The street was lined with bricks, and the car, being from the Mesozoic era, made special noises driving over them. Riding in the car with my father, I sat in the front passenger seat, no seatbelt. I opened and shut the metal rectangle attached to the door handle – the ashtray that my parents never used because it was too small. It was not the usual way home so the car didn’t often make the sound. But sometimes it did because the street or streets were nearish enough. Bumpy bumpy, the car went, but it was musical too. I set my ears up like a dog to a whistle.
“Turn it up,” Lola yelled from the kitchen.
With the Hosers International tv show blaring, Lola felt able to turn inward. She was devising a way to get the falafel to be both crispy but not grimy. Baked things meant to be fried didn’t always translate. Lola guessed that with a few tablespoons of coconut oil remaining she would have to suck it up and use canola – which as many helpful doctors on the internet advised was poison.
She turned on the exhaust fan. Continue reading “I Feel Awful: How Not to Make Falafel”
The Director began singing “Dingle Bells” upon seeing new snow this morning. When I corrected her she said, “I know but ‘Ding Ding’ go the bells.”
“Gonna need to stop for a squirt of gas,” I said, sheepish.
Gas was more expensive than in the US and for me, every centime counted. In my emails to Banjoman, Fritolay and Genome Project, my riders for that Tuesday morning, I harped on like I always did, no matter if someone was a repeat offender of mine or someone totally new: “NO Canadian money. It’s $40 US only, which you can get at the ATM when we stop for gas in Vermont.”
You never knew which fragment of the world would be showing up for a lift, and more importantly what currency they’d try to pin on you.
But there I was stopping for gas in Montreal, and I could really use some capital input. I turned to Banjoman. His lips were red and supple. I wondered if he wore kilts in his spare time. Continue reading “Fragments of the world, cowboy edition”
In which I posit that Canada is a special repository of Banjo players and why Steve Martin should set up camp here, pronto. The movement fluxes and farts.
But this latest pop up of banjos in modern recordings promulgated by Kate McGarrigle and her kids using her playing of banjos (and other pluckers) in their recordings. Some videos below.
Sean Lennon is a personal friend of Rufus Wainwright, which is why I include the OWS video.
But Feist makes use of el banjo-o in some of her songs too.
click for more
We just came back from a trip to Montreal where we had yet another meeting with more creative types who are doing things we want to be doing. It was kind of fruitful but not in the way we’d hoped. Prospects of money in the future, peut etre, but nothing put into our pockets that day. Sometimes the life of a starving artist involves something beautiful and smokey, and sometimes it’s just a conversation.
I don’t know what it is about Montreal and creative life but the door is definitely not opening to us. I find this weird because the Director had the life but had to step back due to …needing to do drugs with other delinquents in order to do business. Now a new crew’s in town and they’re more into the perfect cup of coffee than snorting something which is great, but the Director does not know these younger people. And creatives is still all about who you know in addition to what you can do.
So after the meeting we did what we always do. Continue reading “A Day in the Life, Starving Artist edition”
What to read next
My brother’s speech pattern involved attaching a G to a word beginning with L. So that if the sentence were thus: “I love you” it would come out as “I glove you.” His dog Lulu was funny enough without the nickname of GluGlu.
All of which means that this evenin’s reading glist is dedicated to him.
Genomes and Ethiopia:
Adrian McKinty’s latest tome:
Ha ha a bra and kitchen sink: what is sexiness
It was during our days of hunger when I walked, solo, past Victor. “I heard about your dog,” he said. “I loved that guy. I’m sorry.” He and his wife were planting more stuff in their front yard.
They were always doing something in that yard.
Tonight’s reading list if I can take a break from my electronic version of farm work.
Trying this to encourage myself not to read first thing in the morning when I am at my most productive, most candy corniest.
It’s well past summer. The leaves blinged red and orange and gold and are now curled up masses the color of paper bags on the ground. Or so I heard.
I missed the seasons by not having a dog to walk.
Instead I was looking through the window outside whenever I wasn’t staring at another screen.
The sun’s setting earlier now. The gnarled scrubby pines pretending I don’t see them, as though someone yelled out Freeze in a game of Tag.
In Canadia, I saw things thanks to my dog. There’s a common saying around here:
entre chien et lou.
For that time between – when the sun is setting and the night is pushing its way through. It’s half empty and half full, the glass. Between a dog and wolf. Thanks Canada.