Thick Initials

Has it been a while, or is it just me?

Let's work backwards, shall we?

I'll write about the weekend later. It was fun and crazy and fun and crazy. I'm leaving for NYC tomorrow morning. I can barely contain myself. More on that shortly.

Thursday night, the lovely lady Leah took me out for a delicious meal at Rosebud...it was stellar, and washed it down with a yummy syrah grenache. Yep, that's right, I'm suddenly a wine expert. Maybe...appreciator is the right word. Or perhaps...'drunk'. We followed it up with a visit to a place called "It's Not A Deli" (which it's not.), for a poetry reading, which I haven't been to in many years - I was admittedly skeptical when we walked in and the first guy was ranting about how "God is a romantic scientist"...but he got better, and the night got great. I also have to admit that it made me realize that I've lost touch with the poetic side of myself. I used to write for HOURS, headphones on, intensely focused on making sylables melt into each other, digging through my thesaurus for just the right word. It's been said that poetry is the most efficient form of language, and I used to take that to heart.

Minimum words, maximum impact.

Like "thick initials". That was a line from one of the readers last night and it stuck in my head like glue. I envisioned it to be the name of a band, or the steadfast leader of a verbal army.

Speaking of armies, the night previous I joined the ranks of old fans and new to witness the rarest of performances: Propagandhi. Easily my favorite punk band of all time, and one of the greatest influences over my politics throughout my... more headstrong years. Sigh. I say that with the consideration of everything that I'd written before in this here blog about feeling like I've grown out of my old angry self and become this commuting, complacent adult who eats meat, smokes cigars and is actually considering voting Liberal come springtime. But Prop set me right, if not just in my own head. First off all, the venue SUCKED. But standing in line, I ran into Dallas + Greg, bros from back home who both, incidentally, roomie'd with my sister at one time. It was great to see familiar faces, and have someone to scream lyrics with and to. I thrashed, I pushed, I got pushed back, we pumped fists and pogo'd. It was great.



Tuesday...day 2 of work, which is going swimmingly...more on that in a sec. We had an easy assignment - go to Ann Arbor, Michigan, for a dinner meeting with the agency for one of our artists, Luke Doucet. We hopped in the car around 3, arriving at the border around 4:30...and that's where it ended. Anyone who knows me well knows that I don't like borders, AT ALL. I start to sweat and my heart races and I get all paranoid that I'm going to be arrested for looking at a border cop the wrong way. Anyways, one of my co-workers is a landed immigrant, from the UK, which caused a wee bit of hassle...anyways, long story short, we were there for THREE HOURS, which made us late for dinner, late for the show, late late late. So we turned around and drove straight back. Moral of the story: don't bring anything worth anything over the border.

Last Monday, I started work at my new job at Six Shooter, which totally fucking rules. They are the reason I'm going to CMJ in NYC tomorrow. I'm so stoked my stomach hurts. THAT STOKED.

Anyone got any...tips?

Holla atcha boyee, friends. More from zee big pomme.