http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I37piTWsicg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMoQ4XtAzyM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHLND3EEQs8

I think this speak for itself

These are evidence of how the selfish people of the world see fit to live and place harm on those who are broken down to not fight back…

Nice, Huh?

Usually I have grumbled and cleaned up, adding to my ‘things to do’, but this morning, I just said “fuck it’ to myself and will leave this as is.

Sure helping around the house is expected, taking care of things when you are really not the one responsible, but I think this has gone beyond that and has entered being an enabler.

Sure wife unit is tired, but I am tired too.  Son unit has learned much from his mother as well.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

So cute!

My photo albums are peppered with these adorable little toddler escapades. Yes, there was usually a mess involved, but they were exploring and learning the all-important concept of cause-and-effect. And we got the cutest pictures!

Flash forward to now, and that same kid is entering tween-hood. Not much has changed, really. Except now it’s not so cute. And it’s manifesting itself in decidedly labor-intensive forms, such as unusually large laundry piles (she tries something on, doesn’t like it and throws it in the hamper rather than hanging it back up!), clutter (quick solution for the budget crisis in the public schools – STOP WITH THE HAND-OUTS!), and disorganization (no, you don’t need your lacrosse mouth guard for your horseback riding lesson, so I’m not sure why it’s in your horseback riding gear bag?). What used to be so precious and sweet is now creating absolute havoc.

Yes, that's a tutu and no, it's not Halloween.

Has your teenaged kid learned to wash his hands after using the restroom? Regularly, without being reminded? When he sneezes, does he use a tissue or have you caught him sneaking a finger full of snot under the couch? Disgusting, yes, but so true. And happening whether you catch him doing it or not. You see, we have an epidemic of arrested development amongst our youngsters these days. It probably stems from our manic desire to do everything for them, but may also have something to do with how completely overscheduled they are. There is literally no time to tend to the routine of keeping clean, organized and developing good manners.

I was a slob growing up due to extreme laziness. I had plenty of time – I just chose to live in a bedroom that was knee-deep in detritus. Laziness is definitely not ideal, but it can be overcome (discipline, repeat. discipline, repeat, ad nauseum). I really don’t think laziness is what we’re dealing with these days (it’s in the mix, but it’s not the core issue). Rather, I think these smarties have us all figured out. They either a) avoid doing whatever it is they don’t want to do because they know they can hold out longer than us, or b) intentionally perform the chore (i.e. doing the dishes, folding laundry) poorly, knowing that our OCD will not allow them to continue indefinitely and we will step in and take over, or c) have no good reason to use proper manners and good hygiene – in other words, they have no shame! Moms and dads, we are weak – we cannot overcome this pattern without a tactical plan that gets to the heart of the issue…their self-centeredness!

With that in mind, I have figured out a solution – and it’s brilliant! If they insist on regressing to toddler status, I say we regress right along with them. So, grab that camera and catch them in the act of behaving like toddlers! Nowadays we have instant photo-sharing capabilities that weren’t around when our kids were younger. Post the photo of your 15 year-old with a palm full of snot after a productive sneeze (in fact, use the video option on your smartphone and post it on YouTube)! Snap a picture of your daughter’s congealing cereal bowl on the counter or that skid-marky toilet….it just takes a sec to upload to Facebook!

You can do your very own anthropological study – with photographic evidence. You can capture this generation in all of its splendor. Remember, you have high school yearbook dedications to look forward to – and now you’ll have a plethora of photos to choose from…photos that best represent your child in his formative high school years!

So enjoy your kids again, take the laundry pile with a grain of salt…and be sure to make good use of the captioning option on your favorite social media site!

There.  I said it.  Someone had to.

As I type this, I’m sitting in first class on a flight from Boston to Chicago.  Next to me is a man in his late 30′s.  He’s dressed in an uninteresting French-cuff shirt with an open collar with British tan gabardine slacks and draw-string Ecco hiking shoes.  Across the aisle from him is a man in his early 50′s in “The Uniform”:  a blue oxford shirt, stone- or tan-colored chinos, black socks and unpolished slip-ons.  The loafers appear to be either Prada or knock-offs thereof.  Naturally, he has his “dork clip” on his hip; his Blackberry at the ready for the moment RIM’s servers choose to operate as advertised. (Editor’s comment:  no one ever got seriously laid while wearing a dork clip; nor explaining why they’re called “wing tips”.)  I have a colleague who wears nothing but The Uniform.  He professes to only own one white shirt.  He pouts and makes quite a fuss when the situation requires him to “dress up.”

There’s another guy a couple of rows back with a rumpled white dress shirt, untucked, under a black blazer with wrinkled, soiled khakis.  He’s old enough to know better, too.

For God’s sake, wash and iron your damn pants and tuck in your shirt!  Have you no pride?  You’re an educated professional, working in what is still the World’s Greatest Economy!  Millions of people around the country to say nothing of the rest of the world would give anything to be in your seat 3C, having your every food and beverage wish fulfilled.  Why do you insist on dressing the same way you did when your parents came to visit you in college?!

Whew.  I feel a bit better.  Oh wait.  There’s more:

At least the Gucci loafers made it to the party.

How is it that women can manage to get dressed up for a night on the town and the best the guys can seem to muster is the now-ubiquitous untucked shirt with the sleeves rolled up and an old pair of jeans?  Or The Uniform–the same one they wear to work–or worse, the “dress t-shirt”? As they guys on ESPN say every Monday, “C’mon, man!”

And yes, I commit all of the sins noted above.  But at least I recognize them as sins.

P.S.  Hey Ladies:  FYI.  Leggings aren’t pants.

P.P.S.  Ok, I’ll make an exception just this once when the leggings are worn like this.

I keep telling people that these KIDS are losers, pigs, slobs, slime–the WORST of AmeriKa.  You hang with this shit- you ARE shit..Listen to this video below!

#OccupySanDiego Protesters Force Small Businesswoman To Close Shop

DISGUSTING, FILTHY BRATS!

I don’t think Moore had you in mind
When she talked about real toads
Your imaginary garden consists
Of empty beer bottles and stale pizza boxes

But loneliness is the territory of the bachelor
Those suctioned-cupped hands are particularly
Good on those lonely nights
When none will give you the time of day

You reflect the lives of those that made you
Stories projected through
A green mask of anonymity
There’s a bit of you in all of us

So this bachelor has direction and purpose
My anthropomorphic amphibian
Warts and all.

Yes?

Then you’re old, just like me.

There are some simple pleasures that the younger generations will never know.

Hours of frustratingly twirling cassette tapes because it was faster than the rewind on tape decks.

Looks like I have got over the hump. Last night I discovered the ability to post images, etc had returned. I don’t know whether this is a WP problem or bandwidth, but it is frustrating nevertheless.

I have made a few posts this morning. I was too tired last night despite the jubilation (I actually said “Whoopie!” under my breath) when I discovered the image problem had been resolved. I didn’t even read my horror stories before bed. That’s why I am late posting today, I’ve been reading (and writing) about the current political crap around the world. Made a big noise about Palestine’s bid for a seat in the UN, but you can read that on Shit Happens, if you wish. I am not going to get all political on this blog.

This week is a lazy week. Started out okay, but then yesterday (Monday, oh how I love Mondays) my students informed me of training days that they had been lumbered with, and unfortunately the factory considers English lessons play second fiddle. So I am left fiddling. I have only one lesson today, tomorrow and Thursday, which means I should be able to blog a lot.

Speaking of training… I have discovered one of the mysteries of life. Yes, the internet is a wonderful source of information. The training of mothers-in-law… it begins at an early age.

Training mothers-in-law

As you can see, girls take to it with a certain relish. It would be enough to make Harry Potter cringe. But I guess we can only blame J.K. Rowling, she never allowed girls on the Quidditch teams, so they are out for revenge.

So the next time you see a cute girl, just think, some day she will be a mother-in-law and out to torment someone like yourself.

Girls, I am not being sexist here. you can do the same. Next time some flaxen haired boy smiles sweetly at you, remember he’ll probably grow up to be a slob that deserves a mother-in-law.

It’s these little philosophies that make the world go round.

I’m off to make more coffee and blog along.

Later

Last week I told you about Obi finding the hidden toy on my shelf. Little did I know that was just the beginning. Now I find him on that shelf constantly. More importantly, there is less stuff on that shelf every day.

Obi has decided that all things on flat surfaces must move to the floor.

It isn’t just that shelf, either. It’s The Boy’s desk, which has computer wires for Obi to play with. It’s The Boy’s workbench, which has little pieces of model trains to play with. It’s the coffee table which has – NO! YOU CAN’T HAVE THE SCISSORS!

Also in the flat surface category is the dining room table, a.k.a the place we throw all our stuff when we come home. Personally, I don’t know how Obi remembers there is a flat surface under there.

***

It’s Thunder Thursday! Today we bring you Lisa’s cat, Raja. This is what you might call a collaga of Raja.

During this time, fellow friends of the band would form “Mental Crew Canada” with Louis as the mascot. These hard-core fans would go to as many Mental shows as possible. This would be how they came in contact with Greg Willmott who ran Lockin’ Out Records; the label who proposed to release anything the band was willing to get together. This could have been an EP considering the amount of material they had written at the time, but the band chose to send in songs for a compilation that Greg was putting together instead, hoping to do the EP later. They went down to Boston’s suburbs to record two songs with Eric Lomon (of Crunch Time) at Lomon Studios. In the end, only one song from each of the bands was used for the compilation, and “Smog” would be chosen. The other song remains unreleased. By the end of 2003, Louis had moved away and it was difficult to rehearse on a regular basis. Most of the jams took place right before shows and would not be very creative. They played their final show on December 13th, 2003, and though they were still somewhat “active” until early 2004, the band was over by the time “Sweet Vision” came out in February. A few years later, Omegas were putting together a mix tape and used the song “Hey Teacher” from their demo on the “Joy Boy Mix”.

Greg Willmott apparently still has the second unused song, but has been ignoring my attempts to contact him for too long, so I gave up and posted this discography 1 song short. If you’re ever able to get it, please post a comment here!

Say No More incomplete Discography

My maternal grandfather, James Albert Stewart, was a manual laborer most of his life. He lived a hardscrabble existence in Tennessee before moving to Muncie and then worked, along with his wife, Ida, in the town’s dirty, hot factories. He was by no means a dandy.

Yet in the years I remember him best, after he was retired, my grandfather dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, a thin black tie and (sometimes) a jacket and hat every day. Not just for attending the Baptist church on Sunday. Every day. He would get dressed up and ride the bus downtown and pass the time in stores and coffee shops, dressed in a manner most people these days would associate with the Blues Brothers or the Men in Black. That was how men dressed back then.

My mom and dad were more casual than my grandfather but still pretty “dressy.” Mom wore dresses to church and Dad wore a tie and jacket on Sunday but during the week Mom wore slacks and blouses and Dad wore work pants and shirts.

Five days a week, I’m likely to be wearing khaki pants and oxford shirts, which may be why I love being able to wear shorts (or jeans) and knit polo shirts on weekends. I have a rack full of ties but break them out only occasionally.

Sensing a trend here?

To carry the dressing-down timeline a bit further, I see people in their 20s who seem to live in shin-length shorts and concert Ts. Or even worse, pajama pants and T-shirts. Nothing says, “I just rolled out of bed and I think I brushed my teeth” like pajama pants worn out in public.

I don’t long for a return to the days of white shirts and fedoras, despite my fondness for the TV show “Mad Men.” But I’m officially tired of people wearing Nike pool shoes everywhere but the pool and wearing ratty jeans to mortuary calling hours.

I’m gonna continue to dress down on weekends and days off. You’re not going to see me sporting spats and a cummerbund (okay, maybe the latter in case I’m best man in a wedding again) anytime soon.

But if you see me on the street in pajama pants, please wake me up gently because I’m sleepwalking.

Searching posthumously for the early signs of collapse is tricky, because in any relationship there are difficult spots right from the start, disagreements, misunderstandings, and simple events that in retrospect can seem fraught with meaning. What is more, the defining moments that stand out in one person’s mind as a perfect crystallization of all that was to come are going to be very different from the moments that occur to the other person. But since you are now separate people and don’t have to put up with the other person’s clearly erroneous and narcissistic view of your former marriage, this should not trouble you.

There is a difference, however, between moments which exemplify a particular character trait and moments which warn of impending collapse. Just because a single moment teaches us something profound about our partner doesn’t mean that revelation will lead to the break-up of the marriage. As it happens, I have an example of each of these from the early days of my relationship to share with you now.

Right after Chester and I moved to Sebastopol, we stayed with our two very small children in a spare bedroom in his parents’ house while Chester set to work converting an old barn on the property into a house for us. During the day I did what normal mothers of toddlers do: cooked, fed them, cleaned up after them, did the laundry. Occasionally I would get a day’s work outside the house, and Chester’s mother would watch the children.

On this particular day, I was at home and had decided to tackle the huge pile of dirty laundry in our closet. I washed all the diapers, all the baby clothes, all Chester’s work clothes, even the clothes that had fallen off their hangers onto the laundry pile but were still technically clean at the time I snatched them up with the rest of the wash. By noon, I had a gleaming pile of clean laundry on the carpet of our very small bedroom, ready to fold and put away. I stepped away to make lunch for the kids, and when I got back to the room I sat down and began sorting and folding laundry.

The first piece of laundry I got to was a flannel work shirt of Chester’s. I picked it up off the pile and saw fresh stains on it. Handling it gingerly, I noticed it was dusted with sawdust and smelled of sweat. Apparently Chester had just come in briefly, taken off his shirt and thrown it onto the floor, assuming that my hard-won pile of clean laundry was a handy pile of dirty laundry.

I threw it across the room in disgust, thinking “doesn’t this guy bother to check what type of pile he’s throwing his clothes onto?” Normally, that would have been the end of it. My heaving his shirt across the room would have vented my anger and I would have forgotten the whole thing, except for what happened next. As soon as I set the shirt into flight, a torrential rain of small black pellets flew from it onto every surface of our room: the bed, the dresser, the crib, the carpet. Now I had to get up and figure out what these little poppy seed-sized things were that needed to be cleaned up. I checked the shirt pocket and found an open packet of broccoli seeds, not even folded closed, waiting to spill anywhere once the shirt was cast off its wearer’s body.

The truth came to me irrefutably: I am married to a slob. He is an actual slob, not just someone who exhibits occasional slobbish behavior. Microscopic broccoli seeds! All over everything! He didn’t even bother to close the packet before he threw that ticking brassica time bomb into the middle of my morning’s housework. No doubt about it, the guy is a slob.

This realization was not an early warning sign of marriage collapse, however. This was instead a moment of insight into Chester’s character, and a realistic look for me at the man I was living with, was in fact destined to live with for a very long time. I took a certain amount of calm reassurance from arriving at the conclusion that I was married to a slob. It made me adjust my own behavior and expectations, and was very helpful in the struggle every married person goes through of Choosing Your Battles. Trying to make a slob not be a slob was a losing battle. Therefore, because I chose to stay married to him, a much better use of my energy would be to try to get him to change other things. I could live with a slob. But I would be on the lookout for other character traits that might, in combination with slobbishness, signal a greater conflict.

Though the broccoli seed incident laid my mind to rest, when I related it to him later that evening Chester was indignant that I would consider him a slob based on that one incident. I tried to reassure him.

“No honey, you don’t understand. It wasn’t just that one incident, there are lots more. But this was the one that convinced me. And isn’t it great? Now that I am certain that by my standards you are a slob, it makes it easier to accept always living in a messy room and having a messy house and a messy life. It’s really nothing personal at all, I’ve just achieved a moment of clarity that will enrich our life together.” He was still not convinced, but I was so happy as I said this, and so clearly not angry at him for causing a huge mess in our bedroom, that he was too confused to protest.

The second incident happened in the very early days of our relationship, before we even lived anywhere, when we were camping out in Nature one summer having adventures. Because this was to be an extended camping trip, we had brought along our bicycles and parked them in an old tool shed by the trailhead. One day we bicycled a very long way along a windswept California road into town to buy food and supplies. At the end, we treated ourselves by buying a package of Fig Newton cookies to eat before heading back. We found a nice grassy spot on which to sit while we read magazines and ate our snack.

I noticed that there were two rows of Fig Newtons in the package, so started working on what I thought of as “my half” while Chester started down “his half” of the package. My favorite way to eat a Fig Newton was slowly, nibbling the sides off first and then tackling the filling inside. After savoring my first and second cookies I reached down to get a third, but they were all gone! Chester had been thinking way outside the box and decided it was a winner take all game. He had inhaled the entire package of cookies while I calmly assumed we were sharing them equally. I was irate. How dare he only leave me with two, when he had just consumed twenty!

Chester looked at me and laughed, with his teeth full of cookie filling and crumbs stuck unflatteringly across his chin. “You should eat faster. Those cookies were good! How was I supposed to know you wanted to eat half of them? Oooh, now I have a stomach ache. I think I ate too many cookies.” He clutched his stomach and lay back on the ground, still laughing at me but also writhing a little bit in agony.

His cavalier, goading reaction made me doubly furious. We went round and round about the cookies some more, because I could not seem to impress upon him that sharing meant something akin to equality. That he had a different notion of what sharing meant was incomprehensible to me.

I stayed upset about this incident for several days, and Chester’s obvious glee at getting me mad only made things worse. Eventually, because I would not let it go, he apologized and said he wouldn’t be so thoughtless and inconsiderate again.

What makes this incident an early warning sign rather than a mere insight into character is that it is ultimately impossible to stay with anyone who is thoughtless and manipulative and considers everything to be his. So while it is possible to live with a slob, it will eventually become not worth it to live with a slob who also eats all your Fig Newtons.

You are probably asking yourself, “Why on earth did it take you twenty-odd years to leave this dolt?” That is a very good question, but the answer is complex. Even if you are on the lookout for signs of a behavioral trend (such as selfishness), it can often look like another trend entirely, fooling you for years on end. So it is possible depending on circumstances to not realize until way later that the same thing—let’s call it the Fig Newton Syndrome—has been happening all along but that you have not seen it for what it really was.

It was the incident with the wine that opened my eyes. By the last two years of our marriage, alcohol was an area in which Chester and I were in major disagreement. I thought he was an alcoholic, and he thought he was not. Neither one of us were particularly interested in negotiating our stance on the issue, so in order to continue cohabitating non-violently we had to agree to disagree. The trouble was, Chester felt constantly judged by my calling him an addict. He just couldn’t live with the fact that I was accusing him of not being able to give up alcohol.

“Look,” he said. “There is no alcohol in the house, and I am not drinking any alcohol. How can you call me an alcoholic if I do not drink?” While I saw his point, the fact was that there had been alcohol in the house until Chester had consumed it all just the week before. So while it was true that he was not currently drinking, that would change the moment there was any alcohol to be found.

That Christmas, my sister gave me a special bottle of wine as a gift. Actually it was just an average bottle of wine, but it was special because my sister gave it to me. Chester did not know I had been given a bottle of wine, so wanting to save it for a special occasion I decided that maybe hiding it would insure that I could drink it before it disappeared. So I stuffed it on the floor in the corner of a coat closet behind some old tennis ball cans, where the only way it would be found was if someone crouched down below the hems of the coats and peered behind the tennis balls. I call this the “below the fold” trick, which newspapers have been using for centuries. Anything “above the fold” in a drawer or cupboard can be readily seen and consumed; everything “below the fold” stands a chance of being overlooked.

All was well until a couple weeks later when I checked to see how my bottle of wine was aging. It was not there. A slow fury started to build. He must have found it and drank it. Who else living here would care about an average bottle of wine in the coat closet, below the fold at that? How dare he steal it? Feeling fully irate, I called to Chester, who was sitting with our daughter Amanda fifteen feet away watching television, “Where’s my bottle of wine?”

He looked over his shoulder at me, saw that I was at the closet, and immediately put two and two together.

“I didn’t know that was your bottle of wine,” he lied, then turned slowly back around to watch his program until I forced him to pay attention to me again. I walked over to the kitchen. There were no open bottles of wine on the counter, no partially consumed bottles in the fridge. But under the sink, carefully rinsed and hidden behind the rest of the recycling, was the empty bottle that until recently held my Christmas wine. If he hadn’t known it was mine, he wouldn’t have taken the pains to drink it all, rinse out the bottle, and recycle it before I even saw that it had been open. Random moments of cleanliness for a slob are never random.

I took out the wine bottle and brought it over to show him. “Well, whose wine did you think it was?” I asked. I was proud of my restraint here. Instead of hurling invictives, I was asking a straightforward question in a commanding but not accusatory tone. It is always better to tease out the logic (or not) in the other person’s thinking first, in the hopes that some non-violent solution to the disagreement can be found.

“I didn’t know,” was his startling response. Now the field was open!

“Well, if you didn’t know, don’t you think you should have asked before drinking the whole thing? That happened to be the bottle of wine my sister gave me for Christmas!” I had just played my trump card, because gifts from family have a much greater emotional impact, and therefore self-righteousness factor, than those randomly purchased at the grocery store.

It worked, and Chester began to look sheepish. He knew that he had crossed a line, but to his mind it was an arbitrary line set there by me because I was controlling and middle class and constantly angry. He did not see any inherent value in asking who owned anything before consuming it. That’s when I realized that I had mis-named what I thought was the Alcoholic Trait. Of course addiction was woven in there, but it had really been the Fig Newton Syndrome all along!

I just could not believe I was still, 25 years later, arguing over a fucking package of cookies. But there it was! Right in front of my face! I became even more resolute.

“You have no right to take what is mine as your own without even asking! I want you to replace this bottle of wine—even though it was irreplaceable—and promise me that you will never drink the replacement bottle until I open it and pour us both a glass!”

Chester looked defeated. He could hardly dispute my logic at this point, and the fact that Amanda was looking on, that I had purposely confronted him when his own daughter could see just how thoughtless, inconsiderate, and alcoholic he was, made him realize that he had to give in to my request. So he promised to buy me a replacement bottle of wine, and then went back to his TV show. But not before giving Amanda a proud smile, as if to say, “See how reasonable I am being? Responsible grown-ups can settle their differences without yelling, unlike your mother.”

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day, when Chester came home with three paper bags which he presented to me with a smile. I opened them, and inside each was a bottle of wine.

“These are for you, to replace the bottle that your sister gave you,” he said in a caring tone. I was genuinely touched, in the way that rare displays of generosity can catch you off guard and make you read more into them than is actually warranted. It was a grand gesture, and I thanked him warmly. As a token of my trust I put the three bottles, which looked like promising vintages, in the kitchen cupboard where all the rest of the alcohol was stored when we had any. I left the bottles in their bags as a reminder that these were special, only to be opened when the time was right.

For a few months those bottles stayed tucked in their bags in the bottom of the cabinet, and just seeing them there made me smile. It was a good feeling to have some wine on hand if friends showed up and we wanted to share a nice bottle of wine. It was an even better feeling to know that Chester was finally able to curb his impulses and leave my gifts alone.

Then one day I decided to open the bags and look again at the bottles waiting for just the right moment. One of them was still in its bag, but the other two bags now held cheap, awful stuff that I couldn’t stand. Where were those two good bottles? With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I guessed the answer.

Needless to say, there was more yelling in the house that evening. I tried to impress on Chester that while his first act was reprehensible, his second act was completely irredeemable. I was at the end of my rope, so it was time once again to air the secrets he did not want anyone to know.

“I can’t even believe you drank two of those three bottles, then put this cheap shit in there to cover it up! This is even worse than drinking my sister’s wine! How could you do something like that?”

Chester, looking very uncomfortable, searched frantically for a way to make it my fault. “Well, you weren’t drinking it. And I don’t really see, I mean, I bought the wine. What’s the problem? Wine is wine, I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with ownership when we share everything anyway…” His voice trailed off into a little puddle of misery.

“You are a complete alcoholic! You can’t stop yourself from drinking, you lie about it and steal stuff, and then make these lame excuses! Can you not see how this problem has gotten out of hand? You need to get some help with that right now if our marriage is going to survive!”

But being blamed for our marital problems was more than Chester could take. “I go to my co-dependency group every week, Anne, and I am working on my issues in my own way. I hear that you are really upset, but you can’t tell me how to work on my issues!” I was dubious how a co-dependency group was going to help someone with addiction problems, as it seemed to me that I was the person being co-dependent in the present situation. And it turned out I had good reason to be suspicious about his co-dependency group, but I’ll get to that later. Still, I was tired of arguing and felt I had gotten my point across, for all the good it was going to do, so I let it drop.

A few months later things had gotten so bad that I moved out anyway. While we were still buying groceries together I bought three good bottles of wine and took them with me when I left. It was glorious to see them there every day, above the fold in my own kitchen cabinet. Friends stopped by to see me in my new place, and one by one I casually but proudly opened a bottle for the occasion. It was about the most healing drinking experience I’d ever had.

With a priority pass and 650 bands to see and game 7 on Wednesday night, there was no way I could see everyone I wanted to. But that’s okay, cuz everyone I did see blew my freakin’ mind.

Here’s just a taste of what I saw that made NXNE so insanely, unspeakably good. If I gave you all the reasons this would go on forever.

       WED 15 @ RIVOLI

The Paint Movement

With some David Newfeld influence (BSS producer), it’s BSS + “a lush jazz-soul feel with a vintage vibe and lush orchestral pop energy”.

             Lonely Vagabond via NXNE.com 

Very worth getting excited for their August 18th self-titled debut and round of scheduled September shows.

       THURS 16 @ POOR ALEX THEATER

INEPSY
Slobs
Bad Sports 

VICE X WESC threw a rockin’ No Lake Shaker party that was host to three bands I’d never heard before and whom might not make it to the top 25 most played on my iTunes. But they reminded me how much I love myself some dirty punk rock, and got me and the rest of the crowd feeling it as much as the free Mill Street beer.

Also, I learned dudes from Texas punk bands are really nice.

       THURSDAY 16 @ THE GARRISON 

Ty Segall

Speaking of dirty music – sweating at The Garrison as Ty Segall stirred the crowd with some effortlessly cool garage rock. I was asked what my favourite NXNE performance was, and this was it. So much so my NXNE partner and I headed over to Wrongbar on FRIDAY 17 to catch his next performance. Apparently the guitar player lost his tooth. That’s what it’s all about.

       FRIDAY 17 @ LEE’S PALACE

Dum Dum Girls
Cults

Thanks to the two above bands, Lee’s Palace was bumpin’. Was once again reminded why getting the Priority Pass was ridiculously worth it. Seeing these bands play, you know why the line was so long and the place so packed. You also know why the bands are so raved about and gracing pages the likes of Nylon‘s Music Issue. SO GOOD.

       SATURDAY 18 @ THE GARRISON

Handsome Furs

All I’m gonna say is – this band has for years been a favourite and on the top of my most played iTunes list. No change after this. Love you D + A.

       SUNDAY 19 @ THE VELVET UNDERGROUND

Armen at the Bazaar

Good friend and even better musician. NXNE’s snapshot promotion says he is a “one man sonic explosion”. No shit. I’m no music critique, but the ones at Exclaim! and Ottawa Xpress sure no what’s up. Grab his second EP, Noor, on Bandcamp so you can too.

Once again, this post could go on forever. But Sunday wraps up this post as it did the festival. NXNE 2012 come faster please. 

I am a huge procrastinator. Sometimes its because I’m very busy and when I feel pressured, I don’t do anything. Other times its because I’m just avoiding unpleasant or onerous tasks. These are some things I do when I’m procrastinating:

I completely admit to my procrastinatory ways. I have no shame, and eventually everything gets done. However, I completely take offence to those who colour code their closets confusing procrastination with slob-ery. I am not a slob. My mother used to say I’m a slob. I can’t imagine why, as my closet looks perfectly fine.

What’s wrong with my closet?

My closet looks like that because I have better things to do than hang up my clothes.  Imagine everything that I can get done (see list above) when I’m not worrying about making my closet look like this:

PS:  This is my daughter’s room.  Now, SHE is a slob.

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dequincey jpg 55K Thomas DeQuincey

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La redoute 1985 1986 procure une sensation de bien être Trois suisses 1986 printemps active la circulation et tonifie les muscles

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Las Teen Models Morrocoy Municipio El Hatillo Península de Araya y Gran Sabana Las Teen Models Isla Los Frailes Isla Los Monjes Cojedes y Carabobo

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VINTAGE SPORTS MEMORABILIA Welcome my Vintage Sport Memorabilia Page From time to time I ll be posting what I have available in older Baseball Football Basketball Golf and Boxing memorabilia Sorry

Ever have someone in your life that’s just a pig?  They don’t clean up after themselves and leave the mess for you?  Eddie and Jobo talked to some of those people this morning and you wont believe some of the rat infested, toe nail clipping stories we got!

Here we go: Do Not Cultivate Expensive Tastes.

Well, that’s the frugal version. But, since the goal is to live well (in whatever way you define that), to the extent that you feel you can afford it, maybe we should revise:

Know What You Are Getting Yourself Into If You Decide to Cultivate Expensive Tastes.

The major idea here is that if you stay with the cheap stuff, you won’t know any better, and won’t feel like you’re getting shortchanged. But if you get used to the finer things, it won’t be easy to go back to basics if you decide you need to be a little thriftier.

I’m introducing slobs vs. snobs as a category, in which I’ll post specific ideas about areas in which it could be to your advantage to adopt a more slobbish (slobbery?) outlook.

There are a billion things that can really bite you if you get it in your head that you need the best: food, drinks (think wine, beer, coffee), tv and all of its associated madness, stereos, cars, and computers (oh my!) are some that come to mind. The connoisseur can really get in over their head (click that link. read the comments).

Wine is a good example of the slobs vs. snobs dichotomy because the price varies so much between different types/brands, and most people don’t start out with expensive tastes. It all just tastes like nail polish remover, right? So the people who can’t drink the cheap stuff did that to themselves.

Once, I was eating lunch at my mom’s restaurant (quick tip: if you want to be rich, stay away from starting a restaurant), and one of the dudes who owns a vineyard and supplies wine there was also having lunch. My mom’s a friendly sort, and we all ended up at the same table, and this guy is telling us all how we really need to get these special glasses (which he maybe sells…), because you really can taste the difference if you are using a nice glass. I told him that I can’t tell the difference between a really cheap wine and a really nice one, and was sure that the glass wouldn’t matter. He insisted that it would, even for me, and I privately thought that he was insane.

Not that I think he’s making it up. He probably could taste the difference. But if I ever get to the point where I need a special expensive accessory to enjoy some equally expensive product when I could just spend $4 total, please somebody punch me.

Let me just say to any wine friends or snobs of other stripes who may be reading this: it’s okay if you want to make yourself an aficionado and plunge into the world of (relatively) expensive nice things, go for it! You have my blessing, as long as you realize that you are making a decision that you might not be able to un-make easily, and as long as you can afford it and still pay the bills!

Up next…slobs vs. slobs: coffee, and how to do it right, even if you are a snob.