This neighborhood.

June 29, 2005

Tonight I saw a man with a rickshaw made out of a wheelchair.


June 26, 2005

There is news on the Arachnidiscs front:


NOTE: I added “Videonomicon” video clips to the Babel site since I first posted this update.

Bad TV

June 24, 2005

Beauty and The Geek is not aptly named. It should be Average Girl with a lot of Make Up and Average Boy with Bad Fashion. There’s only maybe one actually beautiful girl and only one definite geek. Disappointing, yet not surprising.


June 23, 2005

Flatbed practice was a hoot. My wah-wah pedal was not functioning though, but that’s fine, I think I’ll not use it. Instead my plan is to channel East Bay Ray and wait and see if anyone notices or cares.

Apparently I lied to Nathan and we don’t have The Third Man at the store. Oops. Actually I’m pretty sure there’s a copy in a box somewhere.

Yesterday afternoon I was stopped outside my house by a dodgy looking character missing a hand who wanted to know where the girls (aka hookers) hang out in this area. I told him keep on walking down to Albert St. He said that’s what they told him two blocks ago but he’s trying to stay out of that area because it’s so depressing. I suppose you definitely do want an uplifting atmosphere when picking up hookers. He said he just wanted someone to talk to.

The rock must roll on as the roll must rock.

June 19, 2005

Today I accepted the position of guitarist for Flatbed. My one stipulation was that I’ll not be expected to do what Andrew did. We’ll be playing at the Cambie on August 6th. I see rock in my future.

Philosopher stones.

June 18, 2005

I almost forgot, on our trip to Ladner, I decided my male stripper name would be Parry Hotter. Though I imagine it’s already taken.

There were lots of other amusing moments on our trip too, though my fatigue has erased some of them from memory. One was the bizarre celestial pattern wizard robes my grandma made my mom and her sister. There were many more. For instance the ferry cafeteria cook seemed surprised anyone in the line up would actually order food for lunch and had none prepared.

Exit stage left.

June 18, 2005

History is a strange thing. Family gatherings seem to be, for the most part, comprised of rehashed debates on the one thing family members have in common: History. These past two days have been spent at my grandfather’s funeral where I witnessed family members, with whom I share next to no history, plumb the depths of their common histories in remembrance.

I did learn some things. For instance, it was announced by the priest that my grandfather was apparently known to all my cousins as “Papa”. I, the first grandchild of the family, didn’t know we were calling him this. I believe I always addressed him as “Grandpa” if I ever addressed him at all. In fact, I didn’t know my grandfather and what I did know of him was that he told corny jokes and was slightly prone to moments of arrogant pettiness. Not that he wasn’t a generally good person, but someone I found a mere casual acquaintanceship with was more than enough of a good thing. So I have found his passing a non event. He will merely continue to not be a part of my life.

For my cousins though, the loss of our grandfather has been visibly significant. Tears flowed during the internment and during the memorial service. One cousin spoke at the service proclaiming my grandfather played a significant role in the development of his dreams and aspirations. It was strange to suddenly realize that this caricature who would pop up in my life once a year, was a real person to the rest of my family — one who’d played a role in their lives.

It was strange to reflect on this as I lowered his urn into the grave feeling no connection to him at all (this was a duty sprung upon me upon my arrival, I think mostly for my mother’s sake). It was strange to realize I didn’t feel uncomfortable about this or feel hypocritical. It was also strange to realize I did not feel bitter or that I’d really missed out on anything. I really felt nothing at all regarding the passing of the man himself.

The sorrow of my grandmother, mother, aunts, uncle, cousins and my grandfather’s friends did affect me. It’s touching to see people gathered together to form a new chapter in their collective history: the passing of a beloved friend.

But it’s not a history I play a role in. My history is set on a different stage.

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