September 1, 2002

there is a legend about moonstone. if you buy someone moonstone then you will love them forever, whether you want to or not. i was bought a moonstone ring on the first day of a roadtrip through the kootnays and the rockies.

on the second-to-last day, i was asked how i felt about "taking a break"

the moonstone was doing its thing, but somehow, being with a girl who doesn't express how she feels, ever, is emotionally draining.

i peaked at his journal. he had peaked at mine. he probably knows that for the few months i was still in love with someone else.

that someone else, whom i haven't seen in over a year, still haunts my thoughts.

we're not taking a break. but i am not what he wants. he can see marrying me, having his kids, being in love with, but i am not what he wants. i don't have as much joy as i should. i am a psychic vampire, not a blood source.

i am no fun.

sulphur-scented hot springs turned the sterling silver ring a bright blue. very pretty.

i could of sworn he knew i was a wreck when we began seeing more of each other.

i don't ever cry. he made me cry in lake louise, after filling me with expensive wine and fondue, lying on an expensive hotel room bed, next to a window with a view of all of nature's majesty staring you in the face.

what am i doing?

It's around 8pm, and well over a dozen jugs of beer have so far come and gone. Three people are acting as human obstacles in the middle of the floor, while another three teams continue in a slightly modified boat race. We're using cutlery to mark a line on the floor, and the scene is basically one of chaos, while Tim tries in vain to organise a room of people growing more and more under the influence by the second. A few minutes later, we realise.

We've lost the buck!! *

I guess in hindsight, it wasn't such a good idea for him to attempt to combat roll over the people on the ground on his way to the table to down his beer...

Yes, after only a couple of hours into the night, the guest of honour's holed up in the toilets, the last round of the race involves previous winners tackling the remaining competitors, and things are getting very rowdy. In the next door function room, a radio station's running a special event, the prize of the night being the chance to marry a celebrity (using that term very loosely) in a special mock wedding. I can only imagine what the fuck they were thinking about the antics coming from our side of the wall...

A short time later, it becomes apparent that the buck's done his dash. He's sitting at the table, head in his hands, not looking at all like a happy boy. So it comes to pass that at 8.30pm or so, his brother takes him back to his mum's house for a shower, and a couple of hours sleep. The plan's that he'll have a chance to recover a bit, then head out again for the rest of the night. He can't go home to his place, the hen's night * is kicking off there. So it's back to mums.

There's a definite pattern forming, and by this stage we probably should realise that very few plans are going to come together. An hour or two later, three taxi's have converged outside the recovery house, in a valiant attempt to rescue the buck, and continue the night's festivities. His mum has other plans though...and she's not a happy woman right at that stage. Her son's less than happy too, and it seems that he's going to need more than a shower and a bit of a snooze to recover from this. Reports from inside seem to involve a lot of Tim being told off, and a rather final declaration that his buck's night is well and truly over.

This is a major setback for the whole night, but we're determined to carry on, to hit the town in his honour! I think we probably did him proud, and I'm sure everyone there had an extra drink for him - kinda a proxy drink. Every one of us has a bruise of some description, and a few were nursing quite sore and delicate heads after finally crawling out of bed some time in the afternoon. Somehow, I think their wedding next weekend will be a more sedate affair!

I'm not sure if these are international terms, or whether other countries have different terms for these traditional nights. I couldn't find any writeups describing them, so I'll explain them here until I have time to rectify their lack of noding.

ascorbic and heyoka have told me that this is called a stag night in the UK and US. heyoka says it may also be called a hen party, bachelor party or bachelorette party.

Buck/Buck's Night - Traditional pre-marriage night out with the boys. The guy who's tying the knot is the buck, and the nights supposed to mark his last big night out before settling into married life. Activities are many and varied, but pretty much always involve a fair deal of drinking. Other traditional parts of the night may include doing something to the buck that embarrasses him somehow, such as handcuffing him naked to traffic lights on a busy intersection. The truly hardcore may have their buck's night the night before their wedding...

Hen/Hen's night - Pretty much the same deal as the buck's night, with the pending bride and her female friends causing the trouble this time. Often easy to spot, as it seems pretty common for the hen to be wearing a wedding veil of some kind.

(ps - None of us went out to get the poor guy that drunk. Just he's pretty small, and doesn't do a hell of a lot of drinking. One minute he's having a great time, the next...not. We'll make it up to him at a later date. It was a great night, we're just feeling bad that he couldn't enjoy it too!)

Five years passed, and today sad memories of that day come back again. A shock then the grief.
Your warmth, and a subtle touch with the have-nots are appreciated.
The head held high, you are sailing off on your own now. Farewell Diana.

I hit a squirrel today...

I was driving myself and my mother to church this morning. I pulled out of my neighborhood and headed down the road as is usual on Sunday mornings when I am at home. My mind was probably contemplating the highest mysteries of the universe and the Catholic catechism when I noticed a little squirrel - gray and small - darting about on the road. The green Pontiac in front of me did some evasive maneuvering and dodging as the poor little animal darted and changed directions about three times. It passed between the Pontiac's wheels as I hit the brakes and tried to steer hard right to avoid the fuzzy thing. After all, I would rather not kill an animal, especially on my way to church as we thank God for the sanctity of life. Even moreso, it was only a baby squirrel. He made it between my front tires and I fixed my gaze upon the rear view mirror to see if he had survived, like that woodchuck did last year.

*THUMP*     Nope.

Was the squirrel’s life only worth a quick thump between my rear left tire and the shoddy pavement? I suppose I might have missed him had I swerved severely to the shoulder at the risk of putting a nice car (that isn’t even mine) into the deep ditch off the side of the road. Was that all his short existence was for? Did he live merely to be pummeled by my vehicle in a moment of confusion? Sure, we all look at the poor raccoon, or deer, or unidentifiable animal on the shoulder - but it doesn’t seem to make you feel truly bad, a true destroyer of nature, until you actually kill one. Who knows, maybe I didn’t even kill the squirrel - he looked pretty intact from the rear view mirror. He may have been suffering in pain for quite a long time before dying.

I may sound like a raving lunatic or a member of the bleeding heart society. It’s just my first time actually hitting an animal with a vehicle. Before today, I don’t believe I’ve ever killed anything larger than a house fly.

I drove by later in today and found the squirrel’s remains still in the spot where I had saw him last, however he was about as flat as the road surrounded by a small greasy spot. That is all that is left of the poor little guy. Requiscat in pace, little friend.

So I was reading the Tim Hortons node today, and was thinking about Timmy's and how it really is a great coffee shop, but how it's also hopelessly depressing.

All the Timmys where I live and all the other restaurants are non-smoking, which is great. I can go there and chat with friends over an icer wtihout hacking up a lung and smelling like an ashtray. I remember when it wasn't non-smoking and all the donuts tasted like smoke. YUCK!

There are two Tim Hortons close to my house. One of them is nice, bright, new and does very well with the drive-thru bussiness and doesn't have very many walk in customers. The other has no drive-thru and is older, dimmer and its a bit scary walking in there some days.

The scary Timmys is always filled with people with teeth missing wearing old denim jackets permantely scented with eau-de-cigarette who also fainly smell of body odour. Often people drive to this Tim Hortons and then send one person in to get everything.

Some how this Tim Hortons has now become a place where trashy folks come, lawn chairs and all, to show off their juiced up old beater cars. Its really quite werid. They get a coffee, unfold the chairs and then open the hood of their car. They smoke and lean on their cars looking like "hot shit", or what I'm sure they think is their best attempt at such a look.

Anyhow, I really do like Tim Hortons, but didn't want to clutter that node with my observations at one lil location.

This is good thing about London: before the movie, I was early so I explored. I walked the side streets alone, looking in the interesting shop windows.

I found a delightful newage shop in Neil’s yard, on the cusp between the Covent Garden, Tottenham court road and Bloomsbury areas, that had poseable action figures of Sigmund Freud and Jesus Christ in the window, next to the crystal balls, books on healing your aura using cheese dip (I’m exaggerating), sculptures of goddesses waving their genitalia, tarot cards and other junk. There was a Jesus figurine with nodding head action. Suitable, I suppose for the rear window of your car. Well, I found it all very funny.

Yes, retail therapy makes me happy. This is how I am when I'm happy.

The movie, Talk to her is great, if you’re into Pedro Almodovar films. All too human, all to weird. All at the same time. I can’t really describe it in greater detail than that.

This is bad thing about London: we were almost stranded. We didn’t know that the tubes closed early on Sunday, missed that last central line train, got a northern line southbound. Ash got a late train from Waterloo to Clapham junction and I rattled along the last eastbound district line train from Embankment.

FSOL’s The Isness .. I haven’t made my mind up yet if I can get over the earnest cornball approach. Melody was never FSOL’s strongest suit, and using more traditional instrumentation and arrangements doesn’t play to their strengths. Perhaps they want to be Shpongle, but are to serious and try too hard. Shpongle is sonically far more interesting. Will I ever find time to read the words of sweetness and light in the booklet? Where did they dig up that nasal-voiced folksinger and why is he whining cornball lyrics with sitar backing? Will I resist the urge to slap them upside the head with a frenetic Pixies track about assorted sexual acts and mayhem? (For the first time in my life, I own Pixes CDs) How long until the too-clever-by-half sleeve design breaks? Is it just a ploy to discract us from the music? Is this really the same people who did Lifeforms and Dead Cities? Is this album just inane shite or will it grow on me? This whole 'trip out, it's nothing but colourfull and beautifull butterflies' vibe is like so 1992 and I'm really not with it.

One more robot learns to be something more than a machine

Yoshimi battles the pink robots is the album of the moment. Both this and the Isness are sub-Pink Floyd space-rock meanderings. However where Isness is vocal it is cheesy, and Yoshimi is interesting. Where Isness is ambient it is uninteresting, and Yoshimi is melodic. And Yoshimi has breakbeats on a rock album. And more synth than guitar. Cool.

But somehow it feels like it’s the tallest dwarf in the current crop, not the latest giant. But it is growing on me.