There once was a kitten who enjoyed sleeping in a little wicker basket on the top shelf of my desk. I bought her a green pillow that had a removable case, and stuffed it in the wicker basket so she would be more comfortable. She was very happy in there, with her birds-eye view of the entire room, and would spend hours upon hours in the lofty enclosure.
Soon, however, she noticed that the basket was getting smaller. It got harder and harder for her to jump in without knocking other things over. Eventually, she stopped sleeping in there altogether, as she outgrew the basket and wouldn’t fit in its sheltering walls.
Eventually, I moved the pillow to my bed, without the wicker basket, and the cat, no longer a kitten, resumed her naps there. The pillow, on the other hand, remained the same size, and no longer supports the sheer girth of the once tiny feline. However, she continues to enjoy sleeping on it, and has no problem accomodating for space restrictions with an uncushioned limb or two.
Went through a small par 3 nine-hole course with Aaron on the weekend. I couldn’t hit a single good shot off the tee (the holes are in the 100 yard range so all tee-offs were done with irons), but my pitching is fucking spot on. I love the feeling of grazing tall grass with a half-swing and seeing the ball make a perfect arch to the green.
I can feel my game coming together, but almost all of my problems are mental, just like my bad iron hits off the tee (I uncontrollably lift my knees on the downswing to avoid getting under the ball too much). I need to relax, loosen my grip, and pace my swing better, all when hitting the ball counts. I’ve gotten to the point where stance and address come naturally, so it’s good to know that all the summers I spent at the driving range actually helped. Unfortunately, I’m still choking down to the edge of the grip, even after having my clubs shortened about two inches.
I must have been getting a good 250 yards off Aaron’s new titanium driver, something I could never do with my steel shafts. Even though it makes me slice like crazy, it must have been the most satisfying club ever to use. It’s light, it’s responsive, it has a gigantic head, AMAZING torque, and it gives a loud, full, resonating chime on connection. I think it’s time for a new set, maybe some sweeeeeeeeeeet Japanese brand titanium shafts, like the ones I had the chance to use while in Hong Kong. The next purchase will be a decision between those and a DV cam, and that’ll be the end of my luxury spending. Honestly.
I’ve been giving Down and Superjoint Ritual a chance, and it’s weird to be listening to Phil Anselmo’s vocals against a sound that’s not quite Pantera. In the song Beautifully Depressed, he actually sings with vibrato. It’s a resonating vibrato, but very gradual and deep, sort of like Mandy Patinkin with a shot of valium and an injection of testosterone. The fact that he does a decent job of it completely throws me off. The fact that quite a few SJR songs have punkish roots causes further confusion, just like Ministry’s punkish contribution to the Rock Against Bush album. It’s like listening to the latest No Motiv album and then realizing that the bassist is now the drummer. On top of that, he’s Asian and better than the old drummer.
Speaking of which, going through No Motiv’s earlier albums has been a fairly enjoyable task. They’re comprised of songs which aren’t as complex as Daylight Breaking, but they’re catchy nonetheless. Unfortunately, It hasn’t been the same with Thrice, especially with their first album Identity Crisis. I can tell that they had some great technical ideas, but when actually putting pen to paper and recording it in the studio, the sound is rough, almost experimental.
It’s hard going backwards for bands. I’m glad I discovered Dreamtheater as soon as Scenes From A Memory came out. I don’t like much of what they did before that (aside from Space Dye Vest, which is one of my favourite songs of theirs), so it’s scary to think of what more I wouldn’t like if I discovered them even later. I thought that Scenes From A Memory was going to be their best work, but somehow they managed to improve in every single progressive (no pun intended) album. Thrice doesn’t fare so well, of course, as I’ve been spoiled by their latest, excellently produced album, The Artist In The Ambulance. It’s makes their earlier stuff sound untested and lazy.
I can’t fall back asleep. I’m still on holiday schedule, which is all about staying up late and taking naps, not being in bed by ten then waking up halfway through the night. Six fresh mosquito bites don’t help the sleeping process either.
Anyway, what I meant to say is that I’m grateful to have this when life proves to be a little too overwhelming and I prove to be all too human. When there’s no one else to turn to for some reason or another. When Beth’s vocals or orchestral pop noir romantique don’t help, or help enough.
It’s good to know that I have something, and sometimes I have to remind myself of that.
Went to Sandbanks on the weekend. The weather was good, but danced from one extreme to the other along the course of the day. It was Trolley, Tomacini, Kate, Adam, and Eric on one site, Aaron, Karen, Nick, Alison, and me on another about 20 paces away. It was quite a different crew from the one I’m used to, but definitely the one I was most comfortable around. These are the people who never ask for money, who talk to you like you’re family, whom you can depend on to find some orange juice if you’re having a bad trip. We only got in trouble one night, but we were admittedly loud. Our attempts to thwart such problems by introducing ourselves to neighbouring campsites proved fruitless, as we were informed that the noise we were producing was being heard in a larger radius than expected. I took up position as the token Asian guy (keepin it cool) and Adam resumed his usual role as the token homosexual (keepin it fresh). The weekend went by quickly.
Aside from steak, the best part of camping is the campfire. When the deciduous trees flicker orange and the stars normally hidden by the city light show themselves against the navy blue sky. There’s something about the heat and the atmosphere that puts the mind at ease. Nobody cares if one speaks too much or too little, puts on some headphones and listens to music, intoxicates, or pulls out a book and reads. It’s where everyone can do their own thing, together.
Sandbanks has an amazing beach with large sand dunes, which makes it one of the most popular campgrounds, as well as one of the hardest to reserve a site on (Trolley and I had this weekend booked since January). The sand is extremely soft and smooth, and the beach ended up being the only refuge for a loud group, especially at night. It’s also where Adam was paid to market Gatorade to the homosexual population (and the funny thing is, Adam did his absolute best not to look gay in the photograph, but succeeds only in the doing the exact opposite.) The caption for the magazines would be, “ALL I DIDWASDRINKTHISGATORADEANDHOTGUYSSTARTEDLICKINGSTUFFOFFMYLEGS!”.
At one point, Aaron and I had to steal some firewood from the other site. We decide to give them some flowers in return as a joke. Aaron just happened to pass by a bunch of daisies, and plucked them from the stem as we were leaving our area. Unfortunately, the entire plant became unrooted with almost no effort, from the flowers to the roots. After a quick twig-splint used to fix a mangled stem, we planted the daisies in the middle of the other campsite. They stood out considerably, since they were over four feet in height, with nothing else around but gravel and dirt. In return, Adam planted a little vodka garden outside our tents.
