March 2, 2010
I wanna know…
-what percentage of North Americans have urinated in a sink
-how many types of cheese exist in this world — one dude is listing 670, but I wouldn’t exactly cite that in a cheese thesis
-if Sidney Crosby will be my ‘wingman’ at the bar
-why mincemeat pie insists on advertising itself in such a way as to be confused with Scotch pie, Tourtière and, you know, other things that aren’t embarrassingly unpopular holiday desserts
-where exactly I lost all my favorite jackets and shirts over the last ten years or so
-why Cream Soda can be purchased as pink or transparent
-when Ted Turner will copyright the word ‘love’
-where all the Freddy Beach straight-edge societies be at
-why some restaurants serve your burger with a telephone pole-sized pickle instead of in possible-to-chew slices
-how I can convince Robert Pattinson to go tanning with me
-when Kate’s gonna realize that Hurley’s the one for her, only for Hurley to turn her down in favor of a dead-date with Libby
March 1, 2010
I found Shutter Island to be pretty freaky and spurring, but not because of the “twist” the teasers are hyping or the wide range of horrifically violent crimes frequently discussed and fairly infrequently depicted, but rather because seeing Michelle Williams (Jen Lindley on Dawson’s Creek) and Ted Levine (Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs) within minutes of each other made me wonder why Dawson Leery was there for Jen all those times she got recklessly drunk and fell prey to scavenger jock boys, yet he’s not around to defend her honor and existence against an armed serial killer. I also expected Mark Ruffalo (Stan Fink in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) to invite Ben Kingsley (Ghandi in a film whose title you can probably guess) to dance together in their underwear on the bed of another man whose memories are being systematically erased, only for Benny to be all like, “No, man, I’m starving.” My wandering mind aside, I enjoyed myself at Empire Theatres tonight, and I implore all readers to, in turn, implore their unemployed friends and family members to work at the cinema because chances are they will get you into the films for free. Free’s nice.
I hear the Canadian team is in the playoffs or something. That’s cool.
Does anyone else out there name the CDs they burn assorted songs onto? Like, it pops out of the burner and you, feeling sort of like God, grab a Sharpie and let the disc feel your creative wrath…? If so, are you ever terribly embarrassed when you rediscover a CD from several years ago and read a title that you half believe must have been conceptualized by a fretful dyslexic toddler? I just found four CDs I made a couple years ago, volumes 1-4 of “What CORTISOL sounds like.” I actually wrote that–”What CORTISOL sounds like”– on each and every innocent CD. What a queer attempt at being obscure and interesting. Not much of a compliment to the artists I liked enough to put on a CD either, as cortisol, a corticosteroid hormone, is referred to as the “stress hormone”. I think I’ll just write the current month on CDs from now on. Nothing overly humbling about a disc with “July” written on it.
February 27, 2010
I went to a jazz concert this week. I encourage you to do the same because in one evening you can feel both more hip and more sophisticated - in my experience, that’s a rarity.
I don’t consider myself a huge fusser, but if you visit cbc.ca/news right now you may be led to believe that snowboarding and speed-skating are more newsworthy than 147 dead in Chile. That’s a l’il off.
Sometimes if you just clean your room you’ll find that the path marked “Future” isn’t as incurably encumbering as you’d recently come to think.
Mind your wallet and your gal… get a 15ml bottle of Preferred Stock and stipple your neck with just a driblet of fragrance.
I’m done with bands with nasally lead singers, and that includes The Decemberists. You can’t possibly have the flu through for more than one album. I call this the Raine Maida Malady — and believe me, it is a deep-seated disease of the body and spirit that can deform an entire discography. That Raine Maida video confirms that one needn’t ever wear a scarf during an interview. Nothing wrong with a shiny cabbie hat, of course.
Lots of buzz around Lost this week… as there always seems to be, even during the nine straight months between Seasons 5 & 6. My primary concern this week was that Jack heated up the pizza he bought for his son, as it was sure to be cold after all the running about he had to do to track down the wee ivory-tickling chip off the old block.
February 22, 2010
Rehearsing plays is a little bizarre, isn’t it? You memorize scripted conversations and spend hours shaping their delivery. During these hours, the only real (read: unscripted) conversations you have are about your delivery of scripted conversations.
Would anyone single out Slim Jim as their favourite snack?
In my experience, sometimes you go to a party and a grown man pulls a cellular phone out of his leafy diaper. I try not to think too hard about it, but if that actually happened… what else is possible?
Lately I’ve been listening only to music that’s rough around the edges. I’m told all other “artists” sold out long ago. And by rough around the edges I mean it was recorded in a garage, and not one of those nice garages that’s a functional hangout for teenagers. I mean one of those garages that smells strongly of gasoline and assorted chemicals Dad couldn’t dump out for fear of a physical confrontation with Captain Planet. By the way, if I were a Planeteer I’d be Wheeler, the controller of Fire, because he’s the only one from North America and I hate to feel discombobulated. Also, sparks shooting out of my chest? Um, yes plz thnx.
When are they gonna do Survivor: Cape Breton?
The walls in my bedroom are still blank. I’m thinking of writing one word in the middle of each wall in mysteriously small print. Nothing’s official yet, but candidates include “backpack,” “military,” “shopping,” “butter,” “scene,” “libidinous,” and “goblin”. Oh, and “texture” is looking like the dark horse.
Babies teach themselves how to read, yes? We just gotta show ‘em how to walk, is how I understand it.
My new thing is that I’m going to be nice to everybody. So if you ever run into me and I’m not nice to you, do call me out. I implore you to say, “Hey Step, you’re being an asshole.” I’ll probably tell you to eat shit, then plant smelt in your bedsheets. I shouldn’t because I’ve got a new policy, but yeah… that’s definitely what I’ll do. You’re the asshole. Come on.
Why haven’t my Toronto Maple Leafs won the Superbowl yet?
February 20, 2010
I watched curling last night. I watched women’s curling and I kind of almost pretty much liked it. It was playing in a bar so the sound was off and I couldn’t even rely on the comedy that ineluctably lies in commentators providing meticulous criticism of stylish color-coded blocks glissading along freshly Swiffered frozen water. I was drawn to the soundless theatrics involved in Denmark’s humbling at the hands (and thick-bristled brooms and high quality tracksuits) of the Canadian team. I was fascinated by the Danes’ ability to seem both sweet and ominous, sort of like porcelain dolls. The detached steeliness of their eyes when releasing a stone chucked all traces of sweetness out the door in favor of the always popular Children of the Corn look. Then again, they seemed like mild-mannered, blood-donating, mine-sweeping, environmentalist good Samaritans next to Canadian skip Cheryl Bernard, a pony-tailed axe murderer with a gaze so focused that Time itself stands still until she gives the nod to proceed, and a dragon smile that could make the Desperate Housewives scatter.
There were extended huddles where I had no earthly idea what could possibly be drawing out the conversation, but I liked to imagine it was the coach telling her sweepers that they’ll be custodians in Sønderborg or Sudbury if they keep botch-scrubbing the fuck out of the game. It seems to be tradition and perhaps human nature to yell a whole caboodle after delivering the stone; I could glean from the massive face contortions of some of the Canadian players that they were hollering in French, and that’s from someone who doesn’t speak the language and watched the program sans sound.
February 19, 2010
My favourite escape from real things lately is watching Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm. I can’t recommend the program to everyone — it’s daringly loud and abrading at times, but my patience has always been rewarded with mega punchlines and over-the-top hi-jinks. If you like Seinfeld but always wondered what it would be like without all the beating around the bush necessitated by NBC censorship, do rub that curious itch up against some Curb Your Enthusiasm. If you like the show, let me know because I’ll instantly see you as more astute and mature than I did previously.
One of the most captivating Curb episodes for me has been “The Larry David Sandwich”. The funny thing about watching the episode was that I found myself thinking, “I don’t know if I ever want to be a celebrity, but I really do care to have my own sandwich.” For those of you in the dark, or lacking Enthusiasm as it were, the Larry David character (a presumably more neurotic rendering of the man himself, the clever but choosy creator of Seinfeld) discovers that his favourite delicatessen has named a sandwich after him. The deli has a board up with a variety of celebrity tribute sandwiches–the Ted Danson and Mel Brooks among them–and Larry, who claims to visit the spot two or three times a week, is honored to be up on the board. In vintage Curb fashion, of course, the sandwich to which Larry’s name is assigned is not what he’d like it to be. It’s got white fish, sabel, capers, onion and cream cheese, and that doesn’t work for Larry because he’s not a big seafood guy. I’m something of a seafood guy, and that still reeks of culinary obliviousness to me. Larry attempts to trade his sandwich for Ted Danson’s, but Ted understandably shoots him down because Teddy’s got a good one: turkey, coleslaw and Russian dressing.
So the question is what would I put on the Step Taylor. First of all, I have to say that roast beef and I have done some significant bonding over the last year or two — I love how it dances with mustard, as well as my favorite vegetable toppings of sauteed onions and mushies. But when it comes down to it, if we’re talking about my ideal sandwich, and something I want people to taste and remark, “Oh, that’s Mr. Taylor right there,” then we’ve gotta be talking chicken breast. And yeah, it’s fresh, chunky, 100% honest-to-God chicken breast, not that salty drippy chicken phosphate roll rubbish. From there, let’s fucking do it right and slide some bacon on. After that? Well, I’m thinking we wanna lube that up with red pepper hummus and (borrowing from Teddy D) a thin blanket of easy-on-the-mayo coleslaw, perhaps even a surprising Asian take on things. I’m thinking Swiss cheese for this mother, but I’m also very much in love with feta and make it happen in some pretty questionable situations. Now you must be asking where all of this is happening - what bread hosts this par-Tay? One word for you: ciabatta. I don’t care if it’s fattening or heavy or sounds pretentious, there’s something so grown up and impressive about a broad elongated loaf. I’m not sure what to do with the fact that ciabatta translates as “carpet slipper,” but that’s pretty small potatoes considering you will soon have the luxury of describing your status in the universe as “eating a panino.” Such dignity in that, folks.
So there you have it: turkey tops the charts, and roast beef takes home a respectable blue ribbon.
Now where in Fredericton, New Brunswick can I hope to score my own sandwich? In a town that doesn’t even make a plethora of panini, how am I going to woo an eating establishment into dedicating one to me? It’s pretty unlikely I’m ever going to get in the routine of dropping by Coffee and Friends every single day with enough smiling and smalltalk as to come off as such a winsome personality that I deserve my own food item. It’s possible but improbable that any of the pubs or restaurants are going to want to revise their menus for the sole purpose of giving Step Taylor an unconventional VIP nod. Imagine the Step Taylor Sandwich hangin’ sweet next to the Duke of Charlton (”select pork slow roasted in a specially seasoned marinade, pulled and stacked high on a ciabatta bun with lettuce and tomatoes”) in the Sandwiches section of the Snooty Fox menu. Come to think of it, pulled pork is a hell of an option.
One place we do know is into the idea of culinary tributes is the new gourmet burger joint, Relish, located on King Street across from the Tannery. They’ve already got the Brad Burger in celebration of lovable and charismatic Mayor Woodside, which stays pretty true to classic burger fixings. That probably won’t be the case for the Step Taylor burger homage when its time comes, as I’m seeing guacamole, a heap of mushrooms, red onions, mozza cheese, Canadian bacon, and some spicy ass weirdo mayo.
So how am I going to earn my burger? Well, I’m not the mayor… but I keep a blog now. Also, I never litter.
In response to a comment left by my friend Griff, I’d like to point out that Damien Rice is the slightly dramatic Irish recording artist responsible for this Closer theme song, as well as a tune called “Cold Water,” which was the inspiration for my brother’s indulgent school video project last year. For the record, my guess is that the Griff Burger would be rather simple: two patties, cheddar cheese, pickles - call it a day.
February 18, 2010
Imagine if water coolers were routinely filled with pulp free orange juice.
Imagine the blushing you would do if Truth wrote your diary for you.
Imagine playing an arsonist on The Cosby Show.
Imagine NOT owning an iPod.
Imagine the pleasurable tang of turquoise lemonade.
Imagine if intercourse and conception had no affiliation whatsoever.
Imagine if dolphins ran Parliament.
Imagine using Alpha rather than T9.
Imagine being emotionally invested in the Olympics.
Imagine purchasing a compact disc.
Imagine taking your mother to prom–not just joking about it.
Imagine if we weren’t all so wishy-washy.
February 16, 2010
I think we’d all be less jittery if life were just a tad more like New Super Mario Bros. for Nintendo Wii; more specifically, if we could encase ourselves in a safety bubble while a tag team partner with superior skills perambulates the really tricky parts, only to free us from our wussy vesicle when the going gets easier. Granted, this would make inept, codependent Toadstools of many of us, but it’d be a neat feature to deliver us delicately from one meal to the other. We could eat in peace. Never again would a Korean beef dish feel heavy or swampy in your stomach due to work stress or romantic woes, as you wouldn’t be expected to perform in those arenas — your only responsibility would be to savor that marinaded beef, and maybe to honk a horn encouragingly as you watch your partner negotiate the flying spiked turtle-dropping clouds and man-eating plants that make life so arduous.
Last night I had a dream in which I wore my favorite sky blue T-shirt from six years ago. I liked it both because the colour was empyrean–you could almost see God’s eyes shimmering when the Sun (Son?) hit it right–but ironically the back of the T read, “One barrel of wine can work more wonders than a church full of saints.” The shirt was a big hit with my verbose, avant-garde friends in Fredericton High’s SAW (Students Aware of the World) society, and something of a flop with most teachers, parents and geriatrics. I was forced to retire the shirt when the light-hued blue went sort of rusty near the pits after several years of considerable (but normal) perspiration in those infamous regions. In my dream, the blue cotton did not suffer from underarm jaundice — no, it was virginal in its look and feel. The hell of it is, that’s all that happened in my dream. An old shirt I was once partial to came back to me cured of its blemishes and ready to be worn with smugness once again. I saw no one from the past or present. I fell off not a single cliff. I didn’t get any strangers pregnant. There was no surprise exam I hadn’t studied for. No one chased me with a cleaver, at least not that I was aware of. I simply walked around in my T-shirt, chipper it had healed itself so that we no longer had to be estranged.
Then, of course, I wake up shirtless and think of barrel-rolling in front of Fredericton Transit.
February 15, 2010
I thought my Valentine’s Day was bad (and it was; like, it was), but then someone tells me they spent it iron deficient and very sick in bed watching The Time Traveler’s Wife. That’s decisively worse. At least I had red chicken curry for supper yesterday (which was, uh, red), and I munificently applied my Old Spice High Endurance deodorant (the container of which is red, plus it’s a rather special “long lasting stick”), and I busted out my Black Sabbath shirt for the first time in five years (which is tattered and faded orange, but we’re gonna go ahead and call that red), and I flossed a little (which bled red), and I broke from reading Anna Karenin (which was red in content but not in its cover art) and started reading a pocket-sized collection of Robert Burns poems (dutifully wrapped in red tartan), and I beguiled my desert(ed?) lips with ceremonial bubbly (which was pale pink, and made it sort of like drinking my own person). So it seems today’s top story is that I’m a cannibal. I always knew my admiration for Hannibal Lecter went beyond him being an articulate heel.
In other news, I’m in the process of directing “Twitch,” a play by St. Thomas alumnus and New Brunswick author John Barlow. I realized today that the bulk of my lucid moments are spent “twitching,” albeit never literally–my sole involuntary muscle spasm is credited to my abdomen when I try sitting up with little to no notice. So how do I twitch? Well, I can barely finish brushing my teeth before thinking of washing my hands, pouring a cup of coffee, making my bed so it feels fresh later that night when I trust my dreams to it. I’ve never written the final scene of a play without thinking of a cool opener for some other concept that may or may not ever see the time of day. I’m not saying the twitch is my new enemy… just that it’s on my radar.
I feel the need to let the public know that Bret Hart just got his leg trapped in a car door. First the Montreal screw-job, then Owen drops from the sky, then the fourth Olympic pillar fails to rise, and now this.
I’m considering crafting a belated Valentine’s Day card for my mail courier. He comes to see me at my house - every day.
February 14, 2010
Sometimes after dark on Valentine’s Day you find yourself spending time in the living room listening to Damien Rice with your 17-year-old brother and 77-year-old terrier. The dog doesn’t seem to follow the lyrics very well. He doesn’t snicker at the really cheesy parts, but perhaps he just likes the cheesy parts as some of us do. My brother is in the twelfth grade now and likes Damien Rice, and I was in grade twelve when I got introduced to Damien Rice and briefly told people I liked him, but I don’t know that the coincidence really constitutes much. Both my brother and terrier consider themselves less emotional than Damien Rice, but I’m not sure about myself. I’ve got his all his volcanoes and cannonballs in me, plus a half-dozen or so hailstorms and trebuchets of my own recipe.
Sometimes after dark on Valentine’s Day I think Hell is hanging out inside me, sort of just lounging, eating Hot Lips and drinking Caesars with too much Tabasco sauce, and yet none of Hell’s nonchalance keeps my internal organs from cooking ’til they just about pop.
When Hell hides in me like an overzealous kid buried under leaves and bark deep in the forest during a game of hide-and-seek that was supposed to be confined to Sammy’s backyard, when Hell flares up in me like twenty flu bugs wrapped in barbwire and black flames, when the Hell in my heart is also my Valentine by default, I like to walk from room to room in my house and quickly note some of the objects I like and do not strongly associate with Hell.
In this living room, for instance, there is my brother, who just screeched like a cow through an abattoir in tribute to Gwar or Lamb of God or some such asperous metal band while halfheartedly researching his World History Seminar on Haiti — the boy’s finger is always unwittingly on the world’s pulse: the day he finished reading The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger expired. And yeah, I like the dog too, but he’s since left the room and sort of screwed with the order of things. I am also fond of the fireplace because it reminds me of Christmas; unfortunately, I am less fond of Christmas every year it turns up, and so I’m not sure how much longer my infatuation with the fireplace can last. Marriage doesn’t seem to be in the cards, at any rate.
In my bedroom, if I remember correctly, I like how bare and pale pink the walls are — they tempt you to put your autograph on them, or your entire grocery list, or the illegible notes you took in your pitch dark film class, or your top ten crushes of all time, or your top ten crushes of right now, or your very worst secret, or even the wrinkled debit slips from your wallet. On second thought, maybe I don’t like the bare walls. I certainly don’t think I’d like to know everyone’s worst secret, for legal reasons if nothing else. These walls make me think of nudity and sex, which, generally speaking, I do like, but at the moment it’s in the same unrequited way that I enjoy the notion of being wealthy. What I know I like for sure in my bedroom is a half-pack of Spearmint gum (a sensation soon chewed and gone), a large window wearing only a thin lucent dress of pastel green checkers (worn in all seasons but particularly appropriate at Easter), and an old grey button-up shirt with a broken collar hanging from the office chair I don’t use because it hurts my back. When I chew gum and wear my old grey shirt in front of the pretty window that seems to promise so much but let so little in, I feel like a cocky painter who cries because it’s beautiful, not because it’s necessary, and that’s what I like most of all about my bedroom.
A notable feature in my piano room is the piano. I like it despite not being able to play it or sit on it, which means it’s a very special piece of furniture.
In the downstairs bathroom a drawing hangs above the toilet that doesn’t seem to want me to figure out what it means; I appreciate that courtesy in objects. There is also a bright red bar of soap, and so whenever I go to clean my hands they look bloody and foamy, like they’ve been gnawed on by rabid members of the local portly raccoon society–and yes, I quite like the look of it, and all of it, really, the whole thing: imagined vulnerability and the very real authority of imagination, and blood that smells like flowers that died directly of neglect.
My favorite thing in the kitchen is a mesh bag of onions left on the counter for no good reason, I’m sure, other than to make me want to scrape into them. I want to crunch the skin between my curled fingers and plant white flesh under my nails so that I may water them with my tears every night before bed and always have an onion at the tip of my finger to fry alongside my morning egg. My second favorite thing in the kitchen is the electric kettle. Nothing deters a dog from shamelessly begging for treats more than a splash of boiling water. Also, hot water is applicable to the making of tea, which is fairly pleasant in its own right.
There is a glass cabinet in the dining room that accommodates some sixty-odd collectible spoons, not one of which is large enough to balance a Wheatie — a Mini-Wheat perhaps, but never a Wheatie. I don’t care for impractical spoons, nor am I terribly aroused by breakfast cereal, but there’s something to be said for glass cabinets. People seem to put their favorite things in glass cabinets; I’d like to end up in one.
The Groundhog Timberbeast lives in Fredericton, New Brunswick by way of Chapel Arm, Newfoundland. He graduated from St. Thomas University in 2007 and will finish his stint in UBC’s Optional Residency Creative Writing MFA program in August 2010. He writes plays, screenplays, poem thingers and love notes.
