Winnipeg Recap, Now With Murally Goodness

Well the lethargy burn out that has been sweeping the blogosphere (Pat Tillett, aside. What a productive jerk.) has finally hit Fleekin Floygn and its soon-to-ask-his-shrink-for-medication auteur, The Illustrious D. Also, talking about oneself in the third person is for asshats so I'm going to stop.

Last weekend, I went to the hometown for the launch of the album I recorded with my all-singing, all-dancing jew group back in March. I've been too full ennui to bring the chuckles as of late and so will present my experience in MS Paint form:


1. The 58B Bus - Toronto is home to the shittiest drivers in the world and I know what you're thinking, that it's because we have such a high Asian population, but shame on you. That's racist. And true. So what should have taken a little over an hour from the time I left (3:30) to get to the airport took nearly two and would have take an infinite number of hours had I not realized I was on the wrong bus as it sped past the airport. This put me at 5:30, the time my plane was to begin boarding. Evidently, Sesame Street's claim that today's show was brought to me in part by the letter B was a big fucking lie. Kiss my ass, Elmo, you red piece of pedophilia fantasy shit. It was the 58A bus that I should have taken. I jumped through the rear window and landed in front of a Sheraton, stole a taxi fan from a group from the National Rhythmic Gymnastics Convention and made it to the airport by 5:45. That's right, motherfuckers. Cab ride, security, gate all in 15 minutes. Jesus loves me. Know who doesnt? Fucking Elmo.

2. Sushi - Mother picks me up outside the terminal (no sense in meeting at Arrivals. Doesn't love me that much.) and she proposes we pick up sushi for dinner. Wow, Mama, you so with the times. 1996 better watch its back. We ordered a meal combo for four, which is appropriate as Father eats entire Ugandan villages for a mid-afternoon snack, Mother barely eats at all and I eat like a goddamned normal person! We're the Three Bears of suburban jewery.

3. Trains - Later that evening I went to meet Suprisingly Interesting Accountant, a chat buddy from North Dakota for the past 5 years. He'd decided to come to cross the border for a post-tax season celebratory holiday and chose the weekend I was there to do it. He invited me over to his friends' place and we sat around, drinking wine, eating Saskatoon berry pie and playing Ticket To Ride, kind of a railroad version of Settlers of Catan. We also didn't wind up going to the bar (literally singular in Winnipeg) so big ups for not having to watch David's Parade of Losers 2001-2009 file by. SIA was actually a pretty great guy, as far as meeting internet friends goes, so there was a lot of win going on that night.

4. Scissors/Eye Glasses -I got my hair cut the next morning. In the 10 months I've lived in Toronto, I've never got my hair cut here once. I either do it myself or wait until a trip back home. That is how deeply rooted is my respect for my bespectacled stylist. Equally deep rooted? My hair shame.

5. Keyboard -That afternoon I rehearsed with the group and then went home and had dinner with the fam. I also rocked out pretty hard with my hippie cousin to some ol schook Regina Spektor. I miss my old piano.

6. Opera Diva wida braid - After dinner, I went to see Future Roommate sing in a kids' opera based on the Bruthas Grimmz. (That's a stereotypical opera singer with a Rapunzel braid. NAILED IT.) The certifiably insane person who'd taken over directing our group had given me an anti-depressant to test drive that night, but my expectations of insta-happy were not to be, as one evidently needs to have a chemical depression and not simply ennui and malaise for it to work. I, on the otherhand, lost the ability to form coherent sentences and became a cantankerous baiznatch, the combination of which really held up my game when meeting Future Roommate's mother for essentially the first time.

7. Nachos? - After the lovely show and my maternally-directed verbal diahrrea, we went fo nachos & drinks with some people. You guys, drawing nachos is motherfucking hard. THE ARE NOT SIMPLY PERFECT SQUARES. Seriously. So frustrating. The little olive cross-sections were kinda fun. But using the spray function to try to make melted marble cheese?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Also, that side of guacamole looks like pea shit.

8. wtf Bagel & Lox... - The next morning, we had a Mothers Day/Mah Birfday brunch and it was lovely. Know what isn't lovely? That piece of crap bagel & smoked salmon I tried to draw. It looks like someone took a discoloured Frisbee, came all over it, then applying some slices of ham (Jew Fail) , peas (THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GERKINS) and purple circles of nothing. Cause purple circles do not exist anywhere. Then I got really frustrated and scribbled all over it. Ugh. You'd think the chosen people coulda chosen Paint-friendly food combos. COVENANT TERMINATED.

9. Chocolate Fountain - After brunch, I was transported to the album launch site, where I sat around for 4 hours until a dress rehearsal that ended an hour before showtime. It was lame. The event was a attempt-at-fancy wine & dessert evening with an hour+ long concert from us, which I guess went alright. If you're interested in reading it, I'll post it here. There was also a new, really cute 19 year old pianist who the Bloated Medicated One convinced me was giving the eye my way. This was later disproved when he showed up at the afterparty with his 28 year old girlfriend. At least I'm not the only one robbing cradles, though in my case, they generally go crawling back after a week or two, leaving me with nothing but a pacifier and dribble stains.

10. Key Fail - After the afterparty, I went to meet another net friend, although one with whom there'd been a bit more flirtation. It wasn't awesome. It was nearly 1:00am on a Sunday night (yes, technically Monday morning, stfu) and nothing was open. I drove him to my group's performance studio as I had BMO's security code and it was be a nice place to chill. Unfortunately, they'BMO had failed to mention that they're changed the locks so then we had to get back in the car and drive back to his neighborhood, searching for a park to walk in only to discover that it was way too cold. We got back in my car, made out for a bit and then he unceremoniously announced that he had to get home. So much ugh.

11. Jam, bitches - The next morning I had lunch with Seventeen Year Old (now 20) and it was so lovely. Having watched him grow from this fat ball of attitude three years ago to the increasingly self-possessed young man he is now is just awesome. He's still so him, just...better. He bought be breakfast. I bought him some of Stella's ballin' jam. We joked about doing drugs together. Ha ha! Look at us! So funny! Talkin' droguas! Ha...ha... *sigh* god, I miss it.

12. Lays Classics - After launch with the Future Roommate and a.w., the former dropped me off at the airport at which point I found out the my flight had been delayed by an hour and a half. Balls. On the plus side, they gave us a $10.00 food voucher for the shitty, shitty Winnipeg airport vendors. I used it to get a Greek salad, potato chips and two bite cookie thingies...and that's it. There was nothing remotely appetizing. My stomach had been on the hate train with me for days and I thought that getting Arby's would be a little too fate-tempty for me.

12. Sick D - On the plane, I made the mistake of telling the stewardess (yeah. I said it. You wanna be called 'flight attendant' then stop wearing whore makeup. Truth.) that my tummy was funny and she handed me a gingerale and kicked my ass out of the roomy, roomy exit row seat I had reserved. Fortunately, she kicked me into my own row, so I guess that's a win. Shortly thereafter, I had my first Hershey Highway experience at 39,000 feet, meaning I Jackson Pollock'ed the bowl, not that some flight attendant named Martin plugged me in the lavatory.

Cause we all know what amazing fortune I have with flight attendants.

I TMI'ed your mother last night

Hey, remember that time that I went back home for a work-vaca and forgot I had a blog? Yeah, me too. Lolz. But not really at all.

Are you ever about to pee in a strange washroom (e.g. in your childhood home) and you notice a really loud clock that sounds like it's yelling at you and then you can't start the pee stream going? Just me? Alright then.

I'm stalling. I just really don't have anything to blog about. This entire trip, recording this album, has essentially just been one big headache. A worthwhile headache, perhaps, but no less painful. Yesterday it took me 2 hours to record 45 seconds with five people giving me feedback but no instruction. How is that even possible? Answer: With Jews, anything is possible. I mean, we crucified the son of God for fuck's sake.

Sorry. Too soon?

This really was an unfortunate attempt. I'm going to stop now. Oh, but before I go, just a little FYI that Manwhore Winnipeg David is back, so if anyone knows any morally questionable 18 year olds or sheep, you know where the comments section is (Rabbi Berkowitz, I'm looking at you).

This Friday I will be returning to Winnipeg for the Valentine's Day long weekend. This is akin, I feel, to a hit and run victim returning to the scene of the crime where they were mowed down over and over and over again, forward then backward, practically used as a human speed bump before the driver sped off with an explanation. (In a new book I'm reading, one of the characters is described as a young Spaniard with red marks all over his face that render him quite unattractive. In my mind, I have chosen to visualize YP in this role. Fictional casting win.) I'm flying in for a rehearsal weekend for an album being recorded in March, which is all well and good, but the director on this project has yet to issue a formal schedule due to having recently suffered a work-related mental breakdown, the only upside of which is that he tells me his symptoms and I will in turn recant them to my therapist in the hopes of acquiring a nice little Celexa nest egg of my own.

Onwards. Everything old is news again: my wallet is missing. HOWEVER, this time I did not lose it. I feel that it was pilfered on the streetcar and you know what? GOOD. I'm glad. This wallet has been the bane of my existence for the past 7 years and at this point it has become a hemroids-level pain in my ass. I don't care about the $40, IDs, transit pass, bank credit cards and random loyalty rewards cards in it. I got another Vuitton that's been in the wings for years, so who needs you, Wallet?! I just want that fucker gone!... Except if I get it back.

In better news, Apple has sent me a new iPod, so I'm assuming the fact that I tried shipping the old one via Fedex by putting it in the UPS box worked out just fine. Lesson: reading is for suckers.

Evidently there is a dearth of songs that can be created in this mortal coil. Yesterday's lyrics practically wrote the music themselves, flowing in synchopation with the words. During the course of the day I revisited them and realized that I had completely forgotten the tune. So I would read them over a few times until it sprang back to me. Only - like Buffy at the beginning of Season 6 (werd) - I think it came back to me...wrong. How wrong, you ask? By the time I got home at 10pm and could finally sit down at my keyboard, it had become Piano Man. I wrote Piano Man.

I don't even really effing know Piano Man! How could I write it?! Well, evidently this sponge-like brain of mine was so infatuated with awful Crazy Concert performances that it took some great lyrics (by my own capability's standards) and matched them with the biggest Billy Joel song of all time. Mmmmmfuck you, brain!

To be fair, it was really only the chorus, and even then it was just the bass line. And part of the melody. But still... Now I have to go and reimagine the whole thing, which, frankly, is a lot of work for someone who hasn't even been writing music in the past couple years that isn't performed by the internationally-ignored Chai Folk Ensemblah.

Other updates of recent Fleekin Floygn charactères!

For the first time in...ever I sat at the front of the bus today so (of course) who should sit down right across the aisle from me? Why, it's freaky rave girl from a couple of weeks ago! Aw...big ups. Remember when I said that while she repulsed me for some reason there was nothing inherently wrong with her? Yeah, I'm-a have to retract that. Perhaps there was a memo circulated that I happened to miss, but when did Casual Friday imply no makeup, i.e. scary time, for the ladies? I pretended to be asleep until she got off. What? It would have been awkward.

I missed HWWPW yesterday cause of a &%$#ing staff meeting and only got out in time to watch him go. Oh, but how I love watching him go...

Speaking of work, a couple more stories from the Firecracker:

1.
Me: Um, I typed this code into the computer but nothing happened.
FC: (coming over and sitting down at my desk) Well, waddjya type in?
Me: [What I typed in]
FC: (types in the exact same thing) Huh, well that's weird. Why didn't it work?
Me: ...

2.
I am rifling through the supply closet.
FC: Waddarya lookin' for?
Me: White whiteout.
FC: Can't find any?
Me: Uh, no.
FC: Lemme look.
At this point she takes out an entire tray of whiteouts, most still under the plastic wrap, and starts unscrewing each one individually, despite the fact that each one has a green label, green cap and says "GREEN" on the side.
Me: I think they're all green.
FC: Well, you never know.
Me: ...

Hey, remember that time I invoked my inner-fifteen year old and went off on this guy? Yeah...he may have kiiiiiiiiinda had a sleepover last week... BUT he's been totally MIA ever since so I stand by the original post. 'Cept that he wasn't actually seeing anyone at the time and only told me that because he was "frightened that [he] wanted a relationship with [me]." Good God, somebody take this one out to pasture and shoot him. Enough. But really, enough. On the plus side, it kinda gave me my groove back because now it's over cause we're both ignoring each other. Equal footing, see? Look, it's not much, but it's all I have right now, mmk?

A Graduated Boy

It is over. At long last, done. And it was great. Not perfect. No. It never would be, not in a million years, such is my performance psychology. But I feel pride and, let me tell you, it's been a while since that sentiment has come to call. I received messages all day from people that had to bail at the last moment, but when it came down to it, the people that I loved were there. The oddest group, too. Random friends from my childhood, the quiet lady from work who I talked to twice, dear friends whom I've lived what feels like two lifetimes without. Even my nearest and dearest who couldn't be at the recital itself showed up in a small drove to the reception and we made merry for the rest of the night. When they arrived, it was like something out of (Heaven forgive me for this reference) The Lord of the Rings when that effing scary ghost army appears to back up the troupes. Heroes, they are. In the end, they were as much a part of the experience as the audience. You have to really examine the details to understand life. Love is not just sitting in a dark room listening to someone sing for an hour and a half; it's also driving across down after a 3 hour recording session just to show up for the reception. It's all the same.

Things are just better today. I've felt like this awful adult for the past month, so stressed and sarcastic, with no time for anyone else. Last night, on stage, I was a little kid all of a sudden, growing younger with each passing song that I released from my soul. And now I'm light again. It's the feeling you get in the second just before the e high hits when you know something amazing is going to happen. That feel struck me in the moment before I walked out onto that stage and it's just lived with me ever since. So lovely. This, the day after, feels as though I'm in the throes of it, being in love with everyone and everything. My clothes feel softer, my coffee tastes better. Hmmmm...

My-ami : part 2, coming soon.

According to Karl

This summer, I participated in the University of Manitoba's Contemporary Opera Lab, which for me was roughly like Maury sending a crack-addicted 14 year old teenager to boot camp. I spent most of my time fighting real, real hard. However, in the end I realized what an enriching, worthwhile, blah blah blah experience it was.

A good portion of this was due to our conductor Karl WhoselastnameIforget, who had a very interesting view on being a musician in this world.

It goes something like this:

It's like you're an alien and you come down to Earth and you see all these other aliens walking around. Say, ten thousand of them, and they're all trying to blend in with the earthlings. Except they don't blend in and they can't for the life of them understand why. The earthlings, while not really sure why, certainly know that the aliens don't fit in and simply accept this as fact. So you have all these aliens who don't know that they are aliens running around being very confused. Enter you. You go up to all these aliens and say, "Um, hey, so the reason that you feel out of place on Earth is because - guess what, kids - you're aliens."

The ten thousand aliens then look at you and in one smooth, cohesive motion their mouths open:

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It was a brilliant analogy. We don't fit in; we weren't designed to. It is a necessary function for art that it be somewhat removed from that on which it is acting. If one is too immersed, then it is impossible to interpret and art cannot be literal. Otherwise, it would simply be life and the phrase "art immitating life" would become "life immitating life" and that makes no sense.

Next, I had a very funny time on Friday night. I'm not a huge drinker, but when libation is the cue of the night, I'm usually on top of it like a fat kid on a Smartie. However, I was not feeling especially inclined towards inebriation and therefore spent a hilarious, sober time interacting with drunken folk. My friends are not the sloberring, obnoxious sort of drunk you see at the bar but rather people attempting to carry on social interaction while in an extremely altered state. It makes a good time for Jane Goodall-ing. Most importantly, they tell you how amazing you are and for a compliment whore such as myself, c'mon, there's nothing better. Special thanks go out to my three drunken soprano friends for giving me love for the opera scenes I've done with them. It tickled me. Oh no, wait. That was Brendan.

One day I will get up and sing in front of my peers and not suck.


One day I will open my mouth and out will come exactly what I expected all along, exactly what happened in the practice room mere moments before. My throat will not feel like it has little throat-gnomes creeping out of its walls, constricting my air flow adding little scratchy noises, which, I swear, were not there before. One day, my knees will not shake nor my balance test me. F#s will flow out of me like semen. Wait, that's gross. Like blood. Actually, not a ton better. Is there any single substance that emanates from our bodies that is not disgusting in some matter? I'm gonna go with no. Where was I? Oh yes, the awful, baby-crying F#s. Yeah, those will be awesome. One day I will not have to float above myself in real time thinking "Oh Christ on a bike, not again!" and I'll actually be able to do a character rather than some shallowly emoting caricatured. One day I will not finish a performance and want to go up to every single person in the room and say "I'm sorry! I over-sung in the practice room and I can do it better, really I can! I swear, I have made progress in the last four years!"

One day all this will happen.

Today, however, was not that day.

OMAGAD KIDS I PASSED THEORY!

It's so exciting. It's the lowest academic mark I've ever received (woot for a C) but somehow all my other professors were smoking crack and gave me A's so my GPA is still higher than last year, and best of all I never have to see Horton's Polar-bear-and-snowflake-sweater-wearing. crusty-eyed, bad-in-the-sack self again! Oh, except in the hall when I get on my knees as thanks for passing me. Cause you know how some people joke that they did dick-all in any class? Well, I didn't do ALL the dicks, cause that'd be slutty and all, but I really did nothing that entire term.

Today is the Orville J. Derraugh recital, which I've spoken about ad nauseum (if anyone ever spells it "at nauseum" I will poison their cat) and I'm feeling pretty good. The pieces are crowd pleasers, I slept in until 7:20 today, and I'm just going to go into work, do nothing but listen to music and take 25 minute breaks, visit the flower store, have a nice supper, and then make a little debut as a Winnipeg soloist, followed by a little dance, a little love, and any one who wants to get down to night in either of the "dance" or "love" categories should feel free to leave a comment. I know it's not a HUGE deal - it's no recital at the Asper Campus - but as those of you that witnessed by birthday may attest, I have taken to feeling no shame when it comes to being excited over anything in particular.

I have a coupon for 30% of Value Village if anyone wants to get in on the action on Saturday. Going shopping for Ste(phen)'s discorama! SO picking out the 'fro!

I have decided that the only way to live my life is to live it through art.

As the dust settles on yet another year of academia, I find myself immersing myself as completely as possible in the pursuit and observation of art. This takes on many forms; the thirty bloody hours of rehearsal that I will endure this week; the media that I observe, whether it be a trite Broadway musical based on an ancient legend or a modern masterpiece of human drama (Angels In America) unfolding on a screen in front of me; and most importantly the art that one creates oneself.

I really do enjoy school for the most part - the other part being theory. However, it is so wrapped up in rules by which I only mostly care to abide. They get in the way of true creativity and render something that could be great into mediocrety by assigning a stipulation as heinous as time to the task. *le sigh* Only Burly understands me.

I have recently exhaulted friends as a lifeblood, which indeed they are, but one cannot live for a group of others no matter how much affection they share. So I suppose one can't live for them but rather appreciate them graciously if you are in the good fortune to find true kindred spirits. However, we argue with friends, sometimes even to the point where the relationship cannot be salvaged. This can not be said for art, because there is no negativity in art itself. You can't disagree with your art as you do your companions and while you choose them both, you mold your art whereas you don't mold your friends, or at least shouldn't.

And what of love? What of that rabid, Bohemian passion for which I have often claimed to strive and have fleetingly even touched? It is not contant. At least not for me. Art will never leave you. It doesn't betray unless you yourself do. We cannot control our desires, but we choose the art and will choose us, and I know from far too much twenty year old experience that the same cannot be said for a lover. I believe in the purity of love, but for now it is not for me.

Art is for me. Art is for everyone. Except Transcona.

Well I really don't have anything overly ranty to discuss, but I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who lent me their support during the Great Jury Meltdown of 2005. It was lovely to hear from friends, both past and present, and it really helped talk me down, which is fortunate because by all accounts it went fairly well. My teacher has given me the hush-hush, under-the-table, unofficial thumbs up, so hopefully that will be confirmed next week.

For the past several months, I've been exposed for the first time to Indie Rock and have taken quite a shine to it. The Killers, Interpol, Elliott Smith, The Bravery, etc...they all get me tingley in good places and it finally occured to me why; after nearly 20 years of essentially listening to 'feminized' music (Broadway, classical-crossover) sung mostly by female vocalists, I've finally found a male-dominated (hetero) genre of music that I can identify with. Essentially all these men have attitudes through their music that glorify heterosexuality for me. They aren't immature infants (punk), or whiney trailer trash (metal), or misogynistic, violent miscreants (hip-hop). These guys are emotive, intelligent people that can confront both masculine and feminine forces, and fuse them together as much of them do with their music (electric guitars + New Wave synths). Above all they're respectful and they create beautiful, soulful sound. Let's hear it for the boys.