I might have had a dreamy adventure. Or two.

Mountain climbing: Switzerland

And we started school

Earl Street Broken Hearts Society

And we Drove.

34 hours in 5 days to Nova Scotia. I couldn't walk when I returned.

And someone broke his collar bone.

And arrived via ambulance at the local hospital emergency bay. The orthopedic surgeon asked for impossible things (shoulder immobility). That glow he sports is from all the x-ray radiation (at least 7 since birth).

We had Lice.

Please excuse my absence? (PS: I didn't get lice. Yet.)

We'll Never Feel Bad Anymore

When you're on a golden sea,

you don't need no memory,

just a place to call your own, as we drift into the zone,

on an island in the sun,

we'll be playing and having fun

and it makes me feel so fine I can't control my brain.

*****Happy birthday to me, mother fuckers****

(my god what will happen next?)

The Dreams of Children

At the school dance last friday a parent opened a conversation with "I'm not sure Dex has mentioned this but....."

Usually this statement means I'm about to be shamed by the Human Tendencies of my child. But that night was different: minutes full of capital DULL. No surprise as this 'dance' consisted of wild 4-10 year-olds running circles around and over frowny-faced adults. The grown-ups could only manage pain filled clock-staring. As gigantic minutes refused to pass, I planned a 'coup' of the parent council. Clearly someone had forgotten the alcohol. And the drugs. And the sex. And definitely the birth control. In other words: Tonight I gladly welcomed the this woman's interruption. She continued: "My son has declared he is going to be 'a gay' with Dex. And no worries, he and Dex had already discussed it: They'd be gay and move to Japan. Did you know this?"

All I'd heard was Dex's plan to move to Japan. Seems I had incorrectly assumed it was a sign of a burgeoning perversion involving anime. Nope. And I mean, that's fine: Nev declared the next day he's never leaving home, so I guess things will balance themselves out.

Favorite Things

One of my favorite places is here. I like it for the music and for the stories. Mostly for the stories that usually feel a lot more like poetry:

I went gay when you left. Well, I tried, it didn't stick. I sold my pants and my clothes. I shaved "ex-greatest" into my head. I got a tattoo, temporary, of a whirlpool. I was stoned and staring at it in the mirror and just saying "Portal in, or way out?" over and over. Being apart feels like everything. When we get together, you and i, we can still remember what it's like to be apart and that's perfect. When we met it was so easy to remember what it was like before we met. It's when we forget what being apart feels like that we really lose it. I'm not talking in hypotheticals, in theory, I'm talking about this, your wrist and your ankle and my pointy hips. About your letters, all addressed to "P", and your socks, all dirty and white, and my kitchen, with only one chair.

Experiment number #83

What does beauty feel like?

Some say it is this. Or it is that. And here or over there.

And sometimes when I see it too, I say: wow, it's remarkable. Or that I could stare at it forever.

What is that feeling? The awe of a child, maybe.

I can't stop wondering. And looking for things that feel beautiful.

Lobster 911: lessons in love

I love when being awake could be confused with having a dream.

Like early this morning when we were boisterously celebrating the first few minutes of 2011.

Someone says: "I have a $50 lobster!" and appears minutes later with a singular gigantic lobster (as big as a new baby but way uglier). Alive. And wiggly. And playful! We tried to race the lobster, but lobsters don't really race. We let the lobster pinch our finger tips with his tasty baby claws. We tickled him and named him and held him up high and upside down. At some point a half-serious person intervened and said something about danger and being careful. He should be in water someone said with conviction. You know, like the tank at the store or a bucket off a fishing boat. Seemed to make a lot of sense.

We put him in the bathtub.

Ten minutes later, Mr. lobster looked like fucking hell. I think I even saw some lobster vomit floating in the water. He was Limp. We shook him and yelled in his face "Hey, Hey!" We were hoping for unconscious. Was he on the brink of death? How do you tell with a crustacean anyway. Was it too late? Did you see his tentacle thing move? Did he blink? Was he just pretending? Did anyone know lobster CPR? Adrenaline to the heart?

Can we still eat him?

I tried to be The Hero: I told him to stay away from the light and poked him aggressively for a long while. Wondering if he just needed to shake it off. or something. By that time I was bonded to the little pinchy guy. Genuinely concerned for his well being. Hoping he'd make it (at least for another six hours until lunch).

Apparently if it moves, I risk falling in love with it.

But it was too late. He was dead. We'd killed him. I'd killed him. Or her. By accident. What a fucking travesty.

It was absurd. Me. Bathtub. Lobster. Love.

And the moral of my 2011 opening story?

Love is like a lobster, looks all strong and unshakable on the outside, but is tender and delicate on the inside and needs someone paying attention to the details. Or it fucking dies.

And you go hungry.

So pack a snack.

__________________

what will happen next?

Notes from the Road: a 2011 will-do list.

Return to Chile and climb that mountain, over there.

Have a Hawken Sibling-bender-a-thon in the woods.

Re-write the MCAT and ace it. And finish that mother fucking phd.

Reliably touch my toes on command.

Defy a law of physics.

Run a marathon. The long one.

Attend a week-long Silent Zen retreat.

Eat.

Play too much hide and seek.

Age backwards; arrest at 20

Get a new ‘the last time I thought I was going to die’ story

Rearrange everything.

Always bring my camera, never load the film.

Les Amours Imaginaire

Translation: Heartbeats? Sigh. Quebec must think anglos are retarded. Well, Quebec: you have scabies. Translation: vous avez grossi.

Midnight Pilgrimage to Waffle Iron

My parents raised me poorly: I've been to church formally about five times. And those times I've gone I've done it all wrong. Once I even stole (on purpose) a granola bar from a church in PEI which, on the sin-o-meter I suspect negates my "approximately five" and "14 future" church visits. I'm pretty sure beside my name is a big evil frowny face. In red.

Sometimes I try. ish. Like midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I've attempted to go three years in a row, admittedly mostly out of sheer curiosity (what DO they DO and at Midnight no less?). All individually fails if the goal is to be there the entire time and pay attention and pray and give thanks. and stuff. Collectively, however, they might count for something.

1. xmas 2008. Accompaniment: German brother-in-law. Reason for fail: five minutes in, The German had to leave. Religion did not agree with him. Made his eyes burn and have 'ants in his pants.'

Portion of mass witnessed: incense, fake baby jesus, singing.

2. xmas 2009. Accompaniment: Sister # 2. Reason for fail: a) we arrived at midnight and the mass was OVER b) I was sporting the 'leper' look, being within 24 hours of having my face laser-burned off. I seriously thought I'd add to the ambiance. I was hoping for some pity. At least.

Portion of mass witnessed: everyone leaving and trying to not awkwardly stare at me for too long.

3. xmas 2010, tonight. Accompaniment: solo. Reason for fail: no intention of going. Except that at approximately 11:45 pm I remembered "shit fuck! my waffle iron at the lab, must fetch it for the morn, when thee shall make thine waffles to which thee shall top with spray whipped cream!" This is how I talk at christmas time. So I pilgrimaged. All the way across the park and into a creepy empty building. I was frightened. Of ghosts. No seriously, I'm not joking. I nearly fainted three times from my own shadow. I practically ran out of there screaming and crying like a girl. Waffle iron in hand, my holy shrine for thine waffles, and a fresh lease on life, I left the building, just as an ambulance rushed by with lights blazing. And I thought (because I'm a sick fucko): if only it was going to the church now that would make an awesome mass! I mean, maybe there is a real live re-enactment of the birth of christ. Or the christmas eve sacrifice-ee escaped just maimed instead of 100% killed! It was a sign. I was headed to mass! And sure enough, when I rounded the corner, there was the ambulance outside the church. Oh lucky day!

Portion of mass witnessed: If there is anything I do well, it's loiter and gawk. So I put my god given skills to work and watched the ambulance crew load up a sinner and take her away! I'd never seen that part of the service before. But I liked it!

I'm slowly piecing this "midnight mass service" together. But it's a tricky bastard and I need a few more tries. It's good to have goals. Especially in the name of redemption.

Nazareth

I was driving the VW two days ago and the Nazareth song "hair of the dog" came on the radio. It felt like Christmas. Mostly because in my mind Nazareth means Jesus in hebrew. If that sentence doesn't make sense to you, I'm sorry. Welcome to what being me is like: completely and unabashedly made-up.

Nazareth, and this song especially, have a special place in my history. Despite what my cousin Heather may say, I didn't listen to Nazareth by choice as a teen (ahem, GnR and others I've accidently forgotten and I swear not because I'm ashamed). Hilariously, it was the only cassette tape my bus driver had. Obviously, if you have a boom box, anything is better than radio silence. I mean, did anyone carry a stereo on their shoulders and not play music? pshh. Where I lived in the late 80's everyone was poor and no one had walkmans so people often graced us with their own double-cassette decks (fucking rich kids) and tastes of music for our trips to school. At some point our 'fancy school bus' got outfitted with a 'stereo system.' I rode the bus for two hours nearly everyday of my life until I was 18 years old. From c1989 to c1992 I did it while listening to Nazareth. That was 2 hours of Nazareth a day for three years. On repeat. Ironically the few words I can remember include "my white bycicle," "love hurts...." and "now you're messing with a Son of a Bitch." Jerks couldn't enunciate worth a damn.

So Nazareth is a Jesus band that has written a song based on my grandfather. Have you met Pop? The chorus of the "hair of the dog" song is his anthem and he doesn't even know. And while I accelerated through intersections and sang like I knew the lyrics "and now your messin' with a, son of a, now your messin' with a sonofabitch" I thought, that's right: I'm a jesus sonofabitch gonna have a killer christmas while I go to toys R us to buy Lew a school bus!

Which ties this whole nonsense together. When asked "hey Lew, what do you want to ask Santa for Christmas?" four-year-old Lewis says "A school bus!"

Jesus.

Merry Christmas, Ya son of a bitch.

Christmas Came Early

Thursday, five minutes before we were to head to school. The doorbell rang. Lewis opened up and a river of barf and runny pooh flowed into our lives.

Yes. Welcome Highly Contagious Stomach Flu Xmas 2010.

There are five of us. Each day claims a new victim. Number four just went down. I’m the only one left. I’m terrified. I’m hiding under blankies in the dark, sipping vodka and misting the air with sanitizer.

And I don’t feel well.

What will happen next?

UPDATE: I almost pooped myself to death. I bet you're glad you know that.

New beat

I'm a recovering deadbeat blogger.

A recent facebook drop-out.

An ex-cell phone user.

A woman with a fresh diagnosis of ADD and a pocket full of speed.

I've been cut up and sewn up.

Invested in an arctic parka

and a VW.

Got addicted to vitamin water.

Reading.

And baths.

Quit some stuff.

Failed some stuff.

Had some fun.

Forgot the camera.

Scissoring

There are many things in the world. Many amazing things: the grand canyon, the blue sky, the apple. And my four year old and his persistent capacity to get into stuff. Stuff that's dangerous. Stuff that's none of his business. Like yesterday when he presented himself and his 'new hair cut.' Upon investigation it was discovered that he had "scissored" everything he possibly could in the bathroom and, left with no other option, scissored himself (and his hair). At least I find the verb "to scissor" hysterically funny. It's all I've got left.

And it was Just Like This

REALLY. With some of THIS.

NYC

And then I went to NYC to celebrate this woman. NYC Likes: how the metro randomly goes 'express' and starts missing stops; the Yankees; everything.

Side Projects

Friday, Sept 10th, 2010: Roller Derby comes to K-Town. Fame ensues.