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« February 2005 | Main | April 2005 »
Movable Type and I may be breaking up. The comment spam is getting to me and I've been tempted by the fruit of another, the younger, easier-to-use, Typepad. So pardon the mess, breakups are never easy, but in the end, it will all be worth it and everyone will be much happier.
So, in the meantime, while I transfer this blog on to Typepad, take a look at what's been occupying my time in my Typepad photo albums: RRJ and Friends.
Stuck in front of eMacs all day. No time to blog.
Back soon.
I may be jumping the gun by declaring that spring is just around the corner, but so be it. Despite my chilly walk to the car this evening, it has been a spring-y kind of day. I bought pussy willows on the way home and they made my day. Spring! And I've been listening to Sarah Harmer's You Were Here today, which is a perfect soundtrack for an early spring day.
All albums close to me evoke some kind of seasonal feeling, usually because of the lyrics and personal memories. You Were Here makes me think of sunny spring days. Tegan and Sara's This Business of Art is summery with its naivity and carefree guitar. Hawksley Workman's Lover/Fighter is most definitely fall, not only because of "Autumn's Here" and when I think of winter, I think of porch coversations and nightime snowfalls in February, I think Coldplay's Parachutes.
It's March now, I'm over the snow. I've almost had enough of seeing my own breath float in the cold air. I'm done with winter, but I am grateful for four seasons. Happy almost spring!
I had good plans for the evening. But sometime between 6:30 and 7:30 it snowed. It snowed like a motherfucker and all of a sudden, my car was under 4 inches of snow. I started to drive downtown anyway, against my parents' wishes, but it's Saturday night and I need to have fun. But then the car in front of me slowed to turn right. I breaked. But nothing, just the sound of crunching snowing beneath my tires. I breaked harder and I felt the tires lock. Anti-lock breaks my ass. Quickly, I checked the left mirrors and changed lanes in the nick of time. Divine intervention. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. That's when I decided to turn around and go home.
I hate it when I have to swallow my pride and admit my parents were right. So there go my Saturday night plans. I was going to meet up with Jennie and Di and introduce them to my favourite bar, The Press Club and/or see KR spin at STILL and/or go to a party with D. Instead, I'm stuck at my parents's house in suburbia and without my beautiful iBook, I feel even more naked. I've got nothing except this old PC (which about to combust any second now), four more bottles of Heineken and cable TV (but it's Saturday night).
At least there's that semi-comforting feeling of "home" here. I like to riffle through my old things and figure out the puzzle pieces that make up my life.
A classmate forward the sad news that our former professor and journalist, Bill Cameron died last night. He started as our media ethics professor in the fall but had to hand over his teaching duties when he got sicker. Last I heard he was feeling better and I hoped his chemotherapy got rid of his cancer for good when I heard his health was improving and he even guest hosted As It Happens and The Current on CBC Radio during the holidays.
I never got to know Mr. Cameron very well since he only taught our class for a few weeks. He had a presence, perhaps because he was Bill Cameron, but he also had a likeable quietness to him. Anyway, he'll be missed by his students.
This is test entry
Hi, I'm Andrea. I'm 12-years-old and I love balloons. Here are some pictures my friend Nico took at last week's fundraiser. If you came, thanks for your support. If you didn't, you missed a good time sucka!
I found the new issue of Eat Your Friends at my second favourite bookstore yesterday. The mag is put out by OCAD students Chris Lee and Maiko Tanaka and describes itself as "a fresh mag based in Toronto for young hip kids always out to find the next in art, design, music, film fashion, tv and pop culture. Our mandate is to feature people and work that is constructive, genuine and fun."
I like what they've done. It's pretty, cheeky and their coverage of Toronto is pretty good according to me. For example, in their latest issue, they've covered my favourite part of town, Dundas West and named my favourite bar, The Press Club, as their favourite hangout. Yes, Apricot Wheat is tasty. But some of EYF's credibility is lost when they commit the ultimate grammatical error: misuse of the possessive S, in their piece and the title called "Peop's on the Street." In the piece, they ask a few strangers on the street where they're coming from, where they're going and where they got their "kick's" (aka shoes). They also cut out the paragraph about Musa bar in the Dundas West piece.
On the FM scale EYF rates a 7.5, more foxy than moronic, but in need of a copy-editor.
It's a sad day for me.
Today marks the very last issue of CBCRadio3.com. Although the site assures me my favourite site will return, it will not return as the current web magazine format it does now. Gone is the groundbreaking website of live music sessions with some of my favourite musicians. Goodbye quirky stories. Goodbye interesting photography. Soon, CBCRadio3 will reincarnate as a synergized site (with JustConcerts, NewMusicCanada and RootsMusicCanada,) and it better be good.
Dear blog,
I am tired of being a grown up. I want to be eight-years-old again. Remember eight? Remember when we could karate chop our way through life? Remember when boys had cooties (some still do) and everyone hated fish (ewww) and our biggest worry was what to wear to school tomorrow? Remember when a bad day was when we got stuck with the weird kid as a partner? Remember when music class was learning the words to Barenaked Ladies's "If I had a million dollars"? Remember when I knew what 12 x 12 is without having to write it out? Remember when there was always food in the fridge? Remember when we got new clothes, new shoes and new stationary every September? Remember?
No? Me neither.
Love, Andrea
