(c'mon.. this is PG)
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The View From My Window.
Commonly known as the 4th green. This is the storm that rolls in every night at around 7. Beautiful.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Me, and the 60th Paralell. Literally.
Took a trip up to the North West Territories, and didn't see another person, except for the gas station attendant who looked like she had been born with the stool attatched to her ass... and would probably die that way. Visited Alexander Falls in Hay River - nothing to sneeze at, pretty beautiful. The scary thing? Only had to drive 3 hours there, and were successfully away from civilization and toilets for 2 hours and 50 minutes.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Northern Bulletin
Hail from the North! Some stories for you, my adventures in the North. I love it here, and am having a blast. A dirty, cold, hard work, eat lots of carbs, blast.
The Beauty of Lists
I have a boyfriend who is fond of lists – grocery lists, guest lists, goal lists. His greatest triumph, however, are his packing lists. I have peered into his notebook and seen packing lists appropriate for warm weather, cold weather, holiday occasions, sporting events, adventure events, each with apparel and accessories relevant to activities on each trip. I, on the other hand, fly by the seat of my pants that I sometimes forget to pack, content that when travelling if I have my passport, bank card and plane ticket that I am doing well. Everything else, I reason, I can purchase for the price of worrying about it. This is how my duffle bags often end up far over the 50lb limit at the airport and run out of underwear on day two, and he has a small rolling suitcase and manages to remember watch batteries.
It was sadly without this guidance that I packed my backpack up North, though I must admit I administered more than my usual care in packing for this trip. I rolled up t-shirts in order to save space, made sure to only pack one pair of sweatpants that could double as pyjamas, (I was being resourceful!) , two pairs of pants that I could afford to lose to oil stains, and so on and so forth. So imagine my surprise my first day of work when I peered into my shoes and found not socks, as I had watched my boyfriend do so many times – but panties. Not underwear. Stringy, lacy, panties. Not a sweat sock or wool sock in sight. Apparently, in my careful and resourceful packing, I had not thought that socks would double as…socks.
Embarrassed, I called my co-worker and Rick’s daughter Nicole, to beg for secrecy and two pairs of socks that I may borrow until I could stretch my 12$ further into the pay period. These two pair, I realised as I handled them as gold, would have to last me the next 20 days.
There are only so many ways that you can wear a pair of socks before they need washing, whether there is a washing machine handy or not. And in my case, there was not. Fancying myself smart, I washed them by hand, singing cowboy songs at my sink, scrubbing foot out of them with dish soap. The next morning, stuffing my feet into thick wet socks and boots and returning that evening with blisters the size of silver dollars, I realised that my method would have to be perfected. That is how I came into my nightly routine, wherein I would get home, take a shower with my socks on, scrubbing them with almond scented Dr. Bronners. After getting out of the shower, I would jump up and down on folded towel, squelching the water out and shaking my trailer in the process. After that, I would heat up a frying pan on the propane stove, and lightly fry my socks until dry. The Teflon provided a surface akin to the inside of a dryer, and my socks never shrunk. Instead of the usual sour odour when work boots were removed, mine smelled like candied almonds and hot rubber, not altogether an unpleasant scent.
It was sadly without this guidance that I packed my backpack up North, though I must admit I administered more than my usual care in packing for this trip. I rolled up t-shirts in order to save space, made sure to only pack one pair of sweatpants that could double as pyjamas, (I was being resourceful!) , two pairs of pants that I could afford to lose to oil stains, and so on and so forth. So imagine my surprise my first day of work when I peered into my shoes and found not socks, as I had watched my boyfriend do so many times – but panties. Not underwear. Stringy, lacy, panties. Not a sweat sock or wool sock in sight. Apparently, in my careful and resourceful packing, I had not thought that socks would double as…socks.
Embarrassed, I called my co-worker and Rick’s daughter Nicole, to beg for secrecy and two pairs of socks that I may borrow until I could stretch my 12$ further into the pay period. These two pair, I realised as I handled them as gold, would have to last me the next 20 days.
There are only so many ways that you can wear a pair of socks before they need washing, whether there is a washing machine handy or not. And in my case, there was not. Fancying myself smart, I washed them by hand, singing cowboy songs at my sink, scrubbing foot out of them with dish soap. The next morning, stuffing my feet into thick wet socks and boots and returning that evening with blisters the size of silver dollars, I realised that my method would have to be perfected. That is how I came into my nightly routine, wherein I would get home, take a shower with my socks on, scrubbing them with almond scented Dr. Bronners. After getting out of the shower, I would jump up and down on folded towel, squelching the water out and shaking my trailer in the process. After that, I would heat up a frying pan on the propane stove, and lightly fry my socks until dry. The Teflon provided a surface akin to the inside of a dryer, and my socks never shrunk. Instead of the usual sour odour when work boots were removed, mine smelled like candied almonds and hot rubber, not altogether an unpleasant scent.
And on a cold morning, there is nothing like a skillet of refried sock in your boots.
Cold Water Lady
There is a luxury inherent in living in an apartment, one which most of us, myself included, have taken for granted for much too long – that of unlimited hot water. Of course, I had reassured and steeled myself for lack of such an amenity in living in the bush – but lack means some, and I had none. There was a valve left unturned, a switch un-flicked, somewhere in the belly of my trailer, far out of reach of my dirty and unhappy body. It is one thing to know that there is no hot water, filthiness can be borne with a light though greasy shoulder – it is another to know that hot water is there, and just beyond your smelly reach.
So, fancying myself a pioneer, I surveyed the small bathtub and my number of pots and pans, and promptly started them to boiling water for a shallow, yet warm bath. The bathtub itself was about two feet by four feet, and maybe two feet deep – enough for me, a small girl, to get herself properly wet, if not clean. So I put 3 large pots of water on to boil, and sat down to listen to the radio. A few minutes later Rick arrived, asking if I would like to go to Sunday brunch, surveying my greasy hair and snarly face. I mentioned that my hot water wasn’t working, thus the reason I looked the way I did. Coaching me into the bowels of my trailer, describing with suspicious accuracy the way the valves looked now, and the way they should look for hot water to be present – I fixed the problem. At this point I am now covered in dirt, spider webs and grease, and am much relieved when Rick suggests a shower before Sunday brunch, and gives me half an hour until he returns.
I don’t want to appear prissy. Prissy won’t do when I’m expected to ride quads and fix oil wells and fend off bears. I need to be ready in half an hour. I quickly strip, and jump in the small shower, sudsying up my hair quickly, factoring in time to blow dry my bangs – when the hot water gives out. Not slowly. But with the force of a Mac truck I am hit with glacier temperature water, so cold that it will barely remove the shampoo from my hair, despite my feeble attempts to simultaneously rinse with one hand and keep my nipples from falling off with the other.
I turn the water off, and stood, shivering, in the bathroom, until I remembered the three pots of hot water sitting steaming on the stove, three small pots of salvation. I manoeuvre the frozen rubber plug into the drain, and attempt to prop my soapy frozen hair upon my head before grabbing a towel and opening the bathroom door. I am greeted with bracingly cold air, having left the door open after Rick left, giving me the motivation, and visualisation powers of an athlete – I picture myself sitting in far more water than these three pots will ever garner, warm and soapy and clean, ready within half an hour. In reality, I grab a pot, slip and slide back into the bathroom, depositing half in the toilet on the way there. The second pot goes smoother, filling the bathtub another painful 8th of an inch. The third pot, having two small handles on either side, I grab and heft off the stove, as a soapy strand of hair flops into my eye and I simultaneously realise that the handles are made of metal. Dropping the pot back on the stove, I rip my towel open and use either side to take hold of the handles.
It is in this state, boiling pot of water in front of my breasts, towel draped like a cape with utility pot holders attached, that I peer through my one good eye not covered in shampoo at the three golfers on the 4th green peering into my kitchen.
I was not ready in half an hour.
So, fancying myself a pioneer, I surveyed the small bathtub and my number of pots and pans, and promptly started them to boiling water for a shallow, yet warm bath. The bathtub itself was about two feet by four feet, and maybe two feet deep – enough for me, a small girl, to get herself properly wet, if not clean. So I put 3 large pots of water on to boil, and sat down to listen to the radio. A few minutes later Rick arrived, asking if I would like to go to Sunday brunch, surveying my greasy hair and snarly face. I mentioned that my hot water wasn’t working, thus the reason I looked the way I did. Coaching me into the bowels of my trailer, describing with suspicious accuracy the way the valves looked now, and the way they should look for hot water to be present – I fixed the problem. At this point I am now covered in dirt, spider webs and grease, and am much relieved when Rick suggests a shower before Sunday brunch, and gives me half an hour until he returns.
I don’t want to appear prissy. Prissy won’t do when I’m expected to ride quads and fix oil wells and fend off bears. I need to be ready in half an hour. I quickly strip, and jump in the small shower, sudsying up my hair quickly, factoring in time to blow dry my bangs – when the hot water gives out. Not slowly. But with the force of a Mac truck I am hit with glacier temperature water, so cold that it will barely remove the shampoo from my hair, despite my feeble attempts to simultaneously rinse with one hand and keep my nipples from falling off with the other.
I turn the water off, and stood, shivering, in the bathroom, until I remembered the three pots of hot water sitting steaming on the stove, three small pots of salvation. I manoeuvre the frozen rubber plug into the drain, and attempt to prop my soapy frozen hair upon my head before grabbing a towel and opening the bathroom door. I am greeted with bracingly cold air, having left the door open after Rick left, giving me the motivation, and visualisation powers of an athlete – I picture myself sitting in far more water than these three pots will ever garner, warm and soapy and clean, ready within half an hour. In reality, I grab a pot, slip and slide back into the bathroom, depositing half in the toilet on the way there. The second pot goes smoother, filling the bathtub another painful 8th of an inch. The third pot, having two small handles on either side, I grab and heft off the stove, as a soapy strand of hair flops into my eye and I simultaneously realise that the handles are made of metal. Dropping the pot back on the stove, I rip my towel open and use either side to take hold of the handles.
It is in this state, boiling pot of water in front of my breasts, towel draped like a cape with utility pot holders attached, that I peer through my one good eye not covered in shampoo at the three golfers on the 4th green peering into my kitchen.
I was not ready in half an hour.
Greyhound, the Poor Man's Airport
There is little other way to begin a true adventure than with a ride on the proletariat chariot, the Greyhound Bus. Locations that would by car take only a few hours, now take half a day or more, inclusive of stops at locales still too small to have a McDonalds. This allows plenty of time for contemplation on the decisions made leading up to said adventure, and the possibility that they were made under faulty pretences, namely those involving alcohol or credit issues.
Therefore, it is at a Greyhound bus station, populated by the poor, the working class, those with home made tattoos and a couple of very confused Japanese tourists whom were convinced to see our great nation via bus, where I begin my journey up North. North, with a capital N, and all that is inclusive in it – cold, mosquitoes, trees, salmon, bears and oil, my primary goal. While one cannot fail to mention the seven to one male to female ration, there is no romance in this story, save that of a girl and a bear dog. My romance lay East, with a capital E, in Washington, calling me on the satellite phone to remind me of finer things like Starbucks and warmth. Maybe remind is the wrong word. Perhaps gloat is more appropriate.
With my heart in my toes and my ticket in my hand, I found a seat which afforded me an equal view of the road ahead and access to the door less that view become too forbidding. As I was boarding at midnight, I’m not altogether sure of what I was expecting to see, but when the sun came up at 4 the next morning over the Canadian Shield, boreal forest replete with said bears, mosquito and oil – I was certain that my choice was going to be interesting, if not enjoyable.
In reality, my story starts years before hand, with a credit card and very nice pair of shoes. Credit cards, I had reassured friends and family – were easily manageable if you used them solely for emergency purposes. The consummate shopper, I quickly discovered exactly how many emergencies could be found in your average shopping day. I easily wracked up dept commensurate with that of a small country, say, France – unmanageable on a salary that only occasionally afforded me the opportunity to eat day old sushi. Spending the next few years having my savings account, and eventually investments in my name (but by nothing but name, belonging solely to my parents) being applied to my credit card, enough was enough. Said my mother.
So, through nepotism, prayer and my natural smarts, I managed to land myself a job doing gas/oil line pressure testing in the great Canadian North of High Level, the last stop on the Greyhound bus route north. That’s where I was heading on May 6th, 10 days before my twenty second birthday, 105lbs and 5 foot 3 inches, twelve dollars in my bank account, with two things competing for the heaviest item in my backpack – a Maglight my boyfriend had gifted me with, and my blow-dryer.
12 hours and 3 cups of horrible coffee later, I stepped off the bus in High Level and into the truck of Rick Lyndsay, my new boss and guide. The Chevy behemoth was amazing to me at first, outfitted with Sirus satellite radio, leather seats, full cab, and with a height that required me to vault my small frame into the seat with something (what I felt) akin to Olympic grace. It was within minutes that I realised that everyone in High Level drove trucks of this size and calibre, and that they were indeed the source of all oil shortages that we may be having. Rick took me to my new home – a beautiful little trailer set up on the outskirts of High Level – in the middle of the High Level golf course near to the 4th hole green. As it stands today, I can pick out the sound of a golf cart and a good swing with my eyes closed.
Equipped far better than the dorm that I had just left, I loved my new home immediately. Putting my groceries away and exploring all the nooks and crannies of cupboards, my one channel (CBC) television, and my 3 country station radio, I reached that moment, upon being left alone, where all the tidying is done and the first meal is made – that you have nothing, but nothing to do. I sat at my kitchen table, smile pasted on my face, surveying my small yet utilitarian kingdom, and burst into tears.
Therefore, it is at a Greyhound bus station, populated by the poor, the working class, those with home made tattoos and a couple of very confused Japanese tourists whom were convinced to see our great nation via bus, where I begin my journey up North. North, with a capital N, and all that is inclusive in it – cold, mosquitoes, trees, salmon, bears and oil, my primary goal. While one cannot fail to mention the seven to one male to female ration, there is no romance in this story, save that of a girl and a bear dog. My romance lay East, with a capital E, in Washington, calling me on the satellite phone to remind me of finer things like Starbucks and warmth. Maybe remind is the wrong word. Perhaps gloat is more appropriate.
With my heart in my toes and my ticket in my hand, I found a seat which afforded me an equal view of the road ahead and access to the door less that view become too forbidding. As I was boarding at midnight, I’m not altogether sure of what I was expecting to see, but when the sun came up at 4 the next morning over the Canadian Shield, boreal forest replete with said bears, mosquito and oil – I was certain that my choice was going to be interesting, if not enjoyable.
In reality, my story starts years before hand, with a credit card and very nice pair of shoes. Credit cards, I had reassured friends and family – were easily manageable if you used them solely for emergency purposes. The consummate shopper, I quickly discovered exactly how many emergencies could be found in your average shopping day. I easily wracked up dept commensurate with that of a small country, say, France – unmanageable on a salary that only occasionally afforded me the opportunity to eat day old sushi. Spending the next few years having my savings account, and eventually investments in my name (but by nothing but name, belonging solely to my parents) being applied to my credit card, enough was enough. Said my mother.
So, through nepotism, prayer and my natural smarts, I managed to land myself a job doing gas/oil line pressure testing in the great Canadian North of High Level, the last stop on the Greyhound bus route north. That’s where I was heading on May 6th, 10 days before my twenty second birthday, 105lbs and 5 foot 3 inches, twelve dollars in my bank account, with two things competing for the heaviest item in my backpack – a Maglight my boyfriend had gifted me with, and my blow-dryer.
12 hours and 3 cups of horrible coffee later, I stepped off the bus in High Level and into the truck of Rick Lyndsay, my new boss and guide. The Chevy behemoth was amazing to me at first, outfitted with Sirus satellite radio, leather seats, full cab, and with a height that required me to vault my small frame into the seat with something (what I felt) akin to Olympic grace. It was within minutes that I realised that everyone in High Level drove trucks of this size and calibre, and that they were indeed the source of all oil shortages that we may be having. Rick took me to my new home – a beautiful little trailer set up on the outskirts of High Level – in the middle of the High Level golf course near to the 4th hole green. As it stands today, I can pick out the sound of a golf cart and a good swing with my eyes closed.
Equipped far better than the dorm that I had just left, I loved my new home immediately. Putting my groceries away and exploring all the nooks and crannies of cupboards, my one channel (CBC) television, and my 3 country station radio, I reached that moment, upon being left alone, where all the tidying is done and the first meal is made – that you have nothing, but nothing to do. I sat at my kitchen table, smile pasted on my face, surveying my small yet utilitarian kingdom, and burst into tears.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Adventures in the Great White North - ish.
Alright - so here's the deal. In less than 48 hrs I leave for High Level to go work doing oil well pressure testing until.. August. Alternately living in camps near the North West Territories, helicoptering to different well sites, and living in a trailer house on a golf course. I've got one backpack of clothes, and one of books, neither of which hold too much of either. I've considered jettisoning my bag of Starbucks gold, but I figure I could trade it for a horse or something. I'm not sure I'm ready for an occupation that calls for steel toed high top rubber boots, mosquito netting and bear awareness training, but I think "ready" can be relative. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to update Poshlust, but I'll be typing on my computer regularily, so I'll post in big chunks. Poshlust in the oil field. Thanks always to my family, Ian, and of course Bryan, for being so supportive and not laughing at my small muscles.. and always, always, encouraging me on my adventures. Hopefully I'll talk to you all soon - Wish me luck!
Living Martyr to Die With a Whimper
After a lengthly deliberation, Zacarias Moussaoui, the only known and captured 9/11 conspirator, was sentenced to life in prison - not death.
I'm not sure I'm clear on how I feel about this. Apparently not all jurors were sure that he played as big of a role in the attacks as he said he did, given the fact that during the attacks he was in jail on immigration charges. He stated at his sentencing hearing that being put in jail for life was evidence enough that he had won, and indeed, Americans have lost.
Why is it that I feel this is true? That some sort of vindication, some sort of "win" would have been exacted had they decided to execute the only man we known and have in custody for the deaths of over 3,000 people? Somehow him recieving 6 life terms seems comical, our high road that we've taken paved with jokes and pathetic righteousness. The judge stated that "When this proceeding is over, everyone else in this room will leave to feel the sun, hear the birds, and they can associate with whomever they want. You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison. It is absolutely clear who won." Why does it feel like she was simply agreeing with him? That he now lives, birds be damned, instead of dying? When you are faced with death, the fact that you will live is compensation enough, forget birds and sunshine. I don't believe that strength comes in being able to execute somebody - but I do believe that it comes with holding true to a social contract that states that if you kill somebody in a manner so horrific, you know that you will face death - and it is our duty to uphold our end of the contract, and complete the deal. We've failed on our end of the deal.
Everyone is nodding their heads in the solomn belief that we have done the right thing, because now he has to spend his life among the people he hates - Americans.
You know what? There are plenty of Americans to spend time with in hell.
I'm not sure I'm clear on how I feel about this. Apparently not all jurors were sure that he played as big of a role in the attacks as he said he did, given the fact that during the attacks he was in jail on immigration charges. He stated at his sentencing hearing that being put in jail for life was evidence enough that he had won, and indeed, Americans have lost.
Why is it that I feel this is true? That some sort of vindication, some sort of "win" would have been exacted had they decided to execute the only man we known and have in custody for the deaths of over 3,000 people? Somehow him recieving 6 life terms seems comical, our high road that we've taken paved with jokes and pathetic righteousness. The judge stated that "When this proceeding is over, everyone else in this room will leave to feel the sun, hear the birds, and they can associate with whomever they want. You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison. It is absolutely clear who won." Why does it feel like she was simply agreeing with him? That he now lives, birds be damned, instead of dying? When you are faced with death, the fact that you will live is compensation enough, forget birds and sunshine. I don't believe that strength comes in being able to execute somebody - but I do believe that it comes with holding true to a social contract that states that if you kill somebody in a manner so horrific, you know that you will face death - and it is our duty to uphold our end of the contract, and complete the deal. We've failed on our end of the deal.
Everyone is nodding their heads in the solomn belief that we have done the right thing, because now he has to spend his life among the people he hates - Americans.
You know what? There are plenty of Americans to spend time with in hell.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Namibia Invades Starbucks?
Attemping to alleviate a headache, I stopped by Starbucks at about 1 o'clock. I jumped out of the car, intending to just run in and out. It was the strangest thing. I walked in the door, and into the middle of a pulsating, singing, smiling group of kids, singing the most beautiful music. I felt a little stunned. I know for a fact that I stood in the doorway, gaping, until I turned around, walked out, getting Ian and coming back. They were a young Namibian choir, dancing and singing. It was phenomenal - their voices were so warm and filled all of Starbucks with the feeling of sun and dry heat, energy and vibrancy. (Given that it was 2 degrees outside, it was a feat. ) We stayed and listened to about 15 minutes of music, then left. It was the nicest surprise.
It was this, or "Bad Mother Glovers"
These are my Man-Handlers for work. I don't think I'll ever put them on without laughing.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Somebody Call the Wambulance.
First Aid is very utilitarian. "Do what you can immediately to prevent loss of life, no matter the everlasting damage." "Life over limb." "You can know what you're doing now is helping, what happens later, you can't know." You give them CPR, even if you break their ribs, you tie off arteries even if you lose a limb. You can never know whats GOING to happen, but you know what you can do right now.
I took my first aid course for both my jobs today. 15 students and an instructor intent on horrifying and shocking us with stories of lupus limb losing and drunken ear removals, vomit in his breathing apparatus. I was sandwhiched between an Arab man who kept asking why exactly every step of every procedure existed, and a woman really excited about going to Vegas to play pool. I now know the most trivial, non-sensical facts, and basically how to get in the way of a paramedic. It seems like they all have this funny chip on their shoulder, and I'm pretty sure it says "I wanted to be a paramedic, but instead I'm an unpaid St. Johns Ambulance volunteer who pretends that attending concerts in my dorky uniform is what I really want to do".
But hey, I'm certified again. I am now licenced to apply pressure.
I took my first aid course for both my jobs today. 15 students and an instructor intent on horrifying and shocking us with stories of lupus limb losing and drunken ear removals, vomit in his breathing apparatus. I was sandwhiched between an Arab man who kept asking why exactly every step of every procedure existed, and a woman really excited about going to Vegas to play pool. I now know the most trivial, non-sensical facts, and basically how to get in the way of a paramedic. It seems like they all have this funny chip on their shoulder, and I'm pretty sure it says "I wanted to be a paramedic, but instead I'm an unpaid St. Johns Ambulance volunteer who pretends that attending concerts in my dorky uniform is what I really want to do".
But hey, I'm certified again. I am now licenced to apply pressure.
Coveted Item of the Day
My gift to myself at the end of the summer, for all the hard work... Won't it look pretty on my finger?
Monday, May 01, 2006
I Heart Summer
Just had an amazing cafe latte and gelato down the street at a little cafe... Blood Orange gelato, and Pistachio gelato. So tasty.
Still Rockin'
The last time I saw The Stills they opened for Broken Social Scene at the Dinwoodie... and we actually walked out of the Broken Social Scene set. It was a long time ago... But this Saturday, after I had moved out of dorms (finally) had no more essays due, no more tests to write (despite my horrific dreams of having to write a 'drama' exam for a class I had never attended) - it was a nice event to look forward to.
I hadn't really heard hide nor hair of their new album, "Without Feathers" - I was still listening to "Logic Will Break Your Heart". And honestly, if I didn't find out that they had a new album, I would have thought they were doing covers of somebody elses music, so different was the sound. Gone is that edgy, somewhat 80's guitar, the screaming and thumping, they're a little more accoustic and.. relaxed. A little more confident (despite their frequent and ridiculous use of the word "motherfucker" in their tween song dialogue). They're still really good, and still rock really hard.. But it just seems like they're not really The Stills anymore. They're still really really good - and when they played classics like "Still in Love" and "Lola Stars and Stripes" it was evident that they still rocked all of them hard. They seemed so much more comfortable and into playing the older, rocky stuff.
Given, the new album is GREAT. "Shoplifter" is a rollicking, clappy, catching single that I think everyone will swallow, and "Helicopter" was played with a lot of enthusiasm, even though there isn't a lot of that guitar they're known for. "It Takes Time" is a little more like "Logic WIll Break Your Heart" - but still lacking.. something. Lyrically, I like the new album a lot - its a little more in depth. If you didn't like LWBYH, then you might very well love "Without Feathers".
As for the show - it was amazing, as always. I wish every CD could come with a little note, instructing the purchaser to see them live if you don't like the CD -- Live makes all the difference. They're fantastic. Ian and I had a blast drinking Red Stripe and kicking back, enjoying singing and clapping and really getting into it.
And I didn't have to write an essay about it. Bonus.
I hadn't really heard hide nor hair of their new album, "Without Feathers" - I was still listening to "Logic Will Break Your Heart". And honestly, if I didn't find out that they had a new album, I would have thought they were doing covers of somebody elses music, so different was the sound. Gone is that edgy, somewhat 80's guitar, the screaming and thumping, they're a little more accoustic and.. relaxed. A little more confident (despite their frequent and ridiculous use of the word "motherfucker" in their tween song dialogue). They're still really good, and still rock really hard.. But it just seems like they're not really The Stills anymore. They're still really really good - and when they played classics like "Still in Love" and "Lola Stars and Stripes" it was evident that they still rocked all of them hard. They seemed so much more comfortable and into playing the older, rocky stuff.
Given, the new album is GREAT. "Shoplifter" is a rollicking, clappy, catching single that I think everyone will swallow, and "Helicopter" was played with a lot of enthusiasm, even though there isn't a lot of that guitar they're known for. "It Takes Time" is a little more like "Logic WIll Break Your Heart" - but still lacking.. something. Lyrically, I like the new album a lot - its a little more in depth. If you didn't like LWBYH, then you might very well love "Without Feathers".
As for the show - it was amazing, as always. I wish every CD could come with a little note, instructing the purchaser to see them live if you don't like the CD -- Live makes all the difference. They're fantastic. Ian and I had a blast drinking Red Stripe and kicking back, enjoying singing and clapping and really getting into it.
And I didn't have to write an essay about it. Bonus.
Dorms, Over and Out.
Good-bye constant noise. Good-bye person who always cooks bacon and the one who always burns toast. Good-bye couple upstairs who drops marbles and has sex all the time. Good-bye smell of beer and urine and rotten vegetables. Good-bye late night doughnut and coffee runs that have successfully given me birthing hips. Good-bye paying 3$ for a load of laundry, and having a smoke alarm that goes off when I use a blowdryer. Good-bye to not having an oven but a toaster that takes 10 minutes to brown a piece of bread. Good-bye to having Dollar Draft Mondays, Martoonie Tuesdays, 25 cent Highball Thursdays, and naseaus weekends. Good-bye to the bums in the tire yard who fight over the big spacious tires to sleep in. Good-bye to having one next door neighbour who makes great crepes, and the one who always appears to be eating tuna. Good-bye person who walks in high heels through the halls at 2 in the morning. Good-bye dorms, good-bye!
Until next year.
Until next year.
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