and mentally by such a huge creative endeavor. Calls to home at this time are a lovely reconnection. Soon they will also function as the jarring glass of cold water in the face that I need to bring me out of “work head”. I think some of these people at the Oscars need more than that. Perhaps a cup of scalding hot coffee dumped in their laps?
Dear Mongoose,
You looked like such an easy mark. Me...a hooded and lethal coil of lightning quick fast twitch fibers and you a small brown overlarge hamster. Boy was I wrong. I did the whole shake, fake & bake routine. Lead with the head to one side, move laterally, then back the other way at speed. When I went to sink the ol’pointys into dinner...what...only air.... then a warm sensation in the back of my hood junction. I know they say cold blooded but this was definitely warm. You little bastard. Your packaging said dinner. This is one of nature’s potholes...especially in this case. You are like that fish with the worm on its head that lies still and waits 'til someone comes to eat the worm. Its different than that only because you looked like the underdog. Just wanted to say I’m glad I escaped with my life but its tough being an amputee when you’re a snake.
sincerely
Being & Nothingness Cobra
Globe & Mail headline: He Succeeded by Being Himself. Isn't that special? Why is that chosen as a unique siuation? So many feel they have to do exactly the opposite. Fit in, fit in, fit in. You'd need pretty good parents to have the kind of self esteem that made doing it your way the most obvious choice. Plastic surgery, business suits, cologne, and fashion vacilation usually come first. Offer up your inner beauty to the world and succeed beyond your wildest dreams. Its not exactly the message hammered home by school & work. It should be. When all of our inspiration comes from people who break the mold then why does this still seem like the rebelious and unique path to take? Got to go to the lobby and try to look like someone who can be on time.
First day of rehearsals for the Kids in the Hall tour. Great to see everyone again and get the ball rolling. So good for the human soul to be in such a creative environment with friends. I’m still such a fan and its always been such a treat to get to see any of this stuff come together. None of them snoop in on my journal so I can gush without shame. We had Kids in the Hall marathons on the Odds bus on long drives and one day it happened that they were fans of ours as well. Its like the lawyer's first speech in “the Man Who Wasn’t There”...what’s his name Riegenshneider (the new Koen Brothers movie)? He talks about a German philosopher who postulates that you change something when you look at it for awhile. The more you look the more it changes. The more I watched the Kids in the Hall the more I brought them closer. Telekinetic stalking? Since we met they’ve been very supportive and their listening to me has probably effected me too. Maybe when they listened it brought me closer to what they wanted to do with me? Factors are at work here that its best not to understand. I’m thrashed and am heading to bed but not before watching this BeeGees special on TV. Such an underated legacy...the BeeGees. Holy smokes they’ve written a lot of classic songs that everyone forgets they wrote. Why is that? Why could they never be cool? Right now Bill Wyman is asking the BeeGees why they chose to sing in falsetto and they are explaining that they loved R&B. Maybe they are cool. I guess the question is why they were never allowed to be cool. They wrote “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart”. Al Green covered them..TWICE! Why were they still uncool? Was it the Sgt.Pepper movie, duets with Barbara Striesand and “Saturday Night Fever” that destroyed their hopes for a hip future? If my theories hold true I’ll be acting in a BeeGees video for their 50th anniversary if I keep watching too long.
Fragments of the ideas of things I haven't done to prepare for this trip. My brain is alternately paralyzed and jumping around like a springbok on speed. It used to be that 3 hours of sleep a night made me tired. Now it has no effect. Colin Nairne (engineer, producer, tech whiz) built my pedal board and crazy computer effects rack for the Kids in the Hall tour. I told him what I was going to need to get the job done and he fashioned it McGiver style out of a paper clip, an elastic band and Hyundai car parts. It arrived yesterday and its beautiful. It looks exactly like Michelangelo's David with a Thrush muffler coming out of its ass ... and a perfect ten for the use of the elastic band! He's brilliant.
I'm still scoring some sketches. This show is really really serious. The Kids have decided not to be funny on this tour. I hope you all appreciate the artistic leap they're making. I don't want to hear any laughing in the audience or I will be quite upset. These are huge issues they are tackling in this tour de force and I expect everyone to be on their best behaviour.
The "ya ya ya's". Say it really fast. Its what people in auto service departments say to women when they ask an informed question. They use it as a form of interuption before the question is barely out of the customer's mouthe. Its translation is basically, "OK little missy we've got this all under control and its pretty obvious we don't give a rats ass what you're saying". Its what kids say to you when they want to appear like they know what's going on. Always the "ya ya ya's" begin before you finish your explanation or question. The Rolling Stones "Get Your Ya Ya Ya's" out would have been a title for their most arrogant album. My mate coined the term "getting ya ya ya'd" . When she gets "ya ya ya'd" she puts the guy on pause. That's when you say, "hang on a minute buddy". When you use the term "buddy" in this context its not as chummy a word as it is on its own. Once the guy is on pause then you make the decision to take your business elsewhere or stand and amaze the bastard with your depth of knowledge in his percieved field of expertise. In today's case it was a roofrack for our car. She had done all the research and this guy was outgunned by "little missy". She brought him down on the weight capacity of the transverse crossbars. He lay bleeding from an opening in his understanding of the correct maximum load. She pounced and gutted him like a fish. These are the tiny victories that one must relish. "Ya ya ya'ers" never learn from these experiences though. Unfortunately "ya ya ya" functions as a rationalization. An alternative to "whatever".
Burning the candle as the chickens hatch. Finger lickin in the banana patch. C'mon little pigs its just made of thatch. Lost the wart but won the match. He can throw up but he sure can't catch. A little bit of spit in every batch...snatch, latch, cratch & slatch (look it up). I'm all out of the single syllable ones. No form no content tonight. Just a poorly played riff on a plastic guitar. Some gave all and some just gave'er. Polli, Polli...you out there in the tree? Its dark and cold and I want to close the window...I have crackers.
I love dogs. I really love dogs. When I was a kid I subscribed to dog magazines and memorized all the breeds. I still take pride in being able to look at someone’s mutt (my favourite type) and figure out what breeds combined to give their dog life. I don’t have a dog because its too hard to leave home and turn my mate into a single mom with one more thing to take care of. I yearn for a doggy.
Its the dog owners I just can’t understand sometimes. If you reference my journal entry from last week you’ll witness one example of my frustration. As a runner my frustration with dog owners is compounded. No matter how hard a dog is trained away from its natural instincts to bring down a deer there is a good chance that he/she will revert to natural tendencies once in awhile. I am aware of this as I run down the local trails that frequented by dog owners and their freely roaming charges. The dog owner has ultimate confidence that “Fang” the Pit Bull is the friendliest creature ever born and would never ever lock its powerful jaws around anybody’s genitals. When you running towards “Fang” and he growls and runs at you your confidence wanes just a little. You can either slow to a calm walk and pretend you’re not scared or you can jump five feet to the left and scream “CALM DOWN BOY!!” at the top of your lungs while pointing at the charging dog...as if to intimidate it. At this point the owners, without exception, either: a) throw their heads back and laugh saying, “oh she’s a total mush ball she won’t touch you.” b) Do nothing, say nothing, keep a blank look on their faces and continue to walk past you c) gently whistle for the dog to come back... to no effect.
I’ve been running for years now and I’ve NEVER once had an owner apologize for their dog scaring the living shit out of me. I calmly ask them to put their dog on a leash if its going to perform simulated attacks on runners. They ALWAYS: a) claim its never happened before b) smile and say nothing c) scowl and intimate that I am over reacting. My solution is to run at the owner as fast as I can (hopefully the dog won’t protect them) holding the rubber knife (a real one could get me in trouble) I have brought for just such an occasion. Inches before I make physical contact I will stop dead in my tracks, sniff their crotch while holding the knife close to their privates, look at them blankly and walk away. If they react to my little game I will throw back my head and laugh and say, “I don’t know what came over me... I don’t usually do things like this”. The other option is to smile serenely at the dog after it has settled down and walk calmly over to the owner and spray mace in their face. Its not the dog’s fault after all.
Can you tell I went running today?
Mail. Its beautiful. No...not e-mail. You can't touch e-mail. You can't send a piece of your life over e-mail. All you can send are ideas, descriptions and intentions. I love getting the piece of paper someone actually wrote on. Nothing puts you in the same physical space with someone like that. I'm still so excited and impressed when mail actually arrives. You hold something in your hand that has made an actual physical journey and been handled by human hands. Its been down the road to the mailbox and sat in the dark cold mailbox for awhile. Human hands have picked it up and put it in a bag and driven it downtown. More hands have helped sort it into new bags. Those bags have been put in a truck then maybe put on a plane and so on and so on to your mailbox. THAT is amazing. No wonder its getting expensive. Computers are so gaddam boring in comparison.
This is when your mind wanders to the mental image of me as a mail fetishist sitting in my underwear in a darkened corner sniffing packages and letters. Perhaps I'm grunting and rocking back and forth making hash marks on the wall beside me each time I open a padded envelope. Maybe later I fashion garments from each week's mail and parade around in front of a full length mirror when everyone leaves for school and work at exactly 9:05am. If its a slow mail week I might fix myself a speedo out of bubble wrap and cancelled stamps I've steamed off meticulously with my own hot breath. If you were to go farther you might envision me running through the yards of my neighbours after I write this entry in my journal. I would only linger long enough at each post box to caress and...
But that's not something I would do. No. Not me. Ha ...go back to what you were doing.
Out in the studio putting together things for the Kids in the Hall tour. Its crunch time. Not a lot on my brain except that and my family. Trying to plug whatever revelations I have into the music. Fooled around with a banjo tuning today to get a certain sound down. Banjos get a bum rap. Frank Gormley (Colin James, Midnight Oil, Spirit of the West...guitar tech) says that the definition of perfect pitch is throwing an accordian and having it land on a banjo. If you apply patience to the picking you can sound OK on a banjo pretty quickly. That doesn't mean you're any good. Its just a tribute to the instrument. It allows you to fluke off a few things and then it probably bucks you into the air like a baby on a bronco. With a bit of cut & paste I got through the flukey part and called it quits just in time. Foggy Mountain Breakdown tomorrow.
Weekend of weird weather. Whether weakened by weirdness or just plain weak the weird weathered the weekend and still managed to jump over the lazy dog before the quick brown fox. Today I was buying flowers for someone and forgot my wallet. I had some cash in my pocket and carefully tallied the prices of the flowers I was buying and they added up to a few dollars less than I had. Great. Done. When the lady was ringing them in I noticed I'd read the price wrong on one of the bunches and it happened. I came up short. She looked at me and smiled and said, "you can owe me the $1.73". You never forget the amount when this happens. I promised her I'd come back today with the money and apologised profusely. She smiled again and gave me that, "whatever you say" look. I couldn't just say I'd come back and get them later because they were to thank someone I would only get to see in the next few minutes. Early this evening I went back to give her the money and I loved her so much I bought more flowers. When she rang them in I reminded her to take an extra $1.73. She said I had a good memory. She must have a lot of pot smokers as customers because that really wasn't too hard.
The door to the shop swung open and a naked man burst in gasping for air. He was soaking wet (pouring rain outside), a shaved head, a huge tattoo of the Van halen logo on his chest and a red backpack. I didn't notice a weapon so my heart slowed from 280bpm to about 140bpm pretty quickly. For those of you who's imaginations go to that place immediately...he was uncircumcised. He asked if anyone could lend him $1.73 for monkey food and pointed to the backpack. It was at that point I noticed the squirrel monkey's head peaking out. "The pet shop is next door" said the lady behind the counter. He said, "I know it is but I misread the price on the food and I'm short $1.73 and I can't leave without Little David-Lee getting his chow...I took the bus here and my transfer is about to run out". Sensing that a naked man with a hungry squirrel monkey and a Van Halen tattoo wasn't going to get too far with the flower lady I scrambled through my pockets and came up with a toonie (for those outside of Canada that is a $2 coin). He said "thanks brother" at the same time as I said "keep the change". He bolted out the door. Pay it forward I always say.
If in twenty years someone asks me how much I was short when I bought the flowers for my son's soccer team manager back on March the 9th 2002 it will not be a problem to remember the amount. $1.73. Of course the story is complete bullshit after the part where the lady said I had a good memory but I could sense the real life part was going nowhere.
Twice I wrote an account about coming up short for cash while buying flowers today. Twice this blogger thing erased it. I can't muster the drive to type it out a third time so if nothing more interesting happens tomorrow I will try again. Aaaiiieeee
The coffee curve. I'm at the bottom of the coffee curve right now. That first cup starts your ascent. It feels so good that you definitely have two and you're off to let the day drag you behind it like a tin can on the wedding car. As you lose momentum you have another cup. The inside of your mouth turns into an old sofa and you stop halfway through the fourth cup wondering why you keep drinking it if it tastes so bad. Bottom of the curve. After dinner you feel like its time to get back on the curve and you jack up on a nice cup at about 6:30. Now you are ready to do things and talk about doing things. The top of the curve hits at around 8:30pm. Here's where you make the critical decision. Another cup takes you 'til 2:00am when you can't sleep, you're exhausted, and your brain cannot be wrestled from its hamster wheel. The bottom of the curve.
Uh oh...a cat has just met the neighbour's two Rottweilers in their fenced yard. The sound is nature's audio equivalent to the car accident. I hope its not my cat. Check. Nope. The Ginger cat is now sitting at a safe distance calmly cleaning itself. The grumpy lady from the back lane is calling her two Chihuahuas (with German names) to safety. She loves them so much. She loves them so much that she loves their poo too. She refuses to carry a bag and clean it up like other responsible dog owners because: a) she figures the turds are so small that no one will notice b) she feels we should love her little dogs so much that we would allow them a completely natural psychological experience during bowel movements. c) she thinks no one can see her leaving the crap on their lawn. This morning I was playing road hockey in the alley with my youngest and while retrieving the ball from the grass I glided over one of the tiny morsels. Instead of walking over to her door and asking her to clean my rollerblades I did what any normal person would do. I flung the pile lacrosse style over her garage and into her yard with the blade of my hockey stick. I may have overtorqued the follow-through and accidently hit her back window. My son asked me why I did that and I said, "those were the little dogs poops and I figured they might want them back". He laughed. He's not stupid. I was at the top of the coffee curve I guess.
I censored myself tonight. First time. I hope I'm not letting anyone down. I wrote something about illegal street racers that might have been insensitive in the light of innocent people being killed. On reflection I deleted it. It went down the comedy tunnel and lost track of context. I think that is my specialty...losing track of context. As I said before, "sooner of later I'm going to hurt someone". This was close. I'd outline the basic premise of the posting but that would spoil all the work and internal conflict I weathered to censor myself. If I'm going to play God & government then I better wield the gavel with authority. No siree Bob! You guys are cut off! Wait a minute...I better rebel against myself and write something utterly edgy tomorrow. I can't tonight because I'm looking over my shoulder and intimidating me. I've blown the moment.
Snowing tonight. Just enough to stick. Just enough to make it sound different out there. Just gave Pat (Steward) a ride home after a day of recording drums. Copyright's "Into the Light" single came on just after I was alone and heading home with the streets empty and snow starting to fall. What a great song. What a great band. If there's ever going to be a doping test for just plain faking it those guys would be clean. No faking. They are able to be cool without anything "put on". They can rock without a self conscious bone. What they talk about they know and Tom's vocal approach can range all over the place without ever making me feel he's acting or being overwrought. Christian has such depth to his playing and Pete Bourne will always be one of the best drummers to have come out of this city. Every song that came on between that one and my arrival at home was complete window dressing (cardboard cuttouts of rocking out and being earnest). I think its probably really hard to be Copyright and I admire them for it. Heard the Tragically Hip's "Gift Shop" on the radio today too. It was the sonic oasis of this morning. The intro alone is worth the price of the CD. That's only two songs I want to remember out of so many I heard while running errands all over the place. I guess that's why they call it a "seek" button. "They call me the seeker" -- not too fussy but seeking all the same. Ready to settle for something almost good. Even ready to settle for a bit of stray information that might pass from one ear through to the next without taking any part of my brain with it. That's what driving is about. The snow will deaden the sound.
Its like a bloody wedding list. While I'm doling out thanks for all the web help I must acknowledge the yeoman work of "the Finger" from sunny Winnipeg. Ol' Fingey has helped me immeasurably through his often evangelical spreading of the Craig word. Kevin Gandel from Baltimore started it all with his big Odds site and "the Finger" was handed the torch by proxy. Oftentimes it takes the actual artist much longer to get these things together and its the Kevins, Fingers & Alistairs that push you to gather your thoughts and get on with it. There are a few more of you out there that I should mention...Dave, Vince D, Gary D, Frank DiSalvo, Karen T, Ethan, Mavis, Pimento, the other Dave, Bunchie...the list goes on until the first thank-you becomes meaningless. I'll stop here.
Happy birthday honey.
But wait there's more. I noticed when handing over found photos to Alistair for the website that my superstions have stunted my wardrobe. I'd love to be the clotheshorse you all think I am but really I've narrowed the lucky T-shirts down to an embarrassing few. When you look at gig photos people have taken over a year's span and you see the same three shirts it can be a little startling. My hair colour rotates faster than my shirts. Something will be done. I will lobby to have less pictures taken.
I guess you've noticed the site looks better. All heartfelt thanks go to Alistair Calder (alistair.com) who reconnected with me on the web and said "I have skills and I can help". In a previous life I knew him as a budding musician but it is clear he has other things to offer and extra horsepower under that hood. You can visit him on his website and thank or punish him for introducing me to the idea that I should spiral downward into this wee-hour weblog. He's a beauty. Todays props also go out to donors to the Craig cause like Lawrence Motola & Helen Ryken. I appreciate you thinking of me. Don't think to long though...it doesn't help.
"In some strange way it will bring you luck". That's the only fortune cookie slip I have saved. Firstly...If they were referring to the fortune written on that little piece of paper then I wasn't going to take any chances. I grow increasingly superstitious. Its hard to imagine that the placement of the bricks I removed from the Stax lot in Memphis do not have some sort of effect on what happens in each hour of everyone's day. Those things are really important to how life works in most of this hemisphere.
I guess as soon as I decide that my life has turned to shit then I'll start to lose all the icons and mojo proceedures I have adopted. I think the fact that I keep accumulating these superstitions points out that I must want to maintain what I feel is a pretty good life. Perhaps its an additive phenomenon? More hoodoo ornaments and strange rituals...more good. I'm not talking rabbit's foots and four leaf clovers here. I'm saying that if you are holding a pillow to your chest when a pivotal goal is scored in favour of your team then everyone must hold a pillow during all future games if they are to be in the room with you...that's all. I'm saying never wear black when crossing a border. I'm saying always have a pen or pencil behind your ear when landing on native soil. I might suggest that shaving is bad if you have booked time off. You may shave one hour before the next important scheduled event but no earlier. If you must wear a logo on your clothes just make sure you never wear two. Double logoing is the antimojo. "In some strange way it will bring you luck". Do you know how long I've thought about what "it" is? I was half cut at 3:00am in "the Garden" restaurant in Toronto when I received this important message. Was it the stain on my pants from that glowing red sweet & sour sauce that would bring me luck in a strange way? Was it the inability to remember a room number at the hotel that would bring luck to me? Was it the bruise on my arm from a playfighting punch administered during earlier excitement? Either way I resolved to maintain some sort of unravelled revelatory state until the root of the luck was determined. You will usually find a bruise, a stain and a loss of cognitive ability if you look carefully at my day. I carried the fortune until I was back at my own fridge where all wisdom can be affixed with a magnet. I can read its tiny 3 point letters as I open the door to get out the Chinese food. Only Chinese food in there.
Too much on my mind. Seven things to do at all times. No time to do anything extra and here I am on this journal. Maybe I like saying I'm busy? I wonder if I wear "being busy" as some sort of badge of honour. I think I hate it when I'm not "nose to the grindstone". A family holiday is glorious for the first week and then I start to itch on the inside. Something must be done about this. I've integrated fun into my work by doing what I like to do and maybe this compounds the problem. Its a big problem for those around me. This I can confirm. My parents had this disease but I hope I can break the chain with my kids. Maybe they can be perfectly content to veg out at the drop of a hat. If this generation is a reaction to the last they could become very relaxed and seemingly unmotivated lawyers prying themselves away from the TV just long enough to say, "Sorry about the guilty conviction Mrs. Johnston. I sort of ran out of steam at the end there. I'll call you in a year about the good behaviour thingy...oh and thanks for that fat cheque".
If they end up loving what they are doing then it all changes. I think that is the big problem in family life. Its set up so that if you hate or tolerate your work, and accept that fact, you centre all your positive energy and efforts around your home and family. If you love your work you end up being torn to shreds. You want that ability to focus but you can't have it. You try desperately to divide your brain into neat compartments but your brain lets you down. You have to finish that idea thats in your head or die trying. I blame my parents for teaching me that creativity and passion come first. They tried to teach me that responsibility and pragmatism come first but they accidently taught me otherwise. I saw them have the same problems and still love me way too much so I assumed it would be OK for me. The responsibilty and pragmatism part was so obviously impossible. Geez...what am I doing here? I have to get back to that popsicle stick sculpture of Steve Yzerman.
Shoo be waa dum dumm whoop whoop dum. Will doo wop ever have its comeback? What a great thing to have re-enter our musicsphere. New words being invented and sung in swinging harmony just because they fit the rhyme. I think some lounge singers mine a certain doo wop vibe when they have been singing a particular song for too long. My friend Ross coined the term "swenna" when we were teens. It applies to affected singers. We heard a cover band do "Long Cool Woman" and he said he thought the only word the singer used was "swenna". Try it to the tune of the Hollies "Long Cool Woman". "A swenena swenena swenna waswenna fo de eff bee aayyaa". The words had been contorted into the most singable yet meaningless words ever created. It was no longer about being downtown working for the FBI. It was about the singer. If you took this a little farther we could actually get back into the doo wop and turn a negative into a positive. Perhaps this could be somehow applied to the current spate of "sheyeah" bands. That is how "modern rockers" say "yeah". Its important to set your lower jaw forward, lock it in place, and sing with your lips tight and about 3mm apart. Apparently it helps to have one foot way forward, one foot way back and your hands draped over the mic stand like you were resting them on a goalie stick a la Ken Dryden. We all know the culprits. Some say it was all spawned by certain Seattle proponents of "Sheyeah" in the early 90's but I would say it dates back at least as far as David Clayton Thomas of Blood Sweat & Tears. You can't turn on the radio without hearing some"sheyeah". Its hard to tell the sheyeah bands apart. I think this may finally push us into complete gibberish in the cover bars. All the "Swenna" singers are putting their spin on the "Sheyeah" singer's songs which will result in no actual words being used and a lot of stress induced lockjaw. If we can get these guys to open their mouthes a little wider and apply some new chord changes...voila....shoo be waa dum dumm whoop whoop dum. Doo wop is back "in".